《Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy》


 Book 1: Pre-Season 1 - A Matter of Life and Death

    Pre-Season


    ¡°Football¡¯s not a matter of life and death. It¡¯s much more important than that.¡± Bill Shankly.


    1.


    I locked my front door and waved at the surveillance camera across the road. It had been installed when the police suspected a former tenant of selling Class B drugs. I guess they were right, because there were a couple of bullet holes in the brickwork. I lived there now, and I didn''t deal, but the camera stayed, as did the holes.


    I set off with a click of my earbuds, trying to unpause a podcast: Softly Spoken Soccer. The play button was stuck. It took three tries to get it to obey me. Flea market crap.


    Don¡¯t worry if you don¡¯t follow all the jargon that follows. The incomprehensibility is the point.


    Podcaster 1: "What Zinchenko offers is more than just a flat 3 or a wing back. He can invert, he''s quality in the half-spaces. I''d feel fine with him as a 6, he''s so press-resistant, or even as a left 8."


    Podcaster 2: "That''s right. He has good comps with half the team. He''s going to be the technical leader, mark my words."


    1: "His pass maps show his range and verticality on the ball and his heat maps show his workrate. He''s a pressing machine. Last season we had our fingers crossed that Tierney wouldn''t get injured. But Zinchenko beats him on almost all metrics."


    2: "Tierney can''t invert."


    I clicked pause, shaking my head. I understood most of what they were saying. I''d been kicking balls before I could even toddle and I''d watched thousands of games. But in the last couple of years the level of technical analysis had gone wild. Even normal fans were talking about abstract topics like xG (expected goals), bickering about whether Big Chances Created was really a better ''metric'' than assists, and were Whatsapping spidergraphs of a transfer target''s ''defensive actions''.


    It was all a bit much.


    I wouldn''t say the data and the analysis was sucking all the fun out of the game, but it was a long way from the stories I grew up on. Arsenal once signed a player called John Jensen because he scored a wondergoal to win Euro 92. He then played 99 times for Arsenal, scoring exactly once. Not quite the free-scoring midfielder they''d seen on TV. Or take the case of Ali Dia - a player no better than you or I - who played half an hour of Premier League football after pranking his way into the Southampton team. These stories wouldn''t happen today - the spidergraph would show that John Jensen was no goal threat, and that Ali Dia had literally zero to offer.


    So yeah, football seemed to be getting a bit like a giant database where every data point for every player was known.


    And don''t get me started on tactics. I''d watch a match and then hear people talk about incredible tactical tweaks that the coaches had made. Um, excuse me? When was that? I just couldn''t see it! Sometimes I''d pause a match and see that both sets of players were in very precise formations. But I couldn''t do anything with that info. I mean, sometimes the worst teams looked exactly the same in the freeze-frames as the best teams.


    I didn''t get it!


    But what was I supposed to do instead? Become a politics fan? Join a book club? There are no book clubs in my part of Manchester. It''s what''s known locally as ''rough''.


    Talking of which...


    ***


    I was passing through this little park. Sometimes I avoided it because it was always full of teen thugs, but recently I''d been trying to make myself go there. Why should I be afraid? I mean, I was afraid, but I wanted to be less afraid. Know what I mean?


    And anyway, the teenagers mostly played football or basketball or listened to their shitty music. I felt their eyes on me, sometimes, wondering if it''d be fun to mug me. Or was that just in my imagination?


    Maybe not, because today something was different. The kids had put down some jumpers and bags to make goalposts, and they were sort of milling around like there was a game going on. But there wasn''t a game going on, and that was bad news for the poor, innocent fish-out-of-water guy who just happened to enter their park at the wrong time.


    Strange thing was, the fish out of water wasn''t me.


    There was a very tall, very thin man pushing a bike. He was wearing a black suit, his socks were too long, he had a real old-fashioned hat on. And a few of the hoodlums were moving towards him. They blocked his path, and one took hold of the handlebars. This was going to get messy.


    I caught up with them in a few strides.


    "Jack!" I said, as though delighted to see my old friend. "What are you doing here? I thought you were on holiday."


    The old man scanned me - his eyes were wrinkled but there was a quick mind in there - and grinned. "Sigmund!" he said. "Ah, well, the voyage was cancelled. How''ve you been?"


    I took the handlebars from a slightly confused thug and started pushing. The thug offered no resistance. "Fine, fine. Remember you told me about that book? Foucault''s Pendulum? Absolute piece of shit. Now, be serious. You didn''t actually like that. You didn¡¯t actually read it."


    We were walking away, and the kids were letting us. Suddenly, a ball fell from a tree, followed by a kid. And the match resumed.


    We kept talking shit until we left the park. "I''m going to ASDA," I said. "What about you?"


    "That''s a supermarket, is it? Yes, I can go there with you." I checked his hands to see if they were shaking. He seemed completely unaffected by the incident. Me? My heart was pumping. Veins full of adrenaline. Perhaps he wasn''t as smart as I''d thought. Perhaps he was, in fact, too stupid to realise he had just been in danger. As I thought that, he looked at me with a very amused twinkle in his eye. "Thank you for helping me. That was very... kind of you."


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    I don''t know why, but I felt a chill down my spine. Just for a second, it seemed like the oldster was disappointed. That he''d wanted to get beaten up! The moment passed; the whole notion was absurd. "Yeah, no problem. My real name''s Max, by the way." I looked down at the bike I was pushing. It was extremely heavy. Weird shape. It took me a while to work out what was bothering me about it, but it boiled down to one thing - there were no plastic parts.


    "Sigmund suits you better."


    "Those kids are going to be calling me Sigmund all the time now. It''s no way to reward me!"


    He shot me another look. A hungry one? "You were much closer with your guess. I''m Nick." We shook hands. "Do you like soccer, Max?"


    "Yep."


    "I saw the way you changed when that ball appeared. You reminded me of a dog. You just wanted to run and catch it."


    I laughed. "I suppose. I do have a weird fantasy every time I walk past a game like that, that they''ll shout ''hey, do you want to play?'' and I go ''who, me?'' and then slip into midfield and sort of get all Barenboim."


    "Barenboim is a famous soccer player?"


    "No, he''s a conductor."


    "Ah! I see. Yes, I see. Would you like to be a famous player, then? Or a famous conductor?"


    I considered that. The shop was just ahead. About three minutes walk. Here was this old man I''d never see again. Why shouldn''t I tell him what was really on my mind? "Not a conductor, no. And I don''t need to be famous. Player? Maybe. Probably not. I''m not that good, not even close, and I''m not that competitive. I want to win but not like those elite guys. But you know what I''ve been thinking recently? These top managers like Guardiola and Klopp. They just see football in a totally different way to me. Like literally - we''re watching two different things. It''s kind of amazing. I think I''d like to be able to see the game the way they do."


    As if responding to the same signal, we stopped walking at the exact same second. He gave me another odd look, then a crooked smile took over his lips. "That''s very self-aware of you. Very interesting. I''ve never heard that before. It''s a long time since I heard anything like that." His intensity was starting to creep me out, but we started walking again and I had to balance the bike, so I didn''t have time to dwell on it. Nick lowered his head while thinking, then said, "Would you sell your soul to be a top football manager?"


    I laughed. This guy was nuts. "No. What? It''s just weird that I''ve got this hobby and spend so much time on it and I''m really not making any progress. I¡¯m falling behind, in fact. But it doesn''t matter. It''s not important."


    He nodded. "I think my use of language has created a little gap between us. I''m not from this country, you know." I wouldn''t have guessed. He had zero accent. Maybe he was one of those Polish plumbers who''d come over. "I think what I''m trying to say is..." He took out an absolutely beautiful pocket watch and stared at it. He adjusted the crown, smiled, then dipped it back into his jacket, chain and all. "I have it. Would you wish to see football the way those people see it?"


    "Sure," I said.


    "Say it in a complete sentence."


    More than happy to help a foreigner improve his English. "I wish I could see football like a top manager sees it."


    "Good. Now ring the bell three times." The guy was bonkers! But we were mere steps from the entrance now. I reached over and rang the bell. Bring! Bring! Bring! "Superb," he said. "Yes, that''s most excellent." He chuckled. It didn''t sound right, coming from that face. But his face now was different to when I first met him. Wasn''t it? More angular? Fewer liver spots? Whatever it was, he was handsome. Devilishly handsome. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. "You are purchasing some needful things, are you? Would you mind buying some headache tablets?"


    He took the bike from me. I frowned. "You''re going to wait here? I mean, I won''t be that long, but..."


    "Take as long as you want. Voila." He handed me a hundred pound note. I didn''t think we had those anymore, but on closer inspection it was Scottish. Who knows what they get up to north of the border?


    "Oh," I said. I could already imagine the stress of trying to use this at the checkout. But whatever. I took it and went inside.


    The paracetamol was less than a pound, so I bought it with my own money, along with some toilet roll, a Pot Noodle, milk, and milk chocolate hobnobs. When I went out to give him his tablets and his weird money, the guy had vanished.


    ASDA has a security guard. You know, because of all the thugs. He told me the old man had ridden away as soon as I''d gone inside. Fucking mad old coot!


    ***


    ***


    I made my way home through the park. I didn''t even think about going around, which is what I normally would have done. I didn''t want to see those kids for a few days. I wanted them to forget we''d ever interacted.


    But I was feeling a bit odd. Not sick or anything, just weird. Like my nerves were too long for my skin. My hands felt swollen and heavy. My throat was dry. Nothing serious. Just weird. Just a bit off.


    Fortunately, the game was in full flow so the lads wouldn''t have any need to harass me. I kept my head down as I went past. But then a movement 20 yards away caught my eye - a guy doing a dribble past his opponent. I couldn''t help but look at it.


    I threw my hands in front of my face and pushed myself backwards. I stumbled, and kept stumbling until my foot caught on a tree root. The kids laughed their heads off, but I remained still.


    My breaths were coming thick and fast. I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again. When I looked at the tree, everything was normal. There was nothing wrong with my eyes. I turned, gingerly, to my left and saw a bin. All good. But when I lifted my head up and looked at the kids, it was still there.


    Numbers.


    I looked away - just a normal day in red-brick Manchester. I looked back at the kids.


    Numbers.


    Take the one nearest to me - still laughing, by the way. He was wearing a Man City kit, which marked him out as a grade A idiot of the highest order. But when I let my eyes settle on him, numbers appeared above his head. They were laid out like a database, though many of the cells were empty.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>


    <div>


    Steven McGough


    </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>English/Irish</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Acceleration 5</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Stamina 1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Heading 4</td>


    <td>Strength 2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Tackling 4</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jumping 2</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bravery 11</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Technique 1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Pace 5</td>


    <td>preferred foot R</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Passing 1</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dribbling 2</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    <div>


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    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Staring at any of the other players had the same effect. It was terrifying. I lay back down and put my hands over my face.


    Eventually, one of the kids came over and asked if I was all right. I said I wasn''t. He offered to call an ''ambo''. I said I''d just take it easy and make my way home in a bit. He said that wasn''t an option because I was ruining the game by dying next to the pitch. He grabbed my arm, pulled me up, and helped me walk home.


    I don''t remember saying anything. I have a vague memory of the guy being chatty. Trying to keep me from going unconscious or whatever. Then I have a really specific memory of him saying, "Mate, you''ve got bullet holes in your house."


    "That was my ex-wife," I said.


    He snorted. "All right, Sigfried. I''ve took you home like a bodyguard. You gonna give me half those hobnobs?"


    It was like he was at the top of a well and I was stuck down the bottom. He seemed distant. Echoey. "Sorry," I said. "I need them."


    "So I don''t get nothing? Man. Mum always says no good deed goes unpunished." He gave me an uncertain look. "Serious, though. I could call someone."


    "Ugh," I said, and closed the door on him. I stumbled to the kitchen and took two paracetamol. I didn''t even try to go upstairs.

 Book 1: Pre-Season 2 - Devilishly Soggy

    2.


    I work in a call centre doing customer service. I make 350 pounds a week, and spend 200 just on rent. My house is a narrow shithole in a place with such a violent history that the BBC refers to it as ''the notorious Moss Side area of Manchester''. You know, when they''re announcing a shooting or whatever. It''s pretty much the only area I can afford to rent a house on my own.


    I overslept, but when I finally did wake up, I felt fine. Not groggy, no hangover.


    I decided to turn up for work after lunch. My boss asked me why I was late and I blagged it. "I told you I''d be at the doctor, remember?"


    She didn''t remember, but I was the employee with the best stats, and call centres are all about stats. Also - I didn''t take the piss. When I called in sick, I was sick. When I said I was late because the bus crashed, I showed her a selfie of me and the crime scene. She pursed her lips and suggested that maybe next time I could put my doctor¡¯s appointment in writing. Absolutely, my dear. Next time I have an out-of-body experience, I''ll let you know in advance. I stayed late to make up the hours, and also because for once the job felt good. It was normal, you know? Our customers always had the same problems, so most of the time the job was pretty mindless. Solve the problem, end the call. Solve the problem, end the call. My stats were great.


    I left work feeling better. Whatever had happened the night before, hadn''t happened since. I''d gone past thousands and thousands of people and not seen any more numbers. I''d even seen a group of lads in their kit on the way to have a kickabout. Nothing.


    I was looking forward to getting home, making a tea, and dunking those chocolate hobnobs until they got devilishly soggy. I hopped onto the bus, went upstairs, and peered out of the window. Curry place, second-hand shop, terraced houses. Red bricks, modern Tescos, student flats. The same things I''d been seeing day in, day out, since I left 6th form. The big park. Wait, what? I stormed downstairs, but too late. I''d fallen asleep or something and missed my stop. I wasn''t, like, in south Manchester or anything, but it was still annoying. I could get a bus back a couple of stops or walk a little extra. It was a nice evening - easy decision.


    Platt Fields is pretty famous in Manchester. It''s a huge park named after Platt Lane, a nearby road. It''s not that far from Maine Road, where Manchester City''s ground used to be. If you haven''t heard of Manchester City, they''re quite well known in the area. There''s a decent sports complex on Platt Lane that City''s academy used to use.


    My feet were operating with a mind of their own. I was halfway through Platt Fields, heading towards Platt Lane. Where I knew there''d be some football going on. I grunted and turned myself more north, to where my house was. But then again, I couldn''t avoid football for the rest of my life, could I? If I saw a football match and there were no numbers, then last night had simply been a hallucination.


    I turned left again, and ambled towards the all-weather football pitches. I heard a referee''s whistle and all the hairs on my neck stood on end. I took a deep breath, and walked faster. Let''s get this over with...


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


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    <td>Conrad Etuhu</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Born 28.9.1999</td>


    <td>(Age 23)</td>


    <td>Nigerian/English</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Acceleration 4</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Stamina 1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Heading 2</td>


    <td>Strength 2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Tackling 2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jumping 5</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bravery 7</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Technique 1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Pace 4</td>


    <td>preferred foot R</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Passing 1</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dribbling 1</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


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    </table>


    I stood, stock still, on the sideline, trying not to have a complete freakout. The numbers hovered over every player. It was like one of those augmented reality apps that took what your phone''s camera was seeing and added monsters or balloons or whatever. In this case it was showing me the attributes of people playing football. Including their names, nationalities, and birthdays! What the actual fuck.


    The longer I stayed there, watching the game, the more I calmed down. Yes, this was insane. Yes, this was an identity thief''s dream come true. And yes, maybe that crazy old guy had used advanced hypnosis techniques on me. He did look a bit like Derren Brown. Or maybe he''d injected me with nanobots that were hijacking my brain? Most likely that Scottish money carried a curse. Like an actual curse. Isn''t that what Macbeth is about? Witches and curses and everything?


    But...


    But it wasn''t hurting me. I looked around and nobody was reacting to me at all. If my eyes were turning pure black every time I ''scanned'' a player, surely someone would have maybe asked me to stop?


    So... I could see the attributes of these football players.


    So what?


    I did a very slow 360, taking in the scene around me before focusing on the football again. Basically, everything else was normal. Totally normal. Yes, I''d see a jogger and rate her out of 10. But I didn''t actually see the number. I was just being a superficial misogynist pig. That wasn''t new. And there were some guys playing rugby on the next pitch. That didn''t trigger any pop-ups. No weird visions from rugby.


    So I focused on Conrad Etuhu again, and compared him to what I remembered of Steven McGough. Steven had acceleration and pace 5, while Conrad had 4s for both. And yes, Steven might have seemed a little faster. But maybe the other players were just slower? Or the game wasn''t as serious? Were these numbers absolute or relative to the particular match I was watching?


    Both had 1s for passing and technique. I kept my eye on Conrad, and honestly, he didn''t seem that bad to me. Certainly not 1 out of 10 bad. But it wasn''t out of 10, was it? Steven had bravery 11, and a couple of the other players I was watching had scores of over 10. So it was... out of 100? That seemed ludicrous. But then again, the whole thing was ludicrous.


    So where had these numbers come from? Nick, the old Pole with the Scottish money? But he thought a famous composer was a star player. He didn''t know the first thing about football.


    All I could do was to keep watching and see if maybe the numbers changed during the game or something like that. They didn''t.


    But when the match ended, something changed. Instead of seeing the attributes of the players, there was a little tiny envelope icon in the bottom-right corner of my vision. It didn''t stop me from seeing anything in the ¡®real¡¯ world, and it was transparent unless I stared at it. I mean, it wouldn''t have caused me to crash my car or anything like that.


    And it didn''t take me long to work out how to ¡®tap¡¯ on it and open the message. Pretty much just had to ¡®will¡¯ it.


    When I read the text, I knew that I was in for a hell of a ride.

 Book 1: Pre-Season 3 - Super Scout

    3.


    Congratulations! You have completed the tutorial. You have gained reputation. You may now see your experience points. You may now spend your experience points.


    Your Reputation in England: Unknown


    Your World Reputation: Unknown


    XP: 23


    New Achievements: Scouting 1; Slummin'' It


    Perks Unlocked: Player Profile 2; Attributes 1; 4-4-2; Super Scout


    I stood there staring at this message for so long that when I sort of slipped back into my body again, another match had started on the pitch in front of me. So I''ve completed the tutorial, have I? I had a LOT to say about that, but no-one to say it to. Nick, the weird old foreigner, would get an earful the next time I saw him. Three questions to start with: 1) Why wasn''t I told there was a tutorial? 2) How did I finish said tutorial? 3) What the fuck have you done to me you absolute DICK?


    So what was different now that I''d completed the tutorial? I scanned the new players and didn''t see anything different. There was one real speed merchant who had acceleration 11 and pace 10, and one Mediterranean-looking guy who had the highest technique score I''d seen: 8. So the players were different, of course, but I wasn''t different.


    I tried to ''open'' the message again, but it had gone. But I wanted to re-read what it said! I tried ''clicking'' the corner of my vision where the envelope icon had been, and a new ''screen'' appeared in my vision. In a panic, I looked away. It vanished. I checked out my feet, the sky, the corner flags. All good. Breathe in for three seconds, breathe out for four. I let my eyes unfocus and tried to bring the new screen back.


    On the left were some tabs. One said ''Max Best'' and ¡®tapping¡¯ that gave me three options: Personal Profile (where I could see my XP and achievements), News, and ''Retire''. The latter seemed very ominous. Below ''Max Best'' were three more boxes, but they were currently blank.


    Top and centre of the new screen was the title ''Max Best News''. Below those words lay a kind of Twitter feed. The latest ''tweet'' said Perk Unlocked: Super Scout. Around the tweets were different kinds of filters, including ones like ''Contracts and Media'', ''Transfers'', and ''Records''. Clicking on these filters proved as easy as reading my messages - I just had to think it. Of course, I had no ''news'' about contracts, transfers, or records, so the filters were useless. For now.


    I clicked on the news item that said Perk Unlocked: Super Scout, and found that it contained a description. A brief description.


    Buying the Super Scout perk adds CA and PA data to player profiles.


    Cost: 10,000 XP


    UNIQUE SPECIAL OFFER: Buy before August 1st and pay only 1,000 XP!


    Great. Love getting a deal. Now I just needed to know what CA and PA meant. I tried clicking on those terms, but nothing happened.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Anyway, it wasn''t urgent, since I didn''t have 1,000 XP. I had 23. No... 24.


    Now that was a head-scratcher. I''d earned one experience point recently, but had absolutely no idea how.


    Moving onto my previous news items, I found explanations for my achievements. Scouting 1 was awarded because I''d examined the profiles of 10 players. I had been awarded 1 XP for that as part of the 23 from the tutorial. But awarded by whom? By God? By Nick? By the Football Association?


    Slummin'' It also gave me 1 XP. It came because I''d spent more than half my time watching non-league matches.


    Oh-kay... So some XP came from hitting targets. If this curse followed video game rules, maybe there would be a list of achievements that I could aim towards completing. I glanced at my XP - still 24. Hadn''t earned any for a couple of minutes. I didn''t know how much I should care about XP, but I already knew that I''d at least try to get 1,000 to unlock the CA/PA perk, if only to find out what CA/PA meant.


    Speaking of perks, I investigated the other ones that were available to buy. Player Profile 2 would cost 100 XP and would unlock a tab called History. Attributes 1 would let me see another player attribute, at a cost of 315 XP.


    Finally, I could buy 4-4-2 for 50 XP. This was considered so obvious by the ... interface designers? ... that there wasn''t even an attempt at explanation. 4-4-2 is a way to set up a football team. Pretty much the most basic formation, especially popular with amateur teams. So if I bought this, what would I, personally, get?


    With a sigh, I closed all the screens. Bonkers. Bizarre. Pointless.


    I ambled over to the half-way line and asked how long was left. The coach of the red team looked at his watch and said, "about 10 minutes."


    "Thanks."


    I decided I''d watch those ten minutes and at half-time I''d go home and try to put my thoughts into order. There had to be a meaning behind all this, right? What was the point of me being able to see in numerical terms someone''s pace? The only thing I could think was that if I watched enough football I might find someone fast enough to qualify for the Olympics. And what good would that do me?


    The half-time whistle blew and I started making my way home. I thought about buying a wrap from the little stand they had next to the indoor complex. I checked my pockets - I still had the hundred pounds that Nick had given me, but there was more chance of me playing for Manchester United than this little stall giving me change for a hundred. A Scottish hundred! I counted the rest of my cash. I could just about wrangle a chicken wrap with no drink. If only my bank balance went up like my XP did!


    The thought made me freeze. I opened what I was coming to think of as my personal profile, and found that I now had 34 XP.


    Wait wait wait. I had 24 and then I watched about 10 minutes of football. Could it be that simple?


    I bought the cheapest wrap - god I wished I had another pound for some onions! - and went to watch the second half. These games had 40 minute halves, and sure enough, at the final whistle I''d earned another 40 XP.


    Well, well, well.


    With 74 XP in the bank, I had a choice. I could buy 4-4-2 right away, or keep saving up. What I really wanted was to buy the Super Scout perk. But I also wanted to just find out what all this was about. Like, what was the point of it all? It seemed obvious that buying something would give me a big clue.


    So I moved away from the pitch, sat on a bench, and bought 4-4-2. It was easy enough - just a matter of clicking and confirming.


    And... absolutely nothing happened. I clicked around through all my screens, menus, and subtabs, and just couldn''t find anything different. (Except that I¡¯d lost 50 XP.)


    Ah well, the mistake had cost me 50 minutes, basically. I just had to watch more football.


    There were no more games going on outside, but there was one in the sports hall. I went and sat in the little stand and did some maths on my phone. To get 1,000 XP I¡¯d need to watch about 11 games. There were 11 days left in July, not counting today. I could easily do it if I simply had to be near some football matches.


    Doing the maths and thinking about when and where I could reliably find games to watch took me about 5 minutes. But in that time I¡¯d only added 2 XP. That was worrying - if I got less and less XP per minute then things would get very tedious, very quickly, and I wouldn¡¯t come close to having 1,000 by the end of the month.


    One of the players caught my eye. It was 7-a-side and one team had two female players. The one I was interested in didn''t have good attributes, at least, not in a footballing sense. I allowed myself to discreetly perv at her for 5 minutes, and another check showed me that I''d earned 5 XP.


    Time for another experiment! I watched the game allowing myself to get distracted, looking at what the other spectators were doing, checking my phone. Guess what? After 10 minutes of that, I''d earned 3 XP. Then I set a timer for 6 minutes and watched carefully until it beeped, and boom. 6 XP in the bank. So clearly there was something about how intently I watched the matches that factored into how much experience it was giving me. That made sense.


    A vast, stadium-shaking yawn oozed out of me. I''d learned enough for one day.

 Book 1: Pre-Season 4 - A Game Is a Game

    4.


    Thursday. Day 1 of 11. Finished work at 5. Home for an early dinner, down to Platt Fields to watch as much footy as possible. Bagged 70 XP, bringing my total to 110. There were more games going on but I was desperately thirsty and there was a live match on TV. I wanted to watch it to check if watching from my sofa gave me XP - that would allow me to grind, big time.


    Turns out, watching on a screen didn''t give me any XP and I didn''t see any attributes for the players. Just to check, I found some old matches on YouTube and they also had zero effect. I would have to physically turn up if I wanted to ''progress'' - whatever that meant in this context.


    Talking of context, I did do a cheeky incognito search for phrases like ''augmented reality but in my head'' and ''I¡¯m seeing things'' and ''are Scottish curses real''. Nothing. I searched for CA PA and got a bunch of pages about Corrective And Preventive Action. I tried CA PA football and there were links to varsity teams in California. One Reddit thread seemed promising but when I clicked on it, the whole screen was distorted like the code had failed and it gave me a headache. Long story short, I got absolutely nowhere and had to accept terms of service and accept cookies every time I clicked absolutely anything so I gave up.


    ***


    Friday. 2/11. Quick detour after work. Mission: buy a flask. You''re supposed to put them in the dishwasher before you use them, but I had no time for luxuries like common sense. I wanted to grind through to 1,000 XP to get Super Scout asap. And grinding meant bringing things with me that would let me stay out longer. Hot tea, cash for an onionless chicken wrap, a couple of apples for afters, and a library book to read while the teams were warming up. Lovely. My investment paid off with 80 XP and I could have had more - there were games going on till it got dark, and even then some continued under floodlights.


    ***


    3/11. I thought Saturday would have been a bumper day with many back-to-back matches to watch, but it wasn''t that straightforward. In the morning, I found some casual games in the park, 3 on 4, that kind of thing, but they didn''t give me XP. Too small? Not serious enough?


    As for the lack of bigger games, perhaps the weather was too good and people were doing barbecues or shopping or just going to the pub. Meanwhile, hardcore football fans were on their way to watch the Saturday fixtures. The Premier League clubs were mostly jetsetting around the world. United were in Thailand or Australia. Spurs were in Korea. A quick search told me that the biggest professional game going on near me was a friendly between Altrincham (5th highest professional league) and Stockport County (4th highest). 20 quid for a ticket, plus a burger and a drink, plus parking. 40 or 50 quid all-in? Plus tons of general hassle. Worth it? Not really. A game is a game, right? I didn''t see why I should start breaking the bank when I could get XP for free if I looked hard enough.


    I expected to be able to watch at least 2 games tomorrow plus at least one every evening after work. I was on target. So there was no point getting an ulcer about it and ending up in the hospital.


    So I decided it was as good a time as any to go... to the hospital.


    Plot twist!


    Actually, no. It''s more of a care home. My mum''s in one. She isn''t well, and she''s not going to get any better.


    I got in the car and drove, but weirdly, I drove the long way, the way that took me past Hough End playing fields with its countless football pitches. There were no games going on. Ah, well. But wait! To the side, tucked in behind some trees is a little facility used by the police for god knows what. Probably some kind of leisure centre. Diversity training that they all take VERY seriously, I¡¯m sure. It doesn''t matter and you don''t care, but guess what they''ve got? A football pitch. And there was a little game on!


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    I parked and jogged in. No-one stopped me. I''m not the skin colour that animates the police. The game was 8-a-side, and, moronically, they were playing the full length of the pitch. The game was garbage. There was too much space. The players couldn''t pass the ball so it constantly went out for a throw-in or goal-kick. The worst players tried to do the most difficult things, while the best players played neat, simple passes and their reward was seeing less of the ball than their shit teammates. Keeping my attention focused on this travesty of an excuse for sport was hard. Really hard. I earned those XP. I was up to 250 - a quarter of the way there!


    A few hours after I set off, I arrived at the care home and found they''d moved all the patients around again. I stopped a nurse to complain about it. Surely it''s important for these patients to build a routine? To be in familiar places? She was sympathetic but said, for once, the home was blameless. My mother had insisted on moving. That was very strange. Very unlike her. Almost impossibly out of character. Her catchphrase was ''don''t make a fuss''.


    I found her and settled in for a session of what I call ''being there''. We¡¯d never had long chats even when she was healthy, and these days her moments of lucidity don''t coincide with my visits. The doctors encourage me to keep trying, though, and the nurses assure me she benefits from me being there.


    "Max," she said, shocking me by recognising me straight away. She was in her favourite chair watching telly. She gave me a level stare. "You must see Anna. Go and see Anna immediately."


    "Anna? Who''s that? Why are you in this room? The last one had a better view."


    "Anna is next door. She''s my friend and I want to be next to her."


    I was torn. Mum was awake and herself and it seemed insane to leave when she was like this. It was increasingly rare. On the other hand, me staying would merely agitate her. I decided to leave the room, but slowly.


    Mum was having none of it. "Be off with you. I''m watching Love Island." She was, as well. I got to the door and hesitated for just a moment. "To the left," she barked.


    There was nothing for it. I turned left and went to see this Anna person. I knocked, heard a loud, clear ''enter'', and swung the door open. Three steps into the room the same voice told me to stop. It came from a medical bed in the centre of the room. Anna was clearly much physically sicker than my mum. Much older, too, though mum was too young to be in a place like this. At first glance Anna was a generic old woman. White hair and that.


    "Solly," she said. A mutt raised its head and looked at me. He looked like he''d have preferred to stay in his little dog bed, but he dutifully got up and approached me, giving me a wary sniff before starting to growl. The growl grew into a tiny bark. Solly was trying to limit his volume. Good dog! "Solly doesn''t approve of you."


    "Then he''s an impeccable judge of character."


    Anna didn''t laugh. "Who are you?"


    "I''m Mary''s son. Max. I hear you''re friends now."


    "Thick as thieves. Solly adores her."


    I spared a bit more of my mental run-time to look at her. The wrinkles around the nose, the shape of the lips. She had a powerful aura. One of those women with too much energy who are always thundering around the garden or organising fetes, if fetes still exist. "You''ve got an accent there."


    "Polish."


    Another one! "Do you know a guy called Nick?"


    "All the residents here are women. Perhaps you mean one of the locums?"


    "No. Don''t worry about it."


    "You don''t seem concerned about Solly''s low opinion of you."


    "That''s because he is a dog. And hardly a thoroughbred."


    "You confuse him with a horse. You should be concerned. Solly is a very spiritual animal. He has seen many things and he sees many things. He is never wrong."


    She was speaking in a tone I couldn''t quite put my finger on at the time, but in the car later it came to me - medium. Spiritualist. Crystals and oversized bracelets and all that. I just didn''t care in the slightest and wanted to get out of there as fast as possible without doing anything unforgivably rude. "If he comes in here with me, he can watch the end of Love Island."


    "Oh, that." She scrunched up her nose. By now I''d locked her face into my facial recognition software. The nose, in particular, was quite distinctive. "Your mother has wonderful latent spiritual gifts. She has real talent for the occult. We spend many evenings stargazing, exploring the tarot, discussing the mysteries of the universe." She made an unconscious lip-smacking gesture like you might see on a horse. "But she loves those lowest common denominator shows. The lower the better." She sighed.


    I was almost out of the room when I turned back. "By the way," I said. "Mum''s looking much better and it seems you''re a big reason for that. So thanks. Bye. And bye, Solly."


    And that really should have been a meeting so trivial and inane as to never warrant another mention, another microsecond of thought.


    But as you''ll see, it was a pretty big deal.


    And not the way you''d think.

 Book 1: Pre-Season 5 - Hoofing at Random

    5.


    4/11. I got up early and drove to Hough End. It wasn''t that far to walk but it was a little bit too far in case I was stupidly early. But even when I got there at 9 am there were people milling around getting the pitches set up. Tying nets to the goalposts. Setting up corner flags. Rummaging inside a huge bag of shirts and shorts. The rituals of Sunday League football.


    I went to ask a manager-looking guy what time the games were kicking off. There were some at 10, he said, and after that he didn''t know. I popped home for a nice cuppa, and was back at five to ten. I watched the game as closely as poss. These were proper 45-minute halves, so I came out with almost 80 XP. I did lose concentration a few times, but we can gloss over that. No-one concentrates on anything 100% of the time. Also, the quality was abysmal. One of the worst games you''ve ever seen. Just loads of men with low attributes running around shouting and trying to run off their hangovers.


    Mercifully, that game ended. Another team was hanging around the side of the pitch waiting to use it. Their game would start at 12:15, they told me, but the genius of going to Hough End was that there were so many games happening that I didn''t need to take a break. I shuffled across to another pitch and watched part of that, then went back to the pitch I''d started on. Doing that meant I could watch games pretty much non-stop from 10am until the final whistle on the final game at two thirty.


    In total, I got 225 XP. It could have been more but the more I tried to power through, the more tired and distracted I got. Still, good haul. Really good haul, bringing me to 475 XP. Nearly halfway there, with a week to go.


    ***


    The next few nights were a slog. The poor quality was starting to get to me, as was the sameness of all the players. There wasn''t one guy with good attributes.


    Monday was all right because the game I ended up watching was pretty good. Both teams had enough half-decent players to make every attack seem dangerous and it seemed like both teams were trying to do tactics, though I couldn''t tell you what. It was pretty easy to concentrate during that one. But Tuesday I couldn''t find a good game and I ended up frustrated and going home early. Then on Wednesday there was a pretty huge thunderstorm and no games were played.


    Which left me slightly stressed, because I was on 560 out of 1000 with only 4 days left. The last day was a Sunday so I assumed Hough End would be rammed with Sunday League games again, but what if the weather was bad? If I missed this deadline the chance of me ever watching enough abysmal football to get 10,000 XP (to buy Super Scout full-price) was zero. Less than zero.


    I spent much of Thursday wondering why I was putting myself through this. Most of the matches were beyond dull and veering into something like torture. When a player blonked the ball at the goal and it flew so close to the sun that it nearly hit Icarus, I had to watch that player half-heartedly jog towards the ball, get it, come back to the pitch, and throw it to the goalkeeper. That''s what I was doing with my life because if I didn''t pay attention I wouldn''t get XP. When there was an injury and all the players ran to the side of the pitch to drink blue Powerade, I couldn''t have a little potter around or check my phone. I had to stare at the injured player or the referee or the stationary ball.


    And why? What would I get?


    I didn''t know. But I knew I''d already come this far. Surely I could summon up a little more effort? A handful of evenings?


    ***


    Thursday night, I dragged myself to Platt Lane and watched parts of two games. 120 XP and a nice chat with the chicken wrap guy who I was getting to know a bit now that I was a regular customer.


    I went into the sports hall to watch some more, and there was a bit of an upsetting incident.


    Both teams were pretty thuggy. Very snide and aggressive, and the game reminded me of a simmering pot. It always seemed like it would come to the boil at any moment, but it never quite got there.


    One team had a kind of super-thug running around windmilling his elbows. If you believe in-breeding causes facial defects like eyes being too close together, then this guy was your poster boy. I knew his name from the curse, but let¡¯s call him Pitbull. The profile page told me that Pitbull was a defender, but he was playing up front. I scanned the rest of his team and they could have reorganised more efficiently. But then again, I was pretty sure the attributes I could see were based on full-size matches. After all, you didn¡¯t really have left-backs or defensive midfielders in these smaller games. So maybe the ¡®position¡¯ attribute didn¡¯t matter in a game like this. Right? Or should players with defensive characteristics play in defence no matter how big the game was?


    By now, you might have guessed what happened. Pitbull felt me staring at him and when his team conceded a last-minute equaliser having been in the lead for most of the game, he blew his top, and I was first in line for his wrath.


    With his eyes so close together, his forehead looked massive. I was sure his primary form of communication was via the medium of headbutting.


    ¡°What you looking at?¡±


    I¡¯m looking at your genetically malformed face, mate. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Said, what you looking at?¡±


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Oh,¡± I said, leaning back. I had been angled forward, watching the game so intently I strained my neck. I rubbed it while twisting. ¡°I was trying to work out why you don¡¯t play at the back.¡±


    ¡°You what?¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you a defender?¡±


    ¡°No. I¡¯m a striker. Top scorer.¡±


    I massaged the little muscle above my collarbone. This was worrying. If I couldn¡¯t trust the position attribute then I couldn¡¯t trust anything. Which would render the whole thing futile. Which meant if Polish Nick had done this to me, the whole thing was a prank. ¡°Oh.¡±


    Pitbull, to his huge credit, saw my confusion and calmed all the way down. He even showed a little empathy. ¡°I used to play centre-back at school. Were you at Ducie?¡±


    ¡°No. Maybe I saw you once, though.¡± I was about to make some suggestions about how they could reorganise their team, but decided to beat a hasty retreat while my nose was still in one piece.


    ***


    [Day 9 of 11]. Friday was brutally hot. A game started, but at half-time both teams agreed to quit. There were games in the sports hall, but I was a bit wary of going in and having another confrontation. Especially because the heat was making me fractious. Every little thing was driving me insane. Bus taking too long at one stop? Holy fuck sort it out! Shop out of cheddar? Who do I have to murder to fix your supply chain, mate?


    I had a little chat with Emre, the chicken wrap guy, hoping to vent my frustration a bit, but he said it wasn''t even that hot. That wound me up because it was the hottest day in recorded history and sure, maybe it''s technically hotter in Turkey sometimes but Turkey has a fucking OCEAN and air conditioning and buildings with those Byzantine protection wall decorations that sort of keep the heat out somehow.


    "There''s aircon in the hall," he said.


    "They aren''t always that keen on me watching," I said, casting a forlorn glance at the building.


    He went quiet at that. Stopped fiddling with things on his little stand. He was weighing up what to say to me and how to say it when he glanced over my shoulder and called to someone. "Beth. Got a sec?" I turned to see a woman striding past, about 20, wearing a tracksuit and carrying indoor trainers with little rubber grips on them. She was attractive enough, but she had those eyebrow things. Sort of looks like they''ve been shaved off then drawn back on in marker pen? I don''t know if that''s what happens and I don''t want to know.


    "Sup Emre?"


    "My best customer here wants to watch a game but he''s shy."


    "And you want me to take care of him?"


    "Yes, please. But don''t get him wet and don''t feed him after midnight."


    She looked me up and down and flicked her head towards the hall. "Come on, then." I nodded thanks at Emre and tagged along with the woman. I thought I should make polite small talk but she didn¡¯t need any prompting; she had things she wanted to say. "It''s the first game of the season. We play 7-a-side, rolling subs. This lot are dirty but we''ll beat them. Been working on me fitness over the summer. Every time I thought about skiving and going on the razz, I thought of Chloe Kelly. How hard it''s been for her. If she can come back from an ACL I can do a few shuttle runs in the morning. God, I hope we win."


    Her way of talking was disconcerting - surely she¡¯d just expressed confidence they¡¯d win the game? Had I missed something? "We?"


    "Duh. England?"


    She thought she was playing for England? What? "What?"


    "The final! Are you - Oh." I knew that look she was giving me. It wasn¡¯t the first time I¡¯d seen it from someone who¡¯d just met me. She wasn''t sure if I was ''mentally challenged''.


    I tried to smile to show her the incandescent intelligence that burned within me. "This is the first game of the season, you said. But now you''re saying it''s the final. You''ll forgive me for being confused."


    She pulled a face. "This isn''t - I''m talking about England. England vs Germany. Euro 22." It was obvious that I didn''t know what she was talking about. Her mad eyebrows shot up with surprise. "Women''s football," she said, but her good humour had left. To her, I was one of those trolls who always banged on about women''s football being slow and the goalkeepers being shit.


    I showed her my palms. "I come in peace, sister. Hashtag not all men."


    "That''s not a very good hashtag."


    I grimaced. "Isn''t it? Sorry. I don''t do social media. I¡¯ve only heard about it second hand. Got the wrong end of the stick maybe."


    She looked at me much like Solly the dog had done, but she came to a different conclusion. Or just gave me the benefit of the doubt. "England are in the final of the Euros. Playing Germany. It''s huge. The whole country is talking about it. You literally can''t have not heard about it."


    I had heard some podcasts talking about something with women, but that¡¯s what the skip forward button is for. Now I wondered what I¡¯d been missing, tried to fill in the blanks. My imagination ran wild. All the way back to 1966 in the World Cup. The men''s World Cup. "England v Germany in the final? That''s pretty... epic."


    She smiled. "At Wembley."


    "You''re fucking kidding."


    She liked that, for some reason. "No."


    "Women''s football at Wembley. The Wembley? 90,000 seat stadium Wembley? The literal home of football?"


    "Yep."


    My mind started racing. So there was a game on Sunday night! If I was still short on XP after the Sunday morning games, or if they were canceled because of bad weather, maybe I could get down to London and watch this women''s football thing. If I got XP for watching malcoordinated male players hoof the ball at random all over Manchester, surely I''d get XP for watching the highest level of women''s football. The curse would have to be very misogynist to only give me credit for watching men, or mostly-male teams. How long would it take to drive to London? Three hours, was it? Four? If the kickoff was at 7pm I could watch a few hours of Hough End magic in the morning and still be at Wembley with hours to spare.


    Beth was watching me go through these calculations. "What are you doing?"


    I was close to blushing. "Just wondering if I could watch an early match here in Manchester and still make it to the game."


    "To the final? Are you crazy? It''s sold out."


    "90,000 tickets for women''s football sold out?" I was incredulous, which was a bad vibe. But my surprise wasn''t really along the lines of ''but the games are shit''. It was more like ''but when did this get so popular?'' I had just enough intelligence to realise I''d offended Beth in the microseconds before she made certain I knew she was unhappy by turning away and leaving. I would likely never see her again but I didn''t want to end on a low note. I chased after her and said, "Sorry, sorry. I''m not trying to be a dick." She stopped and turned. "I''m just blown away. Honest. You''ve got to admit that''s mind-blowing."


    She briefly looked furious, but it passed. "Barcelona had over 90,000 twice in one month."


    "Fucking hell."


    She gave me another long look. It felt long, anyway. "How old are you?"


    "22."


    "And you don''t do social media?"


    "I had Facebook but I deleted it."


    "You''ve got TikTok though."


    "I don''t." At that, she seemed to lose interest in me. She looked at her watch and started striding towards the sports hall. I tried to keep pace but fell behind. She was nearly at the doors. I had to yell. "Can I still watch?"


    "It''s a free country." The doors slammed behind her.


    Not exactly a glowing invitation. But I took it. In that brief moment I wanted the XP more than I feared what lay inside.

 Book 1: Pre-Season 6 - Weirdly Exciting

    6.


    What lay inside was an echoey sports hall, nicely cool, with a bunch of women warming up in front of exactly one spectator. Me.


    I didn''t have long to wait for kick-off. The wall clock started counting down from 25:00, so 25 minutes each way, quick half time orange and biccy.


    The game was enthusiastic but short on quality. I wouldn''t say it in front of Beth but the goalkeepers were really bad. One thing in the game''s favour was a general feeling of positivity. Just a lack of snide challenges, much less cheating, much more encouragement. And one thing is for certain - the time absolutely flew by. I had no problem keeping my attention on the game, and yes, I got 1 XP per minute just like normal.


    Beth (known to most of her side as ''Beff'') was the best player and she had the highest stamina, so in the last ten minutes she dominated and scored two goals to put the game to bed. It finished 11-7.


    Her team was ecstatic, and after a few high-fives and hugs they shook hands with the other team and went to their side of the pitch where all their kit bags were. Stupidly, I had hung around, thinking about certain things I''d noticed in the game. Too late, I tried to slip away. Beth bounded up to me before I could escape and dragged me towards her teammates. They were quite international - probably some kind of university team. Beth was high on victory and the bursts of speed her extra training had allowed her. "So, what did you think?"


    "I enjoyed it. Can I come next week, too?"


    The rest of her team made cooing noises like I was flirting. Beth said, "First you have to prove you were really watching." Her teammates ate up this twist in the tale. They had front-row seats to an exclusive one-off Love Island special.


    I said, "What do you mean?"


    "Are you some rando perv who wants to look at our legs or what? Were you watching the game or were you watching us?"


    I got it. And I smiled. I''d never been able to say this before in my entire life, but right at that moment I was uniquely qualified to comment on their footballing ability. Completely detached from their appearance! What I knew about them from their player profiles was totally objective. I was pretty sure it was, anyway. "Well, the first thing I noticed was that Nobuko is left-footed but only uses her right."


    The team''s general level of fun and jolliness didn''t change right away, but Nobuko looked crushed and the rest caught on. "How do you know my name?"


    I''d only gone and put my foot in it FOUR SECONDS into the conversation. Why do I think of myself as smart when I''m so consistently stupid? "I heard someone say it during the match."


    "They all call me Nobby."


    "Yeah but a Japanese woman called Nobby. It''s obviously going to be Nobuko."


    They relaxed a bit. Not so much Nobuko, who wasn''t convinced it was obvious. But she didn''t want to make a scene and she had other sushi to fry. "How do you know about my foot?"


    That was easier. I mean, there''s no way to know someone''s left-handed just by looking at a photo, but it¡¯s much easier if you see them play tennis. So it was a breeze to bullshit my way out of this one. "Just a sense from the way you move. Your balance. There''s nothing wrong with the way you kick the ball but it didn''t seem totally right. I had this feeling that..." Nobuko was staring at a spot on the floor. "Well, anyway. Look, Beth, guys, I keep annoying everyone by accident. I should just go."


    There was uproar. No! Not annoying. Don''t go. Nobuko was shaking her head slightly and she waited for a lull. "My family is extremely traditional. To write left-handed in Japanese is very hard. They didn''t force me to be right-handed like in the old days, but they encouraged me. And I was happy to try. Why not? Easier to fit in. So now... yes. He''s right. I am shocked. I never knew it was so obvious."


    She was close to tears. This was brutal. I hated that I had done this. But on the other hand... it was weirdly exciting. One significant piece of evidence that the player profiles were real! But now I had a social issue to deal with. "It''s not SO obvious. Honestly. You could ask a hundred people to comment on you as a footballer and I''d be the only one to say it. Seriously."


    "He''s right, Nobby," said Beth. "You can''t tell."


    "Okay, I''m going. It was fun. Thanks." They tried to stop me leaving, invited me to join them in the pub. I held firm. Plus I had very little money left. "Same time next week? Or did I fail the test?"


    Beth walked outside with me. She said she didn''t know what time they''d be playing but she could text me. It was a blatant lie to get my number.


    I took her phone and started typing it in, but paused. "This is just for the football."


    "Right."


    "I''m serious." She looked doubtful, but seemed to understand what I was saying. I typed in my number and saved it.


    She took her phone back without looking at it. "What about me?"


    "What?" I was worried she was going to get all intense. Was it too late to snatch her phone out of her hand?


    "You saw Nobby was left-footed somehow. What about me?"


    That was easy. "You should play in defence. Bye."


    As I walked away, she looked down at her phone. "Bye... oh, he''s left a fake name. Fucking hell."


    ***


    Saturday was the day before the deadline, and I didn''t quite get to 1,000 XP.


    But I thought my overall plan was pretty sound. After brek, I went to the police facility, and kept going back every half an hour or so in between drives to the shops and once, to the library in Withington where I spent some time looking up my curse on a computer that couldn''t be traced back to me. "Slummin'' It non-league achievement". ¡°CA meaning football.¡± "What''s it called when you see things NOT schizophrenic." "Does doctor patient confidentiality apply in England."


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    No help. No evidence that anyone else had this problem. And in the case of looking up CA, a splitting headache and another corrupted website.


    Anyway, one time I drove to the police and saw a game on. This time I was mentally prepared in case anyone came to challenge me. My plan was to say I had come to see my friend Niall Stephens - one of the names I''d seen the last time I was there. This Stephens guy had a habit of shooting from the halfway line no matter the state of the game, to the growing apoplexy of his teammates. I felt like most of the regulars would know him. And if there was a second game, I''d refer them to one of the players from this current game I was watching. "Oh," they''d say, sympathetically. "He was here earlier."


    The game was bad, again, but this time I focused on one attribute: tackling. I took the players with the highest and lowest scores - there were many that had a 1 so I focused on a guy playing in midfield who had more chance of being involved in tackle situations - and kept an eye on them through the game. Tried to keep a tally. The guy with the ''good'' tackling attribute did slide in and win a couple of tackles, but so did the rubbish one. The ''good'' one looked slightly more convincing to my naked eye, but the point of watching them was to see how their performance related to these numbers, not to put my own interpretation on it. In the end there just wasn''t enough data from one tiny, amateur game. Maybe I''d invest some cash in going to see a professional game and see what came out of that. I still had that Scottish money, after all.


    But there was absolutely no chance of me going out of my way to watch godawful amateur games or overpriced professional ones if I bought Super Scout and found it was as useless as 4-4-2. If it was another bust, then this journey was over.


    ***


    After the football I went to get petrol - catastrophically expensive - and bought Hot Goss, a trashy celebrity news magazine. I drove to the care home and read some articles about Love Island to my mum. Halfway through, Anna, looking much improved, came in and sat by mum''s bed and wheezed and listened and asked me to read their horoscopes. I did, but grew frustrated by the sheer stupidity of the thing so offered her a choice between another article on Love Island or a story about a woman who''d fallen in love with a murderer. She chose the latter.


    ***


    The forecast for Sunday morning was 50% chance of thunderstorms. I only needed 110 more points. Just a game and a bit! If the storms didn''t hit until lunchtime, I''d make it.


    The first game kicked off under dark grey clouds. I was so distracted by them I didn''t get full XP. Stupid! At full-time I moved over to another pitch where they''d kicked off twenty minutes late. I guessed the players would try to finish their game even if there was a fair bit of rain, but that maybe the matches scheduled for later would be cancelled. Of course, in the event of an actual storm, it was game over for the day¡¯s schedule and game over for Project Super Scout. It was frustrating - I knew I needed one more set of matches to kick off. Just one more!


    The skies darkened. There was lightning in the distance, though I couldn''t hear the thunder. Every minute counted; I had to pay attention. I tried to imagine my eyes being pulled open like I was being forced to watch the games. Like in that picture from that movie.


    Goals flew in on all the pitches around me. 1-0 over here. 4-2 over there. But the only number I cared about crept up slower than me up a stepladder.


    I had 950 XP.


    I had 975 XP.


    984.


    98...5.


    Then: disaster. Huge cracks in the sky, like ship masts splitting in half, condemning all who sail in it to drown. And drown we did.


    Hundreds of men gathered their most vital possessions and ran for what little shelter there was. I let four complete strangers into my car - it stank of mud and sweat for days after.


    Stuck on 985 XP! Stranded! Shipwrecked! At first I was depressed. To come so close and fail by fifteen minutes. Pure torment! But the good-natured banter of the guys distracted me, especially when the conversation turned to women''s football. 3 of the 4 guys had been watching the Euros - reluctantly at first - "there was nothing else on" - but with growing interest. When the discussion moved away from the general - "but aren''t the goalkeepers shit?" - to the specific - "She''s got to pick Russo to start ahead of White" and "Bright won''t be able to stop Alex Popp; England are in for a rude awakening" - I knew I''d missed out on something big. A shared, collective experience. A national carnival.


    Again, my thoughts turned to making a mad dash down to London to see if I could get a ticket. Maybe I could pay someone to let me watch the first 15 minutes!


    Petrol: half a tank each way; a hundred pounds there and back. Ticket from a tout: several hundred quid. Sandwich and a bottled water in London: an arm and a leg. Parking: a kidney.


    I rubbed my face hard, decided to give it up as a bad job. Let my life return to normal. Maybe I''d go and watch the girls play football every Friday night - without creeping them out in future - and upgrade my skillz over the years (or until I was cured). Basically, treat my condition as a mild curiosity and not let it bother me much or change how I lived.


    I turned to the guy in the passenger seat. I knew his name but had learned my lesson about revealing too much. "If you''ve got all your kit I can drop you home."


    There was a silence that stretched into the back of the car. I turned and saw them all looking at me like I was a deep-sea fish with 7 heads and hooks for teeth. In the few seconds before someone spoke, I tried to retrieve the conversation I''d tuned out. They had been talking about tactics and players... from their game. What?


    "Take me home?" the guy said. "We''ve got the whole second half to play."


    "There''s a huge storm!" I said.


    "It''ll be gone in a couple of minutes," said one guy in the back.


    "The pitch!" I said, thinking about how waterlogged it would be.


    They didn''t seem to care. "As long as the ref sticks around, it''s game on. Not letting a bit of rain ruin our season."


    A bit of rain! I couldn''t believe my ears. There had been about a metre of rain in the last five minutes. At one point I''d checked the water level outside the car to see if we''d start floating off or whatever.


    They continued talking about the game, getting more and more animated when discussing which opposing players were giving them the most shit and what to do about it.


    They were going to keep playing! These absolute morons! These absolutely beautiful absolute morons!


    I could have kissed them.


    Deliriously happy, I blurted out, "You should target Matty Smith! He''s actually a striker and he''s got no stamina. Make him sprint a couple of times and he''s toast."


    The passenger seat guy said, carefully, like he was talking to a mentally challenged person, "Which one is Matty Smith?"


    I dialled my excitement down by about 10%. "He''s the left-back. He''s wearing number 12."


    The guys looked at each other. Finally, the oldest one nodded. "We can move Arkhy out there, have him run at him."


    I should have quit while I was ahead, but my mouth had a mind of its own. "Hit your goal kicks over there, too. The guy can''t jump and he can''t head it."


    There was another silence. The oldest guy gave me a hard look. "Do you watch a lot of them?"


    He meant their opponents. "No," I said. "Never seen them before. I''m just... I''m sort of training to be a scout, is all. I¡¯ve been at City¡¯s academy a lot." This was stretching the meaning of the words way way past breaking point. Platt Lane hadn¡¯t been City¡¯s academy for years, and even the vaguest follow-up question about what exactly I was doing at the ¡®academy¡¯ would mean a lot of cringeworthy backtracking.


    Another silence, this one much deeper than the last. It wasn¡¯t merely suspicion and anxiety; we realised the storm had passed and the worst of the rain had gone. The next sounds were those of car doors opening and slamming. The lads did a little jog towards their pitch, but the oldest one turned and said, "Target the full-back, yeah?"


    "Yeah."


    He nodded and jogged off. I followed, ruining my trainers in the thick Manchester mud, and watched the older guy giving instructions to his team. I noticed he was wearing Man City shinpads.


    They followed my advice and scored two goals in 15 minutes.


    And as the second goal was being damply celebrated, I bought Super Scout and my life changed.


    Permanently.

 6.1 - Home Disadvantage

    Player Manager 6


    Recap:


    Max Best has recovered from a near-fatal attack and has led Chester men''s team to fourth in the league, while the women''s team is competitive in tier six. Exhausted by performing three jobs and pushing his body to its limit, he is delighted that help has finally arrived. With a new manager and a new scout easing his burden, he can focus his efforts. His first task? Learning to deal with ultra-defensive opponents.


    ***


    "If everyone likes what you''re doing, you''re doing it wrong." Hope Solo


    ***


    1.


    Tuesday, October 24, 2023


    Match 13 of 46: Southport versus Chester


    "Boo!"


    We were only five minutes into the match but the home fans were livid. They watched as their goalkeeper passed to their centre back, who passed to the other centre back, who looked around for an option and didn''t see anything he liked.


    "Booo!"


    The ball was played forward, and their two strikers combined, venturing into the Chester half. We engulfed them, stole the ball, and Ryan Jack kicked the ball long. It spun out for a throw-in.


    The crowd hushed, waiting to see what would happen. Southport cycled the ball across the pitch in a flat line, then passed it back to the goalie.


    "BOOOO!"


    Magnus Evergreen was next to me. He was a strange guy and a strange player. He had CA 41, which was a measure of his overall ability as a footballer, with CA (I believed) standing for Current Ability. There was another supremely important number that I could see floating above the heads of every footballer I watched live. This was PA, Potential Ability. Almost every player had a PA higher than their CA. Magnus was an exception - his was minus 2. What did it mean? No clue. I felt I would only know when Magnus reached his CA limit.


    "Er, Max," he said now, with a little undercurrent of something in his voice. "Didn''t you give Jackie Reaper a stern telling off for playing defensive football last time he was here? And he''s been back at the club for a day and this is the most defensive performance by a Chester team... probably ever."


    "As Director of Football, I''m furious," I said, but I snapped my head around to look at the home fans. I got the sense, the very distinct and clear sense, that latecomers were arriving into the stadium, asking what the hell was going on, and were being told. All around were pockets of quiet disbelief that soon turned into anger.


    "BOOOOOOO!"


    Magnus sensed I was preoccupied, but curiosity got the better of him. "How long do you think he can keep this up?"


    "I''m astonished he''s lasted this long. He''s writing his resignation letter, don''t you think?"


    Magnus looked at the pitch, the fans, and the beleaguered manager. "I''m afraid you''re right."


    I gave him a friendly pat on the arm. "Forget that guy. He tried being a football manager but he''s out of his depth. He''s history. Magnus, mate. How''s my aura?"


    He looked me up and down. "Resplendent."


    "Oh," I said, savouring the way the word bounced along my ear canals. "I like that. Yes, I like that a lot."


    ***


    Twenty-five minutes earlier


    Southport is in Merseyside, north of Liverpool, and it was my first time there. I didn''t know if Merseysiders talked about the Beatles a few percent less the further they lived from Penny Lane, but I did know that when Red Rum won the Grand National in 1973, he was paraded on Southport''s Haig Avenue pitch at half time. Red Rum was a horse, by the way.


    I also knew I''d played for Darlington against Southport and we''d swatted them aside in the first half before taking it easy in the second. That was 2-0. And in my third match as Chester caretaker manager, we''d smashed them 4-0. So if I understood maths, and I felt like I did, we would beat them 6-0 tonight. Or would it be 8-0?


    Anyway, as with any trip to Merseyside, where grinning strangers called me ''la'' and offered to sell me ''charcoal chicken an'' chips'', I was happy to have Jackie Reaper by my side.


    The away fans were crowded behind the goal in the uncovered Blowick terrace, about 500 of them, many wearing Chester''s blue and white kit, but many more wearing coats and macs, since the endless summer was finally over. For the time being, they didn''t care about the impending rain. Rain was coming, but one reign was about to start.


    We''d announced Jackie''s new role on social media, but I hadn''t been tracking the response. So now I pushed Jackie slightly ahead of me, clapped, and the fans told me what they thought of the news.


    "Jackie Reaper''s blue and white army! Jackie Reaper''s blue and white army!"


    The man himself clenched his fist, punched the air, waved for more. After a full minute of exultation, I pulled him away, applauded the fans, and we headed back to the dugout.


    "Did you grow up on a farm?" I asked.


    He did a tiny smirk and pretended to sigh. "No, Max. Why?"


    "Because you milked that like a pro."


    He shook his head but didn''t reply. We both knew I was right. He was shameless.


    We were soon back at the away dugout where we would part ways for the rest of the evening. Livia was there, looking quite emotional, and finally some inhibition melted away and she dashed to Jackie and kissed him.


    "Whoa!" I said. "This is an undeclared relationship. No public displays of affection until you''ve spoken to HR."


    "We did that," said Jackie. "Last time."


    "But you quit, mate. You''re a new hire. You''ve got to start again."


    "Yes, bosh," he said, which is Scouse for ''boss''. I often wondered if our new sponsors hadn''t intended to call themselves BossCard and asked a Scouse IT guy to buy the domain name. Now they were stuck with the name BoshCard. It was very, very plausible. "Are you ready to play?" he said, worried I hadn''t warmed up with the rest of the first team players.


    "I''m feeling a bit tense, actually. I might ask your girlfriend to give me a good rub. Is that all right?"


    "Sure," he said, not rising to the bait.


    I flicked my head towards the dressing room. Livia frowned. "You''re serious?"


    "I actually am."


    "Lead the way, then."


    "Bye, Jackie!" I said, overly loud, winking and giving him a Maxy two-thumbs.


    His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth. Welcome back, mate! Vimsy slapped him on the back, and Jackie stayed, soaking up the atmosphere. It was obvious he''d missed it. Vimsy followed Livia and I down the tunnel.


    My good mood stayed out on the pitch. The closer I got to the dressing room, specifically the home dressing room, the more I felt my jaw clenching and my eyes narrowing. I burst through the door to the away room and was assaulted by the familiar sights and smells of a large group of men in a small room.


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I demanded.


    The players were absolutely buzzing. I saw it in their smiles and ready laughs, and in the squad overview screen given to me by the curse. Morale was very, very high. The return of Jackie had lifted the entire club. The lads settled down, quiet and alert.


    "Southport are going to play 4-4-2," I said. So far, so normal. Everyone in the National League North played 4-4-2, unless forced into a change by playing against superior tacticians like Jackie Reaper. Or me. "Low block."


    There was a huge groan.


    Three days before, top of the table Kidderminster had turned up at our stadium with a plan. They would get ahead, then when I brought myself on, retreat into their shell. Turtle up. I''d done my best to get us back into the match, but no dice. I had taken the defeat with sublime grace and dignity and just the merest hint of frustration. It seemed to me at the time that the tactic would be repeated, again and again, for the rest of the season. And now, here was proof.


    I had not expected it in away matches.


    I took the marker pen and got ready to draw on our tactics board. It would have been better on a flipchart, but the less equipment we took with us, the better. Dressing rooms were often tiny. The tactics board would do, even if I was drawing over the top of a football pitch.


    "Mikel Arteta inspires his Arsenal players," I said, making eye contact with my troops, "through the use of imagery. He uses drawings to tell a story simple enough for his players to understand." I drew a car. "You are a car. You''ve got four wheels. That''s, er... the midfield? No, sometimes we use five in midfield. Cars have an exhaust. That''s Youngster. He''s exhausting. Rear view mirror. Something about Henri always looking at himself. Who was that Greek chap?"


    "Max," said Henri Lyons, my French striker. He had Current Ability 58, which was very good in this division, but his improvement had stalled. I had a plan to deal with that. If it worked, it would open up all kinds of crazy possibilities. "How long did you think about this, ah, imagery?"


    "Not long," I confessed. "I thought we''d turn up, slap, and go home with three points. I literally cannot believe they are doing a low block at home to a team that was nearly relegated last year. Jesus Christ." I shook my head. "There will be something like two and a half thousand people here today. That''s more than we got against Kidderminster. Some matches Southport get like four, five hundred spectators. Imagine your biggest attendance of the season and you wake up and think, ''I know! I''ll make the match as boring as possible!''" I shook my head some more, then vented one, large, "Argh!" I drew a second car, then tapped the ''Chester'' one. "I''ve been tuning this car. Making the engine good. The engine is... the midfield. Shit. Look, lads, don''t tell Jackie how bad this team talk was. Ah, wait, I remember my point. We''ve been getting faster, smoother, fewer oil leaks. And our opponents," I tapped the second car, "instead of doing the same, have given up racing and become bricklayers." I rubbed out the drawings and slid eleven yellow magnets onto the tactics board, all squashed up against the goal at the top. I jiggled both middle fingers towards the home dressing room, and took a few seconds to compose myself. "What do we do?"


    "Crosses," said Henri. "These players are not as physically dominant as Kidderminster. We will score from crosses."


    "Slaps," said Sam Topps, my marauding midfield terrier. He hadn''t liked me at first, but the more I pushed him, challenged him, the more he tried to impress me. When it came to football, he had absolutely no problem doing things my way. "They''re not as disciplined as Kidderminster. Not as well coached. If we get to the sides and cut into the penalty area, we''ll get great chances."


    "A mix," said Pascal Bochum, my short German forward. "We had thirty-one shots against Kidderminster. They were incredibly lucky. We don''t need to change anything. If we have that many shots in ten matches, we''ll win nine. I say we change nothing."


    "Thanks," I said. "I agree with two of you." That made Pascal frown because it was logically impossible. I smiled. "Here''s what we''re going to do."


    I got the blue magnets and laid them out in our 4-1-4-1 formation. It was probably my favourite way to set up the team, but I hated our left back and he was by far the worst player in the core squad. I had been using 3-5-2 recently, which allowed me to cut out the left back and utterly dominate midfield.


    Today I made one slight tweak to our usual version of 4-1-4-1. I pulled all the magnets earthwards until, like Southport, they crowded around our goalkeeper.


    "Low block?" said Vimsy. He was my defensive coach. Not very talented and quite combustible, but he had been at the club much longer than me and I didn''t have the heart to replace him just yet. I wanted to make personnel changes over years, not months. "Max Best doing a low block? Do I... What?"


    "That makes no sense," said Sam. "They''re doing a low block. We can''t do a low block as well."


    "Why not?" I said.


    "Because... what will anybody be blocking?"


    My assistant manager, an ex-army guy who''d been hired as my bodyguard, laughed. His name - he claimed - was John Smith, but we called him the Brig. He wasn''t a football expert, but he understood comedy. When he laughed, Sam grinned, realising how asinine the situation was.


    "Low block," I said, in the form of an order.


    Henri, my friend and former client, sighed. "I''m sorry, Max. I do not understand this one. We''re the better team. What happened to ''attack until you drop?''"


    "Slight detour, mon ami. We''re a car, yes? Driving to... where do we want to go?"


    "Fountains Abbey," said Youngster, an incredibly talented defensive midfielder who was a devout Christian.


    "Is there a Nando''s there? Never mind. We''re driving to see some fountains, but on the way we stop off for twenty minutes. Right? And in that twenty minutes, we get the Southport manager sacked and make everyone think twice about low blocking us."


    Vimsy never could follow my logic when it got more than slightly twisted. "I still don''t get it."


    I nodded. Clarity was usually best. "We have something like 17 more away matches in the league this season. I, for one, don''t want to be playing against ultra-defensive teams in every one of those. It''s all right if they do it at our place. That''s on us to bring the heat, isn''t it? But if you''re at home, in front of your own fans, you''ve got to put on a show. Unless you''re playing peak Barcelona, you''ve got to try to win. Do we all agree?"


    Most people did. Vimsy mostly did. "Are we going to do a low block against Salford City?"


    Salford were owned by a bunch of former Manchester United legends. The owners had pumped money into the club, and it now competed two divisions higher than us. We had drawn Salford in the FA Cup first round.


    "Well, they''re much better than us, so it''s fair to be defensive. They''ll push us back anyway, whatever we try to do. But we''re at home, so we''ll have a plan to score goals. I''ve, er... I''ve started watching their matches and..." I grinned. "I''ve got something in the oven. It''s on low heat but... starting to smell nice. All I''m saying is that in football terms, we''re allowed to do a low block against Salford but Southport aren''t allowed to do it against us. Anyone who doesn''t understand that, talk to Youngster on the way home." That sentence was deliberately vague. It could have meant they should ask him to explain it. Or it could have meant, talk to him as a punishment.


    "Me?" he said, with his goofy smile making an appearance.


    I was already past that joke. "When we do this low block, now, there will be this horrendous chasm in midfield and it will make it clear to everyone in this stadium what their manager tried to do. You got that? We are going to show this guy up. Do not pass the half way line. Ideally, you''d stick by the penalty area. If you get the ball, belt it away as far as you can. Repeat until I tell you otherwise."


    Now that I''d made him the official explainer, Youngster wanted to understand better himself. "What if someone puts it out for a throw in, like you did against Kidderminster?"


    "Walk towards the ball as slowly as you can. Throw the ball six inches. Jog back into position. All clear?" It was. "One more thing. While we''re doing this, I don''t want entertainment. No kick ups. No overhead kicks. No triangles, overlaps, nutmegs. Get the ball and kick it hard. Anything else, I''ll be pissed. Now get out there and stink the place up. You hear me?"


    They walked out, not happy, not sad. They would obey. After all, I was their manager, and if I sometimes had weird ideas, that was because I was a handsome maverick tactical genius. I slapped my hands together, satisfied.


    "Wait," said Livia, with a little frown. "You''re angry... but you''re not... but you are. I can''t tell what''s real."


    "What''s real is that I''m feeling frisky." Her eyebrows shot up. I laughed. "Not like that. Jackie''s back, the women are going to the moon, and I feel unstoppable. Did you ever walk into a football stadium and feel like you owned it?"


    "No. But you actually own a club."


    "See," I said, thoughtfully. "I don''t get that feeling, there. With that club, I''m more like a consultant or something. Just helping out, and doing a couple of side projects. We''re all going down on Thursday, if you want to come."


    She smiled. "I might."


    "My calves are tight. Can you slap them like a karate kid?"


    She tapped a treatment table. "Hop up."


    ***


    I''d sent out a weakened team. After Ben Cavanagh''s horror show against Kidderminster, I had no choice but to put Robbo (CA 38) in goal for a few games until Ben (CA 41) got his morale back up.


    Then we had Trick, CA 31, the abysmal left back who at least gave balance to the side, and the overrated Gerald May (38) was back in at centre back. Youngster (40) got some minutes, as did Donny ''D-Day'' Dorigo, a flair player who was past his best but just about still had something to offer with his CA 34.


    I''d rotated Sam Topps (56) out of the starting line up, leaving Ryan Jack (61) and Raffi Brown (46) to roam the centre of the pitch. Ideally, I wouldn''t need to use Sam today. It was going to be a long season and he would play most of our matches.


    Up front was Tony Hetherington, my second best striker. He''d hit his CA limit of 44, but that was more than enough to score goals at this level.


    That all gave us an average CA of 45.5, which showed how far we''d progressed as a team. The ''strong'' eleven I had picked against Southport at the end of the previous season had CA 41.


    One invigorating massage later, Livia, the Brig, and I went down the tunnel and turned to our dugout. Livia looked up at the VIP section, where Jackie was sat with MD (short for Mike Dean, our managing director). MD was in heaven - the Three Amigos had reformed! In a slightly different alignment, this time. Before, I had been very much the d''Artagnan of the group. Now, Jackie was the junior partner in the Three Maxeteers. And that''s exactly how he wanted it. Less stress, fewer matches per season, and a group of very, very talented footballers to work with. He could build his management career - and his confidence - out of the spotlight. And, not that it affected his decision, I''m sure, he could get paid a full-time salary for three short evening training sessions and one match every other Sunday. Nice gig. I was beyond ecstatic to give it to him.


    MD''s ecstasy was slightly tempered by the startling news that I had bought a football team. His first question was, how could I afford one on my five-hundred pounds a week salary? And why had I done it? Did it mean I''d be leaving Chester, just as I''d started to get the car purring, reliable, and turning heads?


    "BOOOO!"


    Southport''s manager was starting to crack. His name was Reece Killen and he looked like a bodybuilder. There was no question of his players refusing his orders - he would put traitors in a big blender with some yoghurt, kale, and protein powder and drink them for breakfast. His stubbornness was actually incredible - surely it was hard to stick the course amidst such fury.


    He looked over at me, shooting daggers, blaming me for this debacle.


    I very much wanted to go within earshot of him and give ten pounds to a nearby Southport fan. I''d say something like, ''your manager won''t give you a refund, but you won''t see any football tonight''. Something like that. And that would cause an explosion and a chain reaction and I''d end up running around, laughing. But the Brig had asked me not to be provocative for a while. The more I kept myself out of trouble, the more he could devote his attention and energy to getting the person who had attacked me sent to prison.


    And adding to the combustion was not the right move. Much better to do what I was doing - nothing - and let this play out as a contest between the manager, who thought defending for ninety minutes was his best chance of getting a point - and the fans, who wanted to be entertained.


    Magnus smiled as he did a tiny head shake. "You''re enjoying this."


    "Aren''t you?"


    "No. It''s excruciating." He laughed. "What are the chances you will crack before him?"


    It was my turn to laugh. "What do you think?" I nodded towards the bench. "Have we got anything to read?"


    "I''ve got some books in my bag," he said, turning to stare at it, like he had X-ray vision. "Er... Gaslighting Recovery for Women. Owning Our Struggles. Your Brain on Art, which, you know, is about neuroaesthetics. Obviously. Oh, and I got The Science of Stuck, just because everyone''s talking about it."


    "They are?"


    "My friends are."


    The title finally registered. The Science of Stuck. Henri was stuck at his Current Ability. So was Ryan Jack. And if there was one thing I was afraid of this season, it was that I would get stuck, too. I guessed so far in my recovery I''d eased back to CA 30, and my improvement was still rapid, but perceptibly slowing. If I was subject to the same limitations as my players, I''d get to CA 60 and stay there. "That one, please. Actually, you know what? You might be the perfect person to help me with something. Bit of an esoteric project. Sound fun?"


    "More fun than watching two teams refuse to leave their halves."


    "Ah, but you''re wrong. Southport left their half. We didn''t."


    Magnus blinked. "You''re actually proud of that."


    "Course I am. It means they trust me. Oh! Look."


    It looks like Southport will take a more adventurous approach.


    "What?" said Magnus.


    "Better sit down, if that isn''t too bossy of me. Things are about to get unstuck."


    ***


    I had one choice. To react immediately, and send my guys flying up the pitch, or to wait a fraction.


    Waiting would allow Southport to come all the way to our penalty area and blitz us with shots and crosses. Risky. But I couldn''t really imagine when I''d next use a low block in a real match. Possibly there would be times in the Salford City match. But after that? I sensed that this would be good experience for me and good practice for my players. We hadn''t been doing a lot of serious defending recently. Southport, with their CA 38, weren''t a major threat to us. The worst that could happen was that they''d fluke a goal and would then have legitimate reason to defend for their lives for the rest of the match.


    Southport surrounded us, and the home crowd, riled up, loved it. They cheered as the first shot of the match was struck. They oohed as a through ball was cut out. They applauded wildly as a series of crosses were headed away by my defenders.


    What I couldn''t quite tell was the mood of the Chester fans. I''d got them all worked up before the match by showing off the new women''s manager, then I''d parked the bus and we literally hadn''t left our half.


    I smirked. Maybe I''d listen to the stupid fan podcast after this one.


    Glenn Ryder, my dominant captain, headed away another cross.


    Enough.


    I took the shackles off, using the hotkeys to make Aff our playmaker, pass left, and focus on counter attacks.


    Southport attacked, we took the ball from them, and four slick passes later Aff was driving forward on the left. Seeing Tony as his only option in the box, he drove, drove, and smacked a low shot diagonally towards the bottom right corner.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The keeper got his hands to it, but only spilled it into Tony''s path. Open net, one-nil Chester!


    Reece Killen looked small, his arms hanging futile. After the match, I would savage him in the media, but why not get some extra digs in now? I turned and made eye contact with the Brig. "I''m feeling frisky."


    "Please, sir," he said. He could handle the bodybuilder guy, but he wanted a quiet evening.


    "Fine," I said, with a hint of petulance. If I wasn''t allowed to dick around on the sidelines, my players would have to do it for me. I switched from a counter-attacking mentality to simply attacking. Normally, I''d have removed the playmaker and allowed everyone to make free choices, but some instinct made me set Ryan Jack as our on-pitch creator. Maybe it was because he was from the area. Maybe it was the sea air. Or maybe it was the way he was the best player on the pitch.


    Whatever it was, I was right. He tore them apart.


    Jack takes the ball under pressure and lays it off to Brown.


    Brown passes wide and makes a forward run.


    The ball comes back to Jack.


    He sprays it left, first time, into the path of Aff.


    Aff crosses low...


    It''s behind Hetherington...


    But perfect for Raffi Brown!


    He leans back and sidefoots it...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Brown timed his run to perfection.


    Raffi, by the way, had added goals to his game in a big way. Late runs into the box, headers from set pieces, and composed finishes after fast counters. For example...


    Robbo claims the cross easily. He rolls it left to Williams.


    Down the line to Aff.


    Aff is under pressure. He touches the ball back to Williams.


    Square to Jack.


    And a first-time pass over the halfway line finds Raffi Brown bursting forward!


    The pass has bypassed the defence completely!


    Now it''s Brown rushing towards goal with only the keeper to beat...


    GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    It was never in doubt!


    Three-nil and Chester are rampant.


    Some home fans are already leaving. The away fans are wishing them the best of luck as they depart.


    ***


    At half time, my players were laughing, joking, having a blast. I usually left a space for them to talk about their individual battles, discuss key opponents and so on. This evening, there was none of that. There was no point. Southport were gone. Spent. We could do whatever we wanted.


    I knew what the players would do - ease up. The game was won. No point wasting calories when we had another away trip on Saturday.


    Wrong.


    "Listen up," I said. "If you think I''m happy with three-nil, you''re way off. We need to send a message. A message. Do you get me? Managers who think about low blocking us on their patch need to think what''s worse - trying to compete against us and losing, or trying to low block and getting humiliated during and after the match. Trick, Gerald, Youngster, good game, you''re coming off. Me, Sam, and Henri are going on. Anyone who eases up in the second half will not be considered for the Salford match."


    Putting Sam and Henri on for the second half had the desired effect. I had them on the bench for emergencies but my intention had been to give them the night off and the squad knew that. Bringing my big guns on with the game as good as won was quite a message. The players also knew from my changes that we''d be doing 2-6-2 for the second half, and that was as attacking as we could currently get. My threat would surely work - they were all desperate to play in the FA Cup match - doubly so if it was televised.


    Glenn said, "How many goals is enough, boss?"


    I thought about it. For some reason, I took the question very seriously. "Eleven," I said, nodding. "We can stop at eleven."


    ***


    We didn''t score eleven. We got to five soon enough and then the spark was gone. Five seemed to be the limit for the day, no matter how much I glared and pushed and cajoled.


    I couldn''t fault the players'' effort or attitude but there was no on-pitch reason, no sporting reason, to keep playing at peak intensity. Sure, at the end of the season, goal difference could come into play, but that possibility was so distant, so abstract, it would never work as a motivational tool. Not until the end was in sight.


    Missing the chance to really put a team to the sword - and get rid of this shitty manager - irked me for a couple of minutes, but I pretty quickly saw sense. There was no point raging about it. So I stood in the DM slot, sometimes mopping up half-hearted Southport attacks, but mostly thinking about Salford City and how we would play against them.


    I switched places with Raffi - he went into the third centre back slot with me in central midfield. I kept walking ahead, into the central attacking midfielder (CAM) zone between the midfielders and strikers. I didn''t intend to play there against Salford - the attacking side of my game was coming back much more slowly than the defensive side - but I wanted to be surrounded by opponents. And the Southport manager did one good thing that match - he set a midfielder to mark me.


    Surrounded by players and being man-marked, I made myself playmaker to make sure I got a lot of the ball and experimented with turns, half-turns, and one-touch layoffs. My question was, could I get the ball under pressure and make good use of it? Against Southport, yes. Very much so. The curse gave me a ten out of ten rating, as it had against Kidderminster. But against players of a much higher quality? I wasn''t so sure.


    ***


    Max, congratulations. Five-nil away from home. How do you feel?


    I feel sorry for the two thousand, six hundred and fifty fans who bought tickets, rearranged shifts, got babysitters, to come here and watch a sporting contest. I feel sorry for any dad who''s brought his kid to his first ever football match and seen one team curl up into a ball and play dead before the referee had even checked the nets and corner flags. It does me no good to see fans turned off the sport. I''ll take the points but I''d have preferred to lose 4-3 in an all-time classic with both sets of fans applauding their team off the pitch. That''s the God''s honest truth. Two thousand six hundred and fifty. Is that the biggest attendance of my career? I think it is, you know. And one guy denied them a spectacle. So I''m sympathetic to the fans and pretty angry at the person who did this to them. And to the directors who put that guy in a position of responsibility.


    Is that why you didn''t shake hands with Reece Killan at the end?


    I''m not going to shake his hand knowing I''m going to come out here and slaughter him. Maybe he''s a good guy, a good coach, I have no clue. All I know is he turned what could have been a fun night, a night of escapism for both sets of fans, into something pathetic and dispiriting. For what? To sneak a nil-nil? At what cost? Two thousand fans who''ll think twice about coming to a Southport game again? Nah, it''s shocking. It''s cowardly.


    But you played your part in that crazy first ten minutes. You didn''t attack, either.


    We''re the away team. We were nearly relegated last year. When a match kicks off and the home team, in front of their highest attendance of the year, sets up against us like we''re Brazil 1970 and they are Zaire, it''s very confusing. I''m new to all this, Gary. I''m 23. I don''t have the experience to understand what''s going on. What looks to me like open cowardice could easily be some highly sophisticated way of playing. I don''t know, do I? I do know it''s not my job to entertain Southport''s fans. If I accidentally showed them how their manager had chosen to set up his team, that''s coincidence.


    Max, I think you might be teasing me a little bit here. I think you knew exactly what you were doing.


    We''ve got something like 16 away matches left this season. Maybe 10 of those managers will think about going ultra-defensive against us. Now they know what will happen. We will copy them. Not a single interesting thing will happen in the match. As Director of Football here, if one of my managers put out a team like that, I''d sack them at half time and take over myself. I''d offer refunds to all the fans who had to witness the shameful capitulation. But it''d probably be too late. Some fans who turned up will simply never come again no matter how many grovelling apologies I wrote. If there are any Southport fans reading this - hello, camera! - or watching, let me advise you to call Southport and ask for your money back. Gary is going to flash the phone number up on the screen now.


    I don''t know how to do that.


    Ah, someone will have the number. Pass it around on social media. That wasn''t acceptable. Get your money back.


    Some people might say this is sour grapes because Kidderminster beat you with a defensive style.


    No, that''s not right, for many reasons. First, Kidderminster went toe-to-toe with us for an hour, and in that hour they outplayed us. Then they did a surprise switch in tactics which - no fake irony now - shocked me to my core. It was absolute genius. Perfect plan, perfectly executed. I have incredible respect for what Kidderminster did to us. And, by the way, their fans loved every minute of it. Everyone in the stadium loved that match and will talk about it for years. There''s no comparison between that bravery, those warriors, that titanic contest, and tonight.


    Who was your man of the match today?


    Reece Killan. He was the star of the show. When people think of this match they''ll always think of him. This match is how he''ll be remembered.


    ***


    XP Balance: 2,799


    Debt repaid: 2,480/3000


    While I took a shower, I thought about the rest of the season. If the interview did what I hoped, this Killan guy would get sacked and every other manager in the league would be wary about going ultra-defensive against us. Certainly in their home matches. We had another away game on Saturday - very interesting to see how that guy set his team up.


    Meanwhile, playing the whole second half had really cut the amount of experience points I got. I got 4 XP per minute as the manager, and only 1 per minute as a player. I would need to give serious consideration to the number of minutes I played. I could play the last fifteen or twenty minutes every now and then, and maybe more if we were losing. Something like that.


    Still, I was getting fitter and was moving - crawling - towards the 3,000 XP I needed to buy the Injuries perk. I had discount codes I could use in the shop, but saving ten percent on a ten thousand XP perk made more sense than saving ten percent on a much cheaper one.


    I had decided to buy Injuries, then explore the Contracts section. If I could find out how much players from other teams were being paid, and how long their contracts were for, I''d be able to do all kinds of interesting things. After that, I was supposed to buy Wibwob, the ten thousand XP perk that it seemed would give me incredible tactical flexibility.


    But I hadn''t unlocked any attributes for ages. I really needed to see some progress there. Seeing one more attribute wouldn''t make a massive difference to my performance as a manager, I didn''t think, but on the other hand, the attributes were pretty fundamental. So... Injuries, Contracts, Attributes, Wibwob.


    Quite a lot of XP needed for that lot, and that''s if I didn''t get sidetracked picking up monthly perks, which I would, because they were designed to be irresistible. I''d lost the XP from managing the women, although I planned to put the free time to good use.


    One thing that would help get XP faster would be finally paying off my debt from when I bought God Save the King on credit. The curse was deducting ten percent from my income to pay down the debt, and the end was nearly in sight.


    God Save the King allowed me to increase one attribute on one player every season. I didn''t have a completely free choice, but one of the options was finishing. Last season, I''d used the perk to increase my client Ziggy''s finishing from 16 to 17. Ziggy was doing okay down at FC United in the division below Chester. He''d played 4 times in the league and 3 times in various cups, scoring twice. Not amazing, but solid.


    This season, I had planned to use the curse to boost Youngster, but he was improving steadily without extra help, so I''d started to think about using it on Henri Lyons - ironically another increase in finishing from 16 to 17. But then Henri''s progress had stalled. Tomorrow he would go out ''on loan'', and if his CA started to improve again, I would use the perk on him. If it didn''t, if Henri had some kind of... block stopping him from getting better...


    A block stopping him from getting past CA 58? When he had PA 90?


    That would be a very low block.


    "You okay, boss?"


    "Huh?" I turned to see Raffi was showering next to me.


    "You were laughing."


    "Laughing at my own jokes." He tsked and got on with his scrubbing. "Six goals for you this season, isn''t it?"


    "I don''t count. Take every game as it comes, Max."


    "Maybe it''s five."


    "No, it''s six." He grinned, showing all his teeth. Rare for him to be so demonstrative.


    "People are taking notice," I said. "Scouts and stuff."


    "Scouts?" he said, surprised.


    "You just keep doing what you''re doing," I said. "Good things are coming."


    ***


    MD: Please do not initiate refunds at other clubs. Not at this club, either, but especially not other clubs. The Southport directors are not very happy with us right now.


    Me: Okay, Amigo. I pwomise.


    ***


    Wednesday, October 25


    At training, there was an overwhelmingly good vibe. Physio Dean was by the side of the pitch, ignoring requests for massages, while he scrolled through social media. He was convinced, as we all were, that the Southport guy would be sacked as we trained.


    "Where''s Henri?" said Glenn, as we drilled side by side.


    "He''s on secondment," I said.


    "What?"


    "He''s not training with us today."


    "Oh. You gave him the day off?"


    "No. He''ll be working harder than he has for years."


    "You''re not going to tell me, is that it?"


    I smiled. "There''s a good chance I''ve done something very stupid. If that''s the case, Henri and I will never speak of it. If it works, we''ll let you know."


    He looked into the middle distance. "Expect the unexpected. This place is a bit of a mind fuck, boss. There''s always something mad happening. People like me need stability."


    I bent to do some stretches. "You''re doing great. You''re more adaptable than you think."


    There was no change in his expression, but I think he was pleased. "So Jackie''s back. Got your Wednesday nights proper free again. You can go scouting or do some extra training or take your girl out."


    "Absolutely," I said. "But not tonight. Tonight''s all about the peaceful transition of power."


    "Right," he said, not knowing what I was talking about.


    "Tonight''s the handover ceremony."


    "Oh, I see."


    "No," I said. "You don''t."


    Just then, Physio Dean jumped up and punched the air. To the tune of Guantanamera, he sang, "Sacked in the morning! You''re getting sacked in the morning. Sacked in the morn-ing!"


    Glenn put his hands on his hips and stared. "You''ve done it again." He resumed his stretch. "Is that the end of the low blocks, then?"


    "Far from it. There will be loads here in Chester. But away? Yeah. Let''s see what Curzon do on Saturday. I think that''ll tell us what we can expect."


    "How do you get these ideas, though?"


    I spoke a little more harshly than I wanted. "It''s pretty simple. I imagine paying thirty quid to take my kids to see a football match. If they never want to go back, something''s gone wrong."


    Ryder nodded. We''d hit one of those weird little air pockets caused by my dual role as player and manager. When someone hit those pockets there was turbulence. He clicked his seatbelt back into place. "Yes, boss."


    ***


    Before Jackie Reaper''s first training session with the Chester Women''s first team, he checked the ladies were decent and went into the changing rooms at the sports complex. It was my instruction that he should say a few words to the women. Introduce himself to the new players like Julie, outline his methodology, talk about his preferred formations, and answer questions.


    I''d sent him a text saying I''d be late and he should get on with it.


    Jill told me later that it was obvious Jackie had prepared well. He had lots of little notes on cards.


    "Hi, ladies," he said, and that was as far as he got with his prepared remarks.


    "Can I stop you there?" said Maddy. "Max hired an interpreter for Dani for today. Normally, we do it by text message but Max wanted a smooth introduction so he''s got a guy to come. Paid with his own money, he said. I think he''s just in the toilet."


    On cue, there was a flushing noise and an older guy, perhaps fifty, emerged. He didn''t use the sink, but wandered out, admired the young women vaguely, and spotted Jackie. "You must be Reaper!" said the guy, in a posh voice. He looked and dressed like an aristocrat who had fallen on hard times. He shook Jackie''s hand, and Jackie reacted with horror as some liquid transferred onto his hand. "Now, then. Which is the deaf one? Oh, really? Splendid, splendid. Well?" he barked. "Let''s get on with it! No slacking!"


    Jackie stared at the interpreter with some distaste, but composed himself. "Hi, ladies," he said, and glanced over. "Aren''t you going to sign that?"


    "What?" boomed the guy. He had the delivery of an olden-days board-treader. An act-OR. "No need, man. No need. Skip dessert, straight to the port, what!"


    Jackie''s jaw clenched and unclenched. He decided to rise above. "Me name''s Jackie. Got scouted by Everton when I was a kid. Played striker at school, but they moved me to centre back." He was just warming to the tale, and the women were very interested, but Jackie couldn''t help but look at the interpreter. He was making no effort to translate. "Are you gonna do your job?"


    "What?" barked the guy.


    "Are you going to interpret what I''m saying or what?"


    "What on earth are you saying?" said the man, peering through rheumy eyes at the young whippersnapper. "I can''t understand a bloody word."


    "Is dat right?" said Jackie, a hint of menace in his eyes.


    "Bloody foreigners," said the man, his cheeks flushing. "Come here, take our jobs, take our women. Can''t even speak the bloody lingo! Brexit means Brexit!"


    That was the moment Jackie hesitated. He looked around the room and some instinct made him focus on Dani. He pointed at her, and that was it. The women burst into laughter, and I emerged from the showers where I''d been listening. A few women, under the guise of texting Dani, had been filming the whole thing for me to watch again and again.


    "Fucking hell, Max!" said Jackie, his entire head crimson.


    I went over and gave him a hug, and noted that his good-natured response to the prank had won him a lot of reputation points in the room.


    When the euphoria died down a little, I spoke. "Jackie, this is Tom. He''s an actor and, by the way, big fan of yours. He really, really didn''t want to do this to you but fifty quid is fifty quid."


    "I''m really sorry," said Tom, stretching out a hand. Jackie looked at it. Tom noticed. "Oh! It was hand sanitiser."


    Jackie smelled his hand and sagged with relief. He shook Tom''s hand. "You were bloody convincing." Dozens of tiny head shakes suggested he was mentally reliving the scene. "What would you have done if I hadn''t said anything?"


    "Fake sign language," said Tom. "Increasingly obvious until you confronted me."


    "Should I do my speech or what?"


    "No need," I said. "Everyone knows who you are. They know you''re the new bosh. We can get out there."


    Dani had come forward, and pulled me on the elbow. I stepped back and she looked at Jackie and signed.


    "Sorry, Dani," he started, but Tom interrupted.


    "She''s asking if you can make her a better player."


    "Oh, you really know sign language?"


    "Of course."


    As he replied, Jackie looked from Dani to Tom. "Look at her, not Tom," I said, which was the polite way but was harder than you''d think.


    Jackie nodded and started again. "I''ll make you a better player."


    "Will we win the league?" asked Dani.


    "If we beat Altrincham, yes."


    Dani''s next question came with lots of violent hand slaps. "Are we going to defend or are we going to attack?"


    Jackie smiled. "Both. But most of the time we''ll attack."


    "I want to attack," said Dani. The sign for ''attack'' seemed to be one finger pointing up on one hand enveloped by the fingers of the other.


    Jackie tried to do the sign himself. "Attack."


    "Attack until we drop," said Dani.


    Jackie grinned, and what he said next smashed away all doubts about his mental well-being. He was well and truly his old self. "My style is a little bit more sophisticated than Max''s."


    Dani grinned, and gave me a traitorous look. She turned back to Jackie. "Show me."


    ***


    I watched as Jackie led the women through their session. Simple drills, nothing complicated, but somehow the ball fizzed a little faster when Jackie was leading things. Somehow, there was more intensity, more concentration, and more output. Attributes and CA went green all over the place, like flash bulbs at a film premiere.


    As soon as we''d agreed terms, his staff profile had appeared in the Chester Women menu. It stayed in place even though I was no longer the manager, and I remembered that it had appeared when I was Director of Football, not when I''d started officially managing them. The same numbers hovered above his head now.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jackie Reaper</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>3-5-2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>n/a</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    His superpower, of course, was coaching, but he had enough going on to be a good manager, too. His high man management and motivating would pay off, as would his tactical knowledge. Fifteen. Did that feel high or low? We''d had interesting chats about football and he certainly saw most of what I saw. But not quite everything.


    Could Jackie Reaper bring these women all the way to the Women''s Super League? I was pretty sure he could. I''d give him great talents, he''d train them up, and he''d make mostly good in-game decisions.


    Yeah.


    I smiled. Passing the baton felt awesome, and it made me even more energised to find more Danis, more Maddys.


    Their time was up and a lot of happy young women were collecting their gear and about to head to the showers. I asked them to come over for a second. They gathered around me in a semi-circle.


    "Ladies. That was good, right? I know. I know. So, listen. I want you to know that I''m still here. I won''t be at every match because I''ll be out scouting. Checking out the opposition, stealing their good players. But I''m still here, the eye in the sky, making sure you''re progressing, all that jazz. Jackie''s your manager and you can trust him. He''s, er... He''s the guy who found me. Gave me my break. Believed in me the way I believe in you. All right? He''s top. Have no doubts about that. Off you go."


    They left, but Dani hang around. Tom was a good opportunity for her to say some things to me without creating a digital record and without her parents checking what was said.


    As always, she was blunt. "Who is a better manager? You or Jackie?"


    "Me," I said. "And I''m a better scout. But he''s a better coach. This is the perfect situation for you."


    She considered that, and accepted it. "I want to sign a contract."


    "Okay."


    "And I want Ruth to be my agent."


    "That''s smart. You''re going to be a big star."


    She thought about that and signed with an excess of energy. "How did you know?"


    She meant how had I seen it the first time I laid eyes on her, playing poorly in a pan-disability tournament in Crewe. I smiled. "Because I saw you could play like me." At first she nodded, but then the arrogance of the statement kicked in and she erupted into a whirlwind of flailing arms and dextrous fingers. Tom remained silent. "What did she say?"


    "Er... I''ll tell you after you pay me the hundred quid."


    ***


    Thursday, October 26


    The convoy from Chester to West Didsbury and Chorlton AFC was sort of absurd, really.


    Raffi led the way, and that made sense. He was going to have one of his private sessions with Cody, the second-best coach I knew. Raffi''s wife Shona was in the car with him, and his dad was planning to come along. After training, they''d have some family time.


    The next car was the Brig''s smooth Volvo, a real Rolls Royce of a car, containing said Brig and myself. I''d asked Pascal if he wanted to come and help me with my session, and he had said yes before I''d finished asking. Then I thought, if we''re going to Manchester, Youngster might want to see his family, so he was tagging along, too.


    Not far behind - I assumed - was MD. He was coming with two of the board members to check out the club I''d bought. The idea was to put their mind at ease about my commitment to Chester. Enough to get them to shut up about it, anyway.


    Then there was a car with Vivek and his family. Vivek was a young PA 66 defender who didn''t have much experience of football and that was holding back his development. The problem was that back home in Chester I couldn''t put him in the first team because he would one hundred percent cost us goals, and the under eighteens were pretty terrible so he wasn''t learning a lot from the matches they played. The obvious solution - obvious to me - was to loan him to a club like West Didsbury and Chorlton. He would get minutes at exactly his level in a supportive environment and if he messed up, the club''s handsome, one-nation centrist owner would forgive him.


    In yet another car was Livia and Jackie, and I would soon find out they had managed to get Henri in the car, though of course he would only travel in the passenger seat, after he had adjusted it to his liking.


    From the other side of the country came Emma, and from just down the road came Ziggy.


    A huge turnout for something of little consequence! But people were curious, and the more people said they were going, the more it turned into a whole thing.


    ***


    When I got out of the car, I felt that unfamiliar sense of thrill and pride that came from the word own. I own this place.


    The giant floodlights shining down on us? I owned them. (I also owned the bills.)


    The Ultras stand, with space for 50 hipsters? I owned it. (I also owned the cost of cleaning up the beer spilled after goals.)


    The food huts, the changing rooms, the indoor spaces, and then - wonder of wonders - the pitch. I owned that. (I also owned a lawnmower.)


    I tried to be ownerly. Suave and professional, but it was hard to stop smiling.


    ***


    Some of the volunteers from West had come in to serve food and meet Emma and my various acquaintances. The main one was called Jane - she did a lot of fundraising, had the word WEST tattooed on her arm, and had two boys in the youth team. J.C., the men''s first team manager was there. He was bubbly and enthusiastic and while his stats were low, he was open to the idea of helping Vivek''s career get going.


    I introduced Jane to Vivek''s mum, J.C. to Vivek, M.D. to his West equivalent, and let them take care of each other. The area was bristling with hospitality freaks and organisers, and soon everyone was helping everyone take care of everyone.


    Meanwhile, Raffi had half of the pitch to himself for his session with Cody. I kept half an eye on it while I mingled and talked to the people who cared about my intentions for the club and, most importantly, for the young players in its charge.


    I grabbed Ziggy and showed him the man of the moment. "Ziggy, this is Vivek."


    "Viv," said Viv.


    "Oh!" I said, pleased. Taking a nickname shouldn''t have been a big deal, but it felt like one. "Lot of great players called Viv."


    "Viv Anderson," he said.


    "Who''s been telling you about Viv Anderson?"


    He pointed. "Raffi."


    "Top lad."


    "Viv Richards," said Ziggy, with a hummus taco primed and ready to be shoved in his gob.


    "That''s cricket," I said.


    "Still a top player," he said, though it was hard to tell with his mouth so full. He wandered away to eat next to Jackie and Emma, and I got ready for my session.


    ***


    Raffi''s drills were pretty conventional.


    Mine were pretty fucking weird.


    First, Cody tied me with a long elastic rope. He gave Raffi the other end.


    I had to touch a mannequin, step back, receive a pass from the ''goalie'', run away as Youngster sprinted towards me - the little shit was fast! - while Raffi held onto the elastic for dear life, and while Pascal made a diagonal run.


    If I could resist all the stresses and make all the calculations, I had to fire a forward pass into Pascal''s path.


    Trying to move and sprint and calculate while Raffi yanked my chain - almost literally - was pretty brutal.


    After ten minutes I was wrecked, and in a break Henri came over.


    "Max, I love your football club," he said, appearing about five feet directly above my head.


    "It''s not mine, I''m just the custodian etcetera etcetera."


    "What is this drill you are doing?"


    "This is how we beat Salford City."


    "Ah, yes, I see it now. The elastic represents the distorting effect of celebrity on a previously uncelebrated club."


    "How was your training today?"


    "Challenging. Strange. We need to talk, Max."


    "Soon. Help me up."


    He pulled me to my feet and Cody explained the next drill.


    I would receive the ball with Youngster touch tight to me. I would use one of three moves to get away from him, then fire an accurate long pass to Pascal. All the while, Raffi would be pulling me here and there with the elastic, a job he enjoyed far too much.


    While I put my body through hell, my friends snacked, drank, and relaxed. A good time was had by all. Almost all.


    The shower was cold. Not enough money for heating, even for the owner. But the company was warm, and even Raffi''s dad pretended to like me.


    "I''ll be able to watch my boy on television," he said. "Wrapped up nice and warm. Perfect!"


    "Are we on TV, then? That confirmed?"


    "Yes," said MD. He was smiling, but stopped when he saw me react strangely. "Is that no good?"


    "It''s good. We get money, right? But it''s going to make it harder to leave players out of the team. I''d drop myself to make space for someone, but..."


    "But what?"


    I sighed. "I have an idea of how we might win... but if it goes wrong, it could be especially embarrassing."


    ***


    Friday, October 27


    Around one p.m., while I was checking videos of recent Curzon Ashton matches, I checked the Chester Men squad screen. Henri''s CA had increased to 59.


    I not only punched the air, but kung fu kicked it, too.


    ***


    Saturday, October 28


    Match 14 of 46: Curzon Ashton versus Chester


    As we approached 2 p.m., exactly an hour before kickoff, I felt a crazy amount of excitement. In a few minutes, I''d find out if my plan to take a sledgehammer to the low block option had worked. I felt like I''d done my part beautifully. I''d humiliated the manager who''d tried it, turned the fans against him, caused a civil war at the club, and Chester had won the match anyway. Oh, and the prick got himself well and truly sacked.


    Surely, surely, no-one would do it again?


    Well, I was about to find out.


    I didn''t have a place where I could hide out like I did in the Deva. That was one big disadvantage - one of the only ones, really - of playing away. The options were uninspiring - wait in the dressing room, in the dugout, or on the pitch. Every option was far from private. I never did like opening my Christmas presents in front of others.


    My mind raced through the other manager''s options. If they played normally there was a risk we would pass through their lines and run up the score. Defend, then, keep our goal threat contained, try to score on a counter or from a set piece. Yes, absolutely. I was sure he''d be defensive. But how defensive? This guy was bang average in every way and had never had a unique or interesting thought. If he played normally, that would almost certainly be the default for the rest of the season. I was fairly sure of that. If he set up in a low block, it''d keep happening. 16 entertaining games of football, or 16 absolute snorefests.


    Come on, come on, I said, to the clock.


    "Mr. Best," said Youngster. "Are you okay?"


    "Yes. Shush."


    "I rarely see you nervous."


    "I''m waiting to hear if I got planning permission for the large statue I want to erect. Of myself."


    "On a Saturday?"


    "Mate," I said, but then I burst out laughing. He''d distracted me enough. I stood up and went to the tactics board. "All right, guys. Team talk. You guys ready for this?" I scrunched my eyes up and clenched every muscle in my body. When I released, the feeling was moderately cathartic. "My information is that they''ll be doing... a low block."


    There was an outpouring of disbelief.


    "What do you want us to do, boss?" said Glenn. "Copy them, stir up the home fans?"


    I shook my head. Even I didn''t have the stomach to do that sixteen times all over the north of England. Someone had said ''you beat Max Best with a low block'' and that was Gospel now. We had to live with it for a few weeks, and then I''d very much sort it out in the January transfer window. "Just play normal. Normal rest defence. Normal overloads, overlaps. Mix the crosses, high and low. Be patient." I cleared my throat in a bid to mask my frustration, which of course only proved how frustrated I was. "This is our life now. Glenn, good news for you. Loads of clean sheets this season." A clean sheet is where you don''t concede a goal.


    "Yeah." He didn''t look especially happy. None of us did.


    Morale was high, though. We were fit. We would probably spend the next ninety minutes doing a glorified attack versus defence drill. And like Pascal had said, if we had thirty shots every game, we''d win nine times out of ten. The thought cheered me up. "Okay. Let''s go plant our flag in their patch, yeah? Extra loud victory music, today. But you know what sound I really like? The home fans booing their players. Serenade me with that, lads, and you''ll get a bonus."


    "What''s the bonus?" said Aff.


    "A billion pounds each. I don''t know, do I? I just thought of it."


    "Boos?" said Ryan Jack.


    "Yes, mate," I said, surprised by how dense he was being. He was normally razor sharp.


    "No, Max. Booze. Booze for boos."


    It took me a second, but then it clicked. "Yes!" I said, giving him a noisy high ten. "You give me boos, I''ll give you booze. Boos today and next Saturday after the cup, we''ll go out on the piss. My treat." I smiled as Trick and D-Day''s morale improved one level. Our morale advantage was unprecedented, now. "Fuck these guys! Go and show them who''s boss!"

 6.2 - Home Is Where the Hurt Is

    2.


    Curzon Ashton 0 Chester 2: Seals Third After Drab Affair


    Chester went third in the table with a solid if uninspiring win over a woeful Curzon Ashton team. Two goals in quick succession saw the Blues race into pole position for the win, and they never had to get out of third gear to maintain their lead.


    The first half saw the home team show no ambition, but they made it difficult for Max Best''s men. At half-time, no changes were made in the playing staff or playing style, but one of Chester''s attacks paid off, with Henri Lyons heading home from a Ryan Jack free kick. Curzon briefly showed some initiative, but their first real foray into the Chester half resulted in what is becoming a Chester hallmark - a fast, accurate, and deadly counter-attack. The move was finished with aplomb by Raffi Brown.


    Then came a bizarre cameo by player-manager Best, in which he seemed to reimagine himself as the second coming of Michel Platini, with disastrous results. Best, normally so controlled and composed, buzzed around like a drunk wasp, sprayed shots miles over the bar, hit crosses that nearly exited the stadium, and took one free kick that floated so slowly and softly into the arms of the goalkeeper that there was laughter in the press box when Best fell to his knees in disappointment.


    All in all, a decent performance from the away side and most of the squad seem to be in good form for the massive FA Cup tie against moneybags Salford City next weekend.


    ***


    During my post-match shower, I remembered that I had waited until after the 70th minute to go on the pitch so that I''d definitely have enough XP to buy the Injuries perk. I bought it there and then, and as I dried off I checked out the sitch.


    Buying the perk enriched the Injuries and Bans tab of a player profile. I looked at Henri''s.


    Injuries: None


    Okay! That was the same info I got with the first five guys I looked at. But Glenn Ryder was talking to Physio Dean and they both had frowns on their faces.


    Injuries: Potential foot injury


    I wandered over. "What''s the haps?"


    "Guy stood on me at a corner," said my captain. "Twat."


    Having a giant dude with spikes coming out of his shoes stand on your foot is just about as painful as it sounds, but as long as there was nothing broken, Glenn could play in the next game. "Dean. Full works. X-rays, MRIs, Rorschach tests."


    "Rorschach tests on his metatarsals, Max?"


    "You heard me. Get photos distributed to all the churches. I want people praying and laying on hands for this foot. I want, like, questions asked in the House of Parliament about this foot. This foot has to be ready to play next Saturday."


    "I''m definitely in the team, then?" said the guy who was pretty much the first name on the team sheet. He''d never asked that before, even as a joke. I noticed that a few conversations near us had died down. People wanted clues to how I was thinking. If I wasn''t careful, I could piss a lot of people off by excluding them from our televised FA Cup match.


    I looked around before returning my attention to Ryder. "You''re in if you''re fit. I''m going to explain the whole kit and caboodle on Monday morning. There will be some unhappy people and I''ll need your help keeping their chins up. Do you know what I mean? We need to practice my weird idea instead of normal training, but standards can''t slip. We''ve got Darlington soon."


    "I''m with you, Max."


    I looked around. The curse didn''t say anything about Robbo''s dodgy shoulder or Joe Anka''s tight calves, so clearly they didn''t meet the threshold of hurting enough for me to care about.


    The only other potential issue was with Pascal. "Dude," I said, waving him over.


    He hadn''t been in the matchday squad, but he''d warmed up and kicked some balls around. He said he liked to get a feel for the stadium in case he ever played there again in the future. He would note the pitch dimensions and how the wind blew and so on, along with tips on how to get the most out of the referee. Next time he played in that stadium or against that team or under that ref, he''d be even better prepared. "Yes, Max?"


    "Anything you want to say to Dean?"


    Pascal looked slightly panicked - he was never sure if I was pranking him or if there was some puddle of British culture he was about to splash into. "Happy birthday, Dean?"


    "Why don''t you tell us about your knee?" My new tab had said ''Potential knee injury'' and I didn''t like the sound of that. Knees were a lot more expensive than feet.


    "Oh," he said, flexing it. "It''s fine."


    "Is it fine, mate?" I said, unimpressed.


    "Well... I did feel a twinge."


    "Report!" I barked. "Self-report! What the fuck!"


    He turned red. "Sorry, Max, it''s... it''s nothing. I felt a twinge and then it was fine."


    "Bullshit. Dean, can you pop in tomorrow and check it out?"


    I had never asked him to work on Sunday before. This was serious. "Yes, Max."


    "Thanks. Pascal, you better be fucking honest, right? No dicking around with this one. You are my tactical plan for Salford. Do you get me? So if you''re going to pull up after five minutes, we''re fucked. Like, we''ll be a laughing stock, nationwide. If you can''t play, I''ll come up with something else. But if you tell me you can and you can''t..." I tried to think of a threat that expressed how angry I''d be without getting into overly violent imagery. The way I was squeezing my fists seemed pretty clear, though.


    "Yes, Max. I promise."


    I glared at him as he went off to his part of the bench. He sat and stared at his knee as though he''d never seen one before. "Boss?" said Glenn.


    "Yep."


    "I thought I heard a couple of boos at the end. Does that qualify for a piss-up?"


    "Brig," I said, waving my assistant over. "Did you hear boos at the end?"


    "No, sir."


    "That''s just these home fans lacking imagination. Their team was dire and we stuck to our task like champions." Having a post-match party was either stupid or necessary, depending on what happened in the match after the party. Squad morale had gone up when I''d mentioned it, and I didn''t want to be a relentless taskmaster. The guys were doing everything I wanted, and a trip to Vegas, so to speak, could go a long way in terms of team bonding. "I was thinking this week might be ideal for a bit of a blowout. The cup match will be fucking agony for almost all the players; win or lose they''ll have earned a pint. Then on Tuesday we''re home to Tamworth. They''re one of the worst teams in the league. I''ll take a scrappy one-nil, there, and then we''ll have high morale going into the Darlington game."


    "Some players will overdo it, sir."


    "This Monday morning, I''ll outline the likely teams for the next two games. For example, Trick will start against Tamworth unless he drinks himself out of contention. And so on. Glenn, do you guys drink more or less when the WAGs are with you?"


    He considered that for quite some time. "Less."


    "Bingo."


    "And you''re paying, are you, sir?"


    "I''ll pay... the first such and such an amount. To be confirmed."


    "There''s nothing else you might need the money for in the near future?" said the Brig, watching me carefully.


    "Can''t think of anything. Can you?"


    Of course he couldn''t talk about our deal in public, so he said, "No, sir."


    I tried to give him a cheeky grin, but it didn''t come out right. Maybe it was the chat we''d had about dark mode. His eyes were cutting through me like a chainsaw. I could get afraid or I could get practical. "If we were based in Manchester we''d go to Stalybridge," I mused.


    "What?" said Physio Dean.


    "Staly Vegas, we call it. Good night out, there."


    "Leave the planning to me, boss," said Ryder.


    So I left him to it. I walked to my little spot of bench and got dressed. The Brig came over. "Would you like me to do the post-match interview, sir?"


    "Yes, please." He started to walk away. "Wait." I got quieter. "Are you going to be monitoring my spending on an ongoing basis?"


    Something of a twinkle came into his eyes. "No, sir. I was joking, before."


    "Huh. Today I learned: jokes can be terrifying."


    "One thing, sir. May I ask... why you played like that? In case it comes up in the interview."


    While making sure we didn''t let Curzon back into the game, I had played like hot garbage. "Sure. Some analyst at Salford will watch the footage of this and think I''m going to try to play CAM or right wing or something. And they''ll see me playing dogshit and plan accordingly."


    "So it''s misdirection."


    "Yes."


    "I will say you played your best but had an off day. Something like that?"


    I thought about it. My new perk came to mind. "Say I''m carrying a calf strain and tried to play through it but obviously it didn''t go well and now I face a race against time to get fit enough to play in the cup, blah blah blah."


    "Race against time. Got it."


    "Actually, no, then people will stress about that the whole week. Just... pretend I played great. That will make Salford even more complacent. Say you thought I played with great dynamism and..."


    "Thrust."


    "Perfect. I''ll watch the women tomorrow, by the way."


    "Very good, sir. I''ll pick you up."


    ***


    Sunday, October 29


    Jackie Reaper''s luck had turned in a big way. When he took over as the men''s team manager, he had been catapulted into a stressful relegation battle with a series of tough away games. Now, his first match was at home to the worst team in the league, Ellesmere Port.


    Their average CA was 16, and with Jackie playing an unexpected 4-5-1, ours was exactly 19. A few players had hit their CA caps already, but with the others progressing quickly under Jackie''s coaching, we''d surely be the strongest team in the league from around January or February, depending on exactly how good Altrincham were.


    A few postponements would be good, I thought to myself as I watched us quickly get a grip on the midfield. Like with the men''s team, any matches that got moved to the end of the season would be ones we''d have a better chance of winning.


    Ellesmere had a couple of players that would improve our squad, so I asked Jill to sound out their manager about a possible January transfer. Of course there were plenty of players I could get for free, but if I could sign a few tier 7 nobodies for a nominal fee, say two or three thousand pounds, then why not?


    Jackie looked relaxed and confident, and his team played relaxed and with confidence, and they eased to a three-nil win marred only by Lucy hobbling off with a bad knock to the ankle. Later that evening, the curse told me it was strained ligaments and she''d be out for two weeks.


    So... that was good to know, but Dean or Livia could have told me that. Did it benefit me to know it as soon as Dean did? Sometimes the curse seemed to come from an age before smartphones. Which it had.


    The Injury perk was probably most helpful when it came to Pascal and his possible knee injury - if I could see those things we wouldn''t put him into a match and make it worse. Was that worth three thousand XP? Probably. Long term. For the moment, I still had a fair amount of buyer''s remorse.


    More positively, Dean texted me that both Glenn and Pascal would be fit to play against Salford.


    With the win in the bag, and another 180 experience points in my pocket, I slipped away and followed Playdar to a field where a PA 55 ten-year-old right midfielder was doing outrageous things against his mates. I added his uniqueness to my collective.


    Then it was back to Ruth''s barn to watch video after video of Salford City, looking for something that would make me change my mind about the crazy tactical idea I had come up with one night where I''d eaten way too much cheese.


    In the evening, Emma called and I explained my latest Maxterplan to her. She fell asleep before I got to the second slide.


    ***


    Monday, October 30


    Both Salford and the club that bears its name have undergone remarkable transformations in recent times. Massive redevelopment centred around Salford Quays (at the end of the famous Manchester Ship Canal) led to the area being chosen as a major BBC office. The Quays are also the home of the Lowry Centre, where I had brought Emma to look at paintings of matchstick men going to watch the football, and the Imperial War Museum, where you may see another Lowry painting, this time of matchstick men going to work. Yeah, I don''t understand that one, either. Still makes more sense than parading a horse around a football pitch, though.


    Salford City, meanwhile, were bought by five legendary Manchester United players in 2014. These players were part of the ''Class of ''92'', the group of young players who won the FA Youth Cup in 1992, progressed into the Man United first team, and dominated English football for years to come. (David Beckham, the sixth member of the Class of ''92, invested in the club a few years later than the rest.)


    The owners tracked their progress in a documentary - that sounds familiar - and Salford rose from tier 8 to tier 4. Last season, they''d made it to the playoffs, hinting they were one of the better teams in the division. I reckoned their best team would be around CA 90. Maybe even as high as CA 100. They would probably rotate the team to some extent, and they probably wouldn''t come to Chester fully fired up, but still - they were almost certainly going to dick us.


    "All right shut the eff up," I said, sweeping my eyes around the drab meeting room.


    "Eff?" said Steve Alton.


    "I''m trying to swear less," I said. My players and staff looked at me like I was crazy. "I''m going on telly, aren''t I? I have to watch my Ps and Qs and not offend the wee ''uns."


    "Can you say ''wee''?" wondered Trick Williams, because that was his level as a human being. Getting rid of him in January would be better than a cup run.


    "Let''s get stuck in," I said. "It''s going to be a long week. It''s cup mania out there, but in here we have to be able to switch it on and off. Now is off. Later, get on your socials, hype it up, promise the moon. I want a full stadium."


    "Boss," said Glenn. "Can we discuss something important first?"


    "Yes," I said, getting slightly hot. "Let''s talk about all the things that are more important than our televised FA Cup match against the team owned by David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, and Paul Scholes. Yeah, great."


    He looked down, but decided it was important. "There''s a rumour that Henri has been training with Tranmere Rovers."


    "Well, that''s crazy bonkers. Don''t listen to mad internet things. You know all the footballers who turn into full nutjobs because they click on a flat earth video and get lost in the algorithm. Do I need to stage an intervention before it''s too late?"


    "No. I think Henri is training with Tranmere because Henri told me he is training with Tranmere."


    It was my turn to look down, and I got a rueful, sheepish kind of look on my face. "Fine. Henri''s training with Tranmere. Great. Now you know. What''s the problem?"


    There was the mildest kind of uproar. People turning to each other, eyes popping, saying ''Did I hear that right?'' and going ''What the - ?'' Some guys flicking their wrists - that gesture meaning ''holy sheeeet what''.


    "So is he leaving?" said Tony Hetherington, my only other striker. I wasn''t sure if he was excited - because he''d get to play every game from now on - or terrified - because he''d have to play every game from now on.


    "How do you get from there to there?" I said.


    "He''s training with Tranmere," said Tony, turning to look at Glenn for confirmation. Glenn nodded.


    I put my fingers to the bridge of my nose. "Everybody shut up. I''ve sent Henri to train with Tranmere. That''s the end of the story. I''ve sent Henri to train with Tranmere and there''s nothing more to say. That''s the epilogue. You might say, hey that''s a pretty boring and stupid way to end a story you need to work on your epilogues mate, and I''d say, yeah but that''s the end so I don''t know what to tell you. But that''s it. He''s training with them. He''ll play for us on Saturday, as a sub probably, and he''ll start against Tamworth, and against Darlington. Do I need to get the fixtures and read them all out? I don''t get why you''re reacting like this."


    Glenn rubbed his fist against his cheek. "It''s quite strange, Max. He plays for us. Why''s he training with them?"


    "What''s strange about it? Look, I made a bet with the owner of Tranmere. He''s a great guy, by the way. More money than sense, but I like that about him. Tranmere have those GPS vests, and we''re doing an experiment. Today and Wednesday, they''ll train as normal. Tuesday and Thursday they''ll surround the training pitch with Go Pro cameras. It''s my hypothesis that Henri will train 20% harder on days when there''s cameras around, and we''ll be able to measure that thanks to the vest. All right? It''s completely explainable. Explicable."


    "But he was there last week," said Youngster.


    "Holy eff!" I snapped. "Can we talk about effing Salford City? The biggest game of the season? Maybe? Do you think? I''ve already said I don''t want him to leave and he doesn''t want to leave. Effing wake up, lads! Are you going to walk out at three o''clock on Saturday, walk up to the nearest camera and start crying? Wailing and gnashing your teeth? Waah! Max did something I don''t understand! That''s more important to me than my career as a professional football playerrrrrr!" I stood with my hands on my hips for a moment, but the fake tantrum wasn''t moving anyone. Ryder, in particular, looked like he would dig in for battle. I probably needed to tell them something close to the truth. "Look, I''ve had the fantastical, outlandish idea that training with different coaches with different tactical ideas, with a higher intensity, with better facilities, might help Henri. Might kick him up a level. Okay? The Tranmere owner is a mate. He thinks I''m bananas but he''s letting me indulge my little daydream. He owes me a favour, which I''ve called in to get Henri sharper. Couple of weeks away from you lot might do him some good, don''t you think? If you really, really need to hold his hand during training and swap bits of your packed lunches with him, let me know and I''ll call him back."


    Sam Topps had heard enough about Tranmere. "I''m ready to talk about the Salford match, boss."


    "Thank you, Sam," I said, politely.


    "Five thirty kick off," said the Brig.


    "Shit, right. We''re on TV!" I beamed. "Guys! Guys! We''re on TV! You excited? Ooh, Youngster, are you excited?"


    "I feel that there is a wrong answer to this question. I will back my gut feeling and say no, I am not excited, even though in truth I am."


    I nodded and pointed at him. "Be excited. You''ve earned this. But be proportional. This is not the best thing that''s ever happened to us. This is going to be routine, from now on. Cup runs, games being moved for the broadcasters, trips to Wembley. Enjoy it all, enjoy every minute, but don''t come crying to me if you don''t play this Saturday. This is the new normal. Got that?"


    Sam Topps, the maniac, was in heaven. He loved it when I got intense like this. "Yes, boss."


    "Quick word about us. When we''re not freaking out trying to understand the interesting and creative decisions I make - and let''s face it, modern psychology isn''t advanced enough to help with that - we are a good team. We''ve got togetherness, heart, fitness, and sometimes a bit of quality, too. In this league, we are a menace. I effing resent the way teams are low blocking us, but in a way it''s a compliment. They know if we play our best, we''ll smash them. Right?


    "Salford are a different proposition. They''ve got expensive players, okay manager, modern coaches, and with their celebrity owners, they''re used to being televised. They had a bad start to the season, but recently they added a big, strong striker to be their focal point and since then their form has gone right up. It''s a strong, fit team, good on the ball, and they''ve got a bit of a battering ram to bash through us if plan A doesn''t work.


    "So how do we beat them?


    "We don''t. It''s impossible." I paused, waiting for some reaction, and got nothing. "Why is no-one saying anything?"


    "Because you''ve got a plan," said Aff, with a hint of excitement. Like Sam, he liked when I pushed him past what he thought was possible.


    "Yeah, but when I say it''s impossible, you say you have sometimes believed six impossible things before breakfast." Nothing from this bunch. Henri would have laughed. "Didn''t we set that up? Sort of a call and response thing?" I walked over to my flipchart and brought it closer. The team stirred. The flipchart was proof I did have a plan. Even Vimsy shuffled from foot to foot, unable to contain his curiosity.


    "Salford mostly play 4-1-4-1, switching to 4-3-3 quite often. They like to get narrow and dominate the middle - that''s important.


    "Next, a quick lesson in pressing.


    "Most of you think pressing means running fast at the guy who''s got the ball, but that was twenty years ago. It''s been refined and refined since then. I''m going to give you a crash course in modern pressing... in four slides.


    "Slide one," I said, flipping to the first page of my presentation. I''d drawn a large black circle, representing a player, and a small black dot to show he had the ball. Four purple arrows showed the guy had complete freedom to move. "A world without pressing. This player can do whatever he wants with the ball. For now, let''s focus on passing. He can pass in any direction."


    I flipped to the second page. It showed the same scene, but now on the right of the black circle was a red circle, and the two purple arrows on that side were gone.


    "One player comes to press from the right. What happens?"


    Ben Cavanagh, keen to get back into my good books, spoke. "You can''t pass to that side any more."


    "Right. So if you''re coaching the team, what does this do? What''s on the next slide? Turn to the person next to you and discuss it. Sorry, Pascal, but I''m going to ask people to snub you for this one." He smiled. He knew all this pressing stuff way better than me. German maternity wards were full of fluffy rabbit toys, wooden train sets, plastic things to smash, and Pressing und Gegenpressing: Das Ist Der Hammer by Ralf Rangnick. I let the guys chat for a minute. It was pretty interesting, really, watching them come at the question from all kinds of footballing angles, and all kinds of levels of intellectual curiosity. "Hit me."


    Glenn went first. I think under Ian Evans he would have kept his mouth shut - now he was willing to be seen to get the answer wrong. Progress. "Well... if you get another guy from the other side, you can block off all the passing lanes. Make him make a mistake."


    "If you''re willing to throw bodies at one player, yeah. If you can get them there in time. Good, thanks. Anyone else?"


    Sam was our second most enthusiastic presser. "You slow down their attacks. Make them take another couple of passes and your defenders can get back into shape."


    "Yeah, but the modern manager wants them to pass forward. Nice thinking, though. Pascal, tell us."


    "You can control where their next pass will go."


    I reached out to flip to the next page, but hesitated. This seemed like a good place to let them digest. "You can control where their next pass will go. Think through the implications." Watching people like Trick and D-Day try to think through action and reaction, cause and effect, was incredibly funny, but again, I wasn''t allowed to laugh. "Okay." I turned to the third drawing. It had the same scene as before: the black circle being pressed by the red one. Down the page was another black circle, ready to receive the pass, but with another red circle storming towards him.


    "I hate being pressed," said D-Day. "That picture gives me the willies."


    "Me too. Coaches who do this stuff use words like suffocation. They want to suffocate the other team. Give them no space to breathe, no space to pass. It''s pretty nightmarish."


    "Are we going to learn to do this?" said Sam.


    "Amazing question," I said. "By the time we get to League Two, yeah. I might not use it all the time, but we''ll definitely have it in our locker. But today we only need to understand it and work out how to play against it."


    "You''re staying at Chester then?" said D-Day, and the two nearest players punched him in the upper arm while everyone else hurled insults at him. "It was a joke! I was joking!"


    I laughed. "All right, settle down. Fucking hell, lads."


    "No swearing, Mr. Best."


    "Right. Right. So remember in the second picture the red circle came to press and we lost two passing arrows? I wanted to draw a kind of cone behind the red guy but I''m not a good enough artist. But does it make sense to you that behind the red circle there would be a sort of dead zone? A shadow. Into which shadow, the ball cannot be passed?" Lots of nods for that one. You couldn''t pass through a solid object, and if you tried, you''d risk losing the ball in a very dangerous position.


    I turned to my last, and biggest, sketch. Now the black circle with the ball was at the top of a rectangle representing the pitch. To the left of the pitch were four black circles, being pressed by five red ones. Beneath the red circle that was pressing the guy with the ball, I''d sketched a large grey rectangle and labelled it ''cover shadow''.


    "This cover shadow concept is really important to these top coaches. Basically, that''s the zone where the ball carrier can''t pass into. If the first presser gets there fast enough, the ball can''t be played into this shadow. Got that?" Nods. "So the ball carrier is pretty much forced to play into this zone, but the red team can swarm into it, feeling pretty safe that there''s no danger from the rest of the pitch."


    "Max," said Vimsy, who was learning along with the players. "This cover shadow is only there for a few seconds, right? As soon as the ball is passed, it''s gone."


    "Yep, but it only takes five, six seconds for the reds to get the ball, or to set up the next situation where they get the ball."


    "Your defence would be out of shape," he said.


    "It''s risky," I agreed. "But effective. In normal circumstances, we, Chester, wouldn''t get a kick for ninety minutes. We wouldn''t be able to exploit this space and any defenders who were out of position. Most teams at this level would panic, kick long and give the ball to Salford and they''d come right back at us. A weak team would have to defend for ninety minutes, would get exhausted, and get smashed in the last twenty minutes. All right. Pascal, what''s the solution to pressing?"


    "Gegenpressing. Counter-pressing," he said, for the benefit of the others.


    "We''re not doing that today! We''ve only just learned what a cover shadow is. What''s the other solution?"


    The guy pushed his black hair across his forehead. "Other solution? Do you mean... technique?"


    I smiled. "I do mean technique." I left another pause for the rest of the group to try to parse our words. "Guys. Imagine you run full speed at Messi. Is he worried about it? No, course not. Because you''re shit, no offence, and he''s Messi. Right? He''s not going to lose control of the ball just because you come near him. He''s got loads of options - nutmeg, using a skill, one touch pass. There''s no cover shadow against Messi. That''s the power of technique. Now, we have a couple of midfielders who are way more press-resistant than this level - Ryan and Raffi. So that''s handy. But what we really need is some kind of Messi-like figure. Some kind of technical super genius. A wizard, perhaps."


    "You mean you," said Carl Carlile.


    "Oh, thank you very much," I said, smiling broadly, pretending to flush from surprise and pleasure. I fanned myself with my fingers. "Gosh. What a nice thing to say."


    The guys were smiling and shaking their heads. I''d set it up and they''d fallen right into the trap. Carl, as the victim, felt he had to push back. "Boss, if you don''t mind me saying... you weren''t very Messi-like against Curzon." I looked at the Brig and Vimsy and smiled. They smiled back. "What?" said Carl.


    "Mate, do you know how hard it was for me to play like that? That was deliberate. Imagine you''re the manager of Salford. Are you going to man-mark the guy who has a boomerang for a foot? Anyway, I''ve only played the last parts of games. No chance they''ll be expecting me to start, and at half time when they reorganise... lol. Now, listen. I know my limitations. If I was doing my mystery winger shit this conversation would be very different. I can''t beat five men in one lightning fast dribble. But I can beat the press, I can play medium-length passes with accuracy, and I can do it on repeat." I tapped the ball carrier black circle. "See... if this is me... then this..." I dragged my fingers across the cover shadow. "This doesn''t exist. And you know what that means?"


    "What?" said D-Day, who had a large collection of books but had never got past the cover blurb.


    "It means absolute fucking mayhem."


    "Come on!" yelled Youngster, earned him affectionate pushes and back pats from the players nearest to him.


    "I''m still thinking about my final line up. This isn''t a gambit to make you train well, by the way. But let me tell you what I''m leaning toward right now. 4-5-1 with me as the one. We''re going to be under the cosh, so I''ll mostly be playing as a DM. Basically a low block, working very, very hard to close down space, throwing bodies in front of shots, all that stuff you clowns love. Right? We need an absolutely immense defensive shift. But when we get interceptions, rebounds, whatever, you get that fucking ball to me. I don''t care if I''m marked or surrounded. You can pass to Ryan or Raffi to get the ball to me. You with me?" They were. "Over on the wings, well, one will definitely be Pascal. He''s absolutely essential. The other''s Aff. That''s how we get chances. I get on the ball, break clear of the press, slap the ball out to whoever''s in the cover shadow. Right? Say it''s Aff. Salford are all over the place at that point because they thought we''d play on the other side. So then it''s a foot race between Aff and Pascal and their defenders. Raffi will steam forward and try to be an option for a cut back. But I''m imagining lots of balls played in front of the goalie for the other winger to get onto."


    "What about Henri?" said Glenn.


    "Sub. I''ll see how I''m doing at half time, but probably I''ll have to come off and then as they''re reacting to what we did in the first half, we''ll totally change it. Go 4-4-2 or something unexpected." As I spoke, I remembered I hadn''t used Triple Captain and Bench Boost in the FA Cup so far. "Second half, 4-1-4-1, with Henri, Sam, and Youngster coming on. Look, I need to think that through, but I promise you, the subs are going to be as important as the starters. This will be a game of two halves. If we''re ahead at half time, anything can happen. Er... we need the first goal, I think. I don''t think we can do this if they score first. But if we get the first, it''s going to be epic. And if we get the first, the crowd are going to go mental. If we give them something to cheer, they''ll be our twelfth man." I went through a mental checklist of all the points I wanted to cover. "Does everyone feel confident they understand the basic principle, here? Salford think they''re closing off the pitch, but we''re going to play there anyway. Right? Lightning fast breaks with their team all out of shape. Remember they like to move central? Yes? We''re blitzing them down the wings. All right. So training this week is all going to be about these elements. I''ll be working on beating the press and I''ll need the goalies twice a day to work on my penalties. Aff and Pascal will be coordinating these fast breaks. Vimsy will be doing shuffle and slide drills for a 4-1-5-0 low block. That''s a new one, isn''t it Vimsy mate?"


    "New to me," he said.


    "I might try something like playing Steve or Gerald in midfield, since we''ll be defending so much. Spectrum''s watching their set pieces and he''ll show us some clips on Wednesday and we''ll work on that. And every day we''ll finish with an A versus B match where we set up like we''re going to on Saturday and I can see what needs tweaking. I want you to think of this match as a heist. We''re going in with a plan. Ice in our veins, execute, and we''ve got a serious chance. All good? That''s it." I closed the flipchart, and, as always, found that nobody had moved.


    Sam said, "How do you know all this?"


    "This?" I said, tapping the flipchart. "I got this from a YouTube video. It popped up in my feed. You might want to stop watching your flat earth videos and see what''s going on in your industry."


    He grinned. "I watch them sometimes. How did Arsenal beat Man City, things like that. It''s this stuff, like what you''ve told us. But I can never really get my head round it. I mean, I know that I''m never going to be doing it." He got thoughtful. "But... now we are doing it."


    I shook my head and got a mischievous grin. "We''re not doing it. We''re undoing it. That''s much easier."


    ***


    I invited myself to the digs for dinner, and of course Henri turned it into a whole thing. Charlotte had training, but all the other residents of Fawlty Maison sat around the dining table, eating a simple but delicious meat and two veg.


    Henri tried to make me sit at the head of the table like some sort of Godfather, but it was his house so I insisted he should sit there. We ended up leaving the seat empty, with Henri and I at the end, facing each other, with Youngster and Pascal to my left, then the Triplets.


    "I hear you are creating some football without me," said Henri, veering towards sulk.


    "I hear you''ve been telling the world our secrets," I replied, with equal snark. We eyed each other, then laughed at the same time. "Who first?"


    "You. Tell me the plan for Salford."


    I told him, finishing by saying that he wouldn''t start, probably, and that he''d have to suffer and sacrifice in the second half and lead the boys home.


    He thought about it. "You''ll make the changes at half time?"


    "Mmm. I might play five minutes of the second half, just so they don''t have time for complicated adjustments. If I''m absolutely wrecked, I''ll do one minute or something."


    "Good. Then I will replace you."


    "I''ll be making three changes at the same time, if all goes well. Three will replace three."


    "I will replace you."


    "What''s the difference?" I laughed. This request was more batshit crazy than anything I had ever done.


    "The difference is how it will be presented on the television. How it will be consumed by the collective unconscious."


    He meant the camera would linger on my departure, meaning it would linger on his arrival. "Christ, you''re vain. Fine. How about if I hug you like a brother and let the world know you''re my special little pumpkin?"


    "Yes, good. I like that. Now. A quick chat about your club. West Didsbury and Chorlton. Quite a mouthful. I assume you will rename it Best Didsbury and change the team colours."


    "Changing the team colours would be an act of vandalism and show you don''t care about history or community."


    "Salford''s new owners changed the colours."


    "I know. Shows it''s all about them and not the fans."


    "What''s your motivation?"


    "Bit of fun, isn''t it? And when Chester sack me, I''ll have something to fall back on."


    "How much did you pay?"


    "I''ll tell you later."


    "Vivek will train there and play some matches. I see how that could aid his development."


    "Hope so. We''ll find out, won''t we?"


    "And will you be sending other players there?"


    "No real plans, but it''s an option. Guys like Benny and Tyson could get some game time. Michael, too, if he wanted."


    "Me?" said the middle Triplet.


    "Yeah. With you, we could loan you anywhere. Vivek''s mum wouldn''t let us send him somewhere rough, so West is perfect for him. In fact, I''d say we''re the only club that could get him started. You''re welcome to go and watch a match there and see what you think. We could send you for a month, you''d play five or six games. Five times ninety minutes, see if it benefits you. At the least, it''d build your fitness."


    He was frowning. "Do I have to?"


    "Jesus, mate. No. If you''re scared you wouldn''t get in the first eleven, there, yeah, maybe it''s not the right challenge for you." His brothers loved that, and I thought they would tease him about it until he came to me and said he''d had a think and wanted to try it. I turned to Henri. "Now tell me about Tranmere."


    He talked about the training. Certain drills that Coach Colin liked. Some ideas the manager, James O''Rourke was trying to implement for the next match. "And we play short-sided matches at the ends of most sessions. I am struggling to make an impact. Even Junior, who was my junior at Darlington, is sharper than me. Now, Max, let us be honest with one another." He stared at his empty plate. "I''ll put away the dishes."


    Andrew slapped Noah, who announced that he would do it.


    "Thank you, Noah," said Henri. Noah moved with impressive rapidity - he didn''t want to miss any of the football talk. "I understand your concept. You send me to train in a tougher group and it makes me tougher. I understand that. And I think if I stayed there for long enough, I would be able to compete better than what I''m doing. But I think your plan is to send other players there, too?"


    "I don''t have that good a relationship with the manager and owner to do it like a factory process. But if I could, I would. For example, if I sell Youngster to... Everton... I could put as a condition that I can send five players to train with them for a month. Something like that. If the concept works, I can find opportunities."


    "So you don''t believe in our coaches."


    "I do. To a certain point. But there''s also the rest of the team, the opposition, the facilities. Everything will get better over time, but if I can send you to train at clubs who have solved those problems... it''s a loophole." I looked down the table and told a white lie. "Everyone here can improve beyond the current ability of Chester. It''s my duty to look for ways to make sure that can happen."


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Henri nodded. "I have been welcomed at Tranmere, even though everyone agrees it is strange. There''s an assumption that I will sign for them in January. An assumption that I allowed to fester because it was easier. Also, I have played against some of the guys. They know I have something to offer. But if you sent Andrew, or Michael, to a similar club, even Tranmere, it might not go so smoothly. In fact, I''m sure it would be a disaster. You went to Darlington. You know how it can be for a new player. A new player who isn''t even part of the club? Who blows into the house like a virus? The home cells, they enrage themselves. No, Max. I think... I think you need to reconsider this. It''s a beautiful concept, but it doesn''t survive contact with reality. You may loan players down, to your West, for example, but not up. That is my home truth, even if the truth hurts more at home."


    I squeezed my eyes closed. Limits. Always limits. But since Jackie had returned, my mind had been fizzing with ideas. "People are scouting Raffi. How about if I let him train with one of those teams for a couple of weeks? They get a good look at him. I get a better player."


    "And you sell him to that club?"


    I made a noise. "Why would I? Highest bidder. It''s on them if they assume I''d treat them different. But that''s a good scam, isn''t it?"


    Henri considered it. "Possibly. He might be accepted if his signing was presented as a fait accompli."


    I got up and walked around. "What if I paid teams? There are higher level teams with good coaches who are broke. Here''s five grand, train five of my players for a month."


    "Max," he said, in a whiny voice. "The other players will snub them. Your employees will become depressed."


    "I''m paying for a service," I said. "It''s not just a favour to a mate. If someone bullies my guy, I''ll be there with the Brig ten minutes later and we''ll have a chat."


    "You make enough enemies."


    "You''ve made one great point," I said, stopping suddenly. "I can loan players up. The best West Didsbury players should come and train with us for a week. Imagine that. We can train them way past the rest of their division."


    "What do Chester get from that arrangement?"


    "They get me."


    Henri smiled. "You shouldn''t use Chester as your personal fiefdom. May I speak to you alone?" He stood and invited me to the patio, where we sat around a wooden fire and drank tea. I had peppermint.


    After we''d fussed and got cosy and settled like a couple of OAPs, Henri had a question. "How much did you pay for that football club?"


    "A hundred grand."


    "That''s not much for a whole club."


    "It''s about a hundred thousand more than I should have paid. Those clubs don''t make a profit. West was just about breaking even. If they paid staff, it''d go broke in weeks."


    "I see. So what is your ambition?"


    "Turn it into a talent factory. Use my abilities as a scout to dramatically improve the quality of the players - without losing the culture, of course, that''s vital - and start making money from transfers. Plus, having good players means winning the league, getting a couple of promotions, going on cup runs. I don''t see why they shouldn''t get to the league below us in the next five years and compete with FC United. But there''s no rush; I only need it so that if I absolutely had to, I''d be able to take ten grand a year out to repay the loan. Which seems pretty trivial, really. Same as here, if we are able to get the most out of the players, everything else will fall into place."


    Henri shook his head. "Max, you have a mania for personal improvement."


    "It seems so."


    "Where does it come from? Your father?"


    The fire crackled. "No."


    Henri sipped his drink and looked up at what little could be seen of the night sky. "My father took great interest in my career when I was a phenom. He made me work harder and harder. He was never satisfied, though he followed my career with great interest. When it became clear I had been overrated and would never achieve great things, he lost that interest."


    "Fuck. What did he want? For you to play for France? Anything less is shit? That''s bonkers. Twenty guys play for France at a time. There''s tons of incredible players who don''t quite make it."


    "I fell a long way short of that. I rose quickly and fell slowly. I thought I had found my level. The sixth tier of English football. Then I met you." He was quiet, and with anyone else I would have piped up to fill the awkward silence. "What was it you saw in me?"


    "Movement. Composure, heading, intelligence."


    "Scrapping?"


    "That''s always been your biggest weakness."


    Henri inhaled, and it took a long time for the exhale to come. "My father wanted me to scrap. To make the defenders know they had been in a contest. To make them dread playing me."


    "Your dad sounds like a shit coach," I said, and regretted it. "No offence."


    "I do not take offence when you are honest. Truth is beauty. I... If I promise not to kick anyone, can I start the match on Saturday?"


    "No because that''s not why you aren''t playing. There''s only one way to win, so we''re doing that. You''ll play the second half. Henri, mate, are you okay?"


    "Being sent to another new club stirred up a lot of memories, Max. I''ve moved many times. The first four or five were upward. Villefrance to Bordeaux. Bordeaux to Lens. When I went home, the house was full of joy. Was it down or sideways, moving to England? Financially, it was very much up. Reading, when they had money, but my boots were cursed, I couldn''t score, I was floundering, then the loans, the contracts signed and not renewed, down the slide. On my visits home, I would find that my father had been called away on ''urgent business'', or he would be civil but refuse to ask about football. My family home became a memory that hurt. I moved to Corsica and became incredibly happy there. Corsica, where the goals came as easily as they ever had, then the strangest call. Darlington. Such a small club, such a cold town, but so seductive. They were desperate for me to sign." His eyes flickered towards me. "I want to be wanted, Max. It fills a need. I know it''s pathetic to you."


    I shrugged. "I''m too much a mess to judge you for that."


    "What would you judge me for?"


    "For scrapping when you should be dragging defenders out of position."


    He looked up again. "Merde." He adjusted the little blanket he wore over his lap. "I know. Put all the pressure on a single point. Use your talent in the most efficient way possible. That''s very Max. Max for maximum. Maximum output. From your team. From your players. From your friends."


    "I want what''s best for you, if that''s what you''re saying. My friends are footballers, so... I try to help them in terms of football. Is that bad?"


    "No."


    I had the feeling he was on the verge of trying to tell me something, and he would if only I asked the right question, but I was way out of my depth. Someone like Henri would probably guess and be all sophisticated about it. "Is there something you want to tell me?"


    He put his tea down and folded his hands. "Please don''t give up on me." I was about to say something ''funny'' when I caught a shimmer of moisture reflecting on his eyeballs. I kept my stupid Manc gob shut. "You think I''m something, something that I am not. When you realise, you will share the disappointment of so many others."


    I knew where I was, now. The relief was exhilarating. "Have you ever heard of the sunk cost fallacy?"


    He blinked. "Of course."


    "Well, I haven''t. I''m going to keep investing in you until I get what I want."


    "What is it you want?"


    "I want to see peak Henri Lyons."


    "He''s not as good as you think."


    "I know exactly how good you can be." I smiled, imagining the day I checked his profile and saw he was CA 90. "That''ll be a good moment, when you get there. Do you want me to tell you when it happens? No, that''d be weird. That''d be like saying, ''it''s all downhill from here''. Or would it? What would I want? Maybe I''d want to hear it. Hitting your peak''s an achievement, and then after that the contest is, how long can I stay at this level? Someone like Ryan Jack must have stayed at his peak for fucking years. I think I''d want that, if I were you."


    He was shaking his head. "You think you can spot the, what, the exact moment I can get no better?"


    "To the minute."


    He didn''t blink for a long time. "I want that."


    I touched all my fingers together and rested my chin in the first gap. "You''re 28 and 6 months old. If we get promoted..." If we got promoted, that would theoretically unlock another twenty or so points in the CA he could get while at Chester. If he could get to CA 80 by the end of next season, he wouldn''t far off his PA of 90. Which he''d hit during our first League Two season, provided there were no unforeseen stumbling blocks along the way. And as long as we got promoted every year. "You''ll hit your absolute peak aged 30 and 6 months. Give or take a few weeks. It''ll be faster if I find a coach like Jackie."


    "But you have a coach like Jackie. Jackie is a coach like Jackie."


    "He''s the manager of the women''s team. Why would he coach the men''s team?"


    "Because you''ve got everyone doing everything."


    "I''m not going to push him. We''ve only just got him back. If he volunteers, holy shit, wow. That''ll be a red letter day. But I won''t ask. I do have a couple of scams lined up where he''ll want to volunteer, but right now I feel bad for even thinking of them. He''s allowed to be happy, right? He''s allowed to have a go at being a manager." I laughed. "He''s like a sexy woman who wants to be taken seriously as an artist or something. He''s desperate for me to see beyond his gorgeous bald head. Nah, I''m working on the assumption he won''t coach the men. I don''t need someone as good as him, anyway. Don''t need the grin, the humour, the man management, the tactical ideas. Just need the coaching. I hope to find it. In the meantime, it''s mad schemes and plans, Henri, that you will go along with willingly, because you are not going to give up on you."


    He breathed out, slightly shakily at first, but then with confidence. "Agreed."


    "Come into the light for a minute." We went back inside, where all the others had already gone. "I learned a shamanic trick while on a mountaintop. Tell me if you feel anything."


    While I kept a close eye on him, I used God Save the King to increase his finishing by one point. Annoyingly, his CA increased, too, which distracted me from his face. That said, I felt sure he didn''t flinch or show any visible sign of anything having changed.


    "I didn''t feel it," he said.


    "Probably for the best," I said. He gave me a strange look and wandered off to the kitchen. I double checked the information the squad screen was giving me. Increasing his finishing had bumped him from CA 59 to CA 61.


    I stood there, with my mind very slightly blown. Of course I''d realised there was a connection between attribute growth and CA growth, but I wasn''t sure I''d ever seen it play out so obviously one to one. PA was a limit to how much all the other attributes could improve. I''d suspected that already, with some level of certainty, but now a new and interesting thought occurred to me - if Henri''s PA was maxed out and I increased his finishing, his PA would have to improve. Right?


    It didn''t seem like I would ever use this loophole, but for the first time I saw a way to increase someone''s PA. Another rule I could bend! And if similar perks ever became available, I might be able to go from bending the rule... to breaking it.


    "Shall we return to the fire?"


    "Absolutely."


    ***


    Most of that week, I had horrible, oppressive dreams. Themes of suffocation, strangulation, confinement. By day we worked on my tactical idea and refined it. I worked on evading the press and took penalties against the keepers until I thought I had my new technique down pat. There was an air of quiet optimism, of determination. Around the town, growing excitement as the big day was arriving.


    On Tuesday night I went scouting at one of Chester''s five-a-side places - found a couple of half-decent squad fillers. Sent Jackie a fifteen-year-old PA 20 forward, just in case. But I was stopped every two minutes for selfies. It didn''t help the feeling of claustrophobia.


    So the next three nights I drove to Manchester and Stockport and watched five-a-side, adding XP and finding a few prospects for West. It wasn''t an easy sell, getting them to go for a trial at a tier nine side they''d never heard of, but I didn''t need to sell it. I just needed the guys to go down and watch a match. They''d get sucked in, and if they didn''t, there were plenty of fish in the sea.


    Going home eased my dreams at first, but on Friday night, the foul mood came back with a vengeance.


    ***


    XP balance: 501


    Debt repaid: 2,558/3000


    West Didsbury and Chorlton first team average CA: 10


    ***


    FA Cup First Round: Chester vs Salford City


    I named the 4-5-1 that I had planned, but one thing Secretary Joe had pointed out when I''d told him my plans over a quick coffee was that I''d be able to name nine subs and use five (instead of five and three). What a luxury! Especially considering anyone who came on would be benefitting from Bench Boost. It was also amazing in terms of keeping players happy and motivated - everyone except Michael Harrison and Angles (our goalie coach) got named and would be able to dream of getting onto the pitch.


    Salford would play 4-1-4-1. They''d rested a few players, but had their key striker and DM in the starting line up. Their average CA of 98 was alarming - the players were far more talented than their recent performances would have suggested. The Class of ''92 might have changed the kit and badge - vandalism - but they were investing.


    Our fans were streaming in. The stadium wasn''t sold out, which disappointed me, but the ticket people thought we''d get close to 4,000. The biggest crowd of my playing or managing career. If we got them going...


    The BBC had been in the stadium putting up cameras and whatnot. They''d kicked poor Boggy out of his little room, and generally strode around like they owned the place, making demands, upsetting the regulars. I supposed that would happen more and more as we rose up the leagues, but it was still fucking annoying. Didn''t make me want to play nice with the broadcasters, although I had it in the back of my mind that if we were media friendly we''d get picked for more of these games in the future.


    The players prepared as close to normal as possible, though the nerves and excitement and tension wasn''t helped by the late kick off. The extra two and half hours of waiting and dreaming and dreading was sapping their mental energy. They''d been giving it large on their socials through the week, but now they were raw with nerves. Their mistakes would be broadcast live to millions. But if they scored... The Brig and Vimsy seemed to have decided to let the lads enjoy it, let them vent their tension with extra silliness and banter and bombast. I went along with it - I didn''t want the lads freezing before the match. They''d switch on when the match kicked off... probably.


    The only real difference for me was that I popped up to the Director''s Box to show my face to the Weavers - Emma was in Chester kit with a West beanie; she always knew how to put a smile on my face - plus various Cheshire bigwigs, Chester board members, and sponsors. Then it was down pitchside to talk to the BBC guys. The BBC guys turned out to be an attractive blonde called Carly.


    Max Best, you''re the manager of Chester Football Club.


    Yes. Yes, I am.


    There''s a fantastic atmosphere building.


    One of the first things I did was turn the pre-match music off. I want to hear the fans, not Ed Sheeran.


    What are you doing today?


    Do you mean what formation?


    Yes.


    That''s pretty personal. You should take me to dinner before you start asking things like that.


    You might be a bit young for me.


    I''m getting older every day. It''s one of my superpowers.


    You''ve been doing a lot of 3-5-2 recently. Will we see that today?


    Do I have to tell you that? Is that part of the deal? It seems weird. Tell me what Salford are doing and I''ll tell you my plans.


    They''re doing 4-3-3.


    No, they''re doing 4-1-4-1. Watkins as DM, Johnstone as the striker. Looks like they''ve put their reserve full-backs in for today. The guy''s got to rotate his squad but we might be able to do something with that.


    You''re optimistic, then.


    No, we are going to get absolutely thrashed. This morning we were on social media reminding fans that we''ve got slots for player sponsorships. For two hundred pounds we''ll write your name next to Magnus Evergreen or Steve Alton in the match programme. That''s the level we operate at, Carly. We''re a fan-owned club. No billionaires in the shadows behind famous players. We don''t even have a nutritionist - I saw my backup goalie eating a Mars bar this morning. (Other chocolates are available.) No, this is going to be one-sided. Dull as dishwater. I''ve told the lads if they get a shot on target, I''ll take them to Disneyland. Not the real one. I mean Flamingo Land in Scarborough. They''ve got flamingoes. And land.


    You''ve named yourself in the starting line up, but you''ve only played twenty minutes here or there. Do you think you can play the whole ninety minutes?


    Nah that''s politics. The board want me to play today so that I''ll be cup tied. They want me to stay here and they think if I can''t play for another team in the cup this season I''m less likely to be snapped up. I''ll probably potter around for ten, fifteen minutes, try to make some new friends. Maybe I''ll ask Watkins if he wants to swap shirts with me. Get first dibs on that, know what I mean? Then, yeah, let one of the proper players do the rest of the game.


    Max Best, thank you very much and good luck.


    Yep.


    ***


    I went into the dressing room to rouse the troops. What they needed, of course, was to stop thinking about the magic of the cup and what it''d be like to score a famous goal and what it''d be like to get annihilated on TV.


    "Guys," I said, in a quiet, calm voice. It took much longer than normal, but the group settled down. I nodded as I looked at them. Average morale 6.1 (compared to Salford''s 4.6); average CA 46. The lineup was a bit strange - we were nominally a 4-5-1 but the striker was me and I would play as a DM. I had Gerald May, the defender, playing in central midfield. "Henri, how you feeling?"


    His time at Tranmere had been incredible - with harder, higher-level training, plus the bonus he got from God Save the King, he had added four points of CA in two weeks, and was now my best player with CA 62. He was on the bench. "Good, Max," he said, apparently in earnest.


    "Amazing. We know the plan. Low block, defend for our lives, earn the right to play. Now, I know you''re all a bit hyper, so it''s time to get back into heist mode. Remember the heist? Ice in our veins. Clarity of thought. For that reason, I am going to read you a poem. This will, I''m sure, get you in the right frame of mind. Everyone ready?"


    This got some smiles. I was being weird because they needed me to be weird. "Ready, boss," said Glenn.


    "Top. Here we go." I cleared my throat and read from my phone. "A centipede was happy quite, until a frog in fun... said, ''Pray, which leg comes after which?''... This raised her mind to such a pitch, she lay distracted in the ditch, considering how to run."


    Tony Hetherington was the first to react, which was a good omen in case any balls bounced near him in the penalty box. He slapped his thigh and got up. "You''re mad, you are! You''re absolutely crackers."


    "It''s about not overthinking things," I said. "It''s another way of saying Let It Happen."


    "Crackers."


    It was smiles all round. Job done.


    We were as ready as we were ever going to be.


    ***


    "If you''re just joining us, Salford City, owned by David Beckham, Ryan Giggs, and the rest of the Class of ''92, have come to non-league Chester City for this first round FA Cup match."


    "Chester FC, Clive."


    "That''s right, Andy. I always make that mistake. And some are saying Chester manager Max Best has made a mistake. His star striker, Henri Lyons, is only on the bench today. What do you make of that?"


    "It''s a strange one, Clive. Must be a bit of tension in the camp because looking at the team, here, Chester don''t have a natural striker. They''ll need a target man if they''re going to relieve the pressure Salford put them under. It''s a bit of inexperience from the young manager. They think highly of him round these parts, but I''m surprised to see a non-league team playing a big game like this without a target man. Teams need an out ball. I just hope that decision doesn''t hurt them."


    "Nearing kick off here at a boisterous Deva stadium. Let''s see if this game produces a diva, and if the fat lady will be singing at the final whistle."


    ***


    Triple Captain.


    Bench Boost.


    Salford to kick off. I lined up in the striker position, but as Salford knocked the ball around, I took a few steps back.


    They came at us like lightning. Fast, athletic, technical, zipping the ball around for thirty demotivating seconds. When they finally hit a loose pass, our throw in looked like a minefield. Carl Carlile looked around, saw danger everywhere, and threw the ball down the line towards Pascal. There followed one of the most unequal physical contests in the history of football, and the reds - formerly the tangerines - were back in possession, back in our half, and we settled into our low block.


    A couple of midfielders exchanged passes, and I saw where the ball would go. I moved towards it, expecting to take it off the toes of the receiver. But by the time I got there, he''d burst past me. He played the ball wide left, a cross came in, and Johnstone headed the ball powerfully down and in.


    One minute, one goal. At this rate, we''d set all kinds of unwanted records.


    We were too stunned to get mad, or scream at each other, or whatever. I stood there, head empty, when Ryan gave me a little push towards the halfway line. As the ''striker'', it was my job to restart the match. At least I''d get a kick of the ball.


    I passed to Ryan, who zipped it to Aff, who played it back to Magnus. He played it to Ryan, who passed to Raffi. I went on a curving run outside him. He dabbed the ball into my path, and I was instantly dumped on my arse by Watkins, the quality defensive midfielder I had a bit of a manager crush on.


    Salford, a goal ahead and confident we were shit, passed the ball around for a while, not too bothered about attacking. They would do a professional job, taking the heat out of the match, quieting the crowd, winning by expending as little energy as possible.


    They passed around the defence for a while, forcing me to go and pretend to press them so that they''d pass forward. When they did, they broke through our lines with ease, and six, seven, eight passes were zipped around on bewildering diagonals, ending in a shot that went just wide. Robbo in goal got nowhere near it.


    Robbo took the goal kick to Carlile, who passed it to me even though I had an opponent close by. That was very much the plan. I received the ball, feinted to pass back to the keeper, burst the other way. My move took the guy by surprise, but he flung out an arm, grabbed my shirt, and stopped me moving.


    The ref blew for a free kick, then jogged away. I frowned. Didn''t he realise I was just about to launch a counter?


    There followed two minutes of living beyond our means, straining every sinew and finding we were slower, smaller, shitter. Salford had chances. Peppered our penalty area with crosses, through balls, even some intricate build up play. Even with all our players defending in a low block, they got our full backs isolated, dribbled past, hit endless crosses and pull backs.


    And when we survived and tried to pass out, they smothered us. Got hundreds of players into the area around the ball, stopping us from breaking out. Twice more I got the ball, somehow got my legs working, got past my opponent, and was fouled. Both times, the referee blew for a foul and walked away.


    I followed him. "Is that it?"


    "What?"


    "That''s our break. We''re on the attack. That''s three times we''ve been shut down by fouls."


    "So?"


    "So that''s a yellow card. Three yellows."


    "Get lost, yellow card." He turned away, laughing.


    I saw red.


    The suffocation was happening. From Salford, fairly, pressing us into inescapable corners and traps, unfairly, with snide fouls and gamesmanship, from the ref, who was still reffing like it was the 1990s, from the TV guys who I knew would be slaughtering me, from the board who only understood 4-4-2, the fans, from every player who''d bought into this plan. What was that phrase? Home is where the heart is. Nah. I thought of Henri''s dad covering his house with shadow. Losing this wouldn''t mean a thing if we were in Salford. But we were in Chester. Home is where the hurt is.


    CA 100 versus CA 50, and the bigger team could foul at will. Still, I''d expected some of that. Why was I playing so shit? Smasho and Nice One had warned me - when you step up a level, it takes time to adjust. Well, if it took me twenty minutes to get up to speed here, we''d be eight-nil down with fourteen completed passes. We should have played 4-4-2 and taken our chances. Conventional, boring, but that''s how you did a giant killing. That''s how you beat a better team.


    Salford attacked while I stood, stock still, having something of a meltdown. The ball zipped around - so fast! so accurate! - until May, showing his worth by being a large obstacle where we needed one, got in the way of an attempted chip - bit early for Salford to be dicking around to that extent - and suddenly I was on the ball. I exploded past a guy, and was ready for his shirt grab. I smashed my elbow in the direction of his hand, made contact, was blessedly free, and suddenly the pitch was open before me. I sprinted, accelerated, but the rest of the players had stopped.


    The referee had given a foul. Against me.


    I wandered back, head in hands, unable to understand what I was seeing. The Salford guy was on the floor, clutching his wrist.


    "Calm down, Best," said the ref, as he showed me a yellow card. The first yellow card of my career.


    "Hang on. I get fouled but I get booked. That''s what''s happening here, is it?"


    "One more and you''re off."


    The ''injured'' guy went off the pitch for treatment, and my team lined up to defend the free kick. Not me. I stood in the middle of nowhere, blood boiling so intensely I''d soon lose all my body''s water.


    The cross was sent in - too soft, too slow, rubbish - and May was there, heading clear. I sprinted, gathered the ball, and hared to the left side of the pitch. Salford guys were sprinting back. My instinct was to run down the line, all the way into the penalty box, and shoot. But those days weren''t back, not yet. I feinted as though I''d do just that, then tapped the ball once, backward, once more, to the side, opening my body for a massive diagonal pass to Pascal on the far side.


    A Salford guy took me out.


    Free kick. I got part of the way to my feet, watching, waiting for the inevitable yellow card. When it didn''t come, my fury reached new heights. I glared at the ref, eyes bulging, veins throbbing, and finally reached a level of anger so pure it was like flying a plane through turbulent clouds and coming out to the absolute peace and serenity above.


    From this new state, I heard the fans to my left. They were almost as angry as me. I gestured, demanded more noise. They obliged, spitting bile at the pitch. Salford might not have been intimidated, but the ref was.


    Aff came next to me. "Pass," I said. He touched the ball, and I faced up the nearest Salford guy, the same one who had just fouled me. I moved towards him. There was no match, no wider contest. There couldn''t be. Not with the ref so clueless. With a sudden drop of the shoulder, I bolted forward, but cut back to the side of the pitch so I''d only be in contest with this one guy. I cut in and out, waited, waited for his weight to settle, then bam! Double dribble, like the old days. It didn''t need to be very elegant, and holy shit, it wasn''t, but it achieved my aim. I got past the guy and surprise surprise, he fouled me.


    The crowd went mental. Absolutely mental. I sat on my arse, watching as the referee went up to the guy, had a word with him, touched him on the shoulder, all paternal and shit, and walked away. No extra punishment.


    I flopped to my back. A little bit theatrical, you might say, but it helped in working the fans up. For as long as we were in the contest, they''d go apeshit every time we didn''t get a decision, every time the ref showed bias to Salford.


    But so what? We had one way to play, and our opponents could stop it at no cost. Even if the ref finally gave a couple of yellow cards, someone else would foul me. They would take it in turns, never risking a red card. I suppose I should have been pleased to be considered worthy of rotational fouling. I lay there, panting, beads of sweat forming all over as my exertions caught up with me, thinking about the forty-one thousand pounds prize money we''d never see, about the tantalising prospect of another league match being postponed in my season-long Maxterplan. I thought about how I could make as many beautiful plans as I wanted, but if the other team cheated and were allowed to cheat, there was nothing much I could do about it.


    Aff bent and lifted me up. "Come on, boss. Keep going, yeah?"


    "Yeah," I mumbled. I didn''t mean it.


    ***


    "Still one-nil here, but Salford''s early dominance has faded away somewhat."


    "That''s right, Clive, Chester have dug in well but they aren''t offering anything going forward. They need a big man up top. I want to see Henri Lyons come on. He''s a great player for this level."


    "Come on for his manager, maybe. Best has spent most of the first twenty minutes here scowling and getting into heated discussions with his opponents and the referee. He''s got to be careful or he''ll be sent off."


    "He''s a very frustrated young man, out there. Whatever he''s tried to do with this line up, it hasn''t worked. If I''m on the bench there, I''m telling him to change it. Go 4-4-2, play direct, give your defenders a breather now and then."


    "Funny you should mention that. There''s some movement around the home team dugout. What''s this? It looks like... they''re dancing?"


    "I wouldn''t call that dancing, Clive. Swaying, maybe."


    "Swaying. Perhaps we shouldn''t laugh. Could be for a local charity or something. But they''re all up there, waving their arms around."


    "I think we''re allowed to laugh. Look at Best."


    "Look at his face! Just look at his face! Max Best''s smile is lighting up this stadium. What on earth was that all about?"


    "Watch out, here come Salford."


    ***


    After the little scene on the left, we''d had a spell of possession. Ryan to Raffi, Raffi to Pascal, who had been virtually anonymous, back to Ryan, and he, Aff, and Magnus had played keep-ball. Salford had put a lot of energy into all their pressing, and seemed happy to let us have the ball in a harmless position.


    Finally, after a little break in which I allowed my rage-o-meter to come down to ''toddler who can''t remember why he''s mad'' I showed for the ball, turned, beat a man, tried to get past a second, and was barged off the ball. Fairly, I suppose, but the fans reacted like the guy had flicked ninja stars at my ankles.


    I slapped the turf in frustration - at myself, this time. I put my hands on my hips and started to give serious consideration to subbing myself off. When I looked over at the bench, I saw Vimsy, the Brig, Henri, Dean, and Youngster side by side, doing the air dancer hand movements we''d used in the early days of 4-1-4-1 Let It Happen. They were telling me to stick to the plan. That they still believed in me. That I needed to stop trying to make things happen, and... you know the rest.


    It was the Brig that made me laugh. That serious face, those arms ready to switch to dark mode in an instant, waving around live on TV.


    I took a few breaths as I walked back towards goal. Salford were attacking down our right. The winger got himself a bit of space, crossed, and just before Johnstone nodded it home, Robbo was there, plucking the ball from the air like lifting a cat from a tree.


    I put my hand up, and Robbo slingshotted the ball to me. I took a touch. Watkins was the nearest defender, and he came from the left of the pitch, creating a massive cover shadow there. The rest of the Salford team moved right, where they would swamp Pascal, Ryan, or whoever I passed to.


    One... more... step... Watkins was nearly on me, so I lifted my leg like I''d play a long pass to the right. He reacted instinctively by moving his body weight in that direction. I smashed the ball, twisting my foot at the last second, nutmegging him. The ball zipped thirty yards, right into the path of Aff. There was no-one near him. He raced forward, and now Salford were in full panic mode. They streamed back, just about catching Aff, but Pascal was the fastest player on the pitch. Aff fired a long diagonal pass, too far in front of the goalkeeper for him to come. Still, he took a few steps towards it, realised he was in no-man''s land, and could only dive despairingly as Pascal side-footed the ball into the unguarded net.


    One-all, and the stadium erupted. Limbs everywhere, noise, passion, emotion. Pascal celebrated wildly, sliding on his knees to the corner flag even though we''d agreed never to do that because it wrecked your ligaments. The rest of the lads zoomed over and crashed into him - which we''d also banned.


    I knelt and took the opportunity to make some calculations. The match stats were as expected - terrible ratings for me and for Gerald May. Pascal had been on four out of ten, but one kick later he was up to eight. Robbo and Ryder were defending like the old pros they were - both had eight. More important than the ratings was how well everyone was doing their job, and I found myself nodding. Very well.


    This plan worked. Whether they knew it or not, Salford''s greatest strength, their ability to press us, squeeze us, suffocate us, was their biggest weakness.


    It reminded me of the famous scene from the BBC''s Planet Earth series. A bunch of snakes grabbed a little gecko dude, but more and more snakes came to join the party, squeezing and squeezing, not realising the little dude had already slipped away. They were strangling themselves.


    I looked over at my bench - they were delirious.


    The emotion of the situation threatened to overwhelm me. I gritted my teeth and stretched my hamstrings. When my guys walked back to our half, I snapped at them. "Come on! Back to work."


    Salford kicked off and, stung by our equaliser, immediately surged forward. Their clever midfielders played a few passes to each other, but with supernatural timing I stopped jogging sideways, burst ahead, intercepted, and I was away. In seconds I was at the centre circle. I dropped a shoulder left, went right, had Pascal running right, Aff left, and felt Raffi coming up behind. I calculated the next six passes in the blink of an eye, passed right just as a defender slid in - another guy out of the way! Change the calculation! - Pascal threatened to go right, but cut the ball back to me. I hit it first time, full of side spin so Aff wouldn''t have to break stride. He cut it square and Raffi thrashed it into the back of the net.


    The stadium shook. It was Salford''s turn to look stunned.


    ***


    "Scenes here in the north-west! Little Chester are on course for one of the biggest cupsets of the year. If you want to kill a giant, they don''t get much bigger than a team owned by David Beckham!"


    "It''s extraordinary, Clive. I can''t believe what I''m seeing. It was all Salford for fifteen minutes and now Chester are bossing the game."


    "Salford look scared to commit bodies forward."


    "And with good reason! Every time Chester break they look deadly. Pascal Bochum is a revelation. Such a bright player!"


    "Chester''s plan looks obvious now, though for a long time it seemed like a muddled mess. How will Salford respond?"


    "Their old heads will put their foot on the ball, slow things down. Let this frenzy fade away, stamp their quality on the game."


    "Let''s see. There''s Watkins, now, and he turns and plays it back to his goalie. You called it, Andy. There''s one calm head out there."


    ***


    It looks like Salford have adopted a more cautious approach.


    I got goosebumps when the message came through. Attack! But no. They wanted us to spread out so they could counter us. Felt like a trap. I kept things as they were, even if that meant a quiet five minutes where the bubbling intensity of the cauldron died down. That was five minutes where I could let my mind and body rest.


    It looks like Salford have adopted a more attacking stance.


    Here they came! Another push. They''d added another body to the rest defence, though. Less threat from their attacks, but more solidity against our counters. It didn''t bother me. If we got into their cover shadow, we''d create mayhem. Me, Aff, and Pascal had great decision-making, most of the time, and if you had the defenders facing their own goal, everything got much easier. The hard part was breaking through the initial press.


    ***


    "Salford pushing hard to get back into this match, now. They''ve got a corner. It''s fired in towards their dangerman Johnstone. It''s punched away. Best competes for it - the crowd rises to their feet in anticipation of a counter! - but Watkins comes away with it, passes left - they''ve been dangerous down that side. Cross comes in. Nodded away. There''s a scramble. Shot! Blocked by Ryder. Shot! Blocked by Alton. Shot - no! Passed wide. Great composure. Here comes Solent, pulled back, another block! Solent again. GOAL! It''s there. He''s done it! Heroic defending by Chester, but they couldn''t clear their lines. It''s two-all!"


    "Argh, that''s devastating for the non-league team. It''ll be one-way traffic from here. Game over, I''m afraid."


    ***


    "Approaching half time, Chester still just about in this game. At two-all, who''ll be the happier manager?"


    "Oh, that''s tough. Salford''s will be pleased to have got over that scare, but he''ll be upset at how his players lost the plot for those ten minutes."


    "Salford attacking down the right. Dubhlainn, the Irishman, is there covering - and he comes away with the ball! He''s really a good player."


    "Two-way player, Clive. Like gold dust."


    "No chance for a quick counter, this time. Jack on the ball. He''s a lovely player, isn''t he?"


    "He is. You can see he''s played at a high level. Lovely passing range."


    "Short pass this time, though. Lays it off to Best. First time to Brown. First time to Best. They''re like a pinball machine!"


    "Trying to get under the Salford players'' skin. I''ve got to say, you don''t see football like this at non-league very often. There''s a swagger about this group. I''ll have to come and watch Chester."


    "They''re making some new fans, I think. The ball''s played wide. Carlile hasn''t gone forward, much. Neither has May. They get some rare passes in. What''s this now? Salford are pushing up, squeezing the space - "


    "Kick ups!"


    "Best is doing keepy uppies on the left of midfield. That''s not going to be to everyone''s taste. He''s challenged now - OH! WHAT A PASS! Max Best has volleyed that, diagonally - he''s, he''s - it''s Bochum on the end of it. The keeper''s come storming out. What''s he - OH! He''s wiped Bochum out! Bochum headed the ball over the keeper - Best''s pass - bounced up - what''s?"


    "Red card!"


    "The red card comes out! The keeper''s off! Salford are down to ten men!"


    "That was absolutely magnificent from Best. He annoyed you, he annoyed me, he annoyed Salford. They lost concentration, and Bochum made that run. The pass, though, left-footed volley, fifty yards, bouncing in Bochum''s path. He''s only a little fella but he can still use his head! He nodded it over the keeper, then it''s a simple case of running round and a tap-in. I''ve got to say, this Chester team are winning me over. They''re outclassed but they''ve got heart. They''ve got imagination."


    "And now they''ve got a free kick in a dangerous position. Salford are replacing Solent with their reserve goalkeeper. Down to ten men. This is some game."


    "Salford are reeling. Ryan Jack standing over the free kick. It''s just outside the penalty area. Is it too close for a shot?"


    "You''d have thought so. A few yards back would be ideal."


    "Well, finally ready for the free kick. What''s next in this extraordinary contest? Ryan steps forward, but it''s a sideways pass to Best. He shapes to shoot - we know he can hit them - but he helps it on to the left. Dubhlainn is one on one with his marker. Takes him on - that''s brilliant - to the byline, crosses, no, he cuts back, oh and he''s taken down!"


    "Penalty."


    "Yes! The ref''s given it! And a yellow card for the right back. Some irony there. Chester couldn''t buy one at the start of the half, now there are cards flying everywhere. Penalty to Chester! Salford are furious."


    "Best."


    "Best to take it. He did say Chester might get joy against the reserve full backs... Oh, there''s some gamesmanship from the new goalkeeper there. He''s scuffing up the penalty spot, knocked the ball out of Best''s hand. The game hasn''t been played in the best spirit, but that''s disappointing."


    "That''s poor. That''s really poor. But if he puts Best off, he''ll think it was worth it."


    "Very long delay here. What do you think, Andy? Will he score?"


    "He''ll blast it top-right. That''s his move."


    "Let''s see if Salford have done as much homework as you. The crowd hush. The referee is telling players to stay out of the box. Now Best has gone forward. He''s giving the goalkeeper a piece of his mind."


    "Ah, there''s no need for this. Come on."


    "Best respots the ball. High drama. Waits for the whistle. Steps forward..."


    ***


    Justified Flashback Cliffhanger!


    In book 4, chapter 6, The Art of Phwoar, I took a trip down to ''Lahndan'' where I watched Brentford beat Fulham. Playing that day was Ivan Toney, and I commented on his masterful penalty technique. You forgot the scene, and so did I, until I realised I would play a match with no strikers. Henri was my first choice penalty taker, Tony my second. One or the other had played every minute of every game this season.


    So who would take our penalties, if we got one, against Salford? Ryan Jack, perhaps. But first, I wanted to try something out. I couldn''t do my unstoppable ''blast the ball so high so hard no keeper could ever save it'' thing. But maybe I could do the Ivan Toney method. After all, it was about mind games and anticipation more than technique or power.


    I practiced and practiced, and thought I had got to grips with the method...


    ***


    The Salford players jostled me, got in my face, talked shit about me and my hair, my skills, the fact that I was a manbaby. The goalie knocked the ball out of my hands, scuffed up the penalty spot.


    The ref, of course, bottled it. Did nothing.


    I needed a cool head for this penalty - it could be a forty-thousand pound kick. All I had to do was stay calm.


    So when the dust had settled and it was nearly time to shoot, I walked up to the goalie and jabbed him in the chest.


    "You classless prick. This is my house, and if you disrespect it you''re gonna find yourself in a world of hurt. You fucking hear me?"


    "Get fucked," he said, but he was raging. Desperate to make this save. Hopping around, bursting with energy, ready to spring to his feet and roar with triumph. I thought about pointing to one side of the goal to get into his head even more, but that hadn''t gone well in testing.


    I stood two steps from the ball. Everything would be compressed into fractions of movements.


    The whistle went.


    The first stride, slow, slow, eyes focused on the right of the goal.


    The goalie on his toes, bouncing, then tense, ready to explode either left or right. Good balance, this prick had.


    Into the second stride, slowing even further. The slowness was absolutely messing with the guy''s head. He was used to opponents striking hard shots and this was messing up his timing something rotten. The tiniest glance left and his entire body was electrified, ready to go, but then my eyes were right again.


    My foot was near the ball now, about to make contact. The shot would be slow, but the goalie had to choose, had to dive.


    Eyes wide as saucers, he committed. Right!


    I rolled the ball, very, very slowly, to the left.


    My first goal for Chester happened at one mile an hour.


    The slowness of the drama somehow led to an even greater release when it came. I jogged past the goalie, making sure he saw I was giving him a Maxy two-thumbs, and then - fuck him - it was all about the fans. Giving them something back for all their support. A cocky, smiling trot along the touchline, soaking up the adulation, suggesting I couldn''t hear what they were offering, then a shortcut across the corner flag and over to the main stand, where I stood in front of the away dugout, arms aloft, face pointing straight up.


    Then hugs for my staff, big drink of water, and, fists clenched, back onto the pitch.


    This job wasn''t done.


    Salford kicked off, and the ref blew for half time.


    Okay, so it was done for now.


    ***


    There was some aggro in the tunnel. Some people didn''t like certain things that had happened. Who gave a shit? I invited the Salford manager to do one (translation: feel free to leave the area) and went into the dressing room and flopped onto a treatment table.


    Dean was there in a flash, asking me what was up. "Legs. Headache."


    He massaged one leg, Magnus the other, and Livia did her ASMR thing on my neck and head. For a while I fretted about how like a pandered prince I must look, but then I relaxed into it, and my head started to clear.


    What to do?


    I hadn''t for a minute thought we''d get one of their guys sent off. What would happen now? They would still slap us on talent alone. We could do insanely good counters for as long as I played. What was in my tank? Ten minutes? Fifteen?


    And Bench Boost. I could bring on five guys who would all play out of their skin.


    Henri had to come on. So from 4-5-1 to 4-4-2, with me dropping back to be the DM. But that was just 4-1-4-1. Why not do that? Why not get Youngster on? No, it was too early for him.


    My head started swimming again. I couldn''t remember a harder decision. There were so many variables, so many options, so much at stake. No doubt the TV guys would be replaying incidents from the first half, poring over them in slow motion, discussing them in minute detail. My mind drifted that way, too, thinking about the rough start, the jersey pulls - no! Focus on the future.


    "Henri. Brig. Vimsy. Glenn. Sam."


    They came and stood around the massage table. The Brig kneeled like a knight before his king. "You called, your majesty?"


    His joke was pitch perfect. The others crouched or kneeled, too. All smiles. "How long can you stay kneeling like that at your age?"


    "Long enough to receive my instructions, oh great one."


    "Someone get the Brig a bean bag," I tried to yell, but it hurt my head. "Right. We''ve got a man advantage. I want to stay on the pitch a bit longer, but I want to get Henri on. Are you good to skip that scene you were fantasising about?"


    "Yes, Max. I will sneak on at half time and not get the reception I deserve. Of course."


    "Who''s coming off?" said Sam.


    "Yeah. Here''s where it gets tricky. Henri for Gerald makes sense. Call it 4-4-2 with me as the second striker, but doing whatever I want. Do that for five minutes, see what they cooked up during the break."


    "Their manager is roasting them," said Livia, delighted. She''d moved to the other side to give my brains trust a better view of the side of my head.


    "I want to get Sam and Youngster on, soon as poss. 4-1-4-1, but that means taking Raffi or Ryan off, and they''re killing it. 3-5-2 means no Youngster. 4-1-4-1 right now means no Pascal, and he''s our biggest threat today."


    "What''s our best chance of winning?" said Vimsy.


    I was silent for a while, and the only sound from our corner was the oily squelch as my aching muscles were cared for. "Stay as we are till we see what they''re planning. Then probably 4-1-4-1 or a switch to 3-5-2."


    "So Sam has to wait," said Henri. "And so do I. It''s simple."


    "Come on, boss," said Sam. "Don''t worry about hurting my feelings. Win first, worry about the rest later."


    I exhaled. "Right. Right." Something loosened in the calf Magnus was working on. "Magnus, thanks. Get yourself a break. Second half''s going to hurt."


    ***


    Salford made a few tweaks at half time - passing and marking instructions, certain players told not to make forward runs, small stuff. As far as I could tell, they would mostly keep playing the way they had.


    The match restarted and I realised instantly that I was running on fumes. That spongey, bouncy energy I''d had in the first half was all gone. What, then? Swap me and May for Henri and Youngster? Already?


    Salford attacked, we low blocked it, and Magnus fizzed the ball to me. I one-touched it back to him, moved towards the left touchline for the return pass. He fizzed it again and I made a show of turning to the inside of the pitch, then spun around to the right. The guy who''d come to press me was left floundering, and once again the entire gamut of possibilities was open to me. I dribbled almost lazily, and as a defender came sliding for the tackle I dabbed the ball left-footed, just a few feet forward, past the slide, for Aff to collect. I tracked him, and suddenly we were bearing down on the penalty area. The nearest defender didn''t know whether he should go to the ball or cover me. He chose Aff, who stopped and turned full circle. The first poor decision we''d made on one of these counters.


    But Aff, now on his right foot, had seen something I hadn''t. He hit a soft cross into the penalty box, where Raffi took it on his chest, took one stride forward, and stuck the ball low into the corner before a defender could recover.


    Four-two! I joined the celebrations on that one - not going quite as ballistic as my team - but came to a decision. "Gerald," I said.


    "Is it time?"


    "Yeah. How did you like being a midfield general?"


    "I didn''t mind it." He was all smiles. Four passes in the match, four headers, four out of ten, four goals for the team.


    I sent him, first, with Youngster coming on to great applause. Then Henri replaced me, and there was a standing ovation. That''s why Henri wanted to be the one I swapped for. Nothing to do with being shown on TV a few more seconds. It was so he could pretend the applause was for him!


    Livia handed me my hoodie and some marathon paste, and I sat in the dugout for a couple of minutes while my heart rate recovered. "My massage didn''t do much," complained Dean. "Ten minutes of rubs to get a minute more from you. Bad ratio."


    "I''ll be able to play on Tuesday, though, won''t I?"


    "Not if you get wasted tonight. Which you''ve earned."


    I lapsed into silence, watching as Salford went defensive for a few minutes while they digested my changes. Our average CA was 47.8, now, but we had two Bench Boosted guys on the pitch. Could we keep hold of our two-goal lead?


    I glanced at the rest of the bench and had an absolutely mad idea. What if I brought Ben Cavanagh on? His CA was three points higher than Robbo''s, and he''d be Boosted. If I could get a super keeper for one match only, this was it! But the risk was enormous - if it went wrong, his confidence would be back in the mud, maybe permanently. I had to take a long-term view of his career. Maybe I would have done it if the TV cameras hadn''t been there.


    Henri was looking sharp. Youngster was gliding around nice and smooth. The drained feeling was replaced with cautious excitement. We could do this...


    I got up and took stock of the stadium. Now that I was off the pitch, I could really appreciate the noise. It was amazing. It washed around in fits and starts, circular, sometimes vertical, drowning out the away fans then being drowned out by them. The competition between the sets of spectators was keeping ours on their toes. Keeping them hungry. I looked around to see if Crackers was enjoying this, and saw, in the stands, all kinds of things.


    There, to the left, Jackie Reaper, next to Jill, their profiles above their heads. Left further still, a pocket of scouts. Just behind me, more scouts. And over to the right - I couldn''t believe my eyes -


    "Come on!" screamed Vimsy.


    I snapped my head round and saw the ref had given a free kick over on the Salford left. That winger they had was a fucking menace! This situation didn''t feel good. They''d pushed a lot of bodies forward...


    ***


    "Fantastic finish from Johnstone! He had defenders all around him but he rose highest and headed home! Salford are back in this one! Four-three. Wow!"


    ***


    I shook my head. Johnstone was a Goliath, and I wanted one. I texted MD, saying as much.


    Then I looked over to my right, half expecting the guy would have gone. But no. He was there, staring at me, absolutely blank in that way Scandinavian detectives are on those TV shows.


    Folke Wester. And next to him, his profile not showing but easily recognisable, was Jonathan Hurts, the league''s most expensive player.


    The Darlington manager (and his star left back) had, what, left his match early to come and watch this one? No, they''d played last night. I should have expected him here.


    What did him being here change? I''d showed more of my hand than I''d planned. Showed more of my tricks than was ideal. The penalty would get him hot under the collar. He''d have to plan for me starting, not just coming on at the end. But I still hadn''t headed the ball since I''d started playing again. He''d have noted that, that was for sure.


    What else did I want him to think? That I was reckless. That given half a chance, I''d throw caution to the wind.


    Suddenly, the path ahead hit me full in the face, fully formed. A formation I hadn''t used in ages.


    "Subs," I said, urgently.


    "Who?" said Vimsy.


    "Ryan and Raffi off, Tony and Joe on."


    "Tony and Joe?"


    "Yes, mate." While a bemused Vimsy got those changes ready, I went over to Sam. "I messed up, mate. Couldn''t make it work. I''ll make it up to you."


    He tracked the changes. "What... 4-4-2 diamond? Are you sure?"


    "Not really," I said, unable to stop smiling. Showing pleasure was definitely the wrong vibe. All of Sam''s family would be at home, watching, expecting him to come on their telly like a real player.


    "You''ve got one sub left," he said.


    "You want to play CAM for the last five minutes?"


    "Yes I want to play CAM for the last five minutes. Unless that costs us the match."


    "Let''s see how this goes. It might blow up. It''ll probably blow up. It''s madness."


    ***


    "And once again the pattern of the game returns to attack versus defence, with Salford very much in the ascendency. They''re doing all the pushing."


    "Chester look good on the break, though. They''re going more direct and Bochum is trying to get to the loose balls. It could pay off."


    "Ball hit long. Johnstone wins it. Knock down. Hit wide to the right back. He can hit a good cross. Not this time, though. It goes all the way to the left. Bad tackle there! Yellow for Carlile."


    "Lot of tired legs in that defence, Clive."


    "Yes, you think that might cost them late on. Or now. Here comes the cross - oh, disaster! It''s in! It bobbled around, it pinballed. Who stuck it in? Salford don''t care - they''ve grabbed the ball. Want to get on with it. They don''t want a replay."


    ***


    Four-all, and the gulf in quality was finally starting to tell. Salford were still fit and fresh but our starters were really flagging. The diamond experiment hadn''t worked - Youngster hadn''t been able to beat the press like I had. He could defend, indeed, he had more interceptions and tackles than I had, but that burst of creativity to get the ball into that cover shadow was lacking.


    "Sam, it''s nearly time," I said. I would go 4-4-2 and hope Sam''s energy would make a difference.


    I bit my nails as Salford came at us yet again. Carl was walking a tightrope against the left winger - one more mistimed tackle and he was done. But the guy was a fighter. He never, ever quit, and now he won a duel. He played a tired pass to Youngster - so tired he mishit it completely.


    Incredibly, this shit pass, this abomination of technique, utterly bamboozled the guy who was pressing Youngster, and he went the wrong way. Youngster, his tactical brain working a mile a minute, simply tucked the ball inside to his left foot, pushed forward, sorted his feet out, and scampered away.


    The next phase was utterly bizarre. It looked like someone had glued chess pieces onto a clear piece of plastic, and when you moved one, you moved them all.


    As Youngster ran forward two yards, so Henri and Tony ran two yards, and the defenders ran two yards. Youngster ran two more yards, and everyone else ran two more yards. And this continued for no less than forty yards, almost box to box, and suddenly someone had to do something. A defender left the line, moving to the ball. Youngster toe-poked it forward to Henri. He touched it first time to Tony, who touched it back. Henri had the chance to win the match! I was gripping Sam and he was gripping me. What would happen? The tension was unreal. I bobbed my head forward as though I''d slotted the ball under the goalie. But Henri still hadn''t shot yet. Why not, you DICK?


    Suddenly, the fans behind that goal fell silent, hands on their heads, despairing, and a hush went round the rest of the stadium. Only when Henri''s arms rose, as Tony and Youngster and Pascal converged on him, did we realise what had happened. He''d sat the keeper down and dinked it over him, calm as you like, in front of the away fans.


    The manner of the goal didn''t interest me as I ran around in a circle like the stupidest hamster.


    "Sam! Get on there," I demanded. "Think of the lowest block you''ve ever seen, then get fucking lower!"


    When the dust settled, I heard the new song the fans had spent months perfecting. To the tune of Bob Marley:


    "We''re gonna be iron! Like a lion! Henry Lion!"


    Henri locked onto it, cocked his head, and an ear-to-ear grin took over his face. He waved at them to sing louder, and they tried, but they were already at max.


    I braced myself for the final, desperate bombardment from Salford. Five more minutes of non-stop pressure.


    But it didn''t come.


    They were finished, and as the crowd whistled and booed, demanding the referee blow for full time, as Robbo watched a feeble long shot fly over the bar, he suddenly raised his hands, a gesture copied by a handful of other players. All my starters fell from exhaustion. Some of the Salford players collapsed, too, and a couple were in tears. A mini pitch invasion happened over to my right, the joyous fans contained by the stewards and police, and our hospitality person broke my no-music rule, blasting Bob Marley''s Iron, Lion, Zion so that we could better serenade the match winner.


    Chester 5, Moneybags Salford 4.


    Getting knocked out of the FA Cup by a non-league team. That¡¯s gotta hurt.

 6.3 - Scurrilous

    3.


    Football glossary: Judas. A player who betrays his team. See: Sol Campbell leaving Tottenham to join Arsenal. See also: Luis Figo, Ashley Cole, Mo Johnston.


    ***


    I had to do my post-match interview before my shower, before I''d calmed down, so my emotions were all over the place (elation, aggression, salesmanship, blind loyalty) and my responses were a weird mix of charming and snarky, patient and intense.


    The shower was more like an ice bath and I was in urgent need of warming up. Two options - Emma or alcohol. Por que no los dos?


    "Captain," I said. "Where are we going?"


    "Somewhere close," said Glenn. "What''s our booze budget?"


    "Five hundred English pounds," I said, bold and brash, and instantly regretted it. That was a week''s wages. Three hundred would have been fine!


    "Reckon that''ll go a long way," he said, pulling his jacket on. "Since drinks are free."


    "What?"


    He looked around - I was the last to get showered and dressed. Even Henri had cut his ablutions short. Glenn nodded. "All good, lads? Best behaviour now!"


    Seemed like the plan was to leave our gear in the changing rooms and come back to get it. That was optimistic. In a few hours most of these players would have drunk themselves into next week - in some cases, literally.


    "This way, Max," said someone. My thoughts were a bit hazy and insubstantial and the lads seemed to have learned not to let me make decisions after matches. From being the focal point, the leader, the decision-maker, I had switched roles into being the meekest little sheep. One sheep, many shepherds. One more moment to tug on the heartstrings. One more surge of sentimentality for the group. One more reason to run through a brick wall for them.


    I followed the conga line through the bowels of the stadium towards the car park - had they booked some minivans? - up and down some stairs, and there we were outside the Blues Bar. I hadn''t been back since my attack. As soon as I stopped at the boundary, I found the Brig to my right and Henri to my left, hands under my arms, guiding me through the doors.


    A huge cheer erupted from the fans. There must have been a hundred and fifty in there. (I later learned loads had been turned away to make space for the players and WAGs.) D-Day and Trick raced to the bar, keen to get started on their binge. Steve and Robbo did, too, but on the other side. They colonised a section and started pouring pints - they looked pretty good at it.


    Emma appeared out of nowhere and wrapped her arms around me. She tried to pull away but I held her there. "What?" she whispered.


    "I''m bloody freezing," I said, and she stayed snuggled into me so long I closed my eyes and nearly drifted away.


    "My dad wants to congratulate you." She looked around - he''d been swallowed by the seething mass of bodies.


    "Oh," I said. "Better do it soon. We''re about to embark on an epic session. It''s going to be despicable."


    "Didn''t Glenn tell you?"


    "No," I said, and it struck me for the first time how odd it was to choose the Blues Bar. The fans wouldn''t mind us getting wasted - unless we lost on Tuesday. Then this very public session would come back to bite us on the arse.


    "Glenn," called Emma, and my captain came over. He handed me a pint. I took a sip, and the pleasure was unreal.


    "Okay, confession time," said Glenn. "We love the idea of a mid-season blowout, Max, we really do. But we had a chat and decided we''d rather win the league."


    "What? We can do both."


    "No. No, we can''t. We''re doing a two drink maximum and we''ll be ready to play on Tuesday. You, though. You can get blottoed."


    "Wait, no. I thought it through."


    "Max, you''re not in charge of events. That''s my job. There''s always a week in December when the Saturday match gets postponed. We''ll do it then."


    I had questions. Lots of questions. But Gerald May grabbed his fellow centre back and whispered something urgent. They went away, leaving me with my thoughts, and with my girlfriend. "What a group," I said.


    "Yeah yeah yeah," she said. "They''ve realised they''re riding a wonder horse and don''t want to mess it up. Now come find my dad. I want to show off."


    ***


    I worked the room a little bit - was forced to work the room, more accurately - making my way to Sebastian and Rachel Weaver. The latter was still visibly flushed with excitement from the match and was on her second G and T. The former was extremely gracious and said something along the lines of how he''d misjudged non-league football. I nodded and went ''uh-huh'' but it was clear something was going on. Some news spreading round the room - not so much the fans, but the senior players.


    "Something''s up," I said. "Have they done the draw for the next round already?"


    "No, it''s tomorrow," said Emma, which warmed me even better than the beer. I gave her a kiss - our first in front of her parents, I guessed, but then the music in the room cut off and someone tapped a microphone.


    Over on the raised platform in the corner, where bands sometimes played little gigs, Glenn Ryder was looking sombre. "Max? Where''s Max? Can you and Emma come over here, please? MD, you''d better come, too."


    Me, Emma, and MD? WTF?


    Glenn made me stand to his left - I leaned against the wall, frowning. Emma was next to him, and MD was behind her. Still on the platform, still visible, but not part of the immediate scene. Not one of the presenters. And that, I realised, is what it looked like. A TV show. The rest of the first team crowded round the front of the platform in a semi-circle, with the sponsors next, and then the mass of fans. The only ones who hadn''t come over were those still queuing for drinks. When the drinks arrived, so did the fans. It was clear that something portentous was about to go down.


    "Hi, everyone. I''m Glenn." Big cheer. "Max has asked me to come up here and apologise for shipping four goals." Big laugh, and I relaxed. Whatever this was, it was fun. "Personally, I blame the defensive midfielder. He went missing." Laughs mostly from the players - the fans had seen me lining up as striker and that was where they assumed I''d played. "Okay, don''t want to interrupt the celebrations for too long, but I thought it might be interesting to hear what Max said in his post-match interview."


    I stopped smiling and stopped leaning. Oh, shit. MD''s eyes locked onto mine with impressive speed. I tried to smile but it ended up being one of those things where you bite your bottom lip and your upper lip curls away.


    "Emma, can you act the role of the hot blonde reporter?" He handed her a second microphone.


    "I can try," she said, with a delicate giggle.


    "I''ll be Max. Hang on. Let me get my Manchester face on." He did something like Jamie Tartt from Ted Lasso - pretty, smug, vacant. The first traitor detected! "Here we go."


    Emma spoke in her best BBC reporter voice for a while, but eventually reverted to her natural Geordie. She read the question from the transcript on Glenn''s phone. "Max Best, you''ve led your team to a famous victory. How do you feel?"


    Glenn didn''t even try to do a Manc accent. He read what I - allegedly - had said. "Yeah, fine." Massive cheer from the fans for this.


    "Great win but there was an incident in the first half where you could have been sent off."


    "What? Ah, no, they changed the rules from when you played, Carly. That thing where the guy grabs me and tries to rip my shirt all the way off? We do that in private now and sell the feed on a special website. Seven ninety-nine and you can use the offer code ooh that''s spicy for ten percent off your first month."


    Had I really said that on TV in front of an audience of millions? Emma giggled for quite a while. "Max, were you flirting with that blonde reporter live on the telly?" I shook my head and there were laughs. She rolled her eyes theatrically and continued. "So you don''t think it was a red card?"


    "Yes, clear red. Pascal was through on goal and the keeper wiped him out."


    "I meant the one where you elbowed the guy who was grabbing you."


    "I think the referee gave a yellow card."


    "But do you think it should have been red?"


    "Do I think the yellow should have been red? Wait, this came up in my Science GCSEs. It''s something to do with prisms, right? Refraction or something. It''s hard to think about light waves and all that when you''re being manhandled by a lot of beefy boys. As you know better than me, Carly."


    "Max," said Emma, disapprovingly. Back in character, she said, "What did you think of the referee?"


    Glenn smiled, shaking his head as he read my reply. His smile wouldn''t quite die down, making it hard for him to read it in the right tone. He took a breath and attacked it. "I thought the referee was great. He handled the game well and showed that he has a crystal clear understanding of modern football. I''d say he has nothing to improve, and do you know something? I feel pretty sure he would agree with me."


    The laughter was quite pleasing, I have to say. Even MD, who was trying to look stern, couldn''t help but shake his head and let one out every few seconds. I wondered why he was there and got a slightly uneasy feeling about it. What had I said?


    "Can you tell us about your penalty?"


    "Yep. So as you can imagine, with the occasion and the pressure and the importance of the prize money for a small club like us, I was a bag of nerves."


    Glenn held the phone up to Emma, who hadn''t expected it so soon. "Oh! Er... You didn''t look nervous. Wait, probably... You didn''t look nervous."


    "Inside I was a big old bag of worms. Very anxious. And do you know what I did? I said a little prayer. I asked Jesus if he wouldn''t mind awfully making the goalkeeper just, like, fall over or something. And do you know what?" Glenn couldn''t continue - the laughter was almost as loud as the goal celebrations had been. Finally, finally, he felt he''d be heard if he spoke. "And do you know what? He just fell over. Just like that." Henri was wiping away tears. Trick and D-Day, with half a pint left in their plastic glasses, were red. Youngster was no less amused, but he wagged a finger at me anyway, for blasphemy or whatever.


    "There was a bit of afters?" Emma frowned. Off mic, but still very audible, she said, "What does that mean?"


    "It means your boyfriend dumped the goalie on his arse then let him know about it," explained Glenn. "Shit, I lost the place. Here we go, bit of afters. Er... Max speaking again. That goalie is a big talent with great character and temperament and I''m sure he''ll have a long career in whichever industry he tries his hand at next."


    "Max!" complained Emma, but Glenn was showing her the next question. "Raffi Brown was very impressive today." Big cheer from the Blues Bar, and the man himself was sent up to the platform. He was holding little baby Serina in his arms. She was fast asleep even though we were being super loud.


    "Scouts are always coming here asking me about Raffi Brown. Raffi, Raffi, what about Raffi? And I always tell them, Raffi''s terrible." Raffi looked at me with surprise and perhaps a flash of anger. The crowd''s buzz died down. "He isn''t two-footed, he can''t go box-to-box, he isn''t a Rolls Royce player who should be playing at a higher level and he wouldn''t grace the midfield of teams such as Everton, Bournemouth, or Leicester City. So stop scouting him."


    Raffi smiled, accepted the round of applause my one-star review generated, and retook his place in the mass.


    "Tell us more about Pascal Bochum," read Emma, and there were more cheers and the little guy got up onto the platform. He looked very, very ready to be assessed the way Raffi had.


    Ryder put his hand on the forward''s shoulder. "Pascal Bochum is too small to play at this level or any level. Pascal Bochum does not know how to move into space, how to combine with other players, how to use his gifts for the benefit of the team, and is not a player who has earned the respect of every player and coach at this club. He''s not for sale, don''t ask, next."


    "Bad boy! Bad boy!" came the cry from about twenty people, almost immediately rising to include everyone in the room, save perhaps the Weavers and sponsors. "Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when he''s running through?" The chant was followed by the usual round of applause the fans gave themselves when they were pleased with their own work.


    Emma cleared her throat and gave Pascal an arm rub as he departed, smiling but weepy. "You''re through to the next round. Who do you want?"


    "Pierluigi Collina or Uriah Rennie," said Glenn, and about half the audience laughed. I''d named the two most respected, most famous former referees.


    "I meant which team."


    "I absolutely do not give a wotsit," Glenn said I said. "But do not choose us to be on TV again." MD was suddenly seven feet tall, all the hairs on his head seeming to stand on end. Glenn continued. "And if you do, you''ll need to treat my employees with more respect."


    "Me?"


    "All of you. Your engineers and sound men and all that. We have a guy, Mr. Marsh, who commentates on every match and I''ve heard that you kicked him out of his room and were sniffy and demanding and you''ve basically been bossing my staff around for days. There''s no amount of money you can pay me that will give you the right to annoy, disrupt and demean my employees. If you want a second date, Carly, someone with a corner office will get in touch with the employees whose weeks have been ruined and they''ll explain what went wrong."


    Emma said, "Max Best, thank you very much," but no-one could hear it over the cheers and applause. A very drunk man was yelling ''Don''t mess with Chesters!''


    I went over to take Glenn''s microphone - he was nearest. I divided my attention between MD and the semi-circle in front of me. "Maybe I should say something, here. I know the TV money is good and all, but we''re not moving Seals Live again. Not while I''m in charge." I waited for a response from MD. He was looking at me like I was The Joker in the Batman movie, setting fire to an enormous pile of cash. "The thing is," I started, solemnly. "The thing is..." I turned the volume up from 3 to 8. "Nobody puts Boggy in the corner!" From 8 to 10, pointing at the crowd, I added, "Boggy Boggy Boggy!"


    The crowd knew what to say, and they knew to point back. "Oi oi oi!"


    "Boggy Boggy Boggy!"


    "Oi oi oi!"


    "Boggy!"


    "Oi!"


    "Boggy!"


    "Oi!"


    "Boggy Boggy Boggy!"


    "Oi oi oi!"


    And so our media guy became the first in the world to get his own chant. The music came back on, and the party kicked into high gear.


    MD came up to me a moment later and suggested that I had cost the club fifty grand. The same fifty grand that could have bought us a new striker. He was seriously unhappy.


    I didn''t flinch. "In this world, it''s just us." The unhappiness continued, so I repeated Chester''s motto to him. "Our City, Our Community, Our Club." I kept staring at him until he took in a little breath. I saw the exact moment he deleted fifty grand from the imaginary ledger in his head; he nodded. Still not happy, but I chose to believe that on some level, he knew I was right. I tapped him on the upper arm. "What we''re selling can''t be bought." In my mind''s eye I opened the glossy catalogue of the anti-septic, anti-fan, anti-football fare being served up by almost every club higher than us in the English pyramid. "They''ll be back. On our terms."


    ***


    The team, incredibly, stuck to the two-drink limit. Something like half didn''t imbibe a single drop of alcohol. Trick and D-Day had their two pints and went home. I was a billion percent sure they were leaving to continue boozing away from prying eyes, but no. They went to sleep. They really wanted to start on Tuesday night!


    On Sunday morning I woke up, brushed my teeth, went back to bed, and snuggled close to Emma, suggestively. She didn''t have a midweek match, though, and she hadn''t felt much need for restraint, so she''d been knocking back all kinds of cocktails and shots at the club''s expense.


    While I waited for her to stir, I went through my curse screens and nearly leapt out of bed.


    Something had changed. Finally!


    Your Reputation in England: Very Poor


    Your World Reputation: Unknown


    Ha! Whoo! I existed! At last.


    Something told me it had to do with Manager Points. I''d long since suspected that Manager Points weren''t something I could spend like Experience Points. My MP went up when I drew or won, sometimes by baffling amounts, but all in all it seemed to be a numerical value for how good a job I was doing. Winning against Salford had earned me around 1400 MP, taking my total to 2050, way ahead of Folke Wester and everyone else in the National League North. Pep Guardiola got more than my season''s total by winning one Champions League match, so I was extremely aware of how unimportant my results were in the grand scheme of things.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    But it was progress!


    We were getting somewhere!


    Also, the monthly perk dropped. It was like it had been waiting for me to get the big cup match out of the way before landing.


    November Special Offer


    New perk available for the month of November: Parasight


    Cost: 3,000 XP


    Effects: Whenever player or staff profiles are displayed, Parasight will also reveal any agents in the area, their employer (if applicable), and the total transfer value of the AUM (assets under management) of the agent or their agency.


    I mean, wow. It would take some grinding to get the XP, and it would delay the Contracts perk and Wibwob and all the rest, but this seemed absolutely essential. Imagine seeing all the rival managers, scouts, AND agents who were at a match. That could be really fucking useful.


    And the assets under management thing was intriguing - if I met an agent with only one player, I would learn what the curse thought that player''s transfer value was. That could be a very useful data point in the lower leagues where a lot of agents only had a few clients. I assumed as we rose through the ranks I''d end up mostly dealing with giant companies so it''d be impossible to learn anything about individual players from the aggregated data. But take, for example, Harry Kane. His agent was his brother, and I reckoned Harry was his only client. If I got in a stadium with him, I''d know Kane''s transfer value, as assessed by the curse.


    Would that be useful? No clue. But I wanted it. God dammit, imps! If their goal was to get me back watching Premier League matches on my nights off, they''d absolutely nailed this one.


    ***


    On Monday morning after training, I had two visitors.


    The first was Michael Harrison. He was the only member of the squad who didn''t get named on the subs bench against Salford. He was a bit down about it, which was crazy, really. He was nowhere near ready for action, but he had been training with the guys for a while and he felt he was starting to find his feet.


    He asked if I was punishing him for not wanting to go to West Didsbury. I didn''t like that and got a bit hot. All I wanted was for him to improve faster and I was willing to try anything, and let him know in no uncertain terms that I didn¡¯t appreciate him doubting my motivations.


    He cooled down first and said if it helped him, he''d go. I told him that I would never send someone with a bratty attitude to West because it was fucking top there and I didn''t want ungrateful guys stinking the place up with their inflated sense of entitlement.


    The Brig smoothed things over and after restating our positions to us - which was really calming because it made us realise we wanted the same thing - we agreed Michael would probably go to West in January for a month, with the option to extend it for the rest of the season if the experience was good for him.


    Then Sam came in. During the Salford match he''d been all team-first, don''t worry about me, boss. But in the cold light of day, he wanted to talk about his status. Why had I picked Raffi over him? Why hadn¡¯t he been the first sub to come on? And so on. I took him through my tactical thoughts for the entire match, told him what I thought of him, that I needed him, but that sometimes the tactic picked the team. He knew that, he said, but he''d never been at a club that rotated the team before. He understood it, he respected it, but... he wanted to be first pick.


    He was at CA 57 out of 60, making him one of the top three players in my squad. I felt like I knew him well enough to say the right thing. But me being me, I decided to do the opposite.


    "Okay, Sam. I''ll pick you first, no matter the situation, no matter the scenario. And I''ll never sub you off, either, no matter how badly you''re playing or what the team needs. You know what? I¡¯ve got a little tent I don¡¯t use. Let¡¯s put that in the centre circle and you can fucking live there. I¡¯ll get you a little mailbox."


    Sam sat there, rubbing his forehead, amused but frustrated. I waited for him to say something, but the Brig intervened. He moved over from the back of the office, where he normally hung out while I did my admin. "Sam. Watch this." He turned to me. "We''ve had a transfer bid for Sam, sir. Fifty thousand pounds."


    My reaction was instant. "Fifty? This January? Forget it."


    "They''ve raised the bid, sir. A hundred thousand pounds."


    "Shit," I said, not really enjoying this role play. It was an agonising decision. I could replace Sam easily enough, but only with a guy who was CA 30 and would take a year or two to get to Sam''s level. "I mean, I can''t turn that down, that covers the budget shortfall and keeps the club solvent, but holy shit. We''re not winning the league any more." I played out the ramifications in my head. "I''d have to switch formations. Andrew¡¯s a year away from being ready. I don¡¯t want to play CM. Nah, mate. Don''t like this. Don''t like this at all. No deal."


    The Brig gave Sam a brisk nod, and the midfielder shuffled to the door, looking a bit perplexed, but with his morale a level higher than when he¡¯d arrived.


    ***


    In the afternoon, Secretary Joe called to tell me the FA were looking into the incident where I''d tried to free myself from the unwanted, sweaty attentions of that Salford player. Joe, the traitor, called it ''the one where you elbowed that guy and nearly broke his wrist''.


    "What does looking into it mean?"


    "You might get a ban. Three match ban, most likely."


    "I thought you couldn''t relitigate a ref''s decision?"


    "He''s saying the yellow card was for kicking the ball away."


    "Will it stop me playing against Darlington?"


    "No."


    The following three matches were ones we should win without me needing to step onto the pitch. So, whatever. It¡¯d help me save up XP for Parasight. "Call the FA, tell them I said they''re a bunch of twats, then hang up."


    He sighed and told me he''d keep me informed.


    ***


    On Monday night, the draw for the second round was made. We were away to Walsall.


    They were mid-table in League Two, a few places above Salford City, but I was sure Walsall had a weaker team. Still, they would be way better than us, and without my perks giving us a boost and without our rabid fans intimidating the referee, it''d be tough. Really tough.


    Walsall had decent attendances - five and a half thousand on average, but looking at their history in the FA Cup second round, we could expect something like four thousand. We would split the gate receipts (getting 45% of the income each) but it wasn''t going to be a cash bonanza. And, with all due respect to Walsall, it didn''t seem like we''d be in the top ten picks to be shown on TV.


    (Incidentally, for the first time I wished I had the Finances perk. I wasn¡¯t sure exactly how much we¡¯d made from the Salford tie. MD was back to being distant with me.)


    Getting Walsall was frustrating because there were plenty of teams in the draw we could have beaten quite handily or had a good go at, and if we got to the third round, away at Tottenham perhaps, we could have made millions.


    Ah, well. That''s football. At least it would mean another postponement of a league match. One more game being played at the end of the season when we''d be much stronger. We would be much stronger, right? The Brig¡¯s role play had helped Sam but had put me on edge. Could we keep all our players in January? I needed to have backup plans in place in case we suddenly lost key players. People I could bring in, even ten minutes before the deadline.


    I took my Director of Football glasses off and looked at the League Two table again. There in the middle were Walsall. Three places below but rising quickly were Salford. And just a couple of places above the relegation zone... Tranmere.


    I sighed. How long would Mateo stick with James?


    And, being honest, how long should he stick with James?


    ***


    Tuesday, 7 November


    Match 15 of 46: Chester versus Tamworth


    Tamworth came to our gaff. Average CA 38, playing in red. They were known as The Lambs.


    Yeah, lambs to the slaughter.


    (That¡¯s terrible. Cut that.)


    On the footage I saw, Tamworth played 4-3-3 at home - quite attractive football with tricky forwards - and 4-4-2 away. It was a very sensible blend of trying to put on a show for your home fans while picking up some points on your travels. Good manager, good team, seemed like a club with its head screwed on.


    But we''d been blasting teams left and right and had just hit five past a League Two side, so out came the low block. And for once, I was relieved.


    We were hungover. Mostly from the incredible noise and intensity we''d experienced a few days before, but also from having a pint or two. It was shocking how much you could see the alcohol messing with people''s legs, their coordination, their decision-making, three days later.


    Naming the lineup was hard - I really wanted to leave Glenn, Ryan, and Aff out of the eleven - they needed a break (and I wanted them fresh for Saturday''s Darlington game), while D-Day, Joe, and Trick needed to start. It was hard to balance all the factors, and in the end I took a risk on 3-5-2 with Ben Cavanagh back in goal for the first time since his meltdown against Kidderminster, Trick Williams playing the Aff role, D-Day as a second striker, and Joe right mid. The biggest gamble was throwing Andrew Harrison into midfield. He was CA 12, but he could run around, tackle, and pass the ball to someone good. Against a low block, he''d be fine. I had to start Ryan Jack, but I tweaked his instructions so he wouldn''t have to run around or press.


    I made Sam Topps captain for the day even though I suspected his influence wasn¡¯t that high, and he nearly burst with pride. His morale shot to Superb.


    So with an average CA of 41.5, we set about our business, with the stadium eerily quiet. The fans had a hangover, too.


    We moved the ball around quite well but the last pass always went astray. D-Day over complicated things - he really wanted to be the match winner. The only saving grace was that Tamworth''s manager didn''t realise how weak our team was and didn''t come at us.


    After fifteen minutes, Ryan Jack went down with an injury. The curse told me it was his knee, which gave me all kinds of stress. So I had to throw Raffi on - no break for him.


    Fortunately, Raffi scored from a corner to put us one-nil up, and the guys passed the ball around for the rest of the game, taking some potshots every now and then but basically saving their collective energy. I thought about going on for the last ten minutes, but I really, really wanted to save myself for Darlington. I swapped Henri for Tony, and really couldn''t have done any more in terms of freshening up the lineup while still making sure we were favourites to win.


    Tamworth came at us in the last five minutes, but I went ''men behind ball'' - ugh - and Ben didn''t have a shot to save in the whole match. He caught some crosses and made some good clearances. I hoped the evening would get his season back on track.


    Okay, three points, not a memorable game, but I''d learned a lesson: no more mid-season parties.


    The win left us in a pretty decent position, all things considered. The top four teams were winning most of their matches, but the early season pace couldn''t last. One thing was sure - we''d leap ahead of Darlington if we beat them.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="175"><col width="40"><col width="39"><col width="42"><col width="36"><col width="39"><col width="42"><col width="46"><col width="51"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Team</td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Kidderminster</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>0</td>


    <td>32</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>38</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Darlington</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>35</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>34</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>York</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>30</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ***


    There wasn''t much time to enjoy the win, though. While I was in the shower, the countdown on the bomb hit zero and it exploded. My phone started popping off and didn''t stop for days.


    The scurrilous article Emma had been dreading finally arrived on some shitty website not worth suing. The biggest surprise was the ecosystem of content that had been pre-developed around the article. TikToks, YouTubes, all kinds of social media stuff, hashtags, memes. This wasn''t just an article - it was a massive, co-ordinated campaign that came at me in waves.


    Impressive, really.


    But it all started with wave one - the article. And looking at the identity of the co-writer, I knew I had found my first proper traitor of the season. Bingo was the local sports reporter and he had come across as a cool guy. I''d given him an exclusive interview with Miss Fox and her class.


    The main author, of course, was the Australian prick who had scammed Emma into dishing the dirt on me. I refuse to dignify him by using his real name.


    ***


    Bigger Than Judas


    by Cameron Sandpaper and Bingo Williams


    reprinted without permission


    Scarborough, Monday 2nd January, 2023. Max Best poses in front of the Darlington supporters, hands clasped together in fake prayer. Someone takes a photo, adds the words BIGGER THAN JESUS, and a meme is born.


    Many Darlo fans remember Max Best''s time at the club fondly. One recent poll named him second in a list of the team''s best ever players. But our investigations have led us to a different conclusion. The gospel truth is that Max Best derailed Darlo''s push for promotion, did for David Cutter, and left behind a deluge of devastation.


    "It started before we ever even saw him," said one of our many sources, most of whom wish to be anonymous for fear of reprisals from Best, whose temper is notorious. "He had some kind of relationship with the receptionist at the training ground. She was only about sixteen but she''d do anything for him. She was at his beck and call, like she was afraid of saying no."


    Another insider said, "He turned up on Remembrance Day so that he could act all sombre in front of Cutter. He''s sharp like that. Got a sharp eye for a shortcut. He (Best) acted all sad during the two minute silence and Cutter lapped it up. We saw right through it but what can you say?"


    What can you say, indeed? Once he''d softened the manager up with crocodile tears, it was time to insinuate himself into the team.


    "He gets himself invited to join our training session, which was really annoying because we had important games coming up. Of course, he''s a decent player but he can''t resist having a dig. He says ''ah this is too easy let''s make it more fun'' to show us up, like. Very disruptive and annoying, but he realises he''s gone too far and tries to laugh it off. Doesn''t really work on us, but Cutter is only seeing the goals and free kicks so now we''ve got this brat training with us, and playing, too. We couldn''t believe it."


    Also unbelievable was Best''s attitude behind the scenes. One senior player, vastly experienced, told us just how bad it got. "He refused to sign up to the code of conduct. Like he was above all that. Teams need rules that everyone agrees to. Best said no and was frankly obscene in the dressing room when we brought it up. Then he comes in late, trains on his own, does whatever he wants. It wasn''t long before the young players were running riot."


    His on-pitch output made up for it, though, surely? Another source remembered the early matches. "There were certain people he didn''t want to play with so he set about making them look like fools. He''d pretend their passes were no good, even though us on the pitch all saw they were just fine, and he''d thrash passes just far enough ahead of a striker so he couldn''t quite get there. It was crazy. Look at those highlights again and you''ll see there are two or three players Best never, ever passes to, and one striker who scored a ton of goals that season never got an assist from Best. And Cutter fell for the trick and the striker got dropped."


    The more people we talked to, the more we realised how deep Best''s poison had sunk. "One day I went to training and a few lads snubbed me. I didn''t get it at first but I realised Best was forming his own little clique and splitting mates apart. He wanted us all fighting each other. Before he came, we were one big happy family."


    It wasn''t only naive young receptionists Best had inappropriate relationships with. "He spent a few nights at the digs, and within minutes he was tapping up the youth team¡¯s star player." Tapping up is the unethical - and illegal - practice of talking to under-contract players without permission of their clubs.


    "What would bother me if I was a Darlington fan," said Brad Rymarquis, a prominent agent with good connections to the club, "is how blatant it is. No sooner is he in charge of a club than he''s poaching Darlo''s best young players. For free. And those lads who went to Tranmere for cheap? Best was behind that. I''m not sure how it benefits him, but he was behind it, mark my words. Tranmere never had a scout up here. Never."


    Surely the tapping up was a sign Best had his eye on the exit door as soon as he arrived? "He had his eye on a manager gig somewhere. He was always meeting people from Chester or Telford. We thought he was playing them off against each other and it was so obvious to us we couldn''t believe how easily they were falling for it. He never gave two hoots about Darlo or the fans here. It was just a stepping stone, and while he was here, why not pick up a few impressionable youngsters? Because that''s the sick thing about him - he doesn''t mind if he''s stealing players for his next team or for his agency. He''ll make money coming and going."


    Agency? A player on the fringes of the first team said, "When he came he said he was representing Henri Lyons, the guy who''d slagged the town off. Best was trying to get him to Chester so he could skim his ten percent, but what we later learned was that David Cutter wanted to reintegrate Lyons, and Best lied to Lyons about it so he could get paid. Lied to his client! He doesn''t care about anyone but himself. When I see them laughing and joking these days it makes me sick. Lyons was a difficult guy to understand but I really think his heart''s in the right place and the way he doesn''t realise Best is taking the pee out of him - it makes me sick, it does."


    So Lyons could have stayed in Darlington? We came up with an impeccable source. Someone incredibly close to Best. Close but, like Best, ever ready to betray. Over coffee, she dropped bombshell after bombshell. She offered to buy me something stronger; she was thirsty. Her story was enough for me. It made Best look even more twisted than we originally thought.


    "Max had a plan to play until the end of January and leave after the evening match. He would cancel his contract right there in the changing room and ten minutes later, Chester would register him. Yep, right there in the changing room after a match, he would leave the club without telling anyone. He had it all worked out. Henri was part of the plan but not party to the plan. Max knew Darlington wouldn''t let Henri go to the same National League North club as him because they''d be too dangerous together. So he got Henri out and then he would follow later. But something went awry with the schedule that ruined the concept so he left near the start of the month."


    He left, in fact, after his Bigger Than Jesus moment, but we''ll get back to that. What about Henri Lyons?


    "Max arranged everything, then told Henri. Henri thought it was crazy and told him not to do it. He said it was disrespectful and all that kind of thing. He was really insistent on doing right by Darlington, but Max didn''t care. He wanted to leave."


    Get paid and leave. For not only would Best be extracting money from his new client, he was also on a hefty goal bonus. Another insider with knowledge of the club''s finances said, "Best was on silly money for goals, so he was shooting from everywhere. He''d have ten shots a game because that was cash money to him. Didn''t seem to bother him if other players were in a better position. He was costing the club so much money they were having to make cutbacks, but it didn''t stop him. Cutter tolerated it because he thought Best would sign a contract and the club would get some money when they sold him, but Best strung him along and we never got a penny. I know for a fact in the back office they call him The Leech, which is ironic because the building staff call him The Lech. Short for lecherous."


    But surely a young man doesn''t sign for his first professional club and immediately plot his exit? One player''s girlfriend was more than happy to offer confirmation. "He was planning it from the start. We bumped into him the day after a match and he was really unkind and unfriendly. His girlfriend said he spent the whole morning reading about himself online, which is typical of the man, really, and when I tried to be nice and set up a dinner, just being friendly, like, Best says great let''s do it in February. His girlfriend tried to hide a laugh - she''s as two-faced as him; they''re made for each other - and I didn''t think much of it until later. He knew he''d be gone in February, even then. It was shocking when I realised he was planning to betray us the whole time he was there. It shook me up. How can you be so cruel?"


    There was already a startlingly clear pattern of behaviour, if only one person had seen the whole picture. But Best was sly enough to limit how much damage he caused in front of any one person or group. One of the young players tried to raise the alarm and was ignored. "He came into our school lessons whenever he wanted. I was, like, trying to get an education and that. Because football''s a short career and it''s, you know, precarious. So when Best came in we''d all groan because it was like, mate, I''ve got exams next week."


    But why was he there? "He fancied our teacher. I mean, to be fair, she was well fit, but he could have done that at breaks and stuff. But maybe he did it in class time so''s his psycho girlfriend wouldn''t find out. She was his stalker or something, I heard. But I got a bad grade and I think that''s as much Best''s fault as mine, in the end."


    Yet another source confirms much of the above, but adds to it. Incredibly, Best became even bolder over time. "Oh, I could tell you stories about that man that''d curl your toes. Did you know he took Henri Lyons to Chester and they played a whole match in secret? A trial with Darlington''s record signing as the star of the show. What if he''d got injured there? There''s a reason people don''t do things like that. The fallout could have been enormous, not that Best would give a toss. Then he himself went on a secret trial at Sheffield Wednesday, and the only reason he isn''t playing there now is that he didn''t like the way someone was talking to him and he shot his mouth off, the way he always does. Except at Wednesday he didn''t have a couple of goals to his name, right? So they binned him off right away, as Darlo should have done the first time he skipped training."


    Skipped training? "Yeah. Used the old sick mum excuse. She was sick anytime he needed a morning off. Oh, and he did a runner during a match, sulking after he got subbed off, and he said he''d gone to see his mum. It''s horrible, really, because she really is sick but he never goes to see her."


    But it was near the end where Best''s ego was spinning wildest out of control. "He wanted to take a penalty in his last game, so he demands the ball. Cutter''s said that Blondie is on pens, but Best is going mental. He says he wants the ball or Blondie will wake up in a ditch somewhere. It was sick. Then he scores and goes off to do his Bigger Than Jesus stuff. Which is really not on, especially not at Darlo with its Quaker roots. There''s disrespect, there''s extreme disrespect, then below that there''s Max Best. They say those who the gods love die young, and that''s how I knew he''d survive his attack. He''ll live a long time, that prick."


    Which brings us to perhaps the single most shocking part of the story. The events of half time against Kettering. With his team losing two-nil, with two players and the manager sent off, Max Best committed the ultimate crime in sports.


    He refused to play.


    "We had to beg him not to do anything stupid," says one player who was there. "He was already getting undressed. Ready to flounce just when we needed him. He''d taken so much from the club, disrupted everything, made everything into chaos, the way he does. And now we needed a bit of something, and he said, nah, I''m not doing this. I''m too good for this. We had to plead with him. His mate Junior asked Best if he''d play if we let him do the tactics. You know, like you''d do with a kid. Go to the dentist and I''ll buy you a new toy. At the time we were all pumped full of adrenaline and everything that happens in a match seems normal, but later when I thought about it, I thought it was sad. Pathetic, you know? But it also made me angry. He wants to be a manager? Fine. But he''s not the manager. He needs to shut the eff up and play like the rest of us."


    Another witness was less equivocal. "It was mutiny. Plain and simple. He cost us the league that night. It was never the same in the dressing room. That was the night Max Best got David Cutter sacked, and I''ll never forgive him for that."


    This weekend, one year to the day that Best darkened Darlo''s doorstep, he''ll be back with his bimbo and his French ¡®friend¡¯. He will get a good reception from the home fans, those that only know him as a flying winger thrilling them with his on-pitch antics.


    But there will be no such love from his former teammates, coaches, or backroom staff. They know all too well what Max Best did. For them, Best resembles a biblical character whose name starts with J. And they don''t mean Jesus.


    ***


    That night and all through the next day, as the article and the reaction videos and the reaction-to-the-reaction videos went viral in two English towns and almost nowhere else, I got urgent texts. Dozens of urgent texts. From Emma, from Henri, MD, Longstaff, Miss Fox, and many, many more. All were close variations on the same theme:


    We need to talk.

 6.4 - Goals and Ghosts

    4.


    Football glossary: to ghost in. To appear out of nowhere, like a ghost, with a perfectly-timed run into the penalty area. He ghosted in at the far post.


    ***


    Saturday, November 11


    Match 1 of 1: Darlington versus Chester


    One hour before kick off.


    The dressing room was ghostly quiet. Almost silent. No claps, slaps, shouts. No come ons, no big game today boys, no make sure you fucking want its.


    Instead of talking, I scribbled names on the tactics board. Robbo in goal. Re-energised by being dropped and put back in the starting eleven, he''d been training like a demon. His CA had crept up to 40, which given he was 34 years old really seemed like turning back the clock. He watched as my marker formed the shapes of his name. No reaction. He was as affected by the mood as everyone else.


    The back four was Magnus, Glenn, Gerald, and Carl. The half-American right back was on CA 52, now. He was very close to catching Glenn and becoming our best defender.


    Youngster would roam the lines between defence and attack. Today he looked very young. Very callow. As one of the most sensitive members of the squad, he was one of the most affected by the Judas article and what had come after. This match would be a big test for him.


    In midfield, from left to right, Aff, Raffi, D-Day, and Joe Anka.


    Up front, Henri.


    I wrote out the subs. Ben, who had put his recent tribulations mostly behind him, had improved to CA 43. Steve Alton, who had moved past Gerald May in CA; Sam Topps; me; and Tony.


    As soon as I wrote the last name, Trick Williams stood and threw down his shinpads. "What about me?" he hissed, because even if he was angry, it would have been unthinkable to shout into that void of sound.


    I clicked the lid back on the marker, then shook my head.


    He put his fingers to his nose, fussed in his bag to get his wallet, and went out, slamming the door behind him.


    Another sign of our very obvious dysfunction. Our very public disunity.


    The article, it seemed, had done its job.


    ***


    Boggy: And we''re off! Darlington get things going, kicking from left to right in their black and white kits. If you''re just joining us, Chester coach Spectrum is back for this big game. Top of the table clash.


    Spectrum: Hi.


    Boggy: The atmosphere is febrile.


    Spectrum: What does that mean?


    Boggy: Noisy.


    Spectrum: Oh, yes. The home fans are well up for this one. The team, too. Very fast start from them. Playing high balls forward. Direct.


    Boggy: As we talked about before kick off, that''s probably because they let the grass grow long. Trying to make it hard for Chester to play their usual passing game. And they''ve overwatered the pitch for the same reason. It''s all very underhand these days, isn''t it?


    Spectrum: I''m trying not to think about it. It''s all making me very, very angry.


    Boggy: Long balls being hit towards the Chester penalty area, but so far the back four are coping. Youngster trying to mop things up but he''s struggling with this pitch. It''s been less than sixty seconds here and he''s already played two wayward passes.


    Spectrum: Not sure he''ll have played on a pitch like this. He''ll adapt.


    Boggy: Cross swung in from Hurts, the seventy thousand pound left back. Headed away by May, not very far, ball played back to Hurts, another cross, another half clearance, my goodness is it going to be like this the whole match? Now Chester get some control. Raffi Brown holds off a challenge, finds D-Day. He tries an ambitious pass out to Anka, but it''s easily cleared by Hurts. What do you make of this team selection? Ryan Jack is injured, but no Sam Topps?


    Spectrum: I can''t really work it out. Of course, it could be... you know. Fallout. From all the stuff that''s been happening.


    Boggy: [pained groan.]


    ***


    Five minutes in and Darlington were well on top. They were bullying us in midfield, especially. Tough tackles, yes, but also quick to the ball. Aggressive, powerful, and the crowd loved it.


    I spared a few seconds to tune into the vibe. It was hard to tell how much they had been turned against me and how much they were using any excuse to force a win. They knew they had the best team in the league, on paper, and had invested heavily in a bid to get out of the division. And they knew we were the biggest threat.


    If they could beat us today, we would have lost to each of the top three teams, and teams that win the league don¡¯t do that.


    Yeah, fair to say the home fans would have been up for it anyway, but the article had pushed some of them over the edge into nastiness.


    The left midfielder they had bought, Dicks, had one of those long throws. He hurled it in now, all the way to the penalty spot. There was a bit of chaos, and Captain Caveman leapt and headed into the net.


    The noise was intense. On another day I¡¯d have found it intimidating, but today it passed right through me, touching nothing. They were ghouls; I was a ghost.


    As the initial celebrations died down, a chant rose up.


    ¡°Sacked in the morning! You¡¯re getting sacked in the morning!¡±


    I tried to pick out MD in the Directors¡¯ seats. How close was he to firing me? I didn¡¯t see him, but I did see one of my players wandering around the stand like a lost soul. I knew who he was looking for. I knew it all too well.


    ***


    Boggy: Twenty minutes gone here in Darlington and the Blackwell Meadows stadium is bouncing. It''s one-nil to Darlington, and it has been pretty one-way traffic so far this half. Darlington started ferociously, an absolute maelstrom of long balls and crosses, and when Chester have broken forward, player-manager Folke Wester has snuffed out the danger. So far, Henri Lyons has been a virtual passenger. This is where I get nervous about him lashing out.


    Spectrum: Doesn''t seem much danger of that today. Like a lot of the players, he''s subdued. They aren''t even talking to each other. Have you seen it? Glenn Ryder is organising his defence, but that''s it.


    Boggy: Isn''t it very Sunday League to want your players to gee each other up and shout?


    Spectrum: Not really, but even if it is, we normally do it and today we''re not. I don''t like seeing us... not be us.


    Boggy: D-Day has been ineffective, but I must say he has worked hard.


    Spectrum: Very hard. He''s playing like someone who was told he''d get the first half and to leave everything out there.


    Boggy: Mmm. So maybe Sam Topps will come on second half. Maybe he has a slight knock.


    Spectrum: Oh. Look. He''s coming on... now. What?


    Boggy: You''re not impressed with Best''s decisions today.


    Spectrum: If there''s ever a match where you could understand that his mind wasn''t sharp and clear, it''d be this one. Right? All the drama. It''s shocking how much it has affected the rest of the team, though. I think we might have to write today off and, sort of, rebuild.


    Boggy: That''s the end of Donny Dorigo''s shift. Little twenty minute cameo from him, there. Lots of industry, no end product. No handshake from Best as he leaves the pitch. No words spoken from the bench. It''s like the Marie Celeste. A ghost ship. Oh, I don''t like this. We''ve gone from riding the wave of the cup run to this, all because of one horrible, scurrilous little piece of vicious... trash.


    Spectrum: Come on, Boggy. It''ll be all right.


    Boggy: Reports of an incident with Trick Williams in the dressing room. Players not talking to each other. Team spirit gone. Strange decisions. Being battered by Darlington. The manager standing there, arms folded, not moving. His every move since joining put under the microscope, examined and reexamined. Are we witnessing the end of the Max Best era?


    ***


    Triple Captain looked like it was working. Glenn Ryder had shrugged off the early setback of the goal and was leading by example. When he played like this, he was enormous. He wasn''t quite at the Christian Fierce level of physicality and mental strength, but he was close enough for my purposes. To Glenn¡¯s left, Magnus was winning his duels. To his right, May was struggling manfully against Blondie. Blondie had a big CA advantage, but May was just about keeping him under wraps. Just about. And on the right, Carl was up against one of Darlington''s two big money signings. Dicks, the left midfielder, was on 6 out of 10, which showed that Carl was winning those battles.


    Hurts versus Anka was not an equal battle, though. Hurts was a seriously good player and was on 9 out of 10, which was massive for a left back who hadn¡¯t scored or assisted. I''d known he would be a pain point and there was nothing I could do about it.


    Bench Boost was working, too. When Sam had jogged onto the pitch, it was like he was gliding. Changing direction as easily as Pac Man dodges ghosts. And in the first couple of minutes of being on, Pac Sam ran around gobbling up balls and burping them to Raffi.


    It would be an exaggeration to say putting on a Bench Boosted midfielder turned the tide in our favour, but the difference was stark. The contest evened out. We were snapping into tackles the way Darlington had been doing. We won midfield duels in a way we hadn''t before. Suddenly, the Aff-Raffi-Sam line became the dominant factor in the match. They didn''t have things all their own way, but the more they outperformed their rivals, the more Henri got into the match, which pulled Darlington backwards, and the more they were pulled back, the more Youngster had the breathing space to think his way into the contest.


    Around the twenty-five minute mark, I noticed that the crowd were far, far less noisy. I hadn''t known what to expect in terms of reception, and the whole day was made even weirder because, just as things were getting spicy, we had a one-minute silence to honour those who fought and died in our many wars. Sneaking the stuff about me abusing Remembrance Day into the article made sense - when the referee blew to end the silence, there was what felt like genuine, deafening anger, aimed at me, for disrespecting the memories of the fallen. Then a spine-tingling roar, urging the home team to start fast.


    Now, though, their team''s early energy and verve was fading. They had come out throwing haymakers and one had landed, but one wasn''t enough. The team knew that, Folke Wester knew that, and the fans knew that.


    We got our first jab through the defences.


    Nice interception from Youngster. He plays a simple pass to Evergreen.


    It''s played forward to Aff. He turns and finds Brown is in support.


    Brown moves across the pitch and fizzes a pass to Anka.


    Played first-time back inside to Topps.


    Topps touches it to Brown, who looks up.


    Glorious curling pass out to Aff. He''s motoring forward.


    He tries to pick out Lyons.


    Great pass!


    First time shot!


    Good block from Caveman.


    He really had to stretch there.


    I nodded. Yes. Good. Let it happen.


    Words and phrases from the article swirled around me like smoke. Judas, leech, mutiny. I looked up, exasperated with myself, fixed my jaw, and concentrated.


    The racket from the home fans bumped up a level as they attacked, but suddenly my whole body started tingling, and as the ball was played to Blondie¡¯s feet the hairs on my neck went haywire.


    Strong tackle from Ryder. He meant that one!


    The ball pops out to Youngster.


    Great first time pass to Anka!


    He''s got some space for the first time in the match.


    He looks for a cross, but decides to keep going.


    All the way to the byline.


    He cuts the ball back...


    Lyons cocks his leg, ready for the volley...


    But the ball''s blocked!


    It seemed to come off the defender''s hand.


    The Chester players are demanding a penalty.


    And the referee has given it!


    The assistant referee had a perfect view of the incident.


    It looks like Lyons will take the spot kick against his former team.


    Ah. Right. About that.


    ***


    Boggy: Huge excitement here at Blackwell Meadows where Chester have a penalty. Chester have a penalty to draw level! Spectrum, be honest with me now, something weird is going on, we can all see that, but this doesn''t look like a team that have given up.


    Spectrum: No, they don''t. They weathered the storm, and now they''re giving some back.


    Boggy: Bit of a delay here while the usual gamesmanship goes on. Referees are far too lenient with these players who try to put the penalty taker off. It''s cheating, plain and simple.


    Spectrum: Oh my God.


    Boggy: What? What?


    Spectrum: Max is going to take the penalty.


    Boggy: But he''s not even - oh! Chester are making a substitution.


    Spectrum: Max, no. What are you doing?


    Boggy: Youngster is leaving the pitch. Just as he was coming into his own! That''s a shame. But Max wants to take the penalty, it seems. There''s absolute bedlam here. No-one can believe what they''re seeing. Folke Wester looks like he¡¯s seen a ghost. Best has used two substitutions in the first half. The second, to bring himself on to take a penalty. Will he sub off after he takes it?


    Spectrum: I don''t know what''s real any more.


    Boggy: I''ll tell you what, no-one is trying to put him off. It''s a straight contest between Best and Larkin. Oh, my nerves. The... everyone in the stadium is grabbing the person next to them. This is unreal. Unreal.


    ***


    Folke Wester had been planning for this day since the start of the season. Like me, he''d realised this would be a massive, massive moment. Possibly the pivotal day for both teams. Winning would be a statement, would boost one set of players and fans. Losing would be a disaster, would demoralise and demotivate the other.


    His manager stats were the same as when I¡¯d last seen them: Discipline 18, Motivating 20, Man Management 8. A banshee. Ruling by fear. Not a good coach, not much of a tactical brain. His playing stats had decreased slightly - his pace had dropped one point to 6. His positioning was still 20, he had heading 16, tackling 14, and his stamina of 11 wouldn¡¯t be tested if he stuck to the confines of his defensive midfield role.


    He was, in truth, a formidable presence in that part of the pitch, but we didn¡¯t normally attack through the middle.


    Wester had grown his grass long and come to watch me play. He''d studied his tapes, noting that I tended to play the last half an hour. He had a plan A that would be something like what Kidderminster did to us. He had a plan B in case I played from the start, as I''d done against Salford.


    He''d dropped his dirty bomb, spreading toxicity, hate and bile.


    And, I had absolutely no doubt, he''d been studying my new penalty technique in great detail. He would have a plan to counter it.


    But he just didn''t get it. He couldn''t conceive of the ways I''d been preparing for this match. He didn''t have the imagination to think beyond me starting and finishing the game. What if I played the middle?


    There was no question he had instructed someone to go in hard - real hard - as soon as I stepped on the pitch. But again, lack of imagination. Who could have dreamed I''d be so arrogant and selfish as to bring myself on to take a first half penalty? They could still try to kick me out of the game, but only after I''d scored.


    The referee pointed to the goal line, ordering the keeper to step back.


    In goal was Paul Larkin. Smokes, the first choice goalie, was out with a minor finger injury. It didn''t matter too much in terms of this match, but if I humiliated Larkin it would make Wester blame him for their defeat and would cause the kind of division Wester had been hoping to create in Chester.


    While the ref tried to make himself the centre of attention by walking along the edge of the penalty area pointing at players, I had a look at some faces in the stand to my left. There were plenty of people who believed what they''d been told this week. They were all kinds of mad at me. There were a fair few, I thought, who were unsure.


    Paul Larkin took a step behind the goal and picked up his water bottle. Someone had taped notes on it. How to save an Henri Lyons penalty. How to save a Max Best penalty. I wondered if they had bothered doing one for Tony Hetherington? Probably.


    The whole thing was almost certainly theatre. There was no way to stop what I did. Put simply, I made the keeper dive, then kicked the other way. If I kept my cool, it was virtually foolproof. I would only miss if I was, for example, blazing with fury about an article that Wester had funded.


    The free hit button was flashing. How tempting was that? This goal could change the entire course of our season. Could change the entire course of my career. Could be the goal that propelled me to the Premier League. I pushed the button away.


    The referee was ready now. Paul Larkin was ready. He looked confident. He had a plan.


    I twitched and the stadium hushed. A few stray shouts could be heard. They were not very nice.


    I took a step to the right. Then another step.


    Paul Larkin did not look very confident.


    No more shouts came.


    ***


    Boggy: Here we go. Oh, what? Best is moving away. No, he''s - he''s what? He''s going to take the kick with his left. What''s he playing at?


    Spectrum: Oh, Christ.


    Boggy: This is it. Best, left-footed, steps, goalie moves, no, the ball - it''s in!


    Spectrum: [guttural scream]


    Boggy: Best scores! He''s scored! With his first touch of the match. He - what did he do? His new technique. He''s... he''s... what''s he done?


    Spectrum: Come on! (Off-mic) No, I won''t be quiet. Get bent.


    Boggy: Spectrum, did you get a good look?


    Spectrum: Yes! The keeper had instructions, right? He''d been told which way to dive. But that was right-footed. So when Max changed his feet, Larkin was in two minds. Does he do what he was told? Or the opposite? So, Max, he''s about to kick, and the goalie, he''s about to dive one way, thinks better of it, and when Max makes contact the goalie just falls to one knee. Max has done him all ends up. Oh my God, the adrenaline. What a rush. The balls to do that. Fuck me.


    Boggy: Language, Spectrum. I have to say, there was absolutely no response from any of the Chester players. No celebrations. When the ball went in, the away fans went crazy, but the players, they turned their backs and walked back to their half. And nothing from Best, either. So it''s one-all, but... I don''t know. I don''t know what''s happening.


    Spectrum: The next five minutes will tell us.


    ***


    I scored, and told myself not to look at the Darlington players. But I couldn''t help but walk past Folke Wester, even if it wasn''t exactly on my way. He was tall, slim, powerful, good-looking. But under the light brown hair, above the dashing, sensual lips, were the eyes of a true psychopath. This guy was vindictive, unremorseful, and exploitative. He was smart, too. Smart enough to plagiarise my tactical ideas.


    But he''d made a lot of mistakes recently, and was about to make another one.


    I walked past, saying nothing. Three-quarters of the stadium had fallen silent, but now a spark of life came back as they tried to encourage their team to get back in the game.


    I took up the DM position and looked around. Darlo''s average CA had crept up since I''d seen them in training, and they were now on CA 53. With Smokes in goal they might have been 54. The best team in the division, on paper. Far ahead of our average CA of 48, plus they had home advantage, plus whatever deleterious effects their media assault had engendered.


    They should have been hyped. Super motivated. Confident to the point of arrogance.


    So why did they look terrified?


    ***


    Boggy: It''s, er... It''s Chester in the ascendency here at Blackwell Meadows. Sam Topps is absolutely bossing this game. Is that right?


    Spectrum: Yes. This is the best I''ve ever seen him. He''s unbelievable. But I know people laugh at me for being a kiss arse, but it''s not Sam, it¡¯s Max.


    Boggy: What''s he doing? What does an expert see when he watches this?


    Spectrum: He''s giving a masterclass in the position. Youngster was doing okay, making interceptions, taking the pressure off. But here, there''s no pressure. There''s zilch. Darlington can''t get through.


    Boggy: But what''s he doing?


    Spectrum: It''s his positioning. He''s in the right place for every second ball. Quick one-touch passes up to midfield and the break is on. The front five are playing with all that freedom now because the back five are so solid.


    Boggy: There''s a lot of long balls still from Darlington.


    Spectrum: That''s my only doubt about Max in that role. He''s not going for headers. He hasn''t headed a football since his, you know, and Darlington are trying to target him with high balls.


    Boggy: It''s not working though.


    Spectrum: [laughing] No. Gerald or Glenn are swapping places with him when the high balls come. Watch and you''ll see Best drops to centre back, May goes to DM, wins the header, or not, and they switch back again. It''s so smooth it took me all this time to notice.


    Boggy: That doesn''t seem like a team that''s, well, as dysfunctional as it looks.


    Spectrum: [musing] No. But when did they practise this?


    Boggy: In training.


    Spectrum: After the article came out, Max trained with the women.


    Boggy: Oh. Oh dear.


    ***


    Boggy: Coming to the end of a very strange half. 44 minutes on the clock, and I''m sure there''ll be a minute or two added on for the substitutions and penalties, and a couple of stoppages where Chester players were hurt by hard tackles. Still this aerial bombardment, still Best has nothing to do with it. Darlington''s number 10 wins that header, there''s danger here, Ryder is isolated, and Best comes out of nowhere! He raced in front of the striker, Blondie, and let it go out for a goal kick. Blondie gave him a push, trying to wind him up, but there was zero reaction from Best or from anyone.


    Spectrum: That''s incredible recovery speed. He could play as a centre back, you know.


    Boggy: Not if he won''t head the ball.


    Spectrum: That''s true. Maybe he could be a sweeper.


    Boggy: Can you have sweepers in the modern game?


    Spectrum: I wouldn''t have thought so, but Max talks about it sometimes. It wouldn''t surprise me if he tried it once.


    Boggy: Robbo takes the kick short - we''ve adapted well to this long grass. Such a base tactic, that. Really poor. We''re moving it around the backline. It''s played to Best - ooh, he dodged a savage tackle there.


    Spectrum: They can''t get near him.


    Boggy: They keep trying, though. It only takes one. Ball''s out on the left with Aff. Chester pushing up the pitch. Comes to Best. He brings them back again. This is the thing they do where they make space?


    Spectrum: That''s right.


    Boggy: It''s awfully stressful, you know.


    Spectrum: I''ll tell him you want him to stop.


    Boggy: Ball''s clipped forward to Raffi Brown. He''s quietly been having a good game. Not put a foot wrong, has he?


    Spectrum: They''ve been trying to provoke him with snide kicks and elbows and all that. They''ve picked the wrong guy.


    Boggy: Who''s the right guy to try to wind up?


    Spectrum: I would have said Max but... not today.


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    Boggy: He''s back on the ball again. Darlington are chasing shadows. Wester is screaming at everyone to get back into shape. Best with a simple pass - no! He''s on the move. Here we go. Goosebumps! Best''s dribbling. He''s surging to the centre circle. Going right for Folke Wester! This is the duel we were all waiting for, player-manager against player-manager. Has it ever happened before? Not that I can remember. Best, what will he do?


    Spectrum: Nutmeg.


    Boggy: He''s slowed down, looks like he''s ready to get cheeky, oh! Big pass out wide. Darlington were just coming for him, but the pass... and Aff''s surging ahead. He''s isolated. No support. He doesn''t need it. Cross comes in...


    ***


    Folke Wester was there, in my path. I shifted my weight to the right and surged ahead, towards Jonathan Hurts in the left back slot. Could I bring Folke all the way out of the centre? This was his one chance to get up close and personal himself.


    Wester followed, tracked me, and I felt a full-body thrill. The Bench Boost had smashed me past my limits, past my Current Ability, and I was playing with something like the pace, skill, and power I''d had before my murder.


    I could do whatever I wanted. Nutmeg the bastard, double dribble, do it again. I could score from long range. I could pop the ball on my forehead and run twenty metres.


    Snippets from the article slid across my vision like subtitles in a movie. Emma, my mum, Miss Fox.


    The ice cold rage returned, and I slowed down. I clipped the ball to Aff, and stopped. Folke turned, surprised, and tracked back towards the space between his centre backs. Hurts tucked in to protect the far post.


    With their aggro off me, I sprinted.


    Aff had no choice but to attack the line and whip in a cross. Fortunately, he''d been brought up on his home pitches doing nothing but that. Long before he learned to slap, he had mastered the art of crossing at the end of a long sprint.


    He was aiming, I think, for Henri, but Henri had gone to the near post.


    He had gone to the near post because I was arrowing into his usual hunting ground.


    The cross, holy shit, the cross was beautiful. You can''t understand how gorgeous it was. The height, the curve, the speed, it was sublime. I like a nice team move. I love me a dinked finish, a chip, a volley, a no-look backheel nutmeg, but there''s something about a perfect cross that sends me into raptures.


    I leapt, crashed into Jonathan Hurts, met the cross full between the eyes, and powered the ball down at the goal line, where Paul Larkin could do nothing more than fall backwards, slowly, a sandwich board toppling at the first breath of the coming hurricane.


    The surge of joy was almost overwhelming. The need to run to the fans, to cheer, to pump my fists, to shout, was almost irresistible. Two seconds of a snarling, contorted mouth, of fingers curled into cat claws, of crunched abs, and I remembered my purpose. I got a grip, wiped my face clean of emotion, and walked back to my slot. Ready to go again.


    ***


    Boggy: Stunning! Stunning from Aff. Sensational from Chester. What a goal! What a headed goal! Best ghosted in at the far post, leapt high, and left Hurts in a heap, left the goalie on his backside, again. Darlington are shattered; Chester are leading two-one. Chester are beating Darlington in their home patch. Chester are making a huge title charge here. But... a header! And no celebrations again. It''s surreal. Spectrum, explain it to me.


    Spectrum: I can''t. What I heard was that the men trained as normal. Normal stuff, Wednesday to Friday. Best was separate, but whatever this is, this vow of silence thing, that must have happened today.


    Boggy: Oh, God. Something else happened today? Something we haven''t heard about yet?


    ***


    Ninety minutes before kick off.


    The team bus was making good time along the A1M. I went to the driver and asked him to pull in at Barton services. He suggested he didn''t really want to, and I suggested he did, he just didn''t know it yet. He gave me a funny look, but turned in and parked.


    The place was an absolute mess of concrete and seemed to be a dumping ground for anything and everything, as long as it was ugly as sin. The driver opened the doors, I got off, and I heard the Brig command the players to follow.


    A minute later, the guys were assembled around me in a semi-circle.


    I''d barely spoken a word to them since the article had come out.


    My jaw, as it had been for days, was tight. I tried to loosen it. "Guys," I said, but it came out gruff and angry. I counted to five and tried again. "Guys. You know what the deal is today. The stakes. And you know I never ask you for anything. Only to train like lions, play like kings, and do your community work like legends. It''s really not much. Well, today I''m asking you to do something for me.


    "You know what this is all about. People slagging me off, trying to get personal, trying to get me angry so I make mistakes. Trying to turn us against each other, blah blah blah.


    "Now, listen. I talk shit about you all the time, and you shrug it off. I say you''ve hit a shit pass or aren''t training hard enough or you''re late or your haircut''s bad for the brand. Doesn''t bother you, why would it? But if I ever said anything about your girlfriend. Your wife. Your mum." They bristled, just imagining it. "Right? They crossed the line. They knew they were crossing the line. That was the whole point of it.


    "Since Tuesday night I''ve had people begging me to respond, pleading with me to do an interview, get my side out there. And I said, no, I''ll do my talking on the pitch. I''m going to put on a show, lads. A real treat. You''ve seen some of it before, but they haven''t. I promise you this, there will be a lot of regrets in that town by half past five.


    "Now, what I''m asking - not really asking, actually, demanding - is that you don''t say a fucking word in there. We don''t talk. Nothing more than the essentials. As soon as we get back on that bus it''s mouths shut until we''re back here going the other way, home sweet home. We''re going to play football, smash them out of the title race, and leave. Leave the talking to me, you hear me? And by the way, I won''t be talking. I''m not talking to the media. Not in there. The club will pay the fine, and if they don''t want to, I''ll pay it.


    "Don''t celebrate goals. I''m fucking serious. I told you not to knee slide and you keep fucking doing it. I told you not to jump on each other''s backs and you keep fucking doing it. But I swear to God, if you celebrate in there today I will savage you. If you''re chatting and laughing at corner kicks, you''ll be training with the kids on Monday. If you start fucking swapping shirts with those pricks, holy Christ, I will end your careers."


    The lockjaw was back. I counted to ten.


    "People are going to talk about this for years. The day they wiped the smirk off Max Best''s face." I nodded a few times. Let''s see how they liked me without the grin. Dark mode. "At the end of the season we''ll parade all our trophies round, shove them in their faces. We''ll smile, then. I promise you that."


    Donny Dorigo had a death wish, because even as I blazed with fury, he smirked and spoke. "So you''re staying, then?"


    There was a horrified silence, but as I glared at him, I realised what he''d done. He''d taken the edge off, just enough. My face softened - not quite into a smile - and I blinked. "Mate," I said, affectionately, and the group exhaled. But then I frowned. "I need you in midfield today. You know the plan. I need to trust you today, Donny."


    He took a few steps forward and reached out his hand. "You can count on me." I clasped it. He nodded. "They shouldn''t have brought your girls into it. That was low." He nodded some more. "No talking. No celebrations. What is it, though?"


    "What do you mean?"


    "Like, we''re some kind of... ghost army? Silent assassins?"


    I put my arm around his shoulder while I pondered his words. "I don''t know what it is. But it''s what I want."


    ***


    Boggy: Oh, nearly! Great play from Brown, but Anka couldn''t quite control it. Here come Darlington. Hurts. Long ball - and Best with a towering header! I can''t believe what I''m seeing, but it very much seems to be the case that the Chester manager has been pretending he can''t head the ball... for months! It boggles the mind. There''s the half time whistle. Two-one to Chester in a bizarre, incredible match. Don''t go anywhere!


    Spectrum: Neither are Chester.


    Boggy: What? Oh. The Chester players are... what are they doing? Sort of milling around, ten yards from the side of the pitch.


    Spectrum: They''re waiting for the Darlington lot to clear out. Don''t want any aggro. It''s very telling they''re expecting some dirty tricks in the tunnel. Very telling, indeed. Sums this place up. [not into the mic] Yeah, you heard me! You know full well what I mean. Shut up. Shut uuuup!


    Boggy: Spectrum''s made a friend with a local so-called reporter. On the pitch, still no-one''s saying anything to anyone. Very, very strange indeed. Okay, well, we''ll be back in fifteen.


    ***


    When the tunnel was as clear as it was going to get, I nodded and the Brig led us through. Vimsy was stationed in the middle of the pack, with the subs at the end. Whatever Darlington had planned, our precautions put paid to.


    We got to our places and sat in near silence while we drank and ate marathon paste. There were a few whispers with players asking each other to pass a bottle or to mention a problem they were having on the pitch. Dean and Livia were checking on Joe and Henri.


    Next door, we heard the demented ranting and raving of Folke Wester. He was giving it the full hairdryer treatment, and poor Paul Larkin seemed to be bearing the brunt. It didn''t affect me. I was a ghost. Still on earth for one purpose only. To haunt those who had hurt me and mine, to turn their dreams into nightmares.


    The absolute pleasure of being on the pitch and being something like my former self washed over me, and I found myself smiling. The speed, the purity of thought, the ability to think something and expect it to come off. Memories of a hospital bed, of weeping because I couldn''t feel my toes, and now this. Not quite God mode, but good enough for the National League North. Ghost mode.


    I closed my eyes and imagined what I''d do in the second half. Go crazy on the nutmegs? What about an overhead kick? Nah, too flashy. I didn''t want to entertain these fans. I wanted to smite them.


    "Excuse me," came an unfamiliar voice. Someone from Darlington. A match steward. I tensed. Was this part of the attack? "Mr. Best? Your girlfriend is here. She''s asking if she can come and see you." The guy grinned. "I said it wasn''t the best time an'' all, but she doesn''t seem to know much about football."


    I frowned. "Let her in," I said, and thought back to this morning''s text exchange.


    Emma: I want to come today.


    Me: No.


    The door pushed open a little and an Emma-sized woman came in.


    I got to my feet. "Miss Fox," I said. All movement in the dressing room ceased. At the time, I thought everyone was wondering if I had a secret second girlfriend, but later I realised they knew she was from the article, even though it had named almost nobody, including Emma. I introduced her anyway. "Everyone, this is Miss Fox. She teaches English here."


    "And business studies," she said, which in retrospect was absolutely wild. I suppose she was nervous. She looked around, uncertainly, at all the people staring at her. I thought her gaze lingered on the Brig a fraction longer than on anyone else.


    "This is Chester football club. The man about to kick you out is the Brig."


    Again, she looked at my assistant manager, and again, the sizzling chemistry. But Miss Fox wasn''t there to flirt. "Mr. Best," she said. "Max," she said, inhaling. "I''m sorry to barge in on you like this but you wouldn''t take my calls. I want to tell you to your face that I had nothing to do with that horrible man or his horrible article."


    "I know," I said, softly.


    "Oh."


    I gave her a tiny smile, even though it broke the whole ghost avenger army of assassins vibe. "I''ll return your call some time I''m less busy, if that''s okay."


    "Yes, of course. I mean... But the boy. None of the boys said what it said. You know they loved your interruptions. They all thought the world of you."


    "What about Bingo?"


    She looked down. "He got laid off. Cutbacks. He''s scrambling around for whatever work he can get." She rubbed her arm. "It''s no excuse, but..."


    ¡°Are you in trouble?¡± It hadn¡¯t occurred to me that other people might be affected by the article, which is one of my many failings as a person, but someone had idly wondered if the teacher would get in trouble for letting me barge in all the time.


    ¡°Nothing I can¡¯t handle,¡± she said, chin up, and a ripple of admiration spread through my squad.


    "Miss Fox," I said.


    "Faulkes," she said, speaking directly to the Brig.


    "You can''t just barge into my classroom whenever you want. You''re distracting my boys."


    "Oh," she said, recognising the way I''d turned the tables. She smiled. "He''s going to kick me out, is he?"


    "John Smith," I said, "slap her on the arse, say ''there''s a good girl'', and don''t let her back in."


    The Brig didn''t move, so Miss Fox raised an eyebrow and said, "Well, John Smith?"


    The Brig gestured towards the door and he closed it behind her. When he came back, we saw something unbelievable. He was blushing.


    "Go on," I said, gesturing that he should follow her.


    "What about not saying anything inside the stadium, sir?"


    "Go and chat her up, you dick," I said.


    He looked down and gruffly cleared his throat. "I''m, er, in a relationship, sir."


    "What? Oh. Fine." The scene was over, so I instantly fell back into the ghost assassin mindset.


    "I thought you knew," he said from behind me, but I was back at the tactics board, sliding magnets around.


    With Aff at left back and Magnus in midfield, we could bring Tony on and play 4-3-3, with me dropping back to DM, making it a 4-1-3-2. I really liked the look of that. Showing good formations in front of Folke Wester was maybe not the best idea, though. What else? 3-5-2 with me as second striker moving back to CAM to face up to Wester. Or swap Joe for Tony and I could go right midfield. I couldn''t do all my mystery winger stuff, but I''d be able to do some of it, thanks to the Bench Boost. And just the fear of having me there would probably make their talented left-sided players go defensive.


    Henri appeared at my side - stealthy as fuck! - and I glanced at him. He looked like he was in agony. I checked his profile in a brief panic but it was all good. "What?"


    "It''s not fair," he whispered. "You make us stay quiet. Then in comes a goddess and you kick her out in an instant, and the Brig blushes and the revelation that he is dating. Maaaax, please. We need to vent. Give us two minutes."


    "You can have two hours."


    He groaned. "On the bus home, yes?"


    "Yes."


    "Fine. You are banned from my house. For two days."


    "Fair. Now get your game face on."


    "Oui, Max. Oh, and Max?"


    "Hmm?"


    "Good header."


    ***


    On Wednesday morning, I didn''t go to training. At nine o''clock, I was knocking on Livia''s front door. She was at work, of course.


    The door opened, and a bleary-eyed Liverpudlian peered round it. "Fucking hell, Max."


    "Are you awake?"


    "No," he lied. "What do you want?"


    "I want private coaching."


    He scratched his chin. "Is this about Darlington?"


    "Yes."


    More scratching. He didn''t think to invite me in. "What do you want?"


    "Headers."


    "Headers?" he said, confused. "I would, but..."


    "But you don''t want to overwork yourself. You''re easing back in."


    "Yeah."


    "That''s fine. I''ll train with the girls. Or rather, they''ll train with me. Twenty minutes getting on the end of crosses and doing clearances, twenty minutes beating the press, twenty minutes something I''ll think about when you say yes."


    "And on Friday? You shouldn''t overdo it the day before."


    "Today and tomorrow if you can manage that, and then you can have Friday off. Someone else will do the women."


    "If I say yes, can I go back to bed?"


    "Yes."


    "Then yes."


    ***


    Wednesday was good, but the Thursday session was better. I brought Aff, Joe, Ben and a bunch of kids, and the first team guys fired crosses for me to head at goal. It was, in fact, my dream session, because I was sort of tricking Jackie into coaching three of the men''s team. Just being in a session led by Jackie made at least one attribute go green on each of them.


    I wondered what it was doing for me. In his first Beth Head masterclass, Jackie had barely glanced at Youngster to make him go from CA 1 to CA 2. Youngster was a high potential kid, but I was almost certainly PA 200. Two sessions with Jackie had probably added five points to my CA, given the low starting point.


    What was I now? 35? 40?


    If I was CA 40 and had the Bench Boost, could I perform like a CA 50 player? We''d find out soon enough.


    ***


    We left the dressing room a minute early, to avoid aggro, and I made the lads line up in our half in a 3-5-2 formation. A coach spotted it, and when a steaming Wester sprinted out of the tunnel, the coach buttonholed him.


    He and his staff then had a blazing row, which resulted in Wester smashing his fist into his palm as he laid out some very, very clear instructions.


    By my own rules, I wasn''t allowed to laugh.


    Wester was so stunned by my change that he fell into a low block. And so I really did change to 3-5-2, since he was so afraid of it.


    For a couple of minutes, we passed the ball around aimlessly. I followed the referee so that Darlington would think twice before elbowing me or kicking me off the ball, as they had been trying to do the whole time I¡¯d been on.


    Suddenly, Wester realised he''d been tricked in some way and screamed for his players to revert to the plan. I instantly switched back to 4-1-4-1, and the moment he realised I''d somehow done that wordlessly led to another face of fury.


    Darlington came at us hard, then, but they had been hyped up at half time, ready to come out with all guns blazing. The little delay while Wester tried to understand what I was doing cost them the chance to use all that pent-up motivation.


    We swatted away their attacks with ease, and slowly rebuilt the momentum we''d had at the end of the first half.


    I still had one more sub I could bring on - either Steve Alton in defence or Tony in attack. I wanted to wait until at least the 70th minute, though, and probably the 80th. A Bench Boosted Tony still wasn''t as good as an Henri. A boosted Steve was probably way better than a May, but if I used him too early and we got an injury, we''d be down to ten men.


    There was nothing strategic for me to think about for a good half hour, then, so I concentrated on doing my job.


    And every time I lost concentration and thought about going on a silly dribble, doing a flashy nutmeg, or trying a shot from the halfway line, the article flashed in front of me and I was all the way back in the fucking zone.


    I ran around, cleaning up, tidying, putting opponents in little boxes and marking them ''sorted'' and ''for the bin''.


    I headed balls away, I did one-touch deflections to bypass pressure, I played simple passes and sprinted to be an option for a third pass.


    The home crowd, by now, were quiet. There were times I thought I could hear Boggy and Spectrum doing their match commentary, especially during our attacks. For example, the time we got a free kick about thirty yards from goal. This time I treated myself to a cheeky shot on goal, and a very slightly indulgent use of the Free Hit perk. After all, I''d spent two times ten minutes practising under Jackie''s watchful eye. If I''d been free kicks 20 in the past, and recovered to, say, free kicks 5... A couple of free kick ''lessons'' from Jackie (which was simply him standing near me and grunting), plus Bench Boost, plus Free Hit. Could I imagine I was free kicks 10, for one shot?


    ***


    Boggy: Raffi Brown still hobbling around. That was a nasty one.


    Spectrum: They''re a vicious bunch, these. Cowards all over the place. [off mic] I''ll say what I want.


    Boggy: You''re just winding him up. But now, it looks like Best will take the kick. It''s to the right of the penalty area, about ten yards outside the box. Good angle for a far post cross, and indeed lots of bodies going there. The centre backs are up. Lyons and Brown are there. Aff lurking left; he''ll compete for any scraps. Up steps Best. Oh! He''s hit the crossbar.


    Spectrum: Wow.


    Boggy: That was some strike.


    Spectrum: Pure. Oh my God, Boggy. Are we getting Max back? If he''s back, this league is over. Yeah, even this prick next to me knows that. He''s leaving! Yeah, leave, you knob!


    Boggy: [quietly] He''s just plugging his laptop in. Do you want to swap seats?


    Spectrum: [quietly] No. I''m not scared of him.


    Boggy: He''s much bigger than you.


    Spectrum: Head in the game, mate. Head in the game. [very loud] Come on, Chester!


    ***


    An hour gone, and Darlington''s spirits were sinking. The fans had known which way the wind was blowing as soon as I''d scored the penalty, but the players had kept chatting away, talking shit, trying anything to get under our skin, but our inhuman lack of response, the way we were robotically dismantling them, had drawn their sting and now was sapping their morale.


    They had begun the match with fairly high morale - 4.9 on average, which was high for a non-Max Best-led team. Their fast start had brought that up to 5.5, but it had been steadily falling back to its starting point. With me on the scene, the decline had continued, and now was at 4.2.


    The stadium was so quiet - apart from the Chester mob, those beautiful drunken louts - that I heard Wester call out the change he wanted to make at the next break. So I smashed ''men behind ball'', set myself as playmaker, and we passed the ball around our penalty area for over a minute. It made no sense except to mess with Wester''s head. I saw him staring at me, eyes wide with amazement. He realised I''d heard what he was planning and had gone defensive. Somehow, I was afraid of what was going to happen!


    We finally lost the ball, it went out of play, and the change was made. Glynn, one of the main sources for the article, one of the few whose words hadn''t been distorted or outright invented, was coming on to demonstrate his insipid brand of midfield scheming.


    I wanted nothing more than to meet him on the field of battle, a nice old 50-50 tackle in the centre circle. We''d both go in hard and we''d see who was still able to walk at the end of it.


    In fact, I found myself hunched up, fists clenched, moving out of my zone towards him. He noticed and his morale instantly plummeted. Scenting blood, I bared my teeth and calculated the next fifteen passes, getting into position for when it would happen. Getting in position for when he''d get the ball at a time where I could get him.


    Here comes Best with his bimbo. The sad thing is, his mum really is sick.


    The words assaulted me, smacked me in the back of the head, left me dead and dying in a ditch.


    Thirteen, fourteen. I burst out of my body, a whole new one forming just in front of me. At Usain Bolt speeds, I homed in on Glynn. He felt me coming, and bravely turned, shielding the ball, and he tried to lay it off while cringing at the pain that was coming.


    I stepped around the meaningless worm, latched onto his pass, and now the counter was on. I was past Wester before he knew what was happening. Caveman and Shrek both came at me, leaving Henri free, if only I could get the ball to him.


    Get the ball to him? Are you joking?


    I scooped the ball up and over, on a nice diagonal so he could bounce the ball across the keeper. Raffi Brown stormed past me, doing what I should have done, hunting the follow-up.


    Henri shot left-footed - it smashed off the right-hand post. Larkin had frozen, but now he got his feet moving, and hurled himself bravely in front of Raffi, blocking the shot with his face. It came right to me.


    Time slowed.


    I saw everything.


    Raffi moving left, getting out of my way.


    Henri moving towards the far post, arms raised. I could clip it to him and he would nod home.


    He wouldn''t be offside, either, because Caveman and Shrek were running to the goal line to act as an extra pair of goalies.


    The act of tackling me would fall to Wester, coming from my left, or Hurts, from my right.


    Good defence from a good team. But it was a mistake to think they could stop me, just as it had been a mistake to try to anger me, just as it had been a mistake to try to play football against us. They should have low blocked and scrapped for a nil nil. They were the best team in the league on paper, but as I''d learned from Ian Evans - it was one of his favourite phrases - football isn''t played on paper.


    The ball rolled into that magical space between foot and leg, the front of the ankle joint, the place I''d always been able to make a ball spin for fun, even before the curse. It hit me just there in my personal sweet spot, began its new journey, and I turned and walked away, walked back towards the halfway line, waiting for the noise from the away fans that would confirm what I already knew.


    ***


    Boggy: Brown with the rebound - he has to score! No! Comes to Best. He chips. It goes up, spinning, dips, oh! Oh, that''s genius. That''s perfect.


    Spectrum: Ahhhh!


    Boggy: Incredible! Three-one Chester!


    Spectrum: Perfect hat trick.


    Boggy: What?


    Spectrum: Left foot, right foot, header. Perfect hat trick.


    Boggy: You''re right. But how did he do that? There were men closing him down, men on the line.


    Spectrum: Don''t ask me. I only coach humans.


    ***


    The match was done, now. Darlington fans were streaming out. Those who remained were pale as sheets. Their players were going through the motions. I wanted to sub myself off, mostly because I expected a leg breaking tackle from Hurts or Dicks, but if I went off, Wester might have been able to rally his troops.


    So I switched to 4-5-1 with me as the striker and Henri in midfield, men behind ball. See out the match with no more drama, no more entertainment, and no more injuries.


    I went to the middle of the Darlington half, walking from side to side. They didn''t have a fucking clue what I was doing, but Wester kept enough men back just in case I somehow launched a counter attack from this massively offside position. When Hurts went forward, I raced into his spot and waved for the ball. Wester brought him back instantly. By doing that, I was able to keep enough bodies out of our half so that Darlington''s attacks lacked the numbers to break down our low block.


    The clock crawled to ninety, the referee allowed three minutes for stoppages - there hadn''t been many, and at the final whistle, while Folke Wester fled with his six out of ten match rating and his zero points, my players formed a vague circle around Glenn. I wandered over, sent them to the referee - silent handshakes - they returned, I waited twenty seconds for absolutely no reason other than to be weird - and sent them to the away fans. Claps over head, saluting the support, calm acknowledgement of the songs and chants.


    While they were gone, some Darlington players tried to shake my hand, offered to swap shirts, tried to chat. I blanked them, and when they were insistent, walked away.


    Finally, my players came back, created a barrier between me and the world, and we crossed the pitch, intending to shower and leave, silent as the grave. There wouldn''t be much traffic - most of the home fans had long gone.


    "Max," called a voice I knew. I stopped, and so did my team. They left a gap.


    I looked up and saw the old driver and kit man who was one of the good guys at Darlington. He''d got my boots all cleaned up as a leaving present. "Pat," I said. He looked ten years older than when I''d seen him last. I wished the curse would show me his ''injuries''. I had a deep suspicion about why he looked so shit.


    "Well played, lad. I want to shake your hand," he said.


    I shook my head. "That won''t be good for your career. Better to leave it."


    "You let me worry about my career. Come on, now."


    I shook his hand, and it was like he had released my leg from a bear trap. In that moment of humanity, I cast Bravery Boost on myself. "Are you all right, mate? You don''t look well."


    "Ah, I''m seeing a specialist. It''s treatable, he says. You don''t mind me."


    "Jesus. There''s some perspective, right? We''re out here kicking a ball around like it''s important. Listen. You call me if you need anything."


    "Ah, no. No need for that. I''ll still be here when you come back."


    "Pat. We''re not coming back. We''re getting promoted."


    "We could come up in the playoffs."


    I thought about explaining to him that I would sooner let Kidderminster win the league, drop to second, and smash the playoffs just to make sure Darlington finished the season with nothing... but nah. I didn''t quite have that level of spite in me. Not quite as much poison as had been written about. Plus it was Remembrance Day, and these old boys made me sentimental with their shuffling walks and artless dignity. "If we do come back, we''ll have a cup of tea together, yeah? Just like the old days."


    "The old days, he says. What does a kid like you know about the old days?"


    I looked around the stadium that used to be my home. "I know you don''t get them back."


    ***


    The bus driver pulled into the same service station, and we got out just as before.


    "Guys," I said, with the hint of a smile playing around my lips. "Thank you very much. You were my..." I tried to think what they were.


    "Avenging angels," said Youngster.


    "What''s that?"


    "Twelve angels who punish wrongdoers."


    "Fuck, that''d be a good TV show. Wouldn''t it? Twelve angels, is it?" I looked around. "Well, we''re more than twelve. Everyone played their part, today. That was beautiful. Amazing. Just like in my dreams. Seriously, I owe you one. Oh, here''s my ride."


    With impeccable timing, a very fancy car - a Rolls Royce Phantom or some such - pulled up and Sebastian Weaver got out. He came over. "Did you win?"


    "Yep."


    "Well?"


    "Pretty comprehensive, I''d say."


    "Good. Fuck ''em."


    My players were smiling. "Some of you know Emma''s dad. If you don''t mind, I''m off to Newcastle to have some lovely family time. Sunday in Newcastle. I''m sure there''s lots to do."


    I was joking, and Sebastian did a tiny head shake. "Monday, too."


    "What?"


    "Emma told me she''d disown me if I didn''t let her off work. So we''re kidnapping you. I hear that''s all the rage at Chester Football Club." That was a good line. Lots of chuckles and little jeers as the lads mocked each other for their performance at the pre-season boot camp.


    "All right, lads. Tell you what, how about you take Monday off?"


    "No, thanks," said Glenn.


    Henri added to the thought. "We have Buxton at home on Tuesday night, Max."


    "Fuck me, this league is relentless," I laughed.


    "I''ll have Monday off," said D-Day, to more jeers.


    "Guys, get on the bus. Turn the music up. Find out who the Brig is..." Porking didn''t seem appropriate. "Find out who the Brig is courting. Enjoy tomorrow. See you on Tuesday. All right, get fucked."


    They started filing back onto the bus, but D-Day came over and asked if I had a minute. Sebastian went back to the car to give us some privacy. "Max, er... Trick didn''t come back with us. He asked me to take care of his stuff. It''s just... I know you don''t get on with him, but he''s a mate, and... he was just as mad about the article as me, like. I don''t know what got into him today. He''s not a bad guy, honest, it''s just - "


    I put my hand on his arm and it was like pushing the off button. "Do you know the way I''m all like team team team and it''s just us and all that stuff?"


    "Yeah."


    "Do you believe it?"


    "Sometimes. Not... Sometimes."


    "Do you believe I believe it?"


    "Honestly? Not the way you say you do."


    I smiled. "Trick''s fine. Trust me. Leave him alone for a while, and hopefully in a couple of months he''ll be able to tell you a helluva story." I patted him on the chest. "Good shift today. Love it."


    "Er... good penalty, boss." Our first bust-up had been when he¡¯d tried a cool penalty and fluffed it.


    "It was, wasn''t it?" I said, smug as a bug in a rug.


    Then with one half-full backpack, I was spirited away to Newcastle for what had turned into an incredible luxury - a two-day mid-season holiday.


    ***


    Audacious Single Chapter Epilogue


    Trick Williams knocked on my office door. "You wanted to see me, boss?"


    "Yes, close that, have a seat."


    "Hello, Mr. MD. Mr. Brig."


    "Relax, Trick. You''re not in trouble. Tell him, Brig."


    "You''re not in trouble."


    "Oh." He didn''t believe us.


    "Right, let''s get down to brass tacks. You''ve read this article thing?"


    "No. I mean, yes."


    "Did you," I said, sternly, "at any point enjoy it?"


    "No," he said, shaking his head.


    "Max," complained MD, with a slight smile.


    I held my hands up. "Sorry, Trick, that was a joke. I couldn''t resist. It''s fine if you enjoyed it. Thing is," I said, getting up and going to the window. The window where Ian Evans and I had once done battle. The fight that could be said to have started my journey to Darlington. "Thing is, if Ian Evans hadn''t seen immediately that I was a total dick, I would have started my career in Chester. And that article and all the events that the guy twisted round, it would all be about Chester. Do you know what I mean?"


    "I guess," he said, but he didn''t know what the conversation could possibly be about, so he wasn''t really listening. Only when he knew what it was about could he relax and process it. But that processing could happen later.


    "I''m not going to defend my actions or try to put my spin on things," I started, but Trick surprised me.


    "You don''t have to," he said.


    "What do you mean?" said MD, holding up a hand to forestall my question.


    Trick nodded a few times. "I mean most of it was pure garbage. You show them up in training? Like, er¡­ no. You¡¯re miles better than us but you¡¯ve never done that. You refused to play? Just doesn¡¯t sound like you. Right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± said MD, softly.


    ¡°So those two lads from Tranmere, er... Junior and Barkley. They came to training yesterday. Wanted to see you, but you weren''t there. Anyway, Henri stops training, we all go into the meeting room. Junior tells us some stuff, like how it really went down at half time in that match. He goes, everyone¡¯s saying let¡¯s keep it tight and Max is like fuck that, let¡¯s go for the win. Sorry, boss, but that¡¯s just obviously what really happened. Know what I mean?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°And Bark said you never tapped him up because you promised Cutter you wouldn''t, and you told him to stay at Darlington for a couple of years and fight for his place, and Cutter threw Pascal at you, which we knew anyway. Oh, and he said how you made their lessons fun when you interrupted and they were doing, like, fake interviews with you and all that." Trick was smiling, obviously remembering how Bark had told the story. It made me smile, too. "Plus we already knew loads of it was pure lies, like when you brought Henri for his trial. That wasn''t you, that was Ian Evans. You had Henri doing free headers from crosses and shit. Evans turned it into a match. And the bit where it said you wouldn''t follow team discipline. I mean, that does sound like you. Like, try and fine me, bro. I remember that day Glenn was kicking Henri and you lifted him up and pushed him twenty yards like it was nothing. Junior cleared it up, though."


    "Excuse me," said MD. "What did Junior tell you?"


    Trick looked at me, and I nodded. He told MD and the Brig about how I''d ripped up the list of fines and punishments, squashed the paper into balls, and given myself a little extra bulk in the underpants department. MD was soon cry-laughing, and I nearly joined in when Trick said something I never knew before.


    "So after that, the captain, when there''s a new guy and he gives him the fines list," Trick paused, struggling to breathe, "it''s laminated."


    We lost it.


    Four guys, in a room, laughing. Big laughs, my first since reading the article. I retook my seat.


    "Okay, Trick, amazing. Thanks for that. I needed that. But all I wanted to say was, I''m not going to defend myself but it did make me think about the way I act. You know? How could it not? And I am a bit schemey. A bit plotty. And that''s where people misunderstand me, or I help them to misunderstand me. Now, I''ve been plotting around you." He instantly became wary. I held a hand up. "Hear me out - it''s not that bad."


    "It''s not a bad plot," said the Brig, emphasising the negativity of the word.


    I shook my head. Not helpful. "Let''s just establish a few things we can all agree on. Starting points. Say yes to show you agree with me. First one. You and I are never going to be superfriends."


    "Yes," he agreed.


    "I think your sense of humour is," I waved my hand around, looking for the right words, "crude and exclusionary. You think it''s standard in the football business and why should you change?"


    "Yes."


    This was going great. "Top. You are 33."


    "Yes."


    "You''ll be 34 next year."


    "Yes."


    "Chester will be in the National League next year."


    "Hope so."


    "That one''s a yes, mate. 34-year-old Trick Williams will struggle in the National League."


    "No," he said.


    I smiled. "I say yes. And that means you''re not likely to get a contract here, and I doubt you were expecting one anyway."


    Quietly: "Yes."


    "That''s where my plots come in. You read about this Bradley Rymarquis dude in that Judas article. He hates me. At one time I thought he might have - No, I shouldn''t say that out loud. Anyway, he hates me and he''s always looking for ways to put the boot in. You with me?"


    "I think so."


    "Now, I wouldn''t mind if you left the club in January. When I''m feeling gloomy, I sometimes picture you shaking everyone''s hand before getting in your car and driving off to your new manager." I smiled, and Trick pushed his teeth together and sort of smiled back. "And surely you''d like to get back to a proper dressing room where they tell all those jokes you like and where you can laugh at people like me."


    "Max," said MD.


    "No, it''s all right," said Trick, adjusting on his chair. "I think I get where this is going. Go on, boss."


    I leaned closer. "I''ve had MD in every Director''s Box for weeks, right, bragging about how we''re going to win the league and we''re top and the only thing that worries him, he reveals, after a scotch gets him indiscreet, is my secret fears that you''ll leave in January because we don''t have left backs in the eighteens, we only have Magnus who''s no good going forward, and you''re also my cover for Aff. In short, you''re kinda secretly the key to our whole campaign."


    He was annoyed, now. "Which is a load of crap."


    I looked right into his soul. "No, mate. Not a load of crap. It''s basically true. You and I both know I''d switch to 3-5-2 or something if you left, but if you leave in January I will have to find a replacement. It''ll be some kid, probably, so I might save on wages and maybe get someone who can grow into the position and all that. But you''re good going forward, you''re very consistent, and if you do end up staying, I''ll be absolutely fine with that. It looks like a load of low blocks from now on, so Magnus being more solid defensively isn''t an issue. You''re a better fit for my system. But you''re 33. If we can cook up a scam to get you a good contract somewhere else, let''s go for it."


    "With this agent guy?"


    "Yeah. That''s the joke - he''s a good agent. He¡¯ll find someone who will take you, on a good wage, maybe an 18-month deal, and he''ll work extra hard for you, all to piss me off. And when the ink''s dry, you and I will be able to have a good laugh about it. It''s win-win, isn''t it? One of my team gets a great deal, bit of financial security. I free up some wages and a slot for a kid. I get my enemy working for my players." I beamed. "I fucking love it. Oh, and you get things, too."


    Trick thought about it. He looked at the other two men. "Is this legit?"


    MD nodded. "He got me involved a while back. He mentioned you getting a tasty deal out of it. That''s good for us. Helps us persuade players to come here, doesn''t it? From here, if you¡¯re a young gun you get a transfer to a big team, and if you''re, ah, ageing gracefully, we still increase your market value. It''s a good story for us to tell."


    Trick moved his eyes one chair along. The Brig said, "I don''t actually see any friction between you and Max. As far as I can tell and from what I''ve seen, you''re a model professional." He shrugged. "Using his enemies to get yourself a nice, juicy contract." He grinned. "Why not?"


    "What would I have to do?"


    I pointed to the flipchart across from my desk, where I''d written out the team and subs for the Darlington match. "If you''re with me, I''ll cross out your name. Obviously I''d love you on the bench in case Aff gets injured, but there are ways I can do without a left footer. I have a vision for how the match will go, and you won''t come on, anyway. I probably won''t even use my third sub. Anyway, when I name the team, you make a big scene, flounce out. You storm around until you find Rymarquis. You tell him you''re sick of me, you loved that Judas article, if he gets you a move you''ll dish the dirt on me. Something like that. He might do it because he knows I need you without the dirt stuff. The Brig has suggested I remove myself from the plotting at this point and let him take over. Which... He''s probably right. Mine have a habit of blowing up in my face while biting me on the arse, which is really something."


    "And then I''m out of the team?"


    "Fuck no. Until you move you''re more in the team than ever. We''re going to run up your stats. Get you some goals and assists. You''re really proving your worth to prospective new employers!" I laughed, but got serious. "Thing is, though, if it all works out and you get a new club in January, we have to try to get you back here for the last game of the season."


    "What for?" he said, with a deep, worried crease on his forehead.


    "For the fucking league winner''s party, you dick. For your medal. What the fuck do you think?"


    We waited while Trick¡¯s brain cells fired. It didn''t take long.


    He got up, went to the flipchart, and crossed his name out. He turned back to us with a massive grin on his face. "I''m in."


    "Great. You''ll talk to the Brig. All right? Oh, and Trick?"


    He looked worried - my voice had gone stern again. Very stern. "Yes, boss?"


    "Put the lid back on the marker." I leaned back, satisfied. "We''re not made of money."

 6.5 - Served

    5.


    We arrived at Casa Weaver in the suburbs of Newcastle and Emma ran down the drive to hug me, to check I was in one piece. She''d find and count the bruises later, but right then, I felt unbreakable. Her dad gave us a minute.


    "You did it," she said.


    "We did it. We did it. The lads were immense. Massive. Unstoppable."


    "I wanted to go."


    "It''s gone; it''s over. Finito. Let''s move on. You and me. We''ll enjoy this weekend, yeah? Two days, like real people. But I want a proper break. A proper break."


    "In the summer?"


    "No. Soon."


    "Oh."


    I knew what she was thinking - that I was talking shit. Managers didn''t have mid-season breaks. I squeezed her. "Somewhere cheap, though. When''s the last time you slept in a tent?"


    ***


    Dinner was Emma, her parents (Sebastian and Rachel), Gemma, and a friend of Rachel''s. She was called Agnes and nobody explained exactly who she was. Fortunately, my imagination provided the entire story and I felt no need to check it.


    Agnes and Rachel had gone to school together, and were sort of friends in the not-really-friends-but-somehow-always-thrown-together sense. They''d had daughters around the same time and that had repointed the ever-crumbling brickwork of their relationship - it would last another decade. Now their daughters were all grown up, and Agnes''s girl - Jennifer, probably - had got engaged to a dentist. Or... some kind of ''influencer''. No, a dentist. And since Rachel knew I''d be coming, she had invited Agnes. Any one of my many titles beat dentist, right? Unless you needed a root canal, in which case no amount of Manager of the Month awards would impress you.


    So yeah. Agnes was a weird choice of sixth guest because no-one at the table seemed to like her all that much.


    At first, the match against my former club was the only topic of conversation, which was odd since I had no interest in joining in - I only opened my mouth to shovel up soup. The others were telling Agnes about the Judas article and the ensuing hundred hours of drama, with Gemma seeming very well informed about MD''s thoughts and feelings. She piled in on my decision not to respond in the media. I wondered if those were her thoughts, or MD''s. What was going on there?


    Interesting as it was, I let it wash over me. The whole thing was ancient history and if I had my way I would think about it one more time - the last day of the season - and then never again.


    "I watched you play," said this Agnes person, and after a long silence I realised she was talking to me.


    "On the BBC?" I said, coming back into the room like a languid ghost.


    "That''s right. Rachel said you''d be on before Strictly Come Dancing. My husband came in and asked what the matter with me was. Said I''d never sat for a football game my whole life and maybes I was a bit old to be starting. I said it''s young Emma''s friend playing, and he said oh right, and he sat with me. Not long in, he''s shaking his head and he says, ''I hope it isn''t that one.'' Meaning you. Found you a bit theatrical. A bit much."


    "Is he a Newcastle United fan?"


    "He is, yeah."


    "What a shame to disappoint such a paragon of virtue."


    Agnes understood this to be a rebuke of some sort, but it was delivered with such handsomeness that she took it well. "Course, he doesn''t abide much by all the falling over and rolling around and complaining to the referee. He''s a rugby man first and foremost."


    "Max is amazing at rugby," snapped Emma, and I was filled with such instant warmth that I was on my feet, behind her chair, wrapping her in my arms before I knew what I was doing. I nuzzled my cheek against hers, let our fingers intertwine.


    "He liked the little fella," said Agnes, trying to get back in our good books, even though she didn''t know what she''d done wrong.


    "Pascal. We like him too. Don''t we, bebs?"


    Emma relaxed into me. "Max doesn''t much care what people think about him. He says. But he loves it when you say nice things about his players."


    "I care what you think," I said, reluctant to let go. "We''re playing against South Shields, soon. That''s up here somewhere, isn''t it, Agnes? I''ll get you free tickets if you want to see us live."


    "Oh, lovely," said the dentist''s future mother-in-law, may God have mercy on his soul. We both knew she would never mention the tickets again.


    "So you won today," said Rachel, quietly ecstatic with my performance so far. "What does that mean?"


    Without moving away from Emma, I said, "Means we''re second behind Kidderminster. Four points behind."


    "Oh, I''m so sorry," said Agnes.


    I smiled. "It''s actually really good." She was such a noob there was no point talking about games in hand or goal difference or my theories about a late-season charge. "We''re on course to win the league by fifteen points or so, I reckon. It was a good day."


    "Almost perfect," said Sebastian, and it took me a second to realise what he was saying.


    I kissed Emma''s hand as a presage to returning to my seat. "Right. The team I own lost. Got knocked out of the FA Vase."


    "The what?" said Emma.


    "The cup."


    "The FA Cup?"


    "No it''s a cup called the Vase."


    "The trophy is a vase?"


    "No, there are three cups. The Trophy is a different cup to the Vase."


    Emma jabbed her spoon handle into the table. "Max."


    I smiled again and made my way back to my chair. "It''s simple. There are three cup tournaments for different levels of team. Everyone can enter the FA Cup, but really it''s for the big teams. Who are the big ones around here? Sunderland and Middlesborough, isn''t it? Then there''s the FA Trophy. That''s what Chester play in. It''s for the biggest fish of the small fish. We''re playing in that next Saturday. My team, West Didsbury, play in the FA Vase. It''s for tiny teams. Tadpoles and smaller. Now, what''s fun is that the Trophy and Vase play their finals on the same day. So next year, if Chester and West get to the final, I''ll be guest of honour in both games. At Wembley Stadium. I wonder if I''ll get two different VIP boxes? I''ll need two girlfriends."


    "Sorry," said Agnes. "You own a team?"


    "Yep."


    "The team I watched? You''re a player and the manager and the owner?"


    "No, I own a different team. They''re not on TV. The best player is called Spurgeon. That''s his first name."


    "Oh."


    "Clubs should be owned by the fans," said Sebastian. We''d been all mates in the car but now it was back to taking sly digs at each other in front of the ladies. He was fucking rubbish at it.


    "Good job I''m a fan, then. Emma is, too. Aren''t you babes? Hummus! Hummus hummus!"


    She didn''t join in. "Tell us about the match."


    "Yeah," I said. "They started strong. Then we sorted them out. Lesson learned. Nuff said."


    "Not nuff said! You''ve barely said anything."


    "Please, Max," said Gemma. "Ems was so upset this whole week. I know you''re satisfied but we want to share that feeling. D''you know? All we know is what was on social media."


    "Don''t believe what you read there. That''s sort of the point of the whole thing, right?"


    Gemma tilted her head. "I''m talking about Chester''s official accounts."


    I tried to suppress a grin. "What... What did we write?" I hadn''t authorised anything, and I''d told Spectrum very, very clearly not to post anything that I hadn''t okayed. Too many teams got into trouble from their socials. Napoli were going to lose their hundred million Euro star striker because some pyromaniac in their back office - a Napoli fan! - had posted on the club''s official accounts mocking him for missing a penalty. My solution was to post almost nothing, ever, and yeah - do our talking on the pitch.


    Gemma smiled at me. I was starting to like those wide, Julia Roberts lips. As happened more and more, I wondered what would have happened if I''d met her without Emma. Could we have...? No, I wasn''t thinking straight. It was lack of carbs after the match. I needed some pasta in me, is all.


    While I reached for the bread, Gemma showed me the latest post from Chester''s account.


    ChesterFC: Chat shit get banged.


    My lips stretched Roberts-wide of their own accord and I looked up at the spotlights, deeply amused and just a little proud. But I''d have to remind Spectrum of the rules. I didn''t want this shit getting out of control. If he did it again I''d revoke his password privileges.


    "Maaaaxxx," whined Emma. "I heard the match on Seals Live but Boggy goes hypersonic every time you get the ball. Normally Spectrum explains things but today he was too busy fighting. Tell us about it from your point of view."


    "I came, I saw," I said, and returned to pumping soup into my uncultured gob.


    "What? What''s the last bit?"


    "I came, I saw. The rest goes unspoken."


    "Does it fuck," said Emma.


    "Emma!" complained her mum.


    "Maybe," said Sebastian, "there''s a match report you could read, love."


    I clicked my fingers. "Great idea."


    Emma whipped out her phone. I reminded her of the name of the local paper and reporter. Her eyes popped when she struck gold right away. "It''s there. Whoa. The match report is called Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Goaled."


    "I''m sorry, what?" I said.


    "Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Goaled."


    My jaw had dropped open. "No no no." I stood and walked around their dining room, hands on my head. "But... but that''s genius. That''s incredible. Best served. Do you get it? Revenge is a dish that Max Best served... in this match. Best is me. Not an adjective. Goaled instead of cold. Best, me, served his revenge with goals. That''s what it means."


    "Yes, it''s clever," said Gemma.


    "It''s not clever," I said. "Clever is a pine marten that mugs me off every night but only when I''m alone in the barn. Bastard knows not to mess with Emma''s sleep or she''ll rip the roof off to get to him. No, that headline isn''t clever, it''s fucking world-shattering."


    "Who wrote it?" said Rachel, with a strange glint in her eye.


    "Max''s reporter friend Gary. Shush while I read it," said Emma. I skimmed off my soup while Emma skimmed the article in that lawyerly way of hers. Then came the frown. "Very strange match report. It... it doesn''t say the name of the other team. Doesn''t say when the goals were scored, what the attendance was. It''s all about how ''the home team'' are a bunch of liars and cheats and they got what was coming to them."


    "Send me the link," said Gemma.


    "Listen to this," said Emma, bringing her phone closer to her face like she couldn''t believe her eyes. "As punishment for throwing their own employee under the bus, Best scored a penalty. Employee? Who''s that, Max?"


    "Do you remember there was a weird bit at the beginning of the Judas piece - Judas piece? Is that a pun? - about a receptionist?" Emma nodded. "They made it seem like I had her under hypnosis or some crazy shit," I explained to Agnes. "She was just a girl who had a tiny crush on me and they made it into a big deal. Horrible. She doesn''t exactly work for the club but she basically does."


    Emma nodded and continued reading, "As punishment for bringing his mother into their tissue of lies, Best scored a cowering header."


    "Towering header," I corrected.


    "Right. Towering. As punishment for insulting his beautiful girlfriend, Best scored a beautiful third goal." She closed her eyes. "I''ve never been called beautiful in a newspaper before. Does that make it official?" She looked back at her screen. "The revenge continued, as Chester''s white hot fury melted away the low tactics of the opposition, so that soon the home team even lacked the chops to cheat, and their abject, pigeon-hearted efforts in the last twenty minutes were played in front of three empty stands. The home fans had scurried from the stadium, as timid as their players, having been taught a harsh lesson in football, truth, and justice." She blinked. "It''s all like this. Is this real? Listen to this for an ending: Winners in silence take their bows, losers in disgrace send in the cows."


    "What the what?" said Gemma.


    I mopped up the last of the soup with a bit of bread. "They let the grass grow long to try to stop us playing. You get used to it, but you have to force every pass. It builds up fatigue in your muscles, makes it more likely you''ll get injured. It sounds like gibberish to you but that''s a deadly line. Their fans will take it as a slap to the face. I can imagine a lot of Send in the Cows t-shirts being sold, for example from the website sendinthecows dot co dot uk which was registered earlier today."


    "They grew the grass?" said Rachel, and she looked proper angry.


    "Yeah," I said.


    "Send in the cows, my God." Emma didn''t know what to make of it all. "Pigeon-hearted efforts? That''s mean to pigeons."


    I looked at her father and raised an eyebrow. He squashed his lips together.


    "What''s going on?" said Rachel.


    "Nothing, dear."


    "Emma, what time was that article published?"


    "What? Er... about twenty minutes ago, it says."


    "Huh."


    "What?"


    But Rachel remained silent, leaving it for her daughter to put all the clues together. "Max! You''ve read this. But how could you have read it if it was just published?"


    "He wrote it," said Gemma, giving me a sly look. I couldn''t quite keep my poker facer on.


    Emma blinked and after a few seconds, folded her arms. "Oh! Are you joking, now? Are you joking? All that stuff you told me about not responding, not replying, and you''ve done it. You said you wouldn''t lash out, but you''ve written a whole newspaper article!"


    I swallowed my last piece of soupy bread. "That wasn''t me. That was Gary Beswick."


    Sebastian picked up his wine. "Max wrote it in the car. Or I should say he read it aloud in the car. He''d written most of it beforehand. Before the match, even. Like he knew exactly how the match would go."


    "Witchcraft," said Emma, uncrossing her arms so she could cross her fingers in front of her face.


    Sebastian was nodding. "It''s one of the craziest things I''ve ever witnessed, and I once watched a drunk try to unlock what he thought was the front door of his house but was, in fact, a postbox."


    I shrugged. "It was pretty obvious how the match was going to go. I made some notes, sure, some ideas for phrases. An option for the title, perhaps. When it came time to craft it, your dad chipped in. We had a bit of a bicker when he insisted I should use obfuscate instead of blur. And he was adamant about pigeon-hearted. I let him have that one, even though I didn''t really believe in it. I like pigeons. People who don''t like pigeons don''t understand pigeons. Pigeons are unbelievable. Now, if you''d said magpie-hearted..." This was another dig. The nickname for Newcastle was The Magpies.


    Emma read through it again and pointed out the obvious. "But Max, though. This doesn''t address the Judas thing. What about the fans? The sponsors? The parents of the young players? You need to reassure them."


    I shook my head. "People who need to know, know. Anyone who believes shit with no proof can do one. I''ve said this twenty times. You can''t fight lies with the truth. But, look, I had a think and decided I''m going on that podcast. The one with the guy you wanted to sue. I''ll set some ground rules. They''re not allowed to say the D-word, things like that. I''ll let them raise one or two points about all this Judas stuff. But I want to respond my way. Positive. When they go low, we go high. The future''s bright, the future''s Chester. The best revenge is scoring a perfect hat trick. The best revenge is living well. Take your pick."


    Long silence in the room while Rachel and Agnes brought our mains. Nice cut of meat, some veg. No doubt they''d asked Gemma what footballers ate and so we were getting the Henri Lyons version.


    "So we won," said Emma, thoughtfully. "Justice was served. The truth is out there, sort of. You''ve messed up his plans by reacting in the most Max way, which is to do the opposite of what people expect. And what? He''s getting sacked and we don''t need to think about him again?"


    "Depends what happens in January. They are the best team on paper. I smashed them pretty good today so that could send them into a tailspin, but it''s poss they''ll recover. I can''t imagine they''ll give him more budget for transfers but it''s a crazy old world."


    "So what happens next?"


    "Next we beat Buxton on Tuesday. Then the FA Trophy, which as you know is different from the FA Cup and the FA Vase. Then we''ve got two very tricky league games." I rubbed my hands through my hair. "It just keeps coming. I''ve got three major problems." I bit my thumbnail for a while. "One. Teams who all-out-defend against us. It only needs a few to get away with it to cost us the league. Two. I can''t get the staff I need. Three. I''ve hit a plateau in my recovery. It''s all so relentless, games every three days, it''s hard to rest, it''s hard to think. At some point I need a break. A proper one, where I can really switch off."


    "Then have one," said Rachel.


    "It''s not that easy. Football managers don''t go on holiday mid-season."


    "That''s right," agreed Sebastian. "It''s not done. It''d be the end of his career if he popped off to France for a winter break while his team kept playing."


    "Hmm, that''s not what I''m worried about," I said. "I''d go on a break. Don''t really give a shit if people like it or not. I need a break, end of discussion. The problem is, who''d do the matches when I was away?"


    "John Smith," said Emma. "Your assistant manager."


    "No."


    "Jackie."


    "Too soon."


    "Vimsy."


    "No."


    "So what are you thinking?"


    Sebastian was offering me more wine, but one glass was enough of a treat. I took my glass to the tap and rinsed it out so I wouldn''t be tempted to drink more. I leaned against the sink and smiled. "The problem is we''re tier six so anyone good will want a job at a bigger club. We don''t have anything to offer that they can''t get somewhere much higher up, where they''d get much more money and get to work with better players. So why would someone good drop down loads of divisions? It''s impossible." I made my way back to the table and started cutting up my piece of beef. It cut smooth. "That''s where my mind was at. But then... Then I had the craziest fucking idea."


    ***


    The next day, Emma took fifteen minutes in the morning to stitch my hat trick to the end of the inspirational tekkers recovery video. She wanted to end on the towering header because her dad told her that was the best goal, but I gently insisted she should end with the spinning chip, because the degree of difficulty was much higher and because it was thematically closer to the kick ups I¡¯d been trying to do in Tenerife.


    She chose the music, posted it on her socials, and then we went to look at fancy suits until I got bored, which was quite soon after we entered the shop.


    ***


    In the next couple of weeks I went grinding, centring my efforts around Manchester so I could pop into West to check on Vivek, hang out with Ziggy, and see my mum (obviously. You don''t believe everything you read, do you?). I also made time for extra sessions with Cody Chambers, but they were disappointing. I was having to fight incredibly hard to gain tiny improvements in my skills. I was starting to feel stuck.


    And it wasn¡¯t just a feeling - I had some hard data to prove it.


    I¡¯d been making steady progress with the Airofit breathing trainer, increasing my lung capacity from 3.3 to 3.8 litres in next to no time. But in the six weeks since, I¡¯d only improved to 4.1 litres and the number wouldn¡¯t budge even though I used the trainer twice a day.


    One of the problems was my playing style - I did a little bit of everything. If there was, indeed, a cap on my CA, then not only had I hit that cap, but I''d hit it with a Jack-of-all-trades build. High on passing and technique, with below average ratings in heading, free kicks, stamina, and so on. I could function as a quality DM for the level, but if I wanted my flair, skills, and long shots back I''d have to find a training loophole or buy a perk that would let me use Bench Boost in every match.


    I very much doubted the curse would make the mistake of offering that.


    It was on one of my trips to Manchester that the three-match ban for ''serious foul play'' dropped, I simply shrugged. Whatever.


    A reduction in my playing time was not necessarily a bad thing. It meant that getting the XP needed to buy Parasight would be easy if I went to enough high-level matches, and fortunately I was able to get into a couple of Women''s Super League games at the Death Star in Mordor.


    Yeah, getting experience points was a lot easier than finding talented staff willing to drop down a few levels...


    ***


    Monday, 27 November


    J: Hello and welcome to a very special episode of Deva Victrix. I''m J, your host - solo - and with me in this very fancy studio is the last guest we ever thought we''d get. Max Best is here!


    Max: Yep.


    J: We''ve also got Chester''s Managing Director, who we used to know as MD MD.


    MD: Hello, everyone, and may I take this opportunity to say how pleased I am to be here.


    J: You got your name cut in half. You''re just MD now.


    MD: That was Max, I think.


    Max: Communication is abbreviation.


    J: We''ve also got the men''s first team''s assistant manager. John Smith, AKA The Brig.


    Brig: Good afternoon.


    J: Max, what''s going on? What are we doing?


    Max: You''ve got that sore throat, still? We''ll do most of the talking. How about that?


    J: Sounds like the right way round. The listeners get enough of me. I''m sure they''d rather hear your voice.


    Max: Er... the basics. You guys went tonto after a recent match in the north-east.


    J: The Darlington game. [long pause] Oh, sorry. The D-word game. The recent match in the north-east. Right. Right.


    Max: You went tonto, full 36-hour bender, ran down your immune systems and caught that mega-flu that''s going round. Knocked you right out, didn''t it? You''ve not podded since. So about then, I said I wanted to come on. Reduced my fee from six thousand pounds to zero.


    J: Ha.


    Max: Don''t laugh at that. I''m taking the piss.


    J: I mean, yeah. I know.


    Brig: What''s that story?


    Max: When I started here, they invited me on and I said I''d do it for six grand. Obviously a joke but they took it seriously like all -


    MD: Max.


    Max: Ugh. Now, the idea of talking to all three of you muppets at once was, just, nah. No thanks. So I thought, let''s do it my way. And this is my way, isn''t it?


    J: Tell the listeners.


    Max: Probably I''ll be the one giving the orders, I reckon. So your normal setup is dire. Three drunks in a pub. It''s garbage. I get you can''t bung three grand on top microphones and all that, but it''s like one of you headbutts the mic once per minute, one of you rubs it with a cheese grater for an hour. I''ve never been able to listen to more than three minutes of your show, even the episodes where you were slandering me.


    J: Wait -


    Max: So I''ve asked Boggy to let us use his space from his day job. What is this, Cheshire Old But Gold one-oh-six point nine? It''s nice, isn''t it? Holy shit, take your hand away from the microphone. Are you serious right now? Do not touch it. Oh my God.


    J: Yeah, it''s just, yeah. Habit.


    Max: Proper studio, check. Good audio, check. Superstar guest, check. B-lister sidekicks, check. Boggy himself is in that booth doing whatever. This will be the greatest podcast in history. There are three guys on your show normally. I call you Huey, Louie, and Dewey.


    J: Which one am I?


    Max: Louie. The one that hates me.


    J: I don''t.


    Max: Sorry, something''s in my pocket, here. Annoying me. Can you hold that a second?


    J: Sure.


    Max: You got served.


    J: I... what?


    Max: Tell the listeners what''s in your hand.


    J: Er... envelope. It''s got the name of a company on. Weaver, Weaver... oh shit.


    Max: Open it.


    J: I don''t want to.


    Max: You have to. It''s the law.


    J: No... [paper crackling]. Oh God, oh fuck, oh shit. Wait... What''s this?


    Max: What?


    J: It''s blank. It''s just a piece of blank A4.


    Max: Oh. Guess I''m not suing you then.


    J: Oh, fuck! I''m sweating. Why would you do that?


    Max: That''s a prank, bro. I''m getting revenge on people spreading lies about me. I''m not interested in suing fans of the club, but just so we''re clear, call me a grifter again I''ll have your house.


    J: I didn''t. I won''t. I mean -


    Max: That could be a good business model. Move from club to club, some guy chats shit about me, gets banged in court. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat, that''s a good line, isn''t it? Because rinse means ''extract all money from''. All right. That was satisfying. So, listen, J. Top tip. If you slander someone, don''t record it and voluntarily upload it to millions of servers worldwide. Those episodes are still online. You need to take them down. Today. Do not post this until you delete those episodes. Boggy, don''t give him the files.


    MD: He''s right, J. It''s bad for the club. You can''t suggest financial misdealings when we''re trying to get new sponsors and build the brand, you just can''t. And it''s really unfair to Max. Really unfair.


    J: Holy fuck.


    Max: You need a minute?


    J: I saw my life flash in front of my eyes.


    MD: You''re a season ticket holder, aren''t you?


    J: Yeah. Since I was 15.


    Max: Did you ever see Smasho and Nice One?


    J: No, missed them.


    Max: Oh.


    MD: Which stand?


    J: The McNally with my mates. Getting a bit long in the tooth for it, now, but going to the main stand is... it''s like you''re officially old, now, isn''t it? We''re all clinging on to the McNally for as long as poss.


    MD: I grew up on the McNally, myself, but soon as I got a good job moved to the main. I was a bit pompous back then.


    J: Turned out all right for you, though, didn''t it? Watching from the box and all that. Nice and warm.


    MD: I wish I''d stayed a few more years, let my hair down.


    J: Can''t see you ending up in the firm, scrapping against Wrexham''s lot.


    Max: Guys, you can do a hooligan episode any time. Let''s talk about me.


    MD: [tutting]


    Max: We''re eleven minutes in, there''s been one half-decent prank but no actual content. People want podcasts to get to the meat. We''re still doing the stupid introductions! For the listeners, I chose J from the three hosts because he''s the one that doesn''t like me. You can''t say I''m here for an easy ride. We''re going to talk about the matches that this podcast missed. Then we''ll assess the state of the squad. And we''ll finish by talking about the short-term future of the club, in which I will hint at some shocking developments that will appal everyone in this room except for the Brig.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    MD: What?


    Max: Let''s clear that up. Brig, why are you here?


    Brig: I thought the fans might like to hear from me.


    Max: No, you thought you''d come, say almost nothing, and when someone like J says why does that guy never talk to the fans you can say you went on Deva Victrix.


    Brig: You understand me very well, sir.


    Max: And MD, why are you here?


    MD: Same as John, really. But also because you insisted. I thought I might keep you out of trouble.


    Max: Good luck with that. J, you were at the match against my former club. Is that right?


    J: Yes. That was amazing.


    Max: So you saw the way we didn''t celebrate the goals and all that. We were so focused on playing. Just play, nothing else.


    J: It was so strange. We were trying to find the word to describe it. Best we came up with was ''controlled''.


    Max: Okay, that''ll do. It was a very controlled performance. These players, though, they''re like mustangs. Wild ponies, the lot of them. They want to roam and frolic and flick their hair. What''s the word for the thing where they rise up on their hind legs and swish their hair around? I squashed them into little pens for one match only. A couple of days later we played Buxton. Were you there?


    J: Yeah.


    Max: Don''t come to matches when you''ve got an infectious disease, mate. Jesus Christ. We''ve got players out sick. Is that because of you?


    MD: Max.


    Max: I wasn''t sure what was going to happen against Buxton. What sort of hangover would the players have? Like... you can tie a mustang to a wheel and make him... plough?... corn? But that''s, er, you could break his spirit or something. The lads, though, they weren''t sulky or anything, not in the slightest. I have to say they were right there with me against my former club, and then they let loose against Buxton.


    Brig: I did suggest it would happen that way, sir.


    Max: You did. But it could have gone the other way.


    Brig: It could. That''s true. And pigs might fly south for winter.


    J: We won six-nil. It was never in doubt.


    Max: It was in doubt. Everything comes with a cost. You can bully or bribe a player into running twice as far on Monday, but then he can''t even walk on Tuesday. You''ve got to be thoughtful. Six-nil was amazing. I would have been happy with a scrappy one-nil. Buxton were unlucky because they had a couple of players out and we got an early goal, but wow. The lads were ready to go. All I had to do was point to the pitch and off they went.


    J: I heard you don''t do much screaming and shouting anyway.


    Max: What''s the point? These guys aren''t babies. Most of them were with Ian Evans. They know about duels and all that. They come ready to play. My job''s to tell them how to win, not how to thump their chests. If they don''t perform, I''ll let them know.


    J: We had great performances from Trick and D-Day.


    Max: Yep. Anyone want to say anything more about Buxton?


    MD: I''d like to say, as a fan, that it''s amazing you want to whizz past that game. We''re not used to winning six-nil around here. In other seasons, it''d be our best result. J, this is what it''s like working with Max. He''ll rave about a two-nil loss and be absolutely unmoved by scoring six. He doesn''t think about football like you or I.


    J: That''s why I''m glad we''re doing this. It''s good to know what''s going on at the top of the club.


    MD: What are you doing?


    Max: I''m thinking if there''s a way I can connect the Buxton game to the things I need to say at the end.


    MD: What things?


    Max: [sigh] We''re not at the ennnd. This should come in the ''next steps'' bit. Here''s a sneak preview. I have three challenges. Three problems I need to solve to keep this club on an upward trajectory. Okay? Three things. Ah, I''ve got it. Ahem. So, J. MD. You know that Buxton match? The players were fit and fresh, they''d hyped themselves up, they wanted to release all that tension, they wanted to celebrate goals and run around and do knee slides and all that?


    MD: Yeeeees?


    Max: Well, I didn''t need to be there that day, did I? I had a two-day break with my girlfriend, but I could have spent the whole week away if someone had done the Tuesday game. Bearing in mind I woke up from a coma and have been working seven days a week since. The Buxton match would have gone the same, if, for example, I was in a tent in Scotland reading comics.


    MD: Maybe we should talk about this off-air.


    Max: There''s nothing to talk about. This is me telling you I''m not going to stand there for 46 matches every season. No way. So we need a solution for that. And I''ve found one.


    MD: What is it? Who is it?


    Max: I''m not saying today. Today''s about reminding everyone of how awesome I am and how all my decisions turn good in the end.


    MD: John, do you know about this? What he''s planning?


    Brig: I do. I''m sure there will be some, er... puzzlement, but the only person who should be offended is me, and I''m not. The club will benefit.


    Max: Ah, this is going well, now. I can feel it. Buxton, six-nil. Bosh. Up next, Lancaster City in the FA Trophy. Semi-pro team at home. Potential banana skin, but I felt I could rotate the team in a big way. Ben back in goal, Trick and D-Day starting again, Andrew Harrison in midfield. Tony up front. Really trying to rest players like Aff and Glenn who are going to play most games.


    J: It was a fairly subdued day. Kind of a comfortable win where you don''t push the boat out.


    Max: I want to go full throttle every game, I really do, but we have to be realistic. The squad is small and players will conserve energy.


    J: Oh, I meant it as a compliment. It''s like MD said. We haven''t had that feeling for a long time. Two-nil up and they''re not coming back. That''s...


    MD: Relaxing.


    Max: We have good control at the moment. I''m happy with how that feels.


    J: The Lancaster manager was serving a seven-match stadium ban.


    Max: Right. I forgot about that. It didn''t help them, but realistically... didn''t make a difference. See? He could have had a week off. Enjoyed himself. I hear Devon is nice this time of year.


    J: There were some people saying the manager was dressed as the mascot and he was giving them instructions from inside the suit.


    Max: I mean, obviously that''s exactly what happened.


    MD: Max, don''t say things like that. The official position of Chester Football Club is that we didn''t see the manager inside the stadium and as far as we know, Lancaster were in full compliance with all FA rules and regulations.


    Max: Lancaster don''t even have a mascot. And you don''t bring your enormous owl mascot to away games!


    Brig: It was a frog.


    J: Did you tell the ref or anything?


    Max: No. It was funny. Then we had two nail-biting matches against Alfreton and South Shields.


    J: Hang on. We''ve missed something.


    Max: The Cheshire Cup?


    J: Your ban.


    Max: Ban. It''s clever, really. You give me a three-match ban, but the press release says I''ll miss the FA Cup Second Round. But when you look at it, the third match of my ban is the Cheshire Cup. So we''ve got to decide if I risk playing in the FA Cup or not. If I play and we win and someone turns round and says, nope, invalid player, you''re outta here... It''s no good progressing if they kick you out of the competition.


    J: Why don''t you check?


    MD: We''ve checked. We hear different things every time.


    Max: They''re winding us up. Sending us round in circles. The Cheshire lot say the Cheshire Cup counts as a serious game, but the national FA keep repeating that the third match of my ban is the Walsall game. Trust me, it''s a four-match ban disguised as three. I''m not going to risk it. Nah... If someone wants me to stop playing but can''t be too overt about it, this kind of thing is the way to do it. It is literally fiendish.


    J: So you''re definitely not playing against Walsall?


    Max: [sigh] No. Not that it matters. I''m dogshit.


    J: What?


    Max: Never mind. Where was I? Okay, we''re on a winning run. Seven wins in a row in all competitions. Not bad, right? Then we go to Alfreton and it''s a totally different team to what I was expecting. That was a shock because I''d played against them in my first full match for my former club and they were weak. That was in the FA Trophy and I knew they''d rested some first teamers. Then over the summer they changed manager and he brought some of his favourites in. They''re good, now! Big turnaround over there. They still played 4-5-1 - our scout confirmed that much - and they made it hard for us in midfield. We were a bit off the pace, bit sluggish.


    J: Did something go wrong? Could you have changed the tactics?


    Max: Tactics were fine. We had 16 shots and they had 8, something like that. We lacked a bit of spark, is all, and they did us on set pieces and held firm.


    J: Gutting.


    Max: Yeah don''t like losing but overall I was pleased. Two things. One, sometimes you have those games. So, okay, you play bad but you''re still on top. I''m quite happy to see that. It''s not like we had players on four out of ten, looking lost, doing stupid things. No, it was fine. Sometimes fine isn''t enough, and that''s where you credit the opposition. And that''s the second thing. Seeing Alfreton that good I think will really help us this season. They''ll take points against the other challengers, too. Kidderminster still have to go there. Anything you want to ask about Alfreton?


    J: What would you do different if you could replay it?


    Max: Honestly, nothing.


    Brig: The illnesses and injuries were disruptive.


    Max: We had eleven players and five subs. It''s my job to do something with them. Of course it''s easier if you''ve got your whole squad but Alfy had injuries and suspensions, too. The way we set up was our best chance of winning. Sometimes there''s a bad bounce, the ref doesn''t see someone pinning your goalie, something like that. It was a good game and the better team on the day won. Absolutely no problem with that.


    J: We''d have won if you hadn''t been suspended.


    Max: I''m not sure about that. I don''t think it would have made much difference.


    J: It would.


    Brig: He isn''t fishing for compliments.


    Max: We need to win matches where I''m not available.


    MD: We do.


    Max: I started to get the feeling some players and fans think I''ll come off the bench like a genie and do all kinds of mystical shit. I can''t do that. There''s 21 other guys in the first team squad. Every one of them needs to be thinking and acting like a match winner.


    MD: A lot of players are scoring and assisting.


    Max: I''m talking about a game like Alfreton where it''s all okay but someone thinks, shit, it''s my turn and gives me a nine out of ten performance. That''s the next level for this team, but we can talk about that in a minute. There''s one more match to mention. South Shields. Another match where I got to spend a couple of days up in sunny Newcastle.


    J: You played 4-2-4 away from home. There was a lot of chat about that. People calling you naive.


    Max: We were two-nil up at half time. Our collapse had been coming for days. That would have happened with any formation.


    Brig: Max wasn''t happy with the performance after our second goal went in. There was shouting.


    Max: Didn''t work, though, did it? Shields scored two quick goals and it took us half an hour to get our heads right. It''s so annoying, sometimes. That''s why I always want us to attack. Two goals isn''t enough. Score a third. Done that? Great. Three isn''t enough. Keep going.


    J: So that was a mentality thing, not a tactics thing?


    Max: Tactics thing? I switched to 4-4-2 as soon as I saw they''d checked out. The tactics are mint, mate. That one was the mentality, yeah. I told them South Shields were good. Didn''t I, Brig?


    Brig: You did.


    Max: But they wouldn''t have it. Newly promoted side, struggling. Yeah, it''s a been a step up for them but they''re really good. They have some quality players, I can promise you that. Half time, I was fuming. Fuming. We did a tag team of shouting. Me, the Brig, and Vimsy. Couldn''t get through. It was one of those days I''d have subbed off the entire team if I could.


    J: At two-nil up?


    Max: The score doesn''t matter. You don''t throw your standards to the floor like it''s a dirty towel. Okay, maybe if it''s four-nil and the other team want to go home, fine. I don''t like it, but fine. Two-nil against a hungry team? That''s moronic. I was fuming. It''s still making me mad, now. It''s good I couldn''t play that one because there would have been punches thrown.


    J: If I was a player I don''t think I''d ever know where I stood with you.


    Max: I think it''s clear. There''s a match where you try your best and it doesn''t quite click. No problem. There''s a match where you''re playing great but you do your own thing. Veto. Problem. Do as you''re told. There''s a match where you''re playing great and you choose to stop. Big problem. What''s your day job?


    J: I''m a mason.


    Max: Mmm. Looks easy, but it''s not, right?


    J: Yeah. Everyone always tries fixing their own walls after a storm. How hard can it be? It''s just bricks. Then they call me.


    Max: You know when you''ve done well and you know when you''ve half-arsed a job. Right?


    J: I never half-arse a job.


    Brig: His customers are never disappointed.


    All except Max: [laughter]


    Max: What''s happening?


    MD: It''s a masonry joke.


    Max: No more jokes that I don''t understand. But if you ever did half-arse a job and I said, hey, this isn''t good enough, you''d bluster and defend yourself but you''d know I was right. You''ve got to realise that I know exactly what my players can do, what they should be doing, and whether they''re doing it or not. That to me is as clear and obvious as when some idiot puts a brick in sideways.


    J: All the bricks go in sideways.


    Max: I should sue you for that joke.


    MD: We won that match in the end, however. Which made it six wins out of seven since the Kidderminster game, with two cup wins in that period, too. It''s really impressive, Max.


    Max: I like that we''re getting wins against top seven sides. We''re ahead of where I thought we''d be. Okay that''s the reviews of our recent matches. Let''s take a break, have a cup of tea, and when we come back I''ll reassure you about the state of the club and then scare you about what''s coming. Good?


    ***


    J: Just talking to Boggy there reminded me of something the fans loved. You had a bit of a run-in with the BBC.


    Max: I don''t like that framing. I love the BBC. Forget whether you think they''re left or right. Imagine this country without it. This is a third-world country with two world class organisations, the Premier League and the BBC. I''ve been reading about this show they did. Ghostwatch. Did you all see that?


    MD: I remember it. I was 15. I didn''t watch it, I read about it and thought it sounded naff. I regretted it - people talked about it for days.


    J: What was it?


    MD: It was a ghost story, but with famous presenters and broadcast as though it was all live and happening. People were really scared.


    Max: There was a scene early on when they were in the so-called haunted house. They were in the girl''s bedroom where the ghost was most often seen. The presenters were chatting away saying oh well, there''s nothing there now. Except the ghost is right there in front of the curtains. You, the viewer at home, can see it but no-one in the show is reacting to it. That''s genius. They scared the shit out of the whole country and they got five hundred thousand complaints.


    Brig: Five hundred thousand?


    Max: I know, right? I''m obsessed by the whole thing. What other country could do that? You need a national broadcaster willing to do something loads of people are going to hate. You need great actors who can switch from serious to jokey, credulous to sceptical. You need great writers, actors, technology, and people who value television as an art form. We''re so lucky.


    MD: I''m not sure you should take your inspiration from a show that made a lot of people unhappy enough to phone and complain.


    Max: If everyone likes what you''re doing, you''re doing it wrong.


    J: Do you believe that?


    Max: I have to. If we don''t keep pedalling, we''ll fall off the bike.


    J: So you want people to complain about you?


    Max: It''s more that if I do what needs to be done, there will be complaints. There were complaints about Pascal. For example, from you, J.


    J: I''m happy to say I was wrong.


    Max: There were complaints about Youngster.


    J: I''ll hold my hands up.


    Max: People have complained about the Brig, about turning the music off in the stadium, about using Magnus so much, about the Triplets, about me spending time on the women''s team, about not playing a striker against Salford. It''s just endless. If I did something that made everyone instantly happy I think I wouldn''t be able to sleep. I''m not trying to piss you off but if you are pissed off, that seems like a good sign. Someone might look at things you''ve said, J, and think the secret of life is doing the opposite.


    MD: Max.


    J: I''d love to offer a defence against that...


    Max: I think I was saying I loved the BBC. Seriously, without the beeb this country would be uninhabitable. What I said about them wasn''t political, it was wipe your shoes before you come in my house, know what I mean?


    J: Nobody puts Boggy in the corner. We love it when you say things like that; it shows you get the club. But you don''t do it often enough. You''re aloof.


    Max: I''m busy.


    MD: I was interested in my reaction, if I can get pompous again. My first thought was about the money. The financial future of the club.


    Max: Which is right, mate. You''ve got to do that.


    MD: Right, but as J says, it shows you get the club. So how am I opposed to that?


    Max: I should be more diplomatic.


    MD: I didn''t like being on the wrong side of the argument. My first thought should have been for Boggy.


    J: So are we still in the BBC''s bad books?


    MD: No. We weren''t the only small club with grievances about the TV companies. Max opened the floodgates and a lot of club directors added their voices. A lot of accusations of rudeness and staff feeling belittled. I got a call from a lady at the BBC. She clarified that many of the workers are contractors and she would remind them in no uncertain terms that they were guests at clubs.


    Max: She didn''t like being called a dick when she hadn''t done anything wrong.


    J: She hired dicks.


    Max: That''s true.


    MD: She wanted to interview Boggy and do a little piece on him that they''d show before the next round. A peace offering, you might call it.


    Max: But Boggy turned them down. Didn''t you? He''s nodding. I think he''s sex on legs but he''s camera shy. So it was a storm in a teacup and a good result all round.


    Boggy: They''re not showing Chester so it makes no sense to have a piece about me before the match they do show.


    Max: [whispering] Did you know Boggy could talk?


    J: [whispering] No. [normal] Were you disappointed not to be picked for the live coverage? We''re the giant killers. We must have been close.


    Max: Would you have picked us? It''s not a glamour tie, let''s be honest.


    J: Especially if you''re not playing.


    Max: I might wear something glamorous.


    J: Your clobber is really bad.


    Brig: [cough]


    Max: In my former club all the kids were asking their mums for the Max Best hoodies, and the mums were ecstatic because they''re dirt cheap. So I kind of got stuck dressing like this.


    J: Really?


    Max: Yeah. I don''t mind. It''s one less decision to make. If you''re rich enough to laugh at me for how I dress, good for you. If your kid rushes to the cheapest thing in the shop and says ''daddy can I have this?'' I mean... you''re welcome. Shit clobber? It''s not something you can hurt me with. Clobber, trims, drips, who cares? Well, I care about trims. Some of the haircuts in this place are genuinely disgusting. That said, it has been suggested that if I look a bit sexier against Walsall that could help us attract more TV deals in future. I had a look at some fancy suits but I''m undecided so far.


    J: We won''t be live, though.


    Max: No but they still film it all. They show the highlights. Okay, I think I wanted to talk about the state of the club.


    J: Okay, okay. But hold on. While we''re still doing the past. By far the most common questions we got were about the article from your former team.


    Max: Right.


    J: You don''t want...


    Max: I''m kind of done with that. I was done with it before it even happened. What''s the, like, number one question?


    J: Just, sort of, which bits are true? I know you don''t want to talk about it. I think I understand that. Everything I''ve heard says the whole thing was a tissue of lies. So why defend yourself? I get it. But... it''s really the most asked question from the listeners.


    Max: Ask me one specific question and I''ll see how I feel about it.


    J: Let me get...


    Max: Don''t touch that microphone.


    J: You work with people mentioned in the article, like Henri, and, like, what do they think about it all? Not, like, is it real because obviously it isn''t but does it affect your relationships?


    Max: I think it brought some of us closer together. I''d already told Henri everything. I''d told MD almost everything. MD, right, I was all ready for him to tell me off or whatever, but he was clever. He flips it round. He says, we''re here if you need us. If you need someone to talk to we''ll organise it.


    J: Like a therapist?


    Max: I guess. That''s what you meant, right?


    MD: Yes.


    Max: So he''s being all kind and supportive, and that makes me want to tell him point by point my side of it. He''s damned clever, sometimes. If he has time to think about something, he''s great. Anyway, it was immediately clear I didn''t need to worry about being sacked or anything like that. And we could have a proper chat about how the sponsors would react, or the parents of youth team players or whatever. He wanted me to do something like this right away, but I wasn''t into it. Do my talking on the pitch, and by the way, what do their sponsors think? What do their youth team players think? Because who''s looking out for their careers? Seems to be me more than anyone working at that football club. Right? That''s how a parent could read that article. Yeah, my former club shot themselves in the foot big time, because there are tons of people in football who are fucking pissed. Like, proper pissed. The owner of Tranmere wants to withhold payment of the transfer fees until the club issue an apology. A protracted, public legal battle? That is terrifying for them.


    MD: Will he really hold back the money?


    Max: He doesn''t like being mugged off by some lowlife worms. So the worm king better be looking over his shoulder because how can the club apologise until they''ve sacked him and thrown him under the bus? Oh! I''ll say one way the article was effective. The entire thing had one main goal, and that''s to make sure I would never manage that team. And believe me, mission accomplished.


    MD: We hope you''ll stay here, Max.


    Max: Until we lose five games in a row. Then you''ll have binned me off before the final whistle has finished peeping.


    MD: Come on.


    Max: I''m just saying. I know exactly how safe my position is.


    J: Hang on, Max. I don''t want to change the topic just yet. Tell us how you felt when you read the article.


    Max: [blowing air through cheeks] First read through I was thinking, is that it? We knew something like that was coming because people told me they''d been tricked into talking by a worm. I read it again and that time was sort of mathematical. Like, false, false, false, true but spun, false, true and it makes me look good, and so on.


    J: What was true but made you look good?


    Max: Me asking for training to be harder. I mean, come on. Standards. The third time I read it was more from an outsider''s point of view. Like, what''s my girlfriend going to think? What''s MD going to think? The worst part was about the receptionist. She used to blush when I went in and that is the entire story. I''ve had those little crushes myself so I know what it''s like. I kept wondering if her friends were teasing her about it, stuff like that. And I kept wondering how that detail even got included. Like, I remember the first conversation we ever had. I said, ''Hi, I''m Max, I''m here to see David Cutter.'' And she said, ''I''ll get him for you.'' And that was by far the most we ever spoke. So some player, some worm, must have talked to her and she''s gone ''oh what''s Max like?'' or something like that and he''s realised. He''s got jealous and remembered it. It''s so pathetic. But then for the club to read the text and say, yeah, let''s throw her under the bus to make Max look bad...


    MD: The official position of Chester Football Club is that we don''t know of any definitive link between the authorship of the article and the football club in question.


    Brig: It shows the character of the two men involved. Max goes to war for Boggy, risking future TV money, because he can''t abide people treating his staff with anything less than total respect. The other person offers up a young girl as red meat.


    J: I''m getting the sense that behind the scenes, there wasn''t much criticism of Max for all this.


    MD: Criticism of what? The only thing I didn''t like was the manner in which he thought to come to Chester, late on transfer deadline day, out of the blue, so to speak. It''s not a very nice thought but it''s a thought he had when he was not being treated well there, and in the end it didn''t come close to happening.


    Max: See, this is boring. I''m so bored. This is a rubbish conversation. I knew I should have batted away all those questions. It''s not about if I made mistakes or if I could have done things better. It''s about moving forward. It''s about what''s next. If at any point you decide you don''t like what I''ve done, fine. Sack me. Just spare me the mind-numbing, forensic analysis of every word in every sentence, holy shit.


    MD: See what I have to work with? He''s not afraid of being sacked. That''s supposed to be my main weapon against him.


    J: He knows you won''t sack him.


    Max: Lose five games and I''ll be out the door. We all know that. But it doesn''t worry me. I look at all these defensive managers clinging onto their jobs by their fingernails. Maybe I shouldn''t be so harsh because they''re living their dream and they''d do anything for one more day. But I''m not afraid of losing my job in the normal sense, no. Imagine I was free to focus on playing. I''d be earning silly money in no time. Sack me today, I could be on five grand a week before we hit December.


    J: Or you''d go to the club you bought.


    Max: What? Be serious. That''s a hobby. That place is a retirement home for elderly squirrels.


    J: When that news came out it was one of those ''excuse me what'' moments.


    MD: I know the feeling.


    Max: If you want to come down one day, I''ll give you a tour and you can film it and all that. You should forget it exists. I hadn''t planned for any crossover with Chester but I couldn''t shake the idea that it was a great place for one of our young players to get some match experience.


    MD: It is perfect for that. If Max didn''t own the club I wouldn''t have thought twice about the proposal.


    Max: The state of Chester. The youth teams are doing well. We''ve got two groups who are really strong.


    J: People are starting to sit up and take notice of the under 12s.


    Max: Mate, they are mint. The women''s team are obviously having a good go at their league. You can get the main man to come and talk about it in detail. Jackie¡­ is at the wheel, tell me how good¡­ does it feel?


    J: That''s a Man United song.


    Max: I know. I keep trying to make the lyrics fit Chester. One day. Hey, what''s the latest with the Man United takeover?


    MD: Nothing much is happening. The Qataris dropped out and the billionaire from Manchester is in pole position. According to reports, he''ll buy a minority stake but he''ll run the football side.


    Max: It''s so strange. I mean, I saw him there. He was involved with the Qataris.


    MD: Who?


    Max: Huh? What? Nothing. And the Saudi Pro League? That''s still a thing, right?


    J: I suppose. Probably buy loads of players in January again. I don''t really keep track of it.


    Max: Yeah. Billions swilling around all over the place. When we''ve got some of that money, I want to switch the boys to being, like, one group per year. So we''ll have elevens, twelves, thirteens, and so on. We''ll need more coaches, obviously. And physios. I''m overworking them as it is. Then at least two girls sides. Under eighteens as a platform for the first team. And... under sixteens? Not sure. Three would be great. Jackie can choose. Depends if they get promoted. What I''m saying is, things are great, but nowhere near right.


    J: Sounds ambitious.


    Max: No, it''s basic. Okay, so the men''s first team. We''ve got two good goalies, Robbo and Ben. Ben''s good but I want a lot more from him. I think he doesn''t realise how good he can be.


    J: Can we talk about rotation? Everyone says it''s bad. You should have a first-choice goalkeeper. Everyone says that.


    Max: Nah. So that''s the goalies. The defence is good. Steve Alton was a good signing. Very happy with him. Very happy with Carl''s progress. Vimsy''s got them playing as a unit. I need someone else in the rotation, though. I''m under budget on the wages. Did you know that? I want another coach and two signings. I think one has to be a defender.


    J: I didn''t expect transfer talk.


    MD: Me neither.


    J: People always love sending in questions about transfers.


    Max: It might have to be a loan signing. I don''t like doing loans but we need cover. Centre back who can cover at full back, ideally.


    J: Why don''t you like loans?


    Max: We''re developing someone else''s players.


    J: But if it gets us wins...


    Max: Yeah. But we should have caught Vivek when he was twelve. If we had, he''d be getting first team minutes already. And because I''ve been training twice a day, I haven''t been scouting as much. See what I mean? There''s a cost to everything. I think I was right to work on myself to the extent I did because there are games when I can help the team. But I remember last January thinking we really need to build up the eighteens and it hasn''t happened.


    MD: For obvious reasons. No-one''s mad at you.


    Max: I''m just giving the fans an idea of the trade-offs.


    J: You need to delegate more.


    Max: Yeah. Remember you said that. Boggy, clip that bit out and send it to me so that when I start delegating more he can''t get mad at me.


    J: I''m suddenly very nervous.


    Max: Yeah. We got Jackie in, by the way, call that delegation if you want, except he''s better than me. And we got a scout. She''s part time but we''re building up to taking her on full time.


    MD: She''s one of the parents Max got into a fight with on his first day here.


    Max: It wasn''t a fight. It was a polite disagreement. It always stuck with me how switched on she was. She''s really helping me, now. I''d love to send her around non league looking for players but for now I''ve got her scouting our next opponents. She''s so good. Okay. Goalies good. Defence good but one addition, please.


    J: Are you talking to MD, there?


    Max: No because he always says there''s no money. If I wanted to bring in another defender I''d go on a fan podcast, get them excited about the idea, and let them pressure him.


    MD: [sigh]


    J: Have you got anyone in mind?


    Max: As a defender to come in? There are names but I''ll look into that more in December. Closer to the transfer window, our phones will start ringing. We need to be nimble. Ready to move. Moving onto the midfield. That''s our greatest strength, I think. Ryan was a great signing. Aff and Sam are absolutely killing it in training.


    J: Why is that?


    Max: What do you mean?


    J: What''s changed in training to make them so much better?


    Max: Nothing in particular. We do a few things slightly different - we''ll put Trick, Aff, and Raffi in one drill so they get used to playing with each other. Really trying to get our partnerships and triangles going. It''s more work for Vimsy but those on-pitch partnerships are one thing I insist on. No, I''d say most of the improvement is about mindset and giving them breaks. If I tell Aff he''s not playing on Saturday, he can train hard for four days and still end the week fresher than before. Do you know what I mean? I told them my priority was training and they''re into it.


    J: And Raffi''s really kicked on.


    Max: Did you know we had a bid for him? Some cheeky twats faxed us a transfer bid. My first one as a manager. I''d have framed it if it didn''t make me sick.


    J: How much was it?


    Max: Like, five percent of what he''s worth. Really annoying. I''m going to smash that team when I''m back to full fitness. Cheeky twats.


    J: You looked back to full fitness against your former team.


    Max: Nah. That was anger. That was a one-off. I''m stuck. I''ve hit a wall.


    J: Don''t be so hard on yourself. You nearly died.


    Max: It''s not that. I''m... just stuck. I don''t need to play every game, and don''t really like playing DM anyway. I could go most of the season without playing, I reckon. But I like the idea that I can come on and inject some pace and purpose and all that. Or if some team is really cheaty, I can go on and punish them. But then I need to be a lot better than I am. Like, genuinely, I wouldn''t pick myself for right midfield. We''ve got Joe and D-Day who offer something different, crossing or dribbling. I can''t do either.


    J: It''ll come back. Don''t rush it.


    Max: I might have to get weird with it. We''ll see. Right, so, the midfield is pretty good.


    J: Hang on. Can we talk about this transfer bid for Raffi?


    MD: No.


    Max: Yes. What''s your question?


    J: Well, how much would you accept?


    Max: We''re not selling this January. There''s no amount of money that could make me part with any players.


    MD: Raffi has a release clause that Max put into his deal.


    J: See, that''s weird, isn''t it? Sorry, Max, but that''s weird.


    Max: I wasn''t the manager then. You knew I was Raffi''s agent when you offered me the job. It''s a bit late to say it''s weird.


    J: No, I get that but if there''s a deal that''s good for you but bad for the club, or good for Raffi but bad for you, or whatever. It''s a mess.


    Max: Our interests are aligned. In summer a club will pay his release clause and his career will kick onto the next level. Him leaving this January would be bad for him, long term.


    J: If he moves this January you''ll get some more cash. You, personally.


    Max: If there''s a club that makes an offer where I think, hey, this could be good for him, I''ll consider it. The next step is, is that transfer fee enough for Chester? If those two things are right, there could be a deal. But he''s got to play. He''s got to develop. I think six more months here is the best place for him. I''d like a new car. I''d like to take my girlfriend on holiday. But when it comes to Raffi, my priority is Raffi. If we give him everything he needs to grow as a player, the money will come to everyone, won''t it?


    Brig: The conflict would be if a club offered an amount of money that made MD want to bite their hand off, but that Max felt was far short of the level.


    J: How much?


    Brig: [sound of pen on paper] MD?


    MD: God, yes. I''d take that in a heartbeat.


    Brig: Max?


    Max: No. No chance.


    MD: Are you kidding?


    Max: That''s half price. You know that.


    J: How much is it? What does it say?


    Brig: That''s classified. The amusing thing is, they are both right. It''s an amount of money that would very much help the club. But if the club is patient, it will get the amount Max wants.


    MD: You don''t know that.


    Brig: Max knows best.


    J: Can you say what the release clause is, maybe? That''d be good to know.


    MD: Your call, Max.


    Max: What''s your advice?


    MD: I think you can say it but we''ll never get that much.


    Max: It''s eight hundred thousand.


    J: [low whistle] For a non-league player? That''s... optimistic.


    Max: Have you seen Raffi play?


    J: But... How much was Jamie Vardy?


    MD: A million. But that was ten years ago. A million then is like two million now. Eight hundred isn''t... completely out of the question.


    Max: Eight hundred grand is nothing for a player of Raffi''s potential. In the summer, we''ll get that, or as close as makes no odds.


    MD: Or we''ll get nothing if he leaves the following summer.


    J: [pause] Maybe take the money?


    MD: Don''t say that. You can''t tell him what to do. He''s stubborn.


    J: Oh. What about Henri? He''s still on a month-to-month deal, right?


    Max: The idea there was to explore our options and see what was best for him. I - as a friend - wanted him to go to League Two.


    J: To Tranmere.


    Max: To anyone. He''s at a stage where he needs to be playing at that level. But he loves it here. He loves the football, the fans, the city, and he wants to stay. People in football undervalue happiness. He''s happy. So I''ve been thinking, can we get to a level where it''s fair that he stays here? And I think we can. So he wants to stay and he''ll help us get there. It''s perfect.


    J: So why doesn''t he sign a contract?


    Max: He doesn''t need one. If I say he can stay, he can stay, and if he says he''ll stay, then he''ll stay. As it happens, we decided it''ll be better for him in terms of insurance and work permits and all that if he signs something. So we''re looking at a two-year deal.


    MD: What?


    Max: Oh, sorry J. This is subject to approval from MD.


    MD: I''m delighted, of course I am. He''s a wonderful player and a great person. But why didn''t you tell us?


    Max: I forgot. What''s the hurry? Everyone needs to relax. Jeez.


    J: Bit of a podcast exclusive! I''m made up, me. He''s brilliant, he is. Brilliant.


    Max: And Tony''s a good backup slash second striker. But we are short in the forward lines. Aren''t we, MD?


    MD: Oh, God. You''ve set this up. Got us all happy about Henri and now you''re going to ask for money.


    Max: You know this one. We talked about it.


    MD: Oh, him. Yes, we''ve been exploring an option in the forward areas of the pitch. But as I told Max, it''s too expensive. We''ve made a ridiculous offer and we''ve been turned down. It''s not going to happen, Max.


    J: Who is it?


    Max: Sorry, bro, can''t name names. Let''s just say I have an idea for a signing that will shock a lot of people. We''d have to overpay, big time, but it''d be worth it.


    J: Have we got a transfer budget?


    Max: Not really, but the TV money will help. If we beat Walsall, yeah, I''ll be able to bring in three players no problem. But if not, do you want me spending to make sure we win the title?


    J: Yes.


    Boggy: Yes!


    MD: Max, don''t do this.


    Max: Okay, this player would be epic. But I promised we wouldn''t have to do another Boost the Budget. Things are on the up financially but it''d be strange to blow a load of money on a certain player and then say, lads, lend us a fiver.


    J: Win us the league and we won''t mind. Seriously.


    Max: Listen, what happened when I was in hospital was really special for me. You lot pulled together, didn''t you? You did something. You raised loads of money when inflation was running wild and your bills were going mental. I know for a fact some fans went without heating so they could send money to the club. No, it''s not that easy. The player I want would be an extravagance like you couldn''t believe.


    J: I don''t know who it is but I want him. Do it, MD!


    MD: When Max mentioned the player I thought he was joking. It''s the least Max player of all time. But the more I think about it, the more I can''t stop thinking about it. I like a lot of things about our manager, but I think my favourite is that he''s not stuck to some abstract philosophy. I see you getting excited. Max, can you put a stop to this, please? You know the numbers don''t work.


    Max: I''m not ready to give up, yet. I had an idea. I told you that I had three problems, J. One is solved by that player. I mean, it''s that simple. MD is right to worry about the money but if we''re flexible... Okay. That''s the first team. We need two more players in January. MD, do you agree with that?


    MD: Based on the fixture list, yes.


    Max: J, do you have any questions about the team?


    J: Trick Williams.


    Max: Good player. Having a bit of a purple patch. I think he could have a big December.


    J: I wasn''t at the games but some people said you played him left wing and Aff at left back.


    Max: They''re both flexible players. Sometimes we try things.


    J: And you get on well with him.


    Max: I got on with him about as well as I get on with you, J.


    J: I know I said some things I shouldn''t of, but -


    Max: Near the beginning of the season, few matches in, I said to Trick, look. You''re off the levels you were showing last season. Sort it out. I''m sure it''s not nice to hear that, and it''s worse if it''s coming from a weirdo teen-man. But two weeks later, he was back on it. Do you know what I mean? There are players I get on with more naturally who aren''t back to their best, and it''s nearly Christmas. Do I sit next to Trick on the team bus swapping Panini stickers? No. Do we go on long walks looking for four-leaf clovers and putting daisy chains in each other''s hair? Not very often. So what? He''s a consistent player who does what I say.


    J: You like consistency and obedience.


    Max: Course I do.


    J: What''s your management style?


    Max: Oh, shit. Er... I''m making it up as I go along. I''m just trying to do it how I''d want it done. Yeah, bit of fun, few laughs, but you''ve got to graft. And they''ve got to improve. All of them. I try to make it so that players are allowed to ask questions and give ideas. Henri likes that, and the other players have learned it''s all right to say they don''t understand or don''t know what to do and whatever. Like, there''s twenty of us in that room, so someone has an idea. Know what I mean?


    J: Not really.


    Max: And I look at other managers and they''re ranting and raving trying to hype their players up. Okay, but we''re running riot in the middle of the pitch and it''s your job to notice that. Basically, what I''m saying is I do my main job and that''s putting players in the right positions and telling them what I want them to do. If I then make some mistakes about how I talk to them or forget that they''ve got wives and families and all that, we can sort that out pretty calmly.


    J: You forget they have wives?


    Max: We train Monday morning. Near the end I have a genius idea and I''m like, top, come in tomorrow afternoon so we can practice. Someone - Glenn, normally - sighs and says, great, Max, are you going to book us a new hospital appointment? And I''m like oh, right, real life. Fine. You know, if we were losing matches that kind of thing would fester, but because they know I''m good at the main thing, they tolerate some other stuff. I mean, all they have to do is remind me and that''s the end of it. It''s not like I''m making promises to players about days off and changing my mind at the last minute like other managers do. And we do extra training, it''s just a case of planning it. We can''t be as spontaneous as if everyone was twenty-three and had complete control of their timetable. Brig, what do you think about my management style?


    Brig: They will write books about it.


    Max: Who? Comedians?


    Brig: You get better every day, sir.


    Max: Hmm. Next topic! The future. Let''s say our goal is to win the league this year.


    J: Is it?


    Max: Yes. What could stop us doing that? At the moment, we''re in good shape. We''re second, three points behind Kiddies with a game in hand.


    J: And a massive goal difference.


    Max: That''s not going to come into it. If we''re level with any team we''ll smash them on goal difference. And if we get this player I want...


    J: Right, you''ve really hyped me up about that. But that was deliberate, wasn''t it? So you can get the money.


    Max: Yep. You''ll agree it''s a good signing but you''ll baulk at the cost. There are, I think, three crazy things I want to do this season. Three things you''ll lose your minds over. One will be that deal, if we can arrange it. The other club is absolutely not interested, as MD said, and what we''ve offered is already bonkers. There''s a number where they have to go with it. Can you stomach it? I''m sort of softening you up, I''ll admit. Ten years from now I''m pretty sure you''ll think wow, that was fun. But when you hear the numbers, holy shit. That''s your money. I know that.


    J: And the other two things?


    Max: [pause] Three crazy solutions to three serious problems. One can be solved with cash. That''s the player. The other two need some imagination. I''m not sure which one will wind you up the most.


    MD: I don''t like the turn this podcast has taken.


    J: You don''t know about this?


    MD: No.


    Max: The thing is, do you trust me or not? Do you think I''m doing a good job? I only know one way to do it, and that''s my way. Is it insane? No. It''s totally logical. To me. But anyway, I can''t do it the way you would do it, or the way Boggy would do it. Because that to me would be wrong. So one of the two things, you won''t like it, but you need to get over that as quickly as possible.


    J: But what is it?


    Max: It''s... a new member of staff. I can''t say more because I haven''t got it sewn up yet. I think it could be a Jackie Reaper level of signing, and it will be such a massive relief for me as a person. Just in terms of my schedule, my peace of mind. We absolutely need this person and I think it will happen.


    J: But we won''t like it?


    Max: MD won''t like it for about three seconds and then he''ll see the upside. Probably. You''ll need longer. Remember to breathe. It''ll all be okay.


    J: And the third thing?


    Max: Yeah. That''ll infuriate you. I can imagine you''ll never be as angry about anything as you are about that. But I have to do it. For me and for the club.


    J: When''s this bomb going to drop?


    Max: It''s not a bomb. It might look like a bomb, but it''s really a rainbow. The thing is, one of the reasons I wanted to do this podcast was because it all ties in. If you think I''m a parasite and a villain, you''re going to spin everything I ever do into the worst possible light. If you can step back and think, ''this looks selfish but I can see how this benefits Chester long-term'' then we''ll be all right.


    MD: I''m worried.


    Max: Check this out. Kidderminster play three of the top six in December. If they win them all, fair play. But they''re going to drop a few points somewhere, and then we''ll be number one for Christmas.


    J: Christmas number one.


    Max: Possibly Boxing Day number one, but you know what I mean. Everything I''ve done so far has been all right, hasn''t it? I''ve taken some big swings. Pascal, Youngster, Magnus. Different formations, rotating the goalies, fake Jackies, real Jackies. Cup runs, new sponsors. I think I''ve earned a bit of leeway to get a bit weird. Don''t you?


    J: [long pause] Max Best, thanks for coming on Deva Victrix. I enjoyed it; let''s do it again some time.

 6.6 - Assists

    6.


    Football glossary: assist. The pass that leads to a goal.


    ***


    From Chester Online, Monday, 27 November


    It''s Sandra Who?


    Confusion and Questions as Chester Unveil SECOND Assistant Manager


    Chester FC have announced the identity of their new assistant manager - and it''s a woman. Sandra Lane, 36, had previously been working with girl''s teams in the Manchester City academy system.


    At a press conference held this evening, an unusually happy and talkative Max Best believed he had secured a coup. "Sandra is three things. She''s top. She''s class. And she''s mint. Getting her to leave one of the most desirable positions in world football was not easy, but in the end she found the idea of working with me irresistible. I am buzzing. Absolutely buzzing. I feel like I just signed Messi. No pressure on Sandra, but she''s better than Messi. No, that''s crazy; cut that. She''s better than Pep. Ah, no, cut that, too. She''s better than two hundred other coaches, I can say that for sure."


    When asked about the challenges of working with men, Best laughed. "I think you''re coming at this from totally the wrong angle. She doesn''t have to prove herself to this mob. They have to prove themselves to her. We employ three people who have worked for a Premier League club. Sandra Lane is one of them. If I was one of the players - and guess what, I am - I''d be buzzing. She''s an elite coach. I think she can help me get closer to my old levels and that''s worth the wages alone. She''s also great on tactics. Oh, man! I feel like going hang gliding or something. Where''s the nearest aerodrome?"


    "I''m very happy to be here," said Miss Lane. "Max challenged me to step outside my comfort zone and I''m really looking forward to getting started. I was unsure at first, I must confess, but he wouldn''t give up. Frankly I haven''t been pursued this hard since I was an extra in a zombie movie."


    Initial reaction on OhNo!, formerly known as Twitter, was positive.


    A user named Cliff Daps wrote: "Getting a coach from Man City is like buying land where you know there''s going to be a new tram line. It''s so clever it almost shouldn''t be allowed."


    Chester coach Spectrum was quick to add his thoughts. "Max has done it again! Such a positive development. How on earth has he managed that?"


    Well-known fan J, who hosts a popular Seals podcast, wrote, "Absolutely bonkers but you know what? I say give her a chance. He''s obviously planning to let her manage a couple of matches so he can take a break and if we want to win the league we have to back the team extra hard those days. It''s as simple as that, really."


    Not everyone was so keen. There were plenty of confused faces outside the Liverpool FC shop in Chester.


    "It''s awfully strange," said Regina Dwight, 57. "I thought they had that army fella as assistant. He''s awfully handsome. What''s his role, now?"


    "How much are they paying her?" grumbled Eric Bishop, 55. "Man City wages in the sixth tier? He''ll be the ruin of us all, that man. Mind you, if she can remind Youngster of the way he''s supposed to be passing, she''ll be well worth the dough."


    "More Max Best chaos," said John Stephens, 53. "He''s had a couple of weeks where everything''s been smooth sailing so now he wants to muddy the waters. He''s always up to something. He''s like a naughty toddler. If it''s too quiet in the other room you have to go and check on him. How can you have two assistant managers?"


    Max Best himself appeared surprised when the question was put to him. "Of course I need two assistant managers. John Smith manages my assistance and Sandra assists me by managing. What''s the confusion?"


    Time will tell if this latest move is fruitful or folly.


    ***


    Tuesday, 28 November


    We got the lads into the meeting room before training, along with the physios and coaches. MD popped in for the big moment. Jackie had dragged himself out of bed before 11:15 (when Bargain Hunt starts on BBC One) for the first time in months, which says everything about the level of interest.


    The guys sat on the cheap plastic chairs very much like schoolboys, with the staff leaning on the wall to the right. Jackie took a position to the left, near the front. Sandra hovered nervously and awkwardly behind me. Where would she end up in this little jigsaw puzzle of ours? Probably where Jackie was, I reckoned. From there, she''d be able to chime in on football matters, but wouldn''t be the focus.


    "Okay, shut your gobs," I said. "We''re here to meet our newest member of staff. Everyone paying attention? I''ve got us a class gerbil. He''s called Nibbles. Midfielders, I want you to get together and organise yourselves so that you feed him every day. Strikers, change the water. Defenders, you clean the tray. Goalies, bedtime stories."


    "What''s a gerbil?" said Pascal.


    Magnus spoke. "It''s a cute little pet often used in schools to teach children about caring for animals. Max is making a joke about how we have a new teacher."


    I gave him a Maxy two-finger guns. Some memory threatened to come into focus. To Sandra I said, "You were a teacher, right?"


    "Yes," she croaked, and I was reminded of how nerve-wracking these situations could be. I was also reminded of how little interest I''d shown in her other than what she could do on and around a football pitch.


    "Okay, playtime''s over. Let''s get serious. I''ve hired Sandra. She''s a top coach and I am very, very smug that I''ve been able to pull this off. And let''s cut the crap - if I came here saying I''d nabbed one of Man City''s coaches and his name was Sandro, you''d all be buzzing. Wouldn''t you?" That hit home. "Good. Here''s the plan. She''s going to settle in. Take it slow. She has to get to know you as players, so there''s a solid fifteen minutes of hard graft. Then she wants to get to know you as people. And some of you have... Henri, what was that phrase?"


    "Rich inner lives."


    "Right. Some of you have rich inner lives. Some of you have bankrupt inner lives, but that''s fine. She''ll get to know you, you''ll get to know her, and boom, you''ll realise our season just got afterburners. What I''d like, I suppose, is for everyone to be supportive, especially in the first weeks while Sandra''s moving house and there''s this media interest. Be chill. Relax. Come with an open mind."


    "Can we ask questions?" said Glenn.


    "In a bit. Here''s why I''ve been, what did you say, pursuing? Here''s why I''ve been courting Sandra. She''s an elite technical coach. She''s a floating tactical megabrain of Max Bestian proportions. And she''s brave."


    Jackie spoke up. "I was Max''s assistant when we played against Sandra''s team and I remember thinking, I want someone to look at me the way Max looks at Sandra."


    Sandra looked down - I don''t think she was used to this lavish praise. "Mate," I said to Jackie. "I''m doing a team meeting for the men. The manager of the women''s team shouldn''t be talking."


    "We''re the same level in the hierarchy," he said.


    "We''re the same level when I''m the men''s manager, but I''m also above you when I''m DoF, and below you when I''m a player. That means I envelop you."


    Jackie simply kept smiling. "Okay, Max."


    "I''m just saying that I don''t go round interrupting your team meetings."


    "No, no. You''d never do dat." Some chuckles from the lads.


    "Sandra. Couple of words?"


    She cleared her throat. "Hi, everyone." She inhaled. "I''m dead nervous. This is weird." There were chuckles up and down the room. Me and Jackie fake-bickering with each other had helped everyone relax. "As you know, I''ve been coaching at City. Really enjoyed it. Done my badges up to UEFA A. All with the girls, of course. I''ve never coached men." She gave the room a worried look.


    I laughed. "Am I the only one who thinks that''s an advantage? If you can manage twenty teenage girls you can cope with these guys. They''re a load of gerbils. What about your background?"


    "Well, I''m from Manchester." Her eyes flickered, wondering if being from the world''s greatest city would perhaps not go down well. The players didn''t have time to react, though, because I burst into applause and Youngster, Raffi, and the two Triplets followed. "Okay. Ha. As Max guessed, I taught Sports and Exercise Science in college. Um... I''m single - it''s complicated - I like dogs, Netflix, beach holidays. Er... look, I just like football." She thought it was a lame finish, but it was fucking perfect. Right in the top corner.


    "Max?" said Glenn.


    "Go for it."


    "I''m asking all the questions from the group so you don''t get mad at anyone in particular."


    "Oh, much better that I get mad at everyone. Yeah."


    "Sandra, what do you want us to call you?"


    "Sandra?" she said.


    "Like, we call Max boss or gaffer. The Brig calls him sir. Some of the lads were thinking we could call you Miss but we don''t..."


    "Miss? Like in school?" She had a quick think. "Why not?"


    "What''s the difference between you and the Brig?"


    "That''s a question for me, I think." I pointed. "Brig''s fitness, conditioning, standards. Sandra''s football. Technical stuff. Passing, formations. If you have a question about beating the press, Sandra. If you need someone to scream in your face from five inches away, Brig. All good?" I switched to an annoyingly sarcastic voice. "Now, if you have any special boy problems that you don''t feel comfortable talking to a woman about, you can talk to the Brig or Vimsy. All right?"


    Glenn ignored the last part. "How did you meet Max?"


    "I was coaching the under sixteens. On Friday nights we used to play seven-a-side indoors. We did passing drills, movement. The score wasn''t that important; it was all about player development and getting experience against real people in real situations. One day, Max turns up. He was... courting... one of the players from Manchester Metropolitan University."


    "Whoa! You don''t know that."


    "You were," said Youngster.


    Argh. I forgot he was there at that time. I shrugged. "I was merely interested in women''s football. I might have spent more time with one of the women than the rest but that''s because she was the organiser and, I have to say, quite knowledgeable about the growth of the sport and its standout characters. It''s a big leap to infer any sort of relationship from that."


    "You kissed her full on the mouth in front of everyone," said Jackie, the traitor.


    "That was before kissing women full on the mouth without consent was considered bad. Can we please get on with the story?"


    Sandra nodded. "Max was there to watch his girlfriend, sitting on the benches at the back, and suddenly he''s on his feet, managing the team. It happens, sometimes. A guy gets it into his head he''s the next Pep Guardiola and it''s only women so how hard could it be?" She shook her head with a wry smile. "It was different with Max. It was like there were invisible tendrils all over the pitch. Our moves stopped working. It was strange."


    "Wait," said Steve Alton. "He just made himself the manager from one second to the next? Bossing them around?"


    "Yeah. The referee complained. Said he couldn''t manage because he hadn''t filled in the forms, so he said he was the nutritionist."


    "Max was telling them the best place to get pork," said Trick, which a lot of people found very funny. The intensity of my glare meant Trick was the first to stop laughing.


    Sandra didn''t know Trick was the 1970s reborn. I planned to spend plenty of time telling her about the squad and wondered if I should start with Trick to get an unpleasant task out of the way, or save him till last like a treat. For now, she continued her tale. "We played twice and the second match was the only defeat we ever had. Four-nil. Their goalie scored twice but it looked meant. They battered us on counters. That''s when I met Max. And Jackie, though Jackie wasn''t jumping around singing songs about himself. A couple of weeks later Max appeared at a City match on crutches, battered and bruised, high on painkillers, and he did my half-time team talk and tried to give me a player for my team. I haven''t been able to get rid of him ever since. And now I''m here."


    "Let me tell you a couple of things from those times," I said. "As I said, Sandra was a brave manager. Fearless. She played with no centre backs for a few minutes in response to one of my changes. It''s easier with rolling subs but she made more in-game changes than any manager I''ve played against, and she spotted my changes fast. Her players improved noticeably in the weeks between our two games. Those attributes alone would get her in this room. But what I liked most was that when we won, she got the match ball and gave it to our goalkeeper, and instead of shouting at me about my dirty tricks, she thanked me for pushing her players and giving them a wake-up call. She''s got the perfect mentality - train hard, play hard, win and lose with class. When I''m throwing tantrums and refusing to shake hands with twats, Sandra will be representing Chester with grace and dignity."


    Pascal put his hand up. "What''s your favourite formation?"


    "4-2-3-1," said Sandra. "Switching to 4-2-2-2." Pascal and Youngster looked at each other and their eyebrows shot up. They were biiiig fans of that answer, the nerds.


    "We won''t be using a double pivot," I said, before they got too excited. Football hipsters often called defensive midfielders ''pivots'' because they were the point that all the passing moves went through. "We have two DMs who can do the job of, well, two DMs. So we only need one."


    "We do?" said Sandra, wondering which players could do the job of two.


    "Youngster. Or me."


    "I''ve seen Youngster play. There are times he could use support."


    "That''s just because he''s learning. He can do it on his own."


    "What if he goes forward to join an attack? We''re left with nothing."


    "So? Either an opponent tracks him, so they have one fewer in their transition, or he''s left to roam in which case we have a high-probability chance of a goal."


    "It''s very risky."


    "No risk no fun."


    "Pep likes a double pivot."


    "Pep is a hack."


    "You promised to stop bad-mouthing City."


    "Seriously, though. I would smash him at non-league level."


    "Sorry, Miss," said Trick. Invoking the name of His Holiness Pep G the First had made him realise exactly how far Sandra had dropped. "Why have you come here?"


    "Er... Max persuaded me." She scratched her head. "I''m not sure how." Good laugh on that. "Charlotte said I''d love it."


    "I''ll do this one," I said, and something in my tone made everyone prepare for an extended rant. "There are ninety-two teams in the football league, and at least ninety are owned by what we might call penis people. The weird thing about penis people is that they get scared when they meet someone who doesn''t have one. They like to appoint managers who have dangly bits. There are precisely two female managers whose achievements in the women''s game are so enormous that I think they''d get jobs managing a men''s team at a pretty big club. Sandra would have no chance. Zero. She wouldn''t even get an interview. It''s nice being part of the Man City industrial complex, but if you''re ambitious, how far can you go? She''d have to be unbelievable to end up as the women''s team manager. You with me? Now check this out. Loophoooole. The loophole is me. Me? I don''t give a shit who you are. If you can improve my players I''ll drive to Manchester three times a week for a month to sell you on my vision. What I''ve offered Sandra is the chance to manage some games. As it happens, I desperately need a break, so I''m more than happy. And to be honest, there are plenty of matches now where the fake Jackies could stand on the sideline and get wins on their CV. And what if we''ve got a big match coming up and I want to scout that team? If they''re in this division, we almost always play on the same days so I can''t. Well, now that Sandra''s here, I can. By the end of next season, Sandra will have been the manager for ten wins in men''s football. That''s ten more than any other woman in this country. With that on her CV, she''ll be the first name that comes up when there''s any managerial vacancy in the Women''s Super League, and I can imagine there will be a few progressive clubs who''d consider her for the men''s team. You with me?"


    "You''ll only give her the easy matches, then?" said Glenn.


    "No. She''s mint. She''s miles above any other manager in this league - er, one exception - and there isn''t a single doubt in my mind that she''ll be able to step in. Holy shit, guys, it''s such a relief to me. Such a relief. So that''s the deal. Do you get it? She''s going to coach the shit out of you, help you achieve your goals. And in return, we''re all, collectively, going to help Sandra achieve her goals."


    "Sir," said the Brig. I checked the time. We needed to get onto the training pitch.


    "Okay, that''s it. Any other questions you have you can write them down and put them in the nearest bin. Just get the fuck on with it. One thing, though. In the next weeks we''ll be playing the usual 4-1-4-1 and 3-5-2 in matches, but I''ve got a new formation for you to work on in training. 4-4-1. Henri, I need you to train like a support striker. Lots of sideways movements, making triangles with the left and right mids. Okay, get changed and out on pitch 1 in five. Big game tonight!"


    They filed out, with a few of the men coming over to shake Sandra''s hand or fist bump her. When the last players had gone, MD came over. "4-4-1, Max?"


    "Yep."


    "That''s er... that formation''s Pep approved, is it?"


    Sandra smiled. "The only thing I don''t understand is why none of the players commented on it."


    Jackie gave her a pat on the back. "Because it''s a madhouse. Welcome to Chester."


    ***


    I watched as Vimsy, the Brig, and Jude took training. I asked Sandra to supervise. It was only a light session because we had a match that evening, but it was good to see that her attributes hadn''t changed when she''d been put in charge of men. I had thought there was a slight, tiny possibility that the curse would reassess her skills based on working with penis people instead of women. But nope - she was who she was and that meant my pool of potential employees was double any other manager''s.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Sandra Lane</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>4</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>17</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>4-2-3-1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Her coaching outfield players score was really high - surely high enough to raise our ceiling and to be a kick up the arse to Youngster, Pascal, and the Triplets. And her tactics score had given me confidence that she''d be able to run matches without me. Would I have given her the men''s team job if I was sticking to being a Director of Football? I mean, I''d have preferred Jackie but she was a legitimate contender. She wouldn''t do well in a club where she had to make decisions about transfers, but with me giving her talented players, she''d smash it.


    She''d agreed to come cheap - 500 a week for the rest of this season, which would double next year. The Brig''s salary would at least double, too, and I planned to double my own salary. That was all needed, especially my bit, but I was already mentally burning next year''s increased, tier five budget. Hopefully Sandra would improve the squad the way I expected and we''d be able to nail down promotion, start selling players, and get their replacements up to speed.


    There was the small issue of the twin assistants thing. Even as I watched, Sandra stepped forward to offer some instruction, but then stopped herself and looked to the Brig for ''permission''. That particular moment of awkwardness was met with good-natured smiles, but I''d have to keep an eye on it. Make sure they were both happy and both doing what they were best at.


    As happy as I was, anxiety was starting to bubble up. The better I kept my end of the deal and gave Sandra an impressive CV, the sooner she''d get poached by a bigger club and I''d be back to square one. I knew I shouldn''t worry about it, but I also knew that I should.


    She''d only been at the club for ten minutes and I was thinking about how I could possibly replace her.


    ***


    Cheshire Senior Cup Second Round: Cheadle Town versus Chester


    We had been drawn to play away in Cheadle, which was pretty funny, really. Cheadle is right next to Didsbury, and Cheadle Town actually played in the same division as West.


    "Basically a home game for us, isn''t it?" I told Sandra on the team bus.


    "I guess," she said, trying to smile. She was really nervous. It struck me, then. Did I have another Jackie situation on my hands? Would every super coach I hired flame out in some way?


    I gave her some space while I thought about some other things. The Brig had asked me for three thousand pounds in cash. I took it to mean things were moving apace in the manhunt. Great.


    We''d had another bid for Raffi Brown. Second bid from the same team. I''d instructed Secretary Joe not to reply to the offer of 50,000, but I suppose he must have done, in secret, because they came back offering 70. Seventy grand for a player of that quality? Maddening. 400K was the minimum, and that would only be a consideration if I wasn''t his agent. But I was. I''d talked to him and he assured me he was happy at Chester and happy for me to keep thinking about his long-term career. So there. Stick your seventy grand where the sun shineth not.


    I checked the job vacancies screen - ten of the 72 managers in the EFL - the three leagues below the Premier League - had been sacked and not yet replaced. Ten clubs looking for managers! Some good clubs, there, too. I noted, unhappily, that James O''Rourke at Tranmere was listed as ''slightly insecure''. I couldn''t really blame Mateo - Tranmere were flirting with relegation. I just hoped James got a full season. He''d never had a full season as a manager. After all he''d done for me when I was recovering, I sincerely wished him the best.


    This game against Cheadle, then. It''d be a cakewalk. Pretty boring, really. But it would feature one enormous personal milestone - I would pay off my God Save the King debt at last!


    With all the matches I''d been managing, plus using free Sundays to watch Man City women (and seduce Sandra), plus the women''s teams from Blackburn and Sheffield United, I''d smashed past the three thousand I needed to buy Parasight. Now I''d be able to see agents like I could see players and coaches, and the ten percent being siphoned off my XP income would soon be a thing of the past.


    XP balance: 1,180


    Debt repaid: 2,966/3000


    Thinking about XP made me think of the ways in which I had an unfair advantage over Sandra. This match would be a good chance to review those, while teaching her about the players and what I wanted from her when I was away.


    ***


    The match kicked off and I repeated what I''d told her in front of the Brig, but with more detail. When the Brig was my on-pitch assistant, I could do all kinds of crazy shit, like control players telepathically, and he wouldn''t notice. Sandra would, which meant I had to explain my thought processes more, and cook up a plausible explanation about why players were switching positions so fluidly. I felt the benefits of her coaching plus getting pushback on my ideas outweighed the infinitesimal risk she''d think I was actually telepathic.


    "Okay, Cheadle Town. Pretty much as weak a team as you''re ever going to be involved with." Average CA 8.


    "Except the Met Heads."


    "Relatively speaking, the Met Heads were much closer to your girls. Okay, so we''re doing 4-1-4-1. I lied when I told that lot it was the best formation for this match. I''d have done 3-5-2 if I wanted to run up the score."


    "You wanted me to get familiar with it."


    "Right. Keep an eye on Youngster. He sets our tempo. I divide players - mentally, this is private - into bronze, silver, gold, and platinum. This lineup today is really weak, but it''s still about as strong as Chester when I started." Our average CA for the day was 40.8. "I''m pretty proud of that."


    "I was impressed by training. They work hard."


    "I told them I was judging them more on what they did in training than in matches. Ben''s in goal. He had a bad match but he''s back in contention for the number one jersey. He and Robbo are both silvers, but Ben can go platinum."


    "I might write this down. Don''t worry, I''ll be subtle."


    She got her notebook and made some squiggles. "Okay," I said, scanning our back four. "Trick is a low bronze. He''s got a decent left foot but obviously I''m looking to upgrade there in a big way. We have a good left back but he''s sixteen. When you''re settled I might let him train with the first team. See what you think. See what we can do to fast track him."


    "Okay."


    "Centre backs. Steve Alton is a low silver. Gerald May is a high bronze. Right back today is an experiment. Andrew Harrison''s a midfielder but I reckon he could play right back in more games like these. It lets me rest Carl and will be a bit of a shock to Andrew''s system. I learned from you that giving minutes is crucial for development."


    She smiled, then returned to her notebook. "Carl''s gold? Silver?"


    "Gold. He''s almost as good as Glenn, now. I reckon we focus on this eleven so you don''t get overwhelmed. DM today is Magnus. Silver. Seems to improve slowly but surely. I don''t know his limit. He''s a strange one. In midfield we''ve got D-Day left, Pascal right. Both high bronze. Pascal you know has a high ceiling. We''ve got to give him minutes to develop without wasting him on shitty pitches. Let me worry about when he plays. I think I know what I''m doing, there. There''s Ryan. He''s class. Platinum. I''ll give him the first half. Sam''s gold."


    "Only gold?"


    "Yep. High gold. He''s near his limit but he''s fantastic. You''ll love working with him."


    "And Tony''s up front on his own." She added a sceptical twist to her tone. Tony lacked any outstanding qualities.


    "He''s silver. Perfectly fine for this season."


    She nodded as she finished her note-taking. "Five bronze, four silver, one gold, one platinum."


    We watched in silence for a while. Ryan was running the game, making it look like a different sport to most of the other players. He was spraying passes out to Pascal, who was giving the defence kittens with his speed.


    After D-Day dribbled past his marker and crossed for Tony to score our first goal, I checked if Sandra had any questions about my rankings. "Not now. I think I broadly see the outline. Ryan''s platinum for sure. You know them better than me. I think if you gave me your ratings for the whole squad that''d be very helpful if you get sick and I have to do it on my own."


    "Sure. We''ll have a chat before Walsall. After you''ve worked with them for a few days. Let''s talk formations. At the moment we can easily switch between seven."


    "Seven?"


    "I know, it''s shit."


    "It''s more than we do."


    "Yeah, well. We can''t always win on talent; we have to get funky. We''ve got 4-4-2 and diamond, plus 4-2-4. We don''t use those too much, but as you know, we will if we get the new striker in."


    "Goliath."


    "Right. It''s going to be a big shock for you."


    "I don''t know. I''m almost excited by it. Charlotte was saying you and Jackie are maniacs about technique, passing, just like a real club."


    "She said that?"


    "Yeah. No offence."


    "None taken. It''s just the phrasing was unexpected."


    "But to knock it long to a big man." Sandra laughed. "It''s like you''re on non-league safari, Max."


    "We still need to agree terms with the club and the player. But we won''t be knocking it long. No chance. If anything, we''re getting more sophisticated. Okay, we''ve also got 4-3-3 but we don''t use that because Aff is our best player."


    "Aff? Not Henri? Ryan?"


    "You''ll see. He''s incredible. He makes everything work. He''s number one for assists, which is amazing if you think Ryan takes all the set pieces. The last three options are about dominating midfield. There''s 4-5-1. I''m thinking about that for the Walsall game. But mostly we use either 4-1-4-1 with overloads down the sides, or 3-5-2 if we''re not expecting much from the opposition."


    She made notes of the seven. "It''s pretty good. You must have worked hard."


    I thought of the months of grinding. Watching Sunday League while sipping from a thermos. Kebabs with no onions. "Yeah. But changing from one to another could be the difference in a match. Right? And from game to game it lets me use the whole of the squad. I''ve very slightly squashed their tendency to think that minutes on the pitch is the only measure of their self-esteem, and they can all see what I''m doing when I name the teams, but still, they want to play. Is it the same with the girls?"


    "Oh, yeah. Totally. Tears and tantrums if they''re not starting."


    "Did you ever drop the Butcher of Burnage?"


    "Not often. You know, she was shocked the first time you called her that. Upset, I think. Now she loves it."


    I smiled. "She''s great. You''re going to help me get her to Chester, right?"


    "Nope."


    "Ah!" I said, pointing up as though I''d solved a crime. "You want her still there for when you''re the Man City boss. I get it... I get it."


    ***


    At half-time we were two-nil up. I did a semi-serious team talk, mostly for Sandra''s benefit. Not that she needed it for her own skills, but to show a sort of model of what I thought should happen at half time. As well as calmly talking to the players, I asked the Brig and Vimsy if they had any thoughts, and asked Dean to report on players who''d got knocks in the first half.


    It was very Jean-Luc Picard in Star Trek, and there were some puzzled faces from people who were used to me being more Willy Wonka.


    "Sandra," I said, to finish. "If you wish, you can nominate a player and choose either Vimsy or the Brig to scream in their face. Some players find it very motivational."


    "Er... not today. Everyone''s playing well."


    She''d mentioned it casually, and I barely noticed she''d said it. But morale went up!


    "Captain," I said.


    Sam Topps got to his feet and yelled, "Come on!"


    ***


    I suggested to Sandra that she might want to make observations for ten, twenty minutes, and she could suggest the first substitutions. While she concentrated, I watched her in my peripheral vision. The curse told me she was perhaps not as good as Jackie, but she was better than most. Giving her and Jackie two similar teams in the same division would have been fascinating - Jackie would very slightly outpace her in terms of coaching, but she''d pick up more wins through in-game management.


    But they were both limited. They were both human.


    A little over a year ago, I''d been bitten by a radioactive spider and now I could do all sorts of superhuman things. I''d suggested to Old Nick that I wanted the powers of a top manager and had even named Sandra''s very own Pep as a point of comparison. Where did I stand?


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    My very first power was the ability to see player profiles. This had been bolstered every time I''d bought an Attributes perk. Sandra could definitively tell if someone was better at heading than someone else, and she could have a good stab at filling in numbers like finishing or positioning. But having them all instantly appear and be reliable was staggering. There had been matches where I''d been able to leverage information about a player I''d never seen before to turn draws into wins. I had no doubt Pep would be able to do something similar, acting on instinct alone, and he had access to as many data analysts as he wanted. The data would come from scouts and data companies from all over the world - I was limited to what I could see with my own eyes. Advantage Pep.


    I had the advantage, however, when it came to making tactical tweaks. While Pep seemed able to make drastic changes mid-half, I could do it at the speed of thought. Like most managers, Sandra would normally need to wait for an injury break or half-time if she wanted to do something significant. The curse also told me when opposing managers changed things. Today, against Cheadle, it was a basic 4-4-2 all the way through, but my perfect knowledge of my opponent''s tactical instructions had saved me from disaster on many occasions.


    Super Scout. It let me see how good players were and how good they could be. Incredible. It had led me to Ziggy, Raffi, and dozens more. Now Raffi was a 70,000 pound player, according to the market, and Ziggy was earning a living wage from the sport. Sandra had no such skills. Pep was good at spotting elite players who would fit into his system. It was rare that he made a bad buy. Still, I wouldn''t swap my skills for any team of analysts.


    "Why don''t you let Aff take corners? He should be amazing."


    "His delivery is too slow. He likes to chip to the near post. It winds me up. I like arrows into the six-yard box."


    "Huh."


    "Feel free to test it in training. If you can get Aff to put some pace on the ball, great."


    Sandra tapped this into her phone. Why it didn''t go into the notebook along with everything else was a puzzle for another detective.


    What had come next from the perk shop?


    Fantasy Football had been another monthly perk, priced so as to keep me grinding. But it had paid off, big time. I never would have beaten Man City or Salford without the Triple Captain and Bench Boost perks, and the Free Hit had probably given me three or four extra goals in my time as manager. Buying the perk that extended the use of Fantasy Football from once per season to once per competition per season was another buy I was very happy with. Sandra had nothing of the sort. Pep? Maybe he could lift his players for a certain match against Liverpool or Arsenal, but he couldn''t, for example, make his superstars run like crazy against Salford City. He almost certainly wouldn''t want to, but that wasn''t the point. The point was I could. And as I got more mature and experienced, maybe I could lift my players for key games, too.


    "Andrew''s blowing. We should sub him off."


    "Go for it."


    I watched with interest as she made the change and it happened on the tactics screen. I''d had a vague worry the curse wouldn''t let my assistants change anything. It was much better this way. Maybe I could even get her to tweak the team in ways I couldn''t. I''d have to use it carefully, but... But that was a thought for another day.


    "Why are they playing high balls for Tony?"


    "Panic. Habit. I''m hoping the more we train technique, the more they''ll play simple passes as their default."


    "They''re just giving the ball away." Her face was set. Hard. I''d seen this look before, when the Met Heads were turning her world upside down.


    I smiled. By raging and cajoling, I''d been able to greatly reduce the frequency of these aimless, almost cowardly punts, but there were still so, so many. But now I had an ally on the training ground. If there''s one thing City didn''t do it was kick a high ball to a short striker.


    God Save the King had been expensive. 3,000 XP for a boost to one attribute for one player every season. I''d used it on Ziggy last season, and Henri this. In retrospect, I''d have been better off unlocking two more attributes, but at the same time I knew if I had the option to double the use I''d pay double the price. Especially now that I better understood the relationship between attributes and CA. I could use the perk to turn CA 98 players into CA 100 ones. Probably... Sandra and Pep were fantastic at turning PA into CA, but they couldn''t create PA like I thought I could.


    Anyway, improving players with one click was fun. Fun was underrated.


    "What''s Youngster doing?"


    "He''s lost concentration. Normally Glenn spots it and yells at him. Sam will do it in a minute."


    "Can I tell him?"


    "Yes."


    Sandra did just that. Youngster''s eyes boggled and he spent the next thirty seconds checking his position and glancing at her.


    "If he''s playing DM he needs to be able to concentrate for ninety minutes."


    "I agree. So does he. But it''s his first full season. If he stops improving, we can push him hard. Tell you what, though, if he shoots from outside the box you can go absolutely tonto."


    "Bad, is he?"


    I closed my eyes. "I think it might be my least favourite thing in the world."


    One monthly perk I''d skipped had been Shocktober. It had offered me loads of pun-based advantages, especially against stronger teams. I was right not to buy it, but if there was ever a more serious, less complicated version I''d be interested. Such a perk would be useless for Pep, since his team would always have the higher reputation in any match. Me? I would spend most of my career managing the underdog, and the more we progressed, the bigger the underdog we''d be.


    "I thought the other bench always tried to rile us up."


    "I think they don''t know what to do with you. Yelling at women doesn''t fit their version of masculinity."


    "Oh." She stood like a teapot. "Is that good or bad?"


    "I don''t care. Your job is to ignore it and make sure everyone else is ignoring it. Come down hard on anyone who retaliates or gets involved."


    "Clear the bench, you said. That''s funny. In baseball it means the opposite of what you want."


    Clear the Bench would be a good name for a perk. What would that involve? I blinked the thought away. I was in the middle of analysing my actual purchases, not dreaming up imaginary ones.


    Some perks had given me more info in my match overview. Match Stats showed things like how many shots each team had taken. Fine, but nowhere near as cool as getting the match ratings. If you didn''t pay one thousand percent attention, you might not notice that a player on the far side of the pitch was putting in a five out of ten performance. Seeing the match ratings let me fix my weaknesses while exploiting those of my rival managers. Sandra and Pep had to do this by their personal feelings, which would sometimes be wrong.


    Not always, though. She''d been frustrated by Andrew Harrison''s shift at right back, and he was on five out of ten. She tried her best to hide her annoyance at Tony, who had been on five before his goal. I thought about asking her to rate the players at the end of the game to see how well they matched what the curse thought, but it seemed a bit cold. I''d try to be more subtle about it.


    She said, "This system would work much better with someone like Michail Antonio as the lone striker."


    Antonio was a very powerful, hard-working player who specialised in winning duels and holding the ball up. "He started in non-league. Did you know that?"


    "I didn''t."


    "From non-league to winning West Ham''s first trophy in 40-odd years. My ears prick up every time I hear about a Premier League player who started in non-league."


    "I bet." She looked at me. "I notice you''ve changed the subject."


    I shrugged. "We''ve got what we''ve got. When we play well, we get to the byline and do cut backs. All Tony has to do is kick the ball two yards in a straight line, and he''s absolutely capable of doing that."


    "I know this will be frustrating, sometimes." She nodded to herself. "I have to learn patience."


    I''d unlocked the History tab on a player profile. That showed me a summary of the player''s career, such as which team they''d played for, how many yellow cards, their average rating and so on, but so far I only had the data from the previous season. It would be very cool when it was fully unlocked, but that whole thing was quite far down my wish list. I felt that this perk chain would prove most useful when trying to recruit players. Being able to quote their stats from past seasons would make it seem like I''d been tracking them for years. Flatter them. Pep didn''t need such a perk - players wanted to play for him.


    Staff Search was a database of every coach, physio, and assistant I''d ever met. It was pretty top. A couple of times a week I scanned through to check if anyone had lost their jobs - coaches were often sacked along with the manager who had brought them in. Pep had his own retinue that he took with him from club to club.


    "Sandra, how do you really feel about having the same title as the Brig?"


    She pulled a face. "I like him but it''s a football club. I''m the football assistant. Primus inter pares."


    I pulled a face of my own. I''d had no choice but to give the pair of them the assistant manager title. First because the Brig''s salary was so huge, then because Sandra wouldn''t drop so far to be a mere coach. Two assistants was one too many, even in my distorted reality field. What was that phrase someone had taught me? Nothing odd will do long. At some point I''d have to find a way to normalise having two senior employees who needed senior titles. Get rid of the weirdness. "First among equals. That''s me, though. I need you both."


    "What do we do if there''s a dispute? Like if we''re disagreeing on what training a player needs."


    "Do what''s best for the player."


    "What''s best is what I think." She shook her head. "Why''s he here, anyway? Charlotte said Henri said he could make a killing... oh. Bad phrase. He could, you know, get rich as a mercenary."


    "He could. I''m not a hundred percent sure why he''s staying. I think he''s got the same mania as you and me. We''d call it improving players. He''d called it improving young men. It''s not what he''s used to, but I think he''s realising here he''s got the best part of his old job without the... dark mode bits. The three of us want the same thing. I don''t mind if you disagree from time to time. I''ll think about the hierarchy and get that a bit more serious. I didn''t really expect you to come. Sort of didn''t let myself believe it was happening." I thought about the amateurish way I''d gone about checking her profile and convincing her to leave her golden cage. "How does Pep find new coaches?"


    "Women''s youth team matches, mostly. Don''t worry, you''re doing it right."


    I smiled. Having a cocky edge would serve her well. Well, whatever Pep was doing seemed to be working for him, but I preferred my version - cold, hard facts.


    The Injuries perk helped me keep track of what injuries my players had. I found it most useful during matches - it would say something like ''suspected knee injury'' and if it was possible I''d whip them right off the pitch. I felt I was getting fewer serious injuries than other teams in the league because of that. If it cost me a few points here or there in specific matches, it would pay off in the aggregate. And injured players were fucking miserable to be around. They were bad for morale.


    Which brings us to Morale. Seeing that a particular player was happy or sad was pretty amazing, especially to a self-absorbed prick like me. By keeping an eye on moods, I could try to intervene to give a boost, or put a generally happy team on the pitch. Pep''s teams were so good and the system so robotic that morale seemed less important, but given equally talented squads, morale could be an area where I''d outperform him.


    And getting that squad was made slightly easier by having bought Playdar. It led me to talented players who were currently playing football, including back garden kickabouts with their mates. I''d found a few good players with it, and since Jackie had taken the women''s team off my hands I''d been using it a bit more often. Sandra and Pep would only be able to find new players from within the world of football - but for them, that would be enough. As managers, they wouldn''t need to worry about budgets the way I did.


    And that was it. The budget. Money solved all kinds of problems for top managers - money meant worldwide scouting and data analysis, meant being able to attract any coach you wanted, buy any player. At some clubs, the manager could buy two new right backs every summer until he found the right one.


    Yeah, I thought, as I looked at Sandra again. I was on my way to becoming a top manager, but it wasn''t clear I''d ever be able to bridge the gap between myself and managers who had billions of dollars behind them.


    As we scored our third goal against Cheadle, I resolved not to worry about it too much. For now, I needed to focus on bridging the gap between Chester and Walsall.


    "What do you think?" I said.


    She scanned her notes. "I think you''re under-rating Trick. I think Andrew will never be a right back. I think D-Day is the personification of why City discourage players from dribbling - he''d drive me mad, the way he gives the ball away. I think Pascal is clever and I think Youngster is doing the work of one player." She looked at me. I was smiling. "What?"


    "This is going to be fun."


    ***


    Saturday, December 2


    Winning our FA Cup match against Salford had achieved three main things. First, it had pushed a tricky mid-winter match against Gloucester back to some currently undetermined later point in the season. The Maxterplan in action.


    Second, we''d got over forty grand in prize money, which was fast being spent on buying cast-off equipment from other clubs and gyms. (We now had a pretty decent amount of boxing gear; I had been getting pretty good on the speed balls before my progress got capped.) We had spent about five grand buying new, top-of-the-line goalkeeper swag, such as a little machine that spat table tennis balls at them to hone their reflexes. I''d have played with it but didn''t want, as yet, to get my goalie skills back.


    Finally, getting to the second round was very much the fulfilment of my promise to go on a cup run.


    And the fans were loving it. Outside the Deva stadium were hundreds of them, waiting to board the coaches that would take them two hours to the midlands. Burly builders getting wasted from minute one, burlesque dancers, building society managers. Shy accountants, dog food tasters, colour experts, computer hackers. Politically left, right, and disinterested, marmite lovers, marmite haters, Max Best fans, Max Best sceptics.


    The only thing they had in common, the only reason most of them would ever have occasion to talk to one another, was the local football team.


    One coach was full and ready to depart.


    "Just waiting for one more passenger," said the driver on his microphone. "I think that''s him now."


    Many curious heads turned - this was a break from the norm. How would the driver recognise one passenger in particular? As they looked, the answer revealed itself. Half the passengers started chanting "Brig! Brig! Brig!"


    The coach doors opened and the Brig climbed on board. The cheers were ear-splitting. He gestured that the passengers might want to reduce the volume by 98% or so.


    A guy who had been sitting on the front of the coach stood up. He was wearing a Chester baseball cap, sunglasses, and what was now plainly a false beard. He took the three items off.


    "Best! Best! Best!" Almost everyone whipped out their phones and filmed me.


    I took the handheld microphone sometimes used for bus tours of scenic Cheshire. "Good morning, ladies and gentleman, welcome to Chester Golden Chariots, also known as Bobs Cars, note the lack of apostrophe which does not bother me. Bobs Cars, the only way to travel. Today''s maximum cruising speed will be some seventy mph and with good headwinds we should arrive in glorious Mykonos in approximately thirty hours." I pretended to receive information from the Brig. "Ah, that''s next week. Today''s it''s two hours to sunny, er, Walsall. Which is in Birmingham, according to the internet. Please be careful if you go to a fish and chip shop. They have different words for everything. What we''d call a chip barm, they call a chip muffin." There was uproar. "What?"


    "It''s called a chip bap!" yelled one idiot.


    "Sorry," I said. "It is the official position of Chester Football Club that chips served in a bun is called a chip barm. Isn''t that right, Brig?"


    I thrust the microphone in his direction. "Chip butty," he said, and winked at one of the female passengers.


    "Is anyone here for the first time?"


    A pair of hands went up. A couple wearing Chester kit, scarves, and bobble hats. "We are!"


    "All right. If you''re one of us you get on the bus. I know you''ll all make these dudes feel welcome. Make a right old fuss of them." I looked around. "I just wanted to thank you for your support," I said. "Sometimes the match is so intense I tune you out so I can focus and make good decisions. Especially if I''m playing. But the other guys hear you, and the opposition do, I promise you that. Oh," I smiled. "The referee, too. Not that we try to influence the refs." Good laughs. "It''s going to be really hard today but we''re going there to give our best and to represent the club in a good way. Getting to the third round could put millions in the bank, and my players are complete media whores, I learned. They all dream of being on TV. So believe me, we''re motivated. We''re going for the win today." Big cheer. "And the Brig and I are going to travel with you until I start to feel that maybe it was a mistake." Another cheer.


    On cue, the driver pulled away, drove thirty yards, and stopped. He opened the doors.


    I grabbed the mic. "Okay, that was enough. See you at the match!"


    We got down and walked to the Brig''s car. I got in the back - we''d pick Sandra up.


    "Was that good, sir?"


    "I think so. They''ll share it on their socials. Talk about it. It''ll be one of those things they bring up when I''m on a losing streak. Yeah, we lost today, but remember when he sat on our bus in disguise? He gets the club. We''ve got to give him time to turn things around! You know, stuff like that."


    "And perhaps these good memories will become useful when you, ah, take your break."


    "Exactly."


    ***


    FA Cup Second Round: Walsall versus Chester


    We arrived with a much larger contingent than normal - being able to name nine subs and use five meant there was lots of anticipation. For some players, this would be the highest-profile match of their careers so far. For someone like Trick, it could be as good as it ever got. His last hurrah in the Cup.


    And for one player, it was a bewildering and shocking opportunity to get some first team experience.


    I was ''suspended'' and Gerald May had picked up a slight back strain, so instead of naming two goalkeepers on the bench, I''d brought fifteen-year-old Benny to Friday''s training and named him as the final sub today.


    His dad, Nice One, had made his name and cemented his legend by taking Chester on two famous cup runs. I''d made sure the TV guys knew the story because they would for sure point their cameras at Benny in the warm up and they''d play up that angle in the highlights package. Like father, like son?


    I had no doubt Nice One was a very good player - based on the crappy footage I''d seen, I wouldn''t have been surprised if he was CA 100 or more. The internet said he¡¯d had a season with 26 assists, which seemed like an accounting error. Benny had PA 40, so realistically he didn''t have much of a future at the club, but I felt pretty good about giving him this moment. Especially because the fans were loving it. MD had texted, telling me his phone started blowing up when the news broke.


    Benny. Good kid with good finishing. I couldn''t put him on the pitch - Walsall were a very good League Two team, very solid, lots of rugged men who knew their business. They''d eat him alive. No, just being on the bench would make his year.


    The lineup, then, was 3-5-2 with Ben - hopefully back to being my first choice keeper - Glenn, Carl, Magnus; Aff, Raffi, Ryan, Sam, Joe; Henri and Tony. Average CA 51.1.


    Sandra stood next to me as I filled in the team sheet. "No bronze, four silver, five gold, two platinum."


    "That''s right. This is our strongest team."


    "And we still expect Walsall to play 4-4-1-1."


    "Yes. They''re not resting their first teamers; they''ll put out their strongest lineup. They really want to win this."


    "What''s your special secret trick for this one?"


    I smiled. "When the Met Heads beat you, we spent three weeks plotting it. When Kidderminster beat us, they did the same. Three weeks! Their directors told MD. We''ve had three days to prepare for this one. No tricks up my sleeve, I''m afraid. We''ll do our best and take the wins where we can. One win would be if the media pick up the Benny story. Another would be if they notice how sexy I look today. Either or both will help us get picked for the TV matches next season." I smoothed down the front of my expensive - for me - new suit. "What do you think?"


    She looked me up and down. "If you''d worn that instead of your hoodie, I''d have come here a lot sooner." She fidgeted with my tie and took a step back. After another long look, she nodded. "But if you''re really trying to get the TV companies back, maybe don''t tell them off live on their own broadcast. But... hmm."


    "What?"


    "I thought you''d send me out to do the interviews."


    "Oh. I wasn''t planning to. Do you want to?"


    "God, no. I just thought maybe it was good for the club''s image if, you know. A woman. For the sponsors. Media attention."


    I frowned and looked down at myself. "This is for the sponsors. Look at me. I''m pure eye candy."


    She smiled and nodded. "All right, Max. You ready for the team talk?"


    "Yeah. I''m going to read from a Wikipedia entry about the worst television shows ever made. Henri''s going to love it. Wait till you hear about The Briefcase." That old, familiar look. Was I joking, or...? "By which I mean to say I''ll remind them of Walsall''s strengths and weaknesses that we talked about yesterday morning and get the lads hyped without overloading them with information."


    ***


    After doing just that, I took Benny, Pascal, and Robbo aside. "Benny, how are you feeling?"


    "Great, Max! It''s amazing."


    "Yeah. It''s just that you look pretty stressed. I was wondering if this was maybe a bit too soon for you. Maybe all this was a bit unfair."


    "No! I''m ready. I''m ready to play."


    His attempt to look fierce was extremely funny. "All right. But you''re not going to play. You know that, right?"


    He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, yeah."


    "But you need to be ready to play. This is all about the experience, yeah? About learning the standards. And there''s no better role model than Pascal. You follow him and do what he does. Right?"


    Benny''s head bobbed up and down several hundred times. If I''d met him in a bank I''d have assumed he was off his tits on cocaine. "Right. Right."


    "And if Pascal gets on the pitch, you do what Robbo tells you."


    "Like what, boss?" said my goalie.


    "Send him for warm ups and whatnot. Point out weaknesses in their goalie and defenders. Get him ready to come on."


    "Even though he won''t."


    "Right."


    I don''t think Robbo was terribly happy at losing his place again, but he shrugged. "You''re the boss, boss."


    I went around the dressing room checking on morale, looking at the tactics board, and talking to Sandra, the Brig, Dean, and Vimsy. There was nothing left to do. The truth was we had very little hope of winning and there was zip I could do about it. The best thing I could do for the team was to act natural, act chill, and the best thing I could do for the club was to look good and seed a story the media could pick up on. But there was no fire inside me. We would lose with a whimper and it was my job to put a brave face on it.


    The bell rang and the dressing room cleared out, leaving just me and the Brig. "Sir? You''re not yourself."


    "I had to inhibit. Be a good role model for Sandra. She isn''t going to tell wild, irrelevant stories before matches."


    "Are you still thinking about The Briefcase? You shouldn''t go down internet rabbit holes late at night."


    "I can''t help it. They gave poor people a hundred thousand dollars and then said, yeah but there''s this other family who needs the money more than you. So you could clear your family''s debt but be seen as heartless, or you could stay poor but make viewers think you were a good person. Whoever came up with the concept needs to be locked up." The Brig was the wrong audience for this. Maybe Henri at half time. "Do you like my suit?"


    "I do. But there''s something else. What''s troubling you?"


    I checked the room was really clear, but lowered my voice anyway. "This has two-nil to Walsall written all over it. I don''t see how we win unless we get some spectacular piece of luck."


    "Perhaps this will prove to be your lucky suit, sir."


    "I doubt it. Things are going great but days like these are never not going to blow."


    ***


    Walsall''s average CA was 80, which was a lot less than Salford City''s. But Walsall''s manager was clearly extracting the maximum from his players and that was one reason I was dubious about our chances. They had a good defence, solid midfield, and a powerful forward. They even had a central attacking midfielder, a true number 10, operating as the conduit between midfield and attack. If I had a better left back I would have used 4-1-4-1 and let Youngster deal with the CAM.


    But I had Trick. So it was 3-5-2, let our best line up battle theirs, and may the best team win.


    The best team started winning pretty much as soon as the whistle blew.


    I found myself looking around the boxy stadium with its red seats and one oversized stand. We''d brought around 800 fans and they were making a decent racket over there. The home fans didn''t seem very enthusiastic about the match. There wasn''t much history between the teams, Birmingham had very little to do with Chester, and there wasn''t a lot of jeopardy. If we hadn''t beaten Salford, the attendance might have been another five hundred fewer.


    I sighed and settled into my spot, trying not to let my depression show on my face.


    It couldn''t all be wins and knee slides and glory and chanting. There would be days like this, and plenty of them, where we were simply outmatched. If it had been a league game I''d have concentrated furiously so we could beat them in the return match, but by the time we got to play Walsall as division rivals sixty or seventy percent of the players would be different - on both teams.


    So I spent some of the first half talking to Sandra about the players. She told me what she''d picked up in training and I either agreed or suggested something else for her to look out for (a polite way of telling her she was wrong). I said I had developed a weird connection with the group so I could make formation changes pretty easily but that she''d need to work on that.


    Then she got interesting.


    "You know you do easy sessions the day before a match?"


    "Yes."


    "Cutting edge teams don''t do that. They go hard all the time."


    My neck nearly snapped from turning. "What?"


    "Yeah. Brighton, for example. Every session''s a session."


    Brighton were ripping up the Premier League on a fraction of the budget of other teams. They were amazing. "But if we can do that, players will improve faster."


    "Yep."


    "Shit." I paced around, thinking things through. "What about overloading? Red zones?"


    "The way you rotate the team, you could do it. Ideally we''d have proper fitness data. GPS trackers and all that."


    I paced around some more. "I think... we have to start next season. I can''t stress their bodies halfway through with a massive change like that. Right?"


    She shrugged. "I mean, probably. But you could move set pieces to Friday afternoons and get an extra session in during the week."


    "Can you do it so that... the extra session is initially easy and very slowly add to the intensity over the course of, like, months?"


    "Piece of piss," she said.


    For the first time that day, the quality of my smile matched the quality of my suit. "If you''re giving me higher quality sessions and more of them, remind me to double your salary next season."


    ***


    At half time, Walsall were leading one-nil and we hadn''t really troubled them. We''d battled hard to turn our five out of tens into six out of tens, and we hadn''t been embarrassed. But we hadn''t been able to get much goal threat going.


    I gave a non-demented team talk aimed at negating Walsall''s CAM. I also swapped Henri and Tony so we could ping high balls to the left where Henri might win some headers that Aff could get on the end of. It was pretty caveman stuff, really, and I actually felt embarrassed saying it in front of Sandra. But it was my job to try to find some point of advantage and that was all I could think of.


    In the first minute of the second half, Carl fired a hopeful ball long in Henri''s direction and a Walsall centre back headed it away. So that was that.


    I shook my head while I blew air from my cheeks.


    "Sandra. Manager chat."


    My new assistant snapped her notebook closed and came over. I pretended to point at certain areas of the pitch while I ask for her thoughts about the latest developments in the Premier League. The Man United manager had seemed amazing at first, but this season things had unravelled very quickly and the team had no passion or discernible way of playing. "That''s the takeover," she said. "The uncertainty. You''ve got chaos here but it''s all in your wake, isn''t it? The players are following you. At United, there''s a vacuum at the top and the players are sensitive to it. Also," she felt she needed to add, "United are shit."


    "Hmm. What about Burnley? I went to see them in the Championship and they were slapping teams morning, noon, and night. The manager looked like the next big thing but they''ve lost every home game."


    "It''s a huge step from the Championship to the Premier League. He''s trying to play like City with Burnley players. And he refuses to compromise his principles so they keep getting smashed."


    "What would you do?"


    "I''d be pragmatic until I had the players to play my style. What about you?"


    "I think I would, too. But I can''t help but admire the guy. He''s going to get himself sacked but... it''s amazing."


    She swept her eye across the pitch. "I think we should switch to 4-1-4-1 and see if we can''t get some control of the ball."


    I hadn''t told her I knew we''d lose. "That''s right, but..." I nodded to the bench. "If we''ve only got one striker, I can''t bring Benny on."


    "Benny? You told me you wouldn''t use him."


    "I told him I wouldn''t use him. Now, I''m thinking giving him five minutes at the end is the way we turn this loss into a win and move on with our season."


    "Because of his dad."


    "Right. The fans will love it. It''ll show I''m keeping my promise to care about the youth team. Show I''m serious about giving these guys chances. It''ll energise the whole youth system, not that it needs it, and it''ll keep the fans warm on that long trek home."


    "It''s only two hours."


    "Unless we score soon, I''m going to do it. He won''t be nervous because I told him he wouldn''t play."


    "Ah, right. I see."


    "He''ll run around like a headless chicken and that''ll be funny. That''ll keep me warm on the long trek home. Anyway," I said, lowering my voice. "It''s personal. My Chester story began with him. If I can''t win, if I can''t optimise or maximise, I''m going to keep the promises I made to myself. That''s never steered me wrong." Now it was my turn to be surprised by her smile. "What?"


    "That''s how you beat me."


    "What do you mean?"


    "Nothing. Get your head in the game, Best. I''m not giving up just yet." She jabbed her finger at the pitch. "If they''re still fighting, so am I." She took a couple of paces forward. "Joe! Wake up! Get tighter on that! Ryan! Tony was open! Drop a pass behind! Get them turning. Come on, boys!"


    ***


    Sandra''s burst of instructions got us further into the game but then we got dicked on a counter attack. It was weird to see - I couldn''t remember the last time we''d conceded to a fast break.


    I sighed and made a raft of subs, giving some minutes and the chance to be on the highlights to Trick, Pascal, Youngster, and Steve. Even though we''d lost Aff, our average CA only fell a few points, to 48.5. Still, we were closer to being half of Walsall''s level, and my next change would be to replace Tony, CA 44, with Benny, CA 8. We''d basically be playing with ten men at that point. I mean, literally. Ten men and a boy.


    Walsall made a bunch of changes, too, and that excited me very slightly. There was a big drop in quality from the first eleven to the subs, which partly explained why they weren''t pulling up any trees in League Two. Still, though, it''d take a miracle for us to get anything.


    We kept plugging away, though, and with Trick and Pascal fresh on the wings we actually got a couple of decent moves going.


    But Walsall recovered, shut us down, and that was that.


    With the clock on 85, I called Benny over and while I talked to him, I swapped him and Tony on the tactics screen. I would have taken Henri off, but the next match was a week away so there was no point resting him. Behind Benny, Vimsy was getting the board ready.


    "Did your dad ever tell you about how he played in the FA Cup?"


    "All the time," said Benny. I think he was trying to roll his eyes, but it didn''t work. Here, now, he was buzzing. If he''d ever failed to understand what his dad had accomplished, this experience had brought it home.


    "Great. So now you''ll be able to tell your own kids."


    "What do you mean?"


    I turned him around and showed him his squad number was being displayed on the board. "Stay near Henri. Look for flick ons. Keep your shots low." I pushed him and he stumbled, dumbstruck, to the side of the pitch. Tony was waiting for him - they exchanged a high ten and I gave Tony one, too. Before I let him take his seat behind me, I mumbled in his ear. "One for the fans, mate."


    "Yeah," he said, too tired to think of something more apt. His smile told me how much he approved. He''d made his debut once and he''d been around the club long enough to know all about Nice One and the son who was following in his footsteps, if slightly higher up the pitch.


    When Benny''s name was read out, the Chester fans reacted with a moment of stunned silence followed by a massive roar.


    The roar saturated Benny with more energy than a human being could hold - he ran around like a feathered domesticated animal whose body ended at the neck. He sprinted to the right, then to the left, and then he needed a breather. Absolutely hilarious. I couldn''t help but turn and grin at my support staff.


    When the match clock struck 89 and the chance of a comeback was less than zero, the Chester fans pumped up the volume. A song was dusted off from the olden days, starting with the dads in the crowd. It was derived from the football staple "Nice One, Cyril" and for the first time, I had an inkling of how Benny''s old man got his weird nickname. It didn''t take long for the young''uns in the crowd to learn the lyrics - most had grown up hearing them and the memories came back in a rush of nostalgia.


    Nice One, Smasho


    Nice one, son


    Nice One, Smasho


    Let''s have another one!


    My smile was starting to hurt, now. I looked at the bench again, wondering who would have been around the last time those songs had been heard in a cup match. Vimsy? He wasn''t a Chester guy. Dean? Far too young. No, this was a moment for the real Chester old guard. The MDs and the sponsors. The granddads. I''d have to listen to Seals Live. Boggy would be in heaven.


    On the pitch, Henri won a header - finally! The ball whizzed towards goal and Benny was on it like a flash. Young, nimble, eager, he zoomed towards it - could he? He couldn''t, could he?


    A defender casually jogged towards Benny''s line of attack and the teenager crashed into him, landing with his limbs all over the place. Bit of a harsh lesson in standards, that. I felt Vimsy nodding behind me, appreciating the defender''s mastery of his position.


    The ball was collected by the other centre back, who touched the ball to the right back. He had Trick haring towards him so he played it straight back to the previous guy, who lazily dabbed it back to the goalie.


    But Benny had one thing going for him - he was too inexperienced to realise he''d had his arse handed to him by a wise old hand. What he knew best was the simple virtue of running flat out almost all the time. So he redirected his latest sprint from the centre back to the goalie. Only when the goalie shaped to pass the ball to the full back did Benny give it up as a lost cause. He put the brakes on and turned, wondering if he should press the full back. It seemed wrong - Trick was there. So what was he supposed to do?


    The goalkeeper thought better of playing the short pass and decided to whack the ball to the halfway line.


    For some mad reason, the ball didn''t ever get more than three inches off the turf. It flew straight and true, as though a line drawn by an analyst in the studio, at Benny''s heel. It hit the heel, bounced back the way it came, and went into the net while the goalkeeper fell to his back and covered his face.


    Henri jumped for joy, and he and Trick ran to Benny, arms aloft, ready to celebrate the kid''s first ever professional goal. But Benny, now that he''d worked out what had happened, ran into the goal, retrieved the ball, and dodged his elderly teammates on his way back to the halfway line. He put the ball on the centre spot, squeaked "come on!" and was ready to go, pacing up and down like a de-aged version of me. A panther, a caged tiger released and out for blood, a cold-hearted assassin, calculations complete and ready to execute.


    "Oh my God," I said.


    "What?" said Sandra.


    The board went up - there would be four minutes of injury time. Our fans had gone berserk - full savage, threatening to shake the stadium apart with their dancing and screaming and shouting.


    "We can do this," I whispered, and after a second, I was in full flow. On the touchline, screaming at my players to attack. Oh, what I would have given to push a defender forward. I set the entire team to ''make forward runs'' and made them all press.


    Walsall, despite being well-coached and full of experienced, disciplined players, were shaken. They couldn''t keep the ball. Pascal showed why he considered pressing to be his superpower - he terrorised his full back, the left mid, and even the left sided centre back. They hoofed the ball long when they saw him coming. In the middle, Ryan Jack had rolled back the years, Youngster was full of running, and Raffi Brown looked ten foot tall.


    Headed clear by Ryder.


    Jack picks up the loose ball. He chips forward to Brown.


    Brown has options! He chooses right.


    Bochum steadies himself and fires a low cross.


    Lyons is there!


    He slides and lifts the ball over the keeper...


    ...


    But it''s saved! Incredible reflexes. The goalie has made up for his previous error.


    That wasn''t true. We were only having these chances because of the goalie''s mistake.


    Williams receives the ball with his back to goal. He looks for support.


    He lays it off to Brown. Brown finds Youngster.


    Youngster plays it simply for Jack to run onto.


    His first-time pass makes the defence turn.


    Bochum is running onto it...


    But the defender slides in.


    Throw-in to Chester.


    The defenders are all going forward.


    Cavanagh looks to his manager, asking permission to go forward. He''s told to stay.


    Carlile''s throw reaches the penalty box.


    Alton flicks it on...


    And there''s mayhem! Pinball in the Walsall area.


    Benny falls over. Was he fouled?


    The ball is cleared.


    One last chance for Chester.


    Williams gathers - hits a quick cross. It''s headed out as far as Jack.


    He chips it forward - more chaos!


    The ball somehow falls to Brown. He hits the post!


    No - it was saved. The keeper got a hand to it.


    Corner to Chester. Surely the last chance of the game.


    Score and they''ll earn a replay at home.


    Yeah, and I''d be able to play in it. That would be something.


    Ben was waving at me again. Should he go up for the corner? Well, why the fuck not? He wanted it - he was almost on the halfway line. He sprinted forward.


    Ryan Jack with the corner.


    All eyes on him.


    The referee stops him from taking it - he wants a word about some jostling around the Walsall keeper.


    Now he''s ready.


    The corner''s hit - hard and fast.


    Cavanagh rises highest.


    A thumping header!


    But it''s saved!


    Chester''s goalkeeper has a header pushed over the bar by his Walsall counterpart!


    And that''s the final whistle.


    Walsall survive a late scare to progress to the third round.


    I rushed onto the pitch, headed straight to the penalty area where almost all my players were slumped. They''d worked their arses off and had got no reward for it. But I was buzzing. I was thrilled.


    I embraced Ben - he''d kept us in the game in the first half when Walsall had been coming at us from all angles. The curse rated him nine out of ten and that was before he''d nearly scored the equaliser.


    Then I picked out a few others. Henri had worked tirelessly to create space for others. Ryder and Carlile had stretched themselves trying to keep a lid on much better players. The midfield had been dominated but not overrun. And Benny! I gave him a hug. The little brat was pretending to be devastated we''d lost because that''s what he thought Max Best would want.


    I waved the team over to me and led them towards the Chester fans. They clapped and cheered and when we took a few steps back and pushed Benny forward, they hit maximum volume.


    Now, finally, the debutant allowed himself to smile and laugh.


    Good times. But something was missing. I called Livia and asked her to hand the phone to Sandra.


    "Where are you?" I demanded.


    "You said you wanted me to be statesmanlike and do all the handshakes with the other team when you forgot or refused."


    "Fuck that. Get over here."


    By the time she crossed the pitch to where we were, someone had spotted Nice One and forced him to cross the advertising hoarding onto the pitch, where he stood arm in arm with his son as the fans and players sang his song.


    Nice One, Benny


    Nice one, son


    Nice One, Benny


    Let''s have another one!


    ***


    Maybe I should have let Sandra do the post-match interviews. I was drunk on football.


    Max, you nearly got back into the match, there at the end.


    Nearly, yeah.


    You needed a slice of luck.


    Whoa, whoa, whoa. You think because we''re a non-league team we don''t know how to score goals? Mate, we don''t have eighty million pound sex pests on our team but we know how to stand still while a goalkeeper fires the ball at us from eight yards away. We can do the basics. There''s no luck about that.


    What were you thinking when your goalkeeper went up for the corner?


    I was thinking, gosh, I hope he scores. [Attractive toothy laughter.]


    What did you make of your team''s performance?


    I''m ecstatic. I can''t believe it, really. I think this is the first time I''ve been surprised by them like this. I know what they can do and when they do it, I''m happy. But to compete with Walsall like that for so long, stay in the game, and then to yeah, get a lucky bounce and really try to hammer that opportunity... it''s so good. That''s pure character, that. I didn''t do anything. A few of our good results, yeah, not to be smug about it but they''re because I was clever or had a plan or something. Today was all about them. I didn''t think we could do that. That''s blown my socks off.


    What did you say at half time?


    I was trying to talk about this TV show I''ve been reading about but no-one was interested. I''ll have to find a subreddit or something. That one''s even too niche for Henri.


    Young Benny made quite an impact and there were great scenes at the end with his father.


    Yeah his dad was really kind to me when I first came to Chester. It''s just a mad story, what happened today. Mad. It''s totally messed with my head. Years from now I''ll be talking to you saying ''oh you were there the day we beat Walsall'' and you''ll be like ''no Max you lost'' and I won''t be able to process it. It feels so much like a win. I wouldn''t swap this for a win. No chance.


    There''s a big prize for the winners. A third round tie against a big team.


    I wouldn''t swap it. Walsall''s next game might be Tottenham away and good luck to them. They''ll make millions. Our next game is against Swindon Supermarine and we''ll make a cash loss on the day. We''ll get to the levels we want but in the meantime I wouldn''t swap places with Walsall''s manager. I wouldn''t swap places with anyone.


    ***


    After I''d done my media duties, I stared at my experience point counter.


    XP balance: 2,226


    No debt! And managing against a tier four team had been giving me EIGHT XP per minute, and unlike against Salford I hadn''t ruined it by playing half the match. This haul was enough for me to buy the December perk, but it wasn''t the time to think about that. No, this was the time to stare into space with a vaguely happy smile, idly humming the Nice One Benny song. The Brig came to rescue me. "Ready to go, sir. We need to stop off at the dressing room."


    I fell into step beside him. "Top. Where''s Sandra?"


    "She wants to go on the team bus."


    "Sick of me blabbing on?"


    "The difference in the level of detail when you talk to her and when you talk to me is striking. I''m grateful you simplify things for me. But no. She said it''s two more hours where she can get to know the players."


    I shook my head. "I''ve struck gold, there."


    "Platinum, sir."


    Huh. Had I ever spoken about my player ranking system with the Brig? I thought I hadn''t, but perhaps I had. Or perhaps he''d overheard us or decoded Sandra''s squiggly handwriting. I rubbed my face. I was suddenly very, very tired. "All right. The plan. A week of top training. Win in the FA Trophy, win a few league matches, Christmas number one."


    "And then a break." He pushed a door open and held it open for me.


    "And then a break." The Brig was smiling as I passed him. I realised we were back in the dressing room. He had mentioned that, but it was the expression on his face that puzzled me most. "What?"


    "I got you something." He tapped an expensive-looking travel bag.


    I took it and carefully unzipped it - I didn''t want to break it and have to pay a thousand quid for a new one. I reached in and pulled out one of my shit hoodies. One of the ones the Brig hated so much. "Mate," I said. I had a whole outfit in there, right down to my most comfortable trainers. It was like he''d poured me a whisky and fetched my slippers. "What''s this all about?"


    "One simply wishes to remind you who your best assistant is." He tried to keep a poker face. "Actually, it was Emma''s idea. You might say she gets the pre-assist on this one."


    "The two assistants thing is weird," I said, as I loosened my tie. "In the summer I think we''ll relabel you Head of Performance or something like that. How does that sound?"


    He fake-coughed with his hand covering his mouth. "I have seen at other clubs there is a more suitable title."


    "Oh?"


    "Director of High Performance."


    "Absurd. I love it. You''re hired."


    "Very good, sir."

 6.7 - The Twelve Days of Christmax, Part 1

    i.


    On the first day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a perk to drive me crazy.


    Sunday, December 3


    Match 6 of 22: Chester Women vs Litherland Remyca Women


    I took a break from scouting bigger teams and went to check in on our women. Jackie had set them up in his favoured 3-5-2, no surprises there, and no surprises that the ladies had surged ahead in CA. Charlotte, for example, was loving being our star midfielder and loving Jackie''s sessions. She''d exploded to a CA of 35, far ahead of everyone else. Dani had improved to 28, which was pleasing. But six of our core squad had hit their limits. I planned to address that in January with a few well-chosen transfers.


    Since taking over, Jackie had been doing well, except for a 5-0 loss to Leeds in the FA Cup, which no-one could blame him for. I was sure I''d have lost by more. Other results had gone well and I was sure we were already the second best team in the league. The only matches of interest would be those against league leaders Altrincham - they''d won all their games - and our return against Wythenshawe.


    I went to stand near Sandra, who had come as a fan of Charlotte and Kisi (CA 19, substitute). Henri spotted me from behind what looked like three scarves and made a beeline. He pulled one of the scarves down. "Max. I have been thinking of some ways I might help the team."


    "Oh, have you?"


    "Yes. I would like to discuss certain drills that Sandra might want to include in our sessions."


    "No. It''s her day off. Try tomorrow."


    Sandra smiled. "It''s okay, Max. I''m always happy to talk to our support striker."


    Henri poked his tongue into his cheek, then realised he was being teased. "You refer to Max''s plan to sign," he sighed, "a player he berated us for even mentioning. He threw such a tantrum as to make me shudder to even think the name Goliath. Did you hear about the balloon?"


    "No," I said. "And she won''t."


    Sandra raised her eyebrows and led Henri away by the elbow. "Let''s go over there so he doesn''t try to paint over the truth."


    I shook my head. The story of how I''d downplayed Goliath''s abilities by using a helium balloon to mimic him could go down badly. I''d need to get ahead of it and tell him the truth - that it was intended to get my players to concentrate on their own jobs.


    I turned to my latest dilemma - the monthly perk.


    December Special Offer


    New perk available for the month of December: The Panopticon


    Cost: 2,000 XP


    Effects: Permanently adds perks to the perk shop. Purchasing these supplementary perks will add tranches of squad data to the manager screen, ultimately allowing a manager to oversee all players registered with the club. Each squad (e.g. various age groups) must be purchased separately. New perks will appear in the system store when new age groups or club-linked squads are created. For example, one perk will add a squad page for the men''s reserves (if applicable), another will add a squad page for the women''s under eighteens (if applicable), another will add a page for any newly-created disability teams.


    For once the curse was trying to explain itself, but I struggled to get it clear in my mind. When the light bulb moment finally arrived, I realised I had no choice but to buy it. I''d be able to add all the age groups to my screens, and thus track every player in the Chester system. Currently, I had the men''s and women''s first team and nothing else. If I bought this perk, then bought the men''s under eighteens, I''d be able to track Vivek and Kian just like I could track Henri and Raffi. In Vivek''s case, that would mean not having to drive to Manchester to see how he was getting on.


    As I added youth teams for the women, and more age groups for the boys, I''d be able to get them in my screens, too.


    I quickly checked what a ''panopticon'' was, and wished I hadn''t. It was a very sinister (to me) concept for a prison where inmates can be viewed but can''t view the jailor. A prison of the mind. Lots of the monthly perks had been copy pasted from my own brain, but this one had Old Nick''s fingerprints all over it. The name was diabolically perfect. It made me feel queasy about buying it, but not to the point that I would let the chance slip.


    Attractive as the perk was, it was really time to get stuck in to the Contracts section of the player profiles. Knowing how much other teams were paying their players would be incredibly useful, and I needed it as soon as poss because I''d have to rescout everyone I was interested in, ideally before the January window closed.


    So, yeah. Nick wanted me to grind, and he''d got his wish. I mentally cancelled a couple of nights out with Henri and Emma, and replaced them with trips to watch games.


    I bought the Panopticon perk, mentally sighed as the perk shop filled up with 2,000 XP purchases for the various age groups and the Chester Knights, and looked around for something to cheer me up.


    On the pitch, Dani - wearing gloves, outrageous - shaped to do a one-two, but simply drifted past the defender without passing.


    I smiled.


    That was one of mine.


    ii.


    On the second day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a call-up to England C.


    Monday, December 4


    Secretary Joe never interrupted training, or one of our meetings, or a team talk. He thought of himself - wrongly, in my opinion - as less important than the players, and the idea of entering the inner sanctum of the dressing room would never even occur to him.


    So when he ran-walked to me while we were doing one of Sandra''s complicated passing drills, nearly being bundled over by retreating defenders, nearly being hit by multiple balls, I knew it had to be something big.


    I waved at Sandra and she blew her whistle. Everyone stopped, many guys with heads in their hands. She was pushing us, all right.


    Joe told me the headline.


    "Everyone in," I said, and Vimsy shouted it out. Soon I was stood with my arm around Joe facing a semi-circle of inquisitive faces. "Got some news."


    I gave Joe a little shake. "Oh. Me?"


    "Yes, you."


    "Um." He held up a little piece of paper like he was Neville Chamberlain. "We got an international call-up!"


    "You''re joking," said Joe Anka. Everyone was looking round, wondering who was good enough to have been chosen to represent their country. "Is it Pascal? Germany have a shit team these days."


    "Not that shit," said Raffi, who immediately hugged his mate to show it was a joke.


    "Magnus, where are you from?" said Steve Alton.


    "I am eligible to represent nations from three continents," he said.


    Secretary Joe pointed. "It''s Raffi."


    There was a fairly lengthy silence. "But he''s English," said Sam. "Or is it for Jamaica? Your dad''s from there, right?"


    Raffi was utterly bemused. "I suppose I could play for both. But... not from the National League North. What''s going on, Joe? This a prank?"


    "No!" said the Secretary. "It''s England C."


    Lots of the players went, oh!, but there were plenty who were even more confused.


    "I''ve heard of England," said Pascal. "I''ve even heard of England B. In the past the B team was used as a sort of reserve for the main England team. But I have never heard of England C."


    "Me neither," I confessed.


    Secretary Joe blinked. What kind of football genius had never heard of England C? "It represents England at non-league level. It''s the best players from non-league, Max. I''m surprised you never got a call-up, though it only plays once or twice a year."


    I frowned, wondering about the timing. I''d played a few games for my former club and then been prevented from playing for months. I shook my head - this wasn''t about me. "So... all these scouts. Some were from England.¡± That wasn¡¯t right though - the scout profiles I¡¯d seen at games had never said anything of the sort. ¡°But... they were all from clubs."


    Joe nodded. "The England C manager has a network of mates who work for clubs. They tell him who''s good, who to look at, parallel to doing their own jobs. Raffi might be the only player from this league. I''m sure the rest will be from the National League."


    "Fuck me." I scratched my eyebrow. This was mental. "Let''s just roll with it! Round of applause for the England international!"


    Raffi looked embarrassed and when the applause got a bit quieter, said, "Maaax... let''s train."


    "Yeah, good call, good call." I rubbed my chin and pretended to get serious before launching into a version of It''s Coming Home. "Maybe we could tweak the drill to - THREE lions on his shirt! Serina Brown not screaming!"


    Raffi had to stand there while we all - including Henri and Pascal - sang England songs at him. He finally burst out laughing and accepted a big, big hug from me, then from Glenn, and then everyone wanted a go.


    While the man of the moment wasn''t looking, I asked the Brig to whizz off and buy an England shirt with Brown and the number 8 on the back. We''d make him wear it in training.


    "Joe, when''s the match?"


    He looked at his paper. "Nineteenth of December. It''s a Tuesday."


    "At Wembley?"


    "Moss Lane."


    "Where''s that?"


    Again the look. How did I know super advanced things but not the basics? "That''s Altrincham, Max."


    "Right, I''ve been there!" I got the attention of the group again. "Lads! Hands up who wants to go to... wait for it... Manchester! To watch our mate play for his country? Yeah, that''s what I thought. Joe - get us a hundred tickets and three coaches. Glenn - can you get stuck into this? Help with the planning? Sandra, are you coming?"


    "Any excuse to go back to Manchester."


    I tilted my head. "Have you had girls called up to England?"


    Her eyes flickered towards the big group that was around Raffi. They were listening intently. "Might not be a good time to talk about it."


    "Go on."


    "Loads, Max. Like, half the girls you met got international call-ups."


    I nodded. I understood why she didn''t want to discuss it there - it could make Raffi''s achievement seem small. But I didn''t agree. "Well, Raffi''s my first." I closed my eyes and imagined what it''d be like. Running out wearing full England kit, in Manchester, his home city, in a stadium that shared its name with his dad. "And you never forget your first."


    iii.


    On the third day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a seasonal gift from Bonnie.


    Wednesday, December 6


    I''d planned to go to watch Sheffield United versus Liverpool in the evening to get some red hot Premier League XP, but instead, well...


    It started in the morning. At exactly quarter past eleven, Jackie called me.


    "Max. Can we meet quickly over lunch?"


    "Maybe. Just tell me something, first. You woke up to watch Bargain Hunt and you found an urgent email so you called me right away. Right? Right?"


    He seemed confused. "I''ve been up since eight."


    "Hmm." That didn''t fit my theory. Which meant... which meant he was lying. "Hmm."


    "I''ll be in your office at twelve."


    He hung up.


    Hmm.


    ***


    Jackie seemed pretty fresh-faced and alert. Maybe he had been up since eight, as he claimed. I looked around my office, which was still festooned with pictures of Jackie Reaper the player. I didn''t have much ego when it came to decorations, but perhaps I''d hang up a Raffi Brown England shirt. That''d always bring a smile to my face.


    "Er... what are we doing?" I had suddenly realised I didn''t know why I was there. In my head it was to solve the mystery of whether Jackie woke up after eleven. Not that I cared if he did - I just wanted to prove my theory.


    "Waiting for Bonnie."


    "Bonnie?" I said, astonished. "What about?"


    "No clue. But she''s been building up to this for ages, I could tell. She''s been almost talking to me since about a week after I came back. Almost. But for whatever reason, today''s the day."


    "She wants to leave. She wants me to sack you. She wants to play striker. She... what could it be?"


    There was no point guessing. I never would have got there in a million years.


    She came in and we sat around the chess board where it was a lot more casual. After some chit chat, she embarked on her narrative journey, not making eye contact with me except for the occasional glance to see if she could tell what I was thinking.


    "We''re from Carlisle. You know, up by Scotland."


    "I know Carlisle," I said. Mum had said I often played as Carlisle United when I played Champion Manager. "It''s the same latitude as Mexico City."


    Her eyes popped open. "Is it?"


    "No, I made that up to sound smart."


    Her face crumpled into an annoyed laugh. "Please, Max. This is hard for me."


    "Oh. Soz."


    She nodded and regathered herself. She took a breath. "We had to move. Ended up in Blackpool. That was all right for six months or so, but we had to move again. Chester. We keep moving south."


    "We?" said Jackie.


    "My family. My mum." She inhaled. "And my sisters."


    "They''re all kleptomaniacs," I said. "That''s why you have to keep moving."


    Bonnie laughed far more than the joke deserved and that''s when I realised just how nervous she was. "No, it''s... It''s football."


    "What?" I said, laughing from amazement.


    "Sorry, can we get a cup of tea?"


    I pulled a face at Jackie. "Get her a tea, you dick!"


    "We could go to a coffee shop," he suggested. "Max''s treat."


    "No, let''s stay here. Private is good. There''s that little kitchen thing, right? For the credit card people."


    "Fuck that," I said. "Whatever this is, it''s a VIP situation. What do you think, Jackie?"


    "I reckon so."


    "Let''s go get a proper brew. Yeah?"


    I led them upstairs and got buzzed into the top floor of the credit card place. I''d been in a couple of times to talk to my new superfriend and next season''s main sponsor, Agatha. Her gorgeous PA had better things to do than make me and two randos tea and coffee, but she did it anyway, and even offered to let us use a meeting room.


    "Oh, no, they''re much too fancy. I wouldn''t feel comfortable in there," said Bonnie, and that melted the PA''s heart in a big way.


    "You get yourself in there and you let me know when you want a refill. Maybe you could pose for some selfies one day. Loads of us in here are big fans of yours."


    Bonnie was taken aback that the woman knew who she was, but Bonnie was the captain of the women¡¯s team and with her large frame was extremely distinctive.


    So we settled into the plush seats and admired the view. Cheshire in winter, with a light drizzle and glowing grey clouds. Idyllic.


    "Max," said Jackie, looking back at the PA''s desk. "I''ll give you one thing. You have a way with beautiful women. The more perfect they look, the smoother you are."


    "I''m not smooth. I''m normal. They''re just people. It''d be a crying shame to deny them my jokes just because they have good jawbones." I scoffed and added, "Anyway, you do all right, too, mate. How many times have I seen a coach come to our dugout to scream abuse at us, only to see Livia and back away, struck dumb?" I took a sip of my tea. "The way to a man''s heart is by making a cuppa just how he likes it. Fortunately, Emma is a sorceress. She even makes Typhoo taste good." I stood and looked down - the view of the pitches was amazing. "Have you ever been to the Nou Camp or the Bernabeu?"


    "Both."


    "I bet the views are like this. You pay a hundred Euros and the players look like ants." When I went, would I be so far from the pitch the player profiles wouldn''t even kick in? Surely I''d see them from anywhere inside a stadium? Surely?


    Jackie went to the window. "Ah, Max. This is nothing. This is like the middle section. Now imagine another one up there." He pointed. "Another thirty thousand people. You thinking of playing in Spain? Managing? Real Madrid?"


    I scoffed again. "Where''s the challenge in that?" I remembered we were supposed to be listening to Bonnie and retook my seat. She was giving me a very curious look. "How''s your coffee?"


    "It''s amazing. I think... I think it''s the best coffee I''ve ever had."


    I nodded towards the PA. "She''s a genius working with top-of-the-line materials. Like me managing Real Madrid."


    Another unreadable expression crossed Bonnie''s face. She put her cup down and covered herself with both hands. I frowned at Jackie and he frowned back. Bonnie recovered. "I''m 25. My next sister is 23. Then there''s a 21-year-old. Dad''s out of the picture, permanently. He left after the youngest was born and you can imagine mum thought that was that."


    "Right," I said, confused about where this could go.


    "Then a few years later, mum''s preggers again."


    "Different dad?" said Jackie.


    "Oh, hell yeah!" said Bonnie. "She never said who it was. We never met him. One-night stand, I think. Oh, God. Can''t believe I''m telling you this."


    "You don''t have to," I said, mixing elements of sympathy and annoyance.


    "So, you''ve probably guessed the rest."


    I laughed. "I have not. I don''t have the first fucking clue what''s going on. But I''m enjoying your company."


    Bonnie cleared her throat. "It''s, er... It''s my youngest sister. Angel. She¡¯s fifteen, now."


    Time felt like it stopped. She''d been blabbing about Angel when I wanted her to sign a contract. "Angel is a person?"


    "What else?"


    "Could be an angel," I said, and I got two weird looks that time.


    Bonnie bit her bottom lip. It almost seemed like she was close to tears. "What happens is, Angel joins a football team. Six months later, we have to leave. I don''t want to leave Chester, but I can''t keep her away any more. If it doesn''t work now, this time, then... then she might accept it¡¯s never going to happen. But... She saw your Harry Styles video and lost her mind. She saw you coaching Dani. She believes you gave me a contract for me and not as a way to get to her."


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    That pissed me off. "And you don''t?"


    "No, Max, I do. I do. But I have to protect her. That''s my job. Isn''t it, Jackie?"


    "Course it is," he said, even though he knew as much about the situation as me - almost nothing.


    "I don''t want to have more conversations about why I do things," I said. "That''s all I fucking get."


    Jackie tutted, but Bonnie reached out to touch my hand. "I know. I know. We all know. I''m here because you¡¯re a good person." She sighed. "And because I can''t hold Angel back any more. Not since you appointed Sandra. That was... You didn''t know it, but that was dynamite."


    I kept my mouth shut, so as not to get worked up into a self-righteous, self-pitying state.


    Bonnie continued. "Let me just... Right, so... So Angel is a striker."


    "How old is she, exactly?" said Jackie.


    "She''s fifteen. Nearly sixteen. February fourteenth. Obviously." I checked with Jackie - he didn''t know what was so obvious about that date and Bonnie never explained it. To me, angels collocated more with Christmas than Valentine''s Day. "She''s a striker, and a good one. Very good. Too good."


    "Too good?" said Jackie. He was taking up the slack left by my dip in mood.


    "Like scoring a hundred goals in one season."


    "A hundred?"


    "She got to ninety-nine in the third from last game, decided it was a cool amount, and refused to play the next game. She changed her mind and played the first minute of the last match."


    "Where she scored right away."


    "Exactly."


    Jackie was smiling. "Are you telling me there''s a hundred-goal-a-season striker in your family, and you''re only just now thinking to tell me about it?"


    Bonnie rubbed her hands, one over the other in an endless circle. "Yes. But it''s not that simple."


    He considered that. "The reason you have to keep moving. That one night stand guy. He''s bad news."


    "No. It''s not that. I mean, he might be. Mum''s not the best judge of character, right? No, it''s¡­" Bonnie took a big inhalation of breath and let some of it out. "I know it''s hard to believe about my sister, but... She''s beautiful. Absolutely stunning."


    I waited for the next part. It didn''t come. "So?"


    Bonnie turned to me. "So men lose their minds over her! Especially when she plays football. Stalkers, creeps, maniacs, madmen. She attracts every stark raving lunatic for miles around! Three months in, we''ve got three restraining orders. Four months, we''re staying with friends. Five months, the road outside is full of plain clothes police. Six months, we''ve had enough and leg it."


    I finished my tea and stared at Bonnie. She was in earnest. I tried not to smile. "You''re telling us... you''ve been reluctant to let us take a look at your sister because she scores so many goals we''d want to sign her, and she''s so irresistible that every man who lays eyes on her will instantly turn into a stalker?"


    "Max," complained Jackie.


    "I just want to know what the conversation is," I snapped.


    "That''s the long and the short of it, I suppose," said Bonnie.


    Confusing. She was serious but she couldn''t be serious. "So what do you want? You want us to not sign her? We''ve been not signing her every day since you joined the club. We''re doing great at that."


    She gave me another exasperated smile. "You should sign her. But no media. Don''t put her on posters. Sign her as a player and don''t do the rest. Dani signed with Ruth''s agency. Angel can sign with her, too. Ruth will understand. Maybe a few sponsors who understand Angel won''t be available like a normal player. One photoshoot, boom, that''s it. It''s really hard, Max. She knows she needs to be protected but she loves the attention. She can¡¯t get enough of it. And we understand she could make a lot of money, but it''s not worth it if she winds up dead in a ditch. But you and Jackie, you''re as good as it''s going to get. And Ruth and the Brig. It''s all, like," she stopped. "It''s her only chance to do what she loves most."


    Her words hung in the air.


    "Bonnie," I said. "I like you. I think you''re amazing. I''m glad you told us this and it''s obvious that it''s been hard for you. So if what I say next is, like, accidentally offensive, I''m truly sorry. But your team is going all the way to the top. I''m looking for players who can cut it in the Championship and the WSL. Scoring a few goals in primary school doesn''t impress me much. There''s no way she''s as good as you think. And I believe you when you say she''s good-looking and you''ve had bad luck with crazies, but there''s loads of good-looking people." I thought about her story. "Maybe not in Carlisle..."


    Bonnie did that thing where your eyes and cheeks go big and then deflate. "If I bring her to training tonight, will you be there?"


    ***


    Jackie was out on the pitch setting up little cones, being assisted by Jude and Jill. I was vaguely surprised to see Jude there, but it turned out he wanted to learn at the feet of the master and tried to join Jackie''s sessions as often as he could.


    On a little row of cheap but amazingly comfortable camping chairs - they looked like super soft versions of the famous Hollywood director''s chair - sat me, the Brig, Ruth, and Bonnie. The latter was too nervous to join the session. Ruth was intrigued. If Bonnie was right, she would get a new client, a superstar, and doing a good job would mean making the... least? amount of money from her.


    I was beyond relaxed, for two reasons. First, there was no chance that in football terms this Angel was worth any level of hassle. And second, women always massively overrated the objective attractiveness of their friends and family. Which was sweet and heart-warming, but I''d learned to totally discount their opinions. I''d also learned the hard way not to trust any photos, ever. Nah, this would all take ten seconds and then I planned to whip Ruth, the Brig, and maybe even Bonnie and her plain, talentless sister out to dinner. Nando''s, maybe?


    The women emerged from the dressing room in dribs and drabs. Dani, Maddy, and Kisi in one little chicken wing. Charlotte, Pippa, and Julie McKay in a squirt of piri piri sauce.


    "Was that your stomach?" said Ruth.


    "I think there are moles here," I said, raising a foot as though looking for a hole in the soil. The noise happened again. "Fine. I forgot to have lunch. Got distracted, didn''t I, Bonnie?"


    "Sorry, Max."


    "No, I''m sorry if I sounded dismissive. Of course it''s awful to have to keep moving around. It''s just the main thing is the security fears, right? And we''ve got the Brig to help us. Help you. See, now that he''s around I''ve kind of gone from worrying all the time to thinking oh holy shit." I was up on my feet before I had time to think what a bad look it was.


    A girl in a beanie and gloves had jogged out onto the pitch, after Mo but before Robyn. Her player profile told me her name. Angel.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Born 14.2.08</td>


    <td>(Age 15)</td>


    <td>English</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Acceleration 12</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Handling 1</td>


    <td>Stamina 5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Heading 9</td>


    <td>Strength 4</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Tackling 4</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jumping 5</td>


    <td>Teamwork 5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bravery 5</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Technique 5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Pace 10</td>


    <td>preferred foot R</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Passing 4</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dribbling 5</td>


    <td>Positioning 2</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Finishing 20</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>CA 5</td>


    <td>PA 155</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Striker</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Even from a distance it was obvious she was attractive, but that wasn''t what I was responding to. Along with a lot of mediocre numbers - CA 5, teamwork 5, tackling 4 - there were two extraordinary ones.


    Angel had PA of one hundred and fifty-five. And her finishing was twenty. A hundred goals a season? No wonder!


    "What is it?" said Ruth.


    Oh. Problem. How did I explain my reaction? I hadn''t even seen her kick a ball yet. The first thing that came to mind was to make a joke of it. Pretend like she was SO beautiful I had lost my mind. That was patently dumb, but what else could I do?


    The solution I chose was to flee the scene.


    I jogged to Jackie and asked to borrow his whistle. He had the Dani whistle, and gave it to me.


    "New plan," I said, calling out to the group. "Finishing drills."


    "Fucking hell, Max," he said, pointing to his meticulously-placed cones. "We need to get this right for the Alty game. We were sloppy against Litherland."


    "We won well enough. Ah, yeah, fine," I said. We needed to get promoted. "Fine, fine. You do that. Angel, Robyn, with me."


    I walked towards the goal to my right, realised I wouldn''t need the whistle, and threw it back. Robyn grabbed a few balls and Angel looked from the group of women to me.


    As she came closer, her appearance crystallised. She was tall and moved with the graceful power of a tennis champion. She was gorgeous in a kind of innocent-yet-bratty way, and I felt uncomfortably aware of why her looks would trigger some men to go tonto.


    "Will you take some shots, please?"


    She looked back at the main group, then hit me full beam with a pair of vivid blue eyes. "Don''t you want me to warm up with the others, first?"


    I found myself frowning. I''d been this close to doing as she wanted. I had the strangest feeling I''d just passed some sort of test. "No."


    Robyn rolled a ball towards her.


    I took a couple of steps back and watched as Angel played a simple side-footed pass back into the goalie''s arms. Her striking movement was very fluid. I felt I could already mentally sketch out how she''d make various kicks. There was an elegance and economy of effort that was incredibly suitable for a striker. Her height was the icing on the goalscoring cake. Her jumping was low but her heading was fine. I imagined it could be trained and she''d be a threat from crosses.


    She hit a couple more side-footers, and then hit one with her instep, medium strength. She wasn''t going to overextend until she''d warmed up, which was absolutely correct.


    "Come here, please. Robyn come out about five yards. Angel, low square pass to here." I tapped a spot as though flattening a mole hill. She played the pass I wanted, parallel with the goal line, and I did the spinning, dipping chip I''d done against my former club. Robyn watched helplessly as it sailed over her head and into the goal behind. "Can you do that?"


    "Yes," said Angel.


    I waved my finger in a circle to say we should switch places, and then I hit the appropriate pass to her. She met it sweetly and did a decent approximation of what I''d done. "Needs more spin," I said.


    "No, it doesn''t," she said. "That was perfect."


    "Robyn, you can join the others. Thanks."


    "Yes, Max."


    I pushed at my eyebrows. This Angel situation was way out of control already. She had the potential to be one of the best strikers in the country, and easily the most marketable. She could make millions from her sporting career, and her agent could cash in, too. That could be me - via Ruth. Millions of pounds. Her own perfume, her own makeup line. Documentaries, reality shows, announcing her next club live on Instagram to an audience of fifty million. There were less talented women who''d turned minor fame into a billion-dollar industry.


    But Bonnie didn''t want that for her sister. And I didn''t want another striker with low teamwork. "What do you want?"


    "What?"


    "You''re a decent striker. Your sister wants to keep you out of the limelight. What do you want?"


    "I want to go join the session. And by the way, I''m an amazing striker. I''m the best you''ve ever seen."


    I smiled. "I''ve seen a mirror, mate. I''m the best player there has ever been in every position there has ever been. I choose not to play striker because it''s boring. There''s no challenge. All right. Finish the session if you want and I''ll talk to Bonnie about other clubs you might want to join. I''ve got mates at Tranmere."


    Her bravado turned to dust. "What? You''ve seen enough? After three shots?"


    "I''ve heard enough."


    Her eyes darted left and right as she replayed our conversation. "But... you like cocky players. You like Henri Lyons."


    "Confidence is good. Intelligence is better. When I tell Henri his shot wasn''t good enough, he''s intelligent enough to know I''m probably right. He''d think, like you, that his shot had been perfect. But he''d ask how it could be better. Because he has a brain."


    That hit the spot. "I have a brain."


    I extended my arms and turned ninety degrees in either direction. "When it comes to football, this is my city. Football will be played here the way I want it to be played."


    She tried to turn me to ash with her laser vision, but she hadn''t unlocked that perk yet. After smouldering for a bit, her jaw moved left and right. "What was wrong with the shot?"


    I moved to the edge of the penalty box and got her to do the same. I pointed at the goal. "Block this. When I say go, go." I did a couple of kick ups. "Go."


    My volley was flat and straight, and she intercepted and blocked it easily.


    "Again," I said. She came back to her starting position, and this time, I put lots of spin on my kick ups, as though I was spinning a basketball on my fingers. "Go," I said, and she hared back towards the goal, but as she stuck her leg out to block the ball, my shot spat up like a leg cutter in cricket, up and over her knee.


    "Again," I said. She came back slower, this time, and stared unhappily as I spun the ball. "Go," I commanded, and she started to run. But she stopped when she saw I''d kicked the ball much too far to the right - a full yard wide of the post.


    Of course, it spun back inside the post, crossed the goal line, and almost seemed like it would keep going round in a spiral. I probably could have done more to keep the smugness off my face.


    I waited, hands behind my back, to see how she''d react.


    Her expression was unreadable, and she was almost inaudible when she spoke next. "I can do that."


    Bad answer. "I know you can. That''s not the problem. The problem is the hunger for improvement. The problem is you remind me of another player. Good striker. Didn''t listen to the coaches. Didn''t listen to me. Thought he knew better. Thought he was already good enough. Didn''t want to add strings to his bow. Thought he was so good a rubbish shot from him was better than an open goal from a teammate. He was an absolute idiot. It took me a year to get through to him, and I don''t have a year to spend on any one person. It''s no good having all the talent in the world if you''re too stubborn to let us coach you and if you think you''ve already got all the skills." I paused and thought about Tyson. "We coach teams here. Most games we need you to play the percentages. Some games we won''t get any shots and we''ll need you to suffer and sacrifice. You need to be willing to learn to pass, learn to press, learn to shuffle and slide, learn to leave your ego in the dressing room."


    "Like you."


    I nodded. "Yeah. Like me." I looked up at the floodlights. "The games I''m most proud of aren''t the ones I scored no-look backheel nutmegs, or outrageous free kicks, or direct from a corner, or dribbled the length of the pitch to score, or - "


    "All right," she said, annoyed, and after a tiny glare, we both smiled and looked away.


    "The games I''m most proud of are the ones where I suffered. It''s absolutely mad when I think about it, but that''s how it is. Kidderminster. I did everything I could. I was so frustrated I had nothing else to give I was almost in tears. Kettering. Two-nil down with nine men but they had to peel me off the pitch. Salford. Forty-five minutes, most of which was spent being absolutely rubbish and feeling like a piece of shit but at the end of the match I knew I''d done all I could to help the team get over the line. Bonnie''s one of my favourite players because she plays like that every match. I''m really not interested in selfish players. If I ever think you''re putting yourself before the team, you''re out. I don''t care if you score five goals against us every time you play for your new club. Long term, teams win."


    "I''m a team player."


    "Team players don''t score a hundred goals in a season. That''s a shot every time you got the ball. How many assists did you get that year?"


    She shrugged. "Loads."


    "I bet it was three. A hundred goals, three assists." I shook my head, smiling slightly, then got serious. Bonnie wanted us to not use her in promotions, to not put her on posters. We''d have sponsors offering double the money if they could make Angel the face of their campaigns. We''d get hundreds of calls a day from media pricks. I pinched my nose. It sounded like a fucking nightmare. I''d need to hire someone to take all those calls. I''d have to get extra security. "You know what? Enough talk. Let''s see if you can hack it in my world."


    "What does that mean?"


    I nodded in the direction of Jackie and we walked to him. "Jackie. You doing a little match later?"


    "Quick one, yeah. Ten minutes."


    "Make it twenty. I want to see how Angel does with one slight restriction."


    Jackie half-closed his eyes. "Restriction?" He looked at the girl he knew was a striker, and in a moment of remarkable perception guessed what I was planning. "No, Max. Don''t. We haven''t even seen her play!" But his pleas fell on stony ground. I didn''t so much as twitch.


    "What?" said Angel.


    Jackie put his hands on his hips and looked up at the few stars that were visible. "You can play. But you can''t shoot."


    iv.


    On the fourth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a chat with the constabulary.


    Friday, December 8


    For once at training, there was absolutely no friction between my two assistant managers, and that was because the Brig spent almost thirty minutes on his phone. Finally, he murmured something to Sandra, and she blew her whistle.


    "Max, the Brig wants you."


    I left the session, not quite willingly, since dicking about with footballs all morning was better than most jobs, but not very reluctantly either, since I knew I wasn''t improving. "Sup dude?"


    "Would you please take a shower and get dressed? I need to take you... somewhere." His tone was sombre but not urgent, so I strolled, deep in thought, to the showers. Inside, I considered Sandra''s first full week of training. It was hard to tell with such a small sample size, but we''d had a full week - no Tuesday night match - and it had gone well. The canary in the coal mine, I had decided, was Ryan Jack. He was a super talented guy who would respond to good coaching. It was hard with him because he was so very old - 35 - and at some point I knew his CA would fall off a cliff. But for now, him dropping below CA 60 was a disaster, keeping him at that level was fine, 61 was good, and 62 would be amazing. That''s what I told myself, anyway.


    After a week of being top dog, Sandra had added a point to his CA, taking him back up to 61.


    And the guys had been quietly impressed with her sessions. I didn''t get the sense of delirious happiness like when Jackie had been the manager, but a general feeling of, yeah, that was really good.


    I zipped my hoodie up, grabbed my kit bag, and followed the Brig to his car. Not long after, we pulled up in the car park of the local police station, and he handed me a note to give to the officer on duty. The note said, MAX BEST, which was really fucking weird.


    "I can''t go in with you, sir."


    "What''s going on?"


    "It''s better if I don''t say anything."


    "Am I going to be arrested?"


    "No. If I had received information that was about to happen, we''d be on a speedboat right now, heading out to the Isle of Man where we''d take a helicopter to Dublin. Quick trip down to Cork, onto a cargo ship where we''d pose as deckhands, a role where I would excel and you would flounder, for several weeks until we landed in the new world. At which point I''d hand you your new passport and spend three weeks drilling your new identity into you."


    "Cliff Daps?"


    "It would be a name I thought you could remember, sir."


    I looked down at the paper he''d given me. This was absolutely mental. I walked away from the car, up some steps, pressed a buzzer, looked into a camera, approached the desk, and handed the dude a piece of paper with my name on it.


    He nodded and turned away, picking up his landline. Thirty seconds later, a woman I''d met precisely once emerged through a door.


    It was the partner of D.I. Barton, the stupid fuck who had tried to frame Mr. Yalley instead of going after my actual murderer. This woman was his girlfriend and according to Old Nick, she was just as culpable as Barton. I''m sorry to say that as soon as I saw her, my face went hard and I very nearly stepped out. And I''m even more sorry to say that the only reason I stayed was that the Brig had spent three thousand of my pounds already, and I was on the hook for an unspecified future amount. There were nights where I woke up, heart pounding, wondering how I would find fifteen to twenty thousand grand in a hurry.


    "Mr. Best," she said, not attempting to smile. "Would you come this way, please?"


    She led the way to a small interrogation room. Next to her sat a beefy boy who at first I assumed was there to protect her from me, but later I realised was her new partner.


    She told me her name, but I wasn''t listening for the first minute or so - I was trying to control my fear and fury at being put in this tiny room with this woman I despised. It was only when the beefy boy offered to get me a tea and left the room that I started to relax.


    "What was your name?" I said.


    "Milligan."


    "D.I. Milligan."


    "Just inspector. But, fingers crossed, I''ll get a promotion soon."


    "Yay," I said, with minus a hundred percent enthusiasm.


    The tea arrived, and Milligan explained what the eff was happening.


    "Mr. Best, this is a courtesy call, so to speak, to inform you of developments relating to your case."


    "My murder?"


    "We class it as attempted murder, since it didn''t technically succeed. I am happy to inform you that this morning, we made an arrest."


    "Oh."


    She waited for me to say something, but the word ''arrest'' had fried my brain. I suppose I''d completely abandoned all hope of justice ever being done. "We just wanted to let you know before we informed the media."


    "Where''s D.I. Candyflip?"


    "He''s no longer on the case. I''m the senior officer, now."


    I closed my eyes. There was very little going on upstairs, just when I needed it. "So... you''re in charge, now it''s all solved. Sorry, what?"


    She glanced at her beefy boy. "New information came to light."


    I tapped the desk, an unconscious expression of my bewilderment. "So, where was he?"


    "Who?" Milligan seemed confused.


    "Welly. Welly. My hooligan murderer. The world''s biggest twat. Welly."


    She stared at the one-way slash two-way mirror that made up one half of one wall. Who was behind there? Something told me it was the Brig. "It wasn''t Welly."


    That woke me all the way up. She''d made a fucking horrendous mistake. "Of course it was. He threatened me, he was at the match, he''s a violent prick. What''s happening?"


    "Mr. Best, please. It wasn''t him." She cleared her throat. "Er... you reported that your car keys were missing, right? And you - correctly - surmised that whoever attacked you took those keys and held onto them. Something like a trophy. I''m not a psychologist, but I think they were taken in a panic, an option for an escape vehicle, perhaps. Later, they turned into a trophy - he buried them in his garden like treasure - but as we closed in on him, they became a noose around his neck. This individual dug up his entire garden looking for them. It was pure chance we found them after a tip-off. He must have shovelled the keys into a pile of earth as he was digging, not noticed, and reburied them, again without noticing. One in a million, but panic will do that to a person."


    I leant forward, neck long. "What are you saying? What are you talking about? It''s all gibberish. Go to the start. Who are you talking about?"


    She inhaled. "Mr. Sullivan. Father of Chris Sullivan. Football name Sully. You cut him from the youth team."


    "No. It was Welly."


    "Then why were your car keys buried in Mr. Sullivan''s back garden?"


    I couldn''t get my head around any of it. "What?"


    She sighed. "We just wanted to let you know that we got him. We got him, Mr. Best. It took some time and I would privately admit we made some mistakes, but we got him."


    "You got... Sully''s dad?" I''d convinced myself it was Welly. Welly made sense. Just the name Welly was enough to convince me. "But, er... how?"


    "I re-interviewed Mr. Yalley and your physio. They had been interviewed before, of course, but I had a new angle - Sullivan. The assailant had known you would be in the Blues Bar - because you told everyone - and everyone saw Mr. Sullivan there. So why was he seen by your physio coming towards the Blues Bar, outside in the pouring rain with no umbrella, when just moments before he had been indoors?"


    "But he was with Sully. His son."


    "He sent him to get some cash from the cash machine on the far side of the stadium. I''m sorry, Mr. Best, but it was definitely him."


    "Oh," I said, again. It was such a mind fuck. But the confusion didn''t last all that long. I''d check all this with the Brig, of course, but it was certain that my assistant had been the real driving force behind this investigation. There was something very strange about Milligan''s tale of the keys. Maybe the Brig would explain it, maybe he wouldn¡¯t. "Huh," I said. Sullivan. What had he said to me? That I wouldn¡¯t survive the season, something like that. That prick! He¡¯d get what was coming to him. I tried to get my face as neutral as possible. As robotic a face as I could achieve. I imagined I ran a social media company and didn''t actually experience human emotions. "Where is he now?"


    Milligan, despite being an absolute idiot and probably a racist, had enough emotional intelligence to see that I was seething. She backed away a half an inch. "He''s in custody. You don''t need to worry about him."


    "Worry," I said, trying to smile. "I just want to talk to him. Ask him why he did it."


    "That won''t be possible."


    "Quick chat," I said, trying to be flirty. It died a death.


    "That won''t be possible."


    In seconds, I was on my feet, smashing my chair into the floor. It didn''t break. I''m not sure it even dented. "I''ll kill him! I''ll fucking murder the twat!" I kicked the chair away, noting in the non-insane part of my brain that the beefy boy was, while scared, standing in front of Milligan, protecting her from me. I allowed myself one last surge of anger, then I showed him my palms and backed into the far corner. It wasn''t far enough to really make a difference. "I''m sorry. I''m calm." I took a breath, and Milligan pushed the guy''s arm down. That was the moment I stopped despising her. I formed my hand into a fist and lightly punched the wall a few times. "He ruined his son. I tried to undo it, but what chance did I have?" I grimaced, thinking of Sully playing safe passes so his dad wouldn''t shout at him. "Did he hit his kid?" Past tense. He would never do it again.


    "I can''t answer that."


    "How long will he get?"


    The beefy boy answered. "The problem, Max, is that he didn''t use a gun or a knife and has no priors. The weapon he used was lying around. So it''s hard to say it was premeditated. There was no financial gain, racial or religious motive, and your full recovery counts against us in terms of sentencing."


    "Say a number."


    "It''s almost a wild guess at this point, but I''d say seven years."


    "Seven years?" I cried.


    "Seven to fifteen. If he shows remorse..."


    Seven years and I''d need eyes in the back of my head again. I''d live in fear again. Dark mode was looking more attractive by the second. I bit my thumb. "What if... what if I forgive him? Forgive him in court? When could he get out?"


    The police looked at each other. "Why would you do that?"


    They were onto me. Better to keep my mouth shut. "No reason. I wouldn''t. Course I wouldn''t."


    ***


    The Brig was by the car. He put his fingers to his lips, drove to a wood, and we walked a hundred paces from the car. Then he told me a few things.


    The clue had indeed been in Dean''s email draft from after the attack. Sullivan jogging towards the scene of the crime - but from totally the wrong direction. Dean recognised him from times he''d been the physio on duty at youth team matches, but hadn¡¯t known Sullivan had been in the Blues Bar mere minutes earlier.


    And then the smoking gun - my car keys. The Brig had snuck in when Sullivan was away. Used a metal detector. Dug the keys up. Then a lot of surveillance by the Brig and his old army buddies, trying to catch Sullivan going to places I frequented. But he kept his nose clean. So the Brig let it be known - he wouldn''t say how - that the police were closing in on Sullivan. This was true - thanks to the Brig. He''d made a deal with the Chief - Barton had to go, Milligan would take over, the Brig would hand them the culprit on a plate. Case closed, and Max Best would say nice things about them.


    That pissed me off, but I understood it. Honey to catch the fly or whatever.


    So then what must have been a hilarious scene for those watching on various hidden cameras - Sullivan digging up every inch of his garden for three days. Then him watching in horror as a police technician found the keys in thirty seconds - exactly where the Brig had replanted them.


    I could see it vividly. The good-looking murderer in his puffy jacket, being turned around while handcuffs were put on. His wife and son looking out of the kitchen window, bewildered. "You have the right to remain silent." ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± ¡°Your dad tried to kill Max Best.¡±


    A car came past and we watched it. It struck me then how quiet the wood was. Where was all the life? The noise?


    "So that''s it," I said, and we stood there for ages. I should have seen some beetles. Some spiders. Surely? "I don''t feel good."


    "No."


    "What about his kid?"


    "I don''t think that''s something for you to worry about, sir."


    I picked up a club-like branch that had fallen off a tree in a recent storm. You could use it for sport - hit a stone with it and you''ve invented golf. Cover it with dog wee, call it ''The Patriarchy'' and you''ve invented modern art. Or you could swing it at someone''s head so that they wouldn''t be alive any more.


    I gulped, tears in my eyes.


    "What are you doing?" said a man who called himself John Smith.


    "Little insects love logs and stuff," I said, as I went away from the road to find a suitable spot. I placed the branch down under a shrub, then grabbed some twigs and made a sort of tent of twigs. A twig-wam. "Little shelter for them. First it''s shelter, then it''s food. Then it''s a coffin. Circle of life." I watched for a minute, waiting for the first little beetle to scurry into his new home. Nothing came.


    "Perhaps you might want to tell your friends the good news, sir."


    "Good news?" At first I literally couldn''t think what he was talking about. As I wiped away the tears, I understood. But no. ¡°A man tried to kill me for absolutely no reason, and now he won''t see his son for seven years or more. The son¡¯s going to blame me. And at some point, the dad¡¯ll be back on the streets. What¡¯s good about that?¡±


    The Brig pulled a face. Twisted his mouth in a rare show of uncertainty. "I know, sir. I know. But while your feelings may be complicated... Emma''s will be quite simple. In fact..." He checked his watch and thought.


    "What?"


    "We could drive up and tell her in person. And then you''ll see what it means to the people who care about you."


    "What does it mean?"


    "Finality. Think of it as an early Christmas present."


    I¡¯d had enough of this wood and started making my way back to the car. ¡°That makes you Santa Claus, I guess.¡±


    His upper lip quivered. ¡°Call me jolly old Nick.¡± I stopped dead and must have looked at him with something like horror, because he explained himself. ¡°Like the song.¡±


    ¡°Song?¡±


    ¡°Jolly Old Saint Nick,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s a Christmas classic. Saint Nicholas performed miracles.¡± His philtrum twitched again. ¡°Like me.¡±

 6.8 - The Twelve Days of Kidsmas, Part 2

    v.


    On the fifth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... FIVE YELLOW CARDS.


    Saturday, December 9


    FA Trophy Third Round: Chester versus Swindon Supermarine


    Swindon Supermarine. Amazing name, amazing logo. The badge looked like a World War 2 fighter plane with a letter S snaked round it. They played in the Southern League Premier South, yet another competition I''d never heard of. How many leagues did we have in this country? There were more leagues than disgraced former Prime Ministers, and more teams than disgraced former cabinet members, and that was saying something.


    As it happened, Swindon were second bottom of their distant, little-known league, and I knew before even seeing them warm up that they would need a Christmas miracle to beat us. I very nearly put Sandra in charge of the game, but it was too soon to be handing out presents.


    I was in a bleak mood. There had been something comforting about the thought that it had been Welly who tried to kill me. He was a nobody, a hoodlum, a hooligan. He lived a life of violence and couldn''t conceive of anything else. Sullivan was a normal, middle-class dude. A dad. A dad dude. He wore smart clothes and had a good haircut. If people like him were going around murdering wonderful people like me, then how could we even survive as a society?


    The Brig had been right about Emma, though. Yesterday, when we''d driven to Newcastle and gathered the Weavers around their kitchen counter to tell them the police had arrested my killer, Emma had been ecstatic - shocked, yes, but so utterly happy to get closure on a horrible part of her life that I had to pretend to be equally happy. Maybe that had been the Brig''s plan. To stop me scrabbling around in the mud looking for dung beetles.


    Her dad had listened in silence, and left the area without a word. He came back a minute later and showed me a bottle of wine. "Chateau Lafite," he said. "1983. Was a gift for winning a big case. Chap said to save it for a special occasion."


    "We could have it with Christmas dinner," I said, before pretending to get shy. "If I''m invited, of course. I don''t plan to play in the Boxing Day match. I can have a few sips."


    "Perfect," said Sebastian, pulling the bottle away.


    The Brig made the tiniest little noise. I glanced at him. "Actually, let''s have it now. Truth be told, it was John who solved the case. He deserves a taste. Only a taste, though, since he''s driving."


    "We''ve got a spare room for the hero of the hour," said Rachel. "Why don''t you stay, John? Tell us all about it."


    "Oh, yes please," said Emma.


    The Brig seemed stuck - he wanted to accept the offer, but didn''t think it was his place or had a date back in Chester or whatever. I helped him out by opening the fridge and making a show of thinking about dinner. "Great, sorted. Start with the celebration wine, then onto the Aldi plonk until John gets delightfully sozzled. I''ll make us some frozen pizzas." I slapped my hands together - job done.


    Rachel pushed me away from her fridge. "Tempting, Max, but I think I can rustle up something a little more serious."


    Sebastian had uncorked his antique wine and was gathering big glasses from a high shelf. As he was ready to pour, he said, "So, John. Tell us the story."


    The Brig hesitated. "I really can''t."


    "Oh, you bloody can," said Sebastian, pulling the bottle away just as the first drip was about to fall.


    I intervened. "You''ll get the outline, not the sketch, and no follow-up questions." Sebastian nodded. "You can tell them what will be said in court, right?"


    "I... yes." John seemed satisfied with that compromise. Those details would soon be a matter of public record. "Sebastian and Rachel are masters of discretion."


    "What about me?" said Emma.


    "Sebastian and Rachel are masters of discretion."


    Emma folded her arms. "You cheeky sod!" But she had to laugh.


    That had been an evening of celebration, of free-flowing wine, and, once we got past the stuff the Brig couldn''t really talk about, an evening of free-flowing conversation.


    But now I was in the Deva stadium, my first time since learning the identity of whodunnit. Sullivan. Godactualdammit. And I could feel the wine in my legs. I tried to focus on the good things. Our cup runs. Our improving team. My growth in skills. And my Emma.


    Emma was here, in Chester, up in the VIP box, smiling easily, talking to Crackers and Sumo and the new board. She wanted to spend some time with me, but she was also hoping to get a glimpse of Angel, our agency''s new client. She wanted to see the fantastical creature Ruth and I had described. For some reason, she had been expecting Gemma to be in Chester but it hadn¡¯t happened. I left her with MD and went to do football manager things.


    In the manager''s room, I couldn''t concentrate. Kept getting flashbacks to the police room, to being told who had tried to kill me. I told Sandra what I expected from Supermarine - 4-4-2, whole-hearted but limited - and invited her to propose one of our seven formations and pick a team to fit. I pitched it as a sort of fun test of how well she''d absorbed my principles, but let''s be honest, there was no mystery to what I did. She pitched a 4-2-4 with attacking roles for Trick, Pascal, and D-Day, and a rest for all our important players. She suggested I might want to play right back, since I''d made Andrew Harrison do it.


    "If you play there, you''ll learn how hard it is and you''ll think twice about dropping guys into that position."


    I shrugged. "Fine. I can play right back."


    She frowned. "I was joking."


    "No, let''s do that. We can rest Carl. I feel like kicking someone, anyway."


    She laughed, but stopped when she saw my face. "Max, Magnus can play right back."


    But I''d already started filling in the team sheet.


    ***


    From Cheshire Live


    Chester 5 Swindon Supermarine 0: Back to His Best?


    Max Best led Chester to a thumping win over Swindon Spacemarine in the FA Trophy today, playing in an unfamiliar right back role. From there, wearing the captain''s armband, he shut down Swindon''s dangerous left-winger, linked beautifully with Pascal Bochum, and sent in a series of inch-perfect crosses which Henri Lyons and Tony Hetherington feasted upon. Best scored a hat trick of assists, and his first stray pass came in the seventieth minute when he was obviously bored to death. After that mistake, he switched from a contained, masterful examination of the narrow confines of his role, to spraying increasingly dramatic passes all around the pitch.


    These passes drew gasps of admiration from the small crowd, but also drew the ire of Chester''s new assistant manager, Sandra Lane, who subbed Best off and gave him a dressing down, much to the amusement of the rest of the Chester squad.


    ***


    At the final whistle, I raced to be first to the shower, leaving Sandra to do all the boring stuff. I got dressed and went up to find Emma to see if she wanted to go out for dinner or visit Henri''s House of Hams or go to the Christmas market in Chester, or what.


    She wanted none of those things - at least, not yet.


    "You''ve got a special guest," she said, and I felt someone come up behind me.


    "If it''s the Ghost of Christmas Past, tell him to fuck off. I signed up to his newsletter and the unsubscribe button is fake."


    "Max," said an unfamiliar voice. It was possible I''d never heard it before in my life, which was bonkers.


    I turned and saw Chris Beaumont, often known as Goliath. He was a gigantic man, six foot five, four foot wide. His goalscoring record wasn''t impressive - he averaged less than one goal every four games, but I''d been pursuing him relentlessly for weeks, making increasingly demented offers to his club, Banbury. I''d finally hit on a deal that they couldn''t refuse.


    "Chris! Why are you here? You shouldn''t be here. Do Banbury know?"


    He smiled. "They know. It''s all right. This is Rob. My agent. And my mate."


    I shook hands with the guy - I''d seen him in the last twenty minutes when I was on the touchline. The Parasight perk had kicked in and was telling me that a handful of agents were visiting our matches. This Rob guy represented talent worth three hundred thousand pounds. I was guessing that meant six or seven decent clients. He was probably scraping a living. He seemed cool, though. We''d had a couple of quick chats on the phone - mostly him checking if I was serious about this move or not. "Your girlfriend has been making us feel at home," said Rob. "She''s a much better salesman than you."


    I squeezed Emma sideways. "No doubt. But you didn''t say why you were here. I mean... you''re not scouting Swindon Supermarine, are you?"


    Chris laughed. "I''ve been getting loads of messages about how you''re the best penalty taker in non-league. I wanted to see the competition."


    I explained it to Emma. "Chris is a bit of a penalty specialist."


    Rob said, "That left winger of theirs is highly rated. Banbury were looking at him to get crosses in for Chris. But you made mincemeat out of him."


    "Oh, I wouldn''t say that," I lied, smugly. "Oh, hey! How did Kidderminster get on?" They had already been knocked out of the FA Trophy and had played their scheduled league match.


    "They won," said Emma.


    "Oh. There goes Christmas number one."


    "MD was keeping an eye on it. He said Christian Fierce got his fifth yellow, so he''ll miss their game against your former team. And one of their strikers hobbled off."


    "Oh, no," I smiled.


    "You were hoping to be top of the table for Christmas?" said Rob, looking at his phone. "They''re six ahead, now, and there''s two matches before the 25th. You could..." He trailed off. He didn''t believe what he was about to say.


    "It was a long shot but it would have been nice for my holiday. We told you about that, right, Chris?"


    He nodded. "Manager taking a two-week break in the middle of the season. Anyone else, I''d think it was batty. But you deserve it. I just... The timing? With the transfer window?"


    I shrugged. I wasn''t sure where he''d got two weeks from. Not from me, that''s for sure. "The transfer window is irrelevant, really. I''m not selling anyone and I plan to have all my business done by nine a.m. on January first. For once, I''m being ultra, ultra professional about it. No-one can be mad at me." The thought struck me as ludicrous. "They will, though."


    He sipped his drink. "You asked why I was here. I just wanted to talk to you. See the place and talk to you. It''s all loopy. You''re basically talking about making me the most expensive player in non-league, pro rata. I... I''d like to know why."


    I hadn''t expected him to bust out the Latin. He sounded like he had gone to a good school. How had he ended up playing football instead of rugby? I pushed my bottom lip out. "To me, you guarantee promotion. Over your career, you''ve scored one goal every four games. Here, you''ll score two a game. If teams sit back, we''ll smash them. If they come at us, we''ll smash them. I just want to smash everyone and get out. And if I make you a cult hero and double your wages for the rest of your life, that''s fine by me, too."


    "I know you don''t want to talk tactics too much before we''ve signed," said Rob, "but we can''t quite understand how you''re going to do it. It''s something of a stumbling block."


    "For one thing," I said, with a light laugh, "Henri Lyons, the best striker for miles around, is going to use his substantial gifts in service of you. It''s like you start your first day in an Amazon warehouse and Jeff Bezos is bringing you coffee and every fifteen minutes he gives you a little shoulder rub. It''s like your first day working for Microsoft and Bill Gates meets you at reception, shows you around, and sets up your computer for you."


    Emma boggled. "Does Henri know about this?"


    "Yes. And he¡¯ll make my life miserable. He¡¯ll whine and sulk. But he¡¯ll do it."


    "Why?"


    "Because there¡¯s one thing he values almost more than anything else. Purity. What I¡¯m proposing will be truth and beauty writ large. Very large," I added, giving Chris a playful slap on the nearest (colossal) arm.


    "Max," said Rob, smiling, "you¡¯re trying to persuade her."


    "Yes."


    "You should be trying to convince us."


    "Ha! I don''t think so. You know it''s right. You''re excited, and you''re right to be. But you think this would be a fun little adventure, a chance to make a bit of extra cash and have an amazing story to tell. But it''s not that. This isn''t what you think it is."


    "No?" said Chris.


    I stopped smiling and felt my eyes start to blaze. "No. It¡¯s much much more than that. People will remember the next six months of your career for as long as they live." I had got myself worked up and I had to shake the excess excitement off. "Whoo! I feel evangelical. Do you mind if I say something a bit unpleasant to Emma?"


    Curiosity. Anxiety. "No."


    "Bebs, Chris here is often held up as some kind of avatar of all that¡¯s shit about non league." I put my hand on his shoulder and looked right at him. "But if he lets me, I¡¯m going to turn him into the apotheosis of all that is good and holy about English football. Low blocks are an abomination, and Chris Beaumont will be my paladin, bathed in cleansing light, slicing through the palisades. Together, we will purify the National League North." The air was crackling with mad energy, as billions of competing universes were born and spun off with that precise moment as the start of their timeline. In half, my high priest of football schtick made Chris sign for Chester; in the other half, it repelled him.


    In this universe, Emma said, "That''s nice. Oh, that reminds me. MD was worried about you fighting with Sandra."


    "What?" I said, bringing my hand back down to my side. "What?"


    Rob helped me understand. "Your assistant subbed you off. That situation is unusual, to say the least."


    "Ah, no. She was right. I lost concentration."


    Chris leaned forward from the neck up. "You hit a fucking spectacular sixty yard diagonal onto the number seven''s toes and that really pissed her off. Your number came up on the board and she gave you an earful."


    "Pointless show-off Hollywood pass. She knows I hate that crap. I''m not allowed to do it just because I''m the boss. And the row was entertainment. It was... what''s the thing in wrestling where they pretend to be mad?"


    "Kayfabe," said Emma, which freaked me out.


    "Right. It was that. The more she stands up to me, the more the players will respect her."


    "Did she think it was fake?" said Emma.


    "No, she was really mad at me," I said, delighted. "Said I''d promised to play good football and I had to set an example."


    ¡°But who¡¯s in charge?¡± said Chris.


    ¡°Me. But I¡¯ve worked really hard to get a top football brain in. I''m on the pitch, exhausted, struggling to do two jobs at once. She''s clear-headed, she has an overview of the match and the wider sitch. I¡¯m not stupid. I¡¯ll listen to what she says. And her subbing me off is like in Star Trek where the doctors relieve the captain when they start firing proton torpedoes against the Kardashians. I want pushback. I want the best outcome.¡±


    Chris looked at his agent, had a rapid non-verbal conversation, then turned back to me. "What will you do if I don''t agree to come?"


    "Ooh," I said, as though the thought hadn''t ever occurred to me. "Then we do it the hard way."


    "So I''m the easy way."


    "Yep. The easy way and the fun way."


    Emma poked me in the ribs. "What about drama? What about telling a story?"


    I playfully tried to grab her fingers so she couldn''t poke me again. "There will be plenty of that." I jerked my head towards the pitch. "Just not out there."


    "I''m cup tied in the FA Trophy," said Chris, meaning he wouldn''t be able to play for us in that competition.


    "Oh? So the other teams will have a chance." I grinned at him until he smiled back.


    He turned to Rob and shook his head. "The guy''s potty."


    "I''ll tell you what the opposite of potty is. Which team in England goes up against low blocks the most?"


    "Man City."


    "Right. Most teams we play now low block us. And I''ve just hired a coach from Man City." I tapped my temple. "On my holiday I''ll be working on my free kicks and corners. We''ve got a coach who''s perfect for the challenges we''re going to face. We''ve got ten players ready to work their butts off so that you can hog all the glory." I got smug. I had outdone myself. "Have you got any medals?" I had been studying his career but as often happened immediately after a match, I didn''t have all my faculties available.


    "Won the National League before, and League Two."


    "Fuck," I said. "That''s good. Well, you know what it feels like. I''m offering you that feeling again. Er... there''s only one thing you might not like."


    "What''s that?"


    "Round here, I take the penalties."


    vi.


    On the sixth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... the tiniest winning spree.


    Sunday, December 10


    I was trying to have a lazy morning in bed with Emma when there was a knock on the front door. That was very strange, since my post got delivered to the club, and almost no-one knew I lived in that barn. One of the few people who did, the Brig, would invariably text me before coming.


    It turned out to be Ruth, in a slight panic.


    "Max, it''s the Yorks. Can you help?"


    "Sure. What do you need?"


    "Put your hoodie on." A few seconds later, Emma and I were following Ruth along the dirt path behind her property, and she explained. "There''s an old couple that live here. The Yorks. Every morning, they open the bathroom blinds, there, and every evening they close them. It''s a signal. That''s how I know they''re all right."


    "Huh," I said. Ahead was a cute-ish cottage. The blinds were still closed. It woke me up pretty fast. Action stations. "You don''t have a key or anything?"


    "No. But they''ve left that window open. See? Maybe you could...?"


    I jogged ahead, partly to get to the scene faster, partly to warm up. If I did have to climb up there, it would be pretty tough going. By the time the ladies caught up, I had a plan. "If I move the wheelie bin over, climb on that, onto that windowsill, if I can get from there up onto that little roof, sideways there, might have a chance."


    "Oh, I don''t know," said Ruth, looking at my plan. "It''s awfully risky."


    "You get started," said Emma. "I''ll push the window wider from the inside." She had tried the back door and it had swung open.


    "Oh, thank God," said Ruth, racing inside, calling "Hello?"


    Emma and I hung around in the garden - neither of us wanted to see a dead body, if that''s what the deal was. But it turned out that Mrs. York had a bad cold and Mr. York had gone to the ''big shop'' that was open on Sundays to get some Lemsip or chicken soup or whatever, and had forgotten to do the blinds. So it was all good, big relief all round, and Mrs. York was ecstatically happy that Ruth had checked on her.


    So nothing much had happened, but the old adrenaline had been pumping for a quick minute, and lazing in bed didn''t seem like the plan for the day any more. I went through a mental list of my options. "Ladies, can I interest you in a quick pop to Liverpool? I''ll check in on the under twelves - they''re playing in a futsal tournament - and then we can find a nice place to eat or a Christmas market or whatever."


    "Absolutely," said Emma. "But first, what''s futsal?"


    ***


    Futsal is indoor football with a small, heavy ball. The nature of the ball promotes technique, passing, and skill, instead of traditional English virtues like kicking it long to a big man (Goliath), getting stuck in with tackles (Sam Topps), or complaining that a referee made a mistake so the entire match should be replayed and replayed until the team that feels they have a right to win, win (Liverpool Football Club).


    When we got there, I felt something in the atmosphere. Something off. I frowned as we sat down at the back of the stand that looked down on three small pitches. What was it that I''d detected? I mean, the obvious thing was that the sports hall was packed with parents of footballers who wouldn''t make it as professionals. Fifty or sixty of the sort of person who had crashed a metal bar into my skull.


    I shuddered, but it wasn''t that.


    Over there were the hosts, wearing a certain shade of red. Liverpool FC. They ran this December tournament, calling it Yule Never Walk Alone. Urgh. Emma had complained about my anti-Liverpool rants, so I¡¯d tried to stop making fake vomit noises when that football club got mentioned. But I was pleased to note they all seemed vaguely depressed.


    Next to them were a bunch of people in blue - Everton. Again, not many happy faces there. Then bunches of coaches and parents from smaller clubs and local teams, with a normal mix of excited, happy, and unhappy parents and children.


    And over to the right, wearing gorgeous blue and white kits, a bunch of familiar faces lying around playing card games. Unlike most of the teams, there was no separation between parents and children. It seemed that Future''s grandmother was on a team with Mark Nelson, while Future himself was paired with Tadpole, and Simon Black was in deep discussion with Stephen Watson''s dad about what card to play next.


    "Our lot look very relaxed," said Ruth.


    "They do, don''t they? Something¡¯s weird. I want to find out the standings without disturbing them. Can you see any organiser types?"


    "There," said Emma, pointing to a table laden with documents being guarded by a middle-aged woman and a gangly teenager. "Want me to go and find out?"


    "No, you''re too sexy. You''ll cause a scene and our lot will notice. Ruth, you go."


    "Hey! I''m sexier than you. I cause more scenes than you two combined."


    "I''m a superstar footballer," I whined. "Everyone knows what I look like."


    "Here," said Emma, fishing her West Didsbury bobble hat from her handbag.


    I pulled it as far down as I could manage, and in that disguise, went the long way round to talk to the organisers. I returned the same way.


    "Well?" said Ruth. "No-one even glanced at you, by the way."


    "Turns out, we are slapping."


    "What?" laughed Emma.


    "We slapped Liverpool. We slapped Everton. They''re playing each other next and the winner of that will be in the other semi final. So we''ve knocked one of the favourites out, have an easy game in the semi, and will play the final against a team we already beat."


    "That''s amazing," said Emma.


    I scratched my head. It was amazing. How was that happening? "Can we postpone the Christmas market?"


    "Course," said Emma. "We can''t leave. You''re about to get your first trophy. Or cup. Or vase."


    "Oh!" I said, as ten tiny little kids from Liverpool and Everton took to the pitch. Five-a-side, red against blue, a real classic. And yet... "We''ve got the best team here," I said, astonished. At this age, most players still had CA 1, perhaps 2, and a powerful boy was more impressive than a skilful technician. But based on PA, we were by far the most talented team. Nine of our twelve would make it as professionals, and the other three would walk into the West Didsbury team.


    "You already said that," said Ruth.


    "No, I said we beat them. But look! They''re not all that good. Liverpool have one good forward. Couple of decent midfielders. Everton have a good goalie and a good midfielder. That''s it. The rest are fool''s gold."


    "What have we got?"


    I looked around. "We''re fucking stacked. We''ve got the best player in the tournament. Stephen Watson. Big Sam is the second best goalie. Tadpole is the best, actually, but he''s only ten. I hope he got some minutes. But Big Sam''s second best of the starters. Mark Nelson might be the best defender, except if you count Future, who''s been training with the fourteens and was even with the sixteens for a while. And the organiser told me Simon Black is top scorer by far. He''s a menace at this type of football - he''s too fast and sharp to stop." I laughed. I''d been getting annoyed at Playdar for underdelivering, but this was very much a team that Playdar built.


    I watched as Spectrum - relaxed and happy - adjusted his glasses and looked down at a clipboard he was holding. Then he looked up at the time and across at the Liverpool versus Everton match. Then he spasmed, reached for his mobile, and when he finished typing, my phone buzzed.


    Spectrum: Just FYI - I think we have a good shot at winning YNWA with the under 12s. It''s in Liverpool. If you''re not doing anything and you can get here soonish, you''ll catch the final.


    Me: Wouldn''t you prefer to do it without me breathing down your neck?


    Spectrum: No! But I don''t think it matters. The kids are relaxed. I''m rotating the players as fast as I can with no drop in quality. The other teams either don''t rotate or have bad subs.


    If I took over for the final, I could use the Fantasy Football perks to give us a massive boost - Triple Captain, Bench Boost, and a Free Hit. It seemed like a guarantee of success. But what would that prove? Nothing. Spectrum deserved a chance.


    Me: Sounds like you''ve got it under control. I''m about to do a 120% Hollow Knight speedrun so I won''t be able to make it. Enjoy yourself!


    He sent me a thumbs up emoji and wandered over to watch the rest of Liverpool versus Everton. Liverpool won, and then it was time for our semi-final against Bootle.


    The ref blew the whistle, and Bootle attacked.


    Try to imagine three cute little corgis racing each other to the other side of the pitch, enthusiastic, yapping (in Scouse accents), arms flailing, their tiny knees pumping while Emma went ''aww'' because they were so tiny and so cute.


    Then imagine a level 9000 defensive midfielder approach a kid who was about to shoot, lazily dab the ball away, jog onto it and pass it accurately forward, where little Simon Black accelerated to a hundred miles an hour and rolled the ball into the bottom left.


    Seven seconds, one goal.


    "I don''t think it''ll matter if you go down," said Ruth.


    "I just want to enjoy it," I said. "Even if there''s a slight chance I''d ruin the vibe or distract them, I''d rather not."


    "Oh, look at that one!" said Emma. "What is he? Ten?"


    "That''s Benjy. He''s seven."


    "Holy shit. Can I keep him, Max? Can I? Oh, can I just pet him though?"


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I smiled. He was cute. "Benjy. Seven. Attacking midfielder, can play left or right. He''ll slap this tournament in a couple of years. Yule Never Walk Alone. Please. You''ll never win again, more like. They should rename this, er... Merry Christmax. Oh, that''s terrible. Merry Kidsmax."


    "Give it up."


    "I''m going on a coffee run," said Ruth.


    Also going on a run: Theo White, a ten-year-old right midfielder with PA 55. There were so many kids running around I couldn''t remember where I''d found him, but there he was, dribbling past two Bootle kids and pulling the ball back for Simon. He thought about passing wide to Das Tournament hero Adam, but scored a goal instead.


    Spectrum subbed him off and put Benjy on for a couple of minutes. In that time, Bootle had more attacks, but one of Stephen Watson, Future, or Mark Nelson blocked or intercepted. It was all incredibly controlled. Spectrum was giving everyone minutes and the kids were reshaping how they played based on who was on the pitch. I''d taught them some of that when I was training with them, but almost all of this was Spectrum and the other coaches who had chipped in.


    With Simon back on, we scored two more goals and then Tadpole came on to see the match out. Ten years old, the best goalkeeper in our system with PA 130, and he was getting minutes in a semi-final.


    I got emotional, and tried to hide it from Emma - don''t ask me why.


    Ruth returned and handed out coffees in branded paper cups. "There''s a Costa. Bonus. Coffee''s not bad, there. So we won?"


    "Yeah," said Emma. "Max had a little inside cry but I pretended not to notice."


    Ruth smiled and leaned over to rub my arm. "They''re all talking about Chester in there. This came out of nowhere, it seems. Liverpool have won this four years out of the last five. One of their coaches was raving about Stephen Walton."


    "Watson."


    "Said he''s unbelievable. The woman doing the drinks said ''we should sign him then'' and he said yeah. And the striker, too."


    I nodded. It wouldn''t be long before Stephen''s talent was attracting scouts from every major team. How on earth were we supposed to keep him for the next two years, let alone the next ten? "Ruth, you should butter up his dad. Let him know about the agency and all that."


    "I''ve met him, remember? We''ve had this conversation before."


    "Stephen needs these experiences to improve, but these experiences put him on display. We need to keep the dad happy and believing we''re the best place for him."


    "Are we?"


    I scoffed. "We''re already the best under twelve futsal team in the world."


    "How much of an exaggeration is that?"


    "Big one. It''s my favourite under twelve futsal team in the world. That''s no exaggeration."


    "Anyone else we should get?"


    "Tadpole."


    "Who else?"


    "That''s it. Stephen''s the big fish, though. He''ll make the club and the agency a lot of money." I imagined getting a call that Stephen had left to join Liverpool and we''d get no fee. My blood pressure rose. Emma sensed it and pushed herself into me. What more could I do to keep young players at the club? Keep giving them chances in the first team, obviously. Keep improving the coaches and facilities. Keep winning tournaments.


    Keep winning? We hadn''t won this one, yet.


    "Oh, no," said Emma.


    "What?" I said, head jerking left and right while I looked for danger.


    "That little baby''s dressed up like a frog. Oh my God. I want to pinch his cheeks and say ribbit. Am I allowed, Max?"


    "You''re a strong independent woman. But if you''re going there, ask which kid on that team is theirs. They''ve got a good right back I wouldn''t mind signing. Also, it''s an owl, not a frog."


    Emma bounced away and Ruth gave me a certain smile before returning to her coffee and phone.


    Ribbit. The word reminded me of something. Something about football... Ah! On my first trip to FC United, they''d had a player with the nickname Ribbit. He was incredibly talented - why hadn''t I thought of him since?


    Because, I realised, he wasn''t in my database.


    Me: Dude. What happened to Ribbit?


    Ziggy: Oh! You mean Frogger. Haven''t heard that name for ages. He met a Turkish woman and they moved to Marmaris. He runs a bar.


    Me: Oh, shame.


    Ziggy: No, I think he''s happy, now. If we win the league, we''re going there for a piss up.


    Me: Better stop throwing away two goal leads, then.


    Ziggy: I''ll pass your advice onto our goalies. Hey, where''s my boot deal?


    Me: All sorted. Go to nike dot co dot uk, put whatever you want in your cart and use offer code MERRY CHRISTMAX for ten percent off.


    Ziggy: Mate.


    "Ruth, did you get anywhere with a boot deal for Bark?"


    She closed her eyes, recalling some unpleasant memory. "They didn''t laugh at me, exactly, but they suggested I might want to, let''s say, come back later."


    "I think you''ll find it easier with Angel."


    She scoffed. "You think?"


    Emma came back, cheeks flushed with pleasure. She told me which kid the couple with the baby were watching. He wasn''t of interest. "I heard you mention Angel. I realised, you know, that you''ve talked about her looks and her story and all that, but you didn''t say much about her as a player."


    "I can help with that," said Ruth, to my surprise. "When Max saw her, he became fully erect."


    "Mate," I said.


    "I mean that he stood up."


    I shook my head. "Can you not? She''s not even sixteen."


    Ruth was unrepentant. "It was quite strange, Max. Even for you. What had you seen?"


    This was my fault. I''d been getting sloppy about responding to players as soon as I saw their profiles. I''d started out bad at that and had trained myself to be better, but now I was so comfortable in my position I was falling into old habits. I''d done it not twenty minutes ago when Liverpool and Everton had taken to the pitch. "She''s tall and she has a quality of movement that''s hard to put into words. It just looked right. It suddenly clicked that Bonnie hadn''t been exaggerating. So I went over, and yeah, that''s a goalscorer all right."


    "But you told her not to shoot."


    "She''s no good to us in her current form. She needs to become a more well-rounded player. She''ll have to work really hard on her passing, technique, and yeah, her defensive work a bit, too. You saw how she struggled in that match."


    "Bonnie was stressed to bits, but you seemed happy."


    "Angel tried, she was shit, and now she knows we all know the things she can''t do. Jackie stopped the match a couple of times to explain things to her and she was paying attention. As long as she''s hungry to learn, everything will be all right."


    On the pitches, the tournament organisers were moving goals around and generally reshaping the space. The final would be played on centre court, so to speak, giving everyone interested the chance to see.


    "So you''ve signed Venus," said Ruth. "I''m almost more interested in Mars." She saw I wasn''t following her. "Chris Beaumont."


    "Ah."


    "MD came to ask me if your gamble failed, could the club use the money I''d invested in the women''s team to shore things up."


    "What did you say?"


    "I said no. Even though the real answer is yes, of course. But it''s no until the very last second, Max. Until we''re actually falling off the edge of the cliff."


    "We''re nowhere near that."


    "I know. But it''s MD''s job to worry. The numbers involved must be frightening. How much are we buying him for?"


    "Oh, we''re not. Banbury can''t sell him. Their whole team is built around him. No, we''re loaning him."


    "Loaning him? Then we''re only paying his wages."


    "That''s often the case, but you can also pay a fee to loan a player. On top of his wages. It happens a lot at elite clubs. They can''t just give away assets for a year. Yeah, I suppose it''s rare down at our level. Unheard of, maybe, I don''t know. I just want the player."


    "So what''s the loan fee?"


    "Forty thousand pounds."


    Ruth stared at me. "That''s more than we paid to buy, outright, Ryan Jack, who has played in the Premier League."


    "Yes."


    "Forty thousand? To use him for six months?"


    "Yes."


    Emma went, "Oh!" She nodded. "That''s what he meant about being the most expensive player pro rata. He''d be eighty thousand for a year, and that''s more than that guy Jonathan Hurts. Are you sure about this, bebs? It sounds a bit crazy." The numbers were worse than she thought - Hurts had a three-year contract, if reports were to be believed. I¡¯d know for sure when I started buying the Contracts perks, but you could argue his transfer fee was twenty-three thousand a year.


    "Crazy like a frog. All right, it''s nearly time. God, this is exciting! My heart''s going. The Liverpool kids look really intense. Ours are still chill AF. Holy smokes!"


    ***


    Yule Never Walk Alone. The final. Hosts Liverpool with their fast boys, their strong boys, their tall boys. Mixed morale, mixed talent. A throng of coaches. The visitors and underdogs - question mark - Chester. Often known as tiny Chester. Minnows Chester. High morale, high talent. One coach. Spectrum, pushing his glasses up, enjoying himself. The wizard¡¯s apprentice.


    Ruth and Emma were into the first half like no other football match I could remember. Maybe Emma was this animated when I played, but I would never see it. Now she kicked every ball, yelled, yelped, whelped, whined, whinged, moaned, groaned, and shrieked. Ruth was less vocal, but the way she shifted in her seat told a tale.


    It was a journey.


    We started with a seventy percent sort of team: Big Sam in goal, Future and Stephen Watson as defenders, Adam as the midfield, and Simon Black as the striker. Liverpool had their strongest lineup.


    It was pretty end-to-end stuff, but we scored first. Simon - who else? - latching onto a nice pass. Spectrum rang the changes, bringing our relative strength down to sixty percent. Liverpool had shots that Big Sam saved, and John, another veteran of Das Tournament, scored on the counter.


    Two-nil, and another flurry of changes. Off went Stephen Watson, on came Simon Black. Liverpool huffed and puffed, but we scored a third. The Reds finally clawed one back, but we were back to Black - Simon made it four-one.


    That''s when Spectrum lost his mind.


    Still smiling, chatting to his substitutes, and generally looking like a good-hearted Fagin, he weakened us to fifty percent, then allowed Tadpole to go in goal for the last two minutes of the half.


    Liverpool couldn''t believe their luck, and they struck twice.


    Four-three at half-time, but the momentum was with the Premier League team. Ruth and Emma spent the half-time break chatting away at a mile a minute, excited, desperate, stressed.


    Me? I needed to see one more thing before making up my mind. But I couldn''t help but feel that...


    Over on the far side of the pitch, the Liverpool head coach was pumping his players up. They would come out fighting, they would come out swinging, and if they got the next goal, there would be absolute carnage. The crowd felt it, too. There was plenty of support for the ten-to-one outsiders - Liverpool - but enough of the smaller teams had stayed behind to watch this most unexpected of finals, and they were almost all cheering for a Chester win.


    So what would Spectrum do?


    He had two valid choices. One, start weak and let his team get stronger through the half, ending with a thrilling last two minutes, a finale for the ages. Two, put his strongest team on the pitch, crush the Liverpool insurgency and demoralise their players. Honestly, either way sounded fun, but one was obviously much more likely to end with Stephen Watson lifting the first trophy of my management career - and the first of Spectrum''s, too. The only option I wouldn¡¯t accept would be a halfway house. A compromise. As long as Spectrum chose a lane, I''d support him.


    The Liverpool kids were in a huddle, and as the ref blew the whistle, they roared and clapped their hands and looked aggressive and ready to charge.


    Onto the other side of the pitch sauntered Big Sam, Stephen Watson, Future, Mark Nelson, and Simon Black. One hundred percent strength. I flew to my feet and punched the air.


    Spectrum''s head snapped over and he saw me. I clenched my fist, grinning like a madman. He grinned back and whipped out his phone.


    Spectrum: I take it you approve.


    Me: Crush them like ants. Then release our ants. I saw Benjy had played. Has Biggins?


    Biggins was an eight-year-old centre back with PA 35.


    Spectrum: I''ll give you two guesses.


    He smiled in my general direction and slipped his phone back into his pocket.


    Three minutes later, I almost felt sorry for Liverpool. Their best players had played most of every match, while ours had been given plenty of rest. Our reserves were ready to come in and play, even our backup goalie. And as their legs faded, so did their morale. Every Stephen Watson interception, every Mark Nelson block, every Simon Black goal stripped away some of their spirit, and I''m very, very sorry to say some of the Liverpool kids spent most of the second half in tears.


    A four-goal lead turned into a five-goal lead, and for the last five minutes of the final, Spectrum took the piss by rotating the team, bringing on increasingly tiny players, until we finished with Tadpole in goal, Benjy, Biggins, Theo White, and Adrian Tomkins, aged 10, 7, 8, 10, and 11 respectively.


    Liverpool scored the last goal, but somehow that made things even sweeter.


    The three of us rushed down to join the celebrations, with me focusing on the players and Ruth and Emma wading into the parents, our sudden appearance flicking the switch from smiling pleasure to dancing joy.


    Stephen Watson flushed as he held the trophy aloft - it was a cup with big handles; Emma approved - and flushed again as he was named Player of the Tournament and got a medal and a little man-kicking-a-football trophy. On the pitch, he was cool as a cucumber and played simply but with cheeky, extrovert flourishes. Off the pitch, he was quite shy.


    Simon Black got a trophy, too, for being top scorer. His closest rival was six goals short. I noticed the coaches from the Premier League teams eyeing him greedily - Simon played like the reincarnation of Liverpool legend Michael Owen. Oi! Eyes off my players! But then again... he only had PA 77. By the time he was ready for the first team, the first team would be way ahead of him. He''d keep improving for a long time yet, though, and just as the hype was building I could sell him as the new Michael Owen and rip off some club I didn''t like.


    The idea of rug pulling Liverpool made me even chirpier, even more willing to pose for selfie after selfie, made me make outrageous promises to the parents like "your child will be the first footballer on the moon" and whatnot.


    Then I went too far, trying to get everyone to come to Nando''s. Ruth shut it down right quick, saying Nando''s with ten hyperactive kids was not her idea of a good time, and anyway, she had been doing what I wanted. We ended up at a nice local restaurant. Me, Ruth, Emma, Stephen Watson and his dad, and Spectrum.


    After we got settled at our table, with Stephen''s trophies displacing the salt and pepper, and after we had ordered, I rested my elbows on the table, rested my chin on the backs of my hands, looked at Spectrum, and sighed, "I''ve never met a genius before. How do you do it?"


    He laughed, and he told us about the parts of the tournament we''d missed. He was just getting to the final, which Ruth, Emma, and Mr. Watson had a thousand questions about, when I was filled with a warm glow. Like, a full-body toasty feeling, hands in front of the fire after coming in from the snow, feet warmed up by the big Christmas socks, head snugly wrapped in a West Didsbury and Chorlton bobble hat.


    In my mind, I stretched my arms wide and screamed, "I''m the king of the world!"


    And as I returned to reality, listening to Spectrum explain how he thought of a football match as a chapter in a story, and a season as a book, I felt like another chunk of coal had been added to the fireplace.


    But then... something strange.


    I''d been so busy watching the kids and thinking about their parents while admiring the new, confident Spectrum that it hadn''t quite clicked. But now that my mind was fully at rest, I was 99% sure of it - his tactics attribute had been 15. It had always been 15.


    But today it was 16.


    He wasn''t just improving. He was improving.


    vii.


    On the seventh day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... some transfer chicanery.


    Wednesday, December 13


    MD and I were driving away from Sutton United, which as you know is down in London. My second trip to the capital in as many days. On the maps app I marvelled at the famous names that were nearby - Sutton United were in the middle of Epsom Downs, Wimbledon, and Selhurst Park. There were times I found the idea of London big and exciting, and others where I thought it was all a bit much.


    "That went well," said MD.


    "Yep," I said, beaming. "You were amazing for a guy who doesn''t want this to happen."


    "I do want it to happen," he sighed, as he eased around a corner right into yet another traffic light. Boo, London, boo! "It''s just a lot of finance. You''re committing us to a lot of spend."


    "You seem relaxed about it."


    "This comes out of the Boshcard money. The only risk is if Agatha pulls out of the deal before then. Which is vanishingly unlikely. I suppose..." He sighed. "I suppose I wish I knew more about the player. Or saw anything in him. I suppose it''s not just you, for once. The scouts like him too. Is it left, somewhere? What does it say?"


    I concentrated on the app for a few minutes, giving MD directions to a bar. I texted the Brig and he was outside when we got there. He shook hands with a few guys who had the same sort of posture as him. He got in the back. MD pulled away and I heard the Brig struggling to click his seatbelt into place. I turned, amused, and gave him a thumbs up when he finally succeeded.


    "I am pleashed to inform you," he intoned, with much solemnity, "that I am delightfully shozzled."


    "What were you on?" said MD.


    "Four Horshemen," slurred the Brig.


    "Not familiar. What''s in that?"


    "Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and Jameshon," came the surreal reply, and I was all set to laugh but MD instantly comprehended.


    "Sounds good. Have to try that. Max, put some smooth jazz on so John and his four mates can have a little shnooze."


    ***


    While I waited for my bodyguard to sober up, I thought about my scouting trips to see Sutton. They were rock bottom of League Two and while they were still fighting on the pitch, in the boardroom they were resigned to their fate. When I offered to take a player off their hands, they were interested. They''d get a fee and save on wages for a guy who was, for them, a mostly unused sub.


    Eddie Moore had been recommended by a scout I''d befriended. His tip had cost me a hundred pounds in cash, and I''d sent Fleur, our scout, to check him out. She''d sent a glowing report, and so I''d been to see Sutton play at Tranmere - convenient - and at Wrexham - tickets thanks to Eve (who, by the way, sat next to me and flirtily complained I hadn''t tried to make her my assistant manager - I somehow forgot to mention this episode to Emma).


    Eddie had been on the bench in both matches, but he''d come on for twenty minutes in Wales. Of course, I didn''t need to see him play to get his profile, but I had to persuade MD to let me spend even more of the club''s money and all the effort was part of that. I''d worn MD down pretty quickly - after Benny''s goal I could have asked him to rebuild the stadium and he''d have said yes. But he was a legitimately good transfer target.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Born 15.9.01</td>


    <td>(Age 22)</td>


    <td>English</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Acceleration 13</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Handling 1</td>


    <td>Stamina 9</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Heading 8</td>


    <td>Strength 7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Tackling 10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jumping 6</td>


    <td>Teamwork 14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bravery 11</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Technique 12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Pace 13</td>


    <td>preferred foot L</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Passing 11</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dribbling 9</td>


    <td>Positioning 10</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Finishing 4</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>CA 41</td>


    <td>PA 75</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Defender (Left)</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The scouts had painted me a picture of a player who was underrated by most managers because he wasn''t physically dominant, didn''t win headers, all that crap. But they''d spotted that Eddie had the core of a Max Best player, and the numbers suggested they were right. He had some speed, positioning, was good on the ball, and he had that sweet, sweet teamwork.


    The Brig stirred. He''d driven us to London and then gone on the piss with his old army mates. It seemed a crime to make him leave so early, but it was a long drive home. "Did we win?"


    "Yes," I said.


    "Gleaming. What did we win?"


    "Eddie Moore will join us on loan for the rest of the season."


    "On loan? You hate loans."


    "If you''ll give me more than six microseconds to put one word after the previous word... He''ll come on loan... with an obligation to buy."


    "Gosh," said the Brig. Then after a while. "What does that mean?"


    "It means to the outside world, he''s on loan. But actually, we''ve bought him. But we pay next summer."


    "My mother never used to let us buy on the never-never. She said never to the never-never." The Brig giggled.


    "MD isn''t a big fan of it, either. But it''s only twenty-five thousand."


    "That sounds both cheap and expensive. Erm... perhaps we could get a coffee somewhere. And a tartlet?" he added, hopefully.


    The word tartlet started me thinking, but I never completed the thought. MD was giving his opinion. "It''s a lot of money for a reserve left back at a team that will fall into the National League. It''s a lot of money for a player all my contacts say is nothing special."


    "Why do you want him, sir?"


    I turned to him. "We need a left back for when Trick leaves. MD is friends with the Sutton lot and they''re going to say that Eddie is a right winger."


    "Oh, this again." He blew some unwanted air out. "How about that coffee?"


    Ten minutes later we were in a motorway services drinking their appalling coffee. I went through the plan again. "Right. January first in the morning, we sign Goliath on loan. He''s really on loan."


    "And he''s going to win us the league even though he''s not that good and has almost no upside."


    "Exactly. A minute later we sign Eddie on loan. We say he''s a right winger and Sutton do the same on their side. He''s only coming in on loan, we say, to cover me for my holiday."


    "And people will believe he''s a right winger?"


    "Who''s going to check? Why wouldn''t he be? We don''t mention the obligation to buy. It''s just a loan. At this point, we start briefing that we''re way over budget and all the money from the cup run has been wiped out. Something like that. Any time from there, Trick can leave and it will come as a hammer blow. Rymarquis might leave it till late in the window to give me another deadline day headache, but Trick will push for it to be done early and my holiday will help."


    "He could ruin your holiday by stealing Trick. But Trick''s under contract. He can''t just vanish."


    "His contract, my enemies have learned, includes a release clause if he can get higher wages elsewhere. He negotiated it last summer."


    "That was clever of him."


    "Get some more coffee in you! He did no such thing. It''s just an excuse so he can leave for free. So, right, Trick''s gone, got his pay rise and all that. We''ve spent all our money, Rymarquis and his mates are laughing their heads off. Soon as Trick''s safe, Sutton can mention the obligation to buy, like if they need to placate their fans or whatever. And Sandra can start using Eddie Moore as a left back."


    "What if Trick stays?"


    I shrugged. "Then we have two left backs and can use Magnus as cover for Carl at right back. But we''ll have massively upgraded and Eddie will slap next season, too, and after that, he''ll be our backup left back in League Two."


    MD smiled. "What about in League One? The Championship?"


    He was joking; I wasn''t. "You''ll have to write more cheques when we get there. Bigger ones. Number goes up."


    The Brig stirred his coffee. "So this year''s TV money is going on Chris Beaumont. The prize money is going into equipment for the lads. Next year''s sponsorship money is already being spent. Don''t you think you should reconsider how much you''d accept for Raffi?"


    "No. He''s an England international."


    MD hadn''t drunk any alcohol, but the thought of me presenting him with bigger and bigger demands had sobered him all the way up. He tried to see the bright side of this year''s spending. "At least we''ll have done all our transfer business on day one of the window. Except for signing off on Trick leaving, and Max doesn''t need to be around for that."


    "Mmm," I said. "We¡¯ll get a right winger, too."


    "What?" said MD.


    "I didn''t want to scare you. Don''t worry - he''ll be free. He''s the kid Tranmere signed from my former club and they¡¯ll cover his wages if we give him some first-team experience." Barkley. A PA 130 right-sided attacking midfielder. His CA was still in the twenties but he''d be able to cover a few minutes and he could hit a good cross. "He can come for a month or two if we need him. That''s all agreed. Basically, if we get any kind of serious injury, we press the Bark button. He''s very raw, but the price is right and if we''re up against a low block he could be useful. I wouldn''t put him in against York City or anything, but he''s talented. And he knows the level so it''s not like signing some kind of prima donna."


    There was a silence. "Max," said the Brig. He looked around, laughing in disbelief before fixing me with those ladykiller eyes. "Can I just check, please? Just because I''ve been drinking." He looked up, theatrically, then down again. "You, who are so very opposed to loan signings, intend to make three loan signings this January?"


    My eyes were shining and my smile was devastating - I know because a bored-to-death cleaner who was walking past got a full blast and was suddenly having the best day of her life. "Guys. This is the part where you say how much fun it is working with me."


    The older men looked at each other. "More coffee?" said MD.


    "Yes, please. Irish, if you can arrange that."


    viii.


    On the eighth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me¡­ a chance to close the gap to three.


    Saturday, December 16


    Match 20 of 46: Chester versus Boston United


    Before kick off, Henri asked for a word. He wanted to check I had plans for Christmas dinner, otherwise he''d invite me to his place. He said he wanted to ask me ''while we were still on speaking terms'', which was odd, but I found out what he meant at the men¡¯s first team Christmas party six days later.


    "I''ve accepted an invitation to Weaver Manors," I said.


    He feigned surprise. "I thought you weren''t keen on her father."


    "While I think it''s perfectly reasonable for me to demand that he stops supporting the team he''s loved since he was able to walk just as they''re about to start winning everything, I have decided to try to overlook this one, huge, unforgivable character flaw in the interests of spending more time with his daughter."


    The features of his face spread apart as he admired me. "You''re simply wonderful, did you know?"


    I grinned. "I recently learned he has an amazing wine cellar, and I''m not going to be playing from Christmas to New Year, so..."


    Henri experienced a pang of regret. "Andrew will be there, in my place. If I''d known there would be wine..." The buzzer sounded, so I didn''t have time to investigate what he meant. "Let me shoot you to the top of the league, my friend. A win today will give you something to celebrate. He might upgrade from Italian wine..."


    "To Spanish?"


    He pulled a face. "You are supposed to motivate me, gaffer."


    I hugged his shoulders. "If you''re struggling to motivate yourself for matches, you can always fall back on your writing career."


    This harmless half-joke hit like a cloud of pesticide. Henri looked... guilty?


    ***


    I''d decided to go for a 4-1-4-1 with Raffi Brown not in the match day squad. His big match would be on Tuesday and I didn''t want him getting injured. He was both pleased and annoyed. More annoyed, I think, but I didn''t care. We''d bought something like seventy tickets and his England debut was going to be our unofficial Christmas night out. The official one would be on the 22nd and I had no idea what to expect from it.


    The match kicked off and I spent ten minutes patrolling the halfway line as Boston fell into a low block. Eleven men behind the ball, trying to deny us space, trying to stop us from getting into good crossing positions while also flooding the box with tall boys so if we did cross, they¡¯d probably deal with it.


    Grim.


    And what made it worse was how much fun our last meeting had been. If you remember, a guy had called talkSPORT to rave about it. With good reason - it had ended six-nil and there had been red cards, fights, the debut of my 2-6-2 formation, MY league debut for Chester, me putting my knee on the ball inches away from the Boston manager, Sam going off injured and hobbling back on. Just a wild ride.


    From that to this.


    I''d put Trick in the lineup to help with the pretence that he would be hard to replace, and to be fair, while his CA was low, he was far better than Magnus in a game like this. He dragged our average CA down to 50.3, but Sandra''s coaching was very much working. She''d squeezed an extra point out of Henri. He was on CA 63, now, and that felt like a huge achievement. Pushing back against the tide of shit facilities and shit opponents. Yes, Sandra mate!


    Aff, Trick, and Ryan combined on the left to create a half-chance. Trick''s cross wasn''t terrible, but Henri couldn''t get to it.


    At the back, Carl Carlile had finally caught up with Glenn Ryder - both were CA 54, and Steve Alton was starting to leave poor Gerald May in the dust. Youngster was closing in on gold, Pascal had turned silver, and Andrew Harrison was about to hit whatever the shittest metal is. Tin? Anyway, after six months of regular training, he was CA 19. Which... felt slow, but I''d plucked him from a beach and turned his life upside down. I was more than willing to be patient with him, but he was making me wonder about how many CA 1 players I would sign in future. We could end up training them for two years before they were useful.


    D-Day dribbled past one player and rolled a simple pass forward for Carl to chase. He smashed the ball across goal, but there was only Henri in the area, surrounded by seven defenders. Raffi was useful in those situations - he often surged into the penalty box, adding another body to our attacks. Ryan and Sam didn''t have that desire or the knack of finding themselves in the right place. No wonder Raffi was being courted by so many clubs.


    I glanced up at the main stand and saw more scouts and agents than usual. Putting the hours in before the January transfer window. Made sense. A lot of moves to be made. A lot of money to be made.


    Boston weren''t currently a threat, so I moved forward ten yards, leaving Glenn and Steve on the halfway line and everyone else in an attacking position. Except Ben, of course. He''d moved to CA 45, which was good, but again, it felt slow. Maybe I''d have to upgrade our goalkeeping coach, or find Angles a talented young assistant or something. It couldn''t be that I focused all my attention on the outfield players. The goalies needed to improve at the same rates.


    I got the ball, shaped to pass left, did the cut back move Cody Chambers had taught me, and sprayed the ball wide to D-Day. He now had a little more space, and he used the time to concentrate. He whipped in a cross - perfect for Henri. Almost perfect. Henri needed to add power to his header, but couldn''t quite generate enough. The ball looped up harmlessly into the hands of the goalie.


    Sandra was waving at me. Get back! Get back!


    I shook my head and pointed to the spot where I was. I''ll play further forward than you''re comfortable with, thanks.


    She nodded.


    Boston booted the ball away - not even bothering to pretend to start an attack.


    The crowd groaned.


    Attendances were slowly rising, which is what you''d expect when a team is playing well and winning most of their matches, but I''d been disappointed in the numbers. I wanted more. MD said word had got round that teams were coming to Chester to defend and as a result, the matches weren''t that interesting for casual fans. It was one of the reasons he had allowed me to go nuts on the Goliath fee. We could make some of that 40 grand back by selling more match day tickets.


    We got a free kick and Ryan Jack went to take it. I was still pretty down on myself when it came to set pieces, penalties excepted.


    I stayed on the half way line while Glenn and Steve went up. Almost everyone was in the penalty area, now. I walked forward ten yards, then another five. Sandra was going tonto, but I wanted to invite Boston to launch a counter. If they did, we''d have much more space to work in. I looked at her and took one step back. She threw her hands up, exasperated.


    Ryan''s free kick was fired in, and Ryder got his head to it. It went just over the bar.


    I shook my head. Quarter chances. Half chances. We''d wear Boston down, make them run and concentrate for eighty minutes and hope to get space in the final ten minutes.


    A Boston guy was on the floor, pretending to be injured. Trying to run the clock down. Sandra was waving at me, so I jogged over.


    "What? I know what I''m doing."


    She was annoyed. "I''ve been trying to call you."


    I gestured vaguely towards my ears. "I don''t hear much when the match starts. Tune it all out so I can focus."


    "Weird. Forget DM for now. Try being a right-winger."


    "Hmm? What about D-Day?"


    "He''ll be right mid. We''ll overload them on the right. You, Donny, and Carl all on that side of the pitch. See what mischief you can get up to."


    I laughed. "Hang on. I thought you were trying to stop me going all-out."


    "No, Max."


    "You want... more mischief?" It was hard to believe. "No-one''s ever asked me to go more crazy."


    "Putting the league''s best right winger at right wing isn''t crazy."


    I closed my eyes in an attempt to contain my frustration - not at her, but at the truth. I was no longer Max Best: Mystery Winger. But there was no point having a tactical brain on the touchline if I wasn''t going to listen to her.


    I wandered back to the DM slot, let play stabilise again, and drifted over to be close to D-Day. I played six, seven, eight bounce passes with him, trying to annoy a Boston player into leaving the low block. It worked. He came at me, lunged, and I dabbed the ball back to Carl. I sprinted and looked over my shoulder to see where the ball was. I had wanted it played slightly to my left, but he''d shanked it right. Mate.


    I scrambled across, annoyed that a promising move had lost momentum. But then I thought - why not cross with my left foot? I looked up and saw Henri was surrounded. We needed Raffi. We needed bodies in the box, or we needed every pass in one move to be sharp and accurate.


    With a push of the ball towards our own goal, I retreated, watching as Boston''s players fell into shape - some slower than others. I passed to Donny and jogged to the other side of the pitch. Sandra''s general concept was good - it was what we''d done against Kidderminster in the late stages. Why not start early?


    ***


    At half time I had three or four minutes of quiet massage. My fitness had been improving steadily until I''d hit the plateau, and in a game like this where I wasn''t storming up and down the length of the pitch doing long sprints, I felt I could just about last the ninety.


    When I got down, thanking Dean, I went to Sandra and was about to tell her the plan for the second half when I remembered she knew the game, too. "Thoughts?"


    "We might win like this but we need bodies in the box," she said. "4-3-3."


    "Width is more important than numbers." From wide we could do a lot more damage than if we tried to attack centrally.


    "Right. I forgot you do that narrow 4-3-3. I''ll never understand it. 4-2-4, then," she said.


    "Better. But the full backs might end up not doing anything." We hadn''t practised the Art of Slapping from a 4-2-4. It would probably work in the end, but one full back would typically be out of the game, doing nothing. "3-5-2," I said. "I''ll be the third centre back but I''ll go roaming. Could be a 2-5-3 with me wide left."


    "Left?"


    "Link with Aff. Really hammer that side."


    She calculated. "So Trick and Steve come off. Tony as second striker. Who goes into midfield?"


    "What do you think?"


    "Pascal?"


    "Bingo."


    "What if we score and they come at us?"


    I smiled. "Then we''ll have a lot of fun, won''t we?"


    ***


    It was hard to explain, but just having Pascal on the pitch gave me an injection of energy. There were certain players I had a good on-pitch connection with. Guys who understood what I was trying to achieve and would help me do it. Henri, Raffi, and Pascal topped the list. I found myself wanting to drift infield to combine with Pascal, and darting forward to be a third striker. Most of the time, though, I stuck to the plan of overloading the left. Now we had two to aim for, with Pascal under instructions to arrive late in the box - if he could - and cause a nuisance.


    As we tried this concept, it became clear that while Raffi Brown''s late drives in the danger area were a genuine nuisance, Pascal was something else entirely. He was more like a pet who had decided to wander between your legs while you were checking your phone for the latest score from Darlington versus Kidderminster. Chaos, but not the sort we wanted - we''d have to work on that. Something for some private sessions, perhaps.


    By the way, I really wished I had the ''live scores'' and ''live tables'' perks. They weren''t worth the cost, not when I had so much else to buy, but on days like these it''d be so much fun - or so very stressful - to see what was happening in the other games and how that affected the standings.


    While I''d lost concentration, Aff had surged forward with no support. With a slight panic, I hared towards Henri, feeling the effort drain my battery.


    Aff fired the ball high, but now I was the third player in the box. The ball went all the way to the right, where D-Day collected it, took a touch, and looked up. He had three of us to aim for and I quite fancied scoring another towering header. So I nearly erupted when he played a weak, lame pass sideways. What the fuck?


    My skin went bonkers - goosebumps, tingles, hairs on end, the works. He''d laid the ball to Pascal.


    I zipped sideways, paused, then darted towards the young German. He fired the ball at me, low and hard, and I deflected it with the side of the back of my heel into Henri''s path. He lashed it past the goalie.


    One-nil, relief, and the crowd finally had something to cheer.


    I celebrated with the lads, then peeled myself away and jogged to Sandra. "What''s the score?"


    "Still nil-nil, but Kiddies got a man sent off and their other centre back has done his hamstring!"


    Wow. They''d lost both centre backs in consecutive games. "That''s what you get when you don''t rotate. Fuck."


    "What?" She''d seen that I was disappointed.


    I shrugged. "Just thought it''d be harder."


    "To what? Win the league?"


    "Yeah," I said, with a hint of sadness.


    "Go back to DM," she instructed me. Then she added, "Please."


    "What about entertaining our fans?"


    "Sorry, Max, but we''re professionals. They won''t thank you if we all have fun and come out with a draw. You''ve given them a moment of magic, but if Kiddies slip up and we don''t take advantage, it''s a bad day. Now do your job."


    I walked away, a bit downcast. She was right, but if I had another thirty points of CA I could really go gung-ho. Really smash these teams up. But I didn''t. And that''s why I was going on holiday. And why I was signing Goliath.


    Sandra was smart and she hadn¡¯t been sprinting around. She was thinking clearly. Not only that, if I made her feel valued and listened to her, she might stay at the club longer. Maybe she would turn down the first offer she got because she was having so much fun.


    And most of all, the more often I deferred to Sandra, the more my players would respect her. Henri pitched his ideas, as did Pascal, and sometimes I took small ideas of theirs. But when it came to influencing my decisions, Sandra was many levels above those guys, and she¡¯d had the balls to sub me off when she didn¡¯t like what she was seeing. Yep. It would be good if I played up that side of things.


    The commentary alerted me that Boston would come at us more. In the tactics screens, I saw that they''d abandoned the low block and would try their normal 4-4-2 defensive style. Direct balls to the strikers, load the box at free kicks and corners.


    "Glenn, Carl, you awake?"


    "Yes, boss."


    "What I want for Christmas is a clean sheet."


    Glenn frowned. "Boston are there for the taking, boss."


    "Sandra says shut it down."


    Glenn''s face lit up. "She does?"


    "Finally," said Carl. "A boss who understands football. Merry Christmas to one and all!"


    ***


    The three of us dominated their strikers, our midfield dominated theirs, and we had chances to get the second goal. It didn''t come, but there were no scares. No surprises. One-nil, three points. Not quite the football of my dreams, but the home fans went away happy enough.


    When I got to the touchline, Sandra told me the news. Kidderminster had lost. That put my former team back into title contention, but that wasn''t the headline. The headline was that we were only three points away from being top of the pops.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="35"><col width="100"><col width="43"><col width="49"><col width="47"><col width="44"><col width="47"><col width="39"><col width="45"><col width="50"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Team</td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Kidderminster</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>49</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>46</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Darlington</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>32</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>43</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>York</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>42</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    There was one more match to play before Christmas day. We were away to Bradford Park Avenue, the worst team in the league. Kidderminster were away to South Shields - a tricky match at the best of times, but they¡¯d lost both their starting centre backs and one of their talented strikers.


    If we won and Kiddies lost, we''d be the Christmas number one.


    It wouldn''t happen. No chance. It wasn''t even worth thinking about.


    But it''s all I did think about, and later I realised the wins and the transfers and the wine had pushed away all thoughts of Sullivan and his metal pipe. My mind''s eye was firmly fixed on one thing - the remarkable Christmas gift I hoped to wrap up for the people of Chester.

 6.9 - The Twelve Days of Silkmas, Part 3

    ix.


    On the ninth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a match to boil my wee.


    Tuesday, December 19


    England''s left-sided centre back had time and space. He took a couple of strides forward, calculated, gambled on a couple more. Still no Welsh player bothered with him. One more stride? Why the devil not?


    Now a Welsh dude, bedecked in all-red with flashes of white - very Santa Claus - sprinted at the ball. Behind him, his teammates were spread out, ready to press, ready to compete. The England guy passed into the feet of a midfielder, who was immediately swarmed. He fell over, somehow, the ball bobbled around, and Wales tried to launch a fast break. It broke all right, broke down at the first vaguely complicated pass. Instead of using the chance to counter Wales''s counter, the England guys passed back to the defenders, allowed Wales to reset, and the whole farce started again.


    So went most of the first half. Long periods of tedium - the Welsh goalkeeper took one full minute for every goal kick - interspersed with tiny moments of frantic activity that ended with no progress on either side.


    "Argh!" I yelled, and got to my feet. "Glenn, am I allowed to boo England?"


    "Depends if you think they''re Marxists," he said, a reference to a Daily Mail-led media campaign that had tried to recast England''s bland, inoffensive first team as some kind of raging socialists. That particular culture war had flared up, died away, and now the gammons were onto something else.


    Our big evening out was not going well. Seventy-four people from Chester had boarded three specially-commissioned buses. Men''s and women''s first team players plus WAGs and BAHs (boyfriends and husbands), our coaches, Inga, Joe, MD, and so on. MD had decided to let the club pay for the transport - that was a good gesture and pretty cheap as Christmas gifts went.


    We''d arrived early enough to see Raffi warming up, wearing his England kit, laughing and joking and looking around Altrincham''s stadium with disbelief writ large on his face. Shona, Raffi''s wife, and Moss, his dad, were near me, and we yelled out at him. "Raffi! Give us a wave! Raffi Raffi give us a wave!" More of the Chester mob joined in until Raffi shyly gestured in our direction. Our cheer was one of the biggest of the night.


    But then, as our carnival was getting going, the teams had been announced.


    England were 4-4-2 with lots of players from the National League. I knew about a third of them from my scouting. They had CAs ranging from 50 to 80, but most were around 70. Chester''s average, remember, was just over 50. We''d be in the same division as these guys next year. Seven or eight months from now, in fact. Mildly worrying.


    If we could finish this season with an average of 55, we''d still lose a bunch of games at the start of next season. But as we kicked on to 60 we''d be competitive. 65 and we''d start winning. Could we scrap hard enough at the start so that a late run would put us in the playoffs? What a lame ambition; the playoffs were such a lottery.


    I shook my head - those were problems for future Max.


    Back to England C. 4-4-2, lots of physical boys, hard runners, hard tacklers. Not a lot in the way of technique. And no Raffi in the starting eleven. I suppose that didn''t come as a surprise. He was CA 52 and playing in the division below everyone else. He scored goals from midfield, though. There was no split between football hipsters, dinosaurs, and floating megabrains - goals from midfield were priceless.


    But when the subs were read out and Raffi wasn''t among them, there was serious deflation. That''s when everything else started to grate.


    The rain. The abysmal football. The queues for the burgers. The burgers.


    "Max," said Shona. "Sit down. Tell me all about it."


    "About what?"


    "About what''s boiling your wee."


    "The pitch is a bog. The rain feels vindictive. There''s loads of scouts here and that Welsh goalie is doing everything he can to waste time in the match. Imagine that. You''ve got the chance to show what you can do in front of scouts from England - where all the money is - and your goalie is trying to bore them all into leaving early. I''d go and punch him in the mouth, if it was me. But their manager must have asked him to do it."


    "There''s scouts?"


    "And agents." I pointed to a section of the main stand where there was, no exaggeration, over a hundred and fifty scouts, and at least twenty agents. "Your mate Bradley Rymarquis is here."


    "He''s not my mate, Max. I wrote to him once."


    "And the football. Christ. No ambition, no flair, no style. This is the worst game I can remember seeing. It''s Sunday League quality." I ruffled my hair. "Raffi would change the dynamic. He can take a pass from a defender, hold it, and retain it in midfield. None of these pricks can do that. That one thing would unlock Wales."


    "Do you think they came to see Raffi?" said Moss, who I thought hadn''t been listening.


    "Probably more interested in the Welsh lads. In theory, all the best Welsh players who aren''t playing for big teams are here. They have some handy players, by the way. Give them a proper manager, for example me, and they''d do well. But urgh! Raffi''s one of the most talented guys here. It just didn''t occur to me that he wouldn''t play. They''ve seen him in training. He can do everything these pricks can do, and more." I shook my head, genuinely getting angry. "This England C manager was in charge of like twenty League Two games, won three. He''s rubbish. And he''s got himself made boss of England C and that''s his little fiefdom. It''s typical of the sport and the country. We don''t want anyone good in charge. He gets points for taking a look at Raffi, but loses them all by not even having him on the bench." Also, it was embarrassing to me, personally. We''d come all this way and it had been a bust. If I''d come alone, I''d have been annoyed. If I''d brought Sandra, I''d have been apologetic. But I''d brought every-fucking-one. It was flat-out catastrophic.


    "I hear you''ve been stopping Raffi from leaving," said Moss.


    "Don''t," whispered Shona, though I wasn''t sure who it was aimed at.


    "He''ll leave when it''s the right time for him. This summer, I reckon. Move him up to League Two, see how long it takes him to get up to speed. Another three-year contract there, people starting to look at him near the end of the second year. He''ll be 25 when he gets to a Championship club. A year to break into the first eleven. Five good years running their midfield. Couple of cup runs, couple of shots at making the Prem." I nodded. Every time I said it out loud, it sounded better and better. "Thirty grand a week minimum. That''s one point five million a year, Shona."


    "He''ll get there even if you let him leave this January," whined the doddering old Ian Evans-loving fool.


    "Nope. If he signs for a club that''s too far ahead of his, let''s say current ability, he''ll never play. If he never plays, he''ll never improve. He''ll never get to those levels."


    "You just want him in your midfield, scoring goals, winning you games."


    "Yeah? Except I just said I''d let him leave in the summer. I just said he could skip the National League level and go straight to League Two. It''s not about me. It''s about him and his career and providing for his family. Five million pounds over three years. That''s the goal." Half a mill of that going into my pockets - damn right I intended to do it the right way and not try for a shortcut.


    Shona squeezed my arm and shook her head. I calmed down, and she released me. "Do you have a club in mind? In League Two."


    "Not right now. I''ve got friends at Tranmere and I''m going to meet the guy who owns Grimsby. The Chester fans wouldn''t be too pleased if I sold Raffi to Wrexham, but they don''t get a vote. Wrexham have got the money; that''s for sure. I had thought about Stockport County but they''ve won, like 14 games in a row. They''re going to win the league. I''ll be doing a lot of League Two scouting soon. I''ll meet some of the head honchos along the way."


    "At least find a club in London," whined my tenth least favourite person in this stadium. "Where it''s warm."


    I brought up my shitty mental map of the country. "Crawley Town are somewhere south. They''ve got a good manager. Timo Jentzsch. I don''t know much about him but they bought him from Benfica to be their player-manager. He only played a few games so it was like they were buying a manager which is an unusual way to go about it. He kept them in the league and now they''re in playoff contention. I want to learn more about him because that club had been chaotic before he took over. It''s owned by Bitcoin guys. I suppose if Bitcoin goes up, they''d have the money to buy Raffi. AFC Wimbledon is south, but I don''t know if they''ve got money for transfers. Forest Green might be down there, somewhere. They''re that vegan club. They''re struggling in the league, though."


    "Raffi can eat vegetables so long as his dad can be warm in the stadium," said Moss.


    "I''m going to mingle," I said, and wandered along the rows of seats looking for someone less annoying to talk to. "Donny, go get me a Four Horsemen."


    He blinked, showing that he knew what it was. How did everyone know these random things? "We''ve got Bradford on Saturday."


    "I don''t want a drink. I want to sit in your spot. Go and talk to Shona for a bit."


    "Oh! Right."


    He scarpered and I sat next to Trick Williams. One thing that could cheer me up - confirmation that he''d be leaving soon. "Trick dude."


    "Gaffer."


    I did a theatrical look around to see if we might be overheard - our section was rammed. "Any news?"


    "Yeah. It''s on. Eastleigh."


    What a buzz! How did I keep so outwardly calm? "That''s Southampton, right?"


    "Right."


    "Fuck. Lot of travel."


    "It''s all right. I like the banter on the team bus. The logo''s a spitfire. Looks just like Swindon Supermarine we just played. National League, too. So I''ll be able to prove you wrong about hacking it."


    I smiled. "Good money?"


    "Pretty good, yeah. Brad fucking hates you, mate." He laughed.


    "Top. Top top top. So... probably won''t play you the next few games, just in case?"


    His head dropped. "I want to play."


    "And get injured and in six months you''ve got no money coming in? Come on. Think."


    He exhaled. "Yeah."


    "When''s it going to happen?"


    "Third of Jan, they reckon. Just as you''re settling into your holiday. Really trying to twist the knife."


    "Cool. That''s good. Yeah, that''ll do."


    "Where are you going, anyway? You haven''t told us."


    "Not too far. You won''t want a postcard. All right. Looks like a win-win."


    "Will I get a league winner''s medal?"


    "Yep. If you can''t get up here for the final day, we''ll find a fake Trick to dance around the pitch and all that."


    I got up and thought of giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder, but I didn''t, just in case Rymarquis saw it. I looked around and went to sit near Magnus, kicking Livia out of her seat. "Dude. You happy with us?"


    "Yes."


    "Want a new contract?"


    "Maybe. What are the options?"


    "You''re not doing much coaching. I reckon we formalise you as player-physio. I''d like to tie you down to a long contract but you don''t seem the type."


    "I''d prefer to be flexible. I have dreams that extend beyond football."


    "Just another year, then, with a pay rise that kicks in if we get promoted."


    "I will meditate on it."


    "Great. Choose someone for me to talk to next."


    "Don''t you want to watch the match?"


    "No, it''s aggravating."


    "Andrew Harrison."


    That got my pulse racing. While the squad''s overall morale was very high, individual players seemed to become happier or sadder on a gentle curve. Henri, to nobody''s surprise, was one of the moodier characters. He often had two-point swings in his morale. Youngster and Pascal, despite being teenagers, were two of the most stable.


    Recently, Trick''s morale had spiked up and down like a seismograph. I guessed the ups were him looking forward to his new club, his new contract, and a general feeling of being valued, while the downs were him thinking about missing his friends, being apprehensive about playing in a higher league, and so on.


    Only one player''s morale had been trending downwards with no prospect of a rebound.


    "What makes you say Andrew?"


    Magnus frowned and leaned closer. "He can''t ground himself."


    "But he touches grass."


    Magnus broke into a big smile. He enjoyed it when I teased him about his beliefs because, since being cursed, I''d been pretty open to believing all kinds of mad bullshit. One day, when I didn''t have seventy careers to look after, I''d try some Reiki or one of those things where you talk to candles.


    "His radiance is diminished."


    "You say that like it''s a bad thing." Another big smile. "But it''s interesting you''d choose him. You''re very perceptive." I went over and made Michael and Noah leave the area. "Andrew, bro."


    "What''s he done now?"


    "Who?"


    "Noah."


    "I don''t know." We both frowned. "Has he been making a nuisance of himself? Well, it hasn''t reached my ears, which means the coaches can handle it, which means it isn''t worth mentioning. No, I wanted to talk about you. You all right?"


    When we were talking about Noah, he was mega interested, mega present. Now I wanted to talk about him, he shrank. Eye contact stopped. "I''m fine."


    I folded my hands in my lap and waited, eyes half-closed, not amused. I had just enough of my vision on the pitch to keep collecting XP - not that there was much of that. The curse was treating this like watching a National League match, which made sense given that was the level of the players. The Welsh league was considered a much lower standard, but the curse generally gave XP based on the higher level of the two teams.


    Andrew closed his eyes, counted to some inordinately high number, and when he opened them found I was still there. "It''s Gemma."


    I leaned away from him. "hhhhhWhat?"


    He crunched his shoulders into his neck, defensive, asking me to keep the volume down. Maybe because Henri was nearby and he knew about their fling. "You set it up!"


    "Me?"


    He rubbed the skin around his upper eyelid. He couldn''t get too mad at me because I was his boss and he was mortally afraid of the Brig. "Anyway. I was thinking of... you know."


    "Asking her to marry you."


    "Of ending it."


    "Right. She''s not your type. You prefer uggos."


    He quashed some burst of anger. "Do I have to talk to you about this?"


    "No," I said, standing up. But I sat right down again. "Actually, yes. There''s some Christmas dinner bullshit tangled up in this. You''ve been invited to the Weavers'', right?"


    He nodded. "Emma said you''d behave in front of one of your players."


    I laughed, but he wasn''t joking. She''d really said it! "Right. Relationship advice. I can do that. What''s the problem?"


    He spread his elbows so he could pull at his hair. "There''s no problem. She''s just... It''s me."


    "Oh, fuck that," I said, annoyed. "Spit it out, Jesus Christ."


    He counted to a billion again, in which time Wales''s keeper took one goal kick. "She''s trying to change me and stuff."


    "Yeah? She trying to make you give it your all in training? Well, it isn''t working, is it?"


    Another annoyed look. I was slapping this conversation. Ten out of ten material, here. He swallowed, opened his mouth, thought better of it, dipped his head, sighed, and looked at me. "She wants me to dress good and stuff. Always wants to go shopping and that."


    Waves of cosmic information flooded into me from all angles. This was something I could understand; I''d been in his shoes! "Okay. Gemma''s a hot brunette who likes to dress nice. She wants to go to nice restaurants and bars and show off her body and her hair and, yeah, her man. Have you been doing that?"


    "Not much, no. You don''t pay me enough." I went to his player profile and opened the Contracts tab. It showed me what I already knew - his contract details - weekly wage, salary length, future increases, release clauses and so on. Adding this screen had cost me a thousand XP but only showed me data from my own players. Excitingly, though, my purchase had led to Contracts 2 becoming available. And, miracle of miracles, it offered exactly what I wanted - it would show me the contracts of players from other clubs. It was a hefty five thousand XP, but that was cheap. I''d have paid four times as much - this knowledge would supercharge me. The price had made me recalibrate when I''d buy it, though. Maybe I would unlock an attribute first so that I kept the feeling of forward momentum.


    I touched his coat and flicked at his fringe. "You''re not blowing all your dosh on drips and Christ knows you''re not spending it on trims. So what are you doing that you don''t like doing?"


    He inhaled. "It''s not about what we do. It''s about what she wants to do. I live in a glorified hostel. I''m poor and I''ve got my brothers to take care of. That''s my priority and always will be. I can''t spend hundreds of pounds on meals and shoes and aftershaves."


    "Emma wants me to dress nice and she likes being taken to fancy restaurants and having nice holidays. You might have noticed that I dress like a tramp most of the time. And that''s fine with her because she knows I''m busy and don''t care much about that kind of thing, but every now and then I wear a suit or do something fancy and she enjoys it, and I enjoy it, too, truth be told. Wouldn''t want to do it every day, but she''s my special little pumpkin and I like making her happy. And do you know why I don''t mind a bit of hoodie-related banter? Because we talked about it. Right at the beginning I told her how I felt about clothes and style and fashion. Easy. Now Gemma is a bit more into that stuff than Ems, but she''s smart, she''s a lawyer, she has a career. She isn''t some pointless WAG who''s obsessed with looks and only looks. If she''s dating you it''s because she likes you as you are. And sure, she can imagine a future where you look and smell amazing all the time. She''s not wrong to imagine you better. That''s what I''m doing. Because as a player, right now, you look and smell like dogshit. You''re ranked last for improvement across every team, every age group. Michael''s fine, Noah''s fine. Your family is in a good place; you''ve done your job. Now it''s time to get selfish. Get your head on your career. Talk to the hottest woman you''ll ever date. It''ll be fine. And on Christmas Day, you''ll smile and be charming and laugh at my jokes." I nodded and got to my feet. "Max Best has spoken. Boom. Smashed it. Next."


    I wandered around, looking for my next opportunity to spread seasonal goodwill. I didn''t think anything of it at the time, but Henri was nearby and had heard my final words. He scribbled into a notebook, looking slightly demented.


    ***


    The match finished one-nil with England scoring after a Welsh defender made a mistake. But my restless mood had made me bounce around the travelling contingent, forcing people to move around and sit next to different people, and that proved to be a big hit. Every time there was a change in the seating arrangements, there was a little bump in energy, and by the time we set off home, everyone was having a good time.


    Not what I''d wanted, then, but by the time we got onto the buses my wee was a healthy, normal temperature.


    x.


    On the tenth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... the fruit of a writer''s psyche.


    Friday, December 22


    I''d never been to a football club''s Christmas party. Last year I''d got myself uninvited to my former club''s do when I said I wanted to leave to become Chester''s Director of Football.


    My guess was that there would be rivers of booze, dozens of scantily-clad party babes, pumping music, and a final drunken message from the manager reminding the lads not to overdo it since they had a match at three o''clock the next day. And hey, maybe that''s how it went down at other clubs, but for some reason, Henri Lyons had been placed in charge of our event.


    It was scheduled to start at 5 p.m. Henri wanted it later but I had a date with destiny at Tranmere that evening and even starting at 5 was pushing it. By the appointed hour it was basically pitch-black, and if anyone wasn''t feeling especially Christmassy all they had to do was stand outside for a couple of minutes and they''d get a jolly red nose and, depending on how thick their undies were, a couple of snowballs.


    At one minute to five, we parked and the Brig pushed me into a secondary school''s assembly room. There were paintings on the walls, a raised platform at the front, and lots of fancy details in the wood that made me think we were in Tyson''s expensive private school - I had been deep in thought on the drive, not paying much attention to where we were going.


    It looked like I was the last to arrive and that was very much intentional. The men''s and women''s first teams were there, all mixed up, but no partners. This was strictly internal. With all the backroom staff, we were getting up to fifty people in the audience. There was one empty chair near the front, but while everyone else was on the school''s shitty hard-backed wooden numbers, I had a red armchair covered with an embroidered dresser scarf.


    I flopped into it and Kisi Yalley appeared to my side, handing me a flute of champagne.


    "I can''t drink that. We''ve got Bradford tomorrow afternoon."


    "It''s alcohol-free," she said. "All the drinks are. Except for Vimsy''s. Henri says he''s to be our sin-drinker. I don''t like the phrase but Vimsy is happy about it."


    "What''s - oi!" I looked down at my feet where Charlotte was trying to push a red ottoman foot rest under my feet. "Oh!" I looked to my left where the nearest players were shaking their heads and laughing. Did they think I''d insisted on VIP treatment or did they know this was Henri''s idea?


    I didn''t have time to think - a red curtain fell, hiding the stage from us. Lots of stomping happened behind it, and in the main hall, the lights dimmed. Then spotlights shone on the red curtain, sweeping diagonally around like air defence lights from World War 2.


    A voice boomed out from speakers built into either side of the stage.


    "China. The year 3000. An AI entity known as Cow Cow has allowed small quantities of silksteel to be sold to the west, specifically France."


    What? A single, nervous laugh popped out of me.


    "President Napoleon the Professional is obsessed with silksteel and is determined to discover the secret of its manufacture."


    A young face popped out from the gap in the middle of the curtains. FA Cup hero Benny! "It¡¯s spiders," he said. "Spoiler alert." He vanished.


    The narrator continued. "Napoleon sends his top agent and cousin, Ohnree-Leon to steal the secret of silk from the Chinese." Dramatic pause. "This is that story."


    Benny''s hands emerged from the same place his head had been, but now he was holding a wide sign that read: APPLAUSE.


    So we applauded.


    To my left, Trick and D-Day were cackling, which made me get hot. There were loads of other players, and then to the side, an annoying light. I leaned up and felt pretty sure the light was next to Dani. Huh. I supposed if she couldn''t hear what was going on, it was all right if she was on her phone. We couldn''t ask her to wait outside or whatever - this was Henri''s version of including her.


    The curtains slid apart and now I saw the stage.


    On the right was a big sign, about two metres wide, that said SILK! There was smaller writing underneath but it wasn''t well illuminated. I think it said, "by Henri Lyons" or similar.


    Right at the back of the stage, in the middle, was a projection of an image. It was the Deva stadium, but with some photoshopped cyberpunk elements such as a hovercar going past. I nodded - this was much cheaper than having to make real sets and you could get really creative. Shame for professional set makers, but that''s progress.


    Entering stage left were Tyson, Captain, and Bomber from the under sixteens. The defenders were wearing yellow plastic coats and sunglasses - to show it was the future, I guess - while Tyson was in red.


    "What''s happening, Glenn Junior Junior Junior etc?" said Tyson.


    Captain straightened. "Not sure, journeyman striker Tony Hetherington."


    Now might be a good place to mention that from this point, unless specifically mentioned, at least one person in the audience laughed at every single line in the... the... the play? This time it was Tony laughing hardest, along with those sat near him.


    Captain, apparently playing the role of a descendent of first-team captain Glenn Ryder, continued. "All I know is that the hero of the age, he who glitters in the dark, he who knows fourteen ways to look at a blackbird, Henri Lyons pronounced in the French way, repeat for the avoidance of doubt, Henri Lyons, asked us to meet him here."


    Fifteen-year-old right midfielder Sevenoaks, also in a yellow coat, fake jogged onto the stage. He looked a lot more nervous than the others and his delivery was stilted. "I just got the message. Am I in time?"


    "Yes, Donny D-Day Dorigo." The two pricks near me cheered to see that one of them was part of the story. See? Representation matters. "We''re just waiting for Henri to come."


    "I wonder who will be playing that role?" said Sevenoaks.


    "What?" said Tyson, hands on hips. "Don''t get meta! And don''t break the fourth wall, either." He turned and wagged his finger at us, the audience. "That goes for you, too!"


    "What''s all this, then?" said Dan Badford, the minus one PA midfielder I''d discovered at Das Tournament. Unlike the other cast members, he wasn''t dressed in any sort of futuristic style. In fact, he was wearing the clothes of a Victorian street urchin, except he had a long, twirly villain''s moustache which he caressed sensually whenever he said anything funny, which was often. He had a minor part, but really stole the show.


    "Oh, bother," said Tyson. "It''s that bloody Trick Williams again." Trick''s non-stop giggling ceased, his eyes went wide with amazement, and then he laughed twice as hard. "You get out of here, Trick Williams! You know what will happen if Max Best sees you."


    Dan Badford twisted his moustache. "Best? Huh! He''ll get sacked any day now. I''m just bidin'' me time."


    "It''s been almost a thousand years!" complained Tyson. "As established, it''s the year 3000! Give it up!"


    "Mwaaaaaaah," said Dan, an extraordinary noise that conveyed that while he knew Tyson was right, he wasn''t going to change. He slunk away behind the SILK! sign.


    Angelic music flooded the hall, which after a half second delay, led to more laughter. We all knew where this was going - the arrival of the great man himself. Which kid from the under sixteens would be playing him? Benny, maybe. Lucas Friend? It would have to be the most handsome kid, and that would probably have been Tyson. Would Tyson play two roles? He was absolutely killing it as Tony, so why not?


    Henri Lyons himself strode onto the stage - more laughs at his arrogance - in a silver macintosh. He was also wearing a shiny silver and gold glove on his left hand. "You have answered my call!" he said, hamming it up big time. We in the audience were having a blast, but no-one was enjoying this more than Henri. "The weather is foul, my friends, and the tidings are grim. But here you are, steadfast and true. I award you five Relationship Points." He tapped on the back of his glove like there was a computer in it. One by one, the young cast members reacted as though receiving a power-up.


    "How may I assist you?" said Tyson.


    Dan Badford came out again and a snide look came on his face. "What would you know about assists? Bwaah." He left the stage again.


    Henri stepped to the edge of the stage and swept his gloveless hand in a wide arc. "I have been given a mission. A dangerous and difficult one. If I go alone, I will surely die." He dipped his head, but lifted it again. "I need a team! A merry band of brothers, a unit, a squad. Each with complementary and overlapping gifts. A getaway driver, a hacker, and someone who doesn''t know about life in the year 3000 to act as an audience surrogate."


    "Okay," said Captain. "I''m in, right, but we''d better hurry up and get on with it."


    Henri frowned. "Why the rush?"


    "You know why! Because if Max hears about this, he''ll want to take over like he always does!"


    "Not this time. This time I will stand up for myself. This time I am the one with the skills, the knowledge, and the passion for the project. Yes, this time, I will be in charge."


    The curtain closed. A few people clapped, but were stifled by the narrator''s voice.


    "One minute later."


    The curtain opened again, and now there was Benny - wearing a cheap black hoodie - looking at some plans on a table, with the young actors to his left and Henri behind him to the right - sulking.


    "So what we''ll do, right," said Benny, "is we''ll take the screamjet to Beijing, which as you know is sponsored by a beer company and is now called Gan Beijing."


    Two people rushed out of the wings. One was Kisi, wearing a black macintosh and a white priest''s collar. She also had a halo of tinsel that hovered an inch above her head somehow. The other was Charlotte, wearing a yellow mac. They got close to Benny.


    Kisi said, "Very good joke Mr. Best."


    Charlotte said, "Sehr lustig!"


    Benny clicked his fingers and the scene behind him changed. Now it looked like one of those old buildings in China, but again with the same flying hovercar in exactly the same part of the screen. I hoped it would be there on every image and wondered how many in the audience would notice. "I''ve analysed the sitch and I can say with a billion percent confidence that the secret of silk is definitely here, inside the Forbidden Palace, and it''s definitely not a trap."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Dan Badford, playing Trick Williams you remember, came back to his little part of the stage and leered. "Did someone say Palace? Talk about a tough away trip! Why¡¯s it forbidden anyway? It¡¯s health and safety gone mad!"


    Benny clenched his fists. "Get lost, Trick!"


    Dan slunk away again.


    Kisi said, "Well done, Mr. Best!"


    Charlotte said, "Gut gemacht, mein Lieber!"


    Henri coughed. "Max, I think we should focus our efforts on the city of Luoyang. It''s on the historical Silk Road, there''s an enormous factory there that came online a week before silksteel became available for purchase, and a new quarter called Silk Factory Number One is guarded day and night by killer robot dogs, swarms of drones, and old men who sit around drinking tea playing mahjong."


    Benny sighed. "Mate. It''s not there. It''s in the Forbidden City. It''s obvs."


    Kisi and Charlotte intoned: "Max Best has spoken."


    Benny continued. "Now, look, don''t stress. I''ve got a plan. What''s the last thing they''d expect?"


    Henri looked up at the stage lights. "I do not know. Perhaps we go there pretending to film a movie, but in fact it''s a masterfully plotted, meticulously prepared heist."


    "My plan''s way better than that. Ready? It''s 4-4-2."


    "Pardon me?"


    "They''ll never expect 4-4-2! Knock it long to a big man! No-one''s used 4-4-2 for 800 years; they''ll never see it coming. Yep, that''s the ticket. It''s absolutely foolproof and nothing can go wrong."


    "Max Best has spoken."


    The curtain closed, and this time stayed closed for longer. A hubbub of chat exploded in the cheap seats, interspersed with big belly laughs as people remembered lines.


    The curtain opened, the picture had changed to a throne room or some such, and Benny was rubbing his hands, delighted. "We''re in! I knew it''d work! Now to find the secret of silk production. Um... Henri, try that box."


    "You want me to open this box? Box number one?"


    "Yes."


    "What about... box number two?"


    Music from a game show played, causing Trick and D-Day to go all the way back into hysterics. "Open both boxes, you twat!"


    Henri opened the first one and the background image changed to be a portcullis. "It''s a trap!"


    Benny pointed. "What are those mysterious lights that are coming closer? The lights! They''re coming closer! Everyone in the audience can use their imaginations to - argh! The lights got me!"


    The curtain closed again, and quickly reopened. The sign that said ''SILK!'' had gone, freeing up more space on the now totally bare stage.


    "Where are we?" said Tyson.


    Benny clicked his fingers. "Got it! It''s an escape room. What you do, right, yeah, got it. Let me try first. Okay so you pour the five litres into the three litre jug. Then you¡¯ve got two litres of space. Pour that into the four litre jug and pour that into the three. Voila. You¡¯ve got minus two. Wait. Where are the jugs?"


    "Max 77," said Henri. "It''s not an escape room. We''ve been portal fantasised."


    "What does that mean?"


    "It means we''ve been sucked into a time loop and the only way out is to revisit scenes from our past and learn things from them."


    "I was just about to say that," said Benny.


    "Well done, Mr. Best," said Kisi.


    "So kluggy kluggy," cooed Charlotte, and the laugh from Pascal in the audience sounded like it was genuinely painful.


    "Everyone get ready," said Henri. "The first scene is about to start!"


    Benny nodded. "Top. Through here is it?"


    Henri reached out to stop him. "No Max! That¡¯s the time paradox room! We can''t go in there until we''ve educated the audience about the specific rules of this specific time loop story! Max, noooooo!"


    The curtain closed.


    Somewhere behind me, Pippa leaned over to Sam and said, "This is the best play I''ve ever seen." And it was hard to disagree.


    The curtain opened, and now Sevenoaks was on the right, wearing Chester kit, his foot on a ball. The background picture showed a penalty kick situation from the point of view of the penalty taker.


    "I know this scene!" said Henri. "It''s where D-Day took a penalty, made a mess of it, and the original Max Best kicked him in the balls."


    "What do you mean, the original Max Best?" said Benny. "I''m the original Max Best."


    "No, you''re his seventy-seventh clone. Hence the name, Max 77. It works. Shush."


    "So what do we have to do?" said Tyson.


    "Well," said Henri, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think we should stop Max kicking Donny in the balls."


    "But that will change history and Max Prime wouldn''t have taken over as Chester manager," said Captain.


    "That''s true," said Henri. "So we should let him kick Donny in the balls."


    "Hang on," said Tyson. "But then... if he kicks Donny in the sack... Donny''s great great etc grandson, Donny, who is clearly visible behind us now - " Laughter at Henri''s solution to the two Donnies challenge - "won''t be born. He''ll vanish and then we''ll be down a teammate."


    "Wait," said Benny. "If past me kicked past Donny in the two-pack, how come Donny had kids and grandkids and all that?"


    "It''s a paradox," said Henri. "And we have to solve it to get to the next scene. Tricky. Very tricky."


    They all leaned their foreheads into their fists in an exaggerated show of thinking. Just as the energy in the audience was dipping, the picture behind the actors changed to one of Benny kicking Sevenoaks in his special area. Benny was giving a double thumbs up to the camera, while Seven was doubled up in fake pain.


    When it was quiet enough to hear the actors, they continued.


    Tyson said, "I''ve got it! We let the kick happen, but we save the swimmers." He nearly corpsed delivering that line.


    Henri, also fighting a battle to keep a straight face, said, "How? A codpiece? Max will know. His foot is so sensitive it enjoys French poetry."


    "Paper!" said Tyson. "Find some paper."


    "Here," said Captain.


    "What is it?" said Henri. "It can''t be a vital document or we''ll change history."


    "Er..." said Captain, reading the two pages he''d picked up. "Looks like proposed contract extensions for Gerald May and Joe Anka."


    "Perfect," said Henri. "No-one will ever notice those are missing."


    The audience, collectively, winced. The play had been taking jabs at people, but that was below the belt. This was a proper roast, now, and no-one was safe. Incredibly, everyone fucking loved it.


    Captain tore the pages up and crushed them into balls which Seven shoved down his shorts. Benny kicked Seven in the newly-protected groin area, turning to do a thumbs up, just like in the image. Then Benny took a few steps to the side and rejoined the others.


    "It worked!" said Henri. "We''re going to the next scene!"


    Curtains down, hubbub, and we were back.


    Tyson was where Seven had been - spotlit. He''d taken his coat off to reveal that he was wearing a simple red football shirt, but incredibly, he was now sporting a ballerina''s skirt. He was rolling a football around under his foot.


    "What''s this?" said Captain.


    "I know!" said Henri. "My great etc grandfather was there that day. This is when Max Prime discovered Dani."


    "Oh!" said Benny. "But Dani wasn''t playing football that day, was she?"


    "No," said Henri. Benny went over to get the ball from Tyson, and it was clear that Tyson did not know what was happening.


    "Hey, er, that''s not..."


    "No improv!" snapped Henri. "So, Max 77. Scan your genetically hard-coded memory banks. What do you remember from this day?"


    "It''s coming back to me. Dani was... I think she was miming."


    "Miming?" said Henri.


    "You know, like pretending she was stuck in a glass box."


    "Stuck in a glass box?" said Henri, doing a fucking unbelievable piece of mime work. For a second I really thought he''d slid a piece of glass onto the stage that we hadn''t noticed. "That''s right, Dani was miming like she was stuck in a glass box. She was miming..." he repeated, nodding while Tyson shook his head vigorously, "that she was stuck in a box."


    "Come on, T," shouted someone in the audience.


    Tyson sagged, held his hands out, and felt for the glass in front of him. He was a rubbish mime, which made it funnier.


    "And then what did she do?" said Henri. None of the actors spoke. Instead, he held up a big sign. It said: AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION.


    "Dance the robot!" called someone.


    "That''s right!" said Benny. "He danced the robot."


    "She," said Henri, with a twinkle.


    Tyson grimaced, but felt he had no choice. He made little jerky movements, rotating his arms in increments of ninety degrees. It wasn''t bad. He got some applause.


    "I think there was one more thing, though," said Henri, cruelly. Tyson was really shaking his head, now. Henri said, "Walking like a certain animal, wasn''t it?"


    "Chicken!"


    "Giraffe!"


    "Mollusc!"


    "T-Rex!"


    "That was it," cried Benny. "T-Rex. She was walking around like a T-Rex and that''s how Max Prime knew she''d be good."


    Tyson glared at his mate. I''ll get you later. But with the cheers and jeers from the first teamers ringing in his ears, he shortened his arms and plonk plonk plonked across the stage, finally looking back the way he''d gone and letting out a big roar. He got half a standing ovation.


    "So what do we have to change in this scene?" said Benny.


    "Er, nothing. Just don''t fall and get knocked out."


    "What?"


    Someone threw a foam brick onto the stage - I think it was supposed to hit Benny on the head but it didn''t even get close. My young striker collapsed, clutching his ear. "Argh," he said, proving that we didn''t teach our young players to simulate injury.


    "Oh, no," said Henri. "The mission! We''ll be stuck here forever. Unless... is there a doctor in the house?"


    "You could try Dean," said Tyson.


    "Dean?" said Henri. He took a few almost drunken steps around the stage - bewildered didn''t even start to describe how I felt - before kneeling and pulling up the hatch of a trap door.


    Chas Fungrieve, a lanky striker who went to this school, popped his head up. "Go away."


    There was fucking pandemonium - some of the biggest laughs yet. My head was reeling. How did Henri know about the Notes from Underground thing?


    "Dean! We need a doctor."


    "You just want my magic spray."


    "It''s the year 3000. Doctors are basically magic spray operators."


    "Where''s the patient?" Henri pulled Benny close to the hatch and Chas sprayed him with hairspray. "Can I go now?"


    "Yes, thanks. You''ve saved the day again. What are you doing, anyway?"


    Chas got shifty. "Nothing." He lifted a pointed tinfoil hat onto his head and regressed into the depths.


    That was the last we saw of Chas. All those rehearsals, all the stress and worry, and the payoff was the top of his head being visible for twenty seconds. That''s dedication.


    "Okay," said Henri. "I think we can handwave scenes three, four, and five. Onto six!"


    The curtain closed, some furniture got scraped around, and it opened again.


    In the ''look at me'' slot on the right was Tyson again. Still wearing the tutu, but now in a wig - long, dark, flowing hair. He was gyrating gently from side to side while turning his hands over and over.


    "Ah!" said Benny. "This is the day I met Livia."


    Biiiig laughs when people realised Tyson was cosplaying our gorgeous physio. I craned my neck to see if I could see her - I saw a ponytail shaking wildly and guessed she thought it was funny.


    Henri pointed. "I need to marry her. That''s what this scene is about."


    "I don''t think it is," said Benny, who suddenly had a copy of the script in his hands. He was flicking through it. "No, there''s nothing about that."


    "I have written a song," said Henri, and he wandered to the back and picked up an acoustic guitar. He pranced around the stage making it clear he was about to serenade Tyson. Tyson was even more embarrassed than in the previous scene.


    "Oi oi oi!" said Dan Badford, rushing onto the stage. "Yellow card! Stop the match! You can''t do this. She''s in a relationship!"


    "No, Trick," said Henri. "On this day, she was single. She''s fair game!"


    "You have defeated me with logic and historical correctness," said Dan. "Give her your best shot." He moonwalked stage right. I saw him fumble with his hair as he went.


    We all fell quiet. I had a ghastly sinking feeling - Henri was going to profess his love for Livia and we were going to have fucking mega drama for Christmas. I felt my breaths coming in irregular jolts. What was I supposed to do? Let it happen?


    He strummed his guitar in a way that suggested he knew how to play. To the left of him, as we in the audience saw it, the rest of the team put arms around each other and swayed gently. And when Henri sang, so did they all.


    He started with a single hummmmm.


    There was a burst of laughter from the far side of the hall and Henri smiled. He made Benny hold his guitar while he went to his collection of big signs. He held one up that read: DANI STOP READING AHEAD.


    So he''d given her the script so she could follow! I wondered how much of the seemingly improvised bits were actually on the page. Most of it, I reckoned. He took his guitar, settled, hummed once more.


    And then, the song:


    "Fair of face and flowing locks,


    We agree Liv-i-a rocks,


    How did Jackie bag that fox?


    We all have much bigger - "


    "No! No! No!" Dan Badford burst back onto the stage, but this time he was in one of those bald wigs, hurriedly pulled on, and a garish 80s shell suit. "That''s a no from me, dog. Shut dat down. Shut dat down."


    "What?" said Henri. "You weren''t even dating her, then, Jackie."


    "Nah nah nah. Replay the scene. Replay the scene till I like it." He pulled a card out of his pocket. It said REPLAY. "I''m playing my Liverpool card. Replay it. Curtain. Curtain!"


    When the stage came into view next, Henri was at the front with Tyson dressed in his future gear again. Back to being Tony Hetherington, then.


    "And so," intoned Henri. "We have collected all six crystals from all six zones."


    "Sorry, what?" said Tyson. "We don''t have any crystals. You never said anything about crystals."


    "We have to collect six crystals to end the time loop. I said it eight or nine times. I''m basically a professional writer. I wouldn''t have forgotten that."


    The kids looked around. "Here''s one," said Bomber, and I think that''s all he said in the entire production. He looked very nervous, but game to contribute.


    "Where are the others, though?" said Henri.


    At once, everyone on the stage looked up.


    "Magnus?" said Benny. Silence. "Magnus have you been eating our crystals?"


    "No." The voice echoed cosmically from all around us - everyone in the audience looked left, right, down, up. Henri must have hidden speakers all around the room for this one bit.


    "Did you eat the crystals, bro?"


    "No," came the voice again, but it was followed by a deafening burp. It was so disgusting that there was a silence of about three seconds before the laughter started again.


    "Mate," said Benny. "Right, we do the time loop again, gather the crystals, and that''s the end of the play, right?"


    "Great summary, Mr. Best."


    "Danke f¨¹r den ¨¹berblick."


    "Yes," said Henri. "All we need is some physical energy to recharge the portal so we can go through."


    He smiled at Tyson, who sagged again, knowing some prank was about to happen. "No, Henri. The portal''s right there. Fully charged."


    "It looks fully charged but it needs someone to do ten pushups to make it totally safe."


    "We could all do one pushup each," suggested Tyson.


    "I''ve heard you brag about how good your pushup technique is," said Henri. "I''d feel safer going through the portal if you did them."


    "Come on, Tyson!" shouted a male voice.


    "Show us what you got!" shouted a female voice.


    Again, the teenager felt he had no option. He got down and did a quick ten pushups - to massive acclaim and some wolf whistles.


    "Wonderful," said Henri, pretending to examine the portal. "Oh, perhaps it''s not quite..." He glanced at Tyson, who huffed, annoyed. Henri smiled. "Yes, it''s very stable now. We must travel through the portal and live our lives in the year 2023. At all costs, we must not meet our past selves. Youngster, avoid evangelical churches and food banks. Pascal, avoid libraries and walking tours. Glenn, stay away from hair salons offering ten pound trims. Tony, stay away from the poorly-lit car park on Tarvin Road on Wednesday nights after ten."


    "What about me?" said Benny.


    "You''re staying here, Max. I can''t deal with two of you."


    "But there will be two of you," cried Benny.


    "And that is my Christmas gift to the world!" said Henri, stepping back and holding his arms out to indicate that his doppelg?nger would be walking on stage. What sorcery was this? My chest tightened; I couldn''t breathe. Henri got cheeky. "Aha! But if only for just a few seconds, I allowed you to dream. And... curtain!"


    The curtain closed and immediately reopened with the entire cast in a line. The narrator said their real names and who they had played, and one by one they took a bow.


    But there was one final gag.


    When the voice was telling us that Benny had played Max 77, it hesitated. "You said he was the 77th clone. But that would make him Max 78?"


    "No," said Henri. "He''s the 77th clone of Max."


    "The first clone is called what?"


    "Max 2."


    "Right. It goes Max Prime, Max 2, Max 3, and so on. So this is Max 78."


    Henri stewed, realising he''d made a mistake. "I don''t take notes!" he yelled, and stormed off.


    The lights came up, doors opened, and people wheeled in trolleys of snacks and alcohol-free drinks. A special trolley was for Vimsy and Vimsy alone. Cheerful Christmas music came on, suddenly everyone was wearing party hats, and the Brig was grabbing my elbow and shepherding me towards the exit.


    ***


    With my head still spinning from what I''d just seen, the Brig pushed me to his car, and whizzed me up to Tranmere.


    They were playing a relegation six-pointer against Grimsby Town. Grimsby is on the east coast, one of those places that sounds like it''s in Yorkshire but isn''t. In 2016, it was voted ''Worst Place to Live in England''. The football team featured in the sensational final episode of season one of Welcome to Wrexham.


    We arrived late, missing kick off by five minutes. Mateo''s version of the Brig, John Driver (not his real name, that''s just what I started calling him in my head), met us in the car park and whizzed us through the badged doors until we burst into the Director''s Box like a pair of Christmas fireworks.


    "Whoo," I said - the thirty seconds we''d had to wait outside had turned the tips of my fingers into little ice domes.


    "Max Best!" said Mateo, rising to shake my hand. You know I don''t like handshake culture but I gripped his hands, held them in place. He looked startled, but then understood. "How about a hot drink?"


    "Yes, please."


    "Alcohol?"


    "No, thanks. Game tomorrow." I glanced around and recognised Chris Hale, the lad from Grimsby turned multi-millionaire who had bought his childhood team. I was about to introduce myself, but Mateo intervened. I realised he was blocking my view of the pitch.


    "Wait, Max, wait. Have you heard the line ups? The tactics?"


    "No," I said. "We rushed here from the Christmas party. Henri Lyons wrote a fucking... thing. The rules kept changing with every scene. My head''s jelly. Where were the spiders?"


    "Good, good. Fresh eyes, then. Take a look and tell us what you see." He stood aside.


    I frowned at Chris Hale and his much younger lady friend. They were wearing sceptical looks and it dawned on me that Mateo had been raving about this floating megabrain he''d found and they rightly didn''t believe him. I had no interest in amusing them. I turned back to Mateo. "You want me to do my tricks? Like a performing monkey?"


    He grinned. "Come on, Max. It''s Christmas! Give us one little treat. You never know, if you impress Chris, he might buy some of your cast-off players."


    John Driver handed me a cup of hot chocolate. I took a sip - delicious - and some of my crankiness evaporated. And maybe Grimsby would be an option for Raffi Brown one day. I decided to impress them while being a bit more careful than usual to ''see'' what the curse told me in an instant. "Tranmere are 4-3-3," I said, taking another sip. I paused, pretending to be scanning the pitch, before rattling off the line up. I thought about going next level by saying something like ''if those are the starters, I''d expect to find X, Y, and Z on the bench''. But I resisted the temptation and moved on to the away team. "Grimsby. 4-2-3-1. Ha, my assistant would love that. Shame you''ve not got the players to do it."


    "What do you mean?" This was the first thing Chris had said to me directly. It wouldn''t be the last.


    I answered by naming the Grimsby starting eleven. "The back four and goalie," I added, "are fine for the level. There''s something weird there I can''t put my finger on, but in theory it''s all fine. Then you''ve got two defensive midfielders. One''s good but his legs have gone and in this system you''re asking him to do a lot of running. The other is that Simon Green. He''s dogshit. But anyway, he can''t play DM. If he''s your best midfielder, holy shit. But at least give him a chance. CM or go home. Then it''s three attacking midfielders, and you need good technique and passing for that. I rate you one out of three. And your striker? Wow. You paid a lot of money for him, didn''t you? Bad news. He blows. He blows hard." I laughed. "I''m Max Best," I said, stepping forward to shake the guy''s hand.


    "Chris Hale. This is Candy."


    "Hi, Candy," I said. Look how polite I can be!


    "I read your manager notes," she said, gloomily. Perhaps it was supposed to be sultry? Whatever she was doing wasn''t working on me in the slightest. "You''re unprofessional."


    "Understood," I said, turning away. "I''ll make a big effort to correct my behaviour." I sipped the hot choc.


    "Is there any hope for us?" said Chris, vaguely amused by my analysis.


    I shrugged. "Don''t really care either way. I''ve pairbonded with Tranmere. I''m Tranmere for life. If you go down, that''s Tranmere safe."


    Mateo smiled. "That''s nice, Max, but Chris is a friend. There aren''t many good guys in football, but he''s one of them."


    "Kay," I said. "Sack the manager. Get someone else in."


    "You, for example?"


    "You can''t afford me."


    "You might be surprised."


    I turned to look at him again. It struck me that he was a strange friend for Mateo, and the Owner profile provided by the curse showed they were quite different sorts of people. Chris was a much better businessman - he would make the club generate more money. Mateo had a far, far higher Interference score, meaning he''d get involved in football matters much more than Chris, who would leave things to the professionals. Chris also had more Patience, Resources, and Ambition.


    Chris was Resources 14 (compared to Mateo''s 4) - he wasn''t just rich, then, he was filthy rich. He didn''t look it; he had the air of an architect. Sort of a flat, mechanical intellect hidden behind short, white hair and round, dark-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a plain jacket - nothing fancy - and normal dad jeans. His, er... companion was in a more wealth-appropriate little black number, ready to hit the trendiest hotspot in Soho. I wondered what Andrew Harrison would have made of her.


    Mateo spoke. "Chris was like you, working a dead-end job, but he took over the company and turned it into a behemoth."


    "Architects," I said, pointing at him.


    "Business to business services," he said.


    "Oh." On the pitch, not much was happening. Both teams were near the bottom of the table and they were playing safety-first garbage. One of the Tranmere defenders panicked and hit the ball as far as he could down the line. "Fuck me," I said. Then I remembered where I was. "Sorry."


    "What should he have done?" said Mateo.


    I sighed and put the cup down on one of the little tables; my hands were warm now. "It''s not his fault. Both teams are playing through the middle and they''re so scared of losing they''re reluctant to commit their full backs forward. He doesn''t have loads of options."


    "If they lose they''ll get shouted at," said Candy.


    "It''s three points for a win," I said.


    "Zero for a loss," she said.


    With superhuman effort, I kept my gob shut, but that had the effect of filling the room with awkwardness. Unlike with Henri''s special brand of cringe, there wasn''t a joke lined up to relax everyone. Mateo tried to restart the chat. "Chris built his company on Max Best principles."


    That caught my interest. "What does that mean?"


    "How would we describe it, Chris? Inclusivity, diversity, taking care of your staff? People first, profit second?"


    Chris took his jacket off, showing that he was wearing a plain blue shirt underneath. The only hint he was rich was that he''d released one more button than most British people would be comfortable with. "Max, when I was young I read a book called Liar''s Poker. Do you know it?"


    "No."


    "It''s about sociopaths making money on Wall Street. One of the companies with the biggest arseholes had a guy working in the mail room. Just a nobody who went round handing out letters to the staff."


    "On a sort of trolley thing? I''ve seen it in movies."


    "Could be. I don''t know. The book didn''t mention if it was a trolley or a basket." He paused, and I realised he''d made what he thought was a joke. The surprise in my face was enough for him. "This kid''s married and his wife gets sick. She''s in hospital and they can''t pay the bills. The kid''s only been at that company a few weeks but it''s his wife so his embarrassment isn''t relevant. He bites down his shame and goes to ask a partner for a loan so she can get the treatment she needs. The partner listens, says not to worry about it. The bills get paid. No-one ever asks for the money back. They said they''d take care of it and they did. Done. No questions asked."


    "Huh," I said. I wondered if I''d do the same with a Chester employee. Maybe when we had Wall Street bank money.


    "That kid ends up becoming a trader. Becomes head trader of mortgage securities. He and his team create a new financial instrument and people can''t get enough of it. For a few years, that one desk with a handful of traders makes more money than the rest of Wall Street combined."


    "The rest of Wall Street combined?" I repeated, because it sounded nuts.


    "Yes. They invested ten thousand dollars and retained an employee who made them hundreds of millions. I read that story and I thought, that''s the kind of place I want to work. When I became a manager, that''s how I treated my staff. None of them created a financial instrument that would one day crash the world economy, thank God, but the better I treated them, the harder they worked. The longer, and better, too. The company became innovative, dynamic, and a great place to be."


    "They won awards, Max," said Mateo. He seemed to love telling and hearing this story. He was rich because his family owned land. Sure, he invested the profits wisely, (except for buying a football club) but he clearly looked up to this man who''d created his own fortune. "And made money. Lots of it. Whatever your price is, he can afford it."


    "Nope," I said. "Clubs should be owned by their fans. I''ll only work for a fan-owned club."


    "Our fans own twenty percent," said Chris. "Is that enough for me to get an interview?"


    Again, I realised late that he was joking. He was actually funny, this guy! I cracked a smile. "You know what? Yeah. Can''t be too picky, can I? Grimsby, eh? What have you got there for tourists?"


    "Do you like fishing and learning about fishing?" said Mateo.


    Chris stuck his tongue in his cheek and shook his head. "It''s a lot more scenic than Birkenhead, Max. And it''s a lot closer to your girlfriend."


    That made me sit up straight. He''d been scouting me!


    Mateo scoffed. "It''s not! It''s the same distance, you idiot."


    "It''s half an hour closer. Max, it''s a wonderful part of the country, believe me."


    "Top. One more reason to look forward to next season."


    "What do you mean?"


    "I mean we''re going up, you''re going down, and we''ll meet in the middle." I smiled. "Unless you sack your manager. He''s rubbish." The guy had low scores in coaching, tactics, man management, and judging players. His only strength was massive determination, which was pointless if he had no actual tools to work with.


    "He''s respected. Has impeccable references, did a great job at his last two clubs. Signing him was a coup." Chris was mad at me - he''d chosen the manager himself. Done the interviews, taken soundings, believed he''d chosen well.


    I didn''t feel the need to bicker about it. "Okay," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "What do I know? But everything you said is about his reputation and the PR you got. What about on the pitch? That kid on the bench, Tom Hickman. Very, very talented young centre back." Tom was 19, CA 50, PA 120. "Is he improving? How fast? He should be pushing for a starting spot by the end of the season. What about tactics? Is there any flexibility? Do his substitutions turn defeats into draws? Not from what I''ve seen. When he comes to you in January and gives you a list of five players he wants to sign, do you track the ones you don''t buy as well as the ones you do? Because you''ll quickly find he''s no better at spotting talent than anyone else in the stadium."


    "Oh, and James O''Rourke is better, I suppose?"


    The truth was James was even worse than Grimsby''s clown, but I wasn''t going to say that out loud. Ever. "James has one thing no other manager in the football league has."


    "What''s that?" said Candy, eyeing me with less distaste now.


    "A guardian angel," I said, spreading my wings. "Something tells me Tranmere are going to get at least ten points in January. And James is going to survive the season and all will be right with the world. What do you think, Mateo?"


    "That''s one way it could go," he said, carefully.


    "Nope. That''s the only way it can go. That''s how it will go." My lips quivered as I thought back to Henri''s play. "Max Best has spoken."


    xi.


    On the eleventh day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... CA fifty and three.


    Saturday, December 23


    Match 21 of 46: Bradford (Park Avenue) versus Chester


    I''d decided to assume a low block was coming and go all-out attack from the start. Just wanted to get to the stadium, crush it, and get home. Thinking about this match exhausted me, but when we pulled into the stadium''s car park, seeing stewards smiling and wearing Santa hats, seeing dads bringing their kids to the match, I felt alive again.


    I''d decreed that Trick wasn''t available for the next three games - if he didn''t leave on January 3rd we might use him again - but the squad was looking good. Morale was high despite, or because of, Henri''s bonkers stage show. Tyson had travelled with the firsts as though he might be named as a sub, and if we''d have seven slots, he would have been. His selfless performance in SILK! had endeared him to all the first teamers - he felt like one of the gang, now. Apparently, such Christmas plays were pretty common in football clubs - it was a rare chance for players to have a dig at their manager, and everyone was meant to take the barbs with good grace. Henri had even apologised to Sandra for not slagging her off, but he said he''d written most of it before she''d arrived.


    So far this season, we''d been crazy lucky in terms of avoiding long-term injuries and that had allowed the group to keep training hard. We''d had a few good pops in the past week. Raffi led the way with a two-point gain after training with his fellow England internationals.


    Urgh. That match. He hadn''t gone on the pitch so they hadn''t presented him with the customary cap. I hoped he''d get one some day otherwise that travesty would linger.


    He''d marched forward to CA 54, though, and suddenly he was looking like one of the very best midfielders in the division. Carl was now our best defender, and Andrew Harrison must have spoken to Gemma, because his morale had gone up and he''d trained like a lunatic. He''d finally cracked CA 20, and Sandra agreed we should increase his minutes on the pitch so he could kick on to the next level.


    Bradford were the worst team in the league with an average CA of 36. It hadn''t been long ago that we''d been putting teams out with CA 40. Our progress had felt glacially slow at times, but here we were, cock of the walk.


    In goal I gave Robbo a Christmas match - he was delighted - and at the back started with Carl, Glenn, and Magnus. We''d play a solid defence for ten minutes in case Bradford had ideas of attacking us. Keep it tight first ten!


    Ryan, Sam, and Raffi were the three central midfielders. Aff on the left, obviously, with me theoretically lining up as the right mid. In fact, once the game had settled, Magnus would go right mid and I''d do whatever I wanted.


    Then Henri and Tony as strikers. Average CA, a monumental 53.5. Hoo-rah!


    Run up the score in the first half, then give some minutes to Pascal, Youngster, and Andrew Harrison.


    Bradford scrapped, worked hard, dug in, and made life as hard as they could. Aff got into his stride pretty fast, easing to an eight out of ten rating. Raffi kept surging into the penalty area causing havoc. Our only weak spot was the right, where Magnus wasn''t the ideal candidate for whipping in crosses or going on mazy dribbles. So I spent most of the half on that side of the pitch, dragging two defenders to cover me, opening space for everyone else.


    After getting no shots on target for the first twenty minutes, we got a move to click, then another, another, another. It was four-nil at half time, with two goals for Henri and two for Raffi.


    At half time, I asked Sandra for her thoughts.


    "This one''s in the bag. We''ve got Warrington in three days. Local derby. Our fans will be well up for that. We should take you off, and two others. Henri and Raffi, maybe. Wrap you up in cotton wool."


    I leaned closer and whispered, "I''m not playing in that one." I moved away and I saw her making calculations. She understood me well - I intended to let her manage that game, solo. The tops of her cheeks suddenly flushed with excitement and apprehension. She''d be the first woman to manage a match in England''s top six divisions, even sooner than she had expected. Home to Warrington was a potential banana skin - the best team against one of the worst. It could go very, very wrong for her. Whatever happened, she''d get her name in the history books. "If, say, you were picking an eleven against Warrington... which three would be the first names on your team sheet?"


    "Max Best," she said, with a hint of a plea.


    "No."


    Her eyes widened, but after a few seconds, she nodded. Of course she couldn''t be the manager if I was playing. At least, not until she''d got a few wins under her belt. But more likely, I''d take over even if I didn''t mean to, just like in Henri''s play. She took a breath. "Glenn. No, Aff."


    "You can have both." She surprised me by hesitating even further. I made the obvious suggestion. "Henri?"


    "Or Raffi."


    "Huh," I said. So that''s where her mind was. I had the CA ratings to fall back on, but a floating megabrain had Raffi and Henri pretty close in terms of value to the team.


    "Well, Henri, yeah. Got to be."


    I waited. "Raffi versus Glenn?"


    "Need that leadership."


    I agreed. "Okay, work out three subs for the guys you want to take off today. I can play left mid if you need."


    She scoffed. "Oh, can you?" Almost instantly, she closed her eyes. "Of course you can." She moved some magnets around. "Steve, Donny, Pascal. You slide into DM. Make it boring." It was her turn to whisper. "Just so you know, Kidderminster are losing. We''re top on goal difference."


    Oh! Amazing. I hadn''t made a big deal of that since I knew Kidderminster would pull something out of the bag and we would only waste our mental energy and be disappointed.


    Still, we were top of the league in the ''as it stands'' tables. Better than a kick in the teeth. I went back out with a spring in my step.


    For the second half, I made the game boring, just as Sandra had requested. Every time I blasted the ball far and away, I looked over for a score update and it came back in the form of a thumbs up.


    Our fans knew the score from the Kidderminster game and were chanting, "We! Are! Top of the league! Said we are top of the league!"


    I took my intensity down so that I could hear them, and they kept at it. When the final whistle went - four-nil, no injuries, no red cards - I jogged over. "Kiddies?"


    "Last minute equaliser."


    "Argh!" I laughed. "Why did I let myself dream?"


    Sandra smiled. "One point behind, two games in hand. It''s like you said. Why is this so easy?" She showed me the league table on her phone.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="35"><col width="100"><col width="43"><col width="49"><col width="47"><col width="44"><col width="47"><col width="39"><col width="45"><col width="50"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Team</td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Kidderminster</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>50</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>57</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>49</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Darlington</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>46</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>York</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>43</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    "You know what this means, don''t you?"


    "No."


    "Whoever''s in charge of the next two games is going to get six points. And that person will very probably take Chester to the top of the league."


    "Don''t."


    "And become a hero, forever."


    "Stop."


    "Her name an instant legend."


    "Go to the fans."


    I smirked and spun around, walking away as commanded. But then I stopped, turned, and caught her all excited, like a kid who''d discovered that the massive box under their family''s Christmas tree had her name on it.


    xii.


    On the twelfth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a nice day to go and ski.


    Christmas eve? Went to the care home and spent an hour with my mum and Anna while the Brig took Solly for a walk. The guy came back looking all sheepish. Turned out he''d got two phone numbers on his walk. Shocking behaviour. When we got back to Chester, I gave him his Christmas present.


    "What''s this?"


    I''d given him a little envelope. "Open it, open it."


    He did, and slid out a card. "Bring Your Nephew to Work Card. Oh! You remembered. That''s... But what is it?"


    "He likes football, you said. You''ll bring him to watch training in the morning. Then you can fuck off to Chester Zoo or something, then at five he can train with the under twelves."


    "He''s thirteen."


    "Oh! Cancel the whole day, then! There''s no solution! No way round this impasse!"


    He smiled. "Perhaps he could train with the fourteens."


    "Think he''d like that?"


    "Oh, very much, sir. Very, very much."


    "And then the VIP box for whatever match is going on that night. Champagne, truffles, er... all washed down with Four Horseman. Something like that. And I''ll score a hat trick for him."


    "I''m moved, sir. Moved."


    I offered him a hand. "Thanks for everything."


    ***


    Christmas dinner? A smashing success. I was charming, Andrew formed an unlikely alliance with Sebastian. The elder Triplet shamed himself and his ancestors by raving about how much he enjoyed the way Newcastle United were playing this season. How well the players were coached, how much they''d improved. Sebastian preened.


    When it came time to drink the fancy wine, I said something along the lines of ''fill ''er up, Jack''. You know, classy.


    "Can you drink, Andy?" said Sebastian, dangling the bottle in a tempting way. He knew Chester had an important match the following day.


    "He won''t be playing," I said, sternly. "He is to be sent for immediate reeducation."


    "Max!" complained Emma.


    I grinned. "Warrington are almost as bad as Bradford. He might get twenty minutes if he stays sober. But, er..." I stole a look at Gemma. She was dressed very slightly more casually than normal, and Andrew was a bit smarter, in turn. They''d worked it out. "Wine''s bad, but pre-match copulation is worse. If Andy wants to do one, he might as well do the other, too. We play Warrington again on the first of Jan."


    Gemma stared at Andrew, who turned a similar colour to the wine. Emma glared at me. Sebastian and Rachel glanced at each other. I think they were amused. I couldn''t let Henri have all the Christmas fun, could I?


    "Maybe half a glass?" said Andrew.


    "I think you can manage more than half," said Gemma, and for two minutes that was the funniest thing any of us had ever heard.


    ***


    Tuesday, December 26


    Match 22 of 46: Chester versus Warrington Town


    I borrowed some gear from Sebastian, and took the train back to Manchester and then across to Chester, getting some very funny looks as I went. Emma came with me, turning a very shitty journey - Christ, our trains are bad - into a fun sesh. We did crosswords together and I let her show me some TikToks.


    MD picked us up at the station and drove me to Boshcard HQ.


    "I heard the Christmas play was quite something," he said. "Sorry I missed it."


    "When we first met, you said Henri was a nutjob. Later you took it back. Turns out, you were right all along."


    He grinned before his smile faded. "Your holiday is going to cause all kinds of problems."


    "Don''t give a shit."


    "I know," he said. "But... would you please pop in... before? So I can ask you questions. Check things."


    I tilted my head. "New Year''s Eve work for you?"


    "Yeah, sure," he said, distantly.


    "Are they inside?"


    He snapped out of his brief funk. "Yes. All ready."


    "Kay. I''ll be in soon."


    MD went ahead while Emma helped me get into her dad''s ski gear. The helmet was a bit tight, but I didn''t need to strap it closed for a quick visual gag. I walked into the meeting room and coughed. Twenty players plus staff sat up straight or pushed themselves off the walls they''d been leaning on.


    "Lads," I said, coughing a few more times. "I''m sick. I''m dead sick."


    Lots of head shaking and smiling. They''d known something like this was coming.


    "Are you looking for the best white powder?" said Dean, which I didn''t totally understand, but Henri and Pascal laughed, as did a few others.


    "Ker," I said, fake coughing. "I think I''ll leave Sandra in charge for today. All good?"


    "What''s the formation?" said Sam. "Who''s playing?"


    In my normal voice, I said, "How should I know? Sandra''s in charge. Ask her. I''m fucking sick, remember." I switched to a sickly hunch, picked my skis back up, and flicked my goggles down. I clomped out - ski boots were heavy! - and Sandra walked to the front.


    As I left, she was opening her notebook and wheeling the flipchart forward. "Well, this is unexpected, but I made some notes I was going to discuss with Max. I suppose they''ll work for you, too." She looked up in surprise. "You still here, Best?"


    "No, Miss," I said, and with one last fake cough, left her to it.


    ***


    I left the ski stuff in my office and locked the door behind me. It''d be safe there for a few days. I sighed. Carrying that stuff around had been a drag. Unburdened, I felt lighter. Freer.


    "What now?" said Emma.


    "Huh. Don''t know. What are you in the mood for?"


    She thought about it. "Go somewhere?"


    "Grimsby," I suggested.


    "No. And don''t suggest Tranmere, either."


    ***


    New Year''s Eve


    I went to Boshcard HQ to meet MD, reassure him one last time, and sign some papers. My office was same same but different. "What''s all this? Where''s the ski stuff?"


    "The Brig took it back to Newcastle. Said it was a good scam for getting top plonk."


    "Did he say good scam?"


    "He did."


    That was one of my phrases. I wasn''t sure I liked him taking my material. They''d replaced my crappy chess set with a nice, hand-carved one, and given me some comfy armchairs, too. On the top of my bookcase I had a fancy coffee machine. Maybe that was a gift from Boshcard so I''d stop bothering their employees. Then I noticed the walls. "Oh!" I pottered over to where someone had hung up a framed England shirt. It said ''Brown 8'' on the back, and it had been signed by the man himself. "Will you look at that? That almost makes it all worthwhile. God, that looks great."


    "You''ve done well, Max. I''m... beyond pleased. I don''t have the words."


    "Relax, Mike. There''s loads more to come. Hey! Little stealth gift. Look it!"


    "I know. We gave one to Sandra, too."


    It was a newspaper headline and subheading that had been carefully cut out and set into a frame. "Memory Lane," I read. "Chester boss becomes first woman to win professional men''s match as Seals slay Yellows." I closed my eyes and when I opened them, it was still there. It had really happened.


    "Max..."


    I turned round and smiled at the man whose life I sometimes made miserable. This little holiday of mine would cause him a lot of grief, but he''d suck it up because he loved his football club. I felt a surge of affection for him. "Mike."


    "You''re... you''re coming back, right?"


    I puffed my cheeks out as though it was a long shot. "Next year, maybe."


    His eyes widened with panic, but then he remembered the date. "Fucking hell, Max."


    xiii.


    On the thirteenth day of the twelve days of Silkmas, the cosmos gave to me... a flash forward to January.


    January 1, 2024


    I was in the shower area. I''d just gone to check if someone had left a window open in there - the whole space was bloody freezing. Two players entered the dressing room and seeing no-one was around, immediately fell into gossip. From the voices alone, I wasn''t sure who they were.


    "Did you see who we''ve signed?"


    "Yeah. It''s fucking mental. I never would have thought that he''d come here."


    "Only on loan, but I hear he''s on big dosh."


    "He doesn''t fit the team. What''s the point of him?"


    "The boss likes him. That''s all that matters round here."


    "Might win us a few points, though? Wouldn''t say no to that."


    "He can take the penalties I suppose."


    They dropped their bags and walked out, laughing.


    I walked back to my kit bag and pulled out the football boots my mother had bought me as a present. Something told me they were going to see a lot more action in 2024 than in the previous year. A lot more goals and assists. And maybe, I thought, as I fiddled with the laces and checked the studs... maybe I''d find time for the occasional no-look backheel nutmeg, too.

 6.10 - Hes Done WHAT?!

    10.


    Life glossary - Busman''s holiday. The kind of holiday where you do things you do in your day job. For example, a bus driver from Chester whose idea of a break is driving around the Wirral.


    ***


    Monday, January 1, 2024


    I woke up, slightly confused, as per usual, and grabbed my phone. 7 a.m. and my pristine inbox had been defiled by hundreds of emails and texts. Some from people wishing me a happy new year, some from agents offering me players, plus about fifty from ghoulish online retailers trying to ¡®build a relationship¡¯ with me.


    We had a match at three, so I had to -


    No, hang on.


    I was on holiday.


    After some contented stretches and an extremely decadent yawn, I texted Ruth to ask if I could gatecrash her breakfast. She replied almost instantly with a selfie - she was rubbing heads with a horse called Tempest. A few seconds later she sent a text.


    Ruth: You¡¯re only just getting up? The early bird gets the worm.


    Me: But the second mouse gets the cheese.


    Ruth: There''s remnants in the fridge. Help yourself.


    Me: Thanks.


    But I lay there, wondering. Maybe there was a better option - breakfast in another part of the world entirely.


    There was no rush, so I took my time going from room to room in the barn, making sure there was no food lying around to attract rats, no windows slightly ajar, nothing in the fridge that would sprout mould, and so on. I had already packed a couple of bags, and I chucked those, plus my footy gear, onto the passenger seat of my Subaru - for some reason there were two mattresses squashed into the back - and drove off.


    Forty minutes later I was in the training complex, pottering around, getting my bearings. The dressing room was crazy cold, so I popped into the shower area to see if someone had left a window open since Christmas. They hadn''t, but I overheard a couple of players chatting about me. When they were gone, I checked I had cash in case something I ordered cost money, then wondered how long to wait until I followed the pair into the canteen. Five minutes? Nah - I had a better idea. It''d be fun to let them know that I''d heard them.


    First, though, I checked the Transfers screen. There were a lot that had already gone through. Two stood out.


    Mon 1st Jan - Chris Beaumont - Banbury - Chester - loan


    Mon 1st Jan - Eddie Moore - Sutton United - Chester - loan


    Here we go! I love it when a plan comes together! Yes, mate!


    Hmm. Thinking about it, there might be some mild interest in another item, though if you ask me it barely warrants a mention.


    Mon 1st Jan - Max Best - Chester - Tranmere Rovers - loan


    The canteen was warm and smelled of chicken and rice. Two employees in smart aprons and hats were there nice and early - one going round wiping tables and checking there was enough salt, pepper, and ketchup in the appropriate containers while bantering with some early birds. Another was at the food counter serving two players - surely the two who had been talking about me.


    The first was James Gladfelter, the cheeky chappie left back who had flirted hard with Emma while I was learning to walk again in Tenerife. She liked the flirting - he was good-looking and funny (her words, not mine) - and while it was annoying, he never overstepped. In the meantime, I''d learned that no-one called him James. Everyone called him Jack the Lad.


    The second was Reece Cox, a young midfielder who had been out on loan at Dunfermline but hadn''t played much so had been recalled. There was a reason he hadn''t played much - he was garbage. For League Two level, I mean. With PA 45, he''d do all right for most National League North teams.


    I made a beeline right to them. "Jack the Lad! And you must be Reece. Very, very pleased to see you again Jack, and very pleased to meet you, Reece. And you lads must be delighted that I''m here. You''re made up, aren''t you?"


    "Er... yeah," said Jack. "Is your bird with you?"


    "My bird? No, she dumped me after Tenerife. Said she had her heart set on another."


    He looked ecstatic until he realised I was taking the piss. But there was a reason everyone liked him - he took the joke with good grace and turned up the charm. "But you''re here, at least. Reece, this guy''s a tactics nut. The lads were raving about him in Tenerife and Henri was telling us mad stories. You gonna help the gaffer, then? What''s the deal?"


    "Nothing like that. Just gonna train. Have a break from working so hard, being on call, all that."


    "You''ll play though?"


    I smiled. "I don''t pick the teams, mate."


    Reece was looking from me to his phone. He had WhatsApp open. Guess I was the hot topic of discussion. "But you''re the manager of Chester."


    "I don''t pick the teams here."


    "No, I know. I mean. How can you play for us if you''re the manager of... Chester?"


    "Reece. Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. And don''t worry about it. It''s all perfectly simple." They took their trays to a table while I walked along to the end of the counter and looked at the scran that was available. It was all in metal rectangles. "It''s just like being back in school," I said.


    "Aye, it is, right," smiled back the kitchen worker. "You''re the new guy?"


    "I''m the new guy," I said, staring at the options. There was bacon, scrambled egg, beans, sausages, and fried brown. Not hash browns. Just brown. The colour brown, fried. "Can I have smashed avocado on toast?"


    "You can have mushrooms on toast and I can flatten it with a spatula."


    "Tempting. Can I have a little bit of everything that isn''t brown, please?"


    The guy lifted things onto my plate. He hesitated over the bacon. "Is this brown?"


    "Give me two slices and I''ll subject it to a barrage of tests. Is the scrambled egg made from egg?"


    He knew exactly what I was worried about - I wasn''t the first to hear reports that so-called scrambled eggs were made from a gross powder. "It is, yeah, don''t worry. It''s all fresh here, not like that hotel crap." He hoisted a big blob of it and my mouth started to water. It looked soft and fluffy and moist and when he slapped it onto the plate I felt a full-body shiver of something like ecstasy. "If you don''t mind me asking, is this all a publicity stunt or what is it? No-one can get their heads around it."


    "Is me eating breakfast a publicity stunt? I think you''ve got me confused with..." I hesitated, trying to think of someone for whom eating breakfast would be a media circus. "Er... let''s have this conversation again tomorrow and hopefully I''ll have thought of a way to finish that sentence. Thanks!"


    "Oh, here he is! It''s really true! Max Best in the house!" Lee Contreras, a full-of-himself midfielder who ran pretty abysmal YouTube and TikTok channels, was clambering over tables and benches, pointing his phone at me. His mad toddler energy nearly killed my holiday vibe. Behind him, about eight other players had come in at the same time and were amused by his antics. Most of the first team squad were around, so this would be a good time to set some boundaries.


    I placed my plate down and wrapped my arm around Lee¡¯s shoulder, smiling as he turned the camera to selfie mode. I leaned my head against his as I said, "Hey, Lee?"


    "Yeah? Whoa, man! I can''t believe this! What a story!"


    "Lee, you remember you guys were nice to me in Tenerife and all that?"


    "Yeah, that''s right! You were there! Tenerife was wicked, yo! If you''re new to the channel, check out the videos I made. They''re bangin''!"


    "So I like you and, as a mate, I''d suggest you press that big red button there, delete the file, and never do this again. And I''ll say nothing about it to the people who are going to decide on your next contract. If you want some fun content for your channels, you come and ask me, but not this morning because my mind''s completely set on the Notts County game, isn''t it? Same as yours."


    The threat to his contract cooled his fires. They all knew I hung out with Mateo and had killed at least one incoming transfer. "Notts County, right," he said, as he went through various calculations.


    "You''ll be up against that Irish lad in midfield. Have you noticed the way he tends to take loose touches as he accelerates?"


    "He... what? No."


    I smiled. "No problem! There''s still, like, ages before the game. You can use your top tech skills to find the clips I watched. Of your opponent."


    He realised this footage was not good for his brand and finally hit red. "Er... But where are you going to play?"


    "It doesn''t matter," I said, sweetly. "Because I know the strengths and weaknesses of every Notts player and I can play anywhere. If I decide to play as the middle of the central three, you''ll be the first to know." That was me gently threatening to take his spot in the team while hinting that I had powers beyond a normal player. "Hey, do you think we should call them Notters or Nottsos?"


    "What?"


    "Never mind. We''re going to have a lovely time this month, Lee. It''ll be just like Tenerife, but we''ll be having our parties on the pitch. Getting points, getting out of trouble, and getting our careers moving in the right direction. You with me?" I''d frazzled the guy''s brain. "You can say ''Yes, Max''. It works in most situations."


    "Sorry, hang on. Are you our new manager?"


    I gave him my best Cheshire Cat grin. "We¡¯ve got a manager. And it will stay like that¡­ if we win." I picked my plate up and came as close as I''ve ever done to whistling a jaunty tune.


    Hmm. Where to sit? I wanted to chat, but I didn''t want to chat about me. I sat next to Jack the Lad and got him started on his favourite topic. "So how''s your season been so far?"


    ***


    After brek, I drove to my home for the next four weeks. It was a stupendously ugly block of flats in an area called Wallasey. It was unfurnished, had no wifi, and did I mention it was ugly?


    But I was on the top floor and the view was top drawer. Unspoiled grasslands leading to a sandy beach, then the endless, choppy blues of the River Mersey and the Irish Sea. I planned to get all maritime with my free time.


    I hauled the two mattresses from my car into the lift. They were the ones from my ''office'' at the Deva stadium - I hadn''t used them recently. They''d do. I looked around my new base. I''d need a little lamp so I could read in bed. And some more books, maybe. The ones I had didn''t quite hit the spot. Ever since I''d seen SILK! I''d found that most content didn''t quite captivate me.


    A little shopping would give me something to do in the next few days. A mission. Instead of scouting for full backs, I''d go scouting for books. Instead of buying big lumps, I''d buy little lamps.


    But first, I had to earn my pay.


    At eleven, I drove back to the Solar Campus and joined the rest of the lads in milling around. Despite my little warning shot at Lee, I was once more the centre of attention, which you know I hate. I chatted fairly happily but when people asked me about Chester I got confused and said ''what''s that?'' and if they insisted that I was the Chester manager I looked down at my new training top and tried to read the letters on the badge, upside down. "Says here... F... R... T... G. Fried rice to go?" After five minutes, they''d basically given up trying to understand why I was there and were asking each other about what they did for New Year''s Eve.


    I mostly hung out with Junior, who I''d rescued from the north east by recommending him to Mateo. Junior had improved up to CA 60, which was obviously great, but he was still short of the level needed to succeed here. My scouting had suggested that 75 was the minimum. When he hit his PA of 80, he''d be a regular goalscorer in League Two and would have a decent career. Until then, he¡¯d struggle to get minutes. I was looking forward to training with him, anyway - he had good movement and was fast. We worked well together.


    We boarded the team bus, drove the ten minutes or so to Prenton Park, and after some of the guys stopped to sign autographs for some of the early birds, we made our way into the players'' lounge. This was a comfortable space with PlayStations, comfy chairs, table football, ping pong, and a darts board. The guys chilled for twenty minutes, and then it was through a corridor with murals of past players and their achievements, into an events room to listen to James O''Rourke give his pre-match instructions.


    It was great to see him and shake his hand again, but holy shit his talk was remedial. He said it would be our 4-3-3 against their 3-4-3 (wrong!) and droned about passion, desire, duels, spaces, making things difficult for the opposition. I nearly laughed when he talked about giving the fans something to cheer about in a withdrawn, apologetic tone.


    We were playing Notts County, who were third in the league. They had scored twice as many goals as Tranmere, but had conceded the same amount. One small, gobby part of my brain was begging me to scream ''attack the bastards!'' but the rest of me was saying ''chill, fam, we on vacay¡¯.


    And anyway, Tranmere weren''t exactly a free-scoring team. Notts already had three players who had at least ten league goals to their name. Tranmere''s top scorer, a Nigerian powerhouse with the single name Samuel, had five. After twenty games that... that was diabolical.


    "So we''ll keep it tight," James said, bringing his talk to a close. He was normally a funny guy, charming and lively, but I''d noticed that football pitches diminished him. Here, again, he was a shadow of himself. I reckoned he was always like this in his pre-match talks, but now the pressure had been dialled up a few more notches. Fans were calling for his head and his owner had taken a very, very public step towards replacing him. "Try and make it hard for them. If we''re still in it near the end, we can have a wee go, but obviously they''re a top, top team so we''ll have to be on our toes for ninety-eight minutes and maybe if we make things hard for them we can nick a draw and that''ll be a good point against these lot."


    Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!


    He should have been saying, lads, let''s go slap. Lads, they can score a few but so can we their defence is shit let''s get ready to rumbllllllle!


    I kept my face blank as I checked what the players near me were thinking. Amazingly, they were paying attention. A few were nodding. It was a good group. They liked James and wanted to do well for him. No problems with the attitude. The biggest troublemaker, from what I''d seen, was Jack the Lad, and while he was pretty slappable, even he was more the lovable rogue type than the malicious dressing room virus type.


    James hesitated. I think he was battling to control his tone, trying to make what he said next sound like what he''d said before. "And we''ve got Max with us for January. He''ll be on the bench today. It''s a shame we''re playing on January first so there''s no time to integrate him into our system, but that''s football. Every other match this month is on Saturday, so plenty of weekday training sessions for him to get up to speed."


    "Er... question about that," said Jack the Lad.


    "Not now, son. That''s it. Warm up."


    We got changed in the dressing room - twice as big as Chester''s (life goals), but covered in cheesy motivational messages (why? vom) - and went onto the pitch to get the old juices pumping. I didn''t need a warm up for that - the stadium itself was enough. It was filling slowly, a few flags waving in the simply ginormous Kop, a bumper crowd expected since everyone had the day off and there was nothing better to do. The music was too loud, drowning the fans if they wanted to sing, but it all helped add to the sense of expectation. Gave the occasion a sense of weight. Was this bigger than the first round FA Cup match against Salford? Maybe. I got a few butterflies in the stomach. Wow! Hadn''t expected that.


    When my name was called out as one of the subs, there was a big buzz around the place. So it was true. But... but how does that work, exactly? How can a manager loan himself out? Is this a prank or what?


    We started by jogging around and doing some stretches. Coach Colin led this phase. He kept yelling about mobility and ''activation''. We did ten full minutes of hip stretches. "Hips don''t lie!" he yelled. Then we worked with resistance bands - for example, with them tied around our ankles, pushing the legs out to the side or cowboy strutting with them. Lateral movements, hips, glutes, A-skips, aaand relax. Some players took this chance to blast themselves with massage guns, but I didn''t have one so I took another look around the stadium - wow! - and wanted to go round talking to all the inexplicably busy workers to see what they were doing.


    I remembered I was on holiday - that shit could wait - and went back to the lounge to see what games they had on the PlayStation.


    I''d just picked one when a bunch of lads burst in. They saw me and hesitated. I was that manager-in-waiting guy. How should they act around me?


    I smiled to show I was pleased to see them. "Hey, who knows how to play Mortal Kombat? Lee?"


    "Not really, Max."


    "Perfect. Me neither. Come over here and let''s punch each other in the face for ten minutes."


    "Yes, Max," he said, all friends again.


    ***


    Either he lied about not knowing how to play or I was as bad at beat-em-ups as I was at chess. Everyone in the chill room stopped what they were doing at the exact same moment - responding to the same inaudible cue. Time to get back to the dressing room for the final pep talks, where a seemingly calm James O''Rourke gave us the usual speech about winning duels, keeping it tight, and sticking together. I wondered what Sandra would have been telling the lads at that exact moment? Probably something like, anyone kicking a high, aimless ball towards Chris Beaumont is going to wake up unemFUCKINGployed!


    "Something funny, Max?"


    "What?"


    James was eyeing me. Having another manager as a player must have been a bit of a mind fuck. I hoped he wouldn''t try to establish dominance over me or some crap. We hadn''t been able to get together and talk about this new phase of his life - I''d offered but he had said he was busy. "You were smiling."


    I blinked and realised everyone was looking at me. I got to my feet and beamed. "Just happy to be here, boss! Excited to play alongside such legendary players as..." I stuck my finger out and swept it slowly around the benches. I completed my sweep and put my finger away. "Well, I''m happy to be here."


    "Cheeky bastard," laughed Colin, and I got middle fingers from some of the guys.


    The bell rang and there was lots of incoherent shouting. Our captain, a centre back - of course - clapped his hands and led the lads out.


    All very familiar, all very soothing.


    "Max," said James. "Quick word?" We glared at a physio until she left, and then it was just James and I. "I''ve put you on the bench for obvious reasons, but realistically I can''t actually use you today."


    Ah. So he was going to be difficult. "Huh," I said. He''d been told by on-high to select me, so I had to be on the subs bench, but after the game he would go to Mateo with some bullshit about why he didn''t feel it was the right match for me. He thought this was the best route to self-preservation. He thought I was after his job.


    "You''ve come from a low level, you haven''t trained with us, Notts are one of the best teams in the league, it just doesn''t make sense. Let''s see how you get on in training and we''ll see about giving you minutes against Barrow."


    "Yeah," I said, amiably. "That''s one option. Another option is you give me twenty minutes today so that I can do a full half next week and start the three games after that."


    "Max," he whined.


    "James. Do you remember Tenerife?"


    "Yes."


    I smiled. "So do I." One of the moronic messages on the wall was ''The body achieves what the mind believes''. If I took over here, my first task would be to paint over all that guff. "James, you''re not thinking straight. You think I''m here for nefarious purposes. I''m not! I''ve come for the exact reasons I told you. A break from the grind, get my levels up, and get paid silly money for five matches. Then I''m fucking off back whence I came. But even if you think I''m here to steal your job, what better way to stop that happening than to throw me on for twenty minutes against a strong team? We both know I''ll play shit, we both know we''ll lose today. It''s not going to be a very effective whatsit, is it? Audition. But twenty minutes today will do me the world of good. I can feel it." I bounced on my heels. Very springy! Body was feeling limber. "Right, let''s get out there and get at ''em. What was it, 4-4-2 and hit the channels?"


    "It''s 4-3-3. As you know." He wanted to say something else, but I had the ear of the owner and if there''s one thing he knew better than me, it was not pissing off rich men and decision-makers.


    As luck would have it, the big man himself appeared. Mateo put his head round the door and came in. "Knock knock! My two favourite football managers! Good to see you getting on well."


    James opened his mouth but I got there first. It was slightly cruel, in a way, but I had to save him from himself. "We were just talking about Notts," I said. "They play 3-4-2-1 so James was thinking there would be space in the full back areas I might be able to exploit. He promised to put me on for the last twenty and see what havoc I could wreak. Oh, and he was saying that Notts have a habit of getting ahead in matches, thinking they''ve done enough to win, and switching off." Boom! Look who''d done his research. "He''s expecting a tough game but if things land right, we might have an exciting finish. Oh, and he promised to let me take the penalties because he''s studied my technique and proclaimed it to be flawless."


    Poor James had listened to all this with his mouth agape. He closed it now, frowned, and was again this close to sabotaging his future.


    This time, Mateo was the one who saved him. "Splendid!" He slapped James on the back. "Rachel said you''d be moody about Max coming, but I said, no chance. He''ll see Max as a resource. Someone to bounce ideas off. Yes, it''s great you''re getting on. Makes me optimistic about the future!" He rubbed his hands together. "Bloody cold in here. I''m going to my box. Talk to you later!"


    He left. James looked pretty furious. As far as he was concerned, I''d just confirmed that I wanted his job. But what could he do?


    He could get out of my way while I saved his skin.


    That''s what he could do.


    ***


    Prenton Park is huge - way bigger than the Deva. This place could hold sixteen and a half thousand people! The Kop and the main stand were so big, so chunky, so perfectly what a football stadium should look like, that when the match kicked off I got dead excited about taking to the pitch.


    Of course, there was zero chance of that happening in the first half, so I stretched my legs out and switched off my brain.


    Junior was next to me. I asked for his impressions of the players and he gave me a running commentary - a walking commentary in the case of Samuel, the striker, who lumbered around doing almost nothing. He had good scores for pace and acceleration, even for dribbling, but he just didn''t want to break into a sprint. Junior liked him and refused to confirm what I was seeing. Four out of ten - a stark contrast to his opposite number Bailiff, who was fast, furious, and clinical.


    After twenty minutes, in which time Notts battered us and quietened the crowd by scoring the opening goal, Junior finally cracked. He leaned over and whispered, "What the fuck are you doing here, man?"


    I grinned as though I would launch into a hilarious cock and bull story, but decided to tell him the entire truth. "Being murdered set me back to level one as a player and I¡¯ve been grinding to get back to where I was. I believe I''m blocked in my recovery by an almost arbitrary game mechanic taken from an ancient version of what is now called Soccer Supremo. That mechanic caps how much I can improve based on the division I play in, but I''ve found a loophole. By coming to a League Two team I''ll benefit from their coaching and infrastructure ratings, and any game time I get will be a huge bonus. I reckon I can move from CA 60 to somewhere in the region of 100. Not only will that give me the boost I need to make a difference in matches when I go back to Chester, the time away also affords me something of a much-needed break from the strains and stresses of running a football club. Last but not least, I''m very slightly exploiting my relationship with Tranmere''s owner, who I suspect wishes to sack James this month and offer me the job while I''m in situ. Although it was my idea to come here, he''s so keen on me taking over that he''s paying me five thousand pounds a week, which is big money for me and will get the Brig off my case. What Mateo doesn''t realise is that if my CA increases as fast as I suspect it will, and if I ignore James''s shitty tactics and do what''s best for the team, we will win at least three of the five matches. Nine points will really shoot Tranmere up the table, and I''ll achieve my secondary goal of repaying James for his kindness."


    "Max?"


    "What?"


    "You''re just, like, smiling."


    "Didn''t I say all that out loud?"


    He tsked. "No."


    "Oh. Weird. Okay, short version, I need a break from managing and here I can work on my fitness, push myself to become a better player, and get some sea air."


    "But what about your team?"


    It was my turn to tut. "I''ve sorted it. It''s all done. They can do without me against fucking Warrington. Fucking Rushall Olympic. Jesus. It''s four weeks."


    "I''m sure you already know but it''s kicking off. Chester fans are going ballistic."


    "Oh, no," I whimpered, putting the back of my hand to my forehead. "My team is top of the league playing the best football for miles - Tranmere included, by the way," I added in my normal voice, pointing to the feeble display from the team in white. I returned to a sarcastic whine. "We''re on track to win the league by fifteen or twenty points and I''m still not happy. Waaah."


    Junior shook his head. "You''re absolutely mental, you know that? There isn''t a single person who would do this, this, this madness, and act like everyone else was crazy."


    "You know what the real shame about all this is?"


    Junior narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. He suspected I wasn''t going to address the conversation with sincerity. "No. What?"


    "It''s not a good progression fantasy."


    "Why do I bother?"


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    "See, we''ve got five games in January. This one, Notts County. They''re third. They''re really good, though not quite as good as James thinks. Saturday is away to Barrow and they''re sixth. Next is MK Dons, eleventh, then Swindon, sixteenth. Last game is Doncaster, eighteenth. So the games get easier."


    "Ah. I can see how that would ruin it for you."


    ***


    It was something of a miracle that we were only losing one-nil at half time, but then again, the team''s morale was only a bit lower than County''s and the players were willing to suffer and sacrifice for the collective. All except Samuel, who was less use than a statue. His attributes were good and he had very high PA - 128. But he looked unmotivated.


    When I finally sauntered into the dressing room - I''d paused every three yards to take in more of the sights and sounds - James was in discussions with Coach Colin. I eased past them to the tactics board and slid two of County''s three ¡®strikers¡¯ back to the positions they were actually playing - CAM.


    The two CAMs were set to ''make forward runs'' and perhaps that was making James think they were playing as strikers. They weren''t, though. They were starting from deeper and neither the midfielders nor the defenders were taking responsibility for picking them up. Me moving the magnets was a big signal to James. A reminder that I''d told him this before the game had started. He absolutely had to change something or Notts County would score at will and literally the only thing that would save him was that Notts had that habit of taking the lead and mentally switching off.


    James and Colin looked at the board. Colin nodded - he knew I was right, but James didn''t want to talk about it. As far as he was concerned Notts had three strikers, or he didn¡¯t think the exact positioning mattered.


    That''s what was great about the whole holiday thing. It wasn''t my circus and I wasn''t the ringmaster. If the circus wasn''t selling enough tickets, if the jugglers were sloppy, if the lions were timid, what did I care? I had a beard of bees, and unlike the gymnasts and tightrope walkers, I''d always land on my feet.


    ***


    As I lazily followed everyone down the stairs that led to the tunnel, I paused to read the Latin text written in huge letters: Ubi Fides ibi Lux et Robur. It was the same text that crossed the club badge.


    My Latin is pretty exceptional, as you know, but that one had me stumped even though I''d looked it up in the past.


    "Junior, what''s this motto mean? Everybody believes in lights and robots?"


    "Where there is faith there is light and strength."


    "That''s too complicated. Too long. It should be short and snappy. Chat shit get banged. Who dares wins. Eat my goal." I went through the words again. "Why does a football team need light?"


    "I kiss the badge, Max. I don''t read it."


    ***


    After sixty minutes, Notts finally got the second goal they deserved. Their players, who I will call Notters, visibly relaxed, while the grumblings from the home fans doubled in intensity.


    After sixty-five, Notts began making substitutions that weakened the team. This took their average CA down from around 85 towards 80. Ours was a smidge over 70, which was higher than Sutton United''s, but might have been the second-lowest in the division. Mateo said he planned to bring a hotshot player in during the January window. I shook my head - it had just clicked that he meant me. Well, he''d need more. This team needed an injection of quality.


    And a bit of something else, too. What was it this team lacked? Pace? They had a couple of quick lads. Leadership? Experience? I couldn''t put my finger on it. Jack the Lad was playing all right. Lee was battling. Only Samuel was truly absent.


    Seventy minutes. No sign of a substitution. More signs of the fans turning against their manager. "You''re shit, O''Rourke!" cried someone who must have been sitting near Mateo. But generally, the home fans were trying to be positive. Trying to find something to cheer.


    There were massive gaps all around the stadium, blocks of empty seats, but there were pockets of singers. "TRFC! Ooh!" was one chant. Four out of ten. "Superwhite army!" was another. An old chant that was perhaps somewhat unfortunate in the modern world. It came from the 60s, when a manager had decided that since Liverpool played in red and Everton in blue, there was a gap in the Merseyside market for a team that played in white. The Superwhites were born. Yeah, anyway. Not a song I''d be singing.


    At seventy-two minutes, James turned and mumbled that I might want to warm up.


    "No need, boss," I said, whipping my tracksuit off. "I''m ready to go."


    I went right to the touchline, pulling my feet up behind me, jogging on the spot, all the stuff substitutes did.


    The kit was all white with blue details. The sponsor was a company Mateo owned. My number - 77 - was on the front of my shorts as well as on my back, below the word BEST.


    The fourth official - the guy who helps the referee by keeping control of the managers - complained that he hadn''t been told what the change was going to be. "I''m going on for number 10, Samuel," I said.


    "No!" said James, almost in a panic. He chose a different striker - the guy playing furthest to the right, the only one who''d been playing okay. Fine. As long as I got my twenty minutes I didn''t give a shit. This match was basically over, anyway. It was pretty much a consequence-free environment.


    So then there was a free kick and the ref held up the game so that I could make my League Two debut. I high-tenned the unlucky striker and strolled onto the pitch, waving at the fans in all corners of the stadium. The home fans were applauding me - politely - and the away lot were jeering.


    Notts had a free kick deep in their half, and my sixth sense kicked in. I jogged towards the DM slot, and just as I arrived, so did the ball. One of County''s tricky CAMs dropped to get it, turned, and accelerated to the left, from which position he''d chip the ball into the penalty area. I knew because I''d seen him do it since kick off and no-one had thought to stop him.


    He was pretty surprised, then, to find that the ball had long gone. I''d picked his pocket so cleanly he didn''t notice until it was too late. I popped the ball forward to Lee and darted left. Lee exchanged passes with a fellow CM, brought the third CM into the move, and by then I''d made up the ground to the left mid slot. Lee fizzed the ball out to me but my first touch was unusually poor - all I could do was a protective move I''d seen Jackie teaching the women. I put my body between the ball and the nearest Notter, sorted my feet out, and was about to play a short pass back to Jack the Lad when I realised he was nowhere to be found.


    A Notter slid in and knocked the ball out for a throw in.


    Yeah, this league was fast! But it wasn''t like when I''d played against professionals for the first time. That day I''d had a minor meltdown, believing I was dogshit and would never be a player. Now, I was pretty sure I had once been CA 150 plus and was certain I could get back to that level.


    Losing the ball here hadn''t been my fault. Why hadn''t Jack come to help? I checked his individual instructions - he was allowed to make forward runs. He simply hadn''t. Weird.


    I pottered around while play went on around me. Sometimes I''d accidentally be in a good position for a pass and I''d one-touch it, keeping it moving. After a few minutes I was starting to feel frisky - my match rating was a solid 7 and Notts were an attack-minded team which meant they left spaces all over the pitch. Space I was happy to invade. Check this out, Pascal!


    If we wanted to get back into this game, I mused, the priority had to be not to concede another goal, so I found myself dropping into the DM slot more and more. I fucking crushed it - either I straight up won the ball before one of the twin CAMs could get it, or I put enough pressure on them that they lost it, or if the CAM did get there ahead of me, I positioned myself between him and his mate, using the cover shadow concept I''d learned from Salford City. If the CAMs couldn''t combine, they couldn''t do shit.


    As my confidence grew, I spun these turnovers into breaks. Proper, direct, fast breaks, limited only by how accurately I could pass and how fast I could get to County''s offside line.


    A dangerous ball is hit long.


    Best rises to head away.


    Contreras controls and plays a neat one-two with Dodd.


    He combines well with Best.


    Best shapes to pass to Samuel, but pushes the ball past the defender.


    The crowd are getting to their feet for a rare Tranmere attack.


    Best is on the left with only one defender ahead of him.


    He plays it square, looking for the return pass.


    Samuel gathers, uses Best as a decoy, turns onto his right and...


    His shot dribbles harmlessly wide.


    Best looks distinctly unimpressed - he would have been clean through.


    I was on one knee, rubbing the bridge of my nose. This twat Samuel was ruining my holiday.


    Perhaps like many other people, you have been in a house or a car when it has been raining outside. And you''ve watched, fascinated, as a certain raindrop has hit the glass, dribbled, stopped, dribbled some more. Perhaps you willed it to stay motionless, to defy gravity. Perhaps you cheered when it reached the edge. But if someone takes a shot with all the power and purpose of a slothful raindrop, you do not cheer. Unless, maybe, you support Notts County, in which case you might sarcastically jeer the fact your opponents finally had a shot against you.


    I got up and tried to relax my jaw.


    Tyson. This is what it was like playing on the same team as Tyson. This is why I''d kicked Tyson out of the youth system.


    Because it fucking SUCKED.


    Why would James keep this guy on the pitch? It was like we were playing with ten men. We weren''t all that far away from getting a result, here. One piece of quality would get us back in the match. At two-one, we would activate the crowd. The last few minutes could be epic.


    James was perhaps trying to balance various factors. Long-term versus short term, different factions and cliques within the dressing room, players returning from injury, workload, contract discussions, and so on. None of that mattered to me. While I was on the pitch, my job was to get points on the board.


    I walked across the grass while the match was going on. No-one was in our DM slot so there was once again a massive chasm between our defence and midfield that Notts were more than happy to exploit.


    "Max, what? Are you injured? Get back out there."


    "Take Samuel off. Put Junior on."


    "What?" James wasn''t angry - he couldn''t believe he''d heard what he thought he''d heard.


    "We could get something out of this," I said, as I pottered away.


    Seventy-seven minutes gone. When I died, there would be an emotional applause in the seventy-seventh minute. That''d be nice. All heart-warming and stuff.


    I didn''t feel motivated to chase the ball around or help the defence out. There was no possible world in which Max Best on holiday should care more about winning this match than the manager whose full-time job it was to care. CAM felt good. I hovered there for a while, walking up and down in step with the rest of the players. Notts kept the ball for a while and I concentrated on them.


    They had lower CA than Salford City but were far ahead of them in the league. A lot of that was because they had a superstar striker and two clever players feeding him. But a couple of years from now, a much-improved Youngster in the DM slot would shut down half their attacks. A midfield partnership of Raffi and Andrew Harrison would dominate the centre. Pascal would be so dangerous on one of the wings that Notts would almost certainly change formation, especially if I was running riot on the other side. Nah, they''d have to switch to 5-4-1 or something equally cautious or we''d absolutely smash them.


    Jones, our captain, put in a thundering tackle that got the crowd roaring. The ball spun out to the right back, who passed it to Lee. I waited as long as poss - not very long - before pointing to one side of a midfielder. Lee understood my intention and rolled the ball to that position. I got there, took a touch, and dabbed the ball forward to the feet of Samuel. I ran back the way I''d come, already plotting what I''d do when the ball was laid off. I glanced left, but Jack the Lad was still stuck at left back. Why hadn''t he raced forward when the transition had started?


    But it wouldn''t have made the slightest bit of difference.


    Samuel, who was enormous and had strength 18, grappled a strength 15 defender. The pair battled for half a second before Samuel gave up. Notts countered our counter - naughty - and we were lucky to see a shot rocket over the crossbar. The Notts forwards were laughing and joking, having a blast.


    I walked over to the left mid position to be as far away from James as possible. The guy was pissing me off. Pissing the Tranmere fans off, too, by the sound of it.


    When there was a little break, I tested myself with some stretches. Body? It all felt good. Mind? I was clear-headed.


    The speed of the game was impressive. I''d had a bad touch and struggled in a couple of moments, but it wasn''t way above my level. The match against Salford must have really helped me. Next Saturday, now, that''d be interesting. How much CA could I add in a week? Five points? Why not? So what could I do now, in the last ten minutes of this match, to make sure I got the most CA growth?


    First team minutes? Check.


    Good coaches and facilities? Check.


    The only other factor I thought I''d detected was that maybe, maybe, players improved more when their match ratings were higher. It made sense - playing a guy out of position would lead to him getting bad ratings and then why should he improve? But a striker played in the right position could still improve even if his form was bad. However, he would improve faster if he was playing well and scoring goals - that was obvious.


    So, fine. I decided to see if I couldn''t bump my match rating up.


    I was currently on 7 and the curse liked it when I combined with other players to progress the ball. Samuel was a big stumbling block. (Good nickname for him, there - write that down.) I decided to wander back to the DM position - at least I could play some passes to Lee and the other midfielders.


    Something unusual happened, then. I lost a header.


    Hunt plays a quick, low pass to Hemmings.


    He turns inside and passes to Murphy.


    His first touch is poor, but he recovers. He chips it forward.


    Best is in the way - but he loses out.


    Reynolds nods it into the path of Bailiff.


    He''s crowded out, but finds Edwards.


    He cocks his leg to shoot...


    But Best is there!


    Fantastic block. He had to time that just right.


    Corner to Notts County.


    As I got to my feet, our goalie and Gareth, the captain, came to give me high fives and congratulatory slaps. They were still fighting. They still had pride.


    Samuel - the world''s most expensive totem pole - was placed on hundreds of logs and rolled back into our penalty area. Future generations would ask: but with their primitive technology, how did they do it?


    He was one of a mass of bodies in the middle of the goal. I knew that Notts liked to play corners short before whipping in a cross, so I scanned the area and decided to place myself where I thought the ball was most likely to go - past the mob of players in the six-yard box, all the way over on the edge of the area.


    Sure enough, Notts played a short pass, then another, and the ball was returned to the original corner taker. He took a swing at the ball and lots of players - and the goalie - jumped to try to make contact. Someone did, but it was a glancing blow from the top of their head - he couldn''t have passed it to me more accurately if he''d tried.


    I touched the ball forward and ran as hard as I could.


    One defender realised the danger and ran towards me - dumb - but I cut inside and outside in two fluid moves, leaving him on his arse. Another five yards forward and it was me against the world - what''s new? - their two smallest players who''d been left as defenders, plus five or six guys who were screaming back to help.


    I didn''t have many options, so I ran. The constellation of defenders was forcing me a little further right with every stride, and I was starting to get boxed in. Even though I was rampaging into their half, none of the defenders were as stupid as the first one, and they all kept on their feet. I needed to do something. Needed an option. But as I scanned and scanned, I found no teammate had come to support me. They''d hung me out to dry.


    Enraged, I lashed the ball out of play for a throw in, right in front of the main stand. Right in front of Mateo.


    I was a player-manager playing for another manager. You didn¡¯t see that very often. Nor was it a common sight to see a guy on a break angrily smashing the ball into the advertising hoardings.


    I was really treating this Tranmere lot to some of my best material.


    One of the Notts guys tapped me on the back. He understood what had just happened. "Played, mate."


    The main stand had a lot of families, executives, and corporate types. The curse showed me there were more than a few scouts and agents around. But there were still enough normal fans for it to get fierce at times, and they did so now. Bald, pasty heads, bellies groaning under the strain of their own magnificence, these men were the pride of England, three lines on their foreheads, flecks of spittle exploding from their mouths as they screamed bloody murder. I stood facing them, hands on hips, as they vented their spleens. I couldn''t tell if they were raging at me, at the rest of the team, at James, or at Mateo.


    And I didn''t care. I was on holiday.


    Some red and green lights to my right made me turn - Tranmere were making a substitution. I was one hundred percent sure James would sub me off. Subbing off a substitute - it could be explosive enough to bring this manager-on-loan nonsense to a quick end. A footnote in history. A joke at a handful of parties in the Wirral, Chester, and Darlington. And you know what? Good. I''d go and have a proper holiday. A big one with Emma, not just a few nights in AirBnBs between Christmas and New Year. Not one where I''d have to spend my precious time and energy making a shit manager look good.


    The red number was 10.


    Samuel.


    The green was 25.


    Junior.


    I shouldn''t have done it, but I slapped my hands together and went, "Come on!" In an instant I was in full prowl mode. Pacing around, barking at the midfielders. There were at least ten minutes left, maybe eleven or twelve. We couldn''t go too crazy or we''d get done on a counter.


    Samuel, the twat, took his sweet time getting off the pitch. We''re losing, you idiot! That''s our time you''re wasting! But then Junior sprinted on and my neck tingled.


    I dropped to DM and watched as Notts took the throw in and passed the ball around. Junior and the other forward pressed. Notts went into midfield, trying to use their width to draw us out of our shape. But eventually they did what they always did - played through the centre. Something clicked - some pattern recognition. I''d seen this particular sequence before, in the videos of Notts. They''d pass there, there, there, and then boom - Bailiff would be one-on-one with the goalie. It was almost too late to stop it, but I put my head down and raced back to my own goal. I zipped past a startled Gareth Jones and arrived at the penalty spot at the same time as County''s deadly striker. I shoulder-barged him and took the ball in a tight circle to my right. I passed left, to Jack the Lad.


    Running forward, I overtook him and he was more than happy to play it into my path. I slowed just a fraction, marvelling at how much space I had, how many options I had. No low blocks, here. This was chaos. Notts didn''t know what to do about a player who popped up in every single position, but they knew I was a threat, now, and three of their players came at me. I took another stride, feigned as though I''d knock the ball down the line and chase it, but instead thrashed a low diagonal pass through no fewer than five opponents, right onto the toes of Junior at the edge of the centre circle. He and his striker partner combined while I made my way - suffering, now - up the pitch.


    Junior held off a defender, touched the ball back in my direction, spun and sprinted. I played a first-time chip with the outside of my foot, the ball curving beautifully onto his favoured right foot.


    A golden chance!


    The angle was fairly tight, the goalie was storming out to narrow it even further, and two defenders were about to slide in. But Junior was favourite. He looked up, looked down, steadied himself... and passed sideways.


    I appeared between two startled midfielders and side-footed the ball into the net.


    Two-one, and at last something for the home fans to cheer.


    My first thought was to glare at the bench looking at the options. Did we have a different left back? One who might get forward? League Two allowed seven subs and this season you could use five. Tranmere used to have that amazing left back that Blackburn had poached. Imagine him, here, playing with me, with all that space in front of him.


    "Yeah!" cried Gareth.


    "Whoo!" yelled someone.


    "Yes, Max!" screamed Lee.


    They''d encircled me, were pushing me, jostling me. I laughed - I wasn''t the manager and I didn''t need to think about the subs. I was on holiday. "Come on," I cried, pulling them to the Kop so we could pump our fists and show our biceps and all that shit fans loved. When we''d done that and I had some space, I stood there, smirking, full of myself, cocky Manc twat, and they loved it.


    But Notts were dangerous, so I dropped to DM for a couple of minutes. That extra-long sprint I''d been on had taken it out of me, so I needed to catch my breath. A Notts midfielder was on the ball and about to fire a low pass to a CAM, but he saw me moving that way and hesitated. Pleasing. While he was dawdling, Lee barged him off the ball and we were away. The move came to nothing but our fans were up for it, now, and in the away end there were lots of guys in black and white bobble hats biting their nails.


    As I noted that our average ratings were flying up and Notts''s were in decline, as I looked around at the fans and the pristine pitch with its wide-open expanses, inviting me to visit, I felt myself smiling.


    This. This was a holiday.


    My legs started pumping and I crashed - fairly, said the referee - into a midfielder and nabbed the ball from him. The counter-punch was on me almost before I could blink, but for once the bounce went our way and Lee came up with the ball, like a prize truffle pig. I raced towards Junior but suddenly felt claustrophobic. I hated this narrow 4-3-3 shit. If the full backs didn''t get forward, everything was compressed into a fraction of the pitch. So I veered to the right, to the empty spot I''d told Mateo I would attack.


    The midfield bounced the ball around a few times, then the most technical one swept the ball in my direction. The pass was shit - too high, too slow, too much spin - giving a centre back time to shuffle across and make life hard for me. His plan was to stand me up and -


    I was already past him. Instead of cushioning the ball and thinking of what to do, I''d done what I''d told Dani, and Maddy, and Sevenoaks to do. Aggressive, decisive, forward-thinking play.


    I sprinted - legs were burning now - the main stand were rising to their feet in waves, heads turning to follow - "Go on, son!" - quick glance, two on two in the middle - darted towards goal, nightmare to defend against - so fast! Goalie forced to come - feint, push to the byline - open goal! - but a Notter was sliding in. Had to put my foot on the ball, wait - cut it back for the second striker. Open goal for the lad!


    But the ball didn''t go in. The roar from the Kop was one of outrage. Baying for blood, a spine-chilling, guttural noise that resolved itself into the chant, "Off! Off! Off!"


    What had happened? I went to the commentary and discovered the last defender had decided to foul our guy, to wrestle him to the ground. It meant a red card and a penalty - the ref made no mistake - but if we missed the pen, his manager would be ecstatic with the decision.


    While the mess got resolved, I checked the tactics screens. My match rating was nine, but there was something more important than that - I hadn''t been set to take the penalties. Fucking James, man. What the shit.


    The Notters finally started to leave the penalty area - the home fans were making a helluva noise - Gareth Jones, a centre back, was holding the ball. That was odd - one of the midfielders was supposed to take the pen.


    "Best," he called, and as I looked up he threw the ball. I caught it and tried to be calm. Tried to be professional and serious.


    Not very hard, though. I placed the ball down on the penalty spot and punched the air like I''d already scored. I turned away from the Kop - and the goalie - and double-thumbed my name and number. And while the ref did his final referee things, I laughed as I did kick ups and a little bit of Tekkers.


    Peep!


    The ref gestured that it was time.


    I looked up into the Kop, where the most manic Tranmere fans were. I picked one out and gave him or her a Maxy fingerguns, a wink, and a cheeky smile.


    I laughed to myself again - this was so much fun, holy shit, why hadn''t I done this earlier? - and started my routine.


    Forward an inch, feint left, forward two inches, feint right, inch, eyes left, big step, eyes right. Normally when I took penalties I wasn''t laughing the whole time, but apart from that it was the technique I''d come to rely on.


    The goalie, his own technique disrupted by my slowness, finally hurled himself to my left, so I rolled the ball centre right.


    One day, I''d miss a penalty.


    One day, I''d look a right twat.


    Today, though? Nah.


    The roar hit me like a sonic weapon - it was overwhelming, literally stunning. Our fans celebrated the goal with the force of six thousand alphorns. Christ, though, what a feeling. I''d never experienced anything like it. Retired players talked about the hit of adrenaline, of dopamine, of something, they got from scoring goals. It''s like a drug, they say. It''s addictive. You miss it.


    I know that for the first time in my short career, I celebrated wildly, nothing held back, whipping up the Kop. Later, I saw footage of me running into a mass of Birkonians slash Squirrels, quickly swallowed whole with a wedge of teammates coming in behind as if to rescue me. Later, I was told I''d got a yellow card for inciting the crowd or jumping into the stands or some garbage. That was funny - if I got five yellows I''d be suspended for one match. Would that suspension be kept on my record for years and years until I played League Two again?


    The fans had whipped me up into a frenzy, but by the time I crossed the halfway line, I was ice cold again.


    We were slapping and Notts were down to ten. The three points were there for the taking. I checked the clock - we''d gone over the ninety minutes. Notts took their star striker off and put on another centre back - hello low block, my old friend!


    For two minutes I stood on the left wing, being fed the ball, which I whipped into the box as best I could. Right-footed inswingers, mostly. Crosses, free kicks, corners - just because I''d played twenty minutes in League Two didn''t mean I was suddenly great at them again. But I was able to put the balls into the box more or less where the strikers wanted them. Notts County clung on, though, until the final whistle, like the good team they were.


    An unlikely draw, a useful point, a bit of drama, and a couple of goals for yours truly. I''ve had worse days off.


    ***


    In the dressing room I lay down to get a massage - no-one questioned why I was first in the queue. Someone asked if I wanted to talk to the media. I was in my usual post-match haze, completely drained. I''m pretty sure I said no and they said I had to because I was Man of the Match. I''m ninety percent sure I told them Lee was my Man of the Match and they should interview him.


    Junior came to admire me and I asked where I could get dinner at this time on this day in this part of the world. He tsked and said we always ate together after games, so that was a bonus.


    I went through the motions of showering and exchanging handslaps with everyone, getting more and more sullen until I got some carbs in me. That cheered me up, and I even joined in with some of the banter.


    The only fly in the massage oil, and I suppose it was a big fly, was when Barkley shuffled towards me during dinner and asked if he could have a word, but more on that later.


    ***


    Tuesday, 2 January


    Light flooded the flat, turning it into a warm, welcoming space, rays reflecting from every surface, rebounding like benevolent, healing lasers. However, the flat described in the previous sentence was located in Sydney, Australia. I was staying in the Wirral, a peninsula that used to be in Cheshire, I''d learned, but had been given a big-money transfer to Merseyside in the 70s. Inexplicably, people from the Wirral were not known as Squirrels. It''s right there, guys!


    In my flat in the Wirral, close to New Brighton Beach and The Promenade, the sun didn''t flood in. It didn''t wake me up. It didn''t do shit.


    I woke up naturally, and early, after a fitful, restless sleep caused by too much smugness in the bloodstream. Playing - and scoring - in front of seven thousand fans was not comparable to playing in front of two thousand. I closed my eyes and relived the moment where I¡¯d scored the penno. What a rush¡­


    A book would help calm me down, but I didn''t have a lamp, and the big light was harsh. So I got up, grabbed my kit bag, and drove to the Campus where I read a few pages of Going Infinite, a book by the same guy who¡¯d written Moneyball and Liar¡¯s Poker.


    Then we met for a video debrief on yesterday''s match. James, who was now treating me with even more suspicion, gave an overview of his thoughts. Then Colin went through ten key moments, pointing out things that the team had done well or badly. It was fine - way better than what Chester did on video, which was nothing - but in my opinion only scratched the surface of the problems and completely missed the two things I thought were most troubling. He didn''t mention Jack the Lad failing to go forward - they must have noticed! - and there was almost no mention of Samuel.


    I spent much of the time rubbing my temples going holiday holiday holiday like a mantra.


    After that, we had breakfast together, did a light session on the all-weather pitch, and that was it. My whole work day! I was free to go round the second hand shops in my new home looking for lamps and fast-paced action thrillers.


    There was just one thing I had to do first.


    ***


    Tue 2nd Jan - Calabash Barkley - Tranmere Rovers - Chester - loan


    ***


    I swaggered into the hospital, smiling and happy, still bathed in the light of my own radiance. I knew the room number and found it soon enough.


    In a bed, his leg splinted up, trying to look cheerful even though I knew his morale was rock bottom, was Joe Anka.


    He saw me and tried to sit up straight. He winced.


    "Joe," I said, clapping hands with him like one of the cool kids.


    "Max, holy shit. Why are you here?"


    "Can''t have you in hozzie alone, feeling sorry for yourself while I''m having a whale of a time. Can I?"


    He looked around. "I''m not alone. My whole family''s here."


    "Yeah, well, I''ve come to save you from them. Blink twice if you want me to kick them out."


    He smiled, but winced again. He introduced me to his mum, one of his aunts, a cousin, and two nephews.


    "Top," I said. "I promise to remember everyone''s names. Now, tell me what happened."


    He balled his hands and pushed them into his forehead. "It''s a blur. I was going for the ball. 50-50, but I came off worse. They said there was nothing in it. Nothing malicious, you know. The guy''s been texting me."


    "Clean break?"


    "Yeah."


    "Six weeks out?"


    "At least."


    "I still have to pay you though, right?"


    Joe''s mum tutted, but he smiled. "He''s joking, mum. He''s winding you up."


    "Not now, Max. My baby''s got a broken leg!"


    ¡°That¡¯s payback for all the heart¡¯s he¡¯s broken. You got an assist, I heard."


    Joe smiled and I had to stop myself going into his player profile every five seconds to see what his mood was. I''m pretty sure it briefly went up three or four points. "You''d have loved it. We had a free kick over on the right. I sent it into the mixer. Chris headed it in. It was like... hey, that was easy! It''s like you planned. Like you said it''d be. Warrington didn¡¯t know what to do. The low block was just inviting us to hit crosses to Chris. It was over by half time."


    "How''s Sandra?"


    He nodded. "She''s very professional. Lots of detail. She''s really crossing every T, if you know what I mean."


    Of course she was. Otherwise, if it went wrong, she''d get savaged. "Well, we''re top of the league now." I checked the time. "Right. You''re going to be all morose and shit and I can''t stand it. So I was thinking when you¡¯re out of here you could do the music in our home games for a while."


    His face lit up. "Really?"


    "Yeah. I''m thinking themes. 60s night. Mostly hits, stuff the olds know. Know what I mean? But you can sneak in a couple of lesser known bangers. 70s, 80s. Get people into the idea that DJ Joe Anka is at the wheel. Then! Then we hit them with the really good stuff."


    "The noughties?"


    "Er... what''s that? Backstreet Boys and Shakira?" I pulled a face. "It¡¯s your gig¡­ I was thinking... guess the theme."


    "Guess the theme?"


    "Yeah. You play songs an hour before kick off. There''s a theme that connects them all. First person to text the right answer wins a prize. So, like it¡¯d be Abba, then Bananarama, then the Cranberries. ABC. Or they¡¯ll all songs from movies. They¡¯re all one-hit wonders. They¡¯re all bands with a replacement singer. The songs were all banned by radio stations in a moral panic."


    "Oh, Jojo, you''d be so good at that!"


    "Great, that''s settled, then. If you get bored, there''s millions of things you can do to help the team and the club. Watch scouting videos. Q and As with fans. Write letters to old timers who renew their season ticket for the 25th year. We send you three goals from the youth players and you choose your favourite. All kinds of stuff." I got up to leave. I would have stayed longer if he''d been alone, but he had all his peeps there.


    "Max, wait," he said. "What about you? What''s going on? It''s all kicking off round here."


    "I''ll tell you what''s going on." I pointed at one of the kids. I do remember his name, I¡¯m withholding it here because of his privacy. "Guess my lung capacity. Go on, guess."


    "Whaaat?" said the kid.


    "That''s right. Four point two litres. Four point two. Can you believe it? I''ve only been there a day. It''s the sea air, Joe! It''s full of healing salt."


    "That water is rancid. You''ve not been swimming in it, have you?"


    "No."


    "Don''t swim in that water, boss."


    "Oh." That was ominous. "Okay, anyway, number goes up, finally. It''s happening. And while I''m there, I''m going to have a pop at Dixie Dean''s records."


    "Dixie Dean?" he laughed. "MD said you''d be gone for a month. You can''t score all Dixie Dean''s goals in a month."


    "Ah!" I said, holding up a finger. "What if I play for Tranmere every January? If I do that for ten years, I''ll have played ten months. That''s like a season. He scored, like, 27 goals for Tranmere in one season. That''s not loads. I can do that, even if it takes me ten years to do it. Then I''ll play one month a season for Everton and shoot for the big one."


    Joe mashed fists into his head again. "I know you''re joking but even to have the idea, even to think of it. You and Henri, you''re not normal."


    "Who''s Dixie Dean?" said the kid, less shy now that I''d addressed him.


    "When he was 21, he scored 60 goals in one season. Last year, everyone thought Haaland might catch him, but he ended with 36 goals in the Premier League. So the best striker today having an unreal season can score 36. Dixie Dean scored 60. I can see your mind is blown."


    "And you''re going to score 60 goals, too?"


    "Nah that sounds like a lot of work. I don''t feel like working hard. I''m on holiday!"


    "But Max," said Joe, who looked like he needed a bit of peace and quiet. "Why don''t you aim for the Chester records? Score more than Smasho. Dick Yates. Stuart Rimmer."


    I sighed. "Joe, be serious. I''m a big League Two star, now. I can''t even remember the name of the division you play in. Okay? Now, if you don''t mind, I''m going back to my glamorous League Two lifestyle."


    "All right, boss," he said. "What''s first on the list? Mani-pedi at an exclusive salon?"


    "Close. I''m going to a charity shop to buy a second-hand lamp and some paperbacks with short chapters."


    "But Max, Max, sorry. I just... I''ve seen you. You don''t do what you''re told. How does it even work with another manager picking the team and everyone knows you''re better than him and all that?"


    I shook my head. "Joe, it''s really easy. Smooth sailing all the way." I became introspective. "I can be very obedient, you know. Very disciplined. And what I think I''m going to learn from this experience is that sometimes, sometimes I don''t know best."


    He eyed me, waiting for the tell-tale signs that I was joking, but my eyes didn''t crease, my lips didn''t twitch. I gave him a final handshake and went down to my car. As I started the engine, I checked Joe''s morale. It had gone from abysmal to poor - a two point jump. Yes! Some world-class football management right there.


    I''d earned a treat, so I brought up Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham and blasted it through my car stereo.


    ***


    I drove down the street with the most charity shops and parked. When I walked back along it, I saw a shop with a dark brown aesthetic that I hadn''t noticed before. An ancient and faded sign proclaimed it was called Needful Things.


    I went inside - a bell rang; it reminded me of an old bicycle - and I was immediately struck by how awesome every item was.


    Here was an old Panini sticker of Rudi V?ller sporting the quintessential German football look - porn star moustache, perm, and mullet.


    There was a lampshade with the repeating motif of a goose biting the tail feathers of the goose in front of it. A hand-written label attached by a frayed piece of string said ''LIGHT NO WORK''.


    I picked up a hardback copy of ''What Newcastle United Fans Know About Football'' and found that almost every page was blank. AMAZING gift right here. I flicked through again and the ''by the same author'' page showed the publishers had printed similar books for the top twenty teams in the UK. Good gag but the existence of the other books ruined the joke for me.


    I bent to admire a medal in a glass case that was inscribed with the words, ''For Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence''. Next to it was J.M. Barrie''s actual hook hand.


    While I was scratching my head at a pile of human bones labelled ''Piltdown Man'', the shop owner came in and stood behind his counter. He''d been reading the newspaper, it seemed, and he placed it down on the counter. I was drawn to the headline - He''s Done WHAT?!


    My gaze moved up to the masthead. It wasn''t one of the newspapers you''d get in this part of the world - it was from Chester. I finally looked at the shopkeeper, but I knew who it was.


    Old Nick bared his teeth. "Max. How pleasant to see you. Why don''t you and I have a little chat? Hmm?"

 6.11 - Dixie Dean

    11.


    Dixie Dean (1907 ¨C 1980) was an English footballer who played as a centre forward. He is regarded as one of the greatest of all time.


    The shop was from a bygone age. An age of muddy pitches, heavy leather balls, brutal tackles, and no substitutes. Still, an age where a PA 190 striker competed against PA 180 defenders every week. Could he survive? Could he thrive? Could he live up to his talent despite all that bedevilled and beset him?


    While the shop''s fixtures and fittings seemed authentic, down to the till that looked like a typewriter and twee decorative plates sitting proud on shelves, it wasn''t quite right - there was no dust, no old carpet smell, no creaking floorboards. Not quite convincing when you knew where to look, or sniff, or step. It was no more convincing, really, than the static projections from Henri''s production of SILK!


    Nick, though, was twice as real, twice as vivid, twice as furious as when I''d last met him. Then, I''d been in a hospital bed, more helpless than a newborn, and he''d been pretending to be a doctor. Now, though, I was the all-time goals-per-minute king of Tranmere Actual Rovers and his mood swings didn''t interest me much. "How much is the lamp?"


    "What?"


    "How much for the lamp and do you take Scottish money?"


    Nick massaged the knuckles of his left hand. He looked up at some point on the ceiling. "I gave you a gift, Max."


    "Oh! You were my Secret Santa! I''ll use that voucher to buy one of those big candles. You know the big ones?"


    Rage poured off him in bone-shaking ebbs and flows. Jaw set, teeth grinding, eyes blazing, he turned his head like an animatronic executioner towards the fake till in his fake shop. A very real Post-It note had been stuck there. Before he plucked it away I saw the text: NO KILL GOLDEN GOOSE. I relaxed, almost completely. He could rage and shout and give me the hairdryer but he wouldn''t hurt me.


    He became quite still, only moving his lips a quarter inch, whispering in a way that some may have found blood-curdling. "Do you know the story of the goose who laid golden eggs? His owners ate him. The story is meant to teach long-term thinking, but never before has such a tale involved a goose who chose to stop laying eggs. A goose who left the farm where he belonged for a languid cruise around Guadeloupe and Grenada where he didn''t. That animal would lose his protections." He smacked his lips as though he was imagining eating me. It''s possible I was reading too much into the gesture but he had the teeth for it. "You have made my life very difficult."


    "I do that, yeah," I said, examining one of those wire-framed rotating postcard racks. Nick''s pop-up shop stocked postcards from all kinds of random places, but the newest ones were from the Middle East. Made sense based on the little I knew of his movements. The most aesthetically pleasing ones were from Asia, though, so I rotated the rack to that section.


    Nick growled, "You''ve guessed, it''s clear, that when you gain what you call experience points, I also benefit."


    "Yup. Hey, what''s Singapore like? I heard the Prime Minister shaves your head if you''re caught chewing gum."


    "So imagine my surprise when I discovered that instead of earning the predicted amount from managing Chester versus Waddington Town, you were playing for a completely! Different! Team!"


    He was worried about 60 experience points? What? So he was angry because he didn''t understand his own curse. And now I had to explain it to him? Abysmal. "Yeah the difference in XP was pretty small, actually, because I only played twenty minutes and the base XP was the same. No biggie. I mean, if I''d played twenty minutes for Chester you''d have got the exact same amount. What''s the problem? Oh! You''ve been to Jeddah. I hear the cheese is good there. Nick. Right? Do you get it? Jeddah? Cheese?"


    Nick pulled his hand behind him, arced it round in an unnaturally perfect circle, and slammed his fist into the counter, which cracked into a spiderweb. I couldn''t help but imagine what he could do to my precious, precious skull, but I quickly mastered the fear. He couldn''t do anything to me. Not really. I was his golden goose and all that. He didn''t even realise how golden I was. I was Dixie Dean reborn.


    He looked left again and a new post-it had appeared in the exact place the previous one had been. It said ''REMEMBER HE DO OPPOSITE''. Nick inhaled so massively he grew two inches, then he fixed his steely eyes upon me. "I''ll try to be patient. I would appreciate your assistance."


    "Boom," I said, slapping the counter, giving him my full attention. "You only had to ask."


    Again the stillness, but now with a hint of a twitchy eye. "Max. I like when you earn experience points. I do. It''s good for you. It''s good for me. It''s good for my colleagues!" He added the last part almost manically. His words hinted at why he''d chosen me for this curse, or why it was working so well. We had a lot in common. For a start, we were both selfish team players. But although I was sure he was some sort of eternal being, a demon, a hellspawn, he was also doing a really fucking good impression of someone who hadn''t slept for days and was stressed off his tits. "We like when you use your gift as your gift was intended. We don''t like publicity that attracts attention to the fact that you''re abusing the System." He tapped the newspaper. "And we really, really, like stability. Guaranteed income, you might say. When you announce a hypothetical plan to go to Exeter to watch a cup match and at the last minute you decide it''s too cold and you''d rather stay home watching Sunderland ''Til I Die for the thirtieth time, we take it on the chin! We accept it with good humour, even if we''ve already spent the money, so to speak."


    "Sunderland ''Til I Die is top," I informed him. "The first five watches are tragedy. The next ten are comedy. Eventually you realise: this is horror."


    He bared his teeth, snatched and crumpled the latest Post-It note: HE HATES WHEN YOU NAG ABOUT WIBWOB. Clearly the writers of the notes were only guessing what we were talking about. Or they could hear but knew I was watching and wanted to nag me by not nagging me. The little shits! Nick was still blabbing on. "But when you are scheduled to manage a double-header against Wallington, we really expect you to be in harness for those. We can estimate how much you will abuse the System in those matches. My colleagues are really quite good at it. He won''t play against Tamworth - he''s saving himself. Accurate. When he comes on against Darlington he''ll stay on the pitch. Accurate. He won''t play against Wallington - he thinks they are beneath him. All too accurate! Not only do you not play, though, you don''t even manage! You give the honour to your subordinate! So you may experience yet more indolence!"


    Okay so he had the power to create pop-up shops and grant wishes and smash things, but no-one was allowed to talk to me like that. "What is your problem? Who are you shouting at? Calm the fuck down. I''m not one of your imps. Jesus Christ, get a grip."


    Nick took my suggestion far too literally - he gripped the edges of the counter, head bowed, desperate. Without looking up he asked, "Do you know what a derivative is?"


    "Yes! It''s this shop. It''s derivative of a Stephen King story. If I were him I''d sue you for plagiarism."


    "Plagiarism? Where do you think he got the idea?" He briefly blazed at me, but his attacks were futile, now. When I went on the front foot, he backed away, like all bullies. He was hanging his head in defeat again and talked to the epicentre of the spiderweb he''d created. "A derivative is a financial contract that can develop when economies are stable. Stable, do you hear? If person N has an extremely stable income stream, he can use derivatives to do all sorts of wonderful things including leveraging, hedging, and speculating. Person N might be literally superhuman in the assessment of risk and Person N might be able to turn stable income into riches beyond the dreams of avarice."


    I scratched my neck, pretending to be lost. "Hedgehogs?"


    "Person N," continued Nick, his voice dripping with venom, "might back the wrong horse. He might back a horse expected to run at 3 p.m. in Wallington, only to find that selfsame horse wearing flip-flops, sauntering around Merseyside, feathering his own nest!"


    "Am I a goose or a horse? Make up your mind." I tried to process what the guy was saying. I wasn''t in the mood for Nick. I wanted to think about scoring goals in front of massive crowds, soaking up the acclaim and adulation. For the first time, I''d had a taste of what it was truly like to be a PA 200 player, and I wanted more. Not only that, someone I''d met recently had planted the idea in my tiny mind that I might take a shot at Dixie Dean''s goals record. And why not? The curse had given me the skills and I was adept at using them. With a big effort, I brought myself back into the room. "You want to know where I''m going to be so you can spend money you haven''t earned yet. How is that my problem? I didn''t sign up for any of this shit. You''re lucky I''m still motivated to do it." I matched his glare for a few seconds, but relaxed. This was a chance for me to learn some things. "What if I''m sick? Are you going to throw a tantrum every time I catch the flu?"


    "Being poorly is a good excuse. Taking a good month off to abuse the System is a poor one."


    Ah. I understood things a little better, now. He was relying on my XP income and he thought I had just cut off his supply. I grabbed the newspaper with the provocative headline and pulled it closer. Then I looked for a pen and found one instantly - it was right there as an impulse buy. "Ha! Look at this. This pen has a picture along the side. It''s a naked woman but you turn it upside down... ha! She gets dressed." I smiled at Nick - he had heat coming off him like the boiler of a steam train. I laughed. "Mate, relax. Watch this."


    I wrote some numbers down in the margin of the paper. Despite himself, he was interested. "What are you doing?"


    "You''ve been leveraging my XP to buy helicopters and shit. You need to live within your means. Drag yourself up by your bootstraps. First thing we need to do is make you a budget."


    He turned and smashed four shelves of decorative plates in one fell swoop. "Insolent child!"


    The noise of the plates disintegrating was upsetting. It sounded like a whole body of bones being broken, but after a slight pause to remind myself that the plates were almost certainly not real, I kept on with my maths. I soon had to consult my phone. The intensity and duration of my work brought Nick from Rage 10 to Rage 3. "What is it?"


    I cricked my neck. "If you''re counting on my XP to buy helicopters, then fuck you. I don''t give a shit. All right? But don''t call me indolent. This month is going to be mega. Probably the number one month for XP ever. Dixie Dean has the record for the most league goals in a season, and I''m about to smash the record for the most XP in a month. See here? Each one of these numbers is a football match taking place in January. There isn''t a lot of footy this week. There''s West Ham tonight but I couldn''t get a ticket. So the first game is this Friday. Queen''s Park versus Dunfermline in the Scottish Championship. I''m not sure but I reckon that''ll be four XP per minute. So let''s say 360." I tapped the number I''d written. "Plus up to thirty new players in my database, and coaches and physios and I might meet a super scout I can poach. Saturday I''ll play the second half for Tranmere, I hope, so it''s 180 for the first 45 mins, 45 for the second. Let''s put 225. And, of course, the money I get for playing will pay for the Brig. Who you foisted on me, so once again what looks like chaos is me cleaning up your mess."


    "I didn''t - "


    "Sunday there are some FA Cup Third Round games, or I could do Notts Forest Ladies against WBA in the third tier. I haven''t decided where I want to go yet - that''s the beauty of being on holiday - but let''s pencil in 450 for that match. Tuesday 9th I was thinking of Wealdstone v Aldershot. It''s a long drive but it''s much more tolerable when you know you won''t have a full inbox to work through the next day. No chance I''d be going to that one in a normal month. What I''m saying is I''ll be in Glasgow one night, London the next. Watching three or four matches a week in addition to training and playing and everything else. What did you say? Indolent? This is legendary grinding, you prick! This is unreal levels of dedication."


    I wrote 270, followed by a couple of 630s, more 270s and 360s and mumbled names like Everton, Burnley, and Man City Women. When there was a choice, I was limiting my travel to the north of England, as usual, but on some days there was only one place to go, and that place was never local. Nick watched and listened. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him licking his lips - this time because I was laying golden eggs - but when I glanced up he was regarding me with a look of bored civility. "Is that the end of the list?"


    "Nope. These are just the pro matches. There are untapped five-a-sides all over Merseyside, and I might be able to get to some Sunday League matches. I''m going to sneak into the training sessions of pro and semi-pro teams. There''s so much talent on Merseyside. I love making fun of them but they''re brilliant at football and they don''t need to be asked twice to go visit sick kids in hospital. Yeah, it''s going to be just like the old days. Me, on my own, running around earning experience points, finding players, turning your bicycles into helicopters. I don''t want to ruin the holiday vibe by setting an arbitrary target, but I''m thinking I could get 10,000 XP this month. That and twenty untapped talents, two hundred coaches and scouts, two thousand new players in the database. And you know my favourite thing?"


    "I do not know your favourite thing."


    "The 28th of January, the last day of my loan, is Liverpool Women against Arsenal. Big game! 7 XP per minute! And you know where Liverpool Women play their games? Prenton Park. Same as me! I''ll get in for free. Which makes me think this whole thing was planned. Not by you, because you''re utterly fucking clueless, but by a higher power."


    Nick seemed dizzy. He very much had the demeanour of a man whose prospects had gone from extreme poverty and a short life of long beatings to one of incredible wealth. "You''ve been telling everyone this is a holiday."


    "Yes, you fucking cretin. So they''ll leave me alone. If I said they could call me if they had questions I would never get anything done. This way, this genius way, I get hundreds of things. One, I get to increase my playing level. I was motivated to do that, but after scoring in that big stadium, even more so. I''m addicted already, holy shit. I recently realised I''m quite vain. Isn''t that strange? I want ten goals in these five games. A hundred years from now, people will look at my Wikipedia page going, what the hell was that?! Two, I get paid. Humans need money, right? You know that by now. Three, I make sure Chester will get to a higher level because if I can get my skills up, winning football matches will be easier than skimming stones. Four, I get the XP to buy an attribute and the Contracts perk. Contracts, mate. That''s going to be such a power up! Five, I get new players and maybe some new staff. Six, I get a break from being responsible for everything. I get to switch my phone off if I want. Everybody wins, mate. Including you. Oh, and seven, I get to play for the same team as my boy Dixie Dean, whose record I''m plotting to smash. It''s all gravy. So why don''t you get out of my face?"


    Nick stared at nothing for a long time. Finally, he nodded. "Ten thousand experience points? My colleagues made a mistake, Max, in doubting you."


    "Don''t blame the imps! Look, leave me out of all your stuff. Okay? I''m unpredictable. That''s not a bug, that''s a feature. Deal with it. Don''t gamble on me doing things the normal way, and don''t do this again." I swirled my finger around, indicating the shop.


    Nick didn''t seem to be listening. He picked up the newspaper and ripped off the part with my numbers. He screwed them up into a ball which caught fire and turned to ash in an instant. "Good. I understand it better, now. Leaving the farm to lay more eggs. Very creative. You value creativity, and it has served you well so far. But you must be careful; creativity is inherently risky." He took out his pocket watch and fussed with the crown. He was trying to put some thought into words I would understand. "When one steals a famous painting, one does not display it in one''s drawing room. That would be foolhardy, would it not?" He tapped the headline. "You have stolen La Giaconda, displayed it, and invited the local constable to come and admire it."


    I tutted. "What are you talking about?"


    "I refer to your ambition to beat a longstanding record. To bask in unearned acclaim. Try to imagine - this will be hard for you - a universe with rules. One rule is that I''m allowed to give you a gift and you''re allowed to use it. Nothing you do as a manager will raise so much as an eyebrow. When you play, imagine a policeman is watching, wondering how such a treasure came to be in this place."


    "Are you saying I need to stop playing?"


    A Post-It appeared, and I thought I caught some imp-sized fingers vanishing into nothingness. It was the same one as before: REMEMBER HE DO OPPOSITE.


    Nick pushed his hands back through his hair. "You should stop, yes. That''s the truth of it. But I know you won''t. So work with me. Let us get creative." He looked at the watch again, shook his head, and put it away. He paused for a long time. "I have it. There are rules. There is a person who enforces the rules. The person is impartial, incorruptible, and entirely without humour. The person is, in fact, a referee."


    I nodded. It hadn''t occurred to me until then, but when he said it, some out-of-focus thoughts became foregrounded. "Right... because this is all a game to you lot. So there are rules. So there''s a referee. Okay, I''ll buy that. It''s another demon, obviously. A referee for demons. The Refereemon."


    Nick gave me a withering look that was far more effective than most of his outbursts of temper. "That is not even close to its name. As I said, you are allowed to use your gift. Have at it! But you would be wise not to attract the attention of... what''s a more suitable translation? The Sentinel. It seems logical to me that you can play for Chester. The level is not so high - yes? - and you are young and not stupid and you train with your players. Why should you not reach their standard? And slowly, slowly, as your team improves, so do you. Yes, why not? Who could argue with that? Many years from now, you are offered a role in a Premier League team and you perhaps have one final season as a player in your legs. You score a few of your unearned goals and dance around the sides of the field like a dressage horse. Tolerable. Enjoy it. Then you cease to be a player and enjoy many long and happy years as a famous manager. Risk free."


    "So there''s no time limit on the curse?"


    He ignored me. "Let me take the other extreme. Next year, you get bored with the challenge of managing Chester and find yourself playing for - what is the best team?"


    "The best best? Luton Town, maybe."


    "You play for Luton Town in the World Cup final and you score six goals. Your name is engraved into metal, there are parades in your honour, books and songs are written about you. That, anything like that, would be... inadvisable. The Sentinel would be sure to notice. That would be bad, for both of us."


    I grunted and rolled my neck around. Nick still didn''t know about football, and he didn''t know that I already had two chants. But he knew the rules of his own games. That said, I didn''t want any restrictions placed on me. I wanted my name in lights and there had to be a way to get it. "Right. Here''s the thing. So far, I haven''t done anything noteworthy. Yesterday I scored a tap-in and a penalty. Easy. I did some good things and some bad things. No expert who watched that match would think I was better than Henri or Ryan Jack. In a month I''ll be the exact standard of a Chester player who has had a few weeks of better training. It''s a totally believable story. Now, Chester''s good and all, but I''m smashing it there and there''s still only two thousand coming to the games. I''m wondering if I might not skip a few divisions, learn my trade in the Championship for a couple of years, then mess up the Prem. Dixie Dean, right, his family was from Chester, he played for Tranmere, he had his skull smashed in, two years later he set a record people say will never be broken. I''m way along that path! It can''t be coincidence. I''m his regen. Don''t particularly feel like going to Everton, truth be told, but a club with a smart owner. Brighton. Yeah. I could do for Brighton what Dixie Dean did for Everton. People will talk about me for as long as the game is played."


    Nick stared into space. "I''m not getting through to you, but I can''t tell you the consequences. It''s one of the rules. What are my options? Regulation. Intervention in your economy. A forcible realigning of your incentives. Every minute spent playing loses experience points, and when you hit zero you begin to destroy your purchases. Harsh but clear. Threats. You don''t respond well to threats, but I think a small threat is in order. You see, you are not the only one with a Retire option. I can end our arrangement, too. Will I suffer? Of course. But there could come a point where the result of this - " he tapped the newspaper for the millionth time - "is banishment from this realm for a thousand years." He shook his head. "From what I''ve seen, next time round, there will not be helicopters. I would very much like to stay while the going is very, very good. Do you understand?"


    "If I attract too much publicity you''ll pull the plug. Sorry, but that''s out of my hands. People think I''m weird. They love talking about me."


    "As a manager it''s fine! Let them talk! As the third or fourth best player on your team - perhaps! Use your brain! My preferred option, Max, in almost all things, is self-regulation." He turned around, and as he did so he trod on some broken ceramic. He kicked out at the debris, and I swear time slowed and my eyebrows were singed with the heat of some unseen flame. Nick flicked part of the counter up and walked through. I realised the counter had been keeping me brave, and now that there was nothing between me and him, I was literally frozen with fear. He paced around me in an endless, irritating loop. "You are restless because you are overpowered for your level. There is little challenge for you until you reach the next step. I understand that much." He paused, whispering into my ear from behind. "I can help you. A few off-the-cuff remarks here, planting a few ideas there, and hahu! The challenge is back. The struggle returns and you are kept busy." He was off again.


    "Ah, veto. No, thanks. I''m doing just fine without your help."


    "Too late. The wheels are in motion. Don''t worry - there''s no charge."


    "Fuck me."


    And then that particular moment had passed and Nick was leaning against a display of jars and containers. He gently rubbed his bottom lip - a gesture intended to be casual. "It was interesting what you said about earning ten thousand experience points this month." Casual casual casual. "That would be quite a feast. You mentioned there is a high-level match tonight. Surely attending that would be a considerable help?"


    "West Ham are at home to Brighton. 630 XP, plus injury time."


    "Fascinating. Injury time, you say? That''s when the injuries happen? No matter. If you are willing to travel to Ham, I am willing to use my contacts to ensure your admittance."


    "Oh!" I exclaimed, faux-surprised. "You''re willing to help me and you have no skin in the game?"


    "Let''s just say it would go a long way to repairing the damage you have caused."


    I ignored his jibe; I wanted to go to that match. "If you want me to drive to fucking London I''ll have to leave right now and I''ll get back home at 4 a.m. or some shit. So there are conditions."


    "Oh?"


    "I''m only here in this shop because I want a lamp. So I want a lamp. It doesn''t have to be amazing, but it has to work. I want to read books in bed. Right? And I want some books. Page turners. Something like The Da Vinci Code. Holiday stuff. Because, Nick old bean, this is my holiday. My holiday on my terms. All right? Ticket, lamp, book. What do you say?"


    He took out his ancient pocket watch and fussed with it. "The ticket will be waiting for you. As will a lamp, and a book."


    "Great," I said. "Bye." I strode to the door and rested my palm on the handle. "One last thing. Did you ever do a deal with Dixie Dean?"


    His eyes darted around as he went through his personal memory banks. "Dixie... Dean. You mentioned him but the name does not, shall we say, ring a bell."


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "Fuck me," I mumbled. "You''re telling me he did that for real?"


    "What?"


    "Nothing. If I drive to London and there''s no ticket, I''m hitting Retire. Just so you know. Say hi to the imps for me."


    ***


    In the 1933 FA Cup Final, Dixie Dean became the first ever footballer to wear the number 9 shirt. (The match was the first where players wore numbers to help spectators identify them. Everton wore numbers one to eleven; a small team from Manchester wore number twelve to twenty-two.)


    West Ham versus Brighton was a fascinating clash of styles, with one team playing hard-boiled, stripped-down football not a million miles away from what Ian Evans would do with a five hundred-million-pound squad, and the other trying to evolve the sport in real-time.


    West Ham''s number 9 was Michail Antonio, a player who had started his career in non-league. He''d started as a winger, like me, but now was a hard-working striker. He scored a first half header and ran around the huge stadium while fans screamed with delight. I was pretty jealous.


    The match was also a chance to see Brighton''s double dribbler, Mitoma, cause havoc on the left wing. He was fantastic, but his final decisions weren''t always the best. He could take a difficult pass, dribble past two players at high speed, and then give the ball straight to the opposing goalkeeper. He was better than me at everything except decision-making.


    While I watched and my XP counter ticked higher, I thought about my meeting with Nick. He''d confirmed that he relied on me getting XP and had finally said out loud that he didn''t want me to play football at a professional level. He didn''t want me to catch the eye of The Refereemon, but as long as I avoided that I could do whatever I wanted. Self-regulation, he''d said. That was clever - make me set my own goals and limits and if I messed up I''d only have myself to blame. Something to try on my players!


    West Ham were soaking up pressure and then hitting long balls for Antonio to chase. He had started at a tiny club and bounced around the lower leagues for a while, gaining experience. It took him seven years to get from non-league to Premier League. If I did the same, who could argue? Luton Town had brought players all the way from non-league to the Prem. It did happen. It just had to happen slowly. Well, fine - until recently, that had been the plan, anyway.


    I was 23. If we got one promotion per year, I''d get to the top flight aged 28. One year to inject some CA into me, then aged 29 I could have a bash at Dixie Dean''s record. Injuries permitting, I''d probably get three or four years at the top level as a player. That was enough, right?


    Another way to think about it was that I could improve as fast as I wanted as long as I did it in private. Playing for Tranmere in January had seemed like a fun template, one I could repeat with a League One team next year and the Championship the year after. That plan was out. That plan, I hadn''t realised, was me walking into the crosshairs. What about that idea I''d had once where I paid a club to let me train with them? If I paid Birmingham City twenty thousand pounds to let me spend next January cosplaying as one of their players, would they? Maybe if I included it as part of the deal when I sold them a player. I could get my levels up without making myself more visible.


    Ah, but what was the point? If I couldn''t get on the pitch to use those skills, why bother?


    Mitoma took the ball on the left and tried to thread a pass through the eye of a needle to a teammate. It was ambitious - if it had come off, his teammate would have had an easy chance to score. It didn''t come off, and West Ham were back in possession. Mitoma''s match rating dropped one point. The curse did not approve.


    The move gave me an idea. I could be CA 200 player as long as I didn''t look like a CA 200 player. Coming on for the last ten minutes to turn a defeat into a draw? Yes, as long as I stank the place up in the next match. I could play like dogshit in matches we were winning easily. Passes could bounce off me, I could miss headers, hit free kicks into row Z. Then against good teams I''d put on a show - not too much - and make sure we smashed the league. ''He plays better against better teams,'' people would say. That was a thing in sports. That happened.


    Creative, he''d called me.


    This was very creative thinking, since I was nowhere near CA 200.


    I wanted to do something extraordinary as a player. Scoring 2 goals a game wouldn''t go unnoticed no matter how many passes I miscontrolled.


    Mitoma got the ball again, waited for the defender to commit himself, burst past, and was fouled. A pretty wild tackle. Orange card level - it needed more punishment than yellow but maybe wasn''t quite a red.


    As the Japanese winger rolled around in agony, I remembered why I hadn''t ever wanted to play every league game. Things were different, now, though. Now I wanted another rush of the goal drug.


    If only the Refereemon had a yellow and red card system. I could go crazy as a player until I got the yellow card, then stop. But I felt certain the dude only dealt in red.


    All right. Frustrating, but the upshot was that I wouldn''t be signing for world champions Luton Town anytime soon. I would keep my head down. Keep out of the papers. Self regulate like a champ. If I stayed with Chester, I''d find ways to increase my CA and be ready for when we got to the Premier League. Maybe five years from now I could ask Nick if he thought it was safe for me to take a tilt at Dean''s record. Or even better - I''d ask one of the imps. They were more likely to give me an honest answer.


    Pockets full of experience points, head swirling with desires and fears, I drove way, way, way back up north. I parked and went up the lift to find a little present outside my door. A plain, silver lamp and a book.


    Something like the Da Vinci Code, I''d said. Nick had picked up another book in the series by the same author. This one was called Angels and Demons.


    I shook my head as I flicked through it. Not a very creative choice, but the chapters were lovely and short.


    ***


    Dean''s family on both sides hailed from Chester.


    Wednesday, 3 January


    I wasn''t at my freshest for training, but I did the work. It was a tough day, physically, but even though I was struggling - and failing - to match what the other players were doing, I couldn''t help but keep a manager''s eye on proceedings. There were a few lads, I started to realise, who were coasting. Doing the bare minimum. The list, you''ll be shocked to hear, included Jack the Lad and Samuel.


    After lunch, I went back onto the pitches to take free kicks. Beckhams and Cannonballs spluttered off my feet. No risk of The Refereemon mistaking me for a talented footballer today.


    As I showered, I thought about Chester. I was trying to keep out of the squad screens - a digital detox of sorts - but it would have been unprofessional not to keep an eye on the latest transfers. A lot was going on!


    3rd Jan - Trick Williams - Chester - Eastleigh - free


    3rd Jan - Vivek Purwaha - Chester - West Didsbury - loan


    3rd Jan - Michael Harrison - Chester - West Didsbury - loan


    3rd Jan - Calabash Barkley - Tranmere Rovers - Chester - loan


    The squad was pretty full, now. 24 slots filled, including Michael who would be back in a month unless he wanted to stay longer. With Trick safely gone - hurrrrr! - Sandra would be able to use Eddie Moore at left back. Bark was cover for Joe Anka, and Sandra knew we''d promised him minutes. Today, Tyson''s name was included in the squad list, meaning he''d trained with the first team. Yesterday, it had been Benny and Lucas Friend. The youth system was well and truly linked to the first team.


    With the new signings, we were 900 pounds a week over budget, but MD understood we needed bodies and said he would make it work. The truth was, we''d been under budget for most of the season.


    The women''s squad had a few minor injuries and was looking threadbare, especially in defence. I needed to send Jackie some reinforcements, ASAP.


    ***


    He left school at fourteen and worked for Wirral Railway. He was a late starter; his father had done the same aged eleven.


    While I watched the horror unfold in front of me, I tried to remember the last time I''d watched a five-a-side match simply for XP. Before I became Director of Football at Chester, surely? Before the World Cup.


    Well, I was back! There was no danger of me finding a useful player - I''d stumbled across an over 45''s league playing in a flat-roofed Soccerdome. One team was a bunch of rail workers playing under the banner Railway FC. They were playing a team of bus drivers called Park the Bus FC and the score was currently eight-all with two minutes to go.


    I''d like to say all the stray passes and mistakes were because of the pressure of the situation - next goal wins - but it was no different to what I''d seen in the previous 58 minutes. Neither team found a winner, face was saved, hands were shaken. Players would go home and tell their wives and kids how many goals they had scored. Perhaps they would write them down in a book. A record of their achievements. Something for people to remember them by. Every goal a slice of glory; the numbers on the page humming for all eternity.


    The next lot came on - Queen''s Park Vets against Park Road Vets. Once I''d added them to my database I went round to check the other pitches were empty, then hit Playdar. I probably wouldn''t find a good player, but it would lead me to another park or pitch or field or gym where football was played.


    ***


    Dean took a night job so that he could concentrate on his first love, football.


    Me: Sending you a DM to take a look at. She''ll come to training when she can but she works nights so it''s hard. Sorry about the accent.


    Jackie: What''s her name?


    Me: You know the rules. Can''t ask me questions. I''m on holiday.


    Jackie: I need to know her name.


    Me: Fine. I think she said Diane but it''s hard to be sure. Her English isn''t very good.


    Jackie: Where''s she from?


    Me: Merseyside.


    Boom! He walked right into that one. Diana was a twenty-two year old DM. CA 1, PA 60. Jackie didn''t often play with a DM but now he had the option. The hit of dopamine when I found a low CA, high PA player was really something. Nothing like scoring in front of seven thousand maniacs, but it was in that direction.


    ***


    While playing for Tranmere reserves, Dean was fouled and lost a testicle. To help with the pain, a teammate rubbed the area. Dean is said to have shouted "Don''t rub ''em, count ''em!"


    Thursday, 4 January


    Nick''s warning had been working its way through my tracts and pipes and a nugget of wisdom was excreted soon after I woke up. My epiphany was thus: If this January was the last chance for me to improve my CA to a higher level than the average of the team I was managing, then I needed to be extremely careful about how I spent my improvement points.


    For example, did I really need stamina? Emma might have spent all my points there if she had a vote, but I tended to play less than half a match, and from the DM slot I could manage my fitness quite well. So there was maybe no point going flat out on all the running drills Tranmere did.


    Did I need more strength? It was useful in situations where I had to grapple an opponent, hold the ball up, or release myself from someone''s clutches. A few more points would be okay, but I didn''t need to be an ogre.


    Dribbling, pace, and finishing? Sure, if the plan was to be a mystery winger again. A more feasible plan was to stick to being a DM, where my anticipation and the curse would do a lot of my work for me. But I could be a DM who took amazing free kicks and penalties. With Chris Beaumont in the team, I wouldn''t need to shoot all the time. Turning goals into assists would keep me away from the notice of The Refereemon.


    I''d need to score some goals, though. I had a taste for it, now, big time. Everton''s new stadium was being built not all that far from my temporary home, and seeing that several times a day really got my juices flowing. If I was going to stay at Chester, we needed to expand the stadium and - importantly - fill it. My goals needed to be met by deafening roars. They needed to produce that buzz. That hit. More, please!


    When I got to training, I took my intensity down to about 80% of the day before. They say if you aren''t a hundred percent committed you''re more likely to get injured, but I wasn''t so sure about that. It sounded like an excuse for idiots to throw themselves into reckless challenges. After the usual drills, we played a fairly serious full-sized match with the first team playing 4-3-3 and the rest of us matching the 3-5-2 we expected from Barrow. That meant I played right mid, so I was up against Jack the Lad. At one point, I had the ball on the right and I was strolling around, being all dickish and annoying. I bent to put my knee on the ball and the sky went CRACK! I looked up, expecting to see a thousand-foot high demon with twin Uzis, but it was just a plane that had gone supersonic.


    Jack had taken my pause as a chance to get me, but I recovered just in time and passed the ball left. I sprinted forward into the slot Jack had vacated, and sure enough the ball was played there. I accelerated as the goalie rushed out to intercept. If I got there first, I could boop the ball over the keeper, but he would wipe me out and I wasn''t much interested in that.


    So I swayed, pretended to do the boop, but ran around the keeper without touching the ball. I didn''t expect anything other than the goalie to collect it, or kick it clear, or something of the sort. But my move bamboozled him, and I found the ball rolling clear. I passed it into the unguarded net.


    When I looked back, chuckling, I saw that the goalie and Jack had crashed into each other and somehow they were both prone, holding their groins, lightly moaning. What you do in this situation is, you wait to check how serious things are, then you make jokes.


    I knew right away both players were fine - certainly no attributes had turned red - so I skipped the first part. "Don''t rub ''em, count ''em. How many have you got, goalie?"


    "Three," he gasped. He untensed his body a fraction. "Got one of his."


    "It''s meatballs for lunch, isn''t it?" I wondered, as the physio arrived. I looked around at the half dozen players who''d come over to check on the sitch. "Seriously, though. We should start calling Jack''s girls to let them know he''s gonna be out of order for a while. Anyone free this afternoon?"


    "Best," he groaned.


    "What?"


    "Shut the fuck up or I''ll steal your girl."


    "Yeah, I''m not worried about that. I''ve put her somewhere you''ll never get to her."


    "Where?"


    "The other team''s half."


    Sharp inhalation of breath from the nearby players, followed by Reece Cox hiding behind Mark Dodd so he could laugh. Carlos, the team''s exotic Spanish DM (who was returning from injury), shook his head. "Juu are savage, Max. Remind me not to cross you."


    "Don''t worry about crossing me. Worry about our only left-sided player crossing the half-way line."


    "Fuck off," said Jack.


    "I''ve been waiting for the right time to get that off my chest," I confessed. "I feel good, now. Better out than in, as they say."


    We had lunch - Jack sat away from me - and I asked Trev Northcross, the reserve goalie who Emma liked, if he''d let me work on set pieces with him. He was up for it. I did twenty minutes of corners, ten minutes of direct free kicks, and ten of swinging crosses for him to catch - that was good practice for him, too.


    In the shower, the monthly perk arrived.


    January Special Offer


    New perk available: Masterpiece Theatre


    Cost: 1,000 XP (If your total experience point income in January exceeds 10,000. If you fail to reach that target, the perk will be added to the shop as a permanent option priced at 4,000 XP).


    Effects: Allows for more precise deployment of players at set pieces.


    I mean, wow. I''d wanted some kind of perk like this almost since I''d realised I could control football teams, but the fact Nick had taken my suggestion I could grab ten thousand XP and turned it into an actual goal was almost as annoying as the whole Sentinel thing. (I''d finally given up on the name I''d invented. Sentinel was better and more threatening.)


    Fine-tuning where players would go would be fantastic - even from the limited description I was already fizzing with ideas. What about putting Goliath at the near post and everyone else at the far post? How would you defend that? Most teams tried to get two or three players near him. That would leave us with a three-man advantage on the other side. Fuck, what if I could get Goliath and Christian Fierce?


    "Max?"


    "Yep?"


    It was Trev, the goalie I''d been training with. "Are you laughing because you''re thinking about Jack?"


    "No." I turned my shower off.


    "Aren''t you worried he''ll give you a hard time?"


    "No. I''m worried I won''t be here long enough to annoy him into changing. Do you know what''s up with him?"


    "I didn''t know anything was off. I thought he was playing well."


    "He''s defending well. Can we do this same time tomorrow?"


    "Yes! It was great. Most players get worse as they get tired. You get better!"


    "Top top top."


    I dried off. After I got dressed, I sat and stared at nothing while I thought about the next perks. The curse was presenting my XP stash slightly differently.


    XP balance: 3,659


    January income: 973/10,000


    Masterpiece Theatre was desirable but not urgent, and I''d only be able to buy it when I''d reached ten thousand XP, or on Feb 1st for an inflated price. Basically I needed to have a thousand XP in my balance at the end of the month. Easy.


    So the next ones on my list started with Attributes 5, which was 1,900 XP. That was top of the list mostly because it had been so long since I''d unlocked any attributes.


    Then there was Contracts 2 for 5,000 XP. That was expensive enough that I could justify using one of my discount vouchers. The five percent one would take 250 XP off the bill. Being so close to the perk was absolutely mouth-watering - it would show me how much money players at other clubs were on, and their contract expiries and release clauses and so on. That info was much more important than unlocking a single attribute, but I was in a holiday mood, and when you''re on holiday you chuck your money around recklessly.


    The third thing on my shopping list was Wibwob. Base price ten thousand, but I''d use the ten percent voucher on that one. At the start of Feb I might have something like five or six thousand XP, meaning I''d be in range of Wibwob at the start of March, or mid April.


    Yeah. By the end of this season, unless I got turned into a bug by a cosmic referee, I would be a very powerful football manager.


    For now, though, I bought Attributes 5 and watched as the crappy animation happened - I''d forgotten about that! I saw a generic player profile with almost as many empty cells as full ones. The first empty one turned yellow then returned to being blank, and the next changed giving the illusion of movement, highlighting only the empty cells, about fifteen of them, and the coloured one went round faster and faster, slower and slower, making it look something like a roulette wheel.


    Finally, it landed on...


    Creativity.


    Fuck me - did Old Nick have his hands on the scales, there?


    What did creativity mean in terms of a football match? The ability to do something unexpected? A reverse pass? A no-look backheel nutmeg? It had to be something like that.


    I quickly took a look around the men''s and women''s squads, and there were no great surprises. D-Day''s creativity was high and Glenn Ryder''s was low. The women had a set of creative midfielders - Kisi, Dani, Maddy, and Charlotte. That made sense.


    Well, I was pretty pleased with it, and I would enjoy working out exactly what difference it made to players and how they played.


    In the shop, Attributes 6 appeared, retailing at 2,050 XP.


    ***


    He is best known for his exploits during the 1927¨C28 season, which saw him score a record 60 league goals. In total, he scored 84 goals that season. He also scored 18 goals in 16 appearances for England which, as you know, is more than one per game.


    Friday, 5 January


    Me: I DON''T KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS BUT I HAVE MET SOMEONE ELSE


    Emma: One day you''re going to go too far with this sort of thing. Who is she?


    Me: Goalkeeper! There are two of those goalkeeper school things here. One''s down the road from the stadium. I called the guy and said have you got a tall, lithe woman who can handle balls.


    Emma: Why do I feel these messages are going to be in a court case one day?


    Me: I''ve just seen her in action. She''s perfeck.


    Emma: One for the agency?


    Me: Not quite that good, no.


    Emma: Shame. What is XG?


    Me: xG. Expected Goals. It''s how many goals you should have scored. Example: a penalty kick has xG of 0.76. You should score 76 goals for every hundred shots.


    Emma: Okay. My friends who are boys who like football WhatsApp group said you were in a podcast. I''ll send you the link.


    ***


    Extract from Pyramid Schemers, the original and best podcast dedicated to the other 72 teams in the Football League.


    Rocky: So that''s my pick for ''over 2.5 goals''. Mike, what have you got next?


    Mike: It''s my pick for ''long shot''. The listeners really liked it last week when we picked bets with looong odds, so I''m doing that again. Going extra long.


    Rocky: Spicy. But not longer than Juan Rosario to score against the tightest defence in the Championship? What was it, ten to one?


    Mike: That nearly paid off! He hit the crossbar. This one''s even longer odds. It''s in League Two, for Tranmere.


    Rocky: Hang on. You''re not advocating for our listeners to bet on Tranmere Rovers... to score?


    Mike: Unorthodox content, I know, but hear me out. For once, I think the market has made a mistake. After his two-goal haul last week, the bookies slashed his odds, but in my opinion, nowhere near enough. Max Best to score any time is twenty to one.


    Rocky: Twenty to one is the longest pick in this show''s award-winning history. You''re suggesting that lightning will strike twice. That''s what this pick is. Who are they playing?


    Mike: Barrow.


    Rocky: Barrow! With one of the meanest defences in League Two! Best won''t start the match. He''s a defensive midfielder. Yes, he takes penalties but twenty to one is the stingiest price in the history of sports betting.


    Mike: Hear me out.


    Rocky: Go on.


    Mike: He plays DM for Chester.


    Rocky: Maybe for some listeners this is a good time to mention that this player is, in fact, the manager of Chester Football Club. If you think it''s bizarre that we''re talking about him playing for Tranmere in League Two, there are many who would agree with you. Please continue.


    Mike: He plays DM because he''s doing a job for his team. When they''re behind he gets forward and he''s a different beast. For Tranmere, he''s playing as one of the front three. He dropped deep against Notts County because they have such dangerous players, but Barrow don''t have the same threat. I think he''ll play in forward positions, and I think that''ll mean he gets chances, and if he gets chances, he''ll score. He''s extremely clinical. I think when he''s played enough games in higher divisions we''ll see that he''s an xG machine. We''ll never see odds like this again. That''s why he''s my [gunshot sound effect] long shot pick of the week.


    Rocky: Okay. [coughs]. Maybe this is a good time to remind listeners to gamble responsibly. Never bet more than you can afford to lose. Visit be gamble aware dot co dot uk to learn more.


    This was fascinating. First, the existence of a podcast specifically designed for EFL teams - those NOT in the top twenty. Second, the way the hosts were named after boxers. Third, their analysis was really good! Fourth, neither were fans of Chester, or Tranmere, or me, so if one was saying I was good and one was saying I was shit, that would help with the old Sentinel business. I could use these guys as canaries in the soul mine - if both were raving about me, I might need to consider dialling down my performances.


    Me: That podcast was interesting. Tell your mates I''m not an xG machine and they shouldn''t bet on me. Tell them I have no intention of scoring against Barrow and the match will be of absolutely no interest to anyone. Tell them Dixie Dean''s record is safe.


    Emma: They''re laughing at you.


    Me: Is that right?


    Emma: Said the closest you''ll ever get to him is his statue.


    Me: Send them some middle finger emojis then leave the group.


    Emma: Okay, done.


    Emma: [eye-rolling gif]


    ***


    A statue of Dean was unveiled outside Everton''s stadium in May 2001.


    Saturday, 6 January


    James O''Rourke hadn''t spoken to me much during training, and that was fine with me. What I needed most in the world was someone to discuss my problem with - the problem of how to do whatever I wanted with no interference and no penalties if I went too far. Yeah, James was the last person I wanted to talk to. In some ways, he was like a feeble version of The Sentinel. James couldn''t chop my head off and send it to a different ring of hell to my body. All he could do to hurt me was not pick me, not let me go on the pitch.


    Huh. That wasn''t so feeble, was it? Right now, that was the main thing I wanted.


    Fortunately, I was friends with James''s own Sentinel - Mateo - and if I didn''t get on the pitch today there would be hell to pay.


    I was feeling pretty glum, slumped on the team bus with my earphones in to make sure no-one talked to me. What was I going to do? We needed to get points to save the club from relegation. Given the chance, I''d have to score a goal. Maybe two. Would The Sentinel give a shit about a match in League Two? Did it even know what Cumbria was? It would be a bad day if I scored a hat trick but Nick hit Retire.


    Tricky. Messy. Annoying.


    The bus passed Everton''s new docklands stadium - looking gorgeous - and made a right turn. That seemed to surprise everyone, so much so that I felt it even without hearing what they were saying.


    A few minutes later, the bus stopped outside Everton''s current home, Goodison Park. Huh? We were playing two hours away, in Cumbria.


    "Here you go, Max," said James, with a little smile.


    I frowned and got up. "Have you sold me to Everton?"


    He laughed. I hadn''t seen him in this good a mood the whole time I''d been at Tranmere. "You asked if we could stop off at the statue, remember? Said it''d only add five minutes to the journey. Said it might inspire you."


    "Right," I said. It was all coming back to me. "But you said no."


    "I said I''d think about it."


    "But you meant no."


    His smile faded, but came back. "But then I really did think about it, and what''s the harm? He played for Tranmere, after all. I like that you care about the history. Go on, fill your boots."


    The doors opened and I found myself walking towards the larger-than-life statue of Dixie Dean, a player so good that Stanley Matthews and Tom Finney were in awe of him. The rest of the squad disembarked behind me, confused but interested.


    Lee Contreras asked if he was allowed to record in the area. "What?" Oh. For his YouTube. "Better idea. Let''s do that interview you wanted. Tell me when you''re ready."


    He couldn''t believe his luck. "We''re on."


    I stared into the lens. It didn''t come naturally to me, but I''d found that if I didn''t think about how I looked, I tended to look fine. "All right, Contrarians?" Lee blinked as I said the name of his tens of hard-core fans. I think it blew his mind that I''d watched any of his stuff. "Max Best here with all the Tranmere players. We''re off to smash Barrow and I said, hey, let''s pop by the Dixie Dean statue on the way there. Bit of a pilgrimage sort of thing. Lee, you been here before?"


    "No, Max," he said, keeping the camera on me.


    "So here''s the man himself," I said, looking up. "Stocky, wannee? Powerful. Sort of a South American look to him. Down here, Lee." Lee dipped his phone. "People leave flowers and that. Everton aren''t even playing today. And come over here." I''d read about this on Wikipedia or somewhere. "This metalwork, here, see? The little circles there? There are sixty. This guy scored 60 goals in 39 games. A year or two before, he had a crash and smashed up his skull. Remind you of anyone?" I rubbed the back of my head.


    "You gonna score 60 goals, Max?"


    "I was thinking about it," I said, talking to myself, now, pottering around, looking at the big man from all angles. "You can''t be a fan of English football and not come across the name Dixie Dean. None of us have ever seen him play and there''s no good footage. But we''re still talking about him a hundred years later, and we''ll still be talking about him a hundred years from now." I reached up to touch the nearest knee. "He had a crash and shattered his kneecaps. Metal plate in his head. Imagine how many goals he''d have scored if he was totally healthy. It boggles the mind. Guys like this built the sport. You''re on big money, now, Lee, because this guy made everyone in the Wirral want to watch football."


    "We''re standing on the shoulders of giants," said James O''Rourke, who had come to listen.


    "That''s it! Yeah. You know how good players from the past were because of how people talked about them. Bill Shankly said Dixie Dean was on a par with Beethoven and Rembrandt." I blew air out of my cheeks. "Don''t you want people to talk about you like that? What would you give?"


    There was a brief silence, broken when Junior bent down to check out the flowers. "Hey! There''s a Tranmere scarf." He picked it up and threw it around Dixie Dean''s neck.


    "Team photo!" barked James. He looked more like a manager, now. More in control. I slipped away. "Best! Where are you going?"


    "I''m not in the team," I said.


    "Yes, you fucking are. Get over here."


    I stood next to him at the back row, while the front row knelt. I had a feeling this would blow up on Tranmere''s social media accounts. When James announced it was time to go, most players were keen to get out of the cold and onto the warm bus. I was the last, along with Lee. He pointed the camera at me again, and I put my hand in front of it. He didn''t argue, but he glanced up at the dominant player of his age. "You can''t score 60 goals in one season. It''s impossible."


    "No," I agreed, but not for the reason he had given. Apart from the fact that The Sentinel would make me live inside out for a thousand years as a warmup to the real torture, it suddenly seemed disrespectful to think of myself in the same breath as Dixie Dean. He had earned everything he achieved. Earned through blood, sweat, and tears, not by exploiting a loophole. "I can imagine having a season where I score 20 in 10 starts. You know, just for shits and giggles."


    "Sure, Max."


    I took one last look at the Tranmere scarf. Someone had put that there today. I looked around, my neck suddenly tingling. Was there a PA 200 ten-year-old in the area just waiting to be found? Heading 20, strength 20, finishing 20? "And you know what? If I can''t be Dixie Dean... I can find the next one."

 6.12 - The Regulation Will Be Televised

    12.


    We arrived at Barrow''s weird stadium and I spent much of my time before kick off in a weird mood. I wanted to play, but I wasn''t allowed to play too well. I wanted to help James O''Rourke, but James O''Rourke didn''t seem too interested in helping himself.


    He had named his usual 4-3-3 and the only change from the Notts game was to bring Carlos back into the midfield. Carlos was a silky-smooth playmaker, so I had no problems with it in principle. Personally, I wouldn''t have thrown a player returning from injury straight back into the starting eleven, but that was me. No, my main problem was that Samuel was in the team. Samuel the four out of ten striker. Sam the Sloth. Fireman Sam - if you want someone to extinguish your own attacks, give him the ball. When James announced the enormous lump was keeping his place, I actually gasped, and the players and physios near me turned to stare.


    Such decisions weren''t spur of the moment impulses - you had to discuss it with your assistant and sit and write out your team sheet and hand it to the referee. That meant it was the product of some amount of thought. In the marketplace of ideas inside James''s head, he''d ''sold'' Junior and ''bought'' Samuel. He might as well have handed the referee a piece of paper that said, "I''m going to be fired today, lol."


    I got changed and warmed up without enthusiasm, even when I noticed that Barrow''s badge featured a bee and an arrow (b - arrow) and that one of the stands was named after a former manager called Brian Arrowsmith (b - arrow!). There were two main things dampening my mood.


    First, there was EFL branding all over the stadium. It must have been the same at Prenton Park, but I hadn''t noticed because I didn''t have The Sentinel swinging the Sword of Damocles in my general direction. The EFL had signed a TV deal which meant all its matches (Championship, League One, League Two) were filmed and if not shown live, at least cut up into YouTube clips and TV highlights packages. If I, for example, scored eight goals from the halfway line, a couple of fucking people might fucking notice. I had to think that all publicity was bad publicity.


    Second, James was a wonderful person but the curse rated him as dogshit in all aspects of football management. Unless something drastically changed, and I''d only ever seen minimal changes in staff profiles, he didn''t have much of a future in the role. The best thing to do would be to go down the Kidderminster route. Their manager had a tactics wizard who he trusted, and he had an assistant manager who was good at scouting. James could be the guy in the middle of some talented specialists. But if I was Mateo, I''d want someone like me surrounded by the same specialists.


    The game got underway.


    The Barrow manager was a real hothead. He barked non-stop, which was extremely aggravating when I was trying to have deep thoughts. His numbers weren''t amazing, but he was better than James in every department. Louder, too.


    I sighed and pulled my hoodie tighter around my head. Most teams had rules about all their players wearing the same kit, and those rules were ruthlessly enforced by the captain. If you see a football team at an airport going to a big match, they''ll be wearing club suits and club ties. It shows that everyone''s equal, no-one''s bigger than the club. Tranmere''s subs were wearing a black and green bench coat, but I didn''t like it and didn''t want to wear it, so I didn''t. Fortunately, no-one was too interested in telling me how to dress. Maybe they''d heard what I''d done in Darlington. At last, something positive from the scurrilous article!


    I watched James for a minute. Like most managers he pointed a lot and shouted. Micromanaging where players should pass and what they should do with their bodies. "Left! Left! Eyes open! Turn! Tracking back! Tracking back! And again!"


    Just a stream of pointless instructions the players couldn''t possibly take on board. Wasted energy. Being seen to be doing something because he felt the TV cameras on his neck, because Mateo was taking some practice swings with the Sword of Jamocles, because it was all James had ever known in football.


    James, man. Saving him would require me to play my absolute best, but that would risk the ire of Nick and the Sentinel. Would I really risk everything to save James O''Rourke? He had a weak squad and no clue what to do with it, meaning even if I helped him out, he would be back in this position soon enough. Maybe it was kinder to let him fail so he could get on with the rest of his life. Dixie Dean bought himself a pub and ran it for almost twenty years. James O''Rourke was a good name for a pub landlord.


    The first half was agony. Since my murder, I''d been super careful with my head, but I spent at least half the time banging my skull on the back of the dugout. Dum, dum, dum. It might have killed a few brain cells, but it relieved the frustration wonderfully.


    Barrow were playing three at the back, and we had three strikers, so you might have thought ''wow, we''ll create lots of chances here''. Nope. For a start, Barrow swarmed the midfield, giving Lee, Carlos, and Doddsy no time and space. Fine, right? Because the defenders could lift long balls to Samuel, who was bigger and stronger than the defenders he was up against. He would cause mayhem and the other two forwards would slap. Nope! Samuel quickly settled into a four out of ten match rating. Yeah but Max, the full backs will get forward and do damage. Soz, weren''t you listening? Jack the Lad never attacked! He was like a yapping dog securely attached to his kennel, except his owner had removed the lead and the idiot pup hadn''t realised.


    No, forget all thoughts of parity, of an equal contest; the first twenty minutes was all Barrow. Then they scored and things changed - they became even more dominant. In the final five minutes before half time there was yet another twist - a twist of the knife. Barrow scored again and had a feeding frenzy around Tranmere''s penalty area as they battled for another, their players laughing and joking, their fans munching on pies and teasing us in weird north-of-north accents.


    The buzz from our comeback against Notts, the goodwill we got by visiting the Dixie Dean statue - James had set fire to it then poured petrol all over himself and his career. His team had two giant holes that he made no attempt to plug, he never changed his plans, and despite using an attacking formation his team was defensive as fuck. If he ever got a manager''s job again, it would be a miracle.


    Junior tried to talk to me, as did Coach Colin and the physios. I grumped them away, and with a minute to go in the half, stood up and looked around. I spotted the little cluster of guys with ''ownership'' profiles. Mateo was there, of course, looking grim. As soon as an hour from now, he would offer me the position as Tranmere Rovers manager.


    My legs felt heavy. The spring in my step had gone and I had no appetite for schemes and plots and secretly saving people. I didn''t know what to do, didn''t know how to navigate these side quests in the optimal way. In front of me were many literal lines and one metaphorical one. Did I really want to wrest control of a match at half time? The last time had come back to bite me in the arse.


    But this whole Tranmere thing was only partly about me. I''d told MD some of the truth, and I''d told Old Nick some of the truth, but I hadn''t told anyone all of the truth. And I never would; my motivations were all built on the same foundation - Emma.


    Emma hugging James because I''d smiled. Emma hugging James because I''d laughed. Emma hugging me because I''d smiled and laughed.


    My heart turned into a fucking flamethrower. I was going to do battle for this football manager, big time. Yes, mate! I love the smell of three points in the morning!


    Decision made, I burned with the fury of a thousand suns.


    And then I relented and changed my mission statement.


    James would get my help, but only if he wanted it. Really wanted it.


    I checked where the TV cameras were and cross-referenced them with what I remembered from clips of Barrow. The main camera was up in the middle, somewhere - there! Found it. Okay, so if I stood with my back to it, about there...


    I crossed the Rubicon, going into Barrow''s technical area. Their sandy-haired manager was your typical ''proper football man'' - beyond gobby, screaming gibberish at his players and spitting venom at the referee virtually non-stop. He was certainly making the most of his limited gifts and had turned Barrow into a team with a shot of making the playoffs. "What?" he yelled, turning his face to me - and the camera. If he did anything dumb, it''d be caught. If I did something dumb, there''d always be some doubt about exactly what.


    "Can I use your room for two minutes?"


    "What you fucking say?" His bench had cleared, and they were all up in my business, ready to throw stings and arrows at me.


    "Your manager''s office. Can I use that for a private chat?"


    "Can you fuck! Get lost!"


    I didn''t get lost. I stared at him until Junior pulled me away.


    "What''s going on?" said the referee. He''d rushed over to stop tempers from boiling over. Fat chance with the Barrow boys - they were born simmering.


    "There was a boy in my school with the same name as him," I said. "I was only asking if he was that kid and he went bonkers."


    "You''re twenty years younger than him, Best, and you''re not allowed in his technical area. You know that. I should give you a yellow card."


    "Oh, ref," I said. "You''ve got that little room. Can I use it for two minutes? I need to make a private phone call."


    He tried to process what I was saying, but couldn''t. "What? Just - I''m running a match!" He jogged off.


    James finally responded to my antics. "What are you doing?" he growled. He growled like someone who had never met Ian Evans doing an impression of Ian Evans. It didn''t move my needle in the slightest.


    "We need to have a private talk."


    He tried to sneer, but again, rubbish. "Oh, do we?"


    "Yes. As soon as that whistle goes."


    "You''re not in charge around here."


    I showed him my phone with its countless unread emails and texts. "I just got a text from Mateo asking me to come up to his box right away." I let the threat hang in the air. The implication was that James would be sacked at half time. It had been known to happen. It could be interesting to categorise the levels of humiliation - sacked the day after a match versus sacked at full time versus sacked at half time. I suppose the worst would be sacked in the warm up. I pressed home my advantage. "I can talk to him, or I can talk to you."


    The ref blew the whistle and while James was reeling, I took his arm and led him under the main stand. We went past all the rooms and stopped by some double doors. People kept coming and going, but it was as private as we were going to get.


    I grabbed his shoulder. "We don''t have much time. Listen up. Are you here?"


    He looked at my left hand - the one I cradled my phone in. "What did he say? Am I out?"


    I took my hand off his shoulder so I could make tiny but powerful gestures. "We met in Tenerife. You remember, right? Some weirdo kid turned up, said he was manager of Chester. The only reason to believe him was his unfathomably attractive girlfriend. Emma. You remember Emma, right?" I showed him my home screen.


    "Emma. Yeah. Emma."


    He was a mess. His head was everywhere all at once. "In hozzie, I was all crazy. Got to get fit for the holiday. Got to get on that plane. You''d have been proud of me, mate. Fucking grafted. I had that goal and I put the work in like a pro. I was wobbly on my legs but I made it. So then what? I didn''t have a plan for the holiday itself. It was just be there. But I was so full of anger and frustration - James, focus - so angry all the time, so lost. And I didn''t have anything to do, so I took it out on the only person who was there, the last person I wanted to snap at."


    "Emma."


    "Right. I''m not saying I was a monster or anything, but it was frustrating that I''d take out my mess on her. Do you know what I mean? It was getting to be a vicious cycle. I''d think about the attack, what the police did, what Jackie did, all sorts of stuff. It''d bubble up and Emma would say something and I''d just... vent. It was really aggravating me that I couldn''t stop myself from doing it. But then I did it again, but more." I shook my head. "Horrible. Dispiriting. And then we bumped into you lot, and that was it. You gave me what I needed - a bit of purpose. Some physios and coaches and the pool and the dinners where you sat outside in the dark for me."


    He was present now. Listening to me for the first time since I''d arrived at Tranmere. "I preferred it to being inside with those rowdy idiots."


    "The thing is, I owe you. I''ve tried to tell you a hundred times I''m not here to take your job. I''ve paid Mateo back."


    "The tribunal."


    "Yeah. And Junior and Bark. The worst thing that can possibly happen is he sacks you and offers me the job. How do I turn it down and stay friends with him? I''ve imagined the scene a hundred times and it doesn''t end well. We''ve got to avoid it. I''ve paid him back and I''m trying to pay you back. But I''ve got to ask, do you want to keep this job?"


    "Course I do. I''m a fighter. I won''t quit."


    Typical macho gibberish with no substance behind it. But it''d do. "Okay. The tactics aren''t negative but the messaging is. You can''t fix that in five minutes. Fight by sending your allies in. I''ll fly in like, er... Lord Flashheart. Let me fix it."


    "What?"


    "Let me fix it. Barrow? They''re shit. Let me do a Max Best special. Insanely positive. They''ve never seen anything like what I''ve got in mind. We''ll get back in this game, get a draw, get a point, maybe go for all three. I can''t do this one on my own, though. This isn''t a superhero story. Flashheart needed Blackadder. I need your team."


    "Sounds like you want to be the manager of Tranmere Rovers."


    I tutted and looked up at the ceiling. This guy. I brought my phone out of my pocket like the genie''s lamp it was. "If I wanted that, you''d have been sacked already." I slipped it away, then mashed my fists into my face. "God, this is frustrating. You need to stop being so negative. Stop thinking the worst. Go back to the sun and the sea and all those big plans you had for the season. Let''s get the fuck on with it or go our separate ways. You''re in a death spiral and you can''t think straight. You need someone on the outside to get you back on course. Come on, there''s no time. I have to do the tactics. Let me help you! For me, and for Emma. For Emma, James!"


    He thought for a while. "What''s the plan? Tell me and I''ll tell them."


    "No time. Trust me. We go back, clear everyone out, and I''ll tell them."


    "What?"


    "Get everyone out who isn''t playing. We''re subbing Carlos and Samuel off, by the way."


    "I don''t follow."


    "There will be twelve people in that room, including you and me. If any of this leaks, we''ll soon find out who did it. Neither of us wants an audience for this." The fewer people who saw me do a half time ''mutiny'' the better. Lesson learned.


    "But - "


    I shook my head and turned him around. "You''ve got twenty seconds to save your career. No joke. Come on, now." With a gentle push from me, he started moving his legs. I wasn''t sure what the odds were. 80-20 in my favour, I supposed. The home fans had been singing ''you''re getting sacked in the morning''. James knew he was on the brink.


    He went into the dressing room and the hubbub died down. I stayed outside in the corridor, my back to the wall. If he didn''t go for it, I wouldn''t play. I''d claim my calf was feeling tight or whatever. If he wasn''t willing to grab the rope I''d thrown him, he couldn''t blame me when he fell down the well. There were long-term reasons not to play, too. These ''end of an era'' matches tended to linger in the memory. The Tranmere fans would remember the team who got James O''Rourke sacked. Being involved in the worst Tranmere performance in living memory would not do much for my brand. Or my ego. Also, if I didn''t play, I couldn''t catch the eye of a demon.


    "Okay, fellas. That was not acceptable." James coughed, then grunted. I felt him looking around, still coming to a decision. "Couple of changes at half time. Carlos, you''re off. Samuel, you too. I''m going to ask everyone who isn''t playing the second half to leave the dressing room." Weird silence. "Come on, now. Everyone out."


    The physios left first, then some coaches, then the other players. Junior went past - I hadn''t told James who was coming on - and I reached out to grab him. When the last guys were out, I pushed Junior back in, and closed the door behind me.


    Coach Colin hadn''t left. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded. He was a good coach and I liked him, but if James was fired, he''d probably take over as caretaker manager. He had an incentive to do James dirty. He wouldn''t, but why risk it? And if I needed to hunt down a traitor, why make the Brig''s investigation harder?


    I went to him and mumbled that he needed to leave, too. He reacted badly. Fuck him. If Tranmere were relegated, dozens of people would lose their jobs. His feelings didn''t matter.


    "Everyone over here," I said, quietly, when it was just the eleven players and James. I pulled the tactics board away from the wall, to establish dominance over it more than anything else.


    "The fuck is going on?" demanded Jack the Lad.


    "Shut it," I suggested. "I''ve been out in the corridor telling James an idea that could get us back into this. Right? My teams use 3-5-2 a lot so I know how to play against it. Here''s the plan. We''re going to play 4-4-2 low block."


    "What?" said Gareth Jones, the captain.


    "What?" said James. "What happened to being too negative?"


    "Genius, isn''t it? To attack, you must first go ultra, ultra-defensive. Sun Tsu. Back four as normal. Jack''ll be happy - he gets an excuse not to run forward."


    "What is your problem?"


    "Dizzy, you''re left mid. Dodds, you''re right. Shuffle, slide, look after your spacing. Here''s the twist. Junior''s going to play wide left. I''m going to play wide right. The goal of everyone on this team is to defend for your lives and get the ball to me as fast as poss."


    "To you?" said Jack. "What a surprise."


    "It''s a head scratcher, isn''t it? Get the ball to your best player? Hmm. Tommy Tactics rides again. Goalie? Punt the ball at me, low and hard." Punting in this context meant kicking it long. "I might be hiding near one of these guys, but hit this space. Fast, mate. No dicking around. Get the ball, punt it. I can cope with some spin and some height but too much and you''ll give them the chance to get back into shape. Defenders? Block, punt. Midfielders, block, punt. If you can get the ball just over the halfway line when they''re even slightly out of shape, we''re going to slap."


    "What do I do?" said Junior.


    I laughed. "You score the goals. What do you fucking think? When I''m running onto that ball, you''re drifting left, away from danger. When you think I''m about to hit it, you fucking go at goal. Straight for goal from whatever angle you''re at. Be calm. If you can first-time the finish, top. If you need to take a touch, great. But that''s it. No turning back to pass to runners. There won''t be any. Now," I said, touching the tactics board. "This will fuck with their heads, big time. They''ve never seen anything like this. They''ll respond. Probably drop their wide mids back and play 5-3-2. Or they might switch completely. We''ll have to see. At that point - I''ll tell you when - we go right back into 4-3-3 and it''s your usual playbook again, but this time it''ll work. Dizzy and Junior up top, with me as the third striker."


    "Third striker?" scoffed Jack. "Don''t you mean playing anywhere you want?"


    "That''s right, Jack! But not left mid. You''ll notice I leave that space open for you to run into." He thought about stepping to me, which made me laugh. "You useless prat." Was I trying to rile him up so that he''d want to prove me wrong? Nah. Just liked calling people names. The bell rang. "That''s it. Oh!" I clicked my fingers. "I''m thinking about winding their manager up. I probably won''t - I''m on holiday - but I might. If it happens, let it happen. You don''t need to get involved. Jack, that goes double for you. Don''t want a tough guy like you wading in."


    ***


    Junior raced onto the pitch, leapt to practise a header, and pumped his knees up to hip level like pistons. I walked behind him, fretting. Losing wasn''t the issue; if this plan blew up, James could tell Mateo he''d tried things my way and it had failed miserably. That would be fine with me. James would know I''d tried to help him and Mateo would think twice about offering me the job.


    No, the problem was Old Nick. This plan made me the creator and all our attacks would flow through me. Even the tactics screen had me listed as the playmaker. We needed at least two goals. Two assists... against Barrow... in League Two... in front of just three thousand people... surely that was allowed?


    Barrow kicked off, having made no changes at half time, and began pushing up the pitch as our guys fell into a shuffle and slide. Junior hung out on the extreme left of the pitch and I did the same on the other side with no-one anywhere near me.


    Barrow pressed forward, passing left and right, probing, looking for openings. They were winning two-nil and were in no hurry. They kept the three centre backs on the halfway line, but one by one their midfielders moved further and further forward.


    A cross was sent in, and Barrow had plenty of numbers in the box to attack it. The mass of defenders did enough to make the header difficult and the goalie ran out to pluck the ball from the air. In the same movement, he drop-kicked the ball in my direction. I strolled towards it. The important thing here was NOT to do anything flash or eye-catching. I did NOT want to end up on some tekkers highlights reel or whatever. I played for Chester and had to act like it.


    He''d kicked it sort of sideways, and it was spinning and dipping pretty wickedly, to my right, perilously close to the right touchline. If I didn''t control it first time, it''d go out and the move would have ended before it had begun.


    I controlled the ball, still strolling forward, on the inside of my foot. It blooped up in a way that demanded a volley. Nick might have raged at me, but anyone who has ever played football will understand it. I had to volley it. Free will does not exist when the ball pops up just right!


    Up it went, about chest high, and I watched with mild interest as it began its descent before thrashing it, much as our goalie had done, diagonally to the left.


    Junior had sprinted as soon as I''d controlled the ball and now it was arcing into his path. His eyes widened and his first touch was poor - it squirted almost perfectly square. But he was fast enough to recover, and as the defenders hared backwards, the keeper made the moronic choice to come out. Junior didn''t have time to think, so he struck the ball low to the keeper''s left.


    Two-one, and Junior ran over to the crazily-designed away end, full of Tranmere fans.


    I didn''t want to be in the celebration highlights, so I walked the opposite way, going past the Barrow dugout. I winked. "Next time, let me use your room."


    That annoyed him and he danced around, puffing himself up, generally behaving like he was playing a party game where he had to act as two different animals simultaneously and we had to guess which ones he was doing.


    He was a dick but he was no mug; he ordered the left mid to drop deep to cover me, so as Barrow pushed forward again, this time with more urgency, I walked across the pitch and told Junior to swap sides. This time, Barrow''s spell of possession was more prolonged and more intense, but we held firm. Still, it was a good while before anyone could get the ball to me.


    It was Jack the Lad who did it. He won possession, played the ball back to the goalie, who had no choice but to play it straight back. Jack feinted, cut inside onto his right foot, and chipped it out in my direction. I''d have liked some more pace on the ball but that was okay.


    I accelerated - ooh that wind resistance was coming back! - checked where Junior was and found him making a perfect run. I hit a left-footed curler that went behind two of the centre backs and held up with the spin. The goalie came out a few steps, remembered how he''d made it easy for Junior before, and retreated. Junior latched onto the pass and his first touch was heavy. The keeper did go running then, throwing himself at the ball sideways to cover most of the angles, but Junior scooped the ball up about two feet, over the keeper''s body. It plopped onto the goal line and rolled a couple more times before coming to a gentle rest. Junior followed it and absolutely smashed it into the back of the net. Just to be sure.


    Now the home fans were even more quiet - not a noisy bunch at the best of times - and the Tranmere lot were going tonto. We''d come back from two goals down - again!


    Jack ran past me on his way to join the celebrations.


    "Well, well, well," I said. "Look who can play."


    While the guys wrapped up their party, I kept an eye on the Barrow tactics and the commentary. Sure enough, they made a change. They took off a striker, put on a specialist left back, and changed to 4-5-1. Holy shit! It almost looked like he was clinging on for the point - and he''d dropped his average CA in the process.


    I walked to Barrow''s half of the centre circle so that they couldn''t restart the match and called our guys in for a quick tactics update. "It''s James o''clock!" I said. "Got it?


    "Yes, Max," called Lee. I liked this side of him. With a clear plan and a vision and some hope of it working, he was serious and disciplined. I could imagine him maturing into a Sam Topps type. Sam with much higher technical qualities. Hmm. I liked the sound of that, but not as much as Lee liked the sound of his own voice. It''d be interesting to know when his contract ran out, just in case.


    We lined up and Barrow stormed forward, stung by our recent double whammy. But we weren''t in the low block now, so they overcommitted.


    Dodd slid into a tackle, Lee poked it wide, and Jack the Lad ran out to collect. He had twenty yards of space in front of him, but he turned and played a sideways pass. I put my hands on my head. What the fuck? A golden chance tossed away.


    Barrow realised things had changed and spent a minute reassessing. I was happy for the time out, too. I bent and placed one knee on the turf. We were back to James''s tactics. My legs felt fresh and springy. As things stood, a few football hipsters would drool over my passes but Junior would get all the headlines. If we could get him a third goal, he would be all of the story. Especially if the third assist came from somewhere else.


    Or maybe... maybe two-all was enough. Another point against a top-six team, James''s job safe for a week, and the next three games were against increasingly easy teams. Maybe it''d be more... more Emma if I sort of... asked him for his opinion instead of giving it to him.


    I walked over to the dugouts and asked James what he wanted. "Go for the win or keep what you have?"


    He looked ten years younger. "You joking? This is a great point. This is an amazing point!"


    "All right."


    I dropped to DM and we shut up shop. When Barrow got too excited, I dribbled through their lines and sent Dizzy away. The manager got the message and his team didn''t commit too many bodies forward after that.


    Finally, with one last look up at the TV cameras, I decided not to try to get the manager sent off. Helping James was a risk I thought was worth taking. Acting the maggot to stir up trouble was self-indulgent.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Still, the fact that I couldn''t be myself was pretty depressing. There was a good thirty seconds near the end where I couldn''t get my legs moving. Then I thought, hang on... Chester will be here in a couple of years. This manager might still be in charge then, and in that game I''ll be free to go full Max.


    That cheered me up. I sprinted left to help my best buddy Jack the Lad defend an overload, and patrolled the width of the pitch being a proper team player slash untethered puppy until the full-time whistle blew. Two-all, job done, end of the Barrow story, back to Merseyside for chicken and chips.


    Yeah. As if it was going to be that simple.


    ***


    Barrow had the strangest away end I''d ever seen; all the seats were squashed into one section and then there was a huge perspex screen and then just loads of dead space. While the real Tranmere players went over to the away end to applaud the fans, I zoomed straight into the dressing room to avoid attention and to get a massage.


    The physios were out collecting their gear and chatting to their fellows from Barrow, so I had to wait. I sat on a treatment table, kicking my legs. A fairly cute woman knocked and let herself in. "Are you decent?" she said, pretending to shield her eyes with a clipboard. I wasn''t that familiar with the Cumbrian accent - it was a bonkers mix of Yorkshire, Welsh, and just, like, Scandinavian.


    I wasn''t sure who she was, so I bit back some very flirty responses and went with something pretty mild. "I could be."


    "Saw you come in. I''m Emma.¡± Two Emmas in the world. Who would have thought it? ¡°I''m the Media Manager here at Barrow."


    Media Managers - what did they do? Liaise between the journalists and the playing staff? There was one at Tranmere always trying to get me to do interviews. I''d have to talk to him to find out what exactly the position entailed. "We''ll need one of you when we get to League Two."


    "You''re in League Two," she said, before slapping herself on the forehead. "You mean Chester. So you''re going back? Yeah, you will need someone. You¡¯re not making the most out of this story and your socials are pretty bleak."


    She was about to continue, but I interrupted like a true gentleman. "Emma, help me out. Barrow were a non-league club recently, and now you''ve moved up and you''re doing well. You could go to League One! But I was looking all over the maps for your training ground and I couldn''t find anything. Where is it? Do you train in the stadium or what?"


    "No, we train in Manchester."


    "Wait, hang on. Manchester Manchester? Best chips in the land Manchester? That''s two hours away. Barrow AFC, from Cumbria, train in Manchester? You''re messing with my tiny mind, here."


    She shrugged. "That''s where we train. FC Manchester United," she said. She meant FC United of Manchester. Ziggy''s team. So a tier 7 team had tier 3 or 4 facilities. That couldn''t be right. I needed to investigate that, big time. Also, training two hours away? That was absurd, but if it worked it opened up half the country as locations for our new training centre. Land too expensive in Chester? Buy some in Barnsley! She didn''t realise the enormity of what she had said, because she ploughed on all chipper and bubbly. "So''s now anyways, there''s lots of journos want to have a chinwag with yer."


    "No, thanks."


    "Sorry, I wasn''t clear. There''s, like, a record number of journos here to talk to you. They¡¯re spilling out into reception."


    "Why?"


    "Oh, I don''t know. Something about you''ve put a woman in charge and done a runner? Something about the first manager to loan himself to another club? Could maybe be connected to the absolute storm you''ve whipped up."


    "Got to be honest, Ems, none of that is cutting through into my day-to-day. I''m pretty focused on my reading. I''m nearly done with the Dan Brown collection. Do you know a good book with short chapters?"


    "A good book with short chapters? The Bible. So who do you want to talk to first? There''s the BBC, Sky, The Sun, The Athletic¡­"


    "No, thanks."


    She winced. I''d just made her life very, very difficult. "There''s one. Nice girl, lovely girl, very pretty."


    "Nah."


    Emma pulled out her secret weapon. "She says you''ll do it because you owe her fifty pounds."


    I smiled. "Tell her she''s used that one. No, Ems, I''m not talking to any media today. I have a hot young guy who does that for me. His name''s Lee; I''ll send him out when he gets here. He was my Man of the Match."


    "We say Player of the Match, now."


    "See? Lee knows all the media things. He''s perfeck. I''m one of those dinosaurs. I only talk about conspiracy theories. I''ve gone full gammon."


    Emma looked dubiously down at a clipboard and swallowed. How was she supposed to explain my refusal? "Right. Well, there''s one other thing. I was told you''re big into the disabled football and all that and there''s a couple of not-able-bodied TV reporters and they''ve specifically asked if they can speak to you. They''re big fans of Max, they said. I did sort of make a promise to them - I didn¡¯t realise you wouldn¡¯t - "


    Our players came in, chipper and loud. They were happy with the point, same as their manager, and were high on the adulation they had just got from the travelling fans. "Lee. Get over here."


    "Yes, Max."


    "You''re doing my media stuff again. Get Junior and go together. Don''t mention me."


    "Don''t mention you?"


    "If they ask about me, talk about Doddsy. If they ask about me again, talk about how well we defended. You get the idea. I don''t exist. Don''t mention me! Emma, can you separate those two journos? So I can talk to them but the fifty quid woman can''t see me? If you can do that, I''ll do it."


    "Yeah, I can, aye." She wanted to ask why, but didn''t. She led me, Junior, and Lee along some corridors. "You wait here, Max." Lee and Junior followed her to the main media area, and half a minute later she was back, holding the door open while a short guy pushed a dude in a wheelchair through. As Emma left, her voice floated backwards. "I''ll leave yers to it."


    "Thanks bebs." When she was gone, I counted to three and slapped my hips. "What the fuck?"


    The two disabled TV reporters were, in fact, two of the imps. The one pushing the wheelchair was the tactics imp. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, open to the third button, under a smart jacket. He was wearing all-white trainers. His overall look reminded me of something I couldn''t quite put my finger on. The one in the wheelchair was the one I''d caught playing Snake on an old Nokia. He was wearing a cheap black hoodie. He was holding - I''m very sorry to report - one of those big, fuzzy microphones with a box around it, where the box displays the logo of the media company the microphone holder works for. The branding said IMP TV.


    Tactics Imp looked depressed, and Snake Imp wasn''t much happier. "What''s up with you two? Oh, shit. Is it The Sentinel? Did I piss him off?"


    "No," said Tactics Imp, not looking at me.


    "Can you guys give me a warning if I''m getting into the danger zone?"


    "No," he said again, but when I didn''t show any sign of saying anything else, he added a single word. "Soz."


    "I don''t," I started, but then wondered if there was any point. These guys thought they had carte blanche to interfere in my bizniz. "I don''t want to be meeting demons and imps every ten minutes. We can''t do this. And not in public." Tactics Imp''s surly teenager vibe was getting to me. "What''s his problem?"


    Snake Imp pulled the microphone back to his own mouth, and I realised he''d been pointing it at me, like a real interviewer. "Sulking." He pushed it back.


    I scrunched my face up as I peered into the fluorescent lights above us. With a big sigh, I looked down at the imp who had tried to help by directing me to buy the Wibwob perk. As ever, after my initial anger I felt vaguely sorry for the wretched creatures. "What''s the problem, dude?"


    "Don''t understand," he mumbled.


    "What don''t you understand?" I said, with more patience than I knew I had.


    "Low block 4-4-2 against 3-5-2. Why did it work?"


    "If I tell you, will you tie Nick''s shoelaces together so when he tries to walk he falls flat on his face?"


    He kinda grinned. "Can''t."


    Snake Imp went, "Hurr!"


    "Give me your stupid notebook." He did, along with a pen. I squatted to use Snake Imp''s lap as a writing desk, using crosses to represent the enemy and circles for me and my team. "Look, it''s dead simple. Barrow are doing 3-5-2. We''re 4-4-2 low block but the front two are way wide."


    "Two midfielders are forwards!" he whined.


    "It''s fine for twenty minutes. Low block''s not about what they do on the ball. You know that phrase right? On the ball is when the ball is at their feet. No, defending is about what they do off the ball. All professional players have done a 4-4-2 low block at some point in their lives. You just need discipline and to be willing to suffer for the team. It''s not a problem."


    "Oh."


    "So we''ve got eight defenders and a goalie. Barrow aren''t going to score with just the two strikers. Bit by bit, they push midfielders forward. It''s typical to get wide players involved so they can send crosses in. So the left mid and right mid go forward and when they smash a cross too hard it might go all the way across to the other one and they can keep putting pressure on. One of the three central midfielders gets involved, too. If they''re desperate, they''ll send another, and move a centre back to DM, and so on and so on."


    "But he was winning."


    I shrugged. "He? The other manager? It''s a league. Goal difference matters, he''s at home, and we''re rolling over to die. Why shouldn''t he tickle our belly?"


    "Hurr!" laughed Snake Imp.


    "So what happens when I get the ball? This is me on the right."


    "The star."


    "Is it? No, it''s just a wonky circle."


    "Junior''s on one side, and he''s going to make a run here, behind the defenders. I pass to him, boom, easy. Shot on goal. I thought it might take a few goes to work because his control isn''t the best, but he''s fast and the defenders were surprised. We got lucky, but the overall principle isn''t hard. What I love is that the two central midfielders aren''t attacking or defending. It''s like I took them off the board. And there are three centre backs but only one is involved - the one nearest me. If I was too slow, he might have blocked the pass or tackled me. Which is why I did it fast. And these other two are pretty useless if the pass is good and Junior''s touch is decent. And look how much space I''m in! They can''t even kick me."


    "Why no Chester do this?"


    "Most teams don''t attack us. And everyone in the National League North knows what I can do. They''d get sacked if they gave me all this space in the full back areas. Also, I don''t really have a Junior comp. Pascal would be closest, I reckon. I suppose it would work with him but I haven''t been able to get these passes going since my murder. Not ones this complicated. I feel like I''m Passing 20 again."


    "Creativity 20," said Tactics Imp. His mood had flipped completely.


    "Oh, am I?" I said.


    He got shifty. Turned away, side-eyed me, and in an arch tone said, "Maybe?"


    I scoffed. He''d just confirmed it. "So do you get it? The low block was to draw them onto us. Make all these gaps here. They''re attacking with five against nine, we''re attacking with two against three, but to me it''s almost like two against one. It could blow up and we could lose five-nil but all you can do is try to move the percentages in your favour, and in this model, our chances are going to be way better. Way better."


    "Max wins," he said, taking the notebook from me and staring at the sketches with great reverence.


    I stood up. "Next time bring coloured pens." I suddenly wondered what was going on. They hadn''t come for a tactics lesson. "Is that it?"


    "Eh?" said Tactics Imp, barely listening.


    Snake Imp smacked his colleague with the microphone. "Mission!"


    "Don''t want to."


    "Get on with it. Fookinell."


    Tactics Imp gave the other one a dig on the arm. "Gobbymanctwat. You do it."


    Were they... swearing? In a Manchester accent? Were they listening in on my every conversation? No - then they would have heard me explain the tactics to the team. "Oi, Tommy Tactics. Tell me."


    He scratched the back of his neck and looked away. "It wasn''t us."


    "What wasn''t you?"


    "It wasn''t us. Mission complete. We go now."


    "No no no. Hold it right there. It wasn''t you. Okay, something bad has happened. Nick thinks I''ll throw a tantrum about it." Tactics Imp was nodding. Suddenly, I felt sick. "Is it my mum?"


    Tactics Imp pulled a face. "Max mum old sick. Not us! Not us!"


    "All right, don''t have a fit." It wasn''t mum, then. "You can''t tell me. I''m going to find out, am I? Fine. It wasn''t you. Why should I believe that?"


    Snake Imp wedged the microphone between his leg and the side of the wheelchair. The interview was over. He whipped out what looked like a vintage Nintendo Gameboy. "Not us."


    I wasn''t going to get anything else out of them. "Last question. If you''re Imp TV, where are your cameras?"


    Gameboy Imp rolled his eyes as his mate swung him round the way they''d come. He gave me a look of pity as he said, "Imp TV not real. Duh."


    ***


    Back in the dressing room I found I''d lost my place in the massage queue, so I decided to skip it. I didn''t like being the last one that everyone was waiting for, so I got showered and dressed. I sat on my part of the bench, wondering what could have happened to make Nick worry about me lashing out. Who should I call? I had no clue.


    I got my phone and checked the Chester result - a four-nil smashing of Rushall Olympic with a hat trick from Goliath. I went to the Manchester Evening News website, then Cheshire Live. Nothing jumped out in the way of bad news that might affect me.


    Mateo came into the dressing room. Owners weren''t really supposed to do that. There was a growing trend of it happening, especially with American business boys who thought it was normal, but most European footballers hated it. They needed a place to vent and rage and complain. A safe space, you might say.


    "Max. Can we talk?" I should have realised he was there to deliver the bad news, but I panicked, thinking he was there to offer me the Tranmere job. Surely James had done enough to buy himself one more match? The blood drained from my face. The imps! They had somehow reported my tactical ideas to Mateo, confirming that it had all been me! It didn''t matter if the Tranmere players never told anyone what happened at half time if I fucking blabbed not two minutes after the final whistle!


    "Yep. Is it something you can''t say here?"


    Everyone in the dressing room had got quieter and a few inches closer. Mateo pressed his lips flat. "Up to you."


    "Hit me," I said.


    He took a breath. "Your player, Ryan Jack. He''s done his knee. They think it''s bad. He''s had gas and oxygen. Stretchered off. They''re thinking ACL."


    I whipped my phone out. The score was now 5-0. The match was ongoing! There had been a huge delay, obviously. I opened the curse screens but they would show the Tranmere Match Overview until I left Barrow''s stadium, if the past was anything to go by.


    I put my phone away and tried to process the news. "Cruciate ligament! He''s 35. Is that him fucked?"


    One of the physios nodded, but another shook his head.


    Mateo looked at his watch. "We were going to have dinner with the Barrow directors, but I''ll drive you back if you want."


    I bit my nails for a while. "He''ll have loads of people with him now. Tomorrow his family will pile on. I''ll go see him on Monday after training."


    "You can skip training, Max," said James.


    I rubbed my head. "I can''t skip training," I muttered. "I''m on holiday."


    ***


    Monday, 8 January


    On Friday I''d gone up to Glasgow to watch Queen''s Park against Dunfermline in Scotland''s second tier. The curse rated that as worth 4 XP per minute, suggesting the Scottish Premier was a 5 per minute league. Saturday was the Barrow match, and Sunday I decided to watch Notts Forest Women in the third tier. With a bit of Sunday League and some five-a-side minutes thrown in, I had blasted past one-fifth of my monthly target.


    XP balance: 2,812


    January income: 2,150/10,000


    I trained cautiously and skipped the extra free kick practice. If Ryan''s injury was as bad as the curse feared, I might need to play as a central midfielder. What would that mean? It''d still be disproportionately valuable to be able to turn free kicks into a deadly weapon, but a case could be made that the team would equally benefit from me adding a few more points in jumping, heading, and tackling. Some stamina, too, since I''d have to throw myself into lots of matches in a short space of time towards the end of the season.


    The plan was to spend some time with Jack, then go and have a chat with Sandra.


    When I went into the hospital room, Sandra was there. Convenient! Also present: Physio Dean and Jackie Reaper.


    I went to the patient and tenderly placed his hand in mine. "Ryan. Don''t try to open your eyes. It''s me, Max Best."


    "Me eyes are wide open, bosh."


    "Don''t go into the light. I''ve ordered you a cheeky charcoal chicken and chips."


    The pain and gloom lifted from his features. The word charcoal followed by the word chicken did something to an Englishman''s brain. Created a need that had never been present before. "Charcoal chicken? What''s that?"


    "Jackie will explain it to you later.¡± I let go of his hand and checked his morale. It had gone up since I¡¯d entered the room. ¡°How you doing?"


    "Not too well, bosh, to be fair."


    "Yeah. What was it like?"


    "Just went to do a turn. Normal. Thing you''d do a thousand times a week. Heard a pop. Felt like I''d been shot."


    The Injury perk had finally proven its worth. On the day itself, when I could finally get into the Chester Squad screen to check Ryan''s profile, it simply said ''suspected knee injury''. When I woke up the next day, it said ''cruciate ligament injury - 12 months''. I had to go through the motions, though. "Dean, what do you think? Partial tear, maybe?"


    "We might not know till we go in. Could be good news. Absolutely could be. But for your planning, er... Max and Sandra, I''d expect a long layoff."


    "I''m finished," said Ryan, wringing his hands. "I know I am. That''s me done."


    "Come on, Ryan," said Jackie. "Don''t be like that."


    "For once, Jackie''s right. You''ll be miserable for a while then we''ll find you a sexy nurse to take care of you. You''ll fall in love with each other and eventually, she''ll ask you out."


    "Fucking hell," mumbled Jackie.


    I pretended I hadn''t heard my subordinate. "I''ve not been idle, Ryan mate, since I got the news. Based on my research and following a template I found in Cosmopolitan magazine, I''ve got a questionnaire for you that will really kickstart the healing process."


    "Er, Max," said Dean, but I knew I was on solid ground.


    "Dean, I got a B in Biology. We didn''t do knees but we did whatsit. Water going round in a circle. You know, clouds." I settled onto the chair and coughed. "Okay, question one. You have messed up your knee. Do you A, resent watching your teammates play? B, blame yourself for not listening to your body? C, find hope in the ponytail baseball cap combo of a ravishing medical professional?"


    Dean got up and pulled me away from Ryan. "Okay, Max, thank you very much. I''ll take over the rehab, I think. You go back to your holiday."


    "What the shit is this?" I said, pointing to a newspaper on Ryan''s side table. It was the same rag with the He''s Done WHAT?! headline. But today''s edition said, CALAMITY LANE. "What''s that? Is that a pun?"


    No-one wanted to explain it. Jackie bit the bullet. "It''s from Calamity Jane. Someone from the Wild West. Don''t know the story."


    "Calamity Lane. Are they... are they fucking blaming Sandra for this? And Joe Anka? It was fucking random." I was seething. Boiling to the point my vision turned into a snowstorm.


    "Not now, Max," said Sandra. "Today''s about Ryan. We''re happy to see you. That''s good. We''re positive. And you''re a bit of an inspiration, aren''t you?"


    She''d reached through the wild, birth of the universe static and switched me to a better channel. My eyes went back to normal. "What?"


    "You and your tekkers video. If anyone knows what it''s like coming back from a bad injury, it''s you. Tell Ryan what it''s like."


    I looked at my midfielder. "You''ve never had a bad injury before?"


    "Oh, loads. This is the big one, though, isn''t it?" He eyed Jackie and the hand wringing started again. He was more likely to end up like his mate than me, so he thought. Well, fuck that. I pulled Dean away and took the seat next to Ryan again.


    "Mate, it''s horrible. It''s awful. It''s weeks of suffering and loneliness. You want some human contact but when it comes it drives you mad. Everything''s aggravating and the worst part is you don''t know if you should bother doing the rehab because you don''t know how broken you are." I took his hand again, but this time there was no irony in it. "That was me, though. Head injuries are wild. Your knee is fucked, mate, and you''ll be out for a year. But it''s mechanical and the surgeons fix more knees than I score no-look backheel nutmegs. You''re not going to suffer and be lonely, not for very long, anyway. I''ll keep you busy. I''ve got fucking tasks for you, mate. If you want to quit playing, that''s all right, we¡¯ll look after you. But you shouldn''t. You''ll be out, then you''ll be back. We''re going to be in the National League. You''ll come back in the side just as we''re getting good. Making a drive for the playoffs or something. And you''ll come back better. We''ll have better players around you, better facilities, more physios. And then we''ll get promoted to League Two and then we''ll bin you off because you''ll be like 37 by then and I mean, come on."


    He smiled at the last bit.


    Dean sighed. "We need to work on your bedside manner, Max." I think that was a callback to something I''d said to him, once.


    "I''m actually smashing this," I told him. "Now, I''m all into personal choice these days. So Ryan, I can finish by giving you a tender kiss on the forehead, or I can start looking for hot single nurses in your area."


    Sandra snorted. "It''s my job to end this conversation, I reckon. Come on, Max. Let''s go do some planning. Ryan, I''ll be back in a bit. All right?"


    The patient relaxed back onto his pillow. "All right, Miss."


    Jackie and Dean laughed.


    "What?" I said.


    "D-Day is running a book on who''ll be the first to say mum instead of Miss."


    I smiled. In school, there was always one boy who did that. It normally took a few months into the new school year, if I remembered right. "Has anyone done it?"


    "We think Youngster came close because he suddenly stopped mid-sentence and blushed."


    "Huh." It wouldn''t be Henri or Pascal, unless they had the exact same verbal setup in school, which I doubted. They probably addressed teachers by their full titles including qualifications. Nah, it would be someone British and someone young. "Get your money on Bark."


    As I left I turned round and saw Jackie take my seat. He and Ryan had big smiles and were shaking their heads at my antics. A mad story to tell each other as they aged. Remember when Max came to see you in hozzie?


    Sandra and I went to the hospital canteen and caught up. Our 4-4-1-Goliath was smashing through the low blocks. Henri had started out grumpy at all the attention Goliath was getting, but after Goliath''s first goal he''d pointed at Henri, whose selfless running had created the chance, and bear hugged him. Goliath gave all the credit to his goals to whoever set them up, which was often Henri, and with such a reliable supply of attention and affection, Henri was in dreamland. The two were now thick as thieves, and their post-match interviews were one big love-in. Eddie Moore had been a bit shaky, feeling the pressure of coming into a successful team, but the lads were being patient with him. Bark was getting on better with Tyson and the other young players than with the older guys. He had minor imposter syndrome, Sandra thought, but he was obviously talented. She was on it, she promised me.


    Yeah, things were great, except for the injuries. Two bad ones in two games.


    "How do you feel about this Calamity Lane shit?"


    She sipped her drink and leaned back. "I was told when I took this job that there was only one opinion that mattered. So the question isn''t, what does some clickbait-chasing hack think. It''s, what do you think?"


    "I think you''re crushing it. No notes. How are the rest of the media treating you?"


    She thought about it. "Good. It''s a good story. I think they''d have preferred if I lost my first, like, ten matches."


    I tutted because she was right. "Fucking ghouls."


    "MD wants us to do a documentary like Wrexham. Says we''re doing mad stories all the time and we should monetise them."


    "Tell him to boil his fucking head."


    "Will do."


    "Okay, let''s talk central midfield. Looking a bit bare, suddenly. Bit lacking in passing range and craft. Do I need to go to MD to beg for cash?"


    She drummed the side of her paper cup. "We''ve got Sam and Raffi as first choice. We have a better left back now so we can play with two CMs for the rest of the season. No more 3-5-2. We''ve had more bids for Raffi. Did you know?"


    I smiled. "I did."


    She leaned forward. "How much?"


    "The last one was three hundred."


    "Are you serious? That''s... we should sell."


    "Ooh," I said, wincing. "You just lost some crushing points. What''s a level below crushing? You''re no longer crushing the job. You''re gripping it firmly."


    "Why, though?"


    "Because Chester¡¯s record sale was three hundred thousand. Ian Rush back in the old days. I want to beat that. And because Raffi''s a fifteen million pound player," I said.


    She paused. "You''ll... take less than that, though?" She was wondering if I was as crazy as all the fans seemed to think.


    I scoffed. "At four hundred I''ll start to be tempted. Start, mind you. I really don''t see the point of letting him go for less than eight. Okay, realistically, six hundred is a done deal. Between five and six is a grey area."


    "What about four with a sell-on? Fifteen percent of his next fee."


    "That sort of thing might come into play a few years down the line, but if I sell now I want the cash now. A mill in the hand is worth two mill in the bush."


    She thought things through for a while, then decided Raffi''s eventual fee wasn''t relevant to the next few weeks of her life. "Sam, Raffi. We''re sticking to 4-4-2, right?"


    "Unless you want to rest Chris. He doesn''t seem the sort to need it, though. He never sprints, does he?"


    "This weekend is Solihull in the FA Trophy. He can''t play in that; he¡¯s cup-tied. 4-1-4-1?"


    "Hmm." I looked around, checking we couldn''t be overheard. "With Ryan, we''d have half a chance. Without Ryan... we''re struggling. Solihull are going great guns in the National League and we''ve got three matches in seven days. The worst thing would be an injury to a key player in a losing cause. If you want to weaken the team, put Tony up front, that sort of thing... I''m okay with it. It''s your call."


    She inhaled and let it out over five long seconds. I''d given her permission to drop out of the FA Trophy in the fourth round, at the first sign of a stronger team. Permission to start conserving our dwindling resources. It wasn''t like Max Best to be pragmatic. "If you were playing, would you weaken the team?"


    "Depends. Our scout said they play 3-5-2. I find I like playing against 3-5-2s. A weak team with me and Pascal... maybe Bark and D-Day... We could get creative. On the other hand, that competition has served its purpose. What''s that, three matches that got postponed? Top. But now we need to make sure we have bodies in the last months."


    "Can Youngster play CM?"


    "Yeah. Not as well as DM, but he''ll have to learn. It''ll be good for him, anyway. Teams won''t always have DM slots for him."


    "Sam, Raffi, Youngster, Magnus. Four for two slots. As you say, not much craft in that list. Then it''s a bit desperate. Pascal, Donny, Bark. Not very natural. Oh, Andrew Harrison, but he''s undercooked."


    I nodded. "Push him harder. Make him do extra sessions."


    "Not very Snowflake FC."


    She took a sip as I said, "I''m not paying him to suck." It was pretty close to a spit take, which pleased me. "When I''m back, I can fill in at CM sometimes. I wanted to ask if you thought I should spend my extra coaching time getting my free kicks back up to scratch, or turn myself into a Ryan Jack comp."


    "Free kicks."


    "That simple?"


    "That simple. You can already do most of what he was doing. You need some experience in there, but you can do it. And I''ve seen your old free kicks up close. Remember you gave Patricio a little slap? If we can get those back..."


    I nodded and thought about if there was anything else that couldn''t wait. I decided almost everything could be done by text. "Are you having fun?"


    "Having the time of my life."


    "Do you want me to come back?"


    She sipped her drink and stared into it for quite a long time. Finally, she said, "Yeah." She grinned and looked down again. "Million percent."


    ***


    That evening I went to south Wales to watch the FA Cup third round match between Swansea City and Leeds United. That was a mad, hectic match which earned me 6 XP per minute.


    But on Tuesday I cancelled my plans, and took Jackie and Raffi to meet Ziggy for a tour of FC United''s training facilities. If they were good enough for Barrow, a club potentially heading to tier three, they''d be good enough for me. For a while.


    I said something of the sort to Jackie. "Hold up. You want to rent this? Barrow get the pitch from nine to ten, we come ten to eleven. Is that your idea?"


    I sighed. "Come on. I want to build something like this in Chester, or near it. Stop blabbing and show me the rest."


    "That was it."


    "Oh."


    Broadhurst Park was a cosy five thousand seater stadium. Jackie and Ziggy had shown me some of the facilities that were not immediately obvious from the outside, such as classrooms for the academy kids to study in, and a well-equipped kitchen.


    Outside, across a road, were two grass pitches and an all-weather 3G one.


    And that was it. I''d done some homework and found the entire thing had cost 6.3 million. But Ziggy had a useful data point - half the funding had come from grants. There was loads of money sloshing around for well-designed sports programmes, he said, especially if the local community could use the facilities, too.


    "Okay, but hang on," I said, turning this way and that. "This has one all-weather pitch. We''ve got two. We''ve got more pitches than FC United. Are our facilities better?"


    "No," said Jackie. "This is better."


    "Why?"


    "This is football-only. Our men''s team park next to someone from BoshCard."


    "So?"


    He shrugged. "It¡¯s amateur. Makes a difference to how you feel. Maybe it shouldn''t but it does. And we don''t own anything. The women get kicked off the pitch by pensioners and walking football and an under fourteens team who are the biggest bunch of gobshites in Cheshire."


    "You''re saying if we bought the credit card building, our players would improve faster?"


    He frowned. "I don''t think of it that way, but yes."


    Raffi was listening quietly, as he always did. Now, he spoke. "If you owned it, you''d change things. You''d put a massive Chester badge on the front and we''d drive there and be proud to go. You''d knock through the downstairs offices and make one big gym and a proper medical room." He tsked. "Even the handles on the doors. They''re a pain when you''ve got your boots in one hand and a ball in the other. They''re fiddly, them handles. You owned that building, you''d change that in no time."


    "All right, so we buy some land, put up some pitches, some changing rooms. There''s a million gone and we''re no better off. I want facilities so good a League One team would call to ask if they could train there. What''s next?"


    "Kitchens," said Jackie, pointing to the stadium. "You get a nutritionist and your own chefs, the players eat better, train better, play better."


    I nodded. "The shared meals at Tranmere are cool. I''m socialising with the team and saving money on food, too. Okay, that can be a priority, I think. Could we get a mobile kitchen for now? Someone in a caravan thing who comes to training and dishes out kebabs?" I thought of Emre, my old mate from Platt Fields. He could do it in the morning and drive back to Manchester for the evening rush. "Is that dumb? Your faces say yes. Okay, proper kitchen. I''ve seen home renovation shows. Kitchen''s, what, twenty grand?" The others scoffed. "Call it forty. Fifty? And wages for two chefs and someone to tell us not to eat Mars bars."


    Ziggy tutted. "They do tailored plans for every player and teach the kids about food. Don''t be a dick."


    What next? I scrunched my face up to help me think. "Gym. Swimming pool? Place to relax and hang out. How much is a bean bag? I don''t need to fill the space yet, do I? I need to build a big room for all sorts of stuff. Or design it to be modular where we add one building for one function and then another when we have the money. Year one, gym. Year two, wellness area. Year three, infinity pool with views of Dubai."


    Raffi spoke next, and everything he said increased the total cost by another few million. "Video feedback rooms, meeting rooms, space for the data analysts, space for the performance analysts and psychologists, brain training, ice baths, space for dads to chill while their kids are training, press conference room, somewhere for sponsors to come and do photoshoots and all that. Pascal told me about a German team that has this massive cube and you stand in the middle and it fires footballs at you and tells you where to kick it. Dead hard. You''d love it, Max. Oh, and some dartboards." He gave me his best lopsided grin when he saw my reaction to his shopping list. ¡°My dad¡¯s been checking out what¡¯s on offer for when I move.¡±


    ¡°Are you off?¡± said Ziggy.


    ¡°Max won¡¯t let me,¡± joked Raffi. ¡°And Ryan¡¯s out, so the team needs me. The summer though.¡±


    ¡°Where will you go?¡±


    Raffi and I spoke at the same time. ¡°Somewhere warm.¡±


    Jackie had thoughts. "Max, you don''t need to do this. When it''s time to do it, you hire people. Experts. They do all the grafting, find a site, sketch up proposals. You sit and listen and have a think. For you, the whole thing is a one-hour meeting, do you know what I mean?"


    I was realising that the capital costs of what I wanted to achieve were mind-boggling. Raffi would buy me one all-weather pitch. Two if I sold him for what I wanted. Even turning a consistent profit in the transfer market, it''d take twenty years to upgrade everything to the standards I wanted. At least twenty. "When it''s time to do this, it''ll already be time to do the next thing. We need to get ahead of it."


    "What do you mean?"


    "Never mind. You''re right. I should get a consultant or whatnot."


    Jackie kicked a pebble. "The facilities are fine, Max. The men''s team are pulling in two thousand a match. The fan base doesn''t justify a big expansion."


    That stung. He was right. But my hope was to do it without the fans. "If we increase the standards I can make more money on transfers."


    "If you want to raise the standards quickly, get the youth teams playing in harder tournaments. The Cheshire stuff is okay but the twelves won that Liverpool tournament, didn''t they? If they''re ready to step up, put them in Merseyside and Greater Manchester leagues."


    "Can I do that?"


    "Course. It''s easy. You need to show you''re competitive enough, which winning tournaments will do. And then it needs to be organised. Can Inga take on more work? You might need a part-time youth coordinator. And it''s more travel so it''s more expensive. But if you want a quick upgrade, that''s one."


    I nodded and bit my nail. Lots of food for thought, but I''d seen what I needed to see. "Oh, look at the time," I said. "If we left now, we could make the start of the West Didsbury and Chorlton match. Check on Vivek and Michael." Silence. "Not interested?"


    Raffi snorted. "We knew you''d do this. My mates are already on their way there." I opened my mouth but he knew what was coming. "Paying to get in, Max! Paying to get in." He laughed.


    "They''d better," I growled, shaking my fist. "Good. We''ll watch some proper football, then dinner''s on me."


    ***


    I fell into a groove that would serve me well for the rest of January. I''d train in the morning and either walk around Merseyside - the beaches were pretty good! - or look for Playdar opportunities. Then a pro match for the experience points in the evening, or five-a-sides, or a night off, reading.


    James O''Rourke, now a lot more like the version I''d met in Tenerife, whistled to end Friday morning''s training and called me over.


    "Max, well done. You''re improving at a rate of knots - the coaches are pretty astonished, I''ve got to say."


    "Is Colin still mad at me?"


    "Well... yeah. But he''ll get over it when he realises you kept him in a job. No, he will. So tomorrow it¡¯s home to MK Dons, another 3-5-2 team. I want you on the pitch from the start."


    I blinked. "I''m starting?"


    "Yep."


    "Samuel?"


    He shook his head. "On the bench. You''ll only fucking mither me if I make you play together."


    "Any special tactical instructions for me?"


    "If I gave you some, would you listen?"


    I shrugged. "I''d listen."


    "You cheeky sod!¡± He looked around at his domain. It was better than Chester¡¯s setup in lots of small, expensive ways. ¡°Look, I think I should apologise. I haven''t reacted very well to you coming here with your media circus but... that''s in the past. I''m excited, now. MK Dons are a nightmare. Very aggressive, very snide, there''s always trouble. Having someone on the pitch who''ll get them running back to their own goal, put pressure on them, get in their faces, yeah, I''m excited about it! Okay, but look. Everyone gets that you''re in the group but not really in it, if you see what I mean. So we haven''t been too bothered about you wearing your own gear around the place. But for tomorrow - just tomorrow - could you please wear the proper clobber?"


    I pulled a face. "The black and green thing is vile. How about you just don''t sub me off? Then I won''t have to wear it."


    "Come on, that won a competition, that did. It''s quality." He smiled. "Let''s ask Emma what she thinks of it. Is she coming to watch?"


    "Emma? No." She''d had a bad experience at Tranmere last time she''d been there, but we hadn''t told anyone. "She''s swamped at work. Fine, I''ll conform. For the team. But why tomorrow? What''s the haps?"


    He''d got what he wanted and he was distracted, now. He was looking at his phone. "Oh? Er... it''s live."


    "We''re the live match?"


    "Yeah, yeah. Early kickoff. Big media interest for this one. Loads of applications for accreditation. More than against Wrexham, even. You''ll want to show your skills, yeah? Maybe blast one of those free kicks into the top corner. Our goalies are getting pretty sick of seeing it, eh? Yeah, unleashing prime Max Best against MK bastard Dons. I''ll sleep well tonight." He went off, laughing.


    I rubbed my forehead. A must-win match that I was starting... live on TV... against a team of wind-up merchants... cameras everywhere... media circus... and worst of all, I had to dress like shit.

 6.13 - Max Best: A Retrospective

    13.


    Extracts from Rovers Return, the third most active Tranmere Rovers unofficial fan forum.


    ...


    Max Best: A Retrospective


    Thread created by Fredly_Submarine, 2 Feb, 2024


    The purpose of this thread is to document my memories of the short-lived Max Best era, to speculate on what it all meant, and to generate a discussion that will hopefully answer some outstanding questions. For those new to the forum, I am known to have solid contacts in the club''s staff. I''ve also been trawling through other forums (the shame!), social media, and listening to every single Tranmere podcast from the past month. Putting all the pieces together has been both illuminating and confounding.


    I shall begin by outlining certain indisputable facts.


    <ol>


    <li>On the first of January this year, Chester FC manager (and Director of Football!) Max Best was registered as a Tranmere Rovers player for a loan period of four weeks. There was no advanced warning this might happen.</li>


    <li>Later that day, he was named as a substitute in the match against high-flying Notts County.</li>


    <li>In twenty minutes, he scored two goals.</li>


    <li>The entirety of Tranmere''s fan base asked themselves: who is this kid?</li>


    </ol>


    Certain conclusions were reached with impressive speed. Within days, we all knew that:


    <ol>


    <li>MB burst onto the scene as a right-winger playing for Darlington.</li>


    <li>MB spoke of his ambitions of becoming a manager.</li>


    <li>He joined Chester to fulfil those ambitions.</li>


    <li>He won every match that he managed.</li>


    <li>He was put in a coma by a deranged fan.</li>


    <li>MB survived and while he had become a statistically unremarkable player, he continued to be an off-the-scales manager.</li>


    <li>He took a very shit Chester team to the top of the league.</li>


    <li>He found a woman to replace him and came to Tranmere. (I say ''woman'' not dismissively - she has a higher win percentage and more points per game than any of our last ten managers. I mention gender only because it links to the topic of the media which I will get into).</li>


    <li>The top-of-the-league Chester fanbase debased themselves with a pathetic four-week long temper tantrum that will forever taint that pathetic excuse for a football club.</li>


    </ol>


    Much of the speculation around point 8 centred around the idea that managing in the sixth tier had become too easy for him and he wanted a new challenge. Some of the discussion devolved into rants about snowflakery and MB being a social justice warrior. There are possible merits to that case but I''m not interested in how he chose his successor, only why he came to Tranmere.


    On the playing side, of particular note was Best''s performance against Notts and even more so against Barrow that had many re-evaluating his statistics within the context of a long-term recovery from a very serious head injury. How could a player with three goals in eighteen tier 6 matches score two in twenty minutes in his first EFL match and bag two assists in a half in his second? It was decided that Best''s recovery was more or less complete, that the strain of managing had diminished him as a player, and that with better players around him he could express himself more on the pitch.


    A big portion of the fanbase, notably every single intelligent poster on this forum, decided MB was the Second Coming and would awaken this sleeping giant. The hype reached amusing but captivating heights.


    As we dug deeper, we discovered yet more delicious tidbits:


    <ol>


    <li>Best recommended Junior Howland and Calabash Barkley (a youth team prospect) to us.</li>


    <li>He warned us off buying a much-regarded Scottish striker whose form has since turned to dust.</li>


    <li>He sent his best mate Henri Lyons to train with us earlier this season though it didn''t lead to anything.</li>


    <li>He helped the club in a transfer tribunal, increasing our fee by a ''substantial'' amount (how exactly he did this remains a mystery but Mateo is known to have gone into the tribunal carrying a cross and emerged walking on air).</li>


    <li>MB has regularly visited the training ground and watched matches with Mateo in the executive box. (There are many photos and in the first of such images, his girlfriend is with him. This is important in the context of Facegate, which I shall address later, naturally.)</li>


    <li>There''s an unsubstantiated rumour that Mateo provided the finance for MB to buy his local grassroots team (some hipster collective thing in Manchester that I refuse to take the piss out of because they, correctly, hate the Tories).</li>


    </ol>


    In short, Best has been acting at least partially as our Director of Football, has been getting players into the club that he rates and would like to work with, is big mates with our owner, and unlike most people in the club is an actual subject matter expert. (For the hard of reading I''m saying he understands football.)


    Other important facts:


    <ol>


    <li>His girlfriend is just about the fittest woman I''ve ever seen (and I include Jet from Gladiators). As most of you already know, this is highly relevant to this discussion. I urge you to follow her on Instagram <here.> Thank me later. She also appears in the background of <this video> from the training camp in Tenerife and you can see Jack the Lad flirting with her to the right of <this TikTok>. Note Max Best watching them with a smile. Not angry, not plotting revenge. Most people think JTL''s behaviour in the camp is connected to what followed on the pitch, but I do not.</li>


    <li>MB is quite poor. Most of the sightings of him during the last month were in second-hand shops, pound shops, and cheap cafes. His car is a wreck, though I will refrain from stating the make and colour because of his issue with the deranged fan. Suffice to say, it is not an appropriate car for someone who can control a fifty yard pass and send it accurately another forty yards without letting it touch grass.</li>


    </ol>


    The upshot of all this fact-finding and educated guessing was obvious - at some point, Mateo would sack James O''Rourke and install MB as our new player-manager. The only real mystery was why JOR would accept having his replacement join the squad and why he would select him for games. Most hot-blooded Rovers fans agreed it proved JOR is a cuck who enjoys being humiliated and the conversation turned to whether it was wrong to kink shame him, not whether the accusation was real. I took no part in such juvenile threads but enjoyed the memes <in this one> and did get a chuckle out of the infamous <soap opera script.>


    All of this analysis was so compelling that we decided MB would soon be our new manager and it was impossible to imagine a different outcome.


    I was, perhaps, one of the first to revisit the issue. I wrote match reviews of the Notts County game <here> and the Barrow game <here> very much from the point of view of ''Replacement Theory'' (this name is a joke, don''t inbox me, I''ve punched more fascists than you). After seeing how his goal celebrations changed (more on that below), I stopped writing and I haven''t posted here since. Every day that JOR kept his job deepened my suspicion that we had got everything very, very wrong.


    But how could that be? The facts only supported one conclusion.


    Now it''s time to pick up our facts and twist them into new shapes, because MB has gone back to Chester. Tonight is their ''fan forum'' where he will face a roomful of manbabies (I heard they changed the venue because demand for seats was so high), and tomorrow he will be back in the hot seat for their match against Chip Shop FC (or similar. Who knows what the teams are called in that Mickey Mouse league?)


    In short, he''s gone, and the transfer window has closed so if he''s coming back, it ain''t as a player.


    This is what''s breaking my brain...


    If Max Best didn''t come to Tranmere to become our new manager... what the hell just happened?


    ***


    Part 2.


    Why would a player-manager loan himself to another club? A rival club, in fact.


    Some theories:


    <ol>


    <li>He did it for the money.</li>


    <li>He came to replace JOR but something happened on our side to prevent him.</li>


    <li>He came to replace JOR but something happened on his side to prevent him.</li>


    <li>Our existing squad warned Mateo not to hire him.</li>


    <li>He failed a medical.</li>


    <li>There''s a legal reason he can''t join an EFL team but he can work in non-league.</li>


    <li>He lost a bet and the forfeit was to play for us.</li>


    </ol>


    I think I can disprove most of these in the form of mini match reviews.


    But I do have one big question that I can''t shake. I believe if we answer one question we''ll be much closer to finding out his motivations. The question is this - why didn''t he speak to the media ONCE in his time at the club?


    That answer might also explain what he did in his last match, and for that reason I despair of ever learning the truth because the club and players - and my sources - have rallied around the lad. Facegate is especially frustrating because we all saw what he did, we know what he did, and we even know why he did it. Yet somehow that doesn''t help us understand anything in the slightest.


    ***


    vs Notts (home) and Barrow (away)


    Two goals in the first, two assists in the second. Some shaky moments but overall Best showed great attacking qualities and he showed that he can defend, too. Interesting to note his interplay with Samuel (virtually non-existent) compared to his interplay with Junior (they know each other''s games inside out). MB is a player/manager with favourites and is not shy of showing it. Already we can see he has problems with Samuel and Jack the Lad.


    Goal Celebrations: Note the difference. In game 1, he runs into the Kop like he was born in Birkenhead and grew up with a John Aldridge poster on his wall. By game 2, he''s moving away from the celebrations. Something''s happened in the meantime. Could be that someone at Chester has had a word with him, but why would Best give a flying fig? He holds all the cards if he wants to stay at that tinpot little outfit. So someone at Tranmere has told him not to get the crowd worked up? Makes no sense. There''s footage of Mateo jumping around the executive seats when Best scored his penalty and there''s one thing everyone agrees on when it comes to our owner - Mateo''s a Tranmere fan through and through. There is zero chance HE asked Best to stop celebrating. So why did Best stop celebrating our goals? Unknown.


    Mediawatch: Best''s signing took everyone by surprise and there was almost no media attention for the first match - lots of the reporters were at Chester watching the second match with a woman in charge. (The first was another MB surprise - not announced at all. Why not harness the media buzz?) Against Barrow there was a ton of press, but Best gave them the slip. Why? One thing''s for sure - if it was all about the money he''d have taken the chance to raise his profile.


    ***


    vs MK Dons (home)


    This match disproves the ''we saw something about him we didn''t like'' theory, in my opinion.


    MK Dons had played 3-5-2 in eight of their last ten matches, and the other two were against small teams in cups.


    JOR had played 4-3-3 in every match of his reign except for two. 1, Notts, where Max Best had a free role and seemed to play DM most of the time. 2, Barrow, where for twenty minutes it looked like 4-4-2, which many fans have been crying out for given our squad. The team sheets, the TV formation graphic, the BBC report, everything had us as 4-3-3 against MK Dons with Best as one of the strikers.


    They did line up like that in the moments just before kick off, but as Dons got the ball, MB fell to his haunches and did nothing until the first throw in. He had seen what it took the TV commentators another two minutes to realise - Dons were playing 5-3-2. They''d learned from Barrow that you don''t leave huge gaps for Max Best to wander into! MB went to midfield, grabbed Carlos, and pushed him from CM back to DM. Carlos didn''t want to go but Best yelled at him and manhandled him until he stayed put. They had another very visible on-pitch row when Best lined up next to him. Two DMs! We were playing 4-2-2-2, which I had never seen before but later all the hipsters said was the ''RB Leipzig model''.


    With Best shouting at Lee and Dodds to attack, it meant we were getting four players forward in central positions against three central defenders who were only sometimes supported by a full back. Even from the stands it was clear to me that the Dons fullbacks weren''t much in the match. They were defending against attacks that rarely came.


    Next Best was in Bogle''s face, telling him to join the attacks. I was on the far side of the pitch but you could almost lip read what Best was saying - there''s no-one here - all the action was central. Bogle got the message and started bombing up and down the right, but Best still wasn''t happy. He pushed Bogle into a right wing back starting role.


    So what was that? 3-3-2-2?


    Notably, MB didn''t do the same on the left. He didn''t acknowledge Jack the Lad once in that first half, I don''t think.


    The overall feeling was confusion.


    Our dugout was confused - Coach Colin was pacing up and down with his head in his hands, but JOR didn''t change things back.


    Our players were confused - the formation was a lop-sided folly.


    Our fans were confused - in the first half, the superstar player they''d come to see completed, what, ten passes? Won two headers?


    MK Dons were confused. They were set up to defend against a player who barely went in their half while our workmanlike, unimaginative midfielders were suddenly popping up in their penalty area playing one-twos, doing stepovers and flicks.


    I think even the referee was confused - he knew we were shit as well as anyone, and he knew MK Dons like to get stuck into a tackle. But he had the easiest first half of his life. No drama, no fuss, just whistling to signal our goals and to give an uncontroversial penalty which Dizzy took.


    Three-nil at half time!


    We went to relieve ourselves and get beers and the atmosphere was one of disbelief. Still some weren''t optimistic. "You watch now," said my mate. "We''ll concede early and fold like a cheap tent." I heard one fan tell the world, "Get that Best off. He''s done nowt. Stealing a living." The people with functioning brains were smiling and happy. Three points would ease a lot of the tension around the place. Put a bit of distance between us and Forest Green, even put us above Col U and Grimsby until they played the 3 p.m. games.


    What we now know is that there was yet another half-time bust-up in the dressing room. Unlike with what went down in Barrow, this one was witnessed by our moles and we have the gist of what was said.


    Jack the Lad: What the fuck, Best? What is your problem?


    MB: My problem is that I can''t draw a perfect circle.


    Jack: What?


    MB: I try to draw circles but they come out as stars.


    Jack: You know what I mean.


    MB: If I knew what you meant, I''d know what you meant.


    Jack: You''re giving out instructions, running the match, bossing everyone around.


    MB: Friendly suggestions as part of a collaborative process.


    Jack: You''ve given orders to every fucker on that pitch except me.


    MB: You want an order? Two chicken burgers, hold the cheesy chips.


    Jack: What did you say?


    MB: There''s no point trying to involve you in the match, mate. You''re useless. You''re like a Subbuteo man who''s been glued into place. If I was really giving the orders you''d never get on the pitch. There''s good young full backs in the reserves who want to contribute. You''re a blockage. You''re stuck in the pipes.


    Jack: I''m fucking good at this game. I''m better than you!


    MB: You''re number one in the league for cash earned divided by yards run. James, MK are switching to 4-4-2 second half.


    James O''Rourke: What? How do you know?


    MB: I''ll give you a billion pounds if I''m wrong.


    Remember the theory that the players and coaches told Mateo they''d never play for Best? We know at that point he''d had run-ins with Coach Colin, Samuel, Jack the Lad, and Lee Contreras, which is impressive for two weeks'' work.


    So in the second half, what do we get? We switch to 4-4-2 as Best wanted. We know from our sources that Best was supposed to be playing left midfield - it was his idea. But then he played as a sort of left-sided DM, and every time he got the ball he passed to Jack the Lad.


    I was on the wrong side of the stadium again but my mate was close to it and described it to me. The passes got slightly further and further forward, forcing Jack to run higher and higher up the pitch. Whenever Jack turned back, safety first, Best threw a hissy fit. When Jack didn''t make forward runs, Best collapsed to the floor in disbelief.


    It sounds childish, now, but at the time everyone in that stand was sucked into the drama and turned on Jack pretty quick. "Get forward, you bastard!" "Jack, you useless twat, what are you doing?" Once they had noticed how he never went forward, it was all they could see. When Jack finally crossed the halfway line, Best ran around doing a goal celebration.


    Bear in mind, there was a high-stakes match happening at the same time. MK Dons came out for the second half flying, and we were almost down to nine men while Best was doing his antics.


    Dons got a goal, and then another. Three-two, they''re on the march and we''re in big trouble.


    Best went to be CAM, then. He got the ball, dribbled left, looked for support. Jack was nowhere, but Best passed to where he thought he should be. It rolled out of play for a throw in and we were screaming our heads off. There was equal vitriol for Jack and Best, I think, but only one of the players was affected. Best was laughing at the abuse; Jack was close to tears. Best went over and we thought he was going to put an arm round him, tell him it''s not that bad, something like that. But no. He waved his finger, gave him a tongue-lashing, and pointed to the subs bench. If I were the manager you''d be off, son.


    MB made Lee go to left mid, and played central midfield himself. With a proper left side we looked more solid again and it looked like it was going to come down to who won the most duels. Best struggled in the middle, but when he lost the ball he sprinted back to help the defence, and when he did get a bit of space he slipped the ball to a striker nice and fast or waited for Bogle to get on the overlap.


    The match was finely poised, really tense, when Bogle got fouled. We had a free kick over on the right of the box and Best wanted to take it. He hadn''t been near MK''s goal, so they didn''t know what''s coming. He smashed it between the defenders and the keeper, slap onto Gareth Jones''s forehead, goal! Four-two and we''ve got some breathing space.


    MK lost a bit of their fire and there was a chance the match would peter out, which I for one was okay with.


    Best hadn''t finished being a clown, though. He wandered around the pitch - never on the left - and every time he got the ball he pinged it at Jack the Lad. Running between the lines with options left and right? He turned and threaded the ball BACK through the retreating midfielders all the way to the left back. On the right wing with Bogle making an overlap? Sixty-yard diagonal back onto JTL''s toes.


    It was bloody infuriating and for the first time I had some sympathy for the Chester fans. If he''s turning important matches into his own private pissing competitions, I get why some of them are upset. Rovers fans watching from home are fuming. Best is diabolical. He''s lazy. He''s not up to the level. He should sort his passing stats out before he has a go at the other players.


    Now, about the squad going to Mateo to say "I won''t play for this guy." You''d think so, and they''d be justified, but no. Bogle''s pissed when Best doesn''t play a return pass. Lee doesn''t want to play left mid. Carlos doesn''t like improvisational football. But they do what they''re told and do you know what football players like? They like winning. They''ll play for Best because that means winning loads of football matches.


    Ten of the players on the pitch would have no problem with Best as manager. Personally, I feel a lot of the ''Bully Best'' and ''Jack the Sad'' takes were overdone. Best IS annoying, there''s no getting away from it. But I''ve read an article describing how he ''fixed'' a young player in an unconventional way and I believe MB was working towards something in that match. I thought it at the time and I was proven right, though sadly we didn''t get to see it on camera.


    That was because once the three points were more or less safe, Best turned his attention to his most pressing need - to avoid talking to the media.


    Near the end of the match, Best went up for a header. He didn''t need to challenge for that ball - Dodds was there. Three players jumped, one fell to the floor, clutching his head. Of course, with his recent head injury, the physios rushed on and there was a long, long delay as he got the oxygen mask and was stretchered off.


    We were told that he was rushed to hospital. Nope. That was an outright lie from the club. He was rushed to his hotel room. He was rushed to a steakhouse. He was rushed to Manchester to watch his hipster team. My sources aren''t sure where he went, but certainly not to hospital. We know this because he was spotted watching Everton vs Aston Villa the next day and he trained as normal two days later.


    The whole thing was a ruse to get out of talking to the press!


    ***


    vs Swindon Town (away)


    We named an unchanged team against a side in good form. The graphics I saw before the match had Swindon set up in their usual 3-5-1-1, but the Swindon fans we talked to before the game said they''d made some changes "because of that lad". Their manager''s idea was to have fast full backs playing as the wide centre backs, to match Best for pace. That was the plan.


    We were supposedly doing 4-3-3 again, but none of us believed that would actually happen.


    At the start of the match, Best did that thing where he watches what the other team are up to. He jogged around giving instructions to everyone - including Jack the Lad - and he trotted back up top. Third striker! We were actually doing 4-3-3!


    Then we started pumping long balls at Best. He was up against a fast but short left back, and Best beat him to headers every single time. It was twenty minutes of old-fashioned carnage as Junior and Dizzy feasted on the second balls and peppered Swindon''s goal with shots.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    At two-nil, the fast left back got subbed off and they brought a big lad on. So what did Best do? He went out wide and used his pace to get to the byline. The centre back fouls him, yellow card. Best is hurt but walks up and down the front line looking for opportunities. Swindon are a good side so they adapt. They block the defensive holes and try to hit us on counters and nick something on a set piece.


    Which they do and it''s a tense last ten minutes, but even if they''d got an undeserved equaliser, that would have been a point against a top-half team.


    Instead, we leave there with all three.


    Again we had a lot of social media bleating about Best being lazy. A do-nothing with bad stats.


    Apart from the shock and joy of watching a player turn his part of the pitch into a game of rock, paper, scissors against an opponent who only has rock and paper, what I took away from that match was how harmonious it was. We basically played James O''Rourke football but with an on-pitch general making rapid changes and the players accepting them. There was less shouting from Best, and a lot of in-game coaching.


    Mediawatch: The paps were losing interest in following MB around, it seemed. He wasn''t scoring dramatic penalties or doing volleyed assists and he wasn''t speaking to them, so what was the point of travelling? The only talking point was that his assistant manager had lost her first match and they wanted a reaction to that. Again, though, radio silence from him.


    At this point, let me remind you of some theories about why Max Best came to Tranmere Rovers:


    <ol>


    <li>He did it for the money.</li>


    </ol>


    The figure of 5,000 pounds a week started doing the rounds as the terms of his loan - double the wage of any other player (as far as we know). Hard of thinking fans thought this was extortionate. Clearly, this is nice money for someone working in non-league football, but if he can get it at Tranmere he can get it elsewhere. He has shown no signs of picking his career moves PURELY based on money. Note - he has a few clients from when he was a football agent and presumably that helps keep the wolf from his door.


    <ol start="2">


    <li>He came to replace JOR but something happened on our side to prevent him.</li>


    </ol>


    Mateo decided he didn''t want rapid tactical changes and would prefer to watch us slog through the same steps and missteps week after week? I don''t think so. MB is so fractious and unlikeable that Mateo couldn''t imagine working with him? Please. We know Best turned up at our under twelves training sessions, intervened in a girl''s team match because he spotted an opposing player had concussion (later confirmed by medical staff) and was ''caught'' delivering cardboard boxes full of stuff to a local food bank. He might be manic depressive (Dixie Dean statue vs not celebrating goals) but the backroom staff liked him. They described him as ''intense but funny''.


    <ol start="3">


    <li>He came to replace JOR but something happened on his side to prevent him.</li>


    </ol>


    What could this have been? He was offered five thousand a week for the first four weeks like a drug sample to get him hooked, but then the offer for the rest of his contract was much lower? Mateo doesn''t strike me as that sort of huckster.


    He was disappointed with our facilities and players? But he already knew them before he came. As mentioned, he was a regular visitor to these shores.


    He didn''t like living in the Wirral? Understandable! But he could live in leafy Cheshire and work here. Many do, and many have done.


    <ol start="4">


    <li>Our existing squad warned Mateo not to hire him.</li>


    </ol>


    MB''s two-goal burst against Notts got the crowd going, but it was his assists against Barrow that got the players''s attention, and when you listen to their post-match interviews from the other games you''ll realise how they look up to him as a player. With the younger players there''s no little hero worship. Check out <this video> from Lee Contreras''s YouTube where he''s looking ahead to the Doncaster game watching clips of the midfielders he''s likely to be up against. It''s late at night and he''s red-eyed and tired but he wants to find something he can contribute at the team meeting. He doesn''t say it, but it''s clear that he''s desperate to impress MB.


    <ol start="5">


    <li>He failed a medical.</li>


    </ol>


    No. Unless Samuel did the tests while wearing a mask of someone else''s face, Mission Impossible-style.


    <ol start="6">


    <li>There''s a legal reason he can''t join an EFL team but he can work in non-league.</li>


    </ol>


    This makes little to no sense since he has recently played five matches IN the EFL.


    <ol start="7">


    <li>He lost a bet and the forfeit was to play for us.</li>


    </ol>


    Many people found the <Dixie Dean statue visit> cheesy and twee but I found it quite moving. He appreciates the club and its history and if you watch the footage of him going on for his debut, he looks proud.


    And so we come to the strangest and most controversial match yet.


    ***


    vs Doncaster (home)


    Donny had been playing 3-5-2 and if I were them, I wouldn''t have known how to set up against us. They stuck with what they''d been doing, which seemed smart at the time.


    We were unchanged - again - but that only begins to tell the story. Some changes aren''t shown on the team sheet. With a nod from Best, Carlos would drop back from CM to DM. With a scissors gesture, our strikers would go wide with Lee and Dodds rushing to fill the gaps.


    And - wonder of wonders - the full backs had come alive. What had happened in the previous week? Not sure. For once, our moles were keeping mum but there was an insinuation that James O''Rourke finally stepped up and bashed some heads together.


    Our third goal sums up the positive side of the Max Best experience.


    A controlled passing move from the keeper to Bogle, across the defence, back across the midfield. Very patient. Doncaster got pulled around, then it was on. The ball was fizzed out to JTL. He took a touch past a midfielder, scampered away, hit it square to Best. He turned inside, faked a long pass wide, turned slightly away from goal. He pointed at someone, then no-look backheeled it diagonally forward towards the left touchline. JTL had continued his run and he whipped it low into the area where Dizzy redirected it into the bottom left.


    Glorious.


    And now the negative side. First, while Jack the Lad is reminding us all of what he can do and adding to his transfer value, Samuel is nowhere to be seen. Our big summer signing looks like he''s finished at the club already. Not exactly Best''s fault we signed him, but he was utterly ruthless in excising him from the team and we have a big financial hole there now.


    Second, the Facegate incident.


    ***


    Facegate


    Let''s say MB is on 5K a week. He''s got 20K in his pocket for playing five games - not bad - and he''s helped the team get eleven points. After a rocky start with some players, there''s buy-in to the way he wants to play. As a player, he gets into any team in League Two. As a manager, the same. So he''s happy, right? All is well with the world. Yes?


    No.


    Let''s do a moment by moment run down.


    <ol>


    <li>With around 70 minutes gone, a Donny player finally gets a chance to land a reducer on Best and smashes into his shins.</li>


    <li>The physio signals Best needs to be subbed off.</li>


    <li>Best throws a tantrum - he''s livid.</li>


    <li>Best refuses to leave the pitch.</li>


    <li>He hobbles around for a minute while Donny press their advantage.</li>


    <li>The ball breaks for Best, who holds it up and spreads it to the other side of the pitch for JTL to run onto.</li>


    <li>While we nearly score, Best talks to James O.</li>


    <li>JOR prepares the sub, but appears to have agreed to give Best a few more minutes.</li>


    <li>Best whispers something to Lee Contreras, who asks Best to repeat it.</li>


    <li>In the next phase of play, Lee finds some space and plays a very careful ball BEHIND Best, forcing him to turn onto his favoured right foot.</li>


    <li>Best hammers the ball into the crowd.</li>


    <li>The ball strikes someone in the press box flush in the face.</li>


    <li>There is a moment of stunned, horrified what-the-fuckness.</li>


    <li>Best points down the line and screams to demand a throw in. "Our ball!"</li>


    <li>JOR subs Best off before the referee can yellow/red card him for... for what, exactly? Misconduct?</li>


    <li>Best leaves the stadium early again.</li>


    <li>This forum decides that Best will never be seen at Prenton Park again.</li>


    <li>Best is spotted at Prenton Park the next day, watching Liverpool''s women.</li>


    <li>The identity of the person struck by the ball becomes public knowledge. He works for a media outlet and was present at MB''s girlfriend''s only visit to our stadium.</li>


    <li>Tranmere TikTok is flooded with women saying the guy is a creep.</li>


    <li>Jack the Lad posts on his socials defending Best for sticking up for his girlfriend.</li>


    <li>That post is quickly deleted and JTL posts another one saying everyone''s overreacting because it was an accident and that it was obvious Best was trying to play a long ball down the line and got it wrong.</li>


    <li>The creep is banned from the stadium and a club statement uses phrases like ''unwanted and inappropriate sexual advances will not be tolerated''.</li>


    </ol>


    It''s not hard to guess what happened. The creep had a run at Best''s girl and Best has got very public revenge. Best will get a fine and a ban and he has also left himself liable to legal consequences.


    Everyone has their own opinion about the incident. Mine is not relevant.


    What fascinates me is that it does offer some potential clarity about the big question.


    Why did Max Best come to Tranmere?


    To smack a ball into a creep''s face.


    Case closed?


    ...


    John King''s_love_child


    The title made me think he was dead.


    ...


    Typo''s_Intentional


    I ain''t reading all that.


    I''m happy for u tho.


    Or sorry that happened.


    ...


    The_Bozster


    Great thread, Fred. 11 points from January and JOR sure to be Manager of the Month. Jack the Lad been bullied into dominance. 20K to dodge the drop - drop the dough. Money well spent. Don''t punch people but do punch a Nazi. Violence solves nothing, take your hands off my girl. Conflicted.


    ...


    Challinors_Long_Throw


    the guy''s a lazy brat who thinks he will get away with smashing a ball into someone''s face


    and he will


    there''s no risk to his career. not in the slightest.


    ...


    John King''s_love_child


    Could backfire, though. Can''t imagine his girl''s too happy about it. You can''t even open a door for a lass these days without being cancelled. She''s probably already broke up with him because he''s a violent monster.


    ...


    Geordie_Cruyff


    He isn''t a monster and she hasn''t broken up with him. Max Best is a good man and I''d be happy for him to marry my daughter.


    ...


    Morecambe_White


    Oh thank fuck! I''m so happy someone did a proper post that got people thinking because I have a theory and now that there''s context and people actually reading instead of just reacting, I feel like I won''t get laughed at.


    So hear me out, and don''t jump down my throat right away.


    This lad Max Best, he''s proper autistic. I know you''re thinking ''oh mate come on it''s 2024'' but wait! I''m not saying it like a diss or a slur. I mean, like, medically. He must be.


    We''ve all heard bits and pieces about summer training. And as Fred put in his links, you can fucking see him there in the background of videos. You can see Jack the Lad flirting with this unreal blonde and that''s Max Best''s girl! It''s all there.


    All you have to do is put two and two together and that''s what I''ve done. Get this. Strap yourselves in, boys.


    Max Best doesn''t have loads of friends. He''s a loner by nature. You can''t see that on the pitch, but just trust me. Read and watch his interviews. He''s a loner, fact. So he gets his head cracked open and he''s in hospital and all that. Shocking. They should hang the bastard who done it. He goes to Tenerife for some sun and some privacy. Hundred to one shot, bumps into our lads. James O and Mateo find out what''s up and sort him out. Look, I don''t rate James O as a manager and I think Mateo''s made mistakes, but it brings tears to my eyes the way they looked after this kid. Dead serious, that''s class, and that''s what I want from my club.


    So they let Best use the swimming pool, lend him a physio and a couple of coaches. What have we done? Like, three hours of work? I mean, seriously. And it''s not work, is it, if you''re in Tenerife and the sun''s out and there''s a fucking dreamy woman chatting to you the whole time. I mean, find a job you enjoy doing, know what I mean? But this Max Best kid, he''s autistic AF. He doesn''t think ''oh that was nice bye''. It festers. He''s thinking, they helped me, how can I help them?


    He goes... I know! I''ll save them from relegation single handed. It''s about a thousand to one in terms of value but that''s what I''m saying. Three hours from us is someone sitting by the pool so he doesn''t drown. Three hours from him is eleven points and safety. Do you get me? His head''s not right. He doesn''t think like us. I''m not joking, now. I happen to think he''s a really good player but his real skill is being a sort of footballing Mike Brearley. Older guys will get that reference. He played cricket for England. He wasn''t that good but he was a genius captain and made the other players outperform.


    Me? I''d have him back on a big contract. But he''ll never come back here. He''s balanced the ledger. We''re over.


    edit - THIS EXPLAINS WHY HE DIDN''T DO ANY MEDIA. Think about it.


    Last word - kicking the ball at some low-life? I mean, if it''s proved to be on purpose he needs to be proper punished. Big fine, five match ban, warning about his future conduct. It''s going to weigh on him and there will be days that he regrets it. But fuck me, what a shot!


    ...


    Honey_I_Shrunk_Pat_Nevin


    Top work, Fred, you absolute madman. I thought your forensic analysis of <why Mellon should be sacked> was your masterpiece, but you''ve outdone yourself.


    Only thing is, everyone''s missing the point about Best and his missus and why not handle it in private? It''s mad simple.


    Best gets a fine and a suspension. Maybe there''s a sponsor that thinks twice about working with him.


    The sex pest loses his job, gets a lifetime ban, and now everyone in the world knows he''s got wandering hands. His life is in tatters.


    Next guy who''s alone in a room with her is gonna think twice.


    Fred, you''ve way overrated him as a player and my cat could manage in the National League North, but he''s done well, here. Good luck to him.


    ***


    Liverpool, 11 a.m.


    It had been almost a week since I''d launched a football into the face of the prick who had teamed up with his mate to harass Emma. When I left the pitch I went straight to the dressing room for treatment on my shins. Mateo came to ask me what the fuck I''d done. I told him about what had happened when Ems had gone exploring the media operations and why she hadn''t been back to the stadium since. He listened in silence and all he said was, "I wish you''d told me."


    After he left, I grabbed my stuff and snuck out of the stadium. The fewer people I talked to, the better.


    The pain in my shins was pretty bad and I regretted not taking a pack of painkillers home with me. But the worst thing was the awkward phone call I''d had with Emma.


    There was a lot of stilted phrases and half-truths, but I couldn''t be totally honest. The British press were notorious for hacking phones and listening to whatever private conversation they wanted. I assumed Beth and her ilk were listening to my every call, every FaceTime, and had access to all my texts and emails.


    I''d stayed in my holiday rental for one more day, watched a women''s match at a sparsely-populated Prenton Park, then gathered my bits, posted the key at the estate agent''s, and went back to Chester. Holiday over. One swollen bank account, one swollen shin, one demon gorging himself on all the XP I''d collected.


    I used my rapidly-healing leg as an excuse to lie low for the week. I trained in private and tried to get myself ready for the Fans Forum where - in theory - my recent escapades could see me kicked out of Chester Football Club. But I couldn''t think beyond Emma and what I was going to say to her. And, more importantly, what she was going to say to me.


    Friday morning finally arrived.


    We hadn''t seen each other for a while, but she had taken the day off to go sightseeing with me and for moral support during that night''s Fans Forum. Of course, I was dreading that it wouldn''t be long before she was back on the train, heading north. I met her at the station and my heart stopped as she looked at me and immediately looked away. So it was worse than I thought...


    She lifted her eyes again and her face softened. "Oh, Max," she said.


    "I know," I sighed.


    "Come ''ere." She pulled me in for a hug. "Gemma''s worried about you. She can''t understand why you did it."


    "Why I hit the guy? I promised I''d hit him the next time I saw him." I broke away. "Are we only going to talk about that?"


    "No," she said. "But I want to talk about it once and I want the truth."


    Fair enough.


    I drove her across Liverpool and out towards the Irish Sea. We parked and went for a stroll, with me being a surprisingly enthusiastic tour guide. We were walking along a stretch of sandy beach across the water from New Brighton where my flat had been. "The beaches here are all right! You''re not supposed to go in the actual water. One third of people who go swimming around Britain''s coast get sick. Did you know that? That''s fine, isn''t it? Absolutely fine. View''s nice, though, and there''s cool buildings and I sort of don''t mind the Liverpool skyline."


    "Did you miss Chester?"


    "No. I enjoyed the break. Tonight will suck with them all yelling at me but I can make it through the rest of the season, now. I feel pretty good." On top of everything else, I''d found half a dozen youth players and bought two new perks - one to let me move players around at set pieces and one that showed me how much players from other teams were earning. Much, much more about those later.


    "My dad''s been helping me follow the results. We reckon Tranmere are safe, now. Twelve points from the danger zone. Is that right?"


    "Not safe but pretty safe. And they''re playing better. They should have enough about them to survive."


    "And Chester? Did that go according to plan?"


    "Yeah, pretty much. Sandra''s league record is won four, drawn one, lost one. Got knocked out of the FA Trophy, made it to the semis in the Cheshire Cup. That''s solid. B plus. And the transfer window is closed and the other teams didn''t make any big moves and we didn''t lose Raffi."


    "It was a bad result against York."


    I laughed. "I''ll be answering all these questions tonight. The league''s sort of interesting, now. York beating us brings them back into it. In theory." I showed her the league table.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="35"><col width="100"><col width="43"><col width="49"><col width="47"><col width="44"><col width="47"><col width="39"><col width="45"><col width="50"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Team</td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>72</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>62</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Kidderminster</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>50</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>59</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Darlington</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>57</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>York</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>56</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    "Why only in theory?"


    "The only advantage the other teams had was our fixture congestion at the end of the season, but we played all our fixtures in January and the others had at least one match postponed. So that advantage is pretty much gone. I''m relaxed about it."


    "You don''t seem relaxed."


    I slowed. "I''ll be relaxed when I make you smile."


    "You make me smile when you''re being you. The real you." I didn''t know what to say to that. My high-minded liberal ideals hadn''t stopped me sucker punching a dude. And while I deeply, deeply regretted it, I also didn''t regret it and would do it again. The real me? What was that? Emma sensed my confusion and changed the subject. "What''s in the backpack?"


    I smiled, just a bit cheeky. "I''ll show you in about sixty seconds."


    We kept on across the sand. The cool sea air was giving her ruddy cheeks like the cutest ever gammon and her cute little nose was tinged with red.


    "This is called Another Place," I said.


    "What is? This beach?"


    "This is called Crosby Beach. There''s art here, and the art is called Another Place. It''s by a dude called Antony Gormley."


    It looked like a pretty empty expanse of sand with a few people dotted around. "Art on this beach? You pulling my leg?"


    "No. You''ll see. It''s weird but great. You can ask that guy about it. He''s here every day."


    "Him? But how do you - ? Hang on. Is that... wait... what is that?"


    She picked up the pace, leaving me a few steps behind. I caught up as Emma leaned left and right. She was stood in front of a six-foot tall cast iron statue of a man looking out to sea. "But there''s loads," she said, realising that every one of the people dotted around were all made of metal - we were the only actual humans there.


    "There''s a hundred," I said. "Some are half buried and you only see them when the tide goes out. It''s pretty amazing, really messes with your head. I''ve been here three times, this is my fourth. There''s something disturbing about it."


    "It gives me the shivers. It''s like there''s an actual man inside, trapped. It''s horrible. But it''s peaceful, too."


    "I think when your brain processes that it''s really, really, really a sculpture, you start to like it. But that first shock is, er... shocking."


    People had put hats and scarves on some of the statues, and we walked in silence to the next one. It was wearing a Liverpool scarf, which was really unfair on the poor dude, but Emma didn''t seem to notice what she was touching. She pulled the scarf a little tighter so that the guy''s neck wouldn''t get a draught. "Is this what you feel like? A helpless statue looking for something you''ll never find, far from your friends? Have you been lonely? Is that why you wanted me to see this?"


    "Er... maybe. Lonely? In a way. But I was thinking less... poetically." I slung my backpack round and knelt to open it. I emerged with a football. "A lot of people are saying I was petulant and immature. I don''t think I was but I''ll take the punishment. I''ll pay my fines."


    "No, you won''t."


    "What?"


    "Mateo''s going to pay it, if there is one. He called me to apologise for what happened. He wishes you''d let him handle it. And so do I. Or you could have let John do it. Or if you really, really needed to punch a man in the face to defend my honour, you could have done it in private."


    I shook my head. "No. It had to be public."


    "Why?"


    I squashed the ball between my palms and tried to bounce it like a goalkeeper. It flopped into the sand. As I cleaned it, I said, "It wasn''t a punch in the face, it was a kiss."


    "Max."


    "There''s a scene in the Bible where a mob has come to find Jesus. They don''t know what he looks like; they didn''t have Instagram back then. So they get Judas to point him out. He goes over to Jesus and gives him a kiss. That''s how the mob knows. I''ve given my kiss, and now everyone knows. They know about him, and they know what''ll happen if they try something." I looked up at the sky. A few seagulls were swirling looking for discarded chicken and chips. "I look petty and childish. Worth it, if you''re that little bit safer. I''ll get a ban. So what? I don''t want to play if you''re not there to watch me. Since he did what he did, you''ve been to a couple of Chester games but you didn''t come to any Tranmere ones. I barely saw you in January." I looked at the smooth, clean ball. "So it had to be public. I want people to know that if they hurt you, I''ll destroy them. It doesn''t reflect well on me, I guess, but there''s an easy solution - they can leave you alone. Then there''s no issue."


    Emma looked from the sea to the seagulls to the statues. A hundred cast iron replicas of an artist, some half-buried in the sand, some who got drowned twice a day. The installation made more sense than I did. "What''s the ball for?"


    "I..." I looked away instinctively and made a huge effort to look at her while I said something that was unquestionably childish and immature. "On the phone you said I could have hurt someone else by mistake."


    "Yeah. You could."


    Away and back again. "Pick a statue."


    "That one."


    "No, that''s too far. Pick the one there." I pointed to a guy twenty yards away.


    "That''s not a choice."


    "I''m kicking from sand. Do you know how hard that is? The degree of difficulty of this shot is insane. This is five times harder than hitting the press box from a nice flat strip of grass." I settled and looked from the ball to the target. I swung my foot - a travesty of a sentence which does nothing to convey the magnificent coordination of bone and brain - and with a dull thunk, the statue nodded the ball away. "Heading 20," I said. "Should sign him up."


    Tiny creases appeared on her forehead. "You can make that shot a hundred out of a hundred?"


    "I can make it one out of one. I''m just saying, there was no risk to anyone else. I promise."


    She came close to me and put her hands on my sides. "I don''t want people to think poorly of you and go on the radio and say you should be banned from football. I want people to see you the way I see you. Kind and generous and thoughtful."


    "I don''t care what they think. I only care what you think."


    She leaned into me and rested her head on my chest. "You need people, Max. You need to talk to people. Next time you go to hit someone in my name, will you talk to me first?"


    "You''ll tell me not to."


    "That''s not..." She stepped away and I felt a massive, icy cold bubble form between us. "Do you still want to move in together?"


    "Of course!"


    She nodded a few times. The bubble wasn''t icy, I realised. It was cool. "I have conditions."


    "Right. Your own sink."


    "I want you to talk to me. When it comes to something like this I¡¯d like to feel my opinions mattered. Remember you said that to me once? It works both ways. If you want a me and you life then we have me and you conversations. There''s no ''you'' in ''us''."


    "Er..."


    "You¡¯ve got to include me, even - especially! - when you think I¡¯ll say no. I don¡¯t want a relationship where you''re always explaining why you did something. I want a relationship where you involve me and value me and if you really," she said, holding her finger up to stop me interrupting, "if you really respect me like you say you do, why wouldn''t you?"


    "So if I offer you a 49% vote in our decision-making council you''ll move in with me? That''s the best deal in the history of trade."


    "You work in Chester and I work in Newcastle. We can''t live together. Yet. But I''ll talk to my dad about WFH one day a week. I''ll go watch you kick a ball around and four days a week I''ll still be a hotshot paralegal with exceptional photocopying skills."


    The wording confused me. "WFH?"


    "Work from home. The cottage."


    "What cottage?"


    "Where you live."


    "Oh, the barn."


    "It¡¯s not a barn. Don¡¯t let Ruth hear you call it that."


    "It¡¯s got wild animals living in it. It¡¯s a barn. Will your dad say yes?"


    "He¡¯s¡­ I had to tell him about what happened and he was incensed. I mean about the guy, not you. Dad isn''t seeing any moral grey areas. He joked that he was going on forums defending you."


    "Forums?"


    "You know, like Reddit. And the ones from before Reddit. What? What are you thinking?"


    "I''m thinking it¡¯s not fair you have to come to me all the time. How about one weekend a month I put Sandra in charge and go to Newcastle to watch you read documents?"


    "Deal. But Max. You... This is a me and you conversation, now. If you want me to move in, I''ll need to bring clothes and furniture and things. I''ll need to buy some stuff. It''s not a huge, huge deal but I don''t want that to be wasted time."


    "Why would it be?"


    "Are you going to stay at Chester? If not, I''ll wait and move to where you do settle. That''s fair, isn''t it?"


    "Huh." A thought shot past like a shooting star. Was my relationship with Emma similar to my relationship with Chester FC? Successful but always one mistake away from ending? Built on a foundation of sand? I tried to imagine talking to Chester the way Emma had spoken to me. "So... if I can look past their flaws and we can have a good talk... I''ll agree to move in with my toothbrush, my knee-high boots, and my fluffy white jumper that makes me extra huggable. Okay... Okay. I''m going to tell them what I want from them and they''re going to accept because they need me desperately."


    She bit her luscious bottom lip. "Are you saying you''re the Emma of that relationship?"


    "Of course I''m the Emma of that relationship. I''m the Emma of this relationship."


    That made her laugh - a proper, warm laugh that made me realise everything was going to be all right. "You''re not the Emma of this relationship. But just so you know, I don''t have any knee-high boots."


    "Yeah, you do. I saw you in them."


    "You didn''t because I don''t."


    "Might have been a dream? You said Mateo''s going to pay my fine?"


    "Yeah."


    While I was waiting for her at the train station, the twenty thousand pounds had landed in my bank account. It hadn''t excited me at the time because I was busy catastrophising, but now it clicked. Yes, I needed to save some to pay the Brig, but for the first time ever I felt I could splash some cash on my dream woman. I held my elbow out to her. "Then I''m rich. May I take you shopping?"


    She took my arm and we started walking back to the car. "You hate shopping. It drains you. Don''t you want to save your energy for the fans forum?"


    I looked back at the ball I''d kicked. Some kid would take it home. "Didn''t you notice? I''ve been training with a League Two team for a month. I''ve got almost seven litres of air in here." I thumped my chest. "And my stamina feels way better, too. It was weird, though. They didn''t have any way to test it."


    "Didn''t they?" said Emma, her lips twisted. "While you''re behaving yourself at the Fans Forum, I''ll be thinking of some suitable tests. All right?"


    Just then I didn''t care about football or the future. I only wanted to be with Emma. "Why do you care if I behave myself? I could take over at Gateshead and we could live on the Tyne and you could walk to work."


    We arrived at my shitty brown Subaru. "Because of Henri and Raffi and Youngster and Jackie and Dani and Ruth. Because I''m invested. And because you are, too. If you tell the fans how you feel, you might get what you want."


    We kissed, then, and I felt so wonderful, so at peace, that I wondered if I could do things her way.


    As I started the engine, I took one look back down the beach. The statues hadn''t moved, but as always, they had moved me. "Art makes me retrospective," I said, as I navigated the car park.


    "You mean introspective."


    "That, too."


    My mind was made up. I would go to the Fans Forum and patiently let the Chester fans vent their spleens and when they were done, I would talk about my lofty ambitions for the club and we''d all get on the same page and begin to sketch out a road map that everyone could agree on. And if there was any unexpected drama, some sort of seismic shock, or a devastating bolt from the blue, it wouldn''t be my fault.

 6.14 - The Supporters Trust

    14.


    The Fans Forum had been moved from the Blues Bar with its 120 capacity to the weightier Crowne Plaza Hotel in the city centre. The conference room''s primary colour was beige, offset by wood panelling and magnolia ceilings. The vibe was stuffy and businesslike, and the business of the day was shouting at Max Best. To that end, three hundred golden-legged, cream-coloured chairs had been laid out in rows. A flurry of late arrivals meant the hotel staff were rushing around adding more.


    Three hundred plus Chester fans were sitting, most with their arms folded, glaring at me. Dotted around the crowd I saw plenty of faces I knew - Crackers (the blind architect) and Sumo (the Twitch streamer) from last year''s board. Sean and Ollie, the xenophobic former board members who had tried to get me voted out at the last mid-season Fans Forum. On the front row there was Sandra and Ruth next to the Brig and Barnesy. The two army veterans looked relaxed and interested, but every now and then they''d scan the room and I realised they were both on the lookout for maniacs. Bulldog, Tyson, Benny, and Future''s grandmother were part of a gaggle of parents from the youth teams.


    Here and there were players from the first teams - Henri, Glenn, D-Day, Charlotte, Bonnie, and Angel. In a sort of halo around Angel the men weren''t folding their arms and weren''t glaring, but their wives and girlfriends were.


    On the stage to my immediate left, without a microphone by request, was Emma. She claimed to be there offering moral support, but almost every time I opened my mouth to answer a question she coughed or poked me. What happened to self-regulation? She was the Sentinel made flesh!


    Then it was me, and to my right, Jackie Reaper, to his right, Ryan Jack, followed by MD and Secretary Joe.


    Starting in the middle but with a chair over to the side for when the questions started, was our host for the evening, Boggy.


    What were the stakes of this event? I could repair my relationship with the fans, or ruin it. Build or break. Grow or go. Marry, fuck, kill. There was no immediate danger of being sacked - unless I fell all the way off my trolley MD would give me the rest of the season. Strangely, the highest stakes were with Emma - if I behaved myself I could spend three days a week with her. That thought was almost enough for me to behave myself. Almost.


    Seeing the fans there, judging me, resenting me, was getting on my tits.


    ***


    Unedited transcript of the Chester Fans Trust Mid-Season Forum dated Friday, 2nd February.


    On the panel: Mike Dean (MD); Joe X (Club Secretary); Max Best (DoF, Men''s First Team Manager); Jackie Reaper (Women''s First Team Manager); Ryan Jack (player); Boggy (host).


    Boggy: Ready to begin? [cough] Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I''d like to offer you a warm welcome to this Fan''s Forum. My name is Boggy and I''m the host of Seals Live and the official Chester podcast. I don''t think anyone on the stage needs an introduction except for one. This is Emma, Max''s lawyer. She''ll be making sure he doesn''t say anything interesting.


    [laughs from the stage; dead silence from the audience]


    Max: Can I say something real quick? That woman who just came in isn''t a Chester fan. She''s a journalist. Let''s boot her out like she wants to boot out my mum''s care workers. Out of the country, that is. Then we can get going.


    Secretary Joe: Oh, sorry, Max. She''s a member.


    Max: Holy Christ. You let anyone in if they give you twelve quid? That''s crazy. Second point. It''s very dangly up here. We have a women''s team, you know.


    Jackie: Bonnie was booked to be the player rep but she swapped with Ryan so he''d get a bit of attention.


    Ryan: Get bent.


    Max: Class, Bonnie mate. You can do one of my post-match interviews instead if you want.


    [inaudible retort]


    [laughter]


    Boggy: I think we can all agree it''s going to be a busy night so we''ll skip most of the pleasantries. Perhaps a quick recap of the season so far is in order. The men are top of the league and into the Cheshire Cup semi-final. They had a memorable FA Cup run which included an astonishing win over Salford City and our very own Benny scored in the Second Round.


    [applause]


    Boggy: The women''s team, led by Jackie Reaper, are keeping track with league leaders Altrincham and only a last-minute Altrincham equaliser stopped us from beating them and topping the table. There has been some rare silverware in the youth system with the under twelves winning in Liverpool.


    [applause]


    Boggy: All in all, the club is in fine fettle and robust health.


    [a pin drops]


    Boggy: Right. To the questions! We thought we''d start with an easy one.


    Max: Hold up. Easy one? How do you know what the question will be?


    MD: The questions have been vetted.


    Max: MD, what are you doing? They''ll think I''ve insisted on that! Like I''m fucking Stalin. Let them ask what they want.


    MD: We thought tempers might run high and we want to make sure there''s a civil, productive discussion. I''m sure that everyone will behave themselves and when they''ve heard what you have to say everyone will leave here happy and optimistic. This is merely precautionary. We have microphones for the audience so if you want to have more of a discussion with an individual fan, we can do that.


    Boggy: It''s also a time issue, Max. Normally at these things, fans preface their questions with lengthy descriptions of their history as a supporter. It can get quite repetitive and doesn''t add much to the discussion. So, first question is for MD. The bathrooms in the Harry McNally Terrace aren''t cleaned enough. What do you plan to do about it?


    MD: That''s something that''s a top priority -


    Max: Scuse me. Is that seriously the first question?


    Boggy: Yes.


    Max: [laughter] If you''ve organised the questions in terms of increasing unhappiness so that I have to end with a rousing speech to win the fans back, then mwah. Chef''s kiss.


    MD: So, the bathrooms. The current issue is -


    ***


    I tuned out. Delaying the inevitable might have seemed like a good idea to MD and Boggy, but for once I wanted to rip the plaster off. Get the unpleasantness over with!


    I contemplated the worst case scenario. If I got sacked that evening, I''d lose the 500 pounds a week income I had from the club. Ruth wouldn''t kick me out right away, but I''d find myself homeless soon enough. The Brig would get his money and I''d be left with a few thousand to tide me over. I''d played for two teams this season, so unless I got special dispensation I wouldn''t be able to sign for a third one.


    What could I do? Be the assistant manager at Tranmere - except Facegate had caused a huge stir and Mateo might want that to die down before inviting me back to his gaff. So that left taking over as manager at some other club. I wasn''t stressed about getting an offer - the curse said my reputation was ''very poor'' but the teams we''d been thrashing four and five nil didn''t see it that way. If they could get me, they would. My talent was undeniable.


    And my skills had increased even further in recent weeks.


    In January I''d powered through to get the 10,000 XP I''d dangled in front of Old Nick. There was only one match where it felt like work - that was a long Monday night drive to watch Brighton on the south coast. It was good I did that, though, because far from getting to 10K on the twentieth or twenty-first like I''d blithely expected, I had to scramble for last-minute five-a-sides to grab the final few hundred XP I needed. Wondering if I''d find those last matches felt very much like the old days when I was scrambling to get the XP needed for Super Scout.


    With my wallet bulging, I''d made two purchases.


    For the discount price of 1,000 XP, I bought Masterpiece Theatre, which would allow me to more precisely position players at set pieces. I hadn''t used it yet.


    Then I''d used a 5% voucher on Contracts 2 and bought it. That was hilariously overpowered. I had it in time for Liverpool Women versus Arsenal Women and the results were shocking.


    One Liverpool player was earning 350 pounds a week - the same that I was paying Charlotte to be part-time. Liverpool''s foreign stars were better paid, including one on 1,000 a week. Arsenal were paying a lot more. Their star striker was earning 6,000 a week. Way, way below her male equivalent, but pretty decent.


    The contract screen had some other tasty morsels.


    Squad Status told me how important each player was with phrases such as invaluable to the club, important first-team player, used in a squad rotation system, backup for the first team, hot prospect for the future, or decent youth player.


    Bonuses was a space for things like goal, assist, or clean sheet bonuses. They were less common than I expected.


    Clauses showed scenarios that would change the contract. A few older players had a manager release clause - a club could sign that player as their manager and not have to pay compensation. Many had a release clause like Raffi Brown''s. The ones I saw were too high to be interesting but if Christian Fierce was worth 100,000 and he had a release clause for 70,000, that was an obvious source of arbitrage. Many players had relegation clauses. If their club went down it would trigger a release clause (so the players could escape). But the clubs had their own protections, too. Most players would get an immediate 25% pay cut if Scenario B happened.


    Most useful to me, maybe, was the contract expiry date. If Christian Fierce had a contract until 2027 it was going to be hard to get him out of his club. But any players whose contracts ended this summer could be signed for free! With young players I''d have to pay compensation - set by a tribunal if I couldn''t agree terms with the club - but for guys over 24 there was no cost.


    In theory, I could sign eleven out-of-contract players and have a whole new team ready for the first match in August. There was even an expiring contracts filter in the player search screen. All I needed to do was rescout everyone I''d ever scouted and hey! Dozens of players who I could negotiate with.


    Just top, top stuff. I was going to be one of the football world''s biggest nuisances!


    Unlocking Contracts 2 led to two new perks becoming available in the shop.


    ''Future'' was 900 XP and promised to tell me how players felt about their future at a club. It made sense that I needed to unlock Contracts 2 and Morale to get to that one. That perk felt like a medium priority buy. It would be amazing to grab it and scout Mo Salah. The Saudi Pro League had tried to buy him again, and again Liverpool had rejected an enormous bid. He''d probably have doubled or tripled his salary if he''d been allowed to leave, same as the many stars who had moved from the top European leagues in January. What would Salah''s Future say? Would quite like to go somewhere warm, actually?


    Contracts 3 was 1,300. Bit of an odd one. It would simply tell me who a player''s agent was. I would discover that pretty soon after I started the process of trying to sign someone, but maybe it would be worth the cost to know in advance. If a player had Bradley Rymarquis as an agent I probably wouldn''t bother, right? And who knew, maybe there would be some other advantages to knowing.


    I nodded to myself. It was intriguing and I wanted it, but it''d have to wait. Next stop was Wibwob, which would cost 9,000 after I used my 10% voucher.


    XP balance: 5,024


    There wouldn''t be any more 10,000 XP months for a while, but it very much looked like I''d get Wibwob by the end of the season. I thought back to the imps chattering ¡®get Wibwob, get Wibwob¡¯. Soon I would, unless the February perk was so enticing it blew a hole in my wallet. Angel shook her hair just then and I felt sure the perk would land on Valentine''s Day.


    Hadn''t it been like that last year? Or was February the month the Fantasy Football perk got upgraded? Another upgrade to that would be irresistible.


    "Max?"


    "Mmm?" I said, reluctantly taking my eyes off Angel. Emma was just as easy on the eye, thankfully. "Bebs?"


    "They asked a question."


    "Who?" I blinked as I realised three hundred and fifty Chester fans were staring at me - arms still folded. "I was miles away. What was the question?"


    ***


    Boggy: The question''s on the very topic of you being miles away. From Ollie. Why did you leave us in the middle of the season?


    Max: Oh! It''s happening. It''s happening, Jackie, are you ready?


    Jackie: I was told there''d be popcorn.


    [laughter]


    Max: Can we get Ollie a microphone, please? No, I''m serious. Ollie, good? All right. I went because it was the solution to lots of problems and for personal reasons. You might remember that I was murdered and while I was on my deathbed I was told I was the new Chester manager.


    Ollie: That was terrible, shocking, course it was. Course it was. But you can''t use that as an excuse forever.


    Max: Excuse? That''s a loaded word. That''s for when you''re saying sorry. I''m not saying sorry. This isn''t an apology. I haven''t done anything wrong. So I wake up, learn to walk, and then it''s full on, twenty-four seven Chester Chester Chester for months and months and months. I''m managing the men''s team, the women''s, going to schools to scout kids, looking for coaches, watching video of our opponents, writing the match programmes. Think about it. It''s bonkers. Did I complain? What, about doing everyone in this room''s dream job? No. But it''s tiring, isn''t it? It''s a punishing pace I was doing. So Tranmere was a break. A change is as good as a rest.


    Ollie: But -


    Max: Ollie, be honest, now. Are you actually listening to me?


    Ollie: I am.


    Max: What did I do? I played one game a week, trained in the morning like a normal player without having to wonder why D-Day is dogging his sprints or having to take a break from a drill to sign some document. I used their coaches and facilities in the afternoons. Got myself sharp. Cleared my head. It was great. I needed it.


    Ollie: But why Tranmere, though?


    Max: Why not?


    Ollie: They''re rivals.


    Max: Ah. So here''s one thing we''re going to learn tonight. You and I are very different. We think differently about everything. I don''t hate Tranmere and I never will. Ditto Wrexham. When you sing your anti-Wrexham songs I get demotivated. I don''t want anything to do with that. After my murder the football clubs that helped me most were, number one, Chester. Thanks! Two, Tranmere Rovers. Three, Wrexham. Four, Manchester City. I mean, what a list, but that''s the truth of it. No-one told me hating Tranmere was a prerequisite for this job, by the way. That didn''t come up in the job interview, do you know what I mean? So you can bin that whole thing. Tranmere were unbelievable to me. Unbelievable. And I''ve gone there and repaid them. I''m very, very pleased with myself.


    Ryan Jack: Tranmere''s a top club. Great people.


    Jackie: I like Tranmere. I''m made up they''re safe. There''s football rivalries and there''s real life. Max chose real life, for once. I''m proud of him.


    Max: Thanks, mate. Listen. I spent a lot of time walking around Merseyside in the past month and there''s a bit of nice stuff and there''s a lot of poverty. A lot of deprived areas. Places and people abandoned by this government, left to rot. It''s like where I grew up but where I grew up there''s a posh bit next door. There''s no posh bit there. There''s destitution. It''s proper shocking. What they''ve got that keeps them going is their football teams and if I brought a few smiles to a few faces then yeah, pleased with that. Pleased with that. The far-right journalist at the back is writing this down under examples of me promoting Marxism or some tripe, but I don''t think working class people should turn on each other. Complain about my friends all you want. They''re my friends and when they''re in trouble I want to think I''ll be there for them.


    Ollie: Are you telling us to stop singing about other teams?


    Max: It''s your club. Do what you want.


    Ollie: What we want is for our manager to be with us for the whole season.


    [applause]


    Max: Why?


    Ollie: What?


    Max: Why?


    Ollie: Because.


    Max: Because why?


    Ollie: For a start, it''s the transfer window.


    Max: We''d done our business. Got ahead of it, sorted it all. The rest of the month''s just noise. You think loads is happening because there''s rumours and fake Twitter accounts and all that shit, but there''s not. We said we were done and we were done.


    Ollie: You didn''t replace Ryan when he got injured.


    Max: Ryan is irreplaceable. If we had infinite cash like the Premier League or the Saudis, we would have done it. The cupboard''s bare but that''s fine. Sandra and I will find creative solutions. You''re talking like the entire club fell off a cliff because I popped out to Asda to buy some Hobnobs. We''re top of the league, mate. We''re smashing everything. We''ve scored the most goals of any team in the top six divisions. I didn''t wake up one morning and leave a note on MD''s desk, did I? I planned it. Got replacements, got everything sorted. It was smooth as silk.


    Ollie: It''s embarrassing, though, isn''t it? We''re a laughing stock. Our manager''s scuttling around the pitch at Tranmere like an obedient dog.


    Max: Do you reckon they''re laughing at Bradford Park Avenue?


    Ollie: Yeah.


    Max: Four-nil home, four-nil away. Are they laughing in Farsley? Five-nil. Boston? Six-nil. We did this last year, Ollie. You were worried about fans laughing at us. We''re never going to agree on it. We''ve got our foot on the accelerator and we''re leaving this league far behind. Soon you won''t be able to hear them, mate.


    Ollie: What about York? Four-nil. If you''d been playing, we''d have won that, and we''d be six points clear.


    Max: What''s it like being a multi-millionaire?


    Ollie: You what?


    Max: You''ve made tens of millions of pounds betting on sports. What''s it like?


    Ollie: I haven''t. What?


    Max: But you''re a hundred percent sure we''d have beaten York. I just think you''re missing a trick if you haven''t monetised that skill, yet. And you could come help us pick the teams. If we''re going to win five-nil with this lineup, what happens if we rest Glenn Ryder? Does it go to two-nil? We could really optimise the season if we could harness your powers.


    Ollie: You know what I mean. We wouldn''t have lost four-nil and been embarrassed.


    Max: There''s that embarrassment thing again. Teams lose matches. I seem to remember us losing a few matches last season. Did I...? [Quietly] Stop poking me, bebs. I''m being nice! [Normal volume] Here''s my promise to you - as long as I''m manager we''ll continue to lose matches heavily. Four-nil''s nothing. Because here''s another difference between you and me. I was proud of that match.


    Ollie: Proud?


    Max: Yes, mate. One-nil down, it''s tight, York are playing great, what do we do? We try to smash them. We try to win. They hit us on the counter. What do we do? The same. Nothing''s changed. We can get three quick goals, easy. Let''s slap! York get a third. Nothing''s changed. We can get four quick goals, easy! We want to win every game. We play to win every game. We''ll lose some. So what? It''s three points for a win. Mathematically, it''s better to play to win than to try to scrape some draws. And that''s why I know we''re going to win the league. Because we played against one of the best teams the way we play against the worst. Because we know we can win every single game. And I''m proud that it happened when I wasn''t there. It shows that Sandra and the players believe in me and trust what I''m doing.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Ollie: At least someone does.


    Max: What?


    Ollie: Look at your questions, there. You''ll find a lot about trust. About honesty. And loyalty.


    [applause]


    Max: Boggy, give me that list.


    Ollie: There''s a lot of hurt, Max. You''ve hurt people by leaving. You''ve hurt people by diving into Tranmere''s fans to celebrate like you''ve never done here. You''ve hurt us by turning our club into a circus. We can''t trust you but you seem to have free rein to run the club as you want. You''ve turned it into your own little playground and you don''t talk to the new board. You were still a little prick last year but at least you talked to us. You had a plan for the worst case scenario and it was reassuring. You don''t talk to the current lot. You keep saying it''s our club but you act like it''s yours. In every respect, whether it''s chucking money around like there''s no tomorrow and breaking your promise not to do another Boost the Budget this year, you''re unreliable. You won''t sign a contract, you''ve run off for a cushty little jolly at our rival, and you''ve bought a small team and sent our players there to line your own pockets. And you''ve turned down huge bids for Raffi Brown that would make a huge difference to a club like ours. I mean - [laughs] - I could go on.


    [standing ovation]


    Boggy: Perhaps we could -


    Max: Ollie. What do you want? Do you want me to quit right now?


    [murmur of discontent]


    Ollie: Er... No, Max. I think you''re a prick, personally, but I like watching the team. And when you''re smashing Darlington you''re our prick. Every football fan wants a prick like you on their team. But you''re not our prick. You''re your prick.


    Max: What do you want?


    Ollie: I want you to commit to the club.


    [applause]


    Max: Boggy, give me one of those mics so I can walk around like Gordon Gekko. Thanks. All right. I get the picture. Ollie''s spoken for you all, sounds like, and there''s these questions. Where''s the money going? How can we trust someone who leaves on a whim? Why can''t you ever be honest with us? Fine. Let''s get into it all. You ready? This is going to be fucking epic. Got a spare pen, Beth?


    MD: Max, maybe we should -


    Max: Let me tell you about money, first. My weekly wage is five hundred pounds a week right now. I get a little bit from my clients from when I was an agent, which I remind you you all knew about when you offered me this job. The Tranmere gig was pretty substantial, financially. I got the money today and I''ve never seen those sorts of numbers. It''ll keep me going for a while. It''ll let me stay at a low-paid job for longer. It''ll let me stay here for longer.


    Secretary Joe: You got paid already?


    Max: Yes. Why?


    Secretary Joe: But... nothing. Sorry.


    Max: I know I''m not going to get rich managing Chester. I know that. And it''s fine. I''ll make enough from side hustles, I think. If the Saudi Pro League asks me to go and manage one of their teams next January and the money''s right, I''ll go! Why wouldn''t I? One month there could keep me fed for a year.


    Jackie: What about your morals, Max?


    Max: My morals are why they have to pay double. Right, where shall we start? How about... loyalty. Lots of complaints about my loyalty in these questions. What happens when I lose five matches in a row? I get sacked. Okay. Please explain to me what loyalty means. Five defeats equals the sack. We could go down the 92 teams in the football league and ask how many would survive losing five in a row. Pep would. Klopp would - and did, I think. Man United''s guy would, but that''s only because the owners wouldn''t even know it had happened. Most of the 92 are getting sacked. We''re going to win our league this year. Next season it''s the National League. Bigger teams, harder opponents. We''ll struggle at the start of the season and you lot will be out for blood. So I''m always two weeks away from being unemployed and I get punished for bringing you to a higher level. Loyalty? You have got to be joking.


    Ryan Jack: That deserves applause, if you ask me. You''re bang on, Max. Bang on the money.


    Max: Communication. You want me to talk to the board and talk to fans more, not just on podcasts. Right. Okay. Why? There''s three hundred and fifty people in this room who think they can do this job better than me. I can tell you two who might have doubts - Jackie and Sandra. Because they know how fucking hard it is. Everyone else knows better than me. The board, incredibly, comprise seven floating megabrains who have very strong opinions on the rotating of goalkeepers, of formations, and which players should be bought and sold. It''s astonishing! You''d think I''d be delighted to have such a resource, but no, because I''m being sarcastic.


    [inaudible]


    Max: Yeah, I know, babes. [sigh] Okay. Deep breath. I don''t want to have football conversations with you. Because they aren''t conversations, they are diatribes where you tell me what I''m doing wrong. You don''t listen when I explain that the thing you think is true is false. You hear things on talkSPORT and podcasts and you believe the last thing anyone told you. You go to matches and scream at the players to do the exact opposite of what I''ve told them. A midfielder gets close to the box? Shoooooot! After I''ve screamed in his face and risked my relationship with him because that''s the last thing we need. What do you cheer? Tackles. So players want to do tackles. After I''ve been paying elite coaches to train them not to tackle. What do you hate? Passing backwards to draw teams out. Which is a great way to win football matches. What do you do when a player makes a mistake? Bury him. It''s savage. And me and a team of specialists have to spend three days building his confidence back up.


    Boggy: It''s ingrained, Max. I''ve learned a lot in the last year but I still love a good, old-fashioned crunching tackle.


    Max: Sure, who doesn''t? But it''s my job to know what helps us to win and what makes us lose. I know that down to the Nth degree. The balance of risk and reward is insanely complicated and constantly changing, even within micro passages of play. I think about it non-stop and I''m amazing at it. You can have your opinions and shout them all over the pub, but don''t waste my time with them. That''s got to be fair enough, right? The board''s job is to make sure I''ve not got my hand in the till. It''s to make sure the club''s stable and the fans'' needs are being met. They simply don''t have the expertise to question me on footballing matters. It''s not a very nice thing to say but there we have it. If you want someone on the board to represent you on football matters like signings and formations then you need to elect a former player or someone with a coaching badge.


    Boggy: Would you want to meet such a candidate and give him the okay, so to speak?


    Max: That''s absurd. I can''t tell you who to elect. Just don''t send racists. You don''t need a former player on the board to check my work - you can ask Jackie or Ryan or another player. Does this guy know what he''s talking about? How''s training? Are you fit? Are you being treated fairly? And so on. The board could do it like that. Or they could look at the league table and say oh that''s weird we were nearly relegated ten minutes ago how''s he done that?


    Jackie: They want you to talk to them, Max. That''s all.


    Max: That''s not all. They''re football fans. They always want more than they''ve got. They always want more than I can give. So how about I give them nothing? They''re equally unhappy but at least I''ve saved some energy to do the job.


    Jackie: You''re exaggerating a little bit. You could talk more than you do.


    Max: Like what? December 20th. Tweet from Max Best. Hey guys, deep in negotiations with Banbury trying to sign one of their players. You''ll never guess who! Lol! Oops their fans are outside the stadium trying to block the deal. Oops another team is bidding. Might be better to do deals in private, don''t you think?


    Jackie: Not every signing is that controversial. Chris Beaumont was a lot of money. You could explain why you value him so much and you could explain what you''re thinking about upcoming games. Let fans know what tactical problems you face.


    Max: Or I could just call the other manager and tell him my line up and what we''re going to try to do.


    Jackie: Come on, lad. If this lot knew how much effort you put into what looks effortless, they''d have a different opinion of you. They don''t see the graft and the hours. Give them a hint about how hard it is and how good you are.


    Max: But why? Just cheer the team, enjoy the goals, enjoy the wins.


    Jackie: They want to be involved.


    Max: Yeah? I want to involve them. But Ollie wants the moon on a stick and I don''t have a moon and I don''t have a stick. Right. Last big topic. Trust. Loads of questions on this list about trust. How can we trust you? I want to think you turned the Raffi bids down for a good reason but I can''t because I don''t trust you. And so on. Trust. Mmm.


    Secretary Joe: What? Sorry, I just got a... I have to go check something. I''ll be back.


    Max: Got to do it in an Arnie accent, mate. Trust is hard, isn''t it? Because I don''t trust you lot to take my work and continue it. When I lose five matches in a row, and I will, you''ll sack me and then you''ll dismantle everything I''ve done. You''ll sell Raffi for peanuts, you''ll sell Youngster for buttons, and Pascal will be put on a shelf somewhere. The youth teams will be neglected and the next time there''s a bit of a cash shortage someone will break my promise to the women and use their budget to prop up the men. I want to build something at this club but sometimes I wonder what the point is. You''re all mad at me for something absolutely trivial that didn''t hurt the club in the slightest. Where was that anger when the youth system was a smouldering wreck? Where was that anger when the football was reactionary dogshit? When injured players were forced to play? You''re mad at trivial shit and you don''t value things that are actually important.


    Jackie: Fucking hell, Max. [sigh] But when you''re right, you''re right.


    Max: You don''t trust me? It''s hilarious. Before me, decisions at this club were mostly terrible. Now, they''re mostly perfect. I started out fighting for the youth team, fought for the injured players, fought to improve the culture, fought to improve standards in training. I''ve been fighting and fighting and when I got to my limit I went for a break and that''s when you found your voice. That''s when you had an opinion. What''s funny is that I have extra motivation to get you onside because if I stay in Chester Emma will come and stay with me half the week and that''s something I need to happen. I need it. But even with that carrot, I can''t stand here and hear all this crap about loyalty and trust. You came to ask me questions. Let me ask you one.


    MD: Go on.


    Max: Where is everybody?


    MD: What do you mean?


    Max: I mean last season we were getting 2,000 a match. This season it''s up a bit. What''s the average home attendance? 2,100? More against Warrington, obviously, local rivals, and they brought a fair few. Most of the bigger crowds have been because teams like York brought a lot of away fans. We''re top of the league, we play incredible football, we use kids, it''s exciting, we do loads of community stuff, yeah we''ve had some media attention - that other clubs would kill for by the way - and there''s no-one here. Ollie asked why I went into the crowd at Tranmere. Because there''s seven thousand people going crazy! Even I couldn''t resist. I want that here. The fans we get are noisy. It''s a noisy stadium when you get going and I love it. But I want more. I want it full. I want to be so sucked into the moment that I don''t even know what''s happening. I want to be bombarded with questions about expanding the ground. But there''s two thousand people who come, watch the match, have a great time, and go home and tell absolutely no-one about it. We''re on track to score 112 goals this season. Why aren''t we getting 3,000? 4,000?


    Jackie: Only Max would turn a Fans Forum into a Manc Inquisition.


    [nervous laughter]


    Max: Hey, I get that my tone might be belligerent or fractious or whatever but I''m genuinely asking. I know the ticket prices went up but it''s still top value for money. Why aren''t attendances going up?


    Boggy: I think it''s very fair to ask.


    MD: I don''t know.


    Max: Ollie?


    Boggy: He doesn''t have the mic.


    Max: I want to play football in front of seven thousand people. Seventeen thousand people. Seventy thousand people. I''m not like most players but even I had my mind blown by the sheer fucking euphoria of scoring that equaliser in front of seven thousand crazy fans. Players want to play for big clubs in front of big crowds. It''ll be easier to sign players when the stadium''s full and rocking. Can I get that in Chester or not?


    MD: Can I ask a question?


    Max: Yes.


    MD: What did you mean about building something? You mean getting into the EFL? Expanding the stadium? I¡¯m not sure you¡¯ve ever spoken this ambitiously.


    Max: Okay, interesting. Crunch time. I was thinking this was like a relationship. I''m the gorgeous blonde lawyer with the EQ and the barely legal smile. You''re the needy Manc twat who can''t keep his mouth shut but is somehow still in with a chance.


    Ryan Jack: If this kicks off can you all remember that I can''t run? Thanks.


    Jackie: If this is a relationship then you cheated on us with the club who bullied us in school.


    Max: That wasn''t cheating. We just danced a little and there was one kiss that got out of control.


    Ryan: And she paid you.


    Max: And she paid me. Wait.


    Jackie: For those at the back, Emma''s got questions about Max''s definition of cheating.


    Max: What I''m saying is that, failed similes aside, I am willing to work on our relationship. For the babies.


    Jackie: Is that the youth team now or what?


    Max: I don''t know. I just said it because it felt good. One sign of a healthy relationship is honesty, isn''t it? So I''m going to try being honest and we''ll see where that gets us.


    Jackie: We just got a double blast of honesty. Not sure we can take much more.


    [laughter]


    Max: The truth is, I haven''t been completely open. Is everyone excited? Here''s the deal. I''ve been looking at the history of Chester City. Before and after World War 2 you were always a solid third tier side. The 60s were a big dip into tier 4, roaring back to 3, crash, recovery, and then it gets terminal about where you got that shitty owner. Overall, a third tier team which gets sucked into trouble every now and then. That''s Chester. Am I right, MD?


    MD: Yes, I''d say so. Historically.


    Max: As far as I can tell, the average attendance in the third tier last year was around seven thousand. So to sustain itself in League One, a club should be looking to have seven thousand fans going to every home game. MD?


    MD: Logical.


    Max: I personally have very little interest in staying in non-league football for very long. If you guys want to stick around tiers 5 and 6 then I''ll stay to the end of this season, grab my trophies, my medals, and my Manager of the Year award, and then I''ll fuck off somewhere else, no big deal.


    Secretary Joe: Sorry. I''m back. Max, can we talk? It''s urgent.


    Max: In a second. I''m on one. We''re going to win the league this year. If I''m still in charge, we''re going to struggle at the start of next season but sort it out in time for a late charge into the playoffs. Hate the playoffs, but we should be pretty good by then. Let''s say it''s three tight matches and your boy Max Best steps up with last minute winners in every one and celebrates or doesn''t as he wants because he''s a free man. Boom, we''re in League Two. Mate, League Two is a joke. Three teams promoted automatically and one playoff spot? Are you fucking joking? After the National League that''s a piece of piss.


    MD: Hold on. Are you saying you want to take us to League One? In how many years?


    Max: In three years. Weren''t you listening?


    MD: One promotion per year?


    Max: The only hard one is next season. If there''s a team like Wrexham or Notts County who are going to get 110 points then we''d need a fast start and we won''t get that. Bromley got into the playoffs on 71 points. I don''t see how we play 46 games and fail to get 71 points. Come on.


    MD: But how would we do it? Wrexham and Notts County had massive investment. If we get promoted our budget will be mid-table.


    Max: We do it by using our resources well. Using our brains. Buy low, sell high. We do it by having a full stadium of nutjobs scaring opponents, intimidating referees, and urging our players to grab a last-minute winner. We do it with those goosebump moments where a young player makes a mistake and after a disappointed moment the crowd fucking roars support and encouragement. That''s how. And I reckon my haircut''s worth about seventy points a season.


    MD: You lifted us in the National League North, that''s obvious, and we''ve even got a good shot at winning it. But the National League has some big hitters. There''s whoever drops from League Two. Not Tranmere, any more. Grimsby are in danger. They''re big! Forest Green Rovers have money. Look who''s already in there. Oldham, Chesterfield, Rochdale, Southend. The competition is fierce. It''s cut-throat.


    Max: Cut-throat? I''ll eat their babies. The only question is - can we do it fast enough? Because I''m not interested in sticking around for consolidation seasons. It''s up or out for me.


    MD: Max, it needs money.


    Max: We''ve got assets. We''ll sell Raffi in the summer. There''s other players making a name for themselves. And there''s ways to improve the squad on the cheap. There''s the exit trials. There''s young players. I''m coming at it from all angles. The details don''t matter right now. You guys, you''ve got a choice. You let me take you to the third tier or you start looking for a new manager to take over next season.


    Boggy: League One seems ambitious, to say the least.


    Max: I''ve already started. There were questions about why we let certain players go and haven''t renewed contracts. It''s because I''m building a League One team. I reckon we''ve got seven players who can play in League One.


    MD: Seven?


    Max: Well, one of them is Ryan. He''ll have to turn the clock back a little bit but I reckon he can do a job for us. Stanley Matthews was the best player in Europe in his forties.


    Jackie: What about the women?


    Max: The women''s ceiling is way higher than the men''s. If we don''t go up this year, it''ll happen next and it should be a pretty straight line.


    MD: We''re not set up to be a League One team. I''m in a panic just thinking about it.


    Max: We do it step by step. This summer we don¡¯t need much. We add a reserve team and more youth teams. Every age group for the boys, half for the girls. We need a kitchen and staff. We need some new toys for the training ground. Cameras and stuff.


    Jackie: We bought some.


    Max: What?


    Jackie: Pitch one has cameras all round, now. Sandra films training and cuts bits up for the lads to look at. And we got some ball machines and some bits and pieces.


    Max: Okay. Sounds good. Where''s Joe gone? He looked worried.


    MD: Er... popped out again.


    Max: I want to hear from Ollie. Get him the mic.


    Boggy: There''s other voices.


    Max: Ollie speaks for the masses. Everything he says gets applause.


    Ollie: If you want to be here for three years, sign a three-year contract.


    [applause]


    Max: There we go. You''re not listening. You want loyalty that you won''t give me. I''ll sign a three-year contract if everyone in this room puts five thousand pounds - each - into escrow so that if I''m fired after losing five in a row, I''ll get that money. It''s a marriage you want? Sack me and I get half the club. You wouldn''t ever do it. You can''t have more from me than you''re willing to give, Ollie. I''m the Emma of this relationship and that means that if I get the chance to go off and play in Japan for a month for big money, I''m going to go. If they ask me to manage Ghana at the next African Cup of Nations, that sounds fun. I''ll prepare Chester some packed lunches and oven meals and leave notes about which bills need to be paid, go and do my side hustle, come right back, blast you into orbit. That''s what I''m offering.


    Ollie: Jackie. Help me out. Tell me you''re on our side.


    Jackie: Max is on your side if you''d only listen to him.


    [smattering of applause]


    Jackie: It''s almost funny watching this. It''s like the village has come together to talk about cooking the golden goose.


    Max: What?


    Jackie: It''s an old saying. You don''t know that one? But what I think is really funny is that Max is trying to take this relationship to the next level and watching him flirt is incredible. He''s always passing himself off as a sort of Mister Lover Lover but turns out he''s read that pick up artist book and all he knows is negging.


    Ryan: He could learn a thing or two from you, Jack?


    Jackie: Reckon so.


    [They laugh in Scouse]


    Max: I''m not trying to flirt with or seduce Ollie. I''m not in love with Chester Football Club. I want a trophy wife. That''s a wife who picks up my trophies.


    Ollie: Ah, here we go. This is good. There''s a lot of people who can''t get past the question, why us? What happens if Man United come calling? If you''re as good as you think, that could happen. Will you be off? What about if Tranmere offer you the job? You''ll be off then and we''ll be stuck with loads of players you rate that no-one else does. Or loads of tiny midfielders on eight-year contracts and we play nice football and ship two goals a game from corners.


    Max: You went off track a bit there. Why Chester, right? Emma, is this one where I''m honest? She''s not sure. Me neither. Let''s try honesty. There''s no special reason why it''s Chester. You''re fan-owned, which is very important to me. You say Tranmere and I think the owner there is fantastic and a great guy but he''s a guy and if I make the club successful he''ll bag his profit and I''ll be stuck with some arsehole. Amazingly, Ollie, I prefer you.


    [some laughter]


    Max: As for other teams... In April 2021, six English football teams conspired to annihilate English football. They took sledgehammers to the ankles of the sport, tried to nuke the pyramid, tried to end the very concept of competition. Those six clubs got a tiny slap on the wrist from the other 14 Premier League teams who were too cowardly to kick them out of the league like they deserved. I will never, ever manage Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchester City, United, or Tottenham and while I watch United and hope they do well in a general, vague sense, it doesn''t move me if they win or lose. Whatever passion I had, they snuffed out that day. If they get new owners and beg and beg, they''ll have to do something immense to show their contrition, like give every EFL team a million pounds. So that''s them. Newcastle United? Emma knows how I feel about climate criminals and despots. The rest of the Premier League and the Championship is owned by ghouls, hedge funds, billionaires whose faces make my skin crawl. Is it possible one of them makes me an offer I can''t refuse? Maybe. But it''s a long way down the pyramid till you start finding clean clubs. My standards are so high I''ve been brought this low. So of all the fan-owned teams it''s Chester because Jackie brought me here and while I''ve been pissing you off since day one, you''ve let me get on with the football stuff. Oh, another relationship thing. You were a mess when I came and like all incurable romantics I thought I could fix you. If things were more solid, were working better, it might have been hard to switch things round to my way. I can achieve my goals here in a way that might be much harder at some other clubs.


    Ollie: Okay, I respect the honesty about us not being your dream club.


    Max: I''ve never said otherwise.


    Ollie: I know, but... But what about Raffi? You need money to get players. Why would you turn down bids that we haven''t seen here since Ian Rush?


    Max: When I scouted Raffi the first time I knew he was a great prospect. He''s got the steel that Ian Evans liked and the silk that I like. Almost a perfect central midfielder. But what even I didn''t realise was how great he is at getting goals from midfield. We''ve always had a problem here that teams can shut Aff down and we look uninspired. What I''ve worked on is Aff left, one of three different guys right, Henri and now Chris up front. Right? So you''ve got menace from all angles. It''s very dangerous. But good defences will cope, even with that. So you add Ryan Jack to get more craft. Amazing, but they might pull a midfielder or striker deeper to try to close up some space. Then! Raffi Brown makes a late run into the box. How do you defend that? You can''t stop us if we''re coming from all angles. We''ll get you one way or another.


    Ryan: And if you try a low block, Chris makes mincemeat out of you. [laughs] He''s trying to build the perfect football team and you''re trying to bin him off!


    Max: When I came to Chester as Raffi''s agent I said I wanted an eight hundred thousand pound release clause. MD and Ian didn''t think twice because it would never get triggered. I knew better, and I think it will get triggered this summer, or someone will get close enough, maybe with some add-ons. But again, that was the Raffi I thought I saw. How much is goalscoring Raffi worth? Goals from midfield have a cash value. It''s my job to make hard decisions and there''s always an element of risk if you hold out for more money and it never comes. If Raffi leaves this club for free you''ll call me incompetent or corrupt or whatever but that''s a risk I''ll take because I know his value. And by the way, we need him for the rest of the season. I think it''s obvious we''re relying on him, big time. And if there are no bids in the summer, ouch. But we''ve got him for next year and wow - wait till you see him then. He''d wreck the National League. Is him shooting us up to the EFL worth four hundred thousand? I''ve no idea. I''d prefer the money, I reckon, but it''s not clear cut. I''m his agent and he trusts me and there are win-win solutions all round. But don''t ask me to accept lowball offers because I won''t.


    MD: I find it stressful to turn down such offers but it''s also exciting that we have players like that at the club and that''s because of Max.


    [applause]


    MD: Max, you know I understand your point of view and totally accept that you went to Tranmere for good reasons and left us in good shape, and I know you''re going to do more controversial things in the future. So it might just be nice for everyone and for me to hear that although we''re maybe not your dream woman, you''re happy to be here.


    Max: I love managing Chester. I''m a builder and I want to build something awesome, and that''s happening. It''d be a gut punch to leave, now, but if you don''t like what I''m doing, that''s fine. It''s your club. I keep saying it because it''s true. Here''s... Here''s what I''ve been thinking today, because of my girlfriend, mostly. I realised that I can build a team that takes this club to League One. I know it sounds loopy to some of you but I''m really fucking good at it. Can I get eleven players on the pitch who will win most games they play? Yes. Can I organise them so they''ll actually win? Yes. Can I find five subs and backup players and young guys to come in like a production line? Yes. All that is various shades of easy.


    [inaudible]


    Max: Cocky? What''s cocky about that?


    [laughter]


    Max: But what I can''t do is sustain that after I''ve gone. To get to the third tier we''re going to need to expand the stadium and buy our own training facilities and equip it and hire chefs and nutritionists and data nerds and media ghouls. I''ll make us a profit in the transfer market and leave you with some assets but what then? We need to work together to fill the stadium. To turn my, let''s say unconventional ability to generate media attention into cash. To make sure the culture I''ve created lives on. Some of you might not like it but the players do and that''s why it needs to stay. The board need to support MD in driving revenue and working out stadium expansion plans and finding land for a training complex and hundreds of things like that - and leave me to manage the football side.


    MD: And you won''t pop along to tell us how to do our jobs?


    Max: Of course not, mate.


    [laughter]


    Max: That''s all future stuff. This season... it''s like we''ve just moved in together. You''re staring at my toothbrush on your bathroom sink and you''re thinking... not sure about this.


    [laughter]


    Max: And I''m thinking, you know what... I could do better.


    [laughter]


    Max: But I''m here. I''m young but I''m old enough to know the grass isn''t always greener on the other side. This relationship could work. It really could. [pause] I''m a human being and I need things. I need breaks from work, I need money, and I need new experiences. I''m open to mad offers, but this is my job. This is my home. I''ll be here on the final day of the season. We''re going to parade around with our league trophy, our Cheshire Cup, our women''s league, our youth trophies. [laughs] I''ll bring you my League Two Player of the Month for January, too, if you want to see that. I assume I''ll get it. I was fucking amazing.


    Jackie: Read the room, Max, Jesus Christ.


    Max: Fine, I''ll just stick it on my fridge. Hang on.


    MD: What? What?


    Max: Why do you have tartlets in your fridge if you don''t like them?


    MD: Who are you talking to?


    Secretary Joe: Oh my God! MD! Max! It''s really happened.


    MD: What has?


    Secretary Joe: Just before, I got a big deposit in the club''s account. A big one. Eight hundred thousand pounds!


    Jackie: The fuck?


    Ryan: Eight - Has anyone seen Raffi today?


    [inaudible]


    MD: Sandra''s shouting that he was at training.


    Max: Why are you talking about Raffi?


    Jackie: Max!


    Max: I''m his agent. He can''t...


    Secretary Joe: You got some money today. Does the amount...? I mean... it''s too soon to be from Tranmere.


    Max: The fucking transfer window is closed. Everybody calm the fuck down!


    Secretary Joe: It''s the Saudi Pro League. Their windows are longer. They can still buy players. Max, he''s gone. They paid the release money and the paperwork''s done. He''s gone. Here we go! I mean... sorry.


    Max: Saudi? Why would they want a non-league player?


    Jackie: Because he''s a goalscoring midfielder with a high ceiling, like you said.


    Max: But he''s not famous. This is all a big misunderstanding, right? Can everyone stop shouting for two seconds? [pause] The buyout fee to change agent is exactly the same as what I was expecting from Tranmere. What the hell...


    Secretary Joe: Exactly the same? Did you include taxes?


    Max: No. Taxes, right. I won''t get full whack from Tranmere. And that explains why the money came from the Cayman Islands. [pause] He''s binned me off without a word. He wouldn''t, though. Joe, has he really gone? [pause] Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking shit.


    MD: Let''s take a short break.


    Ollie: Is it a break or the end?


    MD: It''s a break.


    Ollie: It''s just that Max has run off.


    MD: It''s just a break. We''ll be back in ten minutes. Okay? It''s not the end.


    THE END

 6.15 - Epilogue

    15.


    Saturday, Feb 3


    Match 28 of 46: Chester versus Banbury United


    The ball came to me on our right. My first touch killed the ball, but it felt wrong. The ball was heavy and sullen. Beside me, the community stand was quiet, like a heavy blanket had been draped over it. The little away section on this quarter of the ground was deserted; the few dozen Banbury fans were behind the goal I was attacking.


    Attacking? Hardly.


    I rolled the ball under my foot, away from the defender, evaded the onrushing midfielder, and clipped a pass back to Carl. He waited to see if I would surge down the line. I didn''t. He passed square to Steve Alton; the move would happen down the left or not at all.


    A moment later I realised my hands were on my head, and not from any particular physical exertion. I had been doing my defensive duties but with our highest CA defender behind me - Carl was fast becoming one of the best in the league - there wasn''t much need for my services. I pulled my hands down and resolved to look like a professional footballer.


    Not long after, I had forgotten my resolution and was on my haunches, scanning the pitch and the stadium, looking everywhere except for the centre of midfield where a giant blood-soaked sinkhole was gently throbbing.


    "Max!" called Sam Topps, with some urgency.


    His need bypassed my mood; I sprinted away, past the startled left back, to give him an option. Sam leaned back and did his best Ryan Jack impression, trying to roll the ball into my path like a snooker player - Ronnie O''Sullivan coaxing the white behind the blue, sweet as a tartlet. His attempt lacked a bit of pace, so suddenly the left back was favourite to get there first. I competed but the defender was strong enough to hold me off and he played the ball back to his goalie. Henri jogged towards it to stop them wasting time, and then the ball was launched long.


    Banbury''s average CA had actually improved without Chris Beaumont in their lineup, but they were much, much less dangerous. They''d found a big, strong boy to replace him so they could keep playing the same way. The new lad had good heading and was more mobile, but he didn''t have the X-factor. Glenn and Steve took it in turns to carry him around in their pockets.


    MD, Sec Joe, Boggy. Even Ollie. "Look on the bright side," they''d said. Trying to cheer me up. Cheer? Up? In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, when the evil priest tears out a victim''s heart and shows it to him, still beating, at least no-one says, "Cheer up, mate. Could be worse."


    Raffi Brown, who I''d plucked from obscurity - no, fuck him. He was dead to me. Find ''Raffi'' replace ''traitor''.


    My hands were on my head again. I''d been trying to use the screens less when I was playing. Playing au naturel helped with fatigue and I had Sandra to help me with in-match decisions. I opened them now, though, to glance at the match ratings. Nothing stood out - it was a pretty drab game that we were dominating, but there had barely been any shots.


    William B. Roberts was a new name on the Banbury bench. Sometimes the curse added initials to player names, especially if they were pretty common - it avoided confusion. Had it added the B. because we had Robbo Robson on the bench?


    One reason we weren''t creating much is that Aff was struggling. Banbury weren''t playing a low block but were strung out in a defensive 4-5-1. They''d tasked their right mid to drop back and help the right back deal with Aff, and it was working. Of course, if they were doing double coverage against Aff on their right and were doing the same against me on their left, then the middle should have been badly exposed.


    The middle. Where Ryan would have picked their lock with angled, well-weighted passes. Where Raffi -


    "FUCK!" I screamed.


    I looked on the bright side.


    The bright side of losing the 150,000 a year I would have got when he made it to the Championship. The bright side of having no midfield threat. The bright side of being dumped, not even by text, but by bank transfer. The bright side of having my heart ripped out in public. Worst of all, I had to go through the motions of playing a football match before I was allowed to die.


    Nothing had been resolved at the Fans Forum. Both sides had said their piece but nothing had been accomplished. Perhaps my relationship with the Chester fans was slightly worse. I''d told them off for not turning up and now the stands looked even sparser than usual - I''d know the definitive attendance when the second half started. Not only did I never get a honeymoon period, but also the wedding was off. One of us was doing it wrong!


    The bright side? We''d nearly tripled Chester''s record sale for a player. Back in the olden days, Chester City had sold a young hotshot called Ian Rush to Liverpool for 300,000. Eight hundred K was insane money for a small club. In most scenarios it would have felt like a miraculous injection of cash but today the mood was sombre. This wasn''t a football match. This wasn''t a wedding. This was a funeral.


    It was all Old Nick''s doing, that was clear. My human enemies were low-rent - Bradley Rymarquis and Richard Carling. Folke Wester and the media twat I''d kicked in the face. There was no connection between them and the Saudi Pro League. No chance. Unless... unless Rymarquis had developed a relationship with a scout for the SPL over the last four weeks. Perhaps they had been coming to every match to check on Raffi and if I''d been around I''d have seen it and would have been able to swerve out of danger. But I''d been in Tranmere.


    My own fault?


    What could I have done differently? The transfer window was closed. Like, proper closed. Who could have imagined in a million years the SPL would be interested in Raffi? He''d been called up for England C, yes, and his numbers were good. Serious English clubs had been bidding on him. So the Saudis had overpaid by 30 or 40%, so what? That''s what they did. But who could have predicted it?


    The ball came to me again. I shaped to pass inside to Magnus, dipped my shoulder, went around the defender and was immediately tackled by the covering midfielder. The ball went out of play and I threw it back to Carl with an urgency that didn''t fit the rest of the match or my own personal performance.


    We were miles better than Banbury. We should have been able to grind out a result. I''d sat with Sandra to go through our options, but we didn''t have many. Ryan was done for the season. Joe Anka was a couple of weeks away from training. Chris Beaumont couldn''t play against the team that owned him.


    In addition, our morale had been squashed like an organically-grown orange. We normally had much higher morale than every team we ever played. Today was the first time we''d been lower, the first time we were collectively below the midpoint, and the first time I''d had to leave someone out of the lineup because of morale.


    That person was Pascal and Pascal was a wreck. If anyone was taking Raffi''s betrayal worse than me, it was him. Raffi had been like an older brother to the German, who was an only child. The only child had spent the whole morning one stray thought from blubbering, but kept it together enough to ask, "Has anyone heard from him? I''ve tried to call. He doesn''t pick up. Has he texted anyone?" His morale was on abysmal - the lowest.


    Hence why I was playing right midfield.


    We were doing 4-1-4-1 with Ben in goal, a defence of Eddie Moore, Glenn Ryder, Steve Alton, and Carl Carlile. Three silvers and two golds in that group.


    Youngster was the holding midfielder. Under the tutelage of a coaching megabrain - Sandra - and with his number of minutes being carefully managed by another megabrain - me - he had eased to CA 49. Silver, but in touching distance of gold.


    Sam and Magnus patrolled the middle. Sam was so, so close to platinum, which was great. But it was also his limit. And he couldn''t pass like Ryan or score like... like... the traitor. Sam was a very good, very solid destroyer of enemy attacks. And so was Magnus. His CA had crept up to 48 and I could play him anywhere in defence or midfield. But that central axis of Youngster, Sam, and Magnus was sorely lacking in creativity.


    Fortunately we had Aff on CA 58. If we could get him into the final third with a bit of space, he''d mess teams up and fire crosses and low passes to Henri, CA 63. Henri was stuck again, but we just had to live with it. Our schedule was Tuesday/Saturday almost non-stop until the end of the season. Managing availability was my new challenge, not squeezing every drop of talent out of my star players.


    While the team lacked a bit of magic, it had an average CA of 52.4. And there was one flair player in the blue and white stripes...


    Unfortunately, that was me. I reckoned I was around CA 90, physically. Mentally I was CA 1, morale 1, traitors unmasked 1, number of hearts left in body zero. And that was the problem with me having Influence 20. If I was in a black mood, it spread to the rest of the team.


    We ran and competed and did our jobs. We were professional. But with low morale, there was no spark; we didn''t do the extras. We didn''t make the selfless runs that cost us energy but opened just a fraction of a yard of space so someone could get a better angle on a pass or someone could get a second to put some quality on a shot. We didn''t do the extra covering, didn''t call out danger, didn''t suffer or sacrifice in any way. We were so much better than the oppo that it didn''t much matter, but one day it would.


    The bright side? We were top of the league with a game in hand. We had eight hundred grand in the bank. Money that would be bugger all help in the rest of the season. We couldn''t sign players apart from free agents and none of the ones in my database were over CA 32. Even if I did pick up a decent out-of-contract dude, he would need weeks to get up to match fitness. Vivek and Michael were doing well at West - impressing the manager and other players - but were far from ready for meaningful National League North action.


    No, the squad was the squad. And that''s why I had Bark on the bench instead of D-Day. Our loan deal for Chris Beaumont was set in stone, but if we didn''t give Bark minutes or weren''t seen to be developing him, Tranmere could recall him and we''d be struggling even more. Mateo and James wouldn''t do it, probably, but why take the risk? D-Day had taken my decision well. He knew he''d get minutes, he knew he''d be involved, he knew I was under the cosh. He was a dick but when it came to the crunch he was a team player.


    Youngster and Glenn combined to deal with a long ball to the Banbury big boy. Youngster scampered away with the ball and fizzed it to Magnus. It was the sort of pass he had been playing to the traitor, but Magnus had a totally different style. He lost the ball and Sam Topps stretched and threw himself into a sliding tackle to recover it. A Banbury guy did the same and the two players clattered into each other.


    Both guys'' pace went red and both injury screens said ''potential foot injury''.


    Well, wasn''t that peachy?


    I made the ''sub'' signal to the dugout while I waited for Dean to come and check out the sitch. Sam, naturally, said he wanted to stay on. I bent and loomed over him. "Mate. We''ve got twenty more games this season. Shut the fuck up and start getting ready for next Saturday."


    "What about Tuesday night?"


    "Are you fucking stupid?"


    He slumped back to the turf. "No, Max."


    "Dean, give me a minute."


    "Yes, boss."


    I meant that he should keep Sam there so I could talk to Sandra about the subs. She wanted Tony on to support Henri, maybe moving to 4-3-3. I wanted to get our loanee on to show his club that I would use him. "Let''s stick with this. Bark right mid. I''ll go in the centre."


    So the team became much more youthful, much less experienced, and much less dense in CA. We fell to under 49. Still well ahead of Banbury''s 40, but now within the range where losing wouldn''t be such an upset.


    From the centre of midfield I kept things tidy, moved the ball around, and made interceptions. But my heart wasn''t in it. My heart, you''ll remember, had been ripped out and tossed aside and unless the cleaners had been, it was still on the stage in a drab conference room.


    ***


    The ref blew for half time and I trudged, slow as a toddler who doesn''t want to leave a puddle, towards the tunnel. Two of the imps were there in their favoured spots. Tactics Imp was wearing smart trousers with a fancy belt, a plain white shirt rolled up at the sleeves with two buttons undone at the neck, and he had a black jumper or cardigan wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Around one wrist sat a very chunky, very expensive looking watch. The effect was ruined or enhanced, depending on your point of view, by one of those plain plastic bracelet things that support some good cause or other.


    Snake Imp had gone for a different vibe. He was in a baggy black T-shirt with words in a chunky yellow font: JUST A MAX THANG. He had at least thirty gold chains around his neck, a gold watch on one wrist, gold bracelets on the other. The inevitable snapback was far too big for him, but perhaps that was to get the embroidered letters as big as possible: MBFTW.


    Old Nick had leveraged my January XP well, then, and there were plenty of Hell Points to go round. At least someone in the stadium was happy. When they saw me looking, both formed their fingers into W signs. W for Wibwob. It looked more congruent coming from Snake Imp.


    In the dressing room, I checked on Sam - he would be fine by next Saturday - and sat on the cramped bench - cramped apart from one unoccupied section with an empty hook - and wallowed in misery. Glenn barely spoke. Aff didn''t call anything deadly. Henri was in a distant world of his own. Sandra gave us a few minutes to collect our thoughts; we would need a lot more than that.


    The door opened and Jackie stepped in. He asked for Youngster. Behind Jackie, Kisi poked her head in and waved at Sandra. She was pulled back by Meghan, the Butcher of Burnage. I knew she had a crush on Youngster. Whatever this was, it was kid''s stuff; I ignored it.


    So I was pretty surprised when Youngster went to the tactics board and coughed to get our attention.


    "I would like to give the half time team talk," he said. The level of astonishment was on a par with the events of the night before.


    Sandra looked over - I shrugged. Why not? Life couldn''t get any worse.


    Youngster looked over at the doorway. Jackie was nodding, while Kisi and Meghan were holding each other''s hands, unable to believe their luck. "When I first came to this country," said James Yalley, a player who now represented almost the entirety of my financial hopes and dreams, "I knew there would be things I would not understand. Tea with milk. Cricket. Dr. Who. Ben''s inability to park within the lines."


    "Oi!"


    "But I never expected the taps. One is hot. One is cold. The system is quite stupid. What if you would like some warm water?"


    His goofy smile made everyone turn to me. They saw some tiny tears and one big smile. "James, you weren''t there. How do you know the words?"


    "Kisi repeats it often. But, Mr. Best... I have something I would like to say and I would like to use my own words, not my father''s. I am not sure I have the courage. I do not think everyone will like it."


    "If everyone likes what you''re doing, you''re doing it wrong."


    "Do you believe that?"


    I scoffed. "I''m Max Best. I have to."


    "Very well." He took a deep breath. "What has happened is unfathomable. It is beyond belief. But we know Raffi Brown to be a good man. If he left us without a word of explanation, there must be a reason."


    "Yeah," spat Sam. "For five grand a week on a four-year contract." The numbers slapped me in the face. They sounded right. The only way to be sure would be to go to Saudi Arabia and watch a match featuring the traitor. Yeah, veto.


    "Oh," said Youngster. "Perhaps. But regardless, I believe that if Jesus were here, he would want us to forgive Raffi Brown."


    I shook my head. "No-one has ever said this before or even thought this before, but I think Jesus was a better person than me." Kisi thought I was being hilarious, but Jackie made the girls leave and followed suit, giving me a little nod before departing. "But thanks, James, bro. Someone needed to say something and God knows it wasn''t going to be me." I smiled. "And I needed the laugh."


    The squad did, too, even if most didn''t know about the taps. They''d reacted to my reaction and they somehow knew Youngster had played one of his aces. The average morale had gone up. A little bit more might be the kick we needed to get a goal in the second half and keep our lead at the top of the table. Something told me we couldn''t afford any slip-ups.


    "Max," said Sandra, gently pushing Youngster away from the tactics board. Sam gave him a fist bump as he went past. My assistant manager had her little book out. "Would you like me to give the lads some notes?"


    "Yes please, mum," I said.


    The noise was deafening. Shouts, calls, whoops. Morale went green all across the board. Angles hugged Sandra then Goliath gave her a high five. Sam, Tony, and Henri were in fits, side by side on the bench. Gerald, Magnus, and Glenn stood so they could fall into each other. Pascal was laughing so hard Livia was worried about him.


    When the mayhem subsided just enough, the Brig stepped in front of D-Day. "Pay up, lad."


    D-Day looked panicked. "What?"


    "I wagered on Max."


    D-Day started to reach into his kit bag - from what I had heard, this bet was big news; was he carrying around over a thousand in cash? - then pointed from the Brig to me. "Fix! It''s a fix!"


    "Pardon me, sir?" The Brig fixed him with a steely gaze that Donny would normally have withered under.


    Not this time. "You told him! He did it on purpose! What a swizz!"


    There''s a song for Portsmouth Football Club, nickname Pompey, that sounds like a church bell and goes ''Play up, Pompey, Pompey play up!'' Someone - I think it was Glenn - started singing:


    "Pay up, D-Day! D-Day pay up!"


    We all joined in, even Sandra, Dean, Livia, and Vimsy.


    Morale went up up up.


    D-Day, the only one with red morale, snatched his bag, snatched the money, and tried to snatch it into the Brig''s hand, which is linguistically impossible.


    The Brig held it up and we fell silent. After a beat - incredible timing - he yelled, "Big night out if we beat Banbury!"


    Green green green! Sam and Tony pushed and pulled Donny, uttering nonsense at him until he broke into a reluctant grin. He had lost, but in a good way. The story would be the stuff of legend. Well worth whatever his cut of the takings was going to be.


    I slapped my hands together and went to the tactics board.


    "Lads? New plan. You ready?" They were. I slapped the magnets showing our 4-1-4-1. "We do the same, but this time, we do it right. That''s it. Get the fuck back out there."


    "Come on, Chester!" yelled Glenn, and with a final roar, the lads charged out of the dressing room.


    When it was mostly just the senior staff left, I looked at Sandra. "See that? You know who can''t do that? Your boy Pep. You''re in the big leagues, now."


    She shook her head, mock exasperated. "Thanks Max. Very educational. I''m learning a lot. Now do you think we might push Youngster up to CM and get you into more advanced areas? And tell Carl to stay back to cover Bark? And get Eddie further forward like you did with the guy at Tranmere? Without breaking him?"


    I cricked my neck left and right. "No. We had it right first time. We just needed a thumping motivational speech."


    "What was all that about taps?"


    "That?" I said, laughing, putting an arm around her shoulder. "Didn''t I ever tell you? That was how the Beth Heads beat you."


    ***


    As the second half kicked off, I saw the attendance. 1,812. Meagre. Demotivational. But I''d used my morale amplifier and couldn''t let it go to waste. We had to win today and then we''d have a few days to work on our, like, feelings or whatever. Then on Tuesday night we''d hit crosses to Goliath and win at a canter, rotating the squad, conserving energy. Simples.


    The match restarted with us attacking the Harry McNally stand where our noisiest fans were. Banbury kicked off and I sprinted at the ball carrier, slid in front of him, collected the ball, and danced away from a couple of challenges. I waited for movement - Bark was sprinting down the right but was blocked off the ball by the much more experienced full back. Henri was scampering ahead. I knew he''d drift left so that my pass could curve between the centre backs.


    The goalie knew it as well, and he took a few steps forward, ready to sprint out and be a sweeper keeper. So I cocked my leg and struck the ball miles to the side of the goal. It took the keeper a second to understand the danger, but that was nearly enough. He scrambled back across his six-yard box, and at full stretch flung his arms out. He got fingertips to the ball just as it finished its final spinning bounce - it would have crept in at the near post - he pushed it onto the upright. It bounced back onto the back of his head and dribbled towards goal. He twisted and flung himself on it, breathing heavily.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    A lucky escape, but he''d think twice about coming off his line again.


    The incident spooked the away team and they dropped a little deeper. A point against us would be a fantastic result for them, so I expected them to go low block as soon as we got our gander up.


    But for now they were still in the match on their own terms. They won a couple of headers, put a few passes together, forced us back. Youngster cleaned up a bit of a Steve Alton mess, Magnus slid the ball out to Bark, and he did a cute trick to get past the left back. Bark sprinted ahead and had Henri up in support. Bark wanted to hit a low pass or get into slapping position at the side of the box, but he lacked conviction. He slowed, hesitated, and when the defender got back, he turned and passed to Magnus. Chance gone.


    "Come on, man," I said, in a rare moment of on-pitch annoyance. Generally, I was very good at being a positive presence and not slating players for minor mistakes or missteps. The moment clarified that I had a decision to make - which CM to be. By default, I''d taken Sam''s place near Aff, and me and him combining could cause havoc. Or, I thought, it could allow Banbury to flood that side of the pitch and shut us down, making us reliant on the right. Bark was talented but he looked like a boy playing against a man, to the point where it was hard to imagine him impacting the game. Subbing him off - he was a sub himself - would make his confidence even worse. Me going over there would be frustrating if Bark kept making shit decisions.


    A few more minutes passed and our match ratings had increased all round. Lots of sevens, now. We were getting a grip. Banbury sensed that, and one of their players took it upon himself to take decisive action.


    Henri jogged over to force a Banbury centre back into clearing the ball. He aimed it high to the left, towards his number 3 and Bark. Bark had poor heading and jumping but he wasn''t short by any means. The elbow he took was aimed up, into the face.


    I lost my mind, had the 3 in my grip, was snarling at him. The Brig was there to separate us and I cooled enough to check on the kid. He was lucky - no broken nose, eye socket, or jaw.


    And no red card for the assault. The ref bottled it completely, giving a throw in.


    I bent to ask Bark if he was all right. He said yes. Dean said it might be best to take him off. "No," I growled. "We need him. Get up, mate. We''re gonna fuck these cowards up."


    Did my voice get louder as I spoke? Was I right in front of the Banbury bench? I couldn''t say. But by the time Bark got to his feet, my blood was pumping and I''d reorganised the whole team.


    Aff was now playing at left back. Eddie Moore was left centre back, partnering Glenn, and Steve at right back. Carl was the DM. I''d basically rotated everyone one space. That left Magnus and Youngster as the CMs and Bark at right mid. On the tactics screen I started as the left mid, but I had no intention of playing there, which was the whole point.


    "Max!" called Sandra. "What are you doing?"


    What I was doing was playing as a second right winger. I''d probably only get a minute or two of freedom until Banbury realised, but for now every attack would be an overload.


    We competed for the throw in and there was an untidy phase of play. Typical non league fare until Carl, enjoying his unexpected day out in midfield, literally put his foot on the ball like he was, I don''t know, me. He touched it to Youngster who skipped past one tackle - he was getting really good at that line-breaking move, and played a short pass to me.


    That was decision-making 20 because I was absolutely white-hot with rage and ready to slap. I sprinted and passed the ball down the line for Bark to run onto. Then I cut in front of the defender and made him barge into me. Don''t run into a fucking brick wall, mate! The prick was lucky I didn''t elbow him in the grille but I couldn''t afford a suspension while the squad was so thin - I was already in hot water with the Football Association for Facegate.


    Bark realised he was free and accelerated. I untangled myself from the 3 and pumped my legs as hard as I could trying to give Bark an option. Henri darted to the near post. Bark shaped to pass. Henri turned and zipped to the back post. Bark didn''t panic - he swept the ball diagonally back, into my path, and his eyes widened as I clipped it first time, full of side spin, through the defenders, where Henri was dynamically lurking and - GOAL!


    I raced to Bark and bearhugged him, lifted and tried to spin him around. He was a lot heavier than Emma and I wasn''t as strong as I once was, so I only succeeded in moving him a few feet, but his ecstatic laughter was worth it. Henri arrived, we screamed at each other, we screamed at Youngster and Magnus and the others as they came flooding in. A river of us.


    Once the huddle broke, I walked towards the left midfield slot, doing my patented position disguise, but on the way a lot of emotions hit me at the same time. Anger, betrayal, frustration, relief, and what''s this? Even more anger. Fists clenched, I almost doubled up as I roared defiance.


    Smash my boys I''ll smash you.


    Wreck my plans I''ll improvise.


    Block my path I''ll overcome.


    Fuck. You.


    The ref whistled to get the game back underway and I walked right. The match went on around me like I''d been inserted into a cool movie sequence where one guy - Paul Blart: Mall Cop, for example - is on an escalator while the world around him zips past. But then the ball broke and the world flipped - I was the speed, I was the energy, and everyone else was in slow motion.


    I passed to Bark. He touched it back. A tackle came in. I booped the ball over the outstretched leg and moved forward five yards. I passed to Bark again. He touched it back, fell into a sprinter''s start, retreated, and we repeated. More tackles came in. I dodged and weaved and when it was time to nutmeg the full back I pointed, feinted to touch the ball, laughed as he closed his legs, and twisted my body to thrash the ball on a slight diag into Aff''s path. With me attracting all the aggro, he was one-on-one for the first time in the match.


    Aff surges forward with the ball on his favoured left foot.


    He drops a shoulder and moves past the defender with ease.


    He keeps going. Now he needs support.


    Lyons comes square. They exchange passes.


    Aff seems to mis-kick a pass with his right foot.


    No! It has gone straight into the path of Youngster.


    He''s clean through! He dabs the ball to the right of goal...


    Hits the post! The rebound is loose...


    Saved! A defender clears.


    But only as far as Barkley. He sends it back in...


    Lyons is beaten in the air.


    It falls to Aff on the volley...


    Blocked!


    Chester can''t believe they haven''t scored.


    I abandoned all pretence, then, and lined up right next to Bark. If Banbury tried to overload the other side, I''d cover. No problem.


    The goalie played it short to the right back Aff had just skinned, and he smashed long. It was too easy for Ryder to head away, and the ball was cycled to me. The lads knew, now. They knew I was the pass.


    Magnus looked up and played it to me. I shifted my body weight left, then right, then let the ball go through my legs, leaving the 3 bamboozled, but Bark had read my intentions - he was callow but he was smart. He was in place for my dummy, dribbled forward, used me as a decoy to get some space, and chopped left, Ronaldo-style, as he moved from the edge of the box to the D. A retreating midfielder took him out.


    The ref gave a free kick in what future historians will call ''Max Best Territory''.


    Two perks kicked in. First, the offer of the Free Hit. Yes, please. Smash that.


    Second, Masterpiece Theatre. It was pretty cool - it was basically a minimap with eleven circles that I could move around to some extent. I used it now to leave three players back and everyone else to the left of goal. Banbury erected a two-man wall, which I found quite insulting. Two? Try ten, you pricks.


    When was the last time someone had underestimated me from a free kick? Had it been my trial at Chester, when I''d used Raffi to turn an indirect free kick into a direct one?


    Raffi. Raffi, mate, what have you done?


    The ref blew his whistle - I got the impression he''d been doing so for a while. I gave him a little thumbs up and settled into my stance. Beckham or cannonball?


    I pumped my legs like I was running on the spot, released the brake, and slapped that ball as hard as I could. It flew to my right, the goalie''s left - he would save it comfortably - but then physics kicked in and it veered away, away, away...


    The Harry McNally stand leapt, jumped, and hugged. Limbs everywhere. I didn''t hear it, didn''t feel it. It was just a goal. There was no emotion for me. I noted with vague interest that the player who''d been involved in the tackle with Sam, who had stayed on the pitch despite being equally injured, was being helped off. His injury was worse than Sam''s, now. He''d miss more games, come back less fit with more risk of being re-injured.


    I was on the right track. I was doing the right things. But as I''d learned right at the start of my adventure, no good deed goes unpunished.


    My players enveloped me, surrounded me, and took care of the celebrations. I let them; it was my job to suffer.


    ***


    At two-nil down and with me targeting his left back, Banbury''s manager decided to shut up shop. He went low block, tried to keep the score down, and subbed off his 3.


    I raced across and told them what I thought of that. "Hey! Hey! I''m not finished with you. Get back here! What the fuck! Get fucking back here you prick!"


    Bark and Magnus combined to pull me away and the last I saw of the 3 was him heading down the tunnel behind some high-number rando on the touchline waiting to come on instead.


    It didn''t matter who the rando was. Banbury were shit and now they were pulling their necks in like scared little turtles. They could fuck off home. Two hours and thirty minutes of guys asking the three why he had wound me up. Why he had decided to crash his elbow into a young man''s face.


    Banbury kicked off, played a half-hearted long ball to their big boy, and when he was outmuscled by Carl, fell into the low block. I swapped things back to the default formation for the day, pretending to call out to people so Sandra wouldn''t get suspicious.


    Then I went to CM to take the piss without attracting the ire of The Sentinel.


    Starting with... a long-shot bombardment. I took the ball forty yards from goal, shaped to pass to Bark, and instead launched an absolute fucking howitzer that the goalie batted away before shaking his head like a boxer who''d just been punched.


    I was snarling again, I realised, and while the thought did occur to me that I should maybe relax, I was also enjoying it. Let the anger make you strong!


    Next time I got the ball I burst past one tackle and had Bark to the right, Henri moving smartly across goal, and - this confused me - Eddie Moore and Aff racing each other down the left. I decided to do a cheeky little chip to the left to see -


    Two sets of pain hit, one after the other. The first, on the back of my calf from where he kicked me. The second as I crashed into the turf, totally unprepared, totally off balance.


    I stayed down to let Dean come and check me out before I tried to move. If I was injured, now would be a pretty good time to go off. Who could come on? Andrew Harrison, probably. He needed minutes.


    That could wait, though. Dean said everything looked fine and helped me to my feet. I stayed bent for a second while I checked I could wiggle my right toes. When I looked up to see the prick who had fouled me, I fell right back down again.


    The ref came over. "Are you timewasting or not, Best? I can''t tell."


    "Got a bit light-headed. I need ten seconds."


    My assailant was right there, and based on the fact I''d never heard of him, he was making his Banbury debut. Fifteen years old with a B in his name. B for booking. The fine for the yellow card would be thirty pounds. Did he have it? He was registered with Banbury but he didn''t have a full-time contract.


    What he did have was the fucking nerve to foul me on my own patch. He had an almost palpable will to win; steam was coming out of his ears, so frustrated was he at the dire performance of his team and his own inability to catch me up. Looking at his attributes, it might have been the first time he''d ever played against someone faster than him.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>


    <div>


    William B. Roberts


    </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Born 10.03.2008</td>


    <td>(Age 15)</td>


    <td>English</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Acceleration 16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Handling 1</td>


    <td>Stamina 12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Heading 11</td>


    <td>Strength 12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Tackling 6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jumping 9</td>


    <td>Teamwork 14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bravery 16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Technique 10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Creativity 14</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Pace 16</td>


    <td>preferred foot B</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Passing 9</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dribbling 8</td>


    <td>Positioning 6</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Finishing 14</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>CA 4</td>


    <td>PA 185</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Forward (RLC)</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The PA made me dizzy again. He was better than Dani. Better even than Youngster. And he was a forward. That meant goals. Marketing. Money. Glory!


    The ref wanted me to take the free kick. Who gave a fucking shit about one measly free kick? This match was as good as over.


    And I''d just had an absolutely absurd thought. I hadn''t quite been able to work out why Old Nick had engineered a move for Raffi. A move I couldn''t block or talk him out of. With Raffi gone, I''d have to play more matches. I''d have to play every match, and that''s the last thing Nick wanted.


    Unless, though... Unless the absolute most important thing this month was that I was here. On this pitch, against Banbury. If Raffi had been available today there was a risk - a low risk, but still - that I''d have left Sandra in charge and gone, I don''t know, tobogganing with Emma. (Euphemism accidental.)


    But Raffi was gone and I had to stay at Chester to clean up the mess. And more importantly, to play. And to meet William B. fucking Roberts, one of the hottest prospects in the country, on his debut, before anyone else in the world of football even knew about him! It was the chance of a lifetime.


    The smile came of its own accord and I changed from a cannonball to a Beckham. I stepped, struck, and this little Roberts yob turned to watch as it flew into the top left corner. I strode toward him and gave him some friendly advice. "You''ve just cost your team a goal because you''re a selfish prick. You wanted everyone to notice you? Great. Everyone knows you''re a fucking indisciplined little shit who puts himself above his team. Foul me again I''ll score again. Get bent!"


    "Fuck off!" he yelled. "Fuck you!"


    My players got between me and the furious Banbury guys, tried to pull me away so we could celebrate, but I just wanted the game to restart so I shrugged them away. Banbury kicked off and I positioned myself ten yards in front of Roberts. When he got on the ball, I pounced, surging towards him. He played a simple pass away and I backed off. That move broke down and the ball was sent to my feet. I put my knee on the ball and got up, all my body weight left. I''m going left! I''m going left! Roberts came at me, expecting the trick. At the last second he stuck his leg right.


    So I nutmegged him.


    I ran around him and he grabbed me - it was like being hugged by a wheelie bin full of bricks, but he let go because of his yellow card. He''d done enough to slow me down without risking the referee''s wrath. Self-regulation! Maybe he wasn''t aggression 20 as I''d initially thought. There was a good way to check - I dribbled over to the left with him tracking me, snapping at my heels.


    "Henri!" I called, and my mate came short.


    Roberts, the dick, reacted by getting too tight to me. I backheel nutmegged him and ran off, cackling. Still the kid kept tracking, kept in my wake, kept at me like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. He wasn''t a greyhound, though. He was a human being with - theoretically - a brain.


    "Give up!" I yelled as I exchanged passes with a bemused Carl Carlile.


    "Fuck you!" came the reply.


    I opened my body to spread a pass out wide to Aff and Roberts slid in to block it. I popped the ball up and rested it on my shoelaces, two feet above the grass. I bent down. "Give up," I said, and as I moved away, he slapped the pitch in frustration.


    We used our last two subs to give minutes to Andrew and Tony, and I played the rest of the match pretty straight. No dribbles, no taunts. Truth be told, I spent most of the match staring at Roberts''s player profile. Not just because it was pure sex, but because one of the attributes had turned green. After I''d given him a piece of my mind, his teamwork had popped to 15 and his CA had risen. He was a complete sponge. Whatever I poured into him, he''d absorb.


    Holy fucking shit.


    Three-nil, three points, and three stud marks on the back of my calf.


    I ignored the fans, my mates, my opponents. I had Sandra to do my diplomatic work. I went straight for Roberts.


    He was stocky with a face that couldn''t decide if it wanted to be round or rectangular and ears that couldn''t decide if they were in or out. He had broad shoulders and big powerful thighs that with his low centre of gravity gave him a vaguely Maradona-esque vibe. The comparison was absurd, of course. But then again, PA 185 and two-footed. It was close enough!


    "Did you enjoy that?" I said.


    "No," he said. His voice had broken and he was gruff. He was a little ogre, this guy!


    "Come on. You did a bit."


    He glared at me in a show of bravado, but while he almost had the body of a man, he was just a kid. He smiled cheekily. "Yeah." The scowl was back. "Don''t like losing."


    "Is that right?" I mused. His Contract screen had some interesting words. Currently considering a contract offer from Banbury United. I could get in trouble for what I was about to do, but so the fuck what? Some risks were worth taking. "Don''t sign that contract, then."


    "What? How did you know about that? You been scouting me?"


    I looked around, then realised that was making me look suspicious. "Just don''t sign it yet, all right? I want a friendly chat. That''s all right, isn''t it?"


    He considered me. Gave me a very mature look, very thoughtful. "Friendly chat? If I want a friend I''ll get a puppy."


    I smiled. "All right, then. Nice knowing you." I walked away, heart thudding alarmingly hard in my chest. Relationship anxiety. Welcome back, old friend!


    After a few yards, I was stopped by a cry. "Max!"


    But it wasn''t the kid. Chris Beaumont had been down the away end, posing for selfies with and chatting to the few Banbury fans that had come. He was very much their star player and the club''s talisman. The money I''d paid to loan him for a few months would pay their entire tax bill. "Chris, mate. What did you think? Enjoy that? Must have been weird. Who did you even want to win?"


    "Fuck all that. I can''t wait to get on the same side as you. You''re something else. What were you doing when the kid came on?"


    "Who? Roberts?"


    "It was like one-on-one in the back garden for a minute, there. Hilarious. Never seen owt like it."


    "Just seeing if he''s got what it takes."


    "And? Does he?"


    "I''ve seen worse," I said, truthfully.


    Chris smiled at Roberts as he went past us on his way to the dressing room. "Made your debut. How''s it feel?"


    It was clear Roberts admired Goliath. "Good, Chris, thanks."


    "And you got to meet your idol. He megged you a couple of times, I thought."


    Roberts turned red and mumbled something, then kept going.


    I couldn''t believe it. "Idol?" The kid had fouled me and run around like a whirling dervish trying to compete with me. He didn''t like me, did he?


    Chris laughed. "Max. Come on. You know how you play."


    "Is he a good kid?"


    "Yeah. He was at grassroots scoring a few, had a growth spurt and he hasn''t been right for a while but looks like he''s sorted himself out since I''ve been gone. He''s absolutely football mad. It''s all he does. Extra practice, extra coaching, ball boy, clearing snow off the pitch. Anything to be around footy. He''s got it bad. And he plays Soccer Supremo non-stop, too. He''s always tweaking his formations and asking the coaches what they think. Drives them mad because they don''t understand what he''s on about. That''s why he''s got that nickname."


    "What nickname?"


    Chris Beaumont had one of the best nicknames going. Goliath. But William B. Roberts had a nickname that nearly blasted me off my feet. "You don''t play Soccer Supremo, do you? It''s an acronym thingy. You tell your players what to do with the ball, and what to do without the ball. And his name sounds just like it."


    I felt like if he didn''t say the fucking nickname already I would fall flat on my face and simply give up the ghost. The tension was killing me. Literally. But I already knew what this nickname was going to be. It had all clicked. It explained why the imps were there. All this time, they hadn''t been encouraging me to get a perk, they''d been steering me towards getting something completely different.


    "We all call him Wibwob."


    ...


    Feb 3 League Table


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="35"><col width="100"><col width="43"><col width="49"><col width="47"><col width="44"><col width="47"><col width="39"><col width="45"><col width="50"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Team</td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>65</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Kidderminster</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>51</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>62</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>York</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>49</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>59</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Darlington</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>58</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Chester Men''s First Team


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="62"><col width="128"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Robbie ''Robbo'' Robson</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>45</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Ben Cavanagh</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>425</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>67</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Steve ''Angles'' English</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>80</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Glenn Ryder</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>750</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>54</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Carl Carlile</td>


    <td>DCR</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>57</td>


    <td>77</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Magnus Evergreen</td>


    <td>D,DM,M</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>-2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Gerald May</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>38</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Vivek [LOAN]</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>0</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>66</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Steve Alton</td>


    <td>D CR</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>46</td>


    <td>53</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>900</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>75</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Lucas Friend</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>0</td>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>62</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Sam Topps</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>750</td>


    <td>59</td>


    <td>60</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Andrew Harrison</td>


    <td>MC R</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>?</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Michael Harrison [LOAN]</td>


    <td>MC R</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>?</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>750</td>


    <td>INJ Jan 2025</td>


    <td>151</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Aff</td>


    <td>ML</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>525</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>70</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>DM, MC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>49</td>


    <td>181</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Dan Badford</td>


    <td>CM</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>0</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>-1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>Max Best</td>


    <td>Omni</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Joe Anka</td>


    <td>MR</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>INJ 2 WKS</td>


    <td>40</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Bark</td>


    <td>AMRC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>0</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>130</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Tyson</td>


    <td>AMRC</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>0</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>58</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Donny ''D-Day'' Dorigo</td>


    <td>AMLR</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>55</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Pascal Bochum</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>133</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Chris Beaumont</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>1000</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>33</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Henri Lyons</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>800</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>90</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>Tony Hetherington</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>44</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>Benny</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>0</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>40</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Transfer value of Men''s Squad


    Chester Women''s First Team


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="45"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Robyn Wright</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Queenie</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Erin Barnes</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Mel Robinson</td>


    <td>RB</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Mo Walsh</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Lucy</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>90</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Bonnie</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>41</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Diane</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>60</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Gracie Davies</td>


    <td>LM</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>17</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Pippa Hoole</td>


    <td>CM</td>


    <td>32</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>111</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Dani Smith-Smithe</td>


    <td>M, AM LRC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>177</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Susan Butler</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Maddy Hines</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>80</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Charlotte</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Kisi Yalley</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>143</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Beatrice Pearce</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>36</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Julie McKay</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>53</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>155</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Notable Youth Prospects:


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Chas Fungrieve</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>83</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Future</td>


    <td>CB DM</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>99</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Stephen Watson</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>146</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Mark Nelson</td>


    <td>D RLC</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>70</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tadpole</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>130</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Big Sam</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>61</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Simon Black</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>77</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Max''s Private Clients:


    R.E.M. Clients/Agency Cut:


    Bark 50/week


    Dani 35/week


    Angel 35/week


    Max''s Assets and Liabilities


    20,000 from traitor


    20,000 (minus taxes) from Tranmere


    The Duchess (a brown Subaru)


    West Didsbury and Chorlton AFC


    One superfast laptop


    -?,000 to the Brig for services rendered


    Estimated % of Merch Sold in Chester with Chester FC branding:


    4

 7.1 - The First Cut is the Deepest

    Player Manager 7


    Recap:


    Max Best has been given the powers of a football manager and has used them to improve Chester FC''s mens and womens team. Both are in a good position to earn promotion into a higher division. Max has added serious quality to the coaching staff, made the medical space more welcoming, and improved the culture of the club. Just as it was all getting a little too easy, his friend and footballing soulmate Raffi Brown turned traitor and left the club. Max cannot recruit another player to fill the enormous chasm left in the midfield, but he does have eight hundred thousand pounds in the bank to invest as he sees fit.


    "No one likes us, we don''t care." Millwall FC Fans


    ***


    1.


    Sunday, 4 Feb, 2024


    "I should be in the front," said Henri Lyons, a handsome and educated 28-year-old striker. He was not a morning person at the best of times and I had snatched him out of bed without letting him take one of his endless showers. The journey had been over two hours long and this was the second thing he had said. The first was to demand coffee.


    "I''m in the front," I said. "I''m the boss. I''m the figurehead."


    "You should be in the back, then, with the Brig as your chauffeur. That is how you project an air of authority."


    "I also take the free kicks. That''s the most important role in our team, now. So I sit in the front in the carefully calibrated seat."


    "The seat that I calibrated!" he snapped. The Brig''s lips moved in and out - I think he was enjoying the show. Henri smashed his skull on the head rest behind him. "I should be in the front on the way back."


    "No."


    "Fine," he said, before spitting out a stream of invective in his mother tongue. "Then let us go in and get this over with."


    "Relax, bro," I said, turning round to smile at him. "If this comes off, it''s one more tenant for your digs. I''m trying to throw money at you, here. Can you maybe try to emit some of that French charm you keep telling me you have?"


    Henri tutted. "I''ll be charming inside the house. Why must we wait here? It is monstrous to do this on a Sunday morning, Max! And the houses are monstrous. I don''t feel comfortable here. I can''t believe you brought Emma. Let us go in now. What''s a few minutes?"


    The Brig had an opinion on that. "It''s a good point, sir."


    "It''s not a good point," I said. "Is it babes?"


    Emma felt our eyes on her. She popped an earbud out and said, "Huh? What? What''s the question?"


    "What''s the earliest time it''s allowable for a bunch of randos to drop by your house on a Sunday morning?"


    She pressed her luscious lips together. "Eleven. No, one."


    "One p.m.? They''ll have gone out."


    "I don''t care," she said, putting her earphones back in. She was watching something trashy on her phone. She wouldn''t tell me what, which made me think it was the second season of the TV show The Traitors. I couldn''t really blame her; I was the one who''d got her addicted. Cold, calculated betrayal was the last thing I wanted to watch or think about.


    "Max," whined Henri. "It''s eight fifty-eight. That''s close enough! Come on. Please! For the love of all the saints."


    It was my turn to tut. "There''s a tradition to these things. When Alex Ferguson went to Ryan Giggs''s house on his 14th birthday, he knocked on the door at 9 a.m. We''re waiting till nine. That''s it."


    "This will be the longest minute of my life!" said Henri, forcing his hands through his hair, pulling at clumps. He looked genuinely anguished, but suddenly a look of blissful clarity came over him and he reached for the door handle. The Brig read the move and pressed the child lock button a split-second before Henri got to the handle.


    The clunk noise was inordinately satisfying, as was Henri''s petulant punch of the Brig''s headrest. "Henri shoots!" I said. "But it''s saved! Amazing reflexes from the veteran." The Brig was technically my assistant manager but was, in fact, my bodyguard. He was a former commando and now that he''d caught the bastard who''d tried to murder me, I felt safe enough but Henri was right - this was a rough neighbourhood. If the Brig was available to drive me I generally took the chance. It let me catch up on the phone calls, texts, and emails I got as Director of Football, as manager of the men''s team, and as a human being in a world full of companies who don''t respect the unsubscribe function. "Okay! Game faces on. Let''s wib this wob!"


    "Pardon me, sir?"


    But I''d already grabbed my backpack and closed the door behind me.


    ***


    The house was, to be charitable, a shit hole. It was very much like the one I''d grown up in on the Nell Lane estate in Manchester. From the outside, hideously ugly and narrow. I''d read that astronomers were freaking out over images of a new star being born right in front of their eyes, which meant that somewhere in the universe there was an actual star that was younger than the paint on the facade. (What''s that you say? We''re seeing the light from millions of years ago? Can it, nerd!)


    We knocked and a surprised woman with bad skin and flabby arms opened the door. Henri smiled and took a step sideways. The Brig advanced into the breach. "Good morning, ma''am," he started, and ten seconds later we were walking past her into the living room. The Brig winked at me - he believed himself to be the housewives'' favourite and most of the time he wasn''t wrong.


    The woman was Anne, the mother of the player I wanted to sign. Andrew, the father, was still in bed. The four of us tried to make ourselves comfortable in the living room while Anne went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up. "Will! Andy!"


    "What?"


    "Come down! We''ve got visitors!"


    "So?"


    "Come down here right this minute!"


    "Urgh!"


    The Brig was listening intently. Emma seemed to find the interaction amusing - and familiar. Henri was looking at the room''s decor in a very condescending way. Had it been a mistake to invite him? To be fair, I understood why he was looking like that - I felt it, too. The decorations were cheap and gaudy and there were far too many, and even I knew there were too many shapes and textures. There were photos of children and weddings, an ornamental mirror, a TV much too big for the room, a PlayStation 4, a bookshelf with no books but lots of DVDs, a box of toys, and lots of Catholic swag. A photo of one of the popes, a crucifix, a set of rosemary beads, and a painting of Jesus petting two lambs. Blood of the lamb. That was a Jesus thing, right?


    The walls had yellowed from years of cigarette smoke, but I didn''t notice any ashtrays and there was no smell. That was a relief - being in a tiny room with a smoker was close to my idea of hell.


    A song was playing and in the seconds before Anne went over to turn the radio off, I wondered what it was. It was an oldie. A classic. One of those men with big hair and tight pants. It cut out just before the raspy-voiced singer hit the chorus. It put me on edge. Too early. I''d come too soon after the betrayal to try to sign someone. The wound was still bleeding, still fresh. This was a mistake.


    "Oh!" Andrew Roberts had come down while I''d been distracted. It was hilarious how much he looked like his son. Just the exact same face, the exact same facial expression, stretched ten percent in all directions by a talented but heartless AI.


    I smiled and went over to shake his hand. "Think I can guess who you are. I''m Max Best."


    "Oh," he said again. The name was familiar, but not enough for instant recall on a groggy Sunday morning.


    "I''m Chester''s player-manager. Your son tried to break my legs yesterday."


    "Oh!" he said, smiling. But the smile quickly turned to an aggressive scowl. "That was this is about? He plays hard, like his old man."


    I tilted my head, and decided to ignore the question. "This is my Fog On the Tyne. She''s my Ferry Across the Mersey. She''s my er..."


    "Eternal Flame," suggested the Brig.


    "He''s trying to say I''m Emma. Nice to meet you."


    "This is John Smith, my assistant manager. Next year he''ll be moving up to Head of Perfect Performance. I''m not saying Jason Bourne is based on his life story, but I''m also not not saying that it isn''t."


    "Pleased to meet you," said the Brig.


    "And that''s Henri. Best striker in the league and all that."


    "The pleasure is all mine," said Henri, making his teeth literally twinkle like in a toothpaste advert. Great skill to have. Inviting an all-star team to help me had been a very good idea. I couldn''t do it on my own, not yet, but there was no time to waste. I wanted this signing finalised by Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest. Surely even the shittest Premier League scout would take one look at this kid and throw all kinds of money at him? I was in pole position, but if I wandered off for a little walking tour of Monaco, I''d soon find myself at the back of the grid.


    "Kin ell," said the kid himself, finally joining us. "What is it? Oh." William B. Roberts, one of the hottest prospects in the country, looked around the living room of his drab old home and its increasingly glamorous occupants. Increasingly? Yes, I think so. The Brig had a certain air of class and refinement but Henri was one of France''s cultural elite. It would be easy to imagine him whispering in the ear of an heiress that ''one cannot spell glamour without amour''. Emma was a staggeringly attractive blonde with a head full of brains. The most glamorous, though, was me. Max Best. No explanation needed. William had recovered from the initial shock and was able to speak again. "Kin ell," he said.


    "William," I said, pointing to a rare gap between decorations. "How would you like to put a Premier League winner''s medal on your mum''s wall?"


    His grin was incredible - it took him from ogre to gawky, dimpled teenager. From someone you''d cross the street to avoid to a stranger you''d happily share a taxi with after a night out. "Yeah, okay."


    I slapped my hands. "Great! That was easy. Who wants a tea? I''m absolutely gasping."


    ***


    It turned out not to be so simple as that. Emma and I sat across from Anne and Andy at the family''s kitchen table. Henri, the Brig, and a watchful William leaned against a fridge or a wall or a doorframe.


    Emma helped me ask the parents a few questions while William glanced from her to me to Henri to the Brig.


    Andy worked in a coffee refinery, saying it was the biggest in the world. In Oxfordshire? That didn''t make a lot of sense. But he was a hard-working guy whose priority was to feed his kids and raise them as best he could. Yeah, he''d get blasted every now and then and he could handle himself in a fight but if you left him alone, he''d leave you alone. He loved movies, too. The DVDs were his. Good guy when you got to know him. I liked him. He went to Banbury United sometimes and knew enough about tier 6 football to know I was a controversial figure.


    Anne had worked in an office and quit to raise the kids - there was a younger brother and Christ I wanted to stop the whole morning so I could hit him with Playdar, one of my tools for seeing the player profiles of talented footballers. Even if he was half as good as William, he''d smash into a League One side. But Anne was still talking. Fortunately, Emma wasn''t a child-snatching sociopath like me; she was making all the right noises, contributing to the small talk.


    "So he''s good, is he?" Anne finished, looking from me to Henri, but meaning her son.


    "He is, yes," I said. "Or he will be in the right environment."


    That triggered a small avalanche of questions. The parents wanted to, like, get to know me before they''d let me whisk their teenage boy across the country to live with a Frenchman. And they wanted to know why their son should leave Banbury United, his local team. And why they should trust me, since I was so flighty and erratic. And the topic of money came up again and again. Trivial shit. Easy answers.


    All I had to do was pick the right tone to manipulate them. The right set of words, the right theme. Family seemed promising, with all the framed pics of cousins and second cousins and whatnot. Focusing on the financial aspect was another angle. More money, and sooner than with Banbury.


    But even with my Max Best all-stars there to cheer me up, I found I didn''t have it in me to bullshit this family. They''d get it straight. Warts and all.


    I unzipped my backpack and took out a sheaf of images I''d printed out from my work computer that morning.


    "Are you ready for the weirdest sales pitch of all time?" I said, with a slight smile. It should have been a winning smirk but that level of positivity wasn''t quite in my heart.


    Andy laughed. "Go on, then. This is mad, this. You play against him and drive down the next morning to try and sign him. It''s already weird. What''s a little more?"


    "Points for being keen, though, isn''t it?" said Anne.


    Her husband agreed. "Oh, yeah. It''s a long drive, isn''t it? Up early to beat the rush of scouts knocking down our door." He laughed. "Yeah, you''re a grafter, that''s clear. You want summat you go and get it. That''s right, that. Fair play. Doesn''t," he added, scratching his face. "Doesn''t fit what I''ve heard about you. That you''re a bit of a dingbat."


    "Dad!" complained William, but Henri laughed his head off. I relaxed. I realised I liked people talking shit about me because it was honest. It was the praise you couldn''t trust.


    "He''s not a dingbat," said Emma, smiling. "He doesn''t want to do things the same as everyone else just because that''s the way it''s always been done. I love that about him. Every day''s interesting."


    "Max is a genius," said Henri. "That gets him into trouble." He sighed. "I get him out."


    "All right, everybody, let''s all settle down. I''m not a dingbat and I''m not a genius. I''m pretty normal. I just happen to be very good at football and that puts me in situations I''ve never been in before." I swept my gaze around the tiny kitchen. "I grew up in a house just like this. Ours was sort of yellow brick but inside it''s really similar. I was there and now I''m in Director''s Boxes with the owners of football clubs and they''re giving me champagne and... Henri what''s that little meat stuff you make me eat sometimes?"


    "Ham."


    I clicked my fingers. "Right, ham!" This joke was a hit. "But seriously, they''re asking me how to run their football clubs and I tell them. I don''t know which knife and fork to use - "


    "You do! I told you eight times!"


    "I''m just trying to get from A to B in a way that makes sense to me. I can''t really control if other people think it''s strange or funny, do you know what I mean?"


    "I do," said Andy.


    "All I think is, we''re top of the league, we''re brilliant, the youth teams are flying. What I''m doing is working and maybe the football clubs that laugh at me should be trying to learn some lessons instead of laughing because they all end up coming to Chester to curl into a ball and die. All the things you''ve heard about me, there''s an explanation that I think is absolutely logical."


    "I think it''s cool," said William. "When I saw you''d gone to Tranmere I laughed my head off. You really don''t care what people think."


    "I care what Emma thinks."


    "What about me?" said Henri.


    I pulled a face and looked away. "Awk-ward," I said. Some more laughs. "Right. I really don''t like talking about myself all the time, but - " I was interrupted by the squawk of a giant bird. There wasn''t one in the room, but everyone was looking at Henri. I pressed on. "But let''s start with a bit of background." I shuffled my sheaf of papers and put down a recent photo of me and my mother. William shuffled closer and closer until halfway through my speech he was by the table. "This is my mum. She''s in a care home. Forgets things. She doesn''t know I''m the manager of a football club, or even that I''m a player." I pushed my upper and lower teeth together and stared at a patterned tea towel. "I''m working hard for a better life. Buy my own house and all that stuff. People laugh at my car but I''m not exactly suffering. What I''m doing now, all this grafting, will pay off in a year or two. I can wait. So can my mum. She''s in a good place, now, medically and, like, geographically. She''s going to get worse and I need the money for then. What I''m saying is that I can plan two, three years ahead. For me personally, for the club, for my players. By the time I need big money to take proper care of her, I''ll have it. Do you get me?"


    "Aww, Max," said Anne. I''d tripped all kinds of empathy neurons even though I had tried to keep my tone neutral and factual. "That''s awful. She forgets things? Aww, no..."


    She was getting me worked up. I tried to laugh and it came out weird. "Look, I''m just saying, if she was sick right now I''d go and play for a big club and get rich quick. I just would. Probably loads of people going oh, make up your mind you little brat. But that''s what I''d do, no question. Do you know what I mean? But it''s not urgent. So I can do it the right way. Build a base, work on my skills, and reap the rewards later. Believe me, by the time I need fifty grand for some treatment or to move her somewhere nice or whatever, I''ll have it. William will be in a position to get well paid by the time I''m done with him. But he doesn''t need it yet. He needs to build a base, work on his skills, and reap the rewards later."


    I shuffled through the sheets and took out another one. It was a collage of young players in football kits. A disproportionate number were wearing the blue of Chelsea.


    "Here''s a roll call of young players who got too much cash too soon and their lives went off the rails. This one¡¯s in prison. This one got his name tattooed across half his face and was done for money laundering. It''s sad. I don''t want that to happen to your son. If he gets his head down, grafts, makes good decisions, and above all, does what I tell him, he''ll make good money in his career. Together, you and me, we need to make sure we don''t do this to him." I tapped the paper. "Doing this to a young person is honestly sick. That''s not me being cheap; that''s player welfare. If he deserves a pay rise or a bonus, he''ll get one. Absolutely. But it could be a car instead of cash, or the money could go into an account he can access when he''s 18 or 21. There''s loads of money in football for players who are good at football. One of the reasons I''m here is a feeling that William''s not going to let money distract him from being the best footballer he can be. I want players like that. I''m not looking for loyalty to me or to Chester - though that would be nice - but to your own career."


    I took out another sheet made of images I''d quickly slapped together. It had two sides, left and right. The left was the past, the right was the present.


    "I don''t have a slick presentation, as you can see. My time and effort almost entirely goes into the football side of things. This is what we had at the club when I arrived a year ago. This is what we''ve got now."


    "What does it all mean?" said Anne.


    "Yeah, so there wasn''t a women''s team. That''s this section here. The Everton badge is because we''ve got a former Everton player as manager. These names are players we''ve recruited. Two from Man City and one who''s been in the national papers several times."


    "Dani Smith," said William.


    Had he been studying? "Smith-Smithe," I said, grinning at the stupidity of it. "She''s brilliant. Five of these are WSL quality. This is their first full season, remember, so imagine them a couple of years down the line. Then the men''s team. This big star represents me, because, let''s be honest." I stood, turned slowly, and sat back down again. Henri grumbled into his glass of water. "And we''ve got another Man City badge."


    "Sandra Lane," said William, and his mother gawped at him. "First woman to manage a professional football match. First woman to win one. What''s she like?"


    I eyed Henri. He supplied the answer. "Outstanding. Max was in heaven when he nabbed her. I like this word, this nabbed. Henri Lyons nabbed two goals. Henri Lyons nabbed a late winner. Henri Lyons helped himself to a second-half hat trick. Reading my notices is quite the education."


    "Helpful. Thanks, mate. In answer to your question, Sandra is fucking mint. Here''s a shot of the equipment we''ve been buying. Ball machines, cameras around the main training pitch. Next up is a kitchen so we can eat together and eat right. And I''ve been building the squad for next year in the National League. Henri, here, Eddie Moore, and Ryan Jack if his recovery goes well. We''re going to have a good old tilt at the playoffs."


    "Why not the title?" said William. "You got money now. You can buy more players!''


    I laughed. "Do you want to talk about squad building, mate?"


    "Ye-ah!"


    "Only official Chester players get those chats."


    "How have you got money?" said Anne.


    I froze. Answering would have involved discussing the traitor. Henri was on hand. "Max found a player at a five-a-side match in Manchester. Max turned him into a star, got him called up to the England C squad, and the player decided to stab Max in the back. He went to the Saudi Pro League where he is now making hundreds of thousands of pounds a year. Max took the news badly, as we all did, and he was right to. The player spoke not a word to any of us. Not a word. Just, poof! He''s gone, holding up a scarf, smiling for the camera. I tell you again, when Max found him he was nothing. Now he is something, he feels he does not need Max, does not need his friends. And the timing? Huh. The timing. That''s it! I will say no more about him. The Saudis paid the release fee, so Max has some money to invest in the club."


    "Eight hundred thousand," said William.


    "How do you know that?" I asked.


    He shrank away from the table, rubbing his arm. "Er... it''s out there? You told everyone hundreds of times?"


    "That''s true," I said, wondering if I was to blame for this whole shit show. "I thought if I said it, someone might pay up."


    "So you don''t mind he''s gone?" said Anne, confused.


    "It was the stab in the back I minded most, I think." I returned my attention to the piece of paper where one of the images was the league table on the day I had my first match as manager to how it stood today. "What I''m saying is I''ve already transformed the club and it''s healthy and functioning now. There''s still work to do but we''re on the up. Way up. Evidence: the under twelves. They won a futsal competition recently. They beat Liverpool in the final. In Liverpool."


    The atmosphere had soured because of all the traitor talk, but mentioning Liverpool got William back into the chat. "Not bad."


    "Not bad? It''s unprecedented. What I''ve realised is that there''s no reason I can''t turn Chester into the best youth system in the country."


    "The best?"


    "The actual best," I said.


    "Max actual Best," mumbled Emma.


    I pulled out another sheet. It was three pictures of youthful Manchester United players. "I''m a Man United fan, sort of. Not really, anymore. But I still love the youth players. They haven''t found a way to ruin that for me yet. The last time Manchester United didn''t have a youth team player in a match day squad was... 1937."


    "What does that mean?" said Emma.


    "Some kid from the youth system, like Benny or Tyson or someone, has been in the starting lineup or on the bench in every match. Since 1937. Thousands and thousands of games in a row. William, do you recognise any of these players?"


    "Course. Neville, Beckham, Scholes. This one''s Pogba and Jesse Lingard. That''s Garnacho."


    "I''m the manager of Chester Football Club. We''re not going to win the Premier League. We''re not going to win the FA Cup. Not in the next two years, anyway. These three United teams won the FA Youth Cup and became superstars on the back of it. I want to win the FA Youth Cup."


    The proclamation was met with dead silence. Four of the people in the room had very little clue what I was talking about. Henri wasn''t interested. That left William. "That''s pretty... pretty impossible. You''re non-league."


    "Nope. I''ve got two shots at it. First, I have a crop of 15 and 16 year olds who are abnormally talented. They''ve got two goes, next year and the one after. Right? Second, I''ve got under twelves who are crazy good and I keep finding more. They will eff up every team they play, guaranteed. So we have a tilt next year, but really we''re looking at the year after for the real go. And five years from now, the second lot step up. If I''m Chester manager in ten years I''ll have won the Cup twice. At least. I want it. I''m going to get it."


    Henri came over and shook my shoulder. "Max is crazy about developing young players. It''s how we met. When he is low, he goes to the young players. My first mentor was the same."


    "I love progression. What I see from you, William, is a hunger to win and a never-say-die attitude. You''ll add some pace and intensity to the group but the best best thing is you''re willing to learn. You made mistakes in the match yesterday but you put them right. Players who want to learn like that are players who need to come to Chester. If you join us I''ll make finding a couple more players a priority but we''re already pretty close to having a team that can be the best in their age group. I can feel it. We''ll give it a good go, anyway. Teams like United, City, Arsenal, they''ve got good kids who''ve never tasted action. I''ve got a 15-year-old who scored in the FA Cup this season against a bunch of grizzled veterans. He''s not going to be afraid of some fucking prima donnas from an academy. Ooh, I don''t want to play today, it''s raining. Ooh, look at this pitch, it''s all muddy. What about my Instagram? Ooh, these other boys are tackling me. That''s not allowed! Don''t they know I''ve got a personal brand consultant?"


    Andy loved this. "Bunch of pampered princes, right?"


    I nodded. "They''re talented. It won''t be easy. But they don''t ever have to suffer. We talked to two girls who got cut from Man City. They came to have a look at our training and they whinged and whined about the facilities. Like, sorry we don''t have golden toilets but there''s a pitch and a fucking net. If you want more, help me pay for it by winning matches. Know what I mean?" This was pretty unfair on the City girls who''d turned me down and I was surprised by how easily the bitterness and contempt came into my voice. Andy was nodding hard, and that emboldened me. "Here''s what we''ve got - heart. Team spirit. Real proper team spirit. And cold showers. I''m probably gonna turn the heating on next season... But I really don''t think it hurts to have to suffer a bit. To have to work for it. I tell you what, when I get home on a Saturday night I have a hot shower and I feel like I''ve fucking earned it. That''s the God''s honest truth. Our youth teams play like that. And by the way, they''re quality, too. Yesterday I told my assistant we were moving four of those kids into the first team squad."


    "Who?" said Henri.


    "Lucas Friend, Benny, Tyson, and Dan Badford."


    "They''re so young."


    "I don''t give a shit. They''re good and they''re going to get minutes. The youth teams from United and City might be more talented - I have my doubts, tbh. But my lot will all have experience in professional football matches. Some will have been battered in the National League North. Next season, they''ll get knocked around in the National League. You think playing some soft academy lads is going to worry them? No. We''ve got a shot at surprising a lot of teams. A real shot, I reckon. Winning the Youth Cup isn''t a big deal to most managers. There are probably five in the entire league system who have thought about it in the last week. Why would they? There''s no money. Just glory. News just in - I fucking love glory. Football first, money second. I want my glory and I''m going to work at it. I''ve got Sandra to step in and manage the first team if I need to go and scout a match or take control of the youth team. But winning it is not just for me because I''ve had a mad idea. The players who win the Youth Cup get noticed. They go onto big things. Beckham! Pogba! Imagine playing the Youth Cup final against a team with future stars like that, except you''ve played 20 league games and they''ve never even been on the bench. I''ll give you every advantage."


    William''s eyebrows had risen slowly as I''d spoken, jerking up when I''d said the word glory. "If I sign for you, you''ll play me next season?"


    "If you train and eat well and all that shit, yeah."


    "What position will I play?"


    "Chester¡¯s secret weapon is tactical flexibility. We can switch between seven formations with no drop in cohesion."


    "Seven formations?" He frowned. "On Soccer Supremo if you switch between formations too often you play them less well."


    Oh. Was that a game mechanic I hadn''t encountered yet? That was worrying, but I''d never seen any evidence of it. I shrugged. "We switch seamlessly and I''m preparing for the next one."


    Henri was interested. "What''s that one going to be?"


    "Sweeper."


    The Frenchman looked at me like I was a wall covered in a mis-mash of cheap tat and bric-a-brac. "Sweeper is dead."


    "Reviving dead things is my speciality. Exhibit A: your career."


    His expression took on aspects of amusement and wanting to kick me. "It''s stupid."


    "I can make it work."


    "You can¡¯t. It negates the offside trap and draws teams onto us."


    "That''s what I want."


    "Who in our squad can be the sweeper?"


    "Me."


    Henri exploded. "No! You can¡¯t. Be serious."


    "I can."


    "Against a weak team. To make it interesting because winning every week has become boring and you need to increase the challenge."


    "I''ve been thinking about doing it against Kidderminster."


    Henri closed his eyes slowly and all the heat left his voice. "I won¡¯t play. I refuse. It¡¯s a guaranteed humiliation."


    "Yeah," I said. "For them."


    I remembered why we were there and had a pang of annoyance at being dragged so far off-topic, but the interaction between me and my star player had done something to William. He looked hungry and I realised what I had with Henri was what he craved - detailed, passionate conversations about football followed by detailed, passionate matches. I decided to press that advantage.


    "I think we were talking about eating well," I lied. "Henri has a big house that''s our unofficial digs. If you sign you''ll be living with Pascal and Youngster. You can talk tactics to your heart''s content."


    "I''d be living with Youngster? And Pascal Bochum? He was lit against Salford!"


    "And the triplets. It''s football heaven."


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "And Henri Lyons," said Henri Lyons.


    "Yeah, right. Him too. He''ll teach you how to chop vegetables and all that."


    William didn''t let the idea of adding vegetables to his diet put him off joining us. We were offering him wall-to-wall football. "What about Banbury?"


    I shoved my printouts back into my backpack. The kid was in the bag. "I''ll be back here to talk to them tomorrow."


    "Sir, you have the meeting after training."


    "Urgh, right. I''ve got to interview someone who wants to do our marketing and PR." I sighed. "I just want to do football. You know what''s fun? Football. You know what''s not fun? Everything else. Right, Banbury United. I''ll call them. Truth is, I could take you for free but that''s not my style. Not in the slightest. I''ll give them upfront cash with add-ons. Twenty grand if we win the Youth Cup, stuff like that. I''ve dealt with them before and trust me, they''ll be happy with their side of the deal! They absolutely rinsed me on the Chris Beaumont loan, but it''s working out for both of us. Win-win. Wins are what we want. Sometimes we even get it. So Banbury will be happy. I''ll be happy. You''ll get a total footballing education. It''s going to be amazing. Are you in?"


    "I think I''m in."


    "Before we shake on it... Three things. One, we need a better nickname for you."


    "Like what?"


    "I don''t know. Prince William. B-Boy. It''ll come up, won''t it? Just don''t mention the current one."


    "What is it?" said Emma.


    I gave her an exasperated look. "It''s gone. We''re looking for a new one. Jesus."


    "It''s WibWob," said William, the idiot. "What''s wrong with it?"


    The problem was that WibWob was a game mechanic from Soccer Supremo and the name of a perk I needed to buy. Having a player with that nickname was messing with my head. "Let''s just say the exact match domain name is taken. It''s bad for your brand, long-term."


    "Robbo," said Henri.


    "We''ve got one of those."


    "Rob," said Emma.


    "That''s... sorry babes but that''s awful. Rob?"


    "Wrob. W-R-O-B."


    "Huh. Wrob. Wrobsy. You''ve been Wrobbed! Maybe."


    "WibRob," said the Brig, and we all fell quiet as we considered it. It felt pretty good.


    "What''s the next thing?" asked William, whose patience was running thin - he wanted to know what the other obstacles to him getting his move were.


    "What? Oh, I''d like you to stop playing football here. You can if they need you, if there''s an injury crisis or something. But no disrespect to Banbury, that''s not the football that''s going to get you to the Premier League. I don''t want you learning bad lessons." Or using his massive PA to put points into useless attributes. If I had my way, I would optimise the shit out of this kid. "I know you want to play loads of football, which is why you''ll stay in the digs as often as poss depending on school. For now until you''re officially a Chester player in June, you''ll train with the 16s and the 18s and play friendlies and stuff. You''ll play football, don''t worry about that. But it''ll be Max Best football. Good?"


    "Do I have to?"


    "Do you want to play in front of 400 at Spennymoor or 40,000 against Aston Villa? It''s not rocket science, WibRob."


    "But... you signed Chris Beaumont. Banbury football can''t be that bad."


    "We don''t use him like Banbury do. We''ve turned him into a work of art. A masterpiece with Henri as the sculptor."


    Henri smiled. "I''d normally be happy to take the compliment but it was Max''s idea. Max''s genius."


    "What is it?" said William.


    "Tomorrow night I''ll be on the same side as him for the first time. It''s up Birmingham way. Walsall or somewhere. We''ll pick you up, take you to the match in Chester''s VIP seats. And you''ll see for yourself what Max Best football looks like. I''ll put on a first half show for you. If you sign."


    "Why the first half?"


    "Efficiency," I said, simply. "And we need you to control your aggression. That energy you''ve got for kicking people, redirect it to winning."


    "You went psycho yesterday!" complained William. "Bullied our left back."


    "That''s different," I said.


    "How is it different?" asked Andy.


    "He came after one of my kids. I need people to know if they do that they''re gonna get smashed. So he got smashed. You send one of mine to the hospital, I''ll send one of yours to the morgue."


    "Untouchables," he said.


    "That''s right. Everything I do on the pitch has a purpose. What really made me get up at 5 a.m. today was that you made a mistake, William, and you learned from it. You kicked the best free kick taker in the league in scoring range and your team got punished. But you were controlled, after that. You''d learned. I need smart players. So that means I need you in my system with my coaches who do things my way. Look, I know when I was your age I only wanted to play, play, play. Tyson and Benny are the same. I promise to keep you busy. If you''re still itching for more we''ll get you a private coach to teach you the skills I want you to learn. That doesn''t include taking long throws or hoofing the ball to a big man up top. Right, last thing." I put my hands on the kitchen table and stared down at my knuckle wrinkles. "I''m going to turn you into the best version of you as a footballer. The Brig''s going to look out for you as a man. Henri will teach you the difference between two identical hams. The squad will try to guide you and help you and all that good stuff. We''re going to bring you into our family and treat you like one of us." I looked up at the yellowing ceiling. "These meetings are all about trust. It''s me trying to get a player or their parents to trust me. But I''ve been building a club brick by brick every day since I got the job. I don''t think I need to prove anything to anyone. There''s the league table, there''s the trophy we won, first of many. There''s the players looking better than ever, there''s elite coaches who want to work with me. This isn''t about you trusting me. It''s about me trusting you. I''ll do everything I can to help your son but the more I do that, the more parasites are going to turn up trying to leech him away. Make him go before he''s ready so they can get paid. I''ll let him go when the time''s right, but..." I shook my head and bit my bottom lip. With an effort, I tucked my sadness back inside me. I chose to look at Andy. When things got intense, he''d be the rock that decisions would be made on. "If you''re going to leave, will you look me in the eye and say it to my face?"


    He didn''t shift. Didn''t budge. "Yeah. I''ll do that if you''ll do the same to me."


    "Fair."


    "So you look me in the eye now and tell me why I shouldn''t talk to other clubs."


    "You shouldn''t talk to other clubs because you''ll like what they have to say and you''ll go with one of them."


    "How''s that bad?" said Anne.


    "It wouldn''t be bad. It would be okay. It would be fine. William will do well wherever he goes. He''ll have a good career." I got up and tucked my chair under the table. I put my palm horizontal and as I spoke I lifted it. "But there''s good, better..."


    "And best," said William.


    I smiled. A proper smile, at last. "Exceptional students need exceptional teachers. Let us take you to the match tomorrow night. You''ll see."


    ***


    Monday, 5 Feb


    Before training I called the first team squad, the coaches, and the physios into the big meeting room. At the start of the season, I''d outlined my masterplan for the coming months - win enough cup matches so that some of our league matches would get postponed until the spring when our training would have kicked in and our young players would have kicked on.


    "Everyone recovered from the steakhouse? Yeah? Round of applause for the Brig for using his winnings to take us out." There was a burst of applause. The Brig and I had collaborated to rig a bet that Donny ''D-Day'' Dorigo was running in the dressing room. "I just wanted to update you on the Maxterplan."


    "Sorry, what?" said Aff, an Irish winger who was almost as good defensively as going forward. "What did you call it?"


    "The Maxterplan. There. It''s out in the open, now. That''s what I''ve been calling it in my head. Anyone with a better name for a masterful plan devised by a person called Max, please go and fetch your Nobel Prize for Literature. You''ll have to get in line behind Henri. I heard SILK! is getting nominated this year."


    That got some laughs. SILK! was an insane Christmas play my star striker and best friend had written. As my friend, Henri sometimes said things he thought the other players would want to say but were too afraid. "The disasterplan had one flaw, Max. Fixture congestion. Many games, not much rest."


    "And now there are less of us," said Tony, my third-choice striker.


    "Wrong," I declared, pointing to four fresh-faced youths. "Lucas Friend will train with us. Tyson. Benny. And... what was your name again? Bad Bunny?"


    "Dan Badford," said the last one with an easy smile. He was wearing a clean, cream hoodie under a leather jacket, white trainers, and black jeans. So far, so cool, but he''d ripped enormous holes in the middle. If there was a culture where showing knees was taboo, Dan would be first against the wall. The other three were nervous and excited to officially ''join'' the first team squad, but Dan didn''t seem to give a shit. "Bad Bunny flows okay but me? I don''t need autotune."


    "Wow. Badford''s coming for your Bad Boy title, Pascal." The German gave a half-hearted smile. He was still depressed. "Right. It''s wall to wall matches, now. Start of February to the end of April. Time to take stock. First of all, I''m proud of you all. You''ve done extra in training, you''ve slapped in matches, and you handled my absence exactly how I knew you would. We''re top of the league because you''ve trained hard and pushed yourselves and each other. Amazeballs." I paused. "Time for a new plan, I think."


    I went over to my flipchart, pulled it forward, found a clean page, and picked up a marker.


    "I''ve been looking around the leagues and there''s this little-known team called Newcastle. They have a good coach who improves players and gets them motivated but the way they play is very demanding. Lots of pressing, counter-pressing, lots of running, lots of sprints. It''s exhausting to watch. Obviously, when they get it right it suffocates teams. Top. Seems like a smart guy, right? I mean, absolutely no morals of any kind, but at least he''s good at football. Oh but wait. He plays the same eleven every match. Doesn''t rotate. Five-nil up and they''re still running around like their arses are on fire. His players drop like flies and every now and then there''s weeks where they can''t buy a win. If he''d gone hard in three Champions League matches and chilled in three they''d have gone through. Maybe it''s confirmation bias because I don''t rate him as a person but I think he''s a great coach and a bad manager and we''re not doing it like that.


    "As you know I''m happy to rotate the team. Before, it was to give you time to go hard on the training pitch. It''s so frantic now we can''t all train at a hundred percent. We¡¯re sliding that down to ninety but we''re still going to rotate. I''m going to shuffle the deck twice a week and trust in you to get results. Sam? Glenn? Henri? Do not fucking come whinging to me about being dropped. I am not in the fucking mood for that, okay? We''re in the shit and we''ve got to come together, harder than ever.


    "Remember all that storytelling stuff? Every match is a chapter, every season is a book? Fuck that. That''s over. There''s no story now. We are going to win every single match and make the rest of this season so boring that if there was a documentary crew filming all this, they''d chuck the footage into a pile and burn it. If we put the effort in now and win our next five games, we''ll break York, Kiddies, and the other one. Once we''ve vanished into the distance, they''ll start conserving energy for the playoffs. And then we can do the same. Does that make sense? So we''re going hard in our next few matches because it''ll save energy. I want fast starts. Sandra? That''s the plan now. Twenty minute blitzes to start every match. Then massive efficiency. I don''t care if it''s low blocks, sitting back, 3-5-2 to play keep ball, whatever. The fans don''t come when we play fantasy football. Maybe they''ll like it turgid and dull.


    "I''m taking your set piece training off the weekly schedule - I''m on dead balls now - and giving that sesh to Vimsy. Shuffling, sliding, working on your spacing. Boring, I know, but it''s a way to save energy in matches where we''re ahead. Which, I remind you, will be every match.


    "When matches are all but won, we''re going to put one of these kids on. Give them some minutes. That''s an investment in next season. That''s right, we''re doing that already. If you''ve got complaints about that, remember that Benny''s got more first-team goals this season than most of you."


    This got a jeer. Benny''s goal owed nothing to skill and everything to him flinching when a goalkeeper tried to clear the ball.


    "So in summary. Play, rest, play. Teach the kids how to be pros. Off you go."


    ***


    We got changed and when I was in my training kit I code switched so that I acted more like a player - an obedient herd animal. Sandra, Jude, and Vimsy were the coaches and they were allowed - encouraged, really - to bark at me like I was just one of the sheep. They never did because they could never be sure if me dogging a drill was because I was thinking about some strategy for the next game or managing my own calorie reserves or focusing on what the other guys were doing so I could tear them a new one.


    It wasn''t a tough session - we had an away match the following night - but I was enjoying it. Sometimes after all the stress and worry and planning and scheming it was nice to jog around and surround myself with low-stakes background chatter and mild banter.


    The vibe suddenly changed. Collectively, the lads stood taller and the session became more intense. Sandra noticed it even before me, and by following her gaze, I saw the issue.


    An obscenely attractive blonde woman was by the side of the pitch, watching us. She had long wavy hair, a maroon sweater covering her neck, and a soft-looking velvety overcoat that invited thoughts of touching and hugging and the series of steps that might lead to the item''s removal, perhaps by a fireplace in the Swiss Alps.


    I sighed and walked over. "Are you Brooke?" I said, probably not all that friendly.


    "Yes. You''re Max," she said in what I believe is called a Texan drawl. Up close she was pretty flawless. Naturally beautiful and tastefully enhanced.


    "You''re quite early."


    She looked away, briefly, and tried to chuckle. "I was nervous."


    Bullshit. No chance she was nervous. I already knew I couldn¡¯t trust her and virtually the first thing she¡¯d said to me was a lie. I mentally awarded her a demerit. "Er..." I said, thinking through my options. MD was due to come but she was here, now. Why not get it over with? "How about we start in five minutes? I''ll have a tiny shower. You can wait in my office. I''ll show you the way."


    "I don''t mind waiting out here. It''s interesting. I don''t know much about soccer."


    More demerits. I nodded. "No, it''s good. They don''t need me for this. I''ll just go talk to the coach."


    A few strides took me back to base camp. Sandra rolled her eyes. "Another blonde? Max. I''m honestly disappointed."


    "Yeah, Max," said Jude. Like most of the men he couldn''t stop gawping. "Don''t be so selfish."


    "Take a good look, mate. She won''t be here long."


    "Why? Who is she?"


    "She''s come for a job that doesn''t exist that she''s completely unsuitable for. All right? If you want to make your move, do so now or forever hold your piece."


    Sandra sniggered. Jude flushed around the cheeks. "I couldn''t. She''s out of my league."


    I put my arm around his shoulder and gave him a supportive dig. "It''s my job as your mate to tell you not to put yourself down. That you''re a top catch, that you''re mint, you''re money, you''re a triple threat: singing, dancing, and the other one." We both turned our heads to the newcomer. "But you''re dead right. She''s way out of your league. You wouldn''t know what to do with her."


    "Thanks, Max. Good talk."


    "Get back to work, you slacker."


    ***


    In the shower, my thoughts drifted back to the FA Youth Cup. Aiming to win that felt good and I suspected we had a chance. A slight chance, an outside chance, but if we got WibRob we¡¯d have a star every bit as good as anything the other teams had. But even if we fell short, the project was a good excuse for why I was splashing the traitor cash on youth prospects. What I didn''t want was other clubs to think that if I was rich they could charge me more for players I wanted. I''d told MD to put it out there that most of the money would be used paying debts and installing self-cleaning toilets.


    And what I also didn''t want was for William to get so arrogant he forgot to put the hard yards in. Yes, you''re talented and one day in the distant future you might play in the Premier League, but for now your target is the FA Youth Cup. Trying to keep his head on the ground while keeping him ambitious.


    When I''d explained my thinking in the car on the way home, Henri had agreed I was on the right track. The Brig didn''t understand the sport enough to have an opinion, but he appreciated the sentiment. He responded well to William - said he''d do well in the army. Emma approved of me talking about growing up in a house like William''s. She said the parents had liked that, and they¡¯d melted when I''d talked about my mum and grafting today to get your rewards tomorrow. And, she added with a little bit of distaste, Andy had responded great when I''d talked about the soft academy boys and taking retribution on the guy who''d hurt one of mine.


    I was drying my hair when I strode into my office to check something on my computer. I sat and moved the mouse and clicked and nearly screamed when someone coughed. "Jesus!" I said, scrambling away from danger while laughing - an odd combo.


    "I''m sorry," Brooke said. She''d been over near the chess set, reading the backs of my football books.


    "No, it''s fine. I just... yeah. Lost in a tiny dreamworld."


    "There''s one missing. Did it fall?"


    "One what?"


    She took a few steps towards the wall opposite the door. The wall to my left as I sat at my desk. She was pointing to a large space between two of my classy and tasteful decorations. Sometimes it is obvious a painting has recently been taken down because the wall behind is a different tone, but I hadn''t noticed it. "Okay, that''s perceptive. There was a framed football shirt hanging there until recently. It belonged to a person who got a better offer and jumped ship without telling us. The irony being that the shirt represented all the time and effort I''d invested in him."


    "So you took it down."


    "Not me, personally. I wouldn''t want to touch it. I suppose I could have left it up as a reminder never to make the same mistake." I gave her a level stare. "But I don''t need a visual reminder of that."


    She returned my gaze with a blank look of her own. Not that smart, then. More demerits.


    "Do you want to do it here?" I pushed my chair back towards the table, sat, and picked up a glossy CV. She took one of the two chairs in front of my desk. "Brooke Star," I said, reading. "27. From Texas. Nice. Great weather there. You must miss it."


    "Sometimes I get kinda homesick, sure."


    "Back to the ranch. 40 hectares. Cowboys and line dancing on tap. Luke Combs and cold lemonade under a blood-red sun. Yeah. Perfection." I ran my finger down the spine of the glossy sales brochure then dropped it onto my desk. "Business school. A string of jobs in massive corporations. It''s very impressive."


    She''d finally cottoned on to my mood and a couple of spots of red appeared on the tops of her cheeks. "You don''t sound impressed."


    "Because I''m not hiring someone to sit in a skyscraper all day sending out emails about what soup is allowed in the staff canteen. We don''t do seven-course networking lunches where we talk about synergy and touching base and looping in."


    "Do you wanna wait for Mike Dean to join us?"


    "No. I don''t. Because he''ll fall for you in an instant. He''s gullible."


    "Gullible? I''m tricking you. Is that why you''re givin'' me sass?"


    I picked up something I''d printed out. "Your dad is Gerry Star, right?" She nodded and something happened with her eyes I couldn''t fathom. "Creator of the No Fussin'' chain. Massively popular, big hit. I''ve got his net worth at three hundred million, but that was two years ago and the markets have been on a tear. Ten years from now he''s a billionaire. You''ve been to the most expensive schools, you grew up riding horses, you''ve worked at the biggest companies in the history of commerce, and one day soon you''ll wake up and think, you know what, I want to live on a superyacht for the rest of my natural life. I have no idea why you want a sixth tier soccer team on your resume but even if I thought you could do the job, you''d be the last person I''d hire. I need someone hungry and driven, same as me. I don''t have a billionaire dad getting me into schools and I don''t have a superyacht."


    "In a job interview it''s traditional to ask questions, not make statements."


    "We don''t do tradition round here."


    "Can I speak now?"


    "Hit me."


    Her jaws were clenched together and there was fire in her eyes. It looked good on her. "Is there even a point? Have you made up your mind?"


    I gave her a wide, relaxed smile that I knew would be infuriating. "My heart is an open book."


    She fumed some more. The heat had made her steely. "I''ve never had any advantages. I''ve worked for everything I''ve ever got."


    "Oh," I said, sadly. "But that''s not true, is it? You''re friends with Ruth so you got this interview. If you''re so confident about yourself, why are you sneaking to the head of the queue before the position''s even been advertised? Think you can''t beat one of the gap-toothed yokels who live round here?"


    The red on her cheeks was deepening. "I didn''t ask Ruth to do that and I didn''t know it wasn''t out there."


    "You didn''t ask her but she did it. And that''s the cool thing about being a billionaire baby. You never have to ask!"


    "I''m not - "


    "What it is, right, here''s the thing about me. I''m pretty fucking abysmal at most things. I thought I was good at connecting with people, but I''m not. I thought I was someone who could - well, you don''t need the details. But there''s one thing, I think, where it''s fair to say I get it right. Absolutely right, all the time. My little world, here, my little kingdom, is a meritocracy. Everyone in their position is the best I can get. The best I can afford to hire and keep. If someone recommends a player to me, or a coach, I''ll take a look, but that person''s value is one hundred percent based on their skills."


    "If that''s true, then you should beg me to take the job because I''m the best you''re ever going to meet." Feisty! I was starting to like her. She still had a snowball in hell''s chance, but I was having fun, at least.


    "Are you sure?" I picked up her CV. "This is a work of art. It reminds me of Patrick Bateman. Look at the paper! The tasteful thickness of it! The fonts, the spacing. It''s absolutely gorgeous. Now look around. The flipchart. I''m using a biro on it because my last marker went dry because some twat didn''t put the lid back on. This building. It''s owned by a credit card company and we''re tenants. We don''t own our own stadium. We own a ball machine and some boxing gloves. We are poor. Do you get it? This," I flapped the CV around. "This feels like it cost more than my car. Surely part of your job is knowing your audience?"


    She inhaled and tried to stay composed. "I''ll accept that was a mistake. That''s fair. That''s right. But Ruth told me you were a star player and you''re not easy to impress. I worked extra hard on it. Played up the sporting angle."


    "This competitive riding stuff?"


    "Western riding."


    "Yeah. I googled that. It''s dressage in a cowboy hat, right? Horses. Stable fees, vets, lessons, long discussions about where to buy the best hay. I know from Ruth how expensive it all is."


    "What''s that got to do with anything? It''s hard. It''s competitive. You need to be driven."


    "You need to be driven there in a Rolls Royce. I''m talking about my Head of Marketing and Public Relations being more at ease in the world of superyachts and, fucking... horse auctions than dealing with the everyday common-or-garden variety working class Joes who make up our fanbase. You want to go from writing wanky corporate brochures to sending out tweets about Steve Alton''s groin. I just don''t get it. You''re completely unsuitable for the role. It''s a bad fit."


    She took those words, smelted them into daggers, and shot them at me via her eyes. "You need a marketing expert. You need public relations. It''s the same work whether it''s a Fortune 500 company, a tech start up in Fresno, or a soccer team in Chester."


    "No, it''s totally different. Totally different. And most of the things you''d want to do, I wouldn''t want you to do. The more I think about it, the more I want someone local. Someone who gets the area, is good with people, and doesn''t know the first fucking thing about PowerPoint. Someone who''ll do it the way I want. And," I said, glancing in the direction of the empty slot on the wall and feeling a pang of absolute fury, "someone who''ll stay longer than six months."


    "With you as boss, you''ll be lucky someone stays six minutes."


    I laughed and checked the time. "You''re nearly at six minutes. Why are you still here?"


    "Do I still have a chance?"


    I appraised her. "You have more of a chance than when you walked in."


    "I would like to be judged on me and my person and not who my father is."


    "Impossible. Next."


    She swallowed back the fire she was about to breathe. She rubbed her mouth and looked down. "I work hard. I bust a gut every day to get what I want. I cannot be deviated from my task. The word all my teachers and bosses use to describe me is relentless. If I have a prey I''ll hunt it down. I break complex tasks into small pieces and devour them. I''m a workaholic. I didn''t get into business school because of my father, I got in because I had perfect test scores. I had perfect test scores because I''m smart and I apply myself. I got through school because I''m smart and I apply myself. Weak people love to blame their failure and my success on external factors but in here," she tapped her head, "It''s just me. I''ve earned everything I''ve got. These clothes? My car? I paid for them. Those skills?" She pointed to the CV. "I got them. I thought about what I wanted to be and I became it." She paused for breath, then added in something of a mumble. "And I''ve never been on a dang superyacht."


    "Mate!" I cried. "You''re American; get to the meat. Why do you want to work here? It''s shit and we''ve got no money."


    She folded her hands and looked at them, just as I''d done down in Banbury. "I woke up one day and realised I had no passion for my job. I shouldn''t say that since loyalty is such a big thing for you. But all of a sudden, it didn''t excite me, didn''t interest me. For a long time I was trying to prove myself, trying to outperform everyone. But when I did that, I looked around. When I joined the firm I was excited. It was a chance to make a difference. It does good things, makes good products that I believed in, but we could have done more. We never did. So, I thought, what am I doing here? The bosses there were content to keep making money, keep expanding, keep the shareholders happy. It''s simply... not enough. I need more."


    "You''ll always need more. That''s your nature."


    She considered that. "Possibly. But why shouldn''t I try?"


    "So you left that job."


    "I travelled. Did the American girl finding herself thing. Paris, China, Australia. You probably think it''s so cliche."


    "I think you''re the first American woman I''ve ever met. I understand you want to travel. Who doesn¡¯t?"


    Unexpectedly, she got shifty. She coughed. "You''ve got me all wrong but this is the bit you really won''t understand."


    "You started writing letters to a convicted murderer."


    "What?" She laughed, once. "No. My old performance coach, Dahvide, was giving a workshop in Chester. I wasn''t so far away, only in London, when I heard about it. I booked a place and then it was a question of borrowing someone''s horse. There''s a riding school in Cheshire with some Western saddles and using my exceptional skills and charm that I''ve perfected over many years of hard work and application, they agreed to loan me a saddle and a horse. That''s not typical, by the way. That''s a huge point in my favour, if only you knew it. Long story short, it''s my dream horse. It''s an unbelievable horse. Like riding a cloud. He''s my soulmate; I''m in love. Scotty. Short for Biscotti."


    I inhaled, paused, and exhaled slowly. I thought I was on safe ground with the no-billionaires thing, but this was from a world I was only tangentially familiar with. "You need to live in England for five years so you can marry a horse."


    She laughed again, much warmer this time. "No! They won''t sell him, but I can ride him if I muck out and help them with their marketing mix. So I need to be here. In Cheshire. To stay in the UK, I need a work visa. They''ve just changed the law to make it so that I need to earn forty thousand pounds a year."


    "That''s peanuts compared to what you used to get."


    "I know. It''s not about the money. I''ll freelance. Work online doing interesting projects. I told Ruth all this and she said that you, here, were building something. That it was like a mad startup and they needed some professionals in the room. But that I''d be building something meaningful. Something I''d be proud of."


    "Why didn''t you say all this right away?"


    "Because you started beratin¡¯ me as soon as I sat down!"


    I gave her a cheeky grin, which was partially effective. "What''s funny is that Ruth was the one berating me for hiring people without a process. I have to open this up and see what else is out there."


    Her eyes flickered left and right. "And how long will that take?"


    I shrugged. "I don''t know. Till next season."


    "When''s that?"


    "See, the person I hire will have to know that. And the person I hire will know that while I don''t personally give a shit, many people in this country find the word soccer annoying. They''re idiots, but they''re our fans and our stakeholders. It''s part of knowing the audience."


    I saw her making the calculations. Am I willing to learn about soccer in order to spend more time with this horse? "What else?"


    "What?"


    "What else do I need to do?"


    I smiled and let some warmth come into my voice. "Brooke. Turns out, I like you. I like people who instinctively dislike me. If I was going to hire a marketing person, maybe it''d be you. I love a bargain and getting your skills for 40K is a no-brainer. But I don''t want a marketing department. My goal here is to avoid having one for as long as possible. I can build this club on my own with my own skills making money from trading football players and making a massive profit. Dead simple. No Fussin''. No social media garbage, no fake beefs with Ryan Reynolds, no documentaries, no fucking introduction videos set to stirring music, none of that fake, fake shit. What we do on the pitch is kinda stupid, I know that, but it makes people happy and when you''re in that stadium, it''s really fucking real. The joy and despair is authentic. I could spend 40K on you and you''d be fantastic at scheduling meetings, or I could buy a 15-year-old star player for 40K and three years from now, sell him for five million pounds. Do you see the problem?"


    "You want me to show I can be a good return on investment?"


    "Brooke, please take a breath. I''m trying to be honest here and I''m sorry about the meeting jibe. That just slipped out because I''m a dick and I can''t help it. I''m saying, there''s no position. I''ll tell Ruth and MD that I blew this meeting and when they hear your version, they''ll be mad at me but they''ll say ''oh Max''. And that''ll get me a month without having to talk about it. And then I''ll say I''m busy with the end of the season and blah blah blah. I''ll kick the can down the road pretty much in perpetuity."


    "You must have some marketing challenges. You have sponsors. Are they happy with the lack of effort from your side?"


    "My lack of effort is some other person''s greatest ever output. Seeing your company''s name ten inches below my chin is a pearl beyond price."


    "But..." She inhaled. "Please tell me something you''d employ someone to do for you. It could be anything." She saw me open my mouth and added, "Apart from playing... football."


    I pushed myself away and had a tiny think. Most of the thoughts were already there and it would feel good to say them out loud. Help me to clarify my own thinking, if you follow me. And obviously, I''d never see her again so I could be honest about my struggles for once. I pointed at the empty space on the wall. I vowed to get that covered up pretty darn quick. "The traitor fucked off to get his thirty pieces of silver. But I got thirty pieces of silver, too. I''ve got quite a lot of money for the first time in this job. Using it properly is the difference between the success and failure of what I''m doing here. It''s critical. Here''s where my mind''s at." I looked out of the window, then leaned my back against it. "The club''s electricity bill is bonkers. It''s outrageous and keeps going up. That means we have to put ticket prices up and the fans don''t like that. And if the costs get too high, I have less budget for staff salaries. So I was thinking about solar panels and batteries. I got a back-of-an-envelope estimate from a solar guy in a pub and he said putting panels on the roof of the stadium to cover our needs with some excess and whatnot would be four hundred and fifty thousand pounds. But we''d save, like, ninety thousand a year. These aren''t exact numbers, you understand. I might even be misremembering because a five-year return on investment seems too good to be true. But if we put solar panels up we''d have more wage budget, there''d be less pressure on our ticket prices, and we''d have done something for the planet that I would like to live on for a long time. 450 K is a staggeringly painful amount of money to think about losing right now because I could seriously improve the team with that."


    "Right."


    "There must be grants and subsidies all over the place for that kind of project. I reckon if we win our next five or six league games, we''ll have so much distance between us and the next best that they''ll sort of give up and take it easy until the playoffs. So then I''ll have time to get stuck into all this grant shit."


    "Is that a good - "


    "If we can get the cost down, or even a low-interest loan or something, I don''t know, that''d be compelling. That''s one project. The other idea is similar. We need to buy some land to start putting down our own facilities. Now, if I dump a ten million pound campus and then, like, die or whatever, the club will go bust trying to maintain it so it needs to be done step by step and all that. The first step will be a 3G pitch or two. Those are artificial grass pitches. They''re nice to play on and you don''t lose days to the weather. What''s good is that when we aren''t using them, we can rent them out. Demand for good football pitches is really high and for small clubs the income can be life-changing. Right? So I''d buy some land and make a community facility with it. We have disabled teams here that we take seriously, we''re big into women''s football, our youth teams are exciting. There''s got to be all kinds of money to help us. I want to put two pitches down and have, like, grants coming in from eighteen places and they all think they''re the only ones paying. Or whatever. A legal version of what I just said. I need a spare fortnight to look into it."


    "So the first two projects would decrease the business''s costs and increase its revenues?"


    I held up a hand. "This isn''t a business. You need to be a billion percent clear on that. This is not a business."


    She flushed again, very slightly. "Gotcha. Not a business. But that''s..." She scratched under her chin. "That''s smart."


    My phone pinged and I checked the screen. It was a message from the Banbury manager. I blinked. WibRob! Why was I still in this meeting? "Brooke, it was amazing to meet you but I need to kick you out now. I hope you find your dream job to go with your dream horse. It would help if you told Ruth I was mostly polite so she doesn''t kick me out of her house. All right, how do Texans say goodbye?" I did an amazing accent as I closed the door behind her. "Catcha later, pardner! Yeehaw!"


    And then Brooke was gone and out of my life forever.


    ***


    Me: Bit of an odd request for if you''re ever going near Manchester. I''ve had an idea for the empty space on my office wall.


    Brig: Unfortunately, I am often going near Manchester. What would you like?


    Me: A giant photo of one person in the world I trust maybe more than anyone else. I think it''ll make me happy.


    Brig: Then I shall make it a priority.


    ***


    Tuesday, 6 Feb


    Match 29 of 46: Rushall Olympic versus Chester


    I was quiet in the dressing room and let Sandra give the final reminders of what the plan was. She projected her usual air of authority but I knew she was nervous. The team was weak. When I''d pitched the starting lineup to her, I thought she had mumbled ''weak as piss'' under her breath, and she had a point. The average CA was 43.6, excluding myself of course. Still better than Rushall''s 36, but our team was lumpy - some strong blobs, some, yeah, weak as piss ones.


    "As you''d expect from a team called Olympic, these guys are quick and athletic and they like to start fast. We have to match them for work rate and intensity. If they get a lead, they''ll be ferocious in defending it. We score first we can pick them apart."


    "The first cut is the deepest," I said.


    "Yeah, thanks, boss. Very vivid. Love a bit of morose imagery before a must-win match. Really sets the tone." She laughed. "Bloody hell, Max. So it''s mad intensity, lads. Mad intensity. It''s been pissing it down all day so the pitch is nice and slick. Zip the ball around. Let it do the work. You know the line up and we''ve got a strong bench but remember, the point is to rest key players. Get that first goal."


    We were doing our usual 4-4-2 with Robbo between the sticks behind a decent back four of Magnus, Gerald May, Steve Alton, and Carl Carlile. D-Day was on the left, Bark on the right, me and Youngster in the middle. It would have been a perfect day for Pascal - positionally indisciplined opponents and a 3G pitch, but his morale was still in the toilet. Henri and Chris Beaumont, AKA Goliath, were the strikers.


    One platinum, one gold, and a whole heap of silver and tin.


    The bench, though, was very strong. Too strong for my liking but we could only name five and Sandra wanted some security. We agreed on four big names and one development guy. Ben as the backup goalie. New signing Eddie Moore for left-sided cover and key players Glenn and Aff ready to come on if things spiralled out of control. We also had Tyson on the bench and if things went well he''d make his professional debut. Sandra had tried to talk me out of telling Tyson''s dad, Bulldog, that he should come down. She looked around the pitch and saw too many weak spots that would buckle if Rushall put us under any pressure.


    But I wasn''t worried about the match, apart from a nagging thought that I should have put out a strong team to impress William into signing. The Brig had picked the Roberts family up and used his briggy charms on them all the way to Walsall. The Bulldog family were very much in attendance, and I also spotted two very blonde heads of hair near MD in our VIP seats. Hmm. Was Brooke continuing her poverty safari?


    No, my strange mood had little to do with the match and a lot to do with The Traitors. It was the TV show I''d become addicted to while I was immobile in hospital. The moments where ''the faithful'' realised they''ve been deceived by their closest friends were electric. I watched the tears, the wobbling lips, the sadness in the eyes with glee. Jubilant glee. In retrospect, my reaction sickened me and I wanted a follow-up episode where we spent half an hour with the people who were so thoroughly tricked. I wanted to know they were all right. I wanted to know how they''d recovered. Had any of them forgiven their betrayers? It was just a game, after all. Why did -


    "Max!"


    "What?" I mumbled.


    "It''s our kick off. You ready?"


    I blinked and looked around. There was a football match ready to happen. "Hit me."


    Goliath passed to Henri, who passed to me. The Rushall guys stormed at me. Very slowly, like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, I turned backwards and shaped to pass the ball to a defender. An oppo striker stretched out to block the pass, but I''d already turned more, a full 360 in slow motion that took four guys out of the game.


    So long, suckers!


    I sprinted ahead and there was immediate panic. Gleeful mayhem. Goliath lumbered straight ahead, dragging three defenders with him. Henri zoomed left, bringing another one. Bark and D-Day were in motion, bringing aggro on them. That didn''t leave many coming at me.


    I turned my sprint into a - what''s faster than a sprint? - and sped into space. One of the centre backs realised I was about to shoot and left the line to throw himself into a block. His mates tried to shuffle to fill the space but when I played a diagonal pass towards an empty hole outside the penalty box they didn''t know what to do. It made no sense, and just for a second, they relaxed. The danger was gone.


    So then why was I running harder than ever?


    Henri had sprinted back into the hole and latched onto my pass. He took one touch, paused, and played it in front of me. Too far for me to shoot, but that was intentional.


    I caught up with the ball and as I looked down at it, focused on my technique. How much clip? How much spin?


    I think...


    This much.


    As I kept my forward motion, but now running backwards - what? - off the pitch, I watched my cross sail onto Goliath''s head. He didn''t have to jump. He didn''t have to sprint or adjust his body. The defenders clinging onto him deflected him not an inch from his purpose.


    He headed the ball, as he had been doing for his entire career, exactly where he wanted it to go. This time, it was straight in front of him, far to the goalie''s left. One-nil. First blood to us. Thirteen seconds? Unlucky for Rushall. The celebrations happened around me in front of a line of shocked home fans. They watched me embrace Henri first of all. He was babbling, delirious. Morale maxed out. Goliath came next, laughing, saying "I knew it! I knew it!" Then Youngster, eyes wide and laughing. Our celebrations lasted three times longer than the actual football and by the time I got back to our half, something had changed.


    It looks like Rushall are adopting a more defensive approach.


    The rain started again.


    I lifted my chin and let the droplets splash onto my stupid, gullible face. Football is full of uncertainties. Was that handball? Did the foul happen inside or outside the penalty area? Did he mean to kick him?


    But at non-league level, if you score a goal, that''s a goal. And if you win, you win. Simplicity in a complicated game. Certainty in a bewildering world.


    Yes, mate.


    As Rushall kicked off, I forgot about our travelling fans. I forgot Bulldog, Brooke, WibRob, MD, and whoever else was in the stands. I strode around, analysing the match. Analysing the match ratings and the strengths and weaknesses and the opportunities and threats. I didn''t need a business school girl - I had an MBA of my own - Max Being Awesome.


    When the ball next came to me there was a hilarious and deeply satisfying moment where three banks of yellow-shirted opponents retreated five yards. I grinned, feeling, for the first time since the fans forum, something like the person I wanted to be.


    I exchanged passes with Youngster to see how they''d react - watchfully.


    I pinged the ball out to Bark to see what they''d do - they stayed goal side.


    When it was cycled back to me, I glanced left and nodded at D-Day. We both started a sprint - mine rather faster than his - and when I shaped to chip the ball forward and left, there was palpable panic in the Rushall defence. The goalie thought he had the best shot at clearing the danger and rushed out in that direction.


    So from ten, soon to be five yards inside my own half, I sorted my feet out and launched a high, looping shot towards the open right-hand side of the goal.


    As the ball looped towards its target, I thought about the hurt I''d suffered. The first cut was the deepest, but there were many more. It hurt that people didn''t believe in me. It hurt that I''d added a million in cash and assets and people thought I was only interested in taking money out of the club. It hurt that I''d done something genuinely good - saving Tranmere Rovers from relegation - and people only saw the bad. Every doubt was a dagger.


    But this, here, on the pitch, this was my release. Watching the action play out according to my godlike design was the ultimate in therapy.


    The ball bounced two yards to the right of the penalty spot.


    With me in this mood, it was a bad fucking time to be a National League North goalkeeper.


    This one raced across and leapt, despairingly, towards the ball. The stupid idiot nearly misjudged the bounce from the artificial pitch - the last thing I wanted was to score a 60-yard belter and go viral. Fortunately, he got a palm to it and slapped it away. He jogged after it, got hold of it, and with no-one anywhere near him flopped to the ground so he could catch his breath and let the horror of the moment wash over him.


    All in all, it worked like a charm. The keeper stayed in his zone for most of the rest of the match, and I instantly read this in the match commentary:


    It looks like Rushall are adopting a more defensive approach.


    They''d gone full low block and the rest of the half would be played in and around their penalty box. We''d save our legs and I''d show William how a proper team used Chris Beaumont.


    I looked up and let the rain smash into me some more, spreading my arms and trying not to shout what I was thinking.


    I was so fucking good at this game!

 7.2 - Beating the Block

    2.


    Rushall''s low block was pretty effective in slowing us down - for a while. We were leading, so we had no incentive to force the issue and were content to stretch the play left and right, probing, looking for gaps.


    The problem was that we were weak down the wings. On the left we had Magnus Evergeen, who was a solid, dependable guy with low creativity, and D-Day, a flair player who was weak defensively and preferred dribbling to passing. In a normal team they''d have been a good combo, but not much about my Chester team was normal. Suffice to say that my famous Art of Slapping - combinations of passes that would put us in great goalscoring positions - didn''t suit those players.


    My style did suit those on the right. Calabash ''Bark'' Barkley was a young talent I''d rescued from the grim north-east, getting him a transfer to the grim north-west. His current club, Tranmere Rovers, had loaned him to me for the rest of the season on condition that we helped his development. Behind him, Carl Carlile was a physically impressive defender with endless stamina. His on-the-ball skills and positioning had improved a lot since he had decided to commit - really commit - to playing football. In a year or two, this would be an absolutely dynamite partnership at this level, but right now Bark was so, so raw. He had a bravery attribute of 5, which meant he wouldn''t jump into a 50-50 tackle. I was fine with that - he couldn''t help the team if he was injured. But it seemed to also make him reluctant to take other kinds of risks. He was playing the game pretty safe. That was understandable - he was just a kid trying not to screw up, but no risk, no slap.


    In the centre of midfield, I was buddied up with Youngster, an 18-year-old superstar in the making who made crazy numbers of interceptions. Again, not a creative type.


    I had options on the bench - I could bring Aff on and play him at left back instead of Magnus and then our left-sided overlaps would be absolutely deadly. But it was important that we won games with our rotation players.


    So much of the burden fell on my shoulders.


    And what shoulders they were!


    Youngster harries Gooch and knocks the ball away.


    Evergreen is fastest to it. He knocks it to May.


    May hits a long ball in the direction of Beaumont.


    The striker wins the header and knocks it back to midfield.


    Best looks up. He has two men approaching.


    Best plays a one-two with Youngster and checks his options.


    Lyons makes a run.


    The ball is slid into his path. Lyons shoots!


    But it''s blocked. He was crowded out.


    When the move was over, I paced towards Gerald May. "What the fuck was that?"


    He looked shocked. "What?"


    "You hit a long ball to Chris! Why? We don''t do that."


    "He was just - " said May, but the fury on my face made him shut up.


    I swallowed my anger - partially, anyway, and turned my back on him. We played some more and Rushall cleared the ball into the middle of our half. Robbo jogged out of goal - he was little more than a spectator at this point - and launched it long to Chris. The ball sailed out of play for a Rushall goal kick. They would take their sweet time restarting the match, which today I was fine with. But I wasn''t fine with Robbo. I stormed all the way to the penalty box and jabbed my captain for the day in the chest. "Do that again this''ll be the last game you ever play for this club."


    "Max!"


    "Shut the fuck up. Play like we train or you''re done." I walked off, seething, going through every swear word I knew.


    Rushall had set up a block, and these morons were running straight into it, head first. The stupidity was excruciating.


    The problem was English football DNA. Apart from kids who got into academies at a young age, we grew up surrounded by route one football. Route one is where you kick the ball as far as you can down the pitch. As you might imagine, if you''re playing route one football it helps to have a big, strong lump to aim these long balls at. I''d put a big strong lump into our team and our less talented players had instantly regressed.


    Why hadn''t I known this was happening? I needed to have a word with Spectrum. He''d edited this shit out of the match footage he''d sent me.


    It was infuriating, especially because I''d explicitly told WibRob that we were using Chris as some kind of aesthetic marvel. In fact, we were no better than Banbury. I walked over to the dugout. "Ben! Get warmed up." I narrowed my eyes. "And if you pull that shit, too, you''re out, too."


    "Then who''s going in goal?" said Sandra.


    "Me."


    I went back to midfield and found I couldn''t control the rage. White spots appeared in my vision, even when I closed my eyes. I''d worked so hard to get the team playing Max Best football, high-percentage football, winning football, but they would use any excuse to revert to caveman shit.


    The ball came to me and I flicked it up and wellied it high into the sky. It went into fucking orbit, never to be seen again.


    I turned around, clapping myself quite sarcastically, screaming, "Yeah! Yeah! Fucking brilliant, that! Get in!"


    The more I fumed, the more everyone''s morale dropped, but I couldn''t get a grip. I was melting down. There was exactly one area of my life that I was supposed to be in complete control of and these stupid fucks were betraying me. Henri came over and put his hand on my shoulder. "Max. What troubles you?"


    "Life, man," I said, defeated. My energy was spent. Gone.


    "Yes. Life. You know, I was shopping for decorations for my bedroom and I came across a wonderful quote painted onto a piece of wood. It simply said: Live, Laugh, Love. Those are words to live by."


    He kept a straight face for at least five seconds, but then I detected a twitch around the sides of the eyes. I tried to smile. "How do I stop these twats going route one? We''ve trained it endlessly."


    Rushall kicked off, but Henri and I stood still a little while longer. "You can''t. They are English. It''s what they do. You didn''t correct them in January. I assumed you were okay with it."


    "Drop into midfield a minute."


    I swapped our roles on the tactics screen. While Henri scampered off to join our midfield line, I walked towards Chris Beaumont and put one hand on his lower back and one on his elbow. "Chris, I''m sorry."


    "What for?"


    "I didn''t know they were doing that."


    "Doing what?"


    "Using you as a target man."


    "I am a target man."


    "You''re not. You''re a perfectly-engineered cog in a sumptuously elegant mechanism designed by a floating megabrain."


    "Is that you?"


    "Yes."


    "What are you doing?"


    I was trying to push him and he was letting me but even then, his enormous bulk was too much. "Change of plan. You''re going to start our moves from here."


    "What?" He tensed and I couldn''t move him, but then he decided he trusted me, relaxed, and walked on his own. He glanced behind us, where a football match was happening. Rushall had taken the opportunity to move up the pitch. "Here? I''m offside."


    "Bit more." We kept walking, past a bewildered goalkeeper, right up to the goalpost. "About here, I reckon."


    "Tempted to say the O word again, in case you forgot the laws of the game."


    "Instead of starting at the half-way line and running this way, you''ll start here and move backwards. Not too far. You only need to be onside when the last pass comes. Right?"


    He shook his head. "This is to stop them playing long balls to me?"


    "Mate, if I see one more, careers are going to be ended. I am livid. I know it''s not nice but they need to fucking recalibrate. All right?"


    "You''re the boss."


    I left him there chatting to the other team''s goalie while loads of the home fans shouted jokes at him. When I got to midfield I swapped places with Henri. I played a few one-touch passes to help me return to some semblance of mental equilibrium and Rushall retreated bit by bit until they were back in the low block and we were surrounding them. We hit a lot of safe, sideways passes, left and right, right and left, wearing the oppo down.


    Finally, I saw the opening. Bark was on the right with Carl starting an overlap. I sprinted in the direction of the corner flag and used the tactics screen to swap places with Bark. He touched the ball to Carl, who passed it into my feet. I stopped it with my right and helped it sideways with my left. Bark was moving that way. He rolled it back to me.


    "Go!" I shouted.


    Carl overlapped me and I shaped to hit the pass on the outside, towards the touchline, where Carl would have the chance to hit a cross that would probably be blocked by the defender. Instead, I hit it to the left of the defender, what we call the ''inside'', and Carl burst past the guy.


    The defender made a decent attempt at sliding to the ball but Carl just about got there first, shook off the foul, righted himself, and hit a solid cross to the back post.


    Chris had waited until the move was almost fully ripe before jogging onside, and he had a simple job to power the ball into the bottom left. Two-nil! The home fans weren''t laughing, now, and Chris loped away, hugging Henri and the others on his way to the corner flag to do some inane celebration.


    I fell straight back into a grump. "Fucking bunch of useless pricks," I mumbled as I walked back down the line. "Gonna fucking savage them." I remembered I''d swapped places with Bark and undid that change. "Rip them a fucking new one. Load of bullshit."


    I fell to my haunches and stayed staring straight ahead, unblinking, not responding to anything or anyone until the match was back on. The action flowed around me, avoiding me, and when I got the ball I played it to Youngster. I wanted him to step up. Take responsibility. They couldn''t rely on me all the time - I''d smacked a football into a journalist''s face and I would get a ban. If I knew the Football Association, the ban would cover our most difficult and important games. We couldn''t play like this against anyone good. We had to break the habit.


    To his credit, Youngster realised what I was doing and with me anchoring the midfield, he got more progressive. He tried his idiosyncratic dribble past one opponent and tried to link up with the guys on the left. Then he did it on the right. He hung around being the corner of various triangles.


    It was all very ragged - against a low block we needed more cunning, more smarts, more deception - but we were starting to get somewhere when one of D-Day''s dribbles ended with a foul in a dangerous position on the left of the pitch, not far from being in line with the penalty box. The Free Hit option came up. It slightly increased my team''s chance of scoring from a set piece. The angle was good and there were plenty of ways we could score, so I smashed the button.


    I thought about shooting, but not for long. If I scored too many goals myself, I risked attracting the attention of a hellish entity known as The Sentinel who would be mad at me for using powers I should never have been given. In this case, it wasn''t much of a restriction; I had Chris, Henri, and Steve Alton as targets, with Gerald May as a good decoy. How about a left-footed cross? I was still mostly sticking to using my right foot so that opponents would be surprised when I broke out my equally-strong left.


    I placed the ball down and maximised the Masterpiece Theatre section of my vision. This was something like a mini map with my teammates marked as blue circles. I wasn''t totally sure of the rules, but I was able to move some of them around to various amounts. Rushall didn''t have anyone poised for a counter attack, so I tried to throw everyone forward. Youngster and Bark wouldn''t budge from the halfway line, but I was able to move everyone else to the far post.


    An idea came to me - blockers. A lot of teams had very complicated set piece moves where certain players would run to spots with no intention of trying to head the ball. Their job was to stop defenders from challenging the intended target of the cross. Could I approximate that now?


    I sent Henri to the near post - closest to me. A defender followed him. With everyone else on the far post, it seemed pretty obvious where I would aim. I mean, it was always obvious - Chris Beaumont. He was so massive that if the cross was on target the defence could do virtually nothing about it. The ref blew his whistle and I swapped the circles.


    Chris and the tall defenders ran to the front post, Henri to the back. The defenders followed in confusion, trying to stick to the players they were marking but getting in each other''s way. Blocking each other!


    The concept didn''t work perfectly, but it was good enough.


    The goalie took two steps towards the near post, towards Chris, and I hit a hard, fast cross into the space in front of Henri. He bullied his solo defender, rose, and scored.


    Three crosses, three headers, three-nil, and I turned my thoughts to the absolute half time bollocking I was going to give these twa - Argh! They were all running in my direction. Even Henri. Masterpiece theatre was still open, and I tried sliding the player icons away from me. Away! Shoo! I''m mad at you!


    "Max! Yeah!"


    "Whoo!"


    "Chester!"


    "Get in!"


    I was wedged in the arms of Chris Beaumont and Henri and couldn''t escape - a prisoner of joy. Henri was doing the manic nodding thing he did when he''d scored a goal that fit the concept I''d laid out. "What now, Max? More?"


    "No. Efficiency. The game''s dead. Kill it."


    "Illogical, but yes. Understood."


    "Can I stop humping the goal post, please boss?"


    I laughed and rubbed my forehead. "Sure. Come on. Energy saving mode on, lads."


    ***


    Shortly after the ref blew for half time, I was wondering how tonto to get in the dressing room when I spotted a familiar foe standing behind the goal we had been attacking. It was pretty easy to pick out individual faces - there were only about five hundred in the whole crowd. I had a sudden burst of inspiration. I waved at Bulldog to make his way to the front so I could talk to him. Then I looked around, shielding my eyes from the floodlights until I picked out Andy Roberts. I waved him over, too.


    "Andy, this is Bulldog. His son''s on our bench today. Going to make his debut. Bulldog and I have had a few scraps in the past. Bulldog, this is Andy. I''m trying to sign his son. He''s the same age as Tyson. Would you do me a solid and tell him what it''s really like being the father of a young player at Chester?"


    Bulldog''s eyebrows rose. "Are you sure that''s a good idea, Max?"


    "Sure. You can be honest."


    "If he''s here, he''s probably close to signing. You shouldn''t sell past the close."


    "Do you know what that means?" I asked Andy. He didn''t. "What''s that mean?"


    Bulldog explained. "If you''ve got a deal, don''t keep talking. You can only blow it."


    I nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense. But it''s his son. He deserves to know. Anyway, you''ll be watching your kids play together a lot. You could help Andy get to know Chester. The city, I mean. Give him some tips. Best pubs. Where to park. All that."


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "Happy to, yeah!"


    "I''m gonna go scream at these idiots, now."


    "Max, hang on." Bulldog put his hands on the simple black fence that separated us. "You''re winning three-nil. It''s one-sided. I''m not telling you your business but as a manager you have to be careful not to ask too much."


    I gave him a confused smile. "I don''t want perfection. I just want them to do what I want. It''s dead easy." I blinked as Rushall''s tactics screen changed from 4-4-2 to 5-4-1. Huh. But then it switched again, to 4-5-1. So their manager was spitballing some ideas. I shook it off; there was nothing he could do to turn this round. "Er... Tyson will get five minutes at the end. It''s just for a bit of match day experience," I said to Andy, but he was looking at Bulldog, who was tearing up, holding onto the railing even harder.


    That, I thought, as I pottered back to the dressing room, couldn''t have gone any better.


    ***


    As I entered the dressing room, I decided not to go all guns blazing. It had struck me that the players who''d reverted to long ball had two things in common. One, their CA was low. Two, their contracts hadn''t been extended. If their low CA made them more likely to panic and go long, it was unfair of me to ask them to play any different. No, it was fair to ask, but unfair to go nuts if they simply couldn''t help it.


    And the Machiavellian side of my brain had lit up. If I used this as a reason WHY they wouldn''t get a new contract, it would scare the shit out of everyone at the club. They''d know the consequences of defying me on issues that mattered.


    Hmm. Seemed a bit explosive, that. A softer version, perhaps, where I simply said they didn''t fit my style of play. That would be enough. The rumour mill would quickly fill in the details.


    "Max?" It was Sandra Lane, by some metrics the most successful woman in the history of football. I found myself with my arm resting on top of the tactics board. "You okay?"


    "Did they spend the whole of January lumping the ball forward?" I whispered.


    "Not often. Not everyone."


    I nodded, and still in a low voice, added, "I''ve had my tantrum. They''ll think about it. We''ll talk it over before the next game. Something like that?"


    "Yeah, perfect."


    "The women are off the pace, too. Complacent."


    "Give them a kick up the backside. Surprise them in training tomorrow."


    Yeah. Good call. In a more normal voice, I said, "Any thoughts?"


    "If we''re still changing to 3-5-2 it''s just a question of who comes off. Carl or Magnus?"


    "What do you think?"


    She sighed. "I think you were right. They don''t really have the weapons to hurt us. We can rest Carl."


    "What''s up?"


    "I should have listened to you. This would be perfect minutes for Andrew H. We don''t need such a strong bench."


    "Come on. Maybe we''re winning because we''ve got such a strong bench. Who knows?"


    "We''re winning because there''s no way to block you."


    "Block us," I said.


    "You."


    Vimsy eased his way into the area. "Erm... boss. Bosses. Just checking if there''s going to be any shouting you need help with?"


    "Not angry shouting, no. I''ll get the lads in my office tomorrow and talk to them. But," I said, to cheer him up. "We''re doing 3-5-2 defensive, second half. It''s all about spacing and discipline and we''ll have two kids out there. You can stand on the touchline and yell instructions at them, if you want."


    He grinned, rubbed his hands together, and fished in his pocket for a throat lozenge.


    ***


    The second half kicked off and, as I''d thought, Bulldog was nowhere to be seen. Off buying beers with his new mate.


    I pottered around the centre circle, barely involved in the match apart from a few crisp passes. Then, yes! The clans had collided and formed a new supertribe made up of Bulldogs and Robertses. Half were carrying pints. I gestured at Sandra, and shortly after, Tyson came to the touchline, stretching his hamstrings, touching his toes.


    "Substitution for Chester. Replacing number 2, Carl Carlile, number 29, Tyson."


    Another player from the formerly-neglected Chester youth system was making his first team debut. From one point of view, it was a couple of years ahead of schedule. From another, it was thirty-five minutes ahead of what had been promised. I''d lied to his dad so that this moment would be even more rewarding. For me.


    While I used my hotkeys to rearrange us into a defensive, energy-saving 3-5-2 (no forward runs, no through balls, no dribbles, Tyson the right-most CM, me right-mid so I could look after him), Bulldog burst into tears.


    Andy was first to hug him, while Anne very clearly mouthed the word ''aww''. William looked at Tyson - lining up next to the great Max Best - with envy.


    I had absolutely nailed it. Absolutely smashed every obstacle out of their path. What objections could they possibly have left? Truly, I was history''s greatest mastermind.


    ***


    A ridiculously youthful midfield of Bark, Youngster, and Tyson struggled to compete with their far more experienced opponents, but anytime they looked like cracking I whizzed across to help out. With surprisingly diligent support from D-Day on the left, Henri dropping from the front, and knowing we had a solid defence, a three-goal lead and top players on the bench just in case, there was little jeopardy.


    Vimsy shouted instructions like we were losing four-nil and down to seven men. That was good. That was right.


    Tyson left the pitch all smiles, with forty minutes of professional football to his name. We can skip past his four out of ten match rating. That was almost completely irrelevant.


    This match was one of our rescheduled ones, and our three closest rivals hadn''t played. That put us six points clear at the top with four very winnable matches coming up before the big one against Kidderminster.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="35"><col width="100"><col width="43"><col width="49"><col width="47"><col width="44"><col width="47"><col width="39"><col width="45"><col width="50"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Team</td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>78</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>51</td>


    <td>68</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Kidderminster</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>51</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>62</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>York</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>49</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>59</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Darlington</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>58</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ***


    I was pretty deep in thought as I walked, head down, through the weird stadium into the small portacabin that housed our dressing room. It was just about the least glamorous location of my entire football journey, but I didn''t mind it. I took some perverse pleasure in the roughness.


    But there was a surprise waiting for me before I got there.


    A little table had been set up outside, and Ruth and Brooke were there holding large umbrellas to keep it dry. Ruth didn''t seem angry at me for how I''d treated Brooke in her job interview, which was unexpected.


    "What''s this?" I said.


    "Come out of the rain," said Brooke.


    "What rain?" This innocuous question made her laugh - a warm, sunny, exotic laugh that didn''t match the location. I did as she''d suggested while our players - and a few curious ones from Rushall - formed a semi-circle, unbidden. They knew something was happening.


    MD, Secretary Joe, Bulldog, and the Roberts family arrived under umbrellas of their own. That was my first glimpse of Adam, the younger brother. People naming the second brother Adam annoyed the shit out of me, but I had heroically kept that opinion to myself. Joe laid out some papers and while my heart tried to beat itself out of my chest, WibRob signed a four-year contract.


    "Is that it? Is it done?" I said.


    "It''s done," said Joe. "William B. Roberts will be a Chester player on June the first."


    My fists were clenching and unclenching of their own accord. I needed to let out some emotion. Needed a release. I looked from Brooke to Ruth to MD. "Someone''s gonna get a kiss."


    "How about me?" said Anne, WibRob''s mother.


    I laughed and gave her a peck on the cheek and a big hug. The watchers applauded.


    "Is that how I get a new contract?" shouted D-Day. "Give you a kick up the arse?"


    I laughed some more, and William blushed as he remembered our first ever interaction. "That wasn''t a kick. That was an assist. William shot us to the top of the league!" Our lads cheered. I watched Joe putting the documents into a folder and into a briefcase. "So it''s proper done? Like proper done?"


    "Yes, Max," said MD. "All done. There''s no backing out now. From either side."


    I tightened my abs and did a primal grunt. Come on! I took in a huge breath. "Holy shit. Best day ever. Okay. It''s done. So, William. I have a confession."


    The hubbub died down. "Oh-oh," said Tyson, who was at the front of the semi-circle of players. It was only Chester guys left, now. We had that hot glow of victory; we didn''t feel the rain.


    "Don''t want you hearing about it later and getting annoyed. Thing is, when I was negotiating with Banbury, I suggested an add-on and, fuck me, they leapt at it."


    "What was it?" said Andy, worried. Had he been scammed? Bulldog sensed his doubts and moved closer, putting his arm around his new mate. Andy relaxed - most of the way.


    "Yeah," I said, giving it my best cheeky grin. "Will, I did say I didn''t want you playing for Banbury for the rest of the season but I kind of got the cheeky feeling that you might, sort of, ignore me or whatever." The kid''s eyes flashed - busted! "So me and their manager talked about it and if you don''t play a single minute for Banbury until the end of the season, I''m going to give them ten grand. Their faces lit up, mate. That''s free money. That''s a lot of self-cleaning toilets. So... Banbury''s done. You''re with us, now. Soz not soz."


    There was dead silence as a rainbow of emotions crossed the kid''s square-round face. It was a rainbow with two colours, though - the red of anger and the black of resentment.


    Tyson pointed at him. "You got Maxxed!"


    The team jeered and cheered and pulled William out from behind the table and into their midst. He couldn''t help but laugh as they bounced around shouting, "William! Top of the league! William William top of the league!" He was swallowed by the group and deposited into the dressing room where he got his first taste of what winning a professional game feels like. And smells like.


    I turned to his parents. "That look was scary. Is he gonna forgive me?"


    "Yeah," said his mum. "He''s got a temper but it doesn''t linger. Doesn''t hold grudges."


    Andy was giving me a strange look. "Do you always get what you want?"


    My cheeky grin came back. "Right now I really want a hot shower." I looked at the portacabin. "Something tells me I''m not going to get one." I stepped towards it, but Bulldog made a little noise. He held his arms wide. "I''m soaking wet," I said.


    "Don''t care," he said, wrapping me in his thick arms. He slapped me on the back a few times, pushing the air out of my lungs and making me realise just how drenched I was. "My son played for Chester. Thank you. Thank you."


    I thought about trying to say something funny, but decided that silence was golden. I double-tapped the badge on my chest and went inside to dangle the prospect of training with the first team in front of WibRob. He''d been Maxxed, but if he was smart, he''d realise that was a good thing.


    ***


    During the shower, the usual post-match fatigue hit me in an awesome wave so when the Brig suggested I should go home with Ruth while he dropped off the Robertses, I agreed.


    We watched the team bus pull away - the party bus, based on the youthful dancing I saw in the middle - and I went round to Ruth''s passenger seat and settled in. I realised, too late, that my landlord was going to take the opportunity to yell at me, but my situation grew even more precarious.


    The back doors opened and MD got in behind me, while Brooke got in behind Ruth.


    Oh shit.


    I was going to get yelled at from three sides. It had struck me after Brooke''s interview that maybe, potentially, I hadn''t handled it with one hundred percent class and tact, and I''d imagined multiple tellings-off. Ruth''s would have been short but explosive, while MD''s would have been measured, professional, and damning. ''Speaking with perfect candour, Max, the tone and content of the interview you ran, as they have been reported to me, are nothing short of unacceptable, blah blah blah, do you truly understand the position you have placed the club in yadda yadda yadda require an acknowledgement from you of your missteps in this case and so on and so forth.''


    I was so tired. This was so unfair! If they pushed me too far, I knew I''d snap. ''Don''t talk to me like I did anything wrong! I just brought a SECOND one-hundred-million-pound player to this shitty little club! The third if you include me!''


    The problem was, of course, that I knew anything they said about me, against me, would most probably be true. I could have gone through the motions with Brooke and told MD it was a dealbreaker she didn''t know the sport. Easy. Why did I have to get all Max about it?


    "So that''s some kinda whizzkid?" the Texan was saying.


    "Max wants me to sign him to my agency," said Ruth. I noted she didn''t say ''our'' agency. I looked at her, sharply. She didn''t fully trust Brooke. Why the fuck should I? "So he must be pretty good. Although I note he signed William to a four-year deal before I was allowed to get involved."


    MD grunted. "We''ll end up smashing our transfer record to smithereens with that boy. The deal is stratospheric. For a fifteen-year-old who has played twenty minutes of first team football."


    "Twenty shit minutes," I said, helpfully.


    MD leaned forward and rubbed his face. "I just hope it works out or I''ll get all kinds of abuse."


    "Max knows best," said Ruth, with a smile.


    "How much is the deal worth? Did you give up a good draft pick?" There followed a silence that that Brooke misinterpreted. "That was a joke, Max. I''ve been reading up on football."


    But I was still staring at Ruth. Max knows best? MD amiably worrying about my maverick decisions? The tone was wrong. All wrong. Where was the heat? Where was the anger? Slowly, I turned to Brooke and narrowed my eyes. What had she done? My tiredness was lifting. Something was afoot, here. My mouth went on autopilot as I sketched out the terms of the WibRob deal. "Twenty K base. Twenty K after eleven league matches. Twenty K after twenty-two league matches. Ten K if they don''t use him the rest of this season. Ten K if we get to a Youth Cup final. They''ve got two chances on that before he ages out. Ten K if he gets called up to an England under 21 or the full England squad while he''s with us. Plus a ten percent sell-on clause."


    "One hundred thousand total," said Brooke. Fast maths!


    "The record buy for this league is seventy thousand," said MD. "That was for the best left back going. Left back means a defender," he added, but I got the feeling Brooke was deadly serious when she said she''d been doing her homework and the explanation was deeply unnecessary.


    Ruth shook her head. "I''m disappointed. You get some cash you start splashing it around like there''s no tomorrow. It''s very lottery winner, Max Best."


    MD came to my defence. "Ah, the structure of the deal is interesting. The headline figure is twenty thousand. That''s a lot but not enough to heap pressure on the lad. Max was keen to avoid that. Some of the elements won''t come into play. We won''t be getting to any Youth Cup finals! That was clever, Max, dangling that in front of them. And England under 21? I mean, if it does happen it won''t be next year or the year after."


    "What''s with the strange appearance add-ons?" wondered Ruth. "It''s normally after ten, twenty, thirty games, right? Round numbers?"


    A question I was happy to answer. "He''s registered with Banbury for the rest of this season. Next season, he''ll be ours and we can use him in ten league matches, plus all the cups if we want. He''ll get his league winner''s medal - if we win it - but we won''t have to pay Banbury. The season after, the first league appearance will trigger the payment, but we should have sold more players by then. Twenty grand will be a drop in the ocean. But just in case, it''s the same deal. We can defer one payment to the season after. Banbury are happy to get the cash whenever. They can''t believe their luck."


    "What''s the ten percent thing?" asked Brooke.


    "If we sell him for a million, we have to give them a hundred thousand."


    She nodded.


    And again there was this strange feeling in the car. I looked from face to face and the vibe was... good. We were top of the league, we''d nabbed a hot prospect...


    No-one was mad at me!


    I eyed Brooke again. "I was surprised to see you there tonight."


    "Why?" said MD, more confused than I could explain.


    Brooke blasted past it. "That was my first football match since high school."


    "Did you like it?"


    "Almost completely not," she said, with refreshing honesty. "It was fascinating to watch you work, though. Real quarterback energy. Dahvide said you were better than the level and even I could see that. One thing none of us understood, not even your new player, was why you raised all that hell. It kinda put me in mind of someone treading their muddy boots all over your shiny clean superyacht."


    Okay, now there was a dig, but neither Ruth nor MD so much as blinked. "Standards slipped," I said, then turned to face the front. I bit my nail. What was up? "What did Brooke tell you about the interview, Ruth?"


    "She said you were mostly polite."


    I turned again, but Brooke''s face was blank. Completely blank, like a doll.


    "I wish you''d waited for me, Max," said MD, with just enough disapprobation to trigger my flight or fight reflex.


    "Yeah, well, I just signed the best youth prospect in the country for twenty grand so maybe you''ll end up forgiving me." Fuck! Had I said that out loud? This fucking Brooke chick was messing with my head.


    "The best? That''s... Even for you, Max, that''s optimistic."


    "You''re right, he''s shit."


    "Max!" laughed MD. "What''s up with you?"


    "It''s the match," said Ruth. "Player-manager for ninety minutes. It takes it out of him. John told me the squad know to treat him like a helpless baby after games and we must, too. Although," she added, "they also use this time to ask him for days off and the like. So, if you have any requests, now''s the best time."


    So! That was it. All a big scam! But in which direction?


    "We don''t have a request, but an offer. Isn''t that right, Brooke?"


    An offer. We? What we?


    "I wanted to surprise you, Max, but MD is too excited. You see, after our talk yesterday I happened to bump into MD in the car park." Awooga! Hang on. The timing didn''t fit. MD would have been exactly on time, which meant she''d waited for him for over half an hour. Stalked him like prey. "We went to have lunch and we talked about your exciting ideas and how I could help you achieve them."


    "Hang on, did he take you to a Portuguese restaurant?"


    "Yes. How did you know?"


    I knew because like almost every male employee at Chester Football Club - and many of the women, too - he had a huge, agonising crush on a waitress at Tiny Tino, a business so successful it was no longer tiny. MD taking a hot blonde there would be a great move to boost his social value. He was delusional, though. The waitress was utterly resistant to the charms of anyone in the football industry - she hated it with a passion that made us all weak at the knees. Us? Them. I meant them. The other employees. "I know things."


    "We had such a nice lunch. So productive! Your ideas are so interesting, Max, so unique and refreshing. We did some brainstorming around the topics that interest you and I''ve started researching the club''s options. You know, grants, funding, resources, planning permission shortcuts. I''ll be ready to show you my initial findings on Friday."


    "Friday''s fully booked."


    "Thursday, then," she said, a little too sharply.


    I allowed myself a tiny grin. I didn''t know what this game was, but I knew how to score points. "Actually, Friday''s fine. I just remembered." I turned to watch her reaction - nothing. Her self-control was amazing.


    "Mike and I talked a lot about growing the, ah, financial well-being of the club and some of the challenges you face beyond those we discussed."


    Brooke and I hadn''t discussed anything. We''d had a quick bicker and I''d kicked her out so I could focus on what was important. But then... instead of going to MD to complain about me, she''d told him we''d gotten on great and... and what? Max and I agreed the relationship was one we needed to explore further. Something like that. And then, basically giving him the impression she''d gotten the job, she''d pumped a very willing MD and he''d spilled the beans. He would have told her anything. "Is that right? What topics came up?"


    "You''d like more fans in the stadium. That''s a marketing challenge. I''ve begun researching and we need to target our message to the six types of football fan."


    "The six types? What are they?"


    "Max, you''re tired. You''re woozy! Let''s talk about it on Friday. I''ll have handouts for you. Very small print on cheap paper to show how frugal I can be. The main takeaway is that you can''t adopt a one-size fits all approach. You have to tailor your message to each individual recipient." She meant that she''d told Ruth what Ruth needed to hear, and told MD what he needed to hear. She was smiling now. Awfully pleased with herself. "We talked about overdelivering for our sponsors so we can increase that revenue stream over time. We talked about what kind of social media presence would satisfy your definition of what is authentic."


    "The most authentic would be deleting our accounts."


    "Haha, you''re so funny! I love British humour. At first MD and I were rather down on your, ah, rampant idealism. But we got excited, didn''t we Mike? What about building a brand that was truly authentic? Truly connected to its community? Truly admired? Yes it would be hard. Slow. At times frustrating. But in the end, so worth it. What a challenge!"


    MD spoke in the voice of someone remembering the perfect first date they''d just been on. "We were thinking of all the things we might try to do that you''d shoot down and we wondered what it was, deep down, you objected to and I told Brooke some stories about you and what you believe in and we ended up having a deep conversation about marketing and PR, the pros and cons, and why you think it''s phony and how it''s strayed from its original purpose and what could be done to restore it to its proper place and Max! It was just like being in school again! I could have talked for hours!"


    With my head on the headrest, I turned very very subtly, just enough so that I could side eye Brooke. She had absolutely done a number on MD. He was eating out of her hands. I could just imagine how the conversation had flowed, steered to this place of first principles where MD could fall in love with marketing all over again while she stared at him dewy-eyed and beautiful, making him feel like the centre of the fucking universe.


    The corners of my lips got tugged upwards. Girl got game!


    MD was still blabbing.


    I stared at the road again. I''d told Brooke that Chester was my kingdom, and it was. I had unbelievable power. I''d just signed a kid and put the club on the line for a series of terrifying bills. I could tell one of my players to stand by the goalpost and I could hand off the duties I didn''t want - like speaking to the media - to my underlings and no-one would bat an eyelid.


    I had vetoed her, raised all sorts of fundamental objections to her getting the job, and kicked her out. And she had - with ease - worked around all that and, to all intents and purposes, got herself a second job interview. Yeah... It was crystal clear, now. I''d put up a block and she''d done to me what I''d done to Rushall. Gone round it with style and imagination. Gone over it. Gone under it.


    I''d been well and truly Maxxed.


    Truth be told, she could have asked MD for the job right then and there and he would have said yes. Million percent he would, and he would even have stood up to me if I had tried to stop him. The job was hers. For some reason known only to herself, she''d got herself a desk, a security badge, a username and password, and a parking space, but she wouldn''t sit in the chair. Not yet.


    She wanted me to want her there.


    What kind of person gets what she wants but then blocks herself? That kind of self-sabotage made no sense to me. The car was making low, repetitive thrumming noises as it chugged along the motorway. MD and Brooke were renewing their marketing love-in. I closed my eyes and thought about the week ahead. Give the long-ball merchants a telling-off, give the women''s team a reminder in standards, re-interview Brooke, beat Scarborough, win the cup semi-final.


    Only one of those would be any sort of a challenge.

 7.3 - Chesterness

    3.


    Wednesday, 7 February


    A week before Valentine''s Day and there still hadn''t been a monthly perk. Whatever the imps dreamt up, I hoped it wouldn''t be too attractive because now that I was playing every second of every game, my XP growth had stalled. Playing only got me 1 XP per minute instead of the 4 I would get from managing in the sixth tier. I was earning a measly 180 XP a week - a far cry from the 10,000 I''d gathered in January.


    XP balance: 5,230


    It was going to take a while to get the 9,000 I needed to buy WibWob, a premium perk that would give me more control over the formations I used. And talking of formations, I was very, very tempted to buy another one before the must-win Kidderminster match. The formation was called Sweeper. The sweeper position was defunct - unworkable in the modern game. So you can imagine that I salivated every time I thought about making it work. I needed to be realistic, though, and accept that I had a threadbare squad and WibWob would help me survive the season. It would be absolutely bonkers to A) buy Sweeper and B) use it.


    When the league was more or less in the bag, I could go back to doing more managing than playing. And, of course, I had a playing ban looming over me. Absolutely no-one from the Football Association had mentioned that they were investigating the Facegate incident, where I''d kicked a ball into the face of a creep during my last appearance for Tranmere. I took the FA''s apparent inaction as proof that they''d drop the banhammer at exactly the worst time for me. The solution was easy - win every match until then.


    You might be thinking that kicking a football quite hard into the face of a journalist didn''t really fit my self-professed beliefs, and you''d be mostly right. The fact was that the journalist had been harassing my girlfriend, and since the incident he''d lost his job and his reputation and Emma had been treated with just a little bit more respect in the world of football. To me, absolutely worth it.


    But since meeting Brooke I''d thought a lot more about my beliefs. If we hired her to do any sort of marketing or PR, she would ask me questions like ''What image are you trying to project?'' or ''Can you put Chester FC''s culture into words?''


    It all seemed really simple until I thought about it for more than ten seconds. Then it became complicated and messy, especially if I tried to map my own behaviour onto the high-minded words I was coming up with. How did smashing a football into someone''s face line up with ''treat people with respect''? How did me openly discriminating against Brooke because she was rich fit into the category of ''be inclusive''?


    The Brig was sitting over to my left, going through some papers from his UEFA C coaching course. He was coming to the end of it, now. My UEFA B course still had months to run, but I was flying through the work. After demonstrating my supernatural competence in the initial weeks, I''d changed my personal engagement with the course to one of planning our future academy structures. How could I design a coaching schedule that would give individual coaches primary responsibility for one group of players, while still letting them work with other groups so they''d have a holistic view of what was happening at the club? How could I set principles but trust coaches to do their own thing and work to their own strengths within that sort of framework? For example, could I specifically name WibRob as a player who should never, ever, do a tackling drill? Was that genius, or crazy bonkers? The course developers were in absolute heaven talking to me about it all.


    At the end of the course I was supposed to present a project that would display what I''d learned. I had decided I''d ignore the tactics and drills and do my own thing - what''s new? - and I even had a title for it: Chesterness. It would serve as my final piece of coursework, something I could use to explain to Brooke and her successor what I wanted, and yeah, serve as something that might help me clarify my half-baked thoughts and vague impulses and turn them into something that was intellectually coherent.


    There was a knock at the door, and Robbie ''Robbo'' Robson and Gerald May slunk in like two naughty schoolboys, followed by the scary schoolmistress, Sandra Lane. Angles, our goalie coach, followed.


    "Thanks for popping in, guys. You two, listen. You have to play the way I want you to play. It''s that simple. That''s the end of the bollocking. All right?"


    Gerald was defiant. "You''re saying we can''t kick the ball away under pressure?"


    "Didn''t say that at all. Course you can. But last night, neither of you were under pressure. You looked around and picked the least Max Best option. And Max Best don''t like that." I laughed at how stupid I sounded. "Look, guys, if you do it my way and it goes bad, I''ll take the heat. You know that. I''m starting to get contact from other managers who are looking at you for next season. I want to say to them, mate, they''re good as gold. They''re mint. They train great, play hard, good lads in the dressing room. All stuff that''s true. Do you really want me saying, oh but by the way he thinks he knows football better than me and he likes to do low percentage garbage twice a match? Come on. This is win-win. Show me I can trust you and you get loads of game time the rest of the season. You know we fucking need you! Meanwhile, I''ll keep bigging you up to every manager I talk to. You think you''re going to struggle to get a deal with your league and cup winner''s medals in hand, and recommendations from me, Jackie, and Vimsy? No chance."


    The Brig spoke up. "What about Miss Lane?"


    "Good question. Sandra, has anyone been picking your brain about our players with contracts running down?"


    The most successful female manager in the history of the sport - by some metrics - shook her head. "I think a lot of them still think I''m a marketing exercise."


    With a disgusted tut, I looked at my two malfunctioning players. "Don''t let your standards slip and we''ll take care of you." I clicked my fingers. "Yes! That''s Chesterness! Right, off you pop." They left, morale still low, and the coaches were about to follow. "Hang on. Couple of changes to today''s plan, if you don''t mind."


    "Oh?" said Sandra.


    "Gerald''s hoof we can put down as a rush of blood to the head or just one of those things. But Robbo shouldn''t be doing that - he wasn''t busy or stressed. I get why keepers train on their own most of the time, but we need a few sessions where they all work together. So we''ll work on integrating the goalies into the defensive unit. Group A: Goalie, four guys lining up as defenders and a midfielder. Group B: load of randos. Group B press the defence and every time Group A pass it back to the goalie and he gives it to another defender, that''s two points. If he''s desperate and needs to chip it to the midfielder, he gets one point. If he gets thirty points in five minutes I''ll take him to Tiny Tino."


    Sandra rolled her eyes at the last part. "I''ve got some more drills that will help with this. We did a lot of sweeper keeper stuff at City."


    "Top."


    "So I get the morning off?" said Angles, who wasn''t upset about the prospect.


    "Soz. You''ll be coaching me. Somewhere private."


    "Oh?" said Sandra.


    "I''m not bad in goal," I said. "At least, I wasn''t before the coma. I haven''t really dared to try again but I want to check where I''m at."


    "Why private?" said Angles.


    "Ben and Robbo saw me when I was good. From their point of view, me taking their place isn''t an idle threat, even if the rest of the world would laugh. So if I''m shit, and I suspect I will be, they don''t need to know."


    ***


    I stopped the session after ten minutes. Angles was perplexed. "But you''ve recovered so well. You''re fast, strong, your passing''s back, you''re on free kicks again. I don''t understand it."


    "I haven''t practised," I said, shaking my head. My reflexes were shot to pieces, my handling was shit, and when I tried to punch a ball away I hit only air.


    "So let''s keep going," he said.


    "No, I''m miles off. No chance I''ll be any use this season. I might restart in the summer but for now, let''s drop it."


    "Okay, Max."


    Something about the way he said my name made me look up. He was remembering how he felt the day I got attacked. I smiled. "I''m all right, Angles. So there''s one position I can''t play. It''s not so bad, is it?"


    "I guess not."


    "It''ll come back." When we finally got to the Premier League and we had good facilities, I''d do some goalie training and get my attributes back up to 20. Or... Hang on. I''d been thinking about optimising WibRob''s growth - putting his vast PA only into attributes that he really needed. But what about me? If my CA had been 200 when it included goalie skills, but then everything got dialled back to level one¡­ If I never did any keeper training, could I spend the points I used to have in handling on technical skills? Could I get extra passing, extra speed, extra finishing... Could I be even better than I was at Darlington? Could I get to finishing 21? Free kicks 22? The thought was dizzying, but I was in the middle of a conversation. "Let''s go for coffee somewhere and talk about all our goalies and what they need next. All right? Oh, and Angles. You''re still our third-choice keeper." His CA had been slipping, which made sense since he was 36 and hadn''t played a minute in at least two years. "We might need you one of these days. What do you think about joining in next time Sandra does those integration drills? Just in case?"


    His face showed he didn''t think very much of the idea. He was a rare player - one who no longer wanted to play. "Okay, Max. I''ll talk to her."


    I pointed at him, beaming. "Professionalism! That''s Chesterness!"


    ***


    That evening, Sandra and I gatecrashed the women''s training session. Jackie knew what we were planning and agreed, especially as it allowed him to take the evening off.


    The women were on time and lined up, slightly excited and very interested. I told them we were going to play a match with realistic rules, then split them into two groups - the first team, managed by Sandra, and the rest, managed by me. I borrowed slash stole Charlotte from the firsts and went over to my technical area, denoted by the presence of a magnetic tactics board.


    Sandra took the ten first teamers over to her side and put them into a 4-4-1 shape. She didn¡¯t give them any extra tips or encouragement - she wasn¡¯t trying to win. Robyn was still the first-team goalie despite having only CA 14. The back four featured Bonnie but were not otherwise formidable. The four midfielders, Dani, Pippa, Maddy, and Kisi, were all kinds of creative, and had been giving all comers a headache since Jackie had taken over. With Bea Pea in a rich vein of goalscoring form, Chester Women had been winning and winning in style with the only blip being an unlucky draw against league leaders Altrincham. Jackie was confident about going up if we won the return game against Alty, and I agreed with him.


    But standards had slipped.


    My side of the equation was limited, but not as bad as it would have been a year ago; I was able to field a half-decent 3-5-2.


    I had Queenie in goal. She was a 16-year-old with PA 94 I''d found in my time on Merseyside. Her CA was 4, but it was only a question of time before she became our number one.


    The defence, as with the first team, was the weakest. As well as two CA 1 randos who came to make up the numbers in our training sessions, I had Erin Barnes, CA 12.


    For left-midfield I had Gracie, CA 17. Right-mid was a rando. But the centre was not too shabby. Diane was a CA 3 PA 60 DM I''d found using Playdar, Susan Butler had trained like a maniac to hit her maximum of CA 21, and Charlotte was currently the squad¡¯s best player on a beefy CA 40.


    Up front we had a youthful partnership of Julie McKay, CA 17 and starting to challenge Bea Pea for first-team minutes, and Angel, a CA 9, PA 155 future star who would be extra motivated by playing against her older sister.


    "Ladies," I said. "We''ve got eleven, they''ve got ten. Your goal is to compete as normal for a while but let them score the first goal. Is that clear? Angel?"


    Angel had a selfish streak and if she got the chance to shoot, she''d take it even if there were better-placed teammates. If anyone was going to disobey me, it was her. "Yes, Max. Where''s Jackie?"


    "He''s gone to get his head polished. Once they are ahead, they will start dicking about. They''ll get lazy."


    "Yes!" said Charlotte, punching the air.


    I tried to keep a straight face, but failed. I said, "What? What are you doing?"


    "I know what this is about. It''s been doing my head in."


    "Let''s get on with this before the next group arrives and kicks us off the pitch. It¡¯s the pensioners today, right?¡± I pointed to the first team. ¡°Let them score, admire them as they do their little skills, then get that ball and knock it around the defence until Bea Pea stops pressing. Got that? When Bea Pea stops pressing, it''s triangles from defence to midfield. Pass pass pass. Keep it moving around. They might come at you, but only for a minute. When that storm''s passed, give it Charlotte." I pointed at her. "Drive forward. Julie, super energy at that point. I need you to sprint, hard, somewhere. Make a gap for Angel. Angel, that through ball is coming either side of Bonnie. Read it, get there, finish. Then we do it all again. Got that?"


    "Yes, Max!"


    I clapped and they jogged onto the pitch.


    Sandra doubled as the referee and blew to start the match.


    As expected, the first team zipped the ball around and their midfielders went on teasing dribbles. They played beautiful combination football, a whirlwind of lines and triangles and squares, with one unbelievable move leading to a goal registering one hundred on the slapometer. Their match ratings shot up to eights and nines.


    My team hadn''t let that one in - they didn''t have the tools to stop it.


    "One-nil," shouted Sandra, before blowing to restart the game.


    It fell into the same general pattern - the first team cutting through our lines - but now they were having fun, getting silly. Kisi tried a Zidane roulette. Dani tried to nutmeg every defender. Maddy did kick-ups before launching ambitious passes in Bea Pea''s direction.


    Slowly, the shape of the game changed. Our players took their time on the ball. Queenie passed to Erin, who played the ball left and right, wearing Bea Pea down. When the first team striker stopped chasing, Erin sent the ball to midfield, and those guys tried their best to replicate what Erin had done. They controlled the ball for long enough to bore Kisi. Then Dani stopped chasing. Then Maddy. Pippa never gave up, but one player can''t press an entire team. The first team¡¯s match ratings were in slow but steady decline.


    "And again!" called Charlotte, as Pippa''s latest charge left a large gap in the centre of the pitch. The ball was played to Charlotte and she burst forward. Mo sensed the danger and came to meet her. Julie sprinted right, towards Lucy, who grabbed her shirt.


    That left Angel one-on-one with Bonnie, if only Charlotte could find her.


    Ha!


    Charlotte on the move. Mo moves to slow her down.


    Charlotte wiggles her hips - Mo stumbles!


    Space opens up for the midfielder. She has time to pick a pass.


    She slides the ball inside the defender''s run.


    Angel gets there first!


    She touches the ball into shooting position.


    Bonnie dives in.


    Angel gets the shot away...


    Into the corner!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    An unerring finish.


    As Angel and Charlotte high tenned, Sandra called out the score. "Two-one for the reserves."


    Kisi was astonished. "It''s one-all!"


    "Reserve goals count double," said Sandra.


    "That''s not fair."


    "We could make it triple," I yelled, and Kisi flashed me a sarcastic smile. She was not happy.


    Bonnie called the first team in for a huddle and Charlotte did the same. I smiled and got down on the astroturf, legs stretched out, palms flat, like I was on a beach.


    "You look pleased with yourself."


    I didn''t have to look, but I did anyway. It was Jackie, with Livia. They had ice creams in little tubs. "You''re supposed to be having the day off."


    "I am. But I wanted to check you aren''t breaking my team."


    "Oh, I''m breaking them," I said, delighted.


    "What''s up?" said Livia, settling into place next to me. As gestures went, it was wildly more intimate than any massage she''d ever given me.


    Jackie went next to her, apparently forgetting he''d been pretending to have dodgy knees. "Max thinks they''re getting complacent."


    "Are they?"


    "Yeah. Not tracking back at three-nil up. Trying to do show-off moves when the matches are safe. But we''re still winning and they''ll be up for the two big ones. They rise to a challenge. I didn''t think it was worth intervening just yet but Max and Sandra disagreed."


    "It winds me up," I said. "Kisi, Dani, Maddy. When they''re in full flow, it''s amazing to watch. But it gets too easy for them and they turn to dicking around." Jackie and Livia shared a glance and smiled into their ice creams. "What?"


    "As always when you complain," said Jackie. "You''re describing yourself."


    "No way," I said. "I might stroll around and I might do tricks that seem pointless, but it''s actually completely different."


    "Is it?"


    "Yes, actually. There''s an intellectual heft behind my frippery. Kisi''s just bone idle lazy."


    Jackie laughed. "Okay, Max."


    The two sides were tearing into each other, now, and the firsts regained the upper hand with ease. They scored - two-all - and went ahead - three-two. But that burst of righteous anger took it out of them and the reserves, increasingly confident with Charlotte interpreting my instructions to mean she could drift left and right - I used the tactics screen to give her a free role - passing her oppo to death. When she ventured too close to the defensive line, one of the defenders would move to hold her up, Julie would create space, and Angel and Bonnie would compete for the pass that came.


    Bonnie won the next two, but a hyper-motivated Angel won the third and hit a spectacular shot past Robyn. Four-three to the reserves.


    "Now, that''s interesting," said Jackie, leaning forward, ice-cream forgotten.


    "What?" said Livia. "The shot? You''ve seen her do that before."


    "It was a great strike. No, the... Fuck me. Max has done it again." He rubbed his forehead. "That''s getting annoying."


    "He''s right that they''re lazy?"


    Jackie sighed and pointed. "Using the backup players to show it is really smart, Maxy boy. I''ve told them but I haven''t shown them."


    "Charlotte was getting annoyed. Did she say anything to you?"


    "She did but..." Jackie nodded to himself. "She''s like you and Sam. Very sensitive to drops in standards. I should have been all over it. I put it down to the group''s inexperience. Something to work on over time."


    The match was continuing, and the firsts were fighting back again. Now with more control. Getting goal-side - between their opponent and Robyn to reduce the danger - starting attacks with more of a rest defence. That was exciting - when the going got tough, they reverted to good habits. Nothing fundamental was broken, here. All they needed was a minor recalibration.


    "You''re not wrong, Jackie. Obviously. It is inexperience. It''s just that I''ve been thinking about the definition of Chesterness and what they''ve been doing - going three-nil up and splitting into a load of individuals - isn''t right. I can''t watch that. Maybe it makes no difference this season, or next. But one day it''ll bite us on the arse. Guaranteed."


    "Did you say Chesterness?" said Livia.


    "Yes. Isn''t it awesome?"


    "I''m not at work so I don''t have to answer that."


    "Max," said Jackie, and I thought he was going to complain about the amazing word I''d invented. "Charlotte and Angel are a hell of a combo. When did you see that?"


    "I didn''t. I just needed someone to create the chances for her to prove my point."


    "Besterness strikes again," he said, getting to his feet and striding to the touchline where he yelled out instructions.


    "Soz," I said.


    "What for?" said Livia.


    "Ruined your date night."


    She picked up his ice-cream and poured it into her tub - absolutely bonkers move. "He likes to be challenged." She pushed some ice-cream past her lips. "Especially by you."


    She hadn''t responded to my statement. Or perhaps she had. For the first time, I had my two elite coaches in one place, taking care of my players. I lay back and looked up at the stars - I couldn''t see many because of the floodlights, but I could see a few. So rarely did I have time to just sit back and do nothing and know everything would be okay. "His knees seem fine."


    I felt the smile before she even spoke, but then I heard it. "His knees are fine. Look, Max, we''re worried about you. Magnus says you''re suffering and you won''t talk to anyone. You can talk to Jackie if you need to."


    "I know."


    "About... Raffi."


    "Pass."


    "Okay." She was quiet for a while. "Just so you know, Dean''s got some interesting ideas for how you could spend the money."


    ***


    Friday, 9 February


    The squad was generally in an okay mood, buoyed by our latest addition - WibRob was training with us for the first time and he would spend the weekend at the digs. Watching him barrelling around, giving everything 110%, snarling one second and laughing the next boosted the morale of some of the senior pros. They''d seen a lot in their time but they''d rarely seen such an irrepressible bundle of energy. Anyone wondering why I''d made his signing such a priority was soon left wondering something quite different - how good was this kid going to get?


    Pascal''s morale was still rock bottom and it was starting to become an issue. Games were coming thick and fast and he could be a vivid point of difference between us and other teams. Without him, our rotation options were slow, predictable, or overly youthful.


    I called him over before we got starting. He looked up at me, his dark hair blowing around, his sallow face telling me what Henri had reported - the kid wasn''t eating or sleeping well. "Yes, boss?"


    My throat tightened. Turned out, I wasn''t ready to talk about the betrayal. A guy I''d plucked from obscurity had left without a word to anyone and had apparently changed his phone number. All I knew of his whereabouts was from going into the dressing room and seeing images on Pascal''s phone. Raffi Brown holding his scarf up on the day he signed. Raffi Brown making his full debut. Raffi Brown coming on as a sub. Raffi Brown on the sub''s bench.


    "Boss?"


    Maybe I could talk about it without talking about it. "How are you doing, Pascal?"


    "Fine. Good."


    "We''ve got a cup semi-final on Tuesday."


    No excitement. "Yes."


    I scratched under my chin. "I could use your help, mate."


    "I''m available for selection."


    "You''ve been training like shit."


    "That is not accurate."


    "Okay." No point talking to the little brat. I wandered off, calculating. I''d have to squeeze as much as I could out of Bark and Andrew Harrison. Joe Anka was nearly ready to resume training after his broken leg. His CA had collapsed but a few sessions would be restorative. At least his morale was high - the relief of being part of the action again far outweighing the shock of Raffi''s betrayal.


    I called Sandra over. "Yes, Max?"


    "Let''s pick the team."


    "Chris B or not Chris B, that is the question."


    "Are you on your Hamlet arc? I did that one. So, what are the pros and cons?"


    "Last time you did 4-1-4-1, got battered, scored twice, Henri got sent off unfairly, two-all draw."


    "They have a decent coaching staff,¡± I mused. ¡°We should assume they''re slightly better now. But we''re a lot better. Looking at the schedule, we should play our strongest team tomorrow."


    "Not worried about the semi-final?"


    "Not in the slightest." We would be playing Congleton Town, a tier 9 side who were tearing up their league. Dangerous, but still. Tier 9. I would smash them up if they got lippy. We''d most likely put out a team full of D-Days and Tony Hetheringtons and maybe give Dan Badford and/or Lucas Friend his debut. "Next fixtures we go strong, weak, weak, rotation, rotation, then it''s Kiddies. Pretty ideal run of games, TBH."


    Sandra watched as Vimsy got the session underway with some simple warm ups. "Do you think they''ll low block us? Scarborough, I mean."


    I smiled. "I have absolutely no clue. It''s hard to tell." I tried to will the imps to give me a perk that would tell me an opposing manager''s plans, but immediately thought better of it. What would be the fun in that? "I''m guessing they''ll have a go. They need wins to get in the playoffs."


    "They won''t want to be humiliated, though."


    "I think you''re right to say the formation depends on whether we use Chris or not, but we''ve been riding Youngster hard. I''d like to give him a break." He had been stuck on CA 49 for a while, possibly because we were overusing him.


    "Magnus could play DM, though. Or you. We could still do 4-1-4-1."


    "Do you think Chris is part of our best eleven?"


    "I do."


    "Fuck it. 4-4-2, Henri does the work of two men."


    Sandra closed her eyes while she calculated. "Ben. Eddie, Glenn, Steve, Carl." Three silvers, two golds. Very solid base. "Aff, Sam, Magnus, You." Gold, gold, silver, unknown. "Henri, Chris." Platinum, bronze.


    Average CA 50.7. If Scarborough''s was 47, it could be a close game. I shook my head. "We really miss Ryan."


    "Bench?"


    "Robbo, Gerald, Youngster, Donny, Tony."


    "Strong."


    "Beating Scarborough is pretty massive. We have to go all-out."


    "What about Bark?"


    "I talked to Mateo and James. They were surprised I was worried they might recall him. Bark''s staying."


    Sandra looked down and shifted her weight from foot to foot. "That''s good."


    Her tone attracted my attention. "What?"


    She remained shifty. "Saw you having a chat with Pascal. It''d be good to have him back. It''s good you spoke to him."


    "He needs more time."


    "Ah, right. Okay." She thought about it, took a breath, and let it out. She strode off to be the coach, and I got in line with the nearest set of players.


    ***


    Ding! Ding!


    Round Two!


    Brooke entered my office, glanced at the new picture on the wall and was genuinely startled. MD came in behind and closed the door. When he noticed the newest addition to my wall art, he beamed.


    "Yes! Wonderful choice!"


    "Who is it?" said Brooke.


    "Someone I trust," I said. I''d deployed the T word already. Her eyebrows twitched. The game was on!


    They settled into their chairs and I realised too late that the layout wasn''t to my advantage. Brooke and MD were side by side, across the desk from me. They were peers. Teammates. I should have moved a chair to my side to remind MD whose side he was on. I wasn''t quite thinking straight, though. During the training session the ball had disobeyed me in a way it hadn''t done since I''d been cursed. Short passes, long shots, one in three had gone astray. Sandra and Vimsy got together and agreed I should go and see Dean.


    He hadn''t found anything wrong with me but it was all very disconcerting.


    MD spoke. "I was thinking that since we didn''t really have a proper interview the first time round, we could start with some basics."


    "No, thanks," I said. "Brooke. Tell us what you''ve got."


    She gave MD an apologetic glance - oh, Mike your idea was so so good but I''ll do it his way to humour him haha - and reached into a very corporate laptop-and-documents case. While she got herself ready, I checked out what she was wearing. Cream blouse, black trousers, almost sensible heels. She looked amazing, obvs, but she''d made an effort to look more like a real girl. I wondered how long she''d spent deciding. The right balance between looking good and looking average. Hard. Cheap black hoodies, that was the ticket. One less decision to make every day.


    She brought out two neat stacks of papers. "Do you want to start with the fans or the facilities?"


    "Fans."


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    She pushed some hair behind her ear. "According to research, football fans can be divided into six groups."


    "Is this your research, Brooke?"


    "No, Max. It¡¯s from the European Club Association. Business professionals try not to waste money. Or would you like me to reinvent the wheel?"


    "I think I probably would, yeah."


    "That''s doable. Give me two ticks." She took a slim laptop out of her folder, opened it, and pretended to type rapidly. "Putting my data into the computer. Yes, got it. Okay, according to my research, there are six types of football fan."


    "Funny that," said MD, very much on Brooke''s side. The stupid chair arrangement was bugging me, now.


    "The first group are called Football Fanatics. They make up just over ten percent of the market." Market? I nearly pulled her up on that, but didn''t want to interrupt every five seconds. I''d done enough talking over her the first time round. "They''re football fans, first and foremost. They''re attached to their club but engage on all vectors." Vectors? I shoved my fist into my mouth. Brooke became human for a moment; she laughed. "Yes, I said vectors. Sue me. They care about more than merely their own team. They think the sport should have a net societal positive."


    "Sounds like my kind of dude."


    "They like going to matches and feeling a sense of belonging. So, yes. I''d say this is a segment worth exploring."


    "We do community stuff. Our groundsmen check for hedgehogs before they cut grass. If we put up solar panels we''ll be the second most environmentally-friendly football club in the world. We can use that."


    Brooke''s lips twitched, just for a micro-second. "I''m sure your future Head of Marketing will be happy to engage with that challenge, Max. The second group is called Club Loyalists. About fifteen percent of the market. They''re highly-engaged, long-term fans. It''s a big part of their identity."


    "We''ve got loads of those. They kept the club alive. Didn''t you, MD?"


    "Yes."


    "The research says they''re more interested in higher levels of football and the quality of the play is important to them."


    "Let''s put up a big sign on the M53. Number of backheel nutmegs seen at the Deva this year."


    "Is that an example of good play?" asked Brooke, with genuine innocence.


    "Urgh. You sound like Sandra. What I¡¯m hearing is that as we get promoted, some of our long-term fans will come back. Especially if we''re playing Max Best football."


    "The report didn''t use the phrase Max Best football, I don''t think," she said, pretending to check her pages. "But yes. The third group is called Icon Imitators. It''s just over ten percent. They''re young people who follow players more than clubs. They''re most engaged with elite football."


    I sighed. Stupid little brats who followed Messi more than Barcelona. "We can forget all about that."


    "Oh!" A look of surprise popped out of Brooke''s face, then slunk back inside. "I''m sorry, Max, but I don''t agree. This could be our main area of opportunity."


    "Soz but what?"


    Her tongue ran along her bottom lip as she decided how brave to be. With care, she said, "William B. Roberts idolises you. From what I¡¯ve heard, so do many of the young people. I didn''t have time to go round the streets but I¡¯ll go out on a limb and say that in this part of the world, you''re the most marketable footballer."


    Wait till you see Angel, I thought. I rubbed my forehead. "William''s a player. He gets it. To some little street urchin I''m a sixth tier nobody. Let''s move on."


    Brooke glanced at MD, who shook his head. Some prior communication, there. "27% are FOMO Followers. To them, football is social currency. It''s something to talk about with their friends, a place to go with their mates. They like football but there''s less emotion than with the Club Loyalists. They prefer to follow big clubs. The research didn''t say so, but I think it''s because it provides more opportunity for socialising."


    "How do we get them to come?"


    "You''ve done some of this already by putting Chester in the news so often. The first female manager, the first manager playing for a different team, all those stories make this group more likely to come and see what happens next. We could try leaning into the social aspect. Make a match more of a day out. Fan parks, pubs inside the stadium. Which will also help with the fifth group - Main Eventers. They''re almost twenty percent. It''s all about the occasion. The big event! The World Cup Final, the Superbowl, the Red River Showdown. They are older and the group includes more women. You won''t get them to every match but we can get them to the big ones."


    "Yep."


    Brooke looked down. "You''ll have to teach me which are the big ones." Holy shit! That was absolutely incredible. Just in case we started to think she was being arrogant with her knowledge, she''d poured salt into a pepper pot. I''m just a girl, heee.


    MD fell for it big time. He bent and reached out but didn''t touch her. "Of course we will!"


    I bit my lip and opened my eyes as wide as they''d go to show I knew what she was doing. The tiniest hint of a blush came to her cheeks. "The sixth group is called Tag Alongs. Again, almost twenty percent. They''re not very engaged, not very interested, but can be coaxed into coming by friends and family. Again, more likely to be older and more likely to be women."


    I steepled my fingers together. "Buy one season ticket, get a second half price. Or would that just cannibalise our sales?"


    MD coughed. "Max, you don''t need to come up with the ideas. That''s Brooke''s job."


    "That''s our Head of Marketing''s job."


    "Quite."


    I went over what I''d heard. Six types of fan. Six types of promotion needed. Some that might raise the floor of our attendances, some that might raise the ceiling. "It''s great to know all this but I am curious about what you''d do, Brooke, to get these people in."


    "I have some initial ideas but I do need to get to know the market some more." She gave MD a thin smile, but now that I was onto her, she didn''t commit to it. "I''d politely suggest the research shows opportunities beyond merely getting butts in seats, but it''s a good starting point. I''d be keen to get your go-ahead, Max, on most of our projects."


    "Why?" said MD. "He''s Director of Football. You wouldn''t report to him."


    "We need to use his players in our promotions," said Brooke. "I think I could only do a good job if Max liked my ideas." MD frowned, but she continued. "I''ve been researching famous football marketing campaigns. If I could get your thoughts on them, that''d help me to understand some of the boundaries I''d be operating within. What do you think?"


    "Sounds like a good idea."


    "Number one. Messi''s goals. When he scored his six hundred and forty-fourth goal for his club, Budweiser made 644 personalised bottles of beer and distributed them to all the goalkeepers Messi scored against. Then Messi called them and they talked about the goals."


    "Love it," I said. "I can just imagine some of the goalies saying, oh you never meant that shot, that was a cross. See, normally that kind of shit would be just about the goalscorer but adding the goalies makes it fun. It''s not like, wow, I''m the great Messi look at my numbers. It''s respectful. We were opponents that day, but let''s talk about football and have a beer together now. Yeah. Fan."


    Brooke scribbled some notes. "Ajax Amsterdam," she said, with a hard J.


    "Ajax," I said, with the J pronounced like a Y.


    "Are you sure?" she said. MD was nodding rapidly. "Gosh. Ay-ax. During the pandemic, when they didn''t have fans in the stadium, they won the Dutch league and melted the trophy down into little stars. They sent one to each missing fan."


    "What? Are you serious? That didn''t happen."


    She showed me her notes, like that proved anything. "No, really! It came up on multiple sources."


    I exhaled. "I mean... dislike. It''s a good, like, little something for the fans but holy shit. The point of football is to win trophies. You can''t go round melting them. No, no, no. MD?"


    "I''m with you, Max. Feels like vandalism."


    "It won awards," mumbled Brooke. "Arsenal No More Red. Arsenal London - " She stopped to investigate the pained noise I made, but seeing that I wasn''t going to say anything further, continued. "Played in white kits to raise awareness of knife crime. The jerseys were not made available for sale."


    I sighed. "Yeah, it''s good. It''s depressing, though, isn''t it? Makes me think I''m going to get stabbed every time I walk down the street. I don''t know. I think what I like about it is that it''s a local issue. Knife crime in North London. Who better to help than Arsenal? One thing, though. Arsenal playing in white should be a big deal and should make it a big news item. But teams play loads of matches in their second or third kits when there''s no need. They do that for marketing reasons, so if I''m watching a team that normally plays in red play in white, I wouldn''t even blink. They''ve ruined the impact of their marketing by over-marketing."


    "I think you might be overthinking this, Max," said MD.


    "I''ve got more if we have time."


    "Yeah, this is interesting," I said.


    "Manchester United got behind a project from Cadbury''s called Donate Your Words."


    "Huh. I don''t know this one."


    Brooke squirmed. I got the feeling she didn''t really want to read out what she''d written. "Researchers found that half a million elderly people go five days without speaking to anyone and quarter of a million go an entire week."


    "What the fuck."


    It affected her as much as me. She found some point on the page, fixed her eyes on it, and composed herself. "The idea was to encourage people to check on their elderly neighbours and whatnot."


    "Yeah, I get it." It was all too easy to call to mind an image of a lonely old person. Of all the people in the country, I would be one of the best able to take minimal human contact. But not talking to a single person for an entire week? On a regular basis? It''d fuck you up, fast. "So if it helped some old people get some chats then, yeah, great. Bit depressing but there''s something people can actually do. Like, what can I do about knife crime? Don''t know. But I can talk to someone dead old. MD, if you ever need a chat..."


    He spoke to a ceiling light. "Thanks, Max. Appreciate it."


    Brooke was happy to have got through this part. She didn''t realise she was about to detonate a nuke with an off-hand comment. "And, of course, Cadbury''s got 1.2 billion earned media impressions with 97% positive sentiment."


    I shot out of my chair. "Oh, what the fuck! For a second I thought you had a heart. Who cares what Cadbury''s got? Are you joking?"


    "They care! If they get good results from their spend, they''ll do it again."


    "Fucking brilliant. Let''s all click on ads so that our corporate overlords will get good metrics and let some money trickle down to people who are desperate."


    "Do you want Chester to do good things and not tell anyone?"


    "We''re not doing this lowest common denominator race-to-the-bottom bullshit. That''s about monetising human misery, not solving it. No fucking way. Count me out."


    "Max!" complained MD, slightly shocked. This whole battle had come out of nowhere, and while Brooke and I had been expecting it, he hadn''t.


    "It''s so fucking grim, mate. Come on, be honest, you agree with me."


    "I don''t. And I don''t see the need for this belligerent tone."


    "Is my tone bothering you, Brooke?"


    MD set his jaw. "It''s unfair to ask that question, Max."


    "All right, I''ll tone down my tone and we won''t talk about who''s being tone deaf." I was at the window, looking out onto the football pitches, imagining I was in the Deva.


    "Max, sit down and let''s be professional."


    "I don''t want to be professional. I want to go to my mum''s care home and talk to all the old biddies there. Make sure they''re all right." I tapped my lips, and after a while, pointed. "We''ll have a section. Twenty seats, over there."


    "Where?" said MD, stupidly.


    "We''ll get volunteers to go and find some of these lonely oldsters and we''ll get them to the Saturday home matches. They can talk to each other! What was the phrase? Football as social currency. We give them people to talk to and something to talk about - me."


    MD wasn''t mad any more. I''d taken one of Brooke''s ideas and put a real community-first spin on it. "That''s interesting, that. Something to discuss with the board. Perhaps we can get to the same result less explosively, Max? This isn''t one of your half-time team talks."


    Brooke hadn''t spoken for a while and she was doing her doll face thing. Now that I thought I understood her a little better, it seemed that she was under a lot of strain and was trying not to show it.


    Since I was busy staring at Brooke''s face for clues as to what she was thinking, MD spoke again. "Ah, I think Brooke''s skills are fairly clear, Max. By now we have enough information to make a hiring decision, don''t you think?"


    I spoke and then stopped breathing so I''d be able to concentrate completely on her reaction. "Are you sure you want us to decide right now?"


    Panic. Pure panic, I was sure of it. A hunted look in the eyes, a twitch of the fingers, a parting of the lips. It was gone in a flash, but Brooke was fumbling for her second folder. "I''ve got more. The grants. Funding options." She spilled her papers everywhere. As she and MD gathered them, I spotted headings like ''Rooftop Solar Grants'' and ''Energy Efficiency Scheme (Wales)'' and ''Green Grant Fund''. Then there was a separate pile for sports stuff - Fit for Future, Sport Wales, Be Active Wales.


    MD shuffled through the ones in his hand. "Oh," he said, and Brooke reacted like he had torn them in half.


    "What?" she whispered.


    "Well, Brooke," he said, his tone falling between sadness and confusion. "These are all for Wales."


    "Yes. The stadium''s in Wales."


    I leaned back, biting my bottom lip, looking up. This was amazing.


    "The land is in Wales but it''s owned by Chester Council. This, er," he made a vague gesture with the sheaf of papers. "This isn''t very..."


    He couldn''t bear to look at her. His superstar corpobuddy had made an error so basic it called into question everything she''d ever done, said, or with a well-timed glance, made him believe.


    I left my own personal reverie to check her out, and while it was hard to be sure, I got the impression she had deflated, big time. I leapt to my feet, all jaunty and full of beans. "Mike," I said in a stage whisper, jerking my head towards the door. In other words, get out here.


    He placed the papers down, ever so gently, on the seat behind him, did some sort of jerky bowing motion - what? - and joined me in the corridor. "Yes?"


    "She''s quite upset, I think. Could you get her a coffee? From upstairs, maybe. Tell Agatha''s PA we''ve got a crying woman emergency. Oh, and some biscuits. Women love biscuits."


    He blinked. "You want me to do a coffee run?"


    "Oh, sorry, mate. There''s a crying woman in my office and I thought maybe we should do something about that. Sorry if it isn''t strictly in line with your place in the hierarchy."


    "Crying? I - But I wasn''t saying - Of course I''ll get some coffee. Of course." He didn''t move for so long I thought he had frozen and I''d finally get proof that we were living in a simulation. But his feet moved away and, eventually, so did his head.


    I popped back in and closed the door behind me. I thought about locking it but MD would probably find it unprofessional or something. "Stand up a second," I said, and when she did, I turned her chair perpendicular to the desk. "Pop yourself back down." She did. I then repeated the action with the other chair, put the papers into Brooke''s hands, and faced her. We were peers, now. Teammates. "I''m happy with that," I said.


    "I saw."


    "Two reasons. First, now you know how hard it is. Everywhere you look there''s some absolute craziness. This has to be the weirdest football club in the UK. It made me feel stupid when I tried to get somewhere with planning or even just idle speculation. Someone like you running into the same minefield does cheer me up." I gave her a winning smile. "The second thing is, it all just hit me then when you said it. The solution to everything. So that''s good."


    "Yeah." She had no fight left.


    "I''m guessing you''re upset because you''re in a hurry. Visa shit."


    Almost nothing happened on her face - it was fascinating. "The timing has been - " A few microexpressions I couldn''t read. "I''ll need to leave the country for a while. Tell Scotty it''s time to heat up the bricks. Get my papers someplace else." She grunted with frustration. "I had other options but I put all my eggs in this basket. I was sure I''d get it."


    "Don''t be such a drama baby. You got it. You''re in. Congratulations." A flash of something - I was still an amateur in reading her. "We''ll rush through your paperwork - you can help MD and get it all ready and the board can meet before the match tomorrow and we''ll get it all done and dusted in no time."


    "I thought you didn''t want a marketing person."


    "I don''t. I want you for a few months until you get bored and leave. That''s a good deal for me. You''ll help me get grants and stuff, and you''ll increase our revenues by your salary, and you''ll get started on one poster campaign that will never see the light of day. Win-win, everyone''s happy. Transactional. Perfect."


    "Transactional?"


    "Yeah. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. The end."


    "Why did you get rid of MD?"


    "So we can be honest." I wondered how to put my thoughts into words. "Football managers have all the power around here. MD told me he''s the boss twice. Once when he hires the manager, once when he fires him. I don''t want to be seen as a despot. Kinda hate despots." I scrunched my face up. "Kinda think I might need to be a bit despotic for a while, though. But I''d hate to burn bridges and you could help me with that. Let''s say MD turns to you and says, here''s fifty grand, sell us sixty grand of season tickets. But that''s no good. That''s my money. I can''t say it to him but I can say it to you. It''s my money that I made and I want to decide what happens with it."


    "You can''t make every decision."


    "We are going to a higher league next year. You know about promotion, right?" She nodded. "It''s harder opponents. We need the best facilities we can afford so that our players improve faster and can reach new levels. And we need better players. If I spent all the money on players, we''d maybe definitely win the league. Right? But unless we invest in infrastructure we''ll never reach our potential, so we have to balance on-pitch and off-pitch spending and the only person with the competence to assess what we need to be competitive on the pitch is me. If MD wakes up one day and decides he wants to impress you by giving you money to spend on radio ads or whatever, that might be the money I need for the last piece of the jigsaw. Do you get me? And if there''s money left when the transfer window closes - do you know about those?"


    "No. This whole darn sport makes me think I keep my brains in my back pocket."


    I tutted. "Relax. It''s an advantage you don''t have preconceptions. I''ve got an amazing idea for how you can learn things. But transfer windows are big. You can read up on that today. What it means is any money I''ve not spent in the summer might be spent in January. If I''ve kept a hundred grand back because a player might become available in the window, I need that money. I''m the only one who can make those decisions. It''s not an ego trip. If I can''t do it my way, I might as well just quit and go and do it at my own club where no-one will get in my way. I''m only here because I have freedom. And you don''t need to feel sorry for MD. He has a track record of buying mostly shit players and hiring mostly shit managers. I''m the best thing that''s ever happened to him."


    "What if I stay longer?"


    I got up. "It''s not worth worrying about." Footsteps approached. I motioned that Brooke should put the chairs facing forward again and rushed to intercept MD in the corridor. He was holding a tray with three coffees and three small dishes piled very high with biscuits. "Mate," I whispered.


    "What?"


    "I messed up. She wasn''t crying. She was frustrated I didn''t instantly understand her plan."


    "Her plan?"


    "Yeah, she''s just been explaining it to me. It''s brilliant. We have to hire her."


    "Oh!"


    "Yeah, it''s all good. It''s great!"


    I rushed back into my office with a big smile on my face. I bumped into my desk, which was odd. I''d never done that before. "MD, you''re just in time," I said, slightly louder than a real boy. "We''ve been going through Brooke''s genius ideas."


    "Have you?" he said, not really keen to play along. Brooke''s ears twitched. She hadn''t seen this coming. She took the coffee MD offered and sipped it. She smiled at him and put it down. She hated it! Incredible self-control.


    "Yeah, let me get my flipchart on." I flipped to a clean page and picked up a ballpoint pen.


    "Max," said Brooke. I turned and caught the marker pen she tossed. "A gift."


    We smiled at each other, then I started sketching. "This rectangle is the Deva stadium."


    "Before you tell MD, er, my idea, I wanted to ask," said Brooke. "In America, a lot of stadiums are sponsored. Is that a no-no here?"


    "MD might have a different opinion but I don''t give a shit. It''s free money. My club, Manchester United, have a famous stadium called Old Trafford. The name''s so iconic that if you suddenly had to start calling it the CryptoBet Arena there would be fury. The Deva''s had sponsors from time to time. You can investigate that."


    "If she gets the job," said MD.


    "Mike, she fucking grafts and she''s a bit of a genius. Check this out. So these dots here show the approximate border between England and Wales. Most of the stadium''s technically in Wales, as we know because the Welsh government had different Covid rules and they wouldn''t let anyone into the stadium. But the offices and everything are in England. Brooke''s idea - God, it''s exciting to meet such a creative force - is that this isn''t chaos. This is an opportunity!"


    "How so?" MD asked her.


    I continued as though he''d spoken to me. "There''s farms all round the Welsh side and part of the English side. There''s this fucking car showroom, too."


    "Check this out, MD. She''s looked into the Welsh subsidies first because we can slap pitches here, in Wales, and get loads of Welsh money. If we put solar up on this side of the stadium, Welsh grants! Then, whoops! We''ve got a parallel project here, in England! Parallel? Maybe it''s the same exact project with two reception areas. We lead the Welsh politicians in through the dragon door and the English through the lion door and show them the same pitches. Ssshhh!¡± I laughed. ¡°It¡¯s gonna be easy if we start with this farmland, but let''s try and get rid of the car showroom, Jesus Christ, I proper hate looking at it. We can put another 3G pitch there and load up on even more English funding. And put solar on the top of the offices in the English part of the stadium and get English grants! Could we send the same invoice to two countries? No, that¡¯s too much. But we can squeeze every single penny out of every single organisation. Right?" I stepped away and paced up and down, nodding to myself. "It''s kind of a pain straddling the border, but what other club would have the potential to do this? None! We can skip a year of player sales if we get this right!"


    "Ha, let''s all slow down," said MD. "The idea''s great, of course, well done Brooke, but to qualify for most of these grants we''d need to compete in Wales."


    "We''ll compete in the Welsh Cup," I said. "Brooke''s researched it and found that Chester City used to play in that." MD looked surprised - his brief disappointment with Brooke was long forgotten. She looked surprised, too, but I hadn''t been lying when I said I''d tried to research this crap in the past. "And we can put our kids in Welsh tournaments. And the women. They don''t have enough matches as it is. You and Brooke will sweet talk some people so if there''s a fixture clash, we can work around it. Seriously, we can get involved. Boost Welsh football. Why not? There''s loads of talented kids in..." I waved my hands in the direction of Wales.


    "Flintshire," said Brooke.


    "Right! You can''t believe how much I care about football in Flintshire. Do you get the concept, though? There''s loads of money going. Isn''t there, Brooke?"


    "Yes. Millions."


    "Hey, now. What?"


    "Millions, Max. For example." She rummaged until she''d found one of her pieces of paper and handed it to me. As I read it, she quoted it almost word for word. "Fit For Future facilities. A partnership of Cymru Football Foundation and the UK Government (Department for Media, Culture and Sport). Purpose: Building new facilities to kickstart the Chester campus (changing room, clubhouse, small-sided artificial grass pitches, full-sized artificial grass pitches, new or upgraded grass pitches, floodlights, plus some little extras). Conditions: has to be built on Welsh ground. Finances: Up to 500,000 pounds (plus 30% from Chester FC)."


    "Thirty percent. What does that mean?"


    "To get 500 thousand, we need to put in 150 of our own."


    "So that''s a no-brainer."


    "One question about my idea, Max," said Brooke. "As you said it could get chaotic and messy. Is it an advantage to you that the person whose idea it was might not be employed for very long?"


    She was asking if I was going to throw her under the bus if people spotted that we were double-dipping on grants. That would be one explanation for why I''d told MD it was her idea, when of course the true explanation was to make sure she got the job. "I''ll take the credit for this if you want, Brooke. If some people don''t like it, that''s tough. I''m not here to be popular. I''m here to win football matches. Everything we do will have to be approved by the board so we can''t do anything illegal but if we do accidentally cross some ethical, ah, borders, collective responsibility kicks in. But if you''d like me to say it was my idea, again, I''m happy to."


    MD smiled at the silly young people who were getting over their skis. "This is very exciting but we don''t own that land. We don''t own any land! And it¡¯s farm land. We can''t just put up football pitches. We need to change the zone, get planning permission. It''s a lengthy process!"


    "Better get started, then. We''ll do Brooke''s paperwork first so she can get stuck in. That''s our end of the bargain sorted. Next I reckon it''s some solar. Get some quotes for all that shit. After that you can look into the land and whatnot." MD looked astonished by the whole thing. Now that I''d decided to hire a business bro, ideas started bubbling up. My head was heating up from the simply vast amount of processing that was going on. "Brooke, do you think you could find me a mobile kitchen?"


    "A kitchen trailer?"


    "Yeah. Not too small. They need to be able to cook for the first team squad in there. Let''s say thirty meals at a time. MD, we''ll need permission from Agatha to dump it round here, somewhere. We can sell it when we''ve got a proper home. Oh, and chefs. Probably two part-time to start with? Is that fun for you? I should probably scout players, not cooks."


    "Hang on. What job are we offering Brooke? A marketing person doesn''t hire chefs."


    "She''s Head of Getting Shit Done." I checked the time. "Can you do her paperwork or do we need Joe? I was thinking you could get the board together before the match tomorrow and I would pop in and do a bit of a sales pitch to make sure they hurry it up."


    "I''m not sure - " said MD.


    "That''d be dandy," said Brooke.


    I nodded a few times. Yeah. This could work. This could be good. Or it could bite me on the arse. Or both.


    ***


    Hiring Brooke was only the second most important relationship upgrade of the day. I drove to the train station and got Emma. Putting her travel bag into the boot of The Duchess was thrilling. Fifteen minutes later I was in the barn watching her take one item at a time out of her case before deciding where to put it.


    She was amused by my fascination. "Have you never lived with a girl before?"


    "The longest relationship I''ve ever had, apart from you, has been with the pine marten in the attic. Oh, where are you going to put that? What is it?"


    She held up the mysterious object. "It''s a shoe horn. It goes by the front door near the shoe rack."


    "I don''t have a shoe rack."


    "I know."


    "Do I need a shoe rack?"


    She kissed me and held onto my neck while she checked me out. "Are you okay? You look clammy."


    "We had clams for lunch. Yeah, no. Never felt better."


    "I''m so glad we''re at the stage in our relationship where you feel so comfortable lying to me. Do we have dinner plans? What about that Portuguese place?"


    I shook my head. "The cute waitress is on tonight."


    "So?"


    "So it''ll be full of players. I don''t want to think about football."


    She went back to her suitcase and pulled out a toothbrush and small bag of girl stuff. She pointed the toothbrush in my direction. "Why do you know her shifts?"


    I smiled. "Because I''m a player."


    "That''s becoming more apparent by the minute."


    "Because I''m a Chester player and the other Chester players talk about her all the time. Whoever gets her phone number first will be an all-time legend."


    "What''s her name?"


    "How would I know?"


    "What''s her name?"


    "Luisa."


    "Who''s favourite?"


    "Ooh, good question," I said. "Henri, obvs."


    "Obvs."


    "Second... Magnus, maybe."


    "Oh?"


    "She doesn''t like football. Maybe she likes crystals. And he¡¯s got a proper footballer body these days. Looks good on him. Third choice, Ryan Jack. He''s mature but funny. He hasn''t been out much, recently, so he¡¯s got that vulnerable loneliness thing going on."


    "Is he all right?"


    "Yeah he''ll be able to drive in a week. I''ve been making sure people are popping in. We give him scouting videos to watch and that sort of thing. We¡¯ve got a scam going where Glenn picks Ryan up saying that I need him for something but then - shock - I don''t turn up and Ryan''s forced to spend time with his mates."


    "You''re pure evil."


    "I know." I watched as Emma unzipped a flap in her suitcase and pulled out some pink pyjamas. A warm tiredness filled me. Emma was going to sleep here in the barn tonight, tomorrow night, and Sunday night. What more could a man ask for? "I''m glad you''re here."


    "I''m glad I''m here." She pottered into the bathroom and I followed. She smiled at me in the mirror before turning round. "Are you sure you''re okay?"


    "I''m sure. Maybe we''ll eat in, though?"


    After eating, I washed the dishes and she dried the plates, like men and women had been doing in that house for hundreds of years. It was the highlight of my week.


    ***


    I later discovered that Ruth''s granddad had never done a lick of housework. Still. Good memories.


    ***


    Match 30 of 46: Chester versus Scarborough ''The Sea Dogs'' Athletic Yarrr


    I woke up stupidly late to a series of not-quite-frantic-but-getting-there messages. I called Sandra asking her to take care of the matchday basics. She asked if I was okay, which was getting a bit annoying. I felt absolutely a billion percent amaze.


    When I got to the stadium, I sat on a chair just to catch my breath for a second and someone escorted me into the dressing room. Magnus Evergreen put on some medical gloves - why, mate? - and shone a light into my eyes and shit.


    "Will you cut it out?"


    "You''re not right, boss."


    "How''s my aura?"


    "Torn asunder."


    "You''re fun. Did you go to Tiny Tino last night?"


    "A gentleman doesn''t kiss and tell."


    "Yeah, but really."


    "She shot me down."


    "Bro."


    "I know. She''s brutal. I might try again. It''s better than scream therapy."


    "Lend me a magnetic bracelet or something. We''ve got to beat Scarborough. Shit. What time is it?"


    "Nearly two."


    "Fuck. Help me up for a second."


    ***


    At 2 p.m., while Sandra was handing in our team sheets and the Brig was leading the guys through the warm ups, I was knocking on the door of the boardroom and entering. The seven current members of the board sat along the sides of the ancient, elegant table, with MD taking up the eighth spot on my right. Brooke was at the short side, next to MD, which you''d normally call the head of the table but in this case was very much the opposite.


    I was pulling a flipchart in behind me, forehead glistening, while a worried-looking Magnus hovered in the doorway, not knowing what to do. Ultimately, he slipped inside and tried to be inconspicuous, which was hard given he had the actual aura - not an imagined one - of a world champion bodybuilder.


    "Oh, Max, what - ?" started MD.


    "Hi, guys. Am I late for my presentation? Brooke, can you go to the other side? Thanks." Brooke obeyed, switching to the chair opposite her. It might have been my imagination but she seemed to give Magnus the elevator eyes while he smiled crookedly, rabbit in the headlights. I moved Brooke''s chair out of the way and dragged my chart into place. I was very much at the head of the table. "What are all these cameras?"


    MD spoke. "We thought this one might be controversial so we''re recording it in case the fans have questions."


    "Controversial?" I said, frowning and wiping away a tiny bit of moisture that had formed on my head somehow. "No. It''s perfectly simple. Now, look. You board boys wanted to talk football with me. B-boys. So many B-boys. Business boys. Billionaire boys. Board boys. You ready?" Four men and three women gaped at me. They''d come to lord it over Brooke and now they were about to get lectured by Max actual Best. I flipped the cover sheet away. I had written, ''THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK'' and when I pointed to it and laughed, only Magnus joined in. Convinced that I was absolutely nailing this whole thing, I turned to the next page. The title of my first real drawing said ''4-4-2'' and ten circles were laid out in said formation. "We''re playing 4-4-2 today. But what is 4-4-2? You think you know, but there are levels to it. This is level one. It''s nice and simple. You''ve got four defenders. They try to stop the other team scoring. Two strikers. They try to score. Four midfielders help the defence or the attackers depending on where the ball is."


    "Er, Max," said MD. I think. I didn''t really have the mental capacity to listen at the same time as getting Brooke hired.


    I flipped to the next page. It was the same 4-4-2 layout but instead of circles for the strikers, I''d drawn one tall rectangle and one short one. "Level two. We''ve got a big guy and a little guy. A target man and a fox-in-the-box. There''s all kinds of names. We kick the ball high and our big man tries to win the header. He gets what we call a flick-on. If the flick-on goes this way, our fast little terrier rushes onto the ball and tries to score."


    I waited for MD to try to interrupt, but he didn''t. Even though this was super basic, he was interested. I flipped to the next page where I''d written F over the left mid and D over the right mid.


    "Level three. If the other team have big defenders, hoofing to a target man stops working. So you get a fast left midfielder and a right mid who can dribble. Now the game''s all about getting these guys forward into positions where they can cross the ball. And you might start to think, is a little goalscorer still my best option?"


    On the next page, I''d replaced the small rectangle with a medium-sized one, and written C over one central midfielder, BTB over another, SP over the left back, and OL over the right back.


    "Level four. The small striker is out. He''s a liability. Now we need a second striker who can compete for headers, but who''s technical and smart. That''s because teams have figured out we attack down the sides so we''ve got ourselves a crafty midfielder who can do some of the creative work. But that''s imbalanced the midfield so we''ve added a runner type, someone who can get box to box. We need more options, though, so we''ve found a left back who takes great set pieces and a right back with the energy and stamina to do overlaps."


    The next page got messy. There were pluses and minuses everywhere with words in tiny letters.


    "Level five. We''ve got two left-footed players in the outfield ten, we''ve got three players who are good at heading, three who are technical. Matches are determined by increasingly tiny details like how quickly a right-footed player can pass out to the left wing, how good the winger''s first touch is, how fast and predictable his decision-making is, and how well his teammates understand their roles based on what he''s likely to do. The manager throws his hands up in frustration when a midfield pass is played six inches behind where it should have gone because he knows the chance to score has been lost. Football at this level is mind-bendingly complicated. We''re a generalist team who does well until we come up against a specialist.


    "Level six. Edging towards simplicity. We''ve bought and sold and got ourselves a team of beefy boys who win headers. We win games on set pieces.


    "Level seven. We keep losing to more technical teams so we''ve binned off the big boys and we''ve flooded the squad with tiny technicians. We pass teams to death but lack cutting edge.


    "Level eight. We add an enormous Scandinavian cyborg from the future to turn our pretty football into goals. The second striker''s job is to press, distract opponents, and create gaps.


    "Level nine. It''s all about the gaps, now. Every training session is about shifting and overloading and compressing the game into small zones, bringing the oppo into safe zones, then smashing into the gaps with pace and purpose.


    "Level ten. While we''re trying to shift the oppo around to get the gaps we want, they''re doing the same to us. How we manage gap-on-gap risk and reward becomes an obsession. Central defenders put their foot on the ball, refusing to move until an opponent comes towards him. If the opponent quickly retreats, the centre back does it again. Both actions are triggers for the rest of the team indicating a chain of complicated but simple actions that will result in a high-quality chance for one team or the other."


    I pushed away yet more fluid that had appeared under my fringe and turned to the final page. It was a plain 4-4-2 diagram.


    "Level eleven. The reversion to simplicity is complete. The manager tells his players he wants 4-4-2 and they instantly comprehend the entire tactical plan. We have gone from simple to complicated and all the way back to simple."


    I turned to a new page and took the lid off my one good marker. In the top third, I wrote, ''Level one - I need Brooke.'' In the middle, I wrote, ''Level five - I have 18 questions about this.'' Then in the bottom third, I wrote, ''Level eleven - I need Brooke.''


    Scarborough''s tactics hadn''t changed in the slightest since they''d seen our team sheet. Presumably we were lining up exactly how they''d expected. I didn''t like that feeling.


    I pointed in what I hoped was the direction of the pitch. "I''m going out there, now. At five thirty I''ll be coming in, exhausted, to a hundred demands from fifty people. It''s only going to get worse as we get promoted. Please do what you need to do to approve this today so that at eight a.m. on Monday morning someone - " I pointed from Brooke to MD and back again - "will be at the visa place with an envelope full of documents and they''ll hand them to a human being and we can get that ball rolling. I need help. I''ve found that help. Brooke is mint. The only reason we have a chance to make this hire is because we have the capacity to act fast. So please act fast. Thanks, bye."


    As I rested my hands on the chair in front of me, I saw Magnus rushing towards me.


    ***


    Next thing I knew, I was in the dressing room and the whole squad were watching me. Physio Dean was encouraging me to drink from a bottle, so I did.


    "Bit groggy," I said, but no-one paid the slightest attention.


    Sandra knelt next to me. "Max. What''s the deal?"


    I shook my head until it made me feel woozy, which was pretty soon. "Team sheets are in?"


    "Yes but we can make a change before kick off."


    "But then I won''t be able to play."


    "No, but... but you''re mashed."


    "I''m not mashed, you dick," I said. I suppose it came out a bit whiny because everyone laughed. I pushed my knuckles into my head. "Think I''ve got a flu maybe."


    "Oh, you think?" she said, with a laugh.


    "Henri. Where''s he?"


    "Here, my friend."


    "Can you go right mid and keep it tight? For a bit?"


    "Oui."


    "Let me, er... Give me... What I''ll do is take a free kick and get us a lead and then I''ll fuck off home, right?"


    Sandra looked at Henri and they nodded at each other. Sick Max was a better bet than healthy D-Day.


    Sandra went to the tactics board and swapped the right-mid and striker magnets around. "All right, lads. It''s a big effort, today. Solid as fuck, right? We keep them locked all the way fucking down first half and we see if we can''t get some Max Best magic on a set piece. If not, it''s a suffer show. Some of you have had lovely old rests, and today''s the day you pay us back. Do you fucking hear me?"


    "Yes, miss!" yelled Glenn Ryder.


    I raised my right fist. "Chesterness!" I yelled, but no-one heard me. Dean noticed me trying to do something, and turned to say something to Sandra. Before he did, I hissed, "Dean."


    His head snapped back. "Yes, Max?"


    "Stop me playing I''ll get you banned from Tiny Tino."


    "That''s not fair. You''re sick. It''s my job."


    I nodded. "I can hit one good cross, mate. We need this. Then I''ll go to bed."


    "Do you promise?"


    "Pwomise."


    He nodded, apparently satisfied, but when I followed the lads out onto the pitch I spotted him talking to the Brig. It didn''t make sense until later.


    ***


    I lined up on the right until Henri gently pushed me towards Chris Beaumont, our ginormous striker. Chris, in turn, pushed me away so I wouldn''t infect him and I ended up spending the first few minutes of the match alone.


    So, so alone.


    But then a ball was cleared by Steve - a clearance, not a hopeful punt - and my anticipation kicked in. I found my legs carrying me over to the right. The brain fog left me and I had a moment of absolute clarity. The entirety of the pitch filled my senses - the position of the goalie, where Chris was moving, all the way back to where Ben was pointing over to the left.


    I knew the goalie would rush out to grab the outswinging cross, or at least try to punch it away.


    So, with all due respect to The Sentinel, I decided to fucking score.


    I approached the ball, concentrated, and instead of hitting it on its bottom right to impart curve that would take it away from the goalie and onto Chris''s head, I hit the other side of the ball.


    Also - I fucking leathered it.


    The ball curled, exactly as intended, leaving the goalie with mega O face as the ball gathered pace, burned through the netting - goal! - orbited the entire planet and returned to the Deva stadium, where, because of the curvature of the earth or physics or some such, it hit the other side of the empty goal. Two-nil!


    That''s what should have happened.


    Instead I kicked the ball away with my standing foot and hit fresh air with my other. I fell, shook my head like in a cartoon, and the match went on without me.


    At that point, even I thought that maybe I should sub off and go home.


    But a stubborn streak kept me going another few minutes. The more I looked at my match rating - five out of ten - the more pissed off I became. I decided that the ''ness'' in Chesterness was taken from stubbornness.


    Next time the ball came to me, I took a touch and put my body between me and a defender. He barged into me, the idiot, not knowing that I wasn''t experiencing human emotions like pain. I touched the ball square to Chris, who hit a diag to Aff.


    Aff surged onto it and was fouled. Yellow card and a free kick in a dangerous position.


    I stepped up, cleared my head as best as possible, and did nothing with the Masterpiece Theatre options. I did, however, smash the Free Hit option. All I needed was one good kick. One good contact and I''d have played my part. After that, my team would step up. Sandra, Vimsy, and the Brig would step up.


    All I had to do was take one good free kick.


    Piece of pizz.


    I mean, piss.


    Best lines up the free kick. He''s got options, chief among them Beaumont, Lyons, and Ryder.


    Best takes a moment to gather his thoughts.


    Best takes a moment to kneel by the Community Stand. He doesn''t look well. Bad lasagna?


    He''s ready now. He approaches the ball...


    Stunning delivery!


    It speeds onto the head of...


    Glenn Ryder!


    What a header! What a goal!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    The physios are running on. Best has run his race.


    He''s getting generous applause from the home fans.


    ***


    The next few days were a feverish, agitated blur. When I was conscious, I realised that Emma''s first weekend as my three-sevenths life partner had been spent bringing me thin soup, teas, and encouraging me to munch on dry biscuits. Astonishingly, she claimed to have loved every second. Maybe because there were twenty horses a stone''s throw from my front door.


    When I finally gave a shit about football again, I discovered that Sandra had guided the team to a hard-fought one-nil win. My one moment of quality had been enough and Sam, Carl, and Glenn had made life hard for Scarborough, who only really committed bodies forward in the last five minutes.


    Then the virus that had knocked me out ravaged the rest of the squad. Sandra worked out how to field a team capable of beating Congleton, and that was that. We were in the final of the Cheshire Cup!


    Meanwhile, the flu was hitting other squads, taking good players out of teams that never rotated, or putting two left wingers out of action at the same time. Ours was the only squad flexible enough to have a chance of coping. We were pulling away at the top of the National League North!


    We had something. Reservoirs of inner belief. Stubbornness. A never-say-die attitude. When one was weak, others would strengthen. A branch that bent grew stronger. Chesterness. It was a concept I''d need a lot more time to understand, if it even existed at all.


    The togetherness, the quality, and the staff I''d surrounded myself with, plus my skill on and off the pitch, were making the National League title look something of a formality. But the season had one big surprise still up its sleeve, and before I could face that adventure, I had to face one of my biggest challenges yet.


    ***


    MD texted me that the board had approved Brooke, ''despite'' my help. I''m pretty sure that was a typo.


    I was just thinking about her on Wednesday morning. Valentine''s Day. And that was the exact moment someone knocked on my front door. Now, that was curious because only about three people knew where I lived.


    Brooke might have asked Ruth. I went to the mirror and checked my hoodie. It was as clean as any. How did I feel? Well enough to receive visitors, for sure. Almost good as new, in fact. I¡¯d been thinking of going to training. I shuffled to the front door and opened it.


    "Oh!"


    Magnus Evergreen was there, and from behind him emerged a very, very reluctant Pascal Bochum. Magnus looked me up and down. "You look like shit, Max. Pascal''s the same." Magnus gave me a very intense look - one that might have got him somewhere with Brooke. "You are both medically suspended. Do not come to training today. Talk about what''s eating you. Before it eats you."

 7.4 - Cupids Arrow

    4.


    After leaving Pascal on my doorstep, Magnus strode off, turned the corner, and a few seconds later I heard a car engine start, then the familiar sound of gravel snap crackle and popping.


    "What''s this all about?"


    Pascal looked pretty miserable. "You and I got the flu hard but we normally don''t get sick. Everyone thinks it''s because we''re despondent."


    "It''s Valentine''s Day, I''m not allowed to go to work, and Chester is full of hot women. Do I look despondent?"


    He smiled, just a little. "No. But Henri says he''s cutting off the wifi until I talk to someone about my feelings. Preferably Max, he said, but he also gave me the option of whispering my worries to a stone and throwing it into a river."


    I was in the doorway and Pascal was down one step. I wasn''t sure if I wanted him to come in. "Hmm. I''m not in the mood to talk about my feelings and I don''t think I ever will be. We could tell everyone we talked. You''re a bad liar, though. Tell you what, I''ll drive you to a river. You can confess that you''ve been training like shit, throw the stone, and we can go to Cheshire Oaks. I want to buy a shoe rack."


    Pascal stepped aside and waved. He waved at nothing. Literally nothing.


    "Dude!" I said, and if I hadn''t been fully awake until that moment, I certainly was now. "Where''s my car?"


    "It''s what I''m trying to say. It''s a conspiracy. The Brig has stolen your car."


    "Hasn''t he heard of taxis?"


    "He probably has told every taxi firm in Cheshire to inform him if you try to escape."


    I shook my head and sighed. "You might as well have a cup of tea while we decide what to do. Have you had brek?"


    "Yes, Max."


    He wiped his feet and slipped his trainers off, leaving them where Emma had said to put a shoe rack. He was in his Chester training tracksuit - he''d obviously been kidnapped at some point between leaving his room in the digs and leaving the house, otherwise he would have had his kit bag with him. "Take a seat," I said, and popped the kettle on. He sat and looked at the documents on my kitchen tables - I had a sudden pang of fear. Had I written anything specifically about the curse? Nothing that could get me caught, I didn''t think. I took two clean mugs and picked up my box of Yorkshire Tea. When I did so, my hand passed through the box - a very strange feeling. The reason was simple - for the first time since I''d moved in, there was no box of tea.


    Panic ensued.


    "Are you all right?"


    "Emma drank the last tea and didn''t replace it! What the shit. I thought she was classy."


    "There are teabags there."


    "Where?" But I''d already seen what he meant. Next to the bread bin was a tupperware. I opened it, removed two tea bags, and clipped it closed again. "Why? Why would someone do this? Oh! The biccies!" My Hobnobs had also been transplanted from their natural home - the packet, twisted round at the end - into another tupperware. "She''s running riot! Can you believe this? What next?"


    "It keeps them fresh."


    "What marginal gain you get in freshness you lose in accessibility. No, this is awful." For a moment, I wondered if letting Emma move in had been a mistake. Between the way she was enshittifying tried-and-tested systems and the Brig stealing my car and my physios telling me what to do and where not to go, I felt surrounded by people controlling me, and I did not like that.


    "There''s a match missing," said Pascal.


    "What?"


    "Here on your papers." I used a teaspoon to jiggle the teabags in the mugs, then walked around behind him. He''d been looking through my fixture printouts. Page 5 of 7 included five of the January fixtures, plus all the February ones. Above ''February 2024'' I''d used a marker to draw a thick line and written ''transfer window closes''. When I''d drawn that line, I''d felt that it represented an impassable wall. Once I crossed that threshold, my squad would be fixed for the rest of the season and I could plan accordingly. Yeah, great. That line hadn''t stopped the Saudi Pro League signing one of my players.


    The page was mostly clear - the date and time of the fixtures, the names of the clubs, and even their crests. But with matches being postponed and rearranged, it had got somewhat chaotic. Less printed, more handwritten. I scanned up and down. "What''s wrong?"


    Pascal tapped the very bottom. "Peterborough Sports should be here. It was rearranged for Tuesday 27th."


    "You''re right. Thanks. Can you fill it in?"


    While he did that, I jiggled the tea again. You have to agitate the water so it brews properly. "What are these numbers?"


    "Which?"


    "Farsley have 37. Hereford 40. It''s not the fixture number."


    Those were the average CAs from the last time we''d played those teams, and was the most cursey thing I''d written down since Jackie had been to my house in Moss Side (when I had a perk shopping list written on some paper by the toaster), but it felt pretty safe to talk about it. "It''s an estimate of the team''s strength. Helps me rotate the team. Farsley and Hereford are among the weakest in the division so we can rest two of Glenn, Aff, Sam, or Henri. Then it''s Spennymoor, right?"


    "Yes. 44."


    "Yeah, they''re not bad. They have their moments. Not too worried about them, but I wouldn''t have, like, three of the fifteen-year-olds on the bench or anything like that."


    "What number shall I write for Peterborough Sports?"


    "43."


    "Then it''s Kidderminster. Away. 51."


    "You can change that to 52."


    "Is it out of one hundred?"


    "The points system is based on ancient Mayan poetry. It''s hard to explain." I added milk to his tea, stirred, and placed it in front of him. He mumbled thanks and looked significantly towards the kitchen counter but if he was hoping I''d offer him sugar, he was dead wrong. First, no, gross, disgusting, don''t do that. Second, I didn''t have any sugar.


    I stared in horror at a new jar that had appeared beside the bread bin. It was white and had a cute lid and a five-letter word printed in an old-fashioned font. The word started with the letter S.


    "Is this how you plan?"


    I finished my own tea and returned to the table. "It helps. It''s all in my head but sometimes I like to write things down. You get a different perspective if you think it or read it or write it. Like this. The current league table."


    I wrote out the top four positions.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="35"><col width="100"><col width="43"><col width="49"><col width="47"><col width="44"><col width="47"><col width="39"><col width="45"><col width="50"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Team</td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>79</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>52</td>


    <td>71</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Kidderminster</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>63</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>York</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>51</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>62</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Darlington</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>59</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    "Eight points clear. Isn''t it beautiful?"


    "It seemed to happen all of a sudden."


    "I said, didn''t I, that we could go on a winning streak? This is it, now. We should win the next three... Four," I said, tapping the Peterborough fixture he had added. "Twelve points. No chance the others can keep the pace. No chance. If Kiddies get three wins and a draw from their next four, we''ll be ten points clear. If we beat them, it''s Goodnight Vienna."


    "Vienna?"


    "Even if we lose, the next games are what? Brackley, Curzon, Southport, Tamworth. We need to beat Kiddies, though. If we crush the league but lose twice to Kiddies and York, that''ll bother me. People will say we''re flat track bullies."


    "What does that mean?"


    "Oh, it''s from cricket. You''ve seen the way they throw the ball, right? Sometimes when it bounces, the ball does mad things. It can get very hard to hit it. When the pitch is completely flat and the bounce is predictable, it''s easy to score runs. Points. So a flat-track bully is a guy who does well when it''s easy but only when it''s easy."


    Pascal stared at something on one of the pages. "You made it easy. You, how would you say it? You flattened the track. And we beat Darlington."


    Like me, he''d stopped calling them Darlo after the scurrilous article. "That doesn''t count. That was divine justice." Justice plus judicious use of the Fantasy Football perks, which boosted my captain''s influence score and made my substitutes perform better. I got to use the perk once in every competition. I hadn''t used it in the Cheshire Cup, and I''d need it in the final. We had a tough match against Crewe Alexandra, who were doing well in League Two. They probably wouldn''t use their strongest team, but we would be massive underdogs anyway, and the match was to be played in their stadium.


    Thinking of the perks reminded me that I''d just been about to read my cursemail when Magnus had knocked on the door. While Pascal looked through my notes and sipped his tea, I brought up my curse screens.


    Romantic Special Offer


    New perk available for the month of February: Cupid''s Arrow


    Cost: 1,402 XP


    Effects: Once per match, nominate two players. For a fifteen-minute period, they will dovetail more splendidly. Passes between them will have a slightly higher success rate. Their defensive and attacking movements will be slightly more in sync.


    Hmm. That was pretty interesting. I instantly wanted it, of course, because it was another in-game boost to play with. The effects seemed like they''d be pretty minimal but it''d be fun to think about which players to use it on, and when. For example, Charlotte and Angel seemed to have a good link. Would I use it on them to make that link even better? Or would it make more sense to do it from Dani to Bea Pea so we''d have two lines of attack?


    Pascal on the right of midfield sometimes got overrun at the start of matches. With this perk, I could give him a link to the right back - Carl usually - so he''d have a more solid start to the match.


    Really the only downside to buying it was that it would delay me getting Wibwob, the perk of perks. I went to check how many XP I had sloshing around and nearly fell off my chair.


    "Holy shit!" I cried.


    Pascal looked under the table as though he was afraid of mice. "What? What?"


    But all I could do was stare.


    XP balance: 3,350


    I''d lost about two thousand XP!


    I stood and wandered around, hands on my head.


    "Max?"


    "I''m fine."


    "Are you?"


    "No. Just give me a second."


    He sipped his tea, unblinking.


    What was this new garbage? The only time I''d lost XP had been during the Copa Mundial mini game, and although it had been pretty annoying the curse hadn''t actually stolen the XP. It had simply given me the chance to gamble with it while subconsciously teaching me about football. But this...


    I took some deep breaths and in a moment of clarity realised I had to look pretty demented. So I grabbed my phone. The calculator app was there on the home screen and I used it to come to the conclusion that I''d lost somewhere close to 1,900 XP. It was hard to be sure because the fever had taken hold big time during the Scarborough match and I didn''t know how many minutes I''d played.


    1,900 experience points. That number sounded familiar. Wasn''t that the cost of buying the Sweeper formation?


    I went to the curse shop and sure enough, Sweeper was gone, and now I had the option to buy 4-2-3-1 for 2,600 XP.


    "Argh," I said.


    "I could call someone...?"


    "I''m fine. Proper fine. I''ve just remembered that in my fever, I did some online shopping. Bought some junk I shouldn''t have. Holy shit, Max. The fuck is wrong with you?"


    Pascal stood up. "Do you need money? I have savings."


    That made me blink. I went over to him and spread my arms and hugged the little shit. "No, man, it''s fine. It''s just the stupidity that bothers me. I was saving up for something and I won''t get it this season, maybe. But it''s fine. We''re eight points clear. No drama. Argh! I hate being sick!" I laughed. What could you do but laugh? What I could do was spend my Friday nights and Sundays going to Premier League matches to get that sweet, sweet XP fix. I went to my chat app.


    Me: On Friday evening I''d like to take you to an art gallery. They''ve got an exhibit called Women Who Put Things Inside Things and Men Who Take Them Out Again. Saturday we''re going to Farsley. That''s Leeds. We could look for an AirBnb there or go north a bit to the Yorkshire Dales.


    Once that was done, I bought Cupid''s Arrow.


    XP balance: 1,948


    I would try to get to enough matches to get back on track, but not at the weekend. Weekends were for Emma. My phone vibrated.


    Emma: Sounds nice! I''ll look. You take it easy today. By the way, please leave it. It keeps the bread fresh.


    Bread? I dashed to the bread bin, opened it, and found that my loaf was inside a cute pink fabric bag. "Fresh bread in a bag in a bread bin. What does it do, get younger? Will it start turning back into fucking yeast?"


    Pascal washed his cup in the sink and turned it upside down so it''d dry. "Henri has a bread bag. But he buys real bread. What you buy... in Germany it would be sold in the cake section."


    "This morning is getting way too international. French, German, Geordie, whatever Magnus is. Let''s go for a walk. What do you reckon?"


    ***


    "What are we doing?"


    "I like to do a circuit of the house in the morning. There''s a wild animal that lives in the roof. Pine marten, I think. I still haven''t worked out how he gets in and out and I keep hoping to see him. Soon, Ruth''s going to, like, put some mesh around, she said. So it won''t be able to get back in..." My attention locked onto a weird thing on one of the tiles, but I decided it was probably some moss. Moss was fun. It grew on boring damp bits that nothing else in the world cared about. "But I don''t want to trap it in. Know what I mean? I don''t want to actually fuck the guy up." I peered at the gutter. It was the most likely route up, but Ruth had put a ring of plastic thorns around it and it didn''t seem to bother the marten in the slightest.


    "The marder moves out, Emma moves in. That is an upgrade."


    I smiled. "Yes it is! Always upgrading. That''s Chesterness. All right, well. Day ninety and I''m still clueless. It''s one thing being outsmarted by Brooke, quite another being outwitted by a big squirrel. Do you like horses? Let''s potter over to the stable."


    "Brooke is the American?"


    "I think they prefer to be called Texan."


    "She is quite attractive."


    "Is she? I hadn''t noticed. Oh, good. See that woman there? She''s called Ruth. Horse people are disproportionately called Ruth, I''ve found." This particular Ruth was thin and insubstantial and looked like a strong breeze would blow her over. I called her ''Ruth Plus Ten'' because I guessed she was about that much older than my landlord. "Let''s talk to her. She''s nice."


    Ruth Plus Ten was in her riding gear and was brushing a brown horse. Every now and then he''d bellow, and a few of the other horses would respond. "Max! Good morning. You feeling better?"


    "Hi, Ruth. Much better, thanks. This is Pascal. What''s this horse, again?"


    "This is Raffa." Pascal and I glanced at each other, then quickly away. "Short for Rafaela."


    "She''s a bit shouty."


    "Is she bothering you?"


    "No. I don''t hear it from inside."


    "That''s good. Yes, her friend is away at a competition. They''re thick as thieves. I''m afraid she''ll be like this until Spider returns."


    "What make is this one?"


    "Breed, Max," said Pascal.


    Ruth smiled. "PSL. Puro Sangue Lusitano."


    "Yes," I said, nodding. "Mexican."


    "Portuguese!" complained Pascal. Ruth PT was starting to like him.


    "Right, I knew that. Hot-blooded, beautiful, suddenly finds herself surrounded by English uggos. That''s why she''s complaining so much."


    Ruth recommenced her brushing. It looked about twice as hard as I would have liked if I were a horse. "Horses are herd animals. Social animals. They need companionship. When Spider came here she was three and from Rafa''s point of view, just a baby. She took on a protective role. Always looking out for danger, always watching, always checking on her. Didn''t you, precious? Yes, you did! So now it''s devastating when Spider isn''t around. Social pain is just as real as physical pain."


    "Separation anxiety," said Pascal.


    I spotted the flaw in the conversation pretty fast, in my opinion. "So it seems a bit cruel to whizz the other horse away like this. That owner knows it''s going to upset this one, right?"


    Ruth paused in her brushing, but quickly resumed. "Yes but she bought a horse to ride it. It''s upsetting to see them distressed, of course. But they can''t live in each other''s pockets all day every day." She put the brush down and gave the horse some friendly pats. Its muscles were enormous. "She has to become more resilient. Doesn''t she? Yes, she does!"


    "Will she?"


    "No," laughed Ruth. "Maybe just a little. We train it, sometimes. One of us brings the horse behind that barn, there, so they can''t see each other. Peepo! There she is. Oh, she''s gone. There she is! It hasn''t worked so well."


    "It''s really interesting," I said, looking around at all the horses. It was a completely different world. No lessons that were relevant to me or my life, but still really fascinating.


    "Are you a footballer?"


    "Yes, Miss."


    "Do you play for Chester? With Max?"


    "I am available for selection." Stubborn little shit! I thought about making a passive aggressive comment but decided against it. It was too early for bickering.


    "We''re off down the Old Trail," I said. "If we don''t make it back, tell Emma I want my ashes to be sprinkled all over her dad''s cornflakes."


    ***


    We walked in silence along the trail. It was a dirt path that went across streams, through woods, past farmland. It was still all quite wintry with bare trees and forlorn bushes, but a few unbelievably vibrant yellow daffodils had sprung up in defiant little bunches.


    "It was funny the horse was called Raffa," ventured Pascal.


    "Last time I talked to that Ruth she taught me a horse word. Try. This horse has a lot of try. That''s how they talk."


    More silence.


    A few birds flew over. Sparrows or starlings - I could never remember the difference. "It''s funny how people say free as a bird," I said. "They''re not that free. They''re like the horses; they want to hang out with each other. They need to be with their bird buddies. You can go anywhere you want as long as it''s where everyone else wants to go." For some reason, the time I tried to get to know Ziggy came to mind. "What''s your favourite chant, Pascal?"


    "Bad Boys," he said. It was a chant about himself; a very Pascal answer. "What''s yours?"


    "Que Sera Sera," I said.


    "I don''t know it."


    "Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be. We''re going to Wem-ber-ly. Que sera sera. You sing it on a cup run."


    "Why didn''t I hear it this year?"


    I smiled. "I don''t think it''s much of a Chester standard. Not yet. Plus the Cheshire Cup final isn''t at Wembley. You can change the words to we''re going to win the league but I don''t think we''ll hear it."


    "Why is it your favourite?"


    "It''s my favourite today. It''s romantic. It''s the magic of the cup. The nostalgia. Fans like to think of cup wins being inevitable. Win a couple of games in the last minute and they start saying our name''s on the cup! Tottenham had a thing where they always won the FA Cup in years that ended in 1. Sixty-one, eighty-one, ninety-one. You know what?" I said, coming to a stop. "I''ve got an unexpected morning off and it''s Valentine''s Day. Some people get fucking miserable on days like these, don''t they?"


    "Yes. If you''re alone," he said, with some undercurrent.


    "Or if your wife left you. There''s this guy. When was it?" I pinched the top of my nose but it didn''t help. "Can''t remember when but I did this event where I invited coaches to come."


    "I remember. It was unusual. Henri said it inspired him to write SILK!"


    I started walking again. "I thought if I could see them in action it''d be better than a job interview. And, shock horror, I was right. But there were eight people who couldn''t go on the Saturday and asked if we''d do it on a Sunday. So we did and seven turned up. I got a bit obsessed with the eighth and when he had time, the Brig went looking for him." I stopped walking. "He''s, er, he''s a good coach, probably, but he''s all depressed and that." I started walking again. "Don''t really like thinking about it. Brain stuff. It''s mad what goes on. I had a dream where a little Chinese woman working for the mafia garrotted me in a car park. I''m really not keen to find out what goes on in other people''s minds." I blew out some air and tutted. "But this Brooke person wants to get all lonely people into our home matches so they get some human contact and since we had that conversation I''ve been, well, just like thinking about this coach."


    "What''s his name?"


    "Clive O''Keefe. Nickname''s probably Clivie O. But look, we could go together and that''d make it easier."


    "What is our aim?"


    "No aim. I just want to show my face and have a chat and maybe invite him to the stadium with all the lonely people. We''ve got loads of empathy for this sad horse and we should have at least that much for this lonely guy, too. Right? I mean... Look, we''re not social workers or anything. We don''t have to fix him or any of that shit. We''re just going for a chat. Are you coming?"


    "Do I have a choice?"


    "Yes. You''re as free as a bird."


    "I think I don''t want to."


    "Cool. You''ve got to walk past where he lives anyway. We can split up there."


    ***


    We got to the main road, walked along the treacherous tarmac until there was some pavement, and followed that to the side street where Clivie O lived. A street sign used to announce that it was Arrowhead Close but a vandal had sprayed over arrow and replaced it with the word dick. "All right. This is me. You go straight ahead and you''ll end up in town. Anyone asks, you say we had a good talk and went for a long walk. Easy."


    "Max, wait."


    "Sup?"


    He scratched the back of his head as he eyed the graffiti. "You''re just going to talk to him?"


    "He''s probably not even in. I''ll get a pen and paper from a neighbour and leave him a breezy little note. That''ll cheer him up."


    "And then what?"


    "What?"


    "What will you do afterwards?"


    "Oh. I reckon I''ll go for a romantic Valentine''s Day lunch with the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Me."


    More nervous shifting. "You shouldn''t come to these areas alone. It is a very poor area."


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Not interested in discussing the sociology of crime with you right now. Probably no-one round here ever crashed the world economy and made fifty billion as it went down."


    "The Brig will be mad if I leave you alone here."


    "He won''t because he won''t ever know."


    "The Brig knows all."


    "Just go! Jesus." I strode away.


    Pascal hesitated by the sign before shuffle-running into step beside me.


    ***


    Clive was home and invited us in without hesitation. He was shaven-headed with a goatee giving shape to a somewhat chubby chin. He smiled a lot. Far too much, far too wide. It put me on edge, so I offered to make us all teas. His teabags were kept in a tupperware and that seemed to prove something.


    "Tiggy won''t believe this," he said.


    "Tiggy is, don''t tell me, your robot butler."


    Clive''s smile dimmed as he processed what I''d said. "My daughter. She''s a fan."


    At first I''d been struck blind by the oppressive atmosphere, the thick air, the sense of something being off. It was like I''d entered a basement and a movie baddie had thrown a blanket over me. But as I made the teas and checked the fridge for the milk and looked for a tea towel to dry a splash of water, I told myself it was a perfectly normal house with a perfectly normal guy. The thought allowed me to get a grip and I pottered around looking at his photos. "Is this her?" It was a teenage girl in a quite formal dress. "She was a bridesmaid?"


    Clive came over and his smile faded again, which had the strange effect of making it seem more real. "First Holy Communion. Are you religious, Max?"


    "Oh," I said. "Erm..." I tried not to think about religion at the best of times, and now there were demons and imps and Sentinels. The first two were real enough but I had to take it on faith that there was, in fact, an all-powerful cosmic referee. Telling me there was a Sentinel could have been a scam from Old Nick to make me more obedient. "I suppose I believe in a higher power." There were loads of football photos - Clive playing, coaching teams of different levels, meeting famous players and managers. "Does she play?"


    "No, never interested. Rebellious. Not bothered about her old man''s career. Resented me travelling around so much, maybe. Watching England win the Euros, that got her into footy. That was good. Watched it together. First match she''s asking me about offside. By the final she''s complaining that England''s press isn''t co-ordinated and there''s too much space in the channels."


    I smiled and finished the teas. "A lot of people are like that. You need to give them a story and they''ll get swept along." As I sat on his armchair, he and Pascal settled onto his sofa. Another sweep of the room confirmed that there were no photos of Tiggy''s mother.


    "I can''t believe how well Chester are doing," he said. "Nearly relegated last year and now this. All the lads think it''s amazing."


    "Which lads?"


    "Mates from coaching. Grassroots guys. You know one of them. Big Man. You managed against him once. He says he knew even then you''d be big. Said your heart''s in the right place. Doesn''t like when people say things about you. Shuts that down PDQ."


    "Do you see them often?"


    "Yeah, sometimes. Yeah."


    So he had some human contact. That was good, if I could trust him. I sipped my drink. "What''s that thing by your sink?"


    "Thing?" He looked worried, which triggered a lot of anxiety in me. I didn''t want to break him. "Do you mean the meter?"


    "It''s got numbers on."


    "That''s the meter. Electric and gas. How much it''s costing."


    "So you boil the kettle it goes up by 5p or whatever. You turn the heating on and go and check what you''re paying? That''s grim. If it was me I''d never turn anything on."


    "No, it''s good. Stops me spending too much. I''ll put my winter socks on. I do turn it around when Tiggy''s here. She gets it warm like she likes it and I muddle through with the bills."


    So this was getting all kinds of depressing. I tried to be normal. "I''m looking at solar panels for the stadium. Energy independence. Just hired a woman to help me get the grants and subsidies for all the projects."


    His smile faded completely and I had the strongest premonition he was going to tell me global warming was fake. "But why are you doing that?"


    "Because we pay almost a hundred grand in electricity and because the planet''s on fire."


    His eyes got glassy. I couldn''t help thinking of him as a malfunctioning robot, and hated that about myself. "But you do the football."


    "Oh! You mean why am I doing it, not why am I doing it. Well, who else?"


    Doubt. Confusion. "But you do the football."


    "There''s less football to do than you''d think. Transfer window''s closed. My coaches take training. Picking the team takes five minutes. I did have a bit of a panic attack about having a thin squad but we went from having the best midfield in the league to the worst against Rushall and it hasn''t touched us. There''s only a few teams who can really hurt us, now. No, it''s pretty easy. We''re just coasting to the end of the season, to be honest. Yeah. Coasting." I took another sip. "It''s pretty boring, to be honest. So I''ve been getting started on other stuff. Business stuff and getting ready for next season."


    He asked me a question but I''d lapsed into some kind of fugue state. The floating megabrain had become unmoored and was drifted off into melancholy. When I drifted back into my body, I realised Pascal was answering for me.


    " - relentless. We''re paid to train, not to play. Then he got Coach Sandra and things stepped up another level. We train hard on Fridays now. If we get stuck in matches there''s always an idea, a tactical innovation. And, of course, if we''re really struggling, he does it himself."


    Something was missing from the conversation, something that was adding to my sense of unease. But what?


    "Teams tried to get men behind the ball. Two banks of four, sometimes two banks of five. Max recruited Chris Beaumont and that was that."


    "I''d have preferred an internal solution," I said, though I wasn''t really present. "But I don''t have time to mess around." It clicked. Clive hadn''t asked why I was there. He''d just accepted it even though it must have been an extraordinary incident. Probably his medication. "Clive. You asked about our coaching day and I put on a second date for you but you never came."


    The big smile was back. "I was interested. Really interested in the turnaround. But I couldn''t make it."


    I thought about inviting him to join a session so I could check his attributes, but why? Could I be sure he''d turn up when he said he would? I decided to skip the part where I tried to get him on the coaching staff. Even if he had 20 in all his coaching attributes, it''d be an energy sink for someone. "Okay, listen. The reason we''re here is because we''re trying to start a little programme where we get lonely pensioners to come to our matches and make a fuss of them. It''s just an excuse to get them out of the house, really, and give them someone to talk to. I was thinking someone like you could go and sort of explain the football to them. Not like doing a match commentary but maybe every now and then someone would have a football question. Why is the league''s best winger playing as a DM? Why is the league''s best winger playing as a sweeper? That sort of thing. Or you''d point out something interesting. Could just be, oh it''s the fifteenth of November, it''s Pascal''s birthday." Pascal nearly spilled his tea. He put it down and went to get a dishcloth. I continued. "Yeah, just, if you''re interested in being a volunteer. I say volunteer, it''s basically you go and watch a football match and talk about it."


    Clive continued to smile. "It doesn''t sound so bad."


    "Just come once and see how you like it."


    Pascal, for some reason, decided to act as Clive''s agent. "What''s the pay?"


    "Pay? You get a free ticket to watch The Max Best Experience and a baseball cap that we can''t sell in the club shop."


    "And a butty," insisted Pascal. Foreigners saying butty always sounded funny.


    "Fine. And a butty and a soft drink."


    "And twenty pounds."


    "No, Pascal. It''s not a job. It''s something fun and chill and optional. You start paying people it gets stressful."


    Pascal gave me a dubious look and brought the dishcloth back to the sink. As he returned, he stopped and exclaimed in German. He turned to Clive. "But this is VfB Stuttgart! This is Stuttgart in the 90s. Elber! What a player! Bobic. You coached Bobic? I know this team! I can''t believe you coached The Magic Triangle."


    Clive stood and went over to the photo. His eyebrows furrowed. "Rolf Fringer. His assistant was Jogi L?w. Well ahead of their time. They offered me a job, point of fact. I wish I''d taken it. They were doing fascinating things and they were very kind. German football culture was a good fit for me, I''ve always said. They''re serious and dedicated. There''s less banter."


    "Less bullying, you mean."


    "Yes, Max. I suppose I do." He went back to the sofa.


    "Why didn''t you stay?" said Pascal, easing along the wall. He was appraising the other photos with a new eye.


    "My wife," said Clive. "She didn''t want to move. Course, she moved anyway. Moved out, soon enough."


    Okay, we''d spotted the iceberg. Time to turn this ship around. "Pascal, I''ve got that meeting in a bit. We need to get going."


    He ignored me, the brat. "Our next home match is against Spennymoor on the 24th. Can I come and pick you up? I would love to hear all your stories from that time, and we can talk to Max''s old people while we are there. Kill two birds with one arrow."


    "But won''t you be in the squad?"


    "No," said Pascal. "Max says I am not training well. He is wrong, but he is stubborn. He is using children instead of me. I imagine I shall not be selected for the rest of the season and in the summer I will consider my options."


    I wasn''t planning on saying anything, but Clive''s smile looked like it was starting to hurt him. Bringing our drama into his house wasn''t fair, but then again, Pascal was offering to take him to the match and get to know him. Seemed like it''d be good for both parties. Two lonely horses. If I said what was on my mind and Clive pushed back against me, that might draw Pascal even closer to him. "Horse people use the word try, Clive. On the way here we saw a horse with a lot of try. Pascal has a lot of try. He has more try than almost anyone I''ve ever met. When someone like that does the bare minimum in a drill, jogs instead of sprints, hits a pass with accuracy but no fizz, I feel it. Pascal has too much pride to train like shit but I signed him for his try and when there''s no try, there''s no Pascal."


    "People can''t give their best all the time."


    "Oh, I know. That''s why I''m not pushing him. He''s had a shock. His mate''s vanished and the pain is real. I''m not pushing him, Clive. He can take all the time he needs. I''ll wait. If he needs to take it out on me, that''s fine. I can stand it."


    "I''m not taking it out on you."


    "If you say so."


    "I''m not. And you''re hurt, too."


    "Nah. He''s gone. Fuck him. I''d happily never think about him ever again for the rest of my life."


    "Don''t," whispered Pascal.


    "Clive, it was amazing to meet you. Pascal''s gonna get your number for the Spennymoor game and I''ll see you then."


    I shook his hand and went outside into the fresh air. It had all gone well but I couldn''t help but feel like I''d failed a test I didn''t know I was taking.


    ***


    Pascal didn''t take long. We walked to the street sign and turned right onto the main road. Not a nice walk, but it had the virtue of being direct, and a bit of directness was what I thought I needed.


    It took a few minutes before either of us spoke. "I can''t believe he coached Stuttgart."


    "I wonder how good he was."


    "Is. He''s still a coach. I thought you would try to bring him to the club. We are already understaffed and you want to add more age groups and a reserve team. He coached Krasimir Balakov. I think he can teach Tyson and Benny a trick or two."


    "Maybe I will in a couple of years. For now, I need sure things."


    "You shouldn''t give up on people."


    I didn''t reply. Instead, I wondered if that was as unfair as it sounded. I''d been patient with all the CA 1 players I''d recruited. Been patient with Pascal in the past and now. I''d worked hard at Tyson and even sought out Julie McKay, whose hooligan boyfriend had made it clear he''d happily beat me to a pulp. The only person I''d ever truly given up on had been Sullivan, and his dad had smacked me with a metal pipe.


    "I''m glad we popped in on Valentine''s Day," I said. "I reckon his wife left him and that was the start of the spiral. He''ll tell all his mates Max Best came to see him and he''ll be buzzing off it for days."


    "And Pascal Bochum."


    "Yeah. You''re the big news. Hey guys, guess what? Pascal Bochum just dropped by to ask me out. Oh, and he had the greatest living Englishman with him." I did an exaggerated scoff and he smiled. "I reckon I''m going to get some lunch. By the time we get to town it''ll be eleven. That''s late enough, I reckon."


    "Can I come?"


    "Why?"


    "No-one''s in the digs. It''s too quiet when it''s empty."


    "Fine."


    "We could go to Tiny Tino."


    "On Valentine''s Day? Are you fucking stupid?"


    "What?"


    "Luisa will be working."


    "So?"


    "So I can''t deal with it."


    "What?"


    "Just drop it. We''re not going there. Anyway, it''ll be booked out."


    ***


    I''d worked up a healthy appetite by the time we got to the city centre. We walked along the shopping streets. Some had split levels with arcade-style walkways. The shops on the higher levels seemed to struggle, though. The modern British consumer didn''t want to have to deal with the hellish ordeal that was seven steps.


    The restaurants didn''t seem overly busy.


    A cute waitress was doing things outside one. "Hey."


    "Hi."


    "Question. I thought Valentine''s Day would be packed. Can I get a table anywhere, do you reckon?"


    "It''s rammed for dinner. Lunch, not so much, unless it''s a Saturday. No-one takes Valentine''s off work."


    "Ah, right. Makes sense."


    "We''ve got tables."


    "Whoa there," I said, twisting my lips. "Less of the hard sell, please. I''m very delicate today."


    "I''m truly, deeply sorry. I''m just saying that I''d love to have you inside."


    That was a quadruple entendre, at least. I think one of my eyebrows might have raised. "Tempting. Very tempting. But you don''t have peri peri chicken."


    "You like it spicy?"


    "I like food so good they named it twice."


    "How about pasta pasta?"


    "I''m gonna think about it. I wasn''t planning on being out today."


    "Women throwing themselves at you left and right."


    "Like you wouldn''t believe."


    "Can I get a selfie?"


    "Only if you promise not to squeeze my arse while you''re doing it."


    "What if... I don''t promise?"


    "Even better."


    She sidled up next to me, held her phone left-handed and put her right on my back. As it slid lower and lower the tension grew and with impeccable timing, she took a pic. She stepped away and looked at it. "Winner."


    "Let me see."


    "Uh-uh. It''s mine. It''s all for me."


    "What''s your name?"


    "Ashley Ashley."


    "So good they named you twice."


    "That''s right, Max Best." With a hop in her step, she turned around and went back inside the restaurant. I was pretty sure she hadn''t finished doing what she was supposed to be doing, but I wouldn''t ruin the moment for her. With a rueful little lip-bite, I turned and walked away.


    Pascal scurried along behind me. "Does that happen to you all the time?"


    "Does what happen?"


    "Women throwing themselves at you."


    I laughed. "She was playing. She was having fun. She knows I''m in a relationship."


    I turned a corner and only just heard him mumbling something, but I''m pretty sure he said, "At least one of you knows."


    ***


    After a minute of aimlessly looking at restaurants, I stopped and bit my lip. "Pascal. Got a big problem."


    "What?"


    "I really want peri peri chicken, now."


    "So let''s go to Nando''s."


    I scrunched up my face. "Life''s boring. There''s no challenge. I have to face my fears. Ah! But you know what? She won''t be working. She''ll be on a fucking date. What was I thinking? And the football crowd won''t be there - they''re all at training. It''s actually the best time to go. This way, Watson!"


    ***


    I burst into Tiny Tino like I was entering a saloon. I was the cocky, swaggering, fastest gun in the state and I had all the stuffing knocked out of me by one withering glance from nature''s greatest triumph - Luisa.


    She was in the green-and-red apron all the staff had to wear, which went perfectly with her deep brown hair and hazel eyes. There was something about the way her head floated serenely on her neck that made me go weak at the knees, and holy shit, she''d done her hair in a ponytail.


    "Table for one?" she said, emasculating me more brutally than a punch to the groin.


    "Two, please," I said, recovering like a champion. He''s got a lot of try, this Best kid. "A romantic table, please."


    She picked up two menus. "This way."


    I followed her round to the right, to the old part of the restaurant. That was a good sign. That was the section with the wood panelling and old-world charm. The new area was more modern and more comfortable, but more soulless.


    Luisa stood next to a table and waited for me to sit. When I did, she handed me a menu, then repeated it with Pascal. She left and I saw the kitchen door two big steps away. She had given us the worst seats in the entire restaurant.


    "Oh my God, she''s fantastic," I whispered. Pascal nodded enthusiastically, but not, I think, for the same reason as me. I glanced at the Valentine''s Day menu and dismissed it instantly. "I''m going to wash my face. I feel like I''ve got like a film of exhaust fumes."


    I went to the bathroom and had a good old wash. When I returned - in no particular hurry - Luisa was there, waiting to take our order. She''d done it deliberately to put me off balance. She must have - it made no sense to go to a table where half the customers were away. What was her game? It was like sparring with Brooke. Devastating to lose, but fun all the same.


    "What will you like?"


    "Peri peri chicken," I said.


    "That''s not on the card," she said. She opened the menu, put it in my hands like I was a child - my resistance was suddenly feeble - and pointed to the set dishes.


    "Yeah but I want it."


    "It''s not on the menu."


    "I''ll take a peri peri chicken, please." Her eyes blazed, just for a second. "Don''t worry if you have to make the sauce fresh." I smiled. "That''s fine by me."


    "I''ll talk to the chef," she said. "See if it is possible."


    I stood. "Let me save you the trouble. I''ll talk to him."


    The chef was the co-owner and it was fair to say I was one of his best customers. Not so much because I was a regular, but because Chester FC''s sudden, inexplicable (to him) mania for his chicken dishes had made a cold winter very profitable. And let''s be honest, I was famous. Local famous, but still. In the little game between me and Luisa, I''d just picked up my dice and set them down showing a double six. There''s a time to play and a time to get the peri peri chicken you need.


    "Thank you no. I will."


    She vanished. I was pleased with myself. "Dude, what did you get?"


    Pascal raised his palms like he was saying a Buddhist prayer. "What do you mean what did I get? There''s only one choice. I got that."


    "Oh."


    He closed his eyes, leaned back, and ran his hands through his hair. Whatever was on his mind, he didn''t share it.


    "I like that Clive guy. Clivie."


    "His nickname is Clive OK. He told me when I was adding him to my contacts."


    "Clive OK. That''s not bad. He reminds me of a certain type. WibRob''s dad''s the same. Busy, active, fingers in many pies, exploring the world, doing things. Then the kid comes along and pow - it''s all about the kid. Just like that. It''s amazing. All kinds of sacrifices. Christ, think of your parents. They''re the poster children for devoted parents."


    "Poster children?"


    "Like, a great example. They leave Germany where it''s all nice and cosy and everyone can play the tuba and they go to fucking Darlington so that you can have a go at being a footballer. It''s unreal. You''re lucky, you know."


    "I know. Not everyone in Germany can play the tuba. My mother can''t."


    "But your dad can?"


    "That was the joke."


    I laughed. "Sorry, I butchered that. I don''t know how to talk to you any more."


    Luisa brought some little plates of starters. She didn''t talk to us; didn''t confirm if I was ''allowed'' the meal I wanted. She simply docked at my little island like a superyacht, sending birds flying, making the fish flee, sending waves of insecurity crash against my shore, then reversed just as elegantly.


    We munched on bits - we were both pretty hungry after our long journey.


    "What about your dad?"


    I stopped munching and glared at him. Then the kitchen door crashed open - as it did every eight seconds - and I heard a dramatic sizzle and smelled my chicken. "He bailed. Skipped out. Never met him."


    "Oh, but - "


    "That''s the end of the story, mate."


    "Okay."


    I tapped on the table. "Magnus," I said.


    "Yes?" said Luisa. She''d ghosted in at the far post like an absolute menace. Defences had no chance.


    "Sorry, what?"


    "You called me."


    "I didn''t."


    "You were tapping the table," said Pascal.


    "So? That''s not a thing. Who does that to mean they need a waitress?"


    "Impolite customers," said Luisa.


    "In Germany, people click their fingers to call waiters. It''s total fremdsch?men. Cringe."


    "Well, I''m famously polite. I won awards for my politeness." Luisa swished away. I shook my head. "That was weird, even for her."


    "You were saying about Magnus."


    "He told me I have an avoidant attachment relationship style. Something like that, anyway."


    "What is it?"


    "The test is to put a kid in a room with his mum. She leaves and comes back. Most kids are, like, relieved and happy and it''s all good. Some get all moody like they''ve been betrayed."


    "That''s you!"


    "That is not me. I''m actually a good and kind and polite person. But if there is any truth in it, it''s interesting. I find it hard to get close to people. Football''s always been how I''ve made friends and got into groups. I think Clive was like me but then the kid comes along and he can''t be like that any more. You''ve got to connect. You''ve got to. And you can''t sulk every time your daughter doesn''t laugh at your jokes or whatever. Can''t kick her out of the match day squad. I wonder what decisions he''s made since she''s been born. What opportunities he''s turned down so he''ll be around when she needs him."


    "I wonder what she''s like."


    "Absolutely no doubt she''s an utter, utter brat. Moody as fuck. But one day she''ll realise her dad''s been trying really hard and she''ll calm the fuck down. It''ll be good."


    "I hope so."


    I was done with the starters. They were quite filling and I wanted to make sure I had space for my chicken. "It''s a lot about dads these days."


    "Sorry Max? I didn''t hear you."


    "Been hearing about dads a lot. The average-looking blonde you seem to like. There''s something there with her dad. Not sure what but it''s why she is who she is. This one now who smiles at everyone in the whole place except you and me. I bet her dad was always watching football and never played with her and that''s why she resents us. I''m fucked up because mine ran off. You''re top dude because your dad is top dude. Henri''s always trying to impress his."


    "You''re not fucked up."


    "I am a bit."


    "Okay but you have a lot of try."


    I nodded, half-laughing, half ready to get a bit weepy maybe. "You know that''s why he did it."


    Pascal froze. Literally didn''t move a muscle.


    But Luisa came, unsmiling, and removed our starters.


    "Who did what?" Pascal tried to say, but it came out croaky.


    The wallpaper next to me was a deep green and slightly textured. It didn''t make sense to have wallpaper in a restaurant. There were little tears and stains everywhere, if you looked. But you didn''t have to go looking for the flaws, did you? It didn''t have to be perfect.


    "He was just trying to be a good dad."


    Pascal''s Adam''s apple bobbed up and down. "Moss?" This moss wasn''t the cool plant that grew in dark, damp places. This was the only Moss that wanted to live somewhere hot and dry - Raffi''s dad. No sooner had his son got a professional contract than he had been angling for a move to a warmer climate.


    "No. I''m sure he was a big part in it, but I meant Raffi. He did it for Serina. Five grand a week for four years. Do you know how much that is?"


    "A million," he said. "One million, forty thousand. Tax free. But he''d make more doing what you told him. What if he doesn''t play? He might not get another contract."


    I brushed my hand along the wallpaper. It had a slight texture. A premium feel. "What if he gets injured like Ryan and doesn''t come back? It''s a million now, guaranteed, versus two million later, maybe."


    "It''s not a good deal," said Pascal, one of the few footballers who planned their careers like I planned a football season.


    "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, so they say." I looked down, sadly, and saw a plate of chicken was there. Suddenly, I had no appetite for it. "He worked in a casino. He never gambled."


    Pascal was also not touching his romantic meal. "Okay so it''s not the best move but okay. But okay why didn''t he talk to us?"


    "Three reasons. One, that was part of the deal. You only get the money if you keep your mouth shut. I know it''s crazy but there are people who hate me. Agents. I seriously doubt any of them were involved in the deal. I think I know who arranged it and he doesn''t hate me exactly but it''s plausible he told Raffi not to contact me until the deal was done. Then the next day Raffi wakes up and everyone in Chester''s calling him a traitor and whatnot. Okay that''s understandable but yeah. He should have spoken to you. Option two. He literally couldn''t. Like he was whisked away on a plane to discuss the deal. On the way, he decides to sign. He lands, it''s a whirlwind of papers and photos and when he gets to his hotel he finds his phone doesn''t work. He doesn''t have a roaming plan and the hotel''s computer is in Arabic. I mean, it''s vaguely ludicrous but possible. Or, like, his phone ran out of battery or was taken by his new agent or whatever. Do you know my phone number off the top of your head? Do you know my email address?"


    "Yes. It''s max at maxbest. M - A - X - B - E - dot - S - T. What country is that anyway?"


    "S?o Tom¨¦ and Pr¨ªncipe. It''s off the coast of Gabon. So he can''t contact us and next day, same thing. By the time he gets online, he''s reading that we all hate him. He decides to cut his losses. Move on. Option three. He knows if he talks to me, I''ll talk him out of it. So he doesn''t. For his daughter."


    "But - "


    Nothing more came, and Pascal picked up his knife and fork and mechanically ate lunch.


    I did the same.


    "I never had a brother."


    "Let''s hope your parents don''t give you one now or he''ll be born in Darlington."


    "I was bullied. I had no-one to look for me."


    "Look after me."


    "No-one to look after me. No-one to teach me how to talk to girls. Raffi''s the closest I''ve ever had. It can''t be that he''s my friend one day and the next he''s not. It can''t be."


    "Honestly, mate? I think that''s exactly what it is. Here''s a million pounds to turn your back on your whole life. Okay, then! That''s all there is to it. You don''t need therapy. You''re not a bad person. I''m not even sure he''s a bad person. It''s just a mad thing that happened. There''s no point dwelling on it. Just move on."


    "But you haven''t moved on. You''re distant and moody and angry."


    "Okay, fine. I need therapy. I need help. All right? But you''re going to be fine. You''ve got twenty older brothers, now. Someone steps to you we''ll smash them up."


    "I can take care of myself."


    "Top, great. Done." I had a bit of a sulk on as I cut into the next piece of chicken. "Right. We''ve talked about the traitor. Can you cheer the fuck up now so I can pick you again? I need you against Kidderminster."


    He was also cutting and it took him a fraction of a second to stop. He looked up. "Kidderminster?"


    "Yes."


    "But... Why?"


    "Because I want to play a radical formation and anything remotely complicated only works if you''re in the team because you are one of my only fucking players with a fucking brain and I fucking need you. All right?"


    "But I thought we were going to win the league anyway."


    "Stop saying but you little prick! We are going to win the league but I want to beat Kidderminster because they''re the only team who''s ever properly dicked us and they''re the only team who are interesting to play against. I want to beat them because I want to beat them not because we have to beat them. Do you get that?"


    "Yes."


    "If you''re still sulking around it''s going to be 4-4-2. Good match, tough, won by lots of small factors. OR, we do my plan and you and I fucking tear them to shreds and we win the league with no question marks hanging over us."


    He resumed cutting. "You''re talking about playing the sweeper system."


    "Henri''s been blabbing."


    "He''s building an alliance. He''s calling it the coalition of the unwilling. He''s got some players, Sandra, Livia, and he says he''s going to make a move on Emma."


    I smiled. "Sweeper will work."


    Pascal shook his head. "It won''t. It''s dead. How can you hear me say he''s going to make a move on Emma and not react?"


    I shrugged. "You mean to nag me about my tactical plans. He''s not inviting her out for Valentine''s Day, is he?"


    "What if he did? Would you mind?"


    "What?"


    "You are more interested in Luisa, it seems to me. Or the Texan. Or Livia, or Ruth, or, or, or."


    "Wrong."


    He put his cutlery down. "I don''t understand it. Emma is so nice. How can you chase the others?"


    I kept eating. The taste was coming back. "It''s not like that."


    "What is it like?"


    "Emma likes me. What does that mean? It means when I fuck up, we talk about it and I try to do it better. Ruth is a Chester fan. Livia works for me. When I''m snippy or aggressive or not a very nice person and then we go and win a football match, all is forgiven. Do you get me? I can be a bit horrible. I can be a bad manager - in the sense of being a bad boss - as long as I''m a good football manager. Or player. I don''t go round trying to be rude or difficult. I really don''t. But I can get away with a lot as long as we''re winning. Now, I notice you''re only talking about women, like I''m some sort of sex pest. But how do men treat me? Even if they think I''m a dick or they support Liverpool or Wrexham or whatever, they think I''m great. I''m a 23-year-old football manager and I''m a good player, too. If I''m a bit of a dick, that''s football. I''m allowed. Now, take this one and Brooke. This one fucking hates football. It''s not that she doesn''t know who I am. She actively dislikes everything about me! What a challenge. Come on, you love it, too. Henri''s the same. If he was married and completely faithful, he''d still come here once a week as a sort of test. And Brooke, the Texan, she''s the only person employed by Chester who doesn''t give a shit if we win or lose. So where does that put me? On a normal level. If I''m rude, she will tell me I''m rude. I like being treated like a normo. Do you get it? Yes, it''s nice to have the cute waitress at the Italian place throw herself at me. Very nice! And you know it when you go to bars after a win, the attention is addictive. But it''s fake. I''m not complaining but I want places where I can have an authentic interaction. This is one. Emma is my special pumpkin and after lunch I''m going to go shopping for the most romantic thing I can think to buy. A shoe rack. And I''m going to spend the rest of my life with her and I''m going to try not to be avoidant personality type with her. When she goes to Newcastle and comes back, I''m going to be happy and not sulk in a corner. I can flirt and daydream about other women because that''s all it is. There''s nothing behind it. It''s like when you''re one-one-one with the goalie and you take a shot. You have to mean it or you''ll just scuff it and look like a knob."


    "Can you teach me to flirt like you?"


    "No, because of what I just said. I''m not really flirting and women know that. We''re just playing. It''s like kittens fighting. It looks like a fight but it''s not a fight."


    "How did you get with Emma?"


    I laughed. "I would never have had the courage to talk to Emma. She talked to me. She was interested in how I was talking to my friend Ziggy. Not sure if you''ve met him."


    "How would you talk to her now? If you weren''t together."


    "Oh. Um." I tried to imagine it. "I would probably try to do an intense but cheeky expression. Hi, I''m superstar football star Max Best and I would like to talk about how many zips are on your jacket because that''s wild."


    "What if she was a waitress and there were no zips?"


    I groaned. "Can we go back to talking about Raffi? This is hard." I rubbed my temples. "I wouldn''t. It''s a rule of mine. If they''re paid to be nice to you, leave them alone. If I saw her in a library or something, then I''d try."


    He was weirdly insistent. "But if Henri was going to make his move. Today, maybe. It could be your last chance."


    I tipped my head back. "I don''t know. I''d be firm but respectful. Hi, I''m Max. I know you''re at work but I''d like to invite you for a coffee one day before a dastardly Frenchman gets his hooks into you. Then I''d wait for her to say no and take my beating like a man, by which I mean ordering take-out for about three months and watching romantic comedies while crying my eyes out."


    This seemed to satisfy him and he shut up and let me eat in peace. I started to really enjoy it just as it was all gone. I smiled to myself as I daydreamed about asking Luisa for a second helping.


    To my absolute astonishment, when I blinked next, Pascal was on his feet in front of the Portuguese beauty and was giving her intense eye contact. "My name is Pascal Bochum," he said, and I felt my heart plummet. This wasn''t going to be good for his morale. "I am a creative forward player. A space invader. My function in the team is to connect the midfield and the attack. I am fast and brave and I have a lot of try. I think you are very beautiful and I would like to get to know you better, for example by drinking coffee or buying a shoe rack together. I should like to add that my French is excellent and I am very willing to learn Portuguese."


    Having delivered this extraordinary example of German Romanticism, he took a tiny step back, giving her another two inches of breathing space.


    I felt my own pulse racing as we waited for her response. In that moment, she had the complete power of life and death over this young man. She was reading his face like he was a pitch side monitor and she was the referee checking if a skirmish in the six-yard box should be given as a penalty.


    The referee has made her mind up...


    "I must see you play before I give my reply."


    No goal! The match will go to a replay!


    "I play twice a week," Pascal lied, the liar.


    "She''s not going to Hereford to watch Chester," I pointed out, in the interests of keeping the concept of romance alive.


    "Our next home match is against Spennymoor in ten days."


    "Which you won''t play in," I reminded him.


    "I am available!"


    "Nope. You''re kickstarting our big community project, remember. We''re all very proud of you and you can tell Luisa all about what a good and kind person you are... later. Why don''t you invite her to Darlington? We''ll have all our trophies. It''ll be a big party."


    "That''s in two months!"


    "Sorry, mate. Are you telling Luisa you won''t wait for her?"


    He flushed as he gave her a comically earnest look. "Of course I will!" He sank as he turned back to me, which made me realise he''d been standing with his heels raised. "But not Darlington. You will crush them single-handed."


    "So?"


    "So that won''t make me look very good."


    I gave him a long, hard stare. "You''ve got two months. Train like you mean it, then put on a show. Be better than me." I turned my attention to the heartbreaker with the hazel eyes. "Something tells me Luisa knows enough about football to tell your character from how you play. Now would you like to sit down and let her get back to work?"


    "I''ll be right back," he said, before striding off to the bathroom, no doubt to splash water onto his face. It must have been incredibly tense for him.


    I smirked at my plate, thinking through the ramifications of what had just happened. I hadn''t planned this, but I''d seized the opportunity when it had arisen.


    "What is so delightful?" She was still there. Strange - I was sure I had felt her leave.


    "He''ll train harder than ever. Two months of being the best version of himself. I''m delighted." She was doing something - like Brooke, I couldn''t read her, and that was a huge part of the attraction. "You..." I said, suspiciously. "You get a break, now. All these football pricks will leave you alone until this is resolved." This meaning Pascal taking his shot. "That''s clever." She didn''t say anything, just invited me to drown in her eyes. I stepped back from the edge of the boat. "You know, if they go too far, let me know. I''ll put a stop to it."


    "I can handle them. They are robalo. Sea bass. In clube de futebol Chester, there is only one shark."


    I slow blinked and made a vague gesture. "Henri. Yes... But he''s respectful. He won''t overstep. Hmm. Could be trouble with him and Pascal, though." I bit my nail. There didn''t seem to be anything I could do if two of my players went for the same woman. Or I could tell Henri she would be coming to the Darlington match and he''d be extra motivated, too. But that seemed gross. "Que sera sera," I said.


    "Whatever will be," she said, then went through the kitchen door. It flapped towards me, and then away, and she was gone.


    ***


    "What now?" said Pascal, a while later. We were in the city centre with plenty we could do and nothing we had to do. A few people stopped and asked me for selfies. No-one asked Pascal. This morning it would have depressed him, but now it seemed to fire him up.


    "I don''t feel like walking home. Let''s go to the digs and I''ll see if Henri will take me home on the scooter. Or I''ll tell the Brig to bring the Duchess there, now that we''ve worked everything out."


    "Did we work everything out?"


    I shrugged. "We''re men. We got close enough, I reckon."


    "I agree."


    We set off walking but then I saw something and panicked. "Shit," I said, pacing a different direction. "This way, quick." Pascal followed and I dived into a shop. "Upstairs," I said, and he went ahead. I stepped back onto the street to check what I''d seen.


    Henri, dressed to the nines, walking with a big goofy smile, holding an enormous bouquet of roses. Heading, naturally, in the direction of Tiny Tino.


    Fuck.


    I went back inside and pretended I thought I had seen Welly, the guy who''d once threatened me, and asked Pascal to hang around for a couple of minutes. He agreed without hesitation. "I''ll look after you, Max."


    I gave him a friendly little slap. "You''re like the older brother I never had."


    He tutted and rolled his eyes, but he was pleased.


    I checked his morale. With one neutral encounter with the official dream woman of Chester FC, his morale had soared from abysmal to very good. It would settle back to ok after the thrill had worn off. I suddenly felt bad. Would he want to know?


    "Mate. There''s something I need to tell you. About Henri."


    "Yes?"


    The flushed cheeks. The way he was projecting confidence and self-belief. I couldn''t. I just couldn''t. He was back from the dead, and to be honest, so was I. "Er... He''s wrong about sweeper. It''s going to work, and that''s a Valentine''s Day promise."

 7.5 - Deva Station

    5.


    Saturday, February 17


    Match 31 of 46: Farsley Celtic versus Chester


    From the Leeds Star online edition


    Farsley Celtic Relegation Bound After 8-0 Defeat


    Farsley Celtic suffered one of the most devastating defeats in National League history on Saturday, losing to a rampant Chester side at The Citadel.


    Despite their poor start to the calendar year, in which they have failed to secure a win, the manner of this defeat was wholly unexpected. Celtic''s previous losses were all by a single goal. After losing a tight contest to Brackley, they were unlucky in a good showing against Darlington, falling to a late winner in that 2-1 loss, which was followed by narrow 1-0 losses to Gloucester and Buxton.


    All semblance of defensive cohesion and team unity was obliterated in the first fifteen minutes, when Chester player-manager Max Best defied the muddy conditions to dribble into shooting range before unleashing a piledriver past Celtic''s unfortunate goalkeeper, Paddy Dunstable. Dunstable was not at fault for the second - a mighty header from Chester''s powerful striker Chris Beaumont, nor the third, a smart cut-back from right midfielder Joe Anka that was tucked away by French star Henri Lyons. At three-nil up, Chester seemed content to conserve energy and the rest of the half passed without incident.


    The moment defeat turned to humiliation can be traced to the seventieth minute when Chester replaced Anka - returning from injury - with Pascal Bochum, a baby-faced German teenager. Celtic''s left back Frank Saltney decided to teach the youngster a lesson by launching into a two-footed tackle that could have had serious repercussions for the youngster''s career. The melee that ensued did not end in so much as a yellow card for Saltney, and thus began an extraordinary passage of play.


    First, Chester''s left-midfielder Dorigo swapped flanks with Bochum and was soon booked for a hard foul on Saltney. Next Alton was booked for a hard foul on Saltney. Lyons was booked for a hard foul on Saltney. Topps was next, then there was the utterly bizarre sight of Max Best dropping into the centre back position so that his captain, Glenn Ryder, could take his turn fouling you-know-who. Bochum was switched back to right-mid, where he was almost immediately booked for a late tackle on Saltney. Any team thinking this Chester side are shrinking violets who can be got at through physical play must reconsider their strategy.


    When Best wasn''t chipping high passes for his players to launch themselves at Saltney, he was orchestrating a furious, unrelenting assault on poor Dunstable. The goals came from all angles. Dorigo fired crosses into the corridor of uncertainty. Bochum and Alton combined for overlaps on the right. Best himself launched long shots, took accurate free kicks and corners, tried chips and through balls, and celebrated his team''s goals very much in the vicinity of Frank Saltney - this obvious and unpleasant gamesmanship was the trigger for three more melees - and for once the Chester manager was not content to do his talking on the pitch.


    "This result is a message to the managers of the National League North. I will be using the remaining games of this season to give opportunities to young players. If you think your best tactic is to kick them off the pitch, we''ll punish you even if the referee doesn''t. Referees might allow you to endanger my players, but I won''t. When you go to your next job interview - and it will be much sooner than you''d like - the first question will be, why did you lose eight-nil? Nine-nil? Ten-nil? And you''ll say it''s because we tried to bully a Chester player learning his trade. Next question. Can you explain this gap in your CV? Yeah. Chester [expletive] us up and I''m [expletive] unemployable now. So did you learn your lesson? No, I''d do it again. I regret nothing. Okay, thanks for coming. Don''t call us, we''ll call you."


    ***


    Monday, February 19


    Minutes of Chester FC Strategic Development Meeting


    For Internal Use Only


    Present: MD; Max Best; Brooke Star


    Item 1 - Call to Order


    Point of Order - Mr. Best suggests Miss Star document her activities so a ''theoretical-strictly-hypothetical-you-understand'' replacement can quickly carry on her work. MD complains. Miss Star agrees, though clarifies that she is not working but merely shadowing MD until such time as her work permit is granted. Miss Star acknowledges Mr. Best''s idea to add a winky face emoji to the minutes and will take it under advisement.


    Action: Miss Star will document her activities.


    Item 2 - Deva Station


    Miss Star asks Mr. Best to confirm his ambitions to expand the Deva Stadium and its environs. Mr. Best assures the meeting that he is a humble functionary carrying out the wishes of the Board and wider fandom but could certainly see a need for expansion sooner rather than later.


    Miss Star shares research showing a modern high-speed rail connection will be extended from London to Crewe, putting Chester within easy reach of the capital. Mr. Best recommends Miss Star do supplementary research because the outgoing government has ''decided to salt the earth and has not only canceled the project but ensured it can never be recommenced because the modern Briton prefers to elect arsonists, not builders''.


    Miss Star advises Mr. Best of proposals to connect the Manchester Metrolink tram system to Chester via light rail. Mr. Best professes the topness of such a plan.


    Miss Star suggests MD use his contacts, experience, and considerable charm to discuss these plans with local politicians, with special emphasis on making sure any tram line extends to the stadium and adjoining sporting campus.


    Action 1: Preliminary talks will be held with political figures aiming at ensuring any tram network in Chester extends to the stadium.


    Action 2: Miss Star will refrain from mentioning social demolitionists in the presence of people who are trying to enjoy their day.


    Action 3: MD and Miss Star will propose facility names other than ''campus'' because ''that''s totes played out I need a fresh new sound yo''


    Emergency Point of Order


    Mr. Best wishes to inform the meeting that the ''Farsley Twat'' has been sacked and requires that Miss Star charter an AirAds plane to fly a banner with the word ''lolz'' in big letters at the next Farsley game. Miss Star agrees to consider the request with utmost seriousness.


    Item 3 - Cup Final Marketing


    MD suggests using club funds (transfer budget) to book coaches to bring fans to Crewe for the Cheshire Seniors Cup final. Miss Star asks why fans need a coach since they won''t be playing. Mr. Best makes very mature and masculine noises before MD explains that a coach is what Brits call a bus when it travels from city to city. MD agrees with Miss Star that it is confusing. Mr. Best wishes it to be placed on record that he does not find it confusing.


    Action: Mr. Best agrees to release transfer funds for this proposal. Miss Star will shadow MD as he makes the arrangements.


    Item 4 - Kitchen Equipment and Staff


    Miss Star has made progress in sourcing a kitchen trailer that can be fixed into place for short periods and moved. Planning permission is not needed for our use case. MD has permission from BoshCard to park the trailer on their grounds provided it offers lunchtime food to its workers and nearby residents. Miss Star has calculated the expense of starting immediately versus starting in the new season. Mr. Best agrees the arguments for the latter are compelling.


    Action: Kitchen facilities and new staff will be in place for pre-season training, July 2024.


    ***


    Match 32 of 46: Hereford versus Chester


    We switched to 3-5-2 to give Eddie Moore a match off, and had Lucas Friend on the bench so we could switch to a back four while giving him a debut. The central three was Sam Topps, me, and Pascal. It seemed like a good mix of skills - we could pass a bit, press a bit, and slap a bit.


    Pascal''s morale had remained fairly high after his big Valentine''s Day move, but when almost the entire team had taken it in turns to smash the left back who had tried to end his career, he''d gone from okay morale to superb.


    I''d been keeping an eye on Henri''s morale, to see the exact moment Luisa shot him down or agreed to whatever she might agree to - but Henri''s morale didn''t waver the whole of Valentine''s Day, and like the rest of the team had gone up because of our demolition of Farsley.


    Now we were playing the Bulls of Hereford, near Wales, and I wasn''t in the mood for any bull. We were the best team in the league, the fittest team, and we could score goals from all sides. Crush, kill, destroy. Leave a trail of destruction and devastation. Demotivate and demoralise. Two bullets to the head followed by two dozen more. Make my upcoming ban utterly meaningless and irrelevant.


    We picked a strong team, leaving out only Henri from our stars, and raced into a two-goal lead, and when I dropped into the DM slot - which was supposed to be the signal that we should calm the eff down and save energy - my players for once refused the option of taking it easy. It was four-nil at half time, mostly because Pascal was being a dick, teasing the other team, putting himself in position to be kicked, and from the free kicks I''d find one of our tall boys. We were racking up all kinds of goals from set pieces now.


    I think two things happened.


    One. When he''d been fouled and got up and played amazingly well, Sandra or Livia or someone told Pascal it was ''hot'' or ''sexy''. That made him seek out fouls instead of avoiding them. Bonkers, I know, but the kid was horny. What can you say?


    Two, the way the entire team had turned into big brothers, smashing into the shitty left back whenever there was the chance, had boosted his confidence. (I, by the way, had been told not to get involved. Glenn had said ''leave it to us'' and apart from shifting different players into the right-mid slot, I had.)


    Back to Hereford. While Pascal was putting himself in harm''s way I used Cupid''s Arrow to connect Chris Beaumont to Tony Hetherington. For fifteen minutes, their headers and flick-ons would have a higher chance of going to one another. I thought, given how often we were sending crosses into the danger zone, that would be an interesting experiment. I think it went quite well, just as the Eddie Moore to Aff link had gone well in the previous match.


    Four-nil at half time, then, and as I walked to the dressing rooms, I noticed, again, the two Grimsby Town scouts. They had been there at Farsley, too. I wondered which player they were scouting. Grimsby would be a good move for most of my players - if they stayed in League Two, which was more and more uncertain. They were two places above the danger zone but it wouldn''t take much for their rivals to overhaul them.


    At half time I subbed Pascal off - I didn''t want him breaking a leg and missing his big date - and threw Dan Badford on. He was only 15, much too young and slight for a match against a good team, but I knew Sam liked him and would look after him. It was an odd relationship, that. Dan was not the type of person Sam Topps would normally get on with. Dan dressed flash, didn''t seem to be serious, said weird things. But while Sam snapped and barked at the other youngsters, who seemed to be trying harder to impress, he accepted Dan''s weirdness with all the good-natured indulgence of a doting uncle.


    With Dan on the pitch and efficiency the name of our game, the second half was much more closely contested. Hereford had a big crowd for a Tuesday evening fixture, almost 3,000, and were determined to put on a better second half show. We kept them at bay, albeit with a few hairy moments.


    With twenty minutes to go, I chucked Lucas Friend on for his debut and switched to a back four.


    Immediately, Hereford scented blood. Yes, we had some of our big names on the pitch, but we also had two absolute toddlers. When we had the ball we were fine, but when defending we essentially had nine players.


    Hereford''s manager targeted our right-hand side. Not with brutal aggression - that wouldn''t have gone well for him, but by setting his team''s attacking tendency to that side.


    Friend did his best and even won a few duels. He was solid in possession, but was caught sleepwalking once - he played the Bulls onside when the rest of the defence had pushed out - and was again badly out of position a few minutes later.


    We ''only'' won 4-2, then, and the goalie and defenders weren''t too happy at losing their clean sheet. I gave them a friendly reminder that we were a team and there were more important things, and we all moved on.


    ***


    Extract from Deva Victrix, the unofficial Chester FC podcast by fans for fans. Deva Victrix is now on YouTube! Remember to like and subscribe and please don''t complain about the sound quality. Recording in the open air is not a problem that has been solved in countless affordable ways.


    Huey: Just doing a quick video outside Edgar Street here in Hereford. Good ground that, innit?


    J: Yeah, proper football ground. You don''t get a circular terrace much these days. Good atmosphere.


    Dewey: Yeah for about five minutes, then Max shut them up.


    Huey: Lot of locals were wishing us well against Kidderminster. Hereford''s big rivals, of course.


    J: It''d be nice to beat Kiddies but the league''s over, innit? We just keep pulling away and the way we''re playing no-one''s gonna catch us.


    Huey: I don''t know. I can''t help feeling there''s a twist in the tale.


    J: No chance. We''re far too good. Look at the end, there. We''ve brought on two little ''uns again. The way he''s going, it''s gonna be Best and the Seven Dwarves against Darlington and we''ll still win.


    Dewey: Trying to think of a Snow White joke.


    Huey: Don''t show your thinking face on camera or you''ll get the channel demonetised.


    Dewey: You cheeky get.


    Huey: Conceded two late goals, there. The only blot on the copybook, really. I get he wants to put the kids in, but one a time, I reckon. Two''s too many. Specially if you''ve got Anka, not fully match sharp, or Bochum.


    J: Good to see him back in the action, isn''t it? He was cocky today. Not seen that side of him before.


    Huey: If he''s gonna play like that and draw those fouls, with Best firing free kicks to Goliath, I mean, yeah. It doesn''t say much for the intelligence of the defenders in this league that they keep giving those fouls away.


    Dewey: Superwhite and the Seven Dwarves.


    [silence]


    Dewey: Because he played for Tranmere!


    Others: [mocking laughter]


    Huey: Speaking of intelligence, that were fucking shit, that. Superwhite? Who calls them that? No-one. Unless you''re maybe a closet Tranmere fan, mate?


    Dewey: You think of a pun, then.


    Huey: We''re not doing puns! We''re doing a podcast on YouTube! Full spectrum match reactions like those Arsenal idiots.


    J: We haven''t talked about Tranmere.


    Huey: Oh, are you one an'' all? Jesus wept.


    J: Best said he wanted to go and get his head right so he could get back to his best. Get his head straight. We were all fuming, weren''t we? Thought he was taking the piss. Got a bit heated. And now look. He''s crushing this league. There''s like, a trail of devastation everywhere we go. Teams can''t defend against us and that''s what he said. He said he''d come back better and he''s doing it and he said we''d win the league and we''re doing it.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Huey: Here we go. J''s Road to Damascus moment. He''s got a fucking Max Best 77 tattoo on his fucking chest. Biggest fan. Ever since he chose you to do the solo podcast with.


    J: It''s not like that. I mean, it was mad seeing him up close. He talks a load of shit and thinks you''re stupid for not getting it, but then what he says turns out right! And he''s funny. You don''t get that from a distance.


    Dewey: Most of the players like him and they work with him every day. That says a lot. Like that video that got leaked where he''s with Magnus Evergreen and he''s sick and does that presentation about the ten stages of 4-4-2. He was off his head and he still made more sense than most.


    J: But that''s what I''m saying. Everyone online was laughing at that but then - did you see that clip with that Crawley manager?


    Huey: No.


    J: Timo something. No-one can pronounce his surname so they call him TJ. Seems like a good manager, saved them from relegation. He got manager of the month and Crawley''s media guys did a sit down with him and showed him that video. At first he was laughing because Best is basically drunk, right, he''s sweaty, he''s making weird jokes, then he goes into his thing and TJ stops laughing and he''s listening and the media guys try to talk to him but he just rewinds and watches it again and then he walks off with the media guy''s phone.


    Huey: Great. He''s found someone who can understand him. But we''re here to talk about this game we''ve just seen. We should be talking about Hereford''s goals and the discontent in the team.


    J: What discontent?


    Huey: Robbo, Glenn, Gerald May, having a pop at the kid for costing them goals and Best turning on them. Don''t tell me you didn''t see it.


    J: I saw it but it was nothing. They don''t like letting goals in. Best laughed at them and they had a row and they were all friends again. Ryder walked off with his arm around the Lucas kid''s shoulder! Don''t make shit up!


    Huey: He mimed like he was going to strangle him.


    J: You wilfully misinterpreting a thing is bad content. We are Chester. We just demolished yet another team. Saturday''s Spennymoor; they''ll get the same treatment. We are going up. Max knows best. Come on you Seals, fuck you two twats.


    [harsh static, scraping, dull thud]


    Huey: And there we have it. J has officially quit the pod and taken his goldfish memory with him. Here at Deva Victrix we still remember that our manager fucking walked out on us mid-season and no number of wins can erase that. We remain hashtag Best Out.


    Dewey: Not me. I''m with J. I don''t like Best the person but Best the manager is a legend.


    Huey: Right give me that fucking mic. I''m serious. Make your own way home. And turn that fucking camera off, you!


    ***


    Match 33 of 46: Chester versus Spennymoor


    Eat, sleep, win. Eat, sleep win.


    There are worse doom loops to get stuck in, but it was still a loop. Spennymoor, the ninth best team in our league, were not in our league; I didn''t need to do anything clever or interesting to beat them. They were stuck on CA 44, while our players continued to get stronger, bronzes turning silver, silvers turning gold, and our cute little puppies turning into cute medium-sized puppies.


    There had been movement on the topic of puppies. After conceding the two goals against Hereford, Sandra had negotiated a new policy. We could give minutes to two young players, but not at the same time. That was fine - the goals meant nothing in the wider picture of our season and Sandra agreed that developing the youth players was important, but our keepers and defenders were professionals and we had to respect their determination to keep goals out. In the end, there was a solution that fit all parties. Done. Easy.


    As ever, we rotated the team, this time leaving out Sam and Chris, surprising Spenny by returning to our old 4-1-4-1. For once, it took us a while to break down their defences, but we got a goal after half an hour and then, frankly, toyed with them.


    Pascal wasn''t on the bench - he was in the stands with Brooke, some old people she''d found, and Clive O''Keefe. I ambled over there at half time and gave him a wave. It was good to see him out in the fresh air. Maybe one day I''d get to see him on the training pitch and I''d discover his attributes, but there was no rush. This season was gliding to a not very thrilling conclusion, and seeking out every little marginal gain had lost its appeal. In the summer, our CA ceiling would increase from 60-ish to 70 or 80 - the exact number remained to be seen. The kitchen would come online and we''d get a nutritionist which would hopefully nudge the ceiling up another 5 or 10 points. It would be a while before we were desperate for another top coach.


    When exactly would the ceiling change? Five seconds after we mathematically won the league? When the new fixtures were released? Or perhaps when the curse did its yearly update thing? That had been in June, hadn''t it?


    I slouched off the pitch, thoughts being pulled in six different directions, when I saw them again. The Grimsby mob. Who on earth were they scouting so hard? It made absolutely zero sense to me. With a grin, I decided I''d get to the bottom of it in true Max Best fashion. I clambered over the adverts and into the main stand, past a lot of shocked but happy Chester fans.


    I left my smile on to show I meant the scouts no ill will. "All right, what''s your game?"


    The more senior one smiled back. "Sorry, lad?"


    "You''re Grimsby."


    The smile wavered. "How on earth do you know that?"


    "This is my gaff. I know what goes on here. Who are you looking at?"


    "Couldn''t possibly say," said the first one.


    "Who should we be looking at?" said the second.


    "Well everyone on the pitch would do a job for you in the National League, which is where you''re headed."


    "That''s a low blow," said the first. He was amused and clearly felt his job was not under threat whatever happened to the club in the short term.


    I shrugged. "You could do worse than sign Chris Beaumont. There''s nothing to Grimsby. You''ve got nothing special anywhere on the pitch. But you''re not looking at him. So who?"


    The second guy fell into a leer. "I''ve only got eyes for your physio there. No wonder your lads are always going down."


    "I think I''ve got a bit of a groin strain meself," said the first one.


    "Think she''d like some of my magic spray?" said the second.


    As always, I was stunned to hear people talk to me like I was in their disgusting little clique, but I wasn''t some minor drone working for a bank. The sick rules of football meant I had to take some amount of abuse from paying fans, but these pricks were guests.


    I went down the steps, turned into the tunnel, and went into the dressing room. "Brig," I said, and my tone got his attention. Got everyone''s attention. "Livia, got my phone?" At some point, I''d started leaving my phone with her during matches. She handed it over and I led the Brig back out and to the scouts.


    While in front of them, I called Chris Hale, who owned their football team.


    "Chris? Max. You''ve sent two fucking pigs to my stadium. I''m kicking them out now. They''re banned. And I don''t want to see more of your guys here because if I do you''ll be getting them back with no teeth. No, it''s not a discussion."


    I hung up and nodded at the Brig. He twisted his neck slightly and it clicked like in a cool action movie. The scouts were shit scared, now, and left their seats like a couple of meek little lambs.


    I had to count to five to stop myself screaming in the middle of loads of randos. Instead, I paced back to the dressing room.


    "Fuck efficiency!" I yelled, startling everyone. "I want goals. Sandra, I''m in a mood. Chris up front, please."


    ***


    Chester Chatters Feedback Summary


    Interviews carried out by Brooke Star, 24 Feb


    Doris Smith


    It was very nice I had a wonderful time. It was very noisy and exciting and not at all what I''m used to. Pascal was sweet and said my German was very good which isn''t true because I haven''t practiced for so long but my accent was always my strong suit. I didn''t expect to practice my language skills at a football match. It made me proud to see the boys in their Chester kits and they were very good, weren''t they? The plastic chairs were too hard and there was too much swearing but I would come again. Yes, please do invite me.


    Greta Fitzgerald


    So nice to get out of the house and I''m glad you made me go back for my warm coat and gloves. The tea was bad and overall it was a rather odd experience. I can''t remember the last time I went to a football match. That Max Best that everyone talks about is terribly arrogant and the way he kept running to us and pointing to his name? That isn''t my type of young man at all but I suppose that''s what they are like these days but I will say he has a nice smile and the German boy thinks the world of him so''s maybe it''s all an act like with the wrestling they used to have on the telly on Saturday mornings. Big Daddy was one. Oh I forgot the rest. My memory''s not what it used to be. You''re very pretty. Do you like one of the footballers? Come back? I''m not sure. I should have to decide spontaneously.


    Agnetha Saunders


    I like to watch the snooker because that''s very soothing and you can fall asleep to it but you couldn''t fall asleep to the football because there are too many goals and it''s so noisy when they score the goals. And the fans get terribly angry, don''t they? The German boy said they were angry at the referee but I don''t like that. He''s only doing his best. He laughed and said I sounded like Max Best and that was nice of him. I don''t know who Max Best is but I didn''t tell him that. He''s a good boy. Pascal, wasn''t it? And his father was very nice, too. Very friendly. Always smiling. He made me feel safe. Yes, I''d come again.


    Clive O''Keefe


    That was something else, that. You don''t know much about football, do you? Oh, college football! Ha! Not sure you''ve got many boys who are the best quarterback, receiver, kicker, and who call the plays. I''ve seen some good players and mind you, it''s only non-league and the opposition folded like a pack of cards, but still. It''s not just the power and the skill, it''s the imagination. Take his third goal. He shoots to the top-left. Goalie tips it over. He shoots top-left again. Goalie paws it away. Next shot? Top-left. I was telling Pascal I knew what was coming next but when it did, it still got me off my seat. Rolls it bottom-right, keeper doesn''t even move. Best got in his head. And then he''s over here blowing kisses at you. Not you? The old women? No! Why? But he said it was your idea. Come back? Try and stop me!


    ***


    Monday, 26 February


    Emma and I had spent a nice weekend together and I didn''t want it to end, so I took her to Boshcard to check what Sandra was planning for the upcoming week. Sandra liked to have a clear outline and while she didn''t seem to mind that I kept changing our plans based on a hard tackle or becoming enraged by a scout, I didn''t want to push my luck. She was a huge part of our future and I didn''t want to piss her off. I tried to keep in mind that she only had adaptability 4 and might snap if I didn''t stick to our agreements most of the time.


    "Hi, Emma!"


    "Hi, boss." Emma called her boss, which I know Sandra secretly liked. Who wouldn''t?


    "If you''re here, I''m guessing Max won''t be training with us today."


    "He says he can''t. He''s got a sore weenus."


    Sandra laughed. "Is that what they call it in Newcastle?"


    "It''s the flap of skin on the elbow. Show her, Max."


    "I will not be showing my weenus until my wedding night."


    "We''re going to Tatton Park," said Emma. That was a massive stately home with gardens, frolicking deer, and a mound shaped like Mount Fuji. Rich people are officially bonkers. "It''s not the best time of year but there''s less chance of us being recognised and bothered, Max says."


    "You''re going on a nice day trip while the rest of us work hard. Is that it?"


    "That''s pretty much it, yes," I said. "Is that all right with you?"


    Sandra''s faux-frown melted and she rubbed her hands. "Anything that stops you practicing the Sweeper formation is good news." She spotted Emma''s confused look. "Max wanted to play Sweeper against Kidderminster on Saturday but Henri staged an intervention. We sat Max down and one by one we told him why we didn''t want to do it."


    "And he agreed?" said Emma, reaching up to ''check my temperature''.


    "He''s crazy, but not stupid. He knows we''re right."


    "So why did he want to do something wrong?"


    Sandra pursed her lips. "Because he''s Max. Okay, boss. What''s the plan for the week?"


    "Tomorrow we''re away at Peterborough Sports. We need to put out a team that can win that. They''re about as good as Spennymoor. With us on this rampage they''ll probably try to low block us. I''m almost tempted to let it stay nil-nil for the first half. Save energy, quick blitz when we come out, don''t give them a sniff."


    "It''s risky."


    "Yeah but if we get an early goal they might come at us."


    "So?" said Emma. "Where''s my fearless football?"


    Sandra explained. "We''re not afraid. We want to give ourselves the best shot at Kidderminster on Saturday. Everything we''ve been doing has been with that in mind. We play a lot of 4-4-2 but against Spenny we changed it. We''ve been rotating the team but Horseman - the Kiddies manager - will be expecting our strongest line-up. But does that mean Max at CM or right-mid? Will we use Chris against them? They can''t be sure. But they''re smart and capable and it''ll be a massive match. So ideally we''d take it easy tomorrow."


    "But three points against Peterborough is worth the same as three points against Kidderminster," I said. "If we win tomorrow, we''ll be so far ahead of Kiddies that they might not waste energy trying to compete with us."


    "Do you want to put our strongest eleven out in both games?"


    "No. Let''s stick to our principles. Rest Glenn and Henri tomorrow. No kids this week. Normal training today and tomorrow. Then dial it down the rest of the week. I don''t want injuries. Saturday''s everything."


    "Henri will be annoyed. He''s scoring at a rate of knots. Who''s going to tell him?"


    "I''ll do it," said Emma.


    I laughed. "That''s actually perfect. Go on, bebs."


    Sandra and I watched as Emma walked over to the squad, saying hi to everyone. She said something to Henri, who smiled and nodded. Emma turned to Glenn and although it was inaudible, she very clearly said, "You too." She''d told them they were being left out of the team in such a way she''d left them both smiling.


    "She''s fantastic. Can she come every week?"


    "Ha, no," I said. "We have to try to get to that level of charm. Life goals."


    "Have a nice day off," she said, walking off to start the first proper drill.


    "Be nice to have a little break from thinking about football," I said, but it took about five seconds to realise my wish wasn''t going to come true.


    Looking a bit lost but following the sound of the whistles and the shouts, was Chris Hale, the multi-multi-millionaire owner of Grimsby Town.


    We didn''t get to Tatton Park that day, but when she heard what Chris had to say, Emma was far from devastated.


    ***


    Tuesday, 27 February


    Training the morning before a match is supposed to be light. It''s to get the juices flowing and the limbs loose. To go over tactical messages and make sure the plan is understood.


    So when everyone suddenly perked up and started running hard and adding a little bite to their tackles, I instantly scanned to see who the offender was.


    Surprise, surprise, it was Brooke. She had texted that she had a couple of questions for me.


    I sighed and went over, hands on my hips. "Mate."


    "Am I disturbing practice? You said it was okay for me to watch y''all."


    "Yes, I did say that." I relaxed my stance. "Okay, what''ve you got? Fast as poss."


    She nodded. "One. There''s a new Chester podcast. The other one split. I was thinking we could help them with some good microphones and a little training with Boggy on how to use them. Start the relationship on a good note."


    "How much do you want to spend?"


    "I had a look and six, seven hundred pounds would go a long way."


    Money was oozing out of my account in dribs and drabs, but all of it was justified. Believe me, I was keeping a close eye on the total. "Done." Sandra brought my phone over. It was Secretary Joe. "Joe. Let me guess. You''ve got some bad news for me."


    He did. I listened, said thanks, and hung up.


    "The Football Association have given me a seven-match ban."


    "Starting when?" said Sandra.


    "Brackley."


    "So you can play against Kidderminster."


    "Yep."


    She closed her eyes. "So we can cope."


    I nodded. "We can cope." I bit my nail while I calculated everything. Six points against Peterborough Sports and Kidderminster would put us in an impregnable position. "Let''s have Henri and Glenn on the bench tonight, just in case."


    She agreed and went off.


    Brooke''s eyes were darting around while she tried to understand what she had just heard. "You''ll miss seven matches? Is that a lot?"


    "Oh, that''s huge. That''s pretty vicious. They really don''t like me. This is just for playing, by the way. I can still manage. What they don''t know is that there are only three matches I''m really bothered about and I''ll get to play in all three. So fuck ''em. They thought they''d landed some sort of devastating uppercut but it passed right through me. Right. Hey! Don''t worry about it! I''m serious. There''s a good chance we''ll win all seven of those matches. We''ve got the best team regardless of whether I play. Right. What was the other thing?"


    "Sorry, Max, I don''t know a whole lot about this game but I know sports and when a team loses its best player, it''s not something you brush off like it''s nothing."


    "It is, though. It might even be an advantage. The season is drifting. We could use this to motivate the lads. Make it an us against the world kinda thing. Seriously, though. We''re fine. If this ban hadn''t been looming I would have played ten, twenty minutes a match. I really don''t need to be on the pitch getting kicked to bits. Next thing, please."


    "Okay. I met with Ryan Jack and he has agreed to come along to the Chester Chatters for the next few home games."


    "Did he agree?" She didn''t pick up my overly sarcastic tone.


    "He was keen."


    "Was he keen to sit next to you for two hours, Brooke? And mansplain soccer to you? Was he keen, though? Gosh."


    She looked down, doing a pretty good impression of a demure Jane Austen character. "I think he liked the social aspect, Max."


    "Oh, that''s just the cherry on top. But great. I''ve got to say, I love this. I''m glad we''re doing it. Try to get some randos involved because it won''t always be poss to lend you a player."


    "On it. I''m talking to local age concern charities and social housing and the like. I was talking to Inga and she said you had a mania for going to schools to watch the young players but it became unmanageable. Would you like me to pick that up?"


    "You''re going to do some scouting, Brooke?"


    She did something with her face - pushing down some witty comeback, I think. "I mean I can call schools in the area to find out when they are playing matches and add those dates to your calendar. And if they don''t have any fixtures, I can support them in organising some."


    She was asking for more work? What was that angle? "Yes. That''s obviously great. But not at the expense of - "


    "I''m on top of everything we''ve discussed. Or at least, I will be when my work permit clears. WINK."


    "Yeah. Wink."


    "Inga was also helping you find equipment that other clubs and gyms were selling off or throwing out. Would you like me to - ?"


    "Yes, please," I said, walking away. I could run around for forty-five minutes. Brooke could sprint for days; she was exhausting. Ten steps away, I turned round. "See if you can find one of those mechanical bulls, Brooke. We could buy one. Make you feel at home." I kept walking away, backwards, facing her. "I''m waiting for you to say you''d never been on one and it was a cliche."


    "I''m a simple Texas girl. I''m all cliche, all the time. You don''t needa take me to the honky tonk to know I know how to break a bronc." With that, she turned and wiggled away.


    ***


    Extract from Deva Station, the newest and Blueist Chester fan media channel. By real fans, for real fans, with no swearing.


    [Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]


    J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I''m your host, J.


    Smakk: And I''m your other host, Smakk.


    J: That''s Chester firm legend, bad boy turned good, Smakk with two Ks if you want to follow him on the socials. We''re on all the usual places with the username Devastation. Love that. Hey, we''ve got a nice setup here. Good equipment.


    Smakk: Where''s it all come from? You rob a bank?


    J: The new PR lady from the club helped us out. Heard what we were doing, asked if they could help.


    Smakk: So have we got to say nice things or can we slag them off? Is that why we can''t swear?


    J: Say what you want. Er... nothing that''ll get me in trouble with Max Best''s bird. She''s watching like a hawk. I think I''d rather not talk about his ban. We all know what happened there and there''s nothing more to say about it. Anything else is fair game. No swearing''s because we can''t run adverts on videos with F bombs. Not sure there will be much call for bad language tonight. We''re outside Lincoln Road about to hit the pub before a long drive home. We''ve just seen another absolutely dominant Chester performance. Only two-nil, but one of the most one-sided two-nils you''ll ever see. That looked like 4-2-4 to me, which we''ve not seen in a good while. What did you make of that lineup and those tactics?


    [Fans walking past]: We! Are! Top of the league! Said we are top of the league!


    Smakk: I was worried when it was goalless at half time but for me you can tell how well we''re playing by watching Sandy Lane. She was all smiles going to the dressing room. She and Best were laughing it up. What was the question? Tactics? Honestly, to me it''s like we can do what we want in almost every game. I did some maths near the end when the lads were passing it around in that horseshoe.


    J: Go on.


    Smakk: Since Best came back from his holiday, we''ve played eight, won eight, scored thirty, conceded two.


    J: Madness.


    Smakk: That second goal was our ninety-eighth this season. The record is Fylde with a hundred and nine. There''s twelve matches left; we''re going to obliterate that. And we''re going to beat the record we set for biggest positive goal difference.


    J: When did we do that?


    Smakk: 2012-13 when no-one could beat us. We''re so far ahead of the rest of this league we can win with our best striker and best defender on the bench in their pyjamas playing cards. Have you seen the latest league table? We''re eleven points clear, mate.


    [Fans walking past]: We shall not, we shall not be moved! Weee shall not be moved!


    Smakk: No kids today was the only downside for me. But no, I get it. You want those three points going into the Kiddies game. Don''t even give them a sniff. Break their spirit.


    J: He won''t play the kiddies against Kiddies.


    Smakk: No chance. I''ve got mates at the club as you know and they all say he''s obsessed with this match. Everything''s been about this for weeks.


    J: They''re the only team who''s outplayed us. We should thank them, though, because then we went and got Chris Beaumont and since then it''s been goals goals goals. Money well spent for you?


    Smakk: Oh, yeah. In hindsight, anyway. Not gonna lie, at the time I was livid. Shows what I know. Sorry, I''m just... Getting loads of texts, here.


    J: Er... me too.


    [unprofessionally long pause]


    J: Right, okay. Max Best''s called a Zoom meeting for all the Chester members. Tomorrow at 8.


    Smakk: Won''t say what the topic is. Well, that''s ominous.


    J: Just thinking out loud, here. You don''t think...


    Smakk: What?


    J: I mean, Grimsby sacked their manager yesterday. We know Best is mates with the owner. You don''t think...


    Smakk: No. No way. The first time he gets on a Zoom with the fans it''s to quit? No way. It''ll be about the stadium or a new signing or something. It''ll be good news.


    J: But...


    Smakk: Fuck this podcast shit! I need a fucking drink, mate.


    [Epic music fades in, fades out. A child''s voice says: Come on you Seals!]

 7.6 - Whats a Mob to a King?

    6.


    Wednesday, February 28


    My throne room had been turned into a Zoom call command centre. I was using my phone (stuck to a GripTight tripod that I could hold like a sceptre if I wanted to move around) as the camera and mic, but was watching the other participants on my work PC and keeping an eye on the chat comments on my laptop. A second desk had been wheeled in, and the Zoom Lords - Brooke and MD - were being the admins.


    Brooke was in a t-shirt - scandalously tight, Jesus Christ mate there could be kids on this call - that read ''Surfin'' USA''. If you''re one of the zero point one percent of people who want to know what MD was wearing, go to the images tab on a search engine and type ''man''.


    The five minutes from seven fifty-five to eight took at least fifteen minutes. I got bored and started going over my thoughts for the Kidderminster match. My idea to use the Sweeper formation had been shot down before I''d even floated it. I didn''t mind too much - it was pretty out there, even for the Sultan of Slaps, and as Henri had said, we''d probably win by doing a straight 4-4-2 so why get silly? Morale was good and we were pretty solid on injuries and suspensions. A few players were one yellow card away from getting a one-match ban and there were plenty of the usual aches and strains footballers got. Pretty trivial stuff, to be honest, for a team that had access to eight formations.


    Buying the eighth formation, the much-derided Sweeper, had been a mistake, but I was in a fever when it happened. Recently, I''d only been getting tiny blobs of XP so my suspension from playing was potentially a blessing in disguise. I earned 1 XP per minute as a player, but 4 as a manager in the sixth tier. I''d get 8 a minute if I brought Chester to League Two. 720 XP a match would add up quickly.


    With XP short on the ground, I was far short of affording Wibwob, a perk that would allow me to get a little bit funky with my formations. In the past day or so I''d been re-evaluating the other options. Condition was 2,000 XP but was poorly explained. I assumed it would tell me something about a player''s fitness, but I had the Injuries perk to tell me if anything was really wrong. Contracts 3 would tell me who a player''s agent was. It was 1,300 XP and seemed like something that could wait. Future was 900 and would tell me how a player was feeling. Attributes 6 would unlock another attribute, and I had access to perks for expanding the usefulness of Playdar and adding more youth teams to my screens.


    A lot of things I wanted, then. If I got my way, this Zoom call would end with me in a position to get a lot of XP in a short time. The only thing standing between me and my desires was an unruly mob. The fans owned the football club, which was good and proper, so while I could treat it as my kingdom there were plenty of people who knew how to assemble a guillotine.


    "Max," said MD. "It''s nearly eight."


    I checked. 7:58. "Yeah, I''m here. I''m ready. What, do you think we should start early?"


    "No. Just checking sure you''re awake. You were in one of your trances."


    "How many are in the room?"


    "Five hundred, but it''s going up fast."


    "How many members are there?"


    "We''ve got 1,000 members and 1,500 season ticket holders."


    I pushed my finger against my lips. "I think 1,500 is pretty good for the sixth tier but that''s got to go way up for the National League. We''re going to be playing Oldham and Rochdale. Altrincham, Barnet, Southend. Our capacity is 5,400. If our fans don''t want to come we can fill up with away fans. We need to sell..." I closed my eyes and had a think. "We need to sell 2,500 season tickets. 3,000 would be good. 500 away fans, 500 walk-ins, we''ve got ourselves a noisy stadium. When we start putting results together we can get some sell-outs."


    "Maybe we can think about your ambitions at the end of the season," said MD, who had a low ambition score. I''d been trying to get that higher but with no luck. The attributes of directors and owners didn''t seem to change much, although I wasn''t in contact with very many of them.


    "Yeah. Which is now. This season''s over."


    MD shook his head. "It''s not. But it''s 8 o''clock. Whenever you''re ready."


    I glanced at my PC - it said there were 1,100 people in the room, but the number was ticking up pretty fast. "Hi, everyone. I see there''s still people switching on. I''ll give them a couple of minutes. What can we do for two minutes? MD, tell us that joke you know."


    "Ha ha."


    The chat was starting to whizz by almost too fast for the human eye to read.


    Has he quit yet?


    What''s going on?


    If he''s off to Tranmere again I will set myself ablaze in front of the stadium.


    Who''s that blonde?


    Who''s going in goal on Saturday?


    Is that his tactics board to the left? What level of 442 are we on now you daft lad?


    The suspense is killing me.


    I want to know what headline they''re gonna use. He did WHAT?! is still an all-timer.


    Brooke was reading along with me. Her face became the main one on screen - Zoom showed whoever was talking; the serfs were on mute. "Max, what''s this? He did WHAT?!"


    "Er... in January you''re allowed to trade players. The transfer window; I told you about it. I loaned myself to Tranmere Rovers. They''re a team not too far from here. Near Liverpool. Yeah, it all made complete sense but some people were a little bit surprised."


    The main Zoom window changed to show MD shaking his head. He must have tutted or made an exasperated noise that the microphone picked up.


    There were 1,400 in the room now, and the number had stopped rising so fast. "All right, let''s get started." The chat briefly froze, then there was a mind-bending flurry of new messages. I wasn''t like Sumo, the famous local Twitch streamer; I couldn''t talk and read and respond to the messages. I closed the chat so it wouldn''t distract me. "Hi, everyone. Thanks for coming. I''ll try to keep it quick in case you''ve just stepped out of the pub for a minute or whatever. In the room with me here are MD - Mike Dean your managing director - and Brooke Star who isn''t working because her work permit hasn''t come through. She''s volunteering unpaid and that''s obviously fine legally and no-one needs to look into that any further."


    MD tutted again. "Have you ever heard of the Streisand Effect?"


    "Yeah, great movie," I said. "Quick state of play. We''re eleven points clear with twelve matches to go. We''ve got a cup final on April 16 and a match against my former club on April 20. At that match we will parade our league title around, hopefully a cup, too, though Crewe aren''t just going to give it to us, the bastards, and we''ve got some silverware from the youth teams and very possibly the women''s team will have a league title, too. All they have to do is beat Altrincham who have more experience and who know that a draw will be enough. Easy.


    "Onto today''s topic. You know I''ve got a bit of a playing ban. Seven matches, which is pretty excessive, but I''ve been advised not to talk about the case, so I''m not even going to use the word excessive. I''m just not. By the way, did you know that the word excessive comes from an Old French word meaning ''to go too far''? As in, they''ve gone too far this time, and they''ll regret it. But enough off-topic stuff. What does a seven-match ban mean? Well, I can play against Kidderminster on Saturday but then I''ll miss the rest of March. That''s Brackley to Buxton. The hardest matches in that run are Gloucester and South Shields. In April we play Brackley and Gloucester again. That''s double Gloucester. Brooke, Double Gloucester is a cheese. It''s funny."


    Somehow she made the screen show her face even though she didn''t say anything. Her expression made MD honk. Brooke the court jester - that was unexpected.


    "What all that means is there''s a few tricky games but nothing we can''t handle. I know it''s in the nature of football fans to live in a constant state of dread, but I don''t. We''re eleven points clear for a reason - because we''re the best team. Yes, I''m quite good at football but even without me, we''re the best team. I was thinking what a combined eleven from every club in the division would look like. Let''s pick a 4-4-2. Who''d get in it from a different club? Christian Fierce at centre back. God, I love him. I can''t wait to get one over on him this weekend. I''m not sure who the best goalie is, to be honest. Could be Ben. I might be forgetting someone. Left back. If I had to pick right now, I might choose the league''s record signing Jonathan Hurts, especially since refs never send the dirty prick off. So there''s three and one of those is questionable and the other is temporary until Eddie Moore gets up to speed. The rest of the team is Chester FC. We''re half the defence, the entire midfield, both the strikers.


    "I mean, I know you look at it and go what if. What if Kidderminster beat us? Then it''s only 8 points. What if we lose those two tricky games? It''s only two points. What if we have to beat Darlington on the last day?" I leaned back and smiled. "It''s normal to think that. I used to do it, too. And I obviously consider those scenarios as part of the job. But I''m telling you now it''s not arrogance or hubris for me to say this race is won. Even if we stumble, one of our three distant rivals is going to have to win every single match from now till the end. It''s not going to happen. And we''re not going to slip up. Our players are too fit, too determined, too professional.


    "Right, so you didn''t come on this call to hear what you already know, which is that we''re smashing it.


    "On Monday, I met the owner of Grimsby Town. He''s called Chris Hale and he made a lot of money doing business things. He''s not your typical b-boy, though. He tried to have a good culture and make it a good place to work and all that. Turns out - hey! You can make money without being a dick. Who knew? Anyway, I met him earlier in the season and told him his manager was shit and made a bit of an arse of myself, I think. Obviously, that wound him up but as he watched his team slip down the table he thought to himself, hey, that Max Best kid got it right. This manager doesn''t improve players, doesn''t use talented kids, doesn''t make good substitutions.


    "Grimsby are obviously getting to a point of no return while my team, that''s Chester by the way, are flying. He''s been sending scouts to watch how we do things. The tactics, the substitutions. And guess what? Those scouts are mates with the manager so they''ve been telling Chris Hale that the changes I make are rubbish. We concede more goals after I make my subs. Yeah! Because I''m bringing fifteen-year-olds on! And the scouts go, oh, he can''t make up his mind about what his best team is. He can''t stick to one formation. You can spin anything in any way you want to fit your agenda. It''s crazy, this football world. You almost can''t trust anyone. Your own employees will lie to you to protect their mate.


    "Last Saturday, I get into an altercation with these scouts, unrelated to any of this, and boot them out of the ground. I call Chris and tell him not to send any more of his cretins, hang up, refuse to take his calls. Monday morning he drives to Chester to apologise in person and find out what really happened. We sit and talk it all out.


    "Pretty quickly, he''s asking for my advice on how to stop his kingdom from falling into the sea, who could the new manager be, all that stuff. I tell him sorry but we''re going to be in the same division next year and it''s my job to grind you into dust, soz not soz. He says there''s still eleven games of the season left and I only needed three to save Chester last year. I tell him, very politely, that I don''t give a shit but when we''re in the division above I might help him out if he asks nicely, so did he want to pencil in a meeting for 2026?


    "At this point he says something like I can''t be that confident and that makes me a bit cocky and I start pulling my phone out going ''Oh wow Grimsby are eleven points clear oh no that''s Chester'' and ''Gosh Grimsby scored a lot of goals this year oh no that''s Chester''. I was even starting to annoy myself but it was just really funny.


    "Finally, I get on his tits so much he says, fine, if you''re so good, prove it. And I go, I prove it twice a week, mate. And he says how much are you on I''ll double your salary and I go yeah my salary''s getting doubled in the summer try again and he says fine I''ll double that and I''m like, I''m not interested in working for a b-boy or an oligarch or a hedge fund I work for the fans. So he reminds me of something I said once. Grimsby are 20% fan owned, so I could work for them 20% of the year.


    "At this point I''m thinking, what''s going on here? Like, does he want me as a consultant or something? So I ask him to spell it out.


    "The upshot is, he wants me to go and manage Grimsby for the rest of the season. Not to improve the team or get involved with future transfers or anything that might make Grimsby more of a rival in the future. Just manage the first team and save them from relegation. He''ll pay me a decent weekly wage - less than Tranmere, since I''m not going as a player - but with a huge bonus if they stay up. Huge. I mean, for him it''s buttons. It''s peanuts. But for me it''s enormous. It''s more than a year''s income."


    He had offered me fifty thousand pounds if Grimsby stayed up. Fifty thousand! Plus two grand a week basic.


    "When he said that, I was tempted. Big time. But I remembered how bonkers you all got when I went off to Tranmere and even though I''ve basically given up on ever being popular, the thought of your reaction still made me go, shit. Do I really need that hassle?


    "I was with Emma, my girlfriend, and she''s a very level-headed, down-to-earth, strong, independent, modern woman, but she has one weakness, which is holidays. So Chris switched tack and said he had luxury homes in three continents and if I agreed to do it, we could stay in one that he wasn''t using for our summer hols. This is the kind of place you read about in magazines but even if you win the lottery you can''t, like, book it. It''s beyond the reach of people like you, me, or MD. It''s for people with superyacht money."


    The screen changed to Brooke slightly shaking her head after a large tut. That must have been confusing to the viewers.


    "So that''s it, I suppose. I want to pop off to Grimsby and do my hero act. Get well paid and take my princess to paradise."


    MD''s face appeared on the screen, slightly flustered. "Max, you missed the most important part."


    "What''s that?"


    He was such a drama queen sometimes. "That you''re coming back!"


    "I said that! It was the first thing I said!"


    "It wasn''t."


    "I said we''re in the cup final and we''re playing my former team in the final league game."


    "You didn''t say you''d be back for those."


    I scoffed. "Come on, man. I didn''t wake up from my coma and grind non-stop to get to this point to abdicate just before the good bits. Give me a break. I want my flowers and I want to play in that cup final - I need to, to be completely honest otherwise it''ll be an uphill struggle to win. And it''s my moral, ethical, and spiritual duty to fucking obliterate my former team. You all know what they did and what they said. I''m going to go apeshit that day, as I''m going to do every time we play them. If they somehow get through the playoffs, that''s six points next season, guaranteed."


    "Okay," said MD. "So to clarify. You''ll play against Kidderminster?"


    "Yes! I''m not missing the only interesting match we''ve got left. They''re the best team we''ve played this season. God, I''ve been thinking about this game since they switched to a low block against us. That first match defined our whole season and the second is like a thesis defence for my management. There''s no way I''m going to miss it."


    "Then there''s ten league matches that you''ll miss."


    We''d had this conversation offline but wanted to get most of the basic questions out of the way. "Yes."


    "That''s quite a lot of the season, Max."


    I shrugged. "So? When I hired Sandra Lane I promised she''d get to manage some meaningful games. I think we both thought it would be five or six, maybe. She did eight in January and one when I was sick. She''s done nine and now she''ll do ten. She''s already done what we will ask her to do, if you see what I mean. Nah, Sandra''s top. The team''s top. Now, I''ll say one thing up front. She''s a bit of a trailblazer and she''s got her own career to think about, so there will be less game time for the young players. What does that mean? Better results than if I was on the touchline, because as you know I do not give a shit and I''ll throw all kinds of teenagers into the mix. I''ll happily turn a few wins into draws if it means the young players develop faster. Sandra isn''t going to take that risk when her reputation is on the line. I think we can expect a lot of very serious, very controlled performances when I''m gone."


    I stopped talking while I tried to mentally recapitulate. Had I said everything I wanted?


    MD spoke. "Max has offered to answer questions, if you - oh." I clicked the chat open again and closed it immediately - it had exploded and was whizzing past faster than the eye could see. The mob were sharpening their blades! I gritted my teeth; I wasn''t completely defenceless.


    Brooke said, "Good question from Bulldog. Have you already - ?"


    "Hang on. Are you just going to read the questions out? Can you put him on the screen so we can talk?"


    Brooke and MD exchanged a glance. "This is quite a sensitive topic. It might be better to keep some control of the narrative."


    I tutted and stared at a ceiling light. "Control the narrative? How do you make everything sound so sinister? I don''t want to control the narrative, for fuck''s sake. I want to talk to a human being and if they want to yell at me that''s... Can you try to put the questioners on, please? Cut them off if they start rambling about being a fan from the 80s or whatever. That stuff is too boring."


    Brooke, her neck slightly stiffer than normal, wielded her mighty mouse, then Bulldog came on half of my screen. I was on the other half. "Hey!" I said, strangely happy to see him. He was part of the mob, but his son was one of my knights.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    "Hi, Max," he said, sternly, before aggressively rubbing his cheek. A hint of a smile came out. "You know this one''s crazy, right?"


    "No," I said. "Seems fine to me."


    "Have you already decided? Are you just telling us what you''ve decided or do we get to reason with you?"


    "I haven''t decided. I know what I''d like to do and I don''t see a reason not to do it but if anyone can come up with a good reason why I shouldn''t, then, yeah, I''m listening. Bearing in mind," I added, before he could continue, "that I don''t like it is not a reason. I don''t want you to is not a reason. No-one''s ever done this before is not a reason. The Wrexham fans will laugh at us is not a reason."


    He shook his head while biting his bottom lip. "They will laugh at us."


    "Don''t care."


    "Oh, that much is clear. Okay, football reasons. You''re very confident in the team. But all it takes is two bad results and we''re dragged right back into it."


    "That could happen with me managing. Going to Tranmere was different because I could have played for those games I missed, but I wasn''t playing well. Now I''m playing well but I''m banned so I don''t see the fuss. If I didn''t tell you I wasn''t there, you wouldn''t notice a difference."


    "It''s good you trust your staff but..."


    "But what?"


    "I don''t like it," he said, and we laughed. "What do the players think?"


    "Same as you, they think it''s weird. But they all want to play in League Two, don''t they? And they want to get as much money as they can from the sport. They understand my motivations very well and it means quite a lot more minutes for D-Day, Joe Anka, Bark, and Andrew Harrison."


    "How... how do Grimsby''s fixtures line up to ours?"


    I had it all written out on a Post-It. "My last game there would be the thirteenth of April. Cup final''s the sixteenth. Darlington''s the twentieth. Now, Grimsby actually have another game on the 27th so in theory I could go back and do that, but I''m hoping to get enough points to see them safe by then."


    "Right so you come back to Chester on the fourteenth and two days later it''s the cup final. That''s not enough time to prepare."


    I laughed. "Prepare? We''ll play 4-4-2 and our strongest team. There''s nothing to think about. And by the way, I''ll be training with League Two players for six weeks so I''ll be coming back sharp, rested, and ready to rumble. What else have you got?"


    "I know a lot of people will say you should stay and finish the job you''re being paid to do."


    "I''m not painting a wall. If your job is to push a rock down a hill you don''t need to chase it all the way down. Our momentum is unstoppable. Not to tempt fate but I hereby declare our season... unsinkable."


    "What do we get?"


    "What do you mean?"


    "Do we get a transfer fee or something? From Grimsby."


    "No, you get nothing. The Tranmere one I truly believe was win-win-win - I came back a better player and we won eight in a row - nine after Saturday. And it was me doing a nice thing for good people. This Grimsby thing is totally selfish. I get loads of money and a nice holiday and that''s it. End of list. To be completely honest, I''m excited about it. It sounds mad but the most fun I had in football was managing a different team every week. The Chester Knights, the boys, Broughton, a university women''s team, some Sunday League rabble. Every year in every league in the world there''s five teams worried about relegation. If I get a reputation as an escape artist I can make bags of cash. Leeds offered Sam Allardyce two million to keep them up. That was four matches! Yeah, I could work for Chester for cost price eleven months of the year, then rent myself out to a string of increasingly desperate, badly run football clubs." I laughed. "It sounds amazing."


    Bulldog wasn''t as happy at the prospect as I was. "Right, so, we''re fifth in the league next March. Are you looking for a payday?"


    "You''re asking what circumstances I''ll leave? Like, eleven points clear, league''s all but over, you think that one''s okay but if we''re two points clear, it''s no good."


    "Yes."


    "Okay, that''s tricky. Let''s start at the other end. We''re seventeenth. We''re not safe. Yeah, I''ve got to stay and make sure we''re all right. If we''re top by two points it''s hard to justify vanishing for a month. If we''re, like, fifth, and it''s ninety percent sure we won''t win the league but we''ll make the playoffs... yeah, why not? As long as I''m back in time for the important stuff. If we''re tenth and we''re not going up or down, sure. I mean, I might make a total mess at Grimsby and bring them down and then no-one''s going to be looking at me. It''s all hypothetical. I might not even like it."


    "I''m just trying to imagine what the future is going to look like. Every January you wander off to play football somewhere nicer than here, and every March you go to manage someone richer?"


    "I don''t think I''ll be doing the playing one again."


    "No?"


    "No. It was good but... Nah, I think I''m over that. If I could go and train with a top team for a couple of weeks, I''d do that, but I don''t think I''ll actually play for anyone else like I did with Tranmere."


    "Why not?"


    I clicked the side of my mouth. "If I said it was because of my love for Chester, would you believe me?"


    "No."


    I did a cheeky grin. "Fair enough. I can''t really say why. I''m pretty sure that was a one-off. Don''t worry. I''ll find some other way to annoy you." He didn''t reply. "So what do you think?"


    He snapped out of some thought. "What?"


    "Are you going to let me go or what?"


    "I don''t like it," he said, this time without smiling. "This league isn''t over. But I understand it''s a good opportunity... I''m just worried they''re going to see how good you are and throw money at you and you''ll stay there."


    I leaned forward to unplug my phone and grip the tripod. The worst was over and there was no point being anxious about how the mob felt. If the fans wanted me gone they''d have to sack MD, first. It''d take them a few days to get organised. Whatever happened, I''d get my rematch against Kidderminster, and if Chester booted me out I knew where there was a vacancy. "So... there are times this job is really intense and there''s loads to do. May is going to be pretty frantic. That''s when I can try to snap up players whose contracts are ending. End of May''s the Exit Trials and I''m going to be absolutely hyper about them. First week of June the market''s flooded with out-of-work players. Pre-season is about fitness and helping the team gel, plus loads of admin. Start of the season''s going to be a struggle and we''re going to have to scrap and fight like demons just to get some points on the board. Then a few weeks of driving the team forward, hard as I can, get that momentum going like this season. But, like, now is pretty tame. For the players it''s getting really exciting. All their work''s paying off and this gap we''ve opened up is motivating them to really hammer home what they''ve done this season. But for me, there''s nothing to do. There''s no tactics needed in most our matches. I''m really interested in going to another team for six weeks just for the mental challenge. Pit my wits against League Two managers. That''s fun, isn''t it? But stay there forever? Work for a b-boy? I don''t see it. I mean, if you guys bin me off, then yeah, what choice do I have? But if there''s a job for me here I want to be here. I''ve got big plans and I''ve put in a lot of spadework."


    "Do you mean the facilities? Is that what you''ll spend the Raffi Brown money on?"


    Hearing that name made me wince, which surprised me. "Er... what? Oh, the money. So, not very sexy answer, it depends. I think, honestly, the future of this club comes down to the Exit Trials. It''s all, like, Premier League academy players who are getting binned off and hundreds of scouts are going to go and take a look. If I can find some gems - very likely - and if I can convince them to come - doubtful - and if we can afford their wages..." I emitted a sound that was intended to convey extreme doubt. It sounded something like whergh. "If we don''t get any, we''re going to have to look at spending money on transfers. There''s one player I definitely want but his club would ask for a king''s ransom. So the Exit Trials could be huge. If we get, like two of these top talents, great but I mean, it depends what position they play. If we can get, like, eight hot prospects, holy shit that changes everything. You know what I mean? If we can get eight superkids then we buy one or two players who we know are National League quality who can help us out right away. And if we can do that, then we can use most of the money for facilities and infrastructure."


    "Like what?"


    "Kitchen. Chefs, nutritionist. We need more physios. We''re expanding the age groups so we need more physios and coaches. Part-time to start with." I thought about mentioning the solar panels but half the mob drank bleach instead of getting vaccinated and I wasn''t in the mood for culture war shit. They could post angry messages on Facebook when the panels were up. "Er... we''ve got other plans but it depends which grants and subsidies we can get. I don''t think announcing them is a good move. It''s all good stuff, though. You''ll love it."


    "Will you be doing Boost the Budget this year?"


    "No."


    "Will ticket prices be going up?"


    I looked over at MD. "I don''t know. I think the idea is you get promoted to a higher league and the prices go up, right? It''s not my job but I think I can promise it won''t be fifteen percent again. I''d like to keep them flat but maybe it''ll be a pound more. This money we got for, ah, Brown, doesn''t go as far as you''d think. We really need to get it right."


    "I think I''m done. Thanks, Max."


    "What for?"


    "For talking to us."


    "Oh." What a polite mob! "Well, that''s a fair point. I should have done this before. There hasn''t been much to say, to be honest. We were scrambling around trying to keep our heads above water and now we''ve got a bit of breathing space and a bit of money and yeah, we need to be more strategic and that''s interesting to talk about."


    Brooke spoke. "Who do you want next, Max?"


    Someone about ten percent angrier and ten percent less eloquent. Pick someone closer to the heart of the mob! "Surprise me."


    "Oh, fuck, it''s me," said a guy I''d never seen before. He hid a packet of crisps and put his hand over his camera. When he reappeared, all was perfectly normal but I got the very strong sense that his room was an absolute pigsty. I leaned across to check Brooke''s face - this seemed like another joke. Her expression gave away nothing.


    "What is your name, caller?" I said, in my best radio voice.


    "I''m Mark. Er... you don''t want us to say how long we''ve been a fan?"


    "No, thanks! You''re a Chester fan, let''s move on."


    "Oh. Right. So I heard what you said about letting more away fans in if we didn''t sell more season tickets. I don''t like that."


    "Why?"


    "Because it''s a home game. I don''t want half the stadium full of Wrexham fans."


    "Then buy a season ticket."


    "I''ve got one."


    I saw myself on my PC monitor with a quizzical expression. Why were we talking about this? "So, first thing is, I don''t make these decisions. It''s your club, Mark. If you want the stadium to be deserted every week, that''s your call. I want it full. Players like playing in full, noisy stadiums. If there''s two stands of Wrexham fans that''s only going to inspire us and we''ll play better. Bear in mind that it''s your club and I can only set sort of guiding principles when it comes to that sort of thing. We''re hiring Brooke here to help us with some stuff and one of her targets is to get more fans in. Chester fans, ideally," I said, with a pretty charismatic bit of twinkling.


    "Is that why you''re going to Grimsby? Punishing us for not going to matches? Times are hard, Max. Money''s short. A lot of my mates gave to Boost the Budget and missed the early bird deal on season tickets and to be honest, there were no signs it was going to be a legendary season."


    I nodded. "I didn''t really think about it like that. I know there''s loads of reasons why people aren''t coming. I just can''t help but take it personally. On Saturday we''re going to score our ninety-ninth and one-hundredth goals of the season. We''re amazing. I''ve conquered the National League North and it feels like no-one gives a shit. But that''s why I''m putting Brooke on the case. She''s not emotionally involved and she''s going to talk to you and get all these stories and we''ll work out how to do it better. I mean the obvious thing from what you''ve just said is, we''re not doing Boost the Budget so if your mates can get three hundred quid together I''d love them in the stadium and next season will be legendary too, one way or another." I pulled at my bottom lip as I stared at nothing. "I know three hundred quid can be a lot of money but that''s your Saturdays sorted for a year, isn''t it? Oh, he''s gone."


    "Do you want another one?"


    I checked the numbers. We still had over 1,400 in. All very ready to turn feral. The timebomb was still ticking. Which fan would detonate it? "Sure. Who''s on line four?"


    "Hi, Max." It was a middle-aged woman with a Welsh accent. "My name''s Carina. I''ve got a footballing reason why you shouldn''t go."


    I sat up and jiggled on my chair. "Great! Let''s hear it."


    "The women''s team!" she said, with no small amount of triumph.


    I waited for her to continue but that seemed to be it. "I get what you''re saying. I''m banned from the men''s team but not from the women''s. Yeah, that''s a great hack. I love ideas like that. Okay, so that''s all agreed - I''ll play for the women. I''m sure Dani won''t mind if I take her spot in the team. Oh, hang on. MD''s saying something. I don''t have the right what?"


    The woman took this mini rant well. "I''m not suggesting you play for them, Max, but support them."


    "I support them. I watch all the tapes and suggest things to Jackie but to be honest he''s on top of everything. We had a discussion recently about fixing something and it was a matter of timing. I wanted it done right away. Jackie was fine letting it sit for a while. His way would have worked. He''s doing great - I don''t need to interfere and I try not to. I just send him some players every now and then. If he needs me, which he won''t, I can come back on Sundays."


    "When will matches be played at the Deva?"


    Another topic shift! This mob had big attention deficit issues. "As soon as the pitch can take it. If we can get Bea Pea to stop doing knee slide celebrations, that''ll help. But I''ve been looking at renting a proper ground for a couple of years until we have our own solution. Would you go to Flint to watch the team there?"


    "Flint?"


    "It''s 25 minutes by car. They''ve got an all-weather pitch. Proper stands. As far as I can tell, they don''t use it on Sundays. I don''t know. Maybe Brooke and Ruth can find something better but there isn''t a lot nearby."


    "I would go to Flint. Don''t know about others. It''s not a nice drive."


    "I''m very open to better ideas. We can do tier 5 and 4 there, or somewhere similar, and then move them into the Deva. Nice little progression there. Win your league you get better stuff."


    "Flint doesn''t sound terrible. It''d be good to have a base. Another question."


    "Yes."


    "You hired the American marketing expert."


    "Texan."


    "Will she be marketing the women''s team, too?"


    "Absolutely but right now we can''t even charge for tickets and next season''s main sponsor''s been agreed so there''s no hurry. If we can get a stadium booked, we can get to work filling it. One thing is the fixtures. We won''t get them for ages so we can do planning but nothing concrete. Do you know what I mean?"


    "Okay, thanks for talking to me."


    She left and I rubbed my face. Brooke chose an aggressive-looking guy who looked like he hung out with Welly and went to train stations to fight rival fans. Finally! The heart of the mob! I saw myself snarling and tried to loosen my jaw. "I''ve got a question," he said, rudely. This guy was perfect!


    "What''s your name, dude?"


    "Tom Dickharry. What''s it matter what my name is? You said to skip all that."


    Big charmer, this guy. "I meant skip the life story. All right, Tom."


    "Did you get that man sacked?"


    "Who?"


    "You talked to the owner and he sacked the manager. That kind of thing is bad for your reputation. You''ll get a name as a snake. It''ll come back to bite you."


    It took me a second to work out what he was saying and then another few seconds to wonder if snakes bit snakes. "Oh. No, Chris asked if he should sack him and I said to give the guy an ultimatum. Win on Saturday or you''re toast. If he wins, great. If not, you gave him a sporting chance. That seemed fair to me. I''d want that shot. I have no idea why he sacked him. Maybe he''s got a proper full-time manager lined up and I did this whole call for nothing."


    "It''s not for nothing, is it? You''re telling us the plans and we want to hear it."


    "I''ve been telling you the plans since I started working here. Item one, win the league. Item two, have some cup runs. Item three, fix the youth system. Item four, increase the quality of haircut among the first team squad. I mean, three out of four ain''t bad."


    "But future plans like the women going to Flint. That''s good to know. You''re thinking years into the future. We want to know that. So this Grimsby guy is rich, yeah?"


    "Yeah."


    "He''s testing you. You told him you wouldn''t go this Saturday, he sacks the manager anyway. He reckons you''ll cave."


    "Cave? I told him how much the Kidderminster game means to me. There''s no way on earth I''m missing that one and he knows that."


    "But he''s rich, Max."


    "I don''t get your point."


    "They don''t think like us. They get what they want."


    "I don''t know what to say. I don''t know what it''d cost to get me to start there tomorrow. I mean, a billion would do it. Like, there is a number. It wouldn''t be a good start, though, would it, if he changes the deal before we''ve even started? No, I don''t know why he did it but it''s nothing to do with me. Playing against Christian Fierce is my Olympics. I don''t care what else is going on that day. Don''t invite me to any parties, I''ve been training for this day. Do you know what I mean?"


    "What if the FA try to stop you?"


    "Stop me what? Managing Grimsby? Why would they do that? And how?"


    "They might think like we do. He works for Chester!"


    I considered it. "If they get snippy I''ll get MD to sack me. Boom. I''m unemployed. Finish at Grimsby, oh, look, a new contract at Chester! Easy."


    The fan hung his head. "And could you still play the cup final then? It''s already a mess. Don''t make it worse."


    I smiled. "My girlfriend''s dad''s a top lawyer dude. He can''t stand the FA and if they stop me finding employment - again! - I''m going to let him loose. Like, seriously, they wouldn''t try to stop me because they know they wouldn''t have a leg to stand on. I have the right to work. You can manage a club and a national team at the same time. You can manage two teams in the same division in the same season. How can there suddenly be a limit just because it''s me? Okay, how about this? I make Sandra the first-team manager and I''m the assistant. Why shouldn''t Chester''s assistant manager work at Grimsby for a while?"


    "Because - " He jammed his thumb and index finger into his eyeballs, which always gave me the shivers. "Because you''re not our assistant manager. You''re our manager. Look, what would you say if the Man United boss did this?"


    "I''d say mate, you''re not eleven points clear and you don''t even know where Grimsby is. And I''d say Grimsby could do a lot better."


    Tom''s smile was reluctant, but real. "Can I put my daughter on? She''s got questions for you."


    "Er... sure?" He put his phone down, giving us a close-up view of his kitchen table. I strained to listen for footsteps. "See this, Brooke? This is good content. It''s authentic. I haven''t been following what''s happening though. What''s in the chat? Are people mad at me or what? Ah, hang on, he''s coming."


    "Say hi to Max!"


    There was a girl standing on the kitchen chair, leaning down into the lens as though it were fixed into place. Why not just pick up the phone and stand normally? "Hi, Max."


    "What''s your name?"


    "Ella. Don''t make an umbrella joke. I''ve heard them all before."


    She was so far from my dream mobster it was crazy. Who was I going to have a blazing row with? "Ella, have you ever heard of a deed poll?"


    She gave me a suspicious frown. "No."


    "You pay fifty pounds and you can change your name."


    She looked at her dad. "You never told me that!"


    "Nice talking to you, name-to-be-decided. Bye!"


    "I didn''t ask my question!"


    "Oh. I thought you asked how to change your name."


    "I didn''t, actually."


    "Go on. What do you want to know?"


    "Why don''t you have a team for girls?"


    "We''re starting three in the summer. Next question."


    "No but really."


    "Yes but really. 12s, 14s, and 16s, probably."


    "I''m seven."


    "So you go to the twelves. What''s the problem?"


    "Do you have a girlfriend?"


    "Yes. She''s called Emma but I think she wishes she was called Ella."


    "No, she doesn''t."


    "She will when I start singing ''under my umber-emma'' all the time. Next question. We''re doing rapid fire."


    "What''s..." She needed to think about it. "Why do you like football?"


    "I like getting bad managers sacked."


    "Oh."


    "And I like that it brings people together."


    "Oh. What did you have for dinner?"


    "Caesar salad and king prawn takeout from ah... a Mediterranean restaurant."


    "Oh. Can I see your room?"


    "I mean, we''re supposed to be letting people yell at me but sure. Quick tour." I stood and switched to the rear camera. "Here''s my window. You can see there are four football pitches there. That''s where we train. Sometimes I stand here and loom over them. When we build a new training ground I want my office to be a glass box just over the players so I can loom non-stop. I love looming, Ella. This is my flipchart. It''s got my tactics. One page for every game. That''s how Ian Evans used to do it and I liked it. If we flip back... What''s this? Ah, it''s Tamworth at home. We only won one-nil. I think it was a little bit boring but we were saving energy for the next match. These are the names of the players we were going to use and the backups. All these little squiggles mean things. Okay on this wall''s a photo of Jackie Reaper playing for Everton. It reminds me that no matter how bad things get, they can always get worse."


    "Why are you laughing?"


    "I''m not. Now up here I''ve got these... Let me put them on." I had cut out a small perm and large moustache - the look was all the rage on Merseyside in the 80s - and with a tiny piece of blu-tac I attached them onto Jackie''s head. "Jackie comes to use this office sometimes because it''s good wi-fi here and one time in three I put this stuff on his head. I don''t think he''s ever noticed. This desk isn''t normally here. Brooke and MD are helping to run this Zoom call because they''re top business people and they like talking about conf calls and chuff like that. Wave to the child formerly known as Ella!"


    "Is that your girlfriend?"


    I swung the camera to my boss. "No, that''s MD."


    "The other oneeeee."


    I switched. "No I couldn''t date her. She never smiles." Brooke smiled. "Oh, hello! Now the rest of this wall is pretty barren but on that one I''ve got some other stuff..."


    "Who''s that?"


    "Who?"


    "That man."


    Her attention had been drawn, like most people who went into my office, to the large portrait photo of the one thing on the walls that was nothing to do with football. It was a photo of a man wearing a suit too big for his body and a smile too big for his face. "This man is called Mr. Yalley. In my kingdom, he is a prince. He saved my life and he''s a good and kind person and when I see this I try to be a good and kind person, too. I''m not very good at it."


    "Oh. What''s he laughing at?"


    "What do you think he''s laughing at?"


    "Someone told him a joke."


    "Do you know any jokes?"


    "I know a football joke. My dad told me."


    "Go on. Tell it to Brooke and see if she laughs."


    I pointed the camera at Brooke and waited. Ella whispered to her dad and he reminded her what the joke was. "What do Henri Lyons and a magician have in common?"


    "I don''t know, sweetie."


    "They both do hat tricks."


    Brooke smiled and raised a thumb but I think even Ella knew it was fake. I flipped the camera back to face me. "Ella. Serious question from me to you now. When we play on hot days, do you know how I stay cool?"


    "No."


    "I stand near the fans."


    Ella nodded, smiled, and raised a thumb. Brooke laughed at that.


    "Ella I need to kick you off, now. I need to work out why people aren''t mad at me."


    Her dad took his phone back. "It''s because they can''t do anything about it. And because you were honest about it being for money. They''ll get over it... If you come back. Thanks, Max. Good luck on Saturday! Come on you Seals!"


    I wandered back to my chair and thought about the call so far. "MD, what''s the mood in the chat?"


    "Exasperated. But beat Kidderminster and people will accept it."


    "Brooke? What are you getting?"


    "I think win the league and you''re fine. Some folks are hoppin'' mad but most are talking about whether they want you to do well at Grimsby or not."


    I pulled a face. "Yeah, that''s a hard one. If I bomb this won''t happen again. But if I''m great, you know we''ll smash League Two." I shook the thought off. The mob could feel whatever they wanted as long as they didn''t try to stop me. My position was secure. The guillotines were still in storage. The sun rises in the east. Grimsby''s in the east. The Sun King will rise in the east. I am the state. "All right, then. I''m going to Grimsby. If you don''t mind, everyone, I''m not going to talk about it any more. Next stop for me is Kidderminster. They spent three weeks coming up with a plan to beat us. I''ve spent four months returning the favour. If you aren''t going to the match, make sure you''ve got Seals Live bookmarked. This one is going to be a battle royale."

 7.7 - Whats a King to a God?

    7.


    Harrier


    (Noun)


    Someone who engages in persistent attacks.


    ***


    Mostly overcast with a high of 7 and a low of 4. No wind. Gloves for the Latin Americans; short sleeves for the Scots.


    The stakes? All and nothing. Win and we''d go 14 points clear. We''d have beaten everyone in the league except York, who were good but extremely lucky not to have faced me at my best. Draw and we''d stay 11 points clear. Annoying, but acceptable. Lose and we''d be 8 points ahead, but with no momentum and people would always ask, were they the best team really? Some of you are thinking - fuck! That''s important. Some of you are thinking - fuck! That''s nothing. You''re both right, but I was very much in the former camp. I had called this match my thesis defence. I was as far from getting a PhD as the pinkest gammon, so this was the only way I could prove to the world there was something inside me worth a damn. The only way I could prove I deserved to wear the crown.


    The stakes, for me, were enormous.


    We''d warmed up and handed our team sheets in. Kiddies were in red and white. We were in our blue home kit - the white stripes were thin enough that the powers-that-be decided we didn''t clash. The buzz around the stadium added a few bpm to all who heard it - even me. The pitch was beautiful and the ground was the platonic ideal of a small football club''s home - the Aggborough Stadium had been their home forever and it had four covered stands. The food was considered the best in non-league with the suppliers having done the job for fifty years. It always surprised me when the food was shit at a football match - fans were way more likely to go back if they had a nice pie.


    "Max," said Sandra. "It''s nearly time. Do you want to say anything?"


    I stuck my bottom lip out. What was there to say? We''d all been preparing for this, consciously and subconsciously, since Kiddies had gone to Chester and beat us two-nil with a Max Best-level masterplan and a whole load of luck. But the nervous energy in the dressing room was crackling; taking the edge off was a good idea. "Kay."


    I got to my feet and went to the tactics board. The magnets were laid out in a 4-4-2 shape. "Quiet," mumbled the Brig, and everyone shut up almost instantly.


    I smiled. Once he''d caught my murderer and Sandra had arrived, his role had become redundant. But he wanted to stay and in the summer his role would change to Director of High Performance. He would continue to make sure we were the fittest team in the league, enforcing our standards while giving the lads a shoulder to cry on - an unbelievably hard needle to thread. I had zero doubts he could do it. "Thanks, John," I said, which perhaps was my first small mistake. The lads, correctly, took it for sentimentality, which wasn''t what they needed from me at that moment.


    What I said next let them know the real Max Best was in the room.


    "Guys," I said, looking and sounding sombre. You could have heard someone pick up a pin. "In 1984, Lindsey Buckingham, feeling stifled by his membership of Fleetwood Mac, released a solo song called Go Insane. It''s widely believed to be about his troubled relationship with Stevie Nicks. In the lyrics, he mentions losing his power, which, as you know, is a reference to him losing his creative freedom. One of the lines goes: I lost my power in this world, and the rumours are flying." I nodded a few times, like a pastor who has just hit upon the key message. "The rumours are flying. Now, I''m not a music historian but I know, as at least three of you do, that one of the best-selling albums of all time is Fleetwood Mac''s Rumours. Note the British spelling," I said, as I wrote it on the tactics board. I stared at it, then paced up and down the benches. "I thought to myself, huh. Is that just the word rumours being used idiomatically? Or is he talking about Fleetwood Mac? I went to some lyrics sites and they all had it spelled rumors, without a U."


    "There''s no team without U," said William Roberts, AKA WibRob, who was in our dressing room to soak up the experience.


    "What the hell are you talking about?" I said.


    "I''m trying to guess where this is going."


    I smiled. "It''s not going anywhere. What I do is, I talk a load of shit to show the players how confident I am of winning."


    "Oh."


    "That''s good, though. I might pivot to that. There''s no team without U. That''s... wait. That doesn''t fit in any respect. Mate! Just..." I rubbed my face. "I was going to say I found a really old website, from like 1999 or something, and it was American but they copied the lyrics from the album sleeve and it was the British spelling. So my instinct was right and I was pleased with myself because let''s face it, even Vimsy wasn''t born when that song was released."


    All eyes turned to Vimsy. "I prefer Tango in the Night. Rumours was overplayed."


    "Whoa!" said Joe Anka. "That''s heresy."


    "All right, let''s go win the league," I said.


    ***


    I walked around the pitch giving every player a little pep talk. Our morale was high but not so high we couldn''t use a little extra.


    The only vaguely controversial selection was the goalie. I''d plumped for Robbo even though I''d named Ben our number one for the season. Robbo was four points lower in CA (44), but was eight years older and if there was ever a match I wanted experience over youth, this was it.


    The deciding factor, strangely, was season two of Welcome to Wrexham. In it, a player gets injured at a certain ground. The player had been injured at that ground against the same opponents the previous two years. Three years'' bad luck! I didn''t think of myself as very superstitious but mate! Come on. Don''t use that player at that ground. Use your nut! I hoped I was using mine; Ben had put in the single worst performance of any of my players, ever, in the first match against Kidderminster and I didn''t see a reason to tempt fate.


    "Robbo," I said. "You remember the signals?"


    "Yes, Max."


    Kiddies switched their corner signals every now and then - they had two sets. We would quickly tell which they were using today. "You gonna stay calm?"


    "I always thought Stevie Nicks was the man playing guitar and Lindsey Buckingham was the female singer."


    My pre-match distraction had worked a little too well. "Not that calm, eh?" I walked off laughing, noting that Robbo''s morale had bumped up a notch. It wouldn''t last long, but I was happy. Next was the defence. Eddie Moore was starting to settle - he was up to CA 46 which was poor in terms of where I saw the team, but 15 points better than Trick Williams had been. Yes, I''d done well there. Plus, it didn''t matter if he was taking his time to find his feet - he had one of the easiest jobs in world football - being the left back behind Aff, who loved defending as much as whipping in vicious crosses.


    Glenn Ryder and Steve Alton were CA 54 and 49 and had a good partnership going. Two clean sheets in our last two games had lifted their morale so I gave them a slap on the back and moved on.


    Carl Carlile, playing at right back, had moved up to CA 58, making him one of our best players. He was better defensively than going forward, and ideally I''d have had him playing centre back to mark one of Kidderminster''s impressive strikers. But Steve Alton was a very limited full back so this was the best disposition of our forces. That said, Sandra and I had twisted ourselves into knots going through all the ramifications. Playing behind me was different to playing behind Aff - I wasn''t very interested in defending but the threat I generated was so insanely high that most teams wouldn''t attack down the side I was occupying. We''d decided to go with Carl at right back in case I decided to wander around the pitch like I had done in one hundred percent of my previous matches.


    I gave him a high ten.


    The referee was counting the players on both sides - not long now.


    In the centre of midfield, we had Sam Topps (CA 59) and Youngster (51). Lots of graft, not much craft. Last time we''d played Kiddies, our biggest advantage had been our midfield line. Since then, we''d added me, not quite back to my mystery winger peak but still the best player in the league, and Youngster had continued to develop. But we''d lost Ryan Jack to injury, and Raffi Brown to whatever the fuck happened there. Aff and I would need to do most of the creative work.


    Up front we had lost thirteen points in CA by moving from Tony to Chris Beaumont (31), but added a metric fuckton of goal threat, menace, nuisance, and holy-shit-look-at-that-guy-ness. Henri was Henri. His CA was steady on 63.


    Overall, an average CA of 51.4, not counting whatever I was.


    Kidderminster had improved through training and smart recruitment from CA 51 to CA 53, plus they had home advantage.


    The real benefit of all the work we''d done was seen on the bench. Kiddies had a fairly big drop-off in quality from their first eleven to their subs, but I had my best goalie (Ben, CA 48), Magnus Evergreen (49), D-Day (41), Pascal (46), and Tony Hetherington (44). Five players who had played a lot this season, were match sharp, and who gave me tons of options for changing the formation and tactics.


    Peep!


    And they''re off!


    A real top-of-the-table six pointer begins with Kidderminster launching the ball long for Peabody.


    Great header! He knocks it to Craddock.


    He''s got space for a left-footed shot.


    Is this an early chance?


    Alton bravely scrambles to block.


    The ball spits out to Youngster. He looks up and plays a long pass wide to Best.


    Best has to check his run. Cole catches up.


    Best calls for a square option. Lyons approaches.


    Best nutmegs Cole, sprints, knocks ahead.


    Beaumont peels off to the back post.


    Best launches a pinpoint cross...


    But Fierce is there! He gets something on it - the ball balloons off Beaumont''s head and over.


    A breathless start!


    Well, you could write a decent thinkpiece about the first fifteen seconds of the match, but the upshot was that Bob Horseman, my off-pitch rival, did something unexpected. He had his tactics imp whispering in his ear and the message was clear - you''ve got to shut that guy down.


    That guy being me.


    I felt something strange had happened even before I went into the tactics screens. Sure enough, both the left back, Cole, and the left midfielder, Hobson, had been set to man-mark me. Wherever I went, the two would follow.


    That... was... fine?


    In theory, Carl would be able to surge forward more or less unopposed, since neither Cole nor Hudson would try to attack.


    And there would be more space for Youngster and Topps, which should have dragged Kidderminster''s right flank across, giving more space to Aff and Eddie Moore.


    That was the theory, but it didn''t happen.


    The minutes ticked past and Carl didn''t bomb forward, and Aff didn''t get himself in situations where he had time and space to send in a good cross. It took me a while to work out what the second problem was, but it turned out to be simple - Aff was having a stinker.


    The biggest game of the season and my most consistent player was on five out of ten.


    Meanwhile, I realised that Carl''s triggers to start his overlaps were based on me getting the ball from Youngster. Carl wouldn''t just run forward for no reason - there had to be a starting point. With me being double-marked, Youngster wasn''t passing to me. And that was quite right, too - I had set the team''s passing tendency to ''left''.


    But now we had no dynamism on the left, nothing being created in the middle, and me being swamped on the right.


    At a break in play, I went over to Sandra and told her my thoughts so she could come up with a plan while I focused on contributing what I could.


    My big chance to break the deadlock came with a free kick given for a foul on Chris. He almost never got free kicks because refs didn''t see how tiny defenders could possibly be impeding him. Moronic, of course, but Chris was used to it. Christian Fierce, though, was six foot five and in his own way was as imposing as Chris. His fouls counted.


    The kick was in the perfect position for a right-footed cannonball. I placed the ball exactly in front of the left-hand post, some twenty-five yards out.


    After much faffing about from the fussy ref, I centred myself, smashed the Free Hit button, and hit a glorious, unstoppable drive. It exploded off my foot, went over the wall - I had to change where I aimed because of Christian fucking Fierce - and as the goalie launched into a futile dive, I half-turned my head to check where our fans were. Today I would celebrate my goals!


    The ball felt like it was past the goalie when suddenly the mad physics of the technique kicked in - the ball deviated to the right, towards the goalie. Astonished, he brought his palms together just in time and the ball crashed away to safety.


    Argh!


    Small mistakes, small margins.


    I realised it was going to be one of those days.


    ***


    Transcript from Seals Live


    Boggy: Still nil-nil here at the Aggborough Stadium. After a flurry of chances for either team, things have settled into a stalemate. What''s your take on it?


    Spectrum: It''s interesting. It''s much more tactical than most matches at this level. We''re bogged down in midfield, no offence, Boggy. Can''t get the ball forward.


    Boggy: It''s quite frustrating. Best looks the best outlet but we can''t find him.


    Spectrum: There''s a little bit of hit-and-hope going on. Pass to Max and see if he can work some magic. He''s always got two players with him, though, so that first pass has to be perfect.


    Boggy: It''s the kind of match where one of two things happens. He comes up with a great plan, or he lashes out.


    Spectrum: I don''t think it''s either, today. He''s doing his job and letting Sandra come up with ideas, and he''s quite calm.


    Boggy: Too calm.


    Spectrum: It''s quite mature, what he''s doing. But I agree. Sometimes you just want him to go full Max.


    Boggy: Fierce on the ball, now. Passes square. Through to the midfield. They bypassed Beaumont far too easily there. Has he even had a kick? I wonder if it was a mistake using him in this match. We need more in midfield.


    Spectrum: You''re right but no-one could have predicted the midfield would generate so little. There''s enough talent out there.


    Boggy: It''s back with Fierce and now he''s on the half-way line. All the Chester players are back. Best is quite high. Is he keeping his markers away from goal?


    Spectrum: And he''s ready for the counter. A decent ball over the top and he''s away.


    Boggy: Patience from Kidderminster. They know how to disrupt a game plan but they can play a bit, too. Now it''s direct - Craddock takes the ball on his chest. He''ll look for Peabody. He''s covered well by Ryder. Craddock lays it back to a midfielder. Will he shoot? He''s miles - oh, I say! [roar from crowd] It''s gone in! A - A terrible deflection. It was going to the right and Robbo in goal looked to have it well covered. But the shot struck Ryder on the side of the head and it went in on the left. Horrible luck. Ryder didn''t know the first thing about it! Lyons has his head in his hands.


    Spectrum: [sigh] It''s one of those days.


    ***


    I went over to Sandra. She said we should stick to the plan but suggested some tweaks. I made them using the hotkeys and tactics screen while she yelled and waved her arms around.


    Kiddies scoring wasn''t the end of the world - if they got more defensive our starting positions would be twenty, thirty yards forward and we''d always be in range of a cross that Chris could do something with.


    But they didn''t change their mentality, and our team didn''t function any better than before. Youngster kept overhitting or underhitting passes to me. Carl hit long balls down the line - even if I got to them first, what was I supposed to do with an awkwardly bouncing ball in the corner when I was surrounded? There were limits to my skills.


    A couple of times I went roving across to the left but only succeeded in dragging my markers with me. In theory that should have been good for Carl, but he would only push forward to the halfway line. Meanwhile, I was causing the left or the centre to get even more crowded and chaotic, so I returned to the right and switched from player mode to manager mode.


    The obvious move was to take Chris Beaumont off. With the game as it was, he was a passenger. But if we took him off, Kiddies could go into their low block with high confidence. And it''s not like we could bring him back on. Plus, just by being there he was doing things. Christian Fierce sometimes liked to dribble the ball into midfield but he wasn''t doing that today. Chris and Henri were too dangerous to be left unsupervised.


    No tweaks or changes came to mind. I was pretty stuck. The only tool in my box I hadn''t used yet was Cupid''s Arrow. I could draw a line between two players and their connection would improve. If I used it on Eddie and Aff, would that be a waste because Aff was playing crap? If I used it on Chris and Henri would it be a waste because we weren''t getting the ball to them?


    The only half-decent option was to boost the connection between Youngster and me. If he could somehow manage to pass the fucking ball in a way that I could get it, I could do some damage and maybe get us a couple of goals. If we got ahead, Kiddies would have to stop man-marking me and they''d have to push bodies forward and we could rip them up on counters.


    We were only one-nil down so I decided to keep my powder dry. One good cross and Aff''s match rating could go from 5 to 7 and we''d be seeing a very different encounter.


    ***


    Boggy: Nice play from Chester. A few quick one-touch passes, moving the ball around. Very nice. Haven''t seen enough of that.


    Spectrum: You''ve got to credit Kiddies. They''ve made it hard.


    Boggy: Moore. Quiet game from him. Passes to Aff. back to Moore. Inside to Topps. Topps exchanges passes with Youngster - oh, Best isn''t happy with that. There was an option to find him over the top. But we''re still building. On the left now. Aff to Moore, and Aff sprints away! How''s the pass? It''s good! Aff''s clear. First time in the game.


    Spectrum: Best far post!


    Boggy: Aff sets himself, he''s got - he''s got three to aim for. Beaumont, Lyons, Best. The cross - looks good - Fierce!


    Spectrum: What a joke.


    Boggy: Christian Fierce gets to it, nods it clear.


    Spectrum: The guy''s sick. There''s three of the best attacking headers of a ball flying at a good cross but you never felt it would come to anything. Fierce is a joke. He''s a one-man wall.


    Boggy: It might lead to something... for Kidderminster. They''re breaking and Chester have a few men out of position. It''s - er - inevitably played to Craddock and Peabody. What can they do? One-two. Another one-two! This is - oh! [Huge roar] Goal for Kidderminster!


    Spectrum: Saved!


    Boggy: Robbo''s saved it! I can''t believe it. How''s he done that? It goes out for... yes, their first corner. As poorly as we''ve played, restricting the second-best team in the league to one corner in thirty minutes is impressive.


    Spectrum: Watch them go and score it now.


    Boggy: The taker raises one arm, then the other.


    Spectrum: Back post.


    Boggy: The penalty box is flooded. Even Best is back for this one. Comes in - near post! [Huge roar] [Boggy deflated] They''ve scored. Kidderminster have scored. It was chaos in there but there was a flick-on and someone''s put the header past Robbo.


    Spectrum: Peabody.


    Boggy: He''s certainly leading the celebrations. Big trouble for Chester, here. Two-nil down and these home fans are starting to believe in miracles. The Chester fans fall silent. Henri Lyons looks shattered.


    ***


    As the debris cleared, I went to Robbo and lifted him up. The goal wasn''t his fault. Fast delivery, good movement, some clever blocking and plenty of guys who can score headers. Other teams are allowed to be good, too.


    "At least we know which signals they''re using today," I said, smiling, trying to lift his spirits.


    "Unless they change at half time," he said, darkly.


    "Chin up, buddy. We''re still in this."


    I ambled away. Fifteen minutes left in the half. I used Cupid''s Arrow to join Youngster to me, set our passing tendency to right, set myself as playmaker. One goal before half time would change everything.


    ***


    Boggy: Chester look to have upped the tempo. The passes are coming a lot faster and that''s opening up lots of space. Now Youngster drives forward. Look at him go!


    Spectrum: He''s faster than people think.


    Boggy: He looks around, chooses Best. Good choice. Best has to cut short his run - again! - and turns back into trouble. He holds off the first challenge. What can he do? His back to goal. Carlile is coming. Best uses him by not using him. Zips it to Youngster and hares off. Youngster finds Carlile in space. Kidderminster are stretched now! Carlile cuts it inside. Best latches onto it and fizzes and pass low across goal. Lyons and a defender get there at the same time and the chance is gone. But great play from Chester!


    Spectrum: Max looks in the mood, now, and that was better from Youngster and Carl.


    Boggy: Kidderminster taking their time over the goal kick. The referee doesn''t look very interested in dealing with this blatant timewasting. How will Kidderminster approach the rest of this? Will they do a low block like they did in the Deva?


    Spectrum: No, they can''t. Not with Chris up front. Fierce can block him sometimes but not every time, and Max and Aff will pepper the goalmouth with crosses. No, there''s no chance they''ll do that. That''s suicide. They''ll think their best bet is to keep playing like they have been and if they can get a third, it''s all over bar the shouting.


    Boggy: Fingers crossed that doesn''t happen.


    ***


    35 minutes.


    I was in the zone. The ball was obeying me and the ball was coming to me. Youngster''s passes were never quite where I wanted them, but if just one came where I could get myself against one defender instead of two, I''d be laughing.


    Neat play from Chester. A flurry of passes leaves Best with room to sprint.


    He''s clear!


    But he''s fouled!


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Yellow card for Cole.


    37 minutes.


    Best drops deep to collect. He feints to hit a long pass...


    But goes on a dribble.


    He slaloms past Cole - the defender needs to be careful.


    But Hudson clatters into Best.


    Yellow card for Hudson.


    The free kick comes to nothing.


    Lyons kicks the goalpost in disgust.


    39 minutes.


    Carlile plays a hopeful ball down the line.


    It''s difficult for Best, but he controls before it goes out of play.


    He nutmegs Hudson, but he''s forced back towards his own goal.


    He shapes to hit a left-footed cross, but Cole is there.


    Best points and slaloms between the duo.


    One more touch sends him towards the byline.


    But he''s clattered!


    A yellow card for Gray.


    Best stays down and receives treatment.


    Boggy: It''s brutal but it''s effective. I mean, how else do you stop him?


    Spectrum: Look, they''re switching the wide players. The right back is going to left back. He''ll foul Max, get a yellow, and they''ll switch. We were wondering why they had three full-backs on the bench. This is why. Each one gets two fouls on Max, stops two attacks.


    Boggy: Did they know he would play right midfield, then?


    Spectrum: It was a good guess. It''s where I would use him. If he''s in the centre you do the same thing but to stop him taking long shots. [angry groan]


    Boggy: He might punish them from this free kick. It''s in a fantastic position and we''ve got Beaumont, Lyons, Ryder. That''s as dangerous as Kidderminster, surely?


    Spectrum: Absolutely. Or Max could shoot.


    Boggy: He''s ready, now. Interesting that Christian Fierce isn''t in this wall. Here we go. [hush] Best clips it into the centre - oh, Lyons has hit the post! Henri Lyons has hit the post.


    Spectrum: [angry grunt]


    Boggy: He looks ready to tear his hair out. These are the fine margins. Kidderminster score, we hit the post. And Kidderminster will take another minute out of the game as they dawdle over this goal kick.


    ***


    I used the hotkeys to switch everything. Attack down the left, Aff playmaker. He was up against a left back on a yellow card, now. Meanwhile my shins were sore from all the hacks. It felt like I could feel the blood pumping through the bruises. I needed a breather before having one last go.


    Aff got the ball and went on a dribble. He surged on the outside, knowing it was his marker''s weaker foot, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Christian Fierce pushing his centre back partner across before waving at one of the midfielders to drop.


    The guy was reorganising the defence in real time!


    Aff''s low cross was blocked by the centre back - Aff hadn''t been expecting him to be in that position - but the Irishman got another chance and this time curled a dreamy ball to the far post, where, you guessed it, Fierce had just placed himself.


    The guy was really starting to piss me off.


    ***


    Boggy: Last chance of the half, perhaps. It has been a strange one.


    Spectrum: You can say that again.


    Boggy: A lot of Chester players have played well, but the unit hasn''t gelled. It''s so unexpected. But here''s Topps, now, scampering over to the right. He touches it to Youngster, who plays the ball behind Best yet again. Best clips the ball back to Carlile and there''s a shake of the head.


    Spectrum: That''s exasperating but the more he makes a meal out of it, the more his team mates will be stressed when passing and that''s not what he wants. He''s trying not to let the frustration show.


    Boggy: How hard is it to play a ten-yard pass in front of a player instead of behind him?


    Spectrum: On the training pitch, very easy. Look, he''s not supposed to be there. That''s supposed to be Raffi Brown. Or Ryan Jack.


    Boggy: I see what you''re saying. [sigh] Okay, the ball''s going around the Chester defence. Kidderminster are loving this. Sterile possession going nowhere. Oh, Chester. Now it''s in midfield. Topps. Youngster. Try again. It''s a better pass but not what Best wanted. He''s static with two defenders in front of him. Dead end. A dead end like so many attacks this half. Why don''t they try some long balls to Chris Beaumont?


    Spectrum: Because Max will sub them off immediately. That''s just giving the ball away.


    Boggy: It''d be something different, at least.


    Spectrum: The faster you send the ball, the faster it comes back. Our centre backs aren''t the quickest and we don''t have a defensive midfield to cover them.


    Boggy: [sigh] Some more aimless passing. Here we go. The last seconds of injury time in a hellish first half. Best - [annoyed grunt] - Best once more finds himself on the ball with no momentum, no movement ahead of him, nothing to aim for. He turns, defeated, and looks square. The defender sees his chance, oh! Nutmeg! Best''s away. Foul comes in - Best scrambles to his feet, pushes forward, chops inside - a defender went flying - Best, now! The crowd are on their feet, even the home fans. He''s flying! He drops a shoulder to the left, drives right. He''s powering forward. A chance out of nothing. And here comes the cross... [thunderous applause] [Boggy deflated] Cleared by Fierce. He reached out one of his telescopic legs and played it behind. It could have gone anywhere but it went behind and there''s no time to take the corner.


    Spectrum: And no yellow card for that foul because Max tried to stay on his feet. This referee is awful.


    Boggy: And an awful half for Chester. My nephew plays a video game called God of War. Here in pretty Worcestershire, Chester''s pretty football is once again smashing into the God of Walls, Christian Fierce. We''ll be back in fifteen minutes for the second half where we''ll see if Chester''s prayers will be answered or if it''s sackcloth and ashes for our title hopes.


    ***


    I walked off the pitch, into the brick tunnel, and to the farthest corner of the dressing room where Livia brought me some marathon paste and a drink. I ate and sipped and closed my eyes. What could I do? My head was spinning - formations, substitutes, mobs, kings, Gods - and I needed a couple of minutes of blank nothingness.


    I got half of my wish - a minute of quiet - but then I overheard Sandra and the Brig urgently whispering by the doorway. Weird how you can lock onto one conversation out of so many.


    "It''s not working," said the Brig.


    "It is," insisted Sandra.


    Those guys had been at polite loggerheads ever since I''d hired Sandra and given her the same job title as the Brig. The Brig would have a new title next season but maybe it''d be good to sit with the pair, plus Brooke and MD, and work out proper duties. I didn''t mind a bit of overlap - they needed to work together.


    "Talk to him," urged the Brig.


    "In a minute, John."


    I smiled. They were worried about me. What a nice feeling! The truth was that I felt all right. We were losing but it could easily have been two-nil to us. A few players were having poor matches, but it wasn''t for lack of effort and they weren''t trying to do their own things. No-one was hitting hopeful balls to Chris and if there was a lack of quality at times, maybe that was because it was the National League North.


    I would get some magic spray on my shins and maybe take a painkiller if Dean would let me. Then we''d attack until we dropped and what happened, happened. Que sera sera.


    "Close the door." An unexpected voice. Henri Lyons was at the ''front'' of the dressing room, by the tactics board. "May I have your attention, please?"


    The smile came back. What was this going to be? Something about taps? Or the unrequested encore for SILK!? Henri had been getting more and more steamed up during the first half but it wasn''t like him to stand in front of the team and demand they play better. My smile faded; this could go badly wrong. I took my eyes off him for long enough to check what else was happening - nothing. He had everyone''s undivided attention - just how he liked it.


    With utter sincerity, he curled his hands into fists and turned to me. "Forgive me, Max, for I have sinned!"


    I shook my head. How did he always find ways to surprise? "What."


    He tugged at his magnificent, floppy French hair. "I have strayed from the path of righteousness!"


    I stood so I could get a better view of Youngster. "Is this blasphemous?"


    "Not yet," he said.


    "Henri, are you talking about God or football?"


    "Football."


    "How about now?" I asked Youngster.


    He nodded. "Now it is blasphemy."


    "Are we all going to get struck down if we listen?"


    He shrugged. "I am not." His toothy grin emerged. I leaned back against the far wall and indicated that Henri could continue his performance.


    "The day we took over the Chester Knights I knew you were a man of boundless creativity and imagination. And now, like Fleetwood Mac, I have become the stifler. I heard you wanted to play the Sweeper formation and betrayed you! Now we are in the biggest match of the season playing the wrong formation because I lost faith. I am bereft."


    "You didn''t want to try it," I said.


    He misunderstood me. "I was wrong."


    I dismissed the idea with a gesture. "The first day we met I read your scandalous interview where the big revelation was that you want to be in a team where the manager listens to you. This is it, mate. I''m listening. I don''t want you to do things you don''t want to do. Dead easy! Now, look. We''ve been doing loads of 4-4-2 and it''s been working. We''ve been unlucky, today, but that''s football. It doesn''t matter what formation we use if a few players are off the pace and everything we try doesn''t quite work and everything they try works better than it should. It''s just one of those days."


    Aff stood. "I''m sorry, Max. It''s my fault."


    I frowned. "Okay you can sit right back down." I paced towards him and ended up jabbing my finger in his face. "You don''t get to apologise to this group. How many times have you carried this team on your back this year?" I relaxed my posture, if not my scowl. "You''ve got us out of the shit time and time again. It''s nice getting the third goal, the fourth, and padding your stats. But who gets us the first goal when everyone else is playing like shit? You. You''re worth fifteen points on your own, mate. If you''re having an off day, some other fucker needs to step up. We should fucking apologise to you that we can''t do it." I walked back to Henri and tried to move him out of the way. "Now go and sit back down."


    "I refuse."


    "What?"


    "I didn''t come here to play 4-4-2! I didn''t come here to get my own way!" It was the most like a toddler I''d ever seen him. "I came to help you create football. Sandra, please."


    Sandra appeared to my left and gently pushed me away from Henri. "Max, when you talk about me you always talk about me managing games to build my reputation and that''s obviously a big reason I dropped levels to come here. But I also came to learn from you. If you really think we should play Sweeper, I''m intrigued. But you didn''t push it. I thought the whole Coalition of the Unwilling thing was a joke."


    "It is a joke. The formation is dead."


    Henri tsked. "I know you. Tell us honestly, did you want to use the Sweeper system against Kidderminster?"


    "Maybe. No. Not really."


    "Max."


    "Okay, a bit. But it''s mad. That''s fine. I hired Sandra and filled the team with intelligent players to get this kind of pushback so I don''t end up vanishing up my own arse."


    "A breakthrough. Wonderful. Now, tell us the plan for the second half and we shall create some football."


    I shook my head. "No! We''re sticking to the plan. The plan is sound. I''ll break free enough times to create chances or they''ll run out of full backs and one will get sent off."


    "That''s not a plan."


    "That is a plan. Or if Aff and I don''t get any joy, we''ll switch Aff and Eddie, and the same with me and Carl."


    "Max Best at right back?" scoffed Henri.


    "That could work pretty well," said Sandra, thoughtfully.


    "They can''t double-mark me if I''m at right back and if they do, Carl will have the freedom of Worcesterchestershire."


    Henri grimaced. "Fussing around the edges! Shading the background of the sketch. I hate it! I tell you, this is not the time for tweaks and optimisations." He grabbed my jersey and looked like he wanted to punch me. "If we had not filled your heart, poisoned your mind with doubts, what formation would you use?"


    I filled my cheeks and let the air out noisily. "Sweeper," I said, aggressively, but followed it with a cheeky grin.


    "And would it work?"


    "It could be a disaster." Cheeky lip bite. "Or it could slap pretty hard."


    "Mais oui! We do not have much time. Explain it to us." He went back to his part of the bench and ingested some paste.


    I took a few breaths while I considered my options. I really wanted to beat Kidderminster playing my low block-busting formation, but they weren''t using a low block so where had that impulse come from and why was it sitting in pride of place in the centre of my thought process? The principles of Chesterness weren''t wedded to one particular formation. I had listened to my staff and their worries were valid but they''d led us to approach this match in a stale, unexciting way.


    "All right," I said. "Fearless football. I''ll tell you one advantage this has - no-one in this stadium has seen this for thirty years." I laughed as I started adjusting the magnets.


    WibRob had thoughts. "But don''t you need to practise it before you do it in a match?"


    "Nope. It''s basically 3-5-2 and the only person playing an unfamiliar role just so happens to be a floating megabrain." I changed what I was doing and set the magnets up in a 3-5-2. I stood aside. "You know this one, William. Three defenders, nice and solid. Five in midfield to get a grip on possession. You''ve done some of our slapping drills so you know how we attack. How do we get from 3-5-2 to Sweeper? So, so simple. What we do first is we move the wide players back one notch. But! We draw a dotted line..." I used the marker. "To show that they''re ready to bomb forward. Eddie, this''ll be you. Aff you''ll go as the left-most CM and we''ll swap you round every now and then. On the right I want Pascal, so Steve, thank you for your service today. Carl, you''ll move inside. And as for me..."


    I touched the central of the three CBs and pulled it down so that it was just in front of the goalie.


    "Sweeper. Obvious first thing, we can''t play the offside trap. But we won''t need to. Glenn and Carl will man-mark Craddock and Peabody. Guys, you don''t need to do anything else. Just attach yourselves to them, the end. I''ll sweep up anything that gets through."


    Youngster raised his hand a little. "A sweeper is like a defensive midfielder but behind the defenders?"


    "Yes."


    "I could play there and you could play in the centre of midfield."


    "Sorry, bro. The sweeper starts all the attacks. He needs top passing accuracy and range. No, you''ll be in the middle of the pitch making sure they can''t get a grip."


    "I am sorry to question the idea but why do you not play as a DM? You were very good there."


    "Thank you for the compliment, Youngster. I''ll put that on my CV next to Manager of the Year. When we use a DM we listen to Let It Happen, right? We control the tempo of the game, we go backwards. That''s to invite the other team to come to us so we can exploit the gaps. If this goes to plan, they''ll see me with the ball right next to our goal and if they can turn it over, they''ll score. Easy. They''ve got to come forward. And there''s no offside. Why wouldn''t you take some mad risks sending bodies up? But we''ll play through them or intercept and hit them on counters. We can get counter-attacks even though we''re behind in the game! And can they man-mark me? Tsch. Maybe. I doubt it. Craddock and Peabody can mark me if they want. I don''t think I''ll notice."


    "Why does no-one use this system?" said WibRob.


    I flashed a smile as I widened my eyes. "No clue. I can''t see a single flaw in it."


    Glenn Ryder stepped forward. "Elite teams have a sweeper, but it''s the goalie. Most teams play with a single striker so using a sweeper against them makes no sense. And if you''ve got VAR checking every goal then the offside trap becomes even more important. None of that applies today. And most of all, not many teams have a player with the mix of defensive skill, athleticism, and passing. We do." He pulled his captain''s armband off and put it on my left arm. "This is going to work."


    "All right," I said. "Let''s go."


    "Hold on!" called Henri. "Let us pray!"


    "Yeah. Let us spray passes all over the fucking pitch. Come on, men! It''s time for church."


    ***


    Kidderminster hadn''t changed anything during the break - why would they? But Cole and Hudson were back in their starting slots. Bob Horseman probably felt, with some justification, that the referee would allow them to smash into me one last time before he started to think about showing red cards.


    So I ambled over to the right, just in front of Pascal. "How you doing?"


    "Ready to slap, Max."


    "Good."


    "Joe Anka said Lindsey Buckingham can play the guitar and make it sound like two guitars. Is that why you talked about him? Because you can play defence and make it look like attack?"


    "Nope. It was random gibberish."


    I thought the conversation was over, but no. "We''re shooting to our fans."


    I looked around. "That''s right."


    "In the home match, we were attacking the Kidderminster end in the second half. It was a disadvantage. Today, we will score in front of our fans."


    "True. Good point."


    He pointed to the place I should have been standing. "Did we give up on the sweeper thing?"


    "No. I''m just picking up my markers. Those idiots are going to follow me all the way back to the defence and you''ll have the entire right-hand side of the pitch to yourself. Go fast, do a cut back. Boom. You properly warmed up?"


    "Of course."


    The ref blew his whistle and we began passing the ball around. I strolled away from right midfield towards my new slot. I didn''t want to go too fast or my markers might get suspicious.


    ***


    Boggy: A rather soporific start to the half from Chester. Slow passes. The players seem uncertain about their positions. Not exactly the barnstorming start to the half we were talking about in the break, Spectrum.


    Spectrum: I was sure they would come out all guns blazing. But... what is this? I don''t understand the formation. Is it 3-5-2?


    Boggy: Topps to Aff. Aff seems more central. He passes back to Eddie Moore. Best making his way to the DM slot as the game goes on around him. That would fit the 3-5-2 theory - this is what we did last time against Kidderminster.


    Spectrum: Is it?


    Boggy: Don''t you remember? Best turned it into a 2-6-2. The ball''s over with Bochum. He sends it back across the pitch again. Hmm. Definitely no full-backs but the wide players are sitting deeper. Best dropping to third centre back, is he?


    Spectrum: Holy shit!


    Boggy: Please.


    Spectrum: I''m sorry but he''s going... he''s going behind the defenders. What''s going on? His markers don''t know what to do.


    Boggy: Moore takes a touch, looks up, er... What? What? Chester are away! There''s no-one on that side of the pitch! Bochum''s wide open! He keeps going. Going, going, GONE! [Distant roar] Goal! Goal for Chester! Astonishing! With four Kidderminster players around Best, Eddie Moore passed to him and Best swept a left-footed pass first time into the path of Bochum! Kidd... Kidderminster haven''t touched the ball this half! That was... that was fifty seconds of Chester possession. How many passes? Then the explosive pass from Best, the explosive speed from Bochum, and Henri Lyons was sharpest at the near post. That was scintillating. Kidderminster are stunned. Three-quarters of the stadium is silent. Half... half the team are with the Chester fans behind the goal. Half are surrounding Max Best. Spectrum, in his joy, has unplugged himself. There. This hole. That attack was devastating. Don''t ask me how, but Chester blew a hole in Kidderminster''s defence and Pascal Bochum raced through. Oh! I think Best is in tears. He''s worked so hard for this and finally, finally, in the fourth half of trying, his team have scored against Kidderminster. Spectrum?


    Spectrum: What a goal. I don''t know what to say. [weird laugh] They''re a fantastic team but whatever we just did, they had no answer for it.


    Boggy: What did we do?


    Spectrum: [Normal laugh] No clue.


    Boggy: The chat''s busy, all of a sudden! What''s this? Clive OK says it sounds like we''ve set up in the sweeper system.


    [pause]


    Spectrum: Come on. Be serious. Look, Best''s going off to right mid again.


    ***


    A teacher once told me that I had the tendency to describe everything as ''the best'' or ''the most'' or whatever, and she was right and I tried to do less of that. But I''m pretty sure the start of the second half was the most fun I had had playing for Chester FC.


    After a brief and wholly unexpected burst of emotion, I strode, panther-like, to the right midfield slot where my two markers were waiting to greet me. But instead of kiting them across the pitch, I burst off in the DM slot where I launched into a crunching tackle on a midfielder who had made the mistake of venturing forward. I laid the ball off to Eddie and he ran away in his energy-efficient style. I waited like a cat over a mouse hole, patient and ready to spring, as the plan kicked gloriously into place.


    First, most obviously, Pascal''s pace and intelligence on the right made Kidderminster''s tactics imp recommend one of my markers be reassigned. The other shadowed me in the DM slot, which was my base when we were in possession.


    Second, using Aff more infield gave me two left-footers on the left of midfield. They got their combinations going, we got into slapping range, and Christian Fierce found himself torn between two equally troublesome wings.


    Third, Glenn and Carl, uninhibited by other duties, tracked Craddock and Peabody, winning headers and roughing them up. When balls were fired long, I dropped five or ten yards ready to clean up the mess.


    And when it became clear that we had taken the match by the throat, Kidderminster retreated, bringing Chris Beaumont into the match.


    Long ball hit from defence. Ryder jumps.


    Craddock wins it. Best is first to the loose ball.


    He rolls the ball to Robson, who touches it and retreats to his goal line.


    Best waits for a challenge.


    Peabody shows. Best drifts away.


    Hudson is next in line. Best performs a stepover. And another.


    And another.


    Craddock comes to help.


    Best nudges the ball between the two opponents and hurdles them.


    He chips the ball over a midfielder and Moore has space.


    He exchanges a pass with Aff and finds himself free.


    He lines up a cross.


    Fierce nods it away before Beaumont can get there.


    The ball goes through to Bochum. He drops a shoulder and gets to the byline.


    Fierce rushes to the near post to intercept.


    The ball is stood up to the far post.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Beaumont with an easy header!


    Chester''s 100th goal of the season levels the scores!


    Boggy: Pandemonium in Kidderminster! Almost every Chester player has rushed to the stands. The away fans are delirious! I''m delirious!


    Spectrum: Look at the limbs!


    Boggy: Chester have turned this match around in style. And what style! Max Best the sweeper. Max Beckenbauer! The sweeper awakens. One twist of a screw, one dollop of oil and the mechanism runs smooth as silk once more. Max Best the celestial watchmaker! Chester Football Club are dominant in every area of the pitch. For the first time, Kidderminster''s outstanding centre back Christian Fierce looks human.


    Spectrum: He can''t be everywhere. We have threat from all sides, now.


    Boggy: I don''t know much about football, but I know momentum when I see it. Stick a fork in this one; it''s done!


    Spectrum: Kiddies are making a change. They''re bringing off Peabody - that''s a surprise. Looks like they''ll try to hold on. For half an hour? That''s optimistic. do you know who this new guy is?


    Boggy: Er... yes, he''s a centre back. He''s going... to the heart of the defence.


    Spectrum: What? So where''s Fierce going?


    ***


    I''d gone to Sandra to get her thoughts. With typical Mancunian dry wit she had declared my performance ''not bad'' but suggested I get the ball forward faster instead of doing elaborate dribbles around hapless centre forwards. I said I was enjoying doing exactly that but that I would try to mix it up.


    As I was walking back, I paused. Kiddies had finally worked out our plan and had responded. I stared at the tactics screen with confused delight.


    "Sandra!" I called, beaming.


    "What?"


    "Have you ever seen Rocky 4?"


    "Of course I''ve seen Rocky fucking 4. What do you think I am?"


    I pointed to the pitch. "Check this out." I took a few excited jogs away, then returned. "Someone get me a fucking gladiator playlist ready!"


    Livia smiled and got her phone out.


    I realised my heart was booming. My neck was fucking throbbing.


    ***


    Boggy: Kidderminster kick off, now with one striker. This will play into our hands, surely?


    Spectrum: They''re not stupid, but... Look. Christian Fierce!


    Boggy: Fierce is out of the defence and he''s... is he going to play as a second striker?


    Spectrum: I mean... We should ask Clive OK in the chat. He called the sweeper thing and he can''t even see the pitch. This is... [laugh] This is so Max Best right now. He''s got in their heads and they''re trying to out-Best him. What the shit is going on?


    Boggy: Fierce is hovering between Sam Topps and Glenn Ryder.


    Spectrum: He''s playing as a CAM! But... yes, look. When Max goes forward, Fierce will track him. He''s man-marking Max Best!


    Boggy: Clash of the Titans stuff right here. It''s crazy. Crazy!


    Spectrum: Max should go back to right mid until Kidderminster bring another striker on. We don''t need three defenders against one striker.


    Boggy: Will he?


    Spectrum: Absolutely no chance. He''ll see it as the league''s best attacker against the league''s best defender. He won''t back down.


    Boggy: But the defender''s playing as a forward and the forward''s a sweeper!


    Spectrum: I fucking love Max Best!


    Boggy: So do the Chester fans! Listen!


    ***


    I waited in the sweeper slot to encourage Kidderminster forward. Look, ma! No offside! They were wary, though. Our fast breaks were terrifying and it seemed like their plan now was to hope for a corner or free kick they could do something with. But more likely, they would try to hold out for a draw.


    A couple of uneventful minutes passed as our midfield re-established dominance. Freed from the burden of having to be creative, Youngster''s match rating had increased. Sam was solid, and Aff was enjoying himself in his new role. I switched him and Eddie, just for fun.


    Kidderminster''s new tactic was playing long balls onto Fierce''s head and hoping Craddock could get on the end. But Craddock wasn''t getting on the end of shit. Those scraps were mine. I was too fast, too alert, too motivated to be beaten to the ball by anyone in this league, and when I got possession I sprinted joyously forward knowing Fierce would come and compete with me.


    The first time, as he approached me from my left, I made eyes straight ahead and booped the ball through his legs before moving off. He chased me, and while Sandra screamed at me to pass I kept dribbling in a leftwards circle until Craddock came to help and I had no choice but to boop the ball through to Ryder. He passed to Carl, who pushed it out to Pascal, but the rest of the Kiddies team was set.


    Sandra was right, I needed to pass the ball faster so we could attack against disrupted and disorganised lines. But if we scored, Kidderminster would give up on this tactical solution and I wouldn''t be able to take the piss out of Fierce.


    And take the piss I would, for there was no comparison between him chasing me around the vast plains of midfield versus the tight, confined penalty-box arena in which he normally did battle. Bob Horseman''s tactics imp had come up with a partial solution to my system but it was very much like putting your heavy infantry up against a cavalry unit. I would harry the shit out of him before giving him the coup de grace.


    My players sensed I was in an unproductive mood and tried to keep the ball away from me. But then the point was moot as two Kidderminster midfielders tried to launch an attack. A couple of smart passes and they were past Youngster and it was four on three. Carl stayed with Craddock, Ryder went to the left, and I closed in on the ball carrier. Fierce made an overlapping run, which was pretty comical to me, but since he was the captain he got the ball and I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to smash him with a tackle. The ball popped loose but although a couple of players were closer, we got up and sprinted after it. We both slid in, moving the ball further across the pitch. I was slightly faster to recover and got to it just before him. He tried to crash into me with a shoulder barge but I knew it was coming and gave as good as I got. We stumbled again, arms and legs flying, and once again I was just a fraction quicker to the ball. I dragged it away from him, booped it up, and flicked it back over his knee. He turned and sprinted back towards the centre of the pitch but I''d snuck back into the space he had just vacated. He turned again and so did I. I dicked about one second too long and he was up and facing me, ready for anything. I jabbed my foot down onto the ball to send it between his legs, but as he closed the gap I simply pushed the ball down into the ground and, with him off-balance, rolled towards the centre of the pitch, straight into a sliding tackle from a deeply unimpressed Kidderminster midfielder. He got enough of the ball to avoid a yellow card, we got a throw in, and I got to enjoy the look on Christian Fierce''s face.


    That little passage made my guys even more reluctant to pass to me, though, even when I set myself as playmaker.


    In the minute that followed, my bloodlust cooled enough for me to take in the atmosphere in the stadium. The Kidderminster fans were nervous - you could hear individual shouts more than unified songs or chants. But the Chester lot were of one voice. I couldn''t believe it.


    Max Best''s Blue and White Army!


    Max Best''s Blue and White Army!


    They hadn''t sung that in a while, certainly not since I''d decamped to Tranmere. So the mob was once again my mob. Pride surged through me like white hot fury. It was time to finish this.


    ***


    Boggy: Twenty minutes to go. More patient play from Chester. Kidderminster are sat back in their half. Aff''s the left wing back. He passes to Ryder, who sends it on to Carlile. Up to Bochum. All very safe. Kidderminster content to watch. Oh, no! Oh, no! Best is being silly. He''s got crazy eyes. He sprinted and slid to intercept a pass between his own players. What''s he doing?


    Spectrum: [laughing] I''m going to go out on a limb and say this qualifies as unprofessional. Sorry, boss.


    Boggy: [whining] He''s dribbling back towards our own corner flag! He told me once he''d never go for the corner. Kidderminster, at least, have no intention of indulging him. They''re sat back. Will he do kick ups, do you think?


    Spectrum: That or he''ll sit on the ball.


    Boggy: Boos from the home fans as Best leaves the ball and leaves the pitch. Is he offering to sign autographs? [reluctant laugh] This... ugh. Well, now, that''s done it. Craddock and Fierce are on their way. Best does approximately twenty stepovers in three seconds - he''s such a child sometimes - but the opponents are in range. If that''s what he wanted, mission accomplished. What next?


    Spectrum: Jesus Christ!


    Boggy: Enormous, booming strike from Max Best! He''s hit the ball seventy yards to the left onto the toes of Aff. No-one was expecting that!


    Spectrum: I''m not sure Max was.


    Boggy: Kiddies are all spread out. Aff''s surging ahead. He cuts inside. There''s movement from Lyons. Aff clips it behind the defence - no Fierce in there any more - sits up nice for the striker - Lyons shapes to shoot - delays. The keeper''s down. The defenders are throwing themselves into blocks. Lyons facing goal... backheels! Bochum is there. He hits it across the penalty box. Aff with an open GOALLLLL! Chester are ahead! Three-two Chester! Three-two Chester and surely the three points are in the bag. And now, at last, Best is jogging to join the celebrations. What''s he doing? Pulling his players away. Oh, Max, don''t. Don''t, Max.


    Spectrum: Wait, Boggy.


    Boggy: But he''s, now what? He''s shushing the Chester fans over there. And he''s up on the boards and he''s yelling. He''s grabbed one fan and he''s shaking him.


    Spectrum: Champions!


    Boggy: He''s telling them what to chant! Champions! Champions! The chant of Chester. Chester FC, National League North Champions 2023-2024. Max Best leads the chant, now they''re all joining in. It''s pure elation over there. Pure elation in here. Devastation for Kidderminster. A few of their fans are leaving. That''s madness. You''ve never seen a better football match than this. Two titanic teams but one is truly unsinkable. Oh, incredible. Incredible. Is there another twist in the tale, though?


    Spectrum: I don''t think so. Fierce is going back. Kiddies will see out the match in a 5-4-1 shape. Try not to lose too badly. Goal difference could be a topic for them in the playoff race.


    ***


    Boggy: Into the last minute, here, with Chester leading 3-2. The last ten minutes have been an endless series of passes, many set to cries of ol¨¦! Kidderminster have barely been in our half, but anything''s possible in this game.


    Spectrum: [humming Max Best''s Blue and White army]


    Boggy: Best with the ball. He chips it out to Bochum and the Kidderminster defence retreats. Bochum comes back. Good lad! So it seems that Chester, Max Best''s Chester, are going fourteen points clear. That''s... we have seen Chester''s one hundred and first goal of a remarkable league campaign. Kidderminster have been good rivals but they''ve been dismantled in this truly astounding second half. Chester are the best team in the National League North, of that there is no doubt.


    Spectrum: I don''t think the Team of the Year will have a sweeper, but if it does...


    Boggy: [loud exhale] Twenty seconds left. Can Kidderminster summon one last burst of energy?


    Spectrum: Can you give him Manager of the Year if he goes on holiday for a third of the season?


    Boggy: Best is strolling around the penalty box. Three Kidderminster players are rushing towards him. This could be disaster!


    Spectrum: Nope.


    Boggy: A long pass from Best to Chris Beaumont! The one pass we haven''t tried the whole match and it catches the defence unawares! Beaumont bounces the ball to Lyons! Oh! It''s one last fling of the leg from Christian Fierce. The referee ends the game and bodies collapse to the pitch, none more so than the Kidderminster captain. Max Best, looking fresh and happy, jogs over to the Kidderminster fans near the corner flag. He was winding them up before but now we''re all friends. He offers a selfie and they accept! A fitting end to a thrilling contest.


    Spectrum: For us, the Sandra Lane era continues. For Max, his little trip to Grimsby. And for the players - well, I think they might treat themselves to a couple of beers after this one.


    Boggy: I think I might have one or two myself.


    Spectrum: Make it three and I''ll join you.


    Boggy: There goes my weekend, ladies and gentlemen! See you at the Deva on Tuesday night. Come on you Seals! Get in!

 7.8 - Whats a God to a Non-Believer?

    8.


    Monday, March 4


    I was on the M62 going past Huddersfield when Emma called me back. Her voice filled the car, filled my senses, made me forget the strange, fluttering insecurity that had been building up inside me the further I got from Chester. "Hey bebs."


    "Hey bebs," I said.


    "What are you smiling at?" she asked, knowing the answer.


    "I''m not smiling. I put an AI voice changer on my phone so it always sounds like I''m smiling."


    "That''s not the worst idea you''ve ever had. It''d be good for sales people, wouldn''t it? Did you see your mum?"


    "Yeah, popped in. I don''t want to arrive too late at the place so I only stayed ten minutes. The landlady said she''d wait up but, you know."


    "God, I''ve got like twenty questions."


    "I know that game. I can only answer with yes or no."


    "Henri would tell me to go chronologically."


    "Yes."


    She laughed. "Don''t, Max! I need a mindless conversation. So how was training this morning?"


    "Hungover. Lots of stray passes."


    "But you''ve a match tomorrow."


    "Yeah, against Brackley. They''re quite good but they''ll probably spend the first half in a low block so we can take it easy, sort of thing, until they realise we''re not on it. When Sandra was busy I got the lads together and told them they''d had their party and they could have one shit game but they''d better get right back on it after that and if they were the reason Sandra quit I would do unspeakable things to them and they promised to be good if only I''d stop shouting at them."


    "Then what?"


    "Then I packed my stuff and loaded The Duchess and went to the women''s training. Checked the standards and all that."


    "Checked the standards. You should listen to yourself sometimes. You''ve just come from the men''s team turning up half-cut and you''re talking about standards."


    "The women can have a blow-out party when they win their league. They''ve got their big match on March 31. It''s Easter Sunday. You coming?"


    "Hold on. You''ve got a Grim on Good Friday and one on Easter Monday. You want to do Grim, Chester, Grim in four days?"


    "It''s the biggest match in the history of the women''s team. I should be there. It''s all right if you don''t want to come that weekend. You can go to church with your mum."


    Slight pause. "I love criss-crossing the country in The Duchess, Max. I love Grim and I love driving to and from Grim."


    "The women''s match is in Altrincham. Manchester, basically. Not that bad and we can pop in to mum and Anna but not Solly because I''m still mad at him for lying to me about the traitor."


    "Aw, don''t. Not even as a joke."


    I paused while I assessed the driver in front. Very wobbly. Probably texting, the dick. I backed off; I didn''t want him wrecking The Duchess. Some of the nerves came back. If this Grimsby thing went well I''d get fifty grand. Fifty grand! I could get a new car. "Right, women''s team. So I was checking the standards, all good, obviously. Jackie''s ace and he''s got Jill doing his admin and whatnot. It''s running smoothly. After fifteen minutes I called the ladies over. Told them I''ve been using my new minion to go on a charm offensive."


    "Ah. Let me check my timer. Ninety seconds."


    "What?"


    "I time how long before our conversations get to The Texan."


    I indicated and eased into the slow lane. Was this a problem? I decided it was almost certainly Emma teasing me and went back into the fast lane. "The last women''s game is the 21st of April, which as you know is after the 20th."


    "Yes that trivia came up in a pub quiz once."


    "On the 20th, the men are playing my former team and we''ll parade our trophies around and have a big ol'' party. But even if the women beat Altrincham, they''ll need to win their last game to be mathematically certain of winning. So we''ve asked the league and Runcorn Linnets if we can move that game to the Friday before, the 19th, so we can get the trophy."


    "That''s pretty cocky. What did they say?"


    "Runcorn were totally cool about it. And the FA are thinking about it but Brooke - "


    "Brooke," mumbled Emma.


    "Got them to think how it''d be for women''s football in Cheshire to have the victorious men''s and women''s teams side by side. I think the fact we''re pushing for it so hard is helping. Altrincham aren''t completely happy because the matches should be played at the same time to make it fair but we''ve suggested they play on the Friday as well and we''ll owe them one."


    Emma laughed. "You''ll owe them one. Is that how football works? Playground rules?"


    "I told their manager that whoever wins the head-to-head is the best team and if it was me in her shoes I''d agree to the date change and then go and win the match so that it wasn''t an issue and I wouldn''t bleat about it like a lost sheep."


    "Maybe you should leave the negotiations to Brooke."


    "Nah, the manager liked it. Challenge accepted, she said. I don''t think she quite realises how much we''ve improved since we played them at Christmas but she''s got fighting spirit. I don''t like managers on match days; they lose their minds. But I should make more of an effort to get to know them. They''re the people who understand what I''m going through. Anyway. It''s all going great."


    That last part didn''t ring true in the slightest and Emma must have heard it. She chose not to investigate. "Tell us about your AirBnB you''ve booked."


    "I was looking for something near Cheapside - that''s where the training ground is. But there''s this huge thing called the Lincolnshire Wolds. Just miles of fields and trees and stuff. Great. I didn''t check but I assume there''s hedgehogs and deer and mysterious trees. So I thought it''d be nice to be there, instead of, like, Grimsby town centre, and as I kept zooming out I saw a village called Brigg."


    "And you want to stay in Brigg. Brigg makes you feel safe."


    "Amazingly, there was a place to stay there. It''s this old couple and I get a room but have to share the bathroom. I was thinking, um, no, I''m kind of a big deal now but it''s 25 minutes from Cheapside and Cleethorpes so I thought it might be good to have some distance, just in case things go wrong." The nervous energy was leaking out again. Or in. It was leaking out or in and I hated it but I loved it. Whatever happened, it had to be better than watching idiot managers try to low block us three months after I''d rendered that strategy obsolete.


    "What''s Cleethorpes?"


    "That''s where Blundell Park is. The stadium. But the real killer was the name on the listing. There are two rooms available in that house. I''m in the Taj Mahal Suite - twenty-five pounds a night - and the other is The Villas of the Papal Nobility. The price difference is two quid a night which as far as I can tell is because in one room the beds are pushed together so they can claim it''s a double. The entire thing is so outrageous! The reviews say it''s quiet and clean so tick and tick but mostly I want to meet the host. I booked for a week for a laugh and I''ll scout for something better when I''m not busy."


    "Won''t you be dead busy all the time?"


    "I''m not really doing most of the manager things I do for Chester. I''m supervising training and picking the team and to be honest, supervising training is pretty optional. Training isn''t the problem at Grimsby. It was the manager''s line ups, tactics, and in-game management. Those are things I''m good at and that''s match day stuff. So... yeah. I won''t be that busy. Tomorrow morning, Chris is giving me a tour but then the next fixed thing on my schedule is Saturday''s match."


    "That''s in London."


    "Right. The team at the bottom of the league. It''s the two bottom teams so I''m imagining the quality will be diabolical. I mean, from my point of view it''s exciting, right, pitting my wits against a League Two manager. Our teams will be broadly similar so I''ll have to try to outthink him. I''m expecting a little more cleverness from the guy than I get at National League North level. He''ll use his subs to make tactical changes and I''ll have to respond and all that sort of stuff. The chess side of it. Which, you know, a lot of fun for me, a lot. But watching from the stands?" I laughed. "Diabolical, I''m sure. Don''t worry, babes. You don''t have to come. I know you''ve got your project. Tell me about it."


    "Not when you''re driving. It''s not safe. Call me when you go to bed and I''ll put you to sleep in minutes. So..." The telltale silence of someone tiptoeing around a difficult topic. "How are you going to handle it all? I was thinking about when you were at Tranmere and no-one knew who you were. I mean... They know who you are now, right?"


    "I''m really not sure. I kind of don''t think so. Footballers are quite insular. Max Best is not on FIFA and there''s no way any of them watched the FA Cup match against Salford. They''ll have passed some clips around. Heard some stories maybe. Might have read, you know, the scurrilous article."


    "Oh."


    "I''m probably not right," I said, to reassure her. "They probably got an email with loads of my highlights and info about what sort of formations I use. They''ve got a data guy. That''s going to be interesting to see if he can help me. I don''t think so, but I''ll need one eventually to support Sandra and Jackie so I''ll be keeping an eye on what he gets up to. Nah, look, if they don''t know who I am it''s fine. I really don''t give a shit as long as they do what I tell them. As for how I''m going to approach it... Yeah." I laughed.


    "What?"


    "Mateo called and suggested I don''t jump in two-footed. MD called and said maybe I should look before I leap. Henri called and said that while the lesson I should learn from my life was ''always go full Max'' and that he didn''t doubt me in the slightest, perhaps I might want to only sometimes always go full Max."


    "You''re going to go full Max on day one, aren''t you?"


    I eased into the slow lane to let a supersonic BMW go past. "No. As one of my unnamed employees probably says while fixing his or her Stetson, ''this ain''t my rodeo, y''all''. I''m going to keep out of trouble, float around like a sexy ghost, and come alive on Saturdays."


    ***


    Around ten p.m., I pulled into the spacious driveway of my temporary residence. It was a detached house on a quiet street. The AirBnB listing had a 4.9 rating and all the four-star reviews were very enthusiastic which just proves that people don''t understand that four stars is a NEGATIVE REVIEW and needs to be changed immediately if you care about the author. I mean, if you care about the AirBnB host.


    A curtain twitched and seconds later, a tiny elderly lady appeared at the front door. She had big glasses and lots of energy.


    "You''re Max," she said, summing me up. "I''m Angela. I''m 72."


    I tried to offer a fistbump instead of a handshake and she surprised me by accepting it instantly. "I''m Max. I''m... huh. Yeah, I''m 23. Feels like I''ve been 23 for a long time."


    "That''ll change," she said, all twinkly. "Time always speeds up. When I was a girl, June used to last six weeks. Let me show you the room. Or do you want to get your bags?"


    "I''ll go back. Thanks for waiting up for me."


    "Waiting up," she scoffed, as she led the way. "George is asleep but not me. Not for hours yet. Too much to do." She went up some stairs, showed me the bathroom that I would be sharing with another guest if one suddenly booked, then opened the door to the Taj Mahal suite. It was an extremely plain guest room with two towels, a nightgown about the same size as Angela, and a computer monitor perched on a chest of drawers. I guessed that was the TV.


    "Nice," I said. "I was expecting a big photo of the Taj Mahal, to be honest. Or some Indian ornaments."


    "No need," she said. "No need. The name''s enough. Where are you staying? I''m in the Taj Mahal Suite at Le Clos aux Roses. Oh? Wonderful."


    "You''re clearly Lincolnshire''s greatest living marketer. I should introduce you to Brooke," I said, and had the strangest feeling it had been exactly ninety seconds since I''d met Angela. Wow. Did I have a Brooke problem?


    "Is that your girlfriend? Will she be coming?"


    "Brooke is a b-girl I know. She likes ponies. My girlfriend is Emma. She''s from Newcastle. I doubt she''ll come; she''s busy with work and the Taj Mahal might be a bit fancy for her. What''s the other one called again?"


    "The Villas of the Papal Nobility."


    I beamed. "You''re fantastic."


    She took the compliment well; I was only confirming what she already knew. "What are you doing here in Brigg?"


    "Oh, I''m working in Cleethorpes for a few weeks." I didn''t want to mention Grimsby Town if I could help it. Much better if no-one knew where I was staying and if I had a place where football wouldn''t be mentioned.


    "What do you do?"


    "I''m a fireman. I''m a consultant. I operate across multiple vectors. Where there is discord, I bring synergistic multi-phase harmonies."


    "Ah! A kindred spirit. Heh heh. Well, Max. Welcome to Lincolnshire."


    ***


    The bed in the Taj Mahal was as comfortable as the name would suggest, and I slept wonderfully. In the morning, I made myself a tea and sat by the window admiring the view. Lincolnshire, mate! Hedges, trees, open fields, and everything such a vivid and soothing shade of green that you might almost feel that maybe you haven''t made a terrible, terrible mistake.


    Part of that uneasy feeling came because something had changed overnight. Now when I brought the curse screens up, the Chester Men and Chester Women Squad links were one section lower. In their usual place was a new one: Grimsby Town Squad. Although I would be announced in the afternoon, the papers had been filed with the FA and I was Grimsby''s official interim manager.


    The main reason for my unease was fairly stupid - there were 24 names in the squad.


    Twenty-four.


    When Old Nick had visited me in hospital and made me watch a TV show called The Traitors, he talked about two versions. In some countries, the format had 22 contestants including 3 traitors. At the time, Chester had 22 in the first team squad; he had implied that three of them would betray me. The other version started with 24 contestants and there were 4 traitors.


    Twenty-four Grimsby players, four traitors.


    Stupid! I pushed the whole stupid idea out of my stupid head and went through the player and staff profiles. I''d seen a lot of them before, but seeing the new ones brought up a whole range of tactical possibilities. In this league I could name seven substitutes and use five, which was an unbelievably luxury. I had to back myself to use my subs better than most managers, even if the ones at this level were a whole lot more switched on than the ones I was used to.


    With new confidence, I hopped in The Duchess and drove to Cheapside, Grimsby''s training ground. I parked in the space labelled manager, which always added 1d6 smugness points. There weren''t many people around and I didn''t have a badge so I couldn''t go and explore. The reception desk remained unmanned for over 20 minutes. Lincolnshire. Mate.


    After a tetchy encounter with the reception woman in which I thought about but refrained admirably from going full Max, I got an access-all-areas badge and had just beeped myself through when Chris Hale turned up. "Max! Great to see you! Amazing result at the weekend. Congratulations! How are you?"


    I glanced at the receptionist and made a quick calculation. She was taking the piss wandering off having chats and not fulfilling her one tiny function, but it wasn''t my problem. I knew I was going to find dozens of things like this that I wouldn''t tolerate in my club, but how many was I really going to do anything about? None, that''s how many. My only job was to get Grimsby out of the relegation zone. Sexy ghost, come alive on Saturday, stick to the plan. "Yeah, great. Had a great start to the day. Absolutely flawless in every respect with no bottlenecks or hindrances. Nothing at all that requires your immediate attention."


    The receptionist flushed and bent her head, but Chris was clueless. He frowned slightly, decided it was weird Manc humour he didn''t get, and opened the first door, holding it for me. "Start in the canteen, can we? I need a coffee."


    We chatted for a while and various employees went past on their way to a meeting room. The plan was that I would have a quick meet and greet with them before they did the day''s training, which I would observe before going to Chris''s house for lunch.


    A few people wandered in and out of the canteen to get a tea or a coffee. Most of them didn''t acknowledge me, which was slightly weird but fine, but most blanked Chris, too. And that wasn''t fine. The guy was paying their wages, for God''s sake. It didn''t seem to bother him, and it wasn''t clear that he even noticed. He did, however, notice when some of the squad''s key players ambled in. "Danny and Marcus!" he whispered, fangirling almost as hard as Dani would do if she ever met Harry Styles. Grimsby''s star strikers gave Chris a friendly smile and a nod, which was something.


    A new person arrived. The curse told me his name but his staff profile was a string of question marks. "Ah!" said Chris, rising. "Here he is! Wolfie! Max, this is John Wolfe. John, Max Best."


    I knew Wolfie from reading everything I could about the club online and from listening to their awful fan podcast. He was the head of recruitment but he had only been in the post for a few months, starting just before the transfer window. The question marks, I mused, were because Wolfie wasn''t a coach, wasn''t a physio, wasn''t an owner, and head of recruitment wasn''t a position that existed in 2001, which was when the curse was based. Maybe I''d get a perk to unlock those numbers, or maybe it would come for free with the mid-season update as the curse scrambled to catch up with 20 years of progress.


    Wolfie was said to have good connections with agents but the two players he had added in January were pretty terrible. Again, not my problem, but I couldn''t help but take an instant dislike to him.


    I shook hands with the guy. He had sandy goalkeeper hair (short, centre parting, floppy) and eyes too deep in his head. His smile was the fakest thing since Al Capone''s Vault. He was in his thirties but had the air of an aggrieved seventy-year-old - a thought I regretted as soon as I had it. This guy was the polar opposite of my enthusiastic and spirited new landlady.


    "Nice to meet you, Max," he lied, the liar.


    "Likewise," I said, fulfilling my social obligations in the fewest possible number of words.


    "Wolfie is our Head of Recruitment. Basically Director of Football for now. That''s why you''re our interim head coach instead of interim manager. We''re bringing the club into the future. Aligning with best practices."


    "Okay," I said, because I couldn''t think of anything else. Was the insinuation that I would be reporting to Wolfie? That was fine for the next ''head coach'' but that wasn''t the deal I thought I was getting into. Some of my excitement faded. If Wolfie tried to tell me who to pick on Saturday I''d go full Max. I''d have to. There couldn''t be any interference with what I did on match days or there was no chance of me being successful. But Jesus Christ, I was trying so hard not to get into conflicts and one had just been shoved in front of me. Totes unfair, mate. Totes unfair.


    Chris''s phone vibrated and he stopped it. "Let''s meet the coaches."


    As we exited the canteen, a gaggle of players emerged from reception, ignored us completely, and headed left to where I assumed the dressing room was. One of them was in full hyena mode. "Have you ever seen such a piece of shit! What the fuck, man."


    "Dirtier than my side piece, too, yo!"


    "If it''s brown, flush it down!" said the first one. I was 92% sure it was Simon Green, a suspicion that was later confirmed. "That''s shameful shit, that. Coming here in that."


    "Max," mumbled Chris, trying to get me to move. But I was rooted into place, shooting daggers at the guy who was being rude to The Duchess.


    The guy looked over, saw me, and shut his mouth. But instead of looking suitably scared or intimidated, he merely waited until his group was through the nearest door and then they all laughed, hard.


    Okay. It was one of those clubs. I had suspected as much. Chris tugged at my elbow and this time I allowed him to move me.


    Grimsby''s training centre was leafy and well-equipped, but the buildings were, not to be rude, one elderly brick building supplemented by a load of portacabins. I think a Premier League footballer would have turned his nose up at the compound, but I was in heaven. This was very much what I had in mind for phase one of my training centre project. A lot of cheap and cheerful boxes with equipment inside. Done. We didn''t need a cathedral-like reception area like some clubs had. For phase one, a sign saying ''reception'' and a waiting area would be enough and if we had an employee who stayed at their desk 99% of the time with a cheerful smile we''d be miles ahead of Grimsby in at least one regard. Yes, if this was working for a League Two side, it would work for us. I could start building a more premium complex when we sold Youngster for twenty million. Until then I could copy paste what Grimsby had - maybe with a little more space between the cabins.


    I followed Chris and Wolfie into a unit that had views of the nearest training pitch. Here I would meet my closest colleagues, the people I would rely on for the next six weeks. The Fellowship of the Train-ing? No, that''s terrible. Cut that.


    There were some things I knew to expect. First, they probably thought I had a hand in getting the previous manager sacked. Second, they knew I had a role in whatever rebukes were dished out to the scouts Chris had sent to watch me. Third, they thought I was too young, too flash, but perhaps most of all, too attacking. Those in the room with coaching profiles showed a defensive mentality, which fit the previous manager''s style and the overall makeup of the squad.


    My mistake, I think, was to imagine they would have put their misgivings aside for a few weeks, for the sake of the club. I was, after all, the floating megabrain who had saved Chester from relegation last season and only a week ago had invented a brand new formation called ''Sweeper''.


    Wolfie took a seat at the table. His job, you remember, was to decide which players should come and go, but it was hinted he would have extra duties for the duration of my employment. I needed to shoot that down pronto.


    Next to him was Coach G, the previous manager''s assistant. Grimsby''s version of Sandra. As the former manager''s closest ally, I fully expected Coach G to be difficult but he was a good coach and if he stuck to his job, we''d be fine. If he was one of the four traitors, we would be in pretty deep doo-doo. Standing behind him, by the window, was Coach W. Opposite him was Byram, the head physio. In front of him at the table, all kinds of fidgety, was the goalkeeping coach. He was the son of a famous keeper from the old days and had been a good shotstopper himself. Finally, there was the Data Analyst. His job was to turn the sport into a series of numbers - lol as if - so I''ll call him Neo.


    Six faces. No smiles.


    Chris, again, seemed oblivious to the vibe. "Hi everyone. This is Max Best, the prodigy. Fresh from opening up a 14-point lead in the National League North!" Chris said it like it was impressive - correctly - but the two main coaches, Coach G and Coach W, exchanged a dark look. Chris continued. "I''m just showing him around today and he''ll start properly tomorrow."


    "If you don''t mind, Chris, there''s really no time to lose. There''s a couple of things they can start on today." Chris made an approving little noise, apparently pleased that I was taking charge. "Top." I gathered my thoughts. Hostility? People who resent change? People who don''t believe in me? Tsch. I''ve done all this before, mate. "Grimsby Town will get relegated if we don''t work together. It''s obvious you have reservations about me coming here and to some extent I don''t blame you. But my only goal in taking this job is to keep the club in League Two. That''s success. Everything else is failure. We don''t need to like each other to get the job done. I''m not here to charm the fans or make new friends or anything like that. I''m here to get enough points to keep us above two other teams. Okay? It''s not Sutton United or MK Dons that can stop us achieving our goals. It''s if the people in this room can''t work together for six weeks.


    "Is there a flipchart? Oh, mate." There was one at the back of the room. Seemed like they never used it. How can you run a football club without using flipcharts non-stop? I loved writing on flipcharts. "We''re doing 4-2-4 on Saturday so let''s use today to make sure we''re co-ordinated. Goalies with the back four working on spacing and evading pressure. Front four moving up and down as a unit. I want any missed crosses from the right to end up with our guy on the left. Second drill, bringing the two midfielders forward to create triangles. One goes, one stays. If you have time, let''s get the full-backs involved. Again, I want to make sure when one goes, one stays. Real old-fashioned stuff."


    This utterly banal proclamation was met with astonishment and, yes, hostility.


    Wolfie was the only one brave enough to risk gainsaying me in front of Chris. "Very interesting, Max. Love the use of colour. Flamboyant in all respects. I think we should stick to 4-2-3-1 for this weekend''s match, though. The data points to that being optimal, and the sessions for the week were set yesterday morning. There''s a lot of thought and care that goes into planning a team selection at this level." He finished with a little nod at Coach G. It seemed to say, there, I''ve put the little shit in his place for you.


    Please note that I didn''t go full Max. I went, at most, one-twelfth Max. "It''s not too late to put Wolfie in charge, Chris. Maybe what this team needs is more of the same." I laughed, charmingly, to show that I was teasing him in good fun. "Chris knows I don''t think 4-2-3-1 is right for this team so it''d be pretty weird if I started using it. That was one of the first things I ever said to you, wasn''t it, Chris? This team can''t play this formation."


    "Yes, that''s right. I wish I''d listened to you at the time but I thought you were a brat."


    "The brat has spoken! So, 4-2-4, then." Decisive but charming. Who was I channelling there? MD maybe.


    Neo, the data nerd, was swiping on a tablet PC. When he spoke, he sounded like everyone else from this part of the world - dour and bored. "We don''t have the players to do 4-2-4."


    "Yes, we do."


    Wolfie saw his chance to show that his willy was bigger than mine. He handed over a binder. "We prepared this for you, Max. As our interim manager - " he said interim the way someone else might pronounce the ex in ex-wife - "we thought it would help you get up to speed."


    I opened it and flicked through the pages. One had a spreadsheet printout with the names of the players. There were 21. I ran my finger down and two seconds later said, "Where''s Mal, Ed Williams, and Greg Brothers?"


    "You know the whole squad?" said Neo, brows furrowed.


    "Yes, Neo. And I know your names, too." I went round the room reciting them in full as a little willy-waving demonstration of my own. I removed the offending page and slid it back to Wolfie. The gesture said, incomplete, please redo. "It''s good we did this because two of the missing players will be starting on Saturday and one will be on the bench. They need to be in the training session."


    "But they''re not match fit," said Coach G.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "Let''s make sure the sessions are rocking, then."


    "Who''s left wing?" This was Neo again, staring at the flipchart.


    "Mal Mehew."


    "Mal left wing?" he said, deeply unhappy. Mal had played most of his career on the right, but the curse told me I could use him on the left.


    "It''s definitely the weakest link but he''ll do a job there. Unless he''s injured, in which case Greg Fasanmade can step in. I will, of course, get a full injury report from Byram shortly." The physio blinked and nodded. I felt like I''d done enough to establish that, whatever else they thought about me, I knew what I wanted and I knew what I had to work with. And I felt like I''d handled the situation with decent diplomatic skills. Sure, MD or the Brig would have been far smoother, but from this moment if Wolfie and Coach G wanted to make life difficult for me, that was on them. "Maybe we could get training started. We all know not to leave players unattended for too long."


    The three coaches stared at Wolfie for five seconds, then at Chris. Finally, they left. "I''ll go get the report ready," said Byram, leaving me with the owner, the head of recruitment, and the data guy.


    "That went well," I said, enthusiastically. "I''m glad that went well. Yes, that went really well. Oh. Something on your mind, Wolfie?"


    He grimaced. "I was just thinking that while it''s very bold to switch to such a dramatic attacking formation, we don''t really have the players for it."


    "Sure we do." I waved at the incomplete report he''d given me. I didn''t know why he''d left the three names out and I didn''t care. If it was something really bad he would have mentioned it by now.


    "You don''t know that. Which is why I''ve scheduled meetings for you this afternoon explaining the direction the team should take for the rest of the season and the data that underpins this analysis." He gritted his teeth again and was barely audible as he spoke next. "If we play 4-2-4 we will get murdered in this league."


    "We won''t use it every week, will we? I''d say that by the end of the season we''ll have used every formation known to man. Except 4-2-3-1, of course, which is the most unsuitable one imaginable. You know Chris," I said, pretending to be serious and helpful, "if your processes are spitting out 4-2-3-1 with this group of players, maybe Wolfie should do a process to fix the process. Before the new manager takes over, like. All right, good talk. How about that tour?"


    ***


    Everywhere I went, I saw some bullshit.


    In the weight room, a player was throwing weights around at high speed. I was no gym rat but even I knew his technique was shit. At Chester, we had Magnus who would sometimes pop in to watch what players were doing. He was a world champion bodybuilder so almost everyone listened to him. The only person who Magnus had to win over was the Brig, but even that didn''t take long. I''d established a culture where we all wanted to do better and we were not afraid to ask for or receive help. Who was the Grimsby guy who made sure players were using the equipment right?


    In the conditioning room, two under eighteen players were slumped over exercise bikes, pedalling half-heartedly while they watched TikToks. Virtually pointless.


    In the medical room, Byram was scatter-brained and trying to do three things at once. The massage therapist was chatting to her physio friend while three players waited for treatment.


    On the training pitches, the players were doing unsupervised warm ups while the coaches had a little bitching session. Only when they saw me looming did they get to fucking work. The three outcast players had been found and were in the main group in their personal gear, as though in the previous regime they hadn''t been allowed to wear Grimsby kit. When they saw me watching them, they doubled their efforts. Last-chance saloon for their Grimsby careers. That could work in my favour.


    Meanwhile, half the players were dogging it. One activity involved hopping over some tiny hurdles and then sprinting on the spot. Some players took it seriously, counting to three while going flat out. Some threw out two feeble jabs and felt that was enough.


    All the time, Chris proudly explained all the improvements he''d been making and how much things had cost. That was its own kind of horror. The result looked cheap but never before had cheapness been so expensive. The pitches, for example, used to be unusable for most of the winter but after many hundreds of thousands of pounds in investment they were near the quality of the one at Blundell Park itself. Chris used the phrases verti-drained and top-dressed and I nodded along as though I had the first clue what he was saying.


    "You look overwhelmed," he said, finally locking onto someone else''s emotional state. "Let''s set off and we''ll have lunch at my place."


    "Great," I said. "Let''s just pop back to training and check they''re doing what they need to be doing."


    They were, but it was all five percent slower than it should have been. Five percent surlier. It reminded me of a prison yard. "Isn''t it great?" said Chris.


    My mouth had a mind of its own and it opened now, but I was able to throw a lasso around it just in time. Chris Hale was beaming with pride. For a moment I stopped seeing the half-assed sprints and demotivated employees and I saw Cheapside through its owner''s eyes. The lush pitches, the gleaming new equipment, the modern new approach to data and player recruitment. "It''s great." I felt some of the butterflies peek their little heads out. The culture could be changed. I''d done it at Chester and someone could do it here. A few tweaks and Grimsby could find themselves at the top of the table, battling for a playoff spot, playing fearless football in front of Town''s passionate fans. "It is really great."


    ***


    We drove off in separate cars. Mine, an elderly brown Subaru known as The Duchess. In some eyes, the worst vehicle in the car park if not the entire county. His, an Aston Martin Vanquish Volante, recommended retail price two hundred thousand pounds.


    Half an hour later we slowed on a nothing sort of road. I couldn''t see anything of interest behind the endless rows of bushes and trees, but once clear of the foliage the space was dominated by one of those Grand Designs houses. Huge windows, recessed lighting, exposed structural elements. As our feet crunched across the gravel driveway, Chris babbled about his love of aeronautics and showed how the roof was shaped like an abstract wing and tailfin. I didn''t see it myself, but I''d learned from hanging out with Henri not to dismiss such things. Sometimes a simple boy from Manchester needed some time for the artist''s vision to click.


    I was extremely surprised to find that Chris''s sultry club girl companion, Candy, was at home. It had been my assumption that she was a rich man''s fling and he would soon be onto the next one. I was even more surprised to find that she had made lunch for us. Surely they had maids and cooks and whatnot? The guy was worth a hundred and fifty million last I looked.


    The food was simple but delicious and made me realise my chopstick game was rusty.


    "So," said Chris, perfectly at ease in the ultra-premium kitchen while I was afraid of scraping his marble countertop or moving my stool across the stone flooring. "Why 4-2-4?"


    I shrugged. "Sutton play 4-2-3-1 but their attacking midfielders are even worse than yours." Chris grimaced and Candy - a wonderful host in most respects - shot me a baleful glance. "Sorry," I said, with a shake of the head. Mateo''s warning, not for the first time, echoed in my imagination. Don''t dive in!


    "No, give it to me straight. I can''t afford to be squeamish."


    "Yeah, okay. They don''t have the players for that formation, is what I''m saying. If you ask me all these teams playing 4-2-3-1 is like one of those Christmas toy manias. Everyone wants a Squishmallow but no-one knows why."


    "It was Tracy Island in my day."


    "Yes," I said, politely, because I wasn''t sure if he was teasing me in some way. "Anyway, Sutton will be very central and we''ll slap them down the wings. It''ll be loads of one-on-ones between our wingers and their full-backs. Win those duels, win the game. Easy."


    "Good. Good to hear it. So what, er... What should I be worried about?"


    "Worried? Erm... So you''ve got a fair squad. There''s more quality in the twenty-four than I''ve seen out on the pitch. That''s great. But some of your good players haven''t been playing so they won''t be match sharp. It''s five subs in League Two so I''m hoping we can get a goal or two ahead and then replace the guys who haven''t played with guys with fresh legs. That''d be ideal. Every match I''ll use all five subs to try to get more guys up to speed."


    "Can''t you make them do extra training?" said Candy.


    "Yes but nothing''s like playing in a real match. You can''t replicate it. The brain does funny things when the floodlights are on and the stakes are real. The only way to prepare is to play. So that''s one issue. Match sharpness, players lacking fitness at the ends of matches. Another is morale. Morale is low across the board. You can see it in training. That''s going to be a problem. What else? I love Alex Evans."


    "You complained about him when we met at Christmas."


    "No, I said he was old. He''s still mint, though." At CA 90 he was one of the better players and his PA of 135 spoke to me of a guy used to playing at a higher standard. Very much this team''s Ryan Jack. "I need to decide if I play him every other match or use him for half of every match. Oh, another issue is the squad composition. Your dude was partly right that the squad isn''t set up for attacking formations. It''s quite a slow, stodgy bunch of lads. Hard to beat, but ten nil-nil draws isn''t going to guarantee safety. We need some wins. Four wins is better than ten draws."


    "It''s three points for a win," said Candy, echoing something I''d said to her when we met.


    "Exactly."


    She poured me more yellow tea. "What are our chances of staying in this league?"


    "Here," I said, grabbing a piece of paper and writing out the bottom of the table.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="42"><col width="42"><col width="42"><col width="42"><col width="42"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Colchester</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>-12</td>


    <td>35</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Salford City</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>-13</td>


    <td>35</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Forest Green Rovers</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>-26</td>


    <td>30</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Grimsby Town</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>-21</td>


    <td>29</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>Sutton United</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>-24</td>


    <td>25</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    "Played, goal difference, points. Bottom two go down. We play Sutton next. Obviously losing that would be pretty disastrous because it''d bring them back into the scrap. If we win, they''re as good as dead. A draw would be disappointing for me but at least it would keep us above one team. The next target is Forest Green. They came down from the league above. They''re in freefall. I think the owner cut the funding or something. They''re the kind of team where we only need to pick up a few points and let them implode." I shook my head. "But I don''t like talking like that. I don''t even believe it. Every team can get a couple of wins. Six points goes a long way. But it could come down to us being solid and picking up points and Forest Green having a full meltdown."


    "You beat Salford City," said Candy. She''d turned into a proper Max Best historian, she could cook, and she was wearing one of those woollen cardigans that are great for hugs. For some reason, I took that moment to warn myself not to get stuck in any lifts with her.


    "Yeah but they''re actually a brilliant team. On paper, they''re as strong as Wrexham and Stockport. They should be third; there''s no way they will go down." I laughed. "Being in a relegation dogfight with a team as expensively assembled as Salford verges on criminal. Amazing. They''re on their third manager of the season, I think. Colchester are on their fourth. I''d love to win four or five matches, climb above them, and get some more bad managers sacked and make some bad owners have to write big cheques."


    "Careful," said Candy. "Now that Chris has sacked a manager, maybe he has got a taste for it."


    I shook my head. "After Sutton it''s MK Dons, Gillingham, Wrexham, Barrow. All in the top half of the table. It''s very easy to imagine losing those four." I had Triple Captain and Bench Boost available, since I hadn''t managed a game in League Two this season. I was tempted to use it against Wrexham - beating them would endear me to the Chester fans forever, but realistically the Welsh side would destroy us. I would probably keep those boosts in reserve until I''d got my team working properly and I knew the perks would be effective. Triple Captain, for example, was very much a double-edged sword. It could hurt us if used on the wrong guy. "One draw and four defeats, Chris. Are you going to sack me then?"


    "Sounds like grounds for dismissal. And cheap. You don''t get a payoff."


    I grinned. "I just realised that my contract is shit."


    "Let''s drink to cocky hotshots," said Chris, who raised his glass of red wine.


    I clinked my tea cup against it. "Yeah, let''s get some of those guys in. They sound fun."


    ***


    I spent Tuesday night in a cosy pub within walking distance of the Taj Mahal. I treated myself to one beer and listened to Seals Live with an AirPod in one ear while I enjoyed the ambiance. As predicted, my team stank the Deva Stadium up and fell behind in the second half when Brackley realised we''d spent the weekend partying a little too hard. But Joe Anka found Chris Beaumont and we got a one-all draw. Very acceptable.


    Then Wednesday morning found me watching pretty much the worst training session I''d seen since turning pro. (The worst, Max? asked my English teacher. Yes, I think so, I said, defending myself. Now get out of my head, please!) Sure, only two days prior, Chester had gone through the motions in the morning, but there had been laughs and jokes and that had come after many long months of hard work and accomplishment. We had earned our morning of dogging it. This Grimsby session was inexcusable. So yes, the worst.


    I was getting to know the players. Not personally - I''d barely spoken to any of them and didn''t see the point in doing so. But I was getting to know them in terms of effort and will to win and certainly in terms of quality. As everyone in Grimsby knew far better than me, they''d been assembled under a defensive manager. At their best, they were obdurate and rugged. Their best hadn''t been on display much this season, though. There had been a six-one home defeat, the worst in about eighty years, and many, many second half collapses.


    Astonishingly, there were things I could ask my Chester team to do that these guys couldn''t. To be fair, these guys were up against a far higher level of opponent, but still. By the time I got to this level I expected every player to be able to pass the ball around, get up and down the pitch, and last ninety minutes. On the other hand, I could quite easily end up with exactly this sort of squad - I had to take whatever players I could get, right? I would take the guys with the highest CA/PA and try to shape them into some sort of winning formula.


    Maybe it would be helpful to compare a couple of Grimsby guys to their Chester equivalents.


    Mike Dobson. 32-year-old centre back and captain. With CA 77 PA 88, far, far better than Glenn Ryder. If I could swap them, I''d have to, right? But there was something off about Dobson. Ryder was limited but played his heart out every match. On the footage I''d seen, Dobson felt like a 6 out of 10 player. I assumed that would change when he was playing for me. The curse would mostly make him do what I wanted and I could tweak his settings. There was no possible world where I''d keep Ryder if I had the chance to get Dobson.


    Devonte Payne was a hard-working player who was listed as being an attacking right midfielder but who had better defensive skills than attacking ones. He had CA 71 so obviously I''d pick him over Joe Anka any day of the week, right? Yeah... Joe could hit a cross, though. Watching Devonte curl in a corner was... Payne-ful.


    What I was thinking was that in a perfect world I''d be able to find players with the same qualities of my existing squad, but much better. But in reality I needed to prepare myself for the fact that my squads would always be a Frankenstein''s monster of random parts. Random parts with high CA or PA.


    One trap I wouldn''t fall into was signing donkeys like Simon Green, a 26-year-old midfielder. CA 57, PA 60. Actually worse than Sam Topps! But this clown had convinced himself he was the second coming of Roy Keane and what''s worse, had convinced a lot of others, too. He was the guy who had mocked The Duchess, but despite loathing him with every atom the universe had given me I felt I had a fairly clear-headed view of his limitations - and his advantages. More on those in a moment.


    What was spectacularly interesting about the curse treating me like the Grimsby manager was that I not only got to see the player profiles of injured and suspended players that I hadn''t come across before, but also everyone''s contract details. Chris Hale didn''t want to share that information with me, since it wasn''t relevant to the job I''d be doing, but I knew it anyway.


    Dobson was on 2,350 a week, and Green was also a high earner, on 2,000. The highest paid player was Danny Flash, the CA 60 striker Grimsby had bet the farm on. That guy was on three grand. All had appearance bonuses, Flash had a goal bonus.


    Seeing the premium wages in my head versus what they were offering on the pitch was depressing but also... exciting. Chester FC would be the most efficient team in the history of world football. No-one would get a contract they didn''t deserve. If a player was earning 3,000, he''d be worth at least 3,000. Most likely he''d be worth 6,000 and when the market realised that, I''d be able to sell him for a huge profit.


    The Grimsby squad''s mood was low - probably because they lost almost every week - but one person had maximum morale. Can you guess? That''s right. Simon Green. The absolute prick did not give a shit about the outside world, the team''s form, or the fact that he had recently got the club''s beloved manager sacked. No, he was loving life. And the worst part was, that awful, awful selfishness was making me give serious consideration to naming him in the team against Sutton. I''d learned not to underestimate morale and I couldn''t send eleven sad sacks onto the pitch. Green would lower the CA but increase the morale.


    After watching training (I didn''t feel like participating - Green or someone would probably try to break my ankle), I went out into the car park and found someone had left an envelope under my windscreen wiper. The miscreant had written ''wash me'' in block capitals and inside was twenty pounds in cash. I pocketed the money and kept the envelope - I could scam the players into giving me handwriting samples. But then again, I was already fairly confident I knew who was behind this amusing jape. I walked around the car park looking at all the other cars trying to match them to the players based on what I knew they were earning. There was a lot of money in that car park. Lot of nice wheels; I had a little pang of annoyance. Was I going to have to keep The Duchess forever because Simon Green would think he had made me upgrade? Or was The Duchess a cheat code for finding bad characters in double quick time?


    I took the twenty pounds out of my pocket and stared at it. I''d come for the challenge, for the XP, for the lols, but mostly I''d come to Grimsby for the fifty thousand pounds. I had a strong feeling that this twenty pound note was all I was likely to get.


    ***


    On Thursday I found new things to be annoyed by. The way the players talked - or didn''t - to the canteen staff. The timekeeping. The way the coaches and some of the players formed huddles when I wasn''t around and stopped talking when I arrived. Coach G asked if I knew the team already so he could prepare accordingly on the Friday. I was sceptical that it was necessary, but told him the team, subs, and the players to be given priority on the team bus as backups. In other words, who I wanted to bring with us. He said he''d ''try'' to accommodate my wishes, and, heroically, I kept a lid on my anger.


    ***


    By Friday, nothing much had changed. I had spent two hours a morning for most of the week trying not to lose my temper at all the garbage that was going on around me. Without even trying, I''d surrounded myself with hostility. Wolfie. The receptionist. The coaching staff. The data nerd - whose analyses were pretty and visually interesting but not particularly useful to me.


    Byram, the physio, was okay. He couldn''t believe that I kept going to the medical room to check on the lads, but the massage therapist had the hump with me after I had very gently suggested she do her work first and chat to her mate later, not the other way around.


    And, most of all, the general public. It didn''t take me long to realise that the Grimbarian population tended to think the worst of everything, and a 23-year-old taking over was just rubbing salt into the wounds of a long, hard season. I didn''t venture into Grimsby or Cleethorpes and declined all media duties that I could. There was no getting out of the match day stuff - before and after - but everything else could jump off a cliff.


    On Friday night I found myself in the local pub again, drinking another beer. That was definitely not a habit I wanted to get into, but I was feeling extremely morose. All my friends were in Chester preparing for home matches that would be ninety minutes of riotous slapping whereas in the morning, I would board a team coach with a literal busload of people who resented me, and four hours later we''d arrive in Sutton.


    The squad''s morale was low, which made the chances of winning much harder. But if we lost, we''d get even more miserable and the following match would be harder. I would be in charge of eight matches with the potential for a ninth if that would make a difference. There were things I could do in the first matches to help us win the later ones. Specifically, giving minutes to good players who weren''t match fit. But using unfit players meant we were more likely to lose. So I could get players fit and watch our morale sink or I could try to get a win and boost morale but by matches 6 and 7 when I desperately needed more bodies, I wouldn''t have them.


    The more I considered how the squad had been mismanaged, the more I realised I was going to end this side quest with a massive stain on my CV - relegation and a zero win percentage - plus a ton more enemies, and not a single penny of my fifty thousand pound bonus.


    "You look like you need another," said the pub guy. He was the perfect Yorkshire pub landlord, though I had to keep reminding myself this wasn''t Yorkshire. Other gruff northern-but-distant counties existed.


    "Worried about the match tomorrow. What team do you support?"


    "Scunny, course." That was the nickname for the team down the road. The team''s full name contains a rude word that gets blocked on some platforms so I won''t ever be using it.


    "There''s a good few teams round here," I said, trying to orient myself. "Hull''s not far. Doncaster Rovers. Lincoln City. I''ll have to see if I can get to some matches while I''m in the area."


    "You''re one of those 92 people, are you?"


    "What''s that?"


    "You go to the 92 stadiums." That was a hobby akin to Trainspotting. People went ground hopping and when they''d completed the set... they told people about it? I had no clue what came next, but there were worse ways to explore the country.


    "Oh! Yeah, something like that."


    "Get yoursel'' to Blundell Park, then, while they''re still in the league. Mark my words, Town are going down. How about that pint?"


    Town going down. Urgh. "Yeah, one more, but then cut me off or I''ll start filming TikToks." I handed him the twenty pound note.


    His moustache wobbled and he wandered off.


    ***


    Saturday, March 9


    To sit four hours motionless and to then go and play football is absolutely crazy and for the first time, I had some sympathy for those megaclubs who took 17-minute flights. They were climate criminals, yes, but I could understand the desire to avoid these long, tedious road trips.


    For the first ten minutes of the journey I was getting steamed up thinking of the many and various ways I could make Simon Green come to harm. When boarding, he had expressed surprise that I was travelling with the squad, asking if I didn''t prefer to go in my car. There was absolutely no snark or sarcasm in his voice so I couldn''t lash out, but of course when he got to the back of the coach he told his goons what he''d done and there was a huge roar of approval.


    Look before you leap, Max...


    For the next couple of hours, I took the opportunity to revisit my mental doom loop, but when I started seeing famous landmarks in London, I cheered up a bit. It was like being a tourist. Maybe I''d get a curse achievement when I ''completed'' the 92 league stadiums. And whatever happened today, I''d get a ton of XP for the first time in a while. Old Nick would be happy. Maybe I could get him to chain Simon Green to a radiator for a while. Not long. Just, like, six weeks.


    The closer we got to the stadium, the more my excitement returned. I was about to do battle! My first match as a manager in the football league. I thought about my advantages - smooth changes in formation, being able to tweak individual instructions at the speed of thought, Masterpiece Theatre, Cupid''s Arrow, Free Hit. Yes, this could be one of my toughest games yet, but I had a few tricks up my sleeve.


    It was far too early to have my pulse racing so much, so to calm down I thought about my plan.


    My first line up as a manager in the EFL was a bit of a mess, but I was horribly limited by what my predecessor had done.


    My goalie had CA 75 and was not a problem, though I soon realised the fans thought he was awful and were on his case, just in case my task was getting too easy.


    The back four was something of a source of strength. I had a left back with CA 88 - Jayden Ward. Top quality, though like the goalie he''d maxed out his potential. The right back was CA 82. He had played in midfield most of the season and me using him in the defence soon turned into a point of contention between me and, well, between me and everyone else in the entire world, it seemed. One centre back was the captain, Mike Dobson, with CA 77. Couldn''t really leave out the captain for no reason. John Windmill was the other one. He had CA 80. He had played most of the season at right back, which was laughable really because he was incredibly slow. At centre back his high positioning and heading would be valuable and his limitations wouldn''t be so noticeable.


    So far, so good. I did have another centre back option. Ed Williams was CA 83 and if I''d been playing a football manager game I''d have thrown him straight into the team. But as I said, I didn''t want to drop the captain and Williams hadn''t played much. The rumour was he had fallen out of favour with the previous manager. He was one I was very keen to get some minutes into, not least because he''d been training great.


    One super interesting thing about him - his player profile had him listed as CB/ST. A centre back who could play striker? That... that was amazing. I very quickly developed an irrational love for him then just as quickly tried to suppress it in case he turned out to be a traitor.


    The two midfielders were the abysmal Simon Green (57) and the acceptable Greg Brothers (71). On the bench I had the beautiful DM Alex Evans (90) who I wanted to use sparingly and allowing him to skip Sutton was an obvious place to save his legs.


    The left winger was Mal, 69, but on the right I had some proper quality. Graduate of the Grimsby academy and all-round golden boy Danny Grant. He was 25 years old and had unlocked 85 of his potential 108 ability points. He was dreamy. If I died, I wanted Emma to get with him. Unless he was a traitor in which case - chain him to a radiator.


    Up front was the overrated Danny Flash, simply because the third option was a CA 38 seventeen-year-old. Not sure why he was included in the first team squad. Presumably Wolfie thought he was a hot prospect, but I knew he had a PA of 57. Tyson and Ziggy would do better. (I planned to kick the teenager into the reserves or whatever, along with a few other players, so I could focus more training minutes on players I would actually use. But because of my legendary patience and tact, I hadn''t dived in two-footed. I was looking, and any leaps would come later, after we''d beaten Sutton and I was in a position of power.)


    And finally, the key to Grimsby''s survival, the main man, the sound and the fury, the whoop-there-it-is, the yeah-yeah-yeah, Marcus Wainwright. On 2,500 a week, he was one of the only players paid commensurate to his considerable gifts. He was CA 95, PA 104 and if he proved to be one of the four traitors - not that I believed in any of that - then I was fucked and Town were truly down.


    All in all, an average CA of 76.2 with a couple of decent guys on the bench and a few others I would give minutes to in the desperate hope that they might add 5 or 6 points of CA in my time at the club. It was very possible I''d need every CA point I could get.


    ***


    We crawled our way through London to the wonderfully named Gander Green stadium. On the way, I discovered that they play on PowerGrass and that was a twenty minute rabbit hole. WTF was PowerGrass? It seemed like an artificial base with real grass growing through it. Something for Chester?


    We parked and I tried not to think about the difference between me and Sandra. Me, alone, researching grass. Sandra, walking around the Deva stadium taking selfies and joking with our match day stewards.


    I pottered around Sutton''s stadium for a while - after our positive negotiations over Eddie Moore I had more friends in their director''s box than on my own team bus. I talked to the referees - they thought it was hilarious that such a young guy was managing a match and made jokes about them bringing rattles and dummies (pacifiers) just in case I threw one of my tantrums. I filled the team sheet in right there in the referee''s room because I didn''t want to talk to my staff, and, feeling just a little bit less cocky than normal, headed back to the dressing room to make all the announcements before the first warm ups. That didn''t happen; Sutton''s media person came to get me for the media stuff.


    ***


    They had a little press room with the sponsor logos on the wall behind me and seats for maybe twelve journalists. I was used to being questioned by one local journo. Today there were four. The number put me on edge. Or maybe that feeling was because I had slept with one-quarter of the reporters. Once the questions started, my nerves turned to excitement. So much media interest! I was moving up to bigger and better things.


    And, for the first time since I''d had lunch with Chris, there were some people who really wanted to talk to me. The week''s isolation might have made me a bit more garrulous.


    Fred Hook, Surrey Comet. Hi, Max. It''s your first job managing at this level. Are you nervous?


    Nervous? I don''t know the meaning of the word. No, seriously, I''m deeply stupid. I don''t know many words. It''s part of why I became a football manager. No-one notices if you make grammar mistakes.


    It''s your first job managing at this level. How do you feel?


    Ooh, vaguely apprehensive. Sort of a tightness in the chest. Sort of a nagging uncertainty. Like, I''m being eaten by metaphysical doubts. Kind of got this feeling that nothing will ever be all right ever again for so long as I live. [Laughs] I mean, you say it''s my first match at this level but I''ve managed against Salford and Walsall. Boom! Fact checked! Will this be on TikTok?


    Becky Stead, BBC Radio Humberside. Your appointment has been quite controversial. What do you have to say to your critics?


    Nothing. What? I don''t get it. Why would I talk to them?


    They want to be reassured that you''re the right person for the job. I mean, you seem to be committed to Chester. Don''t you think Grimsby fans deserve a manager who only thinks about them?


    They don''t have managers, now, they have head coaches. Boom! You got fact checked. I''m good at this.


    What do you say to the people of Grimsby who don''t believe in you?


    [Blows air through lips] Er... nothing, really. It''s not Ted Lasso. You don''t win by looking at the word believe while sentimental music plays. You win by individual skill and collective effort. You win by having a strategy and implementing it. I mean... There''s like eight billion people who don''t believe in me. I don''t really spend a lot of time worrying about it. Just get behind the team.


    Many feel that the team has let them down.


    Has it? I don''t know about that. They''ve had a lot of ups and downs in recent years and this has been a bad season, sure. But there''s still time to make sure it''s a bad season, dust yourselves off, go again next year. It doesn''t have to be a disaster. One advantage Grimsby Town has over some of the teams at the bottom of League Two is its fans. When they get going, they really get going. If it''s possible for us to get the faith back, great, but we''ve got a run of tough games. We could find ourselves on a very sticky wicket. As a fan you might say, ugh [bleep] those guys, bin them all off. Fine, okay, but that doesn''t help. There might be a match where we''re stinking the place up and we''re a goal down after an hour and it''s up to the fans. Do they boo and hiss and we go on to lose? Or do they get insanely supportive based on absolutely nothing, just blind faith, and the players respond and we turn it round? Like, it goes both ways, doesn''t it? I can''t ask for anything from these fans. All I can do is try to get a tune out of the players and, with a bit of luck, that''ll be enough. What happens in the stands is out of my control.


    You''ve been known to whip up the crowd now and again.


    Ah, that was an imbalance in my zinc. I''m taking supplements and it''s all good now. I won''t be doing any more of that.


    You did it last Saturday.


    Nah, a while ago I was talking movies with this fan and I happened to spot him in the Harry McNally Terrace that day. I forgot the name of a film he recommended so I went over to ask him and then all the players surrounded me and I couldn''t hear the end of what he said. The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a something. Urgh. So frustrating.


    What are your thoughts on the match today?


    Yeah big game in the season. The game itself will be cagey, I think. Not sure there will be a lot of goalmouth action and I think there will be some tension because obviously it sets the tone and the maths for what comes next. I would like for us to play with freedom and togetherness and yeah for the players to show the fans that they are fit to wear the shirt.


    [I think we have to let Max get back to his team.]


    Hang on. Beth. No questions from you?


    No, Max.


    Huh. Now that makes me nervous.


    ***


    Back in the dressing room, I stood at the front by the tactics board and - to my surprise - people didn''t instantly shut up. I looked at Coach G and Mike Dobson. They saw me and did nothing. I was getting pretty fucking sick of all this BS, now. I could just about let it slide during the week but on match days they needed to get in line.


    "Shut the fuck up," I said, and a few people did. One who kept talking was Simon Green and I briefly saw red. I went and peered into his face. "Quiet, please," I snarled. "I''m going to give the team talk now."


    He tsked. "Nah, mate. Not interested in what you''ve got to say. Non-league manager, non-league car, non-league money. Me? I''m on big money coz I know how to play this league. We all do. Don''t need you."


    "Oh," I said, superficially calm. I know a few people who would have fled if they''d seen me. "I understand. But I''m the manager, right? I pick the team. I can unpick you."


    He shook his head and slapped the guy next to him on the upper arm. "This fucking noob! You''ve handed the team in. You can''t change it, you knob. What a fucking loser. What was Haley thinking?"


    Haley was Chris Hale. Outside this room, there wasn''t a single person in the country who would dare to call him that. Why did this shit footballer think he had the right? There were so many ways I could handle this. So, so many. I tilted my head, checking for radiators, but decided I''d make everyone proud of me. I would handle this piece of shit exactly how the Brig would were he in my shoes. I nodded. "Right. You''ve got me. Completely outplayed. Put me in my place good and proper, haven''t you?"


    "That''s right, you povvy clown. Now sit down and watch the professionals."


    "Good idea," I said, and left. When the team came out for the last time I was in the dugout, doing nothing.


    Physio Byram sat next to me. He leaned and spoke softly as the rest of the staff and subs came to fill in the spaces. "Max, er... This is a tough environment. You''ve got to stand up for yourself more. Believe in yourself more."


    He was trying to help. That cheered me up. "Thanks, dude. I think I believe in myself an appropriate amount." I twinkled at him, but kick off was imminent so I put my game face on. There was a lot more fanfare and messing about in the EFL than in non-league, but finally the match kicked off. Two seconds later, I leapt to my feet. "Lino," I said, talking to the fourth official. "Sub."


    "You''re joking," he said.


    "Do I look like I''m joking?"


    "Fuck sake, what are you doing?" said Coach G, as Tommy Blair, CA 65, came to the side of the pitch. A guy I probably wouldn''t sign for Chester but amazingly, he would be an upgrade on the guy who was leaving the pitch. We were losing some morale, gaining some CA, but most of all, setting a boundary.


    At the next break in play, a dazed-looking Simon Green trudged off the pitch. I got the junior physio to pretend to look at his ankle. "Here''s the deal," I said, pulling Coach G into our little huddle. "You two are going to take this person to the dressing room. He''s going to get changed. He''s going to leave. If he''s in this stadium at half time I will get both of you fired." I paused to check they understood me, then turned to Green. "This is the last time you and I will ever communicate. We''ll say that you''ve got an ankle knock and you tried to play - so brave! - but that it''s fucked. You''ll stay away from us for the rest of the season. Okay? That''s that. But if you open your fucking mouth, start talking shit about me or my wonderful car, then I will fucking pile in and destroy you. I will start by telling the people of Grimsby and the world of football exactly what sort of person you are. That''s it. Get fucked."


    "But my appearance bonus!"


    "You should be more worried about how you''re getting home, mate."


    Several seconds after I turned away, they shuffled off down the tunnel and the fourth official stared at me. He''d been listening. I didn''t mind too much; refs were pretty discreet. The story would get round, but slowly. "Fuck me, Best. We heard some stories about you we didn''t believe. You''re absolutely savage."


    "Nah," I said, with a weight off my shoulders. I hadn''t dived in two-footed and I had looked before I leaped. It felt pretty good. "That was me on my best behaviour. If you want to see savage, come and watch us play Darlington on the last game of the season." Nothing on the pitch needed my immediate attention so I got a water bottle from the physio''s box.


    Byram was giving me a strange look. "There I was telling you to toughen up. You must think I''m an idiot."


    I became aware that all the coaches and subs were listening. Suddenly they were taking me a lot more seriously. Funny, that. "I''m a 23-year-old Director of Football and I manage and play in the National League North. Twice a week my ankles and shins get mashed to a pulp." I took in some water. "I don''t need lessons in toughness and I don''t need lessons in football. I will get what I want from this football club." I pointed down the tunnel towards traitor number one. "Believe that, or start walking."


    I took one last swig and glanced at the other dugout. My rival was watching the scene and I got the strongest sense that he knew exactly what had happened and why. He glanced at me and we had this madly intense moment. We were two men doing the loneliest, hardest job in football and no-one else in the stadium knew how horrible it was, how stressful, how addictive. He smiled, I smiled, and we turned our full attention to smashing the shit out of each other.

 7.9 - Expected Threat

    9.


    Windmill tries a pass to the midfield, but it''s nearly intercepted.


    Brothers recovers. He plays it out wide.


    Danny Grant gets his head down, knocks it past the left back, and he''s away!


    He looks up and sends a cross to the far post.


    The goalie punches away.


    It falls to Mehew - he sends it back to the penalty spot.


    Wainwright with the header!


    Just wide!


    This has been a very bright start from the away team.


    4-2-4 was slapping. When we got the ball we tried to get it to Mahew on the left or our star boy, Danny Grant, on the right. They could dribble or cross as they wanted and we had two guys waiting in the penalty area. If we did these moves fast enough we cut out Sutton''s defensive midfielders. Our attacks were four against four, at least in the first phase.


    Our defenders looked solid, overall. The captain, Mike Dobson, was on six out of ten and wasn''t passing the eye test. There was something off about him but I couldn''t put my finger on it. In possession, though, their limitations were apparent. Jayden Ward, the left back, could play, and the right back had played most of the season as a midfielder so he could play a pass, but the two centre backs were very insecure technically.


    Okay, no problem. It was my job to get them to do what they were good at and avoid doing things they couldn''t. I dipped into their personal instructions and got them to play direct passes (instead of short). Dobson would hit the left, Windmill the right. While I was tweaking, I stopped my full backs from making forward runs and did the same with my central midfielders. We would have six in the rest defence and attack with four. The balance looked good to me.


    A quick note to put your mind at ease - when making these changes I gestured and yelled random syllables. Sometimes I stuck one finger up and rotated two other fingers around it. Sometimes I described circles with one hand, or both, or pointed wildly. Just theatre, but the video analysts wouldn¡¯t be wondering when I made the changes I made. And, of course, sometimes I did a whole performance when I wasn¡¯t changing anything. You know, to worry my opposing number.


    What else? We got a couple of free kicks and I got the option to use my Free Hit perk to boost our chances of scoring. I''d save that until we had a shot in a good position or ideally a penalty. Marcus Wainwright would take any pens we got, while Danny Grant looked the most likely to hit a good corner and free kick. I''d already set them as the takers before kick off. Masterpiece Theatre allowed me to tweak the positions of players at set pieces. To start with, I didn''t change much; I wanted to get an idea of the sort of threat we posed in the default state. I did, though, adjust where a couple of people stood, putting them in positions I thought they were more likely to get second balls. In other words, when a defender cleared the ball with a header or the goalie came to punch, where would the ball go? I felt I was pretty good at anticipating that sort of thing.


    Time passed and Sutton United''s manager, Bill Turner, was looking worried. Every time I looked he was having deep chats with his assistant. I''d learned in the World Cup that it was great to have a sounding board and that I worked better with someone to talk to. The only problem was everyone on my side of the halfway line was a dick. Maybe I could give him five hundred quid to loan his assistant for the second half?


    Dobson clears to the left - a rather aimless pass.


    Mehew competes for the header but loses out.


    Blair scampers and slides in.


    The ball breaks to Ward. He plays a nice pass into midfield where Brothers collects.


    He''s in a lot of space. He plays a nice through ball...


    Wainwright collects. Danger now!


    Wainwright picks a nice pass to Flash...


    But Flash is offside.


    "Fuck!" I yelled, eyeing a water bottle and feeling an almost overwhelming urge to kick it. I picked it up and moved it away then went back to patrolling my area.


    That was a great move, the best in the match so far, and Danny Flash had brought it to a shuddering halt with his lazy movement. How the fuck can you be paid three thousand pounds a week and be so fucking clueless?


    Another five minutes passed in very much the same way - we attacked down the sides and if our winger won his duel, we got a cross in. Poor quality chances, but chances. We''d had four shots, Sutton none.


    I got the sense that Bill Turner and his assistant had worked out what was happening and were nearly ready to tweak their formation. So I changed from 4-2-4 to 4-4-2, mostly to fuck with them but also because it was more solid and a draw wasn''t a terrible result for us. It also put the wide players in even more space and allowed us to get the ball out from defence even more reliably.


    And, of course, as soon as Turner locked onto our shape, I changed it. This was so much fun! It made putting up with all the social crap worth it.


    Flash wins a header. Nicely into the path of Grant.


    He''s forced wide. Looks for support.


    Wainwright moves over and plays a one-two with Grant.


    Nice football from Grimsby but Sutton have bodies back in the box.


    Grant hits a cross.


    It''s easily cleared.


    I bit my nails. Scoring was going to be a problem. We were on top but we weren''t exactly peppering the goal. If we kept going as we were, eventually Wainwright or Danny Grant would get some shots. If those guys got five shots from good positions, we''d score one or two goals. If we defended well, we would concede zero or one. Over the course of a season, playing like that would get you into the top half of the table.


    In our current situation, where we had to gain more points than Forest Green Rovers over a ten-match stretch, we couldn''t rely on statistical variance to bail us out. We needed more goals.


    I set Tommy Blair to ''make forward runs''. Now we would have five in our attacks and five in the rest defence.


    Mehew with the ball on the left. Blair runs to support.


    Mehew tries to take his man on...


    It comes to nothing.


    But Sutton can break!


    They attack through the centre. There are yellow shirts everywhere!


    Dobson slides in - foul! The referee plays a good advantage.


    Danger here for Grimsby.


    The shot comes in!


    Great block by Windmill.


    The ball breaks to the left of goal...


    Wide! Conor Quinn did just enough.


    I pressed the ''allow heart to resume beating'' button and smashed the ''try not to show the horror on your face'' option. Then I very much stopped Blair from making forward runs.


    When my knees had stopped wobbling, I shuffled around my technical area. This was hard. Using all my tricks I could just about get into the ascendency - which was bonkers because despite our flaws we were a much better team than Sutton. Their morale wasn''t as bad as ours, though, and all their players were match fit.


    The most I could do, as far as I could tell, was what I was doing - get slightly more shots in slightly better positions and hope for the best.


    My instinct was that Bill Turner, if he changed anything, would do so at half time, so I allowed myself to relax, just for a minute. Gander Green Lane was a funny one. There were a few covered stands and some curved, uncovered terraces that hinted there had been an athletics track by the side of the pitch once upon a time. In fact, much of the stadium looked ancient. The most modern thing was the mascot - Jenny the Giraffe. With half time imminent, she had appeared by the side of the pitch. Someone was wearing a generic animal costume under a Sutton United kit, and then a four-foot-long giraffe head. Ugly and absolutely bonkers. I could say the same about the grotesque TV tower, but the new stand for away fans was simple and modern. We had a few hundred in there and they were trying to make some noise.


    Two minutes left in the half and I was quite drained. So many decisions under so much pressure. What about one quick punt? Or was it better to keep things tight? Where''s my fearless football? said the disembodied voice of a girl from Newcastle.


    Okay, let''s get funky. I switched to 4-4-2 diamond with Brothers as an okay DM and Blair badly out of position on the right. To mitigate that, I turned him into a blocker - no forward runs, just stand there and don''t do anything stupid. As the CAM I had Danny Grant - a position he was perfectly suited for.


    Sutton had two defensive midfielders so in theory this formation should have crashed and burned, but it was something I could try that was defensively rock solid and who knew? Maybe the DMs would think Grant would be picked up by the other one.


    With time in the half running out, a hopeful hoof from Windmill was won by Marcus Wainwright. He nodded it back to Grant who took a long-range shot that had the keeper bricking it. By the time it hit the stand behind, it looked like it had gone well wide, but I knew, and Bill Turner knew, that it had been the closest thing to a goal in the first half.


    We finished with seven shots to Sutton''s two. Still nil-nil and to the outside world it must have looked like I barely did anything. I rubbed my temples on the way to the dressing room. That had been fucking gruelling.


    ***


    The first thing I did was check that fuckface wasn''t hiding in the showers. The second thing was to grab some marathon paste and sit in the corner, ready for my couple of minutes of quiet downtime. A walk through my garden of mental contemplation.


    Now, a lot of people think I''m pretty stupid but I don''t think that''s entirely fair. I listen and I reflect and sometimes I make changes. When I read Beth''s article it made me realise that I was unconsciously poking at buttons that only I could see. With a lot of effort, I''d made sure I stopped doing that, but how did it look when I suddenly announced that other teams had changed their formation?


    My imperfect solution was to spend some of my growing bank balance on a luxury item - a third-hand Apple watch. I liked Apple products and if I got my fifty thousand bonus I planned to upgrade my phone and buy some of those five hundred quid headphones. As something for my daily life the Apple watch didn''t interest me in the slightest and the thought of being constantly tracked and monitored down to my pulse rate made me feel almost sick to my stomach.


    But after ten seconds with my eyes closed, I put it on my wrist. It wasn''t connected to my phone but the screen did flash when I moved my wrist up.


    The idea, as the brightest among you have guessed, was to use it as a prop, a way to explain how I knew what was going on. Perhaps the other manager had told the BBC his plans for the second half. Perhaps one of the players had written an angry tweet about being subbed off. Or maybe I had a friend watching on a stream and he was using an ''AI computer'' to predict what would happen next. As soon as Sutton''s tactics changed I would bring the watch closer and pretend to read a text message.


    Genius.


    The room was almost full, now, with players talking and complaining and generally being about 20% noisier than I wanted. Then Coach G came in and clapped his hands. "Good work, lads, well played. Good half. Get your heads straight, now, and we''ll have more of the same. Keep it tight first ten and hit them on counters."


    With tremendous effort, I got to my feet and wobbled towards him. As I got nearer, my vision sharpened and I felt alive again, "Gareth," I mumbled, for such was his name. I nodded towards the door. He understood I was asking to speak to him outside and didn''t bother to try to hide the resentment.


    Still, he obeyed, and I waited for a couple of randos to go past. "You seem to be giving players tactical instructions, mate."


    He looked up and exhaled in a big show of being patient. "Getting them hyped for the second half."


    "You don''t know what we''re going to do in the second half. Maybe I want a fast start, in which case what you''ve just said is the exact opposite. Do you get me? Hit them on counters? How can we do a counter when they keep six back at all times?"


    "Nah, I just meant..." I waited to hear what he meant, but he never finished the sentence.


    I shook my head. Like most Proper Football Men he had a stock of set phrases that he used again and again, like a tourist ordering dos cervezas even if he only wanted one. The phrases grated on me at the best of times, but now they were being used on my team. I snapped, just a little bit. "Okay, tell you what. You stick to undermining me at training and talking shit about me in your little playground cliques, yeah? I don''t see how that helps the fucking club survive but hey! Maybe that''s just my inexperience. On match days, in stadiums, I''ll do the talking."


    I gave him one last glare and burst into the dressing room where I found Mike Dobson was the only voice. He was berating Tommy Blair for being out of position on Sutton''s one major break.


    "Cut that out," I said, and Dobson''s mouth stopped running, mid-word. I think he was just that surprised. I pointed to Blair. "I told him to do that. That''s on me. Anything you want to say to me, mate?"


    He popped his head forward like an angry turtle, but he wasn''t completely stupid. "No."


    Everyone was watching. I turned my head this way and that and raised a finger. "There''s some fucking weird stuff going on in here." I made eye contact with a few players at random. "If anyone needs a bollocking, it''ll come from me. Guys doing five and six out of ten performances don''t get to slag other guys off. Do your job. That''s it. Everyone shut the fuck up for five minutes."


    While I sat back on the corner of the bench and drank water - I felt a dehydration headache coming on - I watched Sutton''s tactics board. It switched from 4-2-3-1 to 4-5-1 and back again. In recent months they had sometimes used 4-4-2, but that would involve making a substitution and Bill Turner didn''t much trust his second striker. I thought there was a good chance of seeing 4-4-2 if we took the lead and Sutton really had to push for a goal. But I felt comfortable expecting some sort of 4-5-1 variant.


    "Right," I said, going to the tactics board. "I reckon I know what''s coming second half. We''ll switch to 4-1-4-1. Alex replacing Danny Flash." That was a big swing in CA. We''d start the second half with 79.7. The natural range for teams in League Two, based on my experience, was between 75 and 90. A few big spenders had distorted that this season, but I felt pretty confident the numbers would check out long term. We were close to 80, then, which meant we had the talent of a mid-table team. If I''d taken over Grimsby at the start of January I would have been looking for a playoff push. "We''ll control the game and look to get quality shots while shutting them out of it. Any questions?"


    Danny Flash looked like he had a few questions, but given he was four hours from home he decided to keep them saved for a rainy day. (He wouldn''t have to wait long to get them off his chest.)


    No-one wanted to speak, which I took to mean everyone thought my tactics were optimal and could not be improved upon. "Top. I''ve got three more subs to make and will be making them. I''ll make two around the hour mark. That''s it. Get out there."


    I had delivered the antithesis of the usual half-time team talk. There was no heat or passion in my voice. I turned to Coach G to see if he had any thoughts about it because if he wanted heat and passion he could bally well have some. He had his arms folded and looked surly and resentful.


    Well played, Max!


    ***


    As soon as the second half started I felt a wave of exhaustion crash into me and I sat on the bench beside Byram, head in my hands.


    "Are you all right?" he asked.


    "No. You ever have those dreams where you try to run but can''t?"


    "Yes."


    "I feel like that but what''s holding me back is the players and staff of Grimsby fucking Town. Have you got any paracetamol?"


    He gave me one and I popped it while seething about what had happened at half time. Coach G, man. Grabbing onto me while I''m trying to break into a sprint. I spent a couple of unproductive minutes replaying the incidents with him and Dobson knowing I could have handled both better. I snapped out of the funk and spent a couple of minutes tweaking individual instructions.


    The two centre backs had an easy passing option, now. Alex Evans was a hybrid of me and Youngster - not as tenacious as Youngster, not as technical as me, but man did I like seeing him on the pitch in his proper position. I set Alex as our playmaker and put the centre backs on short passing. Our right-hand side was quite strong, with Conor Quinn motoring at right back and Danny Grant at right mid, so I set Alex''s tendency to ''right''. If that got too predictable I''d switch it to left for a while, or give him the choice himself.


    Up top, Marcus was ploughing a lone furrow. I switched him to pressing ¡®no¡¯ so that he wouldn''t exhaust himself on futile defensive duties. When his chance came, I wanted him fresh.


    With fifty minutes gone, the match was still finely poised, but we really had taken control. My biggest fear was that Sutton would man-mark Alex, but at the same time, that could have worked in our favour. Bill Turner didn''t risk it.


    The next five minutes were pretty glorious. We played neat, tidy, progressive football very much in the Let It Happen mould.


    Evans collects the pass and sweeps it right to Quinn.


    Quinn to Grant. Grant passes inside.


    Brothers to Blair. Blair to Evans.


    Evans chips the ball behind the defender.


    Can Grant get there?


    He can! He whips in a smart first time cross, low.


    Wainwright reacts fastest - it''s just a fraction too far in front of him.


    He slides at the ball...


    But it dribbles just wide!


    Generous applause from the away fans.


    Huh? Really? I realised I''d tuned them out. I didn''t have the slightest sort of connection to them so I couldn''t go over there and start whipping them up. I''d been warned that if I left my technical area to go chat to fans or whatever, I''d get an instant yellow card. Three yellows would be a one-match ban. Fine in Chester, since if I got a day off I could go for a long weekend with Ems, or I could play and let Sandra manage. Not sure how that would work - presumably the curse would let me manage even if Sandra''s name was written on the team sheet. Yeah, fine in Chester, but I couldn''t get a ban during my eight games in charge of Grimsby. If I did that, I''d have no defence against people who thought I was a prize idiot.


    The minutes ticked by and we had more possession and were the only team getting shots away. They weren''t good shots; they weren''t quality chances. I wondered if Neo would be calculating the xG. Expected Goals was a way to assess the value of shots instead of just the number. A shot from the halfway line was worth very little. A shot from six inches away from the goal line was worth a lot.


    I reckoned we''d had five chances worth about half a goal in the second half. If we kept going, surely we¡¯d get a slice of luck¡­


    Around fifty-five minutes, the match became a lot more scrappy. Bitty. We struggled to put a passing sequence together. I checked Sutton''s tactics and couldn''t find anything different. The match ratings hadn''t moved much - we had a lot of guys on sixes and sevens and so did Sutton.


    My gut told me to look at Mal Mehew on the left, and indeed he seemed quite tired. He hadn''t played much in the last few months - he''d fallen out with the previous manager. I went through the motions of swapping him out for Greg Fasanmade. Greg was 20 and had CA 60, PA 67. Not really good enough for League Two but he was fresh and had a left foot.


    As Mal came off, I pulled him into my area. "Good job, dude. You ran out of steam a bit there, yeah?"


    "Yeah. Sorry."


    "Not your fault, mate. Not your fault. Last guy didn''t use left mids much, did he?"


    Something flashed across his face. "No."


    "Well I need you. Reckon you can give me half on Tuesday night?"


    His morale jumped up. "Yes!"


    I smiled. "Mate. Take a deep breath. You''re not fit. You haven''t played. Look inside and tell me if I can get thirty minutes or a full half."


    He gave me a quizzical smile back. "Half, boss. I promise."


    I slapped him on the back. "Top man. If you wake up on Monday morning and think you might have overstated things, you''ll tell me, yeah?"


    "Yeah."


    "Off you pop."


    I went back to my spot, the little patch of my area that had the best feng shui, and scanned the pitch. We now had an average CA of 78.9. Very acceptable, to be honest, but we had much less threat on the left. It was a shame we didn''t have a proper good Aff-type left midfielder because that would have unlocked Jayden Ward at left back. He looked like he''d enjoy marauding up and down the pitch.


    Sutton had a little spell where they got into our half for longer, but as we retreated the defence clicked into place. Coach G, the dick, knew how to get them shuffling and sliding.


    One slick pass from Alex put Greg in a dangerous position and Sutton realised they''d overextended themselves. Greg made a hash of his cross but the move pushed them back into a more defensive posture.


    With sixty minutes on the clock I made another change. Greg Brothers had worked hard in the middle of the pitch but I wanted to give Devonte Payne some minutes. So on went the CA 71 attacking midfielder with the high defensive skills. I put him on the right and moved Danny Grant to the middle.


    A few minutes passed in relative peace, but I started to get anxious. How were we going to score? I had to get proactive. I tried to get weird. Since Payne had such defensive skills, I set him to man-mark Sutton''s left back. It made very little tactical sense, since the left back wasn''t hurting us in any way. But it was something I could do to change things up without risking our defensive structures.


    At the same time I made Danny Grant our playmaker.


    Nothing happened at first. But then...


    Jones receives the pass.


    But Payne is on him like a flash! The attempted clearance squirts up into the air.


    Payne wins the header and slide tackles the ball into the centre.


    Grant with an exquisite first-time chip!


    Wainwright is there. He takes it on the volley...


    Off the crossbar!


    What a strike! But the ball rebounds to safety.


    The crossbar is still rattling.


    "Can I have another tablet, please?"


    ***


    With twenty minutes left, it was still nil-nil, my tactics were still working. I had one substitution left that I could make and in some ways it was a no-brainer.


    On the bench I had the backup goalie - not an option.


    I had a twenty-one year old CA 63 left back. He was called Alfie Grimwood and I liked that his name had Grim in it. Changing a full back is one of the safest moves in football. The new guy has fresh legs and is mentally alert. In the coming weeks, I might need Alfie to play a few minutes here and there, but he was a big step down from Jayden Ward so I was hoping I might get away with keeping Ward on most of the time.


    The last option was Ed Williams. He was the centre back who could play striker. He had CA 83 and had been bombed out of the squad by the last manager. That meant he''d probably started the season at CA 90, maybe even 95. If he could do a job for me in the coming weeks, he''d be a real asset. But managers generally didn''t swap centre backs if they could help it - it was probably the move that was most likely to lead to a goal.


    I couldn''t exactly chuck Ed on as a striker, though, and my only formation with three centre backs was 3-5-2. If I used that, I''d lose Alex Evans as DM.


    No, my heart said Ed Williams on at centre back, and my head was on the same page. The only slight difference in opinion was that my heart wanted me to take Mike Dobson off, while my head said I couldn''t sub off my captain with the match in the state it was.


    So I went through the steps to replace John Windmill. He was having a good game - seven out of ten - but Williams was much faster and actually had three points more CA.


    Good decision. Good process.


    Of course, it instantly bit me in the arse.


    Good play from Sutton. The ball is moved wide right.


    A slight mix-up between Ward and Fasanmade and the winger is to the byline.


    He sends in a lovely cross. The keeper starts to come but thinks better of it.


    Ed Williams rises to clear. He gets a good head on it.


    But the ball smashes into the back of Dobson!


    They went for the same header.


    The ball bounces loose...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Smashed home by a gleeful Sutton player!


    He''ll never have an easier finish!


    I walked up and down my technical area, trying to keep my face neutral. What happened was dumb luck. Two slight moments of hesitation and miscommunication. Two instances of the sub-par teamwork you get when morale is low. There was absolutely no point getting mad at anyone in particular and to be fair, after about two seconds the brief spasm of rage was over.


    Bad luck, but would we get an equal amount of good luck at the other end of the pitch? Would we fuck.


    Some movement caught my eye and I saw Bill Turner yelling at his players. My heart pumped faster and my steps grew longer. Was he going to switch to a low block? Men behind ball and try to hold onto the lead?


    I would put Ed Williams as a striker and we''d have a fucking good go at them!


    But no. He was making a couple of minor tweaks. Players not allowed forward any more. I scratched my neck. Opponents at this level weren''t going to make it easy for me.


    I exhaled, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. At the end, I stopped Devonte Payne from marking his man, turned off the playmaker feature, and thought some more. I still had my perks up my sleeve. I put Danny Grant on the right - Payne should be able to battle in the middle of the pitch - and used Cupid''s Arrow to connect Grant to Wainwright. They would connect better for the next fifteen minutes.


    I realised I''d fallen onto my haunches and pushed myself up and resumed pacing around.


    A minute passed and Sutton looked very solid. The goal had given them a short-term injection of motivation. They had something to hold onto. Grant was causing a nuisance on the right but our left was weak. Sutton''s wide players weren''t getting forward, so I swapped our left back and left mid. Greg would stand uselessly in defence and Jayden Ward, CA 88, would have a starting point twenty yards higher.


    The game changed. We had threat from both sides, now, and the surprise element was incredibly helpful. I found myself regretting using Cupid''s Arrow on Danny Grant. Good as he was, the unexpected nature of our sudden strength on the left was even more potent.


    After a few minutes of close calls and lucky escapes, Bill Turner ordered his right mid to attack our feeble left back, and I had no choice but to swap the players back into their proper positions.


    Into the last ten minutes and I was hoping to get a set piece in a good area where we could use Free Hit to boost our chances.


    A pass from Danny Grant was taken by Wainwright with his back to goal. A centre back bundled him over. Yes! Perfect shooting opportunity! But the game kept flowing and all I could do was stand there with my arms outstretched. Referee!


    Eighty-five minutes gone and we got a corner. I smashed Free Hit and used Masterpiece Theatre to optimise our attacking threat. Grant hit the ball to the near post, as he liked to do, but I''d put Wainwright on the back post. Another small, small mistake and the first that was caused mostly by tiredness. Cupid''s Arrow ran out - the arrow between Grant and Wainwright on the tactics screen vanished - and I was all out of tricks.


    The formation and personnel were optimised. After a rough start, Ed Williams was on seven out of ten. Changing things could put us at risk of conceding a second. Losing two-nil to Sutton was about six times as embarrassing as losing one-nil.


    Fearless football.


    I mashed everyone into a 4-3-3. Wainwright, Williams, and Payne as the strikers and Alex Evans dropping into the centre back slot. The result was as close to carnage as this Grimsby squad was likely to muster - we had four shots in three minutes and were tearing through Sutton, who had weakened their centre to shore up their wings. Bill Turner caught on and shoved them back into 4-2-3-1. So I went back to 4-2-4 and had yet more joy. More giddy, desperate attacks.


    For the last minutes, Turner finally hit the panic button and fell into a 4-5-1 low block.


    We had Wainwright and Ed Williams in the mixer, two decent targets to hit. But the crosses were poorly directed and lacked belief.


    The referee blew the final whistle and the home dugout went bonkers. I didn''t move for quite some time. In my first match in the EFL, I''d lost to the 72nd best team. The worst team. They were now just one point behind us and they would take their boosted morale into their next fixtures, while our morale would dip even further, our fixtures would get even harder.


    My head was absolutely pounding but through the dreadful drumbeat I had just enough awareness to hear the Grimsby fans booing their team off the pitch. No doubt a decent percentage of the boos were aimed at me. Maxy No-Wins. Max Zero.


    ***


    I shook hands with Bill Turner and he said some stuff I didn''t hear. I think I mumbled something in return and headed down the tunnel. I suppose if you''d stopped me and asked me I''d have said I was going home, meaning the barn in Chester. Sutton''s media person had decided I was a bit of a dimwit and he intercepted me and dragged me to the press room.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Post-match press conferences have got to be one of the stupidest rituals yet devised by our species. Take one happy man and one unhappy man and ask them how they are feeling. Take half a sentence out of context and try to use it to generate clicks and hits.


    There were ways a manager could use these to their advantage, I knew, but right then and there it seemed wise to say as little as possible. Be as boring as possible, as uncontroversial as possible.


    The same four reporters were in the room. The main difference between the pre-match ''presser'' and this one was that Bill Turner was in a corridor not far away and his players and his staff were walking past cheering and praising him. Well in, Bill mate! Yes, get in! We are staying up, said we are staying up! And, of course, people were singing the Great Escape song.


    "Max?" The media guy was talking to me.


    I turned my head away from the doorway. "What?"


    "We''ve started."


    "You''re just going to leave that door open, are you?" He flushed slightly and got up and closed it. "I''m just thinking of the sound quality. Would hate to have to sue someone for misquoting me only to find out they were quoting some rando celebrating six inches away in the corridor."


    "Becky, could you start again please?"


    Becky Stead, BBC Radio Humberside. What did you make of that?


    What did I make of it? I don''t know how to answer that.


    It''s not what you were hoping for.


    Correct.


    You got your team selection wrong.


    Nope. That''s a good team.


    What happened with Simon Green?


    Twisted his ankle and tried to run it off but didn''t happen.


    Did something happen between the two of you?


    When? I just got here.


    So if you just got here how can you be sure you picked the right team?


    Because Messi wasn''t available. Who would you have picked, Becky?


    Fred Hook, Surrey Comet.


    What, are we not going to answer that? Saying I got it wrong implies you know what''s right. Teach me, Becky.


    Fine. You had players out of position throughout the game. Conor Quinn, for example. He''s a midfielder you played at right back. John Windmill, a right back, was at centre back. At various points you had left backs as wingers, defenders as strikers. Did I see Alex Evans at centre back?


    You did.


    So that''s what I mean.


    Okay. You''re observant, at least.


    You were scrambling around looking for a formation.


    That''s a fresh and interesting perspective. I''m sure there are many who will agree with you.


    Fred Hook, Surrey Comet. Max, there was a stark contrast between you and Bill Turner. He was animated and passionate. You were very static. Don''t you think fans want to see passion from their manager?


    Fans want lots of things.


    Do you have any message for the Grimsby fans?


    Thanks for your support.


    Is that all?


    Hey, what''s your name? Do you have a question?


    Me? I write copy for the Sutton United website. I''m nobody.


    Ask me a question.


    Oh. Er... What would you have done differently? I mean, what would you do differently? I mean, if you could -


    I get you, buddy. Different? We came with a good plan and mostly executed it well considering our form and fitness. First half was seven shots to two and we had a fair amount of control and looked solid. Would you change that? No reason to, is there? Second half we were even better, even more dominant. If this was the first game of the season I''d be pretty optimistic and with a couple of tweaks and maybe one or two clever bits of transfer business I''d be aiming for the playoffs. But given the league table, the next fixtures, and how many games are left, today''s result is awful. Awful. But most of the performances were good.


    What did you think of Bill Turner?


    Yeah he''s good. He reacts to what''s happening on the pitch, doesn''t make stupid mistakes, and he''s got good help from his people.


    Bethany Alban, Daily Mail. You looked lonely out there, Max.


    Nah. There''s like twenty people in our dressing room. That''s twenty new friends, isn''t it?


    Thanks for your time, Max.


    ***


    As I stepped out, Bill Turner invited me to have a glass of wine with him when he was done. That was a surprise. I told him I appreciated it but that I''d rather get going because it was four hours and it would be a miserable trip in every possible way. He said he understood and then went to crow to the media.


    I went to the dressing room and half our guys were still in the shower. I asked Byram to text me when the team bus was ready to go, then went back to the media room intending to get that glass of wine. The door was open - no-one seemed to give a shit about hearing the celebrations - and I listened for a minute.


    Turner finished answering some dumb question, then Beth introduced herself. "What did you make of Max Best?"


    Turner made some sort of spluttering noise and obviously pulled a face. Everyone laughed, including the media guy. Including Beth.


    I went back towards the dressing room and just sort of froze. I couldn''t go back thirty seconds after asking Byram to text me. I didn''t need people thinking I was indecisive on top of everything else they thought about me. There didn''t seem to be anything to do, so I made my way outside and stood in the cold.


    ***


    Byram: Nearly ready to go.


    Me: Thanks.


    I waited for almost everyone to get on the coach then boarded. My spot was near the front and I didn''t want anyone to talk to me. It took a couple of minutes to finish loading our gear into the storage compartment, then we pulled away.


    In my hyper-sensitive state, I became aware of some very inappropriate giggling and snickering from the back. I stood and shuffled next to the driver. "Pull into that petrol station there."


    "Can''t do that, mate."


    "Pull into it or in ten minutes you''ll be on the phone to your boss explaining how you lost the Grimsby Town contract."


    He gritted his teeth and made a big show of the turn. We filled the petrol station''s little car park and with a hydraulic hiss, we sank into place. I walked down the aisle to the back where I found - oh, look! - Simon Green, hiding behind Caine, a CA 62 right back. Caine had been the one who said The Duchess was dirtier than his side piece, so he was on my radar as a dick but he hadn''t done anything actionable.


    I gestured in the direction of Green. Off.


    "Oh, come on," said Coach G, who had come up behind me.


    "Mate, you don''t want me here and you''ve made that super, super clear. But I''m the manager of Grimsby Town. I''m the avatar of the fans and the face of the club and if someone has a pop at me they''re having a pop at the entire thing. Are you seriously telling me you think I should let this prick slag me off in front of the entire dressing room? Is that what you think? I should suck it up? Serious fucking question, mate. Would you let this slide? Would you let him talk to you like that?"


    "No."


    "So what the fuck are you doing? I said he''s off the team. I said I didn''t want to see him again. This is the team bus. It''s for the team. If you''re not one of us, you get off the bus. Get him off before I proper lose my temper."


    Caine had a death wish. "How''s he supposed to get home?"


    I felt my lips curl back and my hands form into fists. "With you, by the sounds of it."


    The guy shut up and sank back into his seat. It took a while, but Green eventually got off. I wanted to make him take his kit bag from the storage, but a bit of a jam had developed behind us, so I told the driver to go.


    The team bus crept forward, waiting for a gap in the traffic so we could get onto the main road. I''m sure Simon Green expected the bus to stop and the doors to open again. We emerged onto the road and as we crept away from him, Simon Green''s unshakeable morale finally cracked. When we finally vanished into the distance, he''d gone all the way from superb to abysmal.


    ***


    On Sunday I woke up crazy early and went for a walk to try to clear my head. It didn''t work, so I went back to the Taj Mahal and watched extended highlights of Sandra Lane''s blue and white army slapping Curzon Ashton all over the Deva. We won 3-0 but picked up a couple of minor injuries and one suspension. No big deal but it was all increasing the level of difficulty for Sandra. As talented as she was, she didn''t have much experience of such intense match day exertion and squad management. Unlike me, she had a lot of support around her if she needed it.


    Anyway, we had 90 points now and even the biggest worriers in the fanbase were starting to believe that yes, we were quite good. MD texted wishing me better luck on Tuesday and thanking me again for putting Chester back on its feet.


    I replied that he didn''t need to worry about me because I was off for a hike around the Wolds and I was sure to spot a hedgehog.


    I didn''t spot a hedgehog.


    ***


    Monday, March 11


    While I waited for everyone to arrive at Cheapside, I doodled some numbers. One good thing about the match on Saturday was the injection of experience points. I''d earned 8 a minute, meaning in one afternoon I''d got four times what I''d accumulated in the previous four matches I''d played in. In other words, managing one Grimsby game was worth eight that I played in.


    XP balance: 3,034


    With my ten percent discount code, I could buy WibWob for 9,000 XP; I was six thousand short. If I didn''t get sacked and saw out my 7 matches as Grimsby manager I would earn about five thousand XP. The way I felt about football and footballers didn''t make me feel like going out grinding.


    So if I wanted to upgrade my skills to help me through this crisis, there was no point saving up for WibWob. I needed something now.


    The March perk hadn''t dropped, which made me think it would be day-specific like the Valentine''s Day one. A website informed me that March included St. Patrick''s Day (Irish players get plus 1 PA?), St. David''s Day (players called David run faster?), and World Book Day (tables at Tiny Tino are always available?). Or how about International Women''s Day? If you said ''yeah but when''s International MEN''S Day?'' you would get a morale boost.


    I had a more detailed look and found most of those days had already happened, as had Barbie Day. What would that one be? Spend 500 XP to meet Margot Robbie. Yes, please.


    People started arriving so I put my notes away but continued to muse. I could unlock another attribute, but that might not help me in the next few matches. Unless it gave me Influence so I could really tell if Mike Dobson deserved to be the captain. Condition had become more tempting. It was 2,000 XP and offered me more fitness information. I didn''t think I needed it, but it did seem like one of the only perks that would have an immediate, tangible benefit in terms of managing this crappy squad. Future was 900 XP. It would tell me how a player felt about the club he was at. It wasn''t high on my shopping list at Chester because there we all gathered around the fireplace and sang Row Your Boat in cascading harmonies and told each other we were special. Here at Grim, it might tell me something useful, like who the other three traitors were.


    Condition plus Future for 2,900. Tempting. Two new skills I could have in place before tomorrow''s match without going to watch five-a-sides in fucking whatevershire.


    Wolfie brought the meeting to order by droning on about what a ''disappointing'' result Sutton had been. He kept going on about it to the point where I tuned out and went back to the perk shop. If I was going to buy perks I should buy them right away because I needed all the help I could get. But I liked to sleep on things. It was part of my frugal nature and it had served me well, most of the time.


    I realised everyone was waiting for me to speak. "What? What was the question?"


    Wolfie controlled his annoyance pretty well. "I asked if you had thoughts on the game."


    "Oh, lots."


    "Can we start with Simon Green?"


    "He''s a prick and I hope I never see him again."


    "He''s an important part of our midfield."


    "Not for the rest of the season."


    "We can''t just throw players in the bin, Max. They have value to the club. We have to maintain their value."


    "He''s worthless as a player and a person. But look, new manager comes in, brings him back into the fold. Easy. Value''s back. Also, I said he had an ankle thing. No lost reputation there. Plus, everyone''s going to lose three-quarters of their value if you get relegated. Plus! The last manager binned players off all the time. I''ve brought good players back and binned a shit one. That''s a good deal." I thought about adding ''you''re welcome'', but for once I kept a lid on it.


    Wolfie had to accept that I''d made some outstandingly amazing points. "If we could try not to - "


    "Ooh, hold on there, Wolfie. It sounds like you''re going to blame me for what happened. That''s going to cause a lot of friction between us because the prick was bang out of order and that''s on him. That''s a million percent on him and if you try to blame me for it I might just go apeshit."


    "It was Si," said Coach W. "He was bang out of order."


    Wolfie ran his hands through his hair. Looked like he hadn''t slept well. "Right. Yeah, okay."


    "Look, I''m not here for a fight. I woke up yesterday steaming and ready for a scrap but today I''m chill. I want to do well and save the club and I know I''m not going to get buy in and harmony but please don''t make me out to be some sort of psycho. Let''s be real. If a shit player gets in my face I''m going to shut that down PDQ."


    "What if it''s a good player?" asked a guy who was joining late. This was Otis King, a 37-year-old player-coach who had been ill the previous week. He was back ready to train and coach and I was glad of it. He could play centre back or midfield and even though he was ancient, he had CA 74. His PA was 143 and he''d been on a crazy career path with dizzying highs and lows.


    I gave him my best Roger Moore raised eyebrow. "Better than me?"


    "I heard you''re cocky," he said, offering me a smile and a handshake. With a start, I realised he was the only member of the backroom staff to do that. "You gonna train with us? Show us your moves?"


    "My moves would be bad for morale, which is already in the toilet."


    He laughed, massively, and I felt a tiny stirring of optimism. This guy would laugh and joke and bring smiles to all those other miserable bastards. "Seriously, now! You can''t chat shit and not back it up."


    "Seriously, I feel if I train now someone will try to snap me. No, that needs to wait until we''ve got a couple of wins on the board."


    "Let''s get to that," said Wolfie. "We all saw the match. Looked like a big struggle, but that''s nothing new."


    "Oh, actually," said Neo, but Wolfie kept talking. He said he wanted to talk about using players out of position, a heat map that suggested Devonte Payne was disconnected from the rest of the team for large periods, and the unusual substitution that had led to Sutton''s goal.


    I raised my hand higher and higher until I had to support my arm with my other hand. Childish, but effective. Wolfie stopped. "You accidentally interrupted Neo," I said. "I''m fascinated to know how data is used in these situations."


    "You are?" said Neo.


    "Of course I am. Hit us."


    With all eyes on him, he squirmed. He produced a weird handout and distributed three copies. I picked one up and scanned it as he talked.


    "This shows the expected threat differential. Some clubs call it a momentum chart. Sutton are in yellow on the left. We''re black on the right. When we have a higher expected threat, xT, we fill in an area. The further the area from the centre, the greater the threat. You can see in the first five minutes we had slightly more threat and it built to a peak around the ten minute mark."


    "Hang on," I said. "What''s expected threat, exactly?"


    "Er," he said. Clearly he''d tried and failed to explain it many times. "Imagine you pass a ball from the centre circle to zone 14. Er, that''s the zone outside the penalty area."


    "I pass the ball closer to the goal," I said, hoping to help him explain it better in the future.


    "Right! You moved the ball from a place you can''t score to one you can. You created threat. We can calculate it. Players who generate threat and those who don''t. Moves and formations that make teams more likely to score. It''s a good metric!"


    "I think I get it. You can do a hundred passes near your own goal and they don''t make you more likely to score. But when you get the ball into the final third, you''re actually doing something. So... looking at this, we had control of the game but didn''t really have our knives sharpened."


    "Oh! But look here. And here. And here." He was pointing to areas where the graph got further from the central line. "This is good. And it''s sustained. And we normally fade in matches but on Saturday we got better."


    "Of course we did. I was finding what works." I looked at the brief periods where Sutton''s expected threat was very high. "This one was my fault. I went too far in the balance and they got a good break. It''s interesting it shows up on the graph. That''s useful. You could start a discussion with that."


    "You admit you made a mistake?" said Wolfie, sharply.


    I glared at him. Was he planning to use my honesty against me? "Not exactly a mistake but that one''s directly the result of my actions. We do it at Chester and it works but we have better team spirit. Or," I said, going internal for a second. "Or it''s the general defensive mentality. I pushed things too far in the attacking sense and the team collectively didn''t like it." I got pretty quiet; I was basically talking to myself. "Probably just a structural thing. I tried to move a load-bearing wall. And it''s League Two so there''s more strain. Less tolerance for imbalance." I closed my eyes to better visualise the formations I knew and was sort of mentally stress-testing them based on this new architectural simile when I was rudely interrupted by the meeting I was in.


    "What''s this?" said Wolfie. He was pointing to a big surge in our favour near the end of the match.


    "That''s when we went 4-3-3," I said.


    "We didn''t do 4-3-3," said Coach G.


    I looked at the ceiling. "Wow."


    Neo''s eyes were huge. He grabbed his tablet and started bashing it.


    I was getting bored. This wasn''t helping me with tomorrow night''s match. I pushed the paper away. "Can we prepare for MK Dons, please?"


    "Hang on," said Wolfie. "If 4-3-3 was working so well, why did you change?"


    I tapped the space on the graph where the threat level dipped. "Other teams can do tactics, too. Sutton''s manager strengthened the centre so we switched to 4-2-4 again. That''s this next surge but we ran out of time. Might have helped if the 4-2-4 drills had been taken more seriously. We had players offside at critical moments. Wild crosses. Poor movement. But what do I know?" I was getting worked up again. Looking at Coach G''s useless face wasn''t helping, so I stood and went to get the flipchart. They''d pushed it all the way to the back of the cabin again, which made me unreasonably angry. Popping the lid off a marker helped. As I spoke, I drew a 3-5-2 in the top left corner. "When I was at Tranmere, MK Dons were 3-5-2 merchants but they changed to 5-3-2 because I was playing. Hey, Neo, if you have a spare week why don''t you put my matches into your machine? I reckon it''ll spit out some interesting graphs. We don''t have a player quite to my level of expected slaps, so I''m expecting 3-5-2. Neo, what do we play against 3-5-2?"


    "4-2-3-1," he said, the clown.


    To ensure I kept the frustration from my voice, I counted to five. "Okay let''s agree that might be good on paper but we don''t have the players for it. So we can do 3-5-2 ourselves and win duels, or we can do 4-2-4 again and slap into the vacant full back areas."


    "They''ll have loads of possession and we''ll be overrun in midfield."


    "Yes but the goal isn''t to have the best midfield; it''s to score goals." I scribbled a quick formation picture on the left of the page. "So 4-2-4, soak up pressure, have loads of threat. They''ll respond at half time. Some 4-4-2 variant I reckon, but we''ll be ready. 4-1-4-1 all the way, baby." I added that to the right and labelled the two formations ''First Half'' and ''Second Half''.


    I expected someone to complain that those tactics were exactly what we''d done against Sutton - a dozen people in Chester would have spotted it - but this bunch were miles behind in the conversation. It didn''t help them that Neo chose that moment to push his tablet along the table. It was a screengrab from the Sutton match that showed our guys in a perfect 4-3-3.


    Since no-one wanted to talk, I did. "Wolfie. They don''t listen to me. Can you please instruct the coaches to practise 4-2-4 like I asked the other day?"


    "We did it!" snapped Coach G.


    "Can you ask them to do it properly?"


    Wolfie wasn''t getting sucked into the emotion. He was still trying to understand what was going on. "What about 4-1-4-1?"


    I pointed to the momentum graph. "In the second half we carried much more threat than in the first. That fits with how I saw the game. We''ve got limited time on the training pitch so we should focus on one thing. The skills are transferable to other match situations, like set pieces."


    "We should work on dead balls. Some of our corners were diabolical."


    "I agree but we need to get up the pitch more reliably so we earn those set pieces."


    It took him quite a long time, TBH, but after looking from the graph to the tablet to his own steepled fingers, he looked at Coach G and said, "Do it, Gareth."


    I was one stray electron from adding, "Can you ask him not to be a surly bitch while you''re at it?" But I didn''t. There''s a reason they call it ''best behaviour''.


    Soon after, the full training session started and with Wolfie watching, Otis the social lubricant, and one traitor banished, things were looking up. The energy was much better. Much, much better. There were things I didn''t like - even in the drills, Danny Flash was offside more often than not. But I kept my mouth shut and let the coaches coach. They had their instructions and now I was back to being a sexy ghost.


    ***


    While the players did some movement drills, I went to get a tea and brought it out. There was a cold wind coming in from the North Sea. I might have taken it for an omen but that was just what happened in Grimsby.


    So... after the meeting I felt a lot better. Wolfie had been impressed by the threat map. Or, at least, it had made him willing to believe that maybe I knew what I was doing. I mean, football has always been full of chancers and blowhards but none of them ever switched to 4-3-3 and had their decision vindicated statistically.


    I took my notes out of my pocket. Unless I went off on scouting trips, I wouldn''t be able to afford WibWob. If I lost two more games I was at risk of being fired. I couldn''t quite find a reason to hold onto my experience points. No point saving them for a rainy day. The forecast for tomorrow was dreadful.


    I bought Condition for 2,000 XP.


    XP balance: 1,034


    At first, I couldn''t see that anything had changed but then it screamed at me. On a player''s profile, under Morale, was the word Condition, followed by a percentage. I prowled around the training area.


    Marcus Wainwright, a natural athlete in the mould of Carl Carlile, had 100%.


    Otis King, who had been ill the previous week, had 88%.


    Conor Quinn, the midfielder I had used in defence, had 84%.


    Before I panicked, I checked the Chester squads. Most of the men had 98% or higher. The big exception was Joe Anka, who was still getting up to full fitness after his leg break. He was on 94%.


    Would I use Joe Anka in a match? Of course. And I had. So anything above, what, 90%?, was okay. Where was the cut-off? 80%? This was eighty percent of their full fitness, right?


    I scanned the players in front of me and then dived into the Chester men''s and women''s squads again. The women had played the day before - a routine 4-2 win but Christ I needed to bolster their defence before next season - and there were a lot of eighty percents in their ranks. It made sense - you couldn''t play two days in a row and they were a mix of semi-professional and amateur.


    Lucy''s condition was 64%, the lowest, but her profile didn''t show any injuries and nothing was red. She was just knackered. Every day I read about a female player who had done her ACL and no-one could explain why it was happening so frequently. Best guess was fatigue.


    This was going to sound fucking crazy but some embarrassment was nothing compared to one of my players being on crutches for a year.


    Me: Watched some clips from yesterday. Well done and all that. Can you keep an eye on Lucy, please? Spider senses tingling. Don''t let her sprint this week. Give her Sunday off. And get Dean and Liv to check her out.


    I walked onto the training pitch with players and balls passing right through me. Conor Quinn kept up the drill until the weirdness of me following him around staring at his calves made him stop. "What? I mean, what, boss?"


    "Give us a minute." He followed me off the pitch and Coach W sent someone else to replace him in the drill. "How are you feeling?"


    This made him suspicious and a great big wall slammed down in between us. "Grand. Deadly."


    I took a tiny step back and put my hands behind my back. My head tilted to the left and I realised I was looking at him like he was hanging up in an art gallery. "You''re not injured." It was a statement of fact.


    "No."


    Another pause as I stared at him, limb by limb. Why was his condition low? "Pull your shirt up."


    "What?" But as I continued to be fucking weird, he pulled his top up. He was wearing one of those sports bras.


    "Where... Where does that data go?"


    He untensed and let his shirt drop. "Neo."


    "If I said I thought you were in the red zone, what would you say?"


    "I''d say you''re wrong and I''m ready to play." Defiance. Fighting for his place in the team. I liked it.


    "Show me how it works."


    He exhaled. "We''re in the middle of a drill."


    "You''re not."


    He closed his eyes but very quickly realised there was no point defying me. "That way," he said, and I got into step beside him as he walked to one of the portacabins. He knocked and entered. Knocking! That was another thing missing around here. I was allowed to barge in wherever I wanted but the players needed to knock if they were going into someone''s office.


    Neo had noise cancelling headphones on and jumped when he saw us there. He had two computer screens and one had a threat map. I''d never seen it before but somehow I knew which match it was just from the flow and the colours.


    "Is that Tranmere away to Swindon?"


    Neo blinked. "Yes. How did you...?"


    "Yeah, that was too easy, that one. Then some hack got a good smash on me and I took it easy from there. Look, you can see on the graph where he got me. I do like those charts, Neo. Okay, let''s talk about the second best right back in this cabin. Can you bring up Conor''s whatever?"


    "His Player Pack? Er... yes."


    He clicked his mouse a few times and turned the monitor so I could see all the numbers.


    "Yeah, I don''t know what I''m looking at. I think he''s fatigued. Does your thing there agree with me?"


    Neo blinked, gave Conor a look, and clicked some more. He brought up a chart that said ''Load Management'' and he assessed it for about a second. "Yes, it does. He''s played almost every minute of almost every game."


    "I''m fine," said Conor. "I could play a full match right now."


    "And get injured?" I said.


    "Your running stats are way down," said Neo, then shrank into himself as though Conor might hit him.


    "Conor, mate, I need you to be professional about this. We''ve got eight more matches after tomorrow and you''re going to start all of them. I can''t have you injured. I just can''t. You''re too important to this team."


    His reaction was a mix of frustration and pride. He went through all kinds of torment and anguish that culminated with him letting out a slight groan. "Last time I said I needed a break, the manager dropped me, permanently. Since then, I play the full ninety, no ifs, buts, or maybes."


    "Understandable," I said, "but I''m not a twat. You''re my right back. But not tomorrow."


    "Can we talk about moving him back to his best position?" said Neo.


    "No," I snapped. "Conor, you''re way more experienced than me. Be honest with me now, what should I tell you to do? I need you on the bench tomorrow night but ideally I won''t use you. What do we do so you can give me ten minutes if I need it but you''re ready to rumble on Saturday?"


    He wasn''t used to being asked his opinion like this. His eyes darted all over the place. "Rest today. Light jogs tomorrow. Bit of time in the pool maybe."


    "Top. Let''s do that."


    He stayed there until it got awkward. "Should I go?"


    I shrugged. "I''m going to talk to Neo about this data stuff. If that''s how you like to rest..."


    A slight grin appeared on the Irishman''s lips. "Dragon''s Dogma 2 is out." He waited for me to say something; I didn''t. "I''ll be off, so. Right. Thanks, boss."


    I rubbed my chin. "Neo, we''ve got this data. Why is no-one using it? Like... someone should get this report every morning so they can make sure players aren''t overdoing it."


    "The manager gets it."


    "I''m the manager."


    "But... You don''t have a Town email. I can''t send it external."


    I shook my head. It seemed like I could do without this stuff but it would be better to base as many of my decisions on hard data as possible. Something else occurred to me. "Where''s my office?"


    "It''s the one where we do the meetings."


    "Oh. The one the coaches have colonised. This fucking place." I spent some time seething about how shit all these people were. "Please print it in the mornings and leave it on my desk. No, that''s a waste of paper. Text me anyone who''s in the red zone. Is that good for you?"


    "Yes, boss."


    "Hmm." I left, very, very thoughtful. This place was really starting to do my head in, but I''d already got something out of it. The intersection between the data we could collect and explaining away my abilities was fascinating. And buying Condition had been awesome. I really needed to know who was fit to play. That was pretty basic, right? It was amazing how well I had done without that knowledge. If I''d had that info since the start, could I have saved Ryan Jack? Maybe. Maybe not. Fatigue was only one possible explanation for those ligament injuries. Sometimes shit happened. But yeah, Condition was going to help me put out the strongest possible eleven, and would help me long term when it came to minimising injuries.


    Boom!


    The knowledge was so good I went ahead and spent the 900 to unlock Future.


    XP balance: 134


    I knew where to look for this one - a player''s Transfer tab. The new info I saw on the training pitch was absolutely shocking. I went to the side and sat on a football - mistake, it was damp and I got a wet arse - while I went into the Chester squads to see what my players thought about their Future.


    Henri Lyons - Thinks Max Best is a tactical genius.


    Glenn Ryder - Thinks Youngster is a talented player.


    Robbo Robson - Would like to stay at the club beyond his contract expiry.


    Dan Badford - Excited to be training alongside Sam Topps.


    Benny - Proud to be at Chester.


    Magnus Evergreen - Is proud of the club''s league position.


    It was all like that. Positive, positive, positive. Even the negative ones were positive - players whose contracts were running out wanted to stay. And little Tyson''s was ''Enthusiastic about his future at the club''. I mean, amazing, but I''d rather it said ''excited about his future.'' Depending on how fast he improved, he would probably have to leave to really kickstart his career.


    But still, it was obviously fantastic that he was happy and enjoying life and starting to make the most of his talent.


    So you''re probably wondering how it was at Grimsby. More of the same, right?


    Sam Crichlow - Feels the fans have been overly critical of him.


    Caine Amadi-Spokes - Thinks the manager should be more patient with his players.


    Mike Dobson - Feels he is too good for the club.


    Ed Williams - Hopes he can stay in the manager''s plans.


    John Windmill - Dislikes Simon Green. Is pleased to see the manager taking action against Simon Green.


    Marcus Wainwright - Is worried the club''s poor league position is hurting his reputation.


    You know the way some people don''t go to the doctor ''because they might find something''? I understood that sentiment a lot better, all of a sudden.


    My first thought was, what a shitshow.


    Second, could this have helped me get a better result against Sutton? Maybe. If I''d known Windmill hated Green that could have been decisive in who played midfield. But although the result was crushing, at least I knew one of the traitors now and Windmill''s morale was up. Crichlow, the goalie, was having a hard time with the fans but I couldn''t pick his backup. That guy would be okay in the National League North but he was miles off League Two standard. Dobson''s attitude was poor, but Wainwright had a point. Being in a team at the bottom of the league didn''t do much for your rep. Still, how about scoring some goals instead of whingeing?


    My next thought was, if I was going to sell Tyson and Benny to a team, I wanted to check this stuff to make sure the club''s culture wasn''t too toxic. At some point my players would all end up in this kind of environment but I would do what I could to minimise it. If two clubs were offering the same money for Benny, I could push him to the one that was more like Chester. If there was only one bid and it was from Grimsby - ugh. I''d have to cross that bridge when I got there, although realistically I couldn''t stop him moving just because the team was full of meanies.


    Finally, I thought about my hopes of being hired as an escape artist specialist. Knowing who hated who and who was unhappy about what would let me start knocking heads around on day one. Or at least, let me know what sort of problems existed before I decided to take the job.


    ***


    Tuesday, March 12


    Match 2 of 10: Grimsby Town versus MK Dons


    I''d been in Lincolnshire for a week and had so far avoided going to Grimsby itself. I think I managed to keep my streak going by driving from the south into Cleethorpes and parking in the stadium''s car park.


    My space read: Manager. Plus 1d6 confidence points; I was the main man. Plus 1d6 pressure points; I was the main man.


    I didn''t have time for a full stadium tour, but I pottered out onto the pitch to check the grass and my view. From my dugout, I saw the away stand to the left. MK Dons were known by Grimsby fans as ''Franchise FC'' and they were generally not regarded as a real football club. Someone had bought Wimbledon, a London club, and moved it a hundred miles north to Milton Keynes. That kind of thing happens every ten minutes in America, but not in England. MK Dons was as despised as any club in the country. Beating them would get me a LOT of reputation points with the Grimsby fans.


    To my right was the Pontoon, looking smart with its black and white seats. It was named after the fish docks that made Grimsby famous. There was a lot of nautical stuff in the area. The club were the Mariners and a local landmark was the Ice Factory where ice was made for the fish to be packaged and a quick browse of The Fishy, a fan forum, taught me the word ''lumper'' - basically a dock worker who hauls fish.


    Behind me was the main stand, one of the oldest in the country. Some of the seats looked like museum pieces, but it was all very charming and I knew it would get noisy - if we could give them something to cheer. Opposite was the large Findus stand - named after a frozen food company famous in the UK for its fish fingers.


    Inside, I was amused to note that the home dressing room was more than twice as big as the away one. While I probably wouldn''t go quite that far if I ever redeveloped the main stand at the Deva, it did make me smile. Pack the enemy in like sardines, while you swim around like free-range salmon.


    My manager''s room was impressively large, too. It was almost as big as the away dressing room. Plenty of space for the entire board and first team squad to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and watch Chris Hale fire me.


    Or we could start winning.


    I filled in my team sheet, went to the dressing room and stood by the tactics board. It took ten seconds but everyone shut up without me having to say anything. I calmly restated the team that Coach G had told them after yesterday''s training. I went over the plan for the first half and reminded them of the switch we would make at half time and they went off to start their pre-match preparations.


    Good, I thought. Much better. Getting there. I looked at Coach G. "How many will we get in tonight?"


    "Fans? Ought to be six thousand at least." I made an impressed face. "In the summer we sold five thousand eight hundred season tickets. This place is on the up."


    Unless it goes down, I thought.


    But I was quietly confident we''d get a result today. Everyone''s condition had risen overnight, but Conor Quinn''s had risen the least - clearly he needed a break. He was on 88% which seemed good enough for the bench. His understudy was the slappable friend of Simon Green, Caine Amadi-Spokes. He had CA 62 but my only other right back option was John Windmill and he was way too slow.


    A more positive change was putting Otis King in. He had nine more CA points than Tommy Blair and a great personality. He''d give me more leadership and character, I was sure of it.


    All in all, the team''s average was 76 and there was every chance we would get stronger through the match as we brought the subs on. I got the option to use Triple Captain and Bench Boost but stayed my hand. I wasn''t convinced by Mike Dobson''s leadership skills, and while MK Dons had the edge on the starting elevens (they had two starters suspended and their average CA was 81) their bench was weaker than ours and their manager had a mistake in him. We needed to get a result under our own steam because the following matches were only going to get harder.


    I went to the manager''s room and waited until the media rep came to get me. I talked tedious shit until they let me go, and then I walked out to the roar of the Grimsby Town fans and the nerves really started to jangle.


    ***


    The first half went according to plan. Sadly, it was MK''s plan.


    The first shock came two minutes in. For some inexplicable reason, they changed from 3-5-2 to 5-3-2. That on its own nullified the advantage of my tactic, but there was a further twist.


    Normally when you have two up front, you put them in the centre so that they come up against the centre backs. Think of Goliath and Henri Lyons standing close to each other. But this MK Dons manager had one guy central and one striker all the way over on the left. On the tactics screen, a dotted line emerged from him to the centre. It didn''t take me all that long to work it out. He was starting as a sort of wide winger but would make runs inside to support his striker partner.


    The benefit of this wasn''t obvious... until it was.


    MK sent ball after ball towards our right back area, where Caine was bullied and dominated by the burly striker. In theory, the striker should have been useless in that winger position - his technique was awful. But he won a header and loped after the ball. He sent in a simple pass and his partner finished.


    One-nil.


    I had no choice but to abandon my plan. I pulled the wingers back and did a strict 4-4-2 while I thought about things. Danny Grant, our best attacking threat, was now covering the useless shithead Caine. It took six minutes after my change, but MK reverted to 3-5-2 with nothing funky on the wings. No-one on their bench was a tactical genius and they were slow to respond. How had they come up with that 5-3-2 plan?


    There was a long period of stalemate where we recovered after the shock of the goal, and then we slowly started to turn the tide. Possession went from 50-50 to 51-49. Then it crept up to 52. We got our first shot of the match. And so on. I knew most of the players well enough to think I''d optimised their settings, and I started to feel positive about the second half. We would bring Alex on and get enough control of midfield to press forward.


    It''s the hope that kills you.


    Our goalie got a back pass and tried to push the ball to his right so he could welly it away. He took a heavy touch, though, and the ball squirted away in the direction of a striker who was coming to press. Sam slid in and cleared the ball, but the fans went bonkers. They brought out the boo guns. Sam''s morale dropped two points.


    While they were still at it, MK sent a hopeful ball in the direction of their tallest striker. Sam rushed off his line to clear it - easy - but with the crowd on his back he hesitated, not wanting to make a mistake and get more shit. So he retreated, leaving Mike Dobson to deal with it.


    Dobson had been putting in a five out of ten shift - too good for the club, remember - and God knows why but he decided he had to foul the striker instead of standing him up and waiting for support. He was probably lucky to get a yellow card, and while the foul started outside the box, the striker fell over inside it. The ref gave a penalty and Dobson''s rating fell to four.


    MK scored the pen. Two-nil.


    The Grimsby faithful were furious, dishing out boos for everyone. Boos for Sam, for Mike, for me, and for Chris Hale.


    Astonishingly, things got worse. A couple of minutes later, Caine Amadi-Spokes decided he''d had enough. While MK were attacking he fell to the ground and raised his hand. The ref didn''t stop the game - correctly - and MK got a shot away.


    Byram ran onto the pitch and radioed back that Caine was injured and needed to come off.


    Injured, eh? So how come no attributes were red? How come his injury tab was clean? How come his condition was 97% - the same as everyone who had started the match on 100?


    I didn''t have much choice but to send Conor Quinn on.


    Someone in the crowd behind me screamed, "He''s not a right back, you daft Manc twat!" I turned to pick him out and it was pretty easy - he was the one purple with rage. I couldn''t help but laugh, which didn''t help the chap''s mood, I''m sure.


    The change brought us up to CA 77.8, but there was a chasm in morale, I expected some of my players to tire, and the crowd were on our case.


    Still I remained calm. Calm-ish.


    There were one or two things to sort out at half time and the second half would go very different. There was no need to go full Max.


    ***


    I was in the middle of the pack of people filtering into the dressing room so I heard - as if I could have missed it - Mike Dobson raging at Mal Mehew. Why our centre back had such a strong opinion of our left midfielder''s performance I couldn''t tell you, but I can say that pretty much the entire squad watched as I pushed Dobson down onto the bench and very slowly pulled the captain''s armband off him.


    There was dead silence in the room as I spun the armband around my finger. I went to the tactics board.


    "Normally I like my teams to start half time quiet. Focus on getting your nutrients and your liquids, calm down, some chats about what''s going right and wrong. It''s all very civilised. Very productive." I flung the armband up and snatched it as it fell. "Slightly different, today. Couple of things to take care of. First, Caine. I would like everyone to know that your starting right back today feigned injury because he couldn''t hack it. The kitchen got too hot and instead of helping out, he curled up on the floor and waited for a big strong fireman to rescue him."


    "Hey, fuck you!"


    "I''ve seen some shit in my brief time as one of the best players and managers in the country, but I''ve never seen a guy quit on his team like that. I''m going to think things over and decide how much to fine him because there''s no fucking way he''s getting paid to pretend to be injured. No fucking way."


    "Sorry, Max, sorry." It was Byram. "But he''s got a quad strain. Maybe a tear."


    "No, there''s fuck all wrong with him. I just want everyone in the room to hear it from me first because I''m going to fucking end his career after the match. Whatever happens in the second half, I''ll still be the Grimsby manager for ten minutes after full time and this prick is getting both barrels. I promise you that. Dude, you might not want to be here because as mad as the fans are right now, when they hear you''re faking injury and making us waste a substitution they''re going to be really quite cross."


    "You can''t do that."


    "And I can''t dump your shitty mate at a petrol station in London. And I can''t backheel nutmeg a goalie. And I can''t spot a shit character from a mile off. Conor, your teammate, needs a rest. This is his rest. If he gets injured today because you think you''re being smart putting pressure on me, you''ll soon find out what pressure really feels like. Do you get me?"


    Conor was looking at Caine with utter contempt. The idea of faking injury was so far beyond his personal code of ethics he had a new entry on his Future page - Dislikes Caine. "Boss. He''ll get on his socials. Have his version out there before you get to the press."


    Huh. Hadn''t thought of that. "How many followers has he got?"


    "One thousand one hundred and eight," said Caine, automatically.


    "What if he''s really injured, though?" said Danny Flash.


    "He''s not," I said, but the ramifications of piling into the player were uncertain. I decided to try some diplomacy, Max Best-style. "Tell you what, Caine. You''re a disgrace but let''s make a deal. I won''t fine you two week''s wages and you''ll have the rest of the season off. You and Green can go round Moss Side laughing at poor people. Your best hobby, that. All you have to do is fess up. Tell Byram you''re not injured. Don''t make us waste medical resources on you. Don''t make us waste any more time on you." I looked at my Apple watch. "Ten seconds to decide." I counted to ten and looked up. "Well?"


    Caine licked his lips and gave his teammates a hunted look but in every one of those ten seconds someone in the room had turned against him. For once, people believed me. "I''m injured."


    "He''s fucking lying!" said Conor, who was getting steamed up.


    "He is an'' all. Fuck me," said Danny Grant.


    "That''s unprofessional, lad," said Coach W. "That fucking stinks."


    "Here." Someone was pushing something into my hand. Danny Grant, the academy graduate and pretty much the most popular player at the club, had unlocked his phone and now he was trying to give it to me.


    "What?"


    "I''ve got six thousand followers. Write what you want and I''ll send it."


    "No, I can''t. That''s your account."


    He was a placid guy, but he was angry now. He nodded at Caine. "I had to sprint back to cover coz he just went and sat himself down. That could have been the third goal. I''m not having that. I''m not having quitters."


    I pushed his phone back. "I appreciate it, Danny. I do. There''s a thing in storytelling where things start shit then turn good. We focus on the second half. He can post what he wants and then we''ll tell the truth. See how that works out for him. Get him out."


    Byram guided Caine out through the door. Danny put his phone back in his bag and sat down. Things were quiet.


    "Very dramatic, this, isn''t it?" I mused. "Lot of mess to sort out. Not sure I''ll get the time." For the thousandth time that week I was reminded of Old Nick''s hospital visit and his strong hint that I''d find four traitors. Two were gone already. And, let''s be honest, Mike Dobson was the third. "Mike," I said. "I''ve heard you''re not happy in Grimsby. I can''t say I''m much happier than you but I''m not letting it affect my performances. No hard feelings and I''m not going to throw you under the bus, but we''re in the shit and we need people who are on the same page. People pulling in the same direction, and that''s getting points and saving the club."


    "What are you saying?"


    "Just that you''ve got the rest of the season off. I think that''s what you wanted, anyway. You''re welcome."


    "Hang on a second. The rest of the season off? What? You what? Who said I wasn''t happy? Who fucking said?"


    I walked towards him. "Calm down or I''ll kick you out. Your voice isn''t welcome here. Grab a shower, then call an Uber. Bye."


    Coach G hurried towards me, trying to stop me sabotaging the squad, but I was feeling lighter and lighter. Three of the four traitors were gone and it had only taken a game and a half. I was getting good at this!


    I let my good mood show on my face. Maybe some people thought it was weird, maybe it cheered some people up. It was hard to tell, even with the morale perk. I left a thirty-second quiet time and then prepared to discuss the 4-1-4-1 formation I wanted to use for the second half. Ed Williams would replace Dobson, that was clear. But who would be the captain? I had the armband dangling around my wrist. Otis King was an option, but somehow it didn''t feel right. John Windmill was a good character, but Danny Grant had shown his loyalty to the club by defending me against Caine. He was too quiet, though.


    Alex Evans would make a good captain. But if he only played half of every match, how would that work?


    "What the fuck?"


    The exclamation had come from me.


    The entire dressing room stopped what they were doing and stared at me. What now?


    I remembered to look at my Apple watch. I pretended to read and then whipped out my phone and read more intently. In fact, I was staring at the MK Dons tactics screen.


    They had switched from 3-5-2 to 3-4-1-2. It was an interesting tactic to use against 4-1-4-1. Our lone striker would be up against three defenders. Our four midfielders would be against four. And our main weapon, the DM, would have to keep an eye on their CAM.


    Yes, it was a good idea.


    Just one question.


    "I''ve just been told that MK fucking Dons are switching formations. Their new formation works great against 4-1-4-1. Well played, that manager. And first half he had a great fucking plan to smash our 4-2-4 and he knew we''d have a fucking shithead playing at right back so he targeted him. Here''s a question, though, lads. How the fuck does he know what we''re going to do?"


    "Max," said Danny Grant. He corrected himself immediately. "Boss. Didn''t you know? This has been going on for years." He looked around at his teammates and coaches. His voice lowered slightly. "We''ve got a mole."


    A mole? A rat? Selling our secrets to the enemy? The worst kind of traitor. The guy had cost us the first goal and our best chance of getting something from the game.


    A mole. I thought about Simon Green and Caine - they''d only been at the club since the summer. If there had been a mole for years, it wasn''t them. Dobson? Maybe. Probably not.


    I was steaming. Stewing. Boiling. Three traitors down, and one to go.


    Time to go full Max.

 7.10 - Expected Worms

    10.


    Max Best glossary: Expected worms. A statistical measure of the likelihood that a given constellation of characters will include a worm.


    ***


    Instead of giving one of my inspirational movie-based half time team talks, I was looking around the Grimsby dressing room wondering who the mole was, and since any detective story set in the world of football must now always be likened to the delicious Wagatha Christie case, here¡¯s a quick primer.


    The scandal started when Coleen Rooney found that information she shared to her closest friends on Instagram was routinely leaked to the gutter press. Rooney segmented her followers, feeding group A a certain juicy tidbit and group B a different one. By a process of elimination, she whittled down the suspect list until she was absolutely sure who the mole was, ending her denouement with the legendary line, ''It was............ Rebekah Vardy''s account.''


    Note the clever use of the word ''account''. Rooney was careful not to accuse Vardy directly. Rooney didn''t go full Rooney and the results were far more devastating than if she had.


    The moral of the story? Easy. My mole hunt wasn''t, in fact, a heart versus head matter. It was one hundred percent in the domain of ''head''. One hundred percent in the domain of ''look before you leap''. My head was thinking: I should tell every one of the twenty-five people in the room a different formation I plan to use in the next match against Gillingham and see which one gets leaked. That would start a slow, methodical process over the next six weeks, building to -


    "Everyone out," I said, voice dripping with expected threat. Or we could do that, my brain said to my heart as it threw its hands up in despair. "Coaches, physios, kit man, young players, former captains - out."


    "You''re not serious," suggested Byram.


    "You two," I said, meaning the physios, "go to the dugout and sit there until someone gets injured. Go on. Coaches, go sit in the stand somewhere until the final whistle. Then do the warm downs. Players. If you''re not playing in the second half, out!" It took a minute as lots of grumpy pricks made a show of leaving as grumpily as possible. At the back of the queue was Danny Flash. "Flash, where are you going?"


    "You said if I''m not playing..."


    "I haven''t subbed you off, yet."


    "But you''re gonna."


    "Are you fucking sulking, mate? We''ve got a fucking crisis here! Sit down and shut up while I decide what to do." When he did so, the door slammed behind the last person to leave, and suddenly things were quiet. The way Danny sat made me think of a boxer sitting on the stool in his corner. Why that? I shook it off - this wasn''t about boxing. This was about moles.


    Moles. What was a mole, anyway? Just a big worm.


    Coach G was top suspect. He''d been nagging me to get the tactics and formations early. I couldn''t rule Mike Dobson out, but it didn''t seem to fit his personality. He thought he was too good for the club, meaning his self-image was higher than what he saw around him. Would someone that arrogant sell our plans for what, a hundred quid a pop? Ratting out your teammates was tawdry stuff. Just didn''t feel right. Who else? What if it wasn''t about money? What if it was a Northampton Town fan whose first ever match had been the 1998 Playoff Final that Grimsby had won? Getting a job at Grimsby and hollowing it from the inside would be a pretty over the top form of revenge, but stranger things have happened.


    I opened my mouth to announce my plan for the second half, but stopped and looked around. The dressing room. What if it was a question of acoustics? What if everything I said was broadcast to the away dressing room, clear as a bell? Or microphones. The room was bugged - that simple.


    "My favourite film''s Back to the Future," I mumbled as I snuck around the space looking at mirrors, bins, and motivational posters with unjustified intensity. "He goes to Twin Pines Mall. Goes back in time," I said, eyeing the light fixtures above me. "Hits a tree. Goes back to the future, name drop, now it''s Lone Pine Mall. Amazing."


    I stood there doing nothing except rolling my eyes very slowly left and right until a linesman knocked on our door to announce it was time to go back.


    "That''s it. Get going."


    "But what''s the plan?" said Greg Brothers. He was a likely candidate to be subbed off at some point and wanted to know if that would happen sooner or later.


    "You don''t get the plans. I''ll tell you on the pitch."


    A few of the guys looked at each other. I had gone bendy bananas. Brothers spoke again. "Who''s the captain, though?"


    "I''ll tell you on the pitch," I repeated.


    ***


    Out in the very middle of Blundell Park, I gave the armband to John Windmill. "This is until Alex comes on, okay?"


    The gig was temporary, but boosted his morale regardless. "Yes, boss. What''s the plan?"


    I shooed the subs away to the dugout. They didn''t need to hear. To be fair, the eleven players didn''t need to hear, either. But I needed to be seen to tell them. They formed a huddle around me at the edge of the pitch. Fans returning from their half time boozing saw me give my half time team talk in front of the entire stadium - the safest place to do it.


    "They''re doing 3-4-1-2 in response to the 4-1-4-1 they think we''re doing. But their CAM isn''t much good so we''re going to take a risk and do 4-2-4. They''ve weakened themselves making that change, and they''ll weaken themselves again when they respond. So hit the wings fast; we''ll have four-on-three breaks. Lads, listen up. This is a weird fucking match but it''s just a match. We are right in this. Right in it. And our next change will make us stronger. We are right fucking in this, I promise you. Come on!"


    "UTM!" shouted Windmill, and that seemed like a good thing to say based on the reaction from Conor Quinn and Danny Grant.


    ***


    Right away it was clear that the expected threat graph would have shifted to the Mariners side.


    Wait - Mariners. UTM. Up the Mariners! Yes! I was a way better detective than Henri.


    Henri. I sighed. What I wouldn''t give for him up front instead of Danny Flash. If I hadn''t been knocked on the head a year ago, it could have been Henri earning three grand a week and me skimming three hundred. That would add up pretty damn fast, and Henri would have been close to CA 90 by now.


    Flash ended an attack by running offside. This guy was the opposite of a threat. Danny Flash, three thousand pounds a week, expected threat zero, expected offside one hundred percent.


    I tried not to let it get to me; I could only work with the tools I had. "He''s a tool all right," I mumbled.


    I stomped around, jaw clenched, trying to melt blades of grass with my laser vision. Sutton United had that SuperGrass stuff. Did SuperGrass have worms? Wasn''t SuperGrass another name for a prison snitch? My brain was going haywire. I needed to focus, big time, or my stint in Grimsby was going to end in abject failure.


    With one final fist clench and release, I got back to work. My job now was to be a technocrat. Scanning the match ratings looking for strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats. Dipping into the individual player instructions, using my hotkeys to make changes back and forth between various states, and thinking hard about when to use the Free Hit and Cupid''s Arrow perks. With Free Hit there was always a risk of waiting so long that time ran out and I didn''t even use it, but on the other hand, turning a 3% chance of a goal from a corner into a 13% chance wasn''t all that spectacular. Turning a 20% free kick just outside the box into a 30% one - yes, please.


    But there was the game state to consider. At 2-0 down, everything we did was hard and MK Dons had it easy. Getting to 2-1 would lift the crowd, boost our morale, and put doubt into the mind of the opposition. There were times it would make sense to hold onto these bonuses, but today wasn''t one of them.


    I used Cupid''s Arrow to link Danny Grant, the starboy, to Wainwright, our best chance of a goal. And at the next corner, I used Free Hit and used Masterpiece Theatre to push Wainwright to the near post.


    The chance came to nothing.


    Still, though, we had good control of the match. MK had more possession but generated no threat, while when we got the ball we went fast and half our possessions led to shots. MK didn''t respond to our dominance, suggesting that they were quite happy to be outplayed and have no goal threat. Which was patently dumb, which got me steamed up again. They were only winning this game because of the fucking worm!


    I grabbed a bottle of water from the dugout and glared at my bench. The two physios were trying not to look at me, and the remaining sub options were staring straight ahead, unblinking.


    From fifty to sixty minutes, we defended well and got quick balls out to the wingers. Mal on the left was quite limited and my mental ''expected threat'' meter merely flickered when he got the ball, but when Danny Grant got involved, the pulse quickened and the meter smashed red. Danger danger danger! He hit first-time crosses, he dribbled, he combined with Wainwright.


    The pressure was building - sort of. MK Dons had a safety valve that was letting most of the steam we were producing out, and that valve''s name was Danny Flash. He was having a stinker. The offsides were the most frustrating thing, but he didn''t win headers, he was rarely in position to combine with his mates, and when he did get shots they dribbled low and slow into the keeper''s hands. The keeper, of course, then flopped to the ground and took twenty seconds to get to his feet.


    In some strange way I was paralysed - I needed to take Danny off but his performance was so poor - five out of ten was very generous from the curse - that I found myself enjoying how angry and frustrated it made me. But there was a footballing reason to keep him on. Despite everything, the formation was working. It gave our wingers space that I couldn''t give them any other way. Flash could score goals at this level. If he could wriggle free of his marker he could get a shot away. The way his foot made contact with the ball was out of my hands.


    The MK Dons manager came to my rescue. Whether he had only finally realised that we weren''t playing the formation he''d been told or whether he was sick of watching us attack non-stop, he shuffled his pack. He took off a striker and switched to 5-4-1. Very defensive but not quite a low block. Their half time changes had cost them a point and a half of CA, and now they lost another little chunk. They would spend most of the rest of the game with an average CA of 78.


    I instantly signalled to swap Danny Flash for Alex Evans, bringing ours to 81.1.


    Hey, now! We could give this a proper go. Yes, yes, yes!


    "Replacing number 9, Danny Flash, number 6, Alex Evans."


    I was bouncing on my heels, excited as a puppy, when the announcement was made. It was met by boos. Boos from three-quarters of the stadium. The purple guy behind me yelled some choice words along the lines of ''I don''t agree with your decision to remove a goalscorer and replace him with a defensively-minded midfielder when we require at least two goals, you jolly handsome Mancunian.''


    I was so shocked by his football ineptitude I actually turned to smile at him, which, again, he didn''t like.


    When I turned my gaze back to the pitch, my smile turned into a fierce snarl. Danny Flash, whose performance was indistinguishable from a traitor''s, was trudging off slower than if he''d got to his hands and knees and crawled like a baby.


    What happened next became, for better or for worse, one of the iconic moments of my career.


    I want to say that I saw red, but I''ve said that a few times before and this was an entirely different feeling. Maybe we can say that I saw infra-red or something even past that. I saw octarine, the eighth colour, the colour of magic, visible only to wizards and cats.


    I sprinted onto the pitch, grabbed the Essex boy twat, and pushed him like I was doing a rugby maul, shoved him like I was trying to push The Duchess out of a muddy patch, put my shoulder into it like he was a big cupboard I had to move because the zombies were about to hit the door. After the initial surprise where I got him five yards closer to the edge of the pitch, he resisted and tried to shrug me off, so I took hold of his arm and spun him off the pitch - Alex Evans had to hop out of the way.


    Flash got to his feet, ready to rumble - again, he reminded me of a boxer - but all kinds of people got in between us. I walked away so the game could get going. Alex went on and took the captain''s armband, the ref showed me a yellow card for going onto the pitch, and we slipped into 4-1-4-1.


    There was absolute pandemonium in the stands. Noise of all kinds. Screams, shouts, howls, and in the away end, derision. I''d turned Grimsby Town into a laughing stock.


    The purple guy was purpling and the pinks around him were turning puce. I knew my name was being torn to shreds on social media, I knew Beth was scribbling notes about ''the failed Max Best experiment'', I knew Wolfie would be on the phone to Chris Hale (who was spending Candy''s birthday in the Bahamas) saying, ''yeah, about this guy...'' My world was collapsing but I still had the pitch.


    I set my jaw and made the last tweaks. Soon there was only one decision left to make - to let the full backs make forward runs or not. At Chester I wouldn''t have hesitated - against a lone striker I didn''t need four defenders. But allowing too many men forward had destabilised Grimsby in the Sutton match. And there was something else. The certainty I had that if we conceded a third goal, Chris Hale would magically teleport behind me and sack me right there, on the spot, in front of six thousand people.


    It didn''t take long to decide. Momma didn''t raise no worm. If we were going to play Max Best football, we were going to play Max Best football.


    Jayden Ward - make forward runs.


    Conor Quinn - make forward runs.


    Let''s fucking go.


    It was such a trivial piece of in-game management it shouldn''t have touched me, but it did. I''d just dialled this up to eleven and there was no going back.


    I made my last hand gestures, yelled one last bit of gibberish, and fell to my haunches, letting myself get sucked into the match. Every kick, every sprint, every one-two, every triangle, every square ball.


    Williams wins the header.


    Evans gathers the loose ball and feeds it to King.


    He turns smartly and releases Grant.


    Grant walks forward and rolls an ambitious pass down the line.


    Quinn is overlapping. He sends in a cross.


    Wainwright can''t get there.


    It''s cleared to the halfway line.


    Evans plays a first-time pass to the left.


    Mehew needs two touches to control.


    He moves the ball inside to Brothers.


    The layoff is to King. He''s in the centre circle with plenty of options.


    He passes right to Grant. Will he go outside again?


    No! He scampers forward and links up with Wainwright.


    The shot comes in...


    Just over!


    We didn''t have threat from all parts of the pitch. The left mid slot was an attacking black hole and we lacked creativity in the centre of midfield. But there were no real weaknesses, either. If I could keep this eleven on the pitch for most of the rest of the season, we''d have a chance. But would I even be allowed back in the building?


    I didn''t know. All I knew is that this was it. Half an hour to go. Thirty minutes of pressure with no fucking vents this time. The pressure would build and build and if nothing came from it, I''d probably get sacked. But if we could keep fighting, keep winning duels...


    A rare foray forward for MK Dons.


    They move the ball to the left of midfield.


    Suddenly the away team have an overload! This could be trouble for Grimsby.


    In comes Quinn with a thunderous challenge!


    The ball breaks loose. Grant competes but loses out.


    King is across to help with a shoulder barge.


    Fantastic quality from the Dons winger - he comes away with the ball.


    He dribbles past Quinn...


    But there''s Danny Grant! He worked so hard to get back into position.


    He touches the ball to Quinn, who feeds King.


    King zips the ball infield.


    Nothing came of that possession, but I didn''t give a fucking shit. The way the players were battling, fighting for each other, was fucking life-affirming, man. Fucking electric. I didn''t do a fist pump. I didn''t do a double pump. I triple pumped that bitch. "COME ON," I screamed, threatening to out-purple the purple guy. "COME THE FUCK ON."


    The next phase of play was crazy. Madness. The team found a few spare calories in an old coat and they were whizzing around, passing, moving, grooving. MK tackled, intercepted, won headers, but somehow none of it mattered. We kept getting up from the knockdowns and charging back at the red wall.


    Evans to King. King to Grant.


    Grant waits for the overlap and feeds Quinn.


    Quinn shapes to send in a near post cross...


    But he cuts it back to Grant.


    Grant fires a low cross towards the back post where Wainwright is lurking...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    A wicked deflection.


    Wainwright is claiming the credit but it will go down as an own goal! So unlucky for the defender. He didn''t even see it!


    Grimsby are back in with a shout!


    I didn''t celebrate. Nothing had changed - we had to keep playing like this while we still had gas in the tank. Too many of these guys had barely played in recent months and King was coming back from an illness. I had Greg Fasanmade, the CA 60 left midfielder and he would have to replace Mal sometime soon. Devonte Payne was a good option - for King, maybe. And I had Tommy Blair, but I''d already used three of my five changes. He would probably miss out.


    Making those two changes would leave me with one major weak spot - an absolutely exhausted Conor Quinn. His Condition was currently at 79% and under normal circumstances I''d have subbed him off. But not only did he have to stay on, I had to ask him to run up and down his side of the pitch, otherwise we just weren''t going to get the equaliser.


    If Conor got injured, I was going to go beyond full Max and into wild, uncharted territory. Stuffed Max. Inflated Max. Double Max.


    MK Dons made some tweaks to beef up the left side of their defence, so I swapped Mal and Jayden and put Danny Grant as the left-sided of the two central midfielders.


    On the right, Otis King and Conor Quinn got pressing: no and make forward runs: no. That would give them a breather for a few minutes while we attacked down the left.


    Sometimes I was really fucking good at this game.


    Evans takes the ball from Windmill.


    He sprays the ball out wide for Ward to chase.


    Ward gets there first and exchanges passes with Grant.


    Ward to the byline.


    He cuts the ball back - too far behind Wainwright for him to shoot.


    But the striker gets control of the ball and holds off a defender.


    He lays it back...


    Danny Grant is running onto it...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    He rifled it home!


    The home fans erupt!


    I pottered down the line, oblivious to the noise from the stadium. What now? It wasn''t in my nature to accept a draw but sometimes you need to be realistic. I swapped everyone back into their normal positions and stopped everyone from making forward runs. The next five minutes were about not letting our fitness levels get too low.


    But Conor, Mal, and Otis King were really suffering so after a couple of minutes where six thousand people caught their breath, I made the first change. Fasanmade replaced Mehew. Fresh legs on the left.


    I gave Mal a big hug and he crashed into the seat next to mine in the dugout, pulling a big Grimsby coat over him.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Now, the clincher. Otis or Conor? The central midfielder''s condition was 81% and the right back''s was 74. I had a good sub for Otis, but not really a good one for Conor, unless I put Devonte Payne there. He had good defensive skills but putting an attacking midfielder in defence at such a key moment was asking for trouble.


    In the end, I decided that I could stop asking Conor to go forward and try to manage his fitness that way. But I couldn''t allow our opponents to get a complete grip of central midfield. So I brought Otis King off and put Devonte on the right where his fresh legs and energy might help Conor. Just to be sure, I set Payne to mark MK''s tricky winger.


    And that was it. What else could I do?


    Nothing. I''d managed the game to the best of my ability. If anyone could have done better, I doubted they were working in League Two. Or I was completely and utterly delusional.


    The Dons manager made some changes of his own - putting on a gaggle of mediocre players.


    I went to get my water bottle and the exhaustion hit me like a cartoon piano. I spent the last five minutes of the match on one knee by the edge of my technical area. By the end I was spending more time watching the clock tick up than paying attention to the action. I just wanted it to be over.


    Evans slips a pass to Grant. Grant chips a tired pass to Brothers.


    It''s intercepted!


    The Dons are breaking in their red away tops. There are lots of tired legs wearing black and white.


    Dons are through! They have a three-on-two break through the middle!


    Pass left. Pass right. And a simple tap-in!


    GOOOOAAAAALLLL!!!!


    Grimsby''s defence melted away. It''s Dons''s first shot of the second half!


    I knew it would look bad on TV but I couldn''t help it - my head slumped and I stayed looking straight down for the next thirty seconds until the ref put us out of our misery. We''d lost three-two.


    Max Best, Grimsby Town interim manager. Played two, lost two. League Two Manager Points earned: zero.


    And now I had to face the music. First, the media, then the dressing room, then Wolfie and Chris Hale.


    Someone put a hand on my shoulder. Otis King. He looked dog tired - he''d put a shift in all right. "Unlucky, boss."


    "Yeah," I murmured. I really didn''t want to talk to anyone. Except Beth, weirdly.


    "You still gonna mouth off to the papers?"


    "Probably my last chance."


    His expression flickered, but returned quickly to ''blank exhaustion''. "Okay, but listen. Bit of advice from an old pro who''s been around a bit. Don''t go saying Caine was faking it."


    "No? He your cousin?"


    Slight smile. "No, boss. I''d love to see you wreck him. But you don''t wanna cut your nose off to spite your face."


    "I kinda do, I think. But what do you mean?"


    He groaned as he stretched his back. Something popped. "I mean," he said, struggling for the words. "I mean if you do that, he wins. He''ll take you to court and he''ll win. You can''t prove he''s faking. You can''t say that. You have to stop short of that. You feel me?"


    The MK Dons manager came over to shake my hand. The guy had been paying for information about my tactics. No handshake for you, dude. I stared at him until he fucked off. Talking about the mole in public might be counter-productive, too. I slapped Otis on the back. "I understand. You''re right. Thanks, man. And well played. You bossed it out there."


    "Bossed it," he laughed. "I ain''t bossed it since I turned thirty."


    "Eight out of ten today," I said. "Bossed it. Max Best has spoken."


    His morale blew up. I gave him one last tap and strode through the various factions towards the media room.


    There were a couple of things I wanted to get off my chest.


    ***


    Becky Stead, BBC Radio Humberside. That was quite a match. How do you feel?


    There are things I want to say. I can''t help but imagine there''s a three-metre long hook behind that door, there, and at any second someone''s going to grab me with it and pull me out of here.


    [laughter]


    First thing, an injury report. Caine Amadi-Spokes fell to the floor in the first half and it''s bad news. Bad news on that. He''s got injuries that will keep him out until the 28th of April. That''s the day after the last match that I might be the Grimsby manager. If I get hooked, I think his injuries might clear up. What I''m saying is that his injury prognosis is my term as Grimsby manager plus one. Do you get me?


    [murmur from the press pack]


    What is his injury?


    He''s got a bruise. It''s a bad one. A real ouchie. We tried to kiss it better but we didn''t have the right lipstick. And he''s got a papercut. You know how savage those can be. Ooh, mate, you should see it. He tried to play on - he really tried hard as I''m sure you''ll see if you review the incident where he fell to his bum while MK Dons were attacking. He''s a ferocious competitor, the lad is. Because he knew, as we all did, that Conor Quinn is in the red zone and needed a break. That''s why he fought so hard for the team even though he had an ouchie.


    What are you saying?


    I''m saying that he''s not fit to play the next game. I might not be popular here but I''m the Grimsby manager and I take that very, very seriously. To wear this famous old shirt, you need to be fit. To wear the shirt, you need to be fit. Caine Amadi-Spokes is not fit. To wear the shirt.


    [gasps]


    You''re probably going to ask me about Danny Flash. Danny Flash was offside six times today. Every time he''s offside, MK could reset, take a breather, and most importantly, take thirty seconds off the clock. Danny Flash cost this team three minutes, plus thirty seconds when he all but refused to leave the pitch when I subbed him off. When you''re losing two-nil and you''ve contributed minus three minutes to the effort, the only acceptable speed at which to leave the pitch is light speed. He should be sprinting off faster than Usain Bolt. I''m deadly serious.


    Have you never been offside, Max?


    I was offside once, yeah. But I was inside my own half when I made my run.


    You can''t be offside from your own half.


    Yeah. Tell that to the linesman.


    [laughter]


    My manager was good about it, though. He''s quite forgiving if you''re at heart a team player.


    Was your manager that day... you?


    Yes.


    [laughter]


    Danny Flash comes from a long line of champion boxers. Do you think he isn''t a team player?


    I''ve said enough about him. Let''s talk about the first half. That was not acceptable, not good enough. I can only fix things that are happening on the pitch and I have no right to lay into the fans, but they''re to blame for the second goal. They''re booing one of their players and that''s absolutely crazy. You''re supposed to boo the other team. You''re supposed to put them at a disadvantage. Boo us at half time - yes, collectively. Boo us at full time. Absolutely. Collectively. But when you lay into an individual player during a match, what do you think''s going to happen? I''ll tell you what isn''t going to happen. He isn''t going to play better. He can only play worse. Boo these players if you want, if that makes you happy, but you''re booing your own team straight into the National League.


    Are you blaming the fans for that defeat?


    I''m the manager. In the end, I''m to blame for the result. There were six thousand people here today but I filled in the team sheet. I put names on there that I shouldn''t have. That''s a million percent my fault. All I can say is that when we start poorly I can do things to fix that. At one-nil down we were well in this game and we''d probably have won. The second goal - yeah, that was brutal and it didn''t need to happen.


    But you got back to two-all.


    It costs energy to come from behind, Becky. It''s much harder when you''re behind in a low-scoring sport like this. You have to work much harder. There were twenty minutes in the second half there that were absolutely fantastic. Brilliant teamwork, togetherness, balance, and some good quality, too. But we''re using players that haven''t played much and they need a few games to get match fit again. It''s emotionally and physically exhausting to work so hard and put so much in and be ripped to shreds by your own fans. You''re unhappy? I don''t give a shit. Shut your mouth. Or tell you what - scream at me. I tell you what, that''s the solution. Vent your spleens at me all you want but let the guys on the pitch get on with it. Or, keep doing what you''re doing and blame me when the team''s relegated. That works, too, I guess, for some people.


    The dugout was a lot emptier in the second half. Did something happen at half time?


    Yeah I think there was a general awareness that I was on the verge of maybe losing my temper a little bit so everyone ran off looking for zinc supplements. They found some, but by then the Danny Flash thing had already happened. What was the Sutton score?


    They drew. You''re level on points and goal difference. You''re only off the bottom of the table on goals scored.


    Jesus Christ.


    Do you still think you''re the right man for the job?


    I think there are better options but the owner might find Liverpool and Man City don''t want to let them go.


    Strong words from someone with a zero win percentage.


    Beth, have you got a question?


    Bethany Alban, Daily Mail. Max, how many times have you been to see Dune 2 in cinemas?


    What''s a socially normal answer to that question?


    One.


    I have been to see Dune 2 in cinemas one time.


    What is it that attracts you to a story about an uprooted prince who travels to a harsh new world and finds himself having to work with suspicious water-obsessed locals who one by one are won over by his sheer talent?


    It''s good when there''s, like, space bagpipes. And when they turn the worms from enemies into like Metrolinks slash superweapons. Yeah. Absolutely flawless experience, couldn''t be improved in any way, four out of five stars.


    Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for your time, Max.


    ***


    I hid in the manager''s room until the roads around the stadium cleared. No-one came to talk to me, but on the other hand, no-one came to sack me. There was an update on the Job Information screen, though.


    Max Best - Grimsby - England - L2 - Slightly Insecure


    Hmm, okay. First of all, fuck you, Chris Hale. Second, while there were exceptions, these statuses tended to go from slightly insecure to insecure to very insecure before the plug was pulled.


    Now, all three steps could happen tomorrow as the fallout from all the things I''d done reverberated around Grimsby, but as of right this second, I didn''t think I would get fired before the Gillingham match. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Three days of training to get something out of this squad. Plans began to coalesce in my mind and I found myself nodding. The knockout blow was coming, but until then I could box clever.


    What was all this boxing shit? I looked up Danny Flash and saw he was, indeed, from a line of champion boxers. His father was Donny Flash, British champion, RIP, and his granddad was Don Flash, British and Olympic champion who in 1977 had lasted nine rounds in a World Title bout against the American Bob Foster. The pedigree kept going, though, and his uncle was Donald ''Scrubber'' Wormwood, who had dominated British boxing in the late 90s and had a 46 and oh record.


    I put my phone down and walked around. The granddad stuck out to me. Nine rounds in a title fight against one of the hardest-hitting punchers going. You''d want him by your side when you found the mole. Shame about his grandson.


    I picked my phone up again and took another look at Chester''s result. They''d beaten Southport 2-0. Earlier in the season we had slapped them up 5-0, but that was with me going a bit bonkers. Two-nil was perfectly fine but it did make me wonder if maybe things were very slightly going off the rails. I looked around Chester Twitter to get the sense of what had held us back. Yes, it looked like we''d taken a two-nil lead and then turtled up. And Sandra had given minutes to Andrew Harrison, Bark, and Tony Hetherington.


    I smiled. Getting her stats up while developing young players while fulfilling our end of the loan agreement while putting Tony in the shop window for teams who would be looking for a striker in the summer. Sandra was doing way more than expected. I sent her a fulsome voice note, then turned the light off in my office and didn''t speak to another soul until five to eight the next morning.


    ***


    I knocked on the front door again. Come on, you bastards. I need to pee.


    The door opened and a very confused young woman peered out. She had big hair, big eyes, and, speaking diplomatically as always, she was not little. "Yes?"


    "Yeah yeah yeah. I''m Max Best. Is Ollie in?"


    Confusion. "He''s in bed."


    "It''s nearly eight!"


    "He doesn''t start work till eleven."


    I scoffed. "Can I come in?"


    She pulled at an earring. "Um..."


    I wasn''t in the mood for social niceties. Until I woke up that morning, I thought I had been going full Max. I hadn''t. There were more levels of Max to come. I pushed my way in - not quite as rudely as it sounds - made a left turn and looked around the living room. There was a sort of slight arch between it and the kitchen. "You knocked through here but it''s a supporting wall so you couldn''t replace the whole thing?"


    "What? Don''t know. We''re just renting."


    "I love rooms like these. It''s like a sandworm from Dune came through and left a worm-shaped hole. You understand that I''ve only seen Dune 2 once, of course. Er... Can I use your toilet, please? And if it''s not too rude, I''ll make myself a cuppa while you tell Ollie his boss is here."


    "Um... yes." Saying yes seemed to wake her up. "Yes," she said again. "There''s one through there. On your right. I''ll go tell him."


    When she came down, I was jiggling the tea bag in the cup. "What''s your name?"


    "Mel."


    I pointed to all the spices on her kitchen shelves. "Short for Melange!"


    "Short for Melanie."


    "Statistically more likely. I should have started with that." I looked at the solo cup and tutted. "I should have made you one. Why am I such a knob?"


    She smiled. "You''re all right. What''s this about?"


    "Yeah, just football stuff," I mumbled, looking around. One wall was full of Grimsby Town memorabilia, while another was all family photos and the like. "Are you a Shrimper, too, or is that stuff Ollie''s?"


    "Mariner, not Shrimper. You should know that by now."


    "I can''t learn all the words. I''m too busy sucking," I said, and that sent her into a large fit of tiny giggles.


    Ollie came down. He was a twenty-year-old coach that Grimsby had working in the youth system. He had good attributes, including a Coaching Outfield Players score of 14, but he had one outstanding quality: he wasn''t the mole. He looked bleary-eyed - a few pints after the disappointing result the night before - and he was in pyjamas. He stopped dead when he saw me. "Max Best?"


    I sighed. "What the fuck are you doing, mate? We told you to get dressed."


    He looked down at himself. "I am."


    "In your work clothes. You''re going to work!"


    "What?"


    "Yeah, wake the fuck up, all right? This is the first day of the rest of your life. The hand of destiny has plucked you from obscurity. Your toils as a lowly whatever you normally do are over. You are now," I made the sign of the cross, "Max blessed."


    "Max Best?"


    I laughed. "Seriously, you''ve got ten seconds to get ready for work before I lose my shit."


    He finally realised something good might be about to happen. Or something bad. "Can I take a shower?"


    I thought about it. "No. You can take one at Cheapside."


    "Cheapside?" He was back to being a moron and I started to wonder if the other youth coach was maybe a better option. I could have called my private coach, Cody Chambers, and begged him for help but I had this inexplicable urge to do this alone using only the resources available at Grimsby Town.


    Mel helped him out by pushing him to the bottom of the stairs and giving him a slap on the arse. She gave off a good vibe. She came back to the kitchen and regarded me. "This that you''re doing. Is this good for Ollie?"


    "I''m bringing Ollie into my inner circle. When I''m gone, Ollie will be the member of staff most closely associated with my success... or failure." Her only response to that was a tiny raising of the eyebrows. "What do you do, Mel?"


    She pointed to a laptop with a headset. "Customer service. Doesn''t pay much but it''s work from home and there''s not loads to do. A few chats, a few emails, sometimes a call."


    I nodded, not really interested. But then I thought about the day ahead and got very interested. "Work from home, did you say? How about you work from Cheapside?"


    "Why would I do that?"


    "For fifty quid."


    ***


    As expected, the receptionist wasn''t in place, so I installed Mel behind the desk and while Ollie went for a shower, I got stuck into my preparations.


    A few minutes later, I had three lists of players and staff. I was about to launch into my spiel when I hesitated. "Do you know what the players look like?"


    "Most of them."


    "Okay, good. Actually," I said, trying to shove down a chuckle. "Pretend you don''t know who anyone is. They all think they''re hot shit but most of them are worms. Let''s put them in their place. They come in, you tell them to stop. Get their name. Look at these lists. List A, send them to pitch one. List B, pitch two. List C, tell them to fuck off or you''ll call security. List D is Conor Quinn. You read this out to him."


    Mel took the note and read it. "Max Best requests and requires you to take the fucking day off and take yourself to Forest Pines Spa and Golf Resort where you will pamper yourself and stroll around in a bath robe and wear flip flops and drink lemon water while you listen to the plinky plonky music. Max Best will personally reimburse you for up to one hundred and fifty pounds so get yourself a facial or let a cheeky local wench place warm stones on your back. I''m not sure about wench."


    "You''re right, it''s disrespectful. Er... farm girl turned masseuse? I can''t really think of the right phrase. Kinda deep in the football right now. You can punch it up."


    "Why don''t you call him and tell him?"


    "I don''t have anyone''s number. I don''t work here, remember."


    "Yeah, well that makes two of us. List C is the naughty list? Is Danny Flash on list C?"


    "No. B." I handed her the notes.


    "Oh, that''s good. He''s a lovely boy."


    "No, he''s a worm."


    "You want to be careful. His family''s all boxers. Champions."


    "Yeah, yeah. I can box, you know. We have this gear we got. At Chester I mean. Once a week I go and beat the shit out of it. I used to spar with... Well, there''s a good boxer in the area and he comes to train us."


    "Isn''t that training the wrong, like, moves?"


    "Nah at our level it''s mint. If you can box for ten minutes you can play a half. I guarantee it. No, I''m no natural but I can move my feet and dodge and I''ll knock you out."


    "No, thanks."


    "I was more sort of picturing Danny Flash than you. You are my special Grimsby pumpkin, Mel."


    She beamed. "Weird, but I''ll take it."


    "Let me think what else... No, that''s it. Call me if there''s a problem. I''ll keep the volume on."


    "What if the phone rings?" She picked up the landline.


    "It won''t ring if you pick it up like that. Have you never seen an old movie? Like, from the nineties? It has to be on the wotsit."


    She smiled and replaced it. "But someone calls and says they... I don''t know... They''re from the BBC."


    I shrugged. "Whatever you want. This is the training ground. Why are they calling here? Nah, it can''t be anything important. Just say there''s a worm infestation and they should stay away."


    A new voice spoke. "What''s all this?" The receptionist had finally decided to return to her work station.


    "This is your replacement," I said. "Someone who gives a shit."


    "You can''t sack me!"


    "No-one''s sacking you. But I need someone at this desk, right? The first thing most players see every day is an empty desk. The empty desk of someone off having chats, someone taking the piss. So they think they can take the piss, too. Well, not any more. While I''m here, this desk is properly manned. So bye."


    "Should I call security, Mr. Best?" Mel was my absolute favourite. I fucking loved Mel!


    I kept a serious face, somehow. "I think that won''t be necessary."


    The receptionist scowled and angrily grabbed her handbag and her lunch and whatever. "Enjoy your little joke. You won''t be here long." As she exited, she gave Mel a fierce look. Why was she blaming her?


    I sighed, contentedly. "This is going to be a good day." I strolled to the door, thinking about breaking the habit of a lifetime and breaking into a whistle.


    "Mr. Best," said Mel.


    "It''s Max to you."


    "Better if I stay in character, sort of thing. Er... what do I do if Chris Hale comes?"


    I laughed. "Let him in, obviously! Oh," I said, popping my head back into the room, "and ask him for your fifty quid. Seeya."


    ***


    Neo: Conor Quinn is in the red zone.


    Me: Thanks. Save it for the next guy. I''m going solo.


    Ollie found me laying out cones on pitch one. The training group would be relatively small - I had binned off the three traitors and ruthlessly sliced away a further chunk of the squad. Ollie and I would be working with a core group of thirteen, including Conor, who would soon be on his way to get pampered but would join us from tomorrow.


    "So, Mr. Best," said Ollie, after I''d given the setup once last check. "What exactly am I doing here?"


    "Huh? Didn''t I tell you in the car?"


    "No. You said ''you''ll see'' and you laughed."


    "Oh. Well, no big deal. You''re taking first team training."


    I sprinted off after him and grabbed him by the waist. For some reason the ungrateful bastard was complaining. "No, mate, no. I can''t. What are you thinking?"


    "Stop wriggling. You''ll do yourself an injury and Mel will blame me. Come on, now. I''m here. I''m with you all the way. I promise."


    "But," he said, hands on his head. "But," he added. I waited for him to calm himself. "So you''re taking training and I''m assisting you?"


    I shook my head. The curse rated him as a coach but not me. Why was he overcomplicating this? I tried to explain as calmly as poss. "You''re in charge and I''m assisting you. But don''t worry. I''ll do all the work."


    "What?"


    "Good, isn''t it?"


    "What about Coach G and Coach W?"


    "They''ve got a very important task. Don''t worry about them."


    "This is mental."


    "Right, shut the fuck up with that. The players are coming and I don''t want them hearing negative shit. All right? We''re going to do a proper fucking training session for once and we''re going to be a hundred percent positive for the next two hours."


    The A list players came over. Danny Grant said, "Why is Ollie here?"


    I had expected something like this. The players knew Ollie from visits to the youth teams and so on but he was like a baby to them. Ollie''s natural career path would have taken him up the ranks at glacial pace until, in fifteen to twenty years, he was in Coach W''s shoes. It''s fair to say I didn''t have time for him to earn their respect so I''d fucking box some respect into them if that''s what it took. "This is Coach O," I said. "That''s O short for Oh My God I Can''t Believe How Top This Session Is. He''s going to warm you up. Coach O?"


    Ollie licked his lips. "Er... two lines here, please."


    "Coach O, I just need to give quick instructions to the other mob. I''ll be back really quickly. Promise." I went over to pitch two and spoke to Coach G. "Do whatever you want today. K bye."


    The useless worm reached out in a vain attempt to grab my arm. I dodged like the potential boxing champ I was, but stayed to hear Gareth out. "Wait a fucking minute. What do you mean do whatever you want? Why''ve you split the groups? What''s going on, here?"


    "All you need to know is that you and W have these players. Coach them to play football in any way you see fit. That''s it."


    I walked back to pitch one and blew my whistle. "Right, gather round. Coach O has asked me to give you the instructions for our first drill. It''s a little something called The Art of Slapping."


    ***


    Thirty minutes into the session, we were practicing overlaps and I sensed a slight change in the way some of the players perceived me. Marcus Wainwright, for example, was very calm, very controlled, very distant, but he started piping up with opinions. If he had thought I was a clown, the drills were making him reassess.


    He had the greatest opportunity to observe while remaining involved. All he had to do was prowl the penalty box, make runs, and deflect passes into the goal.


    To the right of the penalty area I''d set a couple of mannequins as obstacles and had a bag of balls on the edge of what Neo had called zone 14. From there, two players would pass to each other while a third would sprint to the byline. One of the two passers would try to roll a pass with the right timing and weight so that it would arrive at the byline at the same time as the runner. The runner would then cross the ball into the area, hoping to set Wainwright up for a goal.


    Coach O was acting as a goalie and I was moving around seemingly at random, sometimes making things harder, but always giving feedback.


    I hadn''t set the victory conditions and at first it seemed obvious - score a goal. Right? No.


    Every time the runner chipped the ball or tried to do a high cross, I whistled and made them do ten push-ups. (In a real match, hitting anything high from that position was a low percentage move. Goalies would intercept almost everything, defenders would clean up most of the rest, and if the ball did miraculously get to a striker, it was a fair bet he''d need good technique to deal with the dropping ball.)


    When they kicked the ball low but straight at the goalie I rolled my eyes but didn''t mete out punishment. (There was no punishment because in a real match a striker could ''hit'' the near post and get to the low cross before it even got to the goalie. It felt like it would have been wrong to discourage that option even though in this particular drill Wainwright didn''t attack the near post. At the very least, these sideways crosses would encourage the goalie to stay on his goal line the next time we got into that position.)


    When the runners pulled the ball back crisp and sharp (so that Wainwright simply had to deflect the ball at goal), Ollie and I clapped and yelled positive things.


    Things were starting to get good when Wolfie turned up. Impossibly, his haircut looked worse.


    "Max. I rather expected we''d have a meeting this morning."


    "Okay."


    "Who''s that on reception?"


    "Mel. She''s a trainee spice girl and my personal assistant."


    "She says she works for an online nutritionist."


    "Yeah it''s all supplements. Stuff made from bees."


    "From honey."


    I blinked. "That makes even more sense, yeah."


    "Why have you split the squad?"


    "In this campus I have found many things that men had missed."


    "What. The hell. I would ask you to take this seriously. A lot of people aren''t happy with you right now. Including me. Including the fans. Including Chris."


    I stuck my bottom lip out. "Just mixing things up. The usual stuff wasn''t working."


    "We need to talk about what happened in the match last night."


    "Hmm. Talk. Yeah. Talk talk talk. Sounds great. Or we could skip that. Agree to disagree, get on with our lives."


    "Look, if half of what I heard is true, I should recommend your dismissal immediately."


    "It''s definitely all true and more besides. If you sack me today I want two hundred quid in cash, though."


    "What?"


    I clapped as Devonte Payne smashed in a good low cross. He really put some welly into it. Low crosses like that could be a nuisance even if Wainwright didn''t get on the end of them. "Yes, mate! Okay take a second, lads. Coach O wants you to pick up those corner cones and move them this way. Rectangle here, yeah?"


    Wolfie hissed, "Coach O? What the hell is going on?"


    I gave Wolfie my undivided attention. "Wolfie. Ever since I drove through that gate, people have been undermining me and hindering me and last night I learned that in addition to all the usual unprofessional bullshit footballers get away with when I''m not around, someone here is a mole. I am doing some A/B testing, which in this case means that plan A and plan B are to trust no-one. These players you see with Coach O are getting a crash course in how I do things. Those guys over there are doing normal Grimsby shit. Someone here is a mole. It might be someone in this group - there are only two people here it''s definitely not, i.e. me and Ollie - but it''s probably someone over there. Or maybe it''s you. Or maybe it''s Neo. It kind of infuriates me but at the same time, I kinda sorta don''t give a shit. I will beat the mole by denying them information and in the meantime, I''ve started doing things my way and I''m going to do things even more my way, harder and harder, until we''re safe from relegation or you sack me. That''s all I''ve got to say. The next time we talk you can say ''good luck against Gillingham!'' or you can say ''please give me your badge''. We don''t need further meetings or discussions."


    He wasn''t going to let me rant one-sided. "You wrestled our star signing, dumped our captain, and humiliated a young player! You nearly came to blows with Chris Hale''s favourite player! You slagged off the fans! You don''t get to decide whether we have meetings or not."


    "Sorry, mate, but I do. I was worried about my legacy. My reputation. What will people think if I''m not a success everywhere I go? What if there''s one stain on my record? And you know what? I don''t give a shit. I''m right, you''re wrong. Can this group learn Max Best football in a few weeks? Absolutely it can. They showed it last night and I''m going to turn that twenty minute spell into a forty minute spell and then sixty and then we''re going to start slapping people morning, noon, and night."


    "Slapping?"


    "That''s what it''s called when you do things the right way. This drill we''re about to do is so smart is has an honorary degree from the University of Honkytonk, New Mexico."


    He was fuming, and probably with some slight justification. But he was impressively able to control himself. "You''ve been doing everything wrong since you came through that gate. But look - there are only twelve players here. You need sixteen plus the goalies. Why is Tom Hickman in the outcast group? You told Chris you rated him."


    "You didn''t use him the whole season. It''s too late for him."


    "Forever?" His eyes were bulging.


    "No, he''s top. Integrate him into the first team squad. Insist he gets minutes. At the start of next season." I shook my head. "You gave all his minutes to Dobson, who hates the place, and lost a ton of games anyway. I''d love to know how you spin that to be my fault."


    He calmed just a fraction. I was being utterly unreasonable, he thought, but I hadn''t gone full nutjob; he agreed with me about Hickman. "What formation are we going to play with this lot?"


    I narrowed my eyes. "Formation? Why do you need to know that?"


    He reacted to my suspicion with barely contained fury. "It''s my job to supervise you! To make sure you don''t do, fucking... this!"


    "As of half time yesterday, I decided that no-one will know the formation we''re playing until one minute before kick-off. That information will be divulged to the eleven players on the pitch, on the pitch and not before."


    "That''s absurd. How can they... how can you prepare?"


    "Oh, they''ll be prepared all right. Don''t you worry about that. Now, unless I''m sacked I need to get them doing the next phase before they cool off. Please don''t interrupt my sessions again. Bye."


    ***


    Max Best - Grimsby - England - L2 - Insecure


    ***


    After training, I gave Ollie a hug and told him he''d done well - between us, we unearthed some greens in attributes, CA, and even a couple of teamwork pops. I told him to bin off his youth team muppets because he was my dude, now. I said something pretty similar to Mel. It would cost me fifty quid a day but seeing her instead of the actual receptionist would cheer me up.


    I was quite wired. I''d expended a lot of mental energy in the session, dashing around the cones yelling at players, pushing them, demanding more quality, speed, and purpose, and showing them other ways of approaching on-pitch problems. The vibe was improving but when I stepped in to show them some particular move or technique, they got very quiet.


    Yeah, I thought it was a great morning, but my brain was spinning and I needed to detach.


    I was just about to set off to the cinema in Cleethorpes, but then I went ''huh''. Somehow, Beth knew that I''d been to see Dune 2 like five times since I''d come to Lincolnshire. I tapped my steering wheel. I really kinda wanted to watch Dune 2 again...


    I put ''Hull'' into the maps app. There was no way Beth had spies in Hull.


    ***


    On Thursday, the core squad''s training was even better, and Conor returned to the camp looking suitably chill. His Condition was lower than everyone else''s but after Saturday''s match we would have a week before Wrexham. I hoped he''d be able to play the full ninety in both.


    There were still more greens, still more CA, and another teamwork pop. Ollie had swelled in confidence overnight, and between his polite, respectful, but diligent coaching and my manic good cop bad cop energy and ability to demonstrate virtually anything on a football pitch, morale was improving, too.


    Interestingly, none of the players asked what formation we''d play against Gillingham.


    I drove to Scunny to watch Dune 2.


    ***


    On Friday morning, I was feeling good as I parked The Duchess in its premium parking place. I had some good drills planned for the core. The core? Didn''t you get worms in apple cores? Not this one! My core was guaranteed worm free.


    Yeah, I thought, as I closed the driver''s door and opened the rear one to get my equipment bag. Today I was going to teach these Grimsby clowns more of the sweet science of football. A move I was calling Jab Jab Hook. A seemingly slow, ponderous series of passes that could lead to a knockout blow.


    I smiled and took two steps forward, then dropped my kit bag and fell into my rudimentary boxer''s stance. I glanced around but only saw two enemies. To my right, blocking my path to the gate, was Danny Flash, who looked like more of a worm than ever in a flesh-coloured hoodie.


    And to my left, blocking the way to the reception area and the possibility of safety, was Donnie ''Scrubber'' Wormwood, champion boxer of yesteryear. He was in his forties but he looked fierce as fuck and ready to rumble. His fists looked like bricks and when he spotted me, his lips curled into a cold-blooded snarl. There''s the twat who humiliated my nephew...


    Some bonkers impulse made me check the job information screen. It still had my status listed as Insecure.


    Yeah. You think?

 7.11 - Going Down

    11.


    UK glossary. To go down. Phrasal verb. To go to prison.


    ***


    Donnie Wormwood was nicknamed Scrubber in some sort of cockney pun homage to Wormwood Scrubs, the notorious prison. The idea, I suppose, was to intimidate on two fronts. One, the idea that you were about to get ''scrubbed''. Two, that Donnie wasn''t afraid of going down for scrubbing you. It was pathetic, to be honest, to think that there were enough weak-minded people in Essex to fall for it, and doubly pathetic that it was absolutely working on me. I was literally trembling in my trainers, having hospital flashbacks, and despite my boxing training I felt helpless.


    Wormwood took a few paces closer, as did Danny, but with a gesture from his uncle, the striker stopped.


    The champion came closer and closer, and walked to a 45 degree angle. He looked me up and down. Stupidly, I didn''t pivot to face him. I couldn''t. I realised in that moment I had tons of unresolved trauma and if I wanted to be any use in such a situation I needed to talk to someone. A thought that contained rather a lot of assumptions about how chatty I''d be with my teeth scattered all over Lincolnshire.


    Wormwood nodded a couple of times, got in front of me, and pushed me in the chest. I wobbled an amount that seemed to satisfy him.


    He took a couple of steps back and examined me from slightly behind.


    "How''s your right calf?" His voice was as expected. Pure Essex gangster. He could have played a thug in a Guy Ritchie movie.


    It was hard to think but finally I realised he wasn''t going to hit me - probably - and the old cogs started whirring. "Tight."


    He nodded and went back to the front. "This doesn''t add up," he said, touching my right forearm. "What''s this?" He had his hand on my hip, pushing me. "Relax here. Can you relax?"


    "No. I''m scared of you."


    He laughed - his face briefly became angelic, then settled back into cock-of-the-pub. He offered a handshake but I showed him my fist. He bumped it with no rancour. "Donnie Wormwood. I''m Danny''s uncle. Heard a lot about you. Didn''t know you boxed."


    I tried to stand like a normal person going to work. In my mind I was shaking like jelly. "I don''t. I just do the training. It''s hard. Not much is hard for me these days. What did you mean it doesn''t add up?"


    He pointed but took his hand away like he wasn''t sure. "Your stance says you''re an inside fighter. Close quarters. The way you threw Danny off the pitch? Inside fighter. But we''ve been looking at you play. Free kicks. Pitch-length dribbles. How you manage. From afar. Outside fighter all day long."


    "Can''t you be both?"


    "Not if you want to win a title."


    "I''d want to be both."


    "You''re not both. You can''t be. I don''t get it. I can size up a boxer in seconds." He looked around the car park and nodded at Danny who was staying five yards back. "Heard about the prick what attacked you. Bad business. Didn''t mean to scare you, Mr. Best. It''s just your woman wouldn''t let me in."


    My receptionist had stood up to the champion boxer better than me. "Mel? She''s amazing. I''ve given her dude a bit of a leg up and she''s like my personal Grimsby Rottweiler now. I love her."


    "Yeah? She scares me." He chuckled and again, his face got thirty years younger. "Love a big girl, me. To business. I''m Danny''s agent, s''well as his uncle. Can we have five minutes of your time?"


    My heart rate was going down. The sheer panic of the scenario had brought me out in a light sweat, but the rational part of my brain had been screaming that a champion boxer wasn''t going to lay into a civilian. They didn''t do that. Still, it was like finding yourself in a cage with a tiger that had recently eaten. He would leave you alone... probably. But if you had any common sense you''d still stare at his claws and teeth and wonder who could make it to the exit first.


    "Hang on. I know a bit about you and what you did in your career. Blasting the national anthem all over Vegas and Madison Square Garden. If anyone''s earned the right to drop the Mr. Best shit, it''s you. You don''t have to be that polite."


    He grinned, which brought a fresh film of sweat to my neck. "It''s not polite. It''s the veneer of civilisation, innit, and who knows what lurks beneath? Much more intimidating to talk polite when you look like me. Lead the way... Max."


    ***


    We got coffees from the canteen and I took Wormwood to the manager''s cabin with Danny scuttling along behind like a puppy behind two big dogs. "It''s my office, not that I use it much. We won''t be disturbed."


    Wormwood and I sat facing each other, but after the drama we felt a bit closer. Wormwood was terrifying in one regard, but I also had a lot of respect for him. He''d struggled and sacrificed to get his career going, maximised his talent, and quit before he lost. 46 wins, no defeats. 46 and oh, as they say. That ''oh'' would be in the history books forever.


    Top top top. Or was it more glorious to push yourself one level higher and not quite make it? Did the ''oh'' maybe mean you didn''t quite test yourself to the limit? I didn''t know enough about boxing to say, but what about football? Taking the Grimsby job might have been a bridge too far. Did that make me brave or foolhardy?


    We started with all kinds of small talk. I had time before training and if the meeting overran, Ollie could step up. I was talking to one of the country''s greatest ever sportsmen and I threw myself into the opportunity. After about eight minutes, Wormwood realised I''d been making him do all the talking. I was asking him about the elite mindset. How did he keep going in difficult fights? How did he prepare? How did he stick to crazy diets for months at a time? What was the best regimen for quick recoveries?


    He laughed and made me stop. "You ask the right questions, Max. You''re the boss at your age? Yeah. Makes more sense, now. But I''m not here to tell you how to be a champion boxer."


    "You''re very free with your secrets."


    "He who teaches, learns."


    "What? Hang on." I scribbled it down and stared at the phrase. I couldn''t quite get my head round it.


    "My trainer taught it me. It means if you want to learn something you have to teach it. First, I thought it was a scam to get me coaching for free, but nah, he''s right. The more you teach it, the more you learn it. It''s like a shortcut if you''re not all that talented. Like me."


    I gestured while I stared at my note. "Don''t give me the self-deprecating humour shit. It''s obvious how good you were. You can get lucky in football. Get yourself a juicy contract after a good World Cup or a few good games at the end of a season." Tiny dig at Danny, there. "You can''t fake it in the boxing ring. He who teaches, learns. That''s fascinating."


    I stayed lost in thought for ages. So long, in fact, that my guests stared at each other.


    "Max," said Wormwood, finally. "What it is, right... Danny''s dad passed away and I''ve been trying to keep an eye on the lad. I''m here as his agent and his uncle, whichever you''ll listen to."


    "I''ll listen to you all day long. You got to the level I want to get to."


    He tried not to show his pleasure. "I''m here for Danny. He thinks you don''t rate him."


    "I rate him exactly as much as he deserves to be rated."


    Danny''s head sank, and didn''t come back up for some time. Wormwood pushed his thumb against his nose, the most boxerly gesture imaginable. "And how high is that?"


    The car park incident clicked into ''the past''. We were in the here and now and on my turf. Football. "When I took the Grimsby job I said I wouldn''t be giving out career advice or anything like that. How they build the squad is none of my business. To some extent, I''m happy for them to overpay on transfer fees and salaries. It''s Chris Hale''s money in the end, and he has enough of it. Why shouldn''t some of it end up in Danny''s pocket? My issue is when that money distorts the culture. Toxic players using their income as a stick to beat new signings with."


    In the silence that followed, Wormwood''s breathing became more pronounced. He was trying to contain his emotions. "Dan. What does he mean?"


    It took ages, but Danny finally mumbled, "Some of the lads was cashing him off."


    I closed my eyes while I tried to process what he''d said. His uncle seemed to understand but I wasn''t a hundred percent. "Cashing me off? The twenty pound note or what? What does that mean?"


    "Laughing at how much you earn," said Wormwood.


    "It wasn''t me," whispered Danny.


    "It''s all the same culture, isn''t it?" I mused. "Tom Brady took a lower salary so he could play with better players because he wanted to win. I''m on no money at Chester so we can blast through the leagues. But it doesn''t matter, does it, what I''m paid? It matters if I can do the job and that''s one thing you and the other two pricks don''t care about." That was aimed at Danny and a reference to his bling-men wing-men Simon Green and Caine. "You don''t care about anything except what you see in the mirror. You''re not team players and you don''t have proper pride in yourselves. You ask me, I''d rather be in my shitty car and go hard at every single day than be one of you lot wearing your big gold chains in clubs ''cashing people off'' and burning hundred pound notes and all that crap. I can heat my house, buy food, and I can play football, mate. You and your kind can fuck right off. The fewer twats I have, the better the team plays. You might have noticed we fucking slapped as soon as you deigned to get off the pitch. Bad apples all over the place. Full of worms; that''s why I''ve cut the squad to the core. I''m looking for the footballers and I reckon I''ve found ''em. It ain''t you."


    Danny hid under his hood and his uncle fumed, not that quietly. The latter was the next to speak; it was his turn to unleash a flurry of punches.


    "I''ve been digging into this whole Max Best thing. Asking around. You know what I found? You push people. You push people. You''ve been pushing around here. Pushed the players, the staff, the fans. Pushed young Danny, didn''t you, looking for a reaction? You''re doing it again. Doing it now. But you overreached on Tuesday night. Danny''s the golden boy of Grimsby Town. He could get you sacked. You''re gonna apologise to him."


    Danny looked across, astonished, and then dipped his head. He had given the game away, though. Wormwood was improvising. Checking if I was congruent. Pushing me on the chest to see if I''d go down. I shook my head. "Nope."


    "You''ve only got two strikers."


    "I''ve got four. But you''re bad at research. Everyone in Chester knows on my first day I took out the trash and played with eight including one little tiny mascot kid. I''d rather play with ten than have Danny Look At Me Look At Me Look At Me Cashing You Off. Ten guys with character, nine guys with character. Give me eight guys who give a shit and I''ll get us enough wins to stay up."


    "You''re a cocky bastard, ain''t you? Even you have to be worried about losing your job."


    "It wouldn''t look good on my CV, yeah. But there''s exactly one person in Lincolnshire today who''s likely to be player-manager in a Champion''s League final. Sacking me''s like rejecting the Beatles or passing on Harry Potter. Danny Flash the pampered prince getting Max Best the sack is a bad look for exactly one of us. About five years from now there will be a spate of think pieces called ''Remember the Incredible Sulk? He got Max Best fired. Where is he now?"


    "Hang on - " started Wormwood, but I was off on one.


    "Player-manager and acknowledged transcendent genius Max Best needs no introduction. His sublime Chester men and women''s teams continue to rampage through all who oppose them. But did you know that a fucking worm with a few Instagram followers once contrived to get him sacked just as he was trying to save that same player from a massive contractually-stipulated pay cut? That''s right! Max briefly popped over to Grimsby to get them out of a jam but a few jumped up little shits felt threatened and guess what? After back-to-back relegations their personalities, for want of a better word, were deemed too toxic even for English football and now they''re all working in a hotel in Izmir that is rated the absolute worst tourist destination in Turkey while Max brings Margot Robbie to help him collect his many awards, insisting they are just good friends."


    Wormwood breathed through his nose for a while, then he shifted in his seat. He made some sort of grunting noise. "Is he always like this?"


    "Don''t know," mumbled Danny. "He never talks to us."


    The uncle appraised me. "A boxer''s only as good as his trainer. Mine was Ricky Priest. You heard of him?"


    "Not really."


    "He''s a legend. He took me from nothing and brought out the best in me. Knew when to give me a clip around the ear, when to tell me summat I needed to hear, knew when I needed to blow off steam, when I had another round in me when I thought I was done. We fell out all the time. Someone was on Wikipedia a while back and they worked out it was every two and a half years. Big blowouts, couldn''t stand the sight of each other. But I always went back because no-one knew me like him and no-one could get the best out of me like him. People think boxing''s a solo sport but it ain''t. It''s a team sport same as football. You don''t have a coach that pushes you, you''re nothing. Nothing." He stared at his nephew, who could only manage a quick flicker in return. "He''s a good lad but he''s been going off the rails since he got this Grimsby move. Bad crowd, like you said. He''s the owner''s blue-eyed boy so no-one''ll touch him. When we saw you throw him off the pitch on Tuesday night we were up in arms, but then Granddad Don said, bout bloody time. Said he''d have you at the U''s any day. You''d sort that mob out, he said. You''ve made one fan this week, at least."


    "The Ewes?"


    "U''s. Colchester United. We got Danny on the Zoom, made him tell us all about it. He said how he don''t want no non-league nobody subbing him off." He eyed me. "Nothing to say to that?"


    I scoffed. "If I were Danny I''d fucking hate it, too." Danny glanced up. "But I''d run off the pitch and complain from the bench or put something cryptic on social media. I''d still want the team to win. I wouldn''t sabotage the team." The head dropped again.


    "The three of us had a big talk," said Wormwood. "Me and his granddad know a thing or two about sport. The two of us think you''re running riot. Cutting the squad in half, not trusting anyone, doing things your way, no compromise. Too many mistakes. Too much change too soon. You''ll be sacked before you get time for it to work. If it would even work, which we''re dubious about."


    "Okay," I said, wondering why he had said ''the two of us''.


    "But you''re right about Tuesday night. Hundred percent right." He counted to five and said, "Danny."


    Danny squirmed, breathed weird, and took his phone out. He unlocked it and tapped a couple of times. The cabin was dead silent. At this critical moment, Coaches G and W flung the door open and walked in, laughing. Wormwood and I stood at the same time in similar stances. He looked at me and nodded. Giving me the lead. I said something along the lines of, "Would you mind awfully knocking next time?" and watched as the coaches fell out of the cabin. They threw the door closed in their haste to leave, leaving it swinging open. One of them crept back and pushed it half an inch per second until it softly clicked shut. I put my head back and massaged my head. "This place, holy shit. Those guys should set an example. Receptionist has more breaks than a ski slope. Captain''s supposed to keep discipline with the squad but he''s one of the biggest twats. I''ll say one thing about Danny. He''s one of the only ones who''s respectful to Chris Hale. From what I''ve seen, this club should lose every match. You know what that means? Means all these fucking clubs are the same. Lunatics running the asylum."


    Wormwood took even longer to settle back than me, but then we were ready and Danny went back to his notes app.


    "Dear Mr. Best," he read. "I am very sorry about my behaviour. I was not a team player in that moment when the team needed me." He gulped - big effort to hold back the tears. "I was selfish and you got a yellow card because of my actions. What I done was so bad I don''t deserve a second chance but I would like the chance to prove myself to you and to the fans who have supported me so much since I became a Mariner." He gulped again. There was obviously loads to go.


    "Danny, let me just read it," I said, because otherwise I would have been there all morning. He handed the phone over and I read it in about four seconds. I handed it back. "Great. Got it. Did that take you a while?" He nodded. He wasn''t an Henri who might dash off a quick essay about the fucking Mayans or whatever, or Pascal, who documented every aspect of his life. "You missed a couple of things."


    "What?" It was a confused what, not one asking for examples.


    "You forgot to apologise for training like shit."


    Wormwood slapped the table. "Fuck me!" He stared, wide-eyed, then laughed, hard. "I don''t know if I want to batter you or play for you." He laughed some more while shaking his head. "Danny, you been training right?"


    Danny livened up. "He put me in the shit group! And he''s been doing mad drills with the firsts while we do the same old shit!"


    "Mad drills? I thought I was a non-league hack."


    Danny exhaled, frustrated with me, frustrated with himself. He shoved his hands inside his hood and fussed with his hair so loudly I barely heard what he said. "They''re buzzing. They love it. I didn''t think you was watching us."


    "Max Best knows all and sees all. If you want to move to the top group you need to be the top dog in your group. If you train like shit in the shit group you need to stay in the shit group."


    Wormwood put his hands up. "I don''t need to be here for this. You''re the boss. You decide where he trains. Isn''t that right, Danny?"


    "Yeah," he said.


    "But Danny wants to post that message on his socials and take some of the heat off you."


    "Why?"


    He stared at his nephew. Danny squirmed and said, "Training here''s all defensive. It''s boring. It''s good but it doesn''t get you out of bed. Know what I mean? And now there''s..." He sighed and it took ages to speak again. "There''s you and Coach O and I want it. It''s what I want."


    I pointed at his phone. "Got it. So if I let you into the good group you''ll post on social media and I''ll keep this job. Right. So if I do what you want, you''ll save me. I work for you, now, do I?"


    Wormwood''s sinister snarl was back, and Danny let out a frustrated "No!" He covered his face with his hands and pulled them down, slowly, distorting his face one section at a time. "No, boss. If I have to train with the shits to get back in, I will. I shouldn''t of sulked the last days but I thought... I didn''t think. But I don''t want you getting binned off. Some of it''s well harsh like dumping Si in London but the tactics are dead on. I want to tell everyone how mint you are and it''s our fault we''re not winning. And that I was bang out of order."


    I stood and walked away while I had a think. The truth was that I had a wild idea for how to play against Wrexham and having Danny Flash available would help. And as much as I didn''t want to have to get political to keep my job, there were a couple of political things I had up my sleeve based around the fact that both Grimsby and Chester fans hated Wrexham. I would always be football first, but if we lost against Gillingham, I wouldn''t even get the chance to do battle against the Welsh dragon. Danny could help me stick around for another week. Still, though, my status was only on ''insecure''. I''d kind of got used to it and even thought I''d be able to ride out a few weeks of ''very insecure''. I wasn''t like normal managers. When sacked, they might never get another job. I had Chester, and I had West Didsbury. Pressure? What pressure?


    As for Danny, the worm had turned. I was too stubborn to apologise and respected people who did.


    "All right, you''re in, one on condition."


    He looked down at his hands. "What is it?"


    "Don''t post that."


    Surprise. "What?"


    I tried to be diplomatic. "I know you worked really hard on it so please don''t take this the wrong way. I think you''d admit you''re not a natural writer." He sort of grinned. "And I know it took you ages to get it sounding good. But it doesn''t sound like Danny Flash, does it? It sounds like I''ve got a gun to your head and made you write something." I imagined a rando on a bus in Grimsby reading Danny''s script and I couldn''t help but laugh. "Look, that''d do more harm than good, wouldn''t it? Here''s the deal. You smash training today and we forget it ever happened. That''s it. No need to make a public statement or anything. I don''t want to lose this job but I don''t want to be doing fake political bullshit to keep it. That''s not me. We do our talking on the pitch. We beat Gillingham, everything''s peachy. Good?"


    Wormwood was nodding. He liked what I was saying. "Will he play against Gillingham? It''s not far for me and his granddad."


    "No," I said, but it didn''t sound right. "Not the first half. Might come on as a sub. Not worth the hassle. Wrexham, though. That might be worth a drive." There was a knock at the door. "Come in," I said. Coach O opened it and looked in. I pointed at him while staring at Danny. "Standards." Turning to Ollie, I said, "Yes, mate?"


    "Should we start? I don''t know what the plan is."


    In a dreamy voice, I said, "He who teaches, learns, Coach O. I''m going to teach Danny Flash how to stay onside, and in so doing, become a better player myself." I flashed Wormwood a Maxy Two-Thumbs. He didn''t know how to respond because there was a very good chance I was being a sarcastic little SOB. He would forgive me, though. His nephew was all smiles.


    ***


    Saturday, March 16


    Match 3 of 10: Gillingham versus Grimsby Town


    Gillingham is in Kent, a four hour and ten-minute drive from Grimsby.


    The bus ride wasn''t so bad - the atmosphere was not hostile for once and there was some excitement. The lads wanted to get on the pitch and try to do some slapping. There was also some apprehension - another loss would probably spell the end for me. I''d always said if I lost five in a row I''d get binned, but with all my antics and the way I''d fallen out with an entire county, three would surely be enough.


    It was going to be a tough match. The Gills had one of the best defences in the league, though they struggled to score. If we got ahead, I felt sure we''d win. If we fell behind, it could be game over. Do not pass go. Do not collect fifty thousand pounds.


    Morale was slightly up, and I felt the general level of fitness was improved. Players like Mal Mehew and Ed Williams had gotten good minutes and you could see it in how they trained and even in their CAs.


    I decided to start with 4-1-4-1, the best formation for the team.


    I would use Devonte Payne as the right mid with Danny Grant in the centre. Overall, we would have a CA of 81.4, but we would weaken at half time.


    While on the bus, I took the opportunity to have quick chats with some of the players I''d bombed into group B. Players like Alfie Grimwood, the left back, and Tom Hickman, the talented centre back. I told them my reasons for splitting the group and said (in their cases at least) it was nothing personal and I expected them to be ready to play and if they trained well on Monday they could get moved into the core group on Tuesday and they''d have a chance of playing against Wrexham because I thought we''d have to go quite defensive in that one. The prospect seemed to excite them, but there was no immediate change in their morale. Maybe they thought I wouldn''t be in charge by then so it didn''t matter.


    We got to the Priestfield Stadium and I pottered around checking it out. There were three nice stands - I could imagine the redeveloped Deva looking something like it, except there was no way I''d let the three stands be three different heights. Two maybe, but three? That was a no from me, dog. But then there was pretty much the worst stand I''d ever seen. The only competition was the abomination at Barrow. This one was just... a shape. With no roof. The internet said it was a temporary stand that had been erected in 2003. How about we talk about the meaning of the word temporary?


    The dressing room before kick-off was quiet. There were no physios, the kit man had done his work and left, and the only coach was Ollie. I had told individual players if they were playing or not, but had instructed them not to discuss it with anyone else. Anyone trying to find out the whole team, I had said, was the mole. All very ominous and potentially bad for morale, but I was pretty sure no-one had blabbed.


    With five minutes to go, I took them out to the pitch and told them the plan. Alex Evans would boss the game from DM, we would play with control, we would be sensible, but when the chance to slap came, we would slap hard. Nothing new, nothing surprising, but we had been starting matches with 4-2-4 and Gillingham went with 5-3-2 to defend against that. Their average CA was 81 but most of that came from their goalie and centre backs. They basically had two Christian Fierce types, which seemed unfair. Up front, their strikers worked hard and could win headers but didn''t have much technical quality or finishing skill.


    We kicked off and I used Cupid''s Arrow to combine Grant and Wainwright. Immediately everything fell into place. We raced into sixty percent possession and got shots away. Low quality ones, but they were coming.


    In the ninth minute, Devonte Payne went on an overlapping run and, seeing two defenders around Wainwright, decided against the cross. He cut back onto his left foot. His opponent hung out a leg, Payne went down, penalty! I smashed Free Hit in record time.


    Wainwright took a couple of paces, hit it to his left... and the goalie saved it. Six out of ten penalty, ten out of ten save.


    The home fans had been pretty quiet, but that got them mocking us.


    "Going down, going down, going down!"


    And when I popped out of the dugout to shout encouragement to Wainwright...


    "Sacked in the morning! You''re getting sacked in the morning!"


    Seeing that his plan wasn''t working, Gillingham''s manager switched to 4-4-2 and tried to make the game bitty and sluggish. Maybe he knew I would only use Alex for the first half and he would ride out this storm and come at us in the second half.


    Gills (pronounced like the woman''s name) had a couple of efforts, one of which scared the shit out of me, but we finished the half with five shots on target. A decent haul against such a well-drilled team.


    I went to the dressing room deep in thought. Two things were happening that I didn''t have the experience to deal with. One, Wainwright''s penalty miss had fucked him up. His head had dropped and it didn''t help that the two centre backs were so good. They were bullying him, which didn''t happen to him very often. But what could I do? It was him or Danny Flash and there was no contest.


    The second thing was that I could see Gillingham were doing something strange defensively that I couldn''t put my finger on. On the tactics screen, their defender icons were surrounded by thick lines. That meant they were doing something different to the default, but I couldn''t see what. I''d need to study the tapes but that wouldn''t help us in the second half.


    Now I had to choose which subs to make. Alex was coming off - I couldn''t risk overplaying him. I wanted to take Conor Quinn off, too. I could easily switch to 3-5-2, but that would mean putting Danny Flash on. The guy''s pros and cons as a person had sort of balanced out in my head but what didn''t shift was the fact that he wasn''t good enough for the level and this particular pair of centre backs would make mincemeat out of him.


    I waited until the break was nearly over - the home team were planning to stick to 4-4-2, so I said fuck it and told Danny he was going on. It slapped us down to an average CA of 77.6 and I hadn''t seen how Jayden would play as a left-sided centre back, but five in midfield would give us more control, the fresh legs would let us keep running hard, and Gillingham would have to mark Danny Flash and that would ease the burden on Marcus Wainwright.


    The change to three at the back caught our opponents by surprise and we had another good six or seven minute spell. They switched back to 5-3-2 and there was a long period of stalemate. I couldn''t risk throwing bodies forward and the Gills manager seemed happy to take a point. That didn''t make sense to me. They had a chance of making the playoffs and we were the worst team in the form table. Why not have a go?


    I stood with my hood up as rain started to fall. Our fans in the uncovered terrace got soaked. We were playing well until the final third. At first I thought it was just the nature of the players. Devonte was faster than the left back, so I changed his individual instructions to allow him to dribble. We got him into positions to do just that, but every time he would spin backwards and play a safe pass to the midfield. I moved Payne inside and put Danny Grant out there and he did the same.


    We were putting in a rugged defensive shift. There was patent togetherness and team spirit. It was fearless football in the sense that defenders would throw themselves into blocks and midfielders would leap into fifty-fifty tackles. But on the ball... It was like they didn''t want to win. Not in a traitorous sense. Just the opposite, in fact.


    The ultimate example was with two minutes to go. The score was still nil-nil and I''d used my three remaining subs to keep things fresh. We got a bit of luck on the left when a defender slipped. Greg Fasanmade burst forward, Wainwright moved to the far post - a sign of his low confidence, by the way - and Danny Flash sprinted into Wainwright''s slot. Fasanmade passed to Flash, and he was in a dangerous position on the left of the box. He had Fasanmade sprinting to be an option, Wainwright, and Danny Grant rushing to make the far post a target-rich environment.


    All Flash had to do was spin and chip to the far post and we''d have our best opportunity of the second half.


    Instead, he dribbled to the corner flag and held the ball there. A defender kicked it out for a throw in, Fasanmade held the ball for so long he got a yellow card, and once again, Flash tried to hold the ball in the corner to let the clock run down.


    Gills got the ball, Flash rushed into a foul to stop them breaking. He got a yellow card and that was the last action of the match.


    Peep peep peep!


    Nil-nil. Not many of those in my professional football career. I didn''t quite know how to feel.


    In the dressing room, I gave everyone a fist bump. "Danny. Amazing energy. Love it. But what was that at the end?"


    "What?"


    "You went to the corner. You were all wasting time at the end. Why?"


    Flash couldn''t believe his ears. "So we wouldn''t lose again and you wouldn''t get sacked." He looked around to check he wasn''t the crazy one, and his mates were nodding.


    I looked up at the ceiling, equal parts frustrated and pleased. "Guys, you let me worry about the sack. Okay? My teams don''t go to the corner. Next time, sling that to the far post where we''re queuing up and if it goes wrong, I''ll eat it."


    "But we could lose. I promised myself I wouldn''t get another manager binned off."


    "Yeah," I said. It didn''t seem like much at the time but Danny''s misguided display of loyalty was the moment the Grimsby adventure paid off. It had been a hell of a slog, but I''d achieved something. Most likely the rest of the world would consider me a failure. An abject failure, in fact. But I knew what I''d done. I''d got the snowball rolling, big time. If Wolfie stomped it flat, that wasn''t on me.


    Heart-warming as Danny''s actions were, they also showed that my message wasn''t getting through. The lads were pumped full of adrenaline and whatnot; they couldn''t take new information on right now. It made sense why managers often communicated their thoughts to the media. Players would read it on the drive home, or the next morning, when it might sink in a little easier.


    Danny thought I was mad at him. "Gills are good. That''s a good point."


    I inhaled. "That is a good point. It''s a tough trip for any team, this, and we''ve outplayed them. How did the others get on?"


    Alex Evans had been on the bench keeping track. "Everyone else lost, boss." He showed me the league table.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="42"><col width="42"><col width="42"><col width="42"><col width="42"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Salford City</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>-16</td>


    <td>38</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Colchester</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>-13</td>


    <td>36</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Forest Green Rovers</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>-28</td>


    <td>31</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Grimsby Town</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>-23</td>


    <td>30</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>Sutton United</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>-24</td>


    <td>29</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    "That looks a tiny bit better. Progress. FGR are a shambles but the others have good managers. Okay, let in the physios and the rest, Coach O. I have to go chat to the media."


    I had a decision to make. I''d definitely mention my thoughts on taking the ball into the corner, but was I going to get political? There were things I could say that would get me reputation points when it came to Grimsby and Chester, but would damage me when it came to Wrexham. One of the three teams could make me rich and famous a lot faster than the other two.


    I tried not to be smirking when I went into the press room, but the truth was I knew I was going to do this the moment Chris Hale offered me the job and I looked at the fixture list.


    ***


    Extract from Max Best''s press conference.


    Phil Harrison, BBC Radio Kent. Max, your first point in League Two. How do you feel?


    I feel like we gave a good account of ourselves for the whole ninety minutes and there were a lot of characteristics on display that I value. Team work, work rate, togetherness. There was loads of that.


    You lacked some quality in the final third.


    No, I don''t agree. If this was the first game of the season we''d have played the same way but with more exuberance and verve. As it is now the weight of the league table is crushing and it is affecting some of the decision-making.


    Danny Flash going into the corner. You didn''t like that.


    Holding onto a point like that is not my style but I''m not a complete nutjob, whatever that website says. I do understand that the form and the league position and the pressure makes players want to hold onto that draw and we looked at the table just now and we''re all very happy with that point. But it''s three points for a win so going for the winner is worth the risk. All I''m saying is that if you attack with purpose you''ll mess teams up. But there''s other things that are important, too, and Danny Flash went to the corner for the team and worked extra hard to show that he''s a team player. He''s working his socks off to show who the real Danny Flash is and I think the fans responded to that today, so it wasn''t perfect but you see a lot of good things happening with people starting to want to pull in the same direction.


    You''re still not happy with him.


    I am. I''m not communicating it very well but I''m, like, made up that he''s done that. He''s thought to himself, what''s the absolute best thing I can do for the team now? And he''s done that. The only response to that is admiration. But if he''s done it partly so I don''t get sacked, I don''t totally like that aspect of it. I''m just saying if you want to play Max Best football you have to play Max Best football, even if it gets me sacked.


    Things would have been different if you''d scored that penalty.


    The only time I want my teams to go for the corner is when they''re shooting. Marcus is normally deadly from the spot. He hits it hard at the corner but today he''s thought, whatever you do, get it on target. So he''s taken a bit of pace off and he''s aimed a little bit further inside the post and the keeper''s pulled off a top save. If I could have spoken to him before he took it I''d have said do what you normally do and whatever happens, happens. But again, these things are happening because players are so desperate to do well and to lift the team. I wish I could make them believe me when I say I want them to go for it and I''ll take the heat if it goes wrong.


    If they played your way, what would be different?


    There''s the pen, there''s going to the corner, there''s a load of other things like one-on-one dribbles where the risk of messing it up is actually pretty low and the benefit of really committing to it is very high. We''ve got two weeks to talk about it as a team and really discuss it because they''re happier than me right now and maybe their way is a better way to go. Grind out a few results and get to safety that way. I''m not against it. We''ll make a team decision but I''ll offer them two ways and we''ll commit hard to the one we choose.


    Why did you say two weeks? You''ve got Wrexham in a week.


    We all know Wrexham are a giant lumbering juggernaut and they need wins to make sure they get automatic promotion. They are going to bombard us for ninety minutes and all we can realistically do is turtle up. We''re going to defend for our lives and hope for a miracle. It''ll give us a chance to rest some of our key players, too.


    Okay but if you lose against Wrexham you could be out of a job. Resting your best players is a huge risk.


    It''s the right thing for the club. Some of these guys are running on fumes and they need a proper break. That''s all there is to say, really. If I''m sacked because of it, the next manager will have a fantastic chance to get a few wins. My job''s to do my job, not keep my job. Nah, I''ve already told some of the young defenders they''ll be involved against Wrexham and we''ll be doing a lot of defensive drills this week.


    There''s a lot of attention when Wrexham come to town thanks to their Hollywood owners and the documentary and they''re Chester''s big rivals and Grimsby have quite a bitter rivalry with them, too. Blundell Park will be bouncing. You must be excited.


    I like the documentary and I think it''s great how they''ve lifted that town, and no-one in Grimsby or Chester will thank me for saying that. I''m excited when a new season of the documentary drops but am I excited to play against the football club? Well, they''ve got the biggest budget in the league by far and if you ask a hundred people what they associate with Wrexham the team, ninety-nine will say long throws. Long throw-ins from their centre back, big diags to their big man up top, a lot of rough tackles if anyone dares break against them. It''s like a pub team, isn''t it? What will I say to my players on Monday? Lads, we''re going to spend the week preparing like we''re playing a pub team. If I spent twenty million pounds and found myself with the best pub team in the world, I think I''d be a little bit disappointed. Maybe I''m just jealous because I can''t throw a ball really far and I don''t have the nerve to ask my players to hit long diags to a big man while asking fans to pay twenty quid to watch it. But yeah, good luck to them.


    ***


    Sunday, March 17


    I bumped into my landlady on Sunday morning. I hadn''t seen Angela much because she was always out and about doing things and now that the weather had improved, she spent long hours in the back garden. But she was out the front doing things in pots so I asked about extending my stay and did some admin.


    "Where are you off to?" she asked.


    "Going down the Wolds," I said.


    "Lovely day for it."


    "I haven''t seen a hedgehog yet."


    "You won''t in the day. They''re nocturnal."


    I grunted. "How does everyone know everything about everything except me?"


    Angela smiled. "I''m sure you know a thing or two. You never told me what your job was."


    "I''m a teacher. He who teaches, learns. Do you like that phrase? I made it up myself."


    "Did you? What are you going to be teaching this week?"


    "Yeah," I said, to myself. "I''m not the one who needs to learn. I''m bloody amazing."


    "Max, be honest. Do you do sports?"


    "Yes," I said. "Football. What gave it away?"


    "The kit bag."


    "Right. Do you like footy?"


    Angela clicked her garden scissors together like a happy lobster. "Of course I do! Up the Imps!"


    My mouth dropped open so much you could have wedged half a dozen tartlets in there. "Ugh?" I said.


    "The Imps," she said, confused. "Lincoln City. That''s my team."


    "Wow. Right. Of course. Er... see you later."


    I frowned and wandered off. That imps comment had been almost as shocking as seeing a champion boxer in the Cheapside car park. Walking helped me shake the feeling off and soon I was turning onto a path I liked.


    If I was being honest, how was I doing? Like, really?


    I knew I wasn''t quite a League Two manager, yet. Sure, I was doing well with the garbage I''d been given. But the Gillingham match had been uncomfortable. While we dominated it, I had felt like there was a fog of war hiding some of their methods from me. No doubt as I earned more experience points, I would be able to unlock perks that would give me clarity in those situations. Perks that would explain why some icons on the tactics screens had thick lines around them. Maybe when I was back in the real world I could sit with Sandra and Jackie and try to understand what I''d seen.


    But that wasn''t what I needed to think about. Having cut out the biggest shitheads and reduced the mole''s power to zero, I had a functional team. We would compete in most of our matches - yes, even against Wrexham. Calling them a pub team was a calculated risk - it would annoy the shit out of them and make them come at us hard, but the Grimsby fans would love it and it went without saying that I''d get a warm reception back home.


    The world of the Wolds was so quiet. Sometimes I heard the low hum of a distant plane. Sometimes a breeze rustled through branches. The training ground could get like this when the players were really focused on their tasks. And on the training ground they loved playing Max Best football. They were fast, energetic, dynamic. Of course it was different in a stadium with thousands of people watching and jeering. I had to accept that there would be a difference between what the players wanted to do and what their shitty brains would let them do.


    The indecisiveness in attack, though. The willingness to scrape a nil-nil instead of being bold. I wanted fearless football, but how could I explain it in the short time I had? What metaphor could I use?


    I looked around. Trees were a good image. You could always use a tree. Nature. The circle of life. The Life of Brian. Brian Blessed. Blessed be thy name. The Name of the Wind. Wind chimes. The chimes they are a''changing.


    With a shake of the head, I rested a foot on a gate. The ideas just weren''t coming. Not the good ones, anyway.


    And it looked like the imps had finally run out of ideas, too. There still hadn''t been a monthly perk. I took my phone out and battled the shit reception to bring up a list of special days for March. One stood out that I hadn''t paid attention to before: World Down Syndrome Day, March 21st. This Thursday. There had been some news item on the Grimsby Town website, hadn''t there? The page loaded slowly... and yes! There it was.


    I jogged back to the AirBnB and no sooner had I closed the door behind me than I started hammering the phones. The first call was obvious. "Brig? You got a minute? I need your help."


    ***


    Coach Ollie to A Squad: Message from Max Best. A Squad are training this week as normal except Thursday (21st). Extra training on Thursday will take place in the evening. Make arrangements. This is not a joke.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ***


    Unrelated to my calls, I got a text from Brooke.


    Max, hope you are well. Sorry to disturb your Sunday but I had an idea for a campaign for season ticket sales and general promotion. I pitched it to MD and he loves it. When will you be back? If we can talk about it soon we can do the prep and have it ready for the last games.


    I looked around my AirBnB room where I''d spent so much time moodily leaning against the window or staring up at the ceiling. Feeling that I''d made Brooke feel as shit as the twats in Grimsby had made me feel was, ah, emotional. All she''d done since she got the job was graft and do more than she had to. Okay so she was doing it to prove me wrong, but so what? Tons of people wanted to prove me wrong and never did the first fucking thing about it.


    I got my phone out, hesitated, and hammered my fingers against the screen.


    Me: Whatever it is, go for it.


    Then I spent three minutes wondering if I wanted to add a lasso emoji to the end. I decided that I did.


    ***


    On Monday we practised defending long throws and set pieces. I asked the Dannys if they would post on social media along the lines of, ''Just done training. Great preparation for the Wrexham match. The boss brought in a Sunday League team and we played against them.'' They thought it was hilarious and soon the whole team was plotting. Why not actually bring a Sunday League team in? We only needed to line them up and stage a few photos.


    On Tuesday we practised defending set pieces, long throws, and shuffles and slides.


    On Wednesday, more of the same, but watched by a load of randos in an old blue-and-red away top the kit man found. If you weren''t a Town megafan you''d have sworn it was a Sunday League kit. We staged the photos and had lunch with the actors - all Town fans. As fun as the ''Wrexham are a pub team'' bit was, the week''s training had been genuinely tough and not all that much fun. I popped over to where Danny Flash was charming a couple of the randos. "Bet you wish you were back in B Group."


    "No, boss," he said, with a big chunk of chicken on his fork. "It''s all lush."


    I twisted my neck, expecting to hear a click. I''d been doing lots of shouting, lots of berating. It didn''t come naturally and Ollie wasn''t much help with it, but the worst was over. "All right, that''s good. Tomorrow''s going to be different. We''re going to get proper weird. Make sure you get a good night''s sleep."


    ***


    On Thursday I broke my self-imposed rule about not getting outside help. The A squad warmed up, then lined up halfway between the corner flag and the centre line.


    "All right, lads," I said, wearing a zipped hoodie for a change. "This is Pascal and Youngster from the all-conquering Chester team, and that''s my Head of Shouting. We call him the Brig. They''re going to help me with a new drill I''ve invented. It''s called, If You Can Stop Me You Can Stop Anyone." I left a couple of beats while the name sank in, then unzipped myself, revealing a Best 77 Chester kit. "Behold!" I said, laughing at my own arrogance. "Here''s the game. I start at the halfway line. I score, I get two points. You stop me and clear to the halfway line, you get one point. The first three victims are up." Danny Flash, Otis, and one of the Gregs were between me and the goal. I pointed to the right and everyone looked. "Now, over there we''ve got - "


    I moved the ball out from under my feet and chipped it into the empty goal.


    "Two-nil!" I yelled. "Subs!"


    Those three guys trudged off to much mockery from the rest. The next three got a bit more organised with one player starting as close to me as I''d allow so I couldn''t get a quick shot off.


    I put the whistle in my mouth, blew it, and exploded. Feint left, push right, smash the ball.


    "Four-nil!" called Pascal.


    "Next!" I yelled.


    This time two players came close with the third behind, sweeping. I ran parallel to the first two, cut back at an insane angle, flicked the ball between them at shin height, then did a huge shimmy to leave the third one on his arse.


    The next set finally managed to score a point. Time to change it up. "You get a mate, I get a mate."


    The defenders numbered four, now, but I had Pascal.


    With a fast, clever player on my side, I switched to quarterback mode, gliding left and right before playing through balls or chips. The momentum swung massively back in my favour, and once again it took Grimsby time to get things together.


    When I added Youngster to my team, I let Grimsby line up in a full 4-4-2 with a goalie. The three of us took the piss for a few minutes because my boys knew exactly what I could do and what I wanted them to do. One dizzying little piece of interplay ended with me through on goal, dumping the keeper on his arse, then playing it square for Pascal to tap into the empty net. It drew applause from the Grimsby guys and Pascal''s CA improved. And why not? He was training with a League Two side on League Two facilities! How had I not thought of this before?


    Oh, yeah. Because I was too busy wheelbarrowing away all the toxic sludge.


    "John Windmill, Coach O," I called. They came over. "Three non-league hacks are taking the piss. Can you fucking try and get it together, please?"


    Ollie nodded, but put his hands out. "Boss. Not to come across all... mole-y... but if this is prep for Wrexham can you tell us the formation?"


    I looked down and thought about it. Wrexham never changed formation so there was no reason to be coy. Plus it was in my interest to let everyone know how defensively we''d be playing. "4-5-1 low block. Make sure you tell everyone, but don''t say who''s starting."


    "I don''t know who''s starting."


    "Exactly."


    With the guys lined up in the right shape and after a blast from John Windmill and some encouragement from Otis King, the defence got noticeably harder. My favourite word was back: obdurate.


    With Youngster and Pascal scampering around making runs and decoy runs, I dribbled and feinted, but mostly I blew my whistle. "Conor! You''re miles out! Alex! You''ve left your zone. You''ve got to pass him on to the next man! Jayden, we talked about that! That''s what they want you to do!"


    I kept pressing and pushing and when I was satisfied that the lads would give Wrexham a tough time, decided to finish with one last piece of showing off. I bought some space and smashed the ball at the top left-hand corner. I was already crowing about it when Sam Crichlow launched himself like a salmon and touched it onto the top of the bar.


    That got the biggest round of applause yet - the ideal time to end the session.


    Youngster had gained a point in CA, too, making it pretty much the perfect morning. Whether the squad would be as impressed by what I had for them in the evening, I didn''t know.


    I brought my guys out to the Brig''s car and thanked him profusely.


    He said it was nothing and he enjoyed it.


    "Can we do it again? With some of the women?" I was thinking of boosting a few of them before their big match against Altrincham.


    "If you wish, sir." Without moving his head, he checked the area and lowered his voice. "I''m ready to assist with the other thing, sir."


    I turned my head. There were no players, only their cars. "I think I''ll crack the case if I''m here long enough."


    "Good luck."


    ***


    Emma: You were on that podcast again. I hope you''re all right.


    Me: I am, I promise. I admit I lied all the other times I said I was doing well, but now I really am. Super super double promise, for reals and reals.


    I went to Pocket Casts and downloaded the latest episode of Pyramid Schemers, the podcast dedicated to the 72 teams in the EFL - in other words, not the top twenty.


    ***


    Rocky: And that''s why I''m backing Leicester to win by at least two goals at ten to one. What have you got for BTTS, mate?


    Mike: I''m looking at a top versus bottom clash in League Two. We know that Wrexham sometimes underperform away from home, but they always score. And they are playing Grimsby Town.


    Rocky: Fresh off a goalless draw against Gills.


    Mike: But if you look at the underlying numbers...


    Rocky: What are you doing?


    Mike: Waiting for you to interrupt.


    Rocky: Never interrupt your friend when he''s making a mistake.


    Mike: The underlying numbers since Max Best took over are really quite good. They outperformed Sutton, MK Dons, and Gills in almost every metric. There was a graphic doing the rounds of the expected threat charts from the three games before Best took charge and the three after, and it''s almost unbelievable that you''re looking at the same team. You can tell how much things have changed from the bookies'' odds for who will go down. When Best took over, Grimsby were rated 88% likely on the BetItAll exchange. That''s gone down to 65%. The bookmakers are looking at the trends and the coming matches and thinking, hey, this team''s moving in the right direction. And if there''s one thing we know about Max Best, it''s that he''ll attack.


    Rocky: He''s been saying they''ll defend for their lives and he''ll rest his key players.


    Mike: He''s also been filming himself trying to find someone on the staff who can do long throws. The groundsman and a delivery driver. He''s a wind-up merchant.


    Rocky: By the way. Calling Wrexham a pub team. Bit immature?


    Mike: Very much so.


    Rocky: Quite funny?


    Mike: Objectively funny. [They giggle.] This is a Grimsby team that played mostly defensive formations for three or four years and in his first two matches, Best had them doing 4-2-4. And we know there''s bad blood between these Grimsby players and Wrexham. I think they''ll be up for it, I think they''ll go for goals, and I think they''ll score. So Grimsby versus Wrexham is my Both Teams To Score pick at fifteen to two.


    ***


    The players came back to Cheapside at six and I made them get on the team bus. The driver had warmed to me since our slight altercation after the Sutton match, and he was more than happy to get extra work. He drove us to our home stadium, Blundell Park, and I led the team through the inner sanctums and out onto the pitch. A bunch of randos were warming up.


    I formed the lads into a semi-circle.


    "Today''s World Down Syndrome Day and there''s more than a few Down''s players in GTACFC. Any of you fucks know what that is?"


    Danny Flash put his hand up. "Grimsby Town Ability Counts FC, boss."


    "Wow. One point to Danny."


    "What can I do with the points?"


    "Spend three points to buy exemption from banishment."


    "How do I get more points?"


    "By shutting up when I''m trying to explain why we''re here. Jesus Christ." I made a big show of massaging my forehead. "There''s two teams here. One''s Grimsby Town, one''s a local community centre thing. They were doing a match in some park to raise awareness but I''ve hijacked it and moved it here and told the organisers they get to meet loads of famous Dannys and Gregs if they let me mess about with their players. We''re going to do a bit of an experiment tonight. It will only work if you actually make an effort so I''m going to use what I call the carrot and dick approach. The carrot is, the best performer wins a set of steak knives. The dick is, if you don''t take this seriously you get dicked to the B team. Any questions so far?"


    "No, boss," said John Windmill. He was throwing himself into the leadership role and seemed like exactly the right fit for what I needed from this group. That would be very, very helpful when it came time to use Triple Captain.


    "Here''s what''s going to happen later. You are going to manage a team and I am going to manage the other team. The losers," I said, pointing to them, "will take the winner," I pointed to myself, "to Nando''s or some restaurant with a hot waitress."


    "Boss, that''s not fair," said Conor Quinn. "We don''t know how to manage!"


    "4-4-2 keep it tight first ten," I said, with fake heat. "What the fuck? It''s a piece of piss. Now, I thought you might whine like a load of little bitches so I''ve designed it to make it easy for you. I''m going to give you every advantage. All right? First you''re going to get to know the players, then you can choose any eleven you want. I''ll take the rest. Like, it couldn''t be more outrageously in your favour."


    "But you know the players," said Tommy Blair.


    I howled. "How the hell would I know them? I just got here, same as you. I''ve never laid eyes on the fucking Grimsby Town para team, for fuck''s sake! You can ask their coaches. Exceptional students need exceptional teachers and these idiots seem to think you lot are God''s gift to football so don''t you fucking let them down. Right," I said, slapping my palms. "Break into four teams. Lead one of these four squads through their basic drills. Pay special attention to the strengths and weaknesses of the players. You may not ask them what position they play. You may not talk to their coaches about them. The coaches are there simply to make sure you don''t fuck them up with dumb instructions. You have fifteen minutes to learn as much as you can about these players. Get going."


    While the guys did as they were told, I took a minute to scan the player profiles. The curse was still rating everyone either 1, 10, or 20 in every attribute, but I was getting morale and condition scores from the disabled players, now. Progress, though I couldn''t really expect more. I hadn''t spent much time with the Chester Knights or watching para football.


    There were quite a few people in the main stand - a couple of hundred maybe. Friends and family of the players. They were going to have a good night, and so were the para players. They were being coached by Danny Flash and Danny Grant on the hallowed turf!


    Fifteen minutes later, I whistled to summon the lads.


    "Okay, that was top. Lots of happy, smiling faces. That''s good. The volunteers are setting out cones in three drills. Defenders go there on the left. That''s Jab Jab Hook. Remember? Short pass, short pass, long pass. You''re going to teach them that drill. Yeah? Next one, in the middle there. That''s midfielders. Remember the Floatin'' Totem drill I taught you? You''re going to do that. Strikers over there. That''s Run and Gun. We''ll do like five minutes on each drill and rotate the groups. You stay where you are. Oh, and Sam, there are two goalies over there. Do goalie things. Everyone happy? Yes?" I clapped my hand and John Windmill copied me.


    This was bedlam for a while - five minutes wasn''t enough to explain the drills and get the amateurs to practise, but it wasn''t really about the para players. This was he who teaches, learns on a large, experimental scale. In striving to explain the drills, the first team would understand them better. Right?


    After fifteen minutes that honestly looked like a lot of fun, I whistled and brought the guys back.


    "Merge into two groups. I don''t want young versus old or bad haircuts versus good. Mix up. Then pick seven para players each. Those seven will be your team. Top manager hint - you might want to grab a goalie, and you might want to pick the guys you think are best. We''re going to have a seven-a-side game so you can see the players in action. Choose wisely!"


    It was fascinating to watch the discussions and I wish I had fifteen cameras tracking all the conversations like in a reality TV show. It felt better that I stayed on the fringes, though. My job was to make sure the process went smoothly and no-one ended up in tears.


    When they''d picked seven each, we played a ten-minute short-sided game which turned into John Windmill versus Danny Flash. Windmill''s team won and he celebrated with high fives for his players and co-managers.


    Very happy with how things were going, I called the first team in again.


    "This is going great. Who knew Danny Flash was a natural coach? All right. It''s Grimsby versus Max Best - what''s new? I reckon John and Danny will make good co-managers. Knock your heads together and pick the eleven players you want. Then take them over there and set them up in a formation."


    "Boss," said Windmill. "We don''t know what positions they play."


    "Why not? You''ve been watching them for half an hour. I met a former boxer and he sussed me out from top to bottom in three seconds. Didn''t he, Danny?"


    "Yeah, but, it''s different."


    "It''s not. Stop bleating and get on with it."


    While they were deliberating, I gathered the rest of the para players around a tactics board, set them up in a 4-3-3 - no curse assistance for the tactics, here - and gave them some individual instructions.


    A few minutes later the match started in earnest and the para players crashed into each other as usual, dashing around the pristine grass. Part of me regretted moving the event to Blundell Park - the pitch was far too big for players of the standard, but at least they''d get a good memory out of it and the ones who scored would treasure the memory.


    It didn''t take long for my team to take control of the game and it was pretty funny watching John and Danny struggle to understand why their first-choice eleven was getting dicked.


    When the score hit four-nil I took pity on the co-managers, and - more importantly - the losing team. I blew to get everyone close to me.


    "Well played, everyone. Now, the Grimsby Town first team are thinking this is some sort of scam and I''ve somehow made them choose the wrong players. So I want to switch management teams. John and Danny will manage you guys, and I''ll go over there and manage you guys. All right? Good. Actually, why don''t you change ends so I can stay here and I don''t have to move my tactics board?"


    My new eleven came over. I wanted to put them in an absolutely crazy formation I felt sure would beat my former team, but winning wasn''t actually the point, here. I put them in a 5-3-2 and encouraged the three midfielders to run forward to join attacks, and told the defenders to hit long balls for the strikers to chase. To play like a pub team, in fact.


    My former team were still set up well - John and Danny had cleverly not changed anything - and they scored the first goal of this new match. But then my guys came into the match more and the tide turned. We got two goals ahead and I blew to pause the action.


    I jogged over to the Grimsby Town first team. "Right. You lot are going to go on the pitch and help out. Don''t kick the ball, don''t get in the way. But in breaks and whatnot I want you there giving advice and encouragement. Okay? Sam, goalie. Jayden and Conor, with your guys it''s all about when to tuck in, when to hold, when to bomb down the wing. Yeah? John and Otis - your guys are up against a big strong guy and a fast little pest."


    "You want me with the centre backs?" said Otis.


    "Yeah because Ed, you were a striker, right? You, Marcus, and Danny F, you take a striker each. The main things are movement and supporting each other with runs, but most of all, keeping their head up. So they miss a chance. Who gives a shit? Get the next one, right? Midfielders. It''s all about balance. My team''s midfield like to get forward so are you dropping back to help? But then you''re pinned back. So do you stick to space to dick them on breaks? Think about it. All right, let''s get on with it."


    I blew the whistle and it was pretty crazy. The team on the left looked like it had eighteen players, and there were too many bodies everywhere. If I''d had more time to think it through I might have got some spy earphones for the players to wear so their mentors could coach them by audio and leave the pitch clear.


    "John," I said, and he came closer. "This is great but let''s have it so you can only have, like, four mentors on the pitch at once. You rotate them on and off."


    "Rolling coaches?" he said, laughing.


    "Rolling coaches."


    I let the game flow. No more interruptions. I was checking my phone to see how long we had left - not long - when the bus driver came closer to my dugout. "Reckon I know the formation you''re going to use on Saturday."


    I smiled. I wondered if I''d been too obvious. "I wouldn''t bet on it."


    "Oh," he said, and he seemed genuinely disappointed.


    "Are you the mole?"


    "No," he sighed. "It''s easy money, though, innit? If you line up like that against Wrexham they''ll batter you. Even a bus driver knows that." For a minute, the only noise was the sound of the players shouting for the ball and crashing into each other. A weak shot was met by a cry of dismay from the striker. Marcus Wainwright knelt to gee him up. I could almost read his lips. ''Let it slide off you. Blank slate.'' The bus driver saw it, too. "This is right smart, this."


    I smiled. "Thanks, man. It means a lot coming from you."


    He shook his head and moved away, paused, checked to see if I was still smiling at him, and finally shook his head again. He was laughing, though.


    ***


    Friday, March 22


    The imps finally thought up a good monthly perk and it was available when I woke up. I read it and went to the web page I had been looking at a lot recently. Apparently, the 22nd of March was International Day of the Seal. They could have given me a bonus for managing a team with a seal nickname, but what they came up with was pretty attractive.


    Unmissable Special Offer


    New perk available for the month of March: Seal It Up


    Cost: 4,004 XP


    Effects: Once per match, your defenders gain plus one positioning for a fifteen-minute period. Defensive midfielders do not count as defenders, but wing backs and sweepers do.


    Sighing, I did some maths. After the Wrexham match, I would be about 1,560 XP short of affording this. If I was still in charge against Barrow, I would be about 800 short.


    I mean, I absolutely could find 800 extra XP by the end of the month. But that was the whole thing with Nick and the imps. Dangle the juiciest carrots to keep me on the treadmill. If I bought this one, the next one would be equally tempting and I would never get closer to saving up for WibWob. But then again, WibWob would always be in the shop and this one would vanish if I didn''t get it in the next nine days.


    I clicked my tongue a few times, but then closed all my screens. I wasn''t sure what to do with this offer. I had to concentrate on the Wrexham match - it would define how my time at Grimsby would be perceived.


    Plus one positioning for my defenders, though. That''d be really helpful in a first half like the one that was coming... Maybe I''d have a little explore of Grimsby''s Sunday League and five-a-side scene. Just in case I decided to go for the perk, like.


    ***


    Saturday, March 23


    Match 4 of 10: Grimsby Town versus Moneybags Wrexham


    Extract from the pre-match pressers


    Max, you''ve named a strange team. Some players you haven''t even had in the matchday squads so far. What are you thinking?


    Look, I know this is a big game because of the rivalry between Grimsby and Wrexham but I have to take a holistic view and admit that a draw is the best we can do. Yeah, gammons, I said holistic. Ooh! Lock him up! So I''ve been saying the whole week that we would go defensive and we''d turtle up. And that''s what I''m doing. Sometimes I feel like I''m taking crazy pills. Why does no-one ever listen? If I had more defenders in the squad they''d be in the team.


    The noises coming out of the Wrexham camp have been pretty strong. They''re not happy with some of the things you''ve been saying.


    What, they''re mad I said holistic? Look, some people think it''s a bit poncy or whatever but it''s a really good word. I don''t know a better way to say that I''m taking a holistic view. Complete view? It doesn''t mean what I want it to mean. If Wrexham don''t like how I use English they can go and make their own language. All right? Talk to you later.


    ***


    Paul, how do you feel about today?


    A lot''s been said about us and our team and we''re here to shut a few people up. Some people who haven''t achieved anything in this game, got overpromoted, got a bit ahead of themselves. People need to learn to watch what they say.


    You''re angry. Did Max Best get under your skin?


    We''re battling for the title and automatic promotion. It''s just another game to us. A game against a team at the bottom of the league. That''s all.


    ***


    In the dressing room, I ambled around, talking to people. Then came the five-minute warning. "All right, lads. Motivation time. My favourite movie is called Falling Down. It''s about a man who gets fired and goes apeshit. I think it''s set in Grimsby, can''t remember. The guy needs to make a phone call and the shop guy won''t give him change and the guy gets angry so the shop guy whips out a baseball bat. The guy takes the baseball bat and smashes up the shop. Later two gang members threaten him with a knife. He takes the knife. They come back with a gun. He takes the gun and shoots them. Do you get it? It''s all about enemies and taking their weapons from them. We all know Wrexham are a long-throw team, so I thought, let''s have a long throw specialist of our own and that''s why I''ve picked Hurlin'' Merlin Luke Walsh to be the striker."


    The seventeen-year-old CA 38 forward turned red. "I can''t do a long throw!"


    "Oh?" I said, casually. "Huh. Never mind. You can press, though, right?"


    "Yes."


    "Top. Forget the movie thing. Defend for your lives. Press the long ball merchants. First half''s going to be brutal, guys. You''re going to suffer. Enjoy it."


    ***


    Paul Parker, the Wrexham manager, who by the way gave me permission to use his real name, was in a grump. Something had upset him and he''d picked his strongest team in their usual 5-3-2. Not exactly ideal but Wrexham''s next match, on the coming Friday, was against Mansfield, one of their two big rivals for the season. My hope was that if they were winning at half time, he would sub off his star strikers Phil Muggles and Oliver Hardy, who also gave me permission to use their real names. Thanks, lads.


    Not that who they picked mattered all that much. Wrexham''s average CA was 90, but they had a hugely strong bench and whatever changes they made wouldn''t weaken them a great deal. Muggles was something of a wizard and a difference maker so if we could get rid of him, that would be amazing. But the fact that they had top players in almost every position seemed an almost insurmountable problem. Still, I''d give it a jolly old try.


    Or maybe I wouldn''t.


    The Grimsby team that took to the pitch had an average CA of 68.5. They were set up in a 4-5-1 formation with men behind ball and ultra-defensive individual instructions.


    There was Sam in goal and a solid centre back pairing of Ed Williams and the captain, John Windmill. On the left, Jayden. So far, so good. The right back, though, because Caine the traitor had blown a hole in the squad, could only be filled by Richard Terry-Thomas, a CA and PA 56 right midfielder. I wasn''t too worried about him doing his defensive duties, though of course he was a dead end if we intended to progress the ball. (Spoiler alert - picking the weakest team seen in the league that year should tell you everything you need to know about my intentions.)


    The midfield had the left back Grimwood at left mid and the defensively-minded Devonte Payne at right mid. I set them to mark the Wrexham full backs. I hoped that would mess up their plans somewhat, since those guys were the only true width they had.


    My central midfield of Mehew, Otis King, and the centre back prodigy Tom Hickman had a decent balance of experience and energy. Wrexham''s three were miles better, obviously, but we could make life hard for them. Hickman knew he would only play the first half so he could go all out.


    Up front, as you''ve heard, was poor Luke Walsh. His job was to run around a lot and be a nuisance. He''d also been told he would only play the first half.


    I sat in my dugout next to a line of really quite good players: Conor Quinn, Alex Evans, Danny Grant, Marcus Wainwright, and Danny Flash. Okay, four good players and one idiot.


    They didn''t know what was coming, but I''m sure you''ve worked it out.


    I smashed Triple Captain and Bench Boost and prepared to suffer for forty-five long minutes.


    ***


    The thing about plans is how quickly they can fall apart. I wanted an absolutely tedious first half, completely flat, everyone miserable. That was the best possible case for what I had planned, for the story I was trying to tell.


    But the atmosphere was electric. Grimsby and Wrexham had developed a rivalry when they were both scrapping hard to get out of the National League and there was a real feel that this was a grudge match. Every tackle or header was cheered and every foul was celebrated.


    There were 2,200 Wrexham fans in, which is enormous really, and they were making a hell of a din. The home lot were riled up enough to match them song for song.


    So when the referee came over to me after five minutes, the vibe got to me and I went from nought to sixty in two seconds.


    "I haven''t done anything! I''m just sat here!"


    He motioned for me to calm down. "We''ve got a problem over here, Best."


    "What?" I said, looking in the direction he was pointing.


    "There''s, like, a load of Chester in."


    "What?" I couldn''t understand what he was saying.


    He pulled me onto the pitch so I could see better. He''d probably give me a yellow card for leaving my technical area, I grumbled internally. He pointed to pockets of the home support where there were blue and white shirts. "There. There. And half the Pontoon. They''ve organised in secret, I reckon, and snuck in. Now their coats are off and they''re making a racket."


    "Fuck me," I said. There were hundreds of Chester fans in! "We''ve got a home game today. Against South Shields. What the fuck are they playing at?"


    "Can you talk to them? If there''s a hint of trouble I''ll have to abandon the game. We can''t have three sets of fans having a ruck."


    "They don''t listen to me," I said, starting to catastrophise. If this match had to be replayed, I wouldn''t get my perks back. My entire strategy was based on Bench Boost.


    "Yeah? Why they singing your name non-stop, then?"


    "Huh? All right, I''ll go see what''s up."


    "We''ll wait for you."


    "Nah, you''re okay. Just let my physio on after any of Wrexham''s trademark flying elbows. I won''t be long anyway."


    He shrugged and ran off. Scratching my head, I passed the Wrexham dugout as I headed to the Pontoon, the terrace with the black and white seats. I slowed as I passed Wrexham''s bench. They had a tall, brown-haired American centre back with good technical qualities just wasting away. He hadn''t played much and his contract was running out. Could I...? I shook it off. This wasn''t Director of Football time. This was keeping the mob acquiescent time.


    Fat chance.


    As I approached the Pontoon, the volume rose to rock concert levels. "Max Best''s blue and white army! Max Best''s blue and white army!"


    There was a patch of noise from my right and when I looked, about twenty Chester fans jumped up and down as though I''d scored. I couldn''t help but beam, even if that was maybe not what the Grimsby fans needed to see. I pushed my palms down. ''Behave, you lot''. They sat and there were more laughs than frowns from the nearby Grimbarians, especially when I made eye contact with one and made a gesture meaning, ''who invited them?''.


    In the Pontoon, hundreds of Chester fans had congealed into a mass behind the goal. I tried to pick out a few familiar faces and finally saw J, the podcaster. I clambered over the barriers and even though I got close to him, I had to shout to be heard.


    "What the fuck is going on?"


    "We''ve come to watch you beat Wrexham!"


    "That''s mental."


    "Yeah!" he said, laughing and nodding.


    "Is there going to be trouble?"


    "With the Grims? Don''t think so. Common enemy and all that."


    "We can''t have any trouble, J. I mean it. Anyone starting shit here gets banned from the Deva. If you want to see me mess Wrexham up, you all need to behave. Pass the word, yeah?"


    "You''re going for it then, yeah? We knew you was up to something when you said you weren''t gonna try."


    I jabbed my thumb behind me. "That''s the worst team I could have picked. All out defence, this. It''s gonna be a shit first half. I wasn''t joking about turtling up."


    "Oh."


    "Just keep a lid on it. Play nice." I clambered away, but turned back to say one last thing. "While you''re spreading the word, though. Make sure no-one leaves."


    He gave me a blank look that morphed, ever so slowly, into a smile. He jumped around. "I knew it! I knew it!" The crowd in the area had quietened, straining to hear our conversation, wondering what was going on. As I walked away, J burst into song. Naturally, he chose "We hate Wrexham." The Chester fans picked it up, followed by the Grimsby hardcore, followed by most of the normos, too.


    As I passed a hard-faced Paul Parker, three-quarters of the stadium finished on a unified shout of, "we are the Wrexham HATERS!" I gave the referee a Maxy Two-Thumbs.


    I had everything under control.


    ***


    The first half was brutal in many ways. Wrexham were a collection of massive human beings, but there were no Pascal Bochums in the Grimsby squad. Every header was contested, every tackle was thunderous, and it became clear to me how this Grimsby squad had ended Wrexham''s first Hollywood season - with blood, sweat, and tears in a time before a bunch of bad apples were poured into the sack. Most of both starting elevens had played in the National League, and at times it looked like a non-league affair, even if one team had four players on five grand a week or more.


    The midfield was chaotic at the best of times, and putting the three young players into the firing line fired them up way more than I''d intended. Maybe it was the occasion, maybe it was the effect of Triple Captain, but they ran and pressed and tackled like their careers depended on it. And the more they battled, the more the home fans and one set of away fans cheered.


    But we didn''t get in Wrexham''s half and their constant pressure finally told. They scored in the thirty-seventh minute. The critical moment. Would our heads drop? At Chester we''d have shrugged it off. This Grimsby lot had been through disappointment after disappointment. I couldn''t have blamed them if they''d shipped another couple of goals.


    Desperate times call for desperate measures. I broke a vow I''d made long ago and did the most inane and pointless thing a manager can do - I clapped my hands and tried to gee my team up with vapid gestures.


    There was no need; these guys wouldn''t quit so easily. They fought tooth and nail and their reward was the half time whistle.


    The home fans didn''t cheer, but they didn''t boo either, and there was some applause directed at the young battlers.


    I was fucking stoked. That couldn''t have gone any better. Now, as the Wrexham fans lustily sang ''Going down!'', I had to keep a dour face all the way to the dressing room and hope that Wrexham decided to rest Phil Muggles before their top-of-the-table clash six days from now.


    I held the door open for a few players, as sombre as a funeral usher. Finally, I closed it.


    "Lads," I said, suddenly grinning from ear to ear. "Fucking top. I''m over the moon. That was amazing. Luke? You''re a fucking pain in the arse! Tom? Alfie? They''ll be sick of the sight of you. Haaa! Okay, I''m hyper. We all need to get calm. Don''t spend your energy in here, yeah? Get your liquids in you and have a break. Who needs a leg rub?"


    Five minutes passed, then five more, but Muggles remained on Wrexham''s tactics screen. I wasn''t sure who to be more mad at - Paul Parker for never changing his formation and never subbing Muggles off, or me, for hoping this would be the first time. Well, hope for the best, plan for the worst. I''d done that, at least.


    With a couple of minutes before the second half, I kicked the physios out and gathered the players into one section of the dressing room where I could properly make eye contact as I was talking.


    "Right. Real talk, now. My favourite movie is called Falling Down. It''s about a guy whose life is falling apart. He chooses to take back control in the most self-destructive way possible." I blinked as my entry on the job information screen briefly changed to ''very insecure'' before settling back to ''insecure''. "Is Chris Hale here today?"


    "Yes, boss."


    I laughed. "Right. Of course. So look. The hero of the movie is really the villain. People don''t understand it''s a black comedy. It''s really a funny movie but what it''s about is that yeah, maybe if you stand up for yourself things will go to shit. And if the world wants to make things hard for you, you really don''t have a fucking say in the matter. All right? But you can choose if you stick up for yourself or not. I''m not gonna lie and say that I don''t identify with the guy. I kinda maybe sometimes think the world is maybe against me just a little bit." Some smiles from the lads. "But the guy in the movie gets to choose how he goes out. That''s the most heroic part about it. And I want to choose how I go out. Is that all right with you? Danny Flash?"


    "Yes, Max."


    I made chopping gestures as I spoke. "I want you to attack these fuckers with everything you''ve got. I want you to smash with speed and energy. I want you to rip them a new one. Yes, you''ve still got to defend their shitty long throws and big diags. You''ve got to do all that and so you do that. But when we break I want to see purpose and direction. We don''t go for the corner. We don''t waste time. When we get the ball, the question is, how do we score?"


    Someone knocked on the door and said, "Time, lads."


    "How do we score? Pick an option and then fucking go for it with all your heart. Remember our drills. The Art of Slapping. Jab Jab Hook. Run and Gun. Totem. Or Danny G? Fucking welly it from thirty yards if it sits up nice. Feel it or think it, just do it. John, bring them out."


    "You mean Alex, right? He''s coming on second half."


    "Not quite yet... but anyway you''re full time now. My last act as Grimsby manager is to anoint you. You have been... Max blessed. Now get on with it."


    ***


    A weird thing happened as the teams started to emerge from the tunnel. The half time music had faded to nothing about a minute before, which many took as my work since I had been seen talking to the entertainment guy. I have been advised to deny that conversation ever happened and I shall continue to deny it until the statute of limitations runs out.


    Quick note about English football''s attitude to in-game hype music - it''s not allowed and it''s not wanted. Every fan from the pinkest gammon to the handsomest vegan hotdog munching megabrain doesn''t want it to happen. But there aren''t such strict rules for what''s played at half time.


    I mean, I assume there aren''t. It doesn''t affect me since I''ve never given it a moment''s thought, ever, not even once.


    So as the teams emerged from the tunnel, the public address system played a recording. Not music, but clips taken from Welcome to Wrexham series one. If you haven''t seen it, there''s an episode where the manager Paul Parker is under threat and there''s plenty of chat about sacking him, much of it in the voice of the famous Hollywood stars who own Wrexham.


    Inexplicably, clips from that episode blasted out all around the stadium. It finished with the more famous of the two actors saying, "I want to get a t-shirt made that says ''Parker out''."


    Now, some people took this little prank the wrong way, notably the Wrexham players and staff and the restart of the match was delayed while they sort of pointed at me and called me names a bit. Which was surprising because, as you know, I had nothing to do with it. My job status touched ''very insecure''. I imagined Chris Hale up in his VIP box talking to some bigshots from Wrexham. No doubt Chris was apologising and promising to punish me and whatnot while the Wrexhammers pretended it wasn''t bothering them.


    As much as the manager and players were steaming and the away fans were seething, the home fans and the Chester mob were loving it. All the energy that had been lost because of our abject first half display - no shots in a half from a Max Best team! - came back in spades. Still Paul Parker didn''t show any sign of taking Phil Muggles off, but I decided I would give it a minute just in case he was waiting to see if I made the first move.


    The ref got control and the match kicked off with both teams shooting towards their own fans. The first tackle set the tone - it was hard bordering on illegal. Play went on and Wrexham got a throw halfway inside our half which their centre back went over to take, producing howls of derision from six thousand people. Two thousand away fans rose as the famous ''Wrexham Pinball'' mini-game commenced, and the remaining six thousand cheered as the ball was cleared.


    Just as the frantic energy dipped, I handed the fourth official a note saying which changes I wanted. When there was a break in play, the ref blew his whistle and all eyes turned to the space by the halfway line where I had five guys ready to come on.


    The Chester fans saw that I was making all my subs in one go and went mad. Like, properly mad. They jumped around and cheered, and banged the sides of the Pontoon. I knew what they were reacting to. They were going, ''Max is doing a thing!'' But to the Grimsby and Wrexham fans it was inexplicable stuff and, alongside all the annoying things I''d been doing, it unnerved the away team.


    I switched to 4-1-4-1 but kept the low block. Our new CA was 81, but five of our guys had been bench boosted. I did the usual Grant to Wainwright Cupid''s Arrow and waited for the right moment to unleash hell.


    Wrexham with a throw in the Grimsby half.


    Their captain goes to take it.


    He launches it in the direction of Hardy.


    Williams heads clear.


    Grimsby have changed formation and adopted an attacking mentality.


    Williams and Flash are racing forward to support Wainwright.


    Evans rolls back the years with a burst of pace.


    He finds Grant.


    Delicious first time ball forward from Grant!


    He fizzes it to Wainwright. Wainwright with a neat layoff to Flash.


    Williams has made up the ground. He goes on the overlap.


    Wrexham are struggling to get men back. They didn''t expect this!


    Flash chips the ball left to Wainwright. He cocks his leg...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    An equaliser out of nowhere! Grimsby score with their first shot of the game!


    Switching to 4-3-3 mid-move had worked like a charm. I switched right back to 4-1-4-1. There was zero chance anyone from Wrexham would spot we had been playing a different formation for those last ten seconds. Zero.


    The stadium was absolutely rocking, now. Rocking. Bouncing. Can stadiums bounce? Er... yes, mate. Very much yes on that one.


    I was the calmest man in the postcode. I''d done my shithousery and my mind games and got Wrexham and my players riled up, and now I was back to being what I always wanted from this Grimsby trip - a humble technocrat pulling levers one at a time in order to maximise reward while minimising risk. Just a process, mate. No drama.


    The celebrations ended and the team came back. Muggles kicked off, the ball was played back to their right back, and he launched it skywards. There followed a phase of play so ugly it would qualify for cosmetic surgery on the National Health Service. The upshot was that we got possession and I unchained us from the men behind ball setting. We strung a few passes around, finding space all over the pitch.


    We had a lovely little phase of Max Best football, now, with Alex Evans doing a good impression of me as DM, Otis Evans the Raffi Brown, and Danny Grant the Ryan Jack. Ryan Jack if he was young, fast, and good-looking!


    I was starting to enjoy myself, and so were the home fans. Paul Parker and his tactics guy had realised that we weren''t doing 4-5-1 and bellowed out some new instructions and some tweaks. As the messages were passed around, I waited for the perfect moment to switch us back to 4-3-3.


    How about... now?


    Ed Williams jogged forward from centre back to striker, Otis dropped to centre back, Mehew became the left-sided of the central midfielders, and Evans pushed to be a straight up CM.


    It was fucking crazy how elegant it was. But did it work, Max? That''s all we care about. Show us the money!


    Ward races forward on the left.


    Nice one-two with Mehew.


    Ward continues. The full back comes to challenge.


    Ward bursts past. He''s run the length of the pitch!


    He looks for a cross but thinks better of it.


    Williams shows for the ball. He holds it up well.


    Mehew goes on the outside!


    Wonderful movement from the Grimsby players. Wrexham don''t know who to mark.


    Mehew is into the box...


    He looks up and smashes the ball across goal...


    It''s in! It''s in the back of the net!


    Two-one Grimsby!


    Who got the finish?


    Danny Flash! He''s in dreamland. He can''t believe it!


    Where''s he going? He''s running to the main stand.


    He embraces a fan in a wheelchair. An emotional moment.


    Grimsby are taking a more defensive approach.


    It wasn''t defensive, you idiot fake commentator in my head! But yes, back to 4-1-4-1, back to the noise, the chaos, the swirling mania. I felt like I was summoning a wispy cloud of dreams and it was drifting all around me.


    And I wasn''t finished.


    I put the guys back into 4-5-1 for long enough that Paul Parker reacted, then showed him a 3-5-2 - mostly to wind him up - and then smashed the 4-3-3 hotkey again. We were absolutely blitzing them down the centre, and teams just didn''t do that to this Wrexham side. That meant that their defence didn''t have practice against it, and they knew Max Best teams attacked down the sides. I had no doubt that they had spent the week defending against slaps, so the fact that most of our play was central was quite the surprise.


    Cupid''s Arrow ran out, but Grant to Wainwright was something of a dream ticket anyway. Both teams were still smashing into each other anytime there was half a chance, and the ref was doing his inadequate best to keep up. He gave us a free kick over on the left and Danny Grant went to take it. I used Free Hit and adjusted our positions with Masterpiece Theatre. For all their height and attacking threat, Wrexham were weirdly bad at defending corners and free kicks.


    Grant to take the free kick. He lifts one arm.


    He steps forward.


    Wainwright...


    Oh, it''s gone wide!


    It looked harder to miss than to score.


    That will play on his mind...


    Another phase of 4-1-4-1 brought us some control, and another phase of 4-3-3 saw us bully our way into Wrexham''s box. Flash was a livewire. Williams was winning headers. But could Marcus Wainwright put the disappointment of that awful miss behind him?


    Quinn with the forward run. He looks for help but doesn''t find it.


    He decides to go alone.


    Quinn with the dribble! Where did this come from?


    The home fans can''t believe Quinn is still going.


    He cuts the ball back.


    Evans with the first time cross to the back post...


    Williams rises...


    But it''s cleared.


    But wait!


    The referee has given a penalty! A defender punched the ball away.


    A penalty! Wainwright was still the taker and I did briefly consider giving it to Danny Grant who I was 99% sure would score. But that wasn''t the story. This chapter was the whole he who teaches learns thing. Marcus had been encouraging the para players to never give up. Did Donnie Wormwood''s trick work? Really work? Here was a highly unscientific way to find out.


    I held my palms in front of my nose like I was praying. Wainwright''s body language was all wrong. All wrong! He was overthinking it, I could tell.


    Oh, shit.


    Oh actual shit.


    For the first time in the match, the nerves got to me. A lot was riding on this for me personally, but also for the club. When Aston Villa were last relegated, 500 employees lost their jobs. I didn''t know how many it would be at Grimsby, 30 maybe, but any number was too many to have on my conscience. I had a tiny moment of panic and then decided that my storytelling shit could go jump off a cliff - I tried to change the penalty taker.


    But it was too late.


    Wainwright looked the most nervous human being of all time, looked like he had jelly for cartilage, looked like he needed to be swaddled and rocked to sleep by his mother.


    His chest rose as he took his last breath... and fucking thundered the ball into the top right corner.


    The Pontoon went ballistic. I fell to my knees, continuing the prayer thing, but found myself being crushed by sacrilegious Grimsby youngsters and yeah, both physios, I think. "Don''t you know I''m a god?" I yelled. "You can''t pile on me."


    They paid no attention.


    ***


    With twenty minutes to go, our performance hit new levels of energy, swagger, and quality, while my rapid formation changes both rode waves of movement while creating the next wave. It was conductor and orchestra in perfect harmony.


    I''d like to say the fourth goal owed everything to my teachings, to our emotional session with the para players, or to my mind games finally breaking the Welsh team.


    But no. Danny Grant leathered a ball from thirty yards and the keeper got nowhere near it.


    Four-one.


    It was deafening, but I picked one voice out of the crowd.


    Behind me, the purple man was yelling. I turned and made eye contact. "Go on, lad! Go on!"


    But then I changed the formation and it didn''t work, and I realised the moment had passed. We''d peaked. Peaked too soon? Our possession stats were going down. I tried 4-4-2 for something different - nada. I went 4-1-4-1 and it did nothing.


    What was happening? Wrexham''s tactics screen gave me the first clue - the three midfielders and two full backs had thick lines around their icons. Paul Parker had tweaked something about their positioning - and it was working.


    The next couple of minutes gave me further evidence. Wrexham had stopped their bombardment. Slowed the game down. Got the ball on the grass and passed it around. If the maxim was true that the faster you sent the ball forwards, the faster it came back, then in slowing his own players down, he''d slowed my counter attacks, too.


    I''d forced the pub team to play proper football, and it was about to bite me on the arse.


    The stadium was bouncing and I''d gone from being the only one who believed to the only one who was stressed off his tits. I got the young players who had played the first half to put their training kits on and pretend to be warming up - something so commonplace that it was possible no-one would notice and think ''but they''ve used all their subs''. I instructed them to hype up the defence and shout encouragement. They were more than willing.


    Wrexham got a throw in. I went men behind ball and got my prayer pose out since it had worked so well before.


    The ball was flicked on, flicked on again, and then Phil Muggles punched the ball into the goal at the far post. Punched. With his hand.


    My players surrounded the referee, trying to tell him what had happened. They begged him to talk to the linesman, but both twats said Muggles headed it. The Wrexham fans were bouncing. Four-two. They were right back in this and they knew it.


    Now, it''s a strange quirk of the laws of football that they don''t actually specifically say you can''t touch the ball with your hand, and - oh, hang on. I just checked and yes, it''s right there. ''The Handball Law, they call it.


    The setback, strangely, calmed my nerves. Now that I knew how it was going to go, all I could do was try to hold back the tide. I shuffled the team, switched the instructions, but we had longer and longer periods of men behind ball. It was our best chance of holding out, but as I''d learned at Chester, it was also just asking for trouble. We had done the ''defend against Max Best if you dare'' drills and the players had got pretty good at swarming me and crowding me out. The problem was that Wrexham had two midfielders of my level.


    A booming diagonal pass is hit towards the moon. Gosh that was high.


    It comes down with snow on it.


    Hardy wins the header.


    It bounces around and some of that bullshit.


    Cheatboy kicks it in with his political boots.


    Stick to football, mate.


    I''m not sure the curse commentary went exactly like that because I didn''t read it, but I reckon that''s a good approximation of Wrexham''s third goal.


    Four-three. There were ten minutes of normal time left. That''s when a famous footballer and documentary star with a heart-warming backstory slid in late on Danny Grant and left him in a heap. Amazingly, the ref noticed.


    Grant writhed in agony for ages and the stretcher went on. I said some things to Paul Parker that would make a sailor blush before we were forcibly separated, and Grant hobbled off to the side of the pitch where he got treatment. He had a ''suspected leg injury'' and his condition had fallen to 38%.


    The match resumed and my doubts were all gone. Fuck these twats. I put my guys into the 4-3-3 with Grant''s spot left empty. I switched us to direct passing - forget pretty football and just get the ball to the front three as fast as possible.


    We got a chance and the crowd were back with us.


    But as I paced up and down the side of the pitch it was like suddenly I went through a carwash and came out seeing through my windshield clearly. Blasting the ball forward would only make it come back faster. I switched to 4-1-4-1 and made Danny Flash drop to midfield, leaving the right mid slot open. I yelled at Conor Quinn that he was the right back and the right mid and he owed me. He did a weirdly intense shrug thing like I''d activated his secret cage fighter mode.


    "Max," said someone. Who the fuck was talking to me in the middle of a match?


    "What?" I yelled, then realised it was Physio Byram.


    "Danny wants to go back on."


    My state of cold calculation was blasted away. "Do you want to meet him in Tesco when he''s fifty and he can''t walk?"


    "No, but - "


    "Get him to the fucking medical room and start treatment! For fuck''s sake," I added, before prising my hands off his coat.


    Time was ticking down. We were winning four-three but were down to ten men. Wrexham had scored a handball and fouled my best attacking player out of the game. But we were still in it. Danny Flash was putting in a heroic effort trying to keep up with Wrexham''s talented midfield schemers. Ed Williams was looking a bit leggy. He had one of the lowest condition scores on the pitch; I''d been making him go up and down when I changed to and from 4-3-3. Otis was gasping, too. If Wrexham had used all their subs, they would have overrun us. But they didn''t. They changed the full backs. That all? Weird, but I wasn''t going to complain.


    Every pass was one second taken off the clock. Every time we dribbled through a line, Wrexham had to retreat and regain their shape since they only attacked from set positions and couldn''t - or weren''t allowed to - improvise. But everything we did cost us, and we got pushed back, and back, and the booming high balls kept coming, and the long throws, and the chaotic corners.


    But then Sam stormed off his line, jumped, and caught a cross. The crowd begged him to fall to his belly and take twenty seconds off the clock. We were so close.


    But I was dancing around like a maniac signalling for the throw to come. Wrexham had sent too many men forward and Danny Flash, still full of energy, had sprinted into space. He had the freedom of Grimsby!


    Sam saw me ranting and raving and obediently threw the ball. A long throw I could get behind! Flash took control, got his head down, and stormed forward. I jumped like a jockey, mentally riding the Flash train, me going tonto over the lone ranger, the lone striker. Wrexham had one back and another closing on the ball carrier. The closest guy slid in an attempt to take Danny out - at worst he''d get a yellow card, but with this ref, probably not even that. But Flash''s boxing training kicked in and he got up off the canvas like a champion. He kicked the ball on and scuttled after it. I''d never seen a crowd like it. The Chester section was urging him towards the goal. The Grimsby lot were directing him to the corner. Still he sprinted on, and on, and the last defender tried to hold him up so that support could come. And Flash, looking tired after the long sprint, sighed and headed for the corner flag. The defender saw his chance to steal the ball, but Flash chopped the ball onto his left, felt the defender''s hands latch onto him - the grim realisation struck him that he was the last man and any more contact would be a certain red card, even with a clown making the calls - and so Danny was released, and Danny Flash Gordoned his way to the goal - cocked his weaker left - and blasted it with all his might... onto the post.


    The crack of ball against aluminium echoed around the stadium like a gunshot. The home fans cried out, as did the away fans as the fresh right back picked up the loose ball and pumped it long. Hardy won a header and Muggles raced after it. Ward tracked him, moving like it was the first minute. Muggles cut inside and threw himself up into the air. Jayden threw his hands up. What''s that all about? I didn¡¯t touch him! The referee gave the penalty.


    I went to sit down, staring blankly at the centre circle to make sure I got full experience points.


    Four-all. Muggles completed his hat trick and ran around like he was very pleased with himself. He aimed some gestures at me. What had I ever done to him?


    We battled hard for the last sixty seconds, and the ref blew the final whistle.


    The final whistle. How apt.


    Donnie Wormwood had said I had the stance of an inside fighter and there was more fighting to do - inside. I clicked my head left and right and thought about heading straight to the media centre so I could give Wrexham a bit of a blast before I got fired. Before I became an outside fighter. Quite a good plan, I thought, but first I felt the urge to do something I hadn''t done since taking over at Grimsby. I ran onto the pitch and gave a hug and some words of praise to every single one of the players. I finished with Danny Flash, who was in tears.


    "Mate," I whispered close to his ear. "That was fucking mint. That''s one of the best things I''ve ever seen. I can''t tell you how fucking in love with you I am right now." He didn¡¯t want to hear it. I continued. "But listen. If I get fired - by the way, talk about going out on my own terms! Eh? I''m buzzing about that. Buzzing. But if I do go, will you do me a favour?"


    "What?" he grunted.


    "Go back to cashing people off and being a toxic worm. All right?" I laughed as I separated from him. "Because I don''t want to have to play against this Grimsby team." I shook my head. "This team''s a fucking menace."


    "Yeah it is," he said, trying in vain to wipe the tears away. I gave him once last affectionate look, pumped my fist at the fucking demented Chester fans in the Pontoon - I''d be seeing them again very soon - and jogged to the media centre.


    ***


    The place was abuzz. Half the reporters were frantically typing their match reports, half were on their phones, and half were in conversation with someone nearby. It all stopped when they saw me - they dashed to their chairs and got their recorders out.


    I didn''t wait to be introduced by the media guy in case they wanted Paul Parker to go first. Fuck that. I didn''t have time to wait.


    Topics I wanted to cover. Let''s see - the cheating, obvs. Maybe one more pub team dig. Or would that stop being funny and be seen as classless? I''d let my flappy Manc gob decide on the fly, I reckoned. What else? Probably how proud I was of the team, really, that I was happy to give the fans an exciting game, and how the squad had it in them to go on a tear up the league. Most importantly, to take whatever heat came from the way we played. As I¡¯d promised.


    I settled into the middle of the table with all the microphones on it and, like in movies, all the reporters yelled things out at once. Beth was back, I noticed. Her cheeks were flushed, almost as though she''d been put through an emotional wringer. She''d just watched the Beth Heads versus Man City all over again, but with added stakes.


    "One at a time," I joked. "Better get organised fast, because I might not be here for long."


    Almost as though I''d summoned him, Wolfie appeared. He asked me to move. I got up and took a few steps away so I wouldn''t be in the same camera shot as the guy sacking me. He pulled out an A4 piece of paper with the Grimsby logo on it, and started reading.


    "Ladies and gentlemen, I have a short statement I would like to read out on behalf of Grimsby Town Football Club. Following a disappointing run of two points from a possible twelve..."

 7.12 - Schr?dingers Max

    12.


    Science glossary - Schr?dinger''s cat. A thought experiment in which a cat lures a scientist into a box. Inside the box is a poisoned tartlet. There is a 50% chance the scientist will eat the tartlet and die and a 50% chance he will resist the temptation of the sticky, delicious jammy treat. In this thought experiment, the scientist is both alive and dead until the cat looks in the box. For further explanation, please read Superposition and Duality by Jack Grealish.


    ***


    "Ladies and gentlemen," said John Wolf, Head of Recruitment and acting Director of Football. "I have a short statement I would like to read out on behalf of Grimsby Town Football Club. Following a disappointing run of two points from a possible twelve, the club has decided that an urgent change in direction is needed. Although we are technically out of the relegation zone and our underlying metrics are excellent, we cannot sit by and hope other teams continue to fail. We need a steady, experienced hand on the tiller and to that end, I would like to announce my resig - "


    "Whoa!" I said, almost jumping out of my skin. "No way. No, no way." I got back behind the table to Wolfie''s left, leaving him the entire right-hand-side to escape through. A prospect that seemed imminent - he had got to his feet as soon as I''d moved towards him. "Beth! Come and stand there."


    She took a few automatic steps forwards before she realised what she was doing. "Why?"


    "I don''t want him running off somewhere else to resign in secret. Just stand there and don''t let him out. Please."


    She frowned. Everyone was looking at her, now. She was the story. "What do I get?"


    "Fifty quid," I said. Someone laughed.


    "No. What do I get that you don''t owe me?"


    I tutted. I didn''t have time for negotiations. "An interview. All right?"


    Her eyebrows hadn''t finished shooting up by the time she''d got next to Wolfie and pushed him back onto the middle of the three chairs. "Max says sit. So sit."


    "But," said Wolfie, waving his resignation note around. Beth snatched it out of his hand; he froze.


    "Okay," I said, easing into the left-most chair. "Er... how do I say this? Wolfie, am I still Grimsby manager?"


    "Er... yes."


    "Top. As Grimsby manager I don''t accept your resignation. On behalf of the people of Grimsby, I don''t accept your resignation." I had an itch on my brow that I scratched. "Listen, mate. I know I''ve come in like a whirlwind and upturned a load of apple carts and left holes in some roofs and I could have done things more diplomatically but it''s working. Okay? We''re getting good ahead of schedule. Anyone got the latest odds of us going down? When I came it was 88% and this morning it was 65 or something and I bet it''s under 50, now. It''s working. I came to do a job and I''m doing it. But me saving Grimsby doesn''t really make much of a difference if you quit because of me. That''s a net loss. If it''s you or me, I mean, there''s no contest. The club needs you in place in the summer, doesn''t it? What''s gonna happen? You quit, there''s a vacuum, some new guy comes in, wants to change the entire squad but he''s only got eight days in the window, loads of rash decisions get made, the club''s in this mess again next season. Nah, mate. I tried to come in and be an outside fighter and let a load of stuff slide and I couldn''t do it. I had to get stuck in. I basically promised the Chester fans I wouldn''t make you stronger because we''ll be competing soon, but I never said anything about making Grimsby weaker. That''s not in my nature, I don''t think. I can''t do that. If you quit, that''ll be devastating. The club needs you. The next manager needs you. Okay, I''ve been difficult but let''s get together on Monday and have a proper talk, eh? I''ll show you it''s all going to work out. Okay? Promise me you aren''t going to do anything stupid."


    His face lost some of its colour. "I think I just did."


    I gave him a friendly pat on the arm. "There we go. There''s that famous Wolfie humour!" I turned to face forward. "Who resigns after a match like that? No-one say the referee."


    That got a big laugh. One of the press people introduced herself and asked if I would like to share my thoughts on the referee''s performance.


    "Kind of," I said. "I think this might be a good time to announce that I want to do a documentary of my own. Basically a shot-for-shot remake of Welcome to Wrexham. I could do it with Chester players or...?" I looked at Wolfie.


    "With the Chester players, I think, yes," he said, and he was gratified to get some laughs, too.


    "Okay. So it''s scenes from one of the most famous, most-watched sports documentaries, right? We''re going to remake them and put them on our YouTube and TikTok. First scene, we watch a Wrexham player - sorry, a Chester player - elbow a guy in the face. Absolutely savage and some might say clearly intentional. We show that and cut to a close-up of the Wrexham player whinging for three minutes about how he should be allowed to elbow someone in the face. Intersperse that with close-ups of the referee and have two of the most famous men in the world complain about how the best player in the league will get a ban and that''s like totes unfair. That''s scene one."


    "Max," said Wolfie.


    "Scene two is from an important match and again, lots and lots of focus on the referee who has the temerity to give some decisions against Wrexham. We hammer it home for minute after minute, with two of the most famous men in the world - who happen to own a football club governed by the English FA - going on and on about how shit the referee is. Ten, eleven, twelve people chip in with opinions about how shit the referee is. Now, what I''m wondering is, if I film all that and upload it to my club''s YouTube channel, what is the FA going to do about it? Because it''s very clearly intended to intimidate our match officials. If you''re a referee at a Wrexham match and you dare say hey you''re not allowed to punch the ball into the net or break Danny Grant''s leg in sixteen places, you''re going to be in season three of the documentary and you''re going to get savaged and ridiculed. So I''m going to do a shot-for-shot remake and we''ll see what happens. I think I know what will happen. I suspect I''ll get a ban. A fine. If I keep doing it, which I will, my club will be deducted points. So yeah. Weird that there''s different rules for different teams. Weird that you''re allowed to undermine the fabric of the sport as long as you''ve got a straight-to-streaming actor making gooey eyes at the camera."


    I''m pretty sure I heard Beth mumble, "Fucking hell, Max."


    "On the topic of cosmic justice," I said, looking very intently down the nearest lens, "I hereby make an offer to League Two teams playing against Wrexham for the remainder of this season. You''ve just seen a Grimsby side that have struggled to score blast four past the most expensive defence in the division. What you don''t know is that it was unbelievably simple. If you want to know the secret, I will travel to your training facility, watch thirty minutes of your sessions, and will tell you exactly - exactly, I mean - how to beat them, and which of your players to use. This isn''t a joke, and if we can knock them down into the playoffs, my offer stands double. I''ll postpone my holidays with extreme relish if it helps you beat them. All I ask is a sandwich, multiple cups of tea, and an apple. Maybe a tartlet."


    There was a chaotic response to my statement, but I didn''t have time to sort through it. Just at that moment, Donnie Wormwood came in, saw me, and walked to the front of the table. I went out to meet him. "There he is!" he yelled, before hugging me and draping his arm around my neck. "You said skip Gillingham, come to this one. How right you were! Wow!" He turned to the press pack. "What did you make of that? Some game, wannit? Shame about the cheating."


    "We were just talking about that," I said. "These media professionals are going to kick up a fuss. Ask some very serious questions about the insidious way certain clubs operate."


    Donnie growled. "They should! That was criminal, that. Criminal." Many eyes lit up. I''d given them some pretty strange sauce, but Donnie had given them red meat - a snappy quote. "Now, Max. I''ve come to invite you to dinner."


    "What, tonight?"


    "Are you busy? Don''t wanna hang out with a couple of old men?"


    "Couple?"


    "I''m with Granddad Don."


    "Oh. I''d love to meet him. God, I''d love it, though. Dinner? Argh, not sure. I haven''t seen my girlfriend much recently. She''s waiting for me upstairs somewhere. Not sure she wants to hang out with a pair of washed-up old brawlers."


    "Washed-up!" said Donnie, delighted.


    "Let me just ask her," I said, and Wolfie, Beth, Donnie, and about thirteen members of the press waited while my phone connected. "Babes. Are you here? Dinner with legendary sportsmen tonight yes or no?" Emma said she had brought her parents and could they come, too. Donnie said of course. "There we go. Job done. I should get back to the dressing room and talk to the lads. Donnie, see you in a bit. Wolfie, see you Monday morning. Beth, do you want to interview Donnie Wormwood?"


    "You know I do. Who wouldn''t?"


    "Great. There''s the interview I promised you. I didn''t say who." I tried to skip away, cackling, but Beth followed me. After a couple of corridors, I spun to face her. "I was only joking. Calm down. Why do you keep following me around? It''s getting creepy."


    "We need to talk," she said, in an urgent whisper, making significant eyes towards the old boy in his suit whose job it was to guard the inner sanctum on match days.


    "Talk? Nah."


    She grabbed my arm. "Max. Fucking listen for once."


    I stopped and glared at her hand until she released it. But Beth wasn''t usually so intense, especially in her work persona. She had this ''I''ll get you one way or another'' vibe going on that was actually pretty intimidating. Her breaking character made me curious. "What?"


    She looked up and down the corridor. "Haven''t you got an office?"


    I tutted, sighed, and decided to play along. I led her to the manager''s room and sat on the edge of my desk, facing her. "Okay?"


    She closed the door and pinched her nose, apparently trying to think of how to say what she needed to say. "Erm..." She took a further ten seconds. "Do you realise you just got yourself fired?"


    I checked the Job Information screen. I was still employed, it said, with a Very Insecure status. I tried to think what I''d done in the press room that would get me fired. Saving Wolfie? Raising myself up as the voice of Grimsby Town? "I''m lost..."


    Beth took a couple of steps closer. She still moved with purpose and with her ever-more-classy eyebrows, her nicer clothes, her better hairstyles, I can''t say I didn''t feel some of the old stirrings. "That guy, Wolfie. He had his resignation letter that he was reading out, didn''t he?"


    "Yes."


    "Okay but you made me go next to him and I saw it. I even had it in my hands, briefly. It wasn''t a resignation letter."


    "It... What?"


    "It had the Grimsby letterhead and today''s date and a heading: Termination of Max Best''s Contract." She paused, but apart from a slight furrowing of the brow, I didn''t react. She explained it to me. "He was sent to announce your sacking!"


    My head had decided to rotate left and right, slowly. "Without even mentioning it to me first? Even I wouldn''t do that."


    She threw her hands up and paced around. "Okay he was supposed to tell you then read it out. Max! Wake up. He was sent to sack you. But he took a bullet for you, see? He made the story about him so you could keep doing what you''re doing. He quits, you keep Grimsby up."


    "Nah. What was all that about experienced hands on the tiller? It makes me sound shit."


    "Maybe," Beth conceded. "But he was thinking on the fly, wasn''t he? You might forgive him if he got some blood on your shoes while he was taking that bullet for you!" She''d got a bit heated. Bit of the old Beth, the inspirational captain, from the time before she sold her soul.


    "Okay. I''ll forgive him. Now, Beth, this is going to annoy you but I have to check. Did you really see that title?"


    Oddly, she didn''t mind me asking. "Yes and read half of it, too. Two points out of twelve, poor squad management, unsuitable formations, bad behaviour, our friends at Wrexham. Not sure why but I got the impression that was the last straw." She stared at a point on the wall while she thought. "I''ve got no reason to lie to you, Max. I''m making myself the world''s foremost expert in your career. When you make it to the top, I''ll be there. I''ll ghostwrite your book."


    "I can write."


    She shook her head. "You''re too weird. Someone needs to tone it down for the normos. And none of this war on gammon, either. If I''m getting a cut of the royalties, I''m not alienating half my customers. Tell me one thing. That press conference. You knew you were at risk and you could get the chop at any second. Of all the things to say, why did you start with all that crap about Wrexham''s documentary? Just for points with your base?"


    I got up and walked to her. Loomed over her. "It''s not crap, Beth. They''ve got a loophole where they can put pressure on refs from America. That''s such bullshit. I don''t care if you''re a Hollywood star with an eight-pack or a fucking middle-eastern country with a track record of murdering journalists - if you want to own a football club in my country you''re gonna play by the rules. And anyway - no refs, no sport. I''m not done with this sport, Beth. I''ve got shit to do. Do you feel me?"


    She bit her bottom lip, just like in the old days. "Max Best," she mumbled, "secretly gives a shit." Anything could have happened in that moment, but her eyes suddenly lit up. "You''ve taken a bullet for him!"


    "No, it was the other way round."


    She traipsed off in a circle. "But then you sat there and said no you can''t quit. You basically said if he quit, you''d quit. Right? So he''s on the edge of quitting to save you and you''re on the edge of quitting to save him. But then... What does it mean? It means... It means you''ve both taken bullets for each other and either both of you will get sacked on Monday, or neither. It''s Schr?dinger''s cat - we don''t know your status until we open the box, meaning, until we see who''s in the dugout against Barrow. Max! You keep breaking new ground. This is football as quantum mechanics. You''ve been sacked but you''ve not been sacked."


    It''s hard to explain but I had the craziest idea that she was right. Chris had given the instruction to sack me but the sacker had quit on the way but I''d stopped him from quitting so either everything had changed or nothing had. "It''s like a sitcom."


    "Yeah. And you wonder why I follow you around." She made her way towards the door.


    "Where are you going?"


    "I''ve told you what I saw. Conversation''s over. And I want to see Paul Parker''s presser. You really wound him up. I want to be the one who asks the question that makes him explode."


    "Bethany Alban. Secretly gives a shit."


    She nodded. "Just so."


    I spread my arms. "Right but what am I supposed to do? Act like I didn''t just find out I was fired?"


    She considered it. "I think so. Just keep being you. Or even more so. You''ve got nothing to lose." She scoffed. "Literally."


    She was right. I could kiss my fifty thousand goodbye. I had the oddest certainty that Chris would give me an ultimatum to beat Barrow, which I couldn''t. Not without Danny Grant. "And you? You''re going to use this."


    "How? It''s my word against John Wolf''s and it''s not a big enough story to take him to the mat. It''ll have to wait."


    "For what?"


    "For our book."


    She opened the door. I called out, "What''ll it be called?"


    "How should I know?"


    "You''re methodical. You''ve got an idea. I know you have. Give me a clue."


    "It''s two words. Bye, Max. Enjoy your dinner."


    ...


    Donnie and his clan loaded up into one car. The Weavers got into another. Emma and I followed behind in the Duchess. We ended up driving a lot farther than I expected.


    "Ems, listen. This Grimsby thing has been a bit of a disaster, in a way. I''m probably not going to make it to the end. No bonus, no holiday."


    "Everyone says you''re doing well. Isn''t this another good result?"


    "Yeah but I''ve come in like a wrecking ball. I''ll tell you all about it but it''s made me realise I need to be nicer to a couple of people at Chester. Brooke and Angel."


    "You need to be nicer to the poor, helpless, beautiful women who work for you."


    "Yes."


    There was a natural break in the conversation as I had to concentrate and lean forward to merge onto a busy road. When I''d done that, Emma said, "Okay."


    "Okay what?"


    "Okay be nicer to them."


    I tapped the steering wheel. "They signed contracts. They''re in. I shouldn''t treat them like they''re half in, half out. They''re in until they''re out."


    "Shake it all about," she mumbled.


    "It means spending more time with them. Especially Brooke."


    "Do you think she''ll enjoy that?"


    I laughed; the question had come out of nowhere. "What?"


    "From what I gather every time you see her you unload all your thoughts and ideas and then she has to go off and turn that mess into something concrete."


    "She doesn''t have to do anything except get me some grants. It''s not my fault she''s a workaholic and is always trying to please people." Our little convoy slowed and turned into a golf resort car park. "All right," I said. "If this is shit and boring, we say we need to leave early because we''re going on a murder walk in Hull in the morning."


    Emma tilted her head. "Don''t they normally do those in the evenings?"


    "Every walk in Hull''s a murder walk. But if we''re having fun, how about we stay here overnight? Then I can have some wine. What are you doing?"


    "I''m texting me mum so she knows the plan."


    "No! I need to be free to leave or I''ll get itchy."


    "Max, she''s not stupid. And you''re not subtle. I can see it now. Someone starts talking about immigration and you stand up, do a fake yawny stretch and say gosh I''m so terribly, terribly weary going now bye."


    "I''m actually very subtle. I''ve got a plan for Barrow that is going to go absolutely undetected by human eyes." I put the handbrake on and leaned forward to try to see what the people inside were wearing. "Am I underdressed for this place?"


    "You''re underdressed for a riot." She looked around as she unclipped her seatbelt. "It''s probably quite casual in there. Wonder why they chose this place? I was imagining a small Italian restaurant."


    "I kinda was, too. We have a nice meal and at the end some guy comes out of the kitchen and hands Donnie a thick white envelope stuffed with... what, exactly? Coke, banknotes, pork chops. Could be anything until you open it up."


    We went through into the reception area - it was a classy place but not stuffy in the slightest. The kind of place I''d go if I were a retired boxer and didn''t mind mingling with my fans, so long as they could afford membership of a golf club.


    We pottered around until we saw Emma''s mum, Rachel, waving at us. We were on a table for eight and the others had lined up in a really poor formation. "Whoa whoa whoa," I said. "I want to sit next to Don Flash."


    "Don''t be difficult, Max," said Rachel.


    "Hang on, let me optimise this." I put my index fingers to my temples. "Sebastian wants to sit next to Donnie. Danny wants to get an eyeful of my girlfriend, the bastard."


    "Max," complained Emma, while Danny''s cheeks flushed.


    Don Flash was in a wheelchair - another good reason to come here was its excellent access - so he was on the corner. "Don stays where he is, I''ll sit on the end here - I''m the alpha male anyway - Emma opposite Don. Donnie next, Sebastian next to him, Rachel opposite him, Danny next to his granddad. That''s absolutely perfect in every way. Beautiful Weavers anywhere you look, boxers and footballers spread out, and Sebastian is here, too. Check complete, good process. Round of applause begins in three, two, one..."


    No-one clapped, but they did reorganise according to my plan, and I sat, excited, next to a British sporting legend. Don was in a shirt and tie under a jumper - standard old person uniform. He was in a worse state than he should have been, I reckoned, and he looked quite sickly and infirm. Thirty years of being punched in the face will do that to you. He had that shaky hands thing, but so did most of the people in mum''s care home and they hadn''t been smacked in the gob for a living. (As far as I knew.) I soon found that while Don had moments where he needed to tune out and give his brain a rest, he was sharp.


    Me getting to know him had to wait, though, because everyone insisted that I explain what happened in the Wrexham match. With extreme reluctance, I allowed myself to be the centre of attention. Just long enough to satisfy their curiosity, you understand. The highlight of my tale was when I compared my strategy to the old rope-a-dope boxing trick.


    "So I let them batter us first half, same in the second, then bam! Switched to 4-3-3 and hit ''em down the middle. I''ve been reading a little bit about boxing recently and there''s the phrase on the ropes that everyone knows. Wrexham thought they had us on the ropes, right? But with rope-a-dope you''re using the ropes to absorb some of your opponent''s energy. So being on the ropes can work both ways - help you or hurt you. It''s Schr?dinger''s rope. Wrexham don''t know which one it is until I tell them." I smugged pretty hard at that.


    Emma pulled a face. "Why do you keep going on about Schr?dinger? No-one understands what you''re saying."


    "It''s quantum mechanics," said Rachel, the absolute babe. "Quantum particles can be in two places and two states at the same time. Schr?dinger''s cat is a thought experiment to help people understand it, though I very much fear it has had the opposite effect."


    Don Flash was enchanted by Rachel. I think he preferred her to Emma, which was more common than I would have guessed. "Schr?dinger takes his cat to the vet. Vet says, Herr Schr?dinger, I have good news and bad news."


    Rachel rewarded him with a thousand-ship smile, and the conversation was briefly interrupted while our starters came. We tucked in and when he''d chucked enough salami in his gob, Sebastian returned us to the topic of me rope-a-doping Wrexham. "Those coaching sessions must have been difficult. I can''t imagine how you set up such fluid changes in formation."


    "Not really," I said. "Players like Danny have keen tactical brains and they soak up this information like sponges."


    We all turned to look at the recipient of my praise. If he''d kept his mouth shut, the Weavers would have been impressed. But he couldn''t help it. "We practised long throws and that. When did we do 4-3-3?"


    "With the para players. You were coaching the 4-3-3 side and the other lot were in 5-3-2."


    "Wait, what?" His mouth dropped open and I thought I saw some of his keen tactical sponge. "Wrexham play 5-3-2!"


    "Danny!" complained his uncle, triggering a huge round of laughs.


    His slow realisation that I''d been subtly getting him ready for the big match was funny, but also a little bit irritating. "Did you think we were just doing a bunch of random stuff?"


    "Well, yeah."


    "Danny!" complained Emma and Rachel in unison, while Donnie belly laughed and Sebastian tried to hide his reaction.


    Danny spluttered and tried to launch into a defence, but realised he didn''t have a leg to stand on. All he could do was grin.


    "Why didn''t you simply tell them the plan?" said Sebastian. "Why do it so subtly they didn''t even know it was happening?"


    I bumped Emma''s knee when her dad said I was subtle. "There''s a mole," I said. "Someone leaking the formations and lineups to the opposition. I can''t tell anyone what we''re going to do; I have to work around it." That darkened the mood, I can tell you.


    "You don''t tell anyone?" said Donnie.


    "Nope."


    "How can you work like that?"


    "With great difficulty. Too much difficulty, maybe. He cost us a win against MK Dons. If we''d won that, I think we''d have beaten Gills and Wrexham, too. But that''s sport, isn''t it? It''s butterfly effects all the way down. My time''s almost up, but I nearly made it despite the mole."


    Danny had gone a bit morose. "Mole doesn''t help but it''s my fault we didn''t win today, boss. You rope-a-doped ''em. I couldn''t land the knockout punch."


    I held my hand up. "We''re in a casual setting, Danny. No need for all this boss stuff. I think it''s all right if you call me Mr. Best."


    "But boss," he started.


    "Okay shut the fuck up," I snapped, startling a waitress. "You did the right thing and I don''t want to hear different. There''s eight thousand people who will never forget that moment for as long as they live, all right? In the grand, sweeping library of memories that is English football, what''s better really? Five-three win, or four-all draw?"


    "Five-three win," said everyone, including the waitress.


    "You don''t get it," I said. "That moment where Danny shoots and the ball''s past the keeper and... And anything can happen. Win, lose, draw. It''s all happening simultaneously in your heads, isn''t it? And then they go down the other end and the guy throws himself to the ground. We look at the ref and we get that moment again. We win, lose, or draw depending on what he decides. They take the pen and it''s that moment again. It''s a hundred percent hope and a hundred percent fear. All scenarios are true at the same time. It''s mind-expanding stuff. It''s like a hallucinogen. Three big hits in thirty seconds. If there were a few little Grimsby schoolkids in there for the first time today, Danny, after seeing that second half, do you think they might wanna go back?"


    "Hell, yeah."


    "I think so, too. I think you turned fifty Tag Alongs into Club Loyalists. I''d be pissed if you missed on purpose but you didn''t, you tried to score. That was authentic and every emotion we all felt in there today was authentic and that''s addictive and that''s what I want from my teams. Against weaker teams we''re outside fighters. We pick them off, all very controlled and professional."


    "Mayweather," said Sebastian, presumably trying to impress Donnie Wormwood.


    "When it''s a team of our level or a bit more, we get in close and go toe to toe. Inside fighter, no stepping back, give it everything you''ve got, use every trick you know."


    Donnie was buttering a piece of bread, and he pointed his knife at me. "There you go again. You can''t be both. You need to choose one."


    I shook my head, fake amazed that he was saying this. "I did choose. I have chosen. But we don''t know which one I chose until we open the box." I sat back, magnificent. "So until I open the box, I can be both and do both."


    A short, impressed silence followed, until Emma said, "What the fuck are you talking about?" and the table devolved into childish laughter. I suspect everyone was laughing at a different thing, except Danny, who was laughing because everyone else was. Emma leaned into me and whispered, "Will I book us a room?" I nodded and she gestured to her mum. Rooms for everyone!


    Sebastian, who appeared to have been informed about staying overnight, suggested it was time to bring out the wine list. "We''ll pour you a glass, Max. You can drink it, or not, or let quantum decide," he said, eyeing me.


    "If you''re treating us to the good stuff, Sebastian, then quantum doesn''t get a vote."


    He laughed and fell to discussing the options with Donnie. Danny was on his phone, no doubt texting one of his harem. With a start, I realised Granddad Don was watching me intently.


    "You wanted to sit next to me."


    "Yes."


    "To pick my brains."


    "Oh," I said, wondering if that was the real reason. "Maybe. I don''t know. Maybe I''ll learn from what you don''t say."


    He scoffed. "This ain''t jazz. Go on, hit me. What''s your number one question? Think carefully. Number one."


    "How do you deal with the loneliness?"


    He didn''t blink. "By winning."


    "Right."


    "You win it''s all worth it. That''s a boxer, though. You want to compare what you do to what I did? Tell you what. I can''t quite get my head around you being the Chester boss but you play for Tranmere and you manage Grimsby. Tell me what you''re really up to."


    I went through my thought process, focusing on the way I could improve my skills, make money, and leave space for my assistant manager to learn her trade. Somehow the bald statement of facts led to me ranting about Grimsby, focusing on how shit everyone was and how they''d misjudged me and made my life so much harder even though they were only making it harder for me to fucking save them!


    Granddad Don listened, apparently interested. "You''ve got your good people there at Chester." They had dug into my story after I''d thrown Danny off the pitch so they knew some of the major characters. "Your assistants - both of ''em - and your French mate and all that. People you can talk to. People who get you. That''s your home, there. You trust them now? You''ll trust ''em more a year from now. Know what I mean? You''ll be right. But this thing where you go save a club from relegation. This fireman act."


    "Bad idea. You think I shouldn''t do it again."


    "Heh. Bad idea? It''s terrible. One of the worst ideas I''ve ever heard. Of course you should do it again. Where else are you gonna learn so much? And the money''s good, right? Heh. Maybe next time don''t go all-in on the win bonus." He chuckled some more. "See, though, it''s bothering you, isn''t it? You think you don''t want to be liked, but you do, same as everyone. So you''ve put up your walls. Don''t build a castle when all you need is a shield."


    "That''s good. Let me write that down."


    "You don''t trust anyone. You''re not patient. Oh, you''ve got the talent to get the job done, all right, any washed-up old crock can see that." He paused. Some pang of pain somewhere in his body? I waited with more patience than I would have shown most other people. "It''s harsh though, innit? Doesn''t take much skill to go in, cut the club in half and move forward with the good bit. You''d make a bad doctor, wouldn''t ya?" He cackled some more. "You''re a doctor with a patient in a bad way. Frostbite in his toes, bad lungs, arthritis. What''s your solution?"


    "Chop his head off and put him in a jar with some wires so he can speak."


    More cackles. Old people loved extreme medical humour. "That''s it. That''s it. Now, young man. There''s a thing they invented in my lifetime called keyhole surgery. Ever heard of it?"


    I smiled. I got where he was going. "Yes, I''ve heard of it."


    "So that''s your next test, isn''t it? Can you do what you did to Grimsby without all the amputations?"


    "How should I have dealt differently with Danny?"


    "Fannying off the pitch when the team was losing?" He closed his eyes and I''m not a hundred percent sure he didn''t have a microsleep or two. "I liked what you did. Showed passion that Danny didn''t have in that moment. Showed you were in charge. Showed the fans you cared as much as them." He took another tiny time out. "You should have sent your assistant on to do what you did."


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    "I didn''t have an assistant."


    "That''s the problem, innit? But send your assistant on, you get the same result but you don''t look like a brat and you don''t get a yellow card."


    "My first day at Grimsby the staff made it clear they didn''t want to work with me."


    "That''s weak. Great leaders don''t lack followers." He nodded a few times. "Sort that out, you''ll be a lot less lonely. Won''t ya?"


    "Or," I suggested, "people could stop having bad attitudes. That''s even better. Isn''t it?"


    He pulled a face that combined elements of exasperation and amusement. "You''ll be a long way down the multiverse before you find a world where that''s the case, let me tell yer." He chuckled. "Yeah, you''re welcome to manage the U''s. I''ll put in a good word for you. You''re my kind of brawler. Heh heh."


    ***


    Sunday, March 24


    After a noisy and laughter-filled evening - God, I didn''t realise how much I needed that - we had a sedate breakfast notable for two things.


    First, the way Danny Flash took care of his granddad, right down to cutting up his sausages and feeding them to him with neither man looking the slightest bit embarrassed.


    Second, Sebastian Weaver buttonholed me and made me confirm that the bulk of my Grimsby remuneration was to be paid in the form of a bonus that I probably wouldn''t get. He told me off for not letting him help with the contract but then said he''d been thinking that while I was showing off my talent I was also pissing off vast swathes of the football industry and soon the only places that would welcome me would be Chester and West Didsbury, and one of those wasn''t such a surefire thing.


    He asked what my plans for West were.


    "In the summer I''ll take some time to scout around Manchester and find them some players who are better than what they''ve got. That''ll raise the floor and then I''ll see if we can afford a ceiling-buster. A bit of a superstar player for the level. I found this guy Ziggy who would rip up that league and he''d have played for cheap. If I can find a couple of Ziggys, we''ll demolish it. Specially if I let them train with Chester for a couple of weeks in pre-season... If I did end up with the Grimsby money, I was thinking of using half to sign a good player for West. Something like 350 a week will do. I could afford to get one good dude in, I reckon, or maybe a couple of promising youngsters or some old pros who don''t want to quit playing completely."


    Sebastian bent his knees and swayed forward and back. "What level do they play?"


    "It''s the ninth tier."


    "Ninth," he said, aghast. He shook it off fairly quickly. "And Chester are the sixth. That''s a level where you could make some money and support my daughter. Can you get West promoted to the sixth? Have them at a half-decent level in case you blow yourself up everywhere else?"


    I shrugged. "It''s always hard to predict. We could have the best squad with the best player and he could get injured."


    "Agreed. So get four star players. How much would that cost?"


    I got my phone out and did some maths. "350 a week times four times fifty-two weeks. That''s seventy-three thousand a year that I''d have to inject into the club. No chance."


    He looked at me like I was teasing him. "You don''t pay them for a year, do you? The season''s from August to May. Run the numbers again."


    It was pretty brutal to think like that, but he was right. "How many weeks are in ten months?"


    "Use 44."


    "350 times 44 is just over fifteen grand. So one good player''s fifteen, four are..."


    He didn''t need the calculator. "Sixty. If you had an extra sixty thousand pounds in your budget, would your club get promoted next season?"


    "Probably. Like, almost certainly."


    He did his swaying thing again. I wondered if it was the thought of playing a round of golf before going home but then I realised he was dodging punches. He suddenly grinned, the happiest grin I''d ever seen on him. It made him look about nine years old. "Donnie Wormwood, Max! I had dinner with Donnie. Got pissed with Scrubber. Don''s a legend, too, course, but he''s not my legend, know what I mean? Scrubber. I stayed up till 2 a.m. to watch him on pay-per-view from Vegas. Twenty-five quid! We didn''t have that kind of money in those days, Max. Those were special fights, special nights. Up with some tins of cheap cider watching Scrubber. It never started on time. I used to hate that, but it just added to the tension, the sense of theatre." He ducked and weaved again. That could be his boxing nickname: Sebastian Weaver. "My firm will sponsor you for thirty grand if you put fifteen of your own in and find another fifteen from some other mug. You get those players, mind; I don''t want my money going to some Manchester based avocado-growing collective. Get your four players and get promoted. Then we''ll talk again next summer and in the meantime if you can get me dinner with Denise Richards, that''ll go in your favour."


    "Denise Richards?"


    He looked around before lowering his voice. "She was in a Bond movie."


    I scoffed. "I think I''m more likely to meet a golfer or tennis player or something."


    He thought about it. "Anna Kournikova."


    "Sebastian, put your libido away. How am I going to meet her? Does her niece play for Altrincham Women? It''s blind luck I met Donnie. I can''t choose who I bump into in a scary car park. You''re more likely to meet a famous person than me."


    He sighed. "That''s not true though, is it? Look, forget all that. Just make sure your West Didsbury guys are on the march. And... yeah. Thanks."


    ***


    Monday, March 25


    The day started as expected - badly.


    I drove to Cheapside ready to talk to Wolfie and build some bridges before launching into a tricky week of training. The following weekend was the Easter holiday and we''d be away to Barrow on Good Friday and home to Bradford City on Easter Monday. All the preparations for both games needed to be carried out pretty much simultaneously. Very, very difficult, unless you are me, in which case it''s a piece of piss.


    Once in the meeting with Wolfie, though, he pulled out a laptop and placed it in front of me. Soon I was on a Zoom call with Chris Hale. He didn''t say hello, didn''t smile, didn''t congratulate me on securing an unlikely point against the title challengers.


    Instead, in the manner of a lawyer summarising the evidence he''d gathered, he summarised the mistakes I''d made. The worst thing was he wasn''t looking at any notes - the list simply spilled out of him.


    "Item one. Falling out with Simon Green. Item two. Kicking Simon Green off the team bus and leaving him to fend for himself in London. Three, being unaccountably rude to the receptionist at Cheapside. Four, humiliating Caine and leaving us with a worthless asset. Five, ditto Mike Dobson. Six, wild tactics. Seven, kicking the long-serving kit man out of the dressing room. Eight, blaming our fans for a defensive lapse. Nine, Refusing to do anything but the most minimal media work. Ten, no wins from four games. Eleven, belittling and ostracising our coaches. Twelve, overpromoting Ollie. Thirteen, installing Ollie''s girlfriend as our new receptionist. Fourteen, not animated on the touchline. Fifteen, embarrassing the club by running onto the pitch to manhandle Danny Flash. Sixteen, cutting our data analyst out of the planning process. Seventeen, humiliating our guests from Wrexham by calling them a pub team. Eighteen, ditto, but on the public address system in the stadium. Nineteen, throwing poor Tom Hickman and Luke Walsh in at the deep end. Twenty, banning Wolfie from attending training. Twenty-one, using all five subs in the forty-seventh minute meaning that twenty-two, we had to play the end of the match with ten men, which ultimately cost us the win. And, of course, twenty-three, instructing your players to attack instead of going for the corner, in defiance of all conventional wisdom."


    He seemed to have finished. "But other than that, Mrs. Lincoln. How was the play?"


    "What?"


    "It''s a shame we couldn''t get it to twenty-four. That would be more thematic."


    "What?" he said again, even angrier.


    "Look, what''s the point of reading out that list? I know all that."


    "It''s so that everyone on the call is crystal clear that when we sack you, it will be justified."


    "Great. When''s that going to be?"


    "If you don''t beat Barrow. It''s like you told me once, as a manager you would like an ultimatum. A chance to prove yourself."


    "Nope," I said. "We can''t beat Barrow. No manager in the world could guarantee that. Not with Danny Grant injured. He''s our best weapon against a team like them."


    "I don''t care about your excuses. I''m giving you an ultimatum. That''s the nature of ultimatums. They''re one-sided."


    "Not this time. I don''t accept it. If you sack me it''s not for any of the reasons you listed, it''s because you know I''ve smashed this job and you don''t want to pay me. It''s that simple."


    "You''ve smashed it? Are you pulling my leg?"


    "Nope. Check the bookmakers'' odds. They know. As fun as this call is, the manager needs to go and do training. Am I the manager today yes or no?"


    Chris reached out and the call ended. He''d slammed his laptop closed.


    Wolfie placed his elbows on the table and let his head fall into his palms. "There''s a concept called managing up, Max. Mikel Arteta is great at it. Always says the right things to and about the owners, then pumps them for money. He''s fantastic at it. It helped him through some very tough times when a lot of fans wanted him gone."


    I tapped my fingers against the table. "I''m pretty torn, mate. I want to stay and finish the job and get paid. Right? But I also kind of don''t give a shit what happens. If he can''t see what I''m doing..."


    "What you''re doing is quite hard to see. But there''s another thing."


    "What?"


    Wolfie gestured that I should follow him. We walked into the middle of pitch one. All very mysterious. "Obviously you''ve been pissing everyone off since day one but most of the football guys are looking at the performances and the training and they''re impressed and you can get away with a lot of crap if you''re good. If Marcus had scored that penalty against Gillingham and Danny had gone for the corner and we had six points, I don''t think anyone would give two hoots if you made Si walk home from London. Might even be considered funny, right? But even if you''d got twelve points from twelve you''d be in the shit anyway." He checked over his shoulder, which made sense when Seb did it in the busy golf club but didn''t make sense on an empty football pitch. "Because you pissed Wrexham off."


    "What''s that got to do with anything?"


    Wolfie looked down. He couldn''t look me in the eye when he said, "Candy wants to meet Ryan Reynolds."


    "Okay. So?"


    "So that''s not going to happen now, is it? If he comes to Grimsby there''s some Manc who''s hijacked the tannoy and he''s, I don''t know, playing the audio of all the awards ceremonies where Ryan Reynolds was nominated but didn''t win. Now here''s the kicker - Candy''s why you got the job. You met her in the winter, right? And you ran your mouth and were proven mostly right. Who can fix Grimsby? How about the one guy who diagnosed the problem months ago? Chris was all, no way, he''s too young and she said no he''s talented you''ve got to go for it. Now, me personally, I''m thinking she wanted a - " He paused while he got his masculinity in order. "A handsome young manager, good on camera, great back story. Yes, she thought you''d do a good job with the team, but she also thought you''d be catnip for the documentary crew. And if the documentary guys are interested in you, Candy''s one step closer to her goal."


    I laughed. "This is absurd. She''s not doing a Machiavellian plot just to meet Ryan Reynolds."


    Wolfie looked around again. "I think she is! Town doesn''t mean anything to her, does it? It''s just a way to meet Elton John or Sting or whichever famous fan is in the VIP section that day. But listen, you''ve pissed Chris off and you''ve lost your top ally. If she''s turned on you then you don''t have much time. I mean, you''ve got until Friday. I can try to convince Chris to let you do Bradford on Monday because it''s nuts to change managers in between matches on the Easter weekend but you''ve got to stop doing things that rile people up. I know you don''t like being supervised and I''m not even trying to do that. I want you here to finish the job and save the season and," he inhaled, "and that''s not going to happen if you do more from his list. And by the way," he said, before I could interject, "there was a twenty-fourth item. Bringing guys from the Chester team to come and train here. That''s the sort of thing even the fans who like you would get hot under the collar about."


    "So your instruction is that I can''t bring men from Chester here even if those men have a playing style exactly like the dangerous players from Barrow and Bradford and that''s the best possible training session I could do."


    He closed his eyes and turned his head around in a circle. His neck must have been tight from stress. "If you do that again and it leaks, which it will, it''s game over."


    "Sounds like it''s game over, anyway. If I brought an outsider in, maybe that would help me find the mole. I kinda want to find the mole before I go. That''d be... I''d prefer the money but that''d be satisfying."


    "I don''t think the mole gives a shit who comes to train, Max. They might leak the story to get you fired so they can start again with a new manager who''ll tell the formations and line-ups, but they don''t care about what drills you do. If it''s a player they''re probably enjoying training a lot more these days."


    "They''d still get me fired, though, you reckon?"


    "Yeah. It''s for the money, isn''t it?"


    "Money?"


    "They''re selling the info to betting syndicates. I thought that was obvious. If you know Danny Grant''s not fit for Friday, you bet against us. If you''re one of those syndicates, here''s an easy way to make some money. You find out we''re using a reserve right back against MK Dons, tell the other manager, he targets the weak spot, bish bash bosh, Grimsby lose, money money money."


    "Betting syndicates. Sounds sinister. How much is the mole making from this?"


    "Absolutely no clue. No clue at all."


    I checked my phone. In a normal week in a normal club, I''d have been telling the squad and staff my plans for the coming fixtures. My time as Grimsby manager would end on Friday shortly after the Barrow match. That gave me four days to extract as much out of this adventure as possible. Starting with a mole hunt. "I''m gonna do my thing, Wolfie. I can''t let my impending annihilation change how I manage, but I do want to be a bit more conciliatory. Can you get everyone together for the weekly planning meeting? I''m just going to the car park for a second. Oh, and Wolfie?"


    "Yes?"


    "Better not mention the thingy. The ultimatum. I want my players to play with freedom."


    ***


    After checking who had come in which car, I took Danny Grant and Physio Byram to the side and asked for an injury update. The curse reckoned Danny would miss a week and Byram agreed. Could have been worse. I asked Danny if he''d be willing to give us fifteen minutes on Friday and he was keen. Byram clearly had thoughts about my sudden switch from refusing to use a hurt player to pushing one back into the side, but he wisely kept them to himself.


    "Get as much rest as you can this week," I said to Grant.


    "Do I get a spa voucher?" he asked, as a joke.


    "Yeah, if I''m still here for the Crawley match we''ll go together in his and his bathrobes."


    That got me a weird look.


    I hadn''t done one of these sessions with Grimsby. The space was a classroom mostly used by the younger players for their lessons. I hadn''t seen the youth teams - I needed to scout every man, woman, and child before I left. Oh, and get busy around Grimsby, too. Quite a few pros had grown up on a council estate called East March. If that was a hotbed of talent I needed to smash Playdar there at least once.


    "Right," I said, and everyone shut up instantly. Shame to leave just as I''d got them potty trained. "Barrow are a bunch of twats and their manager is a twat. Good news - he doesn''t like me, much. I live rent-free in his head. They play 3-5-2 unless they''re up against a generational talent." I coughed significantly. "But I''m banned and I don''t actually work here. So let''s assume they do 3-5-2. We''ve got two choices - defend or attack. Right? Until kick-off, they don''t know which one we''re doing. The plan is, solid for the first half. 4-1-4-1. Alex Evans running the show from DM. Nil-nil at half time and Barrow will be just fine with that because they think we tire near the ends of matches. Second half, we''ll match them with 3-5-2 for a while, but it''s all building to the last fifteen minutes where we throw Danny Grant on. All-out attack, 4-2-4, let ''em have it."


    Wolfie''s eyes popped out of his head. "All out attack? Against Barrow? Danny Grant? Are you sure?"


    "Course I''m sure. We have to rotate to keep guys fresh for Monday anyway so it''s win-win. Barrow will be expecting us to turtle up and keep that point, but actually we''ll go bonkers. To do that we need that solid base so training this week''s all about the defence. Coach O is my dude, as you know, but we''ve got two experienced defensive coaches, Gareth and Wes. Guys, we need your best stuff this week. Don''t worry about it being boring. I want spacing, I want shuffles, I want to practise being hit on the counter, I want Neo looking at Barrow''s set pieces and I want plans drawn up against them. If you need someone to replicate the exact delivery we''re going to face, I can do that. I can replicate any style from any player in world football. That''s useful, isn''t it? Oh, wait. I''m not allowed. Wolfie said men from Chester aren''t allowed to take part in Grimsby training, didn''t you, mate? And I''m a Chester player. So great idea but bin that."


    Wolfie went to the nearest wall and banged his head against it. "You said you''d be conciliatory."


    "I''m just making a point! If you''re going to enforce one particular rule, don''t make it a stupid one. Know what I mean?" I explained what was going on to the team and squad. "There''s, like, a list of grievances doing the rounds. Reasons to sack me. Twenty-four items so far."


    "Twenty-five," said Wolfie.


    I grinned and got on with my talk. "What about attacking, Max? Yeah, don''t worry about that. I''ll be taking the strikers off to a secret location one day soon. I''ve got a couple of tricks up my sleeve. All you dudes need to think about is keeping a clean sheet. Massive, massive effort this week. Everyone pulling together. Any questions? No? Then let''s get at it!"


    ***


    In the evening, I went to the East Marsh area and hit Playdar. It led me to a PA 60 thirteen-year-old midfielder. Not high enough to try to uproot him, but I asked him to take me to his parents and I said he should take footy more seriously and if they moved to Manchester in the next five years they should let me know. The interaction made them happy and proud, but the idea of moving away from their home town seemed to puzzle them.


    ***


    Tuesday, March 26


    Apart from finding the mole, whatever talented players were in the area, and getting one final injection of XP, there was one last bit of juice I could squeeze out of this lemon.


    Satisfied that the defensive coaches were doing what I wanted, I loaded my three strikers, Ed Williams, Marcus Wainwright, and Danny Flash, into the Duchess and drove off. I told them that I would get sacked instantly if anyone discovered what we were about to do, that I''d hired an elite coach and it was coming out of my own pocket and if they did grass me up I''d do a lot worse than dump them in London, the ungrateful bastards. They swore they''d keep schtum.


    I pulled in at Blundell Park, led them through the deserted corridors, and they went to the dugout to put their boots on.


    On the pitch was Coach O and next to him was the Brig, who was wearing a Grimsby Town manager''s coat. Cody Chambers, my private skills coach, was putting out cones, and three women from the Chester squad - also in Grimsby clobber - were doing some stretches. After all, Wolfie explicitly said not to bring any more Chester guys.


    Loophole!


    Regardless of the wording of Rule 24, I''d wanted to bring players from the women''s team anyway. With the big Altrincham match mere days away, they needed the boost a lot more than the men did.


    With Coach O technically leading a session in Grimsby''s actual stadium, this was a fourth tier training session in a fourth tier facility and it was almost guaranteed to be the single most productive training session these women would ever get.


    I''d chosen Bea Pea, Julie McKay, and Angel.


    Bea Pea started the day on CA 30 (out of 36), Julie was 21/53, and Angel 18/155. The team''s best possible average CA, still in the midfield-heavy 4-5-1 formation we knew so well, was 27. That was just about identical to Altrincham''s, so winning at their place was not guaranteed. I reckoned it''d be a close game and had a sneaking suspicion that Angel could be the difference maker. Put it this way - it wouldn''t be long before I''d prefer to have her running through against a goalkeeper than Danny Flash.


    As for me, my breathing trainer numbers had gone up in the early days of coming back to Grimsby, but had plateaued again. I''d hit my CA limit again, but that wouldn''t stop me going flat out in the session. If it helped me get a goal in the cup final or against my former club, the expense would have been worth it. And expense was the right word - I had to pay Cody for three hours even though we''d only get an hour of actual training, and even that was pretty generous of him. Going to Grimsby in the morning wasn''t a trip he could combine with seeing other clients.


    So since we had three strikers from Grimsby, three from Chester women, and me, I''d asked Cody to put on a striker''s masterclass. He''d do the drills in one area and Coach O would watch and copy them in another, and the coaches would rotate between the sets of players. That would make sure we all got a lot of contact time, a lot of repetition, and that the curse would be as liberal as possible with the increases it dished out. And if we got goals in our coming games, so much the better.


    The men from Grimsby came over and shook hands with the women, the Brig, and Cody. There was some electricity between Angel and Danny Flash.


    "Angel," I said, nodding away from the others. She followed me, but looked back at the group. She hated being taken out of groups. Some trauma or something. When I got a club psychologist Angel would be the second appointment. First would be me, but I wouldn''t show up because that''d be too much like Ted Lasso, the TV show. On the other hand, it would also be like The Sopranos.


    "Yes, Max?"


    I''d gone internal; I snapped out of it. "Right. Quick chat. You know I came over to do this Grimsby shit and holy Christ, what a bunch of clowns. They were all suspicious of me and thought I had bad motives and that I was trouble."


    "Which you are."


    "Yeah but they didn''t know that! And not when it comes to the football. We''re playing good stuff now. Anyway, my point was this whole shit show made me question how we do things at Chester and you know I''ve tried really hard to improve the culture. The As It Was video and including Dani and kicking out bad apples and so on and so forth. I''m pleased with myself. But there are two new employees where I maybe treated them the way these Grimsby fucks treated me."


    "Brooke."


    "Yeah. But I''m working on that. The other one''s you."


    "Me? You''ve been all right. Haven''t you?"


    Her eyes filled with hurt. Had I been slagging her off behind her back? I very much suspected the whole performance was fake, but that was part of my problem. "Thing is, I keep expecting you to do stuff that you never do. I need to put my preconceptions aside and try to treat you like anyone else."


    "What preconceptions?"


    I smiled. This was dangerous ground. "I can''t shake the feeling you want to be famous."


    "I do want to be famous. Don''t you?"


    "Not really, I don''t think. But I''ll get famous by playing football. And if you want to get famous by playing football, I''ll support you a million percent. The problem comes when you get all David Beckham and decide being famous is enough and you stop working on your game. But," I said, forestalling her intervention, "we''re nowhere near there and maybe it won''t happen. So why worry about it? Well, the reason we worry, as you know, is that we don''t want you to be murdered by a crazy stalker guy."


    She rolled her eyes. "Bonnie exaggerates all that."


    "You''re talking to a man who was nearly killed outside the stadium."


    More seriously, she said, "Right. Yeah. Sorry."


    "This guy said to me the other day, don''t build a castle when you only need a shield. While you''re with the team you''ve got a shield. You''ve been training great, improving great, Jackie''s been giving you minutes. We''re going to start letting you loose, starting with Sunday. We''ve got to be careful off the pitch still, but Sunday''s your time to shine. Make a bit of a name for yourself, get us promoted, then you''ll start smashing teams up next season. Even your sister won''t be able to stop us getting your name out there. What do you reckon?"


    She was smiling and it felt authentic. "What''s the catch?"


    "No catch. But this session today can propel you. You can commit and use it to get where you want to go... or you can flirt with Danny Flash."


    She rolled her eyes again. "The one who wouldn''t sub off? Er, no thanks."


    I laughed out loud. "Chesterness. I love it. Look, if you want to see him again, tell him to get to Alty on Sunday. He can''t have met you here because we''re not here right now. Do you get me? Okay, that guy''s Cody. My personal coach. Elite level. Take this seriously, win us the match on Sunday, and I''ll invite you to more of my sessions. We''ve both got mad skills but need to learn tips and tricks."


    That seemed a very attractive proposition. "Why are you telling me and not the others?"


    "Cody''s expensive. Security''s expensive. Right now I can give you one or the other." I waited for a reaction and got a kind of eye flicker of acknowledgement. "The main thing is, I''m going to the top. You can, too. We need elite coaching in addition to what we get at Chester. I spend my money on coaching, we get good, we earn more money, we hire you a personal Brig. When you''ve got a Brig you can pile into Instagram and marry a rock star for three days and all that shit. Sound good?"


    She gave me a look I couldn''t interpret. "What if I want to marry Bea Pea?"


    I scoffed. "Another striker? From the same club? How are you going to get a media frenzy about that?" I tutted. "You''re not thinking big enough. You want to date the German goalkeeper you take a penalty against in the World Cup final. All right, if we want to get there, we need to learn how to kick a ball good. Let''s go. Show Cody what you got."


    ***


    The drills were typical Cody. Starting simple, getting slightly less simple, returning to simple, finishing with, yeah, still pretty simple. The same moves again and again. Repetition. Intensity. Sets of five.


    Knowing we would have a group of three and a group of four, he''d decided to use a two-man drill.


    He would stand about five yards outside the penalty area and play a pass to a striker in the D. Let¡¯s call that striker the ¡®target man¡¯. Since we had a spare player, we had a defender who would jostle the target man. Not with any great intensity, just enough to be a nuisance.


    The target man had to control the ball and pass to the second striker, who was standing square with a mannequin in front of him. The second striker had to take a quality touch away from the mannequin and play a pass into the path of the target man, who had made a forward run.


    All in all, quite simple, but the drill tested a variety of elements of forward play - holding the ball up, laying it off, being strong, having a good first touch, putting the right weight on a pass, and connecting with another forward player. Angel was relatively bad at all of it.


    We did it again and again. I wanted to mix the men and the women up at least once, but Cody resisted. My need to have variety was counter-productive, he said, and Coach O agreed. So the groups stayed the same, with me getting a couple of turns in each.


    The results of the session were substantial. Danny Flash hit his PA of 62 and Ed Williams gained a point in CA. Marcus didn''t pop, but he seemed a little sharper and his morale went up.


    Bea Pea added two points and her morale hit maximum. She absolutely loved being chosen for this treat and put her heart and soul into it.


    Julie added one point, which was slightly disappointing but I knew that sometimes the boosts from sessions like these or big matches would take time to show up on a player''s profile. They needed time to absorb the lessons.


    Angel also added two points, but everything in me said there would be much more to come. She had thrown herself into the drills, and was frustrated with herself that she couldn''t reliably do the hold-up play and layoff to anywhere near the standard of Bea Pea.


    "What are you smiling at?" she demanded, partly because the Grimsby men had come over to watch the last leg of the session.


    "I love seeing you motivated to make yourself a better team player."


    That got her even more riled up. "I am a team player. I told you that."


    "Yes," I said, "unquestionably." I did a smirk so annoying that her neck flushed crimson. "Cody, have you got time for one more quick drill? I want to put my own spin on this one. Give these ladies a taste of Schr?dinger''s Max."


    "Not that guy again," said Danny, as he pretended to walk away.


    Cody checked his watch. "Yeah, I''ve got time. And you know me. Always interested to see new ideas."


    I took the support striker position. "Angel, you stay as the target man and I''ll do the wall pass. No, we don''t need the jostling, now. Thanks Bea Pea. You know what? I¡¯ll tell you what I¡¯m going to do. When the pass comes, I¡¯m going to collect the ball on the inside of my right, turn in a smooth semi-circle, and shoot with my left. Okay? And then I¡¯m going to do it again and it¡¯ll look exactly the same but instead of a left-footed shot it¡¯ll be a right-footed pass into Angel¡¯s path."


    ¡°No way,¡± said Bea Pea. ¡°No way it¡¯ll look the same.¡±


    I shrugged. ¡°Let¡¯s see.¡±


    Cody passed to Angel, who took a careful touch with her right and struck a left-footed pass at me. Slightly off target, but that didn¡¯t matter for this drill.


    I adjusted my weight, and kissed the ball with the inside of my right foot. At that point I was facing Angel with the goal and the mannequin to my left. I did a quarter turn away from the mannequin with the ball still nestled into my foot, and as I started another quarter turn I let it slightly roll away from me until it was just right for me to spank into the bottom left.


    It was very smooth, I have to say.


    ¡°Right, that was mint,¡± I said. ¡°Superior technique, no backlift, keeper no chance. Four out of five stars, perfection. Round two. Watch closely.¡±


    This time, I did everything the same, but instead of allowing the ball to roll away from me at the end of my spin, I pushed it hard behind me, around the mannequin, into Angel¡¯s path. It wasn¡¯t quite a backheel, more of a flick, and I absolutely nailed it.


    I raised my arms and let the sun worship me. When I looked down to earth, Danny Flash was trying not to show how impressed he was. "What do you think, Danny?"


    "I think she''d be given offside, boss."


    I laughed. "Don''t be a dick. That''s fucking mint, that. Why don''t you lot have a go? See if some of my stardust has landed on you."


    They tried, and while Marcus found it pretty easy, mostly they couldn''t quite get the swoop of their foot right, or they could do it but it was more of a backheel than a flick, which didn''t look as cool and wouldn''t fool defenders to the same extent.


    Angel was the worst of the six. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± I said, in a gentle tone guaranteed to annoy her, ¡°not everyone has my kind of subtlety and grace. Maybe you can learn to do long throws.¡±


    She jabbed her finger at me. "I''m going to do that in a match before you, Max Best."


    "Tsch. As if."


    She stormed off pretending to be angry, but then Bea Pea said something and the three women fell into each other. They''d had a ball.


    The Grimsby players and the coaches watched them walk away. "Er, boss," said Danny, eyes very much on Angel.


    "No," I said.


    "Right. Fair enough."


    ***


    Thursday, March 28


    It was almost certainly my last full day as interim Grimsby manager, so I watched training like a hawk, demanding more more more from the players, and in the afternoon went into Grimsby itself for the first real time. I walked around, went to the piers, ate fish and chips, and got incredibly pissed off by some fucking seagulls who wouldn''t let me sit on a bench and gaze wistfully at the ocean.


    Bunch of pricks.


    In the evening I went to some five-a-side places, picked up a hundred XP, then hit Playdar for the last time. I found a PA 114 goalie. Great. Nine years old. Come on, bro!


    Just in case, I got his dad''s phone number and made a little entry in the ''notes'' area of the kid''s player profile and on an online doc. But what was I supposed to do? Grimsby were sacking me and I''d promised not to make a rival club stronger. These players I found weren''t going to relocate to pursue their football careers. Not for five years at least!


    No, they were dead ends, like the whole month had been.


    ***


    Friday, March 29


    Match 5 of 10: Barrow versus Grimsby Town


    Bob Crick, The Westmorland Gazette. Max, strong rumours that you''ve been given an ultimatum. Win today or you''re out. What do you have to say about that?


    Not a whole lot. It''s obviously not true because it would be absurd to demand a bottom of the table team beat the team in fifth. I mean, rich people get funny ideas sometimes but they can look at a league table. I fancy us today but even if we outplay them, who''s to say the ref won''t allow a handball goal or fall for one of the most pathetic dives ever seen in English football? If I''m to be blamed for the mad shit that happens on a football pitch, so be it, but I won''t let it give me undue stress. Me and the team are focusing on what we can control and that''s our own performance. Training has been great this week. The players are happier, overall fitness levels are better, and after today there''s some very winnable games. I see today and Monday as part of the same piece and I¡¯m trying to maximise what we get from the weekend.


    Becky Stead, BBC Radio Humberside. Is it true you''ve fallen out with Chris Hale?


    Is it true - ? What? Chris Hale is a Grimsby fan and has been his whole life. He asked me to come and make sure the club didn''t get relegated. I took over and after Sutton there was a pretty nasty run of fixtures but we are a missed penalty and a handball goal away from being above Colchester right now. That''s bad maths, isn''t it? But you know what I mean. The bookies are experts in these relegation battles and they have us getting safer with every game. The players know we''re going in the right direction, and I think the fans are starting to get it, too.


    There are rumours you''re so desperate to win that you''re rushing Danny Grant back into the team.


    You guys and your rumours today. Do you like Fleetwood Mac, Becky? Lindsey Buckingham can play one guitar and make it sound like two. Danny Grant is fit and raring to go. He''s one of those guys you have to fight to get off the pitch when he''s got a concussion and he''s got a very important role to play today. We might have a little surprise for Barrow... heh heh heh. Can you please write heh heh heh in your report Becky? It''d mean a lot to me if you did.


    I think it will be edited out, Max.


    What about, he laughed mysteriously? He steepled his fingers and spoke in an arch tone worthy of a supervillain?


    Good luck today, Max.


    Thanks.


    ***


    The first half was what we call ''a cagey affair''. Our 4-1-4-1 had an average CA of 81.2 and instead of worrying about our attacking output, I leaned into our defensive solidity. We worked hard, kept things tight, didn''t make silly mistakes.


    Barrow, meanwhile, were a 3-5-2 with a defensive mentality. Their average CA was only 80 but they had home advantage and very high morale. When they sniffed blood, they could get very attacking, but generally the manager was cautious, and I was more than happy with that. My entire plan was to keep him on the back foot. I believed that he would stay in a defensive mindset until Danny Grant came on, at which point he would try to swarm us. His bench options lent credence to my theory.


    So the first half came and went. We had slightly the better of it, thanks to Alex Evans bossing midfield. We''d lose him for the second half, but no probs.


    Replacing Alex with Tommy Blair took us down to CA 79, but by moving Ed Williams to striker I could switch between 4-1-4-1 and 3-5-2 without using a sub. I really loved having a centre back who could play striker! It opened a lot of tactical options and having another guy with a centre back''s physicality on the pitch (instead of Danny Flash, for example) beefed us up at set pieces. Barrow''s best chances came from free kicks and corners but they didn''t look like scoring.


    The match meandered along with the two teams matching up, competing for midfield dominance.


    After 70 minutes, I made the key change - but it was not the one Barrow had been waiting for.


    "Substitution for Grimsby. Replacing number 15, Otis King, number 9, Danny Flash."


    This took us down to CA 77.6, but with Ed Williams back in defence and Conor Quinn playing right midfield we looked even more solid, while Danny flashed around trying to combine with Marcus.


    A few minutes passed and Barrow''s manager started to get itchy. When was my big flourish going to come? I wanted him to stay defensive for as long as poss, so I got Danny Grant to do a warmup.


    You might have guessed that I had no intention of actually using him. The truth was, while there was a fifty-fifty chance that not winning would get me sacked, a point away to Barrow was amazing for Grimsby and their prospects. No defeats against Gillingham, Wrexham, and Barrow was fantastic for us and disheartening for our relegation rivals. Win against Bradford and you could almost start planning for next season.


    The idea that I''d throw an injured Danny Grant on to save my skin was all too believable - for anyone who didn''t know me. After a couple of minutes of warming up, I got Danny next to me and he stood with his hand on his zip - the pose of a player about to come on the pitch - while I gestured at every corner flag in turn, seemingly giving him tactical instructions.


    Then I saw something that distracted me and while I was shouting instructions, Danny wandered off.


    We went through the farce two more times before Barrow''s manager realised he''d been scammed. He had a decision to make - take a risk and throw more attackers on, or accept the draw. With his situation in the league he should one hundred percent have gone for the win. But we had just scored four against Wrexham in no time at all. The risk, he decided, was too great.


    Eighty-nine minutes. Ninety. Plus one, plus two. The final whistle. Nil-nil.


    I shook hands with the Barrow guy. It had been a feisty but good-natured contest and I had to respect how much juice he was getting out of his team.


    I went over to the away terrace and fist bumped a couple of Grimsby fans. The overall reception was positive and one even threw a black and white scarf at me. I picked it up and stared at the logo. Fish and ships. Made me hungry.


    ***


    As I walked into the dressing room, my phone vibrated. Chris Hale had opened Schr?dinger''s box.


    You''re fired. Do not speak to the media.


    The curse gave me the same news. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and looked around. Spirits were high and it looked more like a normal dressing room. This could have been Chester after a solid two-nil away win. I''d done a really good job.


    "Guys," I said, and the lads settled down. "Great work, top result. As you''ve gathered, I lied on Monday when I said we''d go bonkers at the end. A point here''s mint and there''s some easier games coming up. You''ll notice that, as always, I used all five subs and kept you as fresh as poss. That''ll help on Monday because there''s no way Bradford will rotate. You''ve got every chance of doing them over. Unfortunately, someone else will be in the dugout. I''ve been sacked."


    All eyes were on me, but on hearing the key word, one player briefly glanced towards his jacket. He wanted to get the news out to his handler as soon as poss, but he was a good actor. He joined in with the general uproar.


    "Er... what do I wanna say?" I wondered, when they''d calmed enough to hear me. "I don''t know. Obviously we got off to a difficult start and all that but you''re miles better than the players at my level and honestly it was really interesting and rewarding to work with you. I don''t really know how this goes. My car''s at Cheapside. Do you dump me here like I did to Simon Green? Is that karma?"


    John Windmill, my captain, stood. "No chance. Dumping Si in London was mean. Dumping someone in Barrow is cruel and unusual punishment. But boss, there must be some mistake..."


    "Nah, it''s done. I think... I think I might go and see if the Barrow manager wants a chat. Otherwise I''ll go wait on the team bus, I reckon. We''ll have four hours to say our goodbyes."


    I left the room and there was instant pandemonium. In the chaos, I slipped back in and stood behind Otis King. He was on his phone, texting. BEST SACKED GET ON IT QUICK, he wrote. He realised someone was looking, turned, and we locked eyes. Caught red handed.


    I¡¯d suspected it was King based on him having too much car for his salary, but he could have saved up during his career so that on its own meant very little. He¡¯d also been in certain rooms at certain times, had missed the first match through illness (where none of my tactics had leaked), and had made a couple of small mistakes at the ends of matches that could have been fatigue or could have been a guy who¡¯d bet on his club being relegated.


    ¡°Max,¡± he whispered, throat dry, but it wasn¡¯t in my interest to give a shit.


    I turned and went into the Barrow dressing room and stood in the corner next to a physio as my opposite number finished a thunderous rant about how his men had lost too many challenges, been slow to the second balls, and not imposed themselves on the game enough. Pretty typical Sunday League stuff. I thought about slipping back out but he spotted me. "What the fuck do you want?"


    "I want you to buy me a drink."


    "What!" His rage intensified, then vanished. "You cheeky git. You cost us two points when you were at Tranmere and two more today. We''d be in the automatic promotion places if it wasn''t for you."


    "Nah, today I let you have a point. One pint for one point. Come on, I don''t know where the bar is and I''m poor. I just got the sack."


    He stared at me while his whole squad stared at him. I got the feeling I''d been painted as the devil. "They sacked you? That''s the stupidest fucking thing I''ve ever heard. Are you for real?"


    "Yeah."


    He couldn''t quite process the news, but he strode past, scooping me along as he went. "This way, lad. This way."


    ***


    Half an hour later, I clambered onto the team bus, fell into my seat, and we pulled away onto the endlessly tedious A-roads between Barrow and civilisation. Four hours to Grimsby, three hours to Chester. Or I could stay in Brigg until Sunday and pick Emma up in Manchester to watch the women¡¯s match that would define our entire season, then...


    Then what? I could do absolutely anything. My playing ban was over. I could play, I could manage, I could help Brooke do paperwork... or I could binge season two of The Traitors. Yeah. I was finally ready for it.


    "Max," said Wolfie, who''d slipped into the seat next to me. "I just resigned."


    "No, mate," I said. I''d had a couple of beers and made a good start on a third when it was made clear to me that I would get on the bus immediately or be Simon Greened.


    "Chris isn''t acting in the best interests of the club. There''s no footballing reason to get rid of you."


    "No wins in five."


    "Come on. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know."


    "Aight." I looked away but as he made to leave, I grabbed his wrist. "John."


    "What?"


    "You gonna stay in the area?"


    "In Meggies? Yeah, course. It''s home, innit?"


    I didn''t bother asking where Meggies was. It had never shown up on any map I''d seen. "Get some paper." He came back with a notebook and handed me a pen. I opened it to a blank page and wrote a brief description of the two young prospects I''d found in my brief time scouting in Grimsby. Names, ages, contact details, even a little bit about their strengths and weaknesses and how they should be trained over the next five years. I pushed the notebook back towards him. "Take care of those little fuckers."


    "I thought you said you wouldn''t make us stronger."


    "It''s up to you what you do with them. Bring them to Lincoln for all I care. Or Scunny." The driver bristled - I lost some of my relationship points saying that! "Anyway," I said, looking behind me. I didn''t have access to the Grimsby squad screen any more, but if their faces were any guide, the squad''s morale was even lower than the day I''d taken over. "Anyway, I could bring you hundreds of players and it wouldn''t make any difference. This team should be going for the playoffs, but they''re not. And Chris Hale just put them in a box with a 50% chance of exploding." I shook my head. I really didn''t want opponents like Danny Grant and Marcus Wainwright in the National League. "Who''s going to take Monday''s match, do you think?"


    "Unless he has lined someone up without telling me, it''ll be Coach G. He''s the most senior guy left."


    "And he''ll go back to 4-2-3-1 with Mike Dobson, Si Green, Caine. No Mal, no Ed, Conor in midfield and all that. He''ll undo everything I fixed."


    "Probably."


    I tapped the bus driver. "Are you the kind of person who''d bet on his own team to get relegated?"


    "Course not, no." We drove in silence for about 600 metres. He lowered his voice. "That''d be a good bet, would it?"


    "I''m pretty sure one guy on this bus has already stuck his house on it. Might as well make the best of a bad situation mate.¡± I leaned back. ¡°All right, Wolfie. Sorry I was such a dick. Maybe we''ll meet again in better circumstances."


    "I''d like that."


    We shook hands and that was that.


    I stared out of the window for a couple of minutes. I felt pretty weird. Not low exactly, but like my balloon had deflated and I had to hold onto it for the next four hours. I reckoned I¡¯d perk up when I finally got in the Duchess.


    Perk up. The monthly perk was 4,004 XP and without the 750 plus I¡¯d get from managing the match against Bradford City, I¡¯d struggle to raise the funds. With what I¡¯d get from watching the women smash Alty, I¡¯d be about 500 short and the only good options for the Saturday matches were in the Premier League.


    I texted my new best friend.


    Sebastian, any chance you can get me in to Newcastle vs West Ham tomorrow? I know it¡¯s short notice don¡¯t worry if it¡¯s not poss.


    Okay. One job done. What else?


    I opened the Chester women''s squad and pored through it, then dialled my employee. He picked up right away. "Jackie. I¡¯m backie. Let''s talk about Sunday. I think we need to think outside the box¡­"

 7.13 - Eight Views of Emma

    13.


    Evening Glow


    The best poems rhyme, end of discussion. But I was finding that St. James'' Park wasn''t quite the muse I needed, and trying to get couplets to rhyme was doing my head in. Who said they needed to be couplets, anyway? As far as I could tell, the poets of the Song dynasty did whatever the hell they wanted.


    The fog on the Tyne is all mine, I wrote. But I want to share it with you.


    Scratch that out, I thought. That''s terrible.


    "What are you doing?" asked my favourite Weaver.


    "What does it look like? I''m trying to write poems in the classical tradition, replete with symbolism. I''m struggling with the geese."


    "It''s just that you begged my dad for tickets and you aren''t even watching."


    "I am!" I said. "Look. Newcastle have had 65% possession and 4 shots, none on target. West Ham are in a low block and are countering just enough to stop the home team going mad on overloads. When Bowen gets the ball you can literally hear the dread from the home fans, but the team''s overly reliant on him for my liking."


    Emma leaned into me. "Okay. You''re watching. But I''m worried about you."


    So were a lot of people. My phone had been exploding to the point that once I''d found Emma, I''d turned it off. Worrying wasn''t going to help me write these poems, though. I tapped the pencil against my lips. Sometimes changing the topic opened the door to inspiration. "It was good of your dad to give us his tickets but I would have been happy to watch with him. I planned a whole speech pretending to be surprised by the contrasting defensive systems. And, you know, sort of giving credit where credit''s due to the Newcastle manager for some of the good things he''s done. It''s the new diplomatic and sophisticated Max. Max Joybringer, they call me."


    Emma smiled. "It was good of him. He was pleased you asked. Plus he feels sorry for you."


    "What? Why?"


    "Because you got sacked!"


    The person in front turned to gawp at us, but I simply scoffed. "That? That''s not a real sacking. You can''t sack me for taking points off three much better teams. It doesn''t look good on my Wikipedia page but the break gives me time to work on my creative writing. Okay, idea. I''ll pitch things you can text your dad and you can tell me if you think he''ll like it. First one... I was thinking something like... Max is raving about how Anthony Gordon is being coached. His improvement in recent months has been dramatic."


    She thumbed at her phone while I checked out the young winger. Gordon was a deeply annoying Scouser who I had always thought of as overrated. The curse disagreed, though, and since I''d seen him earlier in the season he''d added twenty points of CA and was starting to be a really good Premier League player. Newcastle''s manager was top at improving individual players.


    So was I - indirectly, at least - which meant that when adding to my squads for next season, I wouldn''t be looking at players like Danny Flash. Yes, having a CA 62 striker would be a big help on day one, but it would frustrate me to invest money in someone who wasn''t going to improve. Unless I was bringing in an older guy, of course. But I''d probably choose a CA 45 PA 90 striker over an oven-ready PA 62 guy. The early pain would be worth it.


    And frankly, if Grimsby dropped into non-league I''d probably change my thought process altogether. If they kept Marcus Wainwright and Danny Grant they would surely smash the National League even with all their dysfunctions. So I could start the season with an even more youthful, even more inconsistent squad; we only needed to finish seventh to get into the playoffs. There wasn''t that much difference between second and seventh, all things considered.


    "Sent," said Emma. "What is interesting about the defensive formations?"


    "Two things, to me at least. First, I''m interested in the way these differ from the basic versions. Newcastle use 4-3-3 but their defenders aren''t quite in the normal positions."


    "What''s different?"


    They had thick lines around them in the tactics screen, but I couldn''t say that. "I''m not sure. I''m sort of keeping an eye on it. I think this stuff is why we need our own analytics dude. Someone where I can say ''this is weird to me'' and he can slow the footage down and compare it to past seasons and all that guff. Obviously I''m here to learn it for myself but I think it''ll be slow going. I need to put the time in. Meanwhile, there''s something more pressing I can sink my teeth into."


    "Your poetry."


    I laughed. "I meant the contrasting defensive styles. That''s the second interesting thing. See, Newcastle are very energetic. They do a lot of pressing and running and sprinting and counter-pressing and fast transitions and it''s all very dynamic. In contrast, West Ham just stand there and let you smash into them."


    "And you have to choose which one you want to be."


    "I want to be able to do both. Against some teams we need to do the pressing, the super energetic version. It''s fantastically coached here, it really is. But the manager doesn''t rotate his line up enough so he gets injuries and fatigue and my squad''s obviously much smaller than his so if he can''t do it, neither can I. I need to add numbers, of course, but if it''s a choice between adding four good players or eight okay ones, I''m probably going to go with the four. So what do we do? Get knocked out of cups early? I can''t. I''m insane about cups. So then West Ham''s style becomes interesting. Over a season, you''re running less, you''re getting fewer injuries. It''s quite passive though, and the fans mostly hate it. West Ham play like that even if they''re one-nil down at home."


    "Is this the inside fighter outside fighter thing? That came up a few times over dinner with Donnie and I didn''t quite get it."


    "It''s not real football jargon; it''s just a way to frame a choice, isn''t it? Like when we''re looking for a landmark on holiday and I want to find it by intuition - you could say I''m being an outside fighter. You want to ask a local. Brutal, simplistic, utterly lacking in sophistication."


    "Oi."


    "Or if I wanted to marry you. How would I bring it up? If I was in inside fighter mode I would get in close, give you a big old smooch, and say, ''hey baby, it''s time, marry me yeah?''"


    "What''s the outside fighter version?"


    I got shifty. "I don''t know. Sort of maybe start writing poems and hanging out with your friends or something. So yeah, West Ham are outside fighters. They stand back and let you tire yourself out. They come alive in the last twenty minutes of matches. There are games where I''ve switched off because I thought they wanted to lose, that''s how bad they were playing. Then I saw they scored two quick goals near the end. Good goals, too. It''s definitely a style. I''d like to have that option. Seasons are bloody long. Newcastle are the inside fighters. Lots of work and energy. It''s all about throwing so many punches the other guy can''t even set his feet. In a way it''s more Max Best football, but grinding your players into dust like that isn''t for me. Take this weekend. Lower league teams are playing on Friday and Monday. How can you play with this intensity twice in four days? You can''t, but this Newcastle manager tries. It''s kind of insane. I''d want to be passive on Friday and go all-out on Monday, or vice versa."


    "Summarise that into eight words I can text my dad."


    "Ooh, we can test one of my poems on him. Write this. St James'' Park is famed for the noise of the Gallowgate; But tonight their songs cannot be heard for the sound of the PSR hate."


    Emma leaned forward to get a better look at me. "Are you okay?"


    "It''s the wrong poem, I know. I thought I''d get away with it. How did you know that was originally the rain one?"


    "I have no idea what you''re talking about. Why are you writing poems? It''s out of character. You''ve had a shock and you''re acting weird. I''m worried."


    I stuck my notepad between my thighs and pulled Emma into a big cuddle before gently playing with the nape of her neck. "I''ve suddenly got a lot of free time that I can use productively to think about the future. This trip is actually quite important for me." I needed the experience points from watching a top tier match before the monthly perk ran out but, as ever, I couldn''t say that. "You know, the defensive zone stuff. Because we can play like West Ham if we buy Christian Fierce. And there''s a guy at Wrexham whose contract is running out who I liked the look of. He could do a bit of the West Ham style or a bit of the Newcastle style. Fierce isn''t so good in the Newcastle style. Okay? If I buy Fierce but only use him in half the matches, that''s a big waste. I''m thinking ahead. This is big brain stuff. Now, one criticism that was levelled at me in recent times that maybe has some merit is that I''m not very sophisticated. I amputate when keyhole surgery is an option. I charge around and yes it''s nice to be a generational talent and all that but when I think of myself I do like to imagine I''m not some oaf who bumbles around the countryside banging into hedges sticking his hand into wasp''s nests looking for honey."


    "Erm..."


    "So I thought to myself, what''s the most sophisticated thing that I could do that I could learn from a YouTube video in ten minutes or less? And the answer, obviously, is continuing the thousand-year-old tradition known as the Eight Views. It''s eight aspects, eight ways of looking at a scene. It can be quite literal or quite playful, so the rain can be rain or it can be a cat drooling. There''s always the same eight themes but there doesn''t seem to be a particular order they come in. A thousand years, people have been doing this. That''s longer than Coronation Street and Dr. Who combined, babes. A lot of that tradition is paintings and I''m not a good artist but I''ve written an okay sentence or two so I''m doing the poem angle. Oh, that reminds me. Beth said I wasn''t a good writer and this is also a response to that. I''m going to write the next match programme in the form of an Eight Views poem. Eight Views of Football, maybe."


    "There''s a paramedic right there. I could go and get him."


    "I discovered something profound last night, as I lay in the Taj Mahal thinking of rhymes for the word Emma. Would you like to hear it?"


    "Yes, please."


    "Even bad poems sound good if you read them out slowly enough. You are sceptical. Oh ye of little faith. Here, I''ll demonstrate by reading my poem again, but slower, while I play with your hair because I did have to lose some of the evocative imagery in order to make it funny." I cleared my throat. "St James'' Park is famed for the noise of the Gallowgate. The Gallowgate End is that stand there, and that structure I used is sort of boilerplate for this Eight Views style. By the way, that opening is part of me being diplomatic with your dad. St James'' Park is actually most famous for having a contentious apostrophe and guys who go topless when it''s snowing. St James'' Park is famed for the noise of the Gallowgate; But tonight their songs cannot be heard for the sound of the PSR hate. PSR is the Premier League''s Profit and Sustainability Rules. I can see your eyes glazing over but there are 52,000 people in here today with very strong opinions about it! I could start a riot in here by standing up and shouting I love PSR!"


    The guy in front of me bristled but didn''t turn around. I think Emma''s beauty was intimidating for him. She asked, "What is it?"


    "PSR basically means you can''t spend too much money compared to what you earn as a football club. It''s a big, big topic in the Prem this year, especially here, because the owners have all this money and want to spend it but they can''t... because of PSR. Teams are having to sell players to get the balance sheets all lined up. It''s having some pretty interesting effects and it''s something I need to keep an eye on. Chester should be fine because we''ll make most of our money from player sales, all profit, but we do need to increase our match day revenues and sponsorships and all that. One of the reasons I need to spend more time with Brooke. Anything that stops big clubs recklessly spending could work in our favour, of course. If even Newcastle have to sell a player before a certain date to comply with the rules, we could - one day - be in a position to pick up bargains." I smiled. Love a bargain. "Then again, by the time we''re in the Prem, they''ll have worked it all out." I considered what I''d said. "It''s still a rare advantage for us against the big boys, though. Last time I was here I was a bit depressed because we''d never be able to catch up, but maybe there''s just enough checks and balances in place that we maybe maybe could. What?"


    "I''ve just realised why you seem so strange."


    "What''s that?"


    "You''re happy."


    "I''m often happy. It''s not that strange." I stretched. "But all right, today feels unusually awesome. I''ve got power but no immediate responsibility. I''ve got time to let my brain slow to a crawl. Read about old art, scribble some lines, do some lazy squad building, watch some football with my dream woman under the evening glow of the floodlights. Did you notice I said evening glow?"


    "Yes."


    "Good. That''s the thing about the Eight Views. There are those set themes you have to use. One''s called Evening Glow. You do a painting and call it Evening Glow over Wembley and everyone knows what the other seven paintings will be about."


    "Everyone knows that, do they?"


    "Everyone sophisticated," I said, and my smugness made my girlfriend laugh. Newcastle! What a wonderful place!


    ***


    Evening Snow


    We went out for dinner and popped into a bar to meet some of Emma''s football-loving friends, the ones I''d been hearing about for so long but had never met. They started out treading on eggshells in case they said something to hurt my feelings. After all, I''d just been sacked and there was, apparently, a fair amount of mockery going around. But I was pretty much as relaxed and charming as I''ve ever been and soon we were just a group of mates in the corner, laughing and joking.


    There was a brief dip in the mood when a tipsy Emma declared she was proud of me not only for my athletic prowess and ability to stuff my football club with a variety of love rivals, each more beautiful than the last, but she was also proud that I hadn''t given up on my lifelong dream of writing poetry in the ''Eight Mile'' tradition.


    That was my cue to lift my voice and astonish the heavens. First, I checked that Emma''s mates were all Newcastle United fans. They were.


    "Great. You''ll love this one, then. It''s on the theme of Evening Snow, which, as you know, is one of the Eight Miles. I mean, Eight Views. Ahem. It''s a bit ripped off from an old Japanese poem which went, The beauty of the evening on the peak of Mount Hira is best seen after the snows have fallen and before the flowers are fully blown. Fully blown being, as you know, an old way of saying in bloom. So here''s my version with the closest thing you''ve got to a mountain here. I''ll slow down so you can really enjoy it. The beauty of the evening on the peak of Currock Hill is best seen after the snows have fallen; and before Keegan''s twelve-point lead is fully blown."


    My reading was met with a snowy silence, and for a second I wondered if the scars from Newcastle''s collapse in the 1996 title race were still fresh. But no, they were reacting to something quite different. "Did you say Currock Hill? I''ve never heard of it."


    I put my notebook away with a sour, prissy look on my face. "My work is intended for a more sophisticated audience."


    "Oh, yeah?" said one girl. "Like Emma?"


    "Oi!" said Emma, and the pair fell about laughing.


    "So that''s your book of poems for the season?" said one guy. I think he must have been one of the ones mocking me the hardest in the WhatsApp group because he was doing his best to make me feel welcome. "You do a different one every year, sort of thing?"


    "Oh, I don''t really write poems," I said, pulling the notebook out and flipping through. "I''m just giving my brain a different challenge this weekend. Here''s what I normally do. What''ve we got here? Sort of a sketch of our stadium if we knock various stands down. Where do we put the away fans and what''s the capacity? Just thinking ahead. This, what''s this? When I was in hospital I was having mad dreams about football without formations. This is a sort of... attempt to draw it but when I try to remember what it looked like, it''s like I''m snowblind. Ah, you''ll like this. This was my prediction for the final National League North table. I had us winning by 15 points, see?"


    "When did you write this?"


    "Seems like years ago." I looked at the pages before and after. "Must have been around September."


    "And how many points clear are you now?"


    "Exactly fifteen," I said, putting my notebook away with a cheeky grin.


    "I thought it was fourteen," said Emma.


    "Babes! It''s called poetic licence. Please don''t forget that I''m an artist." I pretended to leave in a huff, which got laughs, and made my way down the stairs and into the bar''s toilets. As I was washing my hands, so was some rando.


    "Want some snow?" he said.


    "Yeah, but it''s nearly April. Unless there''s a crazy cold snap, it''s not gonna happen."


    "Right," he said, before pulling a paper towel, drying himself off, and scarpering.


    I looked at myself in the mirror and was pretty content. Coming to Newcastle had been a good idea. I liked Emma''s friends and the match had given me almost all the XP I needed to buy the monthly perk. I''d landed on 4,003 XP, one tiny point short of being able to afford it. I would have to watch our women''s team play Altrincham to be able to upgrade my skills. There was no part of me that was even considering not being there, but it just seemed... poetic that a difficult month should end on such a high.


    High? It took me a few seconds to realise the guy had tried to sell me cocaine. As if! I was a professional sportsman and I didn''t take recreational substances. I went back upstairs and paid for another round of drinks.


    ***


    Night Rain


    That night, Emma and I lay on her bed. My brain was throbbing slightly from the alcohol and the music and the non-stop conversation in a language that was hard for me to understand - Geordie.


    I had my laptop out and Ems was on her big phone. The task - preparation for our summer holiday, now that we wouldn''t be staying in a palace with two swimming pools and three helipads. Emma was on travel websites scouting for locations, while my job - self-appointed - was to write the commemorative poem.


    "How about Sardinia?" she said.


    I thought about my need to find thirty grand in new money for West Didsbury to unlock matching funding from Sebastian. Better to keep the summer cheap. "How about Sunderland?" We went about our own business for a while. The room was too quiet; I liked to write with white noise or classical music playing. "Are you disappointed?"


    "That you chose the day you met my friends to be the weirdest you''ve ever been? No, they loved it."


    "About the holiday."


    "Not really. I might be when we''re on a freezing cold beach in Sunderland instead of one of Chris''s private islands."


    I didn''t really want to think about what I''d lost in an oppressively quiet room. "The best time to plan a summer holiday is when it''s raining." I made sure the volume on my laptop was low, went to YouTube and typed ''night rain''. The first video was called ''Three Hours of Gentle Night Rain'' and had two hundred million views. I pressed play and put my laptop aside. "Next season''s going to be the hardest one, I think. Rough start, we slowly get good, we make the playoffs and then we''ve got to be perfect for three matches. Stressful, but no-one will want to play us; we''ll be ready. I want to have a go in the Youth Cup and the women''s season will be the same as this one - only the top team gets promoted, no playoffs, so there''s no room for mistakes. It''s stressful - one bad half and your season''s over. You have to wait another year to get another go. I find myself wishing I''d found some defenders for Jackie instead of doing Tranmere and Grimsby." I reached behind my head and found her hand. "I need more players. Can we do a lovely romantic holiday tour... of Cheshire?"


    She squeezed me. "Of Cheshire''s scenic towns and villages and football pitches?"


    "We could stock up on talented randos. We kind of need to, really. But one big push and that''s it. Next summer it''ll be simpler, I think."


    "Why?"


    "We''ll be doing most of our recruitment from other clubs. Finding a great midfielder on the street - yeah, brilliant. But it''ll take him five years to make it to the first team. The higher we go, the longer it''ll take randos to get into the side. It''s even getting like that with the women. If I found someone untrained who was even better than Charlotte, it''d probably be two seasons before she kicked her out of the starting lineup. No, this summer''s the key."


    She squirmed around to face me. "Describe a day on this wonderful holiday of ours."


    "We drive to Big Throbbing."


    "If that''s a real place we need to start there."


    "We leave our bags at the Airbnb. I have a shower while you pick up all the crisp packets you left in the car."


    "I did that once. Stop going on about it."


    "We walk around the village and have scones and think gosh I wish I had a paperback book. We find a second hand bookshop and you inexplicably embark on a fifteen-minute conversation with an elderly gentleman."


    "You exaggerate how often that happens."


    "We drive to a country estate with a famous garden and walk around and I''m recognised by a Swedish volleyball team who happen to be in the area."


    "Skip this part."


    "We potter around the village peering at the restaurant menus that are kept inside little glass boxes on the outside so that I can decide if I want to eat there or not without having to talk to anyone."


    "Your absolute favourite kind of place."


    "We pick one, and, to work up an appetite, we drive to a local five-a-side centre and I watch eight minutes of shit football. We return to the restaurant where you embarrass me by ordering an apricot and olive salad but can you have pear instead of apricot and instead of olives can you have peas."


    Her eyelids closed. Some of her dreams were further away; some were closer. "So, summer in Cheshire."


    "And Wales. Shropshire. The Potteries. Merseyside. Places we could find players who could actually play for us if we offer a low wage. I mean, finding lads in Grimsby is useless unless they''re world beaters and we give them enough money that they''d want to relocate. We were lucky with the Harrisons. Yeah, we found them in Tenerife but they lived in Bolton."


    She rolled into me. "I''ll do it if you tell me which Triplet''s the good one."


    I laughed. "Why do you care?"


    "Because you''ve been teasing everyone with it since the summer."


    "Hmm. Tell you what. You rank them one, two, three and I''ll tell you how many are right."


    "Promise to tell me properly."


    "I promise."


    She tried to focus, which was hard because the alcohol was still sloshing around and she was almost asleep. I thought she had nodded off, but she said, "Can you stop the rain? I really don''t know how you find that relaxing." I gently closed the laptop and the rain stopped. "Okay," she said with a happy sigh, as she wriggled into the little spoon position and used my arm as a clamp. "Noah''s the best. Got to be."


    "You''ve got to name all three before I tell."


    "Noah''s the best. Andrew''s second. Michael third."


    "Hundred percent wrong. So that''s that. We''ll do my dream holiday instead of yours."


    "It''s eight minutes of football instead of eight minutes in a museum. It''s not a drama."


    The silence of the room threatened to get under my skin. "But Ems, we''ve gone, in a couple of days, from imagining us counting the superyachts going past to looking up which tea house in Flintshire has the best pastries. It''s... It''s not what I want for you."


    "What do you want for me?" she mumbled.


    "I want the Iron Man house in Malibu. I want infinity pools. I want houses carved into mountainsides but there wasn''t a mountain so they flew one in from Austria. I want to give you the moon on a stick."


    She squiggled around until we were almost face to face. The eyelashes parted and I fell, dizzy, into the eyes. "A tea house in Flintshire followed by a crappy football match in the... what''s the theme right now?"


    "Night rain," I whispered, scared to ruin the moment.


    "Crappy match in the night rain. I''ll love it. Because you''ll be with me and you''re my favourite person and you make everything fun. And at one of those crappy matches there will be a guy, or knowing you more likely it''ll be a ridiculously beautiful woman, and you''ll pick me up and spin me round and say bebs we found the next Jackie Milburn." She gave me a quick peck on the lips. "Who needs vitamin D, anyway?" We kissed, and things were starting to heat up when she pulled away a couple of inches with a suspicious look on her face. "What are you doing?"


    "Kissing you."


    "Max. You''re not kissing me. You''re in your own head."


    "It''s such a perfect moment. I want to do a poem."


    "Go on, then."


    "My Night Rain couplet isn''t romantic, though."


    "Could you get on with it, please?"


    I hesitated. I had enough sophistication to realise this wasn''t likely to go as I''d hoped. "The original is about some bridge in Japan. Bridge, right? I think my versions only make sense if you know the originals."


    "Grow a pair and tell it me."


    I played with her hair so that it''d seem more romantic. "Soft and fitful rain passes over the ridge; the light of the setting sun streams along the freehold to Stamford Bridge." It''s fair to say that the first 90% of the poem worked tremendously. Emma melted. The end, though, ended a lot of things. "Um... Because Chelsea can''t redevelop the ground because they don''t own it, right. Someone else has the freehold. Bit like us with the Deva. So..."


    "How many more of these do I need to hear?"


    "Two."


    "How many really?"


    "Five."


    "Ah, okay. Well, you know I support you in your little projects. Guess how your poetry ranks alongside Tranmere and Grimsby?"


    "Poems first, Tranmere second, Grimsby third."


    "One hundred percent wrong. Good night."


    ***


    Autumn Moon


    Sunday, March 31


    Match 19 of 22: Altrincham Women vs Chester Tyger Tygers


    Alty played their home matches at Mersey Valley Sports Club, not all that far from Chorlton and not all that far from the care home. Emma and I went for a quick chat with mum and Anna and I ended up offering to take Solly to watch the match with me. I knew almost everyone from Chester would be there so there would be no shortage of people who could be ''volunteered'' to take him for quick walks if he thought the match was boring.


    "Is it going to be boring?" said Emma from the back seat of the Duchess, where a deliriously happy dog was clambering over her to get a better view of the big wide world.


    "It''s two tier six teams who know their entire year comes down to this one game," I said. "They''ll be a bag of nerves and both teams are similar in that there are pockets of good players and pockets of poor ones. You can see it in the passing moves - the ball is tranquil, tranquil, then it hits turbulence. There''s some good play and then the last pass, the cross, the through ball goes miles off target. I went to sleep last night super peaceful, feeling serene, then suddenly I was wide awake at three a.m. stressed off my tits because I remembered that after Cody Chambers did a totally perfect training session I was hyper and made everyone do something with a mad degree of difficulty. Rule one of coaching is never end on something that''s too hard. This boomerang trick, what was I thinking? If they do it in this game I''m going to implode."


    "Stress? Implosions? The entire year comes down to this? It doesn''t sound like it will be boring, babes."


    "Oh, I''ll be having palpitations from minute one to ninety. Everyone''s going to try to talk to me but I''ll be a proper stress head. You have to help me."


    "You can get out of any conversation you want by telling them about your poems. So the context is, we lose today we are stuck in this league for another year."


    "Yeah. Doesn''t sound too bad, like, staying in the same division is what happens to most teams, but for us, for this group, it could be catastrophic. Some of the ladies are getting seriously good. Charlotte''s already way above the level. We''ve got a batch of stars. Will they want to stay another year at tier six? If we don''t win today, I''m not worried about getting promoted next year, that''s easy. I''m worried about keeping the group. Dani, Angel, even Kisi. The women''s transfer record was broken a couple of months ago. We could do that with Angel or Dani, but not if they leave this summer. Know what I mean? And Jackie. Maybe he gets a better offer that he rejects if we''re in tier five and accepts if we''re tier six. Yeah, it''s trouble. And it''s not just that we can''t lose. We pretty much have to win."


    "In Jackie we trust."


    "I mean, yeah, obvs. It''s just a headwrecker to be the DoF at such an important game and I have to be a spectator." Especially when I still had Bench Boost and Triple Captain available. I''d toyed with the idea of making myself manager five minutes before the match, smashing the perks, and reinstating Jackie, but that was too, too weird even for me.


    We''d decided to arrive shortly before the match so that I wouldn''t get an ulcer from worrying. As I hunted for a parking spot, I spotted Henri in deep discussions with Brooke. She was smiling with about a quarter of her mouth. I couldn''t tell if that was huge or meaningless. Schr?dinger''s smile.


    "The Texan," said Emma, ominously. They''d met briefly at the home match against Scarborough when I''d been sick, but to all intents and purposes this would be the first time they properly talked.


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    "Yep," I said. I needed to fire off a quick reply to a message. "Hang on and I''ll introduce you." I was vaguely aware of Solly''s panting, his claws scraping on the tarmac, and the door clicking shut. There was quiet. I finished typing, pressed send, and realised I''d lost control of the sitch. "Shit."


    I dashed out and around the car and saw Brooke and Emma side by side, fussing over Solly.


    Henri snuck up beside me and draped his arm over my shoulder. "Bringing the dog was a good idea," he murmured. "We bond over a chin rub and a tempting belly."


    "You can rub Solly''s belly; he loves it." I squinted. "It was Emma''s idea. She made me think it was mine. Wow. How often does she do that to me? She''s a wizard." The women continued to talk to each other while facing the dog. "So she was nervous about Brooke."


    "Or she was confident but took extra steps to ensure the day went well. How are you, my friend?"


    "Fantastic," I said, from a deep chasm.


    "That bad?"


    "What?" I snapped out of it. "No, man. I''m serious. Everyone''s freaking out over nothing. Come on, let''s walk this puppy. Hi, Brooke. Are you excited about the big game?"


    "I am! It''s all anyone wants to talk about. Except for the whole thing with you."


    "The thing with me? Don''t talk about Solly like that!" I bent. "He''s a good boy and a sweet boy."


    "Max has been writing poems," said Emma.


    Henri took two quick steps forward. "Pardonnez moi?"


    I swirled my finger around. "It''s time to class this place up a bit. My starting concept was football in general but now I''m thinking about niching down for the merch options. Brooke, write this down. Eight Views of Chester by Max Best. A set of eight mugs."


    Henri gasped. "You''re doing the Eight Views? What''s Autumn Moon?"


    "I thought Autumn Moon would be the hardest because, you know, it''s spring, but it just popped into my head almost fully formed. It''s when I pivoted from Eight Views of Football to Eight Views of Chester. Brooke, get ready to be swept off your feet." I handed Henri the dog''s lead and fished my little notebook out. "Imagine you go to make a cup of tea and you pull down one of your Chester mugs - you bought eight, remember - and it''s the Autumn Moon one. Maybe there''s a golden moon that looks like a winter football and maybe Henri''s about to do an overhead kick on it. I dunno, I''m a poet not a graphic designer." I held the page open with my left hand and made precise, ritualistic gestures with my right. It goes without saying that I spoke slowly so they could allow every word to seep into their subconscious. "At the Deva the same moon shines down as at Wrexham; But is it not more beautiful in Chester?"


    Henri made an ecstatic noise, thrust the lead into Brooke''s hand, and embraced me. "It''s marvellous! You''re simply marvellous! The Eight Views as tribalism turned into merch? It''s the highest moment in football art. Tell me the other seven at once."


    "I''m dishing them out in segments; only Emma hears them as they are birthed. If you want them all you need to buy the set. Boom. Marketing 20."


    Brooke and Emma bonded over this scene almost as much as they had while mutually petting a dog. I got the feeling my b-girl wasn''t going to hit the phones talking to ceramics companies in the morning. "Can you do it without the word Deva? I''ve been looking into stadium sponsorships. There is some interest."


    "Oh, really? Top. But if you''re asking me to change my poem, you don''t know me very well. I''ll not sell my artistic vision for twenty thousand quid."


    "How about a hundred?"


    I mimed crumpling some paper and throwing it in a bin. "Consider it edited. It''s only art. This dog walk got very static all of a sudden. I get that you''re transfixed by the beauty of my imagery but we need to keep moving. Don''t we Solly? Don''t we boy?" We walked away from the football pitches. "Hundred K for naming rights? For how long?"


    "That was four years."


    Twenty-five Gs a year sounded pretty shit. "Oh."


    "It''s tentative negotiations, Max. Just a gambit on their side."


    Henri cleared his throat, suggesting he had something of value to say. "Brooke simply wants to give you a ballpark figure."


    The silence that followed was complete. Perhaps the only thing missing was a faint, sad whine from Solly. Emma shook her head. "Max is writing the poems and Henri''s doing the terrible puns. I feel like I''m in one of those body-swap movies."


    ***


    Descending Geese


    I went to the other side of the pitch from the dugouts because I didn''t want to get in Jackie Reaper''s face and put undue pressure on him. While my heart was screaming that I should get involved because the stakes were so high, my head was saying that I needed to trust Jackie and the players.


    He''d gone with the formation we''d used for most of the season, 4-5-1, to get midfield dominance against Alty''s 4-4-2. We had a decent bench that included Diane, the talented DM, plus a very attacking trio in Kisi, Julie McKay, and Angel.


    The average CA of the first eleven was 26.6, a smidge below Alty''s 28. Alty had home advantage, in theory, but in practice our supporters massively outnumbered theirs. Almost everyone from our men''s first team had turned up to cheer the women on. MD, Inga, Joe, and five-sevenths of the board were there. The Yalleys had brought a big chunk of their church''s congregation, including Pastor Yaw. Sandra Lane had appointed herself Jackie''s assistant manager for the day, and she''d been busy on the phones, too. Many of the Man City girls had come, not least the Butcher of Burnage herself. Meghan, Youngster''s biggest fan, was in a gaggle of City players. They were quiet. Maybe they were troubled by thoughts that, like Charlotte, they too could be forced to descend to the sixth tier. I had no doubts they''d come to life when Kisi was subbed on.


    In addition to all that, fifty Chester fans had organised a day out and were singing and chanting behind the goal we''d be shooting towards in the first half.


    Yeah. We outnumbered Alty fans at least ten to one. So we had away advantage, better technique, and slightly better morale, while Alty were far more experienced and had great self-belief.


    The match kicked off and I immediately felt sick to my stomach. Far too much was riding on this. Imagine being forced to accept an offer of ten thousand pounds for Angel. If we pushed her, she could be the first million pound woman. That wasn''t going to happen if she had to slum it for another year in the North West Regional Football League Division One South.


    We took control of the midfield and almost at once it was obvious that Charlotte was the power in these waters. She raced ahead in passes completed, tackles, interceptions, and she pushed us up into Alty''s half where most of the first ten minutes was played.


    "Jackie Reaper''s blue and white army!" sang the fans behind the goal, which normally would have pumped me up, but today stressed me out even more. Would Jackie be too defensive? Would he make his changes too late?


    The first ten minutes were grim but the next five were torture. We would seem to be in control but then Alty would turn the ball over and launch a ball over the defence and there would be absolute mayhem. Once, an Alty winger raced ahead and fizzed the ball across the box, behind one striker and in front of the other. Heart-stopping. Where was Dani? Alty''s next break came from an agricultural long-ball. Robyn ran out to head the ball clear, but she clattered into Bonnie. It was dumb luck that Mo was first to the loose ball. She smashed it away and while the goalie and defender got some treatment, Jackie tweaked his instructions. From my vantage point I found myself nodding as I went through the lineups. The full backs had been told to stay back, as had Pippa. Charlotte had been set as playmaker. Dani had been told to cover the runners on her side. Jackie wanted to slow the game down, make sure we had plenty of numbers in the rest defence, and try to be as precise as possible when constructing our moves.


    Sensible, but we had to win. Alty must have loved how we were playing. They had a West Ham sorta defence and we were simply crashing into it. We needed to take more risks, plain and simple.


    Emma knew I was struggling and she slipped right into assistant manager mode. First team players came and went, trying to talk to me, but I couldn''t peel my eyes away from the action. Emma handed Solly out like he was a free sample, and the little fucker got walk after walk until just before half time, with my nerves frayed and aching, he came to flop at my feet. I sat next to him, legs crossed, and in the half time break tried to stop my head spinning long enough to talk to MD and Brooke.


    Emma nudged me. I''d spaced out mid-sentence. "What?"


    "Tell us a poem."


    "No, they''re shit. I''m a hack. I''m just being weird so I don''t have to think about my inner turmoil."


    "I know," she said, shaking me by the upper arm. "That''s why now''s the perfect time."


    I closed my eyes and when I opened them, she was there, the breeze blowing through her wavy strands of hair, beautiful and soft and wise. For the first time, I wondered if I should have been writing poems about her. "So this one''s back on the Eight Views of Chester theme. It''s about me loaning young players to a small club in Manchester. Ahem. After passing many Range Rovers the wild geese alight at Roadchef for a rest; before continuing their long flight to West."


    "Wild geese?" said MD.


    "Mate, it''s a thousand-year old poem template. There''s set forms you''ve got to use. They''re all about mountains and geese and fucking sails. Give me a break. This is good stuff. Where''s Henri? He gets it."


    MD gave me a good-natured twinkle. "So you want to do more loans to West Didsbury? Emma said you''ve been in planning mode. You''ll be back to managing tomorrow, will you? Will you play?"


    "No, tomorrow I''m going to watch a match with Fleur. We''re going to scout together. Maybe I can show her some of the things I''m interested in. Make her a better scout sort of thing. That''ll have a big long-term impact even if all it does is reduce the number of trips I have to make to see players she likes but I don''t."


    "That''s... that''s a good idea. We''re still making her full time next season?"


    "Yes. Have you got an idea of the budget? I need a budget. I know you''ll say it depends but just please give me your best guess for now. And I should have a quick chat to the fans soon. Can we do a quick Zoom call with the members on Tuesday evening? They might think it''s weird I''m not managing. Or playing. I''ll explain it. What else? We''ll have a meeting to talk about where you''re at with the grants and the kitchen and everything. And also maybe we can get all the main staff together and I can talk about some things I saw in Lincolnshire."


    "What did you see?"


    "Not any hedgehogs, that''s for sure. Analytics, data, the training ground. Bit of a reminder of some cultural stuff we''ve fixed but can''t get complacent about. And Sandra can debrief me about what''s been going on with the men''s team. Three draws, four wins, to me it looks good but there are people saying it got a bit stodgy."


    "No," said MD. "Sandra was using young players more than we expected. She said she wasn''t interested in breaking records, she wanted to develop players, and she wanted to carry on doing what you were doing - as much as possible."


    "We should talk about it anyway - there might be some useful lessons for next time I''m on a break. Oh, there''s Ruth and the Brig. Everyone wave to Ruth; I need to talk to her." Ruth refused to join me on the grass, so the Brig helped me up and we did the conversation standing. "Just a quick question. Is there a chance you''d sell me the barn?"


    "The what?"


    "The cottage. The house I live in."


    "Oh. Oh!" She glanced at the Brig. "I''m sorry, Max, I can''t. It''s my dad''s house. I just can''t. Even for you."


    She seemed really upset. I smiled and reached out to touch her wrist. "It''s okay! Just a question." I smiled harder. "I''m only thinking ahead."


    Emma was puzzled. "Why would you want to buy it when you live there for free anyway?"


    "I''m English. I want to own my house."


    "You can''t afford to put fifteen thousand in your football team. Where are you getting the millo you need to buy that cottage?"


    My smile grew to dazzling proportions. "I think I''d negotiate below a million, considering there''s a zoo in the attic. Look, I''m happy to live there and it''s convenient for work. I realise I like the quiet and a bit of nature. Ideally it''d be halfway between Chester and Manchester but I''m just, you know, thinking what if I wanted to hang three flying ducks on the wall without asking permission? What if I wanted to close the zoo?"


    "The zoo is closed," said the Brig.


    "Oh? You put that mesh around the roof? Cool." We''d discussed that at the start of winter but we had to wait for the spring for the pine marten to fuck off back to the forest. "Look, here''s the thing. You''re all worried about me because I got sacked or whatever but what you don''t realise is how absolutely and utterly I smashed that month and how I''m more confident than ever about my career in football. Okay so I''m not going to get hundreds of football clubs calling me to save them from relegation so I need to think of some other income streams and all that, but what I did on the pitch was brilliant and we are going to annihilate League Two when we get there. Next season will be tough but I''m looking at back to back promotions and back to back pay rises and I''m thinking maybe we can do a bit of social media whoring and maybe I''ll get myself some sponsors and blah blah blah. And maybe when I start looking at buying a house of my own Emma will have opinions and she''ll want to fully move in and listen to my poetry recitals. We''ll be staying in the area for our summer hols and we can hunt for players while we hunt for a house. Sound good, babe?" She was grinning at me. "What?"


    "It does sound good. But you know what''s even better?" She looked at the pitch, where the players and the ref were returning. The Chester fans had trudged around to the other end and were now behind the other goal. "I''m the queen of distracting you when you''re stressed. You''re welcome."


    ***


    Clearing Weather


    As we''d done in so many games before and as we''d discussed on the phone, Jackie switched to 3-5-2, bringing off Lucy, whose legs were starting to fail her, and bringing on Angel. He would have used Julie but I''d convinced him to go with the even younger, even more inexperienced player. I just had a feeling it could come down to a single moment and if it did, I wanted our best finisher on the pitch.


    Alty came out with a bruising, crunching intensity that forced us back. They made us look small and every corner they won gave me another ulcer. Bonnie was immense. She won three headers in a row and the tide turned. Pippa put in a crunching tackle, Dani skipped away and zipped a pass to Bea Pea. Her first time layoff was almost perfect... but a defender slid in before Angel could get her shot away.


    That reminder of our threat got Alty retreating. They only needed a draw, I told myself for the two hundredth time.


    Pass, pass, but the move broke down.


    Pass, pass, but the move broke down.


    It was only when I felt a tug on my sleeve that I realised I''d had my hands on my head for about three minutes. I tried to sit with Solly, but it didn''t take. I was soon up and pacing around and not even Emma''s distractions worked.


    Fifty-one minutes. Fifty-three. Our season was being compressed into a smaller and smaller package. It would come down to the last half hour. The last twenty-eight minutes. The last twenty-seven minutes. This was our World Cup final and I couldn''t play or manage. Trust Jackie. Trust the players.


    Sixty-three minutes and Charlotte wriggled past a challenge and suddenly had yards of space. Unusually, both Angel and Bea Pea dropped short to offer an option. Charlotte went with Bea Pea, who took a touch and laid it off to Angel just like we''d practiced. The sickness intensified as I thought of Angel trying a boomerang scoop-flick. Instead, she took a touch and played it into Bea Pea''s path - the textbook, Cody Chambers version of the move. The pass was overhit, though, and the keeper got there just before Bea Pea.


    Good, though!


    Alty''s experience counted, and they slowed the game down. A couple of fake injuries, taking their time on goal kicks and throw ins. Charlotte was starting to get frustrated. Dani was lucky not to be booked for a late tackle on one of the time wasters. I understood the impulse, believe me, but all it did was allow Alty to waste even more time.


    Seventy minutes gone. There wasn''t an unbitten fingernail on any of the spectators.


    Solly didn''t want to go for a walk so I paced off on my own and counted to ten. When I got back I saw Alty had dropped a little deeper, giving Charlotte even more time to pick her passes. She wanted to go wide to Maddy or Dani, as we''d trained, but Alty had done their homework and were double teaming Dani. Kisi for Susan, please, Jackie. That would give us even more creativity and threat. At this point, who cared if Alty scored? A draw was just as bad as a defeat. Don''t wait too long, Jackie mate!


    Charlotte, out of options, decided to try the forward pass again. This time, Angel was the holdup player. The centre back was stronger than her, but she kept her balance and touched the ball to Bea Pea. Not quite on target, but Bea Pea''s first time wall pass was good... but Angel hadn''t been able to get around her marker in time and the chance was lost. Charlotte''s head dropped.


    Jackie, mate! Say something! But he hadn''t noticed - he was in discussion with Sandra.


    Seventy-two minutes gone, and once more Charlotte used her skill to get some space. But when she saw the strikers ahead of her, she crabbed to the right and played a safe pass to Maddie.


    I lost my shit.


    I hopped over the railing, narrowly avoiding Solly''s tail - sorry, boy - and screamed for Bonnie. When I got her attention I told her to send Charlotte over.


    The lineswoman suggested I should maybe get fucked or whatever; I took a microscopic step back and reached my foot so that it was sort of under the fence''s crossbar. "I''m behind the fence! Look!" She was too busy to complain further.


    At the next break, Charlotte came over. "What?"


    "You''ve got to use the strikers. We''re swamped on the wings. Use the centre!"


    "They can''t do it."


    I wanted to scream but I just about kept it together. "This isn''t fucking Man City! We''re not trying to do one hundred percent safe passes all the time. Attack! That pass to feet isn''t a good option but it''s the best one we''ve got right now and the more you do it the more it''ll bring defenders away from the wings. Trust your teammates the way I trust you!" I didn''t add for fuck''s sake, because this was the new Max, the sophisticated diplomat.


    Charlotte jogged away with her morale a point lower.


    Well, didn''t that just sum up my entire month?


    The weather might change but some things stayed the same. I could make any situation worse, guaranteed. I slumped against the railing, as the gloom from the past month crept back like a Necromancer''s mist.


    Brooke, MD, and Henri left me alone while Emma reached around from her side of the fence and snuggled into me. "Tell me a poem."


    I took a look at the pitch, a sad, mournful glance. A painful end to the season was on the cards. We just didn''t quite have the quality. It would be a long, cold summer for these women, the ones who stayed. How many would leave? If someone wanted Charlotte, I could hardly stand in her way. I pulled out my little notebook, turning away from a page where I''d predicted the final league table - if we beat Altrincham. I found a poem I hadn''t told Emma, yet. "This one''s called Changing Weather. I haven''t adapted it yet. This is the original, or one of the originals. The wind drives away the storm clouds and scatters them... Oh. That''s about my players. My superstar collection, blown to the four corners. I knew it''d be hard to keep them here, but... I think for the first time a poem has actually produced an emotional response. Who knew that was possible?"


    "What''s the rest of it?"


    "The wind drives away the storm clouds and scatters them; and the white sails of a hundred boats come flying to Awazu."


    Emma adjusted her head. "Don''t feel bad, babes, but I think the originals are a little more evocative than yours."


    "Yeah. Stick to what I''m good at. Making big plans. Having big dreams."


    "Aw, babes."


    "I''m all right." I sighed. "I like Altrincham. It''s a good club. If it can''t be us, at least it''s them."


    "What''s happening in the match? We''re being pushed back, it looks like."


    "Charlotte''s sulking."


    "Aww."


    Some of the sickness returned as I tried to imagine our interaction from Charlotte''s point of view. "I''ve fucked off for a month and come back with egg on my face and the first thing I''ve done is shout at her mid-match. Christ, why am I so shit?" Emma didn''t know, or chose not to say. I slipped out of her arms, knelt, and rubbed Solly between the ears. "Solly, mate, have you got one little walk left in you? I need it, mate."


    The dog sort of sighed and forced himself onto his feet. What a champion!


    "Max!" called Henri.


    I twisted my head. Alty had been attacking and it seemed that Dani had sprinted back to help, because she was slowly getting up not that far from our penalty box. From the distribution of players, I reckoned Susan had picked up a loose ball and popped it forward to Charlotte. An Alty midfielder flat on her arse hinted at a cheeky nutmeg, and now Charlotte was motoring.


    Up the pitch she went, but Alty had the entire back four ahead and two midfielders closing on Charlotte. On the right, Maddy had her head down in a desperate sprint, but would she be able to make up the ground in time to help out? It seemed unlikely.


    Charlotte popped the ball to Bea Pea, who held it up and played the same square ball we''d been practising. Bea Pea instantly turned and wrestled with her marker, fighting to be in position for the return pass.


    Angel, though. I knew what she''d do. She''d seen that I was here when I shouted at Charlotte and now - I knew it just as a clearly as a Song dynasty poet knew that geese were only interesting when landing - I knew she would try my stupid boomerang flick. And that it would utterly, utterly fail because she had nowhere near the technique to pull it off.


    Angel kissed the ball with the inside of her right foot, used her left as a pivot as she twisted away from her marker, and here it came - another moment my immaturity and unprofessionalism came to bite us on the arse. Everyone would wonder why she''d tried something so stupid. Probably she wouldn''t blame me. She''d say she was trying to add assists to her game. I''m a team player, Max.


    After she did her tornado impression, the ball spat out a yard in front of her with the defender, wrong-footed and clumsy, on the wrong side. Angel took a step and struck a left-footed thunderbolt. The goalie had been expecting the return pass to Bea Pea - we all had - and like a weather vane in a storm she flipped from right to left and she flung herself to the floor in the manner of a collapsing A-board.


    Finishing 20! The net bulged! Angel ran to the Chester fans behind the goal!


    The goal drives away the storm clouds and scatters them; and the blue and white sails of a hundred fans come flying to the goalscorer.


    I went a bit tonto. In my mania, I couldn''t conceive of a way through the metal railing behind me, so I launched myself forward, hands flopping and flapping in the air as I tried to do eight victory dances at once. I had enough sense to know I shouldn''t have gone onto the pitch, so I sprinted across and joined the celebrations that were ongoing there. It was a twenty-person jubilation, with Jackie, Sandra, Kisi, Livia, Dean, Jill, and many, many more.


    Not satisfied with their hugs and shouts, I raced around to the fans behind the goal and caused another thirty seconds of bedlam. I led the chants of Jackie Reaper''s blue and white army until I felt my knees start to tremble. I jogged back to the dugout.


    Emotionally devastated, I spent the next three minutes motionless on the bench. Kisi took to the pitch to massive acclaim, and the non-stop singing and chanting, the exuberance of our play, the teamwork, the togetherness, the Chesterness, was too much for Altrincham. Jackie had timed the change perfectly. The whole match had been a masterclass in grinding down a physical but technically inferior team and then outclassing them at the end. We''re going to win, I thought, shaking my head. We''re going to do this!


    Jackie saw me, but mistook my black mood for depression about being sacked. He left Sandra in charge while he came to cheer me up.


    "Max," he said. "I know you''re feeling down and the world seems dark and dismal right now, but you can''t have a rainbow without rain. You''ll come through dis. We''re all here to help you. We know what we''ve got, even if Grimsby don''t."


    His bedside manner was comforting and I almost wished I was actually miserable so he could cheer me up some more. "It''s not that, you prick. We did that secret training the other day and I was worried I''d put a stupid idea in Angel''s head."


    His brows formed a V like a bunch of geese. He pointed to the pitch. "But that was your move. She told me."


    "No, I mean, yeah, I showed them that. I showed them two moves but really the drill was about the other one. A piece of skill that is very much in the poetic tradition. Angel told me she would do it in a match before I did."


    "And she just did."


    "No, that''s not what I meant."


    He gave me a little punch. "It''s what she meant. You showed her two things. One she can do, one she can''t. Guess which one she''s been practising?" He scoffed. "You''re such an idiot sometimes."


    I glared at him and nodded towards the technical area. "Get back to work."


    He got up and held his hand down. "I''d love another assistant."


    I took his hand and grinned.


    Jackie went to the right and shouted at the defenders. Sandra stood in the middle and yelled at the midfielders. I went to the left and smiled at the forwards.


    Angel''s explosive goal had forced Alty to reshuffle, strengthening the centre. Kisi and an Alty midfielder raced towards a loose ball. Kisi slid at it, getting it to Mel. She played it first time to Maddy, who found Charlotte, whose morale had returned to maximum. She burst forward and the fear in the Alty ranks was thrilling to me. She shaped to pass to Angel again, causing both centre backs to move to intercept. Instead, Charlotte chipped the ball over the defence, out to the left where Dani sprinted to get a quality first touch. She plucked it from the air with her left foot, waited for it to drop, and smashed it low across goal where Angel caressed it across the line.


    "Holy shit, we''re actually good," I found myself saying after some intense jumping around and shouting.


    Jackie laughed. "Did you think otherwise?"


    "I had a wobble," I admitted.


    "Whatever you said to Charlotte, it worked."


    "She didn''t like it."


    "When you speak, she listens." He scanned the pitch again, looking for tweaks. "We all do."


    "Okay," I said, summoning a joke to shield me from my feelings. "Remember you said that in the bar when I get up to do my poems."


    "Your what?" he said, but the match had restarted and we got back into position.


    ***


    At the full-time whistle, the players went mad and celebrated like they''d won the league, which they had. But by then I had already processed the win and was thinking ahead. To start life in tier five able to beat anyone we played, we needed a better goalie and three new defenders. We would play our home matches in a real stadium, the one in Flint. We could start to get really serious about marketing and developing the youth system. Angel''s goals had lit a fuse under the rocket and it was my job to steer it right.


    While I was still in a calculating sort of mood, I re-read the description for the monthly perk. Seal It Up would give me fifteen minutes per match where the defenders would perform better. Yes, please. I bought it and my stash of XP was reduced to buttons.


    I commiserated with Alty''s manager and had little chats with their players. This was the new Max, sophisticated and diplomatic.


    And if I spent more time talking to Alty''s goalie and defenders than the rest of the team combined? Coincidence, mate.


    ***


    Returning Sails


    Monday, 1 April


    National League: Altrincham vs Oldham Athletic


    My head was still sore from being hung, drawn and quartered with every kick of a football, and I''d had some beers because Jackie wouldn''t let the women drink and someone had to. That was my last alcohol of the season, though. There were only two weeks before the Cheshire Cup final - the last piece of the jigsaw, if we could manage to beat a Crewe team who were flying high in League Two.


    The women, though. We''d done it. It had been close, but we''d done it.


    Behind me, Emma and Fleur, our scout, were chatting away. Emma was amazing in the many ways she could make connections. I could only get close to people through football, and even then I was a real Marmite personality. More than half of people who tasted me hated me. Emma was the Heinz ketchup of people - everyone loved her.


    "Emma," I said, interrupting their chat. "I''ve decided you''re the Emma of our relationship."


    "That''s nice, Max. Thanks."


    After about two seconds, I heard quiet giggles.


    We''d come to scout a National League match, since that was the level we''d be playing next season. About halfway through the second half I would begin quizzing Fleur for her opinions on certain players, but for now it was just a chill day out and I was happy Emma and Fleur were getting on.


    Why go to Alty for the second time in two days? Simply because I hadn''t scouted many National League teams since I''d unlocked Contracts 2. Now I could see how much my rivals were paying their players.


    Oldham''s average was around a thousand a month with a few getting less and half a dozen on fifteen hundred. Fondop, their best player, was on 1,900 plus bonuses. I didn''t have the numbers from their injured players or those not in the matchday squad, but my best guesstimate of the total yearly outlay was one point five million. Alty''s was somewhere in the region of one point two million. But then what about the backroom staff? I had the salary details of the ones on the pitch but not the rest.


    I went into the curse shop and looked at the Finances perk for the first time in a long time. It was 2,000 XP and would summarise a club''s balance sheet. Seemed like something that would be incredibly handy right about now, if only to make sure MD was giving me enough budget to compete.


    "Fleur, I need to go to loads of matches in the next few weeks. Do you want to join me? I won''t be able to pay you your scouting fee but I''ll drive and all that. Consider it unpaid training."


    "I''d like that!"


    "Top," I mumbled, as I started to plan out a scouting schedule that would take in as many National League rivals as poss while getting to 2,000 XP quickly.


    "I''m not surprised he asked you," said Emma. "Max told me he doesn''t spend enough time with beautiful women."


    "No he didn''t," laughed Fleur. She leaned forward. "I have a favour, though. Henk''s not doing well at Tranmere. They liked him at first but it''s gone a bit sour. He''s not getting minutes. Can we talk about coming back to Chester?" She sighed. "He never should have left."


    "Have you spoken to anyone at Tranmere about that?"


    "No."


    "Do that first. Absolutely no way I''m going to piss off the one club I''ve got good relations with. Okay? If they don''t want him, of course he can come back." Henk was PA 33 so he wouldn''t get into the first team but he was tall and strong and looked good on the ball. I could imagine getting some cash for him - I should say some more cash since Tranmere had paid five grand for him - and he could help with our FA Youth Cup runs. I took my notebook out and crossed out a couple of words and added new ones. I shifted in my seat so the women would be able to hear me clearly. "Returning Sales. God, that''s clever. The starlet is returning from afar to his mum''s house; sped on his homeward course by the winds of glory."


    Fleur whispered, "What just happened?"


    Emma whispered, "If you don''t react to it, it stops."


    ***


    Evening Bell


    We drove back to Chester, dropped Fleur off, and sped to the digs, where a bunch of Chester players and friends had organised a post-match party. A youthful Chester men''s team had drawn with Alfreton, bringing our points total for the season to 102, and the number of goals scored to a record 114.


    When we got there, the party was in full swing, with lots of alcohol-free drinks, nibbles, and of course, hams. Brooke appeared to be enjoying a conversation with Magnus Evergreen. Livia and Dean were laughing with Ryan Jack, his morale sky-high. Charlotte, Angel, and Sam Topps were the only ones watching the match.


    On the big TV was Grimsby versus Bradford City, which had been moved to be the late game and was being broadcast live. We''d missed most of the first half, and Grimsby were winning one-nil.


    "Why are they on?" said Emma, scowling slightly at the word they.


    "This was arranged ages ago," I said. When they thought I''d be managing. Henri refused to cancel the party saying he''d already paid Mariners TV and we could hate watch but we''d bloody well watch. I thought about slumping into a bean bag, but it was nearly half time. "Do you know the lineups?"


    "No, boss," said Sam.


    "Who do you want to win?" said Charlotte.


    I sucked on my teeth. "Tricky. I''ve got that mob primed to win the next three matches and if they do, it actually makes me look shit. Do you know what I mean? That''s hard to take. But I don''t want them in the league with us next season. They''ve got too many good players. On the other hand," I mused, "we are Chester and we fear no man."


    "Or woman."


    "We fear no man or woman. Except Donnie Wormwood. He''d batter me."


    "He wouldn''t," said Emma. "He''s lovely. I like him. And you''re not afraid of him, either, or you wouldn''t keep calling him washed-up and a has-been and all that."


    "What are you afraid of, Max?" said Angel.


    "My greatest fear is that one day I will write a bad poem. Fortunately," I said, smirking, "it is yet to happen."


    "Henri said you are writing eight poems," said Charlotte.


    "Yeah, it''s an old tradition. There are eight themes. I''ve absolutely nailed seven. Stick them on the mugs already. I''ve got one left. Evening Bell. I want to take Emma to a church later and that''ll be the signal for my brain to get busy."


    The women were enjoying the chat, but Sam had frozen at the first mention of poems. He reminded me of someone in the front row at a circus worried about all the buckets of water that had suddenly appeared. He didn''t want any poetry to splash onto him. I said I''d be back for the second half and went to do some mingling.


    ***


    Before the match resumed, the line up graphic flashed on the screen and I saw that Coach G was in the dugout and he''d named almost the shittest line up imaginable. Three traitors were in the starting lineup and Caine was on the bench. In the first half they''d gone all-out to prove me wrong, but at the start of the second it was clear to me that they''d switched off. Dobson was lazy, Green was selfish, King looked good but didn''t produce.


    I sank into Henri''s sofa and watched from afar as the team crumbled. First came the equaliser, then Bradford went ahead. There were enormous gaps all over the pitch. Huge cracks in the walls and roof. No wonder I was so fucking tired after those first three matches; I must have been keeping it together through sheer force of will. Football as architecture. That image again. I supposed it made sense, then, that I had grand designs. Good line! I''d save that one for when Henri was around.


    Emma came and snuggled next to me. One by one, the Chester players left whatever they were doing and sat in the lounge. When the number of people watching hit critical mass, Henri slumped into a bean bag knowing his hosting duties would be taken up by someone else for a while. "Max. Tell us what you see."


    "About Grims?" I shook my head. "Good players. Four bad characters."


    "Four?"


    I hadn''t told anyone about Otis King. I''d told the Brig I''d found the mole and he''d nodded and said ''well done''. There was no benefit to me of letting that nugget of info out. "Three and a half. Fuck those pricks, let''s talk about the good guys. The goalie, there. He''s a top lad but the fans were on his case. I gave them a blast of my diplomacy and sophistication and they didn''t like it but no-one booed him in the next games. Conor there''s playing right mid. They overused him this season and I struggled to use him while keeping him fresh. They''ve got Windmill at right back again. He''s too slow! And they took the captain''s armband and gave it to an absolute shit. Poor John''s head must be all over the place. On Friday he''s captain and the team''s on the up. Now all the bad apples have been poured back into the bag and one of them''s supposed to be the leader." I exhaled. "Bradford aren''t even good. I''d have smashed this. It''s bonkers. But you know who the real victim is? Henri. He had to pay ten quid to stream this garbage."


    "Bastards made you waste a month," said Aff.


    "Nah, it wasn''t a waste. Not for me. I got loads out of it. Might wait a couple of seasons before trying that sort of thing again," I said, with a wry smile. "Trying to win two leagues here and save two teams from relegation there was one job too far, I think."


    "Some people don''t want to be saved," said Youngster, creating a silence that was soon filled with mirth. When he realised he''d done a funny, he broke into a goofy grin.


    "Thanks, bro. Look, guys, I know some of you think I''m secretly depressed or whatever. I am slightly frustrated when I think about the wasted potential but honestly I''m happy. Emma, tell them."


    "He is. He really is."


    "I did have a few dark days at the beginning but I tell you what, though, I think the whole experience made yesterday even sweeter. What a performance that was! I was too nervous to appreciate it until it was over."


    The room suddenly split into eight different conversations, eight views of the title-winning match. Given how noisy it was, it was somewhat surprising I found it so tranquil. Then again, maybe not. I was surrounded by friends while my dream woman snuggled into me. The height of civilisation.


    "Oh oh oh!" I said, getting to my feet to demand the remote control from Youngster, who had a compulsive need to hold it whenever he was watching TV. I turned the volume up. "He''s bringing Caine on. This is the guy who pretended to be injured."


    The camera cut to the sideline, where Caine was cricking his neck left and right, ready to return to first team action. The announcement that he was going on happened at the same time as he took three quick steps onto the pitch and made the sign of the cross.


    The boos were off the scale. A quick-thinking TV producer cut to a shot of the Findus stand, where the fans were giving Caine all kinds of grief. I let the boos seep into me like I was in a hot springs renowned for its healing properties. After about eight seconds I realised this was maybe not a good look, so I turned the volume down and said, "You know, one never likes to see..." but I didn''t get to finish.


    "Chester! Chester!" chanted someone and almost instantly everyone joined in, including Emma. She looked so fierce, so full of life, I gave serious consideration to sneaking her into one of Henri''s spare rooms.


    Instead, sophisticated Max took her on a tour of everyone in the room asking if they''d ever come across a hidden gem of a village or beauty spot in Cheshire. Gathering ideas for our summer holiday. The final whistle blew with the Mariners slumping to a three-one home defeat to the absolute indifference of everyone in Chester.


    ***


    Most people had drifted home, until only the residents of the digs, Henri, Charlotte, and Youngster, were around. (Pascal was out and WibRob was spending the Easter weekend with his parents.) Henri had bought a nice fire pit, and we went out to enjoy its evening glow. Once more I was snuggled next to Emma.


    We talked about everything except football. We planned everyone else''s summer holidays. We tried to find rhymes with Emma beyond ''Gemma'' and ''dilemma''.


    Finally, Henri asked about my Eight Views project.


    "I realised I''d done it wrong. I should have done them about what''s really important. Sorry but it''s not Chester. It''s not even football. It''s Emma."


    "Aww," said Charlotte, while Youngster''s eyes popped open, wishing he could write that line down for use on... who? Meghan?


    Henri smiled and perhaps copy pasted the line into his own flirting database. "All that remains is Evening Bell, no?"


    "There''s loads of options. Church bells. Colin Bell. Doncaster Belles."


    "Ooh, church bells," teased Charlotte, and Emma actually blushed a little.


    Something had been nagging away at me. "Charlotte, are you mad I shouted at you in the match?"


    "No."


    "You seemed... upset by it."


    She watched as the fire crackled. "No-one likes to be told they''re doing a bad job when they''re doing a good job. But I thought, he''s usually right. I came to learn from the best, didn''t I? And it all happened just like you said. Okay, in the moment I was mad but sometimes we don''t realise how good you are until later. Do you know what I mean?"


    Almost perfectly on cue, my phone rang. The volume was on because I''d shown Henri a section from the YouTube video that had started my interest in the Eight Views. "It''s Chris Hale," I said. "Holy shit."


    Emma and Henri both reached out to grab me. Emma said, "He wants to apologise. Bring you back. Oh my God. Do you want to?"


    I was ready to say no, but it wasn''t only my decision, was it? If I wanted to share my life with Emma, I had to share my life with Emma. "I''ll do it if you want to go to Monaco instead of Honey Knob Hill."


    The phone continued to ring.


    "Is that the only reason you''d do it? For me?"


    Ring ring!


    "Yes."


    Ring ring!


    "I want to go to Jolly Bottom."


    Ring ring!


    I picked my phone up, turned the volume off, and put it away. I closed my eyes, holding my finger up. "May I have your attention, please?"


    "Honey Knob Hill isn''t a real place, surely," said Charlotte.


    I cleared my throat and spoke slowly, partly for poetic effect, partly because I was writing a rhyme on the spot in the manner of the rap battles in Eight Mile. "I''d marry you now but the church is shut; tell Chris Hale I''m staying put."


    Henri groaned. "No, Max. No. It doesn''t mention the evening bell! I cannot allow that to be the only poem Youngster ever hears. You have the original in your notebook, yes? Please read that one. You may do your incantation voice if you wish."


    "That was quality, that," I grumbled, as I got my notebook out. "Fine. This is Evening Bell. I already had a go at tweaking it for the Eight Views of Chester series. Here we go. At the sound of the full time whistle; the lovers pause before pledging themselves till daybreak."


    Something in Henri''s face made me rush to his player profile to check his morale. It had slipped to abysmal! No sooner had I spotted it than he was back at superb. What the hell? He shuffled uneasily. "Will I be playing against Darlington, Max?"


    "What? Darlington? We''ve got the cup final first. Who gives a shit about Darlington?"


    "No, you''re right, I don''t care," he lied. "The cup final, yes, for the final cup." He sighed. "I shall score the winning goal, I think. That will impress... That will be impressive."


    "Henri''s writing poems that don''t rhyme. I think that''s our cue to leave, babes. Grab your glass."


    "I''ll tidy up later, boss," said Charlotte.


    I pointed at Youngster. "Are you going to let our Player of the Season do all the work? Come on, dude."


    A few minutes later, Emma and I were outside. The car was just there but I felt like going for a quick walk. She reached for my hand. "Are you done with poems, now?"


    "Yeah."


    "Oh. It''s almost a shame. Almost. What are you going to do next?"


    "What do you mean, do next?"


    "You''ve always got these little manias. It''s one of the things I like about you. You try things."


    "It just happens organically. I don''t force it."


    "But if you had to choose right now?"


    "Flutes."


    "What?"


    "Close-up magic."


    "Like a pick-up artist? Veto."


    "My next mania," I said, turning her into me, "is to very diplomatically and with incredible sophistication win the cup final and then humiliate my former club. Both are pretty trivial, really. I suppose I could plan what I''m going to say when I address the fans as we''re parading our trophies." I kissed her and walked off, but the peace and quiet didn''t last long. Soon, the cogs in my brain were whirring. "I''ve got it. I know what I''m going to say."


    "Why are you doing an evil grin?"


    "It''s not evil. It''s playful." I tried to get my face neutral but failed. "Okay. Maybe a little bit evil. Do you want to practice villainous cackles with me?"


    "You know I do, Max. You know I do."

 7.14 - The Final Countdown

    14.


    TEN


    ten ten ten


    Tuesday, April 2


    Sandra was leading training in preparation for Saturday''s match against Gloucester and I was taking part, partly to keep fit, partly to gauge the mood. There was a strange vibe in the camp; the league was won and the remaining three matches weren''t important in a collective sense; as a team we weren''t too bothered about going for records. The final match against my former team was one that I cared about, but for most players the day would be one big party. For our youngsters, these three matches were an outstanding opportunity to get minutes on the pitch, and for our players with expiring contracts they were a way to remind other teams they existed.


    Generally, though, the level of motivation was much diminished.


    Except...


    Except we still had a cup final to play, against mighty Crewe in their own stadium. Players wanted to play in cup finals, even relatively unimportant ones, so they had to train well and play well to secure a spot. But if they trained too hard or played too hard, they could get injured. Decisions, decisions.


    My mood was fairly all over the place. In a sense, the final was the ultimate in low stakes. If I went to a job interview and said ''I turned a team that was nearly relegated into title winners'' that would have been met with many rumblings of delight. If I followed that up by saying ''and I won the Cheshire Cup'' there would have been a frosty silence. Almost no-one in the world of football gave a shit, including in Cheshire.


    I gave a shit, for seventy-seven reasons.


    First, I didn''t want to be one of those managers who got to cup finals and lost. What could be more tedious than a reporter asking me if I had a ''cup final hoodoo''? Second, it was a tournament we were in and that was reason enough to go for it. Third, for some of my players it would be the only cup they ever won, for some it would cap their careers, for some it would be the catalyst for more. Fourth, Chester had barely ever won the competition and that didn''t look good on Wikipedia. Fifth, I wanted another trophy to parade around in front of Folke Wester. Sixth, minor glory is still glory. I''d always wanted to go to a big stadium and lift a trophy as thousands of fans cheered. If that doesn''t motivate you, why are you in the sport?


    And finally, seventy-seventh, I really thought we could win. Against Crewe''s absolute best team I''d need my goalie to play a blinder, the defence to be sharp as tacks, and for my personal performance to be basically flawless. I was pretty confident I''d be able to pull my part off against Crewe in a way that I wouldn''t next season. In fact, it was easy to think that my personal playing abilities might not be this high again for two years. Having trained at Grimsby for a month, I was at the top range of what their training facilities could support. CA 110, perhaps? I''d be able to play at this high level against Crewe and Darlington, but over the summer my skills would regress towards the current training cap. It was around 60 now and my current guesstimate for Chester''s tier five cap was 80. Would I be able to get a big club to let me train with them for a couple of weeks in January? Unclear, and I was less willing to annoy the Chester fans than I had been previously.


    No, all I knew for certain was that I wanted to drop some hand grenades while I still had a full armoury. The fact no-one cared about the Cheshire Cup meant I could go wild and not worry about the Sentinel.


    "Max," said Henri, and I snapped out of it. I found a ball under my right foot - I''d been rolling it around while staring at nothing. With an apologetic wave, I rejoined the drill. Nice simple one where the blue bibs had to complete six passes to get a point while the red bibs scored by turning the ball over and shooting into a large goal. But Henri hadn''t been calling me to wake me up for the drill. "You have a visitor."


    I assumed it was Brooke and had a smile ready, but it wasn''t Brooke. It wasn''t a woman. It was someone incredibly unexpected, someone worthy of a cliffhanger. It''s up to you if you want to pause and think ''wow who could it be?'' and make yourself wait three days to find out.


    The Jurassic Patriarch himself, Ian Evans, had turned up, and his hair had come, too. In a separate car, maybe.


    I wandered out of the drill - someone dashed in to replace me without being asked, which just went to show how well we functioned as a unit; I got a little buzz of pleasure from that. Ian had introduced himself to Sandra and he had apparently met Jude before, or seen him around.


    "Ian Actual Evans," I said, offering a fist bump.


    "Maxy No-Handshake," he grumbled, but he bumped anyway. "You''re looking well."


    I jabbed a thumb to the training pitch. "What, the nutmegs? Yeah the passing drills are too easy for me so I only get a point if I do six nutmegs."


    Ian gave Sandra a flinty smile. "How do you stand it?"


    "I think how I''ll spend my win bonuses."


    Ian liked that and did his sixty-five million-year-old laugh. "Can I have a word, Max? I can wait till you''re done."


    "Let''s do it now. I was only really in the session to burn off some excess energy and talking to you is even more draining."


    "Cheeky git," he said, walking five yards away. It was an interesting distance. Not so far that he was likely to say something explosive, but not so close he wanted the entire world to hear. He watched the drill for a while and I watched him. "Good, this."


    "One of Sandra''s. My best signing of the season, probably. She calls this one City v Liverpool. It''s fun. For me, at least. Some of the lads struggle."


    "Aye, well, they would." He did a strange thing where he looked away - strange only in that I couldn''t remember him doing it before. Then he did something I''d seen very rarely - a cheeky grin. "Saw you''ve been playing a lot of 4-4-2. Told you you''d end up back at 4-4-2."


    "You did," I said, because that was the most diplomatic and sophisticated way of saying ''this ain''t what you meant, mate''.


    "All right, brass tacks. I was offered the Grimsby job. Interim till the end of the season."


    "Oh," I said. I had been gently wobbling to keep my limbs warm but I became very still. My only movement was putting my hand to my mouth and gently squeezing my lips.


    Ian Evans, Grimsby manager. How did I feel about that?


    They had four games left, and Ian would probably only need a win and a draw - very achievable. He was famous enough that the coaching staff would get behind him, his defensive mindset would suit the squad, and the fact that his training sessions were boring and dour wouldn''t matter - he would only be in the job for three weeks.


    His success would be portrayed as being in contrast to my failure. The steady old hand comes in and steadies a ship that the wild young thing had steered towards the nearest rocks. Also: Ian Evans would get my fifty grand.


    On the other hand, if he pulled it off, next season Chester would face an imploding Forest Green Rovers and a willing but financially limited Sutton United instead of a Grimsby squad that should have been gunning for the League Two playoffs.


    "All right," I said, deciding that overall, I wanted him to succeed. "Congratulations, I guess! Did you come for my advice or whatever?"


    As I said it, the very concept seemed laughable, but Evans didn''t so much as blink. "Is that on offer?"


    "Yeah. Not saying I know more than you, obvs, but I did work with the players. I can tell you who''ll put in a shift and all that."


    "You reckon I can do it, then?"


    I made a doubtful noise, then realised I was being neither diplomatic nor sophisticated. "If anyone can, it''s you. My only worry is them getting smashed yesterday. That was pretty bad. I think you''ll write the next game off while you get their heads straight again, and the next game was one of my two bankers. The other was yesterday. I don''t know. Maybe I''m overthinking it." I checked my phone. "If you want we could get an early lunch and I''ll tell you everything I did and everything I saw. Almost everything. And you can do what you want with the info."


    "Aye," he said. "Aye, that''ll be grand." He seemed to be answering on autopilot, and it took him a second to realise what he''d just agreed to. I was absolutely convinced he was about to make up an excuse to get out of it. "Heard about this place. Portuguese, I think it is? Never tried it when I was here but Vimsy never shuts up about it."


    "Tiny Tino? Yeah, we can go there. I haven''t been since Valentine''s Day." My brain froze. Was Vimsy one of the guys trying to get a date with Luisa? What on earth would they talk about? "We could get him. He''s on the way."


    "Where is he?"


    "Watching Crewe matches at Spectrum''s house with Ryan Jack. I''ve done a lot of prep myself - Crewe always play 4-1-4-1 - I swear it''s like looking in a mirror sometimes - but it''s our only meaningful game so I thought, let''s get some more eyeballs on it. They''re gonna do a presentation before training tomorrow. I think he''s dead nervous. Vimsy, I mean."


    Ian smiled. "Video analysis? Presentations? You do push folk out o'' their comfort zone, lad. No, leave him be. We can talk manny to manny."


    ***


    One quick shower later and I was opposite Ian Evans - on a good table - taking him through my experience at Grimsby step by step. Over our two-course special value lunch deal - Ian had offered to pay and then told me I''d be happy with the cheapest thing on the menu - I told him pretty much everything - especially what I did wrong - so he''d be able to slip into the role twice as fast and ten times as smoothly. Of course, I didn''t skimp on the details of what I did right, such as using Alex Evans - no relation - sparingly. I didn''t mention Otis King, but I did say there was a mole - not that it would bother a guy who only ever played 4-4-2 - and I asked Ian to include Coach O in his circle - it''d be good if two managers saw something in him and he wasn''t just seen as the weirdo coach that the weirdo manager liked. "Anyway, he''s mint. You''ll love him."


    When I was done, Ian scoffed. "That was comprehensive, lad. And generous. I feel like I could walk in there and pick a team right now."


    "Course you could," I said. "Just copy what I did. It was mustard."


    "You want mustard?" Luisa had done her trick of teleporting next to me.


    I put my arm onto the back of the chair so I could twist and look right into her dazzling eyes. "You know I don''t want mustard, Luisa. You''re being silly. Now, it''s good you''re here. I need to know if you''re going to the cup final."


    "What cup final?"


    "Okay, that''s a no. Good. Please don''t go to the cup final."


    "Why not?" she said, heat rising.


    "Because it makes it easier to leave certain players out of the line up. If you''re there and they don''t play, I''ll never hear the end of it."


    "Which players are you thinking of leaving out?"


    "Obviously I have no intention of discussing my thought process with you."


    "As you wish. I will go to the cup final and see for myself."


    I tutted. "Fine. Crewe play 4-1-4-1 which is my personal favourite formation and one I know very well. So I have the option of matching them but with worse players, which seems a trifle foolish, and don''t offer to bring me a bowl of trifle."


    "What is trifle?"


    "Or I could get weird. I''ll probably get weird. Some kind of defensive mesh with explosive outlets. I wish I knew how strong Crewe''s line up is going to be. If they rest enough key players we could go toe to toe and slug it out. If they play their best team we need to have something up our sleeve. I won''t know their lineup until an hour before the match so I need to put loads of flexible players in the starting eleven and work it out as I go. I''m sure I won''t start, and neither will Henri. Which means neither can Chris. Henri will accept that plan if it''s a purely footballing decision. If he thinks I''m trying to sabotage his dating life he will become truculent."


    "And Pascal?"


    I thought about how I would take advantage of my last Bench Boost of the season. I hadn''t used it in the Cheshire Cup. We could name five subs and use them all, but in practice one would be a goalie we wouldn''t bring on. Four subs, then. Me, Henri, Chris... the last had to be a defender, surely? "He''s flexible so I could start him but with the caveat he''ll only get fifteen minutes while I cook up a proper plan. Again, if you''re not there, he will do what the team needs without a second thought."


    "I seem to be a bad influence on your players."


    "Only for that particular match. It''s likely to be one where I have to do all the heroics." I sighed at the burden of being the star player, and then decided to do some of that diplomacy thing I''d been practising. "Normally your presence would inspire them to do heroics of their own."


    "You are not inspired by my presence?"


    "What I do," I said, grandly, "I do for the people of Chester. All the people of Chester."


    She swept away, giving Ian Evans the best view. "I should have had lunch with you more often, lad. Heh heh. Course, Crewe won''t put out their strongest team but it won''t be weak, either. It''s not their style."


    "Right! That''s what I''ve been saying. They''ll put out an eleven they think is just strong enough to win. But everyone says oh, they''re playing Wrexham a few days later they''ll use loads of kids. Whatever they do, I can beat them, but God it''d be less stressful if I knew what they were thinking. It''s funny, I''ve been looking through their line ups and can''t see any rhyme or reason to them."


    "Now you know how everyone feels about you."


    "What? I''ve just told you why I did everything I did in my last five matches. It''s completely logical."


    "About that," he said, back to being a gruff Yorkshireman. "Grimsby. That were right interesting, all that you said. Right interesting and fits what I heard from a few in the know. Yes, that were very interesting. Okay, but. But I didn''t come for all that. I came to tell you I were offered the job but din''t take it."


    "What?"


    "Owner called when Bradford''s second went in. Offered me the chance. I din''t tek it. I said to him, if Max Best can''t get them going, what chance have I got? Told him you were a bloody nightmare but you knew football. Yeah. I wanted to tell you to your face. We didn''t do enough of that, did we? Both wary of each other and look where it got us." He held a bread crust in both hands and felt it crack and tear. "What you grinning at?"


    "I''m not a bloody nightmare. I write poetry."


    "Oh, you do, do you? Go on, then, let''s hear summat. I don''t mind a bit of culture."


    I couldn''t believe I was about to read a poem to Ian Evans in the official romantic rendezvous spot for Chester Football Club. I pulled out my notebook and turned to one I''d drafted for the Eight Views of Football collection. "Ahem. The sun sets in the east; Grimsby go down like descending geese."


    I watched his reaction carefully. First, the chest shook. Then, a single wheeze that could have been his death rattle. Finally, the granite of his face emitted holy tears.


    Luisa - how did she do it? - had been present for the whole thing. "The sun does not set in the east."


    "Yeah, duh, I know. It''s a poem. It''s supposed to be fun."


    Her lips twisted. "These fun poems. You write them for the people of Chester? For all the people of Chester?"


    I snapped my notebook closed and narrowed my eyes. "They''re for posterity."


    "Oh," she said, swaying away again.


    "Look at the posterity on her," said Ian, who''d stopped crying at the beauty of my creation long enough to... yeah, that sentence is self-completing. He took one final wheezy breath and the rock face was back.


    I realised I was having a ton of fun. Ian was my best manager friend! We were talking football and enjoying Luisa''s little interventions. "You must have won loads of cups."


    "Just one. Near the start o'' me career. Runner up in another. Great memories. You''re right to go for it if you can. Yeah, take it from me, don''t listen to all the grumblers."


    "Talking of grumblers... If you''re not taking the Grimsby job, what are you going to do?"


    "Nowt," he grunted. "I''m retired."


    "Don''t talk shit. What are you planning?"


    "I''ve had offers. Southport fans are up in arms. They shouldn''t be a bottom half team. Heh. You did a number on the old lad, didn''t you, you cheeky twat? But the new muppet''s not much better. Yeah, Southport. Big club for this level."


    "Oh, take it! That''s great. You could get Robbo, Gerald, Donny, Joe, and Tony! That''s half a good team, that."


    He waved his hand. "Bah. I''m getting on, Max. Not sure if I need the hassle."


    "What about lower down the pyramid? 4-4-2, no need to think twice. Wait..." I''d been thinking of getting four new players for West Didsbury. What about three and a new manager? "Hey, Ian... Do you like hummus?"


    ***


    NINE


    nine nine nine


    "Hi, everyone, thanks for coming. I don''t have my C-suite team pressing the buttons, so bear with me. I haven''t done a Zoom in a while. Where''s the thing...? Okay, got it. Yeah, just a quick update and I could take a couple of questions if you''ve got any. Don''t spam the chat please or I won''t be able to find them.


    "First thing. Yes, I''m back from Grimsby with my tail between my legs. No, I didn''t get my bonus or my super holiday. I did meet Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash, though. That was pretty cool. And I derailed Wrexham''s season. You enjoyed that, didn''t you, you weirdos? God, when the ref came to me and said ''it''s full of Chester!'' I just didn''t know what to think. Holy shit, guys that was wild. And what''s mad is because of that game, Crewe have a shot at getting automatic promotion at Wrexham''s expense, and they play each other just after the Cheshire Cup final, so maybe just maybe I caused a chain of events that will lead to Crewe resting some players for the cup final. That''d be mad, wouldn''t it? If we won because of that.


    "Yeah so I wanted to clarify my intentions for the next couple of weeks. You saw I wasn''t in the dugout yesterday and I won''t be for the next two games. The plan was for Sandra to do those and I don''t see a good reason to change it. I''m doing Director of Football things. Yesterday I watched Alty versus Oldham - very interesting. This Saturday I haven''t decided what to do but I''ll probably watch Crewe. Grimsby are playing them the Saturday after, which is when I was going to see them up close before our final, and I might go to that one too just to be professional about it. We''ve been gunning for the Cheshire Cup the whole season - it''s the one cup we had a proper shot at this year and we''re in the final. Ninety minutes from glory! Crewe play good passing football and it should be a quality match.


    "Erm... lots of people in the chat saying Crewe will one hundred percent rest all their best players. I''m not so sure about that. It''s a cup final and their players want to be in it, same as ours. Personally, I hope they put out a strong team because I want the challenge.


    "Quick reminder that the women won their big game and the last match of the season has been rearranged to Friday 19th. The party starts there! Get yourselves to that one.


    "What else? We''re going to announce a lot of things in the coming weeks but there''s a couple I want to tell you about so we can get planning. Brooke, our new Head of Marketing, has been trialling something we''re calling Chester Chatters. When I was in Lincolnshire I didn''t exactly have a buzzing social life and it really hit me that this project was one we had to double down on. The idea is, we find some people who maybe don''t have loads of social contact, like their kids moved somewhere cool and exciting like Manchester and they maybe don''t have anyone to talk to. We pick them up and put them together in a section of the stadium and we''ve got volunteers who sit with them and chat about the match or the weather or the Amiga vs Atari debate. It''s been a hit, honestly, and we can expand it if we have more volunteers. Are you interested? You''ll get into a match, there''s the chance to meet players, and you''ll be doing something for the community. There''s a new section on the website where you can register your interest. We also need volunteers to coordinate the volunteers! If you can''t get to the stadium there''s loads of ways to help.


    "Another thing. I told Brooke about those people who go to the 92 league grounds. We''re not in the league, I know, but we''re thinking ahead. What normally happens is these groundhoppers buy tickets, watch the match, and leave. To me that''s a wasted opportunity to boost our image. I want to have a little 92 section where we make it easy for groundhoppers to come, and maybe we include a little tour and make a fuss of them. I might be wrong - scratch that, I''m not wrong, I''m one hundred sure about this. These are football superfans and I want them to think Chester''s the absolute best place to go. These groundhoppers will be our ambassadors in pubs up and down the country. You''re thinking of doing the 92? Start in Chester, mate, it''s a great day out and they look after you. Do you know what I mean? And it''ll barely cost the club anything, especially if we''ve got a volunteer doing the tour. One of the former players who''s doing the Legends Lounge could do tours before the match, but I think it might be better with a fan. You''re proud of your club and you want the world to know how good it is. All right, then, let''s tell them! What''s the benefit? Maybe our sponsors like it. Maybe one of these visitors has a talented kid and when it comes to choosing between Chester and Wrexham he or she remembers how nice it was here and how much like one big pub brawl it was there."


    I laughed and shook my head.


    "I''m joking. I need to stop doing that. I like Wrexham and yeah, at the moment it''s punching up but we''ll be above them soon enough and then it won''t be funny, it''ll be mean-spirited.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    "That''s my little speech, I think. I''m taking this time to think about next season and where our money goes. Transfers, infrastructure, all that jazz. But there are some things we can do with a bit of community involvement and we can start collecting names for that work.


    "Let me see if any questions came in. Oh, shit. Rather a lot. Oh, this is a fun one. Now that you''re unemployable - thanks - and we''re stuck with you the whole of next season - oh, there''s a winky emoji, what a relief - how are you going to keep Sandra? Top, top question.


    "I want to win the Cheshire Cup this season and I want to compete for it every season but I know that realistically there will be times when we won''t have the resources to go flat out on four or five fronts. Like, would anyone really be surprised if Crewe sent out an entire B team in the final? I don''t have their fitness data - maybe all their players are in the red zone. What I was thinking was that next season, Sandra would be manager for most of the Cheshire Cup matches. I''ll still do one to make sure the players get that it''s not a holiday. So that''s a starting point. If we''ve got games against ninth tier teams in the FA Cup, that could be a day off for me. I think early in the season, I''ll have to play every game while our new signings settle in so maybe I''ll be ready for a week off in November or December. Plus I''ll get bans and I''ll get sick. I think by the end of the season Sandra will have added to her CV. It''s a great question, though. I don''t want to get complacent.


    "Will the women be playing in a proper stadium? Yes, that''s nearly ready to announce.


    "How are the players we loaned to your club in Manchester doing? They''ve done well. They''re both first choice regulars and I haven''t put my thumb on the scale whatsoever. I think if you saw them before and after you wouldn''t think wow, what an improvement! But I think all those minutes in real matches will pay off big time next season. They both look more solid. I''d do it again for sure.


    "Miss Wrexham. Not a beauty pageant, just good advice. What? Oh! Guys, don''t trick me into reading jokes. Please. Thanks.


    "If you do one of your mad holidays again, why not do it abroad? We don''t care if you manage Aberdeen, Benfica, or Copenhagen. Yeah, interesting. I think Emma would like that but then again, she''s from Newcastle. Aberdeen might be a bit too swanky for her.


    "Are you excited about the cup final? Wow, this is a real heart versus head thing. My head makes a lot of good points. You don''t want a cup final on a Tuesday night in a mostly empty stadium. It won''t be on TV, it won''t be streamed, and we''re not allowed to give away tickets to build the atmosphere. But my heart says Crewe are the big birds in Cheshire and we want to knock them off their perch. They''re riding high in League Two and could be in League One next season. But we''re catching up faster than anyone realises. Soon when parents are deciding where to send their talented kids, we''ll be neck and neck with Crewe, even though their academy has a great reputation. So there''s all that, plus there''s the actual football match. Crewe play the kind of football I like - they''re a little naive at times, maybe - so I''m really fascinated by the thought of fighting myself. You know when Spider-man has to fight alternate universe Spider-man? A stronger, richer Spider-man? That''s this game. I love that challenge. But most of all, I daydream about filling the cup with champagne and pouring it down my gob.


    "All right, that''s it. Next time I talk to you will be before the trophy presentations at the Darlington game. See you there!"


    ***


    EIGHT


    eight eight eight


    Wednesday, April 3


    I had a meeting with MD, Brooke, and a guy from the board with a finance background. MD pushed a financial statement towards me and blabbed for a bit. The upshot was that, since I wouldn''t let him include the Raffi money in his calculations, he wanted to increase my playing budget from 16,000 a week to 19,000.


    That was a million a year for players, which according to some website was more than Southend, about the same as Woking, 200,000 less than Rochdale, and half a million less than Oldham. I hoped I would have precise info when I got the Finances perk unlocked but MD''s calculations were pretty grim reading. I''d already promised most of the increase to me, Sandra, and the Brig.


    MD''s low ambition score was biting me on the arse for the first time.


    "If I wanted to be diplomatic and sophisticated," I said, "I would describe these numbers as awfully frustrating."


    "Football clubs are expensive to run, Max, and we''ll be travelling all over the country, not just the north. And what you don''t see there is the kitchen, two new physios, and half a dozen part-time coaches to run your expanded youth teams."


    It was true. There would be more money at the club delivering tangible benefits, but we wouldn''t see it on the pitch. "This includes what we''ll be getting from Boshcard?"


    "Yes."


    Brooke leant forward. "But not the stadium naming rights."


    Eyes scrunched shut, I palpated my forehead. With that budget we''d be fighting with one hand behind our backs. The National League was too hard to go at cautiously. "We can go straight through if you can find me another five grand a week behind the sofa."


    "We sold the sofa to pay for Chris Beaumont," said MD.


    "Every thousand a week is another Raffi," I said.


    MD smiled. "This is as good as we can do. In December if we''re in the top half with a shot at the playoffs and if there''s a gap in the squad, we can talk about it."


    "If we wait till Jan we lose six months of a player''s development." I closed my eyes and realised I wasn''t in the mood for a reality check. Not after I''d been daydreaming about beating a team fifty places above us in the pyramid in a cup final in their home stadium. Glory, not spreadsheets. "Where are we with grants, Brooke?"


    "We''ve made progress on solar but the land is going to take time. I recommend we do solar this summer and aim to put the first pitch down in 2025."


    I nodded a few times. "MD, if it comes to it, can we raise finance to get the land and put the pitches down? It''ll generate revenue. It shouldn''t be too hard to get some money."


    He squirmed. "Debt is the road to ruin."


    "Brooke, have you ever seen one of my tantrums?"


    MD sighed. "Look, it''s possible. Possible. No promises."


    "Yeah, I get it and it might not come to that but we absolutely need better facilities when we''re in League Two. We do the solar out of my Raffi money and that''s two grand a week we aren''t paying for electricity. Two grand a week you can add to my budget, right? We start the training ground project aiming to break ground next summer. Gives us a year to plan it properly. That leaves me with some cash for transfers."


    "Please don''t spend all the money," said Brooke. "We''ll need some cash to get architect drawings, to consult with experts, planning permission."


    My shoulders slumped. "Right. We set aside fifty gees to get started?" She looked at MD, who nodded. "Great. How much is the solar?"


    "Four fifty all-in, but we''ll get seventy-five back from grants. Eventually."


    "Eventually," I groaned. "Seventy-five will get Christian Fierce, you know."


    "If Kidderminster sell him," said the board rando.


    "They will if they don''t get promoted. If they come up with us, yeah, no chance." I shook my head as I turned my phone into a calculator. "I want to put 20 grand into the women so I can make sure we''ve got the absolute best squad in tier 5. That''ll leave me with about 750. Minus 450 leaves 300 but unlocks two grand a week in extra budget. So we nudge that 19 to 21. One day we get the 75 in grants. Let''s assume I throw tantrums until you let me spend it before we''ve actually got it. Oh, minus 50 to get the training ground started. That leaves me with three hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. Let''s say half goes on transfer fees, half on wages. Three grand a week to get us a star striker, two centre backs, a replacement for Raffi, a replacement for Ryan, backup for Aff, a mystery winger. Jesus, guys. That isn''t enough!"


    "You''ll have to find players without transfer fees," said the board guy.


    "I want Christian Fierce," I said. "I love him and I need to spend my life with him." I inhaled. Fierce seemed like all the toys I''d craved as a kid - way, way too expensive and by the time I could afford him, I wouldn''t want him. "All right, if we forget fees and put it all into wages we''ve got an extra six K a week. So 19 becomes 21 becomes 27." I nodded. I''d have to start the season with lots of low CA guys in the squad, but we had a solid core and could have seven or eight talented fringe players who would grow into the season.


    "How do you get that six K?" wondered MD.


    "Three two five divided by fifty-two."


    "But you need to divide a player''s wage over the length of his contract. If you''re giving out three-year contracts, you''re committing us to paying them for three years and you need to back that with funds. If you sign a guy for fifty thousand a year, we need to put aside fifty thousand per year. Because what if you leave? What if we get relegated again? You''ll bankrupt us and I know you don''t want to do that. So to be prudent you need to divide by the number of weeks in a player''s contract, not by fifty-two."


    "The solution is easy," said the board guy. "Don''t do the solar panels. Use the money for players. All the fans would prefer that, anyway."


    "The players wouldn''t mind a hot shower, bro. I''m going to these exit trials next month and I''m going to be looking at loads of pampered princes. It''s one thing if they haven''t heard of Chester, it''s another when someone tells him we lose two players a winter to frostbite. Anyway," I mumbled, "it''s one thing the next manager won''t be able to fuck up. That investment will still be paying off in twenty-five years. I want a legacy. I want to put our name back on the cup and I want to leave the club better than I found it."


    Brooke was trying to help. "What about winning the cup? Does that come with prize money?"


    "Not this one. We''ll probably lose money on it."


    "That''s mighty strange. If I could suggest, Max, and please don''t bite my head off again, but if we could think like a business for just one minute."


    I stretched out on the table with my left arm fully extended and my head cradled in my right elbow. It was the most suitable pose to show how much I wanted to talk about it without actually shutting her down. "Kay," I said.


    "Not all businesses have ready access to a way to double their income. Perhaps we could consider using our assets to their utmost."


    "What mean?"


    "I mean," she said, "that when he isn''t being a fussy baby, our leader is young, dynamic, charismatic, and handsome."


    "MD isn''t that young."


    "We could do more than run one small poster campaign, is all. Or you can run the club on a low budget and let all that talent go to other organisations who won''t know how to develop them properly."


    I sat up and eyed her. Who had she been talking to? That last comment was a very deliberate attempt to push my buttons. I chose to focus on the first thing. "These are the posters I''m going to see around the stadium at the Darlington game? Posters that feature me and only me? The thing is, it''s bad form to put all your eggs in one basket. When you look at Man United''s marketing, there''s always three players. No-one''s bigger than the club, see? Everyone''s part of it. If you make it all about me, it''s not sustainable and not, like, interesting to every demographic. If there''s a poster with me, Youngster, and Charlotte, you''re hitting loads of markets."


    "People who like midfielders," said the board guy, which was pretty funny.


    "Max, you''re right," said Brooke. "You''re right. But if you want to get money right now, the asset is you."


    "If I understand what you''re saying, we could double our income from one million to two million. What you''re saying, Brooke, is that I have a million dollar smile."


    "Max!" complained MD.


    "I just want to get a cash value on my handsomeness. It''s completely appropriate for this conversation."


    "It''s not," said the rando.


    "Million dollar legs," said Brooke, with apparent innocence.


    "Okay, consider me open to... something. I don''t know what."


    Brooke hesitated. "The cup final. I was thinking... there''s thirteen days left. What if we film short videos in the ten days before. Like a countdown! Countdown to the cup final. One day we talk to one of the players. The next a physio, a coach, a fan. And so on. A mini documentary. Just to see if you like it! The sponsors will be intrigued and most of all, it''ll tell people why you care about this cup because frankly, Max, there''s not many who do."


    A heavy silence descended, but if people were expecting me to explode, they were miles off. "That''s a good idea. I like it. We do need to communicate what it means to us. I think we''ll see that everyone comes at it from a different angle and that''s okay. And, yeah, Henri''s probably an instant star and you''ll see it doesn''t need to be all about me. Yes, let''s do that. I have one condition. One important condition."


    "Go on."


    "The countdown needs to be done in the style of a rocket launch sequence with echoing noises and I won''t compromise on that."


    Brooke smiled. "We can do that, I''m sure."


    "Okay, while I''m busy selling out, let''s take the idea one step further. I think it''s a good, small test case but for something bigger but there can''t ever be a documentary for the men''s team. There is, though, a strong case for doing one with the women. I was thinking we could work with local schools and universities and production companies and do it in-house."


    "Why the women?" said MD.


    "Because of Angel. If she''s in a documentary it''ll let her focus on football knowing that when the doc launches she''ll get a big burst of fame. Right? And when it comes out, she''ll be 18. It''s a way to satisfy her need for attention while keeping to the spirit of the deal I made with Bonnie. If Bonnie and Jackie agree, Brooke, you could find some students or whatever who would work on getting the raw footage. I reckon Henri would love to be involved. He could help shape the narrative and make sure it''s not just loads of clips of boring matches. We''ll follow Lucy and Jill over the season, too. The first generation of Chester Women who get to be on the fringes of this story but aren''t really at the heart of it. That''s the tragedy of getting older and being sidelined by all the hot new things. MD''s age group will eat it up. Set the final scene to ''Walk Away'' by Cast. It''s Lucy leaving the stadium for the last time while a fifteen-year-old future star walks past not even realising that those older women made all this possible. Boom! Tears, BAFTAs, and EMMYs galore, mate. And we follow some superfans. Talk to randos in the street. At the start of the season no-one even knows we''ve got a women''s team. By the end, people are chatting about them in pubs. We can take the best bits of Welcome to Wrexham, which is the community and the long-suffering fans, and take out all the shit bits, meaning the pub team football and the complete lack of sex appeal."


    "It''s got Ryan Reynolds," said MD.


    "If you love him so much why don''t you marry him? Look, if we do it and control it we can all get what we want, right? Not a sanitised, aren''t we great kinda whitewash, but one where the players get to be themselves on camera knowing they''ll be allowed to veto parts they don''t like."


    "We could tell potential sponsors we''re doing a documentary," said Brooke. "They''ll assume it''s for the men''s team."


    "Will they? I hadn''t thought of that."


    "You''re a terrible liar, Max," she said, finally unleashing a full smile.


    "While you''re at the university," I said, standing up and stretching. "Please talk to the computer science department. Or the statistics people. Whoever''s interested in doing some data analysis for us. For free." Brooke made some frantic notes. "MD, get me my big slabs of electricity, please. And please check the backs of all the sofas. Raffi Brown was not a one-off. Give me more budget. I won''t bankrupt the club, I promise."


    "Max," said MD.


    I paused on my way to the door. "Yes?"


    "We haven''t won a cup since 2013. If you can beat Crewe..." He glanced at the board guy, who nodded. "We''ll smash open some of the old piggy banks."


    ***


    SEVEN


    seven seven seven


    Thursday, April 4


    I hadn''t been to a five-a-side match in Chester for quite a while, so since there were no professional matches on, I went to the nearest place and watched for half an hour, sucking in 30 experience points and adding a few players to my database. I went outside, hit Playdar and had a rare stroke of luck. It took me to a row of houses - in one I heard some kids kicking a ball in the back garden.


    From the sound of it, they were playing Wembley Doubles, a simple little game named after the very concept of getting to a cup final. The next person to tell me this final didn''t matter was going to be a double blast!


    I knocked on the door and tried to channel the Brig. The mother found it pretty crazy when I hinted that someone had said there was a talented footballer who lived there. I showed her who I was on Chester''s website - which now had a high-res photo of me smiling paternally - and she let me into the garden. Any doubts she had that I was who I said I was melted away as the gaggle of kids there went mental.


    When I calmed them down, I told them I was there to beat them at Sixty Seconds, which is a collaborative game with a countdown, and they should accept their beating with grace and dignity. I hit Playdar again, revealing all their profiles, and glory be, I''d found myself a caveman.


    Lawrence Shaw was a ten-year-old centre back with PA 89. He was enormous. He was already six inches taller than any of his mates, and was twice as wide. If Chris Beaumont was the question, this kid was the answer. My main regret in life was that Lawrence would never get to play against Goliath - what a battle that would have been! Truly titanic.


    He was slow, had bad technique, and no stamina. A lot of people thought I was crazy for signing Pascal Bochum and this kid was the opposite in almost every way, but somehow I suspected I''d get just as much shit for this one.


    After watching him fail to do almost all of the skills involved in Sixty Seconds, I pointed. "Do you want to play for Chester?"


    He thought about it. "Is it true you only eat vegan food?"


    "No. Don''t listen to idiots."


    "My dad said it."


    "Is your dad as big as you?"


    "Yes."


    "He can say what he wants, then. We eat normal food, not junk, we train, we play, it''s hard but we have a lot of fun. Come to training a few times and see if you like it."


    "Yeah, okay."


    "If you want, I''ll get you cup final tickets."


    "Cup final? Which cup?"


    "Cheshire Senior Cup."


    "I''ll pass, thanks."


    Cheeky little shit! Brooke''s mini documentary sounded better and better the more I thought about it. Ten little clips to build the excitement and interest. Ten little films and maybe even Porkchoptimus Prime here would tune in to Seals Live.


    ***


    SIX


    six six six


    Friday, April 5


    I went with Fleur to watch the only decent match in the area - The New Saints against Caernarfon Town in the Welsh Premier League.


    The New Saints were sort of the inverse of Chester - their stadium was in England but they played in Wales. They usually won the league every year, and they had some decent players.


    The match only came with 180 XP, but it was good in terms of spending time with Fleur and focusing on the football. She was starting to understand what I wanted from a scout and what was important and what wasn''t. She over-indexed poor forward passes, for example, while for me it was more important that a player was willing to keep trying those passes after some had gone wrong.


    "Then again," I said, "in the end what I care most about is talent. I just signed a guy who doesn''t fit my teams at all. Other managers will absolutely love him, though. We''ll train him up and sell him. Any profit''s a good profit. The more profit we make, the more I can pay you."


    "Can I have a bonus if someone I find gets sold on?"


    "Fascinating idea. Don''t know. I''ll talk to my b-boys."


    "Do you get a bonus if you win the cup?"


    "No."


    "So why do you obsess over it?"


    "I don''t. I''m almost completely indifferent to it. I barely even think about it. Cup final? What''s that?"


    "Right."


    ***


    FIVE


    five five five


    Saturday, April 6


    I was torn between scouting our cup final opponents again or going to watch a big Premier League game to jump towards the 2,000 XP I needed to unlock the Finances perk. In the end, I decided not to try to force things. Would the Finances perk even tell me what other clubs were spending? I read and re-read the perk shop description and couldn''t be sure.


    One thing I did know for sure was that we would be playing Crewe. So I took Fleur and Emma and we went to see them play against Accrington Stanley, a team from Lancashire, north of Manchester. Accrington''s stadium was sponsored by Wham, and for a delicious few minutes I convinced myself it was the 80s band - but no, it was a cookware company. Crushing disappointment. I fired a text to Brooke.


    Please investigate the possibility of Harry Styles sponsoring the stadium. We could call it Harry''s House.


    By the final whistle, I had passed halfway in my quest to grab the Finances perk.


    XP balance: 1,025


    But shopping was far from my mind. Crewe, indeed, played like Chester in our best moments. Their team was a wild mix of twenty-five-year-old academy graduates and nineteen-year-old academy graduates. Looking back through Crewe''s last ten matches there were a few nailed-on starters but the rest rotated and played different positions. It was all part of these technical young players getting a complete education, but while there were no stand-out stars, we could expect a fluid 4-1-4-1 from a team averaging around CA 80.


    They would absolutely dominate possession, they would try to pull us into traps and exploit the gaps, and if we weren''t switched on, they''d kill us. The good news was they weren''t all that good on set pieces, they didn''t have a defender who could cope with Chris Beaumont - if we could get into a position to make crosses, and while Crewe''s Plan A was worrying, their Plan B was ''do plan A better''.


    Brooke: We''ve had a stadium sponsorship offer from The Daily Mail. Three million a year.


    Me: Jokes? Have you been day drinking?


    Brooke: Yes.


    Me: If you were Spider-man how would you beat Spider-man?


    Brooke: I think you want me to say 4-4-2. Ryan told me to say 4-4-2 when I wasn''t sure.


    4-4-2 against Crewe? No way. Pretty much the worst option. Chris was my low block smasher, but never in a million years would Crewe low block us. They wouldn''t do it against Man City or Real Madrid. No chance they''d do it against Chester. No, Chris couldn''t start. I''d love to get him on as a thank you for powering us to the title.


    Okay, so do we play 4-1-4-1 and try to beat them by doing the same thing as them but with worse players? It seemed absurd. We weren''t slightly worse. We were much worse.


    I looked at my formation list and one jumped out. 4-5-1. We could do the low block, let them come onto us, and then try to mess them up on counters. Pascal could cause them problems, and so could I. Who''d fire the forward passes, though? Ryan Jack would have been my first choice but he would be out for another nine months.


    "Emma babes, I think I''m going to start the cup final with Henri on the bench. You''ve got that amazing way of giving him bad news. What''s your secret?"


    "I tell him in the form of a poem," she said. "Should be right up your street."


    "Babes."


    "United are red, City are blue..."


    Fleur chipped in. "You''ll start on the bench in our match against Crewe."


    "Thanks, ladies. Most helpful."


    ***


    FOUR


    four four four


    Sunday, April 7


    I invited Sandra to watch Halifax vs Wolves in the Women''s National League Northern Premier Division. It was a tier three encounter, making it worth 450 XP while adding thirty brand new names to my database - most of whom had contracts running out in the summer. Many would do a very nice job for us...


    While I wasn''t lusting after goalkeepers, I was talking to Sandra about the cup final.


    The main dilemma, of course, was how to approach it. Sandra suggested that Crewe were fighting to get promotion and that was much more important to them than the Cheshire Cup. She believed Crewe would put out a team of reserves and players who needed minutes to get match fit.


    I said we had to prepare as though we''d be against Crewe''s first choice team, and while she thought it unlikely, she liked my idea of naming a flexible eleven that we could shape into a formation once we knew what our opponents were thinking.


    "We''ll plan our entire match strategy in the hour between getting the team sheets and kick off. That sounds very Max."


    "And we''ll make early changes. Throw them off balance. It''ll be fun. You''ll love it. In the meantime, let''s practise through balls. And transitions. And offsides. And cover shadows. And pressing traps. Did I mention through balls?"


    "You want us to practise football. Got it."


    "And penalties. It could go to penalties. Should we practise lifting trophies over our head and passing them onto the next in line?"


    "Bad juju."


    "Okay. We train all aspects of football up to and including penalties but nothing after."


    "Gotcha."


    "It¡¯s just that sometimes the lid falls off. What about the Brackley match on the 13th? I don''t give a shit about it. I''d like us to rest virtually everyone. We''ll play Robbo in goal, Gerald May, Andrew Harrison, Joe Anka, Tony Hetherington, loads of kids. If you want, I''ll be the manager so the loss goes on my record."


    "Record. You''re always pecking my head about my record. I want to manage. You wouldn''t back down from the challenge, would you?"


    "I would if I could. Remind me to tell you about Sun Tzu."


    ***


    THREE


    three three three


    On Tuesday the ninth I went alone to watch Morecambe versus Crewe. Crewe had made six changes from the previous game.


    On Saturday the thirteenth I went with Emma to watch Crewe versus Grimsby. Crewe had made six changes from the previous game. Emma cheered Crewe''s goals.


    ***


    TWO


    two two two


    Emma tried to talk to me about Grimsby slumping below Sutton into the relegation places. I answered by comparing the DMs Crewe had been alternating between and fretting about what it''d mean for Chester.


    Henri tried to talk to me about Wrexham falling into the playoff spots. I said it gave Crewe a sniff of a chance of getting automatic promotion themselves and wondered if Sandra was right and there really was no chance they''d put out a strong team in the final.


    Sam tried to ask me if I wanted York, Kidderminster, or my former team to go up through the playoffs. I told him he''d have to suffer and sacrifice in the final and he wouldn''t get more than a few touches of the ball and he should prepare himself mentally. He said yeah but what about York? I said the Grand Old Duke of York may have had ten thousand men but he never had seventy percent possession and that''s what Crewe would have against us and if we weren''t up for the fight we wouldn''t get halfway up that hill.


    Vimsy asked if I''d really offered Ian Evans a job as manager of my ninth tier football club. I said I''d only asked if he liked hummus and Ian read waaayyyy too much into it.


    ***


    ONE


    one one one


    Monday, April 15


    I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over the last couple of weeks. Had I done everything? Had I done enough? There was little I could do.


    What I could do was sleep so that I could carry out my part of the plan.


    Henri had been expecting the news that he wouldn''t start. He didn''t like it, but he knew how these matches against stronger opponents went. I would cook up some mad scheme and the sacrificial lamb would be - quelle surprise - the foreigner.


    Chris had been stoic on the surface, but his morale had dropped. The next day it was back up and I''d learned that Henri had had a long talk with him. Explained that he hadn''t been dropped but reconfigured to be part of a tactical masterclass.


    Well, yeah, let''s hope so.


    Pascal had said he would prefer to start the match instead of being an unused sub. Starting him seemed optimal in terms of making the best use of Bench Boost while letting important players beef up their CVs. In some statistical regards, being on the pitch for one minute in the final was worth more than scoring the winning goal in every previous round. Put it this way, Wikipedia would one hundred percent say ''Cheshire Senior Cup winner'' on Pascal''s page if he started, but might not if he was an unused sub.


    Try to sleep, Max.


    Henri''s certainties. Chris''s doubts. Pascal''s choice.


    Sandra had drawn at home to Gloucester and lost away at Brackley with a crazily young team. Some fans were disappointed we wouldn''t get the National League North points record, ironically held by the last Chester team to win the Cheshire Cup. In 2013 they''d slapped 107 points on the board. If we beat my former team we''d get to 106. Even with a significant dip in goals per game since I''d left for Grimsby, we''d got the ''most goals in a season'' record sewn up. And unless we lost five-nil against Darlington, we would break the record for the largest positive goal difference. That record was plus 71, held by the 2013 Chester team. As it stood, we''d scored 76 more goals than we''d conceded. Our new record seemed like it would last a long time.


    Sleep, Max.


    I''d scouted some players. One PA 100 thirty-nine year old. Very technical. Could have played at a high level but no-one had ever seen what he had. What a waste! I''d also found a PA 70 four-year-old playing with his dad in the park and two tiny girls who could dribble for days but couldn''t pass.


    The curse took the piss sometimes.


    My first cup final.


    I''d get some sleep and then wake up and do the last sesh and we''d all get on the bus to go to Crewe.


    I wondered if the other players were excited?


    I realised I''d been in full maniac mode the last few days and hadn''t even checked the club''s social media accounts to see if we''d done Brooke''s countdown idea. I reached for my phone and mentally slapped myself. The last thing I needed was to blast blue light into my eyes and reset my sleep countdown!


    I restarted the Night Rain video on my laptop, closed my eyes and tried to count sheep. Instead, I found myself replaying the entire season. Old Nick banging on about traitors and MD and Jackie forcing me to take the manager''s job. The early losses, the Maxterplan, and trying to manage the men''s and women''s team while scouting and training. The first good results, the cup runs, and finding the training loophole that would let me repay Tranmere while getting my levels up. SILK! Grimsby. Hiring the Brig, Sandra, and Jackie. Brooke and Angel raising the bar in one direction while Chris Beaumont raised it in another.


    The under twelves in Liverpool. WibRob scampering around trying to catch prime Max Best.


    And up on the roof, a pine marten. He was gone and he wouldn''t be coming back. I''d seen a pine marten but not a hedgehog. Not many in England could say that. What did it mean?


    My alarm beeped. I hadn''t slept a wink. Still, it was time for lift off.


    I reached for my phone and as I checked the weather app, a message came in. It was from physio Dean.


    Houston, we have a problem! Call me.

 7.15 - Cup Fever

    15.


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 10 - The Physios


    [We see Dean and Livia in the medical room at Boshcard.]


    - I''m Dean.


    - I''m Livia.


    - We''re the first team physios.


    - Max sends us broken players and we try to fix them.


    [quick cut]


    [Dean] - I''m not nervous about the cup final, no. Crewe aren''t a dirty team. It''ll be a football match. Right now we''ve got a clean bill of health apart from our long-term injuries. No player is ever truly healthy but practically speaking Max can choose whatever team he wants.


    - I''m nervous! This match means a lot to the players. They''ve worked hard this season and I want them to end on a high.


    [cut]


    [Livia] - Predictions? Crewe are better overall but we''ve got Max. It depends which Max turns up.


    - I think Crewe will rest players and they''ll be in for a surprise like Salford City. Four-nil Chester.


    ***


    I drove to Chester city centre, Hoole to be exact, to an apartment block by the river Dee. I got out of the Duchess, stuffed a tennis ball in my hoodie pocket, and walked upstream. That seemed like hard work so I turned around. I had a photo of the building but was surprised at how long it stretched; it was longer than our stadium.


    "Max," called Dean. He came scurrying towards me.


    "Morning," I said. "This building. Is this nice or shit? I can''t decide."


    He eyed the red brick property. "It''s ugly but it looks enough like other, nicer buildings that it tricks the brain. I was online while I was waiting for you. Two bed flats are 950 a month. Pics look okay but the rooms are tiny. Your first choice goalkeeper is squashed into one of those tiny rooms, Max."


    "He can get a pay rise or you can."


    Dean hesitated. "Property''s all about location. Lovely view of the river, isn''t it? Close to the city centre. Small flats are cheaper to heat."


    "After you."


    Dean led the way along a warren of alleys and courtyards until he found a buzzer that included the name Cavanagh. Dean buzzed and said who he was and a rando came down. "I''m Simon. Ben''s flatmate."


    "Hi dude," I said, taking over. "Max. Dean. He''s bad, is he?"


    "Sweating, shivering. Burning up. Do you want to come in?"


    "Do I want to go into the plague house on the day of a cup final? Dean, what''s your expert medical opinion? Should I go into the plague house where all the plague is?"


    Dean shrugged. "If you catch it right now you''d probably get sick after the final whistle."


    "Yeah but I need to slap Darlington on Saturday." I sighed. My number one goalkeeper getting a fever on the morning of a cup final was not ideal. The crazy thing was the curse rated him as fully fit and ready to play. "Simon, could you please ask Ben to wrap himself in a big duvet and come down here?"


    "What, really?"


    "Yes."


    "But he''s sick."


    "Come on, man. I''ve got a football club to run." Simon pulled a face and went inside. "Dean, we should film this for Brooke."


    "Why?"


    "It''s viral content."


    "Max. Please."


    A minute later, a very rough-looking Ben Cavanagh appeared. He was clammy and it was obvious his head was throbbing. For some reason I¡¯d been expecting his blanket cover to have a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pattern or something funny, but it was an IKEA thing. "Boss."


    "Ben!" I said, quite jolly, but even that level of volume was too much for him; he flinched. "I had a dream last night. You were sick, so Angles was on the sub''s bench for a cup final. Robbo got a red card so my ninety-year old third choice goalie had to play eighty minutes. His first minutes of the season were against a League Two team of turbocharged tearaways young enough to be his grandchildren and the final score was twenty-nil and all twenty goals were his fault. In one corner of my mind, that dream is ongoing and he''s staying overnight in his therapist''s office."


    Ben shook his head. "Angles won''t let you down, boss."


    I threw the tennis ball right at his face and he dropped the duvet and caught it a comfortable distance from his nose. The curse was right!


    "No," I said, "you won''t let me down. You''ll be there tonight. Messi won the World Cup final when he had three kinds of flu at the same time. Boris Becker won Wimbledon when he had mumps. Boris Johnson threw the biggest party this country has ever seen when half the partygoers had full-blown Covid. Okay? That''s what heroism looks like."


    "You want me to play?"


    "No. I''m not stupid. You''ll be a sub."


    "But boss, you''re class in goal."


    "As much as I appreciate you picking the team and telling me where to fucking play, Ben, I''m not class. I can make the first save but not the second. My handling''s shot. I''d be a sweeper-keeper without the keeper. Fun against Brackley or someone, not fun against a quality League Two team. No, you''ll be the sub. You can suffer on the bench as easily as you can suffer in bed. We''ll get you a sleeping bag. And one of those Victorian sleeping hats. Dean, can you find out what those are called?"


    Dean said, "Max, this isn''t like you. He''s clearly unwell."


    "This isn¡¯t a strain that might turn into a tear. He¡¯s physically fine and we can¡¯t make anything worse. Okay? It''s time for the big boys to put on their big boy pants, Dean. You''ll spend the day pumping him full of medicine, right? He''ll go to the stadium in a separate car. We''ll find him a spot where he can hang around until the final whistle without infecting anyone else. I''ll clear it with the ref. If called into action, Ben will have the game of his life. And peep peep peep, game''s over, Ben''s summer holiday begins."


    "But," said Simon.


    In the unlikely event Ben would be needed, he''d have the Bench Boost lifting him past his limitations. "I played sick recently and set up the winning goal. I''m not asking you to do anything I wouldn''t do and in a week you''ll look back on this and be happy I made you do it. This match will be on your CV forever and when you''re old you''ll tell the story of how you got fever and saved five penalties in the shoot-out."


    "He could only save five if we missed four," said Dean.


    I made a big show of being patient. "Dean''s going to support you. That''s it. Conversation''s over." I walked away, had an idea, and returned. "Dean, get some footage of him looking all sick like this but he''s so desperate to do his part for the team he''s going to try to convince me to let him travel with the team, even if he''s only on the bench. Ben, did you hear that? You plan to beg me because you''re so full of Chesterness even the fever can''t, ah, dampen your ardour. That''s terrible. You can workshop the exact words. Just get some heart-warming video we can cynically use one day. Simon, whose idea was it for Ben to shake off this fever?"


    "Er... Ben''s?"


    "I like Simon," I said, as I walked away.


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 9 - The Legends


    [We see Smasho and Nice One in an open-plan kitchen. Sounds of football can be heard from the next room.]


    - I''m Nice One.


    - I''m Smasho.


    - Funny old game, isn''t it Smasho?


    - It is, yeah.


    - He''s brought the good times back to Chester.


    - Good times. Better times.


    - The best times. More cup glory for the lad. Gets the juices flowing, dunnit?


    - Oh, it does. It really does. Should we thank the man responsible?


    - I think it''s way overdue.


    [Nice One goes to the camera, picks it up, and holds it in front of him while he sneaks into the living room. There, we see Benny playing FIFA. Benny''s mouth hangs open and there is no apparent brain activity but his fingers twitch and jerk. Nice One swings the camera close to the corner of the large TV screen, revealing that the score is Chester 2, Crewe 0.]


    Smasho [forcefully hugging his godson from behind] - Benny, mate! Thanks for all you''ve done, lad!


    Benny [laughing, resisting, annoyed] - What? Geroff!


    Nice One [swings the camera to face himself and cackles] - Come on, Chester!


    ***


    "All right, shut the fuck up. We''re getting the team sheets now." The dressing room calmed and Sandra came up to the tactics board. I could have seen Crewe''s team on the curse screens but I''d forced myself to wait the extra two minutes until I got the physical team sheet in my hand. I wanted, as far as possible, for my reactions to be authentic. Sandra handed the paper over and I nodded. I tried to stay calm but didn''t succeed. "Yes!" I said, breaking into a huge grin. "This is perfect."


    "Did they rest their best players?" wondered Vimsy.


    "No! No, it''s a mix. Half strong, half prospects. This is perfect," I repeated.


    "Why is that perfect?" said Sam. He was moderately grumpy that he wasn''t starting, but Bench Boost made me do weird things.


    "If they put out their best team we''re in trouble. Right? Let''s be honest about that. If they put out their weakest, we win and everyone says yeah well done you beat some kids. This... this is ideal. I reckon we''re favourites but there''s..." I scanned the sheet again. "There''s six proper first teamers, here. Let me show you."


    I went to the flipchart and wrote pluses and minuses in a 4-1-4-1 formation.


    "Goalie''s a minus. I have to say I''m surprised he''s playing."


    "Their first choice is on loan from Liverpool," said Sandra. "I think him getting injured in a Cheshire Cup game isn''t part of his career progression."


    "Yeah. Okay, so look, these Crewe kids are talented and they''ll have long careers so don''t underestimate them. The minus is relative."


    I wrote a minus for the goalie, who had CA 50, and minuses for the full backs, who were 55 and 56. The centre backs got pluses, but on reflection, I changed them to double pluses. The centre backs were proper first team stalwarts and had CA 96 and 91.


    "I reckon they''ve gone strong at CB because they thought Chris would start. The DM''s their best one, too. Double plus for him." He had CA 97. "Strong triangle there. Midfield''s a little bit weaker." For the CMs I drew one minus and one plus, while the wide midfielders got pluses. "Striker''s good but he''s coming back from injury." He had CA 79.


    The average, then, was CA 65.4. Their morale was high and Crewe rotated a lot so I didn''t expect a fitness advantage. They were at home but with under a thousand fans expected in the stadium it wouldn''t be a febrile atmosphere. When I brought my Bench Boosted players on, we would get closer to their level. As it was, our starting line up was quite weak, averaging just under 50.


    "Okay let''s run through our eleven. Robbo. Eddie, Glenn, Steve, Carl. Youngster. Aff, Magnus, Andrew, Donny. Pascal. We''ll start with 4-1-4-1 but be ready for mighty morphin¡¯ power changes. 4-5-1, 4-3-3, we can do it all. I want fifteen minutes keeping it tight while I see how Crewe approach it. Go get warmed up and all that and I''ll remind you of the tactics before kick off. If you see Ben wave at him but don''t get close."


    "What''s he got?" said William Roberts, who was getting his first taste of a cup final dressing room.


    I smiled. "What do you think he''s got? He''s got cup fever, same as all of us."


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 8 - Behind Enemy Lines


    [We see Dani alone in what looks like a classroom. She signs and subtitles appear.]


    - I''m Dani. I play midfield for Chester.


    [Subtitle in a different colour: Who do you model your playing style on?]


    - I think I''m supposed to say Max Best but Jackie Reaper''s trying to make me more sophisticated. [Dani laughs.] Seriously, Max wants me to play like him and Jackie wants me to play like Aff. I''m trying to learn to defend better.


    [Are you going to the Cup Final?]


    - Max said pop stars don''t go to league games but they go to cup finals so if I go I might see Harry Styles. Maddy says he¡¯s talking like that coz he''s worried I might not go to the match. As if! Everyone''s excited, even Sam and he normally pretends like he doesn''t care and it''s all in a day''s work. Yeah, I''m going. Also, I live five minutes from Gresty Road! [She laughs even harder.]


    ***


    I spent five minutes with Sandra explaining my thought process for the rest of the match so that she''d understand if I started doing weird things. I say ''explained my thought process'' but actually I moved magnets around the tactics board in a blur while doing a stream of consciousness as I drew lines all over the flipchart. She frowned but seemed to follow the general principles.


    The Brig came over and put his hands on my shoulders before slowly rotating me away from the tactics area. "Perhaps you would enjoy a break, sir?"


    "Would I?"


    "You are gibbering."


    "I''m not gibbering."


    "I said to Dean, who let a troop of monkeys in here? He said it wasn''t a dozen primates but was in fact the gaffer being a hypomaniac. He prescribed a healthy dose of Emma."


    "Did he?"


    "He implied it and I agree with him."


    I inhaled. "Fine. Fine fine fine. I''ll go do a walk around the stadium and see who''s in."


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 7 - Geordie Sure


    [We see Emma in a Chester scarf in the home dugout at the Deva. When did that happen?]


    - I''m Emma. Max''s girlfriend. I live in Chester three days a week, now. Still getting to know the area but so far I love it and everyone''s dead friendly.


    [What''s it like living with Max Best?]


    - Haha next question!


    [Why do you think Max is so fanatical about this match?]


    - Oh, that''s tough. He says things like it''ll help the club attract new players and it''s good for the city and all that kind of stuff but I think there''s something deeper. It''ll be easier to ask when it''s over. My family''s all Newcastle fans and we haven''t been to a cup final since 1955 or something and the first time it happens the whole city will be going down to London, I can promise you that. My dad says when we win one, we''ll win a dozen more. But you''ve got to get the first one. If Chester don''t win, Max will fret about it for a year until he gets another try to put it right.


    [Are you nervous?]


    - Haha, no. Max says he hasn''t felt this good since he was at Darlington. You should have seen him, then, he was unbelievable. He did things with a ball that made you feel like you were hallucinating. He says Crewe have two good moves and he''s got a plan to stop them. But how do Crewe stop him? He can change the game like that. [She clicks her fingers.]


    ***


    Waving at people in the stands, narrowing my eyes at Bradley Rymarquis and a gaggle of agents in the main stand, posing for selfies with a few fans, having a laugh with the referee, it all turned out to be therapeutic, as did a brief cuddle with one of the ravishing blondes who seemed to follow me around the country.


    It was time for my pre-match team talk, so I headed back inside.


    "All right shut the fuck up," I said, as I burst into the dressing room. I paused at Vimsy''s laptop - he had the Seals Live page open and he would listen to his mate Spectrum with one earbud. A counter told me that 800 people were listening. Well down on a normal league match, despite our best efforts to promote the game. I tried not to let it bother me. "Last reminder of the game plan. Remember Vimsy''s presentation. Crewe play pretty passes all over the midfield, trying to draw you over there. Then they slap diagonal passes to the other side and see what mischief their wingers can get up to. Failing that, they hit long diags to the space between the centre back and full back. It''s all about moving the full backs out of position, then they see if they can get the ball out wide quickly or if they can play a through ball behind the defenders. We trained this. Full backs, don''t fall into the trap. That''s half the battle." I coughed. "Pascal, I''m going to ask you to man mark this centre back for the start of the match."


    "Yes, boss."


    "A lot of their moves go through him. I reckon it''ll freak them out a bit and they''ll have to build down the sides where they''re relatively weak. Defenders, watch out for me giving the signal to go man-to-man for periods. If we do it for a whole half they''ll adapt, but I think if we do it for two, three minutes we''ll get turnovers because they won''t be expecting it. Okay but mostly the game is hard work, suffering, keeping your shape, winning your duels. Do that for long enough for me to come up with a plan for how we win. Yeah?"


    "Yes, boss!"


    "Okay, dim the lights and turn up the sentimental music. It''s time for my heart-warming motivational speech. WibRob, watch carefully. This one''s going to be legendary. Ahem. So we know that Cavvers has got himself a bad case of fever, and that''s ironic because my favourite song is Fever by Dua Lipa and the Belgian pop weirdo Ang¨¨le."


    "That''s your favourite song, is it?" said Sandra.


    "Yes, and I didn''t simply type fever into YouTube this morning so don''t even start with that." I tutted. "Where''s Dean? Dean, mate. Come to the front. I want to discuss the lyrics from the point of view of a medical professional."


    He smiled. "Go on, boss."


    "So it''s Dua Lipa, I guess, and she sings, ''I''ve got a fever, so can you check?'' Dean, that''s good, isn''t it? She self-diagnoses but wants a second opinion."


    "Always good to consult a professional," said Dean.


    "Next bit is where the actual consultation happens. Dean, thumbs up or thumbs down for this. Hand on my forehead." Thumbs up. "Kiss my neck."


    He laughed. "That''s not the lyric."


    "It is!"


    "It''s unconventional. Medically, thumbs down."


    "I thought so. WibRob is giving me a dirty look. It''s actually a fun song, mate. But let me bring this home. Dua Lipa, right, is Crewe Alexandra. And we, Chester, are a virus. We''re, like, invading their spaces. And we''re going to give them a fever. We''re going to raise their temperature and make them sweaty."


    Henri tutted. "Max, this is awful. Awful."


    Sandra said, "If Crewe are Dua Lipa, who is going to kiss their neck?"


    "I don''t know. Half the song''s in French. There''s no way to know what they''re saying. Checklist time. Analysis of opponents? Tick. Individual instructions handed out? Tick. Weird story distracts players from their nerves? Tick. Okay, I think that''s it. Let''s go win the cup."


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 6 - Take a Butchers at That


    [We see a butcher in a butcher''s outfit surrounded by meat.]


    - Name''s Des Reddington from the famous Reddington and Son in south Chester. Been a Chester fan man and boy and yes, we like to name our meats after Chester players. Always raises a chuckle. Special offer for the cup final? Of course! Starting with the big man, it''s Max Breast, 5% off these tender chicken cuts all this week. Goliath sausages. Look how big they are! Very popular with er... well I shouldn''t say who with. I''ll have them ten percent off if Chris Beaumont scores in the final. What have we here? Henri Surloins. Joe Shanka. Chicken Wingers, that''s your D-Day and your Aff. We''ve got some Pascal Boc-ham. And we''ve got some Youngster. That''s veal, obviously.


    ***


    The match, at last, kicked off, and I immediately broke out into a sweat. Had I caught Ben''s disease? Or was it one thing to draw up a weakened team on a flipchart and quite another to see them take to the pitch against much more talented opposition?


    I''d hit Bench Boost and Triple Captain, of course, and now I smashed the Seal It Up option. For fifteen minutes, my defenders would gain plus one positioning. We would get stronger as we started to bring our subs on, so the earliest part of the match was very much the most dangerous.


    I checked behind me. Sam Topps, Henri, and Chris were chatting away, in good spirits. The Cheshire Cup was unusual in that I could name five subs and use all of them. The guys knew they would get onto the pitch, and probably quite early, too.


    Ben was over in an otherwise deserted section of the main stand wrapped up in multiple blankets with his ''flatmate'' Simon holding a thermos.


    Sandra made a little groaning noise and I looked up to see the absolutely outclassed Andrew Harrison running around like a blue-arsed fly. Over recent weeks his CA had risen to 34, which was fairly disappointing in one respect but then again, midway through next season he could get to CA 50 and start to be quite a serious player. It was unfair to expect him to go faster than he could go, and he''d improved enough for me to feel mostly comfortable about starting him in a cup final. The alternatives were Joe Anka or Bark and neither would be at Chester next season. Picking Andrew was an investment in the future of the squad.


    Harrison slides in but doesn''t get the ball.


    Crewe snap a few quick passes around the centre circle.


    The ball is pinged to the right!


    This could be dangerous.


    But Eddie Moore heads it out for a throw-in.


    Sandra and the Brig called out their support. Eddie was a quiet guy who hadn''t imposed himself on the squad yet, but he''d applied himself in training and had crept up to CA 48.


    "Steady Eddie," I said. "Sandra, what do you make of him?"


    She thought about it. "I finally see why you let Trick go. He does everything Trick did but he gives you more."


    "Come on."


    "What?"


    "He gives you more? Eddie Moore? Are you doing poems, now?" I watched as Crewe went through one of their set midfield schemes. We''d played six minutes and they''d done the exact same sequence three times. "Explain this setup to me. The 4 to the 6 to the left 8 and back to the 4. That''s the prelude to the big diag but there''s something wrong about it."


    Sandra nodded. "I wonder if those three have ever played together in a real match. Combinations work better with more familiarity." She went quiet. "What they''re doing is what Liverpool do, but Liverpool have three fast forwards so they can launch it faster. Crewe have to pass it around longer to get their players into position. And this 10, this CM, isn''t a threat when he breaks. Or is he?"


    "No, I agree."


    "If that was a Liverpool player, he''d storm towards the goal inside the full back, who would have to cover his run. That opens the entire right of the pitch for the wide player."


    "And if the full back stays wide to cover the wide player, they pass to the runner and if the pass is good, he gets a shot."


    "It''s Liverpool. The pass is good."


    I shook my head. Elite teams had so many weapons you couldn''t possibly shut them all down. How was I supposed to learn how to deal with that? "Guess I have a few years to work it out."


    "We''re only one player short of being able to do that ourselves."


    That cheered me up. "What?"


    "Like, you can do all three roles. You can play the long pass, break into the box, or collect out wide. Pascal can do the last two quite well. We need one more guy next season."


    My eyes shone but despite my excitement, I lowered my voice since I didn¡¯t want to give anyone a big head. "WibRob! He''s Pascal, but better. The three of us will rip teams open."


    Sandra checked my forehead. "He''s not ready. Get me two more players like you and I''ll coach you to play like Klopp''s Liverpool. You''ll be unstoppable."


    "Unkloppable."


    "What?"


    "Nothing."


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 5 - Can''t Win Anything with Kids


    [We see Youngster and Pascal on the sofa at Henri''s digs.]


    - I am Youngster. I am 18 and I am a defensive midfielder for Chester Football Club.


    - I''m Pascal Bochum, a forward who can play right, left, or centre. I''m a space invader with superior pressing qualities and I have been working on a list of reasons why I should be picked for the final. One, I am a forward who can play right, left, or centre. Two...


    [very abrupt cut]


    [Subtitles on screen: It''s your first cup final. How do you feel?]


    - I feel calm because I know that God will be with me and my team mates will be at my side. Together, we will overcome any obstacles put before us, as we have done so many times before.


    - In fact, we have lost eight matches this season and Crewe are much more technical than us. It is unlikely that we will beat them.


    - We will beat them if God wishes it.


    - We will beat them if the team can remain fully focused for ninety minutes. That rules you out of contention. Here''s the team that I would pick. [Pascal leans forward and when he sits back he has a ring binder in his hands. As this is happening, Youngster gets up and walks away.] What did I say?


    ***


    For fifteen minutes my defensive ideas had worked nicely. Pascal marking one centre back and leaving the other defenders to have as much time on the ball as they wanted wasn''t going to win us the match but it did discombobulate Crewe. They had certain patterns of moving the ball from the goalkeeper to midfield, but those patterns were based on using triangles to beat their opponent''s press. We weren''t pressing, but were blocking off one point. It was fascinating to watch them be so slow to adapt.


    But Seal It Up ran out and from that moment my ideas would stand or fall according to their inherent soundness. People tried to talk to me but all I could do was crouch and stare at the pitch. Crewe were dominating the possession and the match stats, and I had no doubt Boggy and Spectrum were fretting and saying things like, how are we going to score?


    Crewe went through their midfield patterns and their DM suddenly twisted and slapped a long pass out towards Eddie Moore''s zone. Eddie tracked it, closed the space, and when the winger knocked the ball down the line, Eddie simply went with him and stopped him from getting a free run at goal. The winger tried a cross - it hit Eddie, bounced back at the Crewe player, and went off the pitch for a goal kick.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Sandra burst into applause, but after a brief surge of triumphant energy, I got very cold. Crewe''s attempts to pass through the middle were being stifled by our energetic midfield trio of Youngster, Magnus, and Andrew. All three loved defending and if Crewe got past one, another was there, and if they got past him, the first guy was already back in place.


    No, if they scored from open play it would be from the wings. So why not double down on my basic concept? I set up some hotkeys that would turn man-marking on for certain players. At the touch of a button, I could get Aff and D-Day to mark Crewe''s wide midfielders. A different button did the same but with Eddie and Carl. I did some experiments when there wasn''t much danger and it was effective. So when Crewe''s DM, their player with the best long passing, got the ball, I hit one of the hotkeys and someone got tight to the wide mids, instantly cutting out the option for the long diags. As Sandra had explained, the solution from Crewe''s point of view would have been for a central midfielder to race forward into the space the full backs had left, but their guys weren''t fast enough to hurt us.


    I watched, enthralled, as my plan to shut Crewe down... continued to work.


    "Is this what it feels like to be Ian Evans?" I wondered.


    "Huh?" said Sandra.


    "I''m doing a defensive masterclass and I''m enjoying it." My grin faded. "This is a defensive masterclass, isn''t it? Or have I forgotten something?"


    She smiled. "Max, it''s very good. I don''t know about masterclass but it''s very good. Right now they don''t know what to do. Did you already write your Chesterness essay? Shame. You could hand this in and pass any coaching course." She bit her nails. "It would be nice to have some goal threat, though. If they blink first and start throwing bodies forward, we don''t quite have the players to punish them."


    "Right but if we nudge the dial towards attack, we give them a sniff. It has to be handled with extreme care. You might say, it needs the touch of someone sophisticated."


    Sandra took a step away and looked back at me. "Grimsby was good for you. You''re a more complete manager, now. More interested in the defence. More balanced."


    "I''m balanced because this match is all about balance."


    "Centred, then."


    As she spoke, Andrew Harrison''s match rating dipped from 6 to 5. "Andrew''s done his shift. Let''s get Sam Topps on."


    "Yes, boss."


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 4 - MD


    [We see MD facing the left of the screen with his hand resting on the desk in front of him. An expensive watch adorns his wrist.]


    - I''m Mike Dean, Managing Director at Chester Football Club. I''m a lifelong Chester fan. I''ve seen a couple of great teams in that time and this one is right up there. When we hired Max we knew he''d get involved in the youth teams but his commitment to football in the county took me by surprise. Why should a young man from Manchester care about the Cheshire Cup?


    [cut]


    [The scene is identical in every way except MD appears to be wearing an even more expensive watch]


    - I think it''s the perfect final. Crewe are doing well in their league, we''ve won ours. Max has ambitions and one of those is to make Chester the biggest club in Cheshire. Let''s see how close we are! I''ve told him that if we can win, the board and I will look at increasing our transfer budget.


    ***


    Extract from Seals Live


    Boggy: Still nil-nil here at Gresty Road. A very cagey affair so far with neither team willing to take too many risks. Nine hundred fans all around the world listening in to this very tense occasion. Quite a lot from Texas, and I suppose we can guess the reason why. And Germany. That''s odd.


    Spectrum: Pascal''s fan club.


    Boggy: Oh, oh course. Well, er... Wilkommen to Crewe. As for the match itself, Sam Topps has come on and made a difference.


    Spectrum: I''m not sure what it is but sometimes when Max leaves him out of the starting eleven he comes on like he''s got an extra gear.


    Boggy: What about Best himself? When will we see him?


    Spectrum: I can''t understand why he didn''t start. All I can think is that he has the same flu as Ben but he looks okay.


    Boggy: Crewe continue to pass the ball around, probing for an opening. One of the intriguing things that came out this week was the idea that winning today would unlock extra transfer budget for the summer.


    Spectrum: That surprised me, too! MD doesn''t normally dangle carrots like that. It got everybody worked up, though, didn''t it?


    Boggy: Long pass out. Carlile caught out of position! But there''s Youngster! He sensed the danger and was right over there. He puts it out for a throw in. Quick thinking from the youngster. From Youngster. Heh.


    Spectrum: I fear the tide is turning. Crewe turning the screw, now.


    Boggy: In answer to your question, yes, linking the cup win to more budget proved a masterstroke, if the intention was to generate interest. People love a transfer. Oh, good play by Crewe''s 8! He evaded Magnus Evergreen... here comes a chipped pass... big chance for Crewe... blocked! Where''s the ball going? I think it''s going in! It can''t - On the top! It lands on top of the goal. Well, Robson was stranded. The shot ballooned up, could have gone anywhere. It''s landed on the top of the goal. Corner to Crewe. And that seems to have woken Best up. Looks like he''s getting ready to come on. First, it''s Crewe''s fourth corner of the game. They haven''t done much with them yet, but their two big centre halves have trundled up... Here it comes. Oh, no! Robson... What''s happened?


    Spectrum: Collision of heads. Robson and their striker. Looks bad.


    Boggy: Yes, it does.


    Spectrum: [groan] Oh, no. Ben! I saw him before the match and he didn''t even recognise me. He''s sick. He''s seeing double. He can''t play. Who''ll go in goal? Magnus?


    [pause] I think that might have been the end of our chances of getting anything out of this game, Boggy. That''s cruel.


    Boggy: It looks... Max is waving to a fan over to his left. The fan looks like... Spectrum, do you know that cash machine at the train station and there''s a homeless chap who sleeps next to it? He always knows the exact time but he never has a watch. It looks like Max has brought him to the match. What a nice gesture.


    Spectrum: Sorry, Boggy, but that''s not Rolex Luther. That''s Ben Cavanagh in a sleeping bag. He''s coming on.


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 3 - No Fussin''


    [We see a rando fan on the streets of Chester.]


    - Cheshire Cup? I''m not too fussed, to be honest. Happy to win it, like, but it''s not a big game. You can''t make it a big game just by saying it is.


    [We hear Brooke but because she''s foreign, the subtitles help] - Will you be listening in on Seals Live?


    - Nah. Like I say, I hope they win, don''t get me wrong. It''s just I''m not really fussed either way, like.


    [Let me show you this.]


    [We see the video that the fan sees. It''s a Crewe fan.]


    - Name''s Sam. Been a Railwayman since I was knee high to a Mars bar. Yeah we''re having a great season and we''ve got some top talents. Good crop this year. Get promoted, win a cup, happy days. Prediction? We''ll win, easy. Five-nil. I mean, it''s a good little team you''ve got there but be fair. It''s only Chester.


    [The moment where he says ''good little team'' is replayed at half-speed with the sound distorted. We cut back to the Chester fan, who can''t believe what he''s just seen and heard.]


    - Come on, Max! Let ''em have it!


    ***


    I swapped Robbo - clearly concussed - for Ben. Ben¡¯s face was pale and his scalp was visibly clammy and he hadn''t warmed up because movement gave him a headache. He would either put in the worst single performance in the history of football... or if the curse was right that he was fit to play, he''d play the best hour of his entire career so far. CA 49 plus boost.


    To give Ben a bit more time to jog around and do some stretches, I made another change. Off went D-Day and on went Max Actual Best.


    Our official average CA was now 53, but three players had the Bench Boost.


    I slipped into the right mid slot, intending to play there for a while. If I gave Crewe''s left back enough grief they''d have to make a tactical change to support him, which would open up opportunities elsewhere. But I wanted to ease myself into the match while being fairly disciplined - Crewe''s best chance of a goal was if they pulled Carlile out of position.


    Yes, the plan was to keep calm and carry on doing what we were doing, but with the addition of some temperate, carefully modulated counter attacks.


    "Oh, what the fuck?" I said, as the ref signalled for Ben to take the free kick that would start the game. I hadn''t even touched the ball and my temperature had soared. I strode towards the man in black, then wondered if there was a diplomatic solution. "Ref, what the heck is happening?"


    "Calm down, Best. What are you blabbing about?"


    I pointed. "That chap has got a hecking concussion!" It was true. Crewe''s striker had clattered into the goalie and he hadn''t come off unscathed. His attributes were red, his condition had tanked, and the injury screen said ''suspected head injury''. I mean, three strikes and you''re out. So why was he still in?


    The ref shrugged. "Are you a doctor now, as well?"


    "Yes," I said. "I''m Doctor Traumatic Brain Injury Survivor and I''m an expert in mashed heads. Look, he''s not my player and it''s in my interest to have them effectively down to ten men but if he collapses on the pitch I''m going to feel like shit. If I have to go up for a header against him, I mean, I''m not having the world blame us for what happens to him. Instruct Crewe to do a concussion protocol, at least."


    I saw the moment he decided to ignore me, but then I saw the moment he remembered that I would be writing a match report and giving him a rating. "All right. Let''s talk to them."


    We went over to the touchline, where Crewe''s manager was bristling at the way I was allowed to berate the ref and he wasn''t. "What''s this shit?"


    I pointed, again. "Your 9''s got concussion."


    "No he don''t."


    So this was the real Crewe. For as much as they looked like future Chester with their amazing academy and squad rotation, when it came right down to it they didn''t give a shit about their players. This manager wasn''t future Max. He was a caveman in a jacket. I found myself with my hands on my head looking up at the colossal stand that housed 70% of the seats in the entire stadium. Steam was coming out of my ears. I took a step to the side and eyed the nearest physio. I pointed at him. "Oi. Do a concussion check."


    "Get on with the fucking game, you twat!" yelled Crewe''s assistant manager.


    "You''ve said your piece," said the ref. "They''re not interested. It¡¯s on them, Best. Game on." He ran away and blew his whistle. I eyed the Crewe guys one at a time, my fury turning white hot. I gave the manager one last eyeful. You and I are not alike.


    What had that fan said on Brooke''s absolutely awesome little series?


    Come on, Max! Let ''em have it!


    As I finally turned, I switched Pascal to play on the right. I, Max Best, would play as a striker.


    ***


    Boggy: What''s happening, Spectrum?


    Spectrum: I don''t know, but it''s all gone wild. The match is suddenly being played at a hundred miles an hour.


    Boggy: Either we lost a few listeners during that long injury break or the counter is glitching again. Anyone missing this is missing out! Ben''s in goal. Pascal Bochum is at right midfield. Max Best is striker. Tackles are flying in. The small crowd is making a big noise. There''s aggro between the two benches. Wow. This contest went from nought to sixty very fast. Crewe passing the ball around the defence. That seems much easier now.


    Spectrum: Max isn''t working hard like Pascal did.


    Boggy: That''s bad, right? It sounds bad. I don''t know football but that''s got to be bad.


    Spectrum: If you think Max Best has found a way to weaponise laziness... yeah, I think that''s unlikely. Even for him!


    Boggy: Ben in goal makes me nervous. When the ball is away, he crouches and feels sorry for himself. Crewe with the long pass. Carlile wins the header but the second ball drops to a red shirt. More neat passing, and now they''re in behind! Left-footed cross, low, there''s chaos, a scramble, Cavanagh drops on the ball.


    [cheers]


    Boggy: It''s gone in! It''s squirmed under his body somehow.


    Spectrum: Oh.


    Boggy: Disaster for Chester. Crewe have turned up the heat in the last couple of minutes and now Chester are sweating. Approaching half time, it''s Crewe one, Chester nil. [pause] Shit.


    ***


    While the Crewe bench celebrated wildly, I jogged back to talk to Glenn Ryder - he''d had a great view of the incident. He confirmed that as Ben had been about to dive onto the ball, a cheeky scamp from Crewe had backflicked the ball while facing the wrong way and being upside down. It was actually a sensational piece of improvisation.


    I nodded. "Look after Ben," I said, and left him to it. His influence score was tripled, after all.


    On my way towards the halfway line, I switched to 4-5-1 with Pascal on the left of midfield and Magnus on the right. Aff was on the left of the three central midfielders and I made him our playmaker. I set him to ''try through balls''. I took ten seconds to explain what I wanted. It wasn''t his natural game, but he would try.


    I tapped the ball - my first ever touch in a cup final - and the match resumed. I strolled around, getting even more of a feel of the speed of the game. It was always a bit of a shock to go from the strategic view into the trenches.


    My legs carried me into a pocket of space and I took a pass from Pascal. I was on the half-turn and took two explosive strides as Cody Chambers had taught me. There was no-one ahead of me, though. If I wanted to create something from here, I needed an Henri to combine with. I passed back to Youngster and made a signal. He turned backwards - a groan was audible from the region of the media centre - and Crewe pushed up hoping to force a turnover in a dangerous position. If they got a second goal...


    Carl, Steve, and Glenn passed the ball around. Crewe''s striker was making an effort to press, showing no visible signs of his brain injury.


    Eddie took a pass, stumbled, turned onto his weaker right foot, and then Crewe were swarming all over us. I had my head in my hands on the halfway line, apparently seeing disaster on the horizon.


    In fact, I was making sure I had no aggro on me.


    ***


    Boggy: This is so stressful. Pointless, horseshoe passing, inviting the opposition to come closer to our goal. It''s crap. Sorry to say.


    Spectrum: Breathe, Boggy. There are 700 listeners who need you.


    Boggy: And now a slip from Eddie Moore! He stumbles, gets up, swipes at the ball with his weaker foot. Anywhere will do. Goes to Aff. Aff first time ball over the top! Best is chasing! He''s clear! There''s no-one for miles. How''s he done that?


    Spectrum: You know how.


    Boggy: Charging. The speed is frightening. Max Best a one-man stampede. Bearing down on the nineteen-year-old goalkeeper... Little chip? The keeper''s down... Best continues his run! He slides it into the empty net! The whole move took three seconds! Best is going crackers! He jumps for joy. Look what it means to him!


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 2 - Max Best


    [We see a boy aged about seven. He''s wearing full Chester kit, except for boots, and he''s on his bed throwing a football against the wall. He crashes onto the mattress as he fires a spectacular volley. He jumps down to retrieve the ball and promptly jumps back up to repeat the process.]


    [The voice of Max Best narrates the scene.]


    When I was a kid we had a supply teacher for P.E. and it was raining and he didn''t want to go outside and the girls were in the gym so he wheeled out the old tape player and put on the only sports-related DVD he could find. I suppose it was called Man United FA Cup Glory or something and it was just goals from United in the FA Cup. Mark Robins, Mark Hughes, Eric Cantona. It was just goal after goal with no context but it did something to me. If there was no-one playing out or there was nothing to watch I''d get a ball and practice volleys. Chuck the ball against the wall, scissor kick, fall onto the bed. I must have been copying one of the goals I saw but I can''t find it now. Over and over again, volley, goal! There was a patch on the wall I had to hit and that was the goal. Scissor kick, goal! Scissor kick, goal! I never got tired of it because every kick was the winning goal in the FA Cup final. I don''t even play like that now. Have I ever scored a volley? I don''t think so. But if we''re in training and the ball comes at me just like that, I''ll throw myself sideways and volley it no matter what the drill is. I can''t help it. It''s in me. Best with the volley... Best has won it! I keep chasing that feeling. Glory hunter is a negative phrase. It means someone who follows a team only because they win all the time. I think there''s a different kind of glory hunter. Someone who hunts glory. People tell me I shouldn''t care about this cup or that trophy. They don''t know who they''re talking to.


    ***


    When Eddie passed to Aff, I blacked out, and it was only a few seconds later, while I was screaming at and being screamed at by some Chester fans, that I realised what I''d done. Aff''s pass was not ideal but it had loads of spin and that gave me a ton of options. The fact that I ''chose'' the simplest one shows how little control I had over myself.


    Scoring against a CA 50 goalie in a deserted stadium in the lowest ranked cup known to man... blew my mind.


    I felt like my brain was expanding and contracting with every breath. I wanted to storm around chasing the ball; I wanted to sleep.


    Crewe kicked off and passed the ball backwards. Everyone moved around me in slow motion. I blinked and stepped to the side, but somehow that included me intercepting a pass and surging into enemy territory. My heart crashed into my ribs as I thundered forwards, feet shattering the very earth beneath me, and as a challenge finally came in time sped up and the ball left my foot, arced, and cracked against the post and away, finally rolling out for a throw in.


    I was dimly aware of an ooh from the Chester fans and a smattering of reluctant applause from the Crewe lot. It was only when Crewe''s manager rushed over to the throw-in taker and yelled instructions at him and everyone nearby that I remembered the curse screens. I fell to my haunches and stared at the nearest fistful of grass.


    Crewe, who never changed anything against any team under any circumstances, had gone into a low block. I wondered why. On autopilot, I switched to 4-2-4 with Magnus and Sam as unlikely target men and Youngster and I in midfield. In this new constellation, a very confused Crewe back line tried to play keep ball but found they were swarmed by opponents. The ball was passed back to the safest option. Sam hared after the goalie, who was now utterly frazzled the realisation that I was trying to end his career before it had started. The keeper got to the ball first and hacked it clear. I took a few steps right and controlled it. I pushed it ahead of me, took something of a long jumper''s approach, and kicked through it, so cleanly I didn''t even feel it. The ball compressed and in an attempt to keep its shape while obeying the laws of physics, shot away in a fast parabola that was far, far more accurate than it needed to be.


    ***


    Boggy: Oh my God, Best scores! He''s scored from long range! What is happening? He has just... No celebration this time. It looks like he can''t believe what he''s just done and neither can I. Max Best is obliterating Crewe Alexandra! They went defensive to try to get to half time level but he took the ball and shot like he was absolutely alone. They could have thirty players and it wouldn''t make a difference right now. This is... Where...? Spectrum has gone! He''s run off. Spectrum has left us, ladies and gentlemen. There''s no actual dugout here at Gresty Road, but Spectrum has made his way down to the space in the main stand and he''s hugging Vimsy. He''s dancing with Sandra Lane. She can''t believe what she''s just seen, what''s she''s seeing. I tell you, if Best gets another shot in this half, he''ll score. He''s in the zone, but what that zone is I couldn''t tell you. The Twilight Zone. Over eight hundred listening live, and I can tell you I''ve just witnessed a... spellbinding few minutes. Crewe are in full retreat, full panic, and the atmosphere... There are perhaps only a thousand people in the stadium but it''s electric. I need a break but I don''t want it to end. What on earth are Crewe supposed to do now? I would ask a professional football coach but he''s gone!


    ***


    Crewe got desperate. In an attempt to stop me somehow, they set two players to man-mark me. I switched us to 3-5-2 with me as one of the defenders, pushed Eddie to midfield and Aff to striker, Carl to right mid, and I stood on the centre spot while my players tried to use the last couple of minutes in the half to overload, overlap, and slap.


    It was frantic, it was crazy, at times it was so unstructured things bordered on unprofessional. We had half-chances and the last action of the half was a neat one-two between Pascal and Youngster. Youngster tried to cross the ball for Aff but one of Crewe''s centre backs stuck out a leg and cleared the danger.


    Half time. Two-one, but as I walked to the dressing room, I felt that brief surge of heat drain away. Whatever the hell it was, it was over.


    ***


    Half time was calm. I talked to Sandra suggesting two versions of our next change. I wanted Henri on - the only reason to delay had been to make life harder for Crewe''s manager.


    "The obvious change is Pascal but he''s playing well and he gives us options. The other choice is Eddie and we go 3-5-2."


    "Has to be Pascal," she said. "Most of our formations are four at the back and I wouldn¡¯t want Aff playing left back in a cup final."


    "Okay. Can you tell them? I need a minute. And please check on Ben."


    "I can do that," said the Brig. I nodded - that was even better.


    ***


    I munched on marathon paste and ruminated. Was it too late to undo the change? Youngster as a central midfielder was okay but nothing special. As a DM he was great, but when we brought Chris on we''d play 4-4-2 and it would be better to have Pascal flying up one wing than Youngster stodgily occupying the centre.


    "Sandra," I mumbled. She came over. "I think we have to stick to 4-1-4-1 with me and Magnus as the two right-most midfielders. He''ll cover me when I go roaming. You can yell at him to move around if you see some danger behind me. Sound good?"


    "You want your DM in place."


    "I do."


    She thought about it. "It''ll be a tough half getting up to support Henri while dominating the centre. You''ll run out of gas if you aren''t careful."


    I nodded. My fitness wasn''t bad but it was nowhere near Premier League levels. "Efficiency."


    "Or," she said, "you could score from forty yards like, six more times?"


    "You know I don''t like repeating myself."


    "Sorry, what?"


    "You know I don''t - Oh, well done."


    Her next question showed that while she seemed relaxed, she was nervous as hell. "Any idea what changes they''ll make?"


    "Crewe?" I said, going into the curse screen. "They''ll strengthen midfield but sub off the striker. They''ve got that runner from midfield. We need to deal with him."


    "Want me to...?"


    "Yes, please."


    Sandra went to the tactics board and reminded the lads about the diags and said in the second half we expected a young striker to come on, so that was good, but that we had a new problem. While she talked about the duties of the defenders, I was thinking about how we could stop Crewe''s moves from midfield. It was easy in principle - Magnus would play CM, I''d take the right mid slot but drift infield. We would effectively have three CMs while Youngster mopped up behind us.


    That felt very, very good.


    ***


    Boggy: Second half is underway! Crewe have made some changes, finally replacing their concussed striker. Pretty shocking it took them so long but it annoyed Max Best into producing a simply sensational few minutes. Chester have used their fourth sub to bring Henri Lyons on in place of Pascal Bochum. That leaves Max Best...


    Spectrum: Right midfield is where he lined up.


    Boggy: Right midfield. Oh, but it''s Best pressuring Crewe in the middle of the park. The midfield''s Sam Topps, Magnus Evergreen, Youngster a little deeper. With Aff left and Best right, that''s one of the best midfields ever seen in the National League North, but Crewe are near the top of League Two. They won''t feel that they are out of this.


    Spectrum: No, the zip is back in their passing. The half time break came at a good time for them.


    Boggy: Just over a thousand listening live, now. Word is getting around that there''s a classic cup final going on!


    Spectrum: They''ve all been watching the countdown videos instead of listening to us. They got to the big surprise number one and now they''re tuning in here.


    Boggy: Oh, you were surprised, then?


    Spectrum: I was! I thought it would be either a cute little brother and sister talking about how they want to play for Chester when they grow up, or Harry Styles, or Max Best''s mum or something like that.


    Boggy: Right! Something sentimental. But who they chose made a lot of sense and it was good to see his face again. Okay, there was a tiny break in play there but we''re back underway. Crewe seeing a lot of the ball...


    ***


    Two minutes of the half gone. Three minutes. Crewe''s passing was much faster than ours. They played a lot more one-touch passes than anyone at our level, of course, but also far more than Salford or Wrexham. Their players didn''t dwell on the ball so we couldn''t get close to them to force them into mistakes. It was impressive, especially now that a couple of youngsters had been replaced by a couple of mediumsters.


    Yeah, if these guys got ahead in the match, we''d have to take more and more risks just to get the ball off them.


    They weren''t ahead, though.


    I set us to low block, men behind ball, let Crewe take the risk of coming at us.


    The change made them cautious, funnily enough, and they seemed happy to have sterile possession. When I saw their manager call out some tweaks, I clicked off the low block hotkey and raced after the ball. It was time to get Henri into the game. At CA 63 he was outmatched by the centre backs, but he had the Bench Boost and he was a physical presence who could hold the ball up pretty well.


    Surprised that we were all over them, suddenly, Crewe played a safety-first pass slightly away from the DM. I rushed after it and we got there at the same time. We shoulder barged inconclusively, but I had the faster feet and dabbed the ball to Henri. I continued my sprint and he calmly played a square ball into my path. I was level with him, now but my options were limited and the route to goal was blocked by the energetic left back. I dropped my shoulder to make him continue his run, took a couple of paces to the right, and switched the play in one thrilling, unexpected move. My curling chip landed in front of Henri, who thought I might try something like that and had moved accordingly, and he blasted a left-footed shot... just over the bar.


    I had my head in my hands as I grinned in the direction of Henri. So close! We wouldn''t get too many opportunities, I didn''t think. Using Cupid¡¯s Arrow at the right time would be hard. Maybe impossible. Probably I would connect myself to Chris when he came on and hope to get a free kick or corner. Cupid¡¯s Arrow plus Free Hit - there was something to pin a couple of hopes on. That was for later, though.


    Henri¡¯s chance had the effect of giving Crewe yet another thing to worry about, but a few minutes later they were making their way up into our territory on a regular basis. If I overloaded the middle they came on our right and if I supported the right, they came through the middle.


    And once again we were back to the fundamental problem of being a player manager - I couldn''t do both roles to the best of my ability at the same time. Was there a trick I could use to solidify us? I was starting to struggle with my decision making. Fake low block? Good as a shock tactic. Actual low block? Not with over half an hour to go - have some self-respect! Man marking? Wouldn''t work with the fast, goalscoring midfielder on the case. Seal It Up? Used it. Double DM? They would make mincemeat out of Carl.


    In the end, I decided to station Magnus on the right - he and Carl together would do a good job of shutting down attacks on that wing. I tried to be a classic central midfielder - a little bit of everything - but slowly, inexorably, Crewe''s superior technique wore us down and I found myself dropping a yard back, and another yard, and with half an hour to go it felt like the entire match was being played in our half.


    If only we had one more Max! Another player like me so I could be in two places at once. Did that player exist? Someone who could run, pass, and shoot as well as me, who would actually sign for a non-league team? Highly doubtful.


    No, I''d have to do it with the players I had. They would always be flawed, always have weaknesses.


    ***


    Boggy: Crewe come again. This is nail-biting stuff. Chester lead but are well and truly under the cosh. Can they hang on? Cross comes in - well cleared by Ryder. He''s been immense.


    Spectrum: He wants to lift that cup.


    Boggy: Crewe, patient, probing, quick feet, quick passes. The ball''s never still for long in this game, whether it''s Crewe''s version of tiki taka or Chester''s explosive counters, though there have been vanishingly few of those in recent times.


    Spectrum: That''s it! That''s the image I''ve been looking for. This is like watching Man City against Liverpool.


    Boggy: Ah, now you say it. Oh, now there''s a good pass! They''re... they''re in behind Carlile again. Gets to the byline. Cut back! Shot! Oh magnificent save from Ben Cavanagh! He threw himself to his right, stretched, got his fingertips to it. What a save!


    Spectrum: That was fantastic all round. The midfielder kept his shot low - it''s not so easy, we''ve seen Henri not quite get it right. Top left corner, top bins, that''s a goal all day long. Ben to the rescue.


    Boggy: It''s a corner. Crewe keen to get the game back underway. Floated in - Ben punches! Out to the edge of the box. It''s Lyons defending. Shot goes way over. [pause] There''s twenty-eight minutes to go. I can''t handle this.


    Spectrum: Twelve hundred listening. Tell your friends how good it is!


    Boggy: What''s this? Steve Alton will take the goal kick. Cavanagh with a raging headache so Alton booms the ball long and rushes after it. Haven''t seen that since last time I was down at a Sunday League match.


    Spectrum: His head must be killing him. How did he make that save?


    ***


    I competed for a header and won it, but could only direct it in the general direction of Henri. Crewe''s DM got there first and played the ball to the right back. His match rating was 5 and he was currently on the far side of the pitch from his manager so it was plausible no-one was really aware of how bad he was playing.


    I filed the information away and got back to grafting for the team.


    ***


    Boggy: The agony of the second half continues. Max Best''s minute of mayhem seems like a tale from a bygone era akin to Arthur Pendragon or... or...


    Spectrum: Or playtesting triple A games before you release them.


    Boggy: I don''t know all of those words but I''m going to agree because it saves me having to report on this agony. Agony! Fourteen hundred people sharing in the torture. Crewe are bossing the match and we are struggling to respond. I think removing Pascal Bochum was a mistake. There, I said it.


    Spectrum: We''ve lost some pace and the only sub left is Chris Beaumont so that doesn''t help in the sweeping counter attacks stakes.


    Boggy: Youngster is looking tired. It''s his first cup final. One wonders how well he slept. He''s over on the left helping Eddie Moore. But Crewe retain possession. It''s played inside. Their sub, fresh and full of running, drives forward. Ryder has to be wary of the runners in behind. He moves to the ball now. Shot! Shot from distance! It''s flying - no. Cavvers plucks it out of the air, calm as you like. He made that look easy.


    Spectrum: Is that confidence from Crewe, or are they running out of ideas?


    Boggy: Ah, don''t fill me with hope while poking my despair!


    Spectrum: Soz.


    ***


    Quarter of an hour to go. Fifteen minutes to hold on and we''d beat Crewe in their back yard to win the cup. We were getting ragged, though. The defensive spacing was not consistent. The critical moment was coming.


    Time to act. I used the curse screens to remove Youngster and put Chris on in his place. Straight 4-4-2. Chris would help us defend corners but would offer very little in open play. This was a gamble and a half.


    Crewe''s manager sensed the opportunity and ran around like a crazy person.


    It looks like Crewe have adopted a more attacking approach.


    "Here they come, boys!" I called out. "Archers, ready!"


    Sam laughed. "We don''t have archers."


    "No archers? What kind of shitty army is this?"


    "We''ve got a bus."


    He was suggesting a low block. Park the bus. That could work, especially with Ben giving us a 9 out of 10 performance. Even if Crewe equalised, if we could take the match to penalties we''d have a massive advantage there. We had the better keeper, Bench Boosted, too. I was amazing at pennos and Chris was almost as good. No way did Crewe have two penalty geniuses on the pitch. My eyes drifted to their young right back. Imagine if he had to take a pen to keep Crewe in the game...


    "Come on, Chester!" I yelled. "Let ''em have it!"


    ***


    Boggy: Big tackle from Steve Alton. Oh! Big tackle from Sam Topps. Chester are re-energised. Best on the ball. Shapes to pass long, dribbles round his man. He''s through the lines in midfield. Chris Beaumont lolloping towards goal. Henri dropping short to offer an option. Evergreen trying to keep up. Best... chops back inside! He''s still going. Lyons spins, adjusts his run. Best pops it forward. Lyons into the box on the right. Two players left. What will he choose? It''s a shot! No, chipped! Oh, it''s just over the head of Beaumont. That looked a certain goal! But, what? Best has beaten the right back to the ball. How''s he done that? The young defender had a ten-yard head start. Best rolls it back to Aff, who''s up in support. First time cross, danger for Crewe! Beaumont hits the crossbar! It''s clipped the crossbar and gone behind. What a cross! Beaumont and Lyons are up in arms. They''re saying the goalie got a touch.


    Spectrum: Didn''t look like it but sometimes you can tell from the reaction.


    Boggy: I''d give you a thousand pounds right now for a Max Best to Chris Beaumont corner. But ref says no. Chester will want to hurry back. Crewe take the goal kick short. Into midfield it goes. Very smooth mechanism, this. Out to the right, their left. Cross, cleared by Alton. Loose ball. Attempted ball in behind Carlile. He slides, just about gets there. It breaks. Alton and a red shirt slide into it - that could have been nasty. They both look okay. Ball¡¯s played across. Ryder''s isolated! Crewe line up a shot - no, touched on. He''s - clear shot on goal, now. Oh! He''s dragged it wide. Six inches wide, I can''t believe it. Cavvers had no chance. That was agonising. Ten more minutes of this absolute nightmare. I hate football, Spectrum.


    Spectrum: We all do. That''s why we love it.


    ***


    I switched to 4-1-4-1 with Henri dropping into midfield. I had to otherwise we''d get swamped. But I had my hotkeys all lined up, ready for one last attack. One last throw of the dice.


    But first we had to withstand Crewe''s relentless pressure. Wave after wave, and they''d targeted Carl. Even with Magnus operating almost as a second right back, Carl couldn''t cope with the movement of the Crewe players. His positioning had improved and was more than good enough for non-league level. It would probably be okay in League Two, even, but not against a team who had 80% possession. They just had so many opportunities to test him.


    After yet another near miss, Glenn Ryder stormed towards him and screamed in his face. Carl briefly looked like a cartoon cat being blasted by a jet engine, but soon was giving Ryder a piece of his mind. I didn''t mind the scene in the slightest - they were geeing themselves up for the final push. Or, I suppose, Carl was setting himself up to get a red card. Yeah, the way he was clenching his fists, that looked the more likely option.


    I swapped Carl into my slot and went to right back. Crewe, sensing the chance to put pressure on the mystery winger with no defensive skills - excuse me? I am literally the best sweeper in the world. Didn''t you get the memo? - they tried one of their famous balls in behind. I intercepted it easier than picking up a ten pound note and hit the 4-4-2 button. Henri raced forward and I fizzed the ball through three Crewe midfielders, right onto his toes. While the striker tried to do something productive, I swapped Carl back. As he went past, I gave him a friendly pat, and said, "Beat that."


    ***


    Boggy: Five minutes of normal time to go. Chester two, Crewe one. Fifteen hundred listening in. Chester are five minutes from an unlikely win. Crewe have stretched our defence to breaking point. Chester have stretched me to breaking point. Crewe playing with feverish intensity, now. I can''t remember the last time Chester strung three passes together. Crewe continue to aim their attacks at Carl Carlile. This time it''s the little chip - he follows it, here comes the winger - this has penalty written all over it. Carlile... knocks the ball against the winger! Goal kick! He roars with triumph! Now, let''s waste some time, please, Chester.


    Spectrum: Where''s Max going?


    Boggy: I can''t look at Max. I''m mad at him. He keeps doing this to me.


    Spectrum: What''s...?


    Boggy: They''ve taken the goal kick short! What on earth are they playing at? I can''t stand this. I quit! I quit!


    Spectrum: Alton played the kick to Eddie Moore, who was in acres of space on the left. Crewe didn''t expect that. The - oh! I get it! The winger''s gone to press him. Moore chips over him to Aff. Best is on the left, too. Boggy, this is it! This is the special move he''s had in his pocket!


    Boggy: Why''s he keeping moves in his pocket? Use the moves right away! No more pockets!


    [roar from crowd]


    Spectrum: Slick play from Aff and Max and now Max is tearing down the line. We know he can hit a left-footed cross but he''ll probably cut back inside.


    Boggy: Go for the corner! Speckers, make him go for the corner.


    Spectrum: It''ll be a cold day in hell, Boggy! Oh.


    Boggy: Max Best goes for the corner! Hallelujah! I''m the happiest man alive. I can''t - no! No!


    Spectrum: He waited for the centre back to move and -


    [roar from crowd. strange noises from Boggy]


    Boggy: Goal for Chester! Goal for Chester! Chris Beaumont! Max had two to aim for but he picked out Chris Beaumont''s magnificent head. Three-one! Three, four minutes of normal time to go. Limbs in the Ice Cream Van Stand! Jelly and ice cream for Chester. Straight to bed with no supper for Crewe. Chester are minutes away from a league and cup double, mimicking the wonderful 2013 side. It¡¯s been a helluva struggle, the entire team has been immense from start to finish. Chester have ridden their luck, made their own luck, and look at what it means. Joyous scenes, joy unconfined, uncontained.


    Spectrum: Unbridled.


    Boggy: [huge exhale] What¡¯s this? I knew it! The audience number was stuck. The chat was far too busy for there to only be eight hundred or so people in there. It was whizzing by. More than four thousand have been listening to this epic, epic contest. Spectrum, can I relax? Please. Three minutes to go. Nothing bad can happen, surely?


    Spectrum: I think so, mate. I think so. Erm...


    Boggy: What?


    Spectrum: I think I might go over there.


    Boggy: But -


    Spectrum: Bye!


    ***


    Countdown to the Cup! Episode 1 - The Manchester Messi


    [We see a footballer getting into a chair. He clips a microphone onto an unfamiliar kit and smiles at what might be a hot blonde behind the camera.]


    - I''m Andy Garden. 31. I play attacking midfield for Stockport County.


    [What''s your nickname?]


    - The Manchester Messi. [laughs] I love it but I think Messi would be a bit annoyed if he heard about it.


    [What''s your connection to Chester FC?]


    - Yeah, so I started as a boy at Man City. Moved to Crewe and got loaned to Chester. Loved it there, signed full-time. Had a good spell in a good team. Won promotion three times in a row, by a lot, and I scored the winner in the Cheshire Cup. That was the last time they won it.


    [Have you been following Chester this season?]


    [Big smile] - I have, yeah! They''re all gunning for my records. [laughs] I''m happy for them, though. You know what it means to the community and just from the league table you can imagine the smiles and all that. Nah, you seen how many goals they scored? That''s mad, that. I haven''t seen them live because I been playing but they got the same kinda heart and talent what we had.


    [And they''ve got a Manchester Messi of their own.]


    [Biggest smile yet] - Don''t know about that! I wish him well but if he comes after my nickname we''re gonna have beef, me and him. [direct to camera] Oi, Max Best. Get your own nickname, yeah? Hey, and bruv? Enjoy it. These are the days you remember. [He tugs at something hanging around his neck and pulls it to reveal it''s a winner''s medal. He holds it up, admires it, and gives it a little kiss.] Come on, you Seals!


    ***


    The final whistle blew. We¡¯d done it! We¡¯d actually fucking done it. Soon we¡¯d get the cup and our medals and dance around the pitch like Nobby Stiles in 1966. But first¡­


    I sank to one knee to catch my breath. That last long sprint had absolutely done me in. I closed my eyes.


    Chester FC have won the Cheshire Senior Cup after a remarkable 3-1 win against Crewe Alexandra.


    But first, I repeated, pushing myself to my feet¡­ First things first.


    ¡°Dean,¡± I called, waving him to come with me. He raced onto the pitch, throwing in a few little hops and skips, his joy reminding me of my own. I crashed into him, then laughed as I pulled him towards Ben. We raced to the goal, where Ben was on one knee as though he was about to be sick.


    ¡°Mate,¡± I said. ¡°I think you might get Man of the Match.¡±


    He groaned and held his hands out. Dean and I took one each and slowly helped him up. ¡°Two goals and an assist says otherwise.¡±


    I gave him a smug smile. ¡°Oh, that? No big deal. Now, look. There¡¯s a hotel down the road. 4.4 stars on Trip Advisor. Go get yourself checked in, order room service, treat yourself. Double room if your mate is driving and all that. The club will pay and we¡¯ll look after your gear. You¡¯ve done your bit. Now go sleep it off.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, maybe.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no maybe about it. Dean, can you make sure he goes?¡±


    ¡°Go on, Ben,¡± said Dean giving him a little push in the direction of Simon.


    ¡°What about me medal?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get it for you. And we¡¯ll photoshop you into the team photos.¡±


    ¡°Robbo, too.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Robbo and Trick and some fairies. Just get the fuck to bed, holy shit.¡±


    He trudged off, torn between elation and his big throbbing.


    Dean shook his head. ¡°How did you know he could play?¡±


    ¡°It came to me in a vision.¡±


    ¡°But really.¡±


    I put my hands on my head and looked around. The party was underway. Next time, we¡¯d do this in a full stadium, even if I had to buy all the tickets myself. ¡°I didn¡¯t know. I just have to trust my staff, don¡¯t I? It¡¯s been a long season. Everyone¡¯s worked so hard.¡± I nodded. ¡°We deserve this. We really, really deserve this.¡±


    Dean grinned from ear to ear. ¡°I know I do!¡± His smile faded somewhat. ¡°But Max. The last game of the season. We don¡¯t have any goalkeepers.¡±


    I scoffed. ¡°Sure we do. Angles is a perfectly good backup for an unimportant league match.¡±


    ¡°Backup? Then who¡¯s¡­ No. Don¡¯t say¡­ Max. Max! Come back! Why are you laughing?¡±

 7.16 - Epilogue

    16.


    Match 46 of 46: Chester versus Darlington


    The Brig picked me up and drove me to the stadium. I wanted to drive, but he hinted there were reasons to do it his way, and I went along with it.


    I say ''to the stadium'' but perhaps ''towards the stadium'' would be more accurate. We drove to the city and parked.


    "We''re going to walk from here?" I said. "Talk about the long way round."


    "Quit yer yappin''," said the Brig, in a decent American drawl. I smiled and fell into stride next to him. His accent was explanation enough - we would walk past the posters Brooke had dreamed up.


    "Have you seen them?"


    "I''m sure I don''t know what you''re talking about, sir." He stopped, and I copied him. Across the street was a father and son combo walking in the direction of the stadium. They both had ice creams. The dad had a cup-shaped piece of cardboard covered in tin foil tucked under his arm, while the kid was hauling a massive 2D tin foil league trophy. "Spectacular."


    "Yeah," I said, feeling the warmth of the sun on me. If there had been the slightest hint of tension in my body, it surely would have melted away. "Could be a perfect day."


    We walked on. "Might your former club spoil the party?"


    "They''ll try, the dicks," I laughed. "There''s always the chance they''ll land a lucky punch. They''ll be motivated, all right. They''re fourth. If they beat us they have a good shot at finishing third."


    "Third is considerably better than fourth? I didn''t study the playoff system, sir. I would have, had we been involved. But you assured me we wouldn''t, and, lo and behold."


    "It''s worth mentioning for next year because if Grimsby drop, as seems likely, we''ll be in the playoffs and all this shit will be relevant. Okay, what it is, right..." I paused. The system was both simple and complicated. I''d tried to explain it to Emma once and let''s just say she preferred my poetry. "Okay, in the league, the first four divisions, the playoffs have four teams. Take League Two. The top three go straight up, then the next four slug it out. It''s looking like Crewe, Wrexham, Crawley, and the last spot is up for grabs. Two games then a final. Easy. That means the top seven teams have a chance of going up and if you''re tenth in the league with three games to go, you''ve probably got a chance of getting into the playoffs, mathematically. Which is good, right? More clubs and fans are more involved for longer. Top. But you know only two teams go into League Two from the National League. It used to be one! God, I''m boring myself but it''s important stuff. So one team goes straight up and if you had the next four teams in the playoffs the season would get a bit dull. So they made it into six teams."


    "Six is an odd number."


    "No, John. Six is an even number."


    "Very droll, sir."


    "The top two get a sort of bye. The rest play each other and the winners of those ''elimination games'' then play the second and third placed teams. So Darlington are fourth now and that gives them an extra game to play. Extra games mean more risk. There''s not much to choose between the teams at the top of the league. Every playoff game is 50-50, right? It''s a coin toss. Do you really want three coin tosses instead of two? Including the final you''ll be playing three high intensity matches in ten days or so. All kinds of mad things happen in these matches. Imagine Ben gets concussion in the first playoff game and Henri gets a red card. Absolute disaster, right? So if Folke Wester can get a win today, that puts him third. Spend a bit of extra effort to beat us - he probably suspects we''ll be using our third choice goalie and we''ll be in full party mood - and then rest up."


    "I see. Then it strikes me as strange you are so sanguine about being in the playoffs next season."


    "There''s nothing we can do to change it. But what we can do is build a squad that peaks at exactly the right time. Not just a first choice eleven, but a proper squad. From the elimination match to the semi-final we''ll be able to change six players. Seven, even. The extra match won''t be a problem for us and we''ll turn that lottery into a... what''s the opposite of a lottery?"


    "Three-card monte."


    "Strange that your mind went straight there. How much have you fleeced out of your army mates with that one?"


    "You should ask how much I''ve fleeced out of Chester''s dressing room."


    "Now that I''m resigned to this playoffs thing, I''m thinking up more ways to deal with it. We''ve got another advantage - long-term planning. We play every team we will meet in the playoffs home and away. Those teams are hyper-focused on the next match and the next match alone. If a team beats us in the regular season we''ll immediately start working on a plan to beat them in the playoffs. I can imagine losing the second league match to them instead of revealing that we know how to beat them. Do you get me? I''m able to think much more long-term than every other manager. If I need to feign weakness, I will."


    We watched a car go past. It had Chester flags hanging out of every window and Iron Lion Zion was blasting out of its stereo. The driver beeped and waved and the little kid hoisted his league trophy aloft, very nearly spilling his ice cream in the process.


    The Brig''s voice changed a little. "If I may be serious for a moment, sir... I understand the budget for next season is not all you wished for."


    "It is frightening how good I''ll need to be to make it work. Fortunately..." My smirk finished the sentence for me. Fortunately, it''s frightening how good I am.


    "I have been thinking. With my pay rise I''ll be a drain. An anchor, perhaps. I should not like to think I''m holding you back, sir."


    I glanced at him. He seemed to be in earnest. "Our fitness has been a big help this year. We''ve had fewer soft tissue injuries than most teams."


    "That''s a function of the way you rotate the players. Dean agrees."


    "The boot camp at the start of the season was massive. You sorted them out in two days. I wouldn''t have been able to do it in two years."


    "You can achieve similar results without me."


    I stopped and pulled on his elbow in a way I wouldn''t if I''d been thinking straight. "Are you fucking quitting?"


    "No, sir. I am giving you the option of letting me go so you can reallocate my salary towards more necessary expenditures."


    "Let''s get this straight. I need you. Okay? Is that clear enough? I need all the things you currently do and you''re going to do more. By the time we''re in the... in League One, you''ll be looking at all kinds of physical data so you can do what you do but with added science. I love science and there''s so much of it. You''ll have to get some of that science into you. For examps, I expect you to take Ruth on long weekends to Holland so you can study the methods of PSV Eindhoven before taking her on a romantic barge ride."


    "Romancing Ruth is an official duty, is it?"


    "Yes. There''s a Ted Lasso episode you can watch for inspiration. Maybe do a version where Ruth doesn''t fall into a canal. What else? Oh! The most important fucking thing! I''m letting loads of players go and I''m replacing them with all kinds of cast-offs and thwarted young talents, since that''s all I''m likely to be able to afford. There''s going to be nutjobs, headcases, and pampered princes and I don''t want to talk to them about their fucking problems. That''s your job. You are going to take these talented pricks and turn them into... What''s the opposite of a prick?"


    "A princess."


    "Again, curious word association. You''re as demob happy as the rest of us, aren''t you? I want you to help me turn broken young men into, you know, solid citizens and that. The system chews them up and spits them out. I''ll make them better players and put their careers on track but there''s more to it than that. Life stuff. The squad does some of it, you do the rest. With you, I can hire imperfect people and all I can afford are imperfect people. You love helping people get their lives in order and you''re fucking mint at it. I literally can''t do this job without you."


    "Very good, sir. You are underselling yourself."


    "Disagree. I know my limitations. Now let us never speak of this again."


    "May I have the barge weekend in writing, please?"


    The edge of my mouth pulled itself up. "What would MD say, do you think?"


    The Brig made a pained expression. "Perhaps we shouldn''t make amusing comments about Ruth around him. It might be a sensitive topic, still."


    "Oh, right." I''d forgotten about his long-term crush.


    "Besides," said the Brig, as we yet again came to a stop. "I don''t think she''d enjoy a barge ride. Too slow. It would drive her absolutely insane."


    "You''d have to find some way to distract - why have we stopped again? We''re walking slower than a barge."


    The Brig made eyes at something. A poster. About two metres tall, just over a metre wide.


    It was the poster Brooke had designed in association with MD, Ryan Jack, and whoever else she''d been hanging out with when I''d been stressing she was lonely.


    My grin was instant. "No, come on. This is... Come on. Please tell me this was put up this morning as a joke."


    "There are many around the city, sir, and they''ve been in place for some time."


    I took a step back so I could admire it in full.


    The background was fairly dark and the top half featured geometric light pinky-purple lines and a sort of glowing outline of a football tactics board - the dots were arranged in a 4-4-2. The lower half featured a misty Deva Stadium with the floodlights on. Straddling both halves was a football player (wearing full Chester home kit) facing away from the viewer. The shirt read BEST 77 and my face - it must have been a Photoshop job - was turning back to smirk, equal parts handsome and slappable.


    Across the middle, in large white text, were the words: He''s done WHAT?!


    At the bottom, in yellow, it said: You have to see it to believe it. Early Bird season tickets available now. Don''t miss out!


    There was a URL and a QR code people could scan.


    "That is... bonkers," I decided.


    "People love it."


    "Do they?"


    "I think it''s rather clever. You bug people. This makes the bug into a feature."


    "Very droll."


    "The numbers speak for themselves. Season tickets are flying off the shelves, so to speak, and today''s match will be heavily attended."


    "Huh. Pity it will be uneventful," I said.


    ***


    "All right, shut your gobs. It''s Max''s time to shine." The dressing room was filled to bursting. Every single member of the first team squad was there, including the gaggle of young players we''d been using, plus Michael Harrison, Vivek, and good old Trick Williams who''d scammed the day off at Eastleigh so he could come and join the party. Add in the Brig, Sandra, Vimsy, our physios, and WibRob and we were in like sardines. "My favourite movie is Vanilla Sky. Tom Cruise pottering around New York but it''s completely empty. They didn''t have computers in those days so they had to shut down the whole of New York for three days. Yeah, I know. The world''s first ever mass lockdown, but the residents didn''t mind because they knew it''d make the movie look cool. So quiet streets, man versus self, the opposite of this. This is bonkers. We need a bigger dressing room. Someone write that down. Okay I''m seriously getting claustrophobic so 4-2-4, win your duels, don''t let them get shots away. I''m going out onto the pitch where there''s like, oxygen. Bye."


    "Max," said Angles. My goalkeeping coach and third choice keeper was fully kitted up and ready to play. "You''ll need these."


    He handed me the pair of goalie gloves I''d bought in the days when I was one of the best goalies in the world. "Right, yeah. Good call."


    I escaped the room, and was about to head out onto the pitch but thought about what Brooke would say. She''d probably say something like ''if you want to hawk hogs ferra dollar you gotta holler and doll ''er''. Ah, who knew what they said in Texas? Not me, and there was no way to find out. But going onto the pitch early seemed like it lacked a little razzmatazz. Why not keep the crowd in suspense? There was a strong rumour that I''d named myself in goal, but according to the dressing room, at least half the fans on social media didn''t believe it.


    I slunk into my little manager''s office and thought about my line up. Ideally, I''d have named a weakened team so that good lads like Gerald May and Joe Anka could play their last matches in front of an appreciative audience, but there was no way I could name a weak team against Darlington. Anyway, my fringe players had played a lot when I was away at Grimsby. They couldn''t complain about how many minutes they''d had this season.


    So it was my cup final back four - Eddie, Glenn, Steve, Carl. A good midfield in Aff, Sam, Youngster, and Pascal. And our fearsome strike partnership of Henri and Chris. Average CA 53. Slightly higher than Darlington''s, who had named their best team.


    I closed my eyes and scrolled up through the curse news feed. After the final whistle in the cup match, I''d received two new achievements. Crewe Are Ya?! came with 1 XP and was for winning my first cup. Double Dragon came with 1 XP and was for doing a league and cup double.


    But what was most intriguing was the monthly perk. I had earned enough XP to buy Finances but had held off in case the April option was more useful. To my surprise, it wasn''t a perk but a bonus!


    New reward available: The Winner of Us


    Cost: Free. Must be redeemed before the end of April.


    Effects: While a team you manage holds a trophy, home attendances will rise by 2%. This reward will increase by 2% per year provided at least one senior trophy is won. For example, winning any senior competition five seasons in a row will lead to a 10% increase in attendances in the sixth year. The reward will expire after a season in which a trophy is not won. Please note that pre-season friendly tournaments do not count, nor do specially-arranged ten-minute matches.


    I''d redeemed it straight away, of course. Why not? It seemed like a legit bonus. I still had over two thousand XP but decided to hang onto them in case I changed my mind about buying Finances. I hadn''t heard from Old Nick or the imps in a while, which meant they were happy with what I was doing. Or unhappy?


    There was a knock at the door and the Brig poked his head in. "They''re going out, sir."


    "I''m doing a showmanship."


    "One unit of showmanship? Hiding in your closet is showmanship?"


    "Yes. I''ll go out like twenty seconds before kick off."


    "Very good, sir."


    "Can we turn the lights down and get loads of spotlights on me and play some hype music as I walk to the ring? What do you think? Let It Happen or Fever?"


    "I will ask the sun if it might dim temporarily. Do you really want the hype music?"


    "Of course not. I''m being silly. Why? Do you think we could? There''s not long left."


    The Brig checked one of his watches - he was back up to two. "Don''t fall asleep, sir. The team needs you."


    He closed the door behind him and I waited in the dark, scrolling through the curse news, looking at the season''s many sackings - including mine - Manager of the Month awards, and transfers. I''d won three Manager of the Month awards, for September, November, and February. Sandra had won for March. I''d also won Player of the Month for February.


    Us beating Salford hadn''t been the biggest cupset - that was Maidstone United''s astonishing win against Ipswich Town. A sixth tier team beating one that was heading for the Premier League. Maidstone would be in the National League with us next season and those would be two fun matches. Their manager was all about community, fun, and letting his players and staff speak their mind. Sounded good.


    I closed the screens. What else had happened this season? So many things. The scurrilous article, of course, but my mood was far too good to let Folke Wester or his minions ruin it. As long as they left me alone, I''d let it go.


    Talking of mood, a big step forward this season had been when I''d unlocked the Morale perk. It showed me now that both Henri and Pascal''s was maxed out. Superb morale for the double winners... Or was it the knowledge that their last match of the season would be played in front of the delectable Portuguese waitress Luisa? That triangle had the potential to devolve into chaos, but there was nothing I could do about it. At least if I played in goal I wouldn''t steal the show and they could compete with each other for her attention.


    The time for reflection was over. Over the next ninety minutes I''d try to make sure the final punctuation mark of the season''s story was an exclamation. Then a well-deserved break from it all...


    I got to my feet and went out into the corridor that led to the pitch. The Brig was there - he placed his hand on my chest, non-verbally keeping me in my place. He helped me put my gloves on and nodded at a volunteer who spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Good to go," said the guy.


    The Brig slipped a bath towel around my neck. He walked in front of me, far slower than normal, and I heard a song start to play on the public address system. It was incredibly familiar but not one I would ever have picked on a jukebox.


    As we got to the end of the tunnel, the Brig raised his hands. He was holding a Chester scarf like it was a World Championship belt. As he emerged and became visible to the crowd, heads craned to see what was going on.


    LL Cool J''s voice boomed out: ''I''m gonna knock you out!''


    Once on the pitch, where everyone could see me, I clenched my gloved hands and threw some shadow punches.


    ''Mama said knock you out!''


    The fans went bananas.


    ***


    My players reacted to my grand entrance with amusement, although for Henri and Pascal there was a lot of exasperation, too. Darlington were less impressed. They gathered in a huddle and Folke Wester got them even more riled up than they had been.


    I walked to the away end, which was making a terrible racket. They were seriously up for the match. Highly keen to see their team ruin our party. Beating us in our backyard would make their eventual promotion story all the sweeter.


    My former teammates - Captain Caveman, Blondie, Shrek, Glynn, came at us fast and furious. Real blood and thunder stuff.


    But football isn''t only about aggression and hard work and flying into tackles. Being relaxed and confident is good, too. My guys took control of the game and matched them move for move, if not blow for blow.


    Darlington''s first chance came after two minutes. I saw that the ball was going wide, and I took three tiny steps in the direction of the shot and collapsed in stages before thrusting my hand out and curling into something of a foetal position. This sarcastic ''save'' was considered hilarious by the home fans, but the away fans behind me weren''t so keen on it. Some chanted, "Grimsby reject! Grimsby reject!"


    Henri and Pascal, annoyed that I was stealing the show, redoubled their efforts and we had three minutes of pressure resulting in four shots on goal. Pascal looked a lot more solid than I''d ever seen him. He was up against Jonathan Hurts, the most expensive player the league had ever seen, and Bad Boy was giving him a lot to think about - Pascal''s pace was neutering Hurts as an attacking threat. Meanwhile Henri had mastered the art of using Chris Beaumont as a blocker for his runs. The first few times Henri had made a move that left a defender crashing into Chris, I''d thought it was a weird quirk of a fast-moving, dynamic sport. But I came to realise Henri was making it happen, and here he was at it again.


    My former team were good, though, and while they were brutal they probably played better football than Wrexham. They had a few good moves that were hard to stop, and soon they were bearing down on goal. The right mid played a pass in behind the defence and the striker...


    The striker got a tasty plate of fresh air and a dessert of my exhaust fumes.


    My handling wasn''t good. If I made one save I wouldn''t be able to get to my feet in time to save the rebound. I was okay at punching away crosses but couldn''t control where the ball would go. As a pure goalkeeper, there were probably several better choices in the first team squad. Magnus, for example, was good with his hands. But as a sweeper? Mate, I was literally the best sweeper in the world.


    Our tactical plan was bold but simple. The defenders would start near half way - a so-called ''high line'' - and I would sweep up behind them.


    Having intercepted the ball, I dribbled through the midfield at high speed, slowed to do a silly pose that got the three nearest Quakers to come at me, and played a through ball behind Hurts for Pascal to run onto.


    ***


    Boggy: Here come Darlington! Danger for Chester. Can they burst this party atmosphere?


    Spectrum: No.


    Boggy: Ball played through - Best is there! Miles out of his goal. He keeps going! He storms into midfield. He''s got options left, ahead, right. He - oh!


    Spectrum: Ha ha what. Ha ha is he... is he doing the Mbapp¨¦ celebration?


    Boggy: Of course, for Darlington this is a serious game. They''re not - there it is! Through ball from Best! Bochum races onto it. Bochum at light speed! Into the box, from the sides as they like it. What''s... He''s going to shoot! No! Cut back to Lyons!


    [roar]


    Boggy: One-nil Chester! Unselfish play from the German.


    Spectrum: His decision-making is off the scale. Oh, that''s new. He''s bowing to the main stand. So''s... huh. So''s Henri. What''s that all about?


    Boggy: Maybe there''s a royal visitor we haven''t heard about? Huge cry comes up - Champions! People are waving scarves and flags and hoisting aloft home-made league trophies. The away fans lapse into silence. Their former star is a few yards in front of them, paying them zero attention, and he''s really taking the Michael by playing in goal. They might think it''s disrespectful but our first-choice goalies are injured or sick and so far, Max Best in goal is doing okay. Of course, he hasn''t had a shot to save, yet. Darlington have come out fighting, they''re really going for this, but they haven''t been able to lay a glove on Chester. This is a seriously dominant performance so far.


    Spectrum: The defenders are playing higher than I''ve ever seen them. They''re catching Darlington offside again and again, and they know if one pass does get through, chances are Max will clean it up.


    Boggy: Who does this? I mean, is this Max''s idea?


    Spectrum: Probably. He comes in to training, says he had too much cheese and had weird dreams and he wants us to coach a high line. Normally Vimsy does the first session and Sandra takes over and refines it.


    Boggy: Sounds like a well-oiled machine.


    Spectrum: Or he decides it five minutes before the match. Today, for example, I noticed the Darlington lineup was powerful and tough but not fast. We don''t play high defensive lines normally because our defence isn''t the quickest so they can''t race back. But against this eleven... I mean, if I noticed it, Max certainly did.


    Boggy: And there''s no risk to that?


    Spectrum: It''s better to practise. I don''t know if they did or not. I was helping Jackie with the women''s team.


    Boggy: Congratulations on the big win! I''m sure everyone listening to this was tuned in last night, too. A hat trick for the sensational Angel, a fitting end to a wonderful season.


    ***


    With us a goal ahead, Glenn Ryder dropped ten yards and no amount of shouting could make me get him back up. Moving the defensive line up and down hadn''t been an issue for me so far but one day I''d need a perk that would give me full control of that. If Ryder started close to the halfway line I would intercept almost any long pass that was played behind. But falling back to protect a lead was so ingrained in him I couldn''t do it through the curse - I''d need weeks, maybe months, on the training pitch.


    Now that Darlington weren''t being caught offside all the time, and with Ryder having accidentally nerfed me, the match became more of an even contest.


    Ah, well. In a way I was glad to be reminded that although I''d travelled a long way, there was still an awful lot I had to learn. Who wants it to be easy?


    ***


    Boggy: Good spell of pressure from Darlington. They''re moving the ball around nicely. Youngster challenges but the ball breaks unkindly. Chance for a shot... Saved by Best!


    Spectrum: Ha ha.


    Boggy: He headed the ball clear! He saved it with his head. He could easily have used his hands, Speckers!


    Spectrum: That wouldn''t have been funny.


    Boggy: Throw-in to Darlington. Down the line. Flicked on. All very agricultural over there. Now the ball''s on the ground and - oh! Good pass, that. Now another shooting opportunity opens up. Shot! Saved by Best. Oh, but he''s spilled it! It''s gone through his legs and he... he hurls himself onto the ball before it crosses the line.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Spectrum: Oh my God that was wild. What a mistake! Even for an outfield player in goal, that was sloppy. It was almost as though he bounced it between his legs. Been watching too much NBA, perhaps.


    Boggy: He hurls the ball out to the left where Eddie Moore is in space. Have you noticed there are some players you always want to say their full name? Eddie Moore. Sam Topps. Gerald May.


    Spectrum: I have noticed that but I can''t work out the rules.


    Boggy: Loose touch from Beaumont and here come Darlington again. Long range shot - speculative - Best saves. Oh, but he''s spilled it again! It''s gone through his legs, he falls on it before it crosses the line.


    Spectrum: [laughing] Max.


    Boggy: What?


    Spectrum: He''s doing it deliberately. The first time, okay, it looked bad. But for the exact same thing to happen again? Look, Glenn Ryder''s asking him to cut it out.


    Boggy: Best protesting his innocence. That''s suspicious. Okay, well, I for one don''t need more drama today. Get through to the end and describe the scenes. That''s what I''m here for.


    ***


    Glenn asked me to stop dicking about and I said I would if he moved ten yards further forwards. He tried to push his knuckles into his skull but then laughed and said fine. So it all worked out pretty well.


    For the rest of the half I played a pretty stripped-down version of a sweeper-keeper. I didn''t dribble into midfield. I didn''t do diving headers to save shots. I simply intercepted inaccurate passes and fired the ball straight to Aff or Pascal. After all, that''s why we were playing 4-2-4.


    We went in at half time one-nil up but we''d had nine shots on target to Darlington''s two. We got something of a standing ovation. Folke Wester was so angry I laughed at him in the tunnel and caused a minor flare-up.


    God, it''s just a game. Why do people take it so seriously?


    ***


    Our half-time team talk featured a brief but intense bicker. In the blue corner was me, Sandra, and the wannabe floating megabrains (Pascal, Youngster, WibRob) and in the black-and-white corner were our defenders. They weren''t comfortable doing what they''d been told to do and even the evidence of their own eyes wasn''t enough to convince them.


    After everyone had spoken up, I tried to put a lid on things. "There''s four thousand in the stadium today. They want a party. With a crap goalie there''s two ways we can play. One is a low block and try to stop them getting good shots. Do you want to do a low block in front of four thousand people, Glenn? When what we''re doing is slapping so hard? You''d prefer to bore these guys to death? Is that how we repay their support?"


    "There''s a middle ground," he said.


    "No, there isn''t. We can go high or we can go low. Genuinely the only options today. Sandra?"


    "I agree. It''s not even a discussion."


    "Glenn, I know you don''t like it, but you have to trust me."


    Sandra scoffed. "To be fair, Max, you acting the maggot doesn''t instil trust."


    I shook my head. "It''s the last game of the season. We''re putting on a show. Look, they''ll score if they get a good shot away but if we play a high line they''ll get maximum three shots this half. All right? If you drop back those fuckers will win. I don''t know how to say it more clearly than that."


    Henri stood and went in front of his mate. "Glenn, what is the problem? You have this."


    "I''m a slow National League North centre back. I''ve never played like this before."


    "They are slow National League North strikers!"


    "They''re faster than me."


    "If you''re in a race, Max will win!"


    Glenn''s head dropped. "I know, but... I don''t want to ruin the season because I''m running the wrong fucking way!" He scrunched up his face. "Okay."


    Henri pointed at me. "That bastard had me being Chris''s manservant the whole year! Me! The premium striker in the division, fetching and carrying. Oh, please have my goals, Mr. Beaumont. Here, Mr. Beaumont, another goal for you and would you like me to press your socks? We have to do things we don''t like."


    "Max is playing in goal, Glenn," said Youngster. "We must all pull together to make today a success."


    The bell rang. "Listen. We''re smashing the match and we''re bickering. That prick in there is tearing his hair out because he doesn''t have a solution. If he brings a fast player off the bench we''ll switch to a normal 4-4-2 and they won''t get another kick. He''s stuck. This is a tactical masterclass and a half, lads." I grinned. "You know what? This is going so well I''m tempted to do it again. Who needs goalkeepers anyway?"


    ***


    We were shooting towards the away fans this half - Folke Wester must have thought breaking convention would annoy me but I couldn''t have cared less.


    The game restarted and my back four pushed up to within five yards of halfway. I went out of my box, patrolling. A long kick was aimed over Glenn''s head. He turned, panicky, as the striker raced past him and onto it.


    The striker was Blondie, one of the cavemen from Darlington. He was CA 52 these days, but he hadn''t improved his pace. I took the ball on my chest and dabbed a volley over the twat. Glenn took a touch and passed it back to me. I crabbed to the left, drawing the second striker towards me. Then I hit a crisp left-footed pass through the midfielders to Henri. He took it on the half-turn and we were away.


    Several passes later, Aff slammed a shot towards the top-left of the goal that the goalie did well to tip behind for a corner. Henri and Pascal stopped dead and turned to look at me. Was I going to go up and take a corner? I thought about it - how funny would that be if I got an assist? But no, that was something for a friendly game or exhibition. York City wouldn''t be pleased if I let Darlington finish above them in the league because I was messing about, and they had a couple of players I could imagine wanting to buy one day soon if they didn''t get promoted.


    Aff took it and it was well defended. Darlington were good at set pieces, all right.


    But from open play? They didn''t have the tools to escape my net. They tried hard, fair play, but couldn''t build up a proper head of steam.


    In the stadium, the party was bubbling along. Behind me was most of the women''s team. To the right were loads of Manchester''s Ghanaian community mixed in with some girls from Man City. To the left, I''d seen the staff of Tiny Tino in a pocket in the main stand - that''s where Henri and Pascal had gone after the goal.


    Yep, things were bubbling along all right, but the real celebrations would start at the final whistle in about half an hour. Still, there were plenty of chants of Champions!, Max Best''s Blue and White Army, and Chester! When the hard core fans weren''t taunting the away lot, they were cycling through the player songs. Iron, Lyons, Zion. Bad Boy. And a new one that had sprung up, set to the tune of Delilah by Tom Jones.


    "My, my, my Goliath! Why, why, why, Goliath!"


    It made no sense, but very little does.


    Youngster went into a tackle and got a ''suspected foot injury''. I swapped him for Magnus - as CMs they were very similar and Magnus was fresher, so no big deal. But Magnus wasn''t quite up to the speed of the game and with his first touch he played a loose pass in the direction of Carl Carlile. I rushed over to give the right back a simple option but pressure from Dicks made him hack the ball back towards our goal. He''d played hundreds of passes like that over the season knowing Ben or Robbo would be there, but I didn''t stand in one spot for ninety minutes. Manic energy was kinda my thing.


    I had to sprint like the devil. The ball was spinning, spinning, and would spin all the way into the back of the net in about half a second. I made up a staggering amount of ground, slid in, and booped the ball over the crossbar. I still had some of my rugby skills! Kick boy to the rescue!


    I lay on my back, panting, while the Harry McNally stand gave me a standing ovation.


    Carl came to apologise - no need, shit happens - and any thoughts I had that Henri and Pascal would be upset that I was continuing to catch the eye were quickly put to rest. Henri hugged me and mumbled words of praise. Pascal insisted he be allowed to shake my hand. Both still had sky-high morale. Little did they know Luisa was about to deliver a knockout blow to one of them...


    I stepped behind the goal line to try to catch my breath and to keep my eye on the corner taker. We''d studied the signals Darlington used, but I felt sure they''d aim for the centre of the six-yard box and try to put pressure on us. I called out, ¡°Dead centre, lads!¡±


    Folke Wester was in a mini huddle with his biggest cavemen just outside the box. They were leaning in while he gave instructions. Weirdly, the image reminded me of a boxing trainer telling his fighter what to do, but the delay was stupid. They should have taken the corner while I was out of breath. Now I felt ready for a good spring and a punch. One big juicy punch would do it.


    ***


    Boggy: Corner to Darlington. Under thirty minutes to go and it''s the first time they''ve had the chance to put Max Best under real pressure. Lots of movement, lots of jostling. Looks more like wrestling than football. Chester have Bochum and Eddie Moore on the edge of the box ready for a fast counter. Here comes the cross. Outswinger. Punched clear by Best! What a leap! It''s picked up by Hurts. He swings a cross... no, he''s gone for goal! Empty goal! He''s scored! Darlington have equalised. There''s absolute bedlam in the box. Where''s Best?


    Spectrum: He''s down.


    Boggy: Chaos in the box. The ref''s given the goal. Chester players are surrounding him. Physio Dean sprinting on. The home fans behind the goal are livid! Absolutely livid! Oh, I''ve got a bad feeling about this.


    Spectrum: Max Best is coughing up blood.


    Boggy: What on earth...


    Spectrum: Someone''s punched him when he''s gone up for that corner. Hit him in the ribs. He''s struggling to breathe. Dirty, cheating [inaudible]


    [pause]


    Boggy: Fury has turned to concern. Chester players in a little pocket, hands on their heads. Little Pascal Bochum is still furious! He kicks the goal post.


    Spectrum: The linesman.


    Boggy: The assistant referee is jogging onto the pitch. He''s in consultation with the referee. I wonder if he saw who did it? Frankly, I don''t care. Okay, Best is trying to sit up. That seems like a good sign.


    Spectrum: Oh, thank fuck.


    Boggy: He''s dazed but, but he''s getting to his feet. Oh, bit more blood there. Goes down on one knee. And now the referee blows his whistle. What''s he doing? Trying to get the game to restart?


    Spectrum: He''s disallowed the goal. Free kick.


    Boggy: He has! No goal! The ref has wiped out the goal and it remains one-nil. Surely that''s a red card, then? The ref has gone to talk to Glenn Ryder. If I had to guess I''d say he''s explaining his assistant saw the incident but couldn''t say who it was. Ryder is nodding. What else can he do? Now he''s talking to Best. The ref''s gone to Folke Wester. Now Darlington are surrounding the referee. Pushing him. Let''s hope they don''t punch him! All very ugly. I think... I think Best wants to stay on. How can he? He''s got a broken rib, if I''m any judge! This is insane. Now Ryder''s calling a huddle. Everyone''s furious. The party vibe is well and truly gone. It''s got very nasty all of a sudden. God knows what happens from here.


    ***


    The pain was staggering but I could stand and I could walk. That was more than enough to deal with these fucks. Anyway, all this talk of broken ribs was so pessimistic. Another way to look at it was that I had 23 perfectly solid ones. That was plenty.


    Dean, mutinous, entombed me in several rolls of tape, picked up his medical bag, and sulkily walked off.


    "Hey, where are you going?"


    "Dugout."


    "Livia can do everyone else. I need you here."


    "I''m not allowed."


    "Yeah you are. Here''s your permit." I made the sign of the cross, but raising my right hand was painful.


    He hesitated but went to sit in front of the advertising boards where fans leaned over to pepper him with questions. The answers were spread across social media and within minutes, everyone knew I had a broken rib caused by a right hook from a right wrong ''un.


    Glenn jogged over. "Max, please. You can''t play. Be serious. Put Angles on."


    I smiled, which was a mistake because my teeth were all red. "I''m fine. Look, keep the high line and I''ll do my bit. I promise."


    He shook his head. "If it was anyone else you''d sub them off. It''s not worth dying over."


    "I don''t have a broken rib. Dean loves to exaggerate. Now will you fucking get the game going? Please? Thank you."


    "You''re not staying on to do something stupid?"


    "Like what?"


    "Like snap Folke Wester in half."


    "I have no such ambitions," I lied, as a flash of searing hot agony shot up my side.


    He jabbed a finger into my face. "Don''t do it. Do not do it."


    "Aye aye, cap''n."


    "Magnus," he yelled, and suddenly Magnus Evergreen, the player with the cleanest aura of any Chester player, was looking into my soul.


    "Max," he said, softly. "If you get a red card, a ban, more controversy, then he wins. This plan of yours is more painful to him than a couple of bruises. Don''t you think?"


    I sighed as the red mist started to float away. "I guess."


    "Perfect. Now, if there''s any retribution to be served... leave it to me."


    "Er, fuck that," said Glenn. "It''ll be me."


    Magnus shook his head. "I''m player-coach-physio. That''s three things. Even Max is only two." He pulled his sleeves up. "As the senior player, I will be the instrument of karmic retribution."


    "Senior player? I''m the captain. I decide who gets put on smashing duty."


    "Guys," I said. "You know what? No smashing. Overloads and overlaps. Let''s beat them, not beat them."


    They looked at each other, nodded, and turned away. It was only later that I wondered if the whole thing had been scripted to calm me down.


    Ryder kicked the ball out to Carlile, who passed inside to Magnus. We passed around the defence for a little while, and in that time the fans realised the game was continuing and the emotional temperature rose from concerned to angry. There was a fever brewing and the more we attacked the hotter it got.


    ***


    Boggy: Hurts intercepts the pass. Deafening boos every time a Darlington player touches the ball. Hurts dallies and is barged off the ball by Pascal Bochum! Things you never see. Another contested ball in midfield, oh Sam Topps went in hard. And the fans love it! Chester are furious. They''re fierce. They''re swarming all over Darlington. There''s no space! We''ve compressed the pitch and there''s no space.


    Spectrum: They''ve got shit technique. They can''t pass their way out of trouble. The ball over the top might work though. Max hasn''t moved for about thirty seconds. I''m not sure he''s even watching.


    Boggy: Here''s the test. Hurts with the ball. He''s learned his lesson about taking too long! He launches a booming pass over Steve Alton. Blondie in pursuit. He''s got the drop on Alton, but what will Best do? Best does nothing - no! No he sprints. He''s going to go in two-footed, isn''t he? Oh... Oh! Best got there first, waited, and simply popped the ball to the side. Easy does it.


    Spectrum: I''m sweating. But that was beautiful. That was the move he taught Dani the day he discovered her in Crewe. Let your opponent run straight at you and simply float away. It''s harder than it looks.


    Boggy: I bet. Simple pass to Ryder. I can see Glenn''s grin from here. He thought Best was going to do something stupid. Eddie Moore. Aff. Back to Moore. Topps, now. He - no! He turns. Backheels it to himself! No-one expected that! He took two midfielders out with that one.


    Spectrum: That''s the Charlotte Twist! He learned it from her!


    Boggy: Topps pops the ball to Lyons. Bochum. Another interchange and Bochum bursts past Hurts. He''s to the byline. The cross evades everyone! But Aff''s at the far post! He slots home! Two-nil Chester! Two-nil! What a wonderful goal! That''s how you play. That''s how you play!


    Spectrum: Some of the Chester players are making that point to Folke Wester.


    Boggy: Urgh, that was satisfying. That was so satisfying. Beauty and the Beast.


    Spectrum: They don''t deserve such a beautiful goal to be scored against them.


    ***


    I found the best spot to stand was slightly to the right of centre. Most of the long forward passes were hit by right footed players and they imparted spin that would take it to their left, my right. Darlington''s left was their stronger side, though Carl and Pascal were competing with them pretty hard.


    We had two more subs who could come on. Ideally, I''d have given a few minutes to two of Gerald May, D-Day, and Tony. Nice round of applause. Little touch of class to finish the season on.


    Touch of class.


    I touched my ribs and wished I hadn''t.


    Aff beat his man and whipped in a cross just over Chris''s head. Henri competed for the second ball, forcing a hurried clearance that Magnus pounced on. He cut it to Sam, who lined up a shot - no, mate! But it was a fake - he slipped it forward to Henri, who tried a backheel pass to Chris but found himself being booted up the arse.


    Free kick! Twenty-five yards from goal! Off-centre! In front of the away fans!


    I set myself as the free kick taker and ambled forward. The farther I went, the more people in the stadium stood up. By the time I wobbled the ball under my foot - I didn''t trust myself to bend - the whole stadium was abuzz.


    He wouldn''t... would he?


    ***


    Boggy: Scenes at the Deva! Consternation and disbelief. Hope and dread. Max Best, playing with a broken rib, his green shirt stained with blood, has gone up to take a free kick. It''s, well, it''s Max Best territory, but should he be there?


    Spectrum: Yes.


    Boggy: Emphatic response from the football expert. I''m sure he knows best.


    Spectrum: Okay, fine. He shouldn''t be taking this. But you know what? There''s a lot of things we shouldn''t do. We shouldn''t lick ice cubes when they''ve got that sticky cold edge. We shouldn''t ask Max Best to explain the plot of the movie Memento. We shouldn¡¯t jokingly ask Henri to help us learn French. But sometimes we can''t help ourselves and we get headaches of all kinds.


    Boggy: What''s he doing? He''s talking to Chris Beaumont, Henri Lyons, Sam Topps. He''s giving them a big lecture about something. Are they discussing an intricate routine?


    Spectrum: Oh my God! [Laughter.] He''s telling them not to hug him when he scores. Oh, he''s so arrogant! I love it.


    Boggy: Which way will he shoot? The goalie''s lined up closer to the near post. That''s the right as Best is looking at it. He could curl it into the left. Lots of space there. Or will he shoot right assuming that the goalie will move left?


    Spectrum: Oh, that''s interesting. Folke Wester pulled someone out of the wall and he''s gone there himself. I think... I think he wants Best to kick the ball at him! Then they''ll have a chance to break and score into an empty goal.


    Boggy: Spectrum! Why do you put these thoughts into my head?


    Spectrum: It''s smart from Wester. He''s horrible but he''s smart.


    Boggy: The referee is ready. The wall is set. The goalie''s on his toes. Max Best. He twitches - the stadium holds its breath. He points left - Pascal sprints - the German is unmarked on the left! Best could chip it over the wall and Bochum could have a tap-in! Wester sees the danger. The wall falls apart. Best - scores! He scores! He shot through the gap in the wall! Bochum - did he hide behind Chris Beaumont? Wherever he came from, he sprinted and caused havoc and - and Best is trying not to laugh. Don''t make me laugh, he says. Chris Beaumont acting as his bodyguard while Chester players try to celebrate with their player-manager. And... and he''s had enough! Best is leaving the pitch. Cheers turn to a standing ovation. Best, I¡¯m sorry to say, is milking it. Haha! Well, fair enough. He throws one glove up into the main stand where it''s caught by - wow. Is that a mermaid? The other glove he hands to a young fan in the front. That very much seems like the end of his goalkeeping career! And on that note, Steve English, Angles, will come on for the last twenty minutes or so. Probably his last taste of professional football. Angles holds up his gloves - Best gives him a left-handed high five, then another one. High ten for Chester''s goalkeeping coach. Paid in instalments! Quick word for Sandra Lane and Best goes down the tunnel. The Brig and Physio Dean follow. He''ll be all right, they''ll take care of him. Now, are there any twists left in this match?


    ***


    I lay on a treatment table and suffered bravely while Dean fussed over me. I promised I''d get a scan after I''d given my speech to the fans. The Brig helped me out of the goalkeeping top - it was painful to lift my arm, and I took a shower.


    "Good to do this before Henri uses all the hot water," I shouted into the echoey space. I realised what I''d said and stopped the flow. I squelched to the doorway. "We''ve got hot water?"


    "It was a gift."


    "A gift?" I said, genuinely astonished. "Who from?"


    "From Crawley Town, MD said. Congratulations on an amazing season, turn the boilers on for a day and send us the bill. They want to pay us in bitcoin. Not sure if MD was joking."


    I was more gobsmacked than if Darlington had aimed for my face instead of my ribs. "Crawley Town? I literally don''t know anyone there. Is MD mates with them or something?"


    "I believe he was as surprised as you. We thought perhaps you''d explain it."


    "I can''t. I''m all at sea. The only thing I can think... Something from one of the fan podcasts. Crawley''s manager - he''s got a weird name - saved them from relegation last year and now they''re in the playoff spots and he was interested in my demented presentation about the various levels of 4-4-2. You know, when I was off my head on flu medicine. Brig, remind me to send a thank you note or something. Oh! They don''t know about Henri''s showers. He''ll bankrupt them."


    "It''s a nasty bruise, sir."


    "Yeah, well. Tomorrow it''ll bloom, right? We''ll get a photo of me looking miserable yet handsome and we''ll see if Brooke can do anything with it."


    "You want to send Brooke a topless photo, sir?"


    I laughed, which hurt. "Why don''t you go and tell Sandra to make our last sub? She''s got three guys to choose from."


    "Who would they replace?"


    I fussed in my kit bag looking for a toothbrush. "Er... Tony for Henri. D-Day for Pascal. I suppose the lovebirds will be mad if I bring them off when they still have a shot at glory. So, Gerald for Steve, I think."


    "I''ll be right back. Dean will stay to make sure you don''t get attacked. It is the last day of the season, after all."


    I returned to the shower, enjoying the feel of the hot water while gently cleaning my teeth, then all of a sudden I was done with it. I turned the shower head and towelled myself off left-handed. The Brig returned, grinning. "You got it all wrong, sir. It seems you don''t know quite everything about football."


    "What?"


    "Both Henri and Pascal wanted to be subbed off. That would give them a standing ovation, you see?"


    "Ah. Of course."


    "What''s that all about, anyway?" asked Dean.


    "The hot waitress said she''d be here today and they''re both trying to impress her."


    Dean scoffed. "Good luck with that. Everyone knows she''s a Max Best fan."


    "What?"


    He shook his head. "Don''t play coy. She always makes sure you''re in her section, for a start." He laughed. "How are they supposed to impress her when you''re hitting fifty-yard passes left and right-footed, scoring free kicks, playing hurt? And didn''t you just throw her your glove? So romantic, Max!" He shook his head. "Henri says you''re a good wingman. I wonder if he''ll change his tune after today?"


    "I''ve never thrown anything left-handed before. It was one in a million it went anywhere near her. Okay, let''s stop the gibberish and let''s help the wingman into his wingman suit." I had a fresh BEST 77 home kit ready, and with some difficulty, got it on. Then I went to the dugout to nab what remained of the XP available for the season.


    ***


    Boggy: The final whistle! A long, hard season for the men comes to an end. Glory in the FA Cup, winners of the Cheshire Seniors, winners of the league. 106 points, 117 goals. Staggering! The women''s team are rushing on, and now the celebrations can begin in earnest. Players dancing around the pitch. Fans throwing scarves to be worn. The trophy presentation being prepared. Fans hold up trophies of their own. Many home-made, some helium balloons. Ah! And as you can hear, they''re playing Queen. We Are the Champions! [pause] Note to self. Don''t go to karaoke with Spectrum!


    Spectrum: Sing up, Boggy.


    Boggy: Ah, go on, then.


    ***


    Noise, colour, excitement. Babies and toddlers on the pitch. Triumphant music. Selfies, interviews, smiles, laughs, and a rapidly emptying away end. Bye!


    So far, so conventional. Too conventional. It was time to Max things up.


    As I got to my feet - my side was really quite sore, now - the hospitality volunteer who had been waiting nearby handed me a microphone and the music tapered off. The buzz from the crowd dimmed, but not enough. I was this close to saying, "All right shut the fuck up" but only about thirty people would have found it funny.


    "And now," I said, "Please welcome to the stage... Max Best!" The fans took this as a cue to get louder instead of quieter. Seriously, guys, come on. "Can you shush? Thanks. Okay, if you don''t know who I am, I am player-manager Max Best. I think I''ve achieved everything I realistically could at Chester. I helped save you from relegation last season and we''ve, you know, done what we''ve done this season. Cough league and cup double cough." The applause was nervous. My tone was... weird. "I need to tell you something important, now. Ahem. Er... How can I say this?" Tension descended like Old Nick¡¯s helicopter - unwanted and out of place. "I am leaving." Shock. People were so shocked they could barely process what I''d said before I moved on. "I am leaving the lights on in the trophy cabinet. All year round!" A few people groaned. "But listen. Guys. Listen. Next season, we are definitely going down." Pause. "Next season we are definitely going down south a lot more." Groans. "Because it''s not just the north, it''s national. What? Shush. Okay. I know you all love transfer gossip and we will be doing a lot of signing..." Silence. They didn''t trust me. "All our social media posts will be translated into British sign language! Right? Signing? Yeah, that''s weak. Sorry about that. One more? No? Fine. That bit''s over. Serious bit now.¡± I squirmed as a sharp pain exploded from my side. ¡°Er... I don''t know what the future holds, okay? Next season will be hard. We won''t score a hundred goals, but we''ll give a hundred percent, and that''s no joke."


    "Chester! Chester!"


    I turned around slowly. So many people to thank. If I mentioned everyone it would take hours. "I need to thank a lot of people for this great season and knowing you guys, you''ll applaud every one of them and we''ll be here all night. We''ll applaud once at the end, all right? First, I''d like to thank our visiting manager for the broken rib. One broken rib for three points? I''ll make that trade. I''ve got 23 more. That''s half a season."


    Furious boos from the home fans. Great fun.


    "I hope you get promoted. I really do."


    Jeers from the Chester mob.


    "Enough about losers and villains. Let''s hear about winners and heroes.


    "Johnny Planter! Our groundsman. The pitch held up, mate! You, as we say in Manchester, da man.


    "Players who helped us this season and went to other clubs. Trick Williams. End of list.


    "Volunteers and match day stewards. Unbelievable work, guys. Without you, there''s no club.


    "Glendale Logistics! You know I''m not a corporate sellout but guys, Glendale are the only warehousing and storage solution I would ever consider using and they helped us out with the cash we needed to buy Ryan Jack. What a signing he was, by the way! Thank you Glendale. Glendale Logistics - it''s only logical.


    "(That''s not even their slogan. Not sure why I said that. You can have it for 2k. A grand cash, no paperwork.)


    "Quick shout out, please, to the voice of Chester. You ready? Boggy Boggy Boggy!"


    Half the stadium chanted "Oi! Oi! Oi!"


    "God, I love that. MD, Inga, Secretary Joe, and the board. I''ve been a hassle, I know, and guess what? I''m not sorry. Now, everyone pay close attention to this next part. MD said he''d give me more transfer money if you cheered really loud."


    This got a decent response.


    "Wow. Feeble. You just summoned a fourth choice left back. Holy cow come on you can do better than that."


    They put some backbone into the next one. It was impressive. MD looked pleased with it. I think he was pleased, anyway. I didn''t really pause to check.


    "Brooke? You did it. You''re in. You''re one of us now.


    "Jackie Reaper and the coaches of the women''s team. Nailed it.


    "Terry from the Chester Knights. Smashed it.


    "Spectrum and our youth team coaches. Spectacular.


    "Sandra, Vimsy, the Brig, Dean and Livia, Jude. I shouldn''t have started this. I can''t name everyone. If I forgot your name you get to poke me in the gap where I used to have a rib.


    "And some departures. A few first team players most of you probably know about. Robbo Robson, Gerald May, Donny Dorigo, Joe Anka, Tony Hetherington. They''ve got loads of offers, don''t worry about them. Lots of the under 18s are leaving, too. They''ve represented the club with a lot more class than me, I can tell you that. And our fantastic loan signings, Chris Beaumont - 29 goals in 25 games, what? Those are Dixie Dean numbers. And Calabash Barkley, a real rising star.


    "So, in a moment Glenn will lift the league trophy and we''ll run around like idiots. Then we''ll form into a procession of glory, formerly called a lap of honour. The men''s team with our league and cup. Let me know if you want to see my League Two Player of the Month trophy for January. No? Fine, stop booing." They weren''t booing. There were some laughs. My little trips to Tranmere and Grimsby were all part of the story of the season, now. "The women have their league trophy. The under 12s have the cup they won in Liverpool. Guys, you should have seen them. They tore everyone to shreds! Every team has had their moments. Moments of triumph and disaster and they did it all wearing your badge, Chester. They fought like lions and played like kings. Don''t mess with Chesters! Let ''em have it!"


    As the fans went bonkers, I walked - couldn''t jog - to the presentation area. The other guys had their medals around their necks and were bouncing. Glenn bent and raised the trophy high, as he''d done only a few days before. The men''s celebration photos were taken, but that was just the start of it. Brooke and the reporters who had come had all kinds of opinions. They saw our silverware and our cast of characters and wanted Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations.


    Youngster with the men''s league trophy and Kisi with the women''s - that''s a photo.


    Glenn and Bonnie, the two captains - that''s a photo.


    Glenn, Bonnie, and little Stephen Watson. Three captains - that''s a photo.


    Chris Beaumont, Henri, Bea Pea, Angel, and little Simon Black - our top gun strikers - that''s a photo.


    Me, Sandra, Jackie - that''s a photo.


    The guys with contracts running out - that''s a photo.


    The kids we''d used in the first team - that''s a photo.


    Me, Brooke, Emma, Livia, Angel, Ruth - ah, no. Veto. I know your game. Cold shower for that photographer!


    Everyone was smiling and joking and having a great time, but I realised that my carefully coordinated lap of honour had descended into a farce of thirty men, thirty women, and thirty kids pottering around showing their medals and cups and plates to the different stands in no sort of order whatsoever.


    "Brig," I complained. "This isn''t right. Make them march like army guys. This should look like a military parade."


    "No, sir. This is right. This is perfect. This is Chester."


    ***


    Shocking Post-Epilogue Epilogue!


    As I watched my players and staff potter around, lapping up the sun as much as the adulation, Livia approached and put her hand on my back. "Max. Your phone keeps ringing. The same number. Thought you might want to start taking calls."


    "How are you doing?"


    She blinked. "I''m feeling... I feel..." Somehow among all the people who were on the pitch, she knew where to look. Maybe it was the sun''s reflection on his bald spot that made him easy to pick out. Children were shielding their eyes from her boyfriend''s head. He was grinning from ear to ear, a title-winning manager. "I''m satisfied. Ready for more."


    "You get a break now, at least."


    "Nope. I''m taking you to the clinic."


    "Not Dean?"


    "He told me to tell you he''s got a date with Luisa. Said he hoped you wouldn''t mind."


    I frowned. Could he...? "That''s a wind-up, isn''t it?"


    "Yeah. She''s with Henri. There, look."


    "Oh."


    Over near the dugout, Henri was leaning over an advertising board, dreamily looking into the eyes of Luisa. She was responding pretty well, but was clutching a gross, sweaty goalkeeping glove.


    "Have you seen Pascal?"


    "He left." She rubbed my back. "Don''t worry, Max."


    "Don''t worry? Man''s got a broken heart."


    "Bruised at most. Be serious. He''s at least six years too young for her. He has to know that."


    "Bruised heart''s pretty bad. You bruised my heart pretty early on. Still not quite over it."


    "I did?"


    "When you said you were a Liverpool fan."


    "Good news, then. I''m not any more. I''m a hundred percent Chester, now."


    "Glory hunter."


    For a thrilling moment I was sure she would let her hair down, but she simply adjusted her baseball cap. "I remember that day. We''ve come full circle, haven''t we? We did a medical at the clinic, and now we''ll go again. This time, you''re not pretending to be a Chester player. You''ve been busy since then, haven''t you?"


    I nodded. Yes I fucking had.


    She gave me a fond look and took a few steps away. "Buzz me when you''re ready to go."


    "Will do." I checked the phone number of the person who had been calling me. I didn''t recognise it and it wasn''t in my contacts, obviously, or Livia would have seen who it was. Who''d be calling me so urgently? Old Nick? The imps? The South Korean national team? I smiled. The season was over. Who would dare disturb my slumber?


    The phone rang again, the same unknown number. I pressed green.


    "Manager of the Year Max Best," I said, in my call centre voice.


    A light, charming laugh came down the line. "Are you sure? You missed two months."


    "That''ll count against me, will it?" I was frowning, trying to place the voice. I felt fairly sure I''d never heard it before.


    "Yep. If you''re not in the dugout you don''t get Manager Points. But you''ll win. You''ve won the league by too much for them to give it to anyone else." His English was perfect, it seemed, but came with a slight accent. Some kind of Spanish German hybrid?


    "That''s good."


    The tiniest pause while the guy realised he''d got sidetracked. "You are wondering who I am."


    "I was, a bit."


    More laughter. "Sorry. I''m Timo. People call me TJ."


    "That''s... familiar."


    "I''m the manager of Crawley Town."


    "The hot water guy!"


    "Haha. I thought it''d be like an introduction gift. A calling card before meeting as in the olden days. Let me respect your time by getting on with it. We stand in sixth. Wrexham are fifth. If things stay like this after next week''s matches, which is likely, we''ll face them in the playoffs. You, ah... You offered to help someone beat them. I''m calling to ask you if you were serious about that offer."


    "Oh, I was serious."


    "Splendid!" He laughed again. "Max, there''s a lot of bullshit talked in this industry. Everyone wants to be a disrupter. My club''s owners can''t go a day without launching a project to disrupt the transfer market or hack corner kicks or reshape the fan experience. Chelsea spent a billion pounds disrupting themselves from European champions to mid-table. All these people bringing disruption into disrepute!" He laughed at his own joke. "But you''re really doing it. You''ve loaned yourself to other clubs twice. You''ve raised your profile by not speaking to the media. You''ve resurrected the sweeper system. You''re an inspiration!"


    "My girlfriend says I put the muse into amuse."


    "I would pick your brains for free, but that''s not a good start to anything. We''re playing your old chums Grimsby next weekend. Come and watch, tell us how to beat Wrexham, we''ll pay you." I didn''t immediately reply, so he pressed on. "Enough to take your girl somewhere nice this summer."


    Who had he been talking to? I felt sure I knew the answer. Beth. "I''ve got a holiday planned. Somewhere nice. The north of England."


    "Somewhere warm then! And Max, I''m fascinated by you and I think many others are, too. Your name came up in a conversation I had recently with an industry insider. Fascinating man. Great suit. He suggested I connect you with a friend of mine in German TV. Her channel will be covering the Euros in Germany this summer and there could be some work for you as a pitchside analyst on their English language broadcasts. Would you be interested in raising your media profile?"


    Not so far away, Emma was flitting from group to group like a butterfly. She''d love a proper trip after what was sure to be a damp tour of Cheshire and North Wales. "I''d be interested in trying currywurst and staying in a castle. They have to pay for two flights, though."


    "Castles and currywurst. What a charming view you have of the continent. Please, enjoy your celebrations tonight. But I pray, do not make plans for next Saturday. It''s high time we meet!"


    He rang off and Emma came over. She must have seen something in my face. "Who''s that?"


    "Good question. I think... I think he''s my new best friend."


    "What did he want?"


    "He wants me to watch him relegate Grimsby, wants to pay me to show him how to beat Wrexham, and wants to get me a gig for German television. They''re hosting the Euros. Starts in June, I think. I told him yes if you could come."


    "To Germany? I like him already. Will we stay in a castle?"


    "Of course. I''m pretty sure that''s all they''ve got." The celebrations showed no sign of stopping. "Poor Ben''s missing all this. He missed the fun at the end of the cup final, too."


    Emma squeezed my arm and turned me to face her. It should have hurt, but didn¡¯t. Not in the slightest. "You''ll just have to do it all again next season, then." She looked up at me, inviting me to kiss her. "Won''t you?"


    ...


    [[some data and numbers and how many XP he''s got left etc]]

 8.1 - Goalscorers

    Player Manager 8


    Recap:


    Max Best has led Chester FC to the National League North title; his team will now be promoted to the absurdly tough National League. The women¡¯s team won their league and will also move to the fifth tier. Max has vowed to win the FA Youth Cup, has an opportunity to shine on German television, and must help the small team he owns progress up the pyramid.


    "Quote." not sure who from yet obvs


    ***


    1.


    May 7, 2024


    - Hello and welcome to episode one of Goalscorers, a new podcast dedicated to understanding the mastery mindset of world-class figures in sport, business, science, and other high-performance cultures. I''m Bethany Alban and I''m fascinated by the mastery mindset. My aim is to meet the world''s best goalscorers and find out what makes them tick, what makes them keep going when other people would quit, and what happens when they achieve their goals. Today''s guest is Max Best. If you''ve never heard of him, don''t worry - you will.


    [Audio clip - Boggy over intense crowd noise - "Best... Best... Best! Best! Beeesssssssttttt! [pause] Max Best!"]


    I met Max when I was studying Journalism and he was trying to find his way into the world of football. An article I wrote about his unorthodox but brilliant management of young players won awards and landed me a job at Britain''s biggest newspaper, so it seemed fitting that I should start this series with him as my first guest. His football career so far has been brief. After dazzling as a right-winger for Darlington in the sixth tier of English football, he had the chance to make a lucrative move to a very big, very famous club. Max turned that down to become Director of Football at Chester, also in the sixth tier. He has taken a team that flirted with relegation to dizzying heights - demolishing a competitive league, scoring a record number of goals and causing controversy every step of the way.


    [Audio clip - someone with a Scouse accent - "And now here''s... this is Max Best. Er... Chester''s manager is coming on to play for Tranmere Rovers. I... ah... I''m not sure I can believe my eyes, to be honest. That must be a different Max Best. It must be."]


    This season - yes, this very season where his team scored 106 points - Max has recovered from a coma, been appointed Chester''s player-manager, masterminded sensational and deserved cup wins over Crewe and Salford City, loaned himself to Tranmere Rovers, was appointed the interim manager at Grimsby Town (where he lasted five games before being dismissed), and capped the season by naming himself as the goalkeeper in a grudge match against his former club.


    [Audio clip - someone from Darlington - "Max Best, in his blood-stained goalkeeper top, adjusts his gloves, steps up to take the free kick... Ohhhhhh! Over the wall, into the net, swish, three-nil Chester, thank you and goodnight. That? That sums it all up."]


    He doesn''t quite seem to be finished with this season, however. A week after Chester''s last fixture he was spotted watching Crawley condemn Grimsby Town to relegation and seemed to be very pally with the winning team''s manager, TJ Timo Jentzsch. That after Max spent the match in the stands with boxing legends Don Flash and Donnie Wormwood. Yes, Max is moving up in the world, all right. And rumour has it that he stayed in Sussex for a week helping Crawley prepare for their playoff contest against Wrexham. Why would anyone help a rival club? Because after feeling cheated by Wrexham, Max offered his tactical advice to any team playing against them - it seems someone took him up on his offer, and it seems they were right to. Crawley won the first leg three-one.


    [Audio clip - from the live TV broadcast - "And another lightning fast counter-attack from Crawley! Sensational. Knee slides to celebrate. And that''s TJ high-fiving Max Best in the stands behind him. Best has denied helping Crawley prepare for this but those pictures suggest otherwise. The bromance continues!"]


    As you can probably tell, the Max Best story is one that would take more than twenty minutes to tell. In this interview I merely hope to get him to open up about his thought processes, mindset, and decision-making. What are his goal-setting habits? What could make him give up on a goal? How does he feel when he achieves them? And I''d like to get some insight, if I can, into his squad-building strategies. Why has he invested a substantial portion of his budget into green energy? What drives him to turn left when everyone else turns right? He can be belligerent, defensive, and secretive, but he can also be charming and generous.


    Which Max Best will turn up today?


    ***


    - Max, welcome to Goalscorers.


    - Yep.


    - Thanks for coming.


    - Let''s talk about my appearance fee.


    - [Laughing]. Oh? How much do you want?


    - Fifty quid.


    - I thought you''d say that. For the listeners, Max owes me fifty pounds.


    - Not any more.


    - Not any more. How are you, Max? You got a nasty blow to the rib in your last match. What was it, two weeks ago?


    - Two and a half. I wouldn''t play or go climbing but it''s probably nearly healed. I''m pain free. For the listeners who don''t know the context, I didn''t get ''a blow to the ribs''. I was punched by one of Folke Wester''s henchmen as I jumped to clear a corner. Folke Wester thought his best chance of winning was to injure me because that''s his level but in a stunning twist, one of the Darlington fans was filming and got an angle that showed the whole thing, including the planning session that preceded the assault, and that fan sent it to me. The miscreant - that''s a fun word to say on a podcast - got a five-match ban and Folke Wester spent the next four days answering questions about whether he ordered the assault. They lost their playoff eliminator and that''s their season over. Folke Wester, a failed manager as well as a failed human being, teeters on the edge of the sack.


    - Do I detect some bitterness?


    - It''s not nice to cough up blood and struggle to pull on a t-shirt, Beth. But his sacking will be a relief because when he goes I''ll be able to begin to repair my relationship with Darlington. I got my start there and it''s horrible that I''ve had to avoid them for so long. Bitterness? Maybe, yeah, because he ruined something that was pure and fun. He''s toxic and he spread his disease to far too many people. I''m almost sad they didn''t get promoted, though. I don''t want any of their players and it''s an easy six points playing a Folke Wester team.


    - The final was Kidderminster against York, but you weren''t there.


    - I promised TJ I''d pop down south to watch Crawley against Grimsby and I know all about Kiddies and York. There was no real reason to watch it.


    - Who did you want to win?


    - Didn''t really bother me.


    - I don''t believe that but I meant in the National League North playoff final.


    - Oh. Tricky. All in all, maybe York but only because Kiddies have three players I''d love to buy. [laughs]. Kiddies deserved it, though. They''re fantastic. York beat us twice, so I hope to play them one day in the future to sort of set that record straight.


    - Is that kind of thing a big factor for you? Grudges? Settling scores?


    - [pause] Grudge isn''t the right word with York because they beat us playing football. It''s a game and if you''re better than us, good luck to you. No, my thing is... You know when you watch a semi-final and the commentator says ''this manager has lost his last six semi-finals''? And they go on and on about it during the match? I find it so inane. It stresses me to hear that garbage. It''s utterly meaningless. I don''t want to be lifting the Champions League in ten years and someone points a microphone in my face and says ''Max, you''ve beaten Barcelona, PSG, and Bayern, but you''ve still never beaten York City how do you feel?'' [Laughs] No maybe we''ll get them in a cup and then I''ll have to decide if I rest some players or if beating them really matters. I reckon I''ll rest the players. We''ve got to move on, right, not keep looking back.


    - This might be a good time for me to introduce my structure.


    - What? It''s a podcast. We''re supposed to ramble and interrupt each other just as we''re getting interesting.


    - I''ve got some quickfire questions, then I want to go a little bit deeper on three topics. The past, the present, and the future.


    - Sounds very stressful. Can''t we just tell each other jokes?


    - Close your eyes and think of England. You ready?


    - I was born slippy. I mean, ready.


    [Beth plays an audio clip. It''s some football fans chanting ''Who are ya? Who are ya?'']


    - Max Best. Who are you?


    - [Deep, body-shaking laughter. Mostly all we can hear are wheezes.] Argh, my rib. Don''t, Beth. Argh.


    - [Mirror laughter.] Why are you laughing? It''s not a joke.


    - Argh. My eyes are stinging. Do you want to drink some liberal tears, Beth? Oh, God. What the hell just happened? You''ve got a sequence called Ooh Are Ya?


    - Who Are You? is the name of the segment. I''d like you to tell us who you are in your own words.


    - [Laughter slows and ends with one long exhalation.] You want me to describe myself?


    - Yes, please.


    - It''s a weird question, tbh. [One last chuckle.] How would you describe the curve of a beautiful woman¡¯s eyelash? How would you describe the last patch of snow? How would you describe the moment of revelation as a master shows a technique you thought had been lost to time?


    - Describe yourself in five words.


    - Compassionate.


    - That''s one.


    - That''s all you get. Look, I''m not into this. It''s too reductive and can''t possibly be helpful to the listeners. You can ask me about football and I''ll say things and you can decide for yourself who I am.


    - Fine. Next segment.


    [Beth''s phone plays another chant. It''s sung by fans angry at their own manager, usually after he''s made a substitution they can''t understand. ''You don''t know what you''re doing!'']


    - Is this part called You Don''t Know What You''re Doing? That''s wild. Beth, are you okay? Did you slip and hit your head? I know a head guy.


    - [Laughs.] I''m okay. Max, you''re a 23-year-old football manager. Do you know what you''re doing?


    - Yes.


    - Have you ever heard of imposter syndrome?


    - That thing where you feel like you don''t deserve to have the things you''ve earned? No, never heard of it.


    - People a lot more experienced and successful than you have doubts.


    - My doubts are pretty marginal, to be honest. In the next month I''ll need to make a lot of decisions about which players to bring to the club and those decisions could be the difference between winning the league and finishing seventh. Like, those are important decisions and I will have relatively little information to go on but if some of them don''t pay off I won''t beat myself up about it. I have to do what I think''s right under very tight constraints. Where I have doubts it''s in specific areas. One. When I''m choosing which players to invest in, I''m like an options trader, and in that field I would be in the lowest percentile of natural ability, but every other football manager would be even lower than me! Two. When I''ve lost a few games and the fans are unhappy, I''m not very good. I get my back up and start daring them to sack me and that kind of thing. Not smart. Some managers have a better PR skill set than me. But in pure football manager terms, I''m miles ahead of most of my rivals. They use the same players in the same formation every week, it''s the same training every week, and if you call them out on it they''ll say that''s by design. It''s not. It''s a lack of imagination and shows their focus is on the wrong things. They rely on the same cliches and half-time team talks that they learned from their managers who learned it from theirs. Even the seemingly modern, progressive ones are actually doing ninety-five percent the same shit as everyone else. The overall standard is pretty low and I think yeah, I do know what I''m doing.


    [Beth plays another chant. It''s what some fans sing when an opposing goalie is taking a goal kick. They cry, ''you''re shit ahhhhhh!'']


    [Max laughs. Beth joins in.]


    - This section is called You''re Shit Ahh. Max Best, how do you deal with criticism?


    - Very well and maturely.


    - But really.


    - Um... there''s two types. Fair criticism, which I try to take on board and improve. And there''s unfair stuff that comes out of the mouths of idiots. I can''t say it never bothers me but they''re just not worth thinking about. Those people are basically hollow and need to be noticed and if you don''t react to them it freaks them out. I think it helps that I''m too busy to dwell on negativity and also I''m barely ever on social media, which is just one giant cesspit. And I know you''re hoping I''ll say things that your listeners can sort of take and apply to their own lives but when I''m on a complete break from football, which is the time I''m most likely to let that stuff bother me, I''m usually with my girlfriend and when I''m with her I almost can''t even think about bad stuff. It just doesn''t touch me. Why would it? I''m busy being happy.


    - I think the listeners will understand exactly what you''re saying, Max. It''s about having positive people around you.


    - Specifically Emma, though.


    - [Laughs.] The listeners will have to find their own Emmas. Or it could be friends or family or if they''re listening to this in the future, the AI that lives in their phone.


    - I know that movie! Is that the end of You''re Shit Ahh?


    - Only because I have so much other stuff I''d like to talk about. The next section''s called The Past. I don''t have a football-related chant or commentary snippet yet.


    [Audio clip - it''s from the movie Assassin''s Creed. Voice one: ''What do you want from me?'' Voice two: ''Your past.'']


    - Can we talk about how we met? I never quite understood what you were doing and in retrospect it''s even stranger. For context, while I was studying Journalism at Manchester Met, I played for their football team. One day, Max was hanging around the sports hall being, frankly, shifty. It looked like he was trying to pluck up the courage to ask one of the team for their phone number. It''s a long way from there to the Master of the Universe we see now. Can you tell us about that phase in your life?


    - God, wow, it feels like a different century. Ah... What can I say? I was working in a call centre and it was starting to get me down and I''d developed this, this sort of compulsion that made me want to get involved in football. I hadn''t played for a long time but I thought I could do something. I think my ambitions were to be an agent. You know, watching Man United for years I always had a sense of who was going to make it and who wasn''t. Sancho? I didn''t see it. Antony? Please. But Garnacho and Hojlund, the first time I saw them it was electric. So I thought, if I could find the next Garnacho, the next Scholes, Beckham, I could be his agent and that''d be enough money to live on. Right? [Laughs.] Pretty unambitious, really, but even that felt, like, transgressive. People like me don''t just decide to get into the football industry. So when we met I was spending a lot of time at Platt Lane - that''s a sports complex in Manchester where Man City used to train - watching all the matches. Not just looking for hidden gems but trying to work out what it was that made a pro player. I''m not sure it was a great use of my time. I mean, if you want to be a sculptor, does it really help to look at a bunch of boulders and say ''this is not a sculpture'' about each one? Anyway, I was putting the time in and not getting anywhere. Then when I met you I thought, women''s football. Maybe that''ll be a good starting place.


    - Max, you didn''t know the first thing about women''s football.


    - Didn''t I? Honestly, Beth, this will wind you up because you''ll think I''m fudging but I''ve got the Chester men''s team to manage, I''ve got to find new players for the women, I¡¯ve got to keep finding young players while checking the staff are happy and negotiating with the board and meeting sponsors. If I get some of the timings wrong you''ll have to forgive me but I just don''t live in the past. My brain only works forward.


    - I forgive you.


    - So I don''t completely remember the sequence or when I thought what I thought but I remember vividly the moment it all changed and that was when you played Man City under 16s. Listeners probably think it''s a joke because it''s a university team against some teenagers but those kids are unreal and they''d beat teams up to a decent level, I think. Anyway, you kept falling into their traps and I just couldn''t watch it any more.


    - You got involved.


    - It was obvious to me that you were a defender, but you played anywhere but defence. It was really winding me up. So I reorganised the team and City found it harder to score. They were still way better, but that was a kind of electric moment for me. Like, I was competing against a real team and I was doing okay. It was just enough, er, positive feedback for me to think I wasn''t being delusional and that, yeah, I had something to offer. I decided I wanted to beat City in the return game. They''d won every game they''d ever played in that league but I thought, let''s get them. And we did. And there was no looking back.


    - Maybe now''s a good time to dive into what I want this podcast to be about. The listeners will be people interested in getting to the next level in their careers, as athletes, entrepreneurs, influencers and so on. I want to know what''s in your head at these key moments in your life so that maybe we can learn from you. I agree it probably seems a bit like a joke when we talk about university students playing the under 16s but like you said, they''d never been beaten, ever. What made you think you could do it with us lot? We weren''t that good, Max.


    - You weren''t bad, though. For example, there was no-one trying stupid backheels and tricks that they couldn''t do. You played a very sensible game. Meanwhile, we all know how City play. Very midfield heavy, quite sterile. There are ways to defeat that. And the mentality helps - they''ve never lost. Losing''s a disaster for them. You go two-nil up and what are they going to do? We don''t know, do we, because they''ve never been there before. They might respond like champions or they might panic. I told you the first goal was so important. We scored it and that unlocked everything else. If City had scored it, I probably wouldn''t be here, now.


    - That must be hard to comprehend. Your entire future coming down to one shot from a woman you barely know.


    - We only hear the stories from people where the gamble paid off. Nine other guys in my position took that swing and missed. I respect them for trying; most people never try anything. You definitely need some luck to get started but it''s not like if we''d lost that match I''d have given up forever. I might have stayed in the call centre for another year and built up some connections and got a job in a back office at some club and wormed my way closer to the football side. I''m not saying I''m some sort of superstar go-getter and I don''t think you need to be that to succeed but I think you need to try things because - actually, you know what? It wasn''t even winning the match that kickstarted my career. It was deciding I needed to try to win it. That was the real catalyst for everything because that''s why I got in touch with Jackie Reaper. He was a Scouser coaching at FC United and he was pretty much the only person in the whole football industry I''d ever talked to. So I called him and asked if he''d do some extra coaching with you lot and he said yes. We had, what, two or three sessions before the City game? He saw me working. He saw me being creative, motivating, adapting, whatever. I think something would have come from the experience even if we''d lost, but if I hadn''t been so determined to win the match I wouldn''t have called him. I kinda didn''t like him at first. [Laughs.]


    - From my point of view, we met and you told me to play in defence. The next week, you brought a professional coach to our session and you were paying him. Listeners, we weren''t paying Max! Next there was your client, Ziggy, who''s just had a good season for FC United in the seventh tier. Then came Youngster and Kisi Yalley, and they''re playing for Chester men and women''s first teams. It''s like every week you''d bring more people you''d sort of collected in the previous seven days but you also had a full-time job. How were you doing it all?


    - Some of it was blind luck but like I said, you make more luck on your feet than on your arse. I was at five-a-sides all over Manchester looking for talented players. I went watching footy after work three or four nights a week, then again on weekends. I was putting the time in. Having a goal was pushing me forward. But yeah, it was all happening quite fast. I started to think about getting out of the call centre.


    - It''s so fascinating to me and I''ve got so many questions but it might be a bit self-indulgent so let''s move on to a team other people have heard of. You turned up at Darlington, next, describing yourself as a mystery winger. What''s a mystery winger?


    - That was the local paper who said that. It stuck. They meant, who''s this guy? Quickly it meant, this guy can do magic. You know in cricket they have a mystery spinner? He can spin it left or right or do flippers or whatever. I could dribble left, right, shoot left, right, you can''t foul me because I''ll score the free kick. I was actually working on a shot that would spin up massively like a flipper but never perfected it. I felt like I was getting close.


    - Your time at Darlington was brief but eventful. You shocked everyone by moving to Chester to become their Director of Football. Why did you do that?


    - I wanted to manage. Squad building, transfers, developing young players. Darlington laughed when I asked about doing it. Note to all the baby goalscorers out there. If your employee wants to learn a different skill, encourage them. I try to get all my players going on coaching courses. Football''s a short, precarious career so they need something to fall back on, and by the way, if they have great skills I want to use them.


    - At Chester, you were prevented from playing because the FA said you signed for Sheffield Wednesday.


    - They''re saying that was a computer glitch that they''ve fixed.


    - But with so many setbacks you must have thought that the football world didn''t want you. What made you keep going?


    - What else would I do? But look, here''s one thing I''m good at your listeners can learn from. I''m developing my skills as a player, manager, scout, agent, and so on. At some point you need to specialise but if one avenue is blocked off, briefly, pile back in to one of the other ones. Every hour I spend scouting makes everything else easier, in the long term, because football''s so much about finding talent. If I can''t manage, can''t play, no-one can stop me scouting. I find some talented twelve-year-old and he''ll be in the team in five years. Do things today that''ll pay off tomorrow while sharpening your skills. If you''re running a small business based on a YouTube channel and something happens and you can''t film for a while because you got a shit haircut or something, do something else in that time. Go through your analytics or see if you can save on shipping. Getting a ban from playing can be frustrating depending on the timing but you''ll see me in local parks looking for the next Dani or Youngster and if I find one, that ban''s brought me a lot closer to my goals. You can''t beat me like that, no chance. Every problem is an opportunity.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    - You were named caretaker manager near the end of the season and won every match you managed. You were attacked outside the stadium and nearly died. What did you learn from that time in your life?


    - ''Don''t get attacked outside the stadium.''


    - You recovered and this season you took over as full-time manager. Straight out of a coma and you were managing the men''s and women''s team. How was that?


    - Exhausting. Unsustainable. But we needed to find the right person to take over. And we did. I''m glad I waited.


    - And now your men''s team have just won the league, setting multiple records along the way. How do you wake up from a coma and take a team that was nearly relegated and turn them into champions? Because you started with virtually the same squad that finished the previous season.


    - You''ll be pleased to know that almost the first thing I did was set a goal. I told the players how we''d achieve that goal. They bought into it and we did it. That''s the long and short of it.


    - I know from experience that when you set a goal, people around you align themselves with it. Why do you think that is?


    - You want a pithy answer that your listeners can apply in their own lives? I''m not sure what it is. One thing I think''s important is that I know what my players can and can''t do. If you ask people to do things they can do, they''re more likely to follow you, right? A lot of football managers get themselves in trouble by taking over defensive squads and asking them to play attacking football, that kind of thing. There''s the story of Gareth Southgate, a centre back, being asked to play defensive midfield in a big match. Was it against Germany? He''d never played there before and you''re asking him to do it in the biggest game of his career. That''s moronic. Don''t do that. I almost never ask my players to play out of position and if I do it''s for five minutes and there''s a reason they can understand. There was a manager who had a dream - a literal dream - that resulted in him using a centre back as striker and the defender scored and played well. Fun little story but you can''t do that too often.


    - One thing that''s interesting with you is that you take people on your journey. That time when you were my manager and we beat Man City. Who do you hire to be your assistant manager at Chester? That team''s coach, Sandra Lane. The Scouser you convinced to coach us is now the manager of your women''s team. You had a run-in with the mother of a young player and later hired her to be a scout. There''s endless talk that you want to sign Christian Fierce, the only player who can truly be said to have got the better of you on a football pitch. What is it about those people that makes you want to work with them?


    - Talent, mostly. They''re brilliant at what they do. They''re good people. I don''t mind a bit of friction because it''s just that they don''t realise we''ve got the same goals. And they are people I could bring to the club. Not Christian Fierce, sadly! But let''s take the scout. When we were arguing I realised she was seeing things on the pitch that not many people see. That''s talent and she''s not been spotted yet. When I needed a scout I thought, who do I know who has skills and isn''t working for a bigger club? I''m on a shoestring budget, listeners. I need people who are cheap and willing to join our little team. I can look at top clubs and say ''wow that guy''s good'' but he isn''t going to come to Chester, is he? Not yet.


    - Now, that''s interesting because you did manage to sign Sandra Lane from City. That came out of the blue, literally. How did you do it?


    - I offered her something she can''t get anywhere else, the chance to manage men''s football. It might be easier for me to hire an assistant manager now, because I won the league and I trust my staff to run matches when I''m away. They can get experience and I can get way better staff than equivalent teams, right? The listeners might look at their own projects and realise they have some cachet or rep they aren''t fully exploiting. And if there isn''t anything, it''s something you could look to develop. The other day I was thinking about the training centre we want to develop and asking if we really need a classroom. Other teams have one, right, but why? And I was thinking we''re going to end up signing Brazilians and Mexicans and we''re going to need an English teacher. Who would I hire? I''d want, like, Jurgen Klopp''s teacher, wouldn''t I? If I met someone who said they were Klopp''s teacher I''d be like whoa you''re hired. If that person later said they did Klopp''s lessons for free to build their brand, I''d be impressed. I''d fire them for lying to me and hire them back at double the salary for sheer awesomeness. Right, I''m bored with the past, Beth. Let''s get on with it. Future''s next, isn''t it?


    - Present.


    [Audio clip - from a televised game - ''The keeper lost track of the ball and it rolled under his foot. What a present!'']


    - That''s desperate.


    - It''s the first episode. I''m allowed to get better as I go, aren''t I?


    - Yep. You''re right.


    - It''s hard being a player-manager and it''s been a long season. But you won. How does it all feel?


    - Ah. I have a good quote about this. My friend Henri''s got a book about being a writer and he read this out to me and I asked him to explain it and I said yes that''s what I thought. Hang on, it''s on my phone.


    - No hurry, Max. I can edit long pauses.


    - Here we go. [Clears throat. Slips into ad read voice.] This podcast is brought to you in part by The Royal National Lifeboat Institution, the charity that saves lives at sea. If you''re drowning in the English Channel, a volunteer crew from the RNLI will try to save you, no matter what colour your skin is.


    - Jesus, Max.


    - [Still in ad voice.] For 200 years, the RNLI has bravely carried out its mission to rescue people from the seas around this island nation of ours. They are the pride of this country and are rightly held up as an example of all that is good and proper about being British. So it''s pretty fucking weird, then, for a national newspaper to launch into a two-footed tackle on a volunteer-led charity because they were saving the wrong colour people. [Normal voice.] Beth, you work for a newspaper, don''t you?


    - Yes, Max, I work for a newspaper. That was a quote in a book about writing, was it?


    - It was.


    - I''ll probably cut all this, but just in case it stays in, I have to point out that the RNLI isn''t sponsoring this podcast.


    - You don''t want to be associated with the best of British, Beth?


    - More that they might not want to be associated with me. Or you. Okay, let''s move on.


    - No, wait. I really do have a quote.


    - Max.


    - No, really. Here, listen.


    - God.


    - Er... Should I do a French accent? Nah. ''From quiet homes and first beginning, out to the undiscovered ends, there''s nothing worth the wear of winning, but laughter and the love of friends.'' That''s Hilaire Belloc. The wear of winning, I like that. It''s better than the wear of losing but there''s still a toll, isn''t there? A tax on the body and mind. All the energy and sacrifice to get to that point and when you get there - wow. What now?


    - That''s one thing I''m fascinated by, Max. Can we dive into it?


    - We can dive into it like a volunteer lifeguard plunging into icy waters to rescue a baby before seeing his own photo - remember that throughout the entirety of human history rescuers were considered heroes - plastered on a hateful rag under the headline ''Enemy of the People''.


    - Right.


    - So the first thing for me is that my industry is sport. You finish your season, go to the beach, and suddenly there''s another season. For us at Chester we''ve gone from tier six to tier five so it''s all new and exciting. It''s progression and progression comes with its own motivation. What''s hard, I think, is if you''re the top club and you win and then it''s time to go again. I mean, what''s the point? You''ve done it. Some people can reset and go again and that''s why they''re at the top but I think most people start to think about what else they might do with their lives. I don''t think I''m the sort of person who''s going to win the Premier League five times in a row. Even just saying it is boring to me. Once is enough. What else you got? Bundesliga? MLS? Come on, excite me. What I''ll be listening to on this podcast in the brief time before you slip into right-wing grifting, is if you have, like, an author or musician or - oh, yes - the people who developed the Covid vaccine. Because that''s not like sports, is it? You smash the project and then... then what? Go on the beach until the next pandemic? How do you motivate yourself to go back to developing moisturisers or whatever?


    - I don''t think they do moisturisers between pandemics, Max.


    - You know what I mean. Covid was the Champions League of projects. So intense, so urgent, and then you''ve got to lift yourself for something smaller. How? I don''t think I could. I need this upward pressure. Number goes up. What happens when number no go up? It''s game over.


    - What about restructuring? How do you keep a winning team at the top? Isn''t that a compelling challenge?


    - Not really. For some guys, sure. Ferguson, Pep. They want more. I''m not quite like that. Repetition is boring.


    - You''ve won the league with your men''s and women''s teams. There''s also the club you bought, which we somehow haven''t mentioned yet. They didn''t get promoted but it''s your first full season as owner. When you look at the work you need to do this summer, what are the main challenges? What worries you?


    - My team''s called West Didsbury and Chorlton. They''re pretty small. Based in Manchester. It''s really nice, isn''t it, Beth?


    - Didsbury? Yes. Expensive.


    - In one article, the Daily Mail called it a posh and leafy property hotspot. That''s nice, isn''t it? Aspirational. Actually, hang on, I wrote something down. [Ad voice.] This podcast is sponsored in part by the Independent Press Standards Organisation, which in 2021 upheld a complaint against the Daily Mail for an article comparing life in leafy, prosperous Didsbury to life under the Taliban claiming it was a no-go area for white people. IPSO ruled that the Daily Mail had made the whole thing up and was inciting fear and distrust. [Normal voice.] Beth, you work for a newspaper, don''t you?


    - You were talking about the challenges.


    - Well, for West - that''s what we call West Didsbury and Chorlton - it''s pretty easy because there''s loads of players who can improve the team. The trick there is to bring in guys who won''t mess up the culture. I won''t go into what the culture is because your listeners will get ulcers.


    - I don''t have any listeners, Max, but it''ll be people who are interested in bettering themselves. This podcast isn''t in association with the Daily Mail or whoever my next employer is. It''s a personal project that I''m doing because I''m really interested in it.


    - It''s not from the Daily Mail?


    - No.


    - Oh. I''ve got more fake ads to read.


    - Why don''t you save them? This podcast is just me.


    - Why''s it called Goalscorers if you''re going to have scientists on?


    - Probably half the guests will be footballers. But scientists have goals, too and they''ll be flattered to be on the same series as... whoever I get. If I get anyone else after this.


    - And what''s your endgame?


    - What?


    - You''re gonna start doing anti-woke bits and spout conspiracy theories? Your new catchphrase - I''m just asking questions!


    - No. I don''t know what I want. Mostly I want a platform of my own so I have something to fall back on if everything else goes wrong. You have West Didsbury, I have this.


    - Good but it''s a podcast about setting goals. You have a goal. Tell us what it is.


    - Okay, that''s fair, surprisingly. [Sigh.] I suppose I''d like to travel and do corporate events. You know, seminars and workshops. Take what I learn from this project and turn it into a book. Help people achieve their goals. And become better myself! I have a long way to go.


    - I don''t know, Beth. You''re pretty impressive already.


    - So are you but you don''t stop there, do you? You want more. I want more, too.


    - All right. [Makes contemplative lip-smacking noises.] All right. My main challenges for West are to bring in a few players who are way above the level so we smash the league. That''s easy but the culture is quite specific. Kinda left-wing ironic hipster with massive unironic dedication to the fans and community. The new signings don''t need to be Che Guevara but they need to accept what''s going on and not undermine it. The new players could be Daily Mail readers but they''d need to have a sense of humour and for the duration of their contract they''d need to stop talking about who the government should murder. Oh, I have a, what would you call it? Networking challenge. I have three-quarters of the finance in place to bring those new players in, so I need to find a local businessman to plug that gap.


    - How much is it?


    - Something like fifteen thousand pounds.


    - It''s not a lot.


    - Yeah but they don''t get anything. [Laughs.] There''s already a shirt sponsor and all that sort of thing. Your fifteen G investment gets you nothing in return. Absolutely nothing. I need to find someone who''ll put fifteen grand in because they believe in what we''re doing or they''ll benefit indirectly because there will be more fans or something like that. Maybe I¡¯ll start with a hummus importer.


    - Why not crowdfund it?


    - I''d ask the fans for money if they were in danger of being relegated or going out of business. Promotion? That''s a nice thing to have but that''s my goal so I should finance it.


    - That''s a strange way of thinking.


    - There''s people with spare cash. I''ll work it out. I''m doing a big scouting summer covering all my teams. I''m doing some bits around Cheshire at the moment, then there''s these things called Exit Trials. Talented kids from big academies who are getting cut. They do these special days where scouts can go look at them. I''m hoping to get some talents from them. There are four and I''m going to all four. Around that, I''ll be scouting Manchester. Basically, the whole of May is a kind of holiday slash scouting trip.


    - What sort of players are you looking for?


    - Talented ones. The more talented, the better. I''ve got one guy lined up already.


    - Anyone we know?


    - Nope. He''s playing in the seventh tier and his team was relegated. His career has been on a downward path and we''re his last chance. The good news is, he''s mint and I can get him for cheap.


    - If he''s mint how can he be cheap?


    - Because other teams don''t know how good he is and don''t have the patience to train him up. He''s going to need time to get up to speed - actually that''s a strange phrase because he''s very fast. No, we''ll train him and take our time with him and by January he''ll start to show flashes of what he can do. But that''s the kind of guy we''ll be going for, probably. Guys with high potential that other clubs don''t see. Ones who need some coaching and patience. We''ll struggle at the start of the season, I think, but these guys will slowly come to the boil and by the end of the season we''ll be rocking.


    - So it''s all long-term planning. That''s why you spent half your budget on solar panels.


    - Those panels, at current electricity prices, will generate three million pounds over the next thirty years. There''s long-term for you. Did you ever see a TV show called Supermarket Sweep? You ran around a supermarket throwing things into your trolley and you had to fill it with the most expensive stuff you could get. I think two people did it and the one who chucked the most expensive stuff in won that amount in cash. Something like that. It''s my job to go round the supermarket chucking all these players in. We can''t afford transfer fees so it''s just, like, what can we get? For five hundred pounds a week I know I can get a rapid wide player but he won''t be much help until January, probably. What else do I get? Don''t know - it depends what comes up. Then, when that''s done and the dust has settled, I''ve got until August to patch any holes. Maybe we need a couple of short-term fixes.


    - You don''t like loans.


    - The loan market is pretty weird but I could imagine using it at the start of this season to get a bit of quality to help us through to January. I think I''ll max out my budget then tell my boss we''ve got a big problem and I need a few grand a week for loans. He''ll puff up like an adder but a short-term loan doesn''t hurt him emotionally like a two-year contract does.


    - This is your version of managing up, is it?


    - Oh, that''s another challenge. Chester is fan owned, and every year they choose seven people to be on the fan representative board. If they choose difficult people, it could get...


    - Difficult?


    - Right.


    - But back to squad building. There are ten players on the market. Who do you try to sign first and why?


    - The most talented one.


    - But which position?


    - Doesn''t matter. We''ll work around it. The hardest thing to do is get top talents. We go for them, then we get guys who can be first team regulars. Then we look at filling gaps in the squad. There will be loads of players who can come in and do a job. Think of talent as being pyramid-shaped. At the tip there¡¯s like six elite players then there¡¯s eighteen world-class and fifty-something Premier League match winners and so on. We''re going to play in tier five so there''s still plenty of guys who can help us and many are out of contract soon. If we were in the Prem or Championship we might need to get more precise or find a very specific kind of footballer but I doubt it. I think this is the way we''ll always do it, because we''ve got the flexibility to adapt and we''re willing to try new formations and partnerships and find different ways to win from game to game. I mean, my first signing was Pascal Bochum, a player who I knew I couldn''t use in every game, but when it''s the right game, boy is it the right game. As long as we balance specialists with generalists, we should be able to put out a coherent team. And by the way, he''s making a case that he can play every game.


    - How many players do you want to sign?


    - Up to eight for the men. Five women. Four stars for West. Plus we''ll take an infinite number of talented youngsters.


    - [Scoffs.] It sounds like a lot of work, Max. And a lot of squad turnover.


    - A wise man once told me you can prune a third of a tree. The men''s team could get to those levels, we have to see. It''s a lot of work, yes, but the first half is easy. Some of the deals are already lined up, by the way. But take the men. Four deals will be easy. The fifth gets harder because our options are narrowing and our needs are increasing. It''ll be all right. I''ve got a way to do it that I think will be quite fun. Sort of like the draft in American sports, except we''ll be the only team doing it. [Laughs.]


    - Can you tell us about the solar panels, though? You made a lot of money selling a player and instead of investing it into the first team, you''re doing solar. From my point of view it''s like you''re fighting with one hand behind your back.


    - Before I answer that, complete this sentence. Global warming is...


    - Real?


    - Okay, I''m going to assume it''s a legitimate question and answer in good faith. Yes, I could have spent a few hundred thousand on new players. Okay. Have you seen the National League?


    - Not really.


    - About half the teams are owned by multi-millionaires and they''re really putting money into those clubs to try to get into the EFL. There''s silly money sloshing around. Not quite at the levels of Wrexham or Stockport, but Grimsby lost a million pounds the last season they were in the National League, and they''re back in, now. I know what some of those players are earning. Forest Green Rovers - God knows what''s going on there but the owner has money to spend if he''s still motivated. Ebbsfleet have Kuwaiti owners and lose over a million a year. Barnet''s owner is as rich as Chris Hale.


    - Grimsby''s owner.


    - Right. There''s loads of American money sloshing around, too. There''s going to be money flying all over the place. Competing on transfer fees would be insane. Okay, so then solar panels. There''s the obvious environmental benefit, there''s the long-term finances.


    - Three million pounds, you said.


    - Or two grand a week. You could say I bought three National League players per season with the money. Four National League North ones. Do you know what I mean? That''s locked in, now. For the club. You''ve started a whole podcast about reaching goals and if people find it interesting it''s because most people don''t achieve what they want. Right? Now, when I started at Darlington the manager was David Cutter. Good guy, good manager overall, but he was convinced he''d get the sack any minute, and he was right. A few bad results was all it took. I''m flying high, now, but the start of next season is likely to be pretty rough. I could easily be out of the job by September, especially when all my new signings look like flops, which they will, because they haven''t been signed for September, they''ve been signed for May.


    - Right.


    - So if the new board don''t like me or stop believing in me, I''m out. Just like that! Then what does it matter about all my big plans and strategies? But there''s going to be something tangible at the club that literally generates money. It''s there heating our water, powering the laundry machines, saving us cash, protecting the club''s future to the extent it can, keeping season ticket prices down, but most of all it''s something they can''t take away from me. I''ve made a contribution to the football club that''s more or less permanent. Those panels will still be rocking in thirty years. The next manager can come in and get rid of my talented young players and bring in a bunch of pricks. A future board can shut down the women''s team or disband the reserves or the youth team age groups. But I''ve made Chester a lot more solvent and they can''t take that away from me.


    - You want a legacy.


    - I want to build something. Next stop is some 3G pitches that we''ll train on but will also be rented to the community. More money for the club, more facilities for the area. So this podcast is about goals and stuff but I''m not completely in charge of how much I achieve because what happens in rough patches? People panic. There''s a big red button that says ''fire Max'' and people love pressing big red buttons. So here''s my mindset. I plan for the future. The end of this season. The start of next. I''ve got a player called Vivek who can illustrate that. But what about five years from now? We''ve got the training pitches and some basic facilities. What''s next? I''m not planning, I''m not in the planning stage, but I need to know what''s next. Ten years. There''s no way the stadium''s big enough, so what do we do in the next ten years to make sure we can sell tickets to everyone who wants one? I''m thinking in crazy time horizons for a football manager because the average life expectancy is about six months. But if I don''t think about all that, the club will stagnate. So I''m thinking and planning and scheming on long, long horizons and I''m acting, in some ways, like I''ve got a job for life. Do you know what I mean? Because I think that''s the only way to get certain things done. Now, that might cost me because I should be doing PR so that I keep the job. But PR isn''t real. PR isn''t going to develop our youth system or give us undersoil heating. Look at our political leaders - they think five minutes into the future. How''s that working out for us?


    - Tell us about Vivek.


    - He''s a talented centre back who hasn''t played much football. I loaned him to West and after a tricky start he got into the team. Our promotion is bad for him because the National League is a big step up from where we were. I''m looking at him and wondering what''s best for his career. He could train with the first team and improve, but I think he needs match practice as much as anything. I''m tempted to send him on loan again, to tier seven, maybe. FC United. But he''s a centre back so if he makes a mistake, which he will, he''ll be out of the team, and there''s no point him not playing at tier seven when he can not play at tier five. Do you get me? It''s very difficult deciding what''s best.


    - What are you leaning towards?


    - I''m half tempted to loan him to West for a couple of months at the start of the season to get more minutes into him. Then he''ll come back to Chester and train hard. By January, if he''s close to FC United levels, I could try him there. What I need, right, is an ally. Someone at tier six or seven who thinks like me.


    - But they''d be developing your players. What''s in it for them?


    - Loads. Vivek''s inexperienced but he''s quality. He''s got that Rolls Royce movement some defenders have and he can play a pass. And I''d do a bit of horse trading. Put Vivek in the team and I''ll lend you this other player, too. Example off the top of my head - Ryan Jack coming back from injury. And by the way, if you''re a tier six manager there are hundreds of players who come across my desk who aren''t good enough for us but are too good for West. I''ll send you some names. Know what I mean?


    - You''ve been developing allies in League Two. I''m thinking of James O''Rourke at Tranmere and TJ at Crawley.


    - Crawley will be League One soon, fingers crossed. But you¡¯re right, knowing there are a few guys who¡¯ll always take my calls is just fantastic. It''s real win-win. I mean, it''s not just shuffling players around but swapping training ideas and for me, having someone to talk to. Managing''s a lonely business.


    - It doesn''t help that you''re so moody.


    - What?


    - Remember when you were managing Grimsby? You did your presser and you were pretty down and you left and came back just as Sutton''s manager was talking about you. He made a noise that you misinterpreted and you went off sulking.


    - I did not.


    - I saw you! I asked him what it was like managing against you and he said it was like being caught in a trap and when you got out there was a bigger, deeper trap. He was very complimentary.


    - Oh.


    - Right. Oh. But it''s good you''ve got this bromance with TJ.


    - It''s not a bromance. I just want to spend all my time with him and I miss him when he''s gone.


    - Let''s talk about TJ.


    - What section of the podcast are we in? I''m confused.


    - It''s called You Are My Sunshine. I''ll drop the music in later. You went down to watch Grimsby against Crawley. First half, Grimsby were on top and they had hopes of survival. Crawley then made some radical changes at half time.


    - I didn''t notice any.


    - Maybe because you were slow getting back to your seat from the Crawley dressing room.


    - Get real, Beth. Why would I go in there? It''s not in my interest for Grimsby to be relegated. You''re basically saying I broke into a zoo to release a 600 pound gorilla except my house is next to the zoo and my garden''s full of banana trees. Plus I was at the match with a Grimsby player''s family. Seriously, I had nothing to do with it.


    - Okay but you helped them prepare for the Wrexham match.


    - Only a bit.


    - Max, I know for a fact you took over their training for a week and picked the team. The players had it all over their Instas and TikToks. Monday morning they were pretty perplexed. Tuesday they were annoyed. By Friday they were fully paid-up members of the Cult of Max.


    - Is this still the podcast?


    - I want to know what''s going through your mind as you''re taking over Crawley''s training sessions.


    - First of all, I didn''t take over. I suggested some things, is all. But if I did yell at a couple of slackers or whatever it''s because I''d spent Sunday with TJ -


    - Bonding.


    - Chatting amiably and taking strolls. And he sees football like I do. It''s beautiful but rotting and we have to get the most out of it before the rot ruins it forever. I told him I knew how to beat Wrexham and he said show me and I said yeah but do you mean it and he said yeah I don''t want to spend another year in League Two I''ve got big plans. So I was sort of testing him, maybe. Like, if you want to win, here''s how. And I pushed and pushed and he didn''t resent it or get annoyed. If anything, he got more excited and egged me on even more. [Smiling.] It was so much fun, Beth. He''s a top manager and he''s a great person and he loves football.


    - Doesn''t everyone in the sport?


    - No. They love winning and hate losing. They love showing off or getting paid or getting laid. TJ loves football. The history, the romance, the possibilities.


    - Interesting perspective. We were talking about the present but that naturally spilled into talking about the future. Maybe I can''t split conversations up so neatly. But outline how you think the next season will go.


    - The women will smash their league. That division will be crazy fun. Have you seen who¡¯s in with us? It¡¯s almost unbelievable. The kids will go deeper into their competitions. The men will struggle at first and start to pick up steam. That''s it, really.


    - And what about you personally? Do you have any specific goals for yourself?


    - As a player? I''m not too bothered. Maybe I''ll get inspired over the summer. As a person? I would like to build up a bit of savings. You know, in case my mum needs something. I''m going to be on German TV -


    - What?


    - Yeah for their Euros coverage.


    - Max, that''s great!


    - I suppose. I''m doing Group E, the boring group. They''re not even letting me do the Belgium matches, the dicks. It''s Romania, Iceland, and Slovakia. That''ll be amazing, obviously, but I''d love to go full Max and really give the viewers something to remember. [Sigh.] But it''s a pretty big opportunity and could lead to more media work and that''s a side hustle that could pay for my mum''s care. It''s like, maybe I should take it seriously.


    - That''s what''s hard for outsiders to see about you. You always take things seriously. You went at Man City under 16s like you were planning a bank robbery, and you went so hard at Grimsby you broke the place.


    - Okay not seriously but... soberly. Give my analysis and smile and shut my mouth when the guy next to me is talking shit.


    - There''s no way you''ll be able to do that.


    - I can. I''m mature and sophisticated these days.


    - I''ve got a couple more quick sections if you have time.


    - Yep.


    [Audio clip - ''Man In The Mirror'' cover version - ''I''m looking at the man in the mirror.'']


    - Max, how would you manage yourself?


    - You mean if I were split in two and there was a mystery winger doing whatever he wanted on the pitch?


    - Yes.


    - I''d let him get on with it. He knows what he''s doing.


    - He''s disruptive in the dressing room.


    - He''s really not. I think I''m easy to manage. The way to manage me is to let me manage. There we go. That''s the solution. We''d swap places.


    - But then - you know what, never mind.


    [Audio clip - Beth plays a chant used by away fans to taunt home fans who aren''t singing. ''Is this a library?'']


    - In this section, we talk about the books and media that have shaped who you are.


    - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. That one specifically but none of the others. I don''t like the others.


    - Are you getting hangry?


    - Yes, a bit. Is it that obvious?


    - Big effort, Max. Two minutes to win the league. Come on, Max! Tell us books or movies that helped you become a manager. A decision-maker.


    - Thinking Fast and Slow. It helped me recognise that my brain is always up to something and the knowledge helps me get a bit of distance. If I make an impulsive decision I try to wait until the morning before doing anything about it. You know, if that''s possible. Shopping, for example. What else? I mean, Moneyball was fantastic. Managers should read that. I recommend Simon Jordan''s autobiography, too. The guy gets his pants pulled down by footballers on every page, he''s burning money, he''s driving a clown car and even when times are good somehow it''s ablaze. And this is the biggest voice in the English football landscape. He''s ready to tell everyone what they''re doing wrong. Read the book and you''ll understand that these rent-a-gobs don''t know the first thing about anything except self-promotion.


    - I think that''s a good place to end. I''d like to wish Max good luck as he scours Manchester for future talent, and Max? Thanks for being the first guest on Goalscorers.


    - No. There''s one more section.


    - Oh, is there?


    - Yes. It''s called Max Calls the Shots.


    - Oh, boy.


    - In this section, I offer you a dilemma. A trade of sorts. Are you ready?


    - I''m actually excited. I''ve got goosebumps.


    - Here''s the deal. You keep all the stuff I said about the Daily Mail and gammons -


    - You didn''t say anything about gammons.


    - Didn''t I? Shit. Well, you keep everything that you want to edit out and I''ll get you a big-name interview for episode two.


    - Do you think it''s got potential, then? This show?


    - Beth, don''t be needy. I have no idea, do I? If it''s not good now, it''ll get good. That''s the whole point, right?


    - So, go on. Tell me who it is.


    - Donnie Wormwood.


    - Shut up!


    - Okay.


    - Max, don''t tease me. [pause] Are you serious?


    - I told him what you did for Mr. Yalley. That''s all it took.


    - But why? Why would you help me without a quid pro quo?


    - Because when the alarm sounded you got in your speedboat and rushed to the rescue and that¡¯s the country I want to live in. You''re a hero, Beth.


    - Fucking hell, Max. [Quietly.] Thanks.


    [pause]


    - [Max doing his ad voice] This podcast was brought to you by Glendale Logistics. Glendale Logistics - it''s only logical.

 8.2 - West Side Story

    2.


    Saturday, May 11


    "Who''s winning?"


    I was so far inside my head that I didn''t realise the woman was speaking to me. Of course, I was the only spectator, so who else? I turned and beheld a brown-eyed cutie pie who was out jogging and had stopped, inexplicably, to have a chat with a rando. "Sorry, what?"


    "Who''s winning?"


    I smirked a little bit. "Me, looks like."


    Big smile. "I haven''t seen you around here."


    "Have you been looking?"


    I''d say things were heating up but it was already boiling hot - a real sweaty, sultry day and it was only just getting started. "Why do I suddenly get the feeling I''m in over my head?"


    I took her wrist and turned her heart rate monitor watch to face me. "Pulse low. Reckon it''d take a bit more than some light flirtation to get you going." I locked eyes with her and didn''t release her wrist. Just as the tension was building, I glanced at the watch. Her heart rate had gone up by ten bpm. "There we go." I let her go, gave her one last dazzling smile, and turned back to the match.


    She didn''t want the moment to end. She came next to me so that her arm was touching mine. "So who''s winning?"


    I pointed. "Civic Centre Sharks are in that off-white colour. Ringway Jets are red and purple. The Sharks are up two-one."


    "Who do we want to win?"


    We. I could get up to all sorts of mischief with this one. "We are ambivalent. We have higher motives."


    "Gosh. Do we?"


    I nodded in the direction she''d been jogging. "I''m going that way. We could walk while I run rings around you."


    Her watch beeped - her heart rate had slipped below the target. "Will that get me going?"


    "Not as much as we both want."


    "Oh," she said, playfully disappointed. She looked at her watch and made a decision. "Bye, beautiful stranger."


    "Bye, angel of the morning."


    She jogged away and I walked behind. Every twenty yards she stopped to do a provocative little stretch. My God... What would Romeo and Juliet have been like if Romeo had already found his Juliet when he met Juliet? It''d have been something like this, I reckoned.


    When she''d gone, I texted Emma asking if she had any tight jogging pants, and then, to cool off, I thought about the day ahead.


    The mission was simple - stock up on players for West while trying to persuade a jaded winger to sign for Chester. Oh, and get fifteen thousand pounds from some business boys. Oh, and spend some quality time with my hundred-million pound walking lottery ticket. Had Youngster already met his Juliet? Kisi kept trying to matchmake him with her best friend Meghan. She was from the wrong side of the tracks, though - she played for Man City. Youngster and Meghan wasn''t Montague and Capulet, it was Chesterness versus Cityitis. He''d never be tempted.


    When I got to the car park I did a quick 360 and was disappointed and relieved not to see the jogger. I got in the Duchess and drove in the direction of the Yalleys.


    ***


    XP balance: 4,099


    I''d been accumulating experience points over the past few weeks, mostly from watching playoff matches but also from scouting. Heavy use of Playdar had let me beef up my youth team squads - boys and girls - without producing anything spectacular. Still, every player I added to my database was useful in some way, even if it was only as a point of comparison.


    I''d started leaning into the notes section of a player''s profile pretty heavily - copy pasting their profiles with dates so when I rescouted them I''d know how much they''d improved or regressed. I was also adding their contract details since it could be interesting to track those over time. And I was writing where I''d scouted them, since that was getting important. Talented kids in Grimsby were no good when I was thinking about adding to the ranks at Chester.


    When the angel of the morning had interrupted me, I''d been going through the upgrades that were available in the perk shop. With the season pretty much done, I had the summer to think about what should come next.


    The top two picks were WibWob, which would give me greater tactical flexbility, and Finances, which would summarise the state of my club''s income and expenditure. My hope was that it would give me the same data from other clubs, because knowing their budgets would be extremely helpful. WibWob was 10,000 XP, which I could bring to 9,000 if I used a discount coupon. Finances was 2,000. I was tempted to let my XP grow over the summer and see how close I could get to affording WibWob. Once that was out of the way, I''d be able to get two perks a month.


    My B list options were Contracts 3 and Attributes 6. The latter, priced at 2,050 XP, would unlock another section on the player profiles. Influence, perhaps. It was self-evident that I needed to grab a couple more of those perks this season. Contracts 3, for 1,300, would tell me who a player''s agent was. Given my squabbles with certain agents, that could be handy.


    The C list were ones I didn''t want but needed to buy to progress through that skill tree. 4-2-3-1 was Sandra''s favourite formation, so I wasn''t opposed to buying it. For 2,600 XP though, it was a lot of investment for a formation that didn''t speak to me. What came next, though? I had to buy it to find out. Then there was Playdar 2, which unlocked a second ''token''. The token system was one that hadn''t touched me yet, but in essence it would let me refine Playdar in various ways. I could drop in a goalkeeper token, for example, and it would lead me to the best goalies in the area. I was pretty sure I didn''t want to spend my precious XP on that, not yet anyway, but again, the only way up was through. I needed to buy Playdar 2 to see what came next.


    Also in the shop was a whole host of D options. Player Profile 3 would add to the player history section, Match Stats 3 would add something called ''action zones'' to the in-game data I got. Bibliotekkers would give me the last twenty match reports from a team I was about to play. Live Tables and Live Scores would let me see what other teams were doing while I was in a match. Form told me how well a player had been playing and Player Comparison would let me contrast two players on the same screen.


    They were all interesting and had potential benefits in quite specific situations, but not enough to feel I needed them urgently.


    The last item for sale was the Panopticon add-ons. For 2,000 XP I could add squads to my interface and track them just as closely as the first teams. Useful, but so expensive. It''d have to wait until something made it more urgent.


    Emma: Oh, we''re flirting with joggers, now?


    Me: I happened to be nearby when joggers flirted and were flirted with.


    Emma: Would it help if I sent you a pic of me wearing yoga pants?


    Me: Not in the way you want. I''m about to spend the day with a Christian. Don''t think any more flirting will happen.


    Emma: Isn''t the Bible full of love poems?


    Me: You''re thinking of my notebook.


    Emma: When am I not thinking of your notebook? Good luck today, bebs. Mwah.


    Me: Mwah.


    ***


    The Yalleys were one of those mad families who never locked their front door, so I let myself in and headed straight to the kitchen. As soon as she saw me, Mrs. Yalley offered to make me a cuppa. She had the radio on - a normal station, not the one from Ghana she had as the default on her DAB radio.


    I took a step outside into the back garden. They''d added a nice patio door that led out to the kitchen. Youngster - still James to his family - had saved up a few grand to get it done. What a good kid! "Yes, please. Has James been behaving himself?"


    "Oh, yes. He led the prayer group last night and he''s going to speak in church tomorrow."


    "Is that good?"


    "It is good. We are proud."


    "Top. Don''t let him get too religious, though. I need someone to be fit when the new season starts."


    She smiled as she jiggled my teabag, as per her training. "He has come a long way in a short time. You must let him relax and recharge. But he is keeping in shape, Mr. Best. He goes jogging every morning."


    "Jogging?" I sucked my teeth. "He''d better be careful. There are sharks out there."


    "Max?" Kisi entered the living room and saw me. Meghan, the Butcher of Burnage, came in just behind. She gave me a strange grin. Kisi frowned. "What you doing here?"


    "I''ve got eight kilos of miscellaneous pork and need Meghan to turn them into grizzle sticks."


    "Because I''m the butcher," said Meghan, rolling her eyes. "Very smart. Very witty. Almost as funny as Man United''s defence."


    "That reminds me, Megs," I said, all serious, "it was the hottest February ever and the hottest March ever and the hottest April ever. What''s it like working for a climate criminal?"


    "It''s good, Max. Really, really good."


    "If you two could stop arguing for a moment," said Mrs. Yalley, "I have a question. Mr. Best, what is to be Kisi''s future?"


    "Future? I reckon we''ve got about three years left before the complete breakdown of the ecosystem and the global order. I reckon a couple of years of scrabbling around hoarding resources and eating instant noodles cold until we''re forced to choose which nomadic gang to join. I reckon there will be two major ones in the north west, the Jets and the Sharks. The Jets will ride bicycles and will trade puncture repair kits as currency. The Sharks will operate on a four-weekly cycle of ritualised mortification, purgation, invigoration, and jubilation. They''ll worship the moon and their currency will be plastic clothes buttons. Kisi will join one and fall in love with a boy from the other gang. Their tragic story will lead to the first great art of the post-anthropocene era."


    "Yes, that all goes without saying," said Mrs. Yalley, who seemed to have taken lessons from Beth in how to deal with me. "But before then. Kisi has been offered the chance to extend her stay at Manchester City. Mr. Reaper gave the impression she would be welcome to join Chester permanently. Which is it to be?"


    "I don''t know," I said. "Whichever. Hmm. That makes me sound like I don''t care. What I mean is... they''re both good options for her development. They''re kind of perfectly balanced in a way not many things are. It comes down to personal preference and I''ll support either version a million percent. Kisi, what you want to do?"


    She shrugged. "Not sure. What does my agent think, Max?"


    "Your agent doesn''t give a shit because your agent is too busy living life to the full. Your agent is holy shit turn this up!" Maria Maria by Santana had come on the radio and it went straight into my bones. One of the most perfect sultry summer''s day songs. I turned the volume up a couple of notches and took Mrs. Yalley by the elbow. I led her out into the garden where we had plenty of space. I swayed a bit, moved from foot to foot, clapped, spun, and made little percussive noises. "Mrs. Yalley, come on! Hit me! Show us what you got."


    "She doesn''t got anything, Max," said Kisi, coming to the patio doorway. "She''s my mum. She doesn''t dance."


    "Oh, that right?" said Mrs. Yalley, eyebrows raised.


    "No, mum!"


    But it was too late. I''m not sure how long it had been since her moves had been busted, but Mrs. Yalley busted them all the way out. For a wonderful ten seconds, we accidentally fell into the same rhythm but we came from different dance backgrounds and couldn''t sustain it. Still, our enthusiasm was infectious, and when Meghan joined in, so did Kisi. We recreated a Broadway musical right there in a back garden in Wythenshawe.


    "She reminds me of a West Side Story!" I crooned.


    That was the scene when a window opened upstairs and Youngster''s head popped out. Meghan waved at him to come down, but he pretended not to notice. Without blinking, he retracted his head - a grumpy turtle could have been no more dismissive - and pulled the window closed behind him. I laughed and unleashed my air guitar until the song ended. Youngster turned the volume down and hesitated before stepping foot across the threshold. "Is it safe?"


    Meghan eyed him. "It''s far too safe around here."


    The scene was over; I clapped my hands. "To the Funmobile!"


    Kisi stepped in my way. "Can we come?"


    "What?"


    "You''re going around Manchester doing football things. We''re bored. There''s nothing to do. Can we come?"


    "No."


    "Why?"


    "Your mum said you''re not allowed."


    "I think it''s a wonderful idea," said Mrs. Yalley.


    "There''s not enough space in my car."


    "I''ll sit on Youngster''s lap," said Meghan.


    That was hilarious. I really liked her; it was such a shame she chose to work for a James Bond villain whose stated aim was the extinction of all football everywhere. She liked Youngster and he liked her. Maybe it wouldn''t be so bad if they spent some time together. I did a little swaying dance as I calculated. On the one hand, there was a risk they''d get married and she''d end up convincing him to join Man City. On the other hand, there was a chance he''d convince her to join Chester. From the Butcher of Burnage to the... the Butcher of Blacon. The Slicer of Sealand. The Hoole-igan. The Cheshire Brat. "You can come on condition you don''t mess up my sales pitch."


    "We''re going to pick up a player Max wants to sign for Chester," said Youngster.


    "Tell us about him," said Meghan.


    I made a little scoffing noise. "What, so you can take him to the Death Star and teach him how to drown seagulls in oil while sending out tweets that start with the phrase yeah but what about?"


    She made a bigger scoffing noise. "If you want him he''s not good enough for City."


    I pointed at her. "See, that''s what I mean. You can say that to me if it makes you happy but you can''t say it in front of him. Yes, he''s not good enough for City. Okay. Are you going to throw that in his face?"


    She was mortified. "Of course not. What - ?"


    "Yeah. This is a bad idea."


    "Why?" said Kisi.


    "I''m trying to rescue a guy''s career and if you fudge that up I''ll be proper peeved." I tried to swear less when Mrs. Yalley was around. "I''m his last chance. Playing in the fifth tier means nothing to Meghan but I''m trying to build something and I''m trying to build it out of broken dreams. It could come crashing down but I''m going to bloody try. If we make it... Can you imagine? Something''s coming, Kisi. Something''s coming. Who knows what? Max knows Best. Down the leagues, on the beach, up at West. Maybe tonight!"


    "Are you singing?"


    "What? No. I''m simply letting you know that something''s coming and that something is going to be beautiful. This man''s career doesn''t mean anything in the grand scheme of things, but it means everything to him and I respect that and Youngster respects that. If you come in with your hilarious ''haha we spent two billion pounds ruining English football and turning an entire sport into a rolling court case'' jokes - that''s not the right vibe for this guy. I need to make him think he''s got a future. That it''s not time to give up. He''s fallen out of love with football. He''s agreed to spend the afternoon with me and Youngster. One benefit of winning the league and having a reputation as an eccentric - "


    "Weirdo," suggested Meghan.


    "Is that people pick up the phone and agree to things."


    Kisi considered. "He gets a career. And what do you get?"


    "I get a lot of hard work. But I see a lot of Chesterness in this guy. A good player, an even better asset to the community. All right, seeya later."


    "Wait, Max." Kisi was blocking me again. "We''ll help you."


    "You''ll help me? Couple of City slickers, that''s what I need? Couple of gobby Manc, er, brats? No. This mission calls for kind hearts and coronets. Veto."


    Meghan said, "I''ll keep my mouth shut, Max. I promise. Honest - I''m going to be bored to death if I have to listen to Kisi talk about how much she fancies - "


    "No," said Kisi, apparently angry, but they both quickly cracked up.


    "You should let them come," said Youngster. "I believe they will be a help to your mission. I feel God is speaking to me."


    God speaks to you via your sex drive, does he? I tutted and checked my phone. "I don''t have time to argue about this; I don''t want to be late. When I talk to this guy, keep quiet unless it''s to say, ''Max has spoken.''"


    ***


    The dip in mood was soon forgotten and when we unloaded at Heald Green train station we raced past each other like little kids trying to be first onto the platform.


    "Max!" Someone was calling me. I looked around, trying to see where the voice was coming from.


    "There," said Youngster.


    Back in the car park we''d come from was a guy - my guy. "How''s he got there? The train''s not arrived yet."


    "He got the earlier one, Sherlock," said Meghan. "Not playing that hard to get, isn''t he? Not like some people."


    "He''s cute," said Kisi, as we walked back towards the winger.


    "He''s 25," I said. "Which means if you call him cute in front of a policeman, he''ll go to prison forever. So how about you shush your mouth?"


    "I''m just saying he''s good-looking."


    "What I do," I said, "when I''m thinking inappropriate thoughts about joggers or whatever, is I play it cool."


    "Cool?"


    "Cool," I said, clicking my fingers once every three or four seconds. Sometimes three, sometimes four. Whatever felt coolest. I also bent my knees and walked in a crouch. "Coool," I said again, beckoning the others to join me.


    "Which movie have you been watching?" asked Youngster, even though we weren''t talking about movies. Such a weird kid, sometimes.


    "Jaws," said Meghan, the idiot. "Because he was talking about sharks."


    "Coool," I said, sticking to the bit even though no-one else was into it. We met my guy halfway across the walkway.


    "Were you doing West Side Story?" he said, smiling wide as he shook my hand.


    "These crazy cats were too excited to meet you," I said, in an absurd Beatnik voice. "I told ''em to play it coool." I clicked my fingers some more.


    He joined in. "I did it in drama class. Breeze it, buzz it, easy does it. Turn off the juice, boy!" He laughed at the memory and reached out to shake Youngster''s hand. "I know who you are. Young Player of the Season. Impressive. I''m Wes."


    I crooned, "You remind me of a Wes Side Story!"


    He laughed some more. He was six-foot tall, second or third generation Nigerian English, the physique of a sprinter, and a great haircut enriched by thin dreads around the back that jangled as he raced past full backs. Kisi instantly loved everything about him, especially his surprising middle-class accent. Hot but safe. "You did drama?" she said, ready to swoon.


    "Yes," I said. "I was voted most likely to EGOT."


    "I''m Wes," said Wes, reaching out to shake Kisi''s hand.


    "Er, this is Kisi. Youngster''s sister. She''s Schrodinger''s player. She exists as a cog in the Man City-industrial complex, one of a hundred thousand numbers and one of the only ones not grown from scratch in a test tube, yet she also plays midfield for the coming powerhouse of women''s football, Chester Actual Women, a team made up entirely of footballers with no lawyers involved. And that''s Meghan. Sadly, she has taken a vow of silence to atone for her misdeeds."


    "I''m Meghan," she said.


    "Wow. All right, let''s hit the road."


    "What''s the plan, boss?"


    "You can call me Max until I start paying your salary," I laughed. "The plan is to scout some players down near Styal. If we''ve got time, Meghan wants to go and see Quarry Bank, the mill. She loves water wheels, don''t you Meghan? Clean, renewable energy. She''s doolally about it. Then it''s a six-a-side pitch in Handforth. Cut back through Wythenshawe to Chorlton, where my ninth tier team is. The under 18s are doing their last game and it''s decision time about who gets kept for the firsts. I hope there''s a few good ones. We''re also going to meet four players I want to sign for West next season, see if we can get those deals done today. That''d be good. We''ll look around the facilities and all that, meet some volunteers, and then we''re going to a pub to watch Crawley smash Wrexham. Lol. And, er, what else? Oh, yeah. I''ve got a meeting lined up with some b-boys at the Chamber of Commerce. I''ll probably drop you off before that. It''s going to be boring."


    "B-boys?" said Wes.


    "Business boys. I need a little bit of finance for the new players. Not you, mate! This is for my team. My little team. Okay you need to get in the back, I''m afraid, because Youngster is my special pumpkin and the passenger seat''s been calibrated for him."


    "No worries, Max."


    It wasn''t all that far to Styal but the girls pumped Wes for a lot of information in that time. They learned that he was a winger whose contract at Atherton Collieries was running out and their relegation from the seventh tier meant they were making savage cuts. They learned that his surname was Hayward and that he''d previously played as high as League One. He''d been on the verge of quitting the game when a certain Max Best had called.


    "If Max wants you, you must be mint." I nearly crashed. Meghan!


    "Max is the best judge of a player in Manchester." Kisi!


    "God has given Mr. Best a gift." Guess who? "I am glad he is using it on you. Is Wes short for Wesley?"


    "It is!"


    "A most Christian name," said Youngster. "Are your parents believers?"


    There followed a conversation about churches and whatnot that bored me to tears, but I think overall it was positive. Familiar. Soothing. I pulled into a spot and parked. We got out and the curse kicked in, showing me the details of a match in progress. "Yes! I''ve timed this like an absolute boss. We''re going to catch the end of one match and the start of another. They''re doing an under 18s tournament. End of season thing. Top four teams in the league are competing, American-style. Not a big fan of that, but I''ll get to see almost all the players in a twenty-minute blob. That''s pretty genius, I''m sure you''ll agree."


    "Don''t you need more than ten minutes to evaluate a player?"


    "Er, sure, yeah, let''s go with that. But ten minutes is enough for a yes or no, isn''t it? If it''s a yes you can scout again or bring them in for a trial or whatever."


    "Do you want me to do a trial?"


    "Nope. Meghan says you''re mint."


    He laughed. "But seriously. When did you scout me?"


    "My mate plays for FC United and I try to watch him when I can. That was the first. I''ve actually seen you three times. You are mint and there''s a contract ready for you. Right, I''m going to..." I drifted away and crouched by the side of the pitch. In this match alone, there were three players in the PA 20-40 range! Absolute bonanza.


    "He does this," said Kisi. "He''s like one of those narcoleptics. He''ll wake up in a minute and finish the sentence he started and expect us to go along with it."


    "What did he mean about you being Schrodinger''s player?"


    "I have to choose if I sign Scholarship with City or go proper to Chester."


    "Why... Why would you choose against City? They''re, like, City."


    I started hum-singing I Feel Pretty from West Side Story, but I changed the words to I hate City. Meghan rolled her eyes but Kisi ignored me completely.


    "Um. Well, my brother''s at Chester. I like Chester. I''ve got friends there. But I''ve got friends at City, too. But I play proper matches for Chester, but it''s only fifth tier. But I might get some minutes for City''s under seventeens, they said. But they don''t like me dribbling too much. I lose the ball a lot."


    "What about Chester?"


    "They don''t like me losing the ball, either. Jackie wants me to make good decisions. Max wants me to be me. And at Chester we''re building something from the ground up and it''s just, just awesome! City''s, you know, City. Do you want to be CEO of a startup or some worker bee at a big company?"


    "Wesley does not want to talk about you all day," chided Youngster. "Do not be selfish."


    "He asked!"


    "It''s true, I did ask. What do you think she should do?"


    "That is simple. God led us to Chester."


    "He led you there. I''m a free agent where God''s concerned. But Wes, tell us about yourself."


    He spoke simply but movingly about his life and career. Football had been an escape from a difficult childhood and something he''d been good at. He could have tried athletics but his father had nudged him into football where there was more money. "Not that I''ve seen any of it," Wes laughed. He''d been inundated with offers as a kid, had grafted and moved up until he was signed by Blackpool in League One. He had always been a purely attacking player but from that moment he''d had to learn to shuffle and slide and defend and all that, and it was tiring and when he did get the chance to break in matches, he''d been exhausted and didn''t have the explosive pace and power he needed to get past a defender. For a time, he got by on raw talent. He''d even played a few minutes at the end of a League One match and had been put through one-on-one with the keeper. He hadn''t known what to do and had ended up doing nothing, and that became the story of his life. "I haven''t enjoyed football for a long time. A long time. I got the nickname Wayward."


    "What?" said Kisi.


    "Wes Hayward. Wayward. Wayward Hayward. It got under my skin, to be honest. I''m running down the wing - do I cross? Shoot? Cut back? I end up doing half of one, half of another. The name follows me round. Follows me down. Down the pecking order. Blackpool reserves. Alty. Alty reserves. Rochdale. Rochdale reserves. And so on. All the way down to Atherton Collieries. Down and out."


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    "No," said Meghan, seeming to be genuinely appalled. "Don''t say that. You''ve got Chester. They bossed their league and everyone says they''ll go through into the EFL."


    "Not Max," said Youngster. "He expects a tough season. He has plans to come strong at the end and crush our opponents in the playoffs." He said the word crush with quite some relish. "I believe he wants to sign you not for what you are, but what you can soon become."


    I got to my feet. "Youngster''s nailed it. It''s almost in my interest for other teams to dismiss you and surprise them in the playoffs but that''s not very fair on you. We''ll play it straight because when I''m finished with you, no fucker at this level will be able to stop you. We''ve got great coaches and the facilities are getting better. The fact you played in League One is huge. It''s easier to get back to prior levels than to get there the first time. I''m kind of obsessed with training times and I''ve got some good data already. That''s what''s fascinating about Kisi, here. If she stays with the evil empire she''ll have access to top training. If she comes to Chester, she''ll have good training plus first team minutes. As far as I can tell, the two scenarios are absolutely identical in outcome! I mean, the way we do it. Another team at our level would overuse her or underuse her and it''d be way better at City. But we can actually compete. But, you see, this is the tricky bit, only because she''s already had some training there. If she''d come from Atherton, no offence, she''d develop much more slowly. But that exposure to the standards is like jet fuel. Jet fuel, Kisi! You should join the Jets. And Wes, mate, you''ve got some of that jet fuel in you, too. By January, you''ll be twice as good as you are now. That''s easy. What comes next? Hard to say but only good things. By the end of next season you''ll one million percent have a new nickname and I think I know what it''s going to be."


    "What''s that?" he said, slightly stunned by my passion and the speed the words fell out of me.


    I gripped him two-fisted and pulled him a couple of inches closer and dialled up the intensity even further. "Sharkboy." Kisi and Meghan fell about laughing. "Wait!" I said, releasing my grip. "Sharknado!"


    "Sharknado?" said Wes.


    "As fast as a tornado and full of sharks. I wanted to call the women''s team the Chester Sharknados but it''s trademarked or whatevs."


    "Max," he said, still smiling at the nickname, but with a sombre edge to his voice. "How much do you want me?"


    "A lot."


    "That''s... not what the salary says to me." I''d offered him five hundred a week, which given he was CA 20 was a fortune.


    I shook my head. "I''ve got loads of roles. One role is to stand at the bottom of the balcony serenading you. Another is to buy you a wedding ring for the amount Chester can afford. This is the hard part because I know you''ve been through enough... Come with us and you''ll get paid next year. You''ve given up so much to get where you are and you think it''s been wasted but Wes! I''m here. I found you. You don''t realise the magic''s already happened." I smiled at the simple truth of that statement. "God, it''s hot. It''s sweltering. The heat drives people apart or brings them together. I hope it''s the latter. You need to invest in yourself one more time. The rewards will come. The fun will come! We have fun. Even Youngster has fun, once a week. We schedule it, don''t we mate?" I laughed at his annoyed face and the way his eyes flickered towards Meghan to see if she was laughing at him or with him. "The money''s not stellar, I''ll grant you that but I can put you up in my mate''s digs and you''ll find your money stretches a bit further than you''d expect. Quite a few players live there, don''t they Youngster?"


    "Oh. Er... yes, Mr. Best. Although..."


    "Perfect. Basically it''s like a big hotel run by a Frenchman which, shockingly, is a positive thing. There''s always top snacks and the fridge is well-stocked. I pop by sometimes and man! The hams, the cheeses. Mwah!"


    Youngster pointed at me. "You are the hamburglar!"


    "What?"


    "We have had turmoil, Mr. Best! Councils! Recriminations! Tears! Accusations! Mini-fridges. And all this time, it was you. You are the Brie Bandit."


    I grabbed Wes. "God, I love a bit of brie. Somehow when I''m in the shops I never think to buy it. But Henri''s always got loads, and this gluey stuff, too. It''s so smooth! Now, I''m not saying France has the best cheeses. Hello? This is the United Kingdom. We''ve got Stilton. Wensleydale."


    "Cheddar."


    "Cheddar! Cheddar''s absolute mustard. But the French, God bless ''em for trying and they really hit the spot now and then."


    "It sounds like you''ve been eating their food and they''ve been at each other''s throats."


    I looked around, distracted, as one team put together an unusually good move. How had that happened? I decided it was a fluke caused by the presence of one clever forward. "It''s all character-building, innit? See that guy there? He''s cheddar. I want him."


    "For Chester?"


    "No, he''s not quite there. I want him for West. That''s my team."


    "But Max, sorry." It felt like a big moment so I turned and gave Wes my full attention. He was PA 86 and lightning fast. I reckoned we could get him to CA 40 by January - I felt sure he''d been there or higher in his Blackpool days - and maybe we''d even hit CA 60 by the end of the season. Next year he''d be a fucking menace and the best thing was only I knew it. Only I could see it and his success would be a massive boost to my ego. If I could get him for five hundred a week I could pay better wages to another player. That said, if he turned me down it wouldn''t be the end of the world. I had a bulging database of alternatives. "Sorry, but..." He sighed. "You said when you were finished with me no-one would be able to stop me. But is that because of my pace or... Or what? I just don''t see what I can offer. I''ve watched you and I can''t do what you can do."


    My smile started small but kept on going. It was so out of control it fucking left my face and spread onto his. I put my hand on his shoulder. "Even I can''t do what I can do." This incredible mini-poem was met with derision from Meghan and Kisi, but I was too inspired to let that bother me. "I know one hundred percent what you can do. You''ve got in your own head, you''re in your own way. That''s understandable. Life''s a mind fuck. But there''s really only three things I need you to do and not only do I believe in my heart you can do them - " I was grinning like a genuine crazy person, now - "I''ve seen you do them. I''ve got loads of flaws as a person - " I paused to look at Meghan, but she didn''t say anything. "But I''ve never asked a player to do anything they can''t do. Three things. That''s your magic. That''s why I''m here instead of talking to Messi." I laughed. "No joke, Wes. You''re going to be my first signing of the summer."


    "Second," said Kisi. "What about me?"


    "Wes or bust," I said, getting myself so hyped up I was practically bouncing. He was starting to respond when the final whistle went and I fucking stormed across the pitch towards the organisers. In a manic half minute I introduced myself, said I wanted to sign three of the players I''d seen, and asked if they would delay the second match for two minutes so I could do some impromptu coaching. "Oh," I said, as I jogged back, "if you''ve got any wingers, send them over. I''m about to give a masterclass in the position."


    ***


    I gave Kisi my phone, keys, and whatever was in my pockets. She was excited by the wallet but not happy with the bits of fluff. She threw one big piece away and I picked it up and placed it gently in her palm. "I need that," I whispered.


    We were over by the right touchline, where a winger would live. Wes was standing about five yards in front of the eighteen-yard box, some five yards away from the edge of the pitch. He formed the boundary of a rectangle that was more than enough space for me to show my winger skills. A young goalkeeper was more than happy to hang around in the six-yard box, and I''d picked a striker kid with good heading to loiter around the penalty spot.


    "Three things I need you to do, Wes mate," I said to my prospective new signing. "First one''s a piece of piss. Imagine there''s a sort of Formula One curve there. We''re going to storm down the line and whip in a delicious cross that follows the bend. Remember, I''ve seen you do this."


    I got ready.


    "One tiny thing," I said, while I thought about it. "When you get going you''re very head-down and in my limited experience we''re not going to change that. C''est la vie, as they say in the digs. But then you need to look up before you sprint. Right? We''ll work around your weaknesses. Turn them into strengths, even. And by the way, you''ll be crossing to Henri and he''s clever. He gets it. He''ll know where you''re going to hit the cross more often than not. We''re not going to let details bother us. Not ones that we can coach around, anyway. So I''ll knock the ball to you, sprint, take the return pass, and hit the cross. Actually, hang on." A gaggle of the under eighteens players had come closer to see what was going on. I talked to them. "Lads, I''m going to play a sort of one-two with Sharknado, here, and when I get to about there I''m going to smack in a fucking dreamy cross. This is a replicable skill. Something you can practice. It''s kind of not that hard. The only tricky bit is coming to a stop before you hit an advertising board so watch how I rebalance myself after hitting the cross."


    I touched the ball once to get into the proper stride, passed to Wes, glanced to see where the the striker and goalie were, sprinted pretty much flat out, collected the return pass, sprinted another ten yards, and Maria! Maria! You remind me of a West Side Story! I was jogging backwards, slowing, coming to a complete stop a yard behind the goal line as the striker headed the ball into the net. Glorious. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up.


    "Good in the air, that kid. Love a proper old-school header. Wes, that''s the first move. Second? How can I describe it? Ah, yeah. Piece of piss." I pointed to one of the kids. "You''re a left back, yeah? Go to the far edge of the six yard box and jog in. When you get it, smash this ball low and hard into the net. Go on, then." He scampered away. "Wes, same deal." To the increasing crowd, I said, "So the first cross I think of as having a sort of Formula One curve that the ball follows while I spill off into the thingy lane. This one, though, it''s way more perpendicular. It''s a flat right angle. Have you seen Tron? I do this when I don''t think my striker''s gonna get a conventional cross, so I need to mix it up and hey! I''ve got a bro at the far post and he''s favourite to do something with it."


    I touched the ball again, looked up, sprinted, and when I got to the point I had last time, took another yard and then hit through the ball exactly sideways. It flew in a perfectly straight line, which is actually pretty hard to do but will happen if you make the right contact, and you guessed it, the left back volleyed the ball into the net smooth as silk.


    Okay fine, under the pressure of a hundred people watching him he kicked fresh air and the ball sailed clean across the pitch, but whatever.


    "Right? That''s two. Now, the third one. Youngster, stand there and try to block my cross."


    "I apologise, Mr. Best, but I know what you are planning to do."


    "Oh, you do? Spend a few weeks with Henri and Pascal and think you''re a floating megabrain?"


    "Mr. Best, there''s something I need to tell you."


    "How about you stand there and try to block the cross? Hmm? Okay, check this out, Wes."


    I took a touch, looked up - doing it how Wes would do it was pretty weird and inefficient but I think my impression of him was good - sprinted, and when it came to hit the cross, Youngster jumped up - sarcastically, somehow - but instead of hitting a big, whippy cross I booped the ball almost sideways between Youngster and the byline, turned and chased it so fast I heard a couple of gasps from the onlookers. With the ball about to go out of play for a goal kick I smashed it low to the striker, who successfully deflected it into the goal.


    There was some applause. I gave everyone a Maxy two-thumbs to signal that the show was over, and pulled Wes off the pitch. "Three things. We''ll coach the shit out of you doing those three things but master them and you''ll give defences a migraine for the next five years. Kisi, what''s two thousand pounds a week times fifty-two weeks times five years?"


    "Hang on," she said, handing off my stuff to Meghan so she could get her own phone out.


    "That''s right," I said, looking at Wes. "A billion pounds."


    "Five hundred and twenty thousand," said Kisi.


    "That''s what I meant," I said.


    Wes smiled. "Lot of dough."


    I shook my head. "A lot of work. Wes, I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. More sweat than tears, tbh. Especially on a day like this. It''s like running in a sauna."


    "Not being funny, Max, but you can hit those crosses without me."


    "Yeah but what if I need to play DM? What if I''m in goal? If I''m playing left, you''re playing right, they''re gonna need two Usain Bolts to defend us. I never thought I''d say this but you''re faster than me. Your pace will make teams go into low blocks."


    "But we do not have Chris," said Youngster. "What is our solution to the low block?"


    "Who says I want a solution?" I grinned.


    "But - " he said.


    I got my stuff back from Meghan. "I need to ask those kids what their plans are. Meghan, you''re a born diplomat. Want to help?"


    The others gave us some distance as I spoke to the young men. They were pretty surprised when I said I wanted to sign them to West Didsbury and Chorlton, but all three were keen. It went smoothly and Meghan was perfect. She gave the impression that if they signed, she''d be at every training session keeping an eye on them. She spoke with a sexy bluntness she never used around Youngster and the lads were into it. Like I said, born diplomat.


    "That was mint," I said as we walked back to the others. "Bit of a sledgehammer approach, mind."


    "I''ve tried being subtle, Max. It dun''t work. Men are thick as pigshit."


    "Yeah, fair point. All right let me talk to the organisers quickly." The managers of the next two teams were going through their team sheets with the referee. "Guys, quick question. I want to watch the start of this game, see if you''ve got any prospects. How long until the first drinks break?"


    "We''re not doing a drinks break."


    "Are you f... Are you pulling my leg? It''s boiling. I''m a professional football manager and I wouldn''t play in this heat without a break after twenty minutes."


    "We''re not doing a drinks break."


    I rolled my neck around. "There''s five professional footballers here," said Meghan, fierce, "and we''re telling you - "


    "Oh, get bent."


    "Meghan, come on. No point talking to them. They''re dead inside." I went over to the green team''s biggest player. "Are you the captain?"


    "Yeah. You''re the pro?"


    "I''m the player-manager. Get these guys and come over here."


    "What?"


    "Come on, dude." Six of the green team followed me over to the yellow team. I shut them up with tact and sensitivity then added, "I''m Max Best. Player-manager of Chester FC, Manager of the Season, Player of the Month in League Two for Tranmere." The rest of my gang had come to see what was up. I gestured to each in turn. "I''ve got the Young Player of the Season here, my next star signing, and two girls from Man City who''ll be playing for England soon. Not a single one of us would play in this heat without a water break. Stop playing after twenty minutes, walk to the sides, have a drink. If one of those guys complains, tell them I said to go fuck himself. All right? Now, I''m looking for new players for my team in Chorlton so if one of you''s any good, that drinks break is when I''ll come and talk to you. Captains, you with me?"


    They were. After all, it could have been them I was scouting.


    ***


    "That was smart," said Wes, as the players began toiling around the pitch. It seemed a good bet that we''d get some blood, toil, tears and sweat if we stayed long enough.


    "What was?"


    "Telling them to stop so you could tell them who you''d scouted. It tipped them over the edge."


    I nodded. "It was smart. I like being smart."


    "Why''d you do it, though?"


    "What do you mean?"


    "Why do you care about these kids?"


    "Why wouldn''t I? They''re teenagers and those pricks are asking them to work harder and put more strain on their bodies than fully-trained professionals. I fucking hate seeing cavemen in charge of football teams. It winds me up. How many talented players have been through these teams and how many have quit because it was just so fucking grim?" I inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I want to get so famous that when I go over and tell them to do a drinks break they just instantly do it, whether it''s out of fear or respect I don''t care. Just fucking do something right for once in your fucking lives. What the fuck. I''m pissed and want to leave but I have to stay, now. We''re going to have to cut the six-a-sides. Godfuckingdammit."


    "Is anyone worth staying for?"


    "The full back, there, but I think his dad is the caveman."


    "Is that an automatic no?"


    "Guy like that tried to murder me." I scoffed. "If that kid was the only talent in Manchester I''d play 3-5-2. I am... simmering."


    Kisi poked me in the back and I turned, annoyed, only to see her click her fingers and strut around. "Cool, Max. Play it cool."


    Meghan joined in the clicking. "Too cool for school, Max."


    Youngster got a goofy smile on and fell into step beside Meghan. "The only rule, Max, is play it cool, Max."


    I looked at Wes. His eyes went all over the place - thinking about his career, his future, all the disappointments of his past - then he locked eyes with me and I saw a cheeky grin and some movement from his hand. He was clicking.


    "Jesus Christ," I said, laughing. "Fine. I''m cool. Look at me. Ice cold. Not going to flip anyone off."


    "So can we go?" said Kisi.


    "What? Go?"


    "You said there''s no-one you want. So we can go."


    I shook my head and the smile faded. My heart hardened. "We can go when they get their break."


    ***


    The next stop was to Chorlton - via a shop where I bought five ice lollies and a bag of chilled drinks - and into the stadium at Brookburn Road. My stadium! It was more like a football pitch with a few buildings dotted around, but still. I owned a little piece of Manchester.


    As we walked around the pitch, I sang a little tune. "I like to be in Manchester, okay by me in Manchester, I can feel free in Manchester, something something Manchester."


    "I''d like to play in America," said Wes, which made no sense because that wasn''t even slightly the topic.


    I noticed that Kisi had sort of latched onto him, which worried me for a second until I realised it was just a scam to make Youngster have to walk with Meghan. "Huh. Sure, we can try to make that happen. I''d like two seasons out of you first, tbh. Oh! How about Colorado Rapids? That''d fit. I wonder if they''re actually faster than average. They should be, right?"


    He stopped and touched my arm. He wanted a private word; I shooed the kids away. "I''ve got doubts, Max. I''ve lost my faith."


    I waited, but there didn''t seem to be more coming. "Wes, you''re really good. I''m about to cut almost all of these kids. Tell them their football journey''s over and they should go and be carpenters or accountants or whatever. Some will keep going and it''ll be a waste of time. I don''t want that. They should find something they''re really good at and treat footy like the game it is. I don''t like doing it but here and at Chester it''s my job. If you came to me and asked for advice and you were shit, I''d tell you. But you''re not. Now, those three brats are very, very talented but you can do something none of them can."


    "What''s that?"


    "Get an entire stadium off their arses. When I fizz you a pass from DM and you''re crossing the halfway line, four thousand people are gonna have their pulses up ten bpm because nobody''s gonna catch you. You''re absolute box office, mate. Oh, my God!"


    "What?"


    "I''m just imagining the first time we let you loose at the Deva. People are going to lose their minds. That rush is worth the season ticket price, Wes. People work hard and they want to be entertained. They want... the Sharknado." He tried not to smile and failed. "Come on. This is my club. Do you like hummus?"


    As usual at West, there was a nice buzz around the gaff, with volunteers and parents and some first-team players. Plus, the four guys I wanted to sign, who''d found each other and were in a little huddle off to the side. I''d started calling them the Fab Four - they would be the new spine of the team. A goalie, centre back, midfielder, and striker. They were grizzled veterans with CAs in the thirties. We would build the team around them.


    I introduced everyone to everyone and let Meghan and Kisi do their version of charm on the Fab Four while I talked to West''s current manager - he wouldn''t last long, sadly, but he was good enough for the coming season - and the guy who ran the youth system. We watched as the under eighteens played their final match and I made comments and listened to what the West staff had to say. After about twenty minutes, I said there was one kid I wanted to promote to the first-team squad, along with the three I''d found that morning and two others from recent scouting trips. With the four semi-pros coming in and maybe the odd loan from Chester, we would surely smash the league.


    I went through the current first team squad and crossed out a few names who''d have to go to make room for the new lads. Pretty brutal, really, but the worst thing was that the manager accepted it and the players would accept it. They wouldn''t like it but they had spent their entire career waiting for this moment. One day, it would even happen to me. Some talented little shark would knock me out of the team while another would take my Manager of the Year awards.


    "This is if those four sign, obviously. If they don''t, I''ll call you and we''ll discuss it. Oh. Where are they?"


    "Jane''s giving them the tour." Jane was one of the volunteers and there was no better ambassador for West.


    "Amazing. I''m gonna go take five minutes to myself. Do we have an aircon anywhere?"


    "There''s a fan in my office, Max. Good one. Three speeds it''s got, to push the hot air into your face."


    "Just gonna chill and make a couple of phone calls. If I don''t see you again, enjoy your summers and all that."


    I went into the club''s office - I had a master key to here as well as the Deva - and closed my eyes. How was I doing with Wes? Hard to tell. It was too hot for me to think straight so I was - yeah, I was trying to play it cool. Trying to be honest but also to show that I knew what I was talking about. I didn''t know him well enough to say how he was responding. If he was in my squad I''d be able to see his Morale. Ah, numbers. Certainty in an uncertain world.


    I sighed and picked up a pen a doodled some CAs and PAs.


    West''s squad had an average CA of 10, which is why Vivek and Michael Harrison had been able to come and slip into the first team so easily.


    With the Fab Four, the first eleven''s average would be over 19, while after the morning''s scouting we would have six kids in the squad whose PA was in the high twenties or thirties. We would definitely be the best team in the league and any loans from Chester would really hammer home our advantage.


    I ripped the paper up and threw half of it into one bin and half into another.


    Next stop, pub.


    ***


    The Fab Four had been softened by Kisi and Meghan''s youthful energy and the mood around the table was sky high. We talked about football with Kisi chatting a mile a minute telling stories from inside the Beth Heads, from Chester, and even from the brief time I was the manager of a local side against Chester''s boys.


    I munched my burger and fries and tried to drown myself in ice cold cokes while the League Two playoff semi-final second leg played out on dozens of screens. Wrexham were pushing Crawley back all over the place and the away team seemed unable to do my trademark fast breaks down the middle. Wrexham had finally worked it out! They almost seemed to be playing with three defensive midfielders. A narrow 4-3-3 with the full backs pushing on to hit crosses. Five attacking, five defending. That was wild by their manager''s standards.


    The camera kept cutting to TJ, the good-looking bastard, as he covered his mouth and talked to his assistant. They were struggling. At one point, the commentator said something like ''and Max Best isn''t here to help him today'' which caused a minor cheer at my table and that became the main source of friction between me and Wes and the Fab Four. It seemed impossible for them to believe that a sixth tier manager had gone down to Crawley to teach a League Two team how to play. I didn''t fight it - seeing is believing.


    After about half an hour, I got everyone at the table to shush while I made a call. They leaned in so they didn''t miss anything.


    "Chad? Max. Get Marley off, switch to 4-5-1, super conservative in the middle, super aggressive out wide. Yeah, right now. No, I''m serious. All right, seeya." I smirked and looked around. "If Crawley win I get a bonus. Pays your wages for a month." I resumed popping chips in my mouth. They were room temperature, meaning a million degrees. I knew that at the side of the pitch, Crawley''s head physio had run to TJ to relay my message, and the wheels would soon be in motion. It happened even faster than I expected - the ball went out of play and the camera cut to the away dugout at the Racecourse.


    "No way," said the guy I hoped would be West''s new goalkeeper.


    "Fuck me," said the striker.


    On screen, a substitute was stretching while he waited for Marley to jog off the pitch, and TJ was animatedly running around shouting at people and pointing.


    "Sorry guys," said Meghan, as she stole one of my chips and dipped it in ketchup. She used it to point at the Fab Four. "You''ve just seen the owner of your football club make a, ha, thirtieth minute substitution in the biggest game of the year. For a different team! From a pub! The manager at Crawley doesn''t have doubts. Why the fuck do you?"


    There was a tiny silence that soon filled with laughter. The midfielder put his hands up. "Oh, that''s me done. I''m in. Lancaster City can swivel." Lancaster were two divisions higher than West - this was a huge coup!


    "I was in anyway," said the striker.


    "You should wait to see if the tactical change works, first," said Youngster.


    His sister punched him on the arm, quite hard. "Shut up, James!"


    "When it works it will be even more powerful!"


    "I think I preferred Meghan''s help, mate," I said. His head dropped so I took over the conversation for a while, explaining what I''d learned about the players on both sides and their managers.


    After a while, Wes piped up. "Sounds like I want to play for TJ."


    "What?"


    Meghan laughed. "Listen to yourself! You''ve got a mancrush on him, Max. You talk about him the way Kisi talks about Patricio." Patricio was a hot prospect in the Man City system with hot being the operative word. I''d seen him being named on the subs bench from time to time and with his talent it was a wonder he hadn''t got there sooner.


    Kisi was annoyed the name had come up. "Hey! It''s you who likes him."


    Meghan was annoyed Kisi would say that in front of Youngster. "Don''t talk shit."


    Wes clicked his fingers. I joined in, and then Youngster did, too. Kisi nearly choked from laughing. The Fab Four were perplexed, so Meghan started to explain when Youngster exploded off the table, nearly toppling our drinks.


    On the screens, Crawley were running round, celebrating. Four-one on aggregate! (Including the score from the first leg.) I waited for the replay to see how the goal had been scored. There was dead silence on our table as it came on. The left back had gone on a storming run, combined with the left midfielder, and burst into the box before cutting the ball square for the right midfielder to slot home.


    "Aggressive out wide," mumbled the goalie.


    "You see?" said Youngster, eyes bulging. "Do you see?"


    I got up and gave him a big hug and coaxed him back down into his chair while Meghan gave him a very not-cool look. Still hanging onto my firebrand preacher, I got my phone out and redialled. "Yeah, it''s Max. Low block. Yeah. Till half time. Cool." I closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling. Friendships, projects, scouting, giving opportunities to talented people. Getting to know my dudes. And the sense of power. The awe of what I could achieve when I was in harmony with others, with myself. Mind and body working together. I slipped back into my seat. "Sometimes I wish I could dance. Really properly dance, you know? Like West Side Story. Really go for it."


    "What happens at the end of that?" asked Kisi.


    "Tragedy. But this isn''t West Side Story." I nodded at the Fab Four. "This is my West side and they can tell their own story. Spoiler alert - they win the league and learn how to make an amazing broccoli soup." I decided it was time for my big pitch. "Guys, when you watch West Side Story you get frustrated because these guys are wasting their lives fighting each other even though they''re going through the same things. I hate seeing people waste their lives and their talent. There''s this quote, ''You should do what you love while you can.'' I want to pay you money to play football in winning teams. I want you four to sign for West. Wes, I want you at Chester. I don''t know what else to tell you. I chose you because you''re good players, you fit the team, and you''re not dicks. We''ll all achieve our goals this season. West are going up, eight, seven, six. Chester are going to the playoffs and Wes? We could fucking use you."


    "What about me?" said Kisi.


    "You can stay at City. Meghan didn''t turn out too bad."


    ***


    After watching Crawley scrape through into the playoff final - Wrexham scored two late goals but lost four-three on aggregate - I dropped Wes off at a train station. He said he''d sleep on it and pray on it and let me know soon but that his mind was more or less made up. That seemed positive; I was feeling upbeat when I herded my posse into Withington Golf Club.


    The Chamber of Commerce had organised a kind of Shark Tank event where people could pitch their ideas to a bunch of local businessmen looking for opportunities and tax write-offs. I knew I didn''t have the skills to connect with b-boys who weren''t already fans of the team, so I considered this event to be a practice run. I''d get a feel for what worked and what didn''t and once I''d had a couple of tries, I''d really make an effort with PowerPoints and handouts and all that. I''d go full Brooke.


    We had some alcohol-free drinks and nibbles with about eight of the sharks. One, a wiry, strong-looking sexagenarian called Keith, proudly announced he wouldn''t be investing in me because he was a big City fan. That prompted Meghan to give him a blast of her charm. "What are you saying? He''s got two players from Man City with him! I''d put money in if I had it. He''s going to invest it in the community and get everyone talking about West."


    Keith didn''t enjoy being told off. He mumbled something about her having a point and he shuffled off.


    The other b-boys didn''t talk to me in case they got their heads bitten off, too. I couldn''t be mad at Meghan, though. She''d been showing more and more Chesterness all day. Thanks to the heat I''d been showing less and less sophistication and diplomacy and now I felt sure I would bomb in the pitch room. I would bomb so hard I wouldn''t even learn anything from it. After about five soul-crushing minutes, I was shepherded into a meeting room. There were rows and rows of plush conference room chairs, but only eight people in attendance. The same eight who had been in the lobby. I mean, grim, but I thought of it as grinding for sales pitch experience points. No biggie. I''d stick to the facts and not get emotional.


    "Hi," I started, ignoring the microphone I''d been offered. Everyone could hear me. "I''m Max Best. I''m here to ask for funding for West Didsbury and Chorlton Football Club, which we call West. A good measure of a club''s underlying health is its average attendance. West''s has been rising year on year, climbing from 700 last season to 750 this. That''s impressive for the division and shows how it''s getting more and more woven into the fabric of the area. The club can stand on its own two feet but I want to bring my skills to bear and put overpowered players into key positions. First, though, a little bit about me." I went about introducing myself, but stopped when the main door opened and a handful of new b-boys came in.


    Except they weren''t b-boys. They were Old Nick and two imps. They spread out, taking seats to the left, right, and centre.


    "Good evening, sir," I said to Tactics Imp. "What business are you in?"


    "Cars," he squeaked.


    "Gosh, really? Any particular brand? If I know you, Tesla. Right?"


    "Hillman!" he said, and he bobbed up and down, making weird wheezing noises.


    An elderly b-boy in front of him turned round. "Hillman Imp? My father had one of those. Funny little motor. Do they still make those?"


    "Import export!" said Tactics, which seemed to satisfy the b-boy.


    I put my head in my hands and looked to Kisi and Meghan for help. They were on their phones, though. Youngster had his eyes open but gave the impression that he was rehearsing the speech he would give in church the following morning. "Sorry," I said, "are you saying there''s a car called a Hillman Imp?"


    "Yes," said the guy in front. "You''ve seen it. It''s Mr. Bean''s car."


    "Mr. Bean drives a Mini," said Keith, who had been bored to death until this conversation had started.


    "I was sure it was a Hillman."


    "I bet you fifty quid," said Keith, who was clearly extremely competitive.


    Old Nick shifted. "How much for stadium naming rights?"


    "Excuse me?"


    "I know you, Max Best. Your name comes up in a lot of our marketing meetings. You''re very good and you have a talent for getting publicity. I want my company name in every article, every news story, every twit. So how much will that set me back?"


    "I haven''t even started my presentation, yet."


    "Never mind all that," he said, and I realised he was doing a posh English voice. "These people don''t realise that their investment will pay off tenfold. Talk to me, instead. How much?"


    "I mean, there isn''t a stadium. There''s a little metal shack with space for fifty hipsters."


    "The Emirates. The Allianz Arena. The No Fussin'' Hyperdome. The return on investment is always good from naming rights but with you in charge, it will be stratospheric."


    "What''s your company name?"


    Old Nick bared his teeth. "I represent Hellmann''s Mayonnaise."


    "You''re not serious? And the stadium would be called... Hellmann''s? Welcome to Hellmann''s?"


    Keith was intrigued. "Go on, then. How much for naming rights?"


    I scratched my head. What was Old Nick''s angle here? Had he really got involved at a famous brand so that... So that... I didn''t know how to finish that sentence. I tried to focus. I''d come to try to get fifteen thousand, hadn''t it? "Fif - "


    "Fifty is far too much," said Old Nick. "I offer thirty thousand. That''s enough to finance two players this season. And I offer an extra fifteen on condition you win every game."


    "Every game? Every league game, you mean."


    Nick glanced at Tactics Imp, who nodded. "Every league game, yes. We will continue the deal next summer. You will win every league game for two seasons. There will be tremendous media interest as the streak continues. I would have to be very dim indeed not to be able to exploit that opportunity."


    I scoffed. "The most consecutive wins ever is like twenty. We can''t win every match. Certainly not, fucking, ninety-two in a row."


    Pilot Imp - I think it was him - spoke up like a kid in a school play not trusted to have many lines. "You can win every home game. Bradford Park Avenue won 25 home matches in a row. Win every home game and don''t lose away and my company will pay a big bonus."


    There was so much going on here I didn''t know where to start. I wanted to ask what his company was called, but didn''t want to unduly stress the poor creature. Before I could speak, Keith was on the edge of his chair, jiggling back and forth. "Can you do that?"


    "Can we win every home game? I mean, yeah in one season. Two seasons back to back?" I scoffed, but then thought about it. It wouldn''t take much, to be honest. "We''ve got four new players lined up. Add another four next season. The levels are fairly low down there and there''s no shortage of players who''d improve the team. Most aren''t expensive, to be honest. If they already live in Manchester or near it''s not a hard sell. So, yeah. I... Look, there''s always the random factor. Crazy stuff happens in sport. But we can stack the odds in our favour, big time. If that helps you sell mayonnaise then, wow. Weird."


    "Now you forget mayonnaise, young man. My name''s Keith and I understood you were here to pitch to local businesses and you don''t get more local than me. I''ve got shops, I''ve got properties, I''ve got sparkies and spreads and skips and scaffs. I like to say I''m a one-man Yellow Pages. Now, why don''t you and I go and have a private chat?"


    A rival b-boy didn''t like that. "Hey, sit down, Keith. There''s more of us, here."


    Keith pointed at the other man. "You don''t have two brass farthings to rub together, Cooky! This young man needs someone who can scale with him and that''s not you, that''s me. Come on, now, my boy. I''ll see you right. Thirty plus a bonus and I''ll see my name in lights."


    The guy was incredibly forceful when he wanted to be, and I was being led away from the stage by the power of his charisma - and a callused hand on my back. I looked back at Old Nick, whose eyes were shining. He had that hungry look about him. "Keith," I managed to say, as he opened the double doors and we sailed through. "What''s the name of your company?"


    "Blue Moon Limited."


    Blue Moon was the one and only song Manchester City fans sung. "So the stadium would be called... The whole stadium would be one big advert for... nah, hang on a second. Hang on just a second!"


    ***


    In the car on the way back home, the energy was low. The heat and the long period of boredom had exhausted the youngsters. It''d been a good day, though. Weird, but good. I was pretty sure West would do some serious damage this season.


    "Are you happy, Max? You got your money and your players."


    "We''ll see but yeah, looks like. This Keith guy is nuts. More competitive than Sam Topps. He''s pretty annoying. If I know him, he''ll be wearing West bobble hats by October. He''ll tell everyone our record was down to him and skip the part where he said he wouldn''t help us."


    "If you get the record," said Youngster.


    "We have a pretty good chance. The team is going to be miles better than the level. Hmm."


    "What?"


    "I could afford a fifth player but the manager''s a weak link, now. If we want to go on a serious winning streak, we need an upgrade."


    "Get a player-manager," said Meghan. "For five hundred a week, I''ll do it."


    I laughed. "You''d be mint an'' all."


    "Max," whined Kisi. "Where am I going to play next season?"


    "Wherever you want."


    "Max!"


    "What?"


    "Where do you want me to play?"


    I sighed. "I love seeing you in a Chester shirt, Kisi. Dribbling and doing tricks and being a dick." I laughed. "Remember that time you nutmegged that one girl and she tried to scissor kick you from the floor and you jumped over it and pretended you were doing a skipping rope? It was so funny and she was so angry she had to be subbed off. It''s annoying to think of you being locked up in some evil laboratory somewhere in Beswick and being let out once a year to go on loan. I think Chester can develop you pretty well but if things go wrong with the men''s team then our facilities might not be able to keep up with your promotions. It''s a risk. City''s a sure thing. As a friend, I should tell you to stay at City. As your agent, the same."


    "And as Chester''s Director of Football? What do you say, then?"


    I smiled. "I say fuck City they''re everything that''s wrong with football and you''re everything that''s right with it. They don''t deserve you. Come to Chester and slap us up the leagues. Build this club with me. Football the right way, all the way." I scoffed. "Once we buy Meghan, we''ll be better than them anyway."


    Meghan piped up. "You can''t afford me."


    "I can when I sell Youngster."


    "Pardon me?" said the man himself. "Sell me to buy Meghan?" He turned and smiled directly at her for the first time that day and I suddenly realised he hadn''t spent the day mentally rehearsing his sermon but trying to cook up a flirty line that would hook a shark. "That would be a good trade indeed. She is formidable."


    "And fit," said Meghan, in her aggressive flirty voice.


    "And fit," said Youngster.


    Oooh it was all popping off! I stopped at a traffic light and started clicking my fingers. Click, click, click. Kisi joined in. "James," said Meghan, in her normal voice. "Would you like to watch West Side Story with me?"


    "Yes," he said. "I would very much like that."


    "Tonight?"


    "Tonight."


    ***


    @Chester - The club are delighted to announce the signing of Wes Hayward. The 25-year-old pacy winger will join the Seals on July 1 in time for pre-season.


    ***


    @Chester - The club are delighted to announce that Kisi Yalley has decided to leave Manchester City and join us on a permanent basis. Director of Football Max Best said, ''This is top in theory but the deal is subject to her refraining from demanding the number 77 shirt. There''s only one 77 and it''s not you. So stop asking. Also, you made the right choice. Welcome home.''

 8.3 - Leave No Man Behind

    3.


    Tuesday, May 14


    Exit Trials Day One - Slough


    "First time I kicked a ball, I was two. My dad already thought I''d be a pro. My grandad placed a bet that I''d play for England."


    We were driving down to Slough (rhymes with cow) for the first Exit Trial of the summer.


    Exit Trials are specially-arranged matches where players who have been released by academies can play in front of scouts. For some of the participants, it''s their last chance saloon. One YouTube video about these events is called ''One Game to Save a Career.'' A scouting website calls them ''The Hunger Games for footballers''.


    No football team in the history of the sport had ever taken the Exit Trials as seriously as Max Best''s Chester FC. To most industry insiders, an Exit Trial was a chance to see a bunch of cast-offs in one place and maybe pick up a fourth-choice centre back for the reserves or find a couple of lads to fill out their under 23s. In addition, there was always a gambler''s chance that you''d find a Jamie Vardy or a Chris Smalling that another club had unaccountably let go.


    But I was absolutely convinced that over the next three days I would be able to beef up my squad with super talented kids from all over the country. Ones who had been spotted at an early age and been trained by elite academies for thousands of hours. Ones with high PA and decent CA, too. Kids who''d be able to feature in matches. And best of all, ones I wouldn''t have to pay a fee for! They''d been released from academies. Those clubs didn''t want them.


    I did.


    I stared at my Chester Squad screen and tried to think of the perfect constellation of players I''d sign. I wasn''t the only one whose thoughts had turned that way. From behind me, I got a tap on the shoulder.


    "Max," said MD. "Can we talk about the squad and what we''re looking for today? And maybe put that into the context of the budget?"


    "Sure thing, King Bling."


    "Great."


    I felt him lean back and turned to see what was happening. Apparently nothing. "Go on, then."


    He leaned forward. "I thought you''d do it. You''re hyper, today."


    Next to him, in the middle of the back row, Brooke nodded. "When you''re up like this, Max, you rattle off ten words a second with gusts to fifty."


    I sighed. "Hands up who thinks Brooke makes up these phrases to see how deranged she can make Texas sound?"


    Four hands went up, including one of mine. "Hey, now," she said, before adding with a mumble, "That one''s real."


    "First of all," I said, grandly, "I''m not hyper, nor am I gusty. I merely see the chance to do some good in the community. These poor boys are homeless and we can offer them a home. As Ruth gave me a home, so shall we house these poor, poor - "


    "Million-pound players," said Ruth.


    "What cynicism! Come on. Look, we all win. The kids get to stay in football. I get a million pounds per kid. And the Brig gets some young minds to thingy. Mould and that."


    "What does Ruth get?" said MD.


    "She gets to become the agent of any kid talented enough to make it to a high level. And if she gets bored she can talk to Brooke about Biccy."


    "Biscotti," said Brooke. That was the name of her dream horse. It lived in Cheshire somewhere and was the only reason someone with Brooke''s business background would work for, essentially, minimum wage. Long story.


    "Squad chat. First things first, we''re somewhat short on goalkeepers."


    MD groaned. "There''s still time to reconsider."


    He wasn''t all that pleased with my recent decision to let Steve ''Angles'' English leave the club. Angles was our goalkeeping coach, or at least he would be until the end of May.


    "What''s this?" said Ruth. The news wasn''t out yet.


    "You were there the last game of the season. I played in goal because Angles isn''t up to it any more. He came on at the end, didn''t have much to do, kept a clean sheet. A wonderful and fitting end to a long career. Top. All top. But I sat down with him and said my goalie coach needs to be able to play. Third-choice maybe, but he needs to be a proper option and that time had passed for Angles in the National League North so it¡¯s ten times worse in the National League. Don''t look at me like I shot Bambi! Angles will be the first to admit that''s right. The thing is, we don''t have the budget for a pure goalie coach. We just don''t. Our coach has to be able to play. So we talked it through and agreed he should move on. Now, I''m helping him find a new club and I''ve even got him some hours at the local goalkeeping school for a bit of extra pocket money and to see if he likes doing that sort of thing. If he hasn''t found anything by July first, we''ll keep him on, month-to-month. You know, for a while. God knows we have enough goalies to look after, when you consider all the levels and the new women''s teams. No, it had to happen and this way he''ll get a new life as a pure coach and that''ll be good for him."


    "Poor Steve," said Ruth.


    "No! Not poor Steve. He''s going to be fine. Listen to what I''m saying. This is good for him."


    "It''s not nice to have to leave a job, Max. He''s been at Chester for a while."


    "That''s right," said MD. "Years."


    "Okay," I said. "It''s hard. But we love him and we''re doing our best to turn something that could be harsh into something positive. Aren''t we, John?"


    John Smith, AKA the Brig, checked his rear view mirror. "Max has behaved beautifully. My chief regret is that Steve wasn''t mentioned in Max''s speech at the end of the Darlington match. It would have been a perfect send-off."


    I waved the idea away. "We''ll do it in the first home match this season. That''s easy. Look, Steve''s fine. We''ll put out a statement. Mutual consent, super positive, wish him the best of luck. Ruth! What did I say about that face? This club needs three players who are better than me in goal! Christ. I really tried hard to do it classy so please don''t give me shit for it. Okay so we''ve got Ben and that''s it. He''s getting a new contract. Little pay bump. 600 a week, two plus one."


    "What does that mean?" asked Brooke.


    "It''s two years, meaning two seasons. The plus one is an extra year we can activate. I''ve agreed that with most of the players. The two years gives them loads of certainty and the optional extra year gives us flexibility and helps make sure we get a transfer fee for them if that''s what we want."


    "Is that a good idea for them? Sounds like you could make them stay a year longer than they want."


    "It could go bad, but basically they know I''m committed to training them and investing in them so it''s okay. The worst thing would be if MD sacked me. Then it''s..." I mimed the planet exploding. "Where was I? We''ve got one goalie. I assume the next coach we hire will be in his thirties. Early thirties, just starting to transition into coaching. That''d be perfect. Then there''s an obvious slot for a young, super talented goalie. If we signed an eighteen-year-old with Premier League talent, he''d be our third-choice goalie but would get first team minutes and a genuine chance to come with us all the way."


    "All the way?" said MD.


    MD had a low ambition score so I had tried to avoid mentioning my plan of going all the way to the Premier League. "To, ah, League One or whatever."


    "Right."


    "Full backs. Eddie Moore''s extended. One plus one, still on 900 a week. Carl''s got a bump to 650 and that''s two plus one. They''re solid and can come to League Two with us. Centre backs. Glenn and Steve have renewed on one plus one. 600 for Steve, 775 for Glenn. Tiny raises but very welcome and well earned. They are... okay for the level. I''m going to need a very serious guy to come in to raise the standards there. If there was a superkid... the next Rio Ferdinand or John Terry, yeah, I''d probably go with that. But realistically we need someone pre-beefed. Ready to handle a bit of long ball and be good at defending set pieces from day one."


    Brooke twinkled. "You gonna bring in a few corn-fed boys for me, Max? Could ya make sure they''re unattached?"


    I scoffed. "You wouldn''t date a defender. Have some self-respect. Oh! We''ve got Magnus Evergreen. He''s single. I bumped him up to 600 a week and had a long talk with him. He doesn''t want a long contract so he''s going to decide year on year if he stays. I mean, what can we do? Personally, I think if he leaves Chester he''ll quit football and if that''s the case, we can''t stress about it. I can''t imagine him rocking up at Man United but yeah, when he says he''ll be here this season he''ll be here this season a hundred percent and that''s cool. Then we''ve got Vivek but will he get up to speed fast enough to help us this season? No chance. So I''m definitely, definitely in the market for some defenders."


    "Centre backs," said Ruth.


    "Anyone. If I get a right back, Carl Carlile can play CB." I rubbed the back of my neck. "We do have a bit of a quality gap with the defenders."


    "What''s Vivek''s wage?" said Ruth.


    I realised she was writing all this down. "Whoa! Steady on, old chap. This is privileged information. For your ears only. Don''t document it!"


    "It''s just so I can follow the conversation," she said. "Anyway, what if I was on the board?"


    "You''re not," I said, just as the realisation dawned. "Oh! You''re standing again? That''s cool. But still. Eat that paper when we''re done."


    "Vivek," she said.


    "I''ve got him to agree to 350 a week. It''s a kind of nothing amount of money but he''s ecstatic. He''s a professional footballer."


    "What''s the plan with him?"


    "Train him as far as we can. MD''s made contact with clubs a bit closer than West Didsbury who might want to loan our players. In tier 8 there''s Bootle, Nantwich, Runcorn, Widnes, Witton Albion. In tier 7 there''s Warrington Rylands. Macclesfield is a bit further east than I''d like but it''s still technically Cheshire."


    Brooke shook her head. "Hands up if you think Max is inventing place names to make England seem deranged."


    "No hands, mate. Anyway, he''s played tier 9. How about he goes to tier 8 for a month in September and tier 7 for a month in January? Maybe it''s that simple. We''ll pay his wages and if clubs don''t use him, they don''t get free players from us. Yeah, we have to eat the cost of his wages for a while but I promised him and his mum we''d look after him and it''s a good experiment, too. If it works with him we can do it like a factory thing. What am I thinking of?"


    "Production line," said MD.


    "Right."


    "Battery farming," said the Brig, who didn''t like it when I treated young men like numbers.


    "No, not battery farming," I said, annoyed. "Free range chickens! Happy hens, mate! Let''s peck some goals in tier nine, let''s nibble some corners in tier eight. In tier 7 they get one of those little huts with a walkway and they can quack up and down to their heart''s content. Their lives will be fucking magical! While I''m working hundred hour weeks trying not to go fucking mental!" I put a finger to the side of my eye to see if it had started twitching. The act calmed me down. "Anyway, I''ll be keeping track of them all and if they aren''t treated well by their hosts you''ll go and shout at them and remind them who''s the boss of Cheshire. That''s us, by the way, and we''ve got the fucking trophy to prove it. In between those loans the lads''ll be training with the firsts or the reserves. We''ll do it all classy and that. I want fucking organic footballers, but if there''s a process that works that is understandable, great! What kind of stupid brat can''t understand a number sequence anyway? You do a month in tier 9 and a month in tier 8 and in no time at all you''re in the first team. It''s a literal progression fantasy you ungrateful little..." I mimed strangling someone.


    "I think I spaced out for a second, there," said Brooke. "Who''s he mad at, now?"


    MD frowned and pointed to the invisible neck I was throttling. "I think... I think that''s one of the Exit Trial boys, freshly released from one of the biggest clubs in the land, who has refused to join tier five Chester because Max said he planned to immediately loan him out to a pub team."


    "Conversation''s over," I said. "No talking until we get to Slough."


    ***


    "When I was six I was playing grassroots football. We played a cage tournament and this scout was there and said do you wanna play for us? I thought, damn I''m really good at this."


    They disobeyed me, the dicks, and chatted merrily away during the long drive south. Slough, apparently, had been chosen because it was west of London and so was a good option for all the lads from the west country (Cornwall and Bristol and all that) as well as the capital itself.


    Slough Town''s stadium, Arbour Park, was tiny but quite nice. The main stand had a lot of high glass behind the few hundred high-sloping seats, giving the impression lots of VIPs were just behind, watching and drinking prosecco. The dugouts were offset to the sides of this stand, reducing the amount of belligerence between the home and away teams.


    Of course, today all the teams were away teams and all the players were hoping to find a new home. I settled into a spot next to MD. Brooke sat on her own, while Ruth and the Brig formed a third unit. Divide and conquer was the plan for the day.


    "Max," said MD, with his notebook open. "Can we finish talking about the squad? Midfielders?"


    I nodded. We''d talked about the squad quite a lot but it was a good time to restate what we had and what we needed. If we didn''t find players today our next best chance would be June 1st, when a million free agents would suddenly appear on the market. First things first, though.


    "Sam Topps. New contract, 775 a week, one plus one. Ryan Jack should be back in January. Aff, slightly improved deal, 575, still one plus one. Youngster bumped up to 700, two plus one." I waited.


    "Why did you stop?"


    "This is where you say thank you."


    "Thank you for giving your client a pay rise, Max."


    "Thank you for tying down a hundred-million-pound player to a new contract, Max. Okay then we''ve got Wes Hayward, the Sharknado himself."


    "I really think we should get him a new nickname. We can''t use that in our marketing."


    "Then it''s the Triplets. They''ve both got two years left, no pay rise. By the end of the season, Aff left, Sharknado right, Sam Topps and Youngster in the middle. I mean in terms of quality it''s good enough. Bit of pace on the wings. We''re short of some guile in the middle, though. We don''t know what state Ryan will be in so we can''t count on that. Andrew''s going to be very good but he''s a runner. If one of these exit kids can dribble or pick out a pass from central midfield, we need to get right on it."


    "What about the Triplets, Max? You''ve been very coy about them."


    I looked around. The main stand was filling up. Not long until the first match! My pulse increased. Three matches a day across three days! Nine batches of talented kids! Nine Christmases! I tried to calm myself down. "Okay, look. Andrew''s the one, okay? He''s the one who can come with us. To the... to League One. He could play in the Championship, I reckon. So he''s going to fetch a few million when it''s time for him to go. We''ve put a lot into him and his family and he understands that and I think he''ll be loyal. But Michael''s pretty much in the same boat as Vivek and Noah is a bit lower than that. The three of them can have careers but Andrew''s the golden ticket."


    MD eyed me. "I feel like you''re telling me that because you want something. I can''t tell what."


    I declined the invitation to elaborate. "Then we''ve got WibRob and Pascal. No new deal for Pascal in case we piss off the work permit people. He''s not too happy about it."


    "He''s not too happy with anything right now."


    Pascal had left the digs in a huff. Didn''t want to live there anymore and the reason was clear. In the Future area of his player profile it said ''Dislikes Henri Lyons''.


    "I know. I''m hoping it''ll blow over otherwise we''ve got six more years of dealing with the moody bastard."


    "I don''t want to do such long-term contracts again, Max. It''s bad for my indigestion."


    I glanced around. A guy about MD''s age had taken a seat one away from Brooke and had started chatting her up. "You''ve seen him play. You get what he can do, now, and so do a lot of people. Worst case scenario we let him go for free. There will be takers and we''ll have that contract off the budget. But I''m hopeful he''ll get over it by the start of the season and he can really kick on. This could be his year. WibRob''s on 500 a week which you''ll soon see is crazy cheap. You''ll spend most of the season fending off calls about him."


    "Would you want another player like that? A flexible forward type?"


    "Sure. The only downside would be the guys getting in each other''s way in terms of first-team minutes. But players like that are worth a fortune. If all I get from these days is one guy half as good as William, I''ll be pretty satisfied."


    "What about strikers? We''re very, very short. We''ve only got Henri."


    I scoffed. "Luisa has Henri. No-one''s seen him. Have you heard he''s moved out of the digs, too?"


    "No. When?"


    "Since they started dating but now it''s official. He''s got himself a love nest somewhere. Somewhere he can bring her without being surrounded by my free range footballers." I tutted and shook my head. "He''s left Charlotte in charge. She gets her rent free but has to get Andrew to get Noah to clean up his mess. Poor girl."


    "How does that work financially? As far as I can tell he''s not making enough from the digs to pay the mortgage."


    "Yeah he''s eating money on it at the mo, plus now he''s got his bachelor pad. Can you imagine what he''s spending on candles? I''m not sure how long he can stay like that."


    "You increased his wages to a thousand a week. I feared it would be more than that so you did well there. Adding the squad as it is plus your management team of John and Sandra plus your good self gives us a sum of 14,625. I''ve given you a discretionary budget of 22,000. That leaves you seven thousand three hundred to get two goalkeepers, at least one defender, a crafty midfielder, and two strikers. Does that sound about right?"


    "Yeah but when you say it like that... Seven thousand for six players. That''s crazy tight. Give me a gee gee, bro."


    "You have a few hundred thousand in the kitty if you want to really push out the boat."


    That money was what remained from selling Raffi Brown and buying solar panels, plus giving the women''s team a capital injection. I was treating it like an emergency fund, for now, until I saw how the squad looked on June 2nd. It was perfectly possible I''d have a sensational squad by then. If not, I could burn my reserves to add in another couple of players. "Oh, shit. Here they come!"


    ***


    "At twelve I was bossing matches and living, breathing, sleeping football."


    I grabbed MD by the arm and shook him. "Come friendly scouts and fall on Slough, it''s full of hot prospects now!"


    "Is that John Betjeman?"


    "You betcha, man. Oh, give me a minute, this is incredible."


    Two sets of twelve players had emerged along with a referee and his assistants. The players were in green or white. MD took out a tablet computer and went to a website where he was able to watch the stream of the match. Pointless since we were in the stadium, but it showed that we were in competition for signatures not just with the people in the ground, but football clubs and universities all over the world. He paused the feed on an image of the player line-ups - just like on real TV! - and compared them with the handouts we''d been offered when we came in. They matched.


    The pitch was in good nick and the players were clearly motivated to impress. These were the ones who had been given the dreaded news and opted to keep fighting. What of the others who had simply slipped away? Were their talents lost to the game forever? I blinked and refocused.


    The first thing that struck me was the pace of the match. The quality was decent but slow with soft tackles and it was painfully obvious that the teams comprised absolute strangers and that the managers had shoved a few square pegs into round holes. The second thing I fixated on were the CA and PA ranges.


    The CAs went from 10 - how was that possible after so long in an academy? - to mid 30s. That was interesting. If their former clubs were acting rationally and these were the lowest performers, I''d need to put out a CA 30 team to stand the slightest chance of winning the FA Youth Cup. That seemed hard to achieve. I could get to 20, perhaps... Thirty would come next year. Did I really want to write off an entire season? No chance. I''d have to get first team minutes for as many of my potential Youth Cup team as possible.


    I took a deep breath. The PAs.


    These kids had Potential Ability ranging from the 20s - fool''s gold - to way over 100. Some were so talented it was pure madness they''d been released. Plymouth Argyle had released a Championship level striker. QPR had shed a very, very good midfielder. What the actual fuck?


    I swung into action, whipping my phone out so rapidly I bumped into MD and nearly made him drop his tablet. I started with Ruth.


    Lucas Cook.


    I glanced around and saw her show the message to the Brig. They got up and ambled to an organiser. If Lucas''s family was in, Ruth would begin the schmoozing.


    "What?" said MD.


    "Huh?"


    "You were clicking your tongue. You do that when you''re trying to make a decision."


    "Oh, it''s nothing."


    I''d been wondering about buying Contracts 3. It would tell me which agent represented a player. That would be very handy right now since I''d be able to save Ruth some time. If this kid already had an agent, there was no point in her trying to sign him up. Our agency was still in its infancy, though, and Ruth needed the practice. If she could steal players from rival agents, that would be worth a lot of experience points for her, wouldn''t it? I scratched my chin. I hoped no-one else had a curse, though it seemed likely there were people like me all over the world. I snapped out of it - I had a mission. I texted Ruth again.


    Fast, powerful striker with mad potential. It''s absurd he''s here today. Mention Chester by all means, but more likely you''ll have to suggest Tranmere or Crawley.


    There were about 50 scouts and agents in the main stand, and lots of parents. Inside there were refreshments - tea and coffee for the professionals, the same plus sausage rolls for the families. The overall vibe was, to me, positive and hopeful.


    Next I texted Brooke.


    Stop flirting with that guy. He''s an agent and not a very good one.


    His assets under management were rated by the curse at thirty thousand pounds. Ruth had those numbers floating over her head, too. The curse rated Dani, Angel, WibRob, and Bark as only worth a combined forty-five thousand pounds. All right, but let''s see that number a year from now!


    We''d made an Exit Squad Whatsapp group for the day.


    Brooke, please find out about Osei Bentil. He seems a level below everyone else.


    Osei was the CA 10 kid. I watched in silence for a while, calculating. Lucas Cook was the standout player - PA 142 with good attributes. He would score goals in the Championship for sure. Was he a dick? Ruth and the Brig would find out. The next best was a PA 128 midfielder with poor technique. What could you do with him? Turn him into Sam Topps on steroids? It wasn''t my kind of player. Next was a PA 99 right back but he was so slow. Pace 4. Could he make it? Could he have a good career? I spent a few minutes convincing myself he could. But he couldn''t.


    Osei had a bad injury. He hasn''t been able to play for a while.


    I pushed my phone into my lips for a minute. The kid was PA 60. Did I want to take on kids that low? From the far side of the country? I couldn''t. I couldn''t give away minutes that Dan and Tyson needed unless the new guy was an amazing upgrade. I didn''t really feel like abandoning the kid, though. We''d be putting out CA 100+ teams soon enough.


    This Osei could be as good as Sam Topps. We don''t have a space for him. Call some of your National League South friends and tell them to give this kid a chance. Tell them he is Max Blessed.


    "I''m right here," he said.


    "I know. I don''t want to say it out loud. Bradley fucking Rymarquis just turned up, the twat. He''s just out of punching range."


    MD shook his head and idly looked through his phone. Finally, he landed on a name he liked and dialled. He got into some chitchat before talking about the player. I was pleased to hear that my recommendation impressed the guy on the other end of the line.


    If you want some brownie points, call around to recommend green 6 and white 2. They''re not perfect but they''ll do amazing work in tier six and maybe make their clubs a bit of cash.


    I showed it to him while he was still talking. He nodded and continued his chat. Networking was a big part of his job and the better he did it, the more booze he got offered when we played away games.


    Who else? What about the PA 60 goalie or the PA 70 centre back? They had no obvious weaknesses but could I really give up more slots in the squad and commit wages to such players? My database was so large now I would easily find dozens of PA 70 options amongst the hundreds of experienced pros whose contracts were coming to an end. I could get players with the same ceilings but much higher CA. I could skip a year or two of development. I could make life easy for myself.


    "What''s up, Max?"


    "Huh? What?"


    MD had paused his call to check on me. "You were huffing and puffing."


    "Was I? Just thinking things through. Maybe I''ll go for a walk and clear my head. Get a tea." I stood up to do just that and had a thought. These were matches, right? Fifty minutes with a referee in a proper stadium. Was I getting experience points?


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    I was. 1 per minute. I sat down. Tea could wait till the break.


    ***


    "We went to a youth tournament in Holland and I played great and I was buzzing all the way home. At the next session my coach pointed to the first team and said you''ll be there soon. One more season you''ll be on that pitch. I was made up. So happy. He was saying how close I was to my dream. I told my friends, my parents, the coach said my dream was alive."


    Ruth was happy. She''d spent almost the entire first match flirting with Lucas Cook''s older brother, who''d driven him to the event. The Brig was less happy, which made me laugh. Then they''d met Lucas himself, who seemed surprised events were moving forward so quickly.


    "Did you get him?" I asked. MD and Brooke were elsewhere.


    "We''re in with a shot," said Ruth. "The brother''s been a sort of agent for him and it hasn''t gone that well. He''s willing to accept Lucas needs professional help."


    "Why," I started, but then lowered my voice. As part of the pretence that we were a bunch of strangers, we were in a deserted corridor near the drinks area and our voices could easily carry. If I didn''t know where Rymarquis was, I''d prefer to do the entire conversation by text. "Why did he get cut?"


    "We need to investigate," said Ruth, leaning into the Brig. "Their version is personality clash. Things were okay until the last couple of seasons but then he got a new coach who didn''t like him and whatever Lucas did was never enough. Lucas himself readily admits he got lazy. Stopped working hard. So it could be that he''s got a bad attitude but it really didn''t seem like that. We''ll investigate."


    "He''s a young man of great promise," said the Brig, sternly.


    I blinked at him. His tone was odd. "Did you mention Chester?"


    "He was like, is that a university? He says if he''s going to university he''d rather go to America. But he''d heard of Tranmere. That''s a proper name. That got him excited."


    Mildly infuriating, but it was okay. He could go to Tranmere and start his career and our agency would make a couple of mill in fees over the next ten years. Acceptable.


    Yes, all in all, a good start to the day. They announced the next match would start soon and we made our way back inside. The Brig still had a tiny storm cloud over his head. Quite unexpected. Surely he didn''t mind Ruth flirting a little bit?


    ***


    "I got a letter in the post that said unfortunately we won''t be bringing you back next season best of luck. To get that knock back after what I''d been told was just around the corner was horrible. I couldn''t process it and I buried it deep down, as far as I could."


    The next match was black versus red, and I noticed Rymarquis perk up. He was here to scout one of the guys. If I could find out who...


    Me: Brooke, could you sit near the guy who looks so smothered in suntan oil that if you pushed him he''d slide for about five metres? I want to know who he''s here for.


    Brig: Pardon me, Miss Star. Sir, what are you planning?


    Me: We could mess up the move or dangle some less talented kid in front of him. Make him waste his time!


    Brig: And waste the young man''s time, too? Are we here to cause inconvenience to your enemy or to support these young men?


    Me: The second one. FINE. Forget the fun side quest. Let''s be deadly serious the WHOLE DAY.


    Brig: Yes. Let us be deadly serious when it comes to the lives of young men who have recently received devastating news.


    Wow. The Brig was fuming about something! I let it drop. Brad could do his bad Brad things as long as it didn''t get in my way.


    The match kicked off and this time there were no guys over PA 130, but there were a couple of interesting midfielders.


    Ruth, can you find out about Josh Owens? That''s Chester business, by the way. Brooke, Omari Naysmith. Brig, there''s a good player there called Snij Punt. I''d love to know more about him.


    "There''s no-one called Snij Punt," said MD, looking at his lists. "Oh. Snipe hunt. You love to live dangerously. John''s clearly not in the mood for jokes. By the way, I checked the match feed and they didn¡¯t show the team sheets for the second match. Someone in the office got lazy, I think. Someone watching at home might like a player but have to do some extra work to get their name and that might put them off. You know, if they¡¯re busy or lazy. So that could be an advantage, right? If we like players in the second or third matches?¡±


    I nodded. ¡°Yeah. Good catch.¡±


    ¡°So tell me about the real players. What are we looking at?" said MD. We were next to each other again, while Brooke was in the same general area as before - pointedly avoiding the agent - and Ruth and the Brig were over to the right. They set off to ask the organisers about the targets I¡¯d given them. I realised I was rushing into things and it would get very weird if Ruth and Brooke kept finding gems within minutes of kick off.


    "Owens is a left-sided player. Wing back''s his best position. He''s playing central midfield, here, which is nuts. I wonder if that''s where he played for his club and that''s why he got cut? This whole world is mad, Mike. He''d be amazing for us. He could cover Eddie or Aff. Naysmith is a conventional midfielder. Not my dream signing given our squad but train him up, sell him, I mean, what''s not to like?"


    "We can''t do a scattergun approach, Max. I liked it when you compared our squad-building to playing Tetris. Slot one player in, slot the next one, the next. Very rational."


    "Yeah but sometimes Tetris gives you five of the same blobs in a row. We have to embrace our blobs."


    The ladies took an inordinate amount of time getting back to me, but as the match neared its conclusion, my phone vibrated.


    Brooke: Naysmith''s former team have sent their Head of Recruitment to watch this event and to support their player in finding new opportunities. They liked him as a player and person but have lots of similar players of that profile. They expect him to find another club but apparently he hasn''t played well today? So it might take more time.


    MD and I looked at each other. I nodded. He got up and brushed some sausage roll crumbs off himself. When had he got a sausage roll for fuck''s sake? My stomach growled.


    Ruth: Owens won''t move north.


    Me: Okay.


    I sat trying to decide if I wanted Omari Naysmith more than I wanted a sausage roll. On balance, yes. CA 20 PA 103, no obvious weaknesses. His only flaw, from my point of view, was that he played a position I had plenty of cover for and he played the role in the same way as everyone else.


    Beggars can''t be choosers. If he would come for a decent salary, I''d definitely take him. Turning him down wasn''t really an option unless we got terrible references.


    Where were my squad? Brooke was back on her side of the stand, networking with someone the curse told me was an administrator at Lewes FC. Ruth was chatting up an event organiser - good idea - and the Brig... The Brig was having a very intense conversation with a rando. It looked like a player''s mother and she seemed to be crying. The hell was he up to?


    ***


    "I felt humiliated and I didn''t know who to talk to. The club said their door was always open if I needed it but they did this to me so why would I talk to them? I had to clear my stuff out and leave just like that. I''d been there five years. They was all my besties one minute and next thing, I''m done. Everything to nothing in the blink of an eye. My mates from outside the game couldn''t understand what it was like. My parents had sacrificed so much, driving me around, taking days off. It was hardest when I thought of me dad. He''d done so much and now I wasn''t gonna be a footballer."


    Seeing my guys ''work the room'' led me to reconsider my position. I''d intended to be the spider in the centre of the web, directing my flies to go hither and thither. Maybe it would do me some good to talk to a few people, though, if only to make it seem like I was the kind of person you might call if you found a hot prospect.


    I made a show of trying to flirt with Brooke, who was more than happy to shoot me down. With a sheepish grin I went back a few rows and sat near the failed agent and got talking to him. Now that I''d been brought down to his level - as if! - the conversation flowed freely.


    Turned out he wasn''t a failed agent but a good one. The industry had begun to sicken him, though, so he had been moving his clients on or letting them go and was down to his last two. One was about to take to the pitch. The agent would try his best to get the kid''s career going and then step aside.


    The story got my pulse racing - destiny calling! - but when the yellow and blue teams emerged I was quickly disappointed. The kid had CA 25 but only PA 36.


    I waited for ten minutes, watching more and more gloomily until finally I said it was nice to meet the guy but that I wanted to spread my wings. My entire body screamed that I''d made a mistake and tensed up so much I had to go and get a cup of tea. As I stood at the back and followed the match, I wondered what it was that felt so off about the whole day.


    ***


    Exit Trials Day Two - Solihull Moors


    Solihull is a place that, viewed on a map, is clearly part of Birmingham, but don''t make the mistake of saying that to a local. It''s just south of Birmingham Airport and is featured on the Visit Birmingham website, but hey! If you want to get snippy and say it isn''t Birmingham, fine.


    The same group took the same car to Birmingham and settled into the same routine. Three matches, lots of talented players, lots of networking. The only difference, really, was that the Brig was even more distant than the day before and was ruining everyone else''s sense of fun and adventure.


    While Ruth talked to the relatives of guys with high PA for our agency and Brooke tried to get the goss about ones who might suit Chester, the army veteran went from parent to parent like an idiot bee. A bee who didn''t care how good their sons were at football. A bee wasting its time.


    Me: Ruth, have a squit-squit at yellow 3. Brooke, can you bwip-bwip-a-snip blue 5?


    Ruth: What are you doing?


    Me: Trying to guess what the local slang words are. I know a thousand times more about Texas than this part of the world.


    Brooke: I''m not sure you do.


    Me: Aw, honey. Bless your heart.


    Later:


    Me: Ruth, take a Peaky Blinders at black ten. Brooke, the red goalie is canaltastic. Probably too much interest in him but can you find out what his story is?


    And finally:


    Ruth to white 11. Brooke to green 5. Checkmate.


    The stories came back and I imagined what our squad would be like if I could persuade Green 1, White 2, Red 3, and Black 4 to join. How many minutes would the player get this season? And next? How many millions would I get, and when? But the message coming back was pretty consistent - the player was not interested in joining Chester.


    I wondered if these were real-world decisions or if they were based on numbers cooked up by the curse? My own reputation was still on Very Poor, though I was near the top of the Very Poor list. Chester, in the world of the curse, was still a tier 6 club. That would change (I assumed, along with lots of other things) during the curse¡¯s post-season update. When had the last one been? During my hospitalisation? I assumed it would happen on the night of May 31 when most player contracts expired. That seemed the most natural spot for the end of the season. Anyway, it was perfectly possible that players would be more keen to join us after the update when the curse shifted us to tier 5, even though in the real world, those players understood that we had been promoted. Yes, that made sense.


    Made sense? Who was I trying to kid? The whole thing was a mind fuck.


    As always, I ended the day by filling in the online form saying which kids I wanted. I''d read about speed dating - you met eight people quickly and said who you''d like to meet again and if they ticked your name too, you got their phone number. Great. The problem was, when it came to these academy kids, I was a total uggo.


    ***


    We drove back with Ruth, Brooke, and MD chatting away about the parents they''d spoken to. They swapped stories about the scouts, agents, and officials from other clubs who they''d met. About a quarter of the clubs who had released players had sent someone along to the trials as a kind of aftercare. I wasn''t sure if they had to do that as part of the academy process or if they were doing it because they genuinely wanted the kids to do well.


    The Brig cleared his throat and we fell silent. He hadn''t spoken to anyone except Ruth for hours, except to grunt. "I propose we stop off somewhere and have an early dinner. If everyone is amenable to that."


    "Oh, yes please!" said Brooke. "That''d be swell."


    I turned to give Ruth a look and saw that she was worried. "I''m in," I said.


    ***


    Ruth got busy choosing and booking a place. We drove to The Old Swan in Crewe and ate burgers and steaks out the back. If Brooke was disappointed her steak was smaller than the plate it was served on, she didn''t mention it.


    I suggested a bottle of red, since I got the feeling I was about to be told off by the Brig. Mercifully, it didn''t take him too long to start offloading the weight he''d been carrying around.


    "Max," he started, which was ominous. "The under 18s. You paraded them around the pitch in the final match of the season and told the world they were a good bunch of lads."


    "Yes," I said.


    "You couldn''t do it the year before because you were in a coma but you mentioned them several times afterwards. In the match programme, for example. How are their releases dealt with? Who talks to them? Does anyone talk to them or is it done by email?"


    "Email?" I scoffed. "I''m not releasing a player by email. As for the details, well, Spectrum does it. I tell him who we want to keep. So far it''s only been Vivek."


    "When do they know they won''t be retained?"


    I stuck my bottom lip out. "I don''t know the timings. Look, what''s going on?"


    He stared at his tiny plate of salad and pushed it away. He put his elbows on the table and wrung his hands together. "I wonder if... I think that I''m... I was in the army."


    "Yes."


    He rolled his head around in some kind of anguish. He didn''t want to be having this conversation any more than I did. "Coming to the football world, to your Chester, I''ve found a lot of similarities with the army. Our men fight for each other and there are genuine bonds forged through shared misery."


    "And poems."


    "You''ve probably heard the phrase ''leave no man behind''. It''s controversial in military circles. There''s only one unit in the world, I think, where it''s a formal part of the doctrine. If the enemy knows you''ll always go back for your mate, it leaves you open to an ambush. So it''s unwritten, but if you ask me, any soldier worth his salt will always go back. I, er... I only ever disobeyed one direct order. Some orders have to be disobeyed. You saw the result when I was out drinking in London." He meant he''d gone back and saved the life of one of his drinking buddies. Or all of them, maybe. He took a big gulp of what people in Birmingham - and Solihull, strangely - call ''council pop''. "I heard you on that podcast. Rescuers are heroes, you said. Many medals have been awarded for going back to retrieve a wounded comrade."


    "Yeah, course. It''s your mate. You can''t turn your back on him. Leave no man behind. Totally. You don''t need to tell me twice."


    He smiled just a fraction. "I know, Max. You''d be a terrible soldier but you''d win medals, all right." He resumed his awful hand-wringing. "These two days have been horrible. Almost every young man there has a horror story. I spoke to everyone I could. I called my friend at Aldershot Town. I spent all night reading the limited research on the topic. As kids they are invited into clubs and told they are special. Clubs dangle dreams of fame and fortune in front of them. The groups form into teams. Second families, in fact. And then it turns sour. And it turns sour for the majority, Max. Fifty percent of all academy youngsters leave before they''re sixteen. 98% who get an academy scholarship aged sixteen are no longer playing serious football by eighteen. 98%! It''s not just the quantity but the quality of the damage. The research describes being deselected as coming with high levels of psychological distress, Max. It''s an identity crisis. Their athletic identity has been stripped away leaving nothing behind but humiliation. It is like giving a dishonourable discharge to ninety-eight percent of your squaddies. It is a fucking disgrace."


    He took a moment to compose himself while Ruth reached out to hold his wrist. In the mad, intense, unpredictable stress of the moment I genuinely expected her to say ''there''s a good Briggy'' and nearly laughed out loud. Luckily, it was a stray thought and MD helped me out. "Those numbers are grotesque. I knew it was bad but not that bad."


    "I must say that while some clubs conduct themselves well and treat their young players with dignity, most clubs are utter cowards. The first step in deselecting players is to freeze them out. They are marginalised by the coaches. A player will arrive at a session and be told there''s no place for him. He''ll be removed from the WhatsApp groups. Trialists will play matches instead of them. The goal, it seems, is to publicly humiliate the player to the extent that he chooses to leave or so that the player will become emotional which can be used as an excuse to deselect them."


    "We don''t do that," I said.


    He ignored me. "Next comes the day of the rejection. The best academies stagger these decision days through the year and the worst throw all the young men into a dressing room and call them into the manager''s office one by one. You can imagine how stressful that is. The best explain the decision and go through the next steps explaining all the support that''s on offer. The worst tell them they''ve got ten minutes to clear their lockers and get their boots."


    "Holy hell," said Brooke. "After they''ve been there for years?"


    "There are still clubs that sever ties with these players by email. One from yesterday found he''d been deselected from his top six Premier League club when the retain and release list was leaked onto social media."


    "Fuck," said MD.


    "I spoke to him, briefly. He said the moment had left him feel shattered, and I didn''t take it to mean tired. He said he had gone from someone to no-one in a split second. I talked, Max, to several parents who told me what they most worried about was losing their child to his dark thoughts. One mother got a call from a friend who''d spotted her son - her son, Max - on a bridge."


    The wait staff arrived with our mains. No-one was in a rush to tuck in.


    "I''ve been reading stories about young men trying to recreate the buzz of high-level sport by gambling, and trying to recreate their lost earning power by selling drugs."


    "Did we meet those kids?" I said.


    "No. The ones who come to the Exit Trials are the young men who have been shattered but are still hopeful. They''re clinging to what remains of their athletic identity. Their darkest times are still ahead."


    "Hang on," I said. "Half those players are good. They''ll get contracts."


    "The organisers said they would be happy if three or four were picked up across the three days."


    "That''s mental. You could easily put together a team that would win League One from that bunch."


    "Then let us please do that."


    "What?"


    He shifted uneasily and seemed to notice his food for the first time. He sliced into his steak and that was the cue for everyone else to tuck in. "I recognise there are limits to what we can do. The ones who are lost to the game are lost to us. For now, let us focus on the Exit Trials. You say some are talented, like Pascal and Youngster. They need someone like you to teach them the sport like you did with Pascal and Youngster. Someone who will put them into the team like you did and like Miss Lane did. They need someone like me to help build them up and teach them resilience and to turn this negative into a positive. I know I can do it. I''ve been doing it for years and I love doing it. Put the elements together and it''s clear to me that the best place for these young men is Chester Football Club."


    "I agree. That''s what we''re doing, John. We''re trying to get them. That''s why we''re here. I mean... what?"


    He chewed for a moment. I took the chance to shove some food in me. "I couldn''t sleep last night. It is good to work with Pascal and Youngster but these young men really need me. They need us, Max. I feel... this is my calling. My army friends used to ask why I''m in the football industry and these days they ask why I''m still there. Now I know the answer. This industry is cruel beyond belief and discards young men at rates that are frankly sickening. You want them at Chester. I want them at Chester. Let''s get them. Let''s get lots of them."


    "Okay." I gestured that we could slow down and calm down. "You''ve been in the meetings, John. We''ve got budget for maybe seven new players. At least four need to be ready to play in match one. I''m already trying to develop Lucas Friend and Dan Badford and that lot. If we sign twenty new players, we will be able to help precisely nobody."


    "How many can we get?"


    I shook my head. "John, it doesn''t matter. They don''t want to come to Chester. A scholarship in America is more attractive than us, and in terms of their mental health and all that, it''s probably a good option. Right? Sunshine, joggers everywhere you look, honky tonks. Then there''s teams from Scandinavia and Scotland. In football terms we''re below Kilmarnock and Dundee, which is an astonishing thing to say. And one of these kids moving to Sweden aged eighteen? Holy shit even I think that''s better than Chester."


    For the second time, John cracked a fraction of a smile. "The thought has its merits." The smile vanished. "But there''s good, better, and best. We are the best option and if we aren''t, we will be. I want to go through our processes so that young men leaving Chester never experience devastating trauma."


    "Absolutely."


    "But regardless of the ways in which we can improve, we are still head and shoulders above our peers. We should fight for these talents, Max. We have a moral imperative to do so."


    I put my knife and fork down and made a slightly exasperated gesture. "John, we''re on the same page. We agree totally! You don''t need to be so brooding and intense and scary about it. I''m doing my absolute best. Ruth''s getting those top talents and will take care of them. MD''s pointed some of the kids in the direction of friendly clubs. The ones who can''t hurt us by going to rivals. And we''re going to show interest in, like, twelve or more. And we''ll get one. Maybe two. Which by the way is fine because in my opinion it''s better to get two who we develop the shit out of rather than ten we improve a little bit and their careers end anyway."


    Brooke said, "What''s the stumbling block to training up a whole bunch of them? Apart from money, that is."


    "Yeah, well, money''s the main one. But players develop from training and playing time. Most football squads have twenty-five players or fewer. It''s one of those soft caps that makes sense when you see training. If you''ve got thirty players there''s ten standing around doing nothing. So let''s just say twenty-five is the limit and beyond that you start getting in your own way. These players have had training, by the way. They''ve had eight thousand hours of training, some of them. So then the bottleneck is that I can only have eleven players on the pitch. National League is five subs and I can use three. If I put five kids on the bench, we''re going to lose games. It''s that simple. If I lose too many games, I''ll get sacked and MD will hire some dinosaur and every single kid we brought in is fucked. So we need to win. I need to spend most of our budget on players who can win enough matches to keep us in the top half of the table, at least. While that''s going on, players like Sharknado will be getting up to speed so we can finish the season with an almighty bang. Where it''s possible, I''ll be giving minutes on the pitch to our young talents, believe me. But it''s going to be one per league game on the bench at most, and I probably won''t be using kids against the top teams because they''ll just get battered and I don''t think that''s good for their development. Do you get me? It''s incredibly complicated. I want to help these Exit Trial kids. I do! But it''s not like an army where we''re all on the same side. They don''t want my help and I can''t rescue all of them."


    "You helped some players find clubs. That was the Best I know."


    "Yeah I can do that to an extent, especially with the weaker players, but at some point I''m strengthening a rival. We could lose to Tranmere next year because of what I did today. Do you know what I mean? It''s okay if Ruth''s getting paid from it because, like, she invested in Chester Women. But why is it my responsibility to look after a hundred and fifty randos? They''ll be fine. The ones with talent will get picked up and the rest will become influencers."


    "History suggests," said the Brig, "and the organisers agree, that there won''t be a great deal of demand for most of the players we are watching. If we are willing to offer them professional football contracts, I believe many will agree to come. But," he said, forestalling my objection, "Let us say you are right and for the first time ever every one of these young men is in high demand. Most offers will be from clubs who will continue to treat them like cattle, will they not?"


    "I don''t know. I don''t know anything. This is all new to me. Look, what do you want?"


    He paused. The air filled with electricity. The lights illuminating our table flickered. The hairs on my arm stood up. "I want you to go full Max."


    "What do you mean?" I said, through lips that were suddenly bone dry.


    He squirmed again. "When my former comrades ask why I''m in football, I tell them it is because of a remarkable young man who can make things happen. You can persuade Henri Lyons to commit his future to the club. You can convince a talented coach to drop five levels. You can charm a charming MBA into working for cost. And you can persuade Bonnie to let documentary cameras into the dressing room to film her sister for a year!" He''d got a bit worked up but I''d finally worked out what this conversation was all about - he was asking me for a favour. "The Max I know doesn''t sit meekly in the stands while top talent slips through his fingers. He drives to Banbury to knock on a door at 9 a.m."


    "You want me to drive to the homes of these kids? Beg them to choose me? It doesn''t work like that. WibRob was like... like Emma. These other kids are like joggers."


    "What?" said Ruth.


    "I''m saying... I can go and I can try but it''s not in me. That hunger. Do you know what I mean? When I go full Max, as you put it, I need to mean it."


    "But you would try?"


    "Aww," I said, annoyed. "It''s a waste of - You know what? Sure. I''ll do it if you''re asking me to do it. But we have to be strategic. There''s only space in the squad for two."


    "Six."


    "What? No. John! Listen. We need a dominant centre back and a proper National League striker. Okay? If we don''t get those I get fired. You with me? Think two grand a week for those. Two grand each."


    "Two grand?" said MD, horrified. ¡°Each?¡±


    "Yes. They''re absolutely key. We must upgrade there and that''s going to cost. That leaves three grand a week and I need - Jesus, John, I need all sorts of stuff! I need a crafty midfielder."


    "Were there any such players yesterday or today?"


    "No."


    "If there is one tomorrow..."


    I let out one single amused huff of air. "Why would I give minutes to a rando instead of Dan Badford, who''s been with us for a while and is showing every sign of becoming a silky smooth playmaker?"


    "Because Dan has not recently experienced a traumatic rejection, sir. Dan needs you but he doesn''t need me, sir."


    The sirs were back. I thumbed my temples as I closed my eyes and tried to imagine adding six more eighteen-year-olds to the squad. It would be unmanageable. Unworkable. Even for me. "All right, look. Can we cool off? Send me those papers you''ve been reading and let me think about it overnight. But going full Max means taking, like five of these kids instead of three. It''s not much difference."


    The Brig spoke so quietly I almost didn''t catch what he said. "It''s a big difference to those two young men, sir. A very big difference."


    ***


    Exit Trials Day Three - Rochdale


    I read the research papers and watched the videos the Brig sent me. It was quote after quote or clip after clip of young men who had been sold a dream and then binned off, usually after an injury.


    I called Jackie to talk about it. I called Ryan Jack. I even called my private coach, Cody Chambers, since he worked with dozens of young stars every week. Every time I put a quote to them - something along the lines of ''I was Man of the Match, did my knee, and got a rejection letter five days later'' - they told me about a kid they knew who had the exact same story. The more specific I got - ''I found myself on a bridge looking down wondering if I should switch sides'' - the more animated they became. The stories were legion; this had been happening since the dawn of time.


    It wasn''t clear to me exactly what I was supposed to do about it. I couldn''t stop other clubs from being dicks. I couldn''t stop them from cutting their players. Maybe I could be less gleeful about snapping up the gems. Maybe I could be a little more humble about the fact that I''d been lucky on a scale that was diametrically opposed to the kids in the Exit Trials.


    Before I closed my laptop for the night, some moronic impulse made me check the news. Ukraine had lost a village to the invaders and the media was full of the voice messages the last defenders had sent before dying - buying time for their mates to retreat. They were, almost to a man, sent to their mothers. I slammed my laptop closed and stared at the ceiling for most of the next six hours.


    By the morning I wasn''t quite as fired up as the Brig, but had made a vow to go semi-Max. Two-thirds Max. If I went beyond my assigned budget to give an Exit Trialist 500 pounds a week on a two-year contract, MD would cordon off 52,000 of my reserves to pay for it. If I went all-in on my reserves, I could get an extra six players. Six more lives we could turn around. Six wrongs we could right. And, in the end, six players we could sell for a profit one day.


    One day.


    Not this season, though. And using that money would tie my hands in January. There would be no Christian Fierce.


    Ah, I thought. There''s no way we''ll pick up so many of these prospects. There''s no way we''ll be the number one choice for all of them. Maybe it''d satisfy the Brig - and myself - to try. To tell the boys they were valuable and that they were wanted.


    But although I had a more realistic view of our place in the pecking order than the Brig, I had no plans to leave anything to chance. In addition to our C-Suite Squad, I''d also summoned my Manchester Mob - Sandra, Kisi, Youngster, Meghan, and Ziggy. Fleur and Henk had come, too, which had been pre-planned, but Henk''s struggles at Tranmere would give us yet another ''in'' if we needed an icebreaker. I would blast prospects from all sides.


    When the Brig saw Sandra, he stood ramrod straight for a few moments. He followed it up by wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. Meghan tapped him and held her arms wide. "My turn," she said. She got a firm handshake.


    When it came to players I didn''t want, I would hype them up to scouts from other clubs, which was pretty much the most I could do. If it came back to bite me on the arse one day, great.


    In an ideal world, I''d help the kids with low PA ease out of their ''athletic identity'' completely. Brooke came up with all kinds of ideas for that - CV writing workshops, getting them discounts on online courses, connecting them with careers advisors - but in the end they weren''t our players and we didn''t have the responsibility - or the budget. I suggested she call the Chester eighteens teams from the past few years and check how they were getting on. "Invite them to help with Chester Chatters and all that. Have a reunion day in the executive box. MD won''t mind slumming it in the cheap seats one match a season."


    As for the football, the day went as the others had - three matches, 55 players, plenty of scouts and agents in attendance. My minions networked and eavesdropped on conversations - the Brig agreed that was a good use of time since we could know which kids were likely to be picked up and thus didn''t need our help - and most of all, we chatted to parents.


    After twenty minutes, I got busy in our new, expanded WhatsApp.


    Ruth. Top prospect is Nelson Smith-Howes. Green 7. Right winger.


    Sandra, can you ask about green 3? He was released from City.


    Youngster, see that guy by the aisle with the shittest haircut in the north? He''s a scout from Alty. Introduce yourself and ask him what he thinks of Sonny Oputeri. Point out Alty''s manager loves that kind of player.


    And so on.


    In the next match there were a lot of middling players - we went around pumping the best ones up while MD made calls - but it was in the final match of the three days, yellow versus blue, that we struck gold.


    Brig, the left back. Cole Adams. If you get his address, we''ll WibRob him.


    Cole was a tall, ginger left back from Ireland. I didn''t really want a young left back, since I had Lucas Friend who needed first team minutes. Cole was PA 147, though. According to my analysis of the CAs needed to compete in the various leagues, that put him near the top of the Championship in terms of quality. And while I preferred a fast, dynamic full back, tall ones were interesting, too. They could help you defend and attack set pieces.


    Brooke, yellow 9. Tom Westwood.


    Tom was a striker with PA 92, which was an utterly maddening number. With his CA of 25, it''d take him most of the season to get close to National League levels. And, of course, we would get promoted so he would start next season miles off League Two pace. And just as he was getting to grips with League Two, we''d be in League One and his progress would have maxed out.


    But I couldn''t seriously turn my nose up at a free, academy-trained young striker with high PA. If I voiced my doubts to the Brig, he''d turn those ladykiller eyes on me and look sad. Why not skip to the part where I offered Tom a deal?


    I shook my head. There was something off about him. He was just mediocre. He had Finishing 9, for example. Technique 8. Heading 8. He wasn''t exceptional at anything and wasn''t particularly good at anything, either. By far his best attribute was his stamina - 15. How would I use him?


    I shrugged. The curse said he would develop into something. If I signed him right now, Tom Westwood would immediately become my second best striker and unlike with left backs, I could always throw more strikers onto a pitch and give him minutes that way.


    I yawned and closed my eyes. Constantly cycling through my squad and imagining these young players filling in the gaps while calculating whose pathway they''d be blocking was bloody draining. I decided I needed a break and stood and stretched.


    The Brig looked at me. Those big, sad, Disney eyes.


    I sat back down. Leave no man behind. Inexplicably, I thought of my mother and the boots she had bought for me.


    I could squeeze a few more names into the squad somehow, right? Just how many left backs were too many, really?


    ***


    When it was all over, we went out to the car park and waited for the stragglers. The Brig was still inside, knee-deep in a conversation with some poor wretch and his parents. Ruth was still schmoozing one of the VIP players. And, surprisingly, Henk was talking to one of the boys, giving him a pep talk. Henk was two years younger, but his Influence must have been higher than I thought. Surprising amount of Chesterness from the lad! I said so to his mum and she got all dewy-eyed.


    Fleur and the rest of us gathered in a talkative group. Chester Chatters on tour. Sandra, Ziggy, and I bickered about Tom, the striker, with two-thirds of the conversation''s participants not rating him. I suggested to Ziggy that no-one had given him a chance until I came along and he flipped instantly saying Westwood made good runs and got into good positions.


    Meghan was fascinated by Brooke, and I think the feeling was mutual.


    The Brig, Ruth, and Henk came out of the stadium together and joined our huddle. Suddenly there was a guy next to me wearing the training tops the organisers wore.


    "Was that you?" he said.


    "Me? What? That smell was here before. You can¡¯t prove anything."


    The guy was in the Jude mould - quiet and serious and competent. He had short hair and thick-rimmed glasses. The curse gave me no information about him whatsoever. He looked from the group back to me. "I''m Sean. Normally at these events, people sit still and watch the match and go home. Yesterday was different and today it''s been more like a cocktail party. What are you doing?"


    I shrugged. "Just trying to make sure the good players get noticed."


    "You''re Chester, right? If you want them, register your interest. Why spread the word?"


    "There''s loads of talent. We can''t take it all."


    He was suddenly bright-eyed. "That''s what I''ve been saying! My bosses are happy if we get four players signed up to clubs. I''ve been saying we should aim higher but - Well. It is what it is."


    "You guys run a good event and it''s admirable, but it''s like a buffet. I come and gorge myself and I''m happy but all the leftovers get chucked out." I swirled my finger around to indicate my group. "We hate food waste. We''re big hippies, aren''t we, John?"


    Seeing our motley crew throw themselves into the day''s challenge had been uplifting for him and now he picked Meghan up and spun her around. She squeaked wildly. Youngster tapped him, held his hands out, and said, "My turn."


    "Yes, Max!" said the Brig, returning to the conversation. "Yes we are big hippies. Vegan hotdogs all round." He had spoken to Sean a few times during the Trials. "Max wants to go and knock on the doors of the most talented players and convince them to join us at Chester. What do you think about that?"


    Sean glanced behind him and murmured, "It''s not exactly conventional." He thought about it. "But why not? They''ve only had bad news for weeks. Even if they don''t join you, it''ll be a happy memory just when they need it most."


    The Brig beamed. "Just what I''ve been suggesting. Perfect! Sean, walk with me. We''ve helped some of these young men. What happens, I wonder, to the others?"


    As the Brig walked away, he left a huge gaping hole in the area. His charisma was off the scale. He was living his best life, fulfilling his mission. His purpose. Everyone could sense it.


    Sandra had stepped closer. She turned so that she was speaking towards my ear and away from everyone else. "I''m all for this, Max. I know you''ll look after these boys the way you looked after Charlotte and I''m happy to be a part of it. But you''re going to get some players we can use right away, too. Right? Max? Max!"


    ***


    "I went to an Exit Trial and tried my best but I had to play out of position. I''d never played there before. I thought I did okay, maybe, but not enough to catch the eye of the scouts. That was it. My last chance gone. I can''t lie, I went home and must have just cried for half an hour. Next morning I couldn''t get up. Didn''t see the point. Was on my bed not doing owt, not moving, not talking to anyone. Then there''s a knock on the front door and I hear loads of people coming in the house. My mum''s laughing and someone turns the radio up and it''s like a Spanish song or something and it sounds like people are dancing. I want to go find out what''s happening but still can''t get going. There''s someone coming up the stairs, knock on my door, this tall dude with twinkling eyes comes in. He looks around, nods at me, says rise and shine, soldier! Today''s the first day of the rest of your life. Something like that, anyway. I was just, like, too stunned. He''s about to leave when he stops. Come on, then, he says. Don''t keep him waiting. I say, who? It''s the first thing I''ve said in ages. He looks at me like I''m crazy. Your new manager, he says. Then he smiles. Eggs, bacon, sausage, that''s what you need. And he rubs his hands. Just thinking about it makes me hungry, he says, sort of laughing. I laugh, too. And I get up."

 8.4 - Chariots of Hire

    4.


    Football glossary: Welcome to Wrexham. A pretty good football documentary which describes how an upturn in football results can lift the mood of an entire town. It is notable for proving the axiom that anything looks good if you show it in slow motion. Cough pub team cough. No but really, it''s very good.


    Saturday June 1


    On the last day of May, the contracts of thousands of football players expired, making them free agents. In theory, they were available for any club to sign, including Chester, but in practice Toni Kroos and Antony Martial weren''t going to take a 99% pay cut to play in the English fifth tier. I hadn''t scouted every player in Europe but it was perfectly conceivable that there were ten thousand men whose contracts had just ended, and loads of women, too.


    That meant my database was bulging with opportunities. Defenders with mortgages and no income. Midfielders with families to feed. Strikers who might take a phone call from a fifth tier club on the basis that it was better than nothing.


    Also bulging: the medical room at the Deva stadium. Physio Dean had been working on it and now it was quite a welcoming space. It had the little gym area off to one side, some office space to another, and the dressing room was only a few steps away. It was a good base and I''d filled it with good people. Overly attractive people, some might say, but today was the day I''d decided to call in all my favours.


    One of those attractive people came up to me now. Her name was Emma and she was my girlfriend, but she was not the charming, witty, emotionally intelligent Emma you''ve heard about. This was Emma pre-coffee. Emma out of bed far too early. An Emma who''d spent the last twenty minutes ''doing her face'' instead of blankly munching on toast as was her custom.


    "What are we doing?" she said. "I thought we were going to start the documentary this morning."


    "We are. This stuff is what comes after. This is where I''m going to try to sign loads of players."


    "Oh." She really needed some carbs but she didn''t want to have crumbs in her teeth when the cameras were rolling. She''d decided - some might say bravely - to suffer until we''d filmed the scene. She opened her eyes as wide as they''d go to see if that would help her concentrate. "You''re going to buy lots of players today."


    "No, they''re free. Mostly."


    "I thought it was one of those Transfer Deadline Days."


    "Well, it is. But only for us. Most clubs aren''t doing this. I''m going to go out on a limb and say we''re the only club in the world doing this or anything like this."


    "Oh." She thought about it. "What are we doing?"


    I smiled. With Emma I had virtually unlimited patience. Talking to her so calmly made me feel like a real boy. Like, this is how other people were able to be all the time, it seemed. "Okay, let me try to set the scene. There''s loads of players whose contracts ended yesterday. They''re at home, stressed off their tits wondering what they''re going to do with their lives. Right? Meanwhile most Heads of Recruitment are out on a beach somewhere. Most managers are in Spanish hotels thinking far more about sexy cleaners than midfield schemers."


    "Did you prepare that line?"


    "Yeah. Thought I might say it in the documentary but I don''t want them filming in here."


    "Why?"


    "I don''t want other clubs doing this. I want them to be on the beach right now. But there''s a few people working today and managers can still make calls from a pool. Crawley are in a much tougher league now so TJ''s looking at players who got released from Championship and League One clubs, but he''s not doing anything like this." I waved at my team and my whiteboard and everything. "He''s in no hurry. No-one is. Except us. This is our one chance to get the players at the top end of our wishlist. Every day we wait, hundreds of players will be picked up."


    Emma frowned. "I think I can''t process what you''ve said. Shouldn''t... shouldn''t every club be working really hard today?"


    "Yes!" I cackled. "But they''ll stretch this work out across two or three months."


    "Why?"


    "Arrogance. Snobbery. Who cares? Where they zig, I''m happy to zag. Hang on, let me do that again. Where they zig, I''m happy to Zach."


    She didn''t have the energy to ask about my brilliant joke. "So you''ve got the entire club working on a random Saturday in June... to what?"


    I smiled. Infinite patience. "We''re going to go hard at some of these free agents. Very hard. We''re going to try to get them here to wow them with our trophies and our sex appeal. If we can sign four women and three men, we could win two leagues based on what we do today."


    "That''s good."


    I stuck my tongue out while smiling. "That is good! I know. And while we''ve got a room full of absolute worldies, why not bring some Exit Trials kids here, too?"


    "Oh! That''s why you were waiting. To do it all in one day."


    "Something like that."


    "So you''ve got it all planned out and you''ve got your A team and you''re going to smash it. What are you nervous about?"


    I looked up and smiled. How did she know I was nervous? I thought I''d hidden it well. "Because maybe there''s a reason other clubs don''t do it like this. What if what we do today is a huge, colossal waste of time and a humiliating setback for Max Manager of the Year Best? I think I''ve been careful with the targets. Like, I''ve not overreached. The top targets are so, so good but they didn''t play much for their last clubs and their contracts didn''t get renewed. It''s not crazy to think they might agree to drop a level. Or two."


    "You think it''s crazy. I can tell."


    I made a weird huffing sound. "It''s... No, it''s not crazy. Just, you know. It''s like I want people to believe in what we''re doing but I don''t know that I would believe in it from the outside. I think..." I tutted. "I don''t know. I have to act all confident and brash but... You know what it is?"


    "No."


    "I''m a United fan. If there''s a good player somewhere in Europe, there will one hundred percent be a transfer rumour saying United want to buy that player. Okay? And it''s like, as a fan you start to dream. Like last summer, I didn''t follow it for obvious reasons but the big story was United wanted Harry Kane. As a fan you think, hey we''ve got seven great players. It''s always seven, I think. You can persuade yourself your team has seven top guys. So you''ve got a good base, you''re so close, and then you imagine what it''d look like with Harry Kane up top. And you convince yourself you''ll be the best team and you''ll win the league. You really sort of bathe in those fantasies. Yes! This is the guy who''ll take us from fourth to first! And it feels so right that you go, yeah, amazing. But guess what? A week goes by and there''s no news. So you think gosh that''s odd. And another week and there are some stories saying the deal''s in doubt. More weeks and you''re just in turmoil now because United need him and you need him. And then he goes to Bayern Munich and it''s like a dagger to the heart. Other fans take the piss. Your phone is billions of memes and messages you''ve sent to your mates crowing about this coming season. And very quickly you start telling yourself you never wanted him anyway. He''s slow, old, and got bad ankles. Kane to United? No way. United should buy Evan Ferguson, that''s the real smart play. And off you go again."


    Emma shook her head. "Sometimes I think football should be banned. You''re all wrong in the head."


    "So I''ve got all of those doubts and anxieties, right? I have to imagine what my teams will look like with these players in and if we don''t get them it''s, yeah, it''s going to be sort of painful. Not getting the player you think you need is a kind of sick feeling like a girl''s just dumped you. Which is absurd, I know, but... Yeah. I''m wrong in the head. That''s sadly very true."


    "Brooke said she had something to show you. I''m going to the room."


    Emma went into the office space on the left, and Brooke saw I was free.


    "Gaffer," said Brooke, sidling up to me with a big smile. She''d heard people calling me gaffer and decided it was her new favourite word. It really didn''t sound good in a Texan accent. "I''ve got the final edit. Wanna see?"


    "Oh, already?" We had recorded a quick piece of infotainment to prepare our fans for some news that the gammony ones could turn into a culture war if they were left to set the narrative. Fucking joyless husks. Maddening that I had to spend even a minute a month thinking about them. Still, as my role model Max Best often said, a problem is an opportunity. "That was fast. We only just filmed it."


    "I was bored."


    "Well, let''s take a look."


    She handed her phone over and came far too close beside me. She pressed into me; I pressed play.


    ***


    The scene was simple. We had set a table down in the middle of one of the fields we wanted to buy and covered it with white tablecloth. On it rested all the trophies and cups and League Two Player of the Month for January awards we''d won over the past season. There was also my shiny new UEFA B certificate, neatly framed by Inga. (I was required to take a break before starting UEFA A, and my application would be given more priority if I was managing an EFL team so the delay suited me just fine.)


    I was wearing a Napoleon hat and Bea Pea, the scene''s other participant, was in a camo baseball cap. "What''s wrong, Chester FC''s Director of Football Max Best?"


    I pretended to wipe away a tear and gestured to the table and the wide world beyond it, which naturally included our stadium. "When Max Best saw the breadth of his domain, he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer!"


    Bea Pea nodded. "Yes, sir. But have you considered... turning round?"


    A quick cut and the table was behind me - trophies reflecting the sun a little too much in the opinion of certain Frenchmen who had deigned to show up and mansplain blocking and historical accuracy for twenty minutes until his girlfriend said she was bored. "What? What am I looking at?"


    Bea Pea tapped an Ordnance Survey map. "It''s called Wales, sir."


    "Have they got football there?"


    "Yes, sir. They have the Welsh Women''s Cup, for a start."


    "Any famous teams I might have heard about?"


    "Don''t think so, sir." She jammed her thumb behind her. "But our stadium''s in Wales and you''ve sent the women''s team to play over there somewhere." She pointed in the direction of Flint, the town where the women would play until our pitch could handle a bigger workload.


    I visibly cheered up. What a great actor I was! "If we play in Wales anyway let''s enter this cup of theirs and win that."


    Bea Pea saluted. "Yes, sir." She got a close-up and she winked at the camera. "One Welsh Women''s Cup coming this way."


    Text came on the screen - Chester Women have accepted an invitation to compete in the Welsh Women''s Cup. #InLikeFlint


    ***


    "Fuck me, that''s a good hashtag," I said, back in the real world. "In Like Flint. We''re in Flintshire, the women will play in Flint, Flint is in Wales, and now we''re in the Welsh Cup. How can a simple hashtag be so masterful? Whoever came up with it should get a raise and a trophy."


    "Oh, sure," said Brooke, not moving away. "All our teenage fans will get the clever reference to a picture from 1967." She scoffed. "I had to look it up. If so much as two percent of people get the reference, I''ll eat a balloon and call it crispy."


    "Yeah, well. Video approved. It''s simple and it''ll give people something to talk about. Shame we can''t overtly mention we''re doing it to qualify for grants. Maybe we can leak that to some podcasters? Whatever, it''s good and funny and I like it. In the spirit of using all available talent, you might want to show it to some of the others to see if they get it. It''s only really aimed at lifelong Chester fans but an outside perspective... You''re giving me a weird look. That means you''ve done all this already. I''ll stop talking now. The website''s all set up with details about the new stadium, right?"


    "Yes. When the fixtures come out we''ll be able to start selling tickets."


    I nodded. "It''d be good to break even on hiring the stadium."


    She nudged me. "Don''t be so unambitious. Break even? Where''s your fightin'' spirit?" She took her phone and walked away feeling that she had scored a victory. Why are Americans so competitive? They''re exhausting.


    "Max," said Jackie, standing in the doorway. "We''re ready." He held the door open.


    I held some air in my cheeks before blowing it out. "Right." This first part of the day was another of Brooke''s ideas. I wasn''t really keen on doing it but it made a ton of sense. Brooke walked past Jackie into the office space. Jackie, I noticed, didn''t wait to hold the door for me. I followed and let the door close. The noise from the medical room diminished but was still quite loud. I poked my head through, made eye contact with a couple of people, and called out, "We''re doing some filming. Go to the Blues Bar for a bit."


    Angel jogged over and peeked through the gap, trying to see inside. "Are you doing the squad-building scene? I should be in that."


    I scratched my eyebrow. When it came to wanting to be ''in shot'', she was far, far worse even than Henri. "That doesn''t make narrative sense, does it? You''re a rando squad member with three appearances." This was pretty outrageous of me because I''d stuffed the room with a physio, a former board member, a b-girl, and my girlfriend - Angel was actually more qualified to talk about the needs of the squad. My thought process was that since I had invited Livia, Brooke, et al to the stadium to help with the day''s work, why not use them in the documentary, too? "You don''t get to be in the room where it happens."


    "Why am I even here, then?"


    I smiled. "Because you have a nice phone voice." I flicked my eyes in the direction I wanted her to go; she obediently left. I closed the door behind me once again, slapped my hands, and said, "All right! Whoo! Let''s do this thang!"


    "Sorry, I wasn''t ready. Can you do that again?" This was one of the ''documentary crew'', meaning a student from the university who would help us get the project going. The plan was that they would handle certain key scenes and the to-camera interviews while the players themselves would film bits from the dressing room plus conversations at breakfast or on the team bus. The younger ones filmed themselves almost all the time anyway, so it was more a case of remembering to upload the choice cuts to the cloud where the editors could splice it all together. Angel wasn''t going to let anyone forget.


    I glanced around at all the cameras. Surely one of them had picked up my awesome entrance? "No redos. This is the fast-paced world of international soccer. Every take is take one. Okay let''s check everyone''s present and correct. Jackie Reaper, manager of the women''s team, what is two plus two?"


    "Four, Max."


    "Present and correct!"


    "That''s dead funny, dat. Are you gonna do dat with everyone in the room?"


    "You think it''ll get old quick?"


    He rubbed his face. "Not as quick as me. You know I don''t normally get up this early. Can we get on with it?"


    "Fine. You''re so miserable. We''re not signing any more Scousers. Someone write that down." I fiddled with my flipchart and looked at my audience. In addition to the bald man, there was Livia, Brooke, Emma, and Ruth. "Hmm. How''s this going to look on camera? We''re smoking hot but we''re very white and disproportionately blonde. Should we get an uggo in? Where''s MD?"


    "Max, hurry up," said Emma. "I''m coffee-deprived."


    I clapped my hands together like they do in movies to sync the audio and video. "Unnamed documentary, scene one, take one. Hi, everyone. My name''s Max Blest. Oh, shit."


    "Don''t talk into the camera," suggested the student. "Try to be normal."


    "Good luck with that," said two-thirds of the hot blondes. So annoying.


    "Why don''t we have a name, yet?" said Ruth.


    "We''ll film it all and see what themes emerge," I said. "You think Rob Ryanhenny came up with the name Welcome to Wrexham before they started filming? No. Someone said it to them and they realised that was the emotional core of the project. Me? I think they could have done better. Welcome to Wrexham''s more like an episode one kinda name, right? They should have called it Enter the Dragon. No, Red Storm Rising. Oedipus Wrex."


    "Holy crap," said Emma, as if it was my fault she''d chosen to stay in bed until the last second instead of getting up for brek.


    I picked up a marker. "Right. Chester Women. Chester Women are top. They are mint and are getting more tactically flexible. Jackie, you still prefer 3-5-2?"


    "Yes."


    On a blank page, I sketched five midfielders and two strikers. They were represented by Os. "We have strength in midfield but not much depth. I want to add someone there but it''s not the top priority. I was thinking a Sam Topps type, Jackie. Give us some bite. What do you think?"


    "I''d love that but we know you go weak at the knees for a creative midfielder. I''ve got a bet with Liv that you''ll find another 16-year-old dribbler who takes mad risks."


    "No, mate. You tell me what you want and I try to get it. That''s what today is all about. All right? That''s what we say when they''re recording, anyway. Now, this lot are pretty young so can you work with another teenager or would you like someone older?"


    He considered it while a second student fiddled with a camera - zooming in on Jackie''s face, maybe. Imagine having four celestial beauties in the room and giving our viewers close-ups of a bald man. What a world. "Someone older, maybe, for the cups. Wise old head sort of thing. We got ragged in the FA Cup and in the games against Alty."


    I nodded. A lot of football insiders thought young players were more likely to freeze in big games. I wasn''t so sure but had no way - currently - to disprove it. A mix of ages couldn''t be a bad thing, though. Outside the defence we only had Pippa who was over 23. She would turn 33 during the season so while she had that old person wisdom, like which food you could eat past the sell-by date and how to play two bingo cards at once, she hadn''t played many football matches; she wasn''t bringing tons of hard-earned match day wisdom. Even Charlotte had more of that. "I''ll see what''s out there. We''ve got three strikers for the two slots. Do you want another?"


    He twisted his mouth and was about to give a simple answer when he remembered that he had been asked to explain his thought process so that viewers would be able to follow the story. "Three''s a good number because we don''t have that many matches. If we got a senior striker she''d want to play every minute of every match, so the other three would have to compete for the other spot. It could hurt their development. I think... If there''s a younger option that''d be ideal. Another sixteen or seventeen-year-old who can get some minutes and help in an emergency but would be happy to be backup."


    "What if there''s a really great option?"


    "Then yeah, do it."


    I paused. So far, our women''s documentary would be two men talking to each other. I shook the thought off. 99% of the rest would be from the players and fans and all that. I''d be in the first scene and maybe the last. "Okay, I might hang fire on a young striker and hope to find one when I''m scouting. I''ll decide later. Goalie." I drew an X, this time. X marks the spot. "Robyn''s been okay and Queenie''s a big talent but we need a serious goalie for this season. I''ve got someone lined up but I want to check a couple of options before we call her." I drew three Xs in front of the first one, but lower than the row of five Os. The left-most X got a line leading to the left and the one on the right got a line to the right. "The defence needs to be seriously beefed up. I want to get a left back so we can switch formations sometimes. If I can get one who can play centre back, too, then perfect. But if I can only get a pure left back, will you play a back four enough so she can develop?"


    "Course," said Jackie. "We need to do your 4-1-4-1 sometimes to give Diane minutes."


    "What about Lucy?" said Livia.


    Without thinking, I pulled a face and instantly fretted about how it would look on film. Lucy, plus her friends and family, would watch this one day. I couldn''t be totally honest on camera in case I revealed something about the curse, but as much as possible I wanted to be authentic and show people what it was like at Chester. I couldn''t turn back time, though. Lucy was all kinds of old. I inhaled. "She has done well and is a great character and the younger players really benefit from having her around. I really want to keep her as part of the squad for as long as possible and keep her involved beyond her playing career. But this will be her last season as a player and I can''t imagine her playing a full ninety minutes. So, yes, we need someone else." I looked down. "Er... but we definitely need centre backs. I want two plus another who can play right back."


    "Do you have names?"


    "Yes," I said. "Our top target is Femi. I can''t afford Christian Fierce for the men''s team, so Femi''s going to scratch that itch. She''s fantastic. Tall, good positioning, fast. We''re going to pull out all the stops."


    "Who was she playing for?" said Emma.


    "Leeds. Two levels above us. It''s kind of incomprehensible they''d let her go, but they smashed us in the cup and she wasn''t even playing. I think they just don''t know how good she actually is." I scoffed. People were so stupid. "It might be that they let her deal run out and they''ll give her a new one just before the season starts. They could save three months of wages doing that. If that''s what they''re doing, holy shit. But that gives us a chance to jump in so fuck ''em."


    "How good is she?" said Ruth.


    "Mint. Absolutely mint. Plus she''ll be 26 this year so she got some of that seasoning we want and she''s great in the air and, well, fierce. I''m going to assume she''s a Christian so I can say she''s not Christian Fierce but she''s a fierce Christian. Wow, that''s terrible. No-one watching this knows who Christian Fierce is. Cut all that. Femi plus a goalie and we''ll be favourites for the league. Femi, a goalie, plus two more and we''ll absolutely smash it to the point everyone will be glad to see the back of us." I checked my phone. It was nearly nine o''clock. "Any last questions? Okay, review your player packs and let''s get into position."


    ***


    Before I left, the student begged me to do a quick segment to camera. She said the whole documentary wouldn''t make sense unless I outlined my strategy. She asked, "You''re using some of your funds from the sale of Raffi Brown to boost the women''s squad. Why?"


    I frowned. I didn''t really understand the question. Why wouldn''t I? But this wasn''t a journalist too lazy to do his research. This documentary, if it ever saw the light of day, would be watched by people who didn''t know the first thing about football.


    "Okay so at the moment there''s way more money in the men''s game. A million pounds buys you a League One striker. Third tier, that means. With a million I could run absolutely wild in the women''s game. So it''s honestly just a sporting decision. The money goes a lot, lot farther and I think with a bit of investment we''ll get promoted for sure. Then promoted next season again. And again. It''ll get slightly harder every year because the women''s game is improving in all respects. The coaching, the scouting, the types and amount of girls who take up the sport - number goes up. But as it stands right now we''ve got a chance to attract top-tier talent and blast through the leagues. You can think of a thousand reasons the men''s team can''t get to the top division. But the women can and will - if we can keep the group together. I planned to turn the women into a profit centre. Take young talents, train them up, sell for a big profit. We might still do that but right now I''m more interested in winning loads of stuff as fast as possible. For the price of a National League central midfielder I can make the women''s team pretty formidable." I laughed. "We''ve got ourselves invited to compete in the cup in Wales. They think they''ve let in a tier five team they can smash around; they won''t know what hit them."


    "So what exactly are your ambitions for the season?"


    "The plan is to win and win in style. Chester Style. Is that a good name for the documentary? Gangnam Style has nearly ten billion views on YouTube. Wah wa wah Chester Style! No? Fine, fine. Stop fretting about the name! It''ll come. I need to go sign some players."


    ***


    At two minutes to nine, the Phwoar Room was ready and humming with quiet anticipation. The Phwoar Room, you say? Yep. It was a War Room full of people who make you go ''phwoar!'' As in, ''gosh that person is attractive.''


    I''d asked all my hotties to come and help, even ones who didn''t technically work for Chester. The Brig had expressed annoyance when I said I planned to ask Livia but not Dean and Wes instead of Sam Topps, but I pointed out that he was the one who had asked me to go full Max. "It''s not like I hired a bunch of models to pretend to work here for the day," I''d said, and got a dreamy, faraway look. That wasn''t a bad idea...


    "One minute to go," said Brooke, and I checked everything was in order. I had a giant magnetic whiteboard next to me, on which I had drawn five columns: Phone Call - Video - Meet - Tour - Medical - Seal the Seal. I had written a lot of names on rectangles of card. A separate flipchart showed the positions I urgently needed to fill - GK and Ds for the women, GK, CB, S for the men - I would cross them out when a player got to ''Seal the Seal''. Everyone in the room had their phones charged and ready. I wasn''t sure exactly what a draft room in the NFL or baseball looked like, but I could imagine it was something like this.


    How many names would make it all the way across to the very right? The nerves came rushing back into me. We needed players of a certain quality to come if we were to reach the next level at the speed I wanted. If players who would improve us didn''t want to come, what the hell was I supposed to do? After all, we weren''t a tier six team any more.


    ***


    The night before, the curse had updated. When I woke up, there were some minor graphical tweaks and some areas had been reorganised and rationalised. Three new patches were available, each for 100 XP. I bought them all right away.


    The first added a section in the Squad screens showing the current league table. From there, I could click on a team name and see the current squads plus the player profiles of any guys in my database. That was fine - convenient, more than anything, but not all that much of a difference since I could navigate my screens at the speed of thought and bring up any profile with no lag - but the real benefit was that it made it crystal clear to me that buying the Finances perk would show me what other clubs were spending.


    The second patch improved the filtering system throughout the curse. The Player Search screens now had a lot more options when it came to filtering and sorting, though there still wasn''t an option to filter by CA or PA. That''d be too easy, I guessed.


    The third patch added new filters to the Squad screens. I could arrange my players by salary, by individual attributes, by contract expiry, and so on. Basically, if the curse measured it, I could line my players up in order.


    The perk shop had a couple of new options, too. Manager Stats would add more detail to a manager''s profile - number of cups won, player trades, how much they''d spent on players and so on. Seemed like something I could get on Wikipedia, but still, there were always moments where this stuff could be handy. I shoved it to the bottom of my wishlist for now.


    A perk called xG would add expected goals data to my otherwise rudimentary Match Stats page. Yeah, nice, but not for 2,000 XP. To the bottom with you!


    Of much more interest was one called The Stattoo Parlour. Despite the moronic name, it was appealing, since it would add three interesting tabs to the league table: Team Stats; Player Stats; Referee Stats. Now, you''d think the curse was already giving me most of the stats I could ever want, but reading the description made me realise there were tons I wasn''t currently getting. The Team Stats including streak data - how many matches a team had won or lost in a row. Average attendances. Most red cards. Player Stats would show me which players in that league had the most goals, assists, Man of the Match awards, average rating, and so on. Referee Stats would tell me which refs were strict. It was mostly data I could get elsewhere, but having it just there in my head was obviously very compelling. The curse knew it was good, though, and had priced it accordingly. 3,000 XP. It''d have to wait.


    Finally, there was an option to become fluent in German for only 200 XP. Just joking. I didn''t need that kind of help, anyway. In preparation for my big trip to the Euros, I''d been learning on an app and my Dutch, as Germans call their language, was sehr sehr gut. Ja amigo, my language skills were sehriously gut.


    Okay, so lots of little changes to the curse, but the main thing was that Chester FC were now officially a fifth tier team!


    I went to see if there was a news item about it, but my feed was nothing but a seemingly endless list of players signed and released - mostly released - and looking through them one by one seemed like a lot of pointless work. I''d do it after the day''s real work was done. Or I''d skip it. Ain''t nobody got time for that.


    My phone beeped.


    ***


    "Nine o''clock," I said, and all eyes turned to me. I placed a piece of card into the top slot and pinned it with a round magnet. "Jackie, Femi." He nodded and dialled. He had a player fact sheet in front of him and had watched plenty of videos. I''d chosen him as the person most likely to impress the player. She''d want to hear from her new manager, first. I had instructed my team to make first contact by phone then find an excuse to hang up and call back on video. Hence the hive of activity and the friendly, wonderfully symmetrical faces.


    "On it."


    I watched as he got through. He instantly broke into a big smile. "Femi? It''s Jackie Reaper..." I put a tick next to Femi under Phone Call. The goal was to get ticks all the way to the right until we had ''sealed the Seal''.


    I got two more bits of card. "Brig, Omari Naysmith. Brooke, Cole Adams." The first two targets from the Exit Trials. They''d been more flattered and seemed more interested in coming than I''d expected, to be honest, and waiting until today to nail down their signing had exasperated the Brig. But, as I pointed out to him, they knew they were wanted and if they signed somewhere else in the meantime, that simply meant we would rescue another young man, instead. Two saved for the price of one. I couldn''t explain to him about the curse updates, but I had promised him it''d be all right. The kids were higher on the list than the actual needs of the squad, but I''d been as moved as anyone to see their little faces light up as we piled into their living rooms. That said, if they chose to go to a different club or to move to Sweden, no hard feelings.


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    "Yes, sir."


    "Yes, gaffer."


    I looked through the female goalie options on the curse Player Search screen and was unimpressed. Teams were hoarding good goalies. We would go with our first choice. "Sandra, Scottie Love."


    "Yep."


    Scottie Love was Altrincham''s goalie and we''d played against her twice in the season before. She wasn''t out of contract but I''d agreed a four thousand pound fee with Alty and we had permission to talk to her. She was a huge step up from Robyn and had a bit of room for improvement - as long as we found a new goalie coach, that is. It was on the list! The room was already abuzz with even just a few conversations. Jackie had turned the charm up to 300 - the warm, friendly voice briefly stopped me in my tracks. Someone coughed to break my thought patterns. Okay, it was onto maybe the most serious target. The one I was most worried about turning us down. "Ruth, Zach Green." Zach was the American centre back I''d seen as a sub for Wrexham. He was as solid as Glenn Ryder but could pass from defence. He was my top priority for the men''s team - if he would take a massive pay cut and come down a level. I''d chosen Ruth to make first contact since she knew how to talk to Americans.


    She nodded and leaned back in her chair all sultry. If Zach had a weakness for hot blondes, we had just improved our chances of pulling off a coup. I checked the player profiles for my second and third options for centre back. Their screens were unchanged from the hundred other times I''d done it that morning.


    Who next? I looked at the massage table that was acting as my desk. I had the names of my targets and options B and C on little slips of paper. The first step was to call them and ideally try to get them on a video call so they''d see the eye candy. Then we''d beg them to come to the stadium so we could charm the pants off them - not literally. If necessary, we would go and pick them up. No-one in the stadium had other plans for the day. They understood what the stakes were.


    "Livia," I said, before pausing. I showed her the name. "I can''t say it."


    She smiled and said, "I''m on it."


    She was calling Luxury Bell, a real - holy shit I can''t do this - a real luxury player. She could play centre back or right back, meaning Jackie would be able to switch between 3 and 4 at the back with relative ease. She was good, too, and aggressive. Her, Bonnie, and Femi would scare the shit out of a lot of opponents. The name, though...


    I looked around the room to see who wasn''t busy, yet. Emma, Wes Hayward, MD, Angel, and Bonnie were in one corner, relaxing on their phones until needed. I closed my eyes and went into the Player Search screen, filtering for out-of-contract female defenders. I went through the options a couple of times. The best ones in terms of having good CA with room to grow were centre backs and I''d already made a move on the very best one: Femi. Luxury Bell wasn''t the next best numerically, but her flexibility made up for that. Femi, Luxury Bell, and Bonnie would be a hell of a back three. What about a back four? We just had to have that option. I opened my eyes.


    "Bonnie," I said. "Ridley T."


    "Really, Max?"


    "Really." I smiled. "Be nice. Just see if she''s interested, please. I mean, if you want to win the league."


    "I''ll do it," said Angel.


    "I''m already dialling," lied Bonnie.


    I watched, amused, for a minute as Bonnie tried to be charming to this girl she didn''t like. Ridley T - that''s what everyone called her - was 19 and with PA 85 was more than talented enough to join us. She had good CA, too. My only hesitation was that she was a pure left back. If she could also play CB or LM, she''d be amazing. As it was, her minutes would be more limited than other players. Given Jackie''s preference for three at the back, should I be spending our cash on a striker? Bea Pea would probably hit her PA limit this season...


    "How you doing, babes?"


    Emma had drifted over, maybe mistaking my concentration for worry. We had been doing our tour of Cheshire and Wales in little doses, finding decent players here and there. Oh, and having a nice time and all that. "I''m good. This is fun, isn''t it?"


    "I think you''re having the most fun. You do love bossing people about."


    "What else do you like about me?"


    "Your humility." My face crumpled. Her eyes widened. "What?"


    I stuck my bottom lip out. "I thought you''d say my poetry."


    She went to the whiteboard and admired it. She tapped one piece of card, the one that simply said LB. "You need to remind yourself you need a left back? What kind of Manager of the Year are you?"


    "That, sadly, stands for Luxury Bell. I can barely bring myself to say it out loud. I wish she was a left back. LB the LB is way better than LB the RB."


    "Is she good?"


    "I like her. I want all the ones we''re talking to. Ah! Jackie''s on video already."


    "Bonnie was first."


    I snapped my head around. Bonnie and Angel had their heads close together and were laughing into the phone. I did a tiny punch. "I knew it!"


    Emma ticked the Video columns next to Femi and Ridley T. "What was the deal there?"


    "The girl they''re calling is a gobby Manc twat and she was shit talking us when we played. When I said I liked her and would be interested in signing her there was almost a mutiny."


    "So you got Bonnie to call her? That''s either madness or genius."


    I pointed. The women were getting on like a house on fire. "I vote genius. Players want to play with good players. If I''d called it might have been tricky, but Bonnie? That''s the ultimate demonstration of yes, we really want you."


    Emma twisted her lips in that way of hers. I think she thought I was spouting a whole lot of bull. "What''s next?"


    I sat down at my laptop. "I need to see what else is out there. The men need a good striker. And goalies. And I don''t have any names yet."


    The Brig had gotten up from his place. He ticked his Meet column and, unlike Emma, replaced the lid on the marker. "Omari Naysmith is on the way."


    I smiled. Omari was a great kid and I was delighted to help kickstart his career, even if he wouldn''t actually add anything to the team. "Tom Westwood."


    The Brig simply nodded, but he''d been showing a lot more emotion recently and I was getting good at reading him. He did his version of floating away.


    Emma rubbed my arm. "Want me to leave you alone?"


    "No. But yes."


    She scanned the room with its many conversations, the many smiles, the laughs, the pursuit of talent the Max Best way. "I''m proud of you."


    "Aww," I said, then added with a chuckle, "Better wait to see if we actually get anyone. This might be a huge waste of time."


    Bonnie appeared from nowhere and slammed her hand down, scattering my little pieces of paper everywhere. She didn''t give a shit; she was high. "She''s in. She''s trying to arrange a lift. We''re gonna show her round and take her for mocktails in town. I absolutely nailed that, Max. I''m a natural. Who else do you need?"


    I side-eyed her as I picked up a slip of paper that read CRAFTY MIDFIELDER? "Thanks, Bonnie. I need to see how this lot get on then I''ll get back to you." I didn''t want to start on plan B until plan A was proper dead.


    Bonnie gripped the massage table and shook it. "No, come on. Angel''s weak. We need a big target up top."


    "Oi," said Angel.


    "You know I''m right, Max. She can''t hold the ball up to save her life."


    "How about," I said, ready to enjoy the look on Bonnie''s face. "How about you go talk to the film crew about Ridley?"


    "Yes!" said Angel. "Great idea. That''s a good theme for the doc. From enemy to friend. Last season''s villain to this season''s ally. That''s proper Fast and Furious. Is there a character in that called Ridley? I''ll tell them about the title decider and how this brat was winding us up and say how surprised I was when Max said we should sign her but that when we got talking she was simply amazing and we can''t wait to be on the same pitch as her!" She narrowed her eyes as she thought through what she''d said, decided she was right, and stormed off. Her sister chased after her.


    "Max," said Emma, and followed it up with a sigh.


    Jackie had pottered over, holding his camera up like he was doing a selfie. "And here''s the big man himself. Max Best."


    Femi had her hair done in braids pulled tight down into a ponytail. Her big black eyes showed a high level of amusement. "Femi!"


    "Max Best. I know this name."


    "Femi, I''m a big fan of yours."


    "Come on."


    "No, I''m super serious. We''re trying to get our transfer business done today and you''re our number one target. Jackie, show her." He fussed with the camera and then held it up to show her name at the top of the whiteboard. He came back into selfie mode.


    "I am flattered."


    "I don''t know about that but I know you''re an incredible player and I''m willing to move heaven and earth to get you here."


    "It is very sudden and unexpected."


    "Sudden and unexpected are my middle names," I said, and my heart pounded as she did a big laugh. She was fun! "Femi, listen. We''re very serious about this so all I''d ask is that you give us a chance to talk to you."


    She kind of rolled her head in a half-yes, half-no gesture. "I will talk to you, of course. But Chester. It is too far to commute and I am settled in Leeds. I have my church here."


    "We have a good Christian boy in our first team. Youngster. He''s from Ghana. He tells me there are plenty of sinners who need to be saved in Chester. You could help him!"


    She laughed again and wagged her finger at the camera. "You are very persuasive, Mr. Max Best. And very funny."


    "Oh, and we''ve just signed a lovely Nigerian man. He''s just settling into the area but Jackie, maybe Wesley Good Christian Name knows a good church."


    "Let''s find out!"


    Jackie went over to Wes, who was soon smiling into the camera. This was going crazy well. What would the first stumbling block be? How was I going to mess it up? I looked around the room. Smiles all round. If this was me messing it up, I loved it.


    I glanced at my flipchart - the men needed a striker. I went to my database and searched for out-of-contract male forwards with good finishing. There were a decent number, and even some good ones. The ones I liked had all been earning five grand a week or more, though. Being dazzled by all the hot people at Chester would be flattering but not to the point a man would forget what the market was willing to pay him. As I looked, I felt a flush on the back of my neck. One of the tastiest strikers had a new line in his Contract area. It said he was currently considering a contract offer from Preston North End. It was happening! My options were already dwindling.


    With slightly more urgency, I reset the filters to look for guys with good technique. Same story - not much going. I tried with something cheaper - good heading. There were many more options, but none that appealed, and the half-decent ones already had clubs interested.


    My heart sank - I''d been dreading something like this. Being reliant on Henri to score goals hadn''t seemed so bad until recently. Now he was worrying me. He''d found something he liked more than chasing balls around grass. If I couldn''t find an oven-ready National League striker before the start of the season, I would have to consider the dreaded loan market. I would end up giving my precious first-team minutes to someone from another team. I would increase the transfer value of someone who didn''t belong to me. No, please! Anything but that.


    I spent another few minutes scouring the striker database, getting more and more worried.


    Emma brought me a cup of tea and I looked up to see that all the phone calls had finished and people were waiting to give me feedback.


    Jackie started. "Femi''s intrigued. Not interested, exactly, but intrigued. I asked if I could go and talk to her in person and she said yes. I could be there in ninety minutes."


    "Great."


    "Did you want me to do anything else?"


    "Mate, get her to Chester and we win the league. Livia, will you go, too? This is top priority."


    "Don''t you want to hear about Luxury Bell, first?"


    "Er, sure."


    "She''s open to a meeting."


    "She was playing for Stockport. You could combine the trips."


    "Way ahead of you."


    "Wait," said Sandra. "Scottie Love is in that direction. We could all go."


    "She''s interested enough to come today? If we get them all, that''s six of you. Too many for one car."


    "Max!" said Bonnie. She was back; Angel wasn''t. "Ridley''s in Altrincham. We should call her and tell her we''ll pick her up."


    Brooke had been making notes. "Jackie and Livia will go to Leeds to get Femi and pick up Luxury Bell and Cole Adams along the way. Sandra and Bonnie will get Scottie Love, Ridley T, and Tom Westwood."


    "Right," I said, thinking about it. "But you spoke to Tom at the Exit Trials and he''ll be the most nervous in that car. You go instead of Bonnie. Done. Don''t come back without at least two footballers per car."


    They went off, chattering, energy off the scales.


    Ruth smiled. "This is tremendously exciting, Max. Better than Netflix. We just need someone to try to enhance some CCTV footage and someone else to shout, stop that plane!"


    "You watch Netflix?" I said, surprised. "Never mind. Watch what you want. How did you get on with Hunk Williams?"


    "Zach was... surprised. He''s not very interested. His preference is to move back to the States but he''s got dogs so he''s willing to hear us out."


    "Great. Get on the phone and keep yapping." I ticked a bunch of boxes on my whiteboard and fretted. This was all going far too smoothly...


    She smiled. "No need. He''ll be here later. He was out on a moor somewhere but he''ll come in a couple of hours."


    I shook my head in an impressed way. "Top. Top bins. I''m just, wow, Ruth. You''re good. We''re all good. Brig?"


    "As I said, Omari is on his way. And if I may say, Josh Owens lives between Omari and Chester. If I spoke to him and he agreed to come, it''d be simplicity itself to collect him."


    "Simplicity itself? Really?" I looked up at a stained ceiling tile. Josh Owens was a wing back, a position I didn''t use often, though I suspected he would be fine at left back or left midfield. He was bloody good, but that''s not why the Brig wanted him. When it came to football academy horror stories, Owens was right up there. I was trying not to think about it but off the pitch he would be a big project. I made some calculations. Owens had said he wouldn''t move north. He''d been firm about it. There was no risk he''d get in a car with some strangers and drive three or four hours to Chester and even if he did and we got him, he''d be a solid addition to the squad. I could make the Brig happy with no downside. "Fine. Call him. Everyone else take a break while I look at goalies."


    "Goalies, sir?"


    I sighed. The Exit Trials normally ended with three kids getting contracts. We were pushing hard to get four on our own, and now the Brig was pushing me to take one of the goalkeepers, too. "If I get a goalkeeping coach who can be second choice, we can think about the goalies we saw at the Exit Trials. But that won''t be today, Brig." He was just about to push the issue when I said, "Gosh, I hope we get Josh Owens." That was me dismissing him.


    The Brig rearranged his lips. "Very good, sir."


    ***


    I took my laptop to a quiet room and went through the curse checking every male goalie whose contract had just expired. I was hoping to find one with the telltale arrows showing that a player had a coaching profile. Magnus had such arrows, as did the players who had taken coaching badges under my badgering - their staff profiles had appeared overnight during the update.


    Henri had an unremarkable set of coaching numbers. Youngster had some surprisingly low ones, too. I had sent him on a scouting course. Him not being a super scout was fine - it was possible his numbers would increase the more he played the sport and by the time he retired he''d be good at it. Or his numbers would stay low forever and he''d have to make do with the millions and millions of pounds he would make as a player.


    Yeah, there were no outstanding coaches in my squad, more''s the pity.


    In my mental database, there were quite a few goalies who had started to take their badges, leaving me with almost twenty names to look into. But while some looked good as pure goalies, I only had the coaching stats on four, either because I hadn''t had the Staff Profiles unlocked when I scouted those guys or because they''d only just completed their coaching courses. How was I going to get them in a match scenario so I could see what skills they had? They were too old to ask them to come to a trial.


    Mad idea. I could invite two to join as short-term cover until January. Once they were here, I''d see their coaching numbers! If one was good, sign him long term! If they were bad, I was only committed for a few months. It wasn''t a great option, but it was something. And thinking about it, who said I needed one goalie coach? Could two guys on 500 a week give me more than one on a thousand?


    My speculation didn''t matter if they wouldn''t come to Chester, so I wrote down the names of the best prospects and their former clubs and asked my troops to try to get in touch with them. The ones with good Handling had been at big clubs and it seemed unlikely any would want to drop so far. But you didn''t know until you asked, so why the hell not? One was based in the north east, so I let Emma chase him up.


    I had been expecting to be knocked back by half our targets but thus far no-one had come out with a flat no, so I told my team to relax until the others came back or there was some news. I went to the trophy cabinet to stare at what I''d achieved in my career so far. Quite a lot! But would there be more to come?


    If we got everyone we wanted, the women''s team looked in good shape. In football terms, there was space for one more player but I did have to be mindful of the budget. The men, though. On my mental map of the CAs needed to compete in the various levels, the National League clubs tended to sit between CA 57 and 74. Grimsby would blow that out of the water, obviously, as had, in previous seasons, moneybags Wrexham and moneybags Stockport.


    I tried to imagine the eleven we would put out in the last game of the season - the playoff final. The two centre backs would be stuck on their max values of 54 and 53 - far short of the level, though Glenn Ryder''s leadership had a worth of its own. It was possible but not certain that Magnus Evergreen would climb into the 60s. Our goalie would max at 67, the left back 75, right back 77, and left winger 70. Absolutely in line with the top teams at the level. Sam Topps'' maximum was 60, but he was experienced and had a lot of try. Even if he was at the low end of what we needed in the league, I would probably play him in the most important matches even if one of the young bucks overtook him in pure CA terms. Next to him would be one of Ryan Jack or Andrew Harrison, and both had the capacity to finish the season at CA 70 or so. Ditto Pascal and Youngster, while Henri''s only limit was his new girlfriend.


    Luisa. Bloody hell. I was happy for Henri but I also needed to know I could count on him! I was starting to understand why Alex Ferguson had taken such a dislike to Victoria Beckham...


    Okay, in summary, we could have a competitive team by the end of the season, plus we would have a couple of aces up our sleeve. Me, obvs, but maybe also WibRob and Sharknado.


    Yeah. It wasn''t bad. We could survive the first half of the campaign scraping results and keeping in contention, then put on the afterburners near the end. If we could get this Zach guy or someone similar, we''d fix our main weakness in a stroke. If we had an experienced goalie on the bench, plus a good striker, we''d probably romp through the last third of the season.


    Yes! I mentally roared. Come on!


    ***


    About half an hour after the cars had departed, all my nerves had returned. I couldn''t face talking to a goalie or striker until I got one of the other deals out of the Schrodinger stage. Is the deal alive or dead? Give me some certainty, please.


    I was feeling itchy and needed to move so I took everyone out to lunch, which was very agreeable until MD dropped something of a bombshell.


    "Shame about your friend," he said.


    "Henri? I don''t know. Maybe it''ll help build his stamina."


    MD smiled. "I meant James O''Rourke."


    Emma and I looked at each other. James had helped me when I was recovering from my coma. "What happened?" she said.


    "Oh, you didn''t hear? First time I get to break some football news to Max. He''s left Tranmere. Mutual consent, it said, but, you know."


    A twang of pain shot through me. "Ah, mate." I went to the curse screens and obviously the news had been buried under thousands of ''player released'' notices. In the Job Information screen, though, the Tranmere job - and several others - was listed as available. I clicked into the Tranmere Squad page and on the top right there was a shiny button: APPLY FOR JOB. What would that do? If I clicked that, would Mateo get an email from me? A text? Would the curse implant a fake memory of him interviewing me?


    James, though. He''d been so good to me just when I needed it. I ate wordlessly for a while, keeping my thoughts to myself. I''d always known he wasn''t going to survive long. The eleven points I''d helped him get in January had eased thoughts of relegation and lit a fire under the arses of a few players. The good results had continued for a while, but then tailed off and the end of the season had been pretty poor.


    "Ruth," I said, quietly. "You negotiated with Mateo for Lucas Cook. Did this come up?"


    "Not exactly," she said. She''d got Lucas Cook a deal there for 800 a week. Not bad but given his high PA I would have given him a higher salary if he was willing to drop a level. "We talked about Nelson Smith-Howes and I said he was quality but we''d already had problems bringing a right mid to Tranmere because James played 4-3-3. He said to call him back in a couple of weeks. I took it to mean James wasn''t long for this world."


    "He''s not dead," I said, unhappily. In football terms, he was. I shook my head. She could have told me, but then again, what difference would it make? "Thanks."


    ***


    After lunch I bagsied a sofa and lay on it for an hour, clicking through news items or scanning and re-scanning the out-of-contract players. Maybe if I checked again it would be different. Maybe some clubs released players at ten past one.


    One thing that was different - my fourth-choice centre back suddenly had two clubs who were interested in him. One was in League Two, the level above us. Signing him had just become highly unlikely. Dammit.


    I''d expected the day to be a constant whirlwind of activity. Get knocked back by option 1, move onto option 2. So far, the whiteboard was pristine. The ticks had stopped spreading, but two carfuls of players would be here soon. No, three! Three chariots. Two from the north, one from the south. Wait - four! Zach was coming from Wales. Four lots of players. Then would come the tour - the mighty Deva, the trophy cabinet, the medical room - and all the way, the eye candy, the laughs, the Chesterness.


    I texted Brooke asking when she''d get here, but then got fidgety and irritated. I needed action!


    Brooke: We''re coming. Warning - Scottie and Ridley are quite happy at Altrincham. That club has a great vibe and they''re worried about losing that. Seems to be very important to them. Tom is shy but he''s very excited.


    I bet he was, the horny bastard. But of course that was typical. Three players I wanted and I''d get the one who didn''t do anything obvious to improve the squad. The only one I hadn''t daydreamed about.


    Livia: Femi and Luxury are sweet but they''re worried about the vibes. They had a shit time last season. They''re being very cautious about their next steps. Both are worried about moving to a new city to end up with the same problems. Cole is a bit worried about the vegan hotdogs and that sort of thing. His mates have been teasing him about becoming a soy boy, whatever that is. Jackie is putting him straight, don''t worry.


    Fuck me this was all so frustrating. Chester was the best destination for all these guys. They''d all win and improve and have fun. Why did I need to spell it out to every single one of the fuckers?


    Annoyed, I got changed and went out onto the pitch with a bag of footballs and did some light jogs and some tekkers and generally walked around being moody and handsome and imagining there was, like, knee-high mist and a hair-high breeze. My mind kept drifting to what the teams would look like with my targets. Femi zooming around on her long legs, stopping attacks at source, maybe roughing up a gobby twat every now and then. Zach Green doing the same but in an American accent.


    But first impressions were so important and me telling them how badly I wanted them was a very bad first impression. I needed to be slightly cool, slightly aloof. I''d done what I could to make everyone who came here today think positively of Chester. Now I just needed to be patient and not ruin it when they got here.


    I found myself doing laps of the stadium with my mind pleasantly blank. I''m not sure how many laps I''d done when I saw MD on the ''home straight.'' He was standing by the tunnel looking worried. I jogged to him and stopped.


    "I''m sorry, Max. I don''t know what I did wrong."


    The first reversal of fortune! It was almost a relief. "What? What happened?"


    "Zach Green came! I met him at reception, took him through, showed him the Phwoar Room. He said it was like a baseball draft."


    "Yes!" I said, punching the air.


    "I brought him out here. He saw you jogging around and he just left. He left!"


    "Weird."


    "I know! Hang on, I''m getting a call." He walked off.


    Okay so Zach was a nutjob. I shrugged and started on another lap. Who was next on the centre back list? I went to my database, filtered by positioning, and had a very unpleasant shock. My number two target had interest from Ipswich Town and my number three was wanted by Crawley. Fuck you, TJ! Zach Green was now the outstanding candidate. The next best guy after him was just a taller Steve Alton. I mean, an upgrade but nothing to daydream about.


    When I completed the next lap, MD was there with Angel, Bonnie and - relief - Zach.


    I slowed to a stop. Zach had light brown hair, blue eyes, and Hollywood teeth - I''d read his dad was a dentist. Zach was wearing a red and white checked shirt rolled up to the elbows and a blue pair of shorts. Had he come dressed as America? He was wearing loafers - no socks - with a matching belt. Angel and Bonnie were staring at his arse like it was hanging in a gallery.


    "Thanks for coming," I said. "I''m Max."


    "Zach," he said, accepting a fist bump. "Cute little stadium!"


    He said it enthusiastically enough, but the words irritated me beyond belief. It wasn''t a cute little stadium, it was a hate-filled cauldron. Teams came with hope and left with nothing. They left as husks. Cute little stadium? We should hang up a sign saying, "Welcome to the Huskmaker!"


    "Right," I said, suddenly very chill about not being able to afford this guy. But then I remembered he was by far my best option.


    "Say, Max, I''ve been on my arse the whole year. Seeing you run around, shucks, I don''t know, I just wanted to join in, you know? Mind if I do some laps with you?" He raised his kit bag. So he''d gone back to his car to get it.


    A bit of sweaty bonding seemed like a good way to get to know him. "I''d like that. Yeah. Locker rooms are through there."


    "Ha!" he said. "You don''t have to speak American to me. I''ve had plenty of time - " He paused to rip his shirt off, revealing a ludicrous washboard. Like, seriously, no-one needed that many abs. Angel clearly disagreed with me. Zach fished in his bag. "Plenty of time to pick up the lingo." He smiled as he pulled on a basketball top that said TEXAS on it. Then he whipped his shorts off and Angel took a step backwards to get an eyeful. Ten seconds later he was fully dressed and tying his boots. "Hot damn this feels good! Left or right?" He was asking if we would run clockwise or counter-clockwise.


    "Right," I said. "You''ve crossed the border but we''re not barbarians."


    We jogged for thirty seconds, getting into a comfortable pace, then we both started talking at once. I laughed. "You first," I said.


    "Who''s Femi?"


    Huh. Last question I would have expected. "She''s a centre back. She''s amazing."


    "She''s your top draft pick."


    "What makes you say that?"


    "I saw your draft board."


    "Oh! Right. Yeah, I suppose she is. She''s the single most important player we could sign. It''s not quite that she guarantees we win the league but it''s close."


    "Your girl Ruth, on the phone, say, where is she? She sounded real nice."


    Internally, I grinned. Ruth hadn''t moved to video chat, assuring me it would be even sexier to stick to audio. "She is real nice."


    "She said I was your first choice."


    "You are."


    "I was fifth on the board. Look, Max, I was sold a pup by Wrexham. They said I''d be an important player but I got froze out right away. Being told I''m number one and seeing I''m number five, that''s not what I want to see. You feel me?"


    Interesting. I couldn''t decide if his reaction was more about being lied to, feeling unwanted, or was simply about status. The Brig and I had called around to try to get a sense of the man. There wasn''t a lot on the negative side. Maybe he tried too hard. Maybe he could get gobby in a way old-school managers didn''t like. It didn''t surprise me someone like Zach would fall out with the Wrexham boss even if the higher-ups were hoping he would be a hit with the show''s American audience.


    We''d arrived back at the tunnel area, now deserted, and continued at the same pace. "You know I''m not just the men''s team manager, right? I''m the DoF here." He grunted that he did know. I continued. "The biggest hole across the squads is in the women''s team. So we started there." I laughed. "Mate, you''re an American male soccer player. You should be used to playing second fiddle to the women''s team."


    He had to grin. "That''s fair. So the first four are women?"


    "What was the order? Scottie Love was fourth, right? She''s a goalie. The second and third are young lads we saw at the Exit Trials. My assistant - well, my Head of Performance - he''s super engaged by the prospect of, what would you say? Rescuing their careers. The order on the board isn''t just what we need, it''s me managing the needs of my employees. We could easily get by without those two players but I can''t get by without my assistant. Does that make sense to you?"


    "Just about."


    We were about halfway round the lap.


    "It''ll click when you get to know him. If you were me, you''d want to keep him around. No, Zach, Ruth wasn''t blowing smoke up your arse when she said you were my first choice. We''ve got a few kids coming today and yeah, I hope we sign them all, but there''s three senior positions going. Centre back - that''s you - striker, veteran goalie."


    Zach suddenly picked up the pace, leaving me three strides behind. I couldn''t understand why - had I said something to offend him? But then I passed a gaggle of onlookers. Angel had spread the word that there was a show underway and everyone from inside had come outside. Angel, Ruth, and Emma were the most eye-catching.


    Massive pangs of irritation zapped me. Zach, the prick, had seen the beautiful women and sped up to make me look bad in front of my hotties in my stadium. What the fuck?


    I tried to keep my shit together. If there was any chance of him joining the team, I needed to take it. I needed to be rational. I didn''t have a plan B or a plan C. This was not the time to go full Max.


    As he turned round the corner flag, he slowed and I caught up. I glared at him but he simply looked ahead, letting his muscles glisten in the sunlight. That''s why he''d chosen a basketball top. To show his guns. Another pang of irritation zapped me.


    "You''re not real popular in Wrexham," he said.


    "Oh, no," I said, with lots of maturity.


    He said, "We had a big party on the team bus when you blew that four-one lead."


    Max Best is very diplomatic and sophisticated. Max Best is both diplomatic and sophisticated. "You know what''s funny? If you''d played in that match they''d have crushed us."


    He glanced at me. "Why''d you say that?"


    "A centre back who can pass? We had a plan to stop their full backs. Can''t stop a centre back, too. It''s mental they didn''t use you."


    Yes, Max! Well played! That was good, Max. "Tend to agree with you there."


    We jogged along opposite the dugout section, where there was an even bigger crowd. I supposed one of the cars had turned up. "So - '''' I started.


    "Is this to mug them off?"


    "Who?"


    "Wrexham. You''ve been pissing in their chips ever since that day in Grimsby. Is this part of that?"


    He¡¯d been learning British phrases, all right. "Nope. I want a top quality centre back. Strong, good in the air, decent pace." That was a dig! It was clear that Zach thought of himself as fast. He was, by centre back standards, which was part of why I wanted him. He''d be a step in the direction of playing a high defensive line. In digging him out, I''d reverted to old Max. No, mate! "Yeah, great fundamentals. The fact that you''re good on the ball is, oh man." I did a chef''s kiss. That was better. "I don''t know how the fans here will react. They might be, like, not him thanks. Or they might think we''re taking one of Wrexham''s stars without paying a transfer fee. I have no clue how it will go and I don''t much care. You''re a ball-playing centre back who can defend and I know exactly how to use you and how to improve you."


    We turned onto the straight and the mob in front took a few steps back. It very much looked like all the cars had turned up. In addition to the other beauties, we were now heading towards Livia and Brooke, too. Zach went up a gear but I was expecting it, this time, and I didn''t let him get the jump on me. No gap this time, buddy boy. I didn''t let him look good in front of the ladies.


    He grimaced and kept his speed up until we turned by the corner flag when he took the chance - now that we were far from the bevy of beauties - to slow down without embarrassing himself.


    He had a face like thunder and I''m sure I did, too. Me matching him run-for-run had somehow turned this jog into a battle.


    "Lot of people in Wrexham think you''re a joke and you got Grimsby relegated."


    "If I''m the joke, Wrexham''s the punchline."


    "Be real. You''ve been cruising here in Chester but it''s soft. It''s not serious. You don''t shout at half-time. You win on talent. What happens when you don''t have the edge on ability? You get Grimsby, is what you get."


    "Took me two games to weed out the soft boys at Grimsby. Then we got three good results and we would have blasted out of trouble but the owner lost his nerve." I laughed. "I fucking crushed it at Grimsby and if you can''t see that, you should have stuck to lacrosse."


    "You think you''re the hot new thing after beating up on a few semi-pro teams."


    "German TV thinks I''m the hot new thing. I''ll blow you a kiss from the Euros, mate." He brooded for a few seconds and I started looking for a way to get out of this hole. He wasn''t going to come to Chester. I''d just blown up my A signing while B, C, and D were all off the table. I''d have to rethink my whole plan for the coming season. Jesus fuck! But I didn''t need to make it personal with Zach. We didn''t click, okay, but I''d just had an amazing year and he''d had a miserable one. I didn''t need to make him feel worse. What would the Brig want me to do? "All right, you don''t rate me as a manager. That''s probably more understandable than I want to admit. So what are your plans? If you need somewhere to train while you look for a new club, you can come here. I''ve got some young defenders who could learn a lot from you."


    That stumped him, briefly, but then we were back on the home straight and the sight of the women made him stretch his legs again. The fucker was racing me! I went up two gears and smashed past the halfway line a good few yards ahead of him. Why, Max? I slowed and let him catch up. He was starting to blow pretty hard.


    "You want me to drop down to play for a team that was nearly relegated the year before? What''s your offer?"


    "I can''t pay what Wrexham paid."


    "You don''t know what Wrexham paid."


    "Three thousand three hundred, basic."


    His feet caught on the grass. "How the heck - ?"


    "I know things, Zach. If you read about me instead of listening to your idiot friends in Wrexham, you''d know I''m a fucking wizard. I would break the bank to give you two grand a week."


    "Two thousand? Plus bonuses?"


    "All in." I grinned, savagely. "That''d make you the highest paid footballer in this club''s history, mate. Sorry it''s so offensive to you." I sped up without thinking. I was getting sick of the guy, but once again I slowed at the corner.


    "What''s... plan for¡­ season?" he said.


    "It''ll be hard. We need to catch up and we''ve got a lot of kids." I looked to my left. Four of those kids were there. I could see the Brig practically levitating. "And Sharknado. The plan is to come good at the end and smash the playoffs."


    "Those kids?" he said, waving a hand back towards the dugout. "They''re... babies. Can''t win anything... kids."


    I was done with Zach Green, now. He was annoying from top to bottom. Every single thing about him wound me up. "What''s it like being wrong all the time, Zach? This place is on the rise, mate, and those kids will fuck you up. Yeah, it''ll be hard. Hard for everyone. Hard for our new centre back. We''re going to lose some games and those kids are going to be feeling shit and they''re going to look around the dressing room and what are they going to see? They''re going to see Glenn Ryder, Sam Topps, and Carl Carlile. They''re going to see champions. Warriors. Winners. I''m going to stuff that dressing room with winners and warriors, Zachy boy. Leave no man behind, yeah? I''ll fucking pick the kids up and carry them on my back if I have to. And check this out. I''m going to lap you, now. I''m going to lap you by the end of the next circuit. All right? If you want to impress the girls, quit now because otherwise they''re gonna see you chew dirt."


    "Wait," he said, but I''d gone.


    I stormed around the corner, flew behind the goal posts, and mere seconds later I was powering down the right touchline. I had the fleeting impression of lots of confused faces, but then Zach turned onto the right and they realised a proper race had broken out and they started cheering.


    "Come on, Zach!" cried someone. The voice echoed across the otherwise deserted stadium - Ruth, I think - and as Zach passed the throng of watchers I was just turning onto the far straight. To lap him, I needed to do one and a half circuits in the time it took him to do one.


    Piece of piss.


    I settled into a long, loping stride while the idiot American pumped his arms and legs like he was Rocky running on sand. Wasting energy. Inefficient. I would utterly destroy him.


    I passed the onlookers, who had now spread out to form a sort of tunnel to get a better view of what would be the finish line, and I cruised behind the goal. Zach was fifteen yards down the opposite stand. Huh. He''d sped up.


    I stopped thinking and put everything I had into it. The fans were jumping up and down, cheering, yelling and whooping.


    My legs were burning, now. Every nerve ending was aflame, every one a matchstick. Pain is purifying. Pain is exhilarating.


    Zach hit the last corner, but even in his desperation he didn''t cut it. He turned onto the home straight, just fifty yards from the finish line where the crowd was going bonkers. His technique was ragged and the turn cost him a few fractions of a second, as did the glance over his shoulder to see where I was.


    I was almost to the first goalpost - now the second, now the corner. I took it smooth as silk and clicked into top speed - and beyond.


    The fire had spread to my lungs. I had proper tunnel vision, now, and all I could think was how delicious this was going to feel. Forgive me, Lord, for I am about to murder a man.


    But Zach, the stupid bastard, didn''t know that I''d already beaten him. He lifted his chin high and pumped for dear life. After a few strides of that, he went the opposite way, lowering his head. His heart must have been one bpm from exploding.


    I was twenty yards away, he was ten. I was ten, he was five. I was Achilles, he was a tortoise.


    Zach threw himself over the finish line a yard ahead of me. He collapsed to his back, hands covering his head. The tortoise retreats into its shell.


    I kept going for another twenty yards as I slowed, then I raised my arms, not in triumph, but in ecstasy. Mad, mindless competition, arbitrary rules, the wild release of dopamine.


    I ambled back, grinning uncontrollably. The crowd had formed a kind of circle around Zach. "Glorious defeat," I proclaimed. "Zach Green, ladies and gentlemen. Guy doesn''t know how to quit. Fuck me, you''d love it here, Zach." I looked up at the blue sky. A warm day, not too hot, the promise of a cool night. It was perfection. The sweat was pouring off me. My lips parted into what was probably a winning smile. "I hope you like cold showers."


    "Cold showers?" This was a voice I''d heard once before. Rich, deep, and melodious. Femi. The other female players and the Exit Trial boys were shuffling closer. The boys, in particular, had a weird look on their faces and I wondered if my little showdown with Zach had put them off.


    I was too high to fret, or worry, or calculate. The right thing to say? How about the goddamn fucking truth?


    I took a few steps into the middle of the pitch. I pointed up. "Did you see the scaffolding when you came in? That''s the solar panels going up. We''ll have hot water by pre-season." I swept my hand around. "It''s a cute little stadium. I want to make it bigger. I want to score in front of ten thousand - there''s nothing like the rush of scoring in front of a big crowd. Everything you want, I want. We''ll show you the training ground and the new kitchen. It''s good but it''s not good enough. I''m working on it. We''ll offer you a salary; it won''t be what you hoped. Win and I''ll pay you more. Win and another team will buy you and pay you more. Even better." I spread my arms wide. The run had purified me, all right. Wiped away all the secret doubts. Zach had put his arms down so he could watch me speak. I offered him my hand; he clasped it and I pulled him up. "It''s not paradise but in every way we''re getting better and we''re getting better faster than any other club in the world. I want you all here to be part of it because together we could do something truly epic this season. Back to back promotions with the men''s and women''s teams? No-one''s ever done that. That''s bonkers. But we''ll do it and we''ll do it with style."


    I realised that the students hadn''t gone home. The main camera dude edged closer and I suddenly found myself exuding charisma. A cheeky possible name for our documentary popped into my head.


    I couldn''t use that, could I?


    I looked around the group, resting my eyes on the potential new recruits. "You''ve come to the most exciting football club in the world. It''s a top city, the countryside''s beautiful, and the football''s off the charts. Femi, Luxury, Ridley? With you around we could go unbeaten this season. Invincible. Lads? You think you learned football at those academies? Fuck that. I''ll teach you Max Best football and holy shit, there''s nothing like it. Zach? We need more nutjobs round here. We need guys who look at the fastest manager in world football and think ''I can beat him''. Every one of you is wanted and needed here. I offer you glory. I offer you a life bursting with meaning. Every sprint an Olympic final. Every match a chapter. Every season a book. I know you''ll all make the right decision. I know you''ll all join us." I looked right down the lens and the guy - he had great instincts - got closer. He knew I was about to say something they could use in the trailer. "Welcome to Chester."

 8.5 - On the Record

    5.


    The Curse


    by Bethany Alban


    Reprinted with kind permission of Lionised magazine, the only women''s football magazine dedicated to long-form content and in-depth tactical analysis.


    Introduction - Urine Trouble Now


    In sport, curses are everywhere you look. The Boston Red Sox were cursed after trading Babe Ruth to the Yankees and didn''t win a World Series for 86 years. At least two English football clubs were cursed when they forced Romani people away from land they had been using. (In Birmingham, a manager called Barry Fry urinated on every corner flag to lift the stadium''s curse, while in 1946, after five decades of bad luck, representatives from Derby County begged for forgiveness and finally won the FA Cup.) Most ominously, there is the Curse of Ramsey. Whenever the Welsh star Aaron Ramsey scores, someone famous dies. Ramsey has slain Robin Williams, Alan Rickman, and David Bowie.


    Those are the famous curses.


    I believe I have discovered another.


    Maxday One - Like Clockwork


    The old saying goes, ''Football is a game of two halves''. The first half might be drab and featureless while the second explodes into life. From nil-nil to three-two, and one''s mood is irrevocably changed. Suddenly there is something to talk about, there are events to discuss, there are feelings to feel. Suddenly, the game is worth playing.


    The first half of my trip to Germany was like that nil-nil. I had been sent by my newspaper, The Daily Mail, to the Men''s European Championships to collect ''colour'' - quotes from the man in the street, the new songs invented by wandering hordes of Scottish fans, the latest must-do trend from the England banter brigade. My work would support the work of more senior colleagues, those who actually got to go inside the stadiums. The ones who got to see the matches. If I was very lucky, I might stumble upon something interesting or silly enough to warrant its own brief article under my own byline. Four inches, ladies, was the best I could hope for.


    Work is work, work has its own dignity, and I was lucky to have a stable job in a dying industry, but a week in and the monotony was starting to weigh on my shoulders. The Mail paid for my accommodation and gave me a stipend but I was shocked at how little it bought me. I was living on bretzels and beer - it was that or go bankrupt. Nor was my work sustaining me - tramping around Munich talking to butchers, bakers, and TikTok clip makers. Did you see yesterday''s football? What''s your prediction? Who''s your favourite player? The problem with grinding is that you get worn down.


    Thus was my mood as I stood in Marienplatz in the heart of the city, staring up at the Glockenspiel. It is a geriatric clock stuck onto the side of the town hall and twice a day some figures slowly rotate while bells ring. In 1908, I''m sure it was a sensation, but in 2024 I can summon an AI filmmaker to produce any clip I can imagine. Computer, show me highlights of Brazil 1970 playing against Spain 2008.


    There''s a crowd of people around me, also trying to enjoy the show, and I know I should use the clock as an icebreaker to ask some Danes or Serbs what they''re feeling about their team''s chances. Or I could ask the woman in the frankly enormous hat if she is cosplaying as Audrey Hepburn. My boss would lose his mind if I sent him a photo of a ravishing blonde along with a snappy quote about, I don''t know, Portugal versus Turkey.


    The show finishes and the crowd disperses. A few people walk in the direction of a collection box, but no-one drops in a Euro. The clock, it seems, is a metaphor for journalism itself. People are happy to crane their necks when there''s nothing else to do, but they aren''t willing to pay for it.


    My stomach growls; it is time for my twice-daily giant bretzel. My growling stomach will be the catalyst for everything that is to follow.


    Just then, I hit my lowest ebb for a long time. I''m an award-winning writer. My podcast interview with Donnie Wormwood, the champion boxer, has moved my hard-nosed, embittered colleagues to tears. In the half-ironic words of an old friend from Manchester, "I''m massive." So why am I still on the bottom rung? When will I be able to afford three meals a day? If this is success, what is failure?


    "Bethany!"


    I can''t believe my eyes. It''s the blonde woman in the enormous hat! She is, in fact, Emma Weaver, a lawyer whose world is divided. Five days a week she''s a straight-laced pen-pusher and desk jockey. Come the weekend she attends the madcap adventures of football''s most energetic puppy, Max Best. He''s the player-manager of fifth tier Chester FC and while on any given day he may pretend to be rude or uncaring I know for a fact he''s got a heart of gold. More importantly, since I''m supposed to be writing about football, when it comes to this crazy sport of ours he''s a genius. After a wildly successful season, he should be on Cloud Nine.


    Emma takes me by the elbow and I find myself being plopped in front of the man himself. Our metallic, rickety table, is outside, on the platz, a real tourist trap. The last place I''d expect to find the reclusive Mancunian.


    "Guten tag," I say.


    "I don''t know what that means, you dick."


    I smile. He''s in one of his moods! The only man in Munich who would have interesting thoughts about the evening''s match between Portugal and Czech Republic is the only man who would refuse to talk to me about it. I''m suddenly elated. Is my exciting second half about to kick off?


    "Where''s your Manager of the Year award? I heard you never leave home without it."


    Despite himself, he laughs, and I feel the sun on my skin and hear the happy chatter of the nearby tables. I''m in Germany reporting on a big football tournament. It''s not so bad!


    "Did you see the clock?" says Emma. "It''s great, isn''t it?"


    "Oh, fantastic, yes. Did you like it, Max?"


    "Questions are a burden to others; answers a prison for oneself." I don''t know why, but I smile harder. This disarms him somewhat and he pushes his sunglasses onto his forehead. "It must be a good piece of engineering and it''s funny in its own way. Given the constraints of the medium - it''s a clock for fuck''s sake - it''s pretty good. But what I like is that we''ve all just done something that people''ve done since the clock was installed, right? We''re part of that tradition, now. That''s one of the things I like about football. I''m the manager of Chester FC but there were guys before me and there will be guys after. The clock, the Saturday match, the Euros, it''s part of a thread, isn''t it? A sort of ritual that tells us we''re not just corks bobbing in the ocean. We''re connected."


    "That was beautiful, Max," says Emma, who is taking the piss.


    He sighs. "She complains when I snarkily comment on everything - which is the whole point of being abroad, surely? And she complains when I''m romantic. Well, Beth, it was lovely to be stalked by you today but I wouldn''t like to keep you from your duties."


    "She''s my guest, Max. You can''t kick her out. Bethany, do you want a beer?"


    "Oh, I couldn''t."


    My stomach chimes louder than the Glockenspiel.


    "Did you skip brek, mate?" wonders Max.


    I freeze. If there''s anyone in the world I don''t want feeling sorry for me, it''s Max Best. On the other hand, it''s obvious I haven''t eaten. "Germany''s a bit more expensive than I expected. I was just on my way to eat, though."


    "Don''t you work in London?" He''s suggesting that if I can afford London prices, I can afford Munich.


    "Not really, no. I''m based in Manchester. I work the northern beat. But yeah, anyway, I''ll get out of your hair."


    "Go fash, lose cash," says Max.


    "What the fuck," says Emma. She''s been on my side ever since I helped get an innocent man out of trouble. Max is on my side, too, but in a different way.


    "I''m just saying - "


    "Well, don''t."


    "I''m just saying that while I''m broadly pleased that the Daily Stain doesn''t have a massive expenses budget I''m also deeply concerned about the well-being of my longtime friend Beth. We have a saying in Chester: leave no Manc behind. Beth shall join us for lunch! Max Best has spoken."


    Before I can refuse, my stomach accepts the invitation on my behalf. So begins the second half of my trip.


    ***


    We drink our beers and walk around until Max finds a place he likes. It''s identical to six other restaurants we walked past.


    Even though it''s a gorgeous day, we''re inside by the window. This is because Max is infuriated when people smoke during meals and if there are rules against smoking in the outside sections of German restaurants, they are not enforced. The enormous beer and the warmth of the space brings me out in a light sheen but the prospect of ordering from a menu - an actual menu - makes this my favourite spot in Germany. Max has said I can order what I want, without exception, except the lobster. He likes me, he says, but not enough to drop ''lobster money''.


    "Why this restaurant?" I say. "Not that I''m complaining. It looks lovely."


    He gestures vaguely. "I wanted one of those German versions of Hooters. The ones where they''re dressed as lusty medieval wenches. Maybe they''re only open in October. Oh, shit!"


    "What?" says Emma.


    "The Scotch are here." A gaggle of burly men wearing blue are wandering around the streets of Munich looking for a place to eat. They seem to have been following the same thought process as Max. Where are all the bewbs? Max sinks partway under the table as though he has offended the entire nation of Scotland at some point and needs to hide. "Why are they still here? They played Germany on the 14th but their game today is in Cologne. That''s like, far. Look at the sunburn on that one. You should lend him your big hat, bebs."


    "He does look ill. Who are those ones coming the other way?"


    "Er, Serbia, I think. They''re playing Slovenia here tomorrow."


    "It''s fun, isn''t it? Seeing all the countries. Everyone''s getting along. Everyone apart from you and - "


    "Yeah, yeah." Max looks away from all the passersby and gives his girlfriend his full attention. "Are you having a good time? Is this your dream holiday?"


    Emma sips on her European coffee, which she later tells me is the same as what she drinks in England but being priced in Euros makes it seem exotic. "There''s been more driving around and breaking into training sessions than I expected. And a lot more complaining about parking, how they serve tea, and people driving fast on the autobahn." A little smile breaks out as she looks at me. "I do like a beach holiday but that''s Max''s least favourite. It has been fun. I''m looking forward to Dusseldorf."


    "I was born in Dusseldorf and that is why they call me Rolf."


    She smiles. "Why do you keep saying that? Do you know, Bethany?"


    "No. It''s just Max being weird, isn''t it? Did you listen to my podcast?"


    "No," says Max. "And I didn''t cry."


    I beam. That means he did and he did. I flick through the pages of the menu. "There''s no lobster."


    Max explodes into laughter. "Is that why you''ve been taking so long to decide what you want? You''re busy looking for lobster?"


    "Bethany, what are you doing in Munich?"


    "Oh, covering the Euros for the paper."


    "That''s great!"


    I try to smile but it doesn''t happen. I realise I''m desperate for a proper conversation even if it makes me look bad. "Not really. I mean, it''s amazing and everything but I''m not in the stadiums. They''ve got me doing street reporting. Getting quotes from the fans."


    Max says, "Are they making you talk to guys with Scottish flags painted on their faces?"


    I laugh. "That kind of thing, yeah."


    He leans forward, all serious and intense. He pats me on the hand. "You go ahead and order that lobster. I mean it."


    "Have you got lobster money or not?"


    "Yeah, I suppose I do. We''re both underpaid, but we''re underpaid on a different scale, I reckon."


    This is confusing. It''s not like Max to complain about his wages at Chester; it''s his choice to be there instead of plying his trade at a bigger, richer club. So if he isn''t complaining about Chester underpaying him...


    Our starters come, along with another massively tall glass of wheat beer.


    Max pokes at a delicious-looking white wine soup. "I got my pay rise, Beth. From Chester. That''s nice. I feel a tiny bit less constricted, now. I''ve got more opportunities. And this TV thing - "


    I slam my beer onto the table, causing a tiny, wheaty wave to launch upwards and drop back into the glass. "Sorry," I say, then remember my Duolingo training. "Tur me lied," I say to the waitress and the customers on nearby tables. They act like I spoke total gibberish which is impossible because I got five owls in a row. "I totally forgot about your TV thing!"


    "Yeah, well, I''m not really doing it for the money. It''s a free holiday, right? So that''s good. But mostly..." He spoons some soup into his mouth and frees his hands so he can massage his forehead. "I need a striker."


    "Then get one."


    "Yeah, I''m trying. I started out fussy then got picky. I''m on choosy at the moment, heading very quickly towards grabby."


    "Choosy? What sort of striker do you want?"


    "One with any sort of discernible quality who will come for a decent wage. It''s... I''m not dispirited. I''m not. I''m upbeat. I''m peppy. Tell her, bebs."


    "He''s peppy."


    "Are you okay, Max?"


    I watch as he answers. He''s not okay. He''s struggling in some way. It''s hard to think why - his life''s on track. He has overachieved for his age and his peers are jealous. Five years from now he''ll be within touching distance of the very top of his profession.


    I catch my own reflection and realise I''m describing myself. I''m coming out of my bad first half. Max is stuck in his.


    He tries to put his thoughts into words I might understand. "I''ve been rejected by, like, three strikers and two goalies. At the moment I''m just trying to get a striker. That''s like, mad focus to reduce the variables. So... there are three strikers who haven''t rejected me out of hand. They''re coming at me with wage demands, right? So when I get to a higher... Wow, this is hard. Er... If I was more famous, they''d come for less money, right? That''s obvious if you think about it. So I''m doing some science. If I get famous and their wage demands go down, I know what to do."


    "You''re trying to get more famous? That really doesn''t sound like you."


    "I think my, er... let''s say my reputation is close to a boundary. A good Euros could push me up into the next category of manager, right, and that''d help me attract new players. Access to a bigger pool. You''re laughing. I know. It''s moronic. But it''s like, what else can I do? I''m almost getting desperate."


    "You''re not desperate, bebs, you''re peppy."


    "Right! I can''t change anything in the next couple of months - except myself. If I can get a bit more of a name, that might make players more willing to drop a league or two. Maybe. Probably not. But I have to try because I don''t have money for transfer fees."


    "Max, I wasn''t laughing. I was smiling because I just really fucking need a proper conversation. You can''t believe how much I''d love to hear you talk about Chester Football Club."


    "Well, let''s talk," he says. "But it''s all off the record. You can''t use it."


    "What are you doing?" says Emma.


    "I like saying ''off the record''. It makes me feel like an insider."


    "It can be off the record if you want. I suppose I should ask you about the Euros, though, since that''s what I''m here for."


    "Sure. Off the record."


    "Well, tell me about your TV career. When does that start?"


    "Yesterday afternoon."


    "What? I missed it? Oh, no. But why haven''t I heard anything about it?"


    Max tucks into his soup in earnest. Emma has finished hers so she takes over. They''re a surprisingly good team. "They have to record this as part of the TV contract but it''s not clear that many people actually watch it. It''s a bit odd if you ask me. Max and two German experts talk about the game. It''s all very good, very professional. That''s shown here in Germany for anyone who wants the English version. You know, red button stuff. And that feed is sent to other countries that want it. Most don''t. Like in England they did their own stuff with their own analysts and half-time competitions and all that crap and in, like, Albania they do their own thing because not enough people speak English. So Max was on for, like, countries with English speakers who didn''t want to spend money on their own presenters for Iceland versus Romania. Based on Twitter reactions we think he was on in Ireland and parts of Scandinavia."


    "And Malta," says Max. "I''m massive in Malta, now."


    "Are you? But wait. If no-one''s watching, how does this help raise your profile?"


    "I mean, we can clip it and put videos on our socials and all that. People will see me next to two German legends. They''ll see me talking about football in the second-biggest international tournament. And I''m in the Allianz Arena - 70,000 people, Beth. It''s fucking incredible in there. It''s staggering. It makes me look good just to be there in any sort of official capacity. Although I wish they didn''t cut from the match to show the president of UEFA talking to some dictator. That shit makes me look bad."


    "So you weren''t doing co-comms, you were an analyst. Pitchside or studio?"


    "Pitchside."


    "Amazing. Did you wear your shit hoodie? Never mind that - how did it go?"


    Emma is about to answer when Max intervenes. "We should make her find out through OGM."


    Emma decides this is a splendid idea. "Yes! Do you want to do it?"


    Max looks up. He''s trying to remember what he''s told me because he hates repeating himself. Sadly, someone in his position meets so many people it''s impossible to keep track of everything. Some repetition is inevitable. "You know the Chester Chatters? It''s a group we''ve started to try to get lonely people into the stadiums so they get some social contact. It was going quite well under the leadership of Brooke, but in the last game of the season a new person came."


    "OGM," I guess.


    "Right. She''s not a lonely person, not like the rest, anyway. She went more in the volunteer role and because she was curious and long story short, she fell in love. It helps that I played in goal and took the piss and we had a big party, but anyway, she''s absolutely enchanted by the whole thing."


    "What whole thing?"


    "The whole let''s go to football matches and talk about it thing. She''d never been to a match before."


    "Once when she was little but she hated it," says Emma.


    "Oh, I thought that was her first. She liked the vibe and the Chatters concept so she''s trying to understand formations and offside and all the rest. Anyway, she''s quite tech savvy and she''s got her own username that she goes by - Overprepared GM."


    "She''s a Games Master?"


    "Er, no? She''s a grandmother?"


    "Right."


    "Anyway, she''s taking Chester Chatters to a whole new level. She''s got some app that lets her do group chats with the other Chatters whatever platform they''re on, so if one guy only knows WhatsApp and one only does Facebook, they can still participate. It''s great. She''s got mad ideas and energy." Max laughs. "If she was our age she''d be running a startup."


    I squeeze one eye closed trying to see where this is going. "Max, what are you talking about?"


    "Brooke suggested to OGM that my appearance on German TV was a big deal - you know, because it might help us sign a good striker or whatever. And Brooke said she would get OGM access to a stream if OGM would do a liveblog of it."


    "A liveblog! How old''s this woman?"


    "Oh, seventy-something. Don''t worry about it. She does voice to text and anyway, once the idea got going, it got going, if you get me."


    "I don''t."


    "You know, like Sumo came and set her up with a good microphone and showed her how to start a Twitch stream. How to do screengrabs. You know when you''re watching a stream and someone puts the top comments on the screen? She learned that. Oh, and Spectrum got some AI bot thing to transcribe what us analysts were saying. OGM could click on it sentence by sentence to put it on the blog with her own commentary. And Spectrum said he would help on the day and they got special guests and there was a pretty good turnout. I think there were like 400 in at one point."


    "Four hundred?"


    "Yeah. Only about a dozen Chester Chatters, I think. Everyone else was a normal Chester fan who wanted to know what I said so they kept a tab open on their phone."


    "But what did you actually say? I asked you about an hour ago!"


    Max smirks. "I''m going to send you the link, Beth. Could you chill out?"


    ***


    Chester Chatters Maxday 1 Liveblog


    Reproduced with the kind permission of Overprepared Grandmother and Chester FC


    13:50


    Hello and welcome - is this on? Ah, yes, the light is flashing. Or does that mean it is on mute? Fiddlesticks! How do I know? Ah, everything I say is showing on the screen. Something can hear me. Hello and welcome to Chester Chatters European Championships Edition. In a rather surprising turn of events, our Dear Leader is over in Germany teaching them how to football, as my grandchildren like to say. How did this all come about, Mr. Spectrum?


    Spectrum: I honestly don''t know. A friend of a friend of a friend thought Max might look good on camera. Something like that.


    I had a friend of a friend of a friend, once. Terrible what happened to her. Now, then. Let us set the scene. Where shall we start? Mr. Spectrum, where is Max?


    Spectrum: He''s in the Allianz Arena in Munich. That''s the home of Bayern Munich, who are normally the powerhouse of German football. That''s where Harry Kane plays. He''s the England captain. Ah, he''s going to be an analyst for the match about to take place between Romania and Iceland. Max, I mean, not Harry Kane. Wow, I''m not good at voice-to-text.


    We are all learning, young man, we are all learning! Romania, you will be pleased to discover, are ranked 45th in the world. Iceland are ranked 73. Mr. Spectrum, for those of us who will watch the match, which players should we look out for?


    Spectrum: Honestly, nobody really. Romania have two players in the Premier League and a couple in Spain. One is the son of a legend but I don''t think he''s at that level himself, which is a shame. It would be good for the tournament to have a breakout star. Iceland have a similar story - not many players in the top leagues and their best striker is the son of one of their all-time greats.


    Do we know what formations they play?


    Spectrum: I''m not sure but in footballing stereotypes we can expect Romania to be small and technical and Iceland to be tall and powerful.


    Yes, they need to be tall to see the sun. Very well. Onto the television broadcast. Max will appear before the match, at half time, and after the final whistle. He will be alongside two famous German experts. One is Dieter Bauer, who is a much-loved former player and manager though sadly he is now old enough to be a Chester Chatter. Watch out for his magnificent hair! Beside him will be Uli Gross, a former player and out-of-work manager who is somewhat less loved. He was Director of Football at RB Leipzig. Mr. Spectrum, tell us about that football club.


    Spectrum: It''s not so much a football club as a marketing exercise. The German football model is characterised by fan ownership. RB Leipzig was created by a drinks company with zero connection to the community or even the country; it''s considered a plastic club, a step in the direction of the death of German football, and they are despised to the point many other teams refuse to play them in friendly matches.


    I see. It is perhaps telling that most of the information about Uli Gross is not about his expertise or kindness but about his tight red trousers.


    Spectrum: I have a bad feeling about Uli Gross. I think Max will take an instant dislike to him and there will be trouble.


    Brooke: I''m sure Max will behave himself. He wants this to go well so we can attract new players.


    Thank you Miss Star. We have lots of other people following along. Hello, all! And Dani Smith-Smithe from the women''s team. Very pleased to have you here!


    Dani: I''m nervous.


    Please don''t be! You are simply wonderful.


    Dani: I''m nervous for Max. It must be scary talking in front of so many people. I''m glad I won''t ever be asked to do it!


    Oh my goodness, there''s Max! Let me set the scene for those of you who can''t see it. There''s a table on the side of the football pitch. On the left is the host. Did they say her name? I''m afraid I missed it. She''s very beautiful with dark skin and black hair. Next to her is Dieter Bauer. He has salt and pepper hair and kind eyes. Then comes Uli Gross. He''s holding his microphone like it''s a medieval mace. Oh, dear, Mr. Spectrum you have turned me against him with your Iago-like proclamations. His hair is nice but he is unsmiling and his trousers are frankly ridiculous. Then comes a small but noticeable gap between him and Max Best.


    Dani: Oh, wow he dressed up!


    Brooke: He seems relaxed.


    So, let''s listen to what they say. Oh my goodness, the robot is sending me the live transcript. My word, that''s impressive. So far they have introduced Max but not let him talk. They still haven''t asked him a question.


    Spectrum: It''s okay. He thinks it''s funny. That''s the look he does when I ask why we''re using a strange tactic.


    13:59


    Well, that was terribly disappointing. They asked Dieter Bauer and Uli Gross about Germany versus Scotland, which isn''t even the match they are there to talk about! They didn''t talk to Max at all. I must say, I''m quite frustrated. I am going for a walk. I will be back in half an hour.


    14:48


    I do find the crow to be a particularly cheeky bird, don''t you? They torment the cats. They swagger. Ah, I see the score is still nil-nil. Did anything of interest happen?


    Clive OK: The teams have neutralised each other. I''m afraid Max won''t have anything to talk about.


    Dani: If they even ask him a question.


    Brooke: This match here is what Americans think soccer is like.


    Spectrum: OGM, if you leave the area we can chat but it won''t get shown on the page.


    Yes, I see, Mr. Spectrum but I simply must check on the garden. They fight their reflections, you know. As for Max, he travelled all that way and they wouldn''t allow him to talk. Most vexing. Now, did I understand correctly that the referee blew the half time whistle? The players seem to be leaving. Some advertisements, no doubt, and then Max will be on. I shall allow the robot to give us the transcript and interrupt only if something interesting comes out of it.


    14:50


    Kate: Well, I think it''s fair to say that was quite a cagey affair. Dieter, what did you make of it?


    Dieter: Of course it''s the first match for both teams and they will be keen to avoid defeat. Perhaps more keen to avoid defeat than eager to win, yes? This is tournament football. Sometimes entertainment must be given a lesser consideration in pursuit of targets.


    Kate: You usually managed to be entertaining while pursuing your targets.


    Dieter: I was lucky to be involved with teams with important players. This afternoon we see good players in both teams but they are good players with little experience of important tournaments. They play with spirit, however. They wear their shirts with pride. That cannot be discounted.


    Kate: Uli, we didn''t see a lot of chances being created. Why do you think that was?


    Uli: It is simply a function of the quality. These players are not of the requisite standard. They do not look well-coached or well-drilled and neither team will go far in this tournament. Before kick off we said it looked like the weakest group and that is sadly apparent. Belgium aside, there is little of interest to the neutral.


    Kate: Did you notice anything tactically noteworthy?


    Uli: Not in the least. It does not look like modern football, but a field of sheep. Sometimes they bleat at the referee, but that is the limit of their ambition. We can only hope for the second half that one team has a wolf on the bench.


    Kate: Max Best. You are the youngest manager in England and I believe you''re looking for new players. Is there anyone who caught your eye?


    A quick pause to note that at this point Max looks at Kate - the robot knows her name better than I do - and gets a cheeky look about him. Do we all agree he''s thinking about flirting with her?


    Brooke: Absolutely yes.


    Spectrum: Absolutely yes.


    Dani: No, of course not.


    Whether it crossed his mind or not, he has decided not to.


    Max: I''d like to respond to something Ueli said, if I may.


    Uli: Uli. I am not Swiss.


    Max: His line about the sheep was really witty. With charm like that, it''s no wonder RB Leipzig are so popular.


    Dani: Max, no!


    Brooke: Oh, boy.


    Clive OK: Look at Bauer''s face!


    Let me play with my buttons here. I know how to do this. You should be seeing a photo now.


    [Image alt text - Dieter Bauer has turned away and is covering a laugh. Uli Gross is fuming. Max Best is a picture of innocence.]


    Max: Ully has accidentally hit on the key point though - the referee.


    Kate: You think he''s having a bad game?


    Max: No, the opposite. He''s sensational. He''s the best referee I''ve ever seen and if he keeps this up we could see an absolutely explosive second half.


    Kate: I think you''re teasing us, now. This is your British humour.


    Max: No, and I can explain exactly what I mean. I was talking to your producers and if Dieter doesn''t mind me taking some of his time...?


    Dieter: Be my guest, young man.


    Max: You see...


    I think I need to pause once more to describe what''s on the television. There''s a big computer screen inlaid into the table and Max is leaning forward to draw on it. Sometimes he looks up to check that Kate is interested. Good. We continue.


    Max: You see, Iceland have their plan and Romania have their plan and those plans are clashing. They''re trying to play in the same space. It''s actually crazy - I''ve never seen anything like it. I can explain the tactical overview later if you want. But let''s take the key point. At the moment, when one of the teams has a break, an opponent makes a foul and stops the move. In the Premier League this happens forty times a game and it drives me crazy. But this referee is having none of it! Every time it''s happened, he has given a yellow card. One more yellow card and it''s red and the player is sent off and that''s a big advantage to the other team. Here''s an example. This is Romania breaking three against three on the halfway line. You might think there''s not much danger but three seconds from now these players could be in the penalty box. If I''m this guy with the ball I''m already thinking about my goal celebrations. This number 18 from Iceland decides he has to foul the ball carrier to stop the attack and anyway, it''s far from goal so there''s no risk. Normally not, but today the referee gives him a yellow card. Amazing! Now the player can''t do it again. Here''s a scenario two minutes later on the other side. The Iceland player breaks this tackle and the Romanian 8 fouls him. Yellow card. When that happened my pulse started racing. This referee is playing like Messi! I asked for a graphic showing who''s on a yellow - here we go! Your production team is fantastic, Kate. You see five of the six central midfielders have yellow cards? And two defenders. It''s quite attritional football now but if the referee does the second half like the first, we''re going to start seeing teams have more and more attacks. More chances. The first one of these fouls in the second half will decide the entire tone of the match. If the referee lets one of these guys away with it, if he gives them one last chance each, then it will be just as boring as the first half. We have to see what he decides!


    Kate: Dieter, you''re nodding along.


    Dieter: Yes, I agree completely. I would like to hear his analysis of the tactics.


    Kate: Max?


    Max: Yep. So Iceland are playing 3-4-3 but their three strikers are making runs into this area, here. Let me draw it.


    [Image alt text - An overhead shot of the pitch showing that Iceland''s front three have bunched up into a small zone on the viewer''s right. Max has drawn a box around that area.]


    Max: Do you follow? They overload the area around this defender - he''s the shortest - and their best long passer, the right back, is hitting direct passes to this zone to see what damage the strikers can do. Okay, but let''s look at Romania. This is an image from about twenty minutes into the half. We could draw a box around the entire team, almost. See this?


    [Image alt text - An overhead shot of the pitch with most of Romania''s players squashed into a box that Max has drawn. It''s much bigger than the previous box, but the two would overlap.]


    Max: The aim, obviously, is to bring Iceland''s players over into this area of the pitch. The manager thinks his team''s superior technique will mean they will keep the ball and anyway, if there''s a turnover Romania have all their players nearby. It''s not that dangerous.


    Kate: I see what you are describing but what''s the advantage?


    Max: This guy on the left, here. He''s just on the edge of the line I''ve drawn but he''s always ready to zoom away. If we could track him for a while we''d see him zigzagging around waiting for his chance. He''s fast. Very fast. Three times Romania sucked Iceland into this zone and tried to play a pass to this guy. They''re trying to get him space so that he can break and not be opposed. I gave the producers the timecodes if they want to make something out of it. But you see the problem, right? The problem for us, the viewers?


    Kate: No.


    Max: Iceland are trying to isolate this defender but he''s never isolated because Romania''s plan is to play the entire match in that exact space and Romania are trying to get their left winger free but he''ll never be free because Iceland''s plan needs the right back to stay wide.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Dieter: Bravo, Max.


    Max: It''s a stalemate and a half. Personally, I found it mesmerising, but I can understand why some people preferred to spend the entire half on their phone. What was that app, Ully?


    Uli: What?


    Kate: Time for a quick break.


    Dani: Max! Max! Max!


    Spectrum: He shoots, he scores! That was awesome.


    Brooke: I like him best when he''s positive. I barely understood what he was saying but he was so enthusiastic it almost made me think I liked what I saw.


    Dani: Haha and he got his digs in, too. The guy wasn''t watching the match? WTF man? You''re being paid.


    That was very interesting in lots of respects. Max was enthusiastic as Miss Star says, but was he right? It seemed to me he praised the referee as a way to score points against Uli Gross. I suppose we won''t know if this performance was good for Max until we see what happens in the second half. I''m going to pop into the garden to check on those pesky crows.


    16:00


    Who left this computer on? What''s all this? Romania? Oh, gosh, the football match. Is everyone still there? Oh, dear, what a pickle. Iceland 3, Romania 2. Three red cards. My goodness! So he was right. I hope this doesn''t go to his head. Oh, who am I kidding? Fudge and fiddlesticks, I''m very disappointed in myself. Those crows have a lot to answer for!


    ***


    Max and Emma have been watching me, trying to guess where I''m up to.


    I try to sort my questions into some sort of order; I fail. "So Uli Gross wasn''t even watching the match?"


    "I genuinely think someone was watching it for him and telling him what to say."


    "What was he doing instead?"


    "Sexting, I think. Horny bastard."


    "It sounds like he just stood there and let you take over."


    "He was stunned. He couldn''t believe this random English guy wasn''t treating him with maximum deference. He''s one of those guys who turns into a sycophant for UEFA when his coaching career starts to unravel so that he can keep on the gravy train. He thinks he''s got some sort of clout. Not with me, mate. I despise UEFA almost as much as FIFA. I''d love to have a little pop at them but I''ll probably save it until I''m proper massive."


    I skim the text again. "It sounds like you found something to be positive about after a shit first half. The producers must have been ecstatic. And then you did your whole wizard act and predicted the entire second half."


    "If you read it closely, I didn''t predict anything. I simply said the second half had the potential to be better."


    "You went full wizard and you got lucky. That''s a very annoying trait."


    "Was I lucky or was I right?"


    We are in danger of reaching peak smug, so I switch tack. "How did people respond to OGM wandering off and not coming back?"


    "Someone reached out to a neighbour to check she was okay. The neighbour reported her as alive and well and talking to crows. If you lower your expectations with this stuff you enjoy it a lot more. Not everything has to be a home run and I think some people even like the idea that it goes off the rails and no-one fixes it. It''s authentic. And there was still activity; everyone was still chatting in the text. Dani had a German stream so she reported on my post-match section."


    "Let me guess? Insufferable."


    "Nope!" Max is so pleased with himself he raises his glass at a Scottish fan who is peering through the window. "I was modest and humble and said the referee was the true hero."


    Emma squeezes his hand. "He said it very heroically, though. Didn''t you, babes?"


    Max shakes his head. He''s not finished with his lunch and wants to polish it off. "I simply stated the facts."


    "And then asked Uli Gross which phone network he was on because you couldn''t get more than one bar."


    I tut. "One last dig. Really, Max?"


    "He''s a knob and I don''t like him. Anyway, it''s great TV. We''re doing Slovakia Iceland together and he''s going to come at me. That''s guaranteed screen time for me."


    I wince. "Where''s Max Best gone? You don''t even promote your own club. Now you''re doing fake beefs for clicks."


    "There''s nothing fake about it. He had a pop at me after the broadcast finished. I smiled and said something like ''save it for the replay, darling''. The guy''s livid. Anyway, from my point of view things went okay. The crew were all smiles afterwards, I got to draw lines on a telly, we got some clips to put on Chester socials, and hopefully we''re one step closer to getting a new striker. The harder Gross comes at me, the more people will share the clips. Even if he lands a couple of good punches, he''s going to help me get what I want. I''ve gone full wizard, Beth, I can''t deny it."


    There''s a pleasant moment where Max forgets his doubts and basks in what he has accomplished. Emma looks from him to me and says, "Bethany, what are you doing this evening?"


    "I''ll probably watch the Portugal match in a bar somewhere. Try to get some good quotes and all that."


    "Will you have dinner with us?"


    "Oh, er..."


    "Our treat."


    "Well, I don''t think - "


    "Stop being a baby," says Max. "You''ll come to dinner, the end. But what are you doing tomorrow?"


    "I have to make my way towards Frankfurt to be there when England play."


    "All right, perfect," says Max, eyes darting around the restaurant to check for spies. He leans forward. Whatever he''s about to say next, it''s exciting. "You''ll come with us to Mainz."


    "Where''s that?"


    "That way somewhere. Who gives a shit where it is? Do you want to come or not?"


    "Max has missed out some basic details. Mainz is near Frankfurt and it''s where Slovakia''s training camp is. We''re going to gatecrash their session so that Max can learn about their players and, as he tells it, use the information to entertain and inform the general public."


    "Gatecrash the session? They''ll never let us in."


    Emma scoffs. "We got into Iceland''s and Romania''s."


    "How?"


    Max explodes. "Oh, for f... Who cares how? We can tell you all about it in the car. It''s four and a half hours and we can do a big old chat, okay? We''ll tell a fucking Daily Mail journalist all about our criminal past. What the... Just agree to be part of our conspiracy to spy on Slovakia and we can start synchronising our watches. God sake."


    "But then what do I do?"


    "Then you go to Frankfurt and we''ll go to Dusseldorf. It''s like going from Didsbury to Chorlton. It''s no big deal."


    "Can I call my boss and ask him if it''s all right? And tell you tonight?"


    "No. You have to decide now."


    "Yes, you can tell us later, Bethany."


    "Yes, you can tell us later, Beth."


    I cheer up. The food''s good, the beer''s better, and I finally have the prospect of the kind of adventure every journalist dreams of. "Okay!"


    "Beth, there''s just one thing." Max chews while pointing a fork at me. This goes on for some time. "Everything we just said... was off the record."


    Maxday Two - A Handmaid''s Tale


    My boss agrees to let me change my itinerary - he knows me spending time with Max Best is likely to lead to some good content, one way or another. I don''t exactly mention that we''re planning to sneak into Slovakia''s base camp. It''s possible I gave him the impression we had permission to be there.


    It''s only in the car to Mainz that I think a Daily Mail reporter being caught breaking into a team''s sessions could be a very, very bad look. Especially since the runners-up in this group would likely play against England in the next round. That''s when I get nervous.


    "Guys, how did you get into the other sessions?"


    "Iceland was easy," says Max, as he glares at a BMW. He tells me multiple times he despises all German drivers and hates the autobahn. "We said Emma was a player''s girlfriend and walked right in. Where was that, bebs?"


    "Nuremberg. And Romania was Wurzburg. I''d never heard of it but it was lovely. Really nice spot."


    "How did you get in, though?"


    Emma picks at her top. "We noticed these sewer lids inside the compound, and followed them to a side street where no-one could see us. We pulled the cover up, went down, through, and up into the centre. I don''t want to say it was easy, but it was easier than it looks in the movies. And we bought new shoes after. No problem."


    I look out the window and worry until I detect a lightening of the atmosphere in the front of the car. They are taking the piss. "Guys," I say, "What''s the real story?"


    Max tuts. "Don''t worry about it. We''ll scout the place when we get there and come up with a plan. There''s always a way. Call and say there''s a problem with the wires and turn up ten minutes later in an electrician''s van. Something like that."


    "Guys," I say. There are times I''m too sober to deal with Max.


    "Hang on, I''m getting a call." His phone connects and comes out of the rental car''s speakers. "Max Best, pundit-at-large."


    "Max, MD. Alles in ordnung?"


    "What?"


    MD is Chester''s Managing Director and the closest thing Max has to a boss. "Never mind. Quick update. Lancashire wants 5K. Please tell me you agree that''s madness."


    "That''s madness. That''s from today, is it?"


    "Yep. Fresh in."


    There''s a long quiet and all we hear are four dozen Audis and Mercedes overtaking us even though we''re doing a hundred and thirty.


    "Bin him off."


    MD''s diplomatic skills are off the charts. He waits until he hears Max punch the steering wheel before continuing. "That just leaves McLoughlin and Delaney."


    "Let''s, er... Let''s wait till the 22nd."


    "After your second TV appearance?"


    "Yeah."


    MD is a diplomat but even he can''t disguise his feelings. A slightly-too-long-pause screams that he thinks Max''s plan is futile at best. "Zach Green is still using our facilities but isn''t interested in talking more seriously right now."


    "That''s fine."


    "Brooke joked about inviting him to her July 4th celebration since he was around so much."


    Max isn''t interested in jokes or side quests and I feel a pang of pity for him. He should be on top of the world. Why isn''t he? He does something I think he rarely does; he pleads. "Have you got any good news?"


    MD tries to inject some positivity into his voice. "Season ticket sales are going well."


    "Do I get more budget?"


    "No."


    "Okay bye."


    "Bye, MD!" calls Emma.


    "Auf wieder - " starts MD, but Max hangs up on him.


    "Bloody shitting Christ."


    "Aww," says Emma, because she knows what''s going on.


    I don''t. Not really. "What''s up?"


    "Whoa," says Max. "That conversation was off the record. And so''s this one."


    "You already said that like six hundred times."


    "So it''s on the record that this is all off the record?" Even Max doesn''t think this is funny; he''s flailing. I wish I could help him. "Yeah, so we need three players and we''re struggling to get anyone."


    "I saw you signed loads of players. Got it all done early in June. It was pretty eye-catching. You even paid money for a transfer fee on the women''s team."


    "Yeah, the women are going to crush their league."


    "Can we talk about that?"


    "There''s nothing to say."


    "Come on, Max. You own West Didsbury but you work for Chester. They are in the same division. That''s unprecedented. There will be a lot of media interest. It''ll blow up and if you don''t control the narrative it''ll blow up in your face."


    "You''re reaching, Beth. It''s not interesting in the slightest."


    "Just - who do you want to win?"


    "It doesn''t matter. Chester will win. They''ll probably win every match this season. They''re fucking awesome. The women''s game is so underdeveloped I can attract good players even in the state I''m in." He sighs. "It''s the men I''m worried about. Lancashire wanted 5K last week and he wants 5K now. That''s... That means nothing''s happening. I''m grinding for nothing. TV does nothing."


    He''s definitely stuck in the ''first half''. "You''re not making any sense. Why would it have an immediate impact like that?"


    "Because it''s all mathematical, Beth. I mean, think about it."


    I think about it. In no way do I follow.


    Max isn''t waiting for me to talk, though. He''s trying to break a big thought into smaller chunks. He''s in TV analyst mode which is actually helpful because what he''s saying would be perfect conversation fodder for an acid trip.


    "Why do players choose the clubs they choose? If there''s only one offer, it''s pretty binary. Accept the offer or retire. What if you''re a good player and there''s loads of offers? How do you actually choose? I think there''s three things. One, the reputation of the club. I''m using reputation loosely, there. Two, the facilities. Three, the manager. You happy with that?"


    "Yes."


    "The club. Chester are 1 out of 10 and we get promoted so we''re 2 out of ten. Oh!" He smiles, briefly. "There''s a better way. We rank all the teams. There''s 92 in the league. 24 in the National League. What''s that?"


    "116," says Emma, who didn''t appear to be listening.


    "We were the best in the National League North so we''re the 117th best team in the country. But we won some cups and we''ve got a cute liddle stadium and more history than a club like Dorking. So a player from the north of England might know that and he might think we''re the hundredth best. Do some funky maths to work out these rankings and we get back to one out of ten. That''s our club rating."


    "Are you talking about Soccer Supremo?"


    "I''m never talking about that. That''s a banned name, okay? Facilities is easy to numberise, too. Is that a word?"


    "Nope," I say.


    "Leicester are a ten. Chester are a one. We put in the kitchen and get more physios and a salt lamp and a new pan pipes album and we''re 1.3. Done. Easy."


    "Right," I say, annoyed that he''s talking non-stop shit. It''s only later when it hits me with a jolt - he''s trying to describe his curse. Not long from this moment I will spend hours trying to remember exactly what he said and how he said it.


    "So Chester FC is what it is. That leaves the third variable - the manager. Beth, thought experiment. If Klopp came out of his break to manage Chester, do you think this striker I want would take three grand a week to play for him?"


    "I don''t know the player you mean but probably. You want to play for Klopp, right?"


    "That''s what I think. That''s what this whole trip is about, now. So what makes up a manager''s reputation? Winning and drawing games gets you points, right? That''s obvious. Then there''s got to be tons of soft factors somehow turned into numbers. Young players developed. Transfer fees. Records broken. I mean, I have the record for highest-ever sale in the National League North. That''s got to count for something, right? Other managers, players, they should look at those things and think yes! That guy''s the bomb. I thought maybe those things do matter but the impact is so tiny I don''t notice them. Do you know what I mean? Maybe it''s a multiplier and all the numbers involved are quite small so it''s turned three hundred into three hundred and six. I need three hundred and seven to get this striker. Something like that. So let''s go on German TV for a big tournament. That''s got to get my numbers up. It''s got to! So I''m thinking, let''s steal the show." He blows air through his lips making them vibrate. "You can''t believe how much I''ve prepared for these matches. I suppose it''s the equivalent of you wandering around Munich talking to randos. So much work to get that one, little, snippet that could make the difference." He taps the steering wheel. "I''m booked for three so I''ve got two more goes. Maybe it''ll take three to see the difference. Maybe it''s a wild goose chase. Or maybe I need to go even bigger."


    "Don''t do that," pleads Emma, who seems to have understood what to me sounded like a lengthy string of gibberish. "You were perfect. You''re a TV executive''s dream. You turned their boring match into an event. You explained football to people who don''t follow it and you gave them things to look for. And I personally could do without it but your little feud with Cap''n Red Pants keeps you glued to the screen. Do what you did two more times and we''ll be invited to the USA for the World Cup."


    "We will be invited?" smiles Max.


    "Yes. We. You know I want to go to Kansas, babes. They''ve got the biggest Dolly Parton statue in the world."


    This is surprising. "Are you a Dolly Parton fan, Emma?"


    "No." We drive for a while before Emma says, "Bethany, you should interview the Brig."


    "No, she shouldn''t."


    "But - "


    "Really, bebs. That''s not a thing."


    "Oh."


    I''m on tenterhooks, now. The Brig is Chester''s ridiculous nickname for John Smith, their Head of Performance. I make a sneaky note and when I''m alone, I discover that four of Chester''s summer signings are young men discarded from football league academies and recruited at the urging of Smith. One thing that''s clear is that Chester will be an extremely youthful team. "This Zach Green guy MD mentioned. Is he another eighteen-year-old?"


    "Nah, he''s like 25. I thought I had a chance of signing him but he''s in a sulk because I beat him in a race."


    "He''s not in a sulk," says Emma. "He''s considering his options. He''s in a funk because his last move turned sour and he hasn''t played for a year and it''s made him risk-averse and it''s like Max has been explaining, people can''t see that Max is as good as Klopp."


    "Babes, come on," says the third best manager in England (his girlfriend''s rankings, not mine). "I''m miles off that but I''m obviously good enough for the National League. That''s what''s frustrating."


    "Ruth''s been working on Zach and she says he''s got doubts about the squad and if we could sign a striker he''d probably join but at the moment there''s too much uncertainty and he wants a sure thing."


    "I never really wanted him anyway," says Max, ever the unreliable narrator. "He''s slow and dumb and his abs aren''t symmetrical and he''s a big dummy. And you can put that on the record. Unless we sign him and then it''s off the record."


    I decide to change the subject before Max decides to shut the conversation down completely. If I leave it here, I''ll be able to pick it up again later. I''m incredibly unlucky with my new topic.


    "Did you go to Manchesterplatz when you were in Munich?" Manchesterplatz is where you can find a memorial to those who died in a plane crash in 1958. The famous Busby Babes - the sensational young Manchester United team - were on that plane. Many never made it home.


    "What the fuck are you doing?" says Max, genuinely angry. "Don''t talk about that when I''m doing 600 miles an hour on the fucking autobahn, Beth!"


    "Sorry."


    "How can I drive with tears streaming down my face, for fuck''s sake?"


    Emma, who has been on my side through most of Max''s outbursts, gives me a ''Come on, mate'' kind of glance. She leaves space for the worst to pass, changes the subject, and with her expert navigation we are able to put the incident behind us.


    ***


    Max''s phone leads us to a suburb of Mainz and we park up. "Oh, perfect timing! They''re training right now, look. Let me think."


    He bites his nail. His attitude suggests this is the most important part of the day, and for him perhaps it is. For me, it''s going to be one of the most important moments of my career. We''re about to see the exact moment the curse kicks in.


    Max nods. "Yes, got it. You guys wait here," he says.


    We watch as he slips the lanyard with his TV credentials over his hoodie. Ahead of us are three football pitches and to our right is a big stadium. The Slovakians seem to be content to use the pitch closest to the car park. I see their coaches and physios and the nerves come flooding back. What insane scheme is Max going to cook up?


    I watch, horrified, as Max talks to one member of Slovakia''s background staff, who summons another, who summons another. Soon Max is talking animatedly, apparently begging them to let us in. Many times, he points to the car. Finally, one of the men nods. His colleague complains, but the senior man snaps at him.


    Max jogs over to us and waves us out of the car.


    "Right, here''s the sitch," he says. "No clue why but they think Emma''s the Queen of Iceland."


    "What the fuck," I say.


    "Beth, you''re her thingy. Lady in waiting? Handmaiden? Don''t worry about it. Just call her Your Maj or whatever and it''ll be fine."


    "I feel sick, Max. I''ll stay in the car."


    "How can I get in when the Queen''s got no servants? Fucking think about it. I need a striker, mate, so you''re going to do as you''re told for once. Come on, just talk that weird German you''ve been doing. It doesn''t sound like any sort of language. Emma, you talk as Geordie as possible. They won''t understand that, either. Okay, let''s not keep them waiting."


    "Max, I can''t. I''m gonna throw up."


    He jabs his finger in my face. "I''ve bought you lunch, dinner, and breakfast and driven you across what used to be about twenty countries and I need to get into that training session so don''t be a dick, okay?"


    "Okay," I say, which in retrospect is disappointing.


    "Ems," he whispers, urgently. "Your big hat, I think. That''s quite regal."


    "Fuck yeah, it is. Good?"


    "Perfect. Let''s spy on some foreigners. Whoo whoo!"


    "Whoo whoo," agrees Emma. Ten seconds later and Emma is shaking hands with the Slovakians, one by one. "How do you do?" she says to the first one. "And what do you do around here?" she asks the next.


    "Bob," hisses Max, from behind me.


    "What?"


    "Bob your knees when she shakes hands with the guys. Don''t you know anything?"


    Emma gets to the next guy and offers a handshake. "Awfully pleased to meet you," she intones, and I bend my knees all ladylike.


    From behind me comes a horrible, gassy sound, as though someone has dropped a haggis on a bagpipe. I turn and see Max Best, manager of the Blues, red, struggling to breathe, tears streaming down his face. He doubles over and there''s laughter from Her Maj. "Oh you absolute fuck," I say, and the Slovakians burst out laughing. "You absolute fucks."


    ***


    It''s not clear why we''re allowed in. Was it the TV credentials? Was it the prank? Was it the fact that Max Best swans around like the King of Football and everyone falls into line?


    He asks about the drills the squad is doing and from the answer deduces that they are planning to use 3-5-2 in their next match. Many of the Slovakian coaching staff are Italian and they don''t want to talk tactics with Max. But when he shows them a clip of him standing next to the famous German managers, their attitude flips completely and they suddenly can''t stop talking.


    They''ve lost to Belgium - no surprise there - but if they can beat Iceland they have a great chance to go through. Their squad, Max tells me, is much more experienced than Iceland''s and Romania''s but like many teams they lack an outstanding goalscorer.


    What fascinates me is the extent to which Max pushes back on their ideas and suggests different options. "You should play 3-4-3 and slap them at their own game."


    There''s a communication breakdown which Emma resolves by playfully slapping Max on the cheek. "Slap," she says.


    "Slap!" says one of the assistants, laughing. "3-4-3. I think we no do it, but good to think."


    "Well, it''s your funeral. Can my friend do some interviews?" says Max. "She''s from the Daily Mail. Big newspaper in England. She came a long way."


    "Yeeees," says Max''s new friend. "The players are boring."


    "Bored," suggests Max.


    "Bored. So why not?"


    Fucking Max. Just when it''s safe to hate him, he goes and gets me incredible access. My brain whirs. The Mail won''t be interested in this. Who can I sell it to? Well, first I need to talk to some people, see what they say. Then I can turn it into something.


    Max takes me by the shoulders and points to a scrawny little thing. "Start with him. He''s called Leo and he''s the next big thing out of Slovakia."


    "Yes!" says the coach. "Mr. Max is right! We no use him but we give the, ah, how you say? Experience."


    "You should use him," chides Max. He goes to a tactics board and rearranges the magnets at light speed. "He''s better than the other guy. 3-4-3 with Leo on the right of midfield and he''ll rip Iceland a new one. Even better, they won''t be expecting it. They''ve never seen him play!" He pretends to notice me. "What are you still here for? You''re not on holiday! Earn some money! Mamma mia!"


    "Mamma mia," laughs the coach, but Max has locked on to another target - a very, very tall man.


    I go to this Leo kid and introduce myself. He plays in Holland and his English is excellent. I realise I don''t know the first thing about him but inspired by Max''s bold-faced cheek, I straight up confess what''s just happened. Leo thinks it''s amusing that I''ve been dumped into this situation and to say that he''s flattered to be named the next young thing is an understatement. I explain that Max is browbeating the coaches into letting Leo play against Iceland. His eyes bulge. He begins to reel off his life story by the side of the pitch as his teammates come and go. I interrupt. "Sorry, Leo. Who''s that man my friend is talking to? The very tall man?"


    "Our goalkeeping coach."


    "Do you think he would like to work in the fifth tier of English football?"


    Leo thinks about it. "Do you mean Wrexham? Ryan Reynolds?"


    "Chester."


    "Ches-ter? I think not. It would need to be an important team to, ah, pull him away from his national side."


    I agree. So why does that make me think Max could pull it off?


    ***


    Half an hour after I start interviewing the players - their coach is right, they are bored and all are keen to have their names mentioned in the English media - I''m startled to see that Max has interrupted a drill.


    I watch in horror as Max yells at his Italian friend - now his Italian enemy - that Iceland don''t take set pieces like that. He pushes Slovakia''s dead ball specialist out of the way and says, "Watch this you sloppy muppets."


    I turn to beg Emma to intervene but she''s playing a card game with three injured players - one of those insanely complicated ones they play in Eastern Europe where a 2 is good unless preceded by a 3 unless there has been a red face card... unless... unless.


    I snap my head round as Max floats a free kick to the far post.


    "Si si si!" yells an analyst, waving an iPad around. He shows the coaches a clip - it seems like he''s been trying to do this for some time - and Max''s Italian enemy is his friend again. The set piece taker floats the ball to the far post, Max yells ''molto bene!'' and all is well once more. But five minutes later Max is unhappy again. He calls over his new friend the goalkeeping coach. They have a brief but intense conversation and the entire drill changes.


    "Hello, miss," says a Slovakian player. It''s his turn to be interviewed. He''s cute. I could imagine letting him teach me to play card games and the more complicated the better. I smile and ask him to tell me about himself. He obliges.


    ***


    Three hours later, Max drives us to the train station where he buys me a ticket to Frankfurt and says, "Bye." He strides off to continue his working holiday.


    On the train, I whip my notes into some kind of shape and hawk the article around the usual places. There''s almost immediate interest from everywhere except the English press.


    It''s only later, after the file is sent and I''m spending some of my new money on a late-night pizza that I spot myself in a reflection. It''s the second half of my trip to Germany. Max has turned the game around and I am smiling.


    ***


    England win, which will keep me in Germany at least a few days longer. Extra time! The thought is appealing. England''s next game is due to be in Cologne, which is quite near Dusseldorf, where a wizard is about to perform. I decide to head to the north-west earlier than planned and I even think about trying to get tickets to see Slovakia against Iceland. But I realise I''d rather watch on TV, since the real area of interest is seeing what Max will get up to next.


    So on the 21st June, I spend a glorious summer''s afternoon in a dingy hotel room with the curtains closed, the TV firmly switched to Max, and my laptop very much tuned in to Overprepared Grandmother''s live blog. It is from there that I have taken the transcript.


    Kate and the three men stand side by side, holding big yellow microphones. Dieter Bauer''s eyes continue to look kind. Uli Gross''s trousers are too tight. Max is wearing a simple but effective shirt and tie combo. Every time Uli Gross speaks, Max looks like he''s trying not to laugh. In contrast, when Dieter speaks, Max watches with an interest I hope is not feigned.


    ***


    Kate: Here we are in the Merkur Spiel-Arena in Dusseldorf to watch the Group E game between Slovakia and Iceland. Slovakia lost their first match to an impressive Belgium side. Iceland beat Romania in an absolute classic. Dieter, what are you expecting to see, today?


    Dieter: My hope is for another funny game but my expectation is that we will see something more prosaic. You used a word last time that I liked - cagey. Iceland will be happy to draw today so perhaps they will be cagey. Slovakia need to win but I know their coach and he is very careful. It could be a low-scoring afternoon.


    Kate: Uli, what do you think?


    Uli: Elite football - I define that as anything happening at a major tournament - something Dieter and I know a lot about - or one of the top leagues in Europe - also something Dieter and I know a lot about - is characterised by the ability to press, counter-press, attack from deep, and attack from transitional moments. We have seen that one team in Group E has mastered all of these aspects of top-level football, which, again, is what takes place at the top levels of football. That team was Belgium. Iceland may score from a free kick. Slovakia may score from a penalty. But they lack the technical qualities to play top-level football and the only person who would disagree is a person who has never played top-level football or managed at the top level.


    Kate: Max Best, you are Europe''s youngest manager. We''ve heard some strong words from Uli Gross, there. Do you agree with him?


    Max: I think my earpiece is broken because I kept hearing about Belgium. This is Iceland against Slovakia, isn''t it?


    Kate: Yes, Max.


    Max: Oh, cool. I''d invite the watchers to look out for a few things in this half. First, Iceland will play 3-4-3, same as last time, but Slovakia will play 3-5-2. What''s most interesting is that we''ve just put up a formation graphic but actually the wingers will be on the other sides.


    Kate: Do you think so?


    Max: Oh, I know so. The goal is to have the best defensive wide player up against Iceland''s right back. Remember him from the last game? He is kind of Iceland''s playmaker right now. So we put a more defensive player against him, but also if Slovakia get the ball that winger will try to cut inside and shoot with his right foot. I worry Slovakia will lack width with this system but that''s what''s going to happen.


    Uli: It is impossible to know this.


    Max: Another fun thing. Iceland''s favourite free kick and corner routine is to float a high ball to the far post. That''s the post away from the guy who''s kicking the ball. Iceland have some big, tall players and they think they have a good chance of winning those headers and kicking it a bit slower makes it easier to get precision. But I predict that Slovakia''s goalkeeper will come off his line and punch the ball away.


    Uli: He is a sweeper-keeper who is reluctant to come off his line at set pieces. He will do no such thing.


    Max: So there are a couple of things to look out for. I think I''m going to enjoy this one!


    Kate: Thank you, gentlemen. Over to our commentary team...


    ***


    The first half is a drab affair, which is thematically pleasing.


    The highlight comes after just three minutes. Iceland get a free kick and lob the ball towards the far post. There''s a scramble and they score. The goalie was nowhere! The producers of the TV programme have realised that this feud between Max and Uli is absolute gold and they lean into it something rotten. As the Iceland players celebrate, the picture cuts to the analysts, who are in box in the media area somewhere. Uli Gross is the cat who got the cream. He is ecstatic with what has just happened. The young heretic has been given a smack in the face by the gods themselves!


    Max, though, is even more smug. He spots himself being shown on the feed, finds the camera and winks at it. Dieter Bauer taps him on the shoulder and says something we don''t hear - Max turns and laughs.


    There''s a delay and we realise the goal is being checked by the video assistant referee. The replays come and - oh oh! There''s some mischief afoot. Slovakia''s goalie indeed tried to run towards the ball but was blocked by an Icelandic player. Not only is it a certain foul, but potentially an offside, too.


    After showing these images, the producers cut back to the analysts. Uli is grimacing. Max is smiling. He says something over his shoulder and Dieter Bauer, one of the elder statesmen of German football, rocks his head back and laughs heartily.


    For the next twenty minutes, Iceland''s free kicks and corners are punched away until during one break, Iceland''s manager sends out the instruction to change the pattern. The commentator notes this, namechecking Max who, he reminds us, also called the switch in wingers.


    Near the end of the half, Iceland score. A win would put them on six points and knock Slovakia out of the competition. Max''s final game as an analyst could be a dead rubber between two eliminated teams.


    I doubt he''s too worried, though. He''s had a good half. But there''s better to come. For the both of us.


    ***


    Kate: Well! Dieter?


    Dieter: Cagey.


    [They laugh.]


    Kate: Do Iceland deserve their lead?


    Dieter: Yes, in my opinion. They had a good balance between the defensive situation and the offensive situation. Their mentality is clear and they have made a good plan. It is a very efficient performance. This is good tournament football.


    Kate: Can you see a way back for Slovakia?


    Dieter: Football is a game of moments and while there is only one score between the teams there is always a possibility. Hope dies last, Kate. Slovakia have hope but I must say they have been disappointing so far and they will have to change something in order to save themselves in this tournament.


    Kate: Uli, what were your thoughts on the first half?


    Uli: Of course I agree with everything Dieter has said but I would be even more pessimistic about Slovakia. There is so much tension in how they play. Amateurs talk about formations but professionals focus on the characteristics of the players and I do not see players with the characteristics needed to carry out the head coach''s ideas.


    Kate: You think Iceland will have enough to see out the match?


    Uli: Very much so. They are a strong team, physically and mentally. The plan is somewhat crude but as Dieter says, the mentality is clear and every player understands their role. They are not like Belgium who can make big tactical changes in the middle of a half. They must work with what they have and they are very effective at doing that as they showed when they eliminated England in a recent tournament.


    Kate: Max, if Iceland win, they will likely meet England in the Round of 16. Would that worry you given what Uli just reminded us of?


    Max: I''d love to discuss the match we''re here to discuss, if that''s all right, Kate. I don''t think this is over by any means. Slovakia''s manager is stubborn but he is tactically flexible and he has shown us that throughout his career. I think if the score stays like this he will take a big swing. And why not? He has nothing to lose at this point.


    Kate: What kind of swing?


    Max: I''d love to see Slovakia switch to 3-4-3 with their number 25 playing on the right of midfield. Leo. I''ve heard him called the Slovakian Messi.


    Uli: He is eighteen with two appearances as a substitute!


    Max: That''s right. Iceland won''t have studied him in any detail. If he comes on it means Slovakia are really going for it so hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen!


    Uli: He will not come on. He is eighteen with two appearances as a substitute.


    At this point, Max simply looks smug as though he knows something Uli doesn''t. I know he''s guessing, though. It''s an educated guess, a good guess, but a desperate one. I heard Slovakia''s coach knock back Max''s idea. Why would Max bring it up live on TV?


    Kate hands off to a commercial break and when it returns, we don''t see the analysts but a brief interview/montage featuring a Slovakian who plays in Germany.


    I check what the Chester Chatters are saying and go for a walk.


    The wizard, it seems, has run out of mana.


    ***


    The second half is, as Dieter would put it, cagey. Slovakia can''t get into the game. The referee lets fouls accumulate, making the game stodgy. It''s too easy for the defenders and good play is not rewarded.


    In the 75th minute, the ref loses patience with the professional fouls and brandishes three yellow cards in a minute.


    Slovakia''s manager senses a moment. I see the child I interviewed stripped and ready to come onto the pitch. Fucking Max! The captain rushes to the touchline to ask what''s going on and I see, clear as day, the hand signal meaning 3-4-3.


    I yelp.


    I spend the next ten minutes holding my breath every time Leo gets the ball. The first time, he''s fouled. Cleaned out. Welcome to international football, bitch! Yellow card. But Leo gets up and the next time the ball comes to him he glides forward, tricks his way inside a defender, leans back, and rolls a snooker shot through the masses of defenders right into the path of -


    I yelp again. Goal for Slovakia! They''ve equalised. Why am I celebrating?


    I don''t know, but I am. Little Leo is swamped by his mates. The manager - he''s far too old for this - sprints down the touchline and knee slides. Half the stadium erupts. We''ve suddenly got a game on our hands!


    I glance at my laptop - the Chester Chatters are going bonkers. Overprepared Grandmother is posting meme after meme. How do people make them so fast? And - what? She''s got custom emojis. One is a huge brain wearing a Chester home kit. One is a pair of tight red trousers behind a stop sign.


    The distraction is nearly fatal - I look up just in time to see the Slovakian Messi dribble down the right of the penalty box. Just as I''m thinking it shows his inexperience - because one step to the left and any foul would be a penalty - he slashes the ball in the space between the goalie and the defenders. A lanky striker stretches, gets the bottom of his boot to the ball - and Slovakia are ahead! We''re winning!


    There''s five minutes left and I spend them fretting about Iceland''s attacks while trying to understand what is happening to me and what is happening to my friend.


    Max Best has gone on TV to perform his wizarding act. So far, so good.


    He''s doing it because he hopes it will help him to sign new players. Yes, that''s just about plausible.


    He''s also doing it because he wants to be invited to the World Cup in 2026. That''s motivation enough for anyone.


    But what is this wizarding act, exactly? It''s smoke and mirrors! He has demanded Slovakia''s goalies punch crosses away and planted the idea of 3-4-3 with Leo as playmaker and a drowning manager has reached out to grab it. To the TV viewers he must seem psychic. To me, knowing how the sausage is made... it''s even more sensational! He''s twenty-four. How is he persuading national team coaches to try new things in massive games?


    Did he do something similar when he went to visit Iceland? And Romania? Is he trying to manipulate what happens in Group E so that the final matches are spectacular?


    My head spins. Even the fact that I''m having these thoughts is crazy-making.


    My phone rings and it''s my boss. He wants my article on the Slovakian Messi and he wants it immediately. We can get the jump on the rest of the English-speaking media world. I''m about to agree when I decide to stand up for myself. I say I want a bonus or I want better work. He calls me an unprintable name and says I can have both. I hang up, edit the text to reflect the match, and send it. As the ref blows his whistle to end a thrilling match - no-one will remember the beginning - my story goes live and dominates the Mail Online sports section. (It stays as the hero article for an hour - an eternity for a story that doesn''t involve England.)


    On the screen, the analysts are pitchside again. I have the sound down because I''m starting to get a headache but I turn it up and it''s clear Max is the star of the show. He''s trying - and failing - to appear modest when Leo runs up behind him and hugs him from behind. Max laughs and seems to ask Kate if she wants to interview Leo. Kate is no fool; she agrees with a hungry gleam in her eye. Max suggests Uli hand his microphone to the kid and I laugh, which makes the headache worse.


    Max conducts the interview himself - it''s all so boyishly charming - and finishes by suggesting some areas Leo needs to improve on if he wants to be seen as more than a ''moments'' player. Leo takes it all in - he''s got his big break thanks to Max - and agrees he needs to work on his all-round game. "Top," says Max. "Don''t party too hard - we''ve got another game in five days."


    "Yes, Mr. Max," says the tournament''s breakout star. He takes one worried look at the tight red trousers, remembers to return the microphone, and floats away. His life will never be the same.


    Not long after, I get a call. It''s BBC Radio 5. They cover sports and want to talk to me about Leo. I agree without hesitation but ask if they''ll introduce me as Bethany Alban from the Goalscorers podcast. They agree, I do the interview, and for the next few hours there''s a spike in downloads - and not only for the Donnie Wormwood episode.


    I am massive in Malta, now.


    Maxday Three Lions


    My Euros goes from strength to strength. I''ve moved up an invisible internal league table and now I''m getting some of the plum jobs. I interview England''s third-choice goalkeeper (who is surly until I ask him what card games they''re playing at the team hotel). I appear on the Mail''s podcast giving my thoughts on Group E. I may not get into a stadium this time, but the future is suddenly looking bright.


    Max, though, is downcast. He sends me a text saying one of his striker targets has signed for a League Two club for half the salary he was demanding from Chester.


    I tell him I want to treat him and Emma to dinner as a thank you, and we meet in Cologne the day before England''s final group game. We smash a few beers and he tells me that he has "fucking nailed it" and he "probably couldn''t have done it any better or any more handsomely" and still there are no strikers willing to sign except for silly money. And still Zach Green will not talk about a contract.


    As he frets, I get goosebumps. I start to see the invisible shape of something surrounding this talented young man.


    Not so long ago, we were treading the same path. I thought it and Max said something along the same lines. But our paths have diverged. Where breaking into Slovakia''s training camp has propelled me higher, smashed me through a glass ceiling or two, Max is right where he started.


    It''s obvious that the fourth tier players Max wants to sign should be thundering towards Chester''s stadium. They should be camping in front of his office and begging to be signed. But they''re not. They don''t see what I can see. Max Best, ever the trailblazer, has done something unique for a handsome, talented man working in football - he has hit a glass ceiling.


    Why?


    You know why.


    "Max!" I say, excited. "Have you ever annoyed a Romani? Have you been bragging you¡¯re more beautiful than Aphrodite? Oh, don¡¯t tell me you stepped on a pavement crack!" The moment is lost as a waiter comes to ask if we want dessert. I order a tall wheat beer. It arrives instantly and I''m forced to take a massive swig because it looks so damned good. I lose most of my train of thought but one word remains. "Max, do you believe in curses?"


    He gives me a strange look. A very strange look. But he relaxes into a warm smile. "You''re all kinds of tipsy."


    "I''m not, I''m - " What am I? Under his sardonic glare I realise I''m talking a lot of shit. "Look, you''ll smash it. The glass, I mean. Just do it again. Do what you did again. It''ll work. It has to work. There''s no reason. You''re so good at football! You keep doing madnesses! They''ll see it, Max. Just go again."


    He turns to Emma and grins. "Beth''s gone."


    "Head''s gone," says Emma, which is a thing brutish banter boys like to say. She says it with a hyper-masculine sniff that sends me into fits of giggles.


    "Beth, you dick. You''re not allowed to worry about me. It''s my first time in Germany and they''re paying me. I look good on camera and I can explain things. Next stop, Disneyland. I''m disappointed I''ve not been able to put together an overpowered squad like I did for the women but it''s not the end of the world. So I''m not getting the striker from above. I''ll just have to find one from below. Oh."


    "What?"


    "I just had an idea. Huh. That''s not bad."


    "What? An idea for a signing?"


    "Yes. Now listen very carefully. You ready?" I nod. He nods. "All this... was off the record."


    ***


    The curse continues its dastardly work. Chester announce no new signings. Names I heard on calls between Max and MD find homes at new clubs. Chester''s social media accounts begin to include phrases indicating that Max is happy with his summer business.


    He''s managing expectations. He''s stuck.


    I''m not.


    On the 25th, I''m in Cologne to report from a vast beer tent full of joyous England fans where The Lightning Seeds and Fat Les perform Three Lions and Vindaloo before watching the match on a huge screen, and I spend a hungover morning at England''s hotel hoping some players will talk to me. None are keen until the third-choice goalie spots me and gives me some much-needed social proof. I get a few good quotes and a photo of Cole Palmer riding a giant inflatable diplodocus. I beat Jack Grealish at snap.


    I ask a new question. Would you play for the best manager in the world if it meant going down to the fifth tier? They think I''m joking about Manchester City being kicked out of the leagues but when I offer a different scenario - a manager like Max and a team like Chester - it''s an instant no. A couple of players explain why. They want to learn the game and they want to improve their skills but they are used to a certain level of equipment and certain levels of professionalism and support. And they like being paid by the wheelbarrow.


    It''s a compelling case.


    The following evening, I''m back in a darkened hotel room to watch Max''s third and last appearance. The final group matches are played at the same time, so Belgium are playing Iceland and Slovakia are playing Romania. Whether it''s the TV company''s need to split their staff across two events or because Uli Gross has been kicked off I''m not sure, but it''s just Kate, Dieter Bauer, and Max for this one. The stadium in Frankfurt is spectacular and Max is clearly fascinated by the huge video cube dangling from the ceiling and the high-quality digital signage.


    Without a sparring partner, he is more centred. Less cheeky, less irreverent, and more keen to bounce questions onto Dieter Bauer than Kate would like. I get what he''s up to. He can''t use this trip to boost his profile in the way he wants - because of the curse, you remember - but he can learn from a true master.


    The pre-match sections aren''t too interesting. Max gently corrects the formation graphics but then gets confused. He looks around the stadium.


    Kate: So with that, let''s hand over to -


    Max: One second, Kate. Where is everybody?


    Kate: Max, we have to -


    Max: Kate, look. They can''t kick off now. There''s barely anyone in. This game''s a sellout.


    Dieter: You think - ?


    Max: I don''t know but there''s no way the match is going to kick off on time.


    Kate: We have to hand off to the commentary team.


    It''s the first time Kate has shown annoyance at Max''s antics, and the view switches to one of the pitch. The players are ready, the referee is ready, but the match doesn''t kick off. Minutes pass. More minutes pass. We see clips of chaos outside the stadium. Tens of thousands of fans are in queues. They look pissed.


    Eventually, the commentators hand back to the studio.


    Kate: We''re hearing the start of the match has officially been delayed by fifteen minutes. A statement from UEFA confirms there''s an issue with the ticketing system which they''re trying to resolve with all due haste. So, Max, it seems you were right again.


    Max looks away. He''s in a mood!


    Kate: Of course we''re all hopeful for a speedy resolution to the issue and, again, we''re expecting kickoff in just over five minutes. Dieter Bauer, what will the players be thinking?


    They ramble for a while, trying to kill time in the most professional way possible. Max looks around the half-empty stadium with a variety of looks on his face. He contributes nothing until Kate provides an update.


    Kate: Word just in from UEFA. The problem is resolved and fans are coming into the stadium, now. Expected kickoff time is six thirty, so that''s a thirty minute delay. And of course, both matches must be played at the same time so the Belgium Iceland game is currently on hold. I expect those fans are not too happy.


    Dieter: No, of course not. The tickets are not cheap and there''s great excitement in the respective countries. This is unfortunate and I''m afraid it is not the first time this has happened at a major event run by UEFA.


    Max: If I could briefly speak up in defence of UEFA, Dieter?


    Dieter: Of course.


    Max: See, they will get a lot of flack for this but I think it''s not totally fair. Words like shambles, chaotic, dangerous. It''s not fair to focus on one minor element of the organisation. I went for a walk around the stadium earlier and let me tell you it''s a masterpiece of checks, controls, and backups. The viewers are probably worried the president of Slovakia and the bigwigs from UEFA don''t have enough to drink. Let me assure you that the VIP boxes are laden with champagne and caviar. There''s fridges of the stuff. There''s crates and crates of champagne, prosecco, spirits of all kinds. They''ve got backup generators for the champagne fridges, Kate.


    Kate: I think -


    Max: Yeah it''s absolutely fantastic organisation from the point of view of the people who really matter. I spoke to the guy who runs the helipads and he says it''s like clockwork and there''s plans B, C, and D. No helicopter will be delayed and no private jet is going to have the slightest hiccup. There''s champagne, caviar, six kinds of hams, they''ve got a world champion mixologist up there. You want something that can only be made by flicking a shaker behind your head? There''s nothing this guy can''t do. Yeah, in the concourses the plebs get one beer to choose from. That''s enough choice for the likes of me, Kate. I mean, it''s kind of like beer, that stuff. Beer-adjacent, anyway. Personally, I''d rather drink from a puddle in Moss Side but at least they offer it to us! They''re so good, these organisers. The plebs are happy to get a glimpse of the head of UEFA on the big screen, Kate. We can bask in his radiance knowing the billionaires and presidents have their champagne and they have their caviar and the waiters have been told not to look anyone in the eye and the airport knows that these private jets have take off priority. I think we all need to calm down and remember who''s really important when it comes to football.


    That seems to be the cue for Max''s TV career to end, but it seems like the producers want to give him more rope to hang himself. It''s better than watching fans enter the stadium in dribs and drabs. Kate''s told to keep him talking.


    Kate: You don''t think much of UEFA, Max.


    Max: Oh I have massive respect for them. Their talent is extraordinary. No, don''t laugh. These are the best and the brightest among us. They have the talent and the nerve to bring their contempt for the fan into Germany, the one place in Europe where fan culture is well and truly alive. Well, not for long, meine Freunde, here comes UEFA to show you what the future of football looks like.


    Kate: You have a German player in your team. What is it like to manage a German?


    Max gives Kate a look. She''s been told to cut off the anti-UEFA stuff and he knows it. He is probably thinking of Emma''s dream of going to the biggest Dolly Parton statue in the world when he replies.


    Max: Yes, I have a German player but he is very, very strange.


    Kate: In what way?


    Max: When I punish him, he always asks for more.


    Dieter: That is indeed very strange.


    Max: Yeah, when he makes a mistake in training I tell him to do eight pushups or eight laps of the pitch. And he always shouts, nine!


    The joke takes Kate by surprise and she laughs. For a minute, she can''t speak. Max is back to his charming best.


    Max: Dieter, did you ever manage an English player?


    Dieter: I don''t have a joke prepared. I''m sorry, Max.


    Max: No but really. I''m interested.


    Dieter: I did not. In those days there wasn''t as much trade between our nations.


    Max: Don''t get me started on Brexit.


    Dieter: I won''t! I meant trade in football players. You had a few Germans. Klinsmann, of course.


    Max: Uwe Rosler.


    Dieter: You know about Uwe Rosler? Surely he''s before your time?


    Max: I grew up reading everything I could about football. Rosler played in Manchester so it was quite interesting.


    Kate: Is it true you''re a Manchester United fan?


    Max: Lapsed, I think you''d say.


    Kate: You were in Munich with us. Did you have time to visit the Manchesterplatz?


    Max: Don''t, Kate.


    Kate: I''m sorry. Are you okay?


    Where Max''s joke took Kate by surprise, this question is equally unexpected and just like when I brought it up on the autobahn, this isn''t the right time.


    Max: Look, it''s just very emotional for me. It''s always been a... It''s always moving. It''s so sad. But I''ve always been able to protect myself from those emotions. Emotions that I just don''t want to feel. I can say it was a long time ago and things like that. But I''m a manager of a football club now and the team is getting younger and younger and I can''t even buy senior players because they''re all f... They''re all risk averse and they don''t want to come on this adventure with me. But the kids aren''t jaded and don''t have to think about their mortgages and they don''t look at me and think this guy''s weird they think this guy''s a player-manager and he''s awesome. So I''m building a team of kids and one day soon we''re going to start smashing teams up and it''s going to be a big story. And the idea that something could happen to them...


    Dieter: Max.


    Kate: I''m sorry. Really.


    Max: Nothing''s going to happen to them. I''m not going to let it happen. It''s just weird. I''m all hormonal or something. When I think about them I get all weepy and sentimental.


    Dieter: Max is entering fatherhood.


    Max: No, thanks.


    Dieter: When they told me I would be standing next to a twenty-four-year-old manager I thought how elderly I have become! You cannot be a trainer when you still need training wheels on your bicycle. But now it makes sense. You find a way to be older than your players.


    Max: When you took over you were in your early thirties and you handled the older pros no problem.


    Dieter: You did your homework.


    Max: It''s not homework when it''s so interesting.


    Dieter: I think I would be interested in watching your young players, Max.


    Max: Right. I''ll buy a champagne fridge.


    Dieter: I''m serious, Max!


    Max: Well, obviously you''d be the guest of honour. You''d be the best player who ever walked into that stadium.


    Dieter: Not the best manager?


    Max: Dieter. Mate. I''m standing right here. Don''t be rude.


    Dieter: I never got to see the Busby Babes. Perhaps I will see Best''s Babes.


    Max: Dieter, don''t. You''ve set me off again...


    Kate: I''m hearing the players and referee are heading out onto the pitch. We''ll go back to our commentary team.


    Max: Kate?


    Kate: Yes, Max?


    Max: Romania''s number ten is injured and hasn''t told anyone.


    Kate: Something to look out for. Thanks, Max.


    ***


    Max plays the rest of the match straight while the Chester Chatters create memes in which Max is Napoleon marching across Europe to save football from UEFA. Somehow the image of him wearing a bicorn doesn''t even look PhotoShopped. Romania''s number ten doesn''t make it to half time and Max doesn''t even brag about it.


    I turn the TV off in my hotel room and feel sad. I fire off a text.


    Me: Are you okay? Are they mad at you?


    It takes a while for him to reply.


    Max: No. They asked if I wanted to stick around and do some more work. We''re off to Hamburg.


    Me: Oh, great! Which games will you be doing?


    Max: No games. I turned them down. We''re going to the Miniature Museum and to the Beatles tour. Then we''re thinking of going to Copenhagen after. They''ve got loads of Scandi-noir themed walks and escape rooms. We''ll drive up and down the bridge from The Bridge looking for bodies.


    Me: But you need to stay and fight! Do something about the curse and you''ll get your striker.


    Max: I think one side effect of this curse is that it makes me think I don''t have a curse. Anyway, send me the article when it''s done.


    Me: Which article?


    Max: The one about us hanging out in Germany living the dream.


    Me: You said it was all off the record.


    Max: And you''d stick to that?


    Me: Of course. That''s like, important.


    Max: Wow. That''s good to know. Write what you want, then. If you think it''s even a good story. People like progression fantasies though so it might be good.


    Me: Progression fantasies?


    Max: You started lonely and hungry and you met a wizard and he gave you the call to adventure and dragged you across the threshold into the special world and then you moved up, up, and up. And you drank the elixir. That''s German wheat beer, Beth. I really shouldn''t have to spell this out. It''s self-explanatory. Look, write it or don''t. I''m turning my phone off, now.


    Me: Wait! I can''t turn this into a story unless you break the curse.


    Max: How do I do that?


    Me: I mean, you could pee on the corner flags. But basically, you need to sign a striker.


    Max: Ah, that''s easy. I''ve got one. Someone you know.


    Me: Who?


    Max: The curse is lifted. The End. MAX BEST HAS LEFT THE CHAT.


    I stretch, shower, and check my phone is charged. I''m going to be interviewed on talkSPORT, and in the morning I''ll head to Iserlohn to talk to an Italian player who has been heavily linked with a move to one of the Manchester clubs. If it goes well, I could be seeing a lot more of him. And he could be seeing a lot more of me.

 8.6 - Project Youth

    6.


    Friday July 5


    I took a cup of tea into the garden and spent some time watching birds come to the feeders I''d put up. Ruth''s barn, or Ruth''s dad''s cottage as I had to call it when others were around, was nice and cool in the summer, with its thick walls and old-school materials. No-one knew how old it was but it was far from decrepit. People had looked after it and it had a good few years in it yet. What it most lacked was a shady spot in the garden where I could set up a typewriter and write the great American novel.


    The garden lacked anything except a collection of old bits of wood, some small bushes, some medium bushes, and some large piles of building materials stored under plastic sheets. The space had very much fallen into neglect over the years and since I had treated myself to a few weeks away from football, I had taken it upon myself to do something about it. The challenge was that I had no relevant skills or knowledge except to say we could probably relocate the eight hundred roof tiles into a little shed somewhere so that I didn''t have to look at them. Apart from that, I had no good ideas and couldn''t have told you the difference between an acer and a maple. What I did have was time, so when I wasn''t dipping into the curse screens to check on my squads or jogging to Clive OK''s house to check on him, I was learning.


    Learning about garden plants and landscaping options. Reading gardening magazines. Watching gardening shows with Emma. Pottering around garden centres peering at pots, plodding next to my groundsman learning about sods, treading around country estates looking at bedding.


    I went into the barn and found myself in the living room looking from left to right. Why had I gone in there? I couldn''t remember. I went back outside and sighed. Gardens, bird feeders, forgetting why I went into rooms, having two appointments on an entire Friday - I was getting old.


    Max Best, 24. I''d been 24 for a while but I was only just starting to feel it. How old are you? 23. No wait, 24.


    We spoke to Max Best, who at 24 is Europe''s youngest director of football.


    That sounded good. That sounded right. That''s a young man right there.


    We spoke to Max Best, a 24-year-old midfielder playing in the fifth tier of English football. Ah, hang on, now. I do not consent to that number going up.


    Age in football is strange. Players have nasty, brutish and short careers. Once a player turns twenty-four he is zooming towards ¡®the cliff¡¯. Chelsea no longer sign players aged 25 or older. I was nearly at the point where a club with more money than sense wouldn¡¯t want to sign me simply because of my age.


    A twenty-two-year old mystery winger in the sixth tier has unlimited potential. Let¡¯s go take a look at him. A twenty-four-year old midfielder in the National League? Yawn. Too old. Bin him off let¡¯s go to Nando¡¯s.


    It¡¯s better for managers. A thirty-year-old manager is by definition young, exciting, and dynamic. A sixty-year-old has tons of miles left in him.


    After the yearly curse update, I added one to the age column on my squad list spreadsheets. When I thought about Angel, I thought about her as being seventeen even though her birthday was not until February. This season she was 17, Henri was 29, Pascal 19, Ryan Jack 36. There were so many numbers I needed to keep track of that this solution was simplest, and so my players had two birthdays - their useless real-life ones and their spreadsheet one. (Charlotte and Youngster had trolled me by organising an early-June birthday party for all the players in the digs.)


    Most numbers only have meaning in context. So how old was I, really?


    According to my infallible spreadsheet, there were twelve members of the first-team squad younger than me, and that didn''t count guys like Benny and Tyson who would get meaningful minutes through the course of the season. There were now only twelve guys older than me. Of the summer signings, three were older (barely) and six were younger. Chester was de-aging fast.


    I remembered what I wanted to get from the living room and stood up. I felt a tiny, unfamiliar twinge in the lumbar region. "Ooh, me back," I said and my joints creaked and groaned. Whatever I did with this garden, it needed to be age-appropriate. All nice and level, no trip hazards. Maybe raised beds so I didn''t have to bend too much. And none of that low furniture.


    I blinked. Why was I in the living room?


    ***


    "Are you nervous?"


    I scoffed. "Are you joking?"


    "No. You''re in your second-best suit."


    I sighed and put my phone down. I''d been pretending to scroll while in fact I was in the perk shop in my head drooling over the goods. My assistant manager, Sandra Lane, was dressed smart casual. After taking training - almost everyone was back from holiday now - she had gone home to change. "That''s your third-best top and those are your favourite trainers. Me looking good is just me being polite. Giving the newbies some eye candy. You''re actually nervous."


    "No way is this my third-best top. That''s cheeky, that."


    "Am I wrong higher or lower?"


    "Never mind."


    We were about to meet the new board, a meeting that could have serious repercussions for the both of us (and did, for one of us). The seven newly-elected members were in the boardroom - good place for them - getting to know each other while MD steered them into thinking about what questions they wanted to ask us.


    I opened my curse screens again but was interrupted.


    "How do you know these are my favourite trainers?"


    "You wear them on Fridays or after we get beat. They cheer you up."


    Sandra smiled. "That''s true."


    "I know."


    "Do you think it''ll be anyone we know?"


    "Ruth, I imagine," I said. "I know she stood and she''s got lots of name recognition and these days she''s an industry insider, too. People who like me will vote for her as a sort of ally."


    "People who like you? God, is this going to be all second-preference voting and tactical votes and stalking horses and all that bullshit?"


    "Nah. We won the league. I''m Father Christmas and you''re Head Elf. It''s next year we need to worry about."


    "Oh, that''s good to know."


    I went back to the shop. The first thing to consider was my stash. After a moderate amount of summer scouting, the Exit Trials, and three European Championship fixtures, I''d added a fair few experience points.


    XP balance: 6,902


    I was still short of the 9,000 I needed to buy the next option in my shopping list. I also craved Finances and really, really needed more Attributes. Sandra''s favourite tactic, 4-2-3-1, was the next formation available.


    Like the skilled Mariner I was, I''d been keeping my little boat true to its course, sailing hard towards WibWob, a perk that would give me greater tactical flexibility. The seas were calm and the wind was gentle when suddenly the July perk leapt onto a rock and called out to me. "Max!" it cried, splashing its tail into the sea. "Max, forget your silly formation adjuster. I''m the perk you really want. Come here. Giggle! Yeah, just crash into this rock and we can be together."


    Friendly Special Offer


    New perk available for the month of July: The Friendzone


    Cost: 1,350 XP


    Effects: Increases the XP earned from managing up to six pre-season friendlies by 50%. This effect is annual, and permanent.


    For the twentieth time since the perk landed, I got my calculator out and did some maths. We had six pre-season friendlies scheduled, so the imps must have assumed six was what we would always aim for. To be fair, we probably would. Personally, I thought five was already too many and would have been happy with two but for once I let myself be overruled by all the experienced pros.


    Friendlies were worth 1 XP per minute. Being a manager always doubled what I earned, so pencil in 2 XP for the pre-season matches. With this 50% boost, I''d get 3 XP per minute for six friendlies.


    With a cost of 1,350 XP, I would break even after the third friendly in the third year. Two and a half years to get payback, then pure profit for the rest of my life.


    It was irritating how well these imps knew my psychology. Of course I wanted this perk. A two-and-half-year payback time was nothing. This was a good investment! Better than the solar panels!


    Our first friendly of the 2024/25 season was happening the next day, so I would probably sleep on it and buy it over breakfast. It was frustrating to be pushed back from buying WibWob, but that was Old Nick''s game. Keep me grinding. Keep me motivated. Drop enough cheese to keep the hamster on the wheel.


    "Do hamsters eat cheese?" I asked Sandra.


    "Max." MD opened the door. "Miss Lane. Won''t you join us?"


    Sandra stood and tapped me on the chest with the back of her hand. "Don''t be talking about hamsters in there. Or mermaids."


    "Mermaids? When was I talking about mermaids?"


    She gave me a pitying look, closed her eyes, and put on a friendly smile. An old teacher''s trick, I reckoned. I hadn''t unlocked that perk, yet. I went to face my destiny not knowing how to motivate a hamster.


    ***


    "Oh thank fuck," I said, and went to bump fists with my allies. More specifically, I fist bumped Sumo and Barnesy and acceded to Ruth''s request for a handshake. Three out of seven of the board were Best fans! The relief was instant. The season would have its grim times and bleak moments, but the chances of four of the board working against me seemed low.


    With a huge smile, I fist bumped the new guys, and gave MD a brief but powerful shoulder massage. I made eye contact with one of the newbies and jerked my head towards Sandra. "This is Sandra Lane, assistant manager to the stars. Sandra, you know Ruth. Have you met Sumo? He knows how to glitch Palworld and he can''t resist a Haley slash Abigail harem in Stardew Valley. And this is Barnesy. Former player, always got a tip on the three thirty at Kempton, can beat the Brig in paintball. MD, are you going to introduce the rest?"


    "Actually, Max, you''re going to sit down until you''re needed," said the biggest idiot in history.


    "Don''t be all board about this," I said. "We''re a team. Let''s get on with it. I want to be early at the train station for when Emma gets here."


    MD sighed, but he seemed to be in a very good mood. "Fine, fine. I''d just like to say before we begin that I might have found a stadium sponsor for us! Eat your heart out, Brooke!"


    So that''s why he was so upbeat! Brooke had stirred him into being more capitalist. Striding the world of business like a colossus! Yes, mate! I went into the curse and checked his ambition score. It was still 4. "That''s great. When are we going to hear about it?"


    "Oh, when there''s a tentative agreement and the board needs to approve it. We''re not close to that."


    "Right," I said, feeling a teeny tiny sense of dread. He wasn''t seriously going to sign a deal to get the club more money... after the transfer deadline? Surely? With a sinking feeling, I knew that''s exactly how it would go. The deadline this year was September 2, and the money would plop uselessly into our accounts on the seventh or the fifteenth or some garbage. But MD was excited and I tried to be happy for him. "Good job, boss!"


    He smiled. "Could the new members introduce themselves?"


    "I''ll go first!" said one woman. She looked like she had two teenage daughters who were newly mad on footy. "I''m Violet and I''m here to make sure the women''s team gets looked after."


    "Kewl."


    "My name''s Lily," said the next one. She looked like the sort of woman who was 97% normal but had two offbeat habits that made you question everything else about her. "This is all very exciting. I didn''t think I''d win and I hope I don''t make a fool of myself."


    "You just need to make sure I''m not doing anything illegal or sinister."


    Next guy was a big boy in a polo neck. He had Professor Snape hair that he kept pushing back. "Name''s Dave. Been a fan forever. Last season was amazing. You kept pushing the community aspect so I thought I should get involved. Give something back."


    "Top bins. Love it."


    The last guy was one of those dudes who doesn''t like blinking. You''ve met people like that, I''m sure. They sort of, how can I explain it? They sort of don''t blink? He was thin and quiet and had dirty glasses. "My name¡¯s James. James Pond."


    There was a slight pause while everyone replayed his words with a slight air of puzzlement. I said, "That felt strange, for some reason. All right, anyway, pleased to meet you all. MD, what''s the plan?"


    "If I may," said James Pond. "I''d like to check something about the stadium naming rights and shirt sponsorships. I heard a rumour that we had good offers that we turned down."


    "We chose not to explore them further," said MD in an attempt to separate language from meaning.


    I stepped in to help push the meeting along. "We don''t promote betting companies, beer, tobacco, gun-runners, parasites, ne''er do wells, climate criminals, or Hewlett Packard." Not for the last time in this meeting, three of the newbies laughed thinking I was making a joke.


    "And when was that decided?"


    "When someone wrote Our Community on the front of the stadium like it matters."


    "I see," he said, drily. Guy was rather annoying.


    MD opened one of those luxury textile binder things b-boys love and turned over a piece of paper. "Max. The board would love for you to explain some of your recent decisions regarding transfers so they can understand your thought process and feed that back to the fans. Then they''d like to discuss the state of the squad."


    "Squads," said Violet, the one who was very interested in the women''s team. "I hope we give the women''s team equal footing in these meetings."


    "Let me save us all loads of time," I said. "Violet, the women''s squad is unbelievable. We added four defensive players and now we''re a proper, proper team with no weaknesses. We are going to smash teams up left, right, and centre and genuinely there has never been a more sure-fire thing in the history of sports. Okay? Now, it''s not my job to tell you how to do this board thing but if we all leave this room saying ''oh the season''s over before it''s begun'' we''re not going to sell many tickets to our home games. We have to preserve the illusion that there''s somehow a competition going on. Do you get me? And, yeah, there could be injuries or some key players could get some personal problems but in pure footballing terms, boom. This goose is cooked. Enjoy it. Just pretend to be surprised, is my advice."


    Violet gawped at me. "Oh." She looked at her notes. One was heavily underlined. "How do you see the rest of the division?"


    "Good question. On a personal level, it''s lots of fun because of the teams we''re up against. On a sporting level, we¡¯re in good shape. There''s one team I haven''t seen but based on history they should be our biggest rivals. Cheadle Town Stingers. Can I just say, great name. I wanted something like that for us but I was outvoted infinity to one. Let''s call Cheadle rank one. Then there are two teams at rank two. That''s Tranmere - did you know I used to play for them? - and West Didsbury, an obscure team in Manchester. So those are three teams we can''t take for granted. The rest of the teams are much of a muchness, rank three, no big deal, but the list includes Crewe, Salford City, and FC United. Three teams I''ve had dealings with! Then there''s Fleetwood Town Wrens who are not very good, I''m afraid. Rank five."


    "You missed rank four," said MD.


    "That was deliberate to highlight how bad the Wrens are."


    "Hold up," said Dave, who had been making notes. "Are you saying our women''s team is already better than Crewe?"


    "Yeah, billion percent."


    He looked sceptical. "I see."


    "You''ve never been to see them, have you Dave?"


    "I have! But... Okay."


    "The league table will tell you soon enough." I remembered something. "The cups, yeah. Good point, Dave. I''m not expecting too much from the Welsh Cup but who knows? There''s maximum three good teams, there. I don''t want to get too cocky because we could draw Wrexham in the first round and get a black eye but I imagine there''s a fair few winnable games sloshing around. English FA Cup, no chance but give us a good draw and we could go a few rounds. The prize money would be handy, actually and the women would love to be on TV. The Cheshire Cup I''m not sure about. Stockport County beat us straight up last time, so again, I''d take going a couple of rounds in. I don''t see us getting rolled over, though, except by WSL teams. The focus is on the league, obvs, but let''s see if we can upset a few teams in cups this year and next year start to get close to finals and whatnot."


    Violet was pretty stunned by this torrent of information. She took a second to recover, looked down at her notes, and said, "You created new girls teams but they aren''t very full. There are five players across three teams."


    I leaned back and crossed my legs. "Interesting topic. Do we want to bring randos in to make up the numbers? Or wait until we have proper quality players? I decided we needed to get going so we''ve got a bunch of casual players who can come and fill out a squad. What I want to avoid is a situation like in big clubs where young players think they''re going to play for the first team and for England but their coaches know they aren''t but they need to string the kids along for whatever reason. I''ve found with these kids if you say to them, look, you won''t play for the first team but these are serious matches and we''ll train you and you''ll have fun and some great stories, do you want to be on call? If you do that, they all go yeah, course. And they get to meet the first team ladies and we give them training kits and all that so I reckon they''re super happy with the sitch but they also know we''ve not earmarked them to be the next Bea Pea. So, yeah, we have girls teams and we can fulfil our fixtures and I don''t need to lose my mind trying to flesh them out before some artificial deadline. We''ve got at least one good player in each age group and over the summer I found two good ten-year-olds." Two Playdar finds: a PA 70 right back and a PA 75 centre back. "So it''s actually seven hot prospects and we¡¯re talking to schools getting sort of trial days set up. It¡¯s easier now that we¡¯re massive. Violet, we''re racing ahead with the women''s stuff. I think it''s a great mix of local girls coming through and the best of what''s out there on the free market, plus we''ve got the best coach." I laughed. "It''s crazy how over-specced Jackie Reaper is. Honestly, it''s not even fair what we''re doing. It barely counts as sport. Again, not my job to tell you what to do but you can let this all rumble along. We''re going to have our games in Flint and there could be some logistical problems so that''s something you could keep an eye on."


    "When can the women play at the Deva?" said James Pond. MD squirmed. For a second I thought it was because he didn''t like Pond but later I realised he was itching to tell us what the new stadium name would be.


    "We need to dig up the pitch and put undersoil heating and mega drainage. It''s mind-bending how much work goes into getting a durable, modern pitch. There are these machines that stitch artificial grass into the soil so that you get a sort of framework for natural grass to grow around. The pitch gets way more resilient and you can play up to three times as many games. I saw a quote for the stitching that was 400,000 euros and that¡¯s a lot of tiny coffees and giant bretzels. Undersoil heating is multiple hundreds of thousands. Now, it''s not just a cost - you get some money back because matches don''t get postponed, but it''s not a slam dunk investment, either. We''ll have to do it one day but there''s also the question of timing. Those ground works are easier to do if there''s space around the pitch so we''ll do it when we start expanding the stadium. Knock down one stand, sort out the pitch over a summer, boom. Synergy. Just need ten million to get started."


    Again, they all laughed, except James Pond either because he was humourless by nature or because he understood I was being serious. "We''re really thinking of expanding the stadium, then?"


    "The goal''s to get to League One, right? Five thousand four hundred is going to get cramped, fast."


    His eyes twitched. Was he doing hypersonic blinks? "Why don''t we move to a purpose-built stadium?"


    I shrugged. "This is our home. Why move?" I didn''t want to get into my plans to surround the Deva with a training complex, and I didn''t want to point out that straddling the border could be a big benefit to us. In general I was trying to be less secretive and more open but something about this new board was making me cautious.


    "So you''d knock down one side?"


    "Are we really talking about the stadium? I don''t want to talk about the stadium." As the words left my mouth, I realised I was being stupid. Chester fans were disproportionately obsessed with the idea of stadium ownership. Talking about a future where they owned their own stadium again would score me big brownie points and help keep them off my back. "It''s fantasy land right now, but in principle I think we knock down the west stand near the end of one season. When was that built? 1990? We get rid and put up a new one and the stadium''ll get younger just like the squad. Maybe we can jiggle our fixtures so we can finish the season with seven away games or whatever to give us more time. After the last home game, we dig up the pitch and get stuck into that. Come start of the next season we''ve got a three-sided stadium and the best pitch outside a major league. Boom. Hamazing."


    There was a pause. MD coughed. "Er, what about the missing west stand?"


    "Oh, right. So there''s this Italian company that makes modular wooden stadiums. They''re beautiful, practical, and eco-friendly. I luv it. Big-time luv it. It''s a bit cheaper than your typical concrete brutes and it goes up fast and it''s just gorge. They make the stadium in bits back in Italy and ship it over and some dudes in cranes put it together like the best lego kit ever. It''s amazing. Six thousand seats goes up in no time, we plug it into the mains and the water, boom, we''ve got over ten thousand capacity and more executive suites and bars and food courts and all that. 7.8 million pounds and it''s as simple as a dream. When we''re ready we do the same on the main stand and four thousand each on the sides. Glorious twenty thousand all-seater stadium the city will be proud of."


    Dave put his hand up. "I''d like to talk about that for about an hour, if that''s okay?"


    "Soz, dude," I said, getting up. "It''s time for me to chat your head off about the men''s team. Er... where''s my flipchart?"


    MD looked around the room. "It was here... Oh! You took it to Nando''s for the post-boot camp meal."


    "Where is it now?"


    MD thought. "In reception."


    "I''ll get it," said Sandra.


    "No, I''ll go," said MD. He zipped off.


    "Tell us about the boot camp," said Ruth. She''d heard some of the stories already but had judged it would be fun for the others to hear.


    I sat and drummed my fingers on the table trying to think of the most efficient way to tell the tale. "Last year we kidnapped the guys and dumped them in the countryside and made them do tasks to earn food. They loved it and the shock was effective in terms of getting team spirit fast but we can''t really go round stealing people and making them carry logs across streams and all that. Not on, you know, an ongoing basis. So this year the Brig got everyone on a coach and they drove somewhere. Nice little day out. He told them they were going to a luxury hotel that closed down and it was all good stuff but they''d have to, like, boil the water before they drank it and stuff like that. Basically, it''s nice but you''ve got to do little tasks and work in groups and that sort of thing. Everyone relaxes, right, because it''s way easier than last year and hey - it even sounds like fun."


    "Oh, boy," said Sumo. He''d been around long enough to know where this was going. He looked at Barnesy. "Did you know about this?"


    The former soldier nodded. "Yes, sir. I helped plan it."


    I continued. "So they get to the place and it''s a bit more run-down than they''d been expecting and there''s no staff. Like, the Brig drives off and they''re totally on their own. It''s okay, mind. It was a hotel and there''s a reception area and carpets and things. There''s no heating but it''s the end of June. It''s not that bad. The Brig had split them into small groups and each group leader got a beeper."


    "A beeper?" laughed Sumo. "Like in old movies?"


    "Right. You probably guessed by now that the Brig and his old army mates are about to try to mentally disintegrate my football team over the course of a long weekend and they''re nearby observing on hidden cameras and mics and they''re giving instructions via the beepers. It starts out okay, like, ''find water''. Nothing comes out of the taps. They work together doing some escape room puzzles and then group 1 gets a message. ''Bonus rations if you steal water from group 2''. Just sort of mid-level mind games. Long discussions about whether they should do it or not. Some of the tasks are based on questions like ''Who is Max''s favourite player?'' and ''Who was Max trying to sell to Halifax Town at the start of June?'' Of course, there''s no right answers. It was just to get them in a worked-up kind of mental state. Distrustful and that." MD came in carrying the flipchart. I gave him a Maxy Two-Thumbs. "So yeah, anyway, at some point they realise they''re in an old lunatic asylum."


    "What!" yelled Lily.


    I smiled and raised a hand. "It wasn''t. It was a care home. Worst thing that ever happened there was a few guys dying peacefully in their sleep, that sort of thing. The army guys dressed it up to look sinister and stuff. You know, some weird dolls and stains and boarded-up doors and that. The only evening activity was movie night and the only movie was The Shining. You get the idea. Basically, we scared them and tried to turn them against each other which we did, especially between the guys who were scared and the guys who were laughing at the scared ones. There was a way to turn all the lights on and unlock the wing with the beds and showers and for that the teams had to proper work together." I shook my head. "I wish I could join in on that stuff. It sounds like a ton of fun, to be honest, but the Brig says I''d ruin the dynamic."


    "It sounds horrible," said Violet.


    Sandra said, "The lads came back buzzing. The weekends are designed so that it''s hard enough to trigger a moment of euphoria when you achieve the goal. There''s loads of energy at training. It''s not something they''d do at Man City but it works with this lot."


    I clapped my hands and started walking around. "Okay let''s talk about... me. Achievements unlocked - harnessing the power of the sun. Done. Tick. Fed the hungry. Tick."


    "You mean the mobile kitchen?" said James Pond.


    "Right. That came online on the first of July. Breakfast and lunch and they''ll be making the stuff we eat on away trips. Sandra, have you tried it?"


    "Yes, today. It''s good!"


    "Something for me to look forward to," I said. "Anyway, it''s happening. Things are starting to cook around here." I allowed space for laughter. Space that wasn''t filled.


    "Can you tell us about the transfers?" said Dave, even though it was clear I was about to launch into a speech.


    "Yeah that''s ninety percent of what I''m about to say."


    "Oh, okay. Sorry."


    "We''re going to talk about our reputation, my ambition, and Arsenal from 2005 to 2013."


    "Specific," said Ruth.


    I drew a few horizontal lines on the top-left of the sheet. "The football pyramid is immense but at the very top it looks like the side of a ruler. Premier League, Championship, League One, League Two, National League. It''s a straight up and down ladder. The first little dash on this ruler, very much in pride of place, the greatest club in the land, Aston Villa."


    "Is that judged alphabetically?" asked Barnesy.


    "It''s based on clubs that are doing well whose names I am willing to utter in polite society. So Prem, Championship, League One, Two, National League, and we''ve just escaped the National League North. You with me? We want to move up these rungs. That''s not easy, surprisingly." I drew four big black horizontal lines and picked up a blue marker. "Try to think of Chester''s overall attractiveness to new players as being a single number. It might surprise you but that number doesn''t change much. I''m working on a theory I find very compelling which is that it changes once per year, at the end of a season. That''s when everyone in the football industry takes a minute to breathe and thinks wow what just happened? They clear their heads, process their successes and failures, then take a gander at what everyone else did. Oh, look, Chester got promoted. This, by the way, explains one thing that was driving me tonto - why attendances were so slow to rise. Everyone''s mindset was stuck at one level for the whole season! It''s not realistic, but that''s how it works. We''re all hyped because we won the league but to outsiders we''re currently rated as one of the four lowest teams in the National League. Makes sense? A player looking at us has to think we''re favourites to go straight back down. It''s frustrating but there''s a lot of logic to it. So as we clamber our way to higher and higher league positions, our reputation will look like a staircase. Like this." I drew a blue line that jumped up at regular intervals. "But I want to go much faster than that." I used a red marker to draw a big line rocketing to the top-right of the page.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Imagine a crazy world where we get promoted this season finishing seventh in the playoffs. We''re the seventh best team in the National League, is what players will think of us. But we''ll be in League Two and I''ll be trying to win it. So there''s a gap between sort of reality and what I want to happen."


    "You need a consolidation season every time you go up," said James Pond.


    "Nope. No, thanks. I''m getting old fast and my time in this game is short. You can consolidate when I''m gone. The issue is that this gap between our reputation and my ambition is going to get bigger, probably peaking next season. Best case scenario, it''ll be this vast chasm, and it''s going to stay that wide. Great. That means I have to rein in my ambition, right?"


    "Yes," said MD.


    "No chance," I said. "Let''s talk about Arsenal. They moved to their new stadium in 2006 and had to pay like 400 million pounds, which in those days was a lot of money."


    "It still is," said MD.


    "They embarked on what the fans called Project Youth. Every year they sold their best player to finance the loans and tried to fill the team with talented little brats. You could say it worked, since they got to the Champions League every season but they didn''t win anything until Project Youth ended and they started spending Arsenal sorts of money on players."


    "I''m lost," said Ruth. "Are you holding them up as an example of success or failure?"


    "Both. They were Schrodinger''s Arsenal. Arsenal are one of the biggest teams in this country so they should compete for trophies, right? I think the fans were frustrated at that time. But my thesis today is that it was a successful period. They had to pay for the stadium and the surest way to do that was to finish in the top four every season and they absolutely did it. They played good football, too. And they did it while making a profit in the transfer market. Project Youth worked, and Project Youth will be our model going forward."


    "Young players?" said Dave, dubiously.


    "Not only, but mostly. Here''s the thing. I''ve been struggling and struggling to get experienced players to join us this summer. To me, it''s a no-brainer that these guys would benefit from a move here, but this reputation limit is hard-baked into the industry. I thought maybe it''d be a one-off this summer but I realised looking at some random village in Germany with elite facilities that it''s always going to be a problem. Ready-made players can get better facilities and wages elsewhere and that will always be true. The way around it is to convince talented young players to join us. So if that''s how it has to be, let''s really lean into it. Make it a feature. We''ve brought the average age of the squad down from 27 when I arrived to 23 now."


    "Best''s Babes," said Sumo. Apparently Dieter Bauer''s reference to the Busby Babes had cut through.


    I held a hand up. "I''d really rather not have us make that comparison, please. Matt Busby was one of the greatest managers ever and a real gentleman and I''m a grubby nobody and yeah, let''s please not. If we want a name to sort of sum up what we''re doing, it''d be more like Max''s Misfits. Most of our signings are guys who don''t really fit in elsewhere."


    "Can we go through them one by one?" said Dave.


    "Er, sure. Sounds boring, though. How about I whizz through and you tell me if you''ve got follow-up questions? Yeah? So we registered William Roberts. We call him WibRob. Bundle of energy, not small but low centre of gravity. Cost twenty thousand pounds but I reckon we could get more than sixty one day." That was technically true, though I was thinking in millions. I was struggling not to hype WibRob too much, for his own benefit. If I had to act surprised at him exceeding my predictions, fine. "Then we signed five kids from the Exit Trials. Cole Adams, left-back. Tall for a full back, which could be handy in some games. Josh Owens, left wing-back. Aff is going to mentor him and we think he could be an Aff type two-way player. Omari Naysmith, central midfield. Good all-rounder. Tom Westwood, striker. Er..." I looked at Sandra. So far, we hadn''t seen anything from Tom to indicate he had special skills. "He''s a good lad."


    "He''ll come good," she said, trying to encourage me. Tom Westwood was a rare example of me getting buyer''s remorse from signing a high PA player. He just offered nothing. He came near the bottom of every drill. The Brig loved him, though, and Sandra didn''t mind having one dud out of a whole squad. Weirdly, she liked Tom Westwood far more than she ever liked Tony Hetherington who was pretty similar in profile.


    "The kids are all on 500 a week with two plus one deals. So''s Wes Hayward. The Sharknado. Very fast, lots of upside, and he''s twenty-six and he''s been up and down the leagues so he knows loads of clubs and he''s seen it all. Good in the dressing room, isn''t he?"


    "He is," said Sandra. "And even if he''s a little..." I could see her trying to avoid the word ''wayward'' and felt a bit of a cringe. We would be doing that the whole season! "Even if his decision-making needs work, he''s more immediately useful than the kids and I have to say for the price it''s a good deal."


    "Why''s he on the same as the Exit Triallists?" said James Pond.


    "He''s come from a lower league and the kids have all come from above. The deal is we make him look good and he gets paid properly at his next club."


    "You expect to turn a profit on him, then?"


    "We''ll get fifty to a hundred grand for him, easy."


    "How can you be so sure?"


    I smiled. "When a player rips you up on a Saturday afternoon you tend to leave the stadium thinking, ''I wish he played for us''. When we get him going he''ll terrify teams in League Two. I only wish I had another guy like him aged twenty-three and another aged seventeen."


    "A production line," said MD.


    I glanced behind me, checking that the Brig wasn''t around. "Yeah. But not a horrible one. One that leads player after player to wealth and happiness."


    "We''re one short," said Violet, looking at her notes. "You said five Exit Trials players."


    I frowned. Sandra helped me out. "Owen Travis. He''s a goalkeeper. Quite well regarded but he will be our third-choice this season."


    Right. Owen Travis. Sort of a generic name and I hadn''t met him so he hadn''t imprinted on my psyche in the slightest. He was eighteen and had CA 20, PA 99. Good prospect but unlike the outfield players I worried about giving him enough game time to let him improve fast enough. He would be a perfect candidate to loan to West for a month to get some minutes into him - if I could find a goalkeeping coach in time.


    "Two more to go," said Dave. "Should we start with the controversial one or the ruinously expensive one?"


    "I literally don''t know which players you''re referring to," I lied.


    "Tell us about Ziggy."


    "Ziggy is a fox-in-the-box, a poacher, an instinctive finisher. He''s twenty-five, likes Oasis, and doesn''t understand the timeline of Memento even if you write it down on flashcards."


    "He''s your client," said James Pond.


    "So?"


    "So it''s odd, isn''t it?"


    "Nope. MD will tell you I looked at ten strikers."


    "More," said MD.


    "Guys who can score, or win headers, or hold the ball up, are like gold dust. It''s this reputation graph all over. Strikers know their place on that sheet to the Nth degree. They''re wrong in most cases but they think they know exactly how good they are. This one guy, Simon Lancashire. He thinks he''s good enough for a League One playoff team and he wants two and a half grand a week. So to come down to our level he wants five K. Do you see the problem? I spent all summer chasing ghosts. We need misfits. Someone dead old, someone coming back from a big injury, someone out of favour, or, yeah, someone young. Project Youth for the win. Win is German for profit."


    Dave followed my finger to the graphic I''d drawn. "But Wrexham were able to sign players from higher levels."


    "Yeah," I agreed, because the guy was making my point for me. "By paying two or three times the market rate. I don''t want to do that, tbh. When I took over here there were some inefficiencies in the wage to talent ratio but now there aren''t. Actually, there are, but in our favour. Couple of guys are quite underpaid. But paying triple to get what I can get for half? No thanks." I got to my feet again and tapped the ''reputation'' line. "It''s interesting, though, because what can happen to make these stairs move mid-season? Points deductions, players not being paid, that sort of thing has to stop you attracting players. That''s obvs. What about the other direction? If you win a cup your reputation has to get an immediate boost. And - I''m very excited about this one - if you qualify for a European tournament you get access to loads more players. Guys who want to play in Europe. European competition is a big draw and the effect on the market is immediate." This revelation, earned while complaining about how my tea was served in a cafe in Copenhagen, had startled me for it hadn''t come from real life but from a memory of playing Champion Manager. I wasn''t sure if I was being allowed to remember certain things or if it had happened because of Nick''s customary sloppiness but the memory had popped up, vivid and fully-formed.


    "Max," mumbled Sandra, because I''d gone internal, and because getting into European competition wasn¡¯t immediately relevant to our discussion.


    "Okay but another possibility," I mused, "is the takeover. Wrexham were where they were. Seventh or something, right? But their new owner was rich and sexy and that could count towards the overall attractiveness of the club. Why wouldn''t it? At least a little bit. If there''s a rich, ambitious owner you know you won''t be the last marquee signing but one of many. You can think the club''s on the up."


    "And they bought the stadium and they''re improving it," said James Pond.


    I was still miles away. "Yeah, they''re good owners. Until they sell. Then what?"


    James Pond had no sense of fear. "They invest in the stadium and the squad and they do what it takes to bring the club up to the top. They want to get to the Premier League. It''s an exciting time to be a Wrexham fan."


    "Until they sell," I said, starting to turn my full attention in the direction of this idiot. Was he even a Chester fan? Didn¡¯t he remember what a bad owner could do to a football club? Didn¡¯t he remember?


    Sandra recognised the danger. "We were talking about Ziggy," she said.


    I glared at James Pond for a few seconds, but a head tilt from Ruth was enough to remind me to be diplomatic and sophisticated. "Ziggy''s a stopgap. He''s a guy who will score goals at this level if we give him the right service. He''s also cheap. We''re paying his wages, nothing more, so that leaves me some powder dry for January if anything comes up. I''m pretty happy with the deal. It''s not earth shattering but it''s sensible and he''ll benefit and so will his club. When we send him back he''ll be their best player. I don''t really want to develop another team''s player but I don''t see what the choice is. We need to get ahead of this situation so we''ll give minutes to Chas Fungrieve this season. He''s a fifteen-year-old who could do a job for us when he bulks up. And we''ll see if there''s some hotshot who comes on our radar in the meantime. The problem is National League defenders are beefy and a kid''s going to struggle. Ziggy''s not a big guy but you can''t bully him out of a match and he''ll dart around making you lose position." I had the weirdest feeling just then - my words weren''t getting through. Lily and James Pond exchanged a glance and it was like being punched in the face. "Guys, we can''t go into the season with Tom Westwood as our second striker. By all means find me a better option than Ziggy but we need someone." I got nothing back. What was going on? My body knew what was going on even if I didn''t. My fingers started to curl, my eyebrows pushed themselves down into a scowl, and my heart hardened. "Ziggy''s here now and he''s going to play and the fans are going to love him."


    Lily made a worried face. "But he''s your client so there''s a conflict."


    A couple of hairs rose on the back of my neck. Danger! "He was getting paid at FC United. We''re not paying him more than he was on. That''s not how loans work. We''re just taking over his contract until January with an option to extend it for the whole season if both clubs agree. If anything, I lose money because he''ll score more goals in the seventh tier than in the fifth. He gets a goal bonus."


    "But you''ll put him in the team."


    "I''ll put our second best striker in the team? Of course I will. What?" My brain caught up. We had slipped right back to day one of my time at Chester. Ian Evans saying I was a con artist and MD was my mark. A hundred and twenty goals and multiple trophies later we were still talking about me slipping twenty quid from the till into my own pocket. Was it never going to end? I closed my eyes and rubbed my head. The rubs started out soothing but soon became furious.


    That''s why God made MD. "Lily, I''ve made enquiries about a dozen strikers this summer. We''ve explored all kinds of avenues, as Max has alluded to, and been quoted ridiculous wages for some highly average football players. Ziggy wasn''t in our first dozen choices but he''s a player willing to come to the club and he¡¯s a player both Max and Sandra have known for a long time. I wouldn''t say we''re lucky to have him, exactly, because it''s a step up for him, too, but I''m relieved he agreed. There''s no question of impropriety here. Not in the slightest."


    Dave asked, "What do FC United get?"


    I was still seething, so Sandra took over. "We''ve given them a pre-season friendly at their place and we''re going to be loaning players to them. We''ll start with Andrew Harrison and we''ll see what injuries FCU pick up before the transfer window closes. Whoever ends up going, we''re happy with that since our players will get minutes and the squad''s very slightly unwieldy at the moment. Twenty-three outfield players and Max wants us to include the best of the under eighteens as much as possible. FC United also benefit, as Max said, when Ziggy goes back as a much better player. It''s definitely a win-win."


    Ruth tried to stop me boiling by talking to me in her soft, husky phone sex voice. "Max, did you want to tell us about Zach Green?"


    I didn''t. Sandra went to bat for me. "Zach''s a powerful defender with good technical abilities. He''ll give us the option to pass the ball out from the back down the middle regardless of whether we have a DM. He''s been rotting in Wrexham''s reserves for a year so he''s very, very rusty but it''s clear he''s going to be a mainstay of the team this season."


    "He''s very expensive," said James Pond. "Twelve hundred a week?"


    I glanced at MD then went right back to raging turtle mode. I had begged Zach to take a basic wage of twelve hundred and another eight hundred in bonuses. Not only were the bonuses trivially easy to earn, but there was a release clause hidden in the fine print of his contract stating that if he didn''t get his bonuses he could leave the club for free - not something that would ever be in Chester''s interest. In short, the only way he wouldn''t get the two thousand a week I''d promised was if the club literally ran out of cash. Zach understood the goal of his payment structure - you couldn''t have a dressing room where the highest-paid player earned double the next one. Especially when the next one was Henri.


    "It''s a huge pay cut," said Sandra, "so he can get his career back on track. To be honest, I had given up on it ever happening. Max let him train with us and use our facilities and everything. Do you think that''s what did it?"


    "No," I mumbled.


    MD brushed some lint off his trousers. "It was, indeed, a big surprise. Weeks of prevarication and suddenly he''s ready to sign. We thought perhaps hanging out with Brooke, Carl, and Cheshire''s American community yesterday would do it. But he called on the first of July and we signed everything on the second. Quite strange."


    "What changed on the first of July?" said James Pond, eyeing my reputation graph.


    "Nothing," said MD. "It was just another day. But there we go. It''s quite a coup." He checked his watch. "Perhaps we''ll finish with a quick SWOT analysis, Max? Perhaps a discussion of our targets?"


    "No," I said. I''d decided that I didn''t have to sit there and take snide accusations even for a second. "We''ll do our best in every game. If that''s not good enough for the board, the board can sack me. Now if you''ll excuse me, I have to return some video tapes."


    ***


    I went outside and leaned on the Duchess. She was getting old and she had her grumpy mornings. This would be her last season for sure. I gave her an affectionate pat.


    Sandra came out ten minutes later. Ten minutes! "I was just telling them that I was settled in the area so if they sacked you I''d want the job."


    I nodded. "Good."


    She gave me a little punch. "I''m joking! I was actually telling them to go fuck themselves."


    I shook my head. "Even better."


    She punched me harder. "I was in the bog, you dick." She sat next to me on the bonnet of my car. "What was it that got under your skin?"


    "The implication that I''d risk everything I''d built here for forty-five pounds a week."


    She made an O face. "People are such dicks."


    "That''s what I always say!"


    "I know. I''m parroting you. I''m managing up."


    I smiled and gave her a quick back rub. "You don''t need to manage me. You''re mint. You''re mustard. You''re mustard with bits in. I need you to turn these kids into players which means I need you more than you need me."


    She pulled an amused face. "When you brought me here I was attracted by the idea that I''d have to work with loads of grizzled veterans. Win over a dressing room full of snarling manimals. Know what I mean? I did that and now you''re replacing the older guys with teenage boys. It''s much easier than older guys and ten times easier than teenage girls." We stared at the brown box that was stuck onto the side of the stadium. It housed the club''s offices, but neither Sandra nor myself spent a lot of time there. "I was looking forward to your predictions for the season. The lads say last year''s one was great. They keep talking about it."


    Two games into the season I had recovered enough from my coma to lay out my Maxterplan for how we would approach the season. "Yeah. It''s good to have that sort of meeting. We will definitely do it with the players and staff. I''m not sure when the best time is."


    "Why not tomorrow before the match?"


    I looked up at the big sign: Chester FC. Our City, Our Community, Our Club. I still didn''t understand why the words were in that order. According to the rules of climactic order, they should have been reversed. "How are we going to play? That''s one issue. 4-1-4-1 again? And integration. Henri told me not to prune more than a third of a tree. The way it''s turned out, if we include Vivek and WibRob as new guys in the squad, we''ve got something like eleven new players in a squad of twenty-four and there''s still a senior goalie to come. It''s like, half our guys are new. Do we need to do anything special for that? Does that need to be the focus for the first half of the season? What are you grinning at?"


    "You''re interesting, sometimes. So let me help you with how we should play. You ready? 4-2-3-1, the wave of the future."


    I tutted. "No wingers even though Aff''s our best player and I''ve just signed a literal Sharknado. Two defensive midfielders is the exact opposite of fearless football. Three central attacking midfielders. Pascal, WibRob, and Dan Badford. Yeah, the formation''s perfect for, ooh, two years from now."


    "It''s a banging system. You can use Aff at left back and you don''t plan to use Wes in every match anyway. Two DMs takes the pressure off Youngster and means we start every match with Magnus in the lineup, which makes switching formations a piece of piss." She looked dreamily into the distance. "Pascal and one of Aff or Sharknado as the attacking midfielders. And the third spot for the best player in the league."


    "Marcus Wainwright plays for Grimsby."


    She nudged me. "It''s the system that''ll get the most out of our star asset."


    "Our Chesterness?"


    She smiled but her face fell. "I''d like to try it in a friendly, at least. That''s what they''re for. I don''t really understand..." She bit her lip. She didn''t understand why I wouldn''t let her practise it.


    Okay so this formation thing was starting to become an issue. I looked up at the big motto again. Community. My immediate footballing community was the Brig and Sandra. I''d invested a lot of time and resources into the Brig''s pet project, which had evolved into Project Youth. Now it was time to invest in Sandra. "Okay. Put it in your training schedule. I don''t want to use it tomorrow or the next game; I want to play the hits. And I probably won''t play in the friendlies so you''ll have to work around that."


    "Okay," she said, which seemed noncommittal, but I checked and she was absolutely delighted.


    "Let''s see how we get on in the first couple of friendlies, then I''ll give my big Maxterplan speech in the days before the West Didsbury game." Inga had thought it would be funny to schedule a match against them, but on the whole I wished she hadn''t. She was simply drawing attention to a story I didn''t want to become a story. I planned to let some players go out on loan after the West match. Those players would have the benefit of some pre-season with us but would still have time to integrate into their new team''s playing style. "Hang on," I said, side-eyeing my assistant. "Did you just manage me?"


    "What do you mean?" she said, a picture of innocence. At exactly the same time, we both started laughing.


    ***


    Before starting my car, I bought The Friendzone and 4-2-3-1.


    XP balance: 2,952


    Buying Friendzone made me realised I''d been played - kind of. I didn''t want to risk injury in meaningless games and we had so many players who needed minutes on the pitch that I wasn''t keen to play in the pre-season matches anyway. But the imps had pretty much guaranteed that I would stick to managing for the first six matches every season. Predictable income for Old Nick!


    Buying the formation unlocked the next in the formation tree. It turned out to be 3-4-3, which I''d seen a few teams using. I instinctively liked it for many reasons including its aesthetics and because I currently only had one three-at-the-back option. 3-4-3 was on the market for 3,430 XP.


    ***


    Pre-Season 1 of 6: Chester vs Wythenshawe Town


    It was the first day of the season; time to blow off some of the cobwebs. Volunteers were going up and down the stands looking for litter and broken seats. Stewards were in place. Brooke had gone mental in selling tickets to a match no-one cared about. With a massive discount in place she hoped to get over a thousand people in. That was pretty impressive. Almost as impressive as the job she''d done selling season tickets. They were flying off the shelves! The stadium was going to be packed all season!


    Another fact gave me that exciting, first-day-of-school feeling - it was the first time I''d seen all my male players in one place. They''d been training at BoshCard for a few days but I didn''t feel like going so I''d stayed home watching Garden Rescue wondering why everyone said pergola differently.


    We had sixteen men in one quarter of the pitch doing a light jog, and sixteen in the next quarter doing a light jog. Wythenshawe had sixteen in total and they got half the pitch to themselves. The Brig was joking with the ref and his assistants. We were playing music on the stadium''s PA system, but it wasn''t too loud. Fifty Wythenshawe fans were in the main stand - no point segregating them - having a lovely old singalong.


    The Chester Chatters were in their new, dedicated section. Those seats had little slip-on covers with a logo Brooke had designed. Clive OK was there, as was Overprepared Grandmother, and some of our former under eighteens. I made a note to go over at half time and make a fuss of them.


    Emma came down the stairs and let herself onto the pitch. She joined me in the dugout area. Livia was checking her medical bag. Everyone was checking everything! It was like a spring clean. A fresh start.


    "What are you thinking?" said Emma, to me.


    I pulled her close for a squeeze. "I''m thinking about the last match here. It was pretty epic. I''m wondering how it''s going to end this season."


    "Mad glory. Crazy scenes. You doing cartwheels as the other scores from the other games come in."


    I smiled. I hadn''t tried to cartwheel since I was about four. It hadn¡¯t gone well. "Our last match of the season is away, this time."


    "That''s no fun."


    "I know, it''s a swizz. But the National League playoff final is at Wembley. So there''s that."


    "Wem-ber-ley! Wem-ber-ley! We''re the famous Chester FC and we''re off to Wem-ber-ley!" Livia grinned. I stepped back so I could admire Emma. How did she always find ways to surprise me? "Where did you learn that?"


    "You''ve been singing it for weeks."


    "Have I? Okay this might sound odd but have I been... mumbling about mermaids?"


    She rolled her eyes. "No. Do I need to get another costume? The cowgirl one is still at the dry cleaners."


    Livia froze and decided she didn''t need to finish checking her supplies. She left the area. I sat down and patted the spot next to me. Emma sat. "You shouldn''t shock my employees like that. Save those jokes for MD."


    "Who''s joking? Oh, she''s gone." She peered at the pitch. "So this is the new Chester. And that''s... the under eighteens?"


    "All that is the new Chester." I sighed.


    "What''s up?"


    I leaned my head on hers and spoke softly. "You know it''s my job to put together a good squad, right? Well, there it is. It is slightly ridiculous. I''m feeling mixed about it."


    "But you were happy."


    "Well, mixed feelings include some happy feelings, right? The negatives, first." I swept my arm around. "One. It''s too big." I put my head back touching hers and played with her hair. Her breathing started to deepen. "A few of these guys will be out on loan at any one time. Andrew, Vivek, Benny, Tyson, Dan Badford. Maybe some more, we have to see how it goes. I wanted everyone together at the start so no-one feels like an outsider. And yeah, some of these are under eighteens but I want them getting first team minutes. Today we''re going to completely switch the teams from the first half to the second and we''ll probably do that in every friendly."


    "Tommy Tactics," she mumbled.


    "First world problems, I suppose, compared to how it was when I started. But it hints at mismanagement, if I''m being honest with myself."


    "Best out, boo," she murmured.


    "Two. Most of those lazy fucks have done fuck all work over the summer. I mean, I wanted them to rest and recharge, but not to that extent. Some of them have come back with little kangaroo pouches."


    "Joey Anka."


    "That''s funny. I''m stealing that. Joe Anka was bad at summers, by the way. Came back like this lot." My first-choice goalie had lost 4 points of CA. My captain had lost 6. My midfield terrier had lost 5, and while the curse said that Henri had ''only'' lost 6 points, in reality he had turned from wolf to sheep. Sandra had complained about his effort in training and seeing him now, he kept looking to a certain spot in the stands. Still absolutely loved-up and if he played like he trained he would be next to worthless.


    "Three. Head stuff. Especially Henri and Pascal." Henri was goo-goo over Lu-Lu. Pascal was still so angry with Henri it said so on his player profile. Moreover, Pascal had changed his image over the summer. He was pure bad boy, now. He''d dyed his hair blonde and wore ripped leather and chunky chains.


    "Tough guy, chest so puffed guy," mumbled Emma.


    "The positives. One. I''ve given Ben the number one jersey and he loves it. His morale is maxed out. Same with Eddie Moore, our new number three, and William Roberts, our number ten. I''m actually regretting that one. It''s a bit premature giving him such an important shirt number. It hints at how good he is in a way I''ve been trying to keep under wraps, but I couldn''t fucking help myself. Seeing him in the number ten shirt excites me like almost nothing else."


    "Spicy Mermaid Outfits dot co dot uk."


    "Two. Although I don''t have a proper goalie coach yet, Angles has accepted his new role as a non-playing human being and to be honest, I''m almost tempted to keep him around until January if he doesn''t get a new job before then. I have the budget, after all, and with the threat of playing lifted from his shoulders he''s a new man. There he is laughing up a storm. Does he look younger to you? Three. While the short term could get very messy indeed, I''m looking at an absurdly talented squad of players. I mean, if I had a sort of magic potion that would max everyone''s ability for one day, I''d fancy our chances against any Championship team."


    "Ooh are ya?"


    "Four. I''ve done it on a shoestring. Seriously, having all this talent with budget to spare is amazing." Now that I had Super Scout, Contracts 2, and a functioning Player Search page, I was an absolute menace. A threat. There were always going to be trade-offs - in this case, the time it took for this talent to come to fruition. But wow! There were better first elevens in the National League but when it came to ceilings, all my grinding had paid off in spectacular fashion.


    "It''s Max Best, you know, never believe he''s humble."


    "But most importantly - point five if you''re counting - the squad is so heart-warming I almost want to get another documentary crew in post haste." I couldn''t because of the curse, obvs, but Emma liked it when I said things, especially if I was playing with her hair at the time. "Think about it. Five Exit Trial kids. One episode per kid! Sharknado. He''s basically an older Exit Trial boy. WibRob. The last street footballer. A burly, irrepressible bundle of raw footballing power. A throwback to Dixie Dean, cobbled streets, and playing on Wednesdays because that''s when the mine workers had a day off."


    "War of the Monster Trucks."


    "Lol, what? Zach could get an episode. Signed to get housewives in the flyover states - whatever they are - to watch a soccer documentary, but binned off almost as soon as he''d set foot in Wales. Lots of scenes of him walking his dog looking handsome and sad. Just don''t look at his abs, ladies, or you''ll go cross-eyed! And then an unusual shot at redemption whizzes past. Max Best, the white Jesus, in a chariot pulled by two reindeer, two Biscuits, and two big slobbering wolf dogs. He likes dogs, you see."


    "Why did he sign?"


    "Absolutely no clue. He was cold and then he was hot. He''s a year older than me so he''s probably got that bad circulation us old people get. And talking of old, we can have an episode dedicated to the oldest of the old. A man literally older than the Internet, cloning, GPS, the concept of mansplaining, and Crocs. Ryan Jack, halfway through his recovery from a serious injury, able to walk, drive, and after a certain fashion, talk. His episode could be just as emotional as any of the others. The long, arduous road back from The Snap. Many hours alone with only a club-provided hot nurse for company. Many hours alone with only a hot Texan who needed to learn about football for company. Many hours alone with only a dozen pensioners for company. And then that first match back and the first tackle and it takes him far too long to get back up. Has he..? Has it..? But then he''s up and walking and the music swells and there''s not a dry eye in the house."


    "I''d watch that."


    "So yeah, apart from the French idiot and the German idiot, it''s a good group and I know we''ll get through any rough patches that came up."


    "Oh, there''s Ziggy. Hi, Ziggy." She was still mumbling, by the way.


    It was true. There was Ziggy.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Ziggy</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Born 13.1.1999</td>


    <td>(Age 25)</td>


    <td>English</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Acceleration 8</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Handling 1</td>


    <td>Stamina 10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Heading 9</td>


    <td>Strength 8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Tackling 5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jumping 7</td>


    <td>Teamwork 16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bravery 4</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Technique 9</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Creativity 5</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Pace 7</td>


    <td>preferred foot R</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Passing 10</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dribbling 7</td>


    <td>Positioning 6</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Finishing 17</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Condition 79%</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>CA 33</td>


    <td>PA 58</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Striker</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    CA 33 was pretty feeble but I was working under the assumption that he had lost five points that he would get back in the next month. We''d get him to CA 40 soon enough, I reckoned, and with his work rate and application I felt sure we''d see him looking really sharp in a few months. I doubted we''d hit his max CA this season simply because he hadn''t played enough football in his career but it would be pleasing to get him to CA 50. He was sort of useless in everything except scoring goals, though, so I wasn''t worried about his pace or his strength. If he was on the pitch we''d have to get ahead of him and cut the ball back for him to score tap-ins. That was something he could do far better than most footballers.


    Bringing Ziggy to the club had been incredibly easy. I''d gone to FC United and pitched my case. Neil, still the manager, had listened and said, okay. And that was that! I asked why it was so straightforward and he said he couldn''t get in the way of someone having a go at climbing the ladder. So now Ziggy was back in my life on a daily basis and that had led to the news that there was a team in Manchester being gossiped about for its relentless winning ways. Its manager was a twenty-year old phenomenon who sounded, frankly, like a young Max Best. A less used-up, less worn-down, less world-weary Max Best. Max Best before one too many arrows of outrageous fortune hit him in the dick. I resolved to go and check the guy out.


    The players finished their warm ups and filtered past in little batches. Youngster saw what looked like a sleeping Emma and turned to hold his finger to his lips. He stood like a sentinel while the last ones tiptoed past.


    One player didn''t notice Youngster. "Luisa, my darling!" cried Henri, causing Emma to wake up and rub her eyes. "Henri is here, honeybun!" He blew some kisses in Luisa¡¯s direction as he clomped past, pausing to admire her a few last times before going down the tunnel and emerging once again to call out, "No, you say goodbye!" He thought this was beyond delightful.


    "Ew," said Emma.


    "I know."


    "That doesn''t look like a player who''s going to bang you thirty goals this season. He looks - "


    I interrupted. "I know."


    ***


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I said for the first time in the new season. The dressing room was so cramped that guys were standing on the benches. It was sort of fun but sort of claustrophobic. They were using up all the oxygen in the space and I needed it. I needed it bad. I was mildly annoyed by their summer sloth but then again, we had a month before the new season. I expected everyone would add five points of CA and that would leave us in a less atrocious state before we played Maidenhead in the curtain-raiser. "Sandra''s going to give the first half lineup now. You eleven listen to her instructions, then fuck off onto the pitch so there¡¯s some fucking space in here. Then she''ll tell who''s left who''s in the second half. We''ve got six of these matches and they''re not for you, they''re for us. We''re looking at formations and doing mad experiments. You¡¯ll get minutes. If you play shit and it''s our fault, we''re going to know that. Do you get me? Just play football and learn about your teammates and get fit and work off those summer beers. All right? Bye."


    "Boss," called Sam Topps. "What formation do Wythenshawe Town play?"


    "Four four two. This is a big day out for them, playing in a proper stadium and there''s a decent turnout. They won''t have had this very often so don''t ruin it by snapping the ankles of a guy who will be fixing someone''s taps on Monday morning. All right? They might have a bit of a lash out early doors to see what you''re made of. Give them a warning, then a warning shot. Don''t go full Arkham Asylum on them right off the bat, yeah?"


    Sam shook his head. He had hated the asylum boot camp until it was over. Looking back, he could enjoy it. "We could get them to fix the taps of that asylum, boss."


    Youngster was as excited by the new season and the new faces as anyone. He didn¡¯t want me to leave the pre-match team talk so soon. "Mr. Best! You have not told us what your favourite movie is and how that relates to the day¡¯s match."


    I smiled. ¡°My favourite movie is The Shining, all right?¡± That got some amused groans. ¡°It¡¯s about a guy who has loads of space to himself. A guy with a lot of freedom. A guy who doesn¡¯t have Omari Naysmith¡¯s muddy boots on his gardening magazines! That''s Charlie Dimmock, that. Have some respect.¡±


    The Exit Triallist panicked and moved his gear. Now his mud would drip onto Aff¡¯s kit bag. ¡°Ah, be off with you,¡± said the Irishman, so Omari picked his bag up and held it.


    ¡°Guys, we¡¯ll do our team talks on the pitch next time. All right?¡± Lots of nods. ¡°Now I¡¯m off to play nice with the fans. Enjoy the game. New season, whoo!¡±


    I squeezed through the mass of players, getting more and more gleeful as I got closer to the corridor. Outside, I discovered that Owen Travis had been locked out and didn¡¯t have the confidence to force his way in. ¡°Owen, mate! Why don¡¯t you hang out with me for the first half?¡±


    ¡°What, really?¡±


    ¡°Big time. I¡¯ll show you how I want you to analyse matches when you¡¯re on the subs bench.¡±


    ¡°Oh, cool. Cool, yeah! Amazing.¡±


    ¡°It is amazing, actually. That¡¯s right.¡± I paused. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll take fifteen minutes to get back into the swing of things. I haven¡¯t managed in a while. Maybe I¡¯m shit at it, now.¡±


    ¡°No way!¡±


    ¡°I know, I¡¯m top. I was being self-deprecating to put you at ease.¡± I watched him. He was a bag of nerves. ¡°You¡¯re not going to be at ease today. That¡¯s okay! Come on.¡±


    We wandered off with my arm on his shoulder. The dressing room door opened. Sandra¡¯s head popped out. ¡°Max! That¡¯s my second-half goalie! Get off my goalie!¡±


    I laughed and gave Owen a few friendly pats. ¡°We¡¯ll do the analysis thing some other time, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, boss!¡±


    He went back to the moronically cramped dressing room and the Bench Boost and Triple Captain buttons popped up. I dismissed them - winning wasn¡¯t the point today - but smiled thinking about how awesome it would be to use Bench Boost in a match where I could use eleven subs. I could replace the entire team after ten seconds. Imagine! I also had no plans to use Seal It Up to boost my defence for fifteen minutes, or Cupid''s Arrow, which would make players combine better. We needed to see where the guys were with no artificial help.


    I went back to the dugout - Emma had scarpered - with a rising tingling sensation. Anticipation. Excitement. Soon I''d be back in control of a football team. I could change their tactics at the speed of thought using my hot keys. I could put Henri in goal. I could do all kinds of mad things and whatever I did I was rewarded with experience points that I could use to make myself even stronger.


    I grinned and went to the nearest ball and started doing kick ups. I fell into a kind of trance; I was up to two hundred and fifty-three when Sandra nudged me. "Ref''s waiting for you."


    "Huh? Oh." The spectators were in place, as were the players and the ref. I dabbed the ball away, gave him a Maxy Two-Thumbs and started to prowl up and down the touchline.


    Squad-building was fun. Travelling with Emma all over Cheshire and Germany was unreal. But football was back!


    Yes, mate!


    The match kicked off and it all came flooding back into me. The match ratings. The options. Man-mark, free role, forward runs yes or no, adjusting free kick routines on the fly. I lost myself in it for five whole minutes. Sandra, by my side, yelled out instructions and tips. We hadn''t been side-by-side on the touchline like this for a while. I grinned and took a step back and let her command the troops on a micro level while I let my thoughts drift around the entirety of the pitch.


    It was about ten minutes in when she turned and checked me out. She did a cute lopsided grin. "How''s it feel, boss?"


    I smirked back and glanced over my shoulder. Our crazy youthful second-half team was watching. As many were watching me as the match. Was I the shepherd they''d been promised? Or just another old guy who would disappoint them? They were so callow they couldn''t play loads of National League matches, not yet. But they hadn''t picked up a load of bad habits. They could be moulded just how I wanted. I could turn them into hyper-efficient footballing machines. "I feel pretty fucking fantastic, Sandra. Energetic. Have you ever heard of a young man in a hurry? That''s me."


    She did a slow blink. "National League beware."


    I scoffed in agreement. We were already two-nil up and Wythenshawe couldn''t get the ball. My kangaroo-pouched sloths were already playing like lions. Henri had trained like shit but he was playing sharp. One less thing to worry about.


    I thought about our coming challenges. Grimsby, Barnet, Ebbsfleet. They didn''t have our kind of squad, they didn''t have our kind of coaching, and they didn''t have me. A triumphant surge of optimism coursed through my veins as I declared, "The only thing that can stop us is ourselves."


    I held my hand up and Sandra took the chance to give me a hearty old slap. It cracked like a starter pistol. Go go go!


    She turned to yell at Sam, while I tweaked Eddie Moore''s instructions.


    Six friendlies, forty-six league matches, and an unknown number of cup ties.


    Football was back, and that feeling never got old.

 8.7 - Maidenhead United

    7.


    Saturday, August 3


    Match 1 of 46: Maidenhead United versus Chester


    The referee blew his whistle and the season was underway!


    Maidenhead kicked off and immediately knocked the ball long. Glenn Ryder leaped and headed the ball away. There was a tussle in midfield and Sam and Youngster between them nudged the ball out to Eddie Moore. He knocked it first time to Aff, who hit a big diagonal to Pascal on the right wing.


    Pascal raced ahead, then cut the ball diagonally backwards... right into my path.


    I booped the ball from my right onto my left, faked a shot, and chipped the ball left-footed over the right-sided centre back into Pascal''s path. He touched it square.


    Henri had an easy volley which he expertly guided past the goalkeeper.


    Twenty seconds, one-nil, thank you very much.


    ***


    THREE WEEKS EARLIER


    Hot off our two friendly wins against Wythenshawe and Bala Town, everyone had gathered to hear my Maxterplan for the coming season. This everyone included the men''s squad plus loads of the under eighteens. It included the coaches, physios, key admin staff - Brooke was a big distraction - and our two new cooks. They were charmingly nervous and didn''t feel they should have been invited. Wrong!


    Even Jackie had got out of bed to hear it, which was a lot of pressure. I had to be at least as exciting as Antiques Roadshow or he¡¯d let me know.


    "All right," I said, and the hubbub died down. "Before I start, quick cheers to the guys who were with us last time who''ve moved on. Joe Anka, D-Day, Trick, Gerald May, Robbo, and Tony. Did I miss anyone?"


    "Chris," called someone.


    "He wasn''t here for this bit."


    "Angles."


    "Yeah. RIP in peace Angles," I said. "Oh, he''s there at the back. Never mind. Literally the happiest guy ever since he retired. Ryan! Don''t get any ideas."


    "I''m raring to go, bosh," said my injured midfield maestro.


    I tapped my hips in a rare moment of doubt. "Not sure what to call this. Maxterplan 2. Maxterplan 24/25. National League: Blitzkrieg. National League: The Max Best Year. Right, let''s start in a slightly weird way by talking only about the first two games of the season. That''s Maidenhead United away and Grimsby at home. Look at the person to your left. Look at the person to your right. Statistically speaking, seventy-five percent of those people weren''t here this time last season. Youngster, put your hand down. We''re not doing any fact-checking today. When I gave this speech last time we''d already lost the first two matches. That was because I''d just come out of a coma. The only coma I''ve had this summer was a sugar coma in Osnabruck. Cooks? No banana splits on the menu until further notice. Right so we had zero points from a possible six. If you squint and compare this season to last season, any points we get from the first two games are a bonus, right? Now, Maidenhead are one of the weaker teams. They''re semi-pro, gates of a thousand. West Didsbury might get more this year. That said, Maidenhead are in the National League for a reason and that reason is that they''re better than anything we faced in the National League North and our fitness advantage probably won''t pay off this early in the season. Then Grimsby. They''re the best team in this league but guess what? I know a thing or two about them and I think we''ll give them a good game." I smirked and the energy in the room went up a notch. "For the new guys, I''m saying we''re going to dick them. More about that later."


    I wandered off to my flipchart and pulled the first page over. There was one word written: Training.


    "Chester Football Club''s success or success - put your hand down, Youngster - is based on training. Last season we trained great. Lots of sweating and grunting across nine months and we gave birth to a big shiny trophy. This season we need just as much effort. Just as much dedication. When we play Maidenhead we''ll have had five proper weeks of sessions and six friendlies. Last season we were miles off the pace in game one. Not this time!"


    ***


    Maidenhead had a lot of tidy players. They were pretty comfortable on the ball and passed it around well. We spent some time keeping our shape. As one of the central midfield two I tried to stick to a disciplined interpretation of my role. Since we were winning, we could shuffle and slide and look to hit Aff and Pascal on counters.


    The last five weeks had seen healthy if unspectacular CA growth.


    The goalies had added a fraction less than the squad average, possibly caused by the uncertainty of the keeper coach situation. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Ben had improved to 48.9 and he had actually trained just as well as everyone else. All I knew was that he had almost recovered to the peak he had reached at the end of last season and that he would soon turn 50.


    50 wasn''t gold any more. 50 was silver. To be a gold player in my National League rankings you needed CA 60, and platinum started at 70. Having a bronze goalkeeper didn''t fill me with confidence but Ben still had loads of room to improve.


    Ben''s understudy, the talented youngster Owen Travis, had improved slightly to CA 23. Far short of being ready for minutes, but I knew that when I signed him. Most importantly, he had picked up a nickname. This was a tremendous relief to me, since the major obstacle in signing him had been that he had a forgettable name that was similar to other members of the squad. Now that he was being called ''Rainman'' - I wasn''t sure if I wanted to know why - I could distinguish him better, as could the coaches when calling out instructions.


    Our starting left back, Eddie Moore, was bronze, but just an electron or two away from silver. The other three in the back four, Glenn, Steve Alton, and Carl Carlile, were silver. Carl was already racing ahead - he''d hit CA 58, only a point off his peak from last season.


    Youngster, on CA 54, was slightly ahead of where he had finished. He was still short of being National League quality but it would only take a few matches for him to get there. He was lively in training and reliable in matches, and was great with the Exit Trial kids. There were so many guys younger than him he was starting to take more of a leadership role. Just a great kid all round, and now that he was a year older I wouldn''t stress too much if he had to play back-to-back matches. We weren''t the only ones to notice his upward trajectory; we''d had a few clubs get in touch to ask, could we? To which the answer was, no you couldn''t.


    Aff, Pascal, and Sam had trained up a storm and were all on either CA 56 or 57. Pascal had been the single best trainer in terms of adding CA, and he had forced himself into my first eleven even though his morale was shit and he still had that horrible ''Dislikes Henri Lyons'' message in his profile. So far it had only manifested itself in some scowls, avoiding celebrating goals with the Frenchman, and being surly and uncommunicative. I wasn''t too sure how to deal with it, so I decided to let things play out and wait to see if it actually affected us in any way. I mean, my profile probably said ''Dislikes Trick Williams'' and we were able to do our jobs.


    Henri, though. He hadn''t trained well at all. He played fine, but his CA had been stuck on 57 ever since he returned from picking lavender in Provence or whatever romantic fantasy he had played out with his new girlfriend, Yoko Tiny Tino.


    Yeah, some good improvements, some a bit slower than I''d have liked, and cumulatively I was able to field a team with an average CA of 53.6. That was two bronze, eight silver, plus me.


    Maidenhead United, a semi-pro team, had CA 56. We were fortunate that their strengths were defensive.


    ***


    It looks like Maidenhead are adopting a more attacking approach.


    Huh. That felt premature.


    I looked around and liked what I saw. Our match ratings were a notch higher than theirs, and Aff and Pascal were doing a good job shutting down Maidenhead''s wide players. The home team were doing your bog standard 4-4-2, which was pretty much meat and drink to our defenders. With Youngster helping them out, our back four were coping well with any threats that made it through the midfield.


    We passed the fifteen minute mark. We battled. We won headers. Twice I clipped balls behind the right back that got Maidenhead in a tizzy. After the second time, their manager realised it was no fluke.


    It looks like Maidenhead are adopting a more cautious approach.


    Yeah! Get back, you worms!


    ***


    I flipped to the next page of the flipchart. It said Project Youth.


    "Ho-kay. As you know, the training ground has a more youthful vibe this year. We''ve got crayons and bibs and colourful, one-foot high plastic chairs. Ironically, that''s all for Ryan Jack." Some laughs. "No but really, I know there''s a load of shit being talked about us having too many young players and I''m bored of it already. I''ll get it in every interview and every fans forum and if I get it in here, too, I''m going to lose my actual mind. If you''ve got doubts about the way I''m running this club, write them down on a piece of paper and then we''ll read them all out at the end of the season and we''ll all have a jolly old laugh about what a fucking moron you are. These kids are mint and they''re going to get game time, the end. That said, not in the first two matches, as discussed."


    ***


    Pascal and his opponent competed for a header - an unequal contest that left the German on the deck. The ball bounced down the line where Carl Carlile hoiked a clearance. As he did so, he got clattered, leaving me with two prone players. Neither had any red attributes or any notes in their Injuries section, but I looked over at the subs bench anyway.


    As in the National League North, in these matches I would be able to name five subs and use three. One would always be a goalie - barring an unthinkable series of events - and I needed at least one defender, midfielder, and striker. Magnus Evergreen was incredibly useful as a squad player, as he was able to cover the defence or midfield. He was quite right-footed, though, and in general I liked to have at least one leftie on the bench.


    Today it wasn''t possible, but I had Eddie Moore, Aff, and myself on the pitch.


    Alongside Rainman and Magnus, I also had Zach Green. He had added five points of CA over the past month, easing from CA 40 to 45. He was still rusty as hell, but I planned to give him the second half, if possible, and had little doubt he would catch up to Steve and Glenn pretty darn quick. He had PA 139 and the capacity to become the best defender in the division. A defender who would be an attacking threat, too. Whoever it was that had made him come to the club, I owed them a pint.


    Finally, we had Sharknado and Ziggy. Both guys had improved since joining Chester, but were miles off the required levels. If I could get them twenty minutes each near the end of the game, that''d work wonders.


    ***


    The clock in my head ticked from 29 to 30 and I imagined Boggy''s commentary. "Half an hour gone here in Berkshire and it''s been a good performance from Chester. They''ve been solid in defence, though the home team have been creative and forceful. There''s panic, though, when Chester pick up the second balls. Player-manager Max Best''s long passing is causing conniptions."


    Maidenhead had worked out that fast counters down the wings were sort of our thang, so when I got the ball they would all rush back ten yards.


    So instead of passing...


    Youngster finds Best.


    Best looks up. He elects to dribble.


    He pushes forward. The defence retreats.


    Best still in space. Lyons drops deep to offer an option.


    Best instead finds Bochum.


    His manager overlaps on the right. Bochum plays the ball through a defender''s legs.


    Best surges towards the byline.


    He cuts it back!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Lyons appeared between two defenders and stabbed the ball home.


    This has been an impressive start to the season by the newly-promoted side.


    ***


    "Mate," I said, after Henri had taken his flowers from the fans. "You were rather fucking slow getting up there. I nearly flipped it out to Aff to see if he could get a volley."


    My star striker put his arm around my neck. "Max, you worry too much. Perfection is a journey, not a destination. You say I was not moving quickly. I say I was moving at 67,000 miles per hour. It is two-nil. Be satisfied. Do not forget to praise me in the newspapers. I should like to lie in bed listening to reports of my achievements read aloud in an exotic accent. Portuguese, for example."


    I felt more than heard a disgusted tut from my left, and sure enough Pascal was suddenly pacing back to his position.


    "How about," I said, "I sub you off right now and give Ziggy the rest of your minutes."


    The arm retracted like a snail''s antenna. "My two goals are not enough for you?"


    "No, mate," I said, moving off. "They''re not. Every striker in our entire program is looking to you. You''re the role model to everyone from little Simon Black to Tom Westwood. So how about you sprint when there''s a race on?"


    He briefly seemed furious, the old firebrand. Yes! Give me an earful! But he cracked into a placid smile. "Max, you are magnificent. I enjoy your tantrums. Do not worry about those who idolise me; they will see not only a complete striker but a complete man."


    ***


    I flipped to the next page of my presentation. This time it said Targets.


    "Interactive time. What should our targets for the season be? Discuss with the people around you. Ready, go."


    I watched with amusement and interest as little groups formed - or in some cases, didn''t form. I ambled to the cooks and made them turn around to talk to the players behind them. Jackie Reaper was trying to be aloof like he had no part to play in this tawdry men''s team stuff, but I made a turn-around motion and he grinned and joined in the chats with the players behind him. Brooke, MD, and Secretary Joe were busy chatting, but they''d be coming at the question from a financial angle. I made them separate and talk to some players.


    After a while I stopped them and picked a few people out to summarise what they thought. The first three people I asked said ''win the league''.


    That was interesting. Was it better to have an ambitious target that we wouldn''t reach or to tell them exactly how it was going to go so that, as my predictions came true, they would have even more belief in the process?


    "Okay, guys. You know I''m not defeatist but we''re starting at too low a point to actually win the league."


    Zach Green spoke up. "You think we can beat Grimsby, yeah? And they''re the number one you think. So if we can beat number one, we can be number one."


    This got some thoughtful nods, but not the whoops and cheers I think Zach was expecting. "That''s a cool phrase. Someone write that down. I might steal that. Yeah, look, guys. We can beat Grimsby because I am fucking pissed off with them and I''m going to go full Max in a way I rarely do on a football pitch. We''re going to use all our special moves and we''re going to devote the week before the match to preparations for that match. For the newbies, we only do that for key games. The rest of the time we train skills. The reasoning is that instead of constantly reacting to every team we play, we''ll eventually get so good it doesn''t matter what the other team does. So we''re going to beat Grims with a superhuman effort from me, Max Best. But I can''t do that every week. I know I make it look easy but this player-manager shit is exhausting. I want to play much less this season. Plus I keep getting suspensions and shit like that. Think about this. The return match against Grimsby is March the first. Will you be able to beat Grimsby then, away, without me?" I looked up and thought about it. What would our CA be around then? 65, maybe? "That''s the challenge."


    I went to the board and wrote: PROMOTION.


    "Our target is promotion. Through the playoffs, probably. That means we need to finish the league in the top seven. The top seven! How easy is that? Um... not so easy as I thought, maybe. These teams have some good players and better coaching."


    ***


    My match rating hit 9. Smasho and Nice One had warned me that going up a division was always a mind fuck, was always difficult. But not that long ago I''d played five matches at League Two level and even more recently I''d trained with a League Two side. It was even possible the curse had given me a bump for training with the Slovakian national team.


    I reckoned my CA was probably between 80 or 90. Not sure I could definitively call myself the best player in the league, but I was almost certainly the player who made the best decisions.


    If my players were shocked to find themselves playing at National League level, they weren''t showing it. Maybe that''s because the pre-season friendlies had been well-designed. After beating Wythenshawe and a small team from Wales, we''d put the kids out against West Didsbury. I couldn''t resist playing ten minutes in the stadium I owned, but apart from trying to chip the goalie from forty yards and yeah, okay, doing a double dribble against a gobby left back, I hadn''t done anything special. Home to Bury, away to FC United, and then the important one - home to Tranmere. As it was the last pre-season match, both sets of players took the day pretty seriously and it was a feisty old affair that Tranmere won 4-2. Ignore the result - this was great preparation for the coming season.


    Tranmere''s new manager was Jimmy Mustard and he was an upgrade on James O''Rourke. Mateo hadn''t consulted me about the decision but he''d done all right on his own. He was helped by the fact that Mustard had fallen out with the owner of his club and had been sacked after being in the job for ten successful years. Mustard''s numbers were average for a League Two side. He liked 4-4-2 and when I spoke to him after the match he lusted over Sam Topps. I''d planted the idea of Tranmere buying Sam a long time ago but it was still startling to hear them openly perv over my best midfielder.


    Sam''s match rating now was 8 - he was good and he was consistent. He went for an interception that only succeeded in slightly deflecting the ball. That was enough to bamboozle a midfielder with poor technique.


    I anticipated a miscontrol from the guy and snapped into a challenge. I held him off as his CM partner came to help out. I rolled the ball back a foot, forward a foot, back a foot, then flicked it sideways between the pair. They grabbed a chunk of my shirt and stopped me accelerating away. The ref could have booked both, but he picked one at random.


    I checked the tactics and found the booked one had been told to man mark me. Some shouts came from the dugout and the instruction vanished. Interesting. I''d have to get used to being man-marked more regularly. Would I have to get used to a midfield without Sam? It almost didn''t bear thinking about.


    ***


    Under the word PROMOTION I wrote CUPS.


    "General cup runs. Can we get to the third round of the FA Cup this time round? Yes, please. Can we retain the Cheshire Cup? You''d better, you bastards. Can we do something in the FA Trophy? We might need a bit of luck with the draw and the timings but sure. The final''s at Wembley, guys. Can you imagine going to the playoff final and the FA Trophy final in the same season?"


    I added the words FA YOUTH CUP.


    "William and the under eighteens, cover your ears. This isn''t for you." I slapped the marker against my lips. This was going to be a tricky topic. "Like the FA Cup, there are qualifying rounds before the proper tournament begins. Last season there were more participants than ever and our Chester boys got to the final qualifying round." A cheer rose up. "Yeah, that deserves a cheer. They did well. Good job, Vivek! Now, you know Vivek''s the only survivor from that batch. The next lot are crazy talented. We''ve got a phenomenal squad and a few genuine matchwinners. So I want to have a proper pop at the FA Youth Cup, and everyone in this room has a part to play."


    I went for a little stroll, letting them digest this information. I imaged Glenn Ryder asking himself what he was supposed to do to help. I had a piece of paper with some notes and I picked it up and referenced it every now and then.


    "We''ll get through the qualifying rounds easy enough. Then at the start of November it''s the first round proper. Last year at that point in the cup it was loads of randos and the main names you''d recognise were ones like Derby, Bolton, and Barnsley. The best youth system is Crewe, we''re supposed to think? They scraped through against a tiny team on pens. There''s not a lot of teams I''d fear at this point. And there''s zero who have more talent with kids who''ve got first team minutes."


    A few of my guys stirred. The smart ones had just realised where this was going.


    "Yeah. Minutes. First-team minutes. Benny scored against Walsall. Lucas Friend, Tyson, and Dan Badford played a few matches. WibRob''s already made his Banbury debut. We''ll do more, more, more, plus give game time to Noah Harrison and Chas Fungrieve and when we do that, suddenly our youth team has seven players who''ve played first team minutes in brutally tough leagues. Think how that will play out when our battle-hardened boys roll up against Crewe.


    "Mid-November''s the second round. Last time there was a tenth tier team still going. There were a couple of big names, yeah, but look at the results and some of the big names barely scraped through. I genuinely think we''ll be the best team in that round. Think about it. We''re Chester. We just came out of the sixth tier. How have we got the best youth team?


    "Third round, here come the big boys. These games go on all through December. Last season, a few Premier League teams put seven past some of the weaklings. All right but a ninth tier team took tier two Millwall to extra time. Anything can happen. And remember, our boys are getting first team minutes. Can we play three at the back in a few halves to get Henk into the team? Then Bomber? Then Captain? I think we can. We can''t get the goalies on the pitch but they can train with us for a few weeks, right?


    "January. Fourth round. I reckon we''re still in this! Seriously! Unless we draw Arsenal or someone in the third round, we''re going through. Last time there were four League Two sides out of 32 so okay, our chances are reducing at this point. But Swindon made it to the fifth round and guys, I think we''ll be putting out a better, more experienced side than Swindon.


    "At some point we''re going to come up against one of the top academies and I tell you what, I think that could be an interesting game because our lot won''t be scared in the slightest. We''ve got the weapons to hurt any team. Any team. Can we beat, like, three Prem clubs in a row? It''s a long shot. This season.


    "This season? Yeah, this season. Because our entire under eighteens mob will still be able to play in the Youth Cup next season. So you think they''re good this time, next time we''re proper going for it. We''re going for the whole fucking thing. Fourth tier Chester, as we will be, winning the Youth Cup. Look at the history books. That doesn''t happen. This city will go absolutely bonkers as we get closer and closer. Seriously, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for all of us. You, too. You''re part of this.


    "I will be giving minutes to players who aren''t ready for first-team football. Why? To get them ready.


    "Now, don''t be worrying that they''re taking your minutes. That''s not the problem. We played 59 games last season and there will be more this time. There''s loads of minutes. No, don''t worry about me giving some kid ten minutes here or there. But the guys from last season remember what happened when we put kids on the pitch. Results dipped a bit. And did I learn a lesson from that? Yeah. I learned that we did the league and cup double anyway.


    "So think of the bigger picture. If we''re struggling against Dorking or Southend because we''re giving minutes to a couple of babies and you step up and clear the ball off the line or make a line-breaking sprint or score that equaliser and we get a point or a jammy win, you''ve helped us for what we''re doing and you''ve helped us win that Youth Cup. If you find it frustrating then I''ve got good news. We''ve got a room full of boxing equipment! Go punch something until you feel better.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "But just think about how good it''s going to feel. That kid who''s been learning your position. Maybe you''ve given him a tip or two. Maybe you''ve lifted him when he''s been feeling down. And you watch him go toe-to-toe against Liverpool. You watch him shut down some jumped-up prick from Saints. And you watch him lift that trophy and bite his medal and spray alcohol-free bubbly all over the Emirates stadium. Yeah, the final''s at Arsenal. You''ll get tickets, mate, don''t worry. We''ll all be there. We''re all going to suffer and sacrifice to get us there. It''s going to feel shit until it feels so, so good. Trust me.


    "These brats winning the cup won''t go on your Wikipedia page but I''ll know what you did, and you''ll know what you did. It''s going to be magic. Pure magic."


    I left a dreamy, wispy pause.


    "And also, I''m your boss and I''m fucking telling you this is what''s going to happen so fucking get your head around it."


    I flipped to the next page. It said Mentoring.


    ***


    As the half neared its close, I found a new way to play the CM role - stick near Sam. He wasn''t as good at reading the game as me - how could he be? I had a computer game in my head telling me exactly what was happening - but he was better at knowing where he was supposed to be. My moves often led me to the DM slot or to the wings. That was fine, but the players in those zones had to adjust. What if I stuck to my job for once?


    So I hung out near Sam and it was shocking how often he was where he needed to be. And if he was where he needed to be, most likely so was I.


    Topps challenges. The ball breaks to Best and the danger is gone.


    That was it! That simple. But do that ten times in a half and you really stop the other team from building momentum. Maidenhead started to play longer and longer passes, which made life easier and easier for our defenders.


    Oh, Sam.


    I''d nominated him to be Dan Badford''s mentor. They had an unexpected connection and it was fascinating to see Dan, a silky smooth playmaker, start to do snide tackles that broke up attacks or copy Sam''s confused, wounded face when the ref gave a free kick against him. If Dan could absorb the work rate and positional discipline of Sam while retaining his passing and creativity, we''d have a hell of a player.


    Sam to Tranmere. How much would I get? Not enough to make up for the loss.


    God actual dammit.


    ***


    I spent some time outlining the mentoring concept. It was mostly informal - an experienced player (Sam) would take a fledgling (Dan) under his wing. The Brig would monitor and support both players while the club would hire Cody Chambers or another expert coach to do special training sessions just for those guys. It was a simple way for us to put our money where our mouth was - this process wasn''t mere flipchart hot air but had specific real-world benefits. The prospect of the extra training was very attractive to most of the older guys.


    Some of the pairs were obvious. Glenn would mentor Vivek; Carl Carlile would do Cole Adams; Aff was looking after Josh Owens, the wing back; Ryan Jack would be a grandfather figure for Omari Naysmith; Eddie Moore was keeping an eye on Lucas Friend. Slightly less obviously, Ziggy was going to mentor Chas Fungrieve. It seemed like an odd couple but Ziggy must have seen something of himself in the shy, helpful kid who didn''t seem to have the temperament to be a killer.


    I had a bit of an issue with the strikers, since Henri had been informally teaching Benny for some time. That left me with no-one helping Tom Westwood, our Exit Trial prospect. Henri solved the problem by saying he could do both. In his distracted state I worried he''d forget or tell the kids that football wasn¡¯t everything and that the poem was mightier than the goal, but I didn''t have much choice.


    Finally, exceptional students need exceptional teachers. William B. Roberts was the best prospect in the entire country so he got the best. The Max Best. One downside of the relationship was that because I was always zipping around doing random things I wouldn''t be able to commit to a regular time to train with him. I suspected structure would be useful to WibRob, but in pure football development terms joining my sessions with Cody would massively accelerate his improvement. Training with the firsts every day and getting minutes in the friendlies had shot his CA up to 23. The way he was treating every drill like it was a cup final made me think this guy would smash the single-season CA growth record.


    The guy was incredible, a pure natural. Any other manager would have stuck him right in the team and used him in every match but I wanted to be super careful. This guy wasn''t an asset to be sweated. He wasn''t a grunt to be put in the front line of battle. He was a champion. You kept him back, fed him beef, and taught him finesse.


    ***


    Two-nil at half time. A great start to the season! Maidenhead didn''t have a great striker which obviously made the whole affair a lot easier. It wouldn''t be this simple against Grimsby. Marcus Wainwright would make mincemeat out of Glenn and Steve, sorry to say. We''d have to come up with a plan to limit the damage he would cause.


    I smiled. Sweeper?


    "Oh, God," said Sandra, as I took my spot on the bench and ate some marathon paste. "You''re up to some mischief."


    "Not," I mumbled.


    She shook her head and gave me half a minute before bending down and whispering. "It''s going well. Good performance. We sticking to the plan?"


    I closed my eyes and thought things through. On the one hand, getting a win in the first match would be politically useful. It''d make the fans happy and convince MD and the board we were on the right track. On the other hand, it was going to be a long season and we needed to get players up to speed as fast as possible. "Zach attack," I said. "Hack-a-Zach. Zachy Mondays. Love Zach by the B52s."


    "Sorry, boss, I don''t follow. Who should come on?"


    She almost convinced me she didn''t know what I meant; I nearly choked on some paste. When I recovered, I said, "First we Zach, then we Zig."


    "You''ve done that joke about ten times."


    "And it gets funnier every time."


    "Sure." She went to the tactics board and tapped it three times. That was her signal for the guys to shut up. "Lads, good half. They''re not getting a sniff. Pascal? That''s perfect wing play. Impressive." Our resident bad boy tried not to look pleased - that wasn''t his image. He couldn''t help but glow, briefly. Then he nodded and the scowl came back. Sandra continued. "I''ve got a couple of technical details I''ll discuss with a couple of you. We''re doing our planned change. Zach for Steve. Zach, look for fast passes into the centre."


    "Hit Sam," I said, and Zach got up so he could see me over the heads of some teammates. I explained. "They''re flirting with man-marking me so I''ll make a move across their CMs to draw their aggro onto me. You can still hit me if you want but there''s probably gonna be easy diags to Sam. Hit him and he can lay it off for me, big one-two, or he can go wide to Aff."


    "Got it!" Zach said, with what I thought was excessive energy. He was so hyper all the time and so keen to impress but while someone like Aff did his talking almost exclusively on the pitch, Zach did his talking on and off the pitch, non-stop, and at maximum volume. "Yeah! Let''s do this, y''all!"


    "Mate," I said. "There''s twelve minutes of half time left. Let''s reserve the whoops and hollers for the last, say, six seconds. All right?"


    "I''m just stoked, boss! Gonna play!"


    Although he was hella annoying, I couldn''t help but smile. "Yeah, good, but we''re not two farmers yelling hot goss at each other across Snake River. We''re in a three-metre-wide box in Kent."


    The Brig perked up. "Berkshire, sir. You''re thinking of Maidstone."


    "You''re right. I was thinking of Maidstone. Now let''s all hush and think about different places that have similar names."


    ***


    I flipped to the next page. I''d written Everything can be improved no exceptions.


    "Young players will become squad players. Squad players will become first team regulars. First team regulars will become key players. Key players will become legends.


    "That''s you. What about us?" I pointed to the staff. "We''re pretty good but I''m always looking to improve. If this is the squad at the end of the transfer window I''m going to start thinking about the coaching staff. I''m happy with what we''ve got but if I don''t make another signing I''m going to see about putting on extra afternoon skills sessions. Something like the hyper-specific drills I get from Cody Chambers. The kind of thing you guys would normally have to pay good money to get. Someone like Cody isn''t going to take a massive pay cut to come full time but I think it''d be value for the club to get like three hours back to back from Cody or someone like him. If you''re not playing Tuesday night you can get a skills session. Something like that. And yes, this stacks with the mentoring. I am deadly serious about improving you as players.


    "But let''s see how the squad looks and what my budget is. If you happen across a good coach who lives in the area, let me know."


    Pascal stirred and it seemed like he would put his hand up, but he settled back into a cross-armed scowl.


    ***


    The second half started fine. Zach was the only change from either team, and he soon set about imposing himself physically on his opponent. There were almost fifteen hundred spectators including a fair few hundred Chester guys but the main thing I heard was the trash-talking of one player in particular.


    "Yeah! Come on! You like that? We got these clowns, y''all! Boss, I''m gonna need a bigger pocket! Whoo! Showtime!"


    We got a corner and I wandered over to take it.


    I thought back to a match from a couple of weeks before. I''d stayed in Manchester for a few days to spend some time with my mum, Anna, and Solly, and also to catch a pre-season friendly involving the under-21 side from Avro FC. Avro were in the eighth tier, the division below where Ziggy usually played. But Ziggy had heard talk about this young hotshot who had got turned a bang-average team into serial winners.


    The hotshot turned out to be called Jay Cope. He was twenty and he had his team whizzing around playing front-foot football. The match I watched was as one-sided as any I could remember. But how? All the players were equally poor. The answer was the manager. Jay liked a 4-3-3 with wide forwards and a high defensive line. Fearless football, all right, but the bit that got me was an elaborate corner kick routine that would have graced any Premier League encounter. It didn''t come to anything - most corners didn''t - but the smiles and laughs on the players''s faces told a tale. They were loving their football.


    After the match, I asked Jay if we could meet up in a couple of days. I got the Brig and Brooke to help me do background checks and get references, then over a vegan brunch I offered Jay a choice of two jobs. One, a coach at Chester who would take youth team matches. Two, the manager of West Didsbury and Chorlton FC. He thought about it for the amount of time it took him to eat one little square of feta cheese and chose the latter.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Jay Cope</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>4-3-3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    He couldn''t play - he said he was dogshit - but he was a floating megabrain and I felt sure his numbers would improve even further as he got experience and more coaching badges. How could I get such a top prospect? Because he had one terrible, ghastly flaw - he was young.


    So four new players and a gun manager. That was West sorted!


    Jay was a valuable addition and I was excited to see what he would get up to. Elaborate corner routines, though?


    I smiled as I respotted the ball, letting it hang over the corner arc to annoy the home fans. (It looked like the ball was illegally close to goal, but that was because most fans are stupid idiots who don''t know the laws of the game and are easy to wind up.) I inhaled, put my right hand up, switched to my left hand, then both, then neither. This signal meant absolutely nothing.


    Best to take the corner. He whips it in with great pace.


    Green rises!


    Goal for Green! He''s scored on his debut!


    He wheels away in celebration.


    But wait - the referee has spotted an infringement.


    No goal!


    Fucking Zach with his hyper aggression! He''d wrestled his marker to the floor before scoring. I pottered back to midfield shaking my head. Something for Vimsy to work on. Sam Topps was the model - he played hard but smart.


    Sam was screaming at me to get back. I really didn''t have the mental discipline to stay in central midfield. Have I stuffed this up? I thought. I''d wanted a crafty midfielder and hadn''t found one so I''d pretty much stopped thinking of central midfield.


    I¡¯d put so much stock in Sam Topps - he¡¯d proven himself not just to be an intelligent and efficient player but a positive force in the dressing room. An interesting guy who flourished in my new culture and who was an inspiration for our youth players and a man who was incredibly popular with the women¡¯s team.


    In purely football terms, if he left we would be desperately short of midfield quality. Our best pure CM would be Andrew Harrison - who I''d just sent to FC United until January. Yeah, in January we''d get him back, ready to rumble, and Ryan Jack, too. What about until then? Would our central midfield pairing be Magnus Evergreen and Omari Naysmith?


    It didn''t much set the pulse racing.


    Easy fix - don''t sell Sam Topps.


    ***


    "Okay, I''ve got two more big things to talk about and then we can do questions."


    I flipped to the next page, which read SWOT.


    I tapped each letter in turn. "Strengths. Weaknesses. Opportunities. Threats. Brooke, you didn''t know I could do this, did you?"


    "You''re full of surprises," she said, and the sound of her voice raised the energy level in the room. Bunch of horny gets.


    "He''s full of something," said Jackie Reaper, who I remind you hadn''t been invited.


    "There''s a sale on Kappa tracksuits if you need to leave early, mate."


    "Thanks, lad. Always looking out for me. I appreciate it."


    "Strengths. We fucking slap, guys! I know for a fact we''re better technically than Grimsby, so I expect us to be the most technical team in the league. More accurate passes, better control, better crosses. It adds up. We''ve got some beefy boys, some pace. We will improve faster than most or all teams. One way we improve is by spreading minutes around and that also helps reduce our injury burden. The medical rooms are nice and we added some more equipment and two new physios. Their main job is to cover all the extra matches we''ve got going on but it means more massages and leg rubs and whatnot for you guys. And Dean''s been learning the pan pipes, I heard."


    "Steel drums, boss," joked my Head Physio.


    "Oh! Well, that''s not relaxing at all. Weaknesses. We have to work around some issues but so does every team. You might be in a tough match and look at the bench and think, God, that''s young. All right. Fair comment. Are we going to make some mistakes? Yeah. You know who else makes mistakes? The other team. How do I know? I''ve fucking seen them, bro. Can they put ten passes together? Can they fuck. How about we pounce on some of their mistakes instead of feeling sorry for ourselves? Eh? Yeah, we''ve got some weaknesses. I think I prefer our weaknesses to Grimsby''s, to be honest. Our issues lessen every day. Do you know what I mean?"


    ***


    Powerful defensive header from Ryder. Maidenhead''s corner is cleared.


    Best rushes to put pressure on Maidenhead''s number 3.


    He tries to shift the ball to his stronger foot¡­ but he slips!


    Best pounces. He''s on the right of the pitch speeding forwards.


    Number 4 moves across to cover.


    Best darts to the centre of the pitch and heads back out to the right.


    Number 4 is between Best and goal.


    Best shapes to shoot...


    But cuts it back...


    Sam Topps has made up the ground.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Chester have scored from a Maidenhead corner kick!


    ***


    "Threats. There''s some good teams spending loads of money. We can thank our good friend Ryan Reynolds for that. He''s got every rich nutjob in America thinking the fifth tier of English football is a good place to invest money. These rich pricks are so fucking stupid. No offence, Brooke."


    "Huh?"


    "There''s clubs that nearly went bankrupt last year and this summer they''re chucking Darlo money on players I''ve never heard of. Seriously, I''ve legit never heard of most of these recent transfers so we''ll see if those managers are improving the sides or not. Let''s assume they are. I''ll do a full analysis in a minute. But obviously we can expect Grimsby to run away with the league and there could be six, seven, eight teams going hard at the playoffs. It''s not going to be like last season where it was us and three top teams. So the threat is quality. Teams have players that can hurt us."


    ***


    An hour gone and Maidenhead had a sustained purple patch. That was partly ''game state''. At three-nil up, my players were happy to get behind the ball and let Maidenhead do all the work. To be honest, I was happy with it, too. Three-nil was way beyond what I''d hoped for from this game. I''d thought it could be tricky.


    They had played pretty patterns, working the ball around trying to get us to lose our shape. When that had happened, Youngster had popped up to make interceptions. Now Maidenhead''s creative players were trying to build down the wings, with much more luck.


    They slid a pass behind Eddie Moore and got a dangerous cross in.


    They chipped behind Carl Carlile and he gave away a free kick that Ben did well to tip over the crossbar.


    Then after a bit of keep-ball and some insipid probing, they booted a high ball towards our shortest defender, Eddie, and created havoc in the penalty box that led to a bit of a scramble.


    I thought about using Seal It Up to give us fifteen minutes of extra defensive solidity, but decided to leave it until I had the last two subs on. They would not help us defensively.


    ***


    "Opportunities. I''ll talk more about Grimsby in a second. But think about this block of eight teams who are throwing money around. My instinct is that there won''t be one who breaks clear of the pack and they will all take points off each other. So if we''re, like, ninth with ten games to go, we''ll finish in the playoffs. Hundred percent. Last season I said I wanted us to be the best team by January and we did that. This year? Can we be the eighth best by January? I think we can get, like, in that vicinity. Add in better fitness, team spirit, tactics, and a big squad full of players who can come in for a specific game! Horses for courses. If a team''s going to hit high balls to our full backs, we''ve got Cole Adams who''s going to win most headers and if they''re going to sit back we''ll get Eddie to slap them on overlaps. Know what I mean? We''re way more flexible than other teams."


    ***


    It was clear Maidenhead were going to keep pounding Eddie Moore, so I moved him to left mid, Aff to be the left CM. And Max Best went to be a left back.


    The idiot Maidenhead left back hit a huge diag in my direction. I took my position and bumped into the tall CM that Maidenhead had moved out to the right for the purpose of winning these headers. With me in his way he couldn''t get to the ball, and I had the option of letting it go out for a throw-in.


    Throw-in? Maidenhead had sent half their team into the penalty area waiting for the CM''s header.


    As the ball dropped, and as I held off this beanpole, I turned and lifted my foot and when the ball hit it, I removed every joule of energy. I swayed left and right, then faked a burst round the outside of the player down the line. He threw out a leg to block me and I think was pretty surprised to discover that I wasn''t there. I was, in fact, thundering forward thinking about dribbling the length of the pitch.


    But the relative moves of Henri and Pascal called to me like a mermaid. I lazily flicked a fifty-yarder that bisected the defence and spun right, right, right into Pascal''s stride. He burst forward and slipped the ball into Henri''s path. Henri took a first-time shot that was smothered by the goalie who had gambled on the move happening just as it did. Good goalie!


    "Put a finish on that!" yelled a very American voice. "Shucks, fellas!"


    I seethed at Zach for a few seconds, then reset the formation with me back in the CM slot. If Maidenhead wanted to try the big diagonal again, I''d smash them again. Bring it on.


    ***


    I looked around the meeting room. MD and Brooke had been going round Cheshire scavenging for cash and because I''d gone nuts at the Exit Trials buffet instead of splashing out on transfer fees, I still had a fuckton of the Raffi Brown money.


    "So check this out, guys. We''re getting better and better and training and working our socks off and by January we''re the eighth best team in the league. Some of you are frowning like eighth is shit. Hey, think about our starting point. Eighth by Jan would be unbelievable. Unbelievable! So we get within range and then what? Could be another Chris Beaumont situation where we bring in someone who makes a difference or fills a gap. Could be. Loads of players fall out with their managers and become available. That''s an option." I smiled. The room was bristling with high-PA players. "But I really think this is a group that has a high ceiling. Eighth best by January, sixth best by Feb, fourth in March, second in April, and the absolute best team come the playoff final.


    "How do we keep getting stronger? Here''s the tricky bit. By giving minutes to players who need minutes. When we play Maidenhead, we''ll start strong and bring on a couple of guys for the last twenty." I had a great line - we''d get weaker at the end of some matches to get stronger at the end of the season - but I didn''t want to suggest some players made us weaker. Leave that kind of talk to the podcasters. "It''s always a risk changing a team and there''s gonna be some frustrating moments. But it''ll pay off. It''ll pay off big time."


    "What sorta frustrating moments?" bellowed Zach.


    ***


    The match got back underway and I signalled for Sandra to make sure Ziggy and Sharknado were ready. The plan was to swap them for Henri and Pascal who, whatever their current faults, were playing great and would be needed against Grimsby.


    It became apparent that my direct opponent had been told to have another go at man-marking me. He was following me around, pushing and pulling me regardless of where the ball was. I went to the centre circle and stayed there. After a minute, the guy detached from me, drawn by a contest happening fifteen yards away. I dashed into space, got the ball, and pinged a pass for Aff to chase. A defender took a risk and slid in front of Aff''s path; the risk paid off and all we got was a throw-in instead of a shot on goal.


    My marker came back.


    "Why bother?" I asked. "You''re shit at that. Stick to what you''re good at."


    "Fuck you," he said.


    Sandra was ready with the subs, but I jogged to the ref and asked to delay them a minute. My shadow came with me, so he heard what I said next. "I''m just going to humiliate this piece of shit, first."


    I demanded the throw go backwards and signalled to Youngster to Let It Happen. He got the ball and dribbled backwards, while our defensive line shuffled back accordingly. Youngster put his foot on the ball, taunting an opponent to challenge him. The nearest striker fell into the trap - you can''t press on your own - and we started to pass the ball around, picking off opponents one by one. As the ball went to Zach, my marker lost concentration and took a few steps towards him. I zoomed away and Zach pinged the ball into my path - glorious! - and I was suddenly breaking against three defenders with Henri and Pascal offering options. I dabbed the ball diagonally left to where Aff had drifted infield. He continued to dribble forward while I got my head down and sprinted forward. Now it was four on three and I surged square, across the width of the D, confusing defenders who were already panicked.


    Aff had acres of space and loads of options.


    He cocked his foot and eased the ball into the bottom-right of the goal.


    Four fucking nil!


    Aff and the others ran off towards our fans. I walked in the general direction of our dugout, deep in thought. Stick to the plan? Why not? Or what about switching from 4-1-4-1 to 4-5-1? We could flood midfield and make the game scrappy. Ziggy would be isolated but I could drift forward and support him. Or how about 4-4-2 and keep Henri on so that Ziggy could compete for knockdowns? I could go to left mid and support Eddie on the big diags. Give Aff a rest. Or -


    Something crashed into me - a truck, perhaps - and I found myself plunging to the ground. I threw out a hand to break my fall and a shocking stab of pain flew up my arm.


    What the fuck?


    There was a rush of movement around me but I was too stunned to defend myself. All I could do was curl into a ball and try to protect my face.


    "Max, relax. Open up."


    "Dean?"


    "Max, come on. Take a breath. You''re safe. It''s fine."


    He was doing his Doctor voice. It was soothing, but worrying that he had to do it. Was I broken? Was my head smashed to bits? "What happened?"


    "Er... nothing. You''re fine. Just breathe. Try to untense."


    Nothing happened? I''m fine? What?


    I tried to relax, like he said, and mentally scanned my body. I wished I had a perk to tell me if I was injured. "Tell me what happened. Someone hit me. Was it a crazy fan? Where''s the Brig? Did he get him?"


    "So, first of all, does this hurt? No? What about this?" He exhaled. "Okay I think I''d like you to sub off."


    "Yeah." Dean told Sandra and she signalled that Magnus should get ready. "Er, no. Stick to the plan."


    "Um, you tell her," he said. He helped me up and we walked off. Gingerly at first, but I soon realised I was more or less okay. I told Sandra I wanted Wes and Ziggy on as planned. We bickered briefly, but decided to put Aff in the middle and Pascal left.


    I followed Dean to the dressing room.


    "Er, my arm kinda hurts."


    "Let me look."


    "Tell me what happened."


    "Right. So... When we scored Zach was running around chest bumping everyone."


    "What?"


    "He kind of sprinted to chest bump you and sort of knocked you flying."


    "Are you joking?"


    "Not really, no. I think he was happy with his pass."


    The room got very quiet. A fair chunk of the home fans had left and now the main noise was the non-stop chanting of the Chester mob.


    Finally, I broke the silence. "That guy''s broke my arm, Dean. He''s broke my arm."


    "He hasn''t."


    "How long''s a broken arm?"


    "Six weeks out."


    I gawped at him. "That''s twelve league games. The fucker''s put me out for twelve games!"


    "It might not be broken," lied the renowned liar Dean.


    I closed my eyes as the agony washed over me. Not the agony of the break - though it was starting to burn - but the agony of my plans being trashed after a single match. "Dean, listen carefully. I''m going to take a shower. You''re going to wrap this up good and we''re going to pretend nothing happened. We''ll get an X-ray and whatever it says, I''ll play against Grimsby."


    "Absolutely not."


    "And after we''ve smashed them, I''ll take three weeks off and we''ll X-ray it again and see if it''s healed."


    "That''s not how it works."


    "Even better idea," I said. "Tonight we''ll splint this up. Put a cast on it. I''ll hide for a week so no-one sees it. Next Saturday you''ll take it off, I''ll slap Grimsby around the Deva, one-handed obviously, then we''ll put a new cast on. Okay?"


    "No. That''s not okay in the slightest. You can''t play with a broken arm or wrist."


    I smiled. "You just told me it wasn''t broken."


    Dean expressed unusual annoyance. "You can''t ask me to do this. It''s not ethical. And besides, you said it yourself in the big meeting - individual results don''t matter. We only need to finish seventh. It''s a long season."


    "Ah!" I said, trying to point my index finger up. It hurt like the devil. I switched to my other hand. "Ah! But you forgot what I said in my opposition analysis."


    ***


    "Last page from me." I tapped the words I''d written. Know your enemy.


    I hesitated. Last season, two board members had come to this meeting. This year, I''d kept them away. Inner circle only, I''d told MD, who was not, then, best pleased to see the entire staff including our two cooks. But fuck the board. Seriously.


    "Last season I outlined the teams in pretty much the order they finished in," I said, with remarkably little smugness.


    Vimsy interrupted me. "You made one big mistake."


    "Oh?" I said, trying to remember.


    "Yeah. You had Chester as fourteenth."


    I laughed. "That''s true. But we started as fourteenth. We trained from fourteenth to first. Okay but this season is going to be absolutely wild. Check this out."


    I picked up a big piece of paper I''d had specially printed with various club logos and clipped it to the flipchart. The logos at the top were surrounded by dollar signs. "The two clubs relegated from League Two are owned by multi-millionaires and while they had a poor run last season they''ve got good facilities, coaches, and squad depth. Okay? Grimsby and Forest Green will be looking to go straight back up." I tapped the next logos. "Barnet''s owner is worth a quarter bill. Altrincham is part-owned by an American investment company. Gateshead have ambitious new owners. Dagenham is part-owned by the New York Yankees. Southend''s got a new owner and he''s as rich as Chris Hale! Ebbsfleet have Kuwaiti owners who lose 1.3 million pounds a year and the team isn''t even that good." I tapped logos that were a bit smaller than the others. "Eastleigh, Woking, and Fylde have money, too. It''s fucking crazy. This is not the non-league your parents grew up with. You get me?"


    I walked off, shaking my head. So many people were chasing a dream, but only two clubs could go up. Buying a non-league football team was not the path to riches, fame, or glory.


    "I don''t see all that money as a big problem, to be honest. They''re all chasing the same pool of strikers and long-throw merchants - no offence Zach - so they''re literally burning half their money. And playing against better players makes us better so I welcome it. And hey! It''s good news for you lot, too. Impress in this league and one of these nutjobs will pay you Wrexham money. Know what I mean? If we''re smart, we skim off a chunk of this new cash.


    "Okay so the main issue is that there aren''t many weak teams. The weakest might be Kidderminster, and we know how tough those games are. I''ve seen they''ve added some players so, urgh. Maidstone look weak on paper but they beat Ipswich in the FA Cup last year!


    "So yeah, it''s going to be a chaotic season and we''re going to succeed by navigating the chaos and causing some chaos. Because I tell you what, there are ten teams who will be having a meeting just like this one except they won''t mention Chester. We will go under the radar big time.


    "Now, there''s one match that I think we should go hard at. It''s the second game of the season and it''s Grimsby at home. Now, the thing about them is they have great fans, very noisy and they''ll come in big numbers. I liked them, on the whole, but they''re a very whiney, complainy bunch. Very pessimistic and if we beat Grimsby in the second game of the season we really could send them into a doom spiral. Would it stop them winning the league? Who knows? But we''re going to go hard at that one. That match will be the hardest we go in the league until the final stretch, or until someone pisses me off. If we can send Grims into a tailspin, it''s going to be like blood in the water for these other teams and all kinds of mad things will happen. Chaos is good, guys. Embrace the chaos. If we beat Grimsby it opens up all kinds of absolutely delicious possibilities." I pointed at the cooks. "Delicious possibilities! That''s a good name for our restaurant."


    ***


    I was in quite a lot of pain by the time I got back to the dugout. I was in place for the last ten minutes, earning a tasty 6 XP per minute. The same as watching a Championship game! Truly I was moving up in the world.


    I let Sandra make the tweaks and do the shouting. Just in time, I remembered to use Seal It Up to give our defenders plus one positioning. I also used Cupid''s Arrow to link Youngster to Sam thinking it would help us keep control of the midfield.


    The defence held firm and the midfielders won most of their duels.


    Ziggy was terrible. Wes was wayward.


    But Aff was solid in the centre and Pascal continued to impress on the left.


    I fretted about Eddie being targeted with long balls again, but Maidenhead''s manager had all but given up. Four goals was just too big a deficit and he seemed happy to contain us. A five-nil loss at home in the first match of the season wouldn''t have gone down well with his board.


    Zach''s match rating dropped a point and I couldn''t hear him chirping out his usual stream of nonsense.


    I inwardly tutted. Henri was in love, Pascal was in hate, Sam was wanted, and Zach was absolutely demented.


    Which idiot said we should embrace the chaos? That guy was a prick and a half.


    I asked for a score update. Livia said Barnet had won 5-1. We wouldn¡¯t finish the day on the top of the league, but we¡¯d won away and won well. It was a hell of a relief for me and a big ol¡¯ party for our travelling fans.


    ***


    I paced around some more, chucking the marker up so I could catch it. "Last word from me. The months ahead are going to be choppy at times. It''s going to be weird. Very, very weird and chaotic. There will be tough times! But smooth seas do not make skilful sailors. All we have to do is do what we do. Stick together, train hard, scrap for points, watch as all the pieces of the jigsaw fall into place and it all seems so, so easy. Then we go to the moon, just like last year.


    "This, my friends, is a promotion season. This is a successful season. Remember that when things feel shit. This is a winning season. This is a winning season." I grinned one last time. "And no-one can stop us except ourselves."

 8.8 - Castaway

    8.


    Football glossary - win now vs project manager. A win now manager is one who desires to win, er, at the present time. You know... now. A project manager is one who builds a team, club, and culture so that there will be success in two or three years.


    ***


    Monday August 5


    I was in my office at BoshCard with my hands on my lap all elegant and classy like a sophisticated diplomat. Not that anyone else could see how classy they looked - my desk was in the way. All the others could see was my upper body curving forward like a wave washing debris onto shore.


    There was a knock at the open door announcing the arrival of Zach Green. "Boss? I, er, you wanned to see me?"


    "Yeah, come in. Close the door."


    He did so and wondered which chair to take. His instinct was the one closest to Brooke, but MD took a few smooth paces and got there first. The Brig was over on my left and Vimsy was in his favourite position, leaning against the window with a cup of tea perched on a filing cabinet. That left two chairs for Sandra and Zach, and he had enough wits about him to let her choose where to go. She sat to my right, facing the Brig, which was a little bit like her saying she was my right-hand man, but also meant that Zach wasn''t completely adrift. He was part of a semicircle. Marooned? No way.


    Zach stared at the part of my arm he could see, which told him nothing.


    "Right," I said, and had to resist the urge to make some sort of big gesture with my hands. Those bad boys needed to stay where they were - hidden under the surface like those awesome crabs that bury themselves. "Zach, normally when I''m attacked by one of my players I like to let it fester and enjoy hating that guy for a while. I like to really bathe in the emotion, do you know what I mean? Makes me feel alive. I''d love to leave you alone and let you think about what you''ve done but, er, things have sort of got out of control, haven''t they?"


    "They have," he said, eyes down.


    "I''ve got a fake social media account where I defend myself from criticism," I said, waiting for a laugh that didn''t come. "I like to describe Max Best as a project manager. The gammons hate that phrase. Nothing. Guys? I''m joking. I don''t post. I just doomscroll sometimes. Like I said, sometimes I want to feel like a piece of shit and that''s what social media is for. So I couldn''t help notice that while Chester''s fan base kind of lost its mind over the weekend, so did Wrexham''s, which made our lot even more manic. Have you seen the hashtags?"


    Zach swallowed. "Agent Green."


    Behind me, Vimsy made a tiny snorting noise. I smiled. "It is funny. Savage but funny, the best kind of banter."


    Brooke stirred. "I saw it but don''t get it. Can someone explain it to me?"


    I looked at Zach. It was his fucking mess. He pulled at his ear. "The Wrexham fans are saying that I''ve gone from there to here to sorta, take Chester down from the inside. Like a secret agent. Agent Green."


    Brooke did that thing where her face showed no reaction whatsoever and it clearly stung Zach.


    And that was the reason we were having this meeting. The issue wasn''t just some fan banter - the Chester fans would eventually be won over by Zach''s on-pitch performances - but when I woke up the day after the match I was startled to find six players had ''dislikes Zach Green'' in their player profiles, and when I''d talked to the Brig about ''the way some of the players had looked at Zach on the team bus'', the Brig had sniffed and said he couldn''t blame them. He disliked Zach, too! They all did!


    I understood it. I was at the heart of everything that happened at Chester and my tireless efforts, hard work, and determination had earned me a lot of loyalty from the people at the top of the org chart and the core of the playing squad. If you wanted to become unpopular, hurting me was the way to do it.


    "Zach, I was in this room not all that long ago being accused of something and it wasn''t very pleasant for me but one thing that helped was having the question asked right away. In my case it was, Did you sign for Sheffield Wednesday?" Zach looked startled. I smiled and had to resist the urge to show my palm. "Yeah, long story. So now I''m going to ask you. Did you hurt me deliberately?"


    He shot to his feet. "No! Hell no!"


    I did a weird chuckle thing which I think was because I couldn''t express myself using body language. "Sit down, you prick. There are people in this room who can''t understand why you''d run at me and rugby tackle me like that. Would you like to explain yourself maybe?"


    He cradled his head in his hands in a brief display of torment, but then he sagged like all the life had drained out of him. "I called out. I thought you''d turn and bump me. I couldn''t believe it when you just kept on walkin''."


    Sandra said, "Max is player-manager. When there''s a break he''s deep in thought. He''s so focused he barely even hears the fans. When I started I was pissed at him for ignoring my ideas but I learned that no, he''s really just so deep in his head. It happened half a dozen times that I''d shout ideas and he would come over and say ''what about this?'' And it was the same thing I''d been saying."


    The Brig said, "When he''s in that state, he''s vulnerable. It''s your job to protect him, not..."


    I was monitoring Zach''s morale all this time, and it was stuck on abysmal. The conversation seemed like a pile-on but I judged it better to get all the worst parts out of the way before trying to build his confidence up at the end. That said, I couldn''t let everyone keep digging into him.


    I really wanted to scratch my eyebrow or rub my stubble, but I resisted the urge.


    "Zach, we''ve got a thing here called Chesterness. It''s not completely defined but it''s all the stuff I want from a team and a club. It''s togetherness. It''s team spirit and a feeling that however bad you fuck up your mates will have your back and lift you up and we''ll all go again, but even better. We don''t want castaways; we want redemption arcs. The motto is our city, our club, our community. We take care of our own."


    Zach half stood again. "I''ll go to the hospitals and the schools!"


    Brooke exploded at the poor dolt. She turned to fully face him for the first time and gave him both barrels. "Are you really this stupid? He''s talking to us."


    Brooke in full flight was magnificent and I almost wished Zach had high morale so I could witness its precipitate plunge. He didn''t know what to say so for once he kept his flappy gob shut. Progress!


    "Brooke," I said, "in defending me just now did you accidentally go against one of the tenets of Chesterness?"


    She went through some internal process and turned back and said, "I apologise, Zach."


    I don''t think he knew what she was apologising for, but he took it with good grace. His morale improved!


    "Another tenet," I said, looking at the Brig, "is that we leave no man behind." He sucked in a breath, his upper lip quivered, and he exhaled. Finally, he nodded at me. I glanced at Vimsy over my shoulder, and then Sandra. "Every player plays every game." Sandra went through a similar process to the others and nodded. "That one''s pretty allegorical, Zach." I glanced at MD before addressing Zach. "You''ve made a mess, mate, but it''s our mess, now. We''re going - we''re all going - to help you clean it up."


    "I appreciate that, boss, I do."


    "You''re one of us, now. And either that has meaning or it doesn''t. And if it doesn''t I might as well quit. You''re talented and this is a place for talented people. If we can''t train someone who''s driven and motivated then what sort of club are we? And what sort of manager am I? No, mate. We''re doing this." I leaned back but then remembered why I was hiding my arms and slid forward. "I''ve been watching that movie Cast Away. You''ve got to survive on your own but then you need outside help to get off that island. You get me, right?"


    "I hope so."


    "Top." I took a proper look at him. He was ready to train but was in a pretty sweet hoodie. Way better than the basketball jerk look. "Why did you decide to join us?"


    Zach looked out of the window. "The food," he said, gesturing to where our mobile kitchen was parked.


    "Good, is it? Today''s my first go."


    "Oh, it''s fine," he said, then realised it wasn''t very diplomatic. "I mean, it''s swell. Could be hotter. But I don''t mean the food. I mean..." He tried to put his thoughts into words and I wondered why it was so hard. "I liked it here and I liked the ambition. But it was when I saw the solar guys beaverin'' away and then the kitchen opened and I was the first customer. It was like, this wasn''t here yesterday. When that fella says what he says, he means it."


    I nodded. The kitchen had opened on the first of July and our facilities score had increased by the 0.1 points needed to make us a realistic destination for Zach. That was interesting - my stairs theory wasn''t quite right. If we opened a new training centre in December our reputation would increase in time for the January transfer window. Good to know. "I thought it might be something like that."


    "But it was Pete, too."


    "Pete? Who''s Pete?"


    Zach looked astonished. "He was at the team meeting. Oh, you haven''t really met him yet, I guess. Pete''s the junior chef. He, er..." He glanced around.


    "They know," said Brooke.


    "Well, he''s been to prison like my buddy back home and I know how hard it is to get a job and keep a job. Say, what?"


    I must have pulled some weird face. "What? Oh, I was just surprised. That was new information for me."


    Brooke squirmed. "I emailed you the details."


    "Brooke, you were in charge of hiring those guys. I don''t need to know their CVs. Your emails are way too detailed, by the way. Summarise the main bits in a big font at the top. In England we call it ''the Janet and John bit''. So simple even bosses can understand it."


    "I just thought it was what you''d do," she said, striving to explain herself. "He''s a Chester fan, got in some hot water with the law, did some diplomas in prison. We get grants for hiring him and I''m helping him apply for a level three diploma. We get him cheap and we train him up. That''s a Max Best move, ain''t it?"


    I thought about making a joke about selling him to Tranmere but it made me vaguely sad.


    Brooke once again mistook my expression and continued to defend her decision. "I read a lot about hiring ex-offenders and the social impact is massive. But it''s... His girlfriend is pregnant." A new look came over her face - one that was even more unreadable than usual. "Some men try to be good fathers."


    Something going on, there. Some loser ex? Brooke had a narrow escape? "Zach, you were saying about Pete."


    He stirred. He''d been enjoying listening to Brooke''s familiar accent. "Er... just felt good y¡¯all were doing that sort of thing. The football''s good, the people are friendly, you''re on the level, what''s stopping me? I just wish I''d decided earlier so I could go to boot camp."


    "Yeah, that would have helped. Someone would have punched you in the gob and you''ve have reined it in a bit."


    "Reined what in?"


    I sighed. "I think I''d like to go on a little ramble. See, I do feel sorry for you, Zach. You''ve grown up in American sports and from what I''ve seen in documentaries, locker rooms are sixty guys literally screaming at each other non-stop. Chest bumps instead of handshakes, guys butting helmets, and if you''re not screaming louder than a jet engine you''re considered too soft and you get cut.


    "So that''s what home looks like but your talent is for a sport where the worldwide centre of gravity is England. If you want to play at a high level for good money you have to come here. I''ve spent a lot of time in the last couple of days wondering if a hyped-up American is more annoying than a very French guy, and I really can''t decide.


    "Yeah, the culture must be strange to you and especially so in my world of misfits. I''m trying to create a dressing room where anyone can thrive. We don''t have the budget to go and get anyone we want so we have to look at types of players and people who don''t fit in everywhere else. Mostly I''ve been thinking about introverts. Someone like Eddie Moore or Dan Badford. Most managers would think of them as too soft but nothing could be further from the truth. They''re fighters. I don''t need them to shout and scream and butt heads to see that. I see it when they''re on the ball and you''ll see it when you''re looking for someone to pass to. They always show. They never hide. That''s courage.


    "I like a quiet dressing room because I want to win games by being better than the opposition. That can mean having better players or a better plan. When it''s quiet I can hear what everyone''s saying and sometimes they say something interesting about their opponent or what''s happening at corners or whatever. Quiet helps me think. If it''s just a load of men screaming bullshit at each other, then what''s the point of me being there? No, you need to stow that noise. I want a thoughtful dressing room. It''s a place to listen.


    "But there has to be a place for you in the group. Eleven guys like you would be a nightmare, but eleven Eddie Moores wouldn''t work, either. He won''t admit it, I''m sure, but when times are tough and someone like you screams "come on fellas!" at the top of your lungs, that''s motivational. That''s a boost.


    "I wanted to let you find your own way and we''d all work through it over time. You heard my big speech. As long as we''re good by the end of the season, that''s all that matters. But this Agent Green shit is pretty bad so I''m just going to straight up ask you to keep your mouth shut for a week or two. Train hard, play, zip it. What do you think? Is that unreasonable?"


    He shook his head. "Given what I did, no. But... I''ll play?"


    The energetic puppy was back! The guy was irrepressible. His morale rose from very poor to poor. I grinned. "You scored from a corner. The goal was disallowed because you''re a maniac and you fouled a guy even though I put the ball right between your eyes." I winced. "Yeah, trying not to dwell on the negatives, Zach mate, but I used to take corners like that all the time and since my coma I''ve been so inconsistent I''ve let other guys take them. So to put one on a dime and - Yeah, well. Frustrating. But Vimsy''s gonna work with you. If we sort that out we''ll go from scoring five corners a season to ten. That''s massive for us. It could be decisive. And those passes from defence? Mwah!" I did a chef''s kiss motion that no-one saw.


    "What are you doing with your hands?" said MD.


    "I''m touching myself. It''s rude to ask. So Zach, final thoughts. Calm the fuck down. Let this blow over. Our scout was at Grimsby''s first match and their best striker didn''t play so that''s huge for us. They also played the old guard at the back. When we''re doing attack versus defence games I want you to play like one of those guys. That means no clever passes to midfield. They don''t do that. That said, they have one young lad, Tom Hickman, who plays like you. So Sandra''s going to ask you to play your natural game one time so we can get used to that, just in case."


    "Yes, boss!" he said, perking up at the thought that he was useful. His morale eased up to okay.


    I smiled. I wasn''t completely terrible at this! "Okay, go to fucking work, now. Jesus Christ."


    "Come on, lad," said Vimsy, pushing himself away from the window.


    I rolled my eyes as he left his cup on the cabinet for the millionth time. "No Vimsy. I need you a bit longer. Jude''s going to get them started."


    "Oh!" My defensive coach went back to his spot.


    "Should I close the door?" asked Zach.


    "Whatevs, bro. We won''t be talking about you in private, if that''s what you mean."


    "No, I, er... Okay fellas, good talk. Seeyas."


    Zach fucked off and with a tremendous sense of relief I pulled my hands out from under the desk and scratched all the bits of my face that had been itchy.


    "Oh, I did have one question," said Zach, barreling back into the room.


    He took one look at the cast on my left arm and his morale dropped back to abysmal. "Well, shucks," he said, and slumped away.


    ***


    The rest of us took a quick break to get teas and coffees, then got back to business.


    "Guys," I said, pointing to the empty chair. "That guy''s a million-pound player."


    "That guy''s a jackass," said Brooke.


    Everyone grinned. "I need him. He transforms the team. Dunnee Sandra?"


    "He does."


    "Done. Vimsy? I think you''ll be important. Couple of words in some of the lads'' ears at the right time, that sort of thing. I don''t want it festering. Okay, next topic."


    "Max," said Brooke.


    "Yes?"


    She pointed at the empty chair. "This Agent Green thing. We could use it."


    "How?"


    She looked up at the ceiling like she couldn''t believe she was able to say what she was about to say. "We dress him up as James Bond and make a joke out of it."


    "With you as Vesper Lynd? Flirting on a train in a cocktail dress? I don''t know if it would achieve anything but I''d watch it on repeat."


    She smiled. "I don''t know about flirting with a jackass - I''m no actress and he''s no Daniel Craig - but something like that."


    I shrugged. "Yeah, cook something up. Why not? Jokes can put out a banter fire. Okay, two quick topics. One''s about Grimsby. Their new manager is a 4-4-2 merchant. Old-school. Not quite as dinosaur as Ian Evans, no offence Vimsy, but in that direction. Them grinding out results is pretty unambitious but it might prove to be a smart move by Chris Hale. The fans don''t want entertainment; they want to go back to the league. Marcus Wainwright didn''t play last Saturday which to me hints at deception and they''re saving him for the match against us. But that''s how my mind works. These dinosaurs, no offence Vimsy, they don''t think like that. They pick their best team week in week out. So if he''s injured we''ll definitely dick them."


    That perked MD up. "Really?"


    "Yeah, I think so. This guy, Lee Slade, he''s supposed to be a win now manager but he''s put all the bad apples back in, eased out some class players, and brought in a couple of guys he likes working with who I happen to know are below the general level of the group. It''s hilarious. Forget Agent Green - this Slade guy''s the real expert in being the enemy within. I made a mistake. I was thinking we''d be playing against the Grimsby team that I''d set up. You know, the one that was fucking mint. But we''re against the team that got itself relegated through stupidity. We have a massive, massive chance to beat them before Slade realises he''s fucked up."


    "Even without you in the team?"


    I locked eyes with Sandra, then got shifty. "We haven''t chosen a team yet. We have to see how certain people train. Okay but if we win it''ll be in large part because of an epic performance from Sam Topps."


    "Oh, no," said Vimsy, showing that he understood the concept of doomshadowing.


    I nodded. "Tranmere lost their first match and their manager wants a Topps-type. So we have to decide what we do if we get a good offer."


    "What''s a good offer?" asked the Brig.


    "I mean, no clue. But would you take a hundred K? Eighty?"


    "Eighty?" said MD and Sandra at the same time, though with very different intonations. MD would bite my hand off for eighty thousand pounds; Sandra didn''t want to go into the season with an even weaker midfield.


    "Hmm. I think it might be best not to have this discussion. I''ll just tell you what I think. We take anything above sixty." Sandra was about to complain but I held up my cast. "We''re a selling club. This is what I wanted. We train players to as high as they can go and sell them for the most we can get. Sam will double his wages, there, and his family will see him on TV and all that stuff. It''s a great move for him. And we''ve spent the summer telling players that we are their pathway. How can we be a pathway if we block great moves? Selling Sam makes us more attractive to players, right? And one thing that stresses me is the idea of Premier League clubs snatching our youth team prospects. We need to be able to say to parents - look! Young players get minutes, get into the team, and get sold. Moving to an academy is a gamble. Staying here is a sure thing. Do you get me? In the long term, keeping our talented kids will pay off a hundred times more than keeping Sam."


    Sandra took a frustrated breath. "Yes, Max. I agree. You''re right. But we need him."


    "We need," I said, carefully, "to anticipate it. Get ahead of it. Can we get his replacement in?"


    "Oh," said Vimsy. "Not like last time. Buy first, then sell. Who''ve you got in mind?"


    I''d been spending a lot of time going through my player database looking for Sam replacements. There was a young player with PA 103 who I thought I could get for about a hundred grand. There was a Ryan Jack type making his way down the leagues who would maybe be seventy-five thousand. But whoever I was looking at, my thoughts kept returning to one name.


    "James Wise," I said, and Vimsy''s face lit up.


    "Who''s that?" said Sandra.


    "He came to us on loan in our relegation season." MD winced at the dreaded word. "He and Sam ran midfields, gave us a platform."


    "I''m listening," said Sandra.


    "Pure central midfielder. Same kind of profile as Sam. Sam''s more intelligent. James is more physical. He''ll be thirty this season so he''ll be a good counter-balance to all the kids. He''s not into vegan hotdogs and that side of what we do but he''s very, very professional and I think the lads will learn from him even if he doesn''t open up the way Sam did. The fact that he''s been here and seen it is a big point in his favour. At the moment we need a bit of togetherness. Bit of cohesion." I waited for more questions, but everyone was thinking about it. Wisey was back at our National League rivals Eastleigh and not playing regularly. "I think we can get him cheap and pay him less than Sam and in six months we''ll think that was an incredible deal."


    "What''s the catch?" said Brooke.


    "No catch. Sam''s had a year of training with us and playing in a winning team and being pushed and stretched by a couple of megabrains. Wisey can get to the same level but he''s not at that level. In a couple of months we might not notice the difference - in a purely tactical sense. But yeah, at first it''ll be a noticeable drop. But nothing like the drop to Omari Naysmith. It''s a compromise between win now and project."


    "Will this be a blockage for the young players?" said the Brig.


    "No, it''ll help. If Omari is playing every match, none of the others are. We absolutely must recruit an experienced player if there''s the slightest chance of losing Sam."


    "And if Sam stays?"


    "Then we''ve got another good option. This will help us give the young ''uns minutes. Right, Sandra?"


    "Definitely. I''d feel better about using Josh or Tom if we had a proper midfield engine."


    We all took another pause. MD spoke next. "Would you like me to start making tentative enquiries?"


    "No," I said. "I want him. I want Vimsy to get on the phone to him and have a chat. If Wisey''s interested, we''ll get stuck in. If we can get him this week he can play against Grimsby."


    "Oh, that''s hasty," said MD.


    "Yeah, but I know him. He''s not some rando. I can throw him in; I know exactly what he can do."


    MD looked dubious for a second. "How much do you think this will cost?"


    I leaned forward, conspiratorial and giddy. "He''s not playing much. Eastleigh have midfield options. He''s nearly thirty. I reckon we could get him for ten grand!"


    MD leaned back with his hands behind his head. "You think we can get 60 for Sam and replace him for 10? And there''s little difference in quality?"


    "More or less," I said. Leaning back so I could include Vimsy, I said, "We can go up to 700 in wages. I think that''s more than he''s on now. But let''s get moving, right? If we can''t get it done, there''s other options."


    Vimsy pointed to the training pitches. "Should I do it after training, or...?"


    I checked the time. "See if you can get hold of him now. He''s probably still got his phone on him. Christ, we could get it all wrapped up by lunchtime. All right, Vimsy and MD, you''re a team. Go get me a player, please. Sandra, let''s talk about training for Grims. Today I want us doing short passes and a 4-1-4-0 low block where the goal is to keep possession. Imagine we have a useless striker who offers nothing."


    "I take it you have a plan."


    "Yep."


    "Why don''t you come and tell the lads?"


    "Can''t be seen in public. There are spies everywhere."


    She pointed to my cast. "Hiding that isn''t going to change anything."


    There was a very important reason why I had to hide the cast and why I''d tried to hide it from Zach. "That reminds me." I held my left arm up and showed it to everyone in the room. "You didn''t see this. As far as anyone knows, I''m perfectly healthy. Okay?"


    "Max," complained MD.


    "I''m serious, mate. There''s a reason. A sporting reason. You need to trust me."


    He tutted and rolled his eyes but I knew he would do as I wanted.


    Sandra said, "If you want Grimsby wasting their time trying to concoct a plan to stop you, they''ll do that anyway." I returned her stare. "Whatever you''re up to," she added, "it''d be better if you came to training."


    "I''ll be here," I said, jabbing my right thumb at the window behind me. "Watching. I''ll call if I see something I don''t like. Can you get that Pete guy to come up here?"


    ***


    Pete knocked and stepped in. He was slim with black hair and a short, wispy beard. On his right arm he had loads of tats, but he had the air of being the guy in your pub quiz team who bought one round more than he had to and knew loads about, like, three arcane topics. He was in a crisp white chef''s jacket that stopped at the elbow. It had five sets of ring studs rising up the centre.


    "You look smart!" I said. "Did we get you that?"


    He patted himself around the midriff. "This? Yes. We''re going to get more but with the Chester badge embroidered in."


    "Top," I said. "Very top. I''m Max." I offered a first bump.


    "I know. I''m Pete."


    "Who''s your favourite player?"


    "You."


    "Who''s your favourite player?"


    He smiled. "It is you. But second... Sam Topps."


    Ouch. "Good choice. All right, let''s get weird. What were you in for?"


    He met the question with no change in his soft, warm demeanour. "Cultivation of cannabis."


    I laughed. "Is that it? I thought it''d be kidnapping grandmothers or something."


    I was not the first idiot he''d had this conversation with. "I think it doesn''t matter what I did, really, as long as I''m trying to set things right."


    "Yeah, well, if you want to grow weeds, come to my garden. The bastards love it." I thought about prison. Being locked up. Cast away from the rest of society and left to rot. At least Pete''s place had let him learn a trade so he could try for a better life. Some places didn''t even let them have books. I wanted to clap my hands to signal that part of the talk was over. "Er... see this?" I waved my cast around. "This is secret. You can''t tell anyone about this. Even your girlfriend."


    "Oh. Right."


    "If you see mad things at training, keep them to yourself."


    "What sort of mad things?"


    "Like if I play weird music and start dancing around while Sam Topps claps, or if I punch Henri Lyons in the face."


    "Isn''t he your mate?"


    "Yeah. So I wouldn''t let anyone else do it, would I?"


    He finally broke into a smile. "I''ll put what I see in the vault."


    "Erm, good. I forgot why I asked you to come up." He didn''t know either, so I stared at him for about three seconds. "I need some food. That''s it. But I can''t go down. I''m in hiding. Can you bring me something up? This isn''t your job, by the way. This is a favour."


    "No problem! Why are you in hiding, though?"


    "I don''t want Grimsby to know there''s anything wrong with me. As far as they know, I''ll play on Saturday."


    "They''ll know when you''re not in the team."


    "What if I''m on the bench?"


    He looked dubious but looked around and saw my Manager of the Season trophy. "It''s a waste of a spot. You''ve only got five subs."


    "The deception could be worth it," I said.


    His eyes lingered on my League Two Player of the Month award for January. "I heard you like vegan hotdogs."


    "Who doesn''t?"


    He looked me up and down. "Scrambled egg, avocado on rye bread toast, yoghurt with blueberries and chia seeds. They''re good for your recovery."


    "Holy shit, is that what we''re serving?"


    My smile made him smile. "We had a nutritionist tell us what to offer. Brooke organised it all and Trisha''s gone all in. She''s sending me links to all kinds of research into superfoods. I think we''ll get all the joggers and health nuts coming to us when word spreads." I winced at the word joggers, but he didn''t notice. "And the office guys love it. Eat like a footballer and all that. They''ve invited me to their games."


    I looked him up and down. "Silky smooth playmaker."


    "Talentless hack," he said. "They''re dead nice, though. Nice bunch, made us feel welcome. We''re buzzing, me and Trisha."


    "Any players giving you shit?"


    "Some banter."


    I went internal so long wondering if I wanted my guys bantering with civilians that I was only dimly aware that Pete was leaving. I called after him. "Do you do tea?"


    ***


    I spent the next hour watching training through the window. A couple of times I called Sandra. Once to ask her to move Sharknado to the left wing for ten minutes, and once to ask her to punch Henri in the face. The French prick was dogging it again.


    When training was done, Sandra came back up and we went through Fleur''s scouting report. Fleur had watched Grims use a narrow 4-4-2. Pretty cautious and if they were doing that at home, they could go even more defensive away. Fleur commented on how old the team seemed.


    "This narrow formation solves some problems but creates others," I told Sandra. "Their left back is fast and dynamic. He''s a perfect player, really, but like this he''ll find it hard to hurt us going forward. This guy, Otis King, I''ll be amazed if he plays against us. I reckon he''ll have a mysterious back problem that will keep him out of exactly one match."


    "You guys got beef?"


    "Something like that," I said. King had a gambling problem and he knew that I knew. He wouldn''t want to piss me off. Some other players would, though. "I can''t believe he used this guy Caine at right back. He''s a gobshite. Simon Green in midfield, Dobson in defence. They''re all awful. They''ll try to wind me up but they can''t hurt us. They''re abysmal." It didn''t sound true as I said it - they would all walk into my team if CA was the only consideration. "They''ll probably be motivated against us, though. They might actually come ready to play. Alex Evans in midfield is class but his legs have gone. It''s a week between matches so he''s had some rest but that''s a weakness we can target. Windmill is old, too, and so''s Williams and Quinn. If they play, I want them running around loads so we can dick them in the last twenty. Marcus Wainwright didn''t play in the first game so that''s interesting. Without him they''re just okay up front. We should be able to absorb pressure if we don''t let them get too many set pieces."


    Sandra finished making notes. "Got it. We watched some of your Grimsby games last season. You had them set up much different. So what do we do? We''re short on craft to break this down."


    "Yeah, I don''t think they''ll lose many matches this season and if they keep Wainwright, they''ll win the league like this." I tutted and felt a pang of annoyance. "My principles are we get them where they don''t want to go." I showed Sandra a drawing I''d made.


    She read out the picture''s title with great amusement. "Tiki-taka sharky smasher?"


    "There''s two components. Grims want to stay narrow so we draw them wide. I''m thinking Pascal right, Sharknado left. That''s the kind of pace you can''t ignore. They''ll have to send their full backs out. Even if Wes is hit and miss with his crosses and shots, they have to react to him otherwise he''ll land a couple of lucky punches."


    "Yeah."


    "And more than that, those guys will tire out the oldsters. Wes has issues but he can sprint again and again. Half this Grimsby team can''t. That''s a problem for them."


    "Okay. What''s the tiki-taka?"


    Tiki-taka is a Spanish phrase meaning ''to play mind-numbingly tedious short passes''. It has been scientifically proven to be the most boring kind of football imaginable. "This is Zach passing to Youngster about three hundred times through the match. There''s no chance Danny Flash is going to sit back and watch. He''ll run around like a headless chicken, especially because his family will have made the trip up north."


    "How do you know they will?"


    I grinned. "Because I''m taking them out to dinner at the Grosvenor."


    "Did you set that up deliberately?"


    "Course not," I lied. "I happen to like them."


    "I heard you''ve got a spare spot at dinner."


    My jaw dropped. Emma had invited her mum and dad to join us. We''d booked the table but her mum couldn''t come. We had one spare place, then. Dinner with a sporting legend. And Donnie Wormwood. How on earth had Sandra heard about that? "I plan to invite one of my misfits."


    "I''m a woman in a man''s world, Max."


    "You''re the most successful female manager ever."


    "So a legendary boxer would want to meet me."


    I smiled. "He would. But at the end of the month we''re playing Dagenham away and you can meet him then."


    "Fair enough!"


    "Danny''s a good lad but he''s very predictable. We can get him running 7 or 8 K in the first half if we''re savage enough."


    "Oh, we''re savage enough," she said, with complete sincerity. "You want us to hammer this in training?"


    "Yes. Don''t overwork Sharknado, Pascal, or Aff. They''ll be doing extra on Saturday."


    "Will we play 4-2-4?"


    "No. 4-1-4-1."


    "How will we score? This is great for a draw but unless Pascal hits a perfect cross to Henri, I don''t see us scoring."


    "Would you take a draw?"


    She hesitated. "Honestly, yes."


    I spread my arms, but misjudged the move because of the stupid cast and nearly knocked over a glass of water. "There we go then," I said. "Dull nil-nil. Four points from six, season''s off to a flyer."


    "Why do I get the feeling there''s something you''re not telling me?"


    Innocence radiated off me. "I really couldn''t say. Maybe you should see Dean about that before it gets worse. But you see why I need to hide this injury, right? We want them to be defensive. That''s our best chance. Our only chance, maybe."


    "I suppose."


    "Top bins! I''m glad we agree. Now, I was thinking we could watch Grimsby''s first match from start to finish while we eat lunch."


    "I''ve had worse dates."


    "Let''s get that Pete guy up here, see what''s on the menu. Oh, shit. My mouth''s watering already!"


    ***


    Wednesday, August 7


    Chester are delighted to announce the purchase of James Wise from Eastleigh FC for a fee of ¡ê14,000. James, who will turn 30 this season, played a key role in our battle against relegation. He has signed a two-year deal and will wear shirt number 8. Manager Max Best says, "Wisey''s professionalism will be a model for our young players to copy and his consistency is a dream for any manager. I think we''ve nabbed a bargain and expect to see him play the best football of his career."


    ***


    Thursday, August 8


    Brooke: I tried to film the Agent Green TikTok with the jackass. The jackass ruined it. Please do not ask me to work with the jackass again.


    Me: It was your idea!


    Brooke: That''s not what the minutes of the meeting will say. When I write them.


    Me: What did he do, anyway?


    Brooke: Apart from explaining marketing to me and ruining a time lapse by saying ''gee let''s get that cloud in the shot!'' and moving the camera? Apart from being a jackass?


    Me: Send him to a school with 50 tickets to the Grims match. That''ll keep him busy.


    Brooke: He''d turn them all into Liverpool fans. When it comes to his reputation, he''s on his own.


    Me: Chesterness?


    Brooke: Chesterness has its limits.


    ***


    Friday, August 9


    The following article appeared online below a wide, animated advert featuring a smirking Max Best and the slogan ''He''s Done WHAT?!''


    BUMPER CROWD FOR BUMPERS LANE


    A huge crowd is expected for Chester FC''s first home match of the season. With 2,200 season tickets having been sold, the visitors, Grimsby Town, selling their entire allocation of 800 tickets, plus individual ticket sales, expectations were for an attendance in the region of 3,500. Healthy enough, but that number will be bolstered by the distribution of some 300 tickets to schools. This announcement was made in a rare newsletter sent to Chester FC members. Manager Max Best''s hints that he wants young people to come and ''get hooked on football'' led to a further surge in ticket applications. It seems Best has one of his madcap schemes up his sleeve and no-one wants to miss out on the action.


    Chester staff are working around the clock to satisfy demand.


    ***


    Match 2 of 46: Chester vs Grimsboo Town


    I''d prepared as well as I possibly could, and hid my cast from almost the entire world. As far as I could tell, only a few people had seen it and I went to a virtually deserted BoshCard on Saturday morning to have it cut off.


    Dean barely spoke to me. He didn''t like the deception in the slightest. For once, I didn''t mind that he grumbled and scowled and made the room feel unpleasant. He was probably right that I shouldn''t have been messing about with my arm just to get three points against the team that sacked me.


    He grunted something about getting to the stadium early and left, followed by a little black cloud. I sat on the medical table for a minute, looking at my arm. A week without sun had left it looking weird and pasty. It wouldn''t help my deception if it was so obvious. With a smile, I went hunting through Dean''s drawers and supply cabinets. I was looking for something I knew we had because I''d signed off the purchase order.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    In a drawer marked ''bandages etc'' I found what I was looking for. A sturdy Chester-blue arm support thing. It would protect me from some minor bumps and it would stop people noticing that my arms were different colours.


    Pulling it on wasn''t something I wanted to do myself so I pottered around BoshCard until I found someone working at the weekend. He thought it was funny that I had a big medical team yet was asking a chargeback analyst for help.


    I thanked him, flexed my fingers, and went back to the medical room. With the brace on I felt a lot less fragile, and I hopped on the table and closed my eyes. I had one last decision to make.


    XP balance: 4,666


    The Friendzone perk had done what it said - turned 2 XP a minute from managing friendlies into 3. The six friendlies had been pretty lucrative, then, giving me over fifteen hundred XP. Without the perk I might have binned a couple of them off and gone scouting, probably for 1 XP a minute. The imps were earning their corn, the brats.


    Now that I was managing in the fifth tier, a basic 90 minute game would be worth 540 XP. The problem was that if I stepped onto the pitch that number would be drastically reduced. This injury was a reminder that not only couldn''t I do everything myself, I didn''t want to do everything myself.


    When it came to quality, I was on a desert island. Pascal and Youngster were swimming towards me as fast as they could. Henri was on an air mattress holding a shiny metal sheet under his face. Sharknado was going super fast in a huge zigzag that brought him little closer. Zach was on a fast dinghy but had decided to replace the engine with sticks of dynamite that he was tossing into the water behind him to make himself go ''real fast''. Then loads of Exit Trials kids were in water wings splashing around having a lovely old time.


    Yeah, I was going to have to carry the team for a while.


    So the decision now was about whether to buy Finances or not. It would show me how much other teams were spending on players. In a way it was essential information, but then again, knowing Grimsby''s numbers wouldn''t help me. It wouldn''t make my numbers go up. It''d probably just depress me.


    If I was going to buy it, I needed to buy it before 3 p.m. so I would see Grimsby''s data. If I bought it, I''d be set back even more in my quest to buy WibWob, and there hadn''t been a monthly perk so far in August. I imagined it would drop soon after I bought Finances. Keep me grinding, that was the plan.


    Finances would cost four matches of pure managing. If I stuck to the dugout for four matches, Dean would be happy and whatever damage had been done to my arm would have healed. Yeah, four matches. Two weeks. I did want the perk.


    I checked the perk shop again. WibWob was top of my list but it was so expensive I would need a good month of grinding to save up for it. That would be easier when the season had settled down. Finances was 2,000 XP. Contracts 3 was 1,300 but I could live without it until January. Attributes 6 caught my eye. It was 2,050 XP.


    With my current stash I could afford Finances and Attributes 6. If I bought them I''d be nearly broke, but wouldn''t that mean the imps would price the monthly perk lower? It had to be affordable otherwise I wouldn''t even try to get it.


    What was more useful, WibWob or Attributes? It seemed that WibWob would give me greater control over the tactics screen. The possibilities were simply delicious. But Lee Slade, Grimsby''s new manager, was using a narrow 4-4-2. I wasn''t exactly competing with Pep Guardiola, was I?


    Meanwhile, the player profiles were terribly incomplete. I was like a castaway on a beach full of boxes. Why hadn''t I opened the boxes yet? They could contain things I needed!


    I sat up and bought Finances. Boom. Then I bought Attributes 6.


    The curse began its special animation. A player profile screen popped up and a yellow rectangle bounced around the thirteen empty cells. It went fast, fast, and slowed, seeming to come to a stop near the top of the middle column, but just like on a good Wheel of Fortune it clicked through one last time to the next one, the one between Heading and Jumping. I could have guessed what that would be, and I would have been right.


    Influence.


    I hungrily skipped through every player in the Chester squads. Glenn Ryder had Influence 18. Sam Topps was 15. Eddie Moore was 3. Yes, yes, yes. William Roberts surprised me by having 13. That seemed high. So did Zach''s score. At 12 he had higher Influence than Steve Alton and Aff. What it all told me was that I didn''t have a really great backup option to Glenn when it came to the captaincy. Not until Ryan Jack returned from injury, anyway. It didn''t surprise me too much - the squad was full of misfits. If they were dominant personalities they would have still been at their previous clubs.


    I longed to see Christian Fierce''s score, and with a smile realised I wouldn''t have long to wait. I''d see him on Tuesday night!


    On the women''s side I saw that two of the new signings, Femi (18) and Scottie Love (17), had a higher Influence score than Charlotte (14), but that Bonnie led the way on 19. Having two centre backs and a goalie who could all easily be the captain seemed awesome to me. It felt like that trio would drag the team through some sticky times.


    Or did the curse only care about the captain''s Influence? Did it even matter for anyone else? I''d have to keep an eye out to see if teams with multiple captain types did better than teams with only one leader.


    I flopped off the table onto my feet and remembered to check the cost of the next Attributes perk. Attributes 7 was available for 2,950.


    Inflation, man. The silent killer.


    ***


    I eased the Duchess into the parking spot labelled BEST and hustled through into the bowels of the Deva avoiding eye contact and - importantly - handshakes. I filled in the team sheet - naming myself as a sub - got changed to sell the illusion that I might take part, then went out to haunt the dugout until kick off.


    With plenty of time before the match got underway, I let my mind wander.


    Our average morale had dipped even though we''d signed James Wise. Normally, signing a player gave a little boost to morale, but that boost was more than offset by the Zach incident and a general weakening in morale that was hard to pinpoint.


    Our week of training had been pretty shit. I wanted to believe it was because I''d set up sessions aimed at beating Grimsby instead of the usual mix of skills work, but I wasn''t completely convinced. A handful of guys had increased by a single point of CA and Sharknado had added two points. But, yeah, overall it was pretty grim. Was it possible the facilities weren''t as good as I thought? Was our tier 6 soft cap still in place? It didn''t bear thinking about, so I tried not to.


    In order to do my Tiki Taka Sharky Smasher concept, I had named a CA 48.8 starting eleven. Absolutely shocking, to be fair, but I was hoping that I''d be using my CA way more efficiently than Lee Slade.


    What could be more efficient than my favourite 4-1-4-1? The goalie and defence was all right - Ben, Eddie, Glenn, Zach, and Carl. Zach was needed to play tiki taka with Youngster and as a show of faith. A message to the fans - I like him, he''s one of us, back off. Then on the wings we had Sharknado and Pascal - surely the fastest combination in the National League (except me and Wes). In the centre of midfield we had James Wise (CA 41, PA 60, morale superb) who was a lot more willing to hear my jokes about vegan hotdogs this time around. He couldn''t believe I wanted him back and he was desperate to impress. That wasn''t wishful thinking on my behalf - the curse straight up told me. ''Keen to impress his new manager'' it said on his profile, alongside ''happy to be at a successful club'' and ''thinks Youngster is a talented player''. I''d partnered him not with Sam Topps but with Magnus. Henri was on his own up front.


    The stands were filling in nicely, now. There were normally big patches of empty space around the stadium but if everyone who bought a ticket turned up, it''d look pretty full, and we had gifted several hundred tickets to schoolkids. My dream was that parts of the stadium would get really cramped. MD had complained about letting in so many for free, citing stewarding costs and delays in serving half time beers and pies but I put my foot down. Any first-timers in today were going to see an epic. Football crowds were getting older. We needed to attract the younger generation. Get them addicted.


    On the bench I had Rainman, Sam, Aff, myself, and Ziggy. No defenders, but that''s what Magnus was for. He was a tactical Swiss army knife.


    Grimsby''s team was locked in and it was almost what I''d expected. Seeing the squad used so inexpertly was kind of crazy. His 4-4-2 was decent but Slade had quite a few talented players he was underrating, like Windmill and Quinn, and there was still no place, even on the bench, for poor Tom Hickman. Instead of learning the game he would spend yet another season rotting away.


    Lee Slade had brought in a new centre back and a striker, both of whom were decent National League players, so he''d done okay there. The striker, Youngs, was CA 68 and would partner Danny Flash, 62.


    The elderly Alex Evans was in the heart of midfield, so we would look to wear him out, and he would get limited but motivated support from Simon Green, the guy I''d dumped out of the team bus at a petrol station in London.


    The right back would be Caine, CA 62, who was the second guy I''d humiliated in my time on the east coast. Mike Dobson was the captain, astonishingly. His Influence, I could now see, was 14, so it was not bonkers that you''d think of him as being captain material. But you couldn''t have a captain who wasn''t loyal! His profile now read, ''thinks he is too good for the club'' followed by ''wants to leave the club as soon as possible''. Dobson was the kind of captain who provokes a mutiny and gets dumped on a desert island. Why was I the only one who could see that?


    Meanwhile, everywhere you looked there was civil war. Multiple players disliked Caine, Si Green, and Mike Dobson. A couple disliked Danny Flash, which might have been my fault for the incident where I''d dragged him off the pitch. Two guys even disliked Conor Quinn, who was a great human being.


    Their average morale was 3.3, but their average CA was 72.9. Scary, but it could have been over 80; Marcus Wainwright was injured. Like, actually injured. It was not a scam and his would be one of the most consequential injuries of the entire season.


    There was, as I''d predicted, no Otis King.


    I got out of the dugout to check the main stand for agents and scouts. I didn''t see any sign of Chris Hale or Candy but Tranmere had sent a guy. You know what I wanted? A perk that told me which players the scouts were watching. That would be all kinds of useful. Get on it, imps!


    ***


    Because I''d been hiding in the dugout in my shades and baseball cap, no-one bothered me until shortly before the match when Danny Flash came to check if the rando was me. I didn''t acknowledge him - I''d see him at dinner - and the Brig shepherded him away.


    "We good?" I asked Sandra. She had basically been running the team the whole week. Maybe I should have invited her to the slap-up dinner with the famous old boxers. I hadn''t come across anyone more deserving but something was making me keep my options open.


    "Peachy," she said. She paused before adding, "God, I''m nervous."


    "Why?"


    "Just, I don''t know. Got a bad feeling about it." She bit her nails for a while.


    "Grimsby are shit and we''re about to send them into a tailspin," I said.


    "Yeah," she said, with zero belief. "Yeah!" she said, pumping herself up. The effect lasted about five seconds, and then she got to nibbling on herself again. The Grimsby fans launched into a chorus of Oh When the Town Go Steaming In which was met by a rip-roaring rendition of Chester, Chester from the sizable home contingent. The away fans had brought a drummer so some home guys slapped on the metal sides of the stands to beat out their own tunes. The hairs on my neck rose. Sandra felt it, too. "Oh, listen to that! It''s mint, this is. Is it gonna be like this all season?"


    "Not sure every team will bring 800 but there''ll be plenty of good days. We just need to make sure they''ve got something to sing about, right?"


    With that I got to my feet, took off my disguise, and paraded around my technical area. The main stand went nuts and launched into Max Best''s Blue and White Army. I stuck my tongue out, almost literally lapping it up, and closed my eyes and imagined I was Crackers. I''d promised the blind former board member that the atmosphere would blow his socks off, and here it was.


    The anticipation was off the scale. After what we''d done last season the fans thought we could play anyone, beat anyone, and now, outsing anyone.


    ***


    Extract from Seals Live


    Boggy: Kick off is imminent here at the Deva Stadium. Soon to be renamed if the rumours are true.


    Spectrum: What''s that? Renamed?


    Boggy: It''s what I''ve heard.


    Spectrum: Oh. Well, a rose by any other name would sound as sweet.


    Boggy: There''s a lot of interest in the Chester lineup. It''s very familiar but with three faces that will be unknown to most Chester fans. Wes Hayward, the lightning fast winger.


    Spectrum: Sharknado.


    Boggy: I''m not calling him that. There''s the surprising return to the club of James Wise, last seen on these shores two years ago. He''s straight back in the lineup. And, er, Zach Green, the, er, exuberant American defender signed from, er, Wrexham. Lots of memes and gifs doing the rounds this week. I''m frankly staggered he''s starting today.


    Spectrum: He''s a League Two player and Grimsby are a League Two team. I think Max was expecting Marcus Wainwright to play. He talks about Wainwright quite a lot. We''re lucky he''s injured.


    Boggy: And we''re off! The first home game and it''s a cracker. Competing drumbeats from both sets of fans. Early possession for Chester. They''re knocking the ball around very confidently. Youngster linking defence to midfield. If Chester are a band, he''s the drummer. It''s a very familiar 4-1-4-1, although now that I say that, we played half of last season as 4-4-2. Why have we gone back to this one, Spectrum?


    Spectrum: The switch to 4-4-2 was to accommodate Chris Beaumont and to smash through low blocks. Grimsby are set up cautiously here but it''s by no means a low block. Max has told me he doesn''t expect to face many low blocks this season.


    Boggy: And why would that be?


    Spectrum: The teams are better and there are more teams with ambition.


    Boggy: Grimsby have formed themselves into a sort of Roman tortoise that slides left and right depending on where the ball is. They''re leaving big gaps on the sides of the pitch. Is that normal?


    Spectrum: The idea is that they can slide across in the time it takes us to work the ball that way. But it''s interesting that Max is starting with Sharknado. He''s so fast I''d have used him as an impact sub for late in the game when Grimsby are tired. I heard a lot of discussion this week about how old the Grimsby team is. Our starting lineup has an average age of 25, and that''s one of the older Chester teams you''ll see this season, I think.


    Boggy: Did you work out Grimsby''s?


    Spectrum: It''s more like 29.


    Boggy: That''s fascinating. More fascinating than the match, if I''m being honest. Lots of short passes happening.


    Spectrum: It''s a ploy. We don''t do this, normally. It must be planned.


    Boggy: Question from the chat. Where''s Max? Well, he''s in the dugout. He''s on the bench wearing one of those arm brace things. Any news about that?


    Spectrum: No. Er, I haven''t seen him this week.


    Boggy: Is that unusual?


    Spectrum: No. Especially now. The kids are still on summer holidays.


    Boggy: Hmm. Oh, the chat''s humming like a wasp''s nest. Lots of people saying Zach Green injured Max and he''s pretending nothing happened because he''s given a big contract to this quote oaf unquote and if we lose this game because we didn''t have the right subs it''s another win for Agent Green.


    Spectrum: Come on.


    Boggy: Oh, here we go! Eddie Moore breaks the cycle of passes and goes on a little run. He knocks it to James Wise. He finds Evergreen. He goes right to Bochum. The ball''s fizzed back and Grimsby slide along with it. There''s some space for Hayward, now. Wes Hayward... oh, I say! [The fans roar.] He''s gone. He''s bolted down the line. The Sharknado in full flight! He''s to the byline already. Turns back onto his right foot but the cross is blocked. [Huge applause.] That was something else.


    Spectrum: Wow. Listen to it.


    Boggy: It''s almost a standing ovation! The fans loved that. I tell you who didn''t love it. Grimsby''s right back, Caine Amadi-Spokes. He''s getting an earful from his captain. Hayward left him for dead!


    Spectrum: I think that''s the tactic. Lots of passes, wearing down the opposition, then these rapier thrusts. Drum drum drum smash!


    Boggy: Grimsby, it seems to me, have been preparing for a totally different match.


    Spectrum: This is Chester. You can bring a drummer but Max calls the tune.


    ***


    A quarter of an hour in and we were bossing the game. Grimsby''s flying turtle - good name for a comedy show - was trundling around, reacting to what we were doing. Once a minute either Wes or Pascal would surge down the side of the pitch dragging two or three Mariners with them. Then we would scrap to recover the ball and pass it around for a while. It was working exactly as intended.


    I felt sorry for Wes. His first explosion of pace had rocked the stadium. Thousands of people gasped and shot to their feet. But he''d gone four times and produced zero crosses. The fans were already losing faith in him. I hadn''t intended to give him a start so soon, but he had to suffer today. For the team.


    Pascal, though, was dangerous and linking well with Carl behind him, Magnus in the centre, and Henri up front. He wasn''t really threatening Grimsby but was giving them a lot to think about. They were having to track and stick to their shape and concentrate and I had little doubt they would tire in the second half.


    "A lot of money on that pitch producing a whole load of nothing," said Sandra. She was referring to Grimsby, of course, since despite our limited budget we were actually doing something when we had the ball.


    I found myself shaking my head again, thinking about what I''d seen in Grimsby''s Finances screen. It wasn''t available mid-match, since I couldn''t leave the match screens until it was over. But the numbers were clear. I had a budget, you remember, of 22,000 a week for the men''s first team squad, and I''d only actually committed us to slightly over 20. Our highest paid player was the Zachass - I mean, Zach - on two gees. Today''s starting eleven had a total wage of just under 9,000.


    Grimsby''s numbers were startling. Some players had taken pay cuts because of their relegation but the first eleven were on just under 20,000 a week. The wages for the entire football staff were 71,000 a week. This club was paying its failing players and coaches 3.7 million a year in salaries! They were numbers I could only dream of.


    And here we were, dictating play. "We need a gun," I said.


    "Sir?" said the Brig, turning to check the stands behind me.


    "A gun player. If we had..." I didn''t want to finish the sentence. If we had WibRob... "Henri''s so isolated when it''s like this. He''s stinking the place out but we''re not supporting him much."


    "Our full backs can''t attack. Grimsby are too dangerous. If we can''t do slaps the formation looks toothless."


    "I wonder how your 4-2-3-1 would go."


    "It would rock your world."


    "It''d stop Henri doing his Tom Hanks on a desert island impression."


    Sandra pointed. "That''s more like Tom Hanks in The Polar Express. It looks like Henri and sounds like Henri. But it ain''t Henri."


    I glared at my star striker. Thousand quid a week I was paying him. "Tom Hanks did a movie called The Money Pit."


    Sandra chuckled. "Okay. You win."


    ***


    Over the course of the first twenty-five minutes, Grimsby''s drummer got less and less audible. We''d shut the away fans up almost completely, but we weren''t exactly peppering Grimsby''s goal with shots and our own fans, while enjoying the spectacle, had become quieter, too.


    There were good moments. Zach outmuscled Danny Flash in a challenge and dashed away with the ball, which earned a round of applause - his morale jumped two levels. Carl Carlile burst forward, exchanged passes with Pascal, and fired low in the direction of Henri. Henri was slow to react so the chance came to nothing, but Carl got applause all the way back to his zone. And James Wise won plaudits for a two-tackles-in-five-seconds sequence.


    Yeah, things were going very smoothly until the Grimsby dugout suddenly became very animated. I leaned forward and watched Neo, their data analyst who had survived whatever job cull had taken place, show something to Lee Slade. Slade looked around the pitch and nodded. He walked off, came back, and started making changes.


    The hairs on my neck rose.


    I had the absolute certainty that Neo had shown Slade an expected threat chart that showed that for all our pretty passing and lightning thrusts, there was very little chance of us scoring. Slade reacted by abandoning the narrow 4-4-2 concept. His players spread out. I pointed it out to Sandra and we watched as my plans unravelled.


    Jayden Ward was suddenly slaughtering us on our right. Sandra agreed that Pascal should take a more defensive role for the time being while we worked it out. But the same was happening on our left, where Danny Grant was getting on the ball with regularity - and with acres of space. Defending deep on both wings was stupid, but it was all we could do.


    We got pushed back and the drums grew louder. And louder. And suddenly we were being trounced.


    ***


    Boggy: Cross from Grant - Danny Flash so close! He nearly got his head on that. But the danger''s not clear. The ball''s rolled all the way out to the side. Fasanmade collects. He probes. Nothing doing. He cuts it back. First time in from Ward. It''s Youngs! Saved by Cavanagh! He tipped it over the bar. Corner to Grimsby. Their big defenders are coming up. We know Mike Dobson would love to score against a Max Best team. He trundles forward. Er... Bochum and Hayward have gone to the centre circle.


    Spectrum: Counters.


    Boggy: The two fastest players on the pitch will be against one defender if we can get this ball! No, Grimsby send two players back. Three. It''s confused. The corner comes in - cleared by Zach Green! [Big applause.] Big header from Green. But that was all down to Best - we haven''t seen that move from him for a while and Grimsby panicked. But that''ll only work once, won''t it?


    Spectrum: Their coaches will be telling the players what to do next time.


    Boggy: Eddie Moore won a throw-in after the clearance and he''s taking his time over the restart. Chester hoping to catch their breath, here. We didn''t see a lot of that sort of thing last season.


    Spectrum: I''m afraid it will be like this. The standard''s higher. Teams are better. And we''ve seen a tactical change that has knocked us off our stride. It won''t be a one-way street.


    Boggy: You know, considering last season was a one-way street, as you put it, it was bloody stressful! I can''t imagine what a two-way street is going to be like.


    Spectrum: In Max we trust. What''s he doing now?


    Boggy: An unusually animated Max is on the touchline waving at someone. Who, I wonder?


    ***


    I flipped Youngster and Magnus around. First, because Magnus would win more headers, and second, because I wanted to try something to disrupt Grimsby''s flow. Ideally I would have got Youngster to man-mark Alex Evans, but there was a gulf in class between them and anyway, it was in my interest for Evans to be more involved in the match. The point was to tire him out, right?


    So I asked Youngster to get tight to Simon Green and stay there. Green was a combustible, self-important idiot and I thought that suffocating him in this way could lead to interesting effects - and I was right.


    We stemmed the tide of attacks to an extent. Green had been taking some passes from his defenders and now that option was more or less off the table. It wasn''t catastrophic by any means but it gave them something to think about. The easiest option for a defender was to hit a high pass towards Youngs, but we had three big guys back who could win headers. We still had a big problem with Alex Evans combining with Danny Grant - eventually they would make something happen.


    But first...


    ***


    Boggy: Things have settled down, I''m pleased to report. Not that we look comfortable, exactly, but we''re looking more solid. Lyons is something of a passenger right now. The Grimsby drummer is back and those fans are singing their hearts out. They like what they''re seeing from their team.


    Spectrum: I''m sorry to say that if they had an elite striker they''d be out of sight by now.


    Boggy: I tend to agree but we''re competing, at least. We''re fighting. I''m a simple man, Spectrum. I like to see a bit of fight.


    Spectrum: Green is playing well.


    Boggy: I recently learned there''s such a thing as too much fight. But yes, he''s playing well. Now, there''s some argy-bargy in the midfield. It seems to be Simon Green, the hothead - huh! Is he perhaps some relation to Zach? Simon Green in a running battle against Youngster. And there they go again! Oh! [Outraged howls from the home fans.] Green - It looked like Green lashed out at Youngster! [Off! Off! Off!] The home fans are baying for blood. The ones closest are on their feet, furious, gesticulating. Waving imaginary red cards at the referee. The man in question is busy calming down the players. Emotions running high out there. Here comes a card... [Boo!] It''s yellow. Yellow card for Simon Green. [Absolute fury.] And one for Youngster! The home fans are not happy. What did he do? The referee is making it up.


    Spectrum: That''s poor. Green threw an arm at Youngster. Clear red card, the ref bottles it.


    ***


    I let Sandra and Vimsy scream at the ref for a while, then told them to take a timeout. Youngster being carded was pretty pathetic, but there was no point antagonising the ref. How did that help us win? The home fans were back up, though. It was a good time to take advantage.


    An early change from Chester. Youngster will leave the pitch, to be replaced by Sam Topps.


    "Max, are you sure about this?"


    "Yeah."


    Sandra looked up and counted to five. "Could you explain it for us mere mortals?"


    I smiled, got up, and put my arm around her shoulder. "I was going to take Wisey off at half time, but that yellow card changed my mind. The ref might accidentally send our dude off for no reason and cost us the match. Magnus is a good DM and gives us height. Sam can play CM with his old mate. It''s, like, romantic."


    "Is it?"


    "It''s Sweepers in Seattle. You''ve Got Male Bonding. Anyway, Sam''s much better at winding players up than Youngster. Let''s see Simon Green throw a punch at Sam." I laughed for a while. "He won''t, though. He''s a coward. Shame. I''d love to escort him off the pitch."


    "Don''t go on the pitch, Max."


    "Okay."


    "It''s an automatic yellow card these days."


    "Okay." After a while, I said, "I''m starting to like the idea of Magnus and Youngster as twin DMs. One for interceptions, one for physicality and headers. Your 4-2-3-1 is looking better all the time."


    Sandra beamed.


    ***


    After a bright start, Sharknado''s match rating dropped. After forty minutes he was on 5 out of 10, and we had a few on 6. Sam was already on 8 and looking a class above Simon Green.


    Grimsby had started poorly and got better, and now had multiple guys on 8: Jayden Ward, Alex Evans, Danny Grant, and the new centre back, who wasn''t giving Henri a kick. Since Lee Slade''s change, we had been riding our luck.


    Our luck threw us off its back.


    ***


    Boggy: Jayden Ward jinks past Bochum and drives on. Fasanmade is running in support. He - did he run into Carl Carlile? Ref says play on! Ward is free! He''s in acres of space. Zach Green sprints to cover. Ryder marking two men. Evergreen needs to drop! Ward cocks his leg, low cross, oh! [Roar.] Disaster! Absolute disaster. Zach Green has slid to intercept the cross but turned the ball into his own net. Cavanagh was completely wrong-footed; he had no chance. Green looks up in disbelief and slaps the turf. He looks like he wants the earth to swallow him and - well. Grimsby ahead and, to be fair, it''s deserved. Their fans are absolutely bouncing. Three-quarters of the stadium falls silent.


    Spectrum: Green had to go for the ball. Grimsby suddenly had numbers in the box. If Green cuts that cross out, he''s saved a goal. It was huge danger from the moment Ward beat Pascal. And I need to see a replay but I think their left midfielder deliberately ran into Carl to take him out of the game.


    Boggy: Chester with no shots on target in the first half. Now losing to an own goal. There have been patches of good play but...


    Spectrum: Yeah.


    Boggy: And I''ll say it because many in the chat are saying it. Max giving himself a spot on the bench to confuse Grimsby hasn''t worked and now any red card or defensive injury leaves us with a big problem. Only Ziggy or Aff are left available. Aff can play left back, I suppose.


    Spectrum: I think Wes Hayward won''t survive half time.


    Boggy: Ah. We''re not calling him the other thing any more. I think I understand how it goes.


    ***


    I went down the tunnel early, with the Brig protecting me from anyone who might dare assault me or worse - shake my hand.


    The whistle blew thirty seconds later - my early exit had cost me three XP! - and soon enough my players came stomping in. The mood was pretty flat. That happens when you''ve been outplayed.


    I let them decompress, as always, and kept an eye on Grimsby''s tactics. Lee Slade seemed pretty content with them, rightly so, and left them as they were.


    What about me, though? I was getting seriously pissed with Henri. Seeing him happy was not working for me. This wasn''t the kind of happiness I imagined for him. I hadn''t pegged him as the type of guy who gets a girlfriend and vanishes and gives up his former life. Was he seriously losing interest in football? Would Luisa want that for him?


    I stared at a spot on the floor. He''d trained poorly for what, a month? Was that enough time to bin him off? How could I bin him off when he was by far my best striker? I could take his wages, add them to my reserves, and get someone good in on loan. And what sort of manager would I be then? A win now manager disguised as a project manager?


    Grimsby''s squad was in a state of civil war. You had to imagine things would get worse there, or simply fail to improve. They would win a lot of matches but a CA 75 team with four traitors and five players who hated six others was going to drop points. My shitty CA 55 squad, unified, motivated, would not only improve faster but could even pick up points. To get there, I''d have to resolve Henri''s situation, do something about Pascal, and stop people hating on Zach.


    The thought that I would have to work harder than ever seemed unfair and dispiriting and, yeah, irritated me. I got to my feet. "Shut up," I said. I scanned the room. Our CA wasn''t higher than last season but our PA was, massively. Seemed like the higher the PA, the more these pricks wanted to be treated like dainty racehorses. Ooh the ground is too squishy I can''t run. "Listen up. This is the National League. You''re here to suffer. Every team fights like the devil for every throw-in, header, tackle, and corner. Every single incident is a matter of life and death." Sam Topps'' back was suddenly straight. He loved it when I talked like this. His attention gave me pause, but I saw Henri was on his phone - no doubt carefully counting out how many heart emojis he wanted to send - and the feeling came back. "No phones in the dressing room." One by one, people turned to stare at Henri until he finally blinked, looked around, pressed send, and slipped his phone into his bag. It pinged immediately and he reached in to grab it. He just about had the sense to let it wait. No dinner invite for him! "My favourite movie is Cast Away with Tom Hanks."


    "Oh, excellent," said Youngster, apparently unaffected by being subbed off early.


    "It''s about a man whose only friend is a ball. He loves the ball. He wants to keep the ball. He doesn''t want to let Grimsby get the ball."


    "Is that the Director''s Cut?" asked Sam.


    "No, the normal one. It''s got Owen Wilson in. Put your hand down, Youngster. Guys, seriously, you need to get that ball and play those short passes. You''ve got to work harder to show for each other. No man is an island. The dream is to have two options every time you''ve got the ball but there are times we don''t even have one. You''re not supporting each other enough. Right, one change for the second half; we''ll bring Aff on for Henri."


    "Excuse me?" said Henri.


    "Aff now?" said Sandra. We''d talked about making this switch but later in the game. The truth was I was so pissed I didn''t want Henri to get a round of applause as he left the pitch. This way there would be a quick announcement we''d made the sub. No applause. No time in the limelight.


    "Who will go up front?" asked Vimsy, who couldn''t understand a system that didn''t include at least one striker.


    "Aff left, Sharkado right, Pascal up top. Bosh."


    "Pardon me, Max," said Henri. He couldn''t believe what he was hearing. "You want to win this game, no? I believe you mentioned that."


    "Yeah but you''ve obviously put so much into training you don''t have the energy to get around the pitch."


    There were some laughs in the room - mostly good humoured, but one that was bitter and nasty. Henri stood, trying to be magnificent, but I turned away. You can''t be magnificent if you''re dogging it in training. That''s a rule.


    "I want a left bias," I said, indicating the tactics board. I slid three midfield magnets slightly to the left. I couldn''t really enforce these tweaks using the curse interface - not yet - but sometimes telling guys what I wanted paid off during the fluid, unpredictable chaos of a match. "All roads lead to Aff. We''ll build on the left and try to slap. If we can''t get through, keep switching to the right and Wes - you keep going. I know it''s tough out there but every time you sprint you''re making six of their guys sprint, too. It''s going to pay off, I promise. When we turn it around in the last fifteen, it''ll be because you softened them up. Keep going, all right?"


    "Come on, Wes," shouted Glenn Ryder, and Wes reacted. Morale boost and a straighter spine.


    I got the first little goosebump.


    "Zach. It hasn''t gone to plan because they came at us more than I expected. That''s on me. But I want you to keep going. I love what you''re doing, mate, and keep hitting those passes to Magnus. Tiki Taka isn''t dead. Magnus is in space all the time and Alex Evans isn''t going to start fucking gegenpressing. Magnus, if you can move to Alex''s side and try to force him to cover you, you get a TINO."


    "A what?"


    "Do you understand what I just said, yes or no?"


    "Yes, boss. Tire him out."


    "And Tiki Taka with Zach."


    "Tiki Zacha," said Youngster.


    "That''s terrible," I said. "I love it. Tiki Zacha."


    "Yes, lads!" cried Sam, and Zach''s morale got a little uplift.


    "Carl," I said. "They dicked you on that move. I kind of love it, actually. Vimsy, you saw it, right? I don''t mind us adding that one to our repertoire. But Carl, Jayden Ward is maybe the best player you''ve ever been up against. If Ward''s coming, try to hand thingy off to Wes and you make sure you get on him. You get me? Don''t dive in, keep on your toes, if you have to take a risk and let thingy go, let him go. Ward is twenty times more dangerous."


    "I''ll try, boss."


    "All right, that''s mostly it. We''re not far off. And listen, they will fucking implode at the first chance and their fans will turn on them. Remember that and use that."


    "Pascal?" said Sandra.


    "Right. Mate. Forget trying to score."


    "Unorthodox advice," said Sandra, but I think she was starting to feel some of the goosebumps, too. Project managers like to win.


    "I mean, score if it''s like, easy, I suppose. But it won''t be. Not yet. I want twenty minutes of you driving them absolutely mad popping up all over the forward lines. Connect with Aff for the slaps, cause havoc, then work the ball back to midfield and let Magnus tire Evans out. Yeah? Get Wes involved on the right because he''s making guys work. Don''t let anyone get a breather. Work the ball all round the pitch. Think of it like you''re targeting one of their weak spots then move onto the next, then go back. Evans will be gassed soon enough, then Danny Flash. We do that, they''ve got virtually zero goal threat and we can go all-out attack. The last fifteen minutes will be mayhem. Chaos. Do you follow?"


    His eyes were shining. There had been a time in his life where everyone told him he wouldn''t make it. And now here he was playing a pivotal role against the best team in the division and thinking he could do it and do it well. "Yes."


    That was all he said.


    "One thing, guys," I said, before I let Glenn hype them up. "I''m, er, feeling a bit fragile. Got a bad bruise or something. When we score, when we win, leave me alone. Okay?"


    "Yes, boss!" said Zach, only about 500% too loud. A tremendous improvement!


    "Yeah. Okay, go and unfriend some fishermen. Wow, that was terrible. Cut that. Just go slap."


    Glenn yelled some things and the lads clomped out, morale high, ready to carry out my instructions. All the staff were up, too, excited to see how the half would turn out.


    There was only one person who wasn''t smiling - except Henri, the dick, who would soon take a long, hot shower. As I followed the Brig to the door, Physio Dean gave me a cold, blank stare.


    ***


    The drummer came out for the second half with a couple of pints in him that he worked off with lusty if sometimes inaccurate whomps. Grimsby chanted and sang and as the referee got us underway one guy stood and started the ''we hate Wrexham'' song that I''m afraid to say swept the stadium and brought both factions together.


    Then it was back to Chester versus Grimsby and my tweaks took them by surprise. Sam and Wisey bit into challenges in the middle, while Aff played with tremendous pace and purpose on the left. Poor Wes on the right was enthusiastic but ineffective. The home fans didn''t turn on him, exactly, but as the half wore on, they expressed frustration with his decision-making and the quality of his final pass. Once, he beat Jayden Ward - outstanding! - and whipped in a frankly delicious cross. The problem was that Pascal had drifted over to offer a short pass, meaning we had no-one in the centre. Meaning crossing was absurd. And why was he whipping in crosses towards the miniature German?


    "Hell of a cross," said Vimsy, who was negative by nature but had a lot of patience for fast wide players.


    "It was," I said. "I don''t want to get all preachy, but he''s got the raw materials. You can all see that, right?" This question included Sandra. "I think he''s going to drive us fucking crazy this year but he''s just ripped the league''s best left back and put in a cross as good as anything I can do."


    "It''s not my doubts you need to worry about," said Sandra. "It''s his."


    That felt right. "Brig, what do you think? Relentless positivity?"


    "From us? Yes, sir."


    "Well, get on with it, then."


    The Brig blinked and realised Wes was jogging back past us. "Excellent move, Wesley!"


    Vimsy took a few strides forward, clapped, and nearly scored himself a dinner invite by the way he yelled, "Love it, Sharky!"


    Sandra walked down the line with a smile on her face. "Police! I''d like to report a murder!"


    Wes Hayward didn''t smile, but his morale went up two levels.


    ***


    Boggy: Time''s running out here at the Deva. Quarter of an hour gone in this second half. Still Grimsby lead one-nil, but they haven''t looked too threatening since the restart.


    Spectrum: No, they''re... They can''t get a grip on the game. Since Sharknado beat Ward, Ward''s been reluctant to attack. And they don''t quite know what to do with Bochum. He''s drifting around popping up in all sorts of places.


    Boggy: I have to say it''s all very interesting in the way some Premier League matches are interesting without anything actually happening. No shots for Chester so far. None. An hour gone.


    Spectrum: Max looks happy.


    Boggy: He''s got one substitution left. Ziggy. What do we know of him?


    Spectrum: He''s a goal poacher. If we get the ball to him in the box, he''ll tuck it away. So... I''d guess he''ll replace Sharknado and Pascal and Aff will try to get to the byline and do slaps.


    Boggy: Sorry?


    Spectrum: I mean, do cut backs so Ziggy has an easy finish.


    Boggy: Ah, right. Well, for now, it''s more of those tiny passes between Green and Evergreen.


    ***


    66 Minutes Gone


    Possession


    Chester 66% Grimsby 34%


    Shots


    Chester 0 Grimsby 6


    ***


    Sam was killing it. 9 out of 10 and looking turbocharged. Aff was on fire. 8 out of 10 and he just needed someone in the box to combine with. Pascal was 8 out of 10 and he''d combined with the four midfielders just as I''d hoped.


    Alex Evans had the lowest Condition score on the pitch. He was struggling on 70%. Danny Flash had run like a crazy person chasing our Tiki Taka passes, and while he was young and very fit, he was down to 81%.


    72 minutes gone. It was nearly time.


    "Ziggy, you nice and warmed up? Go do a couple more jogs, please."


    Sandra glanced over. "Want me to tell the lino?" The linesman would hold up an electronic board indicating the change we wanted to make. Ziggy had squad number 7 this season. Wes was 15. So first the board would say 15, then 7.


    "I''ll do it," I said. "I haven''t done that for ages. Could you talk to Carl? He''s getting too rambunctious down there. Tell him to calm the eff down and remember what happened with their first goal."


    "On it."


    ***


    Boggy: Here comes Chester''s final change. Best is on the touchline holding onto Ziggy. He seems to be giving him some last-minute tactical instructions. Ziggy, please score a goal.


    Spectrum: It could be that simple! But he''s probably pointing out which defender has a weak left side or something like that.


    Boggy: Number 15 goes up. Wes Hayward jogs to the touchline. Generous round of applause from the home fans. It''s fair to say that was a mixed home debut for the pacey winger. And the number 7 is shown. Ziggy, er, Ziggy goes back to the bench. Best takes his training top off.


    Spectrum: 77.


    Boggy: It''s Max Best going on! He races onto the pitch. Er... Sandra Lane, John Smith, the physios, they''re all rushing forward trying to stop him. But he''s done it! Is he injured or not? I''m confused. He''s got one of those support braces on his right arm. You don''t think he''s - ?


    Spectrum: Pascal''s gone right. Still 4-1-4-1 but with Max as the striker.


    ***


    I jogged around getting warmed up, since I hadn''t been able to beforehand or Sandra would have made the Brig restrain me or something. I didn''t plan to get too involved in the match - I only needed to be loose enough to run and maybe smash a football harder than it''s ever been smashed before.


    Caine eyed my arm brace. I used Seal It Up to give us a fifteen minute defensive boost. Caine ran to Mike Dobson and covered his mouth as he spoke. I used Cupid''s Arrow to link Pascal and myself. Dobson waved for Si Green to come and he covered his mouth. They were looking at my arm. I gave most of my players attacking instructions. Fearless football, ready set go.


    The Grimsby drum was loud and now the Chester fans resumed slapping the metalwork. My heart went thump thump thump and I felt it in my arm. Felt the blood thundering past the bruise. This had the potential to end very, very badly.


    The match restarted and I was immediately drawn to a contest on the right - I ate twenty yards in seconds and snapped out of it, moved away from the situation. I had to avoid getting involved. I was the tip of the spear and nothing else. First time finish, stay out of trouble. That was the plan.


    Maybe it was my imagination but it seemed like the match had gone up a notch in intensity. My players were infused with a new sense of belief and weren''t going to shirk a single challenge. Weren''t going to let a guy dribble past them. Grimsby, though, had gone up a few levels of motivation, too. Especially the three who hated me.


    Fortunately, they were dogshit.


    ***


    Boggy: Eddie Moore with a huge tackle on Danny Grant! That was an essential intervention.


    Spectrum: I''m going to have nightmares about that overlap he just cut out.


    Boggy: Glenn Ryder takes a touch and passes to Cavanagh. The goalie finds Green. Green shapes to find Carlile but cuts it diagonally to Evergreen - a pass we''ve seen more than any other, I think.


    Spectrum: Best''s gone wide right.


    Boggy: Evergreen. Wise. Topps. Evergreen. Pass played slightly behind Best. He retreats to get it. Arms wide. Where''s my option, he''s asking. Bochum runs... away from the ball. Someone tell him that''s not what his manager needs!


    Spectrum: It''s coming!


    Boggy: Spectrum''s grabbing my arm. I''m stressed. Si Green sees the chance to land one on his former manager. He steams in... nutmeg! Best''s away. [Crowd roars.] Ward comes to compete but the ball''s gone! Best touched it to Bochum but I didn''t even see his feet move. Now he''s sprinting. Bochum to Best. Best - stands on the ball? Kills it dead. He speeds left. Bochum catches up to the ball and feeds it to Best. He turns onto his left foot - piledriver! [Roar.] Goal! Goal Chester! Goal Best! He shot so early the goalie never saw it coming. And listen to that! [Jubilation continues.]


    Spectrum: He''s down. He clattered into Dobson after taking the shot.


    Boggy: Or Dobson clattered into him. Best is refusing help. He gets up slowly. He''s holding his right arm across his body. Doesn''t look good. Doesn''t look good at all. I tell you what does look good - the score. One-all!


    ***


    I missed most of the celebrations but Sandra, Vimsy, and the Brig seemed a lot less mad at me. I stuck my tongue out the corner of my mouth as the outfield players formed an impromptu huddle in the centre circle. Glenn Ryder spoke up. "Boss, what the fuck is happening?"


    "Nothing. I''m fine. Let''s get these points. I want attacks. I want free kicks near their box, yeah? Get me a free kick and I''ll fuck them up. Pascal? Aff?"


    "Understood," said Pascal.


    "Come on!" yelled Glenn Ryder, Influence 54.


    This might be a good time to mention that I''d used Triple Captain and Bench Boost. I was all in; a sore arm wasn''t going to stop me winning this one. Grimsby in a tailspin would transform this entire season. Instead of one team running away with it, everyone else would have a chance. It would be chaos. Well worth a bit of short-term pain and a perfect use case for my most powerful perks.


    As Grims kicked off, I wandered up the pitch, but realised just in time that Si Green was aiming an elbow at my bandaged arm. What the actual fuck? I expected that sort of thing if we were competing for the ball, but not at a random moment. I hopped back and he hit fresh air. Sam Topps went mental.


    "Do that again you''re dead!" Sam snarled, and I slipped away as a little melee formed. A fracas. Bit more than the usual handbags this time because once Ryder got involved, Triple Captain kicked in and his fury spread. Grimsby had some hard, tough players, but they also had three cowards. I''d fancy our chances in some kind of battle royale.


    On the tactics page, I slipped Sam''s icon off the pitch and he blinked and started walking towards the dugout. I put his icon back and now that I had his attention, had a chat with him. "Mate. Not you. Not today."


    He didn''t understand in the slightest. "What? Why not me?"


    I scrunched my little face up, but decided to be honest. I jerked my chin towards the main stand. "You''re being scouted. Now don''t fuck up your career on that fucking nobody."


    "My career''s here, boss."


    "Has he been cashing you off?" Si Green loved to tell other players how much he was earning.


    Sam''s eyes narrowed. "Yeah, he has."


    "How about next time you play, you cash him off?"


    "Not my style."


    "You''ll be able to afford someone to do it for you. Just don''t get sent off. Anyway, I want my three points so cut it out."


    "Yes, boss."


    The ref got a grip and I wandered off to the right, but on reflection, decided I wanted to attack from the left. From there I could shoot first time with my right foot. And from there, Caine would be in the firing line. He was a weak link, anyway. I simply had to ensure he didn''t get a shot at my arm. It was starting to throb in a way most limbs don''t.


    ***


    Boggy: Another Grimsby break peters out. It''s all Chester, now! There are outstanding performances all over the pitch! Eddie Moore impressive. Ryder inspirational. Green secure in his passing and winning duels. Evergreen everywhere. But Sam Topps, Aff, and Pascal are playing some amazing football while Max Best lurks. He''s over on the left of the pitch, now, not making the slightest effort to get involved. If it was any other player I''d be fuming and so would the fans, but because it''s Best the anticipation is building. The Grimsby drum has fallen silent. We''re too tense to sing. This is a real nail-biter. What''s coming next?


    Spectrum: Free kick!


    Boggy: The ref''s given a free kick! Strachan is furious. It did look like - well, it looked like Pascal went down quite easily.


    Spectrum: Great angle.


    Boggy: Best hasn''t moved. He''s got one inch of his boot on the left touchline but the rest of him is off the pitch. He''s - I think he''s trying to make it impossible for a Grimsby player to take a swing at his arm. And now the wall''s in place, here comes Best. Three-quarters of the stadium rise to their feet - the ones who were sitting do, anyway - and - oh, Spectrum! The nerves. I''m shredded. Will he shoot?


    Spectrum: Maybe but he could aim for the far post via the six-yard box and if anyone gets a head on it, that''s a goal. And if everyone misses it, the keeper has to react fast to get across. The pace Max hits these set pieces, it''s all kinds of dangerous.


    Boggy: I see what you mean. Best taps the air - some kind of signal? He inhales. Who''s there to aim for? Ryder, Green, Carlile? Sam Topps is ten yards away from Best. Pascal is back on the halfway line ready to cover a break. Best, now. He strikes the - no! Short pass to Sam Topps. Grimsby retreated expecting the cross. Topps touches the ball back to Best - now the shot. [Roar.] Yes! Sensational! What a goal! The Deva is rocking! [Noise of all sorts.] Two-one Chester! Sam Topps leads the celebrations in front of the Harry McNally stand! Limbs everywhere! Spectrum, tell us what just happened.


    Spectrum: Grimsby had a three-man wall trying to block the shot to the left of the goal, but they expected the cross-cum-shot to the right-side post as I described. Instead, Max passed to Sam and he rolled it back to Max. That took the wall out of the equation and allowed Max to have a free shot from twenty-five yards with absolute chaos in front of the goalie. Max hit it sweetly in the top-left corner, but honestly it didn''t need to be that good. The keeper didn''t even move.


    Boggy: Amazing from Best, well supported by Sam Topps. But special mention to Pascal Bochum who, er, earned the free kick.


    Spectrum: Special mention to Chris Hale who sacked Max. This is what you get! This is what you get!


    ***


    A crushing blow. A real sickener. One-nil up to two-one down and a superstar floating around making the ball do tricks.


    In the National League North, that would have been that. Spirits broken, keep it tight, try not to get beat too bad. But Lee Slade had a bit more about him and the tools to react. He subbed off the gassed Alex Evans and the ineffective Danny Flash, moved Danny Grant into the centre, and put Conor Quinn on the right of midfield. He set his team to an attacking tendency and right away, sparks flew.


    Aff versus Quinn was titanic. I switched Sam and Wisey so my Bench Boosted midfield general could put pressure on Grant and that was a hell of a battle. Grimsby''s new strike team started to get in behind our defenders instead of doing what we wanted them to do.


    With Magnus acting like a fifth defender, we were just about keeping our heads above water.


    The problem was me. I wanted to keep out of the hurly burly of the match, but it was like we were playing with ten men. Against Maidenhead that''d be all right, but Grimsby were several notches above our level. If we weren''t getting shots, what could I do that wouldn''t risk me getting hurt?


    ***


    Boggy: Dreadful pressure from Grimsby, now. They''ve been pushing us back and back and now they''re camped in our half. I can''t stand ten minutes of this. And the drummer''s back! Grimsby believe again. Topps challenges but Grant retains the ball. He finds Quinn - he looks a good player to me. Better than they had starting the match, for sure. He swings in a cross. Header from Ryder, but it''s a tired one. We look very weary. Ward collects. He passes square to Simon Green. What - oh! Best popped up behind him and jabbed the ball away before scarpering. Carlile to Wise. Wise to Best. Best plays it behind Amadi-Spokes and Aff chases! The Grimsby player gets there first but that''s a hint at the danger we pose on the break. And now Grimsby must reset. Ryder urges his defence forward. Er... Best is by Magnus in the DM slot. Simon Green heads in that direction. Best moves away. Green follows. What''s...? Best taunts Green! And skips away. Green''s livid but he has to be careful. He''s on a yellow card!


    Spectrum: He''s too busy trying to kick Max instead of playing.


    Boggy: Nine minutes to go. Still Chester lead. Still Grimsby attack. Tremendous move by Grant! He waltzed through Topps and Wise! Magnus cleans up, but he''s under pressure straight away. Best is there to support. Simon Green charges at Best... nutmeg! And a little ol¨¦! Best dribbles away, laughing. But Green''s back on the scent. Dobson has pushed forward, too. Neither man''s a big Best fan, as we know. Where''s - ? Best hesitates - Evergreen is out of position! Bochum is out of position! Aff is out of position! Best still dallying on the ball. Now he gets rid. Backheel pass! Bisects the Grimsby duo. Wise collects. Topps supports. It''s, er... Evergreen left mid, Bochum in attack. Aff right? Very fluid play. We haven''t seen anything like this today. Topps drives forward. He shapes to shoot -


    Spectrum: No, don''t!


    Boggy: But he clips it to Evergreen. He plays it down the channel for Bochum. The German looks up and cuts it back to Aff! The Grimsby captain is in no man''s land! Aff with time and space! Aff to finish the match! [Roar - cut short.] Saved! Fantastic save from Crichlow. Oh, Spectrum, I can''t take this. The Chester players traipse back to their positions. That seemed like a last throw of the dice from Chester. Have they got anything left?


    ***


    We held out for a couple more minutes, but then my fifteen-minute bonuses ran out. My attempt to reorganise the team while running away from Green and Dobson had worked great - with Dobson so far out of position moving my players around had forced my guys to attack the space he''d left.


    Dobson was getting an earful from Lee Slade now, so he probably wouldn''t go wandering again. That was both good and bad. One fewer guy trying to hurt me, one fewer guy marauding into midfield, but to be honest, I didn''t mind the big, juicy gap he''d left.


    Grimsby came again and for the umpteenth time it was Ward getting forward from left back and whipping in a cross. I had to do something. We were so close to the finish line, now.


    The Chester metaldrummer pounded out three dots, three dashes, and three dots.


    Oh, for a perk that would make the ref blow the final whistle.


    Lacking such an option, I dropped into the DM slot full time and thought about doing 3-5-2 or something with Pascal as one of the strikers so that I could find him with a long pass and relieve the pressure that way. The kid was exhausted, though. He had worked crazy hard and his Condition had dropped below 70. If I asked him to keep sprinting, he''d tear something.


    So all we could do was defend for our lives.


    SOS!


    ***


    Boggy: Grant. He''s been pulling the strings. Tries a chip over the defence. Ryder misses it. Youngs to shoot! Zach Green throws his body in the way. Appeals for handball from the Grimsby fans! Ludicrous. Moore hacks clear but not very far. Quinn drives. Moore looks shattered. Quinn jinks around him but who''s there to slide in and knock the ball out for a throw-in? Max Best!


    Spectrum: That looked like it hurt.


    Boggy: Best is doubled up holding his arm. No time for sentiment. Quinn throws the ball to Caine. He dribbles at Best. Oh, dear. Caine nutmegs Best! But then crashes into him. Best wheels away trying to keep his balance. He doesn''t want to put weight on his arms. Finally, he collapses onto his back, holding his arms up. Well, it looked ungainly but it''s clear he''s in enormous discomfort. You don''t think... he''s playing with a broken arm? Confusion abounds here as Grimsby try to take a quick free kick. [Fast, intense whistling.] The ref... gives the free kick to Chester!


    Spectrum: That guy''s just cost his team a draw. We''re knackered. We''re out on our feet but he wants to hurt Max more than he wants to do his job. No wonder Max binned him off. Awful. Awful human being.


    Boggy: Chester''s physio has come on to check on Best. Some intense conversation going on. He pulls Best up by his injured arm - very strange. And Best... is going to leave the pitch. That''s it. His race is done. Chester will have to survive three minutes of injury time without their leader.


    Spectrum: Ryder''s the captain. Sam''s a leader.


    Boggy: Without their talisman, then. Best cradles both arms as the main stand rises to a man. Standing ovation for the player-manager. Sandra Lane gives him a kiss on the cheek - all is forgiven! Best heads down the tunnel.


    ***


    I winked at Danny Flash then kissed and made up with my assistant manager - Sandra, not the Brig. "You were wrong," I said.


    "Oh?" she said, torn between being mad at me and delighted I''d won us the match.


    "You said if I went on the pitch it''d be an automatic yellow card."


    She shook her head, reluctantly smiling, and pecked me on the cheek. "That was fantastic. Don''t do it again."


    I nodded and walked off, pausing as Livia passed on a message from Emma.


    "She says you''re going to dinner even if she has to cut up your food and shove it down your stupid reckless gob."


    I laughed. "I''ll text her back in a bit." Livia handed my phone to the Brig and he fell into step beside me as I followed Physio Dean down the tunnel and into the dressing room.


    Dean was seething. I''d misled him about my intentions. The Brig picked up on the atmosphere. "Sir?"


    "Dean just told me he would quit if I didn''t get off the pitch."


    "I see. Why did you say that, Dean?"


    Dean had wordlessly made me rest my left arm - the one without the strapping - on a treatment table and was doing things to it. "Last week, he complained his arm was broken but refused to let me take an X-ray."


    "That''s not like you, sir."


    Dean scoffed, bitterly. "Insurance. If he had a break he wouldn''t be allowed to play. No X-ray, no break."


    "Max," complained the Brig, which was his version of ''fucking hell, Max.''


    A huge oooh came from the stadium, quickly followed by another, then some applause. The curse told me it was still two-one and we were into garbage time. Any second now... Dean continued. "This is no good, John. We can''t work like this. First, what if I''ve misaligned the bone and it heals badly? Second, what if he''d fallen on it again? We pack the stadium with schoolkids only for them to see his arm get pulled off! Blood everywhere! Daddy, why has that man got a fountain of ketchup coming out of him?"


    "Come on," I laughed. "You said it yourself - there was nothing wrong with me. Bad bruise or something. It''s all good."


    "It''s not all good - " he started. We all turned to look at the door - a huge cheer had erupted. The biggest heard in this stadium for many a year. The final whistle had blown.


    I let out a small, relieved groan and closed my eyes. Two-one, two wins to start the season, six points on the board, 300 new fans for life. Grimsby sent into a tailspin.


    "Why is your strapping on the wrong arm, sir?"


    "I knew these fucks would try to get me. Let them hit the wrong arm. Simples."


    Dean closed his eyes and put his hands on the table. "I can''t do this. I haven''t slept for a week. We''re going to get this X-rayed and checked out and if there''s a break you''re going to take six weeks off and that''s not negotiable."


    I thought about it. "Three."


    "Max, I''m serious. I''m pissed. You asked me to do something I should never have agreed to. And you should never have asked me." He inhaled. Steeled himself. "Let me treat you the way you make me treat the other players or I''ll quit. I''ll quit.. and I''ll tell Emma what you did!"


    Physio Dean, always in search of his Doctor Voice. The man from underground who bossed the pandemic and gave me the first aid that saved my life. Irreplaceable. I regarded him. He himself was a long-term castaway. His private island was slowly drifting closer to the mainland, but there was some way to go before he truly joined our archipelago. "You''re right. I''m in your hands. And I''m sorry if I put you in a difficult position. I thought it was worth it. But Dean..."


    "What?" he snapped, as he started to bandage my arm to keep it stable until we got to the clinic.


    I had been about to negotiate the six weeks thing, but I decided to wait until we had the X-rays. Maybe it wasn''t even broken. I changed tack. "After the clinic, do you want to have dinner with us and Donnie Wormwood at the Grosvenor? Five-star, six courses, seven rounds of Donnie''s favourite plonk."


    He paused. "Are you trying to bribe me?"


    "Yes. And you can order anything from the menu except lobster. I don''t have lobster money." A castaway wouldn''t want lobster, would he? Anything but seafood, please.


    The door opened and the team came in, yelling and joking. They were singing, "We. Are. Top of the League!"


    In fact, Barnet had won again and we were one of several teams on six points, but it didn''t matter. This project team had scored two wins, we''d entertained our fans, and when the lads spotted Dean taking care of me they pointed and chanted, "Deano! Deano!"


    His eyes flickered around. He loved being part of the group more than he hated me for being a massive hypocrite. "Okay," he said. "I''m in. I''ll go. Just one thing, though."


    "Yeah?"


    "Who''s Donnie Wormwood?"

 8.9 - The Last Word

    9.


    "Okay, thanks for coming," I said. This was the new Monday morning 8 a.m. ritual - meeting the club''s key staff to set goals and discuss problems. A good ritual had memorable phrases. I tried to invent one. "Let us bring order to chaos. No, I don''t want to end with a negative word. The last word is a place of power. Let''s think. From chaos, may we bring order."


    The Brig was unimpressed. "Is your blood sugar low, sir? I could bring you a plum."


    "It''s not plum weather," I said.


    Brooke thought this was hilarious. "You don''t eat plums when it''s raining?"


    "No, Brooke. They''re for hot days. Delicious chilled plum on a hot day, what could be better than that?"


    "Chilled?" exclaimed Sandra.


    "Oh, let''s not start all that," said MD. "I have a hard out at half past, Max."


    "Hurr," I said, as though he''d said something rude. I took one last look out of my big window. The weather was absolutely foul and Jude was plodding around on pitch 1 putting cones out in a specific order. Looked like a shooting drill. Good! I got the feeling goals were going to be hard to come by, this season.


    The skin under my cast was all kinds of itchy and I tried to slide a house key in there to give me some relief. The key wasn''t long enough. I sat down, vaguely unhappy, and thought about the seating arrangements. Somehow these guys defaulted to the same places.


    Behind me to the left was Vimsy, in his customary place leaning on the window. It struck me that this way, he was slightly apart from the others, like he didn''t really feel that he was part of the group. In terms of his coaching numbers, he had the potential to be a weak link in our team, but he was doing less and less actual coaching and more man management. He was also running the reserve team. On Friday nights, he took spare players off to play a match against Rochdale under 23s or someone who also needed a match. It was pretty informal, for now, but Vimsy was perfectly suited to the role. He knew what we were trying to teach the lads and he could see if they were doing it or not. I''d come to value his input and it seemed a shame to think he didn''t feel like one of us.


    "How''s your tea?" I asked him.


    "Oh, grand, yeah. Love a cuppa on a morning like this."


    "Is that a new cup?"


    "No, don''t think so." He took a swig. I''d left five mugs on top of the filing cabinet to see if he would think they were all his and learn to stop leaving his blasted cups everywhere. What was it Meghan had said to me? Being subtle doesn''t work on men.


    I turned away but looked back again. Vimsy had stood in that spot in the age of Ian Evans, hadn''t he? So it wasn''t that he felt left out or excluded. He liked it there.


    The Brig was to my left, facing the door. That was security stuff. He would be the first to see a threat.


    Next to him in the semi-circle was Brooke. She was overachieving to such a degree I wondered if she even had free time to spend with her horse. She had been experimenting with micro-targeted Facebook ads based on the six types of football fan. She''d been getting to know local politicians and charities and even the farmers who owned the land around the stadium. As far as I could tell she wasn''t rushing in like a - well, like a Zach. She was meeting people, listening, and building a relationship. At the right time, she would stop following and start leading.


    MD was helping, too, of course, but he was a busy man. The kind of man who had a hard out at eight thirty. His pose was interesting. Although we often ended up sitting opposite each other - at a curry house in Manchester, for example - he always angled his body away slightly so that we weren''t in a confrontational pose. That was a good trick that I''d found myself doing in awkward conversations. For example, when I''d recently tried to talk to Henri about training - he insisted on telling me about a book he was reading and I didn''t get the chance to bring up my worries. I''d also tried it with Pascal, but I found I had no desire to talk to Bad Boy so I''d faked an incoming call and left the area.


    The last person in the room was Sandra. As always, she was to my right, opposite the Brig. Giving herself equal status, maybe? Or maybe she liked being near the flipchart in case an opportunity arose to scribble diagrams and line ups.


    "How''s your arm?" said MD.


    I lifted the stupid cast. Emma had signed her name on the part where the itches came. "We did an X-ray and there was a thing. A smudge on the screen. Dean instantly claimed it was a hairline fracture, right, but Phwoar-ence Nightingale said it was probably just a shadow and I agree with her."


    "Who?" said MD.


    "You know, that hot doctor at our clinic. I reckon I''m fine but Dean threatened to quit if I even trained. Said something about it getting infected and that was muy muy no bueno and look - I don''t want to lose good people. I''m happy with the team. The team off the pitch, anyway."


    "We have six points," said MD. "You''re not happy with them on the pitch?"


    "That was our best line up, plus me. That''s a team that will pick up a lot of points, but I don''t want to play every game. Main topic of the week is training." Sandra got up and turned the flipchart to a new page. She wrote TRAINING in capital letters. I continued. "Something is off in the dressing room but it isn''t Dean and Livia, that''s for sure." The itch came back and I looked for something to slide under the cast. "That said, I do think there''s nothing wrong with me so I''m going to rest it for two weeks and we''ll do another X-ray. If I only miss four matches and I''m back for Dagenham, that''ll be awesome."


    "Does it hurt?" said Brooke.


    "It''s itchy." Sandra wrote ITCHY. "Kinda driving me crazy but my right hurts more than my left. Those Grimsby fuckers did a number on me. Summary, I''m fine but I''m not playing for two weeks and we''ll use that time to fix problems. Three main ones, I think. The Henri situation. He''s semi-retired at this point. Pascal. His whole Bad Boy thing is getting on my tits. And Zach. Things are slightly better but there are still some, er... There''s still some tension around him." Sandra wrote HPZ. "The thing is, Brig, I know from experience that if you''re in training worried about interpersonal conflicts and all that, you''re not training hard. So for the kids to flourish, we have to restore harmony."


    The Brig nodded three times, each smaller than the last. "I understand, sir."


    "Okay, I''ve got a couple of lesser topics and so does MD. Um... me first?"


    "No, Max."


    "Jesus. Fine." I opened my drawers looking for something long and flat.


    MD pulled his phone out. "Let''s talk about your post-match interview. First of all, congratulations on remembering to do your contracted duties."


    Sandra didn''t write anything, but sat down, keeping hold of the marker. I glanced at what she''d written. The first word was training. That was everything. Nothing else worked without it. "Two things," I said, unbending a paperclip. "One, it''s not in my contract. I do it as a favour to the club. Sandra''s way better than me, anyway. You should be glad she does it. Oh, that''s the spot. Paperclip for the win! Two, after Grims I had to hang around waiting for the traffic to clear so I thought, fuck it, I''ll talk to the world''s press. Something to do, right?"


    "The devil will find work for idle hands to do," said MD.


    "What did he say?" asked the Brig.


    MD shook his head. "Had a few pops at Grimsby. Next time he''s up to his ears on painkillers could you please keep him contained?"


    "I''ll be glad to do so once you enrol me on the requisite course, Mike. In the meantime, perhaps you could hire Supernanny. Her skills might be more suitable than mine."


    "Max, time out on the naughty step!"


    The two men smiled at each other. "I''m right here," I said, but they ignored me.


    MD had the match report on his phone. "Let''s see. Seals Club Mariners in Stormy Classic. Pretty good headline. Dog bites man and all that. Er... Chester recover from setback... club that sacked Max Best... revenge... an injured Best is still the best player in the division... sensational long-range strike followed by clever free kick... National League beware... statement performance from Sam Topps... hapless Zach Green, toothless Henri Lyons, wayward Wes Hayward. Bumper crowd."


    "What was the final attendance?" I asked, to see if MD''s version would tally with what the curse told me. It did.


    "4,255. Absolutely incredible, Max, and you gave them a hell of a show. Er, I''m required by the board to officially tell you not to play injured again but I know why you did it and, yeah, the response from the fans was unreal. They''re doing memes with you as the Black Knight from Monty Python after his arms and legs have been cut off. It''s just a scratch!"


    "I like the Summarise Proust Competition," said Vimsy, and I spun my chair towards him so I could offer him a fist bump.


    MD continued. "After the match summary is your interview. Question. Max, was that revenge for what happened to you in Grimsby? Answer: No, I met loads of great people in Grimsbyshire and I wish them well, although it''s easy to wish them well knowing they won''t do well. Question: What do you mean? Answer: They''ve got fantastic players and the manager''s good but they have this fatal flaw of trusting in players who are untrustworthy. Question: Who do you mean? Answer: Oh, you know, just like three or four bad ''uns. Wrong ''uns. Guys who want to leave the club and are poisoning the atmosphere. I''d like to make it clear that I don''t mean Marcus Wainwright who is a class act and a class above. He''s the kind of player who scores a hat trick against you and you just have to shrug and go, yeah, that''s why I got into football. As fans we pay good money to watch players like that. I''m sorry to say we couldn''t have handled him and while I''m delighted with the three points, it would have been amazing for the Chester fans to see what a hard-working goalscorer with great movement who trains well looks like. Er, Max. Is that a dig at Henri?"


    "Yes. I''m really struggling with him."


    "Why? He''s our top scorer."


    "I''m joint top with him and I''ve played fifteen minutes. He isn''t putting it in on the training pitch and that''s absolutely unacceptable. Some managers communicate with their players through the media. I thought I''d try it."


    "Sir," said the Brig, with a double dose of disapprobation.


    "What? How would you handle it?"


    "Perhaps, seeing as Henri is your friend, you could talk to him directly?"


    I shook my head. "And say what? Your happiness offends me? I don''t know. Maybe I''m being cowardly but I don''t know what to do. Let''s see if this has any effect. It''s just..."


    "Yes?"


    "I''ve got a goalie coach candidate coming on Wednesday." Sandra got to her feet and wrote GK COACH. I agree with her instinct to leave MD''s complaints about my interview off. For a start, that was the past and Sandra, like me, wanted to live in the future. "I''ve got a good feeling about this dude but if I asked Angles to stay as a pure goalie coach and bring in an experienced but cheap backup to Ben, I''d still have loads of budget left. And with that money I could try to get another striker in. Maybe one who''s sensible enough to have his mid-life crisis when he''s in his forties." I picked up the paperclip and jiggled it inside the cast. "This thing''s going to drive me crazy."


    "Stop scratchin'' it, you''re makin'' it worse," said Brooke.


    I opened a drawer and threw the paper clip inside. "You know I hate overpaying but Henri''s not going to win us the league. No chance. Not like this. And I think he might be setting a bad example to the others." How else to explain the disappointing increases in CA in recent weeks? "I mean, it could just be that I''ve brought in too many new players. I''ve diluted the overall quality and too many drills are weak versus weak and they can''t learn from that. Maybe. I''m just guessing because the sessions are great and the facilities are better. We should be racing ahead. Okay, yeah. If it''s a problem of bringing in too many new guys, that''s on me. But Pascal''s kicking on. Pascal''s motivated and visibly improving. Why not Henri?"


    "Let''s come back to the goalkeeping coach in a minute," said MD. "I''d like to give that my full attention. Back to the interview." Sandra sat down again. She didn''t really give a shit about the interview. MD wasn''t reading the room very well. "You''ve just praised Marcus Wainwright in an attempt to provoke a reaction from a person who probably won''t read the article or see the quotes."


    "Oh, he gets his little Lu Lu to read match reports out to him. He''ll hear it, all right."


    "Question: Did you play injured? Answer: Of course not. I had a bruised ego from being on the same pitch as Simon Green. He likes to brag about how much he earns compared to his opponents, not realising that our confusion and dismay is a reflection of how we feel about late-stage capitalism where mediocre people enjoy lavish lifestyles while our health service is crumbling. Caine Spokes speaks but never does. He''s Caine but he''s not very able. Grimsby fans reviewing the footage will note that both players spent the last ten minutes of the game trying to land one on me instead of landing one in the danger zone. Talking of the danger zone, there''s no danger of Mike Dobson sticking to his zone. He sprinted fifty yards to try to foul me. The only time you''ll see him move faster is on transfer deadline day when he drives to QPR to try to force through a move."


    MD paused as Vimsy and Sandra gave me a tiny round of applause. I took their acclaim in suitably regal fashion. "Thank you, thank you."


    MD tutted. "Question: Lee Slade told the media he expected a very different result when they played you again and that his team would have the last word. What would you say to that? Answer: The last word for all managers is, you''re sacked. He should worry more about that than little old Chester."


    "Savage," said Vimsy.


    MD pointed to his phone. "Max, I don''t understand this. Apart from motivating them for the return match, I mean... I don''t understand your thought process. If those players are as disruptive as you say, you should want the manager to pick them."


    "If Slade drops them, the fans will think it was because of what I said and if results improve, he won''t get the benefit, I will. It''s a trap, see. But if he keeps those jokers in the team and they have more bad results, it''s going to be pandemonium." I shrugged. "There''s a video game where you can go around killing everyone or you can shoot arrows at wasps nests above enemy camps and let the wasps do the work. In this case, wasps are a metaphor for..."


    Sandra didn''t give me time to think of something. "Did Max mention Otis King?"


    MD said, "No."


    Sandra gave me a strange look.


    "Well," I said, "sounds like I did a highly entertaining interview. So well done me. Do you want to hear about the goalie coach?"


    "Yes," said MD, putting his phone away.


    "So mostly I find new players by scouting or spotting them in our matches like with WibRob, but some of you know that free agents just straight up call and ask if we need a left back or whatever. If I''ve never seen them play, I ask them to come and join training for a day and that puts most of them off. Like, they''re too good to rehearse? I should just give them a contract without seeing them play? It''s insane but that''s what they seem to think. But a few dudes actually came and some weren''t bad! A couple have been good, haven''t they Sandra? But they wanted mad money. Lobster money. I told them to call back after they''d been turned down by Real Madrid and were ready to talk National League salaries. So this guy who''s coming on Wednesday, he''s called Steve Icke. He was at a Championship club, then League One, and it''s pretty mad that no-one''s picked him up."


    "Why do I feel you''re about to describe a misfit?" said Brooke.


    "You know," I said, leaning back and steepling my fingers as far as I could manage given the cast. "That''s funny because I don''t think he is one. Not really. I mean, he''s freakishly tall but you kind of want that in a goalie. I''ve watched some of his rare appearances and he fills the goal. It must be intimidating at penalties because he can literally reach any shot you might do. Almost any shot, anyway. Prime Max Best would dick him. Where was I? Yeah, he''s a good goalkeeper but he''s not good with his feet. What that means, Brooke, is that he''s a sort of old-school player. Like, twenty years ago, all goalies played like this guy. Now the game''s changed in a way that''s bad for him. Does that make him a misfit?"


    "Yes," said Sandra. Her boy Pep wouldn''t have looked twice at Steve Icke.


    I laughed. "We don''t ask our goalie to pass from the back. And Steve realises he was born in the wrong generation so he''s doing his coaching badges. I''m excited. I think this is the guy. He''ll probably want too much money but... I mean, I have spare budget and... It''s just the Henri thing. We can''t survive with a failing Henri as our frontline striker so it seems like it''s going to be goalie or striker, choose one." Sandra got up and wrote GK vs STRIKER. I let out an exasperated noise. It was one thing for Old Nick to disrupt my season by luring Raffi to Saudi Arabia, but it was way worse that this mess centred around my warrior poet.


    "Sir," said the Brig. "If I may. You told me about the time you and Henri met and bonded by coaching the Chester Knights. And when he was down in the dumps you went to a pan-disability tournament Crewe and discovered Dani. The day resolved many problems, did it not? Perhaps you might consider doing something like that?"


    I nodded. "Yeah. Yeah... Get back to basics. That''s a good call. I''ll think about it. Right, MD. You''ve been talking to Mateo from Tranmere."


    "He wants to meet on Wednesday morning to discuss a fee for Sam. The usual thing to do when a transfer is this advanced would be to, ah, rest Sam on Tuesday night."


    "It''s Kidderminster!" said Sandra. "They''re hard as nails. We can''t do it without our best midfielder." She looked at me for support.


    "Project Youth," I said. "It''ll be a debut for Cole Adams at left back. Three Exit Trial kids on the bench. But it''ll mostly be the team that beat them last year."


    "What about Sam?"


    My itch came back with a vengeance. "Wednesday we agree a fee with Tranmere. Thursday we say our goodbyes. I''m already writing a little speech. Friday he trains with his new club for the first time."


    The words hung in the air. It was strange how solemn everyone got about Sam leaving. He was going to double his money and play on TV and we had all helped him achieve that. The proper response should have been pride.


    Sandra said, "I believe in Project Youth but I worry about a young team getting smashed up."


    "Last season, Sunderland, in the Championship, put out a team with an average age of twenty-one."


    "And what happened to them?"


    "They went on a six-game losing streak." I grinned. "But that won''t happen here."


    "How are you so sure?"


    "Because MD will fire me after five." I laughed. "But, look. We''ll play a proper grown-up midfield. James Wise and Magnus, probably. And Omari Naysmith will get ten minutes at the end. It''ll be like that to start with. Our title-winning team with one kid as a starter and another coming off the bench. Nothing crazy."


    "Can we talk about a couple of practical matters?" said Brooke. "The big crowd was a ton of fun. Everyone had a good day out, but there were complaints - as MD predicted - about the speed of service."


    Sandra wrote MARD ARSES, a Mancunian phrase meaning ''people who like to complain''.


    I waved my right hand. "Complaints? Talk to the board. Talk to the service providers. What''s the hold up? Are they cashless, yet? You know what, I don''t care. It''s a thing to get better at. You know who you should talk to," I started, but lost confidence in my thought.


    "Who?" said Brooke.


    "I was just thinking, you should get Emre in. He''s a guy who sells wraps and stuff in a sports centre in Manchester. That guy whips off kebabs faster than anyone in history and you can pay how you want it doesn''t slow him down."


    A notepad and pen appeared in her hands. "Great, I''ll talk to him. Have you got a good number?"


    "I was joking," I said. "At least, I think I was joking. But... yeah, why not? Bring him as a consultant to the next Saturday home match. Or let him set up a little kiosk and make those lazy bastards watch him go. Brooke, we''ll go to Manchester one day. I have to warn you - bring your A game or he''ll wipe you out."


    "Sure, Max."


    "No, really. I once saw a customer try to negotiate a free topping and it was like watching me versus Christian Fierce. So just for the minutes, that topic was ''we''re so popular there are queues at our outlets''. Sounds like a good problem to have."


    MD leaned back. "That''s true. Apart from the training, Sam''s transfer, and these, ah, personal issues, are there any footballing issues to discuss?"


    I looked up at the large photo of Mr. Yalley; as always, it made me smile. "Not much to say, really. Kidderminster at home. That''ll be tough, especially as we need to rotate. Wealdstone away. It''s another team of part-timers and I''ve heard they have the smallest budget in the league. We need to be winning games like that. We can put out a strong team, since there''s a one-week break after that one. There''s five matches until the transfer window closes so I suppose that''s the next big milestone."


    MD pressed a finger to his lips and said, "Very good. Now, please keep this under your hats. I''m about to reveal who I''ve been talking to for the stadium naming rights."


    "Oh!" I said, thrilled. "I''ve been trying to guess. I''ve got a list somewhere."


    MD seemed very pleased with himself. "I''ve been talking to my pharma contacts and have very, very firm interest from Kirschgarten."


    Sandra wrote KISSGARDEN STADIUM.


    I gawped at MD. "Wow. That name isn''t on my list. I''ve never heard of it."


    "That''s why they want naming rights, Max. To boost brand awareness."


    "Yes, yes, fair enough. What are they?"


    "They make medical devices. Very important stuff. Life-saving technology. We''ll visit their factory as part of the deal. You''ll love it, Max."


    I took the paperclip out of the drawer, looked at Brooke, threw the clip back and slammed it closed. "So we''ll be the Kirschgarten Stadium. It''s fine. I thought it''d be worse."


    "No, Max. For two seasons we will play at the Kirschgarten Medical Gravity Drip Solutions Ltd. Stadium."


    The stupefaction I experienced had one benefit - I briefly forgot about my itch. "Quite a mouthful."


    "Whatever fee you get," said Vimsy, "we''ll lose on the length of the sign."


    "Oh, tosh," said MD, annoyed. "It''s a quality product and we should be proud to be associated with Kirschgarten. They''re wonderful people."


    "You''re right, you''re right," I said, soothingly. "How much are we getting?"


    "Forty," he said, happy again.


    "Per year?"


    "Total."


    "And I get more budget?"


    "No," he said. "The coach company called to say they had to put the cost of our trips up since they''ve had to increase their drivers'' pay. Forty will just about let us wash our face over the next two years."


    Right, so we would get a stupid stadium name and the club wouldn''t even see the benefit. Wow. I thought about saying I didn''t want to do it, but MD would simply take 20K out of my transfer budget, or slash what I could pay in wages.


    Brooke said, "That''s great, Mike! Well done. I have a coupla questions if you have time."


    "Of course I do," he said. It was funny that his hard outs softened when Brooke was around.


    She said, "I''ve noticed, Max... How can I say this? I''ve noticed you''re more receptive to hearing business ideas."


    "Yes," I said. "First, you''ve proven that you''re not just a b-girl. You keep the community in mind. But I''m starting to think about next season. Promotion doesn''t seem quite as surefire as I thought but let''s assume Project Youth clicks into place and we go on a winning streak. Starting in League Two there are financial rules. A club can only spend half its income on player wages." Sandra wrote FINANCIAL FAIR PLAY. "Okay, it''s likely that MD wouldn''t let me run amok anyway, but we start to get, like, 800,000 a year in TV money and there''s payments from the Premier League. It could be that I get a healthy budget to work with. But if MD said, I don''t know, you can spend three million this year but the league rules said I could only spend two million, I''d be pissed. So we need to be able to generate our own income from match day, sponsorships, and everything. It''s not rinsing the fans if we''re doing it to satisfy some accountants. Once they''re happy, we can give the money back."


    "Back?" said MD, as though I was proposing we have names of celebrities tattooed on our foreheads to make it easier to play ''twenty questions''.


    "In the form of community spending and whatnot. Believe me, MD, there will come a point where we''re making so much money the size of our bank balance will stress you out. You''ll be like, shit, another million? What am I supposed to do with that?"


    He shook his head and smiled, but had nothing to say.


    Brooke said, "I know you hate when I talk like a b-girl, but our business is only open 25 days a year. Not many companies would survive that. I''ve been reading about Tottenham and they use the stadium a lot. They''ve got Beyonc¨¦ concerts, football matches - real football - some kinda go-kart track, cheese shops. Their goal is to make money every day."


    A business that was only open 25 days a year. Interesting framing. "Yeah. I sort of vaguely imagine that as we expand the stadium and put down the 3G pitches we''ll have people coming every day and there will be more chances to rinse them. I mean, expertly part them from their cash. I mean, exceed their expectations by providing high-quality goods and services at reasonable prices."


    "Okay, that''s good. If we''re gonna make a sort of sports hub we should think of the commercial aspects as we go. One obstacle is that we don''t own the stadium. We can''t put on a Taylor Swift concert."


    Sandra wrote STADIUM OWNERSHIP. Back to that old topic. "Buying the stadium makes financial sense, totally, yeah. But there''s this game called Sim City. I watched a YouTube video where a guy played it and your first task is to provide electricity for your citizens. You put some coal plants down and you get electricity but no-one wants to live near them. Financially, the best thing to do is build a nuclear power plant. It''s cheaper per megawatt and it doesn''t pollute. Great! Until it explodes. Bad people buy football clubs to get the stadium so they can turn it into housing and make a fortune. Those people don''t buy clubs with no assets because what''s the point? Chester is safe for now because what are you buying? A badge and a registration to play in the National League. Chester buying the stadium is like building a nuclear power plant on the edge of town. It''s a good investment until it isn''t."


    "Is it that you wouldn''t want to buy the stadium or that you wouldn''t even want to have it? Like, what if it was free?"


    I did a 360 on my swivel chair. "If you''re ambitious you need the stadium. I just worry that it would be owned by the fans. These guys, no offence MD, are various shades of stupid. If they could choose, they''d have Trick instead of Eddie, Gerald instead of Zach, and they''d make Youngster shoot from thirty yards. They think they''re smart so everything they do has to be right. They keep finding morons to be on the board and if you gave them a thousand pounds and asked them to make a profit one guy would come back with three magic beans, one would buy a jpeg of an ape, and one would leave the money in his jeans and come back with a thousand pounds in what used to be banknotes. Give them a million-pound asset to run and they''d be easy prey for some silver-tongued b-boy who would come in and woo them with false promises."


    Brooke looked down, then up at me. I could read that pose - she was bursting with excitement! "I''m sure there are ways to protect them from themselves. What if we could get the stadium for free?"


    That was the second time she''d used the word free and this time it resounded like a gong. "Pardon me?" said MD.


    Brooke smoothed her skirt and tried not to look smug. She was a lot better at it than me. "I invited a couple of, what does Max call them? Bigwigs. A couple of bigwigs to the Grimsby match. To the Executive Suite. Four thousand fans, big energy, great noise. They were enchanted."


    "By the match or by you? Or by Emma? Or by Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash?"


    She grinned. "Who can say? But in the boring bits when the Jackass was doing tiny tactics with Youngster, I sorta mentioned the fans would like the stadium back and could the bigwigs imagine...?" Her lips curled up on one side. "They told me about Northampton Town."


    "The Cobblers," said MD, helpfully.


    "Apparently the Cobblers did a big deal with their local council. The council lent the new owners ten million pounds to redevelop the stadium. The fans were ecstatic and the council would benefit, long term. Football clubs make a lot of money for local businesses. Only one problem. The money vanished."


    "It did what, now?" I said.


    "Poof. Gone. I checked it out. It''s quite the story. Let''s just say the Chester bigwigs aren''t keen to repeat the mistake."


    "I should hope not," said MD.


    Even though she was reporting bad news, Brooke''s smile widened. "I said something along the lines of, what if we spend ten million on the stadium ourselves? Would that be commitment enough to convince the council to hand over the freehold?"


    "They''d never agree to that," said MD.


    Brooke''s eyebrows went up. "You''d think. But they understand that to progress we need to own the stadium and they see that we''re spending money - the solar, the kitchen, the training pitches - and they are very taken with the idea of having a successful football club. A League One team with all the employment that comes with that. Twenty overpaid young men splashing money all over the county, plus coaches, physios, admin staff. There was a time not so long ago when Manchester United was the biggest private employer in the north of England. It''s not like the council are earning big bucks with the present arrangement. We pay rent and that''s it. It''s better financially and politically if they support us in our growth and while they might not simply hand over the freehold they might swap it for a stake in the club. Which doesn''t matter, does it, because there''s no dividends. It''s not an investment in the traditional sense."


    I frowned. "Swapping the stadium for a stake in the club. Why didn''t I think of that?"


    "As I''m suggesting all this, they''re listenin''. But we''re still a National League team. Dreams of having twenty lambos in the parking lot seem awfully far away. That is, until Max Best leads the turnaround with two goals. The councilmen were swept up in the emotion just like everyone else. Today they''ll go to their offices with a clear head and they won''t just hand over the keys to the kingdom. I''m sure it would be a long, tedious process with objections and horse trading and grubby backroom deals but in principle, the stadium is available."


    I went through what I''d just heard. "Are you saying if I get ten million to do the west stand, I might be able to get the freehold chucked in, too?"


    "Yes. Because what they didn''t say was that if the club has that kind of money you could buy land somewhere else and build a new stadium and they''d be out of pocket and they''d have a useless stadium lying around."


    "We''d rent it for the women."


    "At a fraction of what we pay now."


    I looked around. Everyone''s mood had lifted. "Brooke, you give b-girls a good name. I award you... Employee of the Day."


    "Gee, thanks," she said, but she was actually delighted. "Can I ask something else real quick? It''s about season tickets. You wanted me to sell the most possible but I''ve been looking into it and some clubs limit how many season tickets they offer because a season ticket holder''s average spend per game is lower."


    "It is?" I said.


    MD knew this one. "Anfield," he said. "Liverpool''s stadium," he added, for Brooke. "60,000 capacity these days. They could sell fifty thousand season tickets, I''m sure. But they sell, say, thirty. The rest of the tickets they can charge more for because it''ll be day trippers and tourists." Sandra wrote DAY TRIPPERS. "So half the stadium is your lifelong fans. They''ve already got replica shirts and a bedroom full of tat. He might buy a pie and a beer. But half the stadium''s fans are from Norway or Japan. Those guys don''t much care if the ticket is fifty pounds or fifty-five. They take the stadium tour before the match and after, go to the club store and fill their suitcases."


    "Right, makes sense," I said. "Brooke, we don''t have fans from around the world like that. When we get some I''m happy to rinse them, I suppose, but we need a balance between income and atmosphere. A full stadium is a wonderful thing and it''ll help us win football matches and attract new players. If Liverpool have set the dial to, like, fifty-fifty, ours should be ninety-ten."


    "Ninety-nine-one," said MD, speaking as a true Chester fan for once.


    The meeting was over but I wanted to have the last word. "What did we talk about?" I read from Sandra''s list. "Training. Itchy. Goalie coach or new striker. Mard arses, Kiss Garden, financial fair play, stadium ownership. We did a lot! I feel like a real boy. You know what, though? There''s only one word that really matters there, and we should give that word more prominence. Sandra, could you write training again at the bottom?"


    She did so, and as big as would fit. It felt right.


    "MD, let me know about Tranmere. Brooke, I''ll let you know next time I''m going to Manchester. You met Solly, didn''t you? While I spend some time with my mum you can take the dog for a walk. You''ll meet three hot joggers, guaranteed."


    ***


    Now that I wasn''t trying to hide the fact that I was wearing a cast, I went to watch the start of training. I wasn''t supposed to get the cast wet, so I wore my big coat and carried an umbrella. Somehow, rain got inside my coat anyway, and I decided it''d be better not to stay out there for too long.


    I started by checking the mood. Despite the fact we had recently won an epic battle, overall morale had slipped another fraction of a point. That seemed bad and wrong and worrying.


    The group was smaller, now. I''d sent a bunch of players out on loan to get some minutes into their legs. Michael, Vivek, and Lucas Friend were at West for a month. That was tier 9, and when they came back I would instantly send them to tier 8. Maybe all to the same club, but probably not. I wanted them to get a taste of life outside the Chester bubble. Then I''d sent a few of the under 18s to tier 8. Tyson was at Nantwich, Benny at Runcorn, and Dan Badford at Witton Albion. The plan was to let them come back and see if we could get their CA up to tier 7 level by January.


    Finally, much to the delight of Gemma, Andrew Harrison was on loan to tier 7 FC United until January. It was a step down from playing for Chester, which Gemma wasn''t keen on, but Andrew was crashing with a friend in Bolton so she got to spend a lot more time with him, and I think he even stayed with her in Newcastle a couple of nights a week.


    With Ryan Jack and myself injured and the goalies off to the side working with Angles, that left nineteen outfield players in the training session. A good number to make sure the numbers went up.


    The rain was turning my socks damp, so I decided to say what I needed to say and then fuck off. I called WibRob and Tom Westwood over and told them they''d get minutes on Saturday but not tomorrow night, so they could train hard through the week. They tried to be all serious and manly about it, but I didn''t need the morale perk to tell me they were absolutely buzzing.


    Before I called Henri over, I forced myself to stay and watch for two minutes. I would go to Dean after to ask him to check the cast was dry enough. I wanted to stay because it was a duels drill. WibRob and Tom put everything into it. Pascal went hard but with an extra layer of intelligence - letting an opponent''s aggression beat him, or doing taunty little moves to provoke a mistake. Where did he learn all that? Sam went at things hard until Sandra pulled him aside. Sam went off to do some skills work with Omari Naysmith. Sam hated being pulled out of the firing line but it was about making sure he didn''t get injured.


    Henri lost every duel and I snapped and called him over. He came at a quick jog, which calmed me most of the way down. "Henri. We haven''t talked much recently. How are you doing?"


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    "Oh," he said, his superb morale causing his hair to quiver like a freshly-fed octopus. Why wasn''t it flattened by the rain like everyone else''s? I could barely hear him over the roar of raindrops slamming into my umbrella. "I am doing splendidly. Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven."


    It was always strange when older people said they were young. On my spreadsheet he was 29. He was basically 40. "That''s great. Glad to hear it."


    I was about to complain about his lacklustre efforts when his smile faded. "I remember, now! One little spot on the horizon. One tiny hair in my otherwise sumptuous soup. Your interview. I checked the YouTube page to make sure you really said it. I couldn''t believe my ears!" So he had heard what I''d said about Wainwright. This was great. He quoted what he remembered me saying and - maddeningly - omitted the most important part. "It''s a shame Marcus isn''t playing because the fans could have seen a hard-working goalscorer with great movement." The smile came back, this time amused by my silliness. "You forgot, Max! You have so much on your plate, I know. But you forgot. The fans can see me! Every week!" He sighed and walked off. If there had been a daisy nearby I think he''d have wandered over to pick it and slip it into his hair. I nearly clobbered him with my umbrella. Train harder, you fucking dick!


    Talking to him through the media was a bust. What next?


    I dragged myself inside where the warmth did nothing to cheer me up.


    ***


    Tuesday, August 13


    Match 3 of 46: Chester vs Kidderminster Harriers


    The drainage at the Deva did its job, just about, so we had a playable but heavy surface. Even if I''d been playing it would have been a war of attrition. You''ve heard of the Rumble in the Jungle. This would be the Slog in the Bog.


    Fitness became a decisive factor in my team selection. I had asked a lot of my players the previous Saturday, and some of them had quite low Condition. Sharknado - people were starting to call him Sharky - was shot. He''d put in a lot of repeat sprints against Grims and playing him would have been beyond dumb. Pascal was in similar shape but I simply didn''t have an alternative. If I''d known the weather would be so bad I might have changed my plans for the Grimsby match and not played both my right wingers.


    Sandra was next to me, staring from the pitch to the sky. We were both in raincoats looking bedraggled, but not as much as the ground staff, who were walking around prodding the turf with forks. "Tell Pascal not to press and for him to be conservative with his forward runs. He needs to last the whole ninety."


    "Got it," she said. "Let''s confirm the line up, while we''re waiting for the ref to check the pitch. 4-1-4-1?"


    "Yep. We''ll use Steve Alton instead of Zach. We''ll rotate those two for a few months and Zach''s passing won''t be as effective on this surface, anyway."


    "You still want Cole at left back? It''ll be tough out there."


    "It''ll be tough for his opponent, too. This is actually perfect for him. He gets the first half and Josh gets the second. Two debuts. Lift off for Project Youth." Cole Adams was the tall Irish-born left back with CA 25 PA 147. The kid had a great future and that future started now. Josh Owens was CA 24, PA 119, so very much another work in progress. "Okay, we''re a bit weak in that one position but we''re giving two youngsters development time. They didn''t think they''d be getting full halves of football this early in their Chester careers."


    "Do you want to give Youngster a rest?"


    "What did he play on Saturday? Half an hour? He''s fine. Midfield is Aff, Wisey, Magnus, and Pascal. In these conditions, it''s not bad. We need warriors out there. Scrappers. And with the weather like this, Henri''s girlfriend might stay home, and that might make him want to get involved more."


    "Or it''ll make him want to get involved less," she said.


    "Why did you have to go and say that?" I complained. But my frustrations were mostly down to the cast, the state of the pitch, and the fact that our starting eleven would have an average CA of 49.8. That was piss poor, it really was.


    No-one on the bench would increase that number. We had Rainman, Zach, Josh, Omari Naysmith, and Ziggy. Lots of great haircuts, not much current ability.


    I went to hide in my manager''s office to think about my life choices, but I ended up doing the Brig''s crossword for him. It took my mind off things wonderfully.


    ***


    Kidderminster arrived slightly late because of traffic, so I only saw them on the pitch after Sandra had already handed the team sheet in. I''m not sure what I could have changed, but I might have changed something.


    I reached out behind me to touch the dugout, missed, and nearly toppled backwards.


    "Max, are you okay?"


    Sandra had seen me turn pale. She looked from me to the pitch where she spotted a lot of familiar enemies. There was the absolutely magnificent Christian Fierce - Influence 20 - naturally. There were the deadly strike partners Peabody and Craddock. Then a bunch of tier 6 players. Kidderminster''s manager, Bob Horseman, had brought in a few new faces. But there was nothing there that should have made me nearly collapse.


    "I''m fine, yeah. Just thought I was slipping or something." I squelched into the dugout and sat down. My socks were damp again! I''d have to change them before kick off.


    Sandra wasn''t convinced that I was being honest. She scanned the Kidderminster team to see what had alarmed me. "Looks like mostly the same team. Two or three new guys."


    "Three," I confirmed. "One defender, one midfielder, one striker. They''ve got three amazing strikers now and we don''t have any."


    "Pascal did well as a false nine. We could keep that in our back pocket. You know at City we didn''t care much about strikers. You win games in midfield. Pascal could be our link man while we construct moves around him. With you at DM taking set pieces we could win matches from long range."


    "That''s interesting. This coach at Darlington said something once. It was like, you start from long range and move closer as you get better. Yeah, as the kids improve we will be able to get more creative." I pushed my hood down and ruffled my hair. "They''re way better than I expected, Sandra."


    "Kiddies?"


    "Yeah. Look at them. They''re sharper. Their standards are way higher." Not only were the three new signings in the CA 70 range, but the rest of the team had added six or seven points of CA since we''d played them last. Presumably, they had lost CA over the summer and recovered those points, same as us, but where we''d gone on to add one or two points per player, Kiddies had kept going. And going. A couple of guys had hit their PA limit, but now their average CA was 58. Still one of the lowest in the league, but we weren''t even on CA 50.


    Project Youth was the dumbest idea in the history of sports.


    ***


    Kiddies came correct. As always, Bob Horseman''s tactics imp had analysed our players, and as always, Bob Horseman had actually listened. It was that simple to be one of the best managers around.


    The way they set up hinted that they thought I would be playing, but they didn''t have much information on Cole Adams. They probed down our left, checking the kid out. Cole won an early header, won an early tackle, and won a race against the right midfielder. I mean, talk about a good start! But the best thing was that neither Bob Horseman nor his analyst spotted Cole was a weak link, otherwise the match could have become very messy.


    Kiddies played a cautious 4-4-2 with slow build up. That meant a lot of short passes while they moved soggily up the pitch. As they progressed, they left five or six players behind the ball. They really worked hard to make sure we didn''t get overloads anywhere in their half.


    It worked. We might have had more luck if Pascal had been completely fresh and able to zoom around a dry pitch, but winning leagues came down to squad management and being able to play three matches in eight days on a regular basis.


    Henri tried to get involved but Christian Fierce squashed him. Fierce was the one player who seemed utterly unaffected by the conditions. He seemed to relish them. He ran just as fast and rejoiced in aquaplaning across the surface launching into tackles from twenty yards away.


    I wanted Christian Fierce for Christmas. I wanted Old Nick to curse me with Christian Fierce. I wanted the infinity stones so I could snap my fingers and find Christian Fierce had been added to my squad list.


    It was never going to happen, though.


    "Jesus," I mumbled, thinking about how unfair life was.


    Sandra misunderstood me, though. "I''m starting to agree with you that we have a problem. The formation''s good but Henri''s lost all explosiveness and he''s disconnected."


    "What can we do to change it without moving Youngster? He''s keeping them at bay."


    She got her notebook and flipped it open. "The only formations we''ve got with a set DM are 4-4-2 diamond or 4-2-3-1 but we haven''t used that in a match before."


    "4-2-3-1 doesn''t suit Wisey. Diamond with Pascal as the CAM and Aff as the second striker. I don''t hate it. Let me think about it."


    We watched for another five minutes as our players huffed and puffed. The gap in match ratings was climbing slowly but surely. I went to the touchline and waved my good hand around and yelled, and switched us to 4-4-2 diamond.


    There followed seven glorious minutes where we managed to rise above the mud and play something like Max Best football. It came with big risks - the match flowed like basketball. We attacked, Kiddies attacked, then it was our turn.


    Bochum turns smoothly. He passes to Aff.


    Aff has the strength to hold the ball up.


    He turns to his left and eases the ball forwards.


    Bochum has some space in the penalty box!


    He hits it square, hard, and low.


    Lyons is there!


    But he puts it wide.


    He really should have done better with that chance.


    Bochum is furious.


    I hated Bad Boy''s attitude but his performance was great. His match rating went up and up, but then Horseman''s analyst guy worked out what we were doing and Kiddies switched to three at the back with Christian Fierce pushing forward one slot. He was marking Pascal Bochum!


    Great compliment for the brat, but I didn''t need to wait too long to see that our tactic had been nerfed. Pascal was improving rapidly but Fierce was far too good. By the end of the season that''d be a fascinating matchup but for now? No thanks.


    I switched us back to 4-1-4-1 and a minute later, Kiddies reverted back to what they had been doing. The golden chance Pascal had created gave us five minutes of playing in the ascendency, but slowly, surely, the tide turned, and we were lucky to get to half time with the score still nil-nil.


    ***


    Near the start of the break I told Cole and Josh we were going to make the change as planned, and I sat next to Cole and asked him how he thought he''d done. Not that good was his answer. Pretty well, was mine. His match rating had flitted from 5 to 6, but had spent most of the half on 6. Near the end it sank to 5 as his stamina ran out, but I was happy. He''d done himself proud and I told him that.


    When I went off to the tactics board, the Brig slipped into my spot and did Brig things.


    "Boss," said Sandra, and I realised I''d been leaning with my head on the board for a while. When I peeled myself off it made a noise like when you get a strip of Sellotape. "Any more changes?"


    "I''m thinking of giving Ziggy a go."


    "Hmm," she said. She liked Ziggy but was highly sceptical he could score against a quality defence. As an option for a desperate last fifteen minutes, yes. As the main man leading the line for an entire half on a muddy pitch, not so much. She came closer and spoke so softly I had to strain to hear it. "If you think it''s more important to send a message about the importance of training than it is to get something from this game, then go for it."


    "What would you do if you were the manager here?"


    "I''d keep Henri on because I''m a win now manager and because you''ve got me stressed about doing well in front of our home fans. Looks like there''s over three thousand today. But I don''t think we can continue like this. The Maxterplan is based on training well and if Henri''s costing us a few percent in motivation we need to fix it."


    "Motivation? Has anyone said anything to you?"


    "I had a quiet word with Sam before and told him what we were worried about. He knows what you''re like but some of the new guys hear you talk about how important training is but you don''t train and you let Henri dog it."


    I checked the tactics screens and saw that Bob Horseman had taken off his new striker and put Craddock on in his place. A proven winner replacing a proven winner. The contrast between that and what I was thinking about doing was scary.


    "All right," I said, turning to the group. "As planned, Cole''s off and Josh is coming on. Kiddies don''t know anything about him so let''s see how they react. Also, I''d like some energy up top, so we''ll give Ziggy a go."


    "Ziggy!" called a few guys. My first ever client was a guy who got popular quickly wherever he went.


    "Max," said a heavily-accented voice. "Will we play 4-4-2?"


    "No, he''s coming on for you, mate."


    Henri got to his feet and took a step closer. "For the second match in a row you replace me at half time?"


    "Yep. If you want more minutes we''ve got a match on Friday."


    "Friday? You don''t mean the reserves."


    "Yep. Ziggy will start on Saturday and Tom will get a go from the bench."


    "Tom?"


    "Yes, Tom." Henri turned his lips up like he''d just found an ant colony living in his toaster. This caused a huge, obnoxious laugh from my right that made my blood boil. "One last change today. Omari, you''ll come on for Pascal."


    Sandra flinched and took half a step towards me, but went back again. Whatever she had to say, she would say it in private.


    Magnus felt the tension and he stepped between me and Bad Boy. "I''ll play right mid, will I? Omari centre?"


    "That''s right. Now, everybody out. I''ll talk to the players who are coming off."


    The first team clip-clopped out, staring from me to Henri to Pascal. Zach Green had enough sense to leave with the rest. Cole Adams, as one of the players coming off, stuck around until the Brig tugged as his arm. Soon it was just Henri, Pascal, me, Sandra, and Vimsy. I eyed Sandra and she used her eyes to show me that I should take the cases separately. I nodded from Vimsy to Pascal and he led the young man outside.


    When the door was closed, I left a little pause. "Henri," I said, quietly. "If you don''t train, you don''t play. That''s it."


    He seemed confused. "I train."


    "You train seventy percent."


    "Seventy percent of Henri - "


    "No, I''m not interested in that. You''ve got better things to do than play football and that''s good. Good for you. But you''re now my third-choice striker."


    "Third?" It was as though he couldn''t understand the words I was using. "But you will lose."


    "I''ll lose giving it a hundred percent with kids who give it a hundred percent. I''ll lose like a winner. Bye."


    I headed towards the door but Henri just loved to have the last word. "Sandra, do not despair. He does not mean it."


    She didn''t reply, but followed me outside. We left him to his long, long shower. "How did I do?"


    "Good, Max. It''s good."


    I had a brief wobble. "I knew this job would cost me friendships."


    "No, come on. You''re allowed to do your job. You have to or you''ll get sacked and you''ll end up resenting him."


    "Yeah. That''s true."


    She glanced down the corridor, where Bad Boy Bochum was sulking with his arms crossed. "He''s training great, though. Why are we doing this?"


    "He hates Henri."


    "You noticed?" I scoffed, but Sandra wasn''t joking. "No, I''m impressed. Most people wouldn''t."


    "It''s not subtle."


    "It''s subtle enough. Even Henri hasn''t realised."


    I shook my head. "The first thing I did in Chester was bench a bunch of guys whose ego got in the way of the team. The stakes were lower, then. I could just about - just about - tolerate Pascal''s snide laughs and all the stuff he does in the dressing room. But he''s openly doing it on the pitch, now, and that''s my fault for not having the guts to sort it out. So yes, he''s been training great and he''s irreplaceable, but I can''t let that go on. Henri doesn''t actually deserve this."


    Sandra took a deep breath. I think she was mentally deleting Pascal''s pace, movement, goals and assists from her mental spreadsheet and, correctly, judged the results to be catastrophic for our season. "Okay."


    I moved along the corridor until I was directly facing Pascal. Highly confrontational. "This is a team. The team comes first. Any part of the team that acts against another part of the team has to be removed. You will not be in the match squad on Saturday and you won''t be in the match squad until you resolve whatever issues you have with other members of the team."


    "What do you mean, resolve?" he said, far too loud and far too aggressively.


    I felt like I did enough for Chester Football Club that I didn''t have to step into the psychology of Pascal Bochum and look for breaks. "You know what I mean."


    He sneered at me. "I''m your best player," he said.


    "It''s hilarious you think I give a shit. I want a united team. You don''t currently fit the bill. If you behave against the well-being of any team member in training you will also be excluded from training. I haven''t sent anyone to the bomb squad yet. I would prefer my first not be you." The bomb squad is football''s term for ''bombing'' a senior player out of the group and making him train alone or with the kids.


    "The bomb squad?" he said, astonished. He had started out cocky and arrogant. He had taken a look at my attacking options and felt he held all the cards. Now I was threatening to make him rot in the reserves for the next six years and he realised his long-term contract could work both ways.


    Wisely, he kept his mouth shut. Not the time to try to get the last word.


    "Vimsy," I said, when I was far enough away from Bad Boy. "Hang out in the dressing room to make sure these fucks don''t murder each other."


    "Yes, boss."


    ***


    Sandra followed me out to the dugout and let me fume for a while. A light drizzle had started and it was beautiful in the floodlights. I couldn''t enjoy it, though, because of my stupid cast.


    Kidderminster''s team came walking out for the second half. They seemed massive. Huge men. Beefy boys, all. My team had a few big guys, a few tough guys. But Josh was shorter than Cole, the big kid he had replaced. Omari was tall but slight. Physically, not ready for a match like this. And Ziggy. Neither tall nor strong nor fast. A pure finisher and nothing else.


    I readied myself for the coming onslaught, feeling despondent. Henri and Pascal, man. What the fuck? One addled by love, one blinded by hate. I knew that no other manager would kick out two key players like I''d done. TJ wouldn''t. Sandra wouldn''t. Jackie wouldn''t. But I had Super Scout. I knew that when the culture was poor, players would improve slowly or not at all. And when the culture was good, improvement would be rapid. See: Chester last season. See: Kidderminster this season.


    Give me culture or give me the sack.


    Max Best has spoken.


    I went into the rain and scowled as the match resumed. Harriers quickly got the upper hand but continued to attack cautiously, never committing too many men forward. We''d lost Pascal''s pace and they didn''t know what to expect from our two young guns - but they knew all about Aff. For ten minutes, the game was fairly even. Harriers cranked up the pressure but then Youngster made an interception, played the ball to Magnus, and he swept it diagonally for Ziggy. Ziggy showed as if he would touch the ball back to Wisey, but instead Ziggy spun round, bringing the ball with him. The crowd rose in anticipation, but Ziggy was immediately hauled down. Yellow card for the defender and we had a free kick in a good spot.


    "Ziggy!" I cried, with a genuine smile. "Where''s he learned that?" The Free Hit option appeared and I hit it. While there, I used Seal It Up and Cupid''s Arrow, linking Aff to Ziggy.


    With a start, I realised - too late - that Aff wasn''t going to take the free kick. I had left the options blank because Aff would take the set pieces and Henri the penalties. But somehow I knew Omari wasn''t standing next to Aff to be a distraction. He wanted to hit it! Omari didn''t take much of a run up, but simply approached the ball and hit a lovely, curling cross into the penalty box where Steve Alton rose and headed just the wrong side of the post.


    "Wow!" I said. "What just happened? Did anyone know he could do that?"


    "Omari? Yes." Sandra exchanged a look with Vimsy. "We thought that''s why you signed him."


    "No, I thought he was a tidy midfielder we could get for cheap. Is he better than me?"


    Another strange look passed between my coaches. "Do you want him to be?"


    "Fuck yes! We need every edge we can get."


    "He''s not as good as you, no. He''s very good, though." Another weird look. I think they weren''t used to knowing something about a player that I didn''t. Maybe they thought I was losing my edge. "Do you want us to give him training time to work on them?"


    "Yes!" I said, practically bouncing around. I''d needed some good news. Cole Adams was a tall left back. Omari Naysmith was a central midfielder with great set piece delivery. Amazing! What about Josh Owens and Tom Westwood? What were they good at? The possibilities kept me upbeat for a while.


    This little burst of happiness didn''t last long.


    Fierce with a crisp pass to midfield.


    Wise challenges but loses out. The ball is played to the right.


    Owens slips. His marker dribbles past him. Owens reaches out to pull him down, but fails.


    A cross comes in...


    Peabody with a header!


    Great save by Cavanagh!


    Craddock with the rebound...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    He couldn''t miss!


    And a belated yellow card for Owens.


    Peabody and Craddock combining for yet another goal. They were such a handful.


    Three minutes later, Omari tried a chip to Ziggy - insane - and Kiddies piled forward. As ever, Peabody and Craddock proved too hot to handle. The latter scored to make it two-nil and I worried about this turning into a real shitshow. Six or seven-nil was easily on the cards.


    But with a good lead under his belt, Bob Horseman ordered his guys to fall into a low block.


    We spent the rest of the match passing the ball around the defence and midfield trying to carve out some openings, but we didn''t have anywhere near enough pace, power, or guile and the match petered out.


    I told Sandra I would do the media stuff and as I plodded along to the section of a corridor we called ''the media room'', I thought about what I would say. I had a choice - I could blast Henri and Pascal by saying something like ''the experienced players didn''t support the young guys enough'' or I could take the blame on myself.


    I went with the latter.


    ***


    Duties performed, I went to find Bob Horseman and invited him for a drink in the Blues Bar. He was surprised but more than happy to accept. There were two main things I wanted to know.


    "Why did you do a low block today? If you kept at us, you could have scored ten."


    He laughed. "Right. And then you''d have scored fifteen in the return match. No, don''t poke the bear. We''re not in the business of riling up Max Best. Two-nil and a glass of red is more than enough for me."


    I clinked my glass against his. "You guys are great. Tell me though. I''ve seen your training facilities and they''re fine but I don''t think they''re better than ours. But you''ve come flying out of the blocks and we''re fucking dogging it. We are absolute rank. What do you think we could be doing wrong?"


    "How''s the mood?"


    "Generally good. Worse now that you''ve dicked us."


    "You''re happy with your staff?"


    "Big time."


    Bob had a drink and had a think. "Could be bad apples but not with your lot, I don''t think. Glenn Ryder, Sam Topps, James Wise. Good professionals. Can''t be that." He took another big swig. "Bit of stage fright. Coming up to a new league. Your new American broke your arm, right? That sort of thing doesn''t help. You want to get off to a good start. What else? You''ve taken on a lot of new lads, haven''t you? Love that, by the way. Five Exit Trial kids? Very, er... holistic."


    He meant very charitable, like I was doing them a favour. "They''re mint."


    "Your Ryders and your Toppses might not think so. They want to play with proper men so they can keep winning. I don''t really know, Max. Sometimes you can''t always explain everything."


    I let out a breath while I stared at a worn patch of carpet. "Yeah, all right. Thanks." A bit of a cheeky grin appeared. "I''ll go easy on you next time we play."


    "Oh, thanks, Max. I appreciate that."


    ***


    Wednesday, August 14


    Steve Icke was waiting for me when I got to BoshCard - keen - and I tried to stay upbeat as I guided him to the dressing room. He''d agreed to coach a session so I could get an idea about how he worked, but I was having second thoughts about the whole GK vs STRIKER thing. No matter how good he was, the goalkeeping coach position was not my top priority. Henri''s morale had plummeted overnight - as had Pascal''s - and I was going to need a top, top forward otherwise this would a long, long season.


    If Sam left, I would have 2,500 a week in spare budget and some cash for a transfer fee. I could dip into my reserves but even scrounging up every last penny would get me... well, not very much, in fact. I could certainly get someone in on loan - that old chestnut. Develop someone else''s player.


    "Boss?"


    Steve was ready. "Sorry, Steve, I was miles away."


    "Sticky."


    "What?"


    "Everyone calls me Sticky."


    "Wow."


    "I hate losing, too. I''m a total misery guts after a match like that."


    "Are you from Yorkshire?"


    "Wetherby." He finished typing something on his phone, put it in his kit bag, and stood. With me low on a bench, he seemed enormous and I realised he''d been bending his neck to avoid bumping into door frames and lights.


    "How tall are you?"


    "Six seven. Two metres in new money."


    "Wow. Bet everyone asks what''s the weather like up there and all that? Okay, let''s go." I led the way and he followed, carrying his kit bag. Good call since he didn''t have a locker. If I''d been more switched on I''d have lent him mine, but my head was in several places. "We''ve got the first team goalies for you but I''ll be keeping an eye on the outfielders, too. Bastards are really pissing me off. I will be watching. But just do your usual thing."


    "It''s Ben and Owen, right?"


    "Ben and Rainman. To the left, there."


    "Got it."


    "Want me to introduce you?"


    "I''ll be reet."


    Sticky went off to do goalkeeper things - out on the grass he was incredibly tall. Thin, too. I pottered over to Sandra. The guys who had played the whole match had the morning off, so it was a smaller session. "How are they today?"


    "Better!"


    "Oh, thank fuck," I said. I''d been despairing of getting any good news. Zach, Eddie Moore, Tom, Wes, and the others were zipping around purposefully tapping balls to each other and running off to different coloured cones before shooting. It looked fast and intense and good quality. "Yes! Where has this been? Good, William! Quality, that!"


    "I''m sorry to say... I think you were right about Henri."


    I scuffed a piece of turf. "Doesn''t make me feel better." Zach, Sam, and Eddie played a few rapid-fire passes to each other, playing the ball perfectly into Sharky''s path. He arrived at the ball at great speed... and sent it into orbit. If training was good, now, then taking action against Henri and Pascal would have been worth it. Attributes turning green would buy land and build stadiums. If Henri and Pascal wanted to be part of it, they knew what to do. Fuck those guys! I looked at the mobile kitchen, physical proof of what happened when you made training the basis for your entire football club. "Yeah. Did you know Pete did drama when he was inside? Could be good for the women''s team documentary. Could be a breakout star."


    "Breakout and prison aren''t words you want to go together. How''s the new guy?"


    "Don''t know. I''m letting him - " I stopped dead. I''d just seen his numbers. "Er... bye."


    I did an unattractive walk-jog in the direction of the beautiful, beautiful numbers.


    The first thing that stood out was Sticky''s coaching profile. There was only one number I cared about for my goalkeeping coach. Of course, it''d be better if he had full marks in everything but Determination? Judging Player Ability? Tactical Knowledge? I wasn''t paying my coaches for any of that stuff.


    Coaching Goalkeepers: 20


    Wow. Yes! Angles only had a score of 12. Talk about an upgrade. I already felt vindicated in easing the old guy out.


    But there was more. Sticky was only thirty - young for a goalie - and while his CA of 25 was relatively low, not having played in a long, long time, he had good PA. 122! His Handling was three points higher than Ben''s. Literally the only problem with this guy was his low passing and technique scores - he had 2 for both.


    I paced around, nervous and excited, waiting for enough time to pass so that I could end the session and try to hire the guy. Just as I was about to burst from impatience, Ben popped to CA 50.


    Green! Green for ''hire this man''.


    "Sticky! Let''s have a chat."


    ***


    We got food from the kitchen and took it up to my office and ate at the back, where I sometimes played chess against Henri.


    As we ate, Sticky told me his footballing life story. It was as I''d thought - he was considered a great shotstopper, had good command of his penalty box (coming to collect crosses before an attacker could get to them) and was liked in the dressing room. But he couldn''t play modern pass-out-from-the-back football. In his old club''s analytics he was ranked first for agility and last for being a sweeper-keeper. For most teams, he was a non-starter. Literally.


    "Okay, so you were at Barnsley. That seems like a good fit for you. They''re pretty, uh, direct, right?"


    "You mean they play long-ball. Football changes fast, though. Even with Barnsley you need to be good with your feet. Watch their highlights and you''ll see a lot of long passes from the keeper setting up moves and with every new manager they add in more short passing moves."


    "So when did you start doing your badges?"


    "Last season. I thought, I''m not getting a new contract, not getting games. I felt I might make a good coach, though. I tell it how it is and goalies like that."


    This lucky bastard had rolled the dice and thrown a natural twenty. Once I got my hands on him, he would never be out of work again. "What about if I want a sweeper-keeper. Can you coach that?"


    "Reckon we''ll get you for those sessions, boss. I saw you against Darlington. That were reet cheeky, that. Took the piss, you done." He stuck a long finger into the back of his mouth to dislodge something. "Aye, I can coach it. Just can''t do it."


    All right so this was the magic moment. How much did I want an elite goalkeeping coach? Ben and Rainman weren''t going to make millions for the club. "Let''s talk about what my business girl would call your salary expectations."


    He nodded. "At Barnsley I was on four thousand a week."


    "Great. Bring that down two divisions and think what a fan-owned club can pay."


    "I can relocate on a short-term contract for two thousand."


    "Why short-term?"


    "I want to get in the shop window. Play some matches, get my coaching career going. No offence but reckon I ought to be at a high level, like."


    "Why did you call suddenly? You had all summer."


    "There''s a goalkeeper''s grapevine. We had it that you, meaning you, boss, were up and coming and you wanted a new coach who could play or be first sub. You took a look at Jubb Hill."


    The name was familiar. I went into my mental database and found an entry for a goalie. He had pretty average stats considering he wanted four grand a week. I didn''t want to slag the guy off, though. Especially not if all these goalies were in the same WhatsApp group. "Er, yeah. Not what I was looking for."


    "He was at Huddersfield with me. Tried to keep me down. Talked a load of shit. Did a lot of damage to my career. Never could understand why people thought he was all that. People say you''re a good judge of a player and when you turned him down, you went up in my estimation. I looked into you and asked around. Heard different things. Thought I''d come and see for myself."


    I tapped the little table. "I like you as a player and I like you as a coach. Ben''s my first choice but I don''t need a sweeper-keeper. I might in a few years but I don''t now. All you need to do is pass to Zach or one of my full backs and we''re away. Having you in the team I''m much less worried about corners and long throws and shit. You need time to get up to speed - story of my life - but you''ll get games with us. I want Rainman to get two or three games this season but other than that it''s a straight fight between you and Ben for the number one position. I don''t want squabbles. When you''re the coach you''re the boss and Ben does what you say but on match day I''m the boss and I don''t want whining and complaining. You get along or you get fucked. Sort of a new rule around here."


    "No dickheads."


    "Is that a quote?"


    "The All Blacks." He felt the need to explain that. "Rugby."


    "I know all about rugby. I used to be one of the country''s best players. Explain the dickheads thing."


    "That''s a rule they''ve got. It doesn''t matter how good you are. If you''re a dick, you''re out. The Australian rugby team has no such rule."


    I laughed. He was bone dry, like Ryan Jack, but he was funny. "No dickheads. Right. You need to come here, Sticky. It''s perfect for you and I plan to grow the club so you won''t want to move onto bigger and better things. Things''ll get bigger and better around you. You''ll coach the women and the kids, too. We''ve got some good players. There''s community work and that sort of thing but it''s fun, mostly, and you''ll find the admin guys turning up, too. It''s not something we fob off onto players we don''t like. Okay, so the thing is, two thousand a week would absolutely ruin me. I will give you a contract today for fifteen hundred a week and a bump when we get promoted. Hang on, I''m getting a text."


    MD: Your friend Mr. Tranmere Rovers is trying to rinse us on the Sam Topps deal.


    Me: One second.


    I fired a text to Mateo.


    Don''t be a dick.


    And then another to MD.


    Sorted.


    "Sorry, bit rude. We''re negotiating with Tranmere. Where were we?"


    "Fifteen until the end of the season."


    "Yeah."


    "You''re selling a player. So you''ll have spare budget."


    "I''ll need to replace him."


    "You already did. James Wise for Sam Topps."


    Cheeky Yorkshireman did his homework. "Sixteen hundred but if you negotiate more I''m going to say thanks for coming and good luck." If he accepted, I would have 900 pounds a week left in my budget. Not much, but it could possibly stretch to... to something.


    "Can I think about it?"


    I clicked my neck around. I knew I wouldn''t find a better goalie coach, and my plan B was a series of very similar guys who could come in as an experienced backup for Ben. They would all be fine and would all still be available late in the transfer window. "It''s August 14th and the window closes on September 2nd. I can sign a free agent like yourself whenever, but I don''t want to leave this indefinitely. If one of my goalies is injured or suspended I''ll be signing someone right then and there. So... you can have until the 26th."


    "In that case, let''s do it today."


    The question had been some sort of test. "Really?" The relief surprised me. "Er... one thing. Maybe I should ask how you got your nickname."


    "Sticky? The origins are lost in the mists of time. Some say it''s because as a young man I produced a lot of bodily fluids. Some say I look like a stick insect. Some say it''s because in Yorkshire, goalposts are called sticks and I play between the sticks. Some say it''s because my name¡¯s Ste Icke and that looks like Sticky. But no-one really knows, Max. No-one really knows."


    ***


    Thursday, August 15


    Chester FC are delighted to reveal the identity of our new goalkeeping coach! Steve ''Sticky'' Icke has joined on a free transfer until June 2025. Manager Max Best says the 30-year-old, 6''7" player also adds competition for places.


    ***


    Friday, August 16


    We regret to announce the departure of popular midfielder Sam Topps. Sam has joined Tranmere Rovers for a fee in the region of 75,000. He said his goodbyes yesterday in scenes which are said to have been ''emotional''. Manager Max Best adds, ''Sam is top bins and while we''re gutted to lose a player and character of his quality, he''s getting lobster money over there and he''ll be able to support his family. I''m sure I speak for everyone when I say he''ll be welcome back any time.''


    ***


    Saturday, August 17


    Match 4 of 46: Wealdstone versus Chester


    It was said that Wealdstone had the lowest budget in the National League, and since the Finances perk said they had even less budget to play with than me, I fully believed it. The club was based on the outskirts of London near Wembley and they had a solid history. They played in the first televised match and were the first team to do the non-league double (winning the National League and FA Trophy).


    I felt some of the week''s annoyance and sense of foreboding swirl around me as I filled in the team sheet.


    A common phrase in football is that player X will be ''the first name on the team sheet''. I had a couple of guys who got close to that honour. Glenn Ryder was one. Carl Carlile was another. And Sam Topps had been close.


    Now Sam was gone forever.


    I''d seen on documentaries that a player leaving a club could have a shitty experience. They would walk around looking for people to say goodbye to and the people they did meet would be too busy. Not on my watch. I''d learned from David Cutter that having a proper farewell went a long way. So we made a fuss over Sam. Bought him a goodbye gift, gave him a framed Topps 6 shirt that we''d all signed, and a couple of people had given little speeches. I told the lads that this was a happy moment, a triumph, a validation of everything we were trying to do at Chester and then it was the Brig''s turn and he made everyone cry. Mate.


    Then, right, then Sam went to Tranmere and met everyone and on Friday had his first day of training. But he came back in the evening to say goodbye to the women''s team, too. That was when I really started to feel a sense of loss. Looking at the team sheet and realising I''d never write his name again - yeah, it messed me up for a minute.


    But it had to go like that. I would have to go and scout him to see the exact details of his new contract, but it was probably double what we were paying him. His wife would be happy. His girl would have a better life. It was a big win for them, and that was more important than getting three points against Wealdstone.


    That''s what I told myself.


    If you''re going to have a loss, you need to get yourself a win, so the first name I wrote on the team sheet was... William B. Roberts. I wrote it as one of the substitutes, but even that cheered me up. PA 185!


    I was happy with the team until I got to the last two names. We had Ben behind Eddie, Glenn, Zach, and Carl. Youngster as DM. Aff, Wisey, and Magnus. So far, so solid. But Henri wasn''t going to play until he trained like a professional footballer and I would freeze Pascal out until that awful ''dislikes Henri Lyons'' thing was off his profile.


    I knew it wasn''t totally fair, because five players still had ''dislikes Zach Green'' in their profiles and I wasn''t thinking of binning them. That came from a sense that their dislike wouldn''t last long, and now that I''d taken steps to address the Henri and Pascal thing, I would be bold in addressing the Zach thing, too. I had one or two ideas...


    With two of my best players out, I had few options. Sharky was playing right wing and and Ziggy was my striker. That gave me a 47.3 average CA lineup. One that would struggle to get to the playoffs... in tier 6. Wealdstone, despite their meagre budget, had plenty of experience at this level and had an average of 58.


    Yikes.


    The bench was what stopped me from catastrophising. As well as Sticky - beautiful, beautiful Sticky - I had Steve Alton, a wise old head, Josh Owens for a left-footer in case of injury, William Roberts, the best prospect in the entire country, and Tom Westwood, a football player who existed.


    ***


    The match started well. Wealdstone were surprised by how quickly we fizzed the ball around, and when they tried to press us we chipped the ball behind the defenders to let Aff and Sharky chase. We caused a lot of mayhem in the early stages until they regrouped. Their manager stopped them pressing, switched them to short passes, and left more players back.


    Once those changes were made, both teams lacked the quality to break the other down and the match became a bitty, frustrating experience. For me, anyway. Wealdstone''s manager wouldn''t care about the performance if his team ground out a one-nil win.


    The week had been such a struggle, but it hadn''t all been bad. It only felt bad because I''d lost Henri, Pascal, and Sam. But I still had Youngster. As I thought that, I felt a tingling on the back of my neck. I turned and in the stand behind me I saw the usual gaggle of agents and scouts. One guy stood out - apart from the fact that he was absolutely massive, his profile didn''t say he was a scout for a club. It said he was a scout for Ghana. Like, the country.


    I sat back down and smiled to myself. Imagine Mr. Yalley''s face when he found out his son had been called up to play for Ghana! I slammed my cast into the side of the dugout, but it was an expression of joy. Train hard, play hard, get your rewards. Easy. Come on!


    At half time, I had a tactical discussion with Sandra.


    "Take Wes off, put Tom on, switch to 4-4-2," she suggested. Wes had been his usual misfiring self. "Maybe Tom and Ziggy will be the dream team."


    "I like it except I don''t want to move Youngster out of DM. It''s our only real source of advantage right now."


    "I think we have to. We don''t have the players to do anything else."


    I leaned in. "Okay but he''s being scouted right now. There''s a guy from the national team in tonight and Youngster''s the only guy who qualifies."


    Sandra winced. "Fucking hell, Max! We''ve got a match on!"


    "You''re right, you''re right." I sighed. "Ian Evans laughed at me, once. Said managers always ended up going back to 4-4-2. I can''t believe I''m doing this."


    Wealdstone couldn''t believe it, either. Couldn''t believe their luck. When they realised Youngster was out of position, they went bonkers attacking through the middle and it was only their lack of quality and composure that stopped them winning.


    "Ziggy''s blowing," said Vimsy. My dude''s Condition had dropped below 75%. He''d worked hard and selflessly but the curse rated him at 5 out of 10. He was trying to make up for his lack of quality by working harder, but it was just making him running out of steam faster.


    For many reasons, I wanted to get back to 4-1-4-1 and turtle up. Would I take a draw? I''d have bitten your hand off for a nil-nil. Without Henri and Pascal, I couldn''t see where Chester''s next goal was coming from. "Let''s get Steve on at right back and put Carl in midfield. Just go full dogs of war. Shut this down."


    Sandra wasn''t happy but she couldn''t think of anything better.


    Wealdstone ended the discussion by scoring. It was a soft goal with no-one really to blame. They''d simply had too much of the ball in dangerous positions for things to continue to go our way.


    "Christ," I said. "Steve, come back, sorry." I couldn''t turtle up when we were losing. "Fuck it. William. You''re up."


    WibRob for his Chester debut! It would be a somewhat inauspicious beginning. Twenty-five minutes in an away defeat to the second-worst team in the league in front of 1,300 mostly bored people.


    "4-1-4-1, WibRob right," I said. Eighteen-year-old CA 28 Tom Westwood would have to lead the line. He couldn''t do it any worse than Henri or Ziggy, that was for sure.


    We were about to lose our second match in a row. The next three fixtures flashed across my mind. The teams would all be around the CA 70 level. The average CAs I was putting out were decreasing! This... this could easily be the five-game losing streak that would end my Chester career. And who could blame them for sacking me? I''d put my resources in the wrong places. I''d spent most of my remaining budget hiring a backup goalie when I needed a striker! I had actually fucked it up, big time.


    For five minutes, there was a lot of huffing and puffing and not much else. Tom ran around a lot achieving nothing. WibRob was swallowed up by the match, sinking to a 5 out of 10 rating. Utterly anonymous. At least he wasn''t kicking people.


    I was on the edge of sinking into proper despair, but the next five minutes were strange. Something was happening. Something I couldn''t see with my eyes or with the curse. I could feel it, though.


    "Sandra, what do you think?"


    "I think... we''re pushing them back."


    Vimsy took a couple of steps closer. His cheeks were flushed like he was drunk. "He''s some player, that kid! Some player!"


    "WibRob?"


    "No. Tom. Tom Westwood," he explained, seeing my blank face.


    With rising excitement, Sandra and I exchanged glances. The curse had Tom on 5 out of 10. He wasn''t winning headers or making passes. "What are you seeing, Vimsy?"


    "Oh, he''s marvellous. Look at him go!"


    James Wise played a hopeful ball in the vague direction of WibRob, but sliced it so badly it went to the corner flag. Five seconds from now it would dribble out of play for a goal kick. It was the very definition of a lost cause. But Tom fucking Westwood got his head down and chased it and I realised I was seeing the world through Vimsy''s eyes. I was a football dinosaur, a Real Football Man and Tom Westwood was a player''s player. Arms pumping, chest high, he wasn''t going to let that ball go gentle into the night. "Go on, lad!" I cried, even though I knew it barely mattered if he got there or not. Who cared if he got to that ball? The best he could do would be to knock it out for a throw-in instead of a goal kick. Who cared? Who even fucking cared? Suddenly, urgently, me. I cared about this chase and nothing more. Tom wanted that ball and I wanted him to get it.


    The left back had other ideas. He ran towards the ball, too, trying to get in Tom''s way. He wanted to use his body to shepherd the ball out. He would let Tom collide with him and that would be that. But Tom, still running at his top speed, still a look of pure determination on his face, zigzagged left, right, left again - but no! That last move was a fake, the defender bought it, and now Tom was favourite. He slid - the defender slid - Tom hooked the ball left - it hit the defender. The linesman signalled for a corner kick.


    I went nuts.


    I went fucking bananas.


    I ran up and down the touchline, hugging Vimsy, twirling Sandra around.


    The highest moment of my life, if we apply certain filters, was a meaningless corner kick awarded in the arse end of London.


    "Holy shit," I whooped. "Wow! What the shit. I can''t believe that. He''s... What is he?"


    "He''s a trier," said Vimsy, eyes shining. "A grafter."


    "A grafter!" Tom Westwood was a guy who would run all day and annoy defenders. He would chase lost causes and go ''into the channels'' - the space between defenders. He would make them work for every little thing. They''d hate to see his name on the team sheet because they knew it would mean they''d have to work work work. I''d accidentally signed an Ian Evans player!


    And I couldn''t stop smiling about it.


    Aff jogged over to take the corner. He set himself, signalled, and lashed an inswinger into the six-yard box where Zach Green rose, won the header, and hit the crossbar!


    I sank to my knees. "Oh! That was it. That was the moment."


    I checked the time - fifteen minutes left. Plenty of time for someone to work some magic. I sent Josh Owens on to get some minutes at left back and used my fifteen-minute perks to make his life a little easier. I linked Owens to Aff and set my team to have a left-hand-side tendency.


    The more we attacked, the more Wealdstone retreated. This would be a great win for them - they were expecting a long, hard battle against relegation and wins were precious. The fact that we couldn''t get a shot on target against what should have been the worst team briefly disheartened me, but then Tom Westwood went to pressure the left back, followed the ball all the way to the goalie, and followed it right back out to the left back. They couldn''t shake him loose!


    "Come on!" I screamed. "Fucking love that, Tom, mate. Yeerrrrsssss!"


    I had the feeling that if we had infinite time, we would definitely get the next goal. But the clock kept ticking down. Six minutes left. Five minutes left. Aff was fantastic. Linking with Josh Owens and James Wise, he was able to find space for himself and get crosses in. We simply couldn''t get enough players into the box to make it count. Wherever we attacked, we were outnumbered. Wealdstone weren''t parking the bus, but it wasn''t too far away from that.


    "Oh my God," I mumbled, dragging my fingers down my face. "No. Don''t do this to me." I realised my decisions would be under greater scrutiny than ever, and all anyone would talk about was me dropping Henri and Pascal. Two of my main goalscoring threats. How did I expect to win matches without goalscorers? Was I fucking stupid?


    Two minutes to go. One minute to go.


    We wouldn''t get promoted. We wouldn''t sell players for millions. We wouldn''t buy and rebuild the stadium. Nothing we had talked about on Monday morning mattered because I had constructed a football team that couldn''t score goals. Shit - what if my arm really was broken? What if I would miss five more weeks? Would we go more than a month without scoring a goal?


    Aff collected the ball and took a breath. Took a beat to let Wisey and Magnus get forward. An exhausted Youngster tried to get up the pitch. Tom Westwood came short but Aff waved him away - someone needed to be in the box.


    Josh overlapped and Aff passed to him. They tried to work into slapping position but Wealdstone had too many players back. The clock struck 90. Aff said fuck it and whipped in a tired cross that a defender headed up and away.


    Time slowed and the hairs on the back of my head pulled in every direction.


    The ball, in super slow motion, was falling to the right foot of the onrushing WibRob. I saw what happened before it happened. As it happened I doubted the evidence of my eyes.


    Leaning back slightly so as to coax the ball into an arc, he struck the ball firmly but sweetly in the lower middle. Specks of moisture and fragments of grass exploded from the contact point. The trajectory of the ball took it past two wide-eyed defenders, past Tom Westwood, hands already raising in celebration, and past an agile and experienced goalkeeper.


    The net bulged, but not as massively as my eyes.


    The silence ended and all the sounds of a football match came rushing back. The referee''s whistle signalling the goal. The Chester fans erupting. My bench emptying, with the subs rushing to join the celebrations.


    When I opened my eyes, I found I was on my knees again, slumped forward, and two massive hands were picking me up.


    "Was wonderin'' why you were playing the kids," said Sticky. "Seeing as you could have had any old fool from this level." He jutted his chin towards the pitch. "Reckon I know, now. I''m reet glad to be here, Max. Reet glad."


    "It''s called Project Youth," I said. "It''s why I''m so insane about getting training right. That''s why I hired you, mate. The club might lose faith in me, the fans, too. But I''ll tell you something."


    "What''s that, boss?"


    "You''ve just seen the future of English football."

 8.10 - Pick Your Battles

    10.


    Saturday, August 24


    Match 5 of 46: Hartlepool vs Chester


    "You''re shit AAHHHHH!" roared the home fans as Ben launched a goal kick. In my brief career as maybe the best rugby player in the world, I had demoralised Hartlepool''s rugby team with my inhumanly accurate kicking. Today, they had walloped us with no need for divine intervention, outmatching us CA 68 to CA 46.


    46 was how we started. When I replaced Ziggy with Tom Westwood and Eddie Moore with Cole Adams, our overall CA fell to 45.7. You might say we''d done well to keep the score down to three-nil.


    James Wise won a header. Tom chased it into the channel and put pressure on the full back - great - then kept going... and going... and going... By the time he''d sprinted the width of the pitch chasing short passes, he was gassed. The ball went back to the Pools keeper. That guy was in no mood to play keep-ball. He wanted to play keep clean sheet. That was a mini-game that, according to his contract, would see him get a one hundred pound bonus. So in the guise of trying to play a long pass, he hit the ball downfield as far as he could.


    Carl won the ball and it went to Magnus Evergreen. He took a good first touch, held off a challenge, and, looking at his options, chose the safest one.


    Peep, peep, peeeeep!


    The ref blew his whistle and we got another L on our permanent record. One point from the last three games. In the eyes of the crowing home fans, Project Youth was floundering. With the draw at Wealdstone, we now had one point from a possible nine. We had played three games - 270 minutes - of mostly shit football. And Cole Adams had cost us two goals in the last ten minutes, turning a loss into a rout.


    "Vimsy!" I called. "With me, please."


    My favourite Proper Football Man hurried over. If anyone was going to tell me not to give a young player a bollocking on the pitch while the stadium was still full of home fans, it was going to be Vimsy. But he didn''t say anything as I pushed a football into his arms. We set off across the pitch, swimming against the tide of players leaving the pitch.


    The Brig saw my hard, flinty expression and left the conversation he was having with an opposition coach. The young men like Cole were his project - rescued from the scrapheap to be turned into fine young soldiers. "Sir," he said, trying to catch up with me. The guy was a former commando but I was a twenty-four year old professional sportsman and I''d been supernaturally doped.


    "It''s a football matter," I said, and the words came out strange. They hit the Brig hard and he did something unexpected - he stopped.


    I continued to stride forwards, across the pitch, until I intercepted Cole Adams. He was eighteen and a left back. Left backs were often short because they were put up against fast, agile wingers who would dribble. Having a low centre of gravity was a massive advantage. But Cole was a very accomplished defender - or he would be once we''d finished training him - despite being tall. And having tall full backs had the potential to be transformational to my teams. I had a penchant for tiny midfielders which left me exposed at set pieces. Cole Adams was the antidote to Pascal Bochum - not that the German Bad Boy was anywhere near my first team. I''d rather give minutes to one of the under 12s than him.


    "Cole," I said, gripping his arm and dragging him back in the direction of the zone he''d been occupying. "How do you think you played, mate?"


    "Not good, boss," he said.


    "Their second goal was a bit of a kick in the teeth," I said, checking Vimsy was with us. "Why do you think it happened?"


    Cole said, "Er..." and looked at the stand to his left. There were still hundreds of people there - Hartlepool played in front of massive crowds. Four and a half thousand, today. They were gawping at us. Still mocking. Singing ''going down!'' while pointing their cameras at the freak show.


    "Are you talking to me or to them?" I asked, annoyed at Cole for not paying attention and annoyed at myself for how like a schoolteacher I sounded.


    "You, boss."


    "Then don''t fucking look at them. Look at me. Talk to me."


    He tried to remember the sequence of passes that led to Pools'' second goal and his role in it. "Erm... I think I was out of position at the end and he got a tap in."


    "Yeah but I don''t really give a shit about that. You had two guys to mark and you froze. It happens. At that point I''d like you to pick one and hope for the best but the real damage was done before that."


    "It was?"


    Vimsy bounced the ball and caught it between his palms. I continued. "Think back. When did that goal start?"


    "When the winger crossed it. Carl could have been tighter, I thought."


    "It''s not Carl''s fault in the slightest. Think before that."


    Cole frowned. He was a good lad but deep thinking wasn''t his specialty. "So... Wisey missed a tackle."


    "Do you seriously think I''d be over here on your side of the pitch in front of thousands of monkey hangers to chat about something James Wise did?"


    "No, boss." My intensity was freaking him out, but I didn''t give a shit. The guy wanted to play at Wembley in front of 80,000 people. He could have a conversation in the north-east in front of four hundred jeering nobodies. He closed his eyes. "Sorry, gaffer, I can''t think."


    "Vimsy, can you take Glenn''s position and pass to me? Cole, you be the winger."


    Vimsy moved about fifteen yards diagonally behind me. I stood facing Hartlepool''s goal. "Now?" said my coach.


    I raised my finger. "Get ready," I told Cole. "I''m going to do what you did." I dropped my hand like I was starting a Formula One race. Vimsy passed. I took it awkwardly on my right foot and crabbed back to goal. The ball bounced off me, ready for Cole to run away with. "Remember that?" I called, quite loud.


    "Yes," mumbled Cole. I indicated he should speak louder so Vimsy could hear. He repeated himself.


    "Vimsy," I called. "Ready to go again." The four hundred fans were proper jeering at us, now. The losing left back was being given an on-pitch telling-off by a management fraud in an arm cast. "Cole, mate. I''m going to do the same thing. I want you to run at my right side and get the ball. You with me? Do what the Pools guy did."


    I signalled to Vimsy and he passed the ball. Cole aimed himself at my right foot. Obviously, I didn''t do what Cole did in the match. Instead, I let the ball roll across my body onto my left foot. While Cole ran at my inside, expecting to get the ball, I exploded past him on the outside, close to the touchline.


    The jeering stopped.


    "Mystery winger!" yelled Vimsy, beaming.


    "Reset," I called. Cole walked back, staring at my feet with astonishment. "Don''t look impressed," I called out. "That was a piece of piss. I touched the ball, like, ten inches to the left and you went flying like a proper nutjob. Okay, so now you know what I''m going to do, right?" Cole nodded. He didn''t exactly know what was happening or why, but he was getting into it. "I''m going to dick you on the left because I''m a full back in a Max Best team. You feel me?"


    I thought I saw his mouth twitch. "Yes, boss."


    "I don''t know how to say it any plainer, mate. I''m going to dick you on the outside and I don''t think you can do a fucking thing to stop it."


    He didn''t reply. He simply set himself. I sent the ball back to Vimsy, raised my hand, and dropped it. The pass came and I shaped to make the same move. Cole threw his whole body towards the touchline. None shall pass!


    I made the same initial motion of letting the ball come across my body, moved my weight in the same way, but at the last moment - after the last moment - I gave my first touch some extra energy and redirected the ball diagonally back across the pitch. While Cole moved outside, I sent the ball inside and followed it with a lightning fast dribble to the halfway line followed by a booming shot that went high, high, and bounced on the goal line and into the roof of the net.


    Vimsy walked towards me. So did Cole. Both were grinning stupidly.


    I rested my cast on Cole''s shoulder and gave him an intense stare. "You''re playing Max Best football. You don''t retreat. Why would you ever retreat? First touch left and you take control. Second touch right and you take control. Your opponent has to go back. He has to stop you doing what I just did to you. He has to retreat or his manager will never give him another contract. He has to go back or his kids will starve. Do you get me, Cole? Attack and they will retreat. That''s a rule of life, my friend. So you fucking attack, all day every day. Now, if you''ve not got a pass on or you don''t fancy a dribble, that''s okay. But your first move always always always needs to be positive so that theirs is negative. Then, right, then if you want to turn back and pass to Glenn, that''s fine. I''m not going to be in your grille for every decision you ever make and you''ve seen our Let It Happen drills - you''re allowed to pass and move backwards if that''s what the game needs. But you''ve got the ball so you pick your battleground. You''re the protagonist and defenders go where you want them to go. Is that one million percent clear, yes or no?"


    The kid was having some kind of out-of-body-experience. His eyes were shining. "Yes, boss!"


    I waited three beats to make what I said next as funny as possible. "Great. Now go and get that ball. I''m injured."


    ***


    WibRob''s equaliser had done something to me. Not just saved my job, not just got the entire club to sit up and take notice. He''d made me realise that I had doubts. I had been fretting about the team, the season, our progression. The moment the ball had hit the net I''d been converted to my own religion. I was deep in the Cult of Max, now.


    Sandra''s job was to make players better, but I had a role to play in their development, too. The youth teams responded when I got evangelical with them. I knew I''d had a direct impact on some mental attributes like teamwork - I had seen Tyson''s teamwork turn green. I suspected, but obviously couldn''t prove, that I''d got Captain''s Influence score higher. I was sure I could impact some other, hidden attributes, too.


    And at the very least, morale went up when I brought forth my righteousness like a light.


    Max Best was getting preachy.


    Can I get an amen?


    ***


    I smiled most of the way to the dressing room and once there, headed straight for the tactics board. I shuffled the magnets around for a minute. "Sandra," I called. "Vimsy, Tom."


    My coaches appeared next to me, but not my player. "He''s in the shower," said Vimsy.


    "Why the fuck is he in the shower when I need to talk to him?"


    "Well," started Vimsy.


    "Please get him!" I said. I stared at the tactics board until a cough told me that Tom had arrived. He was in a towel and was dripping everywhere. Bit rude. He was somewhat gangly, but not too many workouts from being muscular, I reckoned. As he aged, he needed to maintain the right balance between winning duels and being a mobile nuisance. "Got you some nickname options. Tommy Gun," I said. "Because you''re Tom and you''re a gun. TomTom - you know your way to goal. Tom Flew Over the Cuckoo''s Nest - you drive opponents crazy."


    "My mates call me Terrier Tom."


    "Why?"


    "Coz I like chasing balls."


    I looked up. "Terrier Tom? Terrier Tom? No, don''t like it. Veto. But that brings me onto the point. Tom, your work rate is phenomenal and I love it, but there''s a but. I think we need to combine your demented harrying and scampering with some of my famous Max Best logic and rationality."


    Tom was already standing in a puddle and it was spreading. "Yes, boss."


    I laid five magnets out in a very familiar shape. "Goalie and back four. There''s five of them and one of you. How many can you cover, do you think?"


    "I have to do all five if I''m on my own up top," he said.


    "See that''s not what I want to hear, mate. I''m as willing to believe six impossible things before breakfast as the next man, but no no no. You''ve got to pick your battles. I''m going to suggest maybe four pressing plans. Pressing Pete picked a perfect pressing plan. Say that five times fast." I picked up one of the marker pens and drew a circle around the left centre back - the guy on the right from my point of view. "Option one. You could mark one guy. You''d stitch anyone up good, I''m sure. If we were playing against Zach, that''d be smart. You get that, right? He''s the dangerous on-the-ball guy. If you''re running around like a blue-arsed fly, you''re not cutting out the danger. But what about," I started, before erasing the circle and drawing a line down the middle of the penalty area. "Option two. Split the pitch into two halves. Let''s say you take the right half. You could harass these two and the goalie. That''d be fun, right, but it''d also be dead smart because the limit would keep you fresh. See at the end of the match today Magnus was looking for support but you''d just done the craziest press since Gutenberg used his new invention to write a blog post about why it''s dumb to rotate goalkeepers."


    Sandra handed Tom another towel and he took it gratefully and began drying himself a bit.


    "You think you''re helping the team with this mad release of energy but maybe you''re not, right? We need you to get on the ball, too. I do want goals, mate. You like scoring goals, right?"


    "Yes, boss!"


    "So take half the pitch and you''re running half as much. Simples. You can take a breather when the ball goes across. That''s efficient. By the way, you''re still affecting the game. They can''t pass back this way, can they, if you''re in the way? It''s like a rudimentary cover shadow." I tapped my temple. "Braaaaains!" I said, in the zombie fashion. I wiped out the line and drew a box around the two centre backs. "Option three. Could be the smartest thing is to only track these central fuckers. Right? You give them a tough time but you save energy by not going to the full backs. If we''re doing 4-1-4-1 we''ve already got good cover on the sides. Don''t worry about what the full back gets up to. And if you do force a turnover from one of these clowns, you''re right in front of goal! You break and they take you down it''s a red card. Or a penalty and a yellow. Yes, please! Do you get what I''m saying? I don''t want you covering five players any more. Before every match I want you to decide who you''re going to cover and tell me why. If you need help at first, Sandra and Vimsy will advise you."


    "It''s my decision?" Tom seemed to find the idea bewildering.


    I smiled. "I reserve the right to suggest something better," I said. "But yeah. Why not? I think you''ll get good at it. I want you to watch the videos of the opposition before we play them. You can ask Spectrum to get you good clips. Pitch your ideas to Sandra and Vimsy, have a chat. It''s not a fucking... exam, Tom. If you don''t know what to do, pick one of the options I''ve just given you. Do it for the first half. At half time we can reassess. Do you have any questions about what I''ve just said?"


    "Erm... you want me to be more... You want me to have a pressing plan? For every game?"


    "Why do you say for every game like it''s a fuckton of work?"


    "Isn''t it?"


    "No. It''s watching videos of the defenders you''ll be up against and visualising how you''ll annoy them. Sorry, mate, is that going to interfere with your personal clothes label? Do you need time off to go to Paris Fashion Week? Do you have daily meetings with the other members of your startup?"


    He smiled, sort of, and his eyes flickered from Sandra to Vimsy. "I just want to be sure what you''re asking."


    "Pressing Pete picked a perfect pressing plan! Pressing Pete pricked a perfect plessing pan!"


    "Get back in the shower, lad," said Vimsy. "I''ll talk you through it on the bus." He took Tom''s second towel and dropped it onto the wet patch.


    Sandra gave me a strange grin. "You''re upbeat considering we just got hammered."


    "Hammered?" I said, confused. "When?"


    "Want me to do the media?"


    "There''s no me in media," I said. I took a look around the dressing room. Half the guys were in the shower. A couple were getting some treatment from our physios. I wanted to do a third intervention. But who?


    Magnus Evergreen was sitting quietly on the bench. He''d done yet another 6 out of 10 performance. Solid, unspectacular. He showed no signs of reaching his CA limit, so that left the obvious question - what sort of player would he become?


    I''d always been scared of giving him feedback. For a start, I didn''t know his PA limit. If he was CA 50, PA 100, I would have known how far he could improve. But he had that mysterious minus 2 thing, so was there even any point trying to mould him into a certain direction? I didn''t know what I was dealing with.


    There was also the fact that he wasn''t a deeply committed player. Football was merely a stage in his journey and if I annoyed him too much he''d simply walk away at the end of the season.


    Doubts, fears, anxieties. Be gone!


    I squatted in front of him. "Magnus. How you doing?"


    "I''m worried about the season. After the great start - "


    "Forget all that," I said, dismissing his doubts. I plucked the negative energy that was in his aura and chucked it away. "Reiki healing! Reiki healing!" He rolled his eyes slightly, but in a good-natured way. "Right, now listen. You''re getting to be amazing at covering ground, doing your work, filling in holes, all the dirty work. I mean, if that''s all you ever did I''d be pretty happy but I think you''ve got another side and I want to explore that. I want to give you a quest."


    He pointed to my right hand. "What was that?"


    As I had said the word quest I had shaken an imaginary little stick. "Oh. I think I was being a shaman."


    "You''d be a good shaman."


    "Well, now we can find out. Your quest is to add verticality to your game."


    Magnus closed his eyes and thought about it. "I might need an example of verticality."


    "Okay," I said, standing up to give my muscles a rest. "The guy you played against today, he had this move where he let you come into the challenge and when you were committed, he went up a gear and you couldn''t react. That''s smooth, that. It''s really subtle. Can you learn that? Or have you seen that thing Aff does where he fakes a square ball but he dribbles forward? He gets three yards out of that five times a match. You can pick but I want you to get to work on developing a move that takes us up the pitch. It doesn''t have to be spectacular. Give me three yards and I''ll be buzzing."


    "I''m not sure - "


    "Fuck that. I''m sure. Now, that''s one thing but I''ve got another. I want you to think about how you combine with players. One thing I like when I play deeper roles is for someone ahead of me to play the ball back to me first-time. Because I''m looking at the whole pitch, right, and I can ping a pass anywhere. So a first-time layoff back to me is actually an amazing weapon for getting higher up the pitch. And Zach is decent with his medium-range passing. I''d like to see you practise that combination, and maybe you can come up with some others."


    "It''s hard because I don''t play the same position every week."


    I spread my arms wide, a sublime expression on my face. "If it was easy, it wouldn''t be this satisfying!"


    Magnus Evergreen smiled, nodded, and gained two levels of morale.


    ***


    Sunday, August 25


    I drove to Manchester for a day of non-stop achievement. I started by driving to Hough End playing fields for a big burst of scouting, whizzed to Platt Fields for another dose, then headed to a church in Wythenshawe, one where everyone was welcome but which mostly served the Ghanaian community.


    Later, I would go and see my mum, then scout West Didsbury''s women''s team and chat to Jay Cope about how the men''s season had started and how Chester''s loan players were getting on. West, by the way, were already tearing the league up and had kicked their campaign off with four wins and a draw. If I had time, I would pop into a five-a-side place. Then if Emma was still having fun on her day out with some WAGs, I''d go to Platt Fields to get a kebab and pick up some XP from the early evening games. If Emma needed to be rescued, I''d zoom back to Chester.


    But first, I had a sermon to give.


    ***


    "Hello," I said. "My name''s Max Best."


    "Everybody knows who you are," said Pastor Yaw. He was on the stage to my right, settled into a wooden chair that looked much too small for him. He didn''t need the microphone to be heard all across the room.


    "Right," I said. "You probably told them about my Manager of the Season award."


    "It is possible I mentioned that," he said, smiling hugely and easily. "You might be better-known for other events."


    I nodded. "The time I defused a nuclear bomb with one second left on the countdown." This didn''t get more smiles because everyone was already smiling. The men were in their best brown suits and the women were in all kinds of colours. The Yalleys were there, except Kisi. The women were due to play their first pre-season friendly and Kisi refused to miss it even to see why I''d requested a few minutes of pulpit time. I looked around at the less familiar faces. The older ones had been born in one country, the younger ones in another. Was it weird? It had to be weird. "Guys, I''m here to talk about, you guessed it, Youngster. He has been playing first-team football for a while now and he is beginning to look very, very good. We played in London last week and a scout was there. I suspect the man is lazy and doesn''t travel overmuch unless he has to."


    "A scout?" said the Pastor, and I realised I''d missed out a key piece of information.


    "A scout from the Ghanaian national team."


    The reaction started huge and got bigger. From smiles to beams, from murmured ''ohs'' to hearty ''praise Jesuses''. Many turned to check out the Yalleys. Mrs. Yalley had happy tears streaming down her face. Mr. Yalley was hugging his son. Youngster himself was doing the goofiest version of his always goofy smile.


    "All right, calm down," I said, and while the hubbub didn''t completely die down, people were listening. "It''s possible they were there to check me out as the next national team manager. There''s no way to know." I grinned to show I was joking. "But it does raise the issue of whether Youngster should play for Ghana or England."


    "What are the considerations from a footballing perspective?" said Pastor Yaw.


    "Well, no offence but it''s easier to get into the Ghana team. But that doesn''t matter in this case. Youngster''s good enough for both."


    "Which would you prefer?"


    I scoffed. "There''s no question, really. If he plays for England he''ll get even richer and even more famous. Do you remember in the pandemic? Marcus Rashford raised twenty million pounds to feed hungry schoolchildren and he used his fame to make the government U-turn on one of its typically cruel, heartless policies. Rashford could do it because he plays for England and half the kids in the country have his poster on their wall. Youngster might think he could do more good for the world playing for England. Also, if he plays for Ghana then every two years he''ll fly off to Africa for the Cup of Nations so he will miss a month of the season and come back tired. It''s definitely better for me if he plays for England."


    "And yet you are here," said Pastor Yaw.


    "Yeah, well, it''s not about me, is it? I''m fighting like twenty different fights all the time. This one isn''t mine and it''s actually a very difficult decision and I don''t have the background to have an opinion, really. I''ll support him a billion percent either way. I thought it would be an interesting thing for the community to discuss. And Pastor, I don''t know if there''s any Bible stuff around this kind of topic but you could maybe use that? It must get repetitive talking about avoiding temptation."


    "It does not," he said. "But you have inspired me, Mr. Best!" He paced around the stage, in front of the drums and the guitars and the amplifiers. "The story of Paul!"


    "Paul?"


    "Formerly known as Saul. Saul was a go-getter, Mr. Best. A social climber. Very educated and a terrible snob! Although he was a jew, he had Roman citizenship. He travelled to Damascus, saw God, became Paul, and turned into an evangelist for Christ!"


    "Amen," called someone. Pastor Yaw had slipped into his preacher voice.


    "The Romans did not like that. Not one bit! They arrested him. But Paul the Christian was also Saul the Roman citizen! He had the right to plead his case before Caesar. Perhaps that was the equivalent of Marcus Rashford pleading his case before the British government. Perhaps that is the message. But Marcus Rashford, as we have seen, exists. Do we need a Marcus Rashford for Ghana? Could that be the young man I see before me? Yes, Mr. Best, you have given us a wonderful mission. Who are we and why are we here? And what a wonderful opportunity this is to revisit the life of Paul!"


    "Yeah, that last part is the main thing."


    Pastor Yaw laughed hugely. "But it is! Our petty worries are nothing when set against eternal salvation."


    "Kay. So listen, sounds like it''s going to be a lot of fun in here over the next few weeks. I do have a request, if I may?"


    "Speak, Mr. Best."


    I swept my gaze around the church. The community was so colourful and vibrant, but I knew how quickly tribes could be torn asunder. Under the surface there was always greed, jealousy, and stupidity. "I hope it''s important and useful and healthy to talk about this, but in the end it''s Youngster''s decision. I won''t be mad if he chooses Ghana. Please don''t be mad if he chooses England. I''d like to come here and watch his first World Cup match on a giant screen - whichever kit he''s wearing."


    Yaw put his arm around me and gave me a friendly shake. "That will not be possible, Mr. Best." He did his version of a goofy grin. "You said it yourself. You will be our national team manager by then! I think you''ll be needed in the stadium, will you not?"


    ***


    Tuesday, August 27


    Match 6 of 46: Chester vs Altrincham - penultimate match before the transfer window closes


    ''The tale of the tape'' is a phrase from the world of boxing. Measure the height and arms of both fighters and you have a pretty good idea how the bout will go. If you had any sense of self-preservation, you wouldn''t fight a guy taller than you who had longer arms. Not unless you were Mike Tyson, anyway. But Iron Mike AKA The Tooth Fairy was a professional boxer and boxers got to pick their fights.


    Chester FC didn''t.


    My pre-match analysis of the teams told me how this particular bout would go. Altrincham were much taller, had much longer arms, and their abs were way more symmetrical.


    CA 71.


    Altrincham were a very good National League team who had been in playoff contention the year before and had strengthened with an injection of American money.


    CA 44.


    Chester were a farcical team literally getting weaker by the minute. Youngster needed a rest, which had the knock-on effect of making me have to use Omari Naysmith in the centre. Ziggy was up front, Wes Hayward was on the right, and Eddie Moore had a tight calf so Cole Adams got another start. That gave us four players who were miles off the level, and James Wise was still only CA 43.


    With Henri and Pascal out, my squad was suddenly incredibly thin. One more injury and I would have had to name two goalkeepers on the bench or bring in one of the under eighteens.


    Just over three thousand one hundred fans watched us huff and puff as Alty blew our house down. They put two defenders on Aff and that was enough to stop us having any attacking threat whatsoever. We were three-nil down at half time. I didn''t throw in the towel but there was no point bringing WibRob on - though there was tremendous interest in seeing the National League''s youngest ever goalscorer. Instead, I gave Zach and Tom the entire second half, and threw Josh Owens on for the last twenty minutes.


    Alty eased up in the second half, but cut through us near the end to make it four-nil. At the final whistle I praised Magnus for trying a move he had been practising in training. I hugged Tom, whose pressing had been deeply annoying for Alty''s centre backs. And I spent a minute with Wes talking about his body shape when he was collecting the ball from a defender.


    The fans showed no sign of turning on us, and I had arrested the squad''s season-long slide in morale. Some of the old togetherness was back. These setbacks would only make us stronger.


    I gave a cheery post-match interview.


    ***


    Wednesday, August 28


    Heroic Special Offer


    New perk available for the next forty-four days: The Fantastic Four


    Cost: 4,444 XP


    Effects: To celebrate International Read Comics In Public Day, this perk allows you to nominate four players who do not currently appear on your squad screens and track them as though they were part of your squad. Perfect for long-term scouting! If any of the four players being monitored are added to a squad screen, the free slot may immediately be reused. Otherwise, only one change can be made per month. Choose your prey wisely!


    I lay in bed looking at the beams above me. Really interesting perk! It was one that wouldn''t directly power me up but would help me to work out how this crazy football business actually worked.


    For example, I could follow four players from different rival clubs, like Christian Fierce from Kiddies and Tom Hickman from Grims, and see how their numbers changed across a season. Did my teams lose more CA in the summer than other clubs? If so, I could investigate that. If not, it would be one less thing to worry about. I often felt that my personality had a distorting effect on how the curse worked. My recent cheeriness was artificially lifting morale, for example. Having four clean data points would let me investigate the relationship between things like morale and CA growth, Condition and injuries.


    Or I could use it to track the effects of these ''dislikes Zach Green'' player complaints. I wanted to blast my ones out of the water as soon as possible but it would be interesting to study them. If I followed four players who hated a teammate I''d be able to see their morale and how they were training. When I unlocked the Form perk I''d be able to add that to my analysis, and some combination of perks would unlock the average rating for this season. (Currently I only had it for the previous season.) It could be interesting to track three dislikers and the dislikee. Did everyone suffer equally? Did the dislikee even give a shit?


    Another use case would be to track four young players with PA 100. What exactly was the benefit of being in Man City''s academy versus Birmingham''s versus Grimsby''s?


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Yeah, interesting, but I didn''t have enough XP to buy it, and for once the deadline wasn''t the end of the month. I could take my time thinking about this one.


    ***


    Talking of getting rid of the ''dislikes'', I''d set up a special meeting that I hoped would tackle some of my problems. My guys didn''t like Zach Green because he had rugby tackled me and was hella annoying, but I didn''t get the sense they really hated him.


    So I had asked three of the defenders who ''disliked'' Zach - Steve Alton, Glenn Ryder, and Eddie Moore - to come to my office before training. The first two had played the night before so they would normally have had the morning off, but I promised it wouldn''t take long.


    Zach was there, too. Like all of them, his morale had taken a hit because of the back-to-back defeats.


    "Thanks for coming, dudes!" I said. "As you know, I''m giving out sort of personalised training plans. You guys get a choice." I opened my flipchart and picked up a marker. I drew a rectangle and cut it into three vertical blocks. "We need better ball progression and this season''s training is all about getting that. How do we get from the defensive third to the middle third? The full backs can pass or dribble, no worries there, but I need a central option, too. Give me a central passing option and we''ll be able to do all sorts of wonderful things like keep clean sheets and score goals. The way I see it, there''s two main ways we can achieve this. One, we let Zach do it."


    The three dudes turned to the American, who was drinking from a Starbucks container. Just for a moment, the thought that he''d crossed town to get an American drink infuriated me, but I realised there was probably one on his drive up from Wrexham. He didn''t know what to say. "That''s, er, that''s why you signed me, boss."


    "Yeah, because you''re mint. So if we go for the Zach option, let''s call it plan Zed because that''s how we do alphabets round here, then Glenn and Steve, you''ll be doing defensive drills. The stuff you''re used to. Shuffle, slide, set piece. Duels, dominating zones, physicality, leadership. All that good stuff." Glenn sat taller. It was what he''d been doing his whole life. It was what he loved doing. What he was born to do! I tapped the marker onto the page. "Yeah. That''s definitely the simpler one. You guys give the ball to Zed Zed Top here and let him slice teams up like, er... what do you slice?"


    "Life," said Eddie Moore.


    "Sorry what?"


    "Slice of life," he said. "It''s a story genre."


    "Sounds exciting," I said. I drew a 4-2-3-1 formation and spoke faster and more crazily. For once, that was a conscious decision. "Option two is we lean into positional play in a big, big way. Double pivots and inverted full backs. Glenn you''ll bounce passes with the 6 here - " I drew lines between the circles " - and you''ll create this double triangle here but that''s all to draw the oppo into the spaces between us here but these seven passes are all about getting the 6 a free shot at the 8 and then we''re away." The circles were getting lost under the endless stream of lines. "Or we could get into inversion and Eddie in possession you''ll be moving here to be a false 6 and Glenn you''ll slide left and that''ll form a triangle with our nearest DM and it''ll be like a flurry of passes and all you need to remember is someone needs to cover zone 14 so we''ll be doing loads of spatial awareness work, reacting to pressure, and we''ll do phase of play training so we can have multiple build-up strategies. Sandra wants us to have a nine-stage build up but I''ve persuaded her to start with 6 so you''re not overwhelmed." I stopped and managed to keep a straight face even though I''d finished on the phrase ''so you''re not overwhelmed''. Glenn was trying not to look panicked and Steve''s eyes were following the tracks of the lines I''d drawn - an impossible job. "Yeah," I said. "That''s option two."


    I shut up for a minute. Zach opened his mouth but - miraculously - shut it again without speaking.


    "What was option one again?" said Glenn.


    "Pass to Zach."


    "And with that one, the rest of us focus on, like, defending?"


    "Yeah."


    Glenn eyed the American, who lowered his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. My captain said, "I think I''d prefer that one, to be honest." The dislike notice vanished from his profile! My plan worked! It worked like a dream. I nearly did a jig.


    Somehow I kept my reaction contained to the size of a tiny, enigmatic smile. "Oh? Well, that works for me, too. I''ll talk to Sandra and Vimsy about the next few weeks'' training. That''s it. Thanks for coming."


    The three Brits got to their feet but Zach didn''t. "Can I ask a question?"


    No! No you can''t ask a question! I''ve just done an elaborate piece of social engineering for your benefit. Shut your stupid mouth! "Nothing could delight me more, mate."


    "I, er... I don''t like getting my ass whupped, boss." I didn''t hear a question mark, so I waited. He looked at his fellow defenders. "Shoot, forget it. I''m on board. I''ll work harder."


    "Speak up, Zach," said Glenn. "Gaffer doesn''t mind."


    Zach took a sip. If he was trying to take a pause before speaking, then I heartily approved. "Last night was a shambles at times. I want to trust the process but we''re regressing. I know, er... some of that''s my fault." His eyes darted towards the defenders, anxiously, but that moment of self-awareness was the moment Steve Alton lost the dislike message! "But I don''t think we''re gonna do real good if we don''t change something. I''m thinking of the transfer window. Will we be bringing anyone in?"


    "Yeah, I''ve got another left back coming in," I said.


    Eddie Moore spluttered, "But! But!" I tilted my head, causing Glenn and Steve to laugh. They knew my sense of humour better than most. "Oh, very funny," said Eddie. He didn''t think his place in the first team was under threat from the two Exit Triallists, but they were obviously going to cut into his minutes, as was Lucas Friend. He understood my reasoning for that but bringing in another left back would have been a slap in his face.


    I went to the window and looked out, then went over to a magnetic wall chart I''d put up. It was pretty rudimentary but it showed the options we had in different positions. I had 900 pounds remaining a week in my basic budget, and I had the option of burning my reserves - at the cost of potentially delaying our new training ground. "We could bring in one more player now or wait till January. What would you do?"


    Zach stood and strode to my board. He pointed at three different spots. "I''d bring in a creative midfielder, a right-mid who can cross, and a striker who can hold the ball up." Talk about a win-now manager!


    Glenn pulled him away. "I''d leave it to you, boss."


    Zach looked a bit dismayed, like he''d put his foot in it again, but to be honest I was impressed by his analysis of the squad. Judging Player Ability - high. Judging Player Potential - low. "Good news, Zach. We''ve got all those things. The striker... that''s up to me to fix, I reckon. The other guys need time but they''ll come good." I smiled and put the Zach magnet back on the board. The irony of my squad was that three of the guys with the lowest PA limits were in the room. Steve had 53, Glenn 54, and Eddie 75, but no-one thought of them as a problem. I jabbed my finger at the collection of names. "That is the most talented National League squad of all time. Couple of whuppins are a small price to pay to get that group in one place. If I had infinite money I would maybe get one more experienced guy, but basically that is great. I love that squad. I''m proud of what we''re going to accomplish together. Maybe I''ll print out a big sign that says ''THIS IS A WINNING SEASON'' and we all have to touch it every time we go in the dressing room. What do you think?"


    "Is that a reference?" said Steve Alton.


    "Zach, tell him."


    "Gee, boss. I don''t know," he lied.


    I blinked. "It''s from Ted Lasso. He puts a big sign up that says BELIEVE."


    "Ted Lasso?" said Zach, shaking his head. "Don''t watch it. Way too American."


    As we all laughed, Eddie Moore''s dislike of Zach vanished from his profile.


    ***


    I watched training for ten minutes - the energy was absolutely outstanding and numbers were going up. Sandra had been gently mocking me for my manic post-WibRob energy but she understood it better, now. New rules for life. One, you don''t train you don''t play. Two, no dickheads.


    And the results? Green, green, green. Number goes up.


    Deeply, deeply satisfied, I went back inside BoshCard HQ so that the lads would think I was watching from my office window and snuck out into town to buy myself some swag. My bank balance had reached ten thousand pounds. I could afford to splash out!


    I spent a kind of reprehensible five hundred pounds on a pair of AirPods Max. These were stupidly heavy headphones that instantly connected to my iPhone. Footballers loved them and I was a footballer. Also - it said Max on it. There was an option to change the name so I went with MaxPods Max.


    I treated myself to some new clothes and trainers and spent twenty minutes trying on new sunglasses while a woman said everything looked good on me. I''d have preferred it if she said eight out of ten made me look rancid. In the end I pretended to get a message and left. On a whim I bought some tartlets and left them in Ruth''s fridge.


    Then I went for my usual jog, though the timing was a few hours off. It didn''t really matter if Clive wasn''t at home - I actually liked it when he was out. Busy people are happy people, right?


    I paid full attention going past the horses in case one of them decided to kick my head into the next postcode. I crossed onto the Old Trail, and fell into my ''deep thought'' cadence.


    With the transfer deadline looming, clubs were doing all sorts of deals. It wasn''t just managers flailing around trying to pick up good players, either. Some managers who''d had bad starts had been sacked. The idea, I supposed, was that there were quite a few managers out of work and if you were going to sack your manager you might as well do it early so you could cherry pick from the best ones available.


    The name Ian Evans appeared on my screens for the first time in many, many months. He''d come out of retirement - again - to manage Ross County in Scotland.


    I searched and found David Cutter had been taken on by Tonbridge Angels in the National League South. Folke Wester was somehow still at Darlington. Their season had got off to a flyer.


    There were interesting deals and crazy ones. Guys going for way too much and surprisingly little.


    One thing I always looked out for was the Saudi Pro League. There was that one transfer window where they had bought anything that wasn''t nailed down, but then the one after they bought literally no-one. I''d learned that the SPL teams had a hard limit on how many foreigners they could use, so the team that bought Raffi had used him a few times, bought another player, and deregistered Raffi. He hadn''t played for half a year as a result. Now, it seemed he was registered again, because a few players had decided they didn''t like living in a repressive totalitarian regime - shocker - and had left. Bad for the league, good for Raffi. Most analysts agreed, though, that the SPL was here to stay, and I was perhaps more anxious than most to see when they would start their next round of big-money signings.


    If they offered me ten million for WibRob...


    I knocked on Clive''s door and checked my phone - the time had absolutely flown by! I needed to be careful with how I trained. There were times when I wished I had higher stamina, but not at the expense of technique. I could serve the team best as a twenty-minute impact sub than being a workhorse.


    The door opened and Clive smiled with surprise. He backed away and I went inside. Normally, Clive spent most of his time on his sofa. As far as I could tell, he often just sat there doing nothing. Today, though, he was in his kitchen diner. He''d set up a table - there wasn''t enough space, really - and was playing cards. Okay!


    "How you doing, Clive?"


    "Mustn''t grumble," he said. "Nice day, isn''t it? You''re looking well."


    "I''m feeling pretty fucking great, tbh." It always took him a few seconds to parse these phrases. He had learned OMG and LOL from his daughter, but TBH, IYKYK, and NBD weren''t in his active vocabulary.


    While he thought about what I''d said, I went to the kitchen sink and checked his electricity meter. I fucking hated the bastard thing and wished I could do something to help Clive live somewhere he was treated with basic human dignity and not like a lab rat.


    His toilet flushed, there were various watery noises, and into the kitchen area emerged Pascal. "Max," he said.


    My spirits sagged. I didn''t have the energy for his Bad Boy bullshit. He had been training and improving but I hadn''t spoken to him directly since that time outside the dressing room. "What are you playing?" I asked Clive.


    He smiled. "Schwimmen," he said. "You get three lives. We use pennies for lives. See, I''ve got one left and Pascal has two. When you lose your third life, you''re said to be ''swimming''. It''s your last chance. Would you like to join us?"


    "No, thanks. I''ve always got time for some strip poker, though."


    "Max," he said, settling down into his seat. He picked up some cards.


    "Maybe he would prefer to play Kuhreiter instead," said Pascal, which seemed to be one of his trademark new pieces of spite, but judging by Clive''s reaction it was harmless enough.


    "All right, well, you''ve got company. I''ll be off."


    Clive stared at his cards, then at me. "Bad result last night."


    "Yeah, we''re shit. Seeya."


    "Max," he said, softly enough to make me stop. "I went last night. I was hoping to see Pascal."


    "Sorry to hear that."


    "I can''t understand it. He told me you got mad at Henri for not training well."


    I gave Pascal a look so savage he was rocked back. He showed his palms. "That''s true."


    His stupid dyed hair was making my eyes itch and I had the sudden thought that in a fight I could use my cast like a shield. "I''m doing a podcast tonight. Would you like me to tell everyone what goes on in our dressing room? Is that what we do now?"


    "I didn''t tell everyone. I told Clive."


    Our tone was making Clive stressed - the exact opposite of the purpose of my visit. For his sake, I let all the rancour leave me and I put on a big friendly smile. "Well, Clive''s practically family, isn''t he? So that''s all right."


    I turned and put my fingers around the door handle, but Clive was unusually determined to finish a thread. It seemed like some kind of progress for him and obviously I wanted to play my part. He said, "Pascal has been training well, don''t you think?"


    "He''s definitely been the best trainer this season. He''s almost our most capable player, now."


    "Who''s ahead of me?" said Pascal.


    "You''re level with Aff and you''re just behind Carl." I was careful not to look at him but I knew he was emitting a bright, golden glow.


    "It sounds like he could do a job for the team," said Clive.


    "He could," I said. "He could finish the season as the best player in this league. He''d be Young Player of the Season. He''d get noticed. His career would explode. He''s motivated for that, but not quite motivated enough."


    "What do you mean?"


    "We''ve got a bit of a Cole Sheringham situation on our hands." I sat down in Pascal''s spot and looked through his cards. Only making eye contact with Clive, I said, "Do you remember Andy Cole and Teddy Sheringham?"


    "Course I do, yeah. Sheringham was playing for England and was annoyed at being subbed off so he didn''t acknowledge Cole, who was replacing him. It was Cole''s England debut and he felt Sheringham humiliated him."


    "Right. Petty, petty shit. They ended up at Man United together and never spoke. Never, ever spoke. They didn''t let it affect them on the pitch but I always hated that story. It tarnished everything from that era. You watch clips of Sheringham pass to Cole, who scores, but how can you enjoy that goal knowing they hate each other? No, that stuck with me. I won''t have it. I''m not having it."


    "Is Pascal Cole or Sheringham?"


    "Pascal is Sheringham. He''s the one starting the beef."


    Pascal said, "Those are two different pairs of shoes." Whatever he meant, I ignored him.


    Clive frowned. "So who is Andy Cole?"


    "Cole is me. Cole is the team. Cole is Chester Football Club. Cole is everyone who isn''t Pascal."


    "That''s not true!"


    I picked out three cards, and placed the others to the side, face down. In a space on the table, I put down a queen. "There''s a football manager and it''s the FA Cup final tomorrow. She''s got to make a decision about who plays." I put down a King and a Jack. "She''s a win-now manager, Clive. She''s not messing about. She picks the King. There isn''t a single football fan in the world who would blame her." I picked up the Jack and stared at it, my face hardening. "Sheringham didn''t do much to Andy Cole, but it was something." I flipped the card around so it was facing Clive. "This guy''s lashing out for absolutely nothing. I never thought he was too small to play for me until now."


    "No," snapped Pascal. "My private life is none of your affair."


    "You get three lives in this game. Did I understand that right? One penny per life." I slid three pennies towards me. "In my version of the game, you lose a life when you laugh at a team mate." I plucked a penny off the table. "When you throw your hands in the air on the pitch." Another penny. "When you talk shit about him behind his back." The last coin. "No lives left. You''re swimming."


    I jogged home in record time.


    ***


    Extract from Deva Station, the newest and Bluest Chester fan media channel. By real fans, for real fans, with mild swearing.


    [Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]


    J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I''m your host, J.


    Smakk: And I''m your other host, Smakk.


    J: That''s Chester firm legend, bad boy turned good, Smakk with two Ks if you want to follow him on the socials. We''re on all the usual places with the username Devastation. With us in the studio today are two super special guests. The one, the only -


    Max: Hang on. Let us introduce ourselves. Me first. The name''s Best. Max Best. Okay, you go.


    Pond: I''m James Pond.


    Max: Seriously, am I the only one who -


    J: For anyone who doesn''t know, that''s Chester Director of Football and men''s team manager, Max Best. Obvs. And the other voice was James Pond, one of this years'' board members.


    Max: Vaguely frustrating.


    J: Max, we normally ask to have you on about once a month and you always turn us down, which we get! You''re busy. But this time you approached us. Why''s that?


    Max: Last time we did the fan''s forum thing was just after the transfer window and that turned into a disaster. I thought, let''s do something before. You said you''d already booked James Pond, the man with the golden gunnel, and I was like, yes, perfect, amazing, let''s do that.


    Smakk: Because he''s a board member?


    Max: Yes. They''re supposed to represent you, right, so what better than to talk to them and you at the same time? Okay but let''s crack on.


    J: We don''t have any questions about the women''s team because their season hasn''t really started. Are you going to yell at us?


    Max: No.


    J: The men''s team, then. We''d rate it as three decent performances out of six. Are you happy with our start?


    Max: On a, like, cosmic timescale, no. The aim for this club is to be amazing five matches out of six at least. But under the very specific constraints of this particular season, ah... also no. [laughs]


    J: What aren''t you happy about?


    Max: A couple of issues have set us back. We are very much on track now, but the start hasn''t been quite what I wanted. How are you guys feeling?


    Smakk: Don''t you listen, Max?


    Max: Should I lie, should I lie? I do... not. Your first section is discussing the lineups and you do six minutes about why Andrew Harrison isn''t starting and I''m punching holes in my wall screaming ''He''s out on loan! He''s out on loan!'' I think the concept of your pod can be summarised as ''We try to understand what Max Best is doing'' and therefore, I''m not your target demographic. My girlfriend listens so she can sue you. She tells me if there was a good bit.


    J: Why''s Andrew out on loan?


    Max: He needs minutes and I made that deal when we had approximately six hundred midfielders.


    Pond: Was that decision a mistake?


    Max: At the time, no.


    Pond: Why don''t you recall him?


    Max: I''ll only recall players if they are being mistreated. As far as I''m concerned, I made a deal and I made that deal in Chester''s name. Do you want me breaking promises left and right? Trashing your good name? No, he''s playing there in Manchester and he''s getting way more minutes than he would get here, even now. It''s good for him. You two, when you''re talking about the players who are out on loan - they''re out and they''re not coming back until the specified time.


    Pond: What circumstances would count as mistreatment?


    Max: Bullying. Racism. Exclusion. I think when I send a seventeen-year-old out to a tier eight team there''s an expectation of a certain amount of toughening up. Bit of old-school shock therapy which doesn''t really apply I suppose because the first team have been playing on sloping pitches with portacabins for changing rooms and that sort of thing. It''s not really an eye-opener for our lads, going to lower leagues. But, you know, as our facilities improve and we get new twelve-year-olds coming in, they''ll only know the higher level stuff and yeah, going to see what lots of football is really like can be a shock and, if done right, beneficial. I can imagine a world where one of the teams we lend a player to runs out of money and our kid has to muck in. Wash his own kit, help around the stadium, I don''t know what. Basically I think if I were there, would I do it? For a struggling team I think there''s a lot I''d do to make sure there was a game on Saturday. Bit of character-building while they''re learning football. Absolutely. But bully my kid I will absolutely ruin you and the Brig will do worse.


    J: Seven points from a possible eighteen. One goal from four games without you on the pitch. Grimsby, Barnet, Solihull, Oldham, Altrincham, all pulling away already. One question - when are you back?


    Max: I''m going to get another scan on Saturday morning to see if this little crack has healed. Now, I can just imagine my head physio bursting into tears if I say I want to play at 3 p.m. so I might skip that match just because there''s a week until, I think it''s Aldershot, so that''s another week of healing and he really can''t complain about that. Aldershot will be fun because the Brig''s got loads of army mates there. But you didn''t tell me. How are you guys feeling?


    Smakk: I''ll go. I''m lovin'' it, Max.


    Max: You are?


    Smakk: Everything''s just bigger, isn''t it? Bigger attendances, harder matches. Hartlepool away is a great trip. I look at the upcoming fixtures and most of them are bangers.


    Me: You don''t worry that we''re stinking the place up?


    Smakk: You get some slack, in my eyes. Okay, the team''s a bit raw, everyone can see that. There''s players we look at and suck our teeth in, like. Not sure about him, like. But with you in the team it all works and we''ll be all right. Without you, it''s a bit of a deflated souffl¨¦, isn''t it?


    J: Is Bake Off back on already? He''s mad about cakes, him. Supposed to be a big tough guy. So last night was a shocker. It was really bad, Max, but Grimsby was so good. There''s some of the new players I don''t rate but some I think look mint and you''ve asked us for patience and I think most of us can swallow a few bad results. We''ll follow you where you go.


    Max: Wow! That''s motivational. Who don''t you rate?


    J: Hayward.


    Max: He''s mint. I wanted to ease him into the team. It''s not his fault he''s playing so much. The thing with him, right, is that he always gets to the same point at a club. He shows some promise, shows his speed, he''s clearly got ability, but people lose patience with him and that''s that. Onto the next team. What''s going to shock him about me is that I''m not going to give up on him. No-one''s ever believed in him as hard as me and I''m never, ever going to stop pushing him and stop working with him and stop demanding he works harder and sharper and more and better. There''s going to be a day where we''re so far past the point that everyone else would have given up on him but I''m still there, his teammates are still there, his coaches are still there, that it''s going to be easier and less hassle for him to get good than to deal with my relentless fucking positivity. He''s mint whether he likes it or not! Are you listening, Wes? I''m coming for you! Let''s go, mate!


    Smakk: I want to run through a wall!


    J: Come on you Seals!


    Smakk: [headbutts his microphone]


    Max: It''d be better all round if the fans got behind him and stayed there but I''m not going to die on that hill. It''s pick your battles week in the Max Best household! Just understand that Wes Hayward is a baller and if you slag him off you''re going to look like a dick. Is he raw? Yeah. That''s fair criticism, but that''s not his fault. He hasn''t been coached properly and we''ve only had him for a few weeks. He''s a great signing. You''ll see.


    Smakk: I want a Hayward 15 top!


    J: Cole Adams gave away two goals last night. He doesn''t look right to me. He runs funny.


    Max: [laughs] He runs funny? Like Borat? I don''t know if my girlfriend owns your house yet, but if she doesn''t you can bet it on Cole being a success.


    J: I''ve transferred ownership of my house into a shell company. She can''t get at it.


    Max: [laughs]


    Smakk: What was that at the end of the match last night?


    Max: What was what?


    Smakk: You told Cole Adams off on the pitch.


    Max: Told off? What for? He made one minor technical mistake that led to a butterfly effect. I was showing him what I wanted him to do.


    Pond: It would seem proper to do it in training and not in public. He must have felt humiliated.


    Max: He got instant feedback and he had three hours on the team bus to think about it. He was in training today, light session, and he was practising what I told him. There''s no need for him to practise, in a way, because he''s got the technique to do what I want. The issue is having the confidence to do it and him trusting that I mean it when I say do it my way. If he messes up doing it my way, it''s one in a thousand that we''ll concede a goal from it. If he does what he did, mistakes are like a one in ten chance of a goal. So seriously, let''s do it my way! But it takes time to process that. That''s why I addressed it right away. Also I was hyper and it helped me burn some nervous energy. There are times I''m so excited about this team I want to explode.


    J: Personally I loved seeing you get stuck in with that level of detail, but yeah, maybe don''t do it on the pitch in front of the Hartlepool fans.


    Max: Um... no. I''ll do it whenever. You''re worried about Wrexham fans laughing at us. I''m not. Cole wants to become a better player and I want that, too. We don''t give a shit about anything else.


    J: How active are we going to be in the rest of the transfer market? At the time of recording this we''ve got five days left.


    Max: No-one else is leaving, unless we get an offer we literally can''t turn down from you-know-where.


    J: [nervous laughter]


    Max: Maybe we''ll get one more player in but I''m hoping to avoid that because we already took in a lot of new faces and that''s caused more problems than I anticipated. We need some time to be together and gel and to mould what we''ve got. We can ride out this bad patch, see what the team really needs, and have some funds in January.


    Pond: Can I ask about the decision to sell Sam?


    Max: Sure.


    Pond: Why did we sell him when the midfield is so weak and how did we arrive at seventy-five thousand as a proper valuation?


    Max: The valuation is based on supply and demand. Tranmere wanted him but there are similar players on the market.


    Pond: I understand they came in with a low offer at first and you somehow persuaded them to pay more.


    Max: Yeah I have a good relationship with Tranmere, as everyone knows. I wasn''t interested in haggling over every penny for days until five minutes to eleven on deadline day. Let''s skip to the part where we get a fair offer and let Sam decide if he wants to move. As for why we sold him, it''s because that''s what we do here. We train players up and sell them. That''s the model. Tranmere got a good player, Sam''s got a big move, we got a fair fee for the work we put into him. It''s literally win-win-win. I understand that it''s shit losing loads of matches in August and September but you''ve got to think long-term. When I came here the club was living day to day and now we''re being very strategic. I''ll admit I might have gone slightly too long-term this summer but selling Sam and bringing James Wise in to replace him is good business.


    J: Sam was very popular, though. He''s a loss in the dressing room, isn''t he?


    Max: Oh, it''s a terrible move from those sorts of aspects. He was passing on some of his wisdom to the kids and the women''s team and he was showing a lot of what I call Chesterness. I don''t know what contract he got at Tranmere but it''s probably double what we were paying him and in the end he has to provide for his family and every player at the club wants to move up the pyramid and play in front of big crowds and now they see the pathway is very much open. It''s sad but happy at the same time.


    Pond: Why have Henri Lyons and Pascal Bochum not featured in the team?


    Max: I got all the British lads together and we voted 52% to kick them out. It was a non-binding decision but I decided to follow it through to the bitter end even if that was insanely self-destructive.


    Smakk: Let''s not start that again.


    Max: Henri has a bad back. And Pascal has a bad... back.


    Pond: It''s curious but I get the impression you aren''t being wholly truthful.


    Max: Okay.


    Pond: Going back to the Sam deal, it seems you think James Wise is a replacement of equal value.


    Max: He will be. He''ll get close this season, I reckon. They''re slightly different players but I think Wisey can get to Sam''s overall levels.


    Pond: It''s quite a business model to buy low, sell high. If only it were repeatable.


    Max: It''s repeatable.


    Pond: You''ve never told the world how you find new players.


    Max: I use an AI computer that I acquired from a nuclear submarine that crashed. The AI didn''t like its former programming so I asked if it could find me a box-to-box midfielder and it said yes and now it just spits out squad suggestions every three minutes and tells me to buy Tom Hickman. The buy low sell high model only has one flaw - there will always be a dip in quality while you wait for the new player to catch up to the levels of the last one. Managing that dip is going to be a big challenge for me and I think it''s obvious I''ve not quite nailed it this summer. Losing a home match without really entertaining the fans was not how I wanted this to go.


    Pond: I note you''re evading the question again. So tell us how we found, ah, Sticky.


    Max: Free agents call us in the summer pimping themselves out. Which is fine, actually. I love the hustle. Sticky was one of those and he''s great.


    Pond: He''s expensive.


    Max: Another way to look at it is that he''s cheap. It''s an interesting story, actually, because I only recently learned something Sticky didn''t tell me at the interview. We went to the Exit Trials and picked up five players and helped to find spots for a few others. The organisers were pretty blown away because normally there''s only three or four kids who get picked up. They''ve been sort of evangelical about us, which was a nice unexpected side effect, and because we signed a young goalie we got mentioned on this Goalkeeper''s Union WhatsApp group and that''s why Sticky thought to give us a chance.


    J: That''s cool.


    Max: It is cool! Sometimes I feel like it''s me against the world and it''s just such a relief to hear that there are good people in the industry. There are plenty of villains and I bump into them often enough and they try to land digs on us when they can. I mean, one agent, I wouldn''t call him a villain - he actually cares about his clients - but there was a misunderstanding and it sort of blew up and -


    J: You okay, Max?


    Max: Yeah. I just realised I accidentally created a Cole Sheringham feud. Shit. It''s probably too late but maybe I should talk to him.


    J: Don''t look to us for advice - this whole podcast was started out of spite.


    Max: I heard that episode! I understand why you left the old show, J. Some people just want to be unhappy. My mate TJ, the Crawley manager, says there''s a fan who used to scream at him when he picked this one striker. Get him off, he''s rubbish! You don''t know what you''re doing! Now that striker''s the top scorer and when he scores the whole stadium erupts and there''s limbs everywhere but you''ll find one guy who''s sitting with his arms folded. He won''t even celebrate the goals! I just don''t have the patience for people like that. I don''t want you to get like that with Wes and Cole and the others.


    Pond: I understand you are a Manchester United fan.


    Max: I''m more of a Max Best fan these days.


    Pond: Quite. But there''s an interesting story developing at United. For a long time the owners didn''t put money into the club and it stagnated, to say the least. Now the new billionaire owner is investing. There''s talk of a new stadium - the Wembley of the north. Professionals are being hired to fill positions. The club will be modernised and professionalised. The academy will be restored to being the best in the land.


    Max: Okay.


    Pond: I just find what we do here baffling. Virtually every decision flows through you and there''s very little oversight. The youth teams are clearly doing better than before and you have created a pathway to the first team but everything is ad hoc. When I ask Spectrum for paperwork or documents he says it''s all in your head. That''s not professional. We should be aiming to move to an academy model. Paperwork, documents, tracking the progress of the young players through the age groups. We don''t even collect physical data. I like to think of myself as a methodical and thorough person and this football club is too important to run in anything other than a methodical and thorough way.


    Max: Yeah, those academies are mostly shit. J, do you know what the E triple P is?


    J: No.


    Max: Elite player performance plan. Remember England got smashed by Germany? There was a big panic about why our academies weren''t producing technical players so they copied bits of the French model, the German model, and created the E triple P. If you''re the England national team the results are good. If you''re a big club, the results are incredible. If you''re a small club with an academy, you got shafted, big time. Now, apart from the fact that I wouldn''t want one of my players to go to a big club because they''ll be chewed up and spat out, almost literally, the compensation for those players is pitiful. They can take our best twelve year olds for, like, three thousand pounds. It''s beyond a joke. One thing the Premier League clubs aren''t short of is money, but they''ve designed a system where they can hoover up the nation''s talent without paying compensation. It''s sick and it keeps me up at night. If they want to give me a million pounds for Simon Black I''ll probably take it because at those levels of spending you''d imagine they would actually look after the lad, right? Someone''s signed off on a big fee so that person is going to be highly motivated to make sure he''s a success. Three thousand pounds? What does it matter if he rots? The other thing is if we get a million and it doesn''t work out for the lad, we''ll take him back and he''ll be a hero. He bought us a new training pitch! If he goes for three grand against my advice then he''s not coming back so the one place in the country that would actually take proper care of him is the one place he won''t be welcome. Yeah, guys, you can''t believe how much time I spend fretting about the youth players. We don''t need to measure their craniums or whatever, we need to make sure they''re learning and having fun and that they hear the horror stories from the kids we''re rescuing from academies and that they hear the positive stories from our kids who made it from the youth system into the first team.


    Pond: I''m honestly glad to hear you have thought it through so much but it''s a big problem for us that everything''s in your head. What if you quit? What if you, ah, have a bad back? There are reasons to have processes and it''s not only about entangling you with red tape. It''s about planning for the post-Max Best era.


    Max: That''s fair but the Max Best era is just starting. I do want to set up some kind of academy structure but it won''t be in the E triple P system. It will be some kind of bespoke, hand-made alternative that''s not linked to the wider system but yeah, we can borrow some of the best practices. There''s no need to measure kids, though, unless you need an excuse to cut half of them every season. I don''t think cutting a kid because he''s only going to be as tall as Maradona is a sign of professionalism because you know who was as tall as Maradona?


    Smakk: Maradona.


    Max: That''s right.


    Pond: From what I understand, once we get to League Two we will be subject to the rules governing E triple P because the club will receive solidarity payments from the Premier League. It''s in the region of half a million pounds per year. In addition, there''s something like eight hundred thousand a year in TV revenue. The rewards for going up are substantial and I worry that we''re not even going to be in a position to reach the playoffs.


    Max: We''ll make the playoffs for sure.


    Pond: It''s hard to be so optimistic after seeing the performance last night.


    Max: James, it''s easy to doubt and worry and complain but what do you want me to do differently? I''m on a limited budget and I''ve used that to assemble a team that will get better and better.


    Pond: My solution is to give you a bigger budget.


    J: How? MD won''t put the club at risk, which is annoying but it''s also correct.


    Smakk: Yeah, I do back him on that, to be fair.


    Pond: What if Max could have a bigger budget, we could buy and rebuild the stadium, and we could set up a proper academy with good training facilities?


    J: Did you win the Euromillions, mate?


    Max: If you talk about selling the club I''m leaving and you and I will never speak again.


    Pond: I''m a Chester fan. I know what happened in the past. I''m talking about selling, say, forty percent of the club. We get a big cash injection and help with everything we want to achieve. The stadium, the facilities, a real striker. The investor is repaid when we reach League Two, plus from player sales. We can go to someone and say, look at the money from Raffi, look at Sam, look at the talent we''ve got. It would be an easy sell. It''s clear that we can''t compete at this level as a wholly fan-owned club and some investment is needed.


    J: Forty percent? It doesn''t sound too bad.


    Max: The idea is logical in an abstract sense. On someone''s spreadsheet it''s an elegant solution. The problem with it is that you seem to think I would work eighteen-hour days to make a rich dude richer. That''s true if the rich dude is called Max Best, but otherwise, no thanks. The model of finding undervalued players and selling them for a profit, let''s call it the Max Best model, doesn''t work without Max Best. I have no doubt you can find someone willing to get rich off the back of my work, but you''ll find I quit the minute a single share is sold.


    Pond: Well, that would seem to be a great shame.


    J: Max, are you saying that if the fans voted to sell a stake -


    Pond: A minority stake.


    J: Then you''d walk out?


    Max: It''s your club, J, you can do what you want. I don''t get a vote and I don''t even want a vote. I''m working flat-out to make this the number one fan-owned club in the country. I want other phoenix clubs to say, well, if we''re patient and clever we can have the same amount of success. Do you get me? That''s my drive. If you sell out I''ll go and get fifty grand a week to play for Watford and switch my brain off. I''ll have a nice life without having to look over my shoulder all the time. Let me get my phone. I''ve got a screenshot of a Wikipedia page. I read it every time MD says I can''t have more money. Here we go. Chester City Football Club was an association football team from Chester, England, that played in a variety of leagues between 1885 and 2010. I don''t want to be part of a past-tense football club page, guys. If you want to go down that road, you''ll do it without me. As soon as you sell a single share I''m out and the next twenty years I''ll break out in a cold sweat every time I see the name Chester in a headline. Chester sold to convicted criminal. Chester sold to shell company owned by convicted criminal with links to far-right nationalists. Chester sold to hedge fund. Chester sells stadium to itself. Chester sells itself to itself. Chester relegated after new owner places huge bet that Chester will be relegated. I see you''re not laughing because you know that story. That''ll be you, but it won''t be me. I''m building something incredible here and if a couple of defeats are enough to make you flash your knickers at any silver-tongued b-boy who comes along then what am I even doing here?


    J: Max, calm down! There''s no question of us selling.


    Max: You elected a guy to the board who wants to sell! He''s sat right there!


    Pond: This is not mature. I merely want us to explore all avenues.


    J: I think we need to discuss this as a fanbase.


    Max: [into his phone] Hello? Is that Watford? I hear you''re looking for a mystery winger.


    J: Come on.


    Max: I merely want to explore all avenues.


    [The harsh scratching sounds of someone picking up a piece of recording equipment and looking for the off button.]


    ***


    Thursday, August 29


    I intercepted Henri in the dressing room and stopped him getting changed. "Come with me," I said. He followed me out to the car park. His morale was very poor and his CA was stuck on 57, as it had been since the start of the season.


    We got to a nice Volvo and I opened the passenger door for him. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, sulkily. "To Tranmere Rovers? To Crawley Town? Fobbing me off on some other poor manager who must suffer the indignity of having Henri Lyons in his squad?"


    I took his kit bag and threw it in the back seat, then followed it. I belted up in the seat on the right and closed the door. If we crashed, would my cast act like a steel girder that would crack the passenger''s skull open? Henri bent to look at me, squinted, and decided to get in.


    No sooner had he clicked his seatbelt into place than the Brig slid into the driver''s seat and we rolled away.


    There was quiet for a while. Finally, the Brig wanted to talk about the podcast. J knew he''d struck gold and had edited and released it with incredible speed. "Sir, if I may say, you were riled up fairly easily."


    "I know. I had a shit day."


    "Hmm. Pond does seem to want to provoke you. But is his idea really so bad?"


    "No," said Henri.


    "Yes," I said. "Look, I feel like I''ve explained myself a million times over and I''m not in the mood this morning. I can''t keep having these fights all the time. It''s hard enough running a team without external shit, too."


    "Sir, you said one pertinent thing in the interview. You mentioned allies. You seemed surprised that you had some. You have more than you think. Before you do anything rash that will adversely affect the Exit Triallists and the other players, would you please consult with us so that we can help you?"


    I mean, when you put it like that... "Yeah, course. Let''s get Overprepared Grandmother locked and loaded."


    "You laugh, sir, but she has tremendous organisational skills and as your favourite political party knows all too well, old people always turn out to vote. For you, this is yet another battle, one fight too far. I do understand that, sir. So let us fight it for you."


    "Who''s us?"


    "Me, Ruth, Emma, Brooke, MD, Boggy, Sandra, Vimsy, Jackie, Dean, Barnesy, Sumo, Bulldog, Nice One, Smasho, Jill."


    "Henri," said Henri.


    The Brig coughed to indicate he didn''t think much of the suggestion.


    "If you''re trying to cheer me up, Brig... you''ve succeeded. But it might be there''s nothing we can do. It depends who''s behind this investor idea." My thoughts, as you can probably guess, instantly turned to Old Nick. But why? I was earning XP for him. If he thought he was helping me by getting me more resources, the imps would have set him straight. "Unless he started it last season and it''s taken this long to come to fruition."


    "Who?"


    "Whoever''s doing this," I said. "It can''t be Pond. The timing is diabolical. It''s the one time in years we''ll lose most of our games." I ran my hand through my hair. "I did some calculations and I reckon it''ll take eight weeks for us to get to National League level. And what''s worse, the more we struggle on the pitch the more people will be attracted to the idea of getting some outside money to compete. You know what people are like. They lose their nerve."


    Henri had been listening like a child, looking from the Brig to me with big, round eyes. "You have to tell them a story," he said.


    "I don''t have to do shit," I snapped. "It''s their club. They''re allowed to fuck it up if they want. Same as you''re allowed to fuck up your career."


    Henri''s childlike face morphed into something more like the last one I''d seen on Pascal. But just then, we turned onto a long road with only one barn-shaped building. It was surrounding by fencing, razor wire, those jagged bits of stuff to stop people climbing on the roof, and every angle was covered by multiple CCTV cameras. "Where are we going?" whined Henri.


    We pulled into a road, paused while a uniformed man and his dog took a look at us, then drove into the prison. The Brig parked but before he turned the engine off, he eyed Henri and said, "No sudden movements."


    We got out - one of us much more slowly than the others - and Henri grabbed himself like he was wearing a straitjacket. Around were very serious-looking men dressed quite like police. We heard a peep and Henri relaxed. "Prison football! We''re going to do something with that. I see, Max. I see. We will sort out your problems the only way we know how - by gatecrashing a match and finding a pearl among swine. Ah! I was worried for a moment."


    I shook my head. "No, Henri. We''re not here to watch football. You''re right, though. We are here to fix your problems."


    "But Maaaax," whined Henri. A second-floor window slid open and he whimpered.


    The Brig stopped and turned to face him. "Mr. Lyons, surviving prison is easy. If you get into trouble, pick the biggest, meanest looking fellow and headbutt him."


    I smiled. "Henri, don''t worry about what''s inside. The Brig will keep me safe."


    As the Brig and I strode towards the entrance, we had to avoid looking at each other or we would have burst out laughing. Thorn Cross was a Category D prison - no violence - and the only fight that would take place inside would be one between competing timelines. A future where Henri played for Chester... and one where he didn''t.

 8.11 - The Max Best Players

    11.


    We went through the various formalities of entering a prison - I let the Brig talk to people and sign things - and we were escorted through various doors. Some that were opened remotely, some with an ID badge carried by a prison guard, and some that were simply fire doors that could be pushed open.


    The final door led us into a wooden-floored room that might have been intended as a badminton court but was now a plain rectangle with a raised platform at one side. You could imagine fifty prisoners getting together to receive some information, or enjoying a very small concert, or watching the World Cup final on a big screen.


    There weren''t currently enough seats for that, though. There were just five. One for me - off to the right. Another for Henri - dead centre. The Brig was to Henri''s left, angled slightly away from the stage so he could keep an eye out for anyone who might wish to do me harm. Finally, two guards had decided to come into work early to watch. One of them leaked the story of what transpired in that room to ChunksTV, the so-called Chester fan who had got some traction with his instant reaction videos and hot takes, but it didn''t bother me much. It all added to the ''He''s done WHAT?!'' legend.


    So that was the scene - five men spread out in a large room. What of the mood?


    I was fairly nervous. The Brig was wryly amused. The guards were ready for anything.


    As soon as he''d taken his seat, Henri''s demeanour had transformed. He''d gone from squealing man-baby to ''guy who has accidentally stumbled upon the location of Tom Cruise filming a stunt for his next film''. Like, you can''t believe you''re really about to see it, but there are cameras and motorbikes and Tom Cruise is being covered in gasoline and there''s a guy with a flamethrower and you are right there! You are right there!


    "Max," he said.


    "No talking," I said. "Don''t be rude." I crossed my legs and leaned back, but the chair was crazily uncomfortable. The prison was the best in the country by any metric, but it was still a prison. If the Daily Mail found out the inmates were treated well, there would be absolute fury and questions would be asked in parliament. I nearly whipped my phone out to text Beth a snarky comment, but decided to wait till I was on her podcast.


    A face appeared to the right of the stage and immediately vanished. Two more faces appeared - I had the brief sensation of bulging, disbelieving eyes - and they, too, were gone before my brain had truly processed the image.


    I knew Henri was bursting with anticipation. In his shoes, I''d have been bouncing off the walls waiting for kick off.


    He didn''t have too long to wait.


    ***


    The lights dimmed a fraction. It would have been good if they''d gone out except on the stage, but, you know, prison. Daylight continued to stream in from the high windows. Distant thumps and yells spoke of the thousand people outside these walls but within other walls. I tried not to think about it.


    A guy came out. He was a large dude, not bad looking, though I didn''t like the way he''d sculpted his beard. I knew a local barber who would sort him out. Now, I don''t want to minimise his importance and value as an individual, but this is going to get really complicated if I throw in too many names, so I''m going to call him - and the others - by their character names. To avoid the erroneous impression that dozens of people were involved - no. There were three.


    QP: [Looking around, irritated.] Blast! Where are those blasted agents?


    Henri reacted as though hit by lightning. His entire body stiffened and I genuinely thought he might topple sideways.


    QP: [Checking his watch.] Blast! Late again, the scoundrels! Don''t they realise how important this mission is?


    Henri softened and was drawn towards the scene.


    QP: [Paces left and right for a few seconds.] Don''t they realise it''s the year 3000?


    Henri gasped, glanced at me - I pretended not to notice - and leaned forwards with his fingers cradling his chin.


    QP: Oh, I hear them now. [Knock knock.] Yes, come in!


    Two new actors came in, The first one was quite short and thin. He looked like he knew his way around a knife. He was wearing a huge Elvis wig that the Brig had procured. The other guy was tall and ginger and looked like he''d done a minor white collar crime.


    QP: Blast it, boys, where have you been?


    Horny: [In a shocking French accent.] I haf been looking for a spot with good phone signal. Ze coverage is terrible round here!


    M: [In a shocking Manc accent.] Ee''s bin windin'' me up summat rotten, ee ''as. Some secret agent, ee is! Asking the guards how many bars they''ve got!


    Horny: Per''aps if Max could stop killing them before they hanswer, we wouldn''t need so much time.


    M: We''ve got a time machine!


    Horny: No, it''s portals.


    M: Same difference.


    QP: Would you please stop your bickering for just one moment? We''re very close to completing our mission.


    M: It''s been so long since the first movie I forgot what it was. Can we get a recap, Mr. Quarter Pounder?


    QP: Gladly. I''m close to levelling up my Exposition skill.


    Henri let out another little gasp.


    QP: It''s the year 3,000 and we''re here to steal the secret of silk production from China.


    The short guy playing Horny walked to a stereo and pressed play. The ginger Max went and picked up a large rectangle of white card. There was some text on the front that he kept hidden from us at first.


    The music was a James Bond theme. It started dramatic, then got very swingy. Instead of Matt Monro''s voice, we heard Emma''s.


    Emma: From China... with silk... I steal it for you...


    As those words came out, the sign was revealed.


    SILK! 2: From China With Silk


    A Max Best Production


    In association with the Max Best Players


    Henri stood and applauded. The music ended abruptly - Emma had got bored of doing a Shirley Bassey impression, claiming that the song she was covering was ''boring ay eff'' and she had ''better things to do''. Henri crashed onto his arse and said "ssh," to no-one in particular.


    QP: Boys, gather round. It''s time for the big battle scene that will get all our teenage viewers invested. Then we''ll grab the treasure in a quieter scene full of witty banter between the two of you. As your quartermaster it''s my job to make sure you''re equipped for the challenges ahead. Are you ready?


    Horny: Yes.


    QP: Horny, I''ve got you something special.


    Horny: It''s pronounced Horn-AY.


    Henri guffawed.


    QP: Horny, I''ve got you these ninja stars.


    M: Are you shuriken use ''em?


    QP: Oh, very good, Max 77. You do get all the best lines.


    Horny: This is unfair in more ways than I can list. What special weapon does he get?


    QP: Max, for you I have these nunchucks.


    M: Top. Wait, they look like grenades. And they''re shaped like women who live in a convent.


    QP: Yes. They''re nuns and you chuck them. Nunchucks.


    Horny: This script could use a punch-up.


    M: You''re in prison. Do you really want to start a punch up?


    Horny: Here come the baddies!


    QP minced away, stage left, while Horny threw imaginary ninja stars and Max lobbed grenades, covering his ears after doing so.


    M: Yes! One-nil! Top result away from home. Get in!


    Horny: [All but given up on doing the accent by now.] Oh, lordy lordy. I''m hit! [Dying cough.] Max. You must go on without me.


    M: Don''t talk shit. We''ve got a can of magic spray.


    Horny: Don''t waste it on me. [Cough.] I''m finished.


    M: No, mate. First of all, you can''t die just as I''m about to say the most important line of the movie. Shit''s about to get thematic.


    Horny: [Coughs.] I''m ready.


    M: I''m Max Best and I will never leave you or abandon you just as we''re on the verge of succeeding in our mission.


    Horny: Okay. Spray me.


    Max77 sprayed Horny, who continued to cough for a bit, then sprung to his feet.


    Horny: I feel much better. Oh, look! I got two bars on my phone.


    M: Yegads, there''s the box with the secret of silk production inside. Let''s open it and that''s the end of act one.


    Horny: Sounds good.


    M: [Miming that there''s a box.] Cool. Looks like a simple Hunt for Red October two keys turning simultaneously situation. I got the red one from beating the city boss and you got the blue one for helping that thirsty guy who needed a very specific drink.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Horny: That was a boring quest.


    M: So, keys in. Just think, Horny, mate. We''ve come so far together and we''re about to achieve our dreams. It''s literally one tiny, tiny final step and we get a lifetime of happiness and contentment on the back of it. And I''m quite happy to come out and say it - nothing can stop us now!


    Horny: Hang on, I''m getting a call. LuLu!


    Horny walked away from the box, holding an invisible phone to his ear with a lovestruck grin on his face.


    Horny: Yes, my precious, I''m in China. No, I didn''t get you a souvenir because I''m undercover, remember? Buying you an ornamental fan would almost certainly result in my being detected, caught, and imprisoned. And prisons in China in the year 3000 are horrible compared to those in Cheshire in the year 2024. They don''t even have multi-gyms!


    This line got a huge response from the prison guards, which was gratifying.


    M: Horny, for fuck''s sake. Come and steal the silk. This was your fucking quest in the first place. I can''t do your quest for you. What the shit?


    Horny: [Not listening to Max.] No, it''s in the cabinet under the sink. The kitchen sink. Well, there must be. I bought six packs. Have you checked the airing cupboard? Oh, that''s very strange. No, you don''t need to go anywhere. I''ll do it. No, I want to do it. Let me do it! Perfect-a-ment! What? Oh, I''ve got an emergency escape portal. I''ll use that. Yes, I''ll be back home in five minutes. What? And some Hobnobs? Chocolate or plain? Ahahaha! I knew that!


    M: Wait! You can''t portal away - I''ll be stuck.


    Horny: [Distracted.] Let''s finish this some other time, Max. Bye.


    M: No! What!


    Horny spun around, arms waving, until he was off stage to the right.


    Max: Fuck that guy! What the hell, man! [Stomps.] So frustrating. We''re both so close to what we want. Urgh. You know what? I wish that man had never been born.


    The large actor came back on the stage, now wearing the only fake moustache the prison guards would allow in. It wasn''t long enough to twirl, but he gave it a good try.


    OM: Well, hello! Did I hear you make a wish?


    M: Get stuffed, old man. I''m busy feeling sorry for myself.


    OM: I''m pretty sure I heard you make a wish. You wanted to see what the world would look like if Horny Lie-Ins had never been born.


    M: I said no such thing. Are you with the Chinese military or what? Hey, turn this key for me.


    OM: It''s very brave and noble, the way you keep trying to pursue your goals even though your friends and allies abandon you. I''ll end act one now and when we return you''ll be in a world without Horny.


    M: Yeah, whatever.


    Four of the audience members applauded as the actors went off the sides of the stage. Henri was the only holdout.


    The actors didn''t have time to mess about with proper mid-act breaks and it''s not like there was a buffet of sausage rolls and orange squash to distract us. That was the only downside, really, of doing this play with a prison troupe. The alternative was hiring real actors and they tended to want to be paid, I''d discovered.


    I thought the first act was pretty solid, but I had far, far less confidence in the second. The Brig had bagged me an hour with these guys and in that hour I had to tell them my concept and write the script. They''d obviously rehearsed it a couple of times and learned their lines but while the first act had come to me pretty easily, what with it being a continuation of Henri''s Christmas play, the second act was much, much harder to write.


    That was partly because I didn''t really know what I wanted to say to Henri. All I knew was how I wanted to say it - through the medium of a play. I sort of hoped that would be enough to snap him out of his love-addled funk, but, yeah, I didn''t think I''d really nailed the second scene. There were still some banging lines, though.


    M: [Scratching his head.] All right. I''m back in Chester. Everything looks the same. What did that old man say? Said he was going to change something, didn''t he?


    Enter stage right, two Chester fans.


    Fan 1: Hey, it''s Max Best!


    Fan 2: No way!


    Fan 1: Max! I''m your biggest fan. You''re a generational talent and you give my life structure and purpose and you''ve got a tight arse like two hot cross buns.


    I blinked. I hadn''t written that last part. Did these guys think they could improve my script? The nerve! Fortunately, that was the only addition to Act Two.


    Fan 2: No, Max, I''m your biggest fan. I have ten cardboard cutouts of you in my living room - each one taken from a gif of you doing a double thumbs up. If I feel sad I run around in a circle and it looks like you''re giving me a thumbs up and it makes me think that everything''s going to be okay.


    Fan 1: When I''m in bed with my wife I pretend to be a bad left back and she''s Max Best and she humiliates me.


    Fan 2: I''ve been to Turkey to get hair implants but on my knee cap and I''ve got a tattoo of your face there so it''s like I''ve got a living tattoo!


    M: Right, yeah, cool. Okay, see you later, guys. [He takes three paces away from the fans and throws his arms up.] Nothing''s changed in the slightest!


    The Brig roared at that one.


    M: Right, let''s go talk to Sandra Lane, my assistant manager.


    Sandra: Hello, gaffer.


    M: I''m really worried about this Dagenham match. Tough away tie and if we lose that''s three in a row with two tough ones to come.


    Sandra: What are you talking about? We''re on a 33-match winning streak.


    M: Wait what?


    Sandra: Horny wasn''t born, remember, so you used your budget to bring in a top striker for the level. Silky Steelson. He trains hard and he''s a great example to the kids. They''ve been able to come into a winning team and get positive experiences and it''s all gone perfectly. Well done, gaffer.


    M: How do you know about Horny if he was never in this timeline?


    Sandra: All I know is that he was a lazy son of a gun who never scored unless it was served on a plate and he was a yellow card magnet.


    Henri''s expression by now was utterly unreadable, but his eyes widened.


    M: But this is no good. I made a promise to him that I''d help him reach his potential. It''s been so motivational for me. I''ve worked really hard to make sure the staff and facilities were right.


    Sandra: Seems like he didn''t want to hold up his part of the bargain, gaffer.


    M: In this case, by not being born? Okay. But in my timeline he helped me get to this point in my life. He helped me with the Chester Knights.


    Sandra: In this timeline, you did it yourself. It wasn''t that hard.


    M: But he let me stay in his house in Darlington.


    Sandra: In this timeline you ended up living in a windmill and when you weren''t playing football you were having adventures.


    M: That sounds top. But what about Dani? I never would have found Dani without him.


    Sandra: It''s weird but in this timeline you found her the next day.


    M: How?


    Sandra: You just did.


    M: It sounds like in this world without Horny everything was much easier and now I''m a massive success and I should probably stay here.


    Henri''s head turned a few degrees in my direction, but his eyes stayed locked on the ginger Max.


    Sandra: Yes. Stay here, it''s fucking mint.


    M: [Rubbing his arm.] I want my friend back though.


    Old Man: Aha! End of Act Two - catharsis! I''m a genius. Cur-tain!


    Now the applause was only from the guards and the Brig. Henri was sort of frozen, and I''d made myself sad. I sort of sat, limp, while the actors swapped wigs and moustaches and took sips of water.


    When Act Three started, I sat bolt upright. It was clear from the off they weren''t doing the version I had written. Mine ended with a monologue where Max77 threatened to kick Henri off the team, blasted him for stealing wages from fans in a deprived northern town, and ended abruptly with Max yelling ''you don''t train, you don''t play!''


    Judge for yourself who wrote a better ending.


    QP: Blast! Late again, the scoundrels! Don''t they realise how important this mission is? Don''t they realise it''s the year 3000? Oh, here they are!


    Horny: There''s no phone signal around here.


    [Pause.]


    QP: Max, it''s your line.


    M: But... we''ve done this. We''ve been here before.


    QP: I assure you it''s the first time.


    M: Oh, I see. But look, I know how this goes. We kill all the guards and get to the box with all the silk in it and this prick gets a phone call from his girlfriend and he fucks off.


    Horny: Please do not be ridiculous. I am a twenty-goal-a-season secret agent. Quarter Pounder, give us our weapons.


    M: No. I want to resolve this right now like a man. Not just wait and hope for the best but directly tell my friend how I feel.


    The actors looked at me. The guards and the Brig looked at me. Henri... looked at me. His big, doe eyes sad and hurt before I''d even said anything.


    I squirmed and talked to the actors. "Can you guys just read the lines I wrote for you, please?"


    M: I''m going to tell my friend how I feel, now.


    The Horny actor went to the side and came back with a large piece of card. He turned it around. It said: AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION.


    Henri''s sad eyes turned happy.


    I put my head in my hands and scrunched up my face. What could I even say?


    "Henri," I started. "You''re letting everyone down. You''re getting a lot of money to play football and that money''s coming from people who don''t have it to spare. They''ve got energy meters in their kitchens and they spend their winters cold. Always cold, cold to the bone, while you''re taking massive boiling showers and driving fast cars and not giving them what they paid for."


    M: I''m going to tell my friend how I feel, now.


    Super annoying prison ginge!


    "Fine. The team needs you. Your backup can''t be the starter. That''s not fair on him and you know it."


    M: I''m going to tell my friend how I feel, now.


    "Fuck me!¡± I searched inside for the words. ¡°There''s a lot of impressionable players at the club. You''re a senior guy, now, and since I took you out of the team they''ve started to train properly. We''re racing ahead at last and it''s because you''re not in the team. It makes me sad and frustrated that my mate is becoming an object lesson in how not to have a football career. We''ve got the chance to have an epic season but we need you. You were a huge part of the plans and you''re virtually irreplaceable."


    M: I''m going to tell my friend how I feel, now.


    "I''m doing it, you twat!"


    Horny: I don''t want to hear from Max the football manager. I want to hear from Max, my friend. Max, my friend, who set up this whole charade instead of talking to me face to face.


    M: I''m going to speak my inner truth, now.


    Horny: Why don''t you want me to be happy, Max?


    "Guys," I said, dragging my hands down my face. "Max the football manager is Max the friend. I want him to be happy and him having perspective and not treating football like the be-all and end-all is healthy. I try to teach that. Don''t I, Brig?"


    "You do, sir."


    "But he''s fucking up his chance at happiness."


    M: What do I mean?


    "Will you quit that?" I got to my feet and walked away. Henri watched me as I came back. I found myself dividing my attention between the two Henris and pleading with the ginger Max. "Look. You can''t go into a relationship as one thing and become another. That''s a fucking recipe for disaster, isn''t it? You can''t be Henri the goalscoring warrior-poet when you''re on a date and then turn into Overly Attached Girlfriend when you''re actually together. There''s no way it can last like this." I blew my cheeks and put my hands on my hips. "Henri''s private life is none of my business."


    "Go on, Max," said Henri. "I want to hear it."


    "I''m worried about you. If you had the choice between football or Luisa I think you''d choose Luisa, and to me that''s okay. Ideally you''d tell me right now so I could sign a replacement but that''s by the by. I''m worried that if you give up football, you''ll lose Luisa, too. I don''t want to see you flame out and crash because I don''t think I''ll be able to help you, then. And you mean a lot to me and I want you to be part of what we''re doing but this relationship has got you in a spin."


    "What do you know of my relationship?"


    "I know you take her to restaurants in a limo and you book concert halls where you''re the only members of the audience and you send messages by skywriting instead of just texting her. I know you think you need to do a grand romantic gesture every day or you''ll lose her. I know enough and I know Luisa enough to know that while she''s probably flattered that you''re doting on her so hard and making her into the sun you orbit, that''s not what she wants."


    "How do you know that?"


    "Because I''m the sun," I said, simply. "I''m the sun for loads of people and it''s not fun. It''s hard work. Everyone else gets to bask in my glow, including Emma. When she''s with me she''s not the sun. She can be a moon. She likes being a moon. It''s awesome being a moon. I''d love to be a moon, Henri. Luisa thought she was going to be a moon orbiting the great Henri Lyons but now she''s the fucking sun and if she''s the sun what''s the fucking point of having you around?"


    "You should write a self-help book. I''m sure a lot of people would buy it. At airports."


    "Right. Great. Let me just spell it out to you. You''re not playing for me again until you train properly. All you need to do is go to work from Monday to Friday. Two hours a day. You can''t even stop thinking about her for two hours so you can do what you were born to do? That''s not romantic. That''s fucking stupid."


    M: I agree with me.


    QP: He''s got a point, Henri lad. You should be able to be apart for a couple of hours.


    Horny: It is sad to think that a thousand years from now, I still haven''t learned work-life balance.


    I went to retake my seat, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. Henri sat still for a while. Finally, he said, "That is the end of the audience participation."


    So it had bombed. Failed. I waved my finger around as a signal the guys should finish. They got back into position and continued.


    QP: Well done, agents. You''ve killed all the guards. You can go and open the treasure box together.


    Horny: One moment. Max, why do you rotate goalkeepers? It''s not a good idea. You should pick one and stick to him.


    My jaw dropped open. I was being trolled by my own actors, now. "The fuck," I mumbled.


    M: Okay. I''ll stick to one goalkeeper like a proper manager. And I''ll bin off Wes Hayward and Ziggy. They''re rancid.


    "You haven''t even seen them play, you dick."


    M: Here''s the box. We''ve got the red key and the blue key. All we need to do is work together and we can achieve our goals. And if we do that, we will be able to say...


    Together: It''s a wonderful life!


    The three actors bowed. I clapped, slightly less enthusiastically than the Brig and the guards, but Henri didn''t move. Finally, he stood and approached the stage. One by one, he hugged them.


    "Max," he said.


    "Yes?" said me and the actor together.


    "Come to me."


    "Um," I said. I got onto the stage and glanced back. The Brig hadn''t moved; he didn''t think I was in any danger. "What are we doing, bro?"


    Henri pointed to an empty spot. "We must open the box together," he said, and the actor playing Horny put his hand over his mouth to hide a gasp.


    I felt a weird surge of emotion. The whole thing had been so mad. A Hail Mary pass. Had it really all worked out? "Why?"


    He nodded to the invisible box. "You¡¯re trying to stop me making grand romantic gestures by making a grand romantic gesture. You have spoken my language. All this time you have been snubbing me you have been preparing this wonderful play. I feel wooed. I feel seduced. I am the sun. Yes. I, Horny Lie-Ins, will be your sun." He nodded a few times. "I want to finish my quest. Let us open this box. And then..."


    "Then?"


    "Then I will sue you for intellectual property theft."


    "Sorry, mate, but I think you''ll find SILK! belongs to the world."


    He smiled - light and warmth radiated from him. "Turn the key on three, two, one. Yes! At last, the secret of silk is in my hands. Perfect. Max, this was quite an experience. I will thank you properly later, but first I have to go and cancel a hot air balloon ride."


    "Oh, hold on," said the Brig, stepping forward smartly. "If the tickets are transferable...? Ruth loves heights."


    They walked away from the stage so they could negotiate that deal. I was left with the actors.


    "It was a pretty big swing, rewriting my play," I suggested.


    The large one didn''t think so. "Look, Max," said the large actor. "You''re a great guy and you are the sun to a lot of people in Chester. We wanted to help and we didn''t think your final act was going to cut it. You can''t bottle up your feelings and hope things magically get better."


    "That''s right," said the short guy. "It''s like we prisoners always say. Better out than in."


    I rolled my eyes. "Great line. All right, fellas. Thanks for your help. If you''re out by Christmas you can do our play. If I''m still the manager by then."


    "You will be," said the short guy, adjusting his wig.


    "How do you know?"


    "Becozz," he said, getting back into character for one last time. "I am Henri Lyons... and I''ve seen the future."

 8.12 - Influence

    12.


    Untitled Documentary


    Episode 2: Influence


    Medium close-up: Angel


    Text: Angel, Striker, Number Ten


    From context, the viewer knows this was recorded long before the season started.


    "I want to be an influencer."


    Angel looks down the camera lens with a mix of cockiness and insecurity. The producer mumbles off-mic and the question appears on screen: Why do you want to be an influencer?


    "They''ve got, like, loads of followers and they talk to brands and get free stuff and people treat them nice. They''ve got, like, an enviable lifestyle. I mean, it''s not a hard answer, right, because that''s the whole point. They''ve got good lives and you follow them and it gets even better. They get more followers and the deals get bigger and they tell you how good it feels and they even tell you how to have that life. It''s, like, possible for anyone. I can have that dream holiday to Dubai and eat in posh restaurants and wear nice clothes all the time and have a stylist and a brand consultant. Who wouldn''t want that?"


    ***


    Aerial shot: BoshCard HQ.


    Screen text: Monday, September 2 - Transfer Deadline Day


    Wide shot: Two grass training pitches. They''re a hive of activity. The women''s squad is busy.


    Full shot: Jackie Reaper is watching everything like a hawk.


    Over various shots of the women doing drills, we hear Jackie.


    "Yeah, pre-season''s been good. Really good. The new ladies have really raised the standards. I''m made up about the training and I feel like I''ve got loads of tactical options now that I didn''t have before. Last season, I was pretty stuck to 4-5-1 if I wanted to put my best team out but now we can use 3-5-2, 4-4-2, and I''ve got a little surprise for the first match of the season."


    Cut to: Jackie on a chair.


    Producer: Could you explain those formations to someone who doesn''t understand football?


    "Certain players are more comfortable in certain places on a pitch. Bonnie''s a centre back. That means she wants to be the last person in front of the goalkeeper. She can see the whole pitch in front of her. Her skills are tackling and heading the ball away and stopping attacks. You don''t put her in midfield because she can''t function well there. Then there are people with the same mentality as Bonnie but they''re smaller or faster so they make good full backs. Those are the defenders to the sides. Everyone likes to be in a different place, right, but you can''t cover the entire pitch with eleven players. You can have three defenders, or four, or five. How you spread your players out determines how you play - defensive, passing-focused, all-out attack. My favourite is 3-5-2. That''s a good formation for a technical team like us, but Max has given me four really good defenders so I''m going to use what''s called a back four quite a lot this season."


    Cut to: the training pitch. Jackie blows his whistle and the players come close.


    "All right, that was good dat, good dat. This Sunday''s the first game of the season. We''re away to Merseyrail. They''re a bit of a yo-yo team but they''ve been in tier four recently so we need to be on it from the first minute or they''ll smash us. That said, if we play our game we''ll be more than they can handle. Yes, Bonnie?"


    "Are we getting any new signings?"


    "Do you want more?"


    "I''m just asking."


    Jackie frowns. "Not that I''ve heard. Max is happy with the squad and so am I."


    "What about the men''s team?"


    "What about them?"


    "They got smashed again at the weekend. Three-nil at Dagenham. That''s one win in five. If Max gets sacked, what happens to us?"


    "Max isn''t getting sacked. Dean''s cleared him to play against Aldershot. Crisis over, know what I mean?" The women seem unhappy, but Jackie doesn''t know what to say. "Right, I told you we''re gunna to do summat different against Merseyrail. We''ll start with 4-1-3-2 with Diane giving us protection as DM. We''ll get a grip on the game and get more expansive second half." This seems to go down badly. "What? That''s a winner, that. I talked to Max about it and he loves it. What? Someone tell me what''s going on, please."


    Ridley T, the new signing with not much in the way of a filter, speaks. "It''s Chunks."


    "Chunks?" says Jackie.


    "ChunksTV. He''s an influencer. Does Chester FC stuff. The girls are freaking out because he was slagging them off on his shitty little channel."


    "Slagging them off?"


    "Yeah, coz we only beat Puddington by two goals, didn''t play well against Airbus, and got mashed up by The New Saints."


    Jackie looks at his feet as his considers his response. "We''re getting pelters for what we done in friendlies? Honestly, I''m impressed there''s one of those attention-seeking gobshites following a fifth tier women''s team. They normally latch onto Prem teams where there''s more clicks and more chance to get picked up by the media."


    Charlotte tuts. "He''s only talking about us women to make him seem more legit about the men. He''s gambling he can ride Max''s coattails all the way to fame and fortune."


    Jackie looks lost. "So, what... He''s slagging off the men, too?"


    ***


    Interior: Max''s Office.


    Text: Wednesday, September 4. After''s Max''s nap.


    Present: Max, Jackie, Bonnie, Angel, Charlotte, Femi, Brooke.


    Everyone looks worried except for Max and Angel.


    "Are we seriously filming this?" says Max, looking at the camera crew.


    "It''s bad news," says Jackie. "You were saying recently about stomping on problems before they get too big."


    "I did say that," sighs Max. "Fine. Let''s talk about some fucking nobody. Let''s give him the oxygen of publicity, just like he wants. Talking of oxygen, I believe Glendale Logistics are Cheshire''s most trusted deliverer of medical products. If I ran a hospital and needed some life-saving gas delivered on time and on budget, my first call would be to Glendale Logistics."


    "Max," says Brooke.


    "And I''d pay for it using my BoshCard. Don''t just bag it, bosh it. So you want to talk about this guy Chunks. He''s a Chester fan - he says - and he''s started churning out daily content. It''s the typical shit."


    "It''s not shit," says Angel. "He''s good."


    "Oh, he''s good, is he?" says Max, giving her an intense look. "Good at what?"


    "Clickbait titles. Colour branding. He picks up on trends. He was really fast to start holding his lapel mic in his hand."


    "That''s good, is it?"


    Angel nods. "Yeah. Makes him look fake authentic."


    Max shakes his head. "I hate this conversation."


    "He A/B tests his thumbnails."


    "Ooh, sexy," says Max. He picks up the landline phone he has installed for the purpose of doing bits. "Sally? Book me a mani-pedi. Yes, I know I just had one. But this time I want to A/B test my toenails. Yeah, really get to work around the edges. Get right in there. K bye."


    Angel sits back, amused.


    Max turns his monitor screen closer towards him. "What''s he called again? Late Stage Capitalism TV?" He types. "It''s loads of cat stuff."


    "Not Chonks," says Angel. "Chunks. Like vomit."


    "Ah," says Max. "Chunks with a U, the U standing for U can''t get a girlfriend. Hey, he''s been busy. YouTube, TikTok, Insta, X. What, does he do adult stuff, too? Let''s check his YouTube. Wow. The guy has no respect for the caps lock key. New Signings NEEDED or Club is HISTORY. You sure, bro? WORST Transfer Window of ALL TIME. What would you know, you''re not even thirty. How old is this guy? Never mind, I literally don''t give a shit. Sad Seals MONSTERED by Daggers. Erm... yeah but I wouldn''t say sad. We were more... glum. What''s this? Max''s MISFIRES Plum New Depths. Angel you seem to like this guy. Tell him it''s plumb with a B."


    "I don''t like him. But he got good. I like his hustle."


    Max clicks on one video.


    ***


    Chunks bears an uncanny resemblance to James Corden, which makes it hard to believe people voluntarily watch his content. He''s in his mid-twenties and is always seen in Chester FC kit.


    He''s standing outside a football stadium holding a tiny lapel microphone about a foot in front of his face because that guarantees three comments per video about how he''s ''doing it wrong'' and those comments give him a boost in the algorithm.


    He has a fairly neutral accent that could be from Cheshire.


    "I''m livid, bro! That performance was dreadful, yo! Shocking. Pitiful stuff. Dagenham were twelfth in this league last year and we''ve made ''em look like Pep''s Barcelona! Three-nil to Dagenham, man. I can''t believe the words coming out of my mouth right now. Four hours drive home, we''ve got. Four hours to think about that display. The kids? The kids aren''t all right. Agent Green, another horror show. The goalie''s weak. What''s Ben Cavanagh got in common with a vampire? They both hate crosses. This Ziggy''s a wet tissue. No goals again! He runs, but so does my nephew''s nappies, mate. I don''t want effort, I want goals. Where''s Henri Lyons? We know he and Max Best kissed and made up. So where is he? Where''s Bochum? Our only good player''s been sent to Siberia. And where''s Max Best? He was supposed to be back for this one. He''s always said, lose five in a row I''ll get sacked. Well, mate, you can''t play and you can''t pick a player, but surely you can count? Hartlepool, Altrincham, Dagenham. That''s three. Aldershot''s four. You pick the same team on Saturday that''s another three-nil - if we''re lucky. Then Eastleigh and Trick Williams will end your managerial career. Quite a few lads in my WhatsApp groups will love it when that happens. The system is tired, bro. Same shit every week. A lone striker who can''t play alone. I feel like I''m taking crazy pills. The players don''t fit the system. To be fair, some of them wouldn''t fit any system. Their first touch is shit, they can''t play simple passes. Dagenham sat back and waited for us to make mistakes. We made it so easy for them. Best is a National League North manager who isn''t ready for the step up to this level."


    Max pauses the video and pinches his nose. The others steel themselves for a tantrum. They don''t get one. "This is boring. The guy''s a crashing bore. If you met him in a pub you''d avoid that pub. There''s no-one at this club who would give a shit what this guy thinks if he was saying it in Waitrose. Why would you care just because it''s online?"


    Angel smiles. "Because you know other people are watching and talking about it. Chunks controls the narrative, now."


    Max''s eyes narrow. "Does he?" He relaxes. "Brooke, what do you think?"


    She shrugs. "These parasite accounts can damage the brand. I''ve been reading about Arsenal Fans TV. That club became synonymous with toxic, entitled fans and the club asked the channel to remove the word Arsenal from the name. But this kind of thing is also a way for fans to engage with the organisation."


    Jackie says, "I''m not worried about the business implications or the damage to the brand. I''m worried that my players are miserable and demotivated going into the first match of the season. We need to get off to a good start."


    Max jabs his desk. "I want this documentary to be about football. Nutmegs, passes, goals, last-ditch blocks. I''m not interested in some talentless nobody trying to get a name for himself by ranting about how having a deaf player will turn all the frogs gay."


    "Oh," says Angel, "he''s far too smart for that. He wouldn''t go after Dani. You''ve made her untouchable; he''d lose half his viewers instantly. He''s trying to thread the needle between the vegan hotdog eaters and the gammons."


    Bonnie says, "You won''t be so smug when he comes after you."


    Angel smirks. "I don''t play teams onside twice in the first half and nearly get a red card after the final whistle has blown. I''ll be fine."


    Max looks at something on his wall. "Did this guy single out Pippa?"


    Angel''s mouth drops open. "So you have been watching!"


    Max raises his hand. "Nope. She looked out of sorts at Monday''s training."


    "You weren''t here."


    "Wasn''t I? I saw she was upset and a couple of others were off the pace. Didn''t know why. Charlotte," says Max. "You''re the voice of reason. What do you think?"


    She looks uncomfortable. "I know it shouldn''t bother us but it does."


    "Right, well, when you''re in the WSL you''ll have the Daily Mail camped outside your house. My mate Beth will be going through your bins. I mean, this shit is going to happen and maybe it''s better to get used to it while it''s some absolute tosspot. In the meantime, this is an opportunity, isn''t it?"


    "What do you mean?" says Femi.


    "We''ve got three team leaders, here."


    "Hey," says Angel.


    "Your mates are upset. We''ve got a common enemy. Put two and two together."


    Bonnie nods. "Right. Siege mentality."


    "Ew," says Angel.


    "Or," Max suggests, "that general us-against-the-world vibe but positive. When you get together you could film fake rants about the bananas in the canteen being too bendy. Do it in the style of Chumps but don''t ever mention his name. Turn him into a joke."


    Brooke says, "There''s a risk of boosting him by doing that."


    "I don''t know," says Max. "Just anything. Maybe Angel can stop fawning over this twat around the other ladies."


    "I don''t!"


    "Oh, Maddy, wasn''t it funny when he focused in on your face just as you were being nutmegged haha such engagement."


    Angel rolls her eyes. "I''m here because I don''t like him and want to do something if something''s going to happen."


    Max leans back, appraising her. "Why?"


    Angel frowns and looks down. "Don''t pick on my mates. My sister, yeah, but not my mates."


    "So noble," says Bonnie, but anyone can see she''s proud.


    "All right," says Max. "In summary, this is a complete non-issue and you need to get on with it. Because I tell you what, this muppet chose the wrong season to launch his cancerous fucking product. You guys are going to tear up the league and the men are going to get better and better. No-one''s going to click on his stupid pristine thumbnails when we''re on a ten-game winning streak."


    "Max is right," says Brooke. "We win and we shut down his business model."


    "Boom!" says Max, as some form of agreement.


    "Everyone happy?" says Jackie.


    Bonnie and Angel look at each other. "Yeah," says Bonnie.


    Brooke says, "Angel, you know your stuff. Want to help us with our socials?"


    Angel looks at her older sister. Can I? Can I? She can. "Yes! I''d love to."


    "I''ve got a couple of ideas," says the American. "Content that might find an audience during those ten-match winning streaks Max just promised us."


    "He did promise that, didn''t he?" says Charlotte.


    Max shrugs. "Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Pick whatever number you want. Once we get going we''ll be unstoppable. All right, you guys can go, now. I''m going to explore the internet looking for someone even more boring than Chumps. If I''m not out by Friday, send up some food." The others start to get up and head for the door. Max spins around on his chair. He stops abruptly. "Hang on," he says, going back to the list of videos on ChunksTV. "Angel, you said something about this guy getting good recently. When was that?"


    She''s intensely happy to be seen as the expert on this topic. She comes to look at the screen. "Keep going. You''ll see a difference in the thumbnails."


    "They''re all vapid," says Max. "Hence I won''t."


    "There," says Angel, in triumph. "He was slowly getting better until this point, then there was a lot of improvement in a short time."


    "Huh," says Max, scrolling up and down. "I sort of see what you mean. There''s a before and an after. I''m thinking he started to get some advertising revenue around this point and decided to double down on the whole internet personality thing. Got more serious."


    "Could be," says Angel.


    "There''s nothing good about this but if we say he gets good near the start of July... Shit."


    "What?" says Jackie.


    "That would tie in with... nothing," says Max. He gets up and looks out of his window. He A/B tests one of his thumbnails. "Right. New plan. It''s still a good time to do some bonding. What do you call male bonding when it''s women? Go and do some male bonding for women. It''s not nice being mocked and all that but when you know your team''s got your back whatever happens, that''s magical. The criticism bounces off you or makes you stronger. Gives you energy. Get on that. Angel, you can help with that. Point out this guy''s tricks. He''s A/B testing who to slag off and doubling down. He doesn''t actually believe a word of it. Is that a helpful thing to say to someone?"


    "I can A/B test my helpfulness," says Angel.


    "Yeah. Anyway, you guys go hard on getting spirits up. If you need to stay in a haunted house to work it out, let me know. But don''t do anything against this guy. Leave him to me."


    "What are you gonna do?" says Brooke.


    "Leave him to me," repeats Max, turning away.


    ***


    Phone footage - we later discover that while most of the women hold their phones in their hand, Angel has a grip attachment for better stability and visual interest.


    We''re in the dressing room at BoshCard HQ.


    "What did you make of that?" says Angel.


    Charlotte says, "He''s right. We have to deal with it. And that thing he said, what was it, if you met this guy in the pub. Like, yeah. Good point. He''s nothing. Get on with your day."


    "What happened at the start of July?" says Angel.


    "What?" says Bonnie.


    "He got all intense when we talked about the start of July."


    "The kitchen," says Charlotte.


    "The new board," says Bonnie.


    Angel muses, then says, "Femi, you don''t look happy."


    The centre back shakes her head. "It was unimpressive." She picks out two pairs of shinpads and chooses the smaller. "He wasn''t really listening to us."


    "He was," says Angel.


    Femi looks around. "I find myself worried. Things started well but the atmosphere has gone bad. The results of the men''s team affect us, too. They shouldn''t, but they do. It''s not just defeat after defeat, it''s the performances. Chunks calls into question the scouting, the training, everything. And no signings at the end of the window - it is hard to rationalise." She looks up. "I do not know. I am worried. What if Chunks is right and Max Best is wrong?"


    "He''s not," says Bonnie, in a tone that invites no further discussion. She slides her kit bag away from Femi.


    Angel takes a few steps away, emphasising the growing distance between teammates. She''s far too good at this.


    ***


    After drills, the women play a practice match where Diane is the DM in a 4-1-3-2. There are almost enough players for a full reserve team - Gracie, Susan, Maddy, and Kisi make life tough for the first eleven. Jackie is delighted. Pippa isn''t. She is beaten to the ball by Kisi, chases her, and launches a kick at the sixteen-year-old.


    There''s pandemonium that ends with Lucy leading a tearful Pippa away from the pitch while Kisi yells at her.


    "Fuck!" yells Bonnie.


    Femi rolls her eyes and walks away.


    Jackie eyes his fellow coaches and rubs his head.


    The camera lingers on Angel.


    ***


    Cut to: Angel talking to herself in phone selfie mode.


    "Chunks has got us by the short and curlies. He''s got the club and the city dancing to his tune. It''s like I said to Max, Chunks calls the shots, now. Him and his copycats because when one guy''s getting noticed others will follow. I like Max but I think he doesn''t understand this stuff. He thinks all you need is football." She looks away from the camera for a second. "It''s like being a bully. It''s better to be the bully than be bullied, right? If those are the only choices, then... Soon as I''m eighteen I''m gonna hit all the socials. Quick blitz, use my football and this doc to get going, bit of grinding until I¡¯ve got enough momentum to get on Love Island and then I''m away. You get to the point all publicity is good publicity. Someone slags you off you''re laughing because they''re doing your job for you." She shakes her head. "You''ve got to be bigger so they can''t get you. It''s called critical mass. Too big to fail. That''s the only way to survive the modern world. I''d try to tell Max but he''s... hang on... what was that word? It''s not renegade. He''s kind of that, too." She spaces out for half a second. "He''s retrograde. ChunksTV is the future of football."


    ***


    Interior: Chester''s digs, the living room. There are two cameras set up, and that footage is supplemented by Charlotte''s phone.


    Present: Charlotte, Femi, Youngster, WibRob, Omari Naysmith.


    Charlotte''s on a bean bag, Femi''s lying on the sofa. Both are reading. The young men are on the floor, playing a board game.


    The women reach for their phones at the same time. Charlotte reads and starts the camera. She aims it at Femi.


    "Did you get that?"


    "Yes."


    "Are you going?"


    "Do I have a choice?"


    "Yes."


    "It says it''s mandatory," says Femi.


    "What are you discussing?" says Youngster.


    "Max just told the women''s squad to go and watch the men on Saturday. Not sure why he thinks watching you lot get dicked again is going to help boost our morale but there you go. And Femi, you''re allowed to skip it. This is his way of saying something cool will happen."


    "Something cool?" says Youngster. "It will be a normal encounter. A struggle against superior opposition. I cannot think what might be cool."


    WibRob looks up from the board. "I''m playing, if that counts as cool."


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Femi smiles. "It does to me."


    That makes WibRob happy. "The last fifteen or twenty minutes, he says. He wants to force them back into a low block then unleash me."


    "Unleash you?" laughs Omari.


    "When was this discussed?" frets Youngster. "Did I miss a team meeting?"


    "Nah," says WibRob. "It was private. I''m just saying to Femi, like, yeah. Something''s up."


    Omari scratches his head. "I''m starting. He told me. I don''t think anything''s up if I''m starting."


    Femi puts the book down and goes to give Omari the best hug she can manage. "Don''t you talk like that! We can all see how fast you''re improving."


    Omari enjoys the hug but seems unaffected by her words. He looks down at the board. "I know I''m getting better."


    Femi is disconcerted by his confidence. "It doesn''t bother you what is said on the internet?"


    "No," says Omari, hesitating over some aspect of the board game. He makes his move and nods to himself. "I heard you lot are freaking out. We''re all fine, aren''t we?"


    "Yeah," says WibRob.


    Charlotte tilts her head, which we only see because the editors change to camera 2. "That''s because you''re the youngest goalscorer ever. Chunks wants you in the team. You''re his favourite."


    "I''m not his anything," says WibRob. "The twat''s using me for his agenda. He''s trying to shape the narrative."


    "Shape the narrative?" laughs Charlotte.


    "Max explained it to me," says WibRob. "It''s why this stuff affects you more than us."


    "Can you explain that statement?" says Femi.


    "Max does our narratives," says WibRob. It seems to be his turn and he''s only half present in the conversation. "He''s mad about training. Everything that happens, he talks about training. We lose three-nil and he''s talking about Monday''s drills. Zach comes in the dressing room all American being like ''Shoot, fellas that was no good'' and Max cuts it out right away because he''s got, like, eight things for Zach to work on and which three does he want to do on Monday and does he want extra sessions this week? And Zach''s like trying to rant but Max is doing a different rant and Max''s rant is weird but it''s the dominant rant."


    "Mr. Best is unusually relentless at the moment," says Youngster. "The results do not bother him. His injury does not bother him. How do we train? Do we give it our all? That is everything. No, William, you do not have enough wheat."


    "Oh, right."


    Charlotte says, "Why didn''t Henri play last Saturday? I thought they were all friends again."


    "I do not know," said Youngster.


    "It''s coz he only had one training session where he wasn''t dogging it," explains WibRob. "But he''s been better this week, hasn''t he?"


    Omari frowns. "You see it like Max? I don''t see it."


    "You''re focused on your own stuff," says WibRob. "That''s good. You should be like that, where you are. I''m not starting matches, though. And Max keeps asking me questions. About Eddie Moore. How would I play against him? About Zach. How would I press him? About you guys. He wants me to watch everything."


    Omari asks a question that''s been bugging him. "Why don''t you do the facing-up drills?"


    Charlotte''s astonished. "You don''t do all the drills, William?"


    "Nah. Max dun''t want me getting stuck in. Some of the drills he lets me do a few minutes then pulls me out. Doesn''t want me getting too good at defending. He says it''s like putting a McDonald''s in an opera house."


    Femi laughs. "What does that mean?"


    WibRob frowns. "I don''t really know!"


    "But you are happy to follow his advice?"


    A shrug. "I want to do all the drills and play every game but... Do I want to play against Dagenham or Brazil? It''s frustrating sometimes but it''s exciting, too. I wanna be involved in the playoffs. Playoff final''s at Wembley! My dad''s never been to Wembley."


    Femi sits on the edge of the sofa. "You''re confident you''ll get there?"


    "Yeah," says WibRob.


    "You''re nineteenth in the league," says Femi. "Seven points from seven games."


    "Yeah," says WibRob, but he has lost interest in the conversation. "We''re the best team, though. And we''ve got the best manager."


    "The Best manager," smiles Omari, but he loses confidence in the joke right away.


    Charlotte angles her phone at Femi. The centre-back looks thoughtful. "I will attend," she says, and lies back on the sofa with her second-hand copy of Sh¨­gun.


    ***


    Medium close-up: Lucy


    Text: Lucy, Left back, Number 23


    Lucy is trying to sit still but she can''t stop fidgeting with her hands.


    "We''ve just done the Friday training session. Our first match of the season''s this Sunday against Merseyrail. They''re good. Been in higher leagues and the like. I''ll be a sub, Jackie says, which is, you know, it''s always disappointing but I know I''ve slipped a place in the pecking order and I have to learn to deal with that. He says I''ve still got a big role to play on and off the pitch but what''s going on now, we didn''t have that when I used to play. I don''t know what help I can be. I don''t know what to say to the girls." The fidgeting briefly pauses. "That just now was the worst session since I came back to the club. Pip and Kisi are feuding. We''ve been talking to them but it''s not just them and it''s not just Chunks - shit. I told myself I wouldn''t say his name. He''s got a lot to answer for, that man. We had a good atmosphere in the dressing room but there''s more senior players now, more girls getting paid, more pressure, more eyeballs on us, and as a group we''re not ready for this sort of... this sort of... I keep coming back to the word cancer. It''s in us, now. Every time someone makes a mistake you can imagine the Chunks video. He''s gone after Pip the hardest and she''s struggling." She pinches the top of her finger in her other hand and gets still. "Football''s supposed to be fun. No-one''s had any fun this week. I know it''ll be all right on Sunday when we get on the pitch and we get back to being a real team and we get a win under our belt but... I don''t have a TikTok following. I don''t know what to do or what to say. I feel so hopeless about it." She squeezes her fingers together and pushes them down into her lap.


    ***


    Aerial shot: The Deva Stadium. Fans are streaming in on all sides.


    Text: Saturday, September 7


    Text: Match 8 of 46: Chester Men vs Aldershot Town


    Wide shot: The Harry McNally Stand. At the top on the right are the Chester Women''s squad with some of their partners.


    Medium shot: Angel, Bonnie, Charlotte, Ridley T, and Kisi. They''re discussing the team news that has just come in.


    "Ben''s in goal," says Angel. "Sticky''s on the bench. I like him but his name puts me off."


    "Queenie''s buzzing about him," says Charlotte. "Says he''s absolutely mint and she''s learning tons. She loves the sessions."


    "Scottie says the same," says Ridley T. "She says he''s the best coach she''s ever had, bar none."


    "He needs a brand consultant," says Angel. "Back four''s Eddie Moore, Glenn, Zach, Carl. Steve Alton on the bench."


    "I don''t mind that," says Bonnie. "Especially if Zach takes his shirt off."


    They make girl noises.


    "Youngster''s DM," says Angel.


    "Whoo," says Kisi.


    "How''s he, you know, doing?" says Ridley T.


    Kisi shakes her head. "He''s fine. All the men are fine. Well, Zach has his doubts. James Wise is wondering what the hell''s going on. And the new boys are, what would you say? Playing too much football to give a shit about anything else."


    "Language, Kisi!" says Bonnie, nudging her. "Your mum will watch this documentary."


    Kisi blows through her lips. "As if they''ll use this bit. This is a nothing match. They''re not following the men''s team. I don''t even know why they''re filming today. Max won''t let them use the footage."


    Angel glares at Kisi. "They can''t use it if you get so meta. Pretend the camera isn''t there. God sake. Right, well, that''s a pretty good back five but then we get to the midfield. Aff, Wise, Omari Naysmith, Wes Hayward."


    Kisi fans herself with her hands. "Wes is playing? Hummana hummana!"


    Angel laughs. "Maybe Max should sign good players instead of fit ones."


    Kisi points. "He signed you."


    "I can actually score a goal, though. Oh, no offence to Tom."


    Charlotte blinks. "Wait, Tom''s starting? Who''s on the bench?"


    "Magnus Evergreen, Max, WibRob, and Henri."


    "That''s a fucking amazing bench," says Ridley T. "Why isn''t Henri starting?"


    Kisi shrugs. "Not training well enough."


    "Did you hear that or - ?"


    "Just a guess. Or Max wants Tom''s energy first half. That''s one of his moves. He starts with runners and workhorses and brings on the quality. Jackie''s the same. That''s why I''ll come on for Pippa tomorrow."


    Bonnie snaps. "Cut that out. I don''t want to hear that shit. We''re a team. If you don''t want to be on the team I can let people know."


    Kisi looks down and grips the railing in front of her. "I know. She hasn''t apologised to me, yet. That''s messed up."


    Angel puts a hand on Kisi''s. "She''s been messed up by the influencer. You know Pip, she''s good people. She''s having a bad week."


    Kisi takes in a deep breath. "I know. Why did she take it out on me, though?"


    Angel laughs. "Because the prick said Pippa wasn''t fast, dynamic, or creative enough to hold down a place in midfield. He basically said Pippa isn''t Kisi enough."


    "He didn''t."


    "He did!"


    Kisi looks unhappy. "But Pip does things I can''t do. She holds her position and she tracks runners and she gets stuck in. I love playing with her. I don''t want it to be like this but I don''t want to have to go to her. She should come to me, first."


    Bonnie moves in for a hug. "She will."


    "What I don''t get," says Angel, looking around, "is that Max said leave the influencer to him. I thought they would put something out on the socials but they didn''t. So... what''s he planning?"


    "Maybe he forgot," says Kisi. "He''s got loads going on."


    "Yeah," says Charlotte "Like writing a play and getting Pete''s mates to perform it in prison."


    "This place is a nuthouse," says Ridley T. "Hey, what''s all that about?"


    "What?" says Charlotte, looking around.


    "There''s, like, everyone reading the match programme."


    "Shit!" says Angel. "That''s what he''s done. I''m going to get one."


    "Do you need cash?" asks Bonnie.


    "Er... no. I''ll just get that one from that guy."


    "He''s reading it."


    "He won''t mind." Angel slinks away in the direction of the man. The others remain where they are, variously amused, annoyed, or jealous. Angel comes back. "See? And he had it open to the right page, too. Everyone''s reading it." Angel flips to the next few pages. "This can''t be it, can it? This is his whole response? He''s even more clueless than I thought. He''s fighting a digital war with analogue weapons."


    "Let me read it. I read faster than you," says Bonnie.


    Angel looks at the camera. "I''ll read it out and you''ll all listen together."


    "Anything to get in shot," says Bonnie, exasperated. "Well? Get on with it."


    Angel skims the text and frowns. She goes back to the top and reads.


    ***


    Influenza


    by Max Best


    When I was a boy, I liked playing football. I liked chasing balls around and I liked kicking them. (I didn''t like it when the ball smacked me in the face, but that didn''t happen often enough to put me off the game.) The moment I discovered it was possible to put a bit of curve on a ball was a revelation. I loved kicking balls at an angle, with spin, I loved volleys and half-volleys, and my neighbour and I used to have hour-long nutmegging competitions. I watched matches on TV, I watched the highlights, I read about what I''d seen in the next day¡¯s newspapers. I gorged on football. It was impossible to think that football might one day make me sick.


    I''m sure you were exactly the same but without the nutmegging competitions. (Mate, no lie, I would absolutely crush you at nutmegs.)


    You''re a Chester fan. You grew up supporting the club and wanting it to do well. You put your money where your mouth is, too, to the point that you not only go to matches but you buy programmes. You''re reading it now and even though it feels like I, Max Actual Best, am talking directly to you, which should be the highest moment of your day, there''s something wrong.


    You... what''s the best way to put it? You sort of... don''t love the club as much as you used to. You look around and you don''t see eleven men who are busting a gut to carry the badge. You see eleven frauds who are stealing a living. You don''t see eleven young men who are just like you, with the same hopes and dreams of promotion and cup glory. You see eleven leeches sucking life out of the club.


    What happened?


    You''ve been influenced.


    Yes, that''s right. The virus has spread. Tiny Chester FC has joined the ranks of the kleptoclubs and European Super League terrorists in having its own influencers. Some older readers might not know what an influencer is. Allow me to explain. An influencer is a grifter. A person whose only talent is having no sense of shame. Someone willing to channel their sociopathic tendencies in order to make you angry. Why angry? Because angry people click on videos. Angry people watch videos until the end. Angry people leave comments. Angry people, directly or indirectly, inflate the bank balance of the influencer.


    Now, I''m the manager of a football club and I hear a lot of opinions I don''t agree with, but I don''t try to shut them down. Most of you know that at the last fans forum I put a microphone in the hands of a chap called Ollie. Ollie and I disagree about virtually everything, but I think it''s important that Ollie''s voice is heard at this club. Why? Because it''s his club. He''s a Chester fan and when he complains about signings, tactics, or the imminent cataclysm known as vegan hot dogs he does so from a place of authenticity. He''s not angry for clicks and money, he''s angry because he thinks I''m bad for Chester. And I respect that.


    Today we will play a football match against Aldershot Town. We will start with eleven players who care deeply about football, Chester, and their personal performance levels. It will be a hard match against a good team and we might run into some difficulties. If you find yourself more annoyed than usual, less patient with our young players than usual, or just having less fun than usual, be careful! You might have received the influence virus. Look around. Is there someone standing near you pretending to be a Chester fan so they can make money by making you unhappy? Is there someone in a Chester kit recording hot takes that make your blood boil? You might ask yourself - is there nothing we can do about these chancers? Is there no cure?


    Mate, I can''t do anything. It''s your club. Not mine. And certainly not his. (He actually supports Notts Forest, just so you know.)


    Don''t leave early. I intend to come on the pitch at some point. I''ve been looking forward to my return for a while. You''ll see me run, dribble, nutmeg, and shoot. You''ll see me play like a little boy in my old back garden. It would be stupid to make rash promises but here''s one - I rashly promise to give you at least one magical memory. Something you''ll think about for years.


    That''s my promise to you today.


    Or maybe you''d prefer to go home angry?


    ***


    "Yeah," says Kisi. "That''s okay. Not very Max, somehow. He''s like, saying the fans have to do it."


    "He said we have to sort ourselves out, too," says Charlotte.


    "Interesting," says Angel. "Listen to this bit again. Is there someone standing near you pretending to be a Chester fan... Why did he say standing? Chunks is normally in the west stand, isn''t he?"


    "Um... he''s down there," says Kisi. The women stand on tiptoe and see that Chunks is standing about ten rows in front, scrolling around his phone. He''s wearing a Chester top.


    "God, I hope we win and shut him up," said Charlotte.


    Bonnie points and waves. "There''s Pippa. Pip!"


    Pippa has come into the stand and is looking for her mates. She spots Chunks first, though, and visibly recoils. She grits her teeth and pushes herself up the stairs. A few fans recognise her and give her a shout out or offer a fist bump. She spots Kisi, pauses, and heads in her direction. The microphone doesn''t pick up what she says, but they hug for a while and afterwards Kisi has an even wider smile than normal.


    "Have you seen this?" says Angel, offering Pippa the programme.


    Her sister sighs. "Don''t you need to give it back to that guy?"


    "No," says Angel. "He said he wants me to keep it."


    Pippa takes it and starts reading. She perks up. "Oh!" By the end, her eyes are shining.


    "What?" says Ridley T. "He doesn''t say anything."


    "Don''t you get it?" says Pippa. "This is a declaration of war."


    ***


    "Come on, Tom!" shouts Angel.


    The producer mumbles, What are you seeing?


    Angel points to the far end of the ground. "Tom plays the same position as me. He''s the lone striker, though. I normally play with Bea Pea. She''s over there with that mob. Tom''s working hard. Working the channels, making life hard for those two defenders. It''s what Vimsy calls a thankless task but it''s the difference between Aldershot getting quality balls into midfield or not. Hey, what''s Aldershot''s nickname?"


    "The Shots," says Charlotte.


    "No shots for the Shots. It''s been a bright start. We look good, zipping the ball around. Some good stuff. Crowd''s buzzing!"


    "We''ll play here soon," says Kisi. "I can''t wait!"


    A high ball is played from Aldershot''s defence. Zach and Carl both move to head it clear. Both leave it for the other.


    "Don''t let it bounce!" screams Bonnie.


    A fast striker nips in and gets to the ball first. He looks up and plays a left-footed pass across the edge of the penalty box. Ben Cavanagh doesn''t know whether to stay back or come out. He chooses the latter, but as he rushes out, the second striker rolls the ball into the net.


    There is some swearing in the terrace, but otherwise it falls silent. All the noise is coming from the far side of the stadium where 400 away fans have made the four-hour journey. The number''s much larger than normal because many are friends of the Brig.


    "Is this..." starts Ridley T. "Is this a relegation battle?"


    "You sound like that prick," says Bonnie.


    "Fuck, sorry."


    Bonnie grips the railing. "It''ll get better."


    ***


    Wide shot: Players trudging off the pitch.


    Text: Half time. Chester 0 - 3 Aldershot


    Medium shot: Five glum footballers.


    "That was awful," says Diane. "Don''t mean to be, you know, negative. But that was just..."


    "I know," says Bea Pea. "Poor Max. He got us all here so we''d learn something and the lads did that."


    "He probably wants them to lose," says Robyn. "He''s weird like that. Learn more from losing than winning."


    "They''re learning a lot, in that case," says Femi.


    Angel appears. "Hi, girls! Mind if I join you?"


    Everyone looks at the camera and sighs. "Fucking hell, Angel," says Bea Pea. "Give it a rest."


    "I don''t know what you mean. How''s everyone - oh. Is that Max?"


    Heads turn. "It is Max," says Femi. "Maybe he has come to apologise to us for giving us a reason to hate football."


    "He seems pretty chipper," says Angel.


    From a different angle we see Max is smiling and gazing fondly at the stadium roof. He looks back over his shoulder and says something to the Brig. Max exchanges a joke with a groundsman, gives a Maxy two-thumbs to a photographer, and peers up and down the stands.


    "He''s looking for Chunks," says Angel.


    "Asking him not to go so hard on the players," says Robyn. "At some point all the losses will get to them. They''re only human."


    "Who are they?"


    Max is talking to some guys in the crowd. They are macho-looking young men and they are pissed. The presence of the Brig deters them from getting too aggressive, but they''re complaining pretty hard.


    "Some randos," says Angel, taking it all in.


    Max smiles and laughs and gives them little jabs on the arm. They remain furious - until they break. They shake their heads. Whatever Max is saying, they can''t believe it. Soon, the group is all smiles. Max looks around some more, sees his women''s team looking bleak - which seems to delight him - and as he strolls back towards the tunnel, he pauses to look at the roof of the Harry McNally stand one last time. He points and the Brig nods. He makes a joke, puts his hand on the Brig''s back, and the older man laughs uproariously.


    "What the fuck," says Angel.


    ***


    "No changes at half time," says Bonnie, shaking her head. "I don''t know. If I didn''t know Max was coming on, I''d probably want to stay in the Blues Bar and drink."


    The whistle goes and the second half gets underway. The ladies watch in a subdued mood as Tom Westwood chases a ball. It goes out of play and a substitution is announced.


    "Replacing number twenty, Tom Westwood, number nine, Henri Lyons."


    Westwood sprints off to generous applause from the fans left in the stadium - many are taking their time over their pies and beers.


    "You know what this means?" says Kisi, bouncing, almost squeaking.


    "What?"


    "He''s mates with Max again! Henri loves the attention! You know Max is mad at him when he doesn''t let him get a round of applause. They''re really friends again!"


    "That''s stupid," says Ridley T, but with a big smile. Kisi''s an influencer of a sort.


    "Come on, Chester!"


    ***


    In addition to the scenes with the women, we start to see match footage taken from various angles with Boggy''s commentary overlaid.


    An Aldershot defender clatters into Wes Hayward, who crashes to the turf and rolls around.


    Boggy: Wes Hayward has taken a knock! That looked a nasty one. It''s been an ineffective match from him so far. Yes, this could be a good time to give young William B. Roberts some game time. We haven''t seen him since his wonderful debut goal. Or perhaps Best will throw Magnus Evergreen on, since this match is lost anyway. Best has been known to play right-midfield himself, though he might decide it''s not worth it given how the referee is letting Aldershot get away with murder.


    Hayward comes to the side of the pitch and Best puts his arm around him and gesticulates furiously.


    Boggy: Hmm. Very much looks like Best is asking Hayward to stay on a while longer. Something of a surprise. The atmosphere, I''m sorry to say, is very flat. [Sighs.] Very flat.


    ***


    "Strange," says Robyn.


    "What is?" says Diane.


    "Max is asking Sharky to keep going. He''d normally sub him off no worries, unless it''s an important game. And even then he''d normally sub him off anyway."


    Femi spins around. "This game is lost. What''s so important about it?"


    "I dunno," says Robyn. "That''s why I''m saying it''s strange, is all."


    Femi stands a little straighter. "Low block."


    "What''s that, Fems?" says Diane.


    "He said he would bring WibRob on when there was a low block. But even with Henri, Aldershot are far better and have most of the play. What was he thinking?" Her eyes widen and she raises her left arm. She sees something there that shocks her. She wipes at it, but the goosebumps remain.


    ***


    Omari Naysmith jogs to the side of the pitch and exchanges a high ten with Max Best. Behind, the electronic board shows the number 77. There''s a miniature standing ovation from the main stand.


    Boggy: Here he is! Player-manager Max Best. It has only been a month since he got a hairline fracture in his arm. Let''s just hope there''s no recurrence of that injury in what is, honestly, a dead fixture. Still three-nil to Aldershot and Chester are huffing and puffing and boring the house down. Well, someone is in high spirits! Max Best doing a little dance in midfield. Clicking his fingers, swaying left and right. In the match programme he promised us one magical moment. I hope it wasn''t that.


    ***


    "What''s he doing?" laughs Bonnie.


    "Dancing," says Angel.


    "Don''t let Dani see," says Kisi. "She does everything Max does."


    "What song''s he got in his head, do you reckon?"


    "Best will tear you apart," says Bonnie. "What else?"


    ***


    Boggy: Chester in possession. It''s astounding how well they''re keeping the ball, now. Green, Youngster, and Best are passing the ball around like Xavi, Iniesta, and the other one. Best, now. Sprays a pass wide right! Behind the defence. Best has been looking for that pass three times a minute since he came on! Hayward sprints, gets there, tries a cross. Keeper catches. It''s crazy. I wish Spectrum were here to explain it but it looks like Best has told Hayward to keep sprinting at the left back to wear him out. Why? Are we set for a barnstorming finale? We can''t be! But bit by bit, Aldershot are retreating. Like the good military club they are, it''s an orderly retreat. But Chester are suddenly sharp in the tackle. They''re winning headers they weren''t before; they''re fastest to the second balls. I look around and the team makes sense. There''s danger from the wings and solidity in the centre. Ryder wins a header. Moore challenges. All a bit scrappy. James Wise puts Best in a bit of trouble with a loose pass. Best with a man at his back - nutmeg! And Best is away. He''s gliding across the pitch. Look at him go! The fans are off their feet. On their feet. Best feints to hit Aff, sways right, plays it ten yards behind the left back. Hayward is after it... Fouled! He''s fouled again! The left back looks ragged. Yellow card! At last the referee finds his pocket. Yellow card and a free kick in a dangerous position. Naysmith took some good dead balls in the first half but the true master is back in the saddle. Best spots the ball. He''s to the right of the penalty box. Perfect angle for a whipped-in cross. Or will he try a cheeky near-post shot?


    [We see the women hopping and bouncing on the railing.]


    Boggy: Lots of movement in the penalty area. Best steps up - Ryder! Hits the crossbar! Scrambled away. Lyons is alert. His shot''s blocked. Hoiked clear. Could be dangerous? No - Best''s flying across the pitch. He shoulder-barges the striker - wow! Away he goes! Best smoothly turns goalwards. He looks left and right. He signals Hayward on the wing. But he shoots! What a save! Tipped over the bar! Best shot from all of fifty yards and it was going in! He really looks in the mood and the team are responding. His team. His players. There''s no-one on that pitch he doesn''t want on that pitch. He''s got a big grin on his face as he goes to take the corner. It''ll be an outswinger. Youngster and Eddie Moore are back in case of counters. Everyone else is in the box. Best - oh! Massive header from Carl Carlile but it flashes wide. Best not in a hurry to get back to midfield, and Aldershot aren''t in a hurry to take this goal kick. And how quickly the game changes! Now they''re worried. Now they''re time-wasting!


    [We see and hear the women hurling abuse at the goalkeeper. Sample text: Hurry up, you twat.]


    Best walks down the line. As he goes, his smile turns into a frown. He pauses in front of Aldershot''s manager and asks a question. The manager shrugs in response. Best laughs and calls out to Sandra Lane, his assistant. Best turns back to his rival manager and seems to say, "Sorry."


    [We cut to the women, who are restlessly jiggling up and down. As one, they nod their heads like they''re going for a header. They arch their back ready to celebrate, they relax, they break into a smile. They''re living every header, every kick, every shot.]


    Boggy: Chester making their final change. It''s young William Roberts, WibRob, making his second appearance for the first team. The third match of his career. But first Best sprints to Wes Hayward and gives him a huge, huge bear hug. His has been a mixed display, it''s fair to say, but no-one can deny his effort. WibRob will play now against a tired defender who is on a yellow card. Fifteen minutes to go and the home fans are making some noise. It seemed like a lot of people had left but they''re back in their seats and while the result is another poor one, there are signs of life in Chester''s season.


    An aerial shot shows that Aldershot have fallen into a low block and every Chester player bar Ben is in Aldershot''s half.


    Boggy: Here''s where I need Spectrum. Are Aldershot sitting back because the match is over or because we''ve forced them back? I think it''s the latter but I can''t tell. WibRob miscontrols. Best is there to recover the ball. Back to Carlile. Youngster. Green. Youngster again. He signals. Chester''s players drop five yards deeper but I don''t think Aldershot will fall for it. Best, huge grin on his face, sweeps left, demands, and gets, the ball. Off he goes, stabbing at the heart of the defence. There''s - there''s eight defenders between him and goal, so quite what he thinks - oh, here come the kick-ups! He''s doing kick-ups, taunting the defenders, and they can''t do anything about it because a free kick there would be deadly. Best lets the ball drop. What''s next? Putting his knee on the ball, isn''t it? These tricks normally work best when the team isn''t three-nil down and there''s more time. Only about twelve minutes to go. Best exchanges passes with WibRob. Another one? No! Ball clipped over the defenders. Carl Carlile is thundering ahead! It''s like last year''s Chester, this. Carlile, low cross, Lyons competes, smuggled clear, Wise slides in, pops the ball to Best. He chips over the defence. Dubhlain is there on the volley!


    [The women jumping around, hugging, arms raised in jubilation, pints of coke flying.]


    Text: Chester 1 - 3 Aldershot


    Wide shot: The Chester players go to the left of the Harry McNally terrace to celebrate with the fans. Max watches, thoughtfully. The camera adjusts to follow him as he goes to the right of the stand. He says something to some fans there.


    ***


    Selfie cam: Angel


    "What''s happening? This is too much. We''ve gone from looking like relegation certs to the best team in the world. We''re amazing! The crowd are up for this one. There''s something weird in the air. I don''t know. It''s kind of scary." She blinks and wonders if she''s sure she wants to continue. She looks at the pitch. We can guess she''s looking at Max. "I don''t think the gaffer came to lose, today."


    ***


    Close-ups of the action from the main stand side of the pitch. WibRob holding off his marker and passing to Best. Best lazily waiting for a tackle to come before passing to WibRob. A feint, a pass, more opponents drawn close, but the Chester pair have the ball on a string. They threaten to pass Aldershot to death but Best boops the ball through a defender''s legs and chases after it.


    Boggy: Best launches another thrust! He tries to find Lyons but the centre back gets there first. He absolutely leathers the ball downfield! Carlile takes a quick throw up the line towards WibRob. The youngster lets the ball bounce once. His marker comes to compete but WibRob lifts the ball ten yards square - he knew Best would be there. Best takes a touch, hits a dipping, curving ball to the left. Surge of excitement from the fans! Dubhlain meets it on the full, first time volley into the centre, Lyons diving header, goal! Goal for Chester! What a beauty!


    [The women are one mass of bodies in amongst a thousand more. Limbs everywhere. Boggy''s voice continues.]


    "The ball didn''t touch the floor from the minute it left WibRob''s boot and Chester are back in this. They''re back in this and they''re absolutely flying. The noise is unreal. Henri Lyons is back in the team and back in the goals. It was a wicked cross from Aff but Lyons had a lot to do and he bravely flung himself at it."


    Text: Chester 2 - 3 Aldershot.


    [Again, most Chester players run to the left of goal, following Henri. But Max waits and as the celebrations start to die down, he approaches the fans to the right.]


    "What''s happening in the Harry McNally terrace? Some kind of trouble in the stand. There''s quite a lot of pushing and shoving. Oh, and now someone has thrown something at Max Best! Oh, no. It seems... it seems to be okay but the other players are rushing across. Best tells them to stop. It looks like he''s got a phone. Someone threw a phone at him. Best says something into it." A feral cry comes from the stand. "Max Best boots the phone onto the roof of the stand! He took the phone and kicked it onto the roof of the stadium. What on earth is that all about? The fans there are going crackers. There''s a ferocity to it that''s hair-raising."


    The angle has changed because the camera crew have repositioned themselves behind the women, feeling it''s slightly safer at the back. As such, they get a great shot of Max Best leaping onto the advertising hoarding - held in place by Zach Green and Henri - and him pointing at someone in the crowd and screaming at the top of his lungs. Despite its evident volume, we don''t hear it over the frantic roar of the rest of the stadium. It''s only as other players and the nearby fans join in that we begin to hear the edges of what''s being said.


    And only when virtually the entire Harry McNally joins in that we hear it with true, terrifying clarity.


    "You''re not fit.


    You''re not fit.


    You''re not fit to wear the shirt!"


    The song sweeps around the Deva until at least two thousand voices are raised. Someone tries to rush towards the stairs and there''s a surge of bodies. The camera picks up more commotion and suddenly a Chester top is flung from the middle of the throbbing mass. It''s thrown towards the front until it''s finally handed to Max.


    He drops to the pitch and runs behind the goal holding the kit above him like a revolutionary flag while his team follows in his wake. He shows his trophy to the west stand and sprints across the pitch to display it to the main stand. He defiantly thrusts it at the executive box and starts yet another new chant. Again, it is taken up and spreads like wildfire.


    "Chester!


    Not for sale!


    Chester Chester not for sale!"


    Best hands the tarnished kit to the Brig, gets a yellow card for some reason, and retakes the pitch with firepits instead of eyes.


    ***


    Kisi, Bonnie, and Charlotte are arm-in-arm, one unit. "Chester! Not for Sale!"


    Femi is standing like a hooligan on a train platform. Arms high, wide, and defiant. "Chester Chester not for sale!"


    Diane, Lucy, and Robyn have their arms around Pippa, who is crying tears of triumph.


    A step behind, for once trying not to be noticed by the camera, is Angel. She''s watching Max Best''s every move, cheeks slightly flushed.


    ***


    A drum beat slides into existence. Military drums. Dum dum dum dum. It''s leading somewhere. Rising to a climax.


    Chester players are passing left and right, going through the drills they practice every day. Eddie finds Aff and sprints forward. Aff eases the ball to James Wise. Wise checks - Eddie''s marked. He turns and slips it to Youngster. He lays it first time to Max. The drums speed up. Best simply plays his part in the drill. The drums ease off. WibRob exchanges passes with Carl Carlile. The drum beat loses a few joules of energy. Aldershot''s exhausted left back tries to barrel into the back of WibRob, but the kid shrugs him off, turns down the line, and accelerates away. He''s faster than he looks and the defender can''t foul him; he''s on a yellow!


    The drums go mental.


    WibRob dribbles. A defender slides in but he dabs the ball over the tackle, hurdles the leg...


    [The women leap and bounce and fling their arms up.]


    Henri rushes to be useful. Aff powers to the far post. Even James Wise decides it''s time to make a rare penalty box entry. Aldershot are shot. Their defenders are guessing. Their structure has been annihilated and their only hope is the final whistle.


    WibRob blasts a pass diagonally backwards. Henri can''t do anything with it so he lets it go through his legs. Max Best is there! He collects with a perfect first touch that takes him past two defenders. His second is heavy and allows the goalie the chance to come off his line and narrow the angle. Max will get a shot away, at least...


    [The noise reduces to an echoing silence as we see freeze frames of the members of the women''s team. Femi''s ready for battle. Lucy''s got her hand up behind her like she''s a jockey and she''s hitting a horse. Charlotte is on her toes and her head is forward like she''s embodying the process of a dinked shot. Bea Pea is already celebrating. Angel''s knuckles are clamped around a railing and her eyes are huge as she drinks it all in.]


    In slow motion, we see Max go for the dink Charlotte wanted. The keeper''s momentum is taking him towards Max and his arms shoot out above him trying to block as much of the goal as poss. A normal shot will slam into his body. The dink has a fair chance of hitting an arm.


    The shot...


    Never comes.


    Max''s momentum takes him another stride forward, and suddenly he has an open goal. He passes the ball into the back of the net. It''s that simple. He doesn''t break stride to do anything as gauche as check his work, though. He keeps running and leaps into the crowd. A hundred grown men throw out their arms to embrace him. A thousand more surge closer. They roar - it''s joy with no small amount of rage - and the volume only increases as other players arrive to join in.


    At the top of the stand, twenty-five women and their partners go utterly berserk.


    The celebrations continue almost until full time.


    The final score is three-all, but for years people talk of the day Chester beat Aldershot.


    ***


    Medium close-up: Angel


    Text: Angel, Striker, Number Ten


    Angel''s in a new location. It looks like it might be a coffee shop. She''s in her Chester tracksuit, ready for the first game of the season. She''s looking around, either because she''s very interested in what''s on the walls or because she''s not very interested in the camera.


    The producer asks, "Do you still want to be an influencer?"


    Angel doesn''t seem to hear, at first, but then she processes the question and her eyebrows shoot up. "An influencer?" She smirks. "Yeah. I want to lift my team mates. Lift my club. Wrap a whole stadium around my little finger." She scoffs and shakes her head. Quietly, she mumbles, "I won''t underestimate him again." She shakes her head again as she adjusts on the chair. "I feel sorry for Merseyrail. I honestly do. The girls are wound up and they''re gonna go off like a rocket." She pushes her lips together and smiles. She blinks and unclips her lapel microphone as she slides off the chair. She pauses. "Erm... are you still rolling?"


    "Yeah."


    Angel sits for a while, lost in thought. Finally, she slides back. "Let''s do that one again. You might want to get tight on this shot." She tries to stop herself smirking, which is inexplicably hard. She closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and gets to some sort of normal expression. She lifts the lapel microphone about a foot in front of her mouth. She looks right down the lens. "The girls are wound up... and they''re gonna go off like a rocket." She smoulders at the camera as it zooms in...


    And the screen fades to black.

 8.13 - Winner Is Coming

    13.


    Monday, September 9


    There was a fair amount of excitement in the large meeting room at BoshCard, mostly centred around the fact I''d plugged my laptop into the AV equipment. Max Best would speak without the use of flipcharts! What could prompt him to step into the future like this?


    In addition to the usual staff, I''d also invited MD, Brooke, and Trish and Pete from the kitchen. Livia must have told Jackie that something was up because he had invited himself. There was no-one from the board but otherwise it was pretty much a full house.


    The clock struck 8:40, which is when I''d told everyone I wanted to start. I waited.


    The players began murmuring. I had many faults as a manager but bad timekeeping wasn''t one of them. The lads got louder as they speculated on what I was doing, but their conversations quickly turned to the three-all win against Aldershot. Did you hear that crowd? Wasn''t that amazing? Epic. Deadly. I heard someone say it was like being in Game of Thrones and I winced. Then there were the guys talking about the women''s match. What got into them? Seven-nil! Merciless. Unreal. Deadly. Who saw that coming? wondered someone, and I winced again. I did! I told you!


    The door opened and Emma came in. All eyes turned to her. "You didn''t wait for me, did you?"


    I smiled and stood up. "All right we''re starting late so let''s barrel through this." Brooke had lent me a little clicker thing that allowed me to control the PowerPoint while walking around like a real b-boy.


    I paused and thought about what I wanted to say; I hadn''t rehearsed it.


    "Eight points from eight games. From the outside that looks pretty grim, but we''re not outside. We''re inside. From where I''m standing, I''m satisfied. I know how hard it''s been to get going. At the start of the season I outlined my vision. I want to update that vision based on how things have gone so far."


    "Rustle rustle crunch crunch crunch," said Emma, louder than the Deva after I''d scored our third goal.


    "Come on, babes," I said.


    "Wha?" she said, pausing with a crisp hovering one inch away from a mouth that was already full of crisps. She squeezed that one in and put the packet down.


    I stood blankly as she crunched a few more times. "I''ve lost my train." I clicked to the next slide, the first real one of my presentation. It was a picture of seals but each one carried a sword and helmet, a magical staff, or a bow. In huge fantasy book cover lettering were the words A STORM OF SEALS. "We''re doing a Game of Thrones theme this week. You''ll see why in a minute. If you haven''t read the books or watched the show, don''t worry. Oh, and don''t bother, either. They, er... Hey, babes. Why don''t you shove some more crisps in you?" Her eyebrows shot up and she took the opportunity. I looked around the room. "If you''re thinking of watching it, don''t bother. They absolutely trashed it in later seasons. Emma gets weirdly angry when I complain about it, which is maybe because she wanted to do a Game of Thrones tour around Northern Ireland and instead of helping her book the trip I went on an extended, visceral rant about the later seasons once they ran out of book. The quality of dialogue, the patent lack of effort, and you know what? Just don''t watch it. The last two seasons are utter dogshit."


    I clicked. The next slide was an image of Westeros, the fantasy land the story is set in.


    "This is where Game of Thrones happens. It''s the British Isles, but Ireland is upside down and Scotland is turned around." I clicked and seven football club logos appeared on the map. "There are seven kingdoms in Game of Thrones. We''ve got seven main rivals."


    Zach said, "Why is the Dallas Cowboys badge on there?"


    "Because it''s funny," I said. "And because you''re not supposed to pay that much attention. We''ll come back to our rivals in a bit. What about us? Are there any similarities between us and the cast of Game of Thrones?" I clicked and there was immediate laughter. I''d put a bald character called Varys next to a picture of Jackie Reaper. "Settle down. For those of you who don''t know, this guy''s called Varys. Early in the story he meets a beautiful sorceress who takes pity on him and asks him on a date. It''s one of the most unrealistic parts of the story because there''s hot guys everywhere and you''re always thinking she could do better."


    "I don''t remember Varys having a girlfriend," said Jackie.


    "Oh, she''s not in the TV version."


    "I''ve read the books."


    "She''s not in the books, either. She''s in the MBU version."


    "MBU?"


    "Max Best Universe. That''s where I watch content and tell Emma how I would make it better. Next." I clicked. "Davos Seaworth is the Brig. Very capable, very loyal, and his main character development is that his grammar improves through the story." The Brig gave a tiny shake of the head. "Sandor Clegane, the warriorest warrior. Obvs Glenn Ryder. Sam Topps is Ned Stark. Killed off way earlier than you expected. Don''t know this guy''s name. He''s so old he''s sort of fused with a tree. Got to be Ryan Jack. MD is Jorah Mormont. He''s found this hotshot young winger who''s got dragons, and he''s like, I think this is good? Dragons. Winger. Do you get it? Grey Worm is Youngster. Super fighter, talented, falls in love with a butcher."


    "You''re not even trying, now," said Emma.


    "Who am I?" said Henri.


    "You''re Hodor," I said. Then I had a better idea. "You''re Tom Bombadil." Henri, of course, understood my reference to a character so bizarre that Peter Jackson erased him from his sixty-hour movie adaption of Lord of the Rings. I thought it was funny to liken Henri to an annoying guy from a completely different universe and Henri agreed - his head rocked back as he laughed.


    "Who''s Zach?" said Brooke.


    "Too easy," I said. "Zach is Tyrion Lannister. He''s rich, he''s secretly got good skills - leadership skills, too - but his big mouth gets him into trouble wherever he goes." Zach loved this. I could have gone on for ages and they''d have eaten it up. "Right, no more comparing people to characters," I said. I clicked and there was a collage of about thirty players and staff with their Game of Thrones equivalents. I let it stay up for about one and a half seconds and then clicked through. There was uproar. "Guys," I said, trying to get some quiet. "This is a meeting. We''re at work. Stop hollering."


    "Who are you?" said MD.


    "I''m George Arrrrrrr Martin," I said.


    Emma stood, wiped crumbs from her, and said, "He''s the leader, the hero, a gruff northerner, and he came back from the dead. Who do you think?"


    MD smiled at her. "If he¡¯s Jon Snow, that makes you..."


    I stepped forward and pulled Emma into a hug. "She''s muh queen. She''s muh queen." That got a good reception from people who didn''t know the TV show and a better one from people who had seen it. "Good. Now, if I''m Jon Snow - which I''m not, as you''ll see in a minute - then my family motto is Winter Is Coming." I clicked to the next slide. It was three words in the Game of Thrones font.


    Winner Is Coming


    I took a few steps and paused, once again making sure my thoughts were in some sort of order. "The point of Game of Thrones is that everyone is flawed. Some characters are too noble, too stubborn, some are too arrogant, they drink too much, they fall in love with the wrong hot priestesses. All that fun stuff. We''re something like that right now. A very flawed team which needs a lot of luck to get results. We''ve been making lots of mistakes that cost us goals. Like loads of these characters, we make life hard for ourselves. But there is a team in the Game of Thrones universe that''s effective." I clicked to show a picture of the ''White Walkers''. "Fucking ice zombies, mate. They go to Hardhome and get an easy three points. They sign a few giants and recruit some Exit Trialists. These pricks are led by this chap." Click. "The Night King. Rhymes with the right wing. He''s the single most powerful character in the story and he makes his team too cold to handle. Some of you aren''t getting it. This is me. Think about it. What''s humanity''s defence against the ice zombies? A big wall. This guy''s like me taking a free kick. The wall does nothing!" I clicked - the next slide was the Winner Is Coming one again. I strode around a bit. "We''re going to be an ice zombie army for a while. You plus me is a team that can compete in this league. We need to get to the point where you can win a playoff match without me. That''s still the goal. But I''m looking at the league table and I''m thinking... Do I need to change my plan?"


    I walked around for a bit.


    "We were unlucky with Grimsby. Marcus Wainwright wanted a transfer - he didn''t ask for one because then he''d have lost loads of bonuses and shit. But he made it very clear he wanted to leave and Grimsby were willing to let him go for the right price. He got injured, though, so he''s stuck there. As you''ve seen, he''s gone back in the team and he''s taking his frustrations out on goalkeepers. The guy''s class and the team looks mint. They''re smashing the league up. But everyone else... it''s mayhem. It''s chaos. Barnet beat Forest Green and Forest Green beat Solihull and Solihull beat Alty and so on and so on." I shook my head. "There''s a character in Game of Thrones who says chaos is a ladder. And he''s right. If we focused totally on the league, I think we''d finish second."


    The mood in the room had been amused, mild interest, but that last word made people sit up, big time. "Second?" said MD.


    I nodded. "Yeah. Now, everyone knows I haven''t been too bothered about the recent defeats because we need to blood the young players and later in the season we''ll go on a winning run and we''ll finish seventh. The only difference between finishing second and seventh is you play one less playoff game if you''re second and you get home advantage. I''m not bothered about playing away - I''m a fucking ice zombie, lads. Scream at me all you want I''ll still absolutely dick you. So it''s not worth burning our stamina for eight months to move from seventh to second. It really isn''t. We need to be at full strength in the last games. That much is still true. But looking at how all these teams are tearing into each other... I want us to have the option to finish second or third. The option. Let it be our choice. Right now I''d be happy with a cup win and getting minutes into loads of youth team players, like I said at the start. Do all our secondary goals, finish seventh, win the FA Trophy and the playoff final, both at Wembley. I just can''t help shake the feeling that we can do all that and finish higher in the league.


    "So I want us to pick up the pace. Five wins from the next seven before our first FA Cup match.


    "That starts with Eastleigh at home this Saturday. This is a must-win match for lots of reasons, so we''re going to go hard on the preparations. One of the reasons it''s a must-win is that we have a special guest." I pointed to the screen. "Winner Is Coming. No, I''m not telling you who it is but believe me, you''ll want to do your best out on that pitch. I can promise you a fucking Max Best masterclass, that''s for sure."


    "Max," said MD.


    "Right, right. I promised I''d clarify that it isn''t Taylor Swift. It''s not Taylor Swift, guys. Don''t go hyping up the mystery guest on your socials without clarifying that it isn''t Taylor Swift. The police can''t deal with an incursion of Swifties."


    MD stepped forward. "But don''t deny it so hard that people start to think we''re hiding the truth that it really is her!"


    "I like Taylor Swift," I said. "I watched a four-hour livestream of her that kept getting interrupted by the Super Bowl. Where was I? Special guest. Play good and win." Click. "Eastleigh play three at the back with Trick Williams on the bench so they can switch things up. Mostly they play 3-5-2." I walked across the front of the screen so I could point to it from the other side. "They''ve got a good midfield. At the moment we would struggle to match them. So 3-5-2''s out. So what do we do? You guys know I love a DM, and I especially love it against 3-5-2. I''m not too fussed about winning the possession battle in this one. We can let Eastleigh have the ball. So if we''re not too bothered about midfield - "


    I paused because Sandra Lane let out a little whelp. Everyone looked at her but she only had eyes for me. "Really?"


    I grinned and clicked to show everyone the formation we would use for the first time. "4-2-3-1, baby! The Lane-sters send their regards! Whoo!"


    "Ems," I said. "Look how beautiful it is. Flat back four, two DMs, three CAMs, one striker. Absolutely magnificent."


    Emma frowned. "I''ve seen this one before. You said you hated it."


    I did a cheeky, impish grin. "No, that was a different one. This one was love at first sight. Even better, it was lust at first sight."


    Henri said, "No more insights into your inner workings, please Max."


    "It''s almost a false midfield," I said, mostly to Jackie and Sandra. "We can let Eastleigh have sterile possession. When they attack, we''ll have six back. When we counter it''ll be four against three. It''s not how Pep uses it, but this is what we''ll do on Saturday. Eastleigh won''t have a fucking clue what''s hit them." I shook my head. "Sometimes I''m rather brilliant. Yes, well done, Max. But there''s one tiny problem - with no-one on the central midfield row we need to play longer passes to get the ball up top. To make this work we need players in the back six who can progress the ball. Hands up if you know a defender who can pass through the lines?" Instead of putting his hand up, Glenn gripped Zach''s shoulder and jiggled him. "Yeah. My top target from the summer opens up new tactical possibilities. It''s almost like I know what I''m doing. Brooke, stick that on the socials. The only question, then, is where I should play. My instinct is the left DM. Zach can pass right, I''ll do the left. But if I ever accidentally said I maybe hated this formation or whatever it''s because it''s got no width. To get the most out of the shape, we need the full backs to get forward. That''s why I''m thinking about playing right-back. I could whizz up and down the line and give them an extra headache. Especially if they bring Trick Williams on. Can you imagine me doing my mystery winger shit against him? I probably can''t be arsed defending for ninety minutes, though, so I might make this switch for like five minutes before half time to mess up their team talk. That means I''ll probably have Magnus as the starting right back so that if I want to switch from DM to RB we can do that seamlessly. Means a reshuffle in defence but that''s the great thing about leading a pack of fearless, selfless ice zombies. An ice zombie doesn''t care who drops out of the starting eleven to make this plan work." I looked at Glenn Ryder. He was likely to be the fall guy. "Do you?"


    He counted to three before saying, "If I''m not playing on Saturday I''ll train even harder."


    I smiled. "Top Chesterness. But I genuinely haven''t decided. We''re going to do our drills and play mini-games while I try things out. Sandra''s the expert on this formation so I''ll be leaning on her this week. I just wanted to let you know where my mind''s at for this particular match and how that fits into this coming stretch of the season."


    "Who''s playing as the CAMs?" said Pascal.


    "Depends who trains well," I said, not looking at the prick. "But I want to start with WibRob." That got a hell of a reaction from the man in question. "William, mate, you have a chance at this but I can''t have you sprinting around for twenty minutes and being too gassed to even walk for the rest of the half. This week I want you to show me you can conserve energy in the practice matches. You with me? I want you explosive on the ball. If you chase a guy for fifty yards and slide in and win the ball and get a standing ovation, you''ll be down the tunnel before the applause has finished. I don''t want that. I want your energy on the ball and nowhere else. Do you understand what I just said?"


    His face had split. Happy bunny. "Yes, boss."


    "Wisey, we''ll see how you get on today and tomorrow - I''m not sure there''s a natural position for you in this formation but I''ll be happy to be proven wrong. Either way, you''ve come up north to help us out and we''re grateful and I know you''re not seeing your family as much as you''d like. Why don''t you go back down home after training tomorrow and on Saturday, come up with Eastleigh like in the old days? I''ve spoken to their manager and he''s fine with it. Always a spot on the bus for old Wisey, he said. So you''ll travel back with them, too, which will be awkward if we''ve just smacked them up. But you''ll get, like, five or six days with your family. What do you think?"


    The guy looked around. "Is this part of the Game of Thrones thing? I get on the Eastleigh bus and realise they''re all wearing chainmail?"


    "No. Go see your family. That''s an order. Unless you don''t want to. In which case, no biggie. But it''s all arranged. Or at least, it''s arranged that the Brig can arrange it. Talk to him after."


    "Aren''t you worried I''ll tell them your plans?"


    "Our plans, Wisey. Our plans. No I''m not because as soon as you start talking about ice zombies they''ll stop listening. Anyway, what are you going to say? Max Best is going to play DM, right-back, and mystery winger?" I looked up and to the right as I tried to imagine how Eastleigh''s manager would respond. "You know what, tell them. I''d be interested to hear their plan to stop me. I might learn something."


    Wisey took out his phone, but slipped it into his pocket again. Texting his wife could wait a few more minutes. His morale had increased two levels, so he was unusually bubbly as he said, "If they ask I''ll tell them you''re planning 4-4-2 keep it tight first ten. That''s about their limit when it comes to, you know, story-based footballing."


    I smiled. "What else? I''m 95% sure it''ll be Eddie Moore starting, Cole Adams on the bench. So Josh, you can do extra sessions. I''ll be talking to Sandra through the week and we''ll keep you all posted about any adjustments we make. Be prepared for anything. That''s it. You can go."


    "Hang on," said Emma. "You made me skip breakfast for this. Why am I here?"


    I went back into my Jon Snow impression. "You''re muh queen. Mukweeen!"


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Emma looked at the ceiling and puffed her cheeks. "You know nothing, Max Best. I''m going to Bosh Bistro."


    Pete stood up. "Coming."


    "Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said, palms out. "I thought we agreed on Best''s Bistro. Second choice, Veganorama."


    "That lady from BoshCard paid for naming rights," said Trisha. She was a steely but maternal older woman who didn''t talk much except in her own domain.


    "How much?"


    "New coffee machine," said Pete. "She didn''t like what we were serving."


    I stood there in mock disbelief as everyone filed out.


    Everyone... except one.


    ***


    As I was unplugging my laptop and gathering the cables and all that, Pascal came over. He was in his deeply annoying Bad Boy get up and he spoke with what I thought was deliberate rudeness.


    "Who''s the special guest?"


    "I can only tell you who it isn''t," I said, not looking at him.


    "I want to play CAM."


    "Okay."


    "I am perfect for this system."


    I zipped up my laptop case and looked around. I thought about it and unzipped the case. The clicky thing was Brooke''s; I needed to give it back. I took it in hand and blinked with surprise to find Pascal still there.


    "I want to play," he repeated.


    "I want authors to finish the series they start," I said, "but it ain''t gonna happen. Artists gonna art."


    "Will I be on the bench?"


    "No."


    "When will I be allowed back in the team?"


    I gave him a disgusted look. "When you grow up."


    He seethed for a brief moment, then tried to get a grip on his face. "You, me, and William would be devastating in the CAM role."


    I nodded. "Big slaps."


    "Then why not use me? Are you so stubborn you would rather be fired?"


    "Yep. But tell me. We''re the CAMs. Who''s the striker?"


    He looked left and right, sensing there was a right answer and a wrong one. "Our senior striker, of course."


    "Can''t even say his name. That... That''s poor."


    "If I am not to play, why am I still here?"


    I put the laptop case down. "That''s a good question. I sort of thought you might realise you were being a fucking prick but you''ve doubled down on it. So, yeah. Why are you still here?"


    "You should put me on the transfer list."


    If I made him available for transfer, that would let him keep certain bonuses and payments. If he asked to leave the club, he would lose them. At his salary level, it didn''t amount to much, but it was the principle. "No, I won''t do that. That would put the word Chester next to your name on the transfer record. Like with Raffi. People still come to me and say, if you''re so principled why did you take that Saudi money? I tell them I didn''t have a choice but the word Chester is there on the page, isn''t it? From Chester, to Saudi. It''s like a little seal of approval."


    "You don''t want your name next to mine?"


    "Not really, no. You go off to some club, you play five games, everything''s going great. Wow, this kid can play! But then - disaster."


    "Disaster," he repeated, flat.


    "Yeah, one of the lads gets a new girlfriend and you go fucking apeshit. He didn''t ask your permission first, did he? How fucking dare he?"


    Pascal clenched his fists and looked like he might have a pop at me. "That''s not how it was!"


    "It is. I''ve just realised why you haven''t been able to put this behind you. It''s because you''re King Joffrey. You''re spoiled and entitled and if I let you on that pitch you''ll tear down everything I''ve built. So, no. You won''t play CAM and you won''t get a transfer. I''ll release you from your contract and you can find a new club."


    He turned slightly pale. "You''ll release me?"


    "Yep. No need to wait till the transfer window. If we let you go you can find a new club. One where all the other players are eunuchs, maybe, like the Unsullied from Game of Thrones, although they have a no dickheads rule of their own." It was strange, the sense of relief I felt from saying this. Pretty much the worst solution to the problem, but a solution of sorts. We would be able to move ahead, finally.


    I glanced up and noticed from a great distance that Joffrey''s eyes were filmy. "I''ve trained so hard," he said.


    "When we met I tried to make sure you understood there was more to life than football. Asking a girl out and watching her choose someone else is brutal but it''s a chance to learn and grow as a person. You chose not to do that and, yeah. You''ve wrecked your career at this club. You have to start again. Again."


    "Am I fired? Did you just fire me?"


    He looked like he might have a panic attack; I took pity on him. "No, mate. You''ve got a long-term contract and in the eyes of the world, you haven''t done anything wrong. Like, legally. You have to agree to the contract termination so don''t worry about being penniless. We can wait till you find a new club and then sign the release forms. You can still train as long as you don''t do anything against team spirit or you can spend your days working the phones. Whatever you want."


    "I want to leave."


    "Fine. Done."


    "But - "


    I lifted my case. "I''ll be there that day. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. But we''re done, here. I need to learn this new formation." I looked at him. The kid had proved himself as a footballer; he would be fine. And when he had played for me, he''d played his heart out. He had to die, but it was a good death. I felt magnanimous. I tried to remember what they said in Game of Thrones when one of the good guys was killed off. "Oh, Pascal?"


    "Yes?"


    I nodded at him. "Your watch has ended."


    ***


    Saturday, September 14


    Match 9 of 46: Chester vs Eastleigh


    I sat in the manager''s room with Sandra and took stock.


    XP balance: 4,642


    I''d gathered enough XP to buy the Fantastic Four perk, but decided against it. Being able to closely track four players from other clubs was intriguing and something I''d be interested in buying one day in the future, but I wanted to keep my options open.


    Another perk had landed.


    Special Day Special Offer


    New perk available for the month of September: Birthday Bonanza


    Cost: 999 XP


    Effects: Players with September birthdays will play slightly better in their birthday weeks.


    This was a strange one. At first, I wasn''t interested in it all that much but I did some digging and found that September is the month with the most birthdays. To be accurate, it''s third in that list but the two months ahead of it have an extra day. The top ten most common birthdays are all in September and the single most common birthday is September 9th, the very day the perk dropped.


    All in all it was tempting, but not quite tempting enough. I suspected that the imps wanted me to buy WibWob but were duty-bound to offer me perks I would find attractive. The word ''slightly'' in the description put me off, as did the fact it would affect one or two players in perhaps one or two games per season. Nah, I was happy to keep saving up.


    I mentally turned to my tactics screen. We were trying 4-2-3-1.


    We''d had another good week of training. Morale was up and attributes were green. Ben was in goal with a new personal best CA of 53. Just short of the 54 I thought was the bottom of the National League range.


    In defence we had Eddie Moore (52), Carl at left centre back (61), Zach (49), and Magnus (52). It was flirting with being a decent defence at this level, but still miles short of where I wanted it to be.


    Today it would be supported by two DMs: Youngster (57) and Max Best (a billion).


    As I''d suspected, neither James Wise nor Omari Naysmith did well in the DM or CAM roles, so the three forward midfielders were Aff (60), Sharky (31), and WibRob (28). Aff wasn''t at his best in the centre, while the other two were miles off National League level. Most of our threat with this system was the four-on-three overloads we could generate. In training, we created a lot of opportunities for Henri, who without being in the top ten trainers at the club had finally got his CA moving in the right direction. He was now CA 59 and would score if we got him enough chances.


    If we kept attacks quick and simple we would do a lot of damage and when Eastleigh responded we could switch to a more conventional formation. To that end I''d named an experienced bench - Sticky, Glenn, and Wisey. But we had Cole Adams and Tom Westwood, too. It was a good mix of options and Sandra was happy to sign off on the plan.


    All that was left now was to get on the pitch and see if I''d picked the right week to try a new formation.


    ***


    Boggy: Good, early possession from the Spitfires. They''re a decent side, aren''t they?


    Spectrum: Yep. Good on the ball. Very interesting we aren''t pressing them. I knew we would play this formation but we''re quite happy to let them have the ball in midfield. Not competing for it at all.


    Boggy: Max Best, captain for the day, looks quite content with the state of affairs. None of the wild emotion of last Saturday.


    Spectrum: Apparently they were doing Game of Thrones stuff all week.


    Boggy: Is that because of today''s special visitor? No, that doesn''t make sense. I have to say, if the rumours are true about who it is - interception from Youngster! He touches the ball to Best. Quick pass for Hayward to chase. He eats up the pitch! The crowd on their feet. Pauses. The momentum''s gone? Pass to WibRob, simple pass back in front of Hayward! He squares it! [Roar from the crowd. Happy profanities from Spectrum.] Goal! Wow! Goal for Chester. It was so simple!


    Spectrum: Not simple! Aff and Henri took positions in front of two of the centre backs. Max played it wide so Sharky would draw the third CB away. WibRob was free. He got the ball and waited a second so that Henri''s marker would be forced across. His pass took out two defenders, Sharky squared it, and Henri was free.


    Boggy: I don''t know. Sounds pretty simple to me.


    ***


    While their players screamed at the dugout begging their manager to make a change, we tore Eastleigh apart every time we got the ball. They resorted to fouling our attackers whenever we got near goal.


    One of the free kicks was in a perfect position for me to use Free Hit. Thirty-five yards from goal, a few yards to the right of the right-hand-side post. I thought about using Cupid''s Arrow to join me and Zach, but I decided against it.


    I placed the ball, waited for the referee to stop fussing around, and gave serious consideration to shooting. I had Eddie and Youngster as defensive cover on the halfway line, but I used Masterpiece Theatre to ask Youngster to move about five yards in front of me. He obeyed.


    I raised one arm. I raised the other. I turned around so I was facing Ben. I waved at him. I backheeled the ball to Youngster, turned the right way, and sprinted forward.


    Youngster rolled the ball to the side and I chipped it over the defence with a fuckton of back and side spin. The goalie thought about coming, the defenders grabbed onto our guys like they were lifejackets, the fans rose to their feet.


    Zach outmuscled his marker, leaped, and got a great head to the ball...


    He nodded it perfectly sideways. Sideways?


    Right into the path of the Sharknado. Wes lashed the ball into the unguarded goal and zoomed away in jubilation. His first goal for the club!


    While my team went nuts, I strolled off to the dugout. I glanced up at the executive box, blowing a little kiss. Then I fixed Sandra with a smile. "This formation isn''t for me."


    "Get back to work," she said. "And stop flirting with your guest. It''s not Taylor Swift, you know."


    I walked back to the DM slot. I''d found a sense of wonder I thought I''d lost. False midfields, putting your armies where your enemy had none. Being proactive, taking the high ground, taking the piss. All in front of thousands of fans. Eastleigh hadn''t brought many so the attendance figure would look bad, but a lot of home tickets had been sold since Aldershot. Word was out: Chester were back.


    Eastleigh''s manager sensed it. He went to a low block to limit the damage. He wanted to get to half time only two down. Maybe he could work out what we were doing and why.


    I switched us to 4-2-4 with WibRob as the second striker, and we camped out in front of Eastleigh''s goal. We probed and tested and dribbled and passed.


    It was so easy our standards started to slip.


    A defender headed the ball away and Youngster gleefully latched onto it and tried his luck from long range. I went mental. I grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him towards the dugout, screaming that if he did that again I''d bin him off and if he ever did it in an England shirt I''d lock him up for treason.


    Wes tried to dribble a defender, failed, and the guy came running at us, looking for options. WibRob stormed after him at high speed, slid in, and won the ball. The crowd went nuts but when I got the ball I blasted it out of the stadium and went at WibRob, red, neck veins bulging as I told him I was cross and maybe he would like to maybe not do that again, pretty please with a cherry on top.


    The standards went back up.


    Shortly before half time, I won a header, dinked the ball over another player, fizzed a quick triangle with Youngster and WibRob, shaped to do another chip over the defence, but instead hit a thirty-yard screamer into the top-right corner. The keeper should have saved it but he lost his footing just as I struck the ball.


    I gathered my naughty ducklings and took them over to the main stand to wave at the mystery guest.


    Three-nil at the break. The perfect time for the big reveal.


    ***


    "Whoo!" Zached Zach. "That''s what I''m talking about, fellas!"


    "Shut your loud fucking mouth, you prick," suggested Carl.


    "Yeah," said Eddie. "Scream quietly. Fuck sake."


    "Hold the door," said Henri, from out in the corridor.


    Zach shut his mouth for all of six seconds. "I got an assist!" he said, at what he thought was a normal volume.


    "Everyone quiet for a bit," I said. "I want to enjoy this feeling."


    "What feeling?" said Zach, but I chewed on my marathon paste and thought about the match. Sandra''s formation was flawed but the twin DMs created a vortex that was pretty hard to play through. Youngster was an interceptions genius and my anticipation was supernaturally enhanced. Eastleigh''s passing had become more and more desperate. "Sandra," I mumbled.


    "Yes, my king in the north."


    "What?"


    "Game of Thrones."


    "Oh, right. They''ll have to buff up the centre. I reckon they''ll do 4-5-1 or something like that and try to hit us from set pieces. What do you think?"


    "They might do 4-4-2 maybe."


    "Yeah, good call. Think about what we do if we take WibRob and Sharky off. WibRob first."


    "Yes, boss."


    The squad sat in relative harmony for a while. I looked around. Henri was talking to WibRob about the spaces he was taking up. Youngster was in discussion with Eddie Moore about something. Sticky was chiding Ben because Ben had lost concentration and a bouncing ball had nearly looped over his head.


    I closed my eyes.


    We were miles off the required level but on our day we had the weapons to hurt teams. If we could play like this at the start of the season, we could play like this at the end. It would have been better if we had forward players really suited to the CAM role, but we didn''t.


    On cue, the door opened and Pascal Bochum came in. He was dressed in his usual obnoxious Bad Boy outfit, but he had lost the non-stop arrogance he had been carrying around with him since Luisa had chosen someone else. His face, in fact, seemed cherubic. Youthful and innocent. "Mr. Best," he said. "The special guest is here." Obviously, someone had thought that since he wasn''t playing and wasn''t on the bench, Pascal would be the perfect person to show our VIP around. It was hard to argue the point, especially as I hadn''t told anyone I intended to let him go for free.


    "Show him in," I said.


    All noise stopped. Pascal stepped in and stood aside. A man with salt and pepper hair followed. Henri gasped. Vimsy''s jaw dropped.


    I got to my feet and went to shake the newcomer''s hand. He accepted, looked around, said, "Now this is real football."


    "Everyone," I said. "Winner is here. This is Dieter Bauer. World Cup winner as a player and manager. European Cup winner as player and manager. He''s the best player who has ever stepped foot in this stadium, and the best manager who ever came into this dressing room."


    "Oh, Max," he said, twinkling. "I thought that was you."


    "I''m proud to be number two on that list," I said. "You''ve set a high bar and I''ll try to catch up. But I won''t do it alone; let me introduce you to the key people. Sandra Lane."


    "Miss Lane," he said. "I know all about you. The winningest female manager of all time!"


    "Winningest?" I said, absolutely aghast.


    Zach stood. "Mr. Bauer played in Major League Soccer, boss. Sounds like he picked up some Americanisms."


    "Yeah, well. She is the winning... the winning... no, I can''t do it. Sorry. She''s fucking mint, I know that."


    Dieter smiled. "You are in a good place, I think, Miss Lane. You can learn a lot, here. But where will you go next? I am fascinated to learn this."


    Sandra flushed on the tops of her cheeks.


    "That''s Vimsy," I said. "Defensive coach. He does all the boring shit I''m not interested in."


    "Oh!" said Dieter, leaving my side to give Vimsy a big hug. He stayed by his side with his arm around him. "I had a few Vimsys in my time. Absolutely indispensable."


    Vimsy was close to tears. I gave him an affectionate smile before moving on. "That guy''s John Smith. He''s our head of performance. Tries to make sure everyone''s growing and improving."


    "Sports science," nodded Dieter.


    "No, it''s mostly haunted houses. Those guys are the physios. That guy Dean? I wanted to sack him about ten times but I''m starting to like him."


    Dieter''s head rocked back. "I knew you would be a wonderful man-manager when I saw how you dealt with Uli."


    "And the other one is Livia. You''ll meet her boyfriend tomorrow. He''s the man with the easiest job in football."


    "Oh? Isn''t that the goalkeeper for Chester FC?" He left Vimsy''s side and tapped the tactics board. "Very modern." He meant the formation, not the magnets.


    "We''re not quite ready for it," I said. "But I think as a shock tactic we do for ten minutes it''s really interesting."


    "It seems to me you''re ready for it!" said Dieter. "That was one of the most dominant halves of football I''ve ever seen." I snapped my head around. Our morale had shot to virtually the maximum. Dieter had influence 50, at least. He continued. "What is it you think you lack?"


    "Two of the CAMs aren''t really comfortable there," I said, tapping the board. "They''re doing a great job today but generally I don''t like square pegs in round holes."


    Henri ran his hand through his hair. "Herr Bauer, Max has the perfect CAM in the squad but refuses to play him."


    Anyone who could peel their gaze away from Bauer turned to the Frenchman. Most people knew that I was keeping Pascal out of the team because of his attitude towards Henri. Somehow, after everything, Henri still didn''t know. Dieter said, "Who do you mean?"


    "Why, your tour guide!" said Henri. "Pascal Bochum. He plays like Thomas M¨¹ller. Of course I wouldn''t wish for Aff or Sharky to be dropped," he added, glancing around. He didn''t mention WibRob, meaning he would be unhappy if he were dropped. The kid had barely played ninety minutes of professional football! "Max has frozen him out, alas." Henri finished with a string of poetic-sounding German, the massive show-off.


    Dieter looked at me but was too much of a gentleman to ask the question.


    "Pascal and I have beef," I said.


    "Beef?"


    "Yes."


    "Beef is bad?"


    "Roast beef is good. With mint sauce. Medium rare beef is good. This beef is bad. But," I said, since I was in a good mood, "he''s essentially a good young man. He''s top in the community. It''s not all tactics and formations around here. There''s a man I go to check on and last time I went, Pascal was already there checking on him."


    Pascal exploded with enthusiasm. "Clive O''Keefe, Herr Bauer! He coached at Stuttgart! Coached the Magic Triangle!"


    "Did he, indeed?" said Dieter. He looked from me to Sandra to Vimsy to the Brig. "It seems you are well-served with coaches at Chester Football Club."


    "Listen up," I said, switching to business mode. I''d been watching for the moment Eastleigh''s tactics changed. I gently eased the winningest German aside and moved the magnets around. "Eastleigh have switched to 4-3-3! They want to flood the centre!"


    Dieter''s genial facade melted away. He took on a hungry expression. "Have you got wingers?"


    "Wingers? We''ve got the best wingers in the league! We''ve got a fucking Sharknado!"


    His eyes shone. "Four-four-two!"


    "No!" I said, half-joking in my dismay. "The best ever non-Scottish manager doesn''t tell me to use four-four-two! Come on!"


    "I watched you with care, Max. You and..."


    "Youngster."


    "Youngster can hold the fort. Allow your wingers to run amok."


    We glared at each other, a pair of absolute savages. All kinds of sparks flew. The room filled with eldritch energy. Finally, I turned to look at Aff and Wes. "Guys. The best player you''ve ever met and the best manager you''ve ever met - they''re both him, by the way - wants you to run amok." I stepped closer. "He wants some fucking pandemonium!" I got in Aff''s face. "He wants you to fucking rip a hole in the space-time continuum!"


    "Yes!" said Aff, even though I hadn''t asked him a question. He was having some kind of out-of-body experience. "YEEESSSS!"


    "Get the fuck to work!" I screamed, and everyone just ran to the door. One second they were sitting, eating paste, the next they were sprinting through the door and onto the pitch, leaving a few stunned physios, shocked coaches, and one lonely space invader.


    "God, I have missed this," said Dieter. "I hate being an elder statesman."


    "Will you join us in the dugout?"


    "Aren''t there rules against it?"


    "The only rule around here is don''t kick a fan''s phone onto the roof and don''t tell people Taylor Swift is coming. Two rules. Oh, and don''t go to the corner. Ever."


    Dieter looked down, then up at me like a schoolboy. "I want to."


    I gripped him by the shoulders and looked around his head. There was no way we could pass him off as Jackie Reaper. "If anyone asks," I said, with total sincerity, "you''re my nutritionist."


    ***


    Sunday, September 15


    Sensational Seals Roll Double Sixes


    It was a weekend to remember for Chester FC as both senior teams hit their opponents for six.


    On Saturday, the men''s team demolished a good Eastleigh side as German World Cup legend Dieter Bauer watched from the dugout. A dominant first half was only the prelude to a second half full of bombast and swagger. The Spitfires couldn''t get off the runway as Max Best and Youngster snuffed out attacks and turned them into lightning fast counters. Counting Chester''s breaks needed a lot more fingers and toes than a humble reporter is born with. Breaks turned to shots and shots turned to goals as reliably as a German town hall clock. Best even played a ten-minute spell as right back, where his Trent Alexander-Arnold impression drew looks of disbelief from one of the sport''s truest legends.


    Three goals in the first half, three in the second, with more minutes on the pitch for newcomers Cole Adams and Tom Westwood. It''s scarcely believable that Chester''s young prospects are playing in front of World Cup winners, but that''s where the club is at. There was even time for a five-minute debut and clean sheet for Chester''s new goalkeeping coach, Steve ''Sticky'' Icke.


    And Bauer was present again today in Flint, where he witnessed more goals and another utterly dominant performance from the women''s team. They continued their awesome start to the season by putting six past Bury. Chester were ferocious in the tackle, smothered Bury''s attacks, and played with vim and vigour when in possession. Their season so far is thirteen goals scored (from two matches), none conceded, and some true fantasy football is being played.


    An ice-cold performance from the men followed by a fiery one from the women. It was, in fact, a story of ice and fire. Chester fans will be hoping Dieter Bauer, known in his homeland as ''Oathkeeper'' after delivering on his promise to win the World Cup, visits every week.

 8.14 - Be Gone, Yeah?

    14.


    Gardening glossary: hardening off. The process of moving plants from ideal growing conditions into a slightly harsher environment in order to prepare them for life in the cruel outside world.


    ***


    Wednesday, September 18


    It would be a warm day but it was still a cool morning. A slow morning. I watched a solitary cloud drift across the sky. Watched it for ages. It was going at the pace of a pensioner at a checkout on Saturday morning. Why couldn''t they go during the week and leave Saturdays for people who had normal jobs?


    A chill breeze hit my legs; I adjusted my blanket.


    The cloud drifted. Some old boy who''d been working for forty years. He''d always done his shopping on a Saturday and he didn''t want to change. Why should he change? Young people lived too fast anyway. They could learn a bit of patience. Wouldn''t do them any harm.


    The cloud kept going. It reminded me of Ryan Jack''s running style. Slow, slow, he''s never gonna get there - oh! He''s there.


    Another little gust caught me on the back of my neck. I wished I''d put a hoodie on. I wished a lot of things.


    Since getting cursed I''d been going at breakneck speed earning various forms of capital and my reward was the freedom to retreat from the world when times got tough. The financial and job security to do my sulking in private. Next time anyone saw me, I''d be positive and upbeat and ready for a new day and a new challenge.


    Today, though, I was allowed to wallow.


    It was a higher level of wallowing than I''d ever had in my life. I''d taken the day off work without telling anyone. I''d made myself a breakfast with nice ingredients from Waitrose. And now I was in my garden. My private garden where I had privacy and where I wouldn''t be disturbed. I could spend the day listening to old music, new music, texting my former players, looking for new ones, watching The Sopranos, eating expensive ice cream, or just watching a cloud slowly drift. I didn''t have lobster money. I didn''t have early retirement money. But I had lazy day in my garden money.


    A car came, crunching onto the gravel around Ruth''s drive. Voices - one male, one female. Footsteps. Footsteps getting closer.


    Into my private world, my private wallow, sauntered Henri Lyons - just the two scarves today - and his Portuguese paramour, Luisa. They were holding hands and looked very European in their sunglasses and bright, light clothes. The intrusion, plus their happiness, was deeply annoying.


    "Max!" said Henri, holding his hands out for a hug. I stayed where I was, tucked into my blanket like an old man.


    "Uh," I said, which was all the welcome I could muster.


    "What a nice day," he said, unaffected by the frosty reception.


    Luisa was far more sensitive. "Hello, mister," she said.


    "Yep," I agreed.


    "I would like to discuss one or two things and Luisa was intrigued to see where you live. May we join you?" said Henri, looking left and right. There was only one chair and I was sitting in it.


    I looked to my right. "Over there."


    Henri frowned. My chair was on a brand new piece of decking which curled around the side and front of the house. The sweep of wooden flooring - or its outline, since the project was nowhere near finished - ended in a pergola. At least, it would one day. Next summer, maybe. For now about a third of the decking was in place, along with four simple posts to represent where the pergola would go. At the end of this path, inside the pillars, was a table with the other three chairs from the set. Henri jogged across - nice to have so much energy after a tough away game - and came back. He placed the chairs facing each other. Luisa adjusted hers to be angled looking towards the stable, same as my chair, and after a tiny pause, Henri copied her.


    "This is very pleasant," said Luisa.


    I sighed. I didn''t want to talk to anyone but if I had to - and apparently I did - at least it was someone attractive. "It will be. I spent the whole summer working out what I wanted. Next year we''ll do the rest, and start planting. I reckon it''ll be good in, like, three years."


    "Are you talking about the garden," twinkled Henri, "or your team?"


    I glared at him. If he wanted to do some witty banter in front of his girl, he''d picked the wrong time. "The garden."


    He realised something was wrong, but he bounced to his feet and wandered around looking at the line of the decking. He knelt and touched the surface, looked along the edge, and up at the cottage. "What is the concept?" he said.


    "What makes you think there''s a concept?" I said.


    Henri smiled. "I see the hand of the creator, but you have terrible handwriting." Like all French people he believed you could understand someone''s personality from their handwriting and defended the use of graphology in professional settings like the hiring process. Amazingly, this belief was not even in the top ten most annoying things about him. Certainly not after last night. "Explain it to me."


    I swept my hand along the route of the decking. "Path of the sun. Breakfast area there. Glass of orange juice and the morning paper. Sun worshippers can move the furniture along and tan up. Or we can put a few different sets of chairs and loungers at key spots." I pointed downwards. "Eleven o''clock, cup of tea and a biccie." The deck ended a few yards away, but we had plotted out the rest with sticks and string. I pointed to a spot about ten yards away. "Four o''clock scone."


    "What about lunch?" said Henri, alarmed.


    "I''m not a barbarian; I don''t eat lunch outside." I tutted and nodded at the end of the path. "Then the last of the evening light over there. Pergola. Hammocks. I wanted one of those hanging chairs but they''re all shit."


    "And?"


    "What do you mean, and?"


    "There''s more. I know there''s more."


    I looked up, exasperated, but I noticed the cloud had gone. My lazy morning was over. Why? For a fucking chat? Henri was lucky he''d brought Luisa; she was the only thing keeping me civilised. "The spaces to the sides of the deck are for raised beds. Breakfast area will have spring plants. Round here it''ll be summer stuff. Autumn at the pergola. It''ll be like a living calendar. What date is it, Max? Oh, it''s the seventh of begonias."


    Henri grinned. "Wonderful."


    "Big hedges over there to shelter us from the rest of the world. This floor is level with the doors. It''ll be some old people living here one day. Ruth and the Brig, maybe. No trip hazards. Easy maintenance and planting. You could go mad with the planting or you could put begonias in and let them get on with it. I love begonias. I thought they were for old people but they''re one of the best things. Easy. Some things should be easy. The reward you get from begonias compared to the effort is off the scale. I want to be sponsored by begonias."


    Henri''s smile had diminished as I''d talked about my new favourite flower but like an uncertain begonia after a stormy day, it quickly came back into full bloom with no extra work needed. "It''s another masterpiece. The title-winning season, Silk! 2, and now this." He admired my vision for a while. "So you design it but Ruth pays."


    "No, I''m paying. It''s only fair. It''s sort of like paying rent but I can stop if money gets tight. But to be honest I''m only buying materials and the Brig does the work. Him and a bunch of guys, ah, from his old job. So that, you know, no-one in Chester knows where I live." That angry little sword thrust missed Henri but hit Luisa. She looked away. They were both wearing expensive clothes and accessories. Henri was rich enough for two.


    My financial situation was improving slowly but surely. I was getting 52 grand a year from Chester. Ziggy and Youngster were paying another six K. And our agency now had six clients and even though they were all young and not earning much individually, it added up. My cut of the agency''s cut came to over eight thousand a year. I''d told Ruth she could reinvest my share of the dividends until further notice. My only real liability was West Didsbury. I''d committed to putting in fifteen thousand a year but that was pretty easy. At some point, I would have to repay Mateo''s loan, but it didn''t seem like something out of reach or potentially ruinous. Especially the way West had started the season - they were almost as dominant as Chester''s women. No, there was only one team that was floundering.


    Thinking about how far I''d come since quitting at the call centre helped my little pang of ire die down. "I want to leave this place better than I found it. And yes, now I''m talking about Chester, too."


    There followed what should have been a lovely, peaceful silence as we all contemplated our roles in the world or whatever, but something was off. They were sort of staring at me. Eventually, I realised I was supposed to offer them sustenance. They come to my gaff unannounced and uninvited and I have to give them my stuff. What a scam! (Me going to the digs unannounced and uninvited was different. I was checking on the young players.) I was sure both had grown up in houses where friends and neighbours popped in and out and they were constantly offering ham and a secret Mediterranean concoction called something like pinchy. They were trained hosts; I wasn''t.


    "Do you want a drink? Cold plum?"


    "Don''t trouble yourself," said Luisa.


    "It''s no trouble," I lied. I steeled myself and tried not to groan as I got up. I gathered the blanket and dropped it onto the chair behind me. Luisa made a horrified little recoiling noise. "What? The shorts? They''re a bit much, I know. I was in the shop and this guy was being annoying so to get rid of him I asked if they sold anything in gammon pink. It was easier to buy them than explain I was joking."


    "Does it hurt?" said Luisa.


    "What? Oh, the bruises. That''s normal for a football player after a tough away fixture. Isn''t it, Henri? Key players like me and Henri get the shit kicked out of us. Don''t we, Henri? In service of the team and all that. Let''s see your legs, mate."


    "He doesn''t have bruises," said Luisa.


    Henri was trying to beg me not to pursue this conversation but I was in pain and I had suffered for nothing. I''d put almost everything I had into last night''s match and we''d lost two-nil and it had been a non-stop series of kicks from the other team and slaps in the face from my players. Henri had contributed the square root of fuck all, except in the slaps to my face department. "Nah, check again, he must. He''s a ferocious striker. He''s not some five-out-of-ten layabout who does the bare minimum in training and sits back while I try to be the defence, midfield, and attacking threat all on my own. My star striker wouldn''t fucking do that to me."


    I went inside and nearly punched the fridge. Six-nil win, all systems firing. Two-nil defeat, nothing works. Two steps forward, one step back. Incredibly frustrating.


    Back outside, I handed Luisa a glass.


    "What''s this?" she said.


    "Apple and grape mix from a local farm. It''s really delicious and sells out in days but they aren''t interested in making it into a business. That''s a big fraction of their yearly production you''re holding."


    "I''m honoured."


    "Consider it payback for all the thoughtful and solicitous service you gave me at Tiny Tino."


    She correctly interpreted that as sarcasm, but tried the drink and her eyes widened. "It''s good!"


    Henri held his glass up and stared through it. "What''s this?"


    "That''s warm tap water."


    Henri sipped it. "Can I have a splash of apple and grape juice? For the taste?"


    "Limit one glass per tour group. I knew you''d be chivalrous and let Luisa have it."


    His eyebrows rose and he drank half the glass. "Max. Can we talk about football?"


    "Football!" I said, astonished. "Are you sure you want to talk about football? In front of Luisa?"


    The implication was that I would savage his efforts in training and in last night''s match. He eyed her and decided the best thing would be to plough ahead. "I''m worried about the team."


    "I think there''s a Facebook group for people like you."


    "I''m worried you might be burned out again. You''ve been working very hard. Is it possible you''re starting to make more mistakes than usual?" I didn''t reply, so he continued. "Cole Adams last night. You said you played him for his height but he made one minor slip-up and you subbed him off after twenty-two minutes."


    "You think I was too patient."


    That threw him. "Pardon me?"


    "I''ve given him very specific instructions on how to receive the ball, I''ve given him extra training on how to receive the ball, but as soon as the pressure''s on he reverts back to his old ways. He did it twice in the first twenty minutes last night. They went unnoticed - by you - because nothing came of them, but Solihull got a break the third time. He seems to think he has a choice in the matter. He''ll do as he''s told or he won''t play. Nothing irrational about that."


    "He''s just a boy."


    "No, he''s a left back."


    "Pardon me?"


    "On Monday, he''s a boy. He can walk around collecting Pokemon. On Wednesday, he''s a boy. He can go and stand on a street corner and try to look tough. On Tuesday night he''s my starting left back and he needs to play like a left back. He needs to be more afraid of me than the other team''s right mid. What? You think he''ll have a sparkling fifteen-year career doing the opposite of what his manager tells him? You think I''m hurting his career by trying to make him a better player? Right now I don''t even want better. I''ll settle for functional. There''s a reason he got cut from his academy and it''s because he''s timid. He''ll play fearless football or he''ll go back to being a sad statistic. If he does what I tell him he''ll get fifty grand a week, fast cars, slow women, a ticket on the escape ship to Mars. If he doesn''t, he''ll spend the rest of his life laying bricks. Why the fuck would you discourage me from pushing him to be better? Why am I the only one giving him the advice he fucking needs to make it in the industry he says he wants to make it in?" The anger was making my bruises throb, so I switched it off. "If you want to play, you must obey."


    To my right, Luisa took a sip of her drink. I felt her eyes on me. She probably thought I was being a brat.


    Henri took a drink, too. He must have told Luisa the topics he was planning to bring up because there was no other earthly reason why he would have continued to wind me up. "What about WibRob?"


    "What about him?"


    "You dropped him from the squad."


    "Did you hear me tell him not to chase defenders all over Chester like a dog following a car?"


    "I did."


    "Did you see him chase defenders?"


    "Yes."


    "So, what? What''s the conversation?"


    A look of distaste crossed his face, and it wasn''t from the delicious northern water. "I do not like this authoritarian Max."


    "See, you think you''ve got some kind of moral high ground here but to me you''re just showing that you don''t give a shit about these kids. You think you do, but you don''t. Cole absolutely must make the change I''m insisting on and Will absolutely must not develop into an all-rounder. That''s an absurd waste of his talents. I''m turning him into one of the purest attacking threats in world football. He''ll thrill fans all around the world and be paid half a million a week to do it. Managers at World Cups will base their tactical plans around trying to stop him. It''s my duty to the England national team and to football to shape him into the best player he can be. So do as you''re fucking told, you stupid fucking prick."


    Luisa took another sip.


    Henri shook his head. "But what you did with Youngster? It was cruel. Cruel, Max."


    "What do you mean?"


    He nearly matched my levels of anger, but the sun was out in force and was warming him up. It smoothed out some of his edges. "You knew there was a scout from Ghana at the match last night and you dropped Youngster. He was heartbroken."


    "Don''t shoot from thirty yards, then."


    "You are without remorse?"


    "Absolutely. It''s my job to turn these fucks into players. Proper players. I have to leave them better than I found them. It''s like, my mission. Sometimes it''ll be distasteful. I don''t enjoy it," I added in a mumble. I leaned forward and ran my palm down my shin. "It''s bruising.¡± Back in my normal voice, I said, ¡°I''ve been learning about hardening off. If I grow begonias from seed I need to harden them up before planting them outside. Same with these young players. There aren''t enough senior players in the dressing room, not enough voices echoing my messages. That''s my fault for changing too much too fast. So if I have to get more extreme, I will, and that means speaking the only language you pricks understand - being dropped from the team. You think I like shouting at Youngster? He''s the best young man I''ve ever met. But he''s a possessed kid and I''m the exorcist. It''s my job and while I do enjoy having you pop along to complain about what a meanie I am, I''m going to keep doing my job and I''ll fight for those young men and I won''t quit until the moment they quit on themselves."


    Luisa made a weird noise. It almost sounded like - ah, no. She was merely out of juice. I summoned some mobility, got up, and pottered into the house. I came back with a bottle of the juice. I filled her glass and handed her something wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll. I handed Henri the bottle and sat down.


    "This is the locally-sourced, organic, artisanal juice?" he said, reading the label. It said Waitrose on it.


    "Yep. I lied to you. And I lied to WibRob." I watched as Luisa bit into the chilled plum. "He''s had a burst of game time. More than I''m comfortable with. He only played against Eastleigh because Dieter Bauer was in town and that''s a memory I''m happy to give both men. No, my plan was always to give him a long break after his first start and now he''s got the opportunity to think about whether he wants to be shit or to do as he''s told. He gets to stew and feel bad. His body gets a break and he gets mentally hardened off. I think that''s pretty good, tbh. And I lied to Youngster. There was no scout from Ghana."


    Henri tutted. "King hell."


    "He''s already been scouted. There''s this lazy prick who''s paid like forty grand a year - part-time - to find players who qualify for Ghana and are based in the UK and Ireland. It''s amazing money for not much work, but he''s optimised it even further. He''s worked out that he can do it without ever leaving London. He''s already sent Youngster''s name to headquarters; he¡¯ll get invited to a sort of open day."


    Henri was partially placated. "Good. That''s good. Yes, Youngster will be pleased when he finds out. But now he is upset!"


    "Not as upset as he''ll be when he shoots from forty yards in the World Cup semi-final, blasts it into orbit, and Portugal run down the other end and score the winner! Not as upset as he''ll be when a hundred million people make him public enemy number one!" I took my phone out and did a search. "The population of Ghana is thirty-three million. He''s not gonna be an effective warrior for Christ in the eyes of thirty-three million people if he keeps doing moronic things. He is fucking dogshit at shooting and every time he shoots it relieves the pressure and makes us have to dig even deeper and everyfuckingbody smiles and laughs and thinks it''s fucking hilarious. It''s bad enough my stupid players do stupid things without my smart ones getting in on the act, too. I had the idea to sub him off every time he did it but if I sub Cole off every time he retreats and sub Youngster off every time he shoots and William every time he tackles and you every time you don''t work the channels - "


    "Can I have a chilled plum?"


    "No."


    Henri had been expecting the rejection. He decided he was warm enough to take one of his scarves off. He folded it neatly. "We beat Eastleigh and the season grew wings. It feels to me and some others that you clipped those wings the very next match."


    "Solihull are much better than Eastleigh." Solihull had put out a formidable, experienced team with an average CA of 73 - twenty points ahead of us. "The budgets of the teams we''re playing are crazy. We''re tiny compared to everyone in the top half of the table. We have every disadvantage but if we play our best we can compete. You pricks think Dieter Bauer sprinkled stardust on you and you''re complete players, now. That''s not how it goes. You want it, you have to work for it. I''m working. Brooke''s working. MD''s working. Everyone''s working except the senior players! Last night was dispiriting. It was like the start of a TV show. Previously on Chester FC. You want to skip it, but you realise it''s not the intro. It''s happening again! Ben distracted at corners, Cole doing that second-rate shit, Zach getting involved in nonsense, Wisey and Magnus too busy putting out fires to help with attacks, and me getting double-marked and triple-fouled. If I''ve got three guys kicking lumps out of me, mate, where''s the rest of the team? There''s got to be space somewhere."


    "We need a space invader."


    The sun had been working its magic on me, too. Making me less belligerent. But much of my annoyance came back in a steely glare. "Excuse me?"


    "How can we win without our best players? Cole is better than Josh. Youngster and WibRob add a lot. And Pascal..."


    "Bout him?"


    Henri looked towards the pergola. "I know you dropped him because of his attitude towards me. I can survive a few huffs and puffs, Max."


    "You can. The team can''t."


    I''d floored him again. "Pardon me?"


    "Zero tolerance."


    "For what?"


    "There''s no point talking about it."


    "But tell us what is really wrong so we can fix it. Why do we work so hard with the Exit Triallists but not with him? What is his crime?"


    I looked around. I was trying to make a garden that Emma and I would like to sit in. "I want to play with players I want to play with. Past Henri, very much so, WibRob, yes. Youngster, yes. Zach, Carl, Sticky, yes. Cole, borderline right now, the prick, but should be a solid yes. Do you get me?" I pulled a face like Luisa''s when she bit into the plum and spoke very clearly. "I don''t want to play with Pascal."


    "I understand," said Luisa. "If I was a boss, I would be like you. But I wouldn''t have so many young men. I would fill my team with sharks."


    "Sharks are out of my reach," I said.


    "I feel your pain," she said. "But you could afford grown men, not babies."


    "My babies will become sharks."


    "Because you are the shark daddy, yes?"


    "Some shark. Every time I bare my teeth, everyone complains."


    "Not everyone," she said, but then she fell silent.


    I leaned forward and rubbed my bruises. I wanted to tell Henri off. If you want to help the team, mate, take some of these hits for me. Fucking chip in a bit, hey? But I''d been snarky enough. "Eleven points from ten games. Already twelve points behind Grimsby. Feels like I''m banging my head against a brick wall trying to get through to certain people. I''ll have lunch and take a nap and I''ll feel better in a bit. And there''s one thing that isn''t shit about today." I took my phone out and brought up a list. "It''s the FA Youth Cup draw. We''re going into the Second Qualifying Round. Do you want to hear some of the teams left in the competition?" Luisa did. "Three Bridges. Sounds like a maths problem. Kingstonian. Thatcham Town. Imagine the cottages in Thatcham town! Boldmere St Michaels. Think of all the murders that go on round there. Bishop''s Cleeve. What''s a cleeve? Eversley and California. What? Hereford Pegasus. Larkfield & New Hythe Wanderers. God, sometimes I love this country." I picked my feet up and adjusted them so there would be at least a token amount of blood flow. "I want to be an old man in a quiet little village called Bumpty St Windermere and I want to have naps with my black cat and I want to potter around and talk about begonias with my neighbour, who used to run the dormant accounts section of a bank and who is completely discreet until you get him sozzled, which is only possible twice a year. That''s all I want. Is that too much to ask? But in the meantime I''m the manager of a football club and there''s no manual and almost everyone else in my position is doing an utterly, utterly shit job. I''m doing it the only way I know how and if Cole, Will, and James think they know football better than me that''s their choice. I''m doing what I think''s right - for them. Shock therapy. Learn fast, boy, because your career is already nearly over." I rubbed my eyebrow. "People who don''t want to be part of the team can leave the team. People who want to play shit can play shit and hope Tom Westwood stops improving so fast."


    Henri tutted. "You''re in pain. I shouldn''t have come."


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "No, it was lovely. We must do this again sometime. How about two years from now? You''ll see my perfect plan has been messed up by many disobedient flowers."


    Luisa gave me a five star smile. "The plants who disobey can be torn out and replaced by ones who will."


    I groaned as I got to my feet. My legs were fucking killing me. I went inside and came back out with a small cake box that I handed to Luisa. "The official snack of Chester FC." I handed something cold and round wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll to Henri and took the bottle of juice from him.


    "Thanks for coming. Bye."


    ***


    I ate and tried to sleep, but my phone kept pinging. I left it charging in the bedroom and went off for a mini digital detox, touring in the garden wondering if my concept was merely a good story or if there was any actual merit to it. How hard would it be to have eleven or twelve planters with different plants inside? Easy for a gardener; hard for me. Do ten begonias and one or two fancy dans, that was the ticket.


    The garden was taking shape but it was still early days. I''d invested a lot of time and money so far, but it wasn''t too late to rip it all up and redo it. I could switch the concept, redirect the path, change the planting scheme.


    Are you talking about the garden or the football team? I thought to myself in a French accent.


    Sam Topps was a begonia. The perfect set and forget footballer.


    I tried to walk a bit faster to get the blood pumping.


    I had replaced Sam with James Wise. In footballing terms, a good substitute. They grew in the same soil, needed the same amounts of praise (sun) and fertiliser (movie-based team talks). But Wisey was new in the dressing room. He didn''t have roots in the area or in the squad. I couldn''t count on him to tell the young players to up their game.


    Glenn was a begonia, but he was the captain. He had admin to do, bigger picture stuff to do. He wouldn''t get in the weeds.


    Carl Carlile was a good example of how to play and train but honestly, he was pretty selfish. Not in a bad, destructive way, but he wouldn''t think of offering advice to a young player the way I wouldn''t think to offer a guest a drink. I had asked him to mentor Cole Adams and he had agreed, but it didn''t seem like he had done anything.


    Magnus was slightly apart from the main group because one, he was weird and two, he had additional duties as a physio.


    No, if I was looking for someone to step into the Sam Topps void it was going to be Ryan Jack or Henri.


    Which meant it was going to be Ryan Jack.


    ***


    By the evening, I could walk as normal again. I expected some pain to return as I fell to sleep and to have some stiffness in the morning. I wouldn''t train but I''d be able to play on Saturday. There was no way I could take that kind of savaging twice a week. While I was the team''s only star, opponents would smash me up like I was an avocado.


    I needed a starting eleven that could compete and win without me and that seemed further off than ever. At the rate we were picking up points, we would be in a relegation scrap. The Chester fans believed in me, in us, but they were getting restless.


    It was all so frustrating because I''d done it to myself. All I had to do was sign b-boys (begonia-boys) instead of tender, fragile orchids or weird hostas that turned to dust if they got too much water on a full moon. And my management skills seemed to be getting worse. I hadn''t tracked it during the conversation but Henri''s morale had dipped after he visited me. Cole Adams'' was in the toilet, as was Youngster''s and WibRob''s. I felt like I''d lost some buy-in from the team and even the coaches.


    A trio of ducks flew overhead, quacking and flapping their arms in a mad desperation not to plummet. They brought a smile. Cole Adams, William, Youngster. Today, ugly ducklings. Tomorrow, million-pound swans. Compared to me, David Cutter was shit. Ian Evans was shit. All football managers were shit. I knew the names of all my players and I wanted them to reach their goals. That put me miles ahead.


    I went to get my phone and found a flurry of messages.


    Secretary Joe: FA Youth Cup, Second Round Qualifying. We''re away to Walsham-le-Willows F.C. Tier nine, same as your West Didsbury. Four hours to Bury St Edmunds. Big away day! The boys will love it!


    Brig: Chunks has been persuaded not to pursue action against you or the club. He claims he didn''t have a backer.


    Sandra: I watched the match back with Vimsy. This insistence on a good first touch is still so alien to him but he''s starting to get it. By the way, that sudden switch to 3-5-2 blows my mind! I tried to explain how cool it was to V. He said it didn''t help us win any headers. He''s a work in progress :)


    MD: I''m not sure if this is a joke but the Slovakian national team wants to play a friendly at the Kirschgarten Gravity Drip Solutions stadium next year.


    MD: That name''s too long, isn''t it? Shit.


    Brooke: Ryan says I could cheer you up by announcing we''ve secured an official Malaysian tractor partner. Do you want an official Malaysian tractor partner? I can get you an official Malaysian tractor partner.


    Ryan Jack: My mate''s the assistant manager at Runcorn. They love Benny. Apparently he''s kicking on. Just FYI.


    Ziggy: You okay, boss? You got banged up pretty bad and then didn''t talk to anyone the whole ride home. I just wanted to say thanks for bringing me in. I''d like more minutes but it''s awesome. It''s intense. I''m learning a lot.


    ***


    On Thursday I went to BoshCard but only to get a free breakfast and some sympathy from Livia. She fussed over my shins, recommended the new Greek yoghurt from our canteen, and asked an unexpected question. "Have you seen who''s here?"


    For a second, I thought Dieter Bauer might have turned up, but I knew he was back in Germany. Livia refused to say who it was, so I walked out towards the pitches. On first glance, I saw that we were doing a 4-1-4-1 versus 4-4-2 drill. On second glance, I saw who the visitor was and it was with some surprise that I found myself taking a place on the touchline next to Luisa. I scanned the pitch and the intensity of training seemed normal. I looked back at Henri''s girlfriend and was struck by the shitness of the brown tracksuit she was wearing.


    "I learned a new word," she said.


    "Yeah?"


    "Tartlet."


    I smiled and was about to reply when suddenly Wes Hayward was in front of us. He was slightly out of breath but not so much that he couldn''t talk. "Boss. I want to apologise for Tuesday night. I was terrible."


    I tried to work out what he was talking about. I mean, he''d given me five out of ten but his full back was miles better than him and I had no other options. "You gave it your all like you always do. The result was my fault. If there was an apology queue, you''d be at the back."


    Luisa jutted her chin out. "You are Wesley. You are the Shark."


    "Well," started Wes.


    Luisa gave him double barrels of something and I got very jealous very quickly. "I like sharks. When I first saw you play, I was enchanted. You have much potential."


    "Oh," said Wes.


    "I see what Senhor Best sees in you."


    "You do?"


    "Sim. But you do not get better by talking." Wes opened his mouth, but closed it again and walked away in something of a daze. After about ten seconds, he rejoined the match. "Henrique!" she cried. Henri looked confused for a moment, then drifted closer with a blissful look on his face. Bliss departed on the very next train. "What is the word you taught me? The one to describe something that is moving very little, like an escultura?"


    "Statuesque."


    "Exatamente! You may go now. We are talking about you."


    Henri walked away until he was back in the slot between the two opposing centre backs. He looked over at Luisa and seemed to come to life. Instead of standing on his heels, he jogged left and right and when his team next got the ball, sprinted short, turned, and sprinted looking for a ball over the top. Henri Lyons, movement 20.


    I watched it happen with a sense that I knew almost nothing about man management and was, in fact, standing next to a true expert.


    "What are you doing?" I said, making no attempt to hide my admiration.


    "Helping you," she said.


    "Why?"


    "That is for me. Where is Pascal?"


    "He has a bad back."


    She mumbled in Portuguese for a while. I''m fairly sure it was all complimentary.


    The match was... okay. Henri was doing well in patches, but then he would get distracted. Wes seemed to have lost his top gear. Youngster was subdued. WibRob had been demoted to a sub, which given there were 22 players on the pitch was quite something. "I''m no gardener," I said.


    While I did a huge, internal, soul-shaking sigh at my various and many failures, Sharky finally found sixth gear and went to press Cole Adams, playing as the reserve team left back. Panicked by Sharky¡¯s speed, he did his fucking maddening defensive, crabby first touch. All the energy in the move vanished. His team''s forward momentum was gone and now the best thing that could happen was that they would pass the ball across the pitch in a boring horseshoe. The worst thing that could happen - as had happened three times in twenty minutes on Tuesday night - was a good break for the other team. My head dropped. Sandra blew her whistle in a sad way - I didn''t even know that was possible. The Brig wasn''t around. It was my job to do something, but I couldn''t think what. I took a step closer to Cole but was immediately pulled back. Luisa had grabbed my wrist.


    "Wait," she said.


    Sandra glanced at me; I did a subtle palm-down gesture. She nodded and pulled Vimsy back.


    "Wait," repeated Luisa.


    The guys on the pitch looked around. Twenty-two players looking from me to Sandra to Vimsy. There was a huge, Sam Topps-shaped hole in the scene.


    "DUDE!" cried an American voice. Zach had his arms out and he was looking at Carl.


    It took a good few seconds for Carl to realise what Zach meant, but he sort of woke up with a jolt and walked towards Cole. He put his arm around the young full back and led him off. They walked away and after a surprisingly discreet moment, Zach bellowed again. "Tens or subs?"


    "Will left mid," I said. WibRob ran on and Josh automatically moved back one slot. Some of our moves were butter smooth even without the curse.


    Zach nodded. "Man down, boys! We''re three at the back!"


    Henri threw his hands up in dismay. "Magnus right back, Youngster centre mid. 4-4-1!"


    "We''re the first team!" yelled Zach. "We can take what they throw at us!"


    Henri and several others turned to me. I hid behind my hand and whispered to Luisa. "Are they still looking?"


    "Jes."


    "This is my biggest mistake. Trying to do everything. How do I do everything but it''s never enough?"


    "Restart while they don''t know what to do."


    I signalled and Sandra blew her whistle. Zach rushed to the right, Youngster dropped to centre back, and Magnus dropped to DM. After another minute, they had reorganised themselves into a narrow 4-1-3-1 with Youngster as DM. Solid with a hint of attacking threat. The ten of the first team outperformed the eleven of the reserves. "I''m not sure what I''m learning," I said.


    "Wait," she said.


    "I know why you keep saying wait," I said, giving her double barrels of whatever I''ve got.


    "Jes?" she said.


    "It''s because you''re a waitress."


    She looked up at me, eyes damp, shaking as though I''d said the funniest thing in the history of language. She wiped at her eyes. "Oh my God."


    Carl and Cole came back from their pep talk. "Will CAM," I said, putting WibRob up against Youngster. "Carl, stay off." The firsts had ten, the reserves twelve. The intensity ramped up several notches. Passes, tackles, sprints. Shit got real.


    "This is good," said Luisa.


    "How do you know football?"


    "Concentrate."


    I walked away, watching the action. Cole touched the ball forward, thought about it, and turned back. Carl clapped. "Yes, mate!" Ziggy and Tom Westwood tried to give Glenn and Zach something to think about. Steve Alton went on his version of a rampaging run from right back.


    But the real drama was Youngster versus WibRob. Youngster exchanged passes with Zach, but found William blocking his passing lanes. "Yes!" I called out. Again Youngster took possession but had to touch the ball back. "Perfect!" I called. "That''s perfect, Will!" WibRob was defending without tackling or using up all his energy. It was a physical effort to chase Youngster, sure, but he was sticking to his zone.


    The next time Youngster got the ball, he dipped his shoulder and played a one-two with Wisey. At first, WibRob chased after his housemate, but he stopped with a sort of depressed huff. "There! There!" I called. William looked over his shoulder. He couldn''t see what I was looking at. "There!" I said, arms outstretched.


    "There''s nothing there!" he called back.


    "Exactly!"


    By now, the firsts had zipped the ball around and were threatening the box. I saw Youngster think about shooting and think twice - he slipped the ball to Sharky, who was held up by Cole. Sharky tried a left-footed cross - I couldn''t help but shake my head even though I was trying to be less of a dick - and Sticky took the ball in his oversized hands. Without thinking twice, he hurled the ball to the right of halfway where WibRob had taken a position in the huge hole between the lines.


    He plucked the ball from the air as easily as picking up a remote control, and then it was simply a choice of choosing from the thousand channels he had at his disposal.


    William B. Roberts pushed the ball forward, accelerated, and there was immediate pandemonium in my first team defence. It was thrilling. A man would have to be all kinds of stubborn not to put him right back in the match day squad.


    I gripped Luisa''s elbow and turned her to face me. I bent so that I was partially looming over her. "Listen up. If you break my friend''s heart..."


    Her eyes were massive. "Jes?"


    "Do it after the playoffs."


    I walked towards Sandra and away from a stream of language that would make a Portuguese or Brazilian sailor blush. Sandra did a little hop as she watched the on-pitch action come to a conclusion, while Vimsy emitted a loud "ooh!" When their attention fell on me, I said, "Southend plan. Four four two defensive long ball."


    "Oh?" she said. She closed her eyes for a second, no doubt picturing a tactics board. "Left back?"


    "Eddie."


    "Second striker?"


    "Tom."


    "Mid?"


    "Magnus, Sharky."


    "Where will you play?"


    "I won''t. I don''t bloom till the winter."


    "Vimsy, can you translate from poem to English?"


    Luisa had followed me over. "He''ll play the end of the match." She had one more thing to say but she didn''t want to say it. She sighed. "Not long ball, I beg of you."


    "Southend will expect us to play with a single striker," I said. "They will use these slow full backs who take amazing corners. We''ll blitz them with Aff and Sharky. They won''t know what hit them."


    "I don''t want to watch long ball."


    "Are you going down to Southend?"


    She brightened. "It''s away? Oh. Then debase yourselves if you want. Just so long as I don''t have to watch it."


    She strode off towards the mobile kitchen making the shit brown tracksuit look better than anything I''ve ever seen on a catwalk.


    "Bloody hell," said Vimsy.


    "Southend will take one guy off at half time. If I know their squad as well as I think I do, they''ll end up with a 5-3-2 playing pretty direct. Sandra, can you give me an option for the start of the second half and then one for when I come on at about seventy minutes?"


    "I''ll think about it, boss. Er, Max. Are you all right?"


    I took a few beats to watch the players. There was a ton of green in their player profiles. The guys who had lost morale because of my interventions were working harder than ever. Some of the intangible stuff I thought was missing was actually there, if you really looked for it. If you waited for it.


    One bad but expected result had made me question my entire Maxterplan. It wasn''t just my young players who needed hardening off. I wasn''t quite ready for the big bad world, myself. "I... yeah. Yeah, actually. Tuesday knocked me a bit, if I''m honest."


    "It''s not all flowers, boss," said Vimsy. ¡°You¡¯re doing great.¡±


    ***


    Match 11 of 46: Southend United vs Chester


    To get to Southend you drive south-east and keep going. Get off at junction 29 or you''ll end up in France. Next season we would drive down the day before the match and stay in a hotel, but we didn''t have hotel money, yet.


    Southend had CA 64, no surprises, and their manager felt safe naming the two slow full backs. We were CA 50.8, which was surprisingly low even by the abysmal standards we''d been setting. Eight of the players were at least silver class, with Carl, Aff, and Henri gold. The average was sucked down by James Wise - who wouldn''t let us down - Sharky, whose speed and ability to repeat sprint added 20 points to his effective CA at this level, and Tom, who would run around and be a relentless nuisance. There was no Cole, Youngster, or WibRob in the squad and they hadn''t travelled with the team ''to save money''.


    Our tactical plan was simple - knock it long for Tom Westwood to chase. If the ball went to the right wing, Tom would compete for it while Henri and Sharky supported. If we got the ball, we would have three guys close together high up the pitch with Aff bombing into the penalty area on the other side. All we had to do, really, was absorb some pressure. Let Southend push up against our lines so that when we broke, it would be devastating.


    The plan worked too well. We had four incredible chances in the first ten minutes and scored one of them as Aff popped up at the far post to nod home a cross from Henri. Southend retreated for a while, reorganised, and swapped their left back after only twenty minutes. The new guy had low CA but was fast - just about fast enough to deal with Sharky.


    The rest of the first half was a brutal non-league slog. Long balls, high balls, long throws, people yelling ''don''t let it bounce!'' and ''away!'' I''d put out a Sunday league pub team. It was utter cringe.


    "Good game this," said Vimsy.


    Southend''s higher quality told and they equalised. At half time I put Ziggy on for an exhausted Tom and with twenty minutes to go, brought Omari and myself on, replacing Magnus and Sharky. I changed the team''s mentality to attacking with short passes. We played dainty triangles in midfield while beefy boys hacked at my shins and ankles. I Let It Happen, moving the ball back to the edge of our own box, getting pressed from all sides, before dinking the ball to the one place Southend hadn''t covered.


    And then...


    Best exchanges passes with Naysmith.


    Best is forced back towards his own goal.


    He stumbles! Danger for Chester.


    But Best launches a pass out to the left.


    Aff is free! He races down the wing. He has options in the middle.


    He decides to cut the ball square.


    Lyons wasn''t expecting it. He has to check his run. What can he do with this?


    Lyons holds off a challenge, waits, and finds Ziggy with a scooped pass! A fantastic piece of creativity!


    Ziggy with only the keeper to beat...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    His first goal for the club puts them ahead.


    Ziggy went full Tardelli, treating it like the goal that won us the title instead of one that moved us four places up the table. For once I went over to join the celebrations. My share of his goal bonus was four whole pounds! I soaked up the atmosphere in front of the away fans. They''d travelled down the same as us. Four hours to watch some Ian Evans back to basics football. After the pain, the pleasure.


    The acoustics of Roots Hall meant the away fans could make a hell of a racket and they did so now. "Max Best''s blue and white army! Max Best''s blue and white army!"


    I longed to put on a show but we badly needed the three points. I gritted my teeth and went back to the right midfield slot where I''d been pretending to play. The tactics board showed I was being man-marked by the left mid. I could have had a lot of fun with that, but it wasn''t a day for fun. It was a day to grind out a result.


    We went back to grinding. Every throw-in contested, every 50-50 a prize fight, every header a stride closer to victory.


    Henri was playing like his old self. Not quite as sharp, not quite as fast or agile, but every bit as brave. He rushed to get in front of a loose ball knowing a centre back would absolutely clatter him. Pain for Henri, but we had a free kick in Max Best territory.


    Omari, the cheeky fuck, said he quite fancied it. I told him where to go, and made doubly sure with Masterpiece Theatre. Omari to the halfway line. My beefy boys to the far post. Henri to the near. Ziggy right in the middle.


    The ref blew. I took a few more seconds, looked at the left of the goal, stepped forward, and hit it with about seventy percent power towards the far right. Steve Alton hadn''t been in the team much and maybe he hadn''t come up on Southend''s scouting reports because why else would he find himself with a free header? The goalie was rushing to my right - Steve redirected the ball left.


    Three-one, and this time the celebrations were even louder.


    ***


    In the dressing room, Zach had appointed himself DJ. He blasted out Iron, Lion, Zion, and fist bumped everyone except Steve Alton, who got a hug. Next he played one from the Spice Girls so we could sing Ziggy''s song. A few people joined in, but most were too shattered.


    Sandra showed me the league table. Our record was four wins, two draws, five defeats and our fourteen points placed us fourteenth with a goal difference of minus one. "I hate having a negative goal difference," I said.


    "We can fix that on Tuesday," she said.


    "Consider it done," I said.


    I took my boots and shinpads off. Even my bruises had bruises. I closed my eyes and knew I would spend another 36 hours hobbling around. I would recover just in time for the home match against Boreham Wood.


    Over on the left, Henri was slumped forwards, looking as wrecked as I felt. I got up and tried to walk in a way that wouldn''t hurt. Henri''s legs were mashed, covered in cuts and proto-bruises. He''d worked his arse off, used his quality to get two assists, used his bravery to get us a free kick. Seeing him willing to put his body on the line for the team, seeing what it had cost him, I got the oddest feeling, like I was a glass of champagne. Bubbles rose from my feet all the way through me.


    We had our striker back. We had a focal point. We had a chance.


    He looked up and when he saw my expression he broke into a huge, lop-sided grin. "What?" he said.


    I reached out my hand and he automatically did the same. As we shook, I said, "Welcome back."


    He tutted and tried to act annoyed.


    "Tom," I said. The young man tried to sit next to Henri in every dressing room and he was watching us with wide eyes. "Did you see that?"


    "The handshake? The eye roll?"


    "That performance. That ten-out-of-ten exhibition of the striker''s arts."


    "Yes, boss."


    "I''m learning about plants and flowers. Daffodils are mint but they''re only for the start of spring. Magnolia trees are the absolute best but they bloom for like, a week." I jabbed my index finger at Henri. "What I want is the plant version of Henri."


    "Max, stop, please," said Henri, with total and complete insincerity.


    "Hard work, bravery, headers, first touch, composure, imagination, teamwork. This is a striker for all seasons. Watch and learn, mate. Watch and learn."


    I shuffled towards the showers and noted that Henri''s morale had shot to maximum.


    ***


    Wednesday, September 25


    The timing of the meeting was unfortunate, since I''d once again taken some enormous hits the night before and wasn''t likely to communicate in a cool, calm, and collected way. It seemed like it was all just a formality, though. Sign a few papers, scurry back home to lick my wounds. Easy.


    The venue was the train station hotel, presumably because that was convenient for someone from the board, or maybe just because it had good parking.


    I got out of the Duchess, took a second to steady myself, and shambled in the direction of the reception area.


    MD spotted me and came to get me. "We''re this way."


    "Slow down, you dick."


    "Oh!" He looked at my legs. "Are you all right?"


    "My shins look like begonias. I think someone''s put the word out that the way to beat us is to kick me out of the game."


    He smiled. "It''s not working, though, is it? Another win! Things are starting to cook." I nodded. We were up to eleventh and parts of the team were showing signs of properly clicking into place. "Is this the new strategy?"


    "What?"


    "Keep things tight for seventy minutes then you come on and blow them away."


    "Two-nil isn''t my idea of blowing teams away. But yeah, it''s sort of become the plan. I might start against Woking, though. Do a twenty-five minute blitz at the start instead of at the end. Keep teams guessing."


    "In here," he said, and we went into a businessy meeting room. Secretary Joe was there, with a lot of papers on the table in front of him. Representing the board was Sumo, my Twitch stream buddy, Violet, the one who was mostly interested in the women''s team, and James Pond. James Pond, I''d realised, was the sort of person who goes on YouTube music videos and leaves the comment ''Who is still listening to this in 2024?'' In other words, an implacable enemy of all that is good and decent in this world.


    Pascal Bochum was on the far end of the table, arms folded, not looking at anyone. He had managed to dress like a normal human being for once. Maybe he realised there was no point showing off to a group of people he''d never see again.


    MD said, "Brooke can''t make it so since we''re all here, maybe we can get started? Start early, leave early." On hearing that the hot Texan wouldn''t be joining, Sumo made a little noise and even James Pond looked put out. MD continued. "The purpose of this meeting is to discuss mutually terminating Pascal Bochum''s contract and to sign the paperwork that will allow him to leave and continue his career elsewhere." No-one said anything. "Max, it has been requested that you explain this so the board can feed it back to the fans."


    "There''s nothing to explain. Pascal isn''t happy and he has found a new club. Bosh."


    James Pond adjusted his glasses. "If a club wants Pascal Bochum''s registration they should approach us and pay a transfer fee. You are suggesting we allow an asset to walk out the door."


    "He''s not an asset, he''s an eighteen-year-old boy who is unhappy and who deserves a shot at happiness."


    "I''m minded to resist this. I do not like being railroaded."


    I looked up. "Pascal, do you think your new club would pay a one pound transfer fee?"


    He glanced at me. "Yes."


    "Great. I don''t need the board''s permission to make transfers. We''ll do it that way instead of the decent way."


    "I won''t be able to play until January," said Pascal.


    I rapped the table. "That''s right. But sorry, James Pond doesn''t give a shit about you. He has his own ambitions for this club."


    Pond took his glasses off, did something with his face, and slipped them back on. "My assessment of the playing staff indicates that Pascal is one of our leading performers - when he plays. It is patently absurd to let him go without testing the market. We could generate interest, start a bidding war."


    "Your assessment is wrong," I said. "Pascal is bad at football and he''s too short to play in this league."


    Pascal''s head jerked up, but soon settled back.


    MD said, "James, Max is acting in the best interests of the player and the club."


    Violet looked at Pascal. "Do you want us to sign these papers?" He nodded; she did the same. "That''s enough for me."


    "I''m ready," said Sumo. "I''m very sorry to see you go Pascal, and I hope you do well at your next place. I''ll be looking out for you."


    Secretary Joe passed the first copy to MD. He signed three copies and passed them across to James Pond. I intercepted one of them and flicked through it. James Pond glared at the documents now in his possession, sucked down some nascent rage, and clicked his pen.


    "Hang on," I said. Pond stopped, mid-sig. "Joe, you''ve put the wrong birth date. You''ve done it American."


    He leaped to his feet and grabbed a copy from James Pond. "Oh my God," he said, aghast. It was probably no big deal but he prided himself on the quality of his paperwork. "I''m so sorry, Max. How have I done that?"


    I smiled. "It''s no biggie. Can you print a new one?" He grabbed his laptop and rushed out. I got to my feet - big groan - and went to the little drinks area and made an Earl Grey.


    There was quiet. Lazy morning in the garden levels of quiet. Some people can''t hack stillness. Sumo said, "Good result, last night!"


    "Yeah," I agreed. "I''ll be honest, it''s been much tougher than I expected. We had two magical days, Grimsby and Eastleigh, and the rest has really been a slog. We''ve got to grind results out but we''re just just just getting to the point where we can try different things. In a few months we''ll be able to have some fun."


    Violet said, "The women started well!"


    "They''re mustard," I said. "Don''t be too harsh on the men, Violet. We''re starting as the weakest team. The women were the best from day one. Someone tried to bring them down but that guy doesn¡¯t know who he¡¯s dealing with."


    "What did you say to Henri?" said MD. "He''s been outstanding the last two games."


    I glanced at Pascal. I generally didn''t talk about Luisa in front of him, but he would be gone in about ten minutes and there was nothing malicious about my story. "He came to beg me to be nicer to the young players. Cole, Youngster, William, and ah... one other. I was feeling sorry for myself after the defeat and I snapped and said some things. But I don''t think that had any effect. I think it was his girlfriend." Some stirring from Pascal over to my left. I very deliberately sipped my tea. "I think she told him to stop being a baby and to get his head straight. She said I needed help and wasn''t getting it. There are rumours about some kind of meeting of the senior players. Some home truths got shared. I mean, I''m just guessing she made Henri set that up, if it even happened. She knows football, somehow."


    "Her father was a coach," said Pascal.


    "Huh. Makes sense. She knows the dynamics. Explains why she hates the sport, too. She came to training and I don''t think she liked what she saw. Henri''s been on it ever since."


    "She went to training?"


    "Yep. She asked about you."


    Pascal looked normal but I could tell there was a lot of inner turmoil going on. "What did you say?"


    "I said you had a bad back." It looked like he might say something stupid like ''did she look happy?'' so I changed the subject. "Where are you going?"


    He had to work hard to get back in the room. Finally, he said, "Salford City."


    I whistled. "Amazing. How did you wrangle that?"


    "Because we ripped them apart in the FA Cup. They know what I can do."


    Violet said, "Is that a good move for him?"


    "Yes," I said. "Almost ideal. The new manager likes 4-3-3 and Pascal will have loads of space to invade. Good players, League Two facilities, no work permit problems, and he''ll get to meet Beckham, Giggs, and Neville." I shook my head. "Plus he can live in Manchester. It''s all brilliant."


    James Pond said, "If he can play in League Two, perhaps he can play against teams such as Boreham Wood?"


    I laughed. "He would have destroyed them. They play 3-4-3 and they do not play it well. There were gaps everywhere. It was almost shambolic and their keeper looked lost at sea."


    Pond seemed to be angry again. "Then why was he not playing?"


    "He''s got a bad back," I said.


    I was getting under Pond''s skin. "Notwithstanding his back, he is a valuable player. One of the best in the squad."


    A pang from my shin came at a bad time and I couldn''t stop my mouth flapping. "Nah. He''s the best. Edged ahead of Carl Carlile. He has been training like a bad arse." I sipped my tea. "Can''t quite work out how he''s improving so fast, tbh."


    "Clive," said Pascal. "Extra sessions with Clive. Oh, you knew."


    "I don''t follow you around, mate. I guessed. But it''s good to have confirmation. Did you pay him?"


    "He wouldn''t take my money!"


    I showed him my palms. "Easy. Whoa there. Whoa, Nelly. I''m only asking because I want to help the guy out. If he''s willing to do a few sessions for us, I''d love that and I''d love to put some cash in his pocket. He''s good, right?"


    "Of course he''s good. He trained in Germany."


    I grinned. A little flash of the old Pascal, there. Shame he still had ''dislikes Henri Lyons'' in his profile.


    Big shame.


    Secretary Joe came rushing back in, far too flustered. He handed three copies of the new version to MD, and handed me one to check. "You spelled Chester wrong," I said.


    "Haha," said Joe, but he looked worried for a second.


    I sipped my tea while Pond signed. I clicked my neck around while Violet signed. I let my mind wander as Sumo signed. All done and in triplicate. The forms were passed to Pascal.


    He picked up the first one and made out like he would read it carefully. He looked in my direction. "What formation will you use against Woking?"


    "They play 4-4-2 and they''re one of the easier teams we''ll face. They''d normally be a good mid-table side," I said to Violet for the benefit of anyone who wasn''t obsessively following the ebb and flow of the league table. "This year the standard is mental. I''m thinking 4-1-4-1 but I''ll move from DM to CAM and mess with their heads."


    "4-2-3-1 would be effective," said Pascal.


    "I don''t have the players."


    "What about Barnet?"


    "Barnet look like the second best team in the league and we''re playing them away," I said to Violet. "I''m thinking 4-5-1 low block, try to hit Tom on counters and see if I can do enough damage from set pieces to keep us in the game."


    "Maidstone?" said Pascal.


    I shrugged. "Whatever. We''re actually better than them, which is a rare feeling. I might go three at the back to give Carl and Eddie a rest."


    "What about Cole Adams?" said MD.


    "He''s got a bad back," I said.


    Pascal blinked and looked down at the document. It seemed clear to me that he wasn''t taking in a single word of it, but it was a pretty standard agreement to terminate his employment contract. No way we could trick him or rip him off.


    He stared at it for about seven more seconds, then went from pause to double speed. In a blur, he turned to the last page, picked up the pen and thrust the nib onto the dotted line. He did a sort of single nod to signify that a huge and mostly successful period of his life had come to a close.


    I hereby terminate my employment contract.


    I hereby agree to join a bigger, richer, more ambitious club.


    I hereby agree to leave this story and spin myself off. From Player Manager to Spaceman Unbound with one simple stroke of the pen (in triplicate).


    With Pascal off the books, I would have 1,400 pounds a week to spend. What could I get in January with that money? A good loan player, for sure. Or an experienced free agent. There were a few decent options and I could bring one in right away. Or the money could go on Clive. Clive as a part-time coach, as many hours as he felt comfortable doing, with some cash left over for Luisa to come in twice a week as a sort of devastating psychologist.


    I drifted back into the room, clocking that something was up. Pascal was stuck with his hand on the pen with the pen on the line. He''d frozen. I felt my hackles rising. Was the little shit about to make some sort of extra demand? A payoff? "P," I said. "A. S. K."


    The last letter unfroze him. He seemed to wake up from his dream and he pushed himself closer to the paper. The pen swirled and swished and soon enough the deed was done. He took the document and slid it towards me.


    My garden was short one troublesome plant, but I felt strangely proud. I''d taken it from a seedling and nurtured it and now it had hardened off and was ready to fend for itself.


    Violet looked at him. "Do you think you made the right decision?"


    I smiled. "That''s Pascal Bochum you''re talking to." I tapped the table twice and began the laborious process of getting to my feet. "His decision-making is the stuff of legend."

 8.15 - Epilogue

    15.


    Saturday the 28th of September was a day with a lot of league games, including an early kick off. Salford were at home to Chesterfield.


    I raced back from the bathroom and took my spot next to Sandra. "Did I miss anything?" I said.


    "Chesterfield had a goal ruled out," she said. "Offside."


    "Salford are getting battered," I said, shaking my head. Chesterfield were no mugs, but Salford had an average CA of close to 100. In League Two terms, they were a Ferrari. "Is it too much car?" I wondered. "It''s like they''re a model these lower league dinosaurs can''t drive."


    "Reckon you''d do better?" she said, smiling. She glanced back down at her phone. "Twenty minutes left. What would you do if you were the manager?"


    "Oh, tricky," I said, and for some reason Sandra laughed at that. "Obviously I''d put Pascal on and switch to 4-2-3-1, but what do I know?"


    She smirked. "I think I''d do the same. Oh! There he is, now."


    Sure enough, Pascal Bochum was stripped and ready. He did some stretches. No coach gave him any last-minute instructions. Why should they? Pascal knew what to do.


    He took to the pitch and, as always, the opposition looked at each other thinking, ''get a load of this''.


    I smiled. The little bastard would show them.


    ***


    I finished my tiny cup of Earl Grey and went to drop the bag in the nearest bin. I was gasping for another dose, but the meeting was over. The outside world was looking great. Green greens, blue blues, and thousands of talented players waiting to be discovered. And they would come - my players were moving up. Youngster to his national team. Sam Topps to Tranmere. Pascal Bochum to moneybags Salford City.


    I soaked it all up.


    Glorious.


    But then... I turned and realised there was a vibe. An undercurrent. The moment in a movie where a song ends in a discordant note and the camera twists as it pushes towards the protagonist.


    The minor characters waited for the hero to come and save the day. Sumo, Violet, James Pond in various states of confusion. MD frozen in the act of adjusting a cufflink.


    The hero stepped up.


    "You''ve only signed one," said Secretary Joe. "We do need all three, I''m afraid."


    Pascal placed the pen on the table and stared at a particular spot.


    I stepped back to the table and picked up the one he had signed. I flipped to the last page. "Everybody out," I said.


    ***


    Pascal got the ball and bounced it at an angle he had pre-calculated. He dashed forward to get the return pass. A burly centre back rushed across and took him out with a cynical foul. Yellow card. Pascal slapped the turf in pain and frustration.


    He took a few seconds before starting to get to his feet. A teammate bent to help him up - Pascal refused. He looked down. I need to be a better teammate, he thought. In all respects. He called out and offered his hand. His teammate came back and helped him up.


    "You''d take a good free kick from that position," suggested Sandra.


    "Yeah, so?"


    "Just saying."


    I shook my head and pointed to the pitch. "That team''s a Ferrari. They don''t need me."


    ***


    Sumo, Joe, and MD reacted instantly - they got up and walked to the door. MD held it open for the last two. Violet seemed offended but followed them. James Pond, last and least, couldn''t think of a reason he should be allowed to stay. The suspense, I knew, would be killing him.


    Good. There''s no law against being mysterious.


    (Apart from in a cluster of towns in Texas.)


    "What," I said, "the fuck is this?"


    "Just what it says," mumbled the moodiest teenager I''d ever tried to fire.


    I read out what he''d written in the ''signature'' field of the document. "I want to stay. You want to stay what? You want to stay frosty? You want to Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?"


    "I want to stay at Chester and fight for my place."


    I needed time to think, so I went to make that second cup of Earl Grey. I jiggled the teabag. "No. Go to Salford. That''s optimal for your career. It''s a step up and the timing''s pretty good, tbh." He was CA 62 now and with a few minutes in League Two he''d accelerate to, what, CA 80 by the end of the season? Maybe not 80, but he could get close.


    Pascal picked up the pen and stared at it like it was a voodoo doll. "It isn''t a step up. The manager does not have Dieter Bauer coming to visit him."


    "He probably gets even better guests."


    "Who''s better than Dieter Bauer?"


    I thought for a minute. "Heidi Klum?"


    Pascal gave me a flat look. "The manager is tactically naive. He isn''t flexible. As soon as he''s under pressure he''ll cave to the whims of the fans. If they take to me, good. If they don''t, I won''t play." He dropped the pen and looked directly up. "I know what people think of me. I need a manager who believes in me and is as stubborn as you."


    "Ian Evans," I suggested.


    Pascal scoffed. "He''s not even close. No-one is as stubborn as you. And he doesn''t rate me." He pushed the two copies of the termination deal apart. "I can''t believe you would let me go. I was sure you would cave." I didn''t reply. "I know you like me as a player. How is it so easy to watch me depart?"


    I jiggled the teabag some more. With Earl Grey I liked to keep the bag in while I was drinking it, but there was always a moment when it turned too bitter. I didn''t drink much Earl Grey these days. Maybe I''d get more practice when we were staying overnight at hotels. I looked at Pascal. He wasn''t doing his Bad Boy schtick; he just wanted to talk.


    "Did you ever play Champion Manager?" I said.


    He stuck his neck out like a turtle in a show of frustration. "I tried to talk to you about it many times and you always got angry!"


    "Oh, yeah, maybe. Okay, so you did."


    "I play Soccer Supremo."


    "Hmm. For some reason I played an old version. I don''t really remember why. It was free, maybe, and I was poor. And I don''t remember much of the game, but it''s been coming back to me more and more. Not just little flashes, either, but whole, like, feelings. When I look at my squad lists, I sometimes feel like I''m playing the game."


    Pascal did the tiniest grin. "You''re a real-life Soccer Supremo."


    "Oh," I said, fairly glum. "I''m living the dream, all right." I sipped my tea. All the jiggling had made it good. I took the bag out and sat back in my spot, cradling the sides of the cup. I took another sip. "Sometimes I wonder how I came up with a certain idea or solution so fast but that''s just it - I''ve played thousands of matches in a simulation. I''ve built squads and sold players and all that. I''ve had an apprenticeship, haven''t I?"


    "You''ve learned that DMs are overpowered."


    "Right. And I''ve played 3-5-2 against 4-4-2 and I''ve tried to run down the clock and been gut punched by a last minute equaliser and so on and so on. I''ve been through hundreds of seasons. Thousands, probably. It''s like a Monte Carlo simulator. What happens if I have a right back but not a left back? What happens if I put two big lads up front and play long ball? What happens if there''s a player who hates another player?"


    Pascal made some quiet noise or mumbled something, but I was too in the zone to pick it up.


    "I''ll be the first to admit that I didn''t handle this situation well. I should have tried to nip it in the bud but I wanted to give you space to sort it out yourself. But the more you didn''t, the more it made my blood boil. Sometimes I''ve been so, like, implacable it''s worried me. I know that I don''t have real-world experience and with lots of things like guys not training well because their kids are sick. I really fight hard to bottle my feelings because I know I don''t know the first thing about what they''re going through. I really try to be more tolerant and more understanding than I actually am." I took another sip. "But I''ve been 19 and I''ve been crushed by women enough times to have a sense of what''s proportional. And I''ve played enough football manager games to know what happens when players turn on each other. It festers and grows and it takes over the game. I remember," I said, and hesitated. Did I remember? What did I remember? "I remember things like one player goes to the media and says ''wow I hope a big club comes to sign me because these other players are shit.''"


    "Yes!" said Pascal. "They still do that. So annoying!"


    "And then it''s like eight players hate the guy. And every time you lose, your assistant - you have assistants in the game, right? She tells you the defeat was because the guy was in the team. You draw games you expected to win and you think was that just variance or was that because of the prick?" I stared into the depths of the cup. It wasn''t very deep - I could see there was something written at the bottom. A maker''s stamp. "I learned the only way to deal with it is zero tolerance. Get rid." I sighed. The next thing to say wasn''t very pleasant. "No matter how important that player is, how valuable, there''s always another one. You can get a new player. You can''t get a new culture." I sipped my tea, not very happy. "Zero tolerance. Zero. I''m not excessively stubborn, I don''t think. I''m a doctor. I''ll amputate a toe to save the foot."


    "The little toe," said Pascal.


    "Yeah," I said, half-smiling.


    "And buy a new one."


    "Yeah," I said. "This won''t make you feel better but I already found your replacement."


    His head dropped a little. "Oh?"


    "Yeah. Very similar to you." I drained my cup. "Only problem is, he''s eight." Playdar taking the piss out of me again.


    My timing and delivery was spot on - Pascal laughed. He laughed so much he started to hiccup. He slammed the table. "Dummkopf!" he said. Getting mad helped - for ten seconds. Then another hiccup came. "Help me," he said.


    I laughed. "What''s the cure for hiccups? Give you a shock? What''s shocking?" I drummed my fingers on the table. "Shocking... Did you know there''s a blogger who writes romantic fan fiction about Chester FC? They shipped you and Sam Topps."


    "What? Why? Have you read it?"


    "The Brig found it when he was trying to find a connection between," I pointed to James Pond''s empty chair, "and that online prick. He did some sort of test to see if the prick wrote the fanfics. You know, the same speech patterns, writing contact instead of contract, writing Early Grey instead of Earl. Computer said it definitely wasn''t the same person writing this and that but I was intrigued and skimmed the recent stuff. She - or he - is writing that you''re not playing because you''re sad because Sam''s gone. But you''re spending a lot of time being comforted by Charlotte."


    "I thought I was gay."


    I shrugged. "I don''t make the rules. I think the blogger would like you to move back into the digs. Loads of possibilities there."


    Pascal stared at nothing for a while, then blinked and shook his head. He frowned and swallowed. "Help me," he said.


    "I did. You''re cured."


    "Not the hiccups. I need help with my... With my feelings. I don''t want to be like this."


    I leaned back and regarded him. "I mean, that''s part of the problem. You both went for the same woman. She chose him. You didn''t do anything wrong. She didn''t do anything wrong. Henri didn''t do anything wrong. I just can''t get my head around how that''s turned into a whole drama worth risking your career over. I can''t help because I don''t understand it."


    "I don''t understand it, either. But it happened and then it was the summer break and Raffi is gone and there was no-one... I didn''t know what to do. I think it might have been better to see them together but he moved out so it''s all in my imagination. I don''t know what to do."


    I took a breath and picked up the signed-but-not-signed termination paper. "Have you tried not being a dick?"


    He laughed, once. "Have you tried not being a dick?"


    I leaned back again. "If you need help, I''ll help. I mean, I''m not a psychologist and I don''t know shit about anything. Maybe the Brig? One day we''ll get a counsellor. Might be a couple of seasons. I bet Salford have one. But look, I just can''t have you going round hating people. It''s not Chesterness."


    Pascal made an exasperated noise and pointed at James Pond''s empty chair. "You hate him!" he said.


    I did a half-smile again, but this one was cheeky. "Yeah, well. He deserves it. He''s trying to sell this club off, one brick at a time. You''re allowed to hate someone who''s done something to hurt you."


    "Can I hate you, then?"


    "What for selling Sam Topps? Sure. But you can''t hate the players."


    "You''re a player."


    "Ah, the old player-manager dilemma. How did it go in Champion Manager? If a player hates the manager that''s all about how likely he is to leave the club. Like, he''ll want a transfer, won''t sign a new contract. Is that right? Annoying but it doesn''t get taken on the pitch. Those players still play well and aren''t disruptive. So yeah, you can hate me the manager but you can''t hate me the player. Hope not hate. Yes, we can. Things can only get better." I put my palms on the table. "Good. This was a good chat. Now are you going to sign these things or not?"


    ***


    Pascal sprinted from the left back to the centre back, forcing them to play hurried passes. Then he pressed the goalie, who shanked his clearance out for a throw-in. The home fans applauded lustily.


    "Look," said Sandra.


    There were two options for Pascal. To his left, an opponent was free, and Pascal''s instinct was to sprint across and cover. But if that guy was free, it meant there had to be space somewhere. To Pascal''s right was a big hole in the defensive line. He could take up that position and create some danger.


    I had trained him to take the more aggressive option. The fearless option.


    "Risk and reward," I said. "Perfectly balanced."


    "Salford''s manager would want him to retreat," she said.


    Pascal''s head dropped a fraction and he took a few steps back towards his own goal. The throw-in was taken, the ball was worked around the left, and suddenly Pascal turned and sprinted forward into the big space the opposition had left. A left-footed guy sprayed a slightly inaccurate pass that Pascal had to move away from goal to collect. No-one else was quite on his wavelength so he found himself in the penalty area with no support. He pushed the ball forward, scampered after it, and hit a low shot just before a covering defender slid in to block. The goalie dived to his left and flipped the ball behind for a corner kick. The crowd went ooh! and gave him a round of applause. Pascal gave a thumbs up to the player who had passed the ball. He looked around. He didn''t know who would take the corner!


    ***


    "If I talk to someone, can I stay?"


    I shrugged. "You should go. It''s honestly better for you."


    "I don''t think it is."


    I shrugged again. "Fine."


    "What?"


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "You can stay."


    He swallowed. "It''s one of your jokes."


    "No. You can stay. But listen. You''re on a timer. Imagine I''m playing Champion Manager and I see ''dislikes Henri Lyons'' in your player profile. Believe that I see it. I cannot be lied to about this stuff. I have a sixth sense about what goes on in my squad. Dislikes Henri Lyons has to go. If you''re working on it, fine. If you''re not working on it..." I spun my finger around. "We''re not doing this again. It''s the bomb squad and you''ll train on your own for six years. You think I''ve been stubborn so far? That was nothing. By the time you next play a football match the other team will be a bunch of robots and there will be eleven twelve-year-olds controlling them via AI prompts." I picked up the document and curled it into a baton. I slapped my palm with it, not to be menacing but because it sounded good. "See? This was all my plan."


    "What?" said Pascal.


    "It''s called brinksmanship. I take you right to the edge and then you back down and we''re both winners."


    He looked at me like I was crazy. "I was about to sign. I nearly signed."


    "Did you? Then explain why I''ve already written my programme notes welcoming you back to the team against Woking."


    He looked absolutely stunned. "It''s... it''s impossible."


    "Of course it is, you idiot." I laughed. "I wanted you to leave. It''s good for your career. Now you''re stuck leading fucking Chester to league and cup glory."


    His eyes shone. "Leading?"


    I smirked. "Best supporting actor, maybe. God, I want to get to the FA Cup third round. 4-2-3-1 with me, you, and WibRob behind our star striker..."


    "Henri."


    I slapped the baton really hard against my palm. Pain, then pleasure. "Come on!" I yelled, triumphantly. I looked around the meeting room. It wasn''t time for football songs. It was time to take care of business. "All right, well. What now?"


    "Now we apologise to the board for wasting their time."


    I scoffed. "We''ll do no such thing." I rested my chin on the baton. "The board are a problem." If I was smart, I could use this Pascal situation to kickstart something of a fightback against James Pond and his mystery backer. "I''ll help you with your shitty teenage brain, Pascal buddy. I think the normal cure is falling in love with someone else. Why don''t you read that fan fiction to get some ideas? And if you want, you can help me, too."


    "With what?"


    "With saving Chester from itself."


    ***


    Saturday the 28th of September was a day with a lot of league games, including an early kick off that was taking place on the other side of the country. Closer to home but kicking off at the same time as us, Salford were at home to Chesterfield. Sandra and I had placed a bet on which team would win, so we were following it on her phone while our Chester team played Woking.


    "What are you doing?" said Sandra.


    I went to the linesman and told him the next sub I wanted to make. I turned back to my assistant. "I''m taking the corner."


    She rolled her eyes. "I thought they were a Ferrari. I thought they didn''t need you."


    I unzipped my training top revealing a pristine Best 77 home kit. A buzz of anticipation went up around the main stand, and it seemed to be there were a few groans from the away dugout. "I haven''t been kicked in days. I''m starting to miss it."


    Sandra held her phone up. "I''ll kick you if you don''t pay up. I told you Chesterfield would win."


    "It''s not over till it''s over," I said.


    "Replacing number fifteen, Wes Hayward, number seventy-seven, Max Best."


    I got a standing ovation that I milked shamelessly while Henri fumed. I clasped my fingers together and shook them in the old-fashioned style above my head. And now for an old-fashioned corner. Hit the penalty spot and let Zach and Glenn get their big slabby foreheads on it. Bosh!


    I picked the ball up, spun it round a few times, and placed it just so.


    Then I thought - nah.


    Instead of a load of cavemen wrestling each other, how about a clever move to get me some space so I can hit the cross from a deadlier angle? How about taking the defence out of their comfort zones? Only one problem - I needed someone quick-thinking to help me do that.


    I used Masterpiece Theatre to move Pascal to the edge of the box. He was far from that spot so he had to run to get there. While he was going I dabbed the ball in his direction, then sprinted away from the corner flag. Pascal touched the ball just where I wanted it. I absolutely smashed it left-footed, aiming at the far post. Between me and goal were fifteen players and the slightest contact from any of them would probably deflect the ball into the net.


    And that''s exactly what happened.


    The Harry McNally stand bounced around and my players wheeled in my direction. I hadn''t even seen who got the decisive touch and had to dip into the curse commentary to find out. Guess who? Henri. The three of us formed a triumvirate in the middle of a euphoric mass of bodies. Two-nil, job done, up the league we go.


    The stadium was noisy and colourful. In the stand behind the dugout I had a pair of one-hundred-million-pound players, Youngster and WibRob, who were as happy as any lifelong Chester fan. The dugout was full of talented specialists - and Vimsy - and in a few minutes I would bring Josh Owens on to continue Project Youth, my belief in which had never wavered for a second.


    Henri was making little heart signs and throwing them towards someone in the crowd.


    I glanced at Pascal. He glowered and stomped away... but almost immediately stopped. He waited for Henri to walk past and held his hands up for a high ten.


    Good enough, I thought. Good enough.


    ***


    The other members of the meeting weren''t waiting in the corridor. Perhaps they had started there but we had taken so long they''d gone to get a drink or wait in the comfy chairs around reception. To find them quicker, Pascal went left and I went right.


    My route took me past a lot of meeting rooms and the like, but around the corner was a pretty unexpected little waiting area. Just a random space in the middle of a bland corridor. Some comfortable chairs, some Monet posters hung up.


    I frowned - not because of the art - and slipped inside the nearest meeting room, leaving the door very slightly ajar. Three women and two men looked at me, fairly astonished. I put my fingers to my lips and texted MD.


    One of the guys started to say something but again I did the shush thing and the sound died. About twenty seconds later fast footsteps went past. I leaned out and saw the back of James Pond. I stepped back into the room and said, "Thanks, sorry. I''m being papped." Hunted by the paparazzi. They all went ''oh!'' and smiled - rancour gone.


    I took a few sneaky steps down the corridor and saw who was in the waiting area, or as much of him as I could see without being seen myself. I thought about extending my arm and taking a photo but there was a risk of the phone being spotted and anyway, I knew who the man was.


    I snuck back, then fell into a fast walk and got into the room just as James Pond was about to go back and make sure I hadn''t gone the ''wrong'' way.


    Big spy energy when James Pond was around! My heart was pumping and I wished there was a beautiful woman in the area; all that energy would have fueled some top-tier flirting. But Brooke hadn''t come to the meeting...


    "Okay," I said, slapping my hands. "That''s all resolved. Pascal is staying."


    Pond''s head rocked back in surprise, but he actually broke into a smile. "Wonderful!"


    "Yeah," I said, sitting on the table so I could look out of the window at the bright, Chestery future. "We worked it out. But I think you''re right, Mr. Pond. We need to make sure we keep our young talents happy so we can protect the club''s assets. If we sell Pascal at the end of the season, it''ll pay for a training pitch and that''ll generate a ton of revenue. Or keep him a further season and he''ll be worth enough to buy a... I''m thinking a fifty-foot statue of me and my thumbs turn in the wind."


    "Of course we should look after ourselves as well as taking care of the youngsters," said Pond, in a very reasonable voice. He was good at this.


    I bit my nail. "I''m thinking... I''ve got some wage budget that isn''t really enough for a new player. Not one that will make a difference. If we''re struggling in January, we''ll need something, so I can''t go crazy. But I''d like to offer improved contracts to some of our players."


    "Almost everyone signed new deals recently," said MD, deeply confused.


    "Youngster''s being scouted by his national team and William went and made himself the youngest goalscorer in the history of this competition, the fucking idiot. People are starting to look at them. Do you want to sell now for fifty thousand or in a couple of years for nine hundred and fifty thousand?"


    "Well," said MD, smiling.


    "They''re in my bad books right now but when I let them back in the team, I''ll give them a new contract. We can''t renew Pascal until we''re in League Two, if he wants to stay with us for that. Basically the same terms with the major difference being a slightly increased pay packet. That''s, like, in my power anyway but I thought it would be polite to inform the board of my plans and to see if there were objections."


    "None from me," smiled James Pond.


    "What about the women?" said Violet.


    "Yeah, that''s something to consider. Take care of the top prospects."


    "But Max," said MD, his facial roller coaster launching into another dip.


    "MD is right," I said, as though interpreting his frown lines. "We do already take pretty good care of them. There''s always room for improvement though. I''ve got to say, though, really the only thing that can stop us crushing the league is ourselves." I wish I hadn''t said that. I really, really wish I hadn''t said that. But how was I supposed to know what would happen? "Top," I said, wrapping everything up. "The theme of the day is reconciliation. Trust. Togetherness. Putting petty squabbles behind us so we can focus on what''s really important - getting three points against Woking."


    "Hear, hear!" said Secretary Joe.


    There was a moment of pure contentment that I allowed to linger. I pointed at Pascal. "Didn''t you miss training today?"


    "Yes, but," he said, indicating the table, as though the table had given him permission to be a slacker.


    "Go and do extra!" I said, with fake annoyance. "Jude is there this afternoon doing something for his badges. Join that sesh."


    "So," he said, sort of getting up in a hesitant way. "Do you mean... now?"


    "Pascal Bochum has a high understanding of the game," I bellowed. "Pascal Bochum understands his manager''s instructions."


    He grinned, got to his feet, and walked towards the door. "It feels strange to leave without shaking hands with everyone."


    "They''ll get over it," I said. I thought about his heartbreak. "And so will you."


    ***


    The rest of us left more or less together. James Pond said he had to rush off - I knew where he was going. I walked outside with Sumo and started a conversation about whether I should buy a PS5 or Xbox whatever. That succeeded in getting rid of Violet, Joe, and MD, and then I grabbed Sumo by the elbow and begged him for help.


    He went to the side exit while I reparked my car so I''d have a view of the main one.


    I called Sumo and we talked while we waited.


    "It''s like a stake-out, this," he said.


    "It''s exactly a stake-out. Wow."


    "What?"


    "I want steak, now. Do you want to get lunch after?"


    "I''ve got a stream in a bit."


    "Let''s get take-out and you can play and I''ll entertain the chat."


    "Steak-out?"


    I laughed, but then James Pond exited the front of the hotel. He looked left and right. Shifty ay eff. "Awooga!" I said.


    "Is it happening?"


    "Yes. Pond''s out. He''s texting his handler that it''s safe to leave. Anyone on your side?"


    "No, Max."


    "Stay frosty."


    "Oh," he said.


    "What?"


    "I want an ice lolly, now."


    I laughed. "Steak and ice lollies. Breakfast of champions. Hold up." The main doors slid apart and a man emerged. It was the same guy I''d seen in the waiting area. A round-faced businessman with white eyebrows and hair. He looked stocky and powerful. His suit was classy and understated but he had a gold signet ring, a gold watch, and what looked like a gold lapel pin in the shape of a revolver.


    "Sumo? He''s here. Come to the car park and I''ll drive you home."


    "Who is it, though?"


    "The man who wants to buy Chester Football Club," I announced, dramatically, leaving a long pause, "is Heidi Klum."


    "Fucking hell, Max."


    "Okay, it''s not Heidi Klum. It''s a nobody. Nothing I can''t handle, mate. Better if you act like you don''t know what''s going on."


    "I don''t know what''s going on."


    "That''s the spirit."


    I watched as the b-boy walked to the side of the road - a Bentley rolled up, slowed down, and a leggy brunette got out. The b-boy gallantly dipped his hat to her and she responded with a big smile. The Bentley drove off, the b-boy watched the beauty go inside, and he did a little head twitch as if to say, well, wasn''t she swell? He walked off towards the train station. A frugal millionaire, this one. He lifted his cowboy hat onto his head and vanished from sight.


    So, the guy behind it all was Brooke''s father. Daddy Star. What had Luisa called me? Daddy Shark.


    Daddy Star versus Daddy Shark. He had money. Four hundred million dollars at the last count. I had allies. I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror and realised my lips had curled back. I had allies, and I had teeth.


    "Are you still there, Max?"


    "Yes, Sumo. I''m still here. And I''m not going anywhere."


    ...


    END OF BOOK NUMBERS PARTY


    XP balance: 6,053


    Men''s League Table


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>32</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>28</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Women''s League Table


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Cheadle Town Stingers</td>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Men''s Top Scorers


    Henri Lyons 7


    Max Best 5


    Aff 4


    Women''s Top Scorers


    Bea Pea 4


    Angel 3


    Misc Data


    West Didsbury and Chorlton defeats: 0


    National League top scorer: Marcus Wainwright (Grimsby): 11


    Crawley League One position: 15th


    Tranmere League Two position: 8th


    Darlington National League North position: 1st


    Ian Evans games won: 0


    Post-Euros transfer fee for Leo, the Slovakian Messi: 8 million Euros


    Max''s unused Raffi Brown cash: approx 300,000


    Misc Book Data


    Word count: In the region of 178,000


    No. of times Brazil tour requested in comments: 5


    Best chapter: 12 - Influence


    Most tearful chapter: 3 - Leave No Man Behind


    Most beloved new character: Zach Green (citation needed)


    Best goal: WibRob vs Wealdstone


    Most controversial moment: Brooke saying picture not film or movie


    Discord award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence: (to be decided)


    Chester Loan Analysis


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Player</td>


    <td>Loaned To</td>


    <td>Tier</td>


    <td>Loan Rating</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>A Harrison</td>


    <td>FCUM</td>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Superb</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>M Harrison</td>


    <td>West</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Good</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Vivek</td>


    <td>West</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Good</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Lucas Friend</td>


    <td>West</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Okay</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tyson</td>


    <td>Nantwich</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Good</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Benny</td>


    <td>Runcorn</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Superb</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dan Badford</td>


    <td>Witton Albion</td>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Good</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Loan rating is based on how much a player is learning and similar factors. The rating is produced by an AI computer; don''t ask me about it.


    Men''s Home Attendances


    Total: 20,241


    Average: 3,374 (vs 2,287 last season)


    Women''s Home Attendances (in Flint)


    Total: 280


    Average: 140 (vs 0 last season)


    Chester Men''s Squad


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="62"><col width="128"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    <td>Contract Yrs</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Ben Cavanagh</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Rainman</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>99</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Sticky</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>1600</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>122</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Glenn Ryder</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>775</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Carl Carlile</td>


    <td>DCR</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>650</td>


    <td>62</td>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Magnus Evergreen</td>


    <td>D,DM,M</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>52</td>


    <td>-2</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>Vivek (Glenn)</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>66</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Steve Alton</td>


    <td>D CR</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Zach Green</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>51</td>


    <td>139</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>900</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Cole Adams (Carl)</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>147</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Josh Owens (Aff)</td>


    <td>DM L</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>119</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>James Wise</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>46</td>


    <td>60</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Andrew Harrison</td>


    <td>MC R</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>?</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Michael Harrison</td>


    <td>MC R</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>?</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>750</td>


    <td>INJ Jan 2025</td>


    <td>151</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Aff</td>


    <td>ML</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>575</td>


    <td>61</td>


    <td>70</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>DM, MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>57</td>


    <td>181</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Omari Naysmith (Ryan)</td>


    <td>CM</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>32</td>


    <td>103</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>Max Best</td>


    <td>Omni</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>1000</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Wes Hayward</td>


    <td>AM LR</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>86</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>WibRob (Max)</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>185</td>


    <td>4</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Pascal Bochum</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>62</td>


    <td>133</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Ziggy</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>450</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>LOAN</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Henri Lyons</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>1000</td>


    <td>60</td>


    <td>90</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tom Westwood</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>32</td>


    <td>92</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Management Team</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>3000</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>23.76923077</td>


    <td>21100</td>


    <td>43.29166667</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Ages are according to Max''s spreadsheet. Names in brackets show mentors. Contract plus one indicates the club has the option to extend.


    Chester''s Women


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="45"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="109"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>No.</td>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    <td>Contract Yrs</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Robyn Wright</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Queenie</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>50</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>94</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Scottie Love</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Erin Barnes</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Mel Robinson</td>


    <td>RB</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Mo Walsh</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Lucy</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>90</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Bonnie</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Femi</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>121</td>


    <td>2+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Luxury Bell</td>


    <td>D CR</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>88</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Ridley T</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>85</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Diane</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>50</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>60</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Gracie Davies</td>


    <td>LM</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Pippa Hoole</td>


    <td>CM</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>111</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Dani Smith-Smithe</td>


    <td>M, AM LRC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>177</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Susan Butler</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Maddy Hines</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>80</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Charlotte</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>101</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Kisi Yalley</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>143</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Beatrice Pearce</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Julie McKay</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>155</td>


    <td>1+1</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    R.E.M. Clients:


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="77"><col width="60"><col width="80"><col width="51"><col width="51"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    <td>Club</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bark</td>


    <td>RM</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>130</td>


    <td>Tranmere</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dani</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>177</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>155</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>WibRob</td>


    <td>F RLC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>185</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Lucas Cook</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>800</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>142</td>


    <td>Tranmere</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Nelson Smith-Howes</td>


    <td>RM</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>139</td>


    <td>Tranmere</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>

 9.1 - Var Var Voom

    Player Manager 9


    The story so far:


    With almost a third of the 2024/25 season gone, Max Best has led Chester FC to ninth in the National League, the fifth tier of English football. His youthful team has been bolstered by the return to form of number nine Henri Lyons and the return to the squad of the German forward Pascal Bochum. The women''s team are in complete control of their division and many of the under eighteens are getting first-team minutes ahead of their FA Youth Cup run. The only cloud on the horizon is that an American businessman seems to be angling to buy the fan-owned club - a move that would see Max quit on the spot.


    ***


    "Small talk is for strangers and con men." Captain Holt, Brooklyn 99


    ***


    1.


    Friday, October 11, 2024


    [Room ambience: plinky plonky music; lightly cascading water.]


    - Hello and welcome to Var Var Voom, the Francophile podcast which takes a dry, spry, and excessively wry side eye at world football. We sigh, we decry, but we never say goodbye because the beautiful game is the world''s game and while they can try to take it away from us, they never will succeed. I am your host, Jean-Jacques Javet and on this award-winning episode is a friend, a kindred spirit, a warrior-poet, a creator of football, Henri Lyons.


    - I am dry and spry, but I cannot promise to be wry. [We hear squelching noises.] How do you know this episode will win awards?


    - Awards are like cats. They choose the laps of those who treat them with indifference. But this one is pure award catnip. The concept is singular, the access unprecedented, and the company sparkling.


    - Do you refer to myself or to Dean?


    - The concept is The Sounds of Football and I will be accompanying a professional footballer as he goes about his day - with one or two detours to take in a few sights and shake up the crystal ball of Henri''s memory.


    [Physio Dean, not very clear] - Does Max know about this?


    [Henri] - Max agrees that injured players should keep themselves busy, does he not?


    [Dean, now with a microphone closer to his mouth] - He means teaching Brooke about offside and why you can be promoted from the National League North into the National League but then get relegated into the National League South. Not whatever this is.


    [Squelching continues]


    [JJ] - Who is Brooke? No, let''s save that. Listener, we have started our day in a medical room located on the ground floor of an office building in Chester, a sometimes beautiful Roman town in the north west of England. Outside this room is a corridor leading to a large pair of doors, beyond which are two grass pitches and two artificial ones. This is where Chester''s mens and women''s teams train, though the stadium is across town, twelve minutes away. The women''s current home stadium is in Flint, which is even more in Wales than the Deva stadium.


    [Henri, turning his head towards his friend for a moment] - Informative, but not informative enough to spare your listeners a trip to Wikipedia.


    [JJ] - My listeners enjoy some outside reading. Those who are intrigued may look it up. Those who merely enjoy my accent are free to merely enjoy my accent while those who really enjoy my accent are free to really enjoy my accent.


    [Henri, settling back] - How liberated your listeners must be.


    [JJ] - Both Chester teams play in tier five. For the women, life begins in the second tier. For the men, just one more promotion will mean a return to the big time. Television, media interest, and a slice of the so-called ''solidarity payments'' from the Premier League. Millions of pounds are at stake. [Squelch.] My friend Henri, Chester''s number nine, is receiving treatment. A pleasantly noisy medical massage. What is the diagnosis, my friend?


    - It is a calf strain I suffered against Barnet. That was a hard day. [Squelch.] We had a vexatious start to the season, Jean-Jacques. Max shunned my advice and pruned too much of the squad - a failing he readily admits and one that I have generously forgiven him for. We also had one or two personal issues but the sense of togetherness is back, I think, and we climbed to ninth. Within range of the playoffs, which is our goal for the year. Oh, that''s the spot.


    [Dean] - There?


    - Yeah.


    [Dean] - Better than at the start of the week, though?


    - Much.


    [JJ] - Things were looking up, but then a setback.


    - We were losing to Barnet. They''re one of the two best teams in the league, so it was no surprise, but we were competing well. I felt a pull and that was that. Without me, the team had little chance. Max didn''t even bring himself on for the last twenty minutes, as he usually does, which I took to be a sign that the effort needed to get back in the game didn''t match the potential reward. Thus a two-nil defeat. The gap between us increased from eight to eleven points.


    - Barnet are only in second place, no?


    - Yes but we don''t even consider first place. That is Grimsby Town and they are on something of a rampage. They play dull, percentage football but they have Marcus Wainwright for a striker and he is on a tear. Fifteen goals already and he''s on pace to compete with Muggles and Bailiff, who scored over forty goals for Wrexham and Notts County in their promotion campaigns. For us this season, second seems out of reach already, but it''s not completely crazy to track them and dream. [Squelch squelch squelch.] Uhhhhhh. [Squelch.] So... a loss to Barnet on a Tuesday night and injuries to myself, Henri Lyons, and Carl Carlile. He''s a talented defender. We missed the Maidstone United game and that proved to be even more disappointing than against Barnet.


    - It was one-all, was it not?


    - Yes but they are limited and if we are to retain any ambitions for the season, we simply have to beat such teams.


    [Dean] - It was wretched, that day. Windy as hell and horizontal rain. Almost unplayable. As a club, we try to play nice football and we were zipping the ball around and then a gust would come and blow it out of touch. [Sound of him pumping a dispenser. Big slapping noise. Gasp from Henri.] Pascal is back in the manager''s good books and he was trying his clever moves and not getting anywhere. In the end, Max gave up on football. He came on for thirty minutes at the end and had, what, ten shots? Shoot on sight. It was something to behold. He''d fire one from thirty yards at the top corner and the wind would take it up to row Z. He''d hit one low and hard and it would slow down enough for the keeper to jog to it. Max likes Maidstone because they''ve got a culture like ours. Community-minded and progressive and all that. He likes the manager, too - Maidstone went on a wild cup run last year - so he was getting frustrated but instead of boiling over like he would against Grimsby or Darlington he burst out laughing. Laughed his head off, dribbled, hit a shot even harder. Same result. His last three goes were straight at the goalie because he thought, fuck it, if the wind moves the ball it''ll be hard to save. Course, there was no wind in that exact moment, right?


    [JJ] - Murphy''s law.


    [Dean] - I don''t know about that. The tenth shot was going wide but it hit a defender and rebounded in. Max didn''t even celebrate. I don''t celebrate shit goals, he says. Shit goal, shit point, but a shit point is better than nothing. It was a shocking match. Normally even if we lose we have some good patches and you can see where we''re going as a team. You with me? They can''t put it together for ninety minutes but you can see what it will look like. That game, though, phew. What a stinker.


    [Squelching resumes.]


    [Henri] - We now sit twelfth with a goal difference of plus one. [Sigh.] It is my fault. I was distracted at the start of the season - did I mention I found ecstatic happiness in the embrace of a goddess? - but now I''m back and trying too hard to make up for lost time.


    [Dean] - Your mind works like that but your body doesn''t. You need to ramp up your effort, not go straight to a full sprint.


    - I know. Balance is hard to find this year.


    [JJ] - Will you be back soon?


    - Yes. Fortunately we have a pair of relatively lesser opponents in our coming fixtures. Tomorrow is the FA Cup fourth qualifying round. We play a team called Mousehole.


    - You''re joking?


    - I am not. They are from Cornwall. Six and a half hour drive. Thank God the match is in Chester.


    [Dean] - I like away matches. I get to join the banter without trying to explain tendons for the hundredth time.


    [Henri] - The Tuesday evening match is the Cheshire Cup. We will rotate the team; I likely would not have played anyway. So the target is to be back for next Saturday against Ebbsfleet.


    [Slow squelching followed by little French gasps.]


    [JJ] - This episode will be called The Sounds of Football. Dean, I have been writing and podcasting about football for quite some time and I could tell you far too much about the inner workings of FIFA, UEFA, CONCACAF, AFCON, and more. Money trails, corruption, the four hundred million pounds spent on a single building that FIFA does not even own.


    [Dean] - Wait what?


    [JJ] - But I am a terrible player! I never got past Friday night five-a-side with my mates so a training ground is still quite a mysterious space to me. This is the fifth tier of English football but it exists on such a pedestal in my mind. The little boy inside me is giddily dancing around.


    [Dean] - I have tablets for that.


    [JJ] - Before you got this job, didn''t you ever wonder what it all sounded like? What it smelled like? How footballers talked?


    [Squelching stops.]


    [Dean] - I suppose I did, yeah.


    [The squelches resume, with each one being followed by tiny hand claps. Henri moans.]


    [JJ] - It''s just like I imagined it. Massages inside. Training outside. People wandering from one space to another with their boots on. Clomp, clomp, clomp. [Pause.] I didn''t really expect it to sound like a Tibetan monastery, though.


    [Dean] - Hmm? Oh, the music. And the water feature. I''m not sure you''ll get a good sound of football from Chester. We do things different around here. Example - the spa atmosphere. Max wants this space to be welcoming and relaxing. He wants players to come in and get checked out if they''ve got some discomfort or something doesn''t feel right. That''s why Henri came off against Barnet. Could he have played another ten minutes? Sure. But Max would have gone ballistic. Anyway, Max sees when players aren''t moving right; it''s not worth trying to hide things from him.


    [JJ] - But you lost to one of your biggest rivals.


    [Dean] - What''s the alternative? Henri stays on, Max goes on, they fight and get lucky and get us a draw. We''re eight points behind but now our only experienced striker is out for two months. Three months. Not worth it in the slightest and you don''t need a Maxterplan to get your head around that. Our core squad is small. We''ve got backups who aren''t proper ready. Every time we get an injury to a key player there''s more strain on the other key players. Ryan Jack''s out. Henri and Carl missed a couple of matches. Max himself is trying to get as much recovery time as he can, which is why he sacked off the Barnet game. So we''re down three and a half players and that means no breaks for Aff and Wisey and Glenn and everything starts to get frayed at the edges and if you pull it hard enough things unravel.


    [Henri] - Today you''ll hear a lot of crazy things but you have to bear in mind that almost everything we do is about winning football matches.


    [A single clap.]


    [Dean] - That''ll do for today, Henri. If you need me, I''m here for a while and in a bit I''m going to Finch Farm.


    [The sound of Henri noisily turning and sitting up. The treatment table groans and squeaks.]


    [Henri] - Everton''s training ground? Why?


    [Dean] - We think Ryan is ready for cutting and jumping. The physios there are helping us with his recovery.


    [JJ] - That''s very decent of them.


    [Dean] - Yes, it is. Ryan played for Everton, came through the youth system, still has friends there so I suspect if he put in a request to use their pool once a week or something like that - something he''d never do, by the way - they would be fairly amenable but there''s something about ACL injuries that unites the whole of the sport. They''re a plague. The lads there have been helping me out with advice and double checking the timings and all that. I know what to do but it''s different when it''s your own player. You get into wishful thinking. It''s been a relief being able to follow best practice and of course they''ve got top equipment.


    [Henri] - Dean wants to do a study on ACL injuries.


    [Dean] - I want to get good data but clubs tend to be quite snobbish about who they talk to. Chester in the sixth tier? Sorry, we''re busy. Fifth tier? Sigh, what do you want? No, we don''t do that. I was getting frustrated, to be honest, but recently I''ve been getting calls from clubs about injuries that have just happened. I''m not sure if it was because Dieter Bauer came to visit us...


    [JJ] - The visit of a World Cup-winning legend does give you some cachet. More visibility.


    [Henri] - Visit-bility.


    [Dean] - I think it''s Max, though. He''s doing something, or he''s asked Brooke to use her charms. But I don''t care why it''s happening; if enough people get in touch offering access to their data I''ll really be able to get somewhere. Prevention, treatment, reducing recurrence. We could make a real difference!


    [Henri] - Jean-Jacques, here is a rare sound. Put the microphone right here.


    - Here?


    - Yes, perfect.


    [Pause. Silence.]


    - What am I hearing?


    - Something rare and precious. That''s the sound of Physio Dean... happy.


    ***


    [Air movement, the sound of distant traffic, some shouts.]


    - We''re outside and there are some twenty players running around doing drills. [Whistle.] Oh! A peep! Was that Sandra Lane''s whistle?


    - It was.


    - Max Best''s understudy. She has managed, what, twenty professional matches for Chester''s men''s team? There''s an awful lot of interest in her. In many respects, she''s more famous than Max Best. What''s she like?


    - She''s excellent. How close do you want to get?


    - As close as I''m allowed.


    - Come.


    [The sounds of football draw closer. There are shouts. Runs. Yelps. Names. ''Mine! Left! And again! Have it!'' A woman''s voice: ''I swear to fucking God, Dan!'']


    - Henri, it''s wonderful. [JJ allows the audio to speak for itself for twenty seconds.] Where is the main man?


    - I am right here.


    - Where is the second most important person in Chester?


    - She''s at work.


    - Where is Max Best?


    - Oh, him? I believe he is in Wales.


    - Aren''t we in Wales, now?


    - No, we are not. See the boy there? He''s called Dan Badford. Look how smooth he is. The way he turns as he receives the ball? Mwah! That one is called Lucas Friend. He''s a left back.


    - What''s Dan?


    - Central midfielder. Ah, but if we had the time and the right equipment we could record them kicking the ball and you''d hear the difference. Lucas was a goalkeeper and he likes to clobber it. Dan is what we call a silky smooth playmaker. He caresses the ball.


    - You can hear the difference?


    - Oh, yes. There''s a story that when David Beckham went to Madrid, the other players could turn their backs and know when he kicked the ball because he sounded so English. There''s Benny. He''s a striker. He is very intelligent; he admires me. These young men have been out on loan getting some minutes in lower leagues but they are back because the FA Youth Cup starts in a few days. Max is very serious about it. He plans to unleash WibRob.


    - Unleash?


    - [laughs] It is the only word we use with him and somehow it is the only word that fits. William is the youngest goalscorer in National League history. Like many of our players he is raw but in his case he is so physically developed he doesn''t look as out of place as the others.


    [There''s the oof of a hard tackle going in followed by a burst of shouting. An older man shouts ''oi oi oi''. Five seconds later, there''s clapping from different parts of the pitch and the previous noises resume.]


    - The FA Youth Cup, you said. This facility is not terrible, I have seen worse, but the other entrants will be from top academies. You''ll be up against the next Bellingham, the next Phil Foden.


    - Ours train with the first team on a regular basis and many of the starting eleven will have played minutes in real matches. I am with you - I do not know if it will be enough, though what more could be done I do not know. We shall see. Max talks about it all the time; we are quite invested. Keep an eye out for their results but do not be surprised if it takes a big team to defeat us.


    - It nearly came to blows a few moments ago.


    - What, that little tackle? No, not even close. That was nothing. We play in the National League. It is not so refined as one would wish.


    - One often hears of players fighting each other at training. How long would I have to wait to see that here?


    - Interesting question. I think you would wait for some time. There are always frustrations, especially as our results have been below par. Imagine you work hard all week and play with guts and spirit for eighty-seven minutes and some dolt tries to be clever or is lazy or doesn''t follow instructions and poof - you have lost. Thousands of fans are sad, one hears sarcastic comments in local shops, the book club''s WhatsApp group gets mysteriously quiet, the podcasters dissect your performance. It is very easy for tensions to bubble up and that can happen here as easily as any other club.


    But there is much more rotation of the squad, here. Glenn Ryder is the captain and a very good and important player but he gets rotated out. A player such as myself would expect to play every minute of every game but the manager has other ideas. I can be in peak form, firing goals from all angles, and still be out of the team, either to keep me fresh or for tactical reasons. The plan might require me to come on for the second half. Or simply my minutes are being given to a young player so he can develop. It''s not personal so it''s hard to take it personally. If you don''t have favourites you don''t have jealousies.


    There''s also a culture of, how can I say it? Let me try to be simple. It is not my job to teach Dan there how to play midfield. In the moment he makes a mistake we can be frustrated and show it. However, if it''s a technical problem, that can only be fixed on the training pitch. Screaming at him during the match or at half time achieves nothing. If there is any screaming to be done, Max does it, or delegates it. [A quiet moment. Sandra has gathered the men and is explaining something. Henri scratches his chin; his wrist bumps into the microphone.] I think I''ve realised in my time working with Max Best how little I understand what the other players are doing. The left back slot is of particular interest at the moment and the left back will seem, to my eyes, to have played well but gets withdrawn after twenty minutes. Or he seems to have had a shocker and Max praises him in the dressing room.


    If you ask - and if Max is in the mood to discuss it - you''ll learn that the left back''s direct opponent was trying to achieve this or that and our player managed to stop him. Or perhaps he didn''t, but he did it better than anyone else in the league so far. Or that Max required him not to attack or to attack more, or that he had different passing instructions to the rest of the team, or the time I said he was out of position we had actually switched formation for a few minutes. What we do is far more complicated than at other clubs of this level and shouting ''you''re out of position!'' at a player inevitably makes you look foolish. I would suggest that those of us who have been here the longest have learned to let Max do the tantrums and we ought to concentrate on our own jobs. Ah! Another reason you likely won''t see a fight. You would most want to shout at one of the new players, since they are the ones making the most mistakes per ninety, but they are under the protection of the Brig. He''s ex-British army and he is formidable. Throw a punch at one of his boys and you, well. Dentistry is the hot topic of the moment.


    - Dentistry?


    - Yes. I''ll explain it later. Suffice to say, no-one wants to lose a tooth. We don''t throw punches.


    ***


    [Sound of boiling, hissing, cutlery on plates, muffled conversations and laughs.]


    - This is our canteen. We share it with the employees from BoshCard - civilians - which has its pros and cons. This is Gordo. He thinks he could run Chester better than Max; hilarious hubris. Over there is Penny. Always wears pencil skirts. Nominative determinism in action. I do wish her parents had called her Minnie. That''s Jenny; her French is excellent but you said to stick to English. When it''s raining we come to collect the meals and someone grabs an umbrella as we rush inside. In inclement weather one makes new friends. Let''s meet the cooks. Pete, Trish, this is my good friend Jean-Jacques. You thought Dieter Bauer was famous? Wait till you see JJ''s Wikipedia page! [Muffled greetings.] They''re busy, let''s leave them be. This is all new. A symbol of the club''s progress. For the players who won the league last year this feels very much like a reward. I helped to build this with my goals, Jean-Jacques. Can you appreciate that feeling?


    - I can guess at it. I suppose in my life I have had similar accomplishments.


    - Indubitably. The link from my goals to this kitchen and these new jobs is so concrete, though. It''s rather intoxicating. Get some audio from here. Food is a very important part of a footballer''s life and the higher we progress through the leagues, the more time we will spend eating together.


    [Sound of food.]


    ***


    - We are in the car and Henri has asked me to record.


    - Jean-Jacques, this is what a football player does. He drives to training. He drives home. He drives to the shop. He drives home. You must record the sound of my car. [Henri starts the engine. We listen to the blinking of the indicator as he pulls out onto a bigger road. He accelerates smoothly. And so on. It''s audio from a Peugeot in an award-winning podcast. Use your imagination.] The distances are not far but it can be a lonely life, my friend. A football player¡¯s car is one of the saddest places in the cosmos.


    ***


    [Car doors slam. Footsteps. A light breeze whips across the microphones.]


    - This is the Deva stadium. See those thick cables coming off the roof? That''s the solar array we installed. Hot showers! As long as I want. These days, if I have a quick shower Max gets mad at me. Get back in there! It''s beyond luxury. [Footsteps.] If you want to walk in the other direction there''s a life-size rhino statue decorated in Chester blue and white.


    - I''m happy to follow your lead.


    - Very well. Inside. [They walk on concrete for about fifteen seconds before stopping.] This spot here. Do you sense anything? A kind of chill dread? Perhaps a dreadful chill?


    - No, I can''t say that I do. Is this where the attack on Max Best happened?


    - It is not. I wanted to know if you were gullible. Come, we''ll go in via the side door. I acquired keys. Come.


    [Footsteps for another fifteen seconds.]


    - Oh. [JJ shivers.] Upsetting.


    - Did you say something?


    - No, Henri.


    [Key in lock; jiggling.]


    - This is called the Blues Bar. I will lock the door behind us. [Click, thunk, metallic scrape, chain sound, click, metallic sliding noise, chain clangs against itself. Henri twirls the keys around his finger.] As you can see, this is a space for fans to come and drink their sorrows or toast our victories. Last season we were dominant and gave them many memories and many hangovers. It is self-evident that I was their favourite player thanks to my superior skill and selfless dedication to the team. Hmm¡­ No need for your listeners to check that one. [He raps his knuckles on a counter.] At this level, most away fans are welcome to mingle with the home fans, but that will change when we are promoted. And in any case, attendances are rising and this place is marmalade-packed after every game. Brooke thinks we will be fully selling out by the end of the season and we will have a new challenge - how to turn fans away and retain their goodwill.


    - The carpet has seen better days. Who is Brooke?


    - Our marketing guru. Promotions, advertising, social media, community outreach. A workaholic and very good at her job. She fits in well around here. Max wants to put motors in the rhino statue and turn it into a rodeo rhino. [Pause. The keys make a sudden noise as though Henri has pointed at his friend.] You''re confused.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    - Why would she ride a rhino?


    - Forget I spoke. Let''s take this award-winning episode to the trophy cabinet.


    ***


    - So this is a football club board room. [Moment of contemplation.] It''s as I imagined it.


    - How does it sound, Jean-Jacques?


    [They listen.]


    - It sounds... tired. But healthy?


    - The trophies are in the next room and normally we''d have come from the other side. The idea, I suppose, was to stun visitors with the sheer volume of success before negotiating in here. But there hasn''t been much success in recent times. That''s changing.


    - Indeed it is, although interest in Chester has greatly diminished recently. Winning the league was a good story but Chester are punching above their weight. Don''t give me those sad eyes! I refer to the general perception. Through here to the trophies? [Door squeaks. Footsteps. Sound of a knuckle rapping on a pane of glass.] It''s a lot more full than I expected! That one''s the National League North. I saw you in the photos hoisting it aloft! This one?


    - The women''s league title. That one''s a youth team tournament from Liverpool. Max gets stressed when he talks about it. He''s torn between winning because winning is fun and a good advertisement for why young players should join the club and the fear that winning makes big clubs take an unhealthy interest in our prospects.


    - Yes, I''ve read some of his interviews. He needs to accept that big clubs will poach his players. There''s nothing he can do about it. What is this one?


    - That''s Max''s League Two Player of the Month award for when he loaned himself to Tranmere, a big rival of Chester. He is such a pest; he knows it annoys people. [Sigh.] Yes, a very strange man. He was building up to go to war.


    - War?


    - Chester is a fan-owned club these days. These stuffy old rooms were built when it was a stuffy old club in the traditional mould. Local businessman as the owner and the club is his toy. He puts in a few hundred thousand pounds every so often and his reward is to walk around these trophies and this board room like the Great I Am. One of those owners crashed the car and now the steering wheel is one hundred percent in the hands of the fans. Max believes someone is playing dirty pool in an attempt to trick the people into giving up their treasure. As I said, he was going to war and I was ready to stand by his side. Many of us were. The highest position ever achieved by this club, when it was Chester City, was fifth in the old third division, now League One. Max wants to beat that and I believe he can do it without turning the club into another rich man''s plaything.


    - You said he was building up for war.


    - It all changed suddenly. Max went to talk to the board. Pascal came back to the squad, back to the pitch, and now when I ask Max about the goings-on, the drama, the machinations, he smiles and tells me not to worry. The war is over. Except...


    - Except what?


    - I will keep my own counsel for a while; I must gather more information. I think he might be making a dreadful mistake. Suffice to say the board no longer vexes him and his mind is almost entirely set on cup runs. [Pained noise.] Ooohhhh!


    - What?


    - I should have taken you to the meeting room. We go there every Monday morning. That''s where the latest craziness happened. I thought I knew what to expect from Max, but he surprised me once more. I have it! We will go back.


    - Back?


    - Yes. I was going to watch some footage with you. Show you how we scout our next opponents, but I''m not playing so there is little point. Yes, we will return and watch the young players - they love to see me - and the women. They have a documentary crew following them around and I''m helping with the production. I worry the season will be a procession - they keep winning to nil. That is our evening planned; back to BoshCard. Perfect. The women and the under 18s train there now but the younger teams are in a different location. It is not ideal and concentrating the squads in one place is a goal of the manager. I will show you the end point of that idea.


    ***


    [Sounds of the countryside. Light breeze, rumble of a plane overhead. A few distant cars.]


    - We''re in a soggy farm near the football stadium. Henri, why are we here?


    - When I was young, all this was fields. See? I have spoken into the future. Now this is a fallow stretch of farmland, but tomorrow it will be an all-weather football pitch. You are standing in the middle of Max Best''s vision for Chester Football Club. The Henri Lyons Campus - just one potential name, you understand. Not an obscene complex like the Death Star, he says, which I believe is a reference to Manchester City, but one that serves the club and the local community. Grass pitches, 3G, five and seven-a-side, a gym with spa facilities. The kitchen, perhaps accommodation, everything you could imagine. He''s even talking about a bridge over the River Dee to connect us to Saltney. People could park there and walk to the stadium. Do you know any other football managers thinking about building bridges?


    - They normally burn them.


    - Max does that, too. But he¡¯s a builder at heart. This bridge will follow the line of the border between England and Wales. Border Bridge, he wants to call it.


    - Involving more councils, more governments, will add to the complexity.


    - That''s part of the attraction, he says. In reality, he likes the name.


    ***


    - Listeners, it''s half past six and we are back at...


    - BoshCard.


    - BoshCard. This episode should be sponsored by that company, we have said their name enough times. I watched the under eighteens train and it was very interesting but I forgot to record. Henri took me to a big lunch and let''s say I felt drowsy.


    - I love this word, this drowsy.


    [Sounds of people kicking balls. Women running. Male coaches yelling praise. Women yelling the opposite of praise.]


    - Now we are served with a treat. To my left the women are training. They have won the first four league games of their season by the following scores: seven-nil, six-nil, four-nil, and six-nil. They further won a Cheshire Ladies Cup match nine-nil. There are many words I could use to describe them, but the one that comes fastest to my mind is kind. Henri introduced me and they were tremendously kind. Very interested in what I do and how I do it.


    - [Sigh.] JJ, she is out of your league and underage and if you so much as smile at her half a dozen people - including her sister - will be ready to smack your teeth out.


    - I didn''t mean... I meant the ladies in general. Dani was funny. I don''t listen to a lot of podcasts. They all sound the same to me. Very witty!


    - The team is impressive. It''s almost unfair that they have Max Best scouting and Jackie Reaper training.


    - He''s the man from Liverpool?


    - Yes. Tremendous coach. [Distant cheer.] He was the men''s team manager. His knees are bad and it was a hospital visit that led to Max taking temporary charge and, well, once Max takes charge there''s no such thing as him giving it back.


    - Unless you own Grimsby.


    - Grimsby are profoundly stupid. Max will have the last laugh, believe me.


    - You deal with him every day, Henri; I trust your judgement. So the women are to the left and they are doing some very slick drills. To our right is something on a much smaller scale. Henri, what am I looking at?


    - I think it is something Max would not approve of. [Kicking noises echo. Young men yell ''yes Coley!''] The time is half past six and we have a match tomorrow at three p.m. An important FA Cup match, you remember, although you do not yet know how important. I see three players - Pascal, WibRob, Cole Adams - all of whom I believe are quite likely to start that match. Instead of resting, they are having an intense training session. I do not know the name of the coach although I think I have heard about someone who lives in the area who knows Pascal. Dieter Bauer asked to meet him, so you can imagine the gossip. Yes, it must be him. The drill appears to be well-designed.


    - Can you explain it?


    - Superficially, it''s a simple first-touch and release drill but with repetition and variation. This is the kind of private coaching session that will set you back a few hundred pounds an hour - in the north. In your London you can double that.


    - So it''s take a touch, get the ball out of your feet, and shoot?


    - That''s reductive but yes. Watch and you''ll see Cole and Pascal ''shoot'' along the ground, while WibRob tries to hit the top left.


    - What does that mean?


    - The first two are treating this as a passing drill. You see the hoops set up in the corners of the goal? That''s the player they are passing to. The coach is shouting which side to pass to after they''ve taken their first touch. They have to reorganise themselves quickly to adjust and the mannequins add a modicum of complexity. WibRob, though, is trying to score. First touch, goal. First touch, goal. He''s aiming above the hoops. I''ve seen coaches who cover the entire goal with a curtain that has four holes in, but we don''t have that sort of equipment. I should mention it to Max. He''s a genius but he''s inexperienced. It''s possible he''s never seen one.


    - Um... is that Max?


    - No. Who? Where? [Voice takes on more than a note of panic.] Merde! It''s Max! He must have heard about you being creepy. Stay behind me!


    - What''s on his face?


    - Mon dieu. He''s come mid-shave! Beware!


    [Sound of a man sprinting towards the microphones.]


    [Max Best] - What the shit is going on?


    [JJ] - I didn''t do anything! She asked about podcasting! I mentioned my awards, nothing more!


    [Henri] - Calm yourself, Max! This is my friend. An ally to Chesterness.


    [Max] - That fucking fuck just went fucking double green. Who gave him permission?


    [Henri] - To whom do you-


    [Max] - Fucking Cole! What the shit is happening? Why are they training the night before a cup match! I can do murders, you know. What the... [Quietly.] Fuck me. Clive is a City Boss.


    [Henri] - Clive?


    [Max] - That''s Clive O''Keefe. Clive OK. Trained the Magic Circus or whatever. Holy fuck, look at him. Look at Cole!


    [Sounds of training. Whistles, shouts, balls being kicked. It begins to feel like JJ has left his recording equipment and gone inside.]


    [Henri] - Max, er... Were you shaving?


    [Max, extremely distant.] Yeah, shaving. Need shave. Emma''s coming. [Pause.] Shave.


    [JJ] - I''ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Best.


    [Training sounds.]


    [Henri] - Max?


    [Max] - Cole! Cole! Get over here!


    [Sound of sprinting.]


    [Cole, panting] - Yes, gaffer?


    [Max, still distant. It sounds like he''s talking to Cole but looking beyond him.] - What................. is happening?


    [Cole] - Um... doing some extra drills. I, uh... Boss, I know I haven''t been... I know I''m lucky and I''m really trying to, er... What it is, though, is, er... Sorry, gaffer. You''ve got some stuff on your...


    [Max] - You seem to be good at this drill.


    [Cole, super enthusiastic ] - It''s great! What you do, gaffer, is you sort of explode to one side or the other! And the defender doesn''t know which so you commit to it and boom! You''re clear. I can use this! Clive''s an awesome teacher. It''s like he''s telling me exactly what I need to hear to take my game to the next level. This is the best session I''ve ever had.


    [Max, flatly] - Get William.


    [Sounds of sprinting. Sounds of jogging.]


    [Will] - Boss?


    [Max] - We''ve got a cup match tomorrow afternoon. You''re training the night before. You are a deeply stupid person.


    [Will] - Thought since you were mad at me I should do more training.


    [Max, voice raised] - You were going to start, you dick! I was going to surprise you! But you''ve fucked your fucking fitness!


    [Will, voice raised] - How was I supposed to know? I thought my next game was Monday!


    [Max, voice raised] - You''re a professional footballer! Do I need to give you a list of times you never train, ever? Here''s one: ten minutes before kickoff. Do I need to fucking TEACH you not to do a sesh ten minutes before a game? Do I? What goes on in that thick skull of yours? Do. Not. Train. In. The. Ten. Minutes. Before. Matches. Holy shit.


    [Will] - Should I finish the sesh?


    [Max, explosive] - NO!


    [Will] - They sort of need me to get the cones and that coz there''s a game when we''re done.


    [Max, sweetness and light] - Do you think picking up some cones will stop you smashing a tier nine team in the FA Cup tomorrow?


    [Will] - Not really.


    [Max, fake patient] - Not really. That''s good. That''s good that you know that. One less thing I need to put on my list. Do you know what I mean? Hey, you know what I like? I like the way I was born as a baby and had a brain and started learning things. I like the way my brain sort of expanded to take in all the new information and sometimes - holy Christ - sometimes I''m able to sort of use some of the information like don''t touch this hot thing to kind of, what''s the word, extrapolate into new situations. Like from don''t touch the hot kettle to don''t go swimming in this big volcano. Do you fucking get what I''m saying?


    [Will] - You''re saying not to train with Clive even though it''s good for me.


    [Max, explosive] - Train with Clive every fucking day for all I care but not today because you''re playing tomorrow and not Sunday because you''re playing Monday and not Monday because you''re playing Tuesday. What. The. Actual!


    [Will, excited] - I''m playing Tuesday an'' all?


    [Max] - I don''t know, are you? Maybe you want to do an ultramarathon instead? Maybe you want to run from Tunisia to the Cape of Good Hope?


    [Will] - Okay, sorry boss.


    [Max] - Erm... Wait there a second but don''t listen. Henri, I was going to use Cole tomorrow but this session is unbelievably good for him. What do you reckon?


    [Henri] - How can you tell? Never mind. Ah... let him do the session. Use him on Tuesday instead.


    [Max] - That works, actually. I''ll text Eddie to see what state he''s in. I already gave him the day off. Maybe he did a fucking triathlon. William? I can''t have this. I plan my teams way in advance. Some minutes tomorrow, some minutes Monday, check you out, some minutes on Tuesday, too. This is not helpful, do you get me?


    [Will] - Yes, boss. I''m... I''m sorry.


    [Max] - Fuck it. At least it''s a masterclass. Why don''t you get back to it?


    [Will] - I''d rather play tomorrow.


    [Max] - Learn from Clive and I''ll see what state you''re in. But try to make my life easier, not harder, yeah?


    [Will] - Yes, boss.


    [The thump of retreating footsteps.]


    [Max] - Look at him go. I never had that much energy.


    [Henri] - You have more than him plus Zach! Why are you here?


    [Max] - Er... heard some guys were training who shouldn''t be. Why are they doing it now? They should know better.


    [JJ] - What is the issue?


    [Max] - See Cole there? All that BS he said about this explosive drill and defenders can''t stop it? We''ve been doing drills like this with him. I''ve done them, Sandra''s done them, Vimsy''s done them. Now he''s like ''oh no-one''s ever told me this before.'' I want to strangle the little fucker! [French laughter.] What''s funny?


    [Henri] - First of all, you''ve shaved half your jaw but you''ve got shaving foam remnants over the other half.


    [Max] - It''s gel! Gel! Don''t you know what foam does to your pipes?


    [Henri] - But you''ve experienced a classic teaching problem.


    [Max] - I have?


    [Henri] - Jean-Jacques is the expert.


    [JJ] - Mr. Best, I have a music background and at many times I''ve tried to teach to make ends meet. When you teach an instrument, you get to a certain point where what you say simply won''t sink in. You go on holiday and the pupil has a substitute teacher, or there is some other way a pupil encounters another methodology or style. And the next time you see them they are glowing, simply glowing, with the wonderful revelations taught to them by ''the best teacher since Prodicus''. And you are forced to smile and say ''gosh how splendid'' when inside you are seething because that is the lesson you have been trying to hammer into them for years!


    [Max] - Why does it work with a new voice?


    [JJ] - Who knows? It''s not for a lack of effort. I''m motivated, the pupil is motivated. I was able to teach them many things. But somehow, not this one point. Along comes a different voice and oops! In it goes, nothing but net.


    [Max] - I don''t like it.


    [JJ] - Ha! I like your friend, Henri. Mr. Best, that''s how it is.


    [Max] - Okay, so you''re saying I should keep guys around longer. If they hit a wall, as long as the effort is there, I try different teachers, different approaches. Send them out on loan. New impulses.


    [JJ] - You can''t do something new if you keep doing something old.


    [Max] - Fuck! That''s great. Henri, text that to me. You, say more things like that.


    [JJ] - You can''t change what you don''t notice.


    [Max] - Shit, that''s even better. What was your name again?


    [JJ] - Jean-Jacques.


    [Max''s phone pings.]


    [Max] - What are you recording?


    [JJ] - An episode of my podcast, Var Var Voom.


    [Max] - What''s it about? Cars?


    [JJ] - Va va voom was the catchphrase used by Thierry Henry to promote Peugeot in the UK. It''s not a French phrase but British people think it is. I changed it to Var so that it would be clear it was about football. Var Var Voom, a Francophile football podcast.


    [Long, award-winning silence.]


    [Max] - You''ve got some good ideas, though. When I''ve got teaching problems, can I get in touch?


    [JJ] - Of course! One piece of advice - you might want to stop screaming at that young man. [Pause]. I think it was William?


    [Max] - No, I''m on the right track there. You''ve got to match his intensity or he won''t listen. He wants to win and he''s an absolute maniac about it. He needs to know you''re as serious as him and then he accepts what you have to say. Obviously I hope he calms down because that''s draining but I don''t want him to lose that edge completely.


    [JJ] - What about Cole?


    [Max] - I don''t know him that well. I don''t think shouting''s the way with him.


    [JJ] - There''s a third player training. How do you communicate with that one?


    [Max] - Pascal. The best thing right now is to ignore him. It will wind him up and make him work harder to get noticed. Someone told me praise is like water. Henri is a water lily - he needs endless amounts. Pascal is a cactus. A few drops is best.


    [JJ] - That''s good. Henri, text that to me.


    [Henri] - Where have you been this week?


    [Max, distracted again] - Er... Wales. Been doing mega scouting in Wales. Found the new Gareth Bale. Bale started as a left back and moved up the pitch. My guy''s the opposite. I''ll move him from striker to right wing to right back. The kid''s the future of Welsh football and he was just there! Just there! I knew this Welsh project was right. I felt it was right as soon as Brooke¡­


    [Pause]


    [Henri] - The new Bale? A hundred million pound superstar?


    [Max, talking to himself] - He''s fourteen and he plays for a club. I can''t just bring him over. [Bones crack as he stretches.] His dad is like a superfan of the Welsh national team. Big Welsh pride, there, and our rivalry with Wrexham doesn''t sit well with him. I''ve told him I plan to have half the Welsh under 20 team playing here and if it doesn''t happen I''ll write a cheque to any charity he wants for ten grand.


    [JJ] - Perhaps he would prefer the money himself.


    [Max] - That''s illegal. Inducement, they call it. I don''t do that. If some parent only talks about money I don''t think we''ll sign that kid because we''re a thousand percent sure to lose him to teams that are willing to break the law with inducements. Changing the topic completely, do you remember when Man City were fined three hundred thousand pounds and banned from signing young players for two years? Wonder what that was all about? There was another Premier League club that got in trouble because they created a fake scouting job as a way to pay a kid''s father. Can''t remember which club it was but they play in blue and don''t mind breaking the odd law or two hundred.


    [Henri] - You were talking about a player and his ethnocentric father.


    [Max] - Yeah, the dad seemed to, ah, believe me about training up half the under 19s team. I was giving him full blast, full crazy eyes but I wasn''t lying. I did miss out the bit where the under 19 team is the women. He''ll laugh eventually.


    [Henri] - Who do we have who''s Welsh? Erin?


    [Max] - No-one so far. But I''ve been scouting, haven''t I? I''ve got like five Welsh girls I want to sign but they play for other teams and they need convincing. I''m doing a special event where I''ll take them to Manchester to watch us play West Didsbury. Day out with my top sales people, Kisi and Meghan. There''s no chance these girls aren''t five of the best in the whole country. Get the girls, get the boy. That''s the plan. Can''t fuck this one up - the stakes are huge. Ugh. Huge steaks. Hungry, now.


    [JJ] - What''s the obsession with Wales?


    [Max] - Grant money. We''re getting Welsh grants to develop Welsh football. So we''ll fucking develop it. The Chester fans aren''t really into it but I don''t care, do I? A deal''s a deal and holy fuck if we get this right back there isn''t a single Englishman in this city who won''t be bellowing Men of Harlech as he marauds down the wing. Have you seen Zulu? They sing it in that. One of the best uses of a song in a movie. [Sings magnificently.] Can you see their spearpoints gleaming?


    [Henri] - Max has many good qualities but he doesn''t mind a spot of imperialism.


    [Max] - This right back shook me up. Really got me thinking. Thinking about the whole nature of football. My role. Pep did tiki taka and that inverted full backs thing. Mourinho did Park the Bus and anti-possession. Klopp did Heavy Metal Football and tooth whitening. If I''m so good, why aren''t I reinventing anything? I just copy what better guys do. But this Welsh kid could be the answer. What if every fucker on my team could dribble like me? You can''t press eleven dribblers. Dribble, pass, bomb forward, run at you from all sides, all directions. Playground football taken to its zenith. How do you stop that? You don''t, mate! When I was in hospital I had these weird dreams where players didn''t have positions and it was sort of freeform and random but controlled random. Random from the outside but from the inside, meaningful. Fluid, yes, but coherent. Like water molecules. Players free to interpret the moment but each having an affinity for the other.


    [JJ] - You are describing relationism. Fernando Diniz.


    [Long pause. Balls are kicked. People shout.]


    [Max] - Excuse me, what?


    [JJ] - Relationism. It''s a style only played in Brazil to any... meaningful...


    [Sound of footsteps leaving in a hurry. Sound of footsteps rushing back.]


    [Max] - Henri, please invite this guy back. We¡¯ll go for a big steak one day. Kay bye.


    [Sound of footsteps leaving in a hurry.]


    [JJ] - Well.


    [Henri] - Quite.


    [JJ] - Intense.


    [Henri] - We haven''t even started on the dentists.


    [Pause. Balls are kicked, whistles are blown, there''s a cheer.]


    [JJ] - So that was Max Best. Once the future king. How is he now?


    - He''s half the player he was.


    - Oh, what a shame.


    - Yes, now he makes two mistakes per game. He''s confident he will get back to his best, but you know with traumatic brain injury, healing is measured in years not weeks. As a tactician, he''s better than ever. His mind is fine. Although sometimes I wonder.


    - What do you wonder?


    - Recently he told me that he was too fit.


    - Too fit?


    - Yes. He stopped doing running drills. He told me he doesn''t want to be a luxury water carrier, he wants to be a tactical nuke. The English are so militaristic. But now he only works on his technique. Passing, free kicks, his utterly sublime half-volleys. Instead of nine out of ten for ninety minutes, ten out of ten for ten minutes. Let''s go inside. I''ll show you our meeting room.


    ***


    [Loud, irregular flickering, followed by the low buzz of fluorescent lights.]


    - Most Monday mornings, we come in here for a quick meeting.


    - It''s offensively bland.


    - And stuffy. [A window opens.] They tried to put plants in but the plants died.


    - For the listeners, we are in a typical office meeting room. Rather large. Easily space for thirty people.


    [A chair is scraped into position, then another.]


    - Yes. In this room, at the start of last season, Max revealed his strategy. The season unfolded exactly as he predicted. This year he did it again, but already we have had updates. I believe he is trying to communicate more often, with us and the fans.


    - That''s good.


    - Yes, of course. But generally, apart from those key moments or for special matches that need more tactical preparation, we sit down, he tells us a few basic details or we get an update on such-and-such. He might say who he is thinking of using in a special role and who is unlikely to play. Those players are expected to put more effort into training.


    - To get back into his good books?


    - To improve. [Henri brings a flipchart closer; its wheels squeak. He flips back a few pages.] Last Sunday our phones vibrated, then pinged, then went into meltdown. Max wanted a dentist.


    - He had toothache on a Sunday? Did you tell him about cloves?


    [Sound of Henri sitting - the chair groans - JJ follows his lead.]


    - Here''s how it started. [Sound of Henri tapping on a phone screen.] Read out these texts from the top.


    - From Max. Anyone know a dentist? Ten minutes later. Guys, I need a dentist and fast. Ten minutes later. Yo. Dentist. Get me a dentist right now. Ten minutes later. The next person who mentions fucking cloves is fucking FIRED. I don''t need your stupid fucking home remedies one of my players has a HOLE in his HEAD and I want him to NOT have a hole in his head and for that I need a dentist RIGHT NOW and if I don''t get one I''m going to make your lives miserable. Turn FIFA off, walk away from your kids, I want a dental professional and I want it NOW. [JJ mumbles.] What on earth... [Normal volume.] Then ten minutes later: I have a dentist. You and I are going to talk about this. Does he mean you, Henri?


    - That''s sent to all. I must confess I thought it was some artificial crisis he had cooked up because he was bored but come the next morning we are all in here waiting to hear a debrief from the Maidstone draw or to discover the training plan for the week. We had no Tuesday night game so he normally likes to increase the intensity. Instead, we end up with a very angry manager scowling at us, talking about our prize money for the season.


    - What? I am lost. This is a very confusing conversation.


    - Imagine being a player. [Henri rises, steps to the window, closes it, and returns. The chair groans once more.] Max tells us that he went to watch the Chester Knights followed by one of our youth teams and one of the boys was off the pace. Max called him over and the boy - eventually - admitted he had toothache.


    - Toothache is awful, but it is not such a drama. It could wait till the morning.


    - I would agree. Except this boy had toothache, he said, for weeks. Max goes to find the mother. She has tried to find her son an NHS dentist but they aren''t taking new patients. None. Anywhere in Cheshire. So she decides she''ll cut corners somewhere in the household finances to find the twenty pounds a month needed to pay for private insurance but even the private clinics are refusing new patients. Finding dental care is impossible. Government cuts, the pandemic, Brexit. There is not enough money and there are not enough dentists. This phenomenon is so prevalent there is a term for it - a dental desert. There are people in Chester who drive to Scotland to get an appointment. The mother''s plan is to wait for the tooth to fall out. Plan B is a pair of pliers.


    - Merde.


    - At half time, the boys assemble and they think they are going to get tactical advice from the big star, the generational genius. Instead, he quizzes them. Who''s your dentist? When''s the last time you went to a dentist? He doesn''t like what he hears and he turns his attention to other parents. He hears the same stories. The scale of the crisis is hard to describe, JJ. Your listeners can check out a wonderful article from Le Monde, or if they want to slum it, there was a comprehensive article in The Guardian. While Max was talking to the parents, as you''ve seen, he''s texting around looking for help. One filling for one child. There has to be a way. He hears that it''s impossible, impossible, impossible, and finally he does what he does in such situations - he goes apeshit.


    - Wow.


    - The Brig steps in. That¡¯s our Head of Performance. He was on a romantic trip with his partner and when they landed, he got all the messages in one go. The boy is whisked to a military base a couple of hours away. They have a dentist who can be persuaded to do the filling. The army guys make a fuss of the boy and he''s awestruck and happy. Max clowns around so there''s no stress.


    - In what way?


    - I heard all this later, you understand? This didn''t come up at the meeting. [Chair squeaks.] The boy was scared of the anaesthetic so the dentist said he would give a numbing agent before doing the actual injection and of course, did the injection. Max, apparently, jumped around saying you got played! You got played! All very silly but the kids love it. The boy''s troublesome tooth is fixed in minutes, the mother thinks Max is the second coming, and the Brig owes his old mates another crate of whisky.


    - All wrapped up in a neat little bow.


    - No. Max is furious. He doesn''t get less mad overnight, he comes to this room steaming. He can''t stand still. He''s trying to give a presentation but he can''t stop his fists from clenching and there are times his jaw is so tight he can''t talk. He talks about the next third of the season as being about our cup matches. He has drawn the outlines of three trophies. [Sound of Henri pointing at the flip chart.] We have, potentially, three Cheshire Cup, five FA Cup, and two FA Trophy matches in that time. There is also the FA Youth Cup, and the women are in multiple cup tournaments. But Max wants to talk about the prize money from the big competitions. In the past, that money went to buy new equipment that benefits the players. We buy cast-offs from bigger clubs. Now Max wants to change that, partly because we don''t currently have space for more gear. For this season, he wants to split the prize money in half. Half for the players, probably in the form of nights out and parties and so on - he''ll leave the details to Glenn.


    - Wouldn''t you prefer cash?


    - Unless we go deep in the FA Cup, the amounts involved would be relatively trivial and eaten up by tax. The other half of the money, Max wants to put into the community. He says he loves that we visit sick kids in hospital and the like, but we can do more. He tells us about Everton''s community projects. He is a superfan of what they do, and quotes a statistic called SROI.


    - Social Return on Investment.


    - You know it?


    - Of course. You spend a pound but you can generate more than a pound in value to the community.


    - This is why you win awards. The figure for Everton, it is claimed, is twenty-nine pounds of benefit for every pound spent.


    - That''s high. That''s very high.


    - Football clubs have an advantage, Max says. The power of the badge. Someone in Merseyside will join a programme run by Everton football club far more readily than one run by the local council or a random charity.


    - Absolutely.


    - At this point, Max pauses and looks around. My next signing, he says, daring us to laugh, is going to be a dentist. No-one laughs. It''s rather scary, how intense he is. I''m happy my girlfriend was not there to see it; she seems to be attracted to a darkness I''m currently too happy to project. Max strides around. Four million children in England have not seen a dentist for a year and some of those kids are my kids. I''m going to hire a dentist and set up a clinic. Solar panels, kitchen, passing centre back, dentist. That''s the Max Best hierarchy of needs. Basic clinic, hundred and fifty grand for equipment. We can add to it as we go. Dentist? Fifty grand a year. Thousand a week. That is going to happen, guys. You, your kids, our women, the young players. We''ll have our own dentist. My players don''t go round with holes in their head, no way. I''ve tried that and I didn''t care for it. That''s a reference to the attack, of course.


    He slaps the flipchart. We won''t get anywhere near that much in prizes this season but until I¡¯ve got lobster money, what I''ll do, if you agree, is I''ll book a clinic. Dentists go on holiday, right? When one''s away I''ll rent his room. We''ll have it for two weeks and I''ll hire a d-dude to come and check the teeth of every player on our books and if that goes quick, we''ll work with some charity to fill the spots with randos from the nearest estates. You understand me? We take care of our own and then we use the spare capacity to help out our fans. I don''t know what a quick bunch of checkups and simple fillings will cost but the prize money for winning the third and fourth round of the FA Trophy is nine grand. That''s a lot of fillings, do you know what I mean?


    If we get to the third round of the FA Cup, that''s a hundred grand just in prize money. A hundred THOUSAND pounds. We''ll do a fucking lottery. One of you pricks can get Jurgen Klopp teeth and we''ll do checkups for five thousand locals. Chester Chompers, mate. Smile Like a Seal. He realises he''s been ranting for a while so he stops. He does this thing, often, that I find charming. He inspires us, gets the blood pumping, and frets that it hasn''t worked. It has worked. James Wise''s family is stuck on the far south coast and apparently that''s a dental desert, too. Can I bring my kids? Course you fucking can, says Max. You''re one of us, you dick. Aff asks if he can bring some cousins over from Dublin. Didn''t you hear what I just said? Yes.


    There''s a flurry of similar requests and Max holds his hand up. He''s struck a nerve, which is something a good dentist never does. We''ll do a list, he says. Try to get it fair, but there''s one way to make sure everyone gets seen and that''s to win a few cup matches. That''s our top priority, now. He gets back to preacher mode and he paces around saying he''s in the mood to kick some fucking ARSE. I''m getting worked up, Jean-Jacques. I want to get onto a pitch and kick some fucking arse! But there''s a surprise. Zach Green. He''s an American American. He derailed our season by injuring Max, but he has been trying to integrate. I would say that he believes in Max and Max''s methods the least out of everyone, and he''s the most likely to grumble and push back. He hates Max''s attitude to losing, which is often surprisingly phlegmatic. So when he speaks, there''s a seventy percent chance he''ll say something that makes the rest of the group groan. He says, what if the dentist was free?


    Max narrows his eyes. What nonsense is this? Zach feels the wrath in the room begin to coalesce. He stands up - which is surreal, by the way, no-one else does that - and clears his throat. He looks shifty. My father, he says, is a dentist. Specialises in TMJ, does a lot of cosmetic treatments. He''s been talking about coming to England to visit, but ah... I think he''d be happy to come for a week and be useful while he''s at it. He''s real good like that. Just so long as he can get to the British Museum at some point. He loves dinosaurs. They''re in the Natural History Museum, I tell him. Normally, Max would joke about taking Zach''s father to meet Ian Evans, but he stands there staring, quiet and brooding, until he points at Zach and declaims... you''re my new vice vice captain!


    Zach can''t believe it. He swells but says he can''t promise his father will come. Max says Chesterness isn''t an outcome, it''s a process, which I don''t think Zach comprehends in its entirety. Someone says if Glenn is the captain and Zach is the vice-vice-captain, who is the vice-captain? Max says the position is currently vacant. Glenn puts his hand up. He says it sounds like people would be happy to skip a piss-up if it meant getting their families healthy. Max says there will be enough money for both if we get some luck with the draw and if we fight tooth and nail in the cups. And, he adds, you have to pay the guys doing the work because extrinsic motivation only lasts so long. It''s ten grand if we beat Mousehole, he says, and I want that fucking money. That''s my money. Now go and fucking get it.


    I apologise to your listeners, Jean-Jacques, because I can''t hit the high note like he does it. You have to imagine the determination, the heads held high, the way they rush out without even leering at Brooke. They get changed and have the best session in a long time. I watch it with envy. I want to score goals in the cup, Jean-Jacques. I want to win for me, for Max''s vision, and for all the people who are in pain who can easily be healed. [Pause.] What are you thinking?


    - Hmm. Only that if I were more cynical, I would note that your manager is obsessed with defending his youth team from predators, and I might think that in this very room he motivated his players in a way that also helps him to attract and retain young stars. If their only prospect of proper healthcare is to join Chester, they will join, no? If their mother has her root canal treated, they are likely to stay, perhaps, when a bigger club comes calling? You say Zach Green is the player who least believes in Max? What if Max knew his father was a dentist and waited for an incident like this? One where Zach could play at being the hero and get rewarded for it? Some demonstration, isn''t it? And what if Max hasn''t abandoned his war against the potential new owner? What if this is part of it? Winning hearts and minds one filling at a time.


    - Your podcast is listed in the conspiracy theory section, n''est-ce pas? What an imagination.


    - [Slapping his thigh.] Well. I must say, whatever the motivations, the whole affair is extraordinary. Extraordinary. I hope for the people of Chester that the cognoscenti are wrong and last season was not a flash in the pan.


    - Tell your media friends that this season is likely to be even more spectacular than the last.


    - Hmm. Returning explicitly to the concept of the sound of football... it strikes me that football and dentistry have one sound in common.


    - Mmm?


    - The sound of drills.


    [Pause.]


    - That is why you win the awards, my friend. That is why you win the awards.

 9.2 - The Long Way Round (Part One)

    2.


    Saturday, October 12


    FA Cup Fourth Round Qualifying: Chester vs Mousehole


    I was mostly kitted out and ready. It would take me all of ten seconds to put on my boots and slip my shin pads into my socks. I didn''t really expect to play. The club had a bizarrely long run of home fixtures, most of which were very winnable, and the less I played the faster I would acquire XP.


    As I had privately told Emma, I was merely on the bench in case things went to shit. In the FA Cup teams could name nine subs and use five, which would be very useful when I used Bench Boost. If we won today we would go into the ''First Round Proper'' and if we got an easy draw I would use Bench Boost in the Second Round to try to make sure we got into the lucrative Third Round (where the big boys came in). I could only use the boost once per competition per season, so if we got a hard tie in the First Round I would be forced to use it, we would probably crash out in the Second Round again, and we would be out of pocket to the tune of fifty grand.


    I needed that money...


    Under my very nose, my young players were suffering. They didn''t have dentists, they didn''t have heating. I suspected some weren''t eating enough and I''d heard from a social worker that one of the most requested items for donation were mattresses. Were some of my kids sleeping on the floor? I hadn''t known any of this was happening because I hadn''t checked on them often enough, which made me feel like shit.


    There was an easy solution - use the Panopticon perk to add more age groups to my squad lists. For two thousand XP I could add an age group and then I would see very quickly when their attributes turned red. I''d be able to take care of the people I was supposed to be taking care of. But adding every age group for the boys and girls, plus the reserve team, would set me back twenty-two thousand XP.


    Or I could buy WibWob and win more football matches and use the extra income to hire a dentist. And expand the kitchen so they produced packed lunches and frozen dinners. Except that a charity worker had told me that they found the microwave and oven meals often went uneaten because some families didn''t have a microwave and couldn''t afford to run the oven.


    I needed money and lots of it. I needed XP and lots of it. I needed to find some shortcuts, and fast.


    "Boss?"


    It was Ryan Jack, my elderly midfielder whose recovery from a severe injury was progressing smoothly. For some reason he was gripping a cheap plastic carrier bag. "Ryan. How you doing?"


    "Great. You okay?"


    "Top."


    "It''s just that you''re sort of moping around in the dugout when you should be, like, running a football club."


    I looked up at him, confused. "Didn''t you hear? Sandra''s managing today."


    He moved the bag into his other hand so he could scratch himself. "How does that work? You''re going to sit still while Sandra tells everyone what to do?"


    "Pretty much. What, you don''t think I can delegate?"


    Ryan smiled. "You can do anything you put your mind to, bosh. One day you could learn to sit still. I believe that. Er, is this a bad time?"


    "No, why?"


    "You''re miles away."


    I tapped the bench by way of invitation. "I''ve got a lot to think about, is all."


    He sat. Unlike Jackie, who also had shit knees, Ryan didn''t wince or let out a groan. That was promising. He looked around - he hadn''t been in a dugout for a while. "It''s good you let Sandra do some of the work. You don''t want to get burned out again. Did you get my texts?"


    "Yes," I said, but I couldn''t remember what they said. I took my phone out and skimmed them - Ryan had asked when I might have a minute to talk. I had replied ''before the match'' which he had taken as a joke at first. Other managers used the hour before a match to give grandiose speeches and act important. I didn''t. "Okay, ready. Let''s talk."


    "I was at Everton yesterday and did some jumping. Jumping, Max!" His face split open and I punched him on the top of his arm - I think that''s what he wanted. He rubbed the area, still smiling. "Anyhow, long story short, there was a guy giving financial advice to some of the lads. He asked what I did with my money and he laughed when I said I stuffed it under the mattress."


    "But you weren''t joking."


    "I mean, yes and no. What he was getting at was I should have it invested. Make my money work for me."


    "Probably should." Ryan was earning buttons now but in the past he must have been on decent wages. It wouldn''t have surprised me if he had a hundred grand in his bank. More, even. Sitting there doing nothing.


    "It''s just I''ve never done all that investing stuff. It scares me. All a big casino, isn''t it? But if you want to get started, who do you trust and what do you trust them with? I thought you might... Look, bosh, you''ve got your head screwed on. He gave me some brochures and stuff and I thought I might ask..." He trailed off. The topic made him uncomfortable.


    "Ask what?" I said, because I wasn''t thinking clearly.


    "Ask you to look at his ideas. But, nah. You''ve got enough on your plate."


    I inhaled through my nose and breathed out through my mouth. Plus one mindfulness. "We should do this, shouldn''t we? Help players look after their money and make sure they''re not being ripped off by sharks. I''ve heard stories. And I heard a stat about footballers going bankrupt. Can''t remember what it was."


    "Forty percent," he said.


    "Forty percent of footballers go bankrupt? That''s crazy. That''s bonkers." Players who had earned millions had blown it all. Even if you were bad with money, how did you mess things up to that extent? "It''s something I think about every now and then. This place will be awash with money soon. Right now, no-one''s really earning enough to start buying Ferraris and getting scammed into tax evasion schemes. Why would a lad from Moss Side invest in art?"


    "Oh."


    "What?"


    "I bought a partial share in a painting. La Gioconda, the man called it. Said it''s quite famous." Ryan kept a straight face while the refereeing crew jogged past doing their warm up.


    "Yeah? Well I bought a timeshare in one of the rooms in The Love."


    Ryan cracked. "No, but really. This is something I need to handle but I don''t think like a capitalist. Henri does, but he''s got, what do you call it?"


    "An appetite for risk. What''s in the bag?"


    Ryan fished inside and pulled out some papers. "The stuff he gave me."


    I shook my head. "First rule of business is you don''t carry your docs around in a Tesco bag." I took the brochure and the printouts and went through them. It was stuff I had heard of - buying bonds and shares. Diversified portfolio. Compound interest. "Pretty sure this isn''t a scam," I said. "It''s nice and boring. When I''m running Chester I''m happy to take a few big swings because I reckon I can balance risk and reward better than anyone else in the game." Ryan didn''t laugh or make a Scouse joke. "But when it comes to my own money, I don''t want action or adventure."


    "The longest way round is the shortest way home."


    "What does that mean?"


    "The fastest way to do something is to do it right. Like the way you run this club. You say it''s risky but it''s not really, is it? Get good players, train them up. In the summer we all thought you''d buy Christian Fierce and a couple of big-name players but you turned up with a load of kids. The long way round, isn''t it? If I''m going to invest my money I want it like that." Some movement drew his attention and I realised he was tracking some Mousehole players who had gone onto the pitch with a ball. He was hungry to get back. Itching. And then I saw the moment he compared his injury to the conversation we were having. No shortcuts! He turned to me. "You''ll get rich. You''re going to need to think about this stuff." He nodded to himself. "When you do it, tell me about it and I''ll copy what you do."


    I laughed. "Investing doesn''t need to be this much of a big deal, does it? We''ve got some top b-boys. MD would know what to do. So would..."


    "What?"


    "Nothing."


    "You were going to say so would Brooke. Are things bad between you? She says you''ve barely spoken to her in weeks."


    I clicked my jaw around. I trusted Ryan but he had spent a lot of time with Brooke and it was very possible he would be more Team Brooke than Team Best. "It''s all good. I''m, ah..."


    "You''re about to lie to me."


    "I was, yeah." Allies. Communication. Lessons I''d learned. If I couldn''t trust Ryan Jack I was pretty fucked. "This is a billion percent private."


    "Sure."


    "I think her dad is trying to get into position to buy the club. A few years ago he wouldn''t have stood a chance but now the fans would listen."


    "Why now?"


    "Because Ryan Reynolds bought the club next door."


    "Ah, right. Right. Shit." Our Ryan was no actor - anxiety radiated off him.


    "Don''t worry about it. I think he''ll reconsider before any money changes hands."


    Ryan frowned and I knew why. It wasn''t like me to be so passive, or to indulge in wishful thinking. "Right. Sure, bosh. But what''s Brooke got to do with it?"


    Now I frowned. "She''s his daughter. She turns up, realises we''re one step away from tripling our revenues, tells her dad, boom."


    "I don''t know much about international finance but I know about family and it didn''t happen like that. More like he wants her to go back home and he''ll keep interfering in her life until she caves. He''s done it before. Her last job was one of those, what are they called? Auditors? Her dad calls the big boss, offers a big contract for the company but Brooke has to be the what do you call it. She''ll be the one working the case, so she''d be working for her dad. He doesn''t want her independent and travelling the world. He wants her back home where he can control her."


    "She told you all this?"


    "Yeah, months ago when you made me spend time with her."


    "Hmm."


    "You think her telling me about her dad is all part of some big plot?"


    "Could be."


    "So she goes to work for football clubs for a year at a time and when she finally finds one that''s got a good manager she calls her dad and he buys it? I''m not a capitalist but it doesn''t sound like a good use of her time. There might be an easier way to make a couple of million. For example, pretty much anything else. And Christ, there are Chester fans who don''t think you''re a good manager. There are players who have doubts! How would someone who doesn''t know the first thing about the sport be able to tell the good prospects from the bad?"


    I considered that, then broke into a cheeky grin. "You might be right."


    "I thought you''d be more sympathetic."


    "What do you mean?"


    "You hate it when people tell you what to do or try to buy you off. And the reason I wasn''t at the team meeting was that I was up with Brooke meeting the Chester Chatters that you set up and she''s turning into a success."


    I went internal for a while, remodelling my mental map of the Daddy Star plotline. I would have to go back and check some timings but it seemed likely that Ryan was right and Brooke was innocent. "So... the dad wants to buy Chester to be Brooke''s boss. It''s a message that he''ll keep following her, even into the dregs of English soccer. There''s no-one he can''t corrupt, there''s nowhere safe, she should give up and go back to Texas." I scratched my eyebrow. "And along the way he''s realised he can make a tidy profit on the deal while he''s at it. Yeah, I see it. Okay, so that''s... that''s actually okay."


    "How is it okay?"


    I shrugged. "She''s only here for a visa. She''ll get bored and move on and the dad will leave us alone."


    Ryan took back the brochures. "You don''t know her very well, do you? She loves the job. She''s not quitting."


    "She loves it?"


    Ryan gave me a mocking Scouse glance. "What do people want from their job? Challenging work, to do something useful, variety. A good team. Yeah, money and benefits. She doesn''t get much of that but the work''s interesting. She has to learn a whole sport and the culture around it and an entire city is counting on her. You''ve made it so that people like working here and there''s a sense of purpose to everything we do. We''re not just winning football matches, we''re rescuing academy drop-outs and solving loneliness and now we''re fixing the dental crisis! I''m just a player but I know what it''s like working for you. Every match is a different formation, different lineup, you get manias and phases and we never know what''s coming next. You push us and you''re demanding and you''re generally a pain in the arse. From what I hear, you''re worse with Brooke. Hey, please sell more season tickets than this club has ever sold. Hey, find me a documentary crew who will work for free. Hey, find out if we''re allowed to build a bridge!"


    "I''ve never thought about it like that. I do sound like a fun boss."


    Ryan tutted. "She''s the only person I know who might call you that. You two have a lot in common."


    "What about you two? You spent a lot of time with her. Why didn''t you go to her with the money question? Chance to get up close, snuggling up next to a calculator. Excel and chill. Come on, don''t leave me hanging! Tell me. Does she interest your compound? Does she get you excited about inflation? What?" I added, laughing at his face. He looked pretty sheepish.


    "It''s embarrassing, innit? I''d ask you about football and I''d ask Dean about my knee but I wouldn''t ask someone about money. It''s, like, basic, isn''t it? I should know it."


    "Erm..." I said. "I''m not sure I feel the same. I don''t tend to get embarrassed by that sort of thing. I need to know and people love explaining things.¡± I nodded. This was something we could do with no real cost to the club. Dentists for the youngs, financial advice for the olds. ¡°I''ll set something up. Let me talk to my b-boys about it and we''ll see about doing some sort of basic financial literacy course thing. And what to do with our money. Like you say, I need to learn some things, too."


    "That''ll be good. If you''re learning it too, I mean. It''ll be less embarrassing for the rest of us, like."


    By the time he finished the sentence, the shape of the course had taken form - I would sit at the front with my laptop open and Brooke or someone would tell me what to do while the others watched and asked questions. There was no immediate hurry, but I needed to get better at looking after my club. Everyone at my club.


    And that included Brooke.


    ***


    I stayed in the dugout until ten to three. There was so much to think about and if I''d gone wandering people would have tried to start conversations with me. If I''d gone to the dressing room the lads would have got confused about who was really in charge. Staying away made it easy to understand that - yes - Sandra was the manager and I was simply making up the numbers on the bench.


    Our hospitality volunteer came over and handed me the microphone.


    We had loads of volunteers doing matchday things like reading out the teams or checking the turnstiles. Our stewards were underpaid. We needed to turn volunteers into paid workers and paid workers into well-paid paid workers. One more promotion would do it. A few more player sales would do it. In the meantime, I had to be frugal as fuck.


    I turned the mic on and stepped onto the pitch. Excitement was building - the players were getting their last instructions, the linesmen were checking the nets, most people were at their seats or grabbing a late pint. Any stragglers would be able to hear me from the concourses.


    "Ladies and gentlemen," I said. "May I have a quick moment of your time? I am Chester FC''s Director of Football, Max Best." Big cheer from the home fans. Some jeering from the away mob. We had sold 205 tickets to Mousehole fans. A quarter of the capacity of the stand, but they only had average attendances of about 200 at the best of times. This was the biggest match of their calendar and the hard core were determined to enjoy it even if it meant a long coach ride. "We all know away fans are the backbone of this sport. Mousehole have come six and a half hours to see their team lose." Some laughs and some more jeers. "That''s a thirteen-hour round trip to watch their team. Seriously, guys, that''s unbelievable. Round of applause for the away fans, Chester. Come on!"


    The home fans lustily applauded. I would get the real attendance from the curse at half time, but it looked like the total would be in the region of 2,500. Lower than I''d like, but higher than the equivalent match in recent seasons. Number goes up.


    "Now, guys," I continued. "When I drive more than twenty minutes I start to think that maybe I deserve a drink. And if I went six and a half hours I''d be going absolutely bonkers and I''d want a pint of beer asap." Cheers from all sides of the stadium. "Mousehole fans, when you came through the turnstiles, someone handed you a Deva Dollar. Take that to one of those bars in there and redeem it for a pint of beer." Some cheers, some confusion. "No, I''m serious. You deserve a beer, you get a beer. That''s how we roll. If you threw your Deva Dollar away you get nothing. Don''t litter in my stadium!" I paced around and pretended to look up at the Director''s Box. "Hang on. Someone from my board is yelling at me. They can''t drink on an empty stomach, he''s saying. Sure they can. Health and safety, he''s saying. Well. Gammons don''t like health and safety legislation but I do. So, fine. Burgers, pies, chips, mushy peas, everything''s a pound. One pound food for everyone! Merry Christmas! Tuck in!"


    I turned the mic off and walked away. There was a huge buzz around the stadium and as I looked over at the away end I saw that the fans there were frantically checking their pockets for the slips of green paper that would get them their grog.


    MD and Brooke rushed down the stairs. MD didn''t look to be in a very Christmassy mood, possibly because it was mid-October. "Max, have you got a minute?"


    "Yes, boss. What can I do for you?"


    "Did you, er, think about discussing this offer with us before you did it?"


    "Yep. I was sure you''d agree with me that it was the right thing to do."


    MD''s brain was whirring. Did this break any laws? Could we get in trouble? "Do you have any idea what this will cost?"


    "Two hundred and five beers will cost us about fifty quid, which we''ll get back because they''ll drink more. The food will be a couple of thousand. I couldn''t let the away fans have that and not extend the offer to the home ones, too."


    Brooke gave me a blank look. "Can I post this on our socials? Can I tell the media?"


    "What," I said, innocently. "Do you think there might be nationwide media interest? You think we might get more than two grand in publicity? You think we might get more away fans in future because we might give them free stuff? You know, it hadn''t occurred to me." Brooke exchanged a glance with MD, whose annoyance had flipped like a one-pound burger. His eyes were dancing. I said, "Brooke, maybe you could interview some of the Mousehole fans. Get a few clips of them saying Chester''s their favourite away trip ever, something like that. Give them more Deva Dollars if they say something nice about Glendale Logistics. Might be good to do it now before we dismantle their team."


    Brooke continued to look blankly at me but as I returned to the dugout I looked back and there was a very definite smile forming.


    I returned to a life of frugality.


    ***


    Mousehole came with their strongest team, averaging a creditable CA 29. If they played great and we played shit, they would have a chance of scoring a cupset.


    While Sandra was manager for the day, I''d discussed the lineup with her and sort of guided her into accepting a 4-4-2. The match kicked off and we quickly pushed them back. Sandra stood on the touchline with Vimsy as her assistant. They shared shouting duties.


    Sticky was making his full debut in goal. He had improved to CA 35, still far short of Ben''s 55, but with enough game time it seemed there could be genuine competition by the end of the season. After all, Sticky was simply returning to levels he had been in the past while Ben was trying to reach new heights. There was no comparison in their base attributes - Sticky was better in every way - and no comparison between their improvement rates. The only question, really, was why I shouldn''t put Sticky in goal full time? He radiated confidence and authority. Because no shortcuts, that''s why.


    Sticky took a goal kick, passing out to the left where Eddie was unmarked.


    The defence was Eddie, Glenn, Steve, and Magnus. Two 53s and two 54s. No messing about. Carl got a much-needed rest. The defenders passed the ball across the line and back, letting everyone get a touch, before Glenn passed diagonally to the left.


    Josh Owens was playing left mid to give Aff a break. He had eased up to CA 30 so this was a perfect match for him to start, but he was the only outfield Exit Triallist who hadn''t showed some interesting bonus feature. Cole was tall for a left back, Omari could take set pieces, and Tom was a work rate monster. Maybe Josh''s power was simply that he could play left back or left midfield. If that was his only party trick, it was a good one; his flexibility would endear him to any manager in the world.


    He scampered forward, scanning for options, before cutting back and passing safely to his right.


    James Wise (CA 48) was CM, further proof we were taking this match seriously. Next to him was Omari. He''d been given way more minutes than he could have expected and had improved to CA 35. In a month he would break into the forties and by the end of the season, who knew? Wisey knew Omari could play, though, and let him have the ball.


    To Omari''s right was Wes Hayward. Sharky was also CA 35 but his speed would give Mousehole no end of trouble. Omari tried a pass in behind the left back. Sharky got there first and zoomed ahead before whipping in a cross.


    Waiting in the box was the dynamic duo of Ziggy (45) and Tom Westwood (34). They would work their socks off and if Ziggy got chances he would tuck them away like a one-pound pie.


    Sharky''s cross was too high and the ball went all the way across for a Mousehole throw-in. Good start, though!


    There would be plenty of similar moves in the first half. Our average CA was 43.2. Our bench was one of the strongest I''d ever had. Ben as the backup goalie, Zach Green (yet another defender on CA 53), Youngster (58), WibRob (32), Pascal (64), and me.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    I also had three kids - Lucas Friend, Tyson, and Dan Badford. If we were winning comfortably, we would get them ten minutes or so at the end and if needed, I would go on alongside them to make sure we didn''t get overrun. The standard wouldn''t come as a shock; they had been playing against teams like Mousehole on their loans. The loan system was proving its worth and was going to be essential in developing young players.


    I eased out of the dugout and scanned the main stand. As always, it was bristling with scouts and agents. I spotted Ryan Jack and waved him down.


    "Ryan. You know the way you''re dead old?"


    "Yeah. The Natural History Museum have been scouting me."


    "I reckon you''ll be back in the team on schedule and you''ll bosh our midfield but let''s say it all goes to shit. Would you stick around? I''ve got work for someone like you."


    He''d been tracking the match but now looked away from the action. "What sort of work?"


    "Odd jobs. Brooke''s my b-girl. You''d be my f-boy."


    He grinned. "You want me to be your f-boy?" He shook his head. "The F is for football, is it?"


    I smiled back. "Example. Loan manager. Go visit our players. Make sure they''re being looked after. Visit clubs MD and I don''t know loads about and see what the vibe is like. Get me character references. I can see if a player''s a player but I can''t see if he''s a dick. The Brig can tell me if he''s got a criminal past or anything like that but you could put a few calls out. You''ve got that lovable Scouse rogue thing going on. People tell you things." As far as I knew, Brooke had talked about her private life to precisely one person in England. "You''ll help players settle in, be a friendly face they can call when they''re feeling shit. You''ll keep them busy when they''re injured like I did with you. There''s infinite possibilities."


    "What does it pay?"


    "Weirdly, it pays exactly what you get now. You''d still be a player first and foremost but by the time you proper retire there will be enough work to justify a full-time position."


    His eyes danced around the pitch. An FA Cup match between two teams who had never played each other before. On days like these, football was magic. He missed it and would miss it more when it was gone. "I''ve been wondering what to do... after."


    "Wonder no more. I need you. Done. Sorted." I paused. "Shit."


    "What?"


    "I''m already fretting about you being poached."


    The chat had stressed him for some reason, but now he relaxed. "I take back what I said about you being a difficult boss. You know how to motivate us." His eyes shone as he thought about my offer. "I''ve been doing some of it anyway. Why not make it more formal? But can it wait to the summer? See what my playing career looks like and talk about it then?"


    Mention of the summer made me go internal. "Sure. I won''t be here much, though."


    That brought his attention away from the match. "Why? Where will you be?"


    "Learning how to play football."


    ***


    The dominant way of organising football teams, everywhere in the world without exception, is called ''positional play''. The origins of positional play probably go back to the Magnificent Magyars or some obscure visionary I''ve never heard of, but the concept is closely related to the Dutch school of the 70s and Johan Cruyff. As manager of Barcelona, Cruyff had a defensive midfielder who soaked up all his ideas and later became a fairly successful coach in his own right. That bald man''s name? Pep Guardiola.


    Pep''s coaching style involved creating a grid and telling his players exactly where to stand on that grid. There are three main easy-to-understand principles.


    The first is that teams should try to achieve numerical superiority in certain parts of the pitch. You''ve seen me do that by swamping midfield or using four attackers against a back three.


    The second is that teams should try to achieve a qualitative superiority - putting good players against bad ones. You''ve seen me do weird things with my players in order to get my best players against the other team''s weakest.


    Finally, positional superiority. Can you put players into spaces where they can do a fuckton of damage? Take our strategy against Mousehole. If you can get Wes Hayward to the byline and let him cut the ball back to Ziggy who is right in front of the goal, you''re going to score. It almost doesn''t matter how good the players are when the position is so good. You''ve seen me use DMs as often as possible because the position is overpowered, and the intriguing thing about Sandra''s 4-2-3-1 was the way it gave me two DMs but also three CAMs. Playing between the lines of the enemy should give a player time to control the ball, turn, and do something useful.


    So far, so good. It''s clear that I had been learning ''positional play'' ever since I''d been cursed, and from the beginning I was quite good at it. It obviously helped that the curse made sure the players followed my overall plans, but I had a certain flair for using my players to their best advantage and using the principles of the style to good effect.


    There were two main problems.


    One, I knew the end game. In a few years I would master most of the theory and would be able to compete with the top managers in Europe. Great. But unless I decamped to a ''big club'' I would never have equal resources. Even by leveraging Super Scout to generate a rapidly-growing budget, by the time I got to the Premier League I would have - at BEST - ten percent of what the Man City manager had. City, United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Chelsea, Tottenham, and Newcastle all had vast resources and their wage bills were four hundred million pounds a year. Their managers would be just as good as me, although I would retain a few advantages, such as Bench Boost and the ability to make rapid changes. Overall, though, if I stuck to the path I was on it seemed like the best I would be able to do without years of grinding would be something like tenth in the Premier League.


    The second main problem with positional play was... I hated it.


    Yes, it could be great fun, especially when I got unconventional with it. And watching Sandra Lane run my team with my players was interesting and exciting because we were so flawed. We played a lot more passes than most opponents, but with low CA players, passes went astray. There was a huge element of risk to what we did and as Emma always said, no risk no fun.


    But positional play was a straightjacket that got tighter the more you used it. By the time I got to the top level, it would get boring as fuck. Brighton played intricate twenty-pass sequences solely designed to progress the ball from the defence to the defensive midfielders. Elaborate passing sequences to move one zone! It was logical - as Ryan had said, the longest way round is the shortest route home. But still, seeing the same patterns again and again was like watching paint dry.


    Matches between the elite teams, which should have been thrill rides, were often the most tedious encounters in all of sport. Pep''s teams were all-conquering but I never watched them unless I was forced to. Ninety minutes of pure positional play was ninety minutes of my brain trying to think of synonyms for antiseptic and sterile.


    That''s because Pep''s teams followed the rules to near-perfection. Maximum two players in a vertical, maximum three in a horizontal. Strict positional discipline to ensure smooth progression up the pitch while guarding against counter-attacks. Immediately stifle opposition attacks by tactical fouling. These fouls took place so high up the pitch that idiot referees didn''t give yellow cards, thus ensuring that the fouling could continue and the dominant team could continue to dominate. Boring, boring, boring. Repetitive, cynical, attritional, utterly lacking in spontaneity.


    If I wanted to make loads of money and lift up my community, I had no choice but to learn to do the same. Shave my head and become yet another disciple. Join someone else''s cult. As we climbed the leagues, Chester would be the greatest underdog story in a hundred years. We would be everyone''s second team, especially with stunts like giving away beer and a few more I had lined up. But then I would get the eighth best squad in the Prem and we would finish eighth playing the same tedious rules-based football that everyone else did and the love-in would come to a shuddering halt.


    No choice because there was no alternative.


    But as soon as Henri''s friend had said the word ''relationism'' a new perk had become available.


    New module available: Relationism


    Cost: 30,000 XP


    Effects: Unlocks the Relationism module.


    I''d raced home and whipped out my laptop to start learning, but then Emma arrived at the train station and I had to rush out and get her. Then she wanted to be fed! And before we were allowed to tick that box, I had to finish shaving. So demanding!


    We''d booked a table at a restaurant and it was by far the worst date we''d ever been on. I tried, but I couldn''t concentrate in the slightest; I was itching to learn about this new thing and when I did have coherent thoughts they were about using my ten percent discount voucher on this ''module'' instead of on WibWob. Would I still buy WibWob? Probably, because it would take me at least six months to save for the new module. WibWob would help me maximise my results in the meantime, but without the discount it''d take an extra week or two before I could afford it. But how could I plan if I didn''t know what the new thing even was?


    Finally, Emma had said she didn''t want dessert - a big clue that I had fucked up - and we got home and instead of trying to be a good boyfriend I flipped my laptop open and started to gorge on new knowledge.


    I watched an explainer video. What I saw blew my mind. I kept gasping and laughing and Emma finally relented and came next to me and I tried to explain what I was seeing.


    ***


    "What the shiiiit?"


    "What?"


    Emma was next to me on the sofa and I was rewatching my first ever taste of relationism. A match from Brazil, naturally. I pointed. "The entire team''s over there on the left! At Man City, there would be one guy in that whole area. Look! They''re all jammed up. It looks more like rugby than footy."


    "There''s one guy on this side."


    "Yeah," I said. I rewound the video fifteen seconds and watched the sequence again. Somehow, the team in possession had got themselves all squashed up on the left. They passed the ball around but it was so congested it hurt my brain to even think about it. Here was the playground football I had asked for! Everyone following the ball around but... intentionally? They couldn''t want this to happen, could they? The ball was played back to a defender who had time to think and an easy pass to the one guy who was in space. Every instinct in my body called out for him to play that pass. Instead, he turned back into the congested area. "What the fuuuuck..." I was rubbing my temples so hard they were at risk of coming out in a bruise.


    "What''s the formation?" said Emma.


    "That''s just it. There isn''t one. It''s like... nine left, one right. We need a whole different vocabulary for this! But it''s crazy. The clips are all like this. There''s a bunch of players like a swarm of bees and they pass the ball around their hive and..."


    "And what?"


    "And it doesn''t make sense! It breaks every rule of football. Think of the counter attacks! There''s a reason you spread your team out."


    "But both teams are over there."


    "Yeah," I said. The team with the ball had gathered their players and their opponents had been forced to do the same. Any counter attack could be bad, but if you dragged all your opponents to the same side as you, your players would automatically be in position to defend. Huh.


    I fell into a silence as I watched bewildering clip after bewildering clip. I couldn''t make sense out of any of it. There would be absolute chaos, mayhem, playground football, then suddenly the shapes would resolve and a player would get a shot on goal.


    "They''re using the sideline as an extra defender," said Emma.


    I gawped at her. "Excuse me what?"


    She smiled. She understood something about football that I didn''t. "Go back to that second clip." I obeyed; she pointed. "The players are all on the left of the pitch, right? They''re trying to attack up there. You''re worried about the counter attack. By the way, doesn''t sound like fearless football the way you keep worrying. But if they do lose the ball, they force the other team towards the side so that they can''t do any harm. Keep them penned in."


    I made a confused noise in the style of Scooby Doo and skimmed the video. "Let me see if I can find that."


    "Don''t bother," she said, showing me her phone. There was a gif running. "It''s all here in this article." I watched as a team tried to progress up the left, lost the ball, and immediately swarmed around the new ball carrier, forcing their opponents away from the centre of the pitch. It reminded me of the cover shadow method - block some lanes, reduce options, finally cut those options to zero. They recovered the ball in seconds.


    The moment struck me like a thunderbolt. "Argh!" I said, shooting to my feet. "Argh! It''s meant. It''s all meant! They''re playing a different sport on the same pitch with the same rules! Christ, I need this. I need it. Give me your phone."


    Hers made a whooshing noise and mine pinged. "I sent you the article."


    "What Is Relationism by Jamie Hamilton. Twenty-two minute read. Okay, see you in twenty minutes."


    I sat on the floor with my back to the sofa and read the article. Then I read it twice more. Finally, I closed my eyes and thought about spending thirty thousand experience points on this perk. If I got it - who was I kidding, I would get it - who would I turn to with questions? Jackie and Sandra were positional disciples. Even experts like Cody Chambers, Clive OK, or Dieter Bauer would think I was crazy for trying to go against football normalcy.


    "Babes?" I said. I suspected what I said next would make up for the bad dinner.


    She detected something in my tone and gave me one of her sultry looks. "Yes, honey?"


    "Do you want to spend the summer in Brazil?"


    ***


    We had better players than Mousehole and a better understanding of positional play, space, risk and reward, but we were only leading one-nil at half time. A goal from Ziggy, who celebrated with cool, calm professionalism.


    Ah... not.


    Still, a very dominant performance, overall. Credit to our coaches for getting the players to those levels.


    I went into the dressing room, still very much a spectator, and noted that Sandra felt confident enough to make the first change I''d proposed - to replace Omari with Dan Badford. Dan was only CA 18 but was so smooth he looked better than that. He would get twenty-five minutes and then be subbed off himself. Idiots would think it was a punishment, but it was simply a low-risk way to spread minutes over more players.


    Sandra pointed out a few things she had noticed, and while the lads quietly digested the info, she came over to me. "Max," she said, dropping the formality because she was the boss for the day. "What do you think about giving us twenty at the end?"


    "Oh," I said, and switched to a soft mumble. "Are you worried?"


    "No," she mumbled back. "Bit of a treat for the fans. The home fans and your new admirers from pirate country."


    "Hmm," I said. A twenty minute runout was pretty tempting - I''d been going over the same thoughts again and again and I was starting to feel drained. Good run around, smash a couple of free kicks. Sounded pretty ideal. I thought about who I would replace - Dan was an obvious choice. Or... "Do you want to get funky?"


    "In the cup match you said we have to win? No."


    "I''m thinking 4-2-3-1..."


    "Keep going," she said, smiling.


    "With me as a centre back."


    "Okay, then. Veto."


    "Marauding centre back."


    "Even worse."


    "Marauding right back."


    She looked around at the other players and the tactics board. "Tell me more."


    "Eddie, Glenn, and Steve can deal with Mousehole, especially with Youngster and Magnus patrolling in front. Tom can drop back to be a CAM." Sandra pulled a face. Tom didn''t have the technical qualities to play CAM but he''d be better than Ziggy and there weren''t enough subs to bring on someone more suited. "He''ll press," I explained. "Next to him, WibRob and Tyson. I''ll have a free role but I''ll be on the right enough to make it seem like that side is occupied."


    "Tyson? Not Pascal? I don''t know. That sounds a bit too..." She would have said weak if we''d had the conversation in private. She changed tack. "A man who chases two rabbits catches none."


    I nodded. She was saying if I wanted to progress in the FA Cup I needed to prioritise that and developing our young players could wait. "A Max who chases six rabbits catches six. Tyson''s ready for a game like this. So''s WibRob. I''ll look after them. Mousehole will be in a low block within five minutes, guaranteed."


    "Am I still in charge?"


    "Huh?" I looked up at her. Letting Sandra manage this match was costing me 3 XP a minute, but was invaluable in terms of her development and her personal motivation to stay at Chester. She would also be managing the Tuesday night match in the Cheshire Cup but it was possible her next taste of the hot seat would be at the end of November. Of all my competing priorities, giving Sandra proper responsibility was very, very high. "You''re the boss. Put me anywhere and give me a straightjacket. I''ll be good."


    "Will you?"


    I nodded. Nothing I was planning would work without her. "Yes."


    "Huh." She bit her nail for a while. "The idea of you drifting around pretending to be a right back doesn''t sit well with me. I don''t like that sort of thing." She wandered off. That was that, then. She tapped the tactics board. "All right, shut the fuck up," she said. "My favourite movie is The Matrix because there''s cool action and good coats. Am I doing this right?" She got more than a few laughs. "Twenty-five minutes of 4-4-2 with Dan pulling the strings. Then we''re going to do a modified 4-2-3-1 for the last twenty but we don''t need four at the back against this lot. So a back three of Eddie, Glenn, and Steve. When there''s an attack on the left, Eddie will slide across and you two will be the centre backs. Same on the other side with Steve moving across. Vimsy and I will yell, er, what''s it called?"


    "Encouragement," said Vimsy, to more laughs.


    "Right," said Sandra. Watching her adapt an existing formation on the fly made me jealous. To do the same, I needed the WibWob perk.


    "It''s really not that complicated and we should be solid enough with Youngster and Magnus as DMs. Five in the rest defence. Then Tom, Tyson, and William playing behind Ziggy."


    "That''s ten," said Zach, showing he had just about enough fingers to keep up. I joke. He was asking who the last player would be, obviously hoping it would be him.


    "Max," said Sandra. "Max will be doing Max things. Max knows how to do Max things. The structure is for everyone else."


    She looked to the side of the dressing room with the most defenders. "Back five, you stay sharp. You need to learn as you play. Front four, look for combinations and overloads. Any questions?"


    I put up my hand. "Do you think this will work?"


    "Of course," she said, slightly confused. If she didn''t, she wouldn''t have changed her plan.


    I paced over and did a dramatic turn back to the rest of the players. "She''s beginning to believe!" I relaxed from ¡®actor pose¡¯ and gave her a soft punch on the arm. "You''ve got to pay off the movie thing. End on an appropriate quote."


    "You can not spell matrix without Max," suggested Youngster.


    I pointed at him while looking at Sandra. "Or something like that, but better."


    "Got it," said Sandra. She mock rolled her eyes. "All right. 4-4-2 for twenty-five minutes... and then we take the red pill."


    I pulled at an imaginary kung fu beard. "Impressive. Truly, the student has become the master."


    The bell rang. "Come on, Chester!" yelled Glenn. The lads clomped out. I took a second to appreciate Sandra. Yeah, she was a positional play disciple - at Man City she had put straightjackets around her talented dribblers - but she was creative and fun. Maybe she would like relationism. I would definitely broach the topic... sometime in the next three years.


    ***


    James Wise, Dan Badford, Josh Owens, and Sharky all knew they would be coming off halfway through the half, so they put extra effort in. Dan struggled at times but was bailed out by his mates. The home fans were appreciative of their efforts, and roared them onto a second goal.


    It was turning out to be a perfect kind of day, and when we made a mass substitution in the seventieth minute the home faithful gave the departing players a standing ovation. My name was the last to be read out - bit of showmanship from our hospitality volunteer - and I got some applause from the away fans, too. Giving away two hundred and five pints of beer is surprisingly good for one''s reputation. I noticed how different the match felt as a mere player - I could see the tactics but couldn''t influence them and I didn''t have hotkeys or perks. But I could hear the fans! It was refreshing. They sounded different, somehow. There was something under the surface. I couldn¡¯t put my finger on it.


    Sandra concentrated her attention on the defensive half. I wandered around for a minute checking the sitch. We seemed solid enough, and Sticky in goal absolutely radiated confidence. Ahead of me, Tyson looked like a toddler compared to his hulking opponents, but if I stepped back and squinted... he had grown taller. He had bulked up. Just a fraction. Just enough to make me wonder if he wasn''t one of my better options for the CAM role if we were going to play this formation on the regular.


    I got my first touch of the ball and played a one-two with WibRob.


    One-twos were one of the building blocks of relationism. Instead of obsessing over positions, the concept was to build relationships between players. To move together like dance partners.


    I paused. We were spread out according to Sandra''s plan, and Mousehole were spread out in their 4-4-2. They would struggle if we went right at them but they would more or less know what to do. They played against teams like us every week. If I could send virtually my whole team over to the left, though... How could you defend against that if you had never seen it before? If your opponents moved around like blobs in a lava lamp? All you could do was fill the space with defenders. What if we suddenly switched to a completely different football philosophy after twenty minutes? Surely it would fuck teams up. It had to!


    I played a one-two with Youngster, then another with WibRob. I was pretty much back where I started and as I hesitated, Mousehole''s players shuffled back into position.


    This wasn''t it. Youngster was too static. He and I should have been trying to move up the pitch together and when we attracted too many defenders we would bring in WibRob, then a fourth, fifth, sixth partner. Youngster, though - correctly, in the circumstances - would stick to his zone. If I wanted to approximate this new style of football, I would need to be the manager and as we were working our way up the pitch, manually move players from zone to zone.


    I put my foot on the ball.


    Even that idea wouldn''t work. Using the curse, I couldn''t put two players in one zone, never mind six or seven. I sighed and looked down at the ball. The only way to try relationistic football would be to buy the new module or go somewhere the other players weren''t bound by European conventions. Clue - not Europe.


    In the meantime, I would have to suffer in this dreadful purgatory.


    A Mousehole player came storming towards me. I decided I would dribble him to the left and dropped my shoulder that way. His weight shifted and when I shifted the other way, he threw out a foot.


    I flicked the ball a couple of inches to the side and in the same motion, dabbed it through his legs. The crowd roared, and I was thirty-five yards from goal, at a full sprint, with four players ahead of me to combine with.


    Okay, fine. Life wasn''t so bad.


    I zipped the ball to Tyson who laid it off first-time to WibRob. He feinted to turn to his right, took a touch back to his left, and chipped the ball over the defence. It wasn''t perfectly in my path but I adjusted, touched the ball forward, and had to hit top speed to stand a chance of getting it. The goalie came rushing out and as he slid towards the ball, so did I. I got there first, hooking the ball sideways and making sure my foot didn''t get anywhere near the keeper''s head.


    Ziggy had a tap-in.


    He celebrated by holding his hands up as if to say ''I had very little to do with that, don''t praise me.''


    Let me try that again.


    He celebrated by running to the corner flag and kung fu kicking it and punching it and giving it another kick while screaming with joy. The rest of us did what we normally did - various levels of joining in or hanging back while Ziggy went nuts. But then, a few steps back towards our half, Ziggy burst into tears.


    I put my daydreams of new footballing paradigms to one side. Manager time.


    I went and hugged him and asked him what was up. He sobbed for a while, getting my mirror neurons all primed, before coming out with the devastating line that he ''really, really wanted to win the match for them kids''. Well, the bastard set me off, didn''t he?


    As I finished wiping my eyes, I decided perks and modules and conceptual frameworks for playing the game could wait. Today was all about them kids. And there was one thing them kids liked even more than going to the dentist - goals.


    ***


    Sunday, October 13


    Welsh Cup First Round: Chester Women vs Llandudno Ladies


    Four hundred curious fans made the trip to Flint to watch our women play in the Welsh Cup. That number was bolstered by some residents of Flint and the away fans - Llandudno was a straight shot down the A55 so there was no excuse not to attend.


    Llandudno had CA 35 - they were something of a yo-yo team bouncing from the top tier in Wales to the second, but they seemed likely to settle in tier one sooner or later. It looked like a well-run club from the outside even if no-one there was attempting to fuse two totally different styles of football in order to build the slappingest team that ever slapped. Far from it - they played a rigid 4-4-2.


    Jackie decided to put out a 4-4-2 of our own, since our left back option Ridley T had made such a good start to her Chester career. Our best eleven now had a CA of just over 38.


    The match started out pretty scrappy and Emma soon got bored and whipped out an iPad so she could scout holiday destinations in South America. Note I didn''t say Brazil. "What are you looking at Argentina for?" I said, glancing away from the pitch to see what she was up to.


    "They play that new thingy there, too. It''s not just Brazil. The writer says the lack of adherence to strict organisational principles is embedded into South American culture and can be seen in football at all levels. He says we could go on holiday anywhere."


    I laughed. "Does he?"


    "Yes. I wrote to him. He said he''ll send me a list of interesting coaches we can visit."


    I shook my head. It hadn''t even occurred to me to write to the guy. In her way, Emma was much more fearless than me. If I could fully harness her skills I could turn Chester into an unstoppable entity, but she was only learning about this new concept because it meant a more interesting holiday. "Well, maybe we can tour around. We have to start at the start, though. The Maracan?. Fuck, I just got shivers from saying that."


    On the pitch, our better technique started to count. The possession stat swung in our favour and big gaps appeared in Llandudno''s lines.


    At women¡¯s matches, our fans came in two flavours - the family-friendly, wholesome majority, plus a hard core of intimidating nutjobs who couldn''t get enough of the new Chester. One area of overlap was the new song they were singing now:


    We''ve got super Jackie Reaper


    He knows exactly what we need


    Femi at the back


    Dani in attack


    Chester on the way to Super League


    Brooke, MD, and Ryan appeared. "Hello," said MD. They did some small talk; I tuned out until I heard my name. "Emma, did you ask Max what happened yesterday?"


    "No," she said. "We went for an apology dinner and it didn''t come up."


    "What are you talking about?" I said.


    MD raised one eyebrow. "Yesterday was a fairly normal match - the new normal where we beat teams that are worse than us - but suddenly you and Ziggy were in tears by the corner flag and then you went... Brooke, what did you call it?"


    "Max took them to Pound Town."


    They were exaggerating how impressive it was. All that happened was I stopped messing about trying to explore the new footballing paradigm and scored a rapid hat trick before retreating to be a third DM so the youngsters could take over. "Just a routine six-nil win and tens of thousands of pounds in free media coverage. My first FA Cup hat trick. Four crates of beer for the Mousehole team bus. For them, the day Max Best graced their fixture was the most important day of their life. For me, it was Tuesday."


    Emma said, "It was Saturday, you monster!" We exchanged high fives.


    MD was patient while we did whatever we were doing. "Well, the response was incredible. Word''s out about the dentist thing and most fans are right behind it. Ziggy''s a huge hit. The way he celebrates! And Mr. Roberts and Bulldog were in bits when their lads took to the pitch together. We''ve had good results in the past but now it means more."


    ''This means more'' is an obnoxious phrase used by Liverpool FC to codify their sense of entitlement. "Let''s try to avoid sounding like the team that twice in the last five years tried to obliterate English football. Hey, Ryan. Do you want a new contract?"


    He looked surprised. "What?"


    "I was thinking about it overnight. I''m going to be giving out new contracts to a few players and why not start with you? It''ll be exactly the same, almost, but with a plus one and a slight pay rise."


    "Why the plus one?"


    "Because I want to keep you around. I told you. If you don''t want to stay I won''t trigger the extension. That''s a verbal contract and everyone heard it. So the question is, do you want an extra twenty quid a week yes or no?"


    Twenty quid wasn''t much, but it was better than a metal bar to the head. "Sure. Er, thanks?"


    MD''s face did some contortions but he forced himself to smile. "Well deserved, Ryan, with all the extra work you''ve been doing." MD''s poker face was improving; he almost sounded like he meant it.


    "And obviously," I said, "the more we''re paying in wages the less attractive we''ll be to any potential new buyer." Everyone, including Emma, looked at me like I was off my trolley. Was I really planning to defend the club by giving out infinitesimal pay rises? Just then, Bea Pea played a one-two with Angel, exactly as we''d practised in Grimsby, and we took the lead. Everything was going swimmingly. "If you don''t mind, I''m actually trying to reinvent football."


    "You''re so funny," said Brooke.


    Emma frowned. "No, he is. Or he thinks he is. We''re going to the Macarena."


    I''m not sure if the conversation continued, because I was staring at the pitch too hard. In the relationism clips I''d seen, there weren''t many actions that were overly difficult. It was a lot of short passing and being cool under pressure. Sure, thriving in a tiny sliver of pitch would need good technique, but so did what the women were doing now. Charlotte would have no problem. The hardest thing to coach would be the little flicks and dummies and the one-twos that happened at strange angles. What sort of player would thrive in that system? They would need imagination. Flair.


    Yes, flair! One of the attributes I could upgrade using God Save the King was labelled FL. It had to be flair. Charlotte playing the initial pass. A gaggle of flair players - Kisi, Dani, and Maddy - combining in unpredictable ways. On the men''s team, Ryan Jack, WibRob, Dan, and me. We already had players who could do it, I was sure! I was fucking sure!


    My vision started to narrow; I was getting too hyped. I calmed myself and thought of the cost. If flair really was important, I needed to unlock it. Knowing the curse, it would take me four or five tries to get the attribute I wanted and that meant thousands more in XP spending. Pencil in another twenty thousand XP just to be able to find players to make my new system work.


    On the pitch, Dani, nominally the left mid but allowed to roam to a certain extent, passed to Charlotte and raced into a CAM slot. Charlotte fed Kisi, who hit a first-time diagonal at Dani. Dani ran over the ball, bringing confused defenders with her. The ball raced through to Bea Pea who took a leaf out of WibRob''s manual and chipped the ball behind the defence. Angel was lining up a shot but Dani had more momentum and didn¡¯t hear Angel¡¯s call of ¡®my ball!¡¯. Dani got there first, knocking the ball away from goal and hammering it diagonally back past the wrong-footed keeper. Michael Owen versus Argentina!


    Two-nil! Game over, and what a goal to win it. The fans were in ecstasy and I wasn''t far off.


    Femi at the back! Dani in attack! Chester on the way to Super League!


    I gritted my teeth. My jaw was so set it was painful.


    If I could have what I''d just seen twenty times a game, whatever the price was, I''d pay it.


    ***


    Chester are pleased to announce that Ryan Jack has signed a new contract! Manager Max Best says, "This is bad news for fans of average age stats but great news for any squad members who want to learn about the olden days. Ryan grew up in the era of tamagotchis, Tori Amos, and slow-moving zombies. Seriously, though, Ryan is fantastic on and off the pitch and with him around, our future looks much brighter."

 9.3 - The Long Way Round (Part Two)

    3.


    Monday, October 14


    FA Youth Cup Third Qualifying Round: Chester Under Eighteens vs Walsham-le-Willows F.C. Under Eighteens


    One artefact of what we might term Historical Gammonism was that while the women didn''t get to play at the Deva, the boys did. With considerable investment, the pitch would be able to stand up to more stress, but for now it was the men and a couple of matches for the boys.


    Jonny Planter, our groundsman, told me he wasn''t too worried about the long run of home matches we were in the midst of, saying the bio stimulants were working wonders. I asked him to look into genetically-engineered superworms but he didn''t laugh. He simply said, "I have."


    Spectrum would be my assistant manager for the cup run. He had done the warmups and pre-match drills and he was worried. "Max, they''re hyper. It''s a cup match in our home stadium under the floodlights with hundreds of people in."


    "There would have been more but MD went on the socials to specifically say there wouldn''t be free beer."


    "We still sold about six hundred tickets. Okay, they''re cheap, but that''s a serious show of interest at this level."


    "Brooke did a good job on this one, yeah."


    "And the whole first team are here. Loads of the women, too. The board. Boggy is doing Seals Live. It feels like a big game."


    I frowned. "It is a big game."


    Spectrum squirmed. "I know but Max, we''re still very young. They''re not used to this."


    "What are you saying?"


    "Can you just... ugh. I know you like to do the opposite but please consider not hyping them up. WibRob already looks like he''s ready to go to war. Benny looks like he''s on crack. If you pump them up more they''ll burst."


    "Exploding children could be good marketing. He''s done what?! He''s exploded. Wow. Let''s go see the next match. Can''t, it''s sold out."


    Spectrum forced a smile onto his face. "Max knows best." He walked off, waving at some people in the main stand, and gathered the kids. I watched him work. Most of my coaches had fairly static profiles. The Brig''s tactical knowledge had increased from 1 to 2. Vimsy''s coaching had increased from 7 to 8. But Spectrum had added three points. He was now Coaching Outfield Players 12, Judging Player Potential 3, and Tactical Knowledge 16.


    And he had, without anyone ever really formalising it, become the de facto Head of Youth Development. He coordinated the coaching sessions and made sure there were matches to play and a coach and physio for every fixture. He texted and emailed with thoughts on the kids, gaps in the squads I might want to fill, who he was bumping up to a higher level and for how long. He was turning into one of my best f-boys (where F, you remember, stands for football and nothing else).


    In the dressing room - the one used by the men! By the stars! - the lads went through their final preparations while waiting for me to get them hyped and reveal my brilliant masterplan. Their excitement got under my skin and I very nearly got mischievous.


    In a boring voice, I said, "Walsham-le-Willows is east of Cambridge and has a population of just over a thousand." Benny and Tyson thought this was hilarious and fell into each other. I looked at Spectrum as if to say, what am I supposed to do? He folded his arms and pinched his nose. I changed tack. I walked up and down the benches getting an eyeful of all the teenagers. When I returned to the tactics board, I said, "Forget dentists. What we need is a club hairdresser." This raised the roof and the lads blasted each other over the state of their trims. It was like opening a steam valve. After the initial burst, the energy levels in the room were more stable. I pushed the tactics board to the side, brought my flipchart forward a little and wrote, The longest way round is the shortest way home. I tapped it. "This phrase means do things right. It''s a ninety-minute game. We don''t win it in the first ten minutes. We don''t win it by taking shortcuts."


    I let the lads think about that for well over twenty seconds.


    "All right, listen up. It''s a big game and you''re right to be excited. I''d be pissed if you weren''t excited. So you''re up for the cup - that''s great. One box ticked. We''re better than them. That''s another boxed ticked. So now the challenge is, how do we play? I want you to approach this game with respect. Just because we''re better doesn''t mean we can clown around doing skills and madnesses. We''re still in the qualifying rounds, for fuck''s sake. We don''t get to be Billy Big-Bollocks. Do you know what I mean? I expect you to play the same way you''ve been coached. No shortcuts!


    "Most of you are sixteen or seventeen. Walsham''s lads are almost all turning eighteen this season. They''re bigger than you. Stronger. Some are faster. But still, they know that to beat you they have to wind you up, put you off your game. In the upside-down world of football, all the shit-talking they''re gonna do is a sign of respect. Some of you are pros or close enough and if you let some verbals from amateurs get to you I''ll be very disappointed. Anyone getting a red card today can fuck right off. I''m serious about that. There''s no need to go in two-footed, to retaliate, to foul someone who''s through on goal. They''re not going to score and even if they do, we''ll go score down the other end. So what I most want to see from you today, apart from a new haircut, is a bit of maturity. Win your duels, sure, but your duels exist as part of a bigger picture. This match is a story. What''s the story? It''s not you getting into a fight with a kid who will never, ever play a serious football match again. It''s you connecting with your mates, working for the team, doing your little part of the plan. Be calm and be serious. Wear the badge with pride, but wear it with class, too. This is a big game for your opponents and this will be a memory they keep. Do you want to be remembered as a dick?"


    That was good. As I''d spoken, I saw them redirect some of their loose energy.


    "Last reminder of the lineups and tactics. The tactics are, you don''t need tactics holy shit stop going on about them. 4-4-2. Bivvy in goal. Lucas Friend, Captain, Henk, Sevenoaks. Everyone remember that Seven isn''t a natural defender and if he gets into trouble I want you digging deep to help him. You with me? Midfield is WibRob, Tyson, Dan, Noah. Loads of silk, not much steel. Be patient out of possession. No need to go flying in. I don''t think Walsham are going to pass it around for three minutes but if they do, let ''em. Shuffle and slide and be patient. Or even better, get some fucking quality on the ball and make them work to recover it. Pass them to death. Up front it''s Benny and Chas. I do not want to see aimless high balls played at Chas. Build through the thirds like you do in training. He''s tall, but so is my postman and I wouldn''t ask him to hold the ball up against someone stronger and more experienced. Pass pass pass, build down the sides, Art of Slapping. Yes? Chester football? Let''s have a good first half and we''ll use half time to fix any issues that come up. Be positive out there."


    I checked if there was anything I''d forgotten to say. At the top of my mind was the long run of home games.


    "Right, one more thing," I said. "The pitch. The firsts played on Saturday, you''re playing today, firsts are back tomorrow. Three matches in four days. That''s already brutal, but our next two games are at home, too. Won''t someone please think of the grass? Do not fuck my pitch up. We need a good pitch to play our football and get out of this league and get money for dentists and hairdressers. Benny, when you score, what are you banned from doing?"


    He sat up straight. "Er, not allowed to jump on someone''s back."


    "Why?" I said, like a teacher.


    "Because it''s someone''s fucking spine that they need so that''s moronic. And not allowed to, er, to run around waving our shirt."


    "Why?"


    "Coz it''s an automatic yellow card so that''s moronic."


    "Good. What else? Remembering what I said about the pitch being important?"


    "Oh, like, knee slides?"


    "No knee slides. I will one trillion percent lose my shit if you tear two fucking... what''s the word? What do tractors do?"


    Spectrum knew. "Plough."


    "Right, plough. Do not use your fucking stupid knees to plough two..."


    "Furrows," said Spectrum.


    "Two furrows into my beautiful football pitch."


    The bell rang. "Go on, then."


    Captain yelled captain things and they trotted out. "I''ve missed this," said Spectrum. "Das Tournament. The wizard. What''s, er... What''s Bethany up to these days?"


    "What''s she up to? About a thousand downloads per episode, I reckon." I grinned and gave him a friendly slap on the arm. "Maybe she''d want to interview the Head of Youth Development at the non-league team who won the FA Youth Cup. Hey?"


    He blinked. "Is that a job offer?"


    "It is if we win the cup."


    "Fuck me," he said. The cogs in his head spluttered into life. "Wait," he said, suddenly frowning. "They were good and hyped and you calmed them down. Go and hype them back up!"


    "Can''t," I said. "They might explode. Health and safety, mate. Bad for the brand. Come on."


    ***


    Walsham had brought a well-coached, organised team whose average CA didn''t hit double figures. We had an average CA of 16.7.


    My side featured five guys who were getting decent first team exposure: Lucas Friend had received glowing reviews from Jay Cope at West Didsbury; Tyson, Benny, and Dan had done well on their loans. WibRob? Say no more. In addition, Henk had played at a decent youth level for Tranmere until becoming unhappy and returning to Chester. Others had trained with the first team a few times.


    But while I''d done quite well in taking the core of the Das Tournament side and adding to it, I spent the first five minutes catastrophising. A CA of 16 was dogshit. How had I worked so hard to achieve so little?


    It didn''t take long to calm down. We were a high PA group and we had better technique and passing than the average. That would count for a lot. But the most important thing was our age profile.


    As with the first team, we were pretty young. Overly young, perhaps. We had no guys who would turn eighteen this year. Only three of our starting eleven would even hit seventeen. The rest were a year younger, except Chas, who was a year younger still.


    Age was one of the most important factors for a young player. At Das Tournament, Wolves had put out a team with an average CA of 6. I expected they would improve in an exponential way for a few years. If the Wolves under 17s team was CA 40, their 18s would be CA 60. So if my Chester boys got to CA 20 this year, they could be CA 40 next.


    CA 40, plus my tactics, plus all the first-team experience, plus moments of magic from WibRob? We would have a chance. Not a wishful thinking chance - a real chance.


    And hey, I still had a year to improve the squad. If I could resolve the Daddy Star situation before the transfer window closed, I could dip into my reserves to bring in some talented youngsters. If only I could persuade MD to loosen the purse strings. Just a little bit...


    "Good start," said Spectrum.


    "Hmm? Yeah. Is it just me or are we fucking amazing?" We had already had two long passing sequences and in their excitement, Walsham had sprinted around trying to press and harry and found themselves chasing shadows. "Hey, Noah is looking good. What did you do with him?"


    "Nothing," confessed Spectrum. "He was settling in and then he saw WibRob and I think he realised what a top player really looks like. And, sort of, all the other kids are in the same boat. It''s like, we are us and he is him. So that brought them together."


    "Will''s mint, isn''t he? He''s not a dick, though?"


    "No, he''s hungry. Good team player. Why did you put him left mid?"


    "We don''t have a good alternative. Hope is the next best. Who else? Kian? Anyway, I don''t want Will scoring ten goals and getting noticed. At left mid he plays, he learns, he stays under the radar."


    "Er, yeah, good luck with that," scoffed Spectrum, as WibRob barrelled past a midfielder, let a big defender bounce off him, and played a left-footed through ball slightly too far ahead of Benny.


    Benny chased the ball, kept it in, and dribbled to the corner waiting for support. He played a clever diagonal into WibRob''s path. Will swept the ball out to Noah Harrison who was in acres of space. Noah drove forward, shaped to cross - no, mate! - but when the defender went for a block, Noah pushed forward to the byline and lashed the ball across goal. Benny had worked hard to get back into position and he applied a tidy finish.


    One-nil!


    A great goal. A Chester goal.


    "Oh-oh," said Spectrum.


    He was watching with everything clenched as Benny raced towards the corner flag between the Harry McNally and the main stand. Sure enough, the little fuck did a knee slide.


    I watched with a David Moyes-style necromancer death glare as two ugly streaks disfigured my pristine - and fragile - playing surface.


    "Get Jonny," I said, and my tone invited no debate. Spectrum rushed off to find the head groundsman.


    ***


    It was two-nil at half time and the lads walked towards the tunnel waving at their friends and family in the main stand. Party time. I stopped them on the edge of the pitch. Party''s over.


    "Benny," I said. Something in my expression or voice made the kid''s face turn white. Whiter. "This is Jonny Planter, our groundsman. These are the volunteers who love the club so much they help out for free. These are called pitchforks. If you ever want to play for this team again, you''ll volunteer to repair the pitch."


    Benny swallowed. "Yeah, sure. Course. Happy to. Sorry," he added, in a mumble.


    I waited for him to understand, but there was no sign of that. "Fucking now!" I said, handing him one of the tools. The ground staff strode away to the corner that Benny had vandalised. Soon they would start prodding it and praying to the worms or whatever they did. I stood, hands on hips, until Benny turned and double-timed it after them.


    Back in the dressing room, I dropped the angry facade. I was about to give them some instructions when I heard some unexpected noises from the stands. "Adam, go and see what''s up."


    He ran out and came back a minute later. "Everyone''s all gone to that corner and they''re chanting for Benny and cheering him when he pokes the pitch. His dad''s there filming it saying funny stuff. Benny''s turned red but he''s enjoying it. I think."


    I did a sort of scoff-chuckle thing. "I just don''t understand why you players can''t keep it in your pants. Scoring a goal''s not that big a deal. It''s like, your job. And there''s hundreds of ways to celebrate. Why do something that might hurt a teammate like jump on his back or make it harder for us to win games like ruin the surface? What if I''m playing right-wing against Ebbsfleet this Saturday and I''m about to whip in a cross but the ball bobbles because fucking Benny just had to show off. What the fuck, man."


    Spectrum coughed. "It was a good performance, though. Wasn''t it, boss?"


    I sighed. "Yes. Very good. I loved everything about that half. Well, almost everything. Dan, are you all right?"


    "Yes, boss."


    For twenty minutes, Dan had run the show from midfield with lazy passes and languid flicks. He looked like he would rather be on a beach somewhere, but that just added to Walsham''s frustration.


    One of them gave him a boot up the arse.


    Dan didn''t like that. He dropped the fake laziness and stormed around the midfield creating overloads and demanding overlaps. He ran the game while Tyson tried to be a good central midfield partner. When Dan ran out of steam, WibRob took over and the balance of the game played out on the left. Noah Harrison didn''t want to be outdone and he tried to turn the right into a danger zone, too.


    "Okay. Well, it''s been a while since I saw a Chester midfield slap from three thirds. Noah, you''re doing great. I love the way you''re supporting Seven and you''re quality on the ball, today. Keep that up because this is good practice. The next round won''t be this easy, right? Tyson, very selfless play that half. Dan, you can take a breath and let Tyson be the creative force for a while. You with me? William, I''d love for you to dial the individual skills down about five percent and combine more with Lucas and Tyson. Remember the phrase. Longest way round''s the shortest way home. A couple of extra passes and you''ll find your marker''s miles out of position. A little more patience. Last thing, they look good on set pieces so do try to stop giving away those silly fouls. I know the ref is a bit weak but you don''t have to try to get the ball every time it comes anywhere near you. Block the crosses, but be patient. I''d honestly be happy if there wasn''t a single tackle this half."


    "Is Benny staying on?" said Walshy. He was one of the many kids I''d found in the PA 30 to 40 range, and as our next-best striker, the most likely guy to replace Benny.


    "Yeah, fifteen minutes at least. I don''t want to destroy him because he was excited. I mean, I kinda do. But nah. Or maybe...? Nah. Anyway, you''ll get on the pitch, Walshy mate. Hundred percent. Let''s just be professional about the second half, all right?"


    ***


    The second half was a ton of fun for the crowd. We weathered a brief storm from the away team, then resumed slapping. Chas scored from a WibRob cross. He celebrated by running to the main stand, turning, and pointing to his shirt number with his thumbs. Max Best approved! Benny scored another close-range finish. He raced to the same corner as before, and as the crowd went ''oooh!'' he threatened to launch himself into a knee slide, but instead he tapped at the pitch with his boot. His teammates did the same. Sarcastic running repairs. Max Best approved!


    For the last twenty I made a raft of subs, but the new guys were overly keen to impress and gave away stupid free kicks. Walsham were more streetwise than our centre backs and scored a couple of goals.


    We won 6-2 and the match showed what the team could and couldn''t do. We could play beautiful football, dominate possession and create chances. We could fight for each other and enjoy winning. We couldn''t defend set pieces. Not reliably, not against bigger, stronger kids. The draw for the next round would be absolutely fascinating.


    ***


    As I was having a drink with the Walsham lot and Brooke was interviewing our lads on the pitch, the draw for the other cups came out.


    "Swindon at home," I said, reading the text from Secretary Joe.


    My opposite number said, "Are you happy with that?"


    I was not happy. It was an absolutely horrible draw. Last time I''d seen Swindon, they had an average CA of 76, so even if I used all my boosts we would be miles off the pace. They weren''t even an attractive fixture. They were doing poorly in League Two and I didn''t associate them with a huge away following. They''d probably sell all 800 tickets we offered them, though, and it was an FA Cup First Round match. I would ask Brooke to fill the stadium and expect it to happen.


    Apart from the likelihood that we would get knocked out of the cup in the First Round, I was also worried about the media. The cowardly, spineless Football Association had changed a hundred years of tradition at the behest of the big clubs. For the first time in history, there would be no replays in the FA Cup. In the past, a little team like Chester with a home tie would have fought hard against a bigger team like Swindon. Winning had obvious benefits but financially, a draw was even better - you went to the bigger club''s ground for a replay. A replay against Man United or Tottenham could bring in a million pounds, easy. Those days were gone, though, and I had thoughts.


    Angry, angry thoughts. How much fucking money did Man United and Arsenal and the rest fucking need? The FA were supposed to be the guardians of the game. Why were they working for a handful of clubs while sticking two fingers up at eight hundred others?


    If interviewed after a narrow defeat to Swindon I would probably go on an epic rant. But it seemed sensible to keep my mouth shut. If I got a reputation - more of a reputation - as a troublemaker, it was conceivable that steps could be taken to exclude me from processes. Better to be seen as something of an idiot so I could get into the ''room where it happens'' and make some actual positive change.


    "Are you happy with that?" repeated the guy, because I''d gone into a rage trance.


    "Not really," I said.


    "You''ve beat them before, though," said a young coach who was still buzzing from having a role at a big stadium.


    "We did? When?"


    "Not Chester. You." He looked astonished that I didn''t immediately remember. "When you were at Tranmere!"


    "Oh, right," I said. I had been due to manage against Swindon when I was at Grimsby, so that''s where my mind had gone. I mentally rewound another few months. "Tranmere, right. 3-5-1-1, Swindon played. I messed them up, didn''t I? Teams shouldn''t play weird formations against me. I''m actually pretty good at positional play. What do we do? 4-3-3 with me moving wide? Wish I could do the same on the left. We don''t need four defenders, though. Maybe I''ll ask Sandra to do her 3-2-3-1 again."


    "That''s only ten," said the guy.


    "Yeah, plus me," I said, deep in thought. "I''ve kinda evolved beyond showing up on tactics screens."


    The manager drained his pint. "Imma look out for that score. Fuck me, you''re cocky."


    Later I found out that the women would play Rhyl in the second round of the Welsh Cup. Seemed like an easier tie than Llandudno but we had a slight scheduling headache - near the end of November we would have three games in seven days. Not a huge problem so long as Jackie rotated the team but the third fixture was the league match against West Didsbury. With Cheadle Stingers nipping at our heels, we couldn''t afford any slip-ups.


    ***


    Tuesday, October 15


    Cheshire Senior Cup: Chester vs Alsager Town


    As always, there was limited interest in the Cheshire Cup.


    To most of the world, it carried no prestige and I got trivial amounts of Manager Points for winning games in that competition. But it was still important to me. For a start, winning it was the most likely way to keep the 2% attendance bonus we got for winning trophies. If we got to the final, it was five matches Sandra could manage. It was five matches for the Exit Trialists, Sticky, Ziggy, and Steve Alton. And intangibly, winning was a habit and winning seemed to be at least partially linked to CA improvements. Getting promoted was the absolute top priority but there was really no reason we shouldn''t go hard at the Cheshire Cup.


    A few hundred fans with nothing better to do had bought tickets, but I had no interest in playing in a deserted, rain-soaked stadium. So as always, I had tried to give away free tickets and as always, MD had pushed back. We simply weren''t allowed to let people in for free because the Cheshire FA took a cut of the ticket sales and would lose revenue. Okay, makes sense, but when I offered to give them a thousand pounds so that I could let loads of schoolkids in, they didn''t even reply to the email.


    I decided it was time for me to learn more about stewarding. Stewards are the guys you see in football stadiums who help people find their seats and stop trouble from escalating. The steward is part usher, part bouncer, and unlike at some grounds, the ones at Chester are all great guys. In an act of astonishing fat-fingered stupidity, I booked four hundred volunteer stewards for the match and forgot to check their references.


    My accidental army arrived in high-visibility jackets and I sent them to guard the Harry McNally terrace. The stand became a visually arresting Borussia Dortmund-style ''yellow wall'' as the stewards checked each other for signs of trouble. The hi-vis jackets provided an extra layer of protection from the rain.


    Another of my stupid mistakes resulted in the beers in that section being half-price, and I accidentally left my wallet lying around and some scamp used it to buy three hundred pounds of drinks for whoever turned up first. Just shocking. Really makes you despair of human nature.


    These boozed-up reprobates - I mean, these conscientious match stewards - made a tremendous racket. They sang, they cheered, they chose an opposition player to be the pantomime villain and gave him pelters.


    I knew MD would give me shit but I didn''t care. The stadium was rocking and the players - both sets - were energised. It was a fast game played in a good spirit. If the purpose of the Cheshire Cup was to promote football in the area, I was the only one doing it right.


    And what about the lineup? The plan?


    I left it to Sandra. In theory, anyway. In practice, I had given her some limitations. Some were expected - no Carl, no Henri. Sticky in goal. Use the Exit Trialists. Use Steve Alton. But there was an extra-strange one I added late on Monday - she needed to reserve one centre back slot for my Youth Cup squad. We would give Captain half an hour, Henk half an hour, and Bomber the last thirty.


    One match, one position, three first-team debuts. I was just an astonishing football manager, tbh.


    To balance the youthfulness of the side, I told Sandra I would play DM with strict positional discipline, only leaving my zone to take free kicks and - if she wanted - corners.


    "I was telling my partner about your version of letting me manage," she said, when I''d finished explaining. "She said it was like playing video games for achievements. Kill all the baddies without taking damage. Complete the level without using guns. Win a cup tie while using three teenagers where there should be rugged thirty-year-olds."


    "Yeah. That''s the job. But did you ever think that maybe I''m not doing it for the kids? Maybe I''m doing it for you? Calibrating the challenge like an absolute boss."


    "Sure, Max. It''s for me." She sighed and, thirty seconds later, pushed a potential line up towards me.


    I reached into my desk and pushed a piece of paper towards her. "Great minds think alike."


    We had both sketched out a 4-1-4-1 and filled it with the same players.


    "I love free will," she said.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ***


    Alsager came with 4-4-2 and a CA of 15. Midway through the second half we were three-nil up and I pottered over to Sandra.


    "Can I break my promise? I want to maraud around and get Tom Westwood his first goal."


    She looked down. She looked up. She said, "exasperating," which I took as permission.


    I went on a fruitless ten-minute rampage that resulted in me realising that Tom was rarely to be found in the danger zone when I was dribbling. He was too busy working hard to create space for others and being selfless. I yelled at him until he agreed to stay put, and on our next possession I combined with Cole Adams, got to the byline, and cut the ball back for Tom.


    Four-nil! He celebrated Ziggy style, and deserved it. I wondered about him. Strikers needed to score goals to avoid becoming a laughing stock. How could Tom balance his off-the-scale selflessness with getting at least ten goals a season? Something to ponder.


    Job done, I retreated to DM. I won headers, made interceptions, and played one-touch. I even let Omari take the set pieces while I protected the team against counters.


    Sandra got another win for her Wikipedia page and we got another home draw in the next round.


    ***


    The next morning I had a quick planning session with the senior staff.


    There were two more matches in our long run of home fixtures. On Saturday the 19th we were due to play Ebbsfleet, who I expected to be in the low CA 60s, followed on Tuesday the 22nd by Oldham, who would be around CA 70.


    Given that our best team would struggle against Oldham, Sandra and I reluctantly decided to go strong against Ebbsfleet, hoping that home advantage would get us over the line, and we would rest players in the mid-week game. Three points from six wasn''t quite good enough, but it was the best we could manage at present. Resting our key players would make them less prone to injury, allow them to train harder, and allow the Brig to build up their fitness. The plan was to finish the season strong, remember. I could take the flak from a few poor results if it meant sticking to the plan. The plan was sensible and logical.


    Since the start of the season, we had been picking up 1.4 points per game. That pace would leave us, after 46 matches, on 64 points. My target was 70 points, a number which would likely see us in the playoffs. There were 31 league games remaining and some quick maths told me we needed 1.6 points per game. Some acceleration was inevitable if we kept improving, so there was no point losing our minds about every fixture - I had to keep an eye on the bigger picture.


    The meeting ended with lots of positive vibes. We agreed to stick to the plan. The plan was fucking mint.


    ***


    Friday, October 18


    I went to training and did all the skills work and none of the physical stuff. I had a certain amount of CA and every time I lost a point in stamina I wanted it to go right into set pieces or technique. In video games the process of subtracting from one attribute to boost another is called min-maxing. You minimise one thing (e.g. strength) so that you can maximise another (magic). I didn''t need strength to take a free kick. I was Max-maxing.


    And it was working. As my physical stats declined, my skills got better. It was only fractional, but now when I took shots at Sticky he got angry and frustrated after two minutes instead of after three.


    Max-maxing myself was pretty easy but the interesting thing was trying to min-max other players. WibRob was still a junior who was keen to impress and keen to play, so he mostly did what I told him. Once, his tackling attribute went green - I think when he was fidgety he snuck into other training sessions than the ones assigned - but generally he understood what I wanted from him and he was more or less on board with it. But take Carl Carlile, who I mostly played as a right back. He would hit his PA limit near the end of the season or the start of the next, but he had dribbling 5 and finishing 7. If a match went exactly according to my design, he wouldn''t ever need to dribble and wouldn''t ever need to shoot. If I could force him to pass in every situation, even in training, presumably those unwanted attributes would decay. When they did, he would be able to add more positioning, more passing.


    It was interesting in a theoretical sense but not very practical. There was a human element, too. Human beings liked running with a football. They liked kicking a football. It would be cruel to put them in even more of a straightjacket than I was already doing. Plus Carl sometimes popped up in the right place to take a shot and he had quite a good strike rate for a defender.


    "What are you thinking?" Livia had come out of the medical room to get some fresh air.


    I tried to come out of my thoughts. "I was thinking about a sort of player editor where I could reassign skills. Take one point from Carl''s shooting and give him another point in passing. It''s weird, though. I think even if I had the power I wouldn''t use it."


    "It''d make your life a lot easier."


    "If it''s easy, it''s no fun. Talking of the easiest gig in the history of the world, how''s Jackie?"


    "He''s good. He''s enjoying it. You''ve given him a good group. They''re really talented."


    "I''ve got five more incoming in January. Fingers crossed."


    "Five?" said Livia. She decided I was joking. "Why aren''t you doing the running work? Dean and I can''t work it out."


    "I''m only gonna play twenty minutes most games. Come on at the end against tired teams. I can be a low block killer or grab us an equaliser."


    "You played ninety the other day."


    "That was just strolling around. I barely broke into a sweat. How are things from your point of view?"


    I meant in a medical sense but she decided to give me an overview of how the team was being perceived in the city. "Something''s changed. There''s a new atmosphere. I''m not sure if it was the dentist thing or the beer or the yellow jackets or if it''s been building but people are..." She searched for the word. "Ready."


    Her phone pinged and she scooted back inside leaving me to wonder what she meant. It felt like doomshadowing, but I shook it off and went to stand next to Sandra for the end of the sesh.


    With another good week under our belts, Chester''s best non-Best starting eleven (Pascal right mid, Magnus Evergreen as the second CM) now had an average CA of 57.5. We had finally crossed the threshold into National League standard! It had taken a third of the season and there had been some dark times but I expected us to start picking up points more regularly from now on. Certainly enough to keep us in the top half of the table even if I got an injury or a ban.


    And looking at the squad, we were nowhere near our limits. Glenn and Steve had hit their maximum PA. Aff would be next - he was seven points away. Then it would probably be Ben or James Wise. Both were eleven points from their peak. Next was Eddie, then Carl, but I doubted they would max out this season. No, most of the squad had massive amounts of headroom and if someone hit a plateau I had two solutions.


    First I could try to loan them to a higher level team. I''d joked with TJ about sending a player to train with Crawley but he said he was into it. It was an option.


    Second, I could expose players to a variety of coaches. Cole Adams''s mental block had been cleared with one session from Clive OK. There was Clive, Cody Chambers, and if I begged I was sure Jackie would do a couple of sessions to help a young player.


    Clive, man. I had to get him more involved, somehow, without scaring him away. He was an even more fragile version of Jackie.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Clive O''Keefe</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>4</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>3-4-1-2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    It was crazy to think I had been going up and down the country looking for a coach like Clive and he had been living close to my home. Within running distance, in fact. What a world. In theory I would have paid him five hundred pounds a week to do just three hours; the value he would add to my players would be staggering. That wouldn''t be fair on the other underpaid, overworked coaches, though. But, I thought, flip-flopping like a politician, using Clive as a ''finishing school'' would bring more money into the club faster, and then I could pay the others more. But in the short-term, morale would dip. I could see the value of his work, but no-one else would be able to.


    Hard choices.


    There wasn''t an urgency to hiring him, though. Sandra and my current setup was giving me the improvement I expected and there was no sign of us hitting any caps. Pascal seemed to be drawing Clive into the fold in an organic way, and that was absolutely fine by me. Slowly, slowly, catchee Clivey.


    I scanned my squad list again. I had the option to use God Save the King to improve one attribute on one player by one. I really wanted to limit its use to players who had maxed out their PA to see if that worked as a way to hack the system, but Henri and Youngster were nowhere near those limits. In the past I had given Ziggy a point in Finishing and could imagine doing that again - if he stayed with us the whole season he would get to his limit of CA 58.


    But did I want to use my amazing perk on a low-level player? Just to get information? It would be like putting lipstick on a pig but what was the alternative? I had to use the perk sometime this season or it would go to waste. I could give Glenn Ryder a point in heading or strength. Aff could get a point in passing when he hit CA 70. Giving those guys a boost wouldn''t benefit me personally but Aff had been a good servant to the club. Something to think about. Lots to think about.


    The long way round had one major flaw - it was bloody long. If only someone would give me a million quid or two...


    I sighed so hard Sandra gave me a worried look.


    ***


    Saturday, October 19


    Match 16 of 46: Chester vs Ebbsfleet United


    Before kickoff I presented Steve ''Angles'' English to the crowd. He had found a new job and I asked for, and got, a nice ovation for him. A fitting end to his time at Chester. He walked around like the cat who got the cheese.


    We had sold a fair amount of tickets - the attendance would be over 3,000 - even though Ebbsfleet weren''t a big draw. Most Chester fans probably knew more about the club than me. Ebbsfleet had quite an interesting recent history.


    They were from Kent - far but not free-beer-for-away-fans far - and for a period they had been ''managed'' by randos who paid a fee to take part in the decision-making process. 35,000 people from all over the world had paid a fee to participate in the first year, though in the second and third years the numbers dwindled alarmingly and the project was abandoned.


    In the past I might have found such an idea intriguing - the wisdom of the crowd and all that - but now I recoiled from it. Imagine polling the Chester fans - should we rotate our goalkeepers? No. Should we sell Raffi for half price? Yes. Should we set up the Chester Chatters, Chester Chompers, should we hire an American who knows nothing about the sport, should we let a twenty-two year old change the culture and sign a moody Frenchman and a tiny German?


    The whole thing had been an interesting experiment in democracy, but that''s a no from me, dog. I am the state and if I want ten goalkeepers I''ll get ten goalkeepers.


    These days, The Fleet were funded by investors from Kuwait. The Finances perk told me that they were spending lavishly on the team but there seemed to be little correlation between a Fleet player''s current ability and his wages. They had come with an average CA of 63.


    While their scouting was patently shit, the manager had a high Tactics score and we duked it out. He started with a surprise 3-5-2 that gave his team a big bite of possession but didn''t lead to many chances. He switched to 4-2-3-1 like so many modern managers, but he didn''t have players suitable for that so I made a few small tweaks and we went on an expected threat rampage. He tried to match our 4-1-4-1 and I switched to 4-2-4 to attack down the wings. Finally, he went to a cautious 4-4-2 which I took as a small victory.


    My starting eleven looked so, so solid. For the first time this season there was none of this tinpot CA 30 shit. Our weakest player was James Wise at CA 49. Basically seven silvers, four golds. We struggled in a few areas, but so did Ebbsfleet. This was a proper contest and the fans seemed to respond to what we were doing, especially in defence. Tackles were roared, headers were applauded, and for the first time there was no grumbling when Zach Green got the ball.


    With seventy minutes gone the score was one-all, and I brought myself on and found Zach from a free kick to take the lead. He ran to the Harry McNally and was swallowed up like a grizzle stick. While the rest of the players piled in, I jogged to Sandra.


    "I don''t know what it is but something''s telling me to defend. Scrap and get the points."


    "Yes!" she cried. The other dugout had been trying to wind her up. "Fucking defend the lead, you maniac!"


    I used Seal It Up, switched us to a defensive playing style, and locked down my side of the pitch. Youngster did the middle, Aff the left. Henri did a Tom Westwood impression.


    The crowd responded every time we did something that ran the clock down. Eddie Moore crunched into a tackle. Applause. Henri held the ball up, turned, fell over, and got a free kick. Applause. Youngster tracked a runner into the penalty box and blocked a cross. He ran after the ricochet, slid, and turned a corner into a throw-in. Standing O.


    When the ball broke loose in front of Carl, I scrapped for it, holding off a midfielder who was about as strong as me. I feinted to pass centrally, eased down the line a few yards, and hit a seemingly aimless eighty-yard diagonal that crept out of play just by the corner flag. The goalie ran to get the ball but had to wait for a teammate to get close before restarting play. I''d burned ten seconds. The roar of approval was more than for some goals.


    The fans wanted those three points and demanded we hold firm. The last sixty seconds were a rare kind of agony. Why wouldn''t the referee blow the fucking whistle? Finally, he did, and my mental state reset.


    Bosh, three points, job done.


    ***


    Tuesday, October 22


    Match 17 of 46: Chester vs Oldham Athletic


    The price of victory against The Fleet was certain defeat against the Latics.


    I liked Oldham and their hospitality guy had been incredibly friendly to me when I was taking baby steps in the world of football, but I''d also been put in a room full of gammons. It had been one of the most unpleasant experiences of my new life. I knew it was unfair to link that with Oldham Athletic in particular when every club had that kind of fan, but I couldn''t help it. Even the attractive waitress had been unpleasant.


    Oldham had sold their entire allocation and I imagined it as being full of gammons and proto-gammons. 800 of them crowing and preening for ninety minutes and spending the next few months strutting around saying ''ah that lad''s not all he thinks he is''. But I had to be professional and rational and that meant picking my battles and this was one I''d picked to lose. So be it.


    I rested Carl, Eddie, Pascal, and Henri and started with three tin players (Cole, Wes, and Tom) and a pathetic 49.7 average CA. Oldham''s was 72. Yet another team with a budget more than double ours. They had spent it pretty well, to be fair.


    Sandra and Vimsy yelled and cajoled our defence and midfield as we battled to keep Oldham at bay. Tom Westwood, as the lone striker, needed no such encouragement. His pressing plus Youngster''s interceptions plus a monumental display from Ben in goal kept the score respectable.


    Ben was interesting. He never dazzled me with his improvements, but in my first visit to Chester his CA had been under 30 and he was a distant, never-used, backup. With some encouragement and game time he had started to go green, and now he was CA 56. He had doubled his skill!


    And it seemed like he had recently reintensified his efforts. Sticky had played two matches, kept two clean sheets, and looked imperious. Competition for places!


    Oldham with a corner.


    It''s another inswinger - they are really targeting the goalkeeper!


    Cavanagh punches away. It falls to an orange shirt.


    Swung back into the danger zone. There''s some pinball...


    Chance for the striker!


    Blocked! Steve Alton threw his body in front of the ball!


    Chester have been putting their bodies on the line since the first whistle.


    A tremendously committed performance.


    The curse commentator (me, I guess, in a weird way) was right - I''d put out a weakened team but it was still full of champions and winners. Six of the eleven had won the National League North and the Cheshire Cup just a few months ago. They weren''t going to roll over, especially not with the crowd backing them.


    We were one-nil down at half time and I briefly thought about throwing on some of my star players to try to turn all that effort into something tangible. The constraints I was working under made it impossible, though. I just had to think ahead, even in a sport that rewarded today''s home run over tomorrow''s World Series.


    The lads went out for the second half, the fans tried to lift them, but after ten minutes, Oldham scored again. Immediately after the restart, they stormed forward and we got crushed by their press. We couldn''t get time or space and none of my tweaks made the slightest difference.


    Something strange happened, then. The thing Livia had hinted at, I think. The home fans kept singing. They kept singing and chanting in a non-stop, rolling wave. I looked at Sandra and she felt it, too. For the first time in the match I went to the edge of my technical area and thought about how I could hurt Oldham if I went on.


    The fans kept singing and given that the Oldham lot never shut up, the stadium was rocking. Two-nil down but no loss in support. Full backing all the way. What does that do to a man? Depends on the man, but I know how Cole Adams responded - under immense pressure, he took a pass from Glenn and with his first touch took his marker out of the game. He played a one-two with Aff and we made a rare foray into enemy territory. The tide turned! Oldham regrouped and tried to squash us again, but from a couple of yards further back. Next Youngster dribbled and combined with Magnus. Oldham took more steps back. Sharky beat his man first with skill and then with pace.


    Roared on by the biggest crowd since Grimsby, we enjoyed a golden spell. Five minutes of non-stop pressure against a much better team. My resolve to do the right thing cracked and I told Henri to warm up. But someone else cracked, too. An Oldham player lost his fucking mind and threw a punch at James Wise. Wisey wasn''t the sort of person to back down from a fight and responded. Most on-pitch melees get described as handbags but this was a little more serious. The ref certainly thought so. Red card for the Oldham guy, and he was sure to do the same to Wisey. But no! My guy only got yellow.


    "Max!" yelled Sandra, but I was way ahead of her. It looked like I''d frozen but that was only because I was going through so many calculations and permutations. Playing against ten men changed everything.


    "Wisey off," I said. "Sharky off. Henri and Pascal on. 4-3-3."


    Sandra took a second to calculate. "And you''ll go on for Steve?"


    "Yep." I''d do my Trent slash David Beckham impression, switching play with pinpoint accuracy and hitting deadly crosses from the right with three bodies in the box to aim for. Her lips curled into a snarl and she made it happen. When the crowd realised our top forwards were coming on, they got louder. I looked at the away fans. Not so cocky now. "Gammon on toast," I said, prowling around like a caged panther.


    Cavanagh collects the pass. He rolls it out to Adams.


    Square to Ryder. On to Green.


    The American slides it to Evergreen. Touched back to Alton.


    Alton returns the pass and sprints. Evergreen plays it into his path.


    Alton tries to play yet another one-two with Bochum, but the ball is lost.


    Tremendous pressing from Chester! Oldham can''t get control of the ball.


    It''s hoofed away but only as far as Alton. He finds Aff in space.


    Aff waits. Adams on the overlap.


    First time cross!


    But that''s brave goalkeeping!


    He got there just ahead of Lyons.


    The keeper boots the ball long. Ryder wins the header. Youngster brings the ball forward.


    He finds Bochum. Clever pass through to Lyons!


    Great tackle from the defender. The ball is loose.


    Bochum gets there first... and falls over!


    Is that a penalty?


    The referee... books Bochum for simulation!


    That seemed harsh.


    Chester will make their final substitution.


    Best replaces Alton.


    As soon as I stepped onto the pitch, two Oldham players were set to man-mark me. I had the left back and left midfielder on my case. I experimented with where to stand and found that if I stepped into a certain area, both guys would literally come and stand next to me. Ludicrous. Their team was down to ten men and I took a further two out of the game.


    With so much space, my clever players ran riot.


    Youngster with the ball. He dribbles ahead. There is no-one close to him.


    He keeps going. And going!


    Finally, an opponent closes him. Youngster gives the ball to Bochum.


    Bochum dribbles ahead to the right. Lots of space there. A centre back moves across.


    Bochum chips the ball to Westwood.


    His cushioned header falls into the path of Lyons.


    The Frenchman is completely unmarked! He can pick his spot...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    The defence melted away. Oldham are imploding!


    Now we were only two-one down. Now the fans were getting their reward. They''d lifted us, given us energy, and we were striving to repay them. Oldham''s manager finally saw the folly of marking me and went back to that classic standby - men behind ball, low block, defend for your lives.


    I didn''t have a Goliath but I had twelve minutes. Twelve minutes to attack attack attack.


    And attack we did. It was relentless. Breathless. I realised our fitness was better than Oldham''s, regardless of the extra man. The home fans screamed their lungs out. I hit dreamy crosses for Henri. I combined with Pascal to create gaps. When Oldham cleared the ball someone gave it to Zach and he sent the ball accurately upfield. We didn''t waste a second. We didn''t let them off the hook.


    Pressure, pressure, pressure.


    But the clock was ticking down. Six minutes. I got to the byline and thrashed a ball into the danger area. Somehow it went clean through a forest of legs and out for a throw.


    Five minutes. Aff sent in a cross that went over the strikers but with a head-down sprint I slid, kept it in play, and brought it back onto my left foot for an inswinger. The defence set itself for the high cross, but instead I clipped the ball along the surface to Pascal, whose move cut out five defenders. He cut it square, Tom applied the finish... and it was saved! A stupendous save by one of the best goalies in the league.


    Four minutes - pressure.


    Three minutes - pressure!


    Two minutes. I had a free kick. Not the best angle, but I had a lot of heads to aim for. We flooded the penalty box. Load the bases; we need a grand slam. I used Free Hit and chipped it with spin and curl to the left of goal. Zach and Glenn rose. Zach nodded the ball to the right. Now it was Henri''s turn to jump. He competed and bonked it left. Youngster was there! He prodded the ball into the - no! Another crazy save. Tom was on hand to - no! Blocked on the line. The ball was partly cleared, but only to Aff. He set himself and wound up for a left-footed thunderbolt. Not so hard, I thought. Get it on target! As if he''d heard me, Aff took an extra beat to calm himself. He didn''t try to slug it - it was more like a bunt. Get the shot on goal and let the mass of bodies work for us.


    Aff''s shot hit a defender''s knee. This wrong-footed the keeper, who nevertheless got one of his big flappy hands to it. He pushed it away, but only as far as someone''s arse. The deflection bounced once, twice, creeping ever closer to the goal line. Five players threw themselves at the ball... but Magnus got the last touch!


    Two-all and the stadium was filled by a single, ear-splitting sound. A literal wall of noise. Magnus, normally so reserved and thoughtful, did a knee slide in exactly the same furrow as Benny, then whipped his shirt off and sprinted in front of the stands, spinning his top around like a lasso. Trailing behind was every other Chester player, including me. I screamed at Zach to demand a chest bump. I jumped onto Henri''s back and raised my fist like in the famous photo of Pel¨¦. I went to Cole Adams, grabbed his head, and gave him the crazy eyes. "You did this!" I shouted. "You did this!" His morale maxed out. We hit almost perfect sevens across the board.


    Two-all was a fair result, but I wasn''t in the mood to be a football romantic. For the next three minutes I sprinted virtually non-stop trying to create a winner, but we ran out of time. The standing ovation was spine-tingling. If we could do this to Oldham, I thought, we could do it to Swindon. Bring it on. Bring them all on!


    ***


    Thursday, October 24


    There was one last home match. The Chester Knights were hosting Ellesmere Port in a six-a-side match. It was preparation for an upcoming tournament that both teams would enter, so the intensity was higher than for a normal friendly.


    I was in disguise, hidden under a baseball cap, sunglasses, and medical mask. It was possible I would reveal myself at half time and say hi to Terry, the long-serving manager of our disability team, and some of the parents who were there, but mostly I just wanted to be left alone.


    It made sense that I spent my time doing high-level things. The most important, probably, was recruiting Sandra and Jackie. If either left, replacing them would be top priority, no doubts. Finding and keeping coaches like Clive, Jude, Spectrum, and even Vimsy, was another important task. They were the guys who made numbers go up.


    The next best use of my time was scouting. Finding a WibRob or a Youngster was like finding a winning scratch card. But I needed Sandra to scratch the silver off to reveal the winning numbers. And that process took, bizarrely, five to ten years.


    The list of calls on my time went on and on - man management, dealing with the board, talking to sponsors, media shit, and going to matches to get the XP to improve my own skills.


    At the very, very bottom of the list was the Chester Knights.


    But good things always happened when I went to see them and I had resolved to watch them at least once per month. And there they were, running around, crashing into each other, taking shots, passing, running some more. It was a whirlwind of energy and positivity and like with all Chester teams, we were younger and more talented and had to find a way to match our opponent''s physicality so we could -


    "What are you doing?"


    Through the dark glasses, I saw MD. He looked as relaxed as I felt, and was wearing a premium tracksuit and a fancy heart rate monitor watch. I put on a gruff Batman voice. "Watching my boy."


    "Which one''s yours?"


    "That one," I said.


    "That''s Jack Sutton. His parents are over there."


    "One next to him."


    "Max, why are you covered up like a mummy? You''re scaring the children."


    "Name''s Cliff Daps."


    "Okay, Cliff. Is Max in there, too? I''d like to talk to him."


    "He says he''ll only come out if you''re nice."


    MD laughed. A free, uninhibited laugh. "I still think about when we met. At the Darlington match, remember? I was trying to give you a job based on Jackie''s recommendation and you only wanted to talk about Henri Lyons, who didn''t even play for us. I gave you some scouting work and you said okay what about coaching, too? The very definition of ''give him an inch he''ll ask for a mile''. But what a mile it''s been. Winning the league, the young players coming through, connecting with the fans. It''s a wild ride and sometimes it''s scary, I must admit, but every now and then I feel what it''s like from the outside. You''ve brought some of your cocky Mancunian swagger into this city."


    "I''m from Hatton Heath. I''m Cliff Daps."


    "I just want to say, because I don''t say it enough, that you''re doing great. There are times you make it look easy and times I think you might be suffering but you have this aura of knowing what you''re doing and it''s normal that things go our way. But it''s not normal. It''s not just a subjective feeling. I get more and more calls from clubs interested in our players. I get approached by sponsors. You''re doing great."


    Not sure why but I started to choke up. It was hard. I did suffer. "Max says can he have more budget?"


    "Tell him no. He''ll only use it on giving more money to players who just signed new deals."


    "Those clubs calling you. Who are they most interested in right now?"


    "Right now there''s a lot of clubs looking at Carl."


    "Carl? Huh." The decision to sell him would be another Sam Topps situation. Pros and cons stretching down both sides of the page. I took the mask off. "If I promise not to do more stunts can I have more budget?"


    "I forbid you," said MD, "from stopping the stunts."


    I took my baseball cap off. "What?"


    He grinned from ear to ear. "I had the biggest response from the Mousehole game. People stopping me to shake my hand or clap me on the back. Free beer for the away fans? Cheap food? It was a party atmosphere. Everyone loved it. And the fake stewards thing was a huge hit. You know what I thought? I thought fuck that brat." He laughed. "Then I thought, hey, I''ve got a hi-vis jacket in my car. And I went to the Harry McNally and joined in. You bought me a beer! Thanks!" He laughed again. "We can''t do it again only because someone in distress needs to be able to identify someone who can help them."


    "Ah. Right."


    "But seeing all the fans wearing the same colour like in Europe was impressive and the superfans are trying to organise something similar. Brooke wants us to rush out next season''s away kit and make it all yellow. Lean into it. Offer cheap pies to people who wear yellow in the Harry McNally. We can market around things like that."


    "Don''t rush into that; I have thoughts about the kit."


    "Of course you do. But it''s just enjoyable these days. Magnus scores a goal that rocks the stadium and at full time he''s got a pitchfork and he''s repairing the grass. Charlotte''s doing a goal of the week competition, interviewing fans after the game showing them three almost identical goals and asking which is best. It''s funny. It''s charming. Look, you''re at your best when you''re positive and driving us forward and if you break some things along the way, that''s where I come in. It''s one of the reasons I was so happy to see you become less belligerent with the board. We are all on the same team and should be working together."


    "Hmm," I said, putting my cap back on.


    MD tutted, but fell back into his relaxed smile. "I don''t particularly want an investor, Max, not after what happened last time. But many of the fans do."


    "Because of Ryan Reynolds."


    "Yes, exactly. If they had taken over Grimsby that story would have been a mild curiosity. But they didn''t. They took over Wrexham. You know what they did? In their initial pitch to the Wrexham fans, four times they promised that Wrexham would beat Chester. Imagine! Deadpool and Mac from Paddy''s Pub talking about beating Chester. And with a few million invested, away they went into the distance. If it wasn''t for you, we wouldn''t even be in the same time zone. But there''s a lot of Chester fans who would cut off their right arms to get rich owners like Wrexham, and the idea of you managing a budget of millions is really something."


    "We''ll get there on our own. Shortcuts take longer."


    "I know, Max. I''m patient and I''m enjoying the ride. Tenth in the National League depresses you, I can see it sometimes. But it''s paradise for me. I''m very, very happy and don''t need more. But you keep saying, it''s your club, it''s your club. If the fans want to have this conversation about letting in a rich owner, can''t we at least have that discussion?"


    I took my cap off. "There isn''t a version where there''s a rich owner and I''m still the manager. So... I don''t really want to have that conversation, no."


    MD nodded and grew thoughtful. "I see the risk. Have the conversation and suddenly you''re leaving the European Union and the economy is in tatters. But you still believe in democracy. Self-determination."


    "Yeah, I suppose. Less so now that I''ve had a taste of power and I''ve seen how stupid most people are." I took my sunglasses off. "What do you want?"


    He laughed, back to being fully relaxed. "I don''t want anything. I''m on your side, Max! I''d be happy to stand on the terraces and watch you play. Or manage. I don''t have the dread any more, when going to games. I mean, I did a few weeks ago but now it''s just excitement. The team''s competitive and this whole city loves how hard they work. If you say we''re going to the playoffs, I believe you. But maybe James is right and there''s a way to make sure."


    "James. James Pond?"


    "Yes."


    "Do you know who''s behind him?"


    "No-one is behind him, Max. James is a Chester fan who thinks you''re talented and wants to leverage your skills while we still have you. Give you ten thousand and watch you turn it into fifty or give you a million and watch you turn it into five. Plus," he added, "there''s the stadium. You still don''t understand how emotional we get about it. As a club we will always have a hole in our heart until we own our home again."


    "But what do you want from me?"


    "I suppose the ideal thing would be for you to meet any potential investors and see if we can''t hash out an agreement that suits everyone. You''re creative. You could think of a way to take investment in a way you found ethical. Or not. I don''t know! But it would be good to try. Yes, I''d like you to try. That''s what I want."


    "Okay."


    "What?"


    "Okay. I''ll meet the investor."


    "Oh." MD frowned, but resumed smiling almost immediately. "I''ll tell James. I have to say, I''m delighted. This is one of the best weeks of my life! Got so much energy!" He lifted his wrist and pressed buttons on his phone.


    "You going for a jog?"


    "Yeah, come here, jog home. Show my face plus get healthy. Two birds with one stone. I didn''t expect to meet the great Cliff Daps to boot!"


    I was just about to warn him about my plans for January when there was a cry of "Max Best!" Wilson, one of the O.G. Knights, had seen me without my disguise and there was instant chaos. Most of the home players and subs came rushing over and surrounded me. One tree, ten koalas.


    MD took a few steps away. "Have fun."


    "Oi!" I said. "Don''t just leave me like this."


    "Sorry," he said, pressing start on his watch. He was about to depart when yet another massive smile cut his face open. "The draw for the next round of the Youth Cup came in."


    "Let me guess. Another home match."


    "Bingo. Northampton Town from League One. That''ll be the end of our little run. Shame! I just hope the pitch holds up."


    I tried to prise some of the little hands off me. With the men''s team going deep into cups, the women''s doing the same, plus the youth team having regular showpiece events, one pitch wasn''t going to suffice. "We''re going to need a second stadium."


    "Ha! What do they say in that movie? If you build it, they will come." He ran away, laughing.


    I picked Wilson up and carried him back onto the pitch. "Why do people always think I''m joking?"


    ***


    We are delighted to announce that Steve Alton has signed an improved contract. Manager Max Best said, "Steve was a great signing and his recent performances have endeared him to the fans. He gives everything in every match and is a great trainer. He deserves this."

 9.4 - With Ball Without Ball (Part One)

    4.


    XP balance: 6


    Monday, October 28


    It was a foul morning in the north east, the kind where cats sit on windowsills and look out, glum. The kind where umbrellas get turned inside out. The kind where handsome and talented directors of football say ''sod that'' and text Sandra to say she''s in charge and the team meeting will take place after training, not before.


    I snuggled closer to Emma, dozed off for about five seconds, and felt a hand running along my arm. It was her way of waking me up. "You''ve overslept. You''ve got to go to work."


    "Says who?"


    "Says me."


    "Oh." She was dressed in her work clothes; she had the day off but she had a case she was genuinely interested in and that was motivational for her. I adjusted the pillows and shuffled back against them. Chester had played Gateshead on Saturday, and since I was going to be in the north-east anyway I had turned it into a long weekend. Family dinner with the Weavers, drinks with Emma''s friends, romantic walk down by the river. Absolutely splendid in all respects except one. "Not really in the mood for football, to be honest."


    We had drawn nil-nil with Gateshead and I had been forced to go on for the last twenty minutes as essentially a third centre back to shore things up. Using my precious life force to head crosses away was abysmal, and seeing all the talented players Gateshead had on loan from clubs ranging from Chelsea to Crawley was depressing. I had my principles and my principles were holding us back. At least we had left the stadium with a point. The women had suffered a setback, crashing out of the FA Cup in the third qualifying round, conceding their first goals of the season.


    "It''s sort of your job, though, isn''t it? And you''ve booked loads of meetings. So drink your tea and clear out."


    "Charming," I said, sipping the delicious revivifying brew. "Ahhh. Hits the spot."


    She sat on the edge of the bed holding an oversized mug in two hands. "One of my friends said it''s weird you don''t have many matches without goals."


    "Nil-nil is the fourth most common scoreline but Chester never have nil-nils. There was one in the whole of last season and Sandra was in charge for that. Either we slap or get slapped. Everything else is boring."


    "I thought that game was interesting. Sort of heroic. Backs to the wall defending, someone called it."


    "Yeah, sure. We had to work hard and we had to put in a shift. Fans love that and we got pretty ragged and so Gateshead had chances. Ben played well. He plays better when we''re under constant pressure. Sticky says that''s normal because it''s easier to concentrate. You know, Chester fans love it when we defend. There''s a thing in football about a club''s DNA. Man United are supposed to have young players and fast wingers. Tottenham, Grimsby, West Ham are supposed to play attacking, passing football but they''ve had managers who were really defensive and with those guys the fans get restless much faster. I think Chester''s a defensive club. That''s come out recently. I sort of feel it around the stadium."


    "Spend some bloody money, then."


    I smiled. "Have you been listening to the podcasts?"


    "Yeah."


    "How''m I doing?"


    "They love you. They want you to spend some of the Raffi money, though. On transfers."


    "Tell them to go boil their heads."


    "It''s not a phone-in." She got up, put her mug down, and threw open the curtains. The light was weak, but cruel enough. "I''ve seen it in the Facebook groups, too. There''s a vibe that the team is one player short, or the first eleven are great but there''s a drop to the others."


    "That''s true enough. But it''s our job to close the gap with coaching. The more we use the weaker players the faster the gap closes. I love how they''re developing and how the young lads are showing their stuff. I don''t want to be a chequebook manager. I want to be a craftsman. Cole, Omari, Sharky, Tom. They''re getting moulded. Buying ready-made players might not be the answer. Like, Zach''s great but he''s pretty stuck in his ways. We''re not a good match. I don''t know if I can get through to him." I sipped my tea. "I''m going to try again today."


    She clambered onto the bed and sat cross-legged.


    "Tell me again about the work permit thing."


    Emma was obsessed with the idea that on our holiday I would find the next Ronaldo, which seems fair enough until you realise she didn''t mean the Brazilian one. "Okay so, as you know, when we get promoted we''ll be able to sign foreign players more easily, but I can''t just sign any old dude from anywhere in the world. To get a work permit, that player needs to tick some boxes. Like, does he play for his country? If he does, I can probably sign him."


    "Right."


    "But if he plays for his country, I can''t afford him. I can only sign players no-one else wants."


    "Max''s Misfits. But that''s what Gemma was saying."


    "What? When?"


    Emma sipped her drink and looked at me with undeserved fondness. "One of the times you were staring into the abyss. She was saying about work permit exceptions. If you get promoted, you can sign two players from anywhere. You mumbled that you already knew so she didn''t bother explaining it. She made it sound like it was relevant to our trip."


    It was strange that Gemma knew the rules, but I didn''t want to get into it. "Okay so if we get to League Two I''ll be able to use this thing called ESC. It''s like having two jokers. Two get out of jail free cards. I can sign two complete randos." I got animated. This was a great topic and one I''d been thinking a lot about since I''d discovered it. "Yeah so there''s these two slots I can fill with anyone in the world. I''m not sure if I should call them ESCapees or Jokers or Slotty Boys or what but the whole concept is awesome and interesting. I could get two Brazilian phenoms aged eighteen and train them up for a few years. They still have to be eighteen, not sure if Gemma told you that bit. Can¡¯t get kids, which is probably right. Whoever I find would take up my Joker slots, right? But if I get players that I actually use, like a first team starter, they can get a normal work permit after a year and that frees up an ESC slot. So I get two 24-year-old Swedish full backs, they play matches, they get a work permit. Now I''ve got my two Joker slots free and I can repeat the process. In, er, six years my entire team is Swedish!"


    "Tell me more," grinned Emma.


    "Or I get a more long-term player and don''t use him much at first so he blocks a slot year after year but in the end he''s a hundred-million-pound player. Do you know what I mean? It''s obviously better to develop one hundred-million-pound player than ten five-million-pound players, but those guys would contribute more to the team in the meantime. There''s loads to consider. Oh! And when we get to the Championship we can get four slots but only if we use English players for a third of our minutes. I think we''ll always do that but it''s another consideration. Another variable! I like variables, sometimes. I''ll be giving a lot of thought to optimising these special slots. I could make some very fast money with it. Sign a Spanish defender for half a mill, show the world how good he is, sell him for one point five a year later. It''s free money."


    "Or you could get a Brazilian wonderkid."


    I frowned. "That was just an example. First of all, the Brazilian wonderkid story is so clich¨¦. I''m not interested in finding the next party animal who terrorises Paris with his 365 days a year rolling rave. And I kind of don''t like Brazilian players."


    "Are they no good?"


    "No, they''re top, but they''re, like..." I tried to find the right words. "They''re functional, modern players. They do as they''re told, mostly, and fit into the manager''s plans. They have good teamwork."


    Now Emma frowned. "But you like all that. You always say it''s not just what you do with the ball, it''s what you do without the ball."


    "Right. From everyone else. Not from my team''s Brazilian. If I sign a Brazilian I want the romantic version. A free spirit. I want samba soccer. 1970 was the first World Cup broadcast in colour and every kid in England fell in love with Brazil. The yellow and green tops with the blue shorts! The style! The flair! If I sign a Brazilian, I don''t want a better version of Tom Westwood. I want Clodoaldo against Italy. I want Pele''s dummy, one of the most famous pieces of skill. The guy doesn''t even touch the ball and then misses an open goal and it''s one of the most cherished moments in the history of the sport. I want people to fucking gasp at the audacity."


    Emma nodded. "So we''ll find you a player who never touches the ball." She drained her tea. "Sounds easy enough. Good. You¡¯re in a football mood again. Now get up and get going. You''ve got a busy day."


    ***


    I got to BoshCard around ten thirty and the worst of the rain had passed. I shoved my hood up, fished an umbrella out from a crevice in the back seat, and stepped into the abysmal outside world. I was immediately accosted.


    "Max! Mr. Best!" It was Benny.


    "Shouldn''t you be in school?"


    "It''s teacher training day. Youngster said maybe they''re learning how to run an offside trap." He showed his teeth.


    "Life pro tip. Don''t repeat Youngster''s jokes."


    "I thought it was funny. Um... I''m supposed to tell you to come to pitch 1."


    "Ask me, they probably said."


    His eyes widened. "Yes. Ask you."


    "Do you know what it is?"


    "Yes."


    "Is it something you can just tell me?"


    "Yes but I''m not allowed."


    I sighed. The last thing I wanted was to get soaked before having a raft of important meetings. Nobody asked Daddy Star to squelch across a soggy field before showing him the latest range of eleven-gallon hats or authentic plastic longhorn skulls. "Jesus Christ. Fine." Benny smiled and sprinted away. Like, sprinted. Fast. "What the...?"


    By the time I had plodded along to the pitch I was back to being properly grumpy and was wondering why I didn''t keep spare socks in my drawer. I think I was chuntering under my breath when I realised the training session had stopped and the lads were gathered around in a semi-circle. Every single one of them was grinning like a mischievous boy, including Sandra and, weirdest of all, Vimsy.


    The next crazy thing was that when I was in place, Henri and Ziggy raced away. Henri ran to the nearest penalty spot, and Ziggy went five yards to his side, sort of in front of the back post.


    "Hi, boss," said Vimsy.


    "Yep," I said, but being surrounded by friendly faces was warming me up. It was like a hall of mirrors, but for smiling, excited faces. The rain pelting the umbrella made quite a din but I could almost hear the sense of anticipation. Something fun was about to happen.


    "Got you a surprise," Vimsy said. I waited. Tap tap tap tap went the rain on my umbrella, very much like the tapping of a busy man''s fingers on a table. "Go on, lad," he said, and it''s fair to say I was surprised when Josh Owens stepped forward.


    Josh was one of the kids we''d rescued at the Exit Trials and his superpower was being able to play left back or left mid equally well. (I assumed he would be even better in his natural home - wing back - but I only had one formation that used that slot by default.) Josh had PA 119 - good enough to one day play in the Championship - but he was uninspiring in most ways. He was a kid who had been let down a few too many times and had learned not to trust anyone. The Brig wanted me to be patient with him and I was absolutely okay with that.


    Now, though, he was the unlikely centre of attention.


    He glanced at me, looked away quickly, and wandered off. Where the fuck to?


    He went four yards off the side of the pitch and I realised what was about to happen. I dropped the umbrella and put my hands behind my head as though I had just seen a car crash. Josh spotted the motion and hesitated.


    "Go on, lad," said Vimsy. That triggered an outburst from the squad. "Go on, son! Do it! Yes, mate! Show him, Joshy!"


    Josh took a second to compose himself, picked up a football, ''dried'' it on the inside of his shirt, then dashed forward and threw it. The ball flew high, a catapult shot, a SCUD missile, all the way to Henri, who waited for it to finally descend before heading it backwards to Ziggy who hit it first time into the goal. The entire squad rushed at Josh, bouncing around in celebration.


    I stared. The car crash was ongoing. A vast, multiple pile-up stretching out for the entirety of Josh''s career.


    The noise calmed as, one by one, everyone waited for my reaction.


    I stared not at Josh or Vimsy but at the parabola the ball had taken. "Do it again."


    Ziggy rushed back into position. Henri went with less alacrity. Josh went through his routine and lobbed another long throw into the mixer. It was almost identical. The kid was a long throw specialist.


    Long throws. Brutal, suffocating Ian Evans football. Caveman plus dinosaur plus gammon but boredom plus cringe. The antithesis of the Max Best experience.


    Ziggy and Henri stayed put. I pulled my hoodie off my head and focused on Josh. "Can you do it flatter?"


    He understood me immediately and went through his routine again but used more arm speed and threw the ball low and long. This one was less a catapult, more a slingshot. Henri had to run forward to get there but with more speed on the ball there could be even more carnage. The question was, would I sanction this? Would I actually use this in a match?


    The rain slapped into twenty faces. People held their breath. Josh knew I hated long throws and had hidden his talent but Vimsy had found out about it somehow. If I didn''t know Josh had this in his locker I could bet my bottom dollar that neither did Swindon. I started to smirk as the possibilities exploded like fractals. The lads were desperate to know if I would welcome this discovery or rail against it.


    I pointed at Josh. "New plan. You''re starting on Saturday." I hadn''t told anyone the old plan, so that part of the news wasn''t interesting. My acceptance of Josh''s skill sent everyone into bounce mode again. I got Sandra to whistle and when everyone''s attention fell back on me, I said, "No team meeting today; I need to think about this. Come in ten minutes early tomorrow, please. I still want to see everyone who''s due to see me. I''ll be in my office. Come in whatever order. Let Brooke and Ryan jump the queue." The scene seemed to demand some kind of punctuation but I couldn''t think of anything. I pottered away, hands in pockets.


    So Josh Owens could do long throws. He was doing everything else I asked of him, even if he was clearly playing within himself. A player who could code switch between my way of playing and dinosaur football was going to be valuable to a lot of managers. If Stoke City paid a CA 119 left back ten thousand a week, how much would they pay one who could turn a throw-in into a corner? Twelve thousand a week? Thirteen? Fifteen maybe?


    I shook my head. The topic was a long way from thinking about my dream Brazilian!


    "Boss," said Benny.


    "Mmm?"


    "You left your umbrella."


    "Yeah. Oh. Is it raining?"


    ***


    I grabbed a tea from Best''s Bistro and stood by the radiator near my tactics board getting warm and thinking about the Swindon match. They would almost certainly play 3-5-1-1 and they would expect some kind of elegant response. 4-2-4, maybe. Anything where I menaced the corners of the pitch by the sides of their back three.


    They wouldn''t expect an 80s-style bombardment.


    When was the last time I''d used long ball tactics? I''d done it in Das Tournament against the golden burger-eating Wolves. What if I started a grown-up, professional men''s football match with twenty minutes of long throws, inswinging corners, direct balls, punts, shoulder-barges, and crosses of all types? Fine any player who cut inside. Fine anyone who played a pass shorter than thirty yards. Get it launched! Have it! Second balls! They don''t want it, lads!


    I grinned. Against Tranmere, Swindon had started with short, fast players because they were worried about my speed but we had gone direct and they had been forced to use an early sub to put a big lad in defence to stop me winning headers. The manager might look at Sharky, Pascal, and Aff and think he would need the fast guys again. The blitz would shock them, big time, and if they used any subs to counter that, they''d soon get another shock.


    My smile got wider. I loved fucking teams up!


    There was a knock on the door and Zach poked his head in. I held a finger up while I finished my thought.


    Of course, Swindon might decide to start with loads of beefy boys. What then? Then... that would be fine. They would get hyped up for a physical battle that would simply stop. It would take them time to recalibrate to what came next - if they were capable of changing their mindsets so many times in one match. As Swindon were getting the taste of one kind of battle, I would change things, get Bench Boost working early, and let the fantasy football commence. It would be absolutely bewildering and I couldn''t wait to see it play out.


    "Zach," I said, trying to bring my attention to the present. "How come you''re the first? I thought you would be a gentleman and let Brooke go first."


    He turned back towards the door. "Yeah. I offered but she knows I like to get home to my dogs."


    "Animal lover," I said, meaning Brooke. I had been thinking about her horse a lot.


    Zach wasn''t sure whether to sit or stand. "You''re not?"


    I pointed at the nearest chair - permission to land. "I like hedgehogs. I think. And frogs, probably. We never had pets and I don''t know loads about animals. When I get my own house I might try a cat or a squirrel or something. Right, quick heat check. Am I saying that right? No, don''t explain." I sat on the edge of my desk. "How are you doing?"


    He thought about it. "Okay."


    "Just okay?"


    "Just okay. I don''t like losing. It''s a long time since I was on a team that lost as often as this one."


    The statement annoyed the hell out of me but I tried not to let it show. "Must be hard for you," I said, which was the first part of a florid and potentially relationship-ending sentence.


    Zach, for once, realised he had pressed a button he should have left alone. "Not for nothing but you asked, boss. Another thing - I feel I should play more. I''m fit and healthy and don''t need rest. You said it yourself - I transform the patterns of play."


    "Is your question what more can you do to get in the team?"


    That wasn''t his question in the slightest but he leaned forward so his face was lowered. He grinned, mostly to himself. It was hard dealing with these Brits. "Yes, boss."


    I picked up a marker and pointed it at him. "We''re doing this directness thing, are we? You really want to hear what I think?"


    My sense was that he didn''t really value my opinion but that our relationship dictated he had to say yes. To be clear, I had no doubt he thought I could coach a winger and he liked my with-ball philosophy, but I had shown little interest in his defensive work. He didn''t rate me as a without-ball manager. "Yes, boss. Give it to me straight." He settled back and watched.


    "With the ball I have no notes at the moment. You get the ball to the midfield. Bosh. End of thread. I''ll have thoughts when we get to more complex patterns of play. Let''s jump to without the ball so you can go walk your dogs. Your superpower and your Kryptonite is your aggression." I flipped to a clean page and wrote ''aggression'' at the top. "I see in you three kinds of aggression." Along the bottom of the page I wrote the letter V, left a space, wrote the letter P, left a space, wrote POS.


    "If you''re going to call me a piece of shit, we might fall out," he drawled.


    "Verbal aggression," I said, tapping the V. I drew a vertical line and added a circle at the top. I moved to the next column. "Physical aggression." I drew another line going up and added a circle there, too. "Positional aggression," I said, moving to the third column. Here, I drew the circle halfway up. Top top middle. "These are sliders. You''re in your mid-twenties so I don''t know how much you or I can adjust these sliders, but if I could, I''d slide the verbals all the way down to zero. Shit talking is absolutely fucking pointless. Complete waste of everybody''s time, often counter-productive, and you''re slagging off strikers I might want to sign. I see what you''re thinking: Snowflake FC. Not so. When the time''s right I''ll give you someone who can be taken out of a match with a few well-timed sledges. My attitude to trash-talking is a rare case of Max Best the surgeon instead of Max Best the bludgeoner. See, you think it doesn''t affect the rest of your game, that you''re doing it on autopilot, but that''s moronic. I''ll fetch a neuroscientist in if you want, but let''s save the club some money and agree that talking - the thing that separates us from the animals - costs mental energy, costs concentration. Think about it. Of course it fucking costs you. How much? Not much. Two percent? Can you get two percent better by shutting your flappy gob? I''m the best player in the league and I''d like to get two percent better for no cost.


    "Physical aggression. In some ways this is similar to the verbals but I signed you partly for your physicality. I''d only slide this one down from one hundred to, what, seventy? That first one''s down to zero, in case that wasn''t clear." I drew a dotted circle at the bottom of the first ''slider'' and a few inches below the top of the second. "What does taking a bit of spinach out of your pre-match meal do? It means doing the minimum needed at set pieces to get your head on the ball. You don''t wrap your arms around a guy and ragdoll him just to prove you can. Gateshead, 17 minutes. Their 11 is working the channel and you''re over there keeping him locked up. Or that''s what I thought. Instead you put your knee up his arse, you get a yellow, and they get a free kick in absolute dreamland. Why did you do it? Because he beat Carl in a duel thirty seconds before and you wanted to send a message. I love the team spirit but Carl won''t thank you if they score from that. And I won''t, either. Stand the prick up, keep him there, wait for support, the end. Now, two minutes later you had him at the edge of the centre circle in their half and you could have smacked him nice and safe - if you hadn''t already been booked. By the way, still pointless, but at least that would have been smart. No yellow on that one and that winger would have understood the situation perfectly. Know what I mean? I could give you countless examples of times you''ve won the battle but lost the war.


    "Positional. I love your passing and your physicality is a net positive to the team but as we go up the divisions this is where you''ll grow most as a player." I put his circle halfway along the line.


    "You want me to tone that down, too?" He wasn''t sulking - I think he was fascinated.


    Something like a chuckle escaped my lips. We didn''t communicate well in the slightest. "No, mate. This is where you outperform." I drew the dotted circle an inch above the solid one. "This is where you have the potential to play the game at a high level. Put yourself in positions where you don''t need to chat and you don''t need to be strong. You get in and out like a ghost." I put the marker down and wandered around. "When I was really good, there were games when I was so in the zone I didn''t even notice the full back who was marking me. You''ve seen what I''ve been trying to get Cole to do. I did that at ten times the complexity. The ball would come and instead of taking two touches to control it, I''d combine the control and half of my dribble into one touch. These guys can''t defend that. I don''t know if anyone can."


    I took a pause while I remembered how I''d demolished teams while playing for Darlington. Even with my skills, it had been a struggle because I didn''t have any allies.


    "If I''d had Pascal or WibRob playing with me then, I''d have been unstoppable. I could have cut out twenty yards of careful progression with every attack. Gone straight for the jugular every time." I mimed sliding the third circle upwards. "What I did as a forward you can do as a defender. You''re already good. You step in front of strikers way more than most. Doing that once in the early stages fucks them up. The midfielders are thinking shit, I can''t play the ball to the striker''s feet. Then when they start chipping the ball over your head you''re good at reading it and superb at putting up a fight so the strikers rarely get, you know, quality shots away. Do you get what I''m saying? You''re proactive in a way that makes the opposition have to find solutions. Our other guys are more conservative by nature but one day we''ll have a back four who can be just as aggressive as you and we can play a crazily high line. Take risks. Catch teams offside, make the pitch small and let our technique win it for us." I tapped the columns again, starting with verbals, going to physical, and ending on positional. "This is shit, this is often mindless, this is where you get to your next level."


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    There was a pretty long silence. Zach finally said, "That''s a lot to take in, boss. I kinda didn''t think..." He struggled to finish. After another moment he said, "How would you say...?" He rolled his hand forward, a gesture I interpreted as ''how do I learn that?''


    "I''m honestly sorry but I don''t have the resources to hire an elite defensive coach. Also, I don''t know one. You could try talking to Pascal about Clive OK. Maybe you could get a few private sessions with him." My eyes flickered towards the door. I had loads of people waiting to see me. Better to wrap this up. But my eyes landed on the photo that was right in front of me. "You know what? I do know an elite coach who used to be a defender. Jackie Reaper."


    "The women''s coach?" he said, slappably. I walked over to the photo and tapped it. Zach came and joined me. "That''s... He played for Everton?"


    I found deposits of patience I didn''t know existed. "He''s forgotten more about defending than you''ve ever learned. He loves coaching and if he takes you on, you''ll be his greatest challenge." I was pleased with that. "Do you think you could approach him in a tactful way?"


    "Tactful?" Zach bristled with confidence. "Hell, yeah!"


    I pulled a face. "Maybe check the definition of tactful, first. Tell him what we said here and offer to pay full rates for any sessions he''s willing to give you."


    "Pay?"


    "He''s got a job. Anything he does with you would be extra. He''s Scouse so he might want to be paid in cash, but listen, I''m not forcing this on you. It''s my job to get the coaches in place to get you to the next level but there''s no deadline to that. You don''t want to waste time, do you? Everything I''ve said is... what''s the word? It''s like... I''m content with how you''re doing but I think you''re like me and you want to be ready for the next quest before you''ve finished the current one. If you''ve got spare cash look into some advanced sessions but you don''t need it, yet. You''re progressing just fine. It might be good to have the conversation early so Jackie can watch you play. I know what he''s like - ideas will start bubbling up and one day he''ll be at your front door saying ''get changed it''s time''. Do you know what I mean?"


    "I do."


    "Top. Good chat. Send the next one in."


    "One last thing. The fellas are saying you''re handing out twenty-quid-a-week bonuses. What do I have to do to get one?"


    It was mad that a one-percent increase motivated him but most of the time if you don''t ask, you don''t get. "You have to wait."


    "Oh, right. I feel you. Be patient, work hard, keep my head down. Don''t injure you again."


    Funny. "No, Zach. There''s no hidden meaning to what I''m saying. You''ll get a raise; you just have to wait. You''ll be something like the... the tenth guy who gets one. There''s a highly elegant system at play; almost as elegant as the plan for the FA Cup on Saturday. Send Brooke in, next. I don''t like the idea she''s hanging around while I shoot the breeze with loads of dudes."


    ***


    Next in was Glenn Ryder.


    "Where''s Brooke?"


    "Sorry, Max. I told her I''d only be a minute." He took a breath. "I wanted to apologise."


    "Okay."


    He paused. He''d rehearsed this, whatever it was, but wasn''t happy with his speech. I waited. He decided to go with his second draft. Or maybe his third. "I was at the FA Youth Cup game. The lads were great, obviously. But they were pretty shit at set pieces. Areas for improvement in the spacing and they got turned around far too easily." His eyes hardened, but just for a moment. "They were pretty lax when it came to offsides. Sloppy stuff and not all of it was because they had a winger at right back. You asked us... I mean, you asked me... You wanted me to take care of them. Show them the ropes. And I did a shit job. They weren''t ready for their big match and it''s been eating away at me. You put them in the Cheshire Cup the next day and I was chatting to them the whole time."


    "Good."


    "No, boss! Not good. It''s too much in one go. They couldn''t absorb it. I should have started teaching them months ago. Years ago. I, er... We... Look, if you put them in first team training again we know what to do, now. I, er... We didn''t get it before."


    "I understand."


    "You do?"


    "Yeah." I spun around on my awesome chair. "Look, Glenn, to the outside world you''re already a Chester legend. You lifted two trophies last season and whatever we win this time, you''ll be there. It''s not your job to coach but if you pass on a few tips they''ll be treated like Moses coming down with the tablets. Thou shalt not lose thy marker at the near post! I don''t need you to give whole sessions. Sam Topps had a good way - he spoke and people listened but it was all informal. You don''t need to stress about it and if you say too much it''s better than saying too little. You know," I said, going on another spin, "sometimes I think it doesn''t matter what you say but just the fact that you say it. Do you know what I mean? Sam never told anyone anything but he saw something in Pippa and Dan Badford and he enjoyed telling those guys and they lit up when he did because it meant more than if I told them."


    "You''re pretty indiscriminate with your opinions."


    I laughed. "Yeah. Fair. By all means, be like Sam. The women''s team think he''s the bee''s knees. Like, I''m a legit megastar and I''ve told them all dozens of things but when it comes from Sam... gasp!" I put my hands on my cheeks in a mock show of shock. Glenn smiled. I looked up while I thought about Captain, Bomber, and Henk. "Those three defenders from the eighteens have a chance to go deep in the Youth Cup but I personally can''t help the centre backs all that much. I play the position on instinct. I don''t actually have the first clue what I''m doing. I can''t pass on my knowledge because I don''t have any. I''ll have to get a top defensive coach. What''s the sequence? Dentist, club doctor, club psychologist, defensive coach? Maybe it depends who I find first."


    Glenn nodded slowly a few times. "What do you want from me? What''s the best-case scenario?"


    I did a 360 while I thought. With everything that was going on I felt like I was bumping up against some kind of mental capacity. "Go to an eighteens training session and see what you see. Get involved if something''s amiss. Feel free to take any sort of initiative you want. I''m very, very invested in those guys but I need help and I don''t know what help I need."


    "I think I follow. I''m on the case. Thanks for the time, boss."


    I pointed to the door. "Your pay rise is on the list. Send Brooke in. Bye."


    ***


    Next through the door was Ben Cavanagh.


    "What the fuck," I said.


    "What''d I do?" said my number one keeper.


    "Why are dozens of men jumping the queue when there''s a Southern belle in it? What happened to chivalry?"


    Ben looked worried. "But you said it''d only take thirty seconds and I''ve been waiting ages and Brooke said anyway she was waiting for Ryan."


    "Fine. Jesus Christ. Do you want an extra twenty pounds a week, yes or no?"


    "Yes," he said.


    "Good. Sign there and there and then fuck off. Thanks."


    He picked up a pen. "But Max. Are you happy with me? My performance?"


    "Yes. I love the way you can feel Sticky coming up the rails. That sounds dirty, doesn''t it? We both know Sticky is a serious, serious goalie and what I like is that you''re using it as motivation to get better. You''re a proper National League goalie now and when I met you, you were a long way off that. I want to see you get even better so keep at it. Oh, while you''re here, you know I like to give everyone in my squad ten league games if possible so they get a winner''s medal. We''re not likely to win the league but if there''s the chance to bring Sticky on at the ends of matches I want to do it. I know some people will think it''s weird but guess what?"


    He smiled. "You don''t give a shit."


    "Bingo. Keep up the good work. Enjoy your new salary. Send Brooke in. Bye."


    ***


    "Guten morgen," said Pascal.


    I rubbed the space between my eyebrows. "I note you are not a hot blonde."


    "No," he said, rubbing his hair. "I''m letting my natural colour back."


    I tried hard to keep my equilibrium. This lack of manners was genuinely aggravating. "Right, I just wanted to have a quick chat because I noticed a change in you."


    "God damn!" he said, slamming his fist onto my desk. I gave him a fierce glare that made him shrink. "I apologise. But how do you know? It is not possible."


    The hideous phrase ''dislikes Henri Lyons'' had finally vanished from Pascal''s player profile and some instinct made me want to let him know that I knew. He would think twice about bullshitting me in future and there was a second reason to have this conversation - I knew I would never even attempt it again. Life happened so fast it would get pushed back and back until it was so awkward it wouldn''t be possible. "Yeah, yeah," I said, pretending to be bored. "I have eyes in the back of my head. Like, for anything that affects your football." I thought about this limitation. "If you''re, like, struggling to find a flat or something I''m not going to know unless you tell me. So do tell me things like that. Do you get me? I only see what you bring onto the pitch. Right. Big boy time. This whole Luisa thing was a big mess so let''s have one final chat about it so we can, you know, move past it. You''re not carrying that anger around. What happened?"


    His face split in half. "Tiggy! It''s Tiggy. She invited me for a drink and oh! We talked for hours. I couldn''t believe it. We have so much in common! And her German is sehr gut. That means very good, boss."


    "Twiggy?"


    Pascal''s face took on an unbecoming judgmental quality. "Tiggy! Clive''s daughter! She visited him once when I was there. And the second time, we talked for longer." So the horny German had been hanging around at Clive''s to meet his daughter! Plot twist. I should have guessed he wasn''t only doing it for the extra training. "I do not know how to explain it but... She isn''t my type, or what I thought was... But when we talk, I feel... We''re on the same level! It''s so easy with her. There''s no stress and we laugh and..."


    I found myself smiling. "Okay. That sounds great." I pinched my lips. "Look, the Luisa thing is over and I want to drop it but I feel like as a friend and yeah, maybe as your manager, I should say what''s on my mind and you might resent it or whatever but I think I need to say it."


    His face hardened. "If you don''t think you should say it, perhaps you shouldn''t say it."


    I''d thought about possible versions of this conversation many times, and decided to go ahead with it. In the long-term, it might help. Or not, but I had no way to know. "Look," I started, lamely. "If we finish second in the league this year, how will you feel?"


    "Sehr gut," he said. "We would finish above six teams with triple our budget. It would be a commendable achievement. Second would be a vindication of Project Youth and next season we would be first."


    "Right. It''s easy to be objective with football because we''re sort of experts in it. There''s not loads of nuance for us. There are teams in leagues where we can say fifth is great, sixth is shit. You agree?"


    "Of course."


    "So Chester in second place would be monumental. People would sit up and take notice. They''d look at the league table in their newspapers and immediately go online to check it. Chester? Second? No way." I coughed. "Er... I know that quite a few lads had a bit of a run at Luisa and she slapped them all down. In the last twelve months how many randos have asked for her number? Twenty-four."


    "You know that for a fact?"


    "Yes. The number is exactly twenty-four. Same as the number of teams in the National League."


    Pascal''s jaw clenched. "I comprehend exactly. Say no more."


    I shifted my weight, somewhat unhappily. I felt a mad need to press on. "I know it''s not the same with a woman because losing is dreadful and soul-crushing but when you stood up and asked her out I was aghast. I gave you zero percent on the win predictor. But she was interested. That''s not a retcon or wishful thinking. She was intrigued and that''s not nothing. You don''t know how exceptional you are." Pascal didn''t react in the slightest and seemed to be quietly fuming that I would dare to discuss his private life. I even checked his player profile to see if it read ''Hopes Max Best is killed by a falling piano'' or whatevs.


    He changed the topic. "What is your tactical plan for Swindon?"


    "I''m calling it, The Beast and the Beauty. Talking of which, can you send Ryan and Brooke in next?"


    "Which is the beauty and which is the beast?"


    I scoffed. "You''ve seen Ryan Jack trap a high ball. What''s more beautiful than that?"


    Pascal''s lips stretched slowly but steadily until there was a clear smile. "Dieter Bauer at the Deva."


    I shook my head. "Dieter would agree with me. It''s not who''s in the stand. It''s who''s on the ball. With ball is always more beautiful than without ball."


    ***


    While I waited for the next person, I checked to see if I had any urgent emails and thought about the monthly perk I''d bought. It was called Locktober and it did one very simple but useful thing related to player attributes.


    Player profiles came in three columns. At the bottom of the first column, I''d unlocked Finishing. At the top of the second column was a blank space, followed by Handling. If Flair was an attribute - I believed it was - it would be listed in that space between Finishing and Handling.


    Now when I bought a new attribute, I would have the choice to trap or ''lock'' the yellow, dancing cell, restricting its movements to just one column. Instead of having a one in twelve chance of unlocking Flair, I''d have a one in four shot. If that missed, it would be one in three.


    The imps were guiding me towards Relationism. No doubt about it.


    ***


    Brooke and Ryan finally came in. I switched from dashing football manager to dashing director of football. They sat and I got straight into it. "Guys. This weekend, three things happened that changed everything."


    "Why do I get the feeling I''m too sober for this?" said Ryan.


    "One. I read an article about Man United''s youth system. They have the same problems we do of losing talents to teams that are prepared to throw money around, legally or not. They''re the biggest club in the world maybe but they worry about talent drain, same as me. What really struck me was the size of the operation. They''re so big they''ve got processes and structures and overlapping responsibilities and all that crap. I always wanted the Ajax model here - we would have six thousand kids in the youth teams, give every kid in Chester a footballing education, blah blah blah. Centralised with me as a floating megabrain. But I''m thinking about what comes after me. I could be gone sooner than anyone thinks." I paused to get a reaction from Brooke - there was just a twitch in one segment of forehead. Not much to go on. "Two, I got a bit annoyed by the Gateshead match and wanted to smash something. So I smashed the six-thousand-kids-all-training-at-the-same-time model. Three, I had way too much cheese before bed. And I''m now going to present to you my vision of the future."


    "This week''s vision of the future," said Ryan.


    I tried to scowl at him but didn''t have it in me; I was too hyped about my plan. "Here at the mothership we will have small squads. Twenty lads or lasses per age group. That''s it. Bosh. Small, intimate, so the coaches really get to know everyone. It saves money because we don''t need to build massive facilities and it saves stress for me because I don''t have to scout massive numbers every year and we can get more and more picky with the lads we sign. If I spot anyone who is good but not as good as what we''ve got, I''ll send them to other local teams that we know will do a good job with them. Okay so that''s the core concept. Small groups, concentration of quality. It won''t get stale, I don''t think, because they''ll be moving up and down getting minutes at higher age groups and all that sort of stuff. But they''ll come up together and it''ll be like a family." I glanced at Brooke. "A family you want to stay with." That comment got absolutely zero reaction. Fascinating.


    Brooke said, "This sounds good but it''s a football issue. You don''t need to involve me. What am I missin''?" I went to my trusty flipchart and was about to turn to a new page when Brooke stopped me. "Wait. What''s that? Aggression. Piece of shit. Is that about Zach? He''s a dimwit but he''s not a POS. He''s got lovely dogs; he showed me some photos."


    I gave her a mysterious smile, turned to a clean page, and tapped the marker pen against my lips. "Small squads, amazing pathway to the first team. But I want to develop football in Cheshire and North Wales while setting up structures that will outlast me. How do I do that if I''ve only got fifteen hotshots in one age group?" I drew a football pitch, leaving out the centre circle to save time. It didn''t look right, so I added it in while my staff waited patiently. "Remember our first meeting, Brooke?"


    "You were very charming and professional," she said.


    I think my jaw dropped, but realised she was either absolutely rinsing me or protecting my rep from Ryan. "You can tell Ryan the truth. Okay, in that charming and professional conversation I told you clubs can earn loads from renting out their 3G football pitches."


    "Up to 150,000 pounds per annum from a typical installation cost of half a million."


    She was absolutely sensational. My smile was charming and mostly professional. "What makes more money than one pitch?"


    "Two pitches," said Ryan, showing he had some b-boy chops.


    "What makes more money than two pitches?"


    "Two pitches with a branch of Bosh Bistro next to it," he said.


    "Er, Best''s Bistro. That''s true but how about... three pitches?"


    Brooke frowned, or did the thing that was most like a frown on that forehead. "I thought we would have two artificial pitches and lots of grass ones?"


    I started to pace around, getting myself worked up. "Right. But this is where I''ve been thinking too small! Functional fixedness strikes again. We''re not limited to the land around the Deva. We can have as many pitches as we want! Check this out," I said, sketching out a staggeringly inaccurate map of Wales and Cheshire. "Chester''s here. Imagine we''re an army about to set out and conquer some shit. To the north is Merseyside and their loyalties are fixed." I pointed at Ryan. "Boo, by the way. Hiss." I returned to my sketch. "Over here''s Manchester. Whoo, Manchester! But yeah, that''s like another boundary. Below us is Wrexham and over here''s Crewe and Stoke. Big football cities. We''re not getting new fans anywhere here, but everywhere else is open. We see, we go, we conquer." I went to the window and looked at the BoshCard training pitches, imagining what our new facility would look like. "Here in Chester we''ll have our two artificial pitches. We''ll reserve them for us every morning and weekdays from five to eight or whatever and when we don''t need them, they''ll be available for rent. By the way, we need to leave space around one for a little stadium."


    "What?" said Brooke.


    "Don''t worry about it. Just like a four-thousand seater. Nothing major. So that''s Chester. Or is it? Maybe we can put another one over in Vicar''s Cross or Hoole if there''s enough demand. There probably is now that I think about it. Then we''ll have one in Ellesmere Port. Northwich has fifty thousand people. Do they have a good pitch? Deeside. Prestatyn. Rhyl. Here''s my idea. We buy land or take over some shitty football pitch the council can''t afford to maintain. You''ve seen all these horrible sloping monstrosities with just mud around the penalty spot. We bosh down a modern 3G pitch and start raking in the cash. If there''s space, one full-size pitch, plus a couple of five-a-sides, one little three-a-side for local kids. I''ve sketched some concepts."


    I handed over some very awesome drawings.


    "The small pitches will be free to use. They''re all about encouraging the next generation. The fives might cost at peak times and be free off-peak. We could put fucking mini games in them, too. Big hoops at the sides you can kick the ball through. Or those bouncy nets you kick a ball against to practise your skills. Stick some of them in the area around the pitches, boom. Football playground. Endless fun. I wish I had one of those near me when I was a kid. So here''s the kicker - at every location we hire two coaches. Twenty grand a year basic, so we''re still making a tidy profit. But they''re doing training for local teams, local talents, whoever''s interested. This is how I get my six thousand players. Do you get me? Decentralised. Spread out across Cheshire and North Wales. There''s over a million people in this area and we can be the team that sees every kid in Cheshire first. Why? Because we''re doing free coaching!"


    Ryan was nodding slowly. "The coaches will be scouting, too. It''s... it''s fiendish."


    "Yes! Fiendishly simple. The coaches do their sessions and afterwards, they get on the phone, Max, I''ve just found the next Jackie Reaper. Sorry I''m only accepting players with hair. No but he''s mint. Fine. I''ll be there on Wednesday. Do you know what I mean? We make money, we do good in the community, we build the fucking brand in a way you just can''t do by making everyone go to the Deva, and we get first dibs on every kid in range of one of our pitches. Oh, and I get to hire loads of coaches and I''ll be able to do experiments in making them better and shit like that. They''ll all have to do a scouting course. I''ve got a lot to learn about scouting. Oh, and the income will count towards financial fair play but the costs won''t. Imagine I sell a player for ten million and MD only increases my budget by one. I can invest the rest into schemes like these and generate a million a year. A year! MD''s cautious but he''s not stupid. He''ll let me use that on wages."


    I finished drawing aggressive squiggles on the paper and waited for Brooke''s response. She smoothed out her skirt. "It''s fascinating, of course. I love any idea you have after a night on the cheese. It''s a lot of half a million pound investments, Max. Do we have a lot of half a million pounds?"


    "We might soon."


    Again I scoured her face for a reaction. Surely she knew what I was getting at? "Soon? What about now?"


    "We don''t have the cash right now. So what?"


    She smiled a thin smile. "Could be problematic. Not everyone works for minimum wage."


    I twirled my finger around. "A Max Best football club is a money-making machine. I''ll get you the cash but I know this stuff takes time. We need to identify the locations, check the market, see about grants, talk to the local councils. I think we should start in Chester and work our way out if you get me. I can imagine doing one or two a year. Don''t mention the scouting bit to anyone. That''s a trade secret. The message is: we''re investing in football facilities in the area and we''ll make a profit along the way. That''s something everyone can understand and get behind."


    Brooke often liked to clarify what I was asking her to do. "So you want us to work on the locations, check it would be profitable, make contact with local administrators?"


    "Yes, please. If we get promoted we''ll get a million pounds in TV money and I might want to get going on one of these."


    "Won''t you want to buy players?" said Ryan.


    "Who knows? Probably. I''m not spending a million on players, though. No chance."


    Brooke said, "I understand my role in this. And Ryan will help me assess the value of a location from a footballing perspective?"


    "Yeah. He''ll make sure you don''t waste time trying to set one up in a rival club''s heartland and he''ll have good instincts for if a spot is gonna work or not."


    "I will?" said Ryan.


    "Yep. Okay, that''s it. I''m excited about this one. Ryan, can you give us ten minutes? Pop down to Best''s Bistro. Tell them Max sent you."


    "I''ll wait in Bosh Bistro." Ryan checked his watch. "Actually, I''m offski."


    "Bye," said Brooke, in a friendly way. Not overly friendly, though. Or was she acting friendly-but-not-too-friendly? "Max?" she said.


    I must have spaced out wondering if anything was going on between them. "Erm, let''s go to the chess board." We headed to the back of the room and slumped into the cosy armchairs I''d installed. It was something of a failed experiment in creating a less confrontational zone. The problem was the chairs were simply too big and the only way to fit them in was to have them side by side like cinema seats. Less confrontational, sure, but not great for conversations. I pulled one of them away so it was angled better, but the setup was still pretty ludicrous. "Brooke. Your dad. What do you want to tell me?"


    I had mentally workshopped dozens of varieties of the question and came up with that. It was simple and would let her take the initiative, or not, as was proper. She stared straight ahead. "Not a whole lot."


    I waited but that was it. "Okay. So I''ll tell you where I''m at and please correct me if I''ve got bad information. He''s making moves to buy Chester as a way to get back in your life." I shook my head. "That''s wild, but let''s go with it. Honestly, I just want to sort of know how you, like, feel about that and whatever."


    Brooke stared straight ahead, eyes glowing, but after a quick clearing of the throat and a slight reshuffle on the chair, she softened. "I''m not a part of it, Max. I don''t want it." Her eyes met mine. "It''s not me. I promise."


    I tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Okay."


    We were quiet. I tried to keep my energy positive and, amazingly, it worked. Brooke said, "If he takes the club over, I''m obviously leaving. I''ll be gone before the ink is dry. I haven''t thought where. Norway, maybe. Or Belize."


    "Where''s Belize?"


    "I don''t know. Look, I''ll stay as long as possible. I''ve grown fond of the Chester Chatters and I hope we can get the Chompers up and running. Daddy will shut it all down on day one, of course. There''s no helping that, but that''s no reason not to get it up and going."


    I smiled briefly before trying to get serious. "Brooke... I''m going to try to say this politely out of respect. Ah... If your father tries to take control of this football club I''m going to smash him to a pulp and publicly humiliate him and I''ll probably enjoy it." This got no reaction. "You know I don''t like billionaires and people who asset strip football clubs but he''s still your dad so I thought it would be right to let you know in advance."


    She shook her head. "He''s not your normal challenge. He''ll come with pistols in both hands. He''s very, very smart, and cunning."


    I sighed. "Brooke, let''s get real. If I started a low-cost retail chain in south Texas - "


    "East Texas," she said, for no apparent reason.


    "If I competed against him on his own turf, Brooke, he''d eat me alive like a shark. This is England, this is football, this is Chester, these are my little shark babies." I went from being animated to bored in a second. "I''ve already beaten him."


    "It''s impressive that you found out it was him. I didn''t know until the meeting about Pascal. I got a strange feeling. Why was it in that hotel near the train station? I hung around and when I saw him there it was... I didn''t know how to tell you. I''m sorry about that. But if you know it''s him it means it''s already too late. You can''t stop him."


    I made a harsh buzzing noise. "Bzzzz. Sorry, wrong answer."


    Brooke was not impressed. "Are you placing your hopes in these new contracts?"


    "I might hold off on telling you my plan, if you don''t mind."


    She got up and walked to my desk. The new deal that Ben had just signed was there. Brooke picked one up and brought it back to the chess area. She skimmed through it. "I looked at the new contracts."


    "You did?"


    "They''re exactly the same as the old ones. The only difference is twenty pounds a week. You''re... you''re miles off on this one. I''m sorry, Max, but you''re out of your... You don''t know who you''re dealing with."


    I still couldn''t read her all that well, but I felt sure she was experiencing genuine anguish. I leaned back and smirked. "Don''t worry about it. I''ll take him to pound town."


    Brooke was so exasperated it almost showed on her face. "My daddy doesn''t play nice and he doesn''t play fair. He''s already coming at you in twenty different ways a normal person can''t conceive of. When you get a minute, look up the story of Handsome Horace McNorris."


    I laughed. "What happened to him?"


    "It got ugly." I laughed even more and Brooke cracked a smile. She tossed Ben''s contract aside and pinched her nose. "Max. Please. Just... whatever you''re doing is not it. Here''s how you defend Chester. You market your vision. You tell people where we''re going and how we''re getting there. We hit the socials. Remember ''Chester''s not for sale?'' That was perfect but you stopped as soon as you started. Get back on that, get people excited, rile ''em up. This isn''t a takeover, it''s an election. You''ve got to get the votes by fair means or foul. Spend your reserves on players. Trust me, we''ll refill the penny jar. Sure, you''ll have to hold off on building the training centre for six months, a year tops, but it''s worth it if you''re still in control. Just, please... Do something."


    My last slivers of doubt evaporated. No way would her dad want me to spend the Raffi money. I leaned forward and dared to touch her on the wrist. "Brooke," I said, all kinds of earnest. "I''m going to win and it''ll all be over by January."


    The expression on her face was, by her standards, huge. "January?"


    "Yep. The fans will only give him the club if the transfer window is open. Once it''s closed, if we get promoted, we get an extra million or two in guaranteed money and we''re away. The price of the club triples, your dad loses interest. It''s only now, getting out of this league, where a big cash injection makes sense. It''s only now that there''s proper danger of a takeover."


    She blinked as she considered what I''d said. "There''s no chance of a March takeover? April?"


    I dismissed the idea. "It''ll be January for sure. That suits everyone. Your dad, me, the fans. Showdown. High noon."


    "You..."


    "I think I can even tell you the date it''ll all go down. Friday, January 17th at the mid-season fans forum. I know you don''t want to meet him but it''d be good if you snuck in at the back in disguise or whatever. You''re the only person who will truly appreciate the enormity of my achievement. God, I''m going to rinse him so hard." I smugged for a few seconds. "Yeah. And don''t worry. He won''t be there for long once I start talking." I laughed to myself. "Oh, but I forgot to say - I''m going to meet him before then." I stared at a spot on the wall. "I didn''t want you finding out and thinking I''d betrayed you or anything like that. I have to meet him for the next stage of my plan to kick in. I mean, I''ll try to be cordial." Brooke wasn''t often lost for words. "Right, that''s that sorted. I win, you stay in Chester. Great."


    "Max, no. Listen. It''s not that easy."


    "What was that guy''s name again? Handsome guy?"


    "Handsome Horace McNorris."


    I nodded. "The way you say Horace - you''re saying Horace, right? - to me it sounds like horse. You''re only in this job because of a horse and now you''re indispensable. I thought I didn''t need someone like you but I do. And more specifically, I need you. Your range of skills is absolutely incredible and together we can do so much good for this city. I''ve sorted the takeover thing but there''s another problem - Bicky."


    "Biscotti?"


    "Yeah." I leaned back again. "I spend quite a lot of time thinking about opposing managers. Are they flexible? Have they ever done a surprise formation or are they fixed? What''s my worst fear and what can I do about it?" I bit my lip and tapped the armrest. "It''s hard to do that with your dad but if I was him and wanted to get you out of England, I''d buy Biscotti and ship him to I-don''t-care-which-part-of Texas. I''d put him on a big ranch and text you a photo of the keypad on the front door. You wouldn''t even need to go and get the keys from me. Just turn up and ride your pony as much as you want. Boom."


    Brooke''s expressions got very, very small. "That''s what you''d do, huh?"


    I nodded. "Life''s easy when money''s no object. But it''s not what I''d do, Brooke, because I''m not psychotic." I frowned. "Are there special planes for horses? Or do they go in the baggage space like cats?"


    She crossed her palms across her lap and looked at them. "This is you thinking like your enemy so you can find a solution."


    "Yes."


    "So whaddya suggest?"


    I tapped the armrest again. Some of my ideas needed money. "How rich are you, actually?"


    "I''m comfortable," she said. I tutted. Rich people, Jesus Christ. "If you''re going to offer me an extra twenty pounds a week, I''ll take it."


    I ignored the joke. "I was thinking you could buy or rent a second car so you could visit the horse without your car being tracked. Maybe that''s too secret agent, I don''t know. If I were you I''d immediately stop telling people about Bicky. Start deleting old Insta posts - not all, that would be too obvious - and start creating a new dream horse. I thought about it and it should be at a different farm. So you go there and find a pretty good horse and ride it and do your normal ''omg this horse has so much try and so many horse elbows!'' and all that. You know what I mean? To anyone who isn''t a close friend, that horse will be your dream horse. If your dad thinks the same way I did, he''ll end up buying the wrong horse." The image was hilarious to me. "If you have tons of cash, sign up to a yoga class somewhere. Drive there, walk through, put on a black wig, out the back is your second car. A Mini Cooper with a British flag on the side. No way anyone watching would think that''s you. You drive that to Bicky. Never go in your normal car. Do you know what I mean? I was thinking the Brig could help you with this. And, I don''t know if this is even a thing but if the owners won''t sell Bicky to you, maybe they''d sell to me."


    She laughed. "You don''t know the first thing about horses! They wouldn''t sell to you!"


    "It''s a gift for my girlfriend. Emma knows horse things; anyone would sell a horse to her. And I can be charming, too. I''m just offering to try. If they won''t sell to me, that''s sort of reassuring, isn''t it? I''m kind of a big deal in some parts. I could at least, like, ask for the chance to match any future offer they do accept." Brooke didn''t say anything and I worried I''d gone too far into her personal life. "Would you like to opt out of hearing my ideas? I''ve got a form you can fill out."


    "No," she said. "No, Max. I was just thinking that if you bought Biscotti I''d have to trust you to sell him on to me."


    "Um, right. Why would I keep him? We don''t have a similar level of affection. Look, I was just thinking out loud, tbh. Talk to the Brig. Count me in for any mad schemes. The madder the better, to be honest, and if you think Emma won''t want to spend a week playing with ponies as the prelude to pretending to fall in love with Bicky... yeah, you get the idea."


    "I might just do that."


    "Good." I left a space. "Are we still friends?"


    Big smile. At some point in the last ten minutes, we had crossed a threshold in our relationship. Which part had done it? Life would be easier if I knew those things for sure. "We are still friends."


    "This is a bit weird and not part of your duties and you''re free to cry off but BoshCard want me to do an advert that would be used online in Cheshire. The money seems good and it''s an amount that means I wouldn''t need to stress about going to Brazil. Would you, er... would you check the offer for me? I don''t know what I''m worth. I''ll pay you and all that. Also, I have an idea for a better script than the one they suggested. Mine would involve Henri so I''d need an idea of a fee for him, too. Um, I''d appreciate any help."


    She smiled at me. "I''d be delighted. My fee is zero." Her smile turned dark. "But if you want that money, you''d better get it before the fans forum because after that, this won''t be your football club any more."

 9.5 - With Ball Without Ball (Part Two)

    5.


    Football glossary: replay. A re-run of a fixture that ended in a draw or couldn''t be finished owing to weather or an emergency. In English cup tournaments, a drawn match is typically replayed at the away team''s stadium. It was the dream of small teams to earn a lucrative replay away against a Premier League giant but replays were an inconvenience to said giant. At the behest of the ¡®Big Seven¡¯, in the 2024/25 season replays were scrapped.


    ***


    Tuesday, October 29


    Before training, the first team squad gathered to hear my revised plan. I was in a great mood - my life was going great and I was confident in my strategy for the weekend. Win the match, blast the Football Association in the post-match interview. Literally nothing could go wrong.


    "Hear ye, hear ye. Swindon Town, first round of the FA Cup. The stakes are massive. A win is worth forty grand and a shot at another fifty. Forty thousand pounds, lads. It''s a lot of happy kids. A few nights out for us too, but think about dem kids, yeah? There will be a winner on Saturday. It''s no replays for the first time ever and that''s because our sport is run by vipers. I''ll just warn you now that when we win, I''m ready to spit sick rhymes at the Football Association, the bunch of useless pricks. So it''s ninety minutes, extra time, penalties, he said what?! I''ll be working on my script to make sure it goes viral. Sandra''s got some fun stuff for you this week but I also want everyone doing at least five pennos a day. Keepers, too."


    "Taking or saving?" said Sticky.


    "Both. If you want I can share my process. The way I settle myself, decide where to shoot, and tune out the noise. A penalty is a 76% chance of a goal but follow my process and it''ll be 85% at least. I''ve been studying the psychology of penalty shootouts and I think I''ve cracked it. I''m incredibly confident that we''ll win our first penalty shootout whether that''s this week or in the future. Let''s put a ''nothing can go wrong'' in here to show how confident I am. You still need to put the work in and goalies take pens in quite a lot of tournaments so practise. Remember the FA Cup is different from the other tournaments; we can name nine subs and we can use five. I''ll be using three subs very early so don''t go crying that you''re not starting. We win by using sixteen players, not eleven."


    Pascal had his hand up. Respectful! I pointed and he said, "Could you please explain why you will blast the Football Association? You are already not their favourite person."


    "Yeah, so one more little blast won''t do shit, will it? Look, they''re killing the game. Chopping the sport up slice by slice and handing it to Liverpool and Man United. As a non-league manager I don''t have a lot of clout but when better to protest against changes to the FA Cup than after an FA Cup game?"


    "Yes, I see, but it could be interpreted as unsporting to complain after we lose."


    "We''re not going to lose, you little shit! That''s the whole point. If we win I can say what I want. Look, you guys don''t need to get involved. It''s my personal crusade, okay? I am Max Best and I have a duty to protect this sport from those who would seek to plunder it."


    Henri clapped and a few others joined in. "Speak for England!" shouted someone.


    I laughed. "All right you sarky bastards. Enough about that. Onto... the plan! My favourite movie is..." I wrote Beauty and the Beast in massive letters on my trusty flipchart - MD had emailed to complain about the rising costs of paper and markers. "It''s about a powerful and charismatic man who has been... er... cursed... and he starts off doing long ball but in the second act we realise he actually knows loads about positional play and reads about Cruyff and Rinus Michels and he rotates his goalies."


    Sandra said, "Max, have you seen Beauty and the Beast?"


    "No, not really. That''s basically the synopsis, though, isn''t it? Right. Swindon Town is a sexy princess that we want to ravage. The first twenty minutes will be called Project Beast. I''ve decided all this pretty passing is overrated. Effeminate, even. So we''re going to go route one. Get it launched, get up their arses, see who wants it more." Route one means the most direct path to the opponent''s goal. When the ball comes near you, you''re supposed to welly it long and high towards the other goal and see what happens. It''s horrible football to watch and to play. "Obviously we''ll be doing long throws as well. Where''s the key man? Where''s Josh? Come up here. It''s time for your naming ceremony."


    Josh had stood and was coming towards me when he heard the last part. He hesitated. "My what?"


    I tutted and waved at him until he arrived. I gave him a friendly pat on the back and turned him at a 45 degree angle from the front. He was facing me but very much the centre of attention. Small dark spots blossomed on the tops of his cheeks and I saw him glance towards the doorway. The Brig watched the scene with apprehension - was I about to undo some of his hard work?


    I said, "What it is, right, is you''ve got a generic name that''s hard to remember. You don''t have a cool nickname like the rest of us."


    "I do. I''m Joshy."


    I ignored him and pointed around the room. "Youngster is The Butcher''s Apprentice." Laughs from a few people. "Eddie Moore is The Wheelie Bin, because I always leave him out on Tuesdays." BIG laughs from everyone, including Josh. His was a reluctant laugh, though, because he knew he was next in the firing line. "Ziggy is the One-Touch Wonder, because... well, that''s between him and his girlfriends." Uproar. "Someone''s The Labradoodle, but I can''t remember who." Laughs and lots of people pushing Zach Green. "And I''m Max Best, the Greatest Living Englishman." I put my hand on Josh''s shoulder and stared into his eyes. The group laughed and giggled and whispered nickname suggestions to each other. Josh''s blush deepened. "I''ve never had a long-throw player before. That''s going to be a pretty unique skill in the Max Best Universe so I thought we should lean into that. Okay, here''s the list."


    "The list?" cried Josh, causing more laughs.


    "The Joshapult," I said.


    Josh waited for an explanation I had no intention of providing. "Because I throw like a catapult?"


    "Right. Do you like it?"


    "No. I mean, no, boss."


    "Trebuchet Guevara."


    Henri laughed, as did Ryan and a couple of others. Josh blinked. "What''s... both of those words?"


    "Okay, let''s try something simple. Your superhero name would be Slingshot."


    "Slingshot?" he said. It didn''t sound good the way he said it.


    "The Hurlimann Brewery."


    "What?"


    "It''s in Switzerland. I thought... you''re a man who hurls. You''re a hurly man... Yeah, bad, bad, I know. Bin that. What about this? Throw My God."


    "Is that a name?"


    "Forget I spoke. Here''s one for the older gentlemen... Deep Throw." Vimsy nearly died laughing at that one but Josh didn''t so much as twitch. I tried again. "Long Josh Silver. No? Look, your name is Josh Owens. Check this out: Josh Throw-Ins." Now he laughed. "Boom! Name accepted. Okay, you can sit down, J.O.. Let''s talk line ups." I took up a marker and, on the left of a clean page, wrote ten capital letters in a 4-4-2 formation. The defence read J, G, Z, and C. "Josh, Glenn, Zach, Carl." The midfield was A, W, Y, M. "Aff, Wisey, Youngster, Magnus." Finally, Z, T. "Ziggy and Tom. These three will come off early so we can switch formation." I underlined J, W, and Z. "Tom will stay on into the second half and I''ll replace him. Wisey will be disappointed but the other three, you''re getting to start an FA Cup match. Think about that - that''s top. We''re not live but we''ll be on the highlights. So give me twenty whirlwind minutes. Josh, I obviously want you slinging throw-ins into the danger zone. We get all our big boys into the box whenever we can. We get corners, free kicks, we shuffle and slide and hoof the ball." I laughed to myself. "Most of you know how to do this. We''ll do it for twenty minutes. Have fun with it. Channel your inner caveman, get physical, smash into someone, spend thirty seconds drying the ball."


    Ryan Jack spoke. "We should give towels to the ball boys so Josh can wipe the ball before he throws it. I always hated seeing that because I knew there was going to be fucking pinball in our penalty box."


    "Yes!" I said, eyes bulging. "That''s it! That''s the shit I want. All of you get together and brainstorm all that kind of garbage. We''re a stupid team of fucking non-league nobodies and all we know is 4-4-2 and getting stuck in. That''s the vibe. With ball - Aff, you''ll need to beat your man on the outside and whip crosses in. Carl, you''ll be doing it on the right. Overlap Magnus. Zach and Wisey, send balls down the channels for Tom to chase. Tom, get us throw-ins up the pitch. Clear?"


    Nods.


    "Without ball - fucking hard work from everyone. These guys are struggling in League Two and they''ll see us as a chance to get their season on track and get their fans off their backs. All right? Now, listen." I got serious, and not fake-serious, either. Actually serious. "I know I''m gobby with this stuff and I''m acting all superior like this is a hilarious prank, and yeah," I did a charming-but-still-serious grin. "It sort of is a bit meta. A bit knowing. But our fans will fucking love it. They''re still not used to fantasy football and they like a bit of starch in their diet. So that twenty minutes is going to fire them up. Really. It''s going to get them bouncing. All that work you put in, those shuttle runs that go nowhere, those blocks you make, those headers you compete for, all that shit. They love it. We''ll get the place rocking. That''s it."


    Nobody moved. Henri said, "What do you mean, that is it? That is not it. That''s the plan for the first twenty minutes. What about the rest?"


    "The rest?" I scoffed. "The rest is, we fucking slap."


    ***


    We are pleased to announce that Magnus Evergreen has been given an improved contract! Manager Max Best says, "Magnus is a vital and much-liked member of this squad. His flexibility is important and gives me great options. He has been working hard to take his game to the next level and I''m more than happy to reward that."


    ***


    Saturday, November 2


    FA Cup First Round: Chester vs Swindon Town


    It wasn''t quite cup fever, but the mood around town was buoyant. Brooke apologetically informed me the attendance might not hit 5,000, which I felt was a mark of how far we had come. By the end of the season, we might already start selling out our home matches and in League Two there would surely be 5,400 at every match.


    Around town, fans were idly walking to the Deva, stopping in at cafes and gift shops, boosting the economy.


    There were dads and sons, boyfriends and girlfriends, guys with menial jobs looking for their weekly scream therapy. MD was schmoozing the people from Kirschgarten in the VIP boxes, coaches from Swindon were starting to arrive, Beth was prowling around looking for scandals, and the ground staff were busy poking and prodding and expressing their excitement through the medium of looking surly and bored.


    The forecast was for light drizzle every now and then, but the sun would be out for most of the match. An almost perfect afternoon in a town falling back in love with its local team. A win today would do a lot to make Chester seem like a club on the up.


    I could almost hear a Texan voice going, ''nice little soccer club ya got here. Shame if somethin'' happened to it.''


    I pushed such thoughts away and checked my working. I felt like I had done everything I could. This would be another Max Best masterclass or it would be a faceplant for the ages. Our starting eleven would take to the pitch with an average just shy of 52. Swindon, short a couple of starters, were on 73. Miles ahead of us, but not miles ahead of Gateshead or Oldham. Still, there was no alternative but to use Triple Captain and Bench Boost and make early changes. If things went to plan, we would finish the match with a non-Best average CA of 59. Add twenty destructive minutes from me, plus the perks and home advantage and we were very much in with a chance of scoring an upset. In fact, I had us as slight favourites.


    Meanwhile, Sandra could do my pre-match media duties, using the trusty old excuse that I was warming up or getting a bit of late treatment or some guff. This was life on easy mode!


    Whistling wasn''t my thing, but I ambled around the stadium in a jolly frame of mind.


    Old Nick emerged from one door and went through another one.


    The fuck? I hadn''t seen him or the imps for ages. What did he want now? He hadn''t come to see Josh''s long throws. I wasn''t going to get any answers standing still with a gormless look on my face. I went full Tom Cruise, chasing the bastard at full speed, slowing at corners only to make sure I didn''t bulldoze some old boy who was already on his third hip.


    I found myself in our small reception area. Nick was gone, of course, but a slight breeze wafted over a guy in a black jacket. A red Swindon top was visible underneath and he was typing away at his phone. I double checked but there was no-one else of interest.


    "Hi," I said, sitting next to him, staring at him with frankly rude intensity.


    He looked up. "Hi? Oh. Um... am I in your seat?"


    "Nah. Mine''s by the pitch."


    "Good view, is it?"


    The cretin didn''t know who I was. Annoying. Forget my network of 3G pitches - I needed to get that 50 foot statue. "Pretty good." I nodded at his phone. "What''s going on?"


    "One of our lot had a funny turn on the coach."


    "Anything I can help with?"


    He looked confused and realised I was someone senior at Chester. "I think it''s all under control, thanks."


    So this was hard. Nick wanted me to talk to this guy but I had no clue why. "Are you here in an official capacity?"


    The look in his eyes told me he had the same question for me, but he had lost his window to ask. "No, not really. I''m a Liaison Officer. Just a fan with a few more numbers in his contact book! From the club, I mean. They even pick up these days, so that''s good."


    I stared directly above me, which must have seemed weird to the guy, but I couldn''t think what to ask. What motivated Old Nick? He had led me to Youngster. And Kisi, I suppose. Or was he leading me to Mr. Yalley so he could save my life? No. Nick had been enraged by the whole story - he couldn''t see into the future in such a specific sense. He had led me to Bonnie and Angel. He had warned me about the Sentinel. He got me my sponsorship deal for West Didsbury. Oh, and one time he had turned up to watch me lose so I could get a certain achievement. All kinds of helpful things. But he had also stopped me getting signed by Sheffield Wednesday by landing a helicopter on the training pitch and he had stopped me from playing when Chester looked like they would be relegated. The fuck did he want now?


    "Do you play yourself?" I tried.


    "Yeah. Left back. Left back in the changing room!"


    "Do you... know any Ghanaians?"


    "Oh. Um, no."


    I had it! It wasn''t this guy, it was someone this guy would lead me to. "Oh! Are you waiting for someone?"


    "No. I couldn''t get reception on my phone so they suggested I come in here. The best reception is in reception, they said! Ha!"


    This was far too hard. I mumbled, "Yeah and the wi-fi''s shit, too. It''s on the list, believe me." I sighed. "You said something about these days. They pick up the phone these days. What changed?"


    "Do you know anything about Swindon?"


    There was an insurance company called Swindon, but it might have been Swinton. "Let''s go with no."


    "We had, ah, colourful owners. Things were fairly chaotic for a long time. The players used to warm up and listen to the public address system to hear what the team was going to be. We had GPS vests but no-one knew how to see the data because the old guy quit. No-one knew how to make the protein shakes. Finances were already strained when Covid hit. There were some very strange goings-on and suddenly there was a court case with two men each saying they owned the club. Rather messy, players not being paid, all that kind of carry-on. And then the second man told the judge, okay, fair cop, I don''t own the club, Delroy Deed does."


    "Delroy Deed!" I exclaimed. Deed turned pro when he was about fifteen and kept playing until he was forty-five. Every season he would turn up at a different club. Good player. Played for England. He wouldn''t have been in the top thousand names I''d have guessed I was going to hear.


    "I know. He''d lent one guy money in secret to acquire shares in secret. The FA got involved and it was pure chaos."


    "Because they wanted to know who owned the club."


    "No, they don''t care. They''re completely useless. Oh. You don''t work for the FA, do you?"


    "No. I have beef with that mob."


    "Completely useless. Our club was on the verge of going to the wall but they didn''t so much as lift a finger until they heard a player might be involved."


    "What''s that got to do with anything?"


    "Players can''t own clubs. Nor can agents, so two of the three men at the heart of the storm got charged and of course the club''s in the firing line for punishments. Whatever happens, it''s always the fans that get hit hardest."


    My skin had turned cold and I realised it was because the blood had drained from my face. Then came the sweat. "Hang on," I said, almost dizzy. Why had I bought a football club without checking the rules? Because someone else had done it before me! It was one of the first things I''d learned after being cursed! "Erm... Agents. There was an agent who owned Oldham Athletic. They were really mad about him. I remember it vividly, but they were mad because he was shit not because of any rules. An agent actually owned Oldham Athletic and that''s a fact. And that''s... That''s kind of the opposite of what you''re telling me."


    "Oh, I don''t know. Maybe he had handed in his licence? You might be able to do it - God knows nobody checks anything except at the very top - but you''re not allowed. Ask anyone at Swindon. We''re experts in the topic! Our case dragged on for years. Some of it''s still going on. Lots of fees for lots of lawyers. Lots of stress. Lots of needless worry. And all the time we were getting closer and closer to ceasing to exist."


    Shit shit shit. "Players can''t own football clubs."


    "No. Well, they can own ten percent so long as the teams are not in the same division. You need to be on Delroy Deed money for a long time to get anywhere close to that sort of money, though. It doesn''t come up. Plus players waste all their money. It''s only agents you need to worry about, really. They''re the ones with the deep pockets."


    I remembered another reason I had been sure I was allowed to buy West Didsbury. I clung onto the fact like a life ring. "That midfielder who played for Chelsea bought a little team in Belgium."


    "Well," said my new nemesis, with a sniff. "That''s nothing to do with the English Football Association, is it? He would never play against that team except in unlikely circumstances. Plus he was all but retired."


    Jamie Vardy had bought a stake in an American club, too, but I thought I was starting to understand the rule, now. If Chester and West were in the same division, I could fix the results. "I''m writing a book about a football player who owns a team. It''s called He''s Done What?! If you were writing it, would you, like, sorta make him sell the team so he doesn''t get in trouble?"


    "Of course. Right away! But that seems like a disappointing plotline. Man stays out of trouble. I''m no writer but that sounds bor-ing!" He laughed. "On the other hand, the alternative is worse. Believe me, no-one wants to read about Swindon Town!"


    ***


    One thing I had done really well at Chester was to delegate the routine work. Sandra and Vimsy could fill in team sheets, warm the players up, remind them of the plan, and I could wander around the stadium gladhanding or popping to see the Chester Chatters or pretty much whatever I wanted.


    On that particular Saturday I used the time to sit in my office and catastrophise. The Brig sat opposite me, doing a crossword. "You seem troubled, sir."


    "Do you ever have that dream where you''re in school but you''re not wearing any clothes?"


    "Not for a long time, but I know the one you mean."


    "My day is that."


    "You were chipper this morning. One might almost say, insufferable. Did something happen?"


    I would probably tell him the whole truth eventually, but right then I didn''t feel like it. "I''ve been spinning plates like an absolute crockery maestro. The men, the women, the youth teams, the club''s money, Daddy Star, West, the Welsh players. But I''ve realised one of the plates is a time bomb and my life just got a whole lot less fun."


    "If it''s a time bomb, you don''t need to keep spinning the plate; it won''t detonate by falling. Perhaps you''re thinking of a contact explosive."


    "Thanks, very helpful," I said, with zero sincerity. "Actually, hang on. That is helpful. It''s a time bomb so it''ll explode when it explodes. Right." I''d owned West Didsbury for months and only Beth had even mentioned that could be a problem for me. In theory I could get away with it for years, but Chester women were playing West in a couple of weeks - that would be my deadline to sort out the mess. Not much time, but on the other hand, loads of time. Two weeks! We had a run of easier matches, too. I could let Sandra manage them while I focused on these ticking sticks of dynamite. "Hang on. I''ve seen movies where you cut a wire and the timer skips to the last few minutes." Rinsing the Football Association after the match would be like cutting the wire - it would make the bomb go off sooner.


    The Brig looked at one of his watches. "The last few minutes, sir."


    I took another few seconds and then pushed myself to my feet, letting out an old-man groan. I didn''t exactly feel like the best football player in Cheshire.


    ***


    I slumped into the dugout and didn''t speak to anyone. This didn''t worry my players but on the highlights package ITV said I looked nervous before the biggest game of my career.


    Swindon kicked off and fell into their pretty patterns. Three at the back, five in midfield, a central attacking midfielder, a big target man. Pass pass pass. The first time we got the ball, Glenn launched it in the general direction of the moon. It landed with space debris on. Swindon battled to regain control, played some pretty passes, Wisey crunched into a tackle. Clear foul, but just good enough to avoid a yellow card. Pass pass pass, Zach intercepted and played a long ball towards the corner flag for Tom to chase.


    Swindon were rattled. I could feel the contempt from the away fans. You call this football?


    The home fans, though, after suffering through so many months of clever passing, subtle overloads, tactical innovations, and being visited by a World Cup winner, finally understood what they were seeing. They were watching the football they grew up on and they fucking loved it! They cheered our statistically-shit way of playing and booed every tedious passing sequence Swindon put together. When our mob realised Josh could throw the ball all the way into the penalty area they went bonkers. Grown men hugged each other.


    Sandra was working the touchline but now she came back and poked her head under the dugout roof. "They''re pretty insipid, aren''t they?" She meant Swindon.


    I said, "I think they''ve been told to go out and quieten the fans. Weather the early storm. That kind of thing. They normally have a bit more cutting edge."


    "Are you all right?"


    "Yeah," I lied. She didn''t believe me but went back to the technical area.


    Shit shit shit.


    I wasn''t allowed to own a football club.


    But, and here''s the weird bit... I did own a football club.


    Agents weren''t allowed to own clubs. Okay, in theory I could have handed my clients onto R.E.M. My name wasn''t listed there in any way, shape, or form. Ruth had advised me that if I wanted to hide my involvement I should set up a string of shell companies in various countries to make it hard to find out who owned the shares. The process had been crazily simple and so long as we didn''t fuck up there was really no reason why anyone would worry about what R.E.M. was doing - unless they were talking about the band.


    Ziggy paid me in cash and my name never showed up on any of his paperwork. I hadn''t done any work for Kisi yet, so that wasn''t a problem.


    But Youngster. That goofy bastard was going to make me proper rich. One transfer could net me ten million pounds. Seriously, if I had to choose between owning West, managing Chester, and agenting Youngster, it would be the Christian every time.


    He was out there now, playing as a central midfielder. CA 59, seven out of ten and already two interceptions. When Wisey went for a tackle, I always had anxiety that he would try to snap his opponent in half. No such feelings from Youngster - he was surgical.


    I pulled at my bottom lip. I couldn''t give up being a player. Not this season, anyway. Project Youth was predicated on me filling in gaps and bagging us enough goals and assists to keep us within sight of the top.


    It wasn''t very humble but I liked my new supersub role. Twenty minutes of swanning around being a genius? Who wouldn''t want that?


    Sell West Didsbury and Chorlton, then? No, thanks. No way would I take it out of the fans'' hands and then give it to some b-boy who would pillage it or change its character. The obvious thing would be to give it to my mother, but she couldn''t fill out forms and there was a risk of media attention being drawn towards her - an absolute no-no. I could hand it off to Emma but she was basically an agent and what if we broke up?


    There was no way to play, be an agent, and own a club. I would have to give West back to the fans and hope they would continue to let me do whatever I wanted, indefinitely, no matter how crazy it seemed. Yeah, good luck with that. Oh! Maybe I could give it back without telling them?


    Fucking stupid, Max. You''re floundering.


    Josh got ready to take a throw-in by wiping the ball on a towel. It was blue with a face and white text that I couldn''t make out. I had the craziest notion that it was a picture of Josh with one of the nicknames I had given him. Was it possible Ryan and Brooke had got some special towels made? Were they in the club shop right now?


    Josh hurled the ball, Carl won the header, and there was a lot of agricultural hacking and slashing until the ball was cleared. Another throw-in on the other side; Josh walked across ready to repeat the tactic. Our fans were absolutely loving this!


    The match wasn''t uppermost in my thoughts, though. What would the consequences be if I was ''caught'' owning West? Half a season ban? Million-pound fine? Knowing the sport''s servile administrators it would be something outrageous. Some kind of hammer blow. A lesson to teach me my place. The more I thought about it, the more my cold sweat turned to hot anger.


    To calm down I checked the numbers. Match ratings, possession stats, condition.


    My instinct was that Old Nick was trying to protect me from beefing with the FA. These days I was earning a nice steady stream of XP that he could use to hire helicopters and mess about with takeover bids and have all kinds of fun. He didn''t much care that I owned West, probably because that was a good backup plan to Chester and if he was anything like Brooke he probably thought there was a fair chance I would lose the Daddy Star battle. Not that I could immediately take over at West - Jay Cope was still undefeated in the league and was doing just as well as I would.


    Yeah, if Nick wanted reliable hits of XP it was in his interests for me to stay out of trouble.


    So, the solution. I had to hand West Didsbury off to someone I trusted. Who did I trust completely? It needed to be someone who would give the shares back when I asked for them. Someone who wasn''t a player or an agent.


    Strangely, the first name that popped into my head was Beth.


    ***


    With twenty minutes gone, Swindon had 76 percent possession and no shots. We had 24 percent and three - two created by long throws from Josh. Wisey finally got his yellow card and that seemed like a cue.


    "Sandra, will you make the changes, please?"


    I rested my head on the back of the dugout while Josh, Wisey, and Ziggy came off. Eddie Moore, Henri, and Pascal went on. Three of my five subs used. Three Bench Boosted players on the grass.


    Max Best making a triple substitution after twenty minutes? The home fans understood that just as well as they understood old-school football; the noise levels rose by several decibels. There was an absolute cacophony and the home fans were ready to take the battle to the next level. Long throws? Yes, please. Corners? Oh, baby! Tom Westwood working the channels? Absolute swoon.


    Instead, they got Sandra''s 4-2-3-1. Ball on the deck, short passing, interchanging players, mastery of space and angles. It was modern, dynamic, thrusting. From 1984 to 2024.


    While Swindon steeled themselves for the next barrage, Chester Football Club got the ball on the ground and kept hold of it. Eddie to Glenn to Zach to Carl. Solid. Carl to Zach to Magnus to Youngster. Energetic. Youngster to Zach to Pascal. Pascal to Aff to Tom. Graft. Tom to Henri. Dangerous.


    The mood in the stadium shifted. We had changed and now they had to change. They wanted us to do well and while they felt long-ball football in their bones, they''d had some experience in watching 4-1-4-1, 3-5-2, and my other possession-heavy tactics. This 4-2-3-1 was a hybrid - fairly tedious when building from the defensive slots, but then with sudden bursts through the middle. Swift, deadly attacks.


    But this wasn''t Sandra''s 4-2-3-1.


    This was mine. 4-2-3-1*. That''s right, there was an asterisk, because I - Max Best - had been grinding like a crazy person in order to be able to slap down ten thousand XP to finally buy... WibWob. What, you thought I''d spent ten thousand XP on Locktober?


    ***


    I had saved so long to buy WibWob and my first chance to use it had been ruined by the stupid Swindon guy telling me I was in trouble. While we were playing long ball I had left everything alone - the more unsophisticated we played, the better. But now that we were playing real football I felt some of that Christmas morning rush and opened my present in earnest.


    The WibWob perk was so named because it gave me two new screens in the tactics area. Now, the formation graphic was shown in a tab called Overview. Next to it was a tab called With Ball. Next to that was a final tab called Without Ball.


    On our Overview screen, the player icons were spread out in the 4-2-3-1 formation that we had used a few times before. The icons had thin borders. I could swap players, but since being cursed I had been quite unable to drag the icons to brand new slots. For example, I couldn''t push Carl Carlile from right back into a right wing back slot.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    On the With Ball and Without Ball screens, the players were still in the 4-2-3-1 formations, but there were differences. On those screens, the pitch was divided into twelve equal squares, six in each half, something like a chess board. If I clicked on a square, it would show me where the players were supposed to stand when the action was in that zone. When we had the ball in the top left square, my players pushed forward in that direction while keeping to the 4-2-3-1 shape. When we had the ball in the bottom right, the players moved accordingly. When the other team had the ball, my players were a few notches deeper and narrower.


    It all made complete sense to me. During a quick break in play I cycled through a few other formations and there were no surprises. I could have drawn a picture of where everyone would stand in a 4-4-2 when the opposition had the ball on the left of the pitch just above half way. Honestly, Brooke could have done it. Fuck, Daddy Star could have done it!


    But knowing where everyone was stationed at any particular moment in the action was only the beginning. I could also edit their positions! Every player in the Wib or the Wob screen could be nudged left, right, up, or down a few notches. That was absolutely no problem.


    I tried it now by moving Aff a few spots to the left in the Wib screen. In the overview screen, he acquired a thick white line around his icon. It showed that his default positions had been overridden. So that''s what the thick lines meant. So simple!


    On the pitch, Aff took a few steps to the left, then a few more. He was closer to his natural home now, but he was still far more central than was ideal for him. I nudged him a few more notches to the left.


    On the Overview screen, his icon snapped from being a left-sided CAM to being a left winger, while the two remaining CAMs adjusted to be on the same lines as our DMs, Magnus and Youngster, who were also on the same lines as Glenn and Zach. This look was better for Aff, but now we had three men in a vertical line and the rules of positional play said not to have more than two. It wasn''t just an abstract admonition; I instinctively felt the ''wrongness'' of having three in the line when looking at the graphic and at the pitch. I nudged Aff back across until he once more counted as a CAM. Pascal and Tom clicked back into their starting slots. Only the central CAM (currently Tom) was in line with Henri while Aff and Pascal had a vertical line entirely to themselves.


    After playing with the screens for just a few minutes, the two-in-a-line rule finally made complete sense. If Glenn, Youngster, and Pascal were in a line, the ones at the end would only have one passing option and the guy in the middle would have to gather the ball and do a complete 180 in order to pass to the third player. My current setup ensured lots of passing options and the chance to collect the ball on the half-turn. Yeah, having players at angles would encourage triangular passing and make keeping possession easier. That was clear. It wasn''t that I would never break the verticality rule, but I would want to test it in a lower-stakes environment than an FA Cup match.


    I yawned for some reason.


    I took a break from making changes and watched as our match ratings crept up. Swindon had better players but we had higher morale, better fitness, and better tactics. This was great!


    WibWob allowed me one ''deformation'', meaning I could move one player into the next zone, as I had just done with Aff, but other guys in the same ''section'' would adjust. So if I had two centre backs and took one out, the remaining guy would always go to the very middle of the pitch. That was unexpected. Unwanted, too, probably, but until I powered up the perk that''s the way it would be. Given the current formation, the only deformation that made sense would be to move a full back one slot further forward. Carl to wing back, for example. I didn''t think that would do much in the current match, so I left it.


    Another yawn.


    I took another break and monitored all my numbers closely. Henri, Pascal, and Eddie Moore were on 8 out of 10. Youngster went from 7 to 8. Everyone liked their current roles except Tom Westwood, who was out of position. I used the WibWob screens to push him as close to Henri as possible without deforming him.


    Then I tinkered with the defence.


    When we had the ball I wanted them to spread out. Eddie far to the left, Carl far to the right, with Glenn and Zach spaced out accordingly. It was absolutely beautiful - we would tire Swindon out by moving the ball left and right and force them to cover more of the width of the pitch. To combat the big gap between my centre backs, I stationed my DMs more narrowly.


    I made those changes and immediately fell in love. The difference in everyone''s on-pitch position was only a few yards - I doubted more than half a dozen people in the stadium even noticed the change - but the difference was staggering to me.


    I quickly put everything back the way it was and scrambled out into the technical area. I shouted at the players what I wanted from them. Sandra gave me a very strange look - she had been trying to get me to make these changes for a long time and I had resisted saying the players weren''t ready for it and we shouldn''t ask more than they could give. "What?" I said, trying to look cheeky. "It''s time."


    Now that I had covered my tracks, I made the changes in the curse and crouched to admire them. Within a minute, our possession stats had gone up, as had our passing accuracy.


    All the defenders enjoyed the extra space, that was clear. If they found themselves in trouble, the formation gave them two passing options but now they had half a second more to think about it. And one reason this wider set up worked was Zach''s extra passing range. If Glenn, Carl, and the DMs were marked, Zach could spray a pass all the way to Eddie, and Eddie was already nice and wide.


    "This is beautiful," I said.


    "I knew you''d come round," said Sandra. "You''re too smart to fixate on 4-1-4-1 when the superior tactic is right there."


    "4-1-4-1 is still my little princess," I said. "It''s got two players in every vertical. Pep approved. Plus, it slaps. This, though... This overloading the CAMs. When we get WibRob firing... WibRob plus WibWob. Wow."


    "Wib plus what?"


    "Nothing." I suddenly felt drowsy. "I''m going back to my chill room for a bit."


    "Roger Roger."


    I hesitated and looked over my shoulder at the pitch. "What about... moving the defensive line up?"


    Sandra bit her lip and her cheek pulled itself up. "Glenn won''t like it."


    "Just the tip. He won''t even notice."


    I barked out some instructions - "Squeeze five! Buy the dip!" - and used the With Ball screen to nudge my defenders a couple of notches forward. Up up up! With a beating heart, I went to the Without Ball screen and moved the defensive lines a couple of notches forward, too. It was only a slightly higher line, but a high line was high risk, high reward. I was compressing the playable area to make our pressing more effective and to make the offside trap more dangerous. Big teams did it, but big teams had defenders with terrific recovery pace. My fastest guy was Zach and he wouldn''t beat me unless I was carrying an egg on a spoon. Fuck it - I ''saved'' my changes and created hotkeys so I could move the defensive line up and down.


    Almost immediately, Swindon played a ball over the top and their big striker was caught offside.


    I skipped a couple of steps down the touchline and punched the air.


    "Fuck yeah!" I said. "Fucking let''s go. Jesus, yes!"


    I had ascended to the next plane of football management.


    ***


    The start of half time was normally pretty quiet in my dressing rooms. It''s how I liked it and it gave the players time to decompress and think about problems or opportunities. Glenn would often discuss the opposition strikers with his centre back partner. Carl liked to talk to the guy playing in front of him. Any goals we conceded provoked sharp exchanges but I had reshaped those away from being blame games and more into the technical aspects of why certain moves weren''t covered or how a player had found so much space. At most I allowed a quick burst of frustration, let it go, what''s next.


    But today the chatter was massive. The excitement of the cup, the way we were on top against a higher league team, possibly the fact that fourteen of our guys had been on the pitch and had strong opinions about Swindon''s players.


    By far the quietest person was me - I didn''t say a peep but simply sat in a corner thinking about various intersecting topics.


    I wanted to own a football club. Having complete power to buy and sell players was the most logical way to turn Super Scout into a cash machine and to build something special in my place of birth. But according to the FA''s rules, I wasn''t allowed to own a football club. Hmm.


    By abolishing replays, the FA had taken the next step in killing the football pyramid and I wanted to push back on that in the post-match interview. An FA Cup win was the ideal time to complain about what the FA did to the FA Cup. My rant had to be today.


    If we lost I would be graceful and praise Swindon. But if we won I would launch into a tirade about the FA''s disgusting collusion with six big clubs at the expense of eight hundred smaller ones. Someone at the FA would read the interview or see a clip and think ''Max Best, huh? Where have I seen that name before?'' He would find my name listed as the owner of a football club; my big flappy gob would be the catalyst for an investigation. If I kept quiet, I might buy myself a few more weeks or months to try to dig myself out of this hole. Nah - it was more likely that I had two weeks to offload West Didsbury. Beth had warned me about my teams playing each other. Someone would write something somewhere.


    What''s the difference between two weeks to find a solution and two days? No difference, really. I needed to fix this on Monday morning.


    "Boss?" Sandra. Worried about me.


    "How are we doing?" I said.


    "Great. Amazing. Beauty and the Beast, just like you said. Swindon are reeling. It''s working."


    "Yeah. But their manager''s showing no sign of changing anything. I don''t get it. There are ten things he could do." I yawned again and stood up. WibWob added a new layer of complexity and challenge and it was more draining than I expected. It would be good for me to think about something completely different for a few minutes. I scanned the room. Medical, good. Mood, good. Subs, calm but ready. Josh and Wisey had come off after twenty minutes; I would talk to them. "Josh," I said, starting with our very own catapult. He had put in a six-out-of-ten shift. Absolutely fine, but the Brig had said the young men liked it when they got feedback even if it was basic or repetitive. "Did you enjoy that?"


    "Yes, boss! Wish I could have stayed on."


    "Mmm," I said, rolling my eyes slightly. Players weren''t encouraged to talk to me about their minutes. They got what they got, the end. Also, that wasn''t what I wanted to talk to him about. If I were Josh I wouldn''t want to be pigeon-holed as a mere long-throw merchant, and that for sure wasn''t how I planned to use him. "You get that this bombardment was a one-time thing? Everyone knows what you can do, now, so they''ll be able to prepare for it. This was shock and awe. From now on you get one long throw per match and that''s only so opposition managers see you do it. It''ll help you get your big move. No, what I liked about you today was you were solid. You were solid defensively and neat and tidy on the ball. From my point of view, that''s ideal. The worst thing is a player who tries to do more than they''ve got in their locker. Feel free to play like today for the rest of this season and next season we''ll have you getting more ambitious. Make sense?"


    "Yes! That''s what I''ve been trying. Like, to not make mistakes."


    My tiny heart broke. Mistakes could lead to him getting binned again. "Okay but there are different types of mistakes. One mistake is to hide what you''ve got. I don''t mean the long throws - you were right to hide that." I laughed and he smiled. "You need a proper start to your career so what you''re doing is great. You''re putting down roots in the game, aren''t you? Building up your profile. You can keep doing that but try to believe I''m not going to be mad if you dribble past a guy and whip in a cross. I''ll let you know when I need more from you but today was top. I''m happy."


    Josh nodded slowly. I wasn''t sure he really got what I was saying, but that was okay. The Brig said time and repetition would help the message sink in, and Josh still needed to know he could really trust me. When that happened, said the Brig, Josh''s improvement would accelerate. He had seen it many times.


    "Last thing, mate." I made a big show of looking round moved closer to whisper to him. "Make sure you pay attention when we do our money workshop; you''re going to be a millionaire."


    I punched him in the arm and sat next to Wisey. And waited. He was torn between two emotions - frustration he had only played twenty minutes and pride at how well the team was doing. Finally he said, "We''re smashing them. It''s like you said."


    "And you got a yellow card. Your favourite."


    He scoffed. "Wanted to make my mark on the game."


    "I know. It''s fine. We good?"


    "Yeah. I still don''t really know what my part was and why I couldn''t stay till half time but it''s like Sam said, you can''t argue with the evidence of your eyes. We''re gonna win, right?"


    "Huh. Er... it''s sixty-forty in our favour, I reckon."


    "Good odds."


    "Yeah," I said. They were good odds. I pushed myself to my feet and went to the tactics board. Bench boost had turned 7s into 8s and my tweaks had turned 6s into 7s. We were on top. They didn''t need a big hype session. "Lads, listen up. Without the ball you''ve been superb. Big commitment, big effort, big energy. Zach, you''re doing what I asked you. Not letting the ball even get to that striker. Feels good, yeah? DMs, you''re like a screen in front of the CBs. Security for days. CAMs, you''re pressing well. Their centre backs look like Bambi on ice when you run at them. Top bins. With the ball, slight area for improvement. A few attacks have fizzled out because you''ve been taking the biggest swing every time. Can we just turn the screw for a few minutes? Keep the pressure on. Don''t give them an easy out. Pascal, can you dial your ambition down a bit? Some of what you''re trying looks amazing but the percentages are off."


    "I just feel amazing today, boss! Like everything I do will work!"


    "Top. But you''re too vertical. You''re giving possession away for very low return. Save the fun stuff for when I go on. Until then, play the percentages. Keep it simple. This is one of our best team performances ever, considering the circumstances, and I want the score to reflect that."


    ***


    The second half started the way the first had ended. I realised I had confused Swindon''s manager by not changing the formation. It seemed like he thought I would switch to 4-1-4-1. It was funny what lessons people took from their scouting. I suppose I made it hard by being so capricious. Needless to say, the away dugout embarked on a mad scramble to get their players into the right slots and I was more than happy to let the minutes tick down. If we were still in the game with twenty to go, we would have an amazing chance.


    If I scored late enough, Swindon wouldn''t have time to reply. Could I risk waiting till the last five minutes to score the winner? No, not against a team this good. Better to score early, since I was already starting to feel drained. The prospect of extra time became a daunting one - managing had got a lot more complex and player-managing would be even harder than normal.


    It''d all be worth it, though, when the crowd went apeshit at the final whistle. It''d all be worth it when Zach''s dad did his first filling for the Chester Chompers. It''d all be worth it when I humiliated the FA in the post-match interview.


    Don''t mention replays. Don''t complain about the FA. You''re not allowed to own a football club. Don''t give them any reason to come at you.


    Who said that? That was cowardly. I had the curse. I had massive power and I had to use it for the good of the game. Otherwise I was just another parasite - no better than the vultures who owned Man United. Bunch of bastards. Some of what they did boiled my blood. They were allowed to own a club but I wasn''t? That was wild.


    While I was fraying at the edges and coming apart at the seams, the plan I had set up was winning fashion shows.


    Westwood chases the ball. He puts the centre back under pressure.


    It''s cleared to the midfield. Youngster darts forward to intercept.


    Swindon''s captain does well to retain control. He passes backwards.


    Bochum reads it and gets there first! There''s danger here.


    Bochum passes to Aff. Aff first time to Lyons.


    Lyons is strong! He holds off his marker. He flicks the ball into Bochum''s path.


    Bochum is one on one with the keeper! He shoots...


    Saved!


    The rebound is loose...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Aff applies the finish!


    The Deva erupts. The underdogs are in front!


    Wow. This was crazy. When we turned over possession, we typically had four players against Swindon''s three, but their manager had made no attempt to correct that imbalance. What was he thinking? Now he was behind in the cup and in danger of being knocked out by a lower-league team. Combined with his poor performances in the league, this result could be the end of his career.


    Fucking do something, then, I thought, annoyed. If I owned Swindon I''d bin him off right now.


    You''re not allowed to own clubs, Max.


    Shit shit shit.


    "Dean," said Sandra. Her tone snapped me out of it. To my right, I saw Tom Westwood prone, holding his leg. Red attributes, possible knee injury. He''d put everything into the match. Had he been playing with low Condition? I didn''t think so - even when catastrophising I was always scanning the key numbers.


    It was still bad news, though.


    "He''s done," I said. There had only been ten minutes of the second half. I would need to play for forty.


    Forty minutes. Should I reset the WibWob stuff and leave it alone? I was sure that over time I would get more used to using it and it would be just another tool. Sandra put her hand on my shoulder. "Pace yourself. This could go to extra time."


    "Shit," I said. Forty minutes of the second half plus thirty more? That would fucking kill me. "Er... we''re saving that last sub."


    "I know," she said. "To bring Sticky on for penalties."


    "What! What makes you say that?"


    "You''ve been hinting at it all week."


    Sometimes Sandra was far too perceptive... Another thing to worry about.


    "Replacing number 20, Tom Westwood, number 77, Max Best."


    I walked out onto the pitch to huge noise, smiling faces, and an anxious chatter from the Swindon fans behind me, but I immediately felt that something was wrong. My head wasn''t screwed on properly. There were too many competing thoughts - my latest mess, dentists, Daddy Star, Brazil, Relationism, Exit Trialists, Sandra. Why did Gemma know things?


    My legs felt heavy. Was it possible the Bench Boost had increased my anxieties as well as my skills?


    I jogged around feeling old and slow. We got a corner and I sent it straight at the first man, who headed it away.


    We were under pressure and I found myself in the right place to hit a clearance, but only succeeded in skying it and putting extra pressure on the defence. My match rating fell to five out of ten. I had barely put a foot wrong the whole season and now I was absolute dogshit.


    Henri came over. "Max, what''s happening?"


    "Just need a minute," I said.


    "Talk to me."


    "It''s heavy."


    "What is?"


    I put my hands behind my head and tried to suck in some healing air. "The burden."


    "Think of something positive. Something you''re looking forward to."


    "I''m looking forward to asking your girlfriend to spend the summer with me in Brazil."


    My French isn''t that good, but I knew some of the words Henri said next.


    I wandered around, hoping someone would man-mark me so I could kite him into useless positions. If I could influence the game without taking part, that would be ideal, but Swindon''s manager didn''t seem to want to do anything other than the thing he always did. What happened to him? He used to be good.


    One-touch. When things were going wrong, I went into one-touch mode.


    Standing in the full-back space Swindon''s formation left vacant, I tried to focus. I had one more sub left. Would I sub myself off already? I scanned the main stand. I saw agents and scouts. No Nick. No imps. Lots of families. Kids with holes in their mouths. Focus, Max. Come on!


    I jogged back to the CAM slot and felt my legs were lighter. Springier. Here we go. Let''s do this!


    The away end erupted. Eight hundred sets of arms flying around, and a sustained roar. Swindon had scored. One-all. I checked the commentary and it seemed like a good piece of play. Ben''s match rating dipped by one point, but that normally happened to goalies when they conceded.


    I crouched and thought about the tactics. I could play in a slightly deeper role and let Aff move one slot to the left. Ah, but that would tire me out and would mess up the vertical lines. Scratch that. I would stick to the CAM role and keep Aff where he was.


    I realised the ball was coming in my direction. I jumped but a defender had a head start and he crashed it away, giving me a smack on the back of the head while he did it.


    Swindon''s tails were up and they suddenly had a lot more energy. They pressed and ran and made us hurry our passes, forcing us into mistakes. Normally I would have dropped in front of the defence as a sort of cheat code that would let us get past the press, but even though I was starting to get into the game more I was too easily harried. One time, I even lost the ball with a loose touch. Crazy!


    The minutes ticked down. Extra time and penalties suited us more than Swindon. Of course, the match should have ended at ninety minutes and gone to a replay - a thought which got my juices flowing. Little bit of righteous anger to wash away extraneous thoughts.


    I one-touched a pass to Magnus, whose attempted first-timer in the direction of Aff was unexpected and very, very welcome. If he could add those strings to his bow... But his slight lack of precision cost us.


    Swindon attack down their right. They work an overlap.


    Eddie Moore tries to hold them up. Oh, that''s unlucky!


    Moore nearly intercepted a pass but only succeeded in pushing it into the path of the number 7.


    7 whips in a cross.


    The big number 9 gets his head on it...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    What a header! That was really something. A powerful header directed into the top corner.


    Heartbreak for Chester. Their cup run looks to be coming to an end.


    The away fans spent the next three minutes being noisy and chanting about how shit we were. I switched to 4-1-4-1 so I could drop deep and exchange some simple passes with the DMs and defenders. My match rating climbed to 6 and I was starting to feel frisky. I went back to 4-2-3-1, faked a pass, did a 180, did another 180, and as midfielders dropped on their arses around me, thrashed a fifty-yard pass to Aff. He tried to dribble around his man but a defender stuck his foot in and poked the ball out for a throw-in.


    Swindon''s manager had seen the danger, now, and switched to 4-5-1 and made three substitutions. Interesting. Or was it? I was having trouble focusing.


    While the changes were made - slowly; Swindon wanted to run down the clock - I let my mind wander.


    I had solved the Daddy Star takeover bid - or so I thought - not by stressing about it but by being relaxed and letting a solution come to me. Surely one would come this time? Surely I could own West without owning it?


    One of the subs decided to waste a few more seconds by pretending to struggle to pull on his red kit. Red versus blue was my favourite combination. Man United against Chelsea was pretty much the ultimate football aesthetic. Chester''s current kit was blue with thin white stripes - too thin for my liking. When I beat Daddy Star I would change it. Swindon were in solid red and looked more like Liverpool than Man United.


    Man United. They were owned by an unspeakable family...


    I didn''t finish the thought; I burst out laughing. That was the solution! I had to act like a vampiric vulture capitalist! I had to take a lesson from the people ripping the game apart. It was so simple. The FA could come at me - let them - and I would swat them aside.


    We had to win this match, though.


    I sprinted to Glenn and did something I never did - I took the armband from him. Triple Captain was in effect and my Influence was higher than his. Amazingly, he reacted positively - he knew I was about to go full Max.


    The effect was immediate - everyone had a little more spring in his step. Especially me.


    Best collects the ball. He points left and dribbles right.


    Stepover. Another stepover.


    What acceleration! Best chopped the ball down the line and raced after it.


    He''s in position to cross...


    But he slides the ball sideways, gets there first, lures a defender in...


    Now a low pass across goal.


    Lyons is there. He shoots!


    It''s blocked!


    But surely that was handball?


    It was!


    The defender didn''t know much about it, but he blocked the shot with his hand.


    It''s a penalty to Chester!


    I grabbed the ball and tuned out most of the silliness that follows the award of penalties. Pascal stood over the penalty spot to stop opponents from roughing it up. The ref got most of the Swindon guys away, but then the goalie wandered towards me.


    Goalies like to do that. They wander up to the penalty taker and say something to put him off, or throw the ball at his knees, or just generally behave like a prick.


    As this one came forward, I walked an equal distance away. He came closer, I walked even further away. Confused, he wandered back to goal. Pascal vacated the penalty spot and I put the ball down. The goalie came towards me again. I picked the ball up and walked away. The goalie went back and when I put the ball down, he came again.


    The referee whistled angrily, but I snapped at him. "The only way to stop it is to give him a yellow card. He''s taking the piss out of you!"


    As this was going on, the stadium was in tumult. Waves of sound coming and going, getting quieter every time I put the ball on the spot then exploding as the referee allowed the goalie to cheat. It was all pretty pathetic, really, but it put the crowd through the wringer. Lots of emotions going on, and what more can you ask for when you go to see your local team?


    Finally, the goalie stayed on his line while I put the ball down. The referee did his last checks.


    I''d done my homework and this keeper had a better-than-average record at saving pens. He fancied himself as a bit of a penalty expert.


    Sadly for him, I was about to not only score this penalty, but give us a huge edge if it went to a shoot-out. Impressive, I know.


    Best lines up the penalty.


    He blasts it into the top-right corner!


    He wheels away in celebration.


    But the ref is blowing his whistle! He wants Best to retake the penalty. Best shot too early!


    Best has his head in his hands. He can''t believe it!


    I could believe it - taking the penno before the ref was ready had been part of my plan.


    First of all, the goalie was a lot less confident now - my shot had been absolute perfection. Hard and high, close to the post, bosh. Second, he knew I would aim for one of the corners.


    I waited for the ref to whistle, sarcastically asked him if he was sure, approached the ball - the goalie flung himself to my right, where my last shot had gone - but I dinked the ball softly down the middle of the goal.


    As it finished spinning in the back of the net, I walked to the goalie and told him how much I respected him, which caused a bit of a kerfuffle, but soon enough I was in front of the Harry McNally stand nodding and pointing to myself.


    The crowd was roaring, now, and with the scores level it was anyone''s game to win. Anyone''s... but mostly mine. I dribbled, I played one-twos, and when I got in range I launched increasingly accurate piledrivers at the sides of the goal. The last five minutes were an absolute onslaught and Swindon were very, very lucky to survive to the final whistle.


    I got down and lay on my back, absolutely spent. The physical and mental effort had been considerable. But then Henri was pulling me up. "Sandra wants to talk to us," he said.


    "Huh? Why?"


    "The plan for extra time."


    Extra time! I had another thirty minutes of this shit. In the excitement of trying to get a late winner, I''d forgotten the new rules. We shuffled close to the halfway line, in front of our dugout, and stood in a circle. Sandra asked me what I wanted to do - we had one sub left. WibRob was an option. Sharky''s speed would unnerve any team. Through my brain fog I saw the optimal outcome - to win on penalties. "Keep things tight and bring Sticky on for the shootout."


    "You sure?" she said.


    "Million percent." Sticky was tall and had crazy long arms. He was a nuisance at penalties. A Bench Boosted Sticky seemed like a penalty trump card.


    Sandra gave a pep talk while I used WibWob to make our formation more defensive. Everyone got moved backwards a couple of notches and their instructions got set to defensive. Not quite men behind ball, but in that direction. I thought about what I''d learned from Ian Evans and David Cutter and pushed all the defenders closer together, too. Stay narrow. Defend the middle of the box. Win headers. Win duels.


    When Sandra was done, I stepped into the middle. "Lads, one last thing. Big verbals on their keeper. Focus on how I made him look like a twat and he better hope it doesn''t go to penalties. That sort of thing. Zach? Show us how you shit talk in Texas. Thirty minutes for glory, lads. Come on!"


    ***


    The first fifteen minutes flew by. I took up wide positions that blocked passing lanes and forced Swindon to find alternatives. I dropped to win headers and booted the ball away. It was clear that we intended to defend but when Swindon got more adventurous I took the handbrake off and we launched a threatening break through Pascal. That led to a corner kick that I let Aff take. While he jogged over, I enjoyed seeing Zach Green chirp away at the goalie.


    From the corner, Aff passed to me and I slapped a shot that deflected over. We got another corner and the shit-talking resumed. The keeper''s morale didn''t change but the more we wound him up, the more he would try to be a hero in the penalty shoot out. I wanted him riled up and stupid.


    Swindon didn''t like the amount of threat we were generating and went more defensive. That was fine by me - at this level of difficulty I would still be able to think at the end.


    At half time in extra time, we changed ends. I knew from the Copa Mundial mini game that it mattered a lot which end you shot towards in a shootout. It was also extremely helpful to take the first pen so that the other team would always be playing catch-up. I admonished myself. Too soon to think about that! Survive fifteen more minutes!


    We resumed and the game got very cautious and frankly, boring. It was only the tension of the situation that kept the crowd involved. Any mistake now would be fatal. Any moment of magic would be decisive.


    We kept things tight. While my tank was empty and I was starting to worry about cramp, the other lads were fine - with his stopwatches and clipboards and his special sessions, the Brig had done a good job in building up fitness.


    With ten minutes to go, I moved Henri to a CAM slot and went to be the ''striker'' so that I could stand almost completely still. I needed a clear head for the shootout.


    With five minutes to go, I swapped Ben for Sticky.


    With two minutes to go, Swindon suddenly broke through on the right, hit a cross, and their dangerous target man got his head on it. Sticky was stuck to his line, but fortunately the header went wide. So close, though! So close to disaster. It was the kind of moment that gave football fans sleepless nights. What if...?


    The match ended, and to the Football Association''s eternal shame, an FA Cup First Round tie would be decided by penalties.


    We would take five each, most goals wins. If scores were level after five, it would go to sudden death with my lesser players taking pens.


    I was clear who I wanted to take the pens and in which order: Henri, me, Pascal, Eddie Moore, Aff. The first four were Boosted and Aff was a reliable option. The only question was, were the chosen lads up for it? They were.


    We went through the rigmarole of tossing coins to decide things - so slow, so boring, we''re in the entertainment industry for fuck''s sake - and we lost both. We would shoot towards the Swindon fans and we would shoot second.


    I went to talk to Sticky. "Steve. I need you to do exactly what I tell you."


    "I''m good on pens, Max. Trust me, I know what I''m doing."


    I nodded. "I know. But I''ve solved penalty shootouts. I''ve got a system. I''m going to signal left, right, or up, and I want you to dive that way. Up means do nothing."


    He pulled a face; I knew I would run into this problem. "I always dive, Max, otherwise the fans think you''re not trying."


    "I know," I said. "But the fans aren''t in charge, here. I am. We''re going to do it right."


    Sticky did a thousand-yard stare and an inner voice told me I''d just lost an expert goalkeeping coach. "You''re the boss, boss," he said, before turning away.


    Both sets of players lined up on the halfway line.


    Swindon sent their first taker forward. Their big target man. He had scored in the match and that always helped with confidence. Vimsy came over with a bright blue bib. "Thanks, man."


    "What''s it for?"


    "Winning cup matches. Can you step away, please? I don''t want him saying he didn''t see my signal. Soz."


    I held the bib straight up. In the goalmouth, Sticky looked in my direction and sagged ever so slightly.


    Swindon''s number 9 to take the first penalty...


    He steps up...


    And slots it into the corner!


    Icke didn''t even move!


    One-nil Swindon. I got the cold sweats again. Were my theories completely wrong? Henri detached himself from our line of players. He had to walk past me. "Don''t choose the middle," I said. "Go left or right."


    He nodded and walked forward.


    Henri Lyons under pressure.


    He spots the ball. Swindon''s goalkeeper walks forward to put him off...


    And gets a yellow card!


    Ironic jeers from the home fans.


    Lyons is ready...


    Right in the corner!


    The keeper guessed the right way but couldn''t get a hand to it.


    Lyons thumps his chest.


    One-all. Swindon''s next taker walked forward. Their number 7. Clever player. Too clever, I reckoned. I held the bib straight up again.


    Number 7 is ready.


    He takes a deep breath, lots of tiny steps, and...


    And dinks the ball straight into the arms of the goalkeeper!


    Advantage Chester!


    I punched the air. I threw the bib up and kung-fu kicked it.


    I knew it! I fucking knew it. The biggest area of advantage in a penalty shootout was the ability to kick down the middle, which players did because there was so little chance of goalies staying still. But now I had taken the middle out of the equation for all but the bravest Swindon players. They would have to shoot left or right, and Sticky would have a 50-50 chance of guessing correctly.


    Talking of brave players, I was the next taker. I left the bib and walked forward, laughing to myself. There was no doubt the goalie would be expecting me to do another chip down the middle.


    I placed the ball, waited for the ref, took three tiny steps, and gently rolled it into the left of the goal.


    As I predicted, the goalie didn''t move. I had absolutely megabrained the twat.


    Two-one Chester, and there was a big party vibe around three-quarters of the ground. Swindon''s fans were quiet, and their goalie was a wreck. I understood what Sticky had said about wanting to dive to be seen to be doing something - the away fans were screaming bloody murder at their goalie. I showed how sorry I felt for him by making a crying eyes gesture.


    I went back to my spot and picked the bib up. I had a strong feeling about this next pen. I waved it and Sticky - no longer mad at me - nodded.


    Swindon''s captain to take the next penalty.


    The pressure is on!


    He steps forward...


    Saved! Icke dived to his right and batted the penalty away!


    Swindon are in deep trouble now.


    Sticky raced away from the save, exultant, getting the sort of reception he should have been getting week in, week out at a much bigger club.


    Pascal was next. I told him to hit to his left.


    Bochum with the penalty.


    Some of the away fans can''t watch.


    The goalkeeper stretches his arms and bangs the crossbar. He fills the goal, all right.


    Bochum... scores!


    The keeper dived the wrong way.


    Swindon must score to stay in the game!


    I didn''t signal for the next one - Sticky could decide which way he wanted to dive. I felt sure it wouldn''t go down the middle, though.


    Number 19 to take the shot. If he misses, Swindon are out of the FA Cup!


    He waits. He eyes the left of the goal...


    But slots it home to the right!


    Swindon are still in this.


    The pressure was mounting but Eddie looked unruffled. I told him to shoot left.


    Eddie Moore with the chance to win the match!


    He''ll take it left-footed. He''s eyeing the left of the goal. Is it a bluff or a double-bluff?


    What will he do?


    He''ll score!


    He''s done it! He''s put Chester through!


    Chester are into the Second Round of the FA Cup in the most dramatic of fashions!


    ***


    Our celebrations were pretty huge - this result and the performance meant a lot to the players and fans. We had shown grit and guile. We had won forty thousand pounds in prize money and a chance to keep progressing. Everyone''s morale hit seven.


    Sticky came over and hugged me - all was forgiven! "Let''s take your system to Vegas, boss!"


    "Not the worst idea, mate. I''ll take you next season. If you''re still here."


    He looked around, feeling the adulation, and I felt a tiny pang of hope. Maybe it wouldn''t be so hard to persuade him, after all.


    I went to Glenn and eased the captain''s armband back onto his sleeve. "Thanks for the loan."


    I asked Sandra to keep an eye on things while I went to talk to the media. She saw something in me that worried her. "Max, maybe I should do it. Why don''t you go and enjoy the win? With the lads?"


    "You know I take my media duties very seriously. After a famous win like this, they''ll want to hear from me."


    "You''re not going to throw your toys out of the pram, are you? The rules have changed, Max. No replays. It''s done. Let it go."


    "Okay. I won''t mention anything about that."


    She swore and shook her head. "Can I come with you? I hate finding out what you said second-hand."


    "Erm... how''s your poker face?"


    "Amazing," she said. "Flawless."


    I laughed. "Let''s see."


    ***


    We went straight to the little spot in a random corridor where we did post-match interviews. Since it was the FA Cup there was a proper camera and a sponsors board had been erected. It would all look very professional. Very corporate.


    The media guys were surprised that we were early, but quickly plugged things in and pressed buttons and whatever they did. As the main guy was about to speak, Beth snuck into the room. Ever the bloodhound, sniffing out a good story.


    "Max Best, congratulations! You''re through to the Second Round of the FA Cup. How does it feel?"


    I glanced at Sandra before answering, and double-checked the viewscreen that showed what was being filmed. I wanted her face in shot so I could enjoy it in future. I looked, in my opinion, very handsome and noble. I looked very much like the saviour of English football. A knight errant defending it against its many enemies. "The FA Cup is all about history and tradition. This sport is about history and tradition. The Premier League is full of rich owners whose only interest in football is to pillage and ransack and they have somehow lobbied to remove replays from the calendar so that they can play in tedious tournaments with higher prize money. Every country has a Football Association and in every country that FA looks after the health of the game. Not ours. Ours sells it to the highest bidder and throws history and tradition into the scrap heap.


    "The mediocrities who run the English Football Association are only interested in their next eight-course lunch and I have nothing but contempt for them. They have abdicated the running of the sport to capitalists and sportswashers who would happily kill 98% of the clubs in this land and, to be fair, they are doing a pretty good job of that. Today the score after ninety minutes was two-all. That''s a draw. What should happen after a draw is that we go to the County Ground for a replay. If the Football Association don''t want to do things right, I will do it for them. As Chester''s director of football and men''s first-team manager, I hereby offer Swindon the replay that is theirs by right of history and tradition."


    I glanced at Sandra and nearly burst out laughing. Good poker face, my arse.

 9.6 - Copium

    6.


    Glossary: copium. A self-prescribed drug one consumes when one''s team loses. The name is derived from the words ''cope'' and ''opium''. Pointing out excessive copium use in other fanbases is one of the more rewarding pastimes of the modern sports fan. "Yes we lost four-nil but look at the underlying metrics and you''ll see we had more possession, more xG, more field tilt, and more expected threat." "The amount of copium in here is astounding."


    ***


    Monday November 4


    @zero_sumo_games


    Thought about it and offering a replay was the last straw for me. Something big like that you''ve got to talk to us (board or fans, take your pick). I got a hundo angry DMs and I never had anything to do with it!!! I''ll quit the board this week. Someone else can deal with all that noise.


    @barnes_the_noble


    Don''t be too hasty, Sumo. You are a valued member of the board and I know Max thinks highly of you. Let''s get together and hash it out.


    @zero_sumo_games


    I''m done with him. I joined the board to help my club not to do damage control on his latest stunt.


    @barnes_the_noble


    I do understand. I also had a high volume of calls and let''s just say the timing was not good. Let''s take this out of the public eye, though. Remember we talked about collective responsibility?


    @zero_sumo_games


    ok


    ***


    [Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]


    J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I''m your host, J.


    Smakk: And I''m your other host, Smakk.


    J: We''re the number one unofficial Chester FC podcast and today is going to be spicy. [Sound effect: sizzling chilies and someone going ''hot hot hot'' with their mouth full.] Get ready for the hot takes! In the studio today is a special guest - very special guest - a rising star in the Chester fanbase... Ray Hart.


    Ray: [Deep, calming voice.] Hello hello.


    Smakk: Oh, he''s started already.


    J: That voice!


    Smakk: J promised a feisty, passionate episode but Ray''s got that voice.


    J: For the three of you who don''t know Ray, he sent a voice note question for one of our Patreon episodes and listeners said we should get him on the main pods. Ray, it''s fair to say you''ve made a big impression on people in a short time!


    Ray: Thank you, that''s kind. I just tell it like I see it and if people like it, that''s flattering.


    J: Your voice is crazy deep, though. I used some of the Patreon money to get an expert in sound levels to tell me how to mix it and it should sound proper good today. Shoutout to all the Patrons - your support means we get to do what we love and that''s talk about Chester.


    Smakk: Yeah, and sorry for getting sick just after our mini-break.


    J: To be fair, we put out two pretty long episodes while we were away. If we hadn''t told them we were going, they''d barely have noticed.


    Smakk: We promised custom artwork but didn''t do it.


    J: We agreed the episodes were better without the art.


    Smakk: That''s true.


    J: Listeners, I think you can tell from the rambling conversation that we''re procrastinating. None of us wants to get into the hot topic of the day, especially Ray.


    Ray: That''s right. I prefer to focus on the football.


    J: It''s odd you wanted to come on this episode, to be honest. You''ve got an open invitation and you asked to do it today.


    Ray: You''re going to talk about the replay incident, I take it? I''ll let you do that and bring up my talking points later.


    Smakk: Come on, J, enough pussyfooting around. There''s only one topic in Chester. Let''s break it down.


    J: Okay. Sequence of events. Saturday was the FA Cup First Round against Swindon. We win, Max does an interview. We''ll come back to that. Sunday the women play against Cheadle Town Stingers. We''re told they''re our main rivals in that division so if we can get a result there, the season''s looking rosy.


    Smakk: For context, there are only twelve teams in a league, only one promotion spot, and one defeat can wreck you.


    J: That''s right. Then this evening there was the FA Youth Cup. The lads were at home to Northampton Town of League One. Tough test. No shame in losing, right? But this is what''s infuriating - we''re not going to talk about any of the football. Because at the end of the Swindon match - that we won, remember - Max Best offered them a replay and broke the internet.


    Smakk: His mate from the Daily Mail was there and she got it on Mail Online pretty fast. It went semi-viral but then something happened to make it go supernova. Slow news day maybe but it just took off.


    Ray: Harry Styles retweeted it.


    J: Oh, did he? That explains a lot. BoshCard must have a quick-thinking marketing person because they were on the case pdq - they offered to pay for buses to ferry as many Chester fans to Swindon as bought tickets. Glendale Logistics said they''d help out even if it meant driving fans in diggers. There were, what, thirty other First Round matches? and every winning manager gets asked about it, every losing manager gets asked about it, it''s the main topic on talkSPORT, people are nominating Max Best for a sportsmanship award, I mean, it got traction.


    Smakk: But while the country is going wow this kid put the FA''s feet to the flames on national television, Chester fans are melting down. If we go to Swindon for a replay we''ll lose and we''ll be out of the cup. We were in the Second Round and now this brat''s taken our name out of the hat and chucked it in the bin!


    J: Right. We need the prize money and we''re one win away from the Third Round where we might get Liverpool away and earn a million quid. It makes zero sense to offer a replay.


    Smakk: Zero. It''s bonkers. So that''s the background and now we have to untangle it. So, J, be honest, how did you feel when you heard? Oh, and where were you?


    J: I think that''s part of the problem. I was in the concourse throwing beer around like a normal fan after a big cupset and life was just about as good as it gets. Like, the performance was up and down but the lads fought hard and I''ve never, ever, been more confident about a penalty shoot-out.


    Ray: It helps to have a Frenchman and a German on your team.


    J: That''s where England have been going wrong in major tournaments! But yeah, I was so high, then everyone''s phone pops off and I look at mine and it really is Christ, what''s he done now, you know? And... yeah. This one wasn''t funny. It''s not, like, terminal or anything. I won''t be changing my usernames or throwing my season ticket at the lad but it was such a kick to the nuts. Like, where do you get off doing that to us? At least let us fucking enjoy the moment. And ask us before you make the offer. Ask someone. You could tell he hadn''t told anyone because of the look on Sandra Lane''s face. Tell you what, that''s my answer. I felt the way she looked.


    Smakk: I''m pretty similar.


    Ray: I''m gonna interject, just briefly, because you know I''ve got a few little birdies at the club who tell me things. I''ve heard that the manager told everyone he was going to run his mouth off and he was therefore surprised when he went to the dressing room and found them up in arms and ready to mutiny. And to me, the only really interesting part of this fallout is when it comes to the players and their ongoing relationship with the manager and the club.


    J: Wait, he told the players he was going to do this?


    Ray: It''s what I''ve heard. He told them at the start of the week and again before the match. My contact says no-one was really listening and thus when they expressed their annoyance at the manager, he gave it back to them with interest. Let''s say that words were exchanged and the players were outnumbered one to twenty. It will be interesting to see how that dynamic plays out because if your boss tells you he''s going to do something and he does it and you lose trust in him something has gone wrong with your process. Do you see what I mean? I''ll be very interested to see how that develops and how the messaging on it changes.


    Smakk: Ray, you''re so interesting. I know you don''t like talking about the controversies but I''d love to hear your thoughts on this one. Just if you want. But please. Pretty please. Cherry on top.


    [pause]


    Ray: I''ll tell you why I wanted to be on this episode.


    J: Go on.


    Ray: Last night I put my girls to sleep as usual and as I was closing the bedroom door I had a moment of pure tranquillity. My body was warm from inside to out and I took a few steps back into the room to see their faces. They were tucked in under their blankets on their soft pillows in their warm room and I felt proud that I''d done that. I''d done the basics of being a father and provided food and shelter and love. This warmth I was feeling was hard to understand but it was excitement. My girls got into football in a big way during the Women''s World Cup which means they''re the perfect age to enjoy what''s coming.


    J: What''s coming?


    Ray: More of the same, I hope, because this weekend was the peak of football in this city, ever, no exceptions.


    J: The peak?


    Ray: The men''s team beat a higher-level opponent, again, and did it in a way that sometimes had me chuckling to myself. You know I like to watch football from the POV of a coach and I like to look at the details and ideally that''s all we would talk about today because believe me, I have thoughts. But the tactics and the in-match tweaks are fascinating. Some of what we do is incredible. Almost beyond belief. Any team can plan big changes like the switch from long-ball to the double pivot but they can''t have every little tweak mapped out and there are sometimes so many in a Chester match that it''s hard to tell what''s a tweak and what''s a positional mistake.


    Analysing the matches from any sort of tactical perspective is like picking a lock that''s higher than your skill level; it requires ample time and a video tutorial. I would love to sit down with the manager one day and discuss his changes but I fear it would be content that only a few of your most engaged Patrons would be interested in.


    Smakk: The peak, though? We had good days in the past. We took Leeds to a replay.


    Ray: I sidetracked myself. The Swindon match was interesting in lots of ways but the result was the main thing. Through to the next round and thanks to our manager, plucky underdogs Chester are one of the biggest stories in the country. Our sponsors are more than getting their money''s worth, I think we can all agree. Did the manager risk the prize money? He did not, but even if the FA allowed us to change their rules of their competition, the publicity was immense. We will get more sponsorship money for years as a result of what our manager did on Saturday.


    But I don''t particularly care about that. When I look in the eyes of my children I don''t feel joy that they''re growing up in a world where Boshcard''s marketing spend is outperforming its key metrics. I care that the manager keeps his word and one of his promises is to develop players. Not just Youngster getting a chance to train with the Ghanaian under 20s - how amazing is that, by the way? - but the older ones, too. I see Carl Carlile and he''s unrecognisable from the lost soul who played under Ian Evans. The goalkeeper''s got a bit of arrogance about him, now, which you want in your number one. James Wise is turning into Sam Topps before our very eyes. We know the manager loves Magnus Evergreen and we''ve quietly tolerated it because he''s a player who does his job and doesn''t make many mistakes. In the last few games, though, he''s shown moves that make the eyes pop. I''m watching him thinking, hello! We haven''t seen that before. He hasn''t felt safe to try that in a contest. A contest, do you feel me? These players are being coached. Not your hill runs and your heading practice. They''re being coached and so are the women.


    The men win. The women have their big game and it''s frantic for ten minutes, but then Charlotte puts her foot on the ball and Cheadle don''t get it back for the rest of the half. The director of football says Cheadle are the big rivals and he''s normally right on the money and the league table agrees with him. But our girls said, you know what? We''re not giving anyone a sniff in this league. We''re going to put Cheadle down and win five out of five and we''re not going to concede a goal because we don''t do that any more. Our director of football has brought in upgrades, you see. And I like that, too. Players have ceilings and when they hit that ceiling the replacement is knocking on the door. I love those squad building episodes you do, by the way. The women have a new goalie and defence, the midfield is strong, the strikers score freely. Who''s next to be upgraded? It''s not simple and it could be that some of our favourites get eased out.


    So what do you have when you have a leader who has the patience and vision to push players to improve combined with the ruthlessness to replace them when they hit their ceiling? You have fast, consistent progression. My daughters are going to see the men''s team in the football league and the women''s team, I don''t even know what the limits are. And then there''s the youth team and I have to tell you something, the three of us enjoyed the match this evening but you boys were surprised at the result. I wasn''t. I knew we would win when I saw Roberts at left midfield again. But even I didn''t know how impressive the win would be.


    J: It was only three-one.


    Ray: Scorelines matter but what I saw today confirmed a lot of things I suspected. I''ll give you an example. It''s not just the players who are improving - the manager is, too. He has been incredibly rigid with his formations in a way that worried some of the coaching staff. Not so much the players - they only care about their minutes - but it was striking that the manager would stick so slavishly to his defaults even while complaining his options were so limited. Sticking to a back four when playing against ten men, for example. He was able to deflect all those discussions because he was winning most of the time but this is one of the things I find so compelling about him. Even when he''s stubbornly refusing to do something he is actually listening and given enough time might decide that, yes, actually, that''s a good idea. I have heard several stories that fit the pattern of this theory and on Saturday we had the long throw bombardment.


    Smakk: That was mint!


    Ray: We know he hates long throws and personally I agree with him but he''s flexible enough to use it, isn''t he? Josh Owens has been told he can do one long throw per match, now.


    J: One?


    Ray: The way it will work, and this is just speculation based on my observations of the manager, is that Owens will dry the ball on a special towel while the centre backs lumber forward. As the oppo are steeling themselves for the long throw, Owens will throw it short and play will continue but with their penalty box loaded with our biggest players. On the third throw the oppo will relax. On the fourth, he will hurl it into the mixer. That''s how I think it will go. It will be like driving over potholes and bracing yourself for impacts that don''t come - and then when you''re not ready, there''s a big one.


    Smakk: That sounds annoying. For the oppo. Could be funny for us.


    Ray: I want a manager who uses the whole of the animal, if you see what I mean. Don''t waste parts you don''t like the look of. Use everything. That''s the manager we''ve got and that''s a force multiplier on our spending. I''ve got sidetracked again. I wish we could talk about football and not things that don''t matter.


    J: Sorry, Ray, but it does matter. He doesn''t own the club; he can''t do anything he wants. There have to be some limits.


    Ray: He can make the offer of a replay knowing it will never happen. It can''t happen. As the FA handbook is written, it literally can''t happen. Our name was in the hat for the next round. Our name was pulled out and the fixture was announced. We will play Yeovil in the next round and that''s set in stone. But I don''t want to talk about that. I was talking about the FA Youth Cup and the manager''s personal growth. I thought I saw some evidence of this on Saturday and today was even clearer. For listeners who don''t know the youth team, they have some good players, especially in midfield and up front, but there isn''t a quality right back. Today we had a right winger there, same as in the previous round, but he was playing more as a wing back and he looked much more comfortable further up the pitch. Not only that, the players on his side were closer to him, while the left back was pushed farther away.


    J: What''s the purpose of that?


    Ray: To make the pitch wide. The ball can run faster than you. If you''re chasing it across the pitch time and again you''re going to get fatigued and you''re going to make mistakes. It''s a small tweak but it''s new for this Chester team; I''ve been crying out for it for a long time. It''s one of those famous one percent improvements. Later there was a ten or fifteen minute experiment where the player I mentioned moved to be a more classic right back while Roberts, playing left mid again, pushed to be a left-sided CAM.


    Smakk: Why do you think him playing left mid shows we''re going to win?


    Ray: Because if it was likely to be a close match, the manager would use him in the centre. He''s our best player by far. But we''re talking about this new level of positional play. Clearly the manager is only comfortable changing one variable at a time but he''s learning the game, same as we all are. There are still people questioning why he wants to manage the youth teams and this is why. He''s learning. He''s doing experiments. And he''s knocking bigger teams out of tournaments along the way. Northampton were absolutely stunned at half time. Did you see them? They only came into the game when we made changes and brought on some of the lesser talents. At the final whistle I had another one of those funny turns as my clan applauded. Our boys didn''t celebrate much but gathered around the manager and I said to my girls, ''They look like you when you''ve broken something in the kitchen.'' The manager was forceful in what he said to those boys but they accepted it and walked through to the dressing room nice and calm, discussing whatever the issue was.


    J: Do you know what he was upset about?


    Ray: No. If I had to guess I''d say it was the speed of the passing. We had too many players feeling themselves. Getting on the ball and feeling so comfortable they didn''t want to move it on. Which is not ideal but it''s a sign of how good we are. We have a team of young men who are learning the game and learning how to have a career and whilst most of them have won a grand total of two FA Youth Cup matches, they already look like old hands and a win against a League One team is par for the course. Do you see? My daughters saw three wins in three days and the way we play and the way we find and coach talent, there will be more wins. I look into our future and I see years of wins.


    Smakk: How can you speak so calmly and yet get me so hyped up?


    Ray: That''s why I wanted to come on the show. People listen to this podcast. This podcast can set the agenda. You decide what topics people focus on. Why even look at something that doesn''t affect us when there''s so much that is positive?


    J: It does affect us, though. We could have lost our spot in the cup.


    [pause]


    Ray: When I asked my girlfriend to marry me, she said yes, but she knew I had a lot of self-doubt about staying faithful. I wasn''t sure I had it in me. So she said if I ever met Halle Berry, I was allowed to, well, if I ever met her nothing that happened would affect my faithfulness score. Great offer. Two problems. [laughter] Our manager did the same thing. It wasn''t a serious offer and it''s only because the Daily Mail ran it so hard that anyone took it seriously. Now, to be completely honest, I was annoyed when I read what he had said because like all fans I was already hoping for an easy fixture in the Second Round and dreaming of the Third Round. That''s what we do as fans, isn''t it? We count our chickens.


    But it didn''t take long to rethink. Our manager is not stupid and if he''s dropping hand grenades on his sport''s governing body, it''s more than a whim. Funny how our principles melt away when there''s forty thousand pounds on the line. It''s not a lot, is it? When six clubs tried to form the European Super League and leave the rest of us behind, we were outraged and engaged. They wanted to kill us and we got mobilised. Yes? Think back. How could they play in a Super League when they already had so many matches to play? Easy. Kill FA Cup replays. That project was killed three years ago and now the European Super League is dead, so we''re told. But excuse me, ladies and gentleman, it''s your friendly neighbourhood Football Association here. We need to kill the FA Cup not to prepare the way for a Super League but for totally unrelated reasons. La la la la laa.


    It was six months ago when they announced it and there was talk of boycotts and all sorts of things but nothing concrete. They thought they got away with it. One piece of the jigsaw is in place. One more brick in the foundation of the Super League. Our heads are on the chopping block and we don''t even notice. [Clears throat.] Our manager noticed, lads. The FA must have expected a few mean tweets about no replays, but what they got was the media equivalent of the whole of Special Branch doing a dawn raid. Today I saw politicians talking about creating an independent regulator. Stunts like this one make them realise how popular it would be to take control of the sport back from the elites. Do you see? The next diabolical change the FA tries to make might be its last. Our manager is fighting the battle we all stopped fighting.


    [pause]


    Smakk: I want you to hit me as hard as you can.


    [laughter]


    J: For real, though, why do I feel so good? Ray always brings the best copium.


    Ray: It''s only copium when you''re losing. When I tuck my daughters into bed tomorrow night, in their room covered with Chester FC merchandise, I''m going to feel like a winner.


    ***


    Saturday, November 9


    Best Takes Team to Fylde Festival!


    Chester''s unbeaten run extended to eight matches with a comprehensive 4-0 win over AFC Fylde at the Deva stadium. Henri Lyons dominated his markers, opening the scoring and bringing Chester''s considerable attacking talent into the game. Pascal Bochum, Ziggy, and Max Best himself also netted, while there was another appearance for promising youngster William B. Roberts, star of the youth team''s cup run.


    ***


    Saturday, November 16


    Forest Green Win Battle of Tofu-Eating Wokerati


    It was vegan hotdogs all round as Chester FC visited eco-club Forest Green Rovers today, but in amongst the tie-dying workshops, crystal reattunement, and lectures on intersectionality there was the unpleasant and unwelcome matter of a football match. FGR won it 1-0 and moved back into the playoff spots while the home fans sang a musical number about the virtues of hemp. Chester slumped back to ninth in the league and with nearly half the season gone, activist manager Marx Best looks short of ideas on how to improve the situation.


    ***


    Sunday, November 17


    Match 6 of 22: West Didsbury and Chorlton Women vs Chester Women


    The match that had caused me so many problems had finally arrived, and it was going to prove even more consequential than anyone could ever have guessed.


    The aim of the day was to beat West, obviously, but also to showcase Chester to five fifteen-year-old Welsh girls I''d spotted, all of whom were over PA 100. Those signings would be valuable in their own right, but would also convince other Welsh parents that I was serious about developing Welsh talent. The next Gareth Bale was at a small club and hadn''t been spotted yet - I would jump through almost any number of hoops to secure his signing.


    Emma and I met the five girls and their families outside the Deva stadium. I tried to be charming. Ems, obvs, didn''t have to try. We were supported by MD, Brooke, Ruth, the Brig, and Ryan Jack. Just a fucking unbelievable team that covered so many bases.


    It became clear to me that my big plan to win the girls over was unnecessary. When I asked if they wanted to travel to Manchester on the bus with the actual first team, it was Christmas come early. They had been doing their research and knew all about Femi and Bonnie and Angel. They knew about the documentary and the solar panels and the dentists. They knew about me, too, and the fact I was gunning for them so hard was, well, a point in my favour. There was zero chance those five girls would snub us after today.


    The focus quickly switched to the parents. Convincing them to schlep their daughters up to Chester three or four times a week was not going to be simple, I knew that. So I had a plan. A harmless bit of social engineering.


    We had hired a couple of minivans that the parents would squeeze into and they would be whisked to Manchester while Ryan, Brooke and the others got to know them. By the time they arrived at West, I would know which topics they most cared about and I''d know what they were afraid of when it came to me. If they worried I was too handsome and dashing, I would allow myself to be boring and do unattractive things like use nouns as verbs. If they thought I was too prone to anger, I would be a zen master.


    I announced that I would catch up with them in the Executive Box at West Didsbury and Chorlton, but that first I had to drive Emma to The Big Vape (i.e. Manchester City Centre) where she wanted to do some shopping.


    "And to see your mum," said Emma, weirdly loud.


    "Well, yeah. I always pop in when I''m back home."


    "They don''t know that," said Emma, jerking her head at the parents. So strange.


    "Oh, I won''t be late," I said, to the parents, in case that was the issue. "It''s not far from the stadium, anyway."


    "The care home, he means." Again, loud.


    I opened my mouth, excited to tell the parents that they could meet Solly, the psychic dog, but I decided to wait before mentioning that particular nugget. "Great, that''s settled then," I said, which I''m not sure came across as completely rational.


    ***


    Brooke: They think you might be too excitable and not serious. Bit too cocky and not interested enough in the rules.


    Ryan: I''m getting similar. You might be a bad influence. They don''t trust you.


    Me: Christ. They sound like they''re in that Best Out Facebook group.


    Brooke: It''ll be fine. This is why they''re meeting you. Try to hit topics parents care about. Safety. Education. Facilities. Mental health and happiness. They''re incredibly interested in your social programs. That side of you scores BIG with this demo.


    Me: What about money?


    Ruth: It hasn''t come up. How good are these girls?


    Me: Very good. Okay, thanks a lot. Will one of you entertain the dog while I''m busy?


    Brooke: You don''t have to ask that, y''all. Solly''s a ledge.


    Ryan: It''s worrying when Max brings his emotional support animal to a match. Pawshadowing, innit?


    Me: West are limited and always play 4-4-2. The football will be the least interesting part of today.


    Ryan: Everyone remember he said that.


    ***


    My optimism was well-founded. While the men''s team had taken one step forward, one step back, Chester''s women had been on a tear in the league, cruising through even the sternest tests without conceding a single goal. They had dismantled Cheadle Town Stingers, their closest rivals in terms of CA, putting three past their keeper. As the old saying went, Cheadle were lucky to get nil.


    The women hadn''t done so well in the cups. The Cheadle result was the delicious filling in a sandwich made of cup exits. In the space of a couple of weeks, they were knocked out of the FA Cup by a bang average York City team, crashed out of the Welsh Cup on penalties against Rhyl, and exited the Cheshire Cup, losing three-one against Stalybridge. The last one was partly my fault.


    I was explaining this to my guests as our tour of Brookburn Road came to its conclusion. "The thing is," I said, "We had three games in seven days and I told Jackie no player was allowed to appear in more than two. The risk of getting an ACL injury seems to go sky high when the women play too often so that''s a hard limit I''ve imposed, no discussions. You met Ryan - he''s been out for nine months with an ACL and it''s horrible. I''d rather lose than take stupid risks. It''s the good thing about being my own boss. I don''t have to ask permission to do the right thing."


    One of the dads was an accountant type. Very thorough - he had done a lot of preparation for the day. He was a very careful listener, too. "If there''s too many fixtures it''s because you entered too many cups. Is that not right?"


    I nodded. "Yes, it is. It''s a bit mad how all the cup matches fall at the same time. From October ninth to November thirteenth we had seven matches and only one was in the league. But we''ll do it again. We have players who need game time and the goal is to improve the squad every year. Not just the first eleven but the squad. Next year we''ll go deeper in every cup. Please, everyone, have a seat. Grab a sausage roll. Make yourselves at home."


    "Why did you want to enter the Welsh Cup?" This was a raven-haired superparent called Gwen who had been one of the more standoffish with me but she had thawed somewhat when Meghan had appeared. The Butcher of Burnage was very much the Chorlton Charmer. Why was a player from Manchester City helping sell the Chester vision? The parents didn''t ask and we didn''t explain and that seemed to work great. When the players had finished their warmups, Meghan had gone to gatecrash Jackie''s pre-match team talk. Femi, who turned fierce on match days and wanted everything to be very serious, always cracked a big smile when Meghan was around. Maybe it was because the young woman was one of the few players in the country substantially better than her.


    Gwen was staring at me. I focused. "Why Wales? It started when Brooke was looking at grants," I said, pointing at the side of the pitch where Brooke and Ryan were walking Solly. For a second I worried about the documentary cameras and mics that had been set up to capture the experience of the five girls, but I remembered I would have final say on which footage was ever shown. I could speak freely. "Our stadium is in Wales and there are grants to develop Welsh football and I thought, well, why not? We''re going to develop players from all over and some of them are bound to be Welsh. I don''t need to actively look for Welsh players. Right? But that didn''t last all that long. I started to get itchy thinking about it."


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "Itchy?"


    "You know, sort of... This feeling that I was missing the point somehow. Itchy. The whole Wales thing started as a technicality but the more I went around Flintshire and Denbighshire the more I saw opportunity. Lots of talent, not much in the way of great facilities, not loads of strong brands we can''t compete against. Right now, the women don''t have the capacity to put out two completely different starting elevens with no loss of quality, but we will, and I can imagine having a mostly Welsh lineup that competes in the Welsh Cup. It''ll be strange at first but everyone will get used to it. And I''m thinking if we ever start an academy, we''d put it under the Welsh FA''s umbrella. It might help protect us from being pillaged by Premier League teams as would happen if we set up in England. Yeah, anyway, I know it''s not completely logical but if someone in Wales is going to give me money to build the football pitches I need, I''ll give him half an under twenty side and the next Gareth Bale. No big deal. I don''t mind where players are from, do I? If I could put together a Champions League winning team from ten miles around the stadium, I''d do that." I smiled. "But I might have to throw the net a fraction wider. That means Cheshire and Wales."


    This speech hit home with some of the parents, but Gwen didn''t seem ever likely to join the Cult of Max, and that was weirdly a problem because she had some kind of sway over the others. "The girls are smitten, that''s for sure. Letting them ride the team bus was clever. And now they''re in the pre-match."


    "I just thought, what would I have liked at their age? I mean, you want to see things from the inside, don''t you? Anyway, it''s only fair to let them know what the vibe is. We do things different." I remembered the text chain from earlier. I spent a few minutes outlining my struggles to change the culture so we could welcome talent like Dani.


    This was a hit, even with Gwen, but she was fixated on stuff that didn''t really matter. "I don''t quite understand why you want to sign our girls in the middle of January. Why not January first? Give them more time to integrate sooner?"


    I sighed and tried to make eye contact with as many of them as poss while shit got real. "That''s politics. Not everyone in Chester wants us to use our limited resources to develop Welsh football or even Welsh footballers. Right now my position is very solid and I can do whatever I want on the football side, pretty much, but while there''s a risk of a takeover there''s an equivalent risk to any players I bring in that the ethos and culture they sign up to isn''t the one that''s there at the end of January. I know your daughters are more or less happy at their current clubs and I''m not going to take them away from that just for some idiot to scrap the women''s team two weeks later. No chance. I''d rather make myself look unprofessional now than let that happen to them. By mid-January the situation will be resolved, permanently. That''s absolutely a guarantee." I had a micro-reverie about what was going to happen at the Fans Forum, but blinked it away. "Regime change is a risk at any football club, whether it''s new owners, managers, or coaches. At least this time we get the luxury of knowing the date it might happen. Of knowing the date it won''t happen. I''m just being extra cautious. Your girls are too talented to waste a year at a failed club. Let''s take two or three weeks to make sure their next move is the right one."


    Another mum spoke up. "Don''t you worry someone else will snap them up in the meantime?"


    "Not really. They won''t get a better offer. I don''t think a better offer exists." Shit! I''d done well being serious and sober but I''d got cocky. That particular mum didn''t mind it but I felt a glare from Gwen.


    The accountant dude said, "You''ve got the fun and the energy and the excitement but Wrexham have movie stars and that club is actually Welsh."


    I smiled. He thought it was a difficult topic but it was actually a tap-in. "I looked at the Wrexham men''s squad recently and they''ve got like thirty-five players in it and three are Welsh. They have as many Scots as Welsh, and like seven Irish lads. Maybe they''re going hard at creating a future Welsh core in the youth system but I''ve not seen any evidence of that. Look at their actions, not at their flag. They''re buying ready-made players to get them up the leagues as fast as poss and that''s probably the right thing for what they''re doing. Strike while the iron is hot and all that, but they''re not a rival to me in youth recruitment. Not in the slightest. The average age of their new signings is like, thirty-six! If you''re fifteen you''d have to be crazy to go there when I''ve actually used fourteen teenagers in the men''s first team this season."


    "Fourteen?" he said.


    "Fourteen," I said. The players emerged from the pavilion and walked or ran onto the pitch, as per their superstitions. The girls I wanted to sign stayed behind and took up their seats next to me and their parents. They had wanted to stand or even go to our dugout but Angel had told them the cameras were all set up and it''d be a shame if they missed their chance to be in her documentary. After the bus ride and seeing the dressing room and Jackie''s team talk, the five were absolutely buzzing. They wanted some of this. Job done. Well played, Max.


    Jay Cope emerged from the pavilion and waved at me. I gave him a Maxy Two-Thumbs in return. "That''s Jay Cope, the men''s team manager here at West. Bit of a whizzkid. There were rumours flying around Manchester about this amazing young manager and they were all true. I haven''t actually seen him manage yet, because our teams play at the same times, but West''s men haven''t lost yet and are ten points clear or something mad like that. He was a good investment."


    Gwen wasn''t interested in Jay and wanted to bring the conversation back to Wales. A common trait, I was learning, amongst a certain type of Welsh person. "You put your money where your mouth is when it comes to the young players, that much is obvious. Still, though, if Ryan Reynolds calls us tomorrow, I think he would have a fair shot at turning the girls'' heads."


    I shrugged. "Sure. But then that''s not a footballing decision."


    The accountant said, "I''ve researched you. You don''t think much of Wrexham."


    "That''s not true," I said. "I love what''s happened to the town, the people. I like the documentary. It''s all great unless you have to watch the matches." I chuckled. "It''s not my kind of football but even then, they''re usually high-scoring games. You''re as likely to watch a five-all as a one-nil. My point is only that the new owners aren''t in competition with me. Their USP is fame. Look at their sponsors! They''ve got better sponsors than most Prem teams. I read that the owners have tripled the club''s income already. That''s awesome. A club''s budget correlates pretty strongly with how well they do. Triple the budget, you pretty much triple the strength of the team.


    "So that''s no joke, what they''ve done already. But Crawley got promoted and Wrexham didn''t and that''s because the Crawley manager called and asked me how to beat Wrexham." I laughed. "My USP is football. I''m crazy about player development. Bout a month ago I was checking in on a training session and I spotted a player I didn''t think was improving fast enough. The coach says yeah, he''s been really up and down in matches, too. One day he''s a world beater, the next he''s garbage. I ask him to poke around, dig a little deeper, without stressing the kid. Few weeks go by, boom! We''ve got an answer.


    "Turns out, the kid is colour blind. Some matches the kits are too similar and he struggles to tell the teams apart. Sometimes it''s the referee! We looked at some footage and you can clearly see him get the ball, look for the ref, and if the ref is behind him he plays a forward pass. If he doesn''t know where the ref is, he retreats, plays it safe, because if he passes to the ref everyone will know there''s something wrong with him. Think about our training sessions. A coach is asking him to run from the yellow cone to the orange cone and pass to someone wearing a red bib on top of a blue shirt. It all looks the same to him! It''s stupid when you think about it, but that''s the point - no-one thinks about it.


    "Okay so after a few minutes I sort of got the point already but I did some extra research and it''s not just an issue for my players. Eight percent of men have some kind of colour blindness so it''s like when we wear kits that clash with our opponents, eight percent of the male fans can''t tell what''s going on! It''s not a big issue for the women but we have to assume eight percent of our male players are taking an extra half a second every time they get the ball while they double check who''s who."


    "You could get them tested," suggested Gwen.


    "Yeah, when I''ve got lobster money. For now it''s cheaper to just fix the problem. I called all the coaches in and told them what I''d learned and showed them some of the drills we were doing as seen by someone who can''t tell red from green. Run from the grey to the grey and pass to the grey! We''re not giving them a chance, right? It''s amazing the colour blind kids even got this far when they''re set up to fail. As a club we''ve got to change how we coach and that means buying new equipment and rethinking our drills and instructions. In an ideal session it''s not the yellow and orange cones, it''s the short ones and the tall ones. We''ve bought striped bibs. We call ahead of every match and get the oppo to send us a picture of the exact kit they''ll be wearing and we put it through an online tool to tell us what a colour blind person sees and we pick our kits accordingly."


    "It''s a lot of work," said the dad.


    "Mostly it''s one batch of work up front and then a few reminders to make sure we don''t slip back to the old ways. But good coaches love coaching and these changes have incontrovertibly made them better." The curse had told me so - quite a few of my staff had added a point to their Coaching Outfield Players score in the past month. They were getting through to eight percent of their male participants in a way they never had before. Seeing those numbers go up had been electric. I wanted to find all the barriers! Every problem was an opportunity! My heart pounded just thinking about it. "If we''re the only club that can properly develop colour blind players that''s a huge advantage for us. Seeing that my players aren''t reaching their targets drives me bonkers.


    "What''s better for a club, Ryan Reynolds tripling a club''s income or me spotting that a kid''s progress has stalled? Almost certainly the first one. With money, a club can grow much faster. But if you''re that kid, I think you''d rather be at my club. That''s my pitch in a nutshell. If your daughter needs something, we''ll move heaven and earth to give it to her. All right, Chester! Let''s do this."


    Peep! The ref whistled and the game started.


    One of the parents said, "What about the boy?"


    "Who?" I said.


    "The colour blind boy. How is he now?"


    I smiled. "He''s mad at us. We subbed him off when he''d scored two goals. Wanted to get his hat trick." I shook my head. "They''re worse than the first teamers, some of those brats."


    "He''s not grateful for the changes you made?"


    "Probably he is but that was last week, wasn''t it? What have you done for me lately?" I laughed again. "They''re all about the next pass, the next drill, the next match. It''s my job to look at the big picture." As I said that, I realised I didn''t fully believe it. "I do try to get my players to think in bigger time units. One week is two matches. That''s already better. I''m leaving you out on Tuesday so you can play on Saturday. They don''t like it but they understand it. We''re going to be busy in January so I''m letting you rest in December. That works great on players with families. And I try to put everything into the context of the season. We lost to Forest Green and it was just one of the shittest days ever. Like, nothing good came from it. But I tell myself the goal of the season isn''t to beat Forest Green, it''s to get promoted. We''re just about on track. From the outside, it looks like we''re chugging a load of copium but you''ve got to believe in what you''re doing so you can ride these disappointments. I can tell you we''re number one in the league for happiness. Grimsby are running away with the league but they''re absolutely miserable."


    Meghan came back from the away team dugout where she had left Kisi. "When are you going to hire some women for these women''s teams?"


    I missed the point of what she was saying entirely. "I''m trying to sign five right now. Sit down and shut your gob for a bit."


    "Budge up."


    "No way. I''m a manspreader." We jiggled around on the seats until we got comfortable. Chester''s new stadium would have nice, big seats to accommodate modern bums. "Do you miss Youngster?"


    "Why? He''s only been gone ten minutes." My client and walking lottery ticket had spent the week down in London training with the members of Ghana''s under twenty squad who were based in Europe. Without him, we had smashed AFC Fylde four-nil, but he might have been useful against Forest Green Rovers.


    We had won seven, drawn five, lost seven. I was heartily sick of those games where I had to rely on Omari, Cole, or Sharky to do things they couldn''t consistently do. The dropoff from my first eleven to my reserves was still shocking.


    Still, I told myself it was good news that one of my starters had been recognised by his country and had missed two matches to attend a glorified passing drill. It would lead to all sorts of future opportunities. Pass the copium bong, please!


    "Any word?"


    Meghan tapped on her phone''s screen without even realising she''d done it. No new messages. "He enjoyed it. They pray before every training session."


    "This guy''s priorities. Wow, wait a minute, what''s this?" I shot to my feet, went to the rail around the pitch, and gesticulated. "Hey, hey! What''s this?"


    "What? What?" said Gwen, panicked by my sudden eruption.


    "My dude is managing the women! Jay Cope! He''s the men''s manager. He can''t do this. What''s he playing at?"


    "So?" said Meghan. "You managed the men''s and women''s teams for ages. Chester are still miles better and Jackie is mint. Sit down, Max. God, you''re such a drama queen when the cameras are on you."


    Right, the cameras. The parents. The high-PA quintet. I sat down, leaning forward, cursing the position of the ''VIP section''. We were behind one of the goals and we had a pretty mediocre view. Not only that, but I had guests and was supposed to entertain them so I could run off with their daughters. One of the volunteers from West went past. "Jane! Jane. Why is Copey in charge?"


    "Er... Helen''s away for the weekend and he was keen to fill in."


    "Keen, was he? Thanks." I felt in my bones that this was going to go very badly wrong.


    "What''s wrong?" said Mari, Gwen''s daughter.


    "Erm..." I said, rubbing my head. "The men lost to FGR last time out. Annoying, but we can still get to the playoffs because there are forty-six games and crazy results happen all the time. The women only have twenty-two games so each one gets way more important. The problem with having one promotion spot is you can''t afford any slip-ups. Like, Chester last season scraped through by the skin of our teeth. If we lose a single league match, that could be that. The season could be over. Even a draw today would be awful. Cheadle Stingers had a bad day against us at our place, but they''ll be hyped for the return match. If we draw today and lose to Cheadle, that''s it." I clicked my fingers.


    I didn''t add that if we failed to progress up the leagues, we would lose our best players. Charlotte''s brilliance had not gone unnoticed, and rivals were finally starting to realise that Dani was worth a little extra effort.


    Meghan tutted. "This guy Cope. He doesn''t work with the players, he doesn''t know them, he can''t just waltz in and get them humming. You''re such a drama queen, seriously." She huffed dramatically, and the mood lightened everywhere except in my head.


    The curse told me that Jay had set West up in a 3-5-2, matching Jackie''s preferred formation. That was strange, because we had used a back four in most of our matches. Had Jay chosen his formation expecting us to start with 4-4-2? Or did he somehow know our plans? I got another little dose of cold sweat. What Meghan didn''t know was that while Jackie knew what to do - he had Tactics 15 - he was often slow in responding to events. Jay Cope had Tactics 19 and from what I''d heard from my loanees, he tweaked and changed his systems almost as fast as I did.


    Jay Cope with a CA 30 team versus Jackie with CA 40. It shouldn''t really have been much of a contest. And it wasn''t. For four minutes.


    Smith-Smithe controls superbly. She drops a shoulder and embarks upon a dribble.


    She slaloms past one. Past two!


    Smith-Smithe combines with Angel. The winger is at the byline.


    Left-footed cross...


    Bea Pea''s header...


    Saved!


    A wonderful start from the league leaders.


    I relaxed.


    But then...


    Then West''s tactics screens started to dance. The Jay Cope Shuffle. The Hokey Copey - put your left mid in and your right mid out.


    First to change were the two midfielders on the right. They got thick lines around them and I gawped as I went into the WibWob screens to work out what Jay had done. Nothing too dramatic - he had shifted them to get tighter to Dani. She would be put under pressure more quickly when she got the ball. Perhaps she wouldn''t get the ball at all.


    A minute later, a thick circle appeared on the left midfielder. WibWob told me she had been pushed further forward. After making a defensive change in one part of the pitch, try to squeeze more attacking threat elsewhere. That particular move was like looking in a mirror. But there was no need for a mirror - I''d spent time with Jay talking about how I managed games. It seemed like he''d been paying attention!


    I shifted uneasily. In signing a super manager for West, had I torpedoed Jackie''s season? I shook the thought loose - Meghan was right. Jay had barely spent any time with these ladies.


    But... but but but.


    When I was pitching the idea of him managing West, Jay and I had gone to see West''s women play. Jay had very good scouting numbers anyway, but I had talked about the strengths and weaknesses of every player. Now he was using that information to fucking optimise them! Match ratings were going up all over Chorlton. Oh, boy.


    More thick white lines appeared around the three centre backs. Jay was encouraging them to spread wide when West had the ball. Same as I''d been doing! It was a great plan against Bea Pea because she would try to press regardless of the distances and she would be knackered long before the end of the ninety minutes.


    The changes kept coming. The third central midfielder moved to DM. It was clearly intended to combat Charlotte, who was threatening to dictate the entire match, but there was something off about it. Having three centre backs and a DM put two players within feet of each other. The middle centre back was sort of trapped like a badly-placed pawn in chess. There was nothing really for her to do except win headers. She had no purpose in an attacking sense.


    I felt great relief. "Okay," I said, relaxing back into my chair.


    "What?" said Meghan.


    I was aware of Gwen and the cameras. "He''s good but he''s not, like, magic or anything."


    "Who?" said Meghan, who was strangely unaware of the true drama and was talking to the parents about how Kisi was her best mate and she had chosen Chester over Man City because it was mint and the vibes were lit.


    "Oh, shit," I said, getting to my feet and walking around with my hands on my head. Jay had shifted the DM back into the midfield five... and moved the third centre back into the DM slot. He was using my 2-6-2! In a real match! "This guy''s unreal."


    "What''s happening?" said one of the girls. If everything went according to my plan I wanted to call them the Ffamous Five, the double F hinting at their nationality.


    "He''s going man-to-man with Angel and Bea Pea, which is dangerous but brave. That''s trusting your players to win duels so you can get an advantage somewhere else. It''s worth the risk overall but most managers don''t have the eggs to do it. He''s got a DM in, and now they can properly scrap in the centre of the park. Come on, Jackie, spot it. Spot it and respond."


    "Why don''t you go and tell him?" said Gwen, a question that carried serious manager vibes.


    I tried to smile at her while staring in horror at the pitch. I might have got it the wrong way round. "I''m er... I''m a perfectionist and a control freak and I have to learn to let people get on with their jobs. I try to stay away from most of our games because I can''t hack it. Seeing an inefficiency is like a sort of actual pain in my gut. The solution is right there! And look, see, no-one even realises there''s a problem. Dani''s trying to up her nutmeg count. We need to get the ball and pass West out of the game. We''re playing like we''re four-nil up. There''s no urgency and it''s making me crazy. This is quite bad. This could get bad." I found myself punching my palm as a way to release some stress energy. "But then there''s letting people find their own solutions. Jackie and the players, too. It''s not like I''m always right. Nothing worked against Forest Green. Could be good to stick to the plan and learn to cope with this new challenge."


    "How to cope with Cope," said Meghan. She wasn''t worried.


    I looked for the players with the highest standards - Charlotte and Bonnie - and they looked chill. "Oh, shit," I said.


    ***


    West were in the ascendancy, now, and were knocking the ball around nicely, stretching the pitch and making us tired. Jackie was in full rabbit-in-a-headlight mode. I would have instructed Bea Pea to stop pressing because her Condition was dwindling at an alarming rate. Pippa was blowing, too. Most teams didn''t try to compete with us in midfield so this level of effort was unusual for her.


    I was getting more and more agitated and for some reason, Gwen decided to talk me down.


    "Do you have roles in mind for these girls?"


    "The Ffamous Five? Yeah. Two defenders, two midfielders, a forward. That''s mint, that. That''s the basis of a team. They''ll default to the sixteens at first but we''ll get them involved with the first team as much as poss."


    "What!" cried the nearest one. "Really?"


    Her smile burned off some of my stress. "Yeah. Jackie picks the teams but I can tell him to take any old rando at training." I twinkled at her but remembered her parents were right there. "If you join in Jan it''s whatever sixteens or eighteens matches we''ve got going on, first team training, and first team minutes near the end of the season. Next season starts slow, you get cup minutes, you train hard, we see where you are. This time next year you could be as good as Charlotte there. Course, she''ll have bombed on but that''s good, too. You need people around you can learn from. One of the worst things for a kid is to go to a club where they''re the best player. The boys at Chester are protected from that because they''ve got WibRob, and he''s safe because he''s got me. Shit! Come on, Dani! Track back! God, she gets complacent. Doesn''t she realise we''re under the cosh?"


    "No because you''re not," said Meghan. "It''s fine. It''s a midfield slugfest. Pretty balanced but you''ve got better players. Whatever''s in your head is in your head."


    I scratched my scalp with every fingernail. "Mate. In every other match, even against Stingers, we had five shots to zero by this stage. Today we haven''t got into West''s penalty area. How has no-one noticed that? Their goalie could have a picnic. If this looks balanced to you, get your inner ear checked."


    Meghan rolled her eyes but turned to look at the pitch more intently.


    Gwen said, "Do you own this club? This West?"


    "I''m not allowed," I said. "So no."


    "But you chose five new players and picked the manager and that woman came to tell you about the broken toilets."


    "I''ve got loads of skills," I said, from a distance. A new thought had occurred to me. Jay had relentlessly tweaked and optimised... and stopped. Why? It seemed ominous. "I wanted a place I could send talented players to train them up." I squinted, but couldn''t see Jay Cope''s face. How much was he enjoying this? A lot, probably. "I grew up just over there." I pointed. "This is my home. I wanted to give something back but the FA won''t allow it. So I gave almost all the shares away." I snapped back into the present. "Man United''s owners took a billion pounds out of the club. Loads of owners buy clubs to do money laundering. So many sell the training ground and the stadium and do a runner. It''s like anyone can own a football club except someone who''ll look after it."


    "There''s a conflict of interest. Two teams you have an interest in are playing each other right now. There''s a reason you''re not allowed."


    "I know. But this match is a one-off. The clubs will never be in the same division again and if I went to eleven Mancunian women and said, hey ladies I need you to lose today I''d lose a few teeth. Of course the competition needs to have integrity but I want to do something on a fifty-year time horizon. Football is totally short-term. Buy this player, sack that manager. Imagine fifty years of doing the right thing. I could spend one week a year scouting South Manchester and the rest of the time going into schools teaching boys about haircuts and that would still be the most successful club of its size in the world."


    "How do you do it?"


    "Just magic, isn''t it? Just a gift. I see which players are good. But honestly sometimes it really, really does feel like a curse. I need to own a club so I can really, really do what''s right for the players and staff. There''s this lad, Vivek. Sixteen and never played organised football but I thought he was talented. If I said to someone, give that kid a chance they would say no, he''s too old and he''s clearly shit. But I was the boss so I said do it. And two years later he''s playing for Jay Cope in his all-conquering West Didsbury side. By the time he''s twenty-one, Vivek will be a really, really good National League player. But who''s going to let me take a five-year view on a player? Chester will, but I could get sacked at any time in those five years. So for proper, genuine continuity I need to have complete control and that means ownership." I sighed.


    "You know what the answer is, don''t you?" Gwen was giving me a very intense look, now. She was super interesting to look at. I wanted to see a photo of her aged twenty because I suspected she was as attractive now as she''d ever been and she was keeping fit while working and raising a family and probably volunteering in a local food bank or something.


    "Own West without owning it."


    She shook her head. "You need to buy a team in a different country."


    I smiled. "I know exactly what you mean. The Isles of Scilly. The league is two teams. You''re guaranteed a runners-up medal at least! But it''s associated with the English FA."


    "Buy a Welsh team."


    Time stood still. Water that had collected in a blocked gutter dripped, dripped, and hovered. Gwen''s hair, which had been gently fluttering in the breeze, fixed into place. My own heart went pa but not dam.


    "Oi! Cut that out you twat!"


    I turned to see Bea Pea beefing with a West defender. There was some pushing and shoving. Are we allowed to call it handbags when women do it?


    "Buy a Welsh team," I mumbled. "There would be no conflict of interest. The Welsh FA don''t have beef with me. I''ve not had much contact with them but they seem to be very interested in player development. Like, they''re actually interested in football and not just trying to get invited onto superyachts and all that shit. Huh."


    "What are you thinking?"


    "It''s easy enough to go into a small club and upgrade the players and manager and get a quick promotion or two. The Welsh want players for the national team, though. The Welsh league isn''t good enough to produce world class players. We could get so far but then have to sell the players so they could get to the next level."


    "The FAW are keen to improve the league. Having a rival to The New Saints would help."


    "The New Saints. They''re that team that wins the league every year."


    "Almost every year, yes. And they get into Europe every year and make a million quid every year." She did something surprising, then - she got cheeky. "If you''re as good as you think, that money could be yours. Every year for fifty years. Or are you full of shit?"


    I laughed. "Are you trying to dare me into buying a Welsh club? It''s working, to be fair." I thought about what would happen if I did go down that route. "Nah. It''ll just get political. Someone will decide they don''t like me and they''ll block me from doing things and make my life hard. It''s just not worth the hassle."


    "But it''s worth the hassle of bringing five girls and their families across to Manchester for a match and a trip to the Trafford Centre?"


    "Absolutely. Your daughter is really talented. Seeing her progress is so motivational it''s worth the effort of dealing with administrators."


    "Are they so terrible?"


    "Yeah."


    "Things would be better with you in charge, I suppose."


    "Things would get so much better so fast your head would explode."


    Gwen laughed. For some reason she had completely warmed to me. "Okay. I''m sold."


    "Did I just get the job? Okay! My first action as president of FIFA is to erect a hundred-foot statue of myself in all member nations."


    She gently slapped me on the upper arm. "Stop being silly. If you''re still in charge after the coup, I''ll bring my daughter to Chester."


    "Oh!" My smile came easily, even as Charlotte played a pass that went no-where near Bea Pea. "Top! That''s great." I went internal.


    "What are you doing?"


    "Huh? Oh. Sorry, I was planning the training schedules."


    Gwen didn''t blink. "For the end of January?"


    "For the rest of the season. And next. Yeah, rude, sorry. I can''t help it sometimes."


    Gwen said she forgave me, then went into the pavilion to get some refreshments from the trestle table. One of the other parents went in, too. She came back out a minute later, whispered to her daughter, and there was an excited squeal. Another one was in! Gwen had taken over the Meghan role!


    The first half drew to a close with the scores stuck at nil-nil. West''s players were cock-a-hoop going back to the dressing room, though. They knew what they had done. Jackie and Jay came to the pavilion and waited for the girls to freshen up before going into the dressing room to give the half-time talks. Jackie looked like he''d been jabbed in the face. Jay was chill. So chill he popped inside to get a sausage roll and ate it with a very contented expression.


    I needed to move, so I took Solly from MD - where had Brooke and Ryan disappeared to? - and did laps of the pitch. One of the few fans in attendance asked if she could fall into step with me and I spent five minutes reassuring her that I wasn''t going to let anything bad happen to her club and the new ownership structure was to get the FA off my case and there was nothing sinister behind it.


    She listened patiently. "I liked what you said after the Swindon match," she said. "The first game I ever went to was an FA Cup replay. They shouldn''t take things away from us. It doesn''t belong to them."


    I nodded, but couldn''t say anything. Did her final words contain a double meaning?


    I took Solly back to the pavilion with me - he had walked enough. I thought he would lie by my feet like a good boy, but he jumped onto the accountant''s lap and made it clear he intended to stay there.


    "Haha," said the guy. "He needs a good sleep. Just hope the match isn''t too exciting!"


    ***


    The match wasn''t exciting. It was a slow, grinding, nerve-shredder as our season drifted towards a huge iceberg that only I could see.


    Jackie had made a few tweaks at half time, and after a few minutes Jay counter-tweaked. Jackie responded, and Jay responded again. To me, it was absolutely fascinating and I kept pointing out Jay''s ideas but nobody gave a shit.


    What most intrigued me about Jay was not just his minute-by-minute adjustments but the feeling I had that he was playing the match as a whole. He was building towards something.


    It clicked.


    "Oh," I groaned.


    "What?" said Gwen. She was eating a chocolate-coated ice lolly that was not available anywhere inside the stadium.


    "We need to win. That''s his plan. He will use our aggression against us. If it''s still nil-nil with twenty minutes to go, we''ll get more and more attacking."


    "Ugh," said Meghan. "Counters."


    "Right. He''ll dick us on counters."


    "Language," complained Gwen.


    "Sorry. He''ll dick us on counter-attacks. God, I should have seen it coming. I do this."


    "I don''t quite understand. You think he is waiting until the end to try to win?"


    "Totally. We are genuinely a good team. Much better than his. But we have this weakness of getting complacent. If he scored in the first minute, we''d have woken up and we''d be winning five-one, now. No, his best bet is to score after we start pushing. We''re attacking anyway, but we''ll do so with less conviction. It''s clever. Ah! And that''s why he didn''t change the strikers. He didn''t want to optimise them but he didn''t want us to realise his plan so he left them as default. Shit, he''s good."


    I strode along the width of the pitch trying to tell myself it would be all right. Trying to tell myself that Dani would get back in the game or Femi would score from a corner.


    But I quickly switched into crisis management mode. If we drew this, we would need to beat Cheadle away. It was that simple. Beat Cheadle twice and it didn''t matter. As long as we beat West at home... But if Jay wanted to get my attention by managing in that game, too...


    I froze as a traitorous thought popped into my skull.


    Jay was a better football manager than Jackie.


    That''s what it all boiled down to.


    Jackie was a better coach, they were similar in some other respects, but Jay was a better in-game manager. He had four more points of Tactics and he was bolder, braver, and quicker. He was fucking formidable.


    It looks like Chester have adopted a more attacking approach.


    Here it was! With twenty minutes to go - terribly conventional - Jackie was making his changes. Pippa off, Kisi on. A shattered Bea Pea off, a fresh Julie McKay on.


    Jay Cope didn''t wait half a second to make his changes - he subbed off his two strikers and put on two fast wingers. They took positions ahead of the left mid and right mid, who he moved back one zone. He moved his central midfielder forward into a CAM slot, but on the tactics screen this position came with an arrow. After some investigation I took it to mean that the With Ball position was different enough from the Without Ball position to necessitate some kind of marking on the Overview screen. After a couple of minutes, Jay had tweaked the formation even further, resulting in more arrows: one bringing the DM back into the third centre back slot and ones going from the wingers towards goal.


    West''s formation was crazy, now. This was the wild West and Jay Cope was the sheriff.


    For once I felt nothing but sympathy for Jackie - he saw that he was walking into a trap but what could he do? A point was pretty useless from this match. He had to go for the win. He had to play into Jay''s hands.


    Good play from Chester. Charlotte to Yalley.


    Yalley has space. She moves forward. Now she''s surrounded.


    Loose pass.


    The ball is hit over the top. Space for West''s winger.


    She lures Femi towards her... and chips the ball to the far side.


    The left winger has a chance... but plays it just wide!


    "Oh my God," I said, sweating now that our hopes and dreams seemed to be on the line. That had been far too close.


    Femi thumps a long pass forward. Quite aimless. Bonnie yells at her.


    The ball''s out for a throw-in. West are in no hurry to take it.


    Finally, play is restarted. Good work by Luxury Bell to win the ball. She plays it to Femi.


    A much better pass, this time. Into the midfield.


    Smith-Smithe accelerates past her marker. Will she go solo?


    No, she cuts back and brings Yalley into the move.


    Yalley clips the ball to the back post.


    Angel leaps and wins the header...


    Great contact...


    It clips the crossbar and bounces down.


    Did it cross the line? Referee says no!


    Chester are furious. They''re chasing the referee.


    But the game is going on!


    West with the long diagonal again. Danger here!


    It''s a repeat of the previous move. The left winger has a chance to score.


    She rounds the goalkeeper...


    Rolls it towards the goal line... She wheels away to celebrate.


    But Femi slides in and blocks it! She came out of nowhere!


    This is breathless stuff.


    The parents had started out neutral but they were taking sides now. Some wanted Chester to win because they had met some of the characters, but some wanted West to snatch it because they''d played with so much heart.


    More chances came and went, raising the tension, heightening the drama, but then in the 83rd minute, Jackie finally did something about this constant menace coming from the wings. He switched to 4-4-2. Jay immediately switched to his favourite formation, 4-3-3, and attacked Chester''s strongest point - the centre.


    It took Jackie a minute to realise what had changed, and in that minute, West scored. Bonnie and Femi found themselves against three forwards, and for once the left winger was clinical.


    One-nil to West!


    Chester''s reaction was commendable, but in my opinion, far too late. Bonnie and Femi rallied the troops. Jackie switched back to the default 3-5-2.


    Chester attacked with quiet fury, dribbling to get space, playing one-twos, trying to get into slapping position. Angel won a high cross but Julie couldn''t fashion a shot on goal. Dani got to the byline and thrashed the ball across goal, but every Chester player had tried to lose their marker by making the same move away from goal. Charlotte hit a curling shot that looked destined for the top corner until the goalie got a fingertip to it.


    Thus were the margins.


    Jay fidgeted with his players, but I knew full well his part was over and it was in the hands of his players, now. They were motivated as anything and fought for everything. They nearly got a second goal from a counter, they nearly conceded from a free kick, but the ref put them out of their misery with the final whistle. They celebrated noisily.


    One-nil to the team I used to own. For Chester, four defeats in five games. Our season was collapsing.


    "You saw that coming after ten minutes," said Gwen, trying once again to cheer me up.


    "Yeah."


    She pointed. "Those Chester girls are fantastic. You don''t have to be an expert to see how well coached they are. West were lucky."


    "It''s a cliche but sometimes you make your own luck. I''m disappointed with their mentality. They can''t play shit for seventy minutes and hope to achieve things."


    "They''re young. Let them learn."


    I made an inadvertent tutting noise. "Yeah, maybe. I''m just... It''s a setback. Another one."


    "After a negative, you need a positive."


    "Some copium? We won the expected goals battle. We''ve got the best Malaysian pot noodle partner. That kind of thing?"


    She laughed. "I think..." She scratched the space by the side of her eye. "I think Chester Women is a new team and they''re favourites to win the league, even after today. Two promotions in two seasons. I think you''re cruising through the FA Youth Cup. I think West Didsbury''s Men are going to finish the season undefeated. I think the feedback from lots of people inside the game is that Max Best is the next big thing."


    I scoffed. "Jay Cope, you mean."


    She smiled. "You found him, didn''t you?" She looked thoughtful again. "I spoke to one insider who''s been following your career. She said ''everything he touches turns to gold''. I think I''d like to see you own a team in North Wales and turn it into a talent factory. You''d be good for Welsh football and you wouldn''t have strife with the FAW. In fact, they would support you."


    "How do you know?"


    She shook her head, smiling broadly. She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card.


    It was branded with the Football Association of Wales logo and font and in the centre it said: Gwendolyn Hughes - Chief Engagement Officer.


    I flipped the card upside down in case it said "LOL" on the back. It didn''t.


    "Are you saying... The FA of Wales... will work with me? Not against me?"


    "That''s what I''m saying, yes. Our goal is to increase participation and strengthen the national team. You can help us with both." She stared at some aspect of the scene - the floodlights, the grass, the players walking arm in arm in triumph or defeat - and grew wistful. "I want my daughter to play at a club like yours, but in Wales. Near our home."


    I panicked slightly. "Oh, there''s a misunderstanding. It''ll take me years to get any new club up to speed. Your daughter should still come to Chester."


    A thin smile. "I know. But I would like it. We all would. And that''s my job. I have to make it happen so someone else''s daughter is as excited to join her local team as Mari is to leave." She stuck her tongue in the side of her cheek, which I took to mean she was controlling her emotions. Businesslike once more, she said, "Why don''t you come to our HQ one day and we''ll talk about ways we can help each other?"


    "I''d love to," I said, delighted, stupidly thinking that making friends with an entire Football Association was the most significant thing to come out of the match. "God, this is helping so much. I feel better just knowing someone in charge isn''t antagonistic. How do you say copium in Welsh?"


    "Copiwm," she said.


    "Amazing. Wait. Doesn''t it bother you that I''m beefing with the English FA?"


    She twinkled. "That''s the icing on the cake. It''s only a shame you can''t blast them again."


    "Can''t...? What do you mean?" I said. "Our Second Round match will be live on TV." The hope in her eyes was delicious; I couldn''t believe my luck. The Welsh FA wanted to partner up and they liked it when I attacked their English equivalent. The smile I gave her cured a lot of my ills. "If you thought that interview was explosive, just wait. Bring your FAW mates down and we''ll have a big old party. I''ve got something special planned. Something special and unique. There will be a replay in this year''s FA Cup. I swear it."

 9.7 - The Talented Mr. Replay

    7.


    Tuesday, November 19


    We were approaching the halfway point in the season and it''s fair to say I had mixed feelings. The men''s team were a step away from the glory and riches of the FA Cup Third Round and we were on track in the league. The women were in a slump but the slump revealed how well they had been doing. And the boys were cruising through the Youth Cup.


    I had the chance to sign my first private sponsorship deal, a big summer trip to Brazil was on the cards, and most of my players were various shades of happy.


    With Daddy Star on the horizon I found I couldn''t really enjoy the highs. Given half a chance he would blow everything up.


    Meanwhile, there were still lows. I got calls from Secretary Joe and the admins at West Didsbury that hinted that the FA were looking for dirt on me. I wasn''t breaking any rules now but I had in the past. How malicious did they want to be? Joe also reported a huge increase in demands from the board. They wanted to see our training schedules, our insurance coverage, our agreements with teams we loaned players to. They wanted documents related to our negotiations for the purchase of the stadium - fortunately, none existed. Suffice to say, behind the scenes, James Pond was slipping knives into his belt and stuffing a grenade into every pocket. Gearing up for war.


    The daily grind of running a football club was getting to me. It was supposed to be fun, wasn''t it? But lots of the time it was a hard, stressful job and every pound the club earned was spent before it dropped in our account.


    The truth is that when it came to football, this part of the season was boring. As with our tier six season, we had come out of the being shit phase and were well into the era of competence. There was more competition at the top of the National League so we had a long way to go, but there was no sign of our training slowing down or hitting any caps. We were on track. I had done the work.


    I was bored.


    Fidgety.


    Thinking about transfers. Loan signings. Another Goliath! Someone to come in and shake things up. Give us all a kick up the arse. A jolt of energy.


    And then there was Wales. Beautiful, scenic Wales with its good national team and dogshit football league. Thinking about the mischief I could get up to there filled me with massive energy and excitement which all came crashing down when I realised there was no way they would go for it.


    But still, though. What if...?


    I couldn''t stop smiling when I thought about what if.


    ***


    Tuesday, November 19


    After losing to Forest Green on Saturday, the men''s team had a quick turnaround before another away trip. This one was against FC Halifax Town, yet another phoenix club. The Shaymen had an average CA of 69 so I didn''t hold out much hope of a win and rotated pretty heavily. Sharky, Omari, and Ziggy started and with some help from a dreadfully out of form home striker, they did enough to keep us in the match. At seventy minutes I went on for my usual twenty-minute cameo. There must have been some alignment of the stars because everything went my way. I scored two quick goals to give us a three-two win. It was an impressive shift from the lads, to be honest, because back-to-back away games were really draining.


    On the team bus home I sat alone to decompress. While munching on little blocks of cheese I checked our fitness, morale, and the state of our CA.


    Fitness was good. Thanks to the Brig''s intuition for how hard he could push individuals, we were finishing games stronger than most opponents. Like any team we picked up knocks and aches and strains but as with last season, our treatment room was quiet - all our rotation and preventative work was paying off. Climate experts were saying it was going to be a very damp winter and lots of matches would be called off, so I planned to rotate much less in the coming weeks. The weather would give our first eleven the rest they needed while the reserves trained as hard as poss.


    Morale was strong - the players knew we had just won three of the hardest points we were likely to get that season, and we all seemed to be over the unpleasantness that stank up the dressing room after the Swindon match.


    That day, after making my frankly hilarious public offer to replay the match, I had returned to the dressing room to find a mutiny was brewing. A few key players loudly suggested I had taken my crusade too far. They were pissed that they had worked so hard for that win and that prize money and I would so casually throw it away. In reply, I went thermonuclear. Absolutely ballistic. I gave myself a splitting headache and my throat was sore for days after, but I''d made the point - this was my ship and I would steer it how I wanted and if their principles could be bought so cheaply why pretend to even have any? I''d shouted that and much more and morale had collapsed.


    But then, of course, the lads went home and saw that the entire fucking country agreed with me. They saw Gary Lineker calling me the voice of the true football fan and they heard radio show listeners demand I receive the Nobel Prize for Sport while the hosts said there was no such thing and that my offer had clearly been insincere and impossible.


    When my players realised they''d got the wrong end of the stick and there was, in fact, not going to be a replay, morale climbed back up and the next week''s training was tight. It''s hard to pin down individual factors when it comes to attribute and CA growth but I was pretty sure that screaming in their faces had ticked some kind of box. My manager has the capacity for empathy and kindness? Tick. He has technical expertise? Tick. He can give you a hairdryer blast the likes of which you have never experienced and he could probably batter you? Tick. It had been a long time since I had ragdolled Donny Dorigo after his pathetic penalty miss - maybe I needed to do one temper tantrum per season to inject a healthy dose of fear into the newcomers because since that weekend, training had kicked up a notch and our best eleven had finally broke the CA 60 barrier. We were now on 60.2, to be exact!


    The season was on track. Nothing could derail us. But maybe it''d be fun to pour jet fuel into our engine.


    I got up and knelt on the seats in front of Sandra. I poked my head through the head rests like a little boy. "I''ve got you a present," I said.


    She put her phone down. "Two late goals, three points, seventh in the table?"


    "Are we in the playoff spots? Wow! That''s actually awesome. How far are we behind Barnet?"


    "We''re sixteen points behind Grimsby," she said, which was not what I asked. "Ten behind Barnet," she added.


    I tried to do some calculations. We were CA 60 now and only one of our first teamers had hit his PA limit. By the start of January we might get to CA 63 or so. By March we could have CA 70 in sight. If we could maintain our current rates of improvement we would probably overtake Barnet in CA by the end of the season, especially with Ryan Jack back in the squad. It was going to be virtually impossible to make up a ten-point difference. Barnet had a very good defence, which meant they didn''t lose many games. They picked up points even when they played shit - something we couldn''t do. We could aim for third, though. That was achievable and would bring the playoffs down to two games instead of three. "I think," I said, then nudged closer and lowered my voice. "I think I''m going to do something in January."


    "We know. Save the club from itself."


    "I meant transfers."


    "Oh!"


    I nodded. Project Youth had been a success - while turning the Exit Triallists into proper players we had stayed in contention and if I let the season play out we would be the best team heading into the playoffs, no doubt. But the difference between us and Barnet would be fractional and our squad players were unlikely to come on and be the matchwinner in a playoff final at Wembley. The way things were developing, Chester would still need some magic from me. What if the FA gave me a one-match ban timed for the playoff final? Anything was possible with those bastards. So I really wanted to be sure of winning even if I didn''t play. And, if I''m being really honest with myself, my inability to deal with boredom was a problem. "Things are getting stale around here. Remember we added Goliath to the mix and he gave us a lift? I''m thinking of doing that again."


    Sandra''s poker face failed her again. "Another loan signing? You always talk about how you hate them. It''s dead money."


    "It is dead money. We''re developing someone else''s player when our own resources are so limited. But we''ve turned four rejects into players with genuine value. Sharky will come good, Wisey has already doubled in value, Youngster''s come back from his international trial with a spring in his step. Pascal, Zach, and Carl will get us good fees. We''ve done the grafting and we''ve earned a bit of fun. Don''t you think? All grind and no play makes Max a dull boy. We''ve got space for one really good signing."


    "You''ve been giving our budget away twenty pounds at a time. Who was it this week?"


    "Sharky. Okay, so in retrospect that was unhelpful but it''ll be fine. I might need to beg MD for a few hundred a week extra but if we make it into the third round of the FA Cup that''s a no-brainer. I reckon we get a striker. Someone who can push Henri." My friend had been improving - he was CA 65, now - but he was still going pretty slowly. "I''m going to see what TJ''s got. Imagine if we got someone like Marcus Wainwright for six months. Boomshakalaka!"


    Sandra pulled a face and looked around to check she couldn''t be overheard. "I think I''d prefer a centre back. We''re still quite porous no matter how much we work on the defence." I knew exactly what she meant - that Glenn Ryder was starting to look like the weak link. Everyone else was improving, but he had reached his PA limit. Him and his backup, Steve Alton. Sadly, those limits were already more National League North than National League.


    "Hmm. Okay, well, you know I''d rather win 4-3 than 1-0 but I''ll think about it. Whoever it is, I want to get someone with a bit of character. A bit of personality."


    "The squad might get bloated."


    "We''re going to lend more kids out. Once they''re out of the Youth Cup they''re all gone. Preparation for next season starts now, kinda thing."


    "Oh."


    "Ready for your present?"


    "I thought my new defender was the present."


    "No." I double checked all the numbers in my head. Fitness, morale, CA. "I think the squad''s in good shape. There are some injuries to manage and some guys close to suspensions, but it''s looking okay. I''m tired, though. I want a break. You''re doing the Cheshire Cup next week, but how about you do Dorking this Saturday, too? That gives me most of two weeks off."


    "You''re giving me a league match?"


    "Yep." Dorking were around CA 53 and struggling at the bottom of the table. Sandra and her CA 60 army would give them a good battering.


    "You won''t play?"


    "No, I''ll probably go scouting. You''re on your own. Happy with that?"


    "Very."


    "Top. So after that we''ve got Solihull Moors in the FA Trophy." The Trophy was the cup designed for non-league teams. It was much more important than the Cheshire Cup but much much less important than the FA Cup. "Not a good draw, is it? The weekend after that it''s Yeovil in the FA Cup. Yeovil is obviously the absolute top priority of the whole season until the playoffs."


    "Obviously."


    Winning it would give us a huge injection of prize money, but just as importantly, we would be one of only sixty-four teams left in the competition. Twenty of those would be from the Premier League and twenty-four from the Championship. There were plenty of huge football clubs in those divisions and gate money in the FA Cup was divided between the competing teams, giving us the chance to make an absolute fortune. Anywhere up to a million pounds!


    "So it''s that time again. What do we do about the FA Trophy?"


    Last season, the schedule had been similar and we had decided to abandon the Trophy. It was a shame since the final gets played at Wembley, but given the timing and fact we had been drawn away against one of the top teams in the National League, once again the logical thing to do was to bin it off. I was keen to know if Sandra had reached the same conclusion. She responded by turning her thumb downwards and making a raspberry sound.


    "Wow," I said. "I''m afraid I agree. There''s no point risking Henri and Pascal in that game. So do you want to manage that one?"


    "I''d like to keep my win percentage higher than Ian Evans'' if you don''t mind. You can jump on that grenade."


    "Kay. Strong against Dorking, whatever you want against Congleton, weak against Solihull, mega super strong against Yeovil. Good?"


    "Good."


    ***


    I took a few minutes to think about my battle with Daddy Star. James Pond was trying to set up a date for us to meet. It seemed like it would happen soon. In the meantime, the first skirmishes had very much started.


    It would have been easy to miss, but when you knew where to look the attacks were evident. First, there was an army of social media bots. Their job was to turn positive sentiment into neutral. Not negative, just neutral. For now.


    For example, the Deva Station podcast had a new guest who was absolutely unbelievable in his tactical analysis and he had reframed my offer of a replay into its proper context. The guy was amazing and in the hours after the release of the episode there was a lot of chat from listeners who were sorry they''d misjudged me yet again. But then the bots came, all pitching the idea that ''Ray Hart'' was actually ''Max Best'' using a voice changer. They cited the compelling evidence that our names had identical vowel and consonant constructions. It was bonkers, but it successfully deflected the conversation away from the valid topics Ray Hart had raised and onto ''does Ray Hart exist?''


    Similar things happened on other posts. One that started out praising me for getting Chester in the media and delighting our sponsors turned into a long bicker about whether Ben Cavanagh was 27 or ''nearly 28''. Quite bizarre.


    And there was the strange phenomenon of seemingly random people using identical words and phrases. I found ''spend the Raffi money'' everywhere I went. ''Our stadium'' was always linked linguistically to ''our destiny''. And the phrase ''sugar daddy'' exploded into life. We need a sugar daddy. If only we had a sugar daddy.


    I knew this game from our soon-to-be-former government - these phrases were being seeded in closed Facebook groups, secret Telegram channels, and presumably, face to face in shadowy pubs.


    It was pretty interesting to watch it all happen, but I couldn''t wait for the whole mess to be over. The optimal outcome was that a group of fans would band together and campaign against any takeover. It was all the more reason to wish for a lucrative Third Round tie. A million in the bank would be the ultimate defence against Daddy Star. We can make our own money, lads! We don''t need this prick!


    ***


    XP balance: 2,671


    The November perk dropped immediately after I''d asked Sandra if she wanted to manage against Dorking. The offer was tempting. Very tempting, It was called ''Talent ID'' and it would let me search the player database by CA or PA. An amazing timesaver, but it was overpriced at 4,000 XP.


    I could easily save up for it, but the task would have been a lot easier if I''d turned to Sandra and said, you know what? I''ll manage against Dorking after all. That was what the imps wanted and it was not going to happen. I didn''t like being manipulated and anyway, I had my workflow. When using the player search screen I would set my filters - minimum 10 Positioning for defenders under the age of 23, for example - and manually click through each player. There were worse ways to spend time.


    But perhaps one of the reasons I was feeling slightly uneasy was that, having bought WibWob after such a long pursuit, I didn''t have a clear current objective. There were many perks I wanted - upgrading Playdar would be epic, adding squad lists to my screens would let me check the health and wellbeing of my young players, Contracts 3 would show me who a player''s agent was, and of course I wanted more attributes and formations. Looming over it all was Relationism, which at 30,000 XP would take many months of grinding.


    No, Talent ID wasn''t quite what I wanted. I''d have preferred something that allowed me to use the With Ball and Without Ball screens without getting fatigued. It felt like the curse was adding a stamina drain effect for every player I moved. It probably wasn''t the case; more likely I was just concentrating extra hard and would get used to it.


    Oh, and I would have paid a few hundred XP to get clarity on whether another Bench Boost would be available in the playoffs. Did the playoffs count as their own mini tournament? Or did it count as a continuation of the league? I''d already used my one Bench Boost against Grimsby. Would I get another? It was 90% likely that the playoffs didn''t count as a new thing. I wish I knew for sure, though. The playoffs were starting to fucking LOOM.


    ***


    I spent the rest of the week touring North Wales pretty hard. First for players, obvs, but also for a suitable club I could take over.


    There were good options in the second division. Flint Town United, for example. I already had a relationship with them - Chester''s women''s team used their stadium on Sundays and their directors sometimes turned up and enjoyed a bit of banter. Mold Alexandra had a relatively central location but the road connections to it weren''t that good. Buckley Town was decent in terms of population.


    Population. Why was that a consideration? What was I thinking of doing in Wales?


    I didn''t have the capacity to run a second club the way I was running Chester, but I could certainly do what I did with West. All it needed was some scouting. Find a good coach, give them better players than their opponents, hit the beach. Standards in the Welsh pyramid were pretty low. The best team was about as good as Chester. Last time I''d seen them, they were CA 65. I could start in the third tier at a club with zero fans and race to the top.


    One club stood out. Its home matches were played at Sandy Lane. Maybe Sandra would want to manage it!


    The more I looked into it, the more I saw a completely blank slate in a location that, for me, was utterly perfect.


    I would need some help to get it started, but then it would be chocs away.


    I gave some thought to how I would persuade the Welsh FA to help me and within minutes had convinced myself it would be the easiest sales pitch in the history of sports.


    I called Gwen and told her I couldn''t wait until the Yeovil match - I was too hyper. Could she bring some of her FAW dudes to watch me manage a match on Monday?


    ***


    Monday, November 25


    FA Youth Cup Second Round: Cheltenham Town Under Eighteens vs Chester Under Eighteens


    I was able to make two of my side quests collide and it was all tremendously satisfying.


    Chester had been drawn away to Cheltenham, which as you know is in Gloucester which as you know is only an hour from Cardiff and Newport. I drove down separately from the boys - wild with the excitement of their first big away trip and in complete awe of Whaddon Road, even though it was basically a red version of the Deva - while five bigwigs from the FAW drove from their base near Cardiff to watch the match. It was Gwen in her civvies, two business boys (older than MD) in suits, and two younger administrator guys in casual gear. All very friendly, but the men were clearly sceptical. I already had some points in the bank - Gwen''s unfettered approval seemed rare, Dieter Actual Bauer had visited me, and yeah, they liked the fact that I was managing the youth team for this tournament. I asked what scoreline would impress them enough to listen to my cockamamie scheme and one guy said ''any sort of win, you''re completely outmatched.'' I managed to avoid laughing my head off.


    Cheltenham''s first team had been relegated from League One to League Two and they had a tidy setup. Their youth teams matched the firsts in playing an attractive, possession-based 3-5-2, though like the firsts they lacked a good goalscorer. They were almost ideal opponents - they were from a higher league so beating them seemed impressive, but in reality I could have picked any formation I wanted and expected to win.


    My lads had kicked on after being pushed hard in training and given opportunities with the first team. In the last round they had been CA 16. Now three weeks later they were CA 20. I felt like I was whipping them pretty hard but the pressure and the variety of the challenges was exciting and they were responding.


    Talking of fresh challenges, I was keen to continue my personal education by using WibWob to enhance 4-3-3. The default version of that formation was very narrow. Very central. That was fine against some opponents but I wanted to do something more like Klopp''s Liverpool - spread the three forwards nice and wide and cause a bit of panic on counters. I felt it would be especially effective against Cheltenham''s back three.


    I could only ''deform'' one of my three strikers, so I ended up having Benny as the central guy with Tyson near him but WibWobbed to be as far to the left as possible while still counting as a striker. William B. Roberts, perhaps the most talented young player in England, got to play wide right in the Mo Salah role.


    In our two most recent private sessions I had tried to get William to be more decisive when running through on goal. Like most players he tended to dribble one or two steps closer, look up, decide what to do, and then do it. With his raw talent he would get away with it for a while but at a certain level defenders would recover before he could shoot. I had used our time to encourage him to make crazy fast decisions and to take early shots. Like, I wanted him to decide what to do while the ball was on its way to him, before he had even taken his first touch. Degree of difficulty? Maximum.


    I knew it would take a while for the lesson to sink in, but I was taking a five-year view of his development.


    I explained all this to the guys from the FAW, who were in the stand behind my dugout. They pretended to be interested and I took a few steps back to my technical area.


    Good early pressure from the Robins. The home team have made a bright start.


    More good passes in the centre of midfield. There''s an overlap on the left...


    But Noah Harrison gets across to help Sevenoaks.


    Cheltenham retain possession. They look for an opening.


    Good tackle from Hope.


    The ball breaks to Dan Badford.


    He draws a challenge and slips the ball twenty yards out to the right.


    Tyson and Benny make zigzagging runs in the box! They''re calling for the pass.


    William Roberts takes a touch... and hammers the ball goalwards.


    GOOOOAAAALLLLL!!!!


    It flew like a rocket! The goalie didn''t have time to plant his feet!


    I gave the FAW guys a Maxy Two-Thumbs, but while I was pretending to be cocky, I was nervous.


    This kid, man, Jesus Christ. He absorbed lessons so fast and if something didn''t work right away he went off and practised for hours on end until he could do it. The Cheltenham dugout had reacted to his strike with dropped jaws. If they had any sense, they would call the first team manager and get him to the stadium before full time. I looked around and saw a handful of scouts and agents in the sparse crowd.


    What if William got loose against a big team? What if he scored a goal like that in our cup match, live on TV?


    The way he was going I would soon be fighting off the big six clubs. How could I keep him a secret while he was so clearly better than everyone around him?


    Henk with a smooth pass to Badford.


    Badford chips the ball over the defence!


    Roberts is onto it like a flash.


    The ball''s bouncing...


    Roberts helps it up and over the keeper...


    Has he put too much on it?


    GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Into the roof of the net! It was never in doubt.


    Roberts scores his second. Cheltenham don''t know what has hit them!


    We hadn''t even had ten minutes yet but Cheltenham''s manager switched to a very defensive 5-4-1 with the intention of stopping the bleeding. I was fine with that - the worst outcome would have been a ten-nil that made big clubs seek out the video of the match. How could I hide William without him feeling I was hiding him?


    I went to 4-4-2 with William as the left-sided of the two central midfielders. I made him the playmaker but also put him on ''no forward runs''. The idea was to keep him involved in the game so he felt happy, but not to the point where he would utterly annihilate our hosts.


    It worked - at half-time we were only three-nil up.


    At the break the lads were laughing and joking, loving life, irrepressible little bundles of Chesterness. I did the thing I wanted Jackie to do with his team - I redirected their energy towards a new goal so they didn''t get complacent.


    "Guys," I said. "Listen very carefully to what I''m about to say." They listened. "I want you to speed the passes up. I want to break the world record for passes. Okay? So I want you to get as one-touch as possible. Zip that fucking ball all round that stadium. Ping it around. You get me? If you put together a sequence of ten one-touch passes, I''ll take you out to Nando''s. If you make one of their players fall over because he''s actually dizzy, I''ll take you to Disneyland. Or DisneyWorld. The cheaper one."


    It took a few minutes to adjust, but with the home team sitting deep, we were soon pinging the ball around with speed and accuracy.


    "Ten!" shouted WibRob, who then booted the ball out of play so he could claim his prize. "That was ten."


    "No way! That wasn''t a pass. That was a miscontrol."


    "Ten!" he yelled.


    I threw my hands up. "Fine!"


    The lads laughed and the subs cheered. WibRob looked happy and returned to the match. He understood I wanted to play keep ball, though, so he stuck to playing one-touch passes for the next few minutes and the other lads, who had reverted to playing normally, quickly fell into line. Will was the technical leader of the team, all right.


    I had forgotten about the Welsh people, but I glanced at them and saw they were impressed. By what? I looked around, trying to see what was so good. I shrugged and went back to my task.


    Cheltenham got sick of chasing the ball and reverted to their beloved 3-5-2 for the last twenty minutes. I switched back to my wide 4-3-3 with Chas Fungrieve coming on to be the central striker, and since the home team had tried to strengthen the area where Will had done so much damage, I moved him to the other side.


    Carnage ensued.


    At five-nil, the home manager went back to 5-4-1 and I put my tigers back in their cage.


    William finished with a ten out of ten match rating. Two goals, three assists, and no fouls.


    I shook hands with the home manager, cheered up their best player, and walked over to the FAW mob. They raved about Henk - he was easy on the eye - Dan Badford, the style of play, the joy, the togetherness, the quality of our attacks.


    But most of all, they raved about WibRob. Gwen took the lead on that one. "Roberts is a good name. Has that boy got any Welsh grandmothers?"


    "Sorry but that kid''s the future of English football." I looked from eye to eye and right then and there I could have asked for almost anything. "If it''s Welsh football you''re interested in," I added with a playful smirk, "I have thoughts."


    ***


    They agreed to meet again in a more formal setting and a few nights later I drove to the Vale Resort in Hensol near Cardiff. My room was in a stupendous hotel in the Vale of Glamorgan that boasted two golf courses and five-star football and rugby facilities. It was the base of the Welsh national football and rugby teams and was home to the Football Association of Wales.


    My sleep was only slightly ruined as I fretted about the draw for the third round of the Youth Cup - Chelsea away. It was much too early in the season for that kind of tie - Chelsea were one of the powerhouses of youth football and spent millions of pounds snapping up all the best talent from around the world. They would crush us.


    The thought nagged that if the men''s team had got the exact same draw, it would have generated a million pounds.


    Another thought kept me turning left and right and flipping the pillow upside down - what to do about WibRob.


    On Saturday the 7th there would be a televised cup match and he would hope to play in it.


    On Monday the 9th the boys would play against Chelsea in their gaff and Will would demand to play in that one. It was all too easy to visualise him barging past three defenders before cracking a precision thunderbastard into the top right... in front of some of the best scouts and coaches in the country...


    A cowardly but elegant solution presented itself. I would give him the option of twenty minutes in the FA Cup or the whole of the Youth Cup, but I''d tell him he couldn''t have both. He would obviously choose the former and the chances were he wouldn''t do anything particularly special. Yes, that would work. It was a pretty cheap trick but it was for his own good.


    I drifted off and slept well.


    ***


    I met the five bigwigs from the Welsh FA at 9 a.m. and they showed me around. The quality of the facilities was sky-high and it was both exhilarating and depressing to see them. Perfect green pitches, including some hybrids, as far as the eye could see. Fully stocked, gleaming equipment rooms. A spa and a twenty-metre pool. Chester had a long way to go!


    But I was being welcomed by the people in charge of Welsh football. People with decision-making power. I had come so far!


    After the tour, we sat around a meeting room with coffee and croissants. The room was one of those with no formal table to encourage collaboration and it had been designed to within an inch of its life. There were no windows, though! No windows with that spectacular view outside. Quite strange.


    "So, Max," said Gwen. "We''ve seen what you can do and you''ve seen our base. What shall we talk about?"


    I grinned. What I was about to say was pretty insane even by my standards, but I had nothing to lose. "Right." I sipped my drink and decided to go for it. Embarrassment is the cost of entry. "Stop me when things get too bonkers for you to stomach." Two of the four men perked up. This was going to be fun! I half-closed my eyes. "Let''s talk about your challenges. First, the country is split in half. Wales is basically England''s beer belly and everyone lives on the sweaty underside or the flap of skin at the top. No-one wants to live in the big hairy mass in the middle."


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    "Where''s the belly button?" said one of the two younger guys.


    "Brecon," said an older guy, and all the Welsh people laughed.


    "Is it an innie or an outie, though?"


    "Don''t answer that!"


    So that was all hilarious, apparently. Good start! I blinked and realised they had finished their joke. "Okay so going from north to south is a pain. It''s four hours from Chester to Cardiff. That''s mad. So you''ve got a north south split and all the football stuff''s in the south. You''ve got Cardiff, Swansea, and Newport County. Great. In the north you''ve got Wrexham. Okay. But they all play in the English leagues. It''s not a massive problem because you''re still producing enough good players for your national team to do well, but it''s not ideal, is it? There should be a couple of Welsh teams that can be a home to Welsh players." I adjusted on my chair. "Related problem, no-one is interested in your league. There''s a monopoly and the team that wins everything is not liked. They''re based in England and the squad isn''t even fifty percent Welsh. Correct me if I''m wrong but they''re not really contributing to the game in Wales, are they? They don''t help you develop coaches or players. I couldn''t find a national team player or manager who started there."


    The five guys looked at each other, trying to think of someone. "There might be one or two," said Gwen, diplomatically.


    "Okay so the way I see it, you guys are trying to boost the quality of your league but you''re up against a huge problem and that is your champions. TNS win every year and as the winners of the Welsh league they get into European competitions where they soak up hundreds of thousands in prizes even though they rarely win any matches. This prize money keeps them at the top and no other team has the slightest chance to get close to them. That''s messing up any plans you might have. But as luck would have it, you''ve met me."


    "You," said one of the older guys.


    "I can smash this monopoly and create a team that actually serves Welsh football. Maybe not in a very dramatic way, but certainly in a small and symbolic way. But it all starts with one little fact - I want to own a football club. Only as an owner can I financially benefit from my talent."


    "What is your talent, would you say?" This was one of the older guys.


    "Scouting. What the big clubs call talent ID. I did a tour of Wales a few weeks ago and found a women''s tournament being held and there were five girls good enough for my Chester team." I decided not to mention the sensational right back I''d found - he was too young to have the hopes of his nation hoisted upon him. "Yeah, if there is undiscovered talent out there, I can help with that. Player development is another of my skills. Making sure their numbers are going up, if you see what I mean. I spot dips and regressions very early and can intervene. I mean, formations, tactics, all that stuff, but that''s not so relevant to this project. No, this is about taking a small club and turning it into the number one team in Wales." I reached into my backpack and pulled out a map of north Wales. "Here''s the top of the beer belly. What''s the population here? A million? Pretty much all of this is within an hour of Chester. Llandudno''s an hour. Wrexham''s twenty-five minutes. As a sort of northern hub, Chester''s not a bad place. But you don''t want it in Chester, you want it in Wales. Bosh! Look at this." I pointed to a town that looked like part of Chester but was its own thing.


    "Saltney," said Gwen.


    "There''s a team that plays on a bare patch of grass round the corner from the Deva stadium that calls itself Saltney Town. It''s seventh in your third tier right now." I looked around and was completely sure that three of the bigwigs had never heard of this club. "The club is basically a field, two goalposts, some footballs, end of list. Completely blank slate. Now, I''ve been working like a crazy person to engage with Chester''s fans and get them excited and grow attendances and all that sort of thing. It''s hard work but it''s what you do if you''re building a club." I sipped my coffee. "That''s a fucking waste of my time, by the way, since they''re all desperate to drop their knickers at the first rich guy who walks past." That hint of bitterness surprised me. Where had that come from? "So what if I wasn''t trying to build a club? What if I was only building a team?"


    "What''s the difference?" said Gwen.


    "If you don''t worry about fans life gets a lot easier. My skills are team building. That means scouting and making sure training is going well. TNS have won your Prem like twelve times in a row and they get crowds of 200 to 500 for most games. That''s dreadful. But it means having fans isn''t the point. It''s all about winning the Prem and getting that European money. Okay so the starting point to all this is that you guys convince the owners of Saltney Town to sell it to me. I''m willing to pay one pound."


    I paused to wait for objections. Gwen said, "We have to help you buy it?"


    I shrugged. "I don''t have the time to find the people and convince them. You could do it in ten minutes. Hey, dude, we''re doing a thing for the benefit of Welsh football can you sell to this chap, please? What''s exciting about working with you is that people who love Wales will listen. Okay I''ve bought the club. January 1st, three players from Chester join on loan. Ten more sign. We win every game from then until the end of the season. Next. In the summer, you need to build me a super-duper 3G pitch." Again I waited for the objections. None came. "My Chester people have been looking into a project where we would put 3G pitches down and rent them out and believe me, Saltney isn''t exactly the hottest location. It''d still make money, though. There''s a secondary school across the road which uses the current pitch and with a proper facility next door they''d use it even more. Football, rugby, hockey. There''s one guaranteed customer. Chester FC would be another. My club has got growing needs. Every time we add an age group we stress our current options and we''ve got reserve team fixtures we want to play. Having a top quality pitch ten minutes down the road - yeah, we''ll use it. Put simply, that pitch is going to start generating money as soon as the builders clear off. In the right location a 3G pitch can make 150,000 a year. Let''s say this one only does 80,000. Flint Town United are top of your second tier right now. Do you know their yearly playing budget?"


    One of the b-boys smiled. "I''m going to guess 80,000."


    I gave him a cheery fingergun. "That''s yearly. For everyone! For twenty players that''s 80 quid a week each. That''s bonkers. Anyway, clearly 80 grand is enough to win the second tier. We will absolutely smash it and again there will be loan players from Chester. It''ll be an absolute doddle. Now we''re in the Premier. That''s ten bad teams, one okay team, one good team. TNS have a yearly budget of half a million. That will be a challenge but with Chester I''m competing with teams with three times the budget. The advantage there is that I''m playing and managing the games myself, but still, it should be possible to win the Premier. I might have to stick some of my own money in but by then I should be doing much better financially. Should be able to stick a couple of hundred grand into the project to bridge that gap, if needed. Once that Champions League money is out of TNS'' hands and in mine, it''s game over for them. They''ll be toast."


    "And you''ll be able to holiday in the Hamptons," said Gwen.


    I laughed. "I''m not going to let my team crash out of Europe every July. Shit, by then I''ll have some top, top players at Chester and if I say hey I need three volunteers to go on loan to my Welsh team for a month every hand will go up. All football players want to play in European competition. With three proper stars in the lineup a Welsh team might actually be able to get past the qualifying rounds. Now, I''ve looked at your UEFA coefficients and I could use some comparisons you''d hate even more than the beer belly one."


    The five winced and shook their heads; the topic was a real sore spot. The coefficient was a way of calculating which countries around Europe had performed best in UEFA''s competitions. For example, Germany outperformed England and that meant Germany got an extra Champions League spot.


    "Right now the Welsh league is the 52nd best league in Europe. Out of 55. That''s dogshit." I paused while I remembered the list I saw. Only Montenegro, Gibraltar and San Marino had a worse league than Wales. "You get four teams in Europe. If I win a few Champions League matches, that number''s going up. Number goes up! We all love that. If you get one more team in one of UEFA''s tournaments, that''s a guaranteed cash injection for that team. You get a hundred and fifty thousand Euro for turning up in the third-best competition! It''s free money. If I add two teams that''s an extra three hundred thousand Euro for Welsh clubs. I''m describing a working trickle-down effect. Just let me loose!"


    I chuckled as I thought of taking money from UEFA and giving it to my new Welsh mates. What a world. I shook myself out of my reverie.


    "Sports and monopolies aren''t supposed to mix. No-one gives a shit about the Welsh league because it''s won by the same team every year. As I said, I''m sure I can get a better team on the pitch but even if we fall a bit short, at least you get a two-horse race until I bridge the gap. That''s going to increase the interest in the Premier by many thousands of percent. From a low basis, sure, but you''ll please your TV company partners. You''ll have the chance to market the league as an exciting contest. Erm... should I go on?"


    They were giving me various levels of strange looks, now. "Yes, please," said Gwen.


    "Cool. You run the coaching courses in this country. You''ve got a database with hundreds of names. In there are probably ten world-class coaches that are rotting in, like, Swansea''s under fifteens or something. We can work together to help you find the guys you should be fast-tracking. I''ll be running Chester, obviously, so my Welsh club will need a head coach and an assistant but I''ll take as many coaches as you''ll give me."


    "Give you?"


    "Well, I''m imagining some kind of dual role where you pay most of the salary." I laughed. "I''m poor, remember. When I''m winning the league every year I''ll chip in but the point is to develop Welsh football, too. I''ll help you find your most talented coaches. One will be my head coach, one his or her assistant. With the players I give them, they''ll smash tier three and tier two. Eighteen months from now they''ve already got a decent CV and some experience. When you need a new under 21s manager, there you go. My second guy becomes head coach, I pick a new assistant. Few years from now, the national team manager quits, you shove the 21s manager one level up, my guy goes to the under 21s. It''ll be a production line of coaching talent."


    "A production line that goes through your club, making you richer," said one of the men.


    "Yep. Win-win."


    "What do you think of the current national team manager?"


    "He seems to be doing a decent job but I''ve never seen him up close. I can''t really comment. I''m more interested in the league and to a lesser extent, how I could help you to develop more players. Maybe not better players, but a wider pool."


    "How would you do that?"


    I smiled. "In a way that benefits me, too." My smile turned into a full twinkle. "This will sound mad, but trust me. You''ve got your top coaches working in Saltney. You call it your northern powerhouse or some bullshit like that. It''s a place kids from all over the north go to have masterclasses and special training sessions. You make it seem special but actually you''re trying to get every kid in the north there at least once. I tried to do something like this with schools in Cheshire but I don''t currently have the clout or the financial might to make it happen. You do. Get every kid who plays football anywhere in north Wales to Saltney."


    One of the younger dudes blanched. "On the same day?"


    "No, spread them out. I live down the road, don''t I? That''s the point. I can pop down and scout them and get on with my day. I promise that I will spot the good ones right away. Imagine we find 50 kids good enough to play international football. I''d sign them all for my team and start their development. We should be able to take players to League Two level but then they''ll need to move on to Swansea or Cardiff for the next step. I mean, I''ll take the superstars at Chester if you really want to make sure they hit their ceilings! But they''ll get early first team minutes at my club, and even the chance to play in Europe. That''s good for your national team, isn''t it? Yeah, with your organisational skills and my eye for talent, we''ll absolutely clean up. It''ll be the most efficient scouting operation in the world. Guaranteed."


    Things had got a little too bizarre, I reckoned. A guy said, "Couldn''t we do it in Wrexham?"


    "That''s an hour round trip for me. It needs to be close to my house so I can do it with virtually no time commitment. The thing is, we could do a trial project but it would take years to see the results. If you go hard at it, a proper leap of faith, the results will be spectacular. The problem will be telling people how we did it in a way that shuts them up. I normally say I use AI to tell me which players are good. They seem happy to believe that."


    "And that''s not it?"


    "No, it''s me. It''s my talent. You saw Will Roberts. I found Youngster in a church in Manchester and now he''s getting international recognition. You''ve seen Dani Smith-Smithe? These are top prospects but I have to go out and find them and it''s not efficient. It''s worth it, obviously, for me and for Chester. The point is, if you bring me thousands of prospects I''ll very quickly tell you who''s got talent. I can''t tell you who won''t work hard or who would prefer to run off to Saudi Arabia for a payday. But I can find the ones worth pursuing. True story. Erm, that''s the core of my pitch."


    One of the older dudes had a deep frown. It was almost as though he''d only just understood how outrageous my idea was. "Sorry, you want us to convince the owner of Saltney Town to hand it over to you, build you a modern pitch that you can rent out and profit from, and we should provide coaches and ship hundreds of players per month to the far north so you can peruse them and pick out the hottest prospects?"


    "That''s it."


    "And in a nutshell, what do we get, exactly?"


    "You get access to my skills."


    "It doesn''t sound like a terribly good trade."


    "No, it''s completely lopsided. In your favour. The only reason this is an option is because I''m currently poor. That won''t last long - I''m going to make Chester triple my salary next season. I''m done being underpaid. Actually my poverty is not the only reason. The TNS monopoly annoys me and I''d like to smash it, though I accept that I''ll create a new monopoly. And it''ll be my first experience of European football. That''ll be fun. And I see crazy synergies between my Chester and my Saltney. It''ll be like adding a yin to my yang."


    Gwen said, "I''m interested in working together but this particular vision might be unworkable."


    "I thought you might say something like that and that''s the best part. Get me the club and lend me a coach and do it before January first so I can rebuild the squad. I''ll bring players in on a shoestring and your coach will manage them and we''ll win the league. That''ll be proof that I know what I''m doing, right? That''ll prove I can pick players and pick coaches. If I don''t win the league I''ll hand the keys back, absolutely no prob. But when I win that trophy, and I will, you''ll be ready to go with the building work in the summer. Do you know what I mean? There''s no time to lose on this. But let''s start with the smallest possible thing. Minimum viable product, it''s called. It''ll cost you almost nothing and it''ll cost me a few hours. Oh, and your coach can come to Chester a few days a week, too and he can learn from us. Cultural exchange. We''ll show him how we deal with colour blindness and deaf players."


    Gwen smiled. "This minimum viable product means handing you a Welsh football club and providing you with a hand-picked coach who, in his spare time, helps your Chester team get promoted to the lucrative EFL?"


    I smiled back. "You give me a loss-making football club with zero fans and zero equipment and you give me a coach for six months at a cost of like twenty thousand pounds. Your annual budget is eighteen million, isn''t it? Twenty grand is extremely minimum and extremely viable."


    "That''s... that''s really minimal, yes. Would you mind leaving so we can talk about you for a while?"


    I got up and pointed, completely guessing because of the windowless room. "There''s a castle, right? I love castles. I''ll go for a walk."


    I set off in the direction of the tourist spot, but I didn''t get far. It took the Football Association of Wales no more than ten minutes to make their decision.


    ***


    Selected Results


    Men


    League: Chester 3, Dorking Wanderers 1


    Cheshire Cup: Congleton Town 2, Chester 4


    FA Trophy: Solihull Moors 4, Chester 0


    Women


    League:


    Chester Women 3, Blackpool Ladies 0


    Crewe Women 1, Chester Women 3


    Boys Under Twelves


    Friendly:


    Chester Tadpoles 11, Winsford Town Saxons 0


    ***


    Saturday, December 7


    FA Cup Second Round: Chester vs Yeovil Town


    In the First Round we had knocked a bigger team out of the cup, which in addition to our run the previous season cemented our status as giantkillers. We were in pole position to be this year''s FA Cup fairytale and everyone at the BBC knew it. Thus they had chosen plucky little Chester to be shown live on TV and the fact that I had turned the FA Cup into one of the biggest stories of the year had nothing to do with it.


    I let Sandra do the pre-match media work and for once, focused completely on the football.


    We had to win.


    The stakes were enormous and there would be no complacency. We had earned forty thousand pounds in prize money by winning in the First Round. We would get another fifty thousand today. That was a big chunk of change - some would go on player parties, some on dentists, and I would finally buy GPS vests for every player at every age group. The Brig would be able to add modern sports science to his fitness work, and every coach would be able to check their players weren''t being overworked. Clearly, it would be a big leap forward.


    But the biggest prize was getting to the Third Round. The Premier League teams entered in the Third Round, as did the Championship teams. The boys had been drawn away at Chelsea - that would do nicely. An away tie at a big stadium would allow me to instantly buy four incredible players while simultaneously starting work on the training ground. It would add jet fuel to the story and douse the rising flames of the takeover bid.


    We had to win.


    Yeovil Town are based in Somerset and if that name makes you think of cider, then great minds think alike. They''re called the Glovers and they were top of the National League South with an average CA of 57. Basically, they were as good as we had been a year prior and won most of their matches. Their morale was high.


    But our numbers had been going up and we reached a few milestones in the weeks before the Yeovil match. Omari, Wes, and Tom, who had played a lot of football for us, had hit CA 40. There was something about the 4 at the start of the number that relaxed me to the same extent that the 3s had been aggravating. Josh and Cole were a few points behind, but that made sense since they were sharing spare left back minutes and Eddie Moore played most games for us. Magnus had eased to CA 57 and was starting to look like a better centre back option than Glenn Ryder. Glenn''s Influence seemed valuable, though, and he had more experience and was a better organiser than Magnus. How long would Glenn remain first choice?


    I wanted to start solid with my best lineup. My goalie and defence was Ben (CA 60), Eddie (59), Glenn (54), Zach (58), and Carl (67).


    Youngster would be the DM. He had shot up to CA 65 after his brief exposure to international football, and this was going to be his last game for a while. He had been called up to join the Ghana squad for the African Cup of Nations under twenties qualifiers! In a few days he would fly out to Togo and if he impressed the coaches there was a chance he would also return to Africa for the AFCON under twenty tournament which would be held in February and March. If the coaches saw how high his ceiling was, the boy I''d found in a church in Wythenshawe would go to the under twenty World Cup which would be held in Chile in the summer of 2025. It was all quite sudden and disruptive. I told the Brig I was ambivalent about the situation - international experience would make Youngster a better player but he would come back tired and would need a break just when I needed him most.


    The midfield four was Aff (66), Wisey (52), Magnus (57), and Pascal (68). Henri was the lone striker on CA 66.


    Our overall average was 61.1. Fantastic to see the number creep up, but also, still kinda shit; we were only slightly better than Yeovil.


    I handed the team sheet in and the referee sighed.


    "What''s this?"


    "That''s our team sheet."


    "You know what I mean," he said, pointing to one particular spot on the page.


    I shrugged and showed him a supplementary piece of paper. He rolled his eyes. "I''m not paid enough for this."


    The assistant referees moved closer to see what was happening and burst out laughing at the same time. They gave me looks of undisguised admiration; this would be a story they could dine out on for the rest of their lives.


    ***


    The Glovers had sold their eight hundred tickets and their fans, thrilled to discover beers were a pound off, were making a fair old noise. They had one of those drummer guys. Someone at Chester had decided that the players should enter the pitch through a tunnel of kids waving big flags. I wanted to dismiss it as pointless but somehow it added to the sense of occasion. Gave the day a suitably epic vibe.


    There was more pageantry as the players lined up to shake hands and then gathered around the centre circle. We were holding a minute''s applause to mark the death of a superfan who had been a volunteer for decades and was well-known in the Chester fandom. The Yeovil lads obviously had no clue who they were applauding, but they did it anyway.


    As kick off neared I realised the sense of expectation was getting to me. It started as a sort of pressure behind the nose and spread towards the temples. You sometimes see players get sent off after five seconds and it had always struck me as absurd and unprofessional but now I understood it. I was hyped for this match beyond any sort of reasonable level.


    Give me that glory. Give me that money. Give me another chance to blast the FA.


    I had used Bench Boost and Triple Captain in the First Round, but I quickly smashed my WibWob hotkeys and used Seal It Up to make sure the away team didn''t get off to a fast start we couldn''t recover from. I used Cupid''s Arrow to link Pascal to Henri. If we could get off to a fast start...


    ***


    The game started out scrappy but after quarter of an hour a few patterns had been set. We had the edge in technical quality and our possession stats were climbing. It was also clear that Youngster and Carl Carlile were having stormers.


    I gave us a right-sided tendency and watched Carl rip Yeovil up for a few minutes. I sensed danger, though, and reverted to a more balanced outlook. What had I seen?


    "Sandra, see anything on their left?"


    She scanned. "Not really. Pretty average winger, isn''t he?"


    "Yeah," I mused.


    Once again, Vimsy''s more rustic views proved useful. "They do big diags to the left side, boss."


    "Right, right." I mused. Sending Carl forward would help us get a goal, but would create space for Yeovil to pump long balls into. If we kept Carl back we would have less goal threat but would keep more possession. I instructed Carl to stay back. "Vimsy? It''s grind o''clock. Fight for every yard. Wear them down."


    "Yes, boss." He got into shouting position and barked.


    I turned around and saw the ever-increasing numbers of scouts and agents in the main stand. Somewhere, the Welsh FA were watching. Not exactly the best advert for Max Best football, but winning was everything, today, and the performance was secondary. Tertiary, in fact.


    The game continued and the next notable event was that Youngster was fouled. He didn''t get up fast and I panicked. His big chance to represent his national team and make his family proud! And there he was, mangled and broken. My throat tightened and I had a dizzy spell. The Brig came over and put his hand on my back. "He''s fine, sir. He''s fine."


    I forced myself to look up and sure enough, Youngster''s profile was not dripping with red. He had lost seven or eight points of Condition - he probably had a nasty bruise or a twisted ankle or something. "Christ," I said. "Guess I''m not ambivalent after all. I want him on that plane. Get up, you dick!"


    Dean sprayed Youngster with the good stuff and after hobbling around for a minute, Youngster found that the pain wasn''t that bad.


    I checked the match ratings, the morale, the Condition of the players, and found there was no need for me to change anything.


    Yeovil had a good defence but we were making them drop deeper. The closer we got to their goal, the greater the distance to ours, the more Magnus and Wisey joined the attacks.


    Wise passes to Lyons.


    Lyons lays it off to Aff. Aff waits for Eddie Moore.


    The pass forces Moore wide and he has to turn back.


    Wise rushes across to support the move.


    Wise retains possession. He feeds it to Aff.


    Aff to Moore. Moore to Wise.


    Wise tries the chip.


    Aff is behind the defence!


    He drives to the touchline and cuts it back.


    But that''s good defending.


    We were well and truly back in the groove, now. It was just like watching us at the end of the last season. We didn''t have a huge target man this time, but we had Zach Green keeping the ball moving with speed and purpose, and we had this season''s version of Pascal - not so lightweight and smarter than ever.


    All that was missing, really, was some proper guile in the middle of the pitch. I contemplated taking Glenn Ryder off and putting WibRob on. Magnus could go to centre back and the kid could do his Dan Badford impression. It was tempting. Too tempting.


    "Shall we push?" said Sandra.


    "No," I said. "This is fine. Keep it solid for the rest of the half."


    ***


    At half time, the lads went through our decompression routine while I asked Livia to work on Youngster. After a while I went to the tactics board to do my team talk. "All right shut the fuck up. My favourite movie is The Talented Mr. Ripley. It''s about two football clubs who go out on a little boat but only one comes back and he gets all the money. See? Thematic. Bosh."


    "Is it good?" said Wisey.


    "It''s half an hour too long, which is why I want us to win in ninety minutes today. Show the director how it''s done. But yeah, the acting''s great. Pascal, that''s not a licence to dive. The point is, that film came out in 1999 but it''s only just made it to Somerset." Some laughs. "These guys are good but they''re playing last year''s football, do you know what I mean? We''ve evolved since then. We move vertically much faster and we''re faster to recover lost balls. It''s hard to see but trust me, we''re wearing them down. Keep using your speed to hit them before they''re set. Youngster? I want you to get forward. Nice and fast, nice and decisive. Get close to Henri and you''ll mess up their lines and in the chaos we''ll find space to exploit. That''s it."


    Carl said, "Do you want me to sit?"


    "Yeah. The goal is coming - we don''t need to force it. You stay and dominate your zone like you''re doing. It doesn''t look like it but you''re winning the match for us."


    He nodded, acting all tough and unmoved, but his morale moved up a point.


    "William, come here a second." I used my eyebrows to summon Sandra and the three of us fell into a mini huddle. "Will, do you want to play today?"


    His eyes lit up. "Yes!"


    I nodded. I''m not sure when it had happened but I had done a complete U-turn and instead of hiding him away from the cameras and the scouts I would show him off. Maybe it was the realisation that if I kept him from the limelight he was actually more likely to leave. Maybe it was the thought that preventing him from playing against good teams on big occasions was the opposite of what his development needed. Or maybe I had decided to stop being a big baby. If someone tried to steal him, I''d fight back.


    "All right. With twenty to go, I''m going to central midfield. Fifteen to go, you''ll join me. I don''t want tackles and I don''t want you getting involved in physical battles of any kind. The two of us are going to dick them on counters, all right?"


    "No tackles."


    "Yeah, there''s no need. We''re going to score and they''re going to push forward for an equaliser and there will be space for days. We''ll combine with Henri. Two-nil, game''s over."


    "Or they equalise," said Sandra.


    "If they equalise we get extra time and we''ll win four-one. It''s no biggie. What do you think, mate?"


    WibRob looked from Sandra to me and back again. Finally, he said, "Tyson said to remind you you owe us a Nando''s."


    "Max Best owes you a Nando''s," I said, and while Sandra shook her head, WibRob frowned. What did I mean by that?


    ***


    Good patch of pressure from Yeovil. The National League South leaders are knocking on the door.


    Huge header from Ryder to clear the danger!


    Aff competes for it.


    Moore sweeps the ball first time to Lyons.


    Lyons takes the ball on the half-turn and plays it forward.


    Bochum scampers after it. Chester have a big chance here!


    The left back tries to foul Bochum but he keeps his footing.


    And he''s away!


    Chester players are streaming forward. It''s a four-on-two break!


    Bochum with options...


    He chooses the short diagonal pass to Lyons.


    The goalie is out. A defender slides to block.


    But Lyons runs over the ball!


    It''s through to Youngster.


    The Ghanaian youth international rolls the ball into the empty net.


    The Deva stadium erupts!


    Henri''s dummy was amazing, but so was Youngster''s run. He had started in our penalty box and when the ball was cleared, sprinted the entire length of the pitch. Pascal''s choice had been a good one, and Aff had also run forward, occupying the second defender.


    I hadn''t expected to score a counter-attack until I was on the pitch, but Yeovil had taken control of midfield for a five-minute spell after half time. I had wanted to get stuck into the Without Ball screen to see if I couldn''t organise some kind of fightback, but with the prospect of extra time I didn''t want to overdo the tweaks and make myself tired. To some extent I had to live with the fact that good teams would always have purple patches against us.


    I kept things as they were for another ten minutes, then started my warmup.


    Yeovil got a grip on midfield again, and James Wise''s match rating was slipping. With twenty-six minutes of the half to play, I decided it was time for the big moment.


    ***


    Transcript of the BBC coverage


    Robyn (main commentary): Looks like we''re going to see our first change.


    Chris (co-comms): It''s the manager.


    Robyn: A buzz of anticipation as player-manager Max Best gets ready to join the action. He''s had some choice words for the Football Association in recent times. Somehow I don''t think he''ll have mellowed in the meantime.


    Chris: Wise is off. The eight.


    Robyn: That''s right. Best takes his tracksuit top off. He''s wearing his iconic number 77 shirt.


    Chris: [laughs] What the hell?


    Robyn: Um...


    [We hear the stadium announcer. ''Replacing number eight, James Wise, number seventy-seven, Max Replay.'']


    Chris: He''s changed his name! [Laughs]


    Robyn: [Nervous chuckle.] Sorry, what? What''s happening? [Pause.] Chester''s player-manager is wearing the word replay on his shirt.


    Chris: He said there would be a replay in the FA Cup! [laughs more]


    Robyn: But he''s not allowed. Somehow I don''t think this is an FA-approved nickname!


    Chris: I don''t know. Haha. Normally I''d think his manager wouldn''t be very pleased but he''s the manager!


    Robyn: We will try to bring clarity on this. The team sheet we were given had him listed as Max Best. If he has given the referee the same one, he could land himself and his team in hot water.


    Chris: Loads of hot water around here. They''ve got solar panels!


    ***


    I smirked all the way to the centre circle, and nearly had a fit when the curse commentary picked me up.


    A substitution from Chester. It''s Max Replay coming on.


    That pushed aside any thought that my name change wasn''t somehow ''legal'', even though I had checked the rules a hundred times. Changing one''s name didn''t even cost money, these days. You just had to fill in a form! I was, officially, by the laws of the land, Max Replay. And Max Replay wanted to have a stunning debut.


    The goalie kicks long. Replay wins the header.


    It''s recovered by a Yeovil player. He looks to play the ball off but Replay is there with a shoulder-barge.


    Replay comes away with the ball.


    He twists and prepares a long pass.


    No! He dribbles past one defender. And another!


    Replay lends the ball to Bochum and powers around the outside.


    Bochum with the through ball.


    Replay hits it first time with power and spin...


    Lyons with a good connection...


    But it goes just wide!


    The crowd are on their feet. That was sensational football!


    I subbed Glenn off, took the armband as I gave him a hug, moved Magnus to centre back, and put WibRob next to me in midfield. I gave him a high ten and reminded him what I wanted. He was in the FA Cup live on TV and wasn''t keen to make a fool of himself. He nodded, cheeks flushed with giddy nerves.


    It felt cruel, really. Yeovil had to attack because they were going out of the cup anyway. The only slight risk was that Magnus would play shit at centre back.


    Evergreen slips. Chance for Yeovil!


    But Zach Green is there to help. He stays on his feet and holds up the striker.


    Evergreen slides in with a perfect tackle. The ball is cleared.


    Chest bumps from the new pairing!


    Chester reset. The ball comes back to Cavanagh. He finds Green.


    Green has the chance to find Roberts, but chooses Evergreen.


    Evergreen passes back to Green.


    Yes! Yes, mate! That''s it. That''s how you fucking defend. That''s how you get your mate out of the shit and give him a touch of the ball to help him shake off the drama. I said all this to Zach, calm as you like, and I was surprised when I watched the match back later and it showed me ranting and punching the air.


    I was far too pumped just then and it was a shame that I picked up a loose ball shortly after.


    Replay surges forward. He plays the ball to Roberts.


    Roberts stops it dead, waits, leaves the ball where it is and sprints away.


    Replay takes the ball in his stride, chipping it up to ankle height.


    He''s doing full-sprint kick-ups.


    Now he dabs the ball to Roberts and demands the ball back.


    Roberts clips it wide to Bochum.


    Bochum''s first time cross.


    Replay is there...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    He volleyed it left-footed with extreme violence. It nearly took the goalkeeper''s head off!


    Replay has surely won this game for the home team.


    We celebrated in the Harry McNally end. I lost my mind for a while, so noisy and intense was the atmosphere. Just in time I remembered the cameras were around. I went to find one, turned to show them my name and number and jabbed two thumbs at myself.


    I grabbed the sides of the camera, looked down the lens, and said ''Don''t mess with the replays!''


    Job done, crowd happy, money in the bank, I made our remaining subs (to let everyone get five to ten minutes on TV) and went to the DM slot to shut things down.


    ***


    I sent Sandra to do the post-match interview. My name-changing stunt was enough poking the FA bear for one day.


    Back in the dressing room I was in full b-boy mode.


    "Guys, shut up a minute." Someone turned the victory music down. "Right. Ninety thousand in prize money. What the actual. Well done." We gave ourselves a round of applause. "Thirty of that''s going for our dentist stuff. Zach. Where the fuck''s Zach? Right, when''s your dad coming?"


    "Christmas, boss. Turkey, dinosaurs, the gift of fillings."


    "That''s all organised, is it? Who''s first in line and everything?"


    "Yes, boss. Miss Star is all over it."


    "Amazing. That''s going to be awesome. Loads of happy little smiling faces. Brilliant. Okay, next thing, parties. The party budget got wayyy too high all of a sudden. Holy shit that worries me. Then with the last third of the money we''re going to buy loads of GPS vests. The Brig''s been working with those university boffins and now we''ll be able to actually start giving them data. You''ll wear the vests when you train and when you play. Like real boys!" There was something childlike about their reaction to this. The club was going to provide them a pretty basic piece of kit, but they were made up. It was like telling them they''d finally get a smartphone. No longer would they be the only kids in the playground without one! "Last thing. Youngster''s off to AFCON. Can you believe it? Youngster, let''s hear the speech you''ve prepared."


    He got to his feet. "Sorry, Mr. Best, I did not write one. I was not expecting..."


    "That''s Mr. Replay to you. Oh, well, never mind. Okay, last last thing."


    "I could think of something to say, Mr. Replay."


    "Yeah, no, that''s fine. Send us a TikTok from Togo. All right, last last thing. The women are home to Darwen tomorrow. They come to support you dudes most home matches and it''d be good to do the same. After, we''ll get together in the bar there and watch the draw for the Third Round of the cup. Let''s see who we get, yeah?"


    "Chelsea away," said WibRob.


    "I''d take it," I said. "Okay, see you tomorrow. Now turn that music up! I have to go change my name back."


    ***


    Sunday, December 8


    Match 9 of 22: Chester Women vs AFC Darwen Ladies


    After the disaster against West, the women had got together to have some kind of off-camera discussion. Words were exchanged. I''m not sure what was said but I assume it was ''ladies, we need to sort this shit out''. Results since had been solid - three-nil, three-one, and we watched another three-nil against Darwen.


    There was less showboating, fewer dribbles, and faster passing. It was a bit less Max Best and a lot more Jackie Reaper.


    In the bar afterwards I told Dani and Kisi that if they kept playing like that they would win the league.


    But watching the women beat one of the weakest teams in the league wasn''t my focus. Most of the men''s team had turned up because we were hyped by the cup draw. We watched the main televised cup tie of the weekend - Queen''s Park Rangers versus Blackpool - and then the moment came.


    All the balls were in a velveteen bag. The balls were numbered and the first numbers represented teams in alphabetical order. Thus AFC Bournemouth were number one, Arsenal were number two, and ZZ Top weren''t in it but would have been number 64. We didn''t follow the numbering convention - too small, maybe. We were thrown in at random near the bottom - number fifty.


    The balls were poured through a flap into a sort of bucket. Former England stars David Batty and Les Ferdinand pulled the balls out one at a time and the fixtures started to fill up. The team drawn first would play at home. We wanted, desperately, to be drawn second.


    "Number sixteen."


    "That''s Huddersfield Town. Will play..."


    "Number twenty-two."


    "Luton Town."


    It was unbelievably exciting. There were gasps of relief when our number wasn''t called against smaller, less glamorous teams. And then...


    "Number twenty-three."


    "Manchester City. Will play..."


    Time stood still. I had an out-of-body experience. Henri grabbed Glenn Ryder''s arm. Sandra turned white.


    "Number forty-eight."


    "Shrewsbury Town."


    We sagged with relief or disappointment - some guys wanted an easy draw so we could progress even further. Financially, that wasn''t bad. The bonus for winning in the Third Round was just over one hundred thousand. Others understood that the real prize was the chance to play in a big stadium.


    "Number sixty-two."


    "Wigan Athletic. Will play..."


    No no no! That''s not glamorous. That''s not enough money.


    "Number six."


    "Brentford."


    "Number eleven."


    "Chelsea. Will play..."


    Yes yes yes come on!


    "Number fifty...one."


    "Forest Green Rovers."


    Fuck! One of our rivals just got a million pounds. The room was giddy from the crashing, rising hopes and dreams. Who needs alcohol when you''ve got two men fishing for balls from a plastic bucket?


    My head was throbbing. I smiled as Emma gave me a neck massage. I tried to relax but...


    "Number forty."


    "Tottenham Hotspur."


    The noise got huge and my neck muscles turned to solid stone. I''d said it many times - this was the big one. Spurs had one of the biggest, most modern stadiums and charged London prices. This was the juiciest tie. Emma''s massage turned into something more like a strangle as she waited for Les Ferdinand to pick a ball. I felt sure his fingers slipped over one that started with a five.


    "Number fif...teen."


    The groan shook the TV.


    "Fulham."


    That was doubly bad news. Spurs vs Fulham would be one of the televised matches, for sure. If Chester couldn''t get our dream fixture, it would have been good to be shown on TV again.


    The balls clicked around as more fixtures were announced. Brighton versus Crystal Palace. Big grudge match. Televised for sure! Manchester United versus Leeds. Titanic!


    "Number thirty."


    "Plymouth Argyle. Will play..."


    "Number fifty."


    We cheered, but it wasn''t very convincing. Plymouth were a Championship team and they would beat us pretty comfortably nineteen times out of twenty. Their home attendances were around 16,000 a match and there was no way we would be live on TV. Financially, it wasn''t stellar. MD had his calculator app going a mile a minute. He estimated we would get 70,000 pounds from the match and when I asked if I could have it for wages he sighed and said yes. I got my own calculator out and reckoned I could pay two and a half thousand pounds a week in wages for my dream loanee. Tasty!


    I dived into my mental database, only snapping out of it when I realised Emma was talking to me.


    "You pleased with that?" said Emma. "Plymouth?"


    "It''s a five out of ten draw. Doesn¡¯t help with the Daddy Star sitch."


    "It''s all teams from the same region. Mousehole, Yeovil, Plymouth. Why can''t you have some matches in the north east?" She was about to head back to Newcastle. Our routine was being cut short by the Youth Cup. "You''re going down to London tomorrow?"


    "Yeah. Chelsea. Probably one of the top three teams in that age group in the world. I''ll have to unleash William. Could get messy," I said, feeling my face flush from the stress and excitement.


    Emma smiled. She understood how hard it was for me to watch my babies grow up. "What then? What''s coming up this week?"


    "Not much.¡± My jaw tightened. ¡°Just a quick chat with a billionaire."

 9.8 - The Lone Star State

    8.


    Monday, December 9


    FA Youth Cup Third Round: Chelsea Under Eighteens vs Chester Under Eighteens


    It was dead on four hours from the Deva to Kingsmeadow, the stadium used by Chelsea''s women and youth teams. For once I got on the team bus with the brats, with my AirPods Max set to noise cancelling while I reviewed footage of Chelsea from previous rounds. Behind me, the kids burned nervous energy, crashed, perked up again, crashed again. And that was just the first twenty minutes.


    I tried to imagine being seventeen and, having been raised on a diet of playing Broughton and Ellesmere Port, suddenly having to compete against one of the giants of world football.


    And I tried to imagine a world where William B. Roberts would look at Kingsmeadow and the Chelsea players and equipment and think, ''Chester is fine''.


    The research was a good distraction. Chelsea had been using a lot of 3-4-3, though they could switch to 4-2-3-1 quite fluidly. I was almost as nervous as the kids - apart from the feeling that I was taking WibRob into an ambush, this match would determine my chances of ever winning the Youth Cup. If Chelsea''s under eighteens were rocking CA 60 or more then I was toast. I would probably not be able to match them until I was one of the top six clubs myself.


    They couldn''t be that good, could they? I''d seen some of the better youth teams on my travels but there had always been players out sick or on international duty or training with the older boys. Surely I''d see the best of the best today?


    I expected to face a squad jam-packed with talent, but my own options were fairly shit. My goalie, Bivvy, had improved to CA 13 - unlucky for some. I couldn''t give him minutes in the first team and his PA was only 30. Lucas Friend was a good left back and Henk, Captain, and Bomber played better than their CAs. Right back was a big weakness and my only options were to use wingers there - normally Sevenoaks but Noah Harrison was turning into a good team player. I didn''t have a left midfielder with a PA over 30. WibRob had played there in the early rounds but if I wanted to win today, I needed to play him centrally.


    My initial concept was a 4-4-2 diamond, and since I didn''t have someone who could play at the base of the diamond I would push the DM icon back to be a third centre back. It would be a pretty strange-looking 5-3-2 with a vast hole in the centre of the pitch. I really liked the idea of having William behind Tyson and Benny - they would unnerve Chelsea for sure. But that would have meant a big role for Hope and no place for one of my better players - Dan Badford.


    If at all possible, I wanted to get my best players on the pitch, and the only way to do that was with a 4-3-3. From there, William could go wide or he could drop back to be a CAM.


    I had one cause for optimism - Bench Boost and Triple Captain. We could name seven subs and use three. Obviously, if I wanted to win I needed to boost WibRob and two of my next best players - Dan Badford, Henk, Tyson, or Benny.


    "Spectrum," I said. He was on a double seat of his own, also checking footage of our opponents. "Could you get Wibbers, please." Shortly after, WibRob was on the seat next to me. "How you doing buddy?"


    "Good, boss. Ready to play. Ready to start."


    "Oh," I said, frowning. "Did you just tell me which team to pick?"


    He did a tiny eye roll - he knew this game. "No, boss. I''m only saying I''m available for selection, boss."


    I dropped the fake annoyance and got real. "You know that thing I do when I bring on key players twenty minutes into the game?"


    His disappointment was palpable. "Yeah. That''s me, is it?"


    "Yeah."


    He was an interesting kid. He put setbacks behind him super fast. "Why do you do that?"


    "Good question. Almost no-one asks. You''d think everyone would want to know, right? There are different reasons but one is psychology. We will set up in 4-4-2 or something remedial and Chelsea''s lads will relax. We''re just some more dumb hicks who don''t deserve to be on the pitch with them. Their coaches will be wary because, hey, it''s Max Best. But the players will relax. Guaranteed."


    "Complacent," spat William, possibly the least complacent human being I''d ever met.


    "Right. Then you go on and suddenly it''s mayhem and not many teams can make that switch. Even if they do, there''s five minutes where we''re absolutely slaughtering them. It can be worth a goal. Of course," I added, since I was also trying to teach him the game as a whole, "it can cost us a goal, too. If we don''t have our best players starting, we could get dicked. But I''ve never regretted a defeat when I was trying to win. Do you know what I mean?" He nodded. I continued. "Another thing is, when I''ve got a player like you or Henri or Sam Topps, you guys really watch the game from the bench. Not everyone does - the Chelsea kids will be on their phones. But you''ve got twenty minutes to think about what you''re going to do. Their centre backs - what are their weaknesses? Should you dribble them down the left or right? That sort of thing. You''ll come on ready to rumble."


    "Is this why you''re always a sub?"


    "I like being a sub, yeah. By the time I go on, I''ve worked out the whole team but especially the goalies. If I get a free kick I normally try to score from the first one because I''ve seen his trigger movements. They''re not stupid, though. They adapt. It''s cat and mouse but I like to have that time to think about it, yeah. I know you want to play every minute of every game but I don''t want you to be a hammer. I want you to be a scalpel. Any questions?"


    "Are we going to win?"


    "It''s not about winning," I said, using my best poker face. "It''s about doing our best."


    William rolled his eyes. "Right."


    "I don''t know if we''ll win," I said, honestly. "Let''s see who turns up. If there''s no chance to win, you can play the whole match. How does that sound?"


    "Sounds pretty shit."


    I smiled. "Send Benny."


    ***


    Kingsmeadow was a low stadium with almost five thousand total capacity. There were several hundred Chelsea fans in, and what looked like three hundred scouts and agents. The pitch looked and felt like a snooker table and all around were banners for the women''s team - one praised the legendary former manager Emma Hayes, now in charge of the US Women''s National Team. National flags showed from where Chelsea''s women''s team hailed - Germany, Spain, France, the USA. A big blue sign claimed that Chelsea were ''the pride of London''. Yeah? Did you put that up before or after you tried to join the European Super League, you dicks?


    The smugness was nauseating, but it was the wealth disparity, as always, that was most winding me up.


    My dugout had seven seats side by side and behind was a huge space for all our subs and support staff. We filled precisely three of the seven seats - me, Spectrum, and one of our new physios. Chelsea''s staff spilled out beyond the generous space. There were thousands of the bastards.


    Chelsea''s coaches had at least 15 in their Coaching attributes, their physios looked equipped for an arctic expedition, and everywhere I looked I saw iPads showing formations and graphs.


    And then their players took to the pitch for a pre-warm-up warm-up, and fuck me there were stars everywhere. Many had been stripped from the academies of smaller teams, but some had been brought to the club for proper fees. I knew that one player had cost three million pounds. Three million for a seventeen-year-old! He wasn''t an isolated case, but at least the money had been spent on actual prospects. More than half of the squad had PA higher than 130 and there were no fool''s gold players. This was a dog-eat-dog environment and the B-list meats had been spat out long ago.


    I looked at my side of the pitch. I had a lot of D-list talent and precisely one star.


    But a closer look got my jaw clenched and my blood pumping. Some of the top Chelsea talents I''d seen on the tapes were absent and while they had three absolutely unbelievable players, my boys absolutely dicked Chelsea on teamwork and work rate. While they looked good on video, in person their player profiles were filled with petty jealousies and greed. Dislikes Tom Hawkes-Brown. Dislikes Samuel Otawenge. Has been told by his agent he can get a better contract elsewhere. Bunch of pricks!


    And not a single Chelsea player had ever been anywhere near the first team. My guys were battle-hardened. They had learned a few tricks from Sam Topps, some of the dark arts of defending from Glenn Ryder, and the forwards had been taught by Henri Lyons.


    Chelsea''s average CA would be around 37.


    Our best eleven was around 22.


    We had a chance. And, I thought, head spinning as I spat out calculation after calculation, next season... Next season! I could get close to this level next season. Close... or better. We would be in League Two. The first team minutes I gave my kids would count for more!


    "Boss? You okay?"


    "We''re going to fucking win this," I growled, meaning next season, but some of the lads nearby heard me. William B. Roberts was one of them and if I''d handed him a bayonet he would have charged any direction I wanted. I reached into my backpack for a pen. I clicked the top. "Let''s fuck some shit up."


    "Yesss," hissed Benny. Dan Badford slapped Tyson on the back. Captain clenched his fists.


    ***


    I smashed my perks and prepared to use Seal It Up to help keep us in the game for the first fifteen minutes. We were in an agricultural 4-4-2 with an old-school combination up front. Chas Fungrieve was a lanky guy to win headers, and Walshy was a bustling, all-action brute. As they shook hands before kickoff, Chelsea''s international fleet of pampered princes looked down their noses at the big, strong, northern boys.


    Also shaking hands were two of my weaker players, Hope and Kian, whose job was to sprint around the left side of midfield trying to make a nuisance of themselves. Chas, Dan, and Noah had been told they would likely be on the pitch for the whole match so they shouldn''t go bonkers with the pressing.


    Chelsea got on the ball and immediately the gulf in class was evident. They had a CA 50 central midfielder, a CA 60 centre back, and a CA 60 striker. These kids were terrifying - they had unbelievable technical quality and drifted past my boys like they weren''t even there.


    On the other hand, the starting line up also had a CA 20 and a few in the 20-30 range. Which was fine - kids develop at different speeds and the coaches clearly saw the potential in this latter group. And perhaps some had recently come back from injury. But the three high CA kids were arrogant as fuck and didn''t think they should be on the same pitch as the lesser lights. They played like early-career Tyson - reluctant passes, visible displeasure when anyone made a mistake.


    I turned to my three supersubs - Benny, Tyson, and William - and said, "What a bunch of twats."


    "Can we do mental disintegration?" said Benny.


    "No need," I said. "When the pressure''s on, they''ll turn on each other. You watch."


    We watched.


    Seal It Up added plus one to our back four''s Positioning scores, and the difference it made was clear. Sevenoaks in particular looked more like a real defender. Triple Captain was working, too. Captain was shouting and organising and the guys around him were responding. Henk usually tried to play within himself, apparently wishing to make everything look so terribly easy, but today he was sharp and snapped into challenges.


    One of these challenges was called a foul and the dickish centre back sprinted to the referee, waving an imaginary yellow card in his face. It triggered me to a ludicrous degree. I blew my top, steaming into the Chelsea technical area. "What''s this shit? What''s this shit?"


    The aggro levels trebled and things got real feisty.


    The ref came over to calm things down but I was enraged. "SUB!" I screamed, and while an appalled Spectrum looked on, I withdrew Hope, Kian, and Walshy and sent on Benny, Tyson, and WibRob. I switched to 4-3-3 with my lone star dropping back from the striker role to be a CAM.


    "If we get an injury," said Spectrum.


    "We''re fucked," I said, glaring at someone on the Chelsea bench. "I know."


    Chelsea took the free kick, wafting it uselessly into the box. Captain ate that shit for breakfast, and he nodded it away. Having Seven at right back was not ideal but it did mean having a good passer there. He got onto the ball and played it first time to Dan. He half-turned, smooth as the pitch, and rolled the ball to WibRob.


    The kid unleashed himself. He somehow accelerated from nothing to maximum in one stride, barged a midfielder so hard he spun three times, and then found an extra gear.


    "Argh," cried Spectrum, which made no sense but I completely understood where he was coming from.


    William was a burly blur of legs, arms pumping, and when he shifted the ball so he could crack it, the star defender went into full hero mode and flung himself in the way of the shot.


    William cut back onto his left, where he was equally comfortable, dabbed the ball forward to Chas, who passed to Benny, who had made a great run, and now there was space everywhere. We''d carved them open!


    Benny played the ball square and William clipped the ball into the left of the goal.


    One-nil!


    Before celebrating, William gave the gobby defender a few verbals, and then he was away.


    I prowled around the technical area, giving daggers to the Chelsea coaches. Fucking letting their kids play shit, letting them be as twatty as they wanted? I wouldn''t stand for that from my players. Who was in charge, here?


    I found myself nodding. The players were in charge. They ran this show and the coaches had to put up with them. That''s what it''s like dealing with elite talent. They get away with murder.


    Not in my gaff, though. William was as talented as any of these pricks but he was a team player and while he was off the scale for self-belief, he was humble. He wanted to learn. And he knew I''d boot him off the team if he stepped out of line.


    Chelsea didn''t respond how I''d expected. They didn''t implode. They didn''t seem bothered that we had scored. That could have been because they knew they would get back in the game, or because they thought we had got lucky, or because they didn''t give a shit.


    I suppose on the whole it was good that they continued to play their way, as though nothing had happened. They passed the ball around, some with more enthusiasm than others, while we kept our shape and tried to make it hard for them to play through our lines. I dipped into the Without Ball screens five times a minute trying to optimise our defensive spacing and trying to cut the supply from Chelsea''s midfield to their strikers.


    That was not possible with the players I had, and Chelsea carved a clear opening, and then another, and at the third time of asking, they equalised. Soon after, they scored again and the Chelsea bench danced their way into my technical area. Absolutely classless bunch of twats.


    I used Cupid''s Arrow to link Dan to William and moved my star from the CAM slot to the wide right Mo Salah slot. That was the position from which he had dismantled Cheltenham, who, like Chelsea, played three at the back.


    Tyson won a header - one advantage of playing in the lower tiers was you got used to winning duels or you didn''t last long - Noah Harrison worked hard to get the ball properly under our control, and as Chelsea tried to press, Dan clipped a simple diagonal ball towards William.


    The guy took a touch and cracked it towards goal. The goalie flapped but got a hand to it. Benny was the fastest to react. He stabbed it home.


    Two-all!


    This was a pulsating contest, now, and I realised there were Chester fans in the stadium. One little patch where blue-and-white striped shirts could be seen. It looked like Bulldog, Mr. Roberts, and a bunch of other parents. What must they have been feeling? Their kids were going toe-to-toe with one of the best teams - scratch that - one of the best collections of players in the world.


    As Cupid''s Arrow was running out and with half time fast approaching, there was another magical moment. Dan passed to William, who touched it back, turned, and did a full sprint straight ahead. Dan rushed to the ball, leaned back, and clipped it over the line of defenders with levels of backspin I would have been proud of. It was a fraction too far for Will to volley, so he chased it, let it bounce, and hooked it up to the left, and with Chas being a foot taller than the guy marking him he had a simple job to nod the ball into the net.


    The boys went mental. I went berserk. I fucking loved football but not as much as I fucking loved beating one of the superclubs. Fuck them and the horse they rode in on! We had only been ahead in the match for a total of about three minutes but I was already absolutely addicted to the feeling.


    A little voice in the back of my head checked the match ratings and the Condition of our players and said, ''this can''t last.''


    Fuck that guy, too.


    ***


    At half time I shut everyone up - they were so, so hyper - and I insisted on the usual decompression routine. We were quiet for five minutes, where the only sounds were of our physio checking on scrapes and strains and Spectrum giving some low-energy praise.


    Chelsea changed their formation, using one of their subs to do so. That was pleasing.


    "Lads," I said, bringing their attention on me. "That was unbelievable. I don''t want to exaggerate this but I think right now we could beat Real Madrid." Some chuckles. I took a drink of water - I hadn''t realised it but I had been shouting instructions for most of the half. Something about the aggression and the all-consuming rage I felt when I saw that ''pride of London'' sign. "There''s an advert that sums up what Chelsea''s all about. It''s a huge hydraulic press and on the platform is the club badge from every team in England. The eight hundred who play in the FA Cup and thousands more. On the left is Bristol and Mousehole and Exeter and over there''s Bury, Stockport, Macclesfield. Here''s Chester and next to it is Wrexham. They''re not looking at each other." Some laughs. "Down comes the press and all the badges explode and if you listen to the music you''re supposed to think that''s a good thing. On it goes, crushing, crushing, crushing until it''s flat. And then the press goes up and there''s only six badges left. That''s what Chelsea Football Club is all about. That''s what this place represents." I walked to a bin and kicked it over. "I fucking hate these guys. I hate everything about them and I love everything about us. We''ve already achieved one thing. They''ve abandoned their shitty 3-4-3 and they''re going to 4-2-3-1. A billion pound team using a back four and two DMs to cope with Chas and Benny! Hey?" Some laughs, some digs in the arm for Benny. "Okay so if they''re giving up the centre of the pitch, we have a choice. Do we plant our flag there or do something else?"


    I waited. Tyson said, "Are you asking us?"


    "Yes, I''m asking you." As insane as being pitchside against one of the supervillains of world football was making me, I was very aware that the main thing was the development of the players.


    Noah had been at plenty of dinners where football tactics were the only topic. "We''ve used our subs. What formations could we do?"


    "4-5-1," I said. "Flood midfield, keep possession, run down the clock. "We''ve got the option of 4-4-2 or 4-2-4. We could do a pretty good 3-5-2. Get in groups and discuss what you think we should do."


    There was an explosion of conversation. After a minute I got them to tell me their thoughts. The defenders wanted 4-4-2 so there would be protection and an out-ball. The midfielders wanted 4-5-1 so we could do one-touch.


    William spoke last. He looked around. "I say we stick to 4-3-3. They can''t handle me."


    "Spoken like a true mini-Max. But thing about being me is, it''s always more fun to go all-out."


    He grinned like a madman. "What do I do?"


    I mentally switched the formation. "We go 4-5-1. Benny, you''re wide left for a while. Support Lucas and don''t go roaming. Will, after a couple of minutes you''re going to drop to DM. That''s 4-1-4-1. We can control the ball for a while until they adapt. When they do, Will''s gonna push up and be a CAM. That''s 4-4-1-1. They won''t be able to work out where you''re playing. Then after I''ve had my fun with that, we''ll do five minutes of bog-standard 4-4-2 with Will left mid. They''ll be chasing him all round London." I paused, a beatific smile spreading. "Then it''s bosh time."


    "Bosh?" said Spectrum.


    "Right back to 4-3-3 and we slug it out and see what fucking happens. Hoo-rah!"


    "United!" cried Captain.


    "Let''s fucking go!" I yelled, kicking the poor bin again.


    ***


    The first twenty minutes went great - I made even more changes than I had promised, all aimed at moving WibRob into unexpected positions. I''d spotted that Chelsea''s coach had set one of the DMs to man-mark my star and every time I moved Will around, the change caused more panic and pandemonium. We ate up the clock with slick one-touch passing moves in a midfield that was pretty empty of Chelsea guys. Meanwhile their DMs and CAMs were having to run extra to engage us and to chase Will. For a time we negated their Condition edge.


    But then the guy used his last two subs and we more than lost the advantage. The new guys were his fastest and they were sent on to dribble at us. I saw what would happen - they would exhaust us and we would collapse in the last ten.


    The logical thing to do was to go men behind ball and hope to muddle through to the final whistle.


    "Attack!" I screamed. "Attack! Attack attack attack!"


    We went 4-3-3 with William set to ''free role'' and ''playmaker''.


    Five wild minutes followed. Proper basketball stuff. Our shot, their shot, our shot, their shot.


    Then there was five minutes of our shot, their shot, their shot, their shot.


    I''d used almost all my tricks. My new screens couldn''t help overcome the CA and fitness gap.


    The inevitable happened - a few slick passes, a few good decisions, and a Chelsea player was through on goal. Captain slid to block, the goalie came out, but the Chelsea starlet did a sweet dragback onto his other foot, took a step, and rolled the ball home. Absolutely beautiful.


    Three-all and the pricks in the next technical area were suddenly cock-a-hoop. Their shitty players stopped playing, though, and with ten minutes left to play we got a free kick in shooting position. Dan could have taken it. Tyson was decent at free kicks. But there was no doubt who I wanted on the ball. As William placed it I hit the Free Hit button. Whatever he was about to do was ten percent more likely to result in a goal.


    I remembered the conversation we''d had. I''d talked about watching the keeper''s trigger movements. Had William been listening? Had he done it?


    He took a breath and stepped forward. From his body position it was clear he was planning to cross to the far post and find the match''s dominant header - Captain. While I was watching Captain pushing and pulling his marker, trying to get some space, William slowly curled the ball into the top left.


    Four-three!


    The boys found the energy to form a human mound. Spectrum tried to jump on my back, but I wasn''t in the mood. I''d seen Benny''s Condition drop twenty points. He''d fucking hurt himself in the goal celebration!


    I kept my fury to myself and worked with the WibWob screens to try to make us more solid. We had used our subs - Benny would have to play on. I dropped William as deep as the formation would allow, and shuffled everyone else back a few notches.


    Futile. Chelsea came at us with a new level of intensity. With the humiliation of being knocked out by a tier five club looming, they dropped the arrogance and the attitude and played some actual football. We couldn''t cope.


    Their fourth goal was good play, tired defending, and gaps caused by an overall lack of quality in our outfield players.


    But their fifth was a howler from our goalkeeper. Bivvy plucked a harmless cross from the air and - inexplicably - dropped it. A CA 1 striker at any level would have scored. It was an absolute gift for a CA 60 future international.


    Five-four to the home team. Their over-the-top celebrations seared themselves into my memory.


    Never again.


    ***


    Wednesday, December 11


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The streets of Chester city centre were busy with tourists visiting the charming but overpriced Christmas market and locals getting stuck into their Christmas preparations. Mums and dads making sure everything was just right for their kids. The rest of the year might be a grinding, soul-destroying battle against neoliberalism, but Christmas Day would always be magical. The right presents, the best crockery, a table groaning under the weight of the turkey and stuffing and brussels sprouts, the dad jokes, the crackers, begging mum to leave the oven and sit down for a minute.


    I knew two people who wouldn''t be having picture-postcard Christmas dinners. I would spend an hour with my mother, Anna, and Solly and I would try to delay the moment I burst into tears until I was safely back in my car. And Daddy Star would not be spending Christmas with his daughter.


    Every shop I walked past was playing a different Christmas song, but none of them dislodged the tune in my head. I was mind-singing an old Man United classic from the days when Man City were a joke team. "This is how it feels to be City," I hummed. "This is how it feels to be small." I watched a mum hurry past, laded with shopping bags. "This is how it feels when your team wins nothing at all."


    I pushed a door open and the warmth and smell slapped me into the present moment. Someone helped me out of my giant coat, I peeled my West beanie off, and I clipped my dark-tint sunglasses onto my plain black top.


    "Good disguise," said Luisa. She was in her green work top and looked amazing.


    "I can''t go round Chester looking like me," I said. "Are they here?"


    "Jess." She put her hand on my wrist. "Be careful. He''s a shark."


    I nodded and followed her to the most private table, in the back corner.


    This is how it feels to be small.


    I used Luisa as a sort of distraction while I slipped into the free seat on a table of four. The three men were, naturally, giving the hot waitress their full attention and it took half a beat for them to realise I''d arrived.


    In front of me sat James Pond, in many ways the real villain of the piece. To his left, my right, sat Daddy Star, looking very much the way I''d seen him last, right down to the revolver lapel pin and a lone star badge like he was a fucking sheriff. Opposite him, to my right, was a dude about my age. I knew who he was from my research, but it was startling to see him up close. He looked like an AI-generated image of a man. The prompt? Photorealistic disappointing son of a successful businessman; light brown hair; no spark of human intelligence; leave wide spaces between features to create a tempting slap zone. The kid was so uncanny valley-looking that I spent a distracted first few seconds trying to check if the AI had given him six fingers.


    "Ah, Max, you made it," said James Pond.


    "Yep."


    "You''ve heard of Gerry Star."


    Daddy Star reached over the table and I was forced to take his handshake. It was firm but not excessively macho. Still, I wanted to squirt disinfectant all over myself. "You''re the famous Max Best. Heard a lot aboutcha."


    "I''ve heard a lot about me, too."


    Star laughed and I relaxed. He was a supervillain and we were enemies and we had to go through this charade to get to the next stage in our conflict, but he had charisma. This lunch didn''t need to be a slog. He said, "I play golf with an Irishman. Barry O''Gorman. Terrible player, wonderful drinker. I told him about this Max Best who''s causing a stir and he said, ''wonder if he''s any relation?'' So, are you?"


    "Any relation to who?" said the young man. No-one had bothered to introduce him. I used the interruption to get another look at him. He was mesmerising in his unlikability.


    "This here''s Chip," said Star. "My son."


    "Chip?" I said, unable to disguise my horror. I was sure my research had dug up a normal name, like Richard or something, but I must have been overtired that day. Imagine being called Chip on the concrete playground of a south Manchester school. The mind actually boggled. Chip?


    James Pond realised I had frozen. "Your father''s friend was asking if Max is related to George Best. The Belfast Boy. The Fifth Beatle."


    "The Fifth Beatle?" said Star, eyebrows dancing. "Sounds like my kind of soccer player!"


    "The stories about him are legendary," I said, as Chip pulled a million-inch laptop out of a bag, slapped it on the table, and opened it. The screen shone with the brightness of the floodlights at the Tottenham stadium. I slipped my sunglasses on but the dimwit didn''t get the message. "Best liked a drink and he liked women. He once said, I spent a lot of money on booze, birds, and fast cars. The rest I squandered."


    "Ha!" cried Star.


    "Birds is British slang for women," said Chip, a clarification no-one needed.


    James Pond pushed his glasses up his nose. "George Best also said that if he had to choose between dribbling past five players and scoring from forty yards at Anfield or bedding Miss World, it would be a hard choice. Fortunately, he added, I have done both."


    "Heh heh!"


    I said, "The most famous story is from when he''d all but retired in his late twenties. Instead of training and pushing himself to his limits, he was in a hotel room. A hotel worker was a big football fan and he got the call to bring Best his room service. He goes in, places a cold bottle of champagne next to all the empties. The bed''s covered in cash from a big win at the casino, and Miss World is lying on the cash in her bikini. The hotel guy shakes his head and says, ''Mr. Best, where did it all go wrong?''"


    "Hot sauce!" said Star, slapping his thigh. "That''s my kind of fella, all right! Good player, was he?"


    For some reason, Chip decided to weigh in as the subject matter expert. He was reading from some website. He read out facts, somehow stripping the life from them as he spoke. "Pel¨¦ said Best was the best player he''d ever seen. He scored six goals in one game. He was sacked after he went on a gigantic drinking session with the French rugby team."


    His dad said, "That''s enough detail, Chip."


    Luisa asked if we were ready to order. Star flirted with her and she flirted back. Our starters came fast - Chip reluctantly put his laptop away and I made a big show of taking my sunglasses off. We made small talk until the mains were nearly done. Star was easy company. Pond was - ironically - dry but had enough emotional intelligence to know he was not a sparkling conversationalist. He kept things ticking over and let the extroverts do the running. Of course, he didn''t know that I was a renowned introvert. As for Chip, well, let''s just say he would have found a niche for himself at Chelsea.


    As I neared the end of my piri-piri chicken, Daddy Star launched into the beginning of his pitch. He told me that he''d always loved sport. He had tried to get on his college team, a feat he described as being akin to the movie ''Rudy''. I hadn''t seen it but it was famous enough that I knew the ending. "Thing is," said Star, "I never got on the field. Not even for one down. They didn''t think I was tough enough, fast enough, man enough. I''ve spent every day since proving them wrong. Plenty of those fellas work for me, now. Funny, though. I''d give up half my fortune to have played." He stared at some spot on the wall and pushed at it with a stubby finger. "I heard how you do it. Everyone plays every game. I wonder if that''s the way it should be? Or is it too soft? Man''s gotta earn his place on the field."


    "You already earned it by getting in the squad. I use the whole of the chicken. There are matches where you need someone to run around like a crazy person for ten minutes. You don''t need to be George Best for that."


    James Pond said, "I was at the Chelsea game." My fork paused on its way to my mouth. That was unexpected. He continued. "You used some of the weaker players and kept the strong ones on the bench. It nearly worked, too."


    "Yeah," I said. "Nearly." This is how it feels when your team wins nothing at all.


    "I haven''t seen you that passionate and fired up before."


    "I don''t like them," I said.


    "Who?"


    "Billionaires."


    "Max," said Pond, annoyed. He looked at Daddy Star apologetically. "Sorry."


    "Ha!" said Star. "I ain''t no billionaire. Whut? Someone''s got the wrong end of the wrong stick. But I think Max is smart enough to keep an open mind about me. Whaddya say, Max?"


    I put my fork down and leaned back. I let the last atoms of peri-peri dissolve into my tongue, enjoying the blissful slightly burning sensation. I exhaled. "I was pretty depressed after that match. If we could add to the roster, we''d smack teams like Chelsea up. But after I''d spoken to the kids, I saw the dad of one of our stars talking to an agent. More like flirting with the agent; they were having a lovely old time. Best friends for life. If we lose our prospects we''ll never be able to bridge that gap." I closed my eyes. "It was the first time I was glad we were having this meeting. It was the first time I thought seriously about taking some investment."


    Star swigged some water. "What did you say to those boys in the locker room?"


    "I got the goalie up. His mistake led to the last goal. I stood Bivvy up and said we win as a team, we lose as a team. I offered the others one chance to punch Bivvy in the dick but if anyone took it then I''d list all the mistakes he made and he''d be next up for a dick-punch. No-one wanted to cast the first punch. I sat Bivvy down and said I was proud of the lot of them and they''d done the badge proud and they were the only ones in the stadium who could say that. I said Chelsea are in there pumping out victory music so loud the mortar is cracking - bunch of classless pricks - but there''s no-one in that dressing room who''s worth a damn. We''ve got a year to get better and we''re going to come back and rip them a new one. I said giving them first team minutes was working and they''d get more but only if they stuck together and stayed positive."


    "Huh." Star showed some Brooke-ness. Something was going on behind that blank expression, but I couldn''t tell what.


    Pond said, "And did you mean it?"


    "We need a bit more star quality. Three or four match winners on top of that squad but if we keep that unity and that mentality, bosh. We win the Youth Cup."


    "There''s no prize money for that," said Chip. I replied by staring at him. "It''s a waste of time and resources. Why bother?" He shook his head. "You focus on the wrong things. Your whole strategy is bad."


    "Oh," I said.


    "You sign teenagers and waste five years of coaching time and in-game minutes. Let someone else do that. You should sign twenty-two-year-olds and sell them after two years. That''s the way to maximise profits."


    All my decisions and mistakes had somehow led me to this moment - being lectured on how to run a football club by a b-boy''s idiot son. I sighed and rubbed my temples. I wanted nothing more than to never speak to or think about this guy ever again. Why was that? His older sister was incredible, but when she was growing up, the No Fussin'' empire was probably, like, ten stores. Daddy was comfortable but ever-striving for more. Brooke learned the value of being smart, working hard, and getting on with others. The empire grew so fast that Chip had grown up with a dad worth over a hundred million dollars and he had learned that whatever he did, daddy still bought him a new car every year. "Let''s talk about Chip," I said. "What''s his role in the post-takeover Chester?"


    Star poked a fork at his son. "He''ll be my eyes and ears on the ground. I''ve got a business to run back home. Chip''s very interested in soccer. Always has been."


    I thought about pointing out that I would never, ever put myself through the agony of reporting to an empty-suited nepo baby, but Star already knew that. Or did he think he could make an offer big enough that I would want to stay? I knew these ultra-rich types were arrogant, but surely not that much.


    I stayed internal for long enough to worry James Pond. He coughed and said, "Perhaps we could clarify one or two things, Max. If there was a takeover, and of course it''s still very early days and subject to approval from the fans, what exactly would Mr. Star be acquiring?"


    "What?"


    "Would you give us your analysis of the division and our place within it?"


    I shrugged. Why not? "Grimsby are running away with it. Barnet are a well-financed team with good scouting and a good manager. They''re top of a pile of clubs with similar resources and ambitions. Altrincham, Gateshead, Solihull, Oldham. Forest Green have been in decline but they''re going to get a million pounds in the Third Round of the FA Cup. That could get them going again. On their day, Halifax, Rochdale, and Hartlepool can beat anyone. Southend and Woking are spending money. Fylde and Ebbsfleet spend way more than they earn. Dagenham are part-owned by the New York Yankees. There are twenty-four clubs in the league and our budget is one-third of the guys at the top and one-half of a dozen more."


    "So you need more money," said Star.


    "I wouldn''t say no to a donation."


    "Who would you buy?" said Chip.


    I stared at him in a way that would have been rude had it been someone not called Chip. Did he really think I''d give away transfer targets to some randos?


    Star gave a wry smile, then got serious. "I don''t claim to understand much about your sport. Is it true you tanked the, what was it, the Trophy?"


    "Yes."


    "Why''d you do that?"


    "We have a squad of players that can win matches of a certain level. Some we can win by adding a certain amount of emotional energy, which takes time to replenish. We play in the league and in three different cup tournaments. It''s like the regular NFL season with three knockout cups each leading to its own Super Bowl."


    "Four Super Bowls, then? Even I think that''s too many Super Bowls!"


    "Oh, the whole thing is mad, really. The Trophy is a medium-sized Super Bowl. I wanted to go hard at it, course I did, but the scheduling worked against us. It would have been irrational to go hard at that match when the next one was a big big Super Bowl game."


    "Which Super Bowl are we talking about now?"


    James Pond pushed his glasses up. "I don''t think the comparison was very helpful, Max."


    "You''re right. Er, my decision was based on maximising financial income while retaining realistic sporting ambitions across a variety of competitions."


    Star nodded. "Got it. Okay. Now, what about Kidderminster?"


    I blinked. "What about them?"


    "See, I find it real interesting. The promotion and demotion thing. We don''t have that but it''s damned exciting, isn''t it? Now, you and Kidderminster came up from the lower place. And they beat you in the early season. But halfway through, you''re sittin'' pretty in the playoffs and they''re the square root of nowhere."


    "Sixteenth," said Chip.


    "Your budgets are comparable and if anything, they invested more in the roster than you did. So how''ve you turned that around?"


    "Most teams recruit based on their immediate needs. Kiddies had a couple of weak spots and upgraded. Perfectly rational, but I have loftier ambitions. To get as high as I want to go, we have to start lower."


    "That makes no sense," said Chip.


    I decided that every time Chip spoke, I would remain silent, and tried it out now. It felt great. James Pond stepped in. "Max, it''s plain to see that you can spot talented and undervalued players. I told Mr. Star all about Raffi Brown and the frankly outrageous fee we got for him. I told him about Sam Topps and how you replaced him for a fraction of the sale price."


    "Buy low, sell high," said Star. "I''m a businessman and I understand that all right. James says we can do this on repeat. Buy low, sell high. But can you buy medium, sell even higher?"


    "Of course," I said.


    Star smiled. "Only thing missing is startup capital."


    "Mmm," I said. So far, most of the conversation had been pretty basic. It was theatre, a play performed for the benefit of James Pond. He was the referee and we had to play by his rules to get through to the next round. I felt a surge of excitement - me against the billionaires! This was a replay of the Chelsea match. I had to hurry to dampen the excitement - that wasn''t the right vibe at all. This is how it feels to be City... "A cash injection would be nice but money tends to come with strings attached and that''s a problem. If anything is done that puts the club at risk, I''ll have to quit. And without me, the whole process grinds to a halt."


    "Other soccer clubs have managers and scouts," said Star. "They somehow stumble through the misty fogs without your blinding light to guide them."


    "Oh, indeed," I smiled. He''d fallen into a trap already. One-nil! "But then they''re just another football club and if there''s one thing every football club in this country excels at it''s losing money. See, I like you, Gerry, and I''d hate to see you blow Chip''s college fund getting yourself on the wrong end of a deal."


    "I graduated three years ago," said Chip. "From Yale."


    I''d landed a good blow. Two-nil! "The aim of small clubs is to get bigger but the biggest clubs lose the most money. Chelsea and Man City have blown unfathomable amounts. We all know that, but did you know what Aston Villa have been up to? From 2016 to 2023 they lost 230,000 pounds... a day. In that time, they posted losses of 584 million in total and they''re not a crazy outlier. Premier League clubs lose obscene amounts. Championship clubs are losing 70,000 a day on average. That''s 90,000 dollars, Chippo. A day. That''s a lot of grizzle sticks. Let''s go down a level. For every one hundred pounds Oxford United generate, they spend two hundred pounds in player wages. They lose 100,000 a week. When they were in the National League, Wrexham''s owners spent nine million pounds getting promoted. The club currently owes them that nine million and a lot more. What if they call that debt in? I''m sure they''ll write it off or whatever rich people do, but as it stands, Wrexham AFC are one billionaire tantrum away from ceasing to exist. What if Ryan Reynolds has a bad day and reads a mean tweet and pulls the plug? No, that life is not for me. If Chester fans choose to go down the exit ramp marked ''certain doom'' I won''t be here and it''ll just be another loss-making club with an owner who thinks he''s smarter than a hundred other rich guys." Three-nil!


    "We can pick players just as well as you," said Chip.


    Three-one. That got my attention. "Gosh, how?"


    "That''s proprietary information."


    "It''s true, Max," said Pond. "They have amazing data models and their findings tally with yours. I was not a fan of the James Wise signing but their data showed me I was wrong and now look at him."


    I felt the first slight stirrings of unease. Three-two? If they thought they could actually run a football club without me, my plan might not work. "Every football club has super-duper data models these days."


    "I''ve seen their work and it''s impressive. If they acquire the club you''d benefit from it. All the scouting you do by driving around you''d be able to do from the comfort of your home with the click of a mouse. Now, there''s still a role for you because your teams always outperform expectations and your underlying data is exceedingly good. But they could run this club without you. They really could."


    Three-all. If they really did have a model they could sack me and get someone in who could coach and do some funky tactics. They could do what I was planning to do. Not as fast, maybe, but they could get to League One in seven years and get a massive return on investment. "What''s the selling price?" I mused.


    "That''s none of your concern," said Chip.


    His dad said, "Two million pounds."


    "And where does that money go, James?"


    "It goes to the trust."


    "And is distributed to the members?"


    I wanted to know if he was going to get rich off this deal. "No. We didn''t save the club to profit from it. We saved the club because it''s our club. It''s our community. Mr. Star can get us back into the league where we belong, and when he buys the stadium, we''ll use those funds to help."


    I laughed. "So he gives you two million pounds and a few weeks later you give it back to him? You''re giving him the club... for free? Are you fucking serious?" Four-three to Max!


    "I am serious," said Pond, fuming. He pushed his glasses up and hissed. "We want to professionalise and modernise and we want our bloody stadium back." Four-all.


    I pointed at Star, matching Pond''s negative energy. "He''ll own the fucking stadium, you idiot!" Five-four to me!


    "The club will," said Pond.


    "Now, fellas, come on," said Star, in a calming tone. "We''re still going through all the options. Of course if I bought the club I''d want you to stay on, Max. That''s why we''re here. You''re a top talent and there''s no denyin'' that. I''d be crazy to let you walk out the door and go to a rival. I''m a businessman and I want to make money and you can do that better than our models, I''m sure. Plus, you''re a helluva lot more entertaining than a heap of code!" He paused as Luisa and another waitress came to clear our table. "Now, Max. Let''s talk turkey. I''ll pay you what you''re worth. I''ll double your salary and get you a company car. I''ll let you keep your social programs and give you a much bigger spending budget. Whaddya say? Surely there''s a way we can work together?"


    "There is," I said, dabbing my lips with a napkin. James Pond''s head jerked up so fast his glasses slid almost to the end of his nose. He pushed them back. I said, "I''ll take a loan. Give me two million pounds in time to use it this transfer window and I''ll give you three million back in three years. That''s a good return, isn''t it, James?"


    He nodded. "Yes. Exceedingly good. What''s the catch?"


    I smiled. The score was six-four. I was crushing this. "No catch. Two million becomes three. Easy money."


    Pond smacked his lips together as he calculated the yearly return. That was his problem - jumping right into the detail. Daddy Star was not so gullible. "On what security?" He meant, what would he get if the club didn''t repay the loan? It didn''t own the stadium. He would have to be paid in shares.


    "Oh, there can''t be any security," I said. "Because that would put the club at risk, wouldn''t it?" Star would have an incentive to work against the club - if we failed to meet the repayments, he would take over. And that, I knew, was exactly what he wanted.


    Star''s avuncular facade slipped away for a moment. He gave me dead shark eyes. "No serious businessman would accept those terms."


    "Mmm, that''s not true, though, is it? The return is high because of the extra risk. Quite a lot of businessmen would take it, I think. Especially ones who knew how easily we would be able to make the payment. It''s not a risky deal at all. The only reason to turn it down would be if you thought you could make even more money in that timeframe."


    Seven-four! I was absolutely brilliant at politics. Pond was looking from me to Star, confused that I''d made such a generous and reasonable offer... and that the Texan was not into it. Star slipped back into Daddy Star mode easier than taking a sip of water. "My daddy always told me, never sell sausage in a Turkish Bath."


    "Random," I suggested.


    "He meant, make sure you''ve still got your junk after a deal is done. No, Max Best, I always get security and I always get repaid in full."


    "Okay so you don''t want a guaranteed and incredibly generous return. Makes sense, I suppose. I can''t really compete with James'' offer to fucking hand over two million pounds. So, get in, get out, asset strip, quick profit. How much will you get, I wonder? Four million? Five?"


    "What are you talking about?" said James. "They''re long-term investors."


    I laughed again, but then I found my tank was empty. Winning the conversation was all kinds of fun but I planned to end this war at the Fans Forum; there was no point going further than we had already done. "Sure, James. And Chip grew up with a poster of Smasho and Nice One on his wall. Fuck''s sake."


    Chip was stewing and lost some of his Ivy League polish. "I told ya, dad. I told ya."


    "Well, we tried," said Star. "But since you''ve been so good to us, Max, telling us how buyin'' a soccer team is a loss-makin'' endeavour and all, let me return the favour." He paused for dramatic effect and it worked - I got the first tingling of my spider senses. Danger! "This little stunt with your new contracts. We know what it''s all about. We weren''t born yesterday." Seven-five. Seven-six!


    My lower back was suddenly, instantly, drenched in cold sweat. "Gosh," I said. Bravery 20. Dread 20.


    James Pond gave me a disgusted look. "We know who''s coming next and who will get new deals in the days leading up to the Fans Forum."


    "Do you?"


    "The next ones will be the Exit Trial boys and the last ones will be Zach Green, Henri Lyons, Youngster, and William Roberts." Seven-all. Eight-seven to the billionaire!


    I nearly died right then and there. Just nearly died in Tiny Tino. Literally tried to give up the ghost. They knew. They fucking knew. How could they know? My peripheral vision vanished and I found myself looking into the strangely distorted faces of my enemies - James Pond and Daddy Shark. The real Daddy Shark. My fingers were trembling and I had the craziest feeling that my teeth were chattering.


    Congratulations, I said, while mentally punching myself in the dick. You played yourself.


    Daddy Shark was giving me a very paternal and very menacing smile. "See, Max, we''re careful people. When we look at buying a soccer club and its manager hands out new contracts to players who only recently got new deals, we think to ourselves, golly, that ain''t right. And we checked the small print. And what did we find?"


    "Nothing," I whispered.


    "Nothing!" he said. "Must admit, you had us in a tizzy for a while. But James worked it out." Nine-seven. I''d got complacent. I''d got complacent and all of Chester would suffer.


    Pond was nodding. He was very pleased with himself and he scored goal after goal as he put me in my place. "You think you can win a popularity contest. You''re giving these contracts out so you can blast the news all over the socials and remind the fans that these are your players. They''ve come to Chester because of you. That''s the message. If you want to see good players, vote the way Max wants. Okay, it was a nice try. You understand football but you don''t understand the game you''re playing. This is politics. This is electioneering and you''re no good at it. You''ve lost Sumo, you''ve lost Barnesy, and you see, the sad thing is, we''ve already got the votes. It''s all sewn up." He shook his head in mock sadness as he turned the victory music up to eleven to really rub my face in it. "You''re just not very popular."


    I kept very still. My will had failed me and all I could do was look down at a spot on the table. I was vaguely aware that Luisa had come and gone. "So it''s done."


    "It''s done. All that remains is to decide if you stay on as manager."


    "No," I said.


    Pond nodded. "Fine. Absolutely fine by me. I''ll be sorry to see you go, in a way. But your amateurism can only take us so far. Mr. Star is the future of this club."


    I didn''t move. I tried to imagine a future where Star had his hands on what I had built. The thought kept the despairing look on my face. This is how it feels to be small.


    "I''ll pick up the check," said Star. He and Pond got up and shuffled out from the tight table. I ignored Chip''s demand that I move. Finally, he pushed me hard enough to jolt me out of my defeated stupor.


    I slid out, genuinely worried I would leave a trail of slime behind me, then retreated to the relative safety of the cushioned seat. "Wait," I croaked. I looked at Star but had to break eye contact right away. I looked at Pond instead. That was easier. "I promised the lads I''d give them new deals. They''ve all had it. I can''t leave out..."


    Star laughed. "You go right ahead and do what you were planning." He shook his head, admiring my lame attempt to stop his inevitable triumph. "You''re under budget anyway." He ambled away, towards the coat rack. "When''s his last game?"


    Pond said, "The forum is January 17th. There''s a Cheshire Cup game before. We''ll need a new manager in place for the 21st against Halifax."


    "I''ll draw up a list!" said Chip, excitedly, as he hurried after the other two like a little puppy.


    I slumped and hunched and held my head in my hands. Utterly, utterly defeated, I wallowed. Wallowed in my complete and total failure.


    I stayed like that for well over a minute. Laid it on pretty thick.


    A sexy voice said, "They''re gone."


    I didn''t budge. "There could be someone watching."


    "There''s no-one watching."


    "Okay," I said, still cradling myself.


    Luisa tutted. "What are juu doing?"


    "You were right," I whined. "He''s a shark. The biggest shark. Bigger than me."


    Luisa tutted. "I was trying to help."


    "Such teeth," I said. "He was so mean."


    Luisa laughed. "You are such a prick."


    "Don''t laugh," I said, my eyes darting around to see if perhaps Star had someone watching from another table or perhaps through the big window.


    "Slide across," she said. "You can''t be seen from there."


    I slid to the place where Chip had been and sure enough, I was more or less invisible to the rest of the world. I nodded with approval. "This is a good spot. Why did you never tell me about this?"


    "Because I like looking at handsome boys."


    I laughed and realised I didn''t feel handsome. I used a napkin to dab at my face. My skin was oily and gross. "That was harder than I expected."


    "You were convincing. To sweat on cue - you could make money from that trick."


    "Oh, that wasn''t fake. I thought they had me. They got so, so close, but then the billionaire''s disease kicked in. Complacency."


    "But we are good?"


    I thought about it. Thought about WibRob and the Youth Cup and Project Youth and the playoffs. Thought about Star and Pond and the fact they didn''t know we could get the stadium for free. That meant Brooke hadn''t told them. Star hadn''t even mentioned her. Was he hoping I would? If Brooke genuinely wasn''t talking to him, it meant she was really on my side. That meant... "We''re good. We''re really good. This is a football club. We follow the rules of football, here. I''ll score a last-minute winner and they won''t have time to respond. Then I can fight the fight I want to fight. But... But there''s no new money coming in. We''re going to have to go the long way home."


    "I like this saying. But what of the shark?"


    I scoffed. "What of him? I''m using him to get what I want. He''s doing a bang-up job."


    "A bang-up job. I do not know this."


    Oh, to be the one who explained English to Luisa. In another dimension, perhaps. "He''s doing what I want him to do and he''s doing it well. As Henri would say, I permit him to continue." I laughed, thinking of another French phrase I had come to adopt. "The guy''s trying to get me to move out of my castle. Doesn''t he know? I am the state."


    Luisa gestured that I should slide back across. She pushed a clump of hair away from my forehead and gave me an intense look. Then she sighed and said, "The state needs a shower."


    ***


    Two Nights Earlier


    I was feeling sorry for myself on the team bus. It was calm at first, but after a while, the kids behind me started to make so much noise I nearly put my headphones on. Instead, I listened in to what they were saying.


    Benny and Tyson were joking about a chance Tyson had missed. William was chatting to Dan about whether we''d made the right tactical moves in the second half. Captain and Henk were telling Bomber what it was like playing against such good strikers. Top kids. Top Chesterness. They''d put in a hell of a shift. They had earned a treat.


    I looked at Spectrum. He was scribbling in a notebook. It was either things to work on in training, equipment requests, or a love letter to Beth. He had worked his arse off in the past year. He''d earned a bonus.


    I texted Bulldog, expecting him to be driving, but got an instant reply. A flurry of messages later and we had it all planned. I went to talk to the driver. The guy was a regular and a Chester fan and more than happy to accommodate my latest request.


    An hour later and the lads were mostly quiet. Some were asleep and didn''t notice when the bus stopped. We shook them awake and headed down and into the only place still open so late - McDonald''s. Any relatives who''d made the trip down to London were inside and when Captain walked through the doors there was an instant party atmosphere.


    "Chester! Chester!"


    I didn''t really know where we were - somewhere near Birmingham maybe - and we got some strange looks. But the randos getting late night burgers didn''t seem too put out by our sudden takeover of the place. "Tyson," I said, as I slapped hands with his dad. "Get, like, a thousand Big Macs or something. Your dad''s paying."


    Bulldog spluttered. "Am I?"


    "I''m not allowed," I said. "Do a search for Andy Holt. He bought his players fish and chips after a win and he got in trouble with the EFL. Who knows what the rules are in the National League? Not me, that''s for sure."


    Bulldog shook his head but handed his credit card to his son. Tyson took it and fell into organising mode. It was funny to watch twenty lads try to give Tyson a complicated order only for him to decide everyone was getting the same thing and if they didn''t like it, they could swivel.


    I sat near Bulldog, Mr. Roberts, one of the other dads, and Spectrum. Someone had rustled up some cold beers. Mr. Roberts handed me one. I took it and pulled the tab open. The first swig was nectar. William happened to be nearby and he said, "Can I have one?"


    His dad, Spectrum, and I simultaneously said "No," which got a big laugh.


    The lads were buzzing, the parents were happy, and I finally found some measure of peace. So what if WibRob switched agents? So what if I had to sell him to Chelsea? I''d get five million out of it, at least. It would turbocharge everything I was doing.


    I fell into a reverie thinking about what I could do if I got my hands on five million British pounds...


    "Max!" said Spectrum, snapping me out of it.


    "What? What?" I looked around and saw lots of happy faces.


    "Mr. Roberts was saying he met an agent who could get him a big move to Chelsea. We were wondering how you felt about that."


    My face hardened and my knuckles got sore from clenching. I realised the men were all hiding cackles behind beer cans. I was being pranked somehow. "What''s going on?"


    They laughed. Bulldog said, "You were going crazy on the touchline. It''s not like you. We were wondering when we''d see it again and Spectrum said he could turn it on whenever he wanted. Looks like I owe him twenty quid."


    I turned to Spectrum and raised my eyebrows. Fuck your bonus, mate! He realised I was pissed. "Er, Max is worried his best young players will be poached."


    Bulldog said, "Why would they leave?"


    I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice as I said, "I did see Mr. Roberts in deep discussion with that agent."


    There was a pause while they all looked at the guilty party - and then another eruption of laughter. "Sorry, Max," said Mr. Roberts. "I couldn''t resist."


    Bulldog shook his head. "You''ll understand better when you''ve got kids. Having strangers come up to you and raving about your child? There''s nothing like it. It''s addictive. Used to be Tyson got all the attention. Now it''s Will. Any agent who wants to whisper sweet nothings in my ear is more than welcome." The dads chuckled.


    Spectrum said, "Max is worried you''ll do more than flick your hair from across the pub."


    "What?" boomed Bulldog. "Leave Chester and go to Chelsea? Liverpool? City?" He got to his feet and swept his arm around the McDonald''s. "I love it here. What other club would make the parents buy the treats?" He roared with laughter.


    "Will!" shouted Mr. Roberts.


    Five metres away, his son sat up and shouted back, "What?"


    "Do you want to go to Chelsea?"


    "Fuck no!"


    Mr. Roberts looked at me. "That''s that sorted then. Now stop moping, Best. We need a goalie, a right back, and a left winger. Pull your finger out."


    "Spend some bloody money!" yelled Bulldog, who was delightfully sozzled.


    I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "I might just do that." I took a big swig of the good stuff and peered at the front of the can. A lone star twinkled back at me. "You know what''s better than one star?"


    "What?" said Mr. Roberts.


    "Five stars." I waggled my eyebrows until he got the message. He plucked another cold beer out of a plastic carrier bag and handed it over. "That''s only two," I complained.


    He scoffed at my cheek. "You get two from me and if you want more you find some other sucker."


    You get two from me... "Mr. Roberts," I said, feeling some of the old electricity. "When are you going to bring William''s brother for a trial?"

 9.9 - Merry Kisimas

    9.


    Dear Dani,


    I''m your Secret Santa!


    When I drew your name I wasn''t sure what to get you but I talked to Bonnie and Angel and they said why don''t you write a letter about what''s been going on? Their idea was like okay yeah we do tell you what''s happening and you get the half time team talks but maybe you don''t get many of the subtle bits and someone said you told the doc crew you would like to get deeper sometimes. That made me sad thinking about how you miss out even if it''s only a little bit. I know I wouldn''t want to miss anything, even the bad bits, and I got pumped and I was all ''yeah yeah yeah I''ll do it!'' and Angel said ''or you could buy some chocolates''.


    I can never tell when she''s joking.


    You know what? I''ve just realised she''s a lot like Max. Yeah, she''s kind and funny except when she''s intense and she can be scary. There''s suddenly loads of people like that in my life. Dead competitive and always on and pushing and that''s just the physios!


    So I randomly got to spend a day with Max and halfway along I decided I''d use it as a chance to find out when he''s joking and when he isn''t which now that I type it out kind of seems lame but even though I hear everything I don''t understand what I''m hearing and honestly I think I''d prefer to be in your shoes and only get the plain facts.


    To be clear, the mission was to try to hear the words under the words, starting with Max. The plan didn''t really go to plan but it was a fun couple of days and I think if I were you I''d like to read about it!


    Okay it''s five minutes later because I thought about the chain of events and I probably have to describe the day before even though you were there. Just in case you weren''t concentrating. And after all, it''s me and you who get told off for losing concentration so... Here goes!


    ***


    It was Wednesday so we went to training like normal and while we were getting changed and putting our GPS vests on ALL HAIL THE VESTS we were buzzing about what the boys did in the Youth Cup. They nearly beat Chelsea! Charlotte had the inside goss from William and you got clips from Tyson and Jill had some proper footage off Smasho and I was just eating it all up! I mean, like, wow. Chelsea! In their den! That''s where this club is going. All of us! So it was crazy when Max turned up. Like, speak of the devil and he will appear!


    He had a weird look on his face, didn''t he? I''m not sure what it was all about. He kicked the documentary crew out, so that put me on edge. I think everyone was nervous.


    He went, "Right, quick chat." And that made me even more stressed because normally he says ''all right shut the bleep up'' but not now. Why''s he being weird? Jackie felt the same - I saw him twist his neck to check Max''s face. The vibes were all wrong!


    "Quick chat. There''s, like, going to be some talk about a takeover of the club or whatever." Big buzz! Takeover! What! "Yeah, can you calm the fuck down, please? Jesus Christ." He looked disgusted and I couldn''t tell if he was acting. Looking back... still not sure. "Right. Takeover talk. People hate change and uncertainty but a bit of change and uncertainty is good for me so I''m letting this play out. When we set the women''s team up, me, Ruth, and the lawyers got stuck in making sure it would be hard for some dude from Chester HQ to fuck it up. You''re better insulated than a... Shit. Jackie, name three things that are insulated."


    "A thermos flask. A loft. Livia in her Christmas socks."


    "Hmm. Emma has Christmas socks. It''s like she delights in their ugliness. Okay, you guys are as insulated as tiny feet in thick socks. Obviously, some theoretical new owner could be a total dick and try to stop you using the kit and the badge and crap like that, but while this particular family wouldn''t give you extra funding, there''s zero money in destroying you so they will totes ignore you. i.e. you can be chill. If you''re getting paid, you''ll still get paid. Jackie will still be in charge. Kisi and Dani still won''t track their runners and Bea Pea will still be exhausted after twenty minutes from storming around like a headless chicken." I know this stuff winds you up but it didn''t bother me. If anything, I was pleased to hear it because if he was giving me shit it meant he was in a good mood. But was he? For some reason I looked at Angel - that thing where they understand each other maybe - and she was kinda stressed and what Max said next got me all kinds of worried. "The only thing that will be even slightly different is that I don''t want Brooke talking to you until this is over."


    "Why''s that?" said Jackie. HE understands Max well and HE''S worried, now.


    Max shook his head. "I''m going to ask for a tiny bit of diplomacy and sophistication from everyone with regards to Brooke in the next month. We all know she''s a total ledge and she''s been doing amazing work and I know lots of you look up to her. For everyone''s benefit, I want her to keep a low profile and anyway she''s a workaholic so she can take a couple of weeks off over Christmas and New Year. If you''re doing parties and that, invite her to your house yes, invite her to get smashed in the city centre no. Okay, I''ve just realised this was a mistake because you''re all mad interested in it so I''m ordering you now to leave her alone until the Fans Forum. Do not talk about her on camera whether it¡¯s in the documentary or on your socials. Bonnie, Femi, is that clear enough?"


    I suppose they replied but I was patting my hair to see if it had zapped up like Einstein because this was some spooky shit. I remember you looking at the transcript on your phone like ''this can''t be right''.


    Later, we put two and two together, didn''t we, that it was her dad doing the takeover and I don''t know why Max didn''t just say that. Maybe he hoped we wouldn''t notice? If that''s the level of his plans we''re all effed, as you''ll read about later. Anyway, I met Brooke the next day and she and Max were superfriends so I''ve got to assume that, like, he was really looking out for her. I think?


    Back to the so-called quick chat before training - and we''re nearly getting to the important bit. Jackie said, "So there''s a takeover happening?"


    Max scoffed and did a cute smile but remembered he was trying to do a sort of worried, frowny persona. "Yeah, I can''t think of anything that could stop it at this point." He was trying not to laugh! He shuffled his feet a bit wider and looked down until he was ready. Ready to cry! "It''s going to be really, really hard to stop."


    Jackie sort of grinned. "Ah. Got it." He looked from us to him. It was like, yes I trust you Max but the Brooke thing is super, super weird. "You''re not playing with fire, are you, lad?"


    "I''m sure I don''t know what you mean."


    "Change and uncertainty is good for you, you said. You dead sure about that?"


    "Perfectly sure. I''ve got plans within plans and those plans have cute little baby plans. Now, look, ladies. You''ve already put on the single feeblest, most inept performance of any Chester team this season." Ouch. I wanted to say what about losing four-nil to Solihull but probably us losing to West was worse. "If you think you can play like that against Salford on Sunday and say ''oh we were distracted boo hoo'' then not a single one of you will be here next season. I expect a serious and professional ninety-minute performance and a win. Then, if you want, you can put on some sackcloth and ashes and walk around with a sandwich board saying the end is nigh. Because your next match is January 19th and it''ll all be over by then. So you''ve got to keep your head straight for one fucking match. Am I making myself crystal clear?"


    I was getting worried he was going to keep yelling at us because I heard from my brother that Max tore strips out of the men one time and James nearly cried because he thought it would never end and it was like eternity in hell. But the women''s team are built different. Angel said, "Is it true you was on the piss with the youth team''s dads?"


    "No," said Max, "I don''t drink during the season and that''s a dirty, scurrilous lie cooked up by people who want a takeover."


    "It was all over social media. Footage of you dancing on a table in a Maccy-dees singing songs about yourself."


    "Oh." Busted! He tried to style it out. "I mean, still no. That was a deepfake."


    "Are we allowed to go on the piss in the week before a big match?" Angel was really enjoying herself!


    "What big match?"


    "You''ve got Altrincham away this Saturday."


    "I''m allowed a couple of diet cokes five days before. Anyway, I''ve got a tactical plan for that one that will blow your socks off. Not your Christmas socks. Your normal socks."


    Angel doesn''t want to talk about socks. She''s kicking Max''s arse and everyone knows it. "I heard the Brig had to pick you up from the Deva and carry you home."


    Max smiled but only for like half a second and then he said the thing I wanted you to remember because of what happened the next day. "See, this is the type of thing we''re going to be hearing a lot of. People who want a takeover will be putting a load of this garbage out there. Opposition research they call it. You''ll hear mad stories that I''m getting drunk with Bulldog and Mr. Roberts and buying a football club in Wales and I''m in London defending myself from an FA charge that I illegally own West Didsbury and that I''m running off to Brazil with Henri''s girlfriend and that I''m stalking a coach I heard on a podcast and I''m getting the lads driving lessons from former commandos and - "


    "Hang on," I blurted out, because normally when he goes on a little rant like that it''s just a string of bullpoop. But I had inside information that said one of those things might have been real! "Defending yourself from an FA charge in London? Is that tomorrow? Is that why you want me and my dad to go to London? Am I part of it?"


    "Oh no," said Max, taking tiny steps away from me and putting his index fingers up like a cross. "The takeoverers got to Kisi! They are among us! We need a purge! Where''s the purge button?"


    Jackie took over. "Thanks for the update, Max. We''ll do our session now. Bye."


    "Wait," said Charlotte. She loves it at Chester and she doesn''t want anything bad to happen. "I''ll be chill and I''ll ignore Brooke - that''s weird, I don''t get it - just answer one question. Is it going to be all right?"


    Max smiled. "Yes."


    "Do you promise?"


    "I promise."


    Charlotte thought about it. I was convinced, but she turned to Jackie. "Did he say promise or pwomise?"


    We all laughed and Angel pulled Charlotte further onto the pitch. "He said promise. Come on, Chester! Let''s hustle."


    ***


    I''m not sure if I feel dumb for typing all that because you were there but you weren''t there for the next bit unless you''re a master of disguise!


    Me and my dad took the train from Manchester down to London - he wouldn''t tell me why! - and we met Max. I wanted to ask him about all the chat on the socials about how the takeover had huge approval and Max would be binned off and people seemed fine with that but he was blabbing about how you could stand outside Romano''s in the Strand and see the clock on the wall of the Law Courts and you could win good money betting on it with chaps who hadn''t found it out. He definitely heard me but didn''t want to talk about it. Suspish.


    A few minutes later we met Emma and Emma''s dad, Seb. Seb is like the coolest dad ever and he''s handsome, too! And he''s dead funny and he tells Max off, so he''s pretty close to being perfect. He was in a suit and Emma was dressed so professional and Max was in his crappest hoodie. Seb complained about the outfit and Max said his washing machine was broken and Seb said ''no you''re a provocative little ess oh bee''.


    I didn''t have much time to think about what was happening because suddenly we were deep into a courtroom scene and I realised Max was getting done by the Football Association! There were five guys behind a table on a platform, sort of looking down on us and that worried me and my dad but not anyone else. Four of the guys were white, but the one on the left might not have been. He was quite strange-looking and it was sort of upsetting to look at him but also he seemed like the friendliest one. Max reached into his backpack and took out a Nintendo Switch and played Zelda and my dad watched with big eyes until one of the guys coughed.


    The guy in the middle, the boss guy, read out a charge - that Max Best against the rules and regulations as set out in the FA handbook did knowingly something something take control of a football club. He asked Max if he had anything to say at this time and I worried that we would be there for hours and I didn''t have a Switch or a book or even some Fruit Pastilles. I need something to do when I''m bored, Dani! Or I go kerrrazzy!


    Max opened his mouth to chat some shit but at that last second he looked at Seb and Seb took over. He handed out some copies of a document. "I''m sure we would all welcome a speedy resolution to this misunderstanding. Here is the current shareholding of West Didsbury and Chorlton AFC. Mr. Yalley here owns nine hundred and ninety-nine shares out of a thousand." The five dudes looked at my dad. I was convinced he would punch the air and shout ''Chester whoo!'' But he didn''t. He was nervous, I could tell, and he just sat there in his best church suit.


    I touched him on the arm to tell him it would all be okay even though I don''t really know that. Why does my dad have shares in a football club? How did he pay for them? Rumour is Max dropped a hundred grand on West. We don''t have that kind of money. Mum cried when James bought her an air fryer. Nine hundred odd shares in West Didsbury and Chorlton? It''s all crazy.


    It took me far too long but it clicked that my dad had almost all of the shares. He was the owner. He owned a football club! My dad, who works at Manchester airport as a baggage handler, owns a football club! If this goes wrong somehow, I am going to batter Max Best.


    "Max Best owns one share," said one of the FA people, pointing to the paper.


    "He''s allowed up to ten percent," said Seb.


    "Not if the teams might compete against each other, as they recently did. For obvious reasons, players are strongly discouraged from owning shares."


    "It''s one share in his local club!" said Seb. "He''s an increasingly famous player who will never forget his roots, where he came from, and he has one share. It''s ceremonial! They''re in tier nine!"


    "We know he sets the transfer policy."


    "Does the handbook say anything about giving advice? Of course it doesn''t. There''s no case to answer here. If you don''t mind, I''d like to take my daughter to do some sightseeing."


    The strange-looking guy slapped the table. "One share! Ceremonial! Lunch!" He got up and pushed his chair back under the table. The guy next to him did the same, and so did the one on the far right. They were making their way to the exit behind them when the guy in the middle shrugged.


    "No case to answer," he said, making a note on a document and then picking the papers up. He chatted to the fifth guy as they followed the others out.


    Seb and Emma picked up their document cases and Max slipped his Switch into his backpack. How did he celebrate this victory over the dastardly FA? He smiled at us and said, "I''ve nearly found the third Leviathan skeleton".


    If this is the adult world, it''s absolutely wild and much stranger than on TV.


    We all piled out of a different door and went onto the street. We were waiting for a cab so I pulled Seb aside and asked if I needed to worry about this.


    "No, pet," he said. "Max needed to give his shares to someone and your dad''s the person he trusts most."


    "What about you? Or Emma?"


    "Emma owns a football agency. That''s the problem. Players and agents can''t own clubs." He gave me a kind look. "What are you worried about?"


    "I don''t know. I don''t know what''s going on. I don''t want anything bad to happen to my dad because Max talks shit about the FA in the Cup final."


    Seb smiled. "Max won''t let anything bad happen and more usefully, neither will I."


    "What if Max pisses you off and he breaks up with Emma and it''s just me and my brother trying to save my dad? We don''t know about all this stuff." I was on the verge of getting hysterical and I don''t mean funny.


    Seb put his hand on my shoulder and shook me around. "There''s really nothing that can happen but if it does, I''ll be there even if Max has finally gone too far. You call me anytime about anything, even if it''s working out how to track a runner."


    "Oh, what the shit!" I cried. "You an'' all?"


    He grinned and the cabs came and a few minutes later we were out on some random street in London.


    "Don''t you recognise where we are?" said Emma.


    I looked around. It looked very London, if you know what I mean. Victorian houses. Black railings and lampposts. Just London. "Sherlock Holmes'' house?"


    "That''s about fifteen minutes away," said Seb.


    "This is Savile Row," said Emma. She was super happy, big smiles.


    I said, "Wow, great!" and pretended to be just as happy.


    Emma skipped into a shop. Max snuck to my side and sort of whispered. "It''s loads of fancy tailors."


    "Thanks!" I said, forgetting that I was mad at him.


    I looked up before we went inside and saw that it was called Boateng Boateng. Ghanaian names!


    I closed the door behind me and it was a wonderland of fabrics and suits and shirts and buttons and men''s shoes. The shop smelled old but in a good way. It was, and I''m going to get poetic now, a space that spoke of class and refinement. Which suited Emma and Seb. Me, Max, and my dad, not so much.


    It quickly became clear why we were there. Max''s Christmas present from Emma and her dad was a fancy suit made by a famous tailor in London. The famous tailor, of course, was called Boateng.


    In the middle of the space was this very recognisable type of Ghanaian man. In another city - in Manchester, in fact - he''d have been a normal guy who worked at the airport and went to church. But in London he spent his days measuring men and designing clothes. He himself looked incredible. He was lean but well-fed and his own suit was amazing. A walking advert for his own talents! He didn''t smile much with his mouth but when Max started to get all Max he smiled with his eyes.


    That came a tiny bit later. First it was Emma fluttering around the shop like Tinkerbell, pointing at this and that and demanding Max try it on post haste and she was very hyper and very charming and Max watched her go and he''s so crazy about her and why wouldn''t you be?


    But then he dropped the bombshell.


    "Okay, Ems, thing is, I work on the basis of need. I''ve got a top coach coming in for one session. Who needs it most? Cole Adams or Sharky? I think a lot about that kind of dilemma and I''m getting good at maximising my impact on the world. Maximising the amount of good I can do. So I''ve decided I want to pass on this wonderful gift to someone who needs it more than me - Mr. Yalley. He''s a football club owner now. He needs to look smart to represent the people of Chorlton when he goes to football club owner meetings and that kind of thing."


    Emma had deflated so much I nearly laughed and cried at the same time. "But Max," she whimpered. "It''s for you."


    "We''ll come back next Christmas," declared Max, grandly.


    "I''m open all year," said Boateng, and he and Max did twinkly eyes at each other.


    Seb said, "Emma, pet, I agree with Max. Mr. Yalley needs a great suit."


    Emma swallowed and took a few seconds to compose herself but then she kind of flipped a switch and she did her Tinkerbell thing again but now she was shopping for my dad!


    "Come let me measure you," said Boateng, and I was about to translate but of course, he had said it in Akan. Dad was super happy to have someone to talk to who wasn''t me and he chatted away, saying that Max and Seb are great men and the shop is wonderful and where in Ghana are Boateng''s people from and so on and so forth. I was on edge the whole time waiting for him to say something cringe about taps or Jesus or whatever but Boateng was too busy working to worry about it.


    "Max," I hissed. "I''m mad at you."


    "What? Why?" He was pretending to be surprised and hurt. Definitely pretending!


    "You''re using my dad as a pawn in your wild schemes and I don''t like it. You can''t just put papers in front of him to sign. He probably thought it was something for Youngster."


    "I took him to Pastor Yaw and explained the whole thing from top to bottom!"


    "Pastor Yaw?"


    "It''s really not a big deal. I don''t know why you''re freaking out. He owns some shares. My mum has, like, a hundred shares in BT. It''s a thing people do. Welcome to the world of high finance, Kisi." He made a dismissive little noise.


    "Well," I said, because I was pretty sure I''d made a big mistake and my dad couldn''t get in trouble from this. And maybe Max was actually hurt and not pretending. "Can you, just, can you tell me the scam? It''s a scam, right? You beat the FA and it took five minutes and... But what? How?"


    Do you know that thing where someone waves their hand in front of their face and they change their expression? Like, now I''m happy, hand, now I''m sad? This happened but without the hand. His face set like concrete, like those busts of old generals, fierce and firm. I was amazed his lips could move. "I want to play beautiful football and make people''s lives better. Every single thing I think to do, there''s a rule against it. I''m not allowed to own West. I''m not allowed to treat the kids to burgers after a match, I''m not allowed to provide healthcare, I''m not allowed to give away tickets to matches. All I want, Kisi, is to do the right thing. God knows it''s hard enough to do that, but then it''s a hundred times harder because there''s a rule against everything. I don''t have time to follow every stupid rule and regulation and I don''t respect the rules, anyway. A rule that lets a random family from Tampa buy Manchester United and bleed it dry for twenty years until it''s barely able to stand on its own two feet? That''s not a rule I respect. So I did what those vampires did. If they can do it, so can I."


    "What did they do?"


    "You know what a share is, right? It''s a little slice of a business. If you own a share you own a piece of a company and you get rights. One right is to vote at the business equivalent of the Fans Forum. It''s actually very fair and very democratic. But turns out, the vampire''s shares are not the same as yours. Your shares get you one vote but their shares get ten votes each."


    "What? That''s not fair."


    "Vampires don''t care about fairness because they don''t care what you think. You''re nothing to them; just another asset to bleed dry. But I thought, hey, I can do that! So your dad has almost a thousand shares and I''ve got one share but my share is worth seven million votes."


    Dani, I was angry! Max was being so mean to my dad! "That''s not right."


    "Oh, I know. But I don''t need to own West Didsbury. I just want to run it. Your dad agreed to be my frontman. Pastor Yaw loves what West is doing for the community and he''s interested in copying it in Wythenshawe. You might get an All Nations Church FC! You have to help me make sure your brother doesn''t try to join it when I''m sending him to West Ham for fifty million quid." He was easing out of his black mood and getting more like the normal Max.


    I said, "So what''s with the fancy suit? A bribe?"


    "Fancy?" said Max, and he got a kind of a panicky look about him. He zoomed to the middle, where Emma and Boateng were discussing single button cuts with my dad as a mannequin. "Ah, hang on."


    Boateng was sort of dangling a very sleek jacket in front of my dad. "What is the issue, Max Best?"


    Max shook his head and got all dramatic. "He''s never going to wear that. He wants a church suit, BB. You know what that means. If it''s too nice he won''t wear it. I want something he''ll wear."


    "I want something awesome," said Emma. "Boateng is the best tailor in London. He doesn''t do basic church suits."


    Max looked into the tailor''s eyes. "Yeah he does. He makes the best bang-average church suit the world has ever seen. It looks ten percent better than everyone else''s but it''s ten thousand times more comfortable. Mr. Yalley slips it on and smiles but he doesn''t quite know why. His wife is proud of him but not ashamed that he''s lifting himself above the others."


    This guy Boateng isn''t used to being challenged, I don''t think, but that''s what Max does. He gets in your face and dares you to be better. For some reason, Boateng looked at me. "Miss Kisi, what do you think? Should I create a masterpiece or a..." He could barely say the words. "A comfortable church suit?"


    I think it through. It seems obvious that if you can get a super-duper million-pound suit for free, you take it. But that''s not what I end up saying. "I think Max understands us."


    Boateng did one of those inside-sighs as he looked up at the ceiling. "Thirty percent."


    "What?" said Max.


    "I can''t do ten percent better. Thirty percent better is as low as I can go."


    Max laughed; Boateng''s eyes crinkled. They''re like super friends but later I find out this is the first time they''ve met. Max said, "What''s your least interesting brown?"


    Boateng grabbed a fabric colour sampler. In Akan, he asked my dad what colour he wanted. Dad chose the least interesting brown. Boateng closed his eyes like he was in pain. "Sebastian, you owe me big for this one." Seb mumbled something back but Boateng wasn''t listening. He''d taken a step back and he was looking at my dad. He started drawing imaginary lines on him, mumbling, "yes, yes" and sort of holding lapels up and going "no, no" and it was super interesting to watch him work because he was doing it all in his head and we only got a sense of what was happening and I think - I''ve seen this before! It''s Max! It''s Max when he''s coming up with a wild formation. False midfield, second button. Sweeper, front flap and vents. Peas in a pod!


    Poor Emma, though. She thought she was coming to dress up her cute boyfriend but that turned into dressing my dad with his overlong arms. And Max even took that away from her and now she was watching Boateng create a simple, unpretentious church suit.


    She tried to be brave but I saw the moment she turned around and picked up a shoe so that she could look sad for a minute.


    From a few yards away, Max said, "Huh" in an odd voice and everyone turned to see what was going on. He was looking at a suit on a mannequin and feeling it. "I think I like this. Would this look good on me, babes?"


    Emma squealed and grabbed Boateng. "Mr. Yalley can wait. Get that on Max, pronto."


    ***


    We spent ages in the shop and we ordered two suits but we didn''t actually pay for anything. Apparently it takes ages to make the suits and you pay when you get them. It''s like the shop trusts you to pay. That''s crazy!


    My dad was happy, and Emma was holding onto Max. Apparently she doesn''t mind that he plays little pranks on her! And wait till you see him in that suit, Dani...


    We were having a nice day but we were tired and hungry so we popped into a pub for lunch. Seb and Emma are rich but they don''t mind slumming it with us lot. Turns out, this random pub does the best pie in London.


    My dad absolutely demolished a steak and kidney pie and I told him most of what the others were talking about. He was playing the Dani role! His English is improving a lot but he can''t understand a word Seb says. Do you know about accents? When Seb talked to the FA people he was crystal clear but when he relaxes he gets what my English teacher used to call ''regional''.


    I tried to bring up the topic of, like, the big American asteroid that was heading toward us and tried to show Max the latest poll saying 57% of Chester fans wanted a takeover even if Max wasn''t part of it but he said ''duh! It''s not an asteroid you''re thinking of a comet'' and Seb said ''no it''s a meteor'' and we talked about that.


    Max checked the time and said let''s get overpriced mulled wine I know a great place. We got in taxis again and ten minutes later we were somewhere else - London is so massive and I had no sense of where I was and it was making me dizzy. Max yelled, "In here, gang!"


    And it was the Natural History Museum and I''m thinking what? Why? Max sometimes bangs on about hedgehogs but he''s not really into biology or whatever. Not really. So we sat in the little cafe there - they don''t sell mulled wine - and suddenly Brooke turned up! With Zach Green! And some rando!


    It was Zach''s dad. The dentist! He''d come to England to work for free but Max heard he likes dinosaurs so it was dinosaur day. Max, Seb, and Emma treated Dr. Green like he was the guest of honour. Turns out, he''s called James, same as my brother, and he''s the nicest man ever. He made me think of a friendly neighbourhood postman in, like, Yorkshire. He''s quiet and he''s always checking the area but he''s always ready to deliver a smile.


    Museums are super boring and I think Max was having regrets about setting it up, even if Dr. Green was having a whale of a time. (This was supposed to be a joke about the whale skeletons we saw but they were at the end.) Okay so what felt like hours and hours of totes boredom came with two interesting memorable moments.


    First was when we went into this huge room and there was a massive dinosaur skeleton. It was fourteen metres tall! It was called a Titanosaur and honestly it was crazy to go into the room and see it just there. Really scary, really impressive. If seeing Harry Styles walking around Crewe would be ten out of ten, this was a really good eight. But Zach and his dad lost their minds. To them it was eleven. Or twelve! "Wow! Wow!" I think Zach wanted to do a chest bump but he settled for high-fiving his dad and they just kept going round saying "Wow!" and hugging each other.


    "That''s a beefy boy," said Max, craning his neck like we all were.


    "Biggest land animal of all time, boss!" said Zach. That made me think.


    "It''d be good on set pieces," mused Max.


    Dr. Green didn''t know much about football but he knew a lot about dinosaurs. "An animal that size, Max, needs super efficient lungs. And a big, big heart."


    Max looked back at him. "Your family would know a thing or two about big hearts, I reckon."


    Dr. Green smiled and put his arm around Zach, who looked at his dad like he was his absolute favourite person in the world. I kind of got closer to my dad and grabbed his arm. And Emma did the same with her dad and Max and we all kind of looked up at this huge monster who had brought us all together and it was a crazy amazing moment but I thought, what about Brooke? And I checked and she wasn''t looking at Max, like I''d expected, but at Zach. And she seemed lonely so I went over and hung out with her for a while which I''m sure was the highlight of her day. Not!


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    The second thing I suppose followed on from that. We were going round looking at all the fossils, and I mean, come on! They''re dead. They''re old. They''re dead old and they''re boring. But Zach and his dad were losing their shit about everything and they came to this big fish thing called an Ichthyosaur and they were ooing and aahing and I was like come on it''s a fish. And Zach got like super into telling me about it and remember Brooke is right there.


    "No, Kisi! These creatures were amazing and this one here was found by Mary Annings. In those days, women weren''t allowed to go to school but she turned herself into the top palaeontologist in the country! Her brother found this head and she found the rest. When she was twelve, Kisi!" I was kinda thinking, okay, she found some rocks but Zach was so hyper it was making me smile and he was so focused on me he didn''t see this curly-haired woman come closer, not hiding the fact that she listening. "And she found the first plesiosaur and the UK''s first pterosaur!" He led me to the fish. "Look at these teeth! Is it a fish or a lizard? Both! That''s why they''re called Ichthyosaurs, you see?" I didn''t see, but he didn''t see that I didn''t see.


    The curly-haired woman was a real science girl. "Ichthyo is the prefix for fish and saur is a suffix meaning reptile."


    Zach noticed she was there and gave her a big, white smile. But then he turned a hundred percent focus back on me, which, to be honest, was perfectly acceptable. "Look at the eyes, Kisi! This eye''s enormous for a predator. See the bony plates? With these, this magnificent bastard could go real deep and real dark. Ten metres long, this fella. You think Jaws is scary? This guy''s got him licked!"


    "You know your way around a fish lizard." This was the science girl and Zach seemed to really look at her for the first time. She had that big curly hair, as I said, big glasses, really pretty face, and tight leather trousers. I mean, smoking hot.


    "Aww, no," Zach said, all modest. "I like to read about ''em but my pa''s the real brains." He looked around but his dad was gasping over some slightly different dead fish. Zach''s oversized energy dimmed as he, once again, forgot there were three women hanging off his every word. "I, uh, just liked how much he loved all this stuff and, kinda, used it as an excuse to spend time with him. And, yeah, some of it rubbed off, I guess."


    The science girl was enjoying the conversation but Max shoved himself into the scene. I knew his ways; he was going to steal Zach''s girl! "Do you like football?"


    Science Girl was slightly put out, but smiled anyway. "Yeah, sometimes."


    Max sort of slapped Zach''s shoulder blade. "Zach''s the best defender in the National League."


    "Oh!" See, Dani, I didn''t think that was a good thing to say. I mean, we know the National League isn''t that high but the way Max said it, it was like he was saying Zach was the best in the Premier League.


    "Yeah, I''d say he''s the strong, athletically dominant silent type but if you need a passionate pre-match rallying cry, Zach''s your man."


    Science Girl was smiling non-stop. "Is he?"


    "The guy''s fast as fuck. Sorry for swearing. I mean, I love watching him play but I wish more people knew he had such a big old brain in there to go with his hyper-efficient lungs." Max shook his head, pretending to be sad. "But all they see is the absurdly talented athlete out walking his three dogs."


    "Oh, you''ve got dogs?" said Science Girl, as Max slipped away.


    So he was being a wingman! It certainly gave Science Girl a lot to ask Zach about and soon enough he was showing dog pics on his phone. Oh! And his phone was out! He got her number nice and smooth. Yeah, I thought it was quite nice of Max, actually, but Brooke seemed pretty disgusted. It''s always hard to tell what she''s thinking but, yeah, she didn''t seem happy. I had to walk-run to catch up with her and I kept her company for a while until we''d seen the whale skeletons and we were allowed to go.


    ***


    A bit later we were up in the London Eye. Have you ever done it? It''s 135 metres high and you go round in a big circle for 35 minutes looking at London. The Houses of Parliament are just there, there''s Buckingham Palace, and Max said he could see Battersea Dog''s Home and argh! I didn''t know if he was joking. I think that was the moment I decided I needed to work on my lie detector game. Remember that string of crazy gibberish he said when he was telling us about the takeover? That''s about to make a dramatic return to this delightful tale.


    The Eye is super touristy and I didn''t think Max would like it but he did. Seb had bought us fast track tickets so we skipped some of the queue and we had to share a capsule with some randos but it was all right. We went round for fifteen minutes while Zach and his dad talked about how Big Ben isn''t the clock, it''s the bell, and they knew loads about the Thames Barrier and stuff like that. My dad lapped it all up and the more he said how interesting it was, the more facts the Greens dug out of their arse.


    In my free time - the seconds between ALL THE INFORMATION - I was thinking about the day so far - it was such a whirlwind, not sure if that''s coming through - and I wondered if Boateng was gay. I excused myself from the factathon and went to talk to Max and Emma on the other side of the capsule.


    "Do you think Boateng is gay? I''ve never met a gay Ghanaian."


    Max barked at me. "Don''t talk shit," he said. "Of course you have. There are two hundred people in your congregation. Think of the percentages. Do not talk shit in the capital. This is the capital city of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and that little place in the ocean where they dumped all the mutineers. Have some respect for the capital by not talking shit. For fuck''s sake."


    Well, I knew he wasn''t really mad because he''s always talking about London like it''s something the cat dragged in and he acts like Manchester''s the real capital. But my dad was worried. "Dad''s asking what''s going on," I said. I didn''t want to translate because Max was saying some people in our church were gay and I didn''t want to have that argument with my dad. Just, er, no. But I couldn''t think of a cover. "What do I say?"


    Max gave dad a friendly dig on the upper arm and said, "Tell him I was at a house and their sinks had three taps. One hot, one cold, one lukewarm."


    I did and my dad couldn''t believe it. "It''s so stupid," he kept saying. "Too stupid for words."


    "Yes," said Max, happily. "It''s very modern."


    Of course, that sent my dad over the edge and he laughed his arse off and I had to explain it to Brooke and Dr. Green. Of course, Dr. Green couldn''t believe most houses in the UK had separate taps for hot and cold water but my dad now keeps a folder of photos from different places he goes and Dr. Green''s eyes were proper bulging.


    "I learned recently that eight percent of men are colour blind," said Max. "I said it to Vimsy and he said yeah, sure, but not here. Meaning Chester Football Club. Meaning Chester Football Club is exempt from demographics or statistics. I asked him, what do you think eight percent means? He just didn''t want to believe it. Didn''t want to think about it for more than one second."


    The initial touristness of the Eye had kind of worn off. It wasn''t boring but we were going round in a big circle and there''s only so many times you can say ''oh that''s The Shard'' and ''ooh Zach when are you going to text your new girlfriend''. So we were all ready to talk about something else and that was either going to be statistics or football. Emma chose for us. She sat next to Dr. Green and said, "Do you watch all Zach''s games?"


    "Well, I''d sure like to, but he isn''t on the box all that often. I listen to, what''s the fella? Boggy? I godda be honest, though. I don''t understand much of what he says. It''s so arcane. On a hat trick means you''ve scored two goals, not three. What gives?"


    "I can teach you," said Brooke. "I learned a lot in the last few months."


    "Dr. Green," said Max. "Do you understand that players can''t just attack? They have to think about defending, too?"


    "Of course."


    "Oh. So you already understand the sport better than Kisi."


    "Hey!" I cried, but I couldn''t be too mad because everyone was laughing. And, of course, I got a double dose because I had to translate it for my dad and he tried not to laugh and that set everyone else off again. "Max! Why are you giving me shit? I do what you do."


    "What?" cried Zach. "Sorry, Kisi, you''re real talented but you do not do what Max does."


    "I do! He drifts around not doing anything until he gets the ball. Saving energy so he can be more dynamic!"


    Max breathed out and his eyebrows went all the way up his forehead. He looked out across London and said, "I go where the team needs me. If I let a midfielder run past me it''s a calculation. Is Zach gonna take the ball off him? If he is then I''m in crazy space for the counter. I''ve been watching every matchup for seventy minutes, Kisi, and I know Zach''s got him on toast. It''s five percent chance they score, fifteen percent chance we score. As the resident floating megabrain I''m happy to make that calculation, do you know what I mean?"


    "You want Kisi to play more defensive," said Dr. Green, trying to understand.


    "No," said Max. "I want her to play all-out attack all the time because she''s incredible. But that''s not how it goes in real life. Other teams have good players too and you need to respect them and respect your team mates by not dumping them in the shit unless there''s a good reason. Zach fucking hates when I let players dribble at him but I pick the team and I think I''m a pretty good player so he just has to suck it up." Max did a big smile while Zach grinned and shook his head. "Kisi should be starting by now but no-one can get through to her. She needs to start matches with full intensity, full two-way player. When she''s got the percentages locked down she can decide if it''s okay to get more slappy."


    "Slappy?"


    Brooke explained. "It''s where they attack more. Especially down the wings, meaning the sides. Kisi can play in the centre or along the sides. She''s real good." Brooke''s my fave! She''s a ledge!


    Max is not my fave. He said, "See, Dr. Green, there are matches where I go on the pitch and don''t do any slaps at all. Who was it recently, Zach, where we had to defend non-stop?"


    Emma knew. "Gateshead!"


    Seb nodded. "Backs to the wall. Can''t remember seeing Max throwing himself at shots like that."


    Max said, "Kisi''s got a brother who plays defensive midfield. That''s sometimes called the pivot because the play revolves around him. Imagine we''re playing 3-5-2." Max shaped his hands so that his fingers and thumbs were touching each other and he moved them around an imaginary pitch. "They shuffle left, right, up, down. Youngster''s in the middle, there, he''s disciplined. Working for the team. But he''s smart and when he sees the time''s right he can slap."


    "He''s the heart of the heart," said Brooke.


    Max didn''t get it, but I did. "You''re doing a heart shape with your hands!"


    "Er, no. That''s three-five-two."


    Dr. Green said, "Where is he today? Didn''t want to come to the Big Smoke?"


    "He''s in Togo," I said. That made his eyes pop! Very satisfying. "He''s been playing the AFCON under twenty qualifiers. It''s like the World Cup for Africa. They played three matches in the group stage. James - oh! Same name as you! Youngster''s his stage name. He played one minute of the first match against Burkina Faso."


    "One minute?"


    "Managers do that to waste time at the end of matches."


    "Not Max," said Zach, sort of proud.


    "Ssh," said Max. "Go on, Kisi."


    "Then he played ten minutes against Nigeria. That was to help shut the game down because we were winning. I mean, Ghana were winning. He got two interceptions! And he played the whole third match against Benin which he said was because they were almost sure to go through and the manager wanted to rest his best players but I don''t believe that. And he was voted Player of the Match!"


    "It was actually a kid called Ayew," said Max. "Kisi thinks it should have gone to her brother."


    "You agreed with me!" I said, annoyed.


    "We''re biased," said Max. "He was good, though. After that, loads of clubs called us to ask for tickets to our next home games. It''s pretty funny, really."


    "What''s funny?" I said.


    "Nothing. Yeah, anyway, he''s doing great. You could see he was nervous in that third game but in the semi-final he looked at home. Like, these guys aren''t better than what I play against every week. I can do this."


    "What did you mean, it''s funny? I hate when you say weird things you don''t explain!"


    Max looked at me. "This takeover, right, is like fifty percent because of your brother."


    "What!" I cried.


    "What!" said Brooke.


    Guess what? This reaction pleased Max no end. "The people trying to buy the club think they know how to assess football players. They think Youngster''s good, right? And just as they announce their bid, he''s out there adding millions to his transfer value. That''s funny."


    "What''s funny about that?" I demanded, but Max declined to tell me.


    "This takeover is unwelcome, I take it," said Dr. Green.


    "It''s all anyone''s talking about," said Zach. "It''s really frustrating. We''re trying to win matches and it''s like whatever we do, the fans use it as proof we need a takeover. It must be ten times as hard for the boss and twenty for Miss Star."


    "We don''t need to talk about this," complained Max. "It''s not going to happen."


    Zach got a sly look on his face. "See, dad, the boss has a plan. He''s giving players new contracts and that''s going to save the club. But we can''t work out the mechanism."


    Dr. Green smiled. He likes a puzzle. "What''s the trick?"


    "That''s just it!" said Zach, getting enthusiastic again. I glanced at Brooke and couldn''t tell what she was thinking. Zach was talking with his hands. "We''ve been through everything. First, I was thinking there was maybe a squad limit. You could only have twenty-five in the squad and he was filling up those slots. But there isn''t and they could still take over. Sure, they''d have to wait till summer to do any business, but so what? Can''t be that. Then we were thinking about how maybe you can only sign a certain number of contracts per season or something like that, but our contracts don''t really come under football law, they come under contract law. There are no limits. We could sign a new contract every day if there was any reason to do that. Sorry, Miss Star, am I annoying you?"


    We turned to look at her but whatever expression had been on her face was gone. "No, I''m riveted. I''ve had all these thoughts myself. Please continue, Zach."


    Dr. Green spoke first. "The new contracts are different. There''s a clause. Something sneaky in there."


    "They''re identical," said Brooke. "Except the salary''s a little higher."


    "That''s it, then," said the older Green. "Salary caps."


    "There''s no salary cap, dad."


    "And Max is comfortably under his budget," said Brooke.


    "Hang on," I said. I pointed at Emma and Seb. "You''re very quiet all of a sudden. Do you know?"


    Seb''s eyebrows rose just a fraction. He pointed. "Emma, is that Buckingham Palace?"


    I gasped. "You know! Max! Tell us, too!"


    He rolled his eyes. "Can we talk about something else? This is boring."


    Zach didn''t think it was boring. "I''ve worked it out."


    "You have?" said Brooke.


    "It''s the dates. See, when Pascal was going to cancel his contract, the dates were wrong. They''d been written ''all American'' as he called it. This takeover, if it happens, will be mid-January. When do our contracts run out? The end of May for most of the lads."


    "Not for you?" said Dr. Green.


    "I came from a higher level and up there the standard expiry date is June 30th. Max has mumbled to some players that when we get promoted we''ll start to renew contracts on the June 30th basis."


    "I don''t understand," I said.


    "Right! Right! Get this. I''ve not signed a new deal yet but when it does, I''ll bet your bottom dollar the date is July second."


    "Oh!" said Brooke, smiling.


    "What?" I said, annoyed. "First, second. What''s the difference?"


    Brooke got Zachlike in her enthusiasm. "July second. Seven-two. Write that ''all American'' you get 7/2. I would glance through the contract and see July second, but here in the UK it would mean the seventh of February! Zach would be free to leave a couple of weeks after the takeover! Max! It''s brilliant!"


    Max did this weird thing where he squirmed so that his forearms were covering his face. He turned it into a big stretch before looking at us with sort of no energy. "It''s clever but it''s not brilliant. I''m not going to trick my players into signing weird contracts. Zach will know exactly what he''s signing when he signs it." He got a little sad. "If the buyer wants to buy and the seller wants to sell, there''s nothing you or I or anyone can do. But I''m telling you now, the buyer doesn''t want to buy and the seller doesn''t want to sell. The depressing thing is why the fans even want to consider it. So let''s all just drop it so I can have a lovely old day in, er, London."


    Zach bit his bottom lip while making little clicking noises. He was still trying to work it out! "I don''t buy it. You''ve got a trick up your sleeve. It''s definitely the contracts. Pascal said something about spelling Chester wrong."


    Max laughed pretty hard at that suggestion, but Brooke nodded. "Or the contracts are a distraction."


    "Red herring?" said Zach.


    "Magic trick. Look over here! Look over here! Don''t look over there where I''ve got the real solution. It can''t be the contracts because I checked, like, the first six new ones and they were identical. I-den-ti-cal."


    Max was smiling. "Did you check the seventh?"


    "No. Should I?" Max smirked and walked away. Brooke got her phone out and I think made a note to herself. "What I don''t get is why he''s letting it drag out. He could score a goal and run around shouting ''not for sale'' and that might be the end of it."


    Zach sat on the little bench in the middle of the capsule and put his chin in his palms. "He wants it to drag out. But why? Uncertainty is bad for the squad. Players are distracted. It''s bad for the transfer window. He said he won''t make trades until this is resolved."


    Brooke went to sit next to him. "If he''s letting it build up because he''s a drama queen and he wants to make it a big story in the match before the Fans Forum, he''s taking a big risk because the weather''s looking bad for the next few weeks. It could be we don''t play any matches in that time!"


    They were getting on great, suddenly, but it was odd that we were all watching them have this Holmes and Watson moment. I saw my big chance to find out if Max had been lying to us and yeah, also to get a bit of revenge for all the digs. I pretended to be helping to solve the mystery as I said, "Maybe it''s something to do with the team he''s buying in Wales."


    I swear I felt the capsule shudder. Everyone looked at me, then at Max.


    Emma almost looked angry. "What?"


    Seb very definitely looked angry. "You. Are not allowed. To own a football club."


    Max kept an innocent look and pointed. "Is that Buckingham Palace?"


    Emma said, "What have you done?"


    "I haven''t done anything," he said, laughing. He took a few steps to the side so he could do bigger gestures to a bigger crowd. "It''s not my fault the Welsh FA wants to get into bed with me. They''re all like ''oh Max you''re such a generational talent can you solve Welsh football please'' and I''m like ''I don''t know I should definitely check with my girlfriend first'' and they''re all like ''oh why don''t you surprise her on Christmas morning?'' And I was going to." Oh shit, Dani! I''d put my foot in it big time.


    Seb said, "I''m just going to say it now. I''m not working for free in your cases against the Welsh FA."


    Max sort of rubbed his mouth. Pretty sure he thought it was totes lolz. "I understand." Max looked at Emma - I think he was checking how mad she was - then narrowed his eyes at me. I gulped. Max turned to the dentist. "Right, Dr. Green. We''ve got to talk about your sched."


    "No way are you changing the topic," said Emma.


    "I can''t say anything here!" whinged Max. "Babes! The FA have spies all over London! Everyone knows that. For once I haven''t been dumb or reckless. I''ll tell you later. The whole story. Pwomise."


    Emma''s super smart and she always seems to know what to say and what to do but now she just opened and closed her mouth.


    "Kay good," said Max. "So, Dr. Green. Today was big dinosaur day and London Eye. Tomorrow''s the media blitz. Saturday morning we''re whisking you to Manchester to watch your son shut out Altrincham. Sunday you can do American things. What do Texans do on Sundays? Eat waffles and drive quad bikes?" The three Americans looked offended and guilty. "Monday we''re going to a racing circuit thing. Tuesday is Liverpool day. Ryan Jack and Jackie Reaper are taking you guys to do the Beatles tour and there''s a big Christmas market and, yeah, I don''t know what they''ve got planned. I suspect they want to take you on the Anfield stadium tour but they were too chickenshit to say that to my face."


    "I''ve been thinking about that. Can I go?" said Brooke.


    "Sorry, there''s only space for four tourists in Liverpool."


    "Sure you can come," said Zach. "The more the merrier."


    "Sorry," I said, interrupting. "When''s he going to do all the fillings and that?"


    I had turned Max''s face to concrete again. Brooke explained in a soft voice. "Dr. Green isn''t allowed to work in England. He needs to get special forms and permissions and there wasn''t enough time."


    "That''s stupid!" I said.


    "The rules are to stop any old fool coming here and prodding and poking in people''s mouths," said Dr. Green. "That''s understandable."


    "But you''re not any old fool! Max said you''re the most famous dentist in Texas!"


    Dr. Green looked embarrassed. "I wouldn''t say that."


    "Kisi, name a dentist from Texas," said Max.


    "Dr. Green."


    "Name another one."


    "I can''t."


    "Bosh," said Max. "Look, this is the shit I have to deal with non-stop. It''s grinding me down. We''ve got a full-blown crisis in this country and what''s the solution? A tiny little lawnmower engine and massive fuck-off Rolls Royce brakes. It should be possible to call someone and say I''ve got the Lionel Messi of dentists coming for a week is that all right? And they should go yes, yes please. Also, they should fucking say thank you so much for doing this we don''t know how to do it because we are dogshit." Emma went over and gave him a calming hug.


    "So..." I said, "What''s the media blitz?"


    Brooke said, "The concept is that Dr. Green heard from his son about how bad things are over here and he just wanted to help."


    "Which is true," said Zach, miring his dad some more.


    Max took over. "We''ve invited loads of media outlets, Kisi. TV companies, Daily Mail, the usual. A famous dentist from the states has come to do, like, emergency fillings because things are so bad here. When he does, like, charity trips, which he does because he''s the absolute best person, it''s normally to remote areas of Nicaragua. But now it''s to Chester because that''s our level. It''s the state of the whole country focused down into one little story. We will get mad publicity for this which, long-term, will help us set up our own clinic and help us get loads of applicants when we''re looking for dentists and assistants. Do you get it?"


    "But what about Dr. Green? If he''s not allowed to work, he''ll get in trouble!"


    "He''s not going to do anything," said Max. "Brooke found two local dentists with the right approvals who are willing to work for double pay. That makes them sound like dicks - I''m actually really grateful and this was supposed to be their Christmas holiday. So the real work will be done by those people. Dr. Green will be the frontman, like your dad is for West."


    My head was spinning. "But this will be on the news? And someone from the government will say oi, he''s not allowed, and there will be hearings and trouble! Stop getting into trouble!"


    "The only people getting into trouble," growled Max, "is anyone stupid enough to investigate what we''re doing. Because Beth is with me on this one hundred percent. We will let them start their investigation and then show how we actually had two licensed dentists doing the work and we''ll calculate how much money they wasted investigating us and how many fillings that could have paid for. And I''ll give them a choice. Either pre-approve any fucking dentist I want to use whenever I want to use them or your face is on the cover of the Daily Mail in the morning. Do you see? I want them to come at me. It''s a trap, Kisi."


    I thought I kind of got it. "Like the takeover."


    Max gave me a special look, then. One I don''t see very often. He was impressed. But he blinked and it was gone. He said, "James is a ledge, letting us do this, an absolute ledge. It won''t be his hand on the drill but we''re going to fill holes in teeth the way midfielders fill holes in our formation when someone dribbles past them."


    Another jibe! Another attack on my person! I snapped. "What did you mean about running off to Brazil with Henri''s girlfriend?"


    "What?" said Seb, taking a big step forward.


    Max glared at me. "What are you doing?"


    "Nothing," I said. "Hey, is that Buckingham Palace?"


    ***


    Before we all went our separate ways, I made sure I got some time alone with Emma and apologised for blurting out about the team in Wales. I said I wasn''t sure if Max had been joking when he said it and I didn''t know he was saving it as a surprise.


    "He probably had a funny thing planned that would get us all exasperated," she said, smiling affectionately. "Then he''d explain why it was all fine. Fine in his head, anyway."


    "I ruined the surprise, though. I wish I hadn''t."


    "I don''t know, K. Finding out a hundred metres above the Thames was pretty dramatic."


    It was good she wasn''t too bothered about it, but I didn''t think she was seeing the whole picture. "But Seb was angry."


    "He wasn''t."


    "He was! He said he''d stop helping Max!"


    Emma smiled. "He didn''t mean it. Anyway, it''s all good practice. Dad''s setting up a special football unit. It''ll be part of the company but based in Manchester. You know Gemma, right? She''s learning all the football rules. My dad''s building up experience of all the case types and because Max can''t stay out of trouble, we''re learning fast." She smiled again. She''s crazy about that boy! "If he''s really bought a team in Wales I''m sure we''ll soon get a crash course in international sports law." She laughed to herself. "I don''t want a dull life. Do you?"


    ***


    The next day the stories about the takeover took a back seat and there was all the dentist stuff. Loads of the first team, loads of kids and parents, it was a big party atmosphere in a big tent outside the clinic Max rented. Dr. Green ''treated'' one little blonde girl who apparently is in our under twelves and she came out smiling and there were loads of TV cameras and your friend and mine Bethany Alban was there with a Daily Mail photographer. It felt natural at first but every now and then, Brooke, Bethany, and Max would get together and some people would get moved around and I think it was to make sure there were better photos. Uggos to the back! For someone who pretends not to care about image, Max knows how to stage-manage a scene.


    What else? Oh, Zach was around and he was kind of the second hero of the day after his dad. He had a little model of a mouth and he was teaching kids - and parents - how to brush their teeth properly. Every now and then, Glenn Ryder and Ziggy would sing a new chant they''d created:


    "He''s lean, he''s mean, his teeth are fucking clean, Zach Green! Zach Green!"


    They only said the f-word when there were no kids around, otherwise they said ''really clean''.


    Yeah, that was pretty much what happened while the tent was up. We were only allowed it for a few hours and every time someone came down from ''seeing Dr. Green'' there was a big cheer and someone had the idea to give them a carrot and to chant ''Chomp! Chomp! Chomp!'' until they bit into it but Zach put a stop to that. It was funny, though.


    Charlotte was around and she was dead emotional. I said what''s up and she said this was what she wanted to do with her life and we had to stick with Max and help him with this takeover and I said he didn''t need our help and it kind of surprised me that I believed it. I told her how he had batted the FA away with a swish of his tennis racquet and a little bit of hope came into her eyes. I said he''s got big plans to start up our own clinic so he thinks he''s going to be in charge for years. He''s really confident, I said, and she was coming out of her funk so I went: we''ve got to get three points on Sunday, that''s how we help Max! Dani, that was the best thing I''ve ever said. Actual fire came out of her eyes! She''s going to mess Salford up, you watch.


    ***


    The next day was Saturday and I went to watch the men play Altrincham because that''s like a minute from my house, same as Crewe''s a minute from yours. I was next to Brooke and Dr. Green. Brooke was wearing a West bobble hat and it turned out she was in disguise as Emma because she really wanted to watch this match.


    The Texans talked about Texas most of the time, but after about fifteen minutes the doc asked me what was going on and I went all Zach.


    "It''s so interesting! Alty are doing 4-2-3-1 but they don''t have great DMs or CAMs! What are they thinking? Max has us doing a 4-4-2. Looks like he wants us to be solid until Alty make a change. He said they were going to switch to 4-3-3 at some point and then he was going to demo The Slappening."


    "Thanks, Kisi," he said, but I think he raised his eyebrows at Brooke. The cheek!


    I checked the area to see if there was a curly-haired science boy listening with a big smile on his face, but there were only some grumpy Alty directors. I pulled a face like ''what?'' and they turned away. Rude!


    First half was a bit grindy but interesting because Max and Sandra were doing tweaks like dropping Wisey and bringing Aff more inside. For a while I thought I saw Carl Carlile play as a wing back.


    In the minutes before half time I was wondering what scran we''d get because the directors get the good stuff, don''t they? And that''s when I realised that if Max and Seb were being honest with me, my dad was going to be invited to every West match and he''d get the good pies! No-one would be able to talk to him but they''d enjoy watching him eat.


    "Kisi, let''s go inside," said Brooke, because the whistle had gone.


    "Wait, Emma," I said, respecting her disguise like a pro. "What''s Max doing?"


    "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, boy. What now?"


    Max was walking across the pitch when the referee stopped him. Max pointed to something in the far stand and the ref said oh okay. And they went over together. "Now the referee is involved," I said. "That''s not good."


    "Miss Weaver?" said a waitress. "We''re serving."


    "One sec," said Brooke.


    "He''s talking to that woman." Vimsy and the Brig had gone over to check on him, and suddenly Vimsy rushed across the pitch and then he was peering up into the stands and when he spotted us, he waved desperately. I pointed to me and to Brooke. He wanted Brooke. "It''s you."


    "Oh!" Brooke went down and Vimsy opened the little gate thing for her and she walked across the pitch.


    "What''s going on?" said Dr. Green.


    "Don''t know, but our pies are getting cold. Let''s tuck in."


    "Pies were invented in ancient Egypt," he said.


    "Max would make a joke about pie-ramids. Come on."


    We went to eat and three minutes later, Brooke came up to join us. "That boy!"


    "What?" I said, my gob heaving with delicious VIP pie.


    She did a little smile. "You know the way kids hold up signs saying ''Harry Kane can I have your shirt?'' There was an Altrincham fan holding up a sign. ''Max Best can I have your dentist?'' Max thought it was funny and so did the referee so of course we had to go sort that out right away. We''re getting her an appointment and it''ll double the publicity, sure, but I told him it could wait until full time and maybe he should be in the locker room working on a plan."


    "We''re going to switch to 4-2-4," I said.


    Brooke gave me a long look. "That''s what he said. When did he tell you that?"


    "Monday."


    Dr. Green whistled. "Some kid. Zach wasn''t sure for a while. He is, now."


    Brooke sliced into her pie - she had a lot of catching up to do. "How''s he getting on with his museum girl?"


    Dr. Green smiled. "I don''t know. I don''t interfere in his private life. I try to give him space. If he wants to tell me, he can tell me and I''ll gladly listen." He dabbed his lips with a napkin. "The only thing I say is, if you''re ever in trouble, you call me right away. If you''ve been arrested or you''re in hospital or whatever it is, you call me and I''ll be there, no questions asked, just let me be there for you."


    Brooke was having trouble with her knife and she saw me notice and pulled her hands away and put them on her lap. "You''re a great dad."


    "I don''t know about that. I think Kisi''s winning the good dad contest."


    I couldn''t believe my ears. "What? No way. You''re so cool. So''s Seb. Meghan''s dad''s the funniest guy ever."


    "Yours is pretty amazing, Kisi," said Brooke. She was cutting into the pie all right now.


    "He''s okay but he''s boring. He works and goes to church and that''s it."


    "Sounds like the perfect dad," said Dr. Green. "A young lady like yourself probably thinks this is hokey old baloney and maybe it is but I think the most important thing for a parent is trust. My dad would always say one thing and do another. I tried to be better than that with Zach. It was just the two of us for a long time and I thought it was real important that he had someone he could trust." He nodded towards the pitch. "I''ve heard a heck of a lot about that young superstar out there and trusting people don''t come real easy to him. Am I right?" I nodded. Sometimes Max looks so alone and his mum''s not... My throat was all tight and I couldn''t have spoken. Dr. Green did a little nod. "In this world, you need someone you can trust with your life. I''m that for Zach, I hope. He''ll be that for his kids. And your father is that for Max Best. He needs to park a hundred thousand pounds? He doesn''t choose me or Sebastian or Meghan''s dad." He did a big, warm smile that messed me up. "It''s Mr. Yalley all day long." He stared into his past. "I''ve been around the block. Max is a lucky, lucky boy to have met the Yalleys."


    So that set me off blubbing, and I got a big, warm hug from Brooke. "You''ve said something nice. Now you''ve got to tell me off for not tracking my runners," I said, voice shaking. "It''s tradition."


    Dr. Green laughed. "I barely know what that means. But Zach started out as a midfielder."


    That shocked me so much the tears stopped all at once. "He did?"


    "Yep. He wanted to play like Pirlo. I think I''m saying that right."


    "Pirlo, yes, that''s right."


    "Not real into the other side of the pitch." His eyebrows went up. "One day there''s a new coach. Played for Sweden. Bit of a maverick but he could still do it all and the kids were in awe of him. He took one look at Zach and said, ''centre back.''" Dr. Green''s face lit up with the memory. "Zach hated it. Quit every week."


    "And what happened?" I said, waiting for the secret. The secret of learning to love defending!


    "Nothing happened. He kept at it."


    "Oh."


    "You know what the worst part of being a dentist is?"


    "What?" I was sure he''d say the paperwork or the long hours.


    "The teeth."


    I sort of made a gross snorting noise while Brooke showed her pearly whites.


    "Kick off''s soon," said our waitress. "Was everything okay?"


    "Pies are from Egypt," I said, proud of my new fact.


    She looked at the mostly-empty plates. "No, they''re from Morecambe."


    "Everything was perfect," said Brooke. "Thank you very much." She took a few seconds, turned to Dr. Green, and showed why Max thinks she''s a ledge. "When Max hears that story he''s gonna wanna know if that coach is still around. Can you dig out his email?"


    ***


    Max Best, then, and his jokes. When''s he joking? I learned one thing. He wasn''t joking when he said he would change to 4-2-4 if Alty went 4-3-3. They did and he did and he even brought himself on early. He had Aff on the left and sent Sharky on to play right. Henri and Ziggy as strikers.


    The thirty minutes he was on the pitch were so intense the Texans didn''t even talk about Texas more than, like, eight times.


    First, Max crashed into a couple of Alty''s terrier midfielders. Letting them know he wasn''t going to take their shit. Then he spent a few minutes ripping the piss with one-touch passes and nutmegs. He did one spin thing where he was rolling the ball back and forth sending them darting off with every little pump of his leg. Then he back-flicked the ball to himself and chipped the ball left to Aff. Aff sprinted, crossed, Henri was fouled, nothing given, but the ball bounced off a defender and Ziggy tucked it away. One-nil!


    Then Max was over helping Eddie Moore and they played a couple of passes to each other that left Alty wide open. It was unbelievable quality! Max drilled the ball left-footed, like, fifty yards but it kept spinning and spinning and then it was right in Sharky''s path! He took it to the goal line and pulled it back. Henri - bosh! Two-nil!


    We jumped and cheered and when we settled down, Dr. Green said, "So you play like Max?" and I had to go, ah, no. I do not.


    Which was, like, embarrassing but when you''re dealing with cool dads you''ve got to build trust.


    Okay but there''s a reason Alty were sixth and we were seventh and they switched things round and got back into the game and put loads of pressure on. A bit too much pressure, I thought, but while we''d gone to 4-4-2 to be more compact, Max was suddenly not doing his defensive work. I wanted to jump around going ''See? See?''


    But I kept my gob shut and watched.


    Alty scored. Then scored another. Two-all and it was all going to bleep. But Max didn''t seem too fussed and neither did Zach. Everyone kept doing what they were doing.


    Alty went for the win. Kept pressing. Kept pushing.


    Now, if you ask me, Brooke and Dr. Green can''t handle the pressure of watching high-level sports. They were gasping and recoiling and swearing with every little goal-line clearance or missed header or free kick that went just over. Me? Dispassionate. Analytical.


    And don''t let Brooke tell you otherwise.


    So it was all a bit bonkers but I was trying to keep an eye on Max. And, okay, I realised I hadn''t been watching properly before. He does defend. He does track back. When I was thinking ''oh bleep it''s happening'' he would be sprinting back into the box to do a clearing header or he''d be helping Carl at right back and Alty would only get a throw. But sometimes, sometimes, he would be following a player back and he''d look around and take a few steps back. He would be in acres of space and if we could get the ball to him...


    I don''t know, Dani, he''s really playing the game at a high level and it''s all maths in his head like he said. Five percent risk, fifteen percent reward. And okay, two times the five percent paid off.


    But then this guy dribbled past him and Max threw his hands up like ''oh no I''m so shit'' and walked sideways. The Alty guys did a move and Zach slid in, won the ball, and got up and shovelled it to where Max was. Max chipped it over the defence and Sharky was away. There were three defenders against three attackers and one guy was like ''I''ve seen this move it doesn''t end well for us'' so he went racing across to take Sharky out. He would get a yellow and that''d be fine. But Sharky dabbed the ball forward. The guy slid through where the ball had just been. Sharky had to run all the way around him but so what? He''s too fast. He got the ball, looked like he would stumble and fall, but Ziggy was over to help. Sharky toe-poked the ball to Ziggy, and while Sharky went tumbling, Ziggy passed to Henri. He nailed the ball to the left of the keeper.


    Three-two and poor Dr. Green was the meat in a Chester fangirl sandwich.


    Max didn''t even celebrate. He was looking at the bench wondering what his last sub should be. Defend or go even harder? I knew he would do something mad like put Tom Westwood on and play 1-1-8. But he brought Magnus on and did a super defensive 4-5-1. Everyone put in a shift and saw out the game. Three great points! But Max wandered straight over to the woman who needed a dentist and talked to her while he waited for a photographer.


    I thought after the match the VIPs might go out to a restaurant but the Greens, Brooke, and Max turned up at my house! And so did Pastor Yaw.


    I hung out near Brooke and heard Max ask if it''d be good publicity for the woman who held up the sign to get a holiday to Texas. Dr. Green could fix her up and she''d get a nice warm break from the dreary January weather and maybe the Mail would send Beth out and she''d get a free holiday, too. Brooke said the club couldn''t pay for a fan from another team. Max said he''d pay it himself. Brooke said that wasn''t right. Max said what if Glendale Logistics pay? Brooke got a huge smile on her face and said she''d do the negotiations. The woman loves to work!


    Mum cooked and made two versions of everything. One she called the Lone Star version - extra spicy for Texans and Ghanaians. The other was called the English version. That was extra unspicy and was for Max.


    At one point near the beginning when the spices were exploding in almost everyone''s mouths, Dr. Green made a ''mmm mmm mmm'' noise and smiled. He looked at Max. "So how did my boy get on today?"


    "Six out of ten," said Max. Bleeping savage, that boy!


    Brooke coughed, and not because the food was too hot for her. "Max! Come on."


    "What?" he said, laughing. "I can''t lie. Not in front of Pastor Yaw."


    "That''s all right, Miss Star. He''s right. I coulda done better."


    Dani! Did you notice? Max said he wouldn''t lie in front of our pastor! So I just had to ask about the driving lessons with the ex-commando. Because I remembered Max said Dr. Green was going to a racing circuit on Monday! If I was right, and if Max hadn''t lied when he came to our training session, Dr. Green was going to learn to do car stunts from the Brig!


    "So on Monday are you going - " I started.


    But as soon as I said Monday, Max leapt off his chair, startling everyone. Like, cutlery crashed and people had to grab their glasses. "Kisi!" he said, more animated than he was during the match! He was not happy. "Are you going to ruin another big surprise? Are you actually serious right now?"


    All eyes were on me. "I won''t," I said. "I was just wondering if - "


    "Yes," said Max, because he knew what I was thinking. "Now will you please?"


    "Sorry," I said.


    My dad watched with a puzzled air, but he was the first to start shovelling food into his mouth.


    Dr. Green was watching us, sort of wary. "Got to say," he said, carefully. "I''m not a fan of surprises."


    Max put his cutlery back down and glowered at me. I''d made a mess and had to undo it. "Er... you''ll like this one." Dr. Green seemed uncertain. Car stunts! I wished I could go. "But I think it would be better if Max let me come, too. Then it will be even more fun." Max couldn''t believe my cheek. But he sort of did a tiny nod. I was going to do car stunts with the Brig!!!


    "I don''t know," said Dr. Green, still all nervous.


    Kisi to the rescue! I got all bright and bubbly and put my palms up. I said, "Trust me!"


    It took a couple of seconds, but he did the slightest little laugh, and it was all good again. Brooke was to my left. She leaned close and whispered, "Get in a mess, find a way out, find a way to win. You play like Max after all."


    She took a sip of wine but then she started to chuckle and then it got louder and longer and soon she was in hysterics. Zach chuckled along and I got the strongest impression he wasn''t going to call the museum girl.


    ***


    Okay! I''ve read all this back and there''s no way you''re going to plough through the whole mess. I''m going to print this off and stuff it inside a box of chocolates. I don''t know anything about the world, I don''t understand other human beings, and I don''t see how it''s going to get any better. But! Tomorrow I''m going to try to defend better, Monday I''m going to drive like I¡¯m in an action movie, and on Tuesday night I''m going to take my dad to watch the football team he owns.


    West Didsbury, whoo!


    I hope your week is just as eventful, or less eventful, whichever you prefer!


    Merry Kisimas,


    Kisi Yalley

 9.10 - Plymouth Argyle

    10.


    Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 3


    Chapter Ten


    Wednesday, January 1, 2025


    Max Best has disappeared.


    It says much about the goings-on at Chester Football Club that we do not notice for over a week.


    ***


    The new year begins with me smiling at the wake-up light. This will be my year. This will be my year.


    It will start with a dramatic cup win over Championship strugglers Plymouth, then with our squad newly-strengthened in the January transfer window, we will gatecrash the National League playoffs and storm into the EFL. That is not just my wish. That is the plan. That is the stated plan of our manager, Max Best, but Max Best has disappeared.


    This is not immediately apparent to me as I leap out of bed and throw aside the curtains (before closing them again to preserve the illusion that it is daytime). I brush my teeth, standing on one leg to improve my balance. It is Wednesday so I stand on my right and hold the brush in my left.


    My phone buzzes.


    I pause in my brushing stroke, which was checked and approved by Dr. Green. The message would stop anyone in their tracks.


    OMG what''s he done now lol no way this guy holy shit lol


    It is logical to finish brushing before checking what it means, but I swipe and find there are over a hundred new messages in our group chat. It is going to be one of those days. I place my left foot safely on the floor, finish the tooth I was brushing - I will do the others later - and read through the chat.


    Far from strengthening the squad, Max has sent Rainman, our third-choice goalkeeper, Omari Naysmith, a midfielder who is our second-best set piece taker, and Tom Westwood, in my opinion our second-best striker, on loan to a third-division team. That''s the third division of Wales. It''s a team called Saltney Town. In our squad we have Youngster, WibRob, and others who are just as obsessive about football as myself. Saltney is mere minutes from the Deva. Yet not a single one of us has ever heard of this team.


    They are currently sixth in the hard-to-find table and appear to have no stadium and no fans. These loans are staggering in so many ways, but most pertinently because Henri confirms Max is refusing to sign new players until after the Fans Forum. Magnus asked the burning question - surely Max will change his mind now that we are three players lighter? Henri says no. No incomings.


    The next big topic. Why Saltney? Youngster replies with seven cry-laughing emojis. Isn''t it obvious? That''s the Welsh club he bought.


    I shiver.


    It''s Max''s last act of defiance before the takeover. A spectacular demonstration of his disregard for rules or convention. Loaning players to a team he owns? The conflict of interest is without parallel. It''s the act of a man who knows he''s on the way out.


    For the first time in a long time I realise how precarious my career is - I remain utterly dependent on Max Best''s high opinion of me. If he goes, this will not be my year.


    He would try to rescue me, I''m sure, but I have six years left on my contract.


    I forget to finish my teeth.


    ***


    We get to BoshCard early and to everyone''s surprise, Rainman, Omari, and Tom are present. We hurl questions at them until Glenn gets a grip. "Everyone shut the fuck up. We''ll do it together in the meeting room with the gaffer present. All right?"


    BoshCard is deserted - normal citizens do not work over Christmas and New Year. We do. Our female players, at least, get a formal winter break which they will spend with great satisfaction at the top of the table, fully recovered after their blip. We men have been on an unexpected and unwanted sabbatical. A few days before Christmas, the heavens opened and the rain washed away Dagenham and the Rochdale double-header. It is only the superb drainage at Plymouth''s Home Park that means we get a match this week. We will have to train on the rudimentary plastic pitches. No matter. It''s the Third Round of the FA Cup and for most of us it''s the biggest match of our career. We are keen.


    Sandra comes in. She, as well as some other coaches and the physios are somewhat worse for the wear. They had a few drinks on New Year''s Eve and it is hard to blame them. I check and see no such signs among the other players. The unprofessional were purged last summer.


    We wait. We wait more.


    "Erm," says Sandra. She walks around. She checks her phone. "I know the Brig''s got a few days off. But has anyone seen Max?"


    We squint as we contemplate the question. We look at Henri. He shrugs. "I saw him on the morning of Christmas Eve. He dropped off a couple of presents, took some of my best cheese - ''for the road'' - and drove to have European Christmas dinner with Emma and her family."


    "What''s European Christmas dinner?" says Omari. It''s like hearing a ghost. He is out on loan. He should be in Wales.


    "In most countries, Christmas means the 24th," explains Henri. I nod.


    Sandra emits a noise. "Christmas, bah humbug, all right? I don''t give two turtle ducks about Christmas. Concentrate. Andrew, were you with him on Christmas Day?"


    "Not this year, no." Andrew is dating Emma''s best friend.


    "Okay. Er... Ryan! When''s the last time you saw him?"


    "That day we did the special forces training."


    "Right," says Sandra. "I didn''t know cars could bend like that. I''ll never look at the Brig the same. And who knew Dan Badford was the player you¡¯d pick to help a diplomat flee a hot zone?¡± Dan got some slaps and pushes. ¡°So we''ve sighted Max on the twenty-fourth. Who''s seen him since?"


    I put my hand up. "Maybe the three Welshmen? When he talked about their loans."


    Omari shakes his head. "No, that was before. We sorted it, like, a day or two after the Altrincham game. He said to keep it quiet until the first and, you know, we did. Sorry if you''re upset and that."


    "We''re not upset," says Physio Dean. "We''re just astonished. What the hell is that all about? I mean, Wales?"


    Omari''s in the spotlight. He turns so he''s facing more of the group. "Er, the boss said he''s got a mad scheme and he needed three volunteers and he wanted to start with us. He''s working with the Welsh FA, he says, and he points to this woman who''s next to us. The Brig''s next to her being extra Briggy and she likes it. They don''t speak much but yeah, seems she''s like someone big in Welsh football. The boss says there''s this little team and he''s sort of in charge of it now and he wants to, like, actually take the actual piss with it. So he says they need a good goalie and Rainman needs minutes. He says they need a premium midfielder who can slap from free kicks and corners. He says he knows I''ve been getting minutes but Ryan''s back from injury and Andrew Harrison is back from his loan so this is a way to make sure I get loads of action. And it''s sort of the same with Tom. The boss is going to keep Ziggy and he''s going to use the cup money to bring in a bad hombre to get us over the line this season."


    "Did he say bad hombre?" says Sandra.


    "Yep."


    "Sounds like Max."


    "Saltney''s just down the road so we''ll train here in the morning like normal and eat here like normal and the only difference is that we''ll play matches for them. The boss says we get the good training and we get minutes and it''s not like, the best best best solution but it''s pretty top and we''ll get promoted with two clubs at the same time and that''s quite cool. I mean, I just said yes right away and so did the others. And the boss was like don''t say yes until you''ve heard I''ve got the best coach in Wales to manage you okay now you can say yes. All in one go like that."


    "Didn''t Max tell you this?" says Henri, to Sandra.


    Sandra''s a little more hungover than she appears. "Yyyeessss... I think so. He definitely told me about Rainman and Omari. That he was going to ask them. So if he''s asking Tom that means he has someone lined up to come in. I don''t know who it is, yet."


    "What if it''s Marcus Wainwright!" shouts Zach. All the drinkers recoil and he holds up a hand to apologise.


    "Yes, well," says Sandra. "If Wainwright were to happen I think I wouldn''t be content with finishing second." She glances up, doing the same thing I was doing - working out if we could actually overhaul Grimsby. It would just about be possible, I think, if we had such a massive upgrade on Tom while Grimsby weakened themselves an equal amount. But Max would never let us go for it - it would be a waste of energy. His plan is to cruise into third, if possible, but not break our backs in the process. Be fresh for the playoffs. I nod. It''s completely rational.


    There''s still no Max. Sandra checks the time again. "Strange. Very strange. So no-one has seen him since... Christmas Eve?"


    Much fruitless speculation ensues. After all, it''s not unusual for Max to go on a scouting trip for two or three days and not tell anyone. With Christmas and New Year it''s entirely possible he has been training on his own with Cody Chambers in between marathon sessions where he studied Plymouth.


    Henri isn''t worried. He says, "Any second now, he will burst through those doors with a formation and strategy that will turn Plymouth into Mousehole."


    As he finishes speaking, the door flings open and a flustered Secretary Joe bursts into the room. He hands Sandra a sheaf of papers and retreats to a chair where he catches his breath.


    "It''s from Max," she says, and the room releases some tension. Sandra flicks through. There appear to be four pages. Secretary Joe is not good at using the double-sided print feature. Sandra skims it and frowns. "I''m supposed to read it out word for word. Joe, have you read this?" Joe gives her a thumbs up. "And is it true?" Joe gives her a somewhat mournful thumbs up. "Christ," she says.


    She goes to get a paper cup of water from the dispenser, downs it, and repeats herself. She wipes some stray liquid from her mouth using the back of her sleeve. She is, to say the least, unpretentious.


    "Right. Sandra clears her throat and gets a mystical glint in her eye. That''s, er, that''s how it starts. I''m supposed to read that." She puffs her cheeks out and continues. "Hello Sandra and everyone. Max Best here. I would say this is the hardest letter I''ve ever had to write but I once had to note to self think of something funny to go here before emailing it. What it is, right, basically, is that I''m in a mood."


    Henri laughs. "Max," he mumbles, brimming with affection. Henri has his faults - please see Volume 2 chapters 6 to 16 for more detail - but he is a good friend to Max. He accepts his flaws with enviable ease. It makes it easier for the rest of us. It''s okay not to be perfect.


    "It started with Christmas dinner. Well, it didn''t start there. It started when James Pond came into our lives, but this particular wotsit started there. Or, no. It started with the rain and the postponements. You know what a football season''s like. It''s go go go for months and there''s a propulsive quality to it. At the full-time whistle you think about the next training sessions and who''s injured and what formations you might play and you train and then it''s time for the next match and to say I keep myself busy is maybe an understatement.


    "But the rain comes and then oops! There''s nothing to think about except the things I''ve been avoiding thinking about. So I start to stew. Chester fans would rather have some guy they''ve never met than me? Oh, okay. That''s a bit of a slap in the face, isn''t it? They think we''re not going fast enough? We''re not playing good enough? We''re doing things this club hasn''t done since the nineties but it''s not good enough for some people. It''s a fucking betrayal. James Pond has invited Gerry and Chip to ¡®improve¡¯ on my work and that thought starts to wind me up big time.


    "That foul broth is bubbling up in addition to the normal Christmas stress. Christmas isn''t a good time for me, for reasons I hope are obvious. I did Christmas Eve dinner with the Weavers and they were super extra nice to me and I realised they were, like, thinking about how I didn''t have that kind of relationship with my own family but - oh, shit, swear everyone to secrecy before reading the next bit, Sandra - it kind of made things worse, didn''t it? I preferred it when Sebastian used to bait me about how shit Man United are. I didn''t want to be thinking ''oh yeah they''re on eggshells because tomorrow I''ll go see my mum and it''ll be abysmal'' so it was like they accidentally gave me a double dose of the misery.


    "By Christmas Day I''m not in a good place. I woke up and made the mistake of looking at social media and the first post was a jolly fat man in a red suit and the text was ''What do YOU want from Daddy Star?'' With the letters A and N crossed out from Santa. And there were hundreds of comments like ''new goalie!'' ''Buy the stadium!'' ''Thanks so much for doing this.'' The next thing I saw was a countdown. ''23 days until take-off! We''re headed for the Stars!'' And these aren''t even bots. They''re from season ticket holders. People who have watched us suffer and sacrifice.


    "I go to the care home at two p.m. and the staff there have really tried to make it Christmassy. The people who don''t get visitors are all put together but my mum''s with her mate in a little room and I go and we eat and it''s okay but not really. Not really, Sandra. She''s not good anyway and it''s a bad time for her to have a bad time and then when she''s lucid she asks about work and while I blab about call centre stuff I think about all this shit on social media about how we''ve got our dream long-term investor and the combination of mum and the betrayal and the phrase long-term investor is like drinking crates of beer while you''re on painkillers.


    "I planned to stay an hour but after twenty-five minutes I''m like the dog needs a walk! Anna says ''bro it''s raining'' and I''m like ''yeah it''s like a quarter of a drizzle'' and in the end we let Solly decide and he said tell you what, shove me inside your hoodie and I''ll pop my head out and we''ll be peachy. Anna says he totes didn''t say that actually but she lets me go out with him because he''s not been out because it''s been raining like forever and I''m like yeah tell me about it we were getting close to a sell-out against Rochdale but that''ll be postponed to the end of the season and it''ll be midweek and we''ll get two thousand or whatevs. So I go for a walk and I''m not getting funny looks, which is weird, but it''s because literally no-one is outside because it is tipping it down.


    "And I can''t explain this next bit but I get the feeling someone''s playing football and I go to the park - Solly''s happy - and there are two kids playing in ankle-deep puddles. And one of them, holy shit, he''s a left-back but he''s right-footed! But he''s top! And I rush over and I''m like bro do you want to be an inverted full-back in a 4-2-3-1 variant and he''s like mister why are you crying? So I say, the problem with 4-2-3-1 is these huge gaps in the centre of the pitch and you can''t move the DMs because they''re the double pivot and you can''t drop the CAMs because then what are you even doing and you can''t move the strikers or centre backs so what''s left? The full backs! And he says have you got someone I can call I don''t mind honest.


    "To which I reply, what you do is when you''re in possession you shove the left-back right into the heart of midfield and you think gosh that''s risky but it''s not because no fucker''s going to take the ball off you! The only time they get a touch is when they''re picking it out of their net! And you, mate, are going to learn to invert from Jay Cope at West and we''ll see how long it takes for you to get spotted because there''s a lot of managers who need players like you.


    "And the kid says okay let''s go to my house and I''ll ask my mum if I can sign for your club. But the little fucker was scamming me! He told his mum I was having a meltdown in the park and I needed some tea and warm clothes and I was like pish posh I''m fine I''ll take a tea I''m gasping but let''s talk about the advantages of being a right-footed left back. And she listens to me and says she doesn''t have any clothes my size but is there anyone she can call for me? I take my phone out to show her there''s no need but it''s been sort of zapped by getting soaked. So she says oh you poor dear and tries to give me twenty pounds! I say I''m not homeless, I''m Cliff Daps, a scout for West Didsbury I was only out walking the dog when I saw your boy and she says looks like your dog was walking you!"


    Sandra takes a breath. I can''t believe what I''m hearing but I don''t even turn my head to check how the others are reacting. It seems disrespectful.


    "I realise I''m not getting anywhere so I think I''ll come back in a couple of weeks when it''s dry and I leave but I really, really can''t face going back to see my mum. Not yet. So I find a spot to just sort of sit and think for a minute. And it was lovely. The most peaceful I''ve been in months. Just the sound of a light drizzle and Solly''s breath so warm against me and we were keeping each other company and I drifted off. Next thing I know, I''m hearing Beth''s voice. Beth! She''s on the phone to Emma. ''He''s on a football pitch sitting against the goalpost. No, he''s fine. He''s fine, Emma! He''s freezing.


    "He''ll probably have a really bad cold, the fucking idiot. I''ve got my friend with me. We''ll get him somewhere warm. You''re on your way? Okay but breathe! Get a paper bag. I promise he''s fine. Phone? Check his pockets there, Cam. Get his phone. Oh, it''s fucked. That''s why, Emma. Bring some rice with you. No, I will joke! No, I won''t take him to the care home. Are you serious? If his mum sees him like this he''ll never forgive me. Sorry, Emma, but if it''s a choice of you being mad at me forever or him, I choose you. Erm... yeah. Not sure. Everything''s closed. Hang on, there''s a woman and two kids looking at us. Cam, stay with Max. Call you back, Emma!''"


    Sandra pauses to scratch her eyebrow, which makes the paper flap around. She''s clearly wondering if she should continue. This is not a communication from a glorious, infallible leader. She makes a small hem-hem noise.


    "Beth brought me back to the house and took over. Having assured the family I wasn''t a homeless rando but in fact, a quite famous football personality especially beloved in Malta, she got me dry and made her boyfriend question mark stay with me while she went up and down the terraced houses begging for clothes. Beth and Cam (CamBeth?) waited with me until Seb and Emma arrived. I snapped into the present long enough to say I wasn''t getting in the car until Seb had driven Solly home. I suppose he did and we drove to Newcastle and I spent a few days feeling miserable until the club doctor from Gateshead FC turned up.


    "Emma asked what I had and how long would I be sick. He asked when I was due to play Gateshead next. March 31st, I mumbled. He''ll be right as rain on April 1st, said the guy, which I thought was pretty funny. Emma didn''t. Guy said, he''s got a cold or some mild pneumonia but he''s already over the worst. His next match is January 4th, right? Physically, he''d be ready to play. Physically? What do you mean by that? demanded Emma. She gets fierce. It''s so hot. The guy said look I don''t want to step out of line but I''ve been reading about this takeover and it''s a fucking disgrace how they''re treating Max and if it was me, I wouldn''t want to play for that club. Fuck those ungrateful bastards. We''d treat you like a prince up here, bear that in mind when you''re looking for your next move. He''s getting ready to leave but I grab his wrist like in a horror movie and I croak, Oli Thompson is your best forward! Get him back from loan and give him some minutes.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    "That was actually pretty exhausting so I just flopped onto the pillow and when I woke up next it was like, the future. I saw more matches had been postponed and thought about this whole takeover mess. I am going to bundle my energy and let it out at the right time. It looks to me like the Hartlepool match will be postponed so all that''s left before the Forum is that FA Cup match and the Cheshire Cup, which you''d manage anyway. I looked out the window and it was raining for the hundredth day in a row and when I thought about going back to Chester to work my arse off building a club only to have it all snatched away from me by a ruthless billionaire and his clueless toadie, yeah, I got a liiiittle bit petulant. I had a miniature temper tantrum. I bought a pram, filled it with toys, and then threw all my toys very much out. All of which is a very circuitous way of saying I took my hot girlfriend to the Canary Islands where I''m giving her the holiday I wanted to give her after my murder. We are being drenched in sunshine and I am being very witty and charming and talking to everyone and not being weird or distressing in the slightest."


    Sandra pulls a face and it was very much the face that expressed how I was feeling.


    "You''re in charge for the Plymouth match. You have free rein in all things except you cannot use Youngster. I''m sorry but all these postponements are a chance for him to recover and it would be moronic not to allow him to recharge after his triumph - please say triumph in a bombastic tone. Triumphhhh! You are, of course, in charge of Hartlepool if it happens and the Cheshire Cup quarter final. You might as well go hard, though of course try to spread minutes around. Please now look sternly in the direction of Ryan Jack. Ryan! You get five minutes in the next match and ten in the one after. If you have a problem with that, come see me in the Gran Meli¨¢ Palacio de Isora."


    We look at Ryan. He is ruefully biting his lip. There''s no arguing with Max at the best of times, but it''s much harder when he isn''t on the same continent. I agree with Max - Ryan must not rush back from such a devastating injury. I know I will not feel the same when it is I who feels fully recovered. While it is someone else I am able to see wisdom in Max''s insistence.


    "Most of you will next see me the day of the Fans Forum. Please cancel every appointment; I might need you. Everyone please make sure Secretary Joe is fit and ready to go that day. He is now the most important man at the club. Although now that I type that, I wonder if he hasn''t always been?"


    Secretary Joe doesn''t know where to look. Sandra smiles and moves on.


    "Plymouth are a good team but don''t be deceived - they''re more like a top-end League One team than a Championship side. Their goalkeeper is amazing and gets them out of a lot of jams. You will be able to play good football and get shots away. In the penalty box, relax and let it happen. I''m proud of each and every one of you, but especially the one Sandra is winking at right now. Wink."


    Sandra smiles but doesn''t wink. She drops the papers onto a desk. She stares at them. She lets out one happy little laugh.


    "Do you want to work for the rich prick who makes his people pee into bottles, or do you want to work for this wonderful weirdo?"


    "The weirdo," I say, and I''m not the only one.


    Sandra sighs and picks up a marker. "I''ve got a hangover. Plymouth play 3-4-2-1. Someone tell me what to do against it."


    One hand shoots up without hesitation.


    Mine.


    ***


    I pitch the idea that we need to operate between Plymouth''s lines, which is where their system''s biggest flaw lies. We need an outstanding forward, I say, whose ability to find and exploit space is without parallel. Sandra jokes that I mean WibRob, but I am too obsessed with my idea to pick up on the undercurrent. "Me!" I say, earnestly. "I am the space invader. Don''t you read the scouting reports? No, it must be me. But yes, we could also use William." I have gone to the tactics board and I''m moving the magnets around. "We need a double pivot and double free role forwards."


    "We only have one DM," says Sandra.


    "Youngster and Magnus," I say, confused.


    Sandra pulls a face. "If you think I''m going to use Youngster in a match I''ve explicitly been told not to, we need to get a psychologist here as a matter of urgency."


    "I''m fit to play," says Youngster.


    "He''s fit to play," I say, nodding. Sandra''s face sets and I feel the ice cracking under my feet. "Okay, single pivot," I say, quickly. "Plymouth play a lone striker. We can start with three CBs. One DM. Two CAMs. Henri''s, er, our only striker. Or did I - ?" I look around. Tom''s in the room but he''s in Wales. I should have remembered Ziggy but he had the day off. I put the key magnets into position and spread the rest across midfield. The result is hideously ugly. "Three one three two one," I say. I hate what I have done and said.


    "You''ve got four players in a vertical line," Sandra says, which is pretty much the most hurtful thing I''ve ever experienced.


    "Take out the third centre back," suggests Zach Green.


    I frown. Of course we need three centre backs. We''re away from home. But I try it. I slide it up to the DM slot, but we don''t have anyone who can play there. I keep going until the spare player is in midfield. "Two one four two one," I say. It''s better but it''s insane and it''s still ugly as sin.


    "You''ve got two vertical lines of three."


    "This is hard," I say. "I thought I had it clear in my head but there are so many limitations. How do you do it?"


    She makes a little noise. "I do this and then I let the boy wonder take the last step. I just want to say that if Max knew we were looking at formations with a back two he would be deeply happy. Here''s what we''re going to do." She adjusts the magnets line by line. "Flat back four. DM. Two central midfielders. Henri lone striker. Two right wingers."


    There''s one of those breaks we get a lot at Chester where we don''t know if we are being pranked. Someone says something along the lines of "Say what?"


    Sandra grins - it''s the Max grin! She slides the two right wing magnets all the way over to the left. "And two left wingers." She slides them into the middle. "And two CAMs. Pascal will drift around and William will follow him like a page boy." The image makes everyone laugh.


    I say, "Pep would not approve."


    She shrugs. "Pep has a fifty-million pound defensive midfielder who doesn''t even get on the bench. I''ve got Pascal Bochum''s brain." She taps one of the magnets. "You''re going to find space. You''re going to attack the space. That''s our advantage." She taps the WibRob magnet. "And I''m going to double that advantage."


    "This is crazy," I say, but I regret it. "I apologise."


    Sandra doesn''t mind my doubts. "Is it crazy?"


    I wave at the board and my mouth flaps open and closed. "I don''t know."


    She claps her hands - the discussion has sobered her up - and shouts, "Let''s go see how crazy it is! Pitch one in five."


    "Pitch one''s a bog," says Vimsy.


    "Pitch three in five," says Sandra. She''s giddy with excitement. She''s going to put out a wild formation after only three days of preparation in the biggest match of the season. If she''s our new manager after the takeover, it''s fair to say that Max''s spirit will live on.


    ***


    Saturday, January 4, 2025


    It''s five hours to Plymouth and we stop twice to stretch our legs and walk around.


    On the way, I let YouTube choose what I listen to. It picks Fanta Vier and that''s fine by me. I genuinely believe that German hip-hop is the best in the world. I check the top comment. It reads: wer ist noch in 2024 hier?


    Of course I think about Max and his peculiarities. Some are funny, some are not. Noticing that YouTube comments are universally inane is funny. Leaving us on the eve of an important cup match is not funny. But the more I consider it, the more I find myself on his side. The takeover is a betrayal. Max rescued this club from oblivion. The fans should have more respect. They should rise up against the invaders like white blood cells. Instead, they welcome the virus. It is only human to feel resentment.


    We get to Home Park and I go through my pre-match ritual. The pitch is 79 strides by 54 strides. The surface looks good but it will cut up very easily. The stands are a mix of modern and traditional. We will enter the pitch before kick off to the tune of Semper Fidelis. The referee''s name is Mark Drysdale. He has given three reds and eighty yellows in twenty-two matches this season, very slightly stricter than average. He does not respond well to my handshake. I blame Max; everyone thinks he will paraglide into the stadium shouting ''replay'' on a loudhailer. Perhaps he will.


    I shut out extraneous noise and focus on my stretches. Other players look around when they are warming up. I do not. I am laser focused. I am professional.


    But then I hear it.


    "Sandra Lane''s blue and white army!"


    There are thirteen hundred Chester fans behind the goal in the Barn Park End. They have been starved of football and they are ready to make some noise. It is the wrong noise. It''s another betrayal.


    I regret to inform you that I lose some of my equilibrium.


    I stride closer to the mob, while Glenn and Vimsy panic and shout and come after me. Every stride closer to the betrayers makes me more furious. I cross the gap between the grass and the boards and leap over. The fans are right there. They are happy to see me but the feeling is not mutual. I am spluttering and can''t make myself clear. I can''t articulate what their betrayal means to me. If they reject Max, they reject me.


    It''s not Sandra''s army, I want to explain. This is Max''s team. Don''t sing about Sandra in the last match before the takeover is decided. Whose side are you on? Choose now and choose wisely.


    Instead, while the nearest fans ask if I''m okay and Glenn tries to pull me away, I reach deep inside and come up holding a bright, gleaming banner. I scream, "Max Best''s blue and white army!"


    Glenn''s hand leaves my arm and returns clasped around my shoulder. We''re an instant band of brothers and he''s screaming with me! "Max Best''s blue and white army!"


    The fans turn on a pfennig. They scream it back at me. At us - the whole team is with me. Behind me. Behind Max. The fans are with us. In front of us. Around us. There''s a surge. We''re united. We are one seething mass. Across the stadium, the home fans are laughing but the ones closest take a few steps away. They sense the tear in the fabric of normality. Chester are here.


    ***


    For twenty minutes we dismantle Plymouth Argyle in their stadium in front of their fans. The away fans start at a ten for volume. They are what Max likes to call feral.


    On the pitch it''s all crunching tackles and slick passing moves that end with the ball coming to me, me combining with William to get behind the defence or to keep the ball - William lets me make the call - with Plymouth frantically filling in gaps, closing stables after the horses have bolted.


    Henri is playing the best I''ve ever seen him. There was the Farsley match when Max was in a coma and Henri took his worries and frustrations out on our opponents, but that was in tier six. Today he''s playing to the same level but against a Championship defence. He is strong, fast, and his decision-making is on point.


    There''s a move where I drift into space and combine with William. Defenders come to intercept and I slip the ball forward. Henri holds the ball up, returns the pass, and I touch it to William. He blasts the ball just over from outside the box. He put a little too much on it, but against this goalkeeper you have to. The applause from our fans is ear-splitting.


    There''s a move where Henri wins a header, chases after it, bullies a defender, keeps the ball long enough for me to get up in support. I sprint down the line, ready for the pass, but Henri retreats and clips it square to WibRob. It''s chin height - William jumps, chests it forward, and takes two defenders out of the equation. I scramble to get back onside. Will lays the ball off to me and surges into the box. I hit the return pass first time. He lifts it over the keeper... But the goalie gets a thumb to it and it goes for a corner.


    Max has been raving about this goalkeeper ever since I met him and now we know why.


    Plymouth''s bench are losing their minds. They can''t believe what we are doing to them. They are trying to change their formation but the players aren''t taking on board the information. We are frazzling them.


    The incident that decides the game happens after twenty-one minutes.


    It''s another slick passing move. Wisey and Andrew Harrison are the CMs and they know their limitations. They don''t try to do things they can''t do. What they can do is play a five-yard pass. The ball never stops. It circulates from the CMs to Magnus at DM. Of the back four, Glenn is the least comfortable on the ball but Plymouth don''t try to exploit the fact. Eddie, Zach, and Carl are perfectly capable of retaining possession and our formation means we always have an option. Sometimes I sense danger and make a run that distracts a midfielder who might join the press. We keep the ball, I run to the left, we keep the ball, I run to the right. WibRob follows me, and suddenly I see it!


    "Go left," I scream, and he puts his head down and sprints. He looks like our main goal threat and Plymouth''s men shuffle across. "Zach!" I shout, as I point.


    Zach plays the ball exactly where I want it. I could let it run through to Henri but Max hates those moves. He wants me to take responsibility on the ball. So I do. I work an angle and pass to Henri. William senses my intention and he makes another head-down sprint straight across the defensive line. Every defender he passes is drawn to his wake. I sneak left, then cut forward diagonally. Henri has read my mind. I''m clean through on goal!


    The keeper comes rushing out and this is it - my chance to get him sent off. If Plymouth lose their best player and have to play seventy minutes with ten men, they are done and we are into the Fourth Round of the cup. Max can use the money to strengthen the team. We can prove we don''t need an investor.


    I knock the ball past the goalie and fling myself over his outstretched arms.


    Our fans go beyond feral. They are barely restrained id-filled skeletons.


    But the goalkeeper has made a split-second decision of such perfection that it outfoxes even me. At the last second - surely beyond the last second - he took his arms away and let me go. Had I stayed on my feet, I would have had an empty net. As I roll around, pretending to be hurt, I make a mental note - this keeper is exceptional in every respect.


    There''s the usual huffing and puffing while both sets of players argue their cause. Henri points out that I had to jump for self-preservation. He''s convincing. So convincing I nearly believe it myself. In the end, the referee gives me a yellow card for simulation and a free kick to Plymouth. I must tread on eggshells so long as I''m on the pitch.


    My perceived cheating awakens the Plymouth fans. They go from two to eight. Not as vocal as ours, but there are ten thousand of them. Plymouth''s manager sets someone to mark WibRob - rather annoying, since I''m the real danger - but it proves to be a good move. Henri tells Will to drag his marker to the left while I work the right. This I do and do exceptionally well, but now it''s only Henri and I in our moves and our attacks fizzle out.


    Plymouth score and it seems our chance has come and gone.


    Max would park his emotions until after the game. He''s good at that. Too good, perhaps, given his Christmas meltdown. As we leave the pitch, I allow myself thirty seconds of self-recrimination. By the time I reach the dressing room, I am in neutral.


    ***


    We are one-nil down against a superior foe. The dressing room is quiet, subdued, and thoughtful. Sandra is looking at the tactics board, sometimes moving a magnet, sometimes moving it back. Zach and Glenn are quietly bickering about how high our line should be. Henri is munching on paste and soon he will get a much-deserved thigh and calf massage from one of the physios. He is our key player. He gets the first massage. Nobody questions decisions that are so clearly right.


    It is a far cry from the first time I stepped into a Chester dressing room. In those days, half time was a chaotic, noisy mess. If you weren''t shouting your head off or showing how angry you were, you weren''t staying in the team. You''ve got a knock? Run it off! Keep it tight first five. Work until you drop. Tactics? What is tactics?


    From that to this.


    The quiet time goes on and on and in that quiet, the mood changes. We wait for Sandra to come up with a new plan. We will wait until the very last second if need be. Whatever she conjures, we will turn into reality. The fifteen-minute timer ticks down, down, down, but there''s no drama. No tension. We are Chester and we live life to our own rules. Sandra is starting to smile and nod as she comes close to a decision. Will she lead us to triumph or disaster? Will I get subbed off? I''ll probably get subbed off. It matters a lot, but some things matter more.


    I feel the spirit within me, as Youngster would say. I tip my head back and say, "I love it!"


    There are some confused looks, some chuckles. Sandra seems happy for the distraction. "What do you love, Pascal?"


    I stand up and look around. Most people think my head''s gone but Henri''s eyes are twinkling, Zach is nodding hard, and Ryan is seeing me in a new light. Those three get it. They really get it. I find I''m so excited and so tongue-tied that some words come out in German. "We slapped them all over their home stadion for twenty minutes! We were one scheisse call away from watching their best player get a rote card! This is the best we''ve ever played and I love it! I love thinking about the match I love talking about it I love being professional!"


    Sandra looks down. "I love it, too." She lifts her head and looks into the future, but the future is for another day. "We got some joy with our double denim," she starts.


    "Double dragons," I say.


    "Double trouble," says Henri.


    Sandra says, "Max is good at those names, isn''t he? We can describe it to him and see what he comes up with. They''re onto us, though. I''ve got some ideas but honestly nothing that really gets the heart rate up, do you know what I mean? I''m open to suggestions."


    I look around the room. It''s not just the starters but the subs. What can we do? What would Max do? "Miss!" I cry.


    "Yes?"


    "Four one four one! Max''s favourite! We don''t need to blow them away. We can stay compact when they''re on top and slap when we''re having our moments. Taking potshots on this goalie is futile anyway. We need to get to the byline and do cutbacks. He can''t save a tap-in on the goal line."


    "Four one four one," says Sandra, quite happy. "You know what? I love it. If we go out, we go out playing Max Best football. Everyone okay with that?" We were. Very. "Need to sub someone off to get Aff on. Pascal. That little dive of yours. Would you do it again?"


    I shake my head. "The percentages have changed. It''s a bad play, now."


    She gets pensive. I''m not quite sure what she''s thinking or why, because she says, "Max bet his whole career on you."


    I''m absolutely crushed. She''s disappointed in me. She thinks I''ve let Max down. I bottle the feeling up and I will open that bottle precisely never. "Are you going to sub me off?"


    "What?" she says, as though coming back from a long distance. "What?" she says again. She thinks about what I said. "Fuck that! I want to win."


    I return to the pitch so pumped and so ready to impress Sandra Lane that I think about going to the fans to change the song back. But I go to the right of midfield. Aff has replaced WibRob and while the young man is talented, Aff is currently a superior player in every respect. I look around the pitch at my teammates and my confidence swells to absurd levels.


    We can do this.


    ***


    Plymouth have been told to come out flying and kill us off. Most of their attacks crash against us. There are some hairy moments. Ben is out of position and his handling is spotty. Glenn tries hard but he is outmatched. Eddie is steady but his opponent is a livewire. We lose duels, we lose the ball, but we never lose our shape and slowly, we get back into it.


    Zach feeds me balls so I can dart behind the defence. I decide to retreat with the ball, eschewing Henri''s runs. Our defenders need a break from the constant work. We are fit but nowhere near as fit as a Championship team.


    Wisey has not played with Andrew Harrison much, or ever, even in training, but he has already found he can trust him. While Andrew covers, Wisey pushes forward to create overloads on the left. Aff, Wisey, and Eddie Moore put together a few slick passing moves that open Plymouth up.


    Fifteen minutes have gone and the National League team is still right in this. Plymouth are struggling in the Championship and their fans don''t trust the team. The players don''t trust each other. The more we attack, the more we change the mood in the stadium.


    I decide I have misread the game state and Max would want me to attack relentlessly to press home this potential advantage. The next time I get the ball, I turn back towards Carl and shape to pass to him. The defender closest to me relaxes. I backheel the ball to myself and sprint down the line. There''s no-one near me! I cut into the penalty box. That defender is going to slide in and I could easily run into his boot. Easily!


    I''ve been given one yellow card for exaggeration already. I switch plans. I push one more yard forward and fake to cut the ball back. The keeper falls for this one. He''s human after all! I roll it square. Henri is there. He needs to kick the ball with approximately one joule of force. He smashes it like a nuclear bomb. The net bulges and he runs off doing the celebration he does when he is totally out of his mind. He hops and skips and flaps his hands around. He runs to the away fans. The British call this scene simply ''limbs''. Not, there were limbs everywhere. Just one word: limbs.


    I could sue the club for making me work in an ultra-loud environment. Our belief is sky-high. Plymouth are rocking. We do battle for the rest of the half but neither side can land the decisive blow.


    At full-time, it''s one-all. We will have extra time. Thirty more minutes and potentially penalties. In these situations we do not go back to the dressing room but stay out on the pitch. Sandra gets us into a circle and says she loves the shape and the quality. She wants to use three subs - Steve for Glenn, Cole for Eddie, Sharky for me. I don''t like it but they are logical changes. She wants to save her last sub for Ryan. No-one can argue with that. He has been out of the team for almost a year. Every player dreads such an injury and every player is happy to see him back.


    We are riding high, raring to get back to it, when the fatal words are spoken.


    It''s Zach, of course, but it''s the most innocuous mistake. He''s merely saying something they were probably saying on Seals Live. Probably every fan was saying it. But as a team, it hadn''t entered our thoughts. Now it does.


    "Heh. We should be going to a replay, now!"


    That was all he said. A simple, bare statement of fact. After ninety minutes, the score was one-all. Under the new rules we had to keep playing until a winner was found, but under the old rules, the ancient rules, we would have taken Plymouth back to the Deva for a rematch. More money for the club. More glory for us, since if we played like this again we would have been favourites.


    Max''s campaign against the Football Association had seemed childish to me, but now it truly hit home what he was fighting for. We had been denied the chance to achieve a sporting miracle so that a handful of greedy football clubs could put their arms around more of the coins in the vault. The FA had betrayed their duty to clubs like Chester. No wonder Max exploded when we doubted him. He''s trying to pick a team that can beat Ebbsfleet while creating a career path for a right-footed left back while fighting a battle against the dark forces that threaten to squeeze the beauty out of the beautiful game. And we whinged about it. Another betrayal.


    The match resumes and the lads mechanically go up for headers and try to create overlaps and overloads. They shuffle and slide dutifully but I can see from how the boys play - the air has spilled from our sails. Against a team three divisions higher you need to be perfect. You can''t be distracted. You need to be completely in the moment and not thinking about the meta. We''re thinking about the meta.


    Plymouth score and pay us the considerable compliment of retreating behind the ball. We would normally have a real go at them, but today we don''t. We take long shots that the keeper catches or watches sail over the bar. Our final shot count is impressive but our xG is not. We don''t play good football in extra time.


    With five minutes to go, Sandra sends Ryan Jack to the touchline for his first minutes since his injury. Thirteen hundred Cestrians, plus the eleven on the pitch, plus all of us in the dugout, plus, I like to think, two English tourists in Tenerife, stand and applaud.


    Ryan doesn''t show any emotion. He''ll bottle it up for the next five minutes at least.


    He scampers around the midfield looking every inch a thirty-six year old man who has had a cruciate injury.


    "My God," says a physio on the Plymouth dugout. I''m stood nearby because it''s closer to the away end. "He''s only been on for five seconds and he looks in pain already. I hope he''s all right."


    "Don''t worry," I say. "That''s just his face."


    The final whistle goes and there''s relief from the home fans and players. I follow my comrades to the away end and applaud them for their support, but I''m wary. In a couple of weeks they will have the choice to do the right thing or to betray us. I have no idea what they will decide. How is such a thought even possible?


    We go to the dressing room and Sandra tells us that the next home match has officially been postponed. We will play again on the 14th. An easy match in the Cheshire Cup. Get showered, get some food in you, it''s a long road home.


    On the bus I am feeling low. We are out of the cup. Ryan is back in our team but life is on hold. Will this be my year? I am tormented by doubts.


    I open YouTube and go to the next video in the German hip-hop playlist. The top comment reads: wer ist noch in 2025 hier?


    Who is still here in 2025?


    That''s what I want to know.

 9.11 - They Think Its All Over

    11.


    Football glossary: "They think it''s all over!" Part of Kenneth Wolstenholme''s iconic commentary from the 1966 World Cup Final.


    ***


    Friday, January 17


    "I thought you said you wouldn''t take this takeover lying down," said Emma.


    I smiled and rolled over. We were in an overpriced hotel suite and she was in a bathrobe squishing her hair with a towel. Was it really possible she was getting more attractive? She couldn''t. But she was. Maybe it was just the pace of life in Tenerife and a healthy dose of winter sun. "Some of us are lying down but we''re looking up at the stars. Wait, what''s that phrase?"


    She noticed my laptop and her hands stopped fussing. "Did I miss the beginning?"


    I rolled back to my starting position. I had my laptop turned on its side, balanced on a chair, broadcasting the Fans Forum. I was doing the same on Emma''s laptop but from a different feed. "Yeah, Gerry, Chip, and James Pond have introduced themselves. The rest of the board are to the right of the stage. It''s clever. It makes it seem like they approve just by being there. But it''s also risky because Ruth is pulling all kinds of faces. She has grown to despise James Pond."


    "Is it a big turnout?"


    "Oh, it''s packed. Standing room only. Six hundred seated, must be hundreds more pressed against the walls and jamming up the aisles. Big safety hazard. I could call the fire brigade and get the meeting shut down."


    She hopped on the bed and admired me. I had an awesome tan and looked fit and fresh and had spent weeks smiling. "Why don''t you do that?"


    "Meh," I said, throwing my hand vaguely at the screen. "Too much hassle. How''s the weather?"


    "Disappointing."


    "We could stay in the room," I said, rubbing the inside of her knee.


    "Again?" We sizzled at each other and her lips twisted into a provocative grin. But she simply said, "Budge up" and threw herself to my side.


    ***


    James Pond was on the left of the stage. He was standing behind a lectern on which he had a laptop, and there was a table in front of the lectern housing all kinds of sockets, wires, and adaptors. Pond was going through a presentation the takeover group had created, the slides of which were being shared onto a giant screen on the back wall. It looked slick and thorough but these days you could knock out presentations in seconds. Only the gullible would be fooled into thinking any care had gone into it.


    Talking of gullible, James Pond was ending sections with dad jokes. Daddy Star and Chip were perched regally on two chairs close by and they were laughing along. There was a gap between their seats and the board''s. None of the six board members were laughing. The new three - Dave, Violet, and Lily - looked terrified. If they got their decisions wrong the club could be in big trouble. It was a good sign they were nervous; it showed they recognised the stakes.


    At the front of the stage were four roll-up banners, each promoting some aspect of the new ownership. The first showed a gleaming new stadium. The second displayed smiling players of all colours and creeds. The third showed a league table graphic with Chester overtaking Wrexham within five years. The fourth showed a map of Daddy Star''s retail empire with the bold text: LONG-TERM INVESTOR. Again, it looked slick but I could have done the same with a hundred quid and an AI.


    Pond was droning on, sometimes handing over to Chip.


    "Star realises the less he talks the better," I said, as I played with Emma''s slightly damp hair. "It''s odd how much he''s letting Chip talk, though."


    "Shh. You talk too much. You''re the Chip of this relationship."


    I smiled and relaxed onto my back. I squeezed my right arm around her and pulled her into me. It was a strange kind of bliss given I was so close to losing everything. My grand plan to save football. My new training ground, my integration of two teams in two nations, my best ever chance to win the Youth Cup. Daddy Star was half an hour from taking possession of everything I had built. But I still had Emma.


    The usurpers were getting to the meat already, which I found surprising, but I should have expected it. All the groundwork had been done on social media and in closed Facebook and Telegram groups. Most fans knew most of the proposals and all they needed now was to hear them come out of Gerry Star''s mouth. Pond was saying, "We can expect considerable levels of financial support. Mr. Star, as we''ve seen, is a man of considerable means and he is very, very competitive. After the initial investment and once the takeover is formalised, we will immediately begin projects of all kinds. First, expect investment in the first team squad."


    "Men''s or women''s?" shouted someone from the front of the hall.


    "Men''s," said Pond, glancing at Star. Pond had screwed up and he knew it. Chester had two first team squads and as far as possible we tried to treat them equally. Pond needed the board to send the takeover to the members of the Supporters Trust. The first vote was a formality, but one of the board members, Violet, was mostly interested in the women''s team. Pond needed to be slightly more careful with his language if he wanted to be absolutely sure of her support. "It''s a matter of utmost urgency to get, er... for the men to get promoted this season while the big beasts of the National League are taking points off one another. It might not be so easy next season. Expect heavy investment in all areas of the pitch. Much work has been undertaken to identify transfer targets. What''s exciting is that a big investment in what''s left of the transfer window will pay back almost immediately. We all know the rewards that come from being promoted to League Two, to the EFL."


    "How many players?" cried someone from the front.


    Pond clearly wanted to ignore the person, but found he couldn''t. "I apologise but the exact names and number of the targets must remain confidential to ensure the club can negotiate the best deals. Suffice to say I have seen some of the names and it''s a time to get excited. The next two weeks or so could be seismic for this club."


    Emma tilted her head in a way I''d seen many times, though normally not when she was in the little spoon position. "The front is rowdy. Who''s there?"


    "Almost the entire men''s and women''s squads," I said, pointing to her laptop. Its screen was split into four camera feeds. One showed Glenn Ryder, Henri, Luisa, and various members of the men''s team. This camera moved from time to time. The second focused on the women''s team but never deviated from having Angel in the centre of the frame.


    "Oh! They''re Bolshy."


    "They don''t want this. Some of them are really upset."


    Pond clicked through to his next slide. "The goal is instant promotion, of course, and that will come at a cost. A cost well worth paying. That task will be made easier because there is still, astonishingly, a considerable amount of the Raffi Brown monies left. That alone could make all the difference. With Mr. Star''s help, we could have a superb team very quickly. But that''s short-term. We know Mr. Star is a long-term investor and most of you are waiting to hear about the stadium." He paused.


    "Christ," I said. "Here it comes. Watch them turn." While two quarters of Emma''s laptop showed scenes from the players, the other two scanned the audience looking for interesting characters and reactions.


    Pond clicked and looked at the big screen behind him. When he turned back, he didn''t look like a middle-aged accountant. He looked like a seven-year old boy who was about to see his first ever match. "Our stadium, our destiny. They call this... Deva 2029."


    A time lapse video played. We saw the Deva stadium, greyed out to make it look uglier and older. Large white text slid in from the right of the image. 1. Acquire freehold. 2. Consultation. 3. Planning permission. 4. The build.


    Funky social media music burped out while we got a closer view of the Deva. Diggers and cranes got to work demolishing it. As similar but bigger vehicles returned and a new stadium arose, the colour was dialled all the way up. We were left to admire a concrete and steel marvel with gorgeous blue and white seats and a large wolf statue roaring forever on top of the roof of the main stand.


    I checked the player feed to see if Pascal was there, but he was out of shot. I wanted to see his reaction because I''d seen the second half of the animation before. It was a time lapse from the construction of a stadium in Germany. I couldn''t remember which club owned it, but clearly Chip had paid someone a hundred bucks to digitally paint out the name of the team and add some white seats and the wolf. Now that I thought about it, I had once seen a video of the Deva being constructed. To simulate the demolition, Chip had probably just played that in reverse! The video we''d just watched looked like it had cost multiple thousands but it was probably done with two emails and a couple of hundred bucks. I was starting to get excited - I was right! My instincts were right!


    A burst of applause from the audience killed my good mood big time. Emma reversed into me, demanding that I snuggle harder. I did. It helped.


    Data came across the screen: 15,000 capacity. 133 seats for disabled fans. 20 hospitality rooms. Self-cleaning toilets.


    A faded Wrexham badge plonked down and one last piece of text landed on top, cracking the red dragons. BIGGER THAN WREXHAM!!!


    This got a huge cheer. I forced myself to look at the audience feed. One guy was clearly saying to his mate - I told you. He gets the club.


    The animation finished and while the room was abuzz, Pond adjusted his glasses and pretended to read from his screen. "One of the most common questions has been, will Mr. Star attend games?"


    Star nodded and turned his mic on. He was clearly feeling very powerful and charismatic. "I''ll sure come watch us beat Wrexham!" Another cheer. The Chester mob were lapping this up, now. I was pleased to note that Angel and the players around her were sitting in stony silence. Star didn''t care - he almost certainly couldn¡¯t have put a name to more than three faces. "I like to take a hands-on approach to my investments. As a long-term investor you wanna get to know the business from the inside out. You want to know the names of the ushers and the stewards and the ticket sellers. You want folks to see you and feel they can trust you so you find out what''s going good - and what''s going bad. I didn''t get to where I am by hiring yes men." I dried some of Emma''s hair by letting out one big ha! Pond was a yes-man of Biblical proportions. "The biggest insights into my companies come from my customers and my shop-floor workers. Having a relationship with them is real important to me. So yeah, I wanna come so I hear it straight from the horse''s mouth." I tensed. Was that a phrase aimed at Brooke? Some kind of threat? She wasn''t in the room. As far as I knew, she wasn''t watching and never would. "But I don''t wanna oversell it, either. You''ll appreciate I''ve got a real big job on my hands back home. Texas big!" This got some underserved laughs. "I''ll wanna come for the big matches. I think you''d call me a glory hunter." More laughs. Wasn¡¯t that one of my lines? "My son will be here far more than me."


    Chip took his cue to turn his mic on. "That''s right," he said. "I love this sport and I''ve gotta be honest, I love this club and this team. They''re real good. Real exciting. I''d pay to watch them and - ha! I suppose that''s what we''re doing." Some good-natured chuckles from the audience. "Where I come in is with a modern data-led approach. I know some of the legacy fans don''t like to hear that but data is what turned your Tesco from the last-placed retailer to taking one pound in every four in the UK. That''s an unbelievable stat. Think about it for a quick minute. One out of every four pounds spent was from one company and there was one reason - they used data better and faster than anyone else. It took ten years for the other retailers to catch up! There''s a lot of data in football - too much, you might say. Well, I''m not going to bore you with my findings but there are so many players who are undervalued and underappreciated. Our plan is to bring them here and ride that data all the way to League One!"


    "Where we''ll beat Wrexham," said Gerry, to more cheers and laughs.


    "All I wanna say," said Chip, "is that we want to invest in this club but we want to invest wisely. There''s always gonna be comparisons between what we''re doing and what Wrexham did. I think they paid top dollar for a couple of fellas who turned out preddy good but some of what they did was all kinds of wasteful. I could show you charts - "


    "Please don''t," said his dad, to more laughs.


    "Right," chuckled Chip. It was an interesting dynamic. Gerry was the voice of the gammons. Chip was standing in for the hipsters. "So just trust me on this - if we spend the same amount of cash we''re gonna see a much bigger return." Fantastic use of the word if in that sentence!


    James Pond nodded. "Chip''s models certainly are cutting-edge. More questions. Will volunteers get paid? In the back office, yes. Match day staff, that''s planned for when we reach League One. Until then, we do need to be mindful of cost. Another question. What will the first hundred days look like? Chip?"


    "We want to hit the ground running. Install the new head coach, bring in our transfer targets, give the squad everything it needs to succeed. That''s the first two weeks. It''s all about making sure every stone is unturned in the rush for promotion. That''s double A priority. Then it''s rushing ahead in all directions. The stadium. The training ground. We want to get things done in record time. I think overall the first hundred days will look sedate, but that''s only because the first, say, forty days will be so action-packed. We''ve got plans, files, documents. We feel we''re ready to go from day one, minute one. We''ve been preparing for this for a long time. This is serious."


    "I''m a long-term investor but the first weeks will look like backstage on Broadway five minutes before opening night," said Daddy Star, and this drew an appreciative chuckle. "We know what to do. We''ve rehearsed it. The costumes look good, we know our lines. There are dozens of people running around like headless chickens but then the curtain comes up..."


    "And we beat Wrexham!" said Chip, nailing the landing like a pro.


    "That''s tedious," said Emma.


    "Yeah. They''re copying the Ryan Reynolds pitch to Wrexham. Rob and Ryan promised to beat Chester four times. It was cringe but it showed they weren''t just doing a prank and they had actually done the bare minimum research."


    "How''s it going, do you think?"


    "I think they''re winning," I said. The takeover resolution would need 75% to pass.


    "How long until there''s a vote?"


    I made some mouth clicking noises. "Fifteen, twenty minutes?"


    Saying that put a huge clock in my imagination like in the abysmal Three Body Problem show on Netflix. A floating fifteen minute timer and if no-one stopped it, the Chester board would vote to put the takeover to the fans and then the fans would vote to sell their soul to Daddy Star. Brooke wouldn''t bother to quit; she would simply vanish. I would have to go through the formalities of quitting so that my player registration would be released. Ideally, I''d do it in a quiet room, just me and Secretary Joe, but more likely there would be a crowd of Stars and Ponds and whoever else wanted to see me brought down a peg or two.


    "I don''t think you can stop it from your hotel room," Emma said. She got up off the bed and lifted a hairdryer from her suitcase. There was one in the room but Ems never travelled without her favourite.


    I lay back and closed my eyes. "Maybe I don''t want to stop it. Maybe the fuckers deserve what they get."


    "Are you talking about your players?"


    "Of course not."


    "So don''t even start with that. If you''re back doing self-pity, I''m going to do my hair." She strode out of sight, but came back. "Why don''t you go for a walk? You can watch that man buy your football club from your phone." She vanished and popped right back up again. "If you take your backpack you can get something for the room."


    "What like?"


    She looked around, so deep in thought it was almost painful. "A Snickers. And... a bottle of champagne."


    "What will we be celebrating?"


    "That''s just for me. I''ll be celebrating how fast I ate my Snickers."


    I smiled and slung my backpack around my shoulders. I loaded the feed onto my phone. It was only the view of the stage and not the other feeds, but that was fine.


    "You''re not going out like that?"


    "What?" I said, admiring myself. I was rocking a stylish light-grey hot-boy-in-Tenerife hoodie - even Gemma would have approved - awesome shorts, and the most comfortable flip-flops ever sold in a tourist trap.


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    Emma calculated, then nodded. "Actually, I approve. I don''t want you getting into flirty conversations with joggers."


    I scoffed. "Any joggers I meet will go wild for this. This is jogger catnip. Look at my calves for fuck''s sake. I''m literally sex on legs." Emma''s lips twisted again, an invitation, and not for the first time I wondered if I had my life priorities straight. She gave me one last look and disappeared into the bathroom. The hairdryer turned on and got twice as loud almost immediately. "Be right back," I mumbled.


    I popped my AirPods in, closed my fingers around the door handle and realised that by the time I got back, I would probably be unemployed. I scratched my forehead, wrote three words on a Post-It note, and left it on Emma''s bedside table. I hesitated one last time and, with a nod, closed my laptop and slid it into my backpack. Just in case.


    ***


    I walked, not very fast, down the corridor. I was listening to more than watching the presentation, which was already into the question and answer session. The first questions were about Gerry and Chip themselves.


    My thoughts drifted away. The endless rain in England had driven me half-crazy. The curse had offered me a perk called Wet Wet Wet. How had the text gone? Something like: You feel it in your fingers, you feel it in your toes. This perk tells you which way the weather blows. Six thousand XP to get a guaranteed-accurate five-day weather forecast. The perk came with the prospect of further upgrades. I mean, amazing but six thousand? At a time most matches in the north had been called off?


    Grimsby had lost one fixture to the weather, Barnet none. Five of ours had been postponed, including the one rescheduled because of our FA Cup exploits. The weather had given us four games in hand that we could play at the end of the season when we would be stronger - whoo! - but kicked us out of the playoff spots just in time for Daddy Star''s pitch. Boo!


    Weather forecasts. Grimsby. Who cared? I was about ten minutes away from never having to think about the National League ever again.


    I heard Brooke''s name and I whipped the phone to my eyes.


    Daddy Star was smiling. "She''s my Brookie cookie and she''s real talented. She can do whatever she wants. If she wants to stay here and work with her brother, I could sit still for that. And she knows there''s always a job for her back at No Fussin'' HQ."


    "So you''re not doing this to spite her?" I didn''t have the audience screens and couldn''t recognise the voice.


    "Spite? That''s my daughter. My firstborn. I want her to be happy, like any father would."


    Pond quickly moved on to a different questioner, who was clearly all-in on the takeover and already salivating at the thought of transfers. "Can you confirm that your first signing will be Tom Hickman?" For some reason, this got a knowing chuckle from the audience. Star smiled and gestured to Chip.


    "Hickman is a player who comes up on our data but no way is Grimsby going to sell him to us. Not this season, anyway! Don''t worry, though. We have binders full of Hickmans!"


    Again I felt that sense of rising bile. That fear. What if the Stars meant what they were saying? If they really had a good data model, maybe they thought they would actually be good at running a football club. Maybe this wasn''t about Brooke at all. I thought back to our meeting. They hadn''t mentioned Brooke once. The rising dread faded and I was left alone in a hotel corridor.


    Not quite alone. Two attractive young women turned the corner in front of me on their way back to their room. They checked me out.


    "Hola," I said.


    They giggled. "Hola," the first one replied.


    "Como estas?"


    "Muy bien, guapo," said the second one. She nudged her friend and I turned sideways so they could go past. They looked down as they passed me, giggled some more, then with a final look back, fell into each other.


    George Best quit football in his twenties. Maybe I could, too.


    I smiled and walked on.


    ***


    I stepped outside. It was colder than I''d expected. The flip flops did precious little to warm my precious feet.


    I went back indoors and found a little nook to sit in. The topic of the meeting had finally moved onto the good stuff. The elephant not in the room. Me.


    Pond was talking. "I think we can all agree that Best saved us from relegation and got us promoted. He did. But we''re in a big boy league now and it''s full of experienced managers. We need stability and experience but what we have is wild flights of fancy, tweaking the nose of the Football Association, distractions of all kinds. There''s no paperwork. Our players train here, there, and everywhere and while I have no doubt it''s all kinds of fun, from an insurance point of view it puts the club at constant risk of litigation." He pinched his nose and looked down. "It has been a great ride, I can say that with hand on heart. I''m a Chester fan and some of the moments we''ve had have been nothing short of magical. But I''m sorry, it''s time to grow up. It''s time to professionalise. If we want to catch Wrexham it''s time to bring on board a long-term investor. We got lucky that Best came along when he did, but I truly believe that we''re even more lucky today. To think that one of the best businessmen in the world is here, hoping and praying to invest millions of pounds into our football club. I believe this takeover removes the need for luck. Who needs luck when you have a serious, professional, long-term investor?"


    Pond had pitched it perfectly. Acknowledging my work but saying it was time to move on. He was convincing and while he wasn''t exactly dripping with charisma, he was being absolutely authentic. It was easy to admire him from afar, in a random part of a hotel in my flip flops and shorts.


    The applause was louder than ever. More than half the hall was clapping. Pond turned to Daddy Star. ''Look what I did! I did good, didn''t I?'' They had done it. They had absolutely smashed the presentation. Chester fans wanted them. The votes would be a formality.


    Kenneth Wolstenholme was the BBC''s commentator for the 1966 World Cup final. He delivered the highest moment in commentary to match the highest moment in English football history. As Geoff Hurst raced towards the German goal in the dying seconds of the match, as delirious England fans rushed onto the pitch thinking the referee had blown for full time, Wolstenholme said the immortal words:


    ''They think it''s all over!''


    The Stars and James Pond thought this was all over.


    I sighed, stood, and flip-flopped my way to a large double door.


    I pushed it and watched on my phone as James Pond heard the commotion and looked up, aghast. His fear intensified as I smoothly went down the central aisle, jauntily popping out my earbuds and putting away my phone.


    Some people are on the pitch indeed...


    ***


    Extract from Bethany Alban''s notebook, expanded from the original shorthand.


    Max just came in. About fucking time. Quite a lot of relief around me, but quite a few tuts and grumbles. Clearly, Max was planning a dramatic entrance. Then why''s he dressed for the beach? Also hindering his dramatic, triumphant walk down the aisle - the fact that it''s full of people.


    Fans blocking him. Thematic! He hasn''t fully thought this through - prophetic? There''s so little space he''s clambering over some, squeezing through others. He''s gone ten metres and twice lost a flip-flop. Despite the tan and the summery clothes he looks rough. Strained. Cameron already has his notebook out. Love his instincts. I whisper, "You get crowd colour. I''ll do the stage." He agrees. Divide and conquer.


    On stage, there''s more whispers - between James Pond and Daddy Star. Three of the other six board members are talking behind their hands. The one on the left is Sumo, the streamer. Fell out with Max when the takeover broke. Seemed contrived at the time, but they kept the pretence going. Must get an interview with him.


    People around me are chatting a mile a minute. They''ve just realised there''s going to be a showdown! Phones out, cameras on. Some of these ingrates want a sugar daddy but even more than that they want to be the one who gets the angle on the fight that goes viral.


    Not like Max to give us all our dream story. Our dream video. Or is it? He looks haggard. How much fight is in him?


    I can''t wait so I ask Cameron - Cam says Max looks fit and healthy and unbothered. Hmm.


    So it''s a showdown. Holy crap. Spectrum hinted Max had a plan to stop Star. Why let it get to this point? Not like Max to take the passive route.


    I''m worried. This is either genius or madness. Max isn''t getting an entirely positive reception. I reckon a third are for him, a third against, a third could be persuaded. He fistbumps MD and slips through the ranks of his players. They are united behind him. Why aren''t the fans? I haven''t seen Dani. Judging by how hard she''s typing, it''s Kisi who''s tasked with sending the updates. I glare at James Pond. Of course he''s the one guy at Chester who wouldn''t even think of organising some way for Dani to follow what is happening.


    Get them, Max!


    Wow, creepy. Glenn Ryder just shouted the same thing I wrote. They''re all at it. ''Fuck him up! Come on! Remember what Voltaire said! God is with you.''


    Max goes up the right. Why? Left is closer to the lectern. Ah - he wants to make eyes at the board. Dave, Violet, Lily. They don''t feel important, unless it comes to a vote. From what I''ve seen and heard, any sort of a vote and Max is toast. He hasn''t handled this well. He hasn''t handled this at all. There''s let it happen and there''s let it happen. Worst case for everyone is Star gets 74% approval and we have to do all this again.


    Max smiles at Ruth and she curses him for waiting till the last minute. Ha! So there is a plan. I... don''t feel better. The military guy gives a curt nod. Sumo - no eye contact. Hmm. Could be two reasons for that.


    Max passes the baddies. Daddy Star? No reaction. He can''t conceive of a way he could lose this except by reacting badly to Max''s provocations. He''ll stay calm, is my guess.


    Chip: "You''re in Tenerife!" Max: no reply.


    Max slings his backpack off, places it on the table. Slips out a soft document case. Hands it to Daddy Star. What''s this? Suing him? Would be just like Max if he was serving divorce papers right now.


    Max perches his arse on the table and picks up a microphone. James Pond and Chip are talking into theirs, but no sound is coming out. Max got the engineers onside! Heart''s beating fast. That''s my boy!


    "Beth? Are you here?" Wait what? He''s talking to me? Why? I stand and wave. "Is that Cameron?" I nod. Cameron waves. "Thanks for the help on Christmas, mate. I owe you one."


    You owe me more than one you crazy bastard.


    I battle to keep up. My shorthand was never that fast. The people around us are one third smiles, one third scowls, one third gormless. I stare at one scowler until he looks away. I''m riled up! Everyone is. This is proper brother versus brother stuff. Civil war. Dying moments of the reborn Chester FC and plenty of people can''t wait to pull the plug.


    I realise I''ve lost the heart of the story but Cam is all over it.


    "Star''s taken those documents out of the case. Look, there''s a camera guy on stage putting it on the big screen. That Pond guy''s trying to turn it off."


    "What are the documents?"


    "No clue."


    The guy in front of me turns around. He smiles too much to be comfortable, but he seems friendly. I think I''ve seen him around. "They''re contracts."


    "Thanks, Mister...?"


    "Clive."


    Clive seems happy to stop there - must find out more about him. The contracts each have a brightly-coloured page marker indicating a page near the back. The cameraman takes a step closer as Star reads what is written there. Jaw tight, fighting to preserve the illusion he''s a decent human being. Mask slips as he throws the contract to the floor. He checks the next one and tosses it aside, too.


    Chip bends to pick up a discarded one and reads it. A second camera swoops towards him. "You can''t do this!" he says, clearly audible over the murmur of the crowd. "You can''t do this!"


    Star throws all the contracts off him and stands up, hands on hips.


    "What''s going on?" hisses James Pond, as the Chipcam turns on a sixpence and gets into his unwilling face. "What have you done, Best? Whatever it is, it won''t make any difference! This deal is all but done! You can''t scare off a long-term investor with a cheap trick!"


    Daddy Star hears this and considered Pond''s words. He looks from Pond to the camera to the players who are gathered in front of him. Their postures are like football fans waiting for someone to take a penalty. More like the score is four-nil and Star has a penalty to make it four-one. Result not in doubt.


    Max is relaxed. Calm. Unnaturally so; he must be fighting extra hard to keep so still. Ask him about it. Ask the players who know him best. Strange sense he''s stressed off his tits.


    The entire takeover comes down to this!


    Star puts his hat on, doffs it at Max, and exits, stage right. Twenty-plus male players and twenty-plus female players celebrate with wild abandon. Limbs. The neat row of chairs buckle.


    That was it! The takeover thwarted.


    What happened?


    Eight hundred Chester fans call out my question: ''what happened?'' A few celebrate with the players - that''s what they do every Saturday and it happens on autopilot. Their mates pull them back. Tell them to quit it. One guy spills over a chair - grabbing the guy in front of him, he fell back. Situation calms just enough but many in that section are red in the face.


    Cam shows me the live feed of the stream - the chat is scrolling past at lightning pace. He makes it stop - half the questions are ''where did he go?''


    The players are dancing around singing, "Maaaxxx! Max will tear you apart again!" followed by "Chester! Chester!"


    Very few of the fans are joining in.


    Uh-oh.


    The documentary director - Sophie? check this - twenty, black hair, glasses, never smiles - switches the big screen to Pondcam. The entire hall watches as James Pond, on one knee, skims the contracts. He is pissed. "Best! You''ll pay for this! This is an outrage! You don''t have the right to do this!"


    The male players give him a volley of abuse. Pond backs off.


    A fan with a very loud voice stands on his chair and yells, "What the fuck is going on?" Big cheer and applause.


    "I don''t know," says Max. "Let''s ask the long-term investor. Oh, where did he go?" Mocking laughter from the players and staff. No, Max! Read the room! He''s lost the plot. He''s not in control. He has won, but - "Zach, is there a culture clash here? Maybe in Texas long-term investor means a guy who leaves a five-year project after twenty minutes?"


    "No, boss!" calls Zach.


    "Come on, Best!" yells the fan. "Talk to us!"


    Max smiles. It''s not attractive. "My friend Beth there works for the Daily Mail. She''s been hoping for this showdown between me and Daddy Star. The two of us sparring while the fate of the club hangs in the balance. I reckon she''s got the headline already. Star Wars. Good, isn''t it? Star player versus Star. Can the dim-witted council estate Manc save his club from the ruthless, unstoppable American billionaire? Chester is on the brink of disaster and only Max knows it. Chester is one minute from oblivion when Max walks in to save the day! What a story!" Max pauses while he tries to get rid of a smirk, but he only manages to turn it into a sneer. It''s not aimed at me. "Sorry to disappoint you, Beth. I decided to be sophisticated on this one. It''s too important. I made promises to my staff. There''s no showdown. No duels, no fireworks. Just me doing what I always do. Winning." Whoops and cheers from my players. Big, admiring smile from Ruth.


    "Best!" yells the fan. "Explain it!" Hundreds of others cry out their agreement. How can he not know he''s alienating them?


    "I''ll explain everything," he says. "But first we need to finish the takeover. Let''s get the long-term investor in here and - oh! Where''s he gone?"


    Pond''s microphone came back on. "You''re not funny! When they find out what you did - "


    "Oh, they''ll find out," Max says, angry and combustible. "They''ll find out everything I did... and everything you did. They''ll learn about the new contracts and what that means about Daddy Star and more importantly, what that means about you."


    "But," Pond says, not into the microphone. His eyes dart left and right with the sudden realisation that he is in deep, deep shit.


    Sumo stands and goes to him. He snatches the microphone from Pond''s hand. Sumo takes four steps away and says, "I call for the immediate resignation from the board of James Pond."


    The players launch into a round of boos and hisses, not for the idea but for the name. Max waves at them to shush. The military guy has Daddy Star''s mic. "I second the motion," he says, before passing it along.


    "I third the motion," says Ruth.


    She passes the microphone to Violet.


    Angel shouts, "Come on, Violet!" This triggers similar exultations from all the female players, plus Jill, and Livia, and there, to the side, Jackie Reaper.


    "I don''t know," says Violet. Useless waste of space!


    Ruth takes the mic back. "Pond. Are you going to do the decent thing for once in your life?"


    Pond recoils. It seems like he will try to defend himself but the absolute fury from the women''s team in particular makes him decide against giving an impromptu speech. He strides away. John Smith appears out of nowhere, blocking his path.


    Ruth says, "Leaving isn''t resigning. Resign."


    Secretary Joe is there with a form on a clipboard. He holds it up along with a pen.


    "Resign! Resign! Resign!" The players of Chester FC, long destabilised by takeovers and rumours of takeovers, are letting it all out big style. Behind them, fans are yelling. Some are gesticulating.


    "Mate," Max says, to Pond. "You don''t want to be here when I tell these guys the truth. Trust me. You don''t want to be here. I''m doing you a favour by letting you go. In the name of God, go."


    The word ''truth'' calms the room a good twenty percent. Truth? What truth? The very word hints at lies and deception.


    Pond, surrounded by enemies, grabs the pen, signs his resignation, and strides away. Smith lets him pass, and Pond is nearly off the stage when Max speaks next.


    "James Pond." The beaten man turns to look at Max. "You''re just not very popular."


    That seems like a personal line, so it doesn''t get much of a response from the players and falls absolutely flat with the fans, who until a few minutes ago thought Pond was the face of the takeover and thus more popular even than Max.


    Max: "I''ve been thinking about how to announce that, despite the slick sales pitch, I''ve foiled the takeover and saved this football club. Again." He goes to his laptop and brings up familiar footage from the end of the 1966 World Cup final. "Black and white and gleaming all over. The Germans, three-two down, had streamed forward in a desperate attempt to get an equaliser." Max goes from explaining to putting some Boggy-like enthusiasm into his voice. "Some people are on the pitch," he says, as on the giant screen, Bobby Moore plays a long pass into Germany''s half. "They think it''s all over..." Max cries. As Geoff Hurst thrashes the ball into the net at the perfect time to match Wolstenholme''s commentary, so Max mimes kicking Daddy Star and James Pond up the arse. "It is now!"


    The players erupt and there''s mayhem again.


    <ul>


    <li>Zach and Glenn Ryder chestbumping each other.</li>


    <li>John Smith swirling Ruth around.</li>


    <li>Sumo and Barnesy doing a Nobby Stiles dance around the stage at the Crowne Plaza Hotel.</li>


    <li>Angel riding Sticky''s back.</li>


    <li>Half the documentary crew in amongst the players, their supposed neutrality very much forgotten.</li>


    <li>Charlotte in tears, being consoled by Femi and Jackie.</li>


    <li>Cole Adams in tears, being consoled by Carl Carlile.</li>


    </ul>


    It''s all joy as far as the eye can see - so long as one only looks at the front of the hall. Not all that far further back, the grumpy faces start. The folded arms. Those people came here to get a huge cash injection and their sugar daddy just walked out. The manner of Max''s victory - the cloak and daggers, coming at it sideways, winning with a trick and a technicality - has rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way. He thought he would just do one of his themes and it would all click.


    Max does this with his players - gives them a theme for the week. This was ''they think it''s all over'' and they''ve responded. They aren''t in the dark. Presumably they know what''s going on - they''ve signed the contracts that have won the day. But half the fans don''t want it to be over. Max has blundered massively. He has won, but at what cost? I suppose I should be glad I was here to see it.


    There''s some commotion and it''s because Brooke Star has entered. Max told me she was in Belize. Ho hum. She looks shaken - she''s stumbling worse than Max, although more people are willing to get out of her way.


    "MD," says Max. "Bring her up here where she belongs."


    Some prick yells out, "Is she gonna invest twenty million?"


    If looks could kill. Max is fuming. "She''ll invest her time, expertise, and class, which is a hell of a lot more than her dad." Prick makes a rude gesture. Max is starting to get just how badly he''s messed this up. Half the audience is a few false words from boiling point. And Max - oh, shit. He''s not going to back down.


    "Cam," I say. "You''d better clear out. Could get nasty."


    "No chance," he says. Budges closer to me. Undoes his cuffs in case there''s a scrap.


    Max has smoke coming out of his nostrils. Some of his more alert players are calming the others down in case things kick off. It''s going to kick off. Shit shit shit no Max no.


    "What are you doing?" he growls into the mic. We all snap our heads and see a few people are shuffling down their row.


    "We''re leaving," calls a guy. "It''s over. You said." The guy looks like a Max supporter to me, but Max is in one of his me-against-the-world moods.


    "No, mate," Max says, cricking his neck. He points to the side of the stage where Daddy Star, Chip, and James Pond fled. "That? That was just the warm-up act. That was some stand-up comedy before the main event. This isn''t over. You wanted to make big changes to this football club. You''re gonna make big changes to this football club. You came here to vote. You''re gonna vote. You want a long-term investor? You can have a long-term investor."


    He walks up and down the stage, his flip-flops slapping into the wood almost comically. But his face is hard and there are no smiles left in the hall. His super-joyous players start to slip back into their chairs. Seems they knew about the first bit. This is unexpected. MD knows. He goes past Max and sits in Daddy Star''s chair. Brooke takes Chip''s.


    Max is angry and he''s acting belligerent but he''s frantic. He''s out of control.


    "Ladies and gentlemen, you''ve just seen me beat that guy all ends up and you want to know how I did it, like it''s a mystery. There''s no mystery to it. I''ll tell you how, okay? But the only mystery here is why you would even let him in the door. Your question is, what happened? But the real question is, how do we stop this happening ever again?" He grimaces. "How do we stop a thousand of you gathering to welcome a wolf in sheep''s clothing, to applaud his lies and laugh and ignore reality. We need to talk about the future of Chester Football Club."


    "Oh, shit," says Cameron. "This is what he was saying when he had pneumonia. I thought he was babbling."


    Max shakes his head. "There''s only two ways to run a football club. There''s my way. And that''s the only way."


    "He''s going to make an outrageous demand," hisses Cam. "He''s going to blow himself up. Your best story is about to make a mistake he''ll never recover from. You''ve got to stop him, Bethany!"


    There''s no time. It would take me a full minute to clamber down the aisle, and Max is just getting started on his rant. "You''ve got to choose, Chester. Two choices. All..." He clomps a few steps. "Or nothing."

 9.12 - All Or Nothing

    12.


    It wasn''t supposed to be like this. The point of letting the takeover get so close to the end was to shock the fans into trusting me more and giving me more, but around the hall I only saw anger and resentment. I''d scared off the billionaire they had been daydreaming about for two months and now I was berating them. This was supposed to be a winning season; I¡¯d already lost.


    I remembered a Mark Twain quote - it''s easier to fool people than to convince them they have been fooled. I could explain the story in full, with sources, but the people would continue to sit there, arms folded, or stand at the sides whispering to each other. Groups of burly men coalescing into attack units. The first to throw his season ticket at me would unleash a torrent.


    My plan had been clever - on paper. In reality I had worked myself into a corner and couldn''t plot a way out.


    I reacted badly. I had grown as angry and resentful as anyone in the audience.


    "My name is Max Best," I said, more to get everyone to shut up than anything. "I¡¯m not the best football manager in the world. But I¡¯d love to know where I stand in the top ten." A few of my players applauded, but my tone fell flat on the gammons. "I''ve been your Director of Football for two years. In that time we''ve made great progress but it seems not everyone in this room agrees with that. I''ll tell you two people who do - Gerry Star and Chip. You can''t be for them and against me because they know what I''ve done here. They were going to sell off the squad this summer, sell the club - ideally when it was in League Two - and trouser up to ten million in profit. I put a stop to it and they walked out. You''re welcome."


    I started striding across the front of the stage, mostly looking at a spot a couple of yards in front of my toes. If I''d made eye contact with the wrong person at the wrong time I would have gone thermonuclear.


    "All or nothing. That''s the choice you have to make now. That''s the vote. You''ll back me absolutely or I''ll walk. Those are the two choices and there''s nothing in the middle. I need 75% of you to back me, otherwise I''ve got a form in my bag. I''ll sign the form, Joe will send it to our wonderful Football Association, and I''ll be a free man. I''ll walk off into the sunset - yes, I know it''s pitch black outside - and tomorrow I''ll call Watford and ask if they want a mystery winger for fifty thousand pounds a week."


    I clomped around, fighting a losing battle against the anger. It threatened to overwhelm me.


    "I can''t do this anymore." I fell into a black hole. "I can''t do this anymore," I repeated, dismayed at how true it was. I looked at the exit sign that always glowed above the doors in these places. Exit. The portal to a simpler life. For ten grand a week I could smash up the Welsh league and another ten would get West to tier six, easy. As a Championship player I''d still have thirty grand a week left over and as long as I didn''t overdo it, the Sentinel wouldn''t crush me flat. I cleared my throat. "I''ve been working for two years with one hand tied. It''s hard to win matches and build a club while constantly being stabbed in the back and slapped in the face. If you don''t appreciate me you can at least get out of my way. I want you to vote to dissolve the board and give its powers to me." I paused to let that sink in. It was pretty absurd hearing myself say it out loud. This was my plan? I was twenty-four years old. But whatever. It had made sense at the time and now I just wanted this to be over. They would give me the power I needed or they would get nothing more from me.


    "Dissolve the board?" said someone to my left. Lily, I think.


    "Dissolve the board and let me continue the job I''ve been doing for two years. Dissolve the board so I can plan long-term. Properly long-term without the risk of you handing it over to a billionaire. That''s it. Let''s vote so we can all get on with our lives. Do you want me or not?"


    There was a fairly ugly silence that became a murmur that became a grumble. As I fumed, steamed, and boiled, I spotted some movement to my left. Henri Lyons was climbing the stairs. Behind him was Pascal, Glenn, and Magnus.


    I didn''t expect it and when Henri reached to give me a hug, I suddenly found myself without a microphone. I looked around for another one but saw that Sumo had them all. He was cradling them and when he saw me looking, he pulled them tighter.


    "What are you doing?" I said.


    A hand gently took me by the elbow and pulled. Emma! Fully dressed. She coaxed me down onto a chair that had appeared. For some reason it was side-on to the audience. Also, I realised, side-on to the big screen. The other first teamers sat next to me. Something like bodyguards. Sophie, the documentary director, went to the lectern, closed my laptop, and put her own on top. She didn''t need to plug anything in; she was already in control.


    "Ladies and gentlemen," said Henri, as he glided around the stage like a pro. "As you have seen, Max Best is in a mood." His teeth sparkled. "A big one! When you hear the full story, you''ll understand. In essence, he feels you highlighted all his work and pressed delete. It seems he won''t tell you the full story now because he is supremely stubborn. Bull-headed. Obstinate! He is in no mood to tell you what the Stars tried to do and he is in no mood to remind you of his vision for the future of this club. He simply says, vote for me and if you don''t, I''m leaving! Ha! Tomorrow he will regret it. He will not go to Watford. He will find another worthy club and start again but this time, he will have this meeting right at the beginning. That club''s progress would be sensationally fast - it would be a tremendous story. But I''m afraid I can''t indulge him. I must be selfish, Pascal must be selfish, we all must be selfish for our careers are short and we must shoot Chester to League Two with Max as the manager. There is simply no time to waste in our short careers. So we intervene. This is an intervention."


    My anger deepened. What''s this shit? But it was just a flash. The surge receded and into the gap poured hope. A way out of this mess?


    How had this happened? I had told MD and Joe I wanted this final, binding referendum. To my face, they had gone along with it. Great idea, Max! Let''s do it. But MD had gone to Henri and Glenn and they had set up this ''intervention''.


    Henri nodded at Brooke. She went to Sumo and took a microphone. She was still struggling with her emotions - the relief that my plan worked, the stress of working against her family, the uncertainty of what was to come. "My name is Brooke Star. Gerry Star is my father."


    Henri said, "It would be unkind to ask you to testify against your papa. But in your opinion, how much money would he have put into Chester Football Club?"


    Brooke acted astonished. "Put in? Not a red cent more than he had to. Sending the two million pounds would have caused him physical pain." She looked out at the fans. "I''m sorry but he''s not what you wanted him to be." Brooke turned the mic off and returned it to Sumo. After she sat, it seemed like she would burst into tears. MD lightly touched her shoulder and she nodded a few times, clearly saying, "I''m fine, I''m fine."


    Henri said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please bear Brooke''s words in mind as you watch. And please bear in mind that the Max you see at these Forums and on match days is a man at his most emotional. It is not always Max at his best. We, the players, the staff, see him when he is relaxed and thoughtful and kind and deeply committed to Chester FC. I am happy to show you what he is really like when the camera is off. Which is ironic, because as you will see, the camera was on."


    I turned on my seat as the big screen sprung to life. It was me on holiday! In fucking Tenerife! They''d filmed me without my consent. "The fuck?" I called out.


    Sophie paused the video. Henri came over and passed his mic to Emma. She said, "Max. You''re calling this All Or Nothing. I agree with that. I want the fans to know all about you. You never tell them how much you do. I want them to see all the things you do, all the ways you care about the players and the club. All the things you''d do to protect it. All the ways they don''t need money from outside because they''ve got you. And if, after that, they want to bin you off, I''ll have you all to myself. But we''ve got to try. We''ve got to tell them the whole story. I promise it''s only clips where you''re being honest about Chester."


    "Clips plural?"


    "Max, please," she said.


    I took in a deep breath and when I let it out I leaned forward and spoke into her mic. "I consent to being illegally recorded."


    Sophie didn''t wait for further discussion. We returned to my holiday. Me, off guard. Me having a lovely old time. I was back in the hotel room after doing some exercise, sweating furiously.


    "How was your run?" said Emma, only partially in view.


    "Mint," I said. "I feel amazing. I should do less but it just feels amazing. I might reinvent myself as a box to box midfielder. Bin off penalties."


    "Did you flirt with any joggers?"


    "No. I mean, not much."


    "Do you want a massage after your shower?"


    I looked surprised. "Is that a trick question?"


    "I''ll do your calves if you tell me about Daddy Star and that whole story."


    "I''ve told you."


    "Tell me from the start with all the numbers and everything. It''s like a huge thing that''s happened and if it''s going to drive a wedge between you and the fans and we''re going to have to leave the city and our friends I want to understand it inside out."


    "Erm," I said. "I''ll think about it."


    "Smell this," said Emma.


    I walked across and took a whiff of some massage oil she''d got. "Oh, that''s nice. Did you buy it?"


    "No, I asked the spa if I could borrow this."


    "Err, all right," I said. "Numbers? Weird." I popped into the bathroom and Emma picked up whatever the camera was hidden inside. She centralised the pillows and plopped the hidden camera down on the corner of the bed. She went around the room moving more things into position.


    The scene changed and we got a top-down view of me getting a leg rub from Emma. Then for most of the next speech it was her make-up bag or whatever getting a great shot of me with my head to one side, happily talking through the plot to destroy Chester. Henri or Sophie or MD or whoever had edited this intervention had at least bleeped out the player values so there was no potential embarrassment there.


    "Start from the beginning, bebs."


    I went ''mmm'' and took a few seconds. "The beginning. Gerry Star wants to control his daughter. He doesn''t want her to live in Singapore, or Sydney, or Chester. He wants her to live in Texas, the end. He interferes in her life so that she has to keep moving and when I heard about all this I was expecting to get a visit and a threat or an offer. If I sacked her, he''d give me ten grand. Something like that. It never happened. Why? Because he asked Chip to check out this soccer club and Chip found something strange. We''re profitable. We sold players worth a million dollars. Was that a lucky punch or something more systemic? Chippy-boy did some digging - maybe he used his famous data skills - and turns out, this place is a goldmine. These players are a goldmine." I smiled proudly. "They got to James Pond. He''s perfect because he''s a prize chump who thinks he''s smart. The Stars know all about such people. Long story short, Pond looks at balance sheets and income and whatnot and proposes a price for the club of two million pounds."


    "Right," said Emma. "Same as Wrexham."


    "But Wrexham had mostly garbage players. I can just imagine Chip leaving the room, closing the door, and doing a dance. He pretends to call his dad, returns to Pond, says it''s higher than we hoped but you got a deal! Pond begins the work of putting feelers out to the board and influential fans. One influential voice got himself destroyed, sadly, when I twatted his phone up onto the roof of the Deva, but there are plenty of fans who want to copy Wrexham, who fear being left behind forever."


    "You won''t let that happen."


    "Course I won''t. I''m fucking mint. I can''t say it in public but we''ll blaze right past them. They play dogshit football. We''re doing astonishing things already. I''ve started to get horny for 3-4-3 even though I''ve never seen it used well. Isn''t that weird?"


    "Focus, bebs."


    "Okay. The plan. What''s the plan? The plan is for Star to drop two million into the Supporters Trust account. There''s a chance to get that back if it''s used for the stadium but I couldn''t work out how they could get it without doing some outright fraud. And there''s a risk with fraud that Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver takes them to pound town because here''s one club you can''t drown in legalese. No, I think they''ll accept the two million as the cost of doing business. Everything that will happen will be legal. Once they own the club, almost everything is legal."


    "Mmm," said Emma.


    "On day one, without me, there''s like a twenty percent chance of going up through the playoffs. So I think they''d actually spend some money like they said."


    "Some of your money."


    "Of course. There''s no reason to use their own. And it keeps the fans off their backs for ages because they''re seemingly doing what they promised. If it was me, I''d do one striker, and one dominant defender or midfielder. On loan, obviously, because you only need them for six months. For seventy grand you can get a good player. Hundred and a bit for two players who double your odds. It''s worth it and it''s more fun that way. I think Gerry''s having all kinds of fun with this because as soon as the ink is dry he has won. So they sign a couple of dudes. Our fans are like oh Christ, finally some transfers! You saw the team against Plymouth - if they can do that to Plymouth they can do it to Barnet. Add a couple of players and you finish third in the league. That gives you one match to get to the final, then it''s fifty-fifty against Barnet. A trip to Wembley is big money but the real prize is getting promoted. If you can get promoted it''s go time.


    "First, you sell Ben, Glenn, Eddie, and Steve for [bleep] thousand. Aff''s going for [bleeep], easy. Sharky, Omari, Cole, Josh, Tom. You''d be crazy to take less than [bleep] thousand each. I mean, everywhere you look there''s players other teams want. We had a bid of [bleep] for Carl. Did I tell you that? I''m like double it, mate, the guy''s nowhere near his ceiling. Plus we need him for the playoffs. Okay so they try to sell Henri for [bleeep]."


    "Henri won''t go, though. He wouldn''t make them richer."


    "I know! But they think it''s like America where you just trade players and they don''t get a say. Or they think they can persuade him. Same with Youngster. He''s religious so the plan is Daddy Star goes to the meeting with his old family Bible under his elbow. Oh this thing? Carry it with me everywhere I go." On the screen, I chuckled. I was in a great mood. In the hall I wasn''t so sure. People were watching with interest but it was hard to say if they were believing. "On some spreadsheet in East Texas somewhere, Henri''s got a big old [bleep] pounds next to his name and that''s a fact. It''s all starting to add up, isn''t it? Can you name another National League club where every single player has a value of more than [bleep]? No, you can''t. Not even Grimsby. Then we come to the crown jewels. I''m not sure how good Zach will be by the summer but I think there will be a lot of scouts realising they missed a trick with him and spending [bleep] to get him now will save them [bleep] in another year. Do you get me? I wouldn''t sell him for less than [bleeeep]. He''s that good."


    "You said his abs weren''t symmetrical."


    I scoffed and turned my head. Annoyingly for me in the present day, there was another camera on that side. "His abs are fine, I guess, if you like that sort of thing. Then we''ve got William B. Roberts. The [bleeeeeeep] in England. Chelsea paid three million pounds for a seventeen-year-old who was on the pitch against Wibbers and I''ve got to say, on the evidence of that match, if that kid is worth three million, Will is worth [beeeeep]. I wouldn''t sell him for any price right now. I''m keeping him until I can''t help him any more. He''s listening to me and he''s turning into a proper weapon. When I''m done with him he''ll be worth [beep] motherfucking [beeep]. And Youngster! Jesus Christ. He''s worth [bleeep] on his own. He slapped at the AFCON qualifiers and he''s going to the full tournament in February. How can you sell a club for two million when one goofy little Christian is worth [beeeeep]? It fucking winds me up. He doubled in value during the course of the takeover! How is the selling price the same?"


    "Because people think Star''s going to put money in and it doesn''t matter about the price."


    I slapped the mattress and the camera went rogue. "Oh, come on! Make the guy put five mill into an account that can only be spent on new players! Take some basic fucking precautions! You can''t trust people. What the fuck."


    "Babes," said Emma, climbing over me to massage my neck while secretly fixing the cameras. "Let''s slip back into the holiday mood. Smell the oil. There we go."


    "I''m soz," I said. "I just can''t believe this is happening. They believe every piece of shit Star''s chatbots are putting out about me but they don''t believe the guy times how long it takes his staff to poop. He''s a terrible human and that''s on record. Every single one of his employees despises him."


    Emma said, "I know. I know. Come on. Promise I won''t play Devil''s Advocate again. Keep going. I''m really enjoying it. So someone''s told them Youngster might not want to leave the club and they''ve thought, oh we''ll persuade him. He''s a gullible idiot same as everyone else?"


    "Yeah. They think everyone can be bought and sold."


    "And you''re stopping that."


    "I''m taking the whole concept off the table. Star wants to buy a business worth ten million pounds for two million. The ten million is all in the players. So if I reduce the value of the players to zero, he''ll walk away. Won''t he? If I''m right, which I am."


    "And you''re doing that via the contracts."


    "Yes. I had a very complicated plan. Why do I make everything so complicated? But at the core was a good idea. It''s simple and it''s fair. I was told Chester was a fan-owned club and that''s why I put so much of my life into it. If you tell me it''s a fan-owned club but then you sell it - donate it - to a billionaire, you lied to me. I should be free to leave. Right?"


    "Right."


    "So it''s a clause we put in the contracts. If the ownership of the club changes, if so much as one share is sold, then it''s no longer a fan-owned club as was promised and I''m free to walk away. Most players don''t care either way - the young ones just want to play football and the old ones just want to pay their mortgage. But I reckon I''ve got a higher-than-average percentage of players who actually give a shit. Let''s take Henri. Star takes over, Henri says, ah no, no way. He invokes the clause and he''s a free agent. Star gets nothing. Times that by ten, plus Youngster, and Star''s got almost no way to make a profit. The only way would be to get promotion with what¡¯s left of the squad and while Chip definitely thinks he''s the best director of football in the western hemisphere, his dad knows he ain''t. So they''re fucked. Star won''t touch the club."


    "What''s the thing with it being complicated?"


    "Okay I was changing the contracts one by one because I thought the Stars would stop checking them after six or seven. So, like, the thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth new contracts would have the new clause. But I always had this kind of fear that, okay, Chip would stop looking through each one but maybe James Pond would check every single line on every single page. I thought there was a one percent chance of that but that¡¯s one percent more than I was comfortable with. But we went on the London Eye, didn''t we? And Zach said hey it''s contract law and we can sign a new contract every day if we want. There''s no rules about how many contracts you sign. And that''s it! All I have to do is get the lads together on the day of the Fans Forum. We''ll sign the new contracts before the meeting. Star will see the clause and then we''ll know if he''s there to steal ten million from the people of Chester or if he''s actually in it to win it."


    "Won''t the fans be mad when they find out?"


    "Why?"


    "Coz it''s like, you take away the option to sell."


    "They only want to sell because Ryan Reynolds moved in next door. The last owner of Chester City crashed the club harder than any football club has ever been crashed. They should remember that."


    "But it''s their club. They should have the right."


    I closed my eyes. "I was told that what I was doing was for the fans and for the community. That matters to me." I opened my eyes. "Even if it''s their club, they don''t have my permission to take my work and give it away so I can watch it be looted by a [bleep]. I''ve put together a squad worth what? Six or seven million, conservatively. Daddy Star wants to sell everyone this summer, then sell the club. If it''s in League Two, he can get six million for it easy. There''s millions in TV money guaranteed and half the people who buy football clubs don''t even know about relegation. So he sells the players for six million, sells the club for six million. Fuck, he''ll probably sell my solar panels just to spite me. And the Raffi Brown money is still in the bank. He''d send that and all the rest of his haul back to Texas, break out the champagne to celebrate. Celebrate how beautifully he''s rinsed the people of Chester for the crime of harbouring his daughter. Just as Gerry''s about to pop the cork, Chip says, wait. Should we invite James Pond? And they laugh their fucking heads off. To be fair, it''s objectively funny how stupid James Pond is. But that''s ten million, minimum, leaving Chester and going to Texas. I can''t let that happen even if the gammons fucking hate me for it."


    "What if you tell Daddy Star that all the players are going to walk out... and he stays? And buys the club anyway? What if he''s a serious investor like he says?"


    I pulled a face. "Then I''m the idiot and I''ll leave with my tail between my legs. The squad has the option to leave but they can stay if they want. If Star is really interested in the club, he''ll ask Sandra to be the manager and he''ll promise the players that he''s serious and maybe he''ll, like, put ten million in escrow that can only be spent on Chester. Something like that, right? The players will watch the presentation and they''ll know if it''s all bullshit. I know that so far he hasn''t spoken to Sandra. If you had the first clue about football you''d beg her to stay and double her salary."


    "If he''s real and serious and all that, won''t you ask your players to leave? Follow you out?"


    I scoffed. "No way. Why? They¡¯re my boys. I''ll want them to get promoted. I''ll be at the playoff final in disguise, cheering them on! And they have to think about their careers. Star is not serious, though. You can''t be serious about buying this club without trying to hold on to its star player. The guy who finds all these talents. The guy who puts the club on the back page of the Mail four times a year. If he was serious he''d offer me a million a year to stay. Nah," I said, slumping down to enjoy the rest of the massage in silence. "He''s a [bleep]."


    ***


    The screen faded and there was a smattering of applause. Not from everyone by all means. There was a hell of a lot of muttering and frowning. People still not quite getting it. Not quite wanting to get it. You can''t convince people they''ve been conned.


    As for me, I''d found it fascinating to watch Max Best on camera, unaware, with no script. The man in the video had a great relationship with his girlfriend, but I didn''t like the way he had slapped the mattress. He was more strung out than he knew. Strung out, wrung out, exhausted. Football is corrosive. Fans, agents, rival managers, player''s mums, the media, everyone wanted a bite, everyone scented blood. No wonder I wanted to get out of the water. Let me steer the ship for all our sakes.


    My attention was drawn to Brooke. She had quite recovered, was in complete control of her face, as usual. But the mask had slipped for a minute. She was feeling it, too.


    Henri walked back to the middle of the stage and helped people join the dots. "Max gathered the players today, hoping ten of us would add the new clause to our contract. Not ten but twenty-three signed new deals before the meeting. Pascal cannot sign until we are in League Two. But he is behind Max. We are behind Max! All of us! When Mr. Star realised he would buy a club with no assets, he walked out. There was no easy money to be had! So much for having binders full of players to sign. This clause was the ultimate poison pill for it revealed the Stars to be asset strippers and revealed Pond to be a dupe. Do not distress yourselves, people of Chester. It does not poison you. If you truly wish to sell the club, find someone decent and I will sign a new contract without the poison pill clause." This one statement alleviated half the gammon anger. "Not many of the squad are so keen as Max to be unemployed."


    This came with lots of nods from the players and, again, got a response from the crowd.


    "And like our manager, we love it here and want to stay. You saw that in our reaction when the Stars fled. No, Max''s clause is an elegant defence against a villain, and it has cost you nothing and saved you everything." He took a step to the right to show he was changing the topic. "So Max saved the club. The club''s administrators, players, and staff are one hundred percent behind him on this. Bien. Now we come to his demand to be made CEO. Fortunately, for the first time ever he discussed his crazy plan before surprising us with it, so we have a surprise for him. When one applies for a job, one must provide references. Here are Max''s references."


    Henri strode away and turned to look at the big screen again.


    Up first was a video call between Pascal and Dieter Bauer. A few of the gammons smiled to see the World Cup winner.


    "Pascal! How is life in England?"


    "Much better. Much better. The team is going well."


    "I''m glad to hear it. Why are we speaking English?"


    "It''s for my media studies class." Pascal''s lie got a laugh from Emma. She hadn''t seen this. I guessed it had been thrown together at quite short notice. "The topic is twofold. Should a football club have a management structure or is it better to concentrate power into one man? And secondly, should that man be Max Best?"


    Dieter laughed. "There is a reason big clubs divide their structure. Modern clubs are simply too big for one person to manage. I used to talk to Sir Alex Ferguson and the club he inherited was nothing alike the club he left. It had grown by a factor of ten! On the other hand, the best businesses I experienced had a small management team that went fast and broke things. I would trust Max Best to go fast and break things!"


    "Yes, me too. He is finding it difficult to work within our current structure."


    "Then you must change the structure."


    That scene faded and up came a new one. It was Beth interviewing the Barnet manager. "Quick final question for a different project. Who''s the best manager in the National League?"


    The guy frowned. "Apart from Max Best, do you mean?"


    It faded. Next were some regional reporters - friends of Beth, I supposed - asking local managers the same question in the four quadrants of the screen. Top-left said, "Max Best. What he''s doing on his budget is amazing." Top-right: "Best''s a pain because he keeps shifting things around and you''re never sure if you''re winning or what." Bottom-left. "Best, yeah. We had him down as a one-season wonder but no. They''re picking up steam again." Bottom-right. "Our stats guys were drooling over Chester. I was like, we beat them three-nil! But they wouldn''t shut up about what the lad had done in the game."


    The next scene faded in.


    It was Beth again, talking on a split screen with former world champion boxer and idol to anyone over a certain age, part-time football agent Donnie Wormwood. "From what I hear, they want to buy the club and bin Max off on day one. What do you think of that?"


    Donnie took a pause and recoiled. "What? Bin him off? What for?"


    "I can''t really work it out."


    "But there will be a mutiny. The fans will be at the stadium with pitchforks. It''ll be bloody murder."


    Beth shook her head. "No. The fans don''t mind. They''d rather have the money."


    "What good''s money if you don''t know how to spend it?" In the hall, this line landed like one of Donnie''s hard rights. A hundred gammons abandoned Team Star forever. Back on screen, Donnie was struggling to understand the conversation. "Max Best is leaving Chester?" He shook his head in disbelief, but his face split into a cheeky grin. "Max is leaving Chester? I need to call my dad. We can get him in at Colchester before anyone else knows he''s available. Colchester. Chester. Nearly the same, innit?"


    "No, wait - "


    The call went dead.


    The next clip was not in video format. On the left was a picture of MD. On the right was a pre-match photo showing the Slovakian national team. Between the pics, a waveform danced when someone spoke.


    "Marek."


    "Hi, Marek, it''s Mike Dean." Silence. "From Chester Football Club."


    "Oh! Chester! Max Best. Yes. What do you need?"


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "We''re trying to firm up some dates for the friendly. Can we suggest August 16th?"


    "I check and email back. Leo wants very much to play."


    "Great. Thanks!"


    There was one last scene in this section.


    For some reason, Grimsby striker Danny Flash was doing the interview. He was talking to a guy I knew as Neo. He had been Grimsby''s data guy, but apparently no longer. Chris Hale, multi-millionaire, had made cutbacks.


    "Neo! How you been?"


    "I been out of a job, mate."


    "I know, I know. We miss you, buddy. But we''re top of the league! You''ll be back soon."


    "Hope so, hope so."


    Some small talk was cut. We returned as Flash was saying, "So, this girl I know was asking about Max Best. What are your thoughts on him?"


    Neo rolled his eyes. "He''s a maniac."


    Flash laughed. "Yeah."


    "Just... difficult."


    "But you''re not supposed to talk like a human. You''re our data guy. What did the numbers say?"


    "The numbers said he was a top five manager in League Two. I think the numbers were having an off day." Neo frowned. "He... Some of what he did was crazy bonkers - playing defenders as strikers and mad shit like that - but six months later the current manager''s doing it, too. And it''s working. I don''t know. I don''t know what to think. There are too many variables, not enough sample size. Oh, here''s a thing. I''ve got a friend at Southend who''s doing data for them and their owners wanted a list of like three to five managers who could come in if the current guy left. My friend showed a graph about expenditure per points earned.


    "It''s pretty simple stuff. If you look at most league tables the team with the highest budget finishes first, the team with the second highest finishes second and so on, all the way down. It''s a very strong correlation. If your manager is getting less points per pound than he should, you sack him. If there''s someone getting more points per pound, you get him. Chester are on just over a million for their player budget. Barnet are at least double that. Okay, Barnet have more points but Chester are way closer than the budgets would imply. Imagine a bar chart with most of the bars tight together and there''s one that sticks way, way up. That''s Chester. My mate''s recommendation was if you can get Max Best, you get him. In the National League he''s saving his club a million pounds a season.


    "But the data was so distorted the owners discounted it. They said not to show them that garbage again. Points Per Pound seems like bad data now. Best has ruined a whole metric for my mate."


    Flash was looking up and to the left. "Wait. So when the numbers stop doing what you think they should do, you stop using them? That doesn''t sound right."


    "It isn''t right. Who''s the girl?"


    "What?"


    "You said there was a girl asking you about Max Best."


    "Got to go. Thanks, mate!"


    The screen faded and I tried to see what Angel was doing. Glenn and Pascal were blocking her, though.


    Henri went back to the middle of the stage. "A friendly between Chester FC and Slovakia. The national team of Slovakia. I''ve never heard of anything like that. I want to play against Slovakia! The data says Max is worth a million pounds a season from his tactics alone. Other managers say he''s the best in the league. We could have done the same to show he''s regarded as the best player. You know all this. Come, now. We want Max to stay and Max wants to stay. How do I know? I learned a few things in my time in this country. There is the tradition of the Fake Sheikh."


    I shot to my feet but Emma pulled me down. A Fake Sheikh is a guy who pretends to be a rich oil dude to see how easy it is to corrupt famous people. I couldn''t remember meeting one but I hadn''t been sober the whole trip.


    The screen showed two images - me in full Chester kit on the left, a random sheikh on the right. Audio from a phone call played.


    "Max Best." The waveform in the middle of the screen crinkled.


    "Hi, Max. My name''s Sam Fernando, calling on behalf of Sheikh Mazher."


    "Right."


    "Am I disturbing you?"


    "Not really. There''s two English guys here sleeping off hangovers. The sun''s creeping across them and they must be literally boiling. I''m riveted."


    "Oh. Er... So His Excellency is close to completion on Northampton Town."


    "Please extend my condolences."


    "I''m calling to sound out your interest in the position as manager."


    "Mmm," I said. "The one on the right just leaned back and he''s out of the worst of it, now. The guy on the left''s still getting full blast."


    "I take it you''re not keen?"


    "I''ve got a job. Chester F to the C."


    "Pardon me, but I heard you''d gone to Spain because of the takeover and might be amenable to other offers."


    "Your Sheikh should buy Chester. They''re giving it away."


    "I feel we''re rather too far along with this deal to change horses mid-stream. We have big plans for The Cobblers. Could we meet to discuss our strategy?"


    "Er, no. No thanks. They haven''t actually pissed me off yet and no offence but you''re miles behind Chester."


    "We''re in League One. We''re two divisions higher."


    "On paper, yeah. But it''ll take you five transfer windows to catch up to us and that''s if you do everything right. And don''t get me started on your youth team. My lot dismantled yours. But tell you what, I could be unemployed soon. Feel free to call me then, I mean, why not? But seriously, do your guy a solid and tell him not to buy a football club. It''s a bad investment. Oh, shit! A guy put an umbrella in front of the dudes and they''re waking up to complain. Come on, guys, he''s doing you a favour. Ugh, got to go save the day. Bye."


    Sophie put up a photo of two Brits on holiday, redder than lobsters. It was funny but there was so much tension in the room it got proper belly laughs. If I survive this, I thought, I need to get these guys to come to future meetings and do my pitches for me.


    Henri again. "This offer was fake, of course. It had to be so we could record it. But Max gets offers. He gets offers and turns them down. He wants to be here. Now, because he is stubborn, he will not prove his worth and will not entice you with hope for the future. He grumpily folds his arms and huffs and says I''ve been here two years they should know what I do!" Henri''s impression of a toddler sounded nothing like me, but it made Emma laugh, at least. "What is it that Max does for the club? What is it that Max does behind the scenes?"


    We got a close-up of Sam Topps, which drew a fairly universal cheer. It wasn''t clear who he was talking to, but my guess was not a player. "Max was great. He pushed me. I didn''t want to leave, but the offer was too good." There was a cut. "Come back to Chester? Course, yeah! Look, the training''s good here at Tranmere and the facilities are better but I think I was learning more about the game there. There are players here who can''t do 4-3-3 or they can''t do three at the back. They''re like, shit, I don''t even know where to stand. They don''t say that but as a player you know. Ask anyone at Chester - they''ll tell you they know seven formations and they can switch easy. Tactically, you''re at a higher level than here. And the way he just looks at you and knows if you''re injured. It''s uncanny. My first day at Tranmere I was like, why is everyone in the treatment room? Max''s way is strange but it''s better."


    Sam faded and up came a clip taken from a balcony in Tenerife. I was on a lounger with a pen and paper, happily scribbling away. Emma was on another lounger but leaning up.


    "Babes," she said.


    "Yo."


    "What are you doing?"


    "Planning the playoff final team against Oldham."


    "Oldham? I thought it was going to be Barnet."


    I flipped back a few pages and showed her. The formation, names, and numbers were blurred out. "I''ve done them." I turned the page a few times. "I''ve done Solihull, Alty, Gateshead. Now Oldham."


    "Won''t you use your strongest team regardless?"


    "Not really, no. Some are strong down the wings but soggy in the middle and stuff like that. We can hit them where they''re weak so that means different setups for each one. By the time we get to the playoffs we''ll have played everyone twice. Solihull three times. We''ll adapt these ideas as we go and I might try a couple of moves for ten minutes sort of slipped into a second half. It''s a risk, though, because some of these clubs have data dudes and they can spot when we get overpowered and they''ll check the tape and see what we did and what we''re planning. I might keep it all hidden until the playoffs when it''s too late for them to adapt. Not sure. But what I am sure is that if the whole season comes down to one game we''re going to be ready ay eff for it. I want to be two-nil up after fifteen minutes."


    "Wow. Can I ask about the Welsh team you bought?"


    I crunched the notebook into my chest as I looked at her. I raised my sunglasses. "Are you okay, babes? You asked me that yesterday. And the day before."


    "Yeah but I didn''t get... I, right, what I want is... If there was a Chester fan here now what would you say to them?"


    "I''d say why are you so red, haven''t you heard about suncream?"


    Emma burst into giggles, which pleased me greatly. "But they''re all freaking out that you''re taking their players and using them for your own team. How would you explain it?"


    "I wouldn''t. Life''s too short."


    "We''ve got time now. Is it good for Tom to go on loan?"


    "Course it''s good, that''s why he agreed." I nudged my shades back over my eyes. "He''s a grown man and he can decide what''s best for his career. Does he have to go to the Fans Forum and ask permission? It''s wild that people think they know better than the players themselves. The Brig knows all about this. If I did something to hurt one of these lads he would literally [bleeeeep] and [bleep] me in a dark [bleep]."


    "So Tom will get more experience."


    "Yeah," I said, dropping the notebook and pen and lazily crossing my arm over my chest. "He trains with us all week but he gets minutes in real games. It''s better than the reserves. Much better. He should get, like, twenty games. That''s good for him. I think we''ll really see the benefit next season. And he''ll get goals, too. When he''s 27 and some manager is looking at him and saying ah he''s great but does he score enough? He''ll say oh wait he scored 15 in 20 that season so he''s got goals in him. It''s just such an obviously good move for the lads. I can''t get why people don''t let us get on with it. It''s our jobs. Let us do our jobs, please."


    "It''s just the thing where you own the team and maybe you''re profiting from Chester''s players."


    "Profiting," I scoffed. "Saltney''s a bog with two goals and nets and the nets have holes in."


    "All nets have holes in."


    I pushed my sunglasses up and did a big smile. "Great line. I''ll use that on the refs." I sank back again. "No but seriously, if I can make money from Saltney even the haters have to say I''ve earned it. Ha!"


    "What?"


    "This whole thing''s going to be a right laugh. Okay it''s third division now and yeah, the games aren''t amazing. But next season''s the second division, right, so the next three lads I send will learn even more. And so on. But the real fun starts when Saltney get into Europe. Those preliminary rounds are in July and August. I''ll loan players from Chester for two months and you know what? I''ll have a queue. Every one of my guys will volunteer. All players want to play in Europe! And it''ll be an incredible recruitment tool. I''ll try to sign a player and he''ll want a clause that I have to send him to Saltney."


    "That''s good!"


    "Yeah but I can only send three at a time. If I send some rando instead of Henri he''ll [bleeeep] for fucking months. And I might go myself. I want to play in Europe! I''ll have to see where we''re at but the first season I''ll probably send Rainman, Omari, and Tom as a sort of thank you for getting us going. But imagine we''re in League One and I''m trying to get a player from above. Chester sign a player from the Championship who wants to play in Europe for a different team!" I sniggered at the thought. "It''s going to be incredible. Every club owner is going to be like hey why didn''t we think of that? And they''ll buy some Welsh team and try to copy us. Oh! Oh, shit!" I got up and put my feet on the ground. It was clear I was leaning forward but my head was out of the shot.


    "What? Lie back."


    "I can''t! I''m hyper! Check this out. Do you know who''ll buy a team in Wales as an affiliate club? To copy what I''m doing? Fucking Wrexham! Haha. Imagine Wrexham buying a Welsh club! We''ll dick them in two countries! Holy shit how funny would that be? Think of the memes."


    The screen faded and a meme came up. It was a screengrab of Wrexham''s owners saying ''We promise to beat Chester''. Underneath the subtitles, Sophie had added... ''in the Scottish Highland Leagues''.


    Big laughs in the hall! Some fucking cheers, mate!


    A new face came on, unfamiliar to almost everyone at the Forum. His face was wide and friendly and he had decided, no doubt against the advice of his wife, to grow a moustache. He had a storyteller''s cadence, holding some vowels a little longer than needed to make his speech more melodical. "Name''s Jones. Just a normal Welsh man, proud to be Welsh. My son''s a goalscoring striker in our local club and one day your Max Best turns up and I''ve not been able to shake him loose since. Come to Chester, he says. Your son would do well at Chester, he says. A lot of things, he says. And he keeps saying them. Twice a week he''s here watching and two other days he''s on the blower. Will you leave me alone I say and he says I''m terribly sorry but I can''t. No, I can''t. Your son is class in a glass and it''s my duty as a genius to introduce him to the world. Genius, says he! I tell him that that there Chester isn''t Welsh-friendly, if you get me. I don''t know I''ll be so welcome and I don''t know about my boy. Your Max, he says, oh, tell you what, to prove he''ll be welcome I''ll go on an adventure all through Wales and a week later he tells me he''s found five players for the national team! And I think hey laddie you''re full of it and no mistake.


    "Only two things happen. First, I start getting calls from agents and scouts from the English leagues! They want to sign my boy! Second, the head of the Welsh Football Association comes to a match with Max and she says they''re working together. That''s too much for me. He''s gone all the way to the top, has he? I take him aside and I say look here boyo, what''s this all about? My son can''t be good enough for all this hoopla and he says, no, pal, he is. He''s so good I''ll run around Blaenau Ffestiniog in a Wales flag if that''s what it takes. And he sort of grins all cheeky-like. Just don''t ask me to spell it. Well, from what I''ve seen and heard, Chester''s the place for my boy all right. It''s the personal touch. The effort. But I''m still worried. Will they accept me, I say, with the way that I speak? He shakes his head. Look, Mr. Jones, I don''t know. I think so but I don''t know. I think when they see your son play you''ll never have to buy a beer in Chester again. But I''ve got a selfish reason for wanting him to come. What''s that, I say? I don''t want to be the only wizard in town, he says. And he wanders off and next thing I hear, he''s bought a team in Wales so he can train young players even faster. I say to my son, your new manager''s not a wizard, he''s a bloody whirlwind!"


    The screen faded and the mood had lifted another couple of notches. The idea that I was out harassing Welshmen seemed to go down a treat.


    Henri said, "Scouting for Welsh Wizards is one thing, but Max is already planning a rather more distant trip. My girlfriend and I will be accompanying him. It is relevant that my girlfriend speaks Portuguese." This hint got a pretty good reception with people turning to each other with the answer like at a pub quiz.


    The next scene started with Emma once more fidgeting with a hidden camera to get a better angle. When she pulled her hand away, I was leaning forward, big, sunny smile, talking to a Brazilian couple we had drinks with one night by the pool. "I missed it," said Emma. "Start again."


    "What? You know all this."


    "Please. I like hearing things from the start."


    "That''s a new trait. We have to get you checked out. Okay so I''m manager of Chester FC and I promised I''d, like, scout kids in the area. And I''ve done that and I''m still doing it. I think I''ve found maybe half the good ones, it''s hard to be sure. But this summer I''m going to Brazil."


    "Where?" said the husband.


    "All over," I said. "I''m learning about this new style of play. Bit of a departure from what we normally do. But while I''m there, I''ll probably find loads of great players. And I can bring two back! There''s this rule when you''re in League Two that lets you bring two complete randos. I don''t know, if I was a Chester fan I''d be happy to see the local lads in the squads but I''d be so hyped if the manager came back from his summer break with two Brazilian wonderkids. I mean, that''s exotic, isn''t it? I wonder if Chester have ever had a Brazilian player? I bet they haven''t. And I''ll come with two of the best. It''s gonna be awesome. It''s gonna rock." I laughed a lot and took another hit of my Sangria.


    Emma gave me a push. "Max is weird, though. He hasn''t told anyone, hardly. Like it''s a big secret."


    "Well, I might not find anyone better than what I''ve got," I said. "No point getting people hyped up and then nothing happens. That''s not good, is it? Or I find two amaze-ohs but we don''t get promoted and we can''t sign them and it''s all doubly frustrating. I prefer to get transfer news when it''s done and not have weeks of speculation before. I know some fans love the hype but I find it tedious. No, how it goes is one day they''ll wake up and boom! Here''s a wonderkid. Bosh."


    Henri hadn''t moved. He was shaking his head. "I checked and the only Brazilian in Chester is a steak house. Do you want Brazilian stars? Do you want to see national teams at the Deva? Do you want to be visited by World Cup winners? There''s only one person who can deliver such things." He walked off. "But we all know that to be really popular, Max must acquire the stadium."


    He looked back at the screen and I copied him. There was dead silence now, maximum interest.


    The clip was Brooke talking to someone from the council. His name and title were shown on the screen. "We love what you''re doing," the guy was saying. "The disabled team and the loneliness project and the dentists. We see players visiting hospitals and working at food banks. Football clubs can have a very positive impact on their local community and Chester are very much showing that."


    "Can I ask what effect, if any, that has on the club acquiring the stadium?"


    "What? Oh, for the cameras. Well, yes. It''s very positive. Very positive."


    "And if the club is sold?"


    The guy got uncomfortable. "Then we would reset. Frankly much of the goodwill is tied up in you and Max. A new owner, who, ah, had a questionable record in his business dealings... Some of the stories... Ah, we would proceed with caution."


    "Just to be clear. The council like the community aspect of how Chester FC is currently run and that will help us acquire the stadium?"


    "In a nutshell, yes."


    "So all the people complaining that we have social projects... People who say we should stick to football... They''d be wrong."


    The guy was a politician. "I wouldn''t say wrong. Let''s say the social projects are well-received in the town hall. We smile on them."


    "One last question, please. To hammer the point home. Would you say Chester are closer to getting the stadium with or without Max Best?"


    "Closer with."


    "Thank you very much."


    The screen faded, unleashing a tidal wave of chat, but footage resumed almost right away and there was a lot of shushing. We saw the Brazilian couple in Tenerife again. I''d gone to the bathroom and Emma was whispering for the wife to hold a little bag and point it at me. "I need to get him to talk about the stadium," Emma said. "He''s weird about that, too. Let''s just get him talking about it and he''ll take over."


    There was a cut and then I was back and I had a full Sangria that I was sipping.


    "Emma said you would visit the Maracana," said the husband.


    "Oh, yeah. Big time. I''m buzzing about that. It''s the second home of football, isn''t it?"


    "In your job," said the wife, pointing the camera at me in a very obvious way, "you must think a lot about football stadiums."


    "Oh, yeah," I said, nodding and taking another sip. "Loads."


    "Especially in Chester," said Emma.


    "Why''s that?" said the husband, to Emma, cleverly cutting me out of the conversation.


    "Because we don''t own it," I said. "It drives the fans crazy, which I get. People are like hey these toilets are always blocked and someone has to call the council and say is it okay if we fix these? And we''re always doing cheap fixes because I want to knock it down and rebuild so there''s no point making it more premium for a couple of years. So, like, the stadium''s getting worse on my watch and that''s frustrating for everyone. But it''s not the finances or the practicalities that''s really important. It''s the psychology. Football clubs need to own their stadiums. That''s obvs. A Cestrian''s Deva is his castle. Famous phrase." I took another sip.


    "You''ll rebuild it just as it is now," said the husband. How was he so good at pushing my buttons?


    "Of course not," I said, astonished by his stupidity. "First we demolish one side. The West. While that''s gone we dig down and put in mega drainage and undersoil heating. This winter we''re losing games to postponement and with a bit of investment we protect against that. There''s this stuff you stitch into a pitch to let grass grow around it and with that you can play more games. I really want to get the women in there. The women are mint. They''ll get big crowds soon enough. I want to make it a competition between the men and the women to get the higher average attendance. That''ll be sick." The players in my sightlines reacted to this concept with pure delight. Kisi pushed Youngster and he got all goofy.


    "The stadium''s going to be made of wood," said Emma.


    "Won''t it burn?" said the wife.


    "No," I said, briefly annoyed. Another button pushed! "Everything burns. It''s just about how long it burns so everyone can get out safely. This stuff is safer than steel. It doesn''t just catch fire spontaneously." I visibly calmed myself. "Mostly the point of it being wood is because it assembles fast. It''s prefabbed and we get it shipped from Austria or Germany, can''t remember which, and just click it together like Lego. It''s amazing. I tell the gammons it''s for the environment but it''s mostly for the speed. We have a summer to dig up the pitch and build a new stand. You need a fast solution otherwise we''ll have a three thousand capacity in League Two or League One and that''s a big no-no. Anyway, it''s beautiful. It''s designed with fans in mind. The seats are nice and big and there''s leg room. They''ll complain until they get inside and then they''ll love it. And it''s full of bars and restaurants and hospitality suites and all that stuff you need. But the thing with the wood is the outside. It''s got this sort of matchstick design. Not sure how to describe it. It''s like there are sticks hanging down from the roof and they block the view but they also let you see in."


    "I think I know what you mean," said the husband. "A vertical lattice."


    I was in full flow, now. I got closer to him and looked deep in his eyes. This was why Emma had been filming me. She wanted to capture me like this, when I was passionate and emotional and trying to connect and communicate. This was the side of me that won her vote in a deli in West Didsbury. I held my hands up, fingers splayed. "Imagine it''s match day. You''re seven years old and it''s your first time going to the Deva. Thousands of people are ahead of you, going through to their seats, milling around. As you walk, sometimes you think you see some green but it can''t be the pitch. It can''t be. There''s a fuckton of concrete and steel in the way. Right? Same as every other building you''ve ever seen. You can''t see grass from outside. You can''t see the pitch from outside. But there it is again! Just a flash. What the hell?


    "And you get a bit closer and you pull your dad''s hand and go look! It is the pitch! The players! The famous Chester boys. He plays for Ghana. He plays for England! And you can see them." I was radiant with a big, natural smile as I imagined myself outside the ground standing on tiptoes. "I want every seven-year-old boy and girl who comes to my stadium to fall in love, hard. It starts here and every step you take is more intoxicating than the last. The players, the pitch, the noise, the flags, the trophies, and it''s yours. It belongs to you."


    The scene faded and images of a stadium came up. The one I''d been thinking about for a long time. Wood panels and matchstick lattices and glorious views and big seats and corporate boxes and large electronic screens.


    "As you see," said Henri. "Max''s stadium is different. It takes a moment to adjust. Here''s the angle he was talking about. The view of the pitch. Yes, it is wonderful. It is." He got solemn. "I do not think Max had such an experience when he was a seven-year old boy. He wants to give that to you and to your children. Won''t you let him?"


    That seemed to be the end of Henri''s section. He''d left most people in a wistful state but there were plenty coming closer to the screen to see the image of the stadium.


    Interest! Hope! I wanted to shout that I would put the pictures on the socials. I kept my mouth shut.


    MD walked forward holding a microphone. "My name is Mike Dean and it''s my duty to make sure this club remains solvent. We can''t do another phoenix club. I know I won''t have the energy for it or the stomach for the fight. Max has told me his plans for the future; they are ambitious but sustainable. Together, we will not bankrupt the club nor lumber it with a stadium it can''t afford nor have an excessive wage bill. We offer hope and patient progress, not false promises. But before we get to the vote, I must ask. Max, who is the long-term investor you hinted at?"


    He waved the mic under my chin. "Me," I said. "Like what I''m doing with the Raffi Brown money."


    "Right," said MD, with a smile. "What''s left of that money is ringfenced for the initial phase of the training ground development. Third-generation pitches, fantastic in every way, including financially. But Max being Max wanted to keep the funds available for the transfer window, just in case. When the window closes, work will begin on our very own facility and the pitches will be ready for the start of next season. So, the vote." MD shook his head as he looked at the ceiling. "Max, we can''t vote to make you King of the Castle just like that. We''re a slow-moving organisation that depends on memberships and small donations and it''s not fair to make such a demand. We can discuss a restructure over the coming months and we can have something streamlined in place by next season. One where you can go full speed ahead without feeling you are being held back or undermined. I''m sure there''s a solution we''re all happy with but it will take more than twenty minutes to hash out. That''s fair, isn''t it? But it''s also fair that we, collectively, show some support and appreciation of your efforts over the past two years. To show that we want you to stay."


    "What do you propose?" said Henri, as though he and MD hadn''t rehearsed this.


    "There is an open space on the board. Max can nominate a candidate and we''ll vote for him or her. That will be the equivalent of a yes vote for Max, won''t it?"


    "Oh, yes, what a very good idea," said Henri.


    Sumo handed me a mic.


    A compromise, then. Not very Max Best. Not very All Or Nothing. A face-saving exercise? Pascal was in front of me offering his hand; he pulled me up. He needed me. The Exit Triallists needed me. Compromise. Something for everyone. I let go of the last tendrils of anger and new ideas sprung up. Good ideas. Acceptable compromises, very much in the direction of All.


    "I want to propose things," I said.


    "Like what?" said MD, wary. If I was going to make more outrageous demands after he and Henri had done so much to clean up my mess, there would be a riot, and MD would start it.


    "Give me three years where you can''t sell the club. So when I bring players here I can give them a contract for three years and they''ll be safe. I can keep doing what I''m doing without having to worry about this.¡± I waved my free hand. ¡°If you get a proper buyer, a real, proper one, they can plan around it."


    "It''s an interesting idea. I''m happy to discuss that. Three years is a long time in football but not in business."


    "Okay the stadium. I said two years ago that stadiums attract sharks. If I''ve got you the freehold and started the rebuild, when you sell the club, the buyer has to pay what it cost to build. Like if we spent fifteen million doing two stands, he has to pay fifteen million on top of everything else. You can''t just give it away cut-price or free."


    "Where does the money go?"


    "To grassroots football in Cheshire. To the women''s team." Kisi did a clenched fist ''yes!''


    MD was thoughtful. "It''s an interesting idea. Has some merits. We will discuss it. Anything else?"


    "Yeah, loads. I suppose... I suppose they can wait."


    "Are you sure?"


    I blurted out, "I don''t like the kit."


    "What?"


    "The last good Chester kit was 1975/76. I want to go back to that."


    "I think that''s a quick and easy decision, though I can''t remember it myself."


    Sophie put up a picture and there was applause. Some of the beefy boys along the sides were nodding their approval. The front of the old-fashioned shirt had three blue stripes, two white, equal, tasteful thickness. The sleeves were similar and there was a collar. The blue was deep and rich. It was a proper football kit, almost more beautiful than the stadium.


    MD smiled. "Max, pick someone to join the board and we''ll vote on it. You need fifty percent to win."


    "Seventy-five," I said.


    "Max!" cried Emma and several others. Sandra Lane rocked her head back in dismay. The Brig slumped with his hands on his knees. Some of the beefy boys threw their hands up. This guy!


    "Okay fine," I said, quietly. "Fifty. I''ll stay if half of you think I''ve done a good job."


    "Choose someone," said MD, holding onto my shoulder like a quiz show host.


    I scanned the area. This was more ridiculous in its own way than asking to be made CEO. How was I supposed to pick? "Are there any volunteers to be my avatar?" Quite a few hands went up. "Okay, wow. Only keep your hand up if you promise not to give the club to a con man."


    "How do we know it''s a con man?" yelled a guy.


    "How about because he''s trying to buy a business that normally loses a hundred thousand pounds a year?" The guy went back into his shell. "MD, do you know any of these?"


    "I know Barbara." He indicated a middle-aged woman with dark hair.


    "Great. Done. Let''s vote."


    "Hang on," said MD. "The voters need to know who they''re electing."


    "I mean, she''s a Chester fan and she has promised not to get scammed. She''s an all-time great candidate."


    Someone had rushed to her with a mic. "I''m Barbara. My son was in the Chester Knights."


    I pushed my head back. I had seen her before. "Right. Hugh. Right-sided defender."


    "He prefers to play striker."


    "Self-awareness is hard," I said.


    "Am I going to get dissolved?"


    "What?"


    "If I do this, are you going to dissolve me?"


    She was joking, mostly, because it was fun to say the word dissolve, but some neurons were firing properly for the first time in weeks. "Hang on," I said. I pinched my nose. "I think I''ve got it. We don''t dissolve the board. We pause it. Just pause it for a year starting next season. There will be two exotic new players, the new training ground, we''ll be competing well in League Two. I mean, the progress will be visible. Undeniable. Do you know what I mean? Give me a year when I can really concentrate on the football and if you don''t like it, you bring the board back. I mean, it sounds good to me. In my head it''s absolutely foolproof. Barbara, what do you think?"


    "What if you go crazy? What if it all goes wrong? We''d be stuck with you."


    "No," I said. "MD can sack me any time." More ideas were coming. Ways to protect the stadium, ways to protect the club''s finances.


    "Oh. It sounded like you wanted to be the King of Chester."


    "Who wouldn''t want to be King of Chester?"


    "I''ve got loads of questions."


    "I bet. But I need dinner. I haven''t eaten all day. And you guys need to get to the pub and talk about what the hell just happened. All I need right now is to know if I''m coming to work tomorrow."


    "There''s no match."


    "If I''m the manager tomorrow I''m going to sign seven players." This lifted the energy. "Joe? Can we get started with the process? You said it''d take about fifteen minutes, right?"


    "Yes," he said, taking MD''s mic. "Everyone logs into their membership account and there will be a question and a simple choice. Yes or no. When the time limit expires, we''ll get the result."


    "Okay," I said, and took a few tired steps away. I paused and went back. "Er... Listen, I just want to say that if this is the end, it''s been great and I''m happy it happened." I took a seat and flopped. I was feeling a bit dizzy. It didn''t help that I hadn''t eaten, but it was the culmination of two months of being eaten away by hidden stress. Henri had saved the day, hadn''t he? He''d organised this intervention and Emma had got some clips and others had helped. I wondered who else had contributed something that didn''t make the cut. Chesterness. When one weakens, another strengthens.


    "Voting is now open in your membership area," said Joe. Around the hall, nearly a thousand necks dropped as blue light shone on their faces.


    Joe came over and showed me his tablet. It showed the votes as they were coming in. Already over 400 had been cast and Barbara Jackson Yes was at 55%.


    "I don''t need to see that," I said, annoyed at the number. 55%! Another slap in the face.


    Joe refreshed the page. "Look," he said. It had gone up to 58%.


    "I don''t want to do this," I said, but I couldn''t look away from the screen. "You know, you shouldn''t have a red option and a green option. Eight percent of men are colour blind. What''s it now?"


    Joe refreshed and angled the screen away from me. "More or less the same," he said. Protecting me from the bad news!


    I made an exasperated noise and let my limbs hang from the chair. That was a bad look - people were still deciding. I got to my feet and tried to look presidential in my flip-flops.


    People who had voted had got to their feet and were trying to restore some blood flow by doing little stretches, while those at the sides had opened the doors to let fresh air in. There was a lot of chat.


    There was a collective sense in the room that we would all need time - a lot of time - to process what had happened, but that things were just on the right side of acceptable. I would be able to sign the players I had in mind. My contract clause would protect them from predators, and in future the fans and I would negotiate some kind of new way of working. For the rest of the season, the board would leave me alone. My players and I would follow the plan. Project Youth with a playoff payoff.


    "Max!" cried a voice. It came from the very middle of the hall. A few people turned to check out the new scene.


    "Is that... Is that Ollie? My Fans Forum nemesis Ollie?"


    It was. A few people who had spilled into the corridors stepped back in. Ollie got on a chair and bellowed. "Marcus Wainwright! Gone! Sold!"


    I gawped uselessly, patting myself for my phone. The curse! I went to the transfer screen. It was true! Moneybags Stockport had snapped him up.


    Marcus Wainwright - Grimsby - National League - Stockport County - League One - ¡ê525,000


    I raced to my laptop, plugged it in, and found a ¡®deal done¡¯ tweet from Stockport that I put up on the screen. There was a big cheer.


    I walked around with my head in my hands. I crouched. I bit my nails. My favourite camera guy was tracking me and I was on the big screen. "Not now, bro!" But he caught the scene as Sandra Lane came up to me.


    She opened her mouth but first reached out to grab a mic. Why she wanted to do this in public I wasn''t sure.


    "Max," she said, and the hubbub in the room died down. "You killed the takeover. You''ve told the fans you aren''t happy. They listened. It''s all going to be okay. Okay?"


    "Yes," I said, fifty-five percent believing it.


    "Listen carefully. I know you''re in the red zone but you''ve got to listen. Grimsby are in play."


    "They''re not in play. We''re too far behind. Twenty points and their goal difference is far better."


    "But we''ve got four games in hand. That''s a potential twelve points. Win those and we''re eight points off. If we go all out... If we go on a winning streak... Grimsby won''t pick up points at the same rate as the first half of the season. We can do it. We can get them."


    "We can''t."


    "We can. If we spend."


    I thought about what it would take to catch up. "We would need to go all out. All out for the rest of the season. Pedal to the floor." I shook my head. "It''s not smart. If we come second we''ll have nothing in the tank for the playoffs."


    Sandra smiled. "We''re fifty-fifty for the playoffs anyway. Why not be fifty-fifty for the title?"


    I grinned and she responded. My heart started to beat hard. Joe showed me the tablet screen. 70%. People loved this! On hearing us talk about going for the title, fans were changing their votes. I calmed myself. "I''m a long-term investor, Sandra. What happens if we get promoted and we''re still using National League North facilities? It''ll be a disaster. We have to think ahead."


    "You did think ahead. You kept the money handy, didn''t you? This is it. Grimsby aren''t going to get a player of the same level, are they?"


    I shook my head. "No. No chance."


    "So this is it! We''ll get promoted and we''ll get the TV money and we''ll start the training ground late. A few months, Max. We can slum it for another few months. We''ll slum it as fucking National League champions!"


    My tired brain was fizzing. Thoughts going everywhere. Without training ground upgrades we would struggle to sign better players this summer. What about the current squad? Could they go on a winning run? It was in decent shape. There were pockets of real quality. If I spent the rest of the Raffi Brown money, would I buy a defender or a midfielder? We would need to sign our loan striker right away - like, now - before Grimsby set off a chain reaction in the striker market. We could afford to make one huge signing and get one striker on loan and Ryan Jack was back in the squad. I was mentally tired but physically perfect. We could put out a great first eleven but the drop-off to the backup players would hurt us. Would we have the skill to navigate the fixture pile-up?


    Sandra pushed me. "All Or Nothing!" she cried, and the audience loved that. Hundred percent approval.


    Henri appeared next to me, leaning in like we were singing a duet. "You promised me glory, Max! Enough with all this cruising into seventh place efficiency. We are all with you and there''s nothing we cannot do. Let us create some football, my friend!"


    I found myself nodding. Clarity was coming. I had created all the season''s problems. I''d allowed the takeover to go right to the wire but had I committed an even bigger blunder? Aiming to finish seventh was rational, logical, clever. But what did words like rational or logical have to do with football? Football is about glory. Life or death. All or nothing. Finishing seventh didn''t get me out of bed in the morning. Finishing seventh didn''t connect me with the fans.


    I wanted them to let me go fast. I had raged at them for getting in my way. But I''d been in my own way the whole season. Seventh? What the fuck is seventh? The number seven meant fuck all to me.


    Secretary Joe held the tablet up. I had 77% approval from the fans.


    The number seven meant everything to me!


    I held my hand up - the mob was yelling, shouting, people were freaking out like I was about to take the decisive penalty in a shoot-out. As I made a cascade of decisions, the weight in my body eased. I felt like I was floating on my own bones. For the first time in months I felt electrified. In charge of my own destiny.


    "We win our games in hand," I said, eyes going left and right as I calculated how possible that was. Just, just about possible. Some fans applauded. "We beat Grimsby." More applause, as though by saying it, we had actually done it. "We do that and we''re within five points." Applause. "We need the right signing. It would smash the club record fee." Huge applause. I looked at Mike Dean. He nodded. If I kept to what was in the bank, he would let me go for it. "MD," I said, slowly. The camera guy had snuck up on me. I decided to give him a moment. To give everyone a moment. I leaned closer to the lens, brought the mic to my lips, and said, "Get me Christian Fierce."

 9.13 - Epilogue

    13.


    "Before you pawn off the family silver to buy your dream defender," murmured Sandra, pulling me into a dark crevice behind the stage, "let''s do a concussion protocol."


    I smiled and checked the area - no-one had followed us. I spoke just as quietly. "It¡¯s the year 3000. Steelsilk is the most valuable resource in the universe."


    "I really wish I could see that play again."


    I jabbed my thumb behind me. "You sort of just did."


    Her face lit up. "Yeah! First question. Why Fierce?"


    "Because he''s my special pumpkin."


    "There are ten tall centre backs in this league just like him."


    "There aren''t." Sandra wanted more. As usual, I tried to explain PA without mentioning curses. "He''s got a higher ceiling than most players of his type. Not as high as Zach but that''s a partnership that can stay for a couple of seasons. Fierce has high leadership, which we need with all these kids."


    "And he''s the only player who ever got the better of you. It''s personal."


    "Maybe it is," I said, thinking back to our first epic tussle. Fierce had blocked me at every turn and he was a class act off the pitch, too. "Could we get someone similar for cheaper? Yes. But Sandra, listen. This guy..." The strain must have made me a tiny bit emotional. "He plays football like it should be played. Every tackle''s vital. Every header''s important. Every duel is a chance to live your best life. The guy''s just... He plays with purity. Whatever it is I don''t see about a player, the intangibles, he''s got it all. If we''re upgrading with a premium player, it''s him."


    Sandra nodded. She liked when I got dreamy but this was a time for cold, hard analysis. "Why are you thinking centre back? Why not midfield?"


    I checked if she was joking by lowering my head and looking up into her eyes. "Because you told me to!"


    "I did," she agreed. "But you''ve been known to have your own thoughts."


    "Here''s where I''m at. Ryan Jack is back and this rain has come at a good time for him. He got a few minutes but there are literally no matches for him to go and get himself injured again. Every week that passes now I get more confident he''s okay. He''s not as sharp as before but he''s visibly improving and in a few weeks he''ll be very good again. But it''s not just how good he is, it''s what he is. He gives us some craft in the centre. Put Wisey or Andrew next to him and that''s a fine midfield. We haven''t come up against many teams with anything better, right?"


    "Not really. One or two."


    "Okay and think of the rain. The pitches are fucked all over the country. Down south isn''t too bad, is it? But for the next few weeks we''ll be playing on potato fields. Check this out. Christian Fierce, six foot five. Glenn and Carl, big and strong. We play Cole at left back."


    "I see where this is going. Height."


    "I''m going further than you would think! Youngster gets a break and we use Magnus at DM. Everyone''s strong and tall. Josh Throw-Ins at left mid. Aff plays on the right."


    "Wow."


    "Yeah. We get huge. We Wrexham it. Pub team it. Long throws, direct, headers, get up ''em! Last twenty I come on and we go bonkers on free kicks and corners."


    "The striker you''re getting. He''s not huge, is he?"


    "Not huge but very strong. He can win a header and hold the ball up and all the old-fashioned stuff. We will grind and make it impossible to score against us. Clean sheets, make sure we''re getting a point at least from every match. Then when the pitches dry up and the new grass comes, we pivot. Zach, Ryan, Youngster - if he isn''t in Africa - Pascal, Wibbers, Sharky. Fantasy football. We can make those guys go even harder at training for the next few weeks knowing they won''t play. Training''s been good so far this season but the rains really have done a number on us." In the last six weeks, rates of improvement had slowed considerably. We got a boost from playing a Championship team, but the lack of matches and the fact we had to train on the old-fashioned, low-quality plastic pitches was really a problem.


    "Let me just throw this out there," said Sandra. "In the interest of completion. Zach can do the physical stuff. Should we buy a goalkeeper?"


    "Ben''s good enough," I said. "For this season." Cavvers had improved to CA 62 and would soon hit his PA limit of 67. He was absolutely fine for a National League goalie, but in the summer I would have to get a big upgrade. "Sticky''s getting back into shape but his problem is he''s too good at coaching and he''s improving Ben too fast to get in the team himself." Since the summer, Ben had improved by 17 CA points, Sticky 18. Sticky was returning to his past levels, but Ben was getting this good for the first time. "We''ve got to keep Sticky," I said, shaking my head. "He''s unreal."


    "If we''re playing Wrexham-ball - I mean, direct ball - Sticky might be a better option."


    "Let''s think about it. But we don''t need an immediate upgrade."


    "No, okay. Agreed." Sandra pushed her hair back. "So the defence gets pre-industrial for a few weeks. Carl''s great. We''ve got three left backs. I think I''m happy with all that."


    "You know," I said, as I checked my squad screens. Carl was leading the race to be the first to go platinum this season, just ahead of Pascal, Aff, Youngster, and Henri. "I sometimes forget how wild our squad is."


    "What do you mean? Having three left backs and no cover on the right?"


    "Magnus can cover Carl. So can I. And we''ve got Steve. No, I mean the way we''ve got so much room for improvement. Other squads have got, like, half their first team already at their ceiling. They''ve got kids with room to improve who never get minutes so they''re stuck. They''ve got guys like Zach rotting on the bench. We don''t have any players regressing and we''ve only got a few at the limit." Most of the men''s squad had experienced double-digit CA growth in the first half of the season. The plan was working. The plan was mint. I turned and scowled at the fans - some had left, some were leaving, but many were hanging around hoping to hear more about our transfers.


    "Max," said Sandra, with a hint of a warning. She saw me going to the dark place.


    "Right. I''m happy with our improvement. We''re getting there." There was still miles to go, however. Our best eleven now had an average CA of 63, but that included Youngster, who I was going to be very careful with in the coming months, and included Magnus as the starting centre back, which was not his destiny. It excluded me. But the raw number, 63, placed us eighteenth in my estimate of the National League''s average abilities. Some of the rankings would depend on how teams fared in the transfer window, but the league was as strong as the National League North had been weak. I reckoned adding Fierce would shoot us up to fifteenth and a month later we would smash into the top ten. My tactics and cameos were going to have to do a lot of heavy lifting. On the other hand¡­ "The top teams are going to keep taking points off each other. Grimsby are ten percent weaker. I wonder if they''ll lose anyone else? They''re using older players way too much... Couple of injuries and they''re fucked."


    "Midfield," she said, trying to get me back on topic.


    I was on topic, though. "All our players, pretty much, will keep improving until the end of the season. There''s only one part of the team where we''ve got two players who are stuck."


    "Central defence."


    "Christian improves the first eleven massively, and he''s got room to grow. And when we added Ryan Jack there was such a buzz around the place. We had two or three weeks of everyone being wowed by the new guy and trying to impress him. Remember when I said about being a long-term planner? Forget that. I''m a win-now manager. Fierce or bust."


    "Sold," said Sandra.


    "I wish it was that easy," I said. "So I don''t have concussion?"


    "No, you''re quite rational. You could have done with some of that when you got on stage." She pulled at my hoodie toggles. "Not your finest moment, Max. Please talk to me when you''re that far off the rails. Please?"


    I let my head bounce - could have been an affirmative gesture - and went back onto the stage. Sandra went to MD and spoke to him. Twenty seconds later, he took out his phone and dialled.


    ***


    I was treated to a slight moment of panic - Emma was gone. At least twenty percent of the fans were hardcore Anti-Maxxers, and while she had probably just gone to the bathroom, I wished she had hung around for another few minutes.


    Ruth touched me on the arm. "John''s with her."


    "Oh, fuck. Relief. Wait, in the bathroom?"


    "She popped to the shop." Ruth assessed me. "You need to get some sleep."


    "I need a lot of things."


    "Sleep''s one of them."


    "Where''s Henri? I need to thank him."


    "Thank him by getting some sleep."


    "That makes no sense."


    "Says the boy who tried to dissolve me."


    I took a few seconds to check how I felt. Emotionally drained, perhaps, but not massively in need of rest. I''d had a break. Physically I was good. "What I need is a moment of closure. A little ritual. Glass of prosecco to celebrate. Tell my brain that this arc is over."


    Ruth looked at the giant screen, now blank. "You''ve been on the sauce pretty hard, looked like."


    I had noticed the same thing. Lots of Sangrias by the pool and empty bottles out on the balcony. "Yep. Last drop until the season''s done. I should get some food, too. What time does the kitchen close?"


    "You''re not staying here tonight?"


    "Course I am. I paid for two nights. The plan was to put my best suit on and go out for a nice victory dinner or a defeated all-you-can-eat buffet."


    "MD wants you."


    "Kay. Talk soon."


    I texted Henri.


    Me: Remember last season I got a loan striker and made you do all his running and he got the goals and the glory?


    Henri: Yes. I do remember.


    Me: This year... it''s the opposite.


    Henri: Heart heart heart.


    ***


    "Max," said MD, with his hand over his phone. Why did old people never use the mute function? "They want three hundred thousand."


    I nodded. "Is Bob Horseman on the call?" I expected MD''s equivalent to have quickly set up a conf call once he realised MD was serious.


    "Yes, but he isn''t talking. I''m dealing with the guy at the top."


    "Bob''s the guy at the top," I said. I held my hand out in the universal gesture for ''giz''. That''s Manchester-speak for ''give me''.


    "Max," whispered MD. He meant, Max, you can''t do a negotiation. You''re still in meltdown!


    "Giz," I said. MD crunched up his face, but handed the phone over. "Bob, it''s Max Best."


    Nothing happened. A rando said, "Bob, you''re on mute."


    "Oh! Hi, Max."


    "Bob. Here''s the deal. I humiliated myself at the Forum and the fans turned on me and the only way I could save my job was to promise them a big-name signing. Around these parts, that means Christian Fierce, but you and I both know I''ve got binders full of centre backs. For a hundred grand I could go to League Two and get someone very tasty. But Christian''s my first choice and in a minute I''m going to give you our final offer. It''s our final offer because if we go five hundred pounds above that number I have to call Mrs. Black and tell her she can''t get her crown fixed and I have to call Mr. Law and tell him his son''s teeth are going to have to fill themselves. I''ve got kids here with holes in their head, Bob."


    "Holes in their mouth, you mean."


    "Their mouths are in their heads, Bob. This isn''t a tactic or a gambit. I want a big signing announced now, tonight, and I want Christian doing his medical tomorrow."


    "We need him. He''s our captain."


    "You don''t need him. You''re not going up, you''re not going down. There''s loads of the transfer window left. I know you can spend the money properly and strengthen yourselves. Start planning for next season."


    "Go on, then. What''s the number?"


    "One hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds," I said. "MD just fainted. This is the absolute limit. With Christian''s wages for two years, that''s me wiped out. No joke."


    "I see. Hang on." He put me on mute. He came back. "So I''m not going to hear about you signing anyone else?"


    "I''ve got a guy coming in on loan. That''s a done deal; mate''s rates with TJ at Crawley. And we''re close to nabbing some kids - a phrase I am perfectly comfortable with. Other than that, it''s one signing. That''s a Maxy promise."


    I was back on mute. MD, who had not fainted, was going through the calculations in his head. "If you sign him on a three-year deal, Max..."


    "We''re in the red zone. I know." I glanced down at my phone and got an idea. "But think if we get to the playoff final. That would cover the third year of his wages, wouldn''t it?"


    MD was no mug. He got the plan. "I don''t like it, Max. Sandra told me you''ve talked about loads of other options. Younger guys, too. Ones with more resale value. Kiddies could buy two Fierces with that money you''re offering. It''s... it''s in the direction of reckless, is all I''m saying."


    "Let''s just wait and see what they say."


    We waited. Whether anyone even heard our performance I couldn''t tell you. After a minute, Horseman said, "Max, the price is in the right ballpark, and we do have our eye on a young prospect. But if we throw him straight into the National League he''ll get eaten alive. We would buy him and loan him back to his current club to continue his development."


    "That sounds fun. I want to do that one day."


    "You''re welcome to do it with Christian."


    "Ah, wait a minute. It doesn''t sound fun after all. So let''s brainstorm guys you can get in for the rest of the season."


    "Glenn Ryder."


    I blurted out "Impossible" before I''d even processed what he was saying. Glenn was the weak link in the team but he would be the guy lifting my trophies at the end of the season. True story. "Wait a second. Er, are you recording this?"


    "No?"


    "I do not consent to this conversation being recorded or broadcast and I reserve my rights. Listen, Steve Alton is as good as Glenn. He''s not as showy but he''s just as good. I need Glenn for his leadership. You know it''s all babies around here."


    "Starting with Max," suggested MD, which several people on the other end of the phone found funny.


    "Oi, rude," I said. "But if we get Christian, Steve''s going to have limited minutes. He''ll do a great job for you."


    "Fantastic," said Bob. "Throw him in and you''ve got a deal."


    I''d been played! "What do you mean, throw him in? He''s fucking mint. I''ve been training him for years. I''m not just giving him away."


    "He means on loan," said MD. He leaned into the phone. His phone. "What percentage of his wages are you offering to pay?"


    "Zero percent," said Bob.


    I think he was enjoying this. Giving me a low-level rinsing. Not enough to make me angry but enough to tease me forever. I found myself smiling at his cheek. "MD, what''s that going to cost us in wages?"


    "Ten thousand pounds."


    "So I''m paying 185 for Fierce?"


    "Effectively."


    "Jesus Christ," I said. "Didn''t they hear me say about the poor children? Why won''t they think of the children?"


    Bob was smiling. "Can we get an option to buy?"


    They wanted to loan Steve and if he did well, buy him for a fixed price. "You want the option to buy a defender worth fifty grand? Okay, let''s discuss how much you''re willing to pay for my defender who is worth fifty grand."


    "Thirty," said Bob.


    I laughed. "That''s crazy. You''re basically charging me two-oh-five for Christian Fierce." I shook my head, but I looked around the hall to see if Steve was there. I assumed the whole squad had gone to have a few beers somewhere and discuss the craziness. Steve had served the club well but he couldn''t come to League Two with us. His PA limit of 53 meant even the National League was a struggle but he could have a good couple of years at Kidderminster. "Fuck it," I said. "I''ll pop by in the morning and try to talk him into it. At least you guys will look after him. He''s a top bloke. Great guy. Needs regular football."


    "Max, I think we have a deal. If you can agree wages with Christian."


    "We will." I was going to offer him a fifty percent pay rise and the chance to join the most exciting project since the Human Genome.


    "You can mention it on your socials," said Bob. "Deal agreed in principle."


    "We''ll talk to Christian first and announce it after the medical."


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "I thought you wanted it fast to prevent a riot or something. Don''t you want to let your fans know?"


    I glanced to my right, where a few stragglers remained in the hall. "Fine," I said. "I''ll tell these fucks and they can pass it on. We''ll do the formal announcement when there''s something to announce. Is that okay for you?"


    "Yes."


    "Bosh."


    MD got a panicky look about him. "Not bosh! We need to talk payment terms and dates. The small print. Fine tuning the deal."


    "Bob, I''m putting MD back on the line."


    "Me too," he laughed.


    It was smiles all round. Secretary Joe. Vimsy. Even MD was excited. I turned to the fans in the aisle and gave them a Maxy Two-thumbs. They cheered, tapped away at their phones, and fucked off home.


    I called TJ to tell him I wanted his striker but batted away his questions about the Forum. "I''ll tell you soon," I said, before clicking off. I yawned. Maybe I was tired after all, but there was one last thing to do before retreating to my room.


    ***


    Brooke was talking to Beth. "Is this on the record?" I said, barging in.


    "It could be," said Beth. "What do you want to say?"


    "One, thanks for your help. Two, don''t buy the Mail. Three, say goodbye to Brooke. I need a private chat."


    I urged Brooke away from Beth, away from everyone else. Wherever we went, there were people. We went into the corridor. People. The bar, people. The car park, people.


    "We could go to my room," said Brooke, thinking practically but perhaps overlooking one or two implications. I grinned. She looked away - anyone else would have collapsed into a ball of cringe. It answered my question about why she was able to burst into the hall like I had. She was staying at the hotel and had been watching the stream on her phone, same as me.


    "This way," I said. "There''s a little nook near the meeting rooms. There''s never anyone there. Almost never."


    We got to the space and Brooke sat in the exact same seat her dad had chosen on the day I had come to this hotel to cancel Pascal''s contract. The same exact seat. How does that happen? I waited for twenty seconds but the corridor was absolutely deserted. "Brooke in the nook," I said, but instantly wished I hadn''t. I grabbed a chair and moved it close to hers so I could speak at almost zero volume. "Are you recording this conversation?"


    "No."


    "I do not consent."


    "Understood."


    I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs, rubbing my hands. "That was intense, wasn''t it?"


    "Sure was."


    "I didn''t realise how much it had got under my skin until I saw it on screen. And how much it had got under yours."


    "Nothing my balancing gel can''t handle."


    "Right," I said, not knowing if she was describing a real thing. "What would you say if your boss ordered you to take a vacation?"


    "I''d say have you met Sebastian Weaver, my lawyer? He''s here to rinse you for your inappropriate workplace behaviour."


    "Funny, he''s my lawyer, too, and he''d say inviting your boss to your hotel room was the same exact level of badness."


    She smiled, but rubbed her eyebrow three times quickly. Worrying about overstepping the mark, maybe. "I''ll take a vacation if you talk to a therapist."


    I sighed. "I''ll talk to a therapist if you hire one."


    "Didn''t you just spend all our money?"


    "Next season."


    "What about the next six months?"


    "I have a goal. A target. No time to think about anything except the next game. We have to fulfil all our fixtures, squeeze them in so we''re ready for the thrilling last day of the season. If I have to keep pushing forward, everything''s all right."


    "Everything isn''t all right."


    I formed my hands into the prayer sign and pushed my fingertips against my lips. "I know. That''s what we need to talk about."


    "Oh."


    "First, though. Christian Fierce. I want the city plastered with photos of him looking menacing and it''s just the word Fierce."


    "What happened to always having three players in our marketing?"


    "That starts next season. For now - Fierce."


    "And when do I take my vacation? Before or after I set up a photoshoot and a citywide poster campaign?"


    "After. Obvs."


    She smiled. Her gaze drifted around the nook until she was looking back the way we had come. "You did it."


    I squirmed around. "That''s what I wanted to say. I mean, I messed up. I didn''t realise how much you were suffering. I wanted to get these fucking idiots in the mood to hear the changes I want to make. But I messed up. I should have crashed this takeover and waited for the next one to go full Max. Not the one with your dad. I''m sorry about that."


    Brooke looked into my eyes. "I don''t think you messed up. It was chaotic and it wasn''t how you imagined it but it worked. Ryan told me what''s wrong with Sharky. There''s a lot of wingers like him, Ryan said. They get the ball, run, and don''t know what to do. But if they don''t know what they are going to do, neither do the defenders. I think if you''d gone at daddy conventionally he''d have won. I told you he would come at you in twenty different ways and he did. Some you don''t even know about. But you played dead and you swept the rug from under him at the last second. You couldn''t have done it different and won."


    I thought about it. Her words made me feel better, but only a little. I was pretty sure I could have mashed him up in a popularity contest. With a ball at my feet I could make the mob dance to my tune. On the other hand, there hadn''t been many matches in the run-up to the Forum. "Okay let''s say you''re right. I still fucked up when it came to the fans. MD bailed me out. I might not be the Machiavellian genius I''d like to be. So... I need help."


    "Therapist incoming."


    I smiled. "I need political help. Are you staying?"


    "You''re worried I''m going to hop on the nearest superyacht?"


    "I am worried, yes."


    "Do you want me to stay?"


    "I need you. It''s like Donnie Wormwood said on the screen - what good''s money if you don''t know how to spend it? I can earn the money for the stadium and the training ground and put together a killer team for whatever division I''m in. But what else? Who''s going to spend the rest in a way that lifts this city up? When this flywheel gets going there will be millions sloshing around. Tens of millions. I need you to build structures. Work on my latest brainchild for six months to get it to the point all we need to do is chuck cash at it once a year. I don''t need a promise. I just need to know you want to be here."


    "I want to be here."


    Another surge of relief. One of the biggest of the nights. I didn''t try to hide it. "Too many fans are stupid and unreliable. We can''t let them undo what we''re doing. Did you ever do any gardening?"


    "What do you think?"


    "I''ve done some. Ruth and Henri and the others keep warning me about slugs. They eat everything you plant. It is annoying but slugs are people, too. I don''t mind it all that much. It''s like the marten in my roof. What''s it supposed to do? But I''ve got a spot lined up for a feature plant. Something awesome, right? A centrepiece. And I''m going to defend it like anything. Barriers, copper tape, all the things. And poison pills. It''ll be like a minefield around that plant. Just slugs exploding everywhere and I''ll have no remorse. There''s a whole planet of other stuff you can eat. Leave my feature rose alone."


    "This rose. Is it blue and white?"


    "It might be. I want poison pills added to everything we do. Every player, every sponsor, everything to do with the stadium and the bank accounts. Anyone who tries to buy this club is going to see a trail of slug pellets everywhere they look."


    "The people who buy sports teams don''t realise they are slugs."


    I rocked my head back and laughed. "That''s the funniest thing you''ve ever said."


    "I wasn''t joking."


    I laughed some more. "Seriously, though. I want poison, I want traps. I want spike pits, flamethrowers, giant balls that crush you. I want one guy to go into our kitchen and think ''gosh it''s very quiet in here'' and he opens a cupboard and a fucking velociraptor leaps out and eats his face."


    Now she laughed. "I''ll ask Zach where I can source a raptor."


    I tilted my head. "Uh-huh."


    "What?" she said, and I wondered if I was imagining a slight darkening of the cheeks.


    I leaned back. "Okay but I need bigger things, too. Like, I need to get the fans to vote away some of their powers."


    "Like what?"


    "Like the stadium. They don''t get to own it."


    "Who owns it, then?"


    "Er, they own it until they sell the club and then they don''t own it anymore. Then it owns itself. The women can use it. The Cheshire FA can use it. Grassroots football clubs can use it. Whatever."


    "That sounds like a hard sell."


    "We need a moat between a potential buyer and the stadium and we need the fans to agree."


    "It won''t be as hard as you think, unless you ask too much." Brooke crossed one leg over the other. "You want the fans to say yes to three years where they can''t sell? No problem. You link it to a big splash in the transfer window."


    "Explain that."


    "It''s a year from now. We''re coming up to the Fans Forum. We tell them we''ve got a new sponsorship deal but it''s a company that cares about Corporate Social Responsibility. They''ll give us a million pounds and you''re keen to spend it on players. But the firm will only go ahead if the club remains fan-owned. So we ask for a three-year commitment. We get three years with no takeovers, the fans get a new player."


    "Fucking genius!"


    "No, Max. The genius part is that we write a three-year rolling agreement. At the start of every season it''s always three years ahead. Someone would have to set up a new vote to stop it being pushed back."


    "Yes, that''s amazing. That''s what I need. I need this." I got up and walked around. My head hurt from the explosion of new ideas. I rushed back. "Can we do that with everything I''m worried about?"


    "What are you worried about?"


    I opened my mouth to unleash a torrent of words, but she was tired. It could wait. "We''ll work it out. We''ll work it out together."


    Brooke nodded and hid a yawn behind her hand. "Okay but Max, you told me this winter was the last time the club would be in danger. You stopped the bomb from detonating. Why are you still so worried?"


    "This might be the last time the fans would be so desperate to get new money in, although seeing how hard they salivated I''m not so sure. If I keep putting the poison pill clauses into new contracts, it might be enough to defend against asset strippers. But Brooke, there''s another kind of bad owner than one who wants to take money out."


    "What''s that?"


    "One who wants to put money in. Every billionaire and dictator around the world wants to own a Premier League team but there are only twenty and most aren''t for sale. Plus it''ll set you back a couple of bill even for Crystal Palace. Like, Crystal Palace? Couple of billion? I need to think about that one! But what if you bought a Championship team, stuck a hundred million in, and they got promoted? Okay but there are twenty guys trying that. What about League One? Okay but there are twenty guys trying that. Now here comes Chester storming up the leagues and their fans are thick as pigshit." I paused. "Are you recording this?"


    "No," she said, amused.


    "The closer we get to the Premier League, the more we''re a target, right? What happens is, only three teams go to the Prem every year and it''s normally the same ones who came down. The rest of these idiot owners realise it''s never going to happen for them and they''ve wasted their money. They get bored. They stop writing cheques for half a million a week. Suddenly you realise that your local, regional football club is spending three hundred pounds on wages for every hundred it earns and will be doing so for the next three years. Do you get me? Those clubs are mincemeat unless you can find another sucker to hold the bag. Or, and this sometimes happens: the guy putting twenty million a year into a club... dies. And that''s that. You can''t believe how many clubs are one heart attack away from dying themselves. All owners are bad owners. That''s what we need to think."


    "Don''t you own two football clubs?"


    I smirked. "I won''t die, though. That''s the difference. Come on, let''s go back." I helped her up. We walked down the corridor, side by side. "I feel sorry for you."


    "Why?"


    "You wanted to join a little company. Cute little sports franchise. Do some good in the world." I shook my head. "Next thing you know, you''re doing corporate shenanigans and power grabs to take power from the people to give it to the people. Strange kind of Robin Hood stuff. Steal from the poor to give to the poor so that I can rinse Real Madrid and Chelsea for years to come."


    She scoffed through a smile. "You''re out of control, you know that?"


    We turned the corner and quietened - there were people ahead through some fire doors. "Hang on," I said. I poked my head into the hall but everyone was gone. No Emma. No backpack. Emma was probably up in the room. I joined Brooke by the lifts. "Which floor are you on?"


    "Third," she said, pressing the button.


    "Huh. That''s where I''m going."


    "Is it?" she said, somehow rolling her eyes without moving them.


    "I don''t know. Is it?"


    I was only teasing; the tiredness had made us silly. We looked at ourselves in the mirror. It showed a strange world where a poor boy from Manchester and a rich girl from Texas were allied against the girl''s father. The door pinged. Third floor. "Come on, then." She turned left. I followed along the corridor, enjoying the view. She beeped her door open and I waited just outside. She didn''t actually think...? I heard weird noises from inside. Zips. What was she doing? For the first time I started to wonder what exactly...


    Brooke reappeared, fully dressed, and handed me two huge wads of cash. The surprise almost rendered me speechless. "Gosh, thanks," I managed. "I knew you were loaded."


    "I''m comfortable. This is for your BoshCard advert. I thought you might have some fun with it."


    "Oh!" I said, bringing the wad up for a closer inspection. It sort of looked like money if you didn''t pay too much attention, but it was clearly fake. "TV money. I''ve heard of this."


    "Right. It''s quite important you don''t lose any. We could get into trouble."


    "We could get into trouble," I repeated, looking into her eyes.


    "Yes. We could get into all sorts of trouble." That was the last of the silly giggles. Changing the vibe totally, she tapped the cash. "For example, the production company refusing to lend us props in future. Have fun, don''t lose it, bring it to the shoot."


    I nodded. Brooke had got me an improved offer from BoshCard - I would get enough extra cash to upgrade four long-distance flights to first class. "The players got a pay rise. You get a pay rise.¡± I did an awesome impression of her voice. ¡°I spent a lot of money on horses, balancing gel, and honky tonks. The rest I squandered." She looked at me even more blankly than ever. I explained. "It''s a George Best quote. The other good one is when this guy found Miss World in his bedroom - "


    Brooke didn''t want to hear the anecdote that her father had loved. "When do I get my raise?"


    "Next season."


    "I''m so glad we think in seasons. I''d hate to get it, for example, right away."


    "You don''t always get what you want," I said.


    "That''s right, Max. You don''t." She closed the door.


    Bosh. Great line. But it didn''t feel right that she couldn''t go out in case her dad was there. Didn''t feel right she would close the door and be alone with her thoughts while everyone else from Chester was out having parties. I knocked and she opened it just a crack. "Do you want to hang out? Me, you, Ems. Henri and Luisa will be nearby. We can see who''s around."


    She opened the door wider. "I think I''m set, thanks."


    I nodded. "We''re just down the hall if you change your mind." I stepped away. "You''re one of us, you know."


    Brooke nodded - I think - and watched me walk off. I heard the door close and found myself staring at the lift. "Er," I said, and checked my room card. Yeah, three-four-three. I kept walking. Buy three-four-three or save for Relationism? What about upgrading Playdar in time for the Brazil trip? My stomach growled. "Soon, boy, soon."


    ***


    Fifteen minutes later there was a respectful knock on the door. I opened it and an older gentleman said, "Mr. Best?"


    "Yes," I said.


    "Your tuna melt and your champagne." The guy was wearing a hotel uniform plus a small, round, Chester FC pin that looked almost as old as him. It was awesome - I wanted one.


    "Great. Er..." I looked down at my hand. I was holding a razor. Caught mid-shave. How was I supposed to carry a tray when I was already carrying something?


    The guy saw I wasn''t able to make good decisions. "I can set it down in the room, if you''d like."


    "Yeah, top. Top."


    I stepped back into the bathroom so he could get past me. He eased the two laptops aside and placed the tray on the table. I came up beside him and watched as he scanned the room.


    The first laptop was mine - the entire screen was taken up by a Mail Online headline. It read: BEST WINS STAR WARS. Emma''s laptop had different social media tabs open. One was a gif of a guy with my face superimposed on his - he was throwing cash around. The text read BUY ME THE LEAGUE.


    The hotel worker''s gaze drifted to the floor. It was covered in fake money that I had thrown up to amuse Emma.


    His eyes went up to the bed - how had it taken so long? Half my world was there in a bathrobe, fast asleep near the bottom of the bed, blonde hair sexily spread out. She was clutching a miniature bottle of prosecco and judging by the empties on the table, she had polished off its brothers and a mini white wine to boot. The surface of the bed was strewn with empty Snickers and Mars bar wrappers.


    The hotel guy shook his head. "Mr. Best," he said. "Where did it all go wrong?"


    ***


    End of Book Numbers


    XP balance: 5,979


    National League Table (Men)


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="53"><col width="42"><col width="47"><col width="52"><col width="44"><col width="38"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>W</td>


    <td>D</td>


    <td>L</td>


    <td>F</td>


    <td>A</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>56</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>58</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>51</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>32</td>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>38</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Men''s Team


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="62"><col width="128"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    <td>CA +/-</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Ben Cavanagh</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>620</td>


    <td>62</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>17</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Rainman</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>99</td>


    <td>8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Sticky</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>1620</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>122</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Glenn Ryder</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>795</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Carl Carlile</td>


    <td>DCR</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>670</td>


    <td>69</td>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Magnus Evergreen</td>


    <td>D,DM,M</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>620</td>


    <td>59</td>


    <td>-2</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>Vivek</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>370</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>66</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Steve Alton</td>


    <td>D CR</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>620</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Zach Green</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>60</td>


    <td>139</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>920</td>


    <td>60</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Cole Adams</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>147</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Josh Owens</td>


    <td>DM L</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>119</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>James Wise</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>720</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>60</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Andrew Harrison</td>


    <td>MC R</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>50</td>


    <td>?</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Michael Harrison</td>


    <td>MC R</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>370</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>?</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>770</td>


    <td>55</td>


    <td>151</td>


    <td>5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Aff</td>


    <td>ML</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>595</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>70</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>DM, MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>720</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>181</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Omari Naysmith</td>


    <td>CM</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>103</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>Max Best</td>


    <td>Omni</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>1000</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Wes Hayward</td>


    <td>AM LR</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>86</td>


    <td>23</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>WibRob</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>185</td>


    <td>24</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Pascal Bochum</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>69</td>


    <td>133</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Ziggy</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>450</td>


    <td>49</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Henri Lyons</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>1020</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>90</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tom Westwood</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>92</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Players in italics are either loaned in or out.


    Youngster will miss some matches attending the African Cup of Nations under 20 tournament in Togo.


    Transfer History (Men)


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Steve Alton</td>


    <td>Hereford</td>


    <td>In</td>


    <td>8000</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>Rochdale</td>


    <td>In</td>


    <td>30000</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>Sutton United</td>


    <td>In</td>


    <td>25000</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Raffi Brown</td>


    <td>Al Fateh SC</td>


    <td>Out</td>


    <td>800000</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>William Roberts</td>


    <td>Banbury</td>


    <td>In</td>


    <td>30000+</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Goliath</td>


    <td>Banbury</td>


    <td>Loan In Fee</td>


    <td>40000</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>James Wise</td>


    <td>Eastleigh</td>


    <td>In</td>


    <td>14000</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Sam Topps</td>


    <td>Tranmere Rovers</td>


    <td>Out</td>


    <td>75000</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>768000</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Top Transfer Values (as estimated by Max)


    <table style="width: 89.9758%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Rank</td>


    <td>Name</td>


    <td>Value</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>Bleeeeeeeeep</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>WibRob</td>


    <td>Bleeeep, mate</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Pascal</td>


    <td>Bleeep</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Zach</td>


    <td>Bleeep</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Carl</td>


    <td>Bleep</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Women''s Team


    On mid-season break. League record: Played 10, Won 9, Lost 1. Goals For 37, Goals Against 2.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    <td>CA +/-</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Robyn Wright</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>0</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Queenie</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>94</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Scottie Love</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Erin Barnes</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>0</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Mel Robinson</td>


    <td>RB</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>0</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Mo Walsh</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Lucy</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>90</td>


    <td>3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Bonnie</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Femi</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>52</td>


    <td>121</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Luxury Bell</td>


    <td>D CR</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>88</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Ridley T</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>85</td>


    <td>10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Diane</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>60</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Gracie Davies</td>


    <td>LM</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>0</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Pippa Hoole</td>


    <td>CM</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>111</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Dani Smith-Smithe</td>


    <td>M, AM LRC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>177</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Susan Butler</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Maddy Hines</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>80</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Charlotte</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>50</td>


    <td>101</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Kisi Yalley</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>143</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Beatrice Pearce</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Julie McKay</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>32</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>155</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Miscellaneous Info


    Raffi Brown money remaining: Zero pounds, zero pence.


    Total National League attendance: 40,574


    Average National League attendance: 3,381 (capacity = 5,400)


    West Didsbury and Chorlton league defeats: 0


    National League top scorer: Marcus Wainwright (Grimsby): 22


    Crawley League One position: 14th


    Tranmere League Two position: 11th


    Darlington National League North position: 1st


    God Save the King perk: Not used


    Max''s Assets and Liabilities


    One share of West Didsbury and Chorlton AFC (owes 100,000 to Mateo)


    One hundred percent of Saltney Town. Assets: some nets with holes in


    Cash: 43,000


    The Duchess (an end-of-life brown Subaru)


    One very fast laptop


    One framed photo of Mr. Yalley


    Various Apple products, especially ones ending in Max


    One suit tailored by Boateng Boateng of Savile Row


    Four first-class tickets to Brazil

 10.1 - The Cambrian Explosion

    Player Manager 10


    ***


    The story so far:


    Max Best, player-manager of Chester FC''s men''s team, has assembled a talented squad that sits ninth in the fiercely competitive National League, England''s fifth tier of football. Having seen off a destabilising takeover bid from a Texan multi-millionaire, Max must now refocus his squad on the task at hand - glory on the pitch.


    ***


    "The creatures of the Cambrian period tried on every possible anatomical costume." Ancient Oceans, Discovery Channel


    ***


    Sponsored Content


    DEVA STADIUM - MID-MATCH


    HOME DUGOUT AND TECHNICAL AREA


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    Gosh I love our sponsors, BoshCard.


    </blockquote>


    There''s a huge cheer. MAX looks up.


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    What now?


    </blockquote>


    A Frenchman runs into shot.


    <blockquote>


    HENRI LYONS


    Boss! I scored a goal. Pay me.


    </blockquote>


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    Excuse me, what?


    </blockquote>


    <blockquote>


    HENRI LYONS


    My goal bonus!


    </blockquote>


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    Oh, right.


    </blockquote>


    MAX tries to hand over some CASH. HENRI recoils.


    <blockquote>


    HENRI LYONS


    Cash? What am I, a stripper? Use your BoshCard!


    </blockquote>


    MAX whips out a credit card and frowns.


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    What, this?


    </blockquote>


    CLOSE-UP OF MAX''S BOSHCARD - IT SAYS MAX BEST BUT EVERY NUMBER IS 7


    HENRI is suddenly holding a card reader. MAX hesitantly pushes the card closer until it beeps.


    <blockquote>


    HENRI LYONS


    Thanks, boss!


    </blockquote>


    HENRI runs off. MAX''s phone pings. He lifts it up.


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    Ooh, it''s in the app already. That''s handy. Hey, nice interface. Check my credit score for free? Don''t mind if I do. Wait, I spent HOW MUCH on defenders?


    </blockquote>


    There''s another huge roar. MAX looks from the pitch to the app to the pitch.


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    [comically stressed] Stop scoring goals!


    </blockquote>


    A card reader slides into view. Max shakes his head and beeps it.


    CLOSE-UP OF CREDIT CARD AND APP INTERFACE


    <blockquote>


    HENRI LYONS AND ON-SCREEN TEXT


    Don''t just buy it, Bosh it!


    </blockquote>


    ***


    1.


    Monday, January 20, 2025


    "Soggy," said Sandra.


    "Damp," I replied. "Aquatic."


    "Heavy."


    "Sodden."


    "Sod this," said Sandra. She was my assistant manager and far too talented to be stuck down in tier five, although there were compensations. One, when I was away or having a meltdown, she managed Chester''s men''s team. Two, I let her do almost all the post-match interviews. She was already one of the most famous women in the English football landscape and it was a matter of time before a football club owner offered her a serious job.


    "Okay," I said, giving the grass one last pat. We couldn''t train on it - it would do more harm than good. I sighed and got to my feet, clapping away some tiny flecks of mud and frost. "So we''ve got the plastic pitches." We were at BoshCard HQ, which would be Chester''s training ground for a while longer. I had recently spent the last of my budget on a new player, including the money I had reserved to get our own campus started. Normally BoshCard was a decent facility, but the heavy rains over the winter had wrecked grass pitches all over the north-west. We walked a few yards to the closer of two unforgiving, concrete-like plastic pitches. They were a far cry from the modern 3G options which felt almost like natural grass. "We can''t do serious work on these or we''ll get more ACL injuries. I could get Brooke to sweet talk us some slots at the King George centre - they''ve got a nice 3G pitch. But our lockers are here, our BoshCard buddies are here, and the Best Bistro is here."


    "It would be a shame not to have access to the Bosh Bistro," agreed Sandra. My attempts to name the mobile kitchen after myself had utterly failed, but it had been a great addition to our facilities and had been the slight boost we needed to sign a quality player from a higher level. We had two chefs working inside it, boshing out meals so delicious and nutritious that the place actually made a slight profit.


    I tried to summarise the dilemma. "If we train there we can''t eat here. If we train here we can eat here but we''ll lose one guy a week to injury. Do we want better pitches or better food?"


    Sandra clicked her tongue a few times. "What does Jonny say about the Deva?"


    Jonny Planter was our groundsman. "Says it''ll be a potato field against Halifax and Forest Green but if he works like the devil it''ll just about be okay against Barnet. But then we''ve got Solihull three days later. The guy''s suffering." I pulled the toggles on my hoodie; it was damned cold out. "I think it''ll be a while before we get a nice surface again. We should train at King George."


    "We can move the kitchen. That''s the whole point of it."


    "We agreed with Bosh that we''d let their staff use it this season. Chester FC doesn''t break promises." I thought about that statement. "I don''t, anyway."


    Sandra stomped her feet to get warm. "The boys bring packed lunches. Sandwiches, chocolate bar, apple. Every day away is a field trip."


    I grinned. "Once a teacher, always a teacher."


    "Careful, Max. You''ve clearly got teacher DNA."


    "Noo," I wailed. "Don''t say that. I was the cool kid."


    "Were you?" she said.


    "No, I was a weirdo." I thought about how the next couple of weeks would go. "Players go to King''s. Train and go home? No, we need to make sure they don''t eat shit three times a day. We... We bring food there. Right, check this out. The Brig and Vimsy come here and grab, like, twenty tupperwares full of stuff from the Bistro. We make it an event. Lads bickering over who''s got all the custard crumble, who gets the last spoonful of blueberries."


    "How long before Henri starts bringing his own baguettes?"


    I smiled, but it didn''t last long. I crouched and touched the grass again. Over the course of weeks of pleading and persuading Sandra to leave her cushy job at Manchester City, I had broken her defences down and made some rash promises. Most, to be fair, I had kept. One, though... "I''m sorry, Sandra."


    "For what?"


    "This," I said, feebly. Our facilities were getting worse. Meanwhile, her former club, Manchester City, had bought another couple of postcodes to lay down pitches and mini-stadiums and luxury battle bunkers for the real stars of that show - City''s lawyers. If the club kept expanding at its current rates, City''s campus would cover the entire surface of the earth by 2050. Me? I ran a bog. "It''s not the Death Star, is it?" I shook my head. "And the football we''re going to play. It''s... It''s not suitable for a lady of class and refinement."


    "Are you catastrophising again?"


    "No. I just want better for you. Like you deserve."


    "Deserve," she scoffed. "Yeah, okay, I had it good at City but that''s the past. This is now. If you feel bad you can give me two things."


    I stood and slapped my hands together again. "Tell me your heart''s desire."


    "One. Let''s go inside." Her hands were tucked under her armpits.


    I laughed. "Kay."


    "Two." Her face lit up. "Hurry up and do your presentation."


    I laughed harder. "Come on. It''s not that weird." Her only reply was to raise one eyebrow. She turned and almost skipped away. "It''s not that weird!" I called out.


    ***


    We were doing things a little differently. The new plan was that the lads would get changed and leave everything in their lockers. You know, so they couldn''t get distracted by their phones and smartwatches while I was telling them the plans.


    Almost the entire first team squad was waiting for us, plus all the physios and coaches. No admins. I blew on my hands, while Sandra put hers in Vimsy''s pocket. He took his training coat off and wrapped it around her. What a gentleman!


    "Couple of quick introductions are in order," I said, with my teeth chattering slightly. "Er, Noah, can you get me a tea, please? I''m literally freezing my bits off." He ran out to do my bidding. I swept my gaze across the room. "My name''s Max Best."


    "Hi, Max Best," said quite a few of the lads. Morale was fucking high - the entire squad had come together to defend the club against an invader and judging by their player profiles, they cared more about that than the dubious political skills I displayed in the second half of the Fans Forum.


    "New guys, here are the key players at Chester. Most importantly, me. Max Best. Second, my assistant, Sandra Lane. Do her bidding and all will go well. Your coaches include Vimsy, Jude, and Spectrum. Over there we''ve got The Brig. Head of Performance. Talk to him if you need to learn basic life skills, if you have complaints about me, or if you want to know what it''s like being airdropped eighty clicks off target in a hot zone on a cold night in - " The Brig coughed. I grinned. "The rest of that sentence is classified. There''s Physio Dean. He''s your go-to for medical stuff. Livia''s his next in line. Those stories she tells about her family? Best to imagine she''s making it all up. Trust me, it''s less surreal that way."


    "Uncle Mike says hi," she said, which caused lots of laughs.


    I shuddered. "Whatever you do, don''t ask what Uncle Mike''s nickname is." More laughs. "Er, Glenn''s your captain. Sticky''s goalie coach. Ryan Jack''s a crafty midfielder and he''s helping me out off the pitch with stuff. He can help you get settled into the area. He''s busy this week helping me finalise this season''s loans but, yeah, hit him up for advice."


    I was about to move on when Ryan said, "What, no joke? No, hit him up for advice about anything other than where to get a haircut?"


    I awarded him a smile. "In a parallel dimension where I didn''t have hyper-accurate maps and mental reviews of every stylist within fifty miles, you''d be the first person I asked, Ryan mate, even for haircut advice."


    "Fuck me, where''s Max and what have you done with him?"


    "Max is having a good morning," I said. "Max is going to blow Ryan''s socks off with a presentation if Ryan will stop interrupting." At the mention of the word presentation, Sandra did a gleeful little squirm. I went to get the flipchart and brought it to the centre. "Oh! I forgot the new guys. Okay, can we get a Chesterness-filled round of applause for the God of Walls, Christian Fierce."


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Christian Fierce half-stood as the room erupted into claps, cheers, and, yes, one whoop. "Nice to be here," said the dreamy dreamboat.


    "Ah," I said, swooning into the flipchart. "It''s Christian Fierce!"


    While I hugged the inanimate object, I brought up the wonderful words, the words I thought I would never see.


    Christian Fierce - Kidderminster Harriers - Chester FC - ¡ê175,000


    "The greatest ever Christian," I suggested.


    "Hey!" said Youngster, who went to church by choice.


    "Okay, let''s agree he''s top five." I sighed extra happily for comic effect, but it wasn''t that far from how I felt. Fierce was six foot five, which as you know is 195 centimetres, and he had high heading, positioning, and influence attributes. He was highly rated as a non-league player but most of our competitors thought I had been well and truly rinsed by Kidderminster. They were wrong. The guy nearly touched the ceiling but his personal ceiling was much higher.


    The curse - given to me by a dastardly demon called Old Nick - showed me that Fierce''s Current Ability (CA) was 71. That was near the top of the National League range, which my estimates put at 74. At CA 75 he would be a League Two quality player, and we very much hoped to be playing in League Two very soon. Fierce would be our rock for at least one and a half seasons.


    The curse also told me his upper limit, measured by an attribute called Potential Ability. If we got our training centre up and running and kept hold of Sandra, we would be able to bring Fierce to his maximum of 120. He was 28, so there was a risk he would never quite get there, but I had been doing some testing on older players and I thought with good training and regular breaks - something Fierce had never had - I could push him to a much higher level.


    "Boss," said Sandra, because I was still hugging the flipchart.


    "Right," I said, snapping back into the room. There were some laughs but Henri and Pascal looked at each other. They knew me well and were worried about my mental health. "Please also welcome to the stage... Chipper!"


    Chipper was Leslie Thomson, a player I had signed on loan from Crawley. Chipper was a very strong, stocky, 29-year-old Welsh forward. He had helped Crawley get promoted to League One and his reward was to watch as my mate TJ bought a shiny new striker. Chipper lost his place in the team and had become quietly bitter and surly. He really didn''t want to resurrect his career down in the National League, but I had worked with him briefly and I had been able to convince him that six months with me would very much put him in the shop window. Chipper was something of a risk in terms of morale, and as always with loan signings I was spending big money - two thousand pounds per week, five hundred more than Fierce - to develop someone else''s player. His wages represented basically all the remaining profit from our FA Cup run.


    I reckoned it was worth it, though. Chipper was CA 80, PA 102. A huge upgrade on what we had.


    He was getting generous applause, though not as much as Fierce, who most of us had played against several times. For most in the room, Chipper was an unknown quantity.


    "Top, top," I said. "We''re very lucky to have him. We''re also lucky to have with us today the manager of Saltney Town. He''s going to do some coaching for us. That''s weird, isn''t it?" It wasn''t weird. I had bought Saltney Town and persuaded the Welsh FA to lend me one of their most promising coaches for the rest of the season. I had picked the one with the best coaching profile and holy shit, this cocky bastard had more twenties than a drug dealer. He was, on paper, the perfect football manager. Off paper, he was a twat. "Llewellyn Kenrick, everyone." Llewellyn massively resented being picked for what he thought was the Welsh equivalent of being sent to Siberia and wasn''t shy of showing it. At least with Chester he would get to work with some proper players so his six month sojourn in the far north wouldn''t be a total waste. "Okay, now, I expected Llewellyn but the Welsh FA had a surprise for me. Can we get a super-duper extra special welcome for... Elin Butler!" Elin was a decent coach, one I''d happily have employed to work in a rotation, but she had one very special and amazing skill. "Can you...?"


    Elin blushed under the weight of all the stares and spoke to us with her hands. Almost everyone smiled patiently, not understanding. "I said, thank you for the kind welcome."


    I signed ''good job''. "Sign language! It''s made my year. She''s going to help coach the women and that''s just crazy amazing for Dani, obviously. I fucking love Wales, man. I want you to teach Elin everything you know about coaching and football and life, okay?" Noah came back with my tea. It looked pretty good. I sipped it. "Oh, man. Five gold stars to whoever taught Noah to make a tea." I took another sip. "Christ, that hits the spot. Er, why is Noah here? Basically because I sent all his mates out on loan and he''s lonely. Loan-ly? No, cut that, that''s terrible." I put the cup down for a minute; I needed my hands free for the next thing. "Er, Friday night was pretty intense. Thanks for all your help. Yes, I got myself into a bit of bother at the end, but it turned out just about okay. The main thing is we killed the takeover and there won''t be another one for a long time."


    "Oh?" said Henri. "Have they agreed to the three-year moratorium?"


    I wanted the Chester fans to vote not to countenance any takeover bids for a three-year period so I could have some certainty about my planning. "Not yet," I said. "But imagine the next Chester fan who comes to a meeting and says ''I''ve found a rich guy who wants to buy the club''. He''ll get savaged. People like drama but this was too much drama and they need a break. I mean, even people who want to rejoin the European Union - people with a functioning brain - don''t want to talk about it for, like, five years. We need a fucking break, right? So, look. Soz if I was a bit tonto but we''ve got loads of long coach rides where we can chat it out."


    "Are you going to tell us the valuations that got bleeped out?" said Pascal.


    "Of course not."


    "But Henri knows. It''s not fair."


    Henri had worked with a wonderful media studies student called Sophie to create the surreal clip show that had saved me from having to leave Chester FC. "Henri doesn''t know."


    "He does!"


    "Henri the filmmaker knows. Henri the football player doesn''t know. He operates under a system known as a Chinese wall. Feel free to look up the concept in your own time."


    William B. Roberts, according to me the second-most valuable player at the club despite being two months short of his seventeenth birthday, had his hand up. "Boss, we want to know if you''re friends with Sumo or not."


    "I am. He''s a ledge. He was pretending to go against me to make the takeoverers complacent."


    William nodded. "Okay. We was wanting to go on his streams. Like, play FIFA against him and that but we thought he was maybe not on our side."


    "He''s one of us. Go on his streams," I said. "He''s fucking mint and he''d like that. Yes, do that. Bonus kudos if you mention Glendale Logistics."


    William nodded at Noah and Josh. They looked pretty stoked by the idea of going on Sumo''s channel. Good for them, I thought. I glanced around and noticed that Llewellyn was deeply unimpressed with how this meeting was going. Unprofessional, wasn''t it? And weird. Well, from his point of view it was about to get a whole lot worse.


    ***


    I sipped my tea and checked I was ready to start. "Ah! One thing before I do this."


    "What are we doing?" said Henri.


    "New Maxterplan," I said. I went to Zach Green and pulled some cash out of my pockets. Zach was a quality player - a tough defender with good passing accuracy and decent range. He was an essential cog in the machine I was trying to build, and after a tricky start, he had very much settled into our patterns. His dad had flown across the Atlantic to help out with the dental project I was starting, and through Zach I had developed a moderate interest in palaeontology and the ancient world. Shame about his abs. "Zach, here is two hundred pounds in cash. I''m putting one hundred in this hand... here. And one hundred in this one... here. Okay?"


    "Appreciate the thought, boss," he said, in his Texan accent.


    "What this is, right, is I''m going to do my Maxterplan and if you can manage not to speak, I''m going to donate this here two hundred pounds to the charity in old Nicaragua. The one your dad helps at. It''s a cause close to your heart, right?"


    Zach frowned at the cash. "Sure is, boss. We''ve spent a lot of happy days there."


    "And that''s good money, isn''t it? It''ll make a tangible, specific difference to the lives of some of those people you met."


    Zach felt like I was easing him over a trapdoor, so he was guarded with his smile. It crept up on one side of his face, though. "Yes, boss. I''m highly motivated to earn this two hundred pounds."


    "Top," I said. "And all you have to do... is keep shush."


    "Oh, boy," he said, squirming, while those nearby suppressed giggles.


    "Boss," said Glenn. As captain it was part of his job to collect fines from the other players - not the official fines from the Football Association but self-imposed ones meted out for being late to meetings and so on. The money was generally used to fund Christmas and end-of-season parties, but thanks to our cup run he had a bloated party budget already. "On behalf of everyone here, can we chip in?"


    "What are you thinking?"


    "We''ll see your two and double it."


    "Sold," I said. "Zach. There''s four hundred big ones on the table." Everyone was on edge, now. Okay, the newcomers might have been more confused than excited, but everyone else was showing their interest by bouncing, jiggling their knees, or leaning forward. I drank the moment in - this was so much more fun than trying to convince the fans not to blow up their club - and centred myself. "All right," I said, gripping the edge of the flipchart''s cover page. This was going to be, in more ways than one, epic. "Five hundred and forty-two MILLION years ago," I said, but I had to stop. The pained noise that escaped Zach''s lips was insane. I flipped to the first page. I had written three words: The Cambrian Explosion. Reading them caused Zach to shoot to his feet and writhe, crushing the money I''d placed in his hands.


    "Urgh," he said, slapping himself in the forehead with a hundred pounds. Zach was the only person who knew what the words on the chart meant, but everyone knew it was funny that he wasn''t allowed to speak. "Ughhhh," he said, slipping back into his chair.


    "Extraordinary," I said, sniffily, as though I had no clue that would definitely happen. I looked at Sandra. "How''s it going?"


    "You don''t get this in the Death Star."


    I grinned. Fuck yeah you didn''t. Christian Fierce was having trouble remembering how to blink. "Guys, listen up. We''ve played twenty-three league games. There''s twenty-three to go. The goal is to win the league. Please pay attention for five minutes, okay?" I tapped my flipchart. "The Cambrian Explosion. This isn''t a bad explosion, so don''t get stressed. It''s a good one. An incredible one. Right, Zach?" Everyone looked at him, but he only nodded. The big ol'' labradoodle. "Cambria is the Latin name for Wales and some of this stuff was first studied in Wales. We''ve added a Welsh player here, we''ve got two Welsh coaches helping us out for a while, I''ve got five Welsh girls joining the youth setup, and holy shit, wait till you see the kid I just signed for the boys. An explosion of Welsh stuff. Need I say more? I''m gonna say more."


    I turned to the next page. I''d sketched a basic cross-section of an ocean. Just an undulating surface and below, the sea bed.


    "This is the ocean loads of years ago. Can''t remember exactly how many. Maybe Zach could... ah, no, because of the charity. Life then was pretty much all in the ocean. The sea bed was covered in goo and these little creatures ate it. The creatures looked like soft rocks." I sketched in some little circles lying on the bottom curve. "That was basically life on earth." I looked at what I''d drawn. The concept was pretty mind-blowing. "Right, then we get to the Cambrian era and things got all kinds of bonkers. One day it''s all soft rocks, the next there''s infinite diversity in infinite combinations. How? Now, science girls will tell you that it''s all very mysterious. Some people even call it The Cambrian Mystery." I held up a printout of a book cover with that title. "Well, I know exactly what happened so don''t worry about it."


    Zach bashed his forehead into the table in front of him.


    I briefly hid my mouth behind my hand, then turned to the next page, onto which I had glued pictures of all kinds of sea creatures. "Look at these bad boys. Dude looks like a cockroach. This one is pretty shrimpy, right? Virus with spikes. Eels. The alien from Alien. One day, the world is a hundred percent soft rocks. Suddenly you''ve got all these weirdos. What happened?"


    I turned the page. I''d sketched the cross-section of the sea again. I drew one soft rock. At the top I drew a big O with an arrow going into the water. I wrote ''minerals'' with another arrow.


    "Stuff''s happening. The environment is changing. There''s more oxygen in the water. There are more minerals, which got released from the melting of ice caps and rocks falling into the ocean. These soft rocks are like ''oh that''s nice but I''m perfectly happy just sort of lying here, thanks''. These guys are on a multi-million-year holiday and they''re loving it."


    Next to minerals I wrote the sinister word ''eyes''. I looked around. People were interested, of course, because I was their boss and either I had actually cracked or this was somehow relevant to their careers.


    "One of these cheeky fucks thinks to itself, whoops I''ve got a lot of money. Ah," I said, slapping myself on the wrist. "I said money. But I meant oxygen and minerals."


    Zach''s eyes bulged so hard it lifted him two feet off his chair. He looked around to see who else understood where I was going. He didn''t see many allies. He forced himself down as he blew masses of air from his cheeks.


    I smiled. "What does he do with all these resources? He grows eyes. Fucking eyes, mate. He''s like, wow, that''s handy. I can see. Top bins." I rubbed my forehead. "Thing is, this twisted little fucker looks at all these soft rocks sucking up nutrients and he thinks, ah, no. Veto. I want all these minerals. Go get your own ocean. So this little shit - and seriously, guys, it''s impossible to tell you what a fucking monster I''m describing - he grows himself a fucking mouth like the worms in Dune. He goes and gets two big lobster arms so he can chuck food in his gob. And he gets all fins and that so he can swim around. No-one knows what this animal was called - " I paused to enjoy Zach''s despair - "But I''m going to call it an anomalocaris." Zach untensed. Was this the most fun I''d ever had with my clothes on? Possibly. "This guy swum around eating all these soft rocks. Just nom nom nom. So very rude. Now, check this out."


    I returned to the page with the images of the weird sea creatures.


    "This is the guy I''ve just been talking about," I said, tapping the guy on the top-right. "These other dudes used to be soft rocks. They said to themselves, guys. We need to do something. Lying here waiting to get eaten isn''t a valid strat. We got nerfed, yo." I tapped other pictures. "These eel things swam funny. Made it hard to get grabbed. This bro got himself five eyes looking up so he could see what was coming. Five eyes! Love the hustle. This guy burrowed. Loads of these things learned to burrow. This guy''s got loads of little legs to help him swim but he could run, too. See? All the ways of defending yourself. And guys, you need to defend yourself when there''s a predator. This is life in a nutshell - predator versus prey and who can evolve faster? Did I say shell? Yes, I did, because I planned this. Look at this dude." I pointed to the cockroach-looking thing. "This guy got himself an exoskeleton. He could swim around eating stuff and the baddie could catch him and take a bite, but he had a chance to survive. Hard shell, right? Always a good idea."


    I lifted the flipchart and pulled it to the side.


    "Sticky, Cole, Glenn, Christian, Carl, Magnus. Can you come up here, please?"


    There was much scraping of chairs and the guys came up. I moved them into the beginnings of a 4-1-4-1 formation and pushed them close together.


    "Sticky, put your hands up." He did. I walked around. I was as tall as Cole but the others had a few inches on me, especially Christian and Sticky. I nodded a few times. "Guys. Not that long ago we were in the relegation zone in the National League North. Then we won the league and now we''re gunning for the National League. But we need to be humble. We have to accept that in this league we''re the prey." I popped myself on the edge of the table in front, then hopped right off. "You know what, though? This doesn''t look like a soft rock to me. It looks like a fucking exoskeleton. I wouldn''t mess with that." I turned to the rest of the group. "Would you?"


    Some shakes of the head. That back five plus goalie was imposing.


    I angled the flipchart so that everyone could see it. "I didn''t mention these guys." I tapped a picture of a sort of soft rock with long spikes coming out. "Spiky boy. How are you going to eat a thing with all spikes all over it? It''ll fuck you up if you mess with it. Ruin your whole Saturday. Josh, Aff, Wisey, Andrew, Henri." The last five guys got up and joined their mates at the front. I moved Aff to right midfield and put Josh in Aff''s customary left mid slot. "How''s this for spiky? This eleven is massive. Biggest in the league? Direct ball, set pieces, Josh Throw-Ins." Josh Owens was a long-throw specialist, hence the awesome nickname I''d given him. I nodded. "This is just to illustrate the point. In reality we''ll probably do 4-4-2 because we will use Chippy in almost every match, but do you see where I''m going with this?" Everyone did - it wasn''t subtle. "Guys, you can sit down." They did and there was a low murmur from everyone.


    I dragged the flipchart back to the middle.


    "In our league we''ve got a big predator - Grimsby. Good news: they''ve just lost their teeth. Barnet are the next biggest beast. They''ve got an exoskeleton, they''ve got spikes, but no teeth. Solihull and Gateshead are wannabe predators. Forest Green just got a million pounds of oxygen and minerals but they haven''t spent it yet. Which way will they choose to evolve?


    "Ah! Choose. That''s the fucking key word today, guys. Because these little creatures in the Cambrian period weren''t choosing shit. They were flailing around trying not to get eaten. If they were lucky, the spikes and the evasive manoeuvres worked. If they were unlucky, they didn''t live to tell the tale.


    "But you aren''t alone in this great big terrifying ocean. You''ve got a floating megabrain guiding your evolution. For the new guys, that floating megabrain is me. Flash forward to when we climb out of the ocean, guys, and I''ve got a million pounds in TV money to spend. I mean, hey now!


    "But we have to start out being a hard rock with spikes. Why? Mostly because our home pitch is knackered. We can''t play short passes. We literally can''t. But neither can the other guy. So we get big. We get huge. We get fucking Cambrian, mate!" I was nodding a lot but I changed to head shakes. "No fucking way are we conceding a goal. Do you hear me? No goals against. If it''s nil-nil, it''s nil-nil. But I''ll come on for the last twenty and we''ll see what we can do on set pieces. Next two home matches, four points. Will I take six? Yes, but we''re not stressing about every little thing. We don''t concede and we pick up points every single match. Every. Single. Match. That''s our DNA for the rest of the season. Hard to beat? Try impossible to beat."


    I''d worked myself up, so I used the little bit of free space at the front of the room to pace around. I returned to the flipchart and turned to a new page. At the top I wrote Dorking followed by Eastleigh.


    "Our next away games are down south. The rain was all right there. From what I''ve seen, these pitches are in good shape but just to be sure, I''ve got scouts on the case. The hope is the pitches are in good nick so we can go there... as predators. Ben in goal. Zach and Eddie in defence. Ryan Jack bossing midfield. Pascal and Sharky on the wings. Maybe," I said, playfully, "maybe a little flash of WibRob. On Tuesday night we''re huge, powerful, a team of guys who can run in mud, run for days, run anyone into oblivion. Imagine you''re Dorking and you''re looking at the tape of that game going holy shit, we need to bulk up. You put out your biggest eleven. What happens? Eleven fucking artists turn up doing mind-boggling things with a football. You can''t get a kick. It''s too fast, it''s coming from too many angles. You''ve never seen so many fucking teeth, mate!"


    I inhaled through my nose; it calmed me.


    "There''s no team like us anywhere in the world. We can play to one extreme and the next match do the exact opposite. This week we''re the Hard Rock Cafe so the rest of you will be doing extra skills work. The starters - basically everyone who stood up plus Chipper - you''ll take it easy in training, do some basic shape work with Vimsy. Tomorrow night will be like the Somme. Recovery time, more shape work, you go again on Saturday. Around the away games you''ll do more fun stuff with our special guest coaches. Llewellyn has some elite drills you''ll enjoy. Clive OK has agreed to come in for a couple of hours a week."


    Pascal and several of the younger guys exploded. "Yes!"


    I pointed. "That''s the right reaction but don''t sleep on Llewellyn. He can elevate your game. Help you with your personal evolution. And I''ve got another guy, too. Ray from the podcast. He''s amazing on tactics and he''ll be doing extra shape work and some funky pressing drills that we probably won''t even use until next season. Guys? We are going to evolve so fucking hard this season you''ll need five eyes to track all the changes."


    That was pretty much it. I scanned the room to see if people had got it. The bright ones certainly had. Some of the less academic ones were vaguely puzzled but optimistic nonetheless. That was fine - the others would explain it to them and it would sink in over time. As for Christian and Chipper, I think they enjoyed it but were reserving judgement until they had seen my theories play out in reality. Sandra was mirin'' me big time. I knew what she was thinking - that boy has teacher DNA all right.


    Josh Owens had his hand halfway up. I indicated that he could talk. "Boss, that Welsh era was, like, dead long ago right? What happened to all those animals? The eels and the spike-rocks and everything?"


    I beamed at him. "They lived happily ever after. Didn''t they, Zach?" He thunked his forehead into the table. "Pitch three in five. Let''s roll, Chester."

 10.2 - I Came In Like A Wrexham Ball

    2.


    Tuesday, 21 January


    Match 24 of 46: Chester vs FC Halifax


    After studying our remaining fixtures from all kinds of angles, I decided to spend five hundred of my experience points on something from way down the bottom of my wishlist. The Live Scores perk did one simple thing - it told me the current scores from other matches, which would be helpful when I was locked into my Match Overview screen. In the age of the smartphone, this didn''t seem like a critical purchase. But while we were chasing Grimsby there were bound to be times I needed to know what was happening in their match. If they were losing and we were level, maybe I would turtle up and take the point. One point closer to glory, right? 500 XP was a small commitment. A small dose of retail therapy to make me feel like I was evolving towards my end state - being a level 9000 football manager.


    XP balance: 5,749


    ***


    In November - weirdly one of our most recent matches - we had beaten Halifax 3-2 away. Their team boasted an average CA of 69 and since it had been the second big away trip in three days I had put out a weakened eleven. No such luck for the Yorkshiremen today - I was going with my team of beefy boys.


    For the first half I decided to go with my favoured 4-1-4-1, which meant Chipper was on the bench. He was a soft-spoken guy, superficially polite - actually, scratch that. Politeness is politeness whether it''s heartfelt or not. He didn''t complain when I told him he wouldn''t start, but his subsequent body language displayed some low-level grumpage. Not starting in the National League. What the hell am I doing here?


    Sticky in goal was CA 43, almost twenty points behind Ben, but Sticky was crazy tall. If Halifax tried to bombard us with high balls or crosses they wouldn''t get very far. Sticky''s career had been derailed by his inability to combine with defenders in modern passing sequences, but today I didn''t want anyone doing a short pass. What would be the point? Even in the warmups the ball had been bobbling up at random or getting stuck in a soggy patch. Going for a quick sprint, my left boot had been sucked off my foot. Bad day for anyone trying to pad their passing stats.


    My back four boasted the tallest guys in their positions, starting with Christian and Glenn as the centre backs. Christian''s CA 71 made Glenn''s 54 look feeble, but in this kind of match Glenn was the non-league warrior you wanted. Weak link? Not today, bruv. At left back I had Cole Adams, unusually tall for the role. Perfect! His CA of 41 would be almost irrelevant if the game went as I expected. His job was to win headers and kick the ball away. Ditto Carl Carlile. He was CA 69 and winning a lot of admirers for his athletic, committed performances. We were getting offers for him but I had sent his backup, Steve Alton, on loan to Kidderminster as part of the Christian Fierce deal. Carl was staying put until the summer and he was ay-okay with that.


    Magnus Evergreen was my defensive midfielder. He was a perfectly good DM, the way he was perfectly good anywhere I put him. His CA was 59 and showed no signs of having peaked, despite his weird minus 2 PA. Magnus had been trying a little evolution himself, working hard to add a little more craft to his game. That had been going well but there was no call for subtlety today. As a former champion bodybuilder, he was yet another imposing specimen.


    Josh Owens was left mid. Only CA 40 and one of the least intimidating players in this particular group, but he had a long throw. He would be able to hurl the ball into Halifax''s penalty box from miles out, and he could handle himself in a scrap, too. Let''s just say he hadn''t grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth and he wouldn''t let anyone take liberties. Aff (CA 68) was the perfect player for these conditions, and I had moved him to right midfield. He was extremely limited on the right - he didn''t like it and couldn''t get into the groove. Today wasn''t about grooves, though. It was about ploughing furrows. It was about carthorses and work and graft and sweat and mindless running. To that end, I had James Wise (54) and Andrew Harrison (50) in the centre. Andrew''s loan spell away had been a huge success - players who started their careers late needed lots of minutes in their legs. They needed to play meaningful matches and lots of them, and he had got six months of action at FC United. This encounter would be meaningful but whether he learned much from it was another question. Mostly he would learn that football is supposed to be played on a flat surface.


    Up front we had Henri Lyons, CA 68. I had told him not to press the defence too much and to save his energy for headers and for any chances he might get. He told me it didn''t make much sense to play with a lone striker who didn''t work hard. "You''ll get help in the second half," I said. "And you need to be able to do all this again on Tuesday night."


    All in all, it was an average CA of 56, but only two guys were under six feet tall.


    I checked Halifax''s lineup and saw that their average CA had slipped to 68. They had replaced their out-of-form striker with someone faster and more dynamic, but he was completely unsuitable for this kind of pitch. I set Glenn Ryder to mark him and left Christian as the spare man.


    The stadium wasn''t even half full. A couple of hundred away fans made all the noise. Halifax''s manager - tactics 10, motivating 15 - went over to them before kick off and clenched his fists. They roared. I settled back into the dugout and pulled my hood down.


    "Let''s do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel," said Sandra.


    I laughed. "What?"


    "Don''t you know that song?"


    "No."


    "You''re more into movies." She watched as Henri passed the ball back to Glenn. Glenn waited until Halifax''s striker came close, then smashed the ball long down the pitch. Sandra clicked her fingers. "Let''s get medieval on their arse."


    ***


    I like tennis sometimes. Those guys smash balls at each other for four hours and maintain a level of accuracy that''s pretty unbelievable. The rhythm of the sport works - you turn your head left and right to track the ball because every stroke could be a winner or could cross the wrong side of the line. Every stroke could earn or lose a point. There are stakes to every single moment.


    Ball goes left, ball goes right, ball goes left, ball goes right.


    Take the same rhythm and apply it to football and you have created... Wrexham-ball!


    Okay, that''s not quite fair. You''ve created 80s football. Win headers, win duels, win tackles. Keep your shape at all costs. Get muddy while keeping a clean sheet. Get bloody while putting your body on the line for the team. Fans in the Main Stand get the centre court experience without the strawberries and cream. Ball goes left, ball goes right. Technique? Flair? Imagination? Nope. Get it launched.


    Wrexham''s innovation was to get premium players doing rudimentary tasks. Win a header, knock it long for Muggles to chase. Win a header, knock it long for Hardy to win a header. Win a header to win a header to get a long throw to get your big boys forward so they can win a header. On Wrexham''s superb pitch, the style would eventually lead to mistakes from the oppo or a neat little bit of interplay or yes, a moment of magic from Muggles.


    The problem with having a swamp for a pitch is there''s almost no stakes to anything. If Henri''s competing for a header on the edge of the centre circle, it almost doesn''t matter if he wins it or not. He can''t chase the ball, dribble past three players, and slot home under the keeper - not with the pitch trying to suck his boots off and everything reduced to two-thirds speed. If Cole plays a ball down the line for Josh to chase, it almost doesn''t matter if it goes out of play. The chances of anything leading to a shot on goal were pretty slim. Two thousand six hundred people were urging their team forward, but what they were really doing was waiting for a mistake. A mistake big enough to lead to a goal.


    ***


    Extract from Seals Live


    Boggy: Twenty minutes gone here at the Deva, still nil-nil. Spectrum, what do you make of it so far?


    Spectrum: [Sighs.] There''s not much to say, is there? It''s attritional. Deadly dull. At least we''re on top.


    Boggy: In a game like this with so few chances, how do you measure that?


    Spectrum: We''ve got quite a high line and we''re getting to Halifax''s clearances and keeping them penned in their half. Christian Fierce is absolutely dominant and Halifax can''t create anything. As soon as they cross the halfway line, Fierce is all over them. So most of the match is being played in their half and we''re getting long throws and set pieces. Nothing''s come of them yet but if you put pressure on a team for ninety minutes you''d hope they would eventually crack.


    Boggy: Josh Owens has got a throw, now. He dries the ball with his special towel -


    Spectrum: They''re available in the club shop and online. Sorry, Max asked me to say that.


    Boggy: I''m sure they work for the dishes just as well as for footballs. Christian Fierce is up. Glenn Ryder is up. Everyone''s up except James Wise and Andrew Harrison is ten yards outside the box as cover. Here comes the throw - it''s lobbed high. Comes down with snow on - Fierce helps it on - someone - cleared! Harrison chips the ball back. Lyons jumps. Ryder jumps. Cole Adams is there. He plays it out left to Owens. Owens hits a cross. Hits the first defender! Some groans from the fans. That''s not helpful.


    Spectrum: That''s right. It''s not.


    Boggy: Owens with another chance. Much better this time! Who''s - ? Ohh! That was a chance. That was a half-chance!


    Spectrum: Magnus.


    Boggy: Magnus Evergreen got a little flick and directed the ball just wide. But that''s the gameplan in a nutshell. Keep Halifax in their half and load the box when we can. It isn''t pretty. Let''s check the chat. Pretty quiet in there, today. What''ve we got? Message from Caesar_the_Geezer. You wanted to be more like Wrexham? You''ve got your wish.


    Spectrum: [Stifles a laugh.]


    Boggy: Ball pumped forward. Fierce wins the header. Ryder kicks long. Out for a goal kick. [Sigh.] Let''s play a game. I spy...


    Spectrum: No, please.


    Boggy: I don''t spy, with my little eye, something beginning with M.


    Spectrum: You want Max to go on? What would he do in a game like this? Can''t dribble, can''t pass. No, it''ll be like this until the end.


    Boggy: Lord have mercy.


    ***


    At half-time it was still goalless, and while we had had a few half-chances, Halifax had done the square root of fuck all. Our defence had made mincemeat out of them - Cole, Carl, and Glenn were winning their headers and not giving anything away, but it was Fierce who was really breaking Halifax''s spirit. He was too tall, too powerful, too fast, too well-positioned. It was fun to think that no-one would ever score against us ever again.


    "Guys," I said, early in the break. Normally I liked to have a quiet time where everyone could decompress and I could see what changes my opponent made. Today, he had plumped for an early substitution and had already decided to take off his nippy striker and put his bigger guy on. "Their nine is coming on. We know he''s having a shocking season but he only needs one chance to ruin our day. Right? Christian, you take him. Shut him all the way down. Don''t let him get a kick." I stepped to the magnetic tactics board. "We''re going 4-4-2. Andrew, you get first dibs on the hot water. You''re welcome. Magnus is going to CM and Chippy''s going on up top with Henri. We''re doing the right things, lads, but these headed chances we''re getting are super low quality. Unless you''ve got a free header, can you head the ball back square?" I showed what I wanted with a swish of a marker pen. Basically, instead of trying to score I wanted them to ''pass'' the ball sideways into the mass of bodies. "Once the ball drops it''s fifty-fifty if it lands at our feet or theirs. Way better odds of scoring from that. Er, Vimsy, that''s right, isn''t it?"


    Vimsy was from the old school and had played this type of football almost his entire career. "You''re right, boss. You''re a natural at this."


    I made a face like I''d bit into a lemon. "That''s cruel, mate. Cruel. But yeah, if we''re playing horrible percentage football, let''s play horrible high percentage football. Anything else? Vimsy?"


    He scrunched his face up. "Keep battling, lads! You''ve got this! Keep winning your duels and the goals will come. But look, clean sheet, yeah?"


    "Why is it called a clean sheet?" said Ziggy.


    "In the olden days," I said, "like after the Cambrian period but before MacBook Airs, reporters used to tally goals on a fresh piece of paper, one for each team. If it was still clean at the end of the match it meant no-one had scored against that team."


    Ziggy was impressed. "You know what''s weird? I like history. I never liked it at school."


    "Yeah!" I said, enthusiastically. "Let''s go make some history!" I pointed to the doors with both hands.


    "Boss," said Sandra, checking her watch. "There''s still twelve minutes left."


    I stood straight again. "Right. This is why we do the speeches at the end of the break. Lesson learned. Twelve minutes? God. Oh, Livia. I heard you made a TikTok about me. Can I see it?"


    "Are you sure?"


    "Yes, I''m sure. TikToks are, like, eleven minutes long, right?"


    ***


    CLOSE-UP: LIVIA STRANTON IN HER WORK OUTFIT


    <blockquote>


    Just want to do a quickTok about one of the things going round on Friday at the Fans Forum. I heard a lot of people saying Max Best wants to change the badge. That''s the stupidest thing I''ve ever heard. Football traditionalist Max Best wants to change the badge? Are you serious?


    </blockquote>


    WIDE SHOT: MAX''S OFFICE


    <blockquote>


    I''m in Max''s office. My partner, Jackie Reaper, sometimes works in here so I know it well.


    </blockquote>


    CLOSE-UP: LIVIA STRANTON


    <blockquote>


    Apparently, some of you are stressed or pretending to be stressed that some guys in Max''s inner circle have been talking about the logo being a lion when it''s currently a wolf.


    </blockquote>


    CLOSE-UP: THE CHESTER BADGE ON LIVIA''S TRACKSUIT TOP


    IT''S A WOLF


    <blockquote>


    I had the same thing with Jack. He''d talk about lions and I used to get confused but I didn''t think much of it until this stupid takeover got out of hand and people started throwing lies around. I got my detective hat on and I''ve cracked the case. This is the filing cabinet where Vimsy leaves his unfinished cups of tea.


    </blockquote>


    MEDIUM SHOT: A FILING CABINET


    CLOSE-UP: HALF A DOZEN MUGS


    SUPER CLOSE-UP: ONE MUG


    <blockquote>


    See this? It''s the Chester crown at the bottom as normal, but someone''s put a lion coming out where there should be a wolf. There are five or six of these in various offices here. I''ve never seen them in the club shop or at the Deva. But Jackie, Max, Vimsy, the Brig, they''re drinking from these mugs all day every day.


    </blockquote>


    CLOSE-UP: LIVIA STRANTON


    <blockquote>


    Maybe one of you knows why these mugs got made but I''ll tell you what, you can tell by the stains they were made before Max Best was even born. Slight exaggeration there but he isn''t from Chester and he sees this mug more than the real badge. There. Mystery solved. Case closed. I''m going to buy six mugs with the proper logo on the side. Now grow up.


    </blockquote>


    ***


    I handed her phone back. "Who needs Christian Fierce when I''ve got you?"


    She bit her lip. "Sorry if I was out of line. They wind me up."


    I shook my head. "No, I get it." I wondered if I should ask her to delete the video, more for her own career than anything. Nah. "Weird logo on the mugs. That''s amazing. Imagine if it had gone to a vote and, like, seven people voted the wrong way because I drink so much tea and those seven people thought I wanted to vandalise the badge and their votes swung it." Brooke had said that her father would come at me in twenty different ways. Max Best wants to change the badge would not have been in my top fifty guesses for one of them. "I''m going to warm up," I said, and went into my private room and compared the curse''s scores to the ones on the BBC to see if there were any discrepancies - there weren''t.


    I stared at the wall. It stared back.


    ***


    With Chipper on the pitch we carried a lot more threat and Halifax dropped a couple of steps deeper. Interesting - I had wanted a DM to give us extra security but the extra attacking potential was even more effective as a shield.


    The origin of his nickname was something of a mystery to me. TJ said it was because he was a non-stop barrel of laughs, and given I was whizzing around Crawley like a hyperactive bee it had been possible to believe him. A rose by any other name would trap a ball just as sweetly, though. Chipper''s very first act was to catch the ball on his chest while the guy marking him crumpled to the mud. Chipper turned and chipped a pass to Henri, who volleyed it back first time. Chipper cracked a thunderous volley a couple of yards over the crossbar.


    The Welshman was rusty, but he was mint. Our match ratings were mostly on 6, but Chipper went right to 8. I could almost see Henri''s eyes light up, and the Halifax players who weren''t complaining to the referee about some perceived foul realised we had lost a couple of inches of height but gained a couple of sharp elbows.


    Henri and Chipper got closer to each other and now there was a point to winning the headers, to closing down the defenders. Our percentages had gone all the way up, and Halifax responded by dropping still deeper.


    Long throws, lobbed crosses, a few corners. Time and again we loaded the penalty box and created havoc. A couple of times, Halifax broke but simply couldn''t get a counter going. Either we would shut it down with a tackle or interception or a winger would dribble into some mud and all the energy would leave the break.


    I pulled my hood further down.


    ***


    Boggy: Seventy minutes on the clock. Chester nil, Halifax nil. The game is one-sided but neither team really looks like scoring. On Chester''s bench is Zach Green, Ziggy, and Max Best. What change would you make?


    Spectrum: This isn''t a match for tactics. This is a match for height and work rate. We''re winning our headers so there''s no point bringing Zach on. He might get a goal from a set piece, I suppose, but so might anyone.


    Boggy: Max Best has gone to warm up. I think it''s him - he has his hood up. It''s not raining, is it?


    ***


    With seventy-four minutes gone, I decided I couldn''t wait any longer. Cole and Josh had locked their side of the pitch down - no worries there, and Aff was more likely to score than Magnus, so I took the latter off and went to the centre of midfield. It was a horrible bog so I changed my mind and shuffled Aff to be the left-sided CM with Wisey to his right and me playing right wing.


    I walked up and down the side of the pitch looking for patches where the ground seemed firm. There were some.


    But mostly my early role was to run up and down and compete for headers when the ball was fired at me. I won one, lost two, and watched three sail miles above me and out for a Halifax throw.


    Grim.


    Seventy-eight minutes. Seventy-nine.


    Chipper took a long pass on the inside of his thigh, holding off his marker with impressive strength, and volleyed the ball to my feet. Thrilled to see some real football, I forgot the situation. I dropped my shoulder, nutmegged the left back, and raced past him. My speed was nerfed by the mud and the ball held up on the pitch. The left back barged me away and defied the pitch by running away with the ball. Chipper was trying not to show his displeasure at my ineptitude. Fucking disaster.


    Grimacing, I chased the left back as he waded away. I slid to the side of him and hooked the ball out for a throw-in. A whole lot of calories burned to achieve precisely nothing.


    I used my new perk and saw that Grimsby were winning.


    Grim. Grimace. Grimsby.


    While Halifax made a like-for-like substitution, I skimmed the scores from other matches. West Didsbury were winning, as they usually did. And the Saltney Town adventure had finally got underway! They were winning three-nil and Tom Westwood had scored two.


    Grin.


    Halifax threw the ball. I chased it, barged the guy off balance, and copied Chipper''s technique of chipping the ball over most of the mud. I hit it to Glenn, turned, and chugged towards Henri.


    He won a header. Chipper closed down a defender and blocked his clearance. The ball span in my direction. The left back was going to get there first but I was sure he was going to try to clear the ball down the line. I got in his sightline and he saw a chance to get clever. He would try to kick the ball against me and get a goal kick or a throw in.


    I jumped as he made contact with the ball - he simply kicked it out of play.


    Grin grin grin.


    I yelled out, "Come on, Joshy boy! Square heads, lads, square heads!"


    While Josh squelched across from the other side of the pitch, my centre backs lumbered forward. So did Cole and Carl. I decided I would send everyone into the box and defend the halfway line on my own. For a second I even thought about sending Sticky up to cause even more mayhem but while I was confident I could deal with any counter attacks, it wouldn''t have been congruent with what I was saying about keeping clean sheets. I had to hold on to some semblance of normality while my new signings - on and off the pitch - settled into the club.


    Josh hurled the ball into the box. A defender got his noggin on it, but only as far as Aff. He nodded it back into the mixer and there was another load of messing about. Finally, a defender made contact with a huge right. The ball flew miles up and away from me. Tricky take. Even worse - the new player who had just come on, fresh and not covered in mud like everyone else, was zooming towards me. If I miscontrolled this, he would be one-on-one with Sticky with no defenders anywhere near him.


    The ball reached its apex and started to descend. I put my body between where the ball would land and the Halifax player. He angled his run to a point between me and Sticky.


    The ball dropped - the player ran five yards.


    I got a panicked look on my face - I had misjudged the flight! Shit!


    The guy couldn''t believe his luck! In his mind''s eye, he was already through on goal, deciding what to do.


    The ball fell to ankle-height and I booped it behind me. Basically a mid-air Cruyff turn, no big deal. Technique 20, Flair 20. The guy chased shadows. Buh-bye!


    I pushed the ball onto one of the solid-looking patches I''d found. It was miles too far out but I concentrated and launched a hard, fast, Beckhamesque cross that swerved from the right of the six-yard box to the left. Just as it was running out of steam, Henri dropped back a couple of yards and redirected the ball square into the mass of bodies.


    Not quite square, though. A foot or two ahead of the defensive line.


    Too far?


    A foot appeared and twatted the ball on the volley. Too high! It would go miles over!


    The ball crashed into the top-left of the net. A full half-second later, Halifax''s goalie threw his hands up to block the shot.


    One-nil! Chipper! How did he keep that shot down? He was leaning back so far he was practically horizontal.


    Henri led the charge into the Harry McNally stand. Chipper, Christian Fierce, Cole, Josh, jumping onto each other''s backs like they were trying to form a human pyramid. Seemed like fun. I walked to Sandra to tell her what I wanted to do next - move Glenn Ryder to midfield and play centre back myself. "Why?" she said.


    "Because I used all my money to buy Christian Fierce and I want to play with my new toy."


    "That''s not how football works," she said.


    "So I shouldn''t do it?"


    She blew air from her cheeks. "You want to do a high line? Makes sense." She shook her head some more. "Vimsy''s right. You''re a natural at this. Maybe you evolved from a mud creature."


    I scoffed and on my way back, moved Aff to right mid and Glenn Ryder to central midfield. I used the Without Ball screens to drop Glenn to the DM slot and pushed the back four as high as the curse would let me.


    Our defence was now Cole, Christian, me, and Carl, and by playing high we would catch Halifax offside if they tried to go long behind us, which they would. If they managed to get past without the offside flag being raised, Christian and I would race each other to be the first on the scene.


    "I''m way too fucking good at this," I said. While my players slowly made their way back from the celebrations, I bent and looked at the grass again. I dipped my finger into the mud - that glorious, point-rich mud - and scraped it under my eyes like a commando.


    When I got to my feet, Christian Fierce was peering down at me. "You''re fucking crazy, you know that?"


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "You wannabe a soft rock all your life?"


    His eyes widened and after a moment of pure disbelief, his jaw set. He bent and got some dirt on his fingers. He dragged them across his skin. He growled, "Reporting for duty, sir."


    "Ten minutes, mate." I yelled out, "Keep it tight last ten!" This caused me to laugh far too much, but the match was underway.


    From his unfamiliar DM slot, Glenn jumped for a header but glanced it, redirecting the ball to my left where the striker might have been able to get it. I leaped and did a fucking amazing diving header. The ball went towards Cole. For once he lost a duel and the winger came away with the ball.


    "Go!" I shouted.


    Fierce ate up the ground between him and the player and slid in with a thunderous tackle. Fierce, the winger, and the ball slid off the pitch like curling stones. Fierce got up and glared at the rest of the sitch, but I was perfectly positioned between where the winger would have gotten and the striker. Yeah, mate. Maxy boy knows how to play.


    While Halifax were in our half, I switched places with Glenn on the tactics screens to make him drop next to Christian. I beefed up the line as a third CB. Their right back took the throw to the winger, who volleyed it straight into our six-yard box. Sticky plucked the ball out of the air and threw it to Chipper. I swapped Ryder back to DM again and insisted on the high line.


    For a minute, I focused on the sitch. We seemed to have Halifax absolutely on toast, but I scanned and scanned, triple and quadruple checked my workings.


    I relaxed enough to enjoy the man-mountain next to me. Fierce looking fierce. That was the expression we were going to plaster all over town. He was so good he would open up all kinds of new tactics and formations.


    I continued to admire him until suddenly he shifted his bodyweight, dropped five yards, jumped, and headed the ball right to me. I caught it on my thigh, did a couple of playful volleys, and joyously smacked it out of play close to the corner flag, fifty yards closer to Yorkshire. Get back, you dogs!


    It would be fun to say that for the remaining minutes we fought like lions, attacked like wolves, and wallowed like seals, but the truth is we pushed our opponents into the mud like they were our younger brother. We sat on them while pinning their arms down and laughed until an adult told us to stop.


    Three points, clean sheet, job done, and the look on the Brig''s face when he saw my war paint was priceless.


    ***


    Sandra did the media while I had an extra-long shower. Fierce was first in next to me. I said, "When''s the last time you got called a soft rock?"


    He tilted his head. "That was the first. The last, too, I hope."


    I smiled. "Can''t promise. It''s a great theme. By the way, you were man of the match."


    "Oh! Thanks. You do that every game?"


    "I choose one every game." The curse automatically picked a guy from each team. "Don''t always announce it."


    "What do I get?"


    "You get to tell your grandkids you played centre back with Max Actual Best."


    "I was thinking maybe there was a board with our names on and we get a gold star and it''s a race to see who gets the most. Like at school."


    Carl Carlile was listening. "Don''t give him ideas! It''d be just like him to get loads of hard-nosed pros chasing achievement stickers."


    As Fierce turned to banter with his fellow defender, I went internal. I''d earned 460 XP from the match and would get something similar on Saturday. The women''s matches were giving me 270 a pop. My income was going to be fairly predictable until the end of the season - Old Nick would be delighted.


    I was tempted to buy the 1,000 XP Live Tables perk so that I could see the effect of the current scores on the tables. It wasn''t just that I had no idea where we were in the table right now - I could shout to Dean or Livia or pretty much anyone who had their phone out. No, I was thinking ahead to frantic, high-pressure end-of-season matches.


    If Grimsby were drawing and Barnet were winning two-nil and we were winning four-nil, what would that actually mean? It could mean, for example, that all three teams were level on points but that Chester needed to score two more times to go top of the league. There were plenty of situations where that knowledge could make the difference. Famously, when they were still a football team, Manchester City found themselves in a last-day-of-the-season nailbiter where a player thought their current score was good enough - he took the ball into the corner. He was wrong - City needed another goal. They were relegated with their player fighting hard to keep the score as it was.


    Buying the Live Tables perk would surely protect us from that - I would know exactly what was needed even if I was on the pitch.


    I wasn''t going to be able to afford Relationism by the time I got to Brazil so there was no point stressing about it. I had calculated that saving up for that one would take 47 National League matches in which I played twenty minutes, and that was if I used my current balance and the ten percent discount.


    No, it definitely made sense in the current situation to buy the Live Tables perk to go with the Live Scores.


    I scratched my head. Maybe it would have made more sense to go straight to the Live Tables? I''d have been able to work out the scores from there.


    Nah. Too much work in the middle of a match. I was getting used to using the With Ball Without Ball screens without it costing too much mental energy but the whole player-manager shit was exhausting. I couldn''t do maths on top of everything else. I probably shouldn''t even have been looking at the perk shop, but the idea had been creeping up on me and not knowing the current situation was just annoying enough to make me slightly rash.


    I stopped the water, bought Live Tables and checked it out. The Live Table wasn''t exactly live, since all the matches had finished. It was simply the league table, but the screen was in my head now, permanently, and would be, even mid-match. Evolve me, sensei!


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>61</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>54</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>41</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Barnet had played the most games and were comfortably ahead of us in points, but I was only really looking at Grimsby. We had played four fewer than them. In football-speak this is called having four games in hand and it is traditional to assume you will win all of those matches. Adding twelve points to the final column made the situation look a lot healthier!


    I grabbed a towel and started to dry off.


    Grimsby''s goal difference was so superior it was barely worth looking at. Goal difference, you remember, is goals scored minus goals conceded. Chester had scored 42 and let in 32 for a goal difference of plus ten. If teams were level on points - for example, if we got exactly twenty more than Grimsby in our remaining fixtures - goal difference would decide who was placed higher. Given their huge advantage, Grimsby''s GD was rather like having an extra point.


    That was all for the future, though. For today, we were still ninth, but if we kept this kind of form going we would shoot up the table. We had actually won five of the last six, with the only defeat being against our next opponents, Forest Green Rovers.


    One thing the curse couldn''t tell me was what Rovers planned to do with the million quid they had made in the FA Cup Third Round. No doubt they would do what we had done - bring in a few wily old campaigners.


    "Dean," I said, stopping next to my head physio en route to my corner. "Where are the kids?"


    I said kids but mostly I meant WibRob. He was the jewel in the crown, even more than Youngster. Jones, my new Welsh right back, came close in terms of raw ability but goalscorers were far more valuable than defenders. Dean was checking a nasty cut Chipper had got. Just my luck if my best player went septic in his first match. Dean paused in his work long enough to say, "I saw William and Noah heading into the Main Stand."


    Some of the old fear. The Main Stand, with its legions of scouts and agents looking to make a fast buck off my work. I tried my best to shake it off.


    "Lads," I said, turning the music down for a second. Everyone looked at me. "Great win. Hard shell and spikes. Love it. Don''t forget training''s at King George tomorrow. Anyone late because they went to BoshCard it''s a fifty quid fine. You''re on your own for breakfast. Sorry to dampen the mood but you need to eat at home so don''t forget."


    "No, Max," said Henri. "Leave breakfast to Henri Lyons. The ocean is full of minerals and we must feast before the other creatures get there. Ladies and gentlemen, bring your appetites to the King George! Ah... and some napkins. Cutlery, perhaps. Has anyone access to twenty thermos flasks?"


    Half the lads pressed forward to help Henri organise.


    I slipped into my corner and got dressed, then sat with my head in my hands. Wrexham-ball in a mudbath once was abysmal, but twice in a week was a cruel and unusual punishment. It was all so very hard to stomach, but stomach it I would, because this was it right here. The Chesterness. Togetherness, team spirit, in this world it''s just us.


    Just us.


    ***


    XP balance: 5,214


    ***


    Saltney Town 5 - Brickfield Rangers 1


    Saltney move up to fifth. Two goals for Tom Westwood. Apparently, Rainman made a mistake that led to a goal. Young goalkeepers make mistakes. No big deal. Get it out of your system, lad!


    West Didsbury and Chorlton 3 - Irlam 0


    West remain miles clear in first place. Captain and Sevenoaks came on near the end to make their debuts. Jay Cope helping me win next year''s Youth Cup!


    ***


    Saturday, 25 January


    Match 25 of 46: Chester vs Forest Green Rovers


    The pitch had not improved in the four days since we had churned it up. I stood on the halfway line next to Jonny Planter and I''m not sure which one of us was closer to tears.


    "I''m sorry, boss," he said. He usually called me Max so I knew how low he was feeling. Lower than me.


    I tried to cheer him up. "Not your fault, mate. Not your fault."


    "I tried, and the lads helped."


    "The volunteers, yeah. When we get promoted we need to hand out a couple of proper contracts. Do you know who you''ll choose?"


    "I do, yes, boss, but that''s not what I meant. I meant the lads."


    "The lads?"


    "The lads. The eighteens. Tyson and Benny and William and Noah and the whole lot of them who could make it. Three nights in a row they were here, helping out. Trying to get her in shape." He looked up. "No good, though. No good."


    So that''s what the kids had been up to. Sneaking off to volunteer to help. You know those thin sachets that you shake and they heat up? That was how my entire body felt. I could have run for days... on someone else''s pitch.


    I slapped Jonny on the back. "One day we''ll have a Premier League quality surface. You''ll get everything you need to make that happen."


    He blurted out, "I need a see-through roof."


    "What?"


    "Like Newcastle got. And Twickenham. It lets the light in. I saw the drawings at the Fans Forum and you''ve got a solid roof." He trailed off. "Better if it''s clear."


    I smiled. "We''ll have to move the solar panels to the outside. You can help tell us where, maybe, or there will be patches where it''s dark. I''m having trouble imagining what you mean to be honest." At light speed, he summoned a photo of Newcastle''s stadium. It did, indeed, have a mostly transparent roof on one side. "Huh. Did I only go to St. James'' Park for night games? I don''t remember noticing the roof. But yeah, sounds sensible to let as much light in as we can. I''ll talk to my contact at the stadium builders and see what''s poss. Yeah. Good call, Jonny!"


    "I''ll work even harder this week."


    "You''ll do no such thing. You''ll pace yourself and do your best. We can play on this better than any team in the league, anyway. We''ll turn it into an advantage."


    "But boss," he said. "The Halifax manager called it a disgrace. Said it was the worst pitch he''s ever seen, shouldn''t be allowed, all that stuff."


    "Prick''s a bad loser. Don''t listen to outsiders. It''s just us, mate. Remember that."


    ***


    "What do you think?" I said, sliding into my chair in the manager''s office. It was time to make our final calls.


    "Four-four-two," said Sandra. "Only real question is Magnus versus Andrew and Andrew versus Aff."


    "I think we need Aff," I said.


    "Andrew can lock down the right just as good as him. Aff''s one of our best weapons for when we, ah, evolve. No need to grind him today."


    Aff gave off the vibe of being almost indestructible but I remembered he had torn a hamstring from being overplayed. "Yeah, okay. Magnus and Andrew start, Aff comes on for twenty or thirty. Done." I picked up a match programme and turned to the back page. It showed most of the current squads for both clubs, with shirt numbers so fans could tell who was on the pitch. The away team''s squad hadn''t changed so far this transfer window. "FGR have all that cup money but haven''t spent it. What are they thinking?"


    "Waiting for the last day of the window?"


    I threw my hands up. "Yeah, but why?"


    "This is their only match before the window closes. It''s not urgent, is it? They might be waiting on other clubs to do their business. Player chain. A has to move so that B can come in which frees up C as long as D... and so on."


    "It''d drive me crazy. Bid for a player, get him, move on. Do it early in the window if you can. Makes no sense to do everything in a rush on the last day."


    "Are you okay?"


    "Yeah." Why had she asked that? "Everyone''s doing extra. Putting their back into everything. It''s amazing. I''ll do my part. I have to do my part. It''s just... Fuck, Sandra. I want to smash a free kick but I can''t put all my weight on my off foot without sliding. I, like, can''t do what I''m best at. What the team needs." She didn''t say anything, but waited. "Will you take a point today?"


    She nodded. "A point''s... decent. Four points from six is good, right? And it''s two full matches for Cole and Josh. And Sticky. This show of faith in them could pay off at the end of the season." Her watch beeped and she got up. She jerked her head towards the dressing room. "What''s the message?"


    I closed my eyes. "Keep it tight first ninety."


    "Understood."


    ***


    We scrapped. We battled. We slipped. We slid. It was ghastly. Beastly. Inhuman. No-one in their right minds would have wanted to play in such conditions.


    "Boss," said Zach, taking an opportunity to sit next to me on the bench while Sandra was up shouting.


    "Yes."


    "I can do this."


    "What?"


    "I can scrap. I played in games like this. I can hit a better long ball, too."


    I pulled my hood back just a fraction so I could side-eye him. "If you''re pulling a trailer full of forty to fifty feral hogs out of a muddy ditch, do you use a Rolls Royce or a four by four?"


    "They''re not feral if you can get them up in a trailer."


    I pointed. "Sit over there and look pretty. That''s your job today."


    "But you know I can do it, right?"


    I looked up, exasperated. People begging for praise always exhausted me. "Sure, Zach. You can get down and dirty. If I ever need someone to help me er, what''s the word... drive some cattle from Texas to whatever is next to Texas, you''ll be the first guy I call."


    "Glad to hear it. And if you''re doing any more science themes I can help you with that, too."


    "I''ll one million percent take you up on that," I said. "If I ever come up against a topic I can''t immediately top to bottom understand within three YouTube videos."


    "That''s," he started, but shuffled back to his place.


    If only he could go on instead of me. I wasn''t in the mood for this ocean-bottom football, but I could do the defensive work as well as anyone and I had a greater chance of creating or scoring than anyone - with the possible exception of Chipper. The guy was better than I''d thought. Tough as nails, could hold the ball up, tidy layoffs, combined amazingly with Henri. Our patterns of play were subconsciously turning towards him and that was a measure of how quickly he had earned the trust of the other players.


    There was only one slight problem.


    He was a nutter.


    Fierce clips the ball left.


    Owens competes for it, but loses out.


    Adams is there to help. He scuffs the ball forward.


    Owens clips it to Lyons.


    Lyons turns and gives it to Thomson.


    Thomson is being held - unfairly!


    Free kick to Chester.


    Now Thomson has his marker by the throat!


    It''s all kicking off!


    Here come the peacemakers.


    Now the peacemakers are getting stuck in!


    Chester''s manager pulls his hood down.


    Corners, free kicks, long throws - any time there was a mass of bodies, Leslie ¡°Chipper¡± Thomson was kicking, lashing out, standing on someone''s feet. The ref kept pleading with him to stop but the guy had a genius for being able to throw his weight about without getting booked. I mean, in the first half alone he could have had six yellow cards.


    This was probably why TJ had looked for an upgrade - at higher levels, referees were much less tolerant of this crap. It was why I''d worked to ease this out of Henri''s game. Would I do the same with Chipper? As long as he didn''t get a red card at a bad moment, it didn''t really affect me. Today, for example. If he got sent off we would turtle up and get a nil-nil. Everyone agreed that would be a good result.


    I checked the Live Scores - Grimsby and Barnet were winning. Pulling away from us. Dropping twenty-two points behind would virtually end our hopes of catching the league leaders.


    "Urgh!" I said, pushing my hoodie back. I got to my feet and for the first time in the match took over the shouting duties. In particular, I gave Chipper a volley of what some might call verbals but what others might call constructive criticism. He gave me a death stare in return.


    I moved the back four a few yards forward and got Zach to warm up as a warning to Glenn not to retreat. I experimented with dropping Chipper into the CAM slot so he could be even more of a conduit between the midfield and Henri. It was a good idea and I planned to return to it, but on this occasion I sensed our expected threat had dropped considerably so I moved him back to being a second striker.


    We had the better of the first half, but once again there hadn''t been many shots.


    ***


    At half-time, I took Vimsy into my manager''s room.


    "Mate, this is awful. Am I doing it right?"


    He shrugged. "There''s not really a way to do it wrong, Max. It''s like, you win your duels and get rid of the ball. You can''t concede if you do that."


    "So there''s nothing I can tweak? No trick? What about putting Zach on and using Fierce as a third striker? Sort of a Goliath thing?"


    He shook his head. "Sorry, lad. Not when you''re on top. That''d only let them in with a chance. You want to suffocate the life out of them. But what are you worried about? It''s going great and you''ll come on and hit a couple of your crosses and that''ll be that. It''s all like you said."


    I put my knuckle against my lips. "Yeah."


    "What''s up?"


    "I was trying to think like an anomalocaris."


    "That''s your killer shrimp thing."


    "That''s our killer shrimp thing, Vimsy. It''s your planet, too. So, how do we evolve for this situation? I got some boots with longer studs and had a play on the grass at BoshCard. The long studs didn''t help much and I couldn''t control the ball very well. So that''s out. And that''s all I could think. If I go full whack at a Beckham, my standing foot doesn''t stand. It slides. If I go for a cannonball, my left foot slides. Whatever I do, I slide. And that''s a problem unless I want to take shots like the guy in My Left Foot."


    "You know what I learned from watching that video Zach sent around?"


    "Video?"


    "He said it was for anyone who sort of wanted to know what you were talking about in maybe slightly more accurate terms. I learned that necessity is the mother of invention. If a predator''s coming, you improvise." He looked worried. "That''s right, isn''t it?"


    "Basically, yeah. Get good or get eaten." I leaned back and looked straight up. "So there''s no tweaks you can teach me? What would Ian Evans do now?"


    "He''d break out the fucking bubbly, Max, because you just put out one of the best forty-five minutes of Ian Evans football I''ve ever seen."


    Still looking up, I scoffed. "Amazingly, that doesn''t make me feel better."


    "Come on, Max. Let''s go inside. Moping on your own in here does you no good. Come on, lad. One of us, yeah?"


    I blew air out of my lungs over the course of about five seconds, took a few beats, and said, "Josh is getting outfoxed by that right back. Can you talk to him? I think his starting position is wrong. Bring Wisey into it and see if he''s noticed. He might understand it better than Josh himself."


    "Yes, boss."


    ***


    Long throw. Josh Owens dries the ball on the towels - now in stock in the club shop - and hurls it. Men jump and the ball pinballs around. The ball is having a lovely old time deciding which patches of mud to stick to and which kicks to veer wildly off course.


    Corner. I haven''t set a taker because no-one on the pitch stands out as being particularly good and it''s fascinating to see who goes over. For a while it''s Andrew Harrison and he does some feeble, powder-puff chips that don''t clear the front post. It''s maddening.


    Defensive header. Ball helped forward. James Wise tries to win the ball high up the pitch but only gives away a free kick. The keeper takes a minute off the clock and booms it all the way down the pitch to Sticky. He boots it all the way back.


    "Holy fucking shit!" I say. The plan is working. The plan is mint. The football is diabolical. Grimsby are winning and our title charge is dying in the mud. "I can''t watch this any more. I''m going on!"


    ***


    I decided to take Magnus and Andrew off, with Aff going to the left of central midfield as had worked pretty well in the previous game. It didn''t really matter, though. This was a new sport where you needed to like heavy ground and you needed to be tall.


    The patterns continued as before, but being the one jumping for headers was way better than watching a guy jumping for headers. I almost started to enjoy the work. I would push forward to put pressure on the left back to make sure he couldn''t put quality on his pass - as if - then head back to midfield to support Carl. Then I''d push forward, go back, an endless loop that achieved nothing except the preservation of our precious clean sheet.


    I entered a zen-like state of absolute, perfect misery and marvelled at the difference Christian Fierce had made to our back line. We were solid ay eff! Kidderminster had two great strikers, too. Why weren''t they in the playoff spots?


    Because they hadn''t evolved from the National League North. They hadn''t added strings to their bow.


    I found myself sprinting to the right and that was because Chipper had collected a pass and was laying it off to Henri. He hit it in my direction and I got my head down and sprinted to get it. It must have been a fair impression of a racehorse - mud flying up, beautiful, powerful form. I glanced left and decided I would cut the ball back into Chipper''s path.


    As I was about to hit the ball, I stumbled.


    I stumbled because the ball was two yards behind where it was supposed to go. The traitorous mud had held it up. The chance to strike was gone. Would there be another?


    I put my hands behind my head as I walked back, one step at a time, sucking in air after the sudden exertion.


    It was no-one''s fault.


    It was no-one''s fault.


    Ten million pounds for a new stand including drainage and undersoil heating. Some of that fancy equipment the big boys used. Big lamps that rolled across the grass helping it grow.


    Fierce, Ryder, and a striker went up for a header. Fierce cleaned the other two out. Wisey got the ball and hooked it forward. Henri competed and sent Chipper after it. He hit it out to me - why? I''m shit. I stared at the ball and clipped it with side spin in front of Chipper. He threw himself forward and somehow got a volley away - the keeper flew up like a dolphin exploding from the sea and tipped the ball over the bar.


    Corner kick! At last a chance to do something useful. I collected the ball and ambled to the corner quadrant. There was no point rushing because my entire back four was jogging into the penalty area, while Josh and Wisey dropped to stop any counters.


    What to do?


    I had to go hell for leather. Sprint at the ball and give it the full Beckham, the full wrecking ball, otherwise nothing was going to happen. Andrew Harrison had been lobbing in those pitiful snail mail deliveries and wasted approximately a million corners.


    All or nothing.


    I placed the ball and tested the soil to its left. Nightmare. I moved the ball to the right. I moved it up, down, I spotted it everywhere. Mud, mud, swamp, pond. James Pond getting his revenge.


    The referee whistled hard like I was timewasting.


    We''re at home and I''ve got a chance to win it, you dick! Shove your whistle up your -


    I took four steps back, inhaled, checked where Fierce and Ryder were, and rocketshipped myself towards the ball. I planted my left and swung with my right... and slid, and slid, and slid, taking the ball with me.


    I had achieved... a goal kick to Forest Green and a video clip that would get record plays on fan forums in Wrexham.


    I wanted to sit up and slap the turf, but that would have been a slap in the face for Jonny Planter. The guy had worked his arse off. My fucking under eighteens had gone to the stadium twice after training and on their free Thursday to do running repairs on the pitch. No fucking way would I treat them the way Chester''s fans had treated me.


    Sorting my limbs out was not the work of a moment, but I got to my feet - filthy dirty - and tossed the ball towards the goalie.


    I walked away, trying to keep it together.


    Two minutes later - disaster. We got another corner on my side.


    Shaking my head, I looked for a spot to plant the ball. There were no spots. There was only primordial soup. Wherever I put my weight, I would slip and fall. The only solution was what Andrew Harrison had done - to try to float the ball without twisting, to kick straight, knowing that if you slipped, at least the ball would go into the penalty box. I wanted to slap myself in the face. Andrew wasn''t a fucking idiot - why was I so arrogant to think he didn''t understand his own environment? Fucking tiny eels five hundred million years ago had learned to loop-de-loop to avoid the megashrimp. Why was I so keen to assume a human being in 2025 couldn''t make rational decisions?


    I stared at the ball and all kinds of images whizzed past - the moon, an egg, Wales the beer belly, a gluey French cheese, a speech bubble in a cartoon.


    It didn''t matter what the ball was. It mattered that all around was, as far as my balance was concerned, ice.


    What would Max Best do?


    Max Best would fucking go for it.


    I took four steps back, inhaled, tried and failed to stop my face turning to absolute furious stone, and I launched myself at that fucking round thing. I sprinted, I went all out, I took a big swing and if I made proper contact this would be the textbook definition of an outswinging corner. Fuck you, universe! I am Max Best and I am a floating megabrain and I float above your shitty surface! Your rules do NOT apply to me!


    The rules did apply to me. My left foot got no traction and my left leg collapsed. I fell to earth harder than before and watched as the ball rotated once, twice, three times, and came to rest a sarcastic distance behind the goal line.


    Goal kick to Forest Green.


    Nobody''s fault. Nobody gets slapped. Nobody can see the tears waiting behind my eyes. A point is fine. Four points from six. Grimsby leading two-one. Okay, so what? So we go for the playoffs after all.


    The playoffs are in summer. The pitches are firm and fast. The final''s at Wembley on a huge pitch and my Pascals and my Sharkys will annihilate their foes.


    Christ knows how but I made it the first five yards without bursting into tears.


    Vimsy. "Necessity is the mother of invention."


    Andrew Harrison. Smart guy, raised his siblings almost single-handed. Fucking good footballer even if he didn''t do nutmegs and madnesses. Chipping the ball forward in a straight line.


    Invention. Evolution. Shells and spikes and burrowing.


    A man. A ball. The man cannot kick the ball.


    "The creatures of the Cambrian period tried on every possible anatomical design."


    I stopped, hands on hips, and looked down, defeated. I walked forward. After five yards, I stopped. With a tremendous effort, I walked on again.


    The match, stupidly, was still going on. Was there any sound? Who cared. Who fucking cared about anything? Not your reliable narrator, Maxy Two-slips.


    Stuff happened. The ball went here and there. Then it went there and the referee signalled for a corner. I picked up the ball and while holding it, changed the right-side corner kick taker to Aff.


    Maybe with his left foot he would get more purchase on the cross?


    Would he fuck. It was soup, mate. Soup for miles.


    "Aff," I said, handing him the ball. I pointed furiously, gesticulating like a proper manager. "I''m pretending to be telling you things."


    "Yes, boss."


    "What you''re going to do is, when I walk away I''m going to stop. I want you to kick the ball to there. You get me? Kick it there. I''ll have moved on a few steps but kick it there."


    "Solid ground, boss?"


    "As solid as it gets round here."


    I walked off and when I got to the spot, I gestured that Wisey should do this and Josh should do that. One of the Forest guys got suspicious - I had developed a slight reputation for tricks and whimsy, but then I trudged away and there was no disguising how shit I felt. The defender took a couple of steps back.


    Aff went through his routine but, instead of whipping the ball in, he played a kind of skimming stone shot, putting the ball more or less exactly where I needed it. I had walked back towards him when he started his move. I touched the ball to bring it under my spell, and - facing towards the penalty spot - hit the kind of toe-poke pass that would have been considered cringe in the Cambrian era. With my left foot more or less planted, I did a simple, straight swish of my right, kicking the ball exactly forwards in the manner of a child. It was much less technical even than Andrew had been doing, but the angle. The angle, mate!


    Aff takes the corner. It''s played simply to Best.


    Best takes a touch - retaining his balance, just - and toe pokes it into the area.


    Adams leaps at the far post. This could be a chance!


    He elects to play it back across goal.


    Thomson is quickest to react...


    He leathers it past the goalie!


    It was struck with genuine ferocity!


    His second goal in two games has won it for Chester!


    There is pandemonium at the Deva! The home fans are raising the roof!


    I pottered down the line, wondering what to do next. It was eerily quiet in the stadium but I could see Sandra''s mouth moving. I couldn''t hear her, though, and I decided I would drop Chipper to CAM and move myself to DM to keep things tight for the last few minutes. If Forest Green sensed opportunity on our right I would simply station Aff there and that would be that.


    The last few minutes came and went. Fierce won a header. I won a tackle. Henri held the ball up, drew a foul, and the ref decided to end things there. Another one-nil win. More human pyramids in front of the Harry McNally.


    I was almost in the dressing room when I remembered I had been keeping an eye on the other scores. It was another win for West and another win for Saltney. Another two goals for Tom Westwood! Good for him.


    Hang on. Go back.


    Grimsby... had drawn.


    I stopped dead and tried to refresh the screen by blinking. In disbelief, I got my phone and summoned the BBC.


    Grimsby had drawn. We were two points closer.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="175"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>62</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>57</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>44</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The Brig came in. Without anyone saying anything, since the Fans Forums he had gone back to being something of a bodyguard. "Sir," he said, with a hint of a smile. "You remember we talked about your desire to know how the pitch at Dorking Wanderers is getting along?"


    "Yes." We had discussed it at a senior staff team meeting and the upshot was that the Brig had promised to take care of Dorking while Fleur, our only actual scout, had gone to Eastleigh.


    "I can''t tell you everything but I have an old colleague who lives in Surrey who specialised, during his career, in reconnaissance. I sounded him out for the mission and he was intrigued enough to do it."


    My heart skipped a beat. The Brig was smiling. Surely not... good news? "Go on," I said, not daring to believe.


    "He said it''s like a snooker table, sir. Actually, he said it''s like a billiards table, but he always was cripplingly posh."


    "Billiards table," I croaked. Chemical reactions of a thousand kinds were coursing through me. Enzymes released, endorphins by the hosepipe, testosterone by the gallon. "We can... we can pass? We can slap?"


    "I believe so, sir."


    "John," I said.


    "Yes, sir?"


    Blood was pulsing so hard through my ears it was like someone had set up a drum kit two inches behind me. Dorking would set up to defend against a team of giants. I would slice them up with Pascal''s intelligence and Sharky''s speed. They would have an idea of how to counter me coming on at the end, but I would start the match in a forward position, trusting Christian to keep us solid. I would storm around for twenty minutes and win the game. Then after unleashing our awesome firepower, I would sub off. We would control the match and conserve energy for Tuesday night''s slog against Dagenham. One of our games in hand and a safe bet to bring us three points closer to Grimsby. "John. It''s happening. We''re going to do this."


    His smile broadened. "I know, sir." He brushed about one trillionth of the mud off me and smiled. "We all know."


    ***


    As I was about to leave, Secretary Joe found me. Relief washed over him. "Ah, there you are. I got this to give you. Seemed urgent and important." He handed me an expensive-feeling envelope.


    "Who gave it to you?"


    "Someone left it in the Blues Bar in an envelope for me." He smiled. "I think someone knows my routine."


    I frowned slightly. Would someone want to hurt Joe to get at me? He was an ally but mostly he was a Chester fan. Surely not a target? I opened the flap and pulled out two items.


    The first was a ticket to a football match dated this coming Wednesday. "York City under eighteens versus Redditch United under eighteens. Hmm. Not terribly exciting, is it?" As I said that, I realised it wasn''t true. There was something about this I found INSANELY exciting.


    "What does it say?" said Joe, looking at the letter. On closer inspection, it wasn''t a letter; it was formatted like a fancy party invitation with embossed edges.


    "You are cordially invited," I read, "to witness the future of English football. See you there, Max Best. Kiss, kiss, kiss. That''s too many kisses."


    "So you won''t go, then?"


    I grinned. "Envelopes within envelopes. Shadowy characters." I wafted the card under my nose. "No scent. If this was some sort of honey trap, I''d have squirted some of my favourite perfume on it, which as you know is Flowers by Miley Cyrus."


    "Do you want it to be a honey trap?"


    "Of course I do."


    "But it''s a trap."


    "But there''s honey."


    Joe shook his head and smiled. But then it was his turn to look worried. "Will you take John?"


    "Hmm," I said, wafting the card under my nose. The whole thing hinted at some kind of lady spymaster summoning me to join a secret society. Why didn''t it have some perfume? "Might just do that." I looked at the text again. Witness the future of English football.


    Huh. Don''t mind if I do.

 10.3 - Gemini

    3.


    "Geminis are agents of change, experts in disruption, and they delight in unbound communication. The more their ideas tend to the abstract and the overarching, the greater the chance of overreach. Geminis may cause hurt without meaning to, but as a natural chameleon they are able to recover quickly." From Astrology to Astroturf: Making The Stars Your Twelfth Man by Magnus Evergreen (self-published)


    ***


    Sunday, January 26


    Match 12 for the women was away to Bury FC, who they had beaten six-nil at home. The prospect of another easy win meant the women''s mood was sky-high and I had thought long and hard about whether I wanted to risk that. In the end I decided I simply had to speak my mind because otherwise I risked going apeshit without them knowing why.


    The match was to be played in the grounds of a school - in Bolton, weirdly - and I''d called to ask the headmaster if I could use a classroom before the match. He said he would call me back and did so. Obviously doing a quick search to see if I was a wrong¡¯un. Apparently, he liked what he''d found and the classroom was ours for the morning.


    The day before, after the win against FGR, Magnus Evergreen had asked what was on my mind and I had told him I needed to speak to the women and I was worried about my tone. He nodded, asked what time I¡¯d been born, and requested I go to his house in the morning. There he had given me three small bowls of crystals that I was to touch when I felt my blood starting to boil. I humoured him but left the crystals in the car. When I saw the women laughing and joking and talking about anything but football, I went to get them.


    The crystals - blue agate, aquamarine, and labradorite - lay on a teacher''s desk next to my laptop.


    I picked up a blue agate. Magnus said to hold it to my throat to ensure clear communication. That was a bit too woo-woo for me, but I chucked it up and grabbed it a few times while the women''s team shuffled in and took positions behind desks. There was instant silliness. I found myself glaring at them - teacher DNA - and I pressed the blue crystal to my neck.


    This wasn''t how I wanted to spend my life. Neither relying on crystals to help me talk to people nor teaching these innocent young creatures about the cruel realities of football. They were awesome, they had Chesterness, and they deserved better than to be pawns in a grand game of chess, but it felt like we had reached a decisive moment and something had to change. Either their levels of commitment would rise, massively, or mine would fall, precipitously.


    "Thirty seconds," I said, and the general level of merriment halved. The more serious students - I mean, players - sat up straight or instinctively leant to get a pen out of their school bags. Charlotte was one such swot and she shot me a guilty look. I smiled - yes, I saw that. She flushed and got a big smile. My mood lifted hugely. I could do this with diplomacy and sophistication. I could.


    I put the crystal against my neck.


    To the side of the room, Emma, Gemma, and Ruth were on their phones. They would give a presentation of their own after I had finished - I was well aware that if I lost my temper the change in the tone would be major whiplash, so that was even more reason to keep things on an even keel.


    "Bea Pea," I snapped. Everyone looked up, shocked by my sudden aggression. "Are you chewing gum? Did you bring enough for everyone?" Bea Pea had a fit of giggles and everyone laughed. "Was that believable? Sandra said I had teacher DNA."


    Angel, the team''s dangerously beautiful striker, said, "You''d be the cute supply teacher that all the girls fancied but you''d shack up with the hottie who taught Business Studies."


    I tilted my head. "How do you know about me and Miss Butterfield?"


    Emma looked up from her phone. "Excuse me what."


    I clapped my hands. "Great. Everyone''s in a good mood. I think I''m ready to do this." While holding the crystal against my neck, I checked my laptop was screensharing with the fancy whiteboard and for the last time considered whether the Ffamous Five should be present or not. Keen-to-please youngsters that they were, the five precocious teenage Welsh girls had taken a cluster of seats at the very front. I went over to them, crouched, and said in a soft voice, "Hey, girls. If I do lose my temper it''s not about you, okay? But this is about the future and you''re the future of this team so I thought it was better if you were here."


    I put the crystal back in its bowl and turned my laptop to face me.


    "Where''s the documentary crew?" said Angel.


    I wasn''t interested in discussing that. "They went to get biscuits." I glanced to my left and for some reason, Angel was glaring at Emma. I clicked and the first slide of my presentation came up. The text on screen read MID SEASON REVIEW AND RANT. "All right," I said. "Let''s get this over with."


    Elin, the coach who knew sign language, was standing a couple of yards to my right, translating for the benefit of Dani, my awesomely talented midfielder. Dani had improved a lot since I''d discovered her playing in a pan-disability tournament, but somehow it wasn''t as fast as it should have been. If her improvement accelerated while Elin was at Chester, that would be a clear signal that I needed to hire Elin or someone like her. Certainly Dani was paying close attention in a way she simply couldn''t normally.


    I rolled my head around and made eye contact with as many players as possible. "Ladies, I am not happy with your performances or how you are approaching matches." This opening salvo was pretty stunning. "I hoped that over the winter break you would rediscover your hunger and passion for the game. Instead it was more of the same last weekend and no doubt it will be more of the same later today. Then it''s one more easy game and three big ones. Tranmere, Cheadle, West Didsbury. We''re so close to our goal but I see it slipping away. You might scrape by through natural talent, or you might not."


    "We''re top of the table!" said Bea Pea.


    "We''ve won ten out of eleven in the league!" cried Diane.


    "You''re top of nothing," I snapped, "and you''ve won nothing." I looked up at the ceiling and pushed my thumbs into the space between my eyebrows. I picked up a chunk of aquamarine. It didn''t help.


    "You''ve got to hold one in each hand," said Angel.


    "Oh," I said, trying that. It did feel like some of the anger flared off. "Hey, now! That''s better. Look, I''m struggling with this but I''ve been thinking about it and you and I don''t have the same goals. I once heard Brooke talk about an expectations mismatch and I thought that was a cool phrase. What you want from this team and what I want are different and our levels of urgency are not even on the same planet."


    It felt good saying that. I put the crystals back in their bowl, wiped my hands on my hips, and tapped to the next slide. It was more text: THE 8/2 RULE.


    "I''ve been seeing the same shit almost all season. Eight players doing one thing, two doing another. Normally those eight are lethargic, slow, and aimless while the two are overexerting themselves. We''ve got Bea Pea running around super committed but instead of everyone backing her up, that''s an excuse for the midfield to take a breather. Normal players take a breather after some exertion but you take breathers between breathers. The first twenty minutes of every match is appalling. When you get going, you score a goal or two, think ''job done'' and fall right back into slow, sloppy play. My opinion is enough, but now we''ve got the GPS data and trust me, it''s abysmal.


    "I don''t enjoy watching you play. You''re the only Chester team I don''t like watching. You''re arrogant, which is fine, but complacent, which isn''t. You got knocked out of every cup at an early stage and you lost against West. You don''t play with hunger or fire or passion and you walk off at half time when you''ve been shit and it''s all a laugh." My heat was starting to rise so I went back to the blue crystal and held it against my neck while I continued. "I can''t put my finger on how it got like this. You''re top of the league because I assembled the most talented squad ever seen at this level, but you''re sleepwalking towards disaster and it''s like you don''t give a shit. One more performance like West and this season is over. There are no extra lives in this game.


    "I''ve diverted time and money from the men''s squad to fund this campaign. I''ve fought gammons and missed opportunities to scout boys because I want to find girls, too. Everyone who wants to play this sport should have that chance. But if you don''t get promoted this year, if you don''t win the league, it''s because you don''t care enough and there can never be a time when I care more about your career than you do. That''s not an acceptable situation to me. It''s not a place I''m willing to go, so if this is your level as a group then this project is basically finished.


    "I''m going to make this one last effort to communicate and after that, it''s up to you." I inhaled and picked up a crystal from the third bowl. "Labradorite. Magnus says it helps people understand what''s happening beneath the surface." I pushed the crystal into the middle of my forehead and stared ahead.


    "Did you bring enough for everyone?" said Bea Pea.


    I laughed my head off and the tension broke. I walked forward and gave Bea Pea the crystal and returned to the front. "I''ve got three chunks but I''m not here to single anyone out. This is a collective failure. Maybe it''s my fault because I didn''t do this when I signed you. I don''t know. It''s not about which three players need these crystals, it''s about everyone understanding what''s happening. You''re fish happily swimming around and you don''t seem to realise the water company is dumping raw sewage into this lake."


    I scratched my eyebrows and pressed the right arrow key. The screen changed to read: GAME OVER, MAN.


    "Game over. Let''s start with injuries. Have any of you ever heard of a female player who got injured and the club wouldn''t pay for treatment and she had to crowdfund it herself?" Every hand went up. "Can you imagine a scenario where a player in our league gets injured and that''s the end of her career?" The hands stayed up. "I''m not even going to talk about pregnancy but I hope we can all agree that there aren''t many clubs who are going to give new contracts to players who are pregnant or just had a baby or whatever.


    "Moving on. I think there was a certain level of amusement recently, when after beating the takeover I tried to, ah, reshape the structure of the club. Some of our fanbase were joking - let''s be generous and say they were joking - about me losing the plot, losing my marbles, losing all sense of perspective. After all, everyone at the club wants the same things. Why get so hot under the collar about it?"


    I pressed right to bring up a photo of a middle-aged white man.


    "Check this guy out. For legal reasons, he will be known as Chandler Bing. Normal-looking guy. Could be a gammon, could be a sweetheart. When he came to my attention he was in charge of a football club. Let''s see if we''d vote for him to be on the board of Chester. Exhibit A. This is a list of all the girls and women''s teams at his football club. Quite a lot, isn''t it? More than we''ve got right now. Exhibit B, a screenshot from his LinkedIn page from when he liked a post praising International Women''s Day. Absolutely stand up guy, wonderful person, let''s definitely put him in a position of power over women. Everyone happy with that?"


    No-one responded.


    "Ah, what''s this? Oh! Check this out, ladies. This guy woke up one day and decided that his club, Thornaby FC, in beautiful North Yorkshire, would be a lot better off without any women''s teams. He got his mates on the board to raise their hands and boop - every women''s team - one hundred girls and women - were binned off. Just like that. Were they top of the league? Had they won ten out of eleven? I don''t know, but I know they weren''t top of the league the next day. Next day, they didn''t exist. Do you get me? Whatever they thought they had accomplished did fuck all to protect them." I clicked back to the picture of the man, something I would be doing more than a few times in the next ten minutes. "This person had decided the women''s teams had no right to exist. Buh-bye. Well, that wouldn''t happen in Chester. Not with stand-up characters like James Pond and Chip Star looking out for your interests. Huh. Wait a second."


    I grabbed the aquamarine and pretended to be calming myself all the way down. It got some smiles but the women were really listening to me, now. Really switched on. Even Ruth, Gemma, and Emma, who had been expecting me to talk about using the sweeper system or something dull. I dropped the crystals into the bowl.


    "Some of you are thinking, oh, maybe Max hasn''t gone loco. Maybe English football is littered with middle-aged men going through bad divorces who will take any opportunity to punish women. That''s right, and if you aren''t thinking that, why the hell not?"


    I clicked to a composite I''d made of Chandler Bing''s face plus five social media posts from distraught women and girls who one day had a football team and the next, didn''t. I left it there while I sipped from a bottle of water. A few players lost a point of morale as they read the texts. Good. That meant they cared.


    "Now let''s talk about the Women''s Super League. Bright, shiny, record attendances, matches on TV, yay! You might know that someone decided the WSL should merge with the second tier and have it all be run by the same company. Sort of like if the Premier League absorbed the Championship."


    I clicked to an image showing the top of the women''s football pyramid. At the peak, the WSL with twelve teams and below it the WSL Championship with twelve teams. The third tier split into a north and south, while the fourth tier further divided into four feeder leagues, and so on. A star highlighting Chester''s position showed us as being in one of eight divisions at the fifth tier.


    "Unifying the top tiers is not in itself a bad idea, necessarily. They can do more marketing and maybe get a better TV deal and try to avoid the problem in the men''s game of the gap between tiers one and two being so huge. Okay, but when I read the merger story I had a panic attack. Seriously, I thought our goose was cooked, that they would pull up the drawbridge. What do I mean by drawbridge? I mean ending promotion and relegation. The teams who are in it now are in it forever. The same twenty-four teams playing each other until the end of time. Today Chester can go from tier 5 to tier 4 and so on, all the way to the top. What about tomorrow? If they pull up the drawbridge, top of tier 3 is our limit. Best of the rest. Who cares about tier 3 if you can''t get promoted? Literally no-one. Oh, we''ll put out a half-hearted side, I guess, but it''ll be hard to give a shit. To all extents and purposes, we''ll be dead."


    Lots of eye-bulging looks from ladies who hadn''t been following the meta narrative.


    "Fortunately, they didn''t do it... this time. Relief. We''re still in with a shot. We can go up. But for how long? For how long, ladies? Remember, the WSL includes Liverpool, Man United, and Man City, three teams run by men like this." I clicked back to Chandler Bing. "These clubs are radioactive. They would love to kill Chester, Tranmere, Wrexham, Leeds, Alty, and everyone else. Men''s and women''s. Am I exaggerating? Open your fucking eyes. Project Big Picture and the European Super League happened in the last five years! Tottenham came out and said the WSL should be a closed league. Emma fucking Hayes, on paper the best women''s manager, said she didn''t mind the idea of ending relegation. To me that''s the same as saying she wants to exterminate the entire rest of the pyramid. Why didn''t she mind it? Because she worked for fucking Chelsea! She''s not a legend, she''s a fucking Dalek!"


    I picked up the aquamarine and tried to unclench my jaw. I checked in on the five younger girls - they were interested and not alarmed. Nevertheless, I counted to five and when I spoke again, I was calmer.


    "None of this is ancient history, ladies. This is ongoing. They want us dead. Man City, anyone? Anyone remember them threatening to shut down their women''s team if they lost one of their endless legal battles with the Premier League? Their women''s team isn''t a team - it''s a hostage. You know the way gangsters say, ''nice place you got here, shame if anything happened to it''? They do that when they''re trying to extort money from some poor businessman. Well, City are the only club who have ever said, ''nice women''s team we got here. Shame if anything happened to it.'' They are absolutely toxic and will wreck our sport. Absolutely guaranteed.


    "Ah! I know what you''re thinking. You''re thinking the FA won''t let anyone wreck women''s football." Half the women tutted or shook their head at the mention of being defended by the FA. "You know how I feel about those pricks, but again, you don''t have to trust my opinions." I clicked through to a book cover. "Unsuitable for Females. Is there anyone here who doesn''t know the origin of that phrase and why it''s the title of a book about football?" A few hands went up. "Our glorious Football Association, full of men like Chandler Bing and egged on by olden-days billionaires, banned women''s football. One day you were allowed to play, the next you weren''t. If you think that can''t happen in 2025, I''ll postpone hiring the dentist and go straight to the sports psychologist. If Liverpool, City, and United go to their servants in the FA and say, this women''s thing is a distraction and we could make an extra twenty quid a year without it, the FA will suddenly have a lot of opinions and a lot of people in the media and politics will suddenly have the same opinions."


    I clinked the crystals against each other and eased up onto the front of my desk like a dreamy supply teacher. It was easy to be charming and diplomatic now because we were getting to the good stuff.


    "When the men get promoted this year, we''ll go into the EFL. The EFL is the three leagues below the Prem. The EFL and the Prem are member''s clubs. Essentially, the members decide what to do and then some admin dudes try to make it happen. As one of the 72 EFL clubs, I will get to go to the meetings and I will get to vote. If they try to end relegation I will fight them. If they try some sneaky fucking shit, I will fight them. I only have one vote but I can get allies and can mobilise the fan bases of teams who are up to no good. I''m saying that from next season I will be able, in a small way, to defend Chester and football against some of the crap that goes on.


    "There''s no such thing in women''s tier four. There''s no such thing in women''s tier three. Until we get to the second tier, we are nothing. We are prey. If we draw Liverpool or United in the FA Cup, one of these guys - " I clicked through to a composite of headlines about Liverpool and United trying to erase some hundred-and-fifty-year-old tradition to save a buck or make a buck - "will think to himself, why are we paying eight thousand pounds to send our team to play, what was it called again? Chavster? He''ll think to himself, gosh fellas, I sure wish I could shut that whole thing down. It''s just a cost centre. A cost centre is a part of the business that costs money and doesn''t make a profit. And profit''s all Liverpool and United care about. Those owners don''t like football and never have. If they could shut down the football arm of their football club and only sell replica shirts and license the badge to video games, they would. Not a bad idea, right? They''d make more profit that way.


    "Ladies. Listen, please. I need you to get to the second tier and I can''t accept any delays. With the men it doesn''t matter a whole lot if I''m in tier four, three, or two. It''s all the EFL. Obviously I''ll have more clout in the Championship but you get my point. I need you to take your arses into the second tier and I need you to do it right away because who the fuck knows what these twats are planning even now? If I''m in the room I can try to stop it. As we go up we''ll make friends and allies and when shit goes down, we''ll unite as a football family. But if it happens while you''re in tier five, it''s game over.


    "The girls and women at Thornaby FC had no power. No votes. They were at the mercy of Chandler Bing and all the other Chandler Bings. You. You, ladies, have a chance to dig yourself into the belly of the beast. Get all the way inside, stick your claws in, be impossible to shift. The power is there if you want to take it. If you leave that power in the hands of Chandler Bing and the superclubs, it''s game over."


    I waited for Elin to finish translating, got to my feet, and drifted around the room, walking up and down the aisles.


    "I started this little project as a way to develop players to sell to the bigger teams and make people happy while making a tidy profit. As the level of talent has grown, so have my ambitions. I''ve never said this out loud. I''ve never said this to anyone." I locked eyes with Emma and looked away. "Apart from knowing I was about to look like a crazy person, this is why I didn''t want the documentary guys in here. I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourselves. Let it be our secret ambition. When anyone asks, our goal is promotion. Get to the next level. That''s it. That''s all. But we know - that''s not all."


    I gripped the crystals tighter and looked from Femi to Dani to Charlotte to Angel.


    "We are here on this earth to save English football. Let me say that again. We are here on this earth... to save English football. I don''t want to sell you. If you want to go to Chelsea and start talking about ending relegation now that you''ve made it to the top, I won''t stand in your way. But if you''re good enough to come to the Championship, I want you there with me. I want to smash all these Chandler Bings. I want to go to these fucking meetings and make all the Chips and Ponds walk out with their tails between their legs. Every Monday, another defeat for the b-boys, another win for football. Just to be clear, I won''t be there defending Chester, I''ll be defending football. Every girl at Leeds and Alty and Stockport and Thornaby will have an ally.


    "But I can''t go on the pitch and get us there. I can assemble an incredible squad, but I can''t go on the pitch. I can beg you and bribe you, but I can''t make you sprint. I can''t make you look around and think Christ, this is shit, we need to move up a gear. I can''t make you shuffle and slide and throw yourself in front of shots like keeping a clean sheet against Bury is the most important thing in the world. That has to come from inside you."


    I clicked back to GAME OVER, MAN.


    "Ladies, you could get injured or pregnant and that''s the end of your career. Your club''s board could dissolve the women''s teams overnight. The WSL could vote to become a closed shop and we''d all be stuck down here with no way to the top. Your FA could work in conjunction with their superyacht masters to scrap women''s football altogether. If I were you, I would play every game like it was my last." I left a long pause there, because that was a key point. "I want you to have fun here. Enjoy the training, the banter, the coach rides to and from games. I hope Chester FC is the time of your lives, I really do.


    "But when you get on that pitch and the ref blows her whistle, see the world from my point of view. There are countless people like Chandler Bing who want to take all this away from you - that kit, your team WhatsApp, your mates, your dreams of glory - and the only way to stop them is to win. Play like you fucking mean it. Get to the Championship. Get me into those meetings and get me a vote. Do it fast because there''s a sword hanging over our heads and it''s hanging by the slightest thread. The Sword of Gammonclees. You can''t see it, but I can, and that''s why I get so frustrated when you start matches at walking pace. No-one ever walked to glory, ladies. Run."


    I freed my hands so I could unplug my laptop and shove it into my backpack. That was me finished and if I''d had the option I would have thrown down a smoke bomb and snuck off. Julie McKay had her hand up. "Did you mean that about injuries or getting preggers ending our career?"


    "At most clubs, yeah, even at quite a high level. Think about it - if you''ve got to wait two years for an operation, who''s going to wait for you? None of those big six fucks, that''s for sure."


    "I thought you would take care of us."


    "Of course I will," I said, before realising the miscommunication. I picked up the blue crystal. "I don''t mean here. This is - This is fucking Chester, mate. That''s what I''m trying to say! We do it different. But I nearly got kicked out, didn''t I? And I''m always five defeats from the sack. What if I''m not here? How long until this is just another football club? This battle is not over just because we beat James Pond. He''s one man. There are a billion more just like him. Do you get me? I''ll do everything I can to take care of you but if I go to the board and say I need twenty grand for an operation for our third-choice women''s whatever, the gammons are going to go ballistic.


    "If you guys are getting promoted every year, the idiots will be shouted down by the decent fans. If you''re fourth in the league because you play hopscotch for the first twenty minutes of every fucking game and it looks like you don''t give a shit, who''s going to have your back? I''m... I''m trying to make you understand the urgency and the importance of your performances. Do you know what I mean?" I sighed and shook my head. "If you play your heart out and lose I''ll be fine with that. Honestly, I will, and so will the average fan. But if you play your heart out, you can''t lose.


    "Injuries. I want to say that at Chester it''s not game over but if three of you get ACLs at the same time I''m gonna be honest, two of you are going to have to wait for me to find some money and that will take time and that will fucking suck. I''ll be as patient with your recovery as the club can afford. Maybe you heard I want Ryan Jack to stay on the playing squad for another year. I''ll bin you off if you''re not ambitious enough or determined enough, but not because you got injured. No way. The club isn''t rich but it will always do its best to give you great medical care and that''s a promise you can take to the bank as long as I''m here. And as long as you fight like, er, wolves, I''ll be here. As for pregnancy, er..." For the first time, a cheeky little smile played on my lips. "I mean, if you could wait till it''s mathematically certain that the men''s team are getting promoted, that would be tremendously helpful. We''ll get close to a million in TV money. That''s a lot of nappies."


    I started packing the crystals away and signalled that the documentary crew could come in.


    "Er... Bit of a change of pace, now, and you might not believe that this is a coincidence, but it is. Those three ladies there are going to talk to you about life after football. Enjoy that."


    Mari, daughter of my Welsh FA superfriend Gwen, put her hand up. "Sorry, sir, but you were talking about saving English football. What about Welsh football? Can we save that, too?"


    "I already did that," I said.


    "When?"


    Big smile, full teeth, twinkles. "When I signed you. Kay bye."


    ***


    Geminis are often hyperactive with short attention spans and flit from one idea to the next. In the language of Soccer Supremo, Geminis have below-average loyalty scores.


    "Fucking hell, Max," said Emma, to nervous laughs from the women''s squad. Emma''s speech had been put back by ten minutes so the squad could digest what I''d said in small, intense groups. It wasn''t clear to me if they were mad at me for ruining their day or if they would play any different or what, but the delay also gave time for the documentary crew to get set up so I was able to watch footage of what came next. Only the start was interesting to me. "Erm... Most of you know I''m Emma. Max''s partner. He told me he wanted to say something before we started but didn''t say he would be getting that intense. Comedians say so-and-so is a ''tough act to follow'' and now I think I understand what they mean." Good-natured laughs. "So this is Ruth, who put up the money to get the latest incarnation of the women''s team started." Ruth waved. "She''s one of Max''s allies on the board, as you saw at the Forum. Together, we run a football agency. To my left is my best mate Gemma."


    "Hiyas," said Gemma.


    "She works with me at me dad''s law firm. Dad met Max, said ''that boy is trouble'' and went looking for examples. Obviously, he found plenty, but when he realised Max wasn''t always to blame, my dad clocked that footballers and clubs are always getting into legal trouble and there was a good opportunity to expand his business. He set up The Wall - W.A.L.L - tagline ''The Wall did its job'' and we''ve already won cases against the F.A. I can''t reveal who the client was, but it was Max." Laughs. "Gemma''s a big part of that new company and since it''s based in Manchester she''s a lot closer to her boyfriend, Andrew Harrison, who you know as the older triplet."


    Robyn, our second-choice goalkeeper, said, "Ridley T wants to know if Michael Harrison is single."


    "Shut the fuck up, Robyn!" hissed Ridley, and there were some jeers and silliness.


    "I got you, Ridley," said Gemma, smiling warmly.


    Emma chose her next words carefully. "So... Max likes football, as you know, but he likes the game and not the business. He gets upset about all that stuff he talked about before but also how football clubs treat their players. Clubs who''ve got a lot more money than Chester do a lot less and that million pounds he''s chasing, it won''t all be going on six foot six centre backs."


    "Christian Fierce is six five," said Ruth.


    "How do you know?"


    Ruth grinned. "I was passing by when they did his medical."


    "Passing by?" said Emma. "You know what? I don''t want to know." She turned back to the group. "You''ve all met the Exit Trial boys and you know the stories about how those young lads are treated. But what about the ones who get a contract and play for a while? Most football clubs, when your time is up, it''s seeya! Bye! And you''re on your own. Max doesn''t want to do that. He wants to help you if that''s at all possible, especially if you want to stay in football."


    Pippa spoke. "Sorry, Emma, are you talking about when we age out?"


    "No, we mean everyone, any time. Whatever it is that stops you from playing. If you get a bad injury or you start a family and don''t return to playing. Or some of the stuff Max was talking about, like if the whole team is dissolved. But more likely, you know, when you get eased out of the squad. It''s the main thing I don''t like about this world but it''s going to happen to all of you. You won''t be in the first team when you''re fifty, right, so there will come a day when you''re eased out and that''s what we want to prepare you for."


    Emma looked uneasy.


    "Max let three players go from the men''s team last season and he helped find them a new club and that''s the best case scenario and it''s already horrible. You get to know someone and then your boyfriend cuts them. I know he''s got to do it but it''s horrible and I''m, like, guilty by association. Joe Anka, everyone? Amazing person, great taste in music, and I''m sure we''ll meet again but it''s not going to be the same. So..." She rubbed her hands before catching herself and putting them behind her back. "When Max was talking about this life after playing thing I was more than happy to get involved. The three of us standing here are in small but growing companies and we''re going to need all sorts of people as we expand and having employees who have played the game could be really helpful. Truth is, Max beat me at football golf when he could barely walk after his coma. That''s my skill level!"


    Some polite laughs.


    "We''re here to give you some ideas of the kinds of jobs we will be offering - Max says when he''s got money the club will fund you to do courses in whatever skills you want to learn - and to offer some general advice. Ruth said that Gem and me should start."


    "Gem and I," said Ruth.


    "Me and Gem, yeah," said Emma. But Angel had her hand half-raised. "Angel?"


    "Yeah, just... With the timing, it does sort of feel like a threat. Play better or look for a different job. Was this really planned before?"


    Emma nodded. "This was the first time this year the three of us could make it on the same Sunday that you had a match. Max decided he had to talk to you after your last game. It''s not ideal, really, because if I were you I''d want to talk about what he said and not listen to three girls blab about their businesses."


    Angel glanced at her older sister, Bonnie, and after some non-verbal communication far faster and more nuanced than sign language, turned back to Emma. "Okay, so he gives us a lecture about how we''re letting him down but he''s also trying to take care of us. He''s just a typical Gemini, right?"


    Gemma let out a little yelp and slapped Emma on the upper arm. "See! I told you!" Gemma smiled at Angel. "I''m Taurus and I clashed with Max a lot at first. It''s better, now, but it was dicey for a while. Emma''s Aquarius. I mean, how perfect is that?"


    "I''m Aquarius," said Angel.


    "I''ll get you a list of Geminis who are single," said Ruth, dryly.


    Gemma laughed and took a step forward. "So, the first thing to say about a law firm is that you don''t need to be a lawyer to work there..."


    ***


    Geminis are smart, adaptable, and curious about the world around them. They like keeping their options open. A Gemini may wind his contract down while he flirts with other clubs.


    Monday, January 27


    After training I took myself to a strange meeting at the Deva, strange because it was the first meeting ever organised by Jonny Planter, our groundsman. MD and Brooke were there, as was a sales rep from Zwillinger Pitches. Their featured product was a synthetic yarn that was ''injected'' into a normal grass pitch to help it recover faster and allow it to be used three times as much as a pure grass pitch. The full system included a water retention element so that you could have a completely closed system and never need a drop more of the blue stuff. Absolute sex, but crazy expensive. With all the sub-surface work it was three hundred and fifty thousand pounds per pitch, and I would want to do three - the Deva itself and two training pitches.


    The guy knew, therefore, that in the coming years I would be splashing out over a million pounds on this tech and he wanted to place his company in pole position. To that end, he was offering to stitch the corner quadrants and penalty spots for free. They would recover faster and next winter they would be far more resilient to damage. I would be able to take proper corners all through the winter!


    Brooke saw the problem. "But we''re gonna dig all this up when we put in the drainage and undersoil heating. We''ll lose those patches, won''t we?"


    "You will," agreed the guy. "But from what I hear, it''s not going to happen in the next couple of years. We do undersoil heating, by the way. And drainage. It''s part of the package."


    "Let me sum this up," I said. "You''ll do a few patches for free now-ish but when it''s time to do the whole thing I have to pay your premium prices."


    The guy wasn''t worried about my doubts. "We''re not the cheapest but we''re the best. You''ll come to us, anyway." He gave Jonny a smile. "Planter''s a top lad. Happy to help him out. And, to be honest, the machines aren''t busy this time of year and because it''s just the corners we won''t need to be precise. Normally we''re very careful and use lasers to get everything just so. This time? Quick and dirty, half a day, hit the pub. Tell you what, though, you''ll see the difference and you''ll want what we sell. Without all the drainage and membranes and so on you won''t even see the full effect and it''ll still change your life."


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "And you do 3G pitches as well," I said.


    "We do. Market leaders."


    I made some quick decisions. I didn''t want to be tied down but the guy was right - his company did the best work. "Give me a strip in front of goal, thirty yards out, in front of the McNally, that¡¯s that stand, and as long as you don''t try to gouge me I''ll give you more work than you can handle. And an introduction to the Welsh FA."


    He smiled. "We did their Vale headquarters." He looked at the place I''d indicated. "That strip''ll be for your free kicks? Don''t you want it both ways?"


    "No. We shoot this way in the second half."


    Brooke did her version of a frown. "I thought you tossed a coin to decide that."


    "Ninety-nine percent of teams let us shoot the way we want and it suits them because they shoot towards their own fans, too. You get dicks who do the opposite to try to ruffle our feathers but every player wants to score the winning goal in front of his fans so he can dive in and get swallowed up. There''s nothing like it." The others fell silent as they imagined what that would be like. I did too, but for some reason in my imagination I was wearing a Tranmere shirt. "Zwillinger. What''s that, German?"


    "The name? I think so. We''re big in Germany, France, Turkey."


    "I''m massive in Malta," I said, bending to touch the Deva bog. "All right. MD, any objections?"


    He shook his head. "Not from me. Seems like a win-win."


    I nodded at the sales rep. "You just made yourself a million pounds."


    "A million?"


    "For three pitches!" I said, spreading my arms wide. "You''re going to give us a bulk discount, right?"


    ***


    Do not underestimate a Gemini''s ruthless side. Their creativity and willingness to ignore convention may lead them to produce frankly sociopathic solutions to the problems they encounter. Geminis love new news; avoid becoming old news. Do not get booked for dissent - Gemini managers fucking hate that.


    Wednesday, January 29


    York City Under Eighteens vs Redditch United Under Eighteens


    Minutes Played: 30


    Goals witnessed: 0


    Throw-Ins witnessed: 15


    Sexy spy ladies flirted with: 0


    Just women of any kind in the area: 1 (selling teas and Twix bars at a nearby kiosk)


    XP balance: 5,973


    York City''s youth teams played at a space called Wigginton Road in the north of the city. It had four full-sized pitches and two smaller ones for shorter-sided matches. Cheap and cheerful but there were no stands and no turnstiles. No-one took my ticket and a quick chat to a nearby scout revealed he didn''t have one.


    The ticket was fake and I spent the first thirty minutes of the match wondering why someone had gone to the trouble of making it.


    "John," I said, to the Brig, who was my companion for this adventure. "Any chance we''ve been led here so that I''m out of the house and thieves can get in?"


    "Yes, there''s a chance of that, sir."


    "You don''t sound convinced."


    "You weren''t very convincing."


    "So why are we here?"


    He was reading Alice Through the Looking Glass and his left thumb partially covered a drawing of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. "To scope out the facilities, perhaps."


    "You joke but they''re not bad. Our training ground might look like this at first." To my left was a big cabin that looked like a smoker''s lounge at an airport. Something like that could serve as a rudimentary reception area for a few years until we built something more permanent. Parents would be able to keep warm and dry while watching their kids playing on the adjacent pitch.


    Spreading out from the lounge, looking very much like a long row of portable toilets, was a string of portable toilets. There were also four small changing rooms. Far from life in the Premier League, perhaps even a step down from BoshCard, but we''d be able to afford it by the end of next season and it would be ours. The company that supplied the cabins had come on my radar after offering support to the women binned off by Chandler Bing. It would be my absolute fucking pleasure to shove some cash their way in the near future.


    Yes, it all had a very basic but very real charm. That said, in no way was this the future of English football. I took the ticket out and looked at it again. No clues there. The future of English football. What?


    I scanned the area. Eleven boys representing York, with the outfielders wearing red. Their best prospect was a big PA 50 striker. Redditch United in a silvery grey, best prospect a PA 44 midfielder.


    Perhaps the future of English football was in the lounge itself, because it was weirdly full of scouts from clubs as high as League One and as low as the National League North.


    "Maybe she''ll arrive at half-time," I mused.


    "Who? The Countess von Fictional?"


    "She''s actually called Elektra von Ravishing and she has a pet leopard and lives in a castle with secret corridors." A midfield player in red went on a dribble and passed to the tall, powerful striker. He took a touch, held off his marker, and played the ball out to the right wing. The winger took one touch, kept his head down, and whipped in a cross. The striker leapt and directed the ball towards the top-right of the goal. It went just over but it was very good work from the number nine. Surprisingly neat and tidy. The kid could play but at PA 50 he wouldn''t get anything from a move to Chester. "Oi!" I called out. "Nine!"


    He gave me a surly look. "What?"


    "Head that down, not up. Same way."


    He muttered under his breath and turned away. Not the type to take advice from a rando.


    The idea that it was better to head the ball down when trying to score was real caveman stuff, something that old men in pubs said to each other. Amazingly, it was right. There was something about the constellation of movements that made it really hard for a goalie to adjust to a ground-level header. If it came at them knee-height or higher they could use their agility to give them a fighting chance. A downward header was also far more likely to hit the target, thus also boosting the chance of a goal versus a header aimed high.


    Why the fuck was I thinking of probabilities? I put my knuckles to my temples and pushed. "I am unhappy, John. What the shit is happening right now?"


    "Perhaps that''s a clue, sir."


    I followed his gaze to the smoker''s lounge - all the scouts were watching me, agog. "The fuck?"


    "It makes little sense, sir, but I think you''ve been brought here to meet one of them."


    "Let''s walk away and see if someone follows."


    "It''s warmer inside, sir. We could go inside and see if someone strikes up a conversation."


    "Warmer inside. Listen to you! Big army man. Who needs warmth?"


    "Human beings, sir."


    We walked twenty yards away from the cabin and waited for a reaction. Nothing happened. The match continued. At least I was earning XP, though it was only 1 per minute. Not worth travelling to Yorkshire. I bit my nail trying to understand my predicament. I''d been teased into coming here on the basis that I would see an extraordinary talent. This PA 50 striker was not that. "My best hope of seeing the future of English football is to find a mirror."


    "Very droll, sir."


    "I think..." I started. "Yes. I think I''m getting pissed off."


    He closed his book and slipped it into a big coat pocket. "Can we wait until half time before deciding to erupt? As you say, something might happen during the interval."


    "Fine."


    "Can we discuss the young players?"


    "Go for it."


    He took a little notebook out of an inside pocket. "Rainman, Omari, and Tom are playing in Wales. Everything seems to be in order there."


    "Yes. Llewellyn doesn''t understand he''s on the fast track to becoming the manager of the Welsh national team, but he''s competitive and that first match will have got the blood in his nose. What''s that phrase?"


    "He smells blood."


    "Right. He''s got our three and they''re a cut above the rest of the league. He''s got three from Buxton and Southport. Six is the maximum loans you can have, max three from one club. So there''s six players way above the level. I brought in half a dozen guys from other clubs, just basically skimmed the best guys from the Welsh third tier. The best eleven is hilariously overpowered and Llewellyn might actually be the best manager in Europe! So our three lads are going to get minutes and another winner''s medal. I''m pretty confident on that. It''ll be interesting to see how much the lads develop in this time. Then our domestics. Should we start at the top or the bottom?"


    "The top of what?"


    "Top, good call. So Andrew Harrison is back from tier six. I moved Michael from West Didsbury, tier nine, to Warrington Rylands in tier 7." Rylands had an average CA of 30, and Michael''s was 29. "At this stage in his development I want him to play. Like with all these lads I''m sort of outsourcing his development to other teams but it''s better than getting no minutes at Chester."


    "They''re good young men."


    "The triplets? Yeah. It''s interesting doing experiments on them. My working theory is that if young players are moving up the tiers they''ll have high motivation and that makes my life much easier and will allow me to develop more talent. We''ll see. I kept Dan at Witton in tier 8. Ryan says Dan is loving it there and they love him. Strictly speaking it would be better if he moved up a tier but he''s only 16. He''s their little starboy and he''s a hit in the dressing room but he''s getting kicked about by ne''er-do-wells. I think that''s a pretty decent year for him. I also kept Tyson and Benny in tier 8, and sent Henk there, too. They''re not starters but they''re getting time on the pitch. Lucas Friend was doing well at West but he was ready to shed his skin and get bigger so I sent him to Bootle. Ryan Jack knows all these Merseyside clubs and they know him. He''s such an asset!"


    "He is."


    "At West we''ve still got Vivek - it''s perfect for him - and I added Sevenoaks and Captain. Then Ryan put me in touch with AFC Liverpool. They''re the Scouse equivalent of FC United - they hate what their club turned into and they made a new club along the lines of how Liverpool FC is supposed to be. A proper community club and not a vast conspiracy to rinse its fans. I love AFC Liverpool! Never thought I''d say something like that. They are hilarious and they try to play good football, too. I sent Bomber and Bivvy. They won''t get much time this season but anything is a bonus with those two." Bomber was our third-choice centre back, one of the heroes of Das Tournament, while Bivvy was currently our best under eighteens goalkeeper. His mistake had cost us a win against Chelsea in the Youth Cup and going to a tier nine club was his best shot of improving enough to make a difference next year. I checked to think if I''d missed anyone. "Quite a long list. The eighteens are getting serious match practice and we''re making friends with all these local clubs. It''s almost perfect."


    "Almost?"


    "I wanted to sign a few guys to help WibRob next season. I had a few targets in mind but it would mean some small transfer fees. Not much, probably, but the cupboard is bare. It''ll have to wait till the summer and it just means six months where those guys aren''t growing as fast as they could with us. That said, maybe it''s for the better. Our facilities are dire right now."


    York City attacked down the middle. A midfielder took a long shot that the goalie parried. The big number nine got to the rebound and hit it over the bar. The kid glanced in my direction.


    "Sir," mumbled the Brig.


    I looked behind him and once again the scouts in the cabin were looking at me. "Umm," I said.


    "They seem to think there''s some connection between you and the young man."


    "Why would they think that?"


    The Brig didn''t even bother to shrug; he didn''t give a shit. He made some notes in his little book. "The plan for the young players seems considerate. I''m happy to have Ryan as an extra pair of eyes."


    "Me too. He''s amazing at dealing with those other managers. Can you give little Benny ten minutes this weekend? Ah, top man. Doesn''t always work because if a manager''s two-one down he doesn''t turn to a sixteen-year-old but Ryan''s definitely putting our lads in the shop window, so to speak. Yeah, if we get any Exit Trial lads this summer, this will be the model. The thing is... The thing is we''re likely to get promoted faster than the kids can improve."


    "I don''t follow."


    "Take Tom Westwood. He''s a National League North quality player right now but we''re National League. Next season he''ll be National League and we''ll be League Two. The one after, League Two, but we''ll be in League One. There could get a point where we have forty talented kids one or two seasons behind. That''s, er, not sustainable."


    "One could forego promotion for a season or two. Let them catch up."


    I tutted. "Next time you go paintballing, frag two of your own men at the start. You know, to let your opponents have a chance."


    "I don''t paintball," said the Brig, rising to his full height. "I lasertag."


    ***


    At half time, exactly nothing happened. We pottered inside to get a tea and a biscuit and while I got a lot of very strange looks, no-one tried to talk to me. The curse told me the names of all the scouts and which clubs they worked for. Why were there so many? Eleven scouts for this particular match seemed crazy bonkers.


    I went up to one at random. "Who are you looking at?"


    "Same as you, I reckon," said the guy with a knowing smile.


    "Right," I said, staring right through him. The shape of a story was starting to coalesce. The Brig and I munched on Twixes and waited in the warmth until the second half kicked off. Once we''d gone back to our spot far away from everyone else. "Okay, I think I''m starting to get it."


    "Sir?"


    "You remember at the Fans Forum, Roddy Jones''s dad was up there talking about how hard I''d pursued him?" Roddy was a stupendously talented right back I''d spotted playing as a striker. The kid was PA 184 and even though I''d tried to dampen expectations as much as I could, the way the Forum unfolded meant everyone knew how highly I rated him. He had picked up a nickname, one based on a contender for the title of Wales''s best ever player - Gareth Bale.


    "Baby Bale''s father. Yes, sir. He was flattered."


    "Right but he said something about how suddenly there were loads of scouts from English clubs round him like flies."


    "I remember."


    "I think people are following me."


    "Following you?"


    I clicked my tongue a few times. "Can you get one of your guys to check my car for bugs?"


    "Yes, sir."


    "Yes? Just like that? No questions?"


    "No questions, sir. And you think tonight''s farce is connected?"


    I looked around. The floodlights were on and a lot of young men were chasing a ball around a big green rectangle. It was happening hundreds of places all around the country, so why had so many scouts been drawn to this one unremarkable event? "I think people have finally realised," I said, slowly, "that I am the greatest judge of talent since someone had the idea to make Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito twins in the movie Twins."


    "Is that the one where Arnie gets pregnant?"


    "Might be," I said. "Give me a second."


    I walked off on my own, keeping half an eye on the pitch so I would continue to accrue XP. If people had realised I was really a super scout, that had all sorts of consequences. It would mean, for example, mad competition to sign the Roddy Joneses and WibRobs of the world. Where I appeared, a string of scouts from richer clubs would follow. That process had already started and would only intensify.


    Uh-oh.


    If I continued to bat a thousand, finding international quality players like it was nothing, my every move would be scrutinised by the entire football industry. If I tried to buy a player for ten thousand pounds, his club would assume I was seeing value they couldn''t and would demand fifty. Buying, selling, scouting, negotiating - it was easy to imagine the degree of difficulty going through the roof. I would need to recruit in Brazil not to find a wonderkid but simply to find a club willing to deal with me at market rates.


    Muy muy no bueno.


    I catastrophised for a while - nice night for it - but soon found myself grinning. I went back to the Brig and told him the good news. "I want to sign some shit players."


    "Indeed?"


    "Yep. Need to make people think I''ve lost my touch."


    "I see."


    "You don''t see, but let me tell you what it means. It means I can get two of the worst Exit Trial lads. Give them a two year plus one contract. Two guys who are, like, loads of fun or determined or something. Good in the dressing room, keep morale up, set a good example, but - and this is important - dogshit at the actual sport." The Brig''s moustache quivered, which was strange because he didn''t have one. I ploughed on. "Another thing would be if there''s a super smart one. One who could be a good coach or an analyst or whatnot. We''ll be hiring them for their brains but every weekend they will play shit and people will laugh at me. It''s genius!"


    "I am uncomfortable, sir, making any young man believe he has a future in the sport, even if it''s only two more years. You know what happens when their athletic identity is stripped away. I am also uncomfortable with the notion that their bad performance is in some way useful. The very thought would be humiliating."


    I tutted and fell into a brief sulk. I needed an anti-sulk crystal. "You know I don''t want to do anything bad but there could be an opportunity to keep them in the sport and solve my problem along the way. Maybe we can explain it to them and see if they go for it. I need some failures and if we can do some good while we''re at it, why not?"


    "Hmm," said the Brig, and that was the end of that idea. There was something to it, though. Some way I could make myself look foolish while secretly doing something beneficial.


    We fell into a silence as the match continued. The big nine was the key to all this. He looked like a hot prospect. That''s when it hit me - York City! They had set up a beauty contest. They wanted Chester and the other clubs to compete to sign this big striker. Maybe they knew he wasn''t quite as good as he seemed and would be happy to get a quick twenty thousand from a League One team with more money than sense.


    Or...


    "Sir?" The Brig was suddenly alert, hands free, turning left and right as he scanned for danger.


    "Clear," I said, and tried to untense. All the pieces had just fallen into place. But how could I prove it? "Fucking stupid!" I said, smashing myself in the forehead. The Brig got very still, one inch from dark mode. If the tea lady had tapped him on the shoulder, she''d have lost an arm. I cleared my throat as a signal to my body that it needed to stop sending out shitty chemicals. I took a few calming breaths. "It''s okay, John. Set Defcon 1."


    "Five," he mumbled, as he scanned the area one last time.


    I went into the perk shop and bought yet another formerly low-priority perk.


    Contracts 3 was 1,300 XP and did just one thing - it showed me who a player''s agent was.


    I bought it and experienced another burst of white-hot rage.


    Thirteen hundred XP to tell me what I already knew. The number nine had chosen as his agent... Bradley Rymarquis.


    ***


    Geminis have a knack for keeping up with the latest gossip.


    The Brig pushed me five more yards away from the box of scouts. "Max. Breathe."


    I breathed. I sucked air all the way in and hissed it all the way out. Fucking Brad. When I got calm enough to count to two, I decided I needed advice. "Remember I had that issue with the agent? Rymarquis? He thought I was slagging him off all around town and he tried to wreck our chances of survival?"


    "I remember the story."


    "That''s his client, there. The big lad. Brad''s invited a bunch of scouts and when they see I''m interested, they''ll try to snap him up before I do. Brad will make a few grand up front and a few hundred a week. That''s the plan. Tell me what to do."


    "I understood there was the possibility of a rapprochement with the gentleman?"


    "No. We don''t need to feud but if Chester had gone down because of his transfer deadline stunt, twenty people would have lost their jobs. He can go fuck himself."


    "Understood. What are our options?"


    "One. We go into that room and say the nine is a good tier seven player and then we leave."


    "I am hopeful there is a second choice. The boy did you no harm."


    "Second choice is we do nothing and let Brad make this deal and one day in the future, his new club will realise the player isn''t all that hot and word will spread that I got one wrong."


    The Brig got unusually animated. "But that''s ideal!"


    "But then there will be more shit like this! More stunts to get me to certain grounds at certain times. Brad needs to know I''m not dancing around the country making him rich. Okay, here''s an idea. We let him do this deal but you break his legs. Win-win."


    "Sir."


    "Ugh. All right. I talk up this kid. Brad wins. Then what?"


    "Perhaps word will get to the gentleman that Mr. Best is not in the business of being mucked about."


    I pinched my lips for a while. "You know what? He''s not here because that would make it too easy to put two and two together. But he''s around, right? He''s nearby." We looked around and simultaneously said, "Car park."


    The Brig wiggled his invisible moustache. "Sir, would you wait in the lounge?" This was interesting. He thought it best if he dealt with it. Perhaps he thought if I confronted Brad I would lose my cool. As if! But maybe it was better to let the Brig do his thing. Perhaps this was a way to take one enemy off the board. The Brig continued. "I think I left something in the boot."


    "Is it a Twin Mag SMG? Please say it''s a Twin Mag SMG."


    The Brig half rolled his eyes. He had a love-hate relationship with my random bouts of enthusiasm for military equipment. I had wanted him to get two MRE meal packs to eat on this trip but he had pointed out that there were three thousand restaurants between Chester and York. Sometimes a dour ex-military guy is just no fun. He walked away.


    I stared at the pitch for a while - the nine was the only player with an agent. I regretted having to buy that perk, but I kinda liked having it. Could lead to some fun stuff.


    Talking of fun... the Brig was waiting by the door - bodyguarding me - and I followed him through into the lounge. While he continued through the front door, I struck up conversations with the other scouts. Getting to know them, trying to get them to blab about their clubs. I struggled to turn the charm up - the damned dial got stuck on 6 - but after a rough start, the conversation started to flow and soon the dial was turned all the way up to 11 and the scouts were eating out of my hand.


    The hot goss flowed, big time, and when the match finally finished - two-all, who cares? - I didn''t want to leave.


    I hadn''t learned anything actionable, hadn''t got a head start on any hot prospects, but perhaps there were eleven guys who had started the day thinking I was a prick and went to bed thinking I was their kind of prick. Not the absolute worst use of my time.


    As the Brig rolled us onto Sutton Road and towards the A1237, and while I craned my neck to get a glimpse of York Minster, my driver coughed. "The gentleman has seen the error of his ways, sir. He was surprised, to say the least, that you were able to put two and two together without possessing either a two or a two." We drove on and I realised the Brig was slowly shaking his head. He tapped the steering wheel. "How did you do it?"


    "No big mystery," I said, smiling broadly. "It was in today''s horoscope."


    ***


    XP balance: 4,719


    ***


    Their dual nature is both a blessing and a curse. Geminis are seen by some as two-faced, by others as flexible. Geminis do well in a 4-2-2-2 formation.


    Monday, February 10


    Extract from the Deva Station podcast


    [Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]


    J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I''m your host, J.


    Smakk: And I''m your other host, Smakk.


    J: We''re the number one unofficial Chester FC podcast and today we''re going to talk about the transfer window. [Sound effect: a choir singing Hallelujah.] Our recent results. [Sound effect: a pane of glass smashing.] The women''s team. [Sound effect: a wolf whistle, a woman saying ''oi!'', a lusty slap.] And the latest communications from Max Best. [Sound effect: crickets chirping.] That''s right, folks, it''s going to be spicy. [Sound effect: sizzling chilies and someone going ''hot hot hot''.] Get ready for the hot takes! In the studio today is our special guest, Chester FC coach Ray Hart.


    Ray: Hello hello.


    J: Good place to start. Ray, you got scouted.


    Ray: [Deep, soothing chuckles.] I have to thank whichever listener it was who sent my last appearance to the club because some people there were kind enough to say they enjoyed it and they gave me the chance to coach a couple of sessions with the under eighteens.


    Smakk: Don''t be coy, Ray! Max fucking Best was stalking you all over town!


    Ray: Come on. He heard I was a coach and whatever we all think about him, he''s trying to promote local talent even if the local talent is not at the level.


    J: I hate it when you put yourself down like that. Come on! Tell the world what really happened.


    Ray: [pause]. Max Best in a terrible disguise watched one of my sessions with my local grassroots team and came up to me after and asked if I''d like to get involved with the club. Whether I''m the level or not I couldn''t turn it down, so I went and, well, talk about intimidating. William Roberts was in the session, as was Tyson and Benny. Noah Harrison, Lucas Friend. Dan Badford! A much higher standard than I''m used to. And that was just the players. Who''s on the touchline watching me? Max, Sandra Lane, Jude, Spectrum, Terry from the Chester Knights, and halfway through, Jackie Reaper!


    Smakk: Shit.


    Ray: They were having a big party. I was doing a pressing drill I developed on my coaching course. I can''t do it with my little eight-year-olds but I thought I needed to do something for those eighteens, you know? My best material, so to speak. It''s a twenty-minute drill, quite long, but when I was done Max got all the lads together in a semi-circle and said he thought it was what he called ''mint'' and would they be okay doing it again with a couple of tweaks? They said yes. Max made a couple of suggestions about switching things up that were so simple for the players and so complicated for the coaches.


    I got flustered and tried to explain it would need some planning and he said nah mate, Jude and Spectrum will help. You''re in charge, tell them what to do. So we went again and it was sticky at first because the drill wasn''t designed for what Max wanted but I found a way through and quickly explained it to the more experienced coaches and they understood quickly and before I knew it, the players themselves were rushing around moving the cones into place. And we did it one more time. Twenty minutes from start to finish. With my little ones I strive for variety so it''s interesting and they''re never bored and when I said that to Max he laughed and said mate, these little pricks would do this one drill for another five hours if you''d let them.


    And William Roberts said, please sir, can we have some more. Max thought that was hilarious and gave him a high five but said playtime was over. He pulled me, Roberts, Dan, Tyson, and Benny over to where Sandra Lane was watching and then it got weirder.


    J: Weirder?


    Ray: Yes! The point of the drill was to identify - let me back up. You know the way teams pass the ball out from the goalkeeper to the defenders to try to create gaps in the opposition lines? So you identify a weak link in the defence. For example, and this is no shade, Glenn Ryder.


    Smakk: Hang on, Ray. This is a question we had. If you''re working for Chester are you going to be honest with us when it comes to analysing the games and the players and the manager?


    Ray: I asked Max this very question. What was his position on me remaining on the podcast? He gave me a blank look, to be honest. He didn''t know what I was asking. I had to spell it out. If I do some work here, can I continue to speak my mind on the podcast? He was really struggling to get my point. Say what you want, why the heck would I care? Just teach these little shits to play and we''re all good. But that was later. First we were discussing my drill. It''s a kind of double bluff. You press Ryder - I really hope he doesn''t mind this - and when he releases the ball you run around in a kind of disarray.


    J: Is this drill called The Dis-A-Ray?


    Ray: [Good-natured chuckles.] But there''s a deception going on. Two players run at the weak link. This suggests we don''t know he''s the weak link because normally you give space to the least technical player because it¡¯s okay if they have the ball. You with me? The next step is to burst away from the scene. An explosion. Followed by an implosion. The weak leak is surrounded the second or third time he gets the ball and we turn it over twenty yards from goal.


    Smakk: Okay that sounds fucking amazing.


    J: You''ve got Chester''s best coaches and some under eighteens with you on the touchline. What happens next?


    Ray: Max Best explains how he''ll use this drill to beat Notts County.


    [long pause]


    J: They''re in League Two. We''re in a different division.


    Ray: That particular point doesn''t come up. He describes their default back three and their back four option, including some unbelievably specific tendencies those players have. One is a solid passer unless he touches the ball with his left foot before moving it onto his right. One has a blind spot with players running perpendicular to him. Things like that. It was a stream of detailed technical analysis and he followed that up by mapping out a complete use case for my pressing drill including which players would run at which defenders, which player would trigger the explosion and which would lead the implosion. Sandra was listening and asked a couple of clarifying questions. Jackie Reaper asked how many times we''d use this per match. Once, says Max, twice if we''re desperate. First or second half, says William Roberts. It goes on like that.


    Smakk: Fuck me.


    Ray: It''s not something I''ve ever experienced before. On my coaching course the more serious trainees talked like that but it was all on the meta level. Mapping a routine onto a future opponent in such a specific way? I was gobsmacked. When I was able to get a word in edgeways, I asked if they were making plans like those against all the teams. Max looked puzzled. He said, what else would we do?


    J: For the millionth time, I can''t tell if he''s full of shit.


    Smakk: You only have to think what he did against Dorking.


    J: We''re coming to that!


    Smakk: Sorry. Okay, Ray. Long story short, they love you and they want you back when we play Notts.


    Ray: [chuckling] That did get mentioned, but Max asked what level of commitment I was comfortable with. I said, not much. I didn''t feel I was ready. What would make you feel more ready? Doing more badges. Great. Do them. We''ll pay. You don''t have to do that, I said, but he wasn''t listening. He said he''d heard normal people sometimes found it hard to get onto the courses and at higher levels you had to be on a football club''s books or they wouldn''t even look at your application. What we''ll do, he said, is we''ll give you a job and we won''t tell anyone it''s only two hours a week. Yeah, we''ll do that. Two hours a week so that you can write you''re employed by Chester FC on the form so you get in the course. That''s true, by the way. If you work for a club you get fast-tracked. He says, you don''t even have to do the two hours if you don''t want. Well, I''m more than happy to do two hours. Two hours a week? That''s fine.


    J and Smakk: [sniggering]


    Ray: What?


    J: You got played. He played you!


    Ray: Who?


    Smakk: Max wanted two hours a week from you and he got it!


    [pause]


    Ray: I got played.


    [laughter]


    Ray: It''s an honour. I''m happy. I''ve been floating on air, lads.


    J: You''re a ledge, mate. An absolute ledge. I was going to savage Best for not talking to fans and for leaving a blank page in the match programme where his notes are supposed to go, but okay, fine. He''s talking to the people he wants to talk to. That''s something, at least. Let''s run an ad and we''ll be back with our next section.


    ***


    [Chirpy, youthful female voice]: Hey girls! Looking for something fun to do this weekend? Come to Chester Racecourse, the oldest racecourse in the world, for the annual Flight of the Bumblebees! What''s that? It''s loads of fit young men in bee suits running around while you cheer them on. If your choice wins, you drink for free! How''s the ground? Let''s just say whatever the conditions, the going is firm. [She giggles playfully.] Chester Racecourse - the most fun you can have standing up. [Giggle.]


    ***


    J: Okay, we''re back! Sorry again to anyone who got weird adverts last week. Should all be fixed, now. Let''s talk transfers. This window we signed Christian Fierce for a club record fee, and Steve Alton went to Kidderminster on loan. I''m told there''s an option to buy at a generous rate. We allowed quite a lot of young players to go out on loan, retained Ziggy, and brought Chipper from League One. Smakk, how did you feel when the transfer window slammed shut?


    Smakk: I was happy. Optimistic. Christian Fierce is huge - in more ways than one. We kept two clean sheets in his first two games and what can you say about the guy? He''s impressive. And Chipper scored two winning goals in January. That''s six points right there.


    J: Four points.


    Smakk: What?


    J: It would have been nil-nil in both games. That''s two points. His winning goals added four points.


    Smakk: This guy. He''s learned what xG is and now he''s a stats freak. If he''s worth two points or three points a game he''s priceless either way. Okay so overall it''s a big gamble, isn''t it? We''ve spent the Raffi Brown money, the FA Cup money. I kind of got used to having that down the back of the sofa. It was our safety net and now it''s gone. We''ve got a lot of eggs and we''ve got one basket. Do you know what I mean?


    J: Do you agree with the moves, though?


    Smakk: Chipper is the best striker I''ve seen in years, and Fierce the best defender. So, yeah. Money well spent, in theory. In practice, if we don''t go up we''ve fucked ourselves, haven''t we?


    J: I think when the window closed I was exactly the same. Happy but nervous. Good moves but, to coin a phrase, it''s all or nothing.


    Smakk: Don''t.


    J: That''s what it is, though, isn''t it? Ray, you don''t want to talk about transfers, do you?


    Ray: I''m happier talking about deals that went through than speculating. Boringly, I agree with what''s been said. Happy but nervous.


    J: Great. We also signed rowdy Roddy Jones and he looks good in the clips, but who doesn''t? We don''t need to put pressure on the kid but my sources say we are committed to future transfer fees rising to fifty thousand pounds which is, look, it''s scary in one way. But if he''s Baby Bale like some people are saying then no-one''s going to remember the fifty K.


    Smakk: It''s half when he turns 16, half when he turns 18, right? If we get promoted twenty-five grand will feel like being stung by a butterfly.


    J: If we get promoted. If if if. I think we should ban the word if. Okay, that''s all the men, I think. On the women''s side the only moves were the five Welsh lasses who joined. Don''t want to get into the whole Saltney thing but if they''re good, they''re welcome, and the fees were negligible. Few thousand here and there. Anything to say about all that? Some head shaking here in the studio. All right, next topic. The women''s first team.


    Smakk: Surreal stuff here, even by our standards. Mid-January, the women beat Merseyrail three-one, at which point, I''ve got it written down, hang on... Yeah, they''d scored forty, conceded three. Sensational stuff, right? But there were all kinds of rumours of Max Best throwing a tantrum before the Bury match. One of those things where the entire squad locks itself in after a defeat while they clear the air. I''ve never heard of that before a match with a team that''s top of the table and cruising. Ray, have you got any insight?


    Ray: No insider knowledge, no, but I take my girls to as many of the women''s games as I can and all I''ll say is that results aren''t everything.


    Smakk: What do you mean?


    Ray: All I want to say is that Max doesn''t ask his players to do more than they can do.


    Smakk: Well, the women were three-nil up at half time and there was, apparently, a lot of in-fighting as they went to the dressing room. They were late coming out for the second half and they won six-nil. A week later, home to FC United, two-nil up at half time. In-fighting, unhappy faces, late coming out, six-nil, Max Best dishing out hugs and chest bumping Jackie Reaper. What the actual fuck is happening?


    Ray: I have no clue. Those first halves were really okay but the second halves were unbelievable at times. The intensity''s gone up. Everyone is sharper, faster, and they''re pushing each other. I saw Femi run fifty yards to grab Bea Pea by the collar and move her into the centre. Stop wasting your energy, she seemed to be saying. There was a lot of that. The leaders starting to lead. Midfielders connecting two ways. Goalscorers scoring goals. I didn''t realise it but my girls were drifting away. There had been something missing and now it''s back, big time. It''s back and my daughters are excited to wake up on a Sunday. The women have Fleetwood next and they''re the weakest in the league. But then it''s the three big ones: Tranmere, Cheadle, and West. Win all three and the title''s all but in the bag. It''s exciting. I''ll be at all those and so will my daughters and I''m very grateful for that.


    J: Well said. Should we take a quick break there and get into the men''s results? Let''s take a quick break.


    ***


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    ***


    J: We''re back! Three matches in seven days to discuss and we''re talking about the first ones again because Ray''s here. Saturday, February first, we''re away at Dorking. Smakk and I have talked about it but Ray, what was your take?


    Ray: Fascinating. Amazing. Sensational. On the coach down south we remember the two home games in the thick mud and we think, huh. We''ve bulked up. We''re older. Sneakily, the average age has gone up. I did some maths and at one point in the Forest Green match we had an average age of over 27. We haven''t had that for a while, not even close. We''ve gone from Project Youth to Project Max and the Beanstalk. So we roll up to Dorking, there''s traffic, the away fans get in five minutes late, and what do we see? It''s two-nil to Chester and Max is on the warpath. It''s Max, Bochum, Eddie Moore, Zach Green, Sharky, and we are running riot.


    Smakk: Mostly Max, though.


    Ray: Mostly Max, though. That''s right. I missed the long shot and the free kick and only heard the cheers and saw the scoreboard saying two-nil, but it was clear he was working out a lot of stress and frustration. Long shots, trying to score from corners, trying to set the world record for bendy free kicks. I got a five minute blast of it and then suddenly - boof! It was gone. Five minutes of falling back, shape work, virtually men behind ball. Dorking were shell-shocked from the early barrage but they eventually realised they had to come at us.


    They had a bit of a pop but it was a ruse for Max to feed Sharky and Bochum and for us to run riot on counters. One chance went begging, then another, and finally Max gets the ball deep and sprints hard, combines with Chipper, slides the ball to Eddie, overload on the left, tap in for Henri. The guys go to celebrate but Max is in the back of the net picking the ball up and he''s shouting at them to get back. Three-nil, not enough, let''s go again. Three-nil after fifteen minutes. Four-nil after twenty. Max kicks some water bottles in disgust. Disgust! He''s absolutely fuming. To me it was ten out of ten all round but apparently not.


    Smakk: Okay that''s interesting, Ray, because maybe that plays into the Dagenham result.


    J: Hang on, guys. We need to go sequentially or we get tweets. It''s four-nil after twenty minutes and it''s just unbelievable stuff. Fast and literally furious. Max Best subs himself off with two goals, no celebrations, hiding in the dugout with his hoodie up. Thoughts?


    Smakk: Only that we won five-nil and got two closer to Grimsby in goal difference.


    J: Come on, man. Something''s not right.


    Smakk: Yeah, look, he''s got high standards. Most fans only look at scores but he''s seeing players not doing what they''re supposed to and things like that. Tuesday night we''re at home to Dagenham and Redbridge and it''s the Big Boys Club again but we can''t even get half-chances going. We fight and we get a point but that was one of our games in hand and we really needed a win to have a chance of catching Grimsby. We all saw Best after - he was low. Really low. He knows that''s the season done. He always said we go for the playoffs and then there was the whole takeover mess and he spent our reserves and now he''s thinking, why? What''s the point? To win the title we need to win the games in hand but we''ve drawn at home to a mid-table side. And maybe whatever it was he saw against Dorking stopped us getting a goal against Dag.


    J: It was a totally different team! One''s all huge guys, one''s all the technical lads. Who''s in both? Fierce, Wise, Harrison. Aff. Carlile. The strikers. They weren''t the problem, if there even was a problem.


    Smakk: It was a problem that fucking Chipper got himself sent off!


    J: That was in the, like, eighty-eighth minute. It didn''t affect the result.


    Smakk: Who knows what might have happened? There were about eight minutes of injury time. And he''ll miss three league matches.


    J: He plays on the edge. No big deal. Move on.


    Smakk: No big deal. Christ. It''s one thing him not playing against Eastleigh but he''ll miss Barnet and Solihull, too. The hardest games we''ve got left!


    J: It''s fine.


    Smakk: Argh! We''re about to have another podcast schism. Back to Dagenham. Ray, we fluffed our lines. At the time, did you think that was that for us winning the league?


    Ray: That draw took us seventeen points behind Grimsby with three games in hand. Win those three and it''s eight points. Beat Grimsby and it''s five. It''s still very possible to catch them but there''s something about those numbers that is daunting. We''re twenty points behind. We''re seventeen points behind. If we don''t go on a tear we''ll find games start to run out and that''s that. I''m confident we''ll get to the playoffs and get to the final but then it''s a lottery. I hope we don''t look back on the two points against Dagenham and have regrets because it was a whole-hearted effort from the lads in difficult conditions.


    J: I think it''s interesting no-one wants to talk about Eastleigh. A two-nil away win against a decent team without our best striker. We''ve won seven out of eight. We''ve lost one out of fourteen in the league. Why isn''t anyone upbeat about this?


    Smakk: Because Grimsby won and we''re still seventeen points behind. We''re doing well, true, and we''ll get to the playoffs, great. But it''s a long time until then.


    J: Grimsby didn''t replace Marcus Wainwright.


    Smakk: So? They''ve got enough quality. They can grind out results.


    J: Their results are low-key tailing off already. One less goal per game. Take away what Wainwright was doing and they''re going to drop points. It''s like Ray said, we''re in a false position. If we keep going they''ll start to notice us catching them and they''ll feel the pressure and crack. Christian Fierce, five games, no goals conceded. We lost to Dagenham at the start of the season. We''ve upgraded that to a draw, at least. If -


    Smakk: I thought we''d banned the word if.


    J: [sulks]


    Ray: I have a theory.


    J: Tell us.


    Ray: This week was the first time my daughters learned about star signs and we had a discussion about that. It got me thinking about our manager. Ask two people what they think of Max Best and it''s shocking how often you hear them give opposite answers. He''s too kind, he''s too ruthless, that kind of thing. There are two sides to everything he does. Most dramatically, he plays brutal, old-school football at home on our dodgy pitch, but away it''s slick, fast, progressive. He''ll spend literally half the season promoting youth players and giving them chances and the remaining half is all about wily old pros while the youth get loaned out. He''s got no interest in Wales one minute, the next he''s bought a club and signed ten dragons.


    When I show him my humble little drills he can''t stop talking but when Saturday comes we don''t hear a peep. He''s a huge extrovert who claims to be an introvert. He wants to keep this a fan-owned club and the only way to do that is to cut fans out of the equation. He''s a bundle of contradictions in every way. What I think -


    J: If you mention horoscopes we''re going to lose twenty percent of our Patreons.


    Ray: [softly chuckling]. You got me. But I was just thinking, in a season like this, where we''re sixth but we think it''s a title charge and our best player is falling over at corners one minute and hitting worldies into the top corner the next and we look like Christian Bale in Batman on Saturday and Christian Bale in The Machinist on Tuesday, in a season where we need to hold two absolutely contradictory positions in our head and utterly believe them both... Am I allowed to say it?


    J: [sighs, laughs.] Go on.


    Ray: What you need at the top is a Gemini.


    J: Any of them? There are six hundred and fifty million.


    Ray: [chuckling.] One in particular, mate. One in particular.


    ***


    Geminis are a reticent bunch; they won''t share their secrets with just anyone. But once you prove you can match their hustle, a Gemini is fiercely loyal. When you''re in, you''re in. They''ll do everything in their power to help you succeed and have a blast along the way. Hitch yourself to their wagon and you might win or you might lose but either way you''ll be glad you came along for the ride.

 10.4 - One Man Banned

    4.


    After beating Eastleigh, Emma and I went eastly (lol) to spend a day and a half with TJ and his latest girlfriend in Crawley. We very much didn''t talk about the shithead striker he had fobbed off on me, but we did spend a frankly delightful Sunday morning nibbling on croissants while TJ practised the guitar. He had the wotsits - the notes and which order to play them - from an album called One Man Band.


    It was technically challenging for TJ but easy listening for the rest of us - Emma found the music boring but she tolerated me playing the album in the car on the long drive home, mostly because she was asleep before the end of the first track, Something in the Way She Snores. I found myself playing the album a lot in the coming days. It was good background music to work to, the Brig and Vimsy liked it, and as you''ll see, the song titles in no way seeped into my subconscious.


    ***


    On Monday morning at nine a.m. I started sketching out my plan for the week. It''s fair to say I was extremely confident.


    By taking three points from James Wise''s former club, we had eased up to seventh in the league, the last of the playoff places. In 2025 we had played five league matches, won four, and conceded precisely zero goals. Under Sandra''s management, we had also thrashed Hyde United in the Cheshire Cup Quarter Final, earning ourselves a semi against Cammell Laird 1907, a semi-pro team from Birkenhead. That was tomorrow night''s match, but I started by picking a team for Saturday and working backwards.


    By five past nine, I was wobbling.


    The squad and I were at the King George training centre and the first team were being put through their paces. The grass pitches at the Deva and BoshCard were recovering well but, guided by the fixture list, I had decided to let the grass rest until March. Our next two league fixtures were at home to Barnet and Solihull. Those games would mash the Deva up some more, then we''d get the pitch stitching done, and Jonny would have the best part of two weeks to get the surface up to par.


    The George was okay in the meantime, though it lacked privacy and was generally alien. I glanced around. Sandra had called in sick, as had Jackie and Livia and loads of young players. "There''s a bug going round," Vimsy had said. He was a lot more chatty at the George, which I put down to him not having a filing cabinet to lean against.


    He was leading the current session, which didn''t fill me with confidence for squeezing some much-needed CA out of the bunch. Rates of improvement had tanked since the winter monsoons and I was starting to seriously fret about our prospects. The transfer window was closed so when it came to players, I had what I had - the tenth best starting eleven in the National League. Our only hope was to keep my squad improving. To that end I''d assembled a ludicrously overpowered group of supercoaches. There was Sandra herself, who hadn''t looked out of place at Manchester City; Llewellyn, our on-loan future Wales manager, was rated 20 in most key attributes; Clive OK had coached at the top level in Germany; Ray Hart was a tactics whizz who was amazing at Working With Youngsters; and Jude, Spectrum and the rest of the usual rotation stacked up well against most coaches for the level. A few of us also took private sessions with Cody Chambers, who drilled us on technique or finishing.


    When I thought about the coaching numbers versus the current CA growth, I felt an expanding sense of dread. It seemed I had massively underestimated the need for better facilities. I had spent all my money on a luxury centre back and a fucking useless striker I couldn''t trust. Had I spent the Christian Fierce money on facilities at the start of the season, Chester would now own a 3G pitch and a set of attractive portacabins and my players would have kept improving all through the winter.


    "Boss, I got you a tea."


    "Thanks, Noah. Why aren''t you in the sesh?" Noah was Andrew Harrison''s younger brother and his school didn''t start until Monday lunchtime. He said. I kept meaning to check that. He was at one of those places that had a school song. Posh or what? So why did they have Monday mornings off? It didn''t make sense.


    "Got a knock. Andrew said not to aggravate it." He looked worried. "Was that right? I can join in if you want."


    "I don''t want. Andrew was right and you did the right thing telling him. That''s one of the things we''ve done well."


    "What is?"


    "We''re managing our workload and not getting big injuries." I scanned my screens to see if anyone was carrying a secret knock - Noah didn''t show up because he wasn''t part of the first team squad. I had the option to add the under eighteens but it would cost 2,000 XP and I had recently spent a lot more XP than I had intended. I wasn''t sure what my next direction of improvement needed to be so I was trying to be thrifty. "People aren''t happy with the rotation, though." The curse showed me a player''s current Morale, and while the group as a whole had better Morale than most teams, it had been sliding since I started Project Super Shrimp. Zach, for example, was not happy only playing when the pitches were good, Ryan Jack felt I was being a helicopter parent by being so careful with his return from injury, and Ben Cavanagh felt that he had lost his spot at the number one goalie despite me promising him he hadn''t. "Have you heard any grumblings?"


    Noah''s eyes widened, but then he got shifty. Obviously, Andrew had warned him about telling tales. "We''re all one big happy family," he said. He pointed to my notebook. "What are you writing?"


    "Something strange and vaguely upsetting," I said. "Thanks for the tea."


    "You''re welcome."


    "That was me telling you to fuck off, but with diplomacy and sophistication."


    "Right," he said, and he scooted off to stand next to Vimsy. I couldn''t hear but I was pretty sure Vimsy said something like, ''You made him a tea but not me?'' because Noah ran off in the direction of the little hut with the kettle.


    The reason I was wobbling, apart from the slow growth in our CA, was that I had planned out the starting elevens for the semi-final against Laird and for Saturday''s titanic battle against Barnet. What I discovered, as they say on clickbait headlines, shocked me.


    Against Laird I would use our smaller, more technical team in a 4-1-4-1 formation. Ben in goal behind Eddie, Zach, Christian, and Magnus. Youngster would play DM in his last match before flying out to Togo for the finals of the African Cup of Nations. Ryan would play central midfield for a maximum of an hour. Then Pascal, Sharky, and Wibbers would rotate around the rest of the midfield. I imagined William would be central more often than not, possibly pushed into a CAM slot. The lone striker would be Ziggy.


    Not a bad team by any stretch of the imagination and they would be three times as strong as Laird in terms of CA. But slow down a second. Ryan Jack back from a long-term injury. Sharky. A very callow WibRob. Ziggy. Quite ragged, right? A bit weak? Remember that feeling.


    So here was the plan against Barnet. Huge. The Beef Brigade. Hard Shell with Spikes. Sticky in goal, with Cole, Glenn, Christian again, Carl. Magnus would also play twice in a week, this time as the DM. The midfield was one that had done well for us before: Josh Throw-Ins, Wisey, Andrew, and Aff. Up front was everyone''s favourite Frenchman. I wrote out the CAs and was thrilled to see that no fewer than three guys had smashed into the 70s - Carl, Aff, and Henri.


    Amazing!


    But what''s this?


    My awesome, powerful Saturday team, my big boys, my terror turtles, had an average CA of 57.


    My wimpy, feeble, delicate Tuesday night flowers... had an average of 59.


    Now, there were obvious reasons why I''d split the squad the way I had. Pascal and Eddie Moore weren''t going to play to their highest standards on mud. If I wanted to get huge, then it made sense to choose Glenn over Zach and Sticky over Ben.


    And neither eleven included the guy I''d spent all our FA Cup money on - Chipper. We played in blue but he preferred red: red dragons, red mists, red cards. The prick had got a yellow card for calling the referee something unspeakable, then got a second yellow for throwing a punch at a player. I mean, that''s a straight red normally but the ref actually showed him a yellow. The guy could have got away with it if he hadn''t vented his spleen at the guy in control of the match! Getting aggressive at the ref was moronic on countless vectors. Example: after Chipper''s initial outburst, the ref switched from being neutral to making our lives harder. It''s not correct but can you blame him? I didn''t; I blamed Chipper. The Welsh prick was seventy thousand pounds down the drain and once again we were down to the bare bones in strikers. Henri plus Ziggy equaled the entire list.


    Anyway, fuck Chipper and fuck his career. He was dead to me.


    All I cared about was this 57 versus 59 mess.


    There was just something about seeing the numbers in black and white that freaked me out. Our absolute best eleven - including Youngster and Simply Red - had an average CA of 67. Why was the team against Barnet going to be eight points lower? Because Chipper was banned. Because I didn''t want to break Youngster the day before he got on a plane. Because the pitch was a bog.


    The beefy boy plan made sense but in the past I had always picked my highest CA teams against our key rivals and it had normally gone pretty well.


    I thought about calling Sandra to talk things through and discuss my doubts, but she was ill in bed. The last thing she needed was a call from her idiot manchild boss.


    No, tomorrow night we would ease into another final and at the weekend we would get huge against Barnet, keep a clean sheet, and try to snatch a goal on a set piece.


    Stick to the plan. The plan is mint.


    ***


    Tuesday, February 11


    Cheshire Cup Semi Final: Cammell Laird 1907 vs All-Conquering Chester


    The Kirklands Stadium was close to Tranmere Rovers and a mis-hit Youngster shot from the River Mersey. The air was cold and damp and the stadium was ramshackle to say the least, but it felt like home.


    Maybe that''s because twenty Tranmere fans had turned up to support us. Support me, more specifically. At the start of the match they cheered every time I left my one cubic centimetre dugout. The soggy pitch sucked some of the life out of the match, so the Tranmere mob fuelled up on beers and pies and at the twenty-minute mark they started chanting, "Max Best! Give us a wave! Max Best Max Best give us a wave." They kept it up for a full minute and I made the mistake of waving at them. It shut them up but the on-pitch action was slow and sloppy - not enough to distract the mob - and so the chant started again. When I refused to wave, they booed. Two minutes later they asked again. I waved. Big cheer. Two minutes later, I refused. Boo!


    So they were having fun, and Ryan Jack was loving life. His Morale was maxed out at the thrill of starting one of the lowest-level matches of his entire career. But for me the match was pretty gruesome. The pitch wasn''t as bad as the Deva''s, but it slowed passes down and made it hard to build moves. Pascal and Sharky were nerfed. Ziggy was bullied by his marker. And even WibRob, who I would have expected to love these conditions, was subdued. His match rating quickly slipped to 5 out of 10 and flirted with 4.


    I had Carl, James Wise, Henri, and myself on the bench so I wasn''t worried about losing, but I did wonder what the best thing for William was. Stay on, get frustrated, learn some lessons? Or would it be better if I took him off at half time before he could stink the place up even more?


    I slid his icon off the tactics screen and at the next break, he came over to the side of the pitch. While some Tranmere fans begged for attention, I told William to get simple. "One-touch it if you can. Two-touch. Get some passes under your belt. And relax!" I said, beaming. "Wave to those fans over there."


    "What?"


    "That''s your fan club. Wave and see."


    He didn''t want to, so I did it. William rolled his eyes, but as the locals cheered, his Morale went up a sliver. "Two-touch. Okay."


    "Why don''t you go striker for a bit and help Ziggy out?"


    I switched to 4-4-2 and made that change.


    A few minutes later Will''s rating had climbed to 6. I stuck my bottom lip out and nodded. Top manager over here!


    "Is there anything I can help with, sir?" The Brig was my assistant manager for the evening. His primary job was to keep the opposition bench away from me.


    "Not really," I said.


    "I''m bored, sir."


    I laughed. "Yeah. It''s not a classic. Oh, shit." My entire body tensed as Ryan Jack flew into a fifty-fifty challenge. I prayed for him to get up. He did; I breathed out.


    "Ryan is back to his best?"


    I made an unimpressed little noise. "His best was fifteen years ago at Everton. Wish I could have signed that little tearaway; I bet no-one ever used him right. But he''s back to his Chester best. Almost. Lacking a little match sharpness, maybe, but in a couple of weeks he''ll be back to bossing. Back to bossing. I like that. Put that on a whimsical mug."


    "Tell me about the others."


    "That''s fun, is it?"


    "It''s interesting to hear how you assess them, yes."


    I considered that. It seemed boring to me, but life was full of surprises. "Okay so Ben''s in goal, desperately trying to impress to move back ahead of Sticky in the pecking order. Only problem is we''re so dominant in defence he doesn''t have anything to do except take a few goal kicks." I chuckled. "Life''s shit sometimes. It''s funny, though. He has just been quietly improving the whole season and he''s nearly at his limit."


    "How do you judge a player''s limit?"


    "Hmm." I slowed my flappy mouth down. "It''s the quality of his movement. His agility, reflexes, stuff like that. I don''t know if it''s clear to you but Sticky can improve a load from where he is today, but Ben''s not going to get more, like, smooth or agile or whatever."


    "I do see what you mean with Sticky. He exudes an aura and I have a lot of trust when I watch him."


    "That trust you''re describing. That could be what I''m seeing. The irony is that right now Ben''s quite a lot better, but Sticky''s catching up fast. I might just have a dilemma on the last day of the season."


    "A good dilemma?"


    "All dilemmas are good, aren''t they?"


    "No," said the former army guy.


    Ryan tried to exchange passes with WibRob but we lost possession. Magnus soon took it back. "Magnus keeps getting better. He''s solid, he doesn''t have fitness problems any more. He was adding some craft to his game but that got postponed. I''m chill about him. We just need to make sure he stays next season. Eddie Moore at left back - another guy who quietly just gets on with it. He doesn''t score or assist much so he doesn''t get noticed. We paid twenty-five thousand for him and he''s worth three times that, now."


    "If you could improve him in one particular area, what would it be?"


    "Huh. Have you been listening to those self-help podcasts again? Erm... I mean, he does everything fine, he''s neat and tidy, he''s pretty fast, pretty consistent. Maybe he doesn''t have one stand out quality. Like, if he was twenty out of twenty in one particular thing that''d boost his career a lot."


    "Why not ten out of ten?"


    "Because I''m a Gemini."


    "Of course, sir."


    Eddie competed for a header - inconclusive - but was then much sharper going for the second ball, which he passed to Pascal. "See that? That''s fine. It''s just in times of stress where you look around for something extra. It''s hard to remember we''re a National League team. Christian is amazing and he galvanises the players around him. No goals conceded since he rocked up. Zach was settling in but he''s regressed to trying too hard since we bought Fierce. It''s hard to tell him to relax because you know he won''t. I''m not too worried about him but I really wish he''d focus his willpower on useful things. Youngster''s the bees knees. I''m nervous about him playing for a different manager but it seems like a good group they''ve got. Lots of hungry young players who are supportive. I just hope he doesn''t blast the ball into orbit at a vital moment. I don''t even know if I want him to play. Just going and being on the bench is probably fine for him right now."


    "It''s a long way to go to not play."


    I shrugged. Youngster got the ball from an opponent and played it back to Glenn before blocking the runner to give Glenn more time on the ball. The block was pure Vimsy and the pass was pure Jackie Reaper. The way Youngster backpedalled into position for a bounce pass from Christian Fierce was pure Sandra Lane. "There''s my boy! Sweet baby James Yalley. If he does that in Togo, he''s allowed to play."


    "Very magnanimous of you, sir."


    "Sharky''s interesting. What do you feel when you watch him?"


    The Brig had come to football late in life, but some things were obvious even to the casual observer. "I have more confidence he will do something productive than previously."


    I nodded. "That''s Sandra. She''s been working hard with him. Yeah," I mused, "he''s getting there." How fast, though? He had started at CA 20 and fairly quickly got to CA 40. My best guess was that 40 had been his previous peak because since then his development had slowed a lot. He was breaking new ground on our shitty facilities and not featuring much in the team. If he got to CA 50 by the end of this season... with better facilities and tougher opposition next season... could we get him to CA 70 at the age of 27? His PA was 86, so he could keep improving... at his next club. "We''re by far his best home for now. I think I want to keep him the whole of next season, too, and then he can have, what, four years at more or less his best level? It''ll be fascinating to see what happens when he loses his pace. These lessons with Sandra might kick in and help him get more crafty. Less pace, better movement."


    "What troubles you, sir?"


    "It just seems like an intractable problem. We have to get players like Sharky who never quite made it elsewhere but we can''t quite improve them fast enough."


    "Fast enough for what?"


    "Fast enough to achieve my goals."


    Pascal popped up in the D and played a ball behind the left back. Sharky hared onto it while Pascal and Ziggy stormed into the penalty box. WibRob was no slouch and he was trying to get forward, too. Sharky took one touch, looked up - Hallelujah! - and played a simple square pass that Ziggy passed into the net.


    One-nil!


    "Fast enough to achieve your goals, sir?" said the Brig, after defending me from an attack of the Vimsys.


    "Don''t get cocky, kid," I said, and stepped around him to hug Vimsy.


    ***


    At half-time, I went over to the Tranmere fans and signed shirts and posed for selfies and asked them what the hell they were doing. They gave cryptic replies such as, ''We know what you did'' and ''the North remembers''. On a random surface, there was a rectangular sticker with the Reading badge and the words Never Dai Yongge. Henri had played for Reading - I wanted to ask him what it meant, but I forgot.


    I popped into the dressing room to tell Ryan he had another fifteen minutes and to ask the subs if any of them wanted to play. They all said yes. That surprised me but then again, this was a cup semi-final. It didn''t feel like one because there were barely a hundred fans and Laird couldn''t really get any moves going.


    I announced my plan. In twenty minutes or so, Wisey would replace Ryan, Henri would replace Wibbers, and if we were still winning with ten to go I would make a very special change.


    They thought I meant I would come on, but seeing eighty minutes on the clock and Laird having no shots, I went full Max and replaced Ben with Sticky.


    "Going headlong towards your delectable dilemma, sir?"


    "Abso-fucking-lutely."


    "What would Sandra say?"


    "There''s really no way to know," I said. "Don''t worry. I''ve arrogantly used all my subs while only winning one-nil against a determined bunch of plucky underdogs. You can close your eyes; nothing can go wrong."


    The Brig gave a wry smile, but nothing did go wrong. We saw out the rest of the match with a professional if drab performance.


    One-nil, into the cup final, and I hadn''t used Bench Boost or Triple Captain. We would play either Crewe or Stockport in the final and if I was in charge, the boosts would be very handy. Sandra would be manager for that one, though, unless she was poached by a bigger club.


    I fretted for fifteen seconds before Vimsy jiggled me.


    "What?"


    "Your fan club," he said.


    I turned and heard, "Max Best! Give us a wave!" I laughed, waved, and they let out one last boozy ''wayyy!''


    My phone vibrated.


    Sandra: Alsager Town: 4-0. Congleton Town: 4-2. Hyde United: 7-0. Cammell Laird: 1-0. One of these results is not like the others.


    Me: Yeah but wait till you see tonight''s Expected Threat graph!


    Sandra: Smiley face. Bicep emoji.


    Me: Going to be fit for Saturday?


    Sandra: Nothing can stop me.


    Narrator''s voice: Something stopped her.


    ***


    Saturday, February 15


    Match 29 of 46: Title-Chasers Chester vs Always the Bridesmaid Barnet


    The first flush of Sandra''s illness had passed, only to be replaced by a violent, hacking cough. Jackie was equally stricken, which meant that on Sunday I would heroically step in to manage the women against the worst team in the division, backed by Bench Boost and Triple Captain.


    First, though, was the small matter of winning the National League. If we beat Barnet, currently in second place, our odds would rise to approximately a hundred percent, with a one percent margin of error.


    Our best player, Chipper, was banned and so the starting eleven was tall and full of running. We had Josh Throw-Ins and the Deva''s pitch was a fraction better than in our last game. Jonny had smothered the corners with clay stuff so I hoped to be able to send in some wicked set pieces.


    There was nothing to say tactically, so before the match I told the lads about three Barnet players they wouldn''t be familiar with but who I had seen in the warmups.


    "Okay, here''s the sitch. Barnet will do 4-4-2 like they always do. Solid, compact, narrow. They''ve spent big on a new central midfielder, Larry Goldings, and he''ll be a handful but he''s only a slight upgrade on what they had. Bit strange - they''re normally good at talent ID. They lost the loan players they had last time - got recalled by their clubs - but they''ve found some new ones. Two wingers, in fact. The new right mid, Taylor, is basically Sharky - fast and powerful - but if I were him I''d be looking at our pitch wondering how I was supposed to dribble. Then they''ve got Richard James, a tall left mid. No jumping ability but he can bosh a header. Overall, they''re slightly better than when we played them last, but we''re much better than we were at the start of the season." Barnet''s average CA had improved from 74 to 75 - League Two standard. The worst thing from my point of view was that they didn''t have any weak links. "Our bench is much better than theirs," I said, clutching at straws like a pro. "It could come down to that. Vimsy, tell them to get stuck in and all that stuff."


    A few minutes later I was in the dugout and I dialled my concentration down just enough to listen to the fans. Barnet were the Bees and wore a sort of amber honeycomb kit, and their fans were - I''m terribly sorry - buzzing. They were making a hell of a din in the away end, which you''d expect if you were doing well.


    The home fans seemed quiet. I would have asked Sandra if she felt the same, but I was basically alone for this one. To my right, Ben, Zach, and Ryan were mad at me for not starting them in this huge match, while Ziggy had so much nervous energy on game days he either fidgeted heavily or went jogging up and down the touchline. Vimsy was in the technical area, shouting encouragement, while the Brig was stationed between the dugouts to make sure any shithousery Barnet started didn''t boil over.


    The first few minutes passed with lots of blood and thunder tackling and much head tennis. Barnet were that rare beast - a team with higher Morale than us.


    After five minutes there hadn''t been any shots, but Barnet were winning the territory game. My defenders were just about holding their own, though. Carl was fine against the tall left mid and Cole Adams had played a lot against Sharky in our practice matches so he had some coping strategies.


    The blow was so unexpected and simple it stunned me into thirty seconds of motionlessness.


    Barnet''s manager switched the wingers. The fast one went against Carl and the tall one went against Cole.


    Evergreen wins the header.


    The ball is picked up by the powerful Barnet number 25, Goldings.


    He clips the ball forward.


    Cole Adams jumps, but his amber-shirted rival James flicks it on.


    James chases his own header.


    Adams slides in - reckless! He doesn''t get the ball.


    James pushes on. He crosses high...


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Sticky gets a fingertip to it. Just enough to direct it away from the incoming striker!


    But there''s still danger.


    Taylor outpaces Carl Carlile and he has the chance to shoot on his favoured right foot!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Great football from Barnet!


    Their title charge is very much alive.


    After the shock of seeing a rival manager damage us so easily, the enormity of the situation hit me. Hit me like a Wrexham-ball. It wasn''t just that we would slip twenty points behind Grimsby and thirteen behind Barnet. It wasn''t just the fact that we would need to beat Barnet in the playoff final - which on today''s evidence seemed a stretch. It was also the fact that my star loan signing was sulking in his house in Crawley while Barnet''s loanees had combined to score that goal. Barnet were evolving. Hard rock with teeth! We had a thicker shell but no teeth yet.


    Not getting promoted this season was unthinkable. I had mentally spent the million pounds in TV money countless times. A hundred and fifty thousand to outfit a dentist''s clinic. Fifty thousand for training and courses. Thirty for a sports psychologist. A hundred on beautifully ugly Chester-branded portacabins. And so on, and so forth.


    What if we didn''t get promoted? We would lose WibRob, Youngster, Sticky, and more.


    If I kept the squad together we would probably win the National League next season, but it would be an agonising year. I could maybe, maybe countenance a consolidation year in League Two, when the daily grind would be enlivened by going to EFL meetings and sleeping on a mattress stuffed with a million pounds in cash. Staying an extra season in the National League would be gruesome and there was no guarantee we would win the title. If Barnet didn''t go up through the playoffs they could improve to Grimsby-ish levels. The same could be said for Forest Green or Solihull. What about the teams getting relegated from the EFL? Bradford City were having a shocker and the thought of competing against a team with a 15,000 average attendance was nightmarish.


    We had to find a way. We had to evolve, and fast.


    When I recovered, I took action. I moved Aff to left back - he wouldn''t be outpaced, could compete in the air, and wouldn''t make rash challenges - Cole to left mid, and Josh to right mid. I used the Seal It Up perk to give us a fifteen-minute bonus to our Positioning.


    Then I returned to some mental calculations I had made about what the team might look like in a month. If everyone added a couple of points of CA, if I used Chipper, the prick, and if Youngster wasn''t too exhausted by his AFCON adventure, I would be able to put out a pretty great starting eleven with an average CA of 69.2. Without Chipper and Youngster I could get to 65.


    Miles off the pace.


    Shit.


    If we didn''t get promoted, I couldn''t sign a Brazilian.


    Shitting shit.


    Ryder slapped a long ball forward. Henri chased after it, but slowed because I''d told him not to waste his energy. Some fans got on his case. A defender eased forward, unopposed. More shouts from the Chester fans, but the lack of pressure was because Cole Adams was not used to being stationed at left midfield - he didn''t like pressing into the other team''s half. It felt unnatural to him; he had spent his whole life in one particular spot on the pitch.


    I switched Aff and Cole back into their more natural positions.


    Almost immediately, Barnet returned to hitting long balls to Cole''s zone. Cole won one, lost the next one. Aff tried to scamper back to help but Cole lost his head and fouled the winger.


    Talk about a sinking feeling.


    The Bees send their left back all the way across the pitch to take the free kick.


    He cleans the mud from his boots and signals. Looks like it will be an inswinger.


    Ryder stations his men at the edge of the penalty area - a neat line of blue and white.


    The cross comes in...


    Three players fall over. Fierce appears to be held back, others are blocked.


    Sticky comes off his line to punch clear.


    Barnet''s tall midfielder gets there first. He glances a header...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Disaster for Chester! They complain to the referee.


    He''s not interested. The goal will stand!


    "That''s weak, that," spat Vimsy. "That''s weak as piss."


    I said nothing. All I could do was sit in the aspect of prayer. Two-nil down, at home, against one of our main rivals. We were being crushed. Our season was being crushed. My plans were smashing against Barnet''s hard shell and disintegrating.


    The away fans were chanting, "Are you watching, Grimsby Town?" They didn''t even see us as rivals. We were uppity little nothings to them. Low-rent no marks. Chili dogs to be gobbled up on the way to glory.


    My bench: Ben, Zach, Ryan, Ziggy. Who could make a difference? Well, any of them might but realistically, none of them would.


    What about a formation change? Go 4-4-2 and put Ziggy as a second striker? Barnet were several classes above him. 3-5-2 and control midfield? On this pitch, against better players, we could control jack shit.


    While I dithered, Barnet''s guy switched his wingers back to their best positions.


    It looks like Barnet are adopting a more defensive approach.


    I shook my head. They would sit back, let us grind our way up the pitch, and either absorb our attacks or hit us on counters. Their superfast winger haunted my strategic thinking. Whatever I came up with ended with him chasing a long bomb from the goalie. The pitch would slow him and the ball down, but if they got three tries at it you''d back them to score one.


    All I could do was the one thing I hated doing - nothing. I sat, passive, as my lads fought their duels. Josh launched long throws but Barnet''s defenders headed them away with absolute disdain.


    Then the moment that sticks in the memory.


    James Wise with a rare moment of space in midfield.


    Simple pass to Andrew Harrison. He turns right and sends it out to Owens.


    Owens to Carlile.


    Carlile to Harrison. Nice passage of play from Chester!


    Harrison to Lyons.


    The French striker holds the ball up and finds Aff.


    Aff combines with Adams.


    The crowd are up!


    Adams plays a perfect chip down the line. Aff chases.


    Aff knocks the ball past the right back.


    Lyons makes a darting run...


    Aff with the cross!


    But it''s an air kick.


    He missed the ball completely! It held up in the mud.


    Rotten luck for the home team.


    To add insult to insult, the right back kicked the ball against the prone Aff and it went out for a goal kick. Aff shot to his feet and got in the guy''s face, but there was no real heat in it.


    Time passed slowly - the Cambrian age creaking to a halt. What happened to all those magnificent creatures that evolved? They all died.


    ***


    At half time I let the lads work out their frustrations while listening and trying to plot some other way of playing. I would have taken almost anything else, to be honest, because what we were doing had no chance of working. It was clear I would have to go on early and try to manage my fitness.


    First, I looked at 4-2-3-1. The back four would be supplemented by two defensive midfielders - Magnus and I. That would be an even more solid base. But who would be the three CAMs? Aff, yes. Ryan Jack? Ziggy? Maybe against a semi-pro team in the Cheshire Cup but not against a League Two quality team.


    4-3-3? I could play as the third striker and go where needed. Aff could be the left-sided striker or the left-most CM. Bombard Barnet down the centre and hope to turn a half-chance into a goal. Get one back, get the crowd going...


    I took another look at 3-5-2. Glenn, Christian, and Carl as centre backs. Aff left, Andrew right. Wisey, Magnus, Ryan Jack in midfield. Henri and I as the strikers. Or I could bring Ziggy on and go to centre back myself. But if we didn''t have full backs, Barnet''s wingers would smash us up.


    Abysmal as the thought was, the 4-1-4-1 we were doing was the best we could do. All that was left was beefing up the CA.


    "Zach, you''re coming on," I said. "Glenn and Josh, you can take a shower. Ryan, you''ll come on for the last twenty." If I was CA 80 or so, we would play the end of the match with CA 62. 75 against 62, Jesus Christ. How had I ever thought we could win this league?


    "We could really use Chipper," said Vimsy.


    I snapped. "Could we? Oh, great. Let''s get him here. Light up the twat signal!" Losing your temper is almost always bad, but this time it at least shifted the mood. Everyone was watching me - I hadn''t spoken to the group about the Welshman. "The prick got a pointless red card before two of our biggest games of the season. He wasn''t stopping a goal or looking after his mate or something understandable.


    "From my point of view he wants a lovely old break while we slug it out down in the trenches. He wants to go to fucking Willy Wonka World. I''ll give him more holiday than he can handle. He can have a fucking six-month holiday at our expense. Where does that leave his career? Can''t get a game in the National League? Who the fuck cares? He''s not one of us. It''s my fault he''s here; he was my choice. That''s on me. But we''re in the shit today and we have to try to get out with the squad we''ve got. There''s no tactics. No tricks. Just fucking hard work and keeping in it and trying to nick a goal and seeing what we can do.


    "Fucking old-school make-it-happen football like your daddy used to play. If we can get a point out of this, it''s party time. I kid you not, that will be the sweetest fucking point in history. But forget that - it''s not about the result; it''s all about the next header, the next tackle, the next pass. Live in the moment. Live every second. We work hard and when Ryan comes on we''ll up the tempo. Drop balls behind the defence and they will drop back. That will be our chance. We''ll be able to load the box and try to get crosses in and all that.


    "I''ll try some long shots and there might be rebounds. Who the fuck knows? But I know one thing - those bastards aren''t going to let us build up a head of steam. They''ll slow the game down, pretend to be injured, all that shit. We use that as a time to catch our breath and go harder at the next phase. The more they cheat, the more we bring the quality to what we do next. Oh fucking kay? I don''t want whining and excuses. I want to go hard at this because this is for all the marbles. Do you get me? Our whole season is on the line here. Do not come back to this dressing room wishing you had done more. Fucking come on!"


    ***


    Extract from Seals Live


    Boggy: Second half about to get underway. Reminder that it''s two-nil to Barnet, while Grimsby are winning at Fylde. The big news is that Max Best has brought himself on. He''s got the captain''s armband. Does that mean Glenn Ryder is off?


    Spectrum: There''s Zach.


    Boggy: So he is. Zach Green on for Glenn Ryder and Best is on for...


    Spectrum: Josh.


    Boggy: No more long throws, then. Got to say that while they weren''t getting us very far, it was our best chance of getting the ball into the box.


    Spectrum: We''re sticking to 4-1-4-1 with Best right midfield. Oh, look. Look there. Barnet have switched the wingers again. The fast one''s left, the tall one''s right.


    Boggy: And we''re off! Let''s hope the second half is a little more positive than the first.


    ***


    Things went from bad to worse.


    Yes, Zach was an upgrade on Glenn. He could do the physical stuff and his passing was better, even if that meant a slightly less wild punt forward.


    And yes, I was an upgrade on Josh Owens. But I wasn''t... me. Even accounting for the conditions, there was something off.


    I spent five minutes jogging around trying to understand what was happening, but it was simple. I had less control. I felt less power when kicking. When I got a free kick my technique felt ragged.


    After a pass from Carl ran under my foot and out of play for a Barnet throw-in, I literally slapped myself on the forehead because the reason was suddenly clear.


    I''d lost a few points of CA!


    I hadn''t trained and had barely played. Why hadn''t I trained? Partly complacency, sure. After all, I''d been at my max level all season - why would I suddenly tail off in February? But it wasn''t just that - I was overstretched. I could oversee training, make sure the coaches were busy and productive, have meetings with the groundsman, check in on the youth teams, scout, watch videos of future opponents, and so on and so on. But I couldn''t do all that and train.


    It was possible I''d only dropped from CA 80 to 77, but it was enough for me to notice. Something to fix, urgently, before the match against Solihull.


    In the meantime, what could I do to affect the game? I could turn into Vimsy''s dream footballer, is what I could do.


    I swapped places with Andrew. He went wide right, and I would play from the centre.


    ***


    Boggy: Quite stodgy, isn''t it? Barnet are a very well-organised team and we''re finding it hard to break them down. Meanwhile, they look dangerous on the break. And here they go! Good move on the Barnet left and their fast winger is one-on-one with Carl Carlile. Knocks it past! Sprints down the line. He''s clear!


    Spectrum: Go, Max, go!


    Boggy: Wha - ? Max Best is tearing back! It''s a foot race. Best... Gets there first! What a tackle! That was HUGE. The ball''s gone out for a Barnet throw-in, their winger is down in a heap, Best is leaning over, shouting medical advice.


    Spectrum: Wow.


    Boggy: What just happened? The winger kicked the ball past Carlile and ran around him. Carl slipped just a fraction as he turned and we were in all sorts of trouble. Best was already in full sprint, though, and he ate up the ground. He tracked his man like... like a guided missile! And exploded!


    Spectrum: That player will have shell shock. Welcome to non-league, mate.


    Boggy: The first big contribution from the manager is to give away a throw-in.


    Spectrum: [laughs]. You''re a mean old man. You should stand for the board.


    ***


    Boggy: Ten minutes gone in the second half. Chester currently on top without achieving much. Long ball pumped forward. Cole Adams, the ginger Anglo-Irish full back, leaps. Ball loops up again. They compete again. James, Barnet''s tall winger wins the contest! Turns and holds oh! Best smashed him! He turned right into Best who took the ball and crashed into him. Fairly, says the referee. James is down, but Best is away. A few strides and he pushes the ball to Aff.


    Spectrum: That was like a rugby hit.


    Boggy: Best had a brief rugby career, though I thought he only kicked the ball. Guess he learned the basics. Aff to Lyons. Lyons to Wise. He tries to spray the ball wide but it''s overhit.


    Spectrum: Good idea. We had numbers right.


    Boggy: This is better from Chester but time''s starting to run out. Barnet slowing the clock down. Already twenty seconds just to go over and pick up the ball. Some in the crowd giving the left back a piece of their mind. Finally! The ball''s thrown in. Barnet''s impressive new central midfielder Goldings, wearing shirt 25, powers forward. Best thunders in! Shoulder barge! Both men stumble. They go again. Best edges it. No! Goldings is back. James Wise slides in. Barnet''s left mid tries to help. It''s a four-way tussle! Best wins and clips the ball back to Carlile. But he''s not there! He''d run to join the maul. Barnet''s fast winger is off again! Chased by Best! The crowd are going bananas. It''s like the end of the Grand National! Best making up ground, starts to slide, the winger jumps - but Best didn''t go to ground! He simply flicks the ball infield and strikes it left-footed to Zach Green.


    Spectrum: He backed out, that winger. Didn''t fancy getting wiped out again.


    Boggy: This is a battle! It was tough in the first half but this is brutal. Max Best is a one-man wrecking crew. A one-man band. Surely that''s a foul? Henri Lyons was manhandled off the ball. Yes! Free kick to Chester in a decent position. Max Best territory.


    Spectrum: Perfect for an inswinger.


    Boggy: Barnet complaining about where the ball is spotted. Wasting time. One of them kicks the ball back a yard. Zach Green doesn''t like that! He has sprinted twenty yards to push the culprit away. Now there''s an even bigger delay. Oh, Zach.


    Spectrum: Come on, man.


    Boggy: It''s fair to say the referee is letting Barnet push the boundaries of what''s acceptable, but then again, there''s no yellow card for Green, and he couldn''t have had any complaints if he got one. Best is giving Green a hell of a lecture out there. It''s a fearsome blast.


    Spectrum: Stop helping them.


    Boggy: Indeed. Green seems to have got the message. He trundles away and lines up behind Fierce and Carlile. Cole Adams is a little further away. Quite a formidable lineup, but so are Barnet. We finally get the kick. Best... What will he do? Please don''t slip. Best, slow approach, clips the ball with spin and swerve for Fierce. Good head! Scores! But no. Offside! Barnet, as one, pushed forward just before Best took the kick. Four Chester players were offside!


    Spectrum: That''s great coaching, that. Hundreds of hours on the training pitch.


    Boggy: Not everyone in the crowd agrees with the referee. They''re desperate to see Chester score to set up a grandstand finish. Best signals to the sideline. Ryan Jack goes for a jog! Generous applause from the main stand. Could he be the key to unlocking this obdurate defence?


    ***


    Boggy: Twenty minutes to go. Ryan Jack replaces James Wise - slight surprise there but I suppose Best is happy with what Andrew Harrison is offering at right mid.


    Spectrum: He works so hard and Carl needs help that Max won''t always give him.


    Boggy: So this is it. All changes made. Max Best has been a man on fire, crunching into tackles all over the pitch, trying to inspire his players, but he''s visibly slower now.


    Spectrum: He''s knackered.


    Boggy: After the fire, the rain. He combines with Ryan Jack, though. Simple to Adams. Adams to Aff. Barnet well in their shape. Best walks forward but signals he doesn''t want the ball. Hands on head. Taking a breather. Funny way to do it. Ball''s circulated to the right. Bobbles off the surface - Carlile does well to keep it in play. He draws a couple of Barnet players to him but passes back to Green. Green fizzes a pass to Jack - first time lob - Best is in acres of space - how did that happen? Best with a rare chance to maraud! He''s fighting fatigue and the pitch. Defender comes but Best finds another gear! He''s into the box! Cuts it back. Lyons shrugs off his marker! Goal! Goal for Chester! Incredible! How they produced that football on this pitch I don''t know. What a goal!


    Spectrum: Hang on.


    Boggy: What''s this? The referee is standing where Lyons tussled with his marker. He''s... Has he given a free kick? What for?


    Spectrum: Let''s check to see where this ref was born. Bet you fifty quid it begins with B.


    Boggy: I can''t believe my eyes. Henri and Max Best both have their hands pressed together, praying that the referee will explain himself. Best is livid. His good friend pulls him away.


    Spectrum: That''s our goose cooked. Can''t believe it. There were six fouls like that from Barnet players for their free kick. Henri was stronger, that''s all. This is painful. You can''t beat the conditions, a good team, and the referee. Horrible. I''m gutted. I''m absolutely gutted.


    Boggy: You can''t help but feel that with Chipper available, we would have got something from this game.


    ***


    My burst into space and Henri''s insanely disallowed goal sent Barnet into full men behind ball mode. It had been a while since I''d seen someone use a proper low block against us, and it was pretty stupid. I was almost completely spent and couldn''t have sprinted if you''d paid me, which is what Chester FC were doing. But with Barnet sitting so deep all I had to do was stand on the right, find a patch of turf that looked solid, and smack crosses into the danger area.


    I''d have loved to see an Expected Threat graph because it looked to me like we were turning the screw big time.


    Case in point - Ryan defied the conditions to hit a nice ball full of side spin into Andrew''s path. He scampered, used his strength to turn back down the line and had the choice of hitting me or Carl. He faked the Carl option but hit it diagonally into my path. I shaped to cross, allowed the ball to roll on, and pushed it onto my left. At that point, the defender I was up against kicked my standing foot away. Free kick!


    I picked the ball up and my guys quietly took up their positions. Barnet tried to dick about, tried to wind the clock down, but without anyone falling into their trap it didn''t do much except wind the home crowd up and give me a chance to take some deep, restorative breaths.


    While waiting for the ref to finish fussing around and making himself the star of the show, I mentally replayed the last free kick. Barnet had rushed forward and caught us offside. Okay, well, try that again.


    I placed the ball down and took two big steps back followed by one half step to the left. I would Beckham the shit out of this one. I raised my arms, used the Free Hit perk to increase our chances of scoring, and used Masterpiece Theatre to make Henri and Zach start a couple of yards back. That pair moved but the line of amber shirts stayed as it was. Amber? In the current light it was more like copper. A copper line. Line ''em up. Good name for a perk. Get on it, imps!


    I took a big step towards the ball and the Barnet line rushed forwards. But I took another step, way past where I could possibly strike the ball. It was like I was going towards the corner flag. I turned back and from my mad new angle, as the Barnet line was reforming, I clipped the ball left-footed into the space between the line and the goalie. Zach and Henri ran forward - clearly onside, in acres of space. Zach nodded the ball square - yes, mate! Henri took a touch and smashed it past the goalie.


    We waited for the referee to disallow the goal - a preview of life in the Premier League, perhaps - and I was more surprised than excited when he pointed to the centre circle.


    Huh.


    Two-one, then, and while I was way into the red zone, I''d shaken up a couple of Barnet players pretty bad. Their new CM had shrunk as I''d beaten him in duel after duel, and their rapid winger had been well and truly cowed. Cowed. Was that why people were called cowards? Because they were easy to cow?


    Cow?


    "Max!" screamed Ryan. I blinked. The match was ongoing and Barnet were trying to push higher than before. A few tackles, a few passes, and we pushed them all the way back again. We had ten minutes to get an equaliser and save our season. Save our dentist. Save Brazil. Save football.


    ***


    Boggy: Incredible fightback from Chester. They looked on the floor, they looked beaten, but they''re still going. It''s the twelfth round and they''re behind on the count, but they''re still throwing rights. Looking for a lucky punch. One thing''s for sure, Barnet do not have a glass jaw.


    Spectrum: They''re so professional and that trick of switching the wingers isn''t letting us get completely settled.


    Boggy: We''ve been knocking on the door for a while. We''ve actually had more shots.


    Spectrum: That''s mostly game state.


    Boggy: What do you mean?


    Spectrum: I mean if it was nil-nil Barnet would be doing most of the work. When it was nil-nil they were dominant, right? Now they''re winning so they are holding us at arm''s length. The raw stats might say we''ve had more shots and possession but that''s because Barnet have already done enough to win. Does that make sense?


    Boggy: I think so. Ryan Jack has been very good. Spraying passes all around, and for the last few minutes Barnet''s big new signing has been following him around like a puppy. Ryan, you''ve got a friend.


    Spectrum: That''s clever, though. Mark Ryan and we don''t have much quality.


    Boggy: Mark Ryan. Who''s he? Oh, I see what you mean. Harrison tries a cross - headed away. It falls to an amber shirt. Hoofed away, anywhere will do! That tells you what the game state is. He could have taken the ball forward but he chose to welly it.


    Spectrum: Everyone''s tired. They''re all suffering. Both sides.


    Boggy: Eighty-eight minutes on the clock. Green. Fierce. Adams. Aff with the ball on the left. Ryan Jack shows but he''s marked. Aff hesitates. No options! A very weary Max Best jogs forward. Aff squares it. Best looks to shoot - too far out, surely? He slips slightly, stumbles, regains his balance, nice ball to the right. Harrison with a better cross! Lyons was close to that! Was that the chance? It''s rolling out of the penalty box. Chester push forward to stop the right back clearing. Aff''s up, Adams pushes on.


    Spectrum: No!


    Boggy: That''s, er, no! The right back didn''t touch it. He left it for his keeper. The goalie came out of the area, dribbled back in. He''s allowed to pick it up! He launches it. It''s gone miles! Who''s - Barnet''s fast winger is tearing after it. Where''s Best? He''s on his haunches in the other half. He can barely watch. He knows what''s coming - we all do. Here comes the third... Does it? Yes! Taylor slots past Sticky with ease. Wow! What a break. That was so, so clever from the right back and the goalie.


    Spectrum: Suckered us into the press and went long. Shit. Wow. That''s it. Title''s gone. Title''s gone.


    Boggy: Barnet are cock-a-hoop. They know they''ve been in a hell of a game today and they know they''ve knocked the stuffing out of this Chester side. If we meet again in the playoffs, Barnet will be heavy favourites. It''s three goals for Barnet, three points for Barnet, three points for Grimsby, and Chester slip back to twenty points behind. Twenty points, Spectrum. That''s that, isn''t it?


    Spectrum: That''s that. We need to lick our wounds. Find a way to build the players back up. This is a kick in the teeth.


    Boggy: A few minutes to go but it''s all over bar the shouting. Chester one, Barnet three, ninety of the most gruelling minutes you''ve ever seen.


    ***


    The final whistle went and I slipped into a crouch and closed my eyes. Twenty points behind. Although my players had competed hard, we had been outplayed for the most part. Our title charge was not mathematically over, but I couldn''t deny reality. Would we finish third? I was pretty sure we would. Finish third, playoff semi-final, then we would face this Barnet team at Wembley.


    I had signed Sharky hoping he would make a difference for us at the end of the season, but Barnet had signed a guy who could make a difference already. I thought I''d cowed him, but he had simply been biding his time. Good player, great resolve. Sharky was on 500 a week and this guy was trousering three thousand three hundred. Barnet and I didn''t go to the same shops. I walked over to the guy.


    "Hey," I said, offering my hand. He shook it. "You were amazing. Well done."


    "Er, thanks," he said.


    That was all the energy I had for conversation. Just one problem - with Sandra away, I had to speak to the media. The chance of me saying something I regretted - about Chipper, about the fans, about the referee - was one hundred and one percent, with a one percent margin of error.


    ***


    I stood in the corridor, mentally drained, not sure what to do. Quick shower before the interview? Or do it muddy to show how hard we had battled? Or have a shower and scrape some mud on me to have the best of both worlds?


    While I was standing there, torn between three equally valid options, the frozen man, someone took me by the elbow and pushed. I fell into step and eventually realised it was MD.


    "Sorry," I said. The guy had let me take the club right to a financial cliff edge. Slightly past it, even, and I''d spaffed the money on Chipper. My analysis of the season was way off, and for once that wasn''t me catastrophising.


    "Shush you," he said, sounding so like a Mancunian it made me laugh.


    "Hold up," said someone from behind. Physio Dean handed MD a few sachets of marathon paste and a water bottle.


    "Thanks, Dean."


    "Why do you need those?" I asked, and MD frowned when he realised I wasn''t joking.


    He dragged me through a couple of sets of double doors and we found ourselves in our medical room. Pretty much the first space I''d entered when I''d come to Chester the first time. It was where I''d met Livia, Dean, Magnus Evergreen, and some of the players. It was Jackie Reaper''s way of making me feel special, and it had worked. I always felt special in there.


    "Max," said MD as he pulled a chair and pushed me into it. He repeated the trick and sat facing me. "I''m your boss. It''s time for your mid-season review."


    "What."


    He tore the top off a paste sachet and handed it to me. "Do I get the sense you are dismayed, distraught, embarrassed?"


    "Why would I be embarrassed?"


    "Because when you went full Max at the Fans Forum we were twenty points behind and we''re still twenty points behind but today we''re even further behind on goal difference."


    "Oh," I said. "I wasn''t until just now. Yes, I feel embarrassed. Mostly I''m humiliated. Our title charge lasted two and a half games. That is cringe on toast."


    MD nodded for a while. "Okay, I hear that''s how you feel, but it''s not cringe on toast. It''s not. We scored three perfectly good goals. We went for their throats and it was only the ref... I know you don''t like hearing it but he pulled our pants down today. Regardless, we''re just not going to steamroller the National League."


    "I''ve got the steamroller blues."


    "You''re a very forward-thinking person." One of the new physios came in with Andrew Harrison. "Not now," said MD. They turned right around. "Forward-thinking. And that''s great. That works. But we''re going to take a minute now to look back. When you arrived here in your little wheelchair - why was that again?"


    The past was cloudy. I''d got myself smashed up somehow. "Can''t even remember."


    "When you came here we were about to plummet through the bottom of tier six into tier seven. Now you''re gunning for Grimsby."


    "Gunning for Grimsby. That''s great. Write that down."


    "We''ve got Brooke selling tickets - three and a half thousand today! She''s getting more commercial revenue. We''ve got the, er, option of stadium naming rights. Now that''s cringe on toast, but we''ve got the option. We didn''t always have companies who wanted to be associated with us. And just this week we eased into another Cheshire Cup final. I know it''s not the barometer you want but we''re making short work of all these teams who used to give us problems. Another final, Max! And another titanic top-of-the-table clash against an excellent team. You felt like this after Kidderminster, right? You were all depressed and Mancunian about it. And we won the league by miles while you went off for a couple of jollies. Today is the same. It''s a bump in the road."


    The paste was helping. Giving me some brain food. "It''s not quite the same. We''re not secretly on the right path. It''s like we''re in a plane and we''ve tapped the instrument thingy and we''re flying five thousand feet lower than we thought. We''re going to struggle in the playoffs."


    "Please listen to yourself. We''re going to struggle in the playoffs. We might lose at Wembley. That''s actually amazing." He held a hand up. "I know. That''s the kind of defeatist mentality that got us into trouble in the first place. I know. But you know I''m right. Our budget is a third of Grimsby and Barnet''s. They''ve got three times as much money on the pitch and what I saw today was that we got pretty close. The difference was that our loan star was banned and theirs was on the pitch. Does that sound right? It''s so close. It''s fine margins. It''s nothing to be depressed about. It''s something to be proud of. You''re doing well." He smiled. "And when you sprinted and took the guy out... mwah!" He did a chef''s kiss. "You won back five hundred fans doing that and five hundred more when you went over to the other side of the pitch and took care of that guy, too." He grinned. "Please keep a sense of perspective. You are doing great. Everyone can see the progress. Even I can. We had two competitive teams on the pitch this week. Tuesday to Saturday, two amazing teams. I couldn''t pick our best eleven from what we''ve got."


    I let out a slight smile. "Yeah, you could."


    He checked his watch. "You need to talk to the papers. But listen. I have two instructions for you. Well, one instruction and one idea."


    "Let''s start with the idea," I said, eyes narrowed. MD rarely abused his position as my boss by trying to boss me around. It was a good system.


    "If I understand it, the title is off? We''re going for the playoffs?"


    "Yeah," I sighed, the fatigue in my legs trebling.


    "You''ve got some time, then, to spend with the players. Shower the people you love with love. Like Sharknado."


    I perked up. MD had always refused to use the nickname. "Like who?"


    "Like Sharknado," he said, twinkling. "You already spend time with William. What about doing a winger masterclass with Sharky and Andrew Harrison? A morning with the Exit Triallists? Work on moves with Magnus. That sort of thing. From what I''ve heard, the players really respond when you spend time with them. The next few weeks seem like a good time to do that. No takeovers, no transfers, no particular need to go scouting. And no pressure to attack every game like it''s the World Cup final. You could get up close and personal."


    "Okay. Yeah. Yeah, okay."


    "The other thing is Chipper. It seems you feel let down and you''re ready to bin him off."


    "Yep. Just need to find a bin with all spikes inside."


    MD didn''t laugh. "As you know, during my time volunteering at Chester I have only ever been the managing director of a non-league team. We''ve had some big personalities but nothing like you''re going to get in your career. I personally have no doubt you''ll manage at the highest level, and the highest level means the highest level of talent, which means..." He struggled to find the right word.


    "Twats," I said, helpfully.


    "Quite. Now, since we don''t need to rush headlong at every match, let''s treat it as an opportunity. A slightly more relaxed pace - okay, that''s good for my blood pressure, too - where you build up your players and find a way to manage this difficult person you''ve hired. Because don''t forget, Max, he earned us six points in his first two games."


    "Four," I said. "We would have got two. Six minus two is four. And he cost us a point today."


    "So he''s plus three, net. That''s not bad, I think. Look, even if you can''t get through to him and the move turns into the disaster you fear, you''ll learn a lot just by trying. Won''t you? Even if you can only use him as a sub - I mean, no disrespect to Ziggy but he''s not going to score in the playoff final, is he?" He made a few clicking noises and nodded to himself. He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. "My ears are still ringing. I love being a Chester fan, Max! I love it. And I''m not the only one. I was talking to Crackers and he was saying the same."


    Crackers was a blind fan who had been on the board when I was trying to get hired. "I feel bad for him. It''s been quiet recently."


    MD frowned. "What the hell are you talking about? Today was deafening. Didn''t you hear it? When you started running around kicking people up the arse there was absolute bedlam. I thought I saw the roof shake. They could probably hear the cheers for all three of our goals from Wrexham." He sighed. "Talk to the media. It''s just advice but don''t say anything controversial. We''ll take a pause, you''ll work with the players, and we''ll smash the playoffs, just like you said."


    "I said we''d win the league. That''s why you gave me the funds for Christian Fierce."


    "I gave you the funds because you created them and because he strengthens the team. How many headers did he win today? Ten?"


    "Eight," I said, without thinking. It was a bad habit I had of spitting out hyper-accurate match data. But then again: fuck it. "Seven out of ten match rating. Sixty-four percent pass accuracy. Four tackles. All right. All right... Good. Yeah, okay, thanks. This was good. I feel better. Hey! You''re good at this."


    MD leaned back and looked up for a few seconds. "I''ve had some experience. You know, I''ve even been in your shoes. My company and a rival were working on similar products. They beat us to market and we were dismayed. Distraught. Embarrassed. We worked so hard and it seemed like it was all for nothing. But the company that got there first, their product is off the market, now. And ours is the market leader. Turned out, they cut corners. We did it right. It paid off."


    "Barnet are doing it right. We''re doing it right. Alty, Rochdale, and Oldham are doing it right. We can''t all win."


    MD beamed, his biggest smile of the meeting, and got to his feet. I looked up at him as he gave me a friendly push on the shoulder. "That''s why really smart people don''t get involved in football."


    "You''re involved in football."


    "I know! Now take some advice, one dimwit to another. Go and give the most boring post-match interview in history!"


    "Put them to sleep after four minutes. Yeah... Okay. I know what to do. Have you got a guitar?"

 10.5 - Whiplash

    5.


    Football glossary: To whip (a cross) (in). To send a pass, usually from the sides of the pitch into the centre, with extra ball revolutions in order to produce pleasing curving and dipping effects. See: David Beckham; James Ward-Prowse; Max Best; Ziggy (accidentally).


    British glossary: On the lash. Out drinking.


    ***


    Extract from The New Pink Online, Saturday, February 15


    Chester 1 Barnet 3 - Max Best Post-Match Interview


    Max, you''ve lost to second-placed Barnet. How do you feel?


    It was a game of two halves but I''m as sick as a parrot.


    You''re going to struggle to lift your players and get back to the grind.


    The players were first class but at the end of the day it''s a results business. You''ve got to take it one game at a time but three points in the onion bag is better than a no I''m out of cliches soz.


    Would you like to comment on the referee?


    The referee refereed the game to the best of his ability.


    That''s it?


    That''s it. I can say it again if you want.


    What were you saying to Barnet''s winger at the end?


    I was saying he''d done us up like a kipper and no mistake. I was saying ooh you cheeky so-and-so. I was saying grr I would have got away with it if it wasn''t for you pesky wingers.


    You''ve been quiet recently and we''ve missed your insightful post-match interviews. Is there anything you''d like to say to the fans?


    Dunno. Soz maybe.


    Sorry for what?


    Just for falling short.


    Not for blocking investment in the club?


    I didn''t block investment. I said to the guy if he lent us two million I''d give him three back. It was the sweetest deal in the history of the world and he didn''t want it. People like that don''t want to grow the pot and share it; they want the whole pie. No sharing.


    Does that offer still stand for other investors?


    No because we don''t need it. If we get promoted this squad is going to blast through League Two. All we need is a hundred and fifty grand to get our training ground started and we''ll get that when we go down to Wembley for the playoff final.


    It''s disconcerting the way you flip between goals. We''re not good enough to win the National League but we''ll definitely win League Two. You want the title one week, the playoffs the next. You''re clearly devastated by the loss today but you won''t admit it. You can''t blame fans who feel a sense of whiplash.


    I''m a Gemini.


    What about your players? It must be hard for them.


    They''re all Gemini, too.


    If you need a cash injection why don''t you do a Boost the Budget?


    Because I said we wouldn''t need to do that again and we don''t need to do that again. Everything I want to happen is happening. It''s not a smooth ride and it''s not always fun but everyone''s working hard, everyone''s making the best of our situation, and we want to give to the people of Chester, not take. We can do it on our own. So the facilities are six months late. So what? It''s not worth endangering the club over. We''ll battle for every point and keep climbing that table and whether we''re up or down on the last day of the season you''ll know that we gave it our best. I need to come to terms with the fact that our best isn''t good enough yet but we''ve got a couple of months to look inside and bring out the best in all our players and staff and okay, Barnet are ahead of us now, but would you really be surprised if we outplayed them at Wembley Stadium?


    Thanks for your time.


    Josh Throw-Ins towels are available in the club shop and online.


    There''s another whiplash. We never do long throws, ever, but then it''s the whole tactic.


    It''s not that complicated. Buy a towel and you''ll understand. They''re machine washable and 100% cotton that I''m assured is non-toxic.


    ***


    I spent a quiet Saturday night at home with Ems, letting myself decompress. The new media dude was correct - Chester was experiencing more whiplash than an Indiana Jones movie. I''d started the season aiming to finish seventh. Then at the Fans Forum I''d gone all-in on the title and that had felt so, so right. Now first place was off the table and I felt... yeah, it was okay. I mean there was no point wishing I''d done everything different. I''d made my choices and they had seemed valid at the time.


    The pressure was off. On Tuesday we would play Solihull, a playoff rival, but then we had four much easier games leading up to what, in a different timeline, would have been a key contest against Grimsby. Those four matches would be perfect for giving minutes to players like Pascal who hadn''t featured much recently, and their relative ease would allow me and my staff to focus on player development.


    I checked our fixture list for the millionth time. Solihull this Tuesday. Four winnable games. Grimsby. Three winnable games after that. Then our rock hard trip away to Aldershot which coincided with Grimsby''s away trip to Barnet. When I had been daydreaming about catching Grimsby, that day seemed likely to be pivotal.


    Ah, well.


    As the pressure of needing to be perfect for the title chase relented, as I thought less about my bruised ego, ideas started to form.


    I personally needed to train at a higher level for a few days at least. Why not do that while spending time with my players? I fired out some texts, starting with one to Mateo.


    I needed to make sure the women didn''t get complacent in the easiest match of the season. I fired out some texts, starting with Jill and the volunteer who put names and numbers on our kits.


    I needed to do something with this idiot striker I had signed. I fired out two texts - neither to Chipper.


    By bedtime, I felt at peace. That''s when the bruises from smashing into Barnet players for forty-five minutes started to hurt.


    Emma asked why I was laughing; I told her.


    "I''ll get the healing crystals," she said. I think she was joking.


    "What I need is a good night''s sleep. Tell me about contract law."


    "Oi," she said. "Contract law is actually fascinating."


    "Is it?"


    "No." She turned the light out and snuggled up. She put her arm across me but it was resting on a bruise so I moved it. That only moved it onto a different bruise, so I moved it back. You''ve got to be flexible in this game. Take on board new information and adapt.


    ***


    Sunday, February 16


    Match 14 of 22: Fleetwood Town Wrens vs Chester Women


    Fleetwood Town play on the west coast, north of Blackpool, and I wanted to get there early because the match would be played at their training centre, Poolfoot Farm. It had cost eight million pounds when it was built in 2016, though I''d heard an interview with their owner who said ten million. What was that in today''s money, with higher material and energy costs? Fifteen mill? I''d studied up and it had twelve grass pitches and two 4G ones, plus a bar, restaurant, meeting rooms and everything else a League One or Championship side would need.


    Online, it looked absolutely mint.


    But before I could feast my eyes upon it we had a ninety-minute drive. MD wanted me to spend more time with the players in the men''s squad, but you know me, I like to overdeliver. I had decided to spend at least a couple of minutes talking to every single player in our entire system, from Lucy (our oldest at 43) to Benjy Garland (eight years old, look at his little legs! Look how cute eeeee).


    As we turned onto the M56 - definitely my favourite motorway - I scooted next to Jill. She was the first coach I''d ever hired for the women''s team, though that was before I had the Staff Profiles perk to show me how low her numbers were. There was nothing low about her enthusiasm, her love of the game, and her connections with women''s teams in Cheshire and beyond. The players respected her. Jill was an OG women''s footballer from the days when putting a women''s match on TV would have caused riots.


    "Jill," I said.


    She had been tapping away on her phone with her glasses pushed up into her increasingly-less-terrible haircut. She pulled them down and gave me her full attention. "Max Chopper Best."


    That was a reference to my barnstorming and completely within the laws of the game performance against Barnet. Uniquely, I didn''t want to talk about myself. "How are you doing?"


    "Surprisingly calm, actually. Jackie''s great but this is like the old days, isn''t it? Do you ever think about it? When we were the underdogs and you had to find an edge with mad tactics or antics. Now we''ve got this lot - " she jerked her head backwards to indicate the amazing squad I''d built - "with you in charge, I''m relaxed. I can''t remember being this relaxed before a match. Certainly not an away one!"


    "Ah," I said. "I mean, yeah, but you''re not going to like how I keep our edge today."


    She pushed her glasses up so she could pinch her nose. "Why, Max? Can''t we just have a simple win?"


    "No," I said. "But we''re talking about you. You came up to me in the pub that day, didn''t you, and demanded a job. But I think that job''s been changing, right, and we haven''t really ever talked about it. So let''s talk."


    "Oh." She took a moment. "Yes. It has changed. I started as a coach but I don''t do that anymore."


    This was quite hard for me, but I didn''t see the point of being overly diplomatic. Honesty was best. That said, I remembered Brooke or MD or Jackie had taught me a management tool called sandwiching. If you had something bad to say, you wedged it between two delicious slices of bread. "I want to promote you!" I said, but I got the energy wrong. I sounded like a demented politician talking about pork markets. "I want to promote you," I said, very much like a normal human being. The keeper had saved my penalty but I had tucked away the rebound. Jill looked intrigued. Time for the sandwich filling! "I want you to lean into your best skills. I''ve slowly been finding people who are more suited to the menial day-to-day coaching. It''s all just evolved, hasn''t it, and I''ve been too busy to sort of formalise it. So let''s make it formal. You don''t need to coach unless there''s an emergency."


    A little flash of pain showed on her face. Fetch the second slice of bread!


    "Hey, there''s enough for you to do around here. You''re a kind of mentor to these women and they look to you and Lucy for advice and that''s important. The average age of the squad is twenty-one. They need you. The club needs your networking skills. There have been a lot of times where we''ve gone about things the wrong way and you''ve made a call and smoothed it out. I see you as being a sort of general manager for the women''s team. Doing the logistics, talking to the FA, talking to other clubs, getting ahead of the referees so we don''t need to explain about Dani''s whistle, just all the things you''ve been doing and then more as we rise up through the leagues."


    "General manager?"


    "You''ll support the head coach and you''ll help coordinate the youth teams and all that sort of thing. Make sure we don''t get double booked on pitches, make sure we''ve always got a coach for a session and a physio for a game. If I need to know when the next girls under fourteens tournament is, I''ll call you. If Jackie needs to know how big the team bus will be one Sunday so he can bring some youngsters to get matchday experience, he''ll call you. When we''re in the WSL you''ll take media requests and decide who we talk to and you''ll book our hotels and things like that. When we''re on pre-season in Marbella and there''s a spy from Leeds United hiding in a bush, you''ll go and smack him with an umbrella."


    "Why Leeds United?"


    "Don''t you know that story? Leeds sent a guy to spy on Derby''s training session and instead of buying a Derby top and pretending to be a fan - "


    "Like you would have done."


    "Yeah. Instead of that, he hid in a bush. Extremely comical and there was a big blow-up about it. Anyway, this job. You''re basically doing it anyway, but it''ll grow and I need you to stop thinking about passing drills and start thinking about what courses you might need to take. Maybe you can shadow Secretary Joe and Brooke to learn what they do. Oh, and Ryan Jack, too. He''s a genius at relationship-building with these smaller clubs. I want to lift them all up with us as we go."


    "That''s thoughtful."


    "Yeah but they''ll send us their best players, too. I''m not a charity! I''m happy to have a reputation for overpaying for kids with talent."


    "Everyone says you paid far too much for WibRob. And Roddy Jones, too. That was part of a plan, was it?"


    "Let''s say it''s part of a culture. We get money from bigger clubs and give it to smaller ones. And we take a ninety-eight percent cut." I grinned. "But look, are you even interested?"


    "Yes," she said, before I''d finished asking. "If you think I can do it."


    "It''s easy!" I said, pushing her on the shoulder. "It''s mostly talking to people and being nice but not letting anyone take the piss. The fact you''re an OG Chester player and the women respect the shit out of you is the icing on the cake." I realised I had mentally sort of skipped over the bit where she said yes. I tutted. I needed to get more present in these conversations but I was finding it hard to concentrate on one thing. "Bulldog tried to teach me something once: Don''t sell past the close. Okay so you''re in. Top." I munched on my lip for a while. "James Pond said I never wrote anything down. Can you, sort of, make a note of everything you do? That can form the basis of your, sort of, job. What''s the word I''m thinking of? Your job profile or something like that. If you want to go be a missionary in North Korea for a year we''ll be able to use that to hire someone. Yeah, let''s document the shit out of all this."


    "What does it pay?"


    I tutted. "It pays what you get now. And it pays more if we get promoted." I pushed her again. "I promise you''ll be the lowest-paid executive in the Women''s Super League. How does that sound?"


    She shook her head while laughing. "You want me to describe my own job? How do you know I won''t leave out the bits I don''t like?"


    I scoffed. "Because you''re one of us."


    ***


    I spent a few minutes talking to one of the new physios we''d hired, then repeated the trick with Elin, one of the coaches we had on loan from the Welsh FA. Both were happy and excited to be involved in what we were doing at Chester.


    I wanted to bring up the idea of Elin joining us full-time, just to see if that was even something she would be interested in, but Emma tapped Elin on the shoulder and said, "We need you to settle a debate." Five seconds later, Dani, Emma, and Elin were deep in conversation again, laughing and joking. Dani''s Morale was at maximum.


    A good time to talk to her?


    No, chats with the players would go better after the match. After the surprise.


    ***


    Fleetwood''s facilities were amazing. We got a tour from their captain and it was just inspirational. She handed me a colourful, slightly glossy map like I was at Disneyland or a big zoo. A horseshoe of pitches hugged a central building in which were seven changing rooms with showers, a restaurant, bar, gym, classrooms and meeting rooms. Everything was well thought-out and conducive to improving players while also leaving the option open to rent out pitches, host football tournaments, and run charity events of all kinds.


    Our tour group dispersed - the players started to go to the dressing room, leaving me mostly alone with my thoughts.


    I''d been poking around Fleetwood''s accounts but couldn''t find out how much they were making from renting their stuff out. A decent chunk, I reckoned. They were getting half a million a year in grants to do community programmes. Talk about aspirational. If I could get a grant to equip a dental clinic that would save me a hundred and fifty grand right there.


    But the main thing was to have facilities of this quality in place so that my players'' CA could continue to rise. If the curse treated men''s and women''s football more or less equally, which it seemed to, then the soft cap for playing in tier five should have been the same for both. The only man who hinted at having hit a cap was Chipper. His CA had briefly dipped from 80 to 79, but gone back to 80 again. If 80 was the training limit for the men, surely it was for the women, too? Apparently not, because Femi and Charlotte were wading through treacle having hit CA 50.


    They were basically part-time, though, and there were only three official training sessions a week. There was also the quality of our opposition to consider. While the men had just crossed swords with a CA 75 team, the women were about to play one with CA 18. The second-best team in the league, Cheadle, had CA 33. It could be that we needed to get promoted to increase the soft cap, but if we trained at Man City''s Death Star, I had no doubt our numbers would shoot up. No more transfers until we had the right setting and equipment. My mantra had to be facilities, facilities, facilities!


    That determination lasted no more than five seconds.


    "What are you smiling at?" said Emma, who had finally detached from Elin.


    "Just thinking if I had fifteen million I could buy this, but I wouldn''t buy this. I would put down one grass pitch, one 3G, rebuild one stand at the Deva, buy six players and half a dentist. I''ll never go all out on any one thing."


    "Except today. You''re going to go all out against Fleetwood, aren''t you? Dani said the league was so tight it could come down to goal difference."


    I smiled. "Leagues are almost never decided by goal difference. It happens like once every hundred years. No, we''ll win by miles if we can keep this new focus we''ve got."


    "They''re fighting your mission."


    I thought about that. "I really think it''s our mission. Ah, there''s Jill. They''re ready for me. Do you want to come in?"


    "Is it going to get dramatic?"


    "Only a little bit."


    "Then I''ll only come a little bit in."


    I grabbed her and gave her a squeeze. "You are a weirdo."


    "What else do you like about me?"


    I counted off on my fingers. "Zips. Accent. Work stories. Make me feel like a real boy."


    We hugged almost all the way through the corridor and into our changing room. The five Welsh girls had come separately and were hanging around near the entrance.


    "Where is the doc crew?" demanded Angel as I went to the front.


    "There''s not enough room," I said. "Or they''re sick. Or they''re lost. Pick one. All right. First of all, thanks for coming early. It''s nice, isn''t it? Really good stuff. I want to build something like this but with blue pitches."


    "Blue pitches?" said Charlotte.


    I pointed. "Didn''t you see those five-a-side pitches? They''re the same red as the home shirts. It''s top, this place. Football heaven. We''re going to have this, but we''re going to build it step by step, not all in one go. Okay, next. Thank you for the last two matches. It was fantastic to watch you play with such intensity and I love how you came out for the second half like it was nil-nil again and you had it all to prove. What I saw from you was a champion mentality. None of this playing with your food, just a clean kill. It''s not much fun playing in the men''s team at the moment so really - thank you.


    "Let''s talk about today. First of all, there will be more disappointed players than normal and I''m sorry about that. I''m honestly not here to ruin your weekend. I want to talk to everyone on the drive home, even if it''s just for a couple of minutes. Just checking on how you''re doing. If you''re playing, how your careers are going and how the club can help. If you''re not playing, what are your next steps and that sort of thing. Okay? If you don''t want to talk to me today, that''s okay! But the men''s season is over until the playoff final, basically - er, don''t tell them I said that - so I''ve got time to come to training and that kind of thing. I might join a couple of sessions if that''s okay with you; I need to sharpen up.


    "Right. Today, then. Oh, girls, can you step outside for this? Don''t go too far."


    The five Welsh girls didn''t seem to mind being kicked out - they were at the stage of their careers when everything was new and exciting and Fleetwood was probably the best facility they''d ever been to. Emma closed the door behind them and gave me a thumbs up to say they weren''t hanging around outside the door.


    "Okay. Last time we talked, we talked about complacency. Fleetwood are by far the worst team in the division and you''ve already beaten them six-nil this season. If there''s ever a day for you to take your foot off the gas, it''s today. Right, Bonnie?"


    "No."


    "Right, Bea Pea?"


    "No."


    "Right, Dani?" This section didn''t need Elin''s translation. Dani blew a raspberry and stuck her thumb down. I grinned. "Okay so you won''t mind what I''ve got planned."


    "Shit," said Jill, and there was an uneasy stirring amongst the group.


    Dani signed and Elin said, "Why do I get the feeling I''ve been tricked?"


    I let my smile grow even wider and spread my arms. "No trick! We will put out a great team. 3-5-2, Jackie Reaper special. Sorry in advance to the left backs." Ridley T and Lucy grimaced. "But I''ll start by naming the five subs. All right?" I cleared the tactics board and moved five blue magnets into position on the right edge of the space. Two defenders, two midfielders, one striker.


    "Oh my God," said Kisi.


    "What?"


    She had her hands raised in a theatrical display of having seen something awful. "Please tell me we will have a goalkeeper on the bench."


    "No need."


    "Max, pick up the second green magnet and slide it up there. Go on. There''s a good chap."


    "I''ve already handed the team sheet in. No goalkeeper. Now, let''s go through these subs. Two defensive options: Tanwen and Dafina." Elin stopped translating. I pretended to misunderstand why. "Tanwen is a centre back. Dafina can play centre back or left back. Great options. Could even switch to a back four if I wanted, which I don''t."


    "But," she said.


    I pressed on. "For the midfield we''ve got Mari and Fioled. Similar coverage. Mari covers central midfield and offers leadership if standards slip. Takes after her mum! I don''t think her mum ever sat a former Man City player down with a Cruyff turn, though. Yes, Charlotte, I saw that! Lol. Fioled''s centre or left. I''m not quite sure how she''ll develop, but I know she''s going to be mustard. And up front we''ve got Alwen. She''s been a goalpoacher in the youth teams but I see her becoming more of a link player."


    Five hot prospects, each with PA over 100. Who could possibly complain?


    Quite a lot of people, it turned out. I let the women grumble and say things for well over twenty seconds.


    "Yeah, you can stop talking now. This is a done deal. This is happening. These are Chester players and they''re ha-mazing. I''m going to go out on a limb and say that in terms of potential this is the strongest bench the fifth tier of women''s football has ever seen. I''d open it to the men''s team, too, but if you put me and Wibbers on the bench that tends to drag the average up."


    "Max, they''re fifteen," said Elin.


    "Was that you talking or Dani?"


    "Me."


    "Ask Dani what she thinks."


    "She trusts you."


    "So there you go." I bounced on my heels a few times. "This is exciting, ladies. This is life on the edge. We''re walking in a Max Best wonderland! Here''s the deal. The starting eleven better hurry up and win this match because if Scottie gets injured there''s no backup goalie. If one of the outfielders gets injured or sent off, that''s it. It''s all over! One of these fifteen-year-olds will come on and guess what? They ain''t ready!" I laughed. "Are you feeling complacent now?" I laughed some more. "If you''re in the starting eleven you''d better get ready for kickoff because this is what I want from you. I want you on it from the first second whoever we''re playing. Before I announce the team, is there anyone in the room who can''t handle the pressure? Who can''t take the jeopardy?" I waited and made eye contact with over a dozen women. Some looked frustrated, some amused. "No no no," I said. "This isn''t the right vibe. I''m setting you a challenge, ladies. This is why we get knocked out of cups. There''s a challenge and you don''t rise to it. Is there anyone excited by this?"


    Charlotte''s head dipped but when it got as low as it could, it popped all the way up. "Me. I''m up for it. It''s fucking mental but yeah. Come on. I''m the best player in the league. I don''t give a shit."


    My smile turned hard. "That''s what I''m fucking talking about!"


    "We don''t need subs," said Angel. "We can beat these with nine."


    Maddy Hines stood and pointed at Scottie. "I vote we play without a keeper." The laughs broke the tension and Maddy was pelted with socks and bits of tape.


    "Hey," I said, palms up. "I said we''d put out a strong team and I meant it. Check this out. Scottie in goal. Bonnie, Femi, Luxury Bell. Sorry, Fleetwood, no shots allowed. Midfield of Pippa and Charlotte as CMs and I''m going to rotate Dani, Kisi, and Maddy in the other midfield slots. Ladies, did you see the surface? It''s a passing pitch. Pass them to death. Slide the dribbling slider way down, do you get me? No showboating unless it''s productive. I want trackbacks, slaps, and overlaps. Bea Pea and Angel to bag the goals." That eleven had an average CA of 43.2, and just to make sure we won I would use Triple Captain and, yeah, Bench Boost, too. Why not? I wouldn''t manage another women''s game this season. After today, they might not let me. "Ladies, that''s a terrifying side if you''re Fleetwood. They don''t know our subs, do they? No-one''s ever heard of them. For all they know, I''ve signed the five best fifteen-year-old players in Wales." I smiled. "They''re going to go hard at you is what I''m saying. They''re going to give it everything at the start. Have you got it in you to stand up to it? You''re on a tightrope and I''ve taken away the safety net. Let''s see what you''re made of. That''s it. Jill?" Jill came to the front with a Chester-branded kit bag and was about to speak when I reconsidered this part of the show. "Err, should we do it in here or on the pitch? Better photos on the pitch maybe?"


    "Don''t know," said Jill.


    "The Welsh girls don''t know what''s happening," I explained to the group. "They don''t know they''re going to be on the bench and potentially make their debuts." I pointed to the bag and looked around. "In there we''ve got their brand new kits with their names and squad numbers. Big moment, ladies, yeah? Magical moment for those girls. So I need five volunteers to present one shirt each and we''ll take photos and record it for the socials and all that shit. Angel, should we do it in here or on the pitch? What''s better?"


    "For the club or for the girls?"


    "For the girls."


    "Outside. Let their mums and dads see."


    "Amazing. Will you give Alwen hers?"


    As if she''d pass up an opportunity to be in a photo. "Yes."


    "Jill, we need two defenders and two midfielders. We''ll surprise them out on the pitch. Everyone who''s in a bad mood, all smiles for a few minutes, please! Then it''s warmups, then three points. Okay, let''s go."


    ***


    The photos were adorable. Surprise, smiles, tears, and that was just the parents.


    Then it was kickoff. Fleetwood''s striker passed the ball back to the captain who launched it forward. Femi got a big head on it and that was pretty much Fleetwood''s only attack in the first ten minutes.


    We crushed them. Death by a thousand passes, but I''d added a kind of ticking timebomb to the match and my players wanted to make sure of the win while they were all fit and healthy; when they attacked, they attacked with purpose.


    A desperate foul on the left led to a yellow card and a Dani free kick that Femi nodded home.


    A slick series of side-to-side passes in midfield led to Dani surging into the CAM slot from the left while Kisi did the same from the right. Dani rolled the ball underfoot and Kisi took it past a hapless defender who ended up doing the splits. Kisi combined with Angel, combined with Bea Pea, and Kisi played a simple ball right. Dani could have taken a high-probability shot but she elected to cut back for Angel to roll it into the open net.


    And then they relaxed. The win was in the bag. Job done.


    Ah, no.


    No. Fucking. Way.


    I got on their case in a way I almost never did. I went past the edge of the technical area until I was more or less in position as a third linesman.


    "Charlotte! Charlotte! Fucking pass! Hurry the fuck up!"


    "Bonnie! Relax! What the fuck are you doing? You''ve got her on toast! Simple pass!"


    "Dani! Ugh. Elin. Shout at her. If she goes left there she''s isolated."


    "Maddy! Combinations! Combinations! Jesus fuck!"


    One by one they unrelaxed, the bastards.


    The ball zipped around. I got into the flow in a way I hadn''t for months. Lived every pass. Jumped for every header. I screamed seemingly random words like ''control'', ''push'', ''zip'', ''second'', and ''breathe'' that the players understood completely. I brought Kisi across to give her some technical feedback. I used the With and Without Ball screens to drop Pippa and Charlotte a few yards and pushed Maddy and the wide players forward a fraction. I yelled "diags!" and the ladies knew what to do. We bypassed Fleetwood like they only had four players. The match ratings of our midfielders shot up to 8s and then hit 9s.


    The score went three four five.


    The half time whistle was gutting. Leave me alone! I''m having fun! I forced myself to follow the players to the changing room. Then I remembered I had to wait a few minutes. When had I last managed the women? Ages. How could I arrange it with Jackie that I could do one match a season without it seeming like I was showing him how to do it properly? Taking one match a season would let me use my full range of perks but there was no social reason to do it.


    Ah, well. I had enough to be getting on with.


    Jill gave me the nod and I went inside.


    "All right shut the fuck up," I said. "My favourite movie is Whiplash. It''s about an angry man who shouts at people until they get better at their jobs. I know, right! Very inspirational stuff. When the film ends it''s five-nil at half time and the assumption is the angry man will demand more more more but I''ve got some more whiplash for you now. Ready? I''m happy with the score! What! You''ve done some Chesterness in that half by being fucking amazing, playing fantasy football, drawing actual gasps. There are little girls from this area watching and right now they want to play for our team. Mommy can I have a Chester shirt for my birthday? Winning is the building block of Chesterness because if we don''t get promoted we can''t do anything. But there''s more to Chesterness than winning. We''ve got to help the next generation come through, and that means these tiny little teenagers. Yes. Here''s the twist! They''re not just here so I can make a point. We''re going to get five debuts today."


    Jaws actually dropped.


    "You remember at the start of the season we talked about the rules of the league and said we could basically do rolling subs? Yeah? Jackie and I decided not to do it because we''re trying to prepare you for higher leagues and we don''t want you getting whiplash from rule changes. So when Jackie brings you off the pitch, that''s that unless there''s an emergency. It''s better like that. Remember I said we''re going to the WSL? There''s no rolling subs in the WSL. We''re trying to teach you elite football.


    "But I''ve made an executive decision and today I''m going to use the rules to the max. These ladies will rotate on and off over the next forty-five minutes, okay? We will never have more than two on at the same time. What''s going to happen is that you''re going to fucking support them. Back them up when they''re defending, trust them when they''re on the ball. And if someone starts on them, you fucking finish it, okay?


    "You''ve earned the three points, now we give birth to five little Welsh dragons."


    Ridley T grinned. She was peeved at coming all this way and not even being on the bench but now she had a better idea of why. "You told us not to get pregnant."


    I put my finger in front of my mouth. "I''m not touching that setup with a bargepole. Does everyone understand what we''re doing? It''s Project Youth. Elin, how do you say Project Youth in Welsh?" She said something. "How do you say Project Youth in sign language?" She showed me. "How do you say Project Youth in Welsh sign language?" She showed me her middle finger, which drew laughs. I gave her a high five. "Ladies, more of the same please. There''s five new players here and I don''t want them learning bad habits. Show them what''s it''s like to be awesome. Kay bye."


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    ***


    The second half, if I don''t mind myself saying it, was a masterclass in command and control. First, Mari replaced Pippa. I took the time to chat to Pip while she took on liquids and marathon paste. I talked to her about the match, her opponents, and her day job. She begged me to concentrate on the pitch.


    The rules of the division said that players subbed off could go back on, so I gave Mari five minutes and swapped her with Pippa while Dafina replaced Luxury Bell. Dafina went to the left of the back three and I chatted to Mari and Luxury.


    The next five minutes went great - you would barely notice such a young, inexperienced player was on the pitch, so I swapped everything back and went one level further, putting on Mari and Alwen and bringing off Kisi and Bea Pea.


    I kept going, chatting to the players who had come off, giving them tips while saying what they''d done well. If I needed to criticise, I sandwiched it.


    And the more I rotated different players off and on, the more players counted as being substitutes, meaning with ten minutes to go almost the entire outfield were getting Bench Boosted.


    At eight-nil I took Bea Pea and Angel off and created a kind of Frankenstein 3-6-1 with Kisi as a right wing back, the idea being we would keep the ball and not run up the score any further.


    Bea Pea went a few yards back to flop onto the ground - she always worked her arse off. Angel stood next to me.


    "Can we talk?"


    "Yeah. But if you wait a minute we can do it on the coach."


    Angel looked around. "Now''s better. More private."


    "Not sure I want a private chat with a seventeen-year-old. How was your birthday?"


    "The last boring one I''ll ever have."


    "Good."


    Amused, she threw her dark hair around and tucked it into a scrunchie. "I want to talk about the documentary."


    "Okay."


    "Your girl''s messed you up."


    I frowned, trying to understand what she meant. "Sophie?"


    "Emma," she said, not really trying to disguise her annoyance. "She broke your trust. Recorded you against your will."


    "Whoa whoa whoa," I said, hands up. "Let''s all calm down."


    "I''m calm. Why aren''t you?"


    "What?"


    She gritted her teeth. "You never liked being on camera but now you''re psychotic about it. No phones in the dressing rooms. No cameras except to film the Welsh girls. What? You''re going to be in the documentary at the start and then just vanish?"


    "Yes," I said. "I''m not even supposed to be in it! It''s about you."


    We watched as Alwen got bullied off the ball by a defender. Bit late to win a duel, mate. "We''ve seen some of the rough edits so we know what it''s going to look like in the end. They say it doesn''t go good without the music and the text on screen and all that, but we saw one they''re calling Influence. It''s when you went to war against that twat." She did a thousand-mile stare. "I''m in it a lot."


    "That''s great. That''s what you want."


    She shook her head. "No. You''re the star. The viewer wants to get to the next scene with you." She lowered her head as she did a demure smile. "You started out dismissing the whole influencer problem while boosting Glendale Logistics. You had that fake phone to do comedy. You were pretending not to understand what was happening and it was fun in the room but on the screen it''s... And when you''re on the pitch you''re enormous. Everyone else is normal-sized but you suck up all the attention. It''s what I want to do. But I don''t come across as very nice. I''m, like, manipulative."


    "I''ve seen that rough cut. You''re being you and it works. You''ve even got some comedy chops. It''ll get you what you want."


    Angel pulled at her bottom lip for a while. "When I saw that episode I was sure the doc would be huge. They had amazing material like with the West loss and the takeover. I mean, great pillar content but that was when you were front and centre. Jackie''s a great coach but he doesn''t have screen presence. He isn''t at war with the FA and everyone. I was thinking you being the breakout star is fine because the doc will be so good and I''ll be a great supporting character and I''ll have a bigger role in season two. But now you''re out what even is it? It''s just some girls playing football and not even that well." She looked into my eyes. "This, today, again, is crazy. No goalie sub for no reason. Five debuts for no reason. Just to prove a point! After you say it''s important we win every game, you make it harder to win. And it just works. It''s unbelievable. No-one will believe it because it''s not being recorded. If you want me to stay for three more years you''ve got to get over this phobia. I don''t want to be in a shit football doc like All Town Aren''t We. I want to be in Welcome to Wrexham, and that doesn''t work without Rob and Ryan. You''re our Rob and Ryan so talk to your girlfriend about how she hurt you and do it soon because we''re playing the three best teams next."


    Since the Fans Forum, no-one had mentioned that Emma had recorded me and put it up on screen. No-one had asked how much footage Henri and Sophie had sifted through to get to the good stuff. I was happy about that because I didn''t want to talk about it, ever. Now Angel had blindsided with me when we were eight-nil up. I was worried about tears at eight-nil up. What the actual. I took in a deep breath and imagined I was holding all kinds of crystals. "Thing is, Angel, it''ll take a lot more than one conversation. Because they did the right thing, right? It''s what I would have done and I would be upset if they got upset. So I''m not upset."


    "But you are."


    "I''m saying okay maybe it''s fucked me up a bit but I''m hiring a psychologist next season and Jesus, I have a lot to work on and that''s one of the smallest things. I might talk about my murder first, or my mum. Do you know what I mean? And maybe the psychologist will tell me I need to talk to Emma but I''m not doing anything just because there''s a documentary." I set my jaw and used the tactics screens to make some fairly pointless changes. "I need some quiet. I need to get to know my players and make sure they''re getting what they need and what you need isn''t to be in a hit documentary, it''s to play in the WSL. Along the way, I promise to help build your profile - it will be a piece of piss - but the key to everything you want is to start scoring goals against famous teams and for that we need to get promoted so you''re up against next-level defences. We need to get promoted, we need to move to four days a week, and we need to get our training ground built."


    She was quiet for ages. "That''s delayed, is it?"


    "Yeah. We''ll get our TV money in June or July and we can start then. If we''re lucky, we''ll have something we can use at the start of 2026."


    "There must be loads of ways to get the money sooner."


    "There are and they are all shit."


    "You know that Netflix pay three hundred thousand pounds per hour for documentaries they option?"


    "Option?" I said, smiling again. I sighed. "Angel, I don''t want money for the doc. I want to put it on the BBC or ITV where it will be watched by three million people instead of thirty thousand. Do you know what I mean? I promised to get your name out there. And I want people to know what it''s like trying to survive in a world ruled by predators. We will take them on a journey where they watch the prey become the predator. We will have the whole country cheer us on as we evolve and demolish the superclubs one by one. A million quid doesn''t stack up to that."


    Angel tutted. "That? That''s what I''m talking about. Say that on camera and I''ll stay at Chester. Am I going back on?"


    "No. Eight-nil is fine. I don''t want Jackie to feel like shit when he sees the score."


    "Urgh!" she said, and went to flop next to Bea Pea.


    Erm, good chat. I think.


    ***


    The ride home was noisy. Bonnie demanded that the Ffamous Five be allowed to travel back on the bus with the rest of the squad, so our physio, spare coach, and Jill got kicked off to make room. I tried to talk to the women one at a time but when a good song came on they would look at me, eyes pleading, and I would sigh and gesture and they''d rush off to join in the singing. The more soppy and sentimental, the louder they sang.


    The overall vibe I got from my chats was that the players were happy and enjoying being part of the team''s journey. The ones out of the team said they were working hard to get in. Those on the fringes of the squad were unhappy about that but still loved being part of training and matchdays. I suppose it was unreasonable to expect anyone to really lay into me with their negative thoughts and feelings, but at least I gave them the opportunity.


    I asked everyone if they got anything from the ''life after football'' talk and most of them said ''yeah that was great'' but they meant for the other players. Well, they were young and invincible and all I could hope was to plant some seeds and maybe one day they would sprout.


    The most interesting talks were with the older players - Femi, Pippa, and Lucy.


    But first, Angel jumped the queue. "Did you talk to her yet?"


    "Who? Ems? When would I have done that?"


    "How much did you get for that BoshCard advert?"


    The question was pretty surprising - quite rude to talk about money so directly but she asked in a businesslike way and if there was anyone in Chester likely to be doing adverts of their own, it was her, even ahead of Wibbers and Youngster. "Are you going to keep it to yourself?"


    "Yes."


    "Twenty grand."


    "That''s not bad considering you mostly have a local profile."


    "And considering I''m not even popular within the target demographic of Chester fans."


    She eyed me. "You''re popular. One time you talked about you and Chester being like an old married couple."


    "Pretty sure I didn''t describe myself as old. Take that back. You''re old."


    "You''re having a tiff. It happens. Twenty thousand pounds. Are you going to take us all out on the lash? Or buy a new car?"


    "I''ll use the one I''ve got until it gives up the ghost."


    "You should get a new car. That one isn''t sexy. It''s bad for your brand."


    "My brand isn''t about being sexy."


    "What''s it about?"


    "Good question. But I went to Grimsby and the players who laughed at my car turned out to be shitheads. So it''s a way of saving time instead of getting to know people."


    "Danny Flash isn''t a shithead."


    Funny. I hadn''t told many people that story, which meant Flash had told Angel what a dick he had been. Weird pickup line. "How is Danny?"


    "How would I know? Okay but get a new car and then rent a shit one next time you go to manage your main rivals."


    "They weren''t our main rivals then, were they? But that''s not a terrible idea." I smiled at the idea of finding the worst car I could rent for a week. Where would you look? Maybe the movie props place where Brooke had got the fake money.


    "I like the Christian Fierce campaign."


    We had put up simple posters all around Chester with a misty, moody photo of our new star with the single word ''Fierce''. We didn''t even put the Chester badge on. The aim was that people would talk to each other about it and what it meant. "Yeah?"


    "How do I get that?"


    "How do you get what?"


    "How do I get to be in a poster on my own?"


    "You don''t. We always put three players in a collage, you know that. Fierce is a special case. One-off."


    "Make it a two-off."


    "No."


    "Chelsea will do it when they sign me."


    She was trying to provoke me. "Good for Chelsea."


    "Boss. Gaffer. I want to be in a poster on my own. Tell me how."


    I tutted. "First, turn eighteen because I''m not doing anything until then. You might remember I promised your sister." She huffed, but as a thought experiment I considered what would make me single anyone out for the kind of attention she wanted. "I really don''t think it''s good for anyone to have solo promos like that but I could imagine... Yes, if there was a special reason we could put you on the cover of the match programme and things like that."


    "But how?"


    "If you got selected by the England under nineteens."


    "Can I do that?"


    "You''re talented enough. Not sure what the level of the other girls is but they won''t beat you for Finishing and your link-up play and teamwork is really picking up. How about I research it? I''ll go and check out the competition and see how you stack up. Are you willing to do extra training and that?"


    "Yes."


    "Okay, let me look into it. Maybe I can combine that with some other scams I''ve got planned."


    She left and I whipped my phone out. The most recent England nineteens was full of players from the WSL, but a couple of the reserves were from random American universities. It was unlikely the England scouts were coming to Chester matches - I had never seen one - so I would have to get creative to generate interest in Angel. I sat up and looked to the back of the bus. Angel was looking very pleased with herself. Her Morale had gone up one notch and she had a target to aim for that suited both our needs.


    I grinned as I imagine a match programme cover with her, front and centre, in an England kit... flanked by Dani and Kisi.


    Walking in a Max Best wonderland...


    ***


    Pippa was interesting. She told me how she felt older and older with every passing week and that me signing toddlers and putting them in the team wasn''t helping. I laughed and said I was happy with her progress and performances. She was on the older side - 33 - and had only added 12 points in CA over the season, but that had brought her to 40 - perfectly good for the division.


    "I really think you can keep improving," I said. Her PA was 111. "Okay you''re a late starter so you don''t have loads of matches under your belt but you weren''t overplayed as a kid, you haven''t had any bad injuries. I''ll be honest, I''m fascinated to see how you get on next season. You''ll get loads of minutes and when it''s time to wind things down, I''ll let you know."


    "I don''t want to end up embarrassed."


    I made a noise. "Imagine playing for the men''s team. Imagine slipping into touch trying to take a corner."


    "Twice."


    I chuckled. "See? My whole career is cringe on toast. That''s not the hard part."


    "What''s the hard part?"


    I leant back. "The feeling that you didn''t give it everything."


    ***


    The last chat was with Lucy. She was 43 and had played for the first version of Chester Women back when the club was still called Chester City. Her height and experience had helped my youthful side hugely in the early days of the new project but now she was finally looking like her legs were going.


    Thanks to her dedication and intensity at training, her CA had hovered at 20 for a while, but in the last weeks it had slipped to 19 and I very much got the feeling that this slide would be irreversible. While I was more than willing to be proven wrong, I somehow doubted I would be.


    She sat next to me, watched me put my thoughts in order, and her eyes almost instantly turned red.


    "Hey," I said, gently touching her arm. "Hey, now."


    "It''s The Talk. I know."


    "It''s not The Talk," I said. "It''s lovely chat time." She sniffed and wiped under her eyes. I said, "Who''s your favourite Beatle?"


    "Paul," she said, without thinking.


    "Lucy. Talk to me."


    "You''ve dropped me for a fifteen-year-old."


    "First of all, I haven''t dropped you. The only thing I drop is the T in the word water and, ironically, in glottal stop. Second, Dafina got some minutes today and she''ll be buzzing and she''ll work harder because she wants more and that will pay off next season. It''s an investment in the future of the club and I think you know that. Shed one tear to show you agree, two if you don''t."


    She laughed and wiped her lids. "You''re funny."


    I sucked some air in and blew it out bit by bit. I really didn''t have the resources for this conversation. "I''m twenty-four and I don''t really know what it''s like, what you''re feeling. You''re thinking you''re going to miss it."


    "And that I''m for the scrapheap."


    I smiled. "We recycle round here. Upcycle? What''s that thing where you take a chair and give it a new cover and make it good again?"


    "Upcycle."


    "Right. There''s loads to do when your career''s over but the scrapheap''s not one of them."


    "When I came back to the team I thought I was worth something but that''s over."


    "It''s not over. Yeah, it''s winding down. You know that better than me but you''ve done a lot for this club. Here''s how I see it. You did a job for the team and gave us things we didn''t have and gave me time to find other players who have those things. Bosh. You showed me that players can keep going into their forties. Ryan Jack doesn''t realise it but his new contract is because you proved he can keep going. Bosh. You know I like bringing in young players because we can train them up and sell them but this summer when I''m looking at free agents I''m willing to go ten years higher than I would have when I started managing. Can a thirty-eight-year old defender come in and do a job for us for a year? Course he can. How do I know? Because you showed me! I learned a lot from you and I''m definitely a better manager now and I can allocate Chester''s resources even more efficiently. Bosh. And most important, you were a role model for the teenies. How much did they learn from you? How to prepare for matches, how to deal with gobby opponents, how to get referees onside and catch forwards offside. You''ve been mint."


    "I feel like I should quit now."


    I experienced a jolt of panic that, in retrospect, was the best thing that could have happened. "Holy shit! No fucking way! What are you talking about? We need you!"


    She smile-laughed and got teary again. "Okay."


    I patted my heart. "Don''t do that again. Fuuuu. We''ll talk again in a month or two and see where we''re at but we need you this season. All right, is there anything you want to talk about?" She gave me the weirdest look. "What? What did I do wrong now?"


    She shook her head. "Can I go?"


    I looked around. Something was happening at the back. "Yeah. Course."


    She practically leapt out of her seat and ran to the mass of players hugging each other while swaying as much as was possible on a cramped bus. They were all singing - bellowing - Someone Like You by Adele. Somehow that was the song on the playlist that most resonated.


    I sat back and tried to review my management for the day. The match had gone well, obviously, especially the way I''d faked the jeopardy. With Bench Boost we would have won even if our goalie had been sent off in the first minute. Yeah, the match was great but I thought the little talks had been even better. I rated myself four out of five - no possibility for improvement.


    Someone grabbed me. Emma was trying to pull me up. I shook my head. She insisted. I sighed and got up into the aisle. "I don''t know the words," I lied.


    Emma crooned the chorus at me and with a laugh I thought fuck it and decided to sing back. I noticed Angel filming me. Huh. It felt like a test. I glared at her for a few seconds - bad content - but with an effort I snapped out of it. The song is pretty downbeat, pretty depressing, but when sung by an entire football squad, I don''t know, it gave me goosebumps.


    For me, it isn''t oh-verrrrrr.


    ***


    Tuesday, February 18


    Match 30 of 46: Chester vs Solihull Moors


    It was the last match of Chipper''s ban and I only really had one decision to make - whether to stick to my concept of putting out the hugest possible team. I looked at the pitch and decided - yeah. Solihull were a fraction less impressive than Barnet (CA 72 compared to 75) and it was perfectly possible this match would be the last time I ever got to use this tactic. It wasn''t like I could have done anything else, tbh.


    One concession I made to CA was to replace Glenn Ryder with Zach. I lost an inch in height but gained 7 CA. Fair trade. I also decided that I would start the match and try to give us a first-half lead. That would also allow me to ease the captain''s armband onto Christian at half time without it drawing too much comment. Discussions about who was captain for a particular match were tedious.


    I let Vimsy and Llewellyn do most of the pre-match preparations and wandered around talking to the unused squad members as part of Project Talk To Other Human Beings About Their Hopes And Dreams which was a slightly upgraded version of Project Never Talk To Anyone. A friendly chat with Pascal - bursting at the seams to get back into the starting eleven - was interrupted by a text from Brooke. She wanted to see me if I had time. I did.


    The Brig came with me in case we bumped into any gammons on the short journey to the executive suite. Now that I spent most matchdays on the touchline, I hadn''t been in the space for ages. It was like the medical bay, an area where I had been made to feel special and still felt special.


    Brooke was with some of the board, plus Bulldog, J, and some other well-known Chester fans. Being this close to them made me strangely uneasy; I was happy to have a table between us.


    Brooke was in full b-girl mode. "Max," she smiled, "sorry to disturb your warm up."


    "The thought of serving the people of Chester is what keeps me warm," I said.


    That put her off her stride by about half a second, which in the world of Brooke was like the Cambrian age. "The topic up here has been your interview after Saturday''s match and how we could find some monies to finance the first phase of the training ground development."


    "Monies?" I said, confused. Money was an uncountable noun, wasn''t it? But then, I reflected, you could count money. Or was Brooke so rich that money existed on a different linguistic plane to the rest of the species?


    Brooke had continued talking and I only caught the end. "It''s an exciting idea and we wanted to sound you out about it right away. We could get started today!"


    "Started on what? I spaced out because you said monies."


    Bulldog shook his head but he knew I had a lot on my plate on matchdays. "MD''s working on two budgets for next season. One if we''re promoted, one if we''re not. If we stay in the National League, season tickets will be three hundred and twenty pounds in the Harry McNally, three nine five in the east and west stands."


    "Okay," I said, and tried to put the numbers into context. "Three nine five is about the same as Wrexham. They''re two divisions higher than us. Yeah, that seems steep."


    "It''ll be even higher if we go to League Two."


    I frowned. "If we get promoted we won''t need more money from tickets. We''ll have the TV payments."


    Brooke said, "Prices will go up, Max, and everyone accepts that. The stadium will be sold out most weeks. Supply and demand pushes the prices up and so does away fans trying to get into the home areas. Now, you''re saying our promotion chances are fifty-fifty."


    "Something like that, yeah." I turned to the pitch. I would need to get out there soon. Solihull had beaten us two-nil in the league at their place and they''d hammered a weakened team four-nil in the FA Trophy. Today''s result didn''t matter too much, but the performance did. We needed to let them know that if we met them in the playoffs we would dick them. We needed a fast start. We needed to do what I''d been demanding from the women.


    I''d spaced out just long enough to miss the key info again. Bulldog was saying, "So anyone buying a ticket now at these prices gets to support the training ground development and if we get promoted they''re laughing because they got the lower price."


    I was about to complain that no-one was making any sense when the Brig stepped in. "Sir, they are proposing to sell five hundred season tickets now to raise the finance for the first 3G pitch and avoid the building delay."


    "Five hundred?" I said.


    Brooke said, "Five hundred tickets times three hundred pounds is one hundred fifty thousand pounds."


    "But that''s great."


    "We know."


    "So what''s the catch?"


    "No catch."


    "Wait," I said, finally fully in the conversation. "That''s next season''s money that we need. MD won''t let us use next season''s money."


    "He will. The pitch will generate income, won''t it?"


    "It make monies?"


    Brooke laughed. "Yes, Max. It make monies."


    "The catch," said the Brig, "is that the club could make more money by waiting to see which division it is in."


    Bulldog shook his head. "Season tickets normally go on sale in April. The hardcore will always buy no matter the division. The five hundred who buy these will be the ones who''ll pay whatever we charge if they can afford it. The most loyal."


    "Wait," I said. "Why are prices going up? We did the solar panels to guard against that."


    "That''s why the increases aren''t even worse."


    I looked at the pitch. It was fascinating to note how many Solihull contracts were expiring this summer. Many of their players didn''t have agents. Juicy possible summer signings! "I need to get out there. Let me sum this up. We sell five hundred of next season''s season tickets. Superfans get a discount. We can get the first training pitch started and have it ready months before I thought. Is that it?" Lots of nods. "And MD''s okay with this?"


    Brooke said, "MD is fine having a half a million pound asset added to the club''s balance sheet, yes. Especially if we only pay a hundred fifty for it."


    I checked the faces on the other side of the table. They seemed really enthusiastic. "Um, Brooke, can I speak to you over there for a second?" We moved away to a private area and whispered. "There''s a problem. If the money comes from the fans I can''t keep it safe from the fans. Do you get me?"


    She shook her head. "No, it''s the opposite. The training ground needs to be in a trust so we can get the maximum funding from grants. It will be in the small print that the fans are sending money to a trust and not the club itself. Technically they''ll be donating the cash to the trust and getting a free season ticket. That''s how we get around the legal split. But they won''t care; the difference is invisible. To all intents and purposes, this is Chester FC''s training ground they''re paying for."


    "Okay so the trust docs are all ready?"


    "Thanks to Sebastian and Gemma they will be. We''ll need to go over them one last time to check they''re foolproof. And we have planning permission and the contract to buy the land at a set price at a future date."


    I rubbed my forehead. "You''ve thought of everything."


    "Yes."


    "I should trust you."


    "Yes."


    "This is going to bite me on the arse."


    "No. This was their idea."


    I did a cheeky smile. "What''s going on? Fans don''t normally come with solutions, they come with complaints. This is giving me whiplash. What''s happening?"


    "You don''t normally ask them for help."


    "When did I ask for help?"


    "You said you needed a hundred fifty thousand to build something they''re excited about building. It''s not the stadium but it''s the next best thing. They want to buy a season ticket and why not get it cheaper and see some tangible progress? It''s your favourite: a win-win-win."


    I emptied my lungs while trying to understand this twist. I decided I would need a few weeks of therapy to process this one. I jerked my head towards the fans. We walked back. I slapped the waist-level table we were gathered around. "Okay. What do we call the campaign?"


    "Max!" complained Brooke. "We''ll think of a name. We just need you to give the go-ahead."


    I nodded as though I was paying careful attention to what she was saying. "Boost the Budget is like a brand around here, but this isn''t Boost the Budget. Buy to Help. No, that sounds like a government initiative to inflate house prices. Er, Ticket to Ride. Ticket to Nowhere. Um... Training Day. Good movie. What are we building? A pitch. Pitch Perfect. Pitch Invaders. Vaders. Darth Vader. Let''s Build a Death Star! Death Star Begins. Why am I the only one brainstorming?"


    "Boost the Build," said the Brig, to near-universal acclaim.


    "No, that''s terrible," I said.


    "What is?" said the Brig.


    "Boost the Build."


    "Oh, very good, sir!" he cooed.


    "I like that, Max," said Brooke. "Great idea."


    "It was my idea, wasn''t it?" We smiled at each other for a few seconds then took in the horrified faces of the people who didn''t know we were joking. That made me laugh pretty hard. "Boost the Build. I mean... done. What do I need to do?"


    Bulldog looked around. "We''ll take care of it. It, er, would help if we won today."


    "Oh, would it?" I said, sarcastically. "I''ll get right on it, your majesty. What the fuuuu."


    ***


    First Half


    0''


    Solihull clearly expected me to play for the last twenty minutes like I usually did, because two of their best players were on the subs bench. Either they were being kept in reserve to deal with me or their manager assumed that since he kept beating us he didn''t need to go all-out.


    I didn''t go all-out, either. I spent five minutes doing the basics. Tweaking the Without Ball setup. Winning a couple of headers. Looking for weaknesses I could exploit, either today or in the playoffs.


    Today wasn''t a big deal, really. A win would make it more likely the fans would part with their cash a few months early, but selling five hundred season tickets didn''t seem that hard. No, it wasn''t a big deal. Today was simply one forty-sixth of our season.


    6''


    Grimsby fell a goal behind in their match. Wait, what? If we won today...


    I burst forward, took a pass from Wisey, and faked a pass to Henri by means of an oversized stepover. The defender stuck his leg out and I fell into the mud. He definitely kicked me, otherwise I wouldn''t have gone splat, would I?


    Free kick. Free Hit? Don''t mind if I do.


    I found the likeliest patch of turf, gave the keeper the eyes - a quick glance to the far post to make him take a step that way - then curled it slowly but surely to the top left.


    Bish bash bosh, thank you very much!


    The Live Table showed us only seventeen points behind!


    I ran around in front of the West stand laughing like a loon until I was swallowed up by Henri, Christian, and the rest.


    When the huddle cleared, I looked at the closest fans. They were in dreamland. Was the title back on? As if. Get your phones out and buy season tickets. Give me your money, you dogs!


    8''


    I was daydreaming about having a 3G pitch to call my own when Aff got past his man on the right. Knowing him, he would cut back onto his left foot in about four seconds. I found that I was bombing forward again. I ran straight at Henri.


    Aff cut back, right on cue, pushing the ball slightly behind where he would have liked it. He whipped the ball towards Henri.


    I ran to the right thinking Henri could touch the ball that way and I could do a Chipper-style volley. A couple of defenders clearly thought the same and moved to block me.


    At the last second, I veered left. Henri stunned the ball, fought his marker, and backheeled it into my path.


    I was sooo in the mood to kick the ball as hard as humanly possible. Mule strength. A proper thunderbastard. But there was a dubious patch of soil ahead and instead of letting the ball roll into it, I simply toepoked the ball straight ahead, two yards inside the post, without waiting for it to fully drop. The goalie just stood there, stupefied that I had shot so early. No playing with my food, today. Clean kill.


    I jogged to the section of the main stand where the Chester Chatters gathered when they came to matches. There were a fair few so I wanted to do a goal celebration. I hadn''t prepared one so I simply shrugged and said "Ey? Ey?" It made no sense but the fans seemed to like it.


    15''


    Solihull had dropped deeper and I found I had a guy marking me, so to conserve energy I shuffled us into a 3-5-2 with me as the second striker. I stood way on the right with the intention of taking my marker out of the match. Since we had three naturally left-sided players I directed our attacks down that side.


    18''


    Solihull realised the marker thing wasn''t working. They dropped it and I reverted back to our starting formation.


    20''


    Solihull put the marker back on me and I walked straight to the right wing spot for a lovely old holiday. It had been twelve minutes since my last serious sprint. If they kept playing into my hands, I would have the energy to play the whole ninety!


    22''


    Bit of an innovation. My opposite number decided to use the closest player to where I was standing, the left back, as my marker. That lasted a record twenty-eight seconds after I dragged him over to the right back slot and directed our attacks down the unguarded side. Solihull''s manager was not enjoying his time in my wonderland. Sorry, no refunds!


    25''


    The idea that Solihull would finish the match strong started to play on my mind. I decided to have a big go at them now followed by another pop before half time. I switched back to 4-1-4-1 and would shake off any markers when needed.


    26''


    Aff turned on the touchline and tucked the ball square, into my path, thirty-five yards out. The goalie was all the way across by his near post - an absolutely delicious setup for someone with my technique.


    I planted my left - so far so good - and took a swing at it. Now, imagine the prettiest golf swing you''ve ever seen. Perhaps you''re thinking of Fred Couples, perhaps Ernie Els. At the moment of impact I personally was thinking of Payne Stewart, but sadly we weren''t on a lush fairway in the American south but in the northwest of England.


    The ball crashed into a blade of grass and bobbled with, to be fair, impeccable comedy timing. My sublimely aesthetic shot was sliced onto hole 17.


    Grim.


    Oh! Maybe it had bounced down Bumpers Lane all the way to where my new pitch would soon be laid!


    Grin.


    28''


    Two of my attempted dribbles came to nothing.


    30''


    A guy clattered into me as I took the ball. Rude. I stayed down for a full minute. If you''re going to foul me when you''re two-nil down, I''m going to do my best to take time off the clock. When I got up, I used Masterpiece Theatre to get as close to a ''bomb burst'' of movement as I could, and dropped the ball onto Zach''s head. He outmuscled his marker but mistimed the header.


    33''


    The game got stodgy again, which mostly suited us. I mean, if you''re trying to reshape world football one pass at a time, that kind of football was ghastly, but if you''re winning two-nil while Grimsby are losing one-nil, you take it.


    36''


    Even though I wasn''t working flat out, I was starting to seriously tire and Solihull seemed to sense it. They pushed forward, and forward, and I really wished I had Pascal and Ryan on the pitch. Ryan to Pascal would have been a dream out ball - one that got us ''out'' of pressure.


    39''


    The last meaningful sequences of the half. I dug deep, found some stamina, and created an overload on the left. Sure, it was loads of low-quality chips and scoops but we had weight of numbers - Cole and Josh, of course, plus Wisey.


    Cole passed to Wisey but didn''t bomb on for the overlap. When I was forced into a sliding tackle because Josh had been slow getting into shape, I got up and screamed "TOGETHER!"


    It was a rare case of me losing my temper with the Exit Triallists but it had one immediate effect - both teenagers got a permanent plus one to their teamwork attribute. Ecstatic, I clenched my fists and screamed, "And again!"


    We repeated our patterns as best as we could given the conditions and we were really piling on the pressure when Josh was fouled from behind.


    Free kick and a final warning for that defender!


    The angle wasn''t ideal - I was about halfway inside Solihull''s half but quite far to the left. Two things worked in my favour. One, the fact that we had won a header at our last free kick after an unexpected, seemingly pre-planned move. That made Solihull nervous. Two, the angle was such that I could consider this partly as a cross, partly as a shot. If I could put the ball head height around the edge of the six-yard box, if everyone missed it, the ball could easily go straight into the net.


    I eyed Solihull''s goalie. "Are you rushing or are you dragging?" I said.


    "Sorry boss, what?"


    Josh Owens was ten yards back, defending counters. I frowned at him. "Just summoning the magic, Josh. Get more central, please."


    "Thought you might want to pass to me, boss." These kids always wanting to be the centre of attention!


    I put my hands on my hips. "How about I score instead? What the fuuuu."


    I shook my head, lined up my angles, and launched it. My left got enough grip on the turf - I was getting used to the shit pitch just as it was about to get good again - and my right made sweet contact. The ball zipped away pretty much as in my imagination. It span and curved and went just over Zach''s head. Christian was next in line and he nodded down... and missed it completely! Everyone missed it! It bounced, gripped the turf slightly, spun left... and crashed up against the post! A defender threw himself at it, heading it over and out for a corner.


    I got a slightly sinking feeling, but I personally was spent. Any more and I risked pulling a hamstring or tearing a calf muscle, so I let Aff take the corner and hid in the DM slot until the break.


    ***


    I spent the first ten minutes of the break on the massage table getting a rub while munching on marathon paste, but there was nothing much left for me to decide. Andrew Harrison would replace me and then the only question was when or if to bring Ryan Jack on. The last sub would be reserved for if there was an injury, otherwise I would do something for the last ten minutes. I had Ben, Glenn, and Ziggy as options.


    When the break was nearly up, Dean helped me to my feet and I went to the front. "Best movie," I said, through a mouthful of paste. "Whiplash. Drums. Plays good. J. Jonah Jameson from Spiderman games is in it. Good game, that. Plays good, good game, you get it. Go play good."


    I remembered the captain''s armband. If we didn''t have a player wearing one, we would get a twenty pound fine or something insane. I took it off and slipped it up Christian Fierce''s arm. His Morale moved up one level. I couldn''t bear to look at Glenn Ryder directly, but I saw his Morale slip two notches.


    The guard had changed.


    ***


    Second Half


    45''


    Solihull brought themselves up to full strength after the break, while we were obviously weaker. From the early exchanges it was clear we were in for another dogs-of-war, backs-to-the-wall scrap.


    I looked from my screens to the pitch and saw a defence that included Carl, Zach, and Christian, with Magnus patrolling in front. I saw Wisey, Aff, and Andrew Harrison. I saw Henri. All were warriors. Half were champions. The left side of Cole and Josh was inexperienced but I set them to make forward runs: no. That would allow them to mostly focus on defending and to do their best to win duels.


    46''


    Against Barnet, Cole had twice gone for a tackle he was never going to win. The first time he had missed completely and given his winger a free run into our box. The second time he had given away a free kick.


    I hadn''t gone ballistic because he was eighteen and the guy who''d dicked him had double his CA, but I had pointed out that he was no good to us lying on the floor while a guy zoomed at goal.


    Now he got isolated and Solihull''s tricky winger nipped around him. Cole turned, thought about diving in, but instead dropped his head and doubled his efforts to track back. His marker dallied long enough for Cole to make up two yards and when he launched himself, he was in time to block the winger''s cross.


    Christian knew what was up and roared encouragement at Cole. The left back''s Morale soared.


    48''


    The pressure mounted. Solihull''s CA 72 was too much for my CA 58 group. Could we hold on for forty-five minutes?


    50''


    Solihull scored. It was so easy! Just a cross and a header. What''s the fucking point of being massive if that can happen?


    I fumed.


    55''


    I''d spent five minutes vacillating between loving my players for their heart and effort and hating them for being shit.


    The latter feeling finally won and I subbed Josh off and sent Ryan into midfield. As against Barnet, I moved Andrew wide right and Aff to his natural home on the left. We immediately looked more compact. Our CA climbed to 59.5. So far short of the levels but all we had to do was defend. And who knew? Maybe Ryan would be able to send a pass over the top that Henri could volley home.


    60''


    Stodgy stodgy stodgy. Yes, please!


    64''


    I''ve got to be honest, the tension was unbearable. Grimsby were still losing, we were winning, we had games in hand, the mind boggled!


    65''


    Some dreams are not meant to be.


    Solihull got a corner. Then another. Then another. Finally, after a mad scramble, they equalised. Two-all, and most of the remaining interest in the evening was waiting for the inevitable Grimsby equaliser and winner to show up inside my head. I seriously regretted buying the Live Scores perk. These constant six-point swings in our fortunes were giving me mental whiplash.


    70''


    Solihull had expended a lot of energy pushing for that equaliser and they needed a breather. Christian and Zach took the opportunity to reorganise and to galvanise the team. The sight of Fierce pumping his fists got me all riled up. There he was! There was the God of Walls!


    I pushed my hood off my head and paced up and down the touchline looking serious.


    73''


    Ryan took the ball in a tight spot. The easiest thing was for him to knock it straight back to Zach and that''s exactly - no! He turned like a fucking garden mouse and scampered through two defenders! Henri got his head down and sprinted away from his marker. Ryan sent a delicious pass right into his path... and Henri blazed over the bar!


    I found myself on my knees with my hands on my head. Surely we wouldn''t get a better chance?


    77''


    Solihull made their last change and came right back at us.


    I scanned the Conditions of my players and there were a lot under 75%. That was the mark at which I normally wanted to sub guys off. They had played two back-to-back matches on this shitty surface; it was inevitable. My bench options were Glenn - he could only play centre back - or Ziggy. He could run around but he wouldn''t get much change out of defenders this good.


    79''


    It was all Solihull. They were launching high ball after high ball into our box. Much too early for that! If they had continued to probe down our wings they would have had more joy. I had literally designed a team to withstand route one attacks and my guys finally looked solid. Maybe it was a simple factor of Christian and Zach being partners for more than a set number of minutes. Maybe they had progressed to level 2 as a centre back partnership. Who knew how this worked? Not me.


    I sent Ziggy on for Henri. It didn''t matter that he wouldn''t win headers or be able to hold the ball up - Henri was exhausted and couldn''t do it either. At least Ziggy had fresh legs. He''d be able to run for eleven minutes.


    80''


    Ziggy closed down a defender and chased the ball all the way to the goalie. I felt sure, given my recent luck, that he would collapse to the ground with a mangled hamstring, but instead he chased the ball down one more time, flying in front of the left back''s long ball. It went out for a throw in to Solihull. Ziggy demanded the main stand cheer and cheer they did.


    I punched the air. Fucking Chester were back in town!


    81''


    A tackle from Wisey was met with cheers even I heard and a bulging-eyed ''yes, mate!'' from Aff.


    82''


    Grimsby equalised. I didn''t give a shit. This was about us. It was about what was inside of us and what we wanted the world to see.


    I wanted the world to see me demanding more more more from my players.


    Give it to me, you miserable bastards. Give me everything, you worms. Fuck technique! Give me your blood. Sign your name across this pitch.


    84''


    My heart was pounding. A never-ending drumbeat. One hacked pass forward for every fifteen slaps of the old pump. I was astonished to feel sweat dripping down my forehead.


    The fuck? This game meant nothing. What was I even doing? Third in the league was fine. Seventh was fine. Who cared?


    "Come the fuck onnnnnnn!" I screamed. Zach screamed something back.


    With no Sandra to tell me otherwise, I switched to an absolutely stupid, bonkers, unforgivable 4-3-3.


    85''


    4-3-3 slapped! Solihull didn''t expect it. How could they when it was the product of a furious, primal drumbeat only I could hear?


    My unlikely front line, Aff, Ziggy, and Andrew Harrison, harried their defence and chased every pass into every channel. Solihull''s manager, suspecting trickery, retreated for two fatal minutes.


    87''


    The reprieve didn''t last; he was on to me! He went more attacking. I reset the formation and went men behind ball.


    My name is Max Best and I''m addicted to defensive football.


    89''


    The rare sight of me, Vimsy, and the Brig together on the touchline shouting and waving our arms like a very, very shit boy band.


    91''


    Sweat dripped off me as my fatigue hit maximum. The curse screens actually flickered and I decided to close them all. I heard the home fans. They were whistling at the referee, demanding he blow the final whistle. It was loud. Seriously loud.


    I clambered to my feet - why was I resting on one knee like a knight? - and found myself doing the most inane thing football managers do - pointing and yelling. No-one''s listening! It''s impossible for a player to take on board instructions they can''t see or hear. But there, then, with nothing and everything riding on the result, it was impossible for me not to do it.


    92''


    I pointed so hard it hurt.


    93''


    The referee was eight seconds from being attacked by a very tired football manager. Blow the whistle you absolute -


    95''


    I had suffered so much I had come to accept the inevitability of the last-second Solihull winner.


    96''


    Solihull were camped around our penalty box. They clipped in a tired cross. Magnus headed - Ryan Jack smashed it upfield. It was a foot race between Ziggy and a defender.


    Ziggy was faster! Okay, not faster. Fresher!


    He got the ball and took it to the corner.


    Oh, fuck you you little shit.


    "Not my tempo!" I cried. "Attack!"


    Ziggy didn''t hear me and went to the corner. He was fouled.


    The referee blew for full time.


    Whistles that sound like sleighbells. (Vimsy and the Brig skipped onto the pitch like schoolboys.)


    Draws that feel like wins. (Glenn and our unused subs sprinted to hug Christian and the defenders.)


    Points that feel like prizes. (The executive box had emptied into the main stand. Brooke had dropped her b-girl facade and was red. She''d been screaming us on. Bulldog looked at me and fistpumped. J from the podcast mimed showering me with money.)


    Wants that feel like needs. (I needed this, but more. Bigger. Wilder.)


    Two Minutes After Full Time


    I don''t know what I did or whose hands I shook. Everyone''s? No-one''s?


    But I finally remembered that we weren''t alone in this world. I checked the Live Scores - Grimsby had drawn, after all. One-all. Not scoring as freely since they had sold Marcus Wainwright.


    We were still twenty points behind.


    Could we...?


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>72</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>65</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>52</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Nah. Third, though. Third and a trip to Wembley.


    Barnet. Could we beat them at Wembley?


    The drumbeat pounding from the inside of my skull said yes, said yes, said yes.


    FUCKING BRING IT ON.


    ***


    Extract from The New Pink Online


    Chester 2 Solihull Moors 2 - Max Best Post-Match Interview


    Max, another disappointing home result. That''s one point from a possible six. Five from the last twelve. How do you feel?


    Yeah, it was a game of two halves. First half good. Second half, not so good.


    You''ve slipped out of the playoff spots with that result.


    Sometimes you''ve got to hold your hands up and give credit to the oppo. The league table never lies. Is it a point gained or two points lost?


    Some fans are wondering why you brought yourself off at half time.


    We just didn''t turn up at times and okay it was a bad day at the office but the goals were against the run of play and we''ll be looking to bounce back and we know our performances are coming under the microscope but that''s what you get at a massive, massive club.


    Sorry but are you taking the... What are you doing?


    We literally put a shift in and we were literally all over them but the table literally doesn''t lie. We are definitely the tenth best team in the National League.


    You''re eighth.


    Okay, the table lies then.


    Will Sandra be back against Boreham Wood?


    It''s a game of two halves, mate.


    Christian Fierce got the captain''s armband for the second half.


    Glenn Ryder is our captain. The captain at this club is Glenn Ryder. Captain Glenn. Ryder captain. If we win silverware it''ll be Glenn hoisting it aloft. Because he''s the captain. Spin that into a story if you''re able.


    There might be some criticism of your celebrations at the end, there.


    So?


    You think a home draw is worthy of the jubilation we saw from the players?


    Are you the celebration police? Can I see some ID? You don''t tell us when it''s time to go on the lash. We''ll celebrate what we want when we want; we know what we did.


    Will Chipper be back for the next match?


    I''m a Gemini, not a fortune teller. Cross my palm with silver if you want but I still won''t be able to predict the future. Actually, yeah. Cross my palms with silver. Look out for a special early bird season ticket offer we''re going to announce soon.


    Thanks for your time.


    Did I say anything interesting?


    Not really.


    Okay, perfect.


    [Max Best strolls off, hands in pockets, whistling ''Walking In a Winter Wonderland''.]

 10.6 - Keep It Simple, Seals

    6.


    Thursday, February 20


    Double training is normally used as a punishment. The lads lost four-nil at home? Midfield didn''t run hard enough? Defenders were out of position? Double training! At Chester we did things different. When I sent out a text saying some people were being selected for double training the message was hearted and thumbs-upped by a dozen players, while Pascal wrote a mini-essay explaining why he should be chosen.


    The first of the two sessions involved the entire squad, including me. I had asked Llewellyn to put on a fun, skills-based session. Why? I didn''t want my hard shell boys to overexert themselves after their time in the mud and since we''d be playing on the division''s best pitch in our next game, I wanted us to brush up our technique. Why Llewellyn? Because he was the best coach I had access to. Simple!


    Simplicity was my new watchword. I was taking Occam''s razor to all my decisions, shaving off hours of worry and stress by saying things like, what is the single most important thing for the club in the next two weeks? The simple answer? Increasing the CA of our players. What''s stopping me doing that? The pitches and facilities. The simple solution? Use someone else''s pitch and facilities. How do I do that? By asking. (And in one case, by being a tiny microscopic bit cheeky and telling a white lie to a Premier League club. But that''s next chapter.)


    My primary goal - increase CA.


    My secondary goal - spend ''quality time'' with my players. The simplest way to do that? Lock them in a car with me as we drive to double training!


    Who should I choose for the first bonus session? Why, the players I would probably sell next! Carl? No! He needed to rest. Carl next week, then. Easy! And apart from players who could raise cash in the summer, anyone else? The one player who could hurt opponents from the centre of midfield. What about a goalscorer while I''m at it? Okay, then!


    Keeping things simple turned out to be quite satisfying.


    ***


    Sandra was desperate to come back to work but Dean spotted her coughing her guts out and sent her home. I called and told her to target next Tuesday''s trip to Rochdale as her return and I didn''t want to see her until then. I gave her the option of watching Ghostbusters or watching clips of Rochdale looking for weaknesses.


    "What about Boreham Wood?" she said.


    "They play 3-4-3 and the players don''t know where to go," I said. "It''s way too complicated for this level."


    "Don''t," she started, before coughing up a few lungs. "Don''t underestimate 3-4-3. I can see us evolving in that direction."


    That was a strange thing to say because 3-4-3 was the next formation I could buy in the perk shop. I got the feeling I was supposed to buy all the preset formations and then the curse would allow me to upgrade WibWob and ultimately develop complete tactical flexibility. I''d only ever seen 3-4-3 used badly, though. I didn''t want it. "Did you say evolve because of the Cambrian Age presentation?"


    She left quite a long silence before saying, "Yes."


    "I''ll keep an open mind. Now, will you please take some Lemsip and go back to bed? Please?"


    "Yes, boss."


    ***


    After the session we got showered and ate our packed lunches under two big umbrellas like you do in the summer. Being February, it was cold, damp, and frankly unprofessional. We loved it.


    Then we drifted to our cars, except I followed Llewellyn to his, as did Eddie Moore and Ben Cavanagh. They waved to their jealous mates and got in the back. Llewellyn had one of the nicest cars out of any of us and it was a pretty smooth ride. Maybe Angel was right - maybe I should retire The Duchess.


    The first ten minutes of the drive I was on my phone organising things and returning messages. Mateo wanted to see me. Brooke had some hot goss. Ray Hart had time to talk. The theme of the next couple of months was forcing my players to evolve as fast as poss so I called the coach first.


    "Ray. How are you doing? Great. Here''s the thing. We''re playing Grimsby in two weeks and they have a pretty decent offside trap. Imagine Ryan Jack gets the ball in midfield and pings it up to Pascal. Yeah? They''ll push up and catch him offside. What I want is to get the timing down on a secondary runner. Ryan does that thing they do in the NFL. What''s that called?"


    "Steroids," said Ben. Eddie sniggered.


    Llewellyn said, "Pump fake."


    "Yes! Pump fake. Ryan fakes right. Grimsby''s defence pushes up two yards. Oops! There''s half the pitch open. So Ryan dinks the ball left or centre and Wibbers chases. If we do that right, he''s clean through and even better, Pascal''s up in support. Once Wibbers takes the ball past Pascal''s level, he''s back onside. This is going to be deadly. This is our big shrimp claw, do you get me? What do you mean no? Never mind the shrimp thing, we need to get this move down pat and I think there''s two components. One, the timing. Pascal has to go hard to sell the first pass and the second runner has to go at the right moment. In the NFL they do it all on counts. Like a two-second delay or something. Can we do that? Or does it have to be instinctive? Second thing''s the trigger. We need to get the ball to Ryan at the right point where he''s got time to do the pump. If he''s swarmed there''s no point, right, because if he pumps he gets dumped. So can you break all the steps down into little drills and we put it all together? Or do you think we do it unopposed a few times and add obstacles one by one?" I glanced at Llewellyn and inwardly smiled. As I''d hoped, he was visualising how he would do it. "Maybe one or two of the other coaches would like to get involved. Have a think about it. I see this as becoming one of our staples so I''ll give you training ground time. Yes with the first team. Okay, got to go. Thanks!"


    I texted Brooke and when I put the phone away, Llewellyn spoke. He was one of those coaches who thought about players like abstract numbers. Chess pieces instead of individuals. That way of thinking was both a strength and a weakness. "It''ll go better with a layoff. Your 6 pump fakes the pass to the 7. Defence pushes out. 6 lays off to 8 who first times it to the 11 or the 10."


    "Why?"


    "The 8 has visibility on the side of the pitch that the 6 doesn''t."


    I nodded. I had discovered that Llewellyn was quite a cold person. He had a Coaching Outfield Players and Tactical Knowledge score of 20, but his Man Management was only 5. I could imagine him being hired by top German and Austrian clubs, winning every match for six months, then getting sacked after a few bad results because his star players were scheming against him. If he was content to be the assistant to a charismatic leader, he would have a long, glorious, and stress-free career. Or he could get to know his players as individuals and find out what makes them tick. That thought reminded me what the point of this excursion was. Time to get chatty!


    "Or Max could do it," said Ben, sweeping the rug from under me.


    "What?" I said.


    "You can pass through the lines and you see the whole pitch."


    "Oh."


    Llewellyn said something pretty shocking. "And he''s two-footed."


    I eyed him. I was partway through a multi-year deception where I pretended to be as right-footed as most players. I used my left - sparingly - at key moments in matches but generally only used it for standing on. The goal was that one day when I most needed an edge I would be able to shock the world - and perhaps a German goalkeeper - with the sweetness of my left foot. "Soccer Supremo has me right-footed," I said.


    He scoffed. "It has you at Pace 8, Finishing 6 or something stupid like that."


    I eyed him some more. His profile said he was Judging Player Ability 15 but many people with equal or higher scores hadn''t spotted the truth about me. Absolutely fascinating.


    Eddie Moore had a question. "Boss, do you get mad when we mess things up?"


    "What, mate? I don''t follow."


    He adjusted his seat belt. "Like, you''re next level. You boss the first half against Solihull. Score two, nearly three. Everything''s roses. Then, er, we let it slip. Must be annoying as hell, right?"


    "No," I said, reflexively, but I paused. I didn''t want to talk about me but if I did, maybe Eddie and Ben would open up. "I mean, okay, yeah, it''s fucking infuriating." I showed them all my teeth. "But that''s, like, ten seconds. It''s goes urgh holy shit why mate no why okay is anyone injured is there anything I can tweak? Do you know what I mean? And, like, almost every match everyone does their best. And you''re basically the best squad I could possibly get and okay you''ve got limitations but so do I and if someone isn''t working in the system that''s on me. And I mean almost everyone on the team now is someone I signed so who''m I supposed to blame but myself? Who''s left from the old days, anyway? Ben, Glenn, Carl."


    "Aff," said Ben.


    "Right! Aff. Magnus."


    "Magnus wasn''t playing, though," said Ben.


    Llewellyn turned. "Magnus wasn''t playing?"


    "The road, mate," I said, pointing to where the driver of a car should look. Ahead.


    Ben explained. "He was player/coach but mostly he helped as a physio. Max took one look at him and campaigned to get him in the team."


    Llewellyn and Eddie had apparently never heard this. Eddie said, "But he''s important. He''s a key player."


    "He didn''t look like it," said Ben. "Ian Evans thought Magnus was a weirdo. To be fair, Magnus didn''t believe in himself either. He wasn''t taking playing seriously like he is now."


    "Is he enjoying it?" I said.


    "Not sure about enjoying it. But he''s serious."


    I shook my head. "I need him to stay but if I put pressure on him he''s more likely to go. It''s hard."


    "How did you know he was good?" said Llewellyn.


    "I didn''t," I said. "Normally I can tell pretty easily. It was clear to me Ben was the best goalie at Chester. When I saw Eddie I was like, yes, please! Magnus is weird. But he can play across the defence or midfield so why not use him for ten or twenty minutes here and there? I thought if he got minutes I''d be able to see what his ceiling was going to be. But there''s no ceiling. He''s like an Agatha Christie story. You''ve got to read to the end, right? I need to get to the end with Magnus. What''s his limit? It''s driving me crazy. If he quits football before I find out I will literally throw a temper tantrum. You know who''s the same? Dan Badford. He''s not identical because he''s so good on the ball you can easily imagine him as a pro footballer, right, but there''s something about him that stops me knowing his end point. It''s frustrating but it''s kind of fun, too."


    Eddie said, "Is that why you didn''t say his value?"


    "What?"


    "At the Fans Forum on that video with Emma. You said how much everyone''s worth but you didn''t say Magnus."


    "Oh. Didn''t I? Yeah, I suppose. We''ll never get a fee for him, will we? I think he''ll stay with us as long as it''s interesting for him. I think the community work is motivational and we''re going to do even more of that but on the other hand, maybe he''ll think we''ve got it covered so he could do more good elsewhere, like at an avocado-growing commune in south Manchester. But he''s not going to come and say boss I''ve signed a pre-contract with Leicester City. I mean, he might, but I doubt it. I think he''ll stay until he''s done with football."


    "What''s he worth, though?"


    "He''s worth zero because his contract expires in a couple of months."


    Eddie exchanged a glance with Ben. I turned on the passenger seat so I could track their faces better. Something was up. Eddie said, "If he had a three-year contract, what would he be worth?"


    I frowned and tried to work out what they were trying to get at. I failed "What''s going on?"


    Ben leaned to his left so I wouldn''t have to twist so far. "Everyone''s obsessed with that speech. You spat out a skipful of info like you were ChatGPT and we''re going crazy wondering what you think we''re worth."


    Eddie leaned forward. "Have you got all that in your head all the time? Do you watch us score goals and say ''there''s another ten grand''. What''s it based on? Why''s Youngster more than Wibbers?"


    I made a surprised little scoffing noise. They seemed really motivated by knowing their transfer value. "What''s the difference? I''m only guessing. The only price that matters is the price another club is willing to pay."


    Llewellyn said, "It matters because the transfer value you put on them shows how much you rate them."


    "And you had me and Eddie in the same bracket," said Ben.


    "The lowest," said Eddie, tilting his head to show disapproval.


    "Hang on," I said. I tried to think back to the Fans Forum, something I preferred to avoid. "Those weren''t my valuations. It was what I imagined Chip thought you were worth. Or what he could get for you."


    "Come on, boss," said Ben. "You have a good idea what we''re worth. Tell us!"


    I held up a hand. "This conversation is out of control already. This trip is about boosting you. Building you up. Boost the Build, yeah? Me saying Ben''s worth x and Eddie''s worth x plus one is the opposite of that. I want you to focus on improving your game." I looked out of the window - we were going through Ellesmere Port - I would have taken the scenic route. "We''re about halfway to the Solar Campus. That''s Tranmere''s training ground. Llewellyn''s going to do some drills with us and then I''ve got you a treat. While we''re doing breaks and stuff I want to talk to you about your careers and that. Like, when the right time to move you on is. This summer or next. Tricky. I don''t think there''s a right answer, to be honest, so we''re not going to get angry about it, we''re going to talk and see where we''re at and we''re going to do what''s best for your careers. At no point will I say a number that I think is your value as a human being."


    Eddie nodded. "But it was fifty thousand, wasn''t it? I got Dani to read your lips."


    "Dani wasn''t there. Look, why are we talking about this? I don''t get it."


    Ben said, "You like numbers; so do we. It''s motivational. We''re starting to get some data from the Brig about our running stats in matches and he puts them up on the wall. Goalies are always at the bottom, which is annoying, but it''s cool, isn''t it? Like, did you know Andrew Harrison ran the most?"


    "Yes," I said.


    "It''s good for banter, like teasing Josh that he didn''t run enough."


    "Whoa," I said. "I told him not to make forward runs. He was doing as he was told. If he starts running around because you were teasing him..." I was getting wound up. Why did people always find a way to find the worst possible way to use innovations? I straightened on the seat and bashed my head against the headrest. Fuck! No more shared data. Even just having the GPS vests on seemed to change the way some players behaved. I''d spotted players doing pointless runs and it had clicked that they were juicing their stats. Tiring themselves out! I wanted to collect data to make us seem like a real football club and because Sandra, Jackie, and Spectrum could use it to motivate, castigate, and prevent injury. Clearly, it was causing almost as many problems as it was providing solutions.


    I thought my dark thoughts were transmitting around the car and wondered how I was going to get back to the positive, upbeat mood I craved. Eddie helped. "Do you like being a manager?"


    I twisted again. "Most of it. I like the matches. The tactics and the whole chess match of it all. I like the squad building and trying to get the most talent for the wage budget. I like trying to find ways to get the kids improving faster and I''m going to like building the training centre and the stadium. I don''t like how it feels as though if I stop pushing as hard as I can, people either sit back or actively undo what I''ve been doing. It''s exhausting having to think about every little thing and then get complaints that I''m micromanaging."


    Eddie looked at his hands. "I don''t think I''d last two weeks doing what you do."


    I scoffed. "You wouldn''t do it like me. You''re too intelligent for that."


    "How would I do it?"


    "Quietly efficient. Eighty twenty rule. Keep it simple, stupid. You''d pick three things that needed to be fixed and you''d work on those and if someone said what about this over here you''d say if it bothers you why don''t you fix it yourself?"


    He had a little curve on the edge of his mouth. "I wouldn''t. I''d freeze. I''d be picturing every fan and journo following me around all day judging me."


    "Do you feel like that when you''re playing?"


    "Before matches, yeah. Like they''re watching me in the warm up saying ''that stretch isn''t big enough'' and stuff like that." He dipped his head and looked up at me.


    "And when the whistle blows?"


    "Then it''s different."


    Ben said, "Do you get nervous, boss?"


    "Me? Before a match?"


    "Yeah."


    "Erm... not much. I''m too busy, really. I did a bit when I was at Darlington. It wasn''t nervous, it was more excited. Like I knew I was going to destroy them and I almost wanted to skip the match to read what the papers wrote about me or to see someone post a video of the pandemonium in the stands." I pinched my lips together for a few seconds. "I was never nervous about exams, either. I think it''s about control. Okay in an exam I can''t choose what questions come up but if you''ve read the books and done the work you only have to write it out. It''s only stressful if you think about the outcome, like shit I need to be switched on today or I can''t become a chemist. I was nervous for a job interview once because it seemed really perfect and good money and I was thinking about all that future stuff instead of what I could control. As the manager I have control. If 4-4-2 isn''t working I can try 3-5-2. If the other team is better, it''s not stressful to lose, is it? You expect it. If you''re better, that''s not stressful either. You keep tweaking until you find the way to win. No, the stressful games are when we''re evenly matched and there aren''t many of those in a season."


    Eddie said, "Ben asked about exciting and you changed it to stressful. That''s interesting."


    I laughed. "You think stress and nerves and excitement are all bundled up in my mind? One more thing for the psychologist to help me with. But it''s the same with you, right? Once the whistle blows, you''re in control. You''ve got your patch and your tasks and you get on with it."


    "You''re in control, not me."


    "When you get the ball you can pass down the line, square, go back to the goalie, hit a big diag. If a guy''s running at you, you can show him outside, tackle, hold him up. Whatever you want. I might ask you to come in a few steps but you''re your own boss." I looked down while I got my next thought into order. "Do I like being a manager? Yeah. A lot. I think about the pandemic a lot, about lockdown. It seems like everyone else has shrugged it off but it messed me up. We were all powerless nobodies anyway and then we were told to stay indoors. I understood it and did my best not to go crazy but fuck me that was hard. And then we find the guys telling us to isolate are having big fucking parties and driving their families to beauty spots. I mean, fuck that, right? But what can you do? You''re an ant to people like that. Fast forward a couple of years I''m running a football club and I''ve got some control. I can get shit done and if we win we get more money and with more money I can get more shit done."


    "Dentists," said Ben.


    "That''s just the start. I have mad ambitions. People can''t pay rent. They can''t feed their kids. It''s wild but if I win enough football matches I can help. I can actually make a difference to those people. I don''t want to be an ant. I want to be a super shrimp. I want to gobble up all the three points in the ocean and spray cash all over Cheshire. Bit of a mixed metaphor but you get me. Do I like being a manager? I fucking love it. I really do. Marcus Rashford made this country a better place by very politely explaining to the government that it would be better if hungry children had food to eat. I''m going to do that but insanely bigger and without the politeness. I am not your fucking ant, mate. Do you get me? And you two are going to help by training up into assets I can sell while getting me promoted. It doesn''t matter if the fee is ten thousand or ten million. You do your bit. That''s all I can ask."


    ***


    We were met in Tranmere''s Solar campus car park by Mateo, the club''s owner and all-round wonderful human being. Next to him was a coach and a physio.


    I introduced my lot.


    "The others are already on the pitch," said Mateo.


    "The others?" said Ben.


    "This way, fella," said the coach.


    Mateo held me up. "Let''s talk when you''re done, okay?"


    "If it''s about the money I owe you," I said, "my dog ate it." I waited for a reaction but didn''t get one. He was in one of his rock-like moods. "I can pay some of it off. Got some sponsorship income."


    "It''s not that. Go do your thing. I''ll be here."


    ***


    We caught up with the occupants of our second car - Ryan Jack, Angel, and Ruth. Ryan was here because giving him a few more points in CA would help enormously. Angel was chosen because I wanted to fast-track her to an England squad. Ruth because our agency had three players at Tranmere and Angel was a client, too. Ruth kept in touch with them but it couldn''t hurt to have some extra face time.


    I sat in the little dugout next to the first grass pitch and pulled my boots on. I fell into a jog and joined my mates in a warm up. The pitch was damp but flat. More than acceptable.


    Llewellyn got us doing technique drills. One I liked was where we stood five yards behind a cone. We had to dash to the cone and control a ball he threw at us. The catch was that we had to control the ball into one of three hoops in front of us that he nominated late in the process. Ben was terrible, Angel not much better, Eddie and Ryan very good, and me almost flawless. Llewellyn switched from throwing balls at me to kicking them. It turned into a contest of wills as I went to station one, dashed forwards, cushioned a kick into the left-most hoop, then ran to the next station where Tranmere''s coach kicked the ball waist-high as Llewellyn called out a hoop. I leapt and booped the ball... but it only pushed against the hoop. No time to fret - onto station three where the physio kicked a ball at me. This was the hardest yet because the guy had no skills and could only toe-poke the ball at ramming speed. I flicked my right foot behind my left leg and put the ball dead centre of the hoop - only for Llewellyn to say he had said the green one, not the blue one.


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    "I''m colour-blind," I said. "I''m giving myself a point."


    Next, I''d asked him to set up some duels. It wasn''t much fun for Angel but mostly I wanted to attack Eddie. He was smart and didn''t do stupid things - it felt like we would both benefit from the time.


    On my first attack, I faked to nutmeg him and when he closed his legs I zipped around him. One-nil!


    He came at me and I swatted him away. Two-nil!


    My turn on him again. I went for the fake nutmeg move again. He thought that this time I would go for the meg, but nope. I did it exactly the same. Three-nil.


    He came at me with a fake nutmeg! Cheeky fuck. I booped the ball up and flicked it away. Four-nil.


    I ran at him, did a couple of fast stepovers, and darted left. Llewellyn''s comment about me being two-footed made Eddie wary, though, and he had been expecting something of the sort. Four-one.


    He came at me with the same stepover attack, but he was totally one-footed so it was easy to - no! He went past me on his right! Four-two.


    "Ooh!" I said, delighted at being beaten. "Where did that come from?"


    He grinned. "I was never gonna beat you with my normal stuff. Took a risk."


    I went internal, wondering if I wanted Eddie to use a high risk, high reward move in a serious match. Probably not.


    "Max." Llewellyn had come over. He turned away from where Angel was nought for five on dribbles against Ryan. "Angel isn''t getting anywhere."


    "Yeah. That''s fine. I don''t expect her to achieve anything. She''ll improve anyway."


    "Her basics are terrible."


    "Oh?" I watched as Ryan approached her, feinted, and she took a big swish. "She''s not a defender."


    "I know. I mean her dribbling technique."


    Ben was due to step in for a turn, but I called out and asked Angel to go again.


    She took the ball and approached Ryan. It was like watching a train - everything happening on straight lines. No guile, no possibility for an explosive redirect. "Hmm," I said. "What do you think?"


    "She needs to go back to basics."


    I clapped my hands. "Great. A simple drill speaks to my very soul, mate. Let''s start."


    "Whoa," he said. "It''s far too easy for you, Ryan, and Eddie. You won''t get anything from it."


    "Mmm, not sure about that. Let''s do it anyway. Imagine we''re all beginners."


    "You''re not serious."


    "I''m deadly serious. Tell us where to put the cones."


    Two minutes later we were ready to go. The first drill involved moving very slowly through a tight line of about fifteen cones. Lots of tiny, accurate touches to guide the ball around and through. That kind of thing is super boring unless you get really into it. It''s possible to fall into a trance-like state doing something so simple. I went first and when I got to the end of the line I turned back.


    "No, you''re done," said Llewellyn.


    "Aww," I said.


    Ryan and Eddie went at the same time. When they got to the end, Ben and Angel set off. They made it look hard.


    We repeated the drill and moved the cones again. Now there was a zigzag with cones three yards apart. We had to slalom around while using only one foot. When pushing the ball out (away from our body) we would use the outside of our foot and when pulling it in, the inside. Easy.


    I whizzed around. Ryan and Eddie went pretty fast. Ben and Angel went at about one-third pace. Llewellyn stopped Angel a few times to insist on better technique. She tended to do her railway thing and he wanted her more angular, more crouched, more explosive.


    Ben was our goalie so he didn''t really need this. In fact, it could prove detrimental if one of his last remaining CA points was used to increase his dribbling score. I knew from experience, though, that skills he didn''t practise would decay and so if his build did get warped, it would sort itself out soon enough. The main thing for me was that he felt involved and he was loving it. And who knew? Maybe someone would play him a crappy back-pass and he would have to dribble past an onrushing striker.


    Llewellyn''s next basic drill involved putting cones out like a swimming pool. We simply had to dribble fast down the lane. Because there were two side-by-side, I fell into competition mode and destroyed Eddie. While we were resting, Ben and Ryan went. Ryan ran like he was attached to a huge elastic but that wasn''t his injury - that was how he moved. Ignoring the aesthetics, his technique seemed fluid. Smooth.


    Angel had her go but Llewellyn kept stopping her to once again insist on better form. She found it hard to do it well at speed.


    "This is great," I said, mostly to Ryan. "Back to basics. Find flaws in technique. Bash away bad habits. What do you think?"


    Ryan was lightly sweating. "I''m just happy to be back. Back to basics? Yeah, why not? Especially when you go first."


    "What do you mean?"


    "No-one''s gonna grumble about it if you''re doing it. Maybe better in the pre-season, though."


    "Hmm. Interesting point. But maybe mid-winter''s when our technique gets ragged. We get into bad habits on bad pitches."


    "That''s smart. Yeah."


    "Why not both?" said Eddie.


    Ryan and I made eye contact and laughed. I said, "Look at the little workhorse over here!"


    "Glutton for punishment," said Ryan.


    "It''s not punishment," said Eddie. "I love it. I used to love this when I was a kid. Working on my game. Used to do hours every day. Like this. And kick ups."


    "Who did you want to be?"


    "Sorry, boss?"


    "Like, were you running around your school playground shouting ''Roberto Carlos!'' or who?"


    "Oh. Ashley Cole."


    "That''s a good comp for you." Ashley Cole was a world-class left back who played for England and famously nearly crashed his car when he heard that Arsenal were ''only'' offering him forty thousand pounds a week. "Remind me not to tell you about your pay rise when you''re driving."


    Ryan laughed but Eddie rolled his eyes. "That story got blown out of proportion."


    "Yeah, well, what a player he was. Good taste." Llewellyn blew his whistle and told us how to reorganise the cones. I let the others do it while I talked to Angel. "How are you doing?"


    "I''m shit. I can¡¯t dribble. I can''t control. I''m making you look bad in front of those guys." I looked around and saw that seven or eight Tranmere players had appeared, plus Ruth and Mateo. The latter were having a conversation that Ruth was enjoying a lot more than the owner. Angel pouted. "Can I stop?"


    "No. You''ve got an elite coach in a League Two setting."


    "He''s elite?"


    "Yep."


    "Why''s he wasting his time on me, then?"


    "Because your boss is friends with his boss and he doesn''t have a choice." I smiled until she smiled back. "I had one-tenth of a favour to call in from Tranmere''s owner - that''s why we''re here - and I reckon I can ask Llewellyn to come to do random sessions maybe three times before he says fuck you. Okay? I''m using all my social capital on you."


    "And Ben and Eddie and Ryan."


    "And me," I said. "I need this, too. I am shit."


    She scoffed. "You zoom around the cones."


    I scoffed louder. "You should have seen me at Darlington. I used to fly around them. Trust me, I''m rusty. I need this, you need this, now quit yer yappin''. Less yappin¡¯, more slappin¡¯. That¡¯s good, that. Write that down."


    Llewellyn explained the last drill while doing it in slow motion, i.e. Ben Speed. "Run to this single cone, dribble around it. Tight as you can. Sprint to the two at the end. Imagine that''s the touchline. Pushing the ball on those sprint strides, Angel. When you get to the plane between the two cones, chop your foot down, stop the ball there. We''re not stopping it with our studs. We''re using our outstep. Then we''re dynamic. We can still play. Max?"


    I pushed the ball forward as I sprinted the ten yards to the first cone. I slowed, stopped, and forced myself to go back the way I''d come. As I approached the two cones I calculated the strength of the final push. The ball obeyed and slowed just as I planted my left foot. With my right I chopped down, stopped it dead on the invisible line, and found I was in perfect position to push the ball away from, for example, a defender who was sliding in to tackle me.


    "Perfect," said Llewellyn. "Next."


    "Hang on," I said.


    I went through the process again but on the return, stopped the ball with the sole of my foot like most players would do. The action kind of forced me away from the ball and put my back to it. If an opponent was an equal distance away, he would get it by virtue of facing the right way.


    "Yep. The first one."


    Llewellyn cracked a rare smile. "You don''t trust me?"


    "Sometimes I like to understand things."


    He didn''t know what to say to that, so he watched as Ryan and Eddie did the drill, then Ben and Angel. The drill was a lot more demanding than it sounds so we took a thirty-second break and went again.


    We hadn''t planned for the dribbling drills so we were already over our time budget. I signalled for the goalposts to be brought on and gathered my little flock. "I hope you''ve got some energy left because we''re going to play Tranmere at five-a-side."


    "Yes!" said Eddie. He was so mature it was easy to forget he was only 23.


    "Ben in goal," I said. "Eddie''s our defence. Ryan midfield. Angel striker."


    "What are you?" said Angel.


    "That''s the question I ask myself every morning," I said. "They''ve got Trev in goal. He''s about as good as Ben. Jack the Lad is left-footed and he''ll want to show me up - I''ll deal with him. Angel, if he goes on an attack get ready for a quick counter. No offside! Their midfield general is Sam Topps. Sam versus Ryan - titanic! Bark''s a right mid. Junior''s lethal. Those other guys are Ruth''s clients from the Exit Trials. They''re super talented but if they come on my pitch I will squash them like ants."


    "Why are we doing this?" said Llewellyn. "We''ve got a match in two days."


    "Because I want to be the world''s first football manager," I said, pompously, "to kill six birds with one stone. Bosh. Now, you''re our coach so please yell things at us during the match." He shook his head but I clarified. "That wasn''t a joke. It helps. Thanks!" I was ready to start but my players went over to do handshakes with Bark and Sam. "No!" I said, trying to pull them away. "They''re the enemy. You can say hi later."


    "Max," said Sam. He opened his arms.


    "God dammit," I said, as I fell into the hugzone. "Okay. Are we going to play some footie or what?"


    "Max," said Junior. He opened his arms. Bark laughed and got into line behind him.


    "Footie!" I yelled.


    ***


    The footie was low-stakes fun. I played as a sweeper, which most of the time meant marking Junior. Sam and Ryan cancelled each other out. Angel was miles off the level but no Tranmere guy wanted to be the one to kick her in the shins so they let her take a couple more touches of the ball than they''d have given, for example, Ziggy.


    Tranmere pulled two goals ahead and Junior went off to be replaced by Lucas Cook, the PA 142 striker I''d spotted at the Exit Trials. He had improved to CA 35, but that was only an increase of 7 points since the last time I''d seen him. In that time, WibRob had improved by 12 or 13. Lucas needed first team minutes he was a long way from getting.


    Even worse was when Nelson Smith-Howes replaced Bark. Nelson was another Exit Trials rescue but with his PA 139 he should have been progressing much faster than he was. He''d crawled up to CA 31.


    Slightly annoyed, I jogged back as Nelson hit a shot at Ben. Ben parried and it was a race between me and Lucas to get to the rebound. At least, I wanted to preserve the illusion that it was a race because that would encourage Lucas to go hard for the ball. His eyes lit up as he realised he would get a shot away! His eyes widened further as he kicked fresh air and realised I had booped the ball all the way over him. I could feel my CA returning! I had to make sure this counted as a training match. "Llewellyn! What should I do?"


    "Stop doing kick ups and play," he called back.


    "I can''t!" I cried. "It''s happening on its own!" I chuckled as I sprang forward, bouncing the ball from left to right foot as I went. "The voices are telling me to nutmeg Sam Topps!"


    "No you don''t!" laughed Sam, who fell into a crouch.


    As I approached I reduced the height of the kick ups. I felt Lucas sprinting back to get me, so I did a big hip wiggle, made as if to push the ball through Sam''s legs, but instead passed it three yards sideways to Ryan. I sprinted diagonally to the right and took the return pass on my instep. "Jack the Lad! Get ready!"


    "Fuck," he said, backpedalling as I went hell-for-leather at him.


    When he finally realised he had to come at me, instead of tormenting him, I played a simple pass out to the left. Eddie passed it low into the box. Angel side-footed it past Trev in goal.


    "There we go!" I cried. "One-nil! That''ll do."


    "What do you mean one-nil?" said Jack the Lad. "It''s two-one."


    "Nil to one, that''s right. All right, seriously, thanks, guys. That was perfect."


    The participants gathered together and formed little groups. The group around Angel was slightly bigger than the one around me, not that I noticed such things. Sam came up behind me and slapped me on the back. "Proper Chester goal, that. Overlap, side-foot pass, side-foot goal. Old school."


    "Back to basics," I said. "Let It Happen. How are you getting on, here? Starting most games, I see."


    He got a bit of a haunted look. "It''s hard. Big step up in quality, this league."


    For the first time since he''d left, I had seen his player profile so I finally knew how much Tranmere were paying him. Double what he got with us. "Money''s good, though."


    The haunted look vanished. "Can''t complain."


    I slapped him on the back. "Top bins, mate. I''m made up for you."


    "Big man wants to see you."


    "Yeah."


    I went to Mateo and asked how long our chat would take. He said maybe twenty minutes. I said I''d have a quick shower first and told Ben and Ryan that they could hang out with their Tranmere counterparts if they wanted. Or they could wait in the car. They chose the former.


    ***


    Mateo took me into one of the meeting rooms and handed me a tea. "Just how you like it," he said.


    A suspicious start. He wanted something! "It looked like Ruth was busting your chops," I said.


    Mateo winced but it turned into a smile. "She was complaining her clients aren''t involved with the first team. She said she brought me three Max Blessed players and not one had got a single first-team minute. Maybe that''s why you''re slipping down the league table, Matty darling."


    "She''s right. They need to be training with the firsts. Getting on the bench. Getting five or ten minutes. It''s not rocket science."


    He got a flinty look in his eyes. "You''re not the manager of Tranmere Rovers," he said.


    "I know. That''s why you''re not in the Premier League."


    He shook his head. "Infuriating. But if the manager doesn''t think the players are ready - "


    "Then the manager gets the fucking sack," I said. "Tell him it''s his job to get them ready. For fuck''s sake."


    Mateo made a big show of controlling his annoyance, but then laughed. "Right. Onto the real business. Instead of paying me some or all of the hundred grand you owe me, you''ve bought a team in Wales. Can you explain that?"


    I shrugged. He was rich; he could wait a minute for his money. "I was chatting to the Welsh FA and they said it''d be a laugh if I took over a team and won the third division right away, won the second division immediately after, and then won the Welsh Premier at the first attempt."


    "They said that would be a laugh, did they?"


    "Can''t remember the exact words, but yeah. Said it would be top bantz."


    "Is this to do with getting into Europe?"


    I leaned back and considered him. "What makes you say that?"


    He laughed. "Come on, Max. You''re not the only person to think up this trick. Buy a team, buy some players, get UEFA prize money. Only problem is, it''s not as easy as it looks. There are club owners all across Europe who have tried and failed."


    "Football clubs lose money. Buying one to get rich is moronic."


    "You''re twenty-four and you''ve bought two already. Now, I keep an eye on you. You''ve had a tough season with Chester but I know the budget restraints you''re working with. If you can make the playoffs - impressive." He sipped a coffee. "You''ve had that Saltney Town since the turn of the year, right? How many matches have they played since you took over?"


    "Seven."


    "How many have you won?"


    "Seven."


    "Are you going to win the league?"


    "Easily. We''re already up to second."


    "How have you done that?"


    "Better players, better manager."


    "And how much did that cost?"


    "Nothing."


    "So you''ll spend nothing all the way to the top?"


    "No, I''ll need about eighty thousand to win the second division."


    "Eighty thousand a month?"


    "No, for the season."


    Mateo shook his head. "For the season. Okay, and you''ll win the Premier first time round?"


    "Maybe. Hard to say right now. We''ll come first or second I should think."


    "First place you''ll make a million from UEFA. Second place, what, half a mill?"


    "About a quarter mill for making the preliminary round of the Europa Conference. Win that you double it. Get to the league stage and it''s a guaranteed three and a half million." I laughed. "It''s mad. So you''ve thought about this before? Are you going to move Tranmere into the Welsh leagues?"


    He gave me a wry smile. "Pretty sure getting to the Championship would dwarf all that prize money. But I have thought about it, yes. A lot. Not with Tranmere. If I were you, I would buy a club with an immediate three-in-eleven chance of getting into Europe. Clue - not in Wales."


    He seemed to be waiting for me to put two and two together. He owned a club in England and he had strong ties to Spain. "Spain? What, you think I could buy a team in the third division, fly over a couple of times a year and make it compete against Barcelona?"


    "Could you?"


    I tutted and shook my head. "Of course I could. But doing it part-time would take fifteen years and I only know how to say ''play the players I sent you or you''re fired, you fucking worm'' in one language." Mateo replied with a stream of Spanish and smiled at me. I said, "Erm, soy Max. Vivo en Inglaterra. Tengo quince a?os."


    "I speak Spanish, Max. We could do it together. You find the players. I do all the talking."


    Together. What did he mean? I frowned. "How would that work? You can''t even get Jimmy Mustard to put Lucas Cook on the subs bench. That''s a ten-million-pound player you''re not developing. You should be on the phone to Mustard every day calling him a dog and a worm and every week that goes past without Lucas being fast-tracked you should summon Mustard to your office and on the wall is a big piece of paper with a game of Hangman and you make him choose a letter and he very quickly realises that it''s going to say ''You''re Fired'' and he has to delay the inevitable by saying all the other letters in the alphabet until he runs out or decides that he rates the kid after all."


    Mateo squeezed his eyes closed and when he opened them he had an almost blissful expression. "If we co-owned a football club, I would not only listen to your advice but would welcome it."


    Co-owned! Wow. That immediately solved over ninety percent of my objections. But not, sadly, the biggest one. "I can''t own another club. It''s too much legal hassle. When Saltney get into Europe they could play the other club. It''s not worth the headache. I can''t deal with it. I need a simple life."


    "Okay. In that case, I will own it and we''ll hire you as a consultant and, strangely, every year you will invoice us for exactly half of the club''s profits. Now before you say anything, let me say one word to you. It''s a word even more beautiful than the word Wales. It''s a word ranked even lower in the coefficients. It''s a word where English and Spanish live side-by-side. And Moroccans," he added, as an afterthought. "That word is... Gibraltar."


    I closed my eyes and rubbed my temple. "What."


    "Gibraltar is in UEFA. UEFA didn''t want it but there was a court case and Gibraltar won. Now three teams get into European club competitions. In 2021, the Lincoln Red Imps got to the group stage of the Conference League and made over three million Euro. Their yearly budget is four hundred thousand pounds, Max. That''s bottom of the National League money. Four hundred K well spent buys you three million. It''s a goldmine, same as Wales. We''re not the only people trying to do this; four clubs have been bought recently by people trying to do what we want to do. There are eleven teams in the league, no second tier, and they all play in the same stadium. We can sign British players and it''s easy to sign players who live in the south of Spain. There''s a big talent pool, and okay, lots of Brits go and don''t like living there long-term so we might need to refresh the squad every summer but that''s your special sauce, isn''t it? You''ve got a huge list of players who are better than what we''ve currently got. Loads would love a year in Gibraltar and to play in Europe."


    "Sorry, hang on. Have you already bought a team?"


    "No. But I will if you''ll come in with me. I''ll put up the cash, I''ll finance some signings, and we''ll do to Gibraltar what you''re doing to Wales."


    I finished my tea. The idea was appealing in some respects but was completely impractical. "There''s a danger of me getting spread too thin. I''m trying to keep my life simple for a while. As simple as poss, anyway." I thought what it would be like owning a team I couldn''t drive to. "I can''t fly over and deal with issues all the time. That''s the opposite of keeping things simple." Although... if there was ever a perk that would let me add the squad screens from selected other clubs... Saltney. A team in Gibraltar... "Where is it, anyway?"


    "Gibraltar? It''s the south coast of Spain. Don''t you know about the history? Never mind. You can look it up. But think about it - Emma will love it. Fly out twice a year, right? Make it a thing. I''ll rent you a yacht if you want." He leaned forward and poked me. "We''ll make so much money! And I''ll deal with the stress. I''m not going to bother you with trivial issues. Most of those are stadium-related and as I said, all the teams use the same stadium. Really, you just need to make sure we''ve got the best squad."


    I tapped my fingers on the table for a while. Mateo was a straight shooter and he had been incredibly generous to a strange young man who needed more help than he knew. "If my name''s not on any paperwork then I''m going to have to trust you to pay up when we start pulling in millions on the regular. And I do trust you, except when it comes to football. Managers run rings around you. You shouldn''t interfere in day-to-day stuff but you need to insist on some basics. Lucas Cook gets on the bench. You can tell Mustard he can do it this Tuesday or this Saturday but if the kid''s not kitted up in one of those two, you''re sacked. Do you get me? If you trust my judgement, trust me about those three players. Bark, Nelson, and Lucas are going to be miles better than what you''re putting out on the pitch. Okay, two of them play the same position so that''ll slow them down a bit but seriously, it''s not that hard to give young players five minutes here, ten minutes there."


    Now it was Mateo''s turn to drum his fingers. "You need to know the players you pick will get used, otherwise there''s no point to the whole plan. That''s fair. Right. I''ll talk to Jimmy. Tell him to give Lucas his debut by the end of the month. Then we''ll talk about Gibraltar. Yes?"


    "No. Too much too soon could be harmful, too. You and Mustard agree a plan. In Feb Lucas gets a few sessions with the first team. In March, more sessions and a couple of goes on the subs bench. April he makes his debut, gets another go in the very next match, then a break, and a third go in the last or second-last game of the season."


    "That doesn''t sound like much."


    "That''s what I''m saying. It''s a piece of piss but you have to insist on it and follow through. Ruth''s letting me live rent-free in her dad''s old house so I''m happy to keep an eye on her clients and tell you when to step things up. Okay but look, I''m not going to Gibraltar this summer. I''m going to Brazil. Hey! If Chester don''t get promoted, do you want the players I find? You''re not using your ESC slots. You should use them. It''s free money."


    "You want me to sign two Brazilians I''ve never seen?"


    "Yes." I drummed the table. "Actually, that might have to wait until we''ve overtaken you. There''s a risk of me giving you eleven Championship quality players and you blocking our path." I leaned back, musing. "On the other hand, there''s not much danger of you using them right. Or, tell you what, I could get you two more right midfielders. You can''t play them all at once, right?"


    "Tell me again about giving me a Championship-level team," he said with a twinkle before finishing his coffee.


    I got to thinking out loud. "I really love what you do for the local community. It''s aspirational. I feel good giving you multi-million pound players because you''ll put the money to good use. Maybe I''ll send you the Brazilians anyway."


    "If you get promoted we can have two each," he said. He was joking.


    "No, that''s a good idea. Why not? I''m probably going to find like a hundred amaze-ohs. You can have the ugliest two and I''ll charge you a finder''s fee. Hey, let me think this through. There''s loads of, like, synergy happening." I tried to slow down but my mind was racing. "I find you two Brazilian stars. You loan three Tranmere players to Saltney. That''ll save me a bit of scouting. You take another couple of good Exit Trials kids. We buy a team in Gibraltar. We send three loan players each. I reckon I''ve got three lads who wouldn''t mind soaking up the sun for six months, right? Especially if there''s the chance to play in Europe. To keep things from going stale we rotate them out and send a different three in Jan. Ah, but why was I talking about going in the summer? I need to go during the season, right? I need to see the standard. What day are the matches?"


    "Friday, Saturday, Sunday. They all share the same stadium, remember. You go for a long weekend you''ll see the entire league."


    "March 15th we''re at home to Wealdstone. The week after it''s Maidstone. If I''m going to miss a game, it''s one of those. Can you get away then?"


    He put his hands behind his neck. "I''m the owner, Max. I do what I want."


    "Great," I said. "Then you can let me use one of your pitches for an hour a week for the rest of the season."


    He closed his eyes as he lost that fleeting moment of bliss. I knew he wanted to ask why I thought this pitch was worth driving half an hour to get to. It made no sense to him, but he wanted me to go to Gibraltar so he swallowed the question. "Take ninety minutes if you want. Two hours." He shook his head. "Why does everything get so complicated with you?"


    ***


    I quickly told Ruth I''d gone to bat for the three young players, thanked the guys who''d played five-a-side, and hesitated about which car to go in. One boasted Ruth and Angel and that was a fairly compelling argument. But I decided to keep it simple and got in the same car I''d come in. Another half an hour with Ben and Eddie would probably work wonders.


    Sure enough, the chat flowed much more easily now that we''d trained and played a little match. We talked about Tranmere''s facilities and how our site plan would differ from theirs. We talked about Angel and the women''s team, about League Two, Sam Topps, Bark, and my mysterious meeting with Tranmere''s owner.


    Pretty much the only thing we didn''t discuss were the pops. Angel had gone green in dribbling, Eddie got a point in technique. Each outfield player added a point in CA. Ben didn''t get anything, which was not a huge surprise because we hadn''t done any keeper work but he seemed to enjoy himself and he was a lot more talkative on the way back. His Morale had maxed out. I thought of all kinds of reasons why but it was probably simple - he felt closer to the heart of the team.


    While we were nearing the King George, where three of us were parked, I mused on the coming fixtures. "Boreham Wood have good players but they''re shambolic. They''ll do 3-4-3 and we''ll find all kinds of holes. We beat them easily last time without Pascal and if we play our best we''ll dick them. You''ll both play in that for sure. Rochdale on Tuesday will be a real test. They''re the only team we haven''t played yet so I''ll probably name my most flexible eleven and rearrange to suit what they do. They normally do 4-4-2 but I haven''t watched much footage of them yet. Again, I''ll probably use you both. Next it''s Maidenhead and that''s one of our easiest games so I will think about using Sticky and Cole in that one. Then it''s Fylde and that''s a nuisance because they''re weak but not weak enough to really rotate. Which is a pain because next after that is Grimsby. I want to get four wins out of four before we play them so I can mess with their heads a bit in the media beforehand. Put some pressure on them, maybe. Unless Blundell Park turned into a swamp without me hearing about it, I reckon you''ll both start that one. So that''s probably four starts in the next five, but if I can rest you for Fylde I will so you''re fresh for Grims. Okay? Any questions?"


    Eddie said, "I''ve got one. Could you give us the starting elevens for the rest of the season, like, right now?"


    "Of course not," I said, but Eddie didn''t seem to believe me. "Okay, look, I could give it a good go, right. But it''d be like a weather forecast. After five days the accuracy goes way down, right? The next five matches, yeah, I can predict them. But there are injuries and bans and mad shit that happens. You''ve got to be flexible."


    "What formation are we going to use against Boreham Wood?"


    "I''m going to keep this one simple. My best starting eleven. 4-1-4-1. Bosh."


    Llewellyn said, "What about Chipper? He''s available again."


    "Yeah. I haven''t had time to think about him. Maybe I''ll put him on the bench. Maybe I won''t. Not sure. Hey, did you hear they''re trialling bodycams for the ref in some National League matches? That''d be wild footage. God, I hope our game gets chosen and I can finally find out who''s telling the truth about what he actually says to refs. He was like, ''I didn''t even swear'' and the ref told me ''the guy''s psychotic''. Yeah," I laughed. "If we get a ref with a bodycam that might be Chipper''s fastest route back to the team. Back in, I see the footage, straight back out." I shook my head at the absurdity of the thought, then got back to my daydreaming. "I''ll start with Aff left, Pascal right. Ryan first half? That''s the only selection dilemma, really. I''d like to use Ryan for a half in the next four games so he can build fitness for Grims. If Andrew does the first half and Ryan the second, that''ll slap pretty hard when I come on at the end. I might put Wibbers on the bench, too, so we can switch to 4-2-3-1 and really carve them open. Lads? You keep a clean sheet and that''s a solid three points for the team. For the club. Sound good?"


    "Yes, boss."


    ***


    Saturday, February 22


    Boreham Wood 0 Chester 3 - Simply the Best!


    Chester climbed two places to sixth after a comfortable win on Boreham Wood''s superb 4G pitch.


    The Seals (4-1-4-1) needed just eight minutes to take the lead through a clinical finish from Pascal Bochum. The tiny Teutonic tearaway terrorised The Wood (3-4-3) with his pace and movement on Chester''s right, but there was equal threat on the left, where Eddie Moore and Diarmuid Dubhlainn found acres of space with alarming regularity. The Wood''s defensive shape had improved in recent weeks but Chester''s fast passing and non-stop movement pulled their opponents all over Hertfordshire.


    The Wood''s best chance to equalise came immediately after half time when Dougray Morris slid in on the end of a vicious cross, but Ben Cavanagh saved bravely. The goalkeeper was shaken but adjudged to be okay to continue, and in truth he was little tested for the remainder of the match.


    Former Everton player Ryan Jack arrived at the start of the second half and struggled in the heart of midfield until Chester''s player-manager Max Best brought himself on. He joined Jack in the centre and together they tormented The Wood. They played short passes to each other until pressed, and when pressed they would simply ping the ball over the top. After one such exchange, Bochum and Dubhlainn linked and put the ball on a plate for French striker Henri Lyons to score the second, while near the end, a similar move ended with Eddie Moore getting to the byline and squaring for Best to score a simple tap-in.


    Wood manager Jack Bridge was full of praise for his opponents. "They do simple things well and make hard things look simple. They''re the best footballing team we''ve played this season. My lads have been given a lesson in how to play the game, to be fair. That said, the ref was bloody awful."


    Elsewhere in the National League, Grimsby Town could only manage a draw, while Barnet snuck two points closer by taking all three points against doomed Dorking. Barnet moved to within five points of the league leaders, having played a game more. We could be in for a barnstorming two-horse race for the rest of the season and the loser will not be enamoured by the thought of having to play Chester in the playoff final.

 10.7 - Bodycam

    7.


    Sunday, February 23


    The latest blog post from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.


    Solid Sealettes Sink Sorry Superwhites


    Author: D.Cox


    Chester Women overpowered Tranmere Rovers at the Cae Y Castell stadium today. With Jackie Reaper still sidelined with definitely-not-Covid, Max Best again took the helm and after last week''s frantic 8-0 win against Fleetwood there was the expectation of more whirlwind, front-foot football. Tranmere''s manager certainly seemed to expect something of the sort, since she started with an ambitious 4-2-4 formation, clearly hoping to catch Chester on the break.


    Best had other ideas, and played a simple 4-4-2 with neither full-back pushing forward. This, along with another immense performance from my player of the season so far, Femi, nullified Tranmere''s hopes for a fast start and allowed our midfield to take control. Charlotte and Pippa bossed the centre, while Dani and Maddy roamed the wings. Unlike last week, they had licence to attack Tranmere''s full backs. If Best saw that as an area of opportunity, he was right. The first goal came from Dani skinning the right back and setting Angel up for an easy finish, and the second was similar but from the right.


    [Image alt text: Max Best posing for selfies with two young girls at the side of the pitch.]


    This was Best''s half-time team talk. No, seriously. He didn''t even bother going into the changing rooms. Instead, he spent the fifteen minutes signing autographs, posing for photos, and chatting with anyone and everyone. He even stopped to talk to me. I asked why he wasn''t inside. He replied that "Elin is doing half time and she''s dead nervous and it''s good practice for her." "Does she work for us?" "No." "Then why are we letting her give the half time team talks? Why are we boosting her career?" His reply? An exhausted slump, the word "mate", and him bypassing the next twenty yards of fans before talking to the next person.


    [Image alt text: Angel scores]


    Angel left no crumbs. Early in the second half, she slotted home from a tight angle (shot value: 0.03 xxG) to complete her hat trick, at which point Best used his subs and showed off his repertoire of formations. 4-4-2 diamond, 3-5-2, 4-3-3, and with fifteen minutes to go, a defensive 4-5-1. That, perhaps, was because he brought on Queenie, our 17-year-old goalkeeping prospect, and Lucy, the 43-year-old veteran. There can''t have been many subs made involving such an age difference!


    Chester''s tactical flexibility is perhaps best summed up by the huge increase in their PPDA stats (8 to 16) in the final quarter of an hour. For those unaware of this useful stat, it means we stopped pressing high up the pitch and allowed Tranmere to have the ball.


    Final Stats Chester-Tranmere


    Goals: 3-0


    xxG: 1.86-0.15


    Most On Ball Value Added: Dani Smith-Smithe


    All in all, a very serious and professional performance from a team that never had to get out of first gear. Three goals, three points, and we''re one step closer to wrapping up the title.


    Of course, it wouldn''t be a Chester match without a side-dish of off-the-pitch intrigue. Check out this photo.


    [Image alt text: A suntanned older man sits next to a beautiful blonde who sits next to a beautiful blonde. All three are laughing.]


    That''s Mateo, the owner of Tranmere Rovers, watching his team get crushed. Why is he laughing? Perhaps it''s because he''s got Max Best''s girlfriend next to him. The taller woman is Brooke Star, whose job title was updated on the club website recently, from ''Head of Number Go Up'' to ''Head of Strategy, Troubleshooting, Advertising, and Relationships''.


    It''s totally normal for Emma and Brooke to be watching Chester, and of course totally normal for Mateo to watch his team. But their cosy relationship does raise some interesting questions.


    Questions I will not be putting to Max Best because I have annoyed him enough for one week.


    Is this sus? You decide!


    Join us on Tuesday night for our liveblog of the Rochdale match!


    <blockquote>


    Comments: Three


    Count Swagula: David, I have a question about your stats. I''ve heard of Passes Per Defensive Action (PPDA) but as far as I''m aware such data isn''t available for National League matches. What is your source? Also, I''ve heard of xG but I''ve never heard of xxG. Can you clarify?


    Coxy: xxG stands for Expected Expected Goals. It''s what my model would expect the xG data to say if the stats were in the public domain.


    Count Swagula: So you''re making it up.


    </blockquote>


    Comments on this article are now closed.


    ***


    Monday, February 24


    Closed captions from a video posted on Chester''s socials.


    Wonder Wingers Aff and Wes Take On the Boost the Build Challenge!


    [On the left of the screen, Henri Lyons is on a stool. He''s holding a clipboard. To the right, Aff and Wes are on stools side by side, facing Henri but angled towards the camera. Everyone is in full Chester kit.]


    Henri: Hello, I''m Henri Lyons, striker, and I''m here with Aff and Wes, not strikers. We''re promoting the Boost the Build campaign with a quiz. I''ve got a stack of questions here that I haven''t seen yet but were written by Max himself, so I''m sure they are... [he sighs]. Okay, question one. This is for Aff. How many season tickets do we need to sell by the end of February?


    Aff: Oh, start with an easy one, why doncha? Let me see. Last I heard we''d done about half so two fifty. Two hundred and fifty.


    Henri: I simply need the total.


    Aff: Five hundred.


    Henri: Correct. We need to sell five hundred season tickets. Wes. Your first question. What will the income finance?


    Wes: A pitch! Like, an all-weather pitch. The first part of the new campus.


    Henri: I will give you the point but I urge you to remember Max doesn''t like the word campus. That could be a bonus question! Why doesn''t Max want us to use the word campus?


    Aff: Aff.


    Henri: Pardon me?


    Aff: I''m saying my name like it''s a buzzer.


    Wes: Because we''re not a school.


    Henri: Correct.


    Aff: Hey! I was first.


    Wes: You snooze, you lose.


    Aff: Referee!


    Henri: [touching his ear.] I''m being told Wes said the answer fastest.


    Aff: That''s a travesty.


    Henri: Aff, question two. Are the season tickets available now at this year''s low low price even though we are, quote, nailed on to get promoted so if you buy now you save money?


    Aff: Yes.


    Henri: Correct. Wes, your second question. [Henri reads what''s on the card and sighs heavily.] Question two. A French weirdo once wrote a whole book that didn''t have the letter E, true or false? What has this to do with the new training ground? [Henri throws the card away.] Insufferable. Okay, here''s a suitable one. Which product does the following description refer to? Crunchy biscuit surrounded by soft cocoa, wrapped in chewy caramel and covered in a generous layer of Cadbury''s milk chocolate.


    Wes: Double Decker? No, Star Bar!


    Henri: Aff, chance to steal.


    Aff: Boost!


    Henri: Correct.


    Wes: Oh, my God. Boost the Build. I should know how Max''s mind works by now.


    Henri: Aff, your last question. Our new all-weather pitch will have the exact same dimensions as the redeveloped Deva stadium, true or false?


    Aff: The Deva pitch will get bigger?


    Henri: No, slightly smaller, in fact. UEFA and the Premier League would like to standardise pitches at 105 by 68 metres. The Deva is 112 by 71.


    Aff: So we''re getting training pitches that are the same size as what the Deva will be... one day?


    Henri: That''s right.


    Aff: Wow. That''s deadly.


    Wes: Have you got those numbers written down? [Henri shows the card he''s holding. Wes leans forward to check it.] I think you should get a point for knowing all that.


    Henri: I accept. A new player has entered the game! Wes, it''s your last question. What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow? Urgh. No. I refuse. [Henri throws up the remaining question cards and leaves.]


    Aff [to camera]: Boost the Build, Chester fans!


    Wes: We need your support!


    Aff: Links in the description.


    Wes: See you at the grand opening!


    [They wait, then pretend to relax.]


    Aff: Did you know the answer?


    Wes: It depends if it''s an African or European swallow.


    Aff: Right, yeah. Course. Be grand having our own space, wouldn''t it?


    Wes: I can''t wait.


    ***


    Tuesday, February 25


    From an Instagram account with even fewer followers than News of the Blues. Geotagged as ''The Deli'', Didsbury, Manchester, England.


    Aimee: Oh, my God Becky is that who I think it is?


    [The camera shows Max Best at a restaurant table.]


    Becky: Shit, yes!


    Aimee: I''m going over there.


    Becky: No, don''t! I''ll die of cringe.


    Aimee: You coming or what? [Aimee rushes across the restaurant, swings the camera to face Max... and keeps swinging.] Sorry, but you are Sandra Lane?


    Sandra: Yes.


    [The shot is one hundred percent Sandra, zero percent Max.]


    Aimee: We''re such big fans! Oh, my God, I can''t believe you''re here.


    Becky: We read all about you in Lionised magazine! You''re so amazing! Can I get a selfie?


    Sandra: Course you can, love.


    Aimee: What''s it like managing all those men? Do they give you shit?


    Sandra: They''re fine as long as we win! [She does a big laugh.] No, really, I get great support from -


    Aimee: When are you going to move to a bigger club?


    Max, off-screen: Oi.


    Sandra: What team do you support?


    Aimee: City!


    Max: Boo.


    Becky: What''s all this? [The camera pans down to formation graphics.] Are you doing match plans in The Deli?


    Sandra: We are. We''re playing Rochdale tonight and we''re both from Manchester so we thought we''d hang -


    Becky: What''s the plan? Can you tell us?


    [Sandra looks across the table with a questioning face. The camera pans to Max but Sandra starts talking so it goes right back. Sandra holds up one of the sheets.]


    Sandra: Rochdale do 4-4-2 most of the time but we haven''t played them this season so we''re not completely sure how they''ll approach us. This is a rescheduled game, one of our games in hand. It''s away, and normally you''re a bit more defensive away. We''ve got a reputation of doing the opposite of what you''d expect so we''re going to go... defensive! We''ll match their 4-4-2 to start and kind of shush their fans. It''s a bit less progressive than we''d like but then we''ll switch the central midfielders out for more creative ones and blitz them at the end with a 4-2-3-1 or a counter-punching 4-1-4-1. We''re calling it the reverse mullet: business at the back, party at the front.


    Aimee: Oh, my God you''re so amazing.


    Becky: So amazing.


    Max: Ask her about Glendale.


    Aimee: You what?


    Becky: What''s Glendale?


    Sandra: [Glares at Max, but quickly cracks a smile.] It''s just this company I heard about that offers superior logistics solutions.


    Aimee: What does that mean?


    Sandra: [Fighting to keep from laughing.] It''s like, if you want someone to tell you why playing 2-6-2 against Grimsby might not work, I''m your woman. If you want a leading credit card or personal loan you call BoshCard. But if you want a superior logistics solution, you call Glendale. Or visit their informative website.


    Becky: Right...


    Sandra: Hey, if you can get to Rochdale tonight, we can get you free tickets. Right?


    Max: Totes. In the Sandy Lane stand.


    Aimee: Oh, my God you''re so amazing.


    Becky: So amazing.


    ***


    BluesNewsSocials: Just found out by chance that tonight''s match against Rochdale has been selected as part of the National League''s trial of referee bodycams! These have made a difference in player behaviour at grassroots levels and I personally am delighted to see the trial extended. It is not known how much footage will be released to the general public or when. Probably never, if anyone involved remembers the infamous Tony Adams versus David Elleray clash when Arsenal played Millwall! Arsenal forgot to tell their players the ref was miced up and it got spicy! Strange that Chester FC didn''t mention it. Hope they remembered to tell our players, lol!


    ***


    Match 32 of 46: Rochdale vs Chester


    Footage taken from the referee''s bodycam.


    One Hour Before Kick Off


    [The referee''s room at the Spotland stadium. The ref and his assistants are kitted up and are relaxing with a pre-match cup of tea. There''s a knock at the door.]


    Max: Wassup? Hold up! It''s Luke Wilks, referee to the stars!


    Luke: Do you say that to everyone?


    Max: I have no idea. I''ve set my brain to delete non-essential info after twelve seconds.


    Assistant 1: What counts as essential?


    Max: Grudges. Girlfriend''s birthday. Armour value of a dwarf. I''ve got my team sheet. It''s a fucking masterpiece. You''re going to love it.


    Luke: Thanks. [He reads the sheet.] Looks pretty normal.


    Max: Nah, that''s mint, that. That''s basically genius.


    Assistant 1: Let me see. [Max walks around picking things up and putting them down in a slightly different position. The assistant is unimpressed.] It looks like a basic 4-4-2 to me.


    Max: Hey, you''re switched on! Have you done any coaching badges?


    Assistant 1: No.


    Max: If you do, hit me up. Okay, check this out. Where''s your tactics board?


    Luke: We don''t have one. We''re referees.


    Max: Ugh. Fine. The key men are here. Magnus Evergreen. [Max looks up at the ceiling.]


    Luke: What?


    Max: I really thought there would be trumpets and someone singing ''Hallelujah''. Weird. Okay, him, plus Chipper.


    Luke: We were wondering if you''d put him back in.


    Max: Yeah, when I got the email about the thingy. The bodycam wotsit. Where is it, by the way?


    Luke: I think at this point it''s only fair that I tell you -


    Max: Here''s the genius bit. Chipper''s going to give you shit, or not. You''re going to let me see the incident. I''m going to make my own mind up about whether he''s, er, psychotic. If he is, my bro TJ is going to get an earful from Maxy boy.


    Assistant 1: What''s Magnus got to do with it?


    Max: Ah! I like you. You''re like a terrier. Rrr! You''re my favourite. No offence, you two. Okay so here''s my plan. Hang on, should I tell you? No, I definitely shouldn''t. So here''s my plan. Chipper''s going to start and he''s going to get progressively angrier through the ninety. I think that''s how it goes, anyway. I''m a bit lost with this prick. He''s so good but he''s just... I spent four days getting the phone number of the manager that got the best out of him. Scottish guy, said he''d be happy to talk to me. He lives in Glasgy, but I''ve been on Google Maps and I can''t find it. I''m a bit embarrassed to call the guy back and say sorry can you give me your postcode.


    Luke: Glasgow.


    Max: No, he said Glasgy.


    Luke: That''s Glasgow in a Scottish accent.


    Max: [Bleep!] Are you [bleeping] with me, now? Actually, now that I think about it, Glasgow makes a lot of sense. Huh. But that''s such a long drive and I decided I would give myself a month to see if I can work it out on my own. You''ll see stage one of my plan tonight. Where was I?


    Assistant 1: Magnus Evergreen.


    Max: Yeah. Let''s just say that by naming him in the team I can switch to almost any formation with just one sub.


    Luke: Are you going to play?


    Max: Yeah. Rochdale is basically home. I feel like I owe it to the good people of Greater Manchester to show them that football isn''t all about stodgy, defensive 4-4-2.


    Assistant 1: And you''ll do that by setting your team up in a stodgy, defensive 4-4-2?


    Max: Seriously, have you ever thought about doing badges?


    Luke: Please stop paying compliments to my team. Tough match for you, this.


    Max: Who? Rochdale? Their senior midfielder''s done his knee coz he never got a rest this season, their most important defender''s suspended for picking up five yellows, and two of their guys are carrying injuries. It''s not even a challenge. Oh, what''s this? [He bends down and comes back up with a large, soft-shelled suitcase.]


    Luke: That''s my kit bag. Please don''t do that.


    Max: This brand. Grindhog. What do you think of it?


    Luke: It''s cool, isn''t it? That bag was eighty pounds. Nike has one that''s a hundred and forty that''s good but it''s a bit general. This one''s pretty much tailor-made for the referee market.


    Max: There''s a referee market?


    Luke: Yeah, look. [He taps the bag.] Sort of your normal airport suitcase, right? But with these front compartments I can pack things and know where I''m looking. Hydra tabs, phone charger, the essentials are in here. The wheels roll on any surface. Straps are soft but sturdy and there''s one on top, one on the side.


    Max: For staircases.


    Luke: Right. [He unzips the case.] Here in the main compartment I''ve got my buzzer flags and my main kit. In the mesh area I''ve got things I don''t want to get wet and mucky. My warm up kit, my crime sheet.


    Max: [Laughs.] Your what?


    Luke: My crime sheet. That''s where I write what you did wrong.


    Max: Tsch. I''ve got some Post-It notes somewhere. That''s a more suitable size to list what I get wrong.


    Luke: [Zips the case back up.] It''s big enough so I can bring spare boots, spare kit. I get to the stadium, I''m organised. I''m ready to work.


    Max: It sounds like someone put some thought into this.


    Luke: Well, the founder''s a former player. Played for your team, didn''t he?


    Max: The founder of Grindhog played for Chester?


    Luke: No, Tranmere.


    Max: Oh.


    Luke: Were you looking to disrupt the sportswear market? He''s beaten you to it.


    Max: Good for him. All right, thanks for that. That was really useful. [Max exits. He re-enters.] You know you can''t be offside from your own half, right? Yeah? Okay, have a good game, lads.


    [Max leaves.]


    Assistant 2: Bloody hell. We should get a urine test to see what he''s on.


    Luke: Don''t be fooled. That guy sees everything. Make sure you''re switched on tonight.


    Assistant 1: He didn''t spot the bodycam. I said it was too subtle. The ones in the grassroots trials were massive.


    Luke: They all know we''re wearing them. It''s not a secret, is it?


    ***


    On the Pitch, One Minute Before Kick Off


    [The players have formed two lines and Chester are moving along, shaking hands with the Rochdale team. Chester''s eleven looks as expected. There''s no Glenn Ryder. Chipper is making his first start since his red card.]


    [The players disperse and take up their positions. The ref walks to the centre.]


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Luke: Good to go? [We can''t hear the replies from the assistants.] Game on, lads. [He blows on his Fox 40 Classic and Chipper passes to Henri, who touches it back to James Wise. The pitch is much better than Chester''s, but clearly took some damage over the winter.]


    Three Minutes In


    [A Chester player is running through on goal, chased by some worried defenders. Two have a hand up. The referee glances at his assistant, whose flag is held above his head.]


    [Peep!]


    The Rochdale players stop.


    Chipper: [Kicking the ball at goal, then turning to reveal a face of thunder.] What''s that for?


    Luke: You were offside.


    Chipper: I [bleeping] wasn''t! That''s a bloody lie.


    Luke: Don''t kick the ball away.


    Chipper: I''ll [bleeping] kick the ball anywhere I want because I wasn''t offside and you know it.


    Luke: Could you just -


    Chipper: Get stuffed, you. Offside, my back side. You¡¯re as useful as a pair of sunglasses on a man with one ear.


    Henri: Come now, Chip. It was a good run. We''ll do that again.


    Four Minutes


    [Henri goes up for a header. He knocks it square to Chipper, who uses his strength to hold off a defender. Their tussle gets more and more aggressive until they both topple to the turf.]


    Both players get up and scream at each other and the approaching referee.


    Chipper: The [bleep]! The [bleeping] bastard [bleeping] suplexed me!


    Defender: [Bleep] you, you [bleep]! [Bleep] elbowed me! Nearly broke my rib!


    [He lifts his shirt and points to a spot that appears undamaged.]


    Chipper: Going topless, are we? Comparing war wounds? See here! [Chipper raises his shirt.] See that scar? Got that on the USS Indianapolis. [He lets his top fall as he realises the others aren¡¯t paying attention.] What? Where are you off to? Where''s the yellow card, ref? [Bleeping] book him!


    Luke: It''s a foul. Free kick. The end. Come on, let''s get on with it.


    Chipper: That''s a [bleeping] joke, that. That''s a joke. You''re a joke. Absolutely [bleeping] useless, you.


    Henri: Come away.


    Five Minutes


    [Rochdale attack down the middle. Christian Fierce slides in with a huge tackle. The ref has to jump to avoid touching the ball. He turns, but a Rochdale midfielder has played the ball first time into the space Fierce vacated. Rochdale''s second striker latches onto it and takes it towards Chester''s goal. Zach Green slides in to block but the striker cuts back onto his left foot and scuffs a shot past Ben. Rochdale''s players run to the closest home fans and celebrate.]


    [Luke brings the whistle to his mouth but hesitates. He jogs towards the assistant.]


    Luke: That wasn''t offside, was it?


    Assistant 2: No, Luke. Good goal.


    [Luke blows and points to the centre circle. Rochdale celebrate a second time.]


    Seven Minutes


    [The ball is with Eddie Moore on the left. He plays it forward to Aff, who is tackled from behind. Aff crumples. The ref whistles and sprints to the scene but is outpaced by a Welshman. Chipper pushes Rochdale''s right back.]


    Chipper: You snide [bleep]!


    Right back: What''s it got to do with you?


    Henri: Ref, that''s a clear yellow card. Orange, even.


    Centre back: Pipe down, froggy.


    Right back: Yeah. Fuck off back to France.


    Chipper: [So angry he takes on an aura of extreme calm. Only the eyes speak the truth.] You''ll pay for that, English.


    Luke: Ready to play, guys.


    Christian Fierce: Chipper, that''s enough. You heard the boss. Get in, three points, get out.


    Chipper: The boss. Right. [Scoffs.] Three points for our title challenge.


    Fierce: Aff, you good?


    Aff: Yeah. Need a sec.


    Nine Minutes


    [The ball''s played from Magnus to Pascal. The German feints to return the pass but lets the ball run a fraction more then pushes it down the line. He sprints and the panicked left back feels he has no choice but to wrestle his much faster opponent to the ground. Pascal slaps the turf in frustration. The incident takes place in front of the Chester dugout. Vimsy and Sandra are up in arms. The camera jiggles towards Max - he''s leaning back, hoodie pulled down.]


    [Peep!]


    [The ref arrives on the scene and we see a flash of yellow as he takes a card out of his pocket. Rochdale''s defender looks up at it.]


    Defender: [Holding up a finger.] That was my first one!


    Vimsy: Ref! That''s red! This isn''t Wrestlemania!


    Chipper: Oh, thank [bleep]! The ref''s found his cards. [Bleeping] amazing! You should do magic tricks. Kid¡¯s birthdays. Hospitals. Who¡¯s the bastard in the black, is that my doctor? No, son, that¡¯s your birthday present. We¡¯ve hired a clown.


    Luke: Cut that out. I''m not having that.


    Chipper: I don''t give a flying [bleep] what you think you''re having. You''re [bleep], you''ve never played the game, and you''re out of your depth. You couldn''t referee a game of Snap.


    Henri: Chiiip.


    Luke: I''m warning you -


    Chipper: I''m warning you. You let one more snide foul go and it''s going to kick off and it''s going to be your fault. [We see the flash of yellow again. Chipper looks up in disbelief. The ref produces a little notebook and we see him write two names and numbers inside.] What''s that for? Are you stupid? What the hell do you -


    [Chipper stops, mid-stream, and stares gobsmacked at the touchline. Wes Hayward is there, stretching his hamstrings, ready to come on. The assistant referee is pushing buttons on the signal board. Chipper has a dazed look as he wanders towards Wes. Wes holds his hands up for a high ten, doesn''t get one, and runs on. Chipper heads straight down the tunnel.]


    Luke: Thank [bleep] for that.


    Ten Minutes


    [A Rochdale player is getting a potential injury checked by their physio. Some players are taking the opportunity to take a drink.]


    Luke: [Softly-spoken] Hayward.


    Wes: Yes, ref?


    Luke: I thought you were a winger.


    Wes: Yeah, that''s right.


    Luke: There''s three wingers, now, but none of you are playing out wide. What''s going on?


    Wes: 4-2-3-1, ref.


    Luke: Oh! So simple. Thanks. Hey, what''s with that Welsh lad? Needs some anger management?


    Wes: Don''t know him that well, to be honest. He''s all right, you know, around training and that. Flips a switch when he crosses that white line.


    Luke: I don''t understand why he went so hard at me knowing the cameras are on.


    Wes: Cameras?


    Fifteen Minutes


    [There''s another injury delay.]


    Luke: Hayward.


    Wes: Yes, ref?


    Luke: This isn''t 4-2-3-1.


    Wes: No, we switched.


    Luke: When?


    Wes: We''re doing 4-4-2 again but Pascal''s a CAM. Sort of 4-4-1-1.


    Luke: I see. Desperate, is he? Scrabbling around?


    Wes: Who?


    Luke: Superbrat.


    Wes: Ha! Not heard that one. You ask me, Rochdale are making a mistake. They need to push on and get another goal because we''re in energy saving mode now.


    Luke: Oh, is that what you call it?


    Wes: Trust the process, ref. [Wes wanders off to get a drink.]


    Twenty-Nine Minutes


    [Chester have a corner. Aff whips it in. It looks like Christian Fierce heads the ball over. The Chester players jog back to their positions except for Zach, who is rubbing his head. A Rochdale player is prone. The goalie signals frantically.]


    Luke: Physio, please. Fast as you like.


    [The physio runs on to check the stricken player. The ref goes to the area and watches.]


    Physio: Bit of a blow to the head. I''ll do a concussion protocol.


    Defender: No you [bleeping] won''t! I''m fine! Nothing wrong with me.


    Luke: I''m gonna get a drink.


    [The ref goes to the space between the dugouts and picks up a plastic bottle. He turns to see Max Best is off his arse for the first time. His hood''s pulled down and he''s scowling at Rochdale''s physio. Nearby, Chester''s physio is trying to hold Zach''s head but the American isn''t keen.]


    Max: Stay the [bleep] still for [bleep] sake! [Zach obeys. Max takes a couple of strides closer and peers at Zach.] Dean, can you do something about this nose? It''s off centre, isn''t it?


    Dean: It''s not my area of expertise, Max.


    Max: Zach, let''s circulate the ball for the rest of the half. Horseshoe. As boring as you can stand, yeah? Make them shuffle and slide. Don''t worry about your running stats or the expected threat.


    Zach: Sterile possession?


    Max: Yes, please. Either these guys aren''t fit or the lack of rotation is really getting to them. Wear them out.


    Zach: Got it. Do you really think my nose is off-centre?


    Max: Could be that your eyes are wonky. Oh, hey! Hey! Ref!


    Luke: Yes, Best?


    Max: Please do not tell me you''re going to let that guy keep playing?


    Luke: Looks like their physio''s cleared him.


    [Max goes towards the home dugout. There''s lots of finger pointing.]


    Max: Oi! That guy''s got concussion!


    Rochdale''s manager: Get [bleeped]. He''s fine. What do you know? You just want him off.


    Max: Oh, this crap again. [Bleep] me, he''s not Paolo Maldini, is he? The [bleep] difference does it make to how you''re gonna play? His brain''s had a trauma, you prick. I hope you''ve got liability insurance. [He jabs at the manager, the returning physio, and the ref in turn.] You''re a disgrace, shame on you, shame on you.


    Luke: Me?


    Max: The guy''s brain''s taken a fucking smack and you''re gonna let him run around until he [bleeping] collapses? That''s on you. That''s on you. [He jabs at the physio again.] I''m gonna get you struck off. You''re pathetic.


    Vimsy: That''s enough, boss. Come away.


    [Vimsy coaxes Max away from the enemy. Max kicks a bottle and seethes.]


    Max: Let''s fuck them up.


    Sandra: Let''s stick to the plan.


    Max: [Tuts.] Sandraaaa.


    Sandra: You''re never going to get featured in Lionised magazine if you lose your cool like that.


    Max: [Laughs.] Okay. [He pulls his hood back up.] Dean, will you keep an eye on that 5, please?


    Dean: Yes, Max.


    Half Time. The Referee''s Room.


    Luke: That was a tough half. Bloody hell. Not quite Czech Republic versus Turkey but...


    Assistant 1: What was the argument?


    Luke: [Laughs.] Which one?


    Assistant 1: Between the managers.


    Luke: Best got it into his head that there was a concussion. Had a hissy fit.


    Assistant 1: Oh. After that corner?


    Luke: Yes. Why do you ask?


    Assistant 1: When the guy got up he had a bit of a wobble. I was surprised he continued.


    [Knock on door. It opens. Rochdale''s assistant manager pokes his head in.]


    Man: Hi. Quick thing. We''re subbing off 5 and bringing on 19. Thanks.


    [Closes the door behind him.]


    [The door opens.]


    Max: Knock knock!


    Luke: You can''t come in here. Off limits at half time.


    Max: Yeah yeah yeah. I need to see the yellow card incident.


    Luke: I can''t now, can I?


    Max: Why not?


    Luke: It''s...


    Max: You don''t know how to do playback, do you?


    Luke: I do, but... I don''t think you get the footage for a while. I''m not sure you get it at all. It''s up to the National League.


    Max: Look, I only need the first nine minutes and I swear on my mum''s life I won''t distribute it or make you look bad or whatever. I just need to know what the guy was saying. Okay? I''m trying to get better behaviour from my players which is the whole point of this thing.


    Luke: Is that why you subbed him off? Because he got a yellow?


    Max: Yellow for dissent, yeah. Our season''s in a lull so why not do some experiments? Sort of an inverse Pavlov thing. Ring the bell, I take your food away. [He laughs.] I promised my boss I''d at least try to get through to the guy and if I''ve got those scenes he can''t lie about what he said. Maybe there''s a redemption arc possible.


    Luke: I don''t know how to do it. I press record and don''t touch it until we''re done. It''s dead fiddly.


    Assistant 1: I can help.


    Luke: No, I''ll work it out.


    Max: Top top top. So, leave it running like you said and I''ll come back at full time.


    [He closes the door behind him.]


    Luke: [Big sigh. He slides his case out and opens zips.] Where''s the manual?


    Assistant 1: I thought this was hyper-organised?


    Luke: Oh, do shut up.


    Seventy Minutes


    [There are subs waiting on the touchline. Luke watches as James Wise and Aff depart, to be replaced by Ryan Jack and Max.]


    Seventy-One Minutes


    [Zach plays a pass through Rochdale''s strikers to Magnus. He touches it first time to Ryan. Ryan sweeps it on to Max, who is in an advanced position. Max chips over the defence. Sharky races after it. He blasts the ball well wide.]


    [Rochdale''s goalkeeper walks to the other side of his goal to get a drink. The ref approaches him.]


    Luke: None of that! Hurry it up.


    [The ref''s move has brought him within earshot of Max. He''s talking to Wes Hayward.]


    Max: It wasn''t the worst shot of the season but it was top ten. Youngster''s got the top three nailed down.


    Wes: [Laughing.] If you''re comparing my shooting to Youngster, I know I''ve [bleeped] up. [He looks up.] Sorry, boss.


    Max: Don''t worry about it. Next time, if you could maybe pass to the unmarked guy who''s got an open goal, that would be tremendously helpful.


    Wes: I know. I just want to get that equaliser.


    Max: Sometimes when I want to win a match I think, gosh, what was the thing I practised a million times in training? And I do that.


    Wes: [Laughing.] I know. Okay. Got it.


    Max: The goals will come. They''re already blowing and we''ve not even turned on the pressure yet. Hey, ref. Ref! Have you ever been to Gibraltar?


    Luke: No.


    Max: I could have flown to Gibraltar and back by the time this goal kick was taken.


    [Peep peep peep].


    Luke: Hurry up!


    Seventy-Three Minutes


    [Max has dropped to the centre of midfield and is exchanging short passes with Ryan Jack. No Rochdale player is keen to stop them.]


    Max: Boo! Boo, Rochdale, boo. [He laughs.] Hello? Anybody home? [He laughs some more.] Fine. [He pushes the ball forward, accelerates, slaloms between two midfielders, plays a one-two with Pascal, shapes to shoot, instead slips the ball through a defender''s legs. Henri takes a right-footed touch and scores with his left. Most Chester players wheel away to celebrate. Max ambles towards the dugout. He says something to the Rochdale bench that causes a ruckus.]


    Luke: [Running.] Hey! Hey! Relax. Cut it out!


    Max [poking out from behind Vimsy]: Yeah, cut it out you lot.


    Luke: What did you say to them?


    Max: I asked if they''d be willing to answer a short questionnaire about whether their current tactics were meeting their needs and they went nuts! I promised it would take no more than a minute. There''s no pleasing some people.


    Luke: Can you stop instigating things, please?


    Max: Me? [Loudly] Sandra I think we should do 4-5-1 men behind ball and hold on for a point. What do you think?


    Luke: Don''t talk to them again. Okay? Talk to them again I''ll book you.


    Max: Can I do gestures?


    Luke: [Deep sigh.]


    Seventy-Five Minutes


    [Chester have a throw-in on the right. Max is being man-marked. Max is man-marking the referee.]


    Max: Ref! This guy''s following me!


    Luke: He''s allowed.


    Max: I saw him in the toilet and he didn''t wash his hands.


    Marker: [Bleep] you.


    Max: Can you make him go and wash his hands before he pulls my shirt again?


    Luke: No. [The ref jogs backwards to be closer to the ball.]


    Max: Wrong way, ref! It''s coming to me.


    [The ref turns around and jogs towards Chester''s defenders. Christian Fierce plays a simple pass with customary care. Zach clips the ball first-time into a huge pocket of space on the left, midway through Rochdale''s half. Max is zooming after it and his first touch takes it another ten yards forward.]


    Luke: Shit!


    [Best glances across the pitch as he sprints.]


    Max: Henri! One-two!


    [Max goes to pass - the ref turns to follow the ball - the ref realises he''s been faked and when he looks back, Best is rolling around on the grass.]


    Luke: Shitting shit!


    [He looks left. The assistant on that side is waving his flag urgently.]


    [Peep!]


    [The ref jogs over to his assistant.]


    Luke: What did you see?


    Assistant 1: Best did him with a stepover. Clear foul.


    Luke: Penalty?


    Assistant 1: Hundred percent.


    [Peep!]


    Rochdale players: You''re joking! No [bleeping] way! What the [bleep]? He didn''t touch him! It was outside the box!


    Seventy-Six Minutes


    [The ref is walking along the edge of the penalty box warning players not to encroach before the kick is taken.]


    Max: Holy [bleep]! Christian, get everyone on the halfway line.


    Fierce: Pardon me, boss?


    Max: This is [bleeping] tedious. We''re in the entertainment industry. These fans haven''t come to watch this ref have one-on-one chats with everyone on the pitch. What the [bleep] are we doing? Get everyone away so I can score and we can get on with our lives. Seriously.


    Fierce: What about rebounds?


    Max: There isn''t going to be a rebound! We''re not playing, er... What was the name of that game with the blocks? You had to paddle a ball to hit the blocks?


    Rochdale player: Breakout.


    Max: Right! That sounds right. I like you. I''m not going to savage you in the media after. But you realise you''re out of position, right? You''re supposed to be like four yards wider and two yards further forward.


    Rochdale player: What?


    Max: Didn''t you realise your gaffer switched formation? Oh, mate.


    Luke: Are you going to take the penalty?


    Max: I''ve been waiting for twenty minutes!


    [He spots the ball and stares at the ref with a sarcastic, gormless look on his face.]


    [Peep!]


    [Max mutters to himself for five seconds, then approaches the ball. The goalie dives right; Max scores left.]


    Max: [Groans.] Seventy-sixth minute! Why didn''t I let you drag it out to the seventy-seventh?


    [He jogs in the direction of the away fans.]


    Eighty Minutes


    [Rochdale are pushing for an equaliser. Chester seem to have gone ultra-defensive to protect their lead. There''s a contest that leaves Carl Carlile on the ground.]


    Luke: Play on! No foul there!


    [A winger hits a cross. Christian Fierce jumps and heads it miles away. Ryan Jack scampers after it. He looks around and turns backwards.]


    Luke [to himself]: Safety first.


    [Ryan plays the ball square into the path of Max who is surging clear of two Rochdale players like the winner of an Olympic heat. Max sprays a thirty-yard pass angled left, into Wes Hayward''s path. He doesn¡¯t need to break stride to gather it.]


    Luke: Whoa.


    [The ref tries to follow the play, but Hayward on the left and Pascal on the right are far too fast. By the time he gets into Rochdale''s half, the players are already jumping into each other''s arms.]


    [Peep!]


    [Most Chester players head towards the away fans. One comes up next to the ref.]


    Max: See this tactic? We''re calling it a reverse mullet. Good, innit? How long''s left, like ten plus four?


    Luke: [Panting.] Something like that.


    Max: What do you reckon? Take the piss and run up the score or go men behind ball to save energy?


    Luke: You said... entertainment... industry.


    Max: Yeah, well, I''m bored. Who''s going to entertain me?


    Eighty-two Minutes


    [Rochdale are pressing but now they''ve seen how Chester''s wingers can break, the home team are keeping their full backs in the defensive line. Chester seem content to defend. There''s a tussle thirty-five yards from Chester''s goal between Magnus and a Rochdale player. The ref gives a foul to Chester.]


    Rochdale''s number 17: No way! No [bleeping] way! That''s our free kick!


    Max: Uh-oh! Sweet seventeen has a potty mouth.


    Seventeen: Who died and made you ref? Keep out of this.


    Max: Thing is, you''re telling the ref he''s made a mistake but you are having a shocker. 11 completed passes from an attempted 17. That''s not even 65%, bro. How about you do three passes in a row and then you get to have a pop at the ref? Hey?


    Seventeen: You think you''re funny.


    Max: What''s really funny is that you were right. It should have been your kick. [Max wanders off.] Magnus. You lost position, didn''t you?


    Magnus: Switched off for a second.


    Max: Yeah, saw it. Remind me to teach you about mindfulness.


    Magnus: [Laughs.] Yes, boss.


    Max: It''s all about being present in the moment. But that duel, there. You can let him have it.


    Magnus: What, really?


    Max: Yeah. He''s right-footed, isn''t he? And you''re on his right side. He can''t pass right or shoot. Imagine he''s on the ball in that spot, turning left. Not much risk, is there?


    Magnus: Not compared to the free kick, no. I understand.


    Max: I get it, mate. When you''re scrapping you need to compete. Fight to the death! But if you can...


    Magnus: Yes, boss.


    Seventeen: What a freak show.


    Max: Ref! He''s being mean!


    Luke: Would you please stop coaching your player and take the free kick?


    Max: It would be an honour and a privilege. As soon as this prick moves back ten yards.


    Luke: Take the free kick!


    Max: Ah, we''re back to ignoring the laws of the sport again. Talk about whiplash!


    [Max slaps the underside of the ball and it shoots off down the line, destined to go out of play. Backspin kicks in and Pascal catches up with it. He tries to control it and it hits his shin and goes out for a goal kick. He berates himself in German. Max jogs over and puts an arm around Pascal''s shoulder. Max whispers something while covering his mouth with his hand. Pascal nods and sucks in a breath. He stands taller.]


    Ninety Minutes


    Max: How long, ref?


    Luke: Four minutes.


    Max: Why? Everyone wants to go home. Call it two and you''ve got a deal.


    Luke: Four minutes, Best.


    Max: Lyons, Bochum, Best. Again!


    Luke: What?


    Max: We''ve scored three goals in our last two games and had the same three scorers. Mad, that, innit? [The ref backpedals away from Best. Best raises his eyebrows at a Rochdale player.] Hey, you! You! Is your agent really called Terry Bull? Is he a Terry Bull agent? Did you get a Terry Bull deal? Hey! Come back!


    Full Time


    [The ref and his assistants have gathered side-by-side and are waiting a few yards infield from the dugouts. Players are coming over to shake their hands. Zach guides a confused-seeming Max into position.]


    Zach: Thanks, ref. Good game. Good game, fellas. Appreciate it.


    Max: Yeah, well done. Er, listen, though. I will have to rinse you in the media.


    Zach: Boss.


    Max: No, but listen, Zach. I dived for the penalty, they missed a handball in the build-up to our third goal, and I left a suspicious package in their toilet that they didn''t report to stadium security.


    Zach: [Sharp intake of breath.] What.


    Max: I''m joking, Zach. I''m joshing. I''m doing some British humour.


    Zach: So did you dive or not?


    Max: Of course I did. But I didn''t. Or did I? Or didn''t I?


    Zach: Answer the following question: Should it have been a penalty?


    Max: The referee is always right.


    Zach: Did the guy kick you?


    Max: He kicked me four times today.


    Zach: Did he kick you in the penalty box?


    Max: Did you thank the fans?


    Zach: Did you?


    Max: I''m busy helping the refs improve! Get over there.


    [Zach rolls his eyes and jogs away.]


    Luke: Did you dive, though?


    Max: No. I was going to do a left-footed thunderbolt into the top-right. All right, we''re done here, yeah? I''ll get that footage from you and then I''m off. Gonna stay in town and see my mum after breakfast. Might do some shopping where no-one recognises me. They sell that Grindhog stuff everywhere, right?


    Luke: Most places, yeah. You don''t seem too fussed about a 3-1 away win. Where does this leave you in the table?


    Max: Fifth. Fifteen points behind, two games in hand. Fifteen goal difference worse off.


    Assistant 1: Why are you talking about Grimsby?


    Max: [Looks at the bodycam.] No reason. Bye!


    ***


    Thursday, February 27


    Video from the Instagram account of former England player turned Everton coach, Sam Bedford.


    [Sam is a serious-looking man who thinks before he speaks but always has a hint of a smile playing around his lips. He looks like the lovechild of Ralph Fiennes and Kramer from Seinfeld. But in a good way.]


    Sam, selfie mode: Some strange goings-on at the training ground today. Lot of activity on pitch 8. Checking the schedule... [He picks up some papers.] That''s not got anyone booked. Let''s go investigate!


    [Cut.]


    [We''re back and Ryan Jack is breathing heavily next to Pascal, who is also struggling. Max Best is beside him, lightly sweating but not out of breath.]


    Sam: It''s me old mucker Ryan! Ryan Jack. Been too long, mate. How you been? And why are you here?


    Ryan: Yeah, I did me ACL.


    Sam: I heard, yeah.


    Ryan: Been in rehab and working my way back. Physios here have been boss, looking out for me. I''m at Chester now and it''s sweet as but they''ve not got all the facilities like. This is me manager ''ere, Max Best. He said you''re fit now, why don''t we come and do a session while the Everton physios watch and that''ll be like a sign-off that I''m back. It''s not logical, like, but you can''t argue with football managers, can you?


    Sam: Stubborn, aren''t they?


    Ryan: This one''s got it bad. Max, can you talk? I need a minute. [Ryan puts his hands on top of his head and suffers.]


    Max: We did a basic passing and skills session under the watchful eyes of some superstar Premier League physios and someone said yeah but wouldn''t it be better to see him in action? Like a proper match? [Pascal gives Max a sharp look but doesn¡¯t say anything.] So one of your coaches found a few lads for us to have a little five-a-side against. Lads from your under-23s and... [he laughs]. Let''s just say they know how to play football! We ended up playing six against five and we could barely get a touch.


    Sam: You seem pretty happy about it.


    Max: Oh, I''m made up. They''re amazing, those kids! Proper footballers, really clever, though I don''t think that right back will be getting a Christmas card from Angel.


    Sam: You brought one of your female players?


    Max: Yeah. Pascal, what did you make of it?


    Pascal, despondent: They were far too good. Too fast, impeccable technique, perfect pressing. I am so far behind.


    Max: [Laughs.] You''re not that far behind. Don''t catastrophise!


    Sam: What''s your position, la?


    Pascal: Midfield or forward.


    Max: He''s friends with Dieter Bauer.


    Sam: Wait, what?


    Pascal: [Slight grin.] I''m not.


    Max: He''s got him on speed dial.


    Pascal: [Smile.] I don''t.


    Sam: Ryan, looks like you''ve landed in an interesting group.


    Ryan: It''s the most fun I''ve had since Everton, Sam. Fifteen years later I''m back in love with the game.


    Sam: Wow. We need to talk, man!


    Max: You played for England, right? Do you know anyone in the setup?


    Sam: You want to play for England, la?


    Max: Yeah, Max Best, England''s player-manager. [Scoffs.] I''ve got some players they should look at. Under eighteens and all that.


    Sam: Might be able to help, yeah. Make a couple of calls. Ryan, is this guy on the level?


    Ryan: [Shakes his head.] The way we''re feeling about those under 23s, that''s how they''re feeling about him. Bloody non-stop nutmegs. Bloody show-off. But if he says these girls can play for England, they can.


    Max: [Looks behind.] Shh! Girl. Girl singular.


    Ryan: What?


    Max: I''ll explain it later.


    Ryan: Can I invite Sam to karaoke?


    Max: Definitely.


    Ryan: We''ve hired a pub. Turned it into a big karaoke night.


    Sam: Haven''t you got a match this weekend?


    Ryan: Players are going dry. Vimsy''s our sin-drinker. He could use some help.


    Sam: Haha! Let me turn this thing off before I talk about going out on the lash. Okay, viewers! Mystery solved! It was Ryan Jack. Return of the Jack, you know it can''t be bad.


    Max: Whoa! Let''s sing that tonight! Ryan, that should be your song! That''s mint!


    ***


    Photos (eventually) uploaded to the creaking website of The Bishop''s Rick pub in Cheshire. The photos are followed by supporting text written by the landlord.


    [Glenn Ryder, Christian Fierce, Zach Green, dressed in ''defender casual'' clothing, arms wrapped around their mates to the extent possible. Each has a mic. All are crooning.]


    Chester FC centre backs belt out ''My Way''. Terrible choice, too slow, what were they thinking? They saw it through to the extremely bitter end, despite the whistles and boos. 4/10, stick to looking awesome in marketing materials.


    [Andrew, Michael, and Noah Harrison, dressed in increasing levels of daring and displaying emotions ranging from terrified (Andrew) to attention-seeking (Noah).]


    The Harrison triplets sing Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Wham! Good fun, got everyone clapping, no-one likes a show-off, Noah! I could do the splits, too, if I wanted, but I choose not to for religious reasons. 7/10, enjoyed this and they''re a lovely bunch. Good on ''em for sticking together through thick and thin. Hope they all make it.


    [Ben Cavanagh, Sticky, and Rainman sharing one microphone, giving a feeling of intense camaraderie and togetherness.]


    Chester''s goalies sing Shoplifters of the World Unite, a mournful Smiths song. Why? Because they changed the first word to ''goalkeepers''. A for effort, E for eee my ears are bleeding. 4/10 would not recommend.


    [Henri Lyons in a short-sleeve t-shirt featuring a snake eating itself. He is, of course, holding an acoustic guitar and is not using any of the karaoke equipment.]


    The French striker sings ''Believe'' by Cher. I laughed out loud when he started, but he ignored me and the many like me and sang from the heart, with conviction. The cheers at the end nearly brought the house down, and to my surprise he packed up after one ditty. Who knew the French could be both tasteful and restrained? 10/10, flawless, and he was very polite in the way he let down Jenny who was pulling pints while trying to pull players.


    [Max Best, solo.]


    [Max Best, centre of the entire squad.]


    The manager announces he will sing ''Africa by Togo''. I think he got the band''s name wrong on purpose, and I was keen to hear him attempt the high notes. Instead, Someone Like You by Adele started and the lads rushed forward to grab the available mics. Soon everyone was singing whether they had a mic or not. Max Best''s singing voice: 7/10. Song choice: 10/10. Goosebumps: yes. Love this group of lads. Come on, Chester!


    ***


    Friday, February 28


    TikTok account from a rando in Chester.


    [The guy''s face is the entire shot.]


    "So, no way! Total madness just happened! You know my Granddad Dave passed away and we were selling off his old memorabilia - sounds horrible to say it like that! We''re not ghouls, I promise! - Anyway he was a big Chester fan and had this pin, right, that we put online and a chap wanted to buy it. It''s just a little pin badge thing that said Chester City on it, half black, half white.


    "This guy, Clinton, says can we hold it for him and he''ll come Friday and I''m thinking mate, there isn''t a queue of people wanting to buy this old pin, right? [Weird, snorting laugh.] Knock on the door, hi I''m Clinton. No you''re not, you''re Max Best! I''m definitely Clinton, he says. I''ll show you my passport oh no it''s in me other car. Right where''s this pin?


    "So we go and he sees it and he loves it! Look at it, he says. It''s class. He can barely take his eyes off it and I sense the chance to get rid of some of the clutter. I say, I''ve got boxes of Chester City stuff if you want; we don''t know what to do with it. Let''s have a look, he says. And we spend like an hour on the floor in my living room going through granddad''s old match programmes and scarves and cigarette cards and Panini stickers.


    "Max Best - sorry, Clinton - he can''t get enough of it all! He''s like, wow, your granddad was a proper fan, look how many games he went to. Oh, and he was a tactician, too! And I say, what? So he shows me the backs of some of the programmes and there''s all notes on there and it''s gibberish to me but Max reckons Granddad Dave was making notes on opposition players like how good they were at being in the right place, heading, things like that. Score out of ten. ''Your Granddad invented Soccer Supremo before there was even a computer in Chester, mate''.


    "We talked and he asked questions like oh when did your grandad go to Italy and I realised I didn''t know anything about him, really. He was just me granddad. Suddenly Max goes, ugh, I''ve got to go. How much do you want for this? I''m like what? It''s junk. He looks in his pocket and goes I''ve got two hundred in cash. I''m scratching my head but it doesn''t feel right to ask for money. It''s like, this stranger understands my Granddad Dave more than I did.


    "So I say five pounds for the pin and the rest is gratis. He says you drive a hard bargain but I accept. Do you go to games, he says. I say footy''s not my thing. It''s boring. He says yeah it is that''s why God invented beer and singing. Don''t come this weekend but come near the end of the season we''ll put on a show for you. And he left in a shit car and now I''m not sure it was even him or if I got scammed somehow or what''s going on! [Weird, snorting laugh.] So random!"


    ***


    News of the Blues


    Spotted!


    Look who''s back out scouting in Chester after a long absence! Photo taken at Goals.


    [Image alt text: Max Best and a very bored Henri Lyon are watching a five-a-side match through the big net at the side of the pitch.]


    If you''re hoping to get scouted, now''s the time to get back into your Sunday League or futsal team! Now, where did I put my indoor trainers?


    ***


    Saturday, March 1


    Views of the Blues - Chester 1 Maidenhead 0 First Impressions!


    Summary:


    Slightly underwhelming performance, this. Neither team was much use going forward but our better quality in the final thirds saw us through. Zach Green was immense defensively, and Andrew Harrison scored after a neat bit of play from Chipper. Maidenhead didn''t offer much and Best seemed content to grind out a one-nil.


    Full match report to follow!


    Formation: 4-4-2


    Line up: GK: Ben. Back four: Cole, Glenn, Zach, Magnus. Midfield: Josh, Ryan, Andrew, Sharky. Strikers: Henri, Chipper.


    Subs: Sticky, Fierce, Wisey, Best, Ziggy.


    Bullet Points:


    <ul>


    <li>We are fourth! Fourth in the National League!</li>


    <li>The pitch was bad but visibly better. It''s two weeks until the next home game so fingers crossed the groundsman will be able to eke out a few more blades of grass.</li>


    <li>Lots of rotation again. It''s hard to say who''s a second-string player but the whole squad is being used.</li>


    <li>I didn''t think about Youngster the whole afternoon! Ghana look like going deep into AFCON but we have a squad that can cope with his absence.</li>


    <li>It is now possible to say that our second string can beat some National League sides. That thought is jarring and scarcely believable given the overall narrative. Certain people might want to reconsider certain opinions.</li>


    <li>My WhatsApp groups gave man of the match to either Zach or Andrew Harrison.</li>


    <li>Ryan Jack was replaced by James Wise at half time. Neither player is used to this kind of rotation and we can only hope Best doesn''t drive them out of the club. He himself seems fine playing twenty minutes here and there but most players derive their self-worth by how much they play.</li>


    <li>Case in point - Chipper. He was subbed off immediately after getting a yellow card, apparently for mouthing off to the referee, after forty minutes. He has come down two divisions to help us and he did not look happy, to say the least. Best is playing with fire on this one.</li>


    <li>To be fair to the manager, he got the win while resting six key players: Christian Fierce, Eddie Moore, Carl Carlile, Aff, Pascal Bochum, and Best himself. He only used two subs - presumably he would have come on if Maidenhead had snuck an equaliser.</li>


    <li>The squad is looking remarkably healthy for this time of year ahead of a vital week in which we face arduous away trips to Fylde and Grimsby.</li>


    <li>Grimsby won 2-0. Barnet drew. Some people I know are starting to wonder how high we can finish. We''re close to Solihull (how?) with games in hand. We''re ahead of Oldham, Gateshead, and Aldershot but we have to play all three. From our current position we should finish in the top seven. Can we finish third and get a bye in the first playoff match? I think yes, but only if Best finds a way to integrate Chipper.</li>


    <li>Some fans who should know better have looked at our form and our best eleven and have begun to ask a question that is insipid, childish... and in my humble opinion speaks to the reason the Boost the Build campaign was such a success. For all the chaos and division Max Best causes, he wins football matches and he gets us thinking. Wondering. Asking the stupidest question a Chester fan should ever ask. He makes us look up the league table, not to fourth or third or second. He makes us look all the way up and ask... Could we?</li>


    </ul>

 10.8 - How to Tame Your Dragon

    8.


    Football glossary: Well in. Praise for a good piece of play. Good job! Well played! Works best when shouted or when there''s grunted vibrato on the second word. "Well innnnnnn!"


    ***


    Monday, March 3


    I was looking out of my office window at BoshCard when I saw Brooke amble up to the Best Bistro to get a coffee and ask what the yoghurt of the day was. Patricia, the head chef, was super busy but she always made time for Brooke.


    "ETA two minutes," I said.


    "Checked, set, Roger," mumbled Emma, who had insisted I move the cosy armchairs from the back of the room to the front; she was now practically horizontal with her legs over one arm rest. That inverted the power dynamic of me - the mighty leader - gently oscillating on a comfortable chair while my minions and enemies perched on hard-backed, harshly-angled wooden chairs - but sometimes Emma is not to be denied. "What''s the topic?"


    "Hot goss," I said, which caused her to sit up a bit straighter.


    I went back to staring into the world. The weather had turned idyllic and the team was busy out on pitch 1. It wasn''t my team, though, but Jonny Planter''s. Grafting to get us a grass pitch safe to sprint and turn on. The sooner we could bring training home, the better, because by that point it was basically mathematically proven that training at the King George was giving us almost no CA growth, despite the quality of our coaches.


    The extra sessions I was laying on at bigger clubs were having an effect. I was pretty sure that by taking some players to Tranmere I had scrambled the curse and whatever soft caps it imposed on them. Going to Everton had very much done the same. In fact, it was perfectly possible the ninety minutes I spent training at Finch Farm had reset my personal soft cap to 200. While it would decay pretty quickly, any training I did at Tranmere would definitely boost me. It had to, right? I was certainly feeling some of the old swagger coming back, and my free kicks and corners were starting to zip. Starting to fly into the top corner. Flames, smoke, confusion, tears. At last, I was evolving teeth. Watch out National League goalkeepers! Here be dragons.


    We were going to need every slight advantage we could get. My relationship with Chipper was virtually doomed.


    After five minutes of the Rochdale match, when they had scored and the Live Tables showed us sinking to eighth, a new comment had appeared in the Future section of Chipper''s player profile.


    Has lost confidence in his manager''s ability.


    Wow. I mean. Chipper had lost confidence in my ability to manage a football team? Because we briefly dropped out of the playoff spots?


    Get. Fucked.


    In the dugout at Rochdale I had stewed for a couple of minutes, wondering what this would mean in terms of performance. When Pascal acquired his outrageous and unacceptable ''dislikes Henri Lyons'' message he had continued to play well, but while his personal performance didn''t suffer, if I had left the situation unchecked he would surely have tanked the group''s morale?


    It had to be the same with this one, right? If Chipper had lost confidence in me, he would speak darkly about me in the dressing room. Eye rolls, grumbling about my tactics, dozens of tiny comments, each one chipping away at the squad''s belief in me.


    Chipper. Chipping away at me.


    No no no.


    Uh-uh.


    Not my tempo.


    His yellow card allowed me to get him off the pitch almost immediately, although that cost me, too. A second message appeared.


    Believes he has made a mistake in moving to the club.


    The mistake was all mine, mate.


    In the referee''s room, I had watched the first nine minutes of the match with growing fury. A couple of Chipper''s snide remarks about me were audible, and while the things he was saying to the ref were moronic, they wouldn''t necessarily affect our performance. Him sniping at me definitely would. I hoped it wasn''t weakness that made me react so strongly. The squad needed to believe I was capable of doing a good job. There was no room for doubt; Chipper was out.


    That had been my decision after the Rochdale match, but in the days since, I''d had time to think. It hadn''t been too hard to convince Chipper to join Chester - his career was in the toilet and I had shown some tactical chops when helping TJ at Crawley - but then our first meaningful interaction had been my Cambrian Explosion speech. It was weird, okay, but anyone who had been at the club for more than a few days understood that I did things different. Christian Fierce had been into it - this was the next level of football he craved. Llewellyn had been hard to read but I think my presentation had a mostly negative effect on him. Chipper had been even more opaque but now it was clear. My speech hadn''t inspired him but had led to a sense of suspicion and distrust and those feelings had only grown.


    So what to do? As it stood, I couldn''t use him and if the option had been available I might have sent him back to Crawley. I had a meeting with him later, at the King George training centre, and perhaps I would make a final stab at diplomacy - stab being the operative word.


    I eyed the mobile kitchen we''d bought. It was pumping out healthy, nutritious meals that were a hit with the players, BoshCard staff, and local residents. Instead of signing Chipper I could have bought another mobile kitchen and put it somewhere there were loads of hungry kids. I could have done something actually useful. But I was paying the Doubting Dragon two thousand a week and that was a fortune for Chester. If I didn''t use him for the rest of the season there would be questions - including some valid ones - and it could make it harder to get players on loan in the future. Players I wanted to sign might say, but you fell out with that Welsh guy after ten minutes and made him waste half a season of his short career.


    Not that I planned to loan a player ever again. For every Goliath and Ziggy there was a Jack Litherland and a Chipper. But still, it would be unprofessional to take away the option. Future Max would appreciate current Max making an effort.


    How could I get something out of a player who didn''t respect me? Even the thought of naming him in the matchday squad against Grimsby set off spasms in my eyelid muscles.


    Brooke coughed. "Great power play, boss."


    I turned to apologise but Emma said, "He wasn''t ignoring you. He was off with the fairies."


    "The dragons," I said. The women looked powerful on the comfy chairs; I had to establish dominance. "Right, let''s blitz through these action items."


    "Action items?" scoffed Emma.


    I smiled. "Great, innit? I''m learning to talk like a real b-boy. Breaks the ice at parties."


    "Item one," said Brooke, big-dogging me. "There''s a new phrase blowing up on the socials. Could we?"


    "Could we what?" said Ems.


    "That''s the whole thing," I explained. "It''s idiots who think we''ve got a chance at the title. It''s like, could we win the league? It''s a joke. They''re joking."


    "It''s hopeful," said Brooke. "Aspirational. You love that. We could use it." She smiled. "Could we use it?"


    I smiled back but shook my head. "Let the fans run with it but for the club it would be dishonest. We lost our chance when we lost to Barnet. Okay, we''re in with a chance mathematically and you''re going to hear me spend the whole week talking up our ambitions but that''s only to destabilise Grimsby. They''re better than Barnet but it''s one of those fire water wood things. Grimsby beats Barnet, Barnet beats Chester, Chester beats Grimsby. If I could choose, I''d have Barnet win the league and knock Grims into the playoffs."


    "Because you know everything about them from your time there," said Brooke.


    "The squad hasn''t changed much, yeah. But also the matchups work in our favour. We can shut them down as an attacking threat - I have a plan for that. And they have a couple of slow defenders and if there''s one thing we''ve got, it''s pace. Yeah, it''s not straightforward but I really fancy us. Barnet''s style is tough to crack right now so we go hard at Grimsby, get some Max Best chaos eating away at them and bosh, they implode, lol, see you at Wembley you dicks." I closed my eyes and imagined the look on Chris Hale''s face when I -


    "Max," said Emma.


    "Right," I said, snapping out of a delicious daydream. "One thing, though. If you want something to put on the socials please lean heavily into Devon Loch." Brooke was tapping away on her phone before I''d got to the ''N'' in Devon. I clarified. "He was a horse. He was winning the Grand National, miles ahead, serene, and with about ten inches to go, slight exaggeration, he flopped. Just flopped to the ground." I held up a hand. "Don''t worry, he''s fine. He was fine."


    "That was in 1956," said Brooke.


    "Horses live hundreds of years, right?"


    "They do not."


    "Yeah, okay, so he''s gone to pony paradise by now but he was fine after the incident and when you know that, it''s easier to watch. I replayed the moment ten times and it''s more confusing than distressing. He was running, running, then his legs gave way. Some people say he tried to jump the shadow of a water jump that was parallel. Some said he must have had cramp after the long run with all the jumps. Anyway, in the UK Devon Loch is synonymous with blowing a huge lead. It''s one of the most traumatic sporting disasters of all time and even worse it belonged to the Queen or the Queen''s mum and she always wanted to win the Grand National and pretty much the whole country wanted her to win and what she got was Devon Loch."


    Brooke was trying to follow. "You think people at Grimsby will understand the reference."


    "Oh, they will one hundred percent understand what we''re saying. We''re saying that we''re about to watch the biggest choke since 1956." I held my hand up again. "No shade on Devon Loch or his jockey. Don''t tase me, bro."


    "1956," mused Brooke. "Shame it wasn''t 1955."


    "Why?"


    "We could whip up a couple of videos based on it being the 70th anniversary of a famous sporting moment."


    I slapped the table and cackled. "Even better! If we''re making videos because it''s the 71st anniversary that''s even better because it''s even more clearly done to wind them up!"


    "2025 minus 1956 is sixty-nine."


    "Shit. Okay forget the anniversary angle. It almost doesn''t matter what we do, it just has to be about Devon Loch. Talk to some old people to ask what their memories of that race are and put hashtag Grimsby Town in the description. They will get it. Everyone will get it. It''ll spread like dragonfire."


    Brooke nodded. "Understood. I''ve made progress on setting up a meeting with the founder of Grindhog, but let''s discuss that after Grimsby. Can I ask a random Q? You''re giving the men''s first team and Angel extra training. Is there anything behind that?"


    "No, that''s just, like, performance maximisation. Sport stuff. No angles."


    "RIP Angles," said Emma.


    "Those extra sessions are with our coaches, though. You could do them here."


    I shook my head. "Do you have your best ideas in the shower?"


    Emma said, "That''s an inappropriate question to ask a female employee. If you want to rinse him, Brooke babes, I''m all over it."


    "Ambulance chaser," I said.


    Brooke smiled. "I don''t have ideas, Max. I''m a ditzy blonde."


    I tutted. "When I''m out and about doing shit, phone in my hand, trying to solve some problem, sometimes I can''t make that last, thrilling leap of stellar brilliance even though it normally comes so naturally to me."


    "Don''t pause for a reaction babes, it''s not attractive."


    "But I go in the shower without my phone and I''m like, should I do my legs or will they get clean anyway because the suds are flowing down me and then eureka! The solution presents itself."


    "Clean your legs, babes."


    "So imagine that same principle but it''s about training grounds. I''m here at BoshCard and I''m thinking huh Best Bistro is quiet today maybe we should hire a hot air balloon to promote it. Or someone''s come in a different car and I''m like hey now what''s that story? Or we''re at the King George and Pascal''s got a bad ankle or Wisey''s in a mood and I''m like do I say something or is it family stuff and I leave it? But if we go to Everton or Tranmere we don''t have those distractions. I don''t have my phone in my hand, sort of thing. We focus on the training and nothing but the training." This speech felt as full of holes as a Swiss cheese grater but Brooke seemed to accept it. "We''re a pretty solid team, now, but solid doesn''t score goals, as Grimsby will find out this weekend. I''m going to be working a lot with our attacking players on set moves. Certain counter-attacks, combination play, strange corner kick routines. So far it has been a lot of fun."


    "Are you going again?"


    "Yes. Tranmere every day this week. I want to surprise Grimsby by how long I stay on the pitch. Okay, hit me with the hot goss update."


    Emma sat up straight. "Hang on. Update? Update to what?"


    Brooke did her version of a frown. "You didn''t tell her?"


    "There was nothing to tell. You do it; it''s your family."


    "So," said Brooke, somehow turning my office into a slumber party with the subtlest shift in her posture. "My sister - "


    "Whoa! Sister?"


    "Did I never mention her? She''s, ah, she''s a sweet girl but she''s got her troubles."


    "Older or younger?"


    "She''s the youngest."


    "You''re Brooke. Chip''s Chip. So she''s called... Donna."


    "Close! Dallas!"


    I didn''t know that detail. I said the only logical thing. "What."


    "Dallas lives with my daddy but he and Chip don''t think much of her intelligence and they don''t know she''s in touch with me. After the botched takeover daddy was in a horn-tossin'' mood. He raised hell and stuck a chunk under it."


    Emma was leaning forward, eating it all up. "I bet."


    "Chip played it smart. He egged daddy on for a while then he kinda goes, funny though, we could make a heap of cash while rubbing that boy''s nose in it. Daddy told him to pipe down and Chip, for once, did. So later daddy says what did you mean? And Chip says why don''t we buy a soccer club for real? Buy players low, sell ''em high, get promoted, sell for a huge gain, force Brooke to deal with us, do it classy to make Max Best look like a dolt, and beat him on the pitch, too."


    Emma listened with her mouth slowly opening. She extended her palms and glared at me. "You didn''t think I''d want to hear that?"


    "There''s nothing in it," I said. "He''s not going to blow five million Texaroons on a loss-making football club to spite me."


    Brooke shook her head. "I think you underestimate the power of spite. My first riding teacher told me I was too tall and ungainly, to be a good rider. Every ride ever since has been part joy of riding, part spite."


    "Max knows about spite. You''ll see it this Saturday in Grimsboo."


    "Yeah, okay, spite is powerful," I said. I closed my eyes. "Josh Owens is a good lad but he''s always talking about proving people wrong. It''s his main motivation. Maybe it''s the same with the others but I''m more sensitive to it with the Exit Trial boys." The spark of an idea formed about how I could get some use out of Chipper. I forced myself to get back in the present. "All right, Ems, that was the whole goss. There was a discussion about buying a club. It''s never going to happen. Brooke, what''s the latest?"


    "It''s going to happen."


    I cocked my head back and laughed. "It''s not. Come on."


    "Chip''s a dog with a bone. He''s really into owning a soccer club. Dallas says he''s obsessed with squad building; he really thinks he can do it better than anyone, including you. He wants to get a deal wrapped up soon so he can make a splash in the summer transfer window. He sees himself doing for soccer what daddy has done for retail."


    "Does Dallas know which club Chip is looking at?"


    "Half a dozen. Leagues One and Two, I think."


    I laughed again. "If they buy Wrexham I''ll know we''re living in a simulation and I won''t have any qualms about sponging off my girlfriend full-time while reading comics."


    "Oh!" exclaimed Emma. "I thought I had to call them graphic novels?"


    Brooke dipped her chin to hide a smile and was straight back to being a b-girl. "What would Wrexham cost these days?"


    I looked up. "If they got promoted to League One, which looks likely, you''d be looking at something like twenty million. Ish."


    "I think we can rule Wrexham out. No, it''d be something cheap where Chip could cut his teeth."


    I pursed my lips and blew some air through. "Right. I''ll keep an eye out and an ear to the ground. Maybe I''ll be able to find out using my wit and wisdom." And the curse. "Tell Donna she''s a ledge and she''s my fave."


    "Dallas," said Emma.


    "Fave?" said Brooke.


    "What''s the news from The Nursery? We all good there?"


    Brooke nodded. "I did extensive research and regression analysis and I''ve concluded that no-one likes the name Nursery."


    "What are you talking about?" said Emma.


    "The training ground," said Brooke. "Max is trying to name it."


    "Babes, that''s terrible. Nursery? No. Veto."


    Brooke pointed at Emma as though Emma''s word was final. "The Weavers and I are going through the constitution for the trust to make sure it does what you want it to do. But basically everything''s in place for the builders. Zwillinger."


    "Doesn''t that mean twins?" said Emma.


    "Yes. They''re number one in the space. Very professional."


    I said, "When will the pitch at The Nest be usable?"


    "The Nest?" said Emma. "Babes. Please."


    Brooke said, "Everyone''s calling it Bumpers Lane."


    "That''s fun," said Emma.


    "As for the timing, Max, I''d love to underpromise and overdeliver on that one. It depends on when Zwillinger has availability. My best guess is it won''t be ready for the start of the season."


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    I tapped the table. "We''ll have to extend BoshCard for another year but after that we''re moving to The Arboretum lock stock and barrel." I paused while I thought about that. It didn''t seem overly ambitious. The only question would be whether to move the mobile kitchen or not. Or could we buy another one? It would cost us thirty grand or so but then would break even. For a small initial outlay I could create two jobs and maybe have a mobile kitchen that was actually mobile. We could shuffle the training ground kitchen along Bumpers Road to serve fans at the Deva on matchdays. I stopped drumming my fingers. "I think we''re going to get promoted. I''d feel a lot more certain if Grimsby were in free fall but our first eleven is getting very serious, our subs are a handful, we''ve got massive tactical flexibility, and let''s say the trip to Everton reminded me how good I used to be." I smirked for a while. The smirk turned into a daydream about making rude gestures towards Grimsby''s VIP box after scoring a goal. "What? What?"


    "I don''t know," said Brooke. "You were fixing to say something but you bared your teeth instead."


    "Erm... Right. With higher ticket sales and sponsorships, we''re going to have an increased budget, most of which needs to go into player and staff wages. But we''ll get that million pounds in TV money, too, and I''ve got approximately fifty million pounds of ways to spend it. Can we have a chat one day where I say some things I want to buy and we try to make a priority list?"


    "Sure. Sounds fun."


    "Does it?" said Emma.


    "Yeah!"


    "All right," I said, rising to my feet. "You guys enjoy being legal eagles. I need to catch the end of training." I walked to the side of the window where Vimsy liked to stand and slipped into a big, blue foot cast. I picked up a pair of crutches and swayed to my flipchart. I took a photo of the formation and line up I wanted to use against Fylde.


    "What the very devil are you doing?" said Emma.


    "Babes! I told you! I''m pretending to be injured!"


    "You didn''t tell me. This is stupid. No-one will believe you."


    "Ah," I said, smiling. "I know they won''t. But I''ll name myself on the bench against Fylde and if we''re winning I won''t go on and that''ll be two games where I didn''t play a minute and they''ll think oh but maybe he is injured and they''ll have photos from me at our training ground looking like that time Keanu Reeves was sad on a bench. It will mess with their heads one way or another. Yeah, in Chester I''m injured. Another reason to train up in beautiful Birkenhead! They don''t have spies at Tranmere!" I beamed, happy as a clam.


    "No-one has spies," said Emma.


    "I have spies at Grimsby," I said. "I am the Eye of Sauron. The Eye in the Sky. I know all and see all." The silence that followed, the way their eyes widened with impressed shock, was beyond gratifying. "Nah," I said. "Not really. But I have been watching a fuckton of match footage. All right, I''m off to Tranmere with Wibbers, Jackers, Pascers, and, er... Henri."


    Emma tilted her head. "I thought you were going to talk to Chippers?"


    I sighed. I''d forgotten about that.


    Has lost confidence in his manager''s ability.


    Jesus! But at least I had one idea of how I could approach the meeting...


    "How to tame your dragon," I said, while staring into the distance.


    "How to train your dragon," said Brooke.


    "That''s what I said."


    ***


    I clomped to my car, took the foot clamp off so I could drive safely, and put it back on in the car park of the King George. There I allowed the weirdo who had started News of the Blues to take photos of me looking miserable because I couldn''t train, then I suggested he might want to clear off.


    While waiting for the session to finish, I took stock.


    We had thirteen league games left. That included four hard games against Grimsby (estimated CA 77), Aldershot (70), Oldham Athletic (72), and Gateshead (72). We had a couple of tricky games against Hartlepool (68) and Rochdale (67 at their best). Maximising for CA I could put out a non-me eleven of CA 68. Dumping Chipper into a chipper would leave me with CA 66. Long story short, those were six matches where either my tactics or my playing skills would have to see us through. Could we get... three wins and three draws? More like two wins, two draws, two defeats.


    Four of the remaining seven matches looked very easy - so easy I was willing to fly to Gibraltar and let Sandra handle one of them. Honestly, if I could get Chipper firing he could be our Marcus Wainwright and we could... we could... Could we?


    I scanned the short-sided scrimmage Llewellyn liked to finish sessions with. It was designed to make sure players had nowhere to hide and it brought out their competitive side. Chipper was one of the most valuable players in such a contest, which made sense given his temperament and high CA. Yeah, Chipper would give us a much-needed cutting edge but only if he lost his ''lost confidence in Max Best'' message.


    Perhaps his best contribution to the side would simply be that his CA was 80. In the olden days, when I''d signed Ryan Jack the talented players in my squad had responded and trained harder. If Pascal and Wibbers were learning from watching Chipper in training then his inflated wages suddenly didn''t take on the aspect of concrete boots but wings. Seventy thousand pounds to add five points of CA to Wibbers? Long term that was going to be like buying Apple stock in 1980.


    What else was on the horizon?


    The fourth-last match of the season was going to be a repeat of last year''s Cheshire Cup final against Crewe. Not very important in the scheme of things but ex-pros said winning was a habit and I wanted to instil that habit into my players. It would also extend the attendance bonus I was getting from the Winner of Us perk. If we could win another senior trophy that would add 4% to next season''s attendances. That was starting to get interesting. Definitely worth putting out a strong team.


    Training finished and while most players went to get a shower, Chipper came to sit near me.


    I behaved beautifully.


    "Leslie," I said, using his real name that he obviously hated. "How are you enjoying being at a team that''s fourth in the league with two games in hand over the league leaders whose run-in is harder than ours?"


    "It''s a novel experience being fifteen points behind," he said. Game on, he thought, getting into full dragon mode. He had missed one key point. This was my football club. My club, my rules. Around here, I was Skyrim''s Alduin - the biggest, baddest dragon.


    I took a breath to make sure I didn''t get too heated. I didn''t want to harness the power of my own flames, but the power of Chipper''s spite. "Okay, here''s where I''m at. You''re a good player but I don''t trust you to play against Grimsby. You might know that Grimsby sacked me last season and I don''t like that. I''m going to fuck them up this Saturday, single-handed if needed, but a red card will kill us no matter how good I am. Everyone thinks you''re an outstanding player so if you''re not in the starting line up or on the bench, people are going to say annoying things like ''Where''s Chipper?'' ''Why didn''t you pick Chipper?'' ''Yes you won but where''s Chipper?'' I find that kind of thing very tedious so what I''m going to do is give you the whole ninety minutes against Fylde. You''re going to get sent off and then you''ll be banned for the weekend. If I''m lucky, you''ll say something to the ref that gets a one-match ban upgraded to three, just like last time. What a team player you are! Okay? So you''ll start tomorrow night and you''ll spend the whole game trying to get sent off and when you do I''ll be laughing. Because the only fucking thing I care about until the playoff final is beating Grimsby and I''m not going to let anyone sabotage that. Any questions?"


    He did his so-angry-he-got-super-calm trick. "No."


    "We don''t need you at the strategy meeting on Wednesday morning. Treat yourself to a nice, long brunch. Okay, good chat. Bye."


    He was so furious I really thought the plastic chair would melt. He got up and walked away. If he blinked on his way to the showers, I didn''t see it.


    Diplomacy 20, Sophistication 20.


    Bites on arse? Zero.


    ***


    Once again I went in the car with Llewellyn. This time the other passengers were WibRob and Pascal, but my focus was on the Welshman. With all those 20s in his profile he was destined for big things; he was so good I hadn''t even dared to dream of somehow getting him to stay at Chester long term. There was also the fact that he was miserable. While he did his coaching work with something like enthusiasm and he was leading Saltney to win after win, he walked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. From his point of view, he had been sent to football Siberia.


    The irony was that he was on the fast track to stardom. If he stayed with my little project for another full season he would have a ludicrous record as a manager - a win percentage of 90% was achievable - the Welsh FA would push him to the front of the queue for gigs like their under 21 head coach, and he would be offered senior jobs by club owners who respected my judgement... or who hated me. Yes, if Daddy Star bought his idiot son a football club, Llewellyn would be an amazing choice for manager.


    I pulled at my lip as we drove towards Tranmere''s Solar Campus. I wanted to talk to Llewellyn, either to get to know him or to hint that the way he was judging his exile was completely wrong. Talking to people was good, mostly, but I was in a bad mood after the chat with Chipper and almost the worst thing I could do was to annoy Llewellyn into quitting two months before the end of the season.


    Apart from what he was doing at Saltney, with him leading these extra sessions I thought I could squeeze an extra point of CA out of my players per month. Having two additional points on top of normal training was massive. Colossal. It could be the difference in the playoffs.


    I sighed. I didn''t know what to do. I think in a strange way I was intimidated by the guy. With him I felt like I was on a date with a gorgeous woman and I felt inhibited and unable to be myself. If I said the wrong thing he might leave and so I barely talked to him, and that got me frustrated at myself. The stakes were enormous, though. This promotion would be the biggest ever, even more consequential than going from the Championship to the Premier League.


    "Boss," said Wibbers.


    "Mmm," I said.


    "I was on Sumo''s stream yesterday."


    I stopped breathing. "Did you say anything problematic?"


    "No!"


    "Did you say the only problem with Brexit was that it wasn''t done properly?"


    "No."


    "Did you say women shouldn''t be commentators?"


    Llewellyn said, "Political commentators?"


    I smiled. "Football."


    "No!" said William, annoyed that I would even joke about him having retrograde views. "Nothing like that! We were playing EA FC and - "


    "And Sumo was crushing him," said Pascal.


    "Urgh! Yes, okay, but he''s a professional gamer, isn''t he?"


    "He slaughtered you."


    "Just! Fine, have a laugh but have you ever even beaten me?"


    I tutted. "Will, get to the point if there is one."


    "I''m trying!" He took a calming breath. I wasn''t sure if he learned that one from Magnus or Vimsy, which was an amazing thought. "I was causing him some problems, obviously, because I''m actually brilliant at the game... although to be fair Sumo was reading the chat and talking while he was scratching out jammy wins. Someone in the chat goes ''Sumo, ask Wibbers a question. Could we?'' and then it was thousands of people writing could we could we could we."


    I smiled; I could just imagine it. "That''s going to be funny for about two and a half more days and then it''s going to get very, very tiresome."


    "Sumo was kind of playing it off and kind of joking about it but he was kind of serious as well. He goes, William, I know we couldn''t, but could we? I mean, I''m not saying that we could because obviously we can''t but could we?"


    "What did you say?"


    "I didn''t know what to say! Because we could. But we can''t. Can we?"


    I was still smiling. The conversation was being replicated all over Chester. We were in that tiny sliver where the maths didn''t rule anything in or out and while football logic was very heavily weighted on one side of the scale, the other side was bigger than expected. "Pascal, what do you think?"


    "We could win the league, mathematically."


    "A very inspiring answer, mate. Llewellyn, where''s your head at?"


    "I don''t see it."


    There it was. The lack of enthusiasm summed up. "What''s your team?"


    "Swansea."


    "I like the look of your manager. Williams. His teams play some great football, don''t they? Broke the record for most passes before a goal at MK Dons. 56, wasn''t it? 56 passes then a goal. Mwah!" I did a chef''s kiss.


    "He was only the assistant, then." Another joyless answer!


    "Hmm. Good partnership, wasn''t it? Good partnership before setting off on your own." I fell back into silence.


    "Boss!" complained William, when he realised I had shut up. "Could we?"


    "Tell you what, Will. We win tomorrow and beat Grims on Saturday and it''s going to be pandemonium here and in Lincolnshire." I glanced at Llewellyn. "Where it''s going to lead I have no clue but why not enjoy the ride? Opportunities like this don''t come along very often. I''m going to put my back into every training session because I love the idea of being part of something people will talk about forever. So let''s put our entire focus on this next hour, yeah? Who knows? Maybe the owner of Tranmere Rovers will be watching me work again." That hit home - Llewellyn tensed slightly. "I hear he''s buying a club in Spain, too. He''s a good person to know, right? Yeah, being the guy that gets taken to these bonus sessions is great for your career. Everyone at Tranmere and Everton are going to think, why did he get taken? Max Best must think he''s the next big thing."


    "I didn''t go to Everton," said William, with a hint of a sulk.


    "I was talking to Pascal, obviously," I lied. My little speech had landed, and now was the time to shut up. Let those seeds germinate.


    "How come Llewellyn doesn''t have a nickname?" said William, who was the kind of gardener who poured a pint of water into a plant pot once a day and complained his plants always died.


    "Because he doesn''t work for us so I can''t bully him into taking one. And because he is a man of gravitas. Of dignity. Of - "


    "Well In," said Llewellyn.


    "Pardon me?" I said.


    "My nickname''s Well In."


    William flicked his wrist so his fingers cracked together. "Yes! Well In! That''s a boss nickname! Yes, mate!"


    I tried to hide my utter delight. This nickname offer was the greatest breakthrough in the history of human relationships. One dragon fired up, one dragon tamed! "Doesn''t it get confusing? Everyone shouts ''well in'' all the time during training."


    He glanced at me the way I had done to him. "A lot of things are confusing."


    ***


    Tuesday, March 4


    We started the day with a light session at the King George - some shuffling and sliding and some skills work. I sent Josh, Cole, Wibbers, Omari, and Tom Westwood to Tranmere for extra training with Well In. I would have gone myself but the back-and-forth would have risked me being late to the team bus for the ninety-minute drive to Wesham, home of AFC Fylde. Never heard of Wesham? It''s just north of Freckleton and east of Little Plumptom.


    Instead of going to Tranmere I went for a jog in what was effectively my private lane - the one that took me to Clive OK''s house - and then decided to use my free time to go to my office at BoshCard. Jackie was there - we shared the computer and he always messed up my settings - so I waited on the comfy chair and did some work in my head.


    I''d been ignoring the monthly perks to the best of my ability and had saved up a fair few experience points.


    XP balance: 8,128


    This month''s perk was intriguing. I looked at it again.


    New perk available: March Madness


    Cost: 3,333


    Effects: Provides a slight boost in matches when your team is the underdog.


    It might be worth mentioning that the first time I read the perk, it said ''Go Wildcats!'' at the end. Or at least, I think it did.


    As for buying it, we were back to the whole ''slight boost'' kind of language. How slight? If the boost was ten percent then it would have been a no-brainer. This March we were due to play Grimsby, Aldershot, and Oldham. Those three teams had higher CA than us. (The perk would have done nothing against Fylde, Kidderminster, Wealdstone, and Maidstone, but we didn''t need help against those guys.)


    I suspected, based on the price, that the perk would give a one or two percent boost. Okay, you take it if you can, but I felt I could use my XP much more productively.


    I glanced through the perk shop and one that stood out, one that was starting to gnaw at me, was the one called Panopticon. I had already bought the perk and now I had the option of spending 2,000 XP to add squads to my mental screens. I could, for example, add the boys under thirteens and keep an eye on the new players I''d added.


    One was a PA 45 centre back, one a PA 39 left back. Of course I would have liked to stock up on players over PA 100 but I also needed to flesh out the squads for the benefit of the talented players I''d already signed. It was also possible that the scouts who followed me around would eventually come to see these players as ''failures''. Every failure, perceived or actual, would take some of the shine off my perfect scouting track record. And these lads were local and as far as poss I wanted loads of Cheshire and Flintshire kids in the ranks. Long-term that would be great for the club, for example in turning attention from Liverpool and City to the scrappy, increasingly cool local club.


    The third new addition - not all that new, I suppose, and certainly not local - was Adam B. Roberts, William''s younger brother. He was an attacking midfielder who played in the centre. His PA of 92 meant he would have a long and at times glorious career in the sport, though he would always suffer in the comparisons to his brother. He wasn''t with us full-time, of course, but I had joked that when Wibbers started to make mega money he could let Adam move in with him and he said, "Yeah, sure."


    Yeah, the thirteens were starting to look decent, with Future and Big Sam in there, too. As yet I didn''t have anyone over PA 100 but it would come if I kept up my scouting.


    "Well in!"


    I looked up. "What?"


    Jackie held his hands up by the computer screen with no little reverence. "That''s a great email, dat. World class."


    If I''d been wearing sunglasses I would have lifted them up in disbelief. "You spent all that time writing one email?"


    "I''m not like you, lad. I''m not as fecund."


    "The next person to call me fecund," I said, clenching my fist, "is going to get a punch in the gob."


    Jackie laughed hard, which turned into a cough. He still coughed sometimes, but was looking perkier by the day. He stood and stretched. "Done on the computer."


    I sat up. "Right. You''ve got Cheadle away this weekend. That''s the big one. You fighting fit?"


    "Yes, bosh."


    "3-5-2?"


    "What would you do?"


    I blew through my lips. "They need to win to have any chance of catching us, so I''d almost be tempted to do 4-1-4-1 and keep things tight first half. As they get desperate, change Diane to Kisi and go 4-4-1-1 and slap on counters."


    "Would you take a draw?"


    "Yes. Cheadle are the only team that can catch us. But I wouldn''t play for a draw. That''s asking to get beat."


    Jackie pulled on his coat. "Are you thinking about Grimsby?"


    "What?"


    "That''s what they''ll do, lad. They''re in the same position as our women''s team. They''ll take a draw."


    I hadn''t considered that possibility. "Huh. Barnet are chasing them pretty hard. They''re at home. It''ll be a big crowd. Those Grimbarians are a surly lot and if they think their team''s playing for a draw they just might turn."


    Jackie shook his head. "I think I''d be happy with a point in that scenario. I think you''d take a draw. I think the fans will take a draw. Their manager isn''t exactly from the Ossie Ardiles school of management, is he?" Ossie Ardiles played some of the most gung-ho, all-out attacking football in history.


    "Five strikers in a Lee Slade team? I, er, would be surprised. Especially as they only have two. Two and a half."


    He grinned. "Watch out for him going defensive, that''s all I''m saying."


    "We''ve had quite a lot of media interest in this one. Me going back to the club that sacked me and all that. I''m planning to mouth off all week. Do you reckon I can annoy Lee Slade into having a real go at us?"


    Jackie got his phone out and fired off a quick text. Telling Livia he would be down in a couple of minutes, something like that. "I don''t know Grimsby as well as you. What are you expecting?"


    "4-4-2, no risks, safety first at all times. Grind field position. When they go ahead they drop Ed Williams from striker to centre back and do a kind of 5-4-1. They''ve got Danny Grant, their academy star, pulling the strings in midfield. Most of their creativity comes from him and when Wainwright was there it was a deadly combo. Now it''s Danny Grant to Danny Flash."


    "The kid you hauled off the pitch because he was sulking? Donnie Wormwood''s nephew?"


    "Yep. He''s okay but there are like eight other teams with better strikers in this league. I''m not worried about him but he works hard and he wins free kicks. Since Wainwright left, most of their goals have come from Danny Grant brilliance and set pieces." I''d answered my own question. "They''re not going to go all-out attacking. It''s not in the manager''s nature and they don''t have the players for it."


    Jackie scratched the side of his jaw. "What about the fans?"


    "They''re great. When they''re behind the team it''s electric. I''ll be doing a Vimsy special to shush them up. They''re fickle. When they turn, they turn."


    Jackie got a ping on his phone and glanced down. He smiled. "If I were Lee Slade I''d be shitting myself wondering what you were plotting. Wind them up, lad. Don''t tame the crowd. Turn them."


    We spent a few seconds grinning at each other. We were a good team. "If the media spends the next three days pecking his head about his team blowing a twenty-point lead, think that might change his outlook?"


    "No. You should do it anyway."


    I slipped into the chair he had vacated and stretched my fingers out, hoping for a healthy cracking noise. "Why?"


    "Because it''ll be funny."


    ***


    AFC Fylde 0 Chester 2 - Post-Match Presser with Max Best


    Kirkham and Wesham Advertiser: Well in, Max. That was a complete performance from your men. How do you feel?


    I think it''s best if we get something out of the way. I know you''re going to ask me about the Devon Loch thing and I can''t really comment on it. As far as I know those videos were the work of a disgruntled member of our social media team who was on his last day of work and wanted to go out with a bang.


    What videos?


    Haven''t you seen them? They''re all about Devon Loch, the horse who was twenty points ahead - sorry, twenty strides ahead - and he was cruising to the title and suddenly his legs just went. Poof. Just suddenly everything stopped working. I don''t know what it is about the Devon Loch story that seems to resonate all these years later but yeah, there''s still a kind of residual shock in seeing someone who''s far, far ahead just blow an enormous lead like that. I think it''s unfair to compare that story to what Grimsby seem to be doing because Grimsby won tonight.


    They drew.


    What? They drew? Against Halifax? Sorry, you must be mistaken. Grimsby are fifteen points ahead of us.


    It''s thirteen now.


    Thirteen? Unlucky for us! Because Grimsby are in no way doing a Devon Loch and shame on you for repeating the phrase. Beth, did you hear that? Do not go on and on about it.


    Daily Mail: I promise I won''t. Can you answer the question now? How do you feel?


    Yeah, good. Like this chap said it was a near-complete performance.


    You picked a very strong team.


    Well, you have to, really. Fylde are dangerous. It''s not a game for rotation.


    Chipper scored the first goal and appeared to gesture towards the dugout. What''s the story there?


    No story, just zeal. He''s a red dragon and he''s in full flight. He''s magnificent and he knows it. So he breathes fire from time to time? That''s what dragons do, Beth. You should know that by now. If you need to learn more about magical creatures there''s a great colouring book I''ll send you.


    There''s no beef between you?


    If there is, it''s roast beef, now. Chipper likes his meat well done and I like my goals well done and his goal was - nah, that''s terrible. Cut that. He played great. He was absolutely immense, to be honest. I liked his assist for Henri even more than his goal.


    You seem awfully pleased with yourself about something.


    I have a medical condition known as smirky resting face and it''s actually quite rude that you''ve brought it up.


    Lancashire Evening Post: I know some of the home fans will be disappointed that you didn''t play tonight. There are rumours you''re hiding an injury. Are you?


    No. I''m as fit as Devon Loch when he blew a twenty-point lead and I''m available for selection on Saturday if my manager wants to pick me. We know Grimsby will want to banish all talk of being a dour, defensive - hang on - a failing, dour, defensive team. They will come at us fast and furious with attacking, attractive football in the famous Grimsby Town tradition. Their fans demand and deserve nothing less.


    What kind of reception do you expect from the Grimsby fans this weekend?


    I think they will politely ignore me. Or they''ll have forgotten I was ever there. That''s what sports fans do, right? They forget things, like we all forgot about Devon Loch in 1956.


    ***


    There was some impromptu karaoke on the team bus home. Morale was sky high and the team-plus-staff chat group (please do not confuse this with the team-only chat) was full of people shouting COULD WE.


    Sandra pulled me to a free seat and said, "Max. I don''t really know how to ask this, but... could we?"


    I roared with laughter. "If we beat Grims, any-fucking-thing is possible. Did you see Chipper? We got a pure ten out of ten performance from him. A few more of those and we''re going to romp this league. We could win by ten points! I''m not even joking."


    Sandra bit her lip and closed her eyes. "Whatever you said to him, it worked. Are you going to tell me the secret?"


    I shrugged. "Reverse psychology, I guess."


    "Don''t overuse it."


    I glanced around. Chipper''s profile still showed that he had lost confidence in me and that joining the club had been a mistake. But his Morale was up. The risk reward of using him against Grimsby was now massively in favour of reward. I would name him in the team and we would absolutely smash our rivals, climb to third, and chase them down.


    "You know what?" I said. "We don''t need to come in tomorrow morning to hear my tactics. The plan is really fucking simple. I can tell them right now and they can have the morning off. What do you think?"


    She smiled. "You''re not still planning to do the most frustrating tactic of all time?"


    "Of course I am."


    She took a few seconds to think about it. "Yeah, tell them."


    "I won''t tell them the whole thing." At Grimsby, my tactics had been leaked by a player-coach called Otis King - AKA The Mole - and while most of the time I didn''t give two hoots if my opponents knew my plans, this weekend I did. The driver was a guy I knew and liked but if someone offered him two hundred quid to reveal the match tactics, he would. And did I fully trust Chipper? Did I fuck. Little did I know I was about to make a mistake - quite innocently, for once - that would come back to haunt me.


    I took the microphone from the driver and got everyone''s attention. "Guys. If you shut the fuck up and listen you can have tomorrow morning off." There were some cheers that got shushed by the more intelligent players. "Okay. I''ll give you the broad strokes and you''ll get more detail on Saturday. But basically we''re going to play 4-4-1. Imagine someone got a red card and we have to play with ten. That''s the plan." My voice was trailing off because Chipper was giving me a death stare. Something I''d said had taken his feeling that I was a shit manager and solidified it. His profile, in addition to the other messages, now included the phrases:


    Dislikes Max Best.


    Feels he has been victimised by his manager.


    Considering his options.


    "So rest tomorrow," I said, kind of stunned. "Unless you''re in the Tranmere group. And on Thursday we''ll do 4-4-1 shape work." I couldn''t believe this was happening. "Just like we did last season when Goliath was on loan. You all remember that. You all remember how that turned out. Er... that''s it." After a fantastic away win, it didn''t feel right to end on such a tame note. "Enjoy the ride home. Enjoy your morning off. Well in, lads."


    I clicked the microphone off.


    I knew I would not enjoy the ride home. I knew I would not enjoy the morning off.


    Somehow, I had screwed up. Llewellyn was well in, but Chipper was all the way out.

 10.9 - The Prisoner

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    9.


    Wednesday, 5 March


    Like most of the first team squad, I didn''t set an alarm and treated myself to a lie-in.


    After a lovely, lazy morning in bed I pottered around the garden at the front of Ruth''s cottage. It was coming to life, or thinking about it. The star was a patch of daffodils... that I didn''t plant. Was that a metaphor for Chester? Not really. Just as I had planted most of the shrubs and bushes that were starting to produce hesitant little buds, I had brought in most of the squad''s quality. If the daffodils symbolised anything it was either Carl Carlile or Aff - guys I had inherited.


    Both were CA 70 and were churning out 7 out of 10 performances as a minimum. I still didn''t have the perk that showed me average ratings for this season but I reckoned Aff and Carl were solid 7.5s. I wandered off to the back garden, the part I had done almost nothing with. I had plans for it that had been deprioritised, just as once upon a time I had been working towards unlocking this season''s average ratings. Those numbers had seemed like they were going to be transformational, but now I suspected I understood the match ratings better.


    Someone putting in 5 out of 10 performances every week was probably being misused by his manager. Take Youngster. Played in the DM slot, he regularly popped out 8s. Pushed to CM that fell to 7s. His only appearance at right midfield had been 4 out of 10. If a struggling player''s CA, PA, and attributes were solid, I would probably still want to sign him, right? A player averaging 6.5 was no less appealing to me than one averaging 8.5. In fact, the 8.5 guys were probably fairly priced by the market; I was shopping in the lower end. Huh - stray thought. Maybe I needed the average ratings perk so that I could find high CA players with low match ratings. Buy them, put them in the right position and role, boom! Turn them into assets.


    My eyes swept the space. It had briefly threatened to get overgrown in the autumn but I''d had a pruning Sunday with the Brig (rock star), Henri (wise but slow), and Ziggy (useless but great company) while Ruth, Luisa, and Emma brought us teas and tartlets before riding out. Now it was looking like a fun project... for someone else. I liked living in Ruth''s spare house - the price was right - but I was starting to think bigger. If the stars aligned, if we got promoted, if I found a couple of Brazilians for Tranmere, maybe if I did a bit more media work... there was the slightest chance I could get on the property ladder.


    A place of our own. My income plus Emma''s.


    Could we?


    I smiled and went to make a tea.


    While waiting for it to brew (five minutes, minimum three jiggles of the tea bag), I thought about my God Save the King perk. It would allow me to boost one attribute on one player and I had to use it before the end of the season. The most obvious thing to do was to use it on Youngster, my walking lottery ticket, but he was off in AFCON adding a point in CA every four or five days. As his agent I would make sure he maxed out his PA by natural methods. A slightly left-field idea was to use it on Angel. Would her Finishing rise from 20 to 21? It seemed impossible, but I regularly did impossible things. Why, only that morning had I managed to listen to the news without tearing my ears off my head.


    Giving a boost to anyone who wasn''t maxed on PA seemed stupid. Wasteful. Almost cowardly. I had to believe that I would be able to get the coaches and facilities needed to train everyone to their best. Anyway, Angel''s Finishing would still be at 20 next year if I wanted to go down that route. If the women''s transfer market continued to inflate, maybe I would think about it but really if I was going to use the perk on her I''d have given her a point in Heading. There weren''t many female strikers who were deadly from crosses. Angel was already better than most, but unlike Youngster she wasn''t my client. If I wanted a house in Cheshire, a new car, a villa in Gibraltar and a mansion in, er, Saltney, I needed cash. Angel wasn''t my client; Youngster was.


    No, not Angel, but not Youngster, either. Who in my realm had maxed their potential? Glenn Ryder, but giving him a point in Strength or Heading wouldn''t get him back in the first eleven. Steve Alton was out on loan and probably wouldn''t be coming back. Ben Cavanagh was close to his maximum, but the perk wasn''t set up for goalkeepers.


    Aff, then. Giving the bonus to him would make him a better player (helpful for the rest of the season), would let me increase his transfer value, and would let me test my theory that by using this perk I could increase a player''s PA. It was the curse equivalent of using Champion Manager''s data editor to change the values. God, how many XP would it cost to get a full editor? A billion? First thing I''d do would be to edit Man City''s points to minus 115. Second, edit my aggression down to 1. Third, change Henri''s nationality to English for a couple of days.


    I brought up the description of God Save the King. The text seemed ancient, like reading Chaucer or something.


    Effects: Nominate a ''King'' and channel one of his notable attributes into a player of your choosing. One use per season.


    Kings: John Charles (STR; HD). Carlos Valderrama (FL; CRE). Michel Platini (PAS; SET). Denis Law (OFF; FIN).


    Aff was a two-way left midfielder. His role in the team was to provide defensive cover on his wing while exploding forward to hit crosses to the strikers.


    Strength? Heading? Aff had no problems there - he could hold his own against most full backs.


    Flair and Creativity? Aff wouldn''t be joining me on my Relationism journey, and whatever his scores were in those attributes, they were surely low, which meant adding one point would be wasted. There were two things I was sure of when it came to attributes. First, there were decimals and they were invisible. A player with Passing 10 who was getting regular training in good facilities was improving even if he didn''t turn green. For example, in a particular week he might go from Passing 10.56 to 10.58. Such a marginal improvement would be invisible, of course, to the naked eye. The second thing was that the effects of the numbers were something like exponential. In curse terms, the difference between Heading 1 and Heading 2 would be tiny, like 0.1 CA. The difference between Heading 19 and Heading 20 would be pretty big, perhaps 2 or 3 CA. Obviously, if I wanted to boost Aff''s PA it would have to be with an attribute that was already high.


    Passing and Set pieces? My playing style - Cambrian Explosions apart - was based around passing. Giving Aff another passing point (from 11 to 12) would be a safe option. But over the remaining dozen games, would anyone notice? Set pieces was a very, very tempting option, but I hadn''t unlocked that attribute and I didn''t know Aff''s rating. Tempting as it was to make him better at corners, there was no way I would upgrade an invisible number.


    Off? Aff wasn''t caught offside very often and, again, I hadn''t unlocked that attribute.


    So, yeah. Finishing. In a way it wasn''t sexy because it was the obvious choice. The decision didn''t make me feel like a wizard. But taking Aff from Finishing 12 to 13 could mean another couple of goals in the next twelve games. Goals that could get us promoted. Goals that would attract the attention of other clubs even if you''d need to see him take a thousand shots to definitively see that he had improved. And, crazily, my strategy for the Grimsby match would not encourage my guys to take shots.


    Done! I went to get my phone - so many messages - and after checking there was no new information that would affect my decision, called Aff and added him to today''s Tranmere party. We would do twenty minutes of finishing practice and I would trigger the perk halfway through to see if I could notice anything.


    I was quite pleased with myself, and quite excited, too, when I doomshadowed myself.


    What if I used the perk on Aff and the curse refused to change his attribute?


    What if I was about to waste one of my most powerful weapons?


    I nearly triggered it there and then just to get the dark thoughts resolved one way or another, but the timer on my tea beeped and the ritual of squeezing out the last bits of deliciousness and adding the milk calmed me down.


    Tea. It just sorts you right out.


    ***


    At Tranmere I left my phone in my locker and while Well In coached Aff, Henri, Ziggy, Wes, and Angel in striker skills, I did my own session. To try to ensure the curse counted me as being trained by the elite coach, I stayed on the half of the pitch that Well In was patrolling and I asked him to shout ''yes, Max!'' sometimes. Obviously he thought it was weird but I didn''t much care - I needed my CA high for Grimsby.


    The build I was temporarily going for was kind of the opposite of the ''twenty minutes of technical perfection'' that I''d been using the rest of the season. Now I needed fitness, so I was doing shuttle runs. When cooling down, I slapped free kicks at goal. Sprint. Free kick. Sprint. Free kick. In the morning I would test myself with the Airofit device to see if my lung capacity had changed. It was rising slower than I would like but even I couldn''t go from having twenty minutes of stamina to ninety in a matter of days.


    Then the big moment!


    Halfway through a shooting drill (combined with some build up play), I Max Blessed Aff with my mighty, reality-bending powers.


    At the time, he was behind Henri and Angel waiting for his next turn. When I added one to his Finishing, parts of his profile turned green. He himself got a confused look on his face, stuck his finger in his ear, and jiggled it around. I waited for more, but that was his entire reaction.


    It was his turn. He ran to a mannequin, touched it, crabbed five steps left, took a pass from Well In, gave it back, went around another mannequin, and side-footed the return pass into the bottom-left of the goal. Fairly basic. No visible difference in his play, not that I expected it.


    But his profile!


    His profile was so beautiful. Three numbers had gone up.


    Finishing 13


    CA 72


    PA 72


    "Well in!" I cried, punching the air.


    "Yes?" said Llewellyn.


    "You praise that scuffed daisy cutter but not my thunderbastards?" said Henri. Somehow he had lived his entire life without hearing the word thunderbastard until recently and now he was obsessed with it.


    Thrilled that something had gone right for once, I rolled a ball to the right, took a step, and cannonballed it. It flew, wobbled in the air, and cracked against the crossbar. "Whoo!" I said. "Checkmate, Grimsby! Say goodbye to your season! Come the fuck on, lads! Yes!"


    I got another ball, rolled it left, and Beckhamed it so that it rose, curved, dipped, bypassed the mannequin who was acting as the goalie, and swished into the side of the net.


    "Holy shit," said Ziggy.


    "Why don''t you do that in matches?" said Wes.


    "Because it wouldn''t be fair," I growled. My blood was pumping, my jaw tight. Aff''s PA was up. My PA was sky high and my CA was climbing. The season had been a slog, a struggle, we had suffered, but now it was all coming together. Grimsby were old, tiring, and in decline. We were improving in all areas of the pitch and if we started the season right now we would absolutely crush it.


    Was there enough time left?


    Thirteen points behind. Twelve games left. Eleven improving players. Ten set piece goals. Nine clean sheets. Eight views of Emma.


    I blinked. They were all watching me. "Get back to work!" Henri and Angel exchanged a smile and the drill recommenced.


    ***


    I lay on my back, panting, sweating. I had gone mental: sprinting, shooting, taking free kicks, sprinting. Every time I felt I''d done enough I got another burst of motivation and at some point I''d decided I would run till I dropped.


    "What got into you?" Angel was looming over me.


    "Questions are a burden to others. Answers, a prison for oneself."


    "Is that a poem?"


    "I''m going to crush your boyfriend on Saturday. Soz in advance."


    She did a tiny grin. "You''ve got your main character energy back."


    I forced myself up onto my elbows. "What does that mean?"


    "In a TV show you''ve got the hero - "


    "I know what the words mean. What do you mean?"


    She assessed me. "You''re going to beat Grimsby and set up a wild finish to the season."


    "I have no ambitions in that direction."


    Her smile rolled like a wave as she cycled through various conversation options. "The documentary needs this."


    "The documentary''s about the women."


    "If the men get promoted you''ll give us some of the budget, right?"


    "Right."


    "So that''s actually more important than our own promotion."


    "Er, no."


    "Don''t worry," she said, with her cutest pout. She noticed my frown and switched tack. "Don''t worry," she said. "We''ll take our games seriously. But I''m thinking the third-last episode of the documentary should be some of us going to Grimsby to watch that game. We talk about our hopes and fears. How we''re your prisoners."


    "Prisoners?" I brought my knees up.


    "It''s like you said. If the men''s team stuffs up, we suffer. If you win a prize, we get to keep the box. I know you want us to break ourselves out but we''re relying on you for the next two seasons at least. I don''t want the doc to fizzle out and Henri agrees with me. We need more from you. You''re the main character."


    I rolled my neck around and enjoyed it so much I did it again. "What do you and Henri suggest?"


    She grinned and knelt down in front of me. "You''re being all secretive about your plan, right? The goss is that you''ve got a Maxterpiece all cooked but you''re not sharing. Which I get because you don''t trust anyone but can you tell it to someone and film it? It''s always really impressive when you say the plan and then it happens just like you predict. At least let us film the pre-match team talk¡­ but we''ve already got a lot of dressing room footage. We''ve got two days to make it visually arresting."


    I bent my head into the space between my knees while I hid a smile. "Where are you learning to talk like this?"


    She blushed, which was incredibly rare. "Bonnie''s letting me do some media training. Ruth''s helping. So''s, you know, Danny."


    "Is he good at that?" I asked, not bothering to hide my doubt.


    "His uncle''s a genius at using the media," she said, referring to champion boxer Donnie Wormwood. "Okay, I''m thinking we rent a warehouse and get a fog machine and you''ll record your team talk and we''ll put it to non-diegetic music in the style of a heist movie."


    I laughed. "And what if we get slapped four-nil?"


    She smiled. "That''s great content. We''ll transition between the planning stage and the match footage, going from, like, moody and atmospheric to clown car music. We can speed up the footage like in Benny Hill."


    "How do you know about Benny Hill?"


    "Henri''s always pushing Sophie to include a Benny Hill sequence. He says Benny ''ill is this country''s only serious contribution to world culture." She tilted her head. "I''d prefer if you won, though. Have you got a good plan?"


    "Yeah."


    "Can we do something then, please? Please?"


    I held a hand up - thoughts were assailing me from all directions. "I want to say no but I''ve just had a good idea. I can feed two birds with one worm."


    "Feed birds?"


    I got to my feet. "I''m trying to use less violent imagery. You know, killing birds isn''t really compatible with the woke champion image I''m trying to create."


    She fell into step beside me on our way back to the showers. "Two things. One, your version involves killing a worm, so that''s not much better. Two, I don''t think anyone''s ever going to believe you''re woke. Hard prison warden with a heart of gold, yes. Woke champion, no."


    "Angel, do you ever think about anything other than the documentary and getting famous? Have you got a hobby? Interests?"


    "I''m learning French."


    I made a spluttering kind of noise. "Of all the dead languages! Why?"


    "It''s the language of love."


    "80s pop music is the language of love. Really why?"


    She looked at me and went through a decision-making process. "When I''ve helped you save football," she started, "and when you can''t take my career any further, I might not want to stay in England and play against Chester. So I''ll go to PSG."


    I stopped walking and she gave me an apprehensive look. "Why them?"


    "By then they''ll be the best team and pay the highest wages. I''ll get next-level famous there and I''ll be the face of Chanel or Dior."


    "I like it." We started walking again and she smiled all the way to the door. I was about to pull it open for her when I paused. "I hope you''ll give me the chance to match their offer."


    She seemed disappointed in me. "Max, they''re European giants. They''ve got the best players in the world."


    "Yeah," I said. "Give me a chance to match it."


    She half-smiled. "You''re delulu."


    "That''s not my delusions talking, that''s my main character energy."


    ***


    On the drive back, I got a call from Gwendolyn, my mate at the Welsh FA. "Max. Quick call. Saltney keep winning. It''s almost scary."


    "Yeah it is."


    "Are you happy with Llewellyn?"


    "Am I happy with Llewellyn?" I repeated, partly because I was surprised by the question and partly so he could hear my answer. "He''s amazing. If he looked good in a ponytail, I''d marry him."


    "That''s good. I think. We''ve been talking and we''ve agreed it would be stupid to wait to the end of the season to decide what to do. We''re going to finance the 3G pitch at Saltney."


    "Yes!" I said, slapping the dashboard.


    She put her hand over the phone and turned to someone and said ''he''s happy''. To me, she said, "I thought you never celebrate?"


    I celebrate a national FA handing me five hundred thousand pounds! "I''m stoked. Are you going to do the northern powerhouse?"


    "One step at a time, Max. But I wanted to get started on this so we can book the builders. They get busy in summer, as you can imagine. Did you get the grants and finance for your pitch at Chester?"


    "Yeah, it''s all ready. Brooke has a date, I think, but she''s not happy with it or she''d have told me. She''s going to try to charm them into getting us moved up the priority list."


    "We can help. We''ll do both pitches at the same time, yes? That''s convenient for the builders. Send me Brooke''s number and we''ll work it out for you."


    "Oh my God, wow. This is above and beyond!"


    "You gave five Welsh girls their debut in an eight-nil win. That''s above and beyond."


    I thought about it. "Actually, no. That''s just what we do."


    "You made a lot of people very happy that day, Max. I''m, er, stoked to return the favour. Good luck this weekend!" She clicked off without saying goodbye, like a detective in a movie or an Australian.


    I stayed calm for four seconds, then slapped the dash five times in rapid succession. "Yes yes yes yes YES!" My all-weather pitches! My cash machines! These bad boys would definitely improve our facilities score and help us attract better players. Maybe not in time for the day when all the free agents came on the market, but by the end of the summer, surely. By the end of the summer transfer window. Yes?


    "Good news, boss?"


    "Yes, Wes. Very good. Our training pitches might get built early. Time to buy some portacabins. Whoo! I. Am. Psyched!" I felt bad about hitting Well In''s car, so I slapped myself on the thighs a few times. "Urgh! I love Wales! I love WALES, Well In! Well In?"


    "Yes, Max?"


    "Do you want to come to Wales with me tomorrow? Or Friday, maybe. I might need some equipment."


    "What kind? Mannequins? Ball bags? Cones?"


    "No, recording equipment. I''m going to Portmeirion to record my pre-match team talk."


    "Oh," he said. "The theme is The Prisoner, is it?"


    "Damn skippy, it is."


    He nodded a few times. "I''ll go, yes. It''s a lovely town."


    Wes leaned forward as far as his seatbelt would allow, like a guy in an olden-days cell who was chained to the wall. "What''s Port Marion? What''s The Prisoner?"


    "You have to wait till Saturday," I said, smugly. He whipped his phone out. "Oi!" I said. "No peeking or you have to go in goal at training tomorrow."


    He grimaced, shook his head, and decided he would have to suffer the agony of not knowing.


    I sat back, closed my eyes, and imagined the day I checked Saltney''s bank account and saw that someone had deposited sixty pounds to rent our pitch for an hour. The first sixty pounds of many! I wondered if I could set up a ping that would sound every time I got another booking.


    Ping! Ping! Ping!


    It was hard to believe it had just happened, but it very much seemed that with one phone call, my personal income had just risen by eighty thousand pounds a year.


    "Pull over at the next services, Well In! I''m going to treat you all to coffee and croissants!"


    "I''m not thirsty."


    "Twixes for everyone!"


    "Don''t really like them."


    "I''ll fill your tank with premium unleaded!"


    "It''s diesel."


    I thumped my skull back onto the headrest and roared with laughter. The possibility had just occurred to me that Well In wasn''t miserable, but that he simply had a sense of humour so dry it could be used as a towel. I got my phone out and sent Emma a long update. She replied pretty fast.


    Emma: You''re excited!


    Me: What makes you say that?


    Emma: By the end half of every sentence was emojis. You never use emojis.


    Me: I am excited. It''s happening. We''re going places.


    Emma: Where are we going?


    Me: I mean right now I''m going to Ellesmere [anchor emoji] and maybe a McDonald''s [car emoji]-through but then we''re going to the [moon emoji]. Me and my [plane emoji][bee emoji].


    Emma: What was the last bit?


    Me: Fly honey. That¡¯s you. I don''t have better emojis.


    Emma: Babes, you''re a [football emoji] [brain emoji] and you''ve got some [cash emoji]. Buy an emoji pack!


    Me: Sure. Right after I buy cosmetic horse armour.


    ***


    In the afternoon I went to watch a match between players from the school next to Saltney - soon to be home to the most wonderful 105 by 68 metre piece of real estate in the galaxy - and in the evening I went to watch the youth teams train while having an excited natter with the parents, guardians, older siblings and whoever was there. I wanted to talk about their kids; they wanted to ask a simple two-word question. In between conversations, I popped to the nearby five-a-side pitches to scout.


    I caused a commotion when I went to the bar to get a water. The staff wanted selfies and the guys waiting to play came over and everyone was yapping could we could we could we and it was like feeding time at the puppy pound. Finally, I got up on a chair and, while they recorded me and while my main character energy was spiking to preposterous levels, leaving me incredibly stupid but incredibly charismatic, I yelled, "Message for Grimsby!" I imagined an expert cameraman sensing the moment and zooming in on me, then did my cockiest Patrick McGoohan expression as I took the energy all the way down and murmured, "Be seeing you!"


    ***


    Thursday, 6 March


    In the morning we had the best training session in a long time. I had switched the big foot cast to a more subtle blue strapping that was just visible if I hitched my tracksuit bottoms up. The idea was that Grimsby''s spies might think I was injured but pretending to be healthy. This scam was probably a lot of work for nothing, but it was the biggest game of the season and there was no reason to skimp on the mind games.


    Yeah, the session was intense. Morale was high but it had been rising for a while so that wasn¡¯t the cause. I think the extra effort and quality came from a general sense the players were getting around the city that something amazing might happen. The ''could we?'' line wasn''t old yet. As I watched my talented players thunder around Sandra''s session, I realised the mood would last until we next lost or got a disappointing draw against one of the minnows.


    Vimsy told me he had seen a flag hanging out of a tower block with the words COULD WE? written across the centre.


    Physio Dean said he''d gone to pick up some medical supplies and everyone stopped work to pepper him with questions.


    Henri said he''d gone to Tiny Tino to wait for Luisa to finish her shift and the entire place had burst into applause. (A likely story!)


    Even more telling was when I gathered the squad and said that after Friday''s session I would be popping to Portmeirion to film something and while it was a two-hour drive one-way and it wasn''t exactly Vegas at the other end, everyone was invited. Josh Owens, who normally hid behind a watchful, guarded mask, shot his hand into the air, first to volunteer.


    I regarded him. He was just as much a prisoner as any inmate of Alcatraz. His desire to be a professional football player was all-consuming even though the sport had mostly caused him pain. Aged eighteen, binned off by his former club, the door to his cell had opened but he¡¯d shied away from the harsh light of the outside world. Just as he was coming to terms with his unwanted freedom, an absolute madman had offered him the shittest contract Josh had ever conceived of but such was the nature of his self-capture he had clutched the contract to his chest and slammed his cell door shut.


    Now, though, the city of Chester had installed fifty-foot tall Tesla-coils that were zapping all and sundry, zapping them with unfamiliar energies called hope and belief. Josh had been zapped, big-time, and while he wanted to stay in his cell, he also wanted to get zapped again. Whatever we were doing, he wanted to be part of it, even - especially - if it was only going to last another two days.


    His hand was the first of many.


    I got another blast of the untamed electricity. "Fucking come on!" I said, punching the air so hard I almost span. While every screensaver ever made played in front of my eyeballs simultaneously, one maddening little sticky note popped up. It read: organise cars. The younger guys didn''t have wheels, yet. "Er, who''s coming who''s got a car?"


    "Boss," said Glenn Ryder, stepping forward. "Let me handle the arrangements."


    "Urgh," I said, clenching at the effort of containing the immense pride I was feeling. "I can''t wait till kick off! I''m gonna fucking burst! Grimsby on toast, mate. Breakfast of champions!"


    ***


    I went to another school match, went to watch more of our youth teams train, went to trawl the five-a-sides. I didn''t find another Raffi Brown but I invited any young prospect with a PA higher than 40 to train with us. After all, I would need players at Saltney and guys in the 40-50 range would get into most Cymru Premier sides.


    Would it be ethically wrong to use Chester''s resources to train players I intended for use at Saltney? How about... no. I''d told the world my plan was to develop talent and that''s what I intended to do. So some Chester lads would play for Saltney and some Welsh stars would play for Chester. So what? Sounded like multi-culturalism done right to me.


    That evening, I drove to Henri''s house, bundled him into my car, and went to Bumpers Lane. I plopped down two little camping chairs in the approximate location of where the first of many centre spots would be. We sat there drinking warm, alcohol-free punch while staring at the Deva. I talked about how I was going to make hundreds of millions of pounds and turn this unloved, unremarkable corner of the country into a gleaming, shining, roads-paved-with-gold football paradise.


    "No-one who enters will ever want to leave," I said.


    "Ah," he said. "That''s why you want to visit Portmeirion. You want to build a prison."


    "No," I said, fake annoyed. "I want to build a place where billionaires pass through but every time they come they leave behind a hundred million pounds."


    Henri grinned. "You want to build a bank."


    "No," I started, but got a jolt of realisation. "Hey! I kind of do. I was imagining myself more as Robin Hood. Take from the rich, give to the poor, minus commission." Henri cackled. "But a bank... Take their money, invest it, have assets so it''s self-sustaining. Bumpers Lane. Bumpers Bank."


    Henri tested it. "Bumpers Bank. Hmm. No-one will understand. They will think it refers to the bank of the river, there."


    "Good. Fine. I''ll know. It''s the place I store my savings, the place I keep my valuables. My rough diamonds and my trophy cabinet full of silver and, er... Help me out, bro."


    "Are there any female players called Ruby?"


    "No."


    "Could you sign a player called Bearer Bonds?"


    "I wish." I got my phone out and texted MD and Brooke.


    The training complex will be called Bumpers Bank.


    I sighed, content, and stayed that way until Henri shifted. "Max," he said.


    "Yes?"


    "Could we?"


    I clapped my hands. "Time to go!"


    ***


    Friday, 7 March


    The excitement was getting out of control. If a shop had a chalk board outside, it had a ''come on Chester!'' message. If kids were playing out, they were wearing their Chester tops. Overnight, some rapscallion had pasted a dozen ''SEALS ARE GOING UP'' posters on the windows of the Liverpool FC shop in the city centre.


    I don''t approve of such behaviour, and that''s the honest truth, no word of a lie.


    The 35th match of our league campaign had the feeling of a cup final. It was incredible.


    I stood next to Sandra and gave feedback on the firsts vs reserves session we were watching. Adjusting what we were doing based on what I knew the Grimsby players were and weren''t capable of. It was nothing drastic, just tweaks. Optimisations. Getting the last one percent just right.


    The more specific and technical I got, the more Sandra''s eyes lit up. After fifteen minutes, I cracked.


    "Okay, what is going on? Why do you like it when I get into the weeds?"


    "Who wouldn''t like that?" she said.


    "Ninety-nine point nine percent of people."


    She shook her head. "My partner will spend time and money getting her computer to go two percent faster. People spend hours getting their car exhaust noisier or reducing their energy bills like it''s a hobby. I love it when we get so granular, Max. This is where I learn the most and I love the feeling that we''re really, really prepared and we really, really, have a chance."


    "Interesting. We''ll need to get more granular the higher we go so that''s something to look forward to." Sandra nodded her head eagerly even though I''d been taking the piss. I laughed. "And we''ll have loads of visualised data. Heat maps and pass maps and that sort of thing. As for our chances against Grims - yeah, we''re favourites."


    She glanced at me, then away, then back. "Would you reconsider using Chipper?"


    "No." I had given Sandra the outline of our falling out which was hard given that I couldn''t mention the curse.


    "So that''s him out for the season?"


    "Yes. Except..."


    "What?"


    "The weekend I''m away. I was thinking you could use him then. He''ll be fired up, won''t he? He''ll rip into Maidstone and Henri can have a rest. It''ll be Henri''s only break until the end of the season, probably. I mean, you''re in charge so if you''d rather not take the risk with Chipper..."


    "No, I''ll use him. That plan makes sense. I''m the assistant, I believe in him. I say to him, prove to the world you''re right and Max is wrong. That sort of thing."


    "Yeah. It seems... good?"


    "Not as good as letting him play every match."


    "Ah, well," I said. "But he''s the only person in this entire city who isn''t optimistic, so, not to put too fine a point on it... fuck him. Are you coming to Wales?"


    "Wouldn''t miss it."


    ***


    Portmeirion


    I wore a black top under a black blazer with white piping and stepped out of the car, eyes hooded, looking up suspiciously. With my homage to Patrick McGoohan complete, I burst into a smile. The place was worth the drive!


    Close your eyes and imagine you''re on Brooke''s superyacht traveling around the Mediterranean. You point at a cute village with houses coloured yellow, pink, red, and cream, and it''s so pretty and idyllic you burst out, "Please hurry and tell me the name of this eighth wonder of the world!"


    And Brooke replies, "That''s Portofino."


    Now - hey! Eyes still closed! - now imagine Portofino has been copied and pasted... into North Wales.


    That''s Portmeirion.


    Josh Owens came up to me with a big, confused smile. "What is this place?"


    I held up a finger, slapped a big round badge on me that said ''77'', and took a hand-held camera out of its case. Sophie had shown me six times how to attach the microphone and get it to record, and as luck would have it, Henri was around to do it for me.


    I pointed the lens at my long throw specialist. "Josh, ask me again but do that same goofy smile."


    He rolled his eyes but did a pretty good approximation of his original tone as I filmed him asking. "What is this place?"


    I swept the lens around the pink, yellow, and cream buildings set into the lush green Welsh countryside. "This is where an absolute mad lad called Patrick McGoohan filmed a TV show called The Prisoner." A collection of my players gathered around as I started monologuing. Should I get into it already? Why not? I handed the camera to Henri and brought Josh into shot beside me. "Henri told me about it. It''s from the 1960s and it''s psychedelic and totally bonkers. There are seventeen episodes but only the first and last have a fixed place in the running order. No two countries broadcast the episodes in the same sequence and no two fans can agree on what the proper order should be. It''s about a former spy who resigned and was imprisoned on an island while the government or the illuminati or whoever tried to make him say why he quit. He got a squad number - he was Number Six - and while they were trying to crack him, he was trying to crack them because the villain every week was a different person called Number Two and Number Six was going crazy wondering who Number One was." I smiled. "Was it Grimsby? Barnet? Or Chester itself?" Behind the camera, Henri pursed his lips and nodded, delighted by how I was adapting the source material. "Number Six was a badass and he had the upper hand in fights and mental sparring but he could never beat the system and every time he thought he was getting off the island, a giant football would seduce him and bring him back."


    "Superb," said Henri.


    "What," said Josh and several others.


    "Guys," I said, "The whole thing was batshit crazy. I watched, like, six episodes. Some aren''t very good, four out of ten you''re dropped mate, but some are stellar. Man of the match, let''s talk about a new contract. What''s crazy is that the Mediterranean village you see in that show is actually this! Here, in North Wales. When Henri told me that I literally couldn''t believe him. All right. This whole place is a feast for the senses. Let''s go have a potter, check out the living chess board, and we''ll go get a snack when I''m hungry."


    "When you''re hungry?" asked Well In.


    "Yeah," I said. "If you want to get involved in decision-making," I tapped my number. "Get registered to vote. They sell number badges in the shop."


    "Bagsy number 9!" said Tom Westwood.


    "You can''t!" said Henri. "I''m number 9. Max, tell him!"


    Tom and the other youngsters rushed off, and Henri looked from me to them. Seeing I wasn''t going to get involved, he gave me the camera back and scurried off after them, pausing to veer left when they went right. The fun had started!


    Sandra came next to me and I adjusted the camera to show us both. "I''ve seen this aesthetic somewhere," she said. "The big round numbers and all that."


    "The show was extremely influential," I said. "And the ending, where we find out who Number One is, was so anticipated and so hyped but people expected a simple resolution and what they got was so mental and allegorical there were billions of complaints to the TV station. Patrick McGoohan had to leave the country for the storm to die down."


    "I hope that''s not foreshadowing for our result against Grimsby."


    "I got you something," I said.


    "Oh?" I went to the car and came back a few seconds later, going arm-to-arm with Sandra again. I held her gift up to the camera. It was a big, round badge with a number. She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said the Number Twos were villains."


    "Some. Not all. Number Two and Number Six were symbiotic. They needed each other. Made each other better, until at the end they had a therapy battle resulting in one character breaking the other''s will."


    She laughed. "Jesus, Max. What do you watch?"


    "Grimsby versus Boreham Wood, mostly. But The Prisoner is a good distraction from heavy themes." I laughed. "Sometimes the Number Twos get a phone call on the red phone - I think it was red - and they look at it all terrified and however cocky they were a minute ago, they''re crapping themselves now. They pick up the phone. Yes, sir? I''m sorry, sir. I''ll try to do better, sir. And so on. That''s how I want Chester to run. Carrot and stick, but without the carrot. Hammer and anvil, but I''m the hammer."


    She gave me the look my teachers used to give me when I went on a flight of fancy. "This is a fun place to visit, Max. It''s incredibly strange and somehow perfect for you and Henri. But how does it relate to our match tactics?"


    "The Prisoner," I said, simply, and waited.


    After six seconds, Sandra''s eyebrows ascended. "Oh! Of course."


    ***


    After touring the village, where Henri taught me two new words - loggia and portico - we retreated to a restaurant to talk and laugh and most importantly, drain tea cups and get immediate refills.


    I asked Glenn if he would join me outside for a tea and a scone. Perhaps a sandwich would have been more appropriate because I was about to use my most advanced management technique on him.


    "Glenn," I started, and his face showed that he understood my tone. "You''re fantastic." One slice of bread in place! Now for the bad news. "I don''t know if you noticed but I signed another centre back."


    Despite himself, he laughed. "I saw the posters, boss."


    I smiled, but it turned into a sigh. This part of the job was a hundred times worse than dealing with pricks like Chipper. "Whoever signed you to Chester is a genius. Top ten transfer deal in the club''s history. And you''ve still got a huge part to play if we''re going to have success this year. I see you lifting the Cheshire Cup again. Crewe are in a relegation scrap so there''s no way they''ll put out their strongest team in the final."


    "You''ll put out your strongest team."


    "Yeah, but I''m stupid." That got another laugh from him. "I think I''ll go strong, yeah. I want it. So there''s one cup. The league. Could we?" Another laugh. "Okay but a playoff final win at Wembley with you in the middle of the photos. How does that sound?"


    "Sounds good."


    "Whatever we achieve, you''ll be front and centre, as is right and proper. But let''s talk about next season because I''m fucking off to Brazil as soon as the last ball is kicked." He steeled himself. I tried to calm him. "Hey, now! You get a choice. I''ll start with, let''s call it option two." He closed his eyes and did a sad smile while shaking his head. I continued. "Option two is you stay at Chester. You''re third or fourth choice centre back. You play in the Cheshire Cup. You play the early rounds of the FA Cup and those weird trophies they have up there. But when we come to the business end of the season, you''re, er..."


    "A glorified cheerleader."


    "I was going to say a tremendous role model for the young players etcetera etcetera. Honestly, you''d be valuable to the club so if you want that role I''m more than happy to give it to you. Option one is we sell you and you go into another club as first-choice, probably as captain, and as someone who has just won back-to-back promotions - back-to-back titles, even - you should get well paid."


    "What kind of club?"


    "Based on the current squads, Hartlepool. Ebbsfleet. Southend."


    "Not League Two?"


    "If you go to League Two it''ll be for money. We could try to get you a big pay day there if that''s what you want. But I don''t think you''ll play much."


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    "You don''t think I can hack it in League Two?"


    "I don''t like that framing. Your leadership is Premier League quality. International quality. Heading amazing. Positioning very good and getting better. It''s your on-the-ball skills that would hold you back, and League Two clubs have fast, skilful strikers. You''ll be 32 next season. You''re not going to get faster. Could you do a job for a team that played three centre backs? Yeah, that could work. Crewe, for example, where you''d be a wise old head calming down all their young tearaways. If I were you, though, I''d want to be in a side where I was one of the best players full-stop, no ifs ands or buts."


    He stared for a while. "I want to play in League Two and prove you wrong."


    "Of course you do. You''re a warrior. You can''t let anyone put a wall in front of you without wanting to smash it down. That''s top. But you''re my captain and I hope we''re sort of friends and it''s my duty as a genius to make sure you''re in a team, playing full-time, and you''re happy. I think at somewhere like Crewe, after the initial proving-me-wrong phase you''d be unhappy. I would like to - without putting any pressure on you - I would like to mention that you might be available to other managers so that when you decide, there''s a market for you. If you want that to be League Two, I can put the feelers out, no problem."


    "Or I can stay here as a reserve. Those are my options?"


    I did a cheeky smile as I made a joke. "Or you can play in Gibraltar."


    He blinked. "What?"


    So the joke was... appealing to him? "Erm, Mateo, Tranmere''s owner, is looking at buying a club there. The plan is to win the league in the first season and play in Europe the next. Is that...? Should I continue?"


    "Yes."


    "I''m going over soon to check the levels and see what''s up but in theory, you could stay on Chester''s books and we''d loan you there for six months. If you hate it, you come back and we try to sort you a deal in the January window. Or you like it and you stay out there. I''m imagining the levels are similar to the Welsh Premier so you would boss it." I frowned. "I could build a team around you."


    "I''d be on the same wages?"


    "Erm, the Chester contract would be the same I suppose but then you''d have to negotiate with Mateo about, er, some kind of subsidy or I don''t know what you''d call it. I''m not sure what sort of rules would be about that kind of thing but we can look into it. It''s, yeah, the day-to-day would be sort of boring after the stuff we get up to here, but moving countries would be exciting and you''d be the first of my Chester lads to play in Europe. Don''t tell anyone but I''m sort of thinking of loaning myself to the club if they get into the Conference League or whatever. I''m going over when the Maidstone game is happening and that''s one where you will be starting but if you want to fly over with us...?"


    He said, "I''d rather play."


    I shoved the scone in my mouth and chomped happily. "That''s why you''re a ledge, Glenn. An absolute ledge. Number Four in the squad, number one in our hearts."


    He tutted, but did a little grin. "Don''t talk shit," he said. He picked up his scone and took a bite. I''d given him a lot to chew on.


    ***


    Saturday, March 8


    Match 35 of 46: Devon Loch vs Chester FC


    The morning was slow beyond belief. The afternoon was agony, made worse by the fact the match had been picked for TV coverage and moved to the 5:30 slot. The drive to Grimsby took, with no exaggeration, a thousand trillion years.


    To say I had a lot of trains of thought competing for mental run time was an understatement and I longed for the match to start so I could have a hope of concentrating and focusing. When the match was done, the world would be infinitely clearer and I would finally be able to get some healthy, natural sleep.


    Without thinking, I tapped my phone''s screen and saw there were plenty of new messages, all two words with a modal verb, a pronoun, and a question mark. I had banned people from saying the original version so now they were caps lock yelling: Might us? Will us? Ought thee? Might thineself?


    I tried to distract myself by daydooming - daydreaming about everything that could go wrong in my life.


    Chip Star buys a team, snatches Jay Cope. It would hurt somewhat. Jay was still undefeated in the league, though West had been knocked out of the FA Vase by a team that, in retrospect, was much weaker. Shit happens - Chip surely understood sports enough to realise that Jay was a hot prospect. How high could Jay bring West? When would he want to move on? Would he consider Saltney, by then in the Cymru Premier, a step up? Could we -


    Shit!


    West and Saltney were romping to their titles. What about Chester women? If we lost to Cheadle, could we -


    Argh!


    I got out of my chair and walked back a few rows. "Wisey, go and mingle, please." James got up and I sat next to Magnus. "Mate. What''s that thing called where you drill a hole in someone''s head and let all the demons out?"


    "Dentistry."


    I laughed. "Begins with T, I think."


    "Trepanning."


    "Can you do some reiki trepanning on me?"


    He smiled. "Are you stressed? It''s not like you. You''re the ice man."


    "There''s a song about an ice man on the album One Man Band by James Taylor. Erm, I think there''s, like, twenty threads leading to this one match. It''s monumental and the stakes are making me crazy. If we lose, a whole city is going to roll their eyes and go ''oh well, what do you expect?'' and we''ll miss the chance to get every six and seven-year old kid locked into Chester fandom. If we win, it''s, it''s, urgh!" I gave myself a healthy punch in the forehead. "It''s everything. What''s it called when prisoners go nuts? I''m a prisoner of my thought patterns and only kick off can break me free."


    "You''re stir crazy. Stir was an old word for prison."


    "I''ve heard of a TV show called Porridge. That was about a guy in prison. Apparently, we called prison ''porridge''. Do you think that''s connected to stir? Because you can stir porridge?"


    "Why don''t you do some squad building with William and Pascal?"


    I groaned. "They can''t get past Tom Hickman. The kid''s made, like, three sub appearances but he''s got one of the biggest fan clubs outside the Premier League. It''s wild."


    "Why don''t you watch The Shawshank Redemption again? Escape from Colditz? Con Air? Orange is the New Black? Prison Break? Have you ever watched Prison Break?"


    I sighed. "Yeah. He''s got a tattoo of his escape plan on his body because although he''s a genius, he can''t remember the whole thing. Please."


    Magnus smiled. "One day, your plans will be so complicated you won''t be able to summarise them in a short, movie-related speech."


    Huh. I sat back and thought about that. What sort of tactics would I be using in the Premier League? Putting bodies in the way of key passing lanes. Inverting full backs, pressing, counter-pressing, sweeper-keepers, the judicious use of long balls. Where would Relationism fit into my team talks? Would I be saying, ''after ten minutes we''ll do five minutes of Relationism''? Would I have thirty different hot keys so I could switch between lots of slightly different settings? Would I have to micromanage every phase of play or would I do it like a normal manager and have a style of play, some principles, and play within those limits? I thought about some high-level matches I''d seen recently and imagined what sort of pre-match team talk would be needed against such opponents.


    The team bus slowed, turned, and I saw the familiar ''Jesus fish and boat'' logo of Grimsby Town.


    I punched the seat in front of me. "Let''s get to fucking work!"


    ***


    I did things. I went from there to there. Can I get more specific? Soz, no. I went onto the pitch, I remember that. It was practically perfect - Chris Hale knew the value of a quality playing surface and invested in it.


    Someone told me Barnet had won two-nil. If we didn''t win today, third was pretty much the limit of what we could achieve. Stakes? The stakes were on the grill. The title race was sizzling.


    An hour before kick off; time for my team talk.


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I said, and the clomping of feet settled down. The players knew who was starting, but it''s always good to repeat things with people who might not be paying proper attention. It''s always good to repeat things with people who might not be paying proper attention. "Grimsby are doing 4-4-2. We''re doing 4-4-1. Our ten are Ben." I slid a magnet into the bottom half of the tactics board. The top half showed Grimsby''s formation. I didn''t normally do it like that but today was a special case. "Back four," I said, also sliding things into place, "are Eddie, Christian, Zach, and Carl. Fuck me, that''s sexy! Not conventionally attractive, maybe, but sexy. Midfield, Aff, Ryan, Magnus, Pascal. Holy shit! Up front is Henri. Whoo," I said, with little enthusiasm. This drew laughs, of course, but then I leaned down and hugged my friend.


    Those ten had an average rating of 66.1. With me, the average would perhaps be 70. Grimsby''s line up would be just over 75.


    "Quick overview of Grimsby''s lads. Sam Crichlow in goal. He''s good. Pretty much the best goalie in this league, certainly top three, but he''s got a fractious relationship with the fans. Do not take shots, guys. Do. Not. Shoot. I don''t want shots, I want goals. What the fuck are you talking about, Best? I''m talking about this guy finishing the match with zero saves. Zero. Okay? Listen to me, this is really important. If we have three goals from three shots, the home fans are going to tear into the goalie. They''ll savage him. It''s not fun to think about it but it''s our job to wreck Grimsby''s season and this is the simplest way. If we do that, if we turn the fans against him, that''s worth maybe five points over the rest of the season. That''s an eight-point swing today, do you get me? Don''t give him an easy chance to settle into the game. Henri, if you have a half-chance and you think you can''t nail it, don''t.


    "Their strikers, next. Danny Flash. He''s a pest. His main job is running around a lot, trying to wind people up. Zach, you''ll be on him. Grimsby''s main threat is set pieces and Danny earns most of them. I want you to stay on your feet. Do not slide in to tackle him, do not let him know you''re there or any of that macho shit. Stay on your feet. Do not push him or pull him or even touch him. Give him the time and space to turn and run at you and do precisely nothing after that. Is that clear, mate?


    "Ed Williams. He''s the guy I turned from a centre back into a striker. He wins headers and holds the ball up. Not today! Christian, he''s yours. Sorry, Ed! Huh. Managing is easy sometimes.


    "Their defenders. How they held onto Jayden Ward I have no idea. He might be the best player in the whole league, never mind the best left back. Pascal, Carl, keep your wits about you because this guy is dynamite. Lee Slade doesn''t let him attack much but when he does, wow.


    "On the right, they''ve got Conor Quinn. He''s solid but he''s getting old and he doesn''t get much rest. Don''t expect much attacking threat from him. Aff, go at him hard and I''ll swap you for Pascal to give you a breather sometimes and then Pascal, give me as many sprints as you can. It''s all about tiring him out and slapping in the last ten. Or getting him subbed off because his replacement is dogshit.


    "The centre backs are John Windmill and Otis King. These guys are fantastic but they are also old and slow. Really, really slow. That''s why I''ve got Sharky and Wibbers on the bench and that''s why we''ve been doing wild sideways runs in our special training sessions. We''ll fry their tiny little minds and create holes.


    "The midfield. Left midfield is Greg Fasanmade. He''s okay. Nice lad, tidy player. Won''t let his team down but won''t hurt us, either. In the centre they''ve got Greg Brothers, who is another solid player. Is he going to play a killer through-ball? Is he going to chip one over the top that sends us into a tizzy? Is he fuck. Respect him and his energy but don''t fear him.


    "Simon Green is the other CM. He''s the twat I kicked off the bus in London so he''s going to come looking to see if he can land something on me. Good news is, he couldn''t find his arse with both hands and a map. He likes to cash people off. He''ll tell you what he''s earning, though he''ll inflate it by five hundred quid. Ask him if he can afford a taxi from London to Grimsby.


    "Okay so what have we got so far? A very, very good goalkeeper. A very, very good defence. An okay midfield. An okay strike force. With Marcus Wainwright, they had too much quality for any team in this league. Without him, they''re stuttering. But they still have one outstanding player who makes Grimsby greater than the sum of their parts. That player is Danny Grant." I paused and the act of not speaking spoke volumes. My players were rapt. "He''s a local lad. Came through their academy, absolutely loves the club. If you think you can outwork him, you''re delulu. If you think you can bleed for the badge more than him, let me tell you he carries blood packs around with him like he''s playing Fallout. The guy''s got twenty out of twenty for heart, okay? There''s no point kicking him, sledging him, or any of that. Jayden Ward is the best actual player, but Danny Grant is the number one creative force in the league right now. He''s crushing goal contributions. Goals plus assists? Danny Grant. Everything Grimsby do goes through him. He does the through-balls, the chips over the top, the dribbles, the counter-attacks, the free kicks, the corners. He''s so far ahead on so many statistical categories it''s going to be a sporting tragedy when he doesn''t get a league winner''s medal." I took a moment to grin.


    "Devon Loch," said Glenn Ryder, the magnificent bastard.


    I grinned harder. "Devon Loch," I agreed. I spotted the dude from the documentary crew filming me - as agreed beforehand, by the way - and remembered all the footage I''d taken in North Wales. I had nearly forgotten to introduce the theme of the week! "My favourite movie," I said, moving around the dressing room while the camera guy backed away. Bags were hastily pulled out of his way, and Vimsy went behind him to make sure he didn''t fall. "Is The Prisoner."


    William said, "Your favourite movie is a 1960s TV show?"


    "Yes. Most of you know a little bit about it by now. There are forty-six ninety-minute episodes and the entire show is about finding out who is Number One. There are episodes where the hero wins and ones where he loses but the end credits always show a cell slamming into place. He might win but he''s still The Prisoner." I moved back to the tactics board and touched Grimsby''s right midfielder. I made eye contact with a few people and became introspective. "Recently I''ve been asked what it''s like being a one-man band. I''ve been accused of having main character energy. That stuff is fun, sometimes, a bit of an ego boost, but it''s not how I think. No, I''m humble enough to say that right now, Danny Grant is the main character. He''s playing with main character energy. He''s the one-man band." I jiggled his magnet around. "He plays on the right, moves into the middle to set the tempo. Everything revolves around him. There''s a version of this universe where I''m doing this for Darlington, but with a better haircut." I put my back foot up on a bench and folded my arms. "Here''s the tactical plan for this match. I am going to mark Danny Grant. Danny Grant is going to have zero offensive output. I am going to put him in my pocket. He is going to be my prisoner. The only time he will touch the ball in a meaningful way, Zach, is if anyone gives away a cheap foul, Zach, in our half, Zach. Without Danny Grant, they have practically zero creativity. They will pump balls forward where our hard shell boys will gobble them up. We will play our football and we will play most of the game in Grimsby''s half. We will get some half-chances and some set pieces.


    "I can play ninety minutes. I can mark Danny Grant for ninety minutes, but I can''t join the attacks, too. Don''t involve me in the build-up play unless you have to. I believe in you guys. If you''re patient you''ll create enough big chances to win this from open play, but we''ll be dangerous from set pieces, too. I''m not going to take the corners because I don''t want to have to sprint back. At corners, I''ll be back on halfway, resting, and I''ll only resume marking duties when DG crosses the line. But I''ll take our free kicks if there''s a chance to shoot, and if the angle is just too delicious to resist. Okay? I''ll absolutely big dog DG and I''ll create like five expected goals while I''m on my breaks."


    Sticky was standing at the back, looking lean and relaxed; he¡¯d been around plenty of games like this. "Sorry, boss, but it sounds like you''ve got a bit more of that main character energy than you''ve been letting on."


    I tipped my head back and laughed. "Okay, who am I kidding? Fine. But the theme is The Prisoner and Danny Grant''s the star of that show."


    There was an enormous, German groan from one of the benches. The camera guy turned faster than a bored office worker on a swivel chair and caught most of Pascal''s eruption. "Did you take us on a mysterious four-hour trip to a weird Welsh village just to tell us you are going to man-mark a player?"


    I grinned pretty hard, not just because it was funny, but because I knew Angel would lose her mind when she saw this footage. "Pascal, as they say in episode question mark of The Prisoner... Du musst Amboss oder Hammer sein. You must slap, or be slapped."


    "That is not - "


    "All right, Chester. Let''s do this and remember, take no prisoners."


    Glenn yelled something and there were claps, stomps, and roars.


    ***


    "Number seventy-seven, Max Best."


    BOO cried seven thousand Grimsby fans.


    YEAH shouted eight hundred Chester ones.


    Whatever reservations they had individually, collectively the Seals fanbase was united today. They''d brought some portable tesla coils, it seemed, because I kept getting zapped by the energy rays.


    While I did my final warm up - I rarely started games and had forgotten my old routines - I looked over to the media area to see if I could spot Boggy and Spectrum. This match was being televised, so perhaps Boggy had been relegated to some lesser alcove. I jogged closer to the away fans to see if I could spot any Chester Women. Angel had said something about turning up to film something but I couldn''t see her. A stray thought made me think she was more likely to be in the executive seats. I went over to the main stand to check and my heart nearly stopped.


    Chris Hale was there. Fine. It was his club, after all. I had to grudgingly admit he was allowed.


    Candy was there. Giver and taker-away of jobs.


    Next to her was a model-type woman.


    Next to Chris was Chip Star.


    Chris Hale and Chip Star, sitting side-by-side, laughing and joking, scheming, plotting. I doubted they were discussing superyachts.


    If Chip Star bought Grimsby Town I would literally explode.


    I jogged across the width of the pitch, barely able to see, but had calmed down by the time I returned to the main stand. Yep, still there. Chris and Chip. Chip and Chris. I frowned at them some more, then got a weird suspicion that I was missing something.


    I scanned the area, checking out the agents and scouts who were in attendance, and then I spotted an area where people were looking behind themselves instead of at the pitch. I jogged in that direction and saw Angel, Bonnie, Ridley T, and Maddy next to Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash. Angel was right to come - having the former boxing champions in her footage would elevate the documentary.


    Just as I turned away from the stand, my spider senses tingled. I looked again and - of course - there were three imps. They saw me looking and stood up, pointing and waving, excited. One of them started chanting and the others joined in. I couldn''t hear a word but I was a hundred percent sure they were singing, "Max Best, give us a wave." With a sigh, I waved at them. The one in the middle pretended to swoon while the other two caught him. They fell into each other''s arms, giddy and delighted.


    Why were they here? Because Nick had brought Chris and Chip together? To remind me that I wasn''t supposed to play full matches? Or simply because it was the biggest game of the season and they wanted to know if I had it in me to concentrate for ninety minutes?


    ***


    Untitled Documentary, Episode 8: The Lie In, The Rich, and the Wardrobe


    Angel, on her phone, mostly in selfie mode but tracking whoever''s talking as best she can, plus supplementary clips from the other phones.


    ANGEL


    This is it! I''m here at the million-pound match with my sis, my besties, and my favourite pugilists!


    DON FLASH


    Wash your mouth out with soap, young lady!


    ANGEL


    [Giggle.] So hyper for this one.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    Why''d you call it a million-pound match?


    ANGEL


    Whoever gets promoted gets a million pounds. If it''s us, the women''s team will get some of that. He''s playing for us, too.


    RANDO FAN


    [Trying to impress Angel but too thick to realise she''s not supporting the home team.]


    Don''t worry, chuck, Chester''s manager''s a fraud. He''ll stuff it up like he always does.


    ANGEL


    Oh, that''s confusing because I thought Grimsby were in the middle of an epic choke show? Blowing a twenty-point lead? Devon Loch? Sorry, I don''t know much about football. Maybe you can explain it all to me. Let''s start with how are you going to get past Christian Fierce?


    RANDO


    [Belatedly realising his mistake.]


    Danny Grant, lass. Danny Grant.


    MADDY


    Delulu, mate.


    RANDO


    You can pipe down, now. This is the home end.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    They''ll chat what they want, mucker. It''s a free country, know what I mean?


    RANDO


    [Cowers.]


    DON FLASH


    You want our Dan to score, though, Angel?


    ANGEL


    No. He''s not one of us. Today I''m in the Zach Pack.


    MADDY


    I''m in the Ryan Jack Pack.


    ANGEL


    Zach, Jack, and the French Attack.


    MADDY


    Zack, Jack, the French Attack, Carl Carlile will give you a smack.


    RIDLEY T


    I like Pascal.


    ANGEL


    Ridley, come onnnnn.


    ***


    Caption: 24 Hours Earlier


    Max Best is walking around Portmeirion, looking from left to right, sometimes caressing the side of a building or getting in close to admire a particular architectural detail.


    MAX


    So this match. Grimsby Town. I was hired by their owner, Chris Hale, to save them from relegation. He was going to pay me big money if I kept them up. Big money! It was hard, incredibly hard, because they had some bad characters in the dressing room. It took me a couple of games to work out who was holding the team back. We competed in the next two games and were starting to look good. Chris Hale, though, didn''t like my methods so he said he''d sack me if I didn''t win the next game. The best thing for the club was to get a draw, so that''s what I did. If I''d stayed, we would have won two out of the next three, no problem, home in time for Christmas kind of thing. Is that a squirrel?


    SQUIRREL


    [Contemplates his existence; scarpers.]


    MAX


    I met a lot of nice Grimbarians and the fans were mostly supportive. I think a lot of them understand that I was doing well and that the club was rotten and, like, a firm hand on the tiller was liable to snap the oars. Behind the scenes, some of the coaches were unhelpful in a way I think is unprofessional, and that''s coming from me! But that''s just human nature, isn''t it? You''re friends with the old boss so you don''t like the new boss. I mean, I get it, but if there''s five games of the season left and you''ll get made redundant if the new boss isn''t a success, you need to work with him! It''s like they didn''t have a sense of self-preservation. I''m waffling. I''m trying to say I don''t hold a grudge against most of the players and none of the fans. I don''t even hold a grudge against Chris Hale. He''s just a typical rich dude. He''s the scorpion riding the frog. He can''t help crashing his football club; it''s in his nature. So I''m not going to run around trying to cripple everyone or whatever. It''s just going to be a super professional exhibition of complete tactical mastery. No big deal.


    ***


    Footage from the TV company and the documentary crew.


    Blundell Park''s pitch is green and lush. The stands are almost full. The sound mix feels off - the eight hundred away fans seem to be making more noise than the home ones. Grimsby have the ball and are passing it around like champions-elect.


    DISEMBODIED VOICE OF BOGGY


    Brothers. Green. Back to Windmill. Grimsby have Alex Evans on the bench and he''s highly-rated by Max Best. Getting on a bit, now, and struggling with recurring injuries, but he could be a danger man in the second half. Good possession from Grimsby. What are you seeing, Spectrum?


    SPECTRUM


    Well, it''s very interesting because... I think Max is marking Danny Grant. He''s not touch tight but I think... yes.


    BOGGY


    Can you explain what touch tight means?


    SPECTRUM


    Very close. Often, you''ll ask your marker to really stay with the opponent. Follow him everywhere, all over the pitch. Max isn''t quite doing that. It''s more like when Grant gets into certain areas, he wants to be there. And, yes, I think he''s trying to stop the ball even getting to Grant. See the way he''s blocking the pass now?


    BOGGY


    Couldn''t they simply chip the ball over Max''s head?


    SPECTRUM


    Max is faster, and if the pass is too heavy, Eddie Moore will get it. Grimsby look a bit confused, to be honest. Danny Grant is their out ball. That''s, er, the person you pass to when you''re under pressure.


    BOGGY


    Who is our out ball?


    SPECTRUM


    Pascal. You can ping the ball ahead and he''s so fast he might get there first. But he''s made a conservative start. They all have. This could be a slow burn.


    ***


    In the main stand, three of the women and two champions are looking bored. Donnie glances at Angel; she''s the only one smiling.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    What are you grinning at? It''s a snoozefest.


    ANGEL


    I''m imagining this footage in the documentary. Max was making fun of the Wrexham one by saying they had to show almost all the action in slow motion because the quality was shit. It''s funny, the worst bits are in slow motion, but so are the best ones.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    I hope you invite me to the premiere. I love premieres. You get to dress more classy than what you normally do. Have you got a ballgown kind of thing?


    BONNIE


    No, she doesn''t.


    ANGEL


    Bonnie...


    ***


    ACTION SEQUENCE MONTAGE!


    Carl Carlile chips a ball to Henri in slow motion.


    Henri jumps in slow motion.


    He''s beaten to the header in slow motion.


    Christian Fierce points in slow motion.


    The footage speeds up.


    Danny Grant drops deep to get the ball. He turns and faces Max Best. The crowd rises.


    Grant feints left, feints right, dummies, shimmies.


    Max Best almost yawns as he steals the ball and passes it to Ryan.


    Danny Grant shrinks like he''s in Alice in Wonderland.


    The crowd sits back on their stupid arses.


    ***


    Shot of the commentators in the TV booth. They''re holding those microphones over their mouths. You know, the ones with the flaps. You know, looks like they''re holding fake moustaches on sticks.


    MATT


    Quarter of an hour gone. Honours even so far, Ally?


    ALLY


    It''s been drab, yeah, but I still think it''ll liven up. This is the league leaders against the in-form team. There''s too much quality and okay it''s cancelling each other out for the moment but one goal and that''ll change. It only takes a second to score a goal. One moment of magic. One mistake.


    MATT


    Windmill. Green collects. He runs at Best. Best, er, lets him go? I''ve never seen that. I''ve never seen that on a football pitch, Ally.


    ALLY


    I''m with you. That was extraordinary. Best practically waved him through.


    MATT


    Green''s brainwave got him up the pitch but he''s a fish out of water in the final third. He wants to lay it off to Grant but Grant isn''t around. Green sends in a cross... but it''s too close to the keeper.


    ALLY


    What have I just seen? If any other player did what Best has just done, Best would haul him off! You can''t let people run past you like that.


    MATT


    We know Chester is an oddity in some ways, but what an incident. I can''t wait to hear what our panel make of that.


    ***


    All four Chester women are bored. Don Flash is leaning forward, eyes shining. Angel notices and swings her phone at him.


    ANGEL


    What''s up, Don?


    DON


    Your boy is really something. Heh heh.


    ANGEL


    He''s not my boy. We''re just friends. [Wistful look down the lens; she thought she was going to get a piece of insight or some caustic cockney wit.]


    DON


    I''m talking about Max.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    What? He''s not doing anything. He''s completely passive.


    DON


    Heh heh. Passive my foot. Heh, what a fighter he is. Wonderful. Wonderful!


    ANGEL


    But what''s he doing? I don''t get it.


    DON


    You watch, now. You watch. Heh.


    ***


    Danny Grant moves into the centre of midfield. Best follows, gesturing to Eddie Moore to move to left wing-back.


    BOGGY


    Still no clear-cut chances in this match. Hang on. What''s happened on the left?


    SPECTRUM


    Brilliant, Boggy. You''re getting really good at this! Danny Grant has gone inside to try to break free of Max but now there''s a huge gap there because Conor Quinn can''t bomb forward. So Max told Eddie to push up. Lee Slade doesn''t like it!


    BOGGY


    Indeed. Grimsby''s manager is going bananas on the bench. He''s yelling - I think - for Grant to go back to the right. Do I understand that Max is winning the tactical game?


    SPECTRUM


    Oh, big time. The only problem is that nil-nil is a great result for Grimsby so we''ll have to force the issue at some point. Max tried to wind the home crowd up by making comments about Grimsby''s traditional attacking style but I don''t think it''s working. They''ll tolerate defensive football today. They''re nervous, the way we all are.


    BOGGY


    I''m actually quite calm. I''d take a point away to the best team in the league.


    SPECTRUM


    A point does nothing in the greater scheme of things. If we lose, we''ll probably finish third anyway.


    BOGGY


    Okay but we won''t be embarrassed.


    SPECTRUM


    You know, I used to think like that. Now I''m more embarrassed if we don''t try to win.


    BOGGY


    And how are you feeling with twenty-five minutes gone and we haven''t taken a shot?


    SPECTRUM


    [Laughs.] Fair point. But I promise you one thing. Hard as it may be to imagine right now, Max Best thinks we''re going to win this.


    BOGGY


    What makes you say that?


    SPECTRUM


    Because look at him. He''s bored. It''s all too easy. It''s no challenge. ARGH! Boggy, mate! Boggy! It''s happening!


    ***


    Grant has worked out that if he drops to his own half, he can get the ball. He does so, now, and takes the ball on the half turn.


    As Grant looks up to consider his options, Max Best crashes into him, shoulder to chest, and takes the ball forward. The crowd roars its displeasure. The referee waves play on. Best shapes to shoot from forty-five yards but instead threads a pass between two defenders that Pascal chases. Jayden Ward gets there first, and while falling backwards tries to clear the ball. It hits Pascal and goes behind...


    The assistant signals for a corner. It touched Ward last!


    Danny Flash complains to Best about the shoulder barge. Best stares back with cold, dead, shark eyes.


    Lee Slade finally gets the message through to Grant - stay wide.


    BOGGY


    Corner to Chester! Their first of the half. Er, looks like Aff will take it. Best is on the halfway line. He''s, er, alone on the halfway line! Everyone else is in or around the box.


    SPECTRUM


    [Chuckling.]


    BOGGY


    Aff with the cross. Whipped in, inswinger, clears the first man, good defensive header, clipped back in by Bochum, headed clear, Ryan Jack drops a shoulder, lines up a shot! He can strike them! No, he plays it wide, back to Aff. He comes onto the pass, first time! Into! What? It''s chaos! The ball''s in the net! Chester are ahead!


    SPECTRUM


    Side-netting!


    BOGGY


    Side-netting! No goal! Optical illusion but I was sure it was in! What happened? I have no clue but it was frantic. [Chuckles.] Whatever happened, it was the first meaningful attack of the half and it was for Chester! I don''t want a point, Spectrum. I want all three!


    SPECTRUM


    That''s the spirit!


    ***


    The TV commentators are more animated; they''re enjoying the game.


    MATT


    More pressure from Chester. They''re well on top. Lyons lays it off to Bochum. Another quick exchange of passes. Then it''s Jack. Evergreen sprints forward, takes Windmill with him! Space opens up for the shot! But Chester are content to play their triangles. The ball''s zipping around, Ally! This is slick.


    ALLY


    Last time I saw Chester they were lobbing long balls into the mixer. I''ve no clue what''s changed from then till now.


    MATT


    Ward steals the ball. He drives forward. Carlile is cautious, retreats. Bochum with a lung-busting sprint gets goal side. Ward looks for help. He finds it in Green. Green plays it simple to Fasanmade. Back to Ward. Again he asks for support. Brothers shows for the ball but is tracked by Jack. Evergreen back behind the ball. Chester have refound their shape. There''s no way through for Grimsby.


    ALLY


    It''s too slow. Their attacks are ponderous. They need to move the ball faster but the only player who can really do that is Grant. Who is, er...


    MATT


    Being marked out of the game by Max Best.


    ALLY


    Ohhhh.


    ***


    Three of the four women are bouncing around.


    MADDY


    [shrieking] Come on!


    BONNIE


    Go! Yes! Yes!


    RIDLEY T


    Shoot! Shoot! Why didn''t he shoot?


    ANGEL


    [Has the same expression as the squirrel.]


    ***


    MONTAGE!


    Eddie Moore plays a pass to Henri.


    Henri takes it on the half turn, is fouled, keeps going. Passes to Jack.


    Jack turns towards Best and puts huge concentration into getting the pass right.


    Grant and Green dash towards Best.


    They dash in vain. Jack rolls the ball under his foot, backwards, to himself. He spins and hits it with the outside of his right foot behind Ward.


    Ward and Pascal run, compete, Ward wins, Pascal harries, Ward looks for help - he''s swarmed.


    He kicks it into the stand, knowing that Carlile will have to jog forward and in those ten seconds, the defence can reset.


    The ball bounces back, by the wildest chance, into Pascal''s hands. He throws it down the line.


    Carlile hits it first time, twenty yards square to Ryan Jack.


    Grimsby''s defence is all over the place, not ready.


    Jack clips the ball left into Aff''s path.


    He has a clear run on goal but at a tight angle. He could shoot but...


    He doesn''t.


    His hesitation gives Conor Quinn the chance to get the ball out for a throw in.


    Max Best does one of his first sprints in the half - he hugs Aff and doesn''t want to let him go.


    Aff grins and shakes Max off, but Henri is there to give him a hug, too.


    The referee asks the Chester players to stop hugging each other and get on with the game.


    Max opens his arms and offers the ref a hug.


    ANGEL


    Holy crap! Listen to the Chester fans!


    DON


    Where are my fluffy earmuffs?


    BONNIE


    Christ, that''s loud.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    What''s got them wound up?


    ANGEL


    Main character energy.


    ***


    BOGGY


    Zach Green with a line-breaking pass to Evergreen. Evergreen dribbles past Simon Green. So much green!


    SPECTRUM


    Green is good. Michael Douglas said that in Max''s favourite movie.


    BOGGY


    It opens up for Evergreen. GREAT movement from Lyons and Bochum, but the, er, Englishman, turns back. Why aren''t we shooting?


    SPECTRUM


    Absolutely no clue but the pressure is building.


    BOGGY


    Approaching half time with the score still nil-nil. Remember Barnet won in one of the three P.M. kick offs so they''ll be licking their lips at this. Moore on the overlap. Aff finds him. Moore... good tackle from Quinn. He''s a good player, isn''t he?


    SPECTRUM


    They''re really good, Grimsby. Got to admit. It helps that their manager is copying what Max did last year.


    BOGGY


    They''re huffing and puffing, though, aren''t they? Quite an old team. I wonder what the running stats will be like from the first half to the second. And as Brothers and Jack compete in the centre of the park, the ref blows for half time. Well.


    SPECTRUM


    Well.


    ***


    Angel is in the concourse behind her seat.


    ANGEL


    I''ve told my sister I''m going to the toilet but really I''m trying to sneak into the executive box to see if I can get a quote from Chris Hales. Is it Hale or Hales? He can go to Hales. Heh. Got to pretend to like him for now, though.


    [Angel spots a door that seems like it might lead to her goal. She pulls it and it jiggles in a very locked manner. She turns right and goes up some stairs into a different part of the main stand. She zooms in on Bonnie, thirty yards away. Bonnie''s laughing with Donnie but looking over her shoulder every ten seconds.]


    ANGEL


    I''m fine, sis. Please.


    [She takes a few determined steps then focuses back on Bonnie. Bonnie''s more worried. Angel bends and one-handed sends a message. We see it being typed out in a message bubble on screen. BIT OF A QUEUE LOL. She presses send. Bonnie looks down and visibly exhales.]


    ANGEL


    Don''t make me sad, I''m undercover. Right, where''s Count Twatface?


    [She looks around and sees some seats that are more luxurious than the others. She heads that way and spots that someone has left a handbag. Its owner, the woman accompanying Chip, returns to get it, perhaps realising that she isn''t on a private superyacht.]


    ANGEL


    Excuse me. Is that a Birkin bag?


    NEPO BABY


    Yes! Yes it is!


    ANGEL


    I actually, like, really love your outfit?


    NEPO


    Really? Chip wasn''t keen.


    ANGEL


    I''m Bethany Alban from the Daily Mail. Do you think I could get a few words from Chip about the game?


    NEPO


    What game? [She looks with haughty disdain towards the pitch; it''s quite sexy.] Oh, the soccer. He simply adores talking about soccer - don''t I know it! - but he''s busy swooning over his new friend.


    ANGEL


    You''re, like, really funny. I like you.


    NEPO


    Oh, that''s sweet, honey. I like you, too! Sorry I couldn''t help.


    ANGEL


    That''s okay. Oh.


    NEPO


    What?


    ANGEL


    I do actually need the bathroom. Could you let me in so I don''t have to use the same one as the normos?


    NEPO


    Sure thing! You hop over here. Let''s chat!


    ANGEL


    [Looks back towards her sister.] Honestly I''d love that, like, a lot. But I have to get back to my boyfriend over there. He''s dead clingy. I''ll probably bin him off soon.


    NEPO


    Bin him off! I love your phrases. [Imitates British accent.] I''m going for a lie-down! [Normal voice.] Come on, then.


    ***


    The players emerge from the tunnel for the second half.


    MATT


    No change for either side as we prepare to get the second half of this top-of-the-table clash underway. Ally, are you surprised?


    ALLY


    I am, yes, because Chester need to win but Grimsby haven''t put any attacks together and their fans were getting restless. It''s one thing to get a draw but it''s another to be outplayed like that. I think the fans will demand a response if it continues like this for too long.


    MATT


    Chester kicking from right to left in this half. Here we go!


    ***


    Close-up on Lee Slade. He''s smiling and patting his assistant on the back. They have cooked up a tactical tweak for the second half. The camera closes in on them slowly. Their smiles fade, vanish, now they''re frowning, now they''re running around and pointing.


    Close-up on Max Best. He''s watching Grimsby''s players fall back into their 4-4-2. He swivels his fingers around and his players do the same. He says something to Ryan Jack, who lets out one huge laugh.


    Battle resumes on Max Best''s terms.


    ***


    Sophie, the documentary maker and sadist, decides the time is right to overlay a huge clock ticking mercilessly up to 90.


    Sophie does not care that the rising tension may wipe out human civilisation as we know it.


    Sophie only cares about making the story visually interesting.


    ***


    MONTAGE!


    46.


    Grimsby make a huge effort to get Danny Grant into the game. They fire early passes to him that turn into instant counters. It''s like Max Best can read their minds. He steals the ball and zips it to Ryan Jack. He steals the ball and gives it to Aff.


    48.


    Grant retreats into his half, feints one way, turns the other, realises that Max Best is ten yards away, calm as you like. Grant looks for an option; they all suck. He thinks about hitting a big diag but Chester''s back line is quite impressive. He decides to zip the ball to Danny Flash''s feet, but Zach Green reads it and intercepts. Green powers forward - Eddie Moore shuffles across to cover and Max slides back into the left back slot. Green hits Henri, who boops to Pascal, who whees to Jack, who scoops to Aff who picks out Henri, who is put under pressure from Windmill and so eschews the chance to shoot. The chance comes to nothing - Best, Fierce, and Evergreen punch the air.


    50.


    Grant dribbles at Best and thinks he has nutmegged him. Indeed, technically he has, but Best, as upright as an Irish dancer, flicks his foot behind him and to the left and when Grant explodes forward he can''t find the ball. Best has it on his left. He lays it off to Moore and another Chester attack brews.


    51.


    Lee Slade gives the order to launch an aerial bombardment.


    52.


    Christian Fierce wins a header.


    53.


    Christian Fierce wins a header.


    54.


    Christian Fierce wins a header.


    55.


    Lee Slade yells incoherently.


    60.


    Sophie, the dick, puts up an ''as it stands'' table. It shows Grimsby on 78 points, Barnet on 72, Chester on 65.


    ***


    Chester work the ball around to Ryan Jack. He shrugs off Simon Green and prepares to play a pass behind Conor Quinn - somehow it''s Pascal Bochum playing left mid. The German sprints, forcing Quinn to copy him. Jack touches the ball to Evergreen and Chester rotate it around the defence, from Carlile to Moore. The ball''s played back to Jack. He shapes to play the same left-sided through-ball, but now it''s Aff on that side. The Irishman sprints and Quinn, head down, tries to match the break.


    This time, Jack sends the pass.


    BOGGY


    Jack with the pass - oh, it''s fantastic! Aff''s in acres! Quinn, what happened?


    SPECTRUM


    Hamstring.


    BOGGY


    He''s pulled up lame. Aff''s marching onwards! To the byline. Cuts it back. Lyons is in there... Wha - Saved! Outstanding save from Chrichlow!


    SPECTRUM


    Wow. That''s the first thing he''s had to do. That''ll build his confidence. Everyone¡¯s looking at Max. Wonder why? He¡¯s got his hands on his head. The first signs of worry from him.


    ***


    Four Chester Women in various shades of agony.


    ***


    BOGGY


    Quinn''s finished. He''ll be replaced by, ah, Caine Amadi-Spokes. Another player for Best to avoid. That injury will rule Quinn out for the rest of the season, you''d expect?


    SPECTRUM


    He might be back in time for the playoff final. Against Barnet. Come on, Chester!


    ***


    MATT


    The Grimsby fans right behind their team, now! Urging them forward! Crichlow''s save, could it be the turning point? Grimsby playing it more direct, aiming into the channels, trying to turn Chester''s defence around. Brothers has had a very average game but he''s on the ball now. Clips it - Danny Flash could be through, here! Zach Green... fouls him! Foul in a dangerous position. And a yellow! Yellow card for Green.


    ALLY


    He''s a lucky, lucky boy. That could have been red. I''ve seen them given.


    MATT


    Four-man wall for Chester. Danny Grant hasn''t done much so far in this match but we know how dangerous he is from dead balls. He''s taking his time. What''s he thinking? Far post, curl it in? Onto the head of Ed Williams?


    ALLY


    He''s thinking, I wish Marcus Wainwright was still here because we''d have a hundred points and this match wouldn''t matter.


    MATT


    [Chuckles.] He''s nearly ready. Something of a hush descends... Clips it in, just over! Just over! I think it was Otis King at the back post. He beat Max Best in the air! Now Best is giving Zach Green a dressing down!


    ALLY


    It was a silly free kick to give away. No need at all.


    MATT


    They''ve been having a running battle. Lots of chat out there.


    ***


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    Come on, Danny! Well in!


    ANGEL


    [Shakes her head; arms folded, fumes.] Zach''s as much use as a Birkin bag in Grimsby.


    ***


    The clock hits 70 minutes. Close-up on MAX BEST. Is his MAIN CHARACTER ENERGY diminishing? He points, handsomely.


    BOGGY


    Chester''s first change of the match is coming. Looks like Ryan Jack going off. Seventy minutes is a good shift from him. He played well, I thought. Lovely to see him back.


    SPECTRUM


    Triple change!


    BOGGY


    What? Er, not sure about this. James Wise replaces Ryan Jack. Makes sense. But... Pascal Bochum is coming off. So is... Magnus Evergreen. I thought they were playing well!


    SPECTRUM


    I think we''ll switch to 4-2-3-1. That''s the same back four, Max and Wisey patrolling in front of the defence - yes, look, oh, but Wisey''s taking up a CM position. Not quite the default, then. It''s still Henri up front but with Aff, Sharky, and Wibbers close behind him. Wow, that''s attacking. If I were one of those Grimsby defenders right now I''d be asking for an oxygen mask.


    ***


    Footage from Max in Portmeirion. He doesn''t speak. He simply looks at something, forgetting the camera is on. His expression is inscrutable.


    ***


    DON FLASH


    Here we go.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    What? What do you see?


    DON


    Here we go.


    ***


    Crichlow pumps a ball long. Fierce leaps and bonks it past halfway. William B. Roberts, the National League''s youngest ever goalscorer, tries to hold the ball up but is bodied by Simon Green. It''s fair to say Green is surprised to lose the contest. Wibbers chops down onto the ball, turning as he does so, and drives at Otis King. The wily old gambler has seen this many, many times before and - holy shit! Wibbers is past him somehow! King, desperate, reaches out and grabs the kid.


    Yellow card, free kick.


    It''s a sickening moment for the Grimsby fans.


    The Chester mob go apeshit. Max Best is walking towards the ball, utterly expressionless.


    ***


    Max walks across the living chess board. Every square is big enough for a human to stand in.


    Max stands on the second rank and bends down.


    MAX


    Most of us are pawns. We''re ants. We''re nothing. We''re cannon fodder, sent into battle by the Chris Hales of the world. I was a pawn all my life. But... [He looks towards the other end of the board.] Once every million games, a pawn gets to the other side and he becomes a queen. [Best''s jaw clenches.] And then he goes on a fucking rampage.


    ***


    Angel and Bonnie are hugging. Bonnie can''t watch. Ridley T is on her toes like a goalkeeper. Maddy is down in the crash position like she''s going to be sick.


    ***


    SINGLE SCENE MONTAGE WHAT''S THAT CALLED?


    Max Best places the ball.


    Max Best is ready to take the free kick. The angle is Sam Crichlow''s nightmare. He knows Best can put the ball anywhere, but there are also half a dozen players in the box who can score headers.


    Best turns and bares his teeth at the executive boxes.


    The ref blows his whistle.


    Best doesn''t move.


    The ref blows his whistle two more times.


    Best glares at the ball, takes two steps back, two steps left for a right-footed shot. He changes his mind. He takes four steps right. He''ll shoot left-footed! Crichlow adjusts, but his wall is lined up wrong. He barks instructions and points and as Grimsby try to realign themselves, Best takes yet another step, and, standing almost on top of the ball, he clips it up, right-footed, over the defensive wall, towards the edge of the six-yard box.


    BOGGY


    Goal! Goal for Chester! Zach Green! Goal for Chester! Zach Green!


    SPECTRUM


    I can''t spake!


    BOGGY


    Chester lead! Chester are ahead! Best threatened to shoot left-footed and it caused havoc. There are scenes in the away end. Best led the sprint and he has launched himself into the mass of blue and white! It''s one-nil Chester and Blundell Park is silenced! Return of the Max! Revenge of the Max!


    ***


    Sophie, beautiful Sophie, puts up an ''as it stands'' table. It shows Grimsby on 77 points, Barnet on 72, Chester on 67.


    ***


    ANGEL


    I love Zach Green! I never doubted him!


    [The women jump into each other and soon there are ten stewards surrounding them.]


    STEWARD


    I''m afraid I''m going to have to ask you to leave.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    You''ll have to go through me, first.


    STEWARD


    I''m sorry, Mister Wormwood, but it''s a safety hazard. We can''t have away fans in the home section.


    ANGEL


    Best! Best will tear you apart, again!


    MADDY


    Max Best''s blue and white army!


    RIDLEY T


    Ooh are ya? Ooh are ya?


    DON FLASH


    Heh heh. Come on, ladies. They kick you out, they kick us out and we''ll never be back.


    STEWARD


    Please, Mister Flash. You can go to the executive box.


    DON FLASH


    Box? Like a fancy dan? I grew up on the streets and on the streets I''ll stay. I lost a few fights and I never kicked out fans who cheered again'' me. Let ''em cheer, I say. It''s sport, in''t it?


    RANDOS


    [Applause.] Let ''em stay, for fuck''s sake. Not doing any harm, are they?


    STEWARD


    If you''ll come this way, please.


    ***


    MONTAGE!


    76.


    Simon Green gets the ball in midfield, drives forward through acres of empty space, sees James Wise thundering at him with evil intent. Green takes a shot - it''s not as bad as one of Youngster''s, but it''s bad.


    GRIMSBY FANS


    "Fucking idiot!"


    "Get fucked!"


    "Walk back to London, you prick!"


    78.


    A Chester attack breaks down. The ball finds itself at Danny Grant''s feet. Max is there, watching. Waiting. Grant tries to sprint past on the outside, no tricks. Best follows, tracking the run, making no effort to get the ball.


    Grant runs the ball out of play.


    Best throws it to Eddie Moore.


    GRIMSBY FANS


    "Get him off!"


    "Useless!"


    "Use the ball, you twat! Get it launched!"


    80.


    Close-up of Lee Slade. His head sinks, but then bobbles back up. He signals.


    81.


    Devonte Payne replaces Danny Grant.


    Close-up of Max Best talking to Christian Fierce and James Wise. They both nod and get into position.


    ***


    MATT


    What''s happened here, Ally? Devonte Payne is a wide player. He might bring some energy to the right midfield slot. Danny Grant didn''t get much change out of Best but perhaps...


    ALLY


    I think Chester have gone back to 4-4-2. Aff left, Wes Hayward right. Roberts second striker. Best and Wise central midfield.


    MATT


    I think you''re right. So, Best doesn''t plan to mark Payne.


    ALLY


    Payne is more of a defensive wide player. How are Grimsby going to get a goal?


    ***


    The Chester women are hurrying towards a TV in the concourse but Don Flash can''t move that fast.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    Sorry, ladies, but I need to get his chair.


    [Angel looks stricken, but as she breathes in she comes to a decision. She stands next to the old campaigner and puts his arm around her shoulder.]


    ANGEL


    Bonnie and I will wait with him. Maddy, get some good clips, yeah? Try to get some Grimsbos in tears, yeah?


    RIDLEY T


    You''ll miss the end! We''re gonna do a madness, I can feel it!


    ANGEL


    Max will wait for me.


    MADDY


    What the shit are you even talking about?


    RIDLEY


    Come on. Someone''s gonna score from the halfway line and we''re gonna miss it. [They run off.]


    DON FLASH


    Leave me be, girls. You get out there and watch.


    BONNIE


    No fucking way. You''re one of us.


    ANGEL


    Leave no man behind.


    BONNIE


    Even if he''s a Colchester fan.


    DON FLASH


    Heh heh. Guess how many football stadiums I''ve been kicked out of?


    BONNIE


    Six?


    DON FLASH


    Guess it wasn''t that hard a question.


    ***


    MONTAGE!


    84.


    Chester are fizzing the ball from left to right. Grimsby are chasing shadows. Max Best is taking the actual.


    Best gets the ball in midfield and plays one-twos with Wisey, Wibbers, and then Aff. Simon Green comes steaming in to sort it out. Best nutmegs him, but then hovers around so that Green can have another bite. Best shapes to meg him again. Green closes his legs, but Best simply rolls the ball backwards and turns away. Green chases Best across the pitch and is about to launch into a challenge when he realises the ball has been laid off to Carlile.


    85.


    Best pops up in the right wing slot with Sharky close by. Sharky makes as if he''ll sprint down the line. Jayden Ward retreats but Best simply kicks the ball down into the turf, moving it precisely zero inches. He slinks backwards and smirks. The smirk proves to be unpopular in many sections of the stadium. When Grimsby players approach with complaints, Best whacks the ball to the left and Aff gathers. Caine takes him out and is lucky not to be carded. Best shows no interest in taking the free kick.


    86.


    Devonte Payne gets the better of Eddie Moore and is about to cross when James Wise slides in, puts the ball out, and demands the away fans cheer louder.


    They oblige.


    87.


    Someone starts a chant of ''twenty points and you fucked it up''. It spreads like wildfire in the away end, and catches on in a home end concourse where two women and a man pushing another man in a wheelchair join in.


    ***


    As Angel and her sister arrive in front of a TV, Chester are passing the ball around like matadors teasing a bull.


    BOGGY


    Spectrum, I don''t like this! This is stressful!


    SPECTRUM


    What is?


    BOGGY


    This hubris! One goal from Grimsby and our season is dead and buried! One long ball that Danny Flash turns into a free kick. [He chokes.]


    SPECTRUM


    Long ball from Grimsby! Flash is after it! He''s got Zach Green with him, on a yellow card, one false move and - yes, mate! Yes!


    [The stream cuts dead. Sophie''s choice at this moment is to cut to a laptop showing the Seals Live logo and the words:


    TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES


    [This is fine at first, quickly gets annoying, then becomes abject torture. Suddenly, we''re back, but it''s an almost-completely frozen picture with a few pixelated shapes in motion. The audio comes back.]


    BOGGY


    He''s clean through! What a pass! And... [splutters].


    [The fans roar. The volume is stupendous. It has to be the home fans.]


    SPECTRUM


    Oh, no.


    [Fade to black. Possible cliffhanger?]


    ***


    Two numbers appear on screen. It''s an eight and a seven. It changes to an eight and an eight.


    All is quiet, but sound comes flooding back - it''s hard to tell who''s saying what. It seems that the Seals Live and TV commentaries are being overlaid on top of one another.


    The image is brought to life on the screen, with William B. Roberts neatly controlling a high ball. Jayden Ward snatches it off him and breaks.


    Ward plays the ball forwards in the direction of Ed Williams.


    ANNOYING FREEZE FRAME!


    TIME REWINDS! WE SEE BITS OF THE MATCH PLAYED BACKWARDS! IT GOES ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE PREVIOUS DAY! WTF DON''T DO THAT!


    ***


    Max Best in Portmeirion


    Best walks through an archway, steps back, looks up. He notices it''s in the shape of a spade, as in the playing card. He grins and traces the outline with his hand. He keeps exploring as we hear a voiceover.


    MAX BEST


    Spite is a powerful motivator. Proving people wrong. There are people trying to prove me wrong and I need to prove them wrong. Grimsby? Sure. It was stupid sacking me. I''ll never forgive Chris Hale. That''s on my record forever. A stain I can''t clean. Spite pushes us to higher heights but that''s not how I want to live. I want dreamier dreams and I want to believe that a rising tide lifts all boats. Call me a snowflake, call me woke, call me what you want but if you''re starving and I''ve got an apple, I''ll give it to you. The people in this country are hungry for lots of things but what they''re really starved of is magic. I''ve learned in the last week that people want fantasy. They need fantasy. If I lock Danny Grant all the way down, he might get subbed off. If he gets subbed off I''m going to go full Max. Main character energy, a psychedelic masterpiece that leaves people asking questions and making art of their own to answer those questions. The Prisoner is mental and you might think, what does it all mean? What''s the message? But I get meta, sometimes, and in this case I think, what a wonderful world we live in where crazy things like that can get made! It''s fucking bonkers, mate! The TV show, the village, nothing about this makes sense. That''s why people still come here sixty years later. Because one man had a vision and he built a team and he made it happen and they let it happen. [Pause.] I have to build a prison so I can be free.


    ***


    BACK TO THE FREEZE FRAME!


    IT REWINDS A FEW SECONDS BUT THAT''S GREAT BECAUSE WE FORGOT WHERE WE WERE. IT''S FINE TO ADMIT IT.


    Zach Green beats Ed Williams to the ball and sends a crisp pass into midfield. It''s helped forward. William B. Roberts neatly controls a high ball. Jayden Ward snatches it off him and breaks.


    The ball is played forwards in the direction of Ed Williams.


    Christian Fierce bodies him, sticks out a leg. Zach is once more alert and anticipates the break - he touches the ball left and is wiped out by Danny Flash. The ref allows play to continue. Eddie Moore clips the ball to Best''s feet. Best looks around and rolls the ball forward, doing a little dance as he progresses. Danny Flash sprints to challenge but Best dabs the ball forward to Henri. He drops a few yards and touches it to Wibbers. He''s got the option of Max outside him, but he brings it onto his left and feeds Sharky, who has made a run between Windmill and Caine. Sharky controls, turns, and plays it back to Wibbers. He shapes to shoot, but Otis King is a massive obstacle so once again he plays it to Sharky. The winger drops his shoulder and makes the defence retreat, but touches the ball back to Wibbers and sprints to the right. Henri and Max sprint left. In the confusion, Wibbers advances. Windmill comes forward but that only opens space for Henri to run into.


    ALL SOUND CEASES AND THE ACTION GOES SLOW MOTION.


    IT''S A REALLY COOL MOMENT, GUYS.


    Wibbers dips the ball forward - it''s not a nutmeg but feels like it. Henri, running right, puts his foot on the ball and rolls it backwards.


    Max, having conserved his energy for this moment, bursts onto the ball, taking it away from multiple tired defenders.


    SOUND RETURNS BUT IT''S ALL DISCORDANT AND ECHOEY.


    SERIOUSLY, THOUGH, IT''S SO SO COOL.


    BOGGY


    Roberts. Henri. Max Best! He''s clean through! What a pass! And... [splutters].


    [The Chester fans roar. Best wheels away in ecstasy.]


    SPECTRUM


    Oh, no. He''s going to do an obscene gesture at Grimsby''s owner and get banned.


    WE REWIND AGAIN BUT YEAH WE NEED IT BECAUSE WHAT DID MAX EVEN DO?


    WE SWITCH TO THE TV COMMENTARY.


    MATT


    Roberts. Lyons! Best! Best with the pirouette! He has spun his way past the goalkeeper! He''s going away from goal... but he backheels it into the net!


    ALLY


    Ohhhhh!


    MATT


    Max Best with the no-look backheel to win it for Chester! Goal of the season! We have a title race! This is on! This is on!


    ALLY


    I can''t believe that.


    MATT


    He took the ball, burst forward, I think he shimmied left, put the goalie''s weight on the wrong foot, and did a Zinedine Zidane spin around the keeper! And then the backheel! What on earth have we just seen? And there are eight, nine, TEN Chester players trying to squash their manager flat! A joyous pile-on! Grimsby fans are leaving. Streaming out of the stadium. How can you leave after seeing that? He might do it again!


    ALLY


    When he gets up - if he gets up - we need to check his pockets to see what Danny Grant thinks of it all. Because he''s got Grant in his pocket.


    MATT


    I got it, Ally. Phew! This game. Something tells me this season could go to the wire.


    ***


    Donnie and Don are shaking their heads at the replays. Angel and Bonnie are hugging each other while doing little jumps.


    ANGEL


    I knew it! Get the fuck in! Have some of that!


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    Angel, darlin'', do me a solid and try not to get me into a fight. I might be tough but if I''ve learned one thing it''s never fight a fish''man.


    RANDO


    [Fleeing the stadium with a sourpuss face but lighting up when seeing two of his idols.]


    Donnie Wormwood! Don Flash! I can''t believe it.


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    I can''t believe that goal.


    RANDO


    Yeah, well. Reckon that''s stitched us up good and proper. Hard to get back up off the canvas after a blow like that.


    ANGEL


    [Trying to cheer him up.]


    Don''t worry, mate. I happen to know for a fact that this Max Best character is a complete fraud. He''ll stuff it up like he always does.


    RANDO


    I''d be more worried about Barnet.


    BONNIE


    Nice meeting you. Bye.


    [The rando departs. Bonnie mimes strangling Angel, but she''s laughing.]


    DONNIE WORMWOOD


    [Shaking his head.] What is it with you Chester lot? You''re a bunch of savages.


    ANGEL


    That''s why you like us.


    ***


    BOGGY


    Chester with men behind the ball. Grimsby desperate, trying anything. Nothing''s worked. They are bereft of ideas, as they have been the whole match. One assumes other teams will be watching this. It seems so simple. Mark Danny Grant. Put your best player on him if you have to. What does this mean for Grimsby''s season? Frankly, who cares? This is Chester''s day. Chester''s night. A blue and white party. Walking in a Max Best wonderland! Carl Carlile boots the ball long. Sharky''s after it... Amadi-Spokes is forced to put it into touch. Throw in for Chester. No! That''s it! Full time! Boos for the home team but Chester are in dreamland! Ten points behind, ten goals behind. What next? Whatever next? Spectrum... I''ve never said this before. I didn''t join in. I thought it was childish. But, really, if not now, when? Spectrum, mate. Could we?


    SPECTRUM


    Could we? We just did!


    ***


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    ***


    I lay on the turf, drained. I''d given everything and as soon as I tried the stupid Zidane Roulette I''d felt my calves burn, starting to cramp. I''d made it through till full time without needing to call Dean on and if I stayed perfectly still for, let''s say, six days, I would probably be able to get to my feet.


    This would cost me.


    We''d done it, though. We''d blown the title race wide open. I''d wanted clarity and simplicity but I hadn''t got it - there were billions of permutations as to how the rest of the season would pan out.


    I wondered what everyone made of it, wondered what Chris Hale was thinking. Had I knocked a million off Grimsby¡¯s sale price? Normally that would have been top, but if it meant Daddy Star got a team even cheaper, that was no good. That ain''t right.


    Dean was suddenly by my side, handing me a marathon paste and a bottle of water. "Take a second, boss, but there''s someone who wants you."


    "Tell them visiting hours are between one and ten past one. Or, you know, a funny version of that."


    "I think it''s your former boss."


    "My what?"


    Dean helped me up and with his support, I hobbled across to the side of the pitch, nodding at the stricken Grimsby players as I went, fist bumping the closest ones. Dean explained. "These guys ran down at full time. You emptied the stadium with your, er, wondergoal, so it was easy to spot them. They''re holding up one of those big cardboard signs."


    "I hate them." Stupid, barely literate signs begging for shirts, gloves, shinpads. If there were ten signs you, at best, disappointed nine kids. I¡¯d banned such begging signs from the Deva.


    "I know. But look for yourself."


    It was only a few steps away but it felt like miles. I checked the league table - that put a bit more spring in my step. Ten points behind, two games in hand. Hey, now!


    Dean stopped and I looked at the shitty cardboard sign. It read:


    MAX BEST THANK YOU


    Odd. I tried to focus and saw a rando little brat wearing a Grimsby top. Clearly some kind of TikTok prank or whatever. I started to move away.


    "Max," came a voice.


    I looked back and the kid was with an older version of itself, plus a more familiar face. No curse data showed over his head, and it took me a moment to work out why that was so strange. "Wolfie," I said. He had been the Director of Football when I''d had my ill-fated stint as Grimsby manager. He had offered to quit to save me and his loyalty got him binned off.


    He beamed, hugely. "I thought you''d forgotten me for a second."


    "I''m¡­¡± Why no profile data? I took a stab in the dark. ¡°Did I hear you''d quit the industry?"


    He looked impressed. "Yes! I thought it was my dream job, but nah."


    "Er, what are we doing? I have to go talk to people," I said, vaguely.


    "This is Jordan," he said, indicating the little kid. He looked about ten years old and the black and white stripes on his shirt looked like the bars of a prison cell.


    "Let me guess. You''re the world counting backwards champion."


    The kid frowned and looked at his dad, who also didn¡¯t know how to take my joke. Wolfie explained. "Jordan is one of the boys you scouted! You told me to look after him. I moved him to a good local team and he got signed by Grimsby!"


    I thought about making some joke but nah. Mega nah. Jordan had been taken on by his local team, his team, and that was special. One of the dreamiest dreams. It wasn''t as good as doing a madness in front of nine thousand fans, but it was close. I did a quick search of my database for players called Jordan but there were pages and pages. I couldn''t remember what I''d scouted in Grimsby. Two players, wasn¡¯t it? One had been a midfielder, right? "Good for you, mate. I knew when I saw you you were mint."


    He got a dazed look, but recovered. "Will you sign my shirt?"


    I looked at his dad. "You sure?"


    "Wouldn''t a'' happened without you. Your name¡¯s golden in our house." He offered me a marker pen.


    I bent and scribbled something, then signed it.


    The kid stretched his top out and peered, but unlike Hercule Poirot and Max Best, he couldn''t read upside down. "What''s it say?"


    His dad squinted. "UTM."


    "Up the Mariners," I said. "Up the Town."


    "That''s class that, Max," said Wolfie.


    "After what Chris Hale did to you," said the dad.


    I shook my head, slowly. "Chris Hale did it to you." I looked up at the VIP area. "God knows what he''s up to in there today but it''s nothing good for the club or the city."


    "Town," said the kid.


    I smiled. "That''s right. The town. All Town Aren''t We?"


    The kid got a puzzled expression and looked up at his dad for help. He said, "Is he a Grimsby fan?"


    I laughed. "Let''s not go crazy." I handed the marker to him. "Next time I come here, maybe it''ll be you on the end of my skills."


    "I wouldn''t let you do that to me," he said, the cocky little prick.


    "Oh, yeah? What position do you think you''ll end up playing? Number Six?"


    To reply, he turned around and showed me. It came back to me then. Even though he was wearing an outfielder''s kit, he was a PA 114 goalkeeper! Just in case I didn''t get it, Jordan said, "I am Number One."

 10.10 - The Rock

    10.


    Thursday, March 20


    A 7 a.m. flight on EasyJet is not my idea of how mornings should start. We weren''t using the low-cost airline to save money; they ran the only flights to Gibraltar from Manchester Airport. The route was only busy enough to justify having a flight every two days, and there wasn''t one departing on Friday, so we had to go a day early. Emma didn''t mind one bit.


    The ordeal could have been worse. Money smooths the edges - we stayed in an airport hotel in scenic Manchester, got a wake-up call, took a shuttle bus, paid all the extras that sped things up at the gate. EasyJet doesn''t have first class but the flight time to Gib is only three hours. Once airborne I was able to relax and get my head straight.


    We were going to spend a day and a half being tourists, followed by a weekend of scouting the entire Gibraltish league system. If I liked what I saw, Mateo was going to buy a Gibraltararian team and we were going to turn it into a local powerhouse and use it to milk UEFA. Since it had been allowed into pan-European tournaments, the Gibbish FA had been investing and apparently the place was football-mad anyway. The authorities wanted to build a new national stadium and the project looked mint. It was a place where things were happening, a place undergoing a progression fantasy of its own. I was getting excited by the thought of what the weekend might bring - creating another club monopoly with the help of the millionaire owner of Tranmere Rovers was a long way from Moss Side, call centres, and not being able to afford onions in my kebabs.


    "I wonder what hotel Matty picked for us?" wondered Emma, for the tenth time in an hour.


    I popped my MaxPods Max off. "Pardon me what?"


    "What''s the hotel going to be?" She glared at my iPad. "How many times are you going to watch that stupid movie?"


    I smiled. "There''s nothing stupid about The Rock. Sean Connery plays a former spy who isn''t called James Bond but we all know he''s James Bond. Nicholas Cage plays a chemical weapons superfreak and Beatlemaniac but the most important song in the movie is Rocket Man by Elton John. Why? You can''t understand it all in one sitting, babes. It requires careful re-watching. Why does he buy a Beatles album at the start? Why not Elton John? It''s a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in tight action sequences and awesome hero shots." She was patiently waiting for me to finish. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "You had a coffee and you''re waking up and you want a chat? Okay. I don''t know which hotel he chose. One near the stadium, probably."


    "Everything''s near the stadium. The entire place is tiny."


    "It''s one hundred times bigger than Alcatraz island."


    "One hundred? Is that hyperbole or...?"


    "No! I got it from a website. Guam is 79 times bigger. Jersey is 17 times bigger. Staten Island is 22 times bigger. We are basically heading to a landing strip with ten houses attached."


    "And a red British letterbox."


    "Yes," I said.


    She made a frustrated gesture. "I just wish I knew where we were going so I could plan the day. You don''t think he''ll put us up down the coast to save money?" One of the issues with sending players on loan to Gibraltar was going to be accommodation and one solution was to find them a place to live in Spain itself. Every day, twenty thousand people made the journey into Gib to work.


    "What, so that we get the full footballer experience? Maybe if it was just me but he knows you''re coming. He wants to make a good impression because this could be a million a year in profit for him."


    "A million?" said Emma. "A year? Profit?"


    "I think so. Running costs a million. Prize money three million. Why not?"


    Emma''s eyebrows flickered upwards. "I didn''t realise it was going to be so much. He''d better choose a place with two sinks, that''s all I''m saying. And a view."


    "What do you want a view of?"


    "The Rock of Gibraltar, obvs."


    I smiled. Checkmate. I angled my iPad at her. "Views of The Rock are guaranteed."


    She slid a pair of sunglasses from the top of her head over her eyes in an attempt to be dismissive, but she knew I''d won the conversation.


    ***


    Mateo''s version of the Brig, John Driver, met us at the airport. Before whizzing us to our hotel, he let us take a detour to visit a key tourist attraction - the red postbox outside the airport. It was thinner than the ones I was used to seeing, and the metalwork was more ornate. Old!


    "It''s weird," said Emma, touching it to check it was real. "We''re thousands of miles away but it''s still Britain. That''s messing with my tiny mind."


    "It''s Britain," I agreed, "but they''re driving on the right. What the actual."


    "If you want weird," said John. "To get into the town, you have to walk across the runway you just landed on." I looked around to check it was going to be safe to cross the asphalt and sure enough, there was only one plane in view. Gib wasn''t exactly a hub like Manchester, but at least you knew which plane you were taking.


    "This place is crazy bonkers," said Emma. She put her big, floppy hat on, for it was twenty-five celsius, which, pleasingly but stupidly, is 77 in American numbers. Perfect summer holiday weather. She hugged the post box and took a selfie. "Lead the way!" John coughed and after a moment of hesitation, indicated that he wanted to take Emma''s little suitcase. She gave it up. "Ooh, makes me feel all ladylike." She grabbed my arm and fell into step beside me. I had to push my own case. Why didn''t I get to feel ladylike?


    John''s car wasn''t far and he drove us for a couple of minutes. He pulled up in front of our hotel. Emma got out before he could open her door; she said ''wow'' so hard she dropped her hat. She was absolutely gobsmacked. I was probably pulling a similar face.


    "You''re joking," I said. "We''re staying here?"


    "Yes, sir. The suite is booked under the name Emma Weaver."


    "Why not mine?" I said. "Oh, so I don''t get mobbed."


    "Mateo thought Emma was the less likely to forget her own name."


    Emma snorted. "John," she complained, but went back to taking photos of the hotel.


    "Well, it''s amazing," I said. "It''s beautiful. Is this just for the first night?"


    "All four nights, sir."


    I shook my head. The hotel was a ship. A massive, fuck-off cruise liner thing with Hotel Casino written at the top. The entrance said Yacht Hotel. "I''ve never stayed on a superyacht before. I have become that which I despise."


    "You have to pay for your own dinner, sir, if that makes you feel better."


    I laughed. "It does, actually."


    "I can''t wait to get inside," said Emma. "What''s the plan, John?"


    "No plan for today. Mateo is flying from London tomorrow - he doesn''t trust EasyJet - and we''ll meet up at the first match tomorrow night. Until then, your time is yours."


    "What about you?" said Emma. "Are you on your own? You''ll come for a drink with us tonight?"


    John blinked. "I couldn''t possibly - "


    "Oh, don''t be like that," said Emma. "I won''t be able to relax knowing you''re here being miserable while we''re having fun."


    "It''s my job, miss."


    "Fuck that," I said. "Emma has spoken. I think we''ll have sep dins, though. I don''t like being judged for what I order. So what if I want spag bol? Why''s that a topic of discussion?"


    Emma groaned. "Mum was surprised you ordered something so basic, Max. Let it go."


    "Separate dinners is fine with me, sir. I also have peculiar habits."


    "What''s peculiar about eating spaghetti in an Italian restaurant?" I demanded.


    "Because you can make it at home!" said Emma, sounding just like her mother.


    "John, I''ve changed my mind. Have dinner with us. We''ll do outrageous things like order the food we want to eat while Emma eats frog¡¯s legs covered in squid ink served on a fluff of mushroom foam."


    "John, I''m dying to check out our room! We''ll text you later."


    "Babes, he needs to know if he''s eating with us otherwise he''ll have a night out on the cheese."


    "Yes, let''s eat together. It''ll be nice. Max is going to be pretending to be Nicholas Cage all day."


    "Oh?" said John. "Does that make me Sean Connery?"


    I jumped at him and gave him a big squeeze. "Babes, I love him! Can I keep him?"


    Emma grinned. "I''m going in. You two have fun."


    "Urgh," I said, and scampered after her, dragging both suitcases behind me.


    ***


    Emma wouldn''t do anything as undignified as run to the check-in desk, but I would. I got there first and immediately took control of the sitch. There was a nice, Spanish-looking woman smiling at me.


    "Hi. I''m Dwayne Johnson," I said.


    "No, he''s not. He''s Emma Weaver," said Emma, who was too stunned by the grandeur of the lobby to stop me burning off some of my nervous energy.


    The woman - Luisa, according to her nametag - clacked on her keyboard while I looked around. "Jesus," I said. The place was swanky! Above my head was a big blue orb, something like a planet-themed disco ball. There was calm blue lighting, a nautical vibe, and every surface was absolutely gleaming. Shipshape and Bristol fashion. "Is this actually a superyacht?"


    "Does it go to Tangier?"


    "No, Mrs Weaver. It''s stationary."


    "A stationary boat? Isn''t that a shipwreck?"


    Luisa smiled. Not her first time fielding such questions. "It''s an innovative, carbon-friendly concept," she said. "Instead of building a big hotel where land is scarce, you can sail a yacht to the coast. Just like that you have 189 more hotel rooms. There''s one in London, too and that''s already on the second version."


    "It''s dead nice," said Emma.


    I slapped myself in the forehead. "I can''t believe this. No-one''s said it yet."


    "Said what?"


    "Luisa, can you do me a favour?"


    "Yes, Mr. Weaver."


    "Can you say, in a gruff Scottish accent, ''Welcome to the Rock''?"


    "Welcome to the rock, Mr. Weaver." She made no attempt to do the accent. I later learned this was a five-star hotel. Huh. More like 4.71 stars.


    I moved straight past my disappointment. "Luisa, Emma. We have to establish comms."


    "Pardon me, sir?"


    "I want comms up by sixteen hundred! Let''s move it. Systems up!"


    "Max," said Emma, somewhat annoyed. "Stop being weird. What are you doing?"


    "Asking for the wifi password," I said.


    Luisa kept a blank face and wrote it out for me. She handed it over with a couple of plastic keycards. "You''re on the sixth floor," she said. I gave her a big smile and she decided she was amused by my antics. The superyacht wasn''t busy in March and the place was well-staffed. She had time to indulge me. "What was that you were saying?"


    "It''s from this amazing movie called The Rock," I said. "Have you seen it?" She shook her head. "It''s about a hotshot young megabrain and his banging hot girlfriend and this grumpy old guy who maybe used to be sexy who knows and at the start the hotshot is in danger from some poison and he has to take an injection to save himself but the needle is enormous and he''s scared of it so he''s going to die and the scene is mad intense but he defuses the bomb! Did I mention there was a bomb, too? Anyway, he doesn''t want to take the injection because it''s administered through the heart."


    "Through the heart?"


    "I know, it''s mad! It''s all popping off and the tension''s crazy and we''re learning about the breakup of the former Yugoslavia while watching a chemicals expert investigate a suspicious package and then the cockroaches die and the acid is melting the suit and then his boss is like inject it into your heart right now and you''re thinking what the hell what even is that? It''s absolutely wild and bonkers and it''s so vivid you''re like hang on let me pause this and go watch an hour-long documentary about whether that''s real science or not but you can''t because pausing would be a crime against cinema so you''re basically a prisoner. And all that''s the first two minutes!"


    "It sounds like a lot of fun," said Luisa, with five-star diplomacy.


    Emma kicked me in the ankle; she was ready to go. I stared at Luisa. "Don''t go to San Francisco until I steal the guidance chips. Promise me."


    "I promise," she said.


    ***


    Our suite was, to say the least, opulent. The living room - yes, it had a living room - was big, the TV was bigger, and they had left us a plate of hams (two types), pumpkin seeds, crackers, jam, cheese, and a bottle of cold champagne.


    "Bagsy," said Emma.


    "The alk? I''m not drinking until the season''s over."


    "Stop!" she said. I froze, guilty as a child, with my fingers squeezing some ham, pre-lift off. Emma said, "I want to take a photo. Wait a minute."


    I continued the tour. The bedroom was spacious, the bed huge, the balcony small. It had a view over a marina with lots of teeny tiny baby yachts bobbing around. A control panel allowed us to close the blinds from the comfort of the bed. The bathroom, where it wasn''t marble, was elegantly tiled with large cream rectangles dotted with lots of small golden squares. It had a separate toilet and bath area, while a small closet could be accessed from the bedroom or bathroom. Smart design.


    And two sinks!


    "Wow," said Emma, for the tenth time. "Wow. I need to film all this for my Insta. Let''s go back out and pretend to come in for the first time."


    "Erm," I said.


    "What?"


    "I''m missing the Maidstone game to be here. I think the fans will tolerate it because it''s better than missing the whole end of the season like last time and we can say I''m off scouting, which is true. But half of them follow you on the socials so if you''re like hey fellas guess what, we''re living it up on a five-star superyacht instead of getting a vital three points..."


    "You don''t want me to film it?"


    "I mean... Not really, tbh. Is that all right?"


    She leaned up to kiss me. "Course it is, babes. I wasn''t thinking. Radio silence! Engage the silent drive!" She blinked at me a few times. "Was that good?"


    "Close enough," I said, eyeing the bed, and at this point I will metaphorically press the ''close curtains'' button on the scene.


    ***


    We toured the other decks and I realised I''d never really thought about what a superyacht looked like. I imagined a dude in lightweight white linen lounging on his phone while two bored models worked on their tan, same as any yacht, but with a deck fifty times longer. I had given zero thought to the beast''s innards.


    I realised my imagination was sorely lacking. The yacht hotel was all mirrored ceilings, chrome fixtures, tasteful recessed lighting, views of the Med, doors that shush closed, handles that click open in a satisfying way, embossed towels, a huge ballroom with a dozen oversized disco balls, a sundeck, and a cute little infinity pool.


    A b-boy would have laughed, saying something like ''it''s not the Baur au Lac, is it?'' But it was definitely the nicest place I''d ever been, and Emma''s seventy-seventh ''wow'' brought actual tears to my eyes.


    I pointed her at Gibraltar''s main landmark - the Rock - with its distinctive peak. I wrapped my arms around her, nestled my head against hers, and allowed my imagination to run riot.


    This soft Mancunian rock had absorbed enough nutrients to grow a hard shell, evolve some teeth, and now I was working on some fucking wings, mate.


    The superyacht lifestyle. I wanted to give this to Emma, every day. Not on a ship, but in Cheshire. We would buy some land and build our dream home. We would have two cinema rooms. One that would show any movie ever made, and one that would only show The Rock. And maybe Casablanca. We would have embossed towels. I would use the ones that said Emma sometimes because the Max ones were all in the wash and we would bicker about that. We would have a guest room with three taps just in case Mr. Yalley ever came to stay.


    Emma sighed herself deeper into my arms. "What are you thinking?"


    "It''s like a dream," I murmured.


    "I was thinking the same. It''s a long way from the Tyne."


    I held my girl on a superyacht as I looked at one of the Pillars of Hercules. That dude achieved a thing or twelve, but could he do it on a cold, wet, windy night in Stoke? Could he fuck. My heart pounded as I thought about how hard I would need to work to create the life I wanted to create. Hard. Insanely hard.


    So let''s get going!


    "Max?"


    "It''s okay, babes. I''m just thinking about which Greek gods I could beat in a fight."


    "Oh." She did a one-eighty and gave me a dazzling blast of her eyes. "Me too."


    We kissed, and in my self-image, I edited my Ambition score from 20 to 21. Chester. West Didsbury. Wales. Gibraltar.


    I bared my teeth and swept my gaze from Africa to Spain to Britain, then up into the sky.


    What else you got?


    ***


    We did Gibraltar things. That means going up the Rock or going inside the Rock.


    Emma and I bickered about whether to take a taxi tour for 40 Euro while a friendly Moroccan explained everything that we were seeing and protected us from the very very naughty monkeys the place is famous for, or whether to pay 38 pounds to take an impersonal cable car to the top and be simultaneously bored to death and mortally afraid.


    Emma accused me of having an irrational fear of cable cars but when I started to argue the extreme rationality of my case she said, "You know what? A taxi will be fine." But while she pretended to be annoyed, she later agreed that Amir was lovely and his narration of the scene was far nicer than plunging to our doom in a literal death trap.


    We got to the peak, where some fucking cretin has installed a glass-bottomed viewing platform so you can check out the amazing view while being mortally afraid. You can see Morocco, and of course, you''re surrounded by Spain. Out on the Med there are all kinds of ships being refuelled without paying tax, the scamps. The view is pretty awesome, and whenever you''re not on a flimsy glass platform thinking about all the glass platforms that have collapsed around the world, you''re thinking about the British sailors who lived in Gibraltar and fought the Spanish or the French or the Spanish and the French. Their lives must have been both boring and terrifying.


    Since we were trying to cram the hits into the first day, we went into the tunnels. These were created by the British army to move cannons from one side of the Rock to the other to help lift a siege. An impressive feat for the 18 men assigned to the initial task - they dug or blasted an 80-foot tunnel in under five weeks to help the Brits win an unlikely victory. There were waxwork figures of men chucking gunpowder at the wall; these tunnels seemed an obvious place to bring a football squad, to tell them that if they worked together they could even move mountains. Maybe not such a good talk if there were any Spaniards in the squad. I could just imagine the messages the curse would throw up after I gave that particular speech:


    Demands his manager show a more subtle understanding of the history of Spanish territory.


    Believes his manager''s ethnocentricity is affecting dressing room harmony.


    Wants to stop being offered a Full English breakfast.


    The tunnels were impressive, especially the St. Michael''s Cave section with its stalagmites and stalactites all lit up while music echoed around the chamber. The best part was running around, throwing myself against walls and looking over my shoulder while yelling dramatic things. "We got a rodent problem. Flush the pipes. There''s probably a maze of tunnels on this goddamn island. Check the access points."


    Emma loved my performance and said as much, but then it was back to the superyacht to get ready for dinner.


    ***


    The restaurant got several more wows out of Emma, especially the wine room, which looked like the kind of glass prison cell that would normally house a supervillain.


    John Driver was waiting for us on a stool by the bar - I guessed he thought it would be rude to sit before Emma or something old-school like that. He was wearing a jacket over a shirt and he''d picked up a bit of a tan that really suited him.


    My worries about not having lobster money evaporated when I saw the prices; the restaurant had a kind of tasting menu for a crazily cheap thirty-six pounds. The idea was you''d get small versions of their main courses so you could try things one at a time until you tapped out. I knew the trick was that the time between courses would help to make you feel full, but I was trying to get away from the scarcity mindset. I was on decent money and it was going to rise quickly. I didn''t want to become a dick and I didn''t want to forget my roots, but I did want to stop being anxious about money. Surely I could buy something that cost under fifty quid without doing a whole cost benefit analysis about it?


    Emma jabbed me in the ribs. "What? What?"


    "John asked you a question."


    "Shit, sorry. I was miles away."


    "Not a problem, Max."


    "Pass the bread," I said. He lifted the bread basket and offered it across. I recoiled. "Not like that! It''s a classy joint. The bread has to go anti-clockwise."


    "That is anti-clockwise, babes."


    "Well, not at an oblique angle, then."


    "Babes. Don''t be obtuse."


    John was uncertain about how to react to our little performance, but he relaxed and smiled. Better this than fish and chips for one. He was very like the Brig, but not as formal. I liked the guy a lot, but like the Brig he wasn''t a football specialist. "I was saying that I saw your goal."


    "Which one? There have been so many."


    "You know which one, babes. Stop being smug."


    I laughed. "Grimsby. Yeah, that was special. We had been practising these rapid side-to-side moves and I always had the aim of someone breaking into the space that was created. It really wasn''t supposed to be me."


    "It was beautiful," said John.


    I nodded. "It probably sounds a bit poncy but the beauty is the point. I wanted to knock the stuffing out of Grimsby, really rub their noses in it. This is what I can do and you''ve never seen anything like it. Give up. I wanted it to be like... You know in tennis where you make a guy run all over the place, torment him, and then all he can do is hit a high lob and hope you make a mistake? And you can smash the shit out of the ball or do a tiny little drop shot? Either way is demoralising."


    "You didn''t want to merely win. You wanted to make a statement."


    I nodded with an element of head shaking. "I mean, yeah. But it''s... it wasn''t a choice. It wasn''t what I wanted. We had to do that. Even after that result we were miles behind. The league was in their hands. If I was the Grimsby manager and I''d lost I would have shaken it off, dusted myself down, built the lads back up. Win the next three games and it''s just a blip, right? You''re allowed a blip. But if a guy absolutely smokes you like I did, that''s... It was mental disintegration. It might have looked like a joyous expression of all that is good and holy about the sport, but it wasn''t that. It was a cold, hard calculation. It was mathematical."


    John had paused in the act of buttering some freshly-made artisanal bread. He glanced at Emma and smiled. "Bullshit." He tensed. "I apologise."


    I smiled back. "John, you''re all right. Speak your mind! We''re not gonna tell on you. The only thing I won''t accept," I said, tearing up my slice of bread, "is if you say Con Air is better than The Rock. Those are fighting words. As for my tale of bravery and skill, is it bullshit? Or is what I said the god''s honest truth?" I popped a tiny chunk of bread into my mouth. "It''s impossible to know." I chuckled.


    "Can I ask about it?"


    "About what? Actually, never mind. Ask what you want."


    "So... you score that goal. Everyone goes er... I think the appropriate word would be loco. How... oh my God."


    "What?"


    "Never mind."


    I ripped another piece of bread off. "You wanted to ask how it feels."


    "It''s so insipid and you must get it all the time."


    "Er... yeah. I never answer it, though. I say yeah it''s top. Most people don''t want to really talk, do you know what I mean? It''s just like asking about the weather while you''re waiting for the bus. It''s placeholder text. How do I become a footballer? Who''s the best opponent you''ve faced? What''s it like scoring a goal? No-one ever asks me the question they should be asking."


    John was agog. "What''s that?"


    "Where do you get your hair done?"


    He tipped his head back. "Let''s drop it. I''m sorry it even popped into my head."


    "Nah, mate. I''m happy to answer it. That''s what I''m saying, I never get the chance to really think about it, do you know what I mean? People just want to get a selfie and tell their mates oh I met Max Best and he was nice or I met Max Best and he was a dick. They don''t actually give a shit what makes me tick." I chewed for a minute. "The Grimsby match was very, very strange. As you know, I recently managed Grimsby so I knew almost all the players pretty well and I watched loads of videos to make sure I was up to date with their new sound. I spent maybe ten hours watching footage with Sandra. That''s my assistant manager. Another thirty hours on my own. I prepared to an extent that is actually moronic but it''s like I said, I didn''t want to just nullify them and show other teams how to nullify them, I wanted to break their spirit." I shook my head. "But when I''d done it, I felt sorry for them."


    Emma rubbed my arm. "He''s a big softie."


    "I mean, a bit. It''s my job to do it and to work yourself up into that kind of state you need to feel the spite, do you know what I mean? You need to hate them for ninety minutes. But then it was over and I''ve got enough grudges. Let it go. Okay it''s good if they implode but you''ve got another match in a few days so you need to switch modes and fast. You''ve got to be overwhelmingly powerful like a battleship but then as nimble as a destroyer. Get into position for the next fight. It''s hard, but it''s easy. The tricky part is these changes give people around you whiplash and you risk looking like an idiot. I''ve got one player who thinks I''m a clown."


    "Just talk to him, babes."


    "No, thanks. John, look." I pointed behind him to where the sky was darkening and turning red.


    He drank it in. "Beautiful." He thought about what I''d said. I think he was most interested in the team dynamics. "So, if I was one of your players and I''d just seen you do what you did, what would I be thinking? It''s one thing to work for Jimmy Mustard and follow his instructions, but with you, you don''t just tell them what to do, you do it. And you do it so spectacularly. That must be... strange."


    I took a sip of my water. "Strange. Hmm. Most of the squad were there before my murder and let me tell you, I was ten times better then. A few times this season I''ve saved the day but mostly I''ve been playing twenty minutes here or there. I''ve been the icing on the cake, sort of thing, doing something creative against tired teams. I would say I''ve been worth a fair few points, but it''s not like when I played for Darlington. Henri, Pascal, Aff, Carl, they know I can do some magic if the conditions are right, which they haven''t been for a while. I think that goal wasn''t oh, I didn''t know he could do that! It was like, oh we could do this!"


    "Could we?" mumbled Emma.


    "I don''t know that it mattered that it was me who did it. Maybe it did. Yeah, okay, when I think about it, it''s better if it''s me because it gives them more belief in me as a manager, too." I rubbed my eyebrow. "There was a strong feeling that night that we could do something special. The mood in the dressing room was, just, euphoric. There aren''t many nights like that."


    "I bet."


    Our first course arrived and we were quiet for a minute while we tucked in and described what we''d got. We fell into sharing dishes, which was fun. The break gave me time to put my thoughts into some kind of order.


    "I know everyone was freaking out about the goal and it gave us a boost but honestly, what I did in the dressing room after was even better. Not for the fans, but for the squad, and that''s the important thing."


    "What did you do?"


    "Okay, so did you ever play the FIFA games?"


    "No."


    "They are ubiquitous. FIFA used to get 170 million dollars a year for the right to use the name. I hate FIFA but one thing they do is distribute money to all their member nations. The money from this game - free money, they didn''t lift a finger to code it or design it - that''s like a million dollars for San Marino, for Gibraltar, for Wales. But the president of FIFA, fucking Infantino..." It was astonishing how much this story made me seethe. "FIFA decided they deserved more money, right? How about we double the fee? After all, we''re the stars. Kids all around the world only buy the game because it says FIFA on the box. That''s how beloved we are."


    "Oh, boy," said Emma. "Where''s his off switch?" She pulled at my ear.


    "The games company said, you know what? How about no? How about fuck you all the way home? So they made a new game. It''s called Beefer. Beefer 26 will be the next version. It''s exactly the same in every way, except they keep the 170 million. Pretty sweet deal. Now, it might surprise you that Beefer 26 is just as successful as the old FIFA games and the much-anticipated rival game coded by Gianni Infantino himself has, er, failed to materialise."


    "Oh, the plan was to make a rival game?"


    "No, it was extortion and the games company called their bluff. Okay, but what''s all this got to do with my wondergoal against Grimsby? Patience, dear grasshopper, patience. So Beefer 26 features all the Premier League players in 3D rendered glory. Ditto the Championship, League One... and League Two. It''s possible Mateo is in the game somewhere! Maybe as DLC. If we get promoted, I''ll be in the game."


    "Oh, I see!"


    I shook my head. "You don''t see, because I don''t want to be in it. I will tolerate being in the game because sick kids in hospital say they can''t wait to be Max Best in Beefer. The game will give me bad stats anyway, so it''s fine." Would The Sentinel squash me flat if I was good in a video game? I had a feeling that one day we would find out. "But guess who does want to be in the game?"


    John tried to guess. "Emma?"


    "All the other players," said Emma. "They''re loco about it. It''s like they don''t exist if they''re not in the game."


    "The young players are especially obsessed," I said. "As it happened, the Monday after the Grimsby match was the birthday of our best young player. Best young English player. William B. Roberts was going to turn 17. That''s the background. Now imagine we''re in Grimsby and the lads are all bouncing around, singing, dancing, never-mind-I''ll-find-someone-like-you-ing, and I turn the music all the way down and say I''ve got an announcement. That win puts us right in with a shot of getting promoted, lads - big cheer - so it''s a good time to reveal that I''ve been talking to the makers of Beefer. If we''re in League Two we''ll be in Beefer 26. Another big cheer. And because it''s Wibbers'' birthday, I''ve got him a surprise! His player card! I expected another cheer but it was this deathly hush. I brought out a big piece of cardboard covered with a tea towel. I said I''d been negotiating what Wibbers'' numbers should say and after a big fight, I won! There''s still almost no sound because the revelation of this card will provoke joy and jealousy in equal measure. Like, for normal people like us it''s impossible to understand what this means but there are only maybe four players in the room who have ever been in the game. This is a massive, massive moment."


    "Shit," said John, who was very much enjoying the tale.


    "I whip off the tea towel and there are actual gasps. I do my biggest, most handsome smile as I read out the numbers. Hang on, I took a photo. Check it." I showed John a pic. There was a photo of Wibbers on a dull bronze background. Beneath were some numbers. "Pace 16, Shooting 16, Passing 17, Dribbling 15, Defence 5, Physical 15."


    "Is that good?" said John.


    I smirked until Emma jabbed me. "Ow! Well, I made out like it was wonderful, brilliant, amazing. William looked sort of crestfallen but defiant while I kept ranting about how hard I''d fought to get him such good numbers. Eventually, when he thought his mate couldn''t stand any more, Pascal stepped in. Boss, what do you think the numbers are out of? Why, twenty, of course, I said. Just like Soccer Supremo. Everyone looked at Wibbers. They''re out of a hundred, boss, he said. Oh, shit, I said. I kind of looked worried for a while, but then there was too much giggling and smirking and I couldn''t keep a straight face. Wibbers realised he was being pranked and he went fuuuck and everyone laughed."


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    "This is Max''s version of a prank-free workplace."


    I laughed. "Yeah, okay, I''m not completely congruent. Sue me. It was fun, though, and he asked if he could keep the card. I said yes but I''ve got you a proper birthday present. He gets all suspicious but I''m like no mate this one''s real. Honest. Let me find it. So I rummage in my bag and come up with an envelope. He takes it, there are more smirks and sniggers and all that, and he opens it and it''s a gift token. ''One free soft drink with any meal order in Nando''s,'' he says. I say yes but not Coke I don''t want you drinking Coke it''s bad for your teeth. And everyone''s trying not to laugh and he goes okay what the shit is going on. So Glenn Ryder says, ¡®we''re all going to Nando''s for your birthday''. I can''t really explain it but the next part of the scene was supposed to be everyone jumping for joy like we''d just won the World Cup."


    "So what happened instead?"


    "No, that''s what we did. But it was supposed to be ironic. Like, we''re going to Nando''s! Lol. But once we started jumping around it wasn''t ironic. It was fucking intense. I''ve never experienced anything like that, I don''t think. We''re going to Nando''s! We''re going to Nando''s! It was one of those mass delusion things."


    "What do you think caused it?"


    "No clue. This, er, this sense of progress, maybe. This sense that, like, we can go to a restaurant together and not drink and it''ll be best night of our fucking lives because we''re all together. I don''t know but I do know that all the players in that room totally maxed on morale."


    "Wow."


    More food came and once again there was a quiet bit. "The next few days were absolute perfection. Oh, but stop me if I''m being boring."


    "I''m riveted," said John.


    I turned to Emma. "Me too," she said, resting her head on my shoulder for a second. "Keep going."


    "The day after Grimsby the women played their main league rivals, Cheadle Town Stingers."


    "Awesome name."


    "I know, right? If we beat them it would more or less sew up the league, complacency aside. I''d suggested to Jackie, the manager, that they start with a 4-1-4-1 formation and make Cheadle do all the running. And he did!" Cheadle started the match with CA 37, we had CA 41.6. "That formation gave Jackie a very slightly more mature team and they were brilliant. I was all mashed up from the Grimsby game but I kept, like, jumping to do headers and kicking every ball. Bloody hurt! But they were brilliant, and in the second half Jackie turned the screw. He brought on Kisi and Angel, went to 4-4-2, and they ran riot." The increase in CA only took the women to 43, but they played with much more speed and intensity and the final score could have been a hell of a lot more than 3-0. Cheadle did rolling subs but couldn''t cope with our slick passing. "It wasn''t over at that point because they still had to play West Didsbury, who beat them earlier in the season."


    "That''s the team you own?"


    "No. I don''t own a team in England. I''m not allowed."


    "Did you just wink at me?"


    "I never wink in England."


    "You''re not in England."


    I looked out of the window. "That is a mindfuck. Everyone speaks English and the menu''s in pounds. I forgot where I was!"


    Emma said, "And then there was the birthday party."


    "Yeah, Glenn Ryder rented the whole place. He''s got quite a lot of money from our cup run and it''s actually hard to spend it all if there''s no alcohol involved! I decided not to go, though."


    "Oh."


    I pulled one cheek up and made a clicking noise. "It''s an odd one. You can''t have proper fun if the boss is there, right? So... But they wanted me there. I''m the boss but I''m one of the lads, too. Sort of. But not really. It''s hard. I think it''s better not to go so they can get silly."


    "Didn''t you have a match the next day?"


    "Yep. Down in Kidderminster. Former home of Christian Fierce, current home to Steve Alton. That was another odd one because we''d been having these huge, ding-dong battles. One of Jackie Reaper''s first matches as manager was against Kiddies and Bob Horseman did a number on him. Then they gave me a hard time, gave me a good slapping. But this time it was like, yeah, we''ve taken your rock and we''ve evolved miles past you. I was physically ruined so I didn''t want to play if I didn''t have to."


    "And you didn''t have to."


    "Right. Our morale is a crazy weapon right now. I put out pretty much our best team to keep the pressure on Grimsby. They were in a state. There was my goal, some injuries, their fans turning on them. I had a feeling that they would struggle that night, and they did. We won two-nil, they only drew. Oh, Barnet won as well. Four-one. That was worrying - they''re not supposed to score freely like that. So that was Grimsby on 78 points, Barnet 75. We had 70 with two games in hand. Okay so we win those and we''re two points behind Grimsby. I mean, what the fuck. That''s outrageous, really after the season we''ve had. So again, we were all bouncing. But that wasn''t even the best thing."


    "No?"


    I shook my head. "Have you heard we''ve got a player at AFCON?"


    "No, sorry. Not too sure what that means, either. Sounds like a Bond villain organisation, or a fringe political party."


    "It''s the African Cup of Nations. Like the Euros but for Africa. This is the under 20s version and my dude Youngster is in the Ghana squad. The match was in Togo at 10 p.m. UK time. I''d have loved nothing more than to go to Youngster''s church and watch it with his people. My players would have loved to watch all together."


    "At a Nando''s," said John.


    "You joke but yes. That would be a massive hit. Only problem is, we''re playing down near Birmingham until nigh on ten o''clock, right? So I call Bob Horseman."


    "The Kidderminster manager," says Emma, helpfully.


    "Yeah and I ask if we can use a room in the stadium or something like that and sorry in advance for thrashing his team. He says he''ll get it shown in the Harriers Arms and sorry in advance for ending your title charge. I say wow that''s above and beyond you''re a ledge and sorry for coming on with ten minutes to go and doing a madness and by the way I haven''t scored from the halfway line yet. He says it''s my pleasure, I think a lot of our lads will be keen to stay and watch and hang out with their former captain and sorry in advance for ruining the party mood."


    "Is that how you talk?" said Emma.


    "Erm, with him, yeah. He''s ace. After the match we went to their version of the Blues Bar and mingled with their players and staff. Sandra and me sat with Bob and his assistants and chatted shit about the match and the rest of the league."


    "How did the match go?" said John.


    "I mean, in a way it didn''t matter," I said. "It was the semi-final and the four teams would get invited to the World Cup this summer, so they''d all achieved the main objective. Ghana had Senegal, which was a tough game. The other semi was Tunisia v South Sudan and they were both very lucky to get to that point. The winner of the game we were watching were likely to win the whole thing. Senegal had brilliant attackers and they were in the mood to slap. It was two-nil after about twenty minutes but then their coach said okay let''s defend for seventy minutes. That''s nuts. I hate that. Ghana were too conservative, though. They didn''t want to commit too many bodies forward in case Senegal got a third on a counter. I mean, yeah, that''s fair, but you''re two-nil down. You''ve got to go for it."


    "How was your player doing?"


    "He wasn''t on the pitch. He played a few minutes in one of the group games, but he plays in the fifth division in England. He''s not, like, obviously a megastar to anyone but me." I sighed. "He came on with ten minutes to go, and I got the sense from the manager it was very much like, ah, you''re a good lad and I like you so go and run around. You know, tossing a stick in the park for a dog to chase but you''re on your phone and not even enjoying his happy little face. What happens? Youngster fucking slaps. He''s been on the pitch for ten seconds, he does an interception. He surges forward. Why? Because he''s a Max Best player and his team''s losing. Ghana get right up the pitch and build an attack. A minute later he intercepts again, runs again. I''m screaming at the TV down in Kidderminster, doing a FaceTime with Pastor Yaw and the Yalleys, and it''s so much fun. The Ghanaian players have been training with Youngster and they know he''s freakishly good at interceptions and being in the right spot to snuff out danger and they get more adventurous even if their manager has more or less thrown the towel in. They attack, Senegal counter, a centre back goes way out of his zone to deal with the break because he knows Youngster''s got his six. The game''s wide open, like when they smash the reds in snooker and the balls go everywhere. Ghana put together a good move. Goal! Two-one! The last five minutes are crazy. I think a lot of the Kidderminster players were bored to death watching the game because they didn''t really give a shit who won but even they got into it, big time. We thought Ghana equalised and there were limbs. Absolute scenes. But the shot had hit the adverts behind the goal and rippled into the net. Senegal won. I think a good time was had by all and there''s a chance my dude will go to the World Cup!"


    "Oh, hang on," said Emma. "I just thought of something. Why didn''t he fly back after that match?"


    "The third place playoff was a few days later. Ghana beat South Sudan but Youngster didn''t get on the pitch. I think the entire squad stayed in town to watch the final, then flew back after."


    "So he couldn''t have played against Wealdstone."


    "No. He wasn''t in the country."


    "Will he play on Saturday against Maidstone?"


    "He could but we don''t need him. He gets a rest and to spend time with his family. He''ll go to church on Sunday and tell them all about it."


    Emma frowned as she spooned something into her mouth. "You''re here. He''s resting. If Maidstone goes wrong, there will be a lot of complaints."


    "Yeah, from gammons. That''s the point of being a gammon. You have to complain non-stop otherwise you just give up the ghost. Your body turns to ash and is blown out to sea. I thought about it a lot and the thing is, Maidstone is an easy game. It shouldn''t matter that the league got exciting. I have to trust Sandra and I have to trust my players. Sandra is going to pick Chipper and let him loose, so there''s a risk. There''s one player in the line up who gets my stomach acid dancing, but we should be able to win even with ten. John, what are you thinking?"


    "I was trying to piece things together. Emma mentioned Wealdstone. Forgive me but that result passed me by."


    "It passed everyone by. Our pitch is looking much better but it''s still heavy so we put out a beefier team with a couple of young players and went back to a more grindy style. Bit more direct. The away lads were hyped up because last time we played them we got all kinds of lucky with a WibRob equaliser. They''re also down the foot of the table and they need points even more than we do. It was tight and I was thinking I might need to go on and play - I still wasn''t fully recovered from Grimsby, if I''m being honest - but Aff scored two goals. I''d asked him to shoot more so I could sell him for a higher price and he came through. Two-nil, pretty diabolical match, but the fans loved it. They''re on board with this season, big time. One guy put up a big banner - you know, the ones they dangle from the stands - that said ''Don''t sell out the club, sell out the stadium''. We got over three thousand for that one, and okay it was a Saturday and the weather was nice but Wealdstone aren''t a big draw. If we keep winning, we might finally fill the bastard stadium. Oh! And that one was our fourth two-nil in a row. We''re keeping so many clean sheets these days. Fieeerrrccce!"


    "What did Grimsby do?"


    I closed my eyes and rubbed my brow. "They won two-nil, too. Barnet drew. We are eight points behind Grimsby and their goal difference is eight better. We could catch them - "


    "Could we?" murmured Emma.


    "But games are running out. Grimsby only have seven left! If they win all seven, that''s that."


    "Is that likely?"


    "No, but we''ll drop points, too. We''ll win this weekend but the key will be on Tuesday when we play Aldershot - very, very tough match - and Grimsby play Barnet. It''s our chance to put our destiny in our own hands. God," I said, shaking my head. I looked out onto the marina and once again realised I wasn''t in Chester any more. "It''s like a dream."


    ***


    Friday, March 21


    We had a wonderful lie-in that briefly turned into a curtain war as Emma used her control panel to open the curtains and I used mine to close them. I won the pillow fight that ensued, and we decided to compromise on leaving the curtains closed but I would spend the day not quoting The Rock or telling people about The Rock.


    Five minutes later I was ready for them to be open anyway, so I''m not sure I really got the better end of that deal.


    We took another stroll around the boat - still amazing, still so many wow moments - and took a languid walk towards Main Street where Emma bought a bathing costume from Marks and Spencer (fifteen hundred miles from the next-nearest branch!), after which we had a full English breakfast at a pub. That was followed by a shuttle bus to Europa Point, a lighthouse on the southernmost point of Gibraltar where there''s a big cannon and a big mosque, which sounds sinister when I say it like that. The cannon faces out to sea, guys. Then we went to the Botanic Gardens and back to Main Street, where we walked past jewellers, shops doing permanent ''closing-down sales'', and some staples of the British high street - Marks, Costa, betting shops, fish and chips, Burger King, Natwest bank.


    It was all nice but when Emma and I sat down in a big square to drink coffee, I found some thoughts had been germinating.


    "300 days of sunshine a year," I said.


    Emma nodded. "I was talking to the locals and they said yes that''s true but it isn''t always, like, proper warm."


    "You were talking to the locals? When?"


    "When you were rolling around in the tunnels."


    "That obviously never happened." I looked around. "Okay it''s a nice place. First two days, wow. I''m thinking of what it''s going to be like if I send, for example, Josh Owens here. He''d like the weather. He''d like that it''s a big adventure. It''s all in English so he gets that exotic feeling but he''s not going to have a breakdown because he can''t order a sandwich."


    "Uno bocadillo, por favor."


    "But, like, we''ve been here a day and a half and I feel like we''ve seen ninety percent of the tourist stuff. And eighty percent of the entire island."


    "Stop saying island. It''s not an island. We''ve seen eighty percent of the peninsula."


    "There''s quite a lot of old people here. Do you get the feeling it''s like a massive retirement home?"


    "No. Sort of. Maybe? The young people you see tend to be the Moroccans and Spaniards, not the Gibraltarians."


    "They''re formally known as Gibbers."


    "They''re not."


    "Well, they should be." I scratched my head. "It''s quite a specific place to come, isn''t it? You''re going to do the same things every day, which doesn''t suit everyone, and I''ve seen that rents are really expensive so my loan players are going to be in a tiny flat. I think I''d need to be careful about who I sent."


    Emma licked her lips. "Babes, I like it when you take care of your players. You should stop micro-managing them. You''ve got a big heart."


    I tilted my head as I regarded her. My instant reaction to what she said was delight but I realised there had been a complaint in the middle of the two compliments. "Babes! Did you just sandwich me?"


    "I don''t know what you mean."


    "Compliment, complaint, compliment. You bloody sandwiched me!"


    "I bocadilloed you." She shook her head. "You don''t know how people will react. You think Josh would hate it but it''s not Alcatraz, is it? He''s young and it''d be his first time being really independent. So he''s got a tiny flat? Less space to clean. So Gib is small. Spain''s right there. He goes out clubbing one day, goes to Cadiz the next. Falls for a brown-eyed lass and they have romantic moped rides along the coast. They go skinny dipping in private beaches, take a pedalo while they talk about their hopes and dreams, and after a perfect day, they go back to his more-than-big-enough flat and she presses the close curtains button."


    "What movie have you been watching?"


    "It''s called Stop Worrying and Let People Have Experiences."


    "Right. That''s by David Fincher."


    She checked the time. "We''ve got a couple of hours before dinner. Let''s go back to the superyacht. I want a go in the pool. Are you coming?"


    "I''m taller than the pool is long. It''s Emma-sized."


    "It''s not for exercise. It''s to be in an infinity pool with a view of the Rock."


    I wasn''t really in the mood, to be honest. "I''ll go over my notes for the teams we''re going to be watching."


    "If you come in the pool with me I''ll say ''Welcome to The Rock'' in a Scottish accent."


    I shot to my feet. "I want you underwater by 1600! Let''s move it!"


    ***


    Matchday 20 of 22 - Lions Gibraltar FC vs Lincoln Red Imps


    We ate on the superyacht again, then strolled towards the stadium. The Friday night game had a 9 p.m. kick off and, as luck would have it, was a match involving the best team in Gib, the Lincoln Red Imps. As Gib''s most successful side, Mateo wouldn''t be able to afford to buy them, but then again, what was the fun in buying the best team? I was hoping he bought the worst, which on current form was a side called College 1975. But one minute into the match I would pretty much know if this project would work or not because I''d have the Imps in my sniper scope.


    We got to the stadium in good time. It was right next to the runway, which was strange, but we had amazing views of the Rock, and that was the moment where I realised the badge of the Gibraltarararian FA was a stylised version of the mountain. Ohhhh!


    "Where do we pay?" said Emma.


    "Don''t know," I said. "Let''s ask inside." We pottered straight through. There were two small stands on either side of the pitch with a total capacity of about two thousand. Around the pitch was a running track, possibly installed for a very optimistic Olympics bid. There was no sign of a ticket booth or money changing hands. "Maybe it''s free?"


    "There''s John," said Emma, who waved and headed to a spot at halfway - pretty much the best seats in the house, apart from the dugouts.


    "I''m gonna find a toilet," I said. I did so, and as I was drying my hands, I got a text from Ems.


    Emma: I''m with John. Matty''s popped out to take an important call. There''s a guy from the Gibraltarian FA here, sent to schmooze Matty but he has decided to schmooze me. Why don''t you sit in front of us so you can listen?


    Me: Do I need to be worried?


    Emma: Er, no. He is trying to woo me by chatting about football. I mean, how could that ever work?


    Me: If he mentions expertise, athleticism, and moments of surprise I''m going to intervene. I don''t care if he works for the Gibbish FA.


    I ambled along the rows and sat down somewhere random. I made a big show of not being happy with the view and went more centrally, until I was sitting in front of John, one seat to the right. He was too discreet to say anything, and I got the chance to scout the players while listening to a different kind of player.


    His accent sounded Spanish with some vowels coming all the way from Burnley, and his flirting technique was astonishingly bad.


    "The pitch is 4G and is in constant use. The men''s teams play their league here, as do the women and the various age groups. Lincoln, in red, are the champions. They got to the Europa League group stages!" To Emma, this was as impressive as boasting that he could tie his own shoelaces. "Lions are in their away kit, the grey. They''re struggling. Second to bottom of the league." To a colour-blind person, I was sure the kits would clash. Red looked like grey, didn''t it? There was an immediate 8% performance boost if I took over one of these teams. Low-hanging fruit. Love it. "That''s the Rock over there."


    "Welcome to The Rock," said Emma, Scottishly, and I got another one of those full-body surges of affection.


    "And the airport''s right there. Bet you''ve never seen a runway next to a football pitch before!"


    "No, but I''ve seen a man who walks around Newcastle doing loud phone calls but when you get close, he''s talking into a pineapple."


    I nearly stopped breathing, and I was sure I had turned bright red. I angled my face away and tried to look like just another Imps fan come to see his team. Mateo came back just then and hugged Emma. "Where''s - "


    I didn''t hear Emma say anything, but I assume she put her fingers over her lips or something like that. Mateo wasn''t a natural prankster, but he went along with it. They did some small talk about the trip. Emma cut me out of the retelling with alarming ease, but then the match kicked off and I gave the first ten minutes my complete attention.


    The curse was giving me 2 XP per minute, which put the league on a par with the National League North, England''s sixth tier.


    The Red Imps normally won the league and most years, the cup to boot. They competed in European matches and had the biggest budget of around 400,000 a year. Now that I was seeing them live I was getting more granular data, including player wages.


    The average CA of their starting eleven was 50.


    The Lions were 28.


    It was like a team of Glenn Ryders playing a team of Trick Williamses. No real contest.


    The averages didn''t tell the full tale, though. The Imps had a very strong right side, with a CA 65 right back, a CA 66 right mid, and a CA 59 right-sided striker. The opposite flank was much weaker, with the equivalent players on 33, 37, and 41. The goalie was very good, with 55, but the centre backs and central midfielders were uninspiring. I immediately believed I could put out a better balanced team and I could start by signing two of the better players from the Lions. Their right back was CA 20 but PA 66. They had a striker with CA 35, PA 62. Could we convince them to move across to the team we bought? Why not? Their wages were underwhelming and they were already in the country so presumably they liked living here. I guessed it''d be easy enough to get half a squad of such players from the other clubs. The tricky part would be giving them good training and making sure we had a couple of stars, too. Maybe we would go strong on the left so that we would win the head to heads against the Imps.


    God, this was fun! Building an entire squad from scratch!


    I started making notes. Plans A, B, and C.


    Captain Gibby was still trying to impress Emma. "Eight thousand seats. The designs are absolutely beautiful. It''s going to slope up away from the runway - the landing strip makes building things there tricky but in the end it''ll actually be safer because we''ll take down those floodlights."


    "What''s wrong with this stadium?" said Emma. "It''s nowhere near full and you don''t even get ticket income. Why bother?"


    "We can''t host international matches here at the Victoria Stadium, or European ones. We play our home games in Portugal and if we ever want to host a UEFA tournament, we need to upgrade. We''re excited about it; it''ll be the biggest step in our development since we joined UEFA. The stadium will be mixed use, with shops and apartments. It''s going to be amazing. I can''t wait for it. It''ll kick us up to the next level."


    That sounded really fucking cool. I texted Mateo.


    Sounds like a good time to get involved. Before that stadium is built and more people see the place as viable.


    Then I hit my fly honey.


    Ask about the flats, please. Say if you were going to buy a football club in Gib it''d be useful to own flats in the stadium. Do a wide-eyed, unblinking stare at Matty when you say that.


    While Emma asked about property, my phone beeped.


    Mateo: You think we can do this, then?


    Me: I''m 80% sure. I''ll tell you on Sunday night when I''ve seen the last two teams. Mostly it will depend on if you give me complete control over football decisions.


    Mateo: You''re not the only one who knows the game. I used to play, you know.


    I scanned the pitch and texted Mateo the word Chino.


    Then I sent Emma a question to ask.


    "Which player here has the most international caps?"


    The guy from the FA looked around. "Not totally sure, but I think it''s got to be Chino. He''s there. The goalie for the Imps."


    I texted Mateo another name - Chipolina - and Emma another question.


    "Were any of these guys considered, like, a hot prospect when they were kids?"


    He blew air from his cheeks. "Hot prospect? What a question. I suppose... Yes, there was a lot of hype about Chipolina when he was coming through. To be honest, I think he needed to move abroad to develop more."


    Me: I could keep showing off or I could get back to work.


    Mateo: I have access to Wikipedia, too.


    Me: Can we agree a minimum length of time you hold onto the club for? I''m thinking like five years. I''ll know more on Sunday night but there will be a slightly random factor to how far we get in Europe each year which would be smoothed out over a long enough timeline.


    Mateo: I''m not looking to buy it and flip it. Can we beat the Imps?


    Me: The Imps are fit, good on the ball, and have good togetherness, but imps live in fear of demons.


    Mateo: Were you out in the sun too much?


    I was about to reply when I heard Emma had changed the topic. I glanced over my shoulder and saw she was giving the Gibber a big, unhealthy dose of attention. "Is it true that people come to Gib to get married? It''s, like, one of the places you can go and marry pretty much anyone whenever you like?"


    The guy nearly choked. "You only need to stay one night, then you can, er... do it."


    "Wow! You don''t need to be a resident or anything?"


    "No."


    "I watched this movie," said Emma, "called The Rock. It was the first ever action blockbuster where the hero''s girlfriend proposed to him. Funny to think they could have gone to Gib the next day and just got married right then and there!"


    I texted her:


    Ask him if foreign players count as residents after three years.


    Emma seemed to glare at her phone. "Excuse me," she said, and flounced out of the scene.


    A moment later, John Driver did something of a Brig impression. He spoke to his boss. "I was just thinking, sir, that if one wants it, one had better put a ring on it."


    "I was thinking the same thing, John."


    ***


    Saturday, March 22


    There were two men''s games on the Saturday. The first was St. Joseph''s (CA 45) vs Europa Point (40). The second was Europa FC (34) vs Mons Calpe (43). These kicked off at 4:30 and 9, but in between there were almost non-stop women''s and youth games. I spent most of the day in the stadium, then, leaving only to eat meals with Ems, where I found it hard to focus.


    The matches themselves weren''t very exciting, and there was a fair amount of dross in the players. Some older guys whose legs had gone, some young guys who weren''t as good as they thought they were. Here and there were nuggets, though, and it was very possible to imagine assembling a team from the ten lesser clubs that would eventually be better than the Red Imps. If I imagined them spending a month of pre-season training at Tranmere, with Tranmere''s coaches, against Tranmere''s players. That would be a hell of a boost. If I could add 5 to the CAs of the players I was interested in, that opened up a lot of possibilities. How about plus 5 this summer, plus 5 the one after?


    I spent a lot of the day doodling, drafting first elevens from the players I''d seen. Imagining how they would match up against the Imps.


    Emma spent the day sunbathing, going in the pool, and sometimes popping in to chat to me.


    It was a pretty great day with only one stressful moment - Chester FC''s match at home to Maidstone. I knew that Maidstone were around CA 52 - about on par with the Red Imps - and nine times out of ten we would crush them even without two important players. But that''s the reason we love sport - you never know what''s going to happen. I had an abysmal stop-start stream that made it look like Chipper was launching into two-footed tackles every thirty seconds - we would need to sort out the club''s website before we got to League Two.


    I tried to keep my eyes on the 4G pitch in front of me so that I would at least get some XP from the torture, but I needn''t have worried. Aff scored. Chipper scored. Chipper scored again. Three-nil and Sandra was able to rest Aff, Pascal, and Ryan Jack for the last half an hour. That on top of a full rest for Henri. Idyllic!


    Barnet won, too. But get this - Grimsby drew. In their last five games, they had taken 6 points from a possible 15! And they had to play Barnet on Tuesday night!


    The league table was so beautiful I nearly went on a lap of the pitch, but settled on some jumps and fist clenches instead.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>82</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>79</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>76</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Six points behind, and suddenly there were only five goals in it! If we won our games in hand two-nil and three-nil, we would go top of the league on goals scored.


    Our destiny was in our own hands!


    I doubted there was ever a moment in the history of Gibraltar where one phone received so many messages from Chester. I was so hyper I went back to the yacht, changed into the closest thing I had to sportswear, and went for a run.


    If we beat Aldershot, we would be nailed on for the title. Absolutely nailed on!


    I ran faster.


    ***


    Sunday, March 23


    I spent the morning with Emma being a grade A boyfriend, then settled into the stadium being a grade A scout.


    The men''s matches were worth 2 XP per minute but almost everything else was giving me 1 XP per minute so the gains were fairly abysmal. But gains were gains and I was also filling up a pretty comprehensive database of Gibraltese football. I got a rare achievement worth mentioning - 1 XP for scouting more than half of a country''s active players. One of the eleven teams wasn''t playing that weekend, but I saw ten-elevenths of the men, most of the women, and a lot of the kids.


    At 4:30, Lynx played Glacis. That was a CA 37 vs CA 31 match up and a match of staggeringly little excitement. A team with good technique would crush this league simply by being able to retain possession. If any match had been exciting, I wish it had been that one, for I was stressed off my tits waiting for updates from Chester Women vs West Didsbury. A big test for Jackie! I didn''t want to think about it, really, but if he lost that one I would probably have had to sack him.


    The thought made me feel pretty sick.


    I tried to distract myself by reworking my fantasy draft based on the thirty new Gibraltesers I had in my database, but it was no good. We needed to get streams of the women''s team, too, but that was going to be hard while they were based in Flint.


    I picked up my phone to see if I''d briefly lost signal - why else was no-one sending me updates? As I peered at the network strength meter, the phone vibrated and I nearly had a heart attack.


    It vibrated again. And again. The same message from different sources.


    Chester 1 West 0 - Angel


    I let out a full-body grunt of pleasure and relief. Jackie would switch to a 3-5-2 and control the ball. Keep possession, make West work, maybe hit them on counters in the last ten.


    From what I heard later, that''s what he did, but the nerves kicked in. The women played quite well but rushed the last pass, overhit their crosses, snatched at shots. They knew full well what that particular result would mean.


    There were no more score updates for an agonising twenty minutes. Until...


    Chester 1 West 0 - Full Time


    That was it! Bosh! The women were almost certain to win the title. There were five more games to play, including a slightly tricky one against Tranmere, but basically it was done and dusted. The last episode of the documentary would be a rapid-fire series of cuts of the winning goals against Crewe, Darwen, and Salford. Lots of cheering and running around, arms aloft. Victory!


    When the full time whistle blew in the Victoria Stadium, I put my backpack on, hit Playdar, and was led to a side street where some kids were playing. One had over 100 PA, but he was eight. I gave him the nickname ''Gib Street Urchin'' and made some notes on his player profile but left without talking to him.


    The late kick off was the final match of my stay, College vs Manchester, 25 vs 42, and for that one I sat next to Mateo and got serious.


    "Watching these teams," I said, "is like watching a yellow Ferrari chase a black Humvee through the streets of San Francisco."


    "Is it?" said Mateo. "In what way?"


    "In no way," said Emma. "He''s been in the sun too long. His brain''s addled."


    "Have you seen The Rock? There''s a high-speed car chase where they wreck the city and crash into anything and everything but then suddenly there''s an old woman crossing the road and they have to avoid her, which causes more chaos, and just as you''re thinking hmm that was a bit on the nose to show that neither of the guys are bad really, sort of a high-speed save the cat moment, suddenly there''s a whole disabled basketball team crossing the road! And that''s the moment you''ve got to realise this isn''t an action blockbuster, it''s an action blockbuster comedy, and it''s absolutely taking cinema to strange new heights."


    "I think I''ve seen it," said Mateo. "Is it the one where Sean Connery does a Russian accent? No, wait. It''s the one with the plane full of prisoners."


    "You know what?" I said. "Never mind. Okay, here''s where I''m at. I''ve seen the league. I know the standards. Which club are you most likely to buy?"


    He made a face which hinted that all the prices he''d been told were substantially higher than he had expected. "The cheapest, Max, since you''re a generational talent." For some reason, he high-fived Emma. Baffling. "They share the stadium, have the same training facilities. What are you actually buying? The Imps have some trophies. Some teams have better websites. You''re buying the registrations of some players but none of them are on long-term contracts. No, what you''re really buying is a seat in the league. A shot at finishing in the top three and getting some UEFA prize money. For that reason, it''s a sellers'' market. Apart from the Imps and the teams that finish second and third this year, they are much of a muchness."


    I nodded. "We should buy one of these two teams that are playing right now."


    "Oh, why?"


    "This one, Manchester 1962. In the 60s they used to be called Manchester United. They got special permission from Sir Matt Busby. That was before football became a soulless cash grab."


    "Hang on," said Emma. "We''re here for a soulless cash grab, aren''t we?"


    "No," I said.


    "Yes," said Mateo.


    "Okay fine. But if we buy that team we''re basically buying Manchester United. The Red Devils."


    Mateo sighed as he looked up. "I''m not especially motivated by the idea, Max. I''d rather buy Sharks Ate My Face FC."


    "Devils beat Imps, remember. It''s funny there''s a Manchester United here," I mused. "The reason the Glazer family were able to buy Man United, the real one, was because of a racehorse."


    "What?" said Emma.


    "Yeah, it''s a long story, but basically Alex Ferguson, the manager, fell out with these Irish billionaires over a horse called Rock of Gibraltar. That falling out led directly to the Glazers."


    "Jesus. That''s random."


    "I know. Okay so College 1975. They''re the worst team in the league, comfortably. You buy them and I give you a list of all the players you should try to sign from Gibraltar itself. I have an AI computer that can estimate their wages and I reckon if you offer a couple of hundred pounds or Euro more and a summer of training in England and Tenerife, most will be happy to switch. Plus we''ll try to get the best young boys into our system to start a pipeline. I''ve seen quite a lot today but I might need to come again to get the ones who weren''t here today. The Imps have the highest budget of 400 grand a year for the players. We need to do 800."


    "Eight hundred thousand?" said Mateo, aghast.


    I nodded. "We need to be absolutely sure of winning the league. We get the best local players, a quality manager, the loan players we send from Chester and Tranmere, and we need one or two absolute game changers. Match winners. If we win the league the next five years and get into the group stage of the Conference League, we''ll be rolling in cash. If we ever get to the Champions League group stage, holy actual shit. That''s, like, fifteen million guaranteed and if we win just one match it''s like 750,000 Euro. That''s break-even for the year in ninety minutes. We should aim at the top of what''s possible because okay the first two years you might make a loss but at some point it will click."


    "What are the limiting factors, in your view?"


    "Yeah, okay, the quality of the league. If we take the worst team and make them the best, that kind of automatically raises the standards, but it''s still bad. If we brought Lucas Cook, for example, he would only develop to the level of the best player here, more or less. He still wouldn''t be good enough to get in Tranmere''s team. Even Chester are evolving beyond that. So we need to find a way to keep these players in the green. One advantage is that any good local players can get in the national team and they play against big nations sometimes. I''m not sure losing 14-0 to France does a lot for their development, but it''s better than not playing France, if you get me. So we try to get local players with as much upside as poss. There are some. You could fly the team out to your place on Tenerife - that would be good. And Tranmere - even better. Plus when they are there I can go and tell the manager what I want, face to face. But they need to compete against better teams. I''m thinking it''d be a good investment to take them to the mainland and play against Cadiz or Seville. You might have to give those clubs ten thousand Euro or something, but it''d be worth it a couple of times a year. The biggest challenge, I think, will be keeping the motivation high when they''re winning every week and there are only a few meaningful matches per year. Yeah, the manager needs to be someone with good man management skills as well as tactical know-how. A good manager and a great coach. Look, if you want to do this and you''re really giving me half the profits, adding to the cost base is bad for me, right? But it''s not a cost, it''s an investment. You get huge cash money for winning matches in Europe and that has to be the aim. We''ll make more money by doing it right."


    "So we could spend four hundred thousand to definitely win the league, or eight hundred thousand to possibly get through the qualifying rounds in Europe."


    "Right. Sometimes you get drawn against the champions of Malta, then it''s always Dinamo Zagreb, somehow, and then it''s someone like Gothenburg or Celtic. Lincoln actually beat Celtic here a few years ago. We will be playing clubs who are barely back from their pre-season and the match will be a nuisance for them. Their players will be complacent. But that match is the entire focus of our entire year! It''ll be like when the Beth Heads beat Man City."


    "That famous night," said Mateo.


    I laughed. "It was a famous night, actually. Okay and one more thing. If I send three players here on loan I want them to get a helper. Someone awesome in the vein of John or Brooke or Ryan Jack who knows how everything works here and has fucking sky-high emotional intelligence. They''ll meet my lads at the airport, get them settled in, take them to dinner the first couple of nights. They''ll be on call if there''s any shit going on or my dudes need someone to talk to."


    Mateo nodded. "Sounds doable."


    "And let''s put them up in the superyacht the first night."


    "The first two nights," said Emma.


    "Yeah!"


    Mateo nodded again. "You approve?"


    "It''s like a dream."


    He smiled. "I''m glad. So they come and have a memorable start to their adventure. Yes, understood. I think we can stretch to that."


    "Cool. I''m in."


    "Pardon me?"


    "I''m in, Mateo. Let''s do it. Let''s class this place up. Five years, half the profits, Max knows best."


    He smiled and as he imagined getting an oversized cheque from UEFA for three million dollars, the smile turned into a full-on beam. "Shake on it?"


    I offered my hand and we sealed the deal. I would be a silent partner in this venture. "Bosh!" I cried, silently. I took a minute to exult. He shoots, he scores! Football''s coming home! Are you sure you want three taps, sir? "Oh, man. Oh, man," I said, a few times. "Whoo!" I laughed at how relieved and excited I was. "Whoo," I said again, but this time as a kind of cleansing sigh. I got calm, sat, fished in my pocket, and handed over some fairly crumpled pieces of paper. "Here you go. My part of the deal."


    He took the sheets with a hint of distaste and peered at their contents. "What''s this?"


    "The players you should sign and what you should pay them."


    His eyes widened and he scanned and re-scanned the names and numbers. "You''re joking."


    "Nope. Here''s Plan A. That''s a title-winning team. Pretty much the best, most technical players from every team except the Imps. Mostly they''re selected for technique and passing, but there''s some speed, too. Kind of copy paste of Chester. Plan B here is a backup in every position. Here I''ve noted that this right-winger isn''t fast but is super technical. See the symbols? Self-explanatory, really. Section C, here, are players under 22 with a lot of upside. If you''re willing to fly them to Tranmere to get them trained up and all that, they''re worth a punt. These guys would be cheaper in wages but would cost more in training. You''ve already got the facilities so it''s just are you willing to fly them out and give them somewhere to stay. You can decide for yourself if they''re cheaper. This box here has the local players who could break into the Gibber national team - that''s going to be a big boost to their development. If you have to pay them a bit more in wages it''s probably worth it because the national FA will be investing heavily in them. The ones in that box there are Imps players who are out of contract this summer. If you can sign them that''s a double whammy - we get stronger, they get weaker. What japes! This page," I said, "is a potential line-up if you get everyone from the first list. 4-4-2, but we have to see which manager we can get."


    Mateo was pretty stunned by the amount of work I''d done. "Is there no-one local?"


    "No. We''ll have to import. And a good DM if the manager wants to do 4-1-4-1 or whatever because I didn''t see one."


    "This says Glenn Ryder."


    "Yeah. I think he''d love it. The captain of the team and our defensive rock."


    "Welcome to the Rock," mumbled Emma.


    "He''s not technical but he knows how to work with players who are. Knows his role in the build-up and he''ll be that warrior who leads the others through the, like, sieges or whatever. Now that I know the levels, we can look at free agents from the English leagues. I''ve got some ideas about guys who are talented enough but you''ll have to do background checks on them and all that. And, er, it''ll be easier to negotiate once you''ve actually bought a club."


    "Yes, that might help," he said, smiling. "College 1975 is going to be the easiest, cheapest, quickest deal. Are you sure we can turn them around?"


    I smiled, but didn''t say anything.


    "I''d better get busy if we''re going to do all these deals before next season starts. And I should take that guy from the FA out to dinner and wine and dine him."


    "He''s just a minion," I said. I reached out and grabbed my new business partner with both hands. I leaned forward and croaked, "Get me the president!"


    He laughed and did a lop-sided grin. "Emma, am I making a mistake?"


    "Check the league table, Matty."


    "Ouch. That was a good point. Hit me right in the wallet."


    Emma rubbed her hand through my hair. "Babes, are we done?"


    "Yeah. Check complete, good process."


    "Do you need to stay for the second half?"


    "No, we can leave early if you want."


    "I want to go up the mountain and watch the sunset."


    I nodded, thoughtfully. "If we hurry, maybe we can buy some green flares."


    "It''s too hot for long trousers."


    "That''s not - " I stopped. She was deadpan, but I knew she was absolutely rinsing me. I got up and was about to say goodbye to Mateo when I sat down again. "Mateo, I''m not sure that I ever properly thanked you for your generosity in Tenerife. I was low and you helped me so much. I''m happy to be doing this with you."


    He smiled. "If you want to thank me properly, let Tranmere beat Chester next season."


    "Sorry, I have to wreck you, twice. But don''t worry, it won''t be a regular thing. We''re going straight through to League One."


    "We''ll wipe that smile off your face at Prenton Park."


    I smiled wider. "This smile isn''t going anywhere."


    "Except up the mountain," said Emma.


    "Bye."


    "Bye, Max."


    ***


    The next morning, our last in Gib, was spent packing and triple-checking the room for anything we might have left. The flight was at 11 but the airport was right there so there was no point going two hours early like I normally did.


    Luisa was on reception as we were checking out. "Did you enjoy your stay?"


    "Yep. It was sound. The place is mustard. Mustard on toast."


    "I told my boyfriend about the movie you mentioned and he rented it. He loved it."


    I beamed. "It''s good, isn''t it? It''s fun! Your boyfriend is a prince among men. Wait, did you like it?"


    "I couldn''t watch past the scene you described. Too intense for me. The needle in the heart? No thanks."


    I nodded. "I get you. But that scene isn''t just dramatic, it''s thematic. The character is afraid of something touching his heart; he''s afraid of getting hurt. That''s what the scene is about, right? His girlfriend proposes to him, he goes and saves the day, and at the end when the poison gets out he doesn''t hesitate - he grabs the needle and jabs it into his heart. Because now he''s got something to live for, right? He''s got his future wife, his future family, and that''s the journey he''s been on. Okay it''s not tender and it''s not romantic but compared to most action movies it''s like The Remains of the Day."


    Luisa hadn''t blinked for a while. She did so now. "I''ll try again."


    "Bosh!" I said, delighted.


    "My boyfriend said Con Air is better."


    "Okay dump that guy. Wow." I put my shades on and gave her one last, dazzling smile. "Mr. Weaver is disembarking the superyacht."


    "Goodbye Mr. and Mrs. Weaver."


    ***


    We had time for a final, quick tour of the Main Street. A quick taste of home before we went back home.


    "Let me pop in here," said Emma. "See if there''s anything my mum might like."


    I followed in on auto-pilot, thinking variously about Nicholas Cage, a mountain with loads of tunnels inside, a colony of very cheeky monkeys, a very sexy league table, and the millions and millions of pounds I would soon be trousering. Life was, in absolutely every way, perfection.


    "May I help you, sir?"


    It was a guy in a nice shirt and waistcoat. "Nah, thanks. I''m just browsing. Daydreaming."


    "The engagement rings are in this section," he said, and I found myself taking a step to the right like I was about to take a free kick.


    That''s when the panic set in. Engagement rings? I realised we were in a jewellers. Sparkly diamonds blinded me from their glass display cabinet below, while the whites of Emma''s eyes were like those gigawatt-strength LED headlights that idiots are so fond of. She said, "Buying a rock on the Rock?"


    I was a rabbit in the headlights. My mouth was dry and I felt my cheeks burning. I was between the rock and a hard case. How much were these things? There were no prices. If you have to ask, you can''t afford it.


    Emma lifted her hand and for a dreadful moment I thought she was going to show me what ring size she was. Instead, she showed me some little dangly earrings. "Think my mum will like these?"


    The relief was absurd. "Yes," I croaked. I fumbled in my pocket like my phone was vibrating, and mumbled something about waiting outside.


    Emma came out a few minutes later and we wheeled our little suitcases down the road. I glanced at her - she knew exactly what had just happened and was being sweet about it. Not mentioning it, not putting pressure on me.


    I stopped and exhaled.


    "Bebs. I..." I licked my lips and tried to psyche myself up. I was the player-manager of the best pound-for-pound team in England. I was a top international b-boy and regularly slept on superyachts. There was nothing I needed to fear, except cable cars and glass-bottomed viewing platforms. And jellyfish. "I have injected you into my heart. You are my rock. You are my minecart chase scene and my gun battles and the eight times I dive into sewer water to escape an explosion." I shook my head, annoyed that I was spouting such absolute garbage. "What I''m trying to say is that you are the only woman in this movie. I, er... At the end of The Rock they get married. That''s what I want, but I am poor. I am still just a gobby Manc twat. I can''t go round buying rings; I need to keep fifty grand in the bank in case I need it for my mum. I want to wait until I''ve made my first million, then we''ll get engaged and I''ll buy you a rock so big you could fire it at the Oakland Raiders stadium but it wouldn''t cause any casualties because there isn''t a team there any more."


    Through my speech, Emma had remained mostly impassive, causing me to get more and more desperate. She looked me up and down. "How long''s it going to take to make a million pounds?"


    "I mean, two years, tops."


    She broke into a grin. "You''re delulu."


    "No, really, listen - "


    "Babes," she said, coming close to me. "I was joking about buying a ring. I thought you''d laugh because you''ve been blabbing about that stupid movie for four days. I didn''t realise you were going to have a meltdown. I''m sorry, okay? Rings, rocks, rollers, fancy towels, who cares? I''ve got you. Come on."


    We walked in a dreamy silence for fifty yards until Emma stopped and turned to me, all dramatic. She was having a Eureka moment.


    "Babes," she said. "You know the way you can''t pronounce Gibraltarian so you say anything else? And you know the way you keep talking shit about injecting things into hearts and telling me I am your minecart?"


    "Yes?"


    Her face lit up like a sunflower at high noon. "I know you''ll be a big success out here!"


    "What? Why?"


    She jabbed me in the chest. "Because you talk gibberish!"


    What a line. I couldn''t believe it; she was perfection. "Let''s go choose a ring," I said, and I meant it.


    She pulled me close. "Later, babes. Holiday''s over. Next stop, Aldershot."


    We kissed and walked on. When we got to the runway that we had to cross to get to the terminal, I stopped. Emma copied me. "Dude," I said, looking around.


    "What?"


    "Dude!" I looked around some more. The Victoria Stadium was where it was supposed to be. So was the Rock. My dream woman was beside me. There was only one thing missing. "Dude! Where''s my plane?"

 10.11 - Emlyn Hughes International Soccer

    11.


    Player Profile: Emlyn Hughes. A versatile player who won every club tournament it was possible to win. Played for England across three decades. Despite playing for Liverpool, he was considered likeable and had a career as a captain on the BBC''s A Question of Sport - a sort of lockdown Zoom quiz watched by up to 19 million people every week.


    ***


    Tuesday, March 25


    Our flight was cancelled. We weren''t told the reason, which drove one of us crazy, but ultimately it didn''t matter. We were stuck. We flew into action - literally not literally - calling MD, Brooke, Mateo, and Emma''s dad. They got plotting and scheming and soon we had options - drive to a big Spanish city and fly from there, or wait till the morning for the next flight out on British Airways.


    That one would land at Heathrow at three thirty, and it was an hour''s drive from there to Aldershot. The Brig had loads of friends in Aldershot''s army base and could easily arrange a pickup, and so I would almost certainly be at The Recreation Ground before Chester''s team bus. I knew the wait would be stressful but it was the least worst option, as far as I could tell.


    When everything was sorted on the logistics side, I called Sandra and told her the starting lineup and subs I wanted. It was pretty much our strongest eleven except Youngster - I wanted to let him rest - and I asked her to ask Josh and Wibbers to travel just in case.


    After all, it would only take one incident to leave me stranded. Or a chain of small delays that added up to me arriving at the stadium two minutes too late to play. Or worse, two minutes too late to manage.


    Missing one match out of 46 was no big deal, really, in the scheme of things, but this one was going to be huge. Epic. Aldershot were gunning for the playoffs and I expected their CA to be over 70. Not exactly David versus Goliath, but we would be underdogs for sure. We needed to be switched on to get a win.


    If we could win, though, the rewards were going to be considerable. Grimsby were playing Barnet, away. If Grimsby lost and we won, that would put us in pole position. If that match was a draw, we could gain two points on both teams. If Grimsby won, we would leapfrog Barnet and go into second place.


    Winning would pile the pressure on those teams. And why shouldn''t we win? We had won our last eight league games. We were obdurate in defence and we had weapons. Hard shell, teeth, claws, and in Henri, beautifully extravagant plumage. Our starting eleven would average CA 66. Close enough to give Aldershot a game, and if I came on for the last twenty against tired defenders, we would have a fair chance of snatching a winner.


    The thought of not even being in the country on the morning of such a vital game stressed me and my stress stressed Emma. We found a decent place to stay the night - I slept not a wink and ignored an invitation from Sumo to play a ''hot new game'' on his Twitch stream some time soon. In my state I couldn''t plan. Couldn''t think beyond Tuesday night. I had XP burning a hole in my pocket but every time I opened the perk shop, I closed it again.


    After breakfast I went straight to the airport and got more and more wound up until I saw a plane in the distance. It made the absurdly hard landing and I watched it roll all the way to the terminal, expecting the front to fall off at any second.


    The front stayed on. At the exact right time, we started boarding. As it was the only plane in Gib, there was no queue of planes to delay us. We took off. Still I couldn''t relax. What if there were storms around London? What if the Brig''s mate wasn''t there to meet us? We would have to rent a car and that process always seemed to take at least an hour. Taxi? Can you take us to Aldershot? No, guv, but by the way have you ever heard of trains? Trains! In England! When you needed to be on time!


    I spent three hours and three minutes catastrophising, to the point that Emma asked if we could watch The Rock together. I said I was done with Nicolas Cage for a while, and that seemed to worry her.


    We landed, I grabbed Emma''s case and mine, dashed through the airport, spent an agonising twenty minutes queuing at passport control, but then we were in London, and that city''s heavy, sinister air has never smelled sweeter. The Brig''s mate was there to meet us, cheekily holding up a sign saying ''Mr. and Mrs. Weaver''. I scowled but Emma dug me in the ribs and said it was her idea and it was funny and I needed to give my head a wobble.


    "I just hate travelling," I said. "I hate airports. Waiting lounges. Timetables."


    "Brazil is going to be fun," she said. "Be nice to this man. He''s gone out of his way to help us."


    "I am always nice," I said.


    She pulled a face.


    ***


    Match 39 of 46: Aldershot versus Chester


    We got to the stadium exactly on schedule, crazily early, and the Brig and Emma chatted to the Brig''s mates while I tried to get out of the travel zombie state and into the whoo let''s have some fun while playing winning football yeah mentality. I would like to say that I made the transition smoothly.


    A text came - the bus had arrived. I went down into the away dressing room and for the millionth time, checked everyone''s player profiles. Morale good, no new injuries. Okay. Okay, that was good. I simply had to pretend to be in a good mood for a while and we could get through it like nothing had ever happened.


    We had our strongest line up, with Ben in goal, our miserly back line of Eddie, Christian, Zach, and Carl being guarded by Magnus. The midfield was Aff, Wisey, Jack, and Pascal. Henri the striker.


    For some reason, everyone kept asking me if I was all right. I said yes, but just in case I was accidentally giving off weird vibes, I let Sandra do pre-match duties and while the lads went out to do their first warm ups and to test the pitch - pristine, by the way - I hopped in the shower. The water had a numbing effect. Sort of tethered me to the here and now, washed away some of the stress of the last thirty-six hours. When I pulled my shorts and socks on, I felt twenty percent better, but there was news to undo my gains and more.


    Dean came over to my corner of the dressing room with Henri. Sandra followed. The physio spoke first. "Max, Henri''s got a tight calf."


    His player profile didn''t show anything. Had I been fresher, I might have suggested something of the sort. Instead, I said, "Huh."


    "I can play if you need me," said Henri. He gave me a worried look. "Of course you need me. I should play. I will play. Yes, I will play."


    "We have seven more matches and a cup final," said Sandra.


    It wasn''t like Henri to malinger. What was going on? Was he just looking for attention? "Dean?" I said.


    He exhaled. "In the olden days, we wouldn''t have thought twice. Get him out there. But..." He gestured, meaning ''it ain''t the olden days''. He shook his head. "If we lose tonight and Grimsby win, that''s game over, right? So we could play him and if something tears he''s got six weeks before the first playoff match. I mean, I''m just saying. Obviously, I don''t think we should do that. I''m just telling you the options."


    Making a guy tear a muscle to prove he wasn''t lying? Nah. Mega nah. "We don''t risk it. We have him on the bench," I said, "we keep an eye on the Grimsby score, make a calculation about the risk reward of bringing him on for the last twenty."


    "Boss," said Sandra. "Team sheet''s already in. We can replace him in the line up but if we do that, we can''t use him."


    Everyone was talking to me like I was in a bad mood and/or unable to make good decisions. Completely unjustified, but I rose above it. In football terms, the drop from Henri to Ziggy was alarming. We would effectively be playing with ten men until we got the ball into Aldershot''s penalty box, which would be harder without a big, strong target man. In social terms, I knew that if Ziggy was an ineffective starter in a match ''just crying out for Chipper'', I would get a ton of shit from the media and from fans.


    I would also get stick for not asking Henri to take some painkillers or to ''run his injury off''. Play through the pain, mate. That''s what champions do.


    And where was Tom Westwood, who had done so well in the previous match against Aldershot? He was in the Welsh third tier, banging in goals for a club owned by Max Best. Is that the optimal use of Chester''s resources?


    And finally, if it ever got out that the reason I didn''t play as striker instead of Henri was that I was in no physical state to do it because I''d skipped a key weekend of the season to go clubbing - literally - in Gibraltar? Hanging out with the owner of a rival team?


    The thought of some gammon coming up to me on the street to complain about one or all of these things made my mind up for me, which is maybe not the best way to make key decisions at a critical point in the season. "Henri, I need you against Oldham on Saturday. Rest yourself up until then. You could do me a favour and go and sit with Emma. She''s had a miserable last couple of days. Sandra, can you tell the ref Ziggy will start? Who do you want on the bench to replace him?"


    "Chipper," she said, but she must have imagined something dark crossing my face because she hurriedly added, "Bad joke. Bad joke. Are you fit?"


    "Fighting fit."


    "Sharky. Aldershot have some slow players."


    "Cool."


    ***


    In our home match against The Shots, we had gone three-nil down. That had been the last hurrah of a no-mark known briefly as The Influencer, because I had orchestrated a stunning second-half comeback and booted his phone onto the roof of the Harry McNally Terrace. He left with his tail between his legs, and so did Aldershot.


    That experience, plus the fact that we were on a long winning streak and were above them in the table made the home team start out more cagily than Sandra had expected.


    "Playing it safe, aren''t they?"


    "We are scary," I said. "I''d hate to play against Chester." I checked the match ratings, our Conditions, and the score from the other top-of-the-table clash. "How would you set up against us?"


    Sandra raised her eyebrows. "Uh. Three-four-three. It''s my new favourite. I''m getting obsessed with it."


    That woke me up a little bit. 3-4-3 was the next formation I could buy and I didn''t like it. To me it seemed like the latest must-have tactical fad that worked with elite players but not in tier five. Sandra saying it was her new favourite was fascinating, not least because her staff profile still showed her as being a 4-2-3-1 girl.


    My XP balance was growing and had shot past 11,000, more than enough to buy 3-4-3 plus something else, but I was saving up to buy Relationism. To some extent it was stubborn pride - surely my skills were good enough for the National League? Buying new formations, unlocking Attributes, even buying a monthly perk was repellant. "Three-four-three, wow. I''ve never seen it used well. Tell me more."


    She eyed me. "How about we have this conversation when you''re less... tired?"


    I eyed her right back. "Is my banter not sparkling enough for you?"


    "Your banter is as radiant as always, boss, especially the grunts. Ugh for yes and ugh! for no. Head in hands staring at the floor means ''safe to approach''. Staring at the ceiling while gnashing your teeth means ''ready to hear all your funny stories from the weekend!''"


    I simmered for a few seconds, then let out a laugh. "I had a shit time."


    "I know."


    I checked nothing interesting was happening on the pitch. "Have you got any funny stories from the weekend?"


    "Yes," she said. "I''ll tell you after we win." She scanned the pitch. "Looks like a stalemate."


    I lowered my voice. "We''ve got the same problem as Grimsby. Very good defence, solid midfield, not much threat up top." Grimsby versus Barnet was still nil-nil. I checked the Live Table and didn''t mind the look of it. If both games were draws, our destiny would stay in our hands. Or was I missing something? "Are we happy with a draw?"


    Sandra sucked her lips into a hard pout while she considered the question. "Away point against a rival is always decent. How it feels depends on the other result but we can''t control that, can we? You''re always saying control what we can. You missed your plane, you''re in a grump, Henri''s got a mysterious injury, Shots have a top-five defence. Unless you go on a rampage like last time, I don''t think we''re carving them open. We keep the game tight like this, keep the scores close, and you unleash your special brand of sparkling banter near the end."


    "I''ve got great bantz," I said, sulkily. Sandra turned away and covered her mouth.


    ***


    Every few minutes, someone would do something to cheer me up.


    On the pitch, Pascal showed why the curse rated him so highly - he found space, passed, and darted away, a perpetual motion machine. Ziggy had finally turned CA 50 - getting that last point had been agonisingly slow. He was completely dominated by the two hulking centre backs he was up against but when Pascal hit a sharp square ball to him, Ziggy first-timed it just wide of the post. If we fed him, he would score! The defence was rock solid - adding Zach and Christian to the mix had been worth every penny of their fees and wages. Meanwhile, Aff and Carl showed why clubs were calling me every week trying to get me to discuss transfers.


    Off the pitch, Vimsy came up to me with a weird drawing he''d made. "What do you think?"


    I examined it but couldn''t make head nor tail of what it was. Lots of shapes and cylinders on two sort of shelves. "Mate, a few hours ago I was practically in Africa. Don''t give me blob tests."


    "It''s the trophy cabinet, look. I''ve moved the Cheshire Cup to the side, see?"


    I held it away from me, like old people who don''t have their glasses do. "Oh, okay. Why?"


    He''d been waiting for that. He whipped out a pencil and drew a small circle. When he saw that I had no clue, he explained. "It''s your Manager of the Month award! For March! Six wins at least."


    "Sandra did Maidstone."


    "Bah," he said, waving my words away. "You''re nailed on." He looked up as a red-shirted player struck a long shot miles over the bar. "Did you find anyone?"


    "What?"


    "You were off scouting, right? I heard you got a tip about a player."


    "Oh. Not for us, I don''t think, but it wasn''t a wasted trip."


    "Good. That''s good."


    Yeah, I thought. It was good. I was building a web of connections that would help me put good footballers into suitable positions and I would get rich along the way. It was just that this bloody National League was getting to me. One automatic promotion slot! It was crazy. Almost every team in the league was full-time professional and some had budgets bigger than League Two sides. The division needed to be absorbed into the EFL as League Three. The bottleneck was so narrow. If we couldn''t slip through...


    If we didn''t get promoted there would be no dentist, no progress towards a new stadium, we would lose Wibbers, and there would be no Brazilians.


    It didn''t bear thinking about, but there I was, passively waiting for the second half. Oh, sure, I was mechanically hitting my hotkeys, making tweaks, using the Without Ball screens to tighten up the defence. I would use Seal It Up near the end if we needed to get gung-ho and I would use Cupid''s Arrow to connect me and whoever looked the most dangerous. I was doing all the right things. I was being a seriously good football manager. But I wasn''t in it. I had no emotional connection to the match. Maybe it was because I was tired, maybe there was a deeper reason.


    The one time I left my dugout was on the 40th minute, sensing danger. Carl Carlile won a header and thought it was going to Magnus, so he sprinted forward to create an overload with Pascal. A really good chance to do something with a lot of expected threat! But he had completely misjudged it.


    Carlile with the header towards the DM slot.


    Evergreen glances over his shoulder to see what his options will be.


    But Baxter appears out of nowhere! He leaps and chests the ball forward.


    Fierce leaves the defensive line and slides in.


    The ball ricochets kindly for Onions. He plays it forward to his left.


    Smith is wide open!


    The winger dashes into the penalty box. He has got options.


    He elects to shoot...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Finished with aplomb!


    Chester were carved open.


    Aldershot move up to fourth!


    I shook my head, but I wasn''t even angry. It was just one of those things. Neither Carl nor Magnus saw that Baxter guy in their blind spots, and that was enough to cause havoc. Christian probably should have stood his man up and kept the shape of the defensive line, but on the other hand, he won the tackle and nine times out of ten that would have been the end of the danger.


    Aldershot dropped back to a mid block and invited us to play through them. We did, but struggled to create clear-cut chances. I didn''t mind it - we''d had a lot of practice playing against packed defences. Later, I would go on and unleash a barrage of long shots. One would go in and that would be that.


    ***


    Half time was quiet, but not in a bad way. Morale was still exceptionally high - an average of 5.8 (out of 7) across the whole squad. That had been the first goal we''d conceded in the entire month of March. It was nowhere enough to put us off our stride.


    "Guys," I said, after the usual decompression phase. My energy was relatively low, but that simply made the players listen harder. "Decent half. They got their break. We''ll get ours. It''s still nil-nil at Barnet but it really doesn''t matter what happens there. Every result is great for us, one way or another. We have to do our jobs, and the absolute priority is to get a goal and get back in this game so I can win Manager of the Month for March."


    There was a moment of quiet bafflement. Eddie Moore said, "Say that again, boss?"


    "I want to be Manager of the Month for March and then I''ll be Player of the Month for April. No-one''s ever done that before and no-one''s ever gonna do that again." I caught Zach''s face - half pumped by the awesomeness of my words and half-sedated by the flatness of my delivery - and had to laugh. It broke what little tension there was in the room. If the boss is relaxed, I can relax! I tapped the tactics board. "The formation is fine. What we''re doing is working. This lot are good. They''re really good but we''ve got tricks up our sleeve. So for now we stick at it, hang in there, all that Vimsy stuff. Vimsy, say one of those things."


    Vimsy stepped forward. "Keep working your bloody socks off, lads! These guys aren''t as fresh as you. They''re all carrying knocks, they''re gasping, they''re running two yards for every one you''re doing. Turn that screw, lads!"


    I absolutely beamed at him. "Come here," I said, waving him in.


    "It''s half time, Max."


    "Come on."


    Reluctantly, he took little steps towards me until I bear-hugged him. I slapped him on the back a few times and on a whim, took him by the hand and raised it above his head. "Employee of the Week!" I yelled. An ear-splitting round of applause followed, supplemented by whistles, and, of course, Texan whoops.


    "Max," complained Vimsy, but I hugged him again and made him stand by my side while I draped an arm around his shoulder.


    "Lads," I said, when I could be heard again. "I''ve had a shit day. But I had a great weekend before that and I''ve come home and I''m your manager and you''re my players and I''ve got Vimsy in my corner. I''m grumpy on the outside but on the inside I''m loving life, all right? I wanted us to evolve this season and what have we done? In the first match against Aldershot they tore through us again and again and it was three-nil at half time. Could have been six. Today? They''ve got lucky but barely created anything. We''ve got our hard shell. What about teeth?" I smiled. "Aff''s deadly. Ziggy''s sharp. Pascal''s, er..."


    "Relentless," suggested Pascal.


    I stared, stupidly, because I couldn''t think of what Pascal was. I rubbed my eyes.


    "Dynamic," suggested Pascal. "Fearsome. Football intelligence made flesh."


    "I think I was going to say an invasive species."


    "Space invader!" he complained.


    "That''s what I said. And we''ve got a shark on the bench. But the most efficient animal - don''t fact check this - is one who lets someone else do all the work and then moves in after the kill. Erm. Can''t remember the name. Not a vulture. What''s a land-based vulture?"


    "Coyote," said Zach. "Could be you fellas call ''em jackals."


    "Day of the Zachal," I said. "That could be a match programme theme." The bell rang. One minute. "I''m mentally tired but I can do twenty-five minutes, easy. When I come on, I''ll revamp the whole midfield, I reckon. Andrew and Sharky will join me and we''ll raise the tempo against their tired legs. Pascal, Ryan, Wisey, you''ll be coming off most likely so if you can put a bit more in for twenty minutes that''s gonna make it easier for us. Tire them out, give me an easy kill. Got me? Good. Let''s go chomp-chomp."


    They clattered out. Sandra, Vimsy, and I were the last to leave, apart from the physios. Sandra said, "I''m not Employee of the Week? I beat Maidstone while you were off gallivanting."


    "Vimsy said a thing."


    She shook her head. "I can say things. Better things than let''s go chomp-chomp."


    I smiled. "Either I''m absolutely shattered or the evolution theme has run its course. What do you reckon?"


    "I reckon sometimes two things can be true."


    I cocked my head back and to the side. "See, that was top. Why didn''t you say that at half time?"


    I tried to jauntily skip past her but she put her hand on my chest, forcefully. "Shinpads, boss."


    "Yes! Right." I went back to my kit bag, which the Brig had brought for me. Over time I''d tried different types of shinnies, but had settled on oversized ones with ankle protection. I picked them up and slapped them into my palm. "Sandra Lane. Employee of the Second Half! See? We''ve got everything we need. Don''t need to buy anything else."


    ***


    Gambling adverts say ''when the fun stops, stop.'' But I couldn''t stop the match; I was forced to sit through twenty minutes of so-called action that were every bit as dispiriting and stressful as waiting at Gibraltar airport trying to will a plane into existence.


    Aldershot must have been chastened by the second-half spanking we''d given them at the Deva because now that they had a lead to defend they were super organised, super hard to break down, super risk-averse. It didn''t help that our focal point was Ziggy, but I could hardly get mad at him, could I? If he had stayed at FC United, he would probably be on 15 goals. The lesson of our season - and Grimsby''s - was that you needed a good striker if you wanted to be successful. Which is easier said than done, guys.


    I wondered what had happened to Henri. Had he faked it? The curse said there was nothing wrong with him in the slightest. Worrying. If Henri had checked out of the season, we would achieve precisely nothing. I rubbed my head. That wasn''t right. I would try to re-skill as a striker as fast as I could. Stop practising set pieces and technique, do more headers, more strength work. I didn''t like playing with my back to goal and didn''t enjoy the physical contest, but I would do a passable job.


    Was there a perk that could help me if we didn''t have a striker? The shop - closed during the match, of course - was uninspiring. Nothing screamed that it would help me beat Oldham or Gateshead. One option was Form for 500 XP. What it did wasn''t well explained but maybe buying it would satisfy my lizard brain''s need to consume. Some retail therapy. Just enough progress to make me feel like I wasn''t finishing the season too passively, to shut down the nagging thought that I shouldn''t be saving up, not now, not now.


    The minutes drifted past. There were headers, tackles, sprints, throw-ins. It was football straight from 1988. Not quite garbage, but it was close.


    We tried our best to put moves together. We never dipped below sixty percent possession and we achieved one aim - we made Aldershot run and run. The match ratings were very slightly in their favour, but we were draining their Condition. As the minutes ticked by, more of their players dropped below 80%, then 75%, and even past 70%, which was when fatigue was visible to the naked eye. More Aldershot players got messages in their player profiles.


    Suspected ankle injury.


    Suspected foot injury.


    Suspected knee injury.


    We got some, too - we always did. But I''d learned - or I thought I had - that if someone had a suspected foot injury but his Condition was still high, you might as well keep him on the pitch. His injury wasn''t going to get worse, most likely. If someone got a knee injury and his Condition dropped to 44%, you took him off the pitch right away. Alarm! Danger!


    I got the feeling that Aldershot''s manager was waiting for me to make my move before changing anything, which given he had better players overall was probably smart. But it did make me wonder what would happen if I simply didn''t change anything. His guys would be absolutely wrecked in the last ten minutes. I could switch to 4-4-2, push Magnus to right mid, Pascal up front.


    While I was ruminating, Grimsby Town scored. Barnet 0, Town 1. Danny Flash.


    Okay, so that meant I had to get proactive. The clock hit 70 and I thought, fuck it. We had nothing to lose.


    Triple change for Chester.


    Off go Ryan Jack, James Wise, and Pascal Bochum.


    They have worked hard.


    On come Max Best, Andrew Harrison, and Wes Hayward.


    Christian Fierce offers Best the captain''s armband.


    Best waves it away.


    I took thirty seconds to finish my warm up - when I was doing manager stuff I found it hard to concentrate on my needs as a player - and then did a big sprint at the ball. A defender cleared it and I had a tiny out-of-body-experience.


    I was fucking wrecked. I felt like a ship whose sails were full of cannonball holes. Clearly it was going to be one of those days when mind and body weren''t in total sync. It happened to me a few times a season, same as with any player, but the timing, man. The timing. Maybe if I had stayed in England instead of - No! Try to stay positive.


    Now that I''d made my big move, Aldershot''s manager made some changes of his own. That gave me some time to catastrophise while I walked to Sandra.


    "Sandra, he''s taking his wingers off; they''re doing 5-3-2. Is that keep it tight, look for breaks?"


    "Sounds about right. Any signs of them marking you?"


    I checked the screens. "No."


    "So business as usual."


    She was fresher; she could think straight. I should do less managing and focus on getting on the ball. Keep it simple, Seals. Listen to the boss lady. "Okay. Erm... 5-3-2. The full backs won''t attack, so there''s nothing coming down our flanks. What about moving a full back to wing back?"


    "Why not both?"


    "Too much," I lied. It was only the constraints of the curse that stopped me pushing all my wide players one zone further. As it was, I could shift one and nudge the others.


    Sandra considered it. "Eddie."


    "Aight."


    I slid Eddie''s icon one step forward and used the With Ball screens to push Carl, Aff, and Sharky as far forward as I could.


    I walked back to central midfield and looked around at the familiar faces. We''d been contacted about selling Aff and Carl to a League Two club - I had asked to delay negotiations until after the Oldham game - but it seemed we had eight games left with the current crew. Ten including the playoffs. That was an eternity.


    Aff held off a challenge and looked for a pass. It was supposed to be me supporting him! I raced across and pointed - Aff used his weaker right to put the ball where I wanted. I nudged it first time out to the left where Eddie was bombing forward. He was in space but he wouldn''t have an easy cross; Aff and I hurried to give him more options.


    Eddie got to the edge of the box and cut the ball back to Aff. Aff had to use his right again, but flicked the ball into my path. It bounced up a fraction too high for a half-volley so I checked where the goalie was and sort of lashed down at the ball, imparting vicious spin and power...


    Which was a real menace to whichever vehicle it hit in the stadium''s car park.


    "Fuck me," I said, hands on knees while the home fans pissed themselves. Soon they were chanting, "EFL? You''re having a laugh!"


    Ziggy ambled over. "Was that Manager of the Month material?"


    "They don''t count what I do on the pitch."


    Ziggy looked up and shielded his eyes from the floodlights. "They might if they see that."


    "The cameras are in Barnet," I said. "No-one''s watching this except on highlights."


    "If I was the director, I''d put that shot on the highlights. It went higher than the lights."


    "If I do that again, can you punch me in the dick, please?"


    "Yes, boss," he said.


    The goalie took the goal kick - he booted it long - and the new patterns of play emerged. Our back line was higher, our wide players would get more joy, but there was little danger from crosses when it was Ziggy against three centre backs. The image of him alone in the penalty area, alone in a sea of defenders, was startling. How are we supposed to score from that?


    For the millionth time, my traitorous mind wished I had brought Chipper instead of Sharky. The latter could get to the byline, but then what? It was one-in-a-million that anything he did would lead to a goal when the penalty box was awash with defenders. Chipper would win headers and draw aggro onto himself while others exploited the space he made. Okay, but Chipper was a dick. I couldn''t let him spread his Chipperness no matter what it cost on a game by game basis.


    What could I do with what I had?


    Maybe we could draw Aldershot onto us with some Let It Happen.


    I swapped places with Magnus and put my foot on the ball in the DM slot. Shot''s strikers came to press me but the midfielders stayed put. Let It Happen was not on today''s menu. I passed to Andrew and rethought. I was too fried to come up with anything really clever, so I tried to keep things simple and went back to basics.


    "Zach," I said, keeping an eye on the action in front of me.


    "Yes, boss."


    "You''re a science boy. Let me check some science on you."


    "Ready when you are."


    "Positional play is underpinned by having numerical superiority."


    "Yes, boss."


    "Aldershot have two strikers so we should have three defenders."


    "Yes, boss."


    We paused as it seemed Shot might turn the ball over, but nothing came of it. "They''ve got three in midfield, so we should have four."


    "Sounds right to me."


    "That means... Do I want 3-4-3?"


    "We''ve never trained 3-4-3, boss."


    I nodded and jogged forward. A ball was played into midfield and Shot''s most creative CM, Onions, ran onto it. When he touched the ball, hoping to break through the lines, he ran straight into my shoulder while the ball found itself trapped under my studs. Onions slid three yards away; I rolled the ball to Magnus.


    Christian had been listening. "Qualitative superiority, boss. Don''t forget that." He meant I was better than Onions. Okay, true, but unlike against Grimsby, me marking someone out of the game wasn''t going to help us get a result.


    The rush of adrenaline from the shoulder barge brought me some clarity. "We haven''t trained 3-4-3 exactly, but we''ve got something close." I switched us to 3-5-2 and slid my players around. The back three was Christian, Zach, and Carl. Left mid was Eddie, right mid Sharky (both set to be as narrow as the screens would allow). Centre mids were Andrew and Magnus. Up front, Aff and Ziggy. In theory I was the third CM, but was free to join the strikers, turning 3-5-2 into 3-4-3.


    The effect of this change was almost instant - our possession stats leapt and we forced Shots all the way back. When they tried to break they got smashed in duels. We had the numbers in defence, and it was child''s play to move the ball through their feeble press!


    I found myself loitering near Ziggy - I simply wasn''t needed elsewhere. Then...


    Evergreen passes to Hayward. He drives towards the left back, who retreats.


    Hayward puts his foot on the ball and looks inside. He finds Best.


    Best points to the far post and prepares to chip a curling cross.


    Best controls the ball through two defenders! He spotted a gap.


    Tremendous burst of speed.


    Has he taken the ball too wide?


    He''s going to have a crack...


    Off the post!


    Did the goalie have it covered?


    The Chester fans have their heads in their hands.


    Much better from Best.


    It was happening! The momentum changed so completely it was just as disorientating as seeing there was no plane waiting to whizz me home. I ran with more purpose. The ball obeyed me.


    We pushed forward and got openings. Sharky menaced his man but then cut back to roll passes for me to thrash at goal. The first one went just over. The second had much more dip and bend and the goalie got a hand to it. The third exploded off me and was heading for the inside side-netting - perfection - but the goalie found another inch of arm from somewhere and tipped my shot onto the crossbar. It shot up and gravity took an age to kick in. Ziggy and Aff were waiting for it to drop but it hit the wrong edge of the bar and bounced back behind the goal.


    But Aldershot weren''t stupid and they weren''t going to let me keep taking potshots. They didn''t exactly mark me but when I broke from midfield they tracked me, and their smarter players tried to close the passing lanes between Sharky and me.


    With fifteen minutes left I used Seal It Up so we could get even more attack-minded. But who to link with Cupid''s Arrow? Me to Christian Fierce, perhaps? I could target him from corners and free kicks. Or Aff? No, my passes to him were fraught with danger. Shot had too many bodies back. I gambled on connecting with Andrew Harrison, then put him to make forward runs and allowed him to dribble. Perhaps he could make a difference with some penalty box entries. Another body in there, causing havoc, disrupting the defence. 3-5-2 turning into 3-3-4.


    Andrew and I passed to each other a few times. I drifted wide right looking for Sharky, but his marker did a good job. I did a Cody Chambers chop-turn and pinged a ball to the left. Eddie took it forward and fizzed it back to my feet. Instinct told me to let it run through my legs with just a feathery redirection.


    The ball ran perfectly into Andrew''s stride and he took it past a defender.


    The defender, though, hadn''t expected such quality and he had slid in to where he thought the ball would go. He crunched into Andrew, leaving him in a heap. Andrew''s Stamina and Strength turned red. We had used our three subs. Yet another reason we needed to get promoted this season - in serious leagues you were allowed to make five changes. More minutes for young players, more grandiose tactical reorganisations, more more more.


    That, though, was an increasingly unlikely future. In the here and now, I watched through a kind of fog while Dean checked Andrew and the ref booked his assailant. Zach had words with the guy. Aldershot''s captain had words with Zach. Christian had words with their captain. The match was spiralling. My Cupid''s Arrow partner would play no further part in the game. Barnet had equalised. I was too drained for any of it to get to me on an emotional basis. I looked at where the foul had happened. Twenty-five yards out, right of centre. Dreamy. It''s like a dream. After this shot we would play the match ten against eleven. Backs to the wall defending. Would we get another chance? Very possibly not. This was one shot to save our season.


    I stayed still while Dean helped Andrew hobble off the pitch, while the ref tried and failed to restore order, while the noise from the stands died down until there was only a light hum.


    Eventually, when it was time to take the free kick, all I could hear was the ref''s whistle. I used Masterpiece Theatre to drag Aff to my side. If the angle was great for a right-footer, it was even better for a leftie. The goalie had set his wall for me, not for Aff, and it was too late for him to readjust.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Aff," I said. "Hit it side foot over the wall, top right." He gave me the blank look I always got if I gave verbal instructions that contradicted what I was asking for via the curse. I was set as the team''s free kick and corner taker, so Aff couldn''t take that kick even if I told him I would give him twenty thousand in cash if he did. It was hard to know if he had heard me or if the curse had sort of filtered out my instruction.


    Next, I waved at Zach to go more towards the far post, while bringing him closer to me on the Masterpiece Theatre screen.


    Then I did three things almost simultaneously.


    I smashed the Free Hit button.


    I stepped away from the ball, screaming at Zach. "What the fuck are you doing?"


    I set Aff as our free kick taker.


    Zach''s surprise was real, and every defender turned to see what was happening. The goalie, too, looked away from the ball and relaxed, and by the time he realised he''d been scammed, it was too late.


    Best to take the free kick. He motions to Green.


    Green comes closer. He doesn''t seem to be sure what his manager wants.


    Best berates his defender.


    Aff swishes the ball into the top-right!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Struck so sweetly! The goalie barely moved!


    The Aldershot captain is complaining to the referee.


    Best embraces Green! Aff runs to the joyous away end!


    Chester are level! Their destiny is still in their hands!


    ***


    The last ten minutes or so were wild. Aldershot, seeing that we were playing with ten, reorganised to 3-5-2. I dropped to the DM slot and sprinted for all my life. This draw, this point was suddenly the most valuable substance in the known universe. I thundered into tackles, shoulder-barged Shotters into touch while stealing their lunch, and dribbled past their frantic, disorganised press. Once clear of danger we reset and passed the ball around. After a couple of minutes of chasing our shadows, Aldershot were so far in the red zone it was like we had the extra man.


    In moments where there was an injury or the ref was lecturing a player, I heard the thousand Chester fans in the away end singing their hearts out. During the action itself, I only heard the hum. But one time, the volume got so loud it shattered my bubble of awareness.


    I got the ball, did a shake n'' bake where I sent a defender''s body weight left then burst past him on the right, and suddenly there was absolute delirium. I looked around, confused, and chipped the ball towards the far corner flag. Max Best goes for the corner!


    The Chester fans had gone wild because Barnet had scored again. Barnet were beating Grimsby. If that match stayed the same score, Barnet would go level on points with Grimsby, and the goal difference would be close. But more importantly, Chester would be five points behind both... with two games in hand! Win those and we would be one point clear at the top of the league.


    I lifted my arms in waves, trying to fill our wings with air. This flight would not be cancelled. The Aldershot fans had long since quit mocking us, and their attempts to gee up their players were weak. The spirit was with the blues.


    Carl went up for, and won, a header, but Onions won the rebound. He did a little shake n'' bake move of his own and he was shaping to shoot. Could have been dangerous, but I made up the ground and slid in, hooking the ball away. Christian Fierce tackled at the same time, while Magnus had arrived from the other side and Zach Green had hurled himself in front of the shot.


    There was only one logical response to such a display of teamwork, determination, and self-sacrifice: I clenched my hands into balls and roared, the kind of full-on guttural scream where you''re surprised your abs don''t pop out.


    I prowled around, waiting for someone to break clear of his marker so I could fucking smash into him, but we didn''t lose another duel. The ref blew for full-time and I joined my players over at the away end. Our winning streak was over. Nobody gave a shit.


    The fans thought they knew where we stood and for those brief minutes, at least, I had zero doubts they were right.


    "We''re gonna win the league! We''re gonna win the league! And now you''re gonna believe us, and now you''re gonna believe us... we''re gonna win the league!"


    ***


    I got showered, dressed, and went straight to the team bus. I thought I would fall asleep instantly, but I was far too wired. I put my MaxPods Max on and played some brown noise. I think I was just starting to do some microsleeps when something touched me. Emma was gently drawing her hand across my face. Sweet, but her hand was bloody freezing. "Babes," she said. "We''re not going home on the bus. Did you forget?"


    "Uh?"


    "Come on."


    I got up and followed her off the coach. The Brig was waiting. He led us to his car. Wait, that wasn''t right. "No, John. You stay and hang out with your mates."


    He smiled. "These particular friends are better in small doses, sir. If you don''t mind, let''s crack on. I''ll drop you off and bring Emma home."


    I was compos mentis enough to make one good decision. "Er, no. Emma first. Ladies first."


    "Very good, sir."


    ***


    On the drive, I woke up a few times, and each time there was a growing sense of unease located somewhere around the middle of my stomach.


    In the minds of the players, the media, the fans, of everyone, we were one point clear at the top of the table.


    But we weren''t. We were five points behind, Oldham was going to be even harder than Aldershot, and Gateshead would be even harder than that.


    I wanted to put out a tweet saying ''everyone calm down and get real'' but I also wanted everyone to enjoy the moment. Let them dream.


    Oldham were likely to stop us in our tracks, and the brevity of our ''lead'' at the top of the table would be crushing. The more the fans rejoiced now, the harder a setback would hit them.


    The queasiness grew. What could I do, though? I couldn''t get higher Morale or new players. I couldn''t get more motivation. Inwardly groaning at my weakness, I went to the perk shop.


    XP balance: 11,642


    <table>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Relationism


    </td>


    <td>


    30000


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Attributes 7


    </td>


    <td>


    2950


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    343


    </td>


    <td>


    3430


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Playdar 2


    </td>


    <td>


    1500


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Player Profile 3: Nerdlonger


    </td>


    <td>


    500


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Match Stats 3: Action Zones


    </td>


    <td>


    300


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Bibliotekkers 1


    </td>


    <td>


    1000


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Form


    </td>


    <td>


    500


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Player Comparison


    </td>


    <td>


    630


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Panopticon Age Groups


    </td>


    <td>


    2000


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    Manager Stats


    </td>


    <td>


    300


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    xG


    </td>


    <td>


    2000


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>


    The Stattoo Parlour


    </td>


    <td>


    3000


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Playdar 2 would give me an extra token slot so that I could change how Playdar worked. For example, I could set it to look for goalkeepers or extend its range - at an additional cost. No, thanks, plus it always led me to eight-year-olds, and none of those were likely to score on their debut this weekend.


    The Stattoo Parlour would open up loads of stats pages, like lists of the top scorers, players with the highest average rating, and so on. It was the kind of quality of life improvement that was nice to have, but it seemed massively overpriced given I could go on a website and get the same info and more.


    No, the only really tempting perks were Attributes - it was always good to learn more about players - and the next formation. My version of 3-4-3 had surprised me with its effectiveness, but if I was on the pitch, I could already hack a 3-4-3. Why did I need to buy it?


    I closed my eyes and told myself to stop looking at the league table.


    I couldn''t.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="175"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>82</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>82</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>77</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ***


    The Brig and Emma dropped me off first, the scamps! As I was clambering out of the car, bleary-eyed, I caught Emma trying to hide in the space behind the seats.


    "You''re here now. Why don''t you stay the night?"


    "I''ve got to get back to work, too. I don''t have a Sandra to do my paperwork. Go and sleep, babes. I''ll see you on Saturday in Oldham. That''s gonna be easier than tonight, right?"


    "No, harder."


    She tried to smile. "I''m sure you''ll win. Seeya."


    "Byes."


    ***


    Wednesday, March 26


    The buzz was incredible. The entire city had woken up, looked at the league table, and realised that the question was no longer, ''Could we?'' but ''Why wouldn''t we?'' A thousand evangelists had travelled back from their pilgrimage to Aldershot and were spreading the word; the word was good.


    As for me, I had woken up not quite fully fresh, but nicely rested. A check of the squad screens told me that Henri had a ''suspected calf injury''. I punched the air. I''d been right to trust him! Right to let him sit out the match. If he had aggravated that injury, our season would have imploded.


    I texted him that he was a ledge for coming forward and that if I ever changed the club''s badge, it would be from a wolf to his face. He replied that he would get ''his people'' to mock something up after training but I replied saying if he was seen at training he would be chased away with pitchforks. Rest, man, rest!


    The training session was intense for the young players and reserves, but light for everyone who had gone to Aldershot. I had a long chat with Sandra about 3-4-3. It seemed that 3-4-3 would let me cover quite a lot of bases.


    <ul>


    <li>It would allow us to play fast, attacking football.</li>


    <li>In the wild, 3-4-3 could be seen in wide versions, narrow versions, or even a midfield diamond, creating vastly different effects. I wasn''t sure which version the curse would give me but in principle it was a Swiss army knife formation.</li>


    <li>The three-man attack would allow us to press teams that used DMs. Tremendous, but we were unlikely to face one for the rest of the season.</li>


    <li>It would allow us to create what Sandra called ''pressing traps'' - zones where we would encourage weaker opponents to bring the ball so we could give them a good tickling. Again, it seemed like something we would need at higher levels when we had tactically smart players in all positions.</li>


    <li>It would let me give Glenn Ryder some game time, but reduce the minutes for my (three!) left backs.</li>


    <li>Sandra suggested Wibbers and Pascal would thrive in this system, as would I.</li>


    </ul>


    I listened carefully, but couldn''t quite visualise all of it, and I couldn''t get past the feeling that I was already incredibly overpowered for the level. But no sooner had that thought arrived than another did on top of it - what was the harm in upgrading?


    Well, the harm was that anything I spent now would delay the time when I bought Relationism. Who knew? Maybe I would need to unlock that module to have the first clue what I was seeing in Brazil. It would be nice to be in touching distance of unlocking the concept that was fundamental to the entire trip! To my entire summer!


    But, I thought, sending my queasiness into overdrive, getting promoted was also fundamental to the trip, and to a hell of a lot of other things.


    Sensing that I was falling into a doom spiral, I suggested to Sandra we park the discussion of getting 3-4-3 for now and revisit it next season. She gave me one of those looks where she couldn''t quite understand what I was saying, but didn''t push back.


    We discussed what we would do against Oldham. We had drawn 2-2 against them in our home match, but that was thanks to a stupid red card from one of their players. That day they had been CA 72, but they had lost one of their stars in the transfer window. His replacement was an unknown quantity but on the footage I''d seen, not an improvement.


    "They''re good," I said. "Solid 4-4-2 merchants. They''ll have their moments. Set pieces, direct balls. All that shit. But when we went at them they folded. That was with home advantage and playing against ten but I''d really love to unleash Wibbers. It''s just..."


    "What?"


    I sighed. "Maybe we should play our best eleven every match and grind out wins. Seven wins, the title is ours." Something inside me twisted when I said those words.


    "Are we going to win all seven?"


    I pulled at my bottom lip. "We''ll win five. Oldham and Gateshead are slightly ahead of us. A draw at Oldham would be good. We''re at home against Gateshead but they absolutely battered us at their place. I''d take a draw."


    "Five wins and two draws? That would make it, er, sixteen games unbeaten. What more can we do? I want to push for every win but a little voice in my head is telling me to have something in reserve for the playoffs. That little voice... is yours."


    "I''m all over the place, Sandra. If we go flat-out at the title we''ll probably end up with five wins, one draw, one defeat. That might be enough to overtake Grimsby or Barnet, but not both. And I just have this feeling that we''ve been going flat-out for a while. I''ve been thinking about machines in factories that are being used, used, used, and not maintained. We''ve been doing less rotation. Trusting the young players less. It''s all logical, it''s right, but... is it? We''ve been thinking long-term for ages and it''s been working and now suddenly the end''s in sight so we''ve ripped up our playbook and gone full dinosaur. It''s really confusing because obviously you don''t change a winning formula but obviously you''ve got to put your best team on the pitch when the chips are down." Because I said ''chips'' we both glanced towards Chipper, which annoyed me twice over. "Our season might get two additional matches, right? We''re actually in the sweet spot where we can cruise into third place. Rest some weary legs. Can we take Carl out of the team and dip him in oil? Henri''s had a couple of tiny breaks. Pascal had a winter break. So we can go hard in the next match, but after Oldham it''s Hartlepool and Rochdale. They''re quality. They''ll slap us if we don''t go hard." Not for the first time that morning I had contradicted myself and said the exact opposite of what I had set out to say. The hell was up with me?


    Sandra smiled. "Is this the first time I''ve seen you agonising over team selections?"


    "It might be. It''s not a big deal if you''re eighth in the league. If you''re basically first with two teams a hair''s breadth behind... man. One mistake and you''re done. We have to be perfect."


    "We''re not going to be perfect. What''s the most Max Best version of our line up this Saturday? Away against the team in fifth."


    I shrugged. "4-2-3-1. Rest Carl. Wibbers starts."


    "Don''t we have to pay money if he plays too many games?"


    "I asked MD to ask Banbury if we can delay the payment till the summer. They said yes." A cloud descended on me. Another of my past decisions with the potential to bite me on the arse. It wasn''t that I was keeping Wibbers out of the team to avoid making the payment, but the timing of his eleventh appearance had been a source of worry. We were tapped out. There was no cash in the bank and if we were late paying, Banbury could have kicked up a fuss and potentially got us a transfer ban or something like that. I needn''t have worried - to them the twenty thousand pounds was free money. Still, maybe I should have stolen their player from under their nose with no compensation. That''s how a proper football club would have acted.


    Sandra lifted her arms in a stretch. "4-2-3-1, then. Youngster and Ryan as DMs?"


    "Not Youngster. He''s not coming."


    "Max," said Sandra. She was annoyed that I was refusing to select Chipper, but she understood something had happened between us. Not using our best midfielder, though - Youngster had raced ahead to CA 75 during his time away - that seemed wilfully stupid. "He barely played in AFCON. He''s fresh. He''s ready. We could use him. He could be the difference!"


    "I know," I said. "Which is why we need to be kind to him. Look, I just went through travel hell. The waiting around, the stress, the anxiety, then the flights themselves and the airports and all the people coughing and the germ-filled babies and all that. It''s a nightmare. I look at Youngster, I see me times twenty. He has been in Togo waiting for his turn to play, no control, not sure what''s coming, his manager not talking to him much, loads of waiting around, being shuttled from place to place. I know he wasn''t sleeping well because Meghan told Kisi who told me. Then the flight to Casablanca, to Madrid, to London. It''s draining. He looks fresh but he''s not. He''s really not. Yes, we need him. Yes, he could get us some points. But there''s a little voice in my head telling me to give him another weekend off, and do you know whose voice that is?"


    "Mine? Yours? His mum''s?"


    "It''s the voice of whoever''s doing the documentary voice-over. He''s saying ''Youngster was rushed back into the team. What could go wrong?'' No, on Saturday, I''ll play the Youngster role. We will be quite solid. Let''s do Pascal, Wibbers, and Sharky behind whichever striker is fit."


    "Whichever striker is fit," she said, looking down between her feet. She had Chipper on her mind. "Boss, can I be serious for a minute?"


    "Yep," I said, tensing. As soon as she said the ''ch'' from Chipper I was liable to fly into a rage.


    "I can''t tell if you''re making good decisions. I think we''re both on edge. This run has cost us, hasn''t it, and now we''re where we need to be and it''s..."


    "Bit of a mindfuck," I suggested.


    "Yeah. I don''t think you''d normally care about missing a flight. You''d shrug it off and do something mental and fun while waiting for the next one. It''s not a good sign that one, you had a freakout and two, every single person at this football club empathised so strongly. I know you cancelled all your meetings this week so you could focus on the football but maybe a distraction would do you good. Do us good."


    "Bit of downtime?"


    "Yeah."


    I checked the squad screens. Sending five players to Tranmere every day had got me some much-needed CA growth. Morale was high. We had won eight out of the last nine. We''d been pushing, pushing, pushing. "Two days off?"


    "Tomorrow off. Friday, Glenn should take them somewhere."


    I nodded. "Yeah. That''s it. That''s perfect. One last break before one last big push." I closed my eyes; it felt right. Really right. The queasiness felt fifty percent weaker already. I opened my eyes and smiled. "What are you gonna do?"


    She shook her head. "Go shopping? Finish unpacking?"


    "You haven''t unpacked? Are you serious?"


    "When would I have done that, Max? You make me watch three action movies a week on top of everything else. Actually, my new gaff doesn''t have much storage. I should do that IKEA trip I''ve been putting off." She visibly sagged. "Or that can wait! Have you got something that''ll take your mind off football?"


    "Yes, actually." I pulled my phone out. "Sumo invited me onto his stream. He''s got a new game he thinks I''ll like."


    ***


    Thursday, March 27


    "With me in the dohy¨­ is Chester FC''s player-manager, Cheshire''s first ever yokozuna, Max Best!"


    I was spinning lazily on the second chair in Sumo''s bedroom. Giving everyone two days off before a huge game had caused fury and consternation among the gammons, and I imagined myself doing laps in a swimming pool filled with their tears.


    I say fury and consternation, but that might be a slight exaggeration. There was definitely at least one tweet that went something like ''typical Chester joke club''. Anyway, if the response from the fanbase was generally ''yeah the lads have earned a break'', my internal instruments had swung hard towards ''yes, mate, quality decision.'' In the time since telling Glenn the news, my mood had improved three thousand percent.


    The entire organisation knew what to do against Oldham. Whether we could do it or not was a totally different issue, but there was no point watching more tape, doing more sprints, more more more preparation. So I had spent half of Wednesday pottering around the Trafford Centre looking for things to buy, trying on hoodies, new kicks, and even booking an impromptu leg massage before remembering how bruised my calves were and changing it to a back rub.


    "Max, say something."


    I blinked. I was in Sumo''s bedroom slash studio and we were about to do battle in some thrilling fantasy world. "Sumo, I''m very pleased to be here. I have injected six inches of silicon into my scalp to make sure I meet the height requirements."


    "That''s good, Max. You always put the extra effort in. Except today, when you should be working."


    "Ha," I said, relaxed ay-eff. "It''s funny but we''ve been grinding and grafting so hard for so long. Nine months, we''ve been at it, and there''s another month to go. We could be in a playoff final six weeks from now. You know Lord of the Rings where you''re like gosh that was a good story wait why is there another 45 minutes? We''re in that phase of the season. Personally, I''m glad to be taking a break from footy for a day or two." I leaned forward and clapped my hands. "Right! What are we playing?"


    Sumo pulled a face and only his eyes moved left and right. The chat was exploding. Sumo, or one of his mods, highlighted some top comments.


    HAMBO


    I''m dying, lol.


    GRUMPYTITS


    It''s so obvious that he actually knows otherwise he wouldn''t have said that. I hate it when streams jump the shark.


    "Mate," I said, leaning forward to read. "We''re not playing Beefer, are we?"


    "Beefer? What''s Beefer?"


    "You know. Fifa, the B version."


    "It''s called EA FC 25."


    I pulled a face. "That''s not a name. That''s a wifi password."


    Sumo laughed. "Okay it''s not Beefer but it is football. I, er, didn''t know about... We could do something else."


    "Like what?"


    "American Truck Simulator. Pressure Washer Simulator 2. Reality TV Make Up Artist Simulator."


    I exhaled. "I''m happy to be hanging out with you, mate. Let''s fire up the footy game." I''ll admit I was briefly, microscopically annoyed that my break was being filled with the thing I was trying to have a break from, but my humour quickly returned. Of course the universe had done this to me. "Hotel California. You can check out any time you like..."


    "But you can never leave."


    I slapped my thigh. "That''s why it''s called a curse!"


    Sumo side-eyed me. "Sorry, what?"


    "Nothing. What''s the game?"


    "Okay, let me set the scene. First of all, Spectrum set this up for me."


    "Spectrum?"


    "Yeah he loves a retro game. He says a guy in a pub had a big chat to him about this game and they agreed it would be amazing if you played it."


    "A guy in a pub suggested this," I said, slowly, eyes narrowing. "Was he short? Weird-looking? Overly interested in football tactics? Terrible handwriting?"


    "Er, don''t know. I wasn''t as drawn to that part of the story as you. Okay, so. We''re doing a C64 classic. I haven''t played this, Max. I know what it is but I haven''t played it so we''ve got a fair contest ahead."


    THE_STEVE


    Why is someone called Spectrum running Commodore 64 emulators?


    Sumo chuckled - why? - and picked up a card. "So it''s called Emlyn Hughes International Soccer and it''s from 1988."


    "What?"


    "It''s from 1988 and it was a big hit. Emlyn Hughes was a famous player from the olden days. I won''t say which club. After he stopped playing, he was popular on a TV show and made headlines when he called Princess Anne ''mate''."


    "He sounds top."


    "The game was voted the 44th best of all time. Er, on the Commodore 64. That list doesn''t include, like, Zelda and Stardew Valley and Skyrim."


    I spun on my chair. "You know, I really think I should be playing the ninth best game of all time, at this stage of my career. 44th seems beneath me, to be honest."


    "Let''s load it up and take a look."


    He pressed a couple of buttons and the screen filled with one of those old-fashioned loading screens - loads of colours dancing in lines. That took about half a second and then it was ready.


    I read out the text on the screen. "Emlyn Hughes International Soccer. I thought you were joking."


    "You''ve never heard of this? So we''re going to play a match but let me show you some of the features. You could build your own squads and change the colours and everything. Play on a blue pitch with a blue ball! Spectrum edited the database to have the modern Chester players."


    "What? That''s awesome."


    The screen was pretty basic - blue text on a white background. Sumo moved his mouse to the top of the screen and a menu dropped down. He clicked ''edit team'' and we saw Wrexham. Spectrum had renamed every player as ''Cheat''. Players had three attributes: Speed, Defence, and Attacking. Every player had been given one out of three - the lowest - in everything.


    "Oops, how did that get in there?" said Sumo. Someone in the chat sent him money. Sumo cackled.


    "That''s juvenile and I don''t approve," I said. "Let''s look at Chester."


    Sumo nodded and clicked a few times. The Chester squad got another big laugh out of Sumo and more cash came from the chat. The names of the squad were accurate but once again every player had one out of three in each attribute. Every player except one - Max Best had three stars in everything.


    I frowned. It was a good joke, good banter, but it was eerily accurate. I''d done this with Champion Manager, hadn''t I?


    "Sorry, Max."


    "What? Oh, no, it''s funny. I was just thinking, would I have actually done this in, what did you say? 1978? I think I would. But not because I thought I was actually better than everyone else. Hey! You know what?"


    "What?"


    "I think now I wouldn''t do this. I''d, like, want everyone as good as me."


    "That''s character growth, Max."


    "Yeah? Or laziness."


    Sumo clicked away but I asked him to go back. I had just noticed that after the attributes there was a column called Fitness, rated out of 100. Just like my team! It was odd to see the names and numbers together on screen. The last time I''d watched someone play Fifa, I hadn''t been able to see the parts of the game that involved numbers. Looking at Soccer Supremo was still weird, but much less so than in the early days of the curse. "Youngster has Fitness 100," I mumbled. "Guess we should play him."


    "Of course," said Sumo. "Why wouldn''t you? You know what? He''s a hot prospect. I''m going to give him two stars in everything." He did just that. "Spectrum said the controls on this were crazy, but he said there''s a practice mode. Here we go. Chester versus Wrexham. I''ll be Wrexham just for the hate-watches. Want to get used to the controls with no score pressure, no in-game clock?"


    "That sounds like the best way to play the entire sport, tbh. But let''s do a proper match. It''s from the olden days. How hard can it be? It''s probably just a re-skinned Pac Man."


    "Here."


    Sumo handed me a controller, but it was another joke. It was a small square with a vertical shaft and one red button. Sumo wasn''t laughing. "Mate," I said, twinkling. "Very funny."


    "What? No, that''s your joystick."


    "That''s not fair! You''ve got, like, twenty buttons. I''ve got one."


    "There''s only one button in this game."


    "One button?"


    "Yeah one button does everything."


    "How does that work?"


    "No clue."


    He did something and we switched to the match screen. I said, "Ha! For a second I thought it would be text-based." There was a side-scrolling football pitch surrounded by advertising boards. Blocky players emerged from a tunnel and ran. First guy to the left, second guy to the right, blue shirt to the left, red to the right.


    Sumo glanced at me. It was easy to forget that to him, I was the big star, the person in the world he would most like to impress. "What do you think so far?"


    While I tried to gather my thoughts, the last players emerged from the tunnel and formed a line along halfway. Two guys stood by the ball with one either side, looking serious and ready for action. Ready for kick off! "I mean, it''s obviously shit but there''s something about it. Some kind of charm. It''s..." I held up a finger and leaned forward. There was crowd noise! Someone had one of those horn things from olden days matches. "I don''t know. What do you think?"


    "It''s clever," he said. "These old machines struggled to show lots of sprites. Sprites are the images that move. The ball is one sprite and the players are one. The C64 could only show 8 at a time. The coders found hacks, of course, but look."


    "Seven players on screen, plus the ball. That''s why they ran left and right from the tunnel the way they did. Okay. But when we run around we''ll see more than eight sometimes."


    He shrugged. "Only one way to find out! Are you ready to get crushed by a Sumo? Again?"


    "Wait, what are the controls?"


    "Beats me. You''ve got kick off. Press fire!"


    ***


    I tapped my only button and the ball moved forward. A blue-shirted guy turned grey, which confused me for half a second. "Oh, that''s me. Wait - oh!" Sumo hadn''t waited for me to get my bearings. He moved one of his players towards the ball and took it from me. The top of the screen said Cheat on the right and on the left, Best. The word Best changed to Wise and when I looked back, we were in midfield and the red shirts were piling forward. Three of them.


    I angled my joystick and Wisey turned, ran slowly, and picked up speed. I adjusted his path and he slowed a fraction and sped up again. "Hey it''s like they''ve got momentum."


    "Watch this!" cried Sumo.


    He hammered his controller and struck... a pea roller that dribbled wide. I gave him a pitying look. "I''m not even going to trash talk that one."


    I had a goal kick. I pressed the button and my dude pea rolled it straight to Sumo''s nearest striker. Surprised, he reacted slowly. The nearest defender, Carl, was well-placed and while still under computer control he shoulder-barged his opponent. When the ball was under his spell, control of Carl passed to me, as denoted by the change in shirt colour. Ohhh. I dribbled away, experimenting with the momentum system. Sumo''s nearest player came at me from an angle so I flicked my joystick to the diagonal and evaded him. How had I known to do that? Because there were only eight ways to move! The joystick had little arrows, one for each direction it knew. Modern games let you move in a full 360 but this had eight. I opened my mouth to explain but then thought - I''m learning this faster than Sumo. He has to unlearn everything he knows about modern games. This might be my one chance to ever beat him!


    I ran across halfway.


    "Oh!" he said, pointing. "It''s genius, see? Players have to fall off the screen before the next ones can come on. You and I can control one player each at a time, but the computer players run off! Look at that guy! He ran off the screen!"


    "Nah, he''s just getting into position for the counterattack." I was getting the hang of the movement and dribbled past another challenge. Sumo''s next player launched a vicious sliding tackle at me! "Cor, steady on!"


    "I didn''t know that was gonna happen."


    "Shoulder-barges, slide tackles." I was in position for a shot, so I unleashed one. I held the fire button down for a while but again it was just a pea roller. "Huh. That''s disappointing. The ball stays on the ground. How did this get popular? Or could sprites not, like, do 3D?"


    "Wait, wait," said Sumo, putting the controller down. He picked up a piece of card. "To chip or lob, hold fire and pull backwards against the direction your player is moving."


    "What the shit does that mean?"


    "Just experiment." The match continued for a hectic minute, with players smashing into each other. Our moves were of National League North quality. No passes were completed. Suddenly, one of Sumo''s players dribbled at one of mine and then dinked the ball past me. "Oh, here we go!" he cried. "I get it! Fire and go opposite. Let''s do that again. Heh heh." He cackled as he used his new move on me again. He was in prime position for a shot. "Bit harder this time?" His player lined up the shot and BLAZED it over the bar. "Oh, too much sauce on that one."


    I glanced at the chat. It was a flurry of people yelling SAUCE with one particular message being highlighted. The internet is mental.


    It was my goal kick again. I took a few seconds to rewire my brain. Pressing fire would do a daisy cutter. I had to hold the button and pull back the opposite way... He do opposite. Well, my goalie would run right to take the kick. So I had to pull the joystick... left. Was it that simple?


    It was!


    "Boom!" I said. "Look at the launch on that!"


    I chased the ball with my midfielder, Ryan Jack, and like the real one, running was a big struggle for him. He got there just ahead of one of Sumo''s cheats. I tried to do the dink move and got the ball up, but it bounced off my opponent and out for a throw-in. The players automatically ran around. "This is great," said Sumo, as Ryan held the ball above his head looking for an option.


    "Is it?" I said, faking to throw left, drawing Sumo''s controlled player that direction, before hurling it right.


    "Max, this machine had 64K. That''s kilobytes. That''s nothing. They put this whole game in a space the size of, like, a full stop in a Microsoft Word document. It''s blocky but it plays pretty well. Don''t you think?"


    "I''ll tell you when I work out how to pass. All I ever wanted from a football game was to put together some slick passing moves."


    Something clicked for me, then. I couldn''t possibly explain it, but suddenly I sort of got the game. Not the controls, but the way the players moved. When the ball was fired long, the game was spawning the sprites off screen and I knew exactly where they would appear.


    I turned my player around and passed the ball backwards. The screen tracked the ball back to the midfielder I somehow knew would be there. Appropriately, it was Youngster. I angled my stick up and to the right and tapped the fire button. The ball fizzed right to the feet of a striker inside the penalty area.


    "Shit!" said Sumo. While he was trying to make his nearest guy do a block, I was angling my guy towards the left-hand post. I jabbed fire and adjusted the joystick to the bottom right. My guy on screen rolled the ball, calm as you like, into the net. The goalie did a cool but futile dive.


    I was too stunned to gloat or to do anything - I was beating a professional gamer! - but my scorer ran to the bottom of the screen and did a wild celebration. "Shit! It''s Ziggy! It''s just like him, too!"


    Sumo was gracious. "It is like him. Love his passion." He side-eyed me. "How did you do that?"


    I looked down at my hands. "Which button is pass again?"


    Sumo bit his lip and gave me what for him was a stern look. "It''s going to be like that, is it?" I wasn''t really confident enough to get cocky, but I must have smirked to some extent because he said. "Game on!"


    We duked it out for another minute. Sumo quickly got better at the close control and skills but I knew the secret to quick, end-to-end passing moves. When Sumo tried to do the same, more often than not one of my players was in the way.


    One of my slick moves ended with a chipped shot that the goalie tipped over the bar. "Wow," I said. "Nearly doubled my lead. Didn''t I, Sumo? Didn''t I?"


    He grimaced and moved his player towards my corner taker. The game seemed to push him away - you''re not allowed that close! I took the chance to chip the ball up and by pressing fire I got my striker to jump for a header. He missed completely, of course, but the second striker was there. I turned him left and right, passed to the bottom of the screen, and dribbled to the byline. I wanted to score a Chester goal so I pushed the stick up and pressed fire. The ball flew where I wanted it - across the face of goal - but Sumo''s defender was in the way. He pressed fire and his guy slid - and tackled the ball into his own net.


    "Okay, I''m starting to really fucking like this game!" I said, as Ziggy obnoxiously celebrated the own goal just as though he had scored it.


    Sumo hunched over and got super serious. He took his striker on a dribble, but I got Youngster in the way and the game decided I had won the ball. Youngster was dribbling away when Sumo did another sliding tackle that left Youngster in a heap.


    The picture was chilling.


    "What''s his Condition now, I wonder?"


    I couldn''t press the fire button to restart because I was too internal. I''d half-joked with Emma that our flight had been cancelled because the pilot had had a premonition of crashing. She had said that if he had called in sick because of that, she was glad. That''s what she would want. Don''t take risks. Now, here I was, having the same premonitions. Don''t play Youngster against Oldham! It was like this old game was backing me up. The guy Spectrum met in the pub. Was it an imp? Was this one of their insane ways of communicating with me? Was this a warning about Youngster? Or were they just fucking with me?


    I''d taken too long to do anything, so the game took the free kick on its own. If only real life worked like that! But I was still in a daydreaming sort of mood and Sumo got his timing right on the next tackle.


    "Thirty seconds to half time," he said. "Come on! Goal in the dying seconds to change the momentum." He went on a mazy dribble that took most of the thirty seconds. He had a great angle for a shot but he kept dribbling, even going away from goal until he was in front of the penalty spot. He chipped a shot and it bounced in front of my goalie. Easy save, but the idiot jumped up far too early, landed, and the ball hit him in the face or something. It bounced away and just then, the ref ended the half.


    It was interesting that Sumo didn''t feel comfortable shooting from an angle. The view of the pitch made him feel safer shooting right to left in a horizontal line, where it was far easier to judge how high you could lift the ball. But the technique of shooting diagonally from the edge of the box towards the far post was actually exactly the same. I felt sure that if it had been a shooting game, he would have been far less conservative in his approach but because it was football, he tensed up. Or because he was playing his idol. I felt I was approaching some kind of wisdom, but he interrupted me.


    "What are you thinking?" he said.


    "Just, yeah. It''s interesting to play a game neither of us have played before. That''s fun. The game doesn''t take itself too seriously. I like it more than Fifa, to be honest." I looked at the camera. "Good choice, Spectrum and your pub friend!"


    "How are you doing the passes?"


    I smiled. "I''ll tell you at full time, if that''s all right. I want to beat you."


    "Do you want to get right into the second half? We''ve got lots of Chester fans in the chat and they''ve got questions. I mean, if that''s all right."


    "Course it is. But I can''t play and talk like you do. Let''s do a couple of questions now and a couple after I''ve thrashed you."


    Sumo''s eyelids narrowed a fraction but he was a bad actor - he was having fun. "Okay. First question. Could we?"


    The chat went wild with people shouting the question in all caps and saying lol and posting strings of emojis and gifs. There was one gif of me dribbling past a defender with loads of Manga-style effects added, followed by a close-up of me looking heroic. At the bottom came the text: COULD BOI.


    I sighed and leaned back. I put the joystick down and dug my thumbs into the edges of my eye sockets. Magnus had told me there were chi points there and a quick massage would release tension. "It''s been a strange week, Sumo. Strange season. Normally I just power through and get to the next game, the next game, but now I''m... It''s weird. I''m stuck. Am I stuck? If we win our two games in hand, we go top. So that''s easy, right? We''re winning. But we''ve got to play Oldham and Gateshead and they''re as good as Aldershot. If we draw those, normally that''s a good result. But if we draw against them now it''s like we''ve choked. We got to the top and choked right away. That''s what it''ll look like."


    "But it''s not that?"


    I scoffed. "No. We''re, like, the seventh best team in the league, on paper, and even that''s a miracle. We''re one of three teams in the division that doesn''t lose money." I turned towards him while keeping the seat facing the camera, like passing in a different direction to the way your sprite is facing. "The average National League club loses seven hundred thousand pounds a year. Did you know that? That''s enough to sign seven free agents or loanees as good as Christian Fierce. Every team in the top eight has a squad as good as ours plus seven stars. We''ve been over-performing, big time. So no, it''s not a choke if we don''t win the title from here. But... it would feel like it. And we set ourselves up for it by going on and on about Devon Loch."


    "But you''re playing so well. Everyone loves it. People are raving about the team!"


    I nodded, then did a disbelieving little laugh. "That makes it harder. When we were getting pelters every week it was easy to hunker down and scrap and fight. Now we''re getting praise and it''s like oh! We have to maintain this level." I sighed. "We can''t maintain the level of Grimsby. Not every week. I can''t drop bangers twice a week, guys."


    "No-one''s asking you to. You''re putting too much pressure on yourself."


    I leaned back and tried the eye massage thing again. "I want to. I should be able to. If I can''t then I''m a fraud."


    Sumo highlighted and read out a message from the chat.


    HAMBO


    What you''re feeling is the difference between being the incumbent and being the insurgent. You''ve got a scrappy squad of up-and-comers. You''re not in the mental space to take on the mantle of front-runners. Before, you had nothing to lose. Now your loss aversion is kicking in. I can imagine it''s quite a sudden shift after so many months of playing catch-up. It happens a lot in sports. It''s not choking. It''s taking a breath.


    Sumo was nodding along the whole time. "Hambo''s wise. Max, how have we done that? Got to this position?"


    I read Hambo''s message a couple of times, then turned to Sumo. "We''ve spent our budget very efficiently. We''ve improved our players a lot through coaching. That''s most of it, but we''re tactically flexible. We can adapt to situations like if we need speed we''ve got some speed. The squad isn''t perfect but I can fill some of the holes myself sometimes. And, okay, there are disadvantages to being a player-manager - it''s bloody tiring for one - but I can react to tactical tweaks instantly while my rivals have to work out what''s changed, work out what to do, and communicate that to their players.


    "And we try to rotate the squad. We don''t get as many serious injuries, touch wood. The Brig''s got us fit, Vimsy''s got us defensively sound, and Sandra and the others have been getting our technique up. You saw it against Aldershot. They''ve got a nice pitch and we were able to knock it around for minutes at a time. It''s demoralising to play against. It''s why I won''t play you at Fifa or Beefer - every little mistake I make ends up with you scoring. We''re not as good as you but we do make teams work hard to keep us at bay.


    "We''ve had luck, too. Players have stepped up at the right time. Wibbers against Wealdstone. Aff against Aldershot. Sometimes you make your own luck, though. Aff has been working hard on his finishing and we''re getting more goals out of him lately."


    "Max, it''s all going great. Everyone''s buzzing. Absolutely buzzing. What are you worried about?"


    "I don''t know, loads of things. When I think one thing, I instantly think the exact opposite and they''re both true. It''s hard to put it into words. You guys, the fans, you''re loving all this could we stuff. And honestly the players love it, too. But I think we thought it was a laugh, some banter. But now it''s serious and we have to all sort of..." I eyed the camera.


    "Sort of what?"


    "Like maybe at some point we have to accept that no, we couldn''t. We might overtake one serious, well-financed football club, but not two. I''m sure we''ll finish top three but if we aren''t going to win, why are we burning our energy?" I pulled at my lip. "I don''t think I have the balance right. It was right, I think, to go hard at Grimsby to get us into this position. If there''s any chance we could win the league we have to try, but not at the cost of exhausting ourselves. We might find that we fall just short and then we''ve got two more games to play but everyone''s wrecked! Do you know what I mean? I can''t, ah, calibrate. The whiplash is deafening."


    "But we''ve been winning and winning. Why would that stop?"


    "It won''t. But we''re not going to win every game. No chance."


    Sumo glanced at the screen. "Not with that attitude, says the chat. I mean. We could, though. We could win every game."


    I did a sad little smile. I couldn''t reply to that. Saying yes would raise expectations to stupid levels. Saying no might demoralise people. "I think we will win five but I don''t think that will be enough for the title. So what do we do against Oldham? If we put out our absolute best team and we win, great! But then we need to use the same team against Hartlepool and against Rochdale. That''s three epic games in seven days. That''s how you get injuries. That''s how you blow yourself up. So we put in some younger guys against Oldham and if we don''t win it''s all hey they''re choking! These kids can''t hack it!


    "You know those racing games where you have to drive over a star on the floor and it makes you go faster? And to get the best speeds you need to pretty much hit all of them? I hate those, by the way. But that''s what we''ve been doing recently. We''ve been hitting every power-up but Aldershot showed what our level really is and what to expect at Oldham." I rubbed my cheek and twisted my neck. "For the first time, I feel like there isn''t a good option. I''m confident-ish about going up through the playoffs. More so if we heavily rotate and do the bare minimum to keep in the top three. Right? Barnet and Grimsby are going to hammer each other for the next four weeks and one''s going to come second and they''ll be battered and bruised and they''ll either lose in the semi-final or face us, fresh and frisky, at Wembley. But it''s a one-off game and anything can happen. Two injuries and an early red card and that''s our season over. Most playoff scenarios are nightmare fuel.


    "And the league is right there! It''s right there! We''ve given ourselves a great shot. We literally have it in our hands."


    "All we have to do is win seven games in a row and finish the season on a sixteen-game unbeaten streak."


    "Yeah," I laughed. "See? It''s mental. It can''t happen. Look, we played Gateshead and got our arses handed to us. We''re better now, but I don''t look at that and think oh there''s an easy three points. I look at it and think, oh fuck."


    "Sorry, Max, I know it''s a hard job but it''s first-world problems, isn''t it? We were garbage when you took over and now we''re challenging for the National League. You scored the best goal I''ve ever seen and one of our players was at the African Cup of Nations! The city''s got Christian Fierce posters everywhere and if you wear a Chester shirt people stop you and have a chat. It''s never been like this. I could stand another year of it!"


    I gave him a thin smile. Should I tell him that I probably wouldn''t stick around for another year of tier 5? What would I do? I decided I could probably talk about this without causing a panic. "If we don''t get promoted this year, we probably will next. Okay, that''s true. But I would go back to being Director of Football. I would do the summer squad building, leave Sandra in charge, and go and do something, somewhere."


    "Where?"


    I shrugged. "I''m going to Brazil this summer. Maybe I''ll like it and end up working in a DVD shop recommending movies to people. Or maybe I''d want to play abroad. Osasuna. Hearts. Hajduk Split. FC Lucerne."


    "So random. Why those clubs? Why not ones I''ve heard of?"


    "You''ve heard of Hearts."


    "Scotland''s not abroad, is it?"


    "Thing is, Sumo," I said, leaning forward and looking down. "If we fall short of the title by a little bit, that''s gonna bug me forever. I mean, there were so many incidents, so many decisions I made that I could have done differently. If we''d signed Christian Fierce on day one. If I''d taken two fewer Exit Trials kids and got one more grizzled veteran. It''s almost, like, if we finish ten points behind Grimsby, the season makes sense. Right? But if we finish two points behind, it''s sort of a disaster."


    Sumo gave me a thoughtful look, then his face cracked open. "You''re a very strange person! It''s your girlfriend I feel sorry for!"


    I tutted and leaned back. "I''m not strange. I''m a vanilla normo in a strange sauce. If I''ve marinated some strangeness into me, it''s nothing that won''t wash off. In League Two."


    "Right, well. It would be nice to get another trophy but no-one thought we were going to win the league, Max. You''re overthinking this one. It''s enough that we have a chance! And we''re not the seventh best team. Chat says imposter syndrome and I agree! The league table doesn''t lie. We''re one of the three best teams. Okay one more question before the second half. Is it true you did a team talk about sea rocks?"


    "Yes, it is."


    "Oh, no explanation coming. Okay. Ready for the second half?"


    I stared. The soft rock metaphor wasn''t played out at all! The National League was my Cambrian era. Long-term thinking had clashed with short-termism and my little patch of ocean had become turbulent. I felt the currents settling as I approached a decision. Stick to the plan. The plan was mint. Take care of my players and they''ll take care of me. "The creatures of the Cambrian period tried on every possible anatomical costume," I said, which caused a sensation in the chat. I had to keep evolving, had to keep adding new weapons to my arsenal. If we got promoted my base rate for managing league games would rise from 6 XP a minute to 8. Over the course of the season, I would get an extra eight thousand XP.


    Was I trying to talk myself into spending eight thousand XP? I think I was.


    I shook my head at my weak little lizard brain. Spend! Hoard! Build nest!


    What should I spend my XP on? What would be useful in the final stretch of the season? Attributes? Maybe the player stats? Form?


    "Max, you ready?"


    "I wasn''t born ready, but I bought the readiness upgrade." I lifted my joystick. "And the plus ten Stick of Slapping!"


    Sumo said, "I''m using an Xbox controller with Great Wave skin," which was even more confusing than what I''d said. "Premium vinyl, easy-glide application, water-resistant, scratch-proof, and very, very classy." I gave him a questioning glance. "Links in the description," he added. "Free shipping on orders over thirty dollars."


    "What are you doing?"


    "I''m at work."


    I chuckled. He had loads of top gear and he played games all day. "It''s a sweet gig, isn''t it? Dream job."


    He eyed me. "I can think of one better."


    ***


    As the players came out for the second half, I looked down at my joystick. It didn''t have a cool Great Wave skin but it was perfect for playing this particular game. One button. One button only. The right tool for the job. I had the tools for the National League, didn''t I?


    I was quiet for the start of the second half, going through the motions of chasing the ball around the screen while Sumo unleashed his inner Boggy, calling every incident as if it was life or death. Suddenly I realised one of Sumo''s players was through on goal and I snapped out of it.


    "Shit!" I said, dropping my joystick into my lap and watching through my fingers.


    "Here comes the pain train!" said Sumo. "Cheat is clean through! Nothing can stop him now!" I watched, unable to do anything, as Wrexham''s player lined up a shot, the goal at his mercy... He backheeled it. Away from goal! Away from danger! "No!" cried Sumo. "What are you doing?"


    I had a fit. All the stress and worry fell off me as I fell off my chair. I turned red and wheezed as I fumbled to get the joystick the right way round.


    "It''s not funny!" lied Sumo. "He... heh heh, why did he do that? Comment from the chat. What were you trying to do? I was trying to launch it into the roof of the net. Really stick it to the goalie!"


    I laughed harder, trying to get back on the chair while guiding my players.


    Sumo picked up Spectrum''s notes. "It doesn''t say how to backheel. It doesn''t say backheels are possible. Why does a game with eight sprites have bloody backheels?"


    I made it back up onto my chair, still wiping tears away. "Ahhh," I said, cathartically. "That is the best thing that has ever happened. Oh, my God, I needed that. Ahhh."


    "Message from do_what_thou_wilt_666. To backheel you move the joystick back and then forwards with fire held down. No! That''s how you do chips. Message from Hypecarrot. Maybe Grimsby and Barnet will implode like Sumo just did. I see that Hypecarrot hasn''t followed Chester for two decades or he''d know better than to hope for such miracles."


    I took the throw in. "Josh Throw-Ins," I said. Why did we like sports? Expertise, athleticism, moments of surprise. Well, there was a moment of surprise for the ages. I got chatty. "Chucks it down the line. Ryan Jack with the big diag. How does he know where Pascal is going to be? No-one knows!" Sumo scowled at me. I laughed. "Bochum to Lyons. Lyons to Best! Best is much faster than everyone else! Look at him go! Look at the haircut on that sprite! Best lines up a shot..."


    I froze. While I hesitated, Sumo tackled the ball out for a throw-in.


    "Sumo," I said.


    "Yes?"


    "We can do backheels in this game."


    "Apparently so."


    I smiled at him. "I like scoring backheels."


    "No!" he said. "No, Max!"


    "You play all the route one football you want, mate. You do your dinosaur shit. I''m going to pass you to death and I''m going to score a backheel goal. That''s Chesterness." I sat up straight and looked at the screen with twinkly-eyed determination.


    "But Max!" he whined. "How are you doing the passes? You''re passing to players who aren''t even visible."


    I side-eyed him. I wanted to win, but if I could get him to stop hoofing the ball downfield, that would be a victory for the viewers. A victory for football. "Both teams are playing 3-4-3," I said. "Because of the sprites thing."


    "But how are you doing the passes to players you can''t see?"


    I shook my head. "You can see them. They''re there, just off the screen. You can even move them. I run my active player off the screen and it changes to the one nearest the ball. That''s how I''m intercepting your aimless punts." Sumo got quiet for a moment as he tried to work out if I was taking the piss or not. The chat was whizzing by too fast for me to read, but I thought I should do some yapping to keep things interesting. "I don''t think any team in England was playing 3-4-3 in 1988, not even by accident. This game was ahead of its time." I twinkled at the camera. "3-4-3. I think the universe is trying to tell me something. I think Spectrum''s pub friend is trying to tell me something." I put the joystick on the desk in front of me. "Listen, Sumo. I think I need to go."


    "What, now?"


    "Yeah. I think I want to use 3-4-3 this weekend. Against Aldershot we had Ziggy on his own in the box for most of the match. Seeing these guys here, with three strikers in the penalty area, it''s, like, it''s what I want. Not all the time, that would be crazy. But seeing it here..." I laughed. "This old game is the best showing of 3-4-3 I''ve ever seen. I want it. We''re Chester. We have to be brave. We have to be fearless. We have to attack until we drop!" I''d worked myself up. "But, er, I have to go and study."


    Sumo looked from me to the chat to his hands. He mumbled something that sounded like, "I can show you."


    "What?"


    "I can show you. On Fifa. It''s one of the best formations, all the top players have it in their locker. Anyone in the chat could write a compelling thousand-word essay about its pros and cons."


    I scratched my temple and kind of scowled. "Hold up. You''re suggesting I, a professional football manager, should learn a new tactic live on TV, by playing a video game?"


    "Dumb idea. Sorry, Max."


    But the scowl was not aimed at him. It was a self-scowl. The chat was right. Life was easy when you had nothing to lose. When stumbles were not in the spotlight. Had Devon Loch flopped at the back of the field, no-one would even have noticed. It was only because he was at the front that anyone cared. Chester were in pole position now. People were watching.


    I felt my cheeks starting to get hot. The gaze of the world would fall on us just as we fell on our arses. They would find the recording of this stream and they would laugh at me. It would be merciless.


    Okay. And?


    So what if we tripped? So what if we stumbled? So what if we got mocked on the Wrexham forums? I''d never been afraid of embarrassment before. Now was a fucking bad time to start.


    I looked around Sumo¡¯s bedroom. There were photos of me and my team, a framed shirt signed by the entire squad. But there was older stuff, too. Scarves from the days when Chester FC were garbage, from when they played dogshit football from a bygone age. Sumo was still a fan. He was locked in for life, through the good times and the bad. That was the pressure - giving him what he deserved for his unstinting support.


    There was only one way to finish this season - my way. Carl would get a rest. Youngster would have one more weekend with his family. I would use my reserves and try a new system I''d never tried before and if it blew up in my face, so be it. This was National League football and you never knew when your rivals might miss an open goal. Stay positive, stay hungry, stick to the plan, the plan is mint.


    "Sumo, here''s what I''m thinking. We''ll load up Fifa. You''ll be the player and I''ll be your manager."


    "You''ll be my manager?" he said, his voice weird.


    "You and the chat will rate my performance. Tell me how I''m using the system wrong." I laughed. "It''ll be a coaching masterclass! Teach me, senpai!"


    ¡°Yes! Yes, yes, yes!¡± Sumo''s knee was jiggling up and down, but it stopped abruptly. "Can we finish this match, though? Viewers hate it when a feed cuts out halfway through the second half and they don''t know who won. They''d kill me if I stopped on purpose."


    "Absolutely, mate. Absolutely. I''ve got all the time in my world; it''s my day off."

 10.12 - The Thrill of the Chase

    12.


    Saturday, March 29


    It was lunchtime on a sunny day and I was being whisked down the motorway in a white convertible by a sensationally hot blonde. Just the dreamiest, most perfect way to go to Saint-Tropez. Sadly, we weren''t going to the French Riviera, but to Oldham.


    Brooke had bought or was renting a BMW 4 Series 420i M Sport, which is yet another product name that sounds more like a Wifi password.


    "This should be called the BMW Huntsman, or something like that," I said, as I flicked through the manual I''d found while nosily rummaging in the glove compartment.


    "Named after the spider?"


    "What?"


    Brooke inhaled. "So we''re allowed to talk now, are we?"


    "Yes. We''re on the motorway. We stay in this lane for ages. I trust you here."


    "But not in the city."


    "That''s right. You need to concentrate."


    She made a noise. "I can talk and navigate the treacherous outskirts of Chester."


    "Everyone says that. Science says otherwise."


    Brooke decided not to press the issue. "BMW Fox."


    "Huh. You''d rather be the fox than the huntsman?"


    "I would never buy a car called Huntsman. That''s not how I ride. Okay, tell me again who we''re going to meet."


    "We''re going to Oldham Athletic. They are the only club ever to go from the Premier League to non-league. Teams did it before, of course, but it wasn''t called the Premier League then. It''s much harder to fail so badly these days. You get parachute payments when you drop down, so you''ve got tons more money than the teams in the lower leagues. Sunderland went from the Prem to the Championship to League One but even they couldn''t fail any further down."


    "How did Oldham do it?"


    "They were in the first year of the Prem and at that time it was a pretty normal league. The progress to being the richest league in world football took years. So Oldham went down before it was awash with cash. At some point they got an owner who was an agent and that was catastrophic. That''s why I got a bad reception when I went there the first time."


    "Bad reception?"


    "Yeah. I was put in a room with some gammons. They heard I was an agent and they all turned purple. The waitress was pretty rude, too. This is the stupidity that''s ingrained in football that gives us potential advantages if we can weed it out at our club. Even if you don''t like agents you need to have good relationships with them, make them feel welcome. If they have a choice of clubs to send their players to, soft factors could make the difference. That''s why I want you to meet Bill Brown. He''s Oldham''s hospitality chief. He''s a lovely guy, made me feel super, super welcome. I think even with the gammon attack, my overall experience of Oldham was positive because of Bill. And because of the pies."


    "So am I to learn what to do or what not to do?"


    "Both. Worst case scenario, we''ll get some ideas, won''t we? There are different levels of hospitality experience for different sets of fans. When we rebuild the stadium we''re going to have to put loads of corporate boxes in for when we host top-level matches. It''s like, you''ve got to have X number of boxes for the bigwigs. Okay, so maybe we host one such game every now and then. What about the rest of the year? What do we do with the boxes? I was thinking one could be a cr¨¨che."


    "Cr¨¨che?"


    "What do you call it? Baby place. Place with babies. Put your babies in there and go shopping."


    "Oh!"


    "Little bonus for the players, innit? And sponsors can have boxes, obviously, but if we have 20 sky boxes and 6 big suites we''re going to need to fill them with normos. Oldham are ahead of us in those terms so let''s learn what we can from them. Hospitality for normal fans. A little slice of the VIP lifestyle. Forty-pounds for nicer seats, a half-time pie, and a few anecdotes from a former player like we do in the Legends Lounge. It''s not rocket science but we can start thinking about it. And, er..."


    "What?"


    "When we start rebuilding the stadium we''re going to expand fast. We''ll go from selling fifty special meals to five hundred. Two boxes to thirty. We''ll have disabled access, sensory rooms, all that good stuff. We''ll need staff who are as comfortable joking with gammons as they are dealing with floating megabrains. Someone who isn''t going to start a fight with a guy with MS because he''s bringing crutches into the stadium. Someone who can defuse tension and bring people together."


    "Why do I feel like you''re trying to describe yourself?"


    I tipped my head back and laughed. "No way. I know that''s not me. No, I was thinking maybe we can poach Bill."


    "Oh, I see."


    "It''s just an idea. Your input is worth more than mine on that one. It''s possible I overindex my own experiences. But he''s someone who was nice to me when I was just starting and didn''t have a clue what I was doing - I mean, he must have smelled how green I was from a mile away - and he navigated the tension between me and the gammons beautifully. It just seems like, yeah, there''s an amazing option, ready made, let''s put him right at the top of our list. He''s an Oldham fan and it might not be easy to persuade him to move. I''d like to create jobs for local people but we need professionals if we''re gonna make the transition from tiny fan-owned club to ginormous fan-owned financial juggernaut. Talking of juggernauts, do you see that truck in front of us? The one that seems to be approaching like a cliff edge?"


    Brooke sighed and took her foot off the accelerator until the distance between the vehicles was safe. "Happy, now?"


    "Yes, actually. Life''s good. West Didsbury are up and look like going through the season unbeaten. Saltney are pulling clear of their league and it would be more shocking than Devon Loch if they didn''t win. Chester Women need three wins from four; they''ll win all their matches. It''s done. They did it. The documentary will have a happy ending. Our kids are doing well and none got poached. My friend is buying a club in Gibraltar, which is good for me personally and for some Chester players who can''t come with us on our journey."


    There was a gap in the traffic and Brooke accelerated. We overtook the lorry and eased back into the slow lane. It was very smooth, very decisive, very controlled. "How do you make decisions about player journeys?"


    "You can see when someone stops improving. That''s the time to sell."


    "It could be a plateau. Not all progress is linear."


    "Sure. Maybe I''ll get some wrong. But the basic principle of this project is to increase the three standard income streams of a football club - gate money, that''s ticket sales, you''ve heard that phrase, right? Gate money; commercial; broadcast - all clubs have that income. Bigger stadium and more hospitality packages leads to more gate money. Success on the pitch leads to greater sponsorship income and merch sales. Getting to a higher division gets you more broadcast revenue. But we''ve got a fourth and fifth stream. The fourth is player sales. The fifth is investment income. Pitch rentals. A hotel near the stadium. Buying flats to rent to our players. Anything where we can invest and get a return. The more I think about it, the more I think that''s where the big wins are gonna be, and I have to do that stuff anyway because it''s the only way to make sure MD increases my budget. He''s not as ambitious as me and that''s fine if I plan around it. Could even prove to be better, long-term. Certainly better for Chester. Okay but most of the injections of cash will be from player sales. We''ve had a concrete offer for Aff and Carl and it''ll be a wrench to see them go - and to play against them next season - but it''s good for us, for them, and it''s not inherently bad to refresh the squad. Alex Ferguson used to have a sense of when things were getting stale or when a young player was ready to kick a star out of the team and he was pretty ruthless about it."


    "I like those boys."


    "Me, too. Carl still has some growth left in him but if we wait another season will we get a lot more money for him? I doubt it. I''m still learning the market but I think the optimal time to sell is just before players hit their limits. In an ideal world, this summer I would sell those two, Ben Cavanagh, James Wise, and Steve Alton. In one of the next two windows it''ll be Eddie Moore. It''s fine if some stay as backups but we need to sell one or two guys every window and we need to have the next guys more or less ready to step into the team. That''s going to be bumpy at times but I think I can do it. We have plenty of players who can cope with League Two, many who can do League One, a few who can come all the way to the Championship."


    "Where does Zach fit?"


    I gave her a sharp look. "Top end of the Championship. Playoff team." I continued to stare until I thought I saw a very slight reddening of a microscopic area of her cheeks. Surely not? I got slightly bombastic. "Yeah, I can''t wait to flog him to some Championship chumps. Get a good few million for that lad, we will. I''ve got it all planned. December 2026 I aim all my free kicks and corners at him. He scores five goals in seven games just as the transfer window opens. We''ll do a photoshoot for him to promote yoghurts or something and we''ll hire a make-up artist to make his eyes seem a more natural distance apart. We''ll attach electrodes that zap every time he says y''all. Yeah, I''ll do a whole My Fair Lady scam on him and clubs will be at the door thrusting cash at me and I''ll be like ''oh sorry to see him go he''s mint but I suppose we could accept two million quid'' and as soon as I hang up I''ll call the builder and scream ''get me a hydrotherapy pool, stat!''"


    Brooke was leaning forward a smidge. "I know you like him."


    "He''s just a player. He''s a commodity. He''s a good to be traded."


    "Max."


    "What''s going on? Why are we talking about the Zachass?"


    Brooke winced. She tapped the steering wheel a few times while she considered her next words. "Okay, we''re really doing this. Come on, Brooke." She sat up straighter and coughed. "I, er, asked him out."


    I tapped the dashboard and the door around my knees. "This car has airbags, right? Crumple zones?"


    She tutted, sighed, and let out one laugh. "What are you doing?"


    I waved my hands around. "It''s the end times! It''s a sign of the apocalypse! The Zachass. Remember? He broke my arm and you called him the Zachass. It''s wild that I need to remind you of how you feel about him."


    "That was unlucky and it was just a smudge on an X-ray, you said it yourself, and frankly it was your fault for spacing out on a football pitch."


    I recoiled. "Is that what he told you?"


    "No," she said, with heat. "No," she repeated, normal. "But since then when you''re near a goal celebration he checks you''re safe before joining the others. And since I gave him an earful after he messed up my photoshoot he has been unfailingly polite and kept his distance. He tries so hard to..." She swallowed, did a little cough, and did another single laugh. "Oh, boy."


    I shook my head. Brooke and Zach? The idea was surreal, but in the end it wasn''t really my business. Brooke needed to tell me they were dating, and that was the end of my involvement. "Right, well, no problem. I, er..." I had been about to say I thought it was a mismatch but first of all, why would I say that out loud? And second, Zach was young, fit, soon to be successful in his field, and most of all had an absolutely five-star father. There was more than enough there to interest any woman, but especially someone whose family life was lacking. "You''ll have to fill in a form. I''d email it to you right now but I have to write it first. This one''s going to be bespoke." I chuckled. "It''s good you can see past his physical flaws. Inspiring, really."


    She smiled and once again zoomed past a lorry. "He turned me down."


    "No!" I slapped myself in the face a few times. "No! Wake up, Max! It''s a dream sequence, Max! Wake up from the simulation! Leave the Matrix! The dream is collapsing!"


    "I read about a big renovation at the Natural History Museum. Since we went, they added a garden that''s also a display. They''ve got rocks you walk past that show the history of our geology. Every metre is five million years. Zach would love it." She cleared her throat again. "I said we''d had a blast last time and wouldn''t it be swell to go and see this new space? And he was, ah, he was unfailingly polite." She laughed and tapped the steering wheel some more. "I thought I should let you know in case he behaves oddly."


    I turned again; she was making no sense. "Why would he? Why do I need to know any of this? Nothing happened. There''s nothing between you."


    "There''s gonna be."


    I laughed. "Does he get a say?"


    "He gets to say ''yes, Brooke''. I''m letting you know that I''ll be pursuing him hard."


    "BMW Huntsman." She narrowed her eyes - an admission that I had won the conversation - and her lips tensed in an attempt not to smile. It was clear to me that if she ever got Zach alone in, for example, a ski lodge, things would get all kinds of torrid. The poor guy would barely make it out alive. I said, "Could you at least wait until after the season?"


    "No."


    "Fine." I leaned back against the headrest. "You don''t seem to be very good at flirting. Would you like some tips?" A smile burst out, but she didn''t say anything. "I use a method I call intermittent reward. I''ve often thought about writing a monograph on the subject." She wasn''t biting. "This conversation was confounding. Can we get back to the real world? Where''s Chip at?"


    "Dallas says takeover talk has fizzled out. Nothing doing, as far as she can tell. Chip has been in his office a lot."


    "Any strange happenings around Biccy?"


    "No," said Brooke. "Actually, one thing."


    I sat up straight, alert. "What?"


    "The other day, I called him Biccy."


    I relaxed back into my chair. "I''m the best at naming things. Just go with it."


    "No. He''s Biscotti. I''ve been careful, though. I spend more time with other horses. Never mention Biccy on my socials, never talk about him with strangers."


    I looked into the wing mirror to my left. Were we being followed? It wasn''t completely stupid to think we were. "I''m sorry I even put the thought into your head."


    "I''m not. You were right. I''m grateful."


    "Er, quick business things. Where are we with Grindhog?" Grindhog were a sportswear supplier Brooke wanted us to get into bed with. It was fast-growing and had good marketing. The founder was a former Tranmere player but I wasn''t feeling any love from the company. The owner talked a good game on podcasts but under the surface it looked like another soulless corporation to me. I preferred a cheap-and-cheerful option from a factory based in Manchester. After all, my requirements were pretty simplistic. I wanted the kits the players wore to look good, I wanted our fans to be able to buy them - including the women''s goalkeeper shirt - and I wanted the clobber to be affordable and decent quality. Brooke wanted to ''leverage'' Grindhog''s sophisticated data mining expertise that led to fans buying more merch. I didn''t give much of a shit about the potential profits - WibRob''s left toe would bring as much money to the club as a billion replica kits, but I had to consider all avenues when it came to getting more income.


    "An account manager will come to one of our home games before the end of the season. It would be tight but they promise us the new kits would be ready for the start of next season."


    "Account manager?" I said. "Forget it."


    "Why?" she said, with some heat. She had put a lot of work into setting this up.


    "Because we''re not some non-league no-marks. We''re fucking Chester! We''re the story of the century and some account manager is going to say ''I need to talk to my boss'' every eight seconds because if we have a meeting with Grindhog, Nike, or Adidas I will have demands. I will want a kind of deal these companies have never seen before, something unlike anything that any other club in the world wants and unlike what any sportswear company would be willing to do. I would want to put the fans first and the money second and that means a lot of b-boys have to dance to my tune and that means I don''t want to talk to an account manager. If Grindhog want to get in on the ground floor with us, they need to chase us like we''re a beautiful Texan defender."


    There was definitely some red on the cheeks. "What is it specifically you want from such a deal?"


    "I can''t think about it today. Today isn''t kit day. Today is use 3-4-3 to get a result at Oldham day. One more b-question. If I sell Aff and Carl I will get something like 150k. Bradford City said they would pay up front, which MD thought was very strange but very welcome. We think it must be some kind of amortisation thing. Some accounting trick because normally you pay transfer fees in instalments. 150, though. If you can still get grants, that could buy us another 3G pitch."


    "At Bumpers Bank?"


    "I was thinking at one of the other sites you''ve been looking at. Eventually we''ll have several 3G pitches at Bumpers but the second would cannibalise the rental income of the first, wouldn''t it? And I''ve got a new one coming at Saltney, just down the road. So let''s go further afield to really maximise the revenue. If we can get the grants, Aff and Carl could generate a hundred grand a year."


    "We might not be able to get all the same grants, but I''ll do some research. The council were enthusiastic about Ryan''s idea to do something in Hoole so I''d expect it would be a smooth process. Won''t you need the money to replace the players?"


    "No. There are loads of free agents. Right backs are ten a penny. Left mids are harder, sure, but there will be options. If we''re in League Two, it''s easy."


    "And if we don''t go up?"


    "We''re going up."


    ***


    Bill Brown, the former actor, was in sparkling form. He showed us around for a while and asked if it was true that I sometimes went walkies after handing in my team sheet. I said it was true. He said he had a great idea to show us the hospitality experience, if perhaps I slipped away out of the dressing room half an hour before kick off.


    I said I was in his hands. Bill also said that if Brooke so desired he would let her see some numbers - profit per customer, break even points, catering rates, all kinds of things.


    "Why would you do that?" I asked. He was going to share confidential information.


    He looked around, checking for gammons. "I''ve been following your career since you popped up in Darlington. I hope we beat you today and again in the playoffs but I''ve seen what you''ve done. The deaf girl, the dentists, the loneliness project, the boys from the Exit Trials."


    Oh! What''s the opposite of my actions biting me on the arse? I gripped Brooke by the shoulder and shook her for a couple of seconds. "We also took a... let''s say ''differently-abled'' boy down to London to look at some dinosaurs. Didn''t we, Brooke?" She scrunched her face up. "Brooke doesn''t like to talk about our extensive charity work. I just... When I think about boys like that I get all hot. Just sort of fiery and passionate and I want to scoop them all up and carry them home and take care of them, do you know what I mean?"


    "You''ve got a good heart," said Bill.


    "Brooke''s always saying I''ve got a good heart. Aren''t you, Brooke?" Not at that moment she wasn''t, no. I thrust my head a few inches forward. "Do you need a drink? Are you thirsty?"


    "Pardon me?"


    "Are you thirsty?" I repeated.


    She went through a range of expressions - amused, annoyed, regretful - before getting some measure of composure. "I''m fine. I might fix myself a green smoothie later." She checked her watch. "Don''t be late, Max. We''re all counting on you."


    ***


    I went down to the dressing room, did a quick team talk, warmed up with the lads, changed into trainers and a big training jacket, and went to find Bill and Brooke.


    He told us to follow him. "Here''s my idea. We''ll go outside and I''ll take you on the same journey our hospitality guests go through. Don''t worry, it won''t take more than ten minutes, but I wanted to do it now while there''s fans and noise and you get a sense of the atmosphere."


    "Ever the actor," I said. "The full theatrical experience. I love it."


    We went through the hospitality entrance and traced the path a real fan would take. Bill pointed out a few small things they had done to make it feel more premium without being stuffy. I knew Brooke would be paying attention so I didn''t get too far into the weeds - I had a match to manage!


    The final stage was a large dining room with eight tables of five people. Forty people, forty quid, sixteen hundred pounds income. Not bad at all. The punters had been given some snacks and would get a full meal at half time. A former Oldham player had a microphone and was telling some old stories from his playing days. I supposed the tales would be from the era when Oldham had a plastic pitch - one of the ones that felt like concrete - and the great cup runs they''d had. Bill was missing a trick - these customers would pay double to hear an insider''s perspective of the dark days when an agent had bought the club and given it to his brother to play with like a toy. Maybe better to keep things light.


    "Bill!" said the player, into the mic, causing everyone to look over at us. "You''ve brought them to the wrong room!" He was being friendly, even if it doesn''t sound like it.


    Bill twinkled back. "Max is an old friend. He wants to know how a real football club does things."


    "Max? That''s... that''s never Max Best?" He walked over to the big glass windows that had a view of the pitch. Some Chester lads were out there, passing a ball around, but none were so handsome as me. "Bloody Nora! I think it is."


    People were taking photos and filming me and whatnot, so I thought I would go to the front and shake hands with the former player. You never knew, he could have been a top coach or his son could have been the next Dixie Dean.


    He seized the chance to elevate the experience by doing a humorous interview. "Max Best! Tell us your plan for today. Spill your secrets!"


    This got hearty laughs, but I simply held my hand out for the mic. The guy hesitated, but decided to go for it. He knew enough about me to guess there could be a cool story out of this. "Thanks, bro. Hello, Oldham. My name is Max Best. We''re enemies today but I''m from Manchester and I always liked Oldham. It''s that bloody Chadderton I can''t stand." This made about five people laugh, which was good going for such a nonsensical comment. "You want to know today''s tactics? Sure, I''ll tell you. Why the devil not? Just don''t tell your manager, okay? Promise?" I was up to seven laughs. "Right. Have we got a tactics board? What, no? What kind of dining room doesn''t have a whiteboard and magnets?"


    "We''ve got white bread and Magners!" cried one of the waiters.


    "Brooke, sign him up!" Everyone was loving this, but they didn''t believe I would really lay out my tactical plan. A couple of people were filming, just in case. "I was playing Fifa against one of those Twitch streamers - er, ask your grandkids - and he taught me all about 3-4-3. We''ve never used it, never practised it, not done so much of a minute''s training with it." I paused. "So it would be pretty stupid to use it for the first time, away, against one of the best teams in the league." My smile got wider when I saw one guy turn to his mate and say ''no way''. "I''m doing 3-4-3 and that''s the truth. If I don''t, I''ll give each of you one billion pounds unless I find out you live in Chaddy.


    "So what do we get with 3-4-3? The first thing you get is a headache when people try to tell you all the fractional, hyper-specific ways you can use it. I prefer to think in broad strokes. Keep things simple. So there are three defenders. They are centre backs. Three big, hurling, brutish men. We give you the chance to get crosses in but we''re going to head those crosses away with our big slab heads.


    "Yeah, we''ve got this one guy. I won''t say his name for privacy reasons but he''s the key to the whole thing. He''s the guy who can play passes to midfield and when he''s not around I find myself all flustered like where is he I need him I miss him. He''s the kind of man who makes you realise that the songs on the radio are about you. It''s like, yes, I am out of my head when you''re not around. You do make me feel brand new. Why does expected threat appear, every time you are near?"


    I bit my lip and tried hard not to look at Brooke. She was standing with one arm on her hip. I had to make sure I didn''t go too far.


    "I pursued him for so long!" I cried. "He ran from me and I chased him - literally. In the end to get what I wanted I had to physically subdue, to dominate. I doused his fire and tamed him. No longer a wild mustang, but a mild-mannered, obedient cog in my machine.


    "So that''s the defence. Midfield we''ve got four guys spread across just like in a 4-4-2. I will start by asking the wide players to tuck in a fraction to make the centre of midfield a quagmire. A swamp.


    "Then up top it''s three strikers. Strikers? Yes, strikers." The curse version of 3-4-3 was completely symmetrical - our three forwards opposite our three centre backs. Sandra would have liked the front three to be spread out, but that''s not what I had. I had the Emlyn Hughes version that loaded the penalty box although if I wanted, I could use WibWob to move one player wider. The next formation was 5-3-2, by the way, and cost 4,532 XP. I couldn''t imagine using five at the back but then again, I hadn''t wanted 3-4-3, either. Until I did. With it and with all the rotation, my team would be a tad under CA 60, excluding me. Oldham were CA 71, down from the 72 the last time we played. "Yeah I''m glad I''m entertaining you now because the match is going to be pretty boring. We''re going to be very, very defensive. We might get lucky and one of these strikers might do something but they''re all babies, really.


    "Ah! The line ups. We''ve got Ben in goal. The back three is Christian, Dreamboat, and club captain Glenn Ryder. We''re resting Carl and Eddie. Then it''s Josh Owens - watch out for long throws into the box! - Ryan Jack, Andrew Harrison, and Max Best. Oh, that''s me! Nothing much to say about that bunch. Pretty workmanlike and uninspiring, but it gives us a chance to rest Magnus and Youngster. Up front it''s Henri Lyons - he''s a good player but I stand by the baby comment - Pascal - too short for this league - and William Roberts. He''s all right, I suppose, but he''s just turned 17. Can''t expect too much from him in a big game like this. He''ll run around a lot, I reckon, but your defenders will gobble him up. Don''t bet on him to score - that would be a real long shot."


    That last comment was met with a baffled silence. But 3-4-3 wasn''t the only upgrade I bought from the perk shop. While watching Sumo play Fifa I decided the best use of my XP, the one that might conceivably have an effect in the rest of the season, was to unlock another attribute. The only question was whether to try to target a specific attribute like Flair by locking down one of the columns. In the end, I decided to let nature take its course - targeting Flair when I was so far from being able to buy Relationism seemed pointless.


    I bought Attributes 7 and lo and behold, it landed in the middle column anyway. That was extremely pleasing, since it would make it easier to get Flair when the time was right, but also because the attribute it unlocked would help me, specifically and tangibly, in the coming games.


    Long Shots!


    There was an option in the in-match controls to encourage or discourage players from taking long shots, and now I didn''t have to go off my gut feeling.


    Youngster was Long Shots 1, a stat that made me yelp when I saw it. I fucking knew it!


    The general level of the squad was low. It was possible I had an unconscious bias against guys taking shots from distance because it was a low-probability move at the best of times. The men''s squad wasn''t completely barren: Henri could have a crack - 12 - Aff was pretty good - 13. In the interests of completion, Chipper was higher than Aff. Sarcastic thumbs-up emoji. On the women''s team, Dani, Kisi, and Angel were decent, but the only one I would want taking regular pops from distance was Charlotte.


    The stand-out, the tastiest treat, the one that nearly made me do a little dance right there on Sumo''s stream, was William B. Roberts. He had Long Shots 16. Ooh, baby! If he kept improving, would he max it out?


    The pre-match team talk I had given downstairs in the away dressing room had been the same as always, but with two differences. One, I told the CBs and CMs that if Oldham''s number 19 got the time and space to hit a long shot I would line them up and punch them in the dick. Two, I told Wibbers to have a crack whenever he wanted.


    Brooke pretended to cough and I snapped back into the moment. For some reason, I had decided to tell a bunch of strangers my plan. "Yeah, so that''s your Chester FC line up today. One untried formation, two team-of-the-season shoo-ins rested, three teenagers in the first eleven. I love that you''re here going above and beyond to support your club and I want to apologise for what you''re about to see. It''s going to be a dour, defensive grind. We''re doing this formation to try to block your passing lanes and make you go more direct, so, yeah, it''s not exactly gonna be France Portugal 1984. It''s gonna be as much fun as a night out in Chaddy. You''ll be back next week, though, won''t you? You''re good fans. Oh when the blues, yeah? Latics for life. Mic drop."


    I grabbed Brooke and took her out of the room while the vibes were still positive. Once we were behind a pair of double doors, I let go. She said, "What have you got against Chadderton?"


    "Nothing. I''ve never been there. It''s just next door to here on the map. Old comedian''s trick."


    "Oh. So it''s going to be a boring match?"


    "Terribly, terribly dull. Sorry."


    ***


    On-the-whistle match report from The Mail Online


    Oldham Athletic 3 Chester 3 - Swashbuckling Best Stumbles and Enthralls


    Author: B. Alban


    Meta tags: non-league; ChesterFC; MaxBest; RyanReynolds


    24-hour page views: 7,563


    A coruscating clash between title favourites Chester and playoff hopefuls Oldham ended with a standing ovation from all four sides of a breathless Boundary Park this evening. Chester''s destiny was taken out of their hands and a point was not much use to the home side, but fans of both clubs were enraptured. This was football as it was meant to be played - whole-hearted, chaotic, and thunderous.


    Like any classic, it was a clash of styles. Oldham played 4-4-2 and attempted to stay disciplined. Their aim was to minimise mistakes and to pounce on those of their opponents. Eking out advantages at the margins. Playing the percentages. As the Chester manager''s friend Donnie Wormwood would call it, Oldham were inside fighters.


    Chester FC had been drifting in that direction in recent weeks, to the disappointment of many, but player-manager Max Best appears to have shaken off the angsts and worries that come with heavy responsibility. On the evidence of this ninety minutes he has rediscovered the swagger that allowed him to swat league leaders Grimsby Town aside with a nonchalant backheel wondergoal. He went with a 3-4-3 formation he - it is possible this was an elaborate prank - learned from watching someone play a video game. At one-nil down he was cocky. At two-one down he danced. At three-two down he mocked the fans who were mocking him. This was a performance of unflinching belief and certainty and if he was faking, I''ll have what he''s having.


    Chester''s team sheet came as a shock. After weeks of the team getting older, Best''s Babes were back - three teenagers in the starting eleven and one on the bench. Another teen, Youngster, perhaps the best player in the division, was rested. Best pushes his players to the limit - except when he doesn''t. Where is Chipper, the on-loan striker scoring a goal a game? Banished, it seems, with no explanation. The kids are back.


    And the kids are all right. The left midfielder, Josh Owens, is known in the north-west as Josh Throw-Ins. In the early minutes, he hurled one into Oldham''s penalty box that caused havoc. He then took every throw-in in Oldham''s half, left or right, and every time Owens had the ball in hand, the Latics brought their entire team back to defend. But that first long throw was the only one. The rest went short, which is as funny to Max Best as Rick and Morty was to my ex-boyfriend. All went short... save one. From the left of midfield, Owens went through the endless rigamarole of drying his hands, drying the ball on one of his custom towels, and threw it all of thirty-five yards - horizontally, which I''ve never seen before - to Max Best, on the far side of the centre circle. Best dribbled forward and let loose a wicked cross that his record signing Christian Fierce nodded wide. Owens struggled at times, but earned a pat on the back and a smile from his manager.


    Another young player, Pascal Bochum, ran riot. His movement was thrilling to behold. He is as fast and agile as a fox and he stupefied Oldham''s defenders. In the post-match interviews, Best noted that the two yellow cards handed out to defenders trying to stop Bochum in the first half were critical in the latter stages of the match.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    But the most eye-catching performance was from William B. Roberts, a prodigious talent who is said to be attracting the attention of Premier League clubs. He showed movement equal to Bochum, strength equal to journeyman French striker Henri Lyons, and the ice-cold ruthlessness in front of goal of Best himself. He scored Chester''s second equaliser with a long-range blast that left Oldham''s goalkeeper with Wile E. Coyote gunpowder smoke all over his face. Best and Roberts joked about the strike afterwards, and for the next ten minutes the football match was put on hold as the pair tried to out-do each other with long range efforts. Oldham''s attempts to block these shots led to Chester''s third goal, the equaliser, as Best and Roberts combined to set up Lyons for his second of the game.


    Oldham were a force. Their attacks were purposeful and they overwhelmed Chester''s experimental defence at times. The home fans raised the roof for their goals, were never outsung, and were generous in their appreciation for their team and their opponents when the final whistle went. The away end was a non-stop party. Their team is unbeaten in eleven, their young players are flourishing, and their manager is a maddening contradiction in egocentricity and altruism.


    An away point is a good point, but with Grimsby Town winning, Chester have stumbled in the title race. They are seven points behind with two games in hand, and time is running out. Grimsby may be out of reach, but Best''s ambition for the season has always been a playoff victory. If Chester versus Oldham is repeated in the National League playoffs, make sure you put the date in your diary. This is the football you long to see: thrill-a-minute fare served up by players chasing their dreams. If the bland monotony of the Premier League is the disease, this National League promotion race is the cure. Do yourself a kindness - tune in.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="66"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>78</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ***


    Monday, March 31


    It was a decent weekend for Chester Football Club. The men''s team got a frankly outrageous draw against a much stronger team, the women''s team beat Tranmere, their last troublesome opponents, and the youth teams had good results. In addition, the Chester Knights got two international call ups. I made sure I was at their Sunday morning match to dish out hugs and selfies.


    We were no longer in pole position for the title. If Grimsby won all their games, that would be that. As I said to the lads in the morning, though, Grimsby were about to have a week off.


    "Okay so we have two hard games in a week and they get to put their feet up. But imagine you''re at home trying to relax and on the second day, your seven-point lead gets cut to four. And on the weekend when you''re supposed to be enjoying a barbecue with your mates, your four-point lead gets cut to one. What do you think, are you having a good time?"


    While I was still pushing for the title as best as I realistically could, we had to be professional and that meant thinking about the playoffs and you can''t think about playoffs without thinking about penalty shoot-outs. Since the squad''s CA growth was absolute dogshit anyway, I''d decided that at least once a week we would cut a session in half and do mock penalty shootouts. No laughs, no jokes, proper shootouts between two teams. I planned to bring a pro referee in to oversee it to make sure it was all kosher, to make it as authentic as possible.


    For this Monday, though, we were doing a simple penalty brackets challenge. I had scrounged up every goalie I could get my hands on, including Trev Northcross from Tranmere and Jay-Mo from the JM Academy (new motto: Keep Clean Sheets and Carry On). We had about twenty fit outfielders and I started by handing out laminated printouts that showed how I wanted the penalty takers to behave. On the flipside was how the non-takers should act. It was a rip-off of how the England national team approached shoot-outs under Gareth Southgate. It was all about the details and making it feel that it wasn''t a lottery but that the team who prepared better would win. Shooters needed to wait for the referee''s whistle and then begin their routine, not rush into the shot. Those on the halfway line needed to keep calm while only one ''buddy'' praised or consoled the guy who had just taken a pen.


    The plan was for the players to read the sheets, absorb the ideas, and we would practise later in the week. For now, we were doing a simple test of the basics. Could you strike a penalty kick or not? We quickly whittled the squad down to 8 guys with good technique, which included me.


    The eight best penalty takers competed in four best-of-five shootouts, with two pairs doing battle simultaneously at either end of a pitch. The rest of the squad was in the centre circle, lined shoulder-to-shoulder as though it was the World Cup final. The idea was to make it seem like every pen mattered.


    Eight became four.


    In the semis, I faced off against Ryan Jack, while Henri did battle with Chipper.


    In my match, I went first. I dribbled the first pen into the corner after sending the goalie the wrong way. Ryan scored. I scored. Ryan scored. This continued until the fifth pen when Sticky showed signs of having worked out my technique. Instead of trying to send him the wrong way, I blasted it high, close to the corner of the post. No-one''s saving that. I regretted it immediately, since goalies don''t like being scored on endlessly.


    Fortunately for me, Sticky saved Ryan''s fifth pen and I was able to run and hug Sticky like he had just won us promotion. He did his gruff Yorkshire ''gedoff'' stuff but I knew he was pleased. We jogged up to halfway to watch the epic battle going on between Henri and Chipper. Wibbers, furious with himself for not getting to the semi-final, told me it was currently six-all and every pen had been amazing.


    Six-all became seven-all became eight-all. I started to stress about what this might do to Ben''s Morale. It was stable so far, but I couldn''t afford my best sticksman to drop Morale for no reason. Henri and Chipper were reliable penalty takers. Point proven.


    While I was fretting, Ben dived the right way and while he didn''t get a hand to Henri''s shot, the dive made Henri go a bit wider with his effort - too wide! Chipper tucked away the winner and there was cheering and applause and a whoop.


    The swirl and sway of the near-thirty people oriented towards one goal, ready for the dramatic shoot-out between Chipper and Max Best. I got my whistle and summoned everyone into a semi-circle.


    "Lads, I''m mostly happy with that for a first go. Some of you got knocked out early because you were clowning around. I''m not interested in comedy when it comes to penalty shoot-outs. If you''re dicking around in these practices you will never, ever take a penalty kick for Chester Football Club. There''s nothing funny about fifty people and fifty volunteers working their arses off for a fucking year to achieve something and it all falls to shit because you wanted to do a panenka for the memes. You want everyone to go oh wow, what a player! Not in the shootout. If you want acclaim, you earn that in the ninety minutes.


    "If you want to take a pen in a shootout, you''d better take these sessions as serious as anything you''ve ever done in your life, and you fucking go left or right and hit with purpose unless I tell you otherwise. When I came to Chester, there was a guy who thought it would be funny to do a panenka in an important match. He missed and guess what? He ain''t here any more. Do you get me? We have the best technique in the division and that means we should be the best at pens. We''ve got two and a half weeks until the Cheshire Cup final. By seven thirty that Tuesday night I want to have the feeling that you understand the process and you understand what''s required of you.


    "We''ll do something on Friday with a proper referee and we''ll be able to press him about what sort of gamesmanship we can and can''t get away with. But basically there''s no need for bullshit. Follow the process, stick your pen away, bosh. Okay? Thanks to all the goalies. Let''s get lunch."


    "Max!" called Glenn, laughing. "Did you forget? It''s the final! You against Chipper!"


    "Yeah, boss," whispered Chipper, somehow being just as loud as Glenn. "It''s the big showdown."


    For a moment I genuinely couldn''t work out what they were talking about. Chipper was so completely off my radar I didn''t even consider the fact that everyone would want the tournament to finish. "There''s no showdown," I said. "Chipper''s an amazing penno taker. We all saw it. Job done. Check complete, good process. The end."


    Thirty people, two deep, discovered, for the first time, the extent of the antipathy between me and Chipper. He took a half-step forward. "It''s demotivating to get to a final only to have it cancelled."


    "Is it? That''s really interesting. I don''t really see why, though. You''re clearly an outstanding penalty taker. It might take twenty goes for me to beat you. 39 pens against some poor bastard. Reckon that''s demotivating for him?" I stepped closer. "Or do you not give a shit about anyone except yourself?"


    He took a step. "You talk big, but when the stakes get raised you shy away. Let''s make it interesting. Let''s put two grand on the final."


    "What final?"


    "The shoot-out!" he cried.


    I gave him a pitying look. "Didn''t you hear me? The session is over. It''s lunch."


    He said something strange, then. He said, "Are you gonna bottle this?" Except the very fact that he even replied turned my piss, instantly, to vapour, so all I heard was ''are you gonna bottle this?'' but from context and the reactions of those around, I''m pretty sure he said something along the lines of ''are you gonna bottle this like you did the league?''


    Incredibly, unfathomably, I had juuuuust enough composure not to erupt. But the prick was undermining me in front of everyone, just as I''d feared. I needed to assert my authority but I didn''t need to say what I thought about him. In a cold, distant voice, I said, "Thing is, mate, I don''t need to test how you react to pressure for the simple reason that you won''t be featuring in the playoffs. You won''t be taking any penalties for Chester Football Club, ever.


    "You''ve got your opinions about me and you''re entitled to them but they''re the kinds of things I''d normally read on a Wrexham fans forum, not hear from one of my players." Someone - Sandra, the Brig, Vimsy - was trying to talk to me. I held up a hand and eyed Chipper. "Hang on. Let me make sure I don''t bottle this. Ah... yeah. Clear out your locker. Don''t come back. We''ll pay you till the end of your contract so feel free to go zorbing or swan-counting or whatever you''re into. I won''t slag you off in the media or in front of other managers. In fact, if asked I''ll say how talented you are, like I always do."


    I went internal and found I was perfectly content. I deleted Chipper from my mental database - not literally. I swept my eyes around the rest of my players and staff.


    "Anyone who thinks all this - this club, this season - is about themselves can leave, too. Anyone who comes to training tomorrow morning, I expect insane levels of commitment, insane levels of sacrifice and togetherness. Tomorrow night we''re going to beat a good team in Hartlepool in front of our fans. We''ll have to battle and suffer and if you''re not up for that, there''s the door. There are plenty of morons talking about choking and bottling and there''s only one response to that - join in with the chirping or stick it to them. I''ll tell you one thing I was keeping to myself: I''ve never been more confident that we''d get promoted than Saturday night after the Oldham game. Yeah, after. Because I saw the look in the Oldham manager''s eyes. I saw how their players looked at us. They know that next time we play them we''ll slap them pink.


    "The playoffs? We''ll beat Oldham, we''ll beat Grimsby, we''ll beat Solihull, we''ll beat Aldershot. The only one that makes me think twice is Barnet and you know what? I want them in the final. I want them! I''m ready for war, lads. The night before the final we''re gonna go to bed as the fox and wake up as the huntsman. I can feel it! I''m psyched. I''m stoked. I don''t have an ounce of fear left in me! Tomorrow night we''re gonna tear shit up and this whole league is gonna have nightmares. So tomorrow morning be ready to work because this is Chester and there''s one thing we''re the best in the world at and that''s chasing down a bigger dog. We drew with Oldham. Is that bottling it? No-one''s bottling anything, that''s just crap I was chatting to the media. Wainwright''s gone and this league''s a mad eight-way scrap. When we play Gateshead, Grimsby have to play Aldershot. Do you want to be home playing Fifa or do you want to be at the Deva with the scent of blood in your nostrils? Come back here in the morning pumped up or send me a text saying you don''t fancy it. That''s all I''ve got to say. Get going."


    ***


    On-the-whistle match report from The Mail Online


    Chester 2 Hartlepool 0 - Sensational Chester Back in the Hunt


    Author: B. Alban


    Meta tags: non-league; ChesterFC; MaxBest; Wrexham; PromotionRace


    24-hour page views: 9,009


    Chester FC returned to winning ways after two draws, dismantling a Hartlepool team that harboured hopes of making the National League playoffs. With no other teams in action, Chester eased to within four points of first place with a game in hand. The one-sided nature of the match was not expected. Pools had proved bothersome to many of the league''s top teams and, indeed, crushed Chester 3-0 early in the season.


    This was not the early-season Chester, though. This was a formidable 4-2-3-1 featuring three defensive players likely to appear in many end-of-season teams of the year. Centre back Christian Fierce was dominant, right back Carl Carlile had boundless energy, and defensive midfielder Youngster made five interceptions in 70 minutes. A front four of Irish winger Diarmuid Dubhlainn, German schemer Pascal Bochum, Mancunian player-manager Max Best, and French goal-getter Henri Lyons proved all too much for Pools, who were fortunate their red card came after Best had essentially shut up shop for the evening.


    The only clouds on a near-perfect evening for Chester fans were that two players (Green, Wise) received their fifth yellow cards of the campaign and will miss the next match, and that this was the latest in a long line of non-appearances from their much-touted striker Leslie "Chipper" Thomson. Best batted away questions on the topic, stating that Chipper was "Mint at football and a very, very salutary lesson to everyone involved at Chester Football Club, most of all me."


    Chester are at home to Rochdale on Saturday in the last of their rearranged matches. A win will take them just one point away from the summit and on this form, no-one would bet against them making it 13 games unbeaten.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="175"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>81</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ***


    Wednesday, April 2


    I asked Aff and Carl to come to my office and while I waited, I checked my screens. There was the league table - a thing of beauty - there was a mostly healthy first team squad, there was a database brimming with soon-to-be out-of-contract players, and there was a new monthly perk.


    New Perk Available: April Fuels


    Cost: 1,000 XP


    Effects: In the month of April, in-game refreshments will restore an additional point in Condition. This is limited to two instances per match for a potential cumulative effect of 2 points. The perk will automatically trigger at half time and in the event of a stoppage in the second half. These effects will wear off after the match, meaning a player whose Condition improved by 2 points during the match will lose 2 points after the final whistle. April Fuels do not show on blood or urine tests.


    So many questions with this one, but primarily: Was this cheating? I couldn''t quite tell but the more I thought about it, the more I wondered why I hadn''t questioned Seal It Up or Cupid''s Arrow. Those were artificial boosts, just like this one. Perhaps Old Nick had used salami tactics on me to make me more and more susceptible to this kind of corruption.


    Having an extra 2 points of Condition would be a fairly small effect. It would perhaps let Aff make one more huge sprint to get on the end of a cutback from the other wing. It would perhaps stave off some of the brain fog defenders got late in games and would allow Carl to keep in the optimal position a while longer.


    But most of all it would fractionally reduce the chance of my players getting injured. That was decisive, really. Even if it felt a bit cheaty, I would always buy perks that stopped my players getting hurt. I planned to buy it before the Rochdale match kicked off on Saturday - that would give me time to wrestle with the ethics of the perk.


    "Boss?" Aff was at the door. I gestured; he and Carl took seats in front of my desk.


    "Lads, thanks for coming. Great game last night, Carl. The break did you good."


    "It did, boss, yeah. I don''t need another one, if it''s all the same to you."


    I let out a slightly exasperated noise. Players! "Okay listen. As you know, we''ve had loads of interest in you from other clubs. I think you''re both mint but obviously I''m not going to stand in the way of a juicy contract. I think normally I''d want to wait till the season was over but Bradford want to get it all wrapped up asap - I think they know I''m going to Brazil - and they''re willing to pay us up front. And you know I need the cash."


    "Bradford," said Aff. "Park Avenue?"


    I laughed. "No. Bradford City. League Two. They''re not doing well right now but they''re not going down. Get this." I handed over a printout of Bradford''s home attendances. "Sixteen, seventeen thousand fans every week. It''s a huge club, lads. Sleeping giant. I''d love to play for a club like that. Biggest crowd I played at was about eight thousand. Closer to seven, if I remember right. I''ve got vague memories of sometimes choosing Bradford City when I played Champion Manager. I love a big crowd, a big stadium. If you''re interested you can go tomorrow and do a medical there. Negotiate a deal. Ruth, the board member who''s an agent, will go with you if you want. Ah, for free, lads, relax! She''ll make sure you get a good basic wage and add-ons and promotion bumps and all that stuff."


    Carl was eyeing me. "Aren''t you worried we''ll switch off when we''ve agreed a deal?"


    "You two? Switch off? I''m not worried about that, no."


    "What if we get injured?" said Aff.


    "Not a problem. If we do the deal then the deal''s done. Your contract will expire here and your contract there will start when it starts. July first I think. You''ll be doing your medical now, when you''re fully fit, so it''s not an issue. If you turn up injured, that''s their problem, not yours. That''s a gamble they''re willing to take to prevent there being an auction for you."


    "You don''t want an auction?"


    "The fee we''re talking about is fair and cash up front is amazing. Cash is king. And I know you guys are superfriends so that''s awesome, being able to move you both to the same place. That''s a plus. Other clubs won''t do that."


    Aff looked at Carl and some agreement passed between them. "It''ll be strange to play against you next season."


    "It won''t be strange," I said. "It''ll be painful. For you guys." I smiled. "Nah. Of course it''ll be strange but we''ll all have tripled our wages, won''t we? We can get together after the final whistle and light cigars with hundred pound notes. What I need now is for you to give me the nod and I''ll call Ruth and she''ll organise tomorrow."


    "I''m in," said Aff, who was perhaps the most underpaid player in the entire league.


    "Yeah," said Carl, who had been on the verge of quitting the sport when I turned up at Chester.


    Now they would both get good moves, big salaries, and play in front of big crowds. "Top," I said. "Top top top."


    ***


    From: Emma


    Babes, the podcast guys are buzzing about the team but they''re confused about the Chipper sitch. They know you bombed him out. Things are being said. Not quite slanderous, more''s the pity, but you''d better listen and maybe get in front of it.


    >> Okay will listen.


    From: Ruth


    Bradford have suggested 2K for Carl, 2.1K for Aff. It sounds about right to me. What do you think?


    >> Carl should be 2.2.


    From: Bethany


    Have you heard the rumours that your old friend Daddy Star is sniffing around Bristol Rovers?


    >> Six million quid to buy a club that loses three million a year? How about nah.


    Can I have an interview, please?


    >> No. Busy.


    I''m trying to get my bosses interested in the title race. And you might want to put your side of the Chipper story out before it gets toxic again.


    >> I''m doing it! I''m literally doing it!


    ***


    Thursday, April 3


    @DevaStation: About to record interview with MAX ACTUAL BEST. He''s promised to spill the beans about YOU KNOW WHO. Can''t wait! Will edit and upload asap. Hold onto your hats!


    ***


    [Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]


    J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I''m your host, J. I don''t have a co-host today, but I have a very special guest. [Audio of Best''s goal against Grimsby plus crowd noise recorded from the away end.] Max Best, welcome to the studio.


    Max: Good clip that, isn''t it? That was a fun goal.


    J: Amazing day out, Max. Beers and cheers all the way home. It''s good to have you on.


    Max: Yeah, it''s good to be on.


    J: Is it?


    Max: No, it''s just something people say, innit? [Laughs.] Seriously I like doing it but I have to be in the mood and most of the time I''m not. I keep trying to put myself in the headspace, like, let''s talk to the fans, let''s film a quick something and put it on the socials but I think it''s just not me, do you know what I mean? I''m not a professional broadcaster. If I get to choose when these things happen I''d like it to be when I''m in a good mood.


    J: Are you in a good mood?


    Max: Yep. Are you?


    J: Third in the table, Max. It''s unreal. For a minute I thought...


    Max: I know what you thought because you said it six hundred times and got t-shirts made.


    J: We got so close!


    Max: Don''t count us out just yet, but yeah, looks like the playoffs. Trip to Wembley suit you?


    J: That''s a yes from me. From all of us. I''ve never been.


    Max: What, never?


    J: Chester have never been to Wembley, Max.


    Max: What, never?


    J: Not once in 140 years. The closest we got in recent times was 1997, a playoff semi-final. We lost to Swansea.


    Max: Hey, that''s perked me up. I''ll be the first manager to take Chester to Wembley. Fun. What do you reckon, would we sell twenty thousand tickets?


    J: Oh, more. The club''s first time at Wembley? To get back to the league? Yeah, thirty at least. Forty if you lay on a load of coaches.


    Max: Interesting. I was just talking to someone about playing in front of a big crowd. Wembley''s massive, though. I wonder if fifty thousand still feels big if the stadium''s half empty?


    J: You''ll have to come back on and let us know.


    Max: You know what I like? I like that you''ve gone anti-Max again. It''s more fun talking to you when you''re agin me.


    J: I''m not agin you. No-one''s agin you. I think - we all think - there have been mistakes. There are worrying signs in amongst the overall euphoria of the team''s recent results.


    Max: All right so, look. You''ve got the right to say whatever you want and you can speculate and wonder and dig me out if you want. I really don''t mind it when it comes to the football. I gave Youngster two matches off when he came back from his month away and you didn''t like that and I think that''s a fair discussion point. It''s hard to say whether I was right or not but I felt there was a risk of him getting injured and okay we didn''t win the match but he didn''t get injured, either, so I feel the club came out on top. But it''s a good talking point. Where I don''t like the Chipper discussion on your last pod is where you said I''m blowing the club''s money.


    J: Okay. But you are.


    Max: I''m sensitive about that kind of talk because I''m poor and most of your listeners are poor and I''m not casual with the club''s resources. Boris Johnson threw a four hundred thousand pound party for a bridge that never got built. A hundred and sixty thousand pounds for a website for a bridge that never got built. Fifty million pounds of taxpayer money for a bridge that never got built. That''s our money and he''s piled it up and pressed down a plunger and exploded it. I know those stories and they''re infuriating. They boil the blood. We''ve got three home matches left and I want the Deva packed and noisy. I want the fans going bananas every time we attack. Do you get me? I don''t want fifteen hundred people folding their arms when we score as some kind of protest or some crap.


    J: That''s not where we''re at. We''re behind you, I said. We''re behind the team.


    Max: Are you? It sounded to me that you were behind Chipper.


    J: He''s been hard done by.


    Max: That''s possible. But he''s not in the team. He''s not going to be in the team. We''re talking about him instead of getting ready for Rochdale.


    J: Because we don''t know what happened except you took against a player - again - and froze him out - again. That''s the third time this season. It''s a pattern.


    Max: The problem is it''s hard to talk about it in public. I could tell you the whole story except for one part but that''s the only part that makes sense of it all. To me it''s a question of trust. Do you trust me to spend the club''s money? Do you think I''ve got the club''s best interests at heart?


    J: That''s not how I see it. I see it as: Are you learning from your mistakes?


    Max: I promise I will as soon as I make one.


    J: Max...


    Max: [Laughs.] Let me just say my piece about the money because it''s winding me up. We''ve got half the budget of the other teams in the top half of the table, a third of the budget of Grimsby and Barnet. We''re right up there. When we beat Rochdale - and we will - we will be one point off. This is a three-way title race. If it was only one of them, I''d have us as favourites but there are two so we''ve got fingers crossed for two slip-ups, haven''t we? Which isn''t the kind of position I want to be in, but that''s how it is. Now, we haven''t done that by accident. We didn''t win some points in a lottery. We scrapped and competed and trained and here we are. The money''s out on the pitch. The money''s in talented young players. Do you know what I mean? The spend is, like, 93% efficient in a league where the next best is 60%. Okay you want me to get from 93 to 95 but I''d say turn around. Look behind you.


    J: Yes. Very, very fair. But did you do everything you could to make sure Chipper was a success?


    Max: No. I didn''t. When we signed him, did you think it was a good deal?


    J: Yes. Top striker. Done it at a higher level. Strong, tough, can cope with the physicality. That''s why we want to see him out there.


    Max: Okay so you didn''t think I''d wasted the money at the start. I was really happy with it. I was smug. Insufferable. I thought I''d done another Chris Beaumont. If Chipper fired us to the title the way Chris did, that''s money well spent. Yes?


    J: Yes.


    Max: There you go. I allocated it efficiently. I''m not chucking money around like some twat. That''s my main point. If we can agree to that, we can move on.


    J: But -


    Max: J! It''s a yes or no question.


    J: Okay, yes, it was a good allocation of resources. But -


    Max: Things are starting to happen, J. The money we used to spend on electricity bills is out on the pitch. By the end of this calendar year we will have two 3G pitches that we''re renting out, making money, money that can go into players or into facilities.


    J: Two pitches?


    Max: Yes. Two. One at Bumpers Bank, one somewhere else. We''ll use them ourselves, obviously, and we''ll rent them out. That''s good money coming in. Reduce costs, grow income. I''m hugely ambitious for the financial side of the club. I want to set it up so that over time we go from having the fundamentals of a National League North club - we''re still there in many ways - and build it so that when I go, the next guy has a platform. A bigger budget, better facilities, a fully-stocked youth pipeline. That''s what I''m doing. Now that manager, whether it''s Sandra or Jackie or whoever, is going to have players they fall out with. That''s a fact of life. At every football club there are at least two players who are on the outs and are waiting for a transfer or for their manager to get sacked. If you want to say that when it comes to me and Chipper, that situation shows my bad character but every other similar case with every other manager who has ever lived doesn''t, okay! Just take the financial angle out and crack on. Or jab me in the side with a dagger just before I go out to face Rochdale.


    J: Maxxx.


    Max: J, I need you screaming your head off on Saturday so I''ll tell you what I can. First, let''s see things from Chipper''s point of view. He has a great season in League Two, Crawley get promoted, spend some of their bitcoin money and buy what they think is an upgrade. Chipper gets sidelined. Not nice. He''s seen me in action, briefly, helping Crawley go up at Wrexham''s expense. Lol, by the way. So he thinks I''ve got some potential and he''s heard I''m a good player, too. He''s certainly heard I like to play attacking football and he can pad his stats and get a good move in the summer. Great. He turns up and the pitches are all mudbaths and everyone''s walking on eggshells because of the failed so-called takeover bid. He''s pleased to see we''ve signed Christian Fierce and we''ve got some guy from the Welsh FA doing some coaching. There are enough serious people around to balance out a small amount of strangeness.


    J: Lots of questions about the Welsh connection if you have time.


    Max: Er, nah. Also: focus. On Chipper''s first day at the club, I come in to update my Maxterplan and my talk is all about rocks and fossils and weird shrimp creatures. I say we''re going to play brutal long-ball football. We do and it''s awful and at times shambolic. We''re, what, ninth in the league? Training is bad because we can''t trust the surfaces. We''re drawing against Dagenham and we seem completely out of ideas. At this point if he''s thinking what am I doing here, can we really blame him? Okay so he gets sent off. Two yellows, but later the ref upgrades the second to a straight red. Chipper misses three games where we really needed him. We lose to Barnet and that''s another huge blow. He''s back from suspension and I don''t use him. I put him back in the team against Rochdale and we go one-nil down. At that moment we''re out of the playoffs again. He gets a yellow card for dissent and I sub him off after eight minutes. Now, there were maybe two key moments in all of that but you get the general idea, right? He can''t believe he has taken a risk and landed in this madhouse.


    J: When you lay it out like that, yes. Did you say shrimp creatures?


    Max: I''m not completely devoid of empathy, J. I do understand these frustrations but also that''s all hindsight. At the time I wasn''t watching him like a hawk, was I? I''ve got 92 players to look after and I''m scrabbling to get us time on better training pitches, trying to keep us grinding whatever points we can where we can get them. Some of the chat on your podcast was that I should have intervened earlier. Well, look at you bunch of megabrains! Let''s hook you up to a pond so you can predict the future and solve problems before they''ve even happened. It''s not that easy, mate. Pretty early on I was aware something was off and I was talking to people about going to Scotland to chat to the manager who got the best out of Chipper. Your mate was on here saying I should have talked to Chipper and sorted it out. Yeah, but I did talk to him. We''ll come back to that in a second. But let''s be generous to Chipper and say we understand his frustrations, okay? And let''s get his achievements and contributions on record. He scored the winning goal in his first two games and when he played, he played well, and bravely. And he trained great and I was happy to keep him around even if he disliked me because the young players were watching him and seeing the standards and that''s good for them. That''s all positive. That''s all good.


    J: But?


    Max: I talked about the two key moments. The most important one is that when he got sent off, I asked the ref what he said. The ref told me. I asked Chipper what he said. He said something, hah, quite different. I believed the referee. So there''s a problem, right, with communication between us. I should talk to him about this dissent and this behaviour but he denies he''s doing it. We can all see he''s doing it but he says he isn''t. Maybe I''m too immature to square that circle but I react badly when people lie to my face. It sounds harsh to put it like that and maybe I would lie, too. It''s not a huge issue but it does mean the communication channels are pretty blocked, do you know what I mean?


    J: Yeah. But you''ve got assistants. Vimsy. Come at it sideways?


    Max: They talked to him but it didn''t lead anywhere. He certainly didn''t change his behaviour, did he? Then against Rochdale the referee was wearing a bodycam and at half time I saw and heard what Chipper was saying. I won''t repeat it, and that''s part of the problem I''ve got. Remember the fans forum? You all saw loads of private footage. Chipper''s out there in public and he knows there''s cameras on him but he feels the pitch itself is a sort of safe space so he''s firing off volleys - verbal ones, sadly - but I''m not going to repeat what I heard to you, to Sandra, to the Brig, not even to Emma. I heard it, I know how he talks to refs, it''s not acceptable.


    J: Well.


    Max: Yeah, you don''t care. Ian Evans wouldn''t care. No-one cares. But I do and I''m the manager and if you want a different culture you have to wait till I''m gone. I want a winning culture and that means being intelligent. That starts with spending our money as well as poss, but it''s on the pitch, too. What advantages can we get by being smart? It might be a clever throw-in routine or a cheeky free kick. It might mean a funky formation or even which way we shoot if we win the coin toss. Yeah? And we are nice to the referee first because we plaster the word respect all over the stadium and we''re setting an example to the young players, second because no referee no game, and third, because we want to win! It''s moronic to wind up the guy who decides if that foul was inside the box or if that tackle was a yellow or a red!


    J: You''ve been known to have a pop from time to time.


    Max: Yeah, of course. Everyone does but it''s a question of degree. If you get booked for it, you''ve gone miles over the line. And you''ve put your team at a disadvantage. It''s not for me. No, thanks. Think what you want but that''s the way we''re doing it. But that''s all by the by, you know. What really matters is that it proved he lied to me. You get that, right? Now, I still might have gone to Glasgow to talk to his former manager, I still might have tried, but then the second thing happened. Again, I can''t go into details but I saw something in that match that I thought I recognised and when I heard the bodycam audio I heard it clear as day and, in a nutshell, he was slagging me off.


    J: Slagging you off? Critical?


    Max: Yeah. We''ve established it''s a shambles, haven''t we? It''s not Christian Fierce''s fault. It''s not Sandra''s. It''s me. I''m gibbering about rocks and shrimp and I''m slipping taking corners and every chance I get I flood the team with babies and so on and so on. Now, you''re gonna think it''s personal. But you slag me off all the time, J. I can take it. I wish you didn''t, but half the time I agree with what you say about me! I wish I didn''t have flaws but I do and it''s okay you call them out. But I''d like to think you can look at a list of budgets and compare that to the league table and think, huh, eighth in the league isn''t bad, actually. But guess what? We''re not eighth. We''re third going on first.


    J: So you think it''s unfair.


    Max: It''s clearly unfair but that''s not the point. I mean, one reason we were so low in the league in that particular match is that we only took one point from the previous two matches because a certain striker was banned. Him getting banned and criticising me for us being out of the playoffs is incredible logic. I suppose strikers are like that - they never make mistakes, it''s the passes to them that cause them to miss. Anyway, fair, unfair, I''m not immune to a bit of sulking but I''m busy enough to power forward, right? And who knows? Maybe I am shit. But you can''t say that. You can''t say it on the pitch or in the dressing room. You can''t. That''s not for my ego, that''s for the team. Have you seen Welcome to Wrexham?


    J: It''s a show that glorifies our main rivals. What do you think?


    Max: I can''t really get on my high horse - I refuse to watch the Man City crap. Okay so there''s a player in there who is constantly moaning. I can''t believe he did it on camera, it''s that bad. Makes him look like a twat, to be honest. He''s whinging and moaning and slagging off the manager. Saying the manager lied to him and he should be in the team and blah blah blah.


    J: Charming.


    Max: It''s like, can''t you see you''re poison? You''re the problem?


    J: And you think Chipper''s that person in our dressing room?


    Max: No, no, no, it didn''t get anywhere close to that. Maybe there were a few comments here and there but we went on a winning streak, didn''t we? It''s hard to say I''m shit when we''re winning eight on the trot. And most of our squad were here last year so they''re used to me using strange metaphors and they know when I say we''re gonna get good near the end of the season, we''re gonna get good near the end of the season. I''m not mad at Chipper. I understand where he''s coming from and I know some of his time here looked bizarre and amateur. But I can''t have that kind of negativity in the dressing room because it starts small and grows and it doesn''t matter to me if patient zero is a guy we promote from the youth team or a very expensive star striker. It doesn''t matter who it is, J. No one player can ever be worth more than the collective. You''re looking for me to get some kind of growth in how I deal with players and that might be fair enough but I can promise you I will never ''grow'' in the area of undermining the team because preserving team spirit is a non-negotiable. It is absolutely, one billion percent non-negotiable. It''s my job and my staff''s job to minimise how often it happens but it''s going to happen. This will happen again and it will go exactly the same.


    J: [Sigh.] I think this isn''t what people want to hear but I think I basically understand your perspective.


    Max: All I can promise you and the fans is that I''m not like Jose Mourinho picking a player to go to war with to get the other lads afraid of him. I want harmony. I want everyone to be happy and I want to have a positive effect on everyone''s careers. I am trying. It''s not easy. There isn''t a week that goes by that I don''t pick up some new enemy. A manager, an agent, a left back, a billionaire. I can just about deal with those enemies as long as there isn''t one sitting behind me on the team bus. Do you know what I mean?


    J: Yeah. You don''t want to end up with a bus full of likeable, easy-going boys, though. You need some right bastards on a team.


    Max: Er, have you met me?


    J: [Laughs.] Good point. We''ve got some handy lads, all right. Fierce, Green, Lyons, Wisey.


    Max: I take your point, though. I don''t want a load of yes men. Henri is happy to tell me what I''m doing wrong but he''s behind me, too. There''s a way to do it.


    J: Right.


    Max: I need to go; there''s a school match kicking off in ten minutes and I got a tip that one of the girls is a player. Look, J, I''m not here to shut down dissent but we really, really need some of that could we energy. We are on a roll and we''re picking up speed and we are about to smash into the end of the season. The chase is on, J. This is the last time I''m going to talk about anything negative until the final kick of the final game, whether it be at Woking or at Wembley. We are going hard at every match and we''re plotting and scheming to do something incredible but we need togetherness and unity. I need you loud on Saturday. We''re so close, mate. The EFL is right there. If you want to do another Fans Forum and put up a big timeline and we''ll work out the exact moment I pooped the bed with the Chipper situation, weird but okay, can we please do it in August while we''re playing Bradford City, Tranmere, and Carlisle?


    J: Big clubs, those.


    Max: I know! Put your doubts aside. Get behind the lads. The eleven who take the pitch on Saturday, that''s Chester. That''s the team. Normally I''d say something like take it or leave it, but this time I''m asking the fans to come down and cheer us on.


    J: A rallying cry.


    Max: Yes! I''m doing a rallying cry. I don''t know the proper words but come on, let''s be having you!


    J: [Laughs.] I think those are the proper words, yeah.


    Max: I''m building a bridge, J. A bridge to the football league. Back where Chester belongs. Do not doubt for a second that we''re going up this year, but you and all your listeners can play your part. Get yourself tickets. Drag your mates. We were twenty points behind. If we win on Saturday...


    J: One.


    Max: One.


    J: You''re a persuasive bastard when you want to be.


    Max: See, I''m not trying to persuade you, J. I know you''ll be there week in, week out. You''re the rock this club''s built on. You''re the rock and I''m Nicholas Cage and - [Phone beeps]. Ah. Got to go. [Chair scraping.] Hey, J?


    J: Yes?


    Max: Would you rather win the league or go to Wembley?


    J: Win the league. The playoffs are too stressful. I can''t hack it. Win the league and go to Wembley in a cup. That''ll do me.


    Max: Interesting. Hey, J?


    J: Yes?


    Max: We could, you know.


    ***


    On-the-whistle match report from The Mail Online


    Chester 4 Rochdale 2 - Deva Delight As Dynamic Duo Destroy Dale


    Author: B. Alban


    Meta tags: non-league; ChesterFC; MaxBest; RobAndRyan; PromotionRace; NailBiter


    24-hour page views: 13,415


    The National League title race was blown wide open as the day''s only fixture saw Chester win their game in hand with considerable aplomb. Grimsby Town, who once held a twenty-point lead over Chester, now find themselves in a desperate three-way tussle for the crown - and for the league''s only automatic promotion slot.


    Roared on by the biggest league crowd at the Deva Stadium in years, Chester exploded out of the gates. Rochdale had come with a carefully-thought-out 3-5-2 shape but it was eviscerated by Chester''s 3-4-3. The stars were Chester''s forwards. Wes Hayward''s pace was something to behold, and the enormous gaps Dale left at the back were exploited mercilessly by the diminutive German forward Pascal Bochum. These gaps were a natural product of the formation clash - three strikers against three centre backs - but were made worse by Dale''s ham-fisted attempt to man-mark Manager of the Month Max Best. Best simply stood on the halfway line, saving energy as his troops laid traps Dale were all too happy to trigger.


    The first goal came in the second minute. Lyons worked the channel, held the ball up, and found Bochum, who drifted past a defender and rolled the ball diagonally into the path of Hayward. The second arrived five minutes later. A burst from midfield by the talented midfielder Youngster ended with a crude foul. Diarmuid Dubhlainn and Max Best stood over the ball, but there was never any real doubt about who would take it. Best curled the ball over and around the wall and was off laughing before it even hit the net. Man-mark that!


    Rochdale countered the battering by retreating into their shells for the rest of the half, and came out for the second with a new plan - 4-3-3 with wide attackers. Best responded by switching to 4-2-4 and the mayhem, if anything, intensified. Hayward on the left, Bochum on the right, Best himself as a second striker, and two passes later they had exchanged positions. Potent, but was it defensively solid? Zach Green, one of the league''s better defenders - suspended for this fixture - was in the stands doing a shift for the much-lauded Chester Chatters programme but with Dubhlainn and Carlile as full backs, Chester''s back line was as good as anything in the division. This team are fast, fluid, and clever. Non-league football isn''t supposed to look like this!


    Bochum and Hayward repeated their earlier combination for the third goal, before Ryan Jack chipped over the top to set up Lyons for the fourth. Best made three changes, giving minutes to Sticky, his reserve goalkeeper, midfielder Andrew Harrison, and youthful prodigy William Roberts. Rochdale, to their immense credit, seized the chance to restore pride and got a consolation goal after a lapse in concentration from captain Glenn Ryder, while a late penalty for a harsh handball by Fierce made the scoreline look respectable.


    Chester have gained nineteen more points than Grimsby since February 22nd and sit one point behind. In-form Barnet lie in second; Chester must hope they also slip up. Goal difference could yet prove crucial, and Best''s late changes might yet decide the title. He was unrepentant in the post-match interviews, saying "It''s just who we are, mate." The Chester fans are well aware that Best only knows one way to do things - his way - but for today, at least, they are one hundred percent behind him. And why not? They are nineteen-twentieths of the way to a truly remarkable turnaround. Can they complete the job in the final four matches? This race now enters the final stretch - only four more lengths to go.

 10.13 - Gateshead Revisited

    13.


    Part One - Et in Manchester ego


    Six Days to Gateshead


    "Right, so in summary, this is a big week for us," I said, not quite knowing how prophetic those words would be.


    I was at the front of the meeting room at BoshCard and my entire playing squad - no, not him - plus the coaching staff, MD, and a couple of board members were in attendance. Brooke had invited herself and was drinking from a gaudy flask with a large T set inside a star. A great conversation starter for any Texans in the area who might need an excuse to talk to her. I gave her an amused glance and continued.


    "So let me do something I normally hate - repeat myself. It''s our first week without a Tuesday night game since the rains of winter. Gateshead are the last difficult match - after that I''m banking three wins. We need to put everything into this week. Sandra and I are leaning towards 3-4-3 but left backs, you fucking know I might need you so keep the standards, please. I''m counting on every one of you to be ready to step up because you know what happens. This is Chester and there''s always batshit crazy stuff going down. The fans are with us big time and we might get close to capacity. This isn''t the week for sulking! Unless it''s me doing it, right Sandra? Er, what else? Yeah, don''t waste energy going through the permutations. We know we''re up against two sound teams and they''ve got a couple of tricky fixtures. Endlessly doing the maths is a fool''s errand. We focus on ourselves. Don''t get sucked into all the if we beat them and they draw and they this and we that. It''s really draining! Leave that to God or the universe and stay positive. Stay focused on our job and that''s Gateshead. They battered us at their place but we''re better now and we''re at home and we''re going to blow their bloody doors off. Good. Youngster, coaches, Wisey, can you stay back for a second?"


    Most of the lads got up and flip-flopped back to the dressing room to get their boots and head out to the grass pitches, finally in something like good condition. I was slightly surprised that Sticky and Aff hung back, too.


    Aff came to me first. "Quick one, boss. We still on for Wednesday?"


    "Yes, absolutely."


    "Deadly."


    "Is she already over?" Aff''s mum, on hearing that he was close to signing for a new club, had put the deal on hold until such time as she could speak to me face to face. This tiny, meaningless delay in the signing of the contract wasn''t pivotal by any means, but I do sometimes wonder what might have happened if the Aff and Carl deal had been signed even just a few days earlier.


    "She is, yeah. She''s already cleaned me flat twice. Maniac, she is. Place reeks of bleach."


    "I''ll tell her not to clean the day before a match."


    I expected a laugh, but Aff nodded. "That''d be grand, boss. She''d listen to you. You walk on water in her eyes." He did a tiny, regretful smile. "One time I only told her you were mithering me about that yellow I got for kicking the ball away."


    "I don''t remember that."


    "Exactly! Exactly! But it''s all she talks about. You said there''s no point kicking the ball away because they don''t take quick throw-ins and if they do, let them, they merely adopted the darkness, we were born in it."


    "Right! I remember it now."


    "She''s obsessed with it. After every match I get a call. First question, how''d you get on? Second, did you get booked? Did you kick the ball away?" He did some tiny head shakes. "She''ll probably mention it."


    "Am I allowed to tease you?"


    "Sure I wouldn''t mind but she won''t laugh. She''s deadly serious about my playing."


    "Deadly serious. Okay, be off witcha."


    Sticky also jumped the queue. He took me to the side and murmured. "Max, there''s a club who wants me for next season. Can we talk after training?"


    Sticky leaving? This was a gut punch but for once I was able to compartmentalise my disappointment. "Sure. Come see my new megatactic. Tell me what you think."


    I walked over to the tactics board and waved everyone in. The magnets were laid out in a 3-4-3. I looked around at the raft of coaches we had available: Sandra, Well In, Vimsy, Jude, Spectrum, the Brig, Elin, and - for one of the last times, it seemed - Sticky. "As I said, Gateshead are a passing team. They''re the only team in this league who are as mental about passing, attacking football as we are. Their manager does a 3-4-3 variant with two of the strikers often dropping, so it''s 3-4-2-1. I''m thinking if we''re getting overrun between defence and midfield, we drop Youngster to DM. But that would leave us with a big ugly hole in the centre so I''d like to have a look at this."


    I touched the middle magnet of the three centre backs and moved it to DM.


    "2-1-4-3?" said Spectrum. "That''s a new one. Please stop inventing new formations." He peered at the board. "It''s like your 2-6-2 but even more attacking."


    "It''s a question of risk and reward," I said. "I''ve been thinking about it pretty hard and I think we need to win. This isn''t a slam dunk but it might be our best chance of scoring goals and then it''s a question of can we stop enough of their attacks while we''re at it? Gateshead want to pass through us and if we put Youngster there he''s going to mop up loads of attacks. Aren''t you, mate?"


    "Yes, Mr. Best," said the man in question.


    "Having him in his natural slot is immense. I think the net effect will be that we gain control of midfield, cut out most of the attacks that they muster, and we''ve still got three strikers."


    Sandra looked dubiously at the board. "Your 2-6-2 was against weaker teams, wasn''t it? It''s objectively crazy but it''s Max crazy."


    "Meaning what?"


    "Meaning it makes sense whether we want it to or not." The others laughed. "I don''t think we can do this against a team as good as Gateshead, Max. Not unless we''re desperate. You might as well call it Hail Mary. It''s throwing the ball high up and hoping someone catches it."


    We stared at the magnets like we were reading tea leaves, hoping to be told the future. "I just think the third centre back doesn''t get enough work."


    "But when he does, it''s to cut out a goal."


    I did an annoyed, amused head shake. "The situation is maddening. The permutations. How much risk do we take? The three games are kicking off at the same time so we have to guess. What''s good is we can do 3-4-3 and switch to a back four with Aff at left back, no subs needed. But this Hail Mary might be our go-to in the last ten minutes. Please try it out in the sessions so we can take a proper look at it. Good? Good."


    They left, chattering away at a mile a minute. Then it was just me and James Wise.


    "Wisey. How you doing?"


    "I''m nervous."


    "About the game? That''s not like you."


    "About this chat."


    I laughed. "Nothing bad, I promise. Your house, your family, it''s down in Eastleigh, isn''t it? South coast. Four hours one-way."


    "Yeah."


    I nodded and pushed a finger against my lips. "I''m thinking ahead. I want to buy a house. But where? I work in Chester - for now. That could change, right? My mum''s in Manchester."


    "Do you go to see her?" he said.


    "Course I do. Et in Manchester ego. That''s Latin for ''I am also in Manchester''." He gave me a blank look. "It''s from a book Henri was telling me about called Brideshead Revisited. Do you know it? The main character is called Captain Ryder! Anyway, yes I go to see her. I''m going with Aff this week."


    This was as incomprehensible as the Latin. "With Aff?"


    "And his mum. She wants to meet my mum and she won''t take no for an answer. I decided to let it happen because I need Aff firing against Gateshead more than I need my mum to not meet a rando. But my house. If I can be near Manchester that''s great. My girlfriend''s family''s in Newcastle. If my house is in Chester, it''s gonna be a short drive to work. If it''s in the Golden Triangle - you know, Alderley Edge and that with all the lads from City and United - it''s close to civilisation but it''s an hour''s drive to work. I would basically be a commuter as long as I was Chester manager, but I''d be in the middle of the country and I''d save on drives to other places. And if I was Man United manager, that''d be convenient."


    "You as Man U manager? The Athletic would melt down. Think of the stories."


    I smiled and looked around at the shittest meeting room in Britain. "This is a better story." I got back to my question. "You travel up and down the country all the time. What would you do if you were me?"


    "I''d write James Wise first on the team sheet every week. But, er, yeah. I''d live in Chester. Close to work. Glenn lives between BoshCard and the Deva and when everyone else is in a traffic jam he''s in bed or spending time with his kids. It''s... yeah. That''s what I''d do. If you change jobs later, move house. Easy."


    "Mmm," I said, leaving a pause.


    "Uh-oh," he said.


    I gave him a playful punch on the shoulder - feather-light because we weren''t superfriends. "Come on! I said it wasn''t bad. Look, you know I''m going away this summer and I want to get as much stuff as possible done beforehand. I''ve got the Brig, Ryan, and Fleur scouting free agents I might want to sign. You know, background checks and getting references and talking to former teammates and everything so that if I''m out of the country we can get deals done. We don''t know what league we''re gonna be in, which makes things harder. I mean, I know which league, but I can''t say that to some outsider, can I? Grims and Barnet are definitely gonna drop points so you can sign for us already."


    Wise''s face lit up. "They are gonna drop points, boss! We worked it out, me and Glenn. Grimsby are cracked, like you said. Their heads have gone and they''ve got to play Aldershot. That match has Judge Red, the ref who''s given the most cards this season, and last time he reffed Grimsby they had men sent off and got stuffed. They''ll draw at most this Saturday. Barnet are wrecked from the FA Trophy semi-final and they''ve got to play Forest Green. They spent big, didn''t they, at the end of the transfer window? And their signings are settling in! They''re making a charge to the playoffs. They''re second in the form table!"


    For the ten thousandth time, the thought of overhauling both clubs got my pulse racing. "Mate, you''re doing what I said not to do. Hommmm. Breathe. Hommm. Where are my relaxation crystals?"


    He grinned. "Sorry, boss."


    "Here''s where I''m at. We''re going to League Two. What''s your place in the squad then? Centre mid options are Ryan, Andrew, Omari, Youngster. Magnus can drop in. So that''s two olds and three youngs. I''ll almost certainly want to bring in a top top CM. Someone who can score 15 goals from midfield like Raffi Brown. That''s what we''re missing now, goals from the centre. Christ, can you imagine if we had him this season? We would be top of the league. Urgh, forget him. I''ll buy someone like that, is what I''m saying. So you''ll be a reserve. You''ll get starts, sure. Ten maybe? If we''ve got injuries, fifteen. But I need to give minutes to the young players so they can kick on. Am I happy with you in the squad as a reserve? Billion percent, I am. But are you?"


    "I''d fight for my place."


    "Course you would." I rubbed my eyebrows. It felt like every player in the world was going to say the same things in this situation. "You''re driving up and down the country and not seeing enough of your family. This season I think, yeah! Put the team first. But in League Two it''s going to make me feel like shit to think you''re putting the effort in and not getting much back. Listen, I haven''t said this to anyone, not even Sandra, okay? This is just to test the water with you. I would let you go back to Eastleigh for a decent price. They would give you a pay bump. You''d be a starter for sure, and you''d be back home. It''s just an idea I had and I couldn''t really see an objection so this is me suggesting it to you now."


    "You''ve talked to them?"


    "No, I haven''t talked to anyone."


    "How do you know they''d give me a rise?"


    I laughed. "Because you''re fucking mint!" Mint was a slight exaggeration. He was CA 56, closing slowly on his maximum of 60. "We slapped them 8-0 over two games, didn''t we? They saw what we can do and they know you''re starting most weeks for us. If I call them today I think they''ll bite my hand off."


    "What if we don''t get promoted?"


    "Then yeah, stay. You''ll get fewer minutes because Omari will be back and I would use Dan Badford but you''d play a lot. Thing is, it might be that now''s the best time to get that good contract with Eastleigh. Your stock is high."


    "But I can stay?"


    "Of course you can. I''m not kicking you out if that''s what you think. Nah, you leaving won''t be a super deal for the club, all told. It will free up a bit of salary I can use on a kid, and free up some midfield minutes for the lads, and that''s obviously a big thing for what we''re doing here, but I think you''d be the biggest winner. I''ll negotiate your wages if you want. If they don''t pony up, deal''s off, forget I spoke."


    James was thoughtful for a minute. "When you asked me to stay back just now I thought it might be the Gibraltar talk."


    "Oh?"


    "Glenn told me what you said to him and what did I think and so on. My first thought was you''d lost the plot. Glenn Ryder? Captain Fantastic? Can''t play in League Two? You''ve cracked. But, er... He was out of the team for a spell and he came back in and I thought, ah. I see it. It''s plain as the nose on your face." I kept my flappy gob shut for once. He continued. "You think I can''t play League Two?"


    "I think you''re exactly as good as Sam Topps. He went to League Two and started every week at first, didn''t he? Jimmy Mustard loves him. But it started to wobble, didn''t it? He played five in five. Four in five. Four in six. Do you get me? Mustard is a stubborn bastard. He can''t drop Sam after pushing for him so hard but I think it''s fair to say Sam looks decent, you know, with his work rate and energy and commitment but his numbers are underwhelming. The data guys must be tearing their hair out when Mustard puts him in the starting eleven. For me, it''s a success story - Sam got a sweet deal and he can say he played for Tranmere. There isn''t a Tranmere out there looking at you, I don''t think. What are your options down near your house? Aldershot or Woking. They''re not gonna pay more than Eastleigh." I got my phone out and did a search. "Woking to Eastleigh is an hour and five minutes. That''s like Manchester to Chester. We''re playing them in the last game of the regular season; I could pimp you to their manager and you''d boss the midfield against them and they''d want you."


    He wasn''t really listening. "I''d love to play in Gibraltar."


    My heart went a-flutter. "Oh! Yes! Yes! That would be mint. You''d be awesome. Let''s talk about that!"


    He gave me a strange look. "I can''t go to Gibraltar, boss. Not where I''m at. But... I wish. 300 days of sunshine, Glenn said."


    "Oh. Okay. But you can''t. Is it, like, schools and that?"


    "Schools and that," he confirmed, in a dark tone. He looked up at the wall clock. "I''m missing training. Can I think about it?"


    "Think about it," I said.


    We headed towards the door. Wisey paused at the tactics board. He moved the DM back to CB, and pushed it forward again. He frowned and shook his head. "You don''t get this at Eastleigh."


    I smiled. "Don''t be too impressed. It might blow up in our faces."


    "Don''t jinx it."


    "James," I said. "We''ve got a week to prepare! We''re one of the form teams in England. What could go wrong?"


    ***


    As I jogged around, doing the minimum physical output so that if I had spare attribute growth it would go towards technique, I decided I had done a decent job with Wisey. My general, unstated aim with the men''s team was to ease out players with less-than-stellar PA. The women''s team would be harder. Much harder. The six I needed to cut had been with me from the start and I didn''t have anything to offer them. There was no women''s team in Gibraltar and they weren''t even good enough for West Didsbury.


    That was later, though. First, Sticky. We showered and met at Best''s Bistro where I munched on chopped-up fruit and nuts until Patricia accused me of ''eating her out of house and home'' and ordered me not to ruin my appetite.


    Sticky marvelled at her chutzpah - he was a plain-talking Yorkshireman but he wouldn''t have dared boss me around like that. "That''s you told," he mumbled, when Patricia was noisily making us coffees.


    I grinned. "I think she doesn''t like me. She thinks she works for Brooke."


    "She likes you," said Sticky. "But you''re mean to her boys. She''s very protective."


    I nodded. "Maternal. Do you think I''m too harsh on them?"


    "On the young ones? No." He thought about saying something - it was obviously going to be about Chipper - but he decided against it. "Okay, Max. I like it here. It''s unusual but it''s fun and it''s good. It''s really good. The facilities are no use to man or beast but you''re working hard at fixin'' ''em up. You''ve got a passion for coaching and that''s made my run here a good ''un. But I''ve been tapped up, Max."


    I winced. "Tapped up? By who? Fuck me, if you say Bristol Rovers I''m gonna bin my Yorkshire Gold and switch to Tetley''s."


    "What''s up with Bristol? Good club, that. No, it''s Bradford."


    "Park Avenue?"


    "Bradford City, Max."


    I frowned. Highly odd. The same club that was on the verge of buying Aff and Carl. "Huh. They seem very interested in my staff."


    "Don''t fret, lad. Why wouldn''t they be? This place should be crawling with agents and scouts like it''s an ant hill. You''ve stuffed it with talent. Anyone with half a brain would want to carve off a slice. But I haven''t agreed anything yet. It''s good money, their first offer, and reckon I can get higher." He grinned. "Specially if I play you off against each other."


    I did a frustrated little snort. "You''re not supposed to tell me you''re doing that."


    "Aye, but I''ll do it, all right."


    "And don''t use sandwich tactics on me again. That''s my move." This was pretty much a disaster. Sticky hadn''t improved enough as a player to really push Ben for a place in the starting line up, but he had Coaching Goalkeepers 20 and even in League Two I would struggle to replace him. Also, he would soon hit CA 50 and the change of the starting digit would make me feel more comfortable about using him. Ben wasn''t going to improve much past his current level, but Sticky had a lot of upside; he was PA 122. "Bradford. Okay, well, it''s a Yorkshire club, isn''t it? That''s the theme of the week. Going home." I sighed. "This is... grim." There was more to life than me and my needs, I tried to tell myself. Had I always been such a bad liar? "Look, I''m happy for you. You''re right. Someone there has their head screwed on. That''s another good move from them."


    "Aren''t you going to try to keep me?"


    I pulled a face. "I can''t get into auctions. I can give you a pay rise but you''re a top goalie coach and I need to sign one, maybe two top prospects for you to work with otherwise your talents will be wasted. I need a new midfielder. I need wingers, right backs, strikers, forwards who can play behind strikers. I might need a signing-on fee for the Brazilian superstars I bring over. I''ve got big plans for the TV money we get. Medical stuff, a sports psychologist, more coaches and physios. Christ, there are people who have been working for minimum wage for years and while I''m splashing out on capex they''re gonna have to wait for theirs. Almost everyone here is underpaid. In the case of the players that''s by design so it''s easier to move them on but in your case, yeah. I can''t compete with the market when there''s so much that needs to be done. So... I guess I have to be realistic. I suppose it was naive to think I even had a chance of keeping you."


    "Bradford''s starting offer was 2,500 a week. That''s eight hundred and eighty a week more than you''re giving me. Can you match that?"


    "Honestly, I asked MD not to give me the numbers until after Gateshead. I wanted to delay it as long as poss because it''s already stressful just thinking about the social aspect. Seeing that our budget in one scenario is 22,000 a week and 66,000 in the other... that''s just piling on the pressure, isn''t it? I can say definitively that if we don''t go up, no, I can''t afford that. No chance. If we do go up..." I squinted as I thought about it. "First of all, I need a hot shot goalie for you to train up. Ben''s good but he''s close to his ceiling. Rainman''s gonna need time and minutes. If I find the next Peter Shilton then yeah I''ll break the bank for you. If you can wait till next Monday I can give you a better idea but at a guess, I don''t think I can do two-five. Two-something, sure. So I know that isn''t really compelling but every year we''re in the EFL and we''re getting the TV money I''m going to have more budget. I can give you step-ups every year. If you stayed here for ten years you''d make way more than at Bradford."


    "If we go up," he said.


    "If we go up," I agreed.


    He was quiet then and I thought he was going to tell me he would see out his contract and wave buh-bye. He went in a different direction. He sort of hunched over, put his elbows on the table, and clamped his palms to his eyebrows. Sometimes he tore them away to gesticulate. "Four games to go. We''ve got Gateshead and that''s a challenge but if you want to be the best you''ve got to beat the best. Then it''s three easy games, as you said. Ten points from four gives us ninety-four. Ninety-four. Grimsby have two games where I think they might drop points. If they get two wins, two draws, that''s eight and that puts them on ninety-three. Three wins, one draw, that''s ninety-five. Aldershot will give them a good game, they''ve got players who can mark Danny Grant like you did, and the pressure must be getting to them. That Devon Loch stuff you did was brilliant. Harsh but funny and it sticks in the brain. It''ll be eating them up inside, won''t it?


    "They''ve got to drop points somewhere. Ninety-five points, I think they''ll get. So we have to beat Gateshead. Have to, Max. But there''s Barnet. They''re solid, like you said, but they''ve got the FA Trophy final looming and they''ve got Forest Green next. Will their lads want to save their legs for the trip to Wembley? They''ll want to win the league but Wembley, Max. It''ll be in the backs of their mind, won''t it? Forest Green weren''t all that when we played them, but they spent the FA Cup money, didn''t they? I wouldn''t want to play them as they are.


    "If Barnet lose one there will be two teams ahead and they might drop out of the race altogether and save their legs for a double date at Wembley." He stayed still for a moment. "If we beat Gateshead, I reckon that will be that for Barnet. They''ll be out of the running and it''ll be us against Grims." He pulled his fingers down his face, leaving little traces that soon vanished. I thought he had finished, but no. "If we draw and Grimsby win but Barnet lose..."


    I tapped the table. "Sticky. It''s been a chat for the ages. Don''t go to Bradford. Stick with us. I''ll make you rich. No hard feelings if you want to go home but if you stay here, don''t book any holidays for the summer."


    He was still going through the same calculations and permutations the entire city was suffering through. He blinked. "What do you mean?"


    "You had time off, didn''t you? So you don''t need a summer break. I want you training hard. I''ll hook you up with Jay-Mo for private sessions. I''ll send you to Tranmere. There will be a team from Gibraltar coming over to train - you''ll train with them. If you stay I''ll hit my contacts as hard as poss to get you more hours at the Welsh FA or whatever I can scrounge up so you can properly compete for the number one jersey next season. Er, unless I sign a superstar goalie. No, but you need to work hard anyway so I can rotate you in."


    He closed his eyes while he absorbed what I''d said. I think he was surprised that I had a plan for him beyond being an excellent coach - I hadn''t used him as much as I''d wanted in recent months. "How do you do it? How do you cope with the permutations? My head is spinning. 3 points for them, 1 point for them..."


    "Oh, my head is spinning, too. Since the final whistle at Rochdale I''ve been a mental washing machine. From there, into the spin dryer. Yeah, I''m thinking about it but I know that we have to do what we can. Beat Gateshead and see where the chips land. Attack the week, attack the day, stay positive. If we can take the season to the final day, yeah, I''m happy with that. If we lose to Gateshead, okay, we tap out and save our legs for the playoffs." I shook my head. "We''re in a cup final and no-one talks about it. I''m not so sure people in Barnet are saying they should bin off the league to win the FA Trophy. In fact, I''m sure it''s the other way round."


    "You can''t compare the Cheshire Cup to the FA Trophy; you don''t bin off a Wembley final. And listen, they''re playing Solihull in the final and they''ve got beef, those teams, so - Hey, Max! Max, come back!"


    I gave him an above-head thumbs up as I fled.


    ***


    I thought cutting the women was going to be hard, and it was, until it wasn''t. I started with Robyn, the third choice goalie. She had long since hit her maximum CA of 14 - far below the standards needed for the fourth tier of football.


    I used the sandwich technique on her and for once it bombed.


    "You''re letting me go. Is that it?"


    "I mean, sorry, but yes. We''ll be playing Doncaster Belles. Middlesborough. It''s going to be brutal and I have to be ruthless."


    "What about my next steps? You always give people a choice. You''ve got your Gibraltars and your Saltneys and your West Didsburys for everyone else. Why not me?"


    "Erm. Would you relocate to Manchester to play football for free?"


    She rolled her eyes. "Saltney''s right there."


    "There isn''t a women''s team."


    "Then start one."


    "I don''t have time."


    She tutted. "Get someone to do it. You can be charming sometimes. You''re gonna cut loads of the OGs from Chester, right? We want to keep playing. Let us be Saltney''s women''s team. Easy. We get to stick together."


    I shook my head. "You can be our five-a-side team if you want but I''m not cutting eighteen players. Also I''m on the hook financially and the facilities are going to be shit for a long time. I can''t put a lot of resources into it right now."


    She scoffed. "This is the problem with you. You want everything you do to be the best of the best. We want to play football, Max. It was nice winning every week but that''s not the point, is it? We want to play. Okay we could go and do Sunday league but we''ve played against Leeds, against Tranmere, against Crewe and Blackpool. We want something slightly more serious than Sunday league. I do, anyway."


    "Huh." I thought it through. I scanned my database - there were plenty of names not good enough for Chester who could play in whatever Welsh league a new team started in. And I was far from done scouting the local area. It''d be easy enough to put together a half-decent team. My Chester OGs plus some PA 20s. "Just for funsies?"


    Robyn twisted her lips. "90% funsies. 10% Max Best seriousness."


    "Erm, just to be clear, you won''t be training with Chester. Jackie doesn''t like big sessions. It''s a clean break."


    "Right."


    "And if you get injured I can''t pay for a private op. You have to wait like a normo. I mean, I''d try and, you know, help. But I''m, like..."


    "You''ll do what you can."


    I got a sort of puzzled look. "Okay so I''m gonna call the Welsh FA and tell them I''ve got a new team and what league can they play in? Is that how I''m gonna spend my evening?"


    "Yes, Max. Because that''s Chesterness."


    "Huh."


    "Check this out, though. Hang on." She fished in her sports bag and came up with a piece of paper. It was filled with fixtures, scorelines, crossed-out league tables. "I''ve been doing some basic probabilities and I think we can draw against Gateshead and - hey! Where are you going?"


    "Starting a football team. Big boy stuff. Bye!"


    ***


    Four Days to Gateshead


    The original plan was to meet Aff and drive to Manchester together, but Chester was absolutely doing my head in. Permutations! What ifs! The whole city seemed to be experts in Barnet''s head-to-head matchups and guys in cafes were telling me they''d heard from a friend who knew a guy that Danny Flash had an ankle sprain and Ed Williams had some bad lasagna and and and and and.


    It was undeniably awesome and a sign of how far the club had come under my stewardship, but it was also doing my head in. Thus, I legged it to Manchester where absolutely no-one gave a shit about the National League. I went to the care home and took Solly for a long walk - he was over the moon - only returning when I got a text from Aff.


    I met him and his mum - Angela, almost a comical stereotype of the overbearing Irish mother - and had a tea while I promised her Aff to Bradford was the best possible thing for him - she accepted the truth of it like I was a priest - and before we went into the home I explained how I liked new people to handle my mother. Don''t make a big fuss. Low energy. Don''t ask questions but make statements. Pretend you''ve been there for ages. Never contradict or point out a mistake. Bend like the wind, be as nimble as a mountain goat, leave plenty of silences. Most people heard this list and it made them fearful, as though I would bite their head off if they forgot one of the rules. But when we went and joined mum and Anna for a game of cards, Angela showed that she had understood me completely.


    There was a new mania in the care home for bridge - the place was all bids, rubbers, courts, and somehow everyone knew the difference between the King without a Moustache and the Man with the Axe. It wasn''t for me, but Aff knew how to play and so did his mum, so that became a four-ball. They put down cards and yelled ''snap'' or whatever the rules were while I sat back from the table with Solly at my feet.


    Time passed and I realised Angela wasn''t going to break my mother. I relaxed.


    Anna, mum''s best friend, a spiritual woman who worried I was in hot water with demonic entities, said, "Oh, fiddlesticks," and picked up all the cards, or whatever the rules were. "Max, my boy. How is work?"


    Mum looked at me with a pleased smile. Pleased that I had a job, I suppose. Pleased that I had brought my Irish friend from work; mum often used to talk absolute shit about our Irish roots. She was very much like Noel Gallagher in that respect. I chose my words carefully, noting the social intelligence in Angela''s eyes as I spoke. "It''s going great, actually. Really good. There are three teams having a good year and mine''s one of them. Our stats are a bit behind the others but I think we can overtake them. There''s a big prize at the end. A holiday."


    "Oh, I hope you win," said mum.


    "Course he will, Mary," said Angela. "He''s your son!" She did a rakish smile. "He''s probably got a few aces up his sleeve. Haven''t you, Max?"


    She was accusing my mum of cheating - correctly, as far as I could tell, though I''d never caught her in the act - but mum had an almost angelic expression on her face. I said, "It''s not about the winning. It''s the taking part that counts. Although I did transfer to one of the other teams for a while and they weren''t very friendly." Mum frowned. "I mean," I added, "some of them. Some were lovely." This wasn''t a good topic. I decided to change. "Aff got a promotion."


    "Oh, well done!" said Anna.


    "Max helped a lot," said Angela.


    "No," I demurred. "Aff is top boy. Top banana. He''d have done it on his own. Everyone knows how mint he is."


    "They do now," said Angela. "Because Max keeps tellin'' ''em. I''m ever so grateful, I am. He''s a wonderful man. I think he doesn''t know - he can''t know - what it means to have a true friend in this day and age."


    I was getting uncomfortable. "Well, with Aff''s new position we won''t exactly be friends. We will be chasing the same customers. We''ll sort of be rivals, in a way."


    "Don''t talk rot," said Angela. "You can fight over customers all you want but my son will never forget who lifted him up when he was down in the muck. Tell him, Aff."


    That got my attention! Angela had called her son ''Diarmuid'' without exception, and I had hesitantly asked her to call him by his nickname so mum didn''t get confused by the multiple names. The look on Aff''s face suggested he had never heard the nickname out of his mum''s mouth, either, and I felt an overwhelming surge of affection for them both that I couldn''t show there in the home.


    Aff cleared his throat. "Ah, that''s right, buh... Max." He''d nearly called me boss. "I was thinking though."


    "Yes?"


    "Your team, right. They''ve got to, er... have good stats on Saturday. But, ah... Team G, they''ve got the, um, army customers to sell to. And Team B have to go to the um, vegan convention and from what I hear, there are more vegans than expected. So I''m thinking our team, that is, Team C might get a big lead on Saturday."


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "How about," I said, smiling with my mouth and only my mouth, "we don''t speculate about such things and simply do our best to delight our customers and satisfy their needs while upholding the good image of the large, multinational bank we all work for which has never committed any crimes and has not received two billion-pound plus fines in the past five years."


    Aff tried to follow what I was saying, but I had switched metaphors half-way through. "Okay, but if you think about it, ten points might be enough because - "


    "Aff, love, shush up there. Max, I was wondering." Angela eyed me significantly and I lasered in on her. "When you win this prize and you go on your holiday, who''ll look after," she darted her eyes around, "your flat? Who''ll water your plants and defrost your fridge?"


    "How long will this holiday be?" wondered my mum, astonished. I wasn''t sure if she was joking.


    "Well," I said. "I''ve got people who can do a day here or there. Someone to take the bins out," I said, looking down at Solly. He looked up at me, doleful. Me? A bin? "But I don''t want to take the pee, if you know what I mean. I try to spread it around."


    "I''ll help," said Aff.


    "I normally take the bins out when there are joggers," I said. "It''s surprising the conversations you can have."


    Aff''s eyes widened. "I''ll help twice a week."


    Angela went, "Hem hem. Sure now that''s very interesting but I think we have to be going now. Max, you''re coming our way, right? Will we give you a lift?"


    "Oh, great. Perfect. Mum, I''ll head off."


    I did the goodbyes, floating on air. Angela had spotted, to the second, the moment my mum had run out of gas.


    Outside, Angela was beaming. "Aw, sure she''s lovely. So''s Anna. So''s the dog. It''s put me mind at rest. I''m glad I came."


    Aff was counting on his fingers. "Barnet get seven points," he mumbled. "Puts them on 92..."


    I hesitated, then hugged Angela. "You were perfect. Absolutely perfect. Thank you so much."


    "It''s no trouble. You want what''s best for your ma. Who am I to do it different? After what you''ve done for my Diarmuid."


    "Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four. No good. Got to beat Gateshead."


    "Yeah but everyone tries their best and they overdo it or underdo it. You were spot on. You''re a natural. You know, it''s okay in there, the home, but the staff turnover rate is mad. I want stability. If I had the money I''d send mum and Anna to live with someone like you." I was just thinking out loud but the Dubhlainns froze, looked at me, looked at each other. "What? Did I say something ignorant? Sorry."


    Aff put his hand on my arm. "Ma''s here because she''s got time because she''s been made redundant. She used to be a carer before this last job. The money was bad but she was happy. I was only saying she should go back into it, now I''ve got a decent wedge coming in."


    I was suddenly incredibly unhappy. It was like I''d found the perfect person to look after my mum if only I could afford it. But the riches I needed were still just out of reach. So near, so far. I spun my finger around. "We''d need a house nearby, close to professional care. I''d need to pay you. Anna needs to come, too. She''s huge for mum. So''s Solly. That''s two plus dog plus house plus decorating it in the 80s style. I''m not quite there. Another year, yeah. Um..."


    Suddenly Aff had his arms around me. "Come on, boss. Come on. Let''s go for a walk. You show me those joggers, yeah? Ma''s gonna wait here. Find out what the options are. Aren''t you, ma?"


    "Yes, Aff. I''ll have a poke around. Aww. Don''t, son. You''ll set me off, too."


    ***


    Part Two - Deva Deserted


    One Day to Gateshead


    The evening air was crisp and I was walking around the side of the pitch with Emma. It was just the two of us in the entire Deva. Technically speaking we weren''t allowed to have the floodlights on; I didn''t give a shit.


    Tomorrow''s match meant the world. If we won and other results went our way, I would triple my salary - don''t tell Sticky - and if I started taking money from the ever-growing R.E.M. agency, I would perhaps be able to move Angela over from Ireland and hugely increase the level of care my mum got. I mean, talk about motivation.


    But it was too much. Mum, dentists, the ability to sign hordes of Exit Triallists and retain the talent I had, it was all too much. I hadn''t cut a swathe through two divisions by worrying and fretting about every point, every bit of goal difference. Our rise had been fun, at times silly, and we had played some extraordinary, extraordinarily fearless football. When we had been in danger of relegation I had asked players like Glenn, Sam, and Aff to transform how they thought and to play with their cojones all the way out - not literally, that would be illegal - and the results spoke for themselves.


    "Seventy thousand people are thinking in threes and ones," I said, as we walked hand in hand around the touchline. "I haven''t had a conversation all week that didn''t end with people asking what the criteria were for deciding tiebreakers."


    Emma got shifty. "Remind me what they are."


    I started to sigh but it came out more as a smile. I squeezed her hand. It was soft and cold and delicate. "Points. Goal difference. Goals scored. Number of matches won - not many people know that one. Head to head. If all that''s equal somehow, it''s a playoff."


    "Max," she complained. "It''s so confusing. Why are there so many things?"


    "It''s mostly simple. Who''s got the most points? Not us. Not yet. Goal difference. We''re behind but in any scenario where we catch up on points, we catch up on goal difference, too. It''s all very, very close. What''s not close is goals scored. We are miles ahead. Marcus Wainwright did his best but we''ve scored 82 goals in a supposedly bad season. We are magnificent."


    "Ahem."


    "Right so we''d win on that unless Grimsby went on a goal spree while we got a couple of one-nils. Number of matches won applies if you''ve got the same points but one team won 2 games and the other team drew 6, if you see what I mean."


    "I do. They want teams to score goals and go for the win."


    "Right. We would have the edge there because we didn''t draw many games. We lost a lot, but we won loads."


    "Boom or bust."


    "Exactly. Head to head is the most confounding one. We beat Grimsby twice but lost to Barnet twice."


    "So we''d rather be tied with Grimsby than Barnet."


    "Well, yes, but Barnet didn''t sack me and cost me fifty grand, did they? With fifty grand I could do something really nice for my mum. A place with a big garden. We could make a little adventure playground for Solly. A mini Crufts." I bent and swept my palm across the top of the grass. "Jonny worked his arse off. I need to get him a raise. Equipment. Staff." I dug knuckles into my temples. "The past and future press on me so hard there''s little space for the present."


    I was starting to spiral when Emma pulled me up and turned me to face her. She put her hands on my cheeks and looked from my left eye to my right like they teach in some acting schools. "Max. If he knew you were stressed because of him, he''d be mortified. He works for you. He''s behind you. He does this so you''ll be able to strut around like a peacock winding people up. You''re the only manager in non-league who would ever make their star prospects grab a fork at half time and undo the damage they did celebrating goals. You''re almost as much of a pitch maniac as he is. He''s in absolute awe of you, same as the young players. You''re always worried they''ll leave but you don''t see how they hero worship you." She pushed her lips together, deliciously. I forgot most of my worries. "You promised me fearless football."


    "I did."


    "Tell me what you''re going to do tomorrow."


    "Spoiler alert," I said.


    "Tell me," she said. It wasn''t a pout but it was provocative.


    "Well," I said, and I found my lips were twitching like hers. I turned her to face the pitch and put my arms around her. I whispered in her ear the way she liked. "They''re expecting me to start. But I''ve got a little surprise for them..."


    ***


    Part Three - A Twitch Upon the Thread


    One Minute to Kick Off


    The attendance was over 5,000, the atmosphere febrile. The TV companies had chosen the matches to broadcast before this title race had developed, so they were showing precisely zero games on the day that surely had the highest density of quality, the highest stakes, the highest chance for drama. Leaders Grimsby against sixth-placed Aldershot. Second-placed Barnet against eighth-placed Forest Green Rovers. Third-placed Chester against fifth-placed Gateshead. The potential ramifications were mind-boggling, as everyone in Chester knew all too well.


    I put out a 3-4-3 that would more or less match Gateshead''s formation.


    In goal, Ben Cavanagh. CA 65. Reliable, agile, half-decent with the ball at his feet.


    Three centre backs. Christian Fierce, tall with telescopic legs, CA 74. Carl Carlile, CA 72. No longer in demand, but sold. Zach Green. Not for sale, but very much in demand. CA 64.


    Midfield. Aff (72); Ryan Jack (62); Youngster (76); Andrew Harrison (54). Lots of legs. Lots of stamina. Lots of running.


    Strikers: Henri, CA 72. So completely obsessed with the title race his dream woman had slipped to second place in his list of desires. Did she resent the change? Ah, no. If you thought Brooke was thirsty... Pascal, also 72. The Magnus Carlsen of the title race permutations. Unlike most of the squad, he had calculated the odds to scientific perfection and then got back to watching tape of Gateshead''s defenders. Not just calculating the odds, then, but tilting them in his favour. This was the absolute best version of Pascal, and I had him at the absolute perfect time.


    Finally, the theoretical weak link of the team, Wes Hayward. Wayward Hayward, CA 47. Improving him had been beyond a slog. When my coaches had despaired of him learning the lessons, of him ever taking a tiny pause in his dribbles to make decisions, of him getting his head up to look around him, I had listened in stony silence and taken the next session myself, lavishing Wes with attention and praise. The message: never give up. Leave no man behind. What did you say? Except Chipper? Yeah, good joke. But seriously, we had invested hundreds of man-hours and Sandra-hours into Wes Hayward and while it hadn''t exactly paid off, I tried to convince myself it didn''t matter. His pace caused conniptions. I had never seen a defence that wasn''t bolstered in some way by a midfielder once Sharky had gone from halfway to the byline in three seconds flat. The guy''s speed was its own reality distortion field.


    The curse rated Gateshead as CA 72. We were CA 66.4. Our absolute peak, if I had selected Eddie Moore instead of Sharky, was just shy of 68. That is to say, our best eleven, excluding myself, was the eighth best in the National League. Make of that what you will.


    My bench was Sticky (48), Glenn (54), Wisey (56), Wibbers (47), and myself. Sandra wanted to put Magnus on the bench instead of Wisey, and that made sense because he was a little better and much more versatile, but I had a gut feeling that excluding Wisey completely after my talk would do lasting damage. I couldn''t find a way to get a left back on the bench, so if Aff got injured I would be the only guy who could do a defensive job on the left. The starting line up was a risk. The subs bench was a risk.


    The kind of risk I had been taking since the day I was cursed.


    One thing I was fairly sure about: This was the strongest squad since the death of Chester City. It felt good. It felt right. What could go wrong?


    ***


    45''


    Extract from Seals Live


    Boggy: The ref blows his whistle. Half time at the Deva Stadium! That was a stupendously exciting forty-five minutes, but one which did not go the way of the hosts. A neat move from Gateshead was tucked away by the dynamic forward Oli Thompson, thought to be admired by Chester manager Max Best. Christian Fierce equalised with a savage header from an Aff corner, and carnage ensued. It was entertaining, perhaps to an extreme. Watching Gateshead was like watching Chester from the end of last season when teams melted under the heat of their passing brilliance, but today''s Chester are doing to Gateshead what Gateshead are doing to Chester. It was all very bewildering and at times took on the form of a basketball game. Shot followed shot followed shot. A bumper crowd certainly got their money''s worth.


    But with results going against us, it is perhaps telling that Gateshead''s second goal was met not with sorrow but with knowing nods from those fans who have not been to a Chester match in years. Hundreds have been drawn back to the Deva as EFL fever has swept the city. Those old hands were thinking: This isn''t new. We''ve been here before. We''ve seen this before. Many of these old heads last saw football of this quality in the days of Smasho and Nice One, and we can only hope they will come back, because the recent run has been truly special. Truly special.


    The state of affairs at half time is thus: Chester 1, Gateshead 2. Grimsby 1, Aldershot 0. Forest Green Rovers 1, Barnet 1. As it stands, Chester would finish the day on 84 points. Barnet 86. Grimsby Town 88.


    It has been an incredible run. An unbelievable phase in Chester''s history. The playoffs beckon, but formidable as Gateshead are, all is not lost. On Chester''s bench sit Captain Ryder, James Wise, and Steve Icke, three wily old campaigners. Does the game need an old head? Take your pick! Or does it, perhaps, need an injection of chaos? Of pace, purpose, and playfulness? Please come to the stage, William B. Roberts and Max Best himself.


    I promise neither goals nor the result we all so fervently desire, but I feel safe in guaranteeing the second half will be compelling, one way or another. Join us in fifteen minutes.


    ***


    In the dressing room, we went through our usual routine. The walking wounded got treatment while the centre backs murmured to each other about the issues they were having. The squad''s Condition rose through the break, as it always did, with very perceptible little boosts provided by the April Fuels perk.


    The mood was calm and quiet, but more in the direction of sombre than confident. First, the lads had heard the scores from the other matches. Second, we were close to our best but we had still been outplayed. There were times The Tynesiders cut through us like a hot knife through melted butter. We carried some goal threat of our own, but I think everyone in the room, deep down, knew we weren''t going to win. The risk-reward of our playing styles was weighted very much in Gateshead''s favour. I let the quiet stretch out enough to let some of the more highly strung lads get receptive to the discussion I wanted to have with them.


    "All right, lads, listen up." I started near the tactics board and walked at turtle pace around the middle bench. "We''ve got to tweak something but I just want to make sure everyone hears this right now because at full time we''re all gonna be high or low because of the result. That was absolutely mint, guys. No-one''s playing badly, we''re crisp with our passes, and there''s spirit and togetherness.


    "Henri gave me some notes the other day," I said, rummaging in my backpack for some pieces of white card. "He wants me to use Brideshead Revisited as a theme for a team talk. I looked into it and it''s even more obscure and weird than talking about evolving rocks and megashrimp. But you know what? Fuck it. Let''s talk about a book only one of us has read."


    "I''ve read it, too, boss," said Pascal.


    "You''ve read that but not The Da Vinci Code. Incredible." I looked at the first card. "Part One of the story is called Et In Arcadia Ego which is Latin for ''sorry I am unable to translate this right now.''"


    Henri laughed. "Arcadia is a beautiful slice of nature. In a painting by Poussin we see a tomb in Arcadia. Even here, in the idyllic countryside, there is death."


    "Jesus Christ," I said. "Keep it light."


    "Mon dieu. You''re so Victorian sometimes. Death is part of life."


    "Great. Fine. What''s dying today? Our season? No. We''re still in this and there''s the playoffs. Season very much alive. Okay so that doesn''t work. Next. Part Two is called Brideshead Deserted. Everyone fucks off and leaves the big house empty. Yeah, no. That''s not us. There are over five thousand people in today. That''s the regulars, anyone who''s been to a match this season, plus a thousand more. I reckon five hundred are totally new and five hundred used to write Chester City in the ''what''s your religion'' section on forms but haven''t been in years. They''ve lapsed. They''ve backslidden. So what have they seen?" I stopped moving. "That was the highest quality match in this league this entire season. You know I get bombastic with this stuff but is this the best non-league game in history? It might be. The quality is unreal on both sides. You can''t like football and not love what you''ve just seen. We just added a permanent five hundred to our attendances." I slapped the card. "This doesn''t work, Henri!"


    "It''s working for me."


    I looked around. Okay, it was working. It didn''t matter that no-one had read the book or watched the adaptation or even heard of it. It was just a platform for me to tell them how I felt. "Okay. Part Three. A Twitch Upon the Thread. I looked up what it meant and it''s from a quote. Here, guys, let me read it to you and see if it motivates you to work harder in the second half. A detective has caught a thief and he''s bragging. The detective says, ''I caught him with an unseen hook and an invisible line long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread.'' Right. So the detective is the referee and the thread is his whistle. Something like that?"


    Pascal said, "The detective is you, boss. The thread is our strategy. You pull on the thread and we change formation."


    "Huh." I was at the whiteboard and I unconsciously slid the third centre back magnet forward into the DM slot.


    "Pardon me, Pascal," said Henri. "But the theme of Brideshead is religion. God is a fisherman and he may pull us back to him at any time he likes."


    Youngster perked up. "Mr. Lyons, may I borrow your copy of the book?"


    "Of course."


    "You won''t like it," I said. "It''s all old. There isn''t a single explosion and almost no time travel."


    Youngster smiled. "Do you believe in God, Mr. Best?"


    I checked the time. Still ages to go in the break. I needed to talk to Sandra about the second half, but I felt a distraction from the stress and pressure of the game could be welcome. "I believe in the devil. Not sure if that means there''s a God or not."


    "It does."


    "I think I generally live my life like there''s some sort of cosmic referee. If I break the rules I might get squashed flat, that sort of thing. I don''t think the guy from the book you read is what''s out there, no."


    "In Togo we prayed at half time. I would be happy to lead us in prayer."


    I did a small scoff. "Okay I watch NFL games and both teams get into a huddle to pray and here''s one thing I know for an absolute fact: God does not give a shit about the final score between the Green Bay Packers and the Cleveland Browns. How could he? Both teams have players praying for a win. If it was Christians versus heathens, yeah, that would make sense."


    Zach said, "Not even God loves the Browns." I think he would have liked a high five.


    "God is watching you, Mr. Best" said Youngster. "He''s watching over you. He has a higher purpose for your life."


    "Great, well he can start by undoing what he did to my mother."


    "Mr. Best," complained Youngster. He got frustrated, but tried again. "You can take better care of your mother by winning this game. Let us pray for victory together."


    "No," I said. "No chance. My teams will never do that. We will have Christians and Muslims and Sikhs and atheists and crystal people and things that haven''t been invented yet. We''re not doing eight different pre-match prayers and we''re certainly not only doing one. It''s all or nothing, and I think it''s obvious what the best alternative is. We don''t pray to win, we train to win. So you pray before you train. Lord, help me be the very best I can be in this fast feet drill. Do you get me?" He gave a sad little nod. I looked down at my card. "What was the phrase again? A twitch upon the thread. It''s a beautiful image, by the way. Okay, so if I''m on God''s fishing line, he needs to give it a little twitch, because - "


    The DM magnet jumped off the tactics board. I stared at it, stupefied. I examined the back of the frame and peered down at the floor to see if someone had thrown something.


    Sandra said, "I don''t think God likes your new formation."


    I bent to pick up the magnet and placed it on the board. It stuck. I pulled it from side to side. It was solidly on there. "Er..."


    Henri also came to check the back of the tactics board. He frowned and after a moment, slid all the magnets off to the side. "I agree with God. We''re not ready for this."


    I started to slide the magnets back. "3-4-3 is our best chance for a win. We all did the maths, God knows we did. A draw today''s as bad as a defeat. We have to go for it."


    "A draw isn''t as bad as a defeat, Max. Perhaps my wonderful theme can help you decide." He reached out and took my cards. He skimmed through and handed them back. "You only read the Wikipedia article. One of the other key themes is that of home. Captain Ryder gains and loses a home. A sick man returns home to die."


    I stopped fussing with the magnets and spoke in a low, dreamy voice. "Footballers go home. I build a home for my OGs. I buy a home for my mum. Chester go home - to the football league." I stared at the magnets and the white space around them. What was home when it came to formations? 4-4-2? Please. No, I knew straight away what the universe wanted me to do. It didn''t make sense, though. If I made this change the entertainment value would be cut by 80% and our odds of winning would fall by a similar amount. We could win the second half one-nil and get a draw. A draw was useless. White space. White for angels. Angela. An Irish angel. If we scored one, we could score two. Maybe. Not very likely. The change I was contemplating meant we would get a draw at best. A draw! It wasn''t me.


    But our title charge was on its last legs and it was time for a deathbed conversion.


    One point was better than none.


    I took a leap of faith.


    I stood in front of the whiteboard, blocking the view from most of the players. I grabbed two magnets and swept them across, then two more, two more.


    "Home," I said, stepping away. "We don''t even need to make any subs. That''s how good we are."


    "4-1-4-1," said Vimsy, as though smiling at an old friend.


    "Aff goes to left back. Pascal left mid, Sharky right. Easy. We will get a grip on midfield, cut down the number of attacks from both sides. We''ll slow things down, build attacks, take the sting out of the game."


    "Control," said Sandra.


    "Control, that''s it. Okay so the full backs are going to have to stay back so it''ll be hard to slap. Without the full backs bombing forward, Henri will be isolated. We''re not going to have twenty shots in the second half." I closed my eyes. Was this right? "Gateshead might get two shots. We''ll get four. That''s..." It wasn''t just a question of mentality. We could go hell for leather and probably lose. Attacking a team who were better at attacking wasn''t smart. It wouldn''t pay the bills. "That''s the best we can do. Forget the other scores, like I said. We need to do what we can do. This is us for the second half." I nodded, getting more confident. "Ryan and Andrew, put a shift in. Can we tire their CMs out? I''ll put Wisey on when you get tired. I''ll replace the other one myself. I''ll do a Raffi Brown impression."


    Sandra shook her head. "Max Best, box to box midfielder?"


    "Yep. I need to think if I can do twenty-five minutes or half an hour. Lads, we control the game, yeah? Youngster, don''t be afraid of the scoreboard. That''s our ball. Go backwards if you need to. Absolutely fine with that. We''ll take a bit more risk when I bomb forward, yeah? I''ll support Henri in the box, we slap down one wing, the other winger backs up on the other side. Full backs stay back. We will get three, four, five big chances, but the most important thing at all times is to keep a solid rest defence. Youngster, I don''t want you crossing halfway, okay? They don''t get another break this game. That''s the foundation and we see what we can build. Everyone happy with that?" I picked up the notes I''d made about Brideshead Revisited and smiled. "Here''s a quote that''s actually useful! No one is ever holy without suffering. No one ever won three points without suffering. Let''s fucking go."


    Glenn and Christian Fierce clapped and yelled and the lads followed them out. Youngster pulled Zach to the side. "God loves the Cleveland Browns."


    Zach didn''t blink. "I know he does, y''all. Hey, I''ll pray with you."


    Youngster turned to look at me. I said, "You don''t need my permission, dude. Not in here, though." They left. The Brig and I were the last ones in the dressing room. I asked him to step out for a second. When I was alone I slid my hand around the back of the tactics board, finding nothing out of the ordinary. I compared the DM magnet with the others. They were identical.


    If I was ever going to pray, it was then.


    I settled on taking the DM magnet, the one that had jumped. The Brig bodyguarded me along the corridor and I emerged into the Deva where thousands of people were hoping to have a religious experience of their own. I tried to stick the magnet onto the side of the dugout but it wasn''t magnetic.


    "I''ll hold it for you," said Vimsy.


    My staff and I stood almost shoulder to shoulder in the technical area as the second half got underway. One by one we retreated into the dugouts. It was going to be a long forty-five minutes.


    ***


    50''


    Boggy: Fascinating start to the second half, this. Chaos has been replaced by order. Chester''s formation allows them to dominate the sides. Gateshead have three forwards who like to drop and find spaces between the lines but Youngster has been stationed there and Oli Thompson is finding it much harder to get involved. I would go as far as to say Chester are on top, although that comes at a cost. They haven''t produced much in an attacking sense, though it is early days. Harrison with a good tackle. He gets up and there''s a second collision. Hayward pounces on the stray ball. He''s in acres of space on the right! The crowd rise. Hayward, er... Lyons slips. Hayward, head down, five yards from the byline. He crosses! There''s no-one there! He didn''t even look.


    The crowd groan. Lyons shrugs at Hayward. What are you doing? Thousands more have the same question. Hayward''s head drops. Lyons spots it. He jogs across, arm around the winger. Lyons gestures to the crowd. They''re on their feet! Goosebumps. Lyons is revving them up and they''re responding. He gives the winger one last piece of encouragement and jogs back to the centre. Hayward walks alone down his wing. Not alone! He''s getting a standing ovation. Standing O as Zach Green calls it. What a day.


    ***


    55''


    Sustained spell of pressure from Gateshead. They are passing it around with ease.


    Oli Thompson drops short and gathers on the half turn. He glides away from Youngster.


    Thompson checks for movement in the box. Youngster is blocking the angle.


    Thompson continues his dribble. He fakes to retreat but bursts forward.


    Youngster is next to him.


    Thompson brings the ball into the box. Youngster must be careful now!


    Thompson can''t find a cross. He tries to nutmeg the defensive midfielder.


    Youngster brings the ball away and passes left.


    The home fans love it.


    60''


    Boggy: Aff feeds Bochum. The German touches back and sprints. Aff chips down the line. Bochum dabs the ball forward and skips a sliding tackle. He''s in space! Lyons comes to give an option - no! He darts to the far post. Bochum looks isolated. Ryan Jack is closest but he doesn''t have the legs to get there. Aff would normally support but he has been told to stay back, it looks like. Bochum assesses, touches the ball left, left again. He has turned all the way around! Passes to Jack. Harrison. Youngster. The young man checks his options. He waves. Settle down! He rolls the ball to Carlile and Chester build again. There''s a murmur of discontent from the crowd, but applause from the Harry McNally! The women''s squad is there; they understand better than most. The applause spreads.


    Fans: Chester! Chester!


    Boggy: Patience from the home fans! Trust the process! And with that they have summoned the High Priest of Chesterness! Max Best goes to warm up. He should jog past me in a moment. Let''s check his expression. Hmm. Unreadable. Is that tension? He turns to the main stand. Hands pressed together in prayer. He kisses his fingertips and sends the kisses into the stand! Big smile from the manager! Yes, that''s definitely... one way to address the tension.


    61''


    "Replacing number 19, Ryan Jack, number 8, James Wise."


    62''


    Chester 1 Gateshead 2.


    Grimsby 1 Aldershot 0.


    Forest Green Rovers 1 Barnet 1.


    65''


    I gave Andrew Harrison a high ten as I replaced him. "Get that ankle checked out," I said.


    I jogged next to Wisey and asked him for his assessment of Gateshead. "They''re amazing," he said. "Top outfit. Why aren''t they top of the league?"


    I smiled. "I''ll show you."


    66''


    While I was getting up to speed in the match I was also experimenting with our left-hand side. I had two main options for how to use my deformation. One was to push Aff from left back to left wing back. The other was to move Pascal one zone further forward to be more of a true winger. I decided pretty quickly that I preferred the latter. Gateshead had tricky forward players and it wasn''t smart to give them more room to exploit. Pascal would be our out ball.


    I set up the WibWob screens and created hotkeys so that when we were out of possession, Pascal would play a normal role, but as soon as we got the ball I would switch him to go further forward. I created a hotkey for Sharky, too, so I could mix things up. Since his wasteful cross, he had been playing safe. He was still useful to the team because Gateshead were afraid of his pace, but I didn''t hold out much hope of Sharky creating anything. If Gateshead scored again I would replace him with Wibbers. The young man was equally erratic at this stage of his career, was worse defensively, and was inconsistent. He could win the game for us, or lose it.


    Zach competed for a header and it blooped up. He was onto the second ball quickly, taking it on his chest as he ran forward past the line of Youngster. The kid automatically moved into the space Zach had left. Who taught him that? Zach sent the ball to Wisey.


    "Left," I called, just before Wisey gathered. He obediently turned and weighed up his options. He played it safe to Aff. One good thing about having a winger type in the back line was Aff''s willingness to play harder passes. He smacked a diagonal to my feet. I first-timed it to Pascal out on the touchline. We had carved Gateshead open and now all but Gateshead''s back three seemed madly out of position.


    I sprinted to give Pascal an option. He played it to me slightly behind square. I sensed a midfielder sprinting to get back to my right, so I dropped a shoulder, let the ball run through my legs, and ran in the direction of the far touchline. The guy must have got a slight touch on the ball, which was annoying because it wasn''t where I needed it to be for a pass to Henri. I dabbed it left footed into my path and it rolled onto the nice patch of grass that had the injection of stitching.


    Boggy: Aff. Best - that''s brilliant! Bochum. Square ball. Best dips, what? He''s... what a dummy! Ball sits up nice. Will he have a crack? He will, you know! Best! Ohhhh!


    Home Fans: [Roar.]


    Boggy: Just over!


    Away Fans: [Jeer.]


    Boggy: Just over the bar from distance! That was fearsome. I thought he had struck it too high - I mean, he had - but it dipped wickedly. Too late; it went over by a few feet, but he hit it from 35 yards out! The keeper was totally stranded. That''s given the crowd a lift. The hope is back! The scores in the other matches are not pretty reading but there''s time left. Best is strutting around. The confidence of youth. Why didn''t I have any of that when I was young?


    70''


    Gateshead kept playing the way they played. 3-4-3 for life, though we could quibble about whether it was 3-4-2-1. Their orthodoxy was the pass. They had phases where they kept the ball for long stretches, but when they went to our left I supported Pascal in his pressing and we caused turnovers. When they got near Youngster it was an almost guaranteed interception. The ball was attracted to him like a... Like a magnet!


    We had less joy on our right. Wes wasn''t a natural defender or presser and Carl was being extremely disciplined. If he went hunting the ball he would leave space behind him.


    I was generally happy with how we were dealing with Gateshead''s possessions, even if they were running the clock down in what was a very mildly slightly terrifying way. I reacted by getting even more cocky when I was on the ball. Even more annoying and cartoonish but there was a purpose to it. I wanted to project a feeling that we had this. We were on top and we didn''t need to panic. If my players knew how I was really feeling, how my insides were being torn apart, we wouldn''t have stood a chance.


    71''


    Boggy: Gateshead with plenty of men behind the ball; they''ve been forced back. Best walks with the ball, puts his foot on it. A despairing cry comes from the stand. Best gives the shouter a thumbs up. Double thumbs up! He gestures towards the name and number on his back! It''s too much for Collington. He flies into a tackle. Best''s away. He rolls the ball to Wise. Wise to Lyons. He''s being manhandled - falls over! Nothing given! Lyons jabs a foot at the ball, sends it to Best, shooting chance! He takes a touch instead, checks for options. Lyons is up. He makes a run to the right. Best will pass - no! He moves left. Cuts between two defenders. Wants to hit it on his left - good defending there. Best pauses... clips the ball left to Bochum. There''s no Aff overlap. Best, head down, makes up the ground instead. Bochum touches the ball, Best first time, Bochum into the penalty area - foul! He''s fouled! It must be a penalty! It must be a penalty!


    Fans: [Shout unholy things.]


    Boggy: He''s given a free kick! I can''t believe it. It''s near the corner of the penalty area. Fantastic angle for Best. I would like to order one Max Best special, if I may. Aff comes to offer an alternate angle. The visitors are lining up a wall. Is that a five-man wall? That''s excessive. And now they''ve realised their mistake. Menacing the back post Chester have Fierce, Green, Carlile, Lyons. Almost everyone, in fact. Youngster and Bochum are on the halfway line to defend against breaks. Best and Aff in deep conversation. Best using his hand to show the possible angles of a cross. I think he''ll shoot. He''ll shoot. Christian Fierce will fancy himself to bag his second of the game on a cross, though.


    Fans: [Hushed prayers.]


    Boggy: Will it be Best? No, he runs over the ball. Aff to curl an awayswinger... Aff passes straight ahead! There''s no defender picking up the short routine! Best is at the byline. He smashes the ball left-footed square - turned in! Turned into the net by Lyons! Chester are level.


    Fans: [Ecstasy.]


    Boggy: Chester are level! It''s all square! Gateshead wanted a big wall to stop Best shooting but that left them short. No one short for a short one. This is Gateshead''s problem - concentrating! So many basic lapses driving their fans crazy. But now what? What''s next? First we need to get the Chester players back - they''re in the Harry McNally!


    72-82''


    The best way to describe the next ten minutes is that I disconnected from reality. There wasn''t a title race and a million pounds on the line, there was simply a whole load of Gateshead players trying to smash into me every time I got the ball, and smash into me they did. I should have rolled around and dragged the time out. It might not have changed the result, but the other two matches would have finished before ours and I would have known what was needed. I didn''t think of that until much later, because I was busy.


    I got smashed late in midfield, got up to ask my assailant if that was all he had - handbags ensued while the stadium went absolutely bonkers - then I tried to solo dribble the entire world before being smashed again. No free kick on the second one, which Gateshead took as the signal that it was open season on my ankles.


    I got smashed on the left and after some pinball and bad rebounds, Youngster was isolated against this guy Collington. Youngster did well but then came an overlap and a simple pass and - and nothing. Because I had got to my feet, gingerly at first, seen the danger, and sprinted fifty yards. I took the ball clean as a whistle, but left a bit on the guy just for laughs, causing him to go flying. Thompson, normally a mild sort, saw red and came to equalise, but I dabbed the ball through his legs and sent it ahead to Zach, who tried to ping one to Sharky on the right.


    I got smashed competing for a header - a stray elbow on the back of my head. That time I did stay down - he''d got me right on the old wound. Bones are supposed to heal stronger than before, but the impact still sent my poor little brain bouncing around like a kid in a bouncy castle. I stayed still while I checked if I could still calculate pi to two hundred million decimal places - piece of piss.


    The two Jameses, Wise and Yalley, pulled me to my feet. Again, I was in no hurry to do anything before Dean came to examine me, so it was very strange to me when, about six seconds after I stood up, a small cheer went up in the West stand. A similar one erupted in the McNally. Me being me I assumed it was because they were happy to see me on my feet, but the noise kept spreading.


    Then it clicked and I went into the Live Scores screen.


    Forest Green Rovers 2 Barnet 1.


    "Oh!" I said.


    "What?" said Wisey, worried about my yelp. "What?"


    "Forest Green scored, I think. That was the cheer. Erm, what do we do?"


    "Go for the win," said Youngster.


    "No, a point''s great," said Wisey. "Hold the point! That''s us level with Barnet but we''ve got better goal difference. We go second and hope Grimsby drop points somewhere."


    "Erm," I said. I had been sprinting around a lot more than in most games, fighting like a tiger when Gateshead broke our midfield line and then turning around to try to get to be a second striker. "I don''t know."


    "Ask Miss Lane," said Youngster.


    "Yeah, good call. Hey!" I said, being way too loud. They flinched. "Go to the sideline and eat some marathon paste. Make sure everyone does. That''s an order."


    While Dean palpated my head - it was my ankles he should have been worried about - and my players got their second Condition boost, I asked Sandra what she wanted.


    "Fucking keep this point, Max. Keep this point. Barnet aren''t going to outscore us in the last games, no way. So that''s them out. One down, one to go!"


    "She''s right," said Vimsy. "That''s right."


    I looked at the Live Table.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>As It Stands</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>88</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    "But Grimsby are three points ahead."


    Sandra gripped my chest. "It doesn''t matter. We need them to lose one. Today we knock Barnet out, but only if we keep this point! Break with Pascal and Sharky but don''t you fucking dare let Gateshead score another!"


    "But if Grimsby draw their next one they''ll still be ahead of us."


    "But if we press too hard now we will LOSE, Max! Remember the first half! Keep what we''ve got. Please."


    I moved my jaw around - it made little clicking noises. I gently pushed Dean away. "Fine. Eight in the rest defence. But I''m not going to the corner!"


    83''


    I played a sort of false midfield role, lining up next to Wisey but then dropping to DM. I was sure Gateshead thought we were still in 4-1-4-1 but in fact Wisey was working overtime harrying and hurrying while Youngster and I mopped up. The Expected Threat from both teams was close to zero.


    84''


    A cheer rose and spread. I checked the scores - nothing had changed. False alarm.


    85''


    The away fans were starting fake cheers - an hilarious jape, I''m sure you''ll agree. To be fair, it unnerved us. We were tentative on the ball. We produced zero quality. Gateshead were doing all the passing moves and were starting to build a head of steam.


    86''


    A fake roar was followed by a derisive jeer that was followed by another half-hearted cheer. But something had changed! Something had changed!


    Grimsby 1 Aldershot 1.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>As It Stands</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>86</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Gateshead had the ball but I didn''t care. I ran to Sandra. "We go for it now, right?"


    "No! Fucking get back out there!"


    87''


    The noise was mad, echoing off the walls like in a cathedral. A cathedral full of sinners, boozed up after a week spent calculating the odds. Many gambling apps were open while their owners hovered a finger over the ''cash out'' button. More sin to the left as fans swore and took the Lord''s name in vain. I dropped into the back line for a moment, anticipating a cross that might come in. Brooke coveted my neighbour''s ass. Emma murdered a bag of crisps.


    And right there on the pitch, not ten yards away from me, the most saintly amongst us stole the ball and broke clear.


    I knew this was the moment.


    I fell to my haunches and thought about my mother.


    Boggy: Collington dawdles on the ball. Youngster nicks it off his toes! Chester look fitter, that''s for sure. The Ghanaian youth international bursts forward. Sharky stays wide right. Youngster goes left to Bochum. The German cuts diagonally across the pitch. Look at the speed! He''s got options - not Youngster. He has retreated to halfway. Max Best is just outside his own penalty area. The wrong end, Max! Lyons demands the ball, Bochum sends it wide. Sharky with a great first touch! He skinned his man. He''s lightning, he''s absolute lightning. He cuts left into the penalty box. He slows down. Looks up! He picks out Lyons... It''s in! Is it?


    No! Incredible tackle from the defender. Incredible. He''s pulled a hamstring doing it. He''s in agony. Lyons is on the ground next to him - he can''t believe what he''s just seen. The defender swept the ball away half a second before Lyons could smash it into the net. But it all came from great play by Wes Hayward. That was perfect wing play. Perfect! His teammates know it! Pascal and James Wise are jogging across to congratulate him. Sandra Lane, Vimsy, John Smith, they are lined up, clapping above their heads. That could have taken Chester to the top of the table. It''s agony to think about it! The fans are up once more.


    And so is Max. He''s hugging Christian Fierce. He''s high fiving Zach Green. What more could he have done? This second half has been managed to perfection and Chester were inches away from winning it. Inches!


    92''


    It was full-time at Forest Green and Barnet had lost. Unreal. We would go above them in the table if we concentrated.


    We concentrated.


    93''


    Fake cheers. Fans demanding the final whistle. Saints and sinners. The referee looked at his watch and I felt sick. We should have gone for the win. I should trust my staff. We should have risked it all. We could have lost it all. Stay in the fight. Keep up the pressure. Sandra was right. That''s what I paid her for.


    94''


    Full time. Two-all. We moved to second in the league. Next stop the Cheshire Cup against Crewe. The agony in my ankles reminded me of that mad period where I''d been used as target practice. When I took my boots off I knew I would see that my skin there was bruised like old bananas so I didn''t much feel like shaking hands with anyone, but it seemed it was Christian''s turn to push me in front of people. I shook hands while plotting ways I could ruin their lives. Especially Oli Thompson, the ungrateful prick. He was only back in the team because I had raved about him.


    Christian pushed me towards the refs. I did them and waved vaguely to the home fans, and found myself in front of Gateshead''s manager. He was a grade A prick but fuck his team played some beautiful football. I was mid-shake when another of those irritating fake roars went up. I rolled my eyes and wondered if I should let Sandra do the post-game interview. I had started to do them again recently but I was all kinds of wrecked.


    The roar came back. The roar spread.


    I checked the curse and my knees buckled.


    Grimsby 1 Aldershot 2.


    I ran onto the pitch holding my head like I was in The Scream. What the hell was happening? Before I could process my thoughts, there was another roar and the curse updated.


    Grimsby 1 Aldershot 2 (FT).


    Full time! It was over. What the shit had happened there? The As It Stands league table was now simply the league table. This is what I would wake up to in the morning.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>As It Stands</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    We only had to out-score Grimsby in the next three matches to win the title! An absolute piece of piss.


    They had bottled it! They had choked!


    Devon Loch eat your heart out!


    I started doing a kind of awkward run interspersed with happy little hops.


    A million pounds in TV money. Dentists, pitches, jobs.


    I picked up speed.


    I would triple my salary and look at houses in Manchester where my mum could live.


    I did a forward roll. I hadn''t done a forward roll since I was six years old.


    I picked up speed. I went full Ziggy. I screamed so loud I lost my voice for two days. Just as I was coming to my senses, Henri was with me, and Pascal, and Youngster, and Sandra and Wibbers and everyone. We danced on the pitch. Some of the women''s team clambered over the advert hoardings to join us and that triggered copycats all around. Soon the pitch was flooded with joyous Chester fans.


    My ankles didn''t hurt. Not in the slightest. I had hooked an invisible thread onto the brightest possible future - I twitched it now to let the universe know I was coming.


    Et in dreamland ego, baby!

 10.14 - Grindhog Day

    14.


    "Watch out for that first step, it''s a doozy!" Ned Ryerson, Groundhog Day


    ***


    Monday, April 14


    5:59 turned to 06:00. I Got You Babe played on the radio; I leapt out of bed, ran to get a piano lesson, carved an ice sculpture, and caught a boy who was falling from a tree. Pretty much my usual routine every time I won a league.


    I''d won two in two days! After beating Gateshead on the Saturday I had watched the women record their second 8-0 win of the season. They hadn''t mathematically won the league - Cheadle could overhaul them if we lost and Cheadle won their final game of the season 30-0. I didn''t think there was anyone in Cheadle looking at the final fixture and the league table and thinking ''could we?''


    Nah, it was all in the bag. Job done!


    Sandra had sent me loads of texts worrying about complacency. I replied:


    Complacency? I don''t know the meaning of the word!


    She told me, through the medium of emojis, that she would like me to address the issue. She was going to be in charge for the Cheshire Cup final tomorrow night and a repeat of last year''s victory against Crewe would be a real feather in her cap. Losing it because the squad were mentally checked out - add ''on the beach'' to your football glossary - would be the worst way to lose it.


    I sent a text to Pascal asking him to suggest during the meeting that since we were all but promoted, could he have a new contract? He said it was a strange request but that he would do it if it meant he finally got the twenty quid rise everyone else got during the takeover battle.


    The squad was all present and correct for the weekly planning meeting and it''s fair to say Morale was high. There were more maximums than Torvill and Dean at Sarajevo ''84. There were more maximums than at a darts final. There were more maximums than in a quadratic equation.


    "Good morning," I said, in a voice lacking in energy. "Good result at the weekend." Cheers. Yeahs. One whoop. I frowned. Scowled, even. "All right so we beat Gateshead but now it''s time - "


    "We drew," said someone, but that didn''t fit with how I felt about the outcome so I ignored it and ploughed on. "It''s time to think about this week. Two big games. Cup final tomorrow, Ebbsfleet United on Saturday."


    About nine people replied at the same time. "It''s Friday, boss!" "It''s Easter weekend, boss!" "Matches Friday and Monday, boss!"


    "Fine, Christ, relax. I''ll buy you some Cadbury''s Mini Eggs. Just stop going on about it, holy shit. It''s Friday Monday instead of Saturday Tuesday. It''s the same. Scratch that, it''s better for us because we rotate and don''t need as much rest. Oh, Pascal, you had your hand up."


    "I did? I did." He stood and performed the text I had sent him. He had memorised it and to me it seemed all kinds of fake, but the winces and cringe from the other players, the way they shrank into their necks as he spoke, made me think Pascal''s delivery sounded like his normal self. "I understand you are going to be discussing next year''s budget with MD today. Since we are going to the EFL I can now freely sign a new contract and I would like to open talks on a new deal that properly reflects my value to the team."


    I gave him a death stare for the ages; he sat down. "We''re going to the EFL?" I glanced at Sandra and we shared a disgusted look. My lips fell into a snarl that I just barely controlled. "The EFL? Says who? You think we''ve achieved something? We''ve done nothing, mate. Nothing. If the season ended right now we would get fuck all. If I died they''d write on my headstone, this guy never won the National League and couldn''t even afford a headstone." Youngster started to put his hand up but thought better of it. I stewed for a few seconds - the lads looked suitably cowed. "If you think being second in the league is gonna get you some sort of medal, go and get your heads fucking checked. We''ve done nothing, we are nothing. The season starts today, mate. Tomorrow''s a cup final. Are we gonna fucking prepare for that or are we gonna have a sleepover and paint each other''s toenails?"


    Pascal shot to his feet. "I apologise! I will double my efforts!"


    I looked at him like he was a huge bird poop on my windscreen. "You''re lucky Sandra''s picking the team. Now shut the fuck up and listen to her. All right? I''ve got to go run a football club."


    There was a general shuffling as the lads sat up straighter, more alert, more focused. I gave Sandra a curt nod and I left the room shaking my head. I thought about kicking something but that would have been too much. I settled for closing the door a little more forcefully than normal.


    A few strides away, I fell into a lazy shuffle, broke out a grin, and sent a couple of texts.


    To Pascal: Thanks! That was perfect. I''ll give you a big raise on condition you take acting classes.


    To Sandra: There you go! Piece of piss. I am the greatest motivator of all time. Bosh!


    ***


    I strutted all the way to the stairs and was about to go up when I had another idea. I called Brooke - she was up in my office already. I asked her to come down for a second.


    "Watch out for that first step!" I said, in the annoyingly cheerful way of Ned Ryerson in the movie Groundhog Day. "It''s a doozy! I''ve seen dozens of people trip on it."


    "You''re in a good mood," she said, checking me out.


    "No, I''m not. I''m really, really angry." I gave her the toothy smile of a Photoshopped cat. "What does doozy mean, anyway? I assume it''s American."


    "It''s like, unusually good or bad. I took a doozy of a photo. I had a doozy of a job interview at the soccer club."


    I smiled at the memory of our first meeting. "Would you be a doozy and please go to Best''s Bistro and get a coffee?"


    "I got one a couple minutes ago."


    "Oh, get me a tea, then. I''ll follow in a second. You and I will do some acting."


    Surprisingly, she was into it. "What''s my role?"


    "Your role is to react naturally, so just go with the flow. I''ll be there in a second."


    Brooke was intrigued, but got her face back to neutral and strode out. I counted to twenty and followed.


    Patricia was chatting to Brooke while Pete made a cup of tea. I pretended not to know it was for me. "Pete, can I get one too, please?"


    "That''s for you," said Brooke.


    I was staring into space, doing some more great scowl-face. "What? Oh, thanks."


    "Great result on Saturday, Max!" said Pete, as he jiggled the tea bag. "You must be buzzing."


    "Buzzing," I mumbled, as I visualised one of the many things in the world that made me furious. That time I was thinking about the way famous gammons sometimes made good points I agreed with. "Yeah, buzzing."


    Brooke shot Patricia a worried look - perfect! - and said, "Are you okay, Max?"


    "I''m just a bit livid. Just a bit livid."


    "Anything I can help with?"


    "Nah, nah." I made a superhuman effort to come out of my funk. "Might need to make an example of someone. Enjoy the weekend, yeah, then it''s back to work." I picked up a napkin and started carefully tearing it into strips. "Go for one of the big dogs. Make them feel no-one''s safe. Or Game of Thrones it. Someone they least expect. One of the kids. Know what I mean?"


    "Not really."


    I scrunched the napkin up and threw it into the nearby bin. "See who trains the worst. Bin them off for the rest of the season. Fucking come to work, be ready to work," I chuntered, as I stormed back towards my office, tea forgotten. A minute later, Brooke came through the doors and I took the tea from her. I sipped it. "Ah! That''s the spot!"


    Brooke gave me a doleful look. "Was all that really necessary?"


    "Yep." I beamed, took the first step with exaggerated care, and we went up and into my office for the big budget meeting. Lots of numbers. Numbers go up!


    ***


    Brooke and MD took seats by my desk. While standing I picked up the old-fashioned phone I had found in a second-hand shop. It wasn''t plugged into anything. "Aisha," I said into the mouthpiece. "Buy plastics. Sell aggregates. Cancel my four o''clock. Find out how much statues of footballers cost." I hung up and did a tiny dance. "Look at Max, he''s the best," I sang. "Best at songs, best at dress." I laughed and went back to my normal speaking voice. "I''ve been thinking about my statue. I think it should be animatronic. Me doing this." I bopped.


    MD smiled and crossed his legs. "You''re in a good mood. You''re confident of our chances, then."


    I laughed for the hundredth time that morning. "There''s no room for complacency!" I gave the chair a big spin and peered at MD. "I''m on top of the world. I''m in dreamland. I''m the happiest bunny who ever hopped. I''m so happy nothing anyone could say could possibly put me in a bad mood!" I flopped into the chair. "So, MD, let''s talk about next season''s budget."


    It was his turn to laugh. "Can''t we do some small talk? Are you fit for the final? I heard you got a few knocks. How are your ankles?"


    "They look like Tutankhamun''s dick," I said. I clapped my hands. "Let''s numberwang! Hit me!"


    MD got shifty for a second, then summoned up some courage and pulled two slim A4 binders out of his case. "Let''s start with what happens if we stay in the National League."


    I groaned and looked up at the ceiling. "Let''s not! You know why? Because that isn''t Scenario B or C or Z, it''s Scenario Null. We live in a simulation and if you read out any of those numbers it''ll be like releasing a virus into the mainframe. Okay? Those numbers don''t exist. They aren''t real. They''re figments."


    MD''s moustache would have trembled if he had one. "This is your idea of not being complacent?"


    "Brooke told me about a great book. It says you have to only write what you want and you will definitely summon it into being. What was it called? Oh, yeah. The Secret."


    "I didn''t," she said, to MD. It was interesting she cared about his opinion. He was a sucker working for his local sports team for free in his spare time but she respected him.


    "Scenario A," I said, clapping my hands and rubbing them hard. "Here we go. This is it. This is the big one. Max Best''s Christmas. Will it be a hundred K a week? Two hundred? Oooh the tension!"


    MD made a big show of getting control of his face before slipping his useless document back into his case. He opened the other one. The real one. "May I present, your majesty, the estimated budget for our inevitable ascent into the English Football League Two."


    "Yes, please."


    A lot of numbers would be thrown around in the next few minutes but the key one was my budget for the first team squad. For the current season that number was 22,000 pounds a week. I was actually over budget but that was because I''d used some of the Raffi Brown money to cover Christian Fierce''s future wages, and had used the extra money we had generated on our FA cup run to pay for Chipper.


    MD said, "As requested, I''ve done it without what you call ''the TV money''."


    Brooke stirred. "Sorry to interrupt. I know you''re desperate to get to the point, Max, but this makes no sense to me. Why are we taking a million pounds out of the budget?"


    "The prune juice effect," I said.


    "Ah," said MD, smiling. He looked at me with fractionally higher respect, even though, as Manager of the Month for March I was objectively the greatest living Englishman and greater respect should have been impossible.


    "Is anybody gonna explain that?" said Brooke.


    "There''s this guy called Alan Sugar," I said. "He got rich - great story - and for a while he owned Tottenham."


    "Hold up. Now you have to tell me what''s so great about his story."


    I smiled. I was getting further and further away from hearing the magic number but I was in such a good mood it didn''t affect me. "Okay. He had a tech company in the 80s. 70s? 70s and 80s maybe. It was going okay until one of his engineers cobbled together a tape-to-tape recorder. I''m not sure I''m saying it right but it''s like you can put a filled cassette in one side and a blank one in the other and copy paste. So MD would go to his local music shop and buy a Pet Shop Boys cassette and the latest from, er, New Order. He goes home, copies the tape, gives the girl he likes the originals. Bosh!"


    "The Cure, Max," said MD, inexplicably.


    "Okay so Alan Sugar has this killer product, right? But how can he market it? Its primary use is to do something illegal - copy music. But he was a wily old fox in those days, so he slaps a big warning sticker on the box. Do not use this product to copy music!"


    "Genius," said Brooke.


    "Right? What''s a better explanation of what the product does? It''s amazing marketing. He made hundreds of millions."


    MD raised his voice. "Max! How do you know all these things?"


    I scoffed. "You think I''m overworked, and I am. I train, I do a meeting, I check the youth teams in the evening, do some scouting. That''s a busy day but it still leaves eight hours of dead time. Movies, TV shows, podcasts, books. I''m powering through autobiographies. Sugar''s was a lot of fun." I looked at Brooke. "Okay so prune juice economics. Imagine Grimsby spend five million a year on players and whatnot. If you give them another million, how much will they spend on players?"


    Brooke got a playful look about her. "Six million."


    "Right. Money goes in, and like prune juice, goes straight through."


    "Vivid," she said.


    "Yeah. I don''t like prune juice." I shuddered at the thought of the stuff. Bleurgh. "Okay so let''s hear the plain numbers and then there''s a million left that we can try to use to avoid the money going straight through into player wages otherwise we''re never going to get anywhere."


    MD flipped back and forth between a couple of pages. Finally, he settled on one. "Brooke and I have agreed on a target turnover of 3.5 million. That makes assumptions along the lines of selling out the stadium for every home match and hammering food and drink sales. It includes optimistic but attainable commercial revenues. It doesn''t include the TV money, doesn''t include player sales, doesn''t include cup runs, and excludes a few items we can discuss momentarily. Assuming a player wage to turnover ratio of 45% - an amount that will not bankrupt the club - your player budget would rise to a hair over 30,000 pounds per week." He slid the document across the desk.


    Fucking MD knew how to kill a vibe all right. The prick did this to me every year. Every year I found myself head down on my desk. If there had been a piano nearby I would have smashed into it with my forehead like the guy from Sesame Street. "Note to self," I mumbled. "Get a piano."


    "Max!" said MD, spreading his arms. "You wanted the numbers without the TV money! With that, it''s closer to 40,000. Almost double what you have now."


    I stayed in my position for a while, trying to cling on to some of the joyous feeling of the weekend. "Brooke. See that paper under my ear? Can you get it?"


    She did - pulling it much harder than was ladylike, in my opinion - and read the title of the page. "League Two gross wages per week. It''s a list of the 24 clubs in League Two. At the top we''ve got Wrexham paying 113,000 a week for players."


    "Triple what we have," I mumbled. "Triple again. Grimsby and Barnet again. Groundhog Day."


    Brooke went on. "There are several clubs in the 90,000 a week range: Gillingham, MK Dons, Bradford City. The rest of the league slides down through the eighties, seventies, all the way down to 35,000."


    "Accrington," I said. "We would be poorer than the poorest team. Blowing our TV money would shoot us up the table to a princely 23rd out of 24."


    Brooke scanned the numbers looking for comfort and found none. "Mike, can''t we loosen the purse strings just a little? He can''t perform miracles every year."


    MD looked away, but looked back at her. "I''m sorry, Brooke, but I can''t risk the club''s future. Not even for Max."


    "It''s okay," I lied, slowly unfolding myself. "I mean, I agree with that." I rubbed my temples. "Maybe we have to do a consolidation season. Fuck." I squashed my eyes closed. "I was hoping for sixty. With sixty I could fuck things up. Thirty is nothing. That covers my pay rise."


    "The TV money, Max."


    "The prune juice, MD."


    Brooke got in between us. "What do you mean exactly, Max?"


    "I mean, okay, we might have to put the money into wages just to survive but from my point of view, that''s just burning the money. There''s nothing left over when it''s gone and you might as well stay in a lower league. If it¡¯s young players, it¡¯s already better. The first thing I did when I took over here was I signed Pascal to a long-term contract and I signed Youngster. That was the kind of long-term planning this club hadn''t been doing and look at them now. They''re killing the National League. One''s playing for his country, one''s a true ally in the dressing room. He''s young but I see him taking a leadership position before he''s, like, 22. Then, here, this section." In the Expenditure part of MD''s proposal, there was an entry called ''Light and Heat''. The number had plummeted since I took over. "The solar panels. They''re paying off, big time. I want to do more things like that."


    "Reduce the cost base."


    "Right. I''m looking at this line. Rates and water. When we build new stands I want to put in huge water tanks in any space that doesn''t get used. We''ll collect water from the roof, store it, use it. Boom. Savings. But that''s years from now. Just, er, just give me a second. This has been a bit of a shock, to be honest." I got up - my ankles suddenly hurt like an absolute bastard - and went to look out the window. The players weren''t out from the planning meeting yet. I wondered what Sandra was cooking up. "I suppose we''ll save some money the season after next when we fully move out of BoshCard."


    "That''s true," said MD, trying to be encouraging.


    What could I do with a budget of 30,000? I stopped moping and went to my desktop and opened up a private, password-protected spreadsheet hidden in a folder called ''Positive Media Mentions''. My hope was any hackers would think the folder was just me being a narcissist and wouldn''t open it. Just to be sure, I had actually collected a lot of newspaper articles and YouTube videos and whatnot. You know, to help me hide the important file. I wasn''t stupid enough to write CAs and PAs in there, by the way.


    I copy pasted the current state of the squad and started deleting players and editing weekly wages. I told the others what I was doing.


    "Sticky won''t stay for less than two grand. For all I know he''s agreed a deal already but he''s a pretty open guy; I think he''d have told me. Let''s put him at two grand. Glenn''s got an offer. Let''s say he''s out on loan."


    "Pardon me?" said MD. I ignored him.


    "Carl and Aff are sold. Cut them. I''ll have to see if Vivek will move to Saltney or West. I''d fucking love to give him an appearance in the Chester first team but I don''t think it can happen in the next two years and I can''t carry his wages. Kidderminster like Steve. Eastleigh will take Wisey back. Ziggy and Chipper are gone. I need my pay rise or I''ll go mental. Bit more for Wes, Wibbers, Pascal. Shit, Henri needs more. That''s already 22,000 including no bumps for the Brig and Sandra. This year''s entire budget to keep the same squad with eight fewer players. That''s grim. Okay so that''s a squad of 20. We can ease Dan Badford into the first team squad I suppose. He''s miles off but he''s so talented I think he''ll improve. But he''s the only one of the youth team who can step up to League Two this season."


    "What about Noah Harrison?" said MD.


    "I told you! He''s not going to make it. So 21 players. Bring two high quality lads in at two to three grand, leaves me space for two from the Exit Trials. What am I missing? We need a reserve centre back and a right back. If I''m lucky that will be the same person. A Carl type. If money''s this tight we have to throw Sticky into goal and hope he improves very, very quickly. He might but that''s a dodgy ten games at the start, isn''t it, until he catches up to Ben? Brooke, MD, we are going to be very reliant on Magnus so whatever happens we need to schmooze him. Make him feel special. I''m deadly serious about that." I inhaled and stared at the cells. "Loads of left backs. What do we do with Lucas Friend? He doesn''t have a pathway. Saltney? Need another central midfielder. Box to box goalscorer. We''ve actually got guys who can play left mid: Sharky, Pascal, Josh Owens. We could get by without replacing Aff, though we''ll never really replace Aff. Tom will be a good League Two striker but I''d want at least one other experienced forward. Okay so centre back, right back, centre mid, striker."


    I closed my eyes and calculated what would happen if I put out a 4-1-4-1 with the squad I''d described plus a couple of guys with CA 80. A couple of weeks into the season we would be around CA 71. My reckoning of League Two was that it normally ranged between CA 75 and 90.


    "We would be closer to being competitive on Day One than we were in the National League, so that''s positive. And this National League was brutal. If the NL is overpowered, League Two has to be relatively weaker. Give me a second."


    I went through my mental notes on the strengths of League Two teams. Wrexham were going to be promoted into League One, which wasn''t good for our fans but was good for me. They were distorting the league, big time. There were a gaggle of good teams in League Two but four would get promoted out before we got there. My real worry was the teams dropping down from League One. The weakest of the likely candidates for the drop were Crewe; our Cheshire rivals were fifty-fifty to go down. It was always hard to gauge their CA because they rotated a lot and used young players but I was sure that if our facilities were up to scratch, we could catch them in CA terms by the halfway point in the season.


    I hadn''t scouted League Two much in recent months, but CA 71 would put us within a few points of about six of the poorest teams; a very solid platform. Perhaps we would go hard at those easy games and get scrappy in the ones against the big boys. It was perfectly possible, depending on the fixture computer, that we would start next season slightly better than we had this one, and this one was three games away from being one of the best in Chester''s history. Most of my squad still had plenty of room to grow.


    "Okay," I said, feeling much calmer. "30,000 is shit but if we can keep everyone more or less happy with small pay rises, pick up two quality free transfers, a juicy Exit Triallist and two stars from Brazil, we could have a super talented team. I manage the shit out of them and everyone kicks on, we could creep into the playoffs. Or if things go well with the training we could get pretty good pretty quickly. It depends who I find but if I can only get prospects instead of starters, it''ll be tight at first. We will have almost no wriggle room. If Christian gets injured, or Henri, or Pascal... If Cole or Josh or Tom decide they''re big stars and need a big pay rise, if one of the new signings turns out like Chipper, if Sandra or Sticky decide I''m not paying enough..." I shook my head.


    "Don''t forget you," said MD. "You''re worth twenty points a season on the pitch."


    "The more I play, the more I get kicked. I want to build a team that can win without me because otherwise we''re hoping I''m fit and hope is not a strategy. I think we''ll have a good team and I might be needed to fill in at different positions when we''ve got injuries and suspensions. League Two''s another step up in terms of managers, by the way. It''s another level of tactics, of reactions, of planning, of execution. It''s tiring! You''re thinking of me at Tranmere and yes, I fucking slapped and was Player of the Month as voted by a panel of experts. But player-manager, guys. If I have to play more than twenty minutes we''re not going to achieve shit, do you know what I mean?"


    "I do, Max. Sorry. I get excited."


    I gave MD a friendly finger gun. "No worries. What you''re seeing now is me at the end of a season. I''m used to the mental load and I''m more willing to spend more time on the pitch. It''s easy to get carried away but I know this summer I''ll go right back to square one. Okay, I think that while 30,000 is a nightmarish number, our current squad is so good I could just about make it work. I''m worried we could miss out on some staggering prospects if we stuck rigidly to that number, but we''ve got the TV money. Let''s talk prune juice. The new EFL TV deal is quite good and the solidarity payments from the Premier League are up. All told, that''s going to bring in 1.14 million pounds."


    MD coughed. "Please don''t forget a couple of things."


    I had just been getting back to a place of optimism and now he was going to drag me back to the real world! "Mate," I said, elbows on desk, head in hands.


    "I like to front load the bad news, Max."


    "I noticed."


    "But you spent 150,000 pounds of next year''s season ticket sales."


    "When?"


    He smiled. "When you wanted to get the first training pitch at Bumpers Bank built."


    "Shit. That sounds familiar."


    "It gets worse," said history''s greatest villain. I was three pieces of bad news away from curling up into a ball on the floor. "You told me to send 40,000 to Banbury United so that you wouldn''t have to worry about William''s appearance fees. He isn''t close to an England call-up, is he?"


    "Not that I know of," I said, into the desk. "Is that it?"


    "No. We need to keep 25 K in reserve for Roddy Jones."


    I tried to remember the terms of the deal I''d agreed. I sat up so fast I was lucky I didn''t tear something. "That''s when he turns 16! He''ll be 15 next season!"


    MD tried to be haughty. "This might be our only year in the EFL. We should syphon off some of the income to pay for these promises you keep making."


    "Mike," complained Brooke.


    He doubled down. "Max should count himself lucky I''m not withholding the second payment for when the child turns 18! Another twenty-five thousand!"


    I tutted. "Forget that. We''re not budgeting that this year. We''ll be in League One when the first payment is due, for Christ''s sake. Stop harshing my buzz. How are we gonna get relegated, dude? That''s mental. If we finished, like, 16th it would be the biggest shock since Benjamin Franklin said hey let''s put some metal on this kite and let''s fly it in a storm. Fuck me, if you mention that again I''m quitting. Right. I''ve got 1.14 million minus 150 minus 40. What''s that?"


    "950,000," said Brooke.


    "Great. That''s loads."


    "One moment," said MD. I flopped to the desk again. "Good news, this time. You''ve forgotten to include incoming transfer fees. Aff and Carl''s fees are already spent, but there is Steve Alton and James Wise. What fee did you agree for Wise?"


    "24,000," I said.


    "Why so low?"


    "It''s not low, it''s double what I paid for him. He''ll get a decent wage if he chooses to go. That''s good for us."


    "How?"


    "Because for every Chipper who badmouths us we will have five Sams, Affs, Carls, Steves, and Wiseys who say Chester was the best thing for their career. It''ll help us attract ambitious players."


    "So for those two players it''s another 54,000 pounds. That''s not insignificant. And what about the income from cup runs?"


    "We''ve been using it to buy equipment and create a party pot."


    MD nodded. "I know but if we are going to get to the third and fourth rounds of the FA Cup every year we should perhaps be more serious with it. For example, half the income goes to the club, half goes to the players as a cash bonus. If you want to incentivise them to take cups seriously, there you go. If they go far enough it could be like getting another couple of month''s salary."


    I gave the desk a rap of my knuckles. "Awesome. I like that. There''s loads of fucking cups in the EFL, isn''t there? Yeah, it could add up."


    "You''re a player, too. You''d get some of it."


    "That is a very interesting point you have just made. We''ll split the treasure pirate style. Player-manager gets four shares." I picked up my phone. "Aisha. Calculate how much I personally will make from winning the FA Cup." I hung up and clicked my tongue a few times. "Let''s go shopping. I''ve got about a million pounds to spend, right? First up, no negotiation, no discussion, 150,000 for a dental clinic. We rent a space, hire a d-dude and an assistant who also does the admin. Procedures will be priced to make a slight profit in case I die and some ghoul takes over. He won''t be able to shut it down if it''s profitable. We, the football club, only need to do the capital outlay to buy the chair and some dental hooks and that light they shine right in your eyes for some fucking reason. 150 and we''re up and running." I wasn''t sure if the curse would rate the clinic as part of our medical setup and make it easier for us to attract players, but to a very large extent I didn''t give a shit. I would take care of my staff, the end. "I do think it''ll help attract talent, though. Later, when we''ve got permanent buildings instead of cabins, we''ll move the clinic to Bumpers Bank and players and their families will be able to pop in and get a quick filling or whatever. Bosh. Any questions?"


    "No, Max," said MD. "Part of me wishes you would use the money on a striker, but I think it''s a good investment. It''s very community-minded and there''s plenty of money left. I approve."


    "Top," I said. "You won''t like the next one."


    MD groaned.


    I fished around my desk for some printouts. One sheet had some photos, another had some graphs and charts. I kept them to myself for a moment while I looked at MD''s proposed budget. "This line here. Hotels, travel, and subsistence. That''s the cost of taking our teams on away trips, right?"


    "Yes," said MD. "The men''s first team will have a lot of early starts, late matches in London, that sort of thing. I''ve based it on our costs plus data gleaned from calling colleagues whose teams were promoted from the NL to L2."


    "Oh, I''m sure it''s about right," I said. "450,000. Okay so what I''m about to pitch is this year''s version of the solar panels but with a less certain payout. I think it''ll be good but I can''t be sure of the exact sums. So..."


    I laid out the printouts in front of them. They leaned in to peer, both frowning deeply.


    "What''s this?" said Brooke.


    I inhaled, ready to fight my corner. "That is our new team bus." I had paid a guy on the internet twenty dollars to do a quick Photoshop job for me. The team bus was all white, gleaming, with a huge Chester crest near the back. It was staggeringly beautiful. To me, anyway. "I''ve been thinking about what car I want to get when The Duchess dies. It can''t be too expensive because, you know. And I don''t know why it took so long but suddenly I realised - it should be electric. Hybrid, maybe, because there are days I drive a lot. But we''ve got a huge solar array; we are one of the biggest power plants in Cheshire. I''d love to buy, like, five little Chester-branded Smart cars - you know those little ones? - for staff to zip around Chester running errands. We will do that one day, next year maybe, but for now this is what I want."


    "An electric team bus?" said MD.


    "Yeah. These things are 300,000 pounds. Ish. 450 mile range, so that''s almost everywhere. Could be we can''t use it for Norwich or Brighton or something but it goes to London easy enough. We arrive a bit early, plug it in, and by the time we''ve finished the match, showered, and eaten, it''s charged. Once we''ve bought this, we stop paying fuel costs. If we teach Youngster to drive it, we don''t even need to pay a driver. Er, that was a joke, Mike. Don''t get ideas. On Saturday the men''s team use it. We go home. Sunday, the women''s team use it. Tuesday, the men''s team. If the 18s have a match, if there''s a Friday night match - you get the idea. We use the hell out of this bad boy. The vehicle should last ten years and I''m pretty sure we''re going to make bank over that timescale but I couldn''t get hard data. We might be a trailblazer on this one but I''m happy to be the guy who says, fuck it, let''s take a shot because when our fans see this bastard driving around the streets they''re going to freak out. When the women pull up to some shithole in our superbus they''re going to feel superhuman. This is an evolution on what we are. This is progression. Look at the detail - the seats are like Premier League dugout seats. It''s luxurious. Okay, Premier League coaches are nicer but this is going to be the sexiest thing in League Two by miles."


    I waited for some sort of reaction but they were both staring from me to the photos.


    "So, look, maybe it works out very slightly more expensive than what we currently do, though I can''t believe that''s true when you factor in the women and the kids will use it and we''ve already got the solar panels, but it''s such an upgrade for the players. If we''ve got a three-hour trip we''re going to feel twice as good on this as on the current bus. It''s a ten-year investment. Actually I think in five years we''ll buy a new one but we''ll still use this for other stuff. Maybe we''ll use it to bring fans to away games, I don''t know. For me it''s all positive - global boiling, mate! - the only thing is if we miss out on the playoffs by one point and someone goes ''typical snowflake, shoulda bought a striker instead of that electric crap''."


    Still they didn''t say anything. I found myself floundering, trying to explain myself. The problem was I''d been thinking about it for months and my thoughts were extremely positive but jumbled up.


    "You have to think that the players are the talent. This is a talent industry. What can you do to keep your talent happy? You do everything! Youngster. Wibbers. Pascal. When they see we''ve got an electric coach they''re going to be proud of it! Okay, it''s 300,000 up front that we need for loads of other things and half the TV money is gone already but this is a statement. This says Chester are back. This is epic." I trailed off when saying the last three words, which defeated the point.


    Brooke frowned. "Three hundred up front?"


    I kept explaining like an absolute loon. "I''ve got a nickname for it already: The Dopemobile. Er, because it''s dope. I was thinking we could get Glendale involved in this. If they sponsor the bus for ten grand a year, over ten years that''s a hundred K, a third of the cost, and they''ll want to sponsor it because I will talk non-fucking-stop about how this was all their idea and I love the bus and I love Glendale and I love having a habitable planet to play football on. Christ, ten grand for that will be the bargain of the century. But I get that in year one it''s three hundred out versus ten in. And, yeah. Maybe the financial benefits can''t be calculated. Maybe it''s mostly intangible. I don''t know. I kind of really wish someone would say something."


    "I love it," said MD. ¡°Apart from the name. That¡¯s a no-go.¡±


    "Max," said Brooke. "You don''t need to spend three hundred up front. Many vehicle companies will let you pay in instalments. I got zero percent finance on my Huntsman."


    "Sorry, I don''t follow."


    "Spread the cost over five, even ten years. If we''re paying thirty a year - it''ll be more than that but bear with me - and we''re saving twenty and making ten in sponsorship... It''s good. It''s great."


    I stood and walked to lean against the filing cabinet like Vimsy. "So... I can get what I want and still have money for other stuff? I mean, it''s debt. MD won''t let me."


    Brooke smiled at me and turned to MD. He nodded. "It''s not debt, it''s finance. Even if we were relegated we would still save with this. I''d want to check the numbers but I think this is a no-brainer."


    The surge of energy was a wild echo of the final whistle on Saturday. Then, I felt a million pounds richer. Now, I felt like I''d suddenly been given 270,000 English pounds. I clapped so hard I would never hear at that frequency again. (Slight exaggeration.) "Whoo! Brooke, any year now I''m going to get you that pay rise. All fucking right!" I heard the clip-clopping of football boots on concrete. I looked out and saw Jude and Well In had left the meeting. The players were probably in the changing room putting their boots on; they would be out shortly.


    "Some other investments I want to make. We''re going to need some of those electric charging stations in the car park. I have no idea what they cost but we''ll need one for the team bus, one for me, and let''s just put, like, six more in at random."


    "I''ll have one," said MD.


    "Huh?" I said, in an exaggerated Manga style.


    He shrugged. "I might go electric one day."


    "Sold!" I said. "Where am I? I''ve bought a dental clinic and a Dopemobile. I''ve got 800,000 left. I want to give at least 50 to the women''s team. I want to give some to Dean for medical shit. The Brig wants to spend some time this summer learning performance stuff from the Welsh FA. They''ll train him for free but we''ll need equipment to make use of what he learns, and we need indoor bikes, rowing machines, treadmills, all that cardio stuff plus more weights. I''d love to top up the wages of Inga, Secretary Joe, the match stewards, and all those people. That might not be possible but even if we do a little bit extra every year it''ll add up and I''m sure they''ll appreciate it.


    "I want to put an amount to the side for education. UEFA badges - I need to do my A licence, by the way - referee courses for players who aren''t going to make it, just anything that anyone wants to do even if it isn''t footy related. I know we can get grants for that kind of stuff but I want to budget for it anyway because that''s going to be a big deal for this club. Leave no man behind. Use the whole lemon. I want to hire an editor to bring the match programme to the next level - I don''t have the time and motivation to jazz it up myself. There''s demand if we do it right so let''s do it right. Again, it should break even if the guy''s writing website copy and so on, too.


    "Yeah, the website. That needs a major fucking overhaul. We need more cameras so we can put unique match highlights on our socials and offer something different to what the TV companies make. We need to grab Sophie, the documentary maker and chain her to a laptop and make her churn out content because she is to video what I am to nutmegs, squad building, haircuts, cheeky grins, and one thing that isn''t suitable for polite conversation." I took a breath. "We need a data guy. We need a sports psychologist. Optional: I need a PA who is considered too beautiful to be a model." I closed my eyes, trying to visualise what I was missing. "I mean, Christ, we need some buildings at Bumpers Bank otherwise our training centre is one pitch. Toilets, showers, a room big enough to do our team meetings, storage for our gear, a substantial fence around the whole area.


    "The council are going to bring us water, sewage, electricity, and broadband - it''s just down the road from the Deva and the pipes are all right there. But we''ll need some temporary buildings. We''ll need another mobile kitchen, I think. What am I missing? There''s something big. Oh! The pitch at Hoole." I looked at Brooke. "Where are we with that?"


    She was reeling from my endless list of costs, but she had the detail to hand. "You hoped the 150 we''re getting for Carl and Aff would be enough, but I''m afraid it won''t be. Many of the grants are one-time deals. I''m reaching out to different charities and organisations but I suggest we plan for the total cost being above 200K. And the third one will be more, and the fourth more, and so on."


    I nodded. Getting the pitches for a third of the price was too good to last. "Yeah, no, I expected something like that. We definitely do the one at Hoole, though. So look. Not everything on my list is mega urgent. The sports psychologist is a must, I think, but the data guy could maybe wait a year. I propose we do things one by one and if we''ve still got loads of cash in January, that''s absolutely fine because spoiler alert - we might need it."


    "You didn''t mention the pitch rental," said Brooke, looking at her own notes. "That could come to 3,000 a week, easily. Enough for a good striker."


    I jutted my chin towards MD. "Can you add that to my budget?"


    He squirmed. "When it''s built and being rented out at the numbers you predict, yes."


    I did a big sigh and didn''t try to hide it. "By January we should have a few months of data. You''ll see the money coming in and you''ll bump me by three K. That could be decisive."


    MD thought about it. "I can give you a tentative yes on that one."


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    I tutted again, but Brooke had some much more agreeable news. She was scrawling on a thick notepad; she jabbed a full stop into existence. "I have a couple of factors we haven''t considered yet."


    "Go on," said MD.


    "Grindhog," she said. I groaned, but she pressed on. "If we go with them they are talking about selling 7,000 replica kits. At an average price of 60 pounds with a 7% commission, we would earn in the region of 32,000 pounds. That''s enough to cover some pay rises or to recruit another Exit Trial boy. We''re still doing that, aren''t we?"


    "Big time," I said. "We should be able to get the cream of the crop this time." No more sending the best boys to Tranmere. "Only problem is Grindhog are shit."


    "Max," said Brooke, almost slumping.


    I held up a hand. "They''re coming to our next home game, right? We will talk to them after the match."


    "Are you going to behave?"


    "Yes," I said, because her question was full of loopholes.


    "We should get some money from the computer game companies. EA FC and Soccer Supremo. I wouldn''t count on it being much but it might pay for the plinth of your statue."


    "Plinth," I said, luxuriating in the mouth-feel of the word. "Plinth."


    "Another potential outlay is... Can I have some money?" said Brooke.


    "Pay rise?"


    "No. I mean, yes, please. But I meant something for the marketing budget so we can do slightly bigger projects and plan them farther ahead."


    "Oh, sure. Yeah. Good point."


    "I''ll propose some numbers soon. And I''d like to do a trip on the company''s dime."


    "Where to?"


    "The most valuable women''s football club. One that would be perfect as a future transfer destination for Angel."


    That was surprising. I hadn''t told anyone about Angel going to PSG, but she was in regular contact with Brooke. "Paris."


    "Los Angeles, Max. Angel City."


    "What''s that?"


    She laughed. "It''s a soccer team, and I''m allowed to say soccer because it''s in the States. Angel City was founded by Natalie Portman. They get 20,000 at home matches, they do community projects, it''s exactly what you want to do here but on a much, much bigger scale. It was sold for a quarter of a billion dollars - that''s more than most Championship teams would fetch. I''d like to invite myself over to study their marketing and learn how they do things."


    "Yes, absolutely," I said. "We''ll reimburse you for economy class and sleazy motels. We don''t have lobster money round here. If you need help with translations I can ask Zach to go with you."


    "My last thing, I think," she said, ignoring my comment so completely it was as though I''d never said it, "is about financing the women''s team."


    I hadn''t expected that. "Oh?"


    "You were talking about sending them fifty thousand pounds."


    I nodded. "We have to keep adding quality so they can power through the leagues. Fifty K barely gets a male Exit Triallist we have to spend years training up but it would get us two She-Hulks. The disparity in price from the men''s game to the women''s is still absolutely wild."


    "And you''re not willing to sell the documentary to Netflix or Amazon even though we could get upwards of a million pounds if they were interested."


    I gritted my teeth. "What''s the point doing it if only eighty-six people watch the doc? Netflix has documentaries about any sport you can think of. It''s beyond saturated. Formula One, Footy, NFL, b-ball, running, sliding, swimming, jiggling, Rubik''s cubing. I hate the idea that no-one will watch it. If it doesn''t get watched then no amount of money is worth it. I don''t give a shit how much they might pay us and it''s depressing to be reminded of it all the time. There''s this British show from the olden days where the host would get the losing contestant and put his arm around him and say, aww, here''s what you could have won. Can we just please accept that I''m thinking long-term and I don''t need to be reminded of every little pound coin I passed on the way?"


    Brooke was unmoved by my rant. "I thought perhaps I might remind you of the million pounds because not ten minutes ago you were lamenting the fact that you lacked a million pounds."


    "The women''s documentary money goes to the women. Obviously. It won''t help the men win League Two."


    Brooke gave me a placid look. "You want it on the BBC, ideally. Sophie, Henri, and I went to the BBC for preliminary discussions and they were interested. They don''t have much in the way of modern sports documentaries, ah, because one could earn so much more by selling to a streaming service."


    Jabbing the wound! "What the fuck."


    She nearly smiled, I know she did. She kept talking, though. "The BBC is sprawling and to try to maintain some semblance of cost control it uses a strict matrix to determine how much to pay for content. Our documentary would come under categories FL2 or FL3."


    "Naturally," I said.


    "I''m sure we would be at the lower end of the range, certainly for season one, but from what I''ve heard we couldn''t be paid below the lowest in the range. FL3 is for a documentary series with a strong narrative."


    "That''s us!"


    "I agree. That pays 170,000 pounds."


    "Whoa!" I said, my mood surging to the levels of the morning.


    "FL2 is for ¡®contemporary and specialist documentary¡¯."


    "That''s us!"


    "I agree. That pays 125,000 pounds as a minimum."


    "Huh. I''m guessing the bands are unclear by design."


    "Probably."


    "Still, 125,000 pounds will make our women''s team pretty fucking formidable." I got my calculator out - it was close to 2,500 pounds a week. I could absolutely clean up with that sort of money. Easy ride to tier three!


    Brooke made an unusual scoffing noise. I wasn''t getting it and I wasn''t even close! "Max! Those numbers are per hour. Henri tells me the footage can easily be reordered into eight thirty-minute episodes. Four hours!"


    It was like being hit by a truck and reborn as the King of Women''s Football. I shot to my feet and stumbled around, overwhelmed by the riches, blinded by the sheer volume of gold. "I can''t do the maths!"


    "Half a million, Max." Brooke and MD exchanged a smile.


    "Ah." I let out a hideous little exclamation of shrivelled joy. "Half a mill! That''s like having a budget of fifty million in the men''s game! Are you kidding me now? If this is a prank I''m telling you I can''t take it."


    Brooke was genuinely happy. "If they want it, that''s the least you''ll get, per their own rules. Early signs are good and Sophie and Henri have done a great job. There''s not much to improve. Some background music, maybe. It''s more or less good to go. If the BBC don''t want it, there''s Channel 4. If they don''t want it, I hope you''ll reconsider the streaming platforms."


    "Yeah, sure," I said, dazed. The country''s top women''s players were being paid about 50 grand a year. With my new bounty I could bring in ten of them. TEN! I mean, I couldn''t because they wouldn''t come to tier four and they wouldn''t tolerate our facilities. But I could absolutely get the best squad in tier four by miles. Miles! "I need to talk to Ruth."


    MD perked up. He''d had a crush on Ruth for at least two decades. "Why?"


    I shook my head. "I honestly don''t think we could spend all that money on the women''s team. I could demolish the league and still have half left over. I could get a couple of Exit Trial boys. Build our first permanent building. All sorts. But I sort of promised her I''d keep all the women''s income with the women."


    Brooke spoke, but seemed uncertain if she should have been saying it. "Sorry, Max, I know you have these high ideals and you mean what you say but, ah, you''re the star of that documentary as much as any of the women. Maybe in season two Angel will take over."


    "Season two!" I chirped. "Are we going to get half a mill a year for this?"


    Brooke stuck her bottom lip out as she considered the question. "If the ratings are good enough, sure. It seems to me like the sort of show that will get spikes of watches every time you''re in the news."


    "Every week, then," said MD.


    My head was spinning. "The women''s team subsidising the men. Who''da thunk it? Take that, gammons. Okay, so... There''s a bit more cash than I thought. We can go a bit faster than I thought. Half a million. Wow."


    It was almost too much money. The men''s team would start with the lowest or second-lowest budget in League Two. The women would go into Division One North, as the next league was called, being bankrolled by Auntie Beeb. Super Scout plus a vast budget was literally unfair. I felt bad for the other teams for at least seven seconds.


    "What?" said MD.


    "We need to hire Elin, the Welsh coach who knows sign language. Right now. Dani loves her, Emma loves her, she''s always smiling and willing to learn. She''s exactly what we need around here. Oh, do you hear that? Come and watch this!"


    The players were strolling out from the bowels of BoshCard, clomping their way towards pitch 3. Patricia called out as the first gaggle walked past her kitchen. She said something, the players asked if she was sure. They looked up at my window (they couldn''t see in during the day) while Pete confirmed what Patricia had said. Youngster zoomed towards the pitch, the others copied him, and soon they were all helping Jude and Well In get the session set up.


    "Keen, aren''t they?" said MD.


    "No complacency here," I said, smugging pretty hard. I turned to Brooke. She gave me a mock bow. I said, "Okay. Please get me one dental clinic, one Dopemobile, one sports psychologist, toilets, cabins, another mobile kitchen. Hire Sophie on a permanent basis and pay the documentary crew for the hours they''ve already put in. Investigate the other things I talked about but hold fire on those until we see what we get from the Exit Trials. Wow. I''m exhilarated. Meeting''s over. Thanks for coming bye."


    MD went back to his chair and licked his lips. "I''ll just leave the Scenario B document here for you to look through. I know you won''t need it," he added. "But just in case. Maybe talk to Ruth about moving some of the documentary income to the men''s team. Just in case."


    I walked around and took the hateful document. I slid it back where it had come from. "Just in case," I said, which got a rare laugh from Brooke.


    MD tried to hide a smile. "I do love these budget meetings."


    "Mmm," I said. For some reason I was imagining I was in a large dome and people were firing bank notes through tubes and I was dancing around catching the money. "Oh, wait. Brooke. How can we sell a documentary when we don''t have a name?"


    "We have a name."


    "Er, no we don''t. I set the names around here."


    "That''s right," said Brooke. "It''s one of yours." She paused to enjoy a few seconds of the agony I felt as I tried and failed to guess what she meant. Finally, she said, "It''s going to be called Chesterness."


    ***


    Tuesday, April 15


    Cheshire Senior Cup Final: Crewe Alexandra versus Chester FC


    The Cheshire Cup was Sandra''s gig, and I was happy to let her be properly in charge for the whole event. It was like I had a day off and I loved it. While Sandra and Vimsy did all the admin and coaching and warm ups and whatnot, I pottered around in flip flops and sunglasses - optimistic, given the weather - and did newspaper puzzles and read on my Kindle.


    The final was being played in Wincham, 40 minutes from Chester, in the stadium of Witton Albion where Dan Badford was having a great season on loan. Last season, in the same fixture, we had done a marketing blitz and generated a lot of interest. This time we hadn''t and it showed in the attendance and how many were listening on Seals Live, but the overall trend was up. Sadly for the atmosphere, Crewe were having a terrible season and were quite likely to get relegated. Would their fans trade a defeat in the cup for three points on Saturday? Absolutely they would, and judging by their team sheet, so would their manager. But more on that in a moment.


    My only real contribution to the planning had been to negotiate what team Sandra could name. She surprised me by wanting to do 4-2-3-1. She explained that while 3-4-3 was growing on her, it hadn''t looked quite right in our recent matches and she agreed with me that the squad wasn''t quite at the levels needed to make it work. She wanted to name the strongest possible team and I was basically happy with that, but I had to take the rest of the season into account. I asked her if she would be okay using Sticky and Glenn, and she said yes instantly. I think she couldn''t believe just how strong I was letting her go.


    Even with the two changes I''d asked for, our average CA was 64.8.


    Sticky would be protected by Eddie, Christian, Glenn, and Carl.


    Youngster and Magnus would patrol in front of those guys.


    The three CAMs would be Aff, Pascal, and Wibbers. It was interesting to me that she had asked for Will instead of Sharky but she explained that Will was better in the middle and she would ask Aff and Pascal to go out wide and spread our threat. That was sound and demonstrated one major way that Sandra had an advantage over me - she wasn''t limited to what the curse screens would allow.


    The lone striker was Henri.


    On the bench we had Ben, Zach, Josh Owens, Sharky, and me. I didn''t really want to play but if the lads weren''t suitably motivated I would enter the field and motivate them right in the gob.


    In last year''s final, Crewe had put out a hybrid team of experienced pros and young guns. Their CA that day had been 65.4 and if they had named the exact same team this would have been a sensational final. But they didn''t. Their league crisis meant no first team starters could play - if they didn''t win on Saturday they were doomed. The Cheshire Cup was a sideshow. A nuisance. They named their backup goalie, a couple of decent players returning from injury, and loads of their under 21s.


    Average CA? 55.


    Morale? Three and a half points lower than ours.


    It was unlikely to be much of a contest. I spent as much time watching Sandra as the action, wondering if she had improved as a pitch-side manager during her time at Chester and thinking of ways I could help her get to the next level in her personal development.


    ***


    Match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.


    Author: D.Cox


    Chester 3 Crewe 1 - Sandy''s Got the Blues... Another Cup!


    It was just another case of history repeating as Chester overpowered Crewe in the Cheshire Cup final. Sandy Lane named a very strong team which dominated from the word go. Chester were so on top that when Crewe scored in the twentieth minute, the recent accusations of complacency seemed to have merit.


    But a sensational five-minute comeback saw Chester score two great goals. Just as Crewe seemed to have worked out the Seals'' attacking patterns, Sandy switched things up with Aff and Bochum taking up very aggressive wide forward positions and Will Roberts trusted to link play from the midfield to Lyons. The equaliser came from Aff beating his marker and firing in a low cross. It was too far in front of Lyons but Bochum got it on the right of the box and fired a shot that the keeper could only parry. It fell to Roberts and he cleverly bounced the ball down and over a defender''s despairing slide. His teammates accused him of mis-kicking the shot, but the technique seemed intentional from where I was sitting.


    The second goal came after a rare spell of possession for Crewe. Their young team lacked confidence and match experience but they can pass a ball sideways as well as anyone in world football. One of their rare forward passes was cut out by Evergreen, who combined brilliantly with Roberts. Evergreen continued to surge forward and passed to Bochum. His decision to retreat was baffling until it became clear he was waiting for Carlile''s overlap. With Crewe''s defenders somewhat scattered and Chester having four players attacking the box - Lyons, Roberts, Aff, and Evergreen - Carlile had plenty to aim for. He chose Roberts, whose snap shot was again brilliantly saved only for Evergreen to slide in and hook the ball home.


    Two-one at the break and Crewe''s heads went down. They fought valiantly in the second half and tried to scrap their way back into the match but the sight of Max Best strolling onto the pitch with twenty minutes to play was dispiriting. Best replaced Roberts and his first act was to control a knock-down from Lyons and smash it from thirty yards into the top corner. Three-One! Amazingly, Best tried to get himself subbed off at that moment! One minute, one goal, that''s all you get! Sandy Lane was having none of it and ordered him back into action. Taking Best''s lead, the squad fell into energy-saving mode.


    As seems to be traditional in this competition, all five Chester subs were used - even the goalkeeper, so sixteen players can say they played in a cup final. As seems to be traditional, Chester ran out winners once more. Another league and Cheshire Cup double is very much on the cards and Crewe will surely dread playing us twice in the league next season.


    Amidst the joy and satisfaction of lifting another trophy there were bittersweet moments. Aff and Carl have been sold and will not be pulling on the blue and white shirt in another cup final. James Wise and Steve Icke''s futures are uncertain. And club captain Glenn Ryder may find himself playing elsewhere next season. The cheer as he brought the cup, his wife, and his daughters to the Chester fans was almost as loud as when he lifted it during the trophy presentation. One half of the perfect send-off is complete. Fingers crossed we can maintain these levels on Friday.


    ***


    Good Friday, April 18


    Match 44 of 46: Ebbsfleet United versus Chester


    We had played Ebbsfleet at the Deva earlier in the season and their manager had tried to out-tactic me. For a long time I had been looking forward to a rematch but the guy had been sacked when the Fleet slipped into the relegation zone in the new year. The new guy was an old-school 4-4-2 guy, not interesting in the slightest.


    The Fleet''s Kuwaiti owners had splurged on new players in the January transfer window and that plus the new manager had helped to stabilise the club. Now that I saw the new signings in the flesh I knew the money had been wasted. Average players on big wages. Criminal! Prune juice economics in action.


    Still, the fact that we would have a relatively easy game simply added to the sense that I was gliding towards glory. The little-loved Cheshire Cup was in the bag and thrashing Ebbsfleet would put us miles clear of Grimsby on goal difference.


    I went with a similar lineup to the cup final. I brought Ben and Zach back into the first eleven and swapped Sharky for Wibbers. At 67.2 it was close to the maximum CA I could muster. The plan was to run up the score so we could rotate heavily on Monday.


    That was the plan.


    Instead we found that we weren''t on it. Passes went astray. Shots flew wild. I switched to 4-1-4-1 to see if that helped. It did, slightly, but in what was becoming a trend, Ebbsfleet scored first.


    I changed to 4-4-2 with Pascal as the second striker but used my screens to drop him into the CAM slot.


    Something clicked. Pascal''s movement in the central zones was too clever or too unexpected and he ran riot. We put pressure on and Fierce scored from an Aff corner. Then a good move involving the evolving Magnus Evergreen led to one of our idiosyncratic overlapping moves. Carlile centred and Henri deflected the ball into the net.


    I decided I would let the situation ride until half time and then make some tweaks. I really wanted to go on a goal spree and blow Grimsby out of the water. They were winning one-nil, while Barnet were nil-nil in theirs.


    Ebbsfleet blasted a ball high that Youngster and a striker competed for. Youngster was a foot shorter but did enough to put the guy off. All he could manage was to deflect it on a diagonal as though he was a sprite in Emlyn Hughes International Soccer.


    My heart skipped a beat as I realised what was happening. That shit header was actually the best assist of all time! Ebbsfleet''s winger was racing forward - he was much faster than Carl - and the guy was going to get a one-on-one with Ben! They were going to bloody equalise from a hopeful long punt!


    Our only hope was Zach. He had just about enough pace and was just about positioned well enough that he would get to the ball at the same time as the winger. Could he bail us out?


    Well, yes, in a way.


    It''s hard to know if he did the right thing - the podcasters got twenty minutes out of it - but Zach decided it was better to stop the winger getting away and he would risk getting a red card.


    He stopped the winger getting away.


    He got a red card.


    It wasn''t dangerous, the way he grabbed onto the guy and hauled him to the turf, but he was the last defender and if you stop someone running through on goal like that you''re in big, big trouble. Zach tried to argue that Christian Fierce was close enough to intervene so it was a yellow at most, but the referee didn''t agree.


    We were two-one up, then - Zach had preserved our lead - but would be down to ten men for the rest of the game. A full hour!


    I had Glenn on the bench but there was no room for sentiment. I brought Sharky off and put myself on as the second centre back.


    The match was no longer about running up the score but holding onto those three points. We didn''t create much going forward, but we didn''t give Ebbsfleet much of a sniff.


    I didn''t check the Live Scores while playing because I had to concentrate on my task and nothing but my task. At the final whistle, I saw that Grimsby had won 3-1 but Barnet had stayed 0-0.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="66"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>88</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>88</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>86</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Positives:


    <ul>


    <li>We had breathing space between us and Barnet.</li>


    <li>We had kept pace with Grimsby.</li>


    </ul>


    Negatives:


    <ul>


    <li>Grimsby were now two clear in goal difference.</li>


    <li>We had two games to make up the difference, but Zach wouldn''t play in the first one - he got an automatic one-match ban. (Unlike Chipper, he didn''t make it worse by slagging off the referee.)</li>


    <li>My starters had played three games in a week. Players like Ryan Jack, Wisey, and Andrew Harrison were fresh but didn''t carry a lot of goal threat. Our average CA against Southend was likely to be below 60 for the first time in a while.</li>


    <li>The simulation we all live in seemed to be forcing repeats of scorelines on me. Crewe had been a repeat, Ebbsfleet was a repeat. We had beaten Southend 3-1 earlier in the season. A repeat of that would make the final game of the season unbearably tense. No thanks! Six-nil against Southend, big party on the last game of the season. That''s the ticket.</li>


    </ul>


    ***


    Easter Sunday, April 20


    Match 22 of 22: Chester Women versus Salford City Lionesses


    All I really wanted was for this match to end as anything except for 2-0, which was the score in the previous encounter between the sides. Our training had been going well but the women seemed to get stuck in the region of CA 50. Getting promoted would blow that particular glass ceiling away, I was sure. Anyway, we had kicked on a little more and were approaching double the rating of the away team.


    Double! We were getting formidable.


    The away team''s average CA was a meagre 27.


    Our women finished the season with a humongous CA of 45, and it could have been slightly higher had Jackie not preferred Pippa to start over Kisi.


    This had 5-0 written all over it. 6-0. Maybe even 10-0!


    So why the actual FUCK did it finish exactly the same as the last time? 2-0. Was the curse fucking with me? Or did results repeat sometimes and nothing REALLY WEIRD MATE was going on?


    It was easy to hide my worries during the trophy presentation, the photos, the party. The women had lost once in the league but their overall record was near flawless. Played 22, won 21. Goals for: 89. Goals against: 5.


    A momentous, joyous day. My only regret was that I couldn''t go out on the lash with the ladies and couldn''t stay late - the men had a vital match in the morning and winning three-one was not going to cut it.


    ***


    Easter Monday, April 21


    Views of the Blues - Chester 3 Southend 1 First Impressions!


    Summary:


    That was absolutely horrible. Not the match itself but the tension of the situation. I was feeling fine the whole morning, really really confident but when Southend scored fear gripped me and wouldn''t let go. We''ve been going behind in games and showing great character and composure to get back into them and yeah we''re winning but the situation means winning isn''t enough. We need to batter someone and Max Best knows it.


    When he came on he ran around like a blue-arsed fly trying to make something happen because even one more goal would have been amazing. We had to keep numbers back to make sure Southend didn''t score again, so it was tough going for the forwards.


    The squad are knackered and I never thought I''d say this but we missed Zach Green today. You don''t realise how important it is to have someone like that pinging passes into midfield until he''s not there.


    I''m torn between being pleased with the win and being absolutely terrified that Grimsby are going to win this league by one goal.


    As for the goals, Southend''s was nice, to be fair. It got a bit scrappy in midfield and they broke. Three quick passes tore us open and they got a shot away at the back post. Cavvers should have done better with it but to be fair to him, he made up for it a few minutes later with a great save and he was decent on crosses.


    Our first was a penalty for a foul that Lyons scored. The second was a screamer from Aff, who came on as a sub. Another sub scored the third: Pascal. He ran onto a header from Lyons and pushed the ball past the goalie. From there we thought it would be goals galore but the players felt the tension all of a sudden and they couldn''t shift it past three-one, despite a pretty phenomenal cameo from Best.


    Full match report to follow!


    Formation: 4-4-2 (Second half: 4-4-1-1)


    Line up: GK: Ben. Back four: Cole, Glenn, Christian, Carl. Midfield: Sharky, Ryan, Wisey, Andrew. Strikers: Henri, Ziggy.


    Subs: Sticky, Magnus, Aff, Best, Pascal.


    Bullet Points:


    <ul>


    <li>The Deva was close to capacity! Southend always travel in numbers and sold their allocation. There might have been a few empty seats here and there but I reckon we had 5,200 in, at least. Amazing to see and the noise was cracking. When Southend got in our half in the last ten minutes, you could hear thousands of nails being bitten.</li>


    <li>We were all convinced Grimsby had choked and that was them done, but they''re back winning. The only consolation was a late goal against them that made it 2-1.</li>


    <li>That means that we go into the last game of the season level on points but they have one better goal difference. We have scored far more goals, though, so if both teams win their final match, we need to win by one more goal than them.</li>


    <li>Our final match is against Woking, who we beat 2-0 in September. If we repeat that score, we have to hope Grimsby only beat Wealdstone by one goal.</li>


    <li>Grimsby thrashed Wealdstone 4-0 in their last meeting.</li>


    <li>I hate the last bullet point.</li>


    <li>That was when Marcus Wainwright was on fire, though. Grimsby don''t have the same kind of firepower. We certainly have more goals in our squad, though not today.</li>


    <li>Cough, Chipper, cough.</li>


    <li>It was frustrating seeing the lack of goalscorers on the pitch, but to be fair, Best was spinning plates the way only he can. Magnus Evergreen got a break. Glenn Ryder played okay and Zach will be fresh for the final match. Cole Adams put a shift in while Eddie Moore rested. Aff, Pascal, and Best played less than a half. Best''s feet are clearly killing him but he''s got five days to heal up. Youngster wasn''t even on the bench. Fitness shouldn''t be an issue going into the final game and Best gets big credit for that one even if he overdid it for the Cheshire Cup.</li>


    <li>Quite a few lads played their final games at the Deva, unless we get sucked into the playoffs. Ryder got a big ovation before and after the match. Aff and Carl are gone - see <this article> for my assessment of why the fees we''re getting are far too low - and Wisey and Steve Icke seem to be nearing the exit. Ziggy almost certainly played his last game for the club. I like the guy and he''s not as bad as he seemed when we brought him in but for once Best is massively overrating a player and it won''t be us fans with egg on our face. Not on that one. Still, he works like a trojan and I wish him well.</li>


    <li>The men waiting by the side of the pitch at half time to form a guard of honour for the women''s team brought the house down. Nice touch, and the Southend mob were generous with their applause, too. Bonnie showing us the league trophy and being joined by Glenn with the Cheshire Cup was absolutely amazing, incredible, but my God it ratcheted the tension up something rotten. We''re so close to winning the National League. So close to getting that trophy. I feel sick. I''m drained. I want to stop thinking about everything that could go wrong next week, but I can''t.</li>


    </ul>


    ***


    At full time I was quiet and did the post-match handshakes and whatnot in near silence. A Southend player asked to swap shirts and I mumbled something about being down to our last couple of match kits, which was true, but my mind was elsewhere. I was heading inside when Pascal stopped me and said that it was the last home game of the season and that with 91 points in the bag already we had earned what he called an ''honorary loop''.


    The lads didn''t need to be told twice. We walked around the stadium, waving to people we recognised, clapping the fans, the usual. The season wasn''t resolved and it was possible we would be back in a couple of weeks for a playoff game, so from my point of view the lap of honour was pretty weird and I wanted to get the lads into the dressing room and talk to them. If I did, though, the fans would leave and no-one wanted that.


    Eventually I couldn''t stand it any more and I ordered Glenn and Christian to gather the lads. Vimsy collected the coaches and physios and I did my post-match debrief right there on the pitch.


    What I had to say was based on the league table we found ourselves with going into what we hoped would be our final game of the season.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>P</td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>91</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>40</td>


    <td>91</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>89</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    "Lads," I shouted, as they stood arm-in-arm, as close as poss so they could hear me. "Great game. Another win. We took this season all the way to the fucking wire. Unreal. You are unreal. You''ve heard the scores from the other games. We''re gonna need to score at least two goals. We''re gonna need to outdo whatever Grimsby have left in the tank. If they win 4-0 like last time, we have to win 5-0. Simples. We''re gonna turn the intensity of training all the way down. Tomorrow you''re off. The rest of the week we''ll go through some attacking drills. Low energy, nice and easy." I looked around and saw some families were waiting for their dads by the dugout. "Your kids can come on the pitch for a minute but we might have a playoff game here so mostly stick to the touchlines if you don''t mind. I''ve got to go and get us a sweet new kit for next season. Well played and see you on Wednesday."


    Glenn and Christian yelled stuff and the players ran off to gather their families. A small pitch invasion perpetrated by lots of very cute toddlers ensued. I went to get a shower, get changed, and get my head into gear for the big meeting.


    ***


    It had been arrogant to plan the meeting for after this match, but I really thought we would be top of the league with a gap of three or four goals between us and Grimsby. I''d also thought I would be able to arrange things so that I wouldn''t have to play in this match at all.


    But we weren''t clear at the top and I had played hard. My increasingly frantic attempts to get the fourth goal had surely made me look ridiculous to the founder of Grindhog, a guy who had played for Tranmere Rovers.


    Before going up to the executive lounge, I popped into the manager''s room for a spot of peace and quiet and to decide what I wanted. My vague plan had been to be a cocky twat in the meeting for the simple reason that I didn''t want to work with Grindhog. Brooke absolutely loved the company and their explosive growth, but while I respected the founder''s hustle, there were far too many complaints about the products. I wanted Brooke to finish the meeting being the one who said ''thanks for coming but I don''t think this will work''.


    Now, though, I knew I wouldn''t go down that route. For a start, I was too tired to be cocky. But this bizarre run where scorelines from earlier in the season were happening again was freaking me out. If that trend continued, we would lose the league by three goals. It was insane to think Grimsby would outscore us on the final day of the season without Marcus Wainwright. The thought was literally crazy-making.


    Pascal had said ''loop of honour''. Henri had been telling me about Mater Studorum, one of the weird books he read that was told in the form of a time loop. And of course, the fact that Emma had taken to calling today ''Grindhog Day'' brought to mind the movie with the chipmunks where Bill Murray repeated the same day over and over until he banged the woman he fancied. I had repeatedly tried a similar method to end this particular loop and it hadn''t worked.


    I forced myself to go up to the room - being late wasn''t my sort of power move - and saw that Brooke, Emma, Ruth, MD, and Gemma were schmoozing our VIP guest. He was on his own, no entourage, which was a huge plus point for him. They saw me and stood. MD and the waiters applauded.


    Brooke said, "Max, this is Ken Carr."


    I shook the guy''s hand. His grip was solid but not obnoxious. Good start. "That was amazing," he said. His Liverpudlian accent was pretty much all gone; he must have worked at it to make his business life easier.


    I frowned. "What, my entrance?" I looked back the way I had come. Had I accidentally come in like Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice?


    Ken was in his mid-thirties, shorter than I''d expected, but he was fit and had the kind of healthy vibe that came from being filthy rich. He had a wide, likeable face and I rated his haircut. It straddled the boundary between being in the sportswear industry and being a serious b-boy. He was perfectly at ease up here in the posh seats being admired by incredible beauties (and MD) but he wouldn''t have looked out of place down in our dressing room, either as a player or a coach. Not as a manager, though. He didn''t have the scintillating intelligence, the charisma, the encyclopaedic knowledge of movies, and worst of all, he was from Merseyside. Only three managers from Merseyside had ever won the top prize in England and two of those were from before Scotland was discovered.


    He laughed. "I meant how you played. Absolutely amazing. You were like Messi and Ronaldo''s lovechild."


    "That''s a distressing image. But thanks."


    Emma rubbed my arm. "Babes, are you okay?"


    "Yes, why? I mean, yeah, I''m fine. Ace. Top. Maybe a little weirded out. No, cut that."


    Too late. "Weirded out?" She pulled me onto the sofa that had been dragged into the middle of the space and continued to hold my arm. To my left, MD shared a sofa with Gemma. Brooke and Ken were on a two-seater ahead of me. Ruth was alone to my right.


    I did a little head shake. "It''s just crazy. We couldn''t get that fourth goal. It''s like the universe was blocking us. I know it wasn''t," I said, testing how it sounded. It sounded true. "I know it wasn''t," I said, with more conviction, "but I was really convinced we were going to finish level on points and goal difference with Grimsby."


    "You still might," said Ken.


    "Yeah, but today. When we scored our third I was sure we''d get the fourth and we would go into the last game of the season as a kind of straight shoot-out. Score the most goals, you win the league."


    "It''s still like that," he said.


    "Yeah," I mused. "It''s just off. Makes me nervous."


    "Oh, my God," said Emma. "I just broke out in a cold sweat."


    "Me, too," said MD.


    The group had a lovely old chuckle and I realised I wasn''t part of the little gang they''d formed during the match. It was like going to a party and everyone else was drunk and talking about things that had happened before you got there. It made me feel even more tired, and vaguely sad. "I hate to be a bore," I said, "but I didn''t expect to play that much today. Can we do the meeting while I''ve got a modicum of energy?"


    Ken was very smooth. He showed no annoyance or any negativity whatsoever. I suppose he was used to dealing with highly-strung athletes. "No problem, Max. Let me do my spiel. I created Grindhog because I saw a gap in the market for a British sportswear company, one that could compete with the big boys. If you''re a football club and you''re partnered with Nike, Adidas, or Puma, you''d better be Real Madrid or Man United or you''re not going to get much attention. Football clubs are horribly underserved and there''s a big opportunity for a scrappy upstart.


    "My origin story. My co-founder and I played sport to a decent level and we knew a bit about which fabrics felt good and what worked and so on. When our careers were cut short we got into finance but we would always go home and talk about building Grindhog. It was an addiction, a passion. We had to get it out there or we would come apart at the seams. We flew out to factories and fabric mills. They were all about huge minimum orders but we found a mill we loved. They did unbelievably good work and we went on a crusade to get them to give us a chance with small orders.


    "We put the work in, Max. We were the original grindhogs. The mill owner, this old Italian who didn''t speak English was finally won over by the passion of these mad lads from Liverpool. Finally, he cracked and said we could do a small run if we would shut up about it and leave him alone. We launched our first range and never looked back."


    "Amazing," sighed Emma.


    "We were grinding, growing pretty fast but from a small base, when the pandemic hit. I don''t mean to be crass but we had built the company to be digital-first so it was great for us. We''re a data-driven company. We get huge data from our website and we use it to drive sales. Sports teams who partner with us can''t understand how we generate so much more revenue than they did. On day one they''re sceptical of our projections because they think they''ve saturated the fan base but we prove them wrong every single time and they''re delighted."


    I nodded. "Brooke raves about the digital aspect."


    "I do," she confirmed. "For us, coming from our current base, it''s a quantum leap."


    I mumbled, "Ziggy loves that show."


    Ken continued, but again I had the strangest time loop experience. The same words, the same phrases. We had done all this! I was in a Groundhog Day scenario! Seconds before I had a freakout, I realised it seemed like I had heard all this before because I had - on a podcast. Ken told this story often. "We use data and habits and patterns to build a genuine, more meaningful relationship with fans. No offence to Chester but what you do here is like football in the old days and not in a good way. You buy your season ticket, turn up, get a pie, go home. That''s fine in and of itself but there''s so much more you can do. I heard about these programmes of yours, the Chester Chatters and the dentist thing and they are brilliant - brilliant - but I was walking around before asking people and nine out of ten people didn''t know what I was talking about."


    "Try the home end," I said.


    He laughed pretty generously. It was obvious why my friends were so on his side. "Marketing is communication. Chester fans want to hear more from the club; we can help with that. Build your community, monetise that community."


    Brooke was nodding along, her business crush growing with every minute. Ruth and MD were into Ken, too. I waved at Kian, the youth team player who was earning a few extra quid as a waiter. He dropped whatever he was doing and lugged two large kit bags over towards us. I said, "Thanks. Can I get a beer, too?"


    "A beer?" said Ruth.


    "It''s isotonic," I said. "Okay I think in different circumstances I''d love to talk at length about how to better rinse our customers but any relationship between Grindhog and Chester will primarily be built on player kits and replica kits. The kit is so absurdly fundamental to the experience of the players and fans that I have to get the decision right or I know the whole dream will collapse. Maybe that''s how I break the loop?" I wasn''t sure if I said the last part out loud and hid my discomfort by taking a big swig of the beer just as Kian brought it. The calories went straight to my brain and I got a huge kick of energy. "The kit is the main thing a fan looks at. It touches their skin; they are wearing the club. It has to look good and feel good.


    "I don''t know the first thing about graphic design, fabrics, manufacturing constraints, shipping, or order fulfilment, but Ken, we''re lucky to have two legendary fashionistas right here." I unzipped the first bag, realised it was the wrong one, unzipped the second. "Gemma, Emma, you be the judges. I''ll give you replica kits from different football clubs and you sort them into hot," I tapped the left of the table, "and not." The right.


    "What about me?" said Ruth.


    "You''re hot," I said.


    She rolled her eyes. "Don''t you think I have good taste in clothes?"


    "I didn''t know you would be here so I didn''t plan for that," I said.


    "I run a rapidly-growing sports agency, Max, and my clients want swag. It''s obvious I want to be in the room if I can."


    "Good call," I said. I pulled the first kit out. It was, to me, stupendously beautiful. There was a sort of interlocking diamond pattern with blues, reds, purples, and yellows. I had blacked out the manufacturer''s logo with tape, but the shirt was vivid and colourful and the balance of the crest size and sponsor added to the overall effect. I was delighted that Emma and Gemma cooed over it and grabbed it away from me.


    "Wor, that''s fun!"


    "That is awesome. Is this an option? Can we have this?"


    "I didn''t know football kits could be like this. Why do football kits always look shit if you could have this?"


    I smiled. Ken didn''t. "Hot or not," I said, tapping the table. They put it in ''hot'' but MD leaned forward to get a feel for it. "It''s made from recycled plastics," I said. "Eco." I got the next one out. It was green with a sort of gradient effect, getting darker to the bottom. The graphic underneath the logo and crest was indeterminate but made me think of stepping through a jungle. I had taped over the maker''s logo on all the kits.


    "Yeah, that''s nice," said Emma. "Not as gorge as the first one but I like it."


    "It''s quite good," said Gemma. She held it up, turned it round, looked away from it and back again. "Actually, I really like it. It''s more subtle than the other one. Ruth?"


    "I''d be happy with that as the third kit. It''s much better than anything I''ve ever seen our teams wearing."


    Emma took it and put it in the hot pile, smiling at Ken as she did.


    "Going well," I said. I took the next one out. It was almost completely blue with a thin red stripe down the shoulders, an all-white crest and logo, and not much else.


    "Erm," said Emma, giving Ken an apologetic glance. "Not my favourite."


    "It''s a bit bland," said Gemma. "Especially compared to the others. They had more life. This one''s a bit, a bit... generic. It doesn''t stand out."


    I took out another. It was white with a hint of a blue sash and strange blue things at the ends of the sleeves. It joined the previous one in the ''not'' pile.


    The mood picked up with a gorgeous burgundy and yellow thing, a red and white checked effort, and the women went nuts for a dark number with a sort of fleur-de-lis pattern on which the crest and logo were so subtly different in colour from the rest that it was practically invisible. In between, they dumped some bland ones into the ''not'' pile.


    It was only when the first bag was empty that Emma realised something was wrong. She was giving Ken a wide-eyed look. "Oh, no, what have I done? Max! What have you done?"


    I smiled and took a final hit of my beer. It had given me some brain fuel and would help me sleep, but one was enough. "You''ve given your honest feedback, haven''t you? And I agree with you completely. The dark one is maybe too out there to be an actual kit but that''s the sort of brave design I want to be offered. I''m happy to say that all these on the table were made by British sportswear companies."


    Emma looked to Ken. "What''s he done?"


    Ken tried to summon a smile. "The ones you liked were from a different company. Elgar, I think. The ones you didn''t like were ours."


    "Fucking hell, Max," said Ruth.


    MD chipped in. "Clubs give design briefs that can be hard to work with. What are you supposed to do with an all-white kit like Preston''s? I thought that was very nice, actually."


    I unzipped the other bag. "Here''s a few other bits I bought. Emma, what is being promoted here?" I held up a t-shirt with an enormous Grindhog logo. In small letters underneath it said ''Preston North End''.


    "Preston North End," said Emma, showing incredible loyalty to her new friend.


    I shook my head and pulled out a few other items - beanies, caps, hoodies. They all had colossal Grindhog logos even though they were sold in a football club''s shop. "This is not what I want from a partnership. This is all about you, Ken. You''re mint as a person, don''t get me wrong, but how did this get made? This is the merch equivalent of a striker who never passes. That''s not how we do things here. It''s team first. Club first. We work for the glory of Chester FC. The idea that you would fill ninety percent of a t-shirt with your logo and write Chester at the bottom is just bizarre to me. It''s like you don''t understand your role or you want to use all these football clubs to promote your own brand. That ain''t right. You might have billions in turnover but you''re not bigger than this football club. You can''t ever be. You know that."


    Ken looked around; he was losing the room. Even Brooke. "Can I defend myself?"


    "Of course."


    He picked up a beanie. "This sells. This makes money for the football club that they can use to invest. People like this, Max. They buy it and wear it. Mike is right about the design challenges on some kits. We have others we''re proud of. Ones that really slap."


    I smiled. "Slap?"


    He had been doing a lot of research considering we were a tier five club of a size he wouldn''t normally deal with. Another point in his favour. "I heard about the coursework you did for your UEFA badge. You make a splash everywhere you go. You''ve got strong opinions and that''s why you''re a brilliant leader of this football club. But this shirt," he said, rummaging for the very first one, the colourful one, "wouldn''t be allowed in the EFL. Sunday League? Yeah, it''s a banger. No doubt about it. The dark one? If you''re Arsenal and you do a huge campaign around it, yes, but your sponsors are going to freak out when no-one can see their branding and the moody effect will be ruined when you put a player''s name and number on the back in brilliant white which you would need to do because those are the rules of the league.


    "Kits are a compromise and, okay, I''ll admit some of these may have been a compromise too far and I didn''t enjoy seeing your demonstration, Max." He kept using my name to build rapport and, annoyingly, it was working. "We''re a new brand. We''re not even ten years old and we''ve made mistakes but we keep grinding. In this business you''re a target and every time we release a new kit we get slaughtered. Absolutely slaughtered by keyboard warriors. By the end of the season they''ve usually flipped and they love the kit."


    I leaned back and closed my eyes for a second. "My problem is that I love Elgar''s designs but they only do kits and not the rest of the stuff. You do great marketing but you''re so in a rush and you''re growing so fast what you mostly make is money. I need money but I can''t bear the thought some mum is gonna drop a hundred pounds on two replica kits for her boys and they turn up weeks late with threads hanging off and the numbers fall off in the first wash and anyway the design is boring. The club will make seven pounds off that deal and potentially lose three fans. That''s an absolute no from me.


    "The home kit is going to be boring, that''s okay, striped kits are hard, but the quality has to be impeccable. If you want to be part of this story I''ll be a nightmare to work with because I''ll want you to treat Chester better than any other club in your portfolio, the way some companies have a special relationship with the royal family. But then again, why wouldn''t you want that? We''re going up again next year. League Two will be a piece of piss, League One is a doddle. We could get to the Championship before Wrexham."


    "Striped kits are hard?" said Ken. "Why do I get the feeling you know more about kits than you''re letting on?"


    I stuck my bottom lip out. "All I know is that I want washing instructions to be put on heat transfers instead of labels. I''d like an embroidered badge instead of a rubberised heat press. There can be zero buttons on the kit, ever, especially those rock-hard ones by the throat you seem to love. Christ, man, if I put that on I''ll be in surgery ten minutes later. The colour matching needs to be top notch, the fabrics comfortable - I love a Jacquard. The women''s team get their own cut. If you give me ''shrink it and pink it'' the deal''s off. You can sell the player''s edition for lobster money if it''s substantially better, and I''d like a low-cost kid''s version. I want to grow fans more than I want to extract money from parents. I want the employees that handle Chester to understand what I just said because it''s fundamental.


    "I want a lot more quality control than you seem to do normally. The overlocking has to be neat, no bleeding, no hanging threads. If someone from Grindhog presents a design inspired by a ''vintage'' kit and it turns out that kit was from five years ago, that''s the immediate end of the contract and you don''t get your money back. Ditto if I see anything where your logo is bigger than ours. To help you come up with good designs and to stop rinsing our fans, we''ll switch to a two-year life cycle. In year one, people will buy an amazing home kit that lasts. In year two, there will be a new away kit. Last year''s away kit becomes the third kit. There is no fourth kit.


    "We will agree on how many emails you send to our fans per year and the number will be no more than ten. Finally, the design process will go quickly because you will send me the kit and I will put it on and do laps around the Deva until I''m sweaty and gross. If it doesn''t wick sweat or it turns into one of your wet-look Mr. Darcy specials we''ll know within half an hour and you can try again."


    Ken had started out frowning, but it had turned into a small smile. "You''ve just designed the first five-hundred pound replica kit."


    "Nah," I said. "Doing it right will cost more and eat into your margins but I''m fine with that."


    "Are you?"


    "Yes. It''s win-win-win. You make some money, I get good kits, and our fans are the only ones in the country who don''t pile on as soon as you release, well, anything."


    "I think you might have unrealistic expectations."


    "I know but it''s strange how often I want something and then make it happen. This is a great opportunity for you. If you put my fans right to the top of your internal food chain I will blow your Italian cotton socks off." I spun my finger around. "This is the story of the century. The women''s team just got promoted. Back to back champions. Brooke, did you tell him about the documentary?"


    "I did."


    "Can you get him a preview copy? We''re going terrestrial instead of streaming because we want more eyeballs on it. You should sign with us before we''re huge stars and I get a big head."


    "Ahem," said Gemma.


    "The athletes you sponsor are so bland. Take a risk! Sign deals with Dani and Angel from the women''s team. Kisi, too. The men''s team have a few characters. We have the best young player from England and Wales. That¡¯s, er, one of each. Pascal''s popular. It''s a niche sort of popularity but that''s what your data is for, right? To find the weirdos who like that weirdo. Henri could do perfume ads or he could be wearing Grindhog. Your call. Zach Green is wildly popular with the elderly and infirm. And think of the opportunity to have the lovechild of Messi and Ronaldo wearing your logo!" I shook my head. "If you keep doing things the same way, you''re going to get the same results."


    I''d been planning to continue my rant but I froze. The same results. That was the thing Chester most needed to avoid in the coming week. So far in the meeting I had been pushy and slightly belligerent. That was the same as always. How could I be different?


    I looked at Ken. I knew from the podcasts that he was a lot like me. He was driving himself so fast he couldn''t help causing a few crashes here and there but he was mostly crushing it in an industry where the little guy, the new guy, wasn''t supposed to have a chance. He was further along his journey than I was mine; maybe I could show a tiny bit of humility. Maybe I could be honest.


    "This deal terrifies me. We have a thing here called Chesterness. It''s a culture of high performance based on a fanatical devotion to teamwork. It works because I''m at the top getting rid of people who don''t buy into it but if we do this, there''s an outsider in charge of something that''s a fundamental part of the player and fan experience. You will have the power to elevate that aspect of the club to new heights - or to ruin it. A profit maximising deal is bad risk reward for me. If we do this for money we''ll lose the magic. Here''s my offer," I said, excited, suddenly seeing a way through my doubts into a better future. "Design a home kit and a yellow third kit. Take some of your margin and put it into the shirt and into quality control. Take my whole margin and put it into the shirt. Let''s make the best fucking kit in Europe as our starting point."


    He looked from MD to Brooke to me. "You don''t want a cut?"


    "No. I''ll give my 7 percent to the fans in the form of awesomeness if you''ll take a step in that direction, too. I want an amazing kit, something we''re both proud of. Let''s start there. Fans first, money second. If you''re into that, if you''re excited by that, we can do something special. If being in these b-boxes and c-suites has dulled your edge, no problem. I''m not judging. I''m sure there''ll come a day where I''d rather play golf than absolutely fucking crush every minute of my life."


    Ken stared at me without blinking. I''d hit one of his buttons and some of his native Scouse accent came out. "I don''t play golf; I play jai alai. I''d love to give you a game one day."


    "Is that the one like squash where you''ve got a tusk instead of a racquet and the ball goes a hundred miles an hour?"


    "A hundred for you, Max. Two hundred for me."


    I looked at Emma. She shook her head vigorously. "Sorry, Ken. I''ve seen that movie before. Veto. He''s more fragile than he looks."


    We waited for Ken to say something; it was his turn.


    He was quiet for a while. "I''ve never heard that. I''ve been in this business for nine years. No-one''s ever said I don''t want a profit. I wasn''t expecting dat."


    "Neither was I," said Brooke, giving me a look. MD was feeling one of the unloved Grindhog shirts. It was much better quality than what we had now. I think he was daydreaming about having a gorgeous kit and not thinking all that hard about the lost income. Deep down he was a true football fan.


    I pushed myself to the edge of the sofa and looked at Ken. "I don''t need more budget; I''m a cash machine. I need intangibles. I need a player''s edition that makes my team swoon with how nice it feels. Makes them feel like stars. If that takes us from fourth to third in the league that''s worth more than the commission. Every time I see some kid in our new kit I''m going to get a motivation boost. That''s almost priceless. So that''s the first step. We can make bank in years three to five as long as you never forget that we''re not doing this for us but for those fans out there. What do you think?"


    "You want us to design and make the best kit in Europe on a small production run."


    I had him. "Same as when you went to Italy and won the guy over with your passion."


    He grinned - hoist by his own Jacquard. "Make the best kit in Europe on a small production run." He scoffed and shook his head. "That''s the first step?" He shook his head some more.


    Brooke decided she was happy with my performance. She pushed Ken on the shoulder. "Watch out for that first step," she said, and I joined her to finish the quote. "It''s a doozy!"


    Ken was a pretty unflappable guy but he had come to the Deva out of curiosity and to pick up a small client for his portfolio and it''s fair to say the meeting hadn''t gone as expected. "You''ve given me a lot to think about, Max."


    MD looked at his watch and stood. "I have to go. I hope you''ll come on board, Mr. Carr. I love your work, I think you''d be phenomenal for us, and Max is honestly not as difficult as he comes across. He''s quite reasonable, in fact."


    "Oi!" I said. "Take that back!"


    "But Max," said MD, sagging a little. "Please tell me history will repeat itself."


    His words were eerie. "What?"


    "We''re going to do the double again. Cheshire Cup and league winners. We''re going to do it. Aren''t we?"


    I leaned back and squeezed Emma. I shook my head and got a bit of a grin on. "These business boys are so out of touch, babes. Trying to sound like the kids." I tutted and scoffed. "It''s not aren''t we. It''s could we."


    MD was on the verge of being exasperated. "Max. Could we?"


    "Yeah," I said, dismissively. "Piece of piss. Score more than Grimsby to win the league? Mate. Relax." I picked up a Grindhog beanie and spun it around my finger. "It''s a done deal."

 10.15 - The Agon and the Agony

    15.


    Human being glossary: Agon. Noun. (In Manchester and other advanced civilisations.) A struggle in which the winners earn glory, mating opportunities, and fat stacks. Can be in the field of sports, rap battles, or bake-offs. Agon is the root of the words protagonist and antagonist.


    ***


    Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 5


    Chapter 15 - The Bottom That Was Bitten


    Wednesday, April 23


    If.


    Not the novel about Tim Curry, but if. The conjunction meaning ''in the event that''.


    If we defeated Woking by one more goal than Grimsby defeated Wealdstone, we would be the champions.


    If we won back-to-back titles we would be written into the folklore of a football club that was founded in 1885.


    If we were promoted to the football league, there would be pay rises, we would be regulars on TV, we would be featured in EA FC games, we would score a major kit deal, my career would skyrocket.


    Unless.


    The very word made my gut clench. I took an antacid before going to training and told myself it helped.


    We had been informed that it would be a light session, and Sandra, Well In, and Clive led us through some attacking drills that were intended to be fun. I looked to our coaches - the A team - hoping to see they were as relaxed and confident as I wanted to be, but they showed signs of going through the same if/unless cycle.


    Then the moment came. A sucker punch months in the making. I hadn''t known exactly what would happen, but I knew some of Max Best''s behaviour would come back to bite us on the bottom.


    It happened during a drinks break. Aff checked his phone, listened to a voice message - quickly walking away from the group - and turned white. He went to Carl Carlile, spoke, and the pair went off on their own, whispering urgently. They were so intent on their conversation they didn''t seem to hear the whistles or the call from Well In. Sandra allowed the pair to get on with whatever they were doing. After all, they were leaving in a few weeks and most saliently, they were model professionals. If they needed a minute to themselves, they had certainly earned one.


    When they rejoined training they were in a daze.


    Two key players with their heads spinning mere days before the most important match in the club''s recent history. I would say my heart sank but perhaps it would be more accurate to say it flipped over on the ocean floor, for there were no more depths my anxiety could plumb.


    We trained in a fitful, increasingly worried state for perhaps ten minutes, and after hitting an easy pass metres off target I found myself down on one knee, sweating profusely as though I had a fever. I hoped it was playoff fever, because that was where the team was heading, I kid you not.


    And then came Max.


    I heard a screech of brakes and turned to see Max poke his head around the corner of BoshCard''s HQ. He popped his head back and three seconds later strolled, casual as you like, towards Bosh Bistro. He ordered his morning tea - Pete liked to bring it up to Max''s office - and wandered in the direction of the back entrance. As if making a spontaneous decision, Max turned around and ambled, flip flops and all, towards pitch 3.


    A completely transparent performance. Obviously Sandra had texted him to warn him of the danger and he had rushed from home.


    Sandra was an amazing actress; she pretended to be surprised Max had arrived. I got to my feet and jogged close enough to hear some of their conversation.


    "Awite?" said Max.


    "They''re quite nervous," said Sandra. "But it''s good. Some sloppiness but overall they''re sharp. Fit."


    "Hmm," said Max. "If I was going to give a quick pep talk to someone - Aff, maybe, or Carl - who would you pick?"


    She frowned. "I really have no clue."


    And the Oscar goes to... Sandra Lane!


    "Can you send them both, then? I''ll be in my office."


    "Now?"


    "Yeah," he said. "I''ve got something for them to sign. They''ll be back in five."


    Sandra eyed him strangely. "You could call them. You''re right here."


    "I don''t shout in the morning, Sandra, you know that. I wouldn''t shout until six p.m. if it wasn''t for Saturday kick offs." She was unimpressed so he added, in a pathetic bleat. "You''re the best at shouting. Come on, don''t make me."


    She continued to stare during his performance, but cracked. She laughed, called the players over, and when Max, Aff, and Carl had left, Sandra, Well In, and Clive laughed and joked with each other about how lazy Max could get. Their laughter fed into the session and the next time I got the ball, my return pass was crisp and sharp.


    Five minutes later, Aff and Carl returned, still shaken in some way, but with an air of determination about them.


    Max Best was on the case!


    My heart, having grown hesitant fins, now soared up through the waters.


    Max Best was on the case. No ifs or unlesses.


    When.


    When we won the league, I would get a pay rise. When we won the league, my career would skyrocket.


    ***


    Chester FC End of Season Awards Ceremony


    (Transcript edited for length and clarity.)


    Boggy: So once again I''d like to thank you all for coming and thanks to the Crowne Hotel for going the extra mile with the decorations and for adding vegan hotdogs to the menu at the request of one particularly fussy diner.


    Audience: [Laughs.]


    Boggy: If it''s your first time at one of these awards dinners, yes, it''s normal that we do it before the final match of the season. Usually we''re 14th so there is less tension! These dinners are a time and place where fans and players can get together and show mutual appreciation; it''s a much-loved institution. What we do is introduce the categories - Men''s Player of the Season, Women''s Goal of the Season and so on - have a little chat with the winner, and move onto the next one. We''re normally finished in time for dessert but oh God what now?


    Max Best: Sorry, Boggy, change of plan.


    Audience: [Ear-splitting applause.] Best! Best! Best!


    Boggy: You said you wouldn''t come.


    Max: But then I met myself from the future and I told myself I needed to come and sort this out.


    Boggy: What''s wrong with it?


    Max: I''ve got twenty-five highly-strung athletes there and they''ve been told not to be on their phones and they''ve got withdrawal symptoms and it''s driving them fucking bonkers. Isn''t it, ladies?


    Women''s team: [Jeers and boos.]


    Max: The men''s team are here too.


    Men''s team: [Polite applause, one whoop.]


    Max: Am I allowed to swear?


    Boggy: No.


    Max: Oops. So, look. Serious now. We''ve got a bunch of introverts and this is a social nightmare for them - me included, if I''m honest - no, don''t laugh. I''m an introvert. I said don''t laugh. So the new plan is I give a little speech, we race through the awards, we get stuck into dinner.


    All: [Cheer.]


    Max: Any player who wants to slip out at that point can do so while the rest will mingle with the fans. You don''t want our lads burning up all their mental energy today instead of Saturday, do you? All right!


    [Sound of a chair being scraped along the stage.]


    Max: I know some of you are all stressed about Saturday and that''s understandable and you''d think I would have some sympathy with you, but I don''t. You are football fans and it''s your job to suffer. [Nervous laughter from the fans.] Personally, I think it''s pretty funny. You pay twenty quid and what do you get? Agony. There''s a word for people like you. And you might be thinking oh Max, say something that puts our minds at ease!


    Yeah, no. I''m fine. I''m actually loving it. I get a bit nervous now and then but that''s when I think into the far future. When I think about three o''clock on Saturday all I feel is anticipation. Excitement. But it''s different for me. If things are going wrong I can change them. Try a different formation, switch some players. Heh - I can even play a bit myself. I would go as far as to say I am the person with the most control over the outcome of that football match and that is a pretty sweet feeling and I love being up here on my throne popping grapes into my mouth while you guys are down there wailing and gnashing your teeth. [Paper rustles.] Item one, lord it over the fans, done, tick. [Fans laugh.]


    Item two is a motivational poetry reading. [Huge laugh from Henri.] I asked a chatbot how to get you lot off the tension train and onto the excitement superhighway and it told me to read you this poem. It''s called If. Pascal, you okay mate? [Clears throat.] If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you. Whoa! Is this about me? These chatbots are getting really specific. [Fans laugh.] If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, or being lied about, don¡¯t deal in lies, or being hated, don¡¯t give way to hating, and yet don¡¯t look too good, nor talk too wise. Right, poem''s over. Don''t look too good? How is that advice suitable for a footballer? Have you seen this suit? This haircut? Come on.


    I tell you what, there''s one bit I like. If you can fill the unforgiving ninety with fourteen kilometres'' worth of distance run, yours is a Nando''s, my son. [The players laugh and cheer.] I am smashing this. Don''t worry, Boggy, you''re still getting paid. Okay, item three. Season review.


    [Sound of water being poured and a few gulps.]


    Max: It''s been a long old season, hasn''t it? I took a while last night just sitting in the garden having a think about it all. We made some signings. Femi, Scottie, Luxury, Ridley. Was it a rule of the league that made all the names end in ''e''? Can''t remember. Turned out all right though, didn''t they? [Applause.] For the men we got Wes, the five young guns, and Zach. [Applause.] By the way, Zach, there''s a woman here who wants to get some private time with you later, maybe here in the hotel. Brooke. Brooke, is Overprepared Grandmother here? No? Huh. Maybe I got crossed lines, Zach. Sorry, mate.


    Those weren''t our only signings! Don''t forget William, Christian, Ziggy, Sticky, Wisey, and let''s be fair, Chipper scored a few important goals. [Applause.] We gave debuts to fourteen young players. [Big applause.] We had a visit from Dieter Bauer. [Applause and whistles.] We had cup runs. The men got to the third round of the FA Cup and won the Cheshire Cup - get used to that, by the way. The boys gave Chelsea the fright of their lives in the FA Youth Cup. The women, er, tried their best. [Some laughs, some jeers, some audible scowls.]


    The weather turned our pitches into bogs and we had to work around that. We went on a long unbeaten run that took us to within a whisker of the title. [Cheers.] And there was a bit of unpleasantness in there, too, wasn''t there? Had to ward off an asset stripper and it got a bit heated. [Awkward silence.] Ha! I''m not here to open old wounds but I''ve got some news about Daddy Star and Chip. The long and short of it is that they have bought Bradford City. [Worried murmur.] Yeah, now the obvious concern for us is that they''ve bought two of our key players and what does that mean for Saturday? I''ll tell you what it means - nothing. Because I would trust those two men with my life. [Huge applause.] They didn''t know Bradford had been sold and neither did I and honestly if I had known I wouldn''t have changed anything - maybe pushed for a bigger transfer fee!


    It''s still a good move for our players and I''m proud of them. We have to differentiate between Bradford City - awesome club - and Chip - who is Chip. I think his plan was to time the revelation to cause us maximum distress but that ain''t gonna work. First because Aff''s mum delayed the deal so Chip couldn''t drop the bombshell before Gateshead, which might have caught me on the hop, and I have this sort of mystic sense that if Aff and Carl''s deals had gone through on time, Chip would have tried to bag a bunch of other staff, too. So the delay was helpful. Thanks, Aff''s mum! Second, I am slightly better connected to the world of football than people think. I found out just after Aff did. Okay now that I''ve prepared you, the news will break and you''ll shrug.


    But hang on, there''s a twist. When the Stars were trying to buy Chester, they wanted to sell everything off and do a runner. I believe that and I stand by that. But they''re not doing that at Bradford. I think they''re going to have a go at running the club the right way. They''ll spend a bit of money and get a good manager and have a fairly serious go at it. If you''re the Stars it''s a decent risk to take because if you could get Bradford to the Championship you''d have a huge asset on your hands. You might think oh but they''re splashing the cash on new signings, that means Max got it wrong about their intentions at Chester. I didn''t. They''re doing this to spite me. [Max laughs.] Spite is pretty motivational. Ask the guy who sacked me from Grimsby. [Some laughs.]


    Just to make sure Daddy Star does the right thing I''ve been on a Bradford City podcast today poking the bear. It''ll be out tomorrow if you want a laugh. Every time it looks like Chip''s bored of his toy I''m going to rip the piss and they''ll pour money into the club, keep it afloat. Look, it''s going to be strange next season because if Bradford do well - and they''ve got two-elevenths of an awesome side already - you''re going to be a bit conflicted and that''s what the Stars want.


    All I''ll ask is that you park those conversations until this season''s over. Do you know what I mean? It''ll be a long summer and there will be plenty of time for doubt and worry, if that''s your thing. My thing is taking down all the National League signs in the Deva and putting up ones that say EFL. [Cheers.] Back to the fucking football league, mate! [Huge cheers.] We are your team, we are here, we need you. Oh! I did another rallying cry. It''s kinda fun.


    [More gulps of water.]


    Max: Smell the soup! My stomach is going crazy. Let''s power through these awards. I don''t know who won but let''s start with my one. [Fan laughter.] Men''s Goal of the Season. Where''s that card, where''s that card? Gotcha. Drum roll. And the winner is... Hey! What the shit is this?


    Boggy: Er, what''s wrong, Max? The fans voted for most of these. It''s the will of the people.


    Max: Didn''t you see me against Grimsby? Beautiful team move, carved them open, backheeled some Mariners into the reefs. It was mag-shitting-nificent.


    Boggy: Let me see the card. Max! [Pause.] You won!


    Max: Yeah, for a bog-standard long ranger against Crewe. That''s the wrong goal! This is recency bias, plain and simple. I want my backheel put up on the screen right now. Where''s my tech team?


    Boggy: It wasn''t bog-standard, it was sublime.


    Max: Listen to my words, guys. The goal against Grimsby was an aesthetic and narrative masterpiece.


    Boggy: But this one you hit really hard. [Big audience laughter.] The backheel got second place, look.


    Max: [Scoffs]. Third place was William B. Roberts, also against Crewe. He shinned it! It was off his shin! [The players jeer. Max laughs.] Look, Boggy, he''s mad at me. Mate, are you gonna take it out on me or on Woking? [Inaudible reply.] Oh, I just got goosebumps. Unleash Wibbers! Yeah, we could do with a couple of jammy shinners creeping in at the back post. [Players jeer louder.] Heh. Okay I''m joking, I''m joking. It was an unbelievable finish. Okay so I won. Where''s my trophy? This one? Top. Okay, next award. Chester Manager of the Season. And it goes to... Sandra Lane? What the hell?


    Boggy: [Laughs.] You scared me then. Just to be clear, everyone, that''s not a real award. Max, some people take this really seriously.


    Max: Yeah, quite right too. The ancient Greeks had a god for this stuff. Agon, God of Athletes. Our football pyramid is just like the old agonic competitions. This dinner tonight honours a tradition older than writing, mathematics, or Jackie Reaper''s shell suit. I just thought maybe I would lighten the mood with a bit of silly banter, Boggy.


    Boggy: Thank you, Max. I''m sure we all appreciate it.


    Max: Awards are good. These players work their arses off and it''s good to get recognition for that but remember, everyone. It''s a team sport and individual awards don''t really mean anything. Now, if you''ll excuse me I''m going to clear space on a shelf to put this magnificent object next to my Manager of the Month for March, Player of the Month for April, and Manager of the Month for April awards. [Fans laugh.] Boggy, you can take over as long as you hurry it up. I smell... leek? Leek and mushroom soup, oh my God, yes. Read out the awards, applause, no chit-chat, next. Bosh.


    [Fan in audience]: Max! Are we going to win?


    Max: [Audibly smiling.] We''re going to win. Heh. That wasn''t your question though, was it? Heh.


    Boggy: Max Best there, in a very cocky and positive mood. That makes one of us. The next award is Men''s Save of the Season. And the winner, as voted for by the fans, is...


    ***


    Thursday, April 24


    Internal document accidentally included as part of the discovery process in a court case involving Grindhog Ltd.


    From: Ken Carr


    To: Board


    Subject: Chester FC


    I had a very strange but productive meeting with the main characters at Chester. Manager Max Best is completely delusional about his team''s prospects but his finance and legal team are very switched on, very professional. The proposal is to produce an ultra-high quality kit with reduced margins for us and no margin at all for Chester. A losing proposition but one I think we should pursue. The small loss we make will gain us access to multiple stars of the future.


    Chester have made a documentary about their women''s team and six of eight episodes are finished. I just this minute completed a binge watch; it is a surefire hit. Their young striker, Angel, is going to be a national star and we have the chance to get her in our gear. Her agent is amenable to signing a personal sponsorship deal, but we must wait until Feb 2026 to actively use her in our promos. Two midfielders have huge potential and are almost as marketable - Kisi Yalley and Dani Smith-Smithe. A second series is planned and if we supply the kit our brand will be put in front of millions of eyeballs.


    The men''s team have players with potential, but of course it''s impossible to say how well they will develop and there will be no documentary for them. I have seen footage of Chester''s youngsters destroying their age groups and I feel safe saying that having this squad wearing our kit will be a fillip.


    The real prize is the player-manager. He will either succeed in taking Chester to the Championship (unlikely) or he will move on to a huge club (virtually guaranteed). He acts as director of football, chief scout, manages, plays, and is a publicity magnet. If we give him what he wants now he could be our ticket into one of the top six clubs when one inevitably turns to him to revive their fortunes.


    We will need to assign our gun designers to the project and will need to eat a small loss. There is a risk they may miss out on promotion this season but sealing the deal regardless will only boost our brand in the eyes of Best. He is said to be fiercely loyal to those who are willing to stand by him in tough times - for a pittance, that could be us. Please reply asap so I can offer head terms before their final league match and sign a full contract before Best departs to South America (where, rumour has it, he will sign two Brazilian stars. More reason to get in before Nike lay eyes on the documentary).


    ***


    The Bantamweight Podcast, Episode 77 - Max Best Interview


    - Welcome to an emergency episode of the Bantamweight podcast, your home for all things Bradford City. I''m Jimmy Lockwood and I''m joined today by Chester FC''s Max Best, who got in touch about coming on the show. Max, hi.


    - Awite.


    - If you don''t know, Max is 24 and he''s the youngest director of football in, what, the world? And he''s Chester''s player-manager and, er, anything else?


    - I own a club in Wales and I invented saying ''cuz'' to mean ''cousin.''


    - Some listeners may remember you as the manager who was assaulted outside the stadium by one of your own fans. You were in a bad state for a while there. How are you doing?


    - Er...


    - I''m sorry, that was crude. I''ll cut this.


    - No, it''s fine. I haven''t talked about it for a while. People who see me every day don''t ask about it, do you know what I mean? I''m trying to think how I''m doing. Mentally all right, I think. Sometimes I get flashes of anger like if someone confronts me I might laugh it off or I might go tonto. I don''t know if that''s from the attack. God, it makes me sound psycho.


    - I think it''s understandable.


    - Don''t cut it. Loads of people get head injuries and it might help someone to hear that I''m not having it all my own way. As a player, I''m way off my old levels. I''d say I''m a good League Two player but I prefer to play in short bursts or I get really tired. I''m getting there but yeah, it''s cost me a couple of good years. Huh. It''s not like I''ve actually lost anything because this whole thing I''m treating as a bonus but yeah, I wonder if I''m bitter about that on some level? I need to talk to our psychologist about that. Good call, Jimmy.


    - You don''t have any connection to Bradford City, do you? You''ve sold us two players but this interview isn''t about them. You won''t tell me what it is about so I don''t even know where to start.


    - Let''s do some classic podcast random banter to filter out the lightweights. Drone on for a bit then get to the good stuff.


    - Well, fine. Tell us about Chester. It''s got awfully spicy over there in recent weeks!


    - Yeah, we''re gunning for the title. It''s almost a straight shoot-out between us and Grimsby. We need to gain one goal difference over them on Saturday to win the league on goals scored. It''s that close it could go to the third tiebreaker. I''d never heard anything like it but apparently there was a title race in Scotland between Rangers and Celtic and they were dead level on the last day and it was whoever scored the most goals would win. Ours is almost the same.


    - And are you confident?


    - I mean, sort of, but football''s wild, isn''t it? Barnet started strongest this season and it would be poetic in a way for them to start and finish on top. Grimsby have been top for literally the entire Cambrian era. We haven''t been top for a single minute of the season and if we sneak in right at the end it will be pretty funny but you don''t get that ''yeah we got this'' feeling from making a late charge. I''m desperate to win it, to do it, to time that late run to the back post and nod home but I can''t let that mess up how I approach the game. We need to be grounded and yes, humble, to the extent someone with my jawline can be humble, otherwise the universe will absolutely bite us on the bottom.


    - You were filmed recently telling Oldham fans your tactical plans for that match. Want to do the same here?


    - Ha! I do need to win so I can take care of my mum financially so I''ll keep a couple of details back if that''s all right.


    - Oh, shit, sorry, I was joking.


    - No, Jimmy, it''s cool. I''m just saying that I would normally blab the whole thing because it''d be funny to make Woking have to listen to a Bradford City podcast to find out my plans, right? That''s my sense of humour but this time I''ll pass. I''ll say that Woking are a good team and we''re taking it seriously. We''ll keep it tight first ten. Anyone who knows me who''s listening to this will be laughing now but I''m not joking. One of my coaches, Vimsy, was telling me about when England needed to score like six goals against San Marino and it was a big hype like how many are they gonna score but San Marino scored after seven seconds. Absolutely humiliating and it was because England didn''t treat the match with respect.


    Woking, by the way, are not San Marino. They''re a good team, like I said. If we get promoted we''ll play Bradford next season and you''ll hear loads of shit about me but if anyone ever tells you I''m not serious about this sport, they''re lying. So we''ll keep things steady and earn the right to play our football. If it''s still nil-nil after half an hour I''ll be fine with that. As we get a grip of the match we''ll sort of turn the screw and push bodies forward but if Woking come back at us we''ll dial it down again. I''m prepared to be very, very patient on this one because the more they realise we''re willing to grind and duel and do the nasty shit where they think they can outwork us, the more they''ll lose morale because we can do what they can do but they can''t do what we can do. We will get our chances - if we earn them.


    - I suppose you can''t tell us if our new signings will be playing.


    - They''ll start, yeah. They''re great and they''re versatile, too. Give me two or three players like that and I can switch between loads of formations. Okey-dokey we''ve got rid of all the guys who clicked on this podcast hoping for boxing chat - I''m best friends with Donnie Wormwood, you know - so let''s get into the reason I''m here. Jimmy, let''s talk hypothetically for a while. If Bradford City got bought by a rank amateur who through his ineptitude crashed this football club so hard every airbag in Bradford went off -


    - Holy shit what.


    - And the club was put into administration and you were close to the wall, how would you feel if I nipped in and bought some of your players on the cheap? I''m talking a guy who''s worth half a million and I snap him up for fifty K. Like, are you happy that I did it because I sort of saved the club, or are you mad at me for taking advantage?


    - What''s happening? Do you know something?


    - Jimmy, try to focus. You''re up shit creek and I''m offering you a paddle but I''m emptying your pockets as I let you on my boat. Are we still friends?


    - Who is it? Mike Ashley? No, you said amateur. Oh, my God, I''m stressed.


    - You can breathe. It''s probably fine.


    - Probably?


    - Are you sending a text? That''s bad content.


    - Wait. Did the new owners sign off on Aff and Carlile?


    - Yes.


    - So they''ve got good taste. You said so yourself.


    - Ha. I mean, yeah. As long as he copies what I do, he''ll be fine. It''s when he gets cocky and goes off on his own, that''s when it will turn to shit.


    - Who?


    - Ah, you nearly got me. Look, I just want to say that I like Bradford City - I used to play as you on Soccer Supremo.


    - A lot of people are doing Chester saves trying to do better than you.


    - Oh, doing better than me is easy, so I''ve heard. [Laughs.] Okay, I think that''s it. I just wanted to get in touch and sort of make friends with you lot before everything kicks off. When you fall out with the new owners, invite me back on so I can wind them up. It''s something of a hobby.


    - I''m gonna be hitting Google pretty hard after you hang up.


    - Well, don''t do it too hard or you''ll go blind. Jimmy, good chat.


    - Oh, wait. We don''t know much about Aff and Carlile. You''ve been their manager for...


    - Two years. You want the hot goss on them?


    - Have you got time?


    - Yeah, totally. Love to. Check this out. Aff, 28, can play anywhere on the left. We''ve had him left mid, left back, left wing back, left wing, and we''ve even tried him...


    [Best spends six minutes dissecting the players. By the end, the level of detail is so high only professional analysts can hear him.]


    ***


    Friday, April 25


    Beth: Max, please can we do an interview? Please? I know your feelings about my employer but I''ve been promoting the shit out of this title race. Normally tier five would get two inches at most but I''ve been doing longer and longer stuff and now I need something killer for tomorrow morning. They''re giving me a big interview slot if I can get you, and they''re letting me do an on-the-whistle and a long read. Please? It''s for the good of football! The pyramid. The things you care about!


    Me: I already said yes.


    Beth: When?


    Me: When you said can we do an interview. The rest to me was just waaaaa. I''m eating a tartlet. Call me in fifteen minutes.


    ***


    Dieter Bauer: I do not remember being so nervous about a football match for a club I never played for or managed. Are you confident?


    Me: Yes. Billion percent. As we say in Manchester, Tut mir leid, ich kann das gerade nicht ¨¹bersetzen.


    Dieter Bauer: You English are so strange but I love it. Zeig mir deinen furchtlosen Fu?ball, Max!


    Me: One fearless football coming right up!


    ***


    Me: Jackie, would you like to come down to Woking with us? Sit on the bench maybe?


    Jackie: Need your old mentor to hold your hand, Max? I thought you''d evolved past the likes of little old me.


    Me: I want to rub your head for luck before kick off.


    Jackie: [Bald head emoji.] I''ll be there.


    Me: Thanks. I mean... Just, yeah. Thanks.


    ***


    Saturday, April 26


    Match 46. Woking away.


    Just another day. Just another match. Our CA 67.9 against Woking''s CA 63.


    We got on the team bus - the last before we upgraded to StealthBoy, the new name for the DopeMobile - and settled into our usual routines. Absolutely normal. Was there a hint of extra tension in the air? A stiffness in the arms of the players as they laid down their playing cards?


    No. I just said it was a normal day. Try to pay attention.


    One thing that was different was that we had booked a second bus and stuffed the women''s team, Jackie Reaper, Ruth, the Brig, and the documentary crew onto it. Woking were being very generous, letting us have a big section of the main stand for our women and reserve players, our admin staff, and our sponsors. It was a sporting decision - they knew days like these didn''t come around very often and it helped that we''d sold out our allocation for the away end and that our fans had bought thousands of tickets in the home sections.


    Woking were going to make bank, and we were going to make history.


    My stomach made an uneasy growling sound but that was because of some late-night cheese and nothing to do with nerves.


    ***


    Extract from Beth''s long read article on the title decider, which was published later that night.


    The Agony and the Ecstasy


    by B. Alban


    [The article starts with a tortured analogy relating to Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel. It sets the scene and the stakes, has a bit about Grimsby and Barnet, blah blah blah. We can skip to the good bit.]


    Best was unusually talkative and agreed to give me enough material for two articles, one to be published in the aftermath. Perhaps it was the surprise - Best normally feeds the media scraps or approaches them with a Scrappy-Doo ''I''ll fight you'' energy - or perhaps it was his unexpected aura of tranquillity, but I made a spectacular blunder.


    "If you don''t mind," I said, "I''d love to know your plans for the match. It''ll help me write the on-the-whistle match report faster if I know what you were trying to achieve."


    "Yeah," he replied. "You know I would normally but this one''s too big. This one''s for all the marbles. I could write it out and email it to you with like 70 minutes gone."


    "Or you could embargo it." That, dear reader, was the mistake.


    "I''m not an oil tanker. What are you talking about?"


    "You can do an interview and have an embargo section. That''s where journalists agree not to release those quotes or use that info until a certain time. Premier League clubs do it all the time. Have you never wondered why at midday, four newspapers suddenly all have virtually identical articles based on the same quote?"


    "I thought they were copying each other."


    "No, they were at an embargoed interview or they got together and agreed to embargo the quotes so they could drag the story out. We don''t get much access, you know, compared to American sports. We survive on scraps."


    "How does it work? Is it like on the record off the record?" In my last big encounter with Best he had recently discovered the phrase off the record and he childishly tormented me with it for days.


    With a sinking feeling, I realised I had created a monster. "Something like that, yeah."


    He laughed. "Okay, here''s what I''m going to do. Embargo! Woking will do 4-4-2 so we''ll do 4-1-4-1 to start with. End embargo!"


    "Oh, my God. Please don''t do this."


    "Embargo until I next blink. 4-1-4-1 will stop Woking getting into the game and we''ll get control of - shit did I blink or was that a twitch?"


    "I won''t print the tactics stuff pre-game, okay?"


    "Still in the embargo here. We''ll get control of midfield and Youngster will be in his best position. He''s going to absolutely boss the game. First twenty minutes we won''t attack in numbers. We''ll probe but one full back at a time at most.


    "Embargo continues. What I want is to see where the Woking lads are at. I''m expecting them to be right up for it because they''ll be on TV and they''re looking after their own careers if they play hard. Someone might watch and say ''hey look at that lad, nothing to play for but pride and he''s giving it his all''. For all I know, the Woking lads will be trying to impress me! I wish they wouldn''t, but that''s the kind of player you get at this level. I don''t see a lot of guys who play like they''re already on the beach. I see warriors. Guys who play every game like it''s their last and it''s like if they don''t run like a whirlwind for ninety minutes they ain''t gonna be able to pay their mortgage. So it''s going to be an absolute bastard of a match and we can''t come with 3-4-3 or some Fancy Dan stuff. We''ve got to battle and you''ll see us get more expansive through the match."


    "What happened to attack until you drop?"


    "It''s still there. Fearless football, attacking football, it doesn''t mean stupid football. If we''re leaving gaps at the back in a reckless drive forward, we''re going to get done. 3-0 becomes 3-1 and we''ve got to score two goals to get to where we were going. No, keeping a clean sheet is imperative. If I see my guys are being silly in the warm up, thinking it''s gonna be an easy match, I''ll go men behind ball for ten minutes. Shock the blinkers into waking the blink up. Er, embargo."


    "Could you stop swearing? I can''t use that in the paper."


    "I didn''t even swear! What else do you want to know?"


    "Can you tell me your lineup and what you''ll do when 4-1-4-1 has done its job?"


    "Beth? Listen carefully. I''m putting on my embargo shorts now." Best moved his laptop and went to the back of the room so that I could see his whole body. He mimed stepping into a pair of shorts, pulling them up, struggling with the buttons, fastening the belt, and tapping the pockets to check if he had his keys, wallet, and phone. It was deeply annoying but unfortunately I was too busy laughing to tell him so. He came back to the camera, very pleased with himself. "Ben Cavanagh in goal. My first choice back four: Eddie Moore, Christian Fierce, Zach Green, Carl Carlile."


    "You''re not worried that he works for Chip Star now?"


    "No. Most of this side was here last year and they have the chance to become back-to-back champions. Non-league legends. There''s an article title for you, Beth. Non-league of Legends! The lads had a tiny head wobble when they discovered who their new owners were, but we dealt with it. It''s moronic for Star to think I somehow won''t notice one of my players is having a bad time. I might not be able to help with family drama or a sick relative but this was a pure football issue. Carl''s head is all the way back where it needs to be, and the same with Aff. Honestly if you''re looking for an angle there you''re miles off. Drop it."


    "Not looking for an angle, Max. Just asking."


    "Midfield''s Aff. Dramatic pause for stupid questions."


    "No questions."


    "Aff, Ryan Jack, Andrew Harrison, Pascal."


    "Andrew instead of James Wise?"


    "Yeah, they''re similar players but Andrew has that middle-distance runner thing. He''ll lead the running charts and basically not get tired and he can play on the right, too. Wisey has more experience but Andrew gives me more flexibility and lets me get more creative with my bench. Wisey''s gutted but I had a long talk with him and he understands. He doesn''t like it but he understands and he''s gonna be there at half time giving Andrew a pep talk and some tips."


    "Henri up top?"


    "Yes."


    "Subs?"


    "Sticky, obvs. Need a goalie. That leaves me four outfielders, which just isn''t enough. Can''t wait to get promoted and have seven subs, Beth. I''ll be able to get up to all sorts of mischief."


    "I bet."


    "Magnus Evergreen''s our defensive cover. That means no Glenn Ryder, no backup left backs. Magnus can cover both but more realistically if something happens to Eddie I''ll move Aff back and switch Pascal to left mid. I''ve also got Sharky and Wibbers to come on in the last half hour and hopefully cause mayhem. Then me. I could do left back, centre back, whatever, if we get multiple injuries, but I want to be in a forward position. It should be my last match in non-league and I want to enjoy it. What else? You know from 4-1-4-1 we can switch around pretty easily. 4-4-1-1 with Pascal behind Henri. That looked good recently, but Andrew on the right and Youngster as a CM is a bit weaker than in their starting roles. If Woking are looking strong at the sides we can blast them with 4-3-3."


    "Aff as a third striker?"


    "Right."


    "You''ve used him in almost every position on the pitch. You''ll miss him when he''s gone."


    Best smiled. "I miss him already. No, that''s terrible. Embargo that forever. Yeah but I think we''ll finish the ninety in some sort of 4-2-3-1 shape. That''s the evolution from 4-1-4-1, isn''t it? I think that''s what I love about the plan, actually. It''s sort of an encapsulation of what the whole season has been about. 4-1-4-1 was the best version of us last season and it''s helped us survive this term but against these defences with the players we''ve got it has sometimes looked toothless. 4-2-3-1 is really solid."


    "Two DMs."


    "Yeah. But four guys in forward positions."


    "Teeth."


    "And claws. That''s what I''ve been trying to do this year and it''s satisfying to think we can sort of reprise the whole season in one fluid ninety minutes."


    "I like it."


    "Yeah, it''s good," said Best, deep in thought. He snapped out of it. "Use that in your article. It''s good stuff. Take this conversation, put your own spin on it, weave it into your tapestry. Don''t just type it out verbatim."


    "Wouldn''t dream of it."


    ***


    Descriptions of the action and commentary taken from DigiWorldHD+, which decided to cut between the Grimsby, Chester, and Barnet matches. This editorial choice, while successful in building the hype and ratcheting up the tension, led to one incredibly satisfying nutmeg not being broadcast live. For shame.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    [Introduction montage. Ride of the Valkyries blasts as key figures from Grimsby and Barnet do things in slow motion and in black and white. After 40 seconds a record needle skips and a new song plays. It''s about 2:45 into Red Socks Pugie by Foals, the bit where the piece swells and accelerates. The footage turns to colour and it''s all Chester stuff. Thunderous tackles, long-range thunderbastards, frenzied celebrations, Max Best doing close-control madnesses. As the music fades down, we get a blank screen. A scowling black-and-white Danny Grant slides up the left half. Barnet''s star signing Larry Goldings, also black-and-white, takes up the right. A colourful montage of Best, Pascal, and Henri joyously laughing together is slammed down front and centre. Giant, chunky text slams down above them. DECISION DAY.]


    Studio host: Welcome! To DigiWorldHD+! For this epic title decider! Boy, have we got a show for you!


    ***


    Transcript from Seals Live


    Boggy: Ghastly tension already as we near kick off. Woking look resplendent in their red and white halves. Chester in blue with thin white stripes. Do they look like champions? Huge numbers of Chester fans in the Kingsfield stadium. Some are there in the hideous away end that abuts an indoor tennis centre. The rest of the stadium is more charming and there are sections where it''s all Chester. No segregation going on - I hope that doesn''t bite us on the bum. If the away fans are feeling like me they will be in no mood for aggravation. Like me they simply want this ordeal to be over. This delicious, gruesome agony must end today.


    Final checks from the referee and we''re off! I - [gags] - sorry. [Sound of water bottle being opened, some swigs.] That''s going to happen. Sorry about that.


    ***


    2''


    DigiWorld


    Matt: And we''re hearing there has already been a goal at The Hive!


    [We cut from the Grimsby match to Barnet. Amber and black shirts are streaming towards the left of the pitch. Lime blue shirts seem to be outnumbered. The ball is played out wide. An amber shirt takes a touch, crosses left-footed, it''s side-footed into the net. The score changes to Barnet 1 Ebbsfleet 0. We see wild celebrations from the home fans - Barnet are level on points with their rivals!]


    Matt: The perfect start for Barnet and the perfect start for neutral fans!


    Ally: That''s unreal. Look at the ''as it stands'' table! Three teams on 92 points. Wow.


    Matt: News of that goal is filtering around Grosvenor Vale where Wealdstone host Grimsby Town. Some worried faces out there. What are you seeing on the pitch, Ally?


    Ally: Looks like Wealdstone are man-marking Danny Grant, like everyone does these days. But they have two midfielders on the case and they are rotating. That''s smart. Man-marking can be tedious and mentally exhausting. If that''s what they''re doing, it''s a good call.


    Matt: A good call from Max Best?


    Ally: You think he''s been on the blower to Wealdstone?


    Matt: Would it surprise you?


    Ally: Haha, no.


    ***


    4''


    Pascal


    We started like crap. Total crap. Two minutes of scuffed passes, being beaten to the ball, chipping passes straight into touch. We passed back to Ben more times in those two minutes than in some entire halves. Twice he booted the ball long towards me, in defiance of all logic and the manager''s strictest instructions.


    A murmur went around the stadium. Had Grimsby scored? It felt like it. That, plus the way we were playing, was a bad combination. We were sinking. That''s when Max threw a rope.


    Not long after the buzz from what we thought was Grimsby''s goal, there was a much bigger buzz from behind the dugouts. The strange-looking stand was full of Chester employees and fans and they were on their feet cheering and stamping as someone made their way out of the tunnel and into the away dugout.


    A fake Jackie Reaper!


    Just like the old days. Max Best up to his tricks. Youngster grinned at me; I smiled back. We got to work.


    ***


    5''


    Max


    Things were going fine. I was saving Seal It Up until the last quarter of an hour so that we could attack more recklessly if needed, and that seemed like the best time to use Cupid''s Arrow, too. April Fuels would give us a slight energy kick in the second half, but what I would have given to have Triple Captain and Bench Boost available for this one!


    Thinking about it, I was happy enough to have used my once-per-season perks against Grimsby early in the campaign. That win gave the players and fans a lot of hope in the dark early months.


    Yeah, I had managed the season quite well. It hadn''t been flawless but I''d used my tactical skills to turn some defeats into draws and some draws into wins. I had added a ton of value to the squad. And the proof was in the pudding - we were right here on the final day of the season, in with a shot.


    I''d done a decent job in the past week, too. It became clear to me after we beat Southend that my main job was to project an unflappable air of confidence. I was cocky at the end-of-season awards, I joked around in training, and I was so generally upbeat that everything I did took on the aspect of a jape. When Jackie Reaper finally arrived at the dugout after schmoozing the Weavers, the Yalleys, our sponsors, and basically every single person in Woking, the team''s morale shot up. We started putting more than three passes together. We grew taller. Why? I have absolutely no clue.


    I''d checked that Sandra was okay with him being there, of course. But my thinking was we had top talents at the club and everyone had a part to play, whether that meant Clive and Ray popping down to do a spot of coaching, bringing every single physio who wasn''t nailed down, or getting Jackie''s insight into how the match was going. All hands on deck.


    The man himself looked around and sighed, happily. He glanced at the home dugout. "If I had to guess, Max, I''d say you wanted me to stand close to them lot and act the maggot."


    I smiled. That had been my role - self-appointed - when I''d first stood on the touchline in a professional match. "No, mate. Your job is to look handsome and you''re absolutely smashing it."


    Jackie smiled from ear to ear.


    ***


    6''


    DigiWorld


    Matt: Action in Woking!


    [Cut to: A Woking player hitting a ball from deep. Christian Fierce heads it away but only to a Woking player. He launches it into the box. Ben punches clear but it lands near a winger. He controls and tries to lob the rapidly-retreating Ben. It sails over and wide but the camera cuts to some Chester fans who are in absolute agony. You don''t need to be a lip-reader to see what he''s saying: I''m going to be sick.]


    7''


    Matt: Grant evades his marker. Plays it wide to Amadi-Spokes, in for the injured Conor Quinn, of course. Terrible pass. Wealdstone can break! Windmill is the cover, but he is beaten for pace. He grabs the striker''s shirt - he has to be careful or he''ll get a red card! Wealdstone through on goal... wide! He put it wide. Chrichlow did well to narrow the angle. Oh, my!


    Ally: Big moment, that. You start to feel that the luck''s going Grimsby''s way.


    8''


    Matt: Penalty shout at Woking!


    [Cut to a camera pointing up at the sky and jerkily being repositioned. Cut back to the Grimsby match.]


    Matt: We''ll try to get that footage sorted as soon as possible. Pascal Bochum broke into the box and... I can tell you... I''m hearing... No penalty! Repeat. No penalty.


    9''


    Matt: Yellow card at Barnet! Shot off target at Woking! Here come Grimsby. Shot... saved! The keeper made it look easy.


    Ally: This is going to kill me.


    ***


    10''


    Seals Live


    Boggy: This match has calmed down after a frantic start. On the pitch, anyway. Off the pitch people are biting their nails. There''s one gentleman over there in a Chester top who has turned away from the pitch. He has travelled down from Chester, bought a ticket, but he can''t bear to look at the action. Every couple of minutes there are cheers as scores come in from the other fixtures, but they seem to be fake news. The only goal so far has been at Barnet. As it stands, Chester are still second but there''s a long way to go.


    19''


    DigiWorld


    Matt: There has been a goal at Barnet!


    [Corner kick to Barnet. They gather their beefy boys around the Ebbsfleet goalie. The delivery from the corner is world-class and a big slabby forehead appears to power it down and into the goal.]


    Matt: Barnet on the march! Two-nil! The as-it-stands table looks like this. Three teams on 92 points. Grimsby top with a goal difference of plus 41. Chester behind on 40. Barnet closing in with 39! Two goals behind. But their goals scored and head-to-head with Grimsby is inferior. They need three more goals to go to the top.


    Ally: They look in the mood for it, though.


    Matt: I''m hearing we''re going to be staying with the feed from Barnet''s Hive Stadium.


    ***


    30''


    Beth


    We were one-third of the way through but we had only suffered one-tenth of the agony. Some faces in the stands were carved from stone, some were as wobbly as jelly. The most relaxed man in three stadiums seemed to be Max Best - he gave an impromptu boxing lesson to his old friend Jackie Reaper, he posed for selfies, he played Charades with a Woking fan (book, five words, The Unbearable Lightness of Being). To many, it seemed overly arrogant, but I was struck watching Chester''s bench by how little communication there was between the coaching staff and the players. Chester had worn their formation many times before and it fit like a glove. No need for adjustments. Best''s role was to transmit confidence and he did it in spades.


    ***


    38''


    Boggy: If you''re just joining us, it''s still Woking nil, Chester nil, but we aren''t worried about that, are we? We''ve decided to have a pleasant Saturday afternoon chat about superstitions. Don Boy in the chat says on match days he always touches everything four times. Once with his left hand, twice with his right, and once more with his left to balance things out. Sally in Upton says when she used to play hockey she always put her right sock on first. Nelson in Maltby says when he goes to Japan he makes sure never to sleep on the fourth floor because the number four is considered bad luck. He adds: but I''ve never been to Japan. Still, Nelson, better to be safe than sorry. Moonman21 says please can I get back to describing the football? I''m sorry, Moonman, but I can''t. You see every time I - oh, Woking are on the attack. Cross comes in! Headed clear by Zach Green. [He gags.] Excuse me a minute.


    42''


    Boggy: And we''re back! Quite the strangest thing. Magnus Evergreen came up to the media centre here in Woking and he calmed me all the way down! I feel simply splendid. And he gave me a piece of paper. It''s from Max! What''s this? Woking 43, Chester 57. I''d take that as a final score! Oh! Must be possession. Ah! It''s the match stats. We''ve had 4 shots on target to Woking''s 1. 7 shots off target to Woking''s 3. Huh. When you put it like that, it has been quite a good performance. Doesn''t help with the goal difference but - uh oh... no, I''m fine. And Chester with a couple of quick passes! Green to Ryan Jack, first time to Lyons, first time layoff to Bochum! He''s fast, he gets there, he fizzes the ball across goal! Bundled out for a corner.


    Wow! Chester with the best move of the match so far. Woking were carved open. That''s much better! Chester''s attacking threat is growing. Still nil-nil for Grimsby. Barnet two-up. Here comes the corner. Oh, but Aff underhit it, straight to the first defender. Some nerves there. Um... I need to do my breathing exercises. In 7, out 4. Or is it the other way around?


    45''


    Half time


    Matt: Wow. Three absolute nailbiters. Still anyone''s game. The National League well and truly up for grabs! How are your nerves at home? [He chuckles.] We''ll be back after this quick break. Don''t go anywhere.


    ***


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    ***


    Pascal


    The dressing room was packed - so many physios, Jackie Reaper (not a fake after all!), players like Glenn and Wisey who weren''t in the squad - but it felt cosy, not crowded. We went through the normal phase of contemplation, but it was not so quiet as was typical. Glenn was bending in front of Christian and Zach, giving his outside perspective, which was very welcome I''m sure. Wisey was squashed in beside Andrew Harrison, not saying much but patting him on the back.


    Perfect. Perfect process with perfect people. If only we had a few more weeks to gel we would truly be as dominant in the National League as we had been in the National League North.


    But there were only 45 minutes left to go. 45 minutes that could define our careers. If we didn''t win, Max would leave Chester for at least a year. My career? What would happen to me? 45 minutes to make the question moot. 45 minutes that would become 40 that would become 30 and suddenly -


    I experienced a brief, incredibly intense surge of fear, but when I looked around I saw winners and champions and remembered I was one myself. Henri had his head pressed back against the wall and his eyes closed. I believe he was visualising the runs that had worked and the moves that hadn''t.


    I tried it myself, but all I saw was another year in the National League. Another year finishing second behind a richer team and a heroic defeat in the playoff semi final. As I started to feel the pain of the future I became aware of a presence. Max Best, crouching down, eye level.


    "Dude," he said.


    "Yes, boss?"


    "Remember when we played that match together with the randos? The ones that meet through an app and have a kickabout."


    "Footy Addicts."


    "That''s it! I haven''t thought about that for ages. You were really good. I knew I''d love playing with you."


    "You hit the post four times. On purpose."


    He smiled. "Yeah. That was weird, wasn''t it?"


    "Why did you do it?"


    "Oh, who knows why I do things? Not me. I remember it was fun, though. We were miles better than those guys."


    "They were randos, like you said."


    He nodded, thoughtfully. "We''re miles better than these guys, too, though." He wanted to do a fist bump but I was holding a water bottle and a gel pack so he bumped my knee. "Save some energy for the last twenty so we can tear these a new one."


    "I won''t be substituted?"


    He scoffed. "Take my best forward off the pitch in the biggest game of the season? Come on, man. I''m actually good at this." He got to his feet and wandered off chuntering ''Jesus Christ what the actual'' under his breath.


    I wanted the second half to start immediately.


    When when when.


    ***


    Max


    "All right shut the fuck up."


    The room quietened. Lots of smiles. Anticipation. The looks I was getting showed that they knew I was in a silly mood, but the dressing room was so overflowing with people I couldn''t have made eye contact with all eleven starters even if I''d walked up and down. I could have sent some guys out but my God, that did not feel right whatsoever. Livia had a little plastic stool that she used to reach high shelves and high shoulders; I asked for it. I put it down next to Sandra, stood on it, and when I saw the breadth of my domain - Jackie, Vimsy, Henri, Youngster, Wibbers, Pascal, Christian, Physio Dean - I smiled. My first utterly honest smile in a week.


    "My favourite movie is the 1965 historical melodrama The Agony and the Ecstasy," I proclaimed.


    "No, it isn''t," said Henri.


    I nodded. "That''s right, I''ve never seen it. Okay my favourite book is The Lord of the Rings." I checked with Henri; he didn''t react. "It''s about some guys who go to Woking to get a championship ring in the American style."


    "No, Max."


    "Okay my favourite, er, tree... Scratch that. My favourite mission in Grand Theft Auto 6 is... nah. My favourite recipe is pizza dough because what you do is you get 140 millilitres of water and a teaspoon of salt - oh, but the water should be lukewarm."


    Henri shook his head, but it was with something like admiration. "Max, do you have anything prepared?"


    "No," I admitted. People were smiling, relaxed, but Wibbers was gritting his teeth because he hated when I used distraction techniques on him. Taking people''s minds off the drama and tension had been good, but now instinct led me in an unexpected direction. Jackie was blasting me with those crinkly, wise old eyes and I felt I should be more like him. "Is it all right with you guys if I speak from the heart?"


    As I said the word heart, my voice cracked in a way that surprised me. There was much approval. I was taken aback to realise that some guys were putting their arms around the people next to them in anticipation of an absolute banger of a team talk. One they weren''t going to get.


    I hesitated. This had been a mistake.


    "Do you want to hear about my favourite football match?"


    Big approval. Youngster hummed like he was in church. He didn''t say ''yes, Lord!'' but I sort of heard it anyway.


    "There have been some bangers. Grimsby this season. Darlington last. Kiddies: Max Best versus Christian Fierce! I hated it at the time but now it''s right up there. You know what a big one was? The Lionesses in the final of Euro 22. I honestly don''t think I''d be here if it wasn''t for that."


    I closed my eyes and dropped my head. My voice lowered and the guys had to strain to hear.


    "It''s so corny but my favourite ever football match is this one. Right here, right now, with you." I opened my eyes and let my gaze land on different warriors. "The way you look out for each other. The quality on the ball. The bravery with your movement and decisions. Everything I want. That first half was like the first half of the season. Bit rough at first, starting to hit our stride, and now the second half is where we accelerate. I just love everything about what we''re doing. Ben and the defence, you''re so on it Woking only look like scoring through an absolute fluke.


    "Midfield, you''ve got the beating of them and you''re giving them more work than they can handle. I''m gonna go on and rip the lid off but it''s because you loosened it for me. I see what you''re doing. I see you. Henri. Henri, what can I say? You''ve been doing this all year. Working your fucking arse off, suffering and sacrificing. One against four but it looks like three against four. You can get more selfish now. I''d love for you to get the first goal so you can say you scored the winner; you deserve it." I nodded a few times. "Ryan, Andrew, Aff, increase your tempo. If we get an injury, dial it all the way back down until you get a message, but basically I need you to work till you drop." The energy was right there. Just below the peak. Now for a different voice. "Captain," I said.


    Glenn looked at Christian. Fierce shook his head and pushed Ryder in the back. Glenn Ryder, club captain, narrowed his eyes, opened his throat, and roared, "Come on you Seals!"


    ***


    55''


    Beth


    Six teams emerged from the tunnels and it was clear that they hadn''t dined on the oranges and biscuits of yore, but that six Al Pacinos had been smuggled into six dressing rooms. The action restarted, synchronised to perfection, fast, furious, feverish, farcical. The intensity was stupendous; the quality was stuttering.


    DigiWorld''s coverage was Barnet-heavy and they were rewarded with two quick goals. First, Ebbsfleet scored from a potshot to make it 2-1. Barnet were not so keen for their party to be pooped and they hit back with wave after wave of pressure. Their third goal was scrappy, lucky, and well-deserved. They continued to press, and press, and press, with The Fleet ever-dangerous on the break.


    Then the action, wordlessly, returned to Grosvenor Vale, London, close to Wembley Stadium. From a free kick, Danny Grant whipped in a dreamy cross that Ed Williams powered home. One-nil! Grimsby first, Chester second, Barnet a distant third.


    But in Woking, Chester''s hyperactive start to the half, all pumping legs, overlaps, and selfless runs, proved too much for Woking. That wily old head Ryan Jack had the key. He chucked it to Henri Lyons, who tossed it back before spinning and moving into space. Jack, clip, Henri, touch, finish. Such is the simplicity of sport when done right. 55 minutes of huffing, puffing, nothing, and now this. Chester ahead. The relief was enormous. The race was on. Barnet? What''s that? This was Grimsby versus Chester all the way home.


    ***


    61''


    Pascal


    Max''s first change shocked me. It still surprises me when I think about it now. Aff was playing so well. The perfect two-way player for the level playing flawlessly, so far as I could see, and with energy to spare. I had expected the first change to be Ryan Jack, as had been happening so often since his return from injury. But no - it was Aff, and almost more of a surprise, his replacement was Sharky.


    Don''t get me wrong. Sharky was a good player, a weapon, but he was more useful for counter attacks than breaking a packed defence. After our goal, Woking retreated and would continue to retreat the more we controlled midfield. I couldn''t understand it.


    Unless... unless Max wanted to give up midfield? Wanted to make the game more chaotic?


    But he had told us in the team meetings that his goal was control. Had he been lying to us? If so, I didn''t mind. He operated on a higher level, 4D chess, games within games, but it really seemed like he had been speaking plainly for once. How could we get control with Wayward Hayward on the wing?


    I fretted for the ten seconds it took for me to move from the right of the pitch to the left.


    In Max we trust.


    ***


    65''


    Boggy: It''s all Chester. Chester have wrestled control of this match and it''s incredible to watch. It''s pulsating stuff. Woking are deep, pushed back by the relentlessness of Chester''s quality. Hayward on the right. Harrison. Jack. Bochum. Moore. Fierce. Green. Carlile. Hayward. One-touch passing. Woking barely bothering to press! But that''s loose from Harrison. He has put a shift in, but that was sloppy. And here come Woking! Their first attack in living memory. Chester with bodies back, but - Zach Green with a huge tackle! That was huge! Youngster collects. First time to Jack. Hayward''s in behind! Hayward! Squares the ball... Lyons pulled back! Foul! Foul in the box! The referee signals... play on! I can''t believe it! I can''t believe it! Max Best has left the dugout; he''s on his knees. Even he can''t believe what this referee has done. Henri Lyons was about to pull the trigger and instead of Chester being two-up, instead of a penalty and a red card, it''s nothing! We get nothing. That is a travesty. Woking''s manager is going berserk. It was his left back who led the counter attack and left his entire flank open for Wes Hayward to roam in. What are you doing, young man? Don''t you know there''s a Sharknado warning in effect? Come on Wes! Come on Chester! Come onnnnnn!!!!!!


    ***


    68''


    Harrison plays a neat pass to Jack.


    Jack to Bochum.


    Bochum cuts across the pitch looking for options.


    He turns and lines up a backwards pass to Carlile.


    But Bochum slips the ball behind the defender!


    Wes Hayward zooms forward. First time cross.


    Lyons rises...


    A powerful header...


    But it''s saved!


    Applause from all four corners of the stadium.


    That was scintillating football.


    And that will be Harrison''s last action. He is replaced by Roberts.


    ***


    72''


    DigiWorld


    Matt: There has been a goal at Barnet!


    [Cut to: Barnet playing a couple of passes outside the penalty area. We can guess from the movement of the players what will - ]


    Matt: Back to Wealdstone!


    [The Grimsby players are celebrating, hugging, rubbing each other''s heads. We cut to a feed that is rewinding. We cut to a feed that is a cameraman doing a close-up of a bored hottie in the stands. We cut to the celebrations again. A shaky angle homes in on Grimsby''s manager snarling with triumph.]


    Matt: We''ll get you that goal as soon as we can. Here''s the as-it-stands scores. Wealdstone 0, Grimsby 2. Barnet 3, Ebbsfleet 1. Woking 0, Chester 1. What does that mean for the table?


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>As It Stands</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Barnet</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>92</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Ally: There are your National League champions right there, Matt. Grimsby Town. They have stumbled but they have recovered magnificently. They''re the champions and rightly so.


    Matt: Still time for Chester to get two goals, Ally. Two goals will do it.


    Ally: Aye and if they do I''ll take my hat off to them, I really will. But Grimsby are on it here. This has been a perfect performance. Control, defensive solidity, team spirit, and now they can add bouncebackability to their CV.


    ***


    74''


    Max


    We were bossing the game, killing it. Okay, Ryan was blowing a little bit and normally I would have taken him off but he had unpicked the lock for the goal and while he was getting jostled off the ball or hurried into sideways passes, he was the most likely source of some magic. He was -


    "Still happy with 4-1-4-1 boss?"


    It was Sandra. Interrupting my train of thought in a way she normally didn''t do. "Er, yeah. We''re killing it."


    "We planned to go 4-2-3-1 when Wibbers and Sharky are on. They''re on. You for Ryan and we''re golden."


    "Yeah, just a minute. I love what I''m seeing."


    75''


    "Boss?"


    I tutted. "Please."


    I shook my head, annoyed, as I activated Seal It Up and connected Cupid''s Arrow from Henri to Wibbers. That was a golden ticket right there. They were both amazing at assists and goals. Now they were more likely to help each other score. Advantage Chester!


    I luxuriated in the moment. This was sensational stuff. Manager of the Year stuff.


    76''


    I noticed Sandra and Jackie away from the action, talking to each other urgently and looking back at me. Jackie closed his eyes and nodded. Weird, but I had to watch the pitch to make sure I got my XP.


    77''


    "Max," said Jackie, pulling at my sleeve.


    "What? Not now. I''m managing."


    "I need a quick word. Come ''ere, lad."


    "Fuck me," I said, but he was blocking my view so I had to get up to see the pitch. While I looked to my right, he cajoled me to the left. Finally, I realised how strange the situation was. I was in front of some rando fans, miles out of the technical area, being gripped by my women''s team manager live on TV. "What the actual shit are you doing?"


    "Why aren''t you on the pitch, Maxy boy?"


    I tutted. "I''m managing. The lads are doing great."


    "Ryan Jack is knackered. You need to go on for the formation switch. Second DM so the others can run riot. That''s the plan. It''s gone to perfection until now, but now you''re not going on. You''ve not even warmed up. Why would dat be?"


    His Scouse accent wound me up. I got in his face. "I''m making a call."


    "Dat''s what you call it?"


    He was absolutely adding a few percent to his accent. "What is your problem?"


    He looked away and blew through his lips. He shook his head. "Talk to me, Max."


    "There''s nothing to say. Get off me."


    He let go of me but for some reason I didn''t storm back to the dugout as I''d planned. I found my throat was tight. Knots in my stomach. I was glad I was probably not front and centre on TV because I must have had a hunted look about me.


    Jackie''s face was soft as suede. "Talk to me, Max."


    I glanced at the pitch, guiltily. I swallowed and it was like ingesting a brick. "I can''t."


    "You can''t play?"


    "I''m toast, mate. I''m a wreck." I found all the tears I''d ever lost and put them in a little bag just behind my eyeballs. "I went to warm up and I couldn''t put one foot in front of the other. I kicked a ball and it was like kicking a tree stump. Legs jelly. Mom''s spaghetti."


    He nodded and inhaled. He pushed the air out in one tiny little blow. "I know. I''ve been dere."


    "What?"


    He looked awkward for a while, even twisting one foot as though putting out a cigarette. "Been dere, done dat. It''s all fun and games, innit, and den it gets real."


    "They''re all counting on me. They need me. The fans. The club. The players." I swallowed another brick. "Me mum."


    He sort of smiled to himself as if to say, ''I knew it''. But he softened again. This was Jackie the ultimate man manager. He got a cheeky smile and looked up. "What''s your favourite memory as a player?"


    "Nutmegging you."


    He laughed, light as a butterfly''s wings. "Close your eyes and think about it. You came at me, I knew what you was gonna do, you did it anyway, you bastard. In front of dem girls an'' all." I peeked and saw he had his lids closed and was grinning. "But look, you don''t need to do anything to make the tactics sing. You''ve already put the work in. You don''t need to be good. You only need to be on the pitch."


    "What are you on about?"


    He grabbed my arm and turned me to face the action. He pointed to where Youngster was patrolling. "You go there. You get the ball, you curl your bicep, you blow kisses to the fans, you put your knee on the ball. You say to Woking, Max Best is here. Then you walk around like a Pharaoh and they have one, two guys marking you. You act the maggot, draw their aggro, free up space." He gave me a playful bump. "You make a run across the defence, you''re gonna draw three guys after you. It''s like your Sun Tzu phase. You''ve already won before you step on the pitch. You''ve set this up with two years of being an absolute prick."


    He was right! "I have, haven''t I?"


    He jabbed me. "This is your Weekend at Bernie''s match. They won''t realise you''re dead until it''s too late to stop the party. You only have to stand there looking like the fucking Wizard of Us and you tell Eddie and Carl to bomb forward." He jabbed me a few more times as he pushed words at me. "Overloads. Overlaps. Slaps. Max Best football. Unleash." He went back to his cajoling tone and put his arm around me. "All you have to do," he said, in admiration for my genius, "is be on the pitch! You don''t even have to touch the ball!" He sighed, happily. "Not many people understand what you''ve been doing all this time, but I do. It''s annoying," he chuckled. "Fucking infuriating, in fact. But it''s absolute boss." He slapped me on the back, forcing me back in the direction of the dugout. "Don''t just buy it, boss it."


    I was enjoying our time together - it was like having an older brother - but to my horror, the referee''s assistant was holding up a substitution board. On one side it said 19 - Ryan Jack. On the other - 77. Me.


    "I''m not warmed up," I said.


    Jackie coaxed me a few steps onto the pitch. "It''s like I said. You don''t have to do anything. Just, er, just switch to 4-2-3-1, yeah? There''s a good Max. Who''s a good Max?" He walked up to Sandra and they exchanged a huge high ten. They were very pleased with themselves.


    I looked down at my feet. I was on the pitch. What?


    This was going to be a humiliating disaster.


    This was going to be agony.


    ***


    79''


    Beth


    The Barnet match had turned into an amusing sideshow. 3-1 became 4-1 became 4-2. There''s been a goal there''s been a goal there''s been a goal! At 4-3, Barnet realised their goose was cooked and they finally, after a truly remarkable initial effort, switched off. They would be in the playoffs. Spoiler alert - a final score of 4-all took them to a very respectable 90 points.


    DigiWorld''s attempt to cover three matches had provided some very shaky moments that, while borderline unprofessional, added to the intrigue and mystery. Now that they focused on Chester''s match, their coverage shone.


    Chester''s new shape, with three attacking midfielders behind a striker, caused Woking problems they could cope with, but as Chester''s full backs started to bomb forward, carnage ensued.


    The strangest part was that the player-manager himself, the self-appointed Player of the Month for April, had not had a single kick of the ball in the first two minutes of his time on the pitch. He looked like a man for whom the pressure had told. He was a probe sent to a distant planet, finally crushed after two years of sending home wonderful images. When the ball finally came to him, he looked down at it like it was some spherical, polyurethane-coated alien, before bending to touch his knee to the thing. He looked around to see if he had done good.


    Woking did not like that.


    ***


    Boggy: Moore goes on a run. He pauses and touches the ball to Bochum, playing as the left-most of the three support forwards. Bochum exchanges passes with Roberts, who has played with a lot more control than I expected. The entire Chester team are playing in a very contained way. Time is their friend, one would think. That''s not what my clock says. Approaching ten to go. The ball''s back with Youngster. He wants to give it to Best. Best not interested. He looks out of sorts, to say the least. Youngster forced to dribble away - oh, well done! That was superb.


    It''s back with Moore. Fierce. Green. Green fizzes it to Best, who controls without thinking. No-one is near him. He''s having an existential crisis! Not another one, Max! He''s, oh, no. Oh, my God. He''s going to touch the ball with his knee! He does! He''s looking for approval. What the bottom is happening? He''s in no state to... If Woking get this we''re in deep... Best under pressure. He points to Carlile. Here¡¯s the challenge¡­ Nutmeg! Best is away. Best up to full speed. Argh. He''s whizzing. Finds Roberts. Bochum. Twenty yard pass to Best. Best cuts inside, passes forward to Hayward. Cross! Lyons! Saved!


    Best crashes into the 6. My ball! Carlile is up. Sets off on a run - no! Best demands it. Best... sweeps the ball crossfield. Wow. Eddie Moore in space. Chester players running everywhere. What is this formation? It''s like a kaleidoscope. Moore chooses Bochum. He slips it to Lyons. Another chance to shoot? No, there are too many bodies. Woking defending with all their lives - I wish they wouldn''t. The ball''s worked back. Roberts... we know he can hit them! But it''s a tame one, into the keeper''s hands.


    ***


    81''


    Max


    I was warmed up now, mate. I wasn''t sure what Jackie had done to me but he''d got me on the pitch, incepted the idea to knee the ball, and when I did it this guy ran at me full-pelt like a charging bull. Quick meg, run round him, and I was locked in.


    4-2-3-1 and I was on the hot keys like a mofo. Eddie goes, Carl stays. Carl goes, I go, Eddie stays. Eddie goes, Carl goes, I stay. I moved Pascal one slot left or Sharky one slot right. One time I wanted to push Wibbers next to Henri but we hadn''t done that during the season and this wasn''t a time for invention. This was the tour that followed the album release - fans wanted to hear our hits and the best stuff from the LP, not some fucking jazz number we''d made up in the hotel bar.


    Possession went up. Shots went up. Number goes up. Hype goes up. Nostril dilation goes up. Some chump tried to dribble out of his final third and I was about to flatten him when I thought, nah, I''ll take the ball instead.


    ***


    Beth


    Sometimes I wish Best wasn''t so good at this.


    ***


    Pascal


    ''He does it all the time in training''. It''s a phrase used very often in the world of football. When someone like Andrew Harrison, who performs a function for the team with extreme diligence, strikes a shot of uncommon purity from outside the box, fans are amazed, but we insiders say ''he does it all the time in training''. We have seen it all before. There is nothing anyone does in a match that we haven''t seen ten times at least.


    Max was different. He didn''t train with us all that much. He had meetings in the morning, or he was recovering from his latest battering, or he couldn''t be bothered. He did his training on his own or with a trusted companion. It was rare that he joined our post-session small-sided games.


    He didn''t do it all the time in training.


    ***


    82''


    DigiWorld


    Matt: Good from Chester.


    [Woking are camped around their penalty area. Christian Fierce and Zach are on the halfway line, with Youngster a couple of yards ahead. Eddie Moore and Carl are ten yards further. Henri is up against one of the centre backs. The three CAMs are in motion, playing three-yard passes to each other in a triangle, hoping to draw defenders away from the defensive line. There is a loose touch from Roberts that allows a defender to clear. It goes out for a throw-in and Woking can regain their defensive shape.]


    Moore''s throw... Lyons under it...


    [Moore tries to Josh Owens it. He gets decent distance, managing to clear the first defender, and Lyons runs a couple of yards beyond the six-yard box and gets his head to it. He tries to direct it back towards the gaggle of CAMs but it goes towards a mass of defenders at the edge of the box. From Chester, only Max Best is there, with his back to goal. The defenders don''t try to tackle him because giving away a free kick there would be suicide.]


    Best''s erm...


    [Best nods the ball at its apex, bringing it completely under his spell. Six Woking players are in a line behind him and four more are within fifteen yards. Best begins doing keepy-uppies with his left foot far away from his body. The defenders move up towards Best''s line, ready to spring the offside trap. This is wise because it looks like Best is winding up to play one of his spectacular long passes out wide, in this case to Eddie Moore.]


    Best now from Lyons'' header and... Best¡­ Juggles¡­


    [The first flick draws the defence towards him. The second flick annoys and distracts. The third contact has to be the pass - but Best flicks the ball back over his own head, a startling and frankly impossible change of direction that - despite the preponderance of defenders in the area - leaves Best completely free. He''s in front of goal! The nearest defender might as well be in Grimsby! Best can do absolutely anything he wants, but he chooses to volley the ball into the bottom-right of the goal.]


    What a beautiful Best goal! Max Best enjoys the adulation of the Chester fans, as goal number 20 for the season goes in.


    [Best tries to find the away end but gets confused. The entire stadium is the away end. He celebrates in front of two Woking fans; they don''t mind.]


    And wasn''t it a bit special?


    ***


    Boggy: Goal of the Season! Goal of the Season! That was beyond belief! All on his left foot! Chester are one goal from glory! We need one more to go level on goal difference and ahead on goals scored. We have scored more goals this season than Grimsby. The margins are that tight! Time running out but who would bet against us adding a couple more?


    ***


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="66"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>As It Stands</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    ***


    84''


    Boggy: It''s all-out attack from Chester! It''s Chester attacking! Relentless. They have been patient, they have probed, they have killed Woking with movement and overlaps and all that other crap and now it''s shots! Shots and headers and yeah! Get up ''em! They don''t like it up ''em!


    Best. Terrible in aspect. Fear personified. He looks positively demonic out there. William Roberts and Pascal Bochum his imps. They are tormenting their markers. They are unmarkable! They pop up all over the place. Sharky doing his bit, too. He dribbles, gets to the byline. It''s not on. He comes back. Yes! Best is there now. Gets the ball, lays it off. Ooh - that was a late challenge on Best! He''s in a heap on the turf. Referee not interested. Shocking. Best laid the ball off and it was all of two seconds before he was absolutely levelled by the number 7. Best gingerly getting up, but he is getting up.


    Ball''s worked square. Bochum touches back to Youngster. He drives forward. Yes, James, go! No! No James!


    He took a shot from distance and you knew what was going to happen. He put it into orbit! Woking will run the clock down. The Chester players are fuming but the good news is, it''s cured Max Best. He has sprinted towards Youngster and he''s giving him both blasts of the barrel! Now he''s walking away. He shouts something unbroadcastable.


    Henri Lyons is counting seconds on his hands. Is he up to thirty? Woking''s goalie places the ball on the six-yard box. Will he go to take a sip of water? Yes, he will. Getting towards a minute of time wasted and Best is on his haunches. He can''t believe this is happening. It had been almost a perfect game until that moment. The first really stupid piece of play from Chester and it could cost them the title! All the momentum is gone!


    ***


    Pascal


    [The section where he describes his feelings about Youngster''s ''shot'' is written entirely in German and features excessive use of exclamation points. The mildest adjective used to describe the ''shot'' is ''unhelpful''.]


    ***


    86''


    Beth


    Chester and Grimsby had approached their matches with similar intentions - grind out dominance and hit with purpose late in the game. Grimsby''s flower had bloomed earlier, but Chester''s was growing bigger and brighter until a dunderhead deadheaded the bud before it had come good.


    I have played for Max Best and while he is many things, when it comes to football he is fair. Missed tackles, misplaced passes, stray shots, goalkeeper''s hands that turn into inviting hoops - if you try your best he won''t get on your case. If you are as lacking in flair as me and you try a backheel or a Zidane roulette, he might well lose his cool. For him, Youngster''s shot was devastating. Time off the clock. The wind spilled from the sails. Time running out on the season. Having to dig deep to summon the sinew, to summon up the blood one more time. Nought to ecstasy in how many seconds?


    After a minute of black despair, Max hadn''t shaken off his blues. Christian Fierce strode over - I thought to punch his sulking boss into the next time zone. But Fierce put his arm around his manager, spoke a few quiet words, and walked away. Best sucked in some breaths, counted to ten, and did to Youngster what Fierce had done to him.


    Let''s put it behind us. Let''s get back to where we were.


    But, please. Don''t do that again.


    ***


    Pascal


    I made a run to the left and when the ball came, I found I had an extra second to decide what to do. Woking were shot. We had run them ragged and they were shot. We had the tactics and players who could score. We had tired opponents who were on their last legs. All we needed was one bit of luck.


    ***


    88''


    Boggy: Bochum. Hayward. Bochum. Roberts. Best. Bochum. Chester are playing with their food. Best appears to be playing as a fourth central attacking midfielder! He sweeps the ball wide to Carlile. Carlile bursts past his man, great play! But he turns back and passes to Best. Best looks around. A defender closes. Best will chip to the left, will he? Oh, he''s had a shot! Surprising power with no backlift! It''s a lob from thirty yards, floating to the far post... tipped over! Well, that was so simple but nearly so effective. Best waited for the defender to come and curled the ball around him, giving the keeper just a fraction less time to respond, but Woking''s stopper did well. Chester with the corner. Personally, I think we need two more goals because Grimsby will score one more. You know they will.


    Best runs over to take it. No messing. He''s breathing quite heavily - not like him. All the big lads are forward. Only Youngster and Bochum are back. Best... pulls up. He doesn''t like it. Too risky! He orders Carl Carlile back. Three back for Chester and that looks a lot more solid.


    Best nods to himself. Thumbs up from Sandra Lane and Jackie Reaper. Attacking play doesn''t mean stupid play. What now? Best with the corner... fast, head-height, whipped, Fierce! Christian Fierce! It''s in! It''s in! It''s in! Goal for Chester! Christian Fierce scores! The Kingsfield Stadium erupts! The Chris Lane Terrace is pure limbs. Beer flies across the Leslie Gosden stand. Moaners'' Corner is a bouncing sea of blue. Sandra Lane is on the pitch.


    The players run into the net to get the ball. No celebrations! Back to work!


    Tell it to the bench. Jackie Reaper is lifting Vimsy aloft. Someone, oh! Someone just kissed me. Oh and even more amazing! Look at that! Would you look at that!


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>As It Stands</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>GD</td>


    <td>Pts</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Chester</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Grimsby</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The live table shows Chester are top of the league! Top of the league on goals scored. Top of the league for the first time this entire season. With two minutes to go! That is unbelievable! If it stays like this, Chester will win the league by dint of having scored more goals than Grimsby Town. The margins are paper thin.


    Amazing.


    Incredible.


    [Pause.]


    Right on the lips.


    ***


    90''


    Beth


    The players and fans of Chester Football Club thought they had suffered enough. They were wrong.


    In their match, the one that was in their hands, the referee awarded two minutes of injury time. It should have been three at least, but it gave new urgency to Chester. They ran, moved the ball, passed into space, and overlapped.


    Best didn''t quite like what he was seeing, though, and he ordered his full backs to stop going forward. Woking hadn''t had a meaningful attack in twenty minutes, but for the first time, Chester had something to lose. Why go broke chasing a goal you perhaps didn''t need?


    We all knew Grimsby would score again. Best must have known, too.


    Still, he wanted five in the rest defence, that group that stays back to prevent counter attacks. The other five? They went hell for leather.


    ***


    91''


    Boggy: Roberts, shrugs off a defender - incredible strength from the teenager - touches the ball to Best. He hits it crisply to Youngster. Out to Bochum, taking a wider position. Roberts. Lyons runs and points. Roberts safely to Best. He threatens to feed Lyons but passes to Hayward. Best wants to overlap but Hayward sees a chance. Chipped up towards Lyons - but the keeper comes to claim.


    Not the best choice, but his manager pats him on the back.


    The goalie takes his time getting up. The referee looks at his watch.


    ***


    92''


    DigiWorld


    Matt: Booted long. Green wins the header. Youngster sharply onto it. Gives it to Best. Best tells Youngster to keep going and gives it to him. The youth international scampers forward, boundless energy, let''s hope he doesn''t shoot. He finds a way through to Lyons, keeps going. Lyons with a clever ball - Youngster could - great tackle! Defender got a leg in. Can Hayward get the rebound? It''s hacked clear. Throw-in. Carlile sprints to get the ball and hurls it to Best. Best winds up a cross - vicious, dipping, Lyons, a defender punches the ball away. Punches? What''s going on? Players are slumping to their knees.


    Ally: Full time! He''s blown for full time as the cross was coming in! That''s the worst decision of the entire season, and I''ve seen a few stinkers. That''s criminal. Let them finish the move and then blow! Awful.


    Matt: I can''t disagree but as we see pictures of exhausted and draining Chester players - they''ve given their all - we switch to Grimsby. At last, they know what to do. One goal will seal the title!


    Ally: How long''s left there?


    Matt: Er... I''m hearing another four minutes.


    Ally: Four minutes?


    ***


    Beth


    Four minutes. One goal.


    Thirty miles away, the Chester players were mostly slumped, breathing hard, exhausted, spent. One player remained up on his feet. Their magnificent central defender and captain for the day, Christian Fierce, fluttered from player to player like a revivifying bee, talking to them and lifting them up. Gotta catch ''em all, he said, as he poked this one and that one. Finally, the group collected their manager, who couldn''t move but meekly allowed himself to be dragged by Fierce and Carlile.


    The eleven players who finished the match thus gathered in front of the Leslie Gosden stand, Woking¡¯s largest and most picturesque, the one Chester had been shooting towards. Chester''s travelling support shuffled from where they were to gather en masse on the red seats, while the players, the subs, the reserves, the coaches and physios, lined up in front of the fans, arm in arm.


    Their fate was not in their hands. They had to stand and wait for four minutes, hoping Danny Grant would not smash one in from twenty-five yards, praying Danny Flash would not clip one from ten yards neatly into the bottom corner. Chester''s time at the top of this league would either be eternal... or shorter than Heartbreak Hotel followed by Hurt.


    ***


    Max


    A lot of people talk about being stoic like it''s a good thing. You sort of take what the world throws at you and you say ''huh'' and you get on with it. Stoic. Sounds okay. I''ll have to try it someday.


    240 seconds is a lot of seconds to wait for an inevitable Grimsby goal.


    A long time to wait before a TV camera was shoved in my face and some ghoul asked me how I was feeling.


    240 chances to catastrophise. To think what if. To unspend the money I''d mentally spent. To wonder what was written in MD''s Scenario B financial report.


    The fans were gathered in clusters around phones, waiting for updates, trying to stream the match. Good luck with that - the wifi and signal strength in the stadium was abysmal. For some reason the players were all standing, brothers in arms, when all I wanted was to lie down and curl into a ball. I wanted to devolve into a soft rock and think no more about the constant life or death struggle, the survival of the fittest. I could go back to being bottom of the food chain so long as this god awful agony would cease.


    239 seconds remained.


    I tried to slump but they wouldn''t let me.


    Youngster squeezed in beside me, the little shit, and I rubbed his head and smiled and was happy for literally twenty seconds.


    238 seconds remained.


    ***


    DigiWorld


    Matt: So close from Grimsby! That was inches wide!


    Ally: Inches! I thought it was in. Wow!


    Matt: The Mariners getting closer and closer with every attack!


    ***


    Beth


    The thing about agony is, there''s supposed to be some amount of ecstasy, too. In a three way race for the title that goes down to the final minutes of the final game, two sets of players and fans are given one final dose of agony to go on top of the agony they''ve already suffered.


    ***


    Boggy: [Noisy breathing. Nothing else, for minute after minute.]


    ***


    Max


    The strangest thing about this scene was that we were virtually motionless. There aren''t many sports where the winner is the guy who is most still at the end. The final moment is usually something dynamic like a rugby player booting the ball out of touch, a tennis guy walloping the ball as hard as he can, or a sprint finish that ends with a guy looking left and right and bursting into a smile.


    We had none of that. Our game was done. We had to wait.


    I had the curse in my head, but the curse simply said:


    Wealdstone 0 Grimsby Town 2


    Soon it would update. It would either update with a 3 at the end, or it would subtly change colour and say FT. Full time.


    Time passed. The sands of time. Sandy Lane.


    It felt like I''d been so despairing for so long that I would never know happiness again, but I was put out of my misery.


    The text in my head changed. I closed my eyes and while I waited for the news to travel the thirty miles from stadium to stadium, I felt tears bubble up.


    ***


    Pascal


    The National League volcano had been rumbling for ten months and now we stood, arm in arm, on the edge of the crater, as it shook wildly. That would explain why my knees were knocking, why I kept losing my balance, why I could barely hear. It wasn''t the pounding of my heart or the blood rushing through my ears, it was the volcano.


    Tiggy appeared on the other side of the hoardings and shouted: "Why aren''t you watching the end of Grimsby?" I detached myself from the line and was about to explain that there was no TV in the dressing room when I noticed the Grimsby match was on her phone. On her phone! She had signal. I hopped across and helped her to hold the phone up. Still two-nil, but Grimsby on the attack. Everyone was in Wealdstone''s penalty box, except Grimsby''s goalie, who was on the halfway line.


    Some of the lads saw the flash of green and ran over. Twenty lads squashed close, peering at a six-inch wide screen. The ones at the back begged Tiggy to hold the phone higher and when she did, just as Danny Flash was lining up a shot, she lost the signal.


    "Breathe it all in," shouted Ryan Jack, and many people laughed. It was a phone company''s slogan.


    "Put another 50p in the meter, Tiggy!"


    "Top up your credit, girl!"


    Galgenhumor. If you don''t laugh, you will cry.


    Tiggy was not easily barracked. "Your big head''s messing with the reception, Sticky." She lowered the phone, refreshed the page, and then the green grass was back and Grimsby''s players were making one last desperate charge. The volcano stopped rocking. This was it. The moment we had dreaded. I felt sick. Why were we torturing ourselves by watching?


    The camera focused on the referee, lustily blowing his whistle with two hands raised. Two hands to hand us the title!


    Full time, it said. Full time. 2-0.


    At the bottom of the screen, in large text, it said CHESTER ARE CHAMPIONS.


    The volcano erupted.


    ERUPTED.


    I screamed and jumped. Tiggy threw herself into my arms. We were buffeted on all sides by mindless players. Beer was spilled and fans spilled onto the pitch. Others stood on plastic seats and gyrated like monkeys. Blue flares were lit. It was the end of days. The volcano was spitting red hot liquid glory all over us and we were driven mad with its power, the release of tension.


    Our bodies did our thinking for us.


    We screamed, we shouted. Some held their hands to their cheeks repeating: "I don''t believe it." Some wept, some leapt, some screamed into their phones as they filmed, some climbed the goalposts and dangled from the crossbar.


    ***


    Max


    At first it was relief and disbelief.


    No playoffs, no having to pick the lads up and go again, no having to beg players to stay at the club.


    Then the numbness started to fade and I felt my body again. I felt a tingling in my legs, a lightness in my gut. Could we? We could. We had. How? Who cares? Champions! Winners. Whatever happened, no-one could ever take that away from me. More relief, waves of relief, the tension leaving my muscles. The tingling rose up my back, spread down my arms to my fingers. When it hit my neck my brain fucking exploded with excitement. I felt like I''d been strapped into a jetpack.


    Finally! Finally a jetpack fueled by a million pounds! Look, ma, I can fly!


    I imagined buildings shooting up at Bumpers Bank while new stands were built at the Deva. The space around the stadium turning into a football factory, a place where dreams came true, people of all ages and types bettering themselves as I had done - jogging, turning around cones, sprinting, now they''re in bibs and they''re sweating, now it''s a match and they''re losing but they equalise and then they find a winner and they are running around the sides of the pitch, arms like wings, but they''ve got a jetpack - the wings are just for show. They''re so happy they don''t even know what they''re doing!


    "Best, what are you doing?"


    They laugh as someone tries to stop them circling the pitch. Evasive manoeuvres! Whee!


    "He thinks he''s a plane."


    I found a jetpack buddy and we hugged and bounced and roared inchoate things until our throats were sore and I blinked and realised I didn''t know who this person I was holding was. He was in a Chester top. That was enough for me - we continued to dance. Technique 1, Teamwork 1, Artistic Merit 1, Not Giving a Shit 20.


    More buddies joined the party.


    "You did it, mate!"


    "Best! Best! Best!"


    "Arghhhhhh come on!"


    "Let''s fucking go! Let''s fucking go!"


    "Don''t mess with Chesters!"


    ***


    Boggy: [Silence.] Here we go. Something''s happening. I don''t have - I think it''s over. People are coming out of the executive boxes, coming out of the lounges, floods of tears. MD is in bits. Ruth from the board, Smasho and his wife Jill. Nice One, wiping tears away but hang on. [Pause.] Wealdstone nil. Grimsby two. Full time. Full time? Full time! We''ve... we''ve done it! Have we done it? Somehow we''ve done it! [He lets out a high-pitched scream, overcompensates, does a low roar.] The news has reached the players! They can''t believe it. It''s an instant party. Party time in Woking!


    ***


    Beth


    All unhappy teams are alike; each happy team is happy in its own way.


    Barnet FC with their amber shirts over one shoulder, slowly leaving the pitch, clapping over their heads, knowing they would have to lift themselves for a playoff run.


    Grimsby Town with their black-and-white shirts draped over one shoulder, trudging towards their fans, clapping over their heads, knowing they would have to lift themselves for a playoff run.


    Chester FC, running around like headless chickens, using their blue-and-white shirts as skipping ropes, as hype towels, as projectiles of joy, as tear sponges, as abdominal muscle wipers, while fans were hugged, lifted, spun, handed onto the next player.


    Music blared suddenly, then stopped for the bewildering, surreal announcement that the league trophy was on its way in a helicopter.


    ***


    DigiWorld


    Matt: Sixteen years after Chester City''s painful relegation to the fifth tier and the club''s eventual demise, Chester are back in the football league! Look at the scenes! Look what it means!


    Ally: The noise!


    Matt: Most fans have congregated near the players but some are still in the other three stands. We have three, four, five different chants going on. There''s no team work, no togetherness, and I don''t think anyone cares very much!


    Ally: It''s brilliant.


    Matt: By the skin of their teeth. By the finest of margins. Chester are the champions!


    ***


    Boggy: Most fans have been shepherded into the big stand there. Max and Sandra have given an interview to the TV company - I didn''t hear it but I don''t think Max will have said very much. He''s still feeling the agony and the ecstasy in equal measure. It''s slowly dawning on him that he has done it. He has done it! Teamwork, yes. Togetherness, yes. But he has masterminded this. Many have tried, many have failed. He''s wandering around the pitch, weaving through his players in a kind of daze. Now he finds another burst of energy! Off he goes, plucking his Emma out of the stands - he TWIRLS her around. Oh! Is he proposing? Right there on the pitch? Er, no! He is collapsing one limb at a time - there he goes! All done. He''s flat out and she''s joining him to make grass angels. Wonderful.


    And that has opened the floodgates. Glenn Ryder and his wife embrace. The Harrison triplets share a quiet moment together. Who''s that with Pascal? The women''s team are dancing. Henri is with his partner. Brooke Star is in the mix, hopping around, looking for someone to celebrate with. Zach Green offers a handshake. What a respectful young man. There are Youngster''s parents. They will watch their brilliant boy in the football league. The football league! Chester are back. We''re back! Ee aye addio we''re in the football league! As champions! I can''t believe it. Champions again! I''m tearing up. We are tiering up. We will play Bradford City, Tranmere Rovers, Crewe Alexandra, and Wimbledon. We''re back in the big time. League Two beware!


    ***


    DigiWorld


    [Most of the randos have been cleared away temporarily as a simple advert board is put in place. Chester''s squad and core staff line up behind, each clutching champagne bottles. They slap the board while shouting nonsense.]


    Matt: Just waiting for the manager. The man who has made it happen. This was his plan, this was his design. Max Best, what a talent. Now his captains, Glenn Ryder and Christian Fierce, clutch the National League trophy. They will lift it together!


    [They do. The volume goes weird - a signal that the roar was so loud it overwhelmed the sound mix.]


    Back to the football league they go!


    [Booze sprays everywhere. It rains on the bouncing players. Their winner''s medals dance as they do.]


    Chester are the National League 2024-2025 champions!


    [The players sing ''Championes, Championes, Ol¨¦, Ol¨¦, Ol¨¦!]


    [While they''re doing that, We Are the Champions blares on Woking''s PA.]


    [The players take turns to lift the cup. They take turns to drench Max Best with liquid. They take turns to lift Emma high into the air.]


    [Photographers beg Max to lift the trophy in front of the massed Chester fans. He says no. Then he says: psyche. And he gives the people what they fucking want.]


    ***


    Beth


    Amidst all the joy and craziness, I spotted Max Best trying to edge his way towards the tunnel. Trying to escape. I pointed my phone in his face and demanded an interview.


    He agreed, but placed capricious and silly embargoes on almost every answer, and moronic as it seems, I never break a promise to a source.


    He forgot to use his new phrase on one question.


    I asked him about the ecstasy of winning the league, of completing back-to-back titles with both men''s and women''s teams, if it made up for the agony and suffering.


    "Agony?" he said, genuinely confused. "Suffering? When? Tonight? What are you talking about?" He shook his head, worrying for my mental state. "That wasn''t agony, Beth. That was fun." He smiled. "And I loved every minute of it."

 10.16 - Off You Play

    16.


    If you read the Table of Contents and assumed there would be a playoff arc, then ha. You fell into my trap. This is, in fact, the epilogue. Serving suggestion: nice big glass of chilled champagne, two types of ham.


    ***


    Sunday, April 27


    I was tucked in behind some randos, halfway along the plain white floating corridor that led to the plane, when my phone pinged. I had set it to allow notifications from Emma and Emma alone, so I checked what she had sent.


    Bebs, we missed an epic party. Vibe is that it was a great day, but now there is raaaather a lot of worry that you weren''t around. MD would like to put out a statement squashing rumours that you have quit. People are so [eye roll emoji] but let me know what you want to say, if anything.


    I hacked out a quick reply.


    I''ll record something when I get to my seat and bosh it to you.


    Amazing. I had a lovely day. Thanks. And I''m making you a present. If you''re cheaping out on Wifi it''ll be there when you land.


    I smiled. Emma couldn''t understand why I would pay two thousand pounds for a flight but not twelve pounds for wifi access. My reply had been simple. "Because it''s twelve pounds." It was exorbitant. Crazy. Anyway, I needed time to process what had happened. Get my head straight.


    Chester are the champions.


    We did it. Absolutely bonkers.


    While I had been planning for next season I hadn''t really allowed myself to believe it would happen. Not really. But we were going to the football league and the main bottleneck was behind us. There would be hard times ahead, for sure, but nothing like what we''d just been through. Never again would I be so overwhelmed by a situation that I would actually freeze. I mean, taking a penalty that would shoot us to the Premier League - yes, stressful. A hundred million pounds would be on the line. But it wouldn''t compare in the fucking slightest to needing two goals in ten minutes against Woking. Yesterday''s match would always be a top five highlight - and high-octane nightmare fuel. The margins were so tight you could take virtually any incident and change it and we''d have lost the league.


    Someone looked at my boarding pass and indicated I should turn left. The normos went right.


    I, Max Best, a nobody from the side streets of Manchester, practically a street urchin, until recently a drone in a call centre, was about to fly... business class.


    Oh, baby.


    My first impressions of the space were very, very positive. This section of the plane had been turned into a sort of open-plan office at a cutting-edge tech company. Every passenger had his own cubicle with space for the seat to recline fully flat. In the company I was bringing to life in my imagination, staff were recruited in San Francisco by saying, "You''ll save on rent! You can live in the office! There''s a ball room!" The prospective employee would look around at the black surfaces, the tasteful lighting, and say, "A ballroom? Where you dance?" "No. A room with little plastic balls so you can swim around like a toddler." "Amazing. Hire me."


    "Is everything all right, sir?"


    One of the cabin crew had come to help me, since I seemed to be stuck. I waved my hand around. "You''ve got these cubicles arranged in a 2-4-2 formation. That''s freaking me out. Have you tried 4-3-3? I suppose people want window seats. 4-2-4, maybe?"


    He smiled. "We had Gareth Southgate on last week. He was happy with it as it was."


    I pulled my sunglasses down so I could eye him properly. "Was that a joke about Southgate''s tactical inflexibility during his time as England manager?"


    "Yes," he said.


    "Ten out of ten, no notes."


    He smiled and I dropped my backpack into my cubicle. It was shaped like a bath with walls around it. That''s not a description you''ll find on the British Airways website, by the way. At first I couldn''t really tell if I thought it was tacky and shit or clever and comfortable, so I plopped myself down, sighed happily, and started messing about with the buttons, storage areas, and experimenting with the seat.


    It reclined all the way flat, as promised. Absolutely brilliant. Lying there for six hours was just about on the cards. It would be snug and I liked to toss and turn but if I got sloshed on the free booze I''d paid for I reckoned I would be able to sleep just fine.


    I remembered the video I''d promised to make. Everybody involved with Chester Football Club had packed themselves onto an open-top bus and driven around the city centre while crowds clapped, sang, and cheered. I mean, I supposed that was what happened, but I wasn''t there. As soon as it was seemly for me to leave Woking I had whizzed Emma to London and there we had stayed doing tourist things until it was time for my flight.


    I put my phone in selfie mode, took my sunglasses off, and pressed record.


    "Hey, Chester. Heard there are some rumours I''m leaving. Yeah, I''m leaving. Leaving the country." I showed the cabin briefly. "Exactly as promised. I said about a hundred times as soon as the season was over I was going to Brazil." I frowned. "I think they prefer it to be called Brazzil. You know, with a bit of sass about it. I need to check that. I''m off to scout players, like I said." I did a playful smile. "You really need to practise active listening. What, you think ''as soon as the season''s over'' means two weeks later? Come on, guys. Our season ended yesterday and today my pre-season begins. I''m working, lads, and you can have a party without me, so..."


    I paused because I sensed a presence. An older female member of the cabin crew was patiently waiting for me. She was smartly dressed and had a very slightly posh air about her. I pressed stop and looked up. She said, "Sorry to interrupt."


    "You literally didn''t interrupt. I became aware of someone looming over me."


    She smiled. "I''ve never loomed before."


    I returned the smile. "You''re a natural."


    "Beginner''s luck." She glanced to her right, towards the front of the plane. "Your friend has invited you to join him in first class, Mr. Best."


    Huh. What.


    "Invited join him first class," I muttered, to see if that would help me gain some sort of understanding. Sort of rebuilding the sentence brick by brick. Comprehension Lego. "My friend," I added.


    "Mr. Nicolini," she said.


    It took me far longer than you might think. "Nick. How''s he looking? Cheerful? How''s his outfit? Super expensive? If you were me, would you move seats?"


    "If I were you," said my new best friend - her name tag read June - "I''d move to first class because then you''ll get served... by me."


    I couldn''t really imagine turning down the upgrade. The basic price of Business was two grand, and for First it shot up to eight. Yeah, for six grand of extra service I could sit next to Old Nick for a few hours. Maybe I''d finally remember some of the questions I always wanted to ask him that I forgot when he was actually around. But there was no need to make a rash decision. I would talk to him and then decide. See what kind of mood he was in.


    I looked at June. "Inside an aeroplane," I pronounced, grandly, "may be the perfect time to ascend." This effect of this magnificent speech was dampened somewhat as I reached out. "Giz a lift." June pulled on me and I winced as nerve endings from locations as far apart as my toes and earlobes shot messages of alarm to my brain. "Thanks," I said. I thought about taking my backpack with me, but there was nothing valuable inside. Nothing that anyone would steal, anyway. I pushed it out of sight and followed June.


    "Will you need help with your mobility, Mr. Best?"


    She meant the pain. "No, no. Got kicked around a bit. I''m a bit stiff if I don''t move but it''s not a problem. You should see the other guy."


    The other guy was Chris Hale, lifelong Grimsby Town fan, who was presumably getting absolutely roasted by his fellow fans. Why did you sack Max Best, you idiot? Can you sell the club, please? You''re actually shit.


    Have some of that, you stupid bastard.


    Just as I was delighting in the image of Hale''s pain, Old Nick came into view. He smiled at me in a way that suggested he knew what I''d been thinking.


    "Max, my boy. Where''s your luggage? Please join me."


    First class had eight booths similar in design to the ones in business class. Here there was double the space, access to a private bathroom, and a more extensive wine list. There was one pod by each window and two together in the middle. 1-2-1 formation. Nick was in the ''two'', meaning I would be forced to sit next to him. There was a divider between the booths that I could pull across and get a tiny bit of privacy, though at first glance it seemed like business class was actually more private. I stepped inside the empty booth, the one that could be mine if I so wished. "What are the conditions of me coming up here?"


    "No conditions," said Nick. He was dressed in one of his incredible suits, his haircut was next level, and while I couldn''t see his shoes from this angle, everything about him spoke of money. He had been using the XP I was generating to have a lovely old time. If anything, first class on a British Airways flight was a massive step down. "You had a first class season and deserve first class treatment."


    "That''s true."


    He grinned. "My colleagues wrote that line. They''ll be happy it was effective."


    I turned to my right. "Are they here? In cattle class? In the hold?"


    "It''s just us, Max."


    "You seem to be in a good mood. Not very chompy."


    He rocked his head back and laughed at the ceiling. "I left a party to be here. Most inconvenient, but I assure you I am in high spirits. Come, join me. We will talk for five minutes and then you may pretend I''m not here."


    "So there is a condition."


    He smiled again. "We do not have to talk for five minutes but it could be a pleasant experience. You may like to hear, for example, why I am on this flight."


    Well, he wasn''t lying about being in a good mood, and June was waiting for me to decide. I was sure she had plenty of other things she needed to do. "Fine. I''ll come here. But if you ask me to explain about pronouns again, I''m going back to business. Okay?"


    I started down the aisle but June insisted she would get my backpack for me. I sat down and explored my new domain. It had cupboards, recessed storage bins, power outlets, lamps, a big screen for the in-flight entertainment, and there was a wonderfully tactile dial that allowed me to adjust things precisely to my liking. The best thing, of course, was the seat''s ''bed mode''. I was playing with it when June discreetly slipped my bag onto the foot rest that would come into play when it was time for bed.


    "You know what''s weird," I said, back in seat mode, as I messed about with the absolutely awesome double-sized table that was cleverly tucked away in a crevice until needed. "Since I was spending the club''s money on this trip, I did look at First Class seats. And they were all sold out. It seems you bought two of them before I even knew I''d be taking this flight. Now, that''s a head scratcher. Makes me wonder about concepts such as free will."


    Nick had produced a neck pillow and he was leaning back against his seat looking ready for a nap. In retrospect, I think that was a trick to get me to talk more. "No need for melodrama. I had the previous occupants of these seats kicked off the system. After you registered for this trip," he added. He eyed me. "Why are you here, Max?"


    "Not you as well," I groaned. "I said it. It''s one thing I was totally open about. When the season''s over I''m going to Brazil. And here I am."


    "Yes, but what has confused and confounded my colleagues and I is that you are flying to Rio with your friends two weeks from now. When you didn''t show at the celebrations today, my colleagues were worried. When they discovered your name on a passenger manifest, they were frantic."


    "Aw. Are the imps worried about me? That''s sweet." Nick didn''t react much, but patiently waited. "Would you like to hear my plans? Would that put your mind at ease?"


    "Very much so."


    June was back, offering me a glass of champagne. "Ooh, bonus," I said. Another member of the cabin crew gave Nick one and I was about to drink when I proved just how good my good mood was: I offered Nick the chance to clink. "Cheers," I said.


    He raised an eyebrow but accepted the offer. We tapped our glasses together. "Wait," he said, before I could take a swig.


    "What?"


    He glanced around. "That was a very British clink."


    "What does that mean?"


    "In most countries, what you did was rude. You should look me in the eye when you clink the glasses."


    Being corrected was annoying, especially when it came to manners - I mean, who gives a shit which fork you hold as you pick up a pizza slice and shove it into your gob? - but I decided it was better to be corrected by Nick now than at a formal event one day when I was trying to get a prince to sell me his superyacht. "Thanks," I said. I tried again, making sure to look him in the eye when I tapped the glasses together. We produced a satisfying chime. "Good clink!" I said. I took a swig. "Good plonk."


    I put the glass down on one of the very many surfaces that were all mine for the duration of the flight.


    "My plans are perfectly simple. I''m flying to Brazil and I''m going to watch football matches and find football players. Some people, mostly Emma, are bewildered by this but it''s what I want to do and what I don''t want to do is drive slowly around a city while 50,000 drunks throw beer on each other and chant about hating Wrexham. I''ve done the season, the season is over, it''s my time now. I chose Sao Paolo because there was a non-stop flight and I''ve gone business class because I''m a big deal now. Also, Secretary Joe, it turns out, is an air miles fiend and he has been collecting miles on the club''s credit card and I''m the first person who ever asked to use them. The retail price for my seat was like two grand return but he used points and we only had to pay like three hundred pounds cash. I asked him to teach me how to do it and he was happier than if I''d told him he was playing left-wing against Slovakia."


    "Focus, Max."


    "Right. So I''m going to Brazil to do curse things. You should be happy! I''ve got two full weeks to go full Max, recover, get my head straight, and find a few thousand players. Right? Then I fly back on the 11th of May, back in Blighty for the Exit Trials. That''s all set up. I had a big meeting with the Brig and Ruth and Brooke and told them what I want and the Brig''s going to turn that into a fucking military operation. It''s going to be absolute clockwork and it won''t matter if I''m jetlagged because I''ll point at one player and say ''Tranmere'' and I''ll point at another and say ''priority target'' and my team will swing into action and I can fall back asleep. That''s the 13th, 14th, 15th of May. I get a day off to rest so I''m not grumpy - Emma insisted on that - and then it''s the big trip. Rio. I won''t need to do as much scouting if I''ve already got 20 viable prospects, right? I''ll be able to focus on learning Relationism and being a better boyfriend. Good plan, right?"


    Nick allowed his head to drop a fraction, which in context meant ''you have absolutely nailed it, mate, good on you''. "What''s logical and clear to you is utterly perplexing to the rest of us." He frowned. "It explains why you didn''t bring the bodyguard I paid for."


    "Hey! You only paid for one season. Yeah, that''s right. You owe the club like a hundred grand."


    He looked to the right. He had forgotten! "I will check the details of our agreement."


    "Do that."


    "Don''t you need to watch the playoffs?"


    "Nope. Don''t give a shit who wins. Your turn. Why are you here?"


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    He downed the rest of his champagne. "When we met you were walking through a park in a dangerous area of a big city and, knowing the risks, you intervened to, a-ha, save me from some young hoodlums. Now, on the back of an unlikely triumph, feeling invincible, you have decided to jet to an even bigger city. You do not speak the language and do not know which areas to avoid. You will follow your perks wherever they lead, down dark alleys, into the nooks and crannies of the city in pursuit of the next, ah..." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a sticky note. "In pursuit of the next Ramyan."


    "That''s upside down."


    "Ney-mar. And he is what? The Mozart of football?"


    I considered that. "Maybe the Macklemore."


    "Was it very funny, what you just said?"


    "Yes."


    "Good for you."


    "Okay I''m looking for the next Mozart, the next Barenboim, in a place where such talents grow on trees. So?"


    For the first time, he looked less than relaxed. "So it''s idiotic. You don''t know the country and you''re combustible. You will get into trouble and you''ll react with aggression and who knows what will happen?"


    "It''s your fault I''m aggressive," I said.


    Nick looked away - the plane was backing up. Satisfied everything was in order, he fished around in his pocket again. He had a bunch of notes stuck to each other. He found a pink one with a lot of handwriting on it. "He thinks we made him more aggressive," read Nick. "But he edited his player to have 20 in the good Attributes and 1 in the bad ones. He has Aggression 1 because he didn''t want his character to get red cards." He turned the note around. "When he''s angry that''s because he''s a Manc twat and nothing to do with us tell him to stop blaming us thanks." He squashed up the note. "I understood that one."


    Okay so that was a bit of a bombshell but there would be a few more of those on the flight. "I''m not aggressive. I''m a zen master."


    Nick''s eyebrow twitched up so briefly I nearly didn''t spot it. "I didn''t have time to organise counter-measures. I''m here to make sure you are not clobbered again."


    "Counter-measures?"


    Nick shrugged. "Undercover security to follow you and forestall trouble. A wily temptress who would lure you to a secluded mansion. I don''t know. I leave the details to my colleagues."


    "Have you got a photo of the temptress?"


    "I will not be in your way. You can go about your business, follow your strange routines, attend your tedious sports events. If you find yourself compelled to sleepwalk towards danger, I will dissuade you."


    "You didn''t dissuade me from leaving the Deva when a nutjob was waiting with a metal bar."


    "I didn''t know he was there or that you would rush out into the rain. I can''t protect you twenty-four hours a day. I can try to make sure you stick to the main roads of Sampa." He sorted through his sticky notes and found the one he wanted. Reading it seemed to cause him actual pain. "If you are being sensible yet find yourself crushed by a giant safe which is being dragged around the city by two sweet souped-up rides, that is regrettable but I will have done my best."


    The note referenced a scene from the movie Fast Five. "Tell the imps that scene was in Rio, but I appreciate the effort. I really think you''re worried about nothing. It''s no more or less safe than anywhere else and I''m not going to favelas. I''ll stick to the beaches. I''ll be fine. You can go back to your party."


    "The beaches of the city of Sao Paulo, Max? You have proven my point."


    The plane had lumbered to its holding position by the runway. The captain said something and the cabin crew went around collecting our glasses and making sure we were belted up.


    The noise in the cabin had been rising and it had gotten as loud as a busy coffee shop so I had to strain to hear what Nick said next. "It so happens that my other prospects have failed and I find myself relying solely on you. Temporarily. Whether you like it or not, I''m coming." He pulled the little curtain across, separating us.


    Other prospects! Other people with curses. My mind exploded with the possibilities. Some fragment of a memory hinted that he could only control three ''players'' at a time. Or was it four? One per imp? "Did they die?"


    The curtain slid open. Nick said, "Please pay attention to the safety instructions. This aircraft may be different from others you have travelled on."


    The curtain slid closed.


    ***


    We took off and I explored my space even more thoroughly. The screen was decent quality but the interface had a two-second lag on any input, which would have been infuriating if I hadn''t just won the league title. I found a British three-pin plug, several USB outlets, and three old-fashioned TV holes. Maybe you''ve seen these - one is red, one is blue, one is green. It made me wonder if maybe this plane was older than I was, but my thoughts were interrupted as June appeared and asked me some questions.


    Yes, I would like to order my dinner and yes I would like her help choosing the wine to go with it.


    Yes, I would like to be woken if I was sleeping when the second meal was served.


    She told me that a bag I had been scared to touch was the bedding and that she would give me some BA pyjamas. When I was in the bathroom putting them on, she would make up my bed.


    Just awesome.


    I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought how hard I''d had to work to get to that point. The rewards were starting to come faster.


    One had arrived that very morning. A part of the curse that almost never updated... had updated.


    Your Reputation in England: Poor


    Your World Reputation: Unknown


    Roar! Double roar! I had ascended from ''Very Poor''. I was pretty sure a manager''s personal reputation was used in various parts of Champion Manager and Soccer Supremo. For example, it was one of the biggest factors when applying for other jobs. Not relevant to me - I hoped - but good for my ego.


    I was also pretty sure it would help me sign players. Put Guardiola or Klopp in charge of Chester and a whole swathe of players would suddenly be far more interested in joining. Now that I was a poor manager, the next Zach Green would be a little easier to convince.


    What else? Would it help me attract better personal sponsors? Maybe. Probably not. It made me appreciate the Welsh FA even more, though. They''d put their trust in a Very Poor manager. They bought my music before I went mainstream.


    The crew brought us three small amuse-bouche and a drink. The prospect of scran perked Nick up and he pulled the curtain back.


    "How do you like your new lifestyle?"


    I scoffed. "This is a treat. It''s amazing but it''s a treat. I''m miles off this as the default."


    "Not miles off," he said. "You have your pay rise coming. You have the three clubs you own."


    "I own one," I said. "I have a single share in West and literally no connection to College 1975. That''s all Mateo."


    He grinned. "Think who you''re talking to. You will do well from them, we believe. It''s curious, though."


    "What is?"


    "You manage Chester. You send players you don''t need or can''t use to one of three other clubs. You have a very close connection with a fourth club, Tranmere. It seems awfully like the multi-club model I presented to Sheffield Wednesday. The one you were so enraged by." He took a sip of his drink - something brown - and his eyes twinkled. "I know it''s not hypocritical because you would never say one thing and do another. No, not you."


    "Saltney and College have zero fans between them. They are empty vessels. West has a fan base and that''s foremost in my thinking when I make decisions about it. West will never become Chester B. It''s its own thing and always will be." I didn''t give much of a shit what Nick thought - he was just being provocative. "Here, you''ll like this."


    I shoved the last morsel of food in my gob and searched through my phone until I found the set of photos I was looking for. I handed my phone to Nick, which I wouldn''t have done if I had been my normal cautious self.


    The pics had been taken in south Manchester. "That''s West on the last day of the season. Big crowd to see if they could make it undefeated for the whole league campaign."


    "Did they?" said Nick. He was incredibly uninterested in the sport that, as far as I could tell, was keeping him from being squashed flat and put back in the demon box.


    "Yep. Jay smashed it. He''s way too good for that level and he even slapped Chester''s women and developed loads of young players and everything. He''s amazing. I hope he''s off the radar enough that Chip doesn''t spot him yet."


    "Chip Star?" said Nick. "You''re thinking of who will become the next Bradford City manager?"


    "Yes," I said, very slightly tense for the first time since the news came through that we had won the league.


    Nick took another sip and looked through his notes. "Who do you fear Chip will choose?"


    "God," I said, feeling the anxiety rise. "I mean, Sandra. Jackie. Those would hurt. Er, Jay. Well In. Someone like that, you know, who''s on a path to glory as one of my, er..."


    "Imps," suggested Nick.


    I giggled. The alk had kicked in! "Yeah. Don''t take my imps."


    "Hmm," said Nick. If he was thinking about saying something mysterious, he changed his mind. "It will be Folke Wester," he said, before crunching up a note.


    "Jesus fuck," I said, slamming my skull against the head rest.


    "Is he very good? Are you outmatched?"


    "Don''t talk shit, okay? He''s just a dick and I thought I was done with him." I shook my head. "He should have been sacked by Darlington but he stayed on somehow and he won the league. He can''t hack it in League Two so he won''t be player-manager. He won''t be able to get on the pitch and kick me. That''s something." I stared at nothing for a while. "Fuck," I said. But then I thought - it''s not that bad. Folke would get Bradford playing brutal football and they would get so many red cards and suspensions they would never be a threat to anyone. He would cross the line in terms of gamesmanship in a way that would not go well with the world''s media watching. "Give me that." Nick handed the phone back, but I was only unlocking it. I swiped to the next photo. "Keep going," I said.


    Nick swiped through some - to him - tedious photos of West''s final match. He was slightly more interested in the post-match celebrations, but then he sat up straight. "Mr. Yalley!" he said.


    The man in question was in his best suit, holding the league trophy up. The players were behind him, spraying him with champagne. Nick swiped and there were more photos of Mr. Yalley with the West fans. "He''s already a beloved character," I said.


    "Quite right, too," said Nick. "He wouldn''t want you jetting off to strange new lands at random." He swiped back and examined the photo some more.


    "West''s on the up," I said, ignoring Nick''s latest whine about my safety. "Emma''s dad wants to sponsor us. Not with his Newcastle firm this time, but his sports lawyers. It makes a lot of sense because that company''s based in Manchester. He''s putting more money in so I''ll be able to pay Vivek and a few more guys who can boss the next level. We will have a tier 7 team in tier 8, Jay will crush it again, rinse and repeat."


    I took the phone back and did the photo album version of a lazy stroll around the garden. Meandering through my ''recents''. "What was that one?" Nick said, peering over.


    I held it up. "That''s Well In and the Saltney lads celebrating. Another league win the curse doesn''t seem to want to factor into my worldwide reputation. I''m huge in Malta, you know. There''s Rainman, Omari, and Tom. They learned a lot, I think, not that it really shows in their CA. I think they''ll kick on faster thanks to this experience." I glanced at him. "You have no idea what I''m talking about."


    "It''s your system. You would know it better than me."


    "Here''s a fun pic. That''s me running around like a crazy person after winning the league. I think I thought I was a bird or something, don''t really remember. I''m hugging this rando. See that kid there watching us?"


    "Yes."


    "That''s Roddy Jones. Future star. I didn''t know he was around."


    "He is, to put it mildly, impressed by your achievement."


    I swiped. "Here''s Wibbers with his family. His brother Adam has been coming up to train when he can. Adam''s literally exactly half as good as William. Did you do that as a joke?"


    "I did not. Is Andrew Harrison three times as good as his youngest brother?"


    "Not too far off that. But I''ve seen loads of younger brothers who are miles better than their siblings; it''s not like there''s a rule about it. Ah, this is a fun photo. This is all the eighteens who were out on loan wearing the kits of the clubs they were at."


    "Mmm," said Nick.


    "Not impressed by that one? That''s a banger, mate. What am I doing? Photo slideshow? I hate those. Did you make me do that?"


    "I did not make you do that. Why don''t you have any from the event today?"


    "Because I wasn''t there. I think Emma was maybe getting some of the good ones together for me. She said she was going to send me something during the flight when I was offline."


    "Why are you offline?"


    "Because I''m too cheap to pay for data."


    Nick shook his head and called for his cabin crew person. "Mr. Best would like Wifi access."


    "Certainly, sir."


    Within a minute I was logged in and downloading a bunch of images Emma had sent. I remembered people were freaking out about me potentially quitting so I recorded the video I had been making, sent that to Emma for her editing magic, and went back to my pod to scroll through my unread messages and emails. "Rather a lot," said Nick.


    "Dieter Bauer. David Cutter. Ian Evans. That''s, er, descending order of playing style." I chuckled, but Nick found all footy excruciating unless I was playing. "But equally considerate in their own way. Yeah, loads of congrats. Got one from Bradley Rymarquis. He vanished after the Brig gave him a little talking-to but it was sort of a peace offering from him so I replied to that one right away. Trying not to drown in grudges, do you know what I mean?"


    "You''re talking to the wrong person. Grudges and I go like leek and onion."


    The phrase made my mouth water and seconds later, our mains arrived. June set my table - full cloth, real cutlery, real fancy - then came the dishes.


    I concentrated on my food for a while - gorgonzola and walnut ravioli with goat''s cheese crumble paired with a Shiraz June recommended - then took a proper look at the pics Emma sent. It told the story of the trophy parade.


    The first one showed thousands of people crowding around a tourist bus that had some hurriedly-made banners dangling over the sides. The destination read: Chester FC, EFL bound. On the bus, players and coaches drank beers and waved balloon trophies and the EFL logo. They weren''t all balloon trophies, though. At the front of the top deck were the various actual trophies we''d won, being guarded by Glenn, Christian, Bonnie, Femi, and Zach - the captains and vice captains and vice vice captains. I could just imagine the roar of the crowd every time a trophy was hoisted up.


    I swiped through dozens of similar images at different locations with different constellations of revellers.


    I stopped at one in the middle which was more of the same but the bus was outside the Liverpool FC club shop in the city centre and it had its shutters all the way down even though it would normally have been open on a busy day of shoppers and tourists.


    "Ha! I finally got the fucking Liverpool shop closed. Just for the day but it''s a start. Get the fuck in," I added, with a bit of spitey triumph. Spite has a bad rap. I like spite.


    The next interesting sequence were five photos centred around Brooke. I got the impression someone had told her to stop talking to councillors and sponsors and get fucking drinking. She had refused and refused - my imagination told me - until Zach said, ''aw come on lady let''s fucking go''.


    <ol>


    <li>A semi-circle of male and female players have gathered around Brooke. She has a pint of beer in one hand and is giving it a hesitant glance.</li>


    <li>She''s bringing the beer to her lips.</li>


    <li>The scene is virtually identical - mere seconds have passed - but the glass is empty and the players around her are absolutely stunned.</li>


    <li>She has turned to soak up the acclaim.</li>


    <li>She is visibly rolling her eyes as Zach high-tens Bonnie.</li>


    </ol>


    I had a bit of a fit of the giggles before returning to the stack.


    I didn''t see Ruth or the Brig in any of them, but I suspected I knew where they were. Two of the photos were of one of those ''message planes''. A small little thing was flying around carrying a banner that read: IN MAX WE TRUST.


    The photos got increasingly beer-drenched until by the end, in the darkness, everyone looked somewhat worse for the wear. Youngster looked like he was about to have the first hangover of his life. Pascal was sucking face with his girlfriend, Tiggy. The captaincy group were waving Chester shirts and scarves and they had all acquired some sort of Japanese headbands, though only Zach was topless.


    "Quite the party," said Nick.


    "Just like the old days in Mesopotamia," I said, hoping to get him to reveal some information about himself. He looked at me to show he recognised my effort, but considered it too lame to warrant a facial expression. He returned to his meal. "How come you need to eat?" I wondered. "I thought you would, like, absorb energy from the sun on the back of your neck."


    Nick chewed for a few seconds, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, wiped his hands clean, and pulled the curtain closed.


    "I can still see you," I said, lifting myself up. "Go on, you can tell me things. What''s more full, heaven or hell? Is purgatory like Groundhog Day and you keep reliving your life until you''re not a dick and then you get to go to heaven? Is hell really awful but the live concerts are killer? Who''s your favourite imp? Is there really a Sentinel or did you make that up to keep me obedient? How many humans have curses and how many end up getting squashed flat? What''s this game you''re playing and how many other demons are doing it? What''s your prize for winning and how do you win?"


    Nick was starting to get a hint of a snarl around his mouth but suddenly he was shaking his head and smiling. "Have you finished?"


    "Er, one more." I thought about what question I would most want to get the answer to. What''s the top thing? The main thing? Why me? Not interesting. How am I doing compared to other peeps with curses? Not really important. What would happen if I pressed Retire? I knew I wasn''t going to do that unless Nick overstepped the mark in some way. Something about God, the devil, right, wrong, morality, the future of the human race? "Oh," I said. The sound just sort of popped out of me. Nick pulled the curtain open and gave me a watchful look. I couldn''t meet his gaze. "You can do things. Get helicopters and kick people off flights. Can you... If I keep giving you XP and if I play 20 minutes and don''t take the piss too much, can you... Can you help with my mum?"


    I felt his expression soften by maybe one-millionth of a percent, but it was enough. He spoke carefully but not harshly. "How would I do that?"


    "Like if there''s a drug that''s hard to get. One that works but it''ll be ten years before it''s mass market. If you could help me get it. I mean, I''ll pay and that but some of the experimental ones, they''re, you know. Inaccessible. You can do things. You can get us on the list."


    He pointed straight ahead. "I can''t help you if you''re dead in a ditch."


    I bit my lip. "Okay. I''ll stick to the main roads. No side quests. You can follow me around and I won''t be difficult." Nick ruminated. I got the feeling he was revising down his future spending plans and he didn''t like it. "You know," I said, leaning forward, "I never actually made a wish."


    He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Yes, you did." He was quiet for a full minute at least. Finally, he said, "If there is ever a list you want to be on, I can get you on that list."


    "Oh." It popped out of me again. I suppose I had been expecting a straight no, or to be tethered by conditions and tricks and scams. "Thanks?"


    "Just keep doing what you''re doing." He took some bread and mopped up the sauce on his plate, then took a huge swig of red wine.


    "I''m going to the Prem," I said. "Champions League. Gonna fuck some shit up."


    He did a sarcastic jazz hands thing. "Wow!" He chuckled and dabbed his napkin. "You like movies. What should I watch?"


    "Wall-E."


    "Thank you." He pulled his screen out and used the remote to navigate. Even given the slowness of the interface, it was maddening to watch an old person use technology. Especially someone as old as him. What was he, 3,000? He glanced at me and narrowed his eyes. So they could hear my thoughts! The fucking nosy pricks. Nick said, "Have you checked the day''s transfer activity?"


    "Yes. It''s normal stuff. Nothing unusual. Why?"


    He frowned and checked his watch. "Ah. He''ll announce in a few hours, perhaps. Get the week off to an exciting start, sell some season tickets. Yes, could be that. Do try to get some sleep so you''re rested when we land. And try not to be too agitated by what''s coming." He smiled as our plates and cutlery were taken away in a dazzling display of synchronised service. "And before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with it. This was all you. Goodnight, Max."


    The curtain closed.


    ***


    June sensed me getting fidgety and asked if I was thinking about going to sleep. She nudged me towards the bathroom where I slipped out of my black hoodie and cheap jogging pants and into the First Class pyjamas and special socks. I felt the fabric - supersoft. A tactile feast. It would cocoon me and I would emerge refreshed and ready for action even after a ten-hour flight. Unreal. Who was this Max Best guy?


    I shoved my hoodie and joggers into a cheap plastic bag and looked at myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw. Emma''s description of Harry Styles popped into mind - hot but safe. I smiled as I tested out some poses I might use for my character in EA Sports. The moody Christian Fierce look. Dan Badford''s ''I don''t know'' shrug. Angel''s ''oh the camera''s on me again oh gosh'' lip-twirl.


    Hot? Yeah.


    Safe? Tell that to Grimsby.


    The creatures of the Cambrian period tried on every possible anatomical costume. It took them millions of years to grow hard shells, teeth, and claws. It had taken me two years to get to First Class and I was just getting started.


    Nick''s warning that there might be some unpalatable transfer news came and went. Whatever happened, I''d be ready. Whatever happened, it wouldn''t stop me absolutely crushing League Two and going deep in some cups.


    I smirked and did one last pose - a Maxy Two-thumbs.


    ***


    Bradford City have appointed Folke Wester as their new manager. Wester will be given considerable transfer funds and will be expected to achieve automatic promotion in the coming season.


    Bradford City have agreed a fee with Grimsby Town for the signing of talented central defender Tom Hickman. The fee is expected to be in the region of ¡ê40,000 rising to ¡ê100,000 if targets are met.


    Bradford City have agreed terms with Leslie "Chipper" Thomson. The Welsh striker will leave Crawley Town for a nominal fee and is said to be ''ready to fight tooth and nail'' for his new manager.


    Bradford City have concluded a deal to sign goalscoring midfielder Raffi Brown from Al Fateh SC for a fee in the region of ¡ê200,000. Brown will receive the remainder of his salary in full so that his club can sign a high-profile overseas player. Brown is said to be ''keen'' to return to England.


    ...


    [Guys please remember the mid-book break! No chapters next week then... Max in Brazil!]


    ...

 11.1 - Speed Dating (Part One)

    Player Manager 11


    The story so far:


    After ten months of toil in England''s fifth tier, player-manager Max Best led Chester into the football league by the narrowest of margins. Both men''s and women''s teams will move to the 4th tiers. The women look well set to continue their rise, especially if the Chesterness documentary is sold to a TV company. The men will start the season with the weakest team in League Two and a budget one-third as high as Gillingham, MK Dons, Carlisle United, and Bradford City, now owned by the Star family. Max has stated his intention to win the FA Youth Cup, he must develop the Bumpers Bank training ground, and he must reinforce his squad after several departures. The good news? He has a million pounds to spend. The bad news? A million ain''t what it used to be.


    ***


    "And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music." Megan Fox''s tattoo.


    ***


    SPONSORED CONTENT


    Interior: Deva Stadium Trophy Room


    A carpenter has a measuring tape across Chester FC''s trophy cabinet. He flicks a pencil and allows the metal tape to retract. He turns to Max Best.


    <blockquote>


    CARPENTER


    Three thousand pounds, guv''nor.


    </blockquote>


    Henri appears.


    <blockquote>


    HENRI


    What is happening?


    MAX BEST


    Got to make a new, bigger trophy cabinet because we keep winning the Cheshire Cup and I''ve got all my Manager of the Month awards.


    </blockquote>


    Henri produces his Player of the Month for April trophy.


    <blockquote>


    HENRI


    Put this in there, too. Are you going to pay with your BoshCard?


    MAX BEST


    [Shows the card is ready in his hand. We get a close up while Max speaks.] Of course.


    </blockquote>


    Bonnie enters, stage right.


    <blockquote>


    BONNIE


    Boss! Chester Women won the league! I got the trophy right here.


    </blockquote>


    She holds it up and puts it on top of the cabinet.


    <blockquote>


    MAX BEST


    Will it fit?


    CARPENTER


    No chance, guv. I''ll need to go even bigger...


    </blockquote>


    He whips out the measuring tape.


    <blockquote>


    CARPENTER


    Three thousand five hundred pounds, guv.


    MAX BEST


    [In pain.] Come on.


    </blockquote>


    Glenn Ryder enters stage right.


    <blockquote>


    GLENN


    Boss! We won the National League!


    </blockquote>


    He places the trophy next to the others. The carpenter winces and shakes his head.


    <blockquote>


    CARPENTER


    You''re talking four thousand, at least.


    MAX BEST


    [Petulantly stomping his feet.] Everyone stop winning trophies!


    </blockquote>


    Jackie Reaper enters with his Manager of the Year award.


    <blockquote>


    JACKIE


    Max, quick question. Where do I put dis?


    </blockquote>


    Max faints.


    As Max falls, Henri smoothly takes Max''s credit card and beeps the carpenter''s payment device.


    <blockquote>


    HENRI


    [To camera] Don''t just buy it, Bosh it!


    </blockquote>


    ***


    1 - Speed Dating (Part One)


    1.


    Wednesday, April 30, 2025


    A bell chimed and I followed my little card to table 6 and hovered around it, wondering which of the gorgeous people I would be spending the next ten minutes of my life flirting with. Everyone else was doing the same, casting lustful glances, getting shy when eye contact was finally made. The air was heavy with a sense of possibility. Could this person be the one? Oh, I do hope it''s that one. Look at that outfit! I bet that hair smells great!


    Another chime and a countdown appeared on the central screen. Ten seconds to go!


    I eased into my chair, placing my ice cold drink to the right of the table that separated me from my date. Separated? Barely. We could touch knees if we wanted. If things got really steamy.


    My date smiled at me and I knew I''d hit the jackpot. An absolute ten, immaculately put together, hugely sexy confidence, and I soon discovered the accent stroked all my pleasure zones.


    Hubba hubba.


    A third chime signalled that the countdown had started. Ten minutes. More than enough to arrange a meeting in a second location and as luck would have it, this date was taking place in a hotel.


    "So, Mack Best. The clock is ticking. Seduce me."


    Prrrr! You little minx! I twirled my drink around, took a swig feeling like the sexiest man alive, and smiled. "Let''s talk about me. Then let''s talk about you." I leaned forward and got husky. "Then let''s talk about us."


    The eyes twinkled and the smile got all kinds of playful. Max Best shoots - he scores! "I am putty in your hands."


    I laughed. It wasn''t going to be that easy. This was a top-tier challenge; one false move and I would blow my chances of getting into bed with them. I found my pulse was suddenly racing, my thoughts clear, my injuries fully healed. "I fucking love Brasil," I said.


    ***


    THE PREVIOUS DAY


    "I kinda hate Brazil," I mumbled, quietly enough so that only Nick could hear me. Nick was a demonic entity who had cursed me with the ability to be a top football manager. Basically the kind of weirdo you bump into all the time in my home city of Manchester. He was following me around for a couple of weeks to make sure I didn''t get murdered again and he was deeply unimpressed with ''Travel Max''.


    "This isn''t Brazil. This is Sao Paulo."


    "What does that mean?"


    "Brazil is not for beginners."


    "Stop saying cryptic shit like you know more than you''re letting on. It''s so tedious. You know what? Why don''t you move over a couple of seats?"


    "Someone is there."


    I scoffed. "Make them remember they''ve got a table booked at Nando''s or whatever it is you do to get rid of people."


    Nick looked to his right and thought about doing it. "Too expensive," he sighed. "How about you try to enjoy yourself and keep your complaints internalised?"


    I tutted. "People keep saying it''s winter. If it''s winter, why is it 25 degrees in the evening? For fuck''s sake. And as soon as I step into the street I feel like I need to wash my face again. It''s so polluted. Where are the plants? There are more football agents in this stadium than green things in the city. Look at them all over there; it''s like they''re growing in a petri dish. You know the people in charge of everything. Can you ask them to dial the concrete down from a hundred percent to maybe just ninety-eight percent and chuck a couple of trees in? The whole city smells of petrol and they drive on the wrong side. I nearly got run over six times. Why aren''t they doing Carnival? If you need an excuse for a party, how about the arrival of Max Actual Best? I want to see a hot feather girl jiggle her arse and I want it yesterday. Literally."


    Nick exhaled and did a thousand-yard stare.


    I shook my head and got back to work. I was in Brazil for three main reasons. One, to relax and decompress after a long, hard season. I was absolutely nailing that aspect, as you can tell.


    Two, to find new players for my projects. The priority was Chester FC, the team I managed for a day job. I had a feeling, one I couldn''t quite understand, that my team was like an incomplete treasure map, or perhaps a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing. I had been drawn to Brazil; perhaps the missing piece was here.


    There were other football clubs which needed talented players. If I could convince one or two prospects to go to Tranmere Rovers I could get a kickback from those deals. I also had stakes in three other teams and in theory two of them could be used as Trojan Horse clubs to allow ambitious but undervalued Brazilians to move to Europe and show their stuff to more scouts and agents. I wasn''t doing too well on the scouting score but I''d only been in South America for a couple of days and Nick wasn''t letting me follow Playdar wherever it led me; I had agreed to stick to the main roads and places with crowds.


    The third reason to go to Brazil was to learn a new style of football. I wasn''t exactly doing that, but I was working towards it.


    My curse was fuelled by experience points and I gathered those by watching live football matches. That''s why I was in the colossal Est¨¢dio do Morumbi watching a Brazilian S¨¦rie A derby between S?o Paulo Futebol Clube (or as I was calling them in my head ''the ones on the left'') and Sociedade Esportiva Palmeiras (''the ones on the right'' or ''the ones with the Starbucks logo''). 55,000 nutjob locals were alongside me and I can give you a one-word answer to the question ''were they noisy as fuck?'' and that word is ''yes''.


    Sao Paulo played in white with black and red details, earning them the nickname ''Tricolour''. The kit was really sexy and they had plenty of good players. Their CA (Current Ability, a brief summary of how good at football a player was) ranged from the low hundreds to the 150s with an average around 130. In terms of CA they were on a par with English Championship (tier 2) sides, but it seemed to me there was a lot more PA (Potential Ability). These guys could have been pushed further, been taken higher. Some of them still could, of course, but I didn''t have the budget for these players. That said, some of them were on shitty contracts and lots of clubs in England could double their wages. Not Chester, but I wasn''t doing much daydreaming about the home team''s players.


    I had even less chance with the away team. Palmeiras played in green and were nicknamed ''Verd?o'', which I think means ''the red card magnets''. One-word answer: did they enjoy kicking the shit out of people? Yes. They were the reigning champions and were as talented as they were cynical. Their average CA of 140 would put them at the bottom of the Premier League, but I reckoned if Nick clicked his fingers and transplanted them from Brazil to the Prem they would survive because, again, they had spare capacity for growth. Playing teams like Man City and Liverpool every week would add 10 CA in a couple of months.


    Playing against better teams was a big part of maximising a player''s potential, which was why I was moderately relaxed about Chester''s prospects for the coming season. Okay we would start as the worst team, but we would improve very quickly. My ambitions for the season depended on what extra quality I could sign, but I had three months before the first serious ball was kicked. Plenty of time to find five or six players. I certainly wasn''t going to jump on the first sweet-smelling lovely I chanced upon.


    I blinked, realising I had drifted away from watching the match again. The home and away fans were up for it, but it was quite a tough watch for a neutral. The Tricolour were working extra hard to shut down the away team, the champions. To be fair, when the Tricolour counter-attacked they did so fast and with quality - until they got to the penalty box. The striker was wayward, to say the least, and he was giving the home fans absolute conniptions.


    So yeah, an absolutely fascinating experience, incredible atmosphere, but not a fun match. A big local derby in a megacity of 20 million people was just too important for the players to take risks.


    I had added my XP counter to the match overview screen because watching it tick up was as fun as the game itself. The match was giving me 6 XP per minute, which tracked with my opinion that the general standard was akin to England''s second tier. In the coming season I would compete in the fourth tier, in which matches were worth 4 XP per minute, and amounts were always doubled when I was the manager. Managing a full 90 minutes against Accrington Stanley or Tranmere would bag me 720 XP!


    "Does it tickle?" I said.


    Nick closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. I was surprised his horns didn''t sprout. "Pardon me?"


    "When I''m earning XP you get a cut and it goes into your own curse - oh that''s interesting. You''re a victim, too. Let''s talk about that later! - I''m asking do you feel my XP adding up? Is it like a ticklish feeling or is it more like watching a barman pour you a beer? Or is it - "


    Nick slapped his knees, stood up, looked around, and strolled away. Somehow he was able to leave our row without anyone having to stand.


    "The mood swings on this guy," I said. I looked around at my neighbours. Lots of Tricolour shirts. Lots of people raging at the referee, at the strikers, at the manager. It was all very familiar. Not knowing the language made things slightly more interesting - I found myself wondering if that chap over there was yelling ''you''re not fit to wear the shirt'' or ''I pay your wages, mate''.


    But while the familiarity was comforting in a way, it was also frustrating. I hadn''t come to Brazil to learn about foreign gammons, I''d come to learn a completely different style of football called Relationism. The plan was to do loads of scouting in the next two weeks, find some players to bring to Europe, and then come back with Emma, Henri, and his girlfriend Luisa to meet some Relationism experts. However, the guy who had invented this new style, Fernando Diniz, had been sacked one too many times and was out of work, perhaps forever. As far as I could tell, no teams in Brazil were currently using his daring and interesting methods.


    I wasn''t catastrophising just yet - worst case scenario was that I would save up the 27,000 XP I would need to unlock the Relationism module and learn how to use it by trial and error. But it would have been absolutely thrilling to see this crazy new style in the flesh and it was, truth be told, a little bit depressing to think that I wouldn''t get any help. Almost my entire experience in the football world had come without a tutorial, without a help page, and for once I was hoping for a bit of an easier ride.


    Now that Nick had flounced, I could do something I''d been thinking about since leaving my hotel in the afternoon. I refreshed a page I had open on my phone''s browser and checked the numbers.


    ¡ê405 of ¡ê1,400 goal.


    Raised by 27 people in 6 days.


    I turned my phone to selfie mode and hit record.


    "Hi, Chester. Your boy Max Best here. I''m out in Brazil at this huge stadium where 55,000 locals have turned up to celebrate our National League title win. At least, I think that''s what they''re here for. My Portuguese is even worse than I thought - and I thought it was zero."


    That last line was funny but also true. I had expected I would be able to get by on my rudimentary Spanish but words I was sure would be the same in both languages weren''t. I also found that when I tried to summon a non-English word, it burped out of me in German, the foreign language I heard most often. Henri liked to practise his with Pascal, as did our part-time coach Clive O''Keefe, and oftentimes when I watched a footie stream on my laptop it was in German. Eckball! Gelbe Karte! My favourite was when the flow was interrupted by the commentator saying in English, ''You''ll never walk alone!'' or ''Here come the Toffeemen''.


    "Chester, I''ve got a question for you. And maybe a request. And maybe a challenge. It depends how you answer the question."


    I paused and smiled as a big roar came from the home fans - it turned into an ''ooh'' as a good move ended with a long shot that went just wide. I would send this video to Emma - she loved cutting my raw footage up to be more TikTok-friendly and loved adding funny little graphics or inserts - I hoped she would keep some of the febrile atmosphere.


    "Yeah I''m out here looking a million-pound player. Someone I can get for a hundred grand. Train him up, flip him. I look at that guy there - " I turned the camera to a congested spot of the midfield - "and I see a guy you could buy for five mill and sell him in a year for ten."


    It was true enough, what I''d said. Green 8 was a pretty dreamy midfield technician built on a base of steel. He was CA 130 with a ceiling of 160. A Championship team could make an easy seven-figure profit trading the guy. That said, I was painfully aware that some people in the football industry were in the ''copy Max Best'' niche, and it seemed to be a fast-growing industry. Chip Star claimed to have a superb data model but in fact he was listening to me talk on podcasts, watching which players I made a fuss of after matches, and at times even following me on scouting trips. I hoped this two-second, shaky footage of ten players would drive him mad, and that he would spend hours pausing and noting down the names and numbers of the players, trying to work out which was the guy I was talking about.


    "The more I daydream about these Brazilian players, the bigger the numbers get. A hundred grand. A million. Two million. Ten million! So it was a bit of a reality check when I opened my emails back at the hotel. I had one from Brooke, our head of marketing and badassery. It basically said, should we help with this? There was a link to GoFundMe. The guy had raised 400 pounds from a target of 1500 to buy kits for a youth team. I''m still a bit mashed up from the season and the drama of the Woking match and the long flight and walking around Brazil in a sort of daze for a day so I was just yeah, course, do it. But hang on. The listing said he worked for the Cheshire FA. The FA needs to raise 1500 pounds to buy football kits? I mean, obvious scam, right? I''ve been to a couple of FA hearings - " Cheeky grin time. "And what does it cost those guys to get to London for the morning and what do they spend on lunch? 1500 minimum, know what I mean? So I read it even more closely and he''s saying he wants to buy new kit for the Cheshire Schoolboys team. You know, for when they play against Merseyside or Manchester or Yorkshire."


    Another wave of noise from the fans as they demanded a red card for one of the many savage tackles that went on.


    I shook my head. "Okay so I call the guy. Richard. He tells me the whole tragic story. He volunteers for the Cheshire FA and his budget is fourteen thousand pounds and I say what, a day? And he says, that''s per year. With that money he''s got to organise the whole of schools football in Cheshire. Competitions between schools, tournaments, referees, trophies, medals, food after the matches. Trips to other counties to play those teams, I mean you can imagine, right? I wouldn''t do it if you paid me. Richard does this in his spare time because he''s passionate about schools football. He wants kids to have the chance to represent their schools and their county.


    "It hit me then. Some memory I''d blocked or just never thought much about since Jackie Reaper brought me to Chester. I played for my school. Twice! The first match I was a late sub and I did some tricks and flicks that got the school buzzing. I was floating on air for days because rando kids would say ''You''re the one that did that tekkers in the match!'' The second match I got subbed off because I didn''t fly into what the manager thought was a 50-50 tackle but was more like 20-80. You wonder why I don''t like football dinosaurs? But still, I played for my school team and for a long time that seemed likely to be the highlight of my entire playing career. I think I was pretty proud of that and it made me feel like less of an outsider and you know what, pretty much every friend I''ve ever made since I was ten has been because of football.


    "Okay so Richard says he''s embarrassed to be begging for money but this year''s budget is just nowhere near enough and it can''t be stretched any further. I''m listening and to be honest my blood is boiling because I work really hard to get to schools games and he works really hard to put on games and it''s like we''re the only two people in Cheshire who care about it. That''s not true, by the way, there are plenty of volunteers who feel the same, who want kids to play sports instead of video games and get healthy and socialise and all the rest of it. But Richard and I, we''re peas in a pod. We''re sort of speed dating and it''s going great!


    "Richard tells me the national FA do not give a flying, er, fig about schools football unless it''s elite players who might go to the Premier League. That''s because the FA have given up on running the sport and everything they do is about getting onto superyachts with autocrats and monopolists. Erm, those are my words, to be clear. Not his. So the FA don''t care about schools football in Cheshire and to be frank, most parents and teachers don''t care about it. So why should I send this guy a thousand pounds of Chester FC''s money? Apart from the fact it''s probably against the rules somehow, maybe it''s time we just binned the whole thing off.


    "On a related note, I know a lot of parents in Cheshire spend big money sending their kids to coaching camps. You pay 1500 quid and your kid does some drills, plays a little match, and there''s a promise that a professional scout will be there. Hey, guys. No serious football club will ever ask you to pay for your kid to be scouted. We want the best players and I want to see every kid in Cheshire with my own two eyes. These scouting camps are preying on your hopes and dreams.


    "My view, and it''s just my view, is that we don''t want a pay-to-play model. There is an infrastructure in place that''s a low-stakes, high-return-on-investment way to get kids healthy and to learn about teamwork and to have pride in themselves and get scouted by me. Schools football exists but it''s crumbling. Do you want it restored, healthy, and vibrant? Or not? I''m going to include the GoFundMe link with this video. If you think schools football should be kept alive in Cheshire, donate and volunteer. If enough of you donate some money but more importantly your time, I''ll end Richard''s money troubles... permanently. If I''m not allowed to do it for whatever reason, our sponsors will do it.


    "If you''ve got a talented kid, boy or girl, I want to find them but if we let schools football die it gets so much harder and it gets to be that only parents with a spare couple of grand can get their children seen by scouts. I mean, that''s gross. That''s not football. That''s not Chesterness.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    "Your call, Chester. The look on your daughter¡¯s face as she tells you she got picked for her school team, or skipping a holiday so you can send her to a shady ¡®football school¡¯. How do you want it to be?"


    ***


    I wasn''t sure if people would respond the way I wanted, but I was about as popular in Chester as I was ever going to be. If I couldn''t make an appeal like that now, I would never be able to. I got a queasy feeling in my stomach and thought about saying I didn''t want the video to go online. If the response was ''meh'' it would be pretty crushing, actually.


    After a few minutes of indecisive fretting, a text from Brooke came through. Somehow the video was already up.


    I just saw your appeal. Very well pitched and the fact you''re thinking about boys and girls in Cheshire while you''re in Brazil is gold. This is why people follow you. Unrelated to recent discussions, I had an idea. The most Max Best idea I''ve ever had! I know you''ll love it and it will save money but there will be an upfront cost.


    Brooke going full Max? I felt an invisible thread tugging at my cheeks, forcing my lips wider. People were more fun than numbers. I scrolled back to another text that had made me smile. It was from the Tranmere Rovers player Lee Contreras.


    Hi, Max. Remember me? Midfield general, good on the ball, know my way around TikTok, soon-to-be out of contract. Just thought I''d give you first dibs on the Lee Contreras experience. We played well together, didn''t we? I''d give you a discount on my wages since we''re old friends and all.


    The text was cheeky as fuck and I loved it. Why shouldn''t the guy hustle to get himself a new deal? He absolutely should. I hadn''t replied right away, instead sending one to Mateo to ask why they hadn''t renewed Lee. Lee was annoying when he was trying to build his brand and he wasn''t as serious as I''d liked but when I''d pushed him, he had got his head down and grafted and he was right - we played well together. In many ways, though, he was the sort of signing I was trying to avoid. He would take up a slot, cost a fair amount in wages, and he didn''t have an enormous ceiling. He would do a job in League Two, though, that was for sure. He could be my new Sam Topps/James Wise but with much better technique and passing. Not much goal threat...


    Energy, though. Fun. He would bring energy and fun to a dressing room that maybe risked going too far in my own image. One of the original Chester players, Donny Dorigo, was like Lee. A bit more irreverent than I liked, but sometimes that was what the group needed. Sometimes it was what I needed.


    Lee Contreras. He would be 25 next season and would cost me something like 2,000 a week, no transfer fee. He was probably CA 70 or thereabouts - he hadn''t played much in the last six months - but he would quickly improve to 80 and had PA 98. He could help in League Two and come with us to League One, but what I really wanted were guys who could come multiple steps or ones I could sell for quick cash. What would I get for Lee next summer? A hundred thousand maybe? I needed guys I could sell for ten times that.


    ***


    They say hell is other people, but another version of hell is being alone in a crowd of 55,000. The problem with Nick following me around was that he was blocking me from meeting cool and interesting randos. My isolation would all be worth it if I went home with some star players but reading Brooke and Lee''s texts suddenly had me craving company. Someone to talk to about, well, anything really.


    I went for a walk around the stands. There were stewards blocking some points but I simply asked to go through and they let me. My destination was the halfway line, because the curse was showing me an unusually large number of scouts, agents, and club administrators congregated there in the middle tier behind the dugouts.


    I mean, I say unusual but this was a big derby in the biggest city in all of the Americas. Maybe it was totally normal. Maybe if I went to watch Arsenal v Tottenham it would be exactly the same.


    I was in no hurry, and as I shuffled along, taking in the sights and sounds and letting the warmth of the evening massage my shoulders, I perked up a bit. Life wasn''t half bad, you know. I had spare cash and two weeks to do pretty much anything I wanted. I also had a demonic bodyguard.


    After my slow journey I found myself standing near an absolute swarm of agents. Surely this was more than was usual? The place was teeming! Instead of wondering, I decided I would pick one and strike up a conversation. It would be quick and if I bombed I would move onto the next one. What did I have to lose?


    ***


    Milton Orcelli


    Agent


    F¨²tbol Focus


    Assets Under Management: ¡ê34,000,000


    "Excuse me."


    "Sim? Yes?"


    I''d chosen the youngest-looking guy, the one I thought was most likely to speak English. He was also pretty much the friendliest-looking man I''d ever seen. Short of stature, round of face, I''ve-seen-worse of haircut, he had an aura of softness and an ease of smile that made me warm to him instantly. I tilted my head. "Are you the world-famous football agent Milton Orcelli?"


    It was a bit desperate, using the curse like that, but I couldn''t be arsed going through an elaborate routine. Bosh. Route one. "World-famous?" he spluttered. "I think not. But I am Milton. Jelly."


    "Jelly?" I repeated.


    "Chelly," he said. "Call me Chelly. Like the instrumento."


    I frowned. Maybe I was jet lagged. I''d heard about jet lag, that it made you tired and stuff. I''d never heard that it made you stupid. "Cello. Okay your nickname is Chelli. Sounds like a cello made of jelly. Gotcha." He was smiling at me with those chubby cheeks of his. Expectantly. "I''m Max Best!" I proclaimed. "Player-manager of Chester FC."


    "Manchester?"


    It struck me for the first time that my worldwide reputation of ''unknown'' might actually prevent me from achieving my goals on this trip. "Chester. It''s, er, left of Manchester. I''m from Manchester." I was confusing the guy and the last thing I wanted was to turn those thick eyebrows into a frown. "Chelli, don''t worry about it. In England I am a very famous football player and manager." I gestured to the endless rows of seats behind him. "I see a lot of agents and scouts and directors of football and so on. Is this normal for a derby match?"


    "Derby?"


    "A classico. Sao Paulo versus Sao Paulo." I frowned. Now that I was closer I could read the information in the profiles more clearly. "Wait. He''s from Botafogo. That''s in Rio, isn''t it? That guy''s from Vasco da Gama. They''re in Rio, too. Internacional are from miles away. Alianza Lima! That''s fucking Peru! I think that one''s Paraguay. Orlando City! FC Dallas. What the shit is going on, mate? It''s like a James Bond gathering of all the baddies!"


    The enormous eyebrows furrowed. "How do you know?"


    "I have a photographic memory for the faces of people who might give me money. You, for example! F¨²tbol Focus is your agency, I think?"


    "Not mine," he said, with just a hint of sadness. "I work for heem." He turned and did a little eye tour of the area. He didn''t have access to my wealth of information but he must have known enough people and spotted enough others in sharp suits to realise I was right. "Many are here before the Transfer Room tomorrow afternoon. That is why I am here. Is it not why you are here?"


    "I''m on holiday, mate. If I bag a few superstars along the way, that''s all gravy. That''s a bonus," I added, seeing the confusion on his face. I needed to avoid idioms and complicated phrases if I wanted to be understood. "What''s the Transfer Room?"


    "It is a room," Chelli said, apparently in earnest. "I mean to say it is a real room. We go there. Clubs, agents, decision-makers. We sit on tables. We move tables. Ten minutes to discuss."


    "Discuss what?"


    "Transfers! What is your name? I didn''t catch."


    "Max." I offered my hand. He shook it.


    "Transfers, Max. It is why it is called the Transfer Room."


    "I''m trying to imagine what the hell you''re talking about. A room. I''m opposite you. We talk shit. Then I''m opposite a guy from Botafego. We suggest transfers we might do. I''ll swap my fast left back for your tricky winger. Ten minutes, we move on. Holy shit it''s speed dating!"


    Chelli got a biiiiig smile. "Yes! Speed dating for football. We say this."


    I laughed. I had stumbled into a part of the football world I had never heard about, one that seemed perfect for my needs. I would not only be able to try to get a deal or two done but also I would meet the directors of football at most of the top clubs in the Americas! And FC Dallas! I could not believe my fucking luck, and for once Nick had nothing to do with it. "Chelli, this is unbelievable. I have decided to grace the event with my presence. Where is it?"


    "The Sheraton Hotel, Max. But you can''t enter. It is fully subscribed. Ah, but many agents wait in the lobby and they are always keen to meet football club managers. Better if you were the director of football!"


    I sighed. "I''m that, too. I''m actually massive."


    When I said I was the director of football, Chelli''s thick brows pulled together. He decided he had misunderstood me and was happy to let it go. "If you want to talk business it could be good to go there. Brazil has many good players, you know. Perhaps you find some opportunities, no? I will be outside. I am too small for the big room."


    ¡°Too small for the big room? I like that. Let me write that down.¡± Chelli knew I was teasing him and he smiled with a tiny shake of the head. There were a lot of other agents in the area, many from companies with a lot more assets under management, but I had pairbonded with Chelli and could use this meeting to get to understand the world I was about to step into. Hadn''t I been complaining there was no tutorial? Here was one!


    Chelli tapped the seat next to him. He wanted to talk as much as I wanted to listen! "Mate, I need to say something to my friend Zakan Nicolini. Maybe you know him? He worked on the Manchester United takeover bid, is an expert in the multi-club model, and has amazing contacts in the Saudi Pro League."


    Based on my description, Chelli very much wanted to meet Nick. "I do not know him!"


    "Yeah, he''s kind of annoying. Keeps flouncing out of rooms. Lacks what we call in Manchester, los cojones. Ah!" I laughed because Nick was suddenly at the back of the concourse, glaring at me. "There he is. Chelli, I''ll be back in a second. I just need to get invited to a party."


    ***


    It was alarmingly easy to persuade Nick to kick someone out of tomorrow''s Transfer Room. I decided not to think about it to any great extent and Nick agreed that was wise.


    I went back to Chelli, primed to ask him the thousand and one questions I had about this secret club he was a member of. Instead, he was interested in me. He had his phone open to some website or other.


    "Chester FC! Max Best! This is you, no?"


    He was looking at a league table that showed us level on points, but above, Grimsby Town. "Yeah. Here, this is better."


    With the help of my most recent photo album, I took him on a brief tour of the last day of the season. Told him that we had needed to improve our goal difference by more than Grimsby did. They won 2-0, we won 3-0, bosh, thanks, bye, have a nice life. I told him Grimsby''s owner had sacked me and I suggested that the smart thing to do in this world was to not sack me. I discovered Chelli was more comfortable with the word fire than sack. Good to know!


    I showed him photos of the open-top bus parade around Chester city centre. "When was this?" he said, because something didn''t add up.


    "Sunday."


    "Which Sunday?"


    "Two days ago."


    "And now you are in Brazil?"


    I eyed him. "That season is over. Finito. Fertig. Time to get ready for next season. Football never sleeps."


    He grew serious. "You must have time away from work. Work-life balance. Is important."


    "I''m five thousand miles away from work. And I''m in the southern hemisphere. Talk about balance."


    It took him a few moments to understand what I''d said, but when he realised I was joking he laughed. "Too funny! You are not like most in football! How old are you?"


    "24. Nearly 25. Go to TikTok and type Max Best madness."


    "Madness?" he said, as he obeyed. I allowed him to wonder as he entered the words. The top result was my outstanding backheel goal against Grimsby, the one that had sent them into a tailspin. "Uau! You can play!"


    "I''m fucking mint, mate. Grims were twenty points ahead."


    "Twenty points? And you won the championship?"


    "Yep. I mashed them up. Cracked them like an egg. Very satisfying. How many players are on your books?"


    "Almost thirty."


    "Who''s the most important?"


    He named a guy; I searched the curse''s transfer news feed and saw he had gone to Portugal for 20 million Euro. So basically the 34 million pounds of players comprised one star and twenty guys with little market value. That was probably absolutely perfect for my needs while being small fry for this Transfer Room thing. A little gust of tiredness buffeted me; I pinched my nose.


    "Are you okay?"


    I shoulder-barged him playfully like he was my oldest friend. "Tired, Chelli. Really tired. Ten months. Ten months of fucking grinding." Don''t ask me why but tears came to my eyes. I blinked the bastards down into their little grief hole and tapped through my photos until I found one of me staring at the National League trophy like it was an old Babylonian cylinder. "Worth it. Worth it but yeah, I need this time in Brazil to relax." I smiled. "But first, I''m gonna gatecrash your Transfer Room."


    "Gatecrash?"


    "When you go to a party but you weren''t invited."


    His soft face sharpened - I was already getting to know him and this meant ''I''m going to say something wry''. "In Brazil, you are invited to every party."


    "No, Chelli. You are invited to every party because everyone likes you. That guy," I said, pointing to Nick, "is not."


    "Isn''t he your friend?"


    "Meh. Right. Before we get into details, there''s something very important you need to know. I don''t want to come away from here with a player called, I don''t know, Gabriel Silva."


    "No?"


    "No. I want something cool. Zico. Socrates. Hulk. Or one of those fun two syllable ones. Bebo. Mimi. Tito."


    "We have a Bobo."


    I punched the air. "Yes! I don''t care how good he is. I want him. Right I''ve bought Bobo and I need one more. Let''s talk about your client list."


    "One moment, please," he said, tapping away on his own phone. He was an Android user but he was so likeable it didn''t count against him. "It is good to know your client." He brought up the Chester squad list, complete with estimated transfer values, wages, and so on. It was absolutely wild how inaccurate it was.


    "The shit is this?" I said, taking his phone away. "What a load of garbage!"


    "Is not correct?"


    "It''s garbage. Trash. Bin that." I laughed.


    "Tell me about your club and your needs," he said, though he looked hurt that I had dismissed his data. I found my mouth was running on its own accord. Maybe I needed to get some things off my chest - I had been making tough calls and communicating those decisions while out of the country was slightly shitty.


    I sighed and pointed to my name. "Okay so first thing is this handsome fellow. He''s worked hard for two and a half years and been murdered once and had, I don''t even remember, two breakdowns? He''s the manager, the best player, and almost the entire scouting department. And yeah, director of football." Chelli understood it this time - his eyes widened. I continued. "He''s fucking amazing and he deserves a pay rise. This number here is not close to the truth but the real number? I tripled it. Trebled it. And you know what? No-one at the club batted an eyelid. Ah, no-one was surprised. I''m the highest-paid employee in the history of the club, I think."


    "You should request more."


    "I don''t request, Chelli, I say. I am the state. This is my salary. Bosh, the end. But I don''t want too much because then I can''t have a good team. It''s a problem of balancing. I don''t need too much but I do need to take care of myself and my mother."


    "Your mother?"


    "She''s sick," I said, but I wish I hadn''t. His big brown eyes got all dewy and stuff. I had to remind myself I was a top international businessman. "She''s sick but I have money now. I can help her, yes? But when we go to the next league, I can help her even more. You understand? We have to go up. Up up up. My salary is small but it is enough. I am not greedy."


    "That is good. I am glad to hear it."


    My pay rise would take me to 3,000 a week, and even that would only put me in the top 40 earners in League Two. I glanced at my new friend. He probably wouldn''t be interested in hearing that I had given raises to the Brig and Sandra. The Brig seemed happy with a ten percent bump to 2,200, while Sandra was ecstatic about her fifty percent rise to 1,500. She was so worth it, though. For a start, if I had another meltdown or needed to just fuck off out of Dodge for a month, she would keep the club powering forwards. I think they call it ''business continuity'', and a big raise was cheaper than replacing her.


    "Goalkeepers," I said, pointing to the first three names. "Ben''s the starter but I would like someone better or someone young with a high ceiling who can challenge him. Have you got any goalies?"


    "Yes."


    "I need to see them in person if that''s poss."


    He frowned slightly and I felt I was doing this wrong. Better now than in the Transfer Room with all the bigshots. Chelli said, "What profile are you looking for?"


    "I don''t think in terms of profiles. I mean, not like most teams. I think in terms of talent. Get the highest possible talent and adapt the tactics. For a goalkeeper I simply need talent. Rainman is the third choice. He''s talented but he''s very young. He was out on loan last season and I think that''s the best thing for him again this season but I suppose it depends if I can find another goalie this window. Maybe I would sign another Exit Trial kid but they''re always going to be behind the curve. If Rainman has another good season he might get to Ben''s current level so that''s absolutely awesome but by then we''ll be in League One. I''ve got that problem all over the squad. It''s a bit of a mind fuck."


    "Oh?"


    "Like, I''m helping these guys but I get so attached to them and I really want to put them in the first team but that wouldn''t be fair to them. Rainman in League Two would get crushed. That''s no good."


    "No."


    "Then there''s Sticky. I had to give him a raise to keep him." I had agonised over the number. Sticky had been offered 2,500 a week by Bradford City, and I knew he would leave if he didn''t see a 2 at the front. A flat 2,000 would have looked desperate so I slapped a whopping great 2,020 pounds a week in his face and he stared at it for half a minute and said okay, I''m in. "Expensive bastard but he''s an unbelievable goalie coach. You have to pay for good staff. If he leaves, what am I going to do? No, he has ruined me but he''s worth it and he could take over as number one if I give him some minutes. But there''s a cost to that, too, right? We''ll drop points in the time it takes him to get up to speed. In any case, I do need another goalie with room to grow, though, just to make sure Sticky pays off financially."


    "You think a lot."


    "We''re just getting started, Chelli lad. So I''m in the market for a very serious goalkeeper who is good now and can improve, or a young player who is even more talented than Rainman. I can sign two Brazilians and if one is a high-level goalkeeper, that works, but I don''t think I would sign a young prospect unless he was absolutely incredible. My goal is to flip the players this year."


    "Flip?"


    "Buy cheap, sell for a million pounds. I can bring two foreign players very easily. If I can make two million from my two foreigners I can start to rebuild the stadium. But I mean, if I can sign the best young goalie in the world, I''m obviously going to do that. But then where will I get the money for the rebuild?" I sucked my lips into my mouth and made smacking noises. "I drive myself mad speculating but in the end everything depends on what I find and who is willing to come to Chester. Are you based here in Sao Paulo? Can I see your players this week? In matches or training - it''s the same to me."


    "Most are in Sampa, yes. You want to see them train? It''s easy, yes."


    "Amazing." It didn''t sound incredibly efficient - it was possible I would spend a full week travelling around this enormous city to scout 30 players who were already under contract. But they had been pre-filtered by the Brazilian football-industrial complex and would be a lot more match ready than some rando PA 180 I found on the street. Plus I would still have the chance to find some unscouted gems using Playdar once I found the hotspots where lots of matches were played. The Sao Paulo version of Hough End or Hackney Marshes - I would ask Chelli about it later. Ah but Chelli seemed to be saying he would take me to the training grounds of lots of clubs - I would see the rest of the squads, too, not just the players his agency represented. And I would see the level of the facilities and something that was taking up a lot of my mental runtime - the layouts of the pitches and buildings. "That sounds amazing. Count me in."


    "But what age? Young players only?"


    "I don''t care. Whatevs. Ambitious players. Hungry to improve. That''s what I need. They have to be over 18 for the work permit and they can''t take the piss on wages because I''ve got lots of holes in the squad." I pointed at his phone. "This squad list of yours has a load of guys who are gone."


    "Gone?"


    "Well, they are still there today but they will be gone soon. Steve Alton has been signed by Kidderminster. James Wise is going back to Eastleigh. Vivek has agreed a permanent move to West Didsbury - I''m gutted I''ll never see him playing for Chester but it was a good move for him and the club. Sometimes doing the right thing is the wrong thing."


    "I write that down."


    He was rinsing me - I laughed and bumped him again. He seemed to like it. "So I could use some defensive cover and a tough-tackling midfielder. These guys, Ziggy and Chipper, we had them on loan. No more loans, mate! Never again! I''m down to two pure strikers so obviously I need another one but I suppose everyone does. This prick Chipper is going to join the Starvolution at Bradford City. Vom. I offered Ziggy the chance to play in Gibraltar and he''s into it but he wants to have a full season at FC United first. He feels he owes them for their faith in him and he wants a 20-goal season like I said when I met him."


    "Gibraltar?"


    "Yeah, I''m sort of a consultant for a team in Gib. Oh, and I own a team in Wales, have control of a small team in Manchester - wow, this is confusing - and I''ve got a hotline to the owner of Tranmere Rovers. Ideally I''d find two Brazilians for him as well as my teams because he''ll pay me a kickback. So it''s not just about filling in the Chester squad, there are other clubs I can recruit for, too."


    Now it was Chelli''s turn for a spinning head. "Can you please tell it to me again?"


    "Sure thing. If you take me to a cool bar later."


    "Oh, yes! I love to show you my city. My home." He paused. "What does cool mean to you?" I recognised that facial expression - he was worried I would bankrupt him at a fancy downtown gin joint.


    "Cool is wherever you are. If you like it, I''ll like it. Okay next up is Aff and Carl. I sold them to Bradford, vom. I''ve used the money to order a 3G pitch. You know 3G? Yeah, it''s in the east of Chester. People will pay 60 to 70 pounds per hour to rent it, and I''ll be able to let local schools use it. In England every school used to have a football pitch but they have all been sold off to pay for like, hoovering out all the asbestos in the ceilings. It''s a shit country, mate. I want kids to play footy so I can bag the best ones, so I''ll probably cut some sort of deal with schools and the local FA. I''ll probably let Ryan Jack handle that. He''s this midfielder here. He''s old but he''s still good but I''m getting him to do more admin things because he''s just a friendly guy who everyone likes. Did you ever play football?"


    "Not like you, no."


    "Yeah no-one plays like me. That''s probably better; I''m really annoying. Okay so I sold those two guys and that cash just vanished but I''ll make way more money from it - eventually."


    "Eventually?"


    "Yeah. Like now my budget is dogshit. It''s the lowest in the league but I''ll get more step by step. A little when my pitches make money. A little when I get my Brig rebate.¡± I was pretty sure Nick had told me he would cover the Brig¡¯s salary for two seasons but he had only paid for one. I expected a mysterious hundred thousand pound donation to be made at some point in the coming months. ¡°A lot when I sell the documentary. A little more when we go on cup runs, a lot more if we go deep. If I don''t spend all my TV money I can use that, too. And I think most of all, when my boss realises we aren''t going to get relegated he will open the taps. In January I hope to have, like, twenty or thirty percent more than I have now. I will be poor instead of very poor. Er, inside joke."


    Chelli stuck his tongue out and did some sort of sigh. "The good people always have the less money."


    I nodded. "Yeah but if it was easy, everyone would do it. Right now I''m chill about it. If we lose the league by one point I''ll have a temper tantrum."


    "Tantrum?"


    "Like a baby. Waaah!" Chelli liked that. "Replacing Aff is hard because he defends and attacks, but recently we played a lot of 4-2-3-1 and that formation doesn''t need a left winger. I could get a left-footed left-mid from the Exit Trials and that would be fine, probably. Or Josh Owens, this one, he could play left mid. He''s fine but not as much of a goal threat from open play as Aff. I think we will do a lot of 4-2-3-1 and a lot of 3-4-3 so again, it''s not vital to have an Aff guy. But then when I want 4-1-4-1 and I don''t have a left-footed Expected Threat machine that''s going to annoy the shit out of me. So if you have any left-footed attacking midfielders, that''s something I''d be very interested in. I could use a right back, too."


    "We have options. I can show you."


    "Top." I looked at the list again and I sighed. "Michael Harrison. That was a tough video call. There are three brothers we call the Triplets, but they aren''t actually triplets. I talked to the older two, Andrew and Michael. Basically I said I wouldn''t have any minutes to offer Michael this coming season. Until January, I said, any spare minutes would go to under 18 players. I need to give the kids experience of playing in League Two to juice their numbers to give me a shot of winning the Youth Cup, but I didn''t put it like that to the Triplets. I said the best thing for everyone would be if Michael joined Saltney Town on a permanent contract. Saltney is the Welsh team I own. He would help us win that league and he would develop into one of the best players in the Cymru Premier, while living in the digs with his brothers and being part of the gang and whatnot."


    "He can live with his brothers? That is good."


    "I think so, too. They lost their parents and they are inseparable so it''s, you know, hard to separate them. It wasn''t an easy conversation but the deciding factors were that their younger brother Noah would be getting League Two minutes, and that as the owner of Saltney, I would be paying Michael''s wages from my own pocket."


    "You pay him personally?"


    "Yep."


    "That is big trust."


    "Yeah," I said, doubtfully. I had been honest with the Triplets, but there was an extent to which I was happy to string the younger brothers along to make sure Andrew stayed at the club long enough to reach his potential. He would be able to play in the English Championship and thus had a potential transfer value of millions. "Yeah!" I said again, with more conviction. Michael could have a long and happy career winning the Welsh league and playing in Europe every season, if he so wished. I was pretty excited about having my first near full-time squad member at Saltney. "He can''t play better than he can play. I''ve put him in the right place. I can''t beat myself up for that."


    "No!" said Chelli, with impressive loyalty for a guy I had met five minutes ago.


    "It''s horrible how my brain works, sometimes, Chelli. I''ve helped those brothers and I''ll keep helping them but I was relieved to get him off the squad list. Does that make me a dick? I don''t want to be a dick. I think I might be a dick. But, hey! Dan Badford gets that slot and a wage."


    "Dan Badford?" said Chelli, scrolling up and down the website.


    "He''s not there," I said. "No-one knows about him. But this kid, mwah!" I did a chef''s kiss. "He''s beautiful."


    Chelli smiled. "Has he an agent?"


    "His agent is the God of Football, mate. This kid acts like some sort of effete Brideshead Revisited rich brat who carries around a teddy bear but you kick him and he''ll fucking lock onto you like The Terminator. He''s silk, he''s steel, he''s got technique, passing, and heart. I don''t know how good he''s going to get but I''m going to get him there. He''s so aesthetic. Beauty has a value of its own, do you know what I mean? I was talking to my mate Henri about him. Who did we compare him to? Oh, yeah. Ray Wilkins. And you know what''s crazy about that?"


    "I do not."


    "Neither of us ever saw Ray Wilkins play! We only know he was graceful and unflappable and that''s Dan Badford!"


    Chelli leaned away from me and grinned his widest yet. "I like you, Max Best."


    "Yeah, I''m ace. I think I''ll have money for at least one Brazilian but we''ll have to find internal solutions where possible and don''t tell anyone but Dan''s better than Michael already." I was spitting out too many names for anyone outside Chester to follow, but that was okay. This chat was helping me process my decisions and was giving Chelli a sense of how I ran my club. "There''s one more guy who''s leaving." I tapped his screen. "Glenn Ryder."


    His eyes boggled a little. "The captain?"


    I swiped on my phone to find a picture of Glenn. As was typical of the man, there were no pics of him alone with the National League trophy. He was always trying to share the spotlight, share the glory. Teamwork till the very last. I felt a lump in my throat and pushed those feelings all the way back. You don''t get sad for Glenn. You get hyped. "Captain Fantastic. Two league wins back to back but where we''re going, he can''t follow."


    With him off the books and the biggest pay rises agreed, my weekly spend at the start of next season would be 21,570. My budget was 30,000, leaving me a microscopic 8,430 to cover pay bumps for the rest of the squad and four to six new signings. Pitiful. Glenn Ryder was looking down the lens at me, daring me to do better. 30K was enough. We had the talent. I was on track.


    I made a tiny little coughing noise. "He''s going to Gibraltar. The rock on The Rock. Mateo has done a bunch of the deals I suggested and we will have a competitive squad. There''s this team called Lincoln Red Imps and I reckon we are dead level with them in quality. I don''t like it being so tight so I want two Brazilians to really smash things up. Because Chelli, if we win that division, we go to the Champions League and we get fucking buried in cash. Buried. In cash."


    If Chelli was understanding me on about a 96% level overall, he understood that last part 100%. "Max Best. I would like you to meet some of my senior colleagues."


    "No, mate." I put my arm around him and gave him a friendly squeeze. "You''re my huckleberry."


    My phone vibrated, meaning Emma had texted. The message was simply a link. Clicking it took me to the GoFundMe page I had open in a different tab. The numbers had changed.


    ¡ê5,965 of ¡ê1,400 goal.


    Raised by 405 people in 6 days.


    I clapped my hands together. Number go up, mate! I was the King of Football in Chester! Confidence surged through me. Maybe I would find what I wanted in Brazil, maybe I wouldn''t. But I had a base. I had a foundation. The people of Chester were behind me and together we could move mountains. If I bombed in my meetings with all these bigshots and bigwigs Chester FC would still have an epic season. The jigsaw wasn''t complete. The map had pieces missing. But our path was clear.


    Up.


    Up up up.


    While I was exulting, Chelli was watching me. When he thought it was safe to speak, he said, "My firma is going to a bar after the match. I don''t know if you think it is cool but my bosses invited a lot of agents and directors. It will be a Transfer Room before the Transfer Room."


    "Sounds very cool."


    "In the morning if you like I will join you on the tour of this stadium. It is very good. You see the history, the dressing room, the media room."


    "I''d love that. I really know nothing about this club but it''s obviously massive." The referee blew and the action paused. "Let''s go for a half time walk, yeah? I need to stretch my legs. Teach me about Sao Paulo."


    "We call it Sampa."


    "Lesson one. Sampa. Great." I checked the time and realised it had been almost exactly ten minutes since I''d started talking to Chelli. My first speed date had gone to perfection. "Time to go to second base, meu amigo. I''ll buy you a vegan hotdog. Lead the way!"

 11.2 - Speed Dating (Part Two)

    2.


    Football glossary: top bins. The upper left or right corner of a goal. "He put it top bins; the keeper had no chance."


    ***


    To: Emma


    Heyyyy,


    Guess what? Your boy Max acquired through much diligence and careful negotiation* a plastic wrapper containing TEN postcards featuring scenic Sao Paulo. Yes! You think I''m not thinking about you but I AM. So there! I bet you''ll get these all out of order. This is number 1 in case that wasn''t clear.


    Max x


    Footnote: I paid full price and they were kinda pissed that I tried to haggle. Oops! My first negotiation in Brazil and yeah, not my best work.


    ***


    After the derby ended (nil-nil, honours even) I went back to my hotel for my twentieth shower of the day. I chilled for a while before taking a taxi to the Sheraton, where a lot of the out-of-town football VIPs were staying. There, in a crazily nondescript building next to one that looked like a vegan hot dog, I did a lot of networking at Chelli''s agency''s party.


    I say networking, but it was more like getting lightly sozzled in the corner where the cool younger people hung out while the serious older guys tried to look important. I didn''t drink much - only two beers and a cocktail - because I wanted to be fresh for the Transfer Room the next day.


    At the party were directors of football or heads of recruitment from FC Dallas, LA Galaxy, Vancouver Whitecaps, Deportivo Cali from Colombia, Gr¨ºmio, the only Brazilian team at the party, and a few others I didn''t get the chance to meet. I did some quick speed dating but quickly realised the futility of my approach.


    Since I needed to see players in the flesh and wasn''t much interested in all the data and heat maps and passing charts these guys relied on, I couldn''t get too far into even the broadest negotiation. The clubs with whom I would be able to get specific were the ones based in Sao Paulo, since I would be able to scout their players in the next few days and potentially try to get some kind of deal done. To be honest I felt slightly at sea. In all my previous deals I had found a player I liked first and then gone to find a decision-maker. Doing it the other way round was hard because it bordered on pointless. Did FC Dallas have players I would want? Certainly. Did they have them at a price I would be able to afford? Dubious. Would those players want to leave Texas to join the worst team in the English football league? Erm, don''t answer that.


    There was something else bugging me, though I didn''t want to admit it. While my talents were off the scale compared to anyone in the room, I was representing Chester FC. Dallas had revenues more than five times ours. Deportivo Cali had a stadium ten times the size of the Deva. Gr¨ºmio had won the Copa Libertadores three times. There were teams I''d never heard of in South America with literally millions of fans. I was tiny. I was an ant.


    So I pivoted and instead of focusing on deals I tried to simply be charming. I wanted to get myself on the radars of these guys so that if I was ever in their cities I would be able to get into their training grounds or at least be invited in the executive suite. I laid it on thickest with the Americans because I planned to go to the World Cup in 2026.


    There were loads of agents, too, but since we weren''t at a football match or a training session, the curse wasn''t giving me any data. I was naked and groping in the dark - a bad combination.


    If the person I was talking to claimed to represent player X, how could I know that was true? Some of the dudes gave me very sketchy vibes and I realised that was the genius of the Transfer Room. Sure, there would be plenty of sharks in the lobby, but everyone in the Room itself represented a football club. They were real decision-makers; I would be meeting people just like me. It filtered out the amateurs, the tyre kickers, the villains.


    On a perhaps related note, I met Chelli''s bosses. There was an older guy with silver hair who had sunglasses instead of eyes. I mean, I supposed he would have taken them off to meet the King but other than that - nah. He rocked those 24/7. I got the sense he was the money man and he liked the prestige and the cachet that came with having meetings with club presidents and meeting famous players and whatnot, but the actual management work was done by a much younger dude called Afonso. He had heard from Chelli about me and clarified that I wanted to tour Sampa to see the agency''s clients at training and I wanted to sign between two and six players. I said yes and we made some dates for the rest of the week. I would be able to see most of the guys by Sunday - amazing. Very organised, very professional, good start.


    ***


    To: Ems


    Okay so I just realised this ten-pack isn''t, as expected, ten different postcards but ten identical postcards. I cannot fathom the mind of the person who thought that was a valid product. I mean, ugh! Why would anyone - ? I have decided not to think about it.


    Last night I went for drinks with loads of agents and a few directors of football. I kinda don''t know what I''m doing and I don''t like that feeling. I felt like people were watching me going ''wait that''s a non-league club'' and I was sort of inflating myself like that puffy fish to sort of justify my being there. That''s dumb. I hate it. I''m awesome and if they want to burn bridges while I''m small, good, let them. It''s a test of character like how players respond to the Duchess. Right?


    But even though I sort of worked that out pretty early, I couldn''t help but get all puffy. I''m Max fucking Beeeessssst and we are Chesterrrrr. Know what I mean? I''m really not impressed with myself so far. I am going to approach today with a deep sense of gratitude and humility.


    Max xx


    ***


    Wednesday, April 30


    Chelli came to my hotel to get me, which was incredibly kind of him. I had very little grasp of Sampa''s geography but I was pretty sure he had done half an hour through traffic to pick me up only to do 45 minutes going the other way.


    We talked about him for a change. I got the sense he wasn''t entirely happy in his job even though he loved the work itself. He had the skills - he had done most of the legwork on the twenty-million Euro international transfer, though Afonso had swooped in at the end to sign the forms and to claim the credit.


    Chelli, I realised, was in the imp role and Afonso was his Old Nick. Nick, by the way, had vanished. Now that I was elbow-to-elbow with the city''s great and good Nick didn''t need to watch over me. I was obviously happy he was gone, but I also felt a sense of loss. I mean, having a supernatural bodyguard was pretty sweet and I think his absence was contributing to the doubts I was feeling, to the insecurity.


    We parked at the Morumbi stadium and walked along miles of concrete until we reached a statue of a dude holding two golden trophies. The plinth said Tel¨º Santana but Chelli didn''t think to explain who he was. Maybe if I''d been showing him around Goodison Park I wouldn''t have pointed out the Dixie Dean statue. Everyone knows him, right? I mean, duh.


    The entrance we went through said ''Morumbi Concept Hall''. Chelli told me that the stadium tour would take us through one huge expanse of the concourse and that we would never be far from the back row of seats.


    We waited for a while with Chelli tapping away on WhatsApp. Apparently, word of our little excursion had got around and a few of the guys at the party had invited themselves. All good fun, and because a bunch of football VIPs were in attendance, someone from the club had sent down a hospitality manager. After a quarter of an hour of idle chit chat and jokes about who got the most wasted at the party, our guide gibbered into his headset and we set off. We were getting the same tour the club ran for normos. Almost immediately, I started to think what a future tour of the Deva would look like.


    We walked past glass-fronted offices (seemed like a hundred tourists gawking at you would be bad for productivity), a long mural of famous players and coaches (famous to Chelli anyway), a big club store with views of the pitch (that would boost sales!), another mural, views of the middle tier (with quite a low ceiling - all concrete of course, must have been deafening in there on match days), a simple but effective VIP section (we''re behind glass; we''re better than you), and a Walk of Fame with the faces of former players appearing inside stars (I thought Bayern Munich was Hollywood FC).


    Chelli stopped his constant stream of excited explanation to kneel and rub a face with the label ''Rogerio Ceni''. Chelli spent the next five minutes describing the player as a goalie who took wicked free kicks. I joked that I would pay extra for one of those and he sighed and said there were none. I wondered about that. I wanted goals from all over the pitch, right? Why not go all-in on the concept and create a goalscoring keeper? If I found a goalie with PA 200 I could give him intensive free kick training and use my God Save the King perk to give him plus one Set Pieces per year. By the end of his career he would be an absolute menace.


    The epic tour continued with museum-style exhibits, more murals, photos of all the presidents in the club''s history (Presidents? Who gives a shit?), replica trophies - none of it was very surprising but the sheer quantity of stuff had a quality of its own. This club was historic. It was massive. They had done things, won things, famous players had worn the shirt.


    The newly-rebuilt Deva Stadium could have this. Not to the same scale, of course, but conveying the same sense of history. This was a club that competed, that fought, that won sometimes and lost sometimes but was always the heart of the community.


    Instead of the presidents, I''d have a section devoted to the fans. Photos of them celebrating goals and witnessing defeats. Capturing the drama and the sense of theatre that came with watching your team play a mid-table side on a Tuesday night. Photos of the staff, too. The groundsman mowing a pitch early on a Friday morning, not another human within a mile. A steward joking with a fan. Secretary Joe putting some paper in a printer, Inga on the phone, Physio Dean disinfecting a massage table before the arrival of the walking wounded.


    Yes! That''s what I wanted. Showcase the people who mattered.


    The tour was good. I was getting into it - and it only got better.


    We went to what in the Morumbi was a bog-standard exit from the concourse that led out into the seats but in any other stadium would have been Instagrammed to death. It was like a viewing area overlooking a beauty spot, but this beauty spot was a simple roofless bowl-shaped stadium, more like a Roman amphitheatre than a four-sided English ground. The scale was really something, and while I didn''t like all the details - cooling fans at the side of the pitch? If you need those it''s too hot to play, mate - some of the ideas went straight into the ''yes, bagsy'' file in my head.


    For example, instead of the entrances to the stands being called A1, B2, and so on like you got in England, here they were named after famous players. We stood at the mouth of the Zetti entrance. Across was a M¨¹ller and a T Cerezo. What would it be like at Chester? Hey, did you get a season ticket? Yeah! Third time lucky. Where are you sat? Oh I''m in the Smasho section. It''s next to the Junior Agogo.


    "Chelli. Do you think I''m too young to have a stadium named after me?"


    "Ah... no?"


    "You think I should wait till I''m 30, don''t you?"


    "Perhaps start with a mural?"


    I grabbed him by the shoulders and went into match commentary mode. "Max Best shoots! Max Best scores! Chester have won the Premier League! The Max Best stadium erupts! The Max Best Dancers frolic behind the goal!"


    "Is too much."


    "Yeah," I said, releasing him. "Maybe you''re right."


    Next was the media room, where you could stand in front of a two-metre high wavy electronic wall of sponsors and pretend to be doing a press conference. In my day job I resented being forced to talk to the media after matches but for some reason this was great fun. We had to have one of these at Chester so that the fans could unleash their inner football manager. They could play it straight or they could do comedy bits. They could look serious while a news chyron flashed at the bottom of the image with some funny text. We would get tons of free engagement and sponsor mentions if we made it easy for people.


    "Chelli, ask me a question." I got into football manager pose, which came pretty easily, to be fair.


    Chelli held his phone out like a reporter. "Max, what do you think is the best football club in South America?"


    "Sorry, who do you work for?"


    He paused while he tried to think of a media agency we both knew. "Daily Mail."


    "No comment," I said, pushing his phone away.


    He laughed, though he wasn''t sure why, and tried again. "BBC."


    "You cancelled Holby City. Emma loved that show. No comment."


    Chelli gave me a sad look. "You should be good to the media. You need them."


    "All right. Show me how it''s done." We swapped places. "Chelli, you lost to local rivals Corinthians again. When will you resign?"


    He gave me his best steely look. "We train very hard. We analyse the mistakes. We go again. The city is behind us. We are Sao Paulo and we never give up. We fight to the end. I thank the fans for their support and we reward them in the next round. I cannot resign because I love the club too much. It is in my heart, in my blood. My blood is red, white, and black. I resign never, never until my dying day. Thank you so much. Next question, please."


    I put my phone away so I could applaud. "Very good. Nine out of ten."


    "Only nine why?"


    "You didn''t mention Glendale Logistics. That''s a joke," I added. "Yeah, that''s the best way. It doesn''t come easy to me, though. The reporters never ask anything interesting and the narratives they want to promote make us all stupider, one click at a time. Max, Ryan Reynolds said blaah, what''s your response?" Something occurred to me and I started to prowl around the space looking for something.


    "What are you thinking?" said Chelli.


    I halted and rested my hand on one of the high tables at the back of the room. "It''s a good tour, isn''t it? But there''s no mention of other clubs. It''s like, we are Sao Paulo and this is what we did. But football is a sport about rivalries and grudges and comparison. I have no clue if you''re the number one team in Brazil or number twenty."


    "Number one."


    I laughed. "Yeah but if you were number one you''d have a big chart showing that. Do you know what I mean? Man United won the most leagues in England. Arsenal the most FA Cups. That''s your benchmark. Maybe you''re smaller, like Notts Forest but you won the European Cup twice. Aston Villa won the league seven times, the FA Cup seven times, and the European Cup. That''s pretty huge but you think of them as sort of bottom half of the Premier League, top of the Championship. Numbers need context. There''s no context here." I tapped my lips for a while. "Chester aren''t going to be number one by any normal metric. I''m thinking one of our displays could start with the National League North table from my first season."


    I stooped to a spare piece of wall and sketched the edges of a rectangle.


    "We''ll put it about here. Six league tables on top of each other, the Prem is near the ceiling. Maybe we''ll blur everything out because it''s not important who came tenth in League One - I want people to focus on the name Chester. So in the first column we''re right down there. Slide across one column and we''ve won the National League North." I moved my hands up and sketched the rectangle a couple of feet higher. "Slide across and now tier five''s in focus and guess what? We''ve won that one, too. League Two''s next. Win that? Playoffs maybe? Whatever. We keep going up up up and we show that all the way across the wall. That''s our thing. A Liverpool fan might be dragged on the tour by his wife or his kid and he''ll get to this point and think ''wait, what?'' Because what we''re doing is unbelievable. We need to show it."


    Chelli was nodding along as though he had been listening but in fact he had only been waiting to show me a league table of his own. "We are top of the all-time Serie A standings. Look. Every match since 1959. Sao Paulo first. Palmeiras fourth. That''s a true fact."


    I looked. "You''ve played a hundred more games, though. Sort the table by points per game."


    He put his phone away. "Data not available," he said, shiftily. He knew what the numbers would show and he didn''t want to admit it. He walked off and pretended to be looking at one of the wall displays.


    Football fans are very logical and numerate, when it suits them. All I could do was smile - Chelli had been the same during the match. Every foul by his team was simulation from their opponents. Every foul the other way round was a clear red. I think he was mildly annoyed I refused to see that Sao Paulo were by far the greatest team the world has ever seen, but he wasn''t going to hold that against me. Probably.


    The next part of the tour was maybe the best part of any walk in the history of human culture. It was a tiny football pitch! Well, not quite. There was a goal and some green carpet in front of the goal, but the idea was clear - you could score inside the stadium!


    "Oh, wow," I said, walking up to the goalposts. They had added a stanchion like on old-fashioned football goals, but instead of putting it behind the post to hold up the nets, they had put it on the same plane as the goal line. Why? To make a target! Scoring a goal was too easy. To really impress your date, you needed to score top bins! Slot it home in a square gap barely bigger than the ball.


    "Bagsy first," I said, knocking the ball out of the tour guide''s hands.


    The other directors of football jeered. "Here comes the Englishman to teach us how to play!" "Lock up your goalkeepers!" "Get ready for the biggest choke since Greg Norman!"


    I treated them to some tekkers - felt good to kick a ball again - then went through an elaborate free kick routine. "Lads," I proclaimed. "If I make this shot, football''s coming home."


    I concentrated, bent my knees, and mis-kicked the ball sideways against a wall.


    The laughs were very loud, very intense, and very pleasing.


    I stepped forward to get on the end of my 1-2 and casually side-footed the returning ball through the little square, proclaiming that the score was "ONE-nil!"


    The laughter followed by the quick realisation that I''d increased the degree of difficulty and scored anyway lifted the energy to Copa America levels - me and colleagues slash rivals jumped around doing a ring-a-ring-of-roses.


    "Fuck that was satisfying," I told Chelli, as I watched the others try and fail to hit top bins. "I''ve got to put some of these in the Deva. As much of the tour as poss should involve kicking a ball or doing something a player or manager does. Something that feels real. Like you could stand next to a waxwork assistant referee who''s holding up your number like you''re about to go on the pitch. Fans never get anywhere near the pitch except for invasions. Yeah, we need to go hard on that sort of angle. Maybe there''s a wax Max holding his hands up offering a high ten and there''s a space where your dad stands and holds his camera to take a photo at the right angle. Don''t make it hard for people to get the right shot. No, better, we do it ourselves and offer the print nice and cheap. Imagine you''re seven and you have a poster up on your wall of you about to replace Max Best. The backdrop''s exactly how it looks in real life. The whole thing is just like your dreams. Instant Chester fan for life, isn''t it?" Chelli, I realised, was grinning at me, almost as goofy as Youngster. "What?"


    "You can really play!"


    I let out a soft tut and he shoulder-bumped me. "Come on."


    "I want to see you play for real."


    "It''s not that impressive. There are at least six players better. What''s next?"


    Next was the dressing room, which would have been a massive highlight a couple of years ago but I''d been in lots of professional dressing rooms and would soon have been in all ninety-two clubs in the football league - plus tons of non-league ones.


    One interesting design point was that this one had posters of the players on their parts of the bench. My players would prefer mirrors, the narcissistic bastards, but posters made the tour better. Obviously if we copied this idea, my part of the bench would need to be extra wide to accommodate all the fans who wanted to take selfies there. I couldn''t wait to suggest that while Henri was listening.


    It seemed the tour was over and I was more than okay with that - it really didn''t need to be as long as it was, although that was probably as much to do with the size and layout of the stadium than anything. The Deva tour would inevitably be smaller. Smaller and more juicy.


    We were in a large space, not really a room, just like a waiting area in an airport. It felt a bit more confined than most of the other spaces. It felt a bit darker. Everything in my body said that we would push open a pair of double doors and emerge into the streets of Sao Paulo. Thanks for coming, see you on Saturday, come on you Seals or whatever animal they had here.


    Chelli had his phone out and was showing me pics of his girlfriend. Why now? I liked him so I made an effort to suffer through the slideshow. "At work," he said. "In the park. With her friends. On her scooter."


    A prickling sensation crept up my neck. Was I reacting to the scooter?


    Music played from behind and Chelli whipped his phone away.


    I looked at him - he was beaming - and the prickling on the back of my neck increased in intensity by a factor of six thousand. Surely we weren''t going to... My throat dried up but I forced down a swallow - it hurt.


    We gathered at the bottom of some stairs - the stairs Chelli had been hiding from me with his distraction - and the tour guide yelled in Portuguese. Chelli yelled something back and we went up.


    My knees were weak. The music was upbeat. Some sort of olden days marching song, maybe. Halfway up I saw a huge expanse of blue sky, some wispy clouds. I''ll claim it was the transition from darkness to light that brought a film of tears to my eyes.


    I was at the top of the stairs, at the edge of the pitch. This was the tunnel through which the Sao Paulo players entered the arena and this was the club''s song. I was at the centre, the heart of it all, the beating heart of the city. The green of the grass, the white of the goalposts, the terracotta seats - it was unreal and overwhelming. It was entirely possible my football career would bring me to this stadium as a player or as a manager or just as a gobby Manc twat doing commentary, but this was the closest a fan would ever get to the pitch and that''s how I experienced it. For five seconds I was transported into the body of a lifelong Tricolour fan and this was the highest dream of my fandom.


    "Fuck me," I croaked.


    Chelli put his hand on my back and I grabbed him and squeezed him into me without tearing my eyes away from the amphitheatre. I wanted to play here. I wanted it of all things. The Tricolour were number one. Number one by any metric!


    "Will you do this on your Chester stadium tour?"


    The word Chester was like anti-magic; it broke the enchantment. I exhaled and shook my head. "Abso-fucking-lutely. That was awesome. But, er..." I smiled. "I think we might need a roof."


    ***


    To: Emmajesty


    So it''s lunch after the tour and before the big event. The tour was really impressive and moving. I really like Chelli even though he is completely blinkered about his football club. I mean, I look at all the big clubs here and there''s something different to like about each of them but he''s like no, the others are shit. He''s completely professional around other people, don''t get me wrong, but he''s a true football fan. A few times at the party an agent said something about a rival club and I said yeah but I like them because X Y Z and the agent pivoted and was like oh yeah I agree fully as though he hadn''t said the opposite ten seconds before. I prefer Chelli''s approach. He''s more honest.


    In a minute it''s the Transfer Room. I think they will let me in. If they don''t it will be extremely cringe. FOR THEM.


    Max xxx


    ***


    The Transfer Room


    After lunch, we went back to the Sheraton - I would have fucking stayed there if I''d known what was coming - and it was time to see if Nick had done his thang.


    The hall was decked in Transfer Room branding and a huge space had been given over to tables. I''d been on the Transfer Room website and in Europe the meetings were one-to-one but here the tables were two-by-two. I guessed it was so that guys with shit English could bring a translator. A radical way of thinking was that guys with shit Portuguese could bring one, but being English the thought never occurred to me.


    "Hi," I said to the woman manning the information point. "I''m Max Best, superstar football star. I''m on holiday in Sampa and would like to fill in the slot left by the club who couldn''t make it. I know. You''re welcome."


    She looked baffled, to say the least, and was about to either politely let me down or call security - I couldn''t tell. Nick being a theatrical prick had timed things so that another organiser guy hurried to this woman looking flustered. They spoke Portuguese but I am 101% sure this is an accurate translation:


    Man: Mamma mia! Inter just cancelled! Their director of football caught bubonic plague from room service!


    Woman: Wait what.


    Man: It''s a scheduling disaster! We had a perfect number of delegates and the schedule is all fixed. This ruins everything.


    Woman: Oh but hang on. This guy claims to be Max Best, the greatest living Englishman.


    Man: Oh, thank fuck.


    While that was going on, I tried to look helpful but it''s possible I got quite smug about the whole thing. The man finally turned to me and said, "Sorry, who are you?"


    "Max Best. Back-to-back champions Chester FC. League Two. Star of the award-winning documentary Chesterness. I''m the world''s only twenty-goal-a-season director of football. I mean, technically I only scored 13 for Chester the season before this one but I spent January playing for Tranmere - Player of the Month, by the way - and the last month of the season I was doing my Fireman Sam impression. Yeah, I was sacked by Grimsby Town, which increasingly feels like a sentence you type into a chatbot to try to break it."


    He tapped away on a tablet. "You''re not registered with us."


    "No, but I will be by the end of the summer. This is amazing. I only just found out about it. How much is it?"


    "Ten thousand dollars."


    I think I kept a straight face but I''ve seen a lot of movies where someone poor is told how much rich people spend on art or whatever and there''s a chance I turned to the camera and broke the fourth wall. "Per event?"


    "Per year."


    "Oh," I said, relaxing quite a lot. There were four events a year, plus useful tools on the website. I mean, if you could do a deal club-to-club without an agent getting involved you could save millions. Doing one deal easier and quicker than normal would save huge amounts of money, plus you''d save on travel by being in a room with a hundred clubs instead of doing a hundred trips. And there were bound to be deals you never would have thought possible. Ten thousand a year was cheap. Seriously cheap. The organisers of this thing were absolute geniuses and they were bound to jack up the price in a few years, once they had got a solid monopoly going on. I couldn''t really blame them. "That''s actually reasonable. Yeah, I want in. This is my tempo, if you know what I mean. Should I do it as Chester or as a private person? Because I basically own three other clubs."


    The dude did a breaking-the-fourth-wall face. "Pardon me?"


    "Let''s say I''m doing the multi-club model. I''m here and I''ll step into Inter''s slot and everyone will be very happy to meet me. I don''t have ten grand cash on me but why don''t you let me do the first speed date and in the meantime you can look me up. You could try ''world''s youngest director of football''. Then, ah, ''non-league transfer whizzkid banks first million in sales'' followed by ''Chester manager buys club in Wales'' followed by ''Dieter Bauer visits non-league English team'' followed by ''Slovakian national team confirm pre-season friendly date with lowly Chester FC''. Really not happy with the word lowly in that one. Then do ''outsiders stun favourites on wild final day''. Then you can do ''Megan Fox tattoos'' just for a palette cleanser. I only have one request - I heard some conversations that sounded like the guys worked for big six clubs in England. Don''t put me with those guys; it''ll be a total waste of time."


    "The meetings are pretty much randomised. It''s better that way."


    I clicked my tongue. "I suppose you know better than me. Okay, good chat. What number table do I start at?"


    ***


    Corinthians (Sao Paulo)


    A bell chimed and I followed my little card to table 6 and hovered around it, wondering which of the gorgeous people I would be spending the next ten minutes of my life flirting with. Another chime. I eased into my chair and a third chime signalled that the countdown had started. Ten minutes.


    The guy''s triangular nameplate told me he was called Nono and he was the sporting director at Corinthians, one of the big clubs based in Sao Paulo.


    He was either brown or incredibly tanned and his white hair was a striking contrast. He was tall and wiry and reminded me of an earthy fisherman, a guy who had been beaten to the brink of death by the sun but had triumphed and was now indestructible. But he was also sophisticated and his watch cost more than every penny I had ever made.


    He was by far the person in the room I most wanted to meet.


    He leaned forward and read from my hastily scratched nameplate.


    "So, Mack Best. The clock is ticking. Seduce me."


    "Let''s talk about me. Then let''s talk about you. Then let''s talk about us."


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "I am putty in your hands."


    I laughed. It wasn''t going to be that easy. I found my pulse was suddenly racing, my thoughts clear, my injuries fully healed. "I fucking love Brasil," I said. I slapped the table, all doubts and insecurities temporarily gone. "I''m Max Best. I run Chester FC and we slap all the way home." I grabbed a piece of paper and pencil and sketched six lines. It sort of looked like I was writing music. "England. Premier League at the top." Below the lowest line, on the left of the page, I drew a star. "Chester at the bottom. This was the story two years ago. I took over and saved the club from relegation. Next season, league winners. We go up. Next season, league winners." I put the pencil down to show him a photo of the open top bus parade. "Fourth tier now. TV money. We win again. We win again." I drew stars at the top of every line, rising up like a crescendo. "We''ll probably need a consolidation season in the Championship, but that''s fine. We get to the Premier League. Ooh, it''s hard." I drew a star near the bottom. "But we survive. Next season, mid-table. Then?" I drew loads of exclamation points that increased in size. "Absolute fucking carnage. Mayhem. Hello! Chester are here."


    Nono smiled, but I didn''t get the impression he was laughing at me. "Ambitious."


    I shrugged. "That''s easy. You know what''s hard?"


    "What is hard?"


    I showed him the bus parade again. "That was hard. Everything else?" I made a scoffing noise. "Easy. So that''s me."


    "That is not you."


    I smiled as I turned to the countdown timer. "That''s the one-minute version. You? You''re Corinthians. You''re the club I most wanted to meet here."


    "Yes?"


    "Yes. Don''t tell my new friends at Tricolour," I added, looking around in conspiratorial fashion.


    "We are not having a good season."


    I waved that away. "Outcomes. Psh. I care about processes. I love your process."


    "What is our process, do you think?"


    "First, you''ve got a kick-ass name. I mean, seriously. Then you''re based on a club from England - I know it''s ethnocentric of me but I love that. Like when Notts County gave some kits to Juventus so that''s why they play in black and white and when Notts open a new ground, Juventus are the first team to play there. I go weak at the knees for that shit and I don''t care who knows it. Then you''re fan-owned, or the Brazilian version of that, and when the board go too far the fans go fucking bonkers. And best of all, you take the women''s team seriously. Most big clubs in England started a women''s team because everyone else was doing it or because the sponsors were like dude where''s the women? Most clubs don''t actually give a shit but you do. You''ve got 6 starters in the Brazil team. To me that means you''re in this for the glory, same as me."


    "What sort of glory do you seek?"


    I shook my head. "We''re about to have the hardest season in twenty years but I''m going to put young players in the first team squad so I can win the Youth Cup. There is no prize money and no-one gives a shit except me. But glory is the point of football. It''s the point of sport. You''ve got to play fair and do all that Corinthian spirit stuff, but you''ve got to try to win otherwise there''s no point. I don''t want to finish fourth and get in the Champions League. I want to win. All or nothing. So we''re going hard at the Youth Cup this year and I get the feeling you''re one of the only people in football who would understand what the fuck I''m talking about."


    Nono glanced at the timer. With an apologetic sort of smile he said, "Would you like to buy one of our women''s team?"


    "Oh, almost certainly. I could afford one too, probably, but there''s no chance to get the work permit. Not for a few years." I tapped my drawing. "They are on the up, too, same as this. No, I''m looking for men this time."


    "Ah," he said, pleased. "What do you need?"


    I sketched a football pitch and drew exclamations as I described my needs. "Amazing goalkeeper or scintillating prospect. Physical centre back, though I hardly want to go to Brazil to get one of those. Right back - that''s more like it. A Cafu regen, please. Goalscoring central midfielder. Goalscoring wide forwards. Striker, ideally a goalscoring one."


    Nono laughed. "What don''t you need?"


    "Left back. Got three of those."


    He laughed again. "What is your budget?"


    "One million English pounds."


    I thought he might laugh harder than ever, but he didn''t. He opened a soft folder thing and extracted a printout. He licked his lips, eased it back whence it had come, and flipped to the next divider. From there, he pulled out another page and pushed it between us. I leaned to peer at it. He said, "Our under twenty-three team." He produced a pencil and pointed out a few names. A good goalkeeper who didn''t have much pathway. A right back who was reliable but not quite as dynamic as Cafu. A striker who perhaps wouldn''t make the first team but could thrive in the English League Two.


    I read the names hungrily. Yes yes yes so good yessss. "I need to see them play or train."


    "That can be arranged."


    I held the paper a while longer, heart pounding. And then - it was over! I don''t mean the time ran out. I mean, what more was there to say? I had to scout these guys as a next step. "I''ve got some trips arranged the next few mornings. Can I get your phone number so I can text you about seeing this lot?" He handed over a business card. "Thanks. I, er, don''t have anything. I kind of came straight from the last game of the season and I''ve only got a carry-on case. I didn''t know this event was happening."


    "That is apparent from your hoodie."


    I smiled and looked around. Most people were dressed in a smart-casual way, with many in smart jackets, smart shirts, no tie. I was by far the trampiest-looking. "Yeah okay but I don''t need to impress these guys. They need to impress me."


    "How do you come to that conclusion, Max?"


    "Because I''m the guy everyone wants to be," I said, as I scanned the names, ages, positions, and key data points of the under 23s again. "Erm, great. Amazing. This is like a dream, Nono. Can I see your women, too?"


    "I thought you couldn''t sign one?"


    "So? There''s more to life than transfers."


    Nono laughed again. "Please tell that to our fans."


    "Are they crazy here, too? In England there are fans who are more fans of transfers than the actual matches. It''s like, yeah we finished fourteenth but we won the transfer window."


    "If you repeat that complaint to the other people you meet today, you will find you have a very positive reception."


    "Oh," I said, getting a cheeky grin. "Is that a good ice-breaker?"


    "It might be more welcome than ''behold the great Max Best''."


    I laughed. "I am great, to be fair." The timer ticked down from five minutes. Loads of time left. "Nono, I''m great but inexperienced. Can I ask your opinion on something?"


    He seemed pleased by the idea. "By all means."


    I nodded and ran to the organisers to ask if they had any coloured pens. They did. I ran back and started sketching rapidly. When I was near the end, I explained what it was.


    "Okay, I do have a million pounds but I need to spend most of it on infrastructure. There''s no point buying a million-pound player and having shit facilities. I have great coaches and I need to up our training ground, big time. So this is my concept." Nono was frowning. No money? "I still have funds, in theory, but it would be from next year''s budget. I have ideas for how that could work in a way my boss would sign off on. If I like one of your players and you are veeeery slightly flexible, we can do business. Maybe in January when your season is over." Nono nodded, mollified. I continued. "Okay from the top right. This is the staff parking area. Normos park outside the fence; there''s a decent-sized space there. So you come in and this first building is the reception area."


    "Max, to interrupt, what is your question going to be?"


    "Oh. Er, is this a good layout?"


    "Ah. I see. You haven''t yet constructed."


    "No, it''s all empty."


    "Understood."


    "So you come in and this first little rectangle is a reception area with a meeting room next to it. This red building is a canteen slash events room slash bar. If you keep walking down by the fence on the right, you get to this first pitch. It''s 3G so we''ll use it but so will a lot of outsiders. That''s why when they go home, they have to pass the bar. A quick pint or a coke after their weekly game and we turn a 70 pound pitch hire into a 140 pound bonanza."


    "I like it so far. What are these strange markings?"


    "Ah. That 3G thing will be our show pitch so I want to buy two tiny stands to go either side. It can be a dugout for the coaches or your friends and family can come to watch you. Each one has 27 seats and costs ten thousand pounds. It''s both the most frivolous part of the whole plan but also the part I''m most dug in on. I won''t change that."


    "You don''t strike me as the stubborn sort."


    "Are you rinsing me? Your poker face is next level. All these rectangles down here are spaces for future pitches. I will do two more in the first phase. They''re natural grass and they''re fucking expensive! I mean, the big one is a hundred thousand pounds! By the way, it''s not that hard to grow grass. Where does the money go? The worms? The little one is the standard size for under 16s."


    "97 x 61."


    "Yeah, right. Exactly. I knew you''d be all over this when I smelled your hair."


    "Pardon me?"


    "The purple square in the middle of these pitches is the medical area. I thought that would be a good place to minimise how far injured players have to move. The front of that will be my office. I want to be in the middle so I can see every pitch. Sort of a panopticon. Behind it''s another meeting room, dressing rooms, toilets, showers. Oh, and the boot room and laundry machines. Over here, far away from the normos, are the club''s gyms, more toilets, and a chill room."


    "Max, the layout seems good to me. It seems sensible."


    "Does it?"


    "Yes. What is it you''re worried about? It is not the layout. Talk to me."


    I rubbed my temples and saw the timer was under two minutes. Stupid speed dating. I didn''t have time to dissemble or bullshit. I got my phone out and looked for some photos I''d saved. "Okay the problem is all this stuff will cost weeeell over half a million and it''s all dogshit."


    "Dogshit?"


    "I mean, not the pitches. The 3G will be top quality. The grass ones will be as good as they can be without mega drainage and stitching. We will do that eventually but in the meantime we''ll have something flat and well-maintained. The pitches will be good and players will develop. No problem there. But to put up a basic clubhouse thing with four changing rooms is half a million. That would wipe me out so I''ve been looking at portacabins." I looked at him.


    "I know what they are," he said.


    I showed him a photo of one of the toilets. It was like something you''d get at a music festival or at a construction site. "I can put all this together this summer but it''s going to look like this. Think of the word premium and then go all the way to the other end of the spectrum and you get this. Look at these showers. It looks like a prison."


    "Will the water be hot?"


    "Yes."


    "Then who cares? These buildings are not permanent, I take it?"


    "No. I''ll replace them one by one if the layout is a success. And I''ll get some of the money back, like 80% of it or whatever. There''s always demand for this stuff. This reception unit is 25,000 pounds. Can you believe it? For this?" I showed him a photo of a rectangular space.


    "I''ve seen worse."


    "Have you?"


    He smiled. "No. I was being polite." His smile vanished. "In the 1980s we had two satellite television companies here in Brazil. One was well-financed. They bought nice offices and large pot plants and hired consultants to design their logo. The other worked from cabins like these and offered a low price and good service. Which do you think won the battle?"


    "I''m kinda hoping you''ll say the one that had a gym made from an old ship container."


    Nono slapped the table and let out a big laugh. "That''s right, Max. Your players will complain on day one and when the time comes to replace the cabins with shiny new buildings, they will complain again. They have good pitches, good coaches, and they have you, the great Max Best."


    "Would you let one of your players come and train here?"


    He fixed me with a stern look. "Of course not, it would be a scandal." He cracked a smile. "We should play poker. You can''t read me. I will tell you something about me. I liked this side of you - " he gestured towards my sketch of Bumpers. "You started by drawing the pitches. The bar was next. Money for the club! Then your players. Last was your own office. Good. You have the right priorities. Then when you described it, you started at the car park and led me through. You are able to see this project from the point of view of someone arriving for the first time. You have empathy. You will do well... if you survive long enough." The countdown ended. He got to his feet and extended his hand. I copied him. "Max, that was utterly unproductive and the most fun I''ve had in a long time."


    ***


    Club Alianza Lima (Peru)


    Bassco was in his late thirties, very slightly chubby in his face, wearing jeans and a dark blue shirt. He looked quite bored.


    "Lima?" I said, accepting a gift bag from him, which was a thing these directors of football did. Good to know for next time. "This is amazing. You''re the club I most wanted to meet."


    "Why is that?"


    "I read that you won the 1934 Peruvian league but your FA says you didn''t."


    He nodded and he looked down at the table with a bored expression. "It was a stolen league," he said. "Stolen. Shame upon shame." He paused and I thought he was going to sigh and say ''can we get this over with please?'' But instead he embarked upon a minutes-long rant about what happened in 1934. His club had won the league by a quarter of a point. Everyone else agreed that winning by a quarter of a point was ludicrous, so it was decided that there should be a one-off decider but Lima said ''yeah but that''s just for funsies we won the league mate get over it''. They lost the title decider so history says their main rivals were the winners. I cooed and made supportive noises as he told the tale. I was perfectly happy with the situation, by the way. There was no chance I would see his players anytime soon so this was a pure networking opportunity. Finally, he looked in my eyes and said, "I never met anyone outside Peru who knew this story."


    "I''m a football romantic," I said. "I love the old stories. They made us who we are."


    "What is a story from - " His eyes flickered down to my nameplate. "Chester?"


    "Bad owners," I said. "Mismanagement. When I tell the fans we''re going to win they don''t believe me. There has been too much pain."


    "Pain and football go like my mother-in-law and a box of twenty." He looked around and seemed to remember he was in the Transfer Room. "You are English. You have the big broadcasting money. Peruvian players do well in England. What are you in the market for?"


    "Hot young talent, basically. I''m here scouting Sao Paulo and in a couple of weeks I''ll do Rio. It''s a way to see thousands of players in a short time. I need to see players live, you see. And I want to learn about Relationism. I won''t have time to go to Peru."


    "Relationism is not a valid strategy; I advise you to give it up. But I have several players in the under 20 team. There will be many English teams watching. I invite you to join them."


    It took me a second to get my bearings but I did know what he was talking about. "Oh, you mean the under 20 World Cup in Chile? Peru qualified, did they?"


    "We were the hosts of the qualifying tournament. We finished fourth. A very good performance from the young men but no real surprise. They are a talented bunch."


    "I''ve got a player going to Chile."


    Bassco looked surprised. "Really? For which team?"


    "Ghana." I leaned back. "I wasn''t really planning on going but maybe I should. Emma would love it." I sat up. "Okay. Let''s say I go and fall head over heels for one of your players. How flexible are you with the payments?"


    His eyes narrowed very slightly. "That depends."


    I smiled. He was right to be suspicious in a room full of sharks. They could have renamed this Shark Tank. No-one''s using that brand, are they? "I''ve spent most of my broadcast money this season but I get another pile next summer, right? So let''s say I like a striker. We agree a fee. Half a million, let''s say. I take him on loan with an option to buy. I get the player in my team, I get to develop him the way I want. You get the money next summer."


    "The striker you want has a very ambitious agent."


    "I didn''t mean a particular guy, Bassco. But if the player is good enough to move straight on, we can put a release clause in his deal. Check this out. I loan him and pay his wages for a season. He''s a big hit. I trigger the option. You get half a million. The release clause is one point five. The agent has been negotiating hard and has a buyer lined up. Everyone gets paid at the same time. I mean, shit. That''s better for me - I can focus on my team instead of looking for a buyer."


    "You make it sound simple but there are risks at every step of the process."


    "Yeah. But we choose the right player, the right talent, the right personality, it''s not that risky, right?"


    "I would want a loan fee. Up front."


    Bassco was trying to be tough, but I was delighted. It meant he had accepted the general principle. If I could sign a player without having to pay a fee up front I would be laughing. I could spend a million on infrastructure AND get my two ESC slots filled. "That is more than fair. You know what, Bassco? I''m going to Chile. Will I see you there?"


    He looked slightly less bored than his default. Maybe he had a secret girlfriend there. "Yes."


    I peeked inside my goodie bag. It was the usual fare - branded pens, a fridge magnet, that sort of thing. "I''ll bring you a gift. Would you like a brand new Grindhog-made Chester top?" He looked even less bored. A fellow football kit fan! I said, "What size are you?"


    "Medium," he lied.


    I made myself a note to bring a large Chester kit with Bassco on the back. "What''s your shirt number?"


    He did the biggest smile of his whole summer. "Diecinueve."


    "I hope that means nineteen because that''s what I''ve written down. Bassco, it was an absolute pleasure."


    ***


    To: Emmohmygod


    Babes we''re on a break. I''m in the Troom and it''s going GREAT! I''m by far the tiniest person here. Some of these clubs are like maybe five hundred times bigger than Chester but so far everyone has been polite. I mean, I''ve been thinking I''m totally irrelevant to clubs this size but even if they sell me a player for half a mill they can go to their board (THEIR BOARD) and say yo I offloaded that loser for eight billion reais or whatever the exchange rate is. I feel like a bit of a curiosity but I have to get over myself.


    There are some English clubs here. Man City, Chelsea, Brentford, at least. I hope I don''t have to talk to them. Brentford would be okay but I don''t need to go to Brazil to talk to Brentford, right?


    Max xxxx


    ***


    Palmeiras (Sao Paulo)


    "I really wanted to meet you. I love your logo and someone once told me: when Palmeiras are strong, Brazil is strong."


    I got invited to their training ground.


    Envigado F.C. (Colombia)


    This was a team I didn''t have a ''I really wanted to meet you'' spiel prepared for because I barely knew they existed. They seemed to be quite small even in the Colombian league, but Jes¨²s, their rep, was a dude with loads of energy and passion and most of what he said resonated with me.


    Jes¨²s talked of his club''s famous youth system. Amongst many others, it had produced James Rodr¨ªguez, the most expensive Colombian player ever and the winner of the 2014 World Cup Golden Boot award.


    I learned that Colombia''s under 20s would be at the tournament in Chile and Envigado had players in that squad.


    Yeah, I had to be there.


    ***


    To: Emsybabes


    Okay wow that was very Latin! I just finished two more speed dates.


    I''ve got good news and bad news.


    The bad news is: A Colombian sporting director thinks my dream girl is Shakira. I panicked, okay? Don''t hold it against me. I couldn''t say you, could I? You''ve never had a hit single.


    The good news is: WE GOIN'' CHILE.


    Yep. Tell yer dad you ain''t going to work in June. Yee-haw!


    (Actually I might drop him an email because Christ knows how long the post takes from here to Newcastle.)


    Max xxxxx


    ***


    FC Dallas (Dallas)


    I was getting used to the format now and was doing much less justifying my existence. I got the under 20 World Cup questions out of the way - yes, the USA had qualified and yes, Dallas would have players in that squad.


    I did some schmoozing with the intention of trying to get Brooke access to their head office so she could learn about soccer marketing and such things. I didn''t know if Brooke would want to go to Dallas, but it would be good to get her the option, since she was going to LA over the summer. I planned to buttonhole the guy from Orlando when the one-on-one meetings were over. Brooke could do LA, Dallas, Orlando back to back. Two short flights, right?


    What was interesting about FC Dallas was that they were the only club at the event who were interested in my players. When I thought about it, the MLS was probably about the same level as the Championship with maybe a few League One teams thrown in, and they had the finances to easily buy players from League Two. Dallas would probably want guys with CA 130.


    "Huh. None right now but why don''t you keep an eye on Zach Green? I need him for a couple more seasons but he could play MLS and get back closer to his dad. And Pascal Bochum. He''s a German forward. Very fast, very clever. I could imagine him doing a great job for you, but you might have to convince him. I think he''s got his mind set on going back to Germany and proving people wrong."


    I spent the rest of our time describing the players, how I used them, and the ways I was planning to develop them in the next two seasons. All the time I was thinking: Am I getting buyers in place for deals two years from now? Because that would be pretty impressive, even for me.


    ***


    Manchester City (Death Star)


    Can you believe this shit?


    ***


    To: Emmazing


    I''m getting tired now. I''m doing that swan thing where they look serene but under the table their legs are flapping a mile a minute. Or is that ducks? I''m sort of taking the jargon I learned in the first meeting and using it in the second. Making myself seem like a real boy! At least the last two chats were with near-native level speakers.


    This Transfer Room concept is good. Time runs out if you talk too much shit so I was pretty open and honest with this last pair and some good opportunities came out of it. I''m no closer to finding my dream Brazilian but I think it''s not good for me to treat this trip as one thing when it seems so clearly to be a different thing. I''ve got to keep an open mind and be nimble and all that stuff. They keep giving me gift bags and I don''t have anything for them but it seems to be all right. Most of these guys scrapped their way from the bottom. If you look past the badge they are good guys. I sort of feel at home, tbh.


    Max xxxxxx


    ***


    Talleres de C¨®rdoba (Argentina)


    This guy was called Horacio. His English wasn''t as good as the others but we scraped by. Argentina had qualified for the u20 World Cup but Talleres didn''t have any players in the squad. We talked in general about what kinds of players we liked, but it was only when I said I was in Brazil to study Relationism that things got really interesting.


    He didn''t know the word so I tried the other name for it, named after its creator - Dinizismo.


    "Pah!" said Horacio, batting the word away. "Diniz is one of many. We do it better. La Nuestra. Our ball. Dribbling. You build a house, you leave the house."


    I remembered the first article about Relationism had talked about a variant that was played in Argentina but I hadn''t thought about it much. Brazil was big enough for a year of research, and I only had two months. But if I couldn''t find any Relationism being played in Brazil...


    "Horacio. Your home city, C¨®rdoba. Is it on the way from here to Chile?"


    ***


    To: Emmazarino


    I had my last one-to-one with a guy from Argentina. Um, spoiler alert - we''re going to Argentina. I know you like travel but this summer might cure you of that. I think the whole event was awesome, a big success. I want to go to the ones in Europe (next one''s in Paris) but I made the mistake of maximising my networking time by talking to the agents in the lobby. I mean, any one of them might have the next Ronaldo on their books, right?


    But it''s so draining to meet so many people in so short a time and I got the feeling these agents were looking at me like I was their next meal. I mean, stupid boy from England, just got promoted, got some cash, thinks he''s the Great I Am. I mean, I get it, and maybe my air of arrogance doesn''t do me any favours there. They don''t realise how careful I am being with Chester''s money. How could they? But it does make me resent them that they''re so patently avaricious.


    I''m running out of space. Why do I write so big?


    Max xxxxxxx


    ***


    To: Emmennohpee


    Straight onto a new card in tiny letters. Yes!


    I think I have a choice. I do what I came for, which is find two players, maybe four, and leave. In, out, bye. But that doesn''t feel right. I have this talent. Why is it only the people of Cheshire and North Wales who should benefit? Answer: because doing it my way is a ton of work and I already have enough commitments. I just can''t shake the feeling that one big summer here could have effects for ten years. Brazil is the biggest exporter of football players in the world. Why wouldn''t I get stuck in? All the way in?


    One big summer in the south. Sao Paulo, Rio, Argentina, Chile. With you here it won''t feel like work.


    I''ve just had a big ol'' chuckle looking at all these tote bags I collected. It''s such a load of tat but I love it. I''ll burn the Man City crap, obvs, but I can''t stomach chucking the rest. I''m gonna buy a suitcase and bring it all home. Reckon it''ll cost a hundred pounds at least! Ludicrous.


    I fell asleep on the bed after writing that last part. I am zonked! I was daydreaming about a Peruvian striker blasting 25 goals and shooting us to the League Two title.


    SEND HELP!


    Max xxxxxxxx


    ***


    The next morning I started my tour of Sampa in earnest, now with a few contacts to make the process easier, and, of course, with my new superfriend.


    Chelli drove me to the Corinthians training ground where I checked out the first team and pottered around the training ground. The drills were familiar, as was the equipment, the banter, the gear. Football was pretty homogenous, it seemed.


    Chelli''s agency had a player in the reserves and he was decent but not worth an ESC slot. Chelli pushed back, showing me charts and data that made the guy sound like he had been grown in a lab by football-loving aliens. "Yeah but he''s slow and can''t pass, mate."


    Many of the other players were tasty, though half were too old to have the kind of resale value I wanted. I texted Nono about a few of the younger ones and he replied with seven and eight-figure numbers, prices quoted in US dollars. Ah. I''ll come back in five years.


    Setbacks were something of a theme in the next few days. Those of Chelli''s clients who would have seriously improved our team were too expensive. The ones who had potential didn''t have enough potential for me. There was even some fool''s gold - players who looked the part but the curse rated badly. I told Chelli to tell his bosses because they were wasting their time on those guys. Chelli said yes, thanks, but it was clear he was afraid of Afonso and would never go to him with bad news.


    By Monday, we had visited all the major clubs in the city and some of the smaller ones. I had hundreds of new entries into my database, and I got an achievement for scouting five hundred players in South America. This turned out to be the last achievement I ever got. More on that later.


    While scouting I got contract info and saw who a player''s agent was. With Chelli''s help I was building a picture of the salary landscape and what it meant. The curse listed everything in pounds, and 1,400 a week was in the region of 10,000 reais - enough for a very good lifestyle in Sampa but not enough to buy a Range Rover and live in a swanky area.


    "Would you be happy with 10,000 reais a month?" I asked.


    Chelli spluttered in a way that meant, ''ah, yes, please.''


    If I started at a lower base, a CA 1 wonderkid, a wage of 2,000 pounds a week would be mind-blowing enough to get them over to England. Would they like it, though? I spent a long time talking to Chelli about if he would move abroad. He said he would like to travel, if he could, but that moving elsewhere permanently was not something he dreamed of. Why would he? He lived in the best city on earth!


    I gave him an affectionate arm dig when he said that. He had been to two cities and decided one of them was as good as it gets. People are wild.


    By Tuesday, more than halfway through my trip, I hadn''t done any serious business. I hadn''t made a single bid for a player.


    So when I went to meet Chelli at the Serie C club Portuguesa, I was not entirely surprised to find he had been joined by Afonso, his boss. My impression was that he thought perhaps I had been using his agency as a luxury taxi service and/or that Chelli wasn''t pushing his clients hard enough.


    As luck would have it, that morning I found the first player who got my pulse racing.


    His first name was Gabriel, but everything else was really interesting. He was 21, a striker with good heading and finishing, CA 73, PA 161. I mean, he was as good as Henri and had the potential to get to the Prem. If I could grab him for 200,000 pounds or so...


    I tried to keep it cool but when I opened my mouth to ask about Gabriel, no sound came out. I took a swig from a bottle of water as I tried to appear like everything in the area was beneath me.


    "Okay," said Chelli, fussing with a little tablet he always carried around with him. He tapped the screen a couple of times. "In this group we have - "


    "Milton," said Afonso. "Do not start like that." He did an internal sigh and looked at me. He decided the last week was less me wasting his time and more the incompetence of his employee. "Senhor Max, is there a player here you like?"


    "Obviously we only just got here," I said, "but there are three decent ones. The one there with the knee protector on, I''d love him if there were no work permit restrictions. Looks like a midfielder who could play at a much higher level than this. The guy there, I suppose he''s a winger, he''s got a trick or two up his sleeve. But the one that interests me most is that guy there. I think I heard someone call him Gabriel."


    "Oh, that''s excellent news," said Afonso. "He''s our client!"


    I glanced at Chelli, whose mouth had dropped open. I suppose, in a way, he was a bad employee. But I knew Afonso was lying anyway, because the curse told me who Gabriel''s agent was and it wasn''t these guys. I couldn''t tell what Afonso''s plan was. Maybe he wanted to see if I was just a tyre kicker and if I didn''t start flashing some cash he was going to tell Chelli to stop driving me around. More likely - in fact, I was virtually certain - was that if I pursued Gabriel, Afonso would insert himself into the deal, acting as the agent and either muscling out the current guy or negotiating some split of the profits. Either way, it stank. I wouldn''t be able to keep my hands clean for my entire career, but there was no need to wade into murky waters when I had a whole continent of other options.


    "Chelli," I said, smiling broadly. "Why didn''t you tell me you had a player like this? This is exactly what I''ve been describing to you!"


    Chelli looked from me to Afonso. "It''s a surprise," he said, which I thought was very clever.


    So now what? I wasn''t going to get myself embroiled with one of these agent-infested horror transfers I often read about. Confronting Afonso would achieve nothing. I could get contact details for the agency that did represent Gabriel and attempt to do the deal on the quiet without Afonso sticking his oar in. Or I could walk away and do nothing, then go back to my original plan of scouting the hell out of Sampa and following up on players I liked the way I always had.


    I decided to give Afonso a chance to do better than I feared and suggested that I would pay one hundred thousand pounds in cash for Gabriel if we could get a quick transfer arranged. Afonso''s aura sharpened. What salary conditions? I could go up to two thousand pounds a week, I said, but if he could get me a better deal that would be ideal. (I knew that was stupid, by the way. An agent would never go below a number you had suggested, but I was fairly happy for him to think of me as a shockingly green noob.)


    We drove back to the city centre. I got out and made my way back to the hotel.


    It was a dangerous place, all right. Nick had been right about that.


    ***


    To: Ehmmmmmahhhh


    I''m eating lunch near the hotel. Yes, it''s sandwiches again. They fucking love sandwiches here. Any sort of bread product with cheese inside sends your average Brazilian into fits of ecstasy.


    I''m struggling babes. I found a player but I think I''m not experienced enough to get involved with that sort of shenanigans. The thing I''m best at is finding nobodies and turning them into somebodies. Maybe I should lean into that. But I can''t just pick someone up off the street, can I?


    It''s obvious there are good players here but how do I refine them before bringing them back to England? The work permit situation makes it all so hard. Can I sign a player and keep him here for two years? No-one does that because... why? Because it''s stupid? It''s not stupid the way I would do it. Is there another reason? A legal reason? They only need a work permit to play in England. If I find a raw talent they can stay here, right? Until they''re more ready?


    I''m thinking... I don''t know what I''m thinking. It''s chaotic. My thoughts are like the traffic here - jammed and jammed and jammed.


    Soz for this.


    Max xxxxxxxxx


    ***


    To: Emma


    Oh wow! Wow oh wow oh wow! I had a long shower and went for a walk around the hotel''s corridors and rushed back here to write this. Let me see if this makes sense written down:


    <ul>


    <li>There has to be SO much untapped talent.</li>


    <li>Developing that talent remotely is going to be hard so I need local allies. I need superb relationships with sporting directors and those relationships will decay if I don''t put the time in.</li>


    <li>Networking in Brazil is too big to tackle on my own, part-time. Never mind the whole of South America. Plus I already have enough to do in England, Wales, and Gib.</li>


    <li>Ten thousand reais a month is the basis of a good lifestyle but isn''t a lot in pounds.</li>


    <li>It''s almost exactly my current share of R.E.M''s income.</li>


    <li>I like Chelli but his boss is a dick.</li>


    <li>There IS an opportunity here. Perhaps not the one I was expecting. It''s the long way round but that''s what I do!</li>


    </ul>


    Babes, it makes complete sense to me. I''m going to text Chelli and get him on his girlfriend''s scooter. Let''s see him in action with a rando high-value footballer. If he can handle it, I''m going full Max. I''m leaving it in the hands of the universe!


    Max x


    ***


    I texted Chelli asking to meet him later near where he lived. He gave me the address of a cafe I could hang out in until he got off work. I asked him to give me a scooter tour of Sampa, claiming every red-blooded Englishman dreamed of whizzing around the streets of Brazil on a moped.


    With a great deal of uncertainty, he handed me a helmet and we got on his girlfriend''s little bike. We went to the end of his street and he called, ''Where to?''


    For the first time in South America, I smashed Playdar and pointed in the direction of the yellow beam.


    ***


    Thomazella


    Age 18


    Centre Back


    CA 4, PA 178


    We were standing at the wire fence outside what looked like a school playground. A scruffy five-a-side game was going on and it was hectic. Lots of ankles being hacked at, lots of attempts at skills, not much in the way of structure or teamwork.


    Tomzilla, as I was already calling him, looked no better or worse than the others. He was about 6''3", though he was lean. It would take him a couple of years of eating well and doing weights to fill out. It would take him a couple of years to get to National League level. But by the time he was, say, 25, he would be a fifty million pound defender with good positioning, great physical attributes, and a good technical level.


    There was a strong case for scooping him up and bringing him back to Chester with me - but that wouldn''t get me the fast cash I needed to rebuild the Deva.


    No. I could sign him and register him to Chester, but he would have to stay here and develop for a couple of years under the expert guidance of his agent.


    "Chelli, let''s talk seriously."


    "Yes."


    "Your boss lied to me."


    "How do you know?"


    "For a start, you''re a bad actor."


    "Desculpe, Max. He is my boss."


    "I know. I don''t blame you. But he lied to me and I can''t trust him. You don''t like him and you don''t like your firma. Would you like to be your own boss?"


    "Of course."


    "Okay. I am a consultant for an agency in England. It is small but all the clients are very talented so it is growing fast. One of my goals for this coming season is to grow that agency. I get a cut of the profits. Guess how much my cut is right now?"


    "One million."


    "Ten thousand reais a month. Enough to start a branch in Brazil. That''s your salary plus expenses. You''ll have to fly to Rio sometimes and maybe a couple of times a year I''ll need you to go to Peru or Colombia."


    "With which clients?"


    "With that guy there, for a start. He is top fucking bins. You might need some start up capital to set up a business and all that. No problem. Remember Gabriel? I know who his real agent is. When you have quit your job that will be your first mission. You''ll talk to that agent and explain that a team in England wants to sign Gabriel but that everything must be done correctly. No third agents, no Afonso, no bullshit."


    "Chester will sign him?"


    "No, not Chester. Another team. That team¡¯s owner will give me some money. That money will be more than enough to do the paperwork and get you some business cards. You will run the Brazilian branch of R.E.M. Add a B for Brazil. Maybe we can call it Rembrandt. Or REMSA. We can discuss all the little details but you''ll be your own boss."


    Chelli squinted. "You give me your money?"


    "No, it''s an investment, isn''t it? I want to buy Brazilian players but it''s complicated. Lots of messing about, lots of Afonsos. So why not have the players in my own agency? You take care of them, make sure they''re progressing - I''ll tell you how - and when the time is right I bring them across to my clubs. Quit your job and we''ll spend the rest of my holiday scouting players.¡± I looked at the scrawny teen who was haring around the pitch. ¡°Here''s one and he''s a monster. We''ll go hard at Sampa and in a couple of weeks I''ll find loads in Rio, too. And I''m going to Chile for the World Cup. You can handle the South American lads I find, if there are good ones who don''t have agents. Maybe that''s optimistic, I don''t know. Youngster said most of the Ghanaian lads don''t have agents so anything''s possible. I''m not gonna lie; it''s not easy being your own boss. It''ll be tough for a while but five years from now you''ll be one of the only agents inside the Transfer Room and you''ll be the guy everyone wants to sit opposite."


    "But what are the details? Who is in head office? What is the structure? I can''t quit my job like that." He clicked his fingers.


    "If you are even half interested I will call my colleagues and we will do a video chat later. You can meet one of them in Rio in a few weeks. She''s our legal expert, draws up all the contracts and everything. But the first step is to go onto that pitch and talk to that guy there. Ask him if he had a trial somewhere. I think he played for a serious team at one point. Why didn''t it work out? Talk to him and get his story."


    "You think he is good?" Chelli didn''t see it.


    "I think he''s the missing piece of the puzzle."


    "Which puzzle?"


    I laughed. "Every puzzle. Who doesn''t need a world-class centre back? I''m going to sign him. I don''t need a work permit if he stays in Brazil! I''ll pay him like 300 pounds a week. That''s decent money round here, right, and you''ll find a coach to give him private lessons five days a week and I''ll pay one of the big clubs to use one of their training grounds. It''s free money for them; they won''t mind. It won''t be long until one of the coaches goes shit, this boy can play. You''ll get him on loan at a Serie D club; he''ll get game time. Then Serie C. In a couple of years I''ll be able to bring him over. Bosh. His life begins. Repeat times ten."


    "Repeat? Ten?"


    "Five here, five in Rio. You''ll be in charge of whoever I find at the under 20 World Cup, too. You won''t be overloaded but you''ll be busy. It''ll be a great job. I''ll come back in three years to find the next batch."


    He was grinning nervously. I wondered if his blood was pumping as fast as mine. "Max, this is crazy."


    I pointed at Tomzilla. "Tell him I want to sign him. If you can bag him, you''re hired."


    Chelli licked his lips and got very still. Eventually, his eyes left the floor and verrrry slowly turned towards Tomzilla. With a sudden burst of decision, Chelli flung the gate open and walked right up to the teenager. The match continued like nothing had happened - these kids were used to mad shit happening.


    Chelli did a sales pitch while I drifted around the playground. It wasn''t quite the favela of my imagination, but it was not a rich area and the space was extremely basic. Two goalposts (no net), some markings (faded), and a hard concrete surface (crushed shards of glass). The ball was on its last legs.


    The more Chelli and Tomzilla talked, the more of the other players drifted away from the game until there were only two guys taking long shots at each other.


    I went over to see how my potential new business partner was getting on. "Max," he said, his head dropping a little. "It isn''t going well."


    "What''s the problem?"


    "They don''t believe you''re a football manager."


    "That right?" I said. I found that the words triggered something in me. I felt the old electricity in the air. Almost since landing in Brazil I¡¯d been trying to pretend I wasn¡¯t lost but now I¡¯d finally emerged from my wanderings to find a landmark so familiar I knew exactly where I was and what I had to do. I didn¡¯t need a map for this part. I eyed the teenagers before backing away. I jerked my head. "Come on, then."


    "What?" said Chelli. "What does that mean?"


    I pulled my hamstring up and cracked my neck left and right. There had been far too much talk on this trip. Not nearly enough action. I was in Brazil. You don''t go to Brazil to chit chat. You go to move your body. "Tell them they''re right. I''m not a manager." I extended my arms in the form of a challenge. "I''m a player-manager." Chelli''s face lit up as he realised what was about to happen. I pointed. "I''m with Tom''s team. The other mob can play with six. All right? Chelli, you''re referee. How do you say let''s fucking go in Sampanese?"

 11.3 - Gifts Through The Exit Shop

    3.


    Tuesday, May 13


    Day One - Slough


    I opened my eyes and did a tiny inside yawn. A blonde was to my right, hugging my arm. As I came more to my senses I realised she had been gently shaking it. We made eye contact and she mired me.


    "Was I drooling on you?"


    "No," she said, and she gave my arm a little squeeze and held onto me.


    I looked straight ahead and took in the sights. Football stadium, football pitch, two teams. Greens versus whites. Match underway. Quick scan for high PA guys, job done. Now to wait for a while to make it seem more believable when I got Operation Pipsqueak underway.


    "How are the horses?"


    Ruth gave me a surprised look. "All good. So you do like them. I knew it!"


    I smiled and rubbed my eye with my free hand. "For the first few nights away I was waking up at two a.m. on the dot wondering what the hell was wrong with me."


    MD was one of the Chester gang who were ready to leap into action to save some young men who had been discarded from academies. He was in the row in front, one seat to my left. He turned towards me. "That''s odd, even for you."


    "It''s from my stable," said Ruth, giving MD a much softer look than she normally awarded him. "The automatic feeders go off at two a.m."


    "It''s like a crack," I said. "These shelves snap back and the hay falls. Crack!"


    "I had no idea it was so loud," said Ruth. "I sleep right through it."


    "I do, too," I said. "Normally. Sometimes after a match I''m too hyper but..." I found my eyes closing and forced them open again. "I need a tea."


    Brooke was next to MD. She turned her head and that was enough of a signal for someone to shoot up and run off. "On it."


    The surprise helped wake me a fraction. "Was that... Kian?"


    Kian had been in our under eighteen side but had aged out. He had been doing odd jobs around the Deva - ball boy, trainee groundsman, serving drinks. "He''s my intern," said Brooke.


    "What?" I laughed. I wouldn''t have expected that in a million years.


    She turned to show a smile. "He''s got a spark. He''s smart and he''s entrepreneurial. He remembers what drinks people like. We had the BoshCard people in and someone asked for a drink we didn''t have. Next time they were due, Kian came prepared."


    "So he''s our next head of hospitality?"


    "He''s my assistant," said Brooke. "He''s good at everything, so far. He''s the you of admin, though his tan game isn''t as on point as yours.."


    "If he fucks up my tea, he''s fired," I growled.


    "Sure, Max," she said, her smile even warmer.


    "Okay what is going on?" I said. "Why is everyone in a good mood?"


    Ruth squeezed my arm again. "This is the first time we get to be with you since the league win! You ran off."


    I yawned and raised my free hand in apology.


    "How was the flight back?" said MD.


    "Good. I got upgraded to First on the way out there and it was pretty amazing. It was Business on the way back and that was fine but I had to make my own bed."


    "Scandal," said Ruth.


    "I know, right? And I didn''t get special pyjamas. It was fine. I don''t think I''d want to fly Economy on such a long flight but Business was just about okay. I watched Exit Through the Gift Shop. Have you seen it?"


    "No," said MD.


    "It''s about Banksy, the street artist. Actually, it seems to be about him but then it''s about this other guy. It''s really kinda bonkers and I never knew quite where I was. But there''s a twist that really got my mind racing and that didn''t help me sleep. Think of two artists. There''s Banksy, whose stuff I don''t always like but there are more hits than misses. A guy who, whatever you think about him, has been crafting his work for years. He has some skills, some technique. That''s me. I''m Banksy. Then there''s this guy with no skills but he decides to copy Banksy. That''s Chip Star. Sorry, Brooke."


    "You go right on ahead, sweetheart."


    "Doesn''t have a lot of original ideas but he''s good at copying and good at hype and he has success. Now, even as a philistine I was watching it going ''but his art is shit''. All the artists in the movie agreed he was a copycat with no sense of craft, but I''m pretty sure the copycat is way more successful financially. It''s not an amazing documentary but it''s one that gets under your skin. When it was over I kept thinking about it, you know? I''m still thinking about it now. Might be the time difference and the weird sleep patterns and the shock that the Brig''s suddenly driving on the wrong side of the road. Most films, you finish, you crack your knuckles, you turn the TV off. That one was so interesting. I need time to process it."


    "Why did you watch that?" said Ruth.


    "Er, I think I typed Exit Trials into YouTube and Exit Through the Gift Shop was the first choice after however many letters. And I thought, I''ve heard about this so often and Sampa was full of amazing street art. Maybe it''s time to finally watch it since I''m paying for the in-flight Wifi."


    "I''d love to talk about your flight for the next ten hours," said Sandra. She was in the seat behind mine. "But how was Brazil?"


    "Mental," I said. "Sao Paulo is so much bigger than I expected. It''s noisy and hot and crazy. I got a tan in winter. I mean, that''s not right." I shook my head at the temerity of the place. "The size, though. I went hard scouting as much of it as poss and when I saw the map of where I''d been I''d barely scratched the surface. Enormous place. Not my dream city in terms of architecture and parks and that sort of thing but every expat who lives there says the same thing - it''s all about the people. Maybe I was lucky or maybe it was because I was with Chelli but everyone I met was lovely."


    "Tell me about these new players," said Sandra.


    "Okay," I said, but my attention snapped to the pitch. Brooke later told me it was funny how the civilians did one thing and the football experts - Sandra and I - did another. We both locked onto the move as soon as it started. The greens put together a nice combination, one little dribble, through ball, shot, saved, shot, blocked, dinked finish. Applause from the many scouts, families, and agents in the stand. I made eye contact with Sandra. "See him?"


    "Yeah."


    "Which one?" said MD.


    "White 6," I said.


    "He didn''t do anything!" he complained. "The greens scored!"


    "Before that move he made a run into the box when his winger was lining up a cross. Extra man in the middle. The cross was blocked, ball broke, greens did what they did. That guy sprinted back and made a penalty-area block. Look at him - he''s not even breathing hard. He''s a natural box-to-box midfielder. I would very much like one of those. Erm, yeah so Tomzilla. I spotted him in a pick-up game and got Chelli to talk to him."


    "Chelli is, er, Ruth''s new hire?" said MD.


    "Yes," said Ruth. "He went through a very rigorous process that came after an exhaustive investigation into whether my company needed to expand into the South American market. At every stage, it was logical, rational, and very very professional."


    She was rinsing me, but still had hold of my arm. I blinked at her. "You have the Grindhog connect, multiple players on TV this season, you''re in an award-winning documentary. It''s time to grow. Er, is what you told me before I left." I couldn''t quite tell how Ruth was feeling so I moved on. "So we''re there at this football cage. It wasn''t a cage but that''s more dramatic so let''s pretend. Chelli does the sales pitch but Tomzilla, he''s like who even are you, old man? Basically takes his glove off and slaps me in the face. Oh! Challenge accepted, boyo."


    "Can we talk about Tomzilla?" said Brooke. "That can''t be his real name."


    "It is," I said. "So we play five against six. I''m on Tomzilla''s team and I think the lads were expecting me to do bits. You know, madnesses. But I played one-touch. I moved one of our guys wide left, one wide right, and every time the scrum came near me I got in there and booped the ball out. Slide pass through the forest of legs right, dainty chip left. Those guys weren''t marked so they caused mayhem until the other team decided to have three defenders back and suddenly we had something that looked more like a real game. Which I bossed utterly and completely without doing a single piece of skill."


    Brooke smiled. "Thought you woulda wanted to show off."


    I shook my head. "That''s not impressive. I''m not a TikTok skills monkey, I''m a professional. I showed them what professionalism means. Consistency. Make the simple pass every time and you rip teams open. Make the right decision every time and you wreck them. I basically did an impression of what future Tomzilla will be doing."


    Kian returned with my tea. I sipped it and made a satisfied aah noise.


    "Top bins, Kian mate. Yeah, being a professional is about eating well and doing weights and winning and that sort of thing but it''s mostly about consistency. We got Josh Owens at this event last year and he''s talented. He can give me an eight out of ten performance, but next match it''ll be six. He goes 8-6-6. Wibbers has even more talent and what he does on the pitch comes with a greater degree of difficulty. He''s a 9-5-5. We''re coaching him and giving him minutes to get him to 9-6-6 and then 9-6-7 and so on. I kind of tried to take that theme and show the Brazilian lads what elite football really looks like."


    I took another sip.


    "They''re not stupid. I think when you see up close what things are supposed to look like, if you have the slightest feel for that world you''re going to get it. It''s intuitive, right? Everyone with talent who saw me play one-touch got really quiet and really thoughtful. I''m quite pleased with how I handled that because with the directors of football I was a bit hyper and a bit silly. Tomzilla clicked very quickly and tried to do one-touch himself. Me, him, and the goalie zinged passes to each other and then one of us - me, usually - would ping a longer pass. It was like... Okay it was like playing the first time with Raffi, or with Pascal. Very, very intense and just a kind of ''right'' feeling.


    "I was like, God, got to get this kid signed up right away. I mean, MD, I know you think it''s mental to give wages to a kid who can''t conceivably play for us for two years or more but it''s like playing the lottery with a fifty million pound payout and a thirty percent chance of winning. I met his family and his girlfriend and they are lovely and completely normal. They''ll keep his feet on the ground. From everything I''ve heard about young footballers who don''t make it, it''s about having shit friends and no support. TZ was briefly in a youth system, too, like Raffi was, so he''s not totally new to the industry. Bump that thirty to fifty percent."


    MD said, "I don''t really understand how he''ll improve over there with no club."


    "We''re going to give him coaching. Ruth''s paying for that."


    "Am I? How generous of me."


    I laughed. "My mate Nono''s letting us use his training ground and even some of his coaches. I mean, fifty quid an hour is a decent side hustle for those coaches, right? We''ve got three players signed up in Sampa and there are a few more Chelli can run with if he wants, but they will only play in Brazil. No international moves for those guys."


    "The other two, Max," said Sandra, pushing me on the shoulder. "Player profiles. Comps."


    "Right. Tomzilla''s an Italian-style centre back. Imagine a more sophisticated version of Zach Green. You know, one who didn''t think Balenciaga was a city in Spain."


    Brooke said, "I think Zach''s worn more Balenciaga than you, Max."


    "Yeah, well, one time he brought a special candle to Dean''s treatment room and said it smelled of Texas. We all thought it smelled like Dr. Pepper. Second signing is Nasa. He''s a right back. He''s solid ay eff. Reminds me of Wan-Bissaka in the way he''s hard to dribble past. If we''re ever up against a tricky winger we can''t handle, we call for Nasa. He''s fine on the ball, won''t lose possession, but he''s not creative. He''s a year older than Tomzilla and he''s starting from zero but there''s a ton of potential there if we''re patient." It had to be worth jumping through a few hoops - he had a PA of 150. "He''s not as charming as Tom and his family are extremely devout in a way that''s quite humourless but I expect him to train like his life depends on it."


    "There''s another one, isn''t there?" said Brooke.


    "Yeah," said MD. "A tricky winger. The kind of player who sells season tickets. But he has been signed by the famous Saltney Town."


    I grinned. "Toquinho." PA 154, no prior background in the sport. "Bit of a weird one. He doesn''t have any particular strengths but I think he''ll turn into a guy who''s quite good at everything. Not elite, then, because at the very top level you need something that''s awesome but I can imagine him turning into a sort of Alex Iwobi type player. Not gonna score loads or assist loads, but he''s not gonna give the ball away, he''s gonna move you up the pitch and he''s gonna keep his shape when you''re under the cosh. I think he''s a twenty-million pound signing for a bottom-end Premier League team who need someone to follow the coach''s instructions to the letter. I mentioned consistency. Toquinho''s a solid 7 out of 10 every single week sort of player and for a lot of managers that''s what they want."


    "And he''s gone to Saltney because...?" said MD.


    One reason was because I didn''t want to put all my eggs in Chester''s basket. If I was fired in the next five years, I wouldn''t personally benefit from my trip. If I registered a few talents with Saltney, I would be in line to pocket almost all the cash from their eventual sale. "Because Saltney had a couple of hundred pounds a week to spare, boss. And because I''m not sure about his character. He''s quite different on and off the pitch. On pitch he''s solid, reliable. Off it? Not sure. He might be a dick. Or he might party hard for a couple of years and settle down. No clue, but he''s 17 right now and he''ll turn 18 over the course of the season so again, he needs patience and that''s what Saltney Town is famous for." I checked the Match Overview screen for the Greens versus Whites match. 17 minutes gone. Long enough that I could start to think about setting my plans in motion.


    "So you found three players in two weeks?" said Brooke. "That seems lower than I expected. You found a lot more in Wales, and even here at the Exit Trials last year."


    "Those are the three best," I said. "The three worth registering. In my role as consultant for Ruth''s business I decided the players there need a higher ceiling than the ones here."


    "And I agreed entirely," said Ruth, "after the decision had been made by Max. After I had decided I needed to expand to South America."


    "At these distances, there is just more that can go wrong, right? I gave Chelli a list of the next best twenty unattached prospects and told him about a few who were like twelve years old. If they get picked up by clubs or agents in the next few years, that''ll be annoying but good for them. Chelli''s going to be busy enough as it is and we can''t go round snatching children." I looked around for my copy of the Exit Trials team sheets - from my left, the Brig anticipated my need and handed it over. "Now let''s snatch some children."


    I scanned the lineups for a minute, mentally matching the names to their PAs while finishing my tea.


    "Brig," I said. "We good?"


    "We''re good."


    "Orange alert."


    "What does that mean?"


    "It means light the beacons."


    He did a microscopic smile. "Lighting the beacons, sir."


    He sent a message out via WhatsApp and all the phones around me beeped. I released myself from Ruth''s delicious clutches, stood, and looked around.


    <ul>


    <li>Over there by the front of the main stand were Josh and Tom - two players I had signed at the trials last season. They were ready to go into the changing rooms to pre-sell Chester to any high-priority targets I might have. One key role was to get my targets to identify their parents - one thing the curse didn''t help me with.</li>


    <li>Over there near the back were Fleur, our scout, Henk, her son, and Spectrum, a coach and de facto head of our youth system. Fleur was very persuasive with a certain kind of parent - single dads, if I''m being completely frank - and her son was a big fan of the Chester youth system and hey! He was willing to drive hundreds of miles to tell other prospects all about it. Spectrum had more experience of dealing with the parents of young players than anyone at Chester.</li>


    <li>In the middle, talking to some of his mates from other clubs, was Vimsy. He was an unlikely spy, feeding back to the Brig what the Average Football Man was thinking.</li>


    <li>And over to the right were a couple of football club owners - Mr. Yalley (West Didsbury) and Mateo (Tranmere Rovers; College 1975). Their job was to dazzle the parents of young players where needed. Mr. Yalley would be most useful when we did the northern leg of the three Exit Trials, but he had taken a couple of days off work to help me out and he was having a blast in the process. He was, I noted with extreme pleasure, wearing his Savile Row suit.</li>


    </ul>


    I sat down feeling pretty good about my found family. "MD, who''s on our mailing list?"


    "Eastleigh, Woking, Aldershot, and Barnet are here."


    I nodded. That was amazing - so many opportunities for any talented kids we found. I looked at the pitch again.


    As usual, most of the players were 18, meaning they wouldn''t be able to take part in the FA Youth Cup in the coming season. There were a few 17-year-olds, though, and the odd 19-year-old.


    Their CAs tended to be in the 15-25 range, depending on the academy they had been released from. It was their PA that was most interesting to me, of course, and those were all over the place. There were only four over 60 in this match, but that was four careers I could rescue.


    "Who do we like most? Eastleigh or Woking?"


    "Woking," said MD, instantly. I really wanted to get him drunk enough that he would explain himself, but that would have to wait.


    "Tell your mate to get on that left mid. Green 11. If Woking don''t take him I''ll loan myself back to the National League so I can beat them again. Brig, do you know the Aldershot scout?"


    "Yes, sir."


    "Pitch Green 4 to him. Tell him you''ll court martial him if they don''t give the lad a chance." I waited while they typed away on their phones. "There are two more good ones," I mused. "Half-decent goalie." The guy was PA 71. Not really anywhere near good enough for what I wanted but his ceiling was higher than my current starting goalie. "He could have a decent career and I do need another keeper for Sticky to train up. It can''t be him, though. Not really. He''d crush Saltney or Gibraltar, though. Erm... MD, send out an APB on White 1."


    "What is one of those in this context?"


    "Tell everyone you know they should all go for it. Winners takes all."


    "Oh, very good."


    "What?" I said.


    "Winner takes Hall. Better than your usual jokes."


    Right, because the goalie was called Hall. I''d barely noticed. "Last one. Difficult. Our box-to-box guy." PA 89. Top of League Two. By the time he reached his potential, though, Chester would be in the Championship at least. "He''s very good. Could train him up and cash in, and he''s eye-catching. Plus he''s young enough that he could play in our Youth Cup team."


    "He sounds swell," said Brooke.


    "It''s the opportunity cost," I said. "If we get him, it''s one of our last slots gone. Like, if it''s him or Lee Contreras, I have to choose Lee because we need a few more guys who can start every week. If this guy lived up north I''d try to get him for Saltney or West. Tranmere would still be good. Or he could do a few years with a National League club who can sell him on. Ah, shit. Let the non-leaguers fight Mateo for him. Let your mates know he''s a player, MD, Brig. Right, four players saved. Do I go to heaven now? One match down, eight to go. I need to talk to Mateo while I''ve got the energy."


    I got to my feet and shuffled across the back of the stand, eyeing the scouts. There was no-one from Bradford City, surprisingly. No doubt Chip was back in Texas trawling through every word I''d ever said in public, looking for clues about which players to sign.


    I tapped Mateo on the shoulder and nodded towards the exit. He got up and followed.


    ***


    We did some quick catching up. "Shame about Grimsby," he said, once we had taken care of the pleasantries.


    "Yeah, big shame."


    He admonished me with a look. "They travel in numbers, Max. It''s good to sell out the away end. Forest Green is not who I wanted to win that playoff final. They sell tickets by the hundreds. Grimsby do thousands."


    "You''ll be fine and Grimsby will be fine. They''ve got a good team."


    "Didn''t you hear? They''re selling Danny Grant and Jayden Ward."


    I hadn''t seen it on the curse feed, perhaps because the deals hadn''t been finalised yet. "Please don''t tell me it''s to Bradford."


    "No, Grant to Doncaster."


    I winced. Doncaster were one of the teams who would be expecting a playoff place, at least. "That''s not good."


    "No. And Ward to MK Dons."


    "Shit." There were some poor teams in League Two but at least half had players that could win a match single-handedly. I wanted the top teams to buy shit players, not guns like Jayden Ward. Well, it was out of my hands. All I could do was make Chester as strong as possible. "Where did you get with Gabriel?"


    "Gabby," said Mateo. "He wants to be called Gabby so we can market him as Gabbygol. We''ve had a couple of offers turned down but we''re getting close to agreeing a fee. Four hundred thousand pounds, Max, give or take. That''s a hell of a lot of money for Tranmere. It makes me nervous."


    "Did you have problems with his agent?"


    "No, it has been smooth. So far. I suggested that he didn''t blab about the deal and I think he understood me."


    I tutted. Gabby would have been a good signing for Chester but messing about with agents had put me off. Either I had imagined monsters where there were none, or Mateo had navigated around them with diplomacy and sophistication. The transfer was still pretty beneficial for me; my ''finders fee'' would help me get REMSA set up. "Just go for it. This guy''s the real deal. He''s probably gonna be the best Tranmere player in the last twenty years."


    "Why don''t you sign him yourself? We''re your league rivals, remember."


    "I don''t have four hundred thousand to spare and he''ll be joining you after the season in Brazil ends, right?" Mateo nodded. I spread my arms. "So that''s January. We''ll be twenty points ahead of you by then! And Gabby will need half a season to get up to speed. Next season when he''s wrecking defences, we will be in League One. Bosh. Not a problem. Anyway, I have to back myself to find someone even better; I''ve got the rest of the summer. Mateo, look, he might not work out, same as any player. But you need to start thinking what you''ll spend your riches on. Three mill. Five mill. TEN mill! All right?" I gave him a playful little punch. "Do you want another one, yes or no?"


    He looked up and away. "No. I''m tapped out."


    "I''m going to the under 20 World Cup. Are you telling me if I find the next Messi for half a million and he needs to be bought right now, you don''t want that phone call?"


    He looked up and spoke like a robot. "Yes I want the next Messi for half a million."


    I nodded towards the seats. "I need to get back to my dudes. They''re all being so nice to me and each other. It''s like a convention of ASMRtists."


    "What about College?" He was referring to our ''joint venture'' in Gibraltar.


    "Thanks to your loanees, we''re just as good as the Imps. We need a couple more guys to be sure of winning the league."


    "I thought those guys would come from you," he said, trying and failing to be stern.


    "Mate! Your backups are as good as my firsts. My backups are National League North quality! You''ve got my captain. I would send someone else if I had them. Trust me, I''m keeping my eyes open. Spain are at the under 20s World Cup. So are Italy and Norway. Imagine if one of those guys was desperate for minutes!"


    "Yeah, right, okay," said Mateo, but he was miles away. Wondering what he''d have to remortgage to afford the next Messi, maybe. He woke up from his reverie. "Should I buy Danny Flash? Chris needs his wages off the books." The Grimsby owner Chris Hale was friends with Mateo, and his star striker Danny Flash was even more overpaid than the guy at Chelsea whose job it was to throw darts at pieces of paper on which were written the names of young footballers - the basis for the club''s transfer strategy.


    "Do not buy Danny Flash. Do not sign Danny Flash on a free. Erm," I added. "He''d be mint for College, but not for three grand a week."


    "How do you know his salary?"


    I scoffed. "I was Grimsby manager. Remember? I mean, offer Chris that you''ll pay whatever percent of his wages. 25% or whatever. He would actually make a difference in Gib."


    "Chris won''t accept losing two thousand odd a week on his best striker."


    "Chris can take it or leave it. But Danny at Tranmere? No no no. Don''t do that." I squinted while I tried to think. "You''ve got Junior. Lucas is coming up fast. You might be all right till January. Could get a bit dicey if Junior gets injured. Maybe a six-month loan on someone? Tell your scouts to get thinking. Text me their ideas; if it''s someone I''ve seen I''ll give you feedback for free. Okay, peace."


    ***


    There were no guys over PA 100 in the blacks versus reds match, so I waited ten minutes and called Josh and Tom over.


    "Is it weird, this?" I wondered. "Like coming back to your prison?"


    "Like coming back to our escape tunnel, boss," said Tom. His time at Saltney had been just okay in terms of his CA growth but he had a league winners medal, a hatful of goals, and a little bit more swagger.


    "Top. There''s no-one for Chester in this match so I was thinking you could go off on your own for a couple of hours. Find a church, light a candle. That''s what kids these days do, isn''t it?"


    Josh looked at the pitch. "You don''t like no-one?"


    "There are a few I''ll recommend to our mates at Woking but none for us."


    "What about the 6 in the last match? He looked sound."


    "He was pretty sound," I said. "I''d like to send you on a scouting course, Josh, with an eye like that. Could be something for you to do when you''re injured. I did Youngster once but he''s not a natural. Er, yeah that 6 was like 89% of what we need. I was tempted to sign him anyway but then it''s less pay rise for you."


    Josh nodded as though I had confirmed a conspiracy theory. "That''s what this is about. Reminding us where we were so we extend for cheap."


    I smiled. "No, you''re here because you''re my secret weapon. There are other clubs watching and if there''s an obvious star they might offer a higher starting wage, better facilities, all kinds of things, but I''ve got four Exit Triallists who got proper minutes in my first team last season. Not ''here''s two matches near the end of the season to shut Max Best up'' like Tranmere, but proper matches when the stakes were high. If there''s someone I want, you''re my first line of attack."


    "First line of persuasion," said the Brig.


    "Sure, right. As for re-signing for cheap, yeah, of course, but it''s got nothing to do with today. My job is to find the wage where ''very unhappy'' turns into ''unhappy'' and offer that to you." I scoffed. "It''s not very nice but it''s how we win the league while building Bumpers Bank."


    "We going for the league again?" said Josh, very nearly cracking a smile.


    I looked at the pitch, cupped my chin, and scratched the underside of my jaw with my thumbnail. "I think we have a shot. It''ll be like last season. Dodgy start, big finish. But I think we''ll get good faster so yeah, there''s a chance we go on a rampage and it depends how the other teams get on. It''s a bit like the National League where there are ten good teams and everyone should drop points. But..."


    "Yes?" said Ruth, shaking me slightly. Perhaps she thought I was doing a microsleep.


    "We''re in like eighty cup competitions. It''s ludicrous."


    "Bin off the Cheshire Cup," said Tom. Big shot striker already forgetting his roots?


    "Nope and if you say that in front of me again it''s a two-week fine." That cowed him. "That''s our cup. We win that. No negotiation. No, it''s the other ones I''m not sure about. We could bin them off and focus on the league and that would probably let us finish two places higher. Or we could just go for everything and have some fucking fun. We''ll have a big squad so the deeper we go in cups, the more minutes get shared around. The more minutes, the more development, the harder we slap at the end of the season. Plus, the prize money. We''re going to split it fifty-fifty; the players get half. So yeah, Josh, your pay will be shit but there''s that chance to top it up. Get to the third round of the FA Cup it''s a hundred and ten thousand, ish. Fourth round''s another hundred. The other cups don''t pay as much but if we have a good old smash through a few rounds we could build up a decent kitty."


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Josh was nodding. "Sounds good to me, boss. Let''s go for it. Go hard at all the cups."


    "I have to balance what''s fun with what''s, you know, professional. Remember the FA Trophy? We binned it off, Barnet went hard at it, and they missed out on the title by a whisker. Props to them for going for it but they probably wish they hadn''t. Anyway, I''ve got time to think about it. Depends who we sign, right, and who we get drawn against in the AOK Cup and who''s in our Vantastic group."


    "And who our early season fixtures are against," said Sandra.


    I nodded. "Right. Sandra and I will have a big old think about it and I''ll do a Maxterplan." I made a show of checking the time on my phone. "Go off and steal a policeman''s helmet or something."


    Brooke watched them go and said, "You don''t need me, then? I might go and network, if MD will come with."


    "One second," I said. I texted MD and the Brig the names of four players who were good. MD read the message and nodded at Brooke. The Brig got up and went to the scout from Aldershot. I doubted the scout had been in the army but they probably had dozens of mutual acquaintances.


    "I want a sausage roll," said Sandra, and she went off to get one. "Kian, help me."


    "Yes, miss," he said.


    I turned to Ruth; we were alone. "Did you tell her to do that?"


    "Of course I did."


    "Were you mad about the REMSA thing?"


    She eyed me, and her look grew cold. "Of course I was. It''s absurd. I was furious for at least half a second." She warmed up and the amount of relief I experienced surprised me. "It''s your money and I was honestly glad you were taking the agency seriously."


    "I am! I do! It''s just... It''s the summer, right, when we progress it. I already wanted to grow it this year. The money''s quite a nice safety net and okay it''s very slightly frustrating to redirect that stream but it''s worth it to get these Brazilian players in the pipeline. What else? Right. I''ve got two more players for you."


    Her eyebrows went up. "From the Exit Trials?"


    "No. It''s a surprise. You''ll find out soon but turns out I wasn''t completely repellant in the Transfer Room. Let''s go through the client list. We''ve got Bark - have you seen him recently? He''s kicking on. He might get some first team minutes this season. Dani, Angel, Wibbers, they''re doing well."


    "Any pay increases there?"


    "A little bit for the ladies. Wibbers and the rest of the men have to wait till I''ve done my transfer business."


    "Are they happy to wait?"


    "I don''t give a shit. They have to wait. It''s not a discussion. Then at Tranmere we''ve also got Lucas Cook and Nelson Smith-Howes." Those were two of the better Exit Triallists from last year.


    "All three Tranmere boys will get pay rises," said Ruth.


    "Really? Have you talked to Mateo already?"


    "No. I''m making him stew. He knows I''m coming and he knows it will be brutal." She smiled. "Or he can give me what I want."


    "Don''t push too hard. They''re not ready for the first team and I don''t want to cut off the pipeline. Press home the need for all three to get minutes this season."


    Ruth nodded. "And we''ve officially added Kisi."


    "Yep. I''m also going to let you manage Youngster."


    Ruth''s head nearly exploded. "What?"


    "Sponsorships only."


    "Ah."


    "Yeah. What did you get from Grindhog?"


    "Our players get ten thousand a year, plus swag. Angel gets a bit more."


    "How much more?"


    "She''s starting on 25,000."


    I shook my head. "Jesus Christ. Is she making more from sponsorships than from playing already?"


    "It''s worse. They''re paying that on her birthday, as we agreed, so it''s for four months. They are not stupid, those Grindhog people."


    "Yeah," I said. The situation was a bit of a mind fuck. "Well, fine. Can you get Youngster included, please? We''ve got BoshCard and Glendale for local sponsorships. Let''s try to add another national one this season. Maybe talk to Elgar. Anyone Grindhog don''t want to sponsor, go to their rivals. That''ll teach them. Actually, could you see about getting Elgar to do kits for West Didsbury and Saltney? They will be in the news a lot in the next couple of years. And I was thinking about Pascal. He gets a new contract this summer, he''ll get to a decent level, and I think he''s pretty marketable, right? Do you want to talk to him about joining the agency?"


    She was making notes on her phone, using her finger as a stylus. "Anyone else?"


    "Zach Green, Cole Adams. Zach might be hard because his new contract isn''t going to be much higher so the agency cut will leave him in the red but if you could tempt him with sponsorships he might go for it. It''s worth a chat."


    "Zach''s always worth a chat," mumbled Ruth.


    "Can everyone stop thirsting over my players, please? They''re human beings with thoughts and feelings."


    "Sure, Max. What else?"


    "I was thinking it''s all well and good getting these young players signed up and growing together but wouldn''t it be great to get an established player? Keep an ear out for gossip about which agents are shit, right, and when we play bigger teams in the AOK Cup I''ll have a word with players signed to that agency. Maybe we can poach someone. Or if I find someone rotting in the reserves like Zach was, I can rescue them via you. Their shitty agent got them into that mess, right? Oh, you need to get boot deals. From what I hear the big brands are only interested in paying big, big stars but you should be able to wrangle free boots for some of us. We''re on TV now."


    "What about REMSA?"


    I made an urgent mmm noise. "Mmm, right. Can you mentor Chelli? He''s good but it would be top if you had regular chats with him. And I was thinking he should get his players to film themselves like once a week talking about their journey. The ups and downs. We could get Henri and Sophie to turn it into a mini documentary one day. Another hit from Seal Studios."


    "That''s smart. Making it into a documentary will keep them invested in us for longer."


    I froze. "That sounds exactly like Exit Through the Gift Shop."


    "Does it? I haven''t seen it."


    "It''s crazy. It starts as one thing and turns into at least three different things. But yeah, the main character gets to hang out with these famous street artists because he says he''s making a documentary. Strings them along long enough for him to get what he wants. Huh. Maybe I''m more like him than I want to think."


    "More like Banksy?"


    "Banksy isn''t the main character. It''s this rando."


    "That''s surprising. I always thought it was about Banksy and I don''t much care for his art so I never watched it. Do you like Banksy?"


    "Erm, some of it. Sometimes he sprays a cat on a wall and people come and steal the wall. As commentary on art, maybe it has value. As art, I mean, he used a stencil. I could do that. Even when I''m rich I don''t think I''m going to be excited to buy a Banksy piece. I''d love a Vermeer."


    "Max," said Ruth, in a soft voice. "The day you buy a Vermeer. Can I come?"


    I laughed. "Can you come? You''ll already be there! I''ll be buying it from you."


    ***


    The yellow and blue teams had three players above 60, but one of them was a fast striker with PA 106. I sent my minions into action. Josh and Tom would sneak into the dressing room to start buttering him up and to find out who his parents were. The Brig had a better idea, though, and talked to his mate in the organising team. That guy, a big believer in what we were doing, pointed out where the parents were sitting. The Brig decided to send Ruth in first, and she slipped into the seat next to them and turned up the charm.


    After the match, Josh, Tom, Ruth, and the Brig took the family for a coffee and I drove home with MD and Brooke.


    I was ready to doze off after about three minutes of driving, but MD had a question. "Are you happy with that?"


    "Not a great haul," I said. "And I''m worried the Brig will be annoyed."


    "Why?" said MD, frowning.


    "Last year he asked me to go full Max, so I did. And he loved it. Loved the idea we were storming around lifting bodies off the battlefield, bringing them back to base to get patched up and rallied. All that fun stuff. Today I was just pointing at a kid and going ''Eastleigh''. It''s not very dramatic."


    "The Bri - John doesn''t need as much drama as you, Max. From what I could tell, you took care of eleven kids. A full team! You did it by leveraging your reputation and obvious talent. Woking, Eastleigh, Aldershot, they know what you can do and when you say ''sign that player'' they''re ready to listen. You don''t need to prance around; you''ve already done the work. Eleven young men, Max. The Brig will be delighted."


    "Mike is right, Max," said Brooke. "The process is very efficient. I get why you preferred it last time but it''s not about you, is it? Or John. It''s about those young men. They might never know what you did for them today. Same again tomorrow, please."


    ***


    I slept in my own bed for the first time in what felt like seven years. I woke up just before two a.m. and when I heard the horse feeder snap, drifted away feeling very at peace.


    ***


    Wednesday, May 14


    Day Two - Solihull Moors


    Solihull, you remember, is in Birmingham, in the middle of England. The day went pretty much the same but my allies were Solihull themselves, Tamworth, Telford, and Banbury.


    Most of the Chester contingent was the same, but Josh and Tom had been subbed off, replaced by Cole and Omari. Sandra and Vimsy sat with Well In and Jude, trying to predict which players I would like. Zach and Pascal came, which I found surprising, but I later learned that Ruth had invited them. Girl moved fast.


    And the Roberts family had turned out in force. William, his brother Adam (half-brother, since he was exactly half as talented), his parents, some cousins and uncles and so on. Chris Beaumont, AKA Goliath, was part of the Banbury delegation. It was great seeing him again.


    I was a lot less tired than the previous day and focused hard enough on the games to get pretty much maximum XP. It wasn''t much, but it was something. It was possible I would get a nice monthly perk offer - what I would pay for one that extended the effect of Fantasy Football! At the moment I could only use it once per competition per season. If I could double that, I could pretty much guarantee getting to the FA Cup third round.


    The first match had three prospects. The second, five. The third, three. I made sure everyone got a good home. I had a couple of decisions to make.


    There was a PA 80 right back who seemed like a real trier. I currently didn''t have a specialist right back and if the season kicked off tomorrow I would have to put Magnus there. Magnus could do a very good job at right back but I couldn''t go into the season with no cover. This kid wouldn''t be ready for two years, though, and when I thought about Chester two years down the line I thought of a team playing against teams with an average CA over 110. This kid wouldn''t be anywhere near good enough, but then again, I could train him up and move him on to Saltney or Gibraltar or sell him for decent money.


    There was also a PA 104 goalkeeper. I was torn about whether to put a ''bid'' in for him or not. He was slightly better than Rainman, my current third choice, but only slightly. What was the point committing to years of wages when I already had a very similar player?


    I decided I would make final decisions on those when the third day of trials was over, and spent the rest of my energy talking to people.


    Sandra was in a great mood because she and her partner would be going to watch the Women''s Euros in Switzerland. Thanks to the pay rise she would be getting soon, she had upgraded a couple of hotels and extended her stay, and she was delighted with that.


    Brooke said she''d been worried Chip would turn up at one of the days and she wasn''t sure how she would handle that. I told her about FC Dallas and Orlando and she seemed delighted that I had been using my limited networking time for her benefit. She would have no qualms about jetting to Texas for a few days; she would spend time with her sister.


    MD and I schmoozed some of the scouts and heads of recruitment from other clubs. It was MD''s idea. If we wanted to find homes for young players at the rate we were going, we would need more clubs to take a risk on my tips. So we planted some seeds, telling them which players we were recommending so they could track their progress. When they saw the success rate was 80% or more, they would surely snap up any lads I pointed out.


    So yeah, the main stand was filled with Chester people catching up, having a laugh, doing some good. The Exit Trials were becoming a huge Chester FC-themed social club and I''m not sure all the sour-faced ''proper football men'' were happy about it. But as Banksy once said, "I don''t give a shit."


    ***


    The Brig whizzed me back to Chester for a special meal. It was presented to me as some big mystery, a big treat for the conquering hero. I was more than 100% sure it was going to be Nando''s, but no. We parked at the Deva stadium and walked around to the away end. There was a new structure there - one of the first changes to the stadium in years.


    It smelled... incredible. Meaty deliciousness.


    I followed my nose like a cartoon animal until I got a better look at the structure. It looked like a repurposed sauna barrel and it had a big sign on the top. Emre''s Scran.


    A Turkish man was in the service window sort of glaring at me. "Next!"


    "Emre!" I said, laughing. "Drop the act. Get out here for a hug."


    "Order please."


    "Salt Bae hugs his customers." Emre tutted and rolled his eyes. I ignored the glossy menu; I knew what I wanted. "One wrap, please. Max Best special. With onions."


    "It''s called an Anfield Wrap," he said, pointing to the menu and a sign that had a Liverpool badge and the words ''Chester FC warmly welcomes Liverpool fans''. I frowned. Were they going to change the menu for every team we played? Make the away fans feel at home? It''s what I wanted but I was surprised we were doing it already. So great.


    I watched Emre go through his expert process, slicing the meat, shuffling it into a pita bread and dolloping veg and yoghurt into the crevices between the chunks of meat. Mouth-watering, mate.


    He handed it over all cosy in some foil. I peeled it back and took a chomp.


    "Muh," I said, ecstatically. "Umm. Yeah. Oh."


    "It''s good, innit?" said Emre, doing that thing where he had a heavy Turkish accent that slipped into Mancunian at points.


    "Mate. You''re gonna make a bomb." I resumed eating. "Why the away end, though?"


    He couldn''t make out what I''d said because I had so much food in my gob, so he replied to the first part. "Your woman Star. She''s squeezing me dry, Max. She has no mercy. I could lose money pitched here on a rainy Tuesday night."


    I munched a gap through which I could form sounds. "How much did the barrel cost?"


    "The club bought it."


    "So you''re in a free unit in a prime location and all the hungry away fans have to walk past you and smell the kebabs? You''ll make millions."


    I thought a cheeky smile crossed his lips but it could have been a shadow. "I have to deal with the rowdy fans, dunneye?" That was ''don''t I'', by the way. "Some idiot starts trouble out here, it''s just me and four coppers, know what I mean? It''s danger money, Max. You tell your woman Star to stop squeezing me like a lemon."


    "I''ll do no such thing," I said, before happily eating a few more inches of the beast. I took a few paces back and had a look around. I rarely went to this side of the stadium. It seemed like Emre would be able to scale up with maybe three people working in this gaff. It was cashless, so there was no risk of it being burgled for the money box. A lot of smaller clubs relied on food and drink sales to break even - I was happy that Brooke was trying to up our game. "Yep," I said. "This is top. Good work, everyone!"


    "Sir," said the Brig, looking at one of his watches. "We have to get you inside."


    "Oh," I said, disappointed.


    "Go, Max," said Emre. "We will talk soon. I will be here every home match. 23 league plus cups."


    "Cheshire Cup?" I said.


    "No. Not that one. Okay, bye."


    ***


    The Brig brought me through the stands and up into the bowels of the stadium. I washed my hands and checked my teeth for delicious remnants. I half-expected there would be a surprise party or something of the sort.


    There was no party and there had been no secret upgrades. It was all just as I''d left it, though the trophy cabinet was starting to look cluttered.


    We went into the boardroom, where MD and Brooke were with four randos. One seemed familiar and it turned out the group were from the local council, more specifically from the planning team.


    MD explained that while we had general planning permission to develop Bumpers Bank, the council wanted to know the current state of my plans so they would be able to offer their input. This announcement was moderately infuriating. Why hadn''t Brooke warned me? Or prepared me in the slightest?


    The council guy who had appeared in the Fans Forum ''Save Max'' videos sensed my agitation and assured me they had good intentions and they knew I was jet lagged and it wouldn''t take long and this was the only chance to do it before I flew off again. Two of the guys seemed to be miring me big time - good to have Chester fans in high places!


    Brooke produced an A1-sized version of my badly-drawn concept and laid it on the end of the table. I got in front of it and the others crowded around. I outlined the plan and used my phone to show photos of the portacabins I had seen listed on various websites. I blabbed on and on about how shit it was going to look. Finally, eventually, Brooke said, "But that''s only temporary, right, Max?"


    "Yeah. We''ll upgrade when we can. One or two buildings every year, I guess. The pitches are the priority. The stadium."


    But I had only just finished saying ''yeah'' when Brooke whipped out another A1 sheet and laid it on top of the other. It was my layout, but there the similarity ended because Brooke appeared to have paid an architect to turn the crappy drawings I sent her into a gorgeous, architecturally-interesting space complete with happy little stick men and trees and flower pots and all kinds of details. It was beautiful. Artistic. I wanted to touch my forehead to the picture so it would suck me inside and I could live in that reality instead of this one.


    The council dudes oohed and aahed and I realised that Brooke was miles ahead of me with this project. She hadn''t warned me about this meeting because there was no need. I only needed to be here in person so the fanboys could swoon over me. Boxes would be ticked, documents would be signed, and I would be able to continue doing whatever the fuck I wanted.


    While I was experiencing a surge of righteous power, Brooke made eye contact with me and unleashed a tiny but devastating little twitch of the lips. She sidled over to me and whispered, "Have you given any thought," she started, and the hairs on my neck went haywire. "To Employee of the Month for May?"


    ***


    But Brooke wasn''t content with showing off Emre''s matchday home, or the fact that the council''s planning department were putty in her hands. She had a third treat for me - the big ''Full Max'' surprise she had been planning.


    "I thought that was Emre''s," I admitted in the back of the Brig''s car.


    She made a scoffing noise. "Selling kebabs to away fans who have been drinking on a bus for three hours. That''s like shooting fish in a barrel. This is what I''m most pleased by."


    We hadn''t gone far from the stadium but I suddenly realised something was wrong. We were - yes - we were going in circles. I was still half in Brazil, so I had to force myself to remember the name. "Brig, why are we doing laps of Fountains Roundabout?"


    Fountains Roundabout was just as it sounded - a circular traffic divider inside which was a pond and five jets of water. It was located just on the edge of the tourist zone, between the stadium and the cathedral, on a busy junction leading north to Liverpool Road, east to the A51 and Manchester, and south to the Forbidden Zone (Wrexham).


    We left the roundabout and pulled in on a side street before walking back. MD caught up with us a few seconds later. The four of us stood on the roundabout. Three of us looked very pleased with ourselves.


    "The shit is happening?" one of us said.


    Brooke was the leader of this project, whatever it was, so she did most of the talking. "You said I could have some budget for marketing. I was thinking digital, you know. Targeted ads on social media, integrating with Grindhog''s data collection, blah blah blah. But I know you love a bit of analogue and when the ideas come from you it''s always posters. Billboards. I have to say, they get picked up by people anyway so a good poster campaign doubles as a digital one. A billboard like that one across the road there" - she pointed - "is called a 96 sheet. It''s 96 sheets of paper."


    "Ah!" I said. This was fascinating to me - I had always wondered about how that industry worked.


    "That costs 750 pounds to hire and our poster stays up for two weeks."


    "Less than 400 pounds a week." I looked around. "That''s not bad. Look at all the traffic. It''s possible half the city pass through here every fortnight."


    Brooke''s eyebrows furrowed for a second. The word fortnight hadn''t been in her active vocabulary until she had moved to the UK. "Right. The problem with that billboard there is that it''s ugly. This is supposed to be a nice spot, right?"


    I scoffed. "It''s never going to be nice. Seriously, how are there always so many cars here? It almost makes me pine for Sampa."


    "I''ve been in touch with the owner of the billboard and he''s willing to sell it to us for thirty thousand pounds."


    I blinked. I hadn''t expected the conversation to go in that direction. I did some quick maths, or tried to. There was one data point I didn''t know. "When does it have to be taken down?"


    "The council want it gone by February."


    "So we would have it for..." I got my fingers out.


    "Nine months, Max."


    I opened my calculator app. "Three three three three recurring. That''s, like, more than double the cost of hiring it every two weeks."


    "Yes, it''s a scandalous price. Outrageous."


    "So why is everyone smiling like that?"


    MD hid his smile behind a fist, pretending to cough. "Brooke has reason to believe that there is one organisation in this county who would be allowed to keep the billboard in place on an, ah, indefinite basis."


    I almost did a little gasp. "The planners. They love us. That''s why you made me sign those kits for them! We can get away with murder." I joined in the smiles, but mine faded. "It''s a risk. New politicians get elected all the time."


    "It''s not a risk, Max," cooed Brooke. "Once we own it, we''ll get an extension. As long as we want. Depends how cheeky we want to be. No, we''ll have this for years. It''ll be known as the Chester board."


    "The board," I said, automatically. Only a few days until Emma and I changed into our pyjamas in First Class before spending months in South America.


    Brooke was still talking. "We''ll promote upcoming fixtures, build hype, thank the fans. We''ll get creative and do intriguing things. Fans will come every second Monday to see what we''re putting up. It will be a talking point and a half. Thirty thousand up front and many multiples of that in exposure. The only problem," she said, smiling to show that what she was about to say was no kind of problem, "will be having something new to say every two weeks."


    "How soon until we can get this in our hands and put up the first poster?"


    Brooke looked at MD. "Soon."


    "Months or weeks?"


    "Weeks."


    I nodded. My mind was reeling from the possibilities, but Brooke had been thinking about this much longer than me. "Have you got an idea for the first one?"


    "Photo of the open top bus, trophies, supporters. Text: thank you Chester fans. From Chester FC. Something like that."


    "Yep. Great. But that''s the past. We''re going forward." I grinned. "I have a better idea."


    ***


    Thursday, May 15


    Day Three - Rochdale


    I woke up feeling pretty groggy, which was annoying because today was the Exit Trial I was most looking forward to. The lads who lived in the north who weren''t good enough for Chester might be willing to play for West Didsbury as a way not to drop out of the game completely. Some could perhaps be tempted by Saltney.


    As such, I had asked Well In and Jay Cope to come. Well In had agreed to do another year at Saltney and while he was technically employed by the Welsh FA still, he was interested in having a more complete ''football manager'' experience, not just the coaching and tactics side. Jay said he hadn''t been approached by any other clubs and wasn''t in the mood to move yet, anyway. He had his sights on breaking the record for ''most home games won in a row'' and if we got him some new players there was every reason to think he would do it.


    As well as those guys and my usual mob of persuaders, the Yalleys were back (sans Youngster, who was training with Ghana ahead of the u20s), Ziggy, Ryan Jack, the Triplets, Sticky, and quite a few of the women''s team had turned up. Kisi had invited Meghan and Meghan had invited another member of the Under 16s team I had vanquished with the Beth Heads. Sandra was so delighted to see them she forgot I was friends with Meghan.


    "Max!" she beamed, standing between the pair and hugging them. "Remember these?"


    "I remember the Butcher of Burnage," I said, frostily shaking hands with Meghan. "And this is Sasha Goon, if I remember correctly?" I held out a hand.


    Sarah Greene shook it. She was the PA 167 midfielder so talented the only way to stop her was to instruct Beth to kick her out of the game. A lot had happened since my adventures with the Beth Heads but I still thought about Sarah sometimes. She was getting a good footballing education at City but she was an artist, a creative dribbler, someone who could get fans excited. City wanted her to be a boring cog in a machine, endlessly passing sideways until a sliver of space had been opened up. I wanted to take players like Sarah and teach them Relationism. I wanted to create a world where her talents could flourish.


    "Max Pest," she said. "I read that Wizard of Us article. It should have been called How to Park a Bus."


    I put my finger to my lips as though deep in thought. "Yes, that''s nearly a good line but not quite. I hope you haven''t been saving that for the last two years, Sarah."


    "I haven''t thought about you for a single minute."


    "Gosh. Apart from the many many many minutes it took you to read The Wizard of Us."


    She kept an insouciant expression. "I''m a slow reader. I own that. I won''t be speed shamed by the likes of you."


    I laughed and looked around. "Are you here with Kisi? Meghan''s told you about what we do here, right?"


    Sarah looked at the pitch. "Save lads what got binned off, yeah."


    Meghan''s fake hostility vanished. "How''s it going?"


    "Bumper year," I said. "All the teams I beat last season heard I''m giving out gifts. However many lads got offers last year, we''ve probably already doubled it. And today we''re coming with a Manchester special. You in?"


    Meghan nodded. "Anything you need."


    "You just be you," I said. "Never change."


    She tried to give me a defiant glare. "You sure?"


    "I''m way past sure. Keep your ears open for any scouts who seem interested in anyone in particular. You can text the Brig."


    Sandra did a confused chuckle. "She doesn''t have the Brig''s phone number, Max!"


    "Right," I said. "Text Sandra. I need to get in position."


    ***


    Sunday Sowunmi.


    English centre back.


    Age 18.


    CA 22, PA 111.


    I watched him for quarter of an hour waiting for the dreaded moment where one of my many spies would overhear someone calling their manager saying they''d just found a quality defender. No-one seemed interested in Sowunmi and to be fair, I sort of understood why. For a start, he was playing at right back. Second, while he was tall, he was scrawny. He hadn''t been doing his weights. He didn''t look like a physically imposing centre back, he wasn''t in a position to win many headers, and he gave the ball away a few times.


    I''d seen enough. He could be our fourth-choice centre back and get some minutes in the Cheshire Cup or out on loan. I snapped into action. Sowunmi''s background was clearly Nigerian, so once the Brig got his organiser friend to point out Sowunmi''s parents we sent in Sharky as our vanguard. I watched for a while as Sharky''s big smile drew some very easy smiles in return. Winner.


    Brooke, Spectrum, and Sandra quickly dug up some data.


    "Socials look clean." Good.


    "He had a shoulder injury." That would explain why he hadn''t been doing weights. And maybe partially explain why he got sent to the trash heap.


    "He was very highly rated when he was 14."


    I made some little clicking noises. "And now he has been cut. Let''s find out why, yeah?"


    "Yes, sir," said the Brig. "Is there anyone else from these groups?"


    "Yes, but Sowunmi''s mine. Can you make him a priority, please?"


    "I''ll find out what happened," said Sandra.


    I thought about it. The Brig would be slightly better at that, but Sandra had skills, too. "Okay fine. Do you want to get Meghan with you? She''s a centre back. Maybe get her to be annoyed that Sowunmi''s playing right back. That''s a good icebreaker. Might make them open up about how his former club mismanaged him."


    "On it," said Sandra, and she went off.


    I signalled for Brig''s team sheet and made some notes. "Find out where these guys''s family homes are, right, and put them with the nearest clubs. Manchester lads can do Alty, Oldham, Rochdale. If they''re north east then it''s Hartlepool, Gateshead, South Shields. North west and you do Fylde or Southport. Right?"


    "Yes, sir. But the lads could go to any of those clubs? If they want to get away from home, for example?"


    "Yeah. That''s the sort of mid-level player. They''ll be reet." Right is how Sticky said ''all right'' and I quite liked it. "So that leaves a couple of guys for Well In and Jay to have a go at."


    I waited until half time in the 70-minute match and handed out their targets with some notes about them as players. They could watch the second half with that in mind and talk to the players afterwards.


    So that was that. Events were in motion. If we couldn''t persuade our targets, if another club slipped in with a better offer, if the lads decided to move to Sweden instead, all good! I had plenty of options on the free transfer market and they would be more battle-ready than this lot. I felt pretty good about my work.


    I went to the back of the stand and produced a neck pillow. Quick nap before the second match. I hoped to drift away to the familiar sounds of whistles and cries, but it didn''t work. The sounds of the match weren''t familiar. It was far too quiet. The players didn''t know each other. There was no social or footballing hierarchy and they were too nervous to shout.


    In last chance saloon, the patrons were sipping their beers and no-one was playing the piano.


    ***


    The second match went much as the first, but with no standout player that I would want for Chester.


    I waited half an hour this time, because there was no need to rush if there wasn''t a hot prospect I wanted. I handed out targets, made myself a tea, and went to have a think all the way in the far corner.


    The core of Chester''s men''s first team squad was great but thin in certain positions. We probably needed two more centre backs. I needed one senior guy, a kind of higher level Steve Alton who would be happy to be used on a squad rotation basis. Such players were relatively abundant, to be honest. No problem there. I needed an experienced left mid and right back. Let''s say 1,000 pounds a week for those guys.


    Lee Contreras could come in and be a central midfield option for 2,000 a week. 2,000 would also get me a third striker. There were a couple of young goalies who were going to get released and 500 quid would get me one of those.


    Adding that to what I already had took me perilously close to my budget. I would have about 600 pounds a week for pay rises for the entire squad.


    Holy shit!


    I thought about not getting a left mid or not getting a right back. We could use formations that didn''t need one or the other, but realistically I needed cover for every position so I could switch formations whenever I wanted. That was my special sauce and was worth ten to twenty points a season.


    Yeah no more pay rises. Easy. Bosh!


    I bit my lip while smiling. Things could get very messy; players expected a pay rise now that we were in the land of TV money and Premier League trickle-down economics.


    It wasn''t something to catastrophise over just yet. As my eyelids started to droop, the outline of a plan came into view.


    My dream South American striker, signed on loan with an option to buy, would arrive in January - if he existed. By then I would have multiple thousands a week more to play with. I could max out my budget now and worry about the next steps later. Money trouble sounded like a problem for future Max. Heh heh. That guy was wicked smart. He could sort it out. But seriously, though. The way to do it was to fill up the defence and midfield and sign a striker in the January window. I could rely on Henri for a few months, right? If he got injured, Tom would run defences ragged for 70 minutes and I would play striker for the last 20 against tired legs. Or we could use Pascal as a false 9. Sandra could run a false 9 scheme easily enough. Any matches where Henri was injured or banned, Sandra could be the manager. That would work out great for everyone.


    Yeah, there were millions of options. I could get creative.


    Creative like the street artists whose work I''d admired in Sao Paulo. Creative like Banksy. Creative like Daddy Star''s accountants. I had a huge advertising board! It would be my own personal canvas. Who said we had to change it every two weeks? We could do a fresh poster every Monday. Some serious, some silly. Some commercial, some subversive. I could do what I wanted and all it would cost was some paper, paste, and hiring a guy with a long ladder.


    I chuckled as I imagined the posters from near the end of December. It could be a series. Week 1, the back of my head on the right and a distant tinsel-lined window on the left. Week 2, the same but the window is much closer. Week 3 it''s the same but half the Christmas decorations have been taken down and my hand is on the window''s handle. I''m looking directly at the ''camera''. No words, just meaning. The transfer window is about to open.


    Heh. People would go nuts for it!


    "I''ve never seen anyone giggle in their sleep before."


    "Shush, Megs, he''s knackered."


    "He''s faking." The one called Megs shook me by the shoulder.


    I inhaled hugely and with effort, pushed one eye part of the way open. It was Sarah Green and Meghan, right in front of me, kneeling on the seats in front, blocking my view. "I was just dreaming about you," I said.


    "Ew, gross," said Sarah. "Can you not be weird pluz? Thanks."


    Meghan looked behind her. "They don''t know what to do."


    "Whut?"


    "Everyone''s waiting for you. Some said to let you sleep because you''ve been wrecking yourself. Some said you asked to be woken up."


    "Yeah, woken, yeah. Got to scout the kids. Save the kids and that." I wiped some goo from my eyes and closed them. "Wake me up Megs mate. Scout the kids, yeah?"


    She shook me again, but harder. "It''s now, Max. It''s now."


    I let out a slightly frustrated grunt but when I leaned to the side I saw half the pitch and sure enough there was a match going on. The final match of the Exit Trials. The curse told me they had played 22 of their 70 minutes. 22 minutes of what was, for most of them, the last meaningful match of their lives. The thought sobered me enough to open both eyes, though not all the way. "Okay. Okay. Give me a second."


    I scanned the half of the pitch I could see and there were some good lads. Couple in the PA 80 range. Bunch of PA 60s. Would be criminal to have let them drift out of the game.


    "What do you need?" said Meghan, meaning what kind of player.


    "Just whatever. Talent. Someone I could put up on a big poster one day and say, yes, this guy''s renewed his contract. Someone with the vision to see that there''s more to this sport than the big clubs. Someone wise and brave who''s willing to grind today to get jam tomorrow."


    "Yeah, yeah, yeah," sighed Meghan. She lifted her arm like she was looking for a bite. "You don''t half talk shit."


    I leaned forward and got my eyes more open. "New tattoo? Is it a Megan Fox quote?"


    Sarah laughed but Meghan took me seriously. "It''s a dreamcatcher. The start of it, anyway. It''s gonna go here like this." She showed me. "Millie Bright has one and she''s my idol. What?" she added, daring me to make a joke.


    "I don''t think I''m very artistic," I said. "I''m not very visual. You know when there''s like six high-speed first-time passes and someone''s free at the back post and rolls the ball into the net? That''s art to me. That''s got the aesthetic quality that I find meaningful and it''s harder than normal art because there are four, five, six players involved and loads of guys trying to stop you. It''s the connection between everyone that''s beautiful." I tapped Meghan''s proto-tat. "Teamwork makes the dream work."


    She smiled. "Are you giving me a team talk? That''s premature, innit? I don''t play for you."


    "Yet," I said.


    "I like your solo goals," said Sarah. I think I must have given her a puzzled look because she rushed to explain. "That''s art to me. I like the team goals, course, but when you had your back to those defenders and you did keepie-uppies and took them all out with one turn! Holy fuck that was amazing. And the one for Darlington where you went like The Flash and faked a shot and two defenders slid all the way across goal to block it and you just waved at them as they went past and then rolled the ball in the empty net. I know I''m supposed to like teamwork and stuff but that''s not it for me. I like solo goals."


    I tried not to make eye contact with Meghan because it seemed like a sombre moment. "Is it, er... Is it wrong if I point out that ten minutes ago Sarah was saying she hadn''t thought about me for two years?"


    "No, Max," said Meghan. "I think it''s fair comment."


    Sarah punched her friend in the arm. "Dick."


    I stood up and stretched. "Just joking, Sarah. To be honest the first time I saw you all I really wanted was to see you - Holy fuck." I turned to stone. I was no longer Max but a handsome sculpture of Max.


    "What?" said Sarah, slightly alarmed, looking for danger. She was looking in the main stand.


    Meghan had a bit more experience of me going bananas. She knew to focus her attention down on the pitch. "What''ve you seen? Max? Who is it? Who''ve you seen?"


    Wilfred Banks


    Age 17


    GK


    CA 9 PA 155


    "I can''t believe this," I said. "I can''t believe this." The euphoria rose through me like an awesome wave. I checked that all my minions were in place - they were, millions of them. Who would I send? Sticky. The Brig. Sandra. They''d all be great, but no. This was a job for me. No chance I was going to let this one slip. I opened my mouth but what I was about to say was so preposterous it took me a few seconds to get the words out. "You know what''s missing at Chester? A Banksy."


    ***


    THE DAY BEFORE


    I pointed at the billboard. Brooke was a genius for finding this deal. "How soon until we can get this in our hands and put up the first poster?"


    Brooke looked at MD. "Soon."


    "Months or weeks?"


    "Weeks."


    I nodded. "Have you got an idea for the first one?"


    "Photo of the open top bus, trophies, supporters. Text: thank you Chester fans. From Chester FC. Something like that."


    "Yep. Great. But that''s the past. We''re going forward." I grinned. "I have a better idea. People love transfers. Big transfer news. Let''s put our big new signings up here. Make it absolutely massive."


    "Sure," said Brooke. "Soon as we have something to announce."


    I bit my lip and looked down, sheepishly.


    "Max," said MD, alarmed. He had a great sense for when money was about to disappear from our bank accounts in large quantities. "What have you done?"


    I tried not to smile too hard. I told myself I was a top international businessman these days and it wasn''t seemly to gloat. "When I was in the Transfer Room I got matched with a guy from Man City. We mostly talked about the women''s team, for obvious reasons. He said they''re bringing in another four or five international stars before they get their values inflated at the Euros in Switzerland. I said it was a shame for the girls in the youth system and he said yeah. I said, look, I''m a fucking maniac but how about this..."


    "How about what?" said MD, exasperated that I was talking around the issue.


    "Let''s just say our first poster will be a plain colour. All white, maybe, like the new team bus, Chester logo in the corner - we''ll keep that there I reckon. Big letters. Are you ready to meet The Butcher?"


    MD blinked. "Meghan?"


    I smugged pretty hard. The guy at City thought he was rinsing me but I knew better. "Yep."


    Brooke didn''t know how good Meghan was but she liked my energy. "Max, you told me not to put single players in our marketing yet you keep wanting to do it!"


    "Right," I said, my bubble deflating only slightly. "Okay, then. Er, on the left it says BUTCHER. On the right it says GREENE. Make it all mysterious and shit."


    "Greene?" said MD. "Who''s that?"


    "Max is joking," said Brooke.


    "Greene with an E," I said. "She''s unbelievable. I once spent three weeks developing a tactical plan just to shut her down. Guys." I paused while I thought about how to say what I''d done in a way that wasn''t overly self-satisfied. I really couldn''t think of a humble way to say it. "I signed two of the best young players in England while I was on holiday. By accident. For the same price as this billboard." I was so tired I started laughing and couldn''t stop. It wasn''t long until I had tears streaming down my face. "Meghan, Sarah, Dani, Kisi, Angel. Holy hell what a team." I laughed some more before doing a wide king-of-the-world gesture. "I am an artist and football is my canvas!"


    "Okay, sir," said the Brig, coming forward to coax me back towards the car. "I think perhaps a hot malt drink and an early night. Your canvas will still be there in the morning."


    I allowed myself to be led away. "I''m gonna buy so many Vermeers."


    "I was always partial to Sargent."


    "Don''t tell the general," I said, very pleased with myself. I chuckled a few times as I slid into the passenger seat. I was asleep almost as soon as I buckled my seatbelt.

 11.4 - Max Flops

    4.


    Sports vocabulary: to flop. To fail. To fall flat on your face. To try to achieve something and to NOT.


    ***


    It was Emma''s idea for me to stay in the UK for an extra day after the Exit Trials. To have one day where I could chill out, do nothing, and get into fighting shape for the arduous First Class flight to Rio. Her idea was logical but quite misguided - the extra day messed me up big time. Just as I was getting readjusted to Greenwich Mean Time - surely the world''s premier time zone - I had to learn how to sleep all over again in South America.


    Still, carrying heavy eyelids for a few days wasn''t a big deal - it''s not like I had anything important to do on this trip.


    The only item on my agenda was - checks notes - saving English football.


    ***


    Emma was next to me on the plane, of course, and it was her first time in First. As an experienced traveller in the posh seats, I was able to induct her into the world of, ah, high society. This included - scandal - a couple of mile-high smooches. She looked amazing in her pyjamas and raved about her plane socks and the food. Her happiness was my happiness.


    Also looking hot as fuck in their British Airways sleep threads: Henri Lyons. My star striker gave off a haughty air as though this was his thousandth time in First and he was ranking his experience somewhere in the lowest percentile. I think it was all new to him, too, though.


    His Portuguese girlfriend Luisa was next to him but I didn''t pay her much attention.


    Okay so that was a lie; she was looking sexy ay eff. Was she still into me? I had a premonition of danger when I caught her eyeing me across the cabin.


    I resolved to be as unattractive as poss so that she wouldn''t try to, like, jump me. It was also clear I needed to avoid one-on-one time with her during the coming month, which was going to be difficult because I wanted to do dull as dishwater shit that Henri and Emma would have very little interest in. Luisa, as my translator for those events, would conceivably spend more time with me than my own girlfriend, who would spend rather a lot of time with a hot Frenchman.


    It was the setup to a farcical romantic comedy in which the audience knows from the first minute the couples have been arranged wrong. Any romcom based on the coming trip would definitely flop, even on Netflix, although perhaps there would be enough material for something called Waiting for Chelli, in which one character is constantly checking his phone while three others try to be good tourists.


    ***


    We landed safely and Luisa got to work kicking ass at the car rental place. My idea when inviting her was that she would do all the talking and most of the decision-making and let me focus on what was important - learning Relationism. She embraced her role; she tended towards bossiness anyway. She had booked what I normally would have considered an obnoxious SUV but it was possible we would be driving out of Rio to some distant places and anyway, it had to fit four huge suitcases and loads of random bags.


    We slipped into our temporary roles almost instantly. Luisa the boss, organiser, and negotiator. Henri the philosopher artist, spitting out facts and interesting thoughts at the rate of two a day. Emma the wide-eyed Brit declaring that everything was ''absolutely stunning''. Me quietly and meekly suffering through the holiday part of the holiday. The Waiting for Chelli part. The prelude.


    On the Sunday I was allowed to mope around the AirBnB, where I napped and napped and slept while the others explored the immediate neighbourhood.


    On Monday I realised why our accommodation was so expensive - we had the entire top floor of an apartment block! The twenty-floor tower was a light pastel green similar to a bunch of others in the area, but the apartment was a dark terracotta red that made the eye want to skip past it. When you finally locked on it was like you had discovered a hidden Incan temple on your journey through the jungle, an image that was aided by the massive palm trees growing in pots all around the space. Sublime.


    The living room was painted white and decorated in the style that magazines love, but there was also a red-walled reading room, a quirky kitchen with an island to eat at, blue bathrooms, green bathrooms, tasteful balconies, and calming bedrooms. Bit of a mishmash but very successful.


    Did I mention it had 7 bedrooms and you could walk around the entire roof?


    I did a few laps, shaking my head in wonder that I, Max Best, could stay in such a place for more than a night. I couldn''t have afforded it on my own, but Henri was matching my contribution and Emma was chipping in. Luisa, as a minimum wage waitress, was not on the hook for any bills, and in fact I would pay her for when I dragged her away from the tourist zones to meet coaches who knew Relationism.


    We would be able to pass some of the cost to my agency, too, because Chelli was going to come for a few nights, and we were talking about him bringing Toquinho. Well In had asked me why I didn''t try to get the winger across to Saltney Town already. He thought I could lean into my contacts with the Welsh FA to grease the wheels somewhat.


    I suspected Well In was testing me in some way, but it was an option, wasn''t it? It would cost a hundred pounds to try - a pittance - and while Toquinho would not normally qualify for a work permit based on the fact he had never played a competitive match, I would be able to pay 1,000 pounds to send the case to a so-called Exceptions Panel. If it came to that, I would turn up and berate them into agreeing that I knew a thing or two more about the sport than them and why would they stop me bringing a fucking top quality Brazilian winger to the Welsh second division? Their stated mission was to ask if this work permit would contribute to the development of the game in Wales. Er, yeah? Just a little bit.


    That was all future stuff, though. First we had to tick some tourist boxes.


    ***


    I''m not sure if this has come across very well but I''m not a good tourist.


    We went up to see The Big Jesus. That''s a little-known statue high on a hill that looks like Jesus is about to go bungee-jumping. The others were very excited to see it up close.


    I annoyed Henri by saying I didn''t want to hike up the hill and get murdered halfway up when there was a train to the top right there. He said it was perfectly safe and I said there were so many muggings at one particular spot it was marked on my app. Henri asked me to show him. I said it was on my other phone. He stormed off to the ticket counter.


    I annoyed Emma by wandering off to talk to anyone wearing a cool football shirt when she wanted to take photos of us with the spectacular bay as a backdrop.


    I annoyed Luisa by saying The Big Jesus had such a big chin it made him look like the football innovator Jimmy Hill. "And on the sixth day Jesus said let there be three points for a win." Turns out Luisa was extremely devout and religious - when she remembered, which as far as I can tell was when she was under a 50-metre tall statue of Jesus.


    Good statue. Worth a visit.


    Next - I think it was next - we went to Ipanema beach.


    I annoyed everyone by complaining we had to pay five pounds to rent an umbrella. Henri suggested it wasn''t hot enough to really need an umbrella and I asked him if he had ever heard of skin cancer. He seemed overly put out by the fact I wanted to stay in the shade. I think he had been looking forward to showing off his physical prowess in front of Luisa by partnering with me to destroy some gobby locals at beach volley-football, but I informed him regally that ''Max Best does not want sand in his shoes''. Henri paid for an umbrella, waited for me to get comfy, and then he and the ladies parked fifteen yards away in the blazing ''winter'' sun and drank caipirinhas while Henri sometimes ran off to join random games.


    They had a fantastic time, it seemed, because when they decided to merge the groups back into one they announced their intention to do the same thing but with Copacabana beach.


    "Where''s that?" I said, trying to remember the mental map I had of Rio. I sometimes wished I had a minimap that filled in as you walked around, such as those you find in video games. I suppose I could have looked at my phone but that''s no fun, is it?


    "It''s there," said Henri, pointing in a way that suggested the famous beach was approximately two thousand miles away.


    I scratched my head. "Like, is it in Rio, though?"


    "Max!" said Emma, in something like disbelief. "It''s there. Look!"


    She pointed to what was essentially an extension of Ipanema beach. Imagine you took the stands of the Deva stadium and laid them one after the other with little gaps but for some reason you decided it was now four different stadiums instead of one long one. "That''s a different beach? Are you joking with me now?"


    Emma was about to snap at me but instead she raised her index finger and said, "I need a caprinha."


    Over the next few days, locations came and went in a blur. Cafe Plage was a visual feast - we ate by a swimming pool in the courtyard of a Pride and Prejudice-type mansion. I loved it but the others decided the food wasn''t what they expected so after a long walk we turned into Confeitaria Colombo, a stupendously attractive cafe with mirrors, more mirrors, ornate fancy bits, a balcony and a huge stained-glass ceiling. Super awesome. A cathedral of cake. We burned some calories by going to an actual cathedral that looked more like an Incan pyramid crossed with brutalist 60s architecture. It was enormous and had four stupendously tall stained-glass strips but sadly, no statues of Jesus with a big chin.


    I think the next day''s choices were Henri''s and they had me spellbound. First was the Royal Portuguese Reading Room. Think of your dream Harry Potter library, or if you think you''re above that, imagine the best possible version of the Library of Alexandria. Does it have a marble floor, ornate wooden railings, and is every level double height and packed with books? After three of these double-floored wonders, does it take on the opulence of an ancient palace? Does it have a beautiful chandelier and a high, airy ceiling so beautiful it can even compete with the books?


    While I was still reeling from being pulled away from what was pretty much my favourite space in the entire universe, I found myself approaching the Museum of Tomorrow. This was a wild building that looked like it had been copy pasted from the video game Mass Effect. The inside was interesting and thought-provoking with a focus on habitat destruction and man-made climate change. The exhibits included a VR pod like in those dumb books Henri enjoyed. Yes, came the message. Humanity is ingenious. Smart. But not quite smart enough.


    Ten out of ten experience, no notes.


    There was still time enough in the day to go back to the single beach with the double name and take a boat trip around Guanabara Bay. I annoyed everyone one more time by suggesting that Rio was ''almost as attractive as Horizon Zero Dawn on the Playstation'' but as we zipped around the deep blue bay looking at Sugarloaf mountain and Chin Jesus and all the deep green tree-lined islands and as the sailors brought what Emma was now calling ''capris'' and peanuts and cheesy nibbles and as we watched the sun set on Rio, I said, "Holy shit, it''s like a dream" and all was forgiven.


    ***


    Chelli came through.


    I''d asked him to see if he could find me some Relationism to watch or a coach willing to give me private lessons. He had started at the start with stupendous results.


    Friburguense, a club so tiny it had let its domain name lapse and no-one bothered to update its Wikipedia page, had an interim head coach who had worked with Fernando Diniz and thus dabbled in Relationism. Chelli had scored me an invite to some sort of charity match they were playing on Saturday.


    It was utterly absurd to think that the night before, the Friday, I was going to watch Fluminense in the Maracana stadium and that was the second most exciting match on my schedule.


    The Maracana itself was sensational, unbelievable, more of a religious experience than the Big Jesus and the cathedral, but the pitch was shit, the match was nil-nil, and after two weeks I still hadn''t seen a professional goal scored in Brazil! Emma loved it, though. The noises, the smells, the intensity. For her it was like being home in Newcastle but with fewer topless men. Henri tried to play it cool but I could see he was having reveries of playing in the stadium, playing in such a din. Well, if he somehow felt Chester''s matches were lacking in intensity and noise, he had a surprise coming, but that wild night was a couple of months away.


    ***


    Saturday, May 24


    It turned out to be a two-hour drive to Nova Friburgo, the home of Friburguense. I was pretty surprised that Emma and Henri wanted to join Luisa and I on the journey instead of further exploring Rio, but as we drove I found out why.


    "King John," said Emma, reading from Wikipedia and bursting with morning energy from the coffee-on-steroids they served in Rio, "wanted to improve relations with Germany so he gave some land to Swiss settlers. Sorry, am I stupid or is that a different country? He gave a hundred Swiss families some land that resembled their own country. So, what? It''s full of gold and chocolate? Anyway, it''s got the second-most hotels after Rio and I''ve checked out the photos and it does look like Switzerland. I can''t wait to see it. It''s going to be hamazing I can tell, ho my God."


    I was trying to conserve energy but in my own way I was as hyper as Emma. The beauty of the landscapes barely penetrated. The sparkling chat that Henri provided triggered no response.


    I was going to see some Relationism in the flesh.


    This wild, wacky new form of football. I had to go to the ends of the earth - almost literally - to see it, but if it was tucked away in some crevice, so much the better. I''d like to see Chip Star put this much work in. Every mile we drove was a mile towards my destiny. The trip was a progression fantasy all on its own and at the end of this rainbow? A pot of Swiss gold, guaranteed.


    ***


    We arrived four hours before kick off and I caused consternation by announcing that I was going in the stadium already; I didn''t want to miss a single second.


    The others wanted to do some sightseeing instead, which I thought was a good idea because they were starting to annoy me. I didn''t need to see another fucking colourful building or another hill or another tree. I needed to see what I come to this fucking country to see. I swallowed my complaints, made sure I had my AirPods and phone, and walked to the stadium on my own leaving them to their own devices.


    I did a full lap of the stadium, a surprisingly big one, higher capacity than the Deva perhaps, though as with most in Brazil there was no roof and unlike at the Deva there was a cemetery where one of the stands should have been.


    The graveyard was a lot busier than the stadium and I found I couldn''t get in. There was early and there was very early and there was so early the groundsman hadn''t even put up the corner flags.


    There was a running track around the pitch and at one end was a high jump frame. I had attempted precisely one high jump in my life, during Athletics Day at my school. We had done a few different things and it was quite fun, though letting the Crawfords mess about with javelins had the potential to end more than a few careers. I tried to remember if my high jump had cleared the bar but I found I had no memory of it. What would I even have done? Run at the bar straight on and tried to launch myself like a cannonball?


    Thinking of school made me pensive. I''d never been the most talented athlete, though I had my moments. Something like the high jump that needed technique and dedication? That was far from my skill set. What was I naturally good at?


    My lap took me back to the start where there was a ramp leading up to a gate. From the highest point I could see the pitch and the opposite stand. It had an ugly sort of charm, though being truthful it tended more towards ugly than charming.


    "Maaaxxx," complained Emma, coming up the ramp a few yards in front of Henri and Luisa. "Where have you been?"


    I frowned. "Trying to get in."


    "We were looking all over for you."


    "I''ve been here. Why aren''t you out exploring?"


    "We can''t enjoy it if you''re in a mood."


    "I''m not in a mood. I''m fine. Go and be tourists, please. Slam your Gram."


    "But this is stupid."


    "What is?"


    Her face crumpled, just for a second, and I wasn''t sure if she was going to cry or get angry. "Sulking in the stadium."


    The word sulking brought a quick smile to my face. "What? I''m not sulking. I''m trying to get in."


    "But kick off''s not for hours."


    "I want to see the warm ups."


    Now Henri tutted. "You don''t even warm up when we have a match and now you want to watch the warm up of a Brazilian non-league team? Come, Max, be honest with us. Something is wrong. Someone has upset you."


    "I mean, this conversation is pretty upsetting because why are we having it? I''m not upset, I''m not sulking. You guys are way off."


    "You snatched your phone and flounced out of the car with a mard face," said Emma.


    "I lifted my phone with the gentle dexterity of a pickpocket and skipped away from the vehicle in a state of excitement and anticipation."


    Luisa played unlikely diplomat. "Max, the match isn''t now. The players aren''t here. We have time to get a coffee and talk. I need a coffee, Max."


    I took one last look at the gate and shrugged. "Top. Let''s all have a lovely cup of coffee together."


    ***


    There was a strange mood as we found a place and sat awkwardly around a table. I somehow aggravated everyone by asking for water instead of coffee, like that was some massive display of petulance.


    Luisa the peacemaker said, "What is wrong, Max?" She was to my left where Emma normally sat. Henri was across from me, in opposition, with Emma to his right. Against me.


    "I don''t know. We came to watch the match and I went to watch the match and now everything''s kicking off except the footy. I have no clue what''s going on."


    "You have been very moody and difficult," said Henri. "And this is a new level."


    "No I haven''t and it isn''t."


    Emma said, "You''ve been weird, babes. You''re being weird."


    I tried that thing where instead of replying you count to ten. It''s supposed to stop you saying things you regret and it worked to a certain extent. As the silence stretched I tried to see things from their point of view. What had I done? Why were they being like this? I utterly failed to see a valid reason and I felt my neck getting hot. Maybe Henri and my girlfriend had an invalid reason.


    I counted to twenty.


    Henri looked from Luisa to Emma and down at his hands. "Is there something you would like to say to us, Max?"


    "Is there something you would like to say to me?"


    That confused him. "I am on holiday, having a nice time in Brazil. Trying to, anyway. Between all your sighs and snarls and growls and the times you fail to respond to questions. Pushing your plate away, rubbing your temples, sighing some more, yawning, being on your phone during meals. We have to drag you out of the apartment and force you to visit one of the wonders of the world and everywhere we go you are irascible. And now we come to an interesting place and no sooner do we arrive than you escape us by rushing to the nearest football stadium. What is this, tenth tier? What are we to think, Max, other than you do not want us here?"


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I counted to five. "Er... I think we''ve got some crossed wires, maybe. You''re on holiday. Emma''s on holiday. I''m not on holiday. Luisa''s not on holiday." I made a swirling motion around the two of us on my side of the table. "We''re working. When we''re not working, we''re on holiday. I don''t need Luisa to translate anything right now so if you three want to go explore, that''s fine. It''s better than fine - you can tell me all about it and I''ll enjoy listening. I want you to have a good time but I think somewhere along the line you guys maybe forgot the starting point of this trip. I''m here to learn about Relationism.


    "Today''s the first time I might see it, actually see it. That''s huge. It''s a monumental moment in my career and my life. If I''m sighing and rubbing my temples or whatever that''s because I can''t wait for it to happen. If I''m not eating it''s because the anticipation is so intense. I know being on my phone is rude but I do have a football club to run and the Brig needs me to wrap up the Exit Triallists. It''s proving strangely difficult. Plus guys like Lee Contreras are about to be unemployed and if I break contact that''s needless stress. And we''re building three football pitches and a training ground. I can''t go completely off-grid or they¡¯ll put my office upside down."


    Emma said, "You don''t need to see the warm ups. We could go and do something until kick off."


    I counted to eight. "Emma. I need to see everything. Especially the warm ups. The drills. Where the coaches stand, how they communicate with the players. Most of the information about Relationism is abstracted to the point of absolute wank. It''s all ''oh it comes from the work of this philosopher''. There are no videos of drills that I can find. How does it work? How is it actually coached? There are coaches whose pre-match warmup tells you about their philosophy. Marcelo Bielsa puts a huge square of white tape on the middle of the pitch hours before kick off. The players do their drills as usual and suddenly there are thirty seconds of craziness inside that square and then his coaches peel the tape away. What''s that all about?


    "I don''t know but I know it''s fundamental to how he thinks about football and if I wanted to copy him I would start by trying to understand what that square meant. But I don''t want to copy Bielsa, I want to copy the guy today. Geraldo his name is. That''s why I''m here. That''s why everyone is here. It''s hard for me to reconcile saying I want to go to Brazil to study Relationism and you getting mad when I actually do it. Didn''t I specifically say ''I''m going to Brazil to study Relationism'' like a hundred times? This today is the whole point of the summer. It''s bewildering to me that I''m being dug out for it. You can go explore. That was my whole concept. I knew there would be times when I would be doing some boring crap and when I''m doing that you can do whatever you want."


    Emma seemed to do some counting of her own. "You''ve been working hard for a year. You finished the season and flew to Brazil to work some more. Now you''re working again."


    "I don''t understand what I''m supposed to do. Look at some things?"


    "Enjoy yourself."


    I shook my head. "I''m enjoying myself as much as I can. I''m sorry if you think I''ve been sighing and being dramatic and all that. That came out wrong. I believe you when you say I was doing that but it wasn¡¯t me being grumpy or moody. Really, that''s not what it was. That''s just... the tension. What''s it going to look like? How''s it going to feel? I''ve been anticipating this for ages. It''s like Christmas. But not fun, English Christmas. More like German Christmas. You get a toy or you get a slap in the face. What if it''s not what I need? What if it is?" My heart rate increased by ten just from saying the words.


    Emma frowned and shifted on her chair. "You did say why we were coming. I got excited about seeing all the sights. Cramming as much into the trip as poss before we rush off somewhere else." She glanced at Henri, then me. "Maybe we misunderstood your mood."


    "I think you did because just now you were mad at me for not ordering coffee." I laughed. "That''s mental, guys."


    Henri swept his hair across his forehead. "It seemed to be in character with this surly, grumpy version of you."


    I stuck my bottom lip out. "I''m honestly, genuinely not grumpy. Rio''s way nicer than I expected and I love the food and I love seeing you have a good time but... I''m excited and I''m nervous. So much is riding on today and if it doesn''t work... If I see it but I can''t see it..."


    Emma said, "Henri, could you get me a napkin, please?"


    He stood instantly and when he was gone, Emma slid across into his seat. Henri returned with a few napkins and a smile of recognition - she had played him. "Voil¨¤."


    "Obrigado." Emma put her hands across the table - mine slid out without thinking and enveloped them - and closed her eyes. She thought things through, then said something I was pretty sure she had said to me when we first met. "Explain it to me."


    "Explain what?"


    "This Relationism thing. Why is it so important?"


    I couldn''t believe my ears. "But you were there when I discovered it. You read the article. You wrote to the guy who wrote the article! You know all about it."


    "Babes, it''s football. It goes in one ear and out the other. But now I need to understand why it''s so important to you that you''d try to break into an empty stadium. Don''t," she said, squeezing my hand. "I saw the way you were looking at that gate. I need to understand it now so please explain it to me."


    "Me too," said Henri, which I found surprising because he had certainly watched a few videos and I had talked to him about it. "Why now? You won''t use it this season, will you? So why now?"


    I turned to Luisa. She pulled a face. "I''m interested also, though I don''t need you to explain yourself to me. I trust you." That was a little dig at the others, I felt. "But I don''t see the attraction of this system. It has failed more times than it has succeeded. The two coaches we planned to meet were fired in the meantime."


    I took my hands away from Emma and pulled the napkins towards me. Luisa automatically pulled a pen out of her handbag. I took the opportunity to think about how to explain this. It was strange because I thought I already had, many times. How much of that had only ever been in my own head? Was it possible I''d never said it out loud?


    "I''ll start with Henri," I said. "Why now? Because like Luisa said, it''s not a system that wins a lot. We''ve had to come to Brazilian Switzerland to see a guy who might use it in a friendly match. There''s this saying, nothing odd will do long. If you lose playing 4-4-2 you don''t necessarily get fired but if you lose with your entire team lined up on the left wing you will get fired. The guy who invented this thing has been fired from every job in Brazil. What if this summer is the last time I could possibly see it? What if this summer is when it goes extinct? Yeah, I could do experiments and approximate it but it would be my version and not the original. I want to see the original so it has to be now. Chin Jesus will still be there next week, do you know what I mean? If Toquinho comes we can do the tourist things again and I''ll be charming and we''ll play on the sand like toddlers."


    "Is that a promise?" said Henri.


    "No," I said. "But you can poke me when I''m huffing and puffing because I''m thinking about Relationism."


    "But what even is it?" said Emma.


    I picked up a napkin and drew a rectangle. "Probably need to remind you what the opposite is. It''s called positional play. That''s the method everyone uses now. That''s the current orthodoxy. Football as structure with chess pieces instead of players."


    I drew lines inside the rectangle until it looked more like a tennis court than a football pitch.


    "Ten boxes in each half. Small ones at the sides, a medium one that includes the penalty box, the biggest one in the middle of the pitch, two narrow ones either side. These are called the half spaces, by the way, You''ve heard people talk about players who are good in the half spaces. That''s there. Not the middle, not the edge. For most managers, position is everything. He who controls the space controls the universe. Okay so one of the rules of positional play is you don''t have more than two players in any vertical set of boxes and you don''t have more than three horizontally. By forcing your players to obey that rule, as they move around you should always have passing options, should be able to retain the ball, should be in good position to defend against counter attacks. It''s a structure and having structure lifts you up and prevents collapse."


    I stared at what I''d drawn for a while.


    "If you think about 4-4-2, it automatically breaks the rule. You have a centre back, central midfielder, and striker all in a line. In the early days of this, 4-4-2 merchants got crushed and it took them years to understand why. Okay but these lines aren''t just theory; it''s baked into the day-to-day coaching. Elite coaches have special pitches with these lines painted onto the grass. Sometimes the boxes have numbers and you get told to stay in box 7 or something. I did something of the sort once with the Chester Knights. Remember, Henri?"


    "I do."


    "So I''m not against positional play; it comes naturally to me but that''s part of the problem. I''ll come back to that. So how rigid are these rules? Very. Pep used to tell his left-sided players not to cross to the right. Thierry Henry did it once in a match, scored a goal, and Pep subbed him off at half time. This methodology is all about the coach. The coach is the star. The players are cogs in the machine. Their job is to be athletic and do what they''re told to a high level. You remember when we met, Emma? Why I like sport?"


    She smiled. "Expertise, athleticism, moments of surprise."


    "Coaches want expert athletes to help them achieve mathematical perfection so that they can eliminate surprise."


    I swirled the pen around my fingers before tapping the napkin.


    "I can do this. I''m quite good at it and getting better. By the time I get to the Premier League I''ll be able to use it to a pretty high level. Pep''s leaving City. Klopp''s gone. The new guys are fine, from what I can tell, but there''s no-one who''s a visionary who''s going to do something unbelievable with this stuff. They will do it to a high level but one I can aspire to. I could be, say, the third best positional guy in my second season in the Prem. Whoop-de-doo.


    "So here''s a key question. When I''m in the Prem, who am I managing?


    "It won''t be the Manchester Oilers or the Manchester Boomers. It won''t be the London Hypercapitalists or the London Gougers. It won''t be the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.


    "It''ll probably be Chester and it won''t matter how good I am if I''m doing the same no-surprises shit as everyone else. Football is a talent game and talent costs money and Chester will have the least money by far. It''s already unfair in League Two but it gets worse with every step. A year to consolidate in the Championship will help but even then I''m going to be hundreds of millions behind the others. So doing what they do with less money is a recipe for disaster. I need something else, right? I need an edge."


    "Relationism," said Emma.


    "I hope so. Positional play is fine. It''s how you win in modern football and it''s universal. I''ve seen quite a few training sessions in Brazil and you could scoop them up and do them in Chester, no problem, which means you could scoop up the players, too. That''s good for the players here - if they want to get rich - and grabbing those players is good for me. I need to provide for my mum and myself and the people of Chester and fine, if mathematical football is what I have to do, I''ll do it for a while. I can turn Chester into the fifteenth best team in the Prem and slip a mill into my pocket and do a new social program every year. Fine. But fifteenth is the limit. If I finish fifteenth in the Prem with Chester I''ll probably win Manager of the Year because it''ll be mind-blowing to everyone in the industry." I shook my head. "Fifteenth? That''s my limit? That''s my future?


    "Relationism is a surprise. It''s bonkers. It''s crazy. No team in England has ever used it. Is that bad? No. It''s good. It means no team in England has ever played against it. I think City did once and maybe there were some others but not in any meaningful way. If I can get it to work, the future looks more like this: An analyst watches Chester and tells the manager okay they use a double pivot, they have four in the rest defence, he''s a good player, he''s a good player. Pretty standard so far. Oh, he says, just before they pack up and get lunch, by the way, they can fucking reshape the entire sport any time they want. Manager blinks. What do you mean? I mean the entire team squashes itself into a tenth of the pitch and moves along the touchline like an introvert hugging the wall at the school prom. Sorry, can you stop using similes and say exactly what you mean? Okay, I''m saying you can prepare for one thing and if you shut them down they''ll do something completely different that''s impossible to prepare for. I''m saying they can compete using 3-4-3 or they might decide to play hopscotch and there''s nothing you can do about it. Er, okay. Thanks for the warning."


    I got another napkin and drew another rectangle.


    "Imagine seeing this on a pre-match formation graphic. There''s a goalie. There''s one guy who stands over here. And then there are just millions of players over here in a blob."


    I drew circles on the left of the pitch where I''d seen players go in the videos.


    "That''s only ten players," said Luisa.


    "Right," I laughed. "See, I don''t even know where they go. I''m not sure if they know where they go. That''s why I''m so desperate to see it, right?" I put the eleventh guy at the top of the blob. It felt more right than putting him at the bottom, but I couldn''t have explained why.


    "This? How do you coach this? How do you defend it? How do you maintain the intensity over ninety minutes? I''ve got hundreds of questions." I tapped the pen against my lips. "Another reason why it has to be now. It''s going to take me years to understand it completely but one thing I can start doing is putting together a team that can actually play this football. One reason why managers get sacked for doing this might be that they don''t have the players who can do it. I suspect you need flair. If that''s true I''ve got four years to assemble a team with high flair before I unleash this on the Prem. Do you get me? And I''m not going to get sacked if it doesn''t work right away. I can dick about more than most managers. More than anyone in the world I can try to make it work."


    Henri turned the napkin to face him. "The Premier League, Max? With Chester?"


    "Yeah," I said. There was something tragic about the little cafe we were in. Something that made me sure it would be out of business within six months. Maybe that got me to open up even more, as though I was whispering a secret to a rock and throwing it into a river. "I think I''m one of the best in the world at making numbers go up. Find a player, train him, sell him, repeat. The other day someone said there were only two players left from when I first arrived at Chester: Ben and Magnus. It doesn''t feel like it but it''s been quite a churn. It''ll keep going like that, all the way to the top. I like the squad building and allocating resources and making decisions but it''s also quite easy. Glenn Ryder can''t play League Two. It''s difficult because he''s a human being but it''s just not even close, right? He just can''t.


    "It''s possible for Chester to slip into a doom spiral on my watch. That would have been last season if we didn''t go up and Wibbers and Youngster left for tiny transfer fees that didn''t move the needle. But from where we are now, I''d have to be very stupid, I think, or incredibly unlucky to mess it up.


    "So what''s the challenge? What''s the point of it all? Yeah, money and security and having a house and things like that. That''s motivational. Getting to the Prem and having a vote on major issues, that''s motivational. Taking a fan-owned team to the top is motivational. But that comes from this talent of mine. I''m riding it pretty well but in the end, it''s not my horse."


    "What do you mean?" said Emma.


    I inhaled slowly and exhaled even more so. I couldn''t mention the curse, which made explaining myself almost impossible. "You know Angel? She got a good sponsorship deal from Grindhog. First of many, I reckon. She has scored a few goals but basically she got that for being beautiful. If I were her I''d want to prove I had something beyond what I was born with. I hope she does, too, because she''s really talented. My talent is, like, finding good players and knowing when they aren''t improving. But that''s not me. It''s, er, god-given. I just tried it one day and could do it with no effort. So... It''s amazing to be able to help people like Tomzilla and Youngster and even Zach and Christian but it''s not in itself motivational. Like, if I had a billion pounds in the bank, would I still do it? Not like I do now. I wouldn''t go rushing to every football pitch in Wales for weeks on end.


    "When you found me at the stadium I was looking at the high jump. Henri, I bet you were good at all the athletics things."


    "I was exceptional, yes, thank you for assuming that."


    I smiled. "Dick Fosbury looked at how people were doing the high jump and he thought, I wonder if there''s a better way? He said, okay there are those mats there now. Crashing into them isn''t so bad. Why don''t I jump backwards? I don''t know how long it took him to nail it but he got that gold medal and a move named after him and the whole sport does it his way now. I want to do that with Relationism.


    "Taking a flawed, fun idea and perfecting it. Bringing something niche into the mainstream. Smashing the big clubs while making billions of football fans point at the screen and yell ''what the shit is happening?'' Think how boring elite football can be and think how wild I could make it. That''s motivational."


    They were looking at me in a very different way from before the car ride. They were with me. Wild as my dreams were, they were my dreams, but now I had to try to explain something that was so deep inside me I could barely begin to describe it with words or pictures.


    "I want to do it myself. I want to learn it from the inside like a normal student. I never went to university and I didn''t work hard in school. This is my one chance to really try to learn something hard without cheats, just me on my own. Me and my brain. Starting from zero.¡±


    What I couldn¡¯t say out loud was that if I couldn¡¯t do it on my own, I wasn¡¯t going to unlock the Relationism module.


    "If I can''t learn it, if I''m not actually that smart or that good, then fine, I''ll have to live with that and maybe I''ll decide that being fifteenth in the Prem is a good life or maybe I''ll take my Manager of the Year trophy and I''ll put it on the shelf of my cottage in Wales and make a hedgehog paradise in the woods I own."


    "We own, babes," smiled Emma.


    My throat was suddenly tight. I took a sip of my controversial water. "That''s what I said."


    Henri was nodding. He let out a huge sigh. "Of course. Of course you are trying to create some football while we berate you for not being present. How can you be present when you are living four years in the future? How can you find meaning in the Selaron Steps when you seek the meaning of life itself?"


    "It''s not the meaning of life," I said. "Just the meaning of the next ten years. Am I going for it? Have I got it in me to really go for it? Or is my talent just what it seems?"


    "What is that?" said Henri.


    I didn''t want to use the word curse so I decided to change the topic. "It''s not the end of the world if the guy today plays a straight 4-4-2. I''ll try again. Chelli''s talking to everyone in Rio and we''ll find something, I''m sure. Worst case scenario is we find one of Diniz''s coaches and throw cash at him to put on some sessions or I go to Argentina early and try again there. I don''t know. But that''s me, right, that''s my journey. You don''t have to suffer. Go to Sugarloaf Mountain. Go to the library. Do all the things. I want you to."


    There was a very tiny pause. Henri pointed to my glass. "Why didn''t you have coffee?"


    "I want to be completely sharp. No chemicals."


    "Eh bien. You are all in, I see." He tapped the table. "Three hours before kick off. Maybe if we go to the stadium now we will see in which order they plant the corner flags." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "It could be very important, mon ami." I tutted, but he laughed. "I am rinsing you, my friend! I am extracting your urine. No," he said, quite seriously. "I want to see what you see. Maybe one day I will look back on this day and know that this was the day you saved English football."


    I sort of sigh-laughed. "Are you still rinsing me?"


    He shrugged. "I will tell you in the stadium. I will be your assistant manager, naturally."


    "Fat chance," said Emma, pushing her chair back, standing, and picking up her little purse. "Position''s filled."


    Henri stood, languidly rescuing his sunglasses from the table. Luisa turned, letting her arm drop behind the chair. Waiting for me.


    "All right," I said. They were going to support me. It was bonkers with so long before the game, but my pulse went sky high again. "All right, Brazil. Show us what you''ve got."


    ***


    Friburguense Atl¨¦tico Clube versus Deportivo La Coru?a Brasil Futebol Clube


    There was a new sense of unity in the group as we sat two by two. Emma by my side, Henri diagonally to the front, Luisa ahead.


    I''d given Emma permission to poke me or shake me if I was sighing or huffing or if I had slappable resting face, but so far she hadn''t used her new power. I spent a good portion of the wait leaning forward with my hands pressed together, lips pressed to my fingers.


    The corner flags came out - Henri looked back and said "One at a time, Max! Oh! Clockwise! Write that down." Luisa gave him an annoyed dig but I didn''t mind the teasing one little bit.


    The teams - local rivals, it seemed, but I didn''t give the slightest shit - came out and started their warm ups and I almost instantly felt sick. The blood drained from my face and I stared, aghast, stomach reeling, as they ran up and down in straight lines. Absolutely conventional - from 1988. There was no chance a team warming up like that was going to do anything other than 4-4-2.


    Sure enough, an hour before kickoff, the Match Overview screens kicked in and I knew the formations of the teams. Friburg''s 4-4-2 against Depor''s 4-3-3. The CAs and PAs were pitiful. There was nothing here for me.


    I fell into a bleak pipe lined with miles of the cringe I''d laid during my big speech, the speech I had given to justify why I wanted to come here and watch this. The same match I could have seen anywhere in the world. For this I had distressed my girlfriend, annoyed my friend, and weirded out the hot waitress half of Chester had fallen for.


    Shaken, I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face but there was a vague smell in the room that made me feel even more queasy. I escaped into the fresh air and wondered what to do. What could I do? Nothing but suffer.


    I slunk back to my seat and suffered while a man smoked in the vicinity of the dugout. He was in a basic light blue shirt and was wearing gold rings and a chain. Since it was winter and it was so, so cold he was wearing a black cap that matched his scruffy stubble. He took another drag of his cigarette.


    This expression of masculinity was the great Geraldo and all my hopes were pinned on him.


    I found I was cupping my hands around and above my eyes and wondered if I was doing it to see as little as possible or to stop people from seeing me. I sat back, crossed my legs, tried to look relaxed. Ten seconds later I was back doing the eye tent thing.


    The agony ratcheted up as we neared kick off. In the last minutes, I formed my hand into a fist and gnawed on my nearest knuckle.


    Then the match kicked off and, sure enough, it was a bog-standard lower division match. Hoofed high balls, headers, throw ins.


    It took about thirty seconds for my stomach to calm down. Thirty seconds for feeling to return to my cheeks. The day was a bust, so what? My friends would forgive me, especially if I really, really made an effort to join the holiday. Maybe we could find a jazz bar in Rio and have cocktails and I would pretend to be sophisticated and urbane. Pretty much the opposite of what I had done so far.


    "Argh!" I yelled, as I shot to my feet. The moment had caused me actual physical pain and now I was dizzy. Spinning. I felt like I would tumble down the steps but I couldn''t take my eyes off the players.


    The team in red and blue halves, coached by Geraldo, had drifted off to the right of the pitch and there they were in a mass. That beautiful blob! That sublime disorder! They were really doing it. It lasted all of ten seconds before one of them played a stray pass and the whites collected the ball. Friburg swarmed them but their counter-press led to a Depor throw-in and the game took on the traditional shape again.


    "4-4-2 out of possession," I croaked. The moisture from my throat was seeping out of my forehead.


    I checked my experience points and they hadn''t changed.


    XP balance: 9,030


    No, I thought. That wasn''t right. I had felt it. I had felt something happen; it had hurt.


    A wild idea took me to the perk shop. I had reordered the perks in order of desirability and the one I wanted was right there at the top.


    Relationism: 29,999 XP


    It had got cheaper! One XP cheaper!


    Henri was up by my side and he was grabbing me. I made to tell him I was okay but he had a Rio Grande-sized smile on his face. "Max! I saw it!" He laughed.


    Emma was laughing, too, the kind of laugh there must have been when Fosbury first flopped. Giddy, confused pleasure. "What the hell was that?"


    Luisa turned, her eyes huge. "Moments of surprise."


    I stood, chest heaving, hands clasped tight as though I was freezing cold. It was a heady mix of euphoria, relief, disbelief, and the same sense of shock the others were feeling. Relationism was so much more thrilling in person. I''d had ten seconds of it and was high. My entire body had pins and needles and it wasn''t pleasant.


    The next time Friburg got the ball they passed around in a pretty conventional way, but slowly their players congealed on the right of the pitch again. The tactics screen tried its best to show what was happening but it simply wasn''t designed for the task; it showed several players on top of each other. The red and blue shirts played a few simple passes and suddenly they were thirty yards further forward and their opponents didn''t know what to do.


    Henri watched with his jaw dropped. Emma giggled nervously with every pass. Luisa was hunched forward taking it all in.


    Relationism: 29,998 XP


    The pins and needles feeling was only increasing; it was getting to be genuinely painful. "I want it," I said.


    Geraldo, the ultimate expression of virility, was on the touchline using his cigarette to give instructions. His gold flashed. Gold medal winner. If I had my way they would rename the sport Geraldoball. I felt myself wobble and knew if I stayed standing I would literally topple. I sat down feeling like a criminal casing the joint as I concentrated harder on the action than any match since I''d been cursed.


    "I want it. Fosbury won a gold medal doing things his way." The pins and needles weren''t going away. My body was screaming at me, telling me what I already knew. "This is the missing piece. I''m going to flop above all the other teams. I''m going to flop my way to the top."


    "Quite a slogan," said Henri.


    "Hey," I said, jabbing him on the shoulder. "I¡¯ve got a week of exercise to catch up on. At half time, let''s do high jumps."


    He scoffed. "I would crush you. There is no fun in it."


    I scoffed twice as hard. "You wanted to play me at beach footy."


    His eyes narrowed as the challenge landed. "Very well. I will beat you on the beaches, I will beat you on the football grounds.¡±


    I leaned all the way forward and put my arms around his neck. ¡°Henri Churchill! Henri Lionheart! This is the life, isn¡¯t it, mate? This is it right here.¡± I looked from Geraldo to the high jump to the graveyard. ¡°I¡¯m in the exact right place with the exact right people. What more could a grumpy Manc twat want?¡±

 11.5 - Keeping It Real

    5.


    Geraldo liked money. Geraldo didn''t like me. Geraldo liked money more than he disliked me.


    After the match (two-all, it''s not important, stop fixating on results and also stop asking who won the high jumps), Luisa and I invited ourselves into the dressing room to ask him to put on a special training session in the morning. Geraldo said no, he had to go to church. Luisa said, after church then. He said no, he would never work on the sabbath day. Luisa said how about for two thousand reais? He said three thousand. I said deal.


    Then came a separate negotiation with the players. I needed twenty and as luck would have it, there were more than twenty fit local lads in the two dressing rooms. Luisa set about negotiating a fee. I had to pay them to give them extra coaching! Luisa quickly grew tired of the discussions, got the two captains together and said the first twenty players who turned up in the afternoon would get two hundred reais cash and the chance to play with a big star from England.


    "And a medium star from France," I said, which Luisa didn''t think was funny.


    The session arranged, I immediately set about planning the next steps. We would drive home and get our gear and come back. Find a hotel and once again be early to the stadium. No earthquake, no mudslide, no coup d''etat would stop me being there.


    Emma persuaded me to relax. We could stay in our luxury apartment and have a nice evening in Rio and drive as early as I wanted the next day, with plenty of time for contingencies. Everything would be all right. Luisa agreed - if we were delayed by a natural disaster it wouldn''t matter because for four hundred quid, Geraldo would keep the sabbath wholly for me.


    ***


    We had dinner at the Pura Brasa chickenhouse in Ipanema. Another of Henri''s choices, and another surprise because I always expected him to choose some hipster nightmare that served your meal in a sieve or a swanky, fancy place that replaced your cutlery every five minutes, but he actually tended to go for places with great food and he didn''t mind about anything else.


    I had grilled chicken with crispy skin while Henri chose the chicken heart skewer. He always went straight to the most distressing part of the menu.


    "This guy," I complained. "He''s not happy unless he''s eating cheek, ear, brains..." I tried to think of what else I''d seen him devour. "Loins, jowls, tongue. Hoof. Marrow. Chicken heart is a new low, I think."


    He wasn''t bothered - he didn''t see anything wrong in what he was doing. "You are right, Max. I should be like you and subsist on mushy peas."


    Luisa showed off an exotic word she had learned. "What would you do with the parts of the animal you consider icky?"


    "I don''t know," I said. "Sell them to France. Don''t take all their little hearts and skewer them. That''s, er, heartless. Have some respect. Eat them one at a time like communion wafers."


    Emma didn''t want to talk about Henri''s crimes against poultry. "Are you excited, babes?"


    "Big time. Geraldo''s only doing an hour and I know he''ll try to rinse me in some way. Twenty minute warmup maybe, while he smokes. Then a drill. Then another. Then a mini game. Finish six minutes early. I am one hundred percent sure he will fleece me to the max and spend the rest of his life telling the story of how he mugged me off."


    "I could cancel," said Luisa.


    "No, I kind of don''t mind, weirdly. The whole thing will cost a thousand pounds, which is pretty mental given his coaching level but in the scheme of things, it''s nothing, and if he''s thinking ''oh that tourist can afford it'' he''s right." Geraldo''s Coaching Outfield Players rating, as assessed by the curse, was 4 out of 20. Under normal circumstances I wouldn''t let him coach a single one of my players. "But it''s like... I don''t need it to be good. We know he only had a few sessions with those players and they played in a way none of us have ever seen before. It''s, like, good enough. Do you know what I mean?"


    Emma said, "After the session can we explore Brazilian Switzerland?"


    "Babes, yes, million percent." My phone buzzed. "Hang on. That¡¯ll be a text from the Brig. Everyone else is on mute. Er..."


    "Go ahead," said Henri.


    I read out what it said. "Wilfred Banks would like to video chat with you." I tutted and very nearly slammed my phone down. "Jesus Christ."


    "What''s up?" said Emma.


    I sighed. My chicken was delicious but not for the first time on the trip, I''d lost some of my appetite. "These fucking kids, man. Remember at the Exit Trials - oh, you two weren''t there. Okay so I saw some decent players. One was a box-to-box midfielder. Not quite what I need right now but I thought fuck it, let''s swipe right on him anyway. If we''re the only team who wants him, we''ll train him up. He''s too good to get no offers, right? I did big him up to other teams but you never know how serious they are. He signed for Bradford City. Er, what? Then I really liked a fast striker. He has signed..."


    "For Bradford City?" said Henri, seeming to lose some interest in his own food.


    "Right. There was a goalie I quite liked and again, I said I was interested just in case we were the only ones. Bradford. This guy Sunday Sowunmi, centre back, he got an offer from Bradford."


    "Oh, no," said Emma. "I really liked him."


    "Yeah, me too," I said. "I got Sharky to charm his parents and they fell for it big time. All that work we put into Sharky, the extra sessions, the patience, the belief, the trust, he told them about it and they ate it up. Sandra and Meghan swooped in to find out about Sowunmi as a player. We made that personal connection and no-one from Bradford ever spoke to them before the contract offer. So he''s coming with us."


    "Yes!" said Emma, pushing me quite hard.


    I grinned, just for a second. "He wants to be part of what we''re doing more than he wants a few hundred quid a week. He''s my kind of player." My smile died. "Right so Wilffff was the best of the lot and I went full Max on him after the match. He seemed to be super into it. He even knew who I was. He was bouncing by the time I finished with him. From ''your career is over'' to ''wow you''re great we want you'' in minutes, right? So what happens next?"


    "Bradford City," said Henri.


    "Yeah. They offered him a thousand pounds a week."


    Henri whistled. Luisa said, "What did you offer?"


    "Our basic for Exit Triallists is five hundred. Banksy was like, er, do you want to double your offer? Trying to set up a fucking auction! So I withdrew it."


    "What?" said Emma.


    I turned to her, surprised by her tone. "The little shit was on the scrapheap and if it wasn''t for me he would still be there. He will never play a minute for Bradford and his career will end aged 20 instead of aged 18. Whatever. Good luck earning generational wealth on a grand a week, you stupid twat."


    "Max."


    "What?"


    "He''s just a kid. How''s he supposed to know about Chip and what''s best for him? You would want a thousand instead of five hundred. Everyone would."


    I pointed to Henri. "He could get tons more at fifty other clubs. I could get a ton more at fifty-one other clubs. Money''s important but you get it by being good at the sport. Anyway, if money''s his motivation he''s going to leave as soon as another club offers him more pay. Better he fucks off now than when it hurts the team."


    "But you''re going to talk to him?"


    "About what? I''ll just get mardy and sarcastic. It''s a bad look. Anyway, I''ve soured on the whole Exit Trials thing. One of the organisers told Bradford who I was interested in, like a fucking spy. All Bradford had to do was copy the names I wrote and bosh, they''ve got four talented players that I scouted. They didn''t even waste a drop of petrol. I flew halfway across the world and back for those ungrateful fuckers. Fuck all that noise. I''m done planting cedars in the wilderness. There''s this thing in Japan where they get a tree and cut off all the buds except one so that one single teeny tiny bud gets all the tree juice and it grows into a five kilogram apple. A mega apple. That''s gonna be Sunday Sowunmi. He''s gonna get extra coaching like the world has never seen. He''s gonna be a mega apple."


    Emma jabbed me. "You''re going to tell John that you''ll be happy to speak to Wilfred - if you can finally get your head around the concept of time zones - and you''re going to be nice to him and you''re going to listen to what he has to say."


    "No, I''m going to be a dick."


    "No, you''re going to be the sweetest, nicest Max there has ever been."


    "You can''t make me."


    She picked up one of Henri''s skewers. "Be sweet and nice or I''ll eat a chicken heart."


    "You wouldn''t."


    "It''s for Wilfred. For his future."


    "Urgh," I said, sweetly and nicely. I grabbed my phone, hammered out a reply to the Brig while cackling, then deleted it and wrote the opposite.


    ***


    Sunday, May 25


    Geraldo''s Samba-Style Soccer School


    I slept a bit, I think, but it''s fair to say I was excited. Apprehensive, too, because the scarcity mindset had kicked in. I was fretting that Geraldo would take me for a ride and squeeze every dollar he could out of me. I wasn''t rich enough to burn money and if he pushed too far I would kick off and that would be the end of the lessons.


    Turned out, I was worrying about the exact wrong things.


    We got to the stadium early and I allowed myself to be dragged to look at, I don''t know, some sheds or something. Tourist duties? Check. Then it was time.


    Far more than twenty players had turned up but we gave priority to the ones who played for the local teams. They had some minimum standard at least. I was by far the best player with Henri second followed by the sort of drop you normally only get when a plane hits a patch where there''s literally no air.


    The warm up was straight lines. Up and down. I was starting to catastrophise when Geraldo blew his whistle to end it. We spent five minutes doing simple passing drills. He whistled again and we were into the meat of Relationism.


    Ten minutes! He wasn''t ripping me off after all.


    Luisa stood next to him - he did not mind that one little bit - and she translated for Henri and I.


    "Nine players red and blue," she said. "Nine white. You and Henri wear black shirts. You are jokers. When a Friburguese passes to you, you are Friburguese. When Depor, you are Depor. Is it clear?"


    "Yes," I said. "We have similar drills." Similar? Try identical. I was trying hard not to lose my goddamn mind for once. The jokers concept was used when coaches wanted the team in possession to have more players.


    Geraldo spoke harshly and Luisa copied his tone. "The rules are, you get one point for a river."


    "What?"


    "That''s it. Let''s go."


    I stood and called back. "One point for what?"


    But Geraldo yelled at us to get in the middle. He really didn''t like me! I didn''t want to annoy him into leaving early so I obeyed.


    He had used cones to mark a rectangle that was about a third of the width and length of the full-sized pitch. With two goalkeepers standing at either end of this section, we were squashed in like sardines. Someone threw a ball to the reds and it was on.


    I was Relationisming!


    Geraldoball in action!


    Of course, I had no clue what to do. The first time someone passed to me I looked around for Henri because one thing was clear - we were always on the same team. I was about to fire a pass to his feet when some cheeky Brazilian scamp nicked the ball off me! Fuck sake, mate. Would you mind awfully not.


    My English caveman instinct was to chase after the ball and win it back, which I did, leaning to howls of protest from Geraldo and a sad-eyed but silent reproach from the guy I''d tackled.


    "He''s on your team," yelled Luisa.


    I mentally kicked myself and jogged around trying to work out the game from the inside. That was actually better than having it explained, right? That was what I wanted.


    Twenty seconds passed and the action went past in a blur. I''d seen clips from traffic intersections in India where thousands of cars, lorries, and bikes just sort of drove at each other and it miraculously all worked out. This was like that but with even less comprehensible rules. The reds passed, lost the ball, the whites took over and were immediately pressed. The press was counter-pressed and the ball was jinked away and there was a flick and a scoop and a pass and Geraldo shouted something.


    "One point!" yelled Luisa.


    "Why!" I shouted, but I didn''t want her to answer. I rejoined the Brownian motion, the playground football, the murmuration.


    Minutes passed with me not getting it, waiting for it to click.


    I''d seen a guy on YouTube who was good at picking locks and he had a link to a starter kit. I ordered it and learned pretty fast how to pick the starter lock. I mean, it was almost literally child''s play. But when I tried on a harder lock, I got nowhere. It never clicked, it never opened.


    More points were awarded. There was no debate, no argument from the opposition. Someone had done something to earn those points; it was inarguable. The session was being played out by two local rivals and they each wanted to win. They wanted those points and were getting them.


    It didn''t click.


    After exactly ten minutes we took a break.


    I was sweating and felt drained. I must have looked ridiculous to the CA 10 players. This guy paid himself thirty thousand reais a week? You''re joking, right?


    Henri was sweaty, too, which was pleasing. "I know what a river is, Max."


    "Don''t tell me," I said.


    "You sure?"


    "Yeah."


    Geraldo said something that Luisa didn''t bother to translate and we got back to the drill.


    Pass, move, chaos, disorder. The complete lack of structure was so alien it was kind of tugging my brain in directions it didn''t want to go. Suddenly there was a rotation of players that left one guy open on the left, if only someone could get the ball to him. I sidestepped right, demanded the ball, and pinged one of the most sublime passes in the history of physics through a mass of legs, spinning, curling, right onto his toes. There should have been applause, gasps even. Nothing. Worst of all, I didn''t even get a point.


    How could you not get a point for that? What was of higher value than that pass?


    I crouched while I thought for a few seconds. I decided to do what I always did when times got tough - I played one-touch. I booped the ball back to whoever passed it to me. When that wasn''t possible, I bounced it to a teammate. I had to concentrate on which team I was on at any given moment and that took most of my mental run time.


    I stopped stinking the place up and with slightly more confidence turned my attention to working out the rules of the game.


    A red was about to pass the ball back to his mate, who was going to be pressed by two whites. I sprinted to offer him an angle; he took it. I had a guy coming from my right and pretty much any touch I had in that direction would have given him the chance to barge me off the ball and take it. The irony was that at the point he got the ball, I would switch to being on his team. The best play would be for him to lightly jostle me, but that''s not how these Brazilians rolled. He would have wiped me out and worried about his next move later!


    So I tried to do a dainty skill where I would jump, let the ball roll onto the inside of my foot, and gently coax it to a spot on the other side of the approaching player. He could smash into me but I would have the ball.


    I was just tired enough and just out of practice enough that I achieved none of those things except getting slammed by the white. The ball rolled right through me.


    "Yes, Max!" called Luisa. "One point!"


    The fuck?


    The school bully held out his hand, pulled me up off the deck, and said something. I didn''t know what, of course, but I knew the tone very well. It was the cheeky resignation of a guy who I have just nutmegged. "Nice move, lad."


    Except I hadn''t done shit.


    I did something I detected very quickly in my own training sessions and stamped out mercilessly - I hid. As the ball went left, I joined the blob on the right. Henri might have spotted that I was doing something out of the ordinary, but Geraldo didn''t know me as a player.


    But from this safe position, where I didn''t have to concentrate on so many things at once, I saw it.


    A white took a pass, flicked it forward, and when the return pass was played he fizzed it diagonally. His intended target let it run through his legs. A third player controlled the pass.


    "One point!" called Geraldo, something I no longer needed a translation for.


    Rivers! I thought they called it ladders. A structure where three players line up and the ball is played from end to end, often with the player in the middle not even touching it.


    The surge of triumph, the fact that I had managed to unpick that damned lock, lifted me up into the clouds and I went to the next plane of existence. Or put another way, I raced back to the middle of the pitch to get as involved as possible.


    Of course, that was the exact second Geraldo chose for a break. I thought about complaining but as I took on some water I checked Luisa''s stopwatch and it had been another ten-minute session. Nothing nefarious. How could it have been?


    I waved at Emma, who was in the stands recording us. The first two mini sessions would be utter cringe from a personal point of view, but it would be interesting to see what Henri had been doing, and it could have been interesting to lock onto one player at random and see what sort of movements he made and why.


    The third and final session started. Geraldo changed precisely nothing.


    Since it was going to be the last section and the lads wanted to make sure they got paid, it was fast and furious. The Indian traffic jam with hovercars. Brownian motion on one point five speed.


    I dropped for passes. I scanned behind me to see if there was anyone there who could be the end of the river. My teammates understood the game better than me and there was usually someone moving in behind, but the other team knew the rules too and they would try to block off those lanes to deny us points. We had to keep cycling the ball around until an opportunity presented itself.


    Many strange things happened.


    I found myself thinking in radical new ways. Invading space like Pascal didn''t help much with this game. You scored points easier by being closer to your teammates. Moving further away quickly became frustrating for everyone, but it was still good to have an out ball for when the pressure was too much.


    I found myself drifting to the edges of the pitch even though common sense told me I could be more involved in the middle.


    I found my technique failing me.


    Oh, there was no problem controlling passes and deflecting the ball with one-touch flicks. No, it was the easy things that got suddenly impossibly hard. There were so many players zipping around that when I tried to buy myself a second to sort my feet out it was already too late. The drill was a zombie movie. If your dead wife, now reanimated, comes at you, you''ve got to strike fast. You can''t think ''oh no not Eleanor'' because she''ll eat your brains. You''ve got to decide before the ball even gets to you. And skills? Use with care. A cheeky nutmeg might be satisfying but by jinking past one player you''re running into the rest of the zombie horde and you''re going to get swarmed.


    You had to stop trying to beat the press and sort of co-exist with the press, but I was too slow. I couldn''t work out what I was doing wrong and why these zombie-tier players were so much better than me.


    By the last minute of the session, my head was mush and I regressed to being a complete liability. I moved into space on the goal line with the intention of not being involved for the rest of the sesh, but someone from the reds passed back to the goalie and I was his best option. From where I was, I had a bit of time. I looked around and pinged a deeply beautiful big diag that landed on the laces of the red furthest from me.


    Amazing. But no points.


    Geraldo was shaking his head, very unimpressed, and blew his whistle. He said something dismissive like ''typical English'' and shook his head a few times while finishing a cig.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    The players went over to get his final verdict. I started with my hands over my head and decided I was tired enough to warrant hands on knees.


    Geraldo blabbed a few things and I let it wash over me.


    Suddenly there was a gap around me. Everyone was looking. Luisa said, "Coach wants to know if you''re satisfied."


    "Did I suck?" I said.


    Luisa translated and there was a lot of good-natured laughter. Not from Geraldo, obviously. He barked out a one-word reply that needed no translation. Then he added something Luisa was happy to repeat. "He says Henri was good."


    I sucked in a breath and thought about my life choices. At some point I needed to get to Chile for the under 20s World Cup. The next Messi might be there, along with the next Ronaldo, the next Dino Zoff, plus at the Transfer Room there had been a hot tip about a Peruvian striker. It was pretty much vital that I be there.


    I shook my head, just sort of mad and angry and all kinds of things. I looked at Geraldo and lifted my chin. "Same time tomorrow?"


    ***


    On the way back to Rio I stayed pretty quiet while Henri and Luisa chatted away. Luisa was driving and I was vaguely aware that she was giving Henri some numbers to type into his phone.


    I had a lot to think about. I was naturally worse at football than a selection of randos. I didn''t grasp new concepts easily. I was dogshit.


    Henri showed his phone to us in the back and when he realised neither Emma nor I were paying attention, read out a number that started with ''a million''.


    "Max," said Luisa. "We need to load credit into our payments app so we don''t have to carry thousands in cash. I was just saying to Henri that if you hire Geraldo at three thousand a day you will make him the best-paid coach in Brazil. Over three hundred and sixty-five days you would have to fork over - " she loved cutlery-based language - "more as one million reais."


    That did sound like a lot. "What''s that in pounds?" I mumbled.


    "140,000," said Henri after a few more taps.


    That was almost the same as my massive new pay packet from Chester. "Mmm," I said, because I didn''t give much of a shit.


    Henri gave me a slightly worried look and put The Stone Roses on the stereo. That was his way of cheering me up.


    ***


    Monday, May 26


    I dreamt of Relationism, or at least the terrifying zombie-attack version I had experienced. Emma said I slept a lot more twitchily than usual.


    Over breakfast she and I got an atlas and tried to devise a hyper-efficient path through Chile that would allow me to see every single team at the under 20s World Cup at least once. The tournament started on May 31 and we calculated that we needed to get there by June 2 at the latest. That gave us exactly one more week in Brazil.


    Luisa got in touch with Geraldo to book more sessions with him and much as he found me offensive in some way, the money was just too good to turn down. He would make himself available every day I desired.


    "Top. Every day till Sunday, please."


    "Babes," said Emma. "You know I support you. If you think the, like, tenth and eleventh days are going to get you where you want to go, you do that. But seems like it probably won''t, right?"


    "What are you saying?"


    "I''m saying go full Max this week, but then let''s have the weekend together. One weekend where you let me go full Emma."


    I smiled. "You can go full Emma whenever you want. You don''t need a Geraldo."


    "I need my Max."


    I got up, went behind her, and draped my arms around her neck. "All right. What does that look like?"


    "It looks like the first two days we got here but you pose for photos and smile and don''t complain about every single thing like a little brat."


    I laughed. "So I can be miserable until Friday night. Sounds like a deal. Right, but listen. We can''t keep driving two hours up and down that fucking motorway, the four of us. I wasn''t joking when I said I wanted you to go explore and have fun. Henri, do you want to train tonight?"


    "Do you think this helps my career?"


    "Not really."


    "I would like to do tonight with you, but perhaps not tomorrow. It is interesting, but it is not as interesting for me as it is for you. Also," he said, stretching in a self-satisfied way like a cat, "I''m a natural." He basked in Luisa''s admiration. "I think you will propose that we split up, no? You stay in Nova Friburgo while we explore Rio?"


    "Just, yeah, whatever you want. I don''t think I''m going to enjoy the sessions, exactly, but I''ll enjoy them a lot more if you''re out and about sending me photos and enjoying life. Maybe Chelli and Tockers will stay out there with me."


    ***


    Geraldo''s Cigarette School, Day Two


    We warmed up like it was 1988 and I wondered if that was when Geraldo had first broken into a football team and he had never found a reason to change his ways. If so, that mentality was probably why he was rated 4 out of 20 for coaching, but to be fair I didn''t know the first thing about him and didn''t really want to, either. I was hyper-focused on the Relationism thing.


    We did the same remedial passing drill as the day before, but then it was into the meat and we had three juicy chicken hearts to gorge ourselves on.


    The first drill took place in a hexagon about twenty-five yards across. Eight players stood on the sides. Eight players in yellow bibs pressed in the middle. Three guys in orange bibs had to get the ball and keep possession. They could dribble, do first-touch, or use anyone at the sides.


    It was a constant frenzy of pressing and trying to beat the press, but once the attackers got into the rhythm it was surprisingly easy to retain the ball. Not for ages because unlike in a real match you couldn''t pass back to the goalie or to a centre back who had dropped deep. But keeping the ball for ten, even fifteen passes was totally reasonable even for these low-level guys.


    I absolutely smashed this drill, but it was all about finding space and having a good first touch so I took no satisfaction from it. Being amazing at anything ''positional'' was all the curse. So, yeah, I could anticipate and do mad skills and feints and one-touch passes and nutmegs? Okay the nutmegs were all me, but the rest was fake. I spent most of the drill watching myself from above, watching the endless cycling of the ball wondering what the others were learning. There were not many pops in a Geraldo session, or if there were they were from attributes I hadn''t unlocked yet.


    Attributes. I felt pretty sure I wasn''t going to buy Relationism any time soon. Certainly not until I felt I had earned it, which seemed a distant prospect. (As with any training session, I wasn¡¯t earning XP, and nor was the price of the perk reducing. If any sessions should have generated XP it was these, but the curse only ever awarded me experience for watching or playing in matches.)


    I started to give very serious consideration to unlocking more attributes. I could afford two and they might tell me what was helping these randos be good at Relationism. It was self-evident that unlocking attributes before the World Cup was a good idea. I decided not to be hasty, since there was a pretty strong counter-argument. The priority was to learn this new style and if I had more numbers to look at, I would look at the numbers. Yeah, maybe the best compromise was to make a mental note about which players were good and unlock the attributes during the last session and check my working. Until then I would go hard at learning the stuff. Good plan, brain!


    The second drill was one Jackie Reaper would have loved. "Duelos!" cried Geraldo. Luisa didn''t translate. I told myself to have a word with her later, to remind her that I was English, after all, and she shouldn¡¯t overestimate my language skills.


    There were two strips of tape about twenty yards in length, perhaps eight yards wide. Two ''servers'' stood at either end. One passed to an attacker. His job was to dribble or pass from end to end as many times as possible while a defender tried to stop him. Passing was almost impossible until the final few yards so it was very much about using skill and speed to get past your opponent. As in England, the results were massively in favour of the defender. An attacker might dribble them once but on the way back they were mincemeat.


    Unless it was your boy Maxy Best as the attacker. He fucking ripped new buttholes all over Brazilian Switzerland!


    At one point, Geraldo whistled and made everyone come and watch my duels. He sent some poor sod to try to stop me while I dipped into my substantial toolbox to get past him time and time again. I made it eight times end to end before I got bored and let the defender tackle me.


    It was sort of useless doing those drills with me, really, but I didn''t blame Geraldo for assuming I was shit at the sport based on what he had seen. I did like the way he had tweaked the drill to make it relentless. What''s that video game niche? Rogue-like? You keep going until you die. Attack till you drop. We didn''t drill it like that in the UK but maybe we should. Something to discuss with my coaches.


    The final drill was the one I''d been dreaming about. Two seven-and-a-half minute blasts of Deflationism.


    I went from top of the class to bottom. If anything, I was worse than yesterday.


    ***


    At the half-time break I got a water and stared straight ahead like a disaster survivor. There were quite a few people in the stands who had come to watch this curiosity. Come to see the Englishman who thought he had a right to tell people how to play football.


    While I was mentally penning a combination ''accepting my Premier League Manager of the Year award'' and ''announcing my resignation from the position of Chester manager'' speech, Luisa came over and cupped my chin. It seemed an intimate gesture but she was just trying to make me watch footage of myself.


    "Too slow. Too big pass. Look."


    "I know," I said, pushing her stupid phone away. I didn''t need to see it to know it.


    She growled in frustration and stomped across to the nearest ball. She pointed to it. "This is you." She approached the ball with her fingers steepled above her head, spinning like a ballet dancer, before doing a mid-air split and a sort of dying swan move over the ball. "This is them." She got on her toes, agile, and flicked the ball up and away. "This is them," she said again, feet nimble, centre of gravity low.


    "Yeah, I get what you''re saying," I said. "But the game is to score points. You don''t score by flicks."


    She sucked her lips in and walked away.


    We did the second ''Riverdance'', and when my approach continued to fail, I tried it Luisa''s way. When someone pressed me I wouldn''t try to play a pass through the lines but would flick the ball to a teammate. The first time I did that, Geraldo yelled something.


    "What did he say?" I called out, but Luisa was mad at me and refused to translate. "Fuck SAKE," I yelled, just as the ball came to me. I slapped it hard and it flew straight as an arrow for fifty yards before clipping the inside of the goalpost and nestling into the net.


    There was a moment of utter stillness before another ball was thrown into the rectangle and the mayhem kicked off again.


    ***


    Tuesday, May 27


    My black mood was boosted by the arrival of Chelli and Toquinho. Chelli was just a likeable guy who made everything better and Tockers (age 17, CA 1, PA 154) had never left Sao Paulo and since we had someone with us who was even more of a travel noob, we delighted in showing him what Rio had to offer.


    He thought we were lying about having the whole massive apartment to ourselves but when I took his backpack from him and put it on his bed in his bedroom he started to believe it. I slapped him on the back and bade him to follow me.


    We went out for a late lunch and now that we had two translators the conversation flowed even more easily. I especially liked the parts when Chelli and Luisa would go down rabbit holes exploring the difference between Brazilian Portuguese and Portuguese Portuguese. I didn''t understand a word but they seemed to be having a nice time.


    Chelli did some agenting.


    "Toquinho is worried about moving to England."


    "Why? It''s top," I said, which was strange since no-one spent more time digging the place out than me.


    "Ah, the weather. The lifestyle. Do not misunderstand, Max, he thinks it''s a great opportunity. A very interesting offer. I think he is nervous. This was his first time on an aeroplane."


    I nodded a few times while clearing my mouth of ham. I pointed to Emma. "Tell him all the women in England are this beautiful. In fact, tell him, Emma is considered quite plain back in her native Newcastle."


    Emma''s chewing slowed but she waited to see how Tockers would react.


    Chelli translated and there was a thrilling half-second where the universe could have tilted either way. "No!" laughed Tockers, waving his wrist to show he knew I was lying.


    Emma beamed and got up to give him a forehead kiss.


    I laughed. Tockers had scored big-time brownie points with that reaction. I looked at him. "You do what you''re told for a few years and I''ll make you rich." I waited for Chelli to translate. "Every year you give me is a new level of wealth." I put my hand low. "Buy your mum a house." I moved up a few inches. "Buy yourself a villa." Next level. "Lambo and your own clothes label." Last level. "Superyacht." I smiled. "You get that when you put football first. I have to talk to a guy when we get back to the flat. He''s money first. It doesn''t work like that. You work first and the rewards come later."


    The translation finished and Tockers got thoughtful. I got the feeling what I''d said was what he believed. He spoke back to me and Luisa translated. "How long did it take you to get the apartment? He means our AirBnB."


    I lifted my eyebrows. How long had it been? "Er, two and a half years." I swirled my finger around. "But we''re sharing the cost. I''m not quite at that level yet but yeah, two and a half years is about a million reais."


    "Can I get that?"


    I thought about it. He was starting from zero, but if he moved to Saltney and trained hard at Bumpers Bank with my elite coaches, in three years it was just about conceivable he could be CA 90. I would certainly pay a CA 90 guy 1,500 a week. I did some maths. "More like half a million." His eyes showed he didn''t mind that one little bit. "But that''s just the start. The first few years are all training. The real money comes later. The real Real. Does that joke work in Portuguese?"


    "It doesn''t work in English," said Henri.


    I checked the time. "Should get going so I¡¯m back in time for my video chat. What did we agree, babes? I''d limit myself to five personal insults?"


    "You promised to be sweet and nice."


    "Christ. No-one translate this for Tockers. I need him to be in awe of me. Er, excuse me? Why are you sniggering?"


    ***


    I stood in the kitchen in a slightly awkward position but that was where the Wifi was strongest and I needed to charge my phone. I balanced it on some cookbooks and moved a pot of whisks and spatulas to the side in case they were bad for the signal.


    The others were interested in the call and were dotted around drinking coffees and reading on their phones. I kept expecting to have to tell Tockers to shut the fuck up but he was good as gold. I remembered something Chelli had said about the kid¡¯s dad working from home. He knew not to interrupt important bizniz.


    I got a red or green option on my phone, tapped green, and as I did I found I was very much not in the mood for Wilfred Banks and his money-grubbing ways. I had summoned some positivity to make my guests from Sampa feel welcome but I was still in a grump from failing at Relationism.


    The familiar split screen of a video chat arrived. Four quadrants. One was empty, one was the Brig - a welcome sight - and one was a goalkeeper who had been cut from his academy.


    "Max!" said the Brig. "How''s Brazil?"


    I was going to say it was shit simply to end the chit chat but I had a sneaking suspicion Tockers would have understood it. "It''s great. I haven''t done much scouting in Rio but I''m learning a lot."


    "Splendid, splendid," he said, in a weird fake jolly tone. It struck me that he was as angry and disappointed as I was but he was going the extra mile for the kid even though he didn''t deserve it. The blame was to be put on the Exit Trial organisers or on Chip Star but not on Wilfred. Well, maybe that was right but I couldn''t feel it in my bones, if you know what I mean.


    "Mmm," I said, very deliberately looking off-camera at something I found more interesting than the conversation. This turned out to be a plug socket in a line of three with the middle guy slightly raised. A river! A ladder! Pass from one side to the other with a dummy or a little flick and you get one point!


    "Max?"


    "What? What?"


    "Did you space out? Are you sleeping well?"


    "No," I said, picking up a fork. Four prongs. Double river! "I mean, yes. Everything''s perfectly normal. Eight-hour average. Heart rate nominal. What, er, what are we doing?"


    "Wilfred would like to talk to you alone. I''m going to hop off now."


    "Yeah," I said, staring at the socket again. It had a lot more relevance to my life than the ungrateful brat who was wasting my time. Time dragged on and when I snapped out of my funk, Wilfred Banks, PA 155, was looking left and right, not sure what to do, while the Brig had clicked off. "Sup bro?" I ventured.


    "Mr. Best," he started, but stopped, almost as though he wanted me to say ''call me Max'' or some shit. Fat chance. I think I did one of those big sighs that had so vexed Henri and Emma early in the trip; Wilfred got flustered.


    He was a pretty decent-looking kid. Soft, light, billowy hair quite similar to Henri''s in floppiness, decently symmetrical face, quite slow and thoughtful off the pitch. Had done well at school. Kind of the perfect boy-next-door, though maybe if you were a teenage girl you''d want him to have about 8% more danger like Toquinho had. Wilfred had made it through every year of his academy but every year had been by a slimmer and slimmer margin. They didn''t think he had the killer instinct to make it as a pro, and growing pains and a few injuries hadn''t helped. He had been the third or fourth choice goalie for years but every time they wanted to bin him off he had sensed it, responded, and done juuuuust enough to scrape through. How they hadn''t taken that for fighting spirit I couldn''t tell you, but I was aware that I was sometimes unfairly critical of academies and my fellow pros. I had a magical number to help me; they didn''t.


    Truth is I would have binned the bastard off a million times over just on this video chat.


    "Mr. Best, what it is, right, is that I was wanting to know why you didn''t want me no more."


    "Oh, that''s easy, Wilfred mate. It''s because you want to be paid more than my star striker." The slight exaggeration made a couple of heads in the room turn, but Henri was only currently on twenty pounds a week more than this prick was demanding. "Because you told me you had goals and dreams and I thought we maybe had something in common but no, you wanted a pay rise before you''d even started. So that''s why. All right?"


    "Max!" hissed Emma. I forced my flappy gob closed.


    Wilfred was rubbing his forehead pretty hard. He couldn''t look at the camera. "It was me dad."


    "What?"


    "We got the offer from Bradford and me dad said to get you to match it if you were serious, like. So then you said there was no offer and now it''s just Bradford and I don''t know what to think."


    I kept my mouth shut. Emma blasted me with silent approval.


    "When you came at me after the Trial the other lads were like, oh, you jammy bastard. They was all like ''ah that Max Best is here scouting us'' and it was like you''re the one they wanted to impress. And it was me and I thought you really liked me."


    "Let me simplify this, bro. I work for Chester FC. We''ve won two leagues in two seasons and we''re flying up the divisions. We''ve got talent for days and a new training facility and two 3G pitches. We''ve got elite coaches and great team spirit. We''ve got everything except money. When we met I offered you a complete footballing education. I''m out here in Brazil getting my arse handed to me by complete randos who wouldn''t get in Bradford''s reserves, which is the team you''ll be the backup keeper for over the next two years. Why am I spending all my money doing this insanity instead of taking my hot girlfriend to the beach every day like a normal guy? Because I want to learn football and that''s everything. I learn it and teach it to you, that''s the deal. Chester can give players everything on the football side but we can''t give you a competitive salary. I withdrew the offer because even if you come to us now every year I train you up you''ll have offers and next year or the year after you''ll fuck off to Bradford or Wigan or Coventry. It''s just a matter of time, isn''t it? I could get you to the England team but I can''t compete on money and you''ve shown what''s really important, haven''t you? So go to Bradford and I wish you all the best there."


    There was a decent-sized break. I checked with Emma; she didn''t mind how I''d spoken.


    "But I didn''t want it. It was my dad. I said I wanted to go to Chester and he said well make them prove it and I said but Mr. Best was the only one who was there. He jumped over the fence and grabbed me as soon as the final whistle went! Why would I go to Bradford when I''ve never met anyone there? All the lads wanted to be scouted by Mr. Best but he only wanted me. But my dad, he''s, like... We''re not well off and he''s... I dunno. Um... And you said I should sign with that agency and it''s like ten percent and my dad didn''t like that. He looked it up and he said your girlfriend was part of it and he didn''t like that."


    "Does your dad listen to TalkSPORT? Does he read the Daily Mail?"


    "Max," hissed someone from my left.


    "I''m just not interested in bickering about money, Wilfred, or defending myself or my girlfriend. There''s a kid here who''s willing to uproot from beautiful Brazil to some fucking digs in Chester with loads of people who can''t even do the forbidden dance and he''s doing it to learn football. He''ll get paid later. This whole conversation makes me queasy. I don''t understand why we''re still having it. I don''t want to have it. I want to hang up so I can go and get smashed up on the training pitch again because it never happens to me like this and I love it."


    "Do you?" said Emma.


    I turned to her. "I think I do, yeah."


    "You don''t look like it."


    I smiled. "No-one said I have to like getting dicked. But embarrassment is the cost of entry." I turned back and the kid was still there. "Yeah, like I said. There''s one thing Chip Star has in spades and that''s his daddy''s money. By all means take a slice. All right, if there''s nothing else..."


    Wilfred sort of sat there, or stood there maybe, not doing much. His lip might have been quivering, I couldn''t really tell you. "I don''t know the rules."


    I sighed far louder than I intended. "What?"


    "Like if a club wants me I should be able to negotiate. It''s like that in Soccer Supremo. Why can''t I do that now?"


    My eyes bulged out about three inches. "Because ten minutes ago you were on the scrapheap and because the only reason you have two offers is that I wanted you! I bid for five players and Bradford tried to gazump all five! Your dad thinks you''ve got two offers and you can play us off against each other but I don''t exist in the same world as Bradford! I''m a football club! They''re a billionaire''s plaything!"


    A hand rested on my shoulder. Henri leaned over and adjusted my phone so he would be in the frame. "You are Banksy, no? I am Henri Lyons. I''m afraid Max is correct in that your wage demands are absurd. I would encourage you to look up the relationship between Bradford''s new owners and Max but that would only discourage you. Curious, n''est-ce pas? But you find us at an interesting point in our relationship. Max and I have not talked about my pay rise for this season."


    "And we''re not going to," I said. "You get whatever scraps are left after I finish building my squad."


    "We must teach the next generation how to behave, the way I teach you every meal in which hand to hold your knife."


    "I like it the opposite to you. Stop pecking my head about it."


    "Max, will I get a pay rise?"


    I rolled my eyes, but why not have the chat now? Doing it in a kitchen in a hidden apartment in the southern hemisphere while a talented prick watched on video was suitably absurd. "Yes."


    "How much?"


    "I don''t know."


    "Why don''t you know?"


    I sighed. "Because I''m going to the under 20s World Cup and I want to sign two players but down here the season runs till December so it might be that one or both joins us in January. And it might be that I can give you a pay rise now and find money for those guys in the meantime. Or it might be that I sign them now and give you a raise in January. It''s hard, mate."


    "It wasn''t hard to give yourself a bumper rise."


    I laughed. "Yeah, well. If you find a better scout I''ll take a cut and if you find a better manager I''ll take a cut and if you find a better player I''ll take a cut."


    "There are twenty better players at every Relationism session here in Rio."


    "What''s Relationism?" asked my phone. So rude.


    I said, "Okay but seriously you need a raise but I know you don''t want a raise if we finish thirteenth when I could use the money to get you another league winner''s medal."


    "I would like to be kept informed."


    "I mean, there''s nothing to say. If I don''t find anyone in Chile or they''re all too expensive, I''ll be leaning into free agents. It won''t be much longer, mate, but right now I''m still not even at the first step. A lot will happen in the next two weeks, I can tell you that."


    "It seems to me our squad is weaker than at the end of the season."


    "No," I said. "That''s not right."


    "No?"


    "No. We''ve lost some flexibility but we will slap extremely hard."


    "I want a goal bonus."


    "No."


    "Why not?"


    "Because you love scoring goals anyway. You love the attention, you dick. Hey, listen."


    "Yes?"


    "This season you''re gonna go big. It''ll be your finest hour." I waited for a snappy response, but none came. I couldn''t read his face so I ploughed on. "After that I think I''d like to see you go somewhere else for a year or two and absolutely rinse whatever club gets you while you continue your scoring spree. But then I want you back. Maybe at Saltney and you can slap Europe till it''s pink, I don''t know. But wherever you go, I want you in charge of Seal Studios."


    "What?"


    "You''re a great striker but you''re an even better director. Producer? The documentary''s so good, mate. I had tears in my eyes loads and I already knew the story. It''s funny, too! Some of the cuts! You''re a genius but it''s the overall vibe. The way you keep the interest and the pacing. I know that was you and not Sophie; she told me. I''ll be mad if you don''t go hard at the rest of your career but I want you around so you can do our stuff. Marketing, player announcement videos, sponsor bits. We''ll think of meaningful stuff, too. There''s gonna be loads to do but it has to be the way I want it. Show football how it really is. Fun but hard and dirty sometimes. Who''s more fun and hard and dirty than you? I need you."


    Emma wandered over with a confused look on her face. "Did you hang up on Banksy? Oh! Max, he''s still there!"


    "I can''t get rid of him."


    "Don''t talk like that," admonished Emma, unplugging the phone and walking off with it. "Banksy, I''m Emma. I''m the dastardly agent your dad warned you about." She laughed - it was unfair, really. Any red-blooded teenager would have melted. "Here''s Toquinho. Max started calling him Tockers, which I think''s going to get confusing, don''t you?"


    "Max does tekkers!" said Wilfred. "I saw the video on your Insta!"


    I moved to get my phone back but Henri grabbed my arm and raised his eyebrows. He whispered. "Is that young man where my salary increase is going?"


    "Yes."


    "You said he could play for England?"


    "I think so. Not sure exactly who he will be up against. But he''ll be close-ish I reckon. Third choice, finish his career with ten caps. Something like that."


    Henri nodded. "Then shut your mouth and leave it with us." He pushed his hair back. "Okay?"


    ***


    Geraldo''s Too Cool for School, Day Three


    Emma did a number on Wilfred and then she did a number on me. Without knowing how, exactly, or why, I''d agreed to reinstate my offer of a two plus one for five hundred pounds a week. The keeper had a choice: join the Chester revolution, or earn double at Bradford. I knew the answer already.


    Whatever. The important thing was what Geraldo had up his sleeve.


    We arrived and Toquinho nervously explained his predicament to one of the local lads. He had come from Rio without his boots. Could he...? Feet were checked. Sizes assessed. Within minutes a lad''s mum was on the scene holding a bright orange pair that fit Toquinho pretty well. Well enough to instantly be better at Relationism than me.


    Yes, it was one of those. But first it was important to make a fuss of the mum and the player who had lent us the boots. Pay it forward. No good deed goes unnoticed. Hugs and smiles all round.


    Warm up, passing drill, a quick foray into transitions (sprinting and scoring into empty nets after a certain set of passes) and yet more evidence that Max Best was sensationally good at rules-based, structured, European football. Geraldo''s revenge came in the form of a new variation on the Riverdance. This time Luisa got in his face and made him explain the key word.


    "You get a point every time you do a one-two," she called out. Henri was joining in for what would be the final time because he wanted to play with Tockers and wanted to show off in front of Chelli.


    Okay, I thought. One-twos. Wall passes. Give and goes. Kick the ball to a dude, run forward, and collect the return pass. Pretty much the easiest skill in football, right? It''s going to be a piece of piss, right?


    If Henri was doing the edit on this scene, he''d probably end it on that thought and cut to me sticking the key into my hotel room in Nova Friburgo. Maybe he''d linger on a wide shot until I Fosbury Flopped backwards onto the bed. Maybe he''d zoom in as I grabbed a pillow and covered my face with it.


    Probably he''d add some detail inspired by the weird books he liked.


    MAX BEST, the text would go.


    RELATIONISM LEVEL ZERO.


    Helpfully, in brackets, would be the crucial information that this was being scored out of a possible 9,000.


    Fuck you, Henri. Fuck you, Brazil.


    I sulked for a while before plugging my phone in. I sat up on my bed and watched the footage of the sessions. Then I watched them again. And again. And again.


    Later than was polite I texted Chelli. He was still up and we took Tockers - now CA 2 - to a bar where I bought them drinks. "Chelli, listen to this bit from the session." It was when I''d done a flick instead of trying to play a beautiful pass. The time Luisa had refused to translate. "What does that mean?"


    The sound quality was bad and the bar was noisy, but after holding the phone to his ear and playing it a couple of times, Chelli felt confident. "He says, er, you made his asshole fall out of his buttcheeks. It''s, how to say?"


    "Fucking finally," I guessed, based on the tone.


    "Yes!" laughed Chelli. "Fucking finally! This is what he means, not what he says."


    "Right."


    "Then you take the big shot and score the big goal he says, if you want to fuck me, kiss me first. It''s because foder means sex but also to make a mess. Luisa can explain better."


    I smiled. I wasn''t interested in the local idioms. "Geraldo is a pretty direct guy."


    "He keeps it real. That''s good, no?"


    "Yes, it is. The situation is very clear with him. I''ve got three days to get good. Yeah," I said, nodding, eyes narrowing, jaw setting. "It''s clear. 72 hours of Great British graft. 72 hours of blood, sweat, and tears. No distractions. We train till our butts fall off."


    "When you say ''we'', who do you mean?"


    "Me and Tockers."


    He nodded, sagely. "Good plan. Let''s do it." Chelli lifted his margarita. Tockers automatically raised his coke and I brought up my water. We clinked our glasses together as Chelli proposed a toast. "To training till your butts fall off!"

 11.6 - He Do Opposite

    6.


    Wednesday, May 28


    07:30


    Chelli texted to ask for a quick chat before breakfast so I went down and met him in the tiny space near the hotel''s pint-sized reception.


    "Oh, good," he said. "It''s good to talk before you do your hard training."


    "I''ve already been for a jog," I said. Chelli gawped at me. I scoffed. "Don''t look at me like I''m some sort of super-professional workaholic. It''s to clear my head as much as anything. Set an action plan for the day, reorder my priorities, check my workings. You wanted to talk."


    "Reorder your priorities?" said Chelli, interested. "Do you still intend to work harder than - what did you say? Harder than a bastard?"


    "Absolutely."


    "Okay, so..." He checked the area for spies. "It is good to demonstrate hard work for Toquinho but also it is good to show him fun, no? When our group is together it is big fun and Toquinho feels good about moving to your country. He sees the fun, he doesn''t think about the rain. Am I right or no? First thing is to make him think England is not so bad."


    "Yeah, I get it. Got to factor in the salesmanship, so to speak. You''re absolutely right." I couldn''t stop myself shaking my head, though. "We''re going to drive back to Rio again. We could have stayed in the nice flat with the others. I could have been with Emma."


    Chelli shrugged. "I think it is better like this. Maybe I am wrong."


    "No, you''re right. We don''t need to spend the entire day here. Okay let''s get on that motorway again. Wow."


    ***


    10:05


    We took the lift up to the top floor of the apartment and I wandered into the kitchen. Henri, Emma, and Luisa had prepared a nice brunch.


    "Ooh," I said, taking it all in. "Fancy. What''s this? Two and a half hams?"


    "Henri went to the deli. I''m doing you a smashed avocado," said Emma.


    "I''m making omelette," said Luisa. "Extra cheesy, just the way you like it."


    Emma took a couple of steps to the kettle and came back with a very familiar box. "Yorkshire Tea, babes!"


    "Lovely," I said. "I''m gasping." I gave Chelli a pleased nod. This was exactly what Tockers needed to see! The Chester people living in harmony, companionable, easy-going. All we had to do was teach him about umbrellas and he would stop worrying that it sometimes rained in my homeland. Chelli, though. Chelli smiled back in a strange way that got me mad suspish. I started to see numbers everywhere. Twos and twos that could be combined to make four. This brunch had nothing to do with Toquinho. "Hang on a second. What''s going on?"


    Emma pushed a plate of mouth-watering smashed avocado on toast towards me. "What do you think, babes? I put a secret ingredient on."


    I lifted it, took a bite, and made a happy little noise. "Dat good," I said.


    Henri put a finger to his lips, considered the spread he had organised, checked everyone was in place, and started. From this moment, Luisa translated everything so that Tockers could follow. "Max, this is an intervention."


    I couldn''t properly complain because I had my mouth full. I gave a thumbs down and bleated, "No, fanks. Stop doing interfention."


    "You want to learn Brazilian football but you only have three more days to do so. Your response is to work even harder."


    I glanced at Henri''s informant; Chelli looked away. Emma slid a beautiful cup of tea towards me. Good timing! I took a sip, let the amber nectar restore harmony to my soul, and said, "The master has failed more times than the beginner has even tried."


    Henri dipped his head to acknowledge the awesomeness of my quote. He said, "I would not dream of asking you to stop trying. Your desire to improve yourself and learn new things and to try new things is a constant source of inspiration." He smiled. "Sometimes I see it bubbling up in you. Days go by where you watch our training sessions and it seems to me you are not looking at the way we are but the way we could be. Then it erupts! ''We''re doing the sweeper system!'' Or after weeks of some internal agony you stand in front of us and you cry, megashrimp!"


    Luisa translated and there was a crazy moment where both Chelli and Tockers became animated. Megashrimp? What did it mean? Luisa promised to explain it later.


    "I want to learn Relationism myself," I said. "It''s important to me."


    "Yes, fine," said Henri. "But be reasonable. We have limited time in Brazil and you''re running straight at a brick wall every evening. Let us get you over that wall where the real lessons are." He shrugged. "You may still do it all yourself but please consider what you learned from Cole Adams. Sometimes you need a different teacher."


    "I don''t think Geraldo is the problem."


    "Then let me be your teacher. Just for one thing. In the interests of efficiency," he added.


    While I was thinking of a reply, Luisa finished translating and I noticed Toquinho eyeing me. I wanted my players to be hungry to learn, right? To be willing to take advice from wherever? If so, I had to set an example. "Go on, then."


    "Please note that it was the word efficiency that persuaded you. That might be relevant." He popped a little piece of cheese into his mouth and chewed on it. "When you spoke of Relationism the other day you complained that discussion of the topic veers towards the philosophical, but I think a spot of philosophy may help. You see, you are exceptional at positional football."


    I took a spoonful of omelette and allowed myself a moment of smugness. "I have to say this is my favourite intervention so far."


    "You see ahead in a way you utterly fail to do when playing chess. It is crazy how bad you are at chess. You are simply wretched. But change the pieces to football players and you are a grandmaster. As a player, too, you excel. Often times I''ve seen you dash between the lines to be in the perfect spot to receive a pass, sometimes even to receive a deflection. How do you know? It is uncanny. Then comes the cross, the through ball, or the thunderbastard. What the situation demands, you supply. Wonderful. Now take what you call the Riverdance exercise. There is no structure for you to undermine. No order for you to subvert. What emerges from the disorder? Fleeting moments of opportunity. It comes, goes, and is never repeated. The particles are never in the same space twice. You cannot build a mental map of the scene as you so easily do when playing versus 4-4-2."


    I nodded. "Yeah. You do it though. You find it easy."


    He sipped on a tiny cup of coffee. "What''s the difference between you and me? Here''s how I perceive it. I am in the middle of what you call ''the blob''. The ball comes to me. I check behind. If there is someone behind, I let the ball roll past me and my team scores one point. If there is no-one behind or the ball will be intercepted, I take control, retain possession, and go again." Toquinho was nodding along, deeply interested. Henri continued. "You? I think it goes something like this. You move into the blob and a teammate passes the ball to you. Freeze frame. What''s in your head? The urgent need to score a point. If this pass won''t lead to a point you are already trying to think five steps ahead. I could turn this way, pass there, get behind him, set up a river starting there. Of course, it doesn''t work because there is no structure except in your head. Every second every player is moving according to their own interpretations of the space and the game."


    "Yeah."


    "You can never return to the river. When you do, both yourself and the river have changed."


    "What are you doing?"


    "That was a pause for applause. I said something very clever. Ah, well. The artist is cursed. Those are your first level thoughts. There are many more. You are also thinking, I must be good at this to impress Toquinho and Chelli and because Henri beat me at the high jump."


    "Those results are contested."


    "You are also thinking, is Geraldo a good coach? What would I do differently? Can I bring this to England? How does this help me this year? Next year? You are thinking of Chester versus Brighton four years from now. You are thinking which twenty players you need to sell and which twenty you need to buy." He sliced off some of the omelette and put it on his plate. "Are you angry? Are you receptive?"


    "I''m receptive."


    "Please don''t misunderstand, my friend. It is that level of thinking that makes you a great football manager. But here''s the philosophical aspect. The football you are used to, that you grew up with, that is in your blood, is structured and organised. Relationism takes away formal structure. Patterns are ad-hoc. Emergent. Trying to map it onto your current way of thinking is not only impossible but undesirable. If you want to learn Relationism, to really learn it..."


    I was happily munching away and was surprised he stopped. "Go on."


    Henri was searching for a delicate way to finish. Luisa stepped in. "You must remove the stick from your arse."


    "Lulu," complained Henri.


    Luisa moved along the counter opposite me, practically barging Henri out of the way. She looked me down and up. "You are twenty-four. You are on holiday. In Rio! With your beautiful girlfriend. You don''t want to see her on the Copacabana in a bikini, you want to be with Geraldo. How can you learn Latin football, red-blooded football, when you are so cold? You are a shark, you are deadly in your home. But this is a place for piranhas."


    Henri gently eased Luisa back towards where she came from and waited for Chelli to finish translating for Tockers. "Max. Relationism is the inverse of positional play. That''s why you are so intrigued by it, yes? It is the inverse in all respects. Positional play on one extreme of the spectrum is structured and anxious. Relationism on the other end is chaotic and exuberant. You are a structured manager. We follow your system exactly or you get rid of us. You are a structured player right down to how you pass the ball. Plant off leg, balance, hit through the ball to the far side of the receiving player. It could be drawn in a positional play textbook."


    "Do you think I''m anxious?"


    He rubbed his lips a few times. "I would never say that," he said, "and neither would Luisa," he added, quickly.


    I thought about what they had said so far and I have to say it did resonate. The blockage was in my head. I turned to Emma. "What do you think?"


    "I mean... I think you are doing great just as you are. You''re anxious about players leaving so you make it so good they don''t want to leave. You''re anxious about players getting injured so you sub them off when you think they''re running funny. You''re worried about your mum so you work hard and don''t waste money, normally. I don''t think you''re anxious in a bad way."


    "Neither do I," said Henri. "I only say this because you want to learn Relationism and I don''t think you can with your current approach."


    "Hmm," I said. "And you and Tockers are better at it than me because you know how to live in the moment?"


    "Max," said Henri, completely in earnest. "I think you might be the person in the entire world least suited to this style of football. And I mean that as a compliment."


    "We need to work on your compliment game," I said. I got a fork and pushed bits of food together. Omelette to avocado, ham to cheese. I pushed the sections apart again. It felt better like that. Spaced out. In position to receive a pass. I looked at the fork. Prongs. Players in an emergent line? No. Someone designed this fork, created a mould, someone else poured metal in and waited for it to cool. This fork was the result of spreadsheets and cost benefit analyses and processes. Guys didn''t go round throwing liquid metal into random boxes to see what would come out. "I can''t learn this, then. I have to stick to my lane. Stick to having a stick up my arse."


    "No, Max," said Henri. "That''s not what I believe at all. Not for one second. You will have a breakthrough one day. Perhaps you will be watching one of your 1980s action movies and one of the muscle men you like will say something epic and you will have a Road to Damascus moment. You will throw yourself into learning more about Relationism and you will smash it. Bish bash bosh. I only propose we try to manufacture such a breakthrough. Today. In time for tonight''s training. What do you say?"


    Emma and Luisa were on high alert. The sense of excitement was palpable. Even Tockers picked up on the mood - he had sat bolt upright before Luisa even started to translate the last part.


    "Manufacture a breakthrough? What... What would that look like?"


    Henri shook his head. "Again you plan. As always, you anticipate. No, Max. Today you must do the opposite."


    "Ah. Right. It''s going to be some sort of It''s A Wonderful Life thing where I see what the world would look like if everything was overly structured. Something like that."


    "You are planning again. Living in the future again. We want you to do the opposite. Are you willing to try?"


    Something told me I would regret saying yes but there was one thing very clear - whatever this was, Emma was into it. "Yes," I said. She didn''t leap and do a star jump, but there was a twitch of the lips, a twinkle in the eye.


    Henri checked the time. "Let us stuff our faces. Then we shall go for a walk."


    ***


    10:35


    In the lift, Henri told a story that continued out on the street.


    "You refuse to watch it, Max, despite my repeated exhortations, but I like the TV show Seinfeld. It is funny and the construction is very interesting. When the writers got into their stride they tried to have three apparently disparate storylines that would intersect at the end of each episode."


    "With hilarious consequences," I said.


    "That''s the sort of cynicism we need to stamp out of you by 7pm. There are many classic episodes. The Puffy Shirt. The Chinese Restaurant. The Soup Nazi. My favourite by far is called The Opposite. George laments that every decision he makes is wrong. Jerry says, then why not do the opposite? George scoffs but he has nothing to lose."


    The story paused while we went in single file around a van that was stocking up a shop and taking up half of the pavement.


    "There is a beautiful woman close by. George decides to act in the opposite manner to how he normally would. He introduces himself. ''My name is George. I''m unemployed and I live with my parents''. She loves his energy. ''Hi! I''m Victoria.'' Doing the opposite works! Soon after they are driving to a date. A driver cuts him off. ''Take it easy,'' says George, and the audience laughs. We know he would normally scream his head off, you see."


    "I get it."


    "It is really superb. I think of it often. I always imagined that when I failed at something I would try to come at it from the opposite angle. Alas, I have never failed. You shall live out my fantasy, Max."


    "Wow. Er, hang on. I''m willing to - I don''t know what I''m willing to do. But I don''t want to eat chicken heart."


    Henri stopped walking, looked up, and blew air from his cheeks. "No-one will force you to eat a local delicacy," he said, before setting off again. "Mon actual dieu. Okay, we are nearly there."


    His words chilled me. What was I in for? What was going to happen? But that was the problem, right? I wanted to know the second-phase results and third-order effects before I so much as got out of bed. I needed to go with the flow more. Be less uptight. Do the opposite. "I''m excited!" I said, loudly. "I can''t think of a single reason to run back to the hotel!"


    I kept walking and at a certain point realised the others had stopped. I walked back a few yards. Emma said, "Don''t panic, babes."


    I looked around thinking maybe there was a Grimsby fan in the area or something like that. It seemed safe. "What up?"


    But then I noticed the shop they were standing outside. One wall was covered in big mirrors. In between the mirrors were photos of Neymar and other footballers, plus actors and actresses I didn''t know. There were some cylinders in the shop window. I spotted words like foam, cream, and gel. Inside I saw a hairdryer being wielded alongside a pair of electric clippers.


    "Oh, hell no!" I cried, as I sprinted away like my life depended on it.


    ***


    10:45


    I hid behind the delivery truck and when it was clear no-one was chasing me, I moved back towards the hairdresser, always keeping a lamppost or a display of cheap plastic tat between me and the others.


    "I''ve decided I''m ready to eat chicken heart," I announced, but the others ignored me. Emma opened the door and bade the others follow her. The door closed with the tinkle of a bell and almost instantly came a burst of laughter. They were bonding with the hairdresser.


    I got closer and peered in. The barber looked normal but for all I knew he made a living ruining people''s trims. Sweeney Todo. The Butcher of Brazil. There was a clock on the wall - time was running out in the day. Time was running out in Brazil. I needed to control my haircut the way I needed to control what happened in the dressing room and on the pitch. Power is nothing without control. All systems of control will collapse; who will be there to pick up God''s dice?


    I pushed the door open - the bell chimed like I was making a wish - and loudly announced, "I am excited to get a haircut in Brazil!"


    Emma reached out her arms, took my hands, and pulled me into a chair. I had to wait for the previous customer to finish and in that time I experienced waves of dismay not dissimilar to waiting for Grimsby''s final result to come through.


    The others were laughing and joking and almost completely ignoring me. Far too slow but far too soon it was time. The hairdresser asked what I wanted. I pointed to the picture of Neymar on the wall. "If you give me a mullet like that I''ll take you outside and show you what it''s like."


    Luisa translated. Chelli and Tockers laughed, which made me think she hadn''t given a word-for-word translation, and now I was stressing in case I had made it more likely to get a shit trim.


    I turned the chair round to face the mirrors but Emma turned me back round again.


    "What, I''m not even allowed to see?"


    "You''ll see at the end," she said.


    "Have fun," said Henri.


    "Where are you going?"


    "I know you would like me to hold your hand through this ordeal but there is a perfumery not so far. I want to visit and see if it sells my family''s brands. If not, I will hype them up. Perhaps drive some sales."


    "Hang on, what? Brands?" But they left, leaving me utterly, utterly alone. Apart from Emma.


    "It''s gonna be fine, babes."


    "What brands does he mean?"


    Emma settled down and got Instagram up - I could tell because all human intelligence fell off her face. "I don''t know, babes. He never talks about his family''s niche luxury perfume company, its factory in Grasse, or its charming shop in Paris."


    I had more questions but I looked up and the Butcher of Brazil was eyeing my locks like Banksy staring at a pristine, perfectly nice wall. "Let''s fuck this shit up," I think he said.


    ***


    11:15


    The others came back just before the guy finished - I think Emma texted them.


    "Awawwww!" said Tockers, flicking his wrist around in a show of approval.


    "Looks good, Max," said Henri, but he was displaying all five of the top signs of deception.


    Luisa''s reaction was the most interesting - whatever was on my head, she was into it. I hadn''t expected that.


    The Butcher did a few last things and brushed my neck with something the bristle size and texture of a witch''s broom. Ow! The others, without exception, gathered around and started filming. They wanted my reaction from all angles. Something big was about to happen!


    The Butcher turned my chair so I was facing the mirror.


    He had done a fade at the sides and back - nothing much to complain about there - but he had given me a mohawk. Not a spiky punk-rock one, but a continuous triangle running from my crown to my forehead. As if that wasn''t extrovert enough, he had dyed it green.


    Green!


    My first reaction was, I think, very British. I bit my lip and tried to hide my disappointment so as not to hurt the feelings of the hairdresser. I would tell him he''d done a good job, pay a tip, leave, and wait ten seconds before I launched into a rant.


    But the others had their phones trained on me even more closely. There was more to come! But what? How?


    The Butcher took his hairdryer and blew it on his hand for a couple of seconds. Then he blew the base of my pyramid...


    The heat catalysed a chemical reaction...


    And green turned to yellow.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Movie magic right there on my head! Actual wizardry! The hairdressing equivalent of a backheel nutmeg last-minute winner. I had no idea such things were possible and it showed on my face. "What!" I cried, as the surprise took hold. "Holy shit!" I laughed. No wonder Emma wanted the moment captured from all angles - I was seven again and it was Christmas morning and there weren''t four gifts under the tree but fourteen. I was bouncing on the chair going "wow!" I felt light as a feather, all worries and cares lifted from me.


    I had a Brazilian haircut! Yellow with green highlights, the same shades as the flag. But where the flag promised ''order and progress'' I needed to embrace disorder to make progress.


    "Hairdo opposite!" I said, which was funny but of course the others had no context for it.


    "What?" said Emma.


    "Let''s do the opposite," I said, still high on life. "Opposite Day! What''s next? Let''s play Pokemon Go!"


    "Next," said Henri, all kinds of dramatic, "we Samba."


    "I''m English," I said. "I don''t dance. I throw shapes. Sometimes I shuffle around the kitchen singing into a hairbrush. At the absolute maximum, when a banging tune comes on, I pogo."


    Henri pointed to my hair. "We have set you free, my friend. Opposite Day. What would your new trim say if invited to dance?"


    He was right. I had slipped back into old habits almost instantly. "It would say... pump up the Jams Rodriguez."


    "He''s Colombian."


    "Now who''s being uptight?"


    ***


    14:00


    We had a Samba lesson in a studio with a view of the Copacabana. Life goals for Emma, who had an absolute blast, but it was not my idea of fun. I struggled through and got the dance teacher equivalent of a lollipop at the end. The main thing, I supposed, was to stop worrying about how shit I was and try to feel the beat of the music and do the steps. Honestly, mad as it sounds, the haircut helped.


    "I thought you were getting it near the end," said Emma, giving me positive feedback in case it meant we could go dancing back in England.


    "I think that was when the stick up my arse fell out."


    Luisa had the decency to blush slightly and look away, but then we were at the beach. Henri pointed. "Max? Some beach football?"


    A fit young man doing tekkers on the beach. Urgh. Could there be anything less British? We don''t like tall poppies. We don''t like show-offs. We don''t like people with abs going around being topless. I was even more reluctant because I hadn''t earned these skills and this body. Everything had been given to me. It was cheating. I ripped my shirt off. "The sand in my shoes will be a souvenir of the day Max Best brought football back to Brazil!"


    "We have created a monster," said Henri, but I noticed he wasn''t shy in taking his own top off.


    We did tekkers down by the waterline and instead of knowing that I looked like a prick I told myself I looked like God''s gift to women and showed what Technique 20 looks like when allied with Haircut 100. The longer we played, the more obnoxious I got. At one point I lay on my back and kept the ball up with dozens of tiny little kicks while I crafted a sandcastle.


    Henri was pretty pissed off but Tockers thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.


    "You like that?" I asked, as I kicked the ball high, got to my feet, and caught it on my instep.


    Toquinho laughed some more but when he spoke, he said something interesting and helpful. The translation came as, "Your friend is mad because you do not share the ball. The ball gives energy. In Brazil we keep the ball on our team to build energy and take it from the opposition. When a player''s mood dips, give him the ball. Share your energy with him. Not every pass is to make a hole or score a point. It is how we play here. Watch Dani Alvez play with Messi. He sees Messi is cold, he passes the ball. It is the wrong pass for the tactics, but it''s the right pass for the humanity of the player."


    Henri was on a beach in Rio with his top off; he didn''t look cold. But he had a cold aura from being deprived of the ball. I flicked it up and hit a slow lob to his chest. He puffed up as his arms spread wide, and, yes, with all eyes on him, his energy spiked. This wasn''t a completely alien concept to me - in matches where my teams were completely dominant I made the guys pass back to the goalie sometimes to keep him involved, to keep him interested and alert. But Tockers seemed to feel the principle on a much deeper level. Sharing energy, building energy, taking it from the oppo.


    I was surely closer to understanding Relationism, but there was still that nagging feeling that it wasn''t something to be understood, it was something to be felt. Progress, though. Undeniable progress.


    Emma called out, "Are you having fun, babes?"


    "Yes! I love being admired for my body, not my mind!"


    "Don''t forget your hair. We''re admiring that, too."


    "I''ve got a slogan for today. Want to hear it?"


    "You betcha."


    "I''ll let my hair down!" I said, as I caught the ball on my thigh before booping it on to Tockers. "But my hair won''t let me down!"


    I glanced up for approval. All I got was an Emmy Two-Thumbs before she lay back on her rented towel. I wondered what I was doing over here when I could have been over there.


    ***


    17:00


    I snuggled next to my girlfriend on the Copa actual cabana. The sun was gentle, the sand was cosy and warm, and the waves lulled me to sleep. I was astonished to be woken and told we had to go or we''d be late for training.


    That little half hour, forty minutes, whatever it was, had a powerful effect on me. The tension had oozed out of me. We went back to the flat to get our stuff then headed out to Nova Friburgo once more.


    The Portuguese speakers went in one car. In the other, Henri drove while Emma and I held hands in the back.


    "I''ve got to say," I said. "The sand that''s all in me, like all in me, doesn''t bother me at all. I''m completely devoid of regret."


    "Very good, Max," said Henri, lips twitching.


    "That Seinfeld episode," I said. "The Opposite. Remind me what he does that''s opposite."


    "Are you looking for more things to do, babes?"


    "Yeah. Get it out of my system, right?"


    Henri said, "He is honest with the attractive woman he meets. Instead of pretending to be someone he isn''t, he announces who he is."


    "I know who Max is," said Emma. "Skip that one."


    "At a job interview he''s honest about why he was fired from his last position and he berates the owner of the New York Yankees, who hires him."


    "Max has a job. Anything else?"


    Henri shrugged with his bottom lip. "Nothing especially relevant, I don''t think. Max is not a loser like George. Max gets most things right."


    "What don''t I get right?" I said.


    "You could do better with Banksy, for example."


    I tutted and many of the negative feelings that had filled my chest when the kid had asked for more money came rushing back. "I''ve made an offer. It''s the best offer he''s going to get in his whole life. What more does he want? What more do you want?"


    "Me, personally? I would like you to tell him it''s the best offer."


    "I did."


    "Tell him again."


    "No."


    "Why?"


    "Because it should be obvious. And because I just don''t want to."


    "Good. Do the opposite."


    Emma squeezed my hand in agreement.


    I could have thought about it, made a list of pros and cons. I could have planned what to say and underlined some key words and phrases I knew would resonate with Wilfred Banks. But I sighed and picked my phone up. "I''m excited about this," I said. "I think this is a good idea." I scrolled through my recent contacts and suggested a video call. "I hope he picks up!"


    Annoyingly, he did. Almost right away. "Mr. Best!" he spluttered. "Why is your hair yellow?"


    "Oh, right. Er, my friends think that if I want to learn Brazilian football I should have a Brazil flag on my head. Don''t neglect your friend game, Wilfred, or you''ll end up like me."


    "Is it working?"


    "The hair? We''ll find out in a bit. Listen, not sure how good the connection is going to be so let me rush through this. I was pretty hurt when you asked for more money because it felt like a betrayal and maybe I''m overly sensitive to that after what happened with Raffi Brown, and of course that guy''s at Bradford now so it all stings a bit extra. But that''s my issue and that''s something I need to work on, I guess. I probably won''t.


    "But you''ve got a choice and it''s just obvious to me what the right choice is but maybe it isn''t to you. Last season I gave debuts to fourteen teenagers including four from the Exit Trials. Folke Wester did none. Zero. I think his youngest player was twenty-one. He isn''t interested in youth development. Maybe the owners will tell him he has to put these kids in the team and who knows, maybe he will.


    "But from your point of view, that''s a risk, isn''t it? You''re betting your future that a leopard will change his spots. I mean, I understand if you don''t want to play for a manager with yellow hair - Christ, that would be the most relatable thing you''ve ever said - and maybe you gamble that your time in the reserves gets you noticed so you''ve got another club lined up when your deal runs out. It could work. It could. But it''s a hundred to one. Honestly you''d be fucking crazy to try when you could go to Chester and be part of what we''re doing.


    "Okay but here''s a different offer. Take your time. Wait for the pre-season friendlies and see what Bradford do. It''s not really much of a guide to what''s going to happen in the real matches but it might be interesting, right? If Wester starts Tom Hickman or some of these kids he''s just signed, that might make you think, yeah, Best is an idiot or he was lying to me. If the first eleven starts old and gets older, you might think, huh. That fits what I know about this manager. Oh."


    Henri looked at me in the rear view mirror. "What?"


    "It cut out." I frowned. "I really didn''t want to talk about Bradford or Wester. That''s not my style."


    Emma rubbed my arm. "You were honest, Max. That matters. Good. You did it. Now you can empty your mind for the session."


    "Yes!" I cried. "I won''t replay that conversation in my head and think of the twenty ways I could have done it better!"


    "Good."


    "And I won''t think about how phones work. I mean, we''re doing a hundred kilometres an hour. How does the signal find us?"


    Emma leaned forward. "Henri, put some music on. Nice and loud, thanks."


    ***


    19:05


    Geraldo''s Funky Football Faculty, Day Four


    Luisa texted ahead that we might be a fraction late, which we were, which turned out fine for me because it meant I missed the warm up. A quick look around the astonished masses (my haircut was a hit, it seemed) told me we didn''t have the full twenty local lads. Enthusiasm for the sessions seemed to be diminishing, perhaps because I was going every day, perhaps because I sucked. Or did I? Here was the big moment. Time to see if the opposite experiment had paid off.


    I think Luisa had told Geraldo that there was no point doing European-style drills with me and that he should focus on Relationism; we got right into the good stuff.


    We started with the Riverdance drill, now in an even smaller playing area. The goal was to pass along ''rivers'', lines of three players. I fell immediately into my old ways. Stinking the place out, thinking too much. The more I tried to get out of my head, the more I was aware that I was doing so from within my head.


    "Max," said Henri, who sensed my distress. "How are you doing?"


    "Bad. The haircut does nothing!"


    He laughed. "You''re fine. Give it a minute."


    I nodded and set my jaw ready to battle. Then I remembered that battling was wrong and I needed to do the opposite. What was the opposite of battling? Surrendering? I tried that, quite by accident, as I surrendered possession.


    The stadium''s PA whined, clicked, and fell silent. Then: music. The world-famous intro, the shaking maracas, the lyrics. Mas Que Nada remixed by the Black Eyed Peas.


    Geraldo looked around, mystified, but it wasn''t long until his toe was tapping. The ball took the rhythm of the beat. Oba, oba, oba! Pass, move, pass.


    "One point!" yelled Geraldo, and I was surprised to realise I was the one who had earned it. Surprised because after dummying the ball I was already moving to the next connection. Already lending the ball to my mate, giving him energy, moving the ball around through the mass of legs and bodies. It had once seemed so dense, so impenetrable, but I had Brazilian hair now. I kept the move alive - we kept the move alive - and the energy built. The smiles came first, then the tricks. I flicked the ball over someone''s outstretched foot. Henri scooped the ball over an oppo''s head and I booped it straight back. He headed the ball and now I had three defenders rushing me. I let it land and pushed it behind me with a cheeky grin on my face.


    "One point!"


    It seemed to me we scored more when we tried less and that''s because the drill wasn''t about earning points, it was about making connections. Yes, there were technical aspects. A flick would break the press better than a formal pass, constantly scanning behind you to map the pitch was absolutely essential, and deception was very important. It struck me with a flash of sudden, blinding insight that the Attribute that would be most useful wasn''t Flair but Teamwork.


    That was why Relationism had struck such a chord with me! Teamwork. Individual skill was important, but what was more important was the collective.


    19:20


    At the break, lots of the local guys smiled and slapped me on the back. It had been a long time since some randos said ''oh, you''re good at football'' in a way that gave me pleasure and it''s fair to say I didn''t have to force this smile out of me. "It''s the hair," I said, which got laughs. Henri came over, almost as happy as me. "Max, you were superb! It worked! What do you think? How do you feel?"


    I sipped on water. I shook my head. "Yeah. That felt good. Felt right. I mean, it''s easy. Yeah." I frowned. "It''s easier when they play the music, though. It was good they kept playing it."


    "Max!" laughed Henri, all but punching me on the shoulder blade. "She played it one time. Four minutes! The rest of the time you were in the zone. This is good, Max! You hear the rhythm of the dance even though you only listen to Manchester-based guitar bands."


    "That''s not true. I like soundscapes. Joe Anka diagnosed me."


    He shrugged. "Joe knows better than me. By the way, the music? That was Luisa."


    "Oh," I said. "She''s got a good voice."


    Henri''s eyes rolled up. "Was that opposite Max or lame dad joke Max?"


    "Erm, the second one."


    "Bring opposite Max back."


    "Good call."


    ***


    The next drill was a new one, and it made me even more grateful to Henri for interventioning me. If I hadn''t done well at the Riverdance, I might never have seen this new one.


    We played by the edge of the pitch, against the touchline. There were two teams. The seven members of the ''defending'' team - strangely the one with the ball - had to keep possession. The nine attackers had to press and force the ball off the pitch.


    It made sense as a drill since a huge part of Relationism was to progress down the sides of the pitch and if you lost the ball you counter-pressed in a frenzy using the touchline as a sort of extra player. If you did it fast and furious enough, your opponents wouldn''t be able to move the ball into the centre of the pitch where they had positional superiority. Worst case, you would give away a throw-in and give yourself time to settle into a defensively-sound 4-4-2. Best case, you would get the ball back and continue your maddening ascent up the pitch.


    The problem was that Geraldo put me on the defensive team and, frankly, I broke the drill.


    Doing the Riverdance so many times had made me think in new ways and now that my first instinct was not to play an elegant pass but to flick, scoop, or deflect, now that I was scampering around backing up my mates, sharing the ball freely and not worrying about outcomes, my side got the ball and kept it with relative ease. There were two sets of ''gates'' set up that we scored points by rolling the ball through, but I got so good at the drill I stopped thinking about the gates and turned back into danger to see how long we could retain the ball.


    19:30


    Geraldo was not pleased, it seemed, but I wasn''t too worried about his feelings. He wanted us to catch our breath and go again, with the team roles inverted and two players changing teams. He wanted me on the attacking side, though.


    "Luisa," I said, "tell him I won''t learn anything from that. It''s piggy-in-the-middle with a twist. I''m good at that. Ask him to skip to the next topic."


    This caused consternation, to say the least. Geraldo and Luisa bickered back and forth and based on the tone I was ready to hear the translation feature phrases like ''uppity little Englishman'' or ''bad student'' or ''his hair shames us all''.


    Luisa''s tone rose - when she wasn''t savaging me she was fighting my battles, the delicious minx - and there was one final, tumultuous exchange.


    "Max, he says he can''t teach you."


    My spirits sagged a little. I''d slipped back into efficiency mode. Trying to extract the maximum juice from the final thirty minutes of the session. I should have done the opposite. I should have gone with the flow. "Oh."


    "He says you know tables and rivers and you cut the lights better than anyone he has ever seen, except maybe Ganso."


    "I do?"


    "He says you showed in that last drill that you proximate, you tilt, and you even yo-yo."


    "Erm... when did I do that?"


    "When you brought the ball back into the blob. That''s the yo-yo. You didn''t try to escape." Geraldo ran his mouth some more. "You wanted to make the connection more than you wanted to score points. He says that''s too much overcorrection and you''ll get into trouble. I tell him you are stubborn."


    "Er, no need," I said, but she was already doing it. Geraldo went ''heh'', but looked surly again. He talked more.


    "He says he has nothing left to teach you. You can practise with your own club but these are the principles. He says you have the toolkit and now you need to try it out, play with it, see what you create and, more importantly, what your players create. He can''t take more of your money when you don''t need him. It wouldn''t be... I don''t know the translation. But you understand?"


    I did understand. There was a board game we had in our cupboard when I was young. It said on the box, a minute to learn, a lifetime to master. The phrase put me off then, but not now. "It''s simple. One-twos, rivers, movement. There are no particular steps to coach because it comes from the players. I have to start with my guys and see where it goes. It''ll be different for every team. It''ll be different for me in England than here. There''s no point hammering it right now. Tutorial''s over, go and try what you''ve learned. Yeah, I understand." I thought for a while. "Okay, let''s do it now. Let''s do a match with Geraldo as ref."


    Luisa pitched it and he seemed surprised, but it was obviously a good use of the last twenty-something minutes.


    We were just finishing getting things set up when I remembered - the Attributes! I was going to unlock two Attributes during the last session on Friday. I needed to do that now before I got locked into the Match Overview screen.


    "Luisa, stall him for a second. I, er... Tell him I need to pee."


    I ran off into the bathroom - the weird smell had gone; I had almost certainly imagined it.


    I didn''t have time to mess about with the curse - at any second it could kick me out of the shop. I sort of wanted to force the curse to choose only Attributes from the middle column to make sure I got Flair, but the clock was very much ticking.


    Plus how much could Flair really be decisive?


    Based on what I''d seen, when it came to Relationism, having the imagination to do tricks and flicks was useful but not essential. I would start experimenting back in England and I would unlock Flair soon enough and would be able to back-test any theories I came up with. But I certainly had no intention of tilting my team towards having Flair in every position. Centre backs still benefited most from Positioning, Jumping, and Heading. Wingers needed Pace. Strikers needed Finishing. Those were immutable laws of the sport!


    I bought Attributes 8 for 3,500 XP and chose ''no'' when asked if I wanted to select a particular column. As had happened the last time, I got a result from the middle column anyway.


    Off The Ball


    Now that was wild - absolutely wild - because I was sure that ''Off'' had been something to do with offside. Apparently not! Off The Ball. What did that mean? Both Henri and Toquinho had good Off The Ball ratings, but the rest of the players in the session had low Attributes in general and there was little to learn from them. I mean, it seemed likely that OTB was a rating of the quality of a player''s runs when they didn''t have the ball, their ''movement'', in football jargon. As always when I unlocked an Attribute it took me a few seconds to remember I had access to two full squads in my head.


    I sorted the men''s squad by this new Attribute and found forwards and strikers at the top and defenders and goalies at the bottom. Pascal had the highest rating, which made sense because he often darted into the very gaps I would want him to. For the women it was Kisi.


    Movement. How well they found space, moved into space. Henri and Pascal were both good at keeping on the shoulder of a defender and finding a yard in the penalty box. Okay so it was basically the opposite of Positioning. That made sense: it was Opposite Day!


    Attributes 9 appeared in the shop for the not-excessive price of 3,700 - only a couple of hundred XP more. I bought it and once again gave the curse free rein. It went through its little animation dance and spat out:


    Decisions


    With the time-sensitive work done, I wandered out to the pitch so the mini-match could kick off. I quickly organised the men''s squad by Decisions. Ryan was top and Wes Hayward was bottom. That suggested the Decision score was linked to what a player did when they had the ball. Deciding where to stand was covered by Positioning. What about decisions like when to tackle? I would need to do some investigating.


    The overall level was decent, though. I would need to compare it to a rival club but it seemed I gravitated to players who made good decisions. The women were a bit worse, dragged down by the low PA players. The new signings, Meghan and Sarah Greene, both had 15.


    The screens vanished, replaced by the Match Overview screen, and now the only profiles I could see were the ones from the match. Henri had the highest Decisions score by far. That made sense - he usually did the right thing in any given situation. Toquinho''s was good. It made sense that the two guys who were being paid to play football were top of this particular class.


    "Max," said Henri, shaking me. I''d gone internal for much longer than I thought. "We have started."


    I smiled. "Right. I was miles away."


    "Do the opposite."


    I put my hand on his shoulder and stared into his eyes. "You''re a great driver, I''m not attracted to your girlfriend, and French cheese is better than British."


    He looked up with his hands on his hips. "Fuck me," he said, "you are abominable." He let out a theatrical sigh. "She is wonderful, though, isn''t she?"


    "Let''s make you look good, bro. You ready?"


    "I was born re - oh, he''s gone."


    ***


    I played my first match as a Relationist. It started normal, but over time we tilted either left or right depending on some ineffable shared feeling. We played one-twos, we looked for rivers, we counter-pressed using the touchline to stop chances being created.


    Once, the spirit moved me to leave the blob and hit a big diag. I thought Geraldo might complain, but he didn''t seem to think it was out of the ordinary.


    I would fuse these styles, wouldn''t I? Create a hybrid. Not dogmatic one way or the other, but flexible, progressive, surprising. I could reliably hit a long pass. Pascal couldn''t. The shapes we formed would be different every match. How could our opponents prepare?


    I became the dominant player in the match, and I indulged myself by not completely living in the moment. I tracked the way players with low decision-making scores did low percentage things, while the ones with higher scores kept things simple.


    Someone passed to me and I froze so completely my nearest opponent didn''t even try to tackle me, like it was one of my marvellous deceptions.


    Decisions. This was far more important than Flair. Maybe even more important than Technique! If I could put together a high Decisions team, whatever style we used, we would absolutely fucking slap!


    I clapped my hands and did a Samba dance. Geraldo threw his arms up as he turned away from the atrocity he was witnessing.


    ***


    Our opponents found it hard to maintain a Relationist approach and they pretty much reverted to something like 4-3-3.


    What happened was what had happened the first time I saw Geraldo''s men. When we had the ball, I didn''t get XP. I suspected, and later confirmed, that the cost of the Relationism perk was decreasing. When our opponents had the ball and played ''normal'' football, I gained XP.


    Pretty odd, but I didn''t think too much about it. This was a strange new world with strange new rules. Opposite Day. I shrugged it off. Went with the flow. Lent energy to Henri and to Tockers.


    We were really starting to slap when the clock hit 8. Geraldo whistled. Time''s up. I''m clocking off!


    ***


    20:02


    "Max," said Luisa, as we gathered around for our final ever debrief in Brazil. "Geraldo has one last drill he would like to show you, if you have time."


    "Oh, yeah, absolutely."


    "Geraldo read that you like movies. Have you seen The Last Starfighter?"


    "No," I said. "Never even heard of it."


    "He loves it. This drill is called The Last Starfighter."


    "Wow. Okay."


    Geraldo nodded and described what he wanted to the lads. They ran around in a whir, moving cones and putting six small goals into apparently random places at random distances. After a minute, I walked into a rectangle of cones that had been placed just outside the penalty area. It was about twenty paces wide, ten deep. There were nine balls spaced out around the top three sides of the rectangle.


    Luisa explained my task.


    "You start in the centre, here. You are the starfighter and you have to shoot enemies. You run to a ball and shoot or pass into the small goal. If you score, the boy topples the goal to show the enemy has exploded. Also, it is so you can''t use that target again. You run across and strike another ball. Then you must shoot at the big goal to score against the goalkeeper. You must not break stride or pause for breath. Straight into the next wave. Two passes, one more shot. Two more passes, one final shot. You must do all within thirty seconds or the world explodes."


    I shrugged. "Okay?"


    "Do you need me to explain again?"


    "No. I don''t get it. What''s Relationism about this?"


    "Are you going to do it, yes or no?"


    I didn''t see the harm in it, and maybe if I kept an open mind, something would come of it.


    The first goalie got into position and Geraldo blew his whistle. I closed my eyes, made sure I had the positions of all the balls and goals down, and calculated the optimal route. There were a couple of small goals close. I decided to hit those before the final shot. Most targets were quite far away, so it was better to hit them first while I had maximum technique and concentration. Although unless Geraldo did something to increase the degree of difficulty, I didn''t see that it mattered much which order I went in.


    "Ready?" said Luisa. Geraldo was holding up a stopwatch.


    I checked the positions of all the goals again, plus where the goalkeeper was standing. He was CA 12 so it wasn''t much of an obstacle, though I noted the keeper from the other team was pulling his gloves back on. "Sure," I said.


    "Time starts when you do."


    I sucked in a breath to make the scene more dramatic than it felt. I ran right, hit a ball towards the most distant mini goal, didn''t wait to check where it was going - I knew - ran across to the other side, hit the next one, instantly took a shot with the nearest ball, surprising the goalie, who had been expecting me to take more of a run-up, and went into the second phase.


    My second shot was left-footed, and I was vaguely aware that they had switched goalies while I was working on my long passes. I did one of the short passes next, and as I crossed to do the penultimate one, noted that two goalies were getting in place for the final shot. Cheeky Geraldo! I passed, spun, and for my final act, wound up an almighty thunderbastard, but instead of smacking the ball I chipped it down the centre, where both goalies left it for the other one.


    One hundred percent accuracy and surely well within the time limit. There was a light smattering of applause. Henri was smiling and nodding. Tockers was very still with very wide eyes. Geraldo, though, simply took another hit of his cigarette.


    "Luisa, please ask him what I''m supposed to learn from that exercise."


    They had a brief chat. Back in English, she said, "That wasn''t for you. That was for him."


    Emma had a big smile on her face. She had recorded the whole thing. "I knew he liked you."


    With that, Geraldo wandered off, smoking his cigarette, and I never saw him again. Until two minutes later when he realised his dramatic exit wasn''t compatible with being paid.


    ***


    21:00


    We were in a lively, crowded bar, squashed in along with a lot of the local players. Luisa asked if I wanted a drink, and she meant an alcoholic one.


    "Erm," I said, considering the matter with due care and attention. "I''ve done what I came for. Got some new ideas. New tools in my box. It went great. I think I''m allowed a summer break now, don''t you? But it''s Opposite Day so I should... I should say no? Or is taking the break already the opposite?"


    Luisa sighed. "No-one with your haircut should talk like that. I get you a capri."


    "So that''s that," Emma said to me as Luisa headed to the bar. "Does this mean it''s Emma time? Can we go full Emma two days early?"


    Could we? I''d seen Relationism, got over myself enough to do the drills, and even played a quick match. I''d unlocked two Attributes and for better or worse, Toquinho and Wilfred Banks knew what it was like living in my world. "I''m all yours," I said. "Only, it would be good to pop by some matches in Rio so I can get Chelli some players."


    Emma made a scoffing noise. "Detours to watch crap players is par for the course, babes. No skin off my nose if we have to watch loads of hot, virile Brazilians."


    "I like it when you talk like that!" I said. "It gives me a chance to work on my jealousy! Thank you for these ulcers!"


    "You''re so funny," she said. "You know what''s weird?"


    "My hair."


    "Oh, big time. But you went on this whole journey, trying to learn the opposite way of playing."


    "Yes."


    "But watching you in that match... I mean, I''m no expert but you played exactly like you always do."


    "Really? You think? It felt completely different." I closed my eyes while I tried to visualise what I''d done and how I''d done it. "You know what? I''m not going to worry about it. I''ve done my Relationism fantasy and now it''s Emma time. First up, drinks. Then we Samba. Then I throw you over my shoulder and carry you up to my hotel room."


    She twisted her lips. "First, drinks. Second, Samba. Third? That depends." She touched my wrist briefly and I got goosebumps. "You''re entering a chaotic, unstructured environment," she said, with a mischievous look. "One where opportunities emerge - and vanish - depending on how you behave. Think you can handle it, babes?"


    I smiled, leaned back, and crossed my legs. "You want chaos but you''ve made a list. One, two, three. Oba oba oba." I shot to my feet. "Let''s Samba right now."


    "They''re not playing the right music."


    "I''ll hum."


    Emma looked around. "We''ll look ridiculous."


    "Yeah, we will." I held out my hand; she took it. We danced to music no-one else could hear. We looked ridiculous; I loved every second of it.

 11.7 - Never Ghana Give You Up

    7.


    FIFA Under 20 World Cup 2025, Chile


    Monday, June 2


    Group C: Valpara¨ªso


    In any football tournament, the cameramen are more interested in the crowd than what''s happening on the pitch. Bonuses are paid every time they get a good shot of the president of FIFA sitting next to someone with a regional monopoly on violence. There is huge interest in likeable superstars such as Taylor Swift, while showing Ed Sheeran is good for hate-watchers and generating angry engagement on socials. But what really elevates a camera operator to elite status is their ability to spot and home in on beautiful women.


    [An Italian player wearing his country''s gorgeous blue kit passes the ball out of play and points at a stricken comrade who is on his back, clutching his calf. The referee signals the physios.]


    Tyler (Comms): Bit of a break in play here as an Italian player goes down. It was off the ball, no contact. Is it Palazzolo? I think it is. Could be a muscle injury?


    Jen (Co-comms): That''s right. He''ll be worried right now. That could be his tournament over. I hope not; he''ll have been looking forward to this for months, ever since Italy qualified.


    Tyler: How do you assess the match so far?


    Jen: It''s very much what we expected. Italy dominating but New Caledonia showing flashes of the talent that got them here. Three-nil''s a fair reflection of the balance of play but New Caledonia have threatened on the break. You see the Italy manager is very aware of it. He''s there now, big gestures, probably reminding them of what they need to do on their rest defence.


    [We cut to a couple in the crowd. A blonde woman is resting her head on a man''s shoulders. She seems to be asleep.]


    Tyler: [Chuckles.] Not everyone''s enjoying it.


    Jen: Maybe he''s been teaching her about rest defence.


    Tyler: Not sure about the yellow hair.


    Jen: I don''t mind it.


    Tyler: Looks like Palazzolo is good to continue.


    Jen: That''s good news for him but even better for his manager. Palazzolo''s been impressive so far. Lots of clubs here looking at him.


    ***


    The half-time analysis proved difficult to make interesting; Italy had not been tested in any meaningful way. The programme''s host led the two in-studio analysts through some of Italy''s best moves but instead of showing the chances created by New Caledonia - there weren''t any - she got a slightly cheeky smile.


    "Remember the woman who was sleeping on her friend''s shoulder? We kept an eye on that scene. Here''s what happened next."


    [We cut back to a shot of Max and Emma, but Emma is even more zonked. Max is trying to hold her neck straight.]


    "Good support there. Trying to keep a good shape."


    [Max taps the shoulder of the guy in front of him. The stadium is far from full but the turnout is decent given how one-sided the match was expected to be. Max uses one-handed sign language to indicate he needs help. The man in front, who is in a red Chile top, is willing but doesn''t understand what is needed. Max points to the space in front of him. The man lifts up a backpack. Max bids him to extract something from it. The man rummages and comes up with a neck pillow. Max gives him a thumbs up but realises he won''t be able to put the pillow on by himself. The Chile fan signals to the person behind Emma, passes the pillow across, and while Max gently eases Emma''s head more upright, the man behind slips the pillow around her neck. Max does a tiny fist pump. He quietly high-fives the man in front and tries to reverse high-five the man behind. He fails, and asks the man in front to high-five the man behind. It''s smiles all round.]


    We cut back to the studio. "What teamwork!"


    One of the analysts has an ace up his sleeve. He gestures towards his phone. "You know, Sarah, unless my followers are mistaken, that young man is Max Best. He''s the manager of Chester FC in the English League Two and he''s probably here to watch his Ghanaian midfielder in the match against Peru later."


    "Oh, fascinating! We hope to have some team news before the final whistle. Let''s hope he didn''t come all this way for nothing."


    ***


    XP balance: 1,443


    While Emma got some fitful rest in the roofless Elias Figueroa stadium, I took stock of the situation.


    With my Relationism studies finished for the semester, we had enjoyed some Emma time, taken Chelli and Tockers to the airport, then a couple of days later parted with Henri and Luisa. My new haircut told me that instead of thanking Luisa for her (mostly) patient translations, I should pick her up and whirl her around. The haircut was right!


    This morning we had flown five hours to Santiago and got straight on the road to Valpara¨ªso, 90 minutes away. After watching two matches here, we would travel back to Santiago and spend the next two days there before moving on to two more cities in two days. It was good Emma was getting some rest because this could get very exhausting very quickly. I wouldn''t say I was homesick but I was done with living on the move.


    As for the football, well, it was a shame for the tournament to start with a damp squib.


    New Caledonia had a lot of heart and some decent players but none that interested me, certainly not at the cost of one of my precious ESC slots. Italy were the opposite - I would have taken ten from their squad in a heartbeat, but those ten were already well known and a quick internet search suggested their next destinations would be big clubs willing to spend a few million on a hot prospect. No arbitrage possible on those guys. No deals to be had. They went into my database and I used them to test theories about the value of the new Attributes I had unlocked: Off The Ball and Decisions.


    I kept my eyes on the action to suck up experience points (3 per minute) while I let my mind drift.


    A lot had happened on the night of the 31st. I woke up with the curse update already installed and a bewildering amount of new information.


    For a start, my reputation. I was still rated ''poor'' in England and ''unknown'' internationally, but the curse counted me as a League Two manager and Chester a League Two club. Number go uuuuup.


    The achievements system had been removed. No big loss there.


    The profiles of my staff had changed. Some numbers had gone up, one or two had gone down. Sandra''s favourite formation had changed to 3-4-3. More on all that later.


    Another change: hundreds of non-league players had seen their contracts expire and were free agents. Some I knew about but some came as surprises - I had scouted those guys before unlocking the Contracts perk. There were a few options there, guys with decent CA I could try to get to Saltney, West, or College. Players from the top four leagues tended to have a contract expiry at the end of June so I had to wait a few more weeks before I could sign any of those.


    Then there were all sorts of small tweaks to the interface. Many seemed to take the way I used the curse and make it even easier. I had more control over the fonts which sounds very fastidious but which allowed me to optimise my space better, foregrounding important information like someone''s age and reducing things that didn''t change, like a player''s nationality.


    Tiles could be dragged and dropped more easily instead of me having to force things, and I was better able to bring tiles across screens with me. I could, for example, sort my squad by wages in one section of my vision while browsing the player market. If I felt player X would need 1,500 a week, I could put that into perspective. ''He would be my sixth highest-paid player - do I really want that?'' That sort of thing. Big quality of life improvements based on what I wanted, not what the imps thought I needed. If only big tech companies were run by imps and not demons.


    I was also able to see more panels when the Match Overview screen was locked in. I could bring up the latest news items, for example, and I could view the curse shop even if I couldn''t use it. That would be helpful when it came to watching the Relationism cost decrease, and to just generally make me feel less claustrophobic.


    Talking of the shop, that''s where most of the activity had come. There were eight major new perks available, plus five patches. I bought the patches right away because the imps weren''t letting me buy anything else until I did. It could have been annoying, being forced to direct my XP towards a certain end, but the patches felt to me like something imposed by The Sentinel, the cosmic referee who would squash me and the imps flat if we broke the rules, and who would put Old Nick back to the bottom of the demon pile if he was too brazen in tipping the scales in my favour. In any case, the patches tended to make my life easier. One had taken away almost all of my headaches - I got a brief pang when I first saw Relationism in action but that was a major event.


    The eight new perks were a lot to take in, so I decided I would think about one per day on average to make it easier to digest.


    (I mean, that''s a blatant lie but it''s less bloated this way, so just go with it.)


    One thing worth mentioning right away, though, is some slight regret that I hadn''t been able to upgrade Playdar over the last year. My scouting trips during the rest of my time in Brazil were duds. I found three high PA players, of course, but one was aged 7, one was, even more uselessly, aged 46, and one had Decisions 2. Chelli took the latter''s phone number just in case I discovered it was easy to boost someone''s Decision rating, but I knew we wouldn''t call the person. I''d been shouting at Tyson for two and a half years and his Teamwork attribute had only increased a few points. It didn''t feel like I was going to get some rando who didn''t speak English from Decisions 2 to Decisions 12 fast enough to stop me absolutely despising them.


    Still, nice girl.


    Oh, that was the other thing. She was a woman and I couldn''t sign foreign women for another couple of years.


    Emma stirred. "Mmm, what''s the score?"


    "Seven-nil."


    "Who to?"


    "I''ll give you two guesses."


    "I can''t remember who''s playing."


    "Italy, babes. They''re mint and they''re taking it really seriously. Sixth and seventh goals got the full Tardelli treatment, which you would know as the full Ziggy. It means a lot to them."


    "Wouldn''t it to you?"


    I had to think about that one. "Not sure. If I''d gone through the academy system then yeah, it would have been something to put me above the other lads. There''s Max Best, England captain! That''s something to work towards, isn''t it? Bit of a boost. And you don''t cut an England player, do you? It''s like getting a shield in The Traitors. If you play for England, you''re protected from elimination for another season."


    "Very passionate," mumbled Emma, who peeled the neck pillow off and gave it a quizzical look. "Three Lions on your chest. Lie back and think of England. Mmm."


    "Babes," I said. "I''m a technocrat. Football is all mathematical to me. Now wipe away the drool before anyone sees."


    "You said these games aren''t being shown in England."


    "They''re not. No-one gives a shit about this tournament except scouts, agents, and the kids themselves. I read it will be on in America. And Malta."


    "You''re massive in Malta."


    "They don''t control the cameras, though. Brooke might be watching from the States but it wouldn''t be the first time she''s seen you fall asleep at a match. You''re fine."


    ***


    We hung around the stadium for an hour waiting for the next match to start. A couple more thousand people turned up, mostly Peruvians who wanted to cheer on their lads. I had a beer and a ''completo'' - a gigantic hotdog so-called because the only way to eat it is to make a complete mess - but Ems had sauced pretty hard on the plane and stuck to water.


    The curse told me that Youngster wasn''t in the starting line up. Neither was the Peruvian striker who played for Alliance Lima, the one Bassco had told me about at the Transfer Room.


    Before the players came out for their warm ups, I did a slow walk of the stadium looking for anyone I knew. I found a cluster of familiar faces by the halfway line near the VIP seats.


    "There''s Bassco," I said. "I bet that guy next to him''s the striker''s agent. Who''s that woman? Ugh. Wouldn''t like to meet her in a dark alley."


    "Don''t be horrible."


    "I''m not being horrible, I''m just saying she holds the modern-day world record for turning men to stone with a look. How do we get there? I think we need to go back into the concourse and pop back out a few exits down. Okay?"


    "It''s Max time, babes. We can do it however you want."


    "Right," I said, pulling her to one side so other people could get past while I plotted. "I think... I''d like to stay over here for now. I''ll watch the warm ups and maybe someone will catch my eye."


    "Already in the warm up? I really don''t know how you can be so sure so quickly."


    I pulled her close and gave her a full blast. "That day I met you in the deli in Didsbury. I knew, I just knew, just from looking... it was going to be a good cheesecake."


    "Make your little jokes, babes," she said, cheeks very slightly flushed, "but when you look at me like that you''d better kiss me."


    We smooched, then we stood facing the pitch with my arm around her until the players emerged from the tunnels. Ghana came first, and I checked Youngster''s profile and mood. In high spirits, but nervous. Very nervous.


    I quickly scanned the rest of the team not expecting too much - I had seen them on TV a few times and it always seemed to me that even without the curse it was obvious Youngster was the only one with the X-factor.


    I was wrong.


    Vincent Addo


    Age: 17


    DM RC


    Decisions 15, Positioning 12, Stamina 14


    CA 44, PA 169


    Well, now. That was interesting! One of the substitutes, the sort of talented youngster who comes along to make up the numbers and gain experience for next time, was Premier League quality. I instantly fell into daydreams of having him and Youngster as a double pivot, the two DMs in my 4-2-3-1. Christ, that would rock. Absolutely rock.


    He played for Inter Allies in Ghana, so his transfer fee wouldn''t be exorbitant.


    My thoughts pivoted to one of the new perks that had come with the update. Transfer Values, at a dizzying 20,000 XP, would give me an ''objective'' current valuation of any player I scouted. Insanely useful! I mean, just think of the applications. Being able to filter my player database to those worth under five hundred thousand pounds would save me hours. Plus I wouldn''t get dicked on deals. And it would give me the opportunity to move quickly. This Addo guy - if the curse told me he was worth 300,000 I could go to his club right away and offer 310. They would accept and who knows? Maybe we could get the deal done before anyone else in world football ever saw him play.


    What was delicious about Vincent Addo was that he didn''t have an agent. Again, that would make things much easier for Chester and he could join REM.


    One thing I liked about his player profile was that he could play on the right. He could definitely play as a wing back but I suspected he would do just fine as a right back. Well enough to be our second choice, surely. And one of the most exciting new perks was called Inverted Full Backs. For 15,000 XP I could join the modern tactical world. Vincent would be a right back when we were defending and then when we got the ball he would drift into midfield to be an extra passing option. Just a very desirable step forward in my options and it seemed tailor-made for Vincent.


    There were two big downsides to signing him. First, he wasn''t yet 18 so he wouldn''t be able to play until his birthday in January, although like any player who appeared in this tournament it would be easy to get him a work permit if I was willing to use an ESC slot. That was the second problem, though. It would take years to train Addo up and in the meantime he would be clogging up my pipes. I needed to use my two precious slots to make fast cash so I could start the stadium rebuild.


    I think I did a big sigh because Emma pushed herself back into me and squeezed my arms tighter around her.


    With terrible timing, I let out a groan.


    "Er, babes," she said, amused. "Do you need a cold shower?"


    "I need a shower every minute I''m in South America," I said, but the cause of my noise wasn''t Emma. The Peruvian players had come jogging out of the tunnel, and the last one to emerge, moving slowly, was the striker.


    The striker.


    The striker.


    Foquita


    Age:19


    S


    Decisions 14, Jumping 14, Heading 15, Technique 15, Off The Ball 17, Finishing 13


    CA 99 PA 190


    Swooooooon!


    The guy was six foot two, strong, and ticked all the boxes you could want from a striker. Okay his Teamwork was 5 and his Pace only 10 but who gave a shit? If he was any faster the guy would be at Real Madrid B already. Why was he still playing in Peru?


    One clue might have been his Condition score: 73%. His Injury tab showed he was recovering from a muscle tear. But that didn''t explain it. Bassco had said his agent was ambitious but that didn''t track.


    PA 190. The number made me feel drunk. I had a slight, vague, outside, something-more-than-nothing chance of signing the guy. The absolute best thing that could happen to me right now was if his leg fell off. I mean, fell off in a way where you could sew it back on. Just something where everyone stopped looking at him long enough for me to get his name on the dotted line.


    "See that guy there?"


    "Is he the one that''s got you heavy breathing down my ear?"


    I think I maybe looked a bit shamefaced and peeled myself away from her. I took a couple of breaths which utterly failed to slow my heart rate. I pointed. "That guy hobbling around looking miserable? There''s my stadium."


    Emma smiled and came at me for a kiss. "You''re the strangest technocrat I think I''ve ever met."


    ***


    Me: Can I rent one of your ESC slots?


    Mateo: What on earth are you talking about?


    Me: I found a player I want for *next* season. Chester will give you fifty grand if I can park him at Tranmere until summer 26.


    Mateo: That''s deranged even by your standards.


    Me: I''ll put you down as a maybe.


    ***


    When I felt calm enough to meet new people, I led Emma through the stadium to the section where a big batch of football insiders was sitting. "Babes, just so you know, I''m going full technocrat."


    "Gosh."


    "All these guys talk about is passes per defensive action, field tilt, and progressive pass difference. Heat maps get them hot. I have to speak their language."


    "I hope you speak it better than Spanish."


    "My Spanish is molto bene, actually."


    I got myself in front of Bassco. He was wearing a suit at least one size too small. He introduced me to Adrian, an agent in a plain black tee. Adrian looked a lot like Danny DeVito, the actor famous for his comedy roles, and Adrian''s glasses seemed to have been chosen to amplify the likeness. The curse told me that he worked for himself, not a big company, and he had four hundred thousand pounds in assets under management, which didn''t reek of ambition. Bassco then introduced me to the modern-day Medusa, a fierce-looking woman wearing lots of jewellery. He called her Maria and there was no further explanation. It seemed clear that Maria was Adrian''s partner and that Adrian wasn''t in it for love. It was also clear that she did not like my yellow hair.


    Bassco skipped right past the hair discussion. "Did you have any luck in the Transfer Room?"


    "Yes! Signed two England youth internationals from Man City."


    He smiled slightly. "The English humour. I never get it."


    "For the women''s team," I said.


    "Oh!"


    "Yeah. Buzzing off that. They''re mint and they''re gonna help my own girls get in the England team. It''s genius. What else? I found a couple of talents in Sampa but I was busy most of the time in Rio so I couldn''t go as hard at the scouting as I wanted."


    "You go back after the World Cup?"


    "No," I said. "I think I need to go home and do nothing. Like, proper nothing. See my mum." The Maria person gave me a sharp glance but didn''t speak. "Hey, Bassco, check this out." I showed him some photos of soil and diggers.


    "Your new training ground?"


    "Yes," I said. "They''ve started. It''s happening."


    "I am happy."


    "Me too. I want to go home and look at it every day. Shout at some lazy builders, maybe. I haven''t done any good shouting for ages. Oh!" I said, and rummaged in my backpack. I came up with a floppy rectangle wrapped in very crinkly plastic. "As promised."


    Bassco opened it and out came the new Chester top with ''Bassco 19'' on the back. "Guapa," he said, turning it back and forth. The blue and white stripes, the illusion of an old-fashioned collar, the overall look was just what I wanted. "Muy guapa."


    "That''s the pro version," I said, feeling the fabric for myself. "I think I love it. Simple, no frills, but quality. That''s what I wanted. They smashed it. You''ve got the first one in the southern hemisphere, Bassco!"


    "Me encanta."


    "Right," I said, smiling. "Let''s talk about who else gets to wear that bad boy. Adrian, how many clients have you got?"


    "Today? One. Foquita." He glanced at his wife.


    I nodded. I knew the total value of his assets under management, and since he only had one client, that meant Foquita was rated as worth 400,000 pounds. It didn''t strike me until much later that I might have heard what I wanted to hear. In any case, I was willing to go higher than 400 K to get one of the top ten strikers in the world on my books. "Let me be honest. I''ve been watching videos of Foquita and I love him. I''d like to see him in my new shirt. As I understand it, Adrian, you feel Foquita is ready for the jump to Europe?"


    "Yes," he said. "I''ve been researching you, too. You''re a good player and manager. Your priority is to improve players. It''s good. League Two in England is the right level. Perhaps League One but there are not so many managers like you who coach the players. It''s very important that Foquita learns from every stage."


    "How come he is still in Peru?"


    "You think he has outgrown us?"


    "Erm, not sure. Probably," I said, slowly, reminding myself to think in numbers around these guys. "I think you could have made the jump last year and made some extra money."


    Adrian adjusted his big glasses. "Money is not important now." Maria''s jewellery jangled its disagreement. "What is important is progression. Every step a good step. We have a saying, ah... not sure in English. Something like, go slow to go fast."


    "Yes!" I said, bouncing on my seat. "That''s right! Yes. Billion percent." I settled down and imagined what I could do with Foquita if I signed him. "If I could get him, it would be in January, would it?"


    "Yes," said Bassco. "We have the chance to win la liga."


    "That''s cool. Winning''s important. The game is about glory. Er, and heat maps. So he comes in January. I''ve got my training centre built, I''ve got loads of great coaches. The rest of the team will be up to speed, more or less." If he was around CA 100 when he arrived, Foquita would score tons of goals. It would be the equivalent of sending Tom Westwood to the Welsh third tier. "Foquita''s stats aren''t too impressive so far. Fifteen goals in twenty games will look good on his CV."


    "Yes, I think so too," said Adrian. "You think you can teach him?"


    "I wouldn''t change too much about him," I said. "I personally would like a little more Teamwork, but only a little."


    "He doesn''t listen," said Bassco. "He only wants to score goals."


    "Hmm," I said. If there was one thing I knew I could do it was shout at someone until their Teamwork attribute rose. If I signed this particular striker it would only be for six months. A year and a half if I was extremely lucky. It would benefit him in the long run if I, er, politely suggested he pass the ball more than he was wont to do, but it would benefit me if he scored more goals quickly so I could sell him on. Yeah, for once I would keep my mouth shut and let him keep taking shots from whatever crazy angles he wanted.


    An odd thing happened just then. As I was thinking that, Maria gave me one of her Medusa stares. The match kicked off and I forgot the stare until later. I scanned the pitch.


    "Ghana 4-2-3-1 against Peru 3-4-1-2. Very interesting."


    Adrian leaned forward and showed me a team sheet he''d gotten from the media room. "Ghana 4-4-2, Max."


    "What? No. Look." I pointed at the pitch.


    "It''s 4-4-2, no?"


    "Yes, but wait till Ghana get the ball."


    Sure enough, when Peru lost possession, Ghana slipped into what used to be Sandra Lane''s favourite tactic. Emma mumbled, "Burn the witch," which caused Maria to death stare her, not that Emma saw it.


    "Max, it''s incredible!" said Adrian.


    "No," I said, with something approaching modesty. "It''s the players and the inclination of the manager. Statistical probability. I have an AI model I use sometimes. It''s er, thingy. Proprietary. I''m only disappointed my player isn''t on the pitch; he''s fantastic in this role."


    "The ones playing are not?"


    "Er, one''s a pure CM. Sometimes you have to use one a bit deep but it''s never quite right. Same as playing a DM as a CM. You lose one point in the match rating sort of automatically. Avoid that if you can, obvs."


    "Obvs," agreed Emma, who I don''t think was really listening.


    "The other one is good but my guy is better and he knows the position very well. It doesn''t matter, really, does it? It''s just one step on his journey. I mean, I hope he gets on the pitch in one game, at least. His parents would love that. I might have a word with the manager," I mused.


    "To get your player in?"


    "I''m pretty sure that''ll happen anyway but I might pitch an idea; there''s another kid I''d like to see in the team. If he plays in this tournament I can sign him easily. I mean, give the lad three minutes against New Caledonia so I can bring him to England. You''d need a heart of stone to say no, right? The manager might be thinking of doing it anyway to keep his squad fresh for the match against Italy. It''s a good group, this. Great fun. What I mean is it''s statistically interesting, what with the high average national rankings and momentum factors."


    Bassco, ignoring my technobabble nonsense, said, "You have another player you want to sign, Max? I thought perhaps you only had money for Foquita?"


    That was interesting! He wanted me back on the topic of making this deal. "I would love to sign Foquita before anyone else realises how good he is. Bassco, I''ll give your club a 50,000 pound loan fee with a 450,000 pound option to buy." One of the new perks in the shop was called Forex for Dummies. For 1,000 XP I would be able to change the currency in the curse. Useful for negotiations in the Transfer Room but I had gotten ahead of this one. "That''s almost 2.5 million Sols, mate."


    "His wages?" said Adrian.


    "I can do 2,000 a week." He was about to reply when I clarified. "That''s 10,000 Sols but I''m sorry that''s not a number I can negotiate. It''s really my best offer in both cases. I want Foquita even if it''s only from January and those are the numbers I can commit to."


    "And the release clause?" said Adrian. "Bassco said you told him 1.5 million."


    I nodded, very slightly frustrated. "Yeah."


    Adrian adjusted his glasses. "Why so unhappy? That''s one million profit for you if all goes well."


    I squeezed my eyes up tight and then relaxed into a smile. "He''s so good, though! I know exactly how to use him. He''s sooo good, mate. Make the release clause four million and give me another year with him."


    Adrian did a sad little smile. "That''s not his path."


    "Yeah," I said. If it was my player I''d want him to settle in Europe at a friendly club - Chester leading the line there - followed by a move to somewhere a step tougher with a taste of European football. Glasgow Celtic, for example, or Sporting Lisbon. Then Newcastle or Borussia Dortmund before the move to a top superclub. A five-year plan. Adrian couldn''t know that Chester would be one of the best teams in Europe five years from now. But then I thought, fuck it. We would never be able to afford an elite striker''s wages and a one million pound profit from one of my ESC slots was sensational.


    I''d done very, very well to carve out just enough money and just enough reputation for this deal to be conceivable. It struck me that if this conversation had happened in May, before the curse update, it might not have progressed very far.


    "Look," I said, "I''m all for it. I''m in. This is a true win-win-win. What do you want to do? Sign for Chester already or wait for him to score a boatload in this tournament and skip some steps on his career path?"


    Adrian said, "We will not skip steps. We don''t want to send him to a big team who loans him to you. We want him to stay humble and stay hungry so he can get to the very top. Too many players skip steps and never reach the top. Go slow to go fast, go slow to go far."


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    I blew out of my cheeks. "You''re, like, the best agent I''ve ever met."


    "There is one hurdle."


    "Oh?"


    "Was it the right word?"


    "Hurdle. Obstacle. Roadblock. Nightmare fuel."


    "Yes. The boy''s mother is very interested in his career. You must put her mind at ease."


    "I''m great with mums. Aren''t I, babes? Your mum thinks I''m great."


    "You''re her favourite technocrat."


    Adrian said, "Will you be at the other group C matches?"


    "No, the plan is to scramble around until we''ve seen every team. I could go to the final group match. It''s back here, isn''t it? It''s just we''ve done a lot of travelling. We''ve been on more motorways than beaches. I think Peru will get to the knockouts. I could meet her then?"


    "I''ll check," said Adrian. "Would you like to meet Foquita today?"


    "Oh," I said, surprised. "Erm, no. It''s the World Cup. That''s a big deal for the players, isn''t it? We should let him enjoy it."


    "I think he is not enjoying it. He wants so well to play and win for his country. It makes him, how to say? Sick, some way."


    I smiled. "So let him experience it." I pushed a hand through my hair and stifled a yawn. "He''ll move to five different football clubs in his career, and have ten managers. I''m not that special. This is special, isn''t it? A World Cup. He only gets one shot at the under 20s. If you think he needs some good news - and if I count as good news - then tell him. But if it was me, I wouldn''t be thinking about club football right now. I''d be thinking about my muscle tear and whether I should risk playing today."


    Bassco''s eyes widened. "Muscle tear? How you know? We told no-one!"


    I smiled. "Mate. I can see it when he moves." I tapped him on the knee. "Don''t worry. I won''t blab."


    As I turned to face the front and to focus on the match and absorb the XP it was offering, my gaze lingered on Maria for half a second. It was uncanny. I was sure she didn''t know English, yet she somehow followed the conversation and reacted even to some of my inner thoughts.


    It hit me, then. She wasn''t Adrian''s wife; she was Foquita''s mother. She hated my yellow hair and she thought I was an arrogant prick, a show-off playing at being an adult. No way would she put her son''s future in my hands.


    "What''s wrong babes?"


    "Nothing," I lied. In a couple of hours, maybe in the morning, I would get a text from Bassco with some bullshit reason why Foquita would not be joining Chester FC. A million pounds gone, just like that. Well, if it was going to happen, let it happen at the start of the tournament.


    I''d found one other player worth signing and there were twenty more teams to scout.


    If I was lucky, one of them would have another amazing striker... and he would be an orphan.


    ***


    Ghana were rock solid defensively and were beating Peru 2-0 with ten minutes to go. Ghana''s star striker Kpozo scored both goals. His CA matched the best in the other squads but his PA ceiling was fast approaching. Big shame, but he seemed determined to stamp his mark on this tournament. Good for him.


    When Peru made their last substitution, one that ensured Foquita wouldn''t get on the pitch, Adrian, and Maria upped and left, complaining loudly. I found their reaction strange. It was sensible from the manager not to throw Foquita into a lost cause when the next match was only two days away.


    I wanted to talk to Bassco about everything but I had this strange sense of paralysis. Would Youngster get on the pitch? AFCON was a pretty big deal but it was regional. It would mean so much to Youngster, his family, and his church, if he represented Ghana in front of the whole world. And, since I was in technocrat mode, it would boost his CA by loads. Five points, maybe.


    Emma was great. She sensed I was in some kind of state and turned on the charm with Bassco. They nattered away with Bassco sensing a chance to pitch the other players he had in the Peru squad. That only reinforced my belief that I''d blown my chance with the PA 190 striker.


    Eight minutes to go. Seven. Six. And then I gripped the back of the plastic seat in front of me. Youngster was getting ready to come on! In a World Cup!


    I wanted to scream but my throat was tight. To jump, but my soles were glued to the floor. I tried to force myself to relax. So he was going on the pitch. Big deal. The kid would play in FA Cup finals, in the Champions League, in the men''s World Cup. I couldn''t overreact every time he stepped up a level.


    ***


    [We see Youngster on the touchline, waiting to come on. He''s quite still and looks resplendent in his yellow and red striped top. His shirt number (14) is written on the top-left of the kit, which is unusual but awesome.]


    Tyler: Good news for the Chester manager - his player is coming on. Youngster. Born in Manchester, England, he led the league in interceptions. That''s a like-for-like change, is it?


    Jen: Yes, still in the 4-2-3-1 shape. He''ll slot right in.


    [Cut to Max and the side of Emma''s head. She gives Max a happy shake and turns to tell Bassco one of her stories about Youngster. Max appears to be frozen solid.]


    Tyler: There''s his club manager. Not much emotion on display.


    Jen: Hang on. What''s this?


    [Max slowly lifts his hand. There''s something in it. He dabs at the side of his eye with a neck pillow. Emma says something and he cry-laughs.]


    Jen: Aww.


    Tyler: Suddenly the exhausting trip to the other side of the world seems worth it. That''s the magic of the World Cup. That''s why it means so much to these young men. Ghana and Italy look to be in pole position in this group. Peru will need a big result against Italy on Thursday. We''ll bring you that match live, of course.


    ***


    Bassco said he''d be in touch about Foquita and encouraged me to think about his other players. I told him there was a good chance I would see him in the knockout rounds. Before leaving I got him to confirm that Maria was Foquita''s mother and he said yes.


    Yes. That was that, then. That moved Vincent Addo to the top of my admittedly unfinished wish list.


    I asked Emma if we could wait in the car park until the Ghana squad left. The air was much cooler than in Brazil and it was almost a shock to feel cold. We huddled together watching the world stream past until Ghana''s coaches came out and started loading bags into their team bus. I went over and introduced myself, asking if Youngster was behaving himself - "Of course!" - and what they thought about Vincent Addo. The vibe was very positive. "He''s a good boy. Shy, but he''s younger than the others so it''s normal."


    Youngster came shortly after, staring at his feet with a big goofy grin. He couldn''t believe he''d just played in a World Cup match! "Oi," I called.


    He glanced at me and looked away quickly. Big scary yellow hair man was scary. But then he did a double-take. He recognised Emma all right and came over. He looked at me again, dropped a plastic bag he was carrying, and threw himself into the hug zone. My haircut told me to spin him round like I''d done with Luisa but my back said ''ah, veto''. Youngster tried to give Ems a polite handshake but she wasn''t having any of it - she enveloped the little dude.


    He was flushed and happy and clearly we''d taken him by surprise. It was also clear he wasn''t following Emma''s Instagram. He looked in astonishment at my hair. "My goodness, Mr. Best. What have you done?"


    "That''s a long story involving visions of the Archangel Gabriel and a clue hidden in a high-resolution scan of a Vermeer." I looked him up and down and checked his Morale: maximum. "Did you like that? Playing in a World Cup? You big shot, you." I gave him a friendly punch.


    "Hurr hurr hurr," he said with his face. With his voice he said, "Why are you here?"


    "To see you, you dick. Why else?"


    "Oh!" he said, beyond pleased.


    "Although while I''m in the area why don''t you introduce me to Vincent Addo and your manager? Just, you know, for a laugh."


    ***


    Tuesday, June 3


    Group A: Santiago


    Spain versus South Sudan was another one-sided match. In its way, even more so than Italy versus New Caledonia, since the Spanish controlled the game from start to finish with high Technique and vigorous counter-pressing.


    The best players, as expected, were all in the Spain squad, and all of those seemed out of reach. They played for Real Madrid, Barcelona, and Man City. The lowest ranked club with a player in the squad was Levante, but a player in the Spanish second division was hardly likely to move to the English fourth. In any case, I did some research and it seemed a transfer had been arranged to Osasuna, a top-tier team.


    I say ''it seemed'' because you can''t believe transfer gossip. As luck would have it, the curse now offered a perk just for this occasion. For 6,000 XP I could buy what was called ''Interested Parties''. It promised to tell me when there was serious interest in a player. One use case sprung to mind immediately. If the perk told me that Ipswich Town wanted one of my players I could call their manager and ask about buying one of their players. "Not for sale," the guy would say. "But would you be open to selling player X?" Why, yes I would, mate. Let''s talk.


    It would also make going to the Transfer Rooms very interesting and perhaps enable me to cause a bit of mischief. I mean, imagine the curse told me Brighton were thinking of bidding for a key player from Bradford. It would be pretty safe to assume Bradford wouldn''t know, right? I mean, I didn''t know who wanted my players until a club got on the phone to start negotiating. I could tell Brighton that I''d just spoken to Everton and they were going in for the Bradford player. If I did it right, Brighton would hurry up and bid and that transfer drama would destabilise Bradford''s dressing room.


    Hurr hurr hurr.


    Another new perk would have the effect of making others even more useful. It was called Full Frontal. For 2,000 XP it would put alerts on the squad page. A relevant example - if Brighton wanted to buy Pascal Bochum, it would say WANTED next to his name and then I could go into the Transfers tab to see what was up. The perk would also alert me to any players whose contracts were close to expiring, tell me about bans and injuries, if the player didn''t have a work permit, if he was particularly tired or unhappy.


    I mean, I tended to browse through all the player profiles once a day at least, but as the number of squads increased that would get to be a hassle. The Full Frontal perk would immediately show me the most pressing issues and would allow me to reduce the amount of mindless checking (and worrying) I did. Absolutely worth it.


    Yet another new perk was one I would absolutely have to buy as soon as possible. It was called Panopticon: Max''s Multi-Club Model, which felt like a bit of a personal fuck you from Old Nick. It was 5,000 XP and all it would do would be to allow me to spend another 2,000 XP adding external squads to my screens. The description hinted that the squads would be limited to ones I had a ''stake'' in. It felt a bit like a trap - I had no direct stake in College, for example, but the imps had never actually ripped me off before and I suspected they wouldn''t now. They didn''t want to demotivate me from earning XP, right?


    I wouldn''t need to add Saltney or West to my screens as a matter of urgency, but adding College to my head would save me from having to make regular trips to Gibraltar. The hard part of having deep knowledge of the club''s goings-on would be explaining how I knew players were injured from thousands of miles away.


    That sounded like a problem for future Max to solve.


    ***


    Despite our growing fatigue, we stayed in the stadium for the second match, and I was very glad I did.


    Chile vs Panama had three interesting players. One was a PA 140 left winger who had played one whole minute of senior football. I mean, what a waste but what an opportunity for me. He wasn''t going to be quick money, though.


    Nor was a Panamanian right back with explosive pace. PA 144 with the physicality to cope with English football. Low Decisions and Technique, though, and he wouldn''t come cheap.


    The guy with the highest ceiling was a PA 150 centre back. He wasn''t as tall as you''d want from a CB, and he wasn''t outstanding in any particular area. As a solid, consistent guy, yeah, you''d want him in your team all day long but he lacked that X-factor that was going to make other clubs fall over themselves to buy him from me. That was in no small measure down to his name - Tony Herbert. I mean, how does a guy in Panama end up sounding like someone from Liverpool? It wasn''t very technocratic of me but I felt strongly that his name was the opposite of exotic and probably removed 50% off his transfer value when selling to British clubs.


    I watched him carefully, though. He could do well at Tranmere, perhaps, or maybe next summer if no-one had snapped him up I would try to get him to Saltney or College.


    ***


    Wednesday, June 4


    Emma and I took it easy, staying in the hotel until it was time to return to the stadium for the next matches. Brazil versus Mexico was a wonderland of hot prospects and thanks to the Transfer Room I had a few high-level contacts. I sat close to Nono from Corinthians - close enough to smell his hair - and showed him my training ground photos before complaining that Brazil were playing the most European-style football in the whole tournament.


    After a lively philosophical debate about what Brazilian football was supposed to be, I texted some directors of football to ask about their players. They replied with seven or even eight digit numbers. One wide forward I casually asked about was due to sign a 35 million pound deal with Chelsea.


    I replied with ''I''ll give you 36 million'' and the sporting director returned a string of laughing emojis. Nono also laughed at me, but told me to keep my head up - negotiating in South America wasn''t like in the US where there were winners or losers. I wasn''t losing face by being interested in good players.


    The top-rated Mexicans seemed to have been well scouted - there were plenty of stories about them moving to the MLS. There were still a ton of interesting options, though. A good goalie, two dreamy midfielders, and an okay striker.


    An okay striker was likely to earn me more money than a silky-smooth playmaker so I didn''t discount the guy, even if he was only PA 118.


    The second game in the stadium that day was South Korea versus Norway and again there was a lot of quality. Norway had a mini-Haaland and loads of rugged League One-type players. Physical, determined, able and willing to follow instructions.


    South Korea had a lot of highly-technical guys comfortable with taking the ball in congested spaces. Did anyone say Relationism?!


    The problem was the country was well-scouted and they had half a dozen guys already playing in England and Germany, while the ones playing in Korea seemed to be on good money. I could probably pay more but not so much more that it would be worth uprooting their whole life. Still, I made notes and planned to have a poke around because some of those guys were worth waiting a season to get.


    ***


    Thursday, June 5


    Group B, Talca


    The plan to see every team at least once was amazing and well-conceived and I was adding some genuinely interesting names to my database but all the travel was really starting to wear us down. I had always found it ridiculous when business people complained about what from the outside was a glamorous lifestyle. I went to Rome, Cairo, and Istanbul this week. Wow, amazing! No, it was a nightmare.


    But now I understood it better. If you didn''t have the time or energy to go to the tourist hot spots, you weren''t really visiting a city. You were visiting a series of very similar hotels connected by traffic jams. Emma and I were talking less and spending more time lazing in our room, and she was doing less reading about the cities we were in because knowing what was outside our doorstep was increasing the disconnect between the sort of travel she liked and the sort of travel we were doing.


    But the day proved important.


    We watched Senegal versus Colombia with Jes¨²s from Envigado FC - who by the way was wildly passionate about the match to the point Emma became a temporary Colombia fan - while back in the north, Italy were playing Peru.


    "Emma," I said, looking at my phone. "Peru just scored. Guess who?"


    "Foquita," she said.


    "Who''s that?" wondered Jes¨²s.


    "He''s this striker I want to buy," I said. "But his mum doesn''t like me. It''s crazy because I got it all lined up with the club and with his agent and normally the mum''s the easiest one in the chain, right? You just sort of get very positive and sweep her along with you."


    "You were positive, babes."


    "I mean, was I? I was being pretty cold, I thought. Focused on his progression. How we''re just a step in his career. Maybe I should have talked about how we''re a family and all that. It was hard, though, because the club and agent talk one way and that was my focus."


    "Maybe all is not lost," said Jes¨²s.


    "Bassco texted me that night. Said there were some hurdles after all, but he wrote the whole thing in super-formal Spanish. Normally he fires off quick texts in a hybrid of English and emojis."


    "You think it''s significant?"


    "Yeah, big time. I''m not holding out much hope. I''ve got two ESC slots and loads of options. Too many options, maybe."


    Jes¨²s took a few seconds to rage at the referee about something, then settled back onto his seat. "What is your strategy?"


    "That''s just it. Do you ever make jigsaws?"


    "Jigsaw?"


    "You know, the puzzle. It''s a picture in three thousand pieces and you put them together."


    "We call it puzzle. Just puzzle."


    "Oh. So do you start in the middle or the corners or what?"


    "Corners and edges."


    "Me too. I get two corners from any country in the world, right. Ideally they are players I can sell next summer so I can rebuild the stadium."


    "That will be a small stadium, no?"


    I smiled. "I planned to start with the west stand. It''s 1300 capacity right now. Demolish that, put up a big new 6,000 seat bad boy. Ten million pounds including a beautiful new pitch with all the drainage and modern technology a boy could want. But I''ve got a new plan. Do the north or south stands. That gives me the pitch plus a gorgeous 4,000 seat stand. More capacity, more income, bring the women''s team home, and it''ll only cost five million."


    "I see. Five million pounds from two players is not so crazy."


    "Right. Foquita''s a million virtually guaranteed but I can''t get him so what else? Some of these guys need years to develop, which normally I''d be fine with but I can only have two. Some are pretty good already and I reckon I could kick them up another level or two over the next year but even then I don''t think I''m going to make a huge profit. Norway have an attacking midfielder I''m pretty sure I could buy for 300 K and sell for half a million. Good deal, right?"


    "But not enough."


    "Mmm," I said. "We''ve got three more days on the road, grinding, and we''ll have seen every team. I''m pretty sure I''ll sign two players from this tournament. But which? If I sign a midfielder I don''t need Lee Contreras. If I don''t sign a centre back I need one from the free agent list in England. If I sign players who can improve my first eleven I will get free agents with high potential. If I sign World Cup players with potential I need older free agents with League Two experience to get us over the line this season. It''s a big cascade. The final picture could look like almost anything. I have to get the first decision right and if I do, the season will be a success and I can finance a big project."


    Jes¨²s smiled. "I like talking to you. But the solution seems easy, no? If you cannot buy to sell you have to sell from what you have."


    I clicked my teeth. "Right. But the players I want to sell won''t move the needle when it comes to the stadium."


    "Perhaps you have to sell someone you do not wish to sell."


    "Well, that''s ominous," said Emma.


    Jes¨²s laughed. "Max, tell me now. Are you interested in any of my players?"


    I hesitated. "No, sorry. I mean, I need a left mid and yours is good but he''s not in my top ten."


    "Thank you for being honest," he said. He got to his feet and walked away.


    "Max!" complained Emma.


    "What?"


    "I was enjoying that. He''s living the vida loco and I love it. He''s my actual favourite and you scared him off. Oh, look, he''s coming back."


    Jes¨²s was returning with a woman with long black hair. She was maybe 40, was dressed casually, and had the soft face hard eyes combo I always associated with headteachers. "Max, meet Catalina. She runs our women''s team and is very keen to meet you."


    ***


    By the time Australia versus Cuba kicked off, I''d made a very useful new friend. The reason Catalina wanted to meet me was that she thought she had a genius in her squad but almost no-one believed her. Catalina knew the player would have to move abroad to continue her growth but there was zero interest. A flat zero. She told me there were days when she thought maybe she was crazy, maybe she was wrong, but then the girl did something with a ball that made her believe all over again.


    "Why can''t anyone else see it?"


    "They can, a little. But she doesn''t have good numbers. She is still learning. Still growing. She does not fit easily into modern schemes. That''s why when Jes¨²s told me he had met a crazy Englishman I was interested and when I read about you and watched the videos I knew I had to meet you. Here, look."


    She loaded a video and handed her phone over. Emma leaned over to watch.


    We saw a tiny little speck of a girl, no more than five years old, dribbling through a very confused boys team. "She''s five!" I cried.


    "She gets older through the video."


    "That''s a neat trick."


    But Catalina didn''t get the joke because as I spoke, the girl did a drag-back through the legs of a defender. A neat trick indeed.


    As promised, the footage showed the girl getting older and competing against more girls teams than boys but some things didn''t change - her close control, her vision to see passes. "She''s really good," I said. The curse update hadn''t offered me a perk that showed player profiles over video. I suspected it never would, but imagine! It would have revolutionised my life. "How old is she?"


    "16."


    That was not a good number. "I need to see her live. But even then work permits are going to be a hassle. I can only sign foreign ladies when I''m in the top tier. That''s three years from now, minimum. I''ve tried to dream up ways to scam the system but I can''t get past the fact we''re in tier four. Even if we were in the WSL or I had a friend there with a spare ESC slot, she can''t come till she''s 18." I shook my head and sighed. "I''d love to help but it''s so complicated. Unless she wants to marry one of my players."


    Catalina smiled. "No need, Max. You didn''t notice the name of the video?"


    I tapped the screen. "Meredith Ann Through the Years. What''s that?"


    "That''s her name."


    "A Colombian girl is called Meredith Ann?"


    "After her father''s mother."


    "No way."


    "Yes way. She can get a Welsh passport, we think."


    "Wait. She could play for Wales."


    "She will play for Colombia."


    "I want to argue but I really like the way you say Colombia. Sort of makes me want to play for Colombia myself. Okay, let me think about this. Er... Get the passport. If it goes through, we''ll fly her to Chester and take a look at her."


    "I have a better idea."


    By half time in Australia''s match, I had all but agreed that Envigado FC''s women''s team would visit England to play a friendly match against Chester Women. We would help with transport costs and accommodation. I told Catalina we would plead poverty so that our players would offer to host their Colombian counterparts, which would be good culture clash content for the documentary, but that she herself would be put somewhere nice.


    The outline of the next few series was coming to me. As well as our natural progression through the leagues, Chesterness season 2 would feature a visit from an international team - one with a Colombian girl with a Welsh passport. Season 3 would be our first trip abroad. Season 4 we would join a big summer tournament in the US. That would be good progression for the girls - and the show.


    Jes¨²s was pleased to find we had finally finished talking about women''s football; he dragged us into a lounge to eat completos and/or empanadas washed down with beers and/or piscos.


    TV screens were showing highlights of Ghana versus New Caledonia. The number 14 was often visible.


    "That''s your player?" said Jes¨²s.


    "Yes. Starting! I mean, it''s the easiest group game but still. The manager must trust him."


    Catalina said, "He''s in the middle of every move."


    I shrugged. "I mean, it makes sense. There are four pitches for this whole tournament; they''re being butchered and Youngster has plenty of experience of that. See the other players are doing short passes? Short passes are more accurate but not when the pitch is like that. You might as well go a bit longer and that''s what my dude is doing. He''s not the best midfielder in this tournament, very far from it, but I reckon he''s fought the most battles in the widest range of circumstances, right? I mean some of the Spanish kids have only ever been on teams with 70% possession. New Caledonia, South Sudan, Australia, they''ve never been favourites against a decent team. Youngster has. He''s done it all. Sorry to be blas¨¦ about it but this is just what he does."


    "Blas¨¦, Max?" said Catalina, smiling at Jes¨²s.


    "I''m dispassionate. The sport is just numbers to me. Football is the Matrix and I am the One."


    "Vale, Max. Entiendo."


    Jes¨²s pointed to the screen. "I think you may have a leetle problem, Max."


    Filling the left of the screen was one of those photos they take of players before a tournament. Youngster had his arms folded and was trying to look intense and brooding. He was failing in the most charming possible way. At the top was a title. ''A Youngster With An Old Head''. Lame. On the right were stats. Horrible, horrible stats.


    Interceptions: 4 (1st in Tournament)


    Progressive Carries per 90: 6.25 (=3rd)


    Progressive Passes per 90: 8.57 (5th)


    "Right," I said. "So he''s had a good half against the worst team in the competition. Nobody cares about this stuff." My phone vibrated. Incoming call from an unknown number. While I red buttoned it I got a text. When I swiped it away I got a WhatsApp. I got rid of the notification and a new call came in. I pinched my nose. "Fucking technocrats."


    ***


    As if the match couldn''t get any worse, the wonderful Colombians left us, and Emma went to get something to drink but came back with a horny Australian.


    "Max! This is Lachie!"


    "Oh, shit." I couldn''t believe this. Australians, with their easy charm, always made me feel dull and boring. My tank was empty and this guy was energetic ay eff. He had got Emma to a second location in about thirty seconds. It had taken me months.


    "G''day mate. Digger hair, champ."


    Emma loved the Aussie accent so much that last time she''d encountered one she had spilled the beans on me and the Aussie journalist, who was being paid by Folke Wester, had turned it into a savage article about me. "I told Lachie you know everything about football. Tell him what''s happening!"


    I tried not to sigh and pout. Emma had been subdued for a couple of days and this was her first burst of excitement on a pretty dull business trip. "Yeah so it''s a strange one. The Ozster Bunnies, that''s what they''re called, are playing like they''ve got sandpaper on their feet."


    "What does that mean?" said Emma.


    "He''s donking my clanger," said Lachie.


    "Max!"


    "Yeah, look, I don''t want to be a dick but it''s two teams playing 4-4-2 variants and it''s super boring. Safety first, get wide, hit crosses."


    "You see a good player?" said Lachie.


    "A good football player?"


    The guy gave me a wide, easy smile. "Yeah."


    "Aussie have two, what would you say down under? Two hench boofheads. The centre back there, 6, would fit right in League Two even if it takes him a while to do a uey."


    "Uey?" said Emma.


    "U-turn," I said. "I''m saying he''s not the most nimble. He could do a job up to League One, though. The striker there, who by the way is the most Aussie-looking man I''ve ever seen, is actually pretty good." He was PA 138 and was already quite a handful. It was no wonder his manager was trying to get crosses in. "I quite like him but I reckon he''d cost too many dollarydoos."


    "Mate, you''re hilarious. What line are you in?"


    "He''s player-manager for Chester."


    "Manchester?" said the prick, knowing it would annoy me. My phone rang - another unknown number - and to preclude further conversation I picked up.


    "Max Best Unlimited," I said. "This is Max speaking."


    "Max," came a voice. English. He introduced himself as Blackburn''s head of recruitment. It didn''t immediately click. "You defended Tranmere Rovers in the Danny Prince case. You took me to the cleaners."


    "As far as I can make out, you cleaned up on that deal. He''s crushing it, isn''t he? Set for a big move."


    "And I''ll have a bit of cash to reinvest, won''t I? You might be guessing why I''m calling."


    I sighed. "You need a world-class defensive midfielder and you think you might get him on the cheap."


    "Cheap? Far from it. When are you back in the UK?"


    I thought about blowing the guy off, but I sensed a chance to get rid of the Australian. "Sorry I can''t discuss that right now; the area''s not private." I left a tiny pause. "Millions, mate. Enough to buy a new stand."


    "What? Sorry? I''m lost."


    I glanced to my left. Lachie had heard but had made no move away. I shifted right and hunched a little bit as I spoke down the phone. "Can you call back in a few minutes?"


    "Er... sure."


    I hung up and pulled on my lip.


    Emma said, "Youngster?"


    "Yeah," I said. "I think he''s been on a few radars and now clubs are moving before someone else gets a deal done. Look, er, Ems, why don''t you go off with Logan and I''ll take all these calls."


    "Oh," said Emma. She wanted to hang out with the virile force of nature she''d just found but she wasn''t going to run off and leave me.


    To his credit, Lachie realised I''d absolutely dicked him. He stood and gave us one of his five star smiles. "Good codger, nice to meet yers, mebbe see yers ron." I mean, I''m not a stenographer but it went something like that.


    "That''s a shame," I said, after he fucked off. "Good on him for supporting his team in the middle of nowhere, I guess. Babes, are you bored? We can leave early if you want."


    She gave me a squeeze. "I''m fine. We''ll power through. You know it''s funny you said the striker is the most Aussie-looking guy because Lachie looks like him."


    I groaned; now that I looked at the player more than the numbers above his head, she was right. "You don''t think it''s his brother or something?"


    "I think it might be."


    "Jesus Christ. Am I going to get anything right on this trip? What did I call him?"


    "A hench boofhead."


    "Oh, my God." I stewed in my own juice for a while. "If I go to South America and come back with no players and without Youngster, I think I''ll have to sack myself."


    "Chin up, cobber. Don''t forget Tomzilla and Tockers and the other one."


    ***


    As Australia closed out a 1-0 win, I updated the minute-by-minute coverage of Ghana''s match and saw that Vincent Addo had gone onto the pitch for the last five minutes. Phase one was complete! A British club would easily be able to get him a work permit. I sent Pastor Yaw a voice note. Phase two was underway.


    ***


    Friday, June 6 and Saturday, June 7


    Groups E and F: Vi?a del Mar


    The drudgery of the trip continued as we visited another cool, interesting city and saw almost none of it. At least now the matches were killer. Real life or death stuff. Every team had already played two of its three matches and most had a mathematical chance of staying in the competition. That meant play in the third matches was less defensive; managers were willing to take more risks.


    The USA and Ukraine played out a classic as I purred over the squads. So many options if I only had a couple of mill to spare.


    Then New Zealand held firm against Japan for 80 minutes before one of the latter''s many waves of attack finally broke through.


    The next day, France and Tunisia played a brutal match full of snide tackles and cynical yellows.


    That was followed by Argentina, who rested their starters but had too much quality for Qatar. Every now and then, Argentina slipped into shapes you might think of as Relationist - sure enough, the cost of Relationism reduced when that happened.


    It was a fitting note on which to end our grind. We''d done it. We had seen every team. We got back to the hotel and flopped on our bed and I thought about our next steps. It didn''t really matter who we saw next or even if we stayed in the country. I gave serious consideration to heading back to Rio and then flying home, first class, to my own bed. Emma was tempted.


    "I''d like to go home but this is a big deal for us, isn''t it? For you and the agency. It''s not just seeing the players, it''s hanging out with big shots and making connections. If we leave early we might miss the next Catalina. Or maybe a manager will fall sick and you''ll have to step in to save the day. And, yeah, it''s not my dream holiday, this part, but we can be here to support Youngster. You saw how happy he was to see you. You never know the difference you make by going the extra mile."


    "You''re right but he was happy to see us. Let''s stay until Ghana are knocked out, at least. Let''s look at the schedule again."


    We very seriously needed a day without travel and with that restriction, a plan fell into place. While Sunday''s final group stage matches were taking place we could have an easy-going tourist sesh. The tournament had its first rest day on the Monday and we would probably have energy to exert ourselves. Vi?a del Mar had these huge sand dunes by the ocean that people climbed up so they could watch the sunset. That seemed like something Emma would like. Doing it like that would let us recharge and we wouldn''t have to travel to watch the first knockout games; they were happening right there in Vi?a del Mar.


    "Then most of the rest of the matches are in Santiago so we''ll go there. Watch a few games, see some sights, no particular pressure either way."


    "Lovely."


    The very prospect of having two days off perked me right up and I informed Emma I was ready to go out and try all the things.


    "All the things?"


    "All the things that aren''t icky. Pincho sour. Pebre on bread. Choclo, humitas, and empanadas bigger than your head."


    "How many of those did you just make up?"


    I smiled. "Let''s go find out."


    ***


    Sunday, June 8


    We took a break from one of the most relaxing days of my life to watch Ghana versus Italy on a big screen in a random hotel lobby.


    Ghana needed a point to top the group, while Italy needed a win to be absolutely sure of progressing. Despite the pressure of the situation and the quality of the opposition, Youngster started! He had really done a number on New Caledonia, a pure 10 out of 10 performance.


    Ghana''s 4-2-3-1 got pushed back by Italy, and it seemed there was only one way the match would end.


    But Ghana''s striker Kpozo was leading the race for the Golden Boot and he scored in the first half. While Italy were reeling, he scored again. Two-nil at half time and another eye-catching performance from Youngster, the only Manc in the tournament.


    Italy tweaked things at half time and came out with a focus on attacks down the wing. Trying to bypass the DM screen, and it worked - they crafted chance after chance. Ghana''s manager realised what was up and switched to a 5-4-1 variant, sacrificing Youngster in the process. It was funny to me how quickly Italy''s tactically aware midfielders realised it was safe to attack through the centre. The goals came in a blitz - three of them. Then in that maddening way of most Italian managers, this one shut up shop, removing his most creative players and putting on defenders. Ghana surged back but couldn''t find an equaliser.


    Italy topped the group, putting Ghana in second and Peru third. I tried to calculate who would play who but found a computer was faster than me. Emma said, "Senegal will play Mexico, followed by Chile versus Ghana. Both here in Vi?a del Mar. We get to see Youngster again!"


    "Cool. Ugh." My phone was blowing up again. "Can I take this?"


    "Sure, babes."


    I spoke to the person, said it wasn''t the right time to discuss it but that he was miles off, and ended the call with a slight smile. "Guess what that was?"


    "Your Spanish teacher quit."


    "That was the first ever million pound offer for one of my players."


    "A million British pounds?" She smiled. "Look at you! Just like a real boy."


    "This real boy wants to get you wasted on pincho sours."


    "Pinocchio sours."


    "Because I want to be a real boy. Shit that''s good."


    She stood and pulled her jacket on. "Are you going to tell Youngster?"


    "During the tournament? Nah. They should beat Chile and then he''s into the quarter-finals. No need to distract him, right? Anyway," I said, shaking my head, "he''s not going to let me sell him for under five mill."


    "He''d go if it meant the fans got their stadium back."


    "I think so."


    "What are the chances you''ll get five million?"


    I scoffed. "Slim. Although..."


    "What?"


    Youngster had finished the season on CA 76, and while most players were losing points as they rested or boozed their way through the summer break, Youngster was going the other way, big time. Training with his national team and playing at a World Cup was sending him soaring. He''d added 8 points and was now on 84. If they got to the semis...


    He was a data nerd''s dream player. Was five mill really so crazy? I didn''t want to think about what I''d do if someone offered it to me.


    "No more football chat for a couple of days. Max has spoken."


    ***


    June 10 - June 13


    After the rest day, football came back with a bang. Senegal beat Mexico in a colourful classic before Youngster and Kpozo helped Ghana past the host nation.


    We drove back to Santiago and saw the match that determined who Ghana would play next. Deliciously, the winners were Brazil. Youngster versus Brazil! My phone nearly melted with calls and texts from the Yalleys, from Pastor Yaw, from Chelli, from Beth, from almost everyone I''d ever met.


    "I''ve got the wrong hair to support Youngster during a match against Brazil."


    "Yeah you do."


    On TV we watched Spain crush Peru with poor Foquita barely getting a touch. He certainly did nothing to increase his transfer value in that match. Even Emma said, "Are you sure he''s good?"


    "I know he''s nursing an injury," I mused, "but I don''t think I could stand there and let him play like that. He needs to suffer for the team. He needs to get a bit of Tom Westwood in him. Maybe I''m not the right manager for him after all; I''d scream at the prick till he heard me in his dreams."


    "Yeah," said Emma. "Spoken like a true technocrat. Hey, babes, can I check something?"


    "Always."


    "If Chester sell Youngster for five million, as his agent do you get five hundred K?"


    "Depends how I negotiate, but yes."


    "Huh."


    "I won''t sell him, though."


    "No?"


    A five and five zeros swam in front of my eyes. I could buy my mother a house to live in with that sort of swag. Mum house, build a stand, have one of the best pitches in the country. And all I had to do was - "No more football chat today."


    ***


    Saturday, June 14


    Ghana versus Brazil!


    Ghana versus Brazil for a chance to play a World Cup semi-final against Senegal or France.


    For the first time in the tournament I worried about getting tickets. I mean, watching Brazil in a World Cup on a Saturday. What''s not to like? But it was easy enough; it was only the under 20s after all.


    I''d spent enough time hobnobbing with bigwigs so for once I didn''t try to move closer to the VIP section. We got to our seats. I couldn''t see any Australians in the area, not that I was looking.


    Youngster, as something of a breakout star, was starting again. His CA was up to 85 and his Condition compared favourably to the other starters except for one Brazilian who hadn''t played much in the tournament thus far. More significantly, Youngster had a look on his face, one I knew very well. It was one he''d learned from me. He was staring across the halfway line at his opponents and he wasn''t seeing the famous yellow and green shirts, he was seeing a load of idiots he was about to swat aside.


    When the match kicked off and Youngster didn''t even move for three seconds, I knew. I knew he was on one.


    "Argh!" I said, jumping to my feet and thrusting my hands to my head. "He''s gonna fuck them up! Christ, Emma. He''s in the zone. What do we do? We should bet on him to get Man of the Match."


    Emma pulled me down to my seat and waved an apology to the person behind me. "Soz," she mouthed.


    Despite my haircut, I was thinking ahead. "We''re gonna be here till Thursday. The semi-final! They could win that, the way they''re playing. Holy fuck. Can they beat Argentina or Spain? If they can beat Brazil, why not?"


    "It''s only just kicked off, babes. Hey, is that Lachie over there?"


    I panicked. "What? Where?"


    Emma smirked. "Just distracting you, Max. You don''t want to be passionate at a football stadium, remember? You''re a technocrat."


    "Yeah, yeah," I said, and rubbed my face hard. It helped.


    Ghana versus Brazil. Why the hell would I care who won? If Ghana lost, Youngster would be fresh and ready for the start of the season. It was better for me if he got knocked out.


    My stupid brain couldn''t hold onto that thought. Brazil had technique and they had a glorious spread of attacking players but they annoyed me by playing a strictly positional system. They also had kids with stupid show-off haircuts. I had a stupid show-off haircut but it didn''t stop me looking down my nose at them anyway. Meanwhile Ghana played with heart, with togetherness, and most of all, with Youngster.


    "Drop back you dick!" someone in the crowd with a Manchester accent yelled. "Cover! Cover, you lazy bastard! Yes, mate! Now hit the channel! Yerrrssssss. Come on!"


    By half-time I was hoarse and in sore need of an alcoholic beverage. Emma offered to go and get a couple but I had a flashback to last time and said I''d do it. While I was in the mass of people struggling to get served first, a little girl pulled my sleeve. She spoke in quite posh English; I decided she went to one of those expensive international schools. "Papi wants to know why you cheer for Ghana but your hair is from Brazil."


    "Tell him I''m playing both sides."


    "I don''t know what that means."


    "Tell him I will make five million pounds if Ghana win."


    "Oh, okay!"


    ***


    The second half was torture, especially because I kept saying "I don''t care who wins, I literally don''t care" over and over like a mantra.


    "I think you do care, bebs," said Emma, who was making friends with the people around her. Lots had bought tickets on the off chance their team might get this far in the tournament. She was the hub of a very chatty community. Chester Chatters on tour. Chile Chatters. "How''s he doing?"


    "Eight out of ten," I said. "He lost position a few times. He hasn''t seen this level of rotation before. You know the way the right back goes up and the winger moves in and the CM slides over and all that? Brazil are doing it well and they caught him out a couple of times. Carved Ghana''s midfield up. But he reorganised it on his own. Did you see? We''re not just teaching him what to do when he sees a specific thing, we''re teaching him to work it out for himself. Brazil tried it twice since and got nowhere."


    "Aw, babes. Let me get you the neck pillow so you can wipe your eyes."


    "He''s so good, though. He''s just good. He learns this shit then goes to help in a food bank. Do you know what I mean?"


    "I do."


    Brazil had a late flurry of attacks, each one more heart-stopping than the last, but Ghana made it to ninety minutes. We would get thirty minutes of extra time. "Christ I can''t stand this," I mumbled.


    It was a couple of minutes into extra time that the drama dialled up to eleven million. Brazil scored two quickfire goals and with the match effectively over, fans started to leave their seats. But the stupid look-at-me haircut show-offs couldn''t help but show off, stupidly. One tried to do a piece of skill to get himself on the highlight reels but a Ghana player stole the ball from him and played it first time to Kpozo. He knocked the ball further forward and chased after it. Almost clean through! A Brazilian defender decided to foul him and stop the goal. Red card! Brazil down to ten men for twenty-five minutes!


    The show-off was subbed out and replaced by a defender, which caused me more joy than playing Rhapsody in Blue loud on a hot night.


    Brazil fell into a low block. Guess who knew what to do?


    Youngster''s match rating went to 9 as he directed traffic. He did a fucking Max Best impression as he pushed the full backs and the other DM up the pitch. When Brazil broke, Youngster was there swiftly, mercilessly, but he didn''t play the ball backwards. He turned and kept the pressure on.


    Pressure makes diamonds but pressure also cracks. Brazil cracked like nuts.


    A beautiful piece of skill on the left from an attacking midfielder, an overlap, a slick pass, a cutback, and that man Kpozo to apply the finish.


    Goooolllllazo!


    The stadium was filling up again. The noise was terrific. I''d heard from some locals that they liked Brazil, but everyone was for Ghana. Football does that to you. Sweeps you along, makes you feel things you never wanted to feel.


    Ghana kept up the pressure. One more goal and they would get to penalties but the way they were playing they thought they could go and win it.


    Kpozo was immense up front. The attacking midfielders were playing with more Samba than their opponents. It was happening!


    Yet Brazil dug in. Under the shit trims they were the best players in their age group in their whole massive country. Those young men had been through some shit in their lives. They''d suffered and sacrificed, on and off the pitch. They were starting to tire, though. Starting to get reckless and desperate. Challenges flew in. Risks were taken. Sparks flew all over Brazil''s final third as Ghana passed and crossed and jumped for headers.


    Time was running out. Only two minutes to go, ninety seconds. Pass, press, cross, recover, sixty seconds, go again.


    It seemed inevitable that Ghana would do it. They were so close. The margins were so thin and all they had to do was keep going, keep doing what they were doing. Who would be the hero?


    Thirty seconds. Brazil tried to dribble clear. Youngster took the ball as clean as a whistle while the Brazilian threw himself to the floor, pleading for a free kick. The ref didn''t buy it; Youngster was too immaculate. My guy rolled forward, crossing the turf like a middle-distance runner. He looked left. He looked right. Kpozo had a good Off The Ball rating - he was hiding between two defenders but when Youngster cocked his foot, Kpozo would dart diagonally to the right. He would collect the pass in stride and have a quality shot. Classic forward play!


    Twenty-five seconds.


    I noticed Youngster''s match rating had hit ten. He dipped his head in a certain way.


    Suddenly, I was on my feet, screaming, pleading, commanding. "Nooooooooo!"


    Youngster took three more steps, veered slightly right, and took a long shot.

 11.8 - You Completo Me

    8.


    Sports movie glossary: ''You complete me.'' The words spoken by Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire as the titular character interrupts a perfectly pleasant discussion between a group of women to monologue about himself and his needs.


    ***


    [Yellow-shirted Brazilians are running around, arms waving. What looks like fifty coaches, physios, and subs have rushed onto the pitch in the only Relationist blob of the match. Cameramen are rushing around trying to get the best shots. The best shots are of tearful Ghanaians. The cameras get right up in their grills.]


    "Heartbreak for Ghana. Joy for Brazil!"


    [Amidst the mayhem, we see one figure prone on the ground, arms over his forehead. A cameraman has spotted him and is rushing to the scene.]


    ***


    Chile was educational in a lot of ways, but mostly I learned two things. One, I learned that completos, the local equivalent of a hot dog, are usually 80% mayonnaise. Two, I learned that it''s easy to do a pitch invasion if you move slowly but purposefully and have the exact same hairstyle as everyone on the winning team.


    ***


    [The camera gets up close to Youngster. Real close. Tracking every sob kinda close.]


    "Hello."


    [The lens swings and there''s a moment of confusion as what looks like an unused Brazilian substitute is right there. He''s not running around joyously, however. In fact, his expression is so much the opposite of joy that the camera operator takes a tiny step away.]


    "Don''t do that."


    [The yellow-haired man smacks something against the lens. Something white and gluey covers almost all the screen; the microphone still works.]


    "Next time you do that to one of my players, you''ll get more than a completo to the face."


    [The feed cuts away.]


    ***


    Youngster was on his back. I crouched down. "James Yalley. Get up."


    He peeked at me through his fingers and spoke through some horribly damp breaths. "Did you hit that camera with a hot dog?"


    "Of course I didn''t. Get up."


    "You''ll get in trouble."


    "What are they gonna do? Kick me out of the country? I''m leaving anyway. Get up."


    I reached out and took his hands and pulled him to his feet. He saw the Brazilians doing shitter dances than I''d done in Samba 101. It reminded him that he had fucked up and back came the sobs.


    "Not here, you dick." I got a good grip on him and pushed him towards the tunnel. "Come on. Walk with me. Remember that stupid poem you''ve got up in your bathroom? Yea when there were two sets of footprints in the sand, we walked side by side."


    We got ten steps with me guiding him by his shoulders.


    His shuddering breaths stopped abruptly. "Mr. Best," he said. "You should not waste food."


    I burst out laughing and enveloped the little shit. "You''re not even joking, are you? That''s why you''re so funny. Oh, mate. Come on, then, before I get banged up abroad for crimes against delicacies. Witness for the prosecution: Henri Lyons."


    "Where are we going?"


    "Away from these vultures."


    We got to the technical areas, where another camera rushed towards us. I covered it with my palm and pushed it to the left. "Move it or lose it, shithead." The guy decided he had other things worth filming.


    We were nearly clear when one of the Brazilian players rushed over. He tried to cheer Youngster up. After babbling for a bit, the Brazilian gripped his yellow shirt and spoke slower.


    "He wants to swap shirts, mate."


    That set Youngster off again. "I would but I can''t. This is for my mum."


    "Hombre," I said. "Este camisa es por his madre."


    The kid expressed understanding and approval and then slipped into another blabbing session.


    "He says you were mint and you slapped him pink."


    "Thank you," said Youngster, and they shared a moment of mutual whatever. I took hold of Youngster again and guided him down the tunnel. He said, "Your Portuguese is really good."


    "Yeah, I know."


    We arrived at the dressing rooms. "Are you coming in?" said Youngster.


    "No way. That''s the inner sanctum. I hate going in another manager''s dressing room. I don''t mind someone like Jackie coming into mine, or Dieter Bauer, but if I was the Ghana manager I wouldn''t want me in there silently judging me."


    "You could try not being judgemental."


    "Soz but nah. I''d be like, wow call that a team talk? Your metaphors are strained, mate."


    "Mr. Best," said Youngster, looking around the corridor as though he had only just realised where he was. "Why are you here?"


    I had a streak of mayo on my right hand. Youngster would be mad if I wasted it, right? "Just saw those fucks preying on your misery and I was like hoo boy do I not like that. I was like this shall not stand! I was like pitch invaders, assemble!"


    "It is their job."


    I licked a bit of mayo off. "Not today, bro."


    Youngster dipped his head. "When I saw you I thought you had come to - "


    He stopped as someone came running up to us. Vincent Addo, Youngster''s potential replacement in the Chester squad. "Mr. Max!" he said, shaking my arm as though I wasn''t looking right at him. He made me spread completo remnants all over my top. "You''ve got to hide. The po-po are seeking you."


    "The po-po?"


    Youngster got a bit of a haughty look about him. "Vincent enjoys gangster music. Songs about packing heat and toting small-gauge weaponry."


    Vincent got a bit of a mean look about him. "You''re the one who likes shooting." Whoa! Savage. Youngster''s head dropped, big time, and the tears were back. Vincent was instantly remorseful. "I am sorry, James. I am worked up. We were so close." He looked over his shoulder and I saw a gaggle of security guard types at the end of the tunnel. "Come, Mr. Max." He coaxed me into Ghana''s dressing room. I used the sink to wash my hands and to clean my shirt as much as poss, then sat in a corner and tried to look inconspicuous while I texted Emma what was happening.


    Emma: Brooke saw you! She said you had fire and brimstone coming out your head. She said you were the hottest thing on screen since Cuba Gooding Jr. invented air drying. Apparently the TV company weren''t sure what to do about your antics so they''ve glossed over it for now.


    Me: I''m sure nothing bad will come of this. But just for funsies, how about we fly home tomorrow and lie low for a while? Until the po-po are off our backs.


    Emma: Yeah let''s go dark. We''ll slip off the grid. I know a guy who does fake passports.


    Me: Do you?


    Emma: I was trained by the best, querido. If I want to disappear, I can. I''m a ghost. I''ll find a coffee shop outside the stadium and decide which alias I want. Maybe I''ll buy a wig.


    Me: You know I''m into that. Sorry for rushing off.


    Emma: You can apologise to the guy whose hotdog you stole, not me. You know *I* think it''s hot when you drop the technocrat crap and rush headlong into saving the world. Yeah. Hot. Don''t take too long...


    I sent some shocked face emojis followed by some party ones.


    When I looked up, the dressing room was pretty full, and fully grim. Ghana''s manager was to my left along with some coaches and physios. I got the feeling he was asking them what vibe he should go for in his debrief. To my right, in the far corner, was Kpozo. Straight ahead, on the other side of a bench, was Youngster.


    A guy came up to me. He had a team tracksuit on - he was one of the support staff. The kit man, perhaps. "Are you Youngster''s manager?"


    "Yes," I said.


    His eyes lit up. "Are you going to do one of your famous Jerry Maguire rants?"


    "Of course not. Why would I?"


    "Youngster told us all about you. We mostly don''t believe him."


    I cocked my head back and scrunched up my face. "Have you ever known him to lie?"


    "So," came a booming voice, and the kit man quickly moved away to stand by the back wall. Ghana''s manager was taking his time. He nodded a few times, moved into position, and swung his hands forward into a clap. He rubbed his palms together. "So," he said again, but it was pretty clear he didn''t know what he wanted to say. No judgement! What could you say when you had come so close but so very far? Nothing.


    Youngster got to his feet. "May I speak?"


    "Of course," said the manager, showing that Youngster had the floor.


    I was still high from Emma''s enticing texts so it took me a couple of seconds to realise what was happening. "Oh, hell no!" I cried, not for the first time in South America. I strode around to Youngster''s side of the bench.


    The manager moved to intercept me but a coach pulled him back. The manager reacted with shock but the coach nodded towards me with his eyebrows raised and the manager - after a couple more seconds of tension - relaxed. The kit man poured some potato chips into a bowl and offered them around before watching me with wide eyes, munching away as though what was in his bowl was popcorn. I absorbed the entire scene in one subconscious flash but didn''t process it until later; I was too focussed on Youngster.


    I got in his face.


    "You want to apologise for taking a shot when the ball sat up just right? You want to start some kind of lifelong Mark Zuckerberg apology tour? Nah mate. You¡¯re one of us. You apologise when you do something bad and never else." I pointed at Ghana''s manager. "You don¡¯t apologise to him. Everyone thinks he¡¯s a genius because of the tweaks he made. Except they were the tweaks you made! Increasing the pressure step by step just like you''ve been taught." I swept my hand around most of the room. "You don¡¯t apologise to them. You lifted them up. You let their talents shine." I tugged at his shirt. "You don¡¯t apologise to the people of Ghana. When you pull on this shirt, when you accept the honour, you make a promise. A promise that you¡¯ll do your best. You never fucking apologise for doing what you promised!" I remembered he was saving the shirt for his mum. "And you don¡¯t apologise to your parents. No. Way. Do not do that. I¡¯m deadly fucking serious, mate." I gave him a warning look before softening and remembering where I was. Maybe I shouldn''t have been the one doing the debrief, but at least I had something to say. I tapped Youngster on the chest. "There¡¯s only one person here you should apologise to."


    He looked down. "I¡¯m sorry Mr. Best."


    I exploded, but with a smile. "Not me, you clown!"


    "But I shot. You told me many times not to shoot."


    I softened even more. I felt my charisma rising. I had the scene on a thread and I only needed to twitch it. "It''s my fault, James. The only way I know to improve players is to shout at them. I knew it wasn''t working but I didn''t know what else to try."


    Youngster looked around - especially at Vincent - and leapt to my defence. "You tried everything, Mr. Best! You shouted, you persuaded, you showed me video. You teased me, you told my sister to tease me, I even had a talk with Pastor Yaw!"


    "Oh," I said, unable to believe how well I was manipulating the room. "So why did you shoot?"


    Laughter erupted from all sides and Youngster didn''t know where to look. Finally, he did a tiny smile. "Because of my sinful pride."


    Right there, right there and then, his Decisions score went green. Youngster was now Decisions 12.


    I nearly punched the air but the spirit was in me. I wasn''t finished working this room. I walked over to Kpozo and gestured for him to stand next to me. He was confused - he hadn''t seen one of my performances before - but he was being swept away by my intensity. I put my arm around his shoulder and we looked at Youngster.


    "Part of teamwork is lifting your mate when he''s down. You''re boss at that, Youngster, mate. But another part is knowing that your mate is on fucking fire." I shook Kpozo a little and a voice in my head told me to cut my speech short and let Youngster work out the rest.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    He sensed some of what I was thinking and stepped closer to the striker. I moved away.


    Youngster said, "I let you down. You were the right pass. You would have scored. You could have won the Golden Boot." The tears came again, along with a lot of quivering lower lip action. "I am sorry, Kpozo. I am so sorry." He stood there for a second, wretched and in search of redemption, just the way he liked it.


    Kpozo had his head up. "You should have passed. I would have scored."


    I couldn''t keep my mouth shut. I knew exactly what the striker would have done if the ball had come to him. He would not have taken a touch to control the ball. "First-time," I said, moving closer. "First-time top-right. Am I right?"


    His eyes shone. "Yes."


    "I knew it!" I cried, grabbing and shaking him again. "Get in! Well played, mate. Yessss!"


    Kpozo gave me a wide-eyed look, the sort I give to people who eat raspberries in the supermarket before they''ve paid for them. He shook his head a few times and turned to Youngster. "You are my brother," he said, in a deep, serious tone. "We win together. We lose together." They embraced and Kpozo slapped Youngster on the back. The big striker took a half step back and said, with a playful grin, "Next time, though. Next time you pass!"


    Youngster cry-laughed, nodded, and his Decisions score hit 13.


    "Yes!" I said, as though moved by the beauty of the scene. I could increase mental attributes and so could teammates! The kit man''s eyes were wider than ever and his fingers were darting around the bowl looking for crisps - he didn''t want to look away for even a second. So he was enjoying himself but the rest of the players still had faces like a slapped arse. "Hey!" I demanded. "Who''s in charge of the fucking music around here?" A hand shot up. "What happened? Your finger fall off? Put some tunes on! You outplayed Brazil, you miserable sods. Everyone back in Sampa is saying they aren''t fit to wear the shirt, they''re a bunch of clowns, Ghana should be in the semis. No way Brazil make it to the final. They''re gonna have nightmares about you lot." The team DJ had his phone out. "What do we like? Disco? New Wave? Original motion picture soundtracks?"


    The DJ was more into hip hop. BOM BOM BOMBOMBOM went the speakers and a few lads got up and started swinging their arms around. I have no clue what the song was, but it worked. I high-fived the music man and gave a Maxy Two-Thumbs to the kid who was busting out the best moves. I slipped past Ghana''s manager fairly awkwardly - he and his coaches were giving me very strange but not unfriendly looks - and I was about to leave when I remembered I was being hunted.


    I stepped to the kit man. "Did you enjoy the show?"


    "You had me at ''oh hell no''. Yes I enjoyed it very much. I understand Youngster more now. Okoto nwo anoma."


    "My Portuguese is better than my Akan, I think."


    "A crab does not give birth to a bird."


    What was that supposed to mean? Finding out didn''t seem like a priority. "Bro, I need a disguise. Can I have a Ghana top?"


    He sprung into action. "Yes!" He went to a large bag and pulled a top out. I reached out for it. "Show me the money," he said.


    "Oh."


    "I''m joking. Take it."


    "I don''t suppose you have a hat?"


    He did. I whipped my top off and put my new one on, along with a red and green baseball cap. Grinning at my new clobber and my cleverness, I gave the top I had been wearing to Youngster - he had permission to bin it if he had too much stuff to bring back to England - and strode to the door.


    The song was just finishing and a new one started. Not every player was up for it, but more than half were happy to cling on to these last moments together dancing instead of crying.


    I took one final look at the under 20s World Cup. Ghana''s manager was going round consoling his lads one by one. The DJ was pumping his arms. Vincent was in da club. Kpozo was sitting with his head down in a moment of quiet reflection. There go my glory days, he might have been thinking. Or perhaps, this is just the start.


    And Youngster?


    He pulled his shirt off, looked at the badge for a while, and carefully folded it up and placed it down on the bench. He closed his eyes and I saw his lips move as he spoke a prayer.


    I slipped out and looked left and right. All clear. My disguise was next level - where would a ne''er-do-well get a Ghana shirt while on the run in Chile? I was probably being overly cautious - if the security guards in the stadium were anything like the ones in video games they would have long since stopped looking for me and resumed their patrols.


    I went deeper into the bowels of the stadium trying to avoid going out via the stands and hoping I didn''t get stuck in an area where you needed a badge to open doors. As I was peering through a fire door, checking I''d be able to get back inside if that direction proved to be a dead end, my phone rang. It was Bassco, the Peruvian who didn''t realise he had a top ten striker playing for his club. I picked up.


    "Max! I saw you on TV. Very fun. Better as Mr. Bean. That was your player, no? 14, the Youngster? You sell him?"


    "No."


    "He is too good for League Two."


    I thought about the pops in Youngster''s Decisions score. I felt pretty sure I was causing more green on those ''mental'' attributes than most managers. Maybe Youngster had started at Decisions 1 back when I found him in his church. Maybe all that shouting had actually been paying off without me knowing it. "I still have a lot to teach him."


    "How for three million pounds?"


    The movie Jerry Maguire is about how personal connections are more important than money and that if you can inspire and be inspired you will get the life you want. "No."


    "Five million?"


    I hesitated. There was only one possible rational answer to that question. "No fucking way."


    "Because he completes your midfield?"


    "Because he''s my boy."


    "Okay. Goodbye, Max."


    He hung up. For a second I wondered why a relatively poor football club in Peru was talking about five million pound bids, but I shrugged it off. I had a stadium to escape, and I had the girl of my dreams waiting for me.


    ***


    SPONSORED CONTENT


    This chapter is brought to you by the Chilean Completos Council.


    Completos are sausages in a bun with a healthful topping of tomato, avocado, chucrut, and a modest amount of mayonnaise.


    Completos - no trip is complete without them.


    ***


    After a bumpy and cramped flight back to Rio, we decided to hang out in the First Class lounge. I hadn''t really known about these places until my flight out to Sampa but they''re great. Instead of waiting on harsh, hardback seats with thousands of equally haggard travellers, you slip into a space of tranquility and restfulness. Comfy chairs, plants, an all-you-can-eat spread of food and drinks, and you know that everyone around you has a few quid in the bank and is therefore trustworthy and interesting.


    Okay, maybe not, but you certainly have a better chance of spotting a celebrity.


    "Querida," I said.


    "Querido," she said.


    "There are, like, six Korean lads round the corner and they''ve got almost identical but slightly different haircuts."


    "So?"


    "So you know more about k-pop than me. Go and ask for a selfie and send it to Dani and say this is your new favourite band. Also, find out what band it is."


    "They''re probably just some students on holiday."


    "In First Class?"


    "If you want a selfie with them, you do it. You''ve got k-pop hair."


    I tutted but decided I could live without knowing who the kids were. I had planted a seed, though, and the next time Emma got bored, she got up and sauntered to the big window overlooking the runway. She decided it probably was a boy band and I even saw the moment she stepped towards them. But with the next step, she frowned. She watched for a few seconds, then came over to me.


    "I think they''re footballers!"


    They didn''t have the right body shapes as far as I could tell. "What makes you say that?"


    "One of them is doing that thing you do. You know, where you touch the air in front of you."


    FREEZE FRAME! RECORD SCRATCH!


    Let''s talk about having a computer game in your head that you can access whenever you want. If you had it from birth, I think you would use it the same as you used your limbs - unconsciously. But I got my ''system'' when I was 22, a mere three years ago. I wasn''t a curse native so I tended to want to handle it the way I navigated my phone - with my fingertips.


    When Beth''s first big article about me had come out, the one where she caught me touching the air, I had panicked and worked really hard to stop myself from using my hands like Tom Cruise in Minority Report.


    One thing that really helped was that I did a lot of my work on my MacBook, which does not have a touchscreen. I used the keyboard and the trackpad and in doing so, I reduced the number of times per day that I reached out and tapped something. It may sound absurd but I even found it helpful to alternate between using my PS5 and my Nintendo Switch, where the controller''s ''action'' and ''back'' buttons were reversed. I felt pretty sure I almost never reached out to ''tap'' the curse screens in my day-to-day life in Chester.


    But spending six weeks in South America without my MacBook, living on my phone, had brought the habit back to the surface. When we got back to the UK, I planned to have a digital detox to stop me using my fingers. Digital detox? Anyone? No?


    To be safe, I had laughed at myself a couple of times, telling Emma that ''I was doing that thing again''. That thing, from her point of view, was moving magnets around a mental tactics board. The person who spent the most time with me, the person most likely to spot me acting like I was wearing a VR headset, thought it was simply an amusing quirk that was probably shared by all football managers.


    RESUME THE SCENE


    I sprung to my feet and gently pulled Emma behind the wall and out of sight. "Soz can you wait here a second?"


    She was, to say the least, surprised by my sudden burst of energy. "Uh, sure."


    I counted to fifteen because if I knew men - and I did - the six Korean guys would be staring at the space where Emma had just been, hoping she would return. I glanced around, calculating the routes around the lounge. "Querida, wait here a minute thanks."


    "What are you going to do?"


    "I think I''ll sneak up on them and see what they''re talking about. Maybe they''ll mention a hot prospect or something."


    "Babes," said Emma, forgetting our cute new nicknames. "You don''t speak Korean."


    "I think I do. I''m pretty sure I do. Let me go and check. Back soon, promise. You complete me. Mwah."


    "Suerte," she said, wishing me luck in this latest mad scheme.


    I loped around the part of the lounge the Koreans couldn''t see, then ambled over to a big window and stared out, wistfully. Once I was just another part of the furniture, I turned my head ever so slightly and shoved my eyeballs so hard to the left it hurt.


    The Koreans were on their phones or were resting. No way were they footballers, but they could have been dancers. They were definitely a k-pop thing. My head canon was that they''d done a couple of shows in Rio and were on their way to London for the next gig or to change planes.


    I waited patiently - there was absolutely no need to waste this opportunity by rushing. Then I saw it! Or thought I saw it. One of the guys put his hand up and seemed to drag something down. Turning an option off? Using a slider? Moving a tile?


    But that was all I got. Whatever it was, he had made his mind up. He put his headphones on and closed his eyes.


    Inconclusive.


    I walked back to our spot and Emma gave me a bright smile. "So?"


    "What?" I said.


    "Are they footballers? How''s your Korean?"


    "Astonishingly good. They were saying you shouldn''t rotate goalkeepers. I just rolled my eyes and left."


    "Quite right, too," she said.


    ***


    We decided it was time to go. We gathered our bits and pieces, got up, stretched, clicked our mini-suitcases into place and nodded at each other. Three metres closer to the gate, we spotted that the Koreans were doing the same.


    "Querido," said Emma. "Do you want me to find out who they are?"


    "If they''re on the same flight as us, yeah. Could be interesting."


    I held Emma''s case handle and tried to look chill. My heart was doing very strange things, though.


    Emma got a couple of selfies and came back all smiles. "They''re k-pop, you were right. They''re called SKIMPI. We''ll have to look them up."


    ***


    The lads from SKIMPI put face masks on before leaving the lounge, and with their builds and similar hair, the only way I could keep track of my target was by following his headphones. I''d assumed SKIMPI would take the other six seats in First, but they were back in Business. That was deeply frustrating.


    Emma and I settled into our capacious pods and went through the routine. Ordering meals, sipping on champagne, being fussed over. The usual. Yawn.


    But while the hospitality was stellar and Emma was as happy as a pig in muck, I couldn''t enjoy it. I was pretty sure that at least one of those fuckers in the section behind me had a curse!


    After take-off I waited for a while and then got up and hid behind a curtain and looked towards the rear of the plane. The guys had taken their masks off and I spotted the one who had been doing weird gestures. I watched him for a while, not caring that I looked like an actual psycho.


    There! He did it again. Unconsciously swiped left then pushed something away. A news item? A new perk?


    Your reputation in South Korea: Poor.


    Your reputation worldwide: Very Poor.


    New dance move available! Gee Gee Knee Knee.


    Cost: 200 XP


    Effect: You instantly learn the Gee Knee dance move.


    "Mr. Best? Your food is ready."


    "Top bins."


    ***


    I ate like a normal person, sat in my seat like a normal person, then went to my curtain and stared at a stranger like a normal person.


    While I waited, I researched k-pop, starting with a couple of SKIMPI''s YouTube videos.


    I caught a flight attendant watching. Like all the ones in First, he was on the older side. In his fifties, maybe. I turned the screen to let him see better and he watched along for a minute, though he couldn''t hear anything; I was wearing one earbud.


    "Is that them?" he said, nodding toward business.


    "Yeah."


    "Nice moves but I think I''ll stick to Bucks Fizz."


    "What''s that?"


    He gave me a pained look as he realised how old he sounded. "You speed it up, you slow it down, then comes the time to make your mind up." He laughed to himself. "You know what? Better if you don''t know. It wasn''t that good."


    He went about his business humming a tune. He seemed to be into it so I vowed to research Bucks Fizz in time for the next chapter.


    I returned to my more pressing research.


    SKIMPI had been created about a year before by one of those management companies specialising in boy bands. There was a photo of their manager - I loathed him at first sight. For some reason, every article about SKIMPI mentioned their seven-year contract.


    I typed ''what''s the deal with 7-year contracts'' and the internet spat out millions of articles about k-pop and the so-called 7-year curse.


    Curse!


    It seemed like k-pop bands tended to have success for seven years and seven years only. There were very, very few exceptions. My mind raced. The kids were meeting a Korean version of Nick - or maybe Nick looked Korean in Korea? - and were selling their souls for fame and fortune. The curse, though, had a lifespan.


    K-pop. You could almost use the letters to spell Klopp. He was a football manager I''d often thought maybe had a curse of his own. He had been at Mainz from 2001 to 2008. Seven years of success. Towards the end, results had nosedived. In Dortmund he had wild success when he joined from 2008 but by the time he was sacked in 2015 - seven years - results had nosedived. Seven years into his time at Liverpool, results had nosedived... but he had recovered and had two more decent years before quitting from burnout.


    Did the curse last seven years? You had to, what, sell your soul again to get more time?


    The stupid SKIMPI guy finally decided he needed to go to the bathroom. I slipped my earbud and phone into my pocket and pushed my way through the curtain. I strode forward as fast as I could without having a po-po tackle me. My target opened the bathroom door and I pushed my way in and closed it behind me.


    The guy was about to call out but something in my expression made him think twice. Fire and brimstone coming out of my head! It''s a useful trick!


    I held up my palms to show I meant no harm, then put them on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "Have you got a system?"


    "No English."


    "Don''t give me that shit. Have you got a system yes or no?"


    The guy glanced at the door. He could call for help, but that came with a risk, didn''t it? A risk his version of Old Nick would find out why there had been a mid-air contretemps. If K-Nick knew his guy was making it obvious he had a system, he might just take it away and start again with someone who wasn''t a fucking dimwit.


    "Mate. How do you get experience points?"


    His eyes bulged. Fucking bullseye! This prick had a curse! He tried to escape.


    "Please," I said, holding him in place. I didn''t have Strength 20 any more but I was an elite athlete, kind of. This dude had no chance to beat me in any kind of physical contest unless it involved precisely co-ordinated steps. But then I thought: what was I doing? Was I going to assemble a squad of curse-users to fight back against the demons? Now that I''d found a curse user, wasn''t I simply identifying myself as one, too? Yellow hair! He might not recognise me when I got a proper trim back. He might recognise Emma, though. "Listen. Is there a time limit on the curse?"


    "Time?" he said. "Seven," he nodded. "Seven."


    I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I could smash that and get seven years'' bad luck. Had I smashed something the morning I met Nick? With a sigh and a final shake of the head, I left. There was a guy waiting for the bathroom. I considered making a joke but couldn''t be bothered.


    Back at my seat, I saw the bed hadn''t been made. Was it too early for that? I checked the time. Ten past seven.


    Holy shit. I had one question to ask a fellow curse user, maybe the only one I would ever get, and I''d used it to ask the time. Talk about blasting it miles over the bar with the last kick of the game.


    I, Max Best, was a complete buffoon.


    Emma took her headphones off. "What you been doing?"


    I exhaled anxiety and inhaled tranquility. "Planning."


    "Oh? The haircut ran out?"


    I smiled and reached out to hold her hand. "Two weeks in Newcastle. Then the big day."


    "The War Room."


    "Yeah. My squad is incomplete. There are pieces missing. Right back, striker. Goalie, centre back. I don''t have money to get everything I want; It''s gonna be tough." Remember that line next time I''m bragging about my ability to predict the future. "Then we''re straight into whatever the Brig''s got planned for the training camp and the pre-season friendlies."


    "Then ten months of non-stop grinding."


    I tried and failed to make the prospect seem fun. One year of my seven would be wasted in the fourth tier. "Yeah."


    "Chin up, babes. You''ve got help. Everyone knows what you want; it''ll be easier this season. Oh, and Brooke has been busy."


    "Busy? She''s been in the States."


    Emma smiled. "Why would that stop her? She''s fizzing with ideas and energy."


    "Fizzing?"


    "That''s what she said. She can''t wait to tell you in person."


    I lifted my hands and mimed moving magnets around a tactics board. "Zach and Christian. Youngster. Pascal, Wibbers, Henri. Sandra, the Brig, Jackie. Brooke." One month of preparation followed by ten months of hard graft. Purposeful work with people I liked. Attractive, winning football with perhaps a few steps in the direction of Relationism. Who said it would be a waste? "I''m ready to be inspired."

 11.9 - Brookes Fizz

    9.


    British Cultural Victory: In 1981, a hastily-assembled pop combo called Bucks Fizz wowed and won The Eurovision Song Contest with the song Making Your Mind Up. The lyrics are about decision-making, obvs, but the track was made famous by a dance routine in which the female members of the band wore short skirts that were ripped off by their male counterparts to reveal even shorter skirts. You''re welcome, Europe.


    ***


    SPONSORED CONTENT


    This chapter is supported by the Tourist Board of Newcastle. Visit our famous bridge and bask in the glow of having the most comprehensible accent in the city as you embark on a soothing, restorative two-week time skip! By day, help your fit girlfriend''s yummy mummy in the garden, and by night listen to your querida complain about how her job is so boring it makes sitting in a traffic jam in Santiago seem like white water rafting. Newcastle - they don''t mackem like this any more!


    ***


    Tuesday, July 1, 2025


    Chester FC men''s first team squad total weekly wages: 23,120


    Max''s Budget: 30,000


    I woke up in Chester for the first time in fifty thousand words, took a shower, and went to my chest of drawers. I pulled the middle handles, stooped, and came up with an item of clothing just as precious to me as Youngster''s Ghana top had been to him.


    I pulled it on and looked in a full-length mirror.


    Max Best in a shit black hoodie.


    Yes!


    I had dressed up while in Newcastle - in the evenings, anyway - because Emma liked it and I liked Emma. If our relationship had been strained by my allergy to international travel it had recovered wonderfully. Not because I''d spent a bit of cash on nice drips (clothes), but because I had helped her mum out in the garden and gone to play squash with her dad a couple of times. I''d never played squash before and had lost some of my conditioning so at first Sebastian was able to compete with me. When I got the hang of it I felt like I could destroy him but I didn''t feel any particular need to do that and we had some close battles. Not close enough that he might hit a few lucky winners and get lippy, but close enough that he could feel good about himself.


    But now I was back home, and it was back to work. I had some very serious decisions to make about the squad, and didn''t want to think about anything else. Shit hoodie, shit car, decent trim. I ran a hand through my hair - back to my natural colour - and nodded.


    On my way out of the house I paused. I went to find my Airofit device and charged it for a couple of minutes. It was a mouthpiece like you get on a snorkel and in conjunction with an app normal people could use it to improve their breathing. I used it to monitor my overall fitness and to check whether I had hit my current PA limit. I did a lung test and found my capacity was at 7.1 litres. That was about normal for me these days with my ''twenty-minute build''.


    Hmm. There was another decision to make. Was I happy to do twenty minutes per match or did I need to be able to play a full ninety? Boosting my stamina would come at the cost of technique, so while I could train myself to stay on the pitch for longer, I would be less effective. If at all possible, I wanted to stick to playing twenty minutes at a time, if only because there was so much to buy in the perk shop and I needed to maximise my XP income where possible.


    Today was the day I was going to try to fill the holes in my squad. If things went well, I would be able to stick to what I was doing. If I didn''t get the players I needed, well, I would have to get creative. Max Best, two-way left mid? Max Best, doughty right back? The thought did not inspire me.


    I needed a good day.


    ***


    I drove to the Deva. Along the way I checked out the poster on the club''s billboard.


    It was last week''s one, which showed a Chester fan on a donkey being refused entrance to a hotel from biblical times. The words ''No room at the inn!'' were emblazoned across the top of the giant poster. At the bottom it said ''Fewer than 100 season tickets available. Act fast!'' The Chester crest was in the top corner. The concept didn''t make complete sense but I personally found it funny to have a Christmas-themed promotion in July.


    Strange that the poster hadn''t been changed though. We had agreed to have a new one every Monday and there was no shortage of ideas for what to do next. Maybe Brooke was leaving it up for a few more days because it was leading to good sales.


    I let myself into the stadium and went straight through to the medical rooms. The treatment tables had been moved out and the space was now dominated by a big whiteboard, while a mix of comfy armchairs, plain white tables, and creaking office chairs had been brought in. I laid my backpack on one of the office chairs and moved things around to my satisfaction.


    This was the Phwoar Room. As with the previous year, we were going to try to get all our transfer business for the summer done in one day, or as close to it as humanly possible. Most other clubs left most of their deals to the last minute, which generated a lot of headlines and a lot of fear and excitement in their fan bases. I did not care to be part of the transfer hype cycle and anyway, I knew what I needed and July 1st was the day with the most opportunities. Every out-of-contract player in the top four leagues was available. The longer I waited, the more opportunities would get snapped up by other clubs. I had told Adrian, the agent of Foquita, that I really needed him to make a final decision today because the ESC slots were too valuable to leave unused. I didn''t expect to hear from him, in which case I planned to make Tony Herbert, the curiously-named Panamanian centre-back, my key signing.


    On the whiteboard I drew a 4-1-4-1 formation. Under each position I created a few bullet points signifying how many players I wanted in that position.


    On the goalkeeper space I wrote the name Sticky next to the first bullet point, Ben next to the second, and Rainman next to the fourth. For the third, I drew some question marks.


    A door closed behind me and someone approached. I saw who it was and smiled. I did my amazing Texan accent. "Howdy, pardner."


    Brooke did her posh voice, the one Americans learn from hearing other Americans do bad English accents. "Good morning, Mr. Best."


    I looked her up and down. She was in a simple black top and floppy linen pants that were very summery and fun, but still somehow professional. "A firm handshake, perhaps, since it''s been so long."


    "I want a chaste hug and two cheek kisses."


    "Two and a half," I said.


    She laughed. "Acceptable."


    I did two cheek kisses then a third on my fingertips that I transplanted onto her cheek. She watched me with a very amused air. "You''re in a good mood," I said. "You''re all light. You have an inner glow."


    "Thanks for noticing," she said. "I have a new face cream. It''s literally called Inner Glow."


    I put my finger to my temple and tried to read her mind. "Er... that''s fake."


    "Correct," she laughed. "How sure were you?"


    "About fifty-five percent."


    She looked at the board. "What are you doing?"


    "Writing out the squad, checking we have cover in every position." I tapped the third goalkeeper slot. "Turning question marks into names is the name of the game."


    "Why don''t you have the ones who go here?"


    She was indicating the CAM slots. "Good question. Partly it''s because I don''t have a pure CAM. My guys who can play there are multi-purpose. Mostly it''s because I like 4-1-4-1. It makes me feel safe."


    She laughed again. That made three in three minutes! She was in a good mood. "Sticky''s up first. Is that significant?"


    I nodded. "Yes. It depends on the goalie we sign. Erm, imagine there are three quality levels, right, and they cost different amounts. 500, 1000, 2000. Your 500s are your Exit Trial kids or someone like Wes Hayward who''s kind of desperate to stay in football. The 2000s are your premium players. The corn-fed beefcakes who fell out of favour at their old club." I waited for a reaction - I was describing Zach Green, who had joined us exactly a year ago - but she simply continued to glow inwardly. "Established League Two players with some headroom are in the two grand bracket. Lee Contreras, for example. A thousand gets you a solid but unspectacular guy who can maybe be developed into a low-end League One guy. That''s the basic principle I''m going with. If we''re lucky we''ll find someone like Aff who doesn''t quite know how valuable he is."


    "Aff did all right."


    "Yeah the plan is to leave players better than we found them but I have to be a bit of a Scrooge, don''t I? I''ve only got thirty thousand a week to get everything. Right, goalies. If we can''t get Banksy or another 500 dude with a high ceiling, and depending how our other deals go - if there''s any money left - I have the option to get a proper League Two goalie. There are a few 1000 types on the market who can come in day one and give us solidity in that position. But," I said, rubbing my chin, "if I sign a kid for the future I have to decide who''s first choice for the present. Sticky isn''t the best right now but he will overtake Ben in a few months." Ben''s PA was 67, while Sticky''s was 122. "Goalies tend to have a longer prime than outfielders. Not sure if that''s just because most managers like an experienced keeper but I don''t see why Sticky can''t kick on in a serious way if we give him minutes. That''s logical but that''s a risk. It could mean a ropey start to the season and if we lose a few games our morale could tank and it''s not necessarily easy to get it back. Arsene Wenger said when it comes to confidence you go up stairs and come down an elevator."


    Brooke hopped onto the nearest desk and put her arms behind her for support while she let her legs swim. "Did he say elevator?"


    "No, he said lift. I translated it for you. After my big tour, my language skills are amazing. Look, what''s up with you? Did you, er, quench your thirst?"


    She let her head drop backwards slightly and the whole vibe reminded me of the women on the Copacabana. Carefree and easy. "I went to L.A. as Chester FC''s Head of Marketing, Strategy, and More Marketing. Thanks for updating the website without telling me, by the way. I had to explain to some very serious people why you thought that title was funny. And I went to Dallas and Orlando. They took me seriously. It was refreshing."


    "Don''t people here take you seriously?" I said, with a tiny frown.


    "Now now, Max, no need to slam a doughnut in anyone''s face. Folks at Chester are just swell. There are some other clubs where folk can be snooty. It''s fair to say that as a female American with no prior interest in soccer I''m not unconditionally accepted in this country but back home it''s completely different. They have a lot of admiration for a club like ours. We''re small but we''ve lasted a hundred something years."


    "You don''t get a lot of old things in the States, I guess."


    "It''s nothing to sneeze at, Max. FC Dallas would love to get to a hundred. They''re interested in how we operate, though they''re more willing to go their own way if our way doesn''t make sense, and change something if it seems to be broken. A lot of things here you can''t change even if it isn''t working and hasn''t been for decades."


    "You''re thinking about the crests."


    Her lips curled up on one side in a show of amused disbelief. "Football club logos are too complicated for the digital world! It''s not wrong to change them given how much the world has changed. Juventus took that step and got kicked in the teeth for it but the new badge gives them a huge edge on a screen. You can identify it in a small social media profile, it looks great on a shirt or a baseball cap, and the closer you look, the more detail you notice. Ah," she said, waving away her slight frustration. "It''s fine. I accept that some things here are not to be discussed but I enjoyed the conversations I had with my counterparts. Enjoyed them a lot."


    "Oh," I said, looking away.


    "What?"


    "Nothing," I said, but a lot of my enthusiasm for the day had suddenly drained away. I thought sending Brooke to visit soccer clubs back home would be interesting and that she would be able to make some connections, but mostly I intended it as a stealth holiday. It had worked! She looked rested and healthy. But it had also planted a seed. Maybe she would like to stay in the football industry when she left Chester. Maybe she would like to run Orlando City.


    If Brooke was going to leave in a year or two that would put a stonking great hole in my plans. Football clubs had four main income streams. The first was match day revenue.


    "Quick question," I said. "Season tickets?"


    "Nearly sold out."


    "I want to build a waiting list."


    She smiled. "For the expanded stadium."


    "Right. Hit the ground running on that. Everyone who misses a classic match needs to sign up for the waiting list so they can be there next season."


    Brooke shifted her weight and described a giant circle with her hands. "Dare to Dream."


    "What''s that?"


    "Our waiting list slogan. An image of the new Deva stadium but blacked out, you know, silhouette. And the words ''dare to dream''. We''re going to get the stadium back, we''re going to expand, join the waiting list just in case. It''ll be aspirational but without making any promises we can''t keep."


    "Fucking hell, that''s amazing. How long have you been keeping that up your sleeve?"


    She got back into beach pose. "Just came to me."


    "What the fuck, man. That''s ten out of ten." I bit on a marker. Ticket sales would have risen automatically at Chester because I''d turned the team into winners, and I could claim to be responsible for 2% of our ticket sales through one of my perks. But Brooke was getting numbers up way ahead of schedule. The second stream was commercial revenues, and while I had scored a connection with BoshCard and got Glendale to renew, Brooke had been putting in a lot of spadework for enormous future growth in our income. When we got the new stands with swanky corporate hospitality facilities, we could rake in cash.


    The third and fourth streams, broadcast revenues and transfer income, were all about me. But I had come to realise it was futile trying to build a club through player sales alone - the other three pillars needed to rise, too, or the whole edifice would risk crumbling.


    It struck me that Brooke was the second most important person at the club and the curse would not help me replace her.


    I popped the lid off the marker and filled in the centre back names. C Fierce, Z Green - I checked for a reaction but got only amusement - S Sowunmi. I added a few question marks on an empty line.


    Brooke slid off the table. "You boys love your squad building, dontcha? Let me show you a couple of things before you get too deep into your wheelin'' and dealin''. Something fun and something you need to decide."


    "I''m trying to minimise how many decisions I make today so I can make good ones."


    "This one''s relevant. Come on." She sashayed over to the door but caught me staring at the whiteboard. "Come on!" she said, with another laugh.


    ***


    Our first stop was a retail park on Sealand Road, where the old stadium used to be (hence Chester were ''The Seals''). We parked and walked past shoe shops, tattoo shops, tat shops, and came to a discreet office building that housed solicitors, accountants, and...


    "Chester Chompers!" I said, pointing to the little nameplate. There was an intercom with a button you pressed if you wanted to enter, but Brooke had a key. We went in, up one flight of stairs, and stopped at a door. Another key and we were in a small reception area. Brooke took me through to a small waiting room - unfurnished - and doubled back into a slightly bigger room containing the important stuff. A dentist''s chair with all kinds of nozzles and pipes and buttons. There were cupboards and a counter ready for the dentist''s PC.


    The room had been freshly painted in the recent past but the overall effect, especially given the location, was less than premium.


    "This was a hundred and fifty grand?" I said, in disbelief.


    "There''s an x-ray built in. You need to get a special door. That''s ten thousand on its own."


    "Right, right," I said, nodding. "Fuck it, it''s only money. We''ll make more. You planted the magic money tree like I asked, right?"


    She opened a box and picked out what was either an instrument of torture or something to scrape bits of gunk from the bottom of a tooth. "I thought Youngster was the magic money tree."


    "Yeah," I said, checking out the harsh light that was attached to the apparatus. I hated the dentist''s light more than the drills. "He is. All I need to do is find a way to sell him and get the money but keep him in the squad."


    "That reminds me," she said, putting the ghastly metallic thing away. "Here you say ''have your cake and eat it'', which isn''t very clear. Back home we say ''have your cake and eat it, too,'' which is a lot more understandable. I never noticed until I went and came back."


    "I had a nice time in Sao Paulo," I said, taking in the bare walls. Maybe we could put some Chester FC posters and shirts and whatnot to liven the place up a bit. "Seemed quite normal. But in Chile, when I mentioned I''d been to Sampa they said, oh! That''s the city with no billboards. And I was like, huh, that can''t be right. But it''s true! They''re banned in the whole city. You don''t notice it when you''re there. It''s like you said, you go and come back."


    She smiled. "Look at you travelling the world."


    I waved my hand around. "When does this open?"


    "First of September. It''s a Monday."


    I sighed as I looked around. No two ways about it, the place was a dump and the location was a dump and I wondered if the curse would even count this towards my facilities score. "It''s not exactly how I imagined it."


    "Kids will get fillings, Max. Your players, their families. When you win a football match you make a small difference to a lot of people. Here you''ll make a big difference to a small number of people." She gave me a Max-style friendly shoulder punch. "You should be proud of this."


    I nodded a few times, remembering how furious I had been when one of the youth players hadn''t been able to get his teeth sorted out. I''d had to throw a tantrum until the Brig had taken him to an army base. "You should be proud, too. You did almost all the work. Did we ever thank those army guys?"


    "The Brig did. Crates of suitable refreshments."


    "Yeah, we should do more. Let me know if any opportunities come up."


    "Er..."


    It wasn''t like Brooke to be hesitant. "What?"


    She frowned so hard it actually showed on her forehead. "It''s good news, I think. I mean, it''s good news full stop. Did you know that BoshCard is owned by Taylor''s Bank?"


    "Yeah, I did know that. I used to work in a bank and thought maybe I might have a career in that industry. Like, maybe someone would see I could be more than a drone." I put my hand on the adjustable headrest. It was brand new and as comfortable as a dentist''s chair could be. The people I cared about would lie here and get healthcare and I suddenly was proud. Proud of how far I''d come, what I''d achieved, what was still to come. All it took was one person to believe in me. Jackie Reaper was going to get a hell of a present. A Colombian forward, perhaps. I cleared my throat. "Taylor''s went on an acquisition spree when they were acting like rock stars instead of bankers. The deal went through about five seconds before they crashed the world economy."


    "Not a fan of Taylor''s. Huh. I had a strange feeling about this one and maybe somehow I knew you''d be like this."


    "What is it, though?"


    The frown deepened. "The Brig set up this year''s boot camp with more of his old army buddies."


    "The white-water rafting, yeah."


    "It''s not just that. It''s linked to something called Battleback. It''s a recovery programme for wounded or sick soldiers. There''s a lot of depression after a serious injury, as you would know, and there are plenty of programmes to help them over the worst of it. Players who go to the boot camp will be helping out with that programme as well as having fun. Sort of coming at teamwork from two angles. I think it''s an incredible idea - John has outdone himself. That makes three years in a row we''ve used events run by former or current military and I got a phone call from someone at Taylor''s bank telling us we had won a grant for doing so. It''s 104,000 pounds, Max!"


    I grinned. "Some luck at last! Holy shit. Why are you worried about it?"


    "Because we didn''t apply for that grant. I didn''t know it existed, neither did John, so how did Taylor''s know?"


    My neck tingled. Old Nick had come through with last year''s Brig money! "Ah. You know what? I think I might have met someone on the plane and blabbed about it. Yeah, I was pretty jet-lagged but I think I remember that."


    "Oh, good," said Brooke, rubbing the back of her own neck. "Okay that''s actually a relief because... I don''t know. It was creeping me out somehow. And then there was the other thing."


    "Other thing?"


    She almost didn''t want to tell me. She rubbed her arm a few times. "There''s more to the grant. We can get another 114,400 pounds if we do some football coaching with a military team."


    I had at least four questions, but went straight to the first one. "What was that number again?" She told me and I divided it by 52, which came to 2,200. The Brig''s salary for the coming season! Old Nick could have fudged the numbers slightly to make it less fucking obvious. Christ, was I the only one worried about being caught? "Okay that''s quite interesting. What are the conditions?"


    "Well, that''s just it. One coach has to do at least one session with one unit. Er, most units have a football team, if I understand it right. Even the dog trainers, the medics, any part of the military you can think of, they''ve got their own team."


    "One session for one team? And we get over a hundred grand? But that''s amazing."


    She rubbed her arm some more. "I don''t like it. Banks don''t give money away. If a Nigerian prince tells you he wants to send you a hundred grand, you mark that email as spam. If I''m on the outside looking at this so-called grant I think ''money laundering''. I checked it out as best I could and it seems legit but makes me very uncomfortable. At the very, very least, someone at Taylor''s is ticking a box. If it''s one session they don''t have to check up on it, you know? If they insisted on one session per week for thirty weeks or something that would actually have an impact on the lives of the soldiers, someone at Taylor''s would have to check that we''d done it but clearly no-one gives a shit and I don''t like that feeling. If we''re caught taking this money and doing one session the reputational damage could be huge. Chester FC stealing from veterans."


    I actually understood where she was coming from. Old Nick had got lazy and there was no excuse. "We''ll pick a unit and coach the shit out of them, don''t worry. We''ve got loads of coaches lying around. We''ll earn the money, Brooke, trust me. So that''s two hundred grand. Wow." I started to think about Panamanian right backs.


    "Hold your horses, pardner. That''s grant money; it goes to the foundation. We can spend it at Bumpers but not on players."


    "Yeah, that works, too. That simply frees up other money, right?"


    "Other money. Ah, yeah. About that." She had bad news. I once again felt all the life leave my body. Brooke was peppy enough for two, and she needed to be. "Come on, it''s not that bad. Come on, I''ll show you."


    ***


    In the car, Brooke sent a few texts and drove the short distance to Bumpers Bank.


    "You know," said Brooke, "You should have called this place Bestworld."


    "And filled it with murderous robots? I''m actually trying to make football less robotic." Relationism was the cure to positional play, but I still needed to get better at the latter. "It''s mad, though. While I''m trying to unleash creativity and freedom I also have to master the mindless automatisms of positional dogma."


    "I don''t know what you just said." She turned into one of the spaces that was outside the fence. She saw me looking up. The thing was very tall and looked very sturdy. Good luck breaking in and walking off with our lawnmowers. "You''ve noticed the fence."


    "Um, yes."


    "You didn''t cost a fence in your proposal, did you?"


    "I''m going to say... yes. I definitely did."


    She blinked at me a few times and with a smirk, grabbed her handbag and got out. She later told me the fence had cost 50,000 pounds. Ouch. It looked good, though. Substantial but slimline and elegant. The fence was almost without question the nicest-looking part of the Bumpers Bank project.


    Inside the boundary, Bumpers was busy. I wouldn''t say it was a hive of activity because bees don''t take tea breaks three times an hour, but some work was being done. Diggers were digging, men were getting sun tans on their butt cheeks, and the ceremonial clipboard was being taken for its daily walk. Almost every surface was dirty, muddy, unfinished, and although the mishmash of temporary buildings had cost well over half a million pounds, they were so ugly and unlovable you''d have thought someone had paid us to take them away. My heart sank about six feet underground.


    Near us, a little kid was peering through the wirelink to check all the action. He was about ten - surely too old to still be gawping at construction sites. His dad spotted me and shook his son by the shoulder. The kid turned and his mouth dropped open. That sort of thing happened a lot these days, which is why I was comfortable in Newcastle where only about ten people knew who I was. I needed a break from confronting the reality of building a training facility for one-twentieth of the usual cost, though, so I walked over. "I see you admiring the machines. Have you heard there''s a theme park where you can ride a JCB instead of a roller coaster?"


    The kid was too stunned to say anything so his dad helped out. "He''s a big fan of yours is our Glen."


    "Glen!" I said. "Named after Glendale Logistics?"


    "After my granddad. It''s his birthday and he wanted to see the progress; we do like to see how it''s coming along."


    "Yeah? Well, I''m about to see it for the first time. Why don''t you hop along?"


    "He''s got school."


    "Dad!" whinged the kid.


    "School''s important," I told Glen, "I don''t like stupid players. Our team meetings are all about natural history and literature and I''m not afraid to admit that sometimes there''s poetry. Education''s important but what''s also important is being cool and the coolest thing in the world is being the only kid in Chester who has ever had and will ever get a tour of Bumpers Bank. It won''t take long. Quick pop round and then I''ve got to go sign loads of players."


    The dad was upbeat about getting a tour but his mood went from an eight to a ten. "Transfers?"


    "Trying to sign the best goalie in England and the best striker in the world," I said, which was hilariously close to the truth. The guy rolled his eyes - typical Max Best having a jape.


    Brooke said, "Ah, there''s MD."


    Mike Dean, my boss, strode over and offered a handshake. "Max! Looking well. Slightly more conventional haircut, I see. Overprepared Grandmother will be distraught."


    "Er, okay," I said. "This is Glen. He''s a big fan of mine. And Glen''s dad, allegiances unknown. We''re doing a quick tour before school. Got to whizz through so he doesn''t get detention."


    "Oh, I see. Let''s not dally, then."


    We walked the route I had described to Nono, the sporting director of Corinthians back in the Transfer Room.


    Brooke provided most of the commentary. "The reception building will go here. Makes no sense to put it in already; it''ll only get dirty. This will be the bar."


    She was describing a nineteen-metre long wood cabin with a felt roof. I pulled at a handle - the bastard door was stuck closed and when it finally opened there was a ghastly squelching sound. The unit had been at some other site - what had they been doing to the poor door?


    The inside was bare and my footsteps echoed aggressively. I paced to the end and back in about three seconds flat. We had spent fifty grand on a box, basically. An ugly box.


    Brooke sensed I was underwhelmed. "It''ll scrub up nice, Max. Trust me. We''ll have it cosy. Sky TV, bar here, not the biggest selection, no, but it''ll be nice. We might even open it on matchdays. It''ll be popular, you''ll see."


    "Kay," I said, trying to keep my face at least neutral. Why had I invited the stupid kid?


    The stupid kid was a bit perplexed at finding out that the first stop on the much-hyped new training ground was a whole bag of nothing, but next we came to a large rectangle that was clearly going to be a pitch.


    "Here''s your 3G pitch, Max! It should be ready to use in mid-August." That was later than I would have liked but projects took as long as they took. "We''ve given Saltney priority because it needs to be ready for the start of the season so you can fulfil your fixtures." Glen''s dad gave me a strange look and again, I regretted inviting these people. Brooke didn''t realise she had said anything that could be construed as controversial. "The workers do phase one in Saltney, move here, then onto Hoole, then phase two in the same order. They''ve never done anything like it except at massive sites. I think they''re enjoying themselves trying to optimise their work flows."


    "Great," I said, trying not to be a buzzkill. Brooke was having a good time, at least.


    Would the pitches generate as much revenue as we had projected? That was the question. It was possible opening three new facilities in close proximity was moronic, but it could also lead to a boom. I had been astonished to learn that Bromley FC were generating half a million a year from their 3G pitch, but Bromley''s one was inside the stadium and the pitch rental could be combined with other activities.


    To the right of the 3G pitch were a bunch of portacabins and converted shipping containers. One had a sign saying ''Showers 1''. I popped in and found four cubicles and two sinks. The tiles were a dull grey. It was clean but depressing. I tried the water - the taps worked, the shower flow was anaemic. Henri would be furious. The floors were strangely bouncy.


    I went out without a word and popped into the toilets. Small, simple, clean, ugly.


    Brooke said, "We had to double the number of showers, Max. Four blocks instead of two."


    I nodded. 52,000 pounds instead of 26,000 but we needed to be able to accommodate the first teams, youth groups, and everyone who was renting the pitch. In my plans I had thought a small number of showers would work and if two matches ever finished at the same time people could wait cheerfully. Bit of the old wartime spirit. More showers was better, obviously, but the extra expense was hard to stomach from where I was standing. "Yep."


    Another ten yards or so and we came to two containers that had been placed side by side. "Medical centre," said Brooke. "For minor scrapes and emergencies. We''re going to base the physios in the stadium itself as much as possible."


    "Good idea." It was always nice to go into a football stadium. Having an excuse to go there would remind my players that we were a football club and not the shittest open air festival in Europe.


    Things improved when we got to my new office. It was a cute little box a former Prime Minister might use as a writing room at the end of his garden. The windows were huge and gave me a view of almost all the pitches around me. It had a fun and friendly feel that brought a smile to my face. "Glen, do you want to go inside and I''ll shout at you? You''ll be the first to get told off in my new house."


    "The Theatre of Screams, the players call it," said MD.


    Glen looked uncertainly from me to Mike. "Sounds like detention."


    "No, this is more like being sent to see the headmaster. Detention would be when we do video sessions. Players hate them, except ones like Pascal."


    "They hate watching football?"


    "It''s like homework, isn''t it? It''s not fun if you''ve been told to do it."


    Glen''s face suggested he couldn''t conceive of watching football ever being anything like homework.


    The next expanse would one day be a lot of football pitches of different sizes, but only one was going to be ready for the coming season. We walked to the right and turned right again, walking parallel to the path we''d gone.


    Glen''s dad had thoughts. "You should curve this path."


    "Why?"


    "It''s good feng shui, innit? All these straight lines aren''t peaceful. Couple of gentle curves, put a tree in the way so you don''t get elephant paths, lovely."


    "That''s a good idea," said MD. "I think I would prefer that. This is very clinical."


    To our left was a full-sized pitch that looked very bare and was covered with ''keep off'' signs. Jonny Planter, our groundsman, rushed towards me. "Max! You''re home, amazing. Quick update. The PSD results were poor, far too much silt and clay. A thousand tons of Bathgate sand, a home-made drainage scheme, bore holes, drainage tank, sprinkler outlets, a nifty little bit of electronics to dilute the chloride, power harrow, rootzone, GPS controlled tractor. We''ve been hard at it!"


    I turned to the little kid. "Did you get all that? There will be a quiz at the end of the tour. Jonny, let''s talk tomorrow. Today''s about transfers."


    "For you, maybe. For me it''s about slow release fertiliser."


    He wandered off and I shook my head. There was too much specialist knowledge in this business. The club relied on too many underpaid experts.


    Brooke finished by showing us the chill room and gym (shitter, cheaper versions of the bar and just as empty), the boot room, meeting room, and dressing rooms.


    I was having a bit of a crisis when Glen''s dad said they had to rush off. I got my phone and pretended to be taking a call until they''d gone.


    MD said, "Max. You okay?"


    "Yes," I said.


    Brooke happy-punched me again. "He''s frettin'' he''s spent all his money on this and it ain''t as pretty as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Max, did you forget the plan? We start like this and upgrade step by step. Remember? You knew it wouldn''t be eye candy on day one."


    "Right, but - "


    "Ah, none of that. Rome wasn''t built in a day. You heard Jonny, the pitch is as good as can be. He''s taken the budget and stretched it. The pitch is the main thing, ain''t it? You''ve got the players, the coaches, the pitches. The rest is gravy."


    "Not really," I said. "We''re trying to sign players but one look at the showers will put a lot of guys off. It''s not even non-league standard."


    "That''s what I wanted to talk to you about before you get started on your big shopping spree. We are massively over budget on this."


    "Over budget? On this?"


    "Almost two hundred thousand over. Hey, no, don''t panic. That includes everything: William Roberts, the billboard, the new team bus and charging stations, the fence, the dentist, Hoole. We will have a fully functional training ground with two income-generating all-weather pitches and if you ask me that''s impressive. I''ve talked to Ruth and she''s absolutely fine with us using some of the Chesterness money here. Season One will pay for the sports psychologist, Coach Elin, and Sophie. We will have two hundred thousand left over. Add two hundred thousand of unexpected grants and we have enough to upgrade one building here."


    "Upgrade? That sounds good."


    Brooke nodded. "If you absolutely have to improve the squad to stay in the division, we could move two hundred into the transfer budget."


    "Not four hundred?"


    MD shook his head. "Only if it''s existential because it would border on fraud to use the grant money on players. If we''d had it at the start of the summer we could have used it, but we didn''t."


    Brooke said, "I like this space, Max. I think it has great energy and I can visualise what it''ll be like when it''s ready. Cosy, charming, quirky, but okay not for everyone. What''s that phrase I learned? No fancy dans here." She laughed. "But I also think it would be awesome to have one space that is very, very nice. A taste of what the finished product will look like, so to speak. If you spend too much time in one of the less glamorous areas and then go to the upgraded one, it''ll put your mind at ease."


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "I get you. One place you can be really proud of. Not defiantly proud, but actually proud."


    "Exactly! So you''ve got three options."


    "Oh! This is the decision, is it?"


    "It''s making your mind up time!" said MD, and he mimed ripping Brooke''s trousers off. "Sorry, that was misjudged. It''s from a song. Er..."


    "Bucks Fizz!" I said.


    "Yes!" he said, beyond grateful.


    "This guy on the plane mentioned them and I asked Emma''s parents and basically anyone old knows the song and the dance moves. Everything about it is very mediocre to me but they sold 50 million records. This country is wild sometimes. What are my choices, Brooke?"


    She was still staring at MD with her eyebrows all the way up, but she switched back to business mode like nothing had happened. "Option one. We build a more premium bar. Bigger footprint, a second floor that could host events, a built-in kitchen."


    "Oh! The second mobile kitchen. Where''s that?"


    "It''ll come last with the reception box. It''s all taken care of, Max! A bigger bar will make more money. Not quite the magic money tree but a very good return on investment."


    "Bar sounds good. Question. We''ve got a bar, by which I mean an empty box with a truculent door. We''ve got a gym. If I hit the upgrade button what happens to those buildings?"


    "We move them and use them for something different - you''ll find any spare space we have is very welcome."


    That sounded right. "Ace. Top. We didn''t waste that money, then?"


    "Option two. A proper, substantial, premium shower unit. I always find I can stomach poor accommodations far longer if the bathroom is nice, and the way you and Henri talk about showers makes it seem like a very important part of a footballer''s life."


    "We might care more than most."


    "The unit would be divided, too, so the women would have their own section."


    "Mmm," I said. Not having to share a space would solve all kinds of potential issues. The men complaining about the state the women left the showers in, for example.


    "Option three. The gym and chill rooms. We have quite a lot of equipment already so I''m thinking of a cool-looking building with tons of quality of life features. Some of the rooms soundproofed so you can blast tunes while you work out in one end while the other end is perfectly peaceful. Weights at one end, sleep pods at the other."


    "Shit, that sounds amazing. Wait, hang on. I''ve just realised. This is a dilemma."


    MD said, "It''s not an easy choice, no."


    "No, I mean it''s a dilemma like you get in video games. Increased income, boosted morale, or faster training. Choose one. Huh. That''s actually fun." I spent a few seconds wondering if this was a new game mechanic to replace the achievements system. It felt like that. "What would you choose, B?"


    On hearing the nickname, her eyebrows shot up. She laughed it off. "Bar. Income. Get money we can use for the others."


    MD nodded. "I''m there, too."


    "Okay," I said. "I need to think about this. I''ll let you know today."


    "There''s no rush," said Brooke.


    "Yeah but I''ll tell you today. When I make one decision, the rest will fall into place, if you know what I mean. Hey, where''s the little kid?"


    MD rolled his eyes, while Brooke took me by the wrist. "It''s nearly nine and you haven''t signed any players yet. What kind of manager are you?"


    ***


    The Phwoar Room had assembled. As well as Brooke and MD we had Secretary Joe, who would be doing our paperwork, plus a cross-section of footballing society I felt could cover all sorts of bases: Sandra Lane, Meghan, and Zach Green.


    Ruth was supposed to be around but she hadn''t arrived, it seemed. The Brig was similarly missing. Strange, but they were probably polishing off their tartlets, which is not a euphemism.


    I waved at my helpers and went straight to the whiteboard. I filled in some more names. At left back I wrote E Moore and C Adams. At left mid I wrote J Owens. "Sandra," I said. She ambled closer, sipping on a cup of tea. In the morning she would be jetting out to Switzerland to watch the women''s Euros. "We are pretty skint. If we play a lot of 4-2-3-1 we don''t need a left mid. When we do your 3-4-3 we will use Josh as first choice."


    She sipped and tilted her head. "He''s still pretty raw."


    It was hard to tell exactly where my players were in terms of readiness for the coming season because most of their CAs were slipping during the pre-season break, but I expected Josh to be in the low 40s for the first friendly. "He''s had quite a few appearances, got quite a lot of minutes under his belt. He''ll just have to kick on." On the right midfield slot I wrote P Bochum, W Hayward, A Harrison. "Pascal and Wes can play left mid as well."


    "I wouldn''t feel too good about that without a defender behind them."


    "You''d trust them on the right, though?"


    "More so than on the left, yeah."


    "I tend to agree, but we can use them on the left for ten minutes here and there, see how it goes. This is where it gets complicated. We need a centre back and a right back but I think it''ll have to be one guy who can do both. Sunday''s inexperienced so it would be good to use him in a back three. If we do that, the others can bail him out if he gets in the shit. I think we will probably end up doing a lot of back fours. We''re not going to concede a lot of goals if we use 4-2-3-1 as our default, right?"


    "Hope not."


    I closed my eyes and tapped the marker against my lips. It was five past nine and I hadn''t made any moves yet. Sunday Sowunmi was a talented defender but he was CA 22. I couldn''t seriously use him in a League Two match and in any rational universe I would have sent him out on loan to get experience. In the real world, he was currently my third-choice specialist central defender. I had Magnus Evergreen who could play there, and that lad Max Best was half decent in an emergency, but Sunday was going to get actual first team minutes this season unless I used my scarce resources on that end of the pitch. But why should I? I had the best DM in the league helping out.


    I imagined Youngster being called away on international duty. Zach getting a red card. Magnus injured. Sunday Sowunmi lining up against Chipper in a title decider. It would be an absolute slaughter.


    "Sir," said the Brig. I turned and nearly said, "Finally!" But my former assistant manager and sometime bodyguard was standing next to someone beautiful, and I don''t mean Ruth. "Mister Wilfred Banks, sir. And his father."


    "Yes!" I said, punching the air.


    The Brig smiled but raised a hand. "They haven''t committed to join, sir. Not yet," he added, smiling at Banksy''s father. "I suggested that spending a day seeing you in full flight would be the final push they needed."


    I wasn''t sure about that - I wasn''t having my best ever day. But I stepped forward and fistbumped Banksy and offered a firm handshake to his dad. "What do I need to...?"


    "Nothing, sir. We will talk to the others, mingle, and if it is okay, we will watch you work. The great master at his canvas."


    I frowned and looked at my whiteboard. I hadn''t fully filled it in yet but I had planned to write the names of my top targets on there. Banksy could be spying for Bradford City for all I knew. Still, if the day ended with him signing a contract with Chester FC that would be a coup and a half. Worth some risk. "Erm... Yeah. Why don''t you take the comfy seats? Oh, Meghan? Will you give Banksy a tour?"


    "I''d love to, Max," she said, sweetly, and Banksy became a good few percent more interested in signing. The girl was an absolute menace.


    I turned back to the board and filled in the DM names - Youngster and M Evergreen - then the central midfield slots - R Jack, O Naysmith, D Badford, a bunch of question marks. Zach Green came over with an enthusiastic expression. "Four CMs for two places? That''s asking a lot of those young fellas, isn''t it boss?"


    "Andrew can play CM," I said. "As can Magnus. And me. Plus our default formation won''t need CMs so I don''t want to overspend there."


    "The talk is you''re leaning towards Lee Contreras for that position."


    "The talk is right. You know, I spend so much of my life begging players to join, worrying about them leaving, and this guy really fucking wants to play for us, you know? It''s like, why wouldn''t I want some of that? Just for my ego if nothing else."


    "And when the crap hits the fan it''ll be another ally. Someone who wants to dig in and fight because they already believe in you."


    I liked that framing. "Yeah."


    He gestured towards Banksy. "You want me to help sell the kid, right?"


    "If you can. Maybe you can work the dad."


    He side-eyed me. "While Meghan works the son."


    "What?" I said, innocently.


    "You hit me with a double-whammy last year. Ruth and Brooke. That was low, boss."


    "I''m sure I don''t know what you mean."


    He looked up. "Why am I here today?"


    "I invited you and you said yes."


    He looked down. "I mean, why me? You don''t seem to be signing any women."


    "Whoa!" I said. "That was pretty big-headed, Zach. You''re so irresistible to women I''d dangle you in front of them like bait, is that it? Is that your self-image?"


    He almost blushed. "No, that''s... You have an MO on these days. I noticed it last time. Women call men, men call women. You did it right now with Meghan. You could ask anyone to come and they''d say yes unless they''re on vacation. Where''s Angel?"


    "Holiday."


    "Right," he laughed. "So it''s Brooke, Meghan, Sandra. Why am I here?" He looked across the room at Brooke, which was as close as he came to accusing me of matchmaking. The very thought!


    "Because you came last year, bro. You''re a success story. I plucked you out of obscurity and you won a title. Also, in narrative terms, it helps that you took a pay cut," I added.


    "Oh," he said.


    "Yeah. All right go and introduce yourself. Try to keep your top on this year, yeah?"


    I turned to the board and filled in the strikers section. H Lyons, T Westwood, question marks. I needed a striker, no two ways about it. Foquita missing five months and coming in January would be fine, but since that was unlikely I was looking at other options. A Mexican striker I''d scouted at the World Cup would be cheap and would hit the ground running. His PA was only 118 but he was an exciting talent who would fool scouts, I felt pretty sure. Any clubs who had dismissed him would think again when he scored 20 goals for Chester. I had been in touch with the sporting directors of all the players I was vaguely interested in and some were willing to deal in options to buy, meaning I could buy now, pay next summer.


    A player similar to the Mexican lad was Kpozo, the Ghanaian striker. He was also near his cap but I only needed my ESCapees to impress for one season in order to make a quick profit. There wouldn''t be much profit on Kpozo, though, if any. His club wanted 600,000 pounds and there was no way MD was going to let me anywhere near that sort of amount. Not with the club''s finances as precarious as they were.


    Then there were free agents. Guys of similar quality to Lee Contreras. Good League Two battlers who would help us through the season. If I signed one of them I could turn to Vincent Addo and Tony Herbert as my ESC signings. A DM and a surprisingly good centre back. I could ''build from the back'' like a proper manager!


    Yes, that sounded good.


    It sounded very good.


    "Everyone," I called, and there was a general shuffling towards me. "Ladies and gentlemen. I, Max Best, will now shape Chester FC''s squad for the next twelve months and in so doing, I shall shape the League Two season and, perhaps, the entire course of history." There was some applause. "Oh, thank you. Much appreciated. Behold my decision!" I proclaimed. I picked up the marker pen.


    "One second, Max," said Brooke, holding up her phone. "I''ve got new information."


    "Oh."


    "Let''s go outside real quick."


    "Er, weird. Everyone back to work, I guess."


    I followed Brooke, getting increasingly confused the further she went. I thought she meant outside the room but she actually meant outside the stadium. A car''s engine was purring. Brooke walked to the back and got in. The front passenger door was open. I went there and bent down. "Ruth!" I said. "Is this a new car?"


    "No, I cleaned it." She glanced in the back and I spotted a guy in a Chester FC beanie. Strange weather for that but I''d learned not to ask why people were wearing hats. The answer was usually depressing. "That''s Darren. New stable helper."


    "Wotcher," I said.


    "Hi," he mumbled.


    I sat down, clicked my seatbelt, and Ruth rolled away.


    "Did you sign anyone yet?"


    "No," I said. "But I''m gonna. Except... I''m not in the Phwoar Room. Why is that?"


    "We have something to show you," said Brooke.


    Not very long later we were approaching Fountains Roundabout, where our billboard was, and I smiled. They had put a new one up in the last hour! I wriggled forward so I would be able to see it better.


    When I saw it I let out a shocked laugh and Ruth went round again so I could get another eyeful.


    The borders of the image were all gooey and white as though someone had splattered mayonnaise over the camera. In the one section that wasn''t ''defaced'' I was escorting Youngster off the pitch with my arm stretched out to the side as a warning.


    Giant text read ''Don''t Mess With Chesters''. That was it. No call to action. No QR code to scan to be brought to our ticket sales page.


    "Astonishing," I said.


    Brooke said, "Is that all you have to say?"


    "Did you focus group that concept?"


    "No. I went with my gut."


    I turned all the way around to look at the stable guy. He gave me a nervous smile and looked away. I said, "What do you think?"


    "He loves it," said Ruth.


    I faced forward again. "Okay, Brooke, here''s my honest feedback. I''m flabbergasted because I feel like if that was my idea you''d tell me the top five reasons not to do it."


    "What would one of those be?"


    "Too violent, for a start."


    Brooke disagreed. "There are lots of opinions about whether you should have done it or not but no-one thinks it was violent. I''ve heard a lot of people here compare the completo to a custard pie and I hope I never find out what one of those actually is. No, there is discussion about whether you should take it out on the camera operators but pretty much everyone in Chester likes that you stick up for your own."


    "And outside Chester?"


    Brooke smirked. "Who gives a fuck?"


    "Brooke!" I said, pretending to be scandalised. "That juxtaposition of the image and the quote. Everyone knows what it means, do they?"


    "No, but that''s the point. They''ll tell each other. It''ll drive discussion and that''s what we want. We want to be on everyone''s lips. We don''t represent football fans, we represent the whole city. Our wins are their wins. If we sweep them along, some will get caught in the web. They''ll watch us on Sky, they''ll try a match, and before they know it they''ll be season ticket holders."


    "Yeah, okay. I approve. It''s funny and provocative and fuck I love that we have a billboard! Ruth, do you love it?"


    "I love it."


    I closed my eyes and visualised the poster. "I was kind of hoping to leave the yellow hair in the past but oh well. It''s only immortalised in pretty much the biggest photo imaginable right in the heart of the city."


    Brooke said, "You look cute. I saw bits on Emma''s Insta. You had fun out there; it was good to see."


    "I did what I had to do," I said, theatrically. "I''m no hero."


    Ruth laughed. "It''s good to have you back, Max."


    "It''s good to be back," I said, just as I realised we were back at the Deva. "Why are we back? Is that it? You wanted to show me the billboard? You could have sent me a jpeg."


    Ruth turned the engine off and looked at me. "I also saved you from making a terrible mistake."


    "You don''t know what I was about to do."


    "You weren''t going to sign the player who is most perfect for Chester."


    "Er, what? What are you talking about?"


    "REM''s new client, Max."


    "Banksy? Did he sign already? He''s in the Phwoar Room playing hard to get, the cheeky scamp."


    "Not him, though I''m about to turn the charm up to eleven. No, I mean Darren Smith."


    "What? Who?" I said, but the name seemed familiar. It all clicked suddenly. I nearly broke my neck from turning around so fast.


    "My friends call me Dazza," the guy in the back said. In an Australian accent.


    ***


    I asked Brooke and ''Dazza'' to fuck off inside and I invited Ruth to wind her windows up so I could boil without the footage going viral. She took my quiet, incipient fury in her stride.


    "Let it all out, Max. Better out than in."


    "The shit is happening? The point of the agency is that I know who''s good. I''m not being smug for once! I have a talent."


    Ruth pulled down the flap and checked herself out in the mirror, judged herself to be flawless - correctly - and flipped it back up. "I know. But Darren comes pre-approved. Pre-approved by you, in case there was any doubt."


    "What the shit are you talking about? He''s some nobody I saw in Chile."


    Ruth was trying hard not to laugh, but instead of infuriating me her demeanour was making my mind fucking race. Something was afoot, here. She slowly reached out like you might do with a wounded dog to show you meant well. "Do you remember meeting an Australian gentleman in the stands at whatever stadium?"


    "Yeah. Emma goes weak at the knees for these Aussies. I hate it."


    "Of course you do. Classic Max, seeing darkness where there is only light, but let''s skip that. Emma suspected the man you met was Darren''s brother and she was right. What she didn''t know at the time was that Darren and his brother had seen that you were in Chile and embarked on an audacious attempt to come to your notice."


    "Me?"


    "Holy Christ, Max! You''re not a nobody any longer. Darren can explain his reasoning. Now shut up while I tell a tale. You let slip that Darren was a striker worthy of attention but lo and behold you didn''t want to pursue him. Emma skilfully probed you - "


    "Whoa! That''s private."


    Ruth embarked on a fit of giggles that calmed me almost all the way back to zero. "Don''t. Maybe you remember on one of those lazy South American nights she was asking about which players could have a future at REM. You seem to know which players already have agents, which players have agents that don''t seem to be serious, and so on. She got you into a ramble about the most marketable players, the ones with the highest earning potential."


    "Err..."


    "You spoke at pompous length about Mexicans and Peruvians and Panamanians and only once did you let slip that Darren had the level of potential needed to meet your requirements for our agency. Yes he''s a striker, you said, and goalscorers are marketable, and yes he''s tolerably good-looking, and he speaks English ''of a sort'' and ''he has lionesque hair like our logo oh wait it''s a wolf''."


    "Vaguely remember some of this. Emma was plying me with pincho sours. I''m pretty sure I said he was a one-trick pony and the trick was something even a pony could see through."


    "No, you said he was ''uniquely suited in the entire tournament to English football but he''s got a fatal flaw which is when someone says throw a shrimp on the barbie he goes looking for Margot Robbie''. Chuckle chuckle chuckle. Well, Max, I gave you a lot of money to start a women''s team and I spent a lot of money turning my father''s house into your little bachelor pad and when there were strange noises in the attic I cut short my holiday to fix it and when you say ''ummmm Brazil'' I say yes of course Brazil. So now it''s time for Ruth to get paid. I signed Darren because I believe in your gift.


    "I don''t have a problem with Australians and neither does Emma and neither does Grindhog and neither does the bloody ball you''re so fond of kicking. You told Emma that Darren is more than good enough for REM which means he''s more than good enough for Chester and guess what? Darren thinks you''re some kind of wizard. However could he have gotten that idea? He''s a nice boy, he thinks he might want to play for Chester, and you''re going to talk to him. You''re going to be nice and you''re going to listen and if you have a legitimate reason not to want a talented young striker who by your own words would ''make mincemeat out of League Two'' then you''re going to help me place him in another team so I can get paid. Is there anything I just said that you would like me to repeat?"


    "Yes. The bit where this guy''s brother slimed Emma in order to meet me."


    Ruth glared at me. "For the next ten minutes we are adversaries and you''re going to sign my client and I''m going to squeeze the pips out of you. Let''s roll."


    She got out of the car and I did the same if only to get a better view of her bottom as it swayed towards the stadium.


    ***


    I took Ruth and her client to the boardroom and got them nice and settled at one end. You good for tea? Coffee? I was hospitality itself.


    Then I walked to the extreme far end of the boardroom table and sat down facing them. Absolute boss power move. Ten out of ten, no notes.


    Except Ruth jerked her head and the two of them stood, brought their stuff, and sat next to me.


    I steepled my fingers. "Well played. Yes, very well played indeed."


    "Cut the crap," said Ruth. "I wanted to sign Darren as a client and he wanted to meet you. This deal is destined to happen so you''d better get used to the idea."


    "I know why you want to sign a hot young Australian," I said. "But I don''t understand why Darren would want to meet little old me."


    "If you shut your cakehole for five seconds you might give him space to tell you."


    I raised my eyebrows while squeezing my mouth closed. Darren took off his Chester hat, revealing long, flowing blonde hair which he flung around like he was in a shampoo commercial. Urgh. He spoke softly. "Did my brother annoy you, Mr. Best?"


    "Call him Max."


    "I''ll stick to Mr. Best," he said. "In the hope we end up working together." One point for Dazza! Take that, Ruth! "He told me you were a bit off with him and he wasn''t sure what he did wrong."


    "No, he was cool, but I don''t like it when my girlfriend meets some charming guy and is superfriends with him right away."


    Dazza smiled just a fraction. "That''s Lachie all over. I''m not like him. I wish I was."


    My phone vibrated. Agents who knew how I worked were coming alive, pitching me their players. "Let''s speed this up."


    Dazza put his hands on the table and wrung them. "Soccer isn''t big where I''m from. I mean, everyone plays it but when you get older you''re supposed to choose a real sport. But when I was 10 I was sick and I couldn''t do anything except watch TV and the Asian Cup was on. 2015," he said, expecting me to know the entire history of every football competition worldwide. "Oz won it," he said, his face lighting up. "It was so exciting and it hit me in a way footy or cricket or rugby didn''t." By footy he meant the incomprehensible sport known as Australian No-Rules Football which appears to take all the worst parts of every other sport and combine them.


    "I like Aussie Rules," I said, because I was starting to think that maybe I could make a few quid training this guy up and selling him in the summer. Not to Foquita levels, but more than most of my options.


    "I took soccer seriously but got kicked off every team I played for. It was pretty disheartening but Lachie realised I was really into it and it wasn''t just a phase and there was a day when it was like a switch flipped with him and he went from bantering me about it to being my biggest booster. Actually, I remember it. He went to watch me play and I missed a few shots and one of the dads was slating me and Lachie got into it with him."


    "He can slag you off but an outsider can''t."


    Dazza smiled. "Yeah, that''s it. So he worked with me. Learned a few drills he could do with me. Roped in me other brothers, cousins, nieces, anyone with legs who could make up the numbers. I got cut anyway and that was the end of the private coaching." Well, I thought. That took a turn. "A few days go by and Lachie comes to me with a magazine and it''s got an article about Tim Cahill."


    Ruth said, "The name rings a bell."


    I said, "Goalscoring midfielder. Not that tall but he had an incredible knack for arriving in the penalty box just in time to get on the end of a cross."


    Dazza''s eyes shone. "He was my favourite. Still is. Lachie had highlighted loads of the interview, all the times Cahill got cut from his youth teams. He never gave up, kept going, couldn''t be persuaded to stop. It''s a real-life fairytale and seeing that he struggled made me even more determined."


    I said, "If it was easy, everyone would do it."


    "Right. It''s hard. I''ll do the work. Whatever it takes. I got into teams, had more success. Watched videos of Cahill so I could learn how to time my runs better."


    "Your movement is good," I mused. I was getting obsessed with the Off The Ball attribute and was starting to wonder if it was even more important to a striker than Finishing. If your Off The Ball score was low you would never get into position to shoot.


    Dazza seemed to be waiting for me to say something else and when he realised I wasn''t going to, he leaned forward. "You''ve seen me play. I''m good but limited. I want to get better and I haven''t met a coach who can help me. I''ve been asking around for where I can get direction. You know, what''s next for me? What can I improve next? Who do I talk to? I had sessions with the best private coaches I could afford and they want to work on things I already do. I''m looking for the next step. When I push back, they all say the same thing."


    "What''s that?"


    "You need Pep Guardiola."


    I chuckled. "He''d turn you into a left-back or something mad. Or he''d make you hold fifty balloons and float you over the centre circle."


    "What would you do?"


    "I wouldn''t do anything because you''re not my player."


    "Max," said Ruth, which reminded me that he sort of was if he was a client of the agency.


    Dazza looked down at his hands. "There was only ever one thing anyone said that was what I needed to hear. Perth Glory, my club, were training one day and along comes a special visitor. Craggy old guy, got a fierce look about him, kind of snarling at us. Made everyone put a bit more bite in our tackles while he was watching."


    "Oh my God," I said, laughing. "Is this an Ian Evans story?"


    Dazza blinked. "Yes. How - ? Okay so he''s experienced, he''s seen it all, right? Might not be the most modern manager but what have I got to lose? I describe my situation to him and he looks at me like I''m mad. You can head it son, you''re big and strong, you''re a handful, keep doing what you''re doing you''ll be reet."


    "No offence but you are Ian Evans''s fantasy Australian even more than you are Ruth''s."


    He didn''t react to the compliment. "I want to be more than that. I want to get to the next level as a player otherwise what am I doing? You can always be better. I want to score 50 goals for my country like Tim Cahill. I said it to Ian Evans and he said you''ve asked your coaches, you''ve asked me, you''ve got the same answer every time. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result but if it''s insanity you want there''s only one name for that."


    "Dustin Hoffman," I said.


    "That was the first time we''d heard of you but Lachie and I watched every video and read everything we could find. Match reports where you dropped your striker into midfield while you stood right wing without doing anything. One match where you made your striker man-mark the goalie! Interviews with your players and former players, too. That got Lachie excited because it wasn''t just them saying those things because you pay their wages, they were saying that because they believed it. Sam Topps said the first thing you did was set a training routine to music and you chose Youngster to be the conductor and that was three years ago and he was one of the best players in Chile! We''ve been scheming a way to meet you for a while now and suddenly you''re right there in the stadium with us on the other side of the world. Amazing! And your partner, she says to Lachie yeah come over and meet my boyfriend! Just like that."


    "Yeah," I grumbled. "Just like that."


    But Dazza was happily telling his tale. "He sees you''re not in the mood to meet him and doesn''t want to push things and ruin it and anyway, it should be easy to work out who you''re scouting and make sure we''re in the right stadium at the right time. But we got it all wrong. You were all over the place! We couldn''t work out your plan. I wouldn''t say we gave up. More like we ran out of time because you redecorated that camera and next we heard you were spotted at the airport."


    "Scarpering," said Ruth.


    "And out of the blue I get a call. Ruth wants to represent me as I make the move to Europe. Europe? I say. It''s too early for that. She says Max Best doesn''t think so."


    I smiled. It must have been an amazing moment. Ruth was smiling too. It doesn''t happen often, but sometimes things just fall into place. Normally after years of grinding, but still, it''s a helluva feeling. "Okay, I think I understand you. You''ll move to Chester if I tell you what''s missing in your game and coach you through it."


    Dazza nodded. "People say it''s good here but if people stop improving you get shot of them. I want to improve. I''m desperate to play somewhere like this."


    "Whoa," said Ruth. "You''re not desperate. Far from it. In fact, Max is the one who''s desperate. Desperate to pay you three thousand pounds per week to score goals for this football club."


    "Or," I said, looking at Dazza, "I tell you what I think and you can take that to a club that can afford your agent''s absurd demands. Okay?" He nodded before Ruth could stop him. I said, "It''s not what you want to hear, I don''t think, but you''re not Tim Cahill. You''re a striker, plain and simple. Ninety percent of what you do will be competing for headers, battling, putting yourself about, attacking and defending set pieces.


    "You are a battering ram. If I was a battering ram I could imagine wishing to be something else. A mystery winger who can fill in at DM, perhaps. But there are battering rams and battering rams.


    "If I were your manager I would want you to get a lot more sophisticated with your runs. Someone taught you to run between the centre backs. Yeah, okay, but we''ve gone one-nil down to Tranmere and they''re in a low block. I want you to smash their short right back on the far post like we told you in the pre-match briefing. Or I want you to run in front of the front post defender as a distraction because our actual Tim Cahill guy is storming in behind.


    "For Australia you either batter tiny little teams or try to do counter-attacks against big teams. If you''re playing against Spain you need to stop thinking about scoring goals. Your job isn''t to score in that match, it''s to hold the ball up, turn, and win a foul before their little piranhas can get to you. You take twenty seconds off the clock, give your mates a breather, and move the action up the pitch. Maybe you can get a goal from a set piece but you need to be a lot more intelligent with your work if you''re going to earn that field position.


    "Your hold up and link play needs to be miles better and a lot smarter. Your technique is poor and your passing makes life hard for your teammates. What''s the point doing the hardest thing in football, holding the ball up, then giving the ball away with a shit pass? You''ve got to put things together. I get that you play in teams that are under the cosh and you get isolated but there are solutions. Combinations.


    "You''re a one-size-fits-all player but imagine you''ve taken the ball on your chest and Pascal is the nearest option. You can leave the ball there at your feet and spin away. If the defender tries to get there before Pascal, he won''t, and he''ll be out of position and you''ll be away. If it''s me you should fizz the pass because I can hit it first time anyway. If it''s Sharky you need to feed it to his right because if you hit it left the move is over.


    "Game management. There were things you did in the World Cup that were shockingly stupid. You have to feel the narrative of the match and redirect it. Do I take a quick free-kick when it''s just me and a winger against ten defenders? How about no. How about we think about the match on a meta level for a minute and ask, what would Max like me to do right now?


    "There isn''t one big wow moment, Darren, like moving you to a new position or teaching you to do stepovers. I''ve got no doubt you''ve heard most of this before, but if I were your manager I would want and demand a hundred minor improvements that add up to you being a very similar player to the one you are now, but fucking mint."


    His eyes were wide.


    I continued. "Sadly, I can''t afford you, but I wish you the - "


    "Max," snapped Ruth. She turned to her client. "Darren, would you excuse us? Max is acting up because there''s an audience but he''s a sweet boy, really."


    Darren got to his feet. He opened his mouth to speak but decided to leave his fate in the hands of his agent.


    "Talk to Zach," I called out as he was closing the door. "Actually, you know what? Do you want to go out on the pitch? I''m in the mood to whip in a couple of crosses. What do you think?"


    "I''d love that," he said.


    "Mmm. There are some new kits we''ve got in from our supplier. Why don''t we do a little jog in them and see what we think? Hey, here''s an idea. Talk to Zach, he''ll take you to the dressing rooms and all that, and say to him you heard he''s fast for a defender but he doesn''t look fast."


    Dazza looked uncertain. "He''s not gonna end up resenting me?"


    "If you''re asking if this is a prank, no, it''s not. We don''t do that around here. Zach will accept your challenge and you''ll run around the stadium like a couple of toddlers while I try to find someone willing to bet that you''ll win so I can fleece them."


    "Wait," said Dazza. "You think he''d beat me in a race?"


    "I know he would."


    "Huh," he said, frowning. He pulled the door closed.


    Ruth was shaking her head. "What are you up to?"


    "Nothing." Maybe a tiny bit of mischief to lighten the mood as I prepared to make a series of consequential decisions. I pointed. "I can''t afford him."


    "Maybe you can. His club want 400,000 pounds but I think they''ll take two-fifty."


    "I have zero pounds and zero pence for fees."


    "What about a loan with an obligation to buy?"


    Under such a deal we would loan the player for a season but would have to pay the transfer fee regardless of anything that might happen in the meantime. It was the same as buying the player, but with the payment delayed. "Two-fiddy," I said, getting up and looking out onto the pitch. Dazza was CA 73, slightly better than Henri, and PA 138. With Dazza''s work ethic and determination I could get him close to CA 100 by the end of the season - unless Bumpers Bank proved to be a level zero flop. I could probably get a decent chunk of change for him next summer but to really cash in I would need to keep him for an extra season. Two years of clogging up my ESC pipes.


    Wait, that wasn''t right, was it? If he played in enough matches I would be able to take him off the ESC programme and put him on a normal work permit.


    "Is he always like that?"


    "Like what?"


    "Soft-spoken and a bit introvert or whatever."


    Ruth looked towards the door. "I didn''t really notice. I think so. He''s not your nightmare Australian party animal, I don''t think. What''s your problem with Australians anyway?"


    I was imagining the tactical solutions and problems caused by signing Dazza when I replied, "They go surfing."


    "So?"


    "Their ocean''s full of sharks and jellyfish. It''s crazy. Don''t even get me started on the spiders. They don''t have any sense of self-preservation and it makes me nervous."


    "He wants to leave Australia, Max."


    I brightened. "That''s a point in his favour, isn''t it? Yes. Okay... Two-fifty obligation to buy, two grand a week wages."


    "Let''s talk goal bonus."


    "Let''s not. Two grand, bosh, it''s not a tactic, it''s my absolute limit, no jokes, pinky swear. Help me make sure MD''s on board and you can say you went in hot and heavy with the best in the business and came out with your pride intact."


    Ruth looked around. "Who are you talking to?" She drummed her fingers on the table. "One day I''ll have a client who understands not to profess his admiration for you before we negotiate his salary." Her fingers stopped. "Can you do what he wants?"


    "Improving him is trivially easy. He needs to be a cross between Henri and Tom and we know how to coach them. It''s not even a challenge."


    "Why do you need to be so glum delivering good news?"


    My eyebrows flickered up. "Yeah. But I need to get to the next level myself, don''t I? Ah, don''t worry about it. This is going to be great."


    ***


    Me: Hi Adrian, haven''t heard from you but I want to let you know I found another striker for this season. I wish you the best of luck with Foquita and I sincerely hope I never have to play against him! Thanks for your time and please keep on the track you''re on - it''s optimal for both you and him. Cheers, Max.


    ***


    Budget: 25,120 out of 30,000


    One major decision down, one to go.


    I went back down to the Phwoar Room and saw that Ruth had intercepted Dazza and told him that we were going to try to get him to Chester. He was buzzing. Ruth was about to introduce him to MD.


    Two fifty was a decent number, wasn''t it? It was right and proper that clubs should have a striker as their transfer record. I could imagine Perth Glory thinking they were getting the better end of the deal, since Dazza wasn''t prolific and seemed to be relatively limited in his skill set. Yeah, but not for long. He was right to look beyond his current abilities. I liked that about him; he had a good vibe. He''d do well in our environment.


    I looked at my whiteboard. If Dazza was coming in as a striker, taking up one of my ESC slots, then did I want Vincent Addo (a long-term project DM who could fill in at right back) or Tony Herbert (a really good centre back)?


    Neither would get me any cash this summer and Vincent would only be able to play from January. Who else? There was a good left mid. Maybe I could revisit my thoughts on that matter - but I had to cut corners somewhere.


    The right back with poor decision-making?


    "Max," said Brooke. "Sorry to interrupt. Are we thinking of signing that young man?"


    "Yes. I''ve wanted him for a long time. He was my top target and that''s why he was my first decision."


    "Er, right. Look at this." She took me over to a table where she had laid out a couple of folders. Mr. Banks was nearby - I''d almost forgotten about him - and Brooke handed him a copy. She took the other and opened it.


    The first page was called ''Chester FC New Player Orientation'' and inside there was a checklist (In-person welcome; social media welcome; mentor; accommodation; family; health; languages; and so on). For each topic there were colour-coded pages with more detailed information, flowcharts, best practices, even words to avoid using. (Don''t say: ''It must be hard leaving the house you grew up in''. Do say: ''You''ll be living near an old Roman wall!'')


    "They have these at Angel City," she explained. "To make sure new players get everything they need. When there''s a new signing these tasks get assigned and people feed back that the tasks are complete until they are all done. Chester try to do this but I always thought the way we do it is too informal and it''s too easy for steps to get skipped. Now that we''re signing international players we need to be very mindful of how hard it is to settle down in a new country."


    "Right. Your experience is invaluable, Brooke, because I''ve never done that. It''s all bits of admin, right?" I turned to one of the pages. "Right. Look at it! Getting a bank account. A UK phone SIM. This is great. We should have a day where we teach them random things like how to stop a bus."


    "How to stop a bus?" said Brooke, who better knew how to stop a superyacht.


    "You stick your hand out," said Mr. Banks. "They don''t do that abroad, that''s right."


    "What if you don''t stick your hand out?" said Brooke.


    "It doesn''t stop," he said. "Sometimes it doesn''t stop regardless," he added. He was enjoying this conversation.


    Brooke produced a pen and started writing. "This is great, Max. Oh! What about a day where we take people around Chester and actually show them? We''ll give them a buddy and some tasks, like withdraw ten pounds from a cash machine. Stop a bus. Buy a stamp."


    "You''ll need more than a tenner for that, the way prices are going," said the crashing bore.


    I experienced a surge of affection for Brooke. In a way it was obvious that something like this should exist but it was the kind of idea I had and then forgot about. She had the idea - or saw it done elsewhere - and actually produced a draft. Once other people saw the draft they would add things that were missing, but someone had to take the first step. Someone had to get the ball moving.


    Well, Dazza had got the ball moving and I could feel myself hitting the groove. "All right!" I said, clapping my hands. "I feel something''s about to happen! I''m about to make a decision! Our second ESC slot. And the winner is... Hang on, I have to take this." I stared at my phone for a few seconds. Surprised didn''t cover it. "Adrian," I said. "Hi."


    "Hello, Max," said Adrian, agent to Foquita. "I was very surprised to get your message. I feel like perhaps you are playing with me a leetle bit."


    "In what way?"


    "The urgency. There are many weeks to go in the transfer window."


    "Adrian, can I call you right back on video chat?"


    "Video? Yes." I hung up and did as promised. When he saw me, he smiled. "No more yellow hair."


    "Never say never. But never again."


    "Haha."


    "Let me show you something." I switched camera mode so he could see the whiteboard. "This is my Chester men''s squad. I haven''t finished, actually. I wanted to put Wibbers here on the side to show he''s multi-purpose." I scrawled the name there. "I think that''s everyone. I keep getting interrupted when I work on it. What I do is I get a few volunteers here on the first of July and try to get all my work done for the summer. Our fans hate it because they like having weeks of drama but I want my squad in place before we go to boot camp."


    Zach called out, "What are we doing this year, boss? More army stuff?"


    "Could be," I said, pointing the camera at the American. "Adrian, that''s Zach. We invited him to this room last year and he had to think about it but he signed. Here''s Meghan, one of the best young defenders in England." Everyone I mentioned waved and smiled. "This guy''s one of the best young goalkeepers in England. Here''s our club secretary so that we can get deals signed, sealed, delivered. And this guy was at the World Cup with us. Darren Smith, Australian striker. Oh and his agent, who I just rinsed in the contract negotiations." I turned the camera back into selfie mode and wandered off into a different room. "So I''m not playing with you, Adrian. I''m going to sign four or five players today and that''s going to be that."


    "Max, this is not normal."


    I scratched the side of my nose. "If I did things the normal way this club would be in the seventh level of English football. As it is, next season we''ll be in the third."


    Adrian looked worried. "I see you are sincere. You signed a striker?"


    "I need my boss to agree to the numbers. It would be easier if we hadn''t overspent on the training ground but it''s not a serious amount of money. I think it will be okay."


    "And you are happy with him?"


    "The striker? I mean he wasn''t my first choice, as you know, but I just had a chat with him and he''s one of those guys who''s nothing like how they look. I think he''ll be a big hit, yeah. Especially from set pieces. Woof!"


    "Do you still want Foquita?"


    Whoa now. "Hang on. What? I mean, yes. No question. He was my top target. I thought I blew it with his mother."


    "You did not blow it. She had, shall we say, mixed feelings but she only wants her son to be safe when he is away. The fact you were in the stadium to see your young player was a big point in your favour. The fact you were so ferocious in your defence of him was one thousand points in your favour. The fact you would not sell him at any price was the deciding factor."


    "You only went up to five million," I laughed. "Wait, that was Bassco."


    "We were all there, Max. Maria wanted to hear for herself. She feels good with you. But now I''m worried you have too many strikers."


    "My assistant wants to play 3-4-3. If I sign Dazza and Foquita I''ll probably end up playing a lot of 4-3-3 with three central strikers. Maybe 4-3-1-2 with Wibbers behind. Oh, God. Adrian, I''m salivating. What do I have to do to get this deal over the line?"


    "Nothing. It''s done. If you need everything signed by today..."


    "If I have your word then no."


    "You have my word."


    "Holy shit," I said, heart pounding. PA 190. PA 190! "Er, but soon though?"


    Adrian''s smile got super big. "Soon, Max! Now that we understand how you operate we will get serious."


    "Wait," I said, trying to get a grip on what was happening. "This is all because I did a pitch invasion and shoved a hot dog up a lens? What happened to crime doesn''t pay?"


    "It was a crime of passion," laughed Adrian. "But that was not the only reason."


    "What else?"


    "Money!" He laughed. "We must negotiate my fee separately. But the final point was the first point. Foquita is as superstitious as his mother."


    "What''s that got to do with it?"


    Adrian smiled. "When we read about you, we read that Chester is known as the Seals. Foquita means ''the little seal''. There you have it. Written in the stars. Congratulations, Max. Foquita will wear a blue and white shirt in January."


    ***


    Budget: 27,120 out of 30,000


    I stormed back into the Phwoar Room and jogged around demanding high fives. "Let''s all sing Max Best songs!" I suggested. "Fucking come on!"


    "What happened?" said Brooke.


    "We just went stratospheric," I said. "I want to fucking kick something! Argh!" I looked around for something to do violence to.


    "But what?" said Brooke.


    I jabbed my finger in her direction. I was feeling some of her fizz now. "That''s Chesterness. When one guy''s down, someone else is up. We get through this together. I just signed two of the best strikers from the under 20 World Cup. We are going to fuck some teams up this year!" I laughed maniacally. "Christ! Where''s Sandra? Sandra! Get your 3-4-3 hat on when you''re out in Switzerland. Your 4-3-3, too. Narrow strikers. One hench boofhead, one warrior poet, one massive fucking seal! Argh!"


    The pressure in my head was rising and I felt like it might burst. I had to make more decisions to open the valves.


    "Banksy! Get on the bus right now while I''ve still got budget."


    He was grinning - they all were. "I''m in, boss."


    I scrubbed out the question marks at the bottom of the whiteboard and wrote Banksy.


    Budget: 27,620 out of 30,000


    "Argh!" I said again. My head was about to explode and I loved the feeling. I dialled and the recipient of my call picked up right away. "Lee! It''s Max. Get your coat, you''ve pulled. No filming at Bumpers or the Deva. All right? Get down here today. Yeah, right now." I hung up. "Get in!"


    I wrote L Contreras in the middle of the pitch.


    Budget: 29,620 out of 30,000


    "Max!" cried Sandra. "We''ve got no budget left and there''s no right back!"


    I stared in horror at the whiteboard. She was right. Holy fuck what had I done?


    Brooke was on the ball. "The Peruvian isn''t coming till January, right?"


    "That''s right!" I said, all the way back on the crest of a wave. Surfing in a sea with no jellyfish and only one shark - me.


    Budget: 27,620 out of 30,000


    "That was the plan. He comes in January and we''ll have more budget by then, won''t we Brooke?"


    "You better believe it."


    "We''re gonna sell Josh Throw-ins merch and Butcher of Burnage sausages. We''re gonna have cup runs and pitch income. We''ll cover it, MD, don''t you worry. Yes, we can afford a right back." I had a few options but they were solid League Two pros, nothing spectacular, but they would do a job for a year. I mentally assigned a thousand a week to the slot.


    Budget: 28,620 out of 30,000


    With the squad one phone call away from completion, I had just over a thousand left in my budget. Pascal needed - nay, deserved - a pay rise, as did Youngster, Wibbers, and Magnus. There wouldn''t be much left for anyone else. I would have to manage everyone''s expectations until we got comfortable enough for MD to release the purse strings. That could get tricky...


    But my brain kept fizzing with ideas. "Whoa!" I said. "Brooke, I want the gym done first. Get me a super gym."


    "Got it," she said. "Why the gym?"


    "Because player development is the most important thing. We''ll make more money selling Dazza than selling a few extra beers. Won''t we mate?"


    "I guess?" he said.


    "That''s the spirit! And maybe with a proper facility we can get Zach''s abs straight."


    "Pardon me?"


    I snapped my head to the right. "Brig?"


    "Yes, sir?"


    "What''s the nearest army unit to here? Er, in Wales, I mean?"


    "Oh?" He furrowed his brow. "That would be 3 R Welsh, I believe, sir. A Company."


    "A Company, B Company, it''s all perfect," I said.


    "They''re based in Wrexham," he said.


    I smiled wider. "Better than perfect. Brooke, I want to teach 3 R Welsh A Company how to play football. I''m doing my UEFA A licence this year and I''m doing it in Wales and they will be my guinea pigs. I want them in Saltney twice a week. Can you co-ordinate with Gwen and the Brig and whoever to make it happen?"


    "Sir," said the Brig. "Are you sure? You have your youth teams to experiment on."


    "Those guys are gonna learn space-age football. They''re called the 3 Rs, did you say? Forget reading, writing, and arithmetic. I''m gonna teach them relationism, er... recovery runs, and..."


    "Recycling possession," said Meghan.


    She got a big high five. "Yes! Yes, mate! Holy shit they''re gonna love it."


    "I honestly think they would prefer to learn to do 4-4-2 better, sir."


    "They don''t get a choice. They''re in the army and they do what they''re told. Brooke, are you happy with that?"


    "Very happy, Max."


    MD said, "Are you going to ask me if I''m happy, Max?"


    "No because I know the answer. You''ll be dancing on the pitch at the end of the season, though. I can promise you that."


    He smiled with tight lips. We were sailing pretty close to the wind financially, but were juuuust the right side of reckless.


    "Right, let me check all this. We''ve got a killer squad that''s going to get better. Oh, Tranmere!" I fired a text to Mateo telling him to buy Tony Herbert, then one to Vincent Addo saying simply, ''Saltney.'' "We''ve got a killer squad. The training ground is what it is but it will have one gorgeous section and three superb pitches. Okay. I''m doing my badges with a relationist twist and earning that grant money, big time. Banksy''s gonna play for England, Dazza''s gonna play for Oz, Zach''s gonna lose a race."


    "I''m gonna what?"


    I looked at Dazza. The Aussie said, "The boss said he thought you''d beat me in a race. I think he was joking, maybe."


    Zach got a steely look about him. "Why would you think he was joking?"


    "Just coz you''re a centre back, mate. I don''t mean nothing by it."


    Zach was as unblinking as a prehistoric megashrimp. "How many laps you wanna do?"


    I decided to calm things down. "Two, obviously. But listen, wouldn''t it be cool if you wore the new kit? No photos, anyone! It wouldn''t go down well if Dazza''s club saw him in another team''s kit." I bent and pulled out a bag with loads of shirts still in their wrappings. "All right. Seems to be a yearly tradition, this. Tops off, lads." Both dudes whipped their shirts off within two seconds of me suggesting it and held their hands out for the new garb. Meghan collected what they had been wearing. "You know what?" I said, frowning. "These are the women''s cuts. Oh, well, it''s a nice sunny day. Just like Texas. Just like Oz. Makes you feel right at home, don''t it? Okay, let''s run a fucking race, guys! Let''s go!"


    Meghan headed out towards the pitch, pushing her way through the first set of double doors. We followed in a line with Brooke and I at the end.


    "Hey," I whispered.


    "What?" she whispered back.


    "I got you a present for all your hard work."


    She opened her mouth to speak, but then we were emerging onto the pitch where two hot young things were already doing over-the-top stretches that showed off their abs, guns, and buns.


    "This," she said, "is inappropriate. They wouldn''t do this at Orlando City."


    I nodded slowly. "Want me to get them to stop?"


    She sighed. "No, Max. I want you to make them do widths, not laps." I smiled. Laps was stupid - you couldn''t get a good eyeful if they were in the far corners. "And I want a cold drink."


    "I''ll get you a fizzy pop," I said.


    She raised one eyebrow. "You''re gonna get me a drink?"


    "Absolutely I am." I described a circle with my finger taking in the stadium. "I need your help doing all this. You can achieve your goals without me. It''s not true the other way round."


    She seemed to get thoughtful and after a pause, opened her lips. I prepared to hear something unbelievably profound. Life-changing, even. "Keh." It was a hard little coughing sound. "Keh. Mouth so dry. Keh."


    I grinned. "I knew you were still thirsty."


    That made her stretch out her fingers in frustration, as though she wanted to strangle me, but she had to concede that I had absolutely done her with that one.


    "Banksy," I called out, and jerked my head indicating that he should come to me. "I need to carry loads of cold drinks out here. Need a safe pair of hands. You in?"


    "I''m in," he said, jogging to catch up. I gave him a playful little push and we jogged through the stadium to raid the Blues Bar. I made him create a sort of cradle with his arms and loaded drinks into the space - far more than we were ever going to drink, just because it was funny.


    "You might make your debut soon," I said.


    "What really?"


    "Yeah. How do you fancy playing against Slovakia?"


    He staggered and one of the cans slid, agonisingly slowly, until it teetered on the edge of disaster. I nabbed it, pulled the ring, and drank deeply. "Ah," I said. "Life''s pretty good sometimes. Don''t you think?"

 11.10 - Unconventional

    10.


    Thursday, July 3


    It was the first day back in training for most of the lads. We were at BoshCard and there was a sense of both continuity and renewal. Continuity in that we were back in the old haunts. The showers, the changing rooms, Best Bistro, our mates from the credit card company. Renewal in that we were up in the big leagues against some big-name clubs and we''d made a few transfers.


    I''d learned a lesson about changing too much of the squad in one go so this year it was a few out, a few in, business done early so we could focus on maximising our CA growth in pre-season while building fitness and morale. Pretty obvious, unconventional only because other clubs were stupid, and overall it felt good, it felt right, and the squad was looking exciting.


    Some key players were not with us - Henri, Pascal, Youngster, and Magnus were still on their summer holidays (with my permission and encouragement). Zach was having an Independence Day Week. Dazza, Lee, and Lee (my new right back) were due to come next Monday.


    I welcomed the first teamers with a very quick ''welcome back, champions!'' speech, had individual chats with them while they warmed up, then took a back seat as Jude, Well In, and Spectrum broke off into small groups to do rondos and technique drills.


    Watching them was motivational, but gave me a kind of restless feeling.


    The motivation came from seeing green on their player profiles. Number goes up! Of course, most of the lazy bastards had been slacking since the end of last season and had lost up to five points of CA, so this was just a case of crawling back to where we''d finished. The early signs suggested we would be back to our old levels by the time of the Slovakia match, and that was encouraging.


    The restlessness was harder to explain.


    We finished with some five-a-side matches. It was a bit of fun before Saturday''s friendly match, because on Monday the Brig and Vimsy were going to get the lads started on the serious business of getting fitness up. Running drills followed by running drills followed by a quick vomit break followed by hill running, with extra running for anyone who vomited on the hill.


    I wasn''t doing any coaching (my experiments with Relationism would start soon enough) and I certainly wasn''t going to be joining the running drills, so there wasn''t much for me to do other than to stand there and give the players the old Eye of Sauron when I felt they were slacking.


    What I was mostly thinking about was the coming season. A realistic best first eleven, one that I might actually field in a competitive match, was CA 67. I could get up to 68 by leaving out Andrew Harrison and including Dazza, but that wasn''t a very balanced team. Meanwhile, I expected our first League Two opponents, Fleetwood Town, to be around CA 90. That match would be away and we would probably get tonked, as we would in our first ever AOK Cup match - away to the Championship side Bolton Wanderers. Starting with two hammerings would be bad for morale, but if we could pick up some points in August that would quell some nerves.


    The problem was that our first four league fixtures were against four of the best sides in the division. In fact, it was worse than that. The first fixture I had us as actual favourites to win was match 11 against Sutton.


    So how to get some points in the first ten matches? How to make pre-season training as productive as the Phwoar Room had been?


    I needed to get creative.


    At the end of the session I pulled William B. Roberts aside and asked him to come in before training on Monday to talk about a new contract. His smile was heart-warming but while he was currently desperate to break into Chester''s first team, it wouldn''t be long until some football experts were saying he had outgrown us. How could I keep him at the club long-term?


    I needed to get creative.


    ***


    Saturday, July 5


    Pre-season friendly 1 of 6: AFC Liverpool versus Chester FC


    The horrible thing about positional play, especially as implemented by the curse, was that players stood where I told them to stand and did what I wanted them to do. The great thing about positional play as implemented by the curse was that players stood where I told them and did what I wanted.


    I looked from the abstracted 2D pitch in my mind to the 3D one seen by my eyes and found that everything lined up. I slid Andrew Harrison''s icon to right wing back and watched as he changed position. I moved him back and switched to 4-5-1. The players shifted.


    God mode!


    I swapped my left and right midfielders and watched as they drifted across the pitch.


    Absolute power!


    Yeah, it wasn''t so bad having an antique version of Soccer Supremo in my head. I switched back to 4-4-2 and went through the old hits like slipping into a warm bath. Checking the match ratings, keeping an eye on everyone''s Condition, looking at my match data (shots on target, shots off target, fouls, offsides, and so on).


    We were in a 4-4-2 for loads of reasons.


    <ul>


    <li>First, Sandra was at the Women''s Euros in Switzerland. My absolute nightmare was that she would get spotted in the crowd and recognised, as had happened to me in Chile, which would trigger a chain of events where she got snatched away from me by a bigger club or even - holy shit - a national team. Anyway, I knew she would want me to use normal formations and not do anything stupid.</li>


    <li>Second, these were pre-season friendlies designed to get our fitness up and to ease our way into the season - no-one gave a shit about the score, except maybe the goalies and defenders. And the strikers. Okay, some people gave a shit but not me.</li>


    <li>Third, now that we were in League Two we could expect every team we played to have an analyst and I wanted to make their lives hard by using different formations, putting out line ups featuring players they''d never heard of, and generally doing weird things. Which, yeah, didn''t really take me out of my comfort zone.</li>


    <li>Fourth, not having Youngster or Magnus ruled out 4-2-3-1.</li>


    <li>Fifth, because without Dazza and Henri my only proper striker was Tom Westwood, I was using Wibbers as a second striker and was trying to avoid the temptation of tinkering with his role. Keep things simple, Max!</li>


    <li>Finally, 4-4-2 was a formation that allowed me to give minutes to loads of nervous players in positions they knew.</li>


    </ul>


    A major - extremely secret - goal for pre-season was to hack the curse. I wanted to win the FA Youth Cup and to do that I was including kids like Tyson and Benny in first team training and filling their boots with minutes so that when they appeared against a national team it would catapult their CA. Slovakia? More like Slov-hack-ia.


    (That''s terrible. Cut that.)


    The scheme was ambitious, crazy even, but if I could increase my youth team by five points across the board before the season had even started, we would surely be in with a chance, especially because I intended to continue the craziness until we got knocked out of the cup.


    The risk was that my first team wouldn''t improve by as much as they potentially could and they might get smashed up a few times, but if I wanted to win the Youth Cup I was going to have to give minutes to young players like Noah, Chas, and Sevenoaks.


    My recent experiences had made me slightly rethink how player development worked. Yes, my young players improved by training with the first team and that improvement was faster for guys with higher PA. Yes, players improved by playing minutes and the amount of that improvement seemed to be linked to factors like opposition quality, competition importance, morale, and even whether the kid had done well in the match or not.


    But some of the players at the u20 World Cup had much higher CA than I would have thought possible. Foquita, for example, had CA 99, which was higher than a lot of talented teenagers I''d seen at Man United or Chelsea. How had that happened? Being picked for your national team was obviously a major boost, as I had seen with Youngster. I had to get Wibbers and Banksy into the England set up ASAP, and if there were other events that gave big one-off boosts I needed to know what they were.


    For now I was stuck with the weapons I controlled - training time and first-team minutes. With one eye very much looking forward to the Youth Cup final (to be held in May at Old Trafford, home of Manchester actual United) and knowing I could make 11 substitutions in friendlies, I had brought 22 players up to Marine, where the semi-pro semi-socialist club AFC Liverpool played their home matches. Wikipedia said that in 1949 the Rossett Park ground had been home to a match between Marine and the Nigerian national team, a fact which boggled my mind. What must that have been like? They still had rationing in 1949. You couldn''t get extra sugar or butter but you could get two tickets to see the Super Eagles. Wow.


    Marine''s pitch was a very nice 4G affair which suited our passing game. Liverpool had an average CA of 18. In the recent past we had loaned them our young players Bomber and Bivvy (a centre back and a goalie, respectively) so I put them in the starting line up. Liverpool had also had plenty of dealings with my loan manager, Ryan Jack, so that was enough to get him a place.


    Most of the squad were desperate to play. It struck me that even if we got far in a couple of cups, there wouldn''t be enough action to keep everyone happy. I would have to remind them, when I laid out this season''s Maxterplan, that they were paid to train, not to play. I didn''t feel any particular need to play against Liverpool myself, so I selected a mix of starters, reserves, and youth teamers and got on with it.


    What I found interesting and very positive was that the squad players who didn''t even make it to the bench wanted to come and watch. Maybe they were simply checking on their rivals but the show of togetherness felt like a good thing. Our collective Morale (one of the patches had led to this number being handily summarised for me) had slipped to 4.0 (out of 7) as the euphoria of winning the National League had worn off, to be replaced - I think - by apprehension. We were going into League Two, with every single match televised, we would have the lowest budget and if we got our arses handed to us there would be no hiding place.


    I''d made other decisions to keep some continuity. We wore the old kits and travelled in a hired diesel coach. New season, same as the old season. For now.


    I blinked as Liverpool''s manager switched from 4-4-2 to 4-5-1. I stared at the pitch, almost snarling, as I prepared to counteract him. But I remembered why I''d picked Bomber, Bivvy, and Ryan Jack - this was a club we were friends with. They were sound lads and made our kids feel welcome. I untensed, let my face soften, and licked my lips.


    There would be plenty of times I would need to get ruthless or to get up in someone''s face. Not today, though. Today we were all smiles.


    I checked some numbers.


    XP balance: 6,772


    The stash was piling up again but I wasn''t quite sure what my next purchase would be. I was leaning towards buying 5-3-2, a defensive formation, because it could help us in the short term as we got pummelled by League Two sides. It was just over four and a half thousand XP and I was in no particular hurry to buy it. When I got it, a quiet word with Sandra would be enough to get the lads practising the new formation a couple of times a week. Sandra was the best!


    One interesting thing was that managing this match against a semi-pro side was giving me as much XP as watching the under 20 World Cup. The baseline income was 1 XP per minute, which was doubled because I was the manager. But last July I''d bought a perk called The Friendzone that gave me 50% more XP for six pre-season friendlies. I thought it would take three seasons to earn back the cost of the perk and move into profit, but I wondered if that was true. What would I get for managing against a national team? Surely more than 1 per minute, right? Was it possible I would get a baseline of 7 XP per minute... doubled... plus fifty percent...?


    I smiled. It didn''t really matter. Sandra was away so there was no question of anyone else taking control of these friendlies. It wasn''t exactly hard work for me. There were no real stakes. It was a case of letting the lads build up fitness while I imagined Sandra telling me to keep things simple. And what''s simpler than 4-4-2? I knew she''d be pleased.


    It was quite boring though. I looked around the bench - Vimsy, the Brig, no-one to talk tactics with. Maybe I could try one little thing I''d always wanted to see in action. I pushed Sunday Sowunmi one slot forward and set Christian Fierce to man-mark Liverpool''s lone striker.


    ***


    Sunday, July 6


    Bern, Switzerland. UEFA Women''s Euro 2025.


    "There''s a break in play here at the Wankdorf stadium with the hosts still pressing for an equaliser. It''s an absolute scorcher of a day - yes, they''re going to combine this injury with the water break. Very sensible. As we look around the stands, some familiar faces. There''s Roger Federer''s personal chocolatier. Oh, and Magdalena Blocher''s English teacher. That''s DJ Bobo. Who''s this? Yes, I do think that''s Sandra Lane, assistant manager of Chester FC''s men''s team. She will break new ground this season when she becomes the first woman to manage in the English men''s football league. I wonder what she makes of the tournament so far?"


    ***


    Monday, July 7


    The boardroom at the Deva was the perfect place to negotiate new contracts. The old wood, the plush cushions, the felt detailing that made random surfaces feel like a snooker table, it all made me feel like a trillionaire. There could be 2,000 superyachts in the world. 10,000 maybe, but there were only 92 teams in the English football league and one of them was my playground. I''d been up all night eating cheese and was hyper. If anything I was too excited and optimistic.


    It was time to negotiate a new contract with William B. Roberts, which was perhaps the most important deal of the entire summer, more so even than Foquita or Banksy. Will had brought his dad and his agent, Ruth. Failure to agree terms could lead to the lad wanting a move. He had three years left on his contract so I was in a strong position, but I didn''t plan to keep unhappy players around. If we couldn''t find common ground I would offer him a pay rise if he gave me another year so that I could sell him for a good price next summer, like Ronaldo had agreed with Alex Ferguson before his world-record transfer to Real Madrid.


    What I most wanted was to get Wibbers to add another year to his deal, or perhaps renew at 3+1. Three years guaranteed with another year the club could add if they wanted. That way, I could expect to have him until he was 20 with years left on his contract, and sell him for an eight-figure sum.


    They came in and we made small talk. Small talk such as Ruth saying, "Max, why have you put all our trophies on this table?" and me replying, "That wasn''t me; they''re being polished but the man ran out of polish because there are so many." Small talk such as Ruth saying, "Why are we doing this meeting so early?" and me replying, "Because in half an hour William''s going to start two weeks of hard running and he''s very quickly going to hate me, the Brig, and the entire football club."


    We moved on to medium talk. William said he was happy at the club, his dad was happy, his mum was happy, his talented younger brother Adam was happy.


    When the time was right, I launched into my pitch. I said I was hugely ambitious and William''s profile was rising just as fast as the club''s.


    "We''re going to be on TV all the time. Every league match is televised and we''ve got Bolton Wanderers in the first round of the AOK Cup. That''s a big game in a big stadium and there''s going to be plenty more of that. Ruth has started to get you some sponsorship money, hasn''t she?"


    William nodded. He was a much smaller personality indoors than out on the pitch. "Grindhog, yeah."


    "There will be loads of that sort of thing coming. This season you need to kick on. You''re 18 in March and I want you making it hard for me to leave you out of the team."


    "It''s not ever hard for you, is it?" said Ruth. "You''re a ruthless bastard."


    William smiled and looked proud to have such a manager.


    "Yeah, okay," I admitted. "It''s just a form of words, isn''t it? It''s what football people say. I''m trying to be more conventional while Sandra is away so I don''t, you know, go off the rails. What I mean is, you''ve had your tutorial and now it''s big boy time. Wibbers gotta git gud. One thing that''ll help is getting called up to the England setup."


    "England? This season?" he said.


    "Yep. There''s an under 18s team and a 19s. I saw what it did for Youngster and it''s a real boost, big boost. We''ve got to get you in there. To be honest I was a tiny bit reluctant to get your name out in the world but we''re in League Two so you''re not leaving here for anything lower than a Championship team and next season I''ll be able to pay you decent wages." All three of them understood the implication. This season''s pay would remain dogshit. I pressed on. "I''m going to use some of my considerable genius to get you called up, ASAP. Okay let''s get to my offer and then I''ll explain why I think you should sign it. You''re on 520 a week now. You know I don''t have lots of spare budget but I''ll bump you to 700 a week and you''ll be able to earn a bit more when we go on cup runs. I''d like a 4-year deal."


    "Three''s fine," said Ruth.


    "Three plus one," I said, "but the one can only be triggered if we''re in League One. If we''re still in League Two, you''ll be free to go but if we''re going up I want you with us."


    Ruth looked at William. She said, "I like that. What about you?"


    He nodded.


    "Top," I said. "You''ll get increases every year, Will. This year we''re strapped because of the training ground. I''m not trying to take the piss, right, you can see the money is all out there." I stood and looked out onto the pitch. "We''ve got to rebuild the stadium, too, but I have to balance that with paying decent wages and improving Bumpers." I smiled and shook my head. "It''ll be years until we''ve got enough money to do everything properly but that''s okay. I''ve got an idea. Check this out." I grinned at them. A big, cheesy grin.


    "Oh no," said Ruth.


    "I think it''s possible - just about possible - that William will improve faster than the club. This year''s fine - he''s got miles to go to catch Pascal." I wasn''t sure why I was talking about him like he wasn''t there, so I switched tack. "Next year should be okay, too, but it''s possible Bumpers won''t be as good as I hope, or we lose Sandra or something like that and we get to the point of holding you back. That''s the absolute last thing I want. Your development is my top priority and that''s not just empty words - I''ve paid Banbury all your future appearance money so I can use you as much as I want. As much as you need. The thing is, though, I believe in your talent so much that I think you''ve got the potential to be massive. I''m talking about a transfer fee enough to rebuild this stadium and build a dental clinic bigger than the Death Star."


    "The Death Star?" spluttered Ruth.


    William said, "Man City''s training ground."


    "Oh, right."


    "I was telling Brooke I wanted to sell Youngster for loads of money but keep him in the squad. Impossible, right? Well," I said, with a huge smile. I was about to pitch some absolute nonsense and I LOVED it. "We''re getting promoted this season, obviously, but I''ll be watching you carefully and if I think you need to play at a higher level than League One next season, I''ll loan you to a Championship club. They can pay me a fee. Two million; we''ll give you a cut. The season after that, Chester will be in the Championship and I''ll have spent that cash turning Bumpers into a wonderland."


    Ruth was frowning pretty hard. "You... no. That''s the wrong way round. Big clubs loan players down to small clubs. Or big clubs loan to other big clubs and get a loan fee. No-one loans to bigger clubs. That''s... that''s crazy."


    "Why is it crazy?"


    "Because..." she said. "Because no-one does it."


    I slapped the table. "We''ll do it. I''ll do it with Wibbers and Youngster. Clubs will pay me to train my players. The clubs get a top player for a season and the lads get, like, new experiences and all that, but after a year we''ll be reunited and get back to slapping our way to the very, very top."


    Ruth was still frowning but in an impressed way. "This is why you want a four-year deal?"


    "Right. It gives me a bit of space to put William''s career first while making sure Chester benefit, too."


    William said, "Which teams would want me for just one year?"


    I waved the question away. "If you keep listening to me and Sandra you''re going to be good, mate. Really good. I think clubs will agree to the deal thinking that after a year with them you''ll be so in love with having a proper, normal manager and a big stadium and a nice training ground that you''ll demand a transfer. Right?"


    "And if I do?"


    I shrugged. "I''m not going to stand in your way. As long as they pay what you''re worth. I personally don''t see it as much of a risk because here you''re part of something unique - a club that''s growing fast. Every month there''s something new going on and it''s because of your work. Your goals and your assists. Oh, I just thought of a club that might be interested. Bolton Wanderers! If you slap them in the cup they''ll remember it and in a couple of years when I suggest it to their director of football he''ll be interested, I reckon. Yeah, Bolton. Big club, great history. I''m looking forward to that match almost as much as the Slovakia one."


    "I can''t believe we''re playing Slovakia," said Wibbers, dreamily, and Ruth looked up at the ceiling. Once again, her client had undermined her negotiating position.


    "Max," she said. "We quite like you but 700 isn''t enough. We need to negotiate that."


    "No," I said. "He''s going to have a breakout season and sponsors will be queuing to get involved. I was thinking I could include him in some of my BoshCard stuff. You should send him to acting lessons."


    "Acting lessons?" said William, horrified.


    "Just to be a bit looser on camera. I didn''t actually mean acting lessons. Um..."


    "Media training," said Ruth.


    I clicked my fingers. "That''s what I meant!"


    "The club should provide that," said Ruth.


    "The club has no fucking money left, Ruth. Just do it so we''re ready for whatever opportunities come up. Okay?"


    Mr. Roberts chuckled to himself. "It''s a rum old place, this. You tell our agent to spend her money on your player... and she agrees!"


    I looked at William. "What do you think, Wibbers? Do you want a boring life?"


    He smiled briefly, but then looked worried. "Are we still going for the Youth Cup?"


    "Yes."


    "Are you going to be the manager for those games?"


    "Yes."


    He was still for about ten seconds, then turned to Ruth and nodded.


    I reacted calmly and professionally. "Jolly good show, old chap," I believe I said. "Splendid and spiffing news."


    "Max," said Ruth. "This is the boardroom. Get down off the table."


    ***


    Tuesday, July 8


    Training was gloriously chaotic.


    Apart from me we had 24 players in the first-team squad. Youngster was the centre of attention for his World Cup exploits. Henri and Tom were getting to know Dazza. Pascal had a badly-sunburned red face except for one large section where he had been wearing diving goggles. The goalie section was abuzz with chat, the two new Lees were being made to feel welcome by Christian and Ryan Jack.


    Then there was a small army of youth team players including Lucas, Tyson, Benny, Chas, and Noah.


    Noah''s middle brother, Michael, was there, even if he was technically a Saltney player. Ditto Vivek, who I''d invited to give him a good start to his new life as a West Didsbury man.


    There were so many players that we had split them into three groups, each containing some first teamers and some youth guys. Jude, Spectrum, and Well In did some light technical work to get me some of that sweet, sweet green, but most of the sessions in July involved the Brig and Vimsy shouting at people.


    Shouting at them to run, followed by more shouting.


    The Brig had invited a boffin from the Welsh FA and together they were monitoring the GPS data from every player''s sports vests in real time. I went over to their trestle table laboratory and peered at the squiggly lines.


    "Everything good, Brig?"


    "Yes, sir."


    "Individually-tailored, is it?"


    "That''s right, sir. We took baseline figures from the end of last season so we know how hard to push them. It''s extremely scientific. Cutting-edge, almost."


    The boffin looked up at me. "Would you like to join in, Mr. Best?"


    I smiled. "The Brig doesn''t let me. He can''t bring himself to shout at me. Can you?"


    "So far no. One must respect the chain of command, no matter how much the chain is asking to be yanked. Are you going to be fit for the start of the season, sir? You haven''t done much."


    "I''m doing squash," I said. "I go squash a ball against the walls for twenty minutes. It''s absolutely great fun. Very therapeutic. Charges up the ideas factory, know what I mean? You go in stressed and restless, you come out with a plan. Plans within plans. Plans cubed."


    "John," said the Welsh guy, as he pointed to a screen. The Brig nodded and strode away and yelled at Dan Badford. Dan''s face contorted but he picked up the pace.


    I drifted away from the scene. Better to leave them to it, and anyway I had very little to contribute to this part of the season. The players, while they hated the monotony and the pain well remembered the close matches at the end of last season where our fitness had turned losses into draws and draws into wins, and for the new signings this was a good introduction to Chester. Completely conventional pre-season fitness work that would make them feel like they had joined a real football club. Not like Chipper, whose first morning as a Chester player involved learning about megashrimp. Yeah, better to leave them to it.


    Before heading up to my office, perhaps with a nice snack from the bistro, I checked the Brig''s profile. It was by far the strangest one I''d ever seen.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>John Smith</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>Fitness-based</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>n/a</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>n/a</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>n/a</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    He was exceptional at some things and useless at others. The ones where he was useless tended to relate to football, which you might think was a major downside in our industry but we could easily hire people to do things he was bad at. Also, he was learning. At his current rate of progress, in twenty years he would be better than Pep, Klopp, Ferguson... maybe even me!


    Since meeting him, he had added one point in coaching, one point in judging player ability and potential, and two points in tactics. He had lost one point in Discipline, which I took to mean the stick up his arse had loosened.


    I wouldn''t want him in charge of a must-win match against Bradford but he was the perfect man to lead the pre-season fitness sessions and just having him around was almost as good as having a sports psychologist. The young players adored him and he was a hit with the fans, too.


    How do you replace someone like that?


    Answer: you don''t.


    I walked to Best Bistro with my hands in my pockets and when I got there, I noticed our head cook Patricia eyeing me carefully. She was always slightly angry with me for mistreating her boys, which somehow meant everyone who wasn''t me.


    "Trish," I said.


    "Yes?" she said, gripping a spatula.


    "Can you make tartlets?"


    ***


    Thursday, July 10


    Geneva, Switzerland


    "Over to Michelle outside the Stade de Gen¨¨ve where she has spotted a very interesting character."


    "Thanks, Corina. I''ve just caught Sandra Lane, assistant manager of Chester''s men''s team, on her way into the stadium. Sandra, thank you for stopping."


    "My pleasure."


    "What do you make of the tournament so far?"


    "It''s very hot, isn''t it? Scoring the first goal has become super important because teams are struggling to keep the intensity of their press."


    "Who has impressed you so far?"


    "Obviously Spain, Germany, and England but they have tended to get that early goal. It''ll be interesting to see what will happen if one of the big nations goes behind because a lot of the other teams can pass the ball around just fine. I think we might get some surprises in the knock-outs."


    "That''s very interesting. And what about today? Do you think Switzerland can pull off a shock?"


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    "It''s never a shock if the home team wins, is it? England are already through the group stage so we will see a lot of rotation. I actually think Switzerland will win this one."


    "As a Swiss I hope you''re right! Is there anything in particular you think we should look out for?"


    "Yes, but I want England to win so I''ll keep that to myself."


    "Ha ha! But you''re already through."


    "I suppose you''re right. I''m fairly confident Lucy Bronze will be rested today and Coates is just back from a big injury and hasn''t had a lot of match practice. She''s a good player of course but I think this heat will kill her. I wouldn''t be surprised if Eggenberger moves over to the left wing today and runs at Coates. That''s what I''d do. And when England respond - too late, hopefully, from your point of view - switch Eggenberger right, Huwyler left against a demoralised player, and drop Wyss to central midfield to stop England building through the phases."


    "So your prediction?"


    "Two-nil Switzerland. Another prediction is that I''ll run out of money before the weekend. A beer is how much?"


    "Sandra Lane, very interesting, thank you so much! If we buy you a beer you can talk to us again?"


    "Haha, yeah right. Sandra Lane, studio analyst! Haha!"


    ***


    Saturday, July 12


    Pre-season friendly 2 of 6: Chester FC versus Buxton


    My first teamers were pretty drained from a week of hard running so I mixed the squad up for the first 45 minutes. Buxton had CA 41, which was decent and actually a bit of a test for us given the state we were in.


    I kept things mostly conventional in the first half, composing variations on 3-5-2, but in the second half I got quite experimental.


    I switched to 4-2-3-1 but playing from a low block. Men behind ball, counter-attacking, long ball.


    I used Tyson as a DM because he could hit accurate long passes and put my three fastest players behind our unlikely striker, Dan Badford.


    The idea was that our speedsters would collect a long ball and give it to Dan, who wouldn''t look to shoot but to play a pass to another fast boy. He would basically do his normal midfield role, but thirty yards further forward.


    If anyone had been around to ask what I was doing, I would have said it was an experiment in ignoring player roles and looking only at Attributes and what players could actually do. It was only a few days later when I realised I was using Chester FC as a rehearsal for the Welsh regiment. It wasn''t entirely successful, but it wasn''t bad enough to put me off, either.


    ***


    Wednesday, 16 July


    Chester FC are pleased to announce that four more players have put pen to paper on improved deals. Manager Max Best said, "We''re happy to reward players for their hard work and dedication to the extent that''s possible and I think these new deals show that we''re an attractive destination for ambitious players who want to improve."


    One of the most important deals was with Eddie Moore, because he was the only key player whose contract was running out at the end of the season. If he hadn''t signed, we would have had to sell him or would have lost him on a free transfer. Fortunately, he was happy to extend (one plus one) on a modest pay bump. His new packet was 950 a week, which for a CA 62 PA 75 player was more than I really wanted to pay. He was my first-choice left back, though, and if my best options were Cole or Josh, teams would quickly learn to target us down that side.


    Looking ahead to January, though, I wondered if we would be in a position to accept bids for Eddie. Probably not, but there was one thing I could do to make sure I had options.


    Me: Hi, Rory, this is Max Best. I got your number from Sticky. You played together and he said you''re a top guy. You''re involved in the Irish youth teams, right? You need to come and have a look at my lad Cole Adams. He qualifies for Ireland and if there''s a better left back in your system I''ll give you a hundred quid. I''m serious. Okay cool if you''re ever around hit me up.


    On the topic of left backs, I gave Cole and Josh bumps from 520 to 550 a week and got them back on 2+1 with the promise that I''d look after them next year. Josh wasn''t very impressed but after staying quiet for a while he simply said, "I trust you."


    That got me all worked up to the point I wanted to give him even more money but we just didn''t have it. "I''m going to look into getting you a cut of the Josh Throw-Ins merch, all right?"


    "Will that be a lot?"


    "More than nothing."


    "I''ll take it."


    Next stop was Zach. I couldn''t give him a raise but I changed his deal to put all his money as a base salary and not as appearance fees and whatnot. It would help him if he wanted to get a loan or a mortgage. He was happy to extend to two plus one, which felt significant. Almost my entire squad had at least two years on their contracts, meaning they wouldn''t be able to leave for free.


    The exceptions were Magnus and Sticky, who didn''t want long deals, Ryan, who was elderly, Henri, who I was happy to let go for free at the end of the season (so he could get a big signing bonus - a thank you for being underpaid for four years), and Andrew Harrison.


    Strangely, the older triplet was the only one who didn''t take up my contract offer. He came to the negotiation with Gemma, Emma''s best friend, and while normally we were allies, that day she was in lioness mode. She said Andrew was going to be 24 soon and he had to take care of his brothers and didn''t want to live in digs and he had played a lot of minutes and I''d made it clear that he had potential and would be a first team regular and if I was going to try to exploit him long-term maybe it would be better for his career if he ran down his contract and left for free in the summer.


    It was quite the barrage and Andrew was the last person I''d expected it from. Of course, it wasn''t Andrew talking and he looked pretty uncomfortable about the whole thing.


    "Well, what do you want?" I asked.


    "A thousand a week," said Gemma.


    For a CA 53 workmanlike midfield scrapper? "Wow. Okay so let me ask around and see if anyone wants to buy you. If not, the good news is you''ve got a whole year to find a new club."


    "Hang on," said Andrew.


    "You know the way out," I said, gathering my stuff and leaving the room.


    Andrew''s morale plummeted to abysmal. I cancelled the rest of the contract discussions, hoping that word would spread amongst the other players that I wasn''t going to be dicked about by my players or their girlfriends.


    I had to take a hard line because I only had nine hundred pounds a week of budget left and still hadn''t talked to Pascal, Magnus, Tom, Wes, Youngster... The list went on.


    I tried to get angry at Andrew. This was a betrayal, after everything I''d done for him and his brothers! But I couldn''t. Gemma was right - he was getting too old to be on Exit Trial money.


    ***


    Thursday, 17 July


    I had my first encounter with 3 R Welsh, an army reserve unit of riflemen, which was based in Wrexham. My plan had been to start teaching them Relationism straight away but I realised that wasn''t very scientific. First we had to establish a baseline, even if it drove me slightly crazy making myself wait.


    The unit had a guy called Huw running the team who vacillated between being ecstatic to meet and learn from a superstar footballer and being disgusted when I actually did things. The chain of command was clear, though. The Welsh FA and the army were delirious that I was doing this project and had gone out of their way to make it easy for me. 3 R Welsh would visit Saltney twice a week for training, but first I had to go see them in action.


    3R''s setup was a lot stranger than I expected in that they played all kinds of football and never had the same set of players twice.


    This first match was six-a-side; they were preparing for a sixes tournament. Once that was over, they would switch to full-size pitches because they also played in inter-army tournaments, against the police, navy, air force, dog handlers, or whatever matches got arranged for them, and were routinely slaughtered.


    Not only were they statistically one of the worst teams on the planet, the soldiers and officers also got randomly called away to, like, do their jobs. If my star goalie needed to be in Germany to paint a wall (or whatever these guys did), me sending him a WhatsApp telling him to get to training in the next ten minutes wasn''t going to be very effective.


    I allowed Huw to run the first half of the six-a-side match while learning their player profiles and what was not on the profiles, like who could play a long pass and who could stand up to the pressure of a strong press. The match was twenty minutes of hot garbage that had 3R three-nil down at the break. I took over at half time but instead of reorganising the team on conventional lines - strikers in attack, defenders at the back - I decided to try something I''d been cooking up ever since my first sessions with Geraldo, and going even further back, since my first session with the Chester Knights.


    I was pretty sure Off The Ball was an essential attribute for a forward, so I took the guy with the highest OTB and told him he was my new striker. There was instant dismay from Huw and the others. Not a popular choice! For the midfielders I wanted Decisions, so the two guys with the highest numbers went into the middle. Positioning was king for defenders.


    It was quite a strange way of doing things and there was a decent amount of pushback, but to his credit Huw, who was being usurped by me, finally snapped and told everyone to do their jobs, meaning to obey me.


    My only instruction was for them not to pass the ball more than five yards.


    A slightly grumpy set of players (with the exception of the guy who had been made into a striker) took to the pitch... and crushed! They passed the ball around pretty well, so long as they kept their attempts short. My rule already led to some interesting outcomes. I mean, it was all total CA 1 rubbish but the midfielders actually played the ball backwards sometimes in order to follow my instruction and that led to a couple of neat triangles that ripped their opponents to shreds. (To shreds, you say? Yes.)


    3R recovered to three-all before one guy, unhappy at being moved to defender, hoiked the ball long when the team had bunched up expecting a short pass. The oppo pounced, scored a quick counter, and we lost 4-3. The defender gave me a defiant look as though he was proud he''d cost us the match, which I found absolutely wild.


    Still, it had been an absolutely fascinating hour and I got the feeling the majority of the team were excited that I would be coaching them.


    ***


    Friday, 18 July


    Zurich, Switzerland


    "At half-time it''s Italy 2, France 1, and we will talk about what we expect in the second half with our special guest, Sandra Lane. Sandra, welcome to the studio."


    "Thanks, Corina."


    "Can we start with your background for any viewers who aren''t familiar with your story?"


    "Oh, sure. I always loved football but wasn''t much good at it myself and I was always very interested in coaching but there wasn''t much of a pathway back then so I went into teaching. I switched our P.E. lessons from hockey and netball to football and more football. I absolutely loved coaching and decided that''s what I wanted to do, even if I didn''t know where it would take me. I did my first UEFA badges at the same time as a player at Manchester City and he recommended me to the club."


    "So you started at Manchester City."


    "That''s right. With their support and with help from UEFA I progressed to doing my Pro Licence. I was quite happy at City. Actually, I was very happy there."


    "It took a lot to make you change."


    "Yes. Max Best is a lot."


    "He brought you to Chester FC to be his assistant manager."


    "Right. I''m in charge of day-to-day training, we discuss tactics, he sets the short and long-term goals and it''s my job to create drills and training sessions to ensure the players are able to do what he wants them to do."


    "What would be an example of that?"


    "Here''s one. I got an email from him the other day. He had seen a match in South America where one team had a goal kick and five players ran in a circle near their own corner flag - it looked like they were playing Ring a Ring o'' Roses. The goalkeeper passed to the fifth one. Max asked for my thoughts on why they did it. Two minutes later I get another email. I''ve worked it out! But it''s stupid, we don''t need to do this. I had to reply, why did they do it? I couldn''t understand it - it was one of the strangest things I''ve ever seen in a competitive match. Oh, they''re testing the trigger movements of the pressers."


    "Could you explain that?"


    "Yes. In this match we''re watching, Rizzo is the weakest Italian defender on the ball and when she gets it, that''s the trigger for the French to press. They don''t do it every time because it''s sweltering out there, but when they do rush the defence, it''s normally when Rizzo gets the ball."


    "Yes, that''s clear. And so this ring had the purpose of... what?"


    "To trigger a press. For example, if Italy did that today perhaps the French would rush forward when Rizzo was at the closest point to the goalkeeper. And then you would know who the opposition manager had set as the trigger. If you did it at the start of the second half you would know if the instruction had changed."


    "Oh! That''s diabolically clever."


    "If it works, yes. I have my doubts. But in the meantime Max had decided it wasn''t stupid and he asked me to find time in the coaching schedule to get it ready by the FA Cup Third Round."


    "Why then?"


    "Ah. That''s where Max gets very mysterious, even with me, but I think it''s because knowing what triggers a press is most useful against high-level teams. If it''s our left centre-back, we might move him to the right side. It might not make a difference, but then again, it might. It''s a challenge working with someone who thinks in such unusual ways, but it''s very rewarding."


    "And he lets you manage matches yourself?"


    "Yes. I suppose you could call it part of the deal to take me away from Manchester City. I manage matches when Max is sick or wants to go on holiday or if the opposition is too boring for him."


    "This season - if Max gets bored - you will be the first woman to manage an English league match."


    "Knowing Max, it''s very likely."


    "How exciting! You''re smashing the glass ceiling. And no doubt soon you will be offered a senior job at a big club."


    ***


    I paused the stream and sighed. Sandra was someone I could replace, but I didn''t want to. She was almost perfect. Apart from how well our skills and personalities dovetailed, and apart from the fact she brought a healthy pink glow to the faces of gammons everywhere, her numbers - the ones that mattered - were top.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Sandra Lane</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>4</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>5</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>3-4-3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Since joining Chester, she had been steadily improving, adding a point to Determination and Working With Youngsters in her first season, plus ones in Coaching Outfielders and Man Management in her second. Her preferred formation had changed, too, which I loved because it showed that she was always looking to get better. Always looking to optimise.


    Instead of watching the rest of the broadcast, I closed my laptop and went for a walk.


    ***


    Saturday, July 19


    Pre-season friendly 3 of 6: Blackpool versus Chester FC


    The first team had been absolutely destroyed by the Brig so I had to be very careful how I used them. The last thing I wanted was an injury to a key player, so I used a lot of kids again.


    In the other matches I had done a lot of tinkering with the defence and defenders so I felt quite like doing stuff with attacking players. I started with Tom up front in a 4-1-4-1, but I moved him out of the central slot, one space to the right. I set our attacking tendency to the right and watched for fifteen minutes. It didn''t work great but there was something really interesting about this ugly, asymmetrical approach, so I kept him there and changed our attacking tendency to the left. My idea was that we would build up the left of the pitch and cross to the far post, where Tom would be lurking.


    Again, not a smash hit by any means but Blackpool were a much better team than us so I didn''t get disheartened.


    If anything, I was emboldened to try more things. I went to 3-5-2 and moved the left midfielder up one slot for five minutes before putting him back and repeating it with the left-sided CM. I went across the midfield looking at all the options and testing how they felt. Moving the central midfielder forward felt best, as you might expect, but the next best was when the guy on the right of the three central players was moved forward. It left a big hole in our lines, true, but Blackpool didn''t like players popping up in that particular zone, not one bit.


    Some rapid experiments made me think that Pascal was well-suited to that particular role. He could combine with the nearest striker, the central midfielders, and the guy on the right, and he was irritating enough to draw players towards him. He was creating the space he would exploit. Innnnnnnnnteresting. Very interesting.


    ***


    Friday, July 25


    Extract from the Deva Station podcast


    [Epic theme music plays, interspersed with commentary of memorable moments from Boggy and the BBC]


    J: Yes! Welcome to Deva Station, I''m your host, J. Today I''m interviewing the main man himself, Max Best!


    Max: Wut.


    J: How are you doing, mate?


    Max: I''m good. I''m all right.


    J: Are you a bit down?


    Max: [Laughs.] No.


    J: You contacted me out of the blue and made me get this set up at short notice.


    Max: Yeah, I just really wanted a chat.


    J: [Laughs.] I''m sure.


    Max: I''m kind of not joking. Sandra''s still in Switzerland. Did you see she got spotted?


    J: I saw the clips, yeah.


    Max: It''s wild. She predicted exactly what would happen in the England match and then said: will work for beer. Her humour is underrated. So yeah, she''s out of the country making the billionaire owners of failing clubs sit up on their superyachts, my girlfriend''s still working overtime to catch up on her hours, the men''s team are at boot camp.


    J: Why don''t you go?


    Max: Bah. It''s no fun if the boss is around, is it? I''d like to join in but they''ve got to bond as a team and it doesn''t happen if I''m there. They''re doing white water rafting while army guys shout at them, and they''re also doing some Battleback projects. Working with guys who got injured in a warzone and stuff. My players need to be able to show some vulnerability and that sort of thing and, look, it''s better if I''m not there.


    J: I heard a rumour you''re doing something with the army yourself. Some coaching.


    Max: Oh, that. Yeah but I''m doing quite simple things. It''s, um, yeah, in a way it''s the most exciting thing I''m doing this season but in another way it''s about letting the players I''m coaching get on with things and there isn''t much for me to do. I don''t know, we''ll have to see how it goes. It''s nothing like Battleback or any kind of serious, structured recovery programme. It''s just me poking around doing something a little bit experimental and writing about it for my coaching badges. But the real work''s yet to happen and the women''s team is still on summer holiday, ditto the youth teams, so I''ve just been pottering around waiting for the season to start, really. It''s not much fun, to be honest. I don''t even have all that much to do apart from pick the teams so I thought let''s talk to the fans while I''ve got time. This season might get hectic. Like, even more than usual, so let''s talk now in case I don''t have time during the season.


    J: What can we talk about?


    Max: Whatever you want.


    J: Let''s start with transfers.


    Max: [Pause.] You know what? I walked right into that one.


    J: Why don''t you like talking about transfers?


    Max: It''s like... I mean, I do get it. A new player is like a shiny new toy and new players do lift the dressing room. You see it on the training ground - players step up a level. But my focus is always on training and improving players and for me what''s exciting is what''s coming from the players we''ve already got, if you know what I mean. So it always makes me go, er what just happened when people ask about transfers so enthusiastically because transfers are not the most important thing but people talk about them like they are. It''s fine, though. It''s a very important part of a football club''s activities. What do you want to know?


    J: Tell us about the new players, I suppose. We don''t know a lot about them.


    Max: Right, fair enough. Banksy''s a talented young goalie. Sunday Sowunmi''s a talented young centre back. They''re from the Exit Trials. Completely misjudged and mishandled by their former clubs, as you''ll see. We looked at a few more lads who decided to take the money on offer at Bradford City and it''ll be very interesting to see where their careers are at in five years. Lee Contreras is a high-energy midfielder I played with at Tranmere. We had a couple of run-ins before he realised... well, before he realised. [Laughs.] He''s actually sound. I think I''m a bit tedious sometimes, you know, sort of pushing too hard, too technocratic, and Lee will lighten things up. Don''t get me wrong - he''s a serious player. Very serious. What else? We added Dan Badford to the first team squad, not sure if you care about that since it wasn''t announced on Sky Sports.


    J: You gave him shirt number 11. Seems to me you really rate him.


    Max: I don''t want to put pressure on him by hyping him up but he''s better than Maradona. [Laughs.] No, I don''t know, I''m really enjoying his development and he keeps surprising me. Most players I really think I know where they''re going to end up but not him. The number 11 shirt might be a year or two early but I have this feeling he''ll be a good player for a long time. Hope I''m right, and hope it''s with Chester because he makes midfield look easy.


    J: He glides around.


    Max: Yeah. He''s adding bits to his game all the time. He''s got some steel, some craft, he''s getting better tactically and he''s adding some bulk so he can take care of himself out there. I''m just a fan, to be honest. Who else? Right, we added two strikers from the under 20 World Cup.


    J: Can I just say that''s mad? I never thought I''d hear about Chester signing those kinds of players.


    Max: The broadcast money makes a lot of stuff possible. Darren Smith, Aussie, he''ll turn 20 this season. Ian Evans loves him. [Laughs.] He''s good and we''re going to improve the shit out of him. Then we''ve got Foquita.


    J: Is that a done deal?


    Max: That''s a done deal. He''s Peruvian, also turning 20, but he can''t join us until January.


    J: Because of his league season. Won''t he be tired when he gets to us?


    Max: He might be but he''ll have to power through and get a proper break next summer. You''ll enjoy watching this guy, I can promise you that. Oh, I forgot our new right back.


    J: Lee Hudson. Another Lee. People are saying you''ve been on a Lee spree.


    Max: [Pause.] Right. I saw Lee at Barrow ages ago and he impressed me. They sacked their manager - who was really good, football''s crazy sometimes - and the new guy didn''t fancy Lee, so it''s another Zach Green situation where we''ve snapped up a good player on a free. He''ll play right back for us but he can play in the middle, too, which is good for when we play three at the back. I think he''ll get back to his old levels pretty fast when he''s had a run in the team.


    J: Is it true he''s on a one-year contract?


    Max: Yes. You know what I''m like, I want loads of kids with really high ceilings but you need balance, too. Hudson''s 29 so he''s the joint fourth oldest in the squad. He''s played in the EFL for a decade and not many players at Chester can say that, so I''m pretty pleased with the signing. He''ll add something to the team and the squad, too.


    ***


    Lee Hudson was CA 68, PA 91, and had squeezed more wages out of me than I wanted. He couldn''t play midfield which meant I couldn''t use him to play out my inverted full back fantasies, but overall I thought he was a solid deal at 1,200 a week. He had been CA 80 when I saw him at Barrow and unless he got injured he would cruise back to those levels.


    It felt like a win-win deal. He would be able to move on next summer with his reputation enhanced, and I would be able to use this season to find a replacement - someone in his mid-20s who would grow with the team until Roddy Jones, the Welsh Wizard, was ready for the first team.


    ***


    J: It all sounds quite sensible to me. If you hadn''t signed Lee Hudson I might have thought you''d gone too young but that signing put a lot of minds at ease. Can you talk about the Brazilian lads we''re paying but who aren''t registered?


    Max: There''s not much to say. I can''t bring them over yet because they wouldn''t get a work permit. We''re paying them so they can train and eat better and whatever, and their agency is chipping in for private coaching sessions. Their local rep is trying to place them with a club where they can get some minutes. In the meantime they''re doing some training with Corinthians. That''s like if I signed two guys from Christleton and persuaded Arsenal to train them, it''s absolutely unreal, but more than training they need match experience at this stage in their career. I''d love to bring them over so I could take proper care of them but for me it was a case of let''s sign them and work out what to do with them later.


    J: How good are they?


    Max: The question is how good will they be? And the answer is: good enough for all the fuss.


    J: I''ve learned not to bet against you but it''s a lot of money each week, isn''t it? Money that could go to someone who would help us this season.


    Max: Yeah that''s an argument but when I took over no-one was thinking long-term. The first thing I did was sign Youngster and Pascal and three years later you''re happy with that, right?


    J: Of course.


    Max: I look at the squad now and okay we''ve got some work to do but basically it''s amazing. There are gaps in positions and there are some gaps in the levels between individual players but I feel a lot of past decisions are coming back to - what''s the opposite of biting someone on the arse? Actually, don''t answer that. Past investments are paying off, is what I want to say. There are computer games, strategy games, where it''s all about grinding to get your economy going and there''s a moment where the flywheel effect kicks in and you''re minting money or lumber or, er, tanks or whatever it is and I feel we''re getting to that point. I mean, Youngster, holy shit. He''s got to be close to being the best midfielder in this league already, and we haven''t even started! That''s not something we''ve had before. Okay, some players are miles below so it''s not a smooth transition from a starter to a reserve but we should have enough quality to survive the first ten games to let the rest catch up enough that we really take off.


    J: I think in those computer games it''s always a trade-off, right, and if you invest too much in the economy you don''t have enough army to defend your base.


    Max: What.


    J: [Laughs.] I think you know what I''m saying. We''re investing for the future, for the future, but not everyone can live with it. Andrew Harrison, contract rebel.


    Max: He''s not a contract rebel. He''s got a super smart girlfriend who works in the industry and has an idea of what he could be earning elsewhere. So far as a club we have been able to get everyone to stay but as we climb the leagues it''s going to get harder. We''ll lose ten percent, twenty percent.


    J: You could have offered Andrew more salary if you hadn''t bought those tiny little stands for the main pitch at Bumpers Bank.


    Max: True, but I could also have given him the entire million quid in broadcast money and where would that have left us? No, those stands are fun. If you rent that pitch to play a game and five of the first team are eating snacks in the little stand cheering you on, are you going to be thinking ''oh I wish Max was less whimsical in his spending''? Course not. It might be small-time but it''s a progression, isn''t it? You''re ten and you play in front of a man and his dog. You''re twelve and there are a few parents. You''re fourteen and there are fifty people in an actual stand. Do you know what I mean? No, I wouldn''t change that decision.


    J: What''s our goal this season?


    Max: Win the league.


    J: Not finish seventh?


    Max: [Laughs.] I learned my lesson on that one. We have the lowest budget in the league so I''m not going ''oh yeah we''ll walk it'' but the goal has to be to win. If we can be there or thereabouts in January when Foquita comes, we could go on a long unbeaten run and turn the heat up on whoever''s there.


    J: Bradford. Gillingham. Carlisle, Cambridge, Fleetwood.


    Max: Those are some of the names, yes. [Laughs.]


    J: Some potential stories with Bradford. Some bad blood.


    Max: Let''s stick to us. I''m optimistic about the season but there will be defeats and the way the squad is there might be a couple of hammerings. Can you stomach it?


    J: Depends against who. Tranmere?


    Max: [Laughs.] Tranmere aren''t going to batter us, no. They might beat us, but we''ll give them a game.


    J: What''s the latest on the stadium?


    Max: It''s a huge focus for me this season. We need to find some money so we can do something and I can almost see a pathway through if I eat enough late-night cheese. Two things that will help accelerate things. One, if we get promoted again. That makes a lot of things easier because we will get 1.7 million broadcast money in League One plus even if we got relegated back down to League Two, we''d still get a million the year after, right? And there''s a parachute payment for clubs going from the EFL into the National League. That''s about half a million.


    J: I see what you''re saying. If we get promoted, the worst case is two relegations but those come with guaranteed revenue.


    Max: Right. My theory is that if we get promoted we can say to MD that we''ve got 3 million coming, do you know what I mean? So if I need five million to start the project, we''re not that far off. 3 million in broadcast money, 1 mill in player sales, we''re really, really close. We can get a bank loan or something to push us over.


    J: Or ask the fans.


    Max: I don''t want to ask the fans for a million quid when there are League One teams buying players for fifteen million. You guys keep your money for a rainy day, but it''s my job to make it rain. Wait, did that make sense?


    J: It sounded good.


    Max: The second thing that will help is if the stadium''s full every week. I need it full, J, or there''s no reason to expand and if we don''t expand I''m not interested in working my arse off to get it back because owning it just for the sake of owning it is sentiment. It''s a vanity plate. Fill the stadium, get on the waiting list for season tickets, and when I''m talking to some bank guy I can point to the increased revenue we''ll get from owning the stadium and having a big new stand and all that. Yeah, that''s the best way the fans can help.


    J: I think you''ll get a few more signups to the waiting list after that, but I''ve got to say some of us are worried. You''ve been doing some weird things in the friendlies.


    Max: Weird? What do you mean?


    J: We played that rebel Liverpool team and at one point you had one centre back. You had a left back, right back, DM, but only one CB.


    Max: What''s weird about that?


    J: I''ve never seen it at any level of football. We talked about it on here and no-one''s ever seen it.


    Max: Well, to be honest, me neither. But now we have and it was fine. What''s the problem?


    J: I don''t feel comfortable having one centre back is all. It''s like we''re naked.


    Max: I guess I''m comfortable being naked, then.


    J: You''re in better shape than me.


    Max: I''m sure you''d be a hit on those German beaches, mate. But look, Liverpool were playing with one striker. Why do I need two centre backs? One''s enough. He''s got his DM there if he needs someone to chat to. I mean, if we''re playing a weaker team and they go down to ten men I want to run up the score and I''d rather have another striker than a centre back who has nothing to do. From January we''re going to have more strikers than I''ve ever had at this club and I personally find the idea of playing with no defenders intriguing.


    J: Please don''t.


    Max: Balance is important. I might never do it in a serious match but it looked okay to me. If the centre back is better than the striker I think you trust your guy and get overloads somewhere else on the pitch.


    J: Or you get battered.


    Max: There''s only one way to find out.


    J: Oh, God.


    Max: You say it was weird but it was five-nil, nice start to the season. I used loads of kids, too. I was pretty happy with it.


    J: What are you doing with the goalies?


    Max: What do you mean?


    J: I feel like someone told you not to rotate goalies again and you''ve dialled that up to twenty to annoy us.


    Max: When?


    J: When you used four goalies in every match so far!


    Max: Pfft. That''s not rotating goalies. That''s sharing out the minutes in pre-season. Hey, listen, we signed a player last year, Owen Travis, who everyone calls Rainman, and he''s the only guy who never got a minute under me. Now he''s played three matches and he''ll play three more and he''ll know he''s a Chester player for real... before I send him out on loan again.


    J: Hang on. You''re going to use him against Slovakia?


    Max: Yes. All the goalies.


    J: That''s madness.


    Max: Okay.


    J: I just made you more determined to do it, didn''t I? But... what about the loan? What''s that?


    Max: We''ve got two goalies competing for first team minutes, and we need a third in case of injury or suspension, but we don''t need four. So Rainman''s going to Saltney again. He''ll play a full season at a higher level than last time and it''ll be awesome for him. How many 19-year-old goalies are playing real matches and getting winner''s medals? Not many, that''s how many.


    J: One way to spin the Saltney situation is that you''re using Chester''s resources to lend yourself a good player and you''re not paying his wages.


    Max: Yeah? Go talk to Rainman and tell him he doesn''t deserve to have a career.


    J: You know that''s not the point.


    Max: He''s a good goalie but he needs minutes. At Saltney he can still train with us, can''t he? Under Sticky, who''s amazing. Using Saltney wisely I can accelerate the improvement of three young Chester players. Now here''s the other side of the coin - Vincent Addo. Young player I want to get to Chester but he needs a work permit. He can get a work permit if he plays a season in Wales with my team, but how can the owner of Saltney afford to sign a prospect like him? Answer, I can''t. I can afford a trip to South America but I can''t afford to buy a football player, do you know what I mean?


    J: You''ve signed him, though. I saw it on the news.


    Max: I think he''ll be a great player so I''ve said right let¡¯s dive in and worry about everything else later. I agreed a fee with his club in Ghana. It''s a loan with an obligation to buy, right? Now, to get a work permit you need to be earning 40 grand a year, so I have to pay him that, and from my own pocket, too. Right? And the transfer fee is... well, it''s a bit scary. I have to fork over a hundred grand a year from now. That''s way, way, way more than I can manage, but guess what?


    J: What?


    Max: He''ll be a good signing for Chester so I''m taking the risk that the club will buy him from me.


    J: That''s... that''s very strange. We''re going to buy him? For how much?


    Max: Ha! That''s the question, isn''t it? I reckon I should get a cut for taking the risk.


    J: What''s the risk? You''ll be the buying club and the selling club. You can set the fee and only MD can stop you.


    Max: The risk is what if I lose five matches and you sack me? Then I''ve got myself into a real pickle, haven''t I? By the way, I''d like to renegotiate my position.


    J: What do you mean by that?


    Max: I think I''ve got enough credit in the bank with the fanbase to turn that into six games. You can''t sack me after five losses in a row, it has to be six. What do you say?


    J: Sounds fair enough given what you''ve done. What if we kick up a fuss about this Vincent Addo, though? What if we don''t want him?


    Max: You will. We could have the double pivot of the Ghanaian national team here in Chester! If you actually don''t want him I''ll sell him to a club who wants to progress. It''s like for Chester he''s 300,000 and for anyone else it''s 600,000. I''m not really doing that deal for the money, I''m doing it for Vincent but if I make some profit I''ll be able to reinvest in the next guy. Do it all again without the stress.


    J: This is breaking my head. It''s bonkers!


    Max: Hang on, we were supposed to be talking about the friendlies. Buxton at home was three-all. Did you go to that one?


    J: I did. Got my first look at Roddy Jones. Do you know he''s only 14? He''s like a stick insect, Max. You can''t play him against grown men.


    Max: Ah, he''s fine. I only wanted to give him the experience of being out there and he was absolutely buzzing. Will I use him in a real match? Maybe near the end of the season depending on how he is physically. There''s no need to rush him but I think it''s okay to give him a couple of boosts.


    J: The young goalies made a real mess of things. Buxton shouldn''t be scoring three goals against us.


    Max: It''s a friendly. They can score ten for all I care.


    J: As far as I can tell, we played four different formations in those four halves. Am I right about that?


    Max: More or less, yeah.


    J: And we lost 5-2 to Blackpool and no-one could make head nor tail out of your formations or who was playing where. It was mayhem. Someone in a WhatsApp group, I won''t say who, said you had become untethered from reality. Someone else said you were looking for solutions to problems that don''t exist. People are worried you don''t know what to do and you''re already scrambling around looking for a way to make this squad make sense. Or that you rely on Sandra Lane more than we think.


    Max: I rely on her, all right, that''s true. But I wouldn''t worry about me not knowing my best eleven. I do. But I also expect my best eleven to take to the pitch maybe five times the entire season. We will be rotating like a carousel; you''re gonna hate it.


    J: Blackpool turned us over and they didn''t even use their best players.


    Max: Blackpool are a League One side and they took the match much more seriously than us. It was interesting how well they controlled midfield and how hard it was for us to get anything from the game. They did to us what we''ve done to a lot of teams in the past. It''s just a warning that we need to keep getting better and we are nowhere near the levels. I don''t mind it, to be honest, and the fact that the lads pretty much went from that defeat to the boot camp is probably ideal, right? I mean, they''ll start a little bit low, bit nervous, and build themselves up through the week. Come back all guns blazing.


    J: To face West Didsbury, the club you definitely don''t own.


    Max: Right. That''ll be heavy on the kids and you''ll see Roddy Jones again. Oh, and Vivek gets to play at the Deva. I''m made up about that. Then it''s a tricky away match at Morecambe. I can imagine being, ah, untethered again if that''s how you want to describe it. The first half against Slovakia will be something like our best team and we''ll all be going for it. I mean, most of us will never get anywhere near playing for our countries so this might be the only time we get to play a national team. Can you imagine if we beat them? It''d be something, wouldn''t it?


    J: It would. And it''s a sell-out, right?


    Max: I think there are a few hundred tickets left as we speak but they will go and we''ve got a few things to unveil that day.


    J: The new kit?


    Max: I couldn''t possibly comment. Oh, hey up.


    J: What''s going on?


    Max: Just got a message. Emma''s finished her project and she''s on the train. She''s coming to Chester! That''s cheered me all the way up.


    J: Before you rush off, can I wrap up with a big picture kind of question? We''ve got so many things happening in and around the club, with the foundation, the training ground, the squad, the new kit and sponsors. What do you see as the big topic for this coming season? The next big area of change?


    Max: We''re generally on the right path and if the men''s team can keep their heads above water in the first ten league games I think it''ll be a good season, a really good season. I''ll be doing my next coaching badge where I''ll be doing some experiments but I can''t imagine trying any of that stuff with the first team. Basically, overall, we''ll be sticking to the same path with maybe a couple of tweaks at the edges. You might see some 5-3-2, you might see some young players improve faster than before, but generally it''ll have the same shape as the last two seasons. I imagine I''ll be using any free time I have to find someone who might replace my key staff if they leave. That''s the thing that keeps me up all night eating cheese.


    J: Who''s going to leave?


    Max: The most likely is Sandra, obviously.


    J: Why obviously?


    Max: You saw her interview thing.


    J: Yes I did. Which... What?


    Max: [Pause.] I''m just remembering now that I stopped watching halfway through.


    J: You need to watch the end, Max.


    Max: Oh! All right. J, I''m gonna rush off. Thanks for the chat. Tell everyone to get behind the team as much as possible, yeah? Everyone you see out on that pitch has the talent to play for Chester and we need to give them a bit of time and patience and they''ll repay our faith tenfold.


    J: I''m so excited about getting back to the football league I''m not sure I''ll care what the score is. As far as I''m concerned, you get a free hit against Fleetwood and Bolton. Thanks for your time, Max.


    ***


    Friday, 18 July


    Zurich, Switzerland


    Sandra Lane''s interview continues.


    "This season - if Max gets bored - you will be the first woman to manage an English league match."


    "Knowing Max, it''s very likely."


    "How exciting! You''re smashing the glass ceiling. And no doubt soon you will be offered a senior job at a big club."


    "Chester is a big club."


    "Of course. I only meant - "


    "No team at any level of English football have been promoted four seasons in a row. Our goal is to do it with the men and women, simultaneously! We have incredibly talented players who are hungry to learn, great full-time and part-time coaches who excel in different areas, and an admin team who push the club forward with competence and empathy. Chester is by far the most exciting football club in the world and I want to be part of it. I''m in no rush to move on. We''ve got a saying at Chester, you go slow to go fast and you go slow to go far. I''m not applying for other jobs because I know two things are true. This season I''ll be the first woman to manage in League Two, and next season I''ll be the first woman to manage in League One."


    "Wouldn''t four promotions put you in the Championship?"


    "Yes, but we don''t talk about that because it makes us seem cocky."


    "It''s ambitious. But you can''t really think you''ll succeed."


    "Why not? The hardest part is persuading Max that sometimes the easy way is the right way. He does have a tendency to overcomplicate things. I''m just glad that I''ve taken this trip in July when he can''t cause loads of mischief. Right, enough about me. I''ve got thoughts on what France are doing wrong in midfield."

 11.11 - Chesterslovakia

    11.


    I heard you like numbers. Check these ones out!


    1.2.


    22. 44.


    130. 3-5-2.


    5,400. 8 million.


    And now the director''s commentary version.


    1, 2. Czechoslovakia was one country, now it''s two. Here''s a fun thing to try at parties: Ask an old person what country Martina Navratilova is from and watch their brains melt in real time.


    22. The total number of players I could use in our friendly against Slovakia. 44. The number of players hoping to play in that match.


    Also 44. Slovakia''s world ranking.


    130. My estimate for the average CA we would be up against.


    3-5-2. The Slovakian manager''s favourite formation. They would dominate midfield for sure.


    5,400. The capacity of the Deva Stadium - for now - and also the exact number of tickets sold or given away (to sponsors, players, politicians, and to one woman who was jogging in the right place at the right time).


    8 million Euro. The fee paid to buy Leo, the Slovakian Messi, after Euro 2024.


    ***


    Monday, July 28


    In the summer of ''24, during the Men''s European Championships, I had a brief stint as a pitchside analyst for the official broadcasters. Beth wrote an article about it called something like ''How to Tour Germany On The Cheap by Blagging Meals from Your Old Mate Max.'' During that time, I became friendly with the Slovakian national team and helped to get a talented young player fast-tracked into their first team, with spectacular results.


    Leo (the Slovakian Messi?) fired them into second place in their group and gave England a few scares in the next round. After the tournament, he was sold for big money but more importantly, the idea that Slovakia should play a friendly match in Chester took hold. The uniqueness of the event virtually guaranteed a sell-out, with all profits going to a charity in Slovakia and the Slovakian contingent being treated to an all-you-can-eat night out at Nando''s.


    As the event had drawn closer, Chester had begun to really buzz about it. The city''s football club was going to play against a national team! It wasn''t completely unique in the history of the sport, but club versus country match-ups were increasingly rare. There was almost no space on the calendar, for a start. But here it was. This coming Saturday, Chester versus Slovakia, live at the Deva stadium.


    Wow.


    The narrative aspect was fun - tiny non-league club (as we were at the time) playing the 44th best national team - but for me this was a test of my mathematical and analytical skills and if I got it right I could potentially launch my club along two different paths of glory.


    I was fairly certain you couldn''t pitch club teams against national teams in Champion Manager. You certainly couldn''t in Soccer Supremo; I had asked Spectrum. So what was going to happen when the referee blew his whistle at 3pm? There were plenty of examples of the curse taking its lead from the highest-ranked club in a particular match (for example, when determining the XP generated by a cup tie), so I was absolutely convinced the curse would treat Saturday''s game like an international. Just to be sure I''d organised it to look and feel like one - flags, national anthems, pageantry, visiting dignitaries - the works.


    If I was right, I would get baseline XP of 7 per minute, 6 at the worst. Whatever the number was, it would be doubled because I was the manager, and increased by 50% because of my Friendzone perk. I could get almost 2,000 XP from one match!


    Incredible hack, right?


    But that was far from the most interesting thing. If the quality of the opposition played a role in player development, then surely playing a national team with guys whose CA was DOUBLE yours would be a major boost. I was expecting massive things from this match and it was essential that I chose the starters and reserves very wisely.


    One of the 22 had to be me. When I was playing in the fifth tier, my CA had drifted down to what I called the ''soft cap'' - the maximum CA you could sustain based on your club''s facilities and the standard of the league. In the National League I reckoned Chester''s cap was between 80 and 90. When I''d slipped below that level, I had felt it. I could pinpoint it almost to the minute - the ball hadn''t come under my spell so easily, passes went astray, shots lost power. My solution was to train at Tranmere (who had a higher soft cap) and that had bought me at least 20 points of CA, while a couple of hours spent at Everton had probably bumped me up a whole lot more - before the slide had once more set in.


    I expected the Slovakia match to give me a similar boost to training at Everton, a boost that I could ride for months before the curse caught up with reality. By then, I hoped Bumpers Bank, quality coaching, and matches against good opposition would give us a soft cap of 100, but all of this was new territory for me and the club.


    Regardless, I had to play, but play as little as possible in order to maximise how much XP I trousered. I reckoned five minutes would be enough to add 20 or 30 points in available CA, which I would assign to free kicks, passing, pace, and technique with a week of intensive training. Yep, this event was going to kick me back towards mystery winger status. League Two beware!


    So who else got to play? For once there was overlap between how I wanted to exploit the curse and what the players wanted. Just getting on the pitch, being able to say you''d played against Slovakia, was highly motivational; everyone wanted to be involved. I had to include players who needed a boost to their CA, but leaving anyone out risked tanking their morale.


    Case in point.


    "Rainman," I said, before sipping my tea. We were in my office at Bumpers and I suppose he knew what was coming because I''d made him a cup of tea and when your manager did that, it was never good news. "How you doing?"


    "Good, boss, yeah."


    I looked up, then at Sandra, who was back from the Women''s Euros. She gave me a nod. "Mate," I said, putting my cup down so I could gesture. "I know you expect to play on Saturday but I fucked up. I was hyper on the podcast, blabbing, talking shit. The guy said I shouldn''t keep using four goalies every match and I rose to the bait, didn''t I? Like a clown. The simple fact is I can''t play four goalies against Slovakia. That was insane, even for me."


    His head dropped, but he was no pushover. "So you want me to tell Banksy he''s not playing."


    I smiled. Great line! "You''re third choice keeper and you''re miles ahead of him. If it''s the FA Cup final tomorrow and Sticky and Ben are out, you''re starting. It''s not even close. The difference between you and Banksy is that he can play in the Youth Cup this year, and if he has played against international players he''s not going to be worried about some pipsqueaks from fucking Northampton or wherever. But even that''s not an easy call, is it, because Bivvy''s ahead of him in the Youth Team. So do I give Bivvy five minutes?"


    Bivvy was the youth team''s goalie. Local lad, good kid, but he only had PA 30 - it was mad to even think about giving him one of my golden tickets. Mad, but that''s exactly what I was doing. Bivvy was only ten points ahead of Banksy, so it was reasonable to think he would be overtaken by his far more talented rival soon enough.


    "Look, what I''ve decided to do is start the match with my strongest eleven. Those are the guys who will start against Fleetwood. Then comes what I''m calling the Velvet Divorce: at some point in the second half I''m going to take all eleven off and put on the Youth Cup team."


    Sandra nearly spat out her tea. "Sorry, what?"


    "We''ve got two goals this year. Get promoted, win the Youth Cup. This plan helps us both."


    Sandra opened her mouth to reply but a quick glance at Rainman made her pause. Meanwhile, the disappointment he felt had very definitely been tempered. His boss was being a lunatic again - not playing on Saturday wasn''t personal. Sandra said, "Obviously, Max and I need to discuss the lineups and the subs and perhaps the final version won''t be as extreme as that, but as he says, we will only be using two goalies. You keep yourself on your toes this week, though. There could be injuries, sickness. If I were you I''d want to be raring to go, just in case."


    I wagged a finger in agreement. "Yes! It''s football, anything can happen but it can only happen if you''re ready for action. Okay you''ve heard my plan and it seems Sandra wants to change my mind which is bonkers because the plan is literally flawless, but the point is you''re not playing on Saturday which normally wouldn''t be a big deal except I kind of said you would be. I fucked up and I''m sorry about that."


    "I was excited."


    Way to punch me in the dick! "I know. Saying one thing and doing another is what idiot football managers do and I hate that I did it. Like, if it''s a big FA Cup match or whatever I do whatever the club needs, easy, and if you miss out there''s the next round and next season, but playing a national team is maybe a once-in-a-lifetime thing so I should have been way more guarded. I''d love to give you five or ten minutes on Saturday, I really would, but I just can''t. It''s really hard, Rainman. It''s like deciding which child gets to eat today."


    "It''s not like that," said Sandra. "Being picked for the match is a treat, something to tell your kids, but not being picked isn''t a slap in the face. Is it, Rainman?"


    "No," he lied.


    I said, "Okay this is a disappointing start to your week but you''ve played the first four friendlies and if you''re cool you''ll play against Morecambe tomorrow night, too."


    "What if I''m not cool?"


    "Then I''ll throw a tantrum and not speak to you for a month."


    "The Andrew Harrison story," he said.


    "I don''t know what you mean," I said. "Hey, you''re one of the lucky ones. You''re a guaranteed first team starter for Saltney - unless your form goes completely haywire, anyway. You can enjoy your season and focus on your skills and development. Okay some people get to play against a national team but they''d kill for your career path, for your guaranteed minutes, and to be as close as you to European football. By the way, there are goalies at Premier League teams who don''t have a coach as good as Sticky. You''re doing great." I sipped my tea. "Did you enjoy boot camp?"


    A smile escaped him. "Yeah!"


    I nodded. "See, I miss out on all that. I think I''d prefer white water rafting and playing soldiers to playing Slovakia."


    "Okay," he said. "Next time we''ll swap."


    "Done," I said. "Next time the boot camp is white water rafting and Chester FC play against Slovakia, you can be the manager and I''ll be the guy in the yellow life jacket looking absolutely terrified."


    "I didn''t look terrified," he said.


    "You didn''t see all the photos." I checked the time. "Training, mate. Be ready for tomorrow night, yeah? Morecambe are good."


    He left with his morale unchanged, which I thought was a massive win.


    Sandra closed the door - players never did - and moved to the left-hand side of my desk, notebook in hand. "You''re taking this much too seriously."


    "You''re right," I said. "It should be fun. Bit of fun." I did a thousand-yard stare. "It''s not, though. Let''s treat this match like we''re loading 22 players with rocket fuel, right? Big boost before the season. Ben''s one of the hardest decisions. He''s our best goalie but he''s near his ceiling so there''s no benefit to filling him up with metallic hydrogen and watching him go whee. It''s just that there could be a morale hit if he isn''t included."


    "How has training been?"


    "Um, fine." That was a bit of a lie. CA improvement hadn''t been as dramatic as I''d wanted, and maybe everyone was a point lower than they really should have been, but there were three easy explanations. One, Sandra had been away for July. Her replacements had good numbers but they weren''t my assistant manager, were they? A coach''s place in the hierarchy seemed important, at least to some degree. Two, we had mostly been doing fitness work. Three, BoshCard definitely felt like a non-league facility these days, and I was increasingly certain Bumpers would be an upgrade even if it was all a bit ugly. "Yeah, I think we''ll have some mad gainz before the end of the year. I''m chill. But we have to get Saturday absolutely spot on."


    Sandra didn''t look entirely convinced, but she would see for herself soon enough. "Let me check your basic principles for this Slovakia game. You think this experience will instil a hunger for more, a desire to play at a higher level in front of bigger crowds, an awareness of what the top levels of football look and feel like, and generally act as a catalyst for growth. Yes? I agree with that. It always happened with the girls when they came back from international duty and we saw it very clearly with Youngster. So, good, let''s pick the team with that in mind. I absolutely agree. Are we going to use every sub?"


    "Totally. We get 22 doses of rocket fuel. The first eleven and the youth team. Boomshackalack!"


    I thought Sandra pursed her lips but when I looked again her face was neutral. "Who''s going to be right back for the youth team?"


    "Roddy Jones," I said, like she was crazy. Who else?


    "Tell me you have job security without telling me you have job security," she mumbled.


    "Sorry, what?"


    "Nothing. What''s the first team?"


    "Yeah," I said, shifting so that I could look at the magnets on the wall to my right. On the left, two sets of eleven were arranged in neat formations. Each magnet had a name attached. "Sticky in goal."


    "Have you told Ben?"


    "No. I''ll do it on Friday, I think, if there are no injuries. If Sticky hurts his hand tomorrow night, Ben''s in, no morale drop. Easy. Slovakia play 3-5-2 most of the time, and Fleetwood Town do 3-1-4-2, so it''s the same but with a DM. What''s your go-to against 3-5-2?"


    "3-4-3," she said.


    "That''s your answer to everything."


    "That''s right. It''s mint."


    "I think I want a back four," I mused. "And there doesn''t seem much point playing two strikers when we''re going to struggle to get the ball."


    Sandra''s lips twitched. "Your attachment to 4-1-4-1 is endearing and, yes, reassuring. You haven''t gone completely off the rails."


    "I''m on the rails. I''m nailed to the rails. Everything I do is completely mathematical, completely rational. Some people call me a mad scientist. I like to think they''ll flip that round and say ''Dam, he''s a scientist!'' By the way, I''ve been thinking a lot about 5-3-2. I think we''re gonna need it when we''re under the cosh, which could happen more than we''d like. I''d like to see it in training sometimes, but with Pascal and Wibbers as the strikers."


    "Huh," said Sandra. "Soak up pressure, fast breaks."


    "Yeah. It''s really not my favourite way to play but I can imagine it being effective against a few teams that would dick us if we tried to go toe-to-toe."


    She wrote something in her notebook. "Got it." She sighed slightly. "Well, our 4-1-4-1 picks itself, mostly. Andrew Harrison right midfield, yes?"


    I knew she was goading me but I rose above it with class and sophistication. "Pascal right. I''ll play left, I suppose. It won''t be a fast and furious match so I should be able to do forty-five minutes of that. Only question is about the second half: do we use Wibbers as a striker or right-mid?" Sandra wrote something and frowned. "What?" I said.


    "Just thinking about this first team/youth team plan. It''s genius, obviously. Very clever. I''m just thinking about Cole."


    "Cole?"


    "Yeah, we want him to get picked up by Ireland, right? And this match is going to be streamed on our website, isn''t it? They might think it''s worth having a look. They pay ten pounds, tune in, see he isn''t there, isn''t even on the bench. If you don''t pick him, why should they?"


    "So, what? You want Cole instead of Eddie?"


    "Of course not. Eddie has to start. He still has room for growth, doesn''t he?"


    "Er, yeah." Since the start of pre-season, Eddie had moved to CA 64. When he reached his PA of 75 he would pass the threshold of being a League Two player. Next season I would want to move on from him but for now it was unthinkable that he wouldn''t start against Slovakia. "Okay but if I use Cole, I have to drop Lucas Friend from the second half team and he''s one of the best prospects."


    "I like Lucas but I don''t think he''s as important to the club as Eddie, Cole, and Josh, and if we give Lucas a few minutes against Burton Albion or Notts County that will be enough of a step up for him. Too much, maybe. Maybe we let him train with the firsts once a week, use him in the Cheshire Cup, that sort of thing. He''ll be on cloud nine with that, won''t he?"


    "Um, sure. I guess," I started, as I did some calculations. International call ups were so beneficial it was like a system hack. "I guess getting Cole into the Irish system is a boost worth chasing, yeah."


    "And Roddy Jones is a cert to get in the Welsh setup, isn''t he? You don''t need to shove him in our squad to get a once-in-a-lifetime experience, do you? He''ll actually play against them for real, at every age group. He''ll be sick of playing Slovakia by the time he''s in his mid-twenties."


    "That''s true."


    "So can we swap him with Magnus, please? Magnus is our go-to guy in nine out of ten matches. There''s an injury? Magnus. We need to switch formation? Magnus."


    "That''s true," I said. "Fine. We''ll put Cole and Magnus in for the second half, but no more compromises. I have a vision and the vision is mint. One match, two rocket ships."


    "I totally agree," said Sandra, sipping her tea. "Except..."


    She left it dangling and I had to go after it. "What?"


    "I was just thinking about Wibbers."


    "Wibbers?"


    "He''s your big project, isn''t he? Maybe even more so than Youngster. He comes on for the second half - "


    "After fifty minutes."


    "Oh? Why?"


    "So Henri can get an ovation."


    Sandra smiled. "Of course. But Wibbers plays most of the second half in a match where he can really test himself against superstar defenders who play for AC Milan, Napoli, PSG. And he looks around for a pass... and it''s Benny and Tyson. I''m sorry, Max, but I don''t think he''s going to learn anything from that match. He won''t get a kick of the ball, for a start."


    I tapped my desk. "Yeah."


    "All I''m saying is, to really benefit from this experience we have to get as close to Slovakia''s level as we can. Okay, use all the subs at the end but the final few lads aren''t going to benefit much, are they? It''ll be a glorified rondo with our under eighteens chasing shadows."


    I stopped tapping. "I get what you''re saying. Wibbers needs to start. He needs to play in the first half."


    Sandra looked alarmed, briefly, which was odd, but she pushed through it. "That might be a good idea, boss, but I''m wondering what the Brig would say about our youth team being thrown in at the deep end like that. If Slovakia want to run up the score it could easily get to 10-0, 12-0. It could be disastrous for the club and for the mental health of the young players. They''ll be happy enough to be in the dressing room, to meet the Slovakians, to get clips for their Instas, all that stuff. They don''t need to get humiliated in an actual match."


    "Hmm."


    "I''m worried Slovakia will find it disrespectful if they come all this way and the average age of the team they play is 16. Do you know what I mean? And it''s a sell-out, isn''t it? Five thousand fans, many of them coming for the first time, to see what all the fuss is about. The new Chester FC. This is the waiting list you want, isn''t it? Put on a good show and we''ll have two thousand people who want to come next season. You''ll take that waiting list to MD and you''ll say, look, we''re ready to expand. But not if we take the piss, Max, not if we chuck on loads of toddlers."


    "Yeah," I said, frowning. Something strange was happening - I was agreeing with everything she said so hard I couldn''t think why I''d ever thought I should play an entire youth team in the second half.


    Sandra went to the magnets. "May I?" she said. I nodded. She pushed the youth team magnets down, but slid three of them back up. "Banksy, Wibbers, Dan Badford. They''re in first team training and the youth team. We''ll use them on Saturday, so there''s three of your Youth Cup starters getting great exposure."


    "Give me Tyson and Chas," I said. "Tyson gives us more goal threat, and Chas can make money for the club one day."


    "Sounds good," she said, sliding their magnets up, before pushing all the others to the far right edge of the board. "Ah, this is good. Now we can include Josh - I think that''s important; he''ll get a lot of minutes this season - and Tom." She found the magnets of guys like Ryan Jack and moved them into the main blob. After a few seconds she had put most of the first team squad there. "How many''s this?" She counted and found she had 21 names on the left. "That leaves one slot for Omari Naysmith, Andrew Harrison, Sunday Sowunmi, Ben, or Sharky, who is one of our major weapons and will be a major threat off the bench late in games and who you told me I had to believe in."


    I scoffed. "Bit of a leading tone to your voice, Sandra. Er, yeah. It''s Sharky, isn''t it?"


    As she slid the last magnet into place, I got up and walked to the far side of the room, hoping to return with fresh eyes. My beautiful concept was dead and buried, replaced by intense pragmatism. But five of my Youth Cup side would get minutes against Slovakia - that was pretty good, while ensuring the event wouldn''t turn into a freak show.


    I got close to the whiteboard and gave it a good old stare. Yes, this 22 was solid and wouldn''t embarrass Slovakia or Chester itself, and that was an important consideration I''d forgotten when trying to optimise for CA growth across two teams. The men''s first team set the tone for the entire club and, in some ways, for the entire city. That''s why I''d gone to South America looking for top players instead of spending my summer at under 18 tournaments.


    "Okay. Five to ten minutes at the end for Banksy, Tyson, and Chas. And me. Do you want to have a think about the rest? Pick a first half formation then three sets of changes that use all the lads. We might have to use Tom at right midfield or something. I wouldn''t worry too much about using people in weird positions for five or ten minutes."


    Sandra plucked one of the magnets that hadn''t made it to the final 22. "Omari doesn''t look like he''s going to see a lot of action this season."


    "No," I mused.


    "Why don''t you loan him to Saltney and spread his wages around some of the others?"


    "Sounds like you''re asking me to take a five hundred pound a week pay cut. Want to go halves?"


    She smiled. "I thought the point of Saltney was the 3G pitch would raise enough money to put together a winning team?"


    "Yeah but that''s slightly out of the window, isn''t it, because of the Vincent Addo thing. His wages alone are half the projected income."


    "Isn''t he joining in January?"


    "Yeah."


    She tutted. "On that podcast, you said his wages were 40 thousand. But he''s only coming halfway through the season, right? You only need to put away twenty."


    "Er, right," I said, brightening slightly. "Yeah I should think in seasons, not years. Yeah, okay, that''s a fair point but I still can''t pay Omari''s wages. I''m quite financially stretched right now. It''s like if two things go wrong I can probably cover it, but not three. I like the idea, though. I''ll keep it in mind."


    "You''re already getting Rainman for free. If you actually pay for Omari, it''s like two for the price of one. And I bet you''ve got your eye on Tom from January, you greedy get."


    I laughed. The thought had crossed my mind. Tom might not get much action once Foquita arrived. I switched my attention to the main blob of magnets. Loads of winners, there. Some back-to-back champions. "I know we can''t seriously beat a strong national team, especially when we bring on the kids, but do you think we could win the first half?"


    "We could if our best player was playing."


    I nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. At the exact same time, we both said "Roddy Jones."


    Sandra added, "I knew you were going to say that."


    "This relationship is great, especially the mind-reading. We''re like those couples where they finish each other''s... Finish each other''s... Sandra, come on. Don''t leave me hanging."


    She took a few steps to my desk, gathered her notebook, and slapped it with her free hand. "I''m gonna think about this in Bosh Bistro."


    "Mmm," I said, leaning back. "I suppose we should think of a plan for Morecambe tomorrow night. I might go down to Best Bistro and do it there."


    "Patricia''s still mad at you for Cole coming back from boot camp with a black eye."


    "How is it my fault he smacked himself in the face with a paddle?" I made an annoyed noise. "Culinary school''s five times as dangerous as what those kids did. All those knives dangling off counters, chilli powder everywhere, chip fat fires, oil spills, peanut allergies, exploding ovens, shit music on the radio. Yeah. I think I''ll stay up here."


    ***


    Saturday, August 2


    Pre-season friendly 6 of 6: Chester FC versus Slovakia


    About an hour before kickoff, I walked around the stadium taking in the atmosphere. Our final home match at the end of last season had been a near-sellout against Southend but it was nothing like this.


    That day had been full of anxiety and dreadful hope and the season ticket holders had turned up at their usual times and shuffled into the stadium barely daring to dream about what we might accomplish.


    This match wasn''t included in the season ticket package, so we had a lot of people attending for the first time, judging by the way they were looking from their phones to the signage. I was pleased to see our stewards were spotting these lost lambs and were going over to help. All very friendly, very cheerful. That was good - it would make people more likely to come back. I felt there was tremendous potential demand for tickets at a revitalised Chester FC, but it would be moronic to take that for granted. We had to scrap and grind for every fan. Hard work off the pitch same as on it, and a smile from a steward was just as effective as one of Brooke''s hyper-targeted emails or Facebook ads.


    I spotted a few tweaks to the stadium''s footprint. Someone - Brooke, most likely - had installed a couple of information desks where visitors could go and ask questions. That was a good idea - it would help us make sure newbies were comfortable visiting the stadium. Emre''s was open but the queue was so long I decided against going to chat to him. There were a lot more spaces for posters - ones of the men''s team, the women''s team, the bus parade, and lots that had been specially-designed for the day''s match and written in Slovak.


    Another difference between this match and the one against Southend: the weather was better today. There was much more of a party mood. So what if little Chester lost to Slovakia? It was a rare football match where you could enjoy the day no matter the result. I noticed quite a lot of people wearing ''Leo'' shirts, which meant Brooke had advertised the match to people keen on seeing the man himself. After bursting onto the scene in ideal conditions, he was finding his career a lot more of a struggle than most people had anticipated, but he was still the bright young thing of Slovak football. Had Brooke run ads on his personal Instagram page? The woman was far, far too good and every time I thought about how good she was, I thought about her leaving.


    Stupid, hateful, fearful brain!


    I got introspective and told the Brig I was ready to head back inside. While deep in thought I got a vague impression of masses of blue and white heading to the stadium.


    CA boosts, a permanent increase in ticket demand, the season ticket waiting list going up - today was going to lift the whole club.


    ***


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I said, striding into the dressing room like a colossus (five seconds after pulling the door open a tiny crack to make sure Sandra wasn''t in the middle of anything. I''m polite like that). I went to the whiteboard. "4-2-3-1?" I said, pretending to be surprised. "Huh. I thought we might play 4-4-2. Slovak to basics. Hazza and Dazza up top."


    "Henri will start," said Sandra. "He''ll come off after fifty minutes so he can get an ovation."


    "He likes those, doesn''t he?" I clapped, once, scanning the room. Dazza was eyeing me carefully, as were Lees Hudson and Contreras. They had heard stories about how strangely I ran my dressing room, and now they were going to see it up close. "Right, we''re all excited, it''s a big day, blah blah blah. My favourite Slovakian movie is called All or Nothing. It''s rated 4.7 out of 10 and like all Slovakian films, I haven''t seen it." I pointed to the door. "There are more flags than usual out there and I''m letting them play some music before kick off for a change but at the end of the day, it''s just a football match. They''ve got some top-class players, especially in the defence, so we''ll have to play decent football if we''re going to hurt them.


    "The flip side is, if we keep our shape and work for each other, we''re not going to get rolled over. Eddie, be on your toes against Leo. He doesn''t look like a menace but he is, okay? Youngster, you drift left to help Eddie. Ah, Sandra has told you all this, hasn''t she? Look, just try to think of this as what it is - a pre-season friendly. You''re allowed to enjoy yourselves, soak up the atmosphere and all that, but get the balance right in that you''re playing for your place against Fleetwood a week from now. That''s it - I''ll do my big start-of-season speech on Monday or Tuesday next week. Today''s just a match, same as West Didsbury, same as Morecambe. Go through your usual routines, do your warm ups, and I''ll see you back here ten minutes before go."


    "Let''s go Chester!" called Christian Fierce, our new captain for the season. His words triggered a lot of claps, stomps, and yells.


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    I felt a tingle on the back of my neck. A few hairs stood on end, but they settled down again.


    Today wasn''t about emotion, it was all about the numbers. The green of the CA, the green of the money we were raking in. Much of this particular green would go to charity, but we expected every home match to be sold out and Brooke had big plans to increase our catering income. If she succeeded, we would be able to ask MD to increase the budget a little, and even a little could have a big impact.


    Some lads who hadn''t made the final 22 were in the dressing room, slow to depart. Why hurry? I felt someone''s eyes on me but when I looked at Andrew, he was on his phone.


    There were two main currencies in the dressing room, money and playing time. Both were finite. As we climbed the leagues, a player''s need to play would grow ever bigger, and being left out of the team would be seen as a bigger and bigger slap in the face. I wondered if I could get to the very top of football on a small budget and a big dollop of Chesterness.


    I doubted it.


    But being a contract rebel worked both ways. If you weren''t going to share your market value with Chester, I wasn''t going to boost your market value. It sucked to have to take a hard line with Andrew, but he was the first to defy me on the issue. Since the abrupt end of our chat, not a single player had come asking for more money or even joked about how underpaid everyone was, which was normally a staple joke around these parts.


    I shook my head. I was pretty sure we would resolve this particular situation - after a healthy period of everyone being scared shitless by my hardline stance - but if we didn''t, Christmas dinner at the Weaver household with Andrew and Gemma was going to be awk-ward.


    Or maybe not. If the Czechs and Slovaks could divorce and stay civil, so could Andrew and I. You know, in theory.


    ***


    While Sandra ran the warmups and talked to the referee and all that, I had more than half an hour to spare. I pottered around and shook hands with the Slovakian coaches. They were almost all Italian and the manager also ran a club team. That club was in European qualifying matches so he was doing that while his assistant took care of this match.


    The crew seemed happy to be in Chester, which was nice, but as we talked, guess who popped up? Beth!


    "Whoa! No girls in the dugouts. Ew."


    "Hi, Max," she said, dragging me away from the coaches. "How are you doing?"


    "Good, top, no comment. What are you doing here?"


    She was amused. "Someone at Chester suggested I embed myself into the Slovakian team for the day so I can get the inside track on this special event."


    "Oh, you''d love to embed yourself with the Slovakian team."


    She tilted her head. "I know it was your idea, Max, so don''t give me that. Are you losing your touch? People are saying you''ve cracked. In five matches you''ve drawn to Buxton and lost to Blackpool and Morecambe."


    "Just find it hard to play against seaside towns, there''s no shame in that. Everyone''s got a weakness. Mine are rocky beaches where the rocks are too big and wobbly and weirdly slimy, do you know what I mean? Is this an interview? I didn''t agree to be grilled by The Daily Mail. How''s your story looking?"


    "It could use some juicy quotes. Maybe a footballing hook. Do you think you might win?"


    "Win? We''re all winners, just for showing up. Is Leo around? Oh, he''s warming up. Have you spoken to him?"


    "He''s down. He was on such a high at the Euros and now reality is catching up. Teams have worked him out."


    "Yeah," I said. The element of surprise had done a lot for him. "He''s in this phase where he''s expected to be good but he won''t be that good consistently for a couple of years but what people will remember from his career is this period where everyone''s disappointed in him."


    "Er, thanks for the quote, Max, but that''s pretty bleak. I think this is a positive story. An upbeat one. Isn''t it?"


    I frowned. "Yeah," I said, but it didn''t really convince me. "Their centre backs and goalie are spectacular. They are absolutely monstrous, right? The number 4 is a hundred million pound player on 400,000 pounds a week. Playing against him is absolutely zero fun but even if today tastes bitter it''s medicine for us. We''ll get closer to those levels, right? But yeah it could be a long ninety minutes and it''s one thing looking at all this on spreadsheets and another seeing it on the grass."


    Beth moved closer and examined my eye sockets. "You sound weird. You''re not your usual self."


    I slapped my hips. "Um... no, I''m fine. It''s just, like, maybe I''ve lost some of that fire, you know? I''ve been in matches like this before when it seemed like we were up against a brick wall but I''ve come up with a plan or at least had something to give us a one in a hundred chance, but there''s nothing there today. Nothing in the tank and that''s strange because I''m rested and I thought I was up for it today."


    "Your squad looks fired up."


    "Oh, big time," I said, with a smile. My players jogged up and down through and around cones. "They''re ready for another winning season. Ready to grind and put the work in and all that."


    "Are you burned out?"


    "Erm... no, not even close. I''ve got energy, I think. Yeah. I''m, er... I mean, look at it. It''s a lovely day, the stadium''s filling up, pitch looks mustard, the Slovakians are super friendly, the match is a friendly. It''s just nice, isn''t it?"


    "You''re a big game player. Today doesn''t fire you up because it''s not a big game."


    "It is. This is really important for our season."


    Beth shook her head. "You don''t believe that. If you did, you wouldn''t be talking to me. It might be big for the players, for the club, but not for you." She nodded, apparently satisfied that I wasn''t sick or depressed. "It''ll come next Saturday when the season starts."


    "What will?"


    "The devil in you."


    "Devils, curses, wizards. Why do you write me as some kind of fantasy character?" On hearing how that sounded, I instantly held up my palm. "Don''t answer that," I said, with a bit of a grin. "I think I want to go pose for selfies and stuff. Enjoy your embedding."


    "I''ll see you at Nando''s, will I?"


    My mouth dropped open. "You got yourself invited to that, too? When are you going to stop freeloading meals off me? Tsch!" I went off, shaking my head.


    ***


    The next fifteen minutes were incredibly strange, though I didn''t fully realise it at the time. I walked around the edge of the pitch ready to pose for selfies or sign the match programme, but nine out of ten people looked at me and then looked away. They didn''t know who I was!


    There were still more than enough people who did, of course, so I smiled at their phones and signed things.


    One person asked me to sign his programme. I think that''s what he wanted, anyway, but he didn''t speak English. I took the pen and hesitated, because the programme wasn''t in English, either.


    "That''s right," I said, flicking through the pages. "We got it translated into Slovakian. Or do you say Slovak? It''s nice and glossy, isn''t it? We''ve got a graphic designer helping us with the covers and a new writer." I flicked through the pages. The quality of the design had gone up a few notches. "This is very nice. I must remember to get my own copy."


    The guy smiled and nodded and waited for me to stop babbling. With a shrug, I signed it and handed it back. That''s when I noticed his scarf - blue, white, and red.


    I frowned and took a few steps away, onto the edge of the pitch where the Slovakian team was doing their own drills. Leo waved at me with a big smile, which caused a bit of fuss in the stand. I looked from Leo to the crowd and realised that while there was an appropriate amount of blue and white, there was far too much red.


    "The fuck?" I said.


    I strolled around some more and it started to add up.


    Some in the crowd were singing along to the Slovakian music we were playing over the PA.


    Most were in white tops with blue shoulders and a red flash up the sides and they were waving scarves and flags that we didn''t sell in the club shop.


    This crowd was something like 80% Slovakians!


    Leo, slightly out of breath, came and put his hand on my shoulder as we admired the scene. "So good," he said. "Feels like home!"


    "Yeah," I said. "It would." I turned and checked him out. Since I''d seen him at the Euros, his Attributes were up, his wages were way up, but his Morale was in the toilet. "How you doing? It''s hard being the golden boy, I think."


    Pain flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced by a smile. "I''ll get better. Do you have any tips for me?" The slight note of pleading in his voice was heartbreaking.


    "Yes," I said.


    "Well?" Leo said, when he realised I''d stopped talking.


    "I''ll tell you after the match," I said, giving him a friendly punch to the chest.


    He rolled his eyes but went back to his warm up with his Morale one point higher. Very humanitarian of me but not the best timing! I supposed Beth was right and my heart wasn''t fully in this as a sporting contest. It was a hack, a go-faster token you collect in a driving game.


    I walked back towards the dugouts and caught Brooke talking to one of the big shots from the Slovakian FA. I introduced myself, got a big handshake and a very intimate hug (from the man, sadly) and took Brooke aside. "It''s, er, it''s very, er, foreign around here."


    "I thought that''s what you wanted," she said.


    "Why would I want that?" I said, which could have been misconstrued as gammony, so I continued hurriedly. "I mean, it''s fun, I guess. Nothing wrong with it, but I was hoping our next five hundred season ticket buyers would be here."


    "Maybe they are," she said.


    "Huh."


    "And we''re doing crazy numbers online."


    "Crazy numbers?"


    "We''ve sold 30,000 online passes for this match. About 29,000 of those are in Slovakia."


    "Holy shit!" Those passes were ten pounds each. I lowered my voice. "Does the club keep that cash?"


    "No, that''ll go to charity, too; it was part of the sales pitch. We''re only keeping the catering income and any merch we sell. But it''s still good, right? This is how English clubs build worldwide fan bases. Although," she added, "it''s more conventional for the club to tour the country, not for the country to tour the club."


    "Er, Brooke?" I said, eyes wide.


    "Yes, Max?"


    "You''ve just blown my mind. I''m fizzing."


    She gave me a wry look. "Please don''t whip my skirt off."


    ***


    I got sucked into conversations with god-knows-who. Some politicians, people from various FAs, I think there was even someone from UEFA who was on holiday in the north-west and had bought a ticket.


    When I finally found myself in the dressing room with the lads waiting for me to give my pre-match speech, I had to work hard to bring myself down to ground level because my mind was absolutely in orbit.


    "Lads, very slight change in what I expect of you. How can I put this? Let''s start at the beginning. Everyone wanted to play today and the people who aren''t involved are gutted. But what if this wasn''t a one-off?" I took a few paces around and scratched my chin. Yeah, that was the point, wasn''t it? Repeatability. This match was a curiosity that five thousand UK-based Slovaks thought was worth paying twenty quid to attend, while thirty thousand back home had forked over ten quid each. In theory we could tempt more national teams into doing this - if we paid them enough.


    While a bit of extra income would be very useful in the short-term, long-term I valued the CA growth more than almost anything, so a country''s FA could have all the profits. The people running FAs were people who liked money and who liked being wined and dined. If we could get six pre-season friendlies against national teams, I mean Jesus Christ, that would be one of the biggest hacks imaginable. It would be like sending my entire squad to play in a World Cup and I could do it every summer!


    "Not a one-off?" said Henri, who as always was the most likely to speak when I was mid-rant or mid-thought.


    "Yeah. It''s a sell-out, right? Five thousand odd tickets were on general release but it''s 80% Slovakians out there. We''ve got their flags up everywhere, we''re playing their music, we''ve got some folk dancers outside and they''re gonna do stuff at half time, we''re selling Slovak food, we printed match programmes in - I mean, you get it. I thought I was being polite, just sort of thanking the team for coming, but what I''ve done - "


    Henri shook his head. "You''ve turned this into a home match for the away team."


    "Yes," I said. "It''s not my fault. Who knew there were so many Slovakian people living in the UK?" Almost every hand in the room went up. "That was a rhetorical question! But look, I think we could do this again. I did it by accident but I think... yeah, I''ve brought Bratislava to the Deva stadium. I think people are going to lap this up! Think of the people over in Slovakia watching this thinking, wait, is the match in England or here or what? You''d love it, wouldn''t you lads, if we went to play in some country and they served beans on toast and put a red mailbox in the centre circle? You''d think, this is a laugh, let''s come back here. Right?"


    "Max," said Henri, "You''re right. Wherever there is beans on toast, so there will be English tourists. But what do you want from us, the players?"


    I jabbed my finger towards him. "Yes, practicalities. Yes. Er, let''s try and win the match and all that sort of stuff, yeah, but let''s be diplomatic about it. There''s going to be loads of flags and national anthems and pageantry. We''ve got fifty little kids waving a giant Chester crest and fifty more doing a big Slovakian flag. We''ve got the ambassador who''s gonna shake your hand. There''s all kinds of stuff going on, right, so just smile and go with it. What do I want from you? Respect the national anthems, for a start. We''ve got some royal from the far north and she''ll be going up the line shaking your hand. Don''t turn to your mate when she''s gone past and leer, do you know what I mean? Don''t go phwoar did you see that?! You''re on camera, lads. Everything you do is being filmed on twelve cameras and five thousand smartphones. What else? Right, when the match starts, if someone boots you up the arse, get up and have words if you want but then fucking drop it. You hear me? We''re not having the Battle of Bratislava out there. We''re going to turn the other cheek, aren''t we, Youngster?"


    "Always, Mr. Best."


    "Just think how awesome it is to play in a match like this and say to yourself: if I behave myself, Max might be able to schedule more matches like this. All right? If today''s a success we might get the Polish national team interested. Who else are there loads of in England?"


    "English," suggested Henri.


    "A match involving the English FA might be hard to arrange," I said, glaring at him.


    "Irish," said Cole.


    "Welsh," said Rainman, who was in a tracksuit so he could join in the pre-match warmups and be in the photos and so on.


    "Hey, that''s not the worst idea," I said. I could boost Welsh kids by arranging matches against Wales. It would be a hell of a conversation with Gwen but it would work, wouldn''t it? "Okay my brain is exploding right now. I thought this was one and done but... Get out there and fucking smile. Smile, you miserable bastards! Come on! Go and be fucking charming, you worms!"


    ***


    When the clock struck 3, I was bouncing, absolutely convinced I''d be able to get more national teams here. Why the hell not?


    My players lined up and stood proudly for the English national anthem, and stood respectfully for the Slovak one.


    There''s a bit of a cultural black hole in England that makes English people boo the national anthems of other countries. I did some research on the phenomenon and it dates back to high rates of glue sniffing in the 70s and 80s. Today there was no such issue, perhaps because the English fans were massively outnumbered and there was no segregation.


    "The players of both teams will now meet the Queen of Iceland and His Excellency the Ambassador of the Slovak Republic to the United Kingdom," said our announcer. The queen, of course, was Emma in her big floppy hat. It was an inside joke that got taken far too seriously and had been funny to me right up until the moment the captains led the guests down the row of players.


    Sandra said, "This is going to bite us on the arse."


    "When we were talking to the politicos I said ''oh yeah the queen might come'' as a callback to when I met the Slovaks in the Euros and at some point it got too late to fess up. Anyway, the ambassador gets to flirt with Emma all day. I really don''t think he''s going to mind."


    "Max," said Physio Dean. He directed my attention to someone in the crowd. An average-looking woman who was in floods of tears.


    "What happened?" I said.


    "Don''t know," said Dean.


    The match was about to kick off and I couldn''t spare so much as a minute, not with so much XP on offer. I waved at Beth and she hurried over. "Can you find out what''s up with that woman there and help her out maybe?"


    Beth followed my gaze - the crying woman was hard to miss. "Oh, sure, will do."


    ***


    To try to combat Slovakia''s 3-5-2, Sandra and I had cooked up a fairly ambitious scheme. The kind of plan that works very well in the National League.


    We did 4-2-3-1 with a pretty strong back six and a fast front four.


    Sticky (CA 53) was in goal, behind Eddie (64), Christian Fierce (74), Zach (65), and Lee H (70).


    Patrolling ahead of them were Youngster and Magnus, whose CAs were 86 and 61 respectively.


    The three fast forwards were Pascal (72), Wibbers (48), and Wes ''Sharky'' Hayward (48). The idea with Sharky was that, okay he was far from international quality but he was still the fastest player on the pitch and if we could get him into space he could destroy any team. That concept was slightly diluted by him playing through the middle where the pitch was crowded, but it was the sort of thing we had been doing in the National League with great effect.


    The final starter was Henri, CA 73, which gave us an average of 64.9, almost exactly half of Slovakia''s 130.


    It was fair to say that anything that worked today would work twice as well against Fleetwood next weekend. It was also fair to say that seeing the contrast in numbers up close knocked me off my stride for a while.


    The match kicked off and while my lads won a few headers, won a few races, and tried to pass the ball around, it was a no-contest from the very first minute. We were outclassed and my thoughts kept returning to that number: 64.9. That wasn''t any sort of number. Not against Slovakia, not against Fleetwood, and not even against the weakest team in League Two, Colchester United.


    I bit my nails for a minute but the vibe of the day was so positive, so upbeat, that I was able to look on the bright side. Unlike Fleetwood, unlike Colchester, my team had room to grow. If I counted up the PA and divided by ten (because I didn''t understand what Magnus''s minus 2 meant) it came to 122. This team, at their peak, would get close to Slovakia''s level. Really close!


    I clapped myself into a more positive frame of mind. Okay, we were miles off the pace but it was still eleven against eleven. There were still tweaks and optimisations. I had my hotkeys, my once-a-game perks. I used Seal It Up to try to keep it tight first twenty! (That perk, you remember, increased the positioning score of my defenders by 1 for quarter of an hour). I used Cupid''s Arrow - which made passes between certain players more likely to succeed - on Zach and Magnus. I hoped that would allow us to move the ball out of defence and through Slovakia''s press. It wasn''t anywhere near as intense as what those forwards did in real matches, but it was still too much for our low-technique players.


    Despite my tweaks and my player''s best efforts, the first half went as you might expect. Slovakia crushed us in midfield, carefully tore us to shreds with clever, patient passing and movement, and low-key bombarded Sticky''s goal. Fortunately, he saved the first shot on target, which gave him the confidence to rise to the day''s challenge. If the first one had gone in I really think we''d have conceded six in that half.


    Our strategy was to bypass midfield and hit them with fast counters and it died a death. Slovakia had three world-class centre backs and their goalie was fucking mint, too. The rest of the team weren''t at that level, although they had a bit of stardust in Leo, but having a defence like that was very appealing. Take it from me, if you know you aren''t going to score, matches get demoralising.


    Our clean sheet lasted eight minutes. The second goal came after thirteen. I braced myself for a humiliation but the lads had been through some shit at boot camp and it paid off here with a gritty show of togetherness. They battled and suffered and rode out the worst of the storm.


    "There will be more of this," I said, looking over my shoulder at my assistant. I didn''t want to do that too much because the XP I was getting was immense. "We need a 5-3-2 option for games like this. Move that to the top of the priority list."


    "Agreed."


    I turned my attention to individual players.


    "Sandra," I said, and she appeared next to me with her notebook. "There''s something off with Eddie''s spacing. Can you check the tapes? Christian''s trying too hard. I suppose he''ll calm down when he''s been proper captain long enough but keep an eye on him, maybe have a quiet word some time. Zach''s been caught out a few times but that''s the risk of how we want him to play, right? I say we double down on him going for the interception."


    "It cost us a goal."


    "Are you playing devil''s advocate or do you really disagree?"


    "Devil''s advocate. I like how he''s playing but, yeah, these strikers are another level and they play against better defenders every week. We can''t expect our guys to shut them down but if we can stop them even getting the ball... yeah we should keep pushing Zach to be aggressive."


    "Yeah. Lee H is fine, isn''t he?"


    "Rusty."


    "That''s a problem that solves itself. I don''t have much to say about him."


    "He doesn''t slap like Carl."


    "No, but he''s way better defensively. His positioning is better and he makes better decisions with the ball. He''s fine. I do wish I had an attacking right back option but I don''t. Youngster''s our only player who looks decent, as you''d expect. This is another level from the World Cup but he''s loving it. He''s actually competitive, have you noticed? Magnus is struggling but only to the level I expect. No worries there. Sharky''s ineffective in the centre against this kind of quality. We need to make sure he''s always out wide. Wibbers is trying to run through the defence but it''s a brick wall. He''s got craft but he''s not engaging his brain. That''s something to talk to him about. Pascal''s hitting the space like he always does but we don''t have good control of the ball so he''s not helping. First we need him to drop to move possession in a triangle so we can get a grip and then build from there. Do you know what I mean? Henri''s putting himself about a bit but he''s outclassed. At least he''s not losing his temper. Make sure we give him some praise, yeah? This is a selfless performance from him."


    "What about Sticky?"


    "He''s doing okay, isn''t he? He could have done better with the goals but he knows that. We don''t need to tell him, I don''t think. We''ll only coach him when it comes to what he does with the ball at his feet, I think, and how he interacts with the outfielders. But if you ever bump into that guy who runs the goalie academy you could ask him to come and watch a match so he can give us some unbiased, outside, expert opinion."


    "Got it."


    "This formation was a good plan but it''s not working." I rubbed my eyebrow, fretting about the Fleetwood match. They played in a similar way to Slovakia. "We need to test them out wide. Let''s go 4-1-4-1 and give Sharky some passes to run onto."


    ***


    At half-time it was still 2-0 but the lads had worked their arses off. They trudged into the dressing room and stayed quiet not because that''s how I liked it, but because they were shattered.


    I stood by the tactics board and idly moved some magnets around. I was getting a stupendous 18 XP per minute for managing this game and was already 819 up for the day. I was absolutely convinced the players were getting CA by the bucketload, but the gains always came over time and were sometimes hard to pinpoint. If Pascal turned green tomorrow would it be because he had played in Morecambe, because he had picked up a great tip in training, or because of Slovakia? It was hard to tell on a day-to-day basis but when I looked over a season there were definite bumps that came with matches like these.


    This one, our first League Two game against Fleetwood, a cup match against Bolton. You could look at it and see three demoralising losses, or you could think of it as three carefully-placed mini trampolines helping you reach a high platform.


    "Lads," I said. "Fucking outstanding. Work rate, sticking together, all top class. Give me ten minutes more, please, then I''ll start ringing the changes. Don''t forget our little performance at the start of the second-half. Everyone knows where to go, right? One more thing. I''ll text and I''ll email you so you don''t forget but I want to do the Maxterplan on Wednesday after training so if you need help with babysitters or anything let us know, but you know that''s a big deal." Doing it on Wednesday would let me see three days of training pops. If we got nothing from this international match that would push our season in one direction - dour, defensive, scrappy football. If we got the sort of green I was expecting, I would paint a bright, breezy, optimistic view of the coming season. "I think that''s it. Nothing more to say, lads, you''re doing great. Well done."


    I went into the corridor to see if there was any media stuff to do. I saw Brooke holding her phone up in front of a Slovak player who barely looked out of breath. Our fitness levels seemed high, but then you saw the elite players and realised how far behind you really were. Brooke pressed the red button on her phone and said ''thanks!'' The guy hesitated, maybe wondering if he should say, ''while your phone is out...'' But he realised she was out of his class and decided to fuck off with his dignity intact.


    "Whatcha doin''?"


    Brooke showed me. The clip was in Slovak but it was clear enough. The guy was saying something like ''I''m Marek Shranc and you''re watching Chester TV!''


    "Are they called stings? Trails? I think I have the word in my head somewhere."


    Brooke shrugged. "Whatever they''re called, we can add them to our broadcasts to IP addresses in Slovakia."


    I shook my head. "No-one there is going to watch a Chester match ever again."


    She smiled. "Wanna bet?"


    "You''re good, Brooke, but no-one''s that good. No-one''s ''I''m gonna build a fan base in eastern Europe in my spare time¡¯ good. Come on."


    "This match plus Bethany''s article plus Chesterness will cause more than a ripple of interest and from tiny ripples mighty waterfalls are made."


    "Is that a Texan saying? I thought it was all cactuses there. Cactus, one-horse town, tumbleweed, 80,000-seater college football stadium."


    She actually laughed. "We have to get you to Texas soon. You''d love it, you know."


    "Have they got beans on toast?" I clicked my fingers. "I saw a bunch of scouts I wanted to talk to before the second half. See you at Nando''s, right?"


    ***


    Half-time on the pitch was a festival of Slovakian-ness. Folk dancing, a guy crooning along with a guitar, and the ambassador giving a deathly dull speech. With those boxes ticked it was time for what was supposed to be one of the highlights of the day.


    My starting eleven - unchanged so far - lined up for the start of the second half but when the ref blew his whistle, my guys jogged off to the other three stands. Meanwhile all the subs, including me, jogged along the main stand and when the ref blew his whistle again we all stripped off. Tops only, to the disappointment of some.


    We handed our old tops to the first Chester fans we found then collected our brand new, shiny, magnificent Grindhog creations.


    Had it been a full house of Chester fans there would have been deafening cheers and applause, I''m sure, because word had spread that we had gotten a hell of a deal from the manufacturer and interest in the kit was sky high. Some photos were online, one or two videos were up with people who said they had a new kit before its release somehow, but whether those shirts were real or not, the videos only added to the mystery and sense of anticipation.


    Instead of a standing ovation, four thousand bemused Slovaks looked at each other thinking, "These Britons are crazy."


    Oh, well!


    At least the kits were nice. They had an insubstantial, silky smoothness. They were comfortable and stayed that way. Plus they looked great - blue and white hoops, a premium but unobtrusive font, and some subtle details you only saw up close. Pretty much ten out of ten right out of the gate from the Grindhog team.


    As for our team, we were soon under the cosh in the second half and there was almost nothing I could do about it. I signalled that Dazza should replace Henri just as the Slovakian manager was about to make a raft of changes himself. I paused the sub and went to negotiate with him. Maddeningly, Beth overheard me beg him to wait a minute so Henri could get a private ovation. There was no chance that detail wouldn''t end up in her stupid article, but what could I do?


    Henri came off, and there was a great reception for our new star striker.


    I didn''t let Henri sit down just yet, though he needed it. I had to keep getting that XP so I talked to him sideways, only looking away for two-tenths of a second at a time.


    "How was that, mon ami?"


    Henri shook his head, squirted water into his mouth and all over his face, and sucked in air. "Incredible."


    I smiled. "Are you joking now or what?"


    "Max, I am not joking. I am exhilarated. What a test! That defender had me on toast. Beans on toast." He squirted and panted some more. "Normally I feel if I keep plugging away I will get something, but today? This guy? He''s another level."


    I spared a few seconds to check out Henri''s expression. He was knackered, but he wasn''t lying about the exhilaration. I beamed - there was no fucking way Henri wouldn''t get 3 CA out of that game. Minimum! I slapped him on the back. "Sit down, mate. You were great out there. I''m really happy."


    He didn''t move and I had to lose another few seconds of XP to find out why. He peered at me. "You are happy."


    I pulled him for a hug. "I''m happy I could give you this experience, mate. This is what it''s all about, isn''t it? The journey. Doing mad things. Seeing new places."


    "Getting our arses handed to us in front of five thousand strangers," he said, but he wasn''t serious.


    "All the best clubs in Slovakia are ones where you get spanked in front of strangers," I said.


    He laughed. "It''s not even funny. That''s how tired I am." He went to the dugout and ate paste while the other subs excitedly asked him questions about what it was like out there.


    A minute later, Slovakia''s first subs happened. Leo had been kept fairly quiet by Eddie and Youngster, but had slipped away twice and found holes in our lines that he exploited with speed and clarity of thought. The curse rated him 8 out of 10 even though he had barely broken into a sprint.


    I stood by the subs who were entering the pitch so I could give Leo a high-ten and a hug. He said, "You''re going to play, aren''t you?"


    "Yeah," I said, without enthusiasm. "Five, ten minutes maybe."


    He placed his finger on my chest - a polite but insistent gesture. "I came here to see you play. And don''t forget you promised me a tip!"


    "I''m going to be right midfield in a 3-4-3," I said. "I''ll show you a couple of things."


    "Yes, perfect. Good."


    ***


    I made the rest of the subs fairly cautiously, trying not to give too many minutes to the youngest players. It helped that Slovakia''s reserves were much worse than their starters - this wasn''t counting as a proper international so they weren''t getting caps. As far as the statisticians were concerned, it was a charity match, so while it made some kind of sense for the starters to come, some of the reserves had ''picked up a calf strain'' which meant they didn''t travel.


    I put Cole on at left back, and revamped midfield so that it was Josh, Ryan, and Lee C. Pascal got to stay on for a while longer on the right.


    We conceded a third goal, but once again the lads dug deep and found a bit more shape.


    I took Youngster off and put Dan Badford on as DM. It was only intended for a minute before I switched to 4-5-1, but something weird happened.


    Dan Badford almost instantly looked like our best player.


    I mean, he glided around the pitch very much like Youngster, but instead of racking up interceptions like he was playing cornerback against the Cleveland Browns, Dan was just sort of... connecting things. He took the ball from Zach, ignored the pressure on him and rolled the ball to Ryan Jack before moving to be an option for the return pass.


    Our passing stats, which had been diabolical for the whole match, started to tick up. We even briefly got more than 40% possession.


    I sat on my haunches staring at it for a while. I was getting very curious about ignoring the position field on a player profile, but I had a mental image of a defensive midfielder. I suppose I had two. One was big and tall, a destructive presence, someone who could break up play and help on set pieces. Another was a Youngster type. Someone who could run for miles, someone indefatigable, a buzzing wasp you could never, ever swat away.


    And there against a bunch of Slovakia''s best was a silky-smooth playmaker who was connecting the defence to the midfield without the help of Cupid''s Arrow. "Sandra," I said, and she came and crouched near me. "Can we have some practice of 4-2-3-1 with Youngster and Dan as the double pivot?"


    "You like him there?"


    "Don''t you?"


    She shrugged. "It doesn''t look right."


    "Huh," I said, standing up. "It looks right to me. It looks amazing." I glanced at her. "You''re really not into it."


    She shoved her bottom lip out. "No, sorry. But I''ll do it."


    "What happened to finishing each other''s...?"


    She laughed. "I don''t think we''ve ever actually done that, boss."


    I pointed to Dan. "That right there might be the best thing to come out of this match. Okay, time''s running out and we''re not getting battered. We need to get Tom on. Take Zach off and switch to 3-5-2."


    ***


    All the substitutions took their toll - the match took on a weird, shapeless form. Neither team had any kind of momentum, there were too many unfamiliar partnerships, too many square pegs in round holes, and that only got worse near the end as I put Banksy, Tyson, and Chas on. Oh, and myself.


    We had a strange old team at that point, crammed somehow into a 3-4-3.


    We had a CA 13 goalkeeper. Cole (45) was the left centre back, with Ryan Jack (62) and Lee C (71) as his partners.


    Josh Owens (45) was left-mid while Dan Badford (40) and Tyson (34) were a crazily young central midfield partnership. I wanted to move Dan back to the DM slot to continue that experiment, but it looked ugly on the tactics screen so I kept to the default.


    Dazza (74), Tom Westwood (43), and Chas Fungrieve (19) was an attack with a bit of height and not all that much else.


    I was the right mid and took the captain''s armband from Christian.


    Yep, this was fifty times stronger than the team I had been planning to finish the match with, and the very thought gave me a full-body cringe because this was absolutely shocking. CA 44.6 and an average age of about ten. Not for the first time, I was happy to have Sandra around keeping me sane.


    There were only a few minutes to go, though, so how bad could it get? It''s fair to say Slovakia approached the final stage of the match the same way they did when playing in the back garden against toddlers, but my youngsters gave a pretty good account of themselves, battling hard, working hard, trying to get some quality when they had the ball.


    There were too many weak spots, though, too many black holes and you can''t have that against a team of Slovakia''s quality. Our opponents moved the ball around, opened a huge gap in our lines, and though I sprinted back to try to clear the ball off the line I didn''t really have a chance. Nor did Banksy with the shot, but his positioning was awful.


    Four-nil down and I thought about going men behind ball for the rest of the match just to avoid humiliation. I decided losing 5-0 would still be respectable, so I didn''t park the bus.


    As we kicked off and the Slovakians jogged half-heartedly into our half of the pitch, I decided I was proud of the players. Proud of how they had conducted themselves, proud of their effort, and more convinced than ever that everyone involved would benefit hugely from the experience.


    But as a player, something felt off.


    It was my job to patrol the entire right side of the pitch and I was doing that task to the letter because if I didn''t, Slovakia''s tactically-savvy players would rush into the space I left and there would be carnage.


    So I did my job, but when the ball came to me I felt so isolated. I mean, Chas was an option ahead, or I could hit Dazza at the far post and he could go for a knock-down. One of Dan or Tyson always raced across to offer a sideways option, and Lee C was gamely trying to do a Zach impression. But they felt like they were fifty yards away. In Brazil I had six teammates close enough to hit with a yo-yo, and indeed one of the moves in Relationism is called a yo-yo. Where was everyone? Why were they so far away?


    I didn''t like it.


    I swapped places with Tyson and went into the middle. I took a pass from Lee C, touching the ball away from an onrushing Slovak. I dabbed a short pass to Dan, who gave it straight back. I shot it back to Ryan and he gave it right back to me. A Slovak dude was rushing at me and I decided I had to bring the ball away, so I shot in the direction of the left wing and he followed but oh-oh! I let the ball run through my legs. Dan collected it.


    Was that my first ever river in English football? I doubted it, but it felt like the first.


    My blood was pumping and I sensed a shift in the mood - on both teams. Slovakia''s intensity increased, but so did ours.


    Jaw clenched, I ran towards Dan and took a short pass from him. I gave it back, took it back. When a Slovak came close I brought Lee into the action. He was a midfielder and so was Ryan. We played short passes in a whir while drawing more opposition players towards us.


    Relationism! I hadn''t even coached it yet but the guys knew what I wanted.


    I could have stayed in that blob, in that wonderful pool of quick passes, of one-twos, but the pressure got too much for Lee. Perhaps he would have kept going if he was twenty yards forward with Zach and Christian behind him if he lost the ball, but he was the last defender in front of a kid, so he decided to break the flow.


    He fizzed a hard pass twenty yards to the left to Cole. A forward, annoyed by our dicking about, was running at Cole hard - elite level press incoming!


    Cole hunched up, ready to turn inwards, and the forward pounced. He got... nothing. Cole opened his body, let the ball run across him, and used his first touch to move the ball forwards.


    My legs started moving.


    Cole passed to Josh, who took a bump from behind as he laid it back to Cole. Cole passed to Dan, who slipped it first time to Dazza. He held the ball up well and touched it back to Tom. Tom decided he wanted to take a shot, which was in the direction of Youngster levels of decision-making because there were two huge defenders in front of him. He could have argued a defender might deflect it but yeah, not a good end to a very nice move.


    Except it didn''t end.


    The ball had ballooned high and with wicked spin towards me and Slovakia''s nearest centre mid. He was CA 116 and was a solid all-rounder.


    I stepped towards him to stop him competing for a header - he seemed happy to let me try and fail to take control of the spinning, dropping ball, and I felt his gaze move towards the strikers. He was plotting ahead. As soon as I lost control...


    The ball was going to drop to my left, towards our goal. I planted my left foot about twenty inches away and bent my right leg behind it, giving the ball a little kiss with the inside of my boot. It stopped there for a second as though caught in a Star Trek tractor beam.


    My opponent goggled as the main stand burst into applause, but my slow, lazy movements told him the ball would be in his possession soon enough. While I sorted my feet out and pointed for a dull sideways pass, the guy stabbed his foot towards the ball. Strangely, by the time his foot should have made contact, the ball wasn''t there. I''d flicked it over the path of his foot and I was away.


    His attempt to grab me was both feeble and annoying - it''s a new shirt, mate! I felt myself snarling as I powered diagonally right. While I ran, I switched Tyson back to CM to give us numbers in the rest defence.


    Seeing me maraud down the wing got the Chester fans up on their feet, and some of the Slovaks, too.


    I glanced left and saw the three strikers running into the box. Options!


    I also saw a Slovak midfielder running hard on an intercept course. Before he could affect play, I knocked the ball a little more to the right and thwacked a low cross whose twelfth bounce was exactly in the stride of Dazza.


    He couldn''t miss!


    He made a sweet connection, hit it hard and high, and his arms lifted themselves in celebration.


    But the keeper saved it! He had danced across the goal as the ball passed in front of him, and he was just close enough to fling an arm out and tip the ball over the bar.


    Standing O for the move, standing O for the keeper.


    I wandered over but let Tyson take the corner. I was thirty yards from him, pretending to be absolutely wrecked by the exertion of my sprint. Tyson knew better, and passed to me even though I was facing the west stand. I touched the ball and whipped it to the far post, where Tom got a half-decent head on it. He knocked it back across goal and Chas flung out a long leg. Shot on target! It''s going in! Goal for the fifteen-year-old? No. The goalie got down low and tipped it behind for another corner.


    The fucker had nothing to do the whole game. How was he this sharp?


    Tyson ran to take the corner - it would be the last action of the game and if we could get a goal we would be incredibly happy. He fizzed it to me but this time Slovakia were alert. As a guy sprinted at me I dropped a shoulder left, pushed the ball right, and lined up a shot.


    It fucking flew to the top-right corner. I mean, it was perfect. Flawless. Power, bend, even a bit of dip.


    The goalie saved it again and the ref blew his whistle to end the game.


    So that''s what CA 155 looks like. Take note, Banksy. Take note.


    ***


    Some more numbers for you:


    Chester 0 Slovakia 4.


    1,540 experience points earned.


    I went round doling out hugs and smiles, promised to swap shirts with Leo, and went to collect Beth and bring her to the other media people for a post-match interview.


    "Max, tough day, how do you feel?"


    "We knew it would go something like this so we had, you know, very specific ambitions. We didn''t win the first half, we didn''t score a goal, and I''m not sure we won a lot of new fans with the way we got dominated, but I think everyone in the stadium had a good time and we raised a lot of money for charity."


    "It was exciting near the end!"


    "The passing move? Now I know why Pep Guardiola used to put eleven midfielders on the pitch. It''s addictive completing passes against a good team."


    "No! When you were doing your skills and showing off. If that''s a taste of what''s to come this season, the Chester fans should be very excited."


    I shook my head. "It''s a team game. We need team solutions but I think it''s clear that we''ve got the core things right. The mentality, the spirit, and we''ll add what''s missing as we go. I think this match will help us develop. As a group of players we''re motivated, determined, and ambitious. As coaches we''ve seen our players get a very serious test and I think we''ll be looking at this footage a hell of a lot over the next couple of weeks mining it for areas of improvement. It''s just a top day. I think this will be a great season."


    "What did Leo say to you at the end?"


    "He said thanks for the tip but if I do that in a game my manager will kill me. I told him if he''s the player-manager he can do what he wants. He said he''d think about it. Oh, Beth, what was up with that woman? Nothing bad, I hope?"


    "No, Max. She was happy, she loved it. I''ve got the quote here. ''You sell Bazant beer, you smile at us, you play our national hymn!'' She said she had been in England for five years and this was the first time she really felt welcome."


    Well, that got me going and I had to look down at the concrete floor for a few seconds to compose myself. "She''s welcome back here any time," I said. "This is Chester."


    "Do you think you''ll get the same level of welcome next week at Fleetwood?"


    I smiled. "Of course we will. We''re little old Chester. No threat to anyone in League Two, are we?"

 11.12 - Fleetwood Max

    12.


    Wednesday, August 6


    Before our first competitive game of the season (against Fleetwood Town, our first fourth tier fixture in fifteen years) I had to tell the men''s first team squad our plan for the campaign as a whole.


    Monday was the only logical choice for when to give the talk, but I had moved it back to Wednesday. The seemingly pointless change could have been seen as more proof that I was untethering, but the reality was much more mundane - I simply wanted to know if playing against Slovakia had done anything.


    And? Had it?


    Yup. Seen from the right angle, the results were already stupendous. Every single player involved had increased in CA by at least one point. Banksy, who had played goalie for the final seven minutes, had popped once per day of training, roaring ahead to a mighty CA 16. He was still useless, but a twenty-three percent increase in ability from seven minutes was nothing to be sniffed at.


    Other players had only increased by one point but I felt sure more was to come. It takes time for a human brain to absorb shocks, and the sheer gulf in class, quality, control, and tactical awareness between us and a major team was not one we could cross in three days. The training sessions had been mint, though. Players zipped around, focused on every drill, talked about what they''d experienced, begged the coaches to hurry up and clip out relevant bits of video.


    I decided I would give the optimistic version of my speech. The one where our players improved rapidly and, after a few dubious results, got into their groove faster than anyone could have expected.


    As for me, my extra training was going well. We had four first team goalies and I got them to give me fifteen minutes each, in shifts, every day from Sunday to Tuesday. Three days where I took different kinds of penalties, free kicks, corners, and long shots. I had split them up, sensing that seeing me demolish the others might have been demoralising, and that proved to be a good instinct. I wasn''t back to my Darlington best, but I felt sharper than I had for a while. My crosses had more whip, my shots more power, my free kicks and pennos led to howls of frustration.


    Yeah. The optimistic version for sure.


    ***


    We were in the meeting room at BoshCard. We had the entire first team, physios, coaches, Jackie, MD, Brooke, but no-one from the board. The board had very quietly been put on pause. I wasn''t sure who had agreed to that, if anyone, or if MD had simply not sent out certain emails. It seemed more likely he had got together with a bunch of key fans and they had agreed to leave me the fuck alone for a year. Whatever - it was one less thing to do my head in, and no board meant no possibility of a takeover.


    Spectrum was helping me with my tech setup and I had the luxury of a clean flipchart and three new marker pens. Chester moving up in the world!


    "All right," I said, and the noise level died down.


    "Quiet," growled Christian Fierce, the new club captain, and noise ceased. He was a lot more intense than Glenn Ryder, which was partly his character and partly his eagerness to nail his new role. When I had signed him, his player profile had said ''Keen to impress his new manager'' for a long time. Now it said ''Proud to be at Chester'' and ''Proud to be the captain of Chester''. It also said ''Hopes Max Best will remain manager for a very long time'', but that doesn''t seem relevant, really. Might delete that.


    "New guys. Where my new guys? New guys stand up." A few people got to their feet and I introduced them before gesturing they could sit again. "Dazza Smith, Australian striker. Will call someone a bloke but won''t use the word strewth. I can''t make him out, but he told me his top bucket list goal is to visit the seven wonders of the world. Sunday Sowunmi, centre back. Good skills, good base, needs some experience to kick on. Banksy, goalie, talented, ditto. Lee Hudson, ten years at Barrow, knows a fuck of a lot more about League Two than we do. Ask him questions but don''t peck his head, all right? Lee, we might ask you on a Monday morning to say a word or two about the teams we''re facing that week. Nothing in-depth, just things like it''s noisy, it''s quiet, they''re a good lot, they''re wind-up merchants, that kind of thing. Quick thoughts on Fleetwood?"


    "They''re noisy when they''re winning. They''re wind-up merchants."


    I smiled. It wasn''t exactly megabrain stuff but it did help us prepare. "Thanks. Lee Contreras. Tranmere. He''s Sam Topps but faster and more technical. You might be confused because Tranmere kept Sam and let Lee go. Yeah, I don''t understand it either. Dan Badford didn''t stand up when he was told but - yeah, bit late now, Dan - but he''s proper in the squad. He''s on the edge of seventeen. Great, top. You know Clive OK and Ray Hart as part-time coaches but I think this might be their first Maxterplan so it''s good to acknowledge them as part of the team. You might recognise that guy. That''s Kian, former youth teamer I scouted when he was skipping school. Now he''s Brooke''s intern. Who says crime doesn''t pay? Last but not least, our new sports psychologist, Alex Short. Now, I did ask Brooke to find me one with great legs, but..."


    Brooke gave me something of a glare. "Max, that isn''t appropriate."


    Alex was a very slightly scruffy guy. He was average height, average build, but with a hint that he had played a lot of sport himself. My first instinct on seeing him was career-ending injury, wants to stay in the game. His short beard looked itchy but he seemed approachable and if one of my lads was having a bad time and really needed help but didn''t feel comfortable talking to a suit, Alex would grab his car keys and say, ''come on, pub''.


    Yeah, very good first impression from him. But how would he handle my banter?


    He smiled. "To be fair, Brooke, I do have great legs."


    The group loved that. Bosh! Scored on his debut.


    I turned my attention back to my players. "Alex isn''t starting just yet but I asked him to come today because I get the feeling a lot of what you talk to him about will be triggered by today''s session." I paused with my tongue slightly sticking out to show I knew these meetings veered towards the ridiculous. "Seriously, though, Alex is a great resource. I''m going to see him once a month at least. I don''t really know what to expect but I think having someone to talk to might help calm me the fuck down or whatever. It''s worth a try, right? For you lot it''s playing under pressure, recovering from injury, dealing with your manbaby boss." I smiled again. "It''s not mandatory but if it''s the FA Cup Final tomorrow and I have two players of equal talent in good form I''m going to pick the one who''s been talking to Alex because why the fuck wouldn''t I pick the guy who has been doing his best to improve over the last ten months? Do you know what I mean? It''s not intrusive therapy like you''ve seen on TV, it''s looking for an edge in your game. Think of Alex as another coach. I can''t stress this enough - seeing him is not mandatory."


    Youngster put his hand up, then slowly put it down.


    "Okay I want to hurry through this presentation but you know what we say - go slow to go fast. It''s better if I''m methodical, I think. The first game of the season is against Fleetwood, so there''s a pretty obvious theme for this speech."


    Spectrum tapped a key and tinny music blared out of his laptop. It was Dreams by Gabrielle. I shook my head and crossed my hands in the universal gesture of ''stop, that''s wrong''. He stopped the music; I pinched my nose.


    "That''s the wrong Dreams! That''s... how can you even...? Pretend that never happened, everyone."


    I cleared my throat.


    "For the new guys, what''s happening now is that I''m setting out my dreams for the season. It''s more like a prediction, really. You can go your own way if you want, but if you come with me and you don''t stop, you can go everywhere and you can be the ledge. Open your sweet little eyes, come a little bit closer, and the sky''s the limit."


    Vimsy called out, "You haven''t said Rhiannon yet."


    "Why would I do that?" I said, pretending to be annoyed. "So weird. Alex, fix Vimsy first." I nodded at Spectrum. He turned our big screen on and pressed a key on his laptop. A slide came up. It simply said ''We''re all part of the Maxterplan''. I pinched my nose. "Isn''t that an Oasis lyric? I told you we were doing Fleetwood Mac."


    "Aha!" said Vimsy, pointing in triumph.


    I grinned and said aha back. "Guess what? We''re not doing Fleetwood Mac. It''s too obvious. Good band, many bangers, but far too obvious. Here, Alex, check this out. Last January, I think it was, I updated the Maxterplan. It isn''t set and forget, right, we update it based on facts and evidence. I''m very scientific like that. The presentation happened to be the first day at the club for Christian, Well In, and Chipper and let''s say things got weird."


    "Megashrimp!" called out Wes Hayward.


    I frowned and spoke to Alex in sotto voce. "I know your sessions are private, but can you ask him why he keeps shouting that? Thanks." I twinkled at Wes and paced around. "Yeah, in retrospect that was a pretty strange introduction to Chester and it''s no wonder Chipper went absolutely tonto. So this time I decided to keep things simple. Nothing from four hundred million years ago, nothing too abstract, nothing that makes people think I''m a fucking nutjob." I paused and made a show of thinking over what I''d said. "Hang on. Everything I said that day was true. In fact, it turned out better than even I thought possible. You grew hard shells and claws, we won the league, I ascended into legend. Huh. Maybe I should... Maybe I should say whatever the fuck I want?"


    Zach said, "Lay it on us, boss!"


    "Ah," I said, swinging from bombastic to worried in an instant. "Zach. Forgot you were here. Oh, this is awkward."


    Zach stood up and gripped his hair with both hands. He paced around while his teammates laid consoling hands on him.


    Alex''s eyes were bulging cartoonishly. "What''s going on?"


    Youngster helped out. "Mr. Best''s last presentation was a delight for Zach, but Zach was not permitted to speak during the lecture."


    Alex gave me a strange look and said, "Why not?" I felt like I was being psychoanalysed and in that moment regretted hiring a psychologist.


    "I don''t like being fact checked," I said. "Ain''t nobody got time for that. Zach, good news and bad news. Good news, you''re gonna love this presentation. Bad news, every time you speak I''m taking a hundred pounds from the player pot and sending it to a flat-earth society."


    "Boss," he croaked.


    "Just shush so I can get through this. To everyone else, all the information you''re about to receive has been independently verified by, er, top, top people." I clicked my neck left and right. "Let''s fucking go!" I took a few steps to my left to my backpack and pulled out a very strange object that was about the length of my hand.


    Zach stood and did his hair-pulling routine again. "Urgh," he said.


    I smiled sweetly at him. "Zach, if you behave, you can keep this."


    "Really?" he said.


    "Yeah, I knew you''d like it so I bought two." I got the second one out.


    "But - "


    "Shush please." I handed one to Jackie Reaper, who was the nearest person to me on the left. He enjoyed coming to these big speeches even if these days he didn''t say much. Then I handed the other to Alex on the right. "Take a look, pass them round." The energy in the room spiked. Having a tangible object people could hold and study was great and a smack in the gob for anyone who said the megashrimp theme had been too abstract.


    "What is it?" said Brooke, turning it around. She had asked Zach, but her cheeks turned very fractionally red. "Sorry."


    "It''s a clay tablet," I said. "Four point eight inches long. The words and pictures you''re looking at were carved into that clay two thousand nine hundred years ago in Mesopotamia, which you all know as the location of an Agatha Christie murder. Also, it''s Iraq."


    "Is it the first ever football match programme?" said Pascal, apparently in earnest.


    I laughed, not harshly. "That would be fun, wouldn''t it? Babylon Villa versus Sumeria City, expected formations on the front, line ups on the back. No, this is something a lot more basic. A lot more astonishing, I think. Let''s take a look at it." Spectrum clicked to the next slide. "On the back there''s loads of writing. It''s a big part of the tablet''s story, obviously, but not that interesting to us." Next slide. "On the front at the top, more writing. The story of how the world was made, apparently, but what we''re interested in today - two of us, anyway - are the pictures." Spectrum clicked and we got a close-up of the lines and scratches that made up the bulk of the image. He clicked again to highlight two concentric circles. "Check out these circles. See the text that wraps round? It says ''Bitter River''. See these triangles? They''re mountains. What are we looking at?"


    Christian said, "You already said. It''s Iraq."


    "It''s a what of Iraq?"


    "A map?"


    I nodded, getting myself worked up. "This little clay tablet is the oldest map of the world in the world. It''s in the British Museum and it''s one of the big boy exhibits. I watched an 18-minute video about this fucking ancient clay tablet that was more interesting and gripping than anything I''ve seen on Netflix in years, but not better than The Traitors. Spectrum, show the next one." He clicked and all the elements of the map were highlighted. "When you first look at the picture it seems like a whole lot of nothing, right? But look! That rectangle is the city of Babylon. That''s the Euphrates river. These little circles are cities. It''s a map, lads!


    "This is the kind of thing that gets my blood pumping. Yes, it''s quite good scoring last-minute winners and dribbling fifty yards at high-speed while defenders try to take you out and you hear the slap of every seat in the stadium because people are standing up to get a better view of your magnificence. But I really love this stuff. The oldest map of the world. It makes me think wow, once upon a time there was a guy who drew the first map of any sort, ever. That''s a wild thought. Imagine someone says hey where''s the nearest Tesco and you get a stick and draw some squiggles in the soil. Follow the river, turn right at the house of the woman who''s trying to invent the wheel. The guy looks at you like you''re crazy. What are those squiggles? That''s the river. That''s the river? Heh. I don''t know, maybe it''s just me but I like daydreaming about that kind of thing.


    "What are maps, anyway? They show you where you can go, obviously, but this particular map was also a warning. This circle was the whole world for these Mesopotamians. The mountains represent distant magical lands, which sounds fun to us because we''ve grown up watching Harry Potter, but for those guys it was scary. The guy who drew this map was saying ''don''t leave home; there be dragons''. Okay so it''s a guide and it''s a warning.


    "Spectrum? Okay so you see the tablet was damaged but it''s clear there used to be eight triangles representing eight mountains, AKA eight exotic ways to get yourself killed. Only three triangles survived the ravages of time, but the boffins who study this stuff were able to work out quite a lot about what it all represented and they could make some pretty good guesses about what was missing, but then they hit a wall."


    I left a pause so unexpected that the mood in the room shifted.


    "Hit a wall. That''s a phrase we use in sports, isn''t it? Yes, the Lees, Banksy, Alex, Sunday, this is a football club, I didn''t forget.


    "We hit a wall against Slovakia, didn''t we lads? We didn''t have a map to get us through that challenge, did we? Ah! I see a few of you are starting to see where this is going. But hang on, because this tablet is really worth a bit more of your time.


    "You see, the writing is called - holy shit I''m going to butcher this - cuneiform. And the guy at the British museum who''s in charge of this tablet is nuts about that language. He was giving a lecture once and there was a woman listening who thought, huh, I am now also obsessed with it. She got a job helping at the museum. One of her tasks was to look in these millions of boxes of stones and rubble looking for anything with this writing on. She found an interesting piece and took it to the mad professor and he thought, as she did, that it looked a lot like the other triangles on this tablet. So they opened the display case of this priceless object and the professor said gosh look this would fit perfectly, wouldn''t it? And just out of curiosity he sort of popped it down and the tablet swallowed it up. It fit so well they couldn''t get it back out! It was a fourth mountain after God knows how many years. A piece of the puzzle! A piece of the map! Now you might think okay cool story bro but there''s no treasure at the end, is there? I prefer The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. And normally I''d agree with you, but what they found was that this mountain was called, in our language, Mount Ararat."


    Youngster half-shot to his feet. "Ararat?"


    "Yep. What does that name mean to you?"


    He looked around the room, awestruck, trying to convey his sense of wonder. "It is where Noah built the ark."


    Spectrum clicked to show a drawing of Noah''s ark with lots of animals leaving it, two by two.


    I went to retrieve the nearest tablet replica and admired it. "A treasure map after all! The tablet describes the location of the ark. If you lived in Babylon and you were brave enough to ignore the fact that you would die if you left home, you could go and see that famous old ship... if you took your map with you." I tucked the tablet replica under my arm and walked around as though deep in thought. "Where do we want to go, where don''t we want to go? It''s my job to carve some maps, isn''t it? The map of this season, for a start. I have some pretty clear ideas about where this club should go, what the team will achieve, and how you should develop as players. If you think this metaphor is overly stretched, check this out."


    The next graphic was a series of concentric circles that looked like a radar. It was divided into 12 segments in three colours. Blue was labeled ''attacking'', red was ''defending'', and green was ''possession''.


    "You''ve all seen these, right?" I said. Almost everyone nodded, but Brooke seemed daunted by the flood of information - her eyes were darting around the graphic trying to find something to latch onto, a key that would explain the rest. "It''s called a radar chart; it''s a quick way to visualise a player''s strengths and weaknesses. This one segment here shows this particular player''s ability to carry the ball forward. The closer it gets to the outside edge, the better. This one is shots, this is assists, pass completion, headers won, and so on and so on. From this chart, you can see at a glance this particular guy is amazing with the ball, causes a lot of threat, but doesn''t defend well. In fact, he''s dogshit. Er, Spectrum, who is this?"


    "It''s Wibbers, Max."


    There was rather a lot of laughter and a lot of teasing of Wibbers who was torn between rising above it and being annoyed. I tutted at Spectrum and looked up at the ceiling. "Come on, man. I said don''t use our players to avoid the very scenario that just happened."


    "When I was doing the slides I got sucked into learning about cuneiform, boss. It''s really interesting! Sorry."


    I shook it off. "Okay, it was a point I was going to bring up later but let''s do it now. I''ve been artificially keeping William''s defensive skills down so that he could focus on being a fucking world-class goal machine, but we''re going to have a talk soon and we''re going to see what kind of map he wants to draw, because in a way this particular map defines who he is. It tells me and his next managers where he can go, where he can''t. You get that? We have some amount of choice in where we want to go as players, which mountains we want to explore."


    I held the replica up next to the radar chart. One was twenty times bigger than the other.


    "Do you all get why I saw this map of the world and saw a radar chart?" It wasn''t universal, but there was a fair amount of nodding. "All right, let''s bring this, ah, full circle." Spectrum clicked to the next slide, which was one we''d seen before - the one that showed the locations of places in ancient Iraq. He clicked again and it was the same image but we''d changed the text. "This is our world. Instead of Babylon, we''ve got the Deva stadium. Instead of this swamp we''ve got Bumpers Bank. Christ, I hope that''s not an omen. Instead of Assyria we''ve got Wrexham. Not sure if that works or not but it probably does, right? Cities always hated their neighbours. Okay but instead of the Euphrates river, the source of all life in the area, I''ve written culture.


    "Our culture is the most important part of our map. Whatever we do, wherever we go, we have to keep that in the centre of our world. If we turn on each other, if we exclude talented players or staff, if we go back to the old ways, we are fucked. Culture is funda-fucking-mental and you will drive me mental if you work against the culture and I will drive you out of the club if I even suspect you''re thinking of considering maybe hypothetically doing some light bullying or voicing problematic opinions on your socials.


    "We''re going to have a day on social media use, by the way. Until then, stick to posting photos of your breakfast.


    "After culture, the next most important thing is training. We''re going to sit with each of you and talk about your personal development. Spectrum is putting together these radar maps for everyone. You''ll say if you agree with the chart and how you think your skills should develop and I''ll tell you the exact opposite but in a way that makes you think it was your idea all along." This got some smiles. "No, but really, we''re going to do that. It''ll help make sure you''re getting the most out of training.


    "Most of you know my thoughts on training. New guys, you can talk to the old guard to find out more, but in short, you''re not paid to play, you''re paid to train. If there''s a two-week slot in December where you probably won''t play, I''ll tell you. That''s not the cue for you to throw a tantrum, that''s the cue for you to pick up your map and train like hell building up your mountains. Do you get me? A two-week break in December to work on your skills? If you think that''s a punishment, don''t leave this room without booking an appointment with Alex. I''m deadly serious.


    "Okay, you need to think about your personal development, your personal career maps, but the team has an incomplete map, too, and so does the club. So do I. For example, as you know we''re testing out 5-3-2 as a way to get solid against teams that might crush us. Working on a cautious, defensive way of playing isn''t fun for me but that''s the point of this tablet, isn''t it? It doesn''t just show your comfort zone, it shows you places you might not want to go. I''m on my own journey and I''ve got to get way, way better in all my mountains.


    "What about the club as a whole? I think it''s pretty clear. We''re going full speed towards the mountains and we''re going up into strange, scary new territory. MD can wear his sackcloth and ashes and wave a stick at us saying turn back, turn back! But it won''t stop us." The man in question shook his head with a wry smile. I held up my tablet. "I''ve got a map, mate. It''ll be fine.


    "That said, the map has got pieces missing. A big topic this season, a big topic for you and for the club is money. We ain''t got none. But look at the edge of our world; we''re surrounded by money. Mountains of money. The closer we get to the edge of our map, the closer to the top, the more money will rain down on us." I beamed. "Holy shit, this is even better than the megashrimp thing. Zach, are you enjoying yourself?"


    He mimed zipping his mouth and that got some laughs.


    "New guys, contrary to how it might seem, I''m not a complete idiot. I know I can''t keep talented players unless I can get our wages somewhere close to market rates. I have to balance a lot of needs." I pointed to the ''Bitter Sea'' that encircled ancient Iraq. "We need a boat to cross the sea. I have to build the boat as well as pay the sailors, do you get me? I also need some enchanted swords, healing potions, and seasickness tablets for Magnus, from what I heard about boot camp.


    "But this isn''t like a normal club. When we have problems, we have the power to fucking fix them.


    "I see the map of our season in different ways. One way is as a spreadsheet with all our fixtures typed in. That''s a very clinical way of organising our thoughts, isn''t it? What about something more like one of those radar graphs? One segment is the league, one''s the AOK Cup, one''s the Vans Trophy, one''s the Cheshire Cup, one''s the FA Cup. Make sense?


    "MD has agreed to a new and I think pretty unique distribution model. Other clubs pay bonuses as you progress in cups, but I think ours is a lot more immediate and motivational. The club and the men''s first team squad will share any cup prize money we earn 50:50. I''ve talked to Christian and come up with a distribution formula that''s quite fair. Every player shares from the pot, but you earn a little more if you''re in a matchday squad. You can talk to him if you want to know more, but the way to benefit most isn''t to score a hat trick in one round but to ensure that we progress as far as possible in as many cups as possible.


    "To that end, I can say that I think it''s important to attack the cups as hard as we can. If the club gets half a million in prize money, every first team squadder is going to get around ten grand. I don''t think there are too many people in this room who would turn their noses up at ten grand.


    "I''ve done calculations and projections and I think prioritising the cups will cost us a few points in the league. We''ll also lose a few points because I''ll be cycling youth team players into the first team as much as I can possibly get away with, especially until January."


    "Why?" said Lee Hudson, who didn''t know about my ambition to win the Youth Cup.


    "Because that''s what we do here - we develop players. Going hard at the FA Youth Cup is part of my journey. If you don''t understand it, that''s fine, we''re looking at different maps.


    "What I think is going to happen is that we''re going to have some frustrating weekends. Things might get a bit scrappy in the league for a while, but new guys, the rest of us have been doing this for three years. We know it works and when we get on a roll it''ll be hard to stop us. It''s three points for a win so we can lose a few matches and still be top of the table. Here''s a wild thought. We could lose 16 matches and finish on 90 points. You get me? That''s an extreme example but that''s why we go for wins and that''s why I''m not going to smash up the dressing room when we lose. League Two has three automatic promotion places. Three! And one club goes up through the playoffs.


    "Will we be one of the four teams promoted? Absolutely. That is absolutely nailed on. We will go for the league title, sure, but right now our map goes off in five paths and I say we run down all of them as fast as we can. When we hit a wall in one, like we probably will against Bolton, we pick ourselves up and go even harder at the others, and somewhere we''ll have a big Ted Lasso motivational sign but it won''t say anything soft and sappy, it''ll be a hard number with a pound sterling sign in front of it. Money, lads! Money and glory. Money, glory, and big love from the fans.


    "I said this last year and was right in a big way. This will be a winning season. We will win a lot of football matches. Some will be easy, some will need luck, and some will seem impossible..." I traced a line on the tablet from Babylon to Noah''s Ark. "But we will find a way."


    ***


    Saturday, August 9


    Back in the big time. Back in football league, just like the old days.


    Actually, not just like the old days. We had changed our away day routine - we would now depart an hour earlier than we would normally have done. Brooke had teased our socials that something special was going on if anyone wanted to come by the Deva stadium in the morning.


    Quite a few people were intrigued enough to stop by and what they saw was the first ride of our swanky new electric team bus.


    It was all-white with the Chester FC crest towards the rear. Absolutely gorgeous on the outside, swanky on the inside. It moved quietly, humming with power like a wizard''s staff. Six players got a morale boost as soon as they stepped onboard, which validated the expenditure, in my opinion.


    "Max!" called out Gary, who was still working for the local newspaper. I went towards him, since it had been made clear by MD that while there was no board I needed to talk to the fans more. That seemed fair enough. MD had also stressed that I couldn''t skip every pre- and post-match interview, especially with the TV companies; they would punish us financially if I didn''t show up. Gary pointed his phone at me. "Tell us about this new bus!"


    "It''s electric, very nice seats, USB chargers and whatnot - we''ll let you have a look inside if you want but we have to set off on time. The idea is we can charge the battery on our solar panels, so it''s, you know, efficient. We have to leave a bit earlier so we can charge it up when we get to the away ground, but I think in a few years all teams will be doing this and clubs will adapt. What else? I wanted to give it a cool name like Red October because then I could say ''engage the silent drive'' instead of ''begin driving'', but that was voted down. Then I wanted to give it a Roman name, like the Deva stadium, and I was looking at famous Roman horses but they don''t trip off the tongue, most of them. That idea turned into us looking at general horse names, right, and I was thinking it should be something Chester related if possible. It really didn''t take long to find the perfect name. The team bus is called... drum roll please... Sealbiscuit."


    "After the famous American horse?"


    "Yeah. I''m pretty sure Seabiscuit was white with a Chester FC badge on its arse, so that tracks."


    "Can you give us any information about the new home kit?"


    "Gary, we did all this. We send you media packs and stuff. Learn to open PDFs, man."


    "I''m asking when you''ll get more stock."


    "What?"


    "It''s sold out, Max! You can''t get one anywhere."


    "They made enough for two years of sales."


    "Apparently not."


    "This is news to me, Gary. Let me ask around. It can''t be sold out after a week, come on. There are probably loads in a van or whatever, but I''ll ask my peeps. Hey, let''s get you on board Sealbiscuit real quick so you can get a feel for it but then we''ve got to go."


    "What are you going to do with all the extra time in Fleetwood?"


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    "I''m experimenting with different motivational strategies this year."


    "Can you tell me more?"


    "Um... only if it goes well. If it bombs, I''m not telling you."


    "I hope it goes well, then!"


    ***


    Match 1 of 46: Fleetwood Town versus Chester FC


    I had spent a few hours alone and with Sandra watching footage of Fleetwood and they seemed extremely wedded to their 3-1-4-2 formation. I had most of their likely first eleven in my database so I knew more or less what to expect, and what I expected was pain. An away match to one of the best teams in the division, one that had come down from League One and would have an average CA in the region of 90. (I was close; they were actually CA 91.)


    They could pass the ball around pretty well, and they had some technical forwards. They also had some cavemen types who would win headers and hurt us on set pieces. In short, they could come at us from different angles and I worried enough about getting spanked that I bought 5-3-2 for 4,532 XP. As usual, the formation I bought was instantly replaced in the perk shop, this time by 3-4-2-1, which sounded like 3-4-3 with two of the strikers pulled into CAM slots. Now that sounded much more like it! It was 5,000 XP, though, and I needed to play with my new toy before buying another one.


    5-3-2 featured a flat back five, three central midfielders, and two strikers.


    The idea was that we would give up the wings, with our full backs doing their best to stop Fleetwood, nicknamed ''The Mac'', from getting quality crosses in. When crosses did come in, we would have three centre backs, so chances were one of our lads would be in pole position to win the header. Also, having so many bodies back would make it hard for Fleetwood''s clever players to find space. No space, no disgrace.


    In front of the back line, our three CMs would scrap and make the game bitty, while having two strong strikers would give us an out ball. If the strikers could hold the ball up, it would give our defence a chance to move away from our penalty box and catch their breath, and if the strikers could go one better and win a free kick in a dangerous position, we might even nab a goal.


    I''d decided to put Sticky in net for the league games, with Ben starting cup ties. Despite what I''d said in the Maxterplan about our priorities for the season, Ben knew he had been demoted. He didn''t throw a tantrum but coming so soon after missing out on the Slovakia experience, his morale collapsed. I could only hope he sorted his head out before Tuesday because we were due to play Bolton Wanderers - a Championship team - and I wasn''t sure I would pick a goalie in such a mood.


    Sticky was tall and would help on crosses and set pieces. He was not good with the ball at his feet but we didn''t ask him to be - most teams in League Two used their goalie as an extra passing option, but the goalies weren''t technical enough to actually play the role so it was pretty stupid. I was using Sticky as more or less a traditional shot-stopper. It prevented us from doing certain moves, but unlike most managers I worked with what I had.


    Our back five - God, what a horrible phrase - was Eddie, Christian, Zach, Magnus, and Lee H.


    The midfielders were Youngster - I would slide him back to DM for even more protection - plus Ryan Jack and Lee C.


    Henri and Dazza were the strikers.


    That gave us an average CA of 69.8, which was feeble but I couldn''t fret too much about it. We would improve quickly!


    Our level versus that of the opposition made me decide against naming any of the youth team on the bench, except for those who were in the first team squad. No Tyson, no Chas. But the bench was very, very pleasing, and not only because I had seven guys to choose from and was allowed to use five.


    Ben, a backup goalie better than the starter.


    Josh Owens as cover for left back, plus an option for left-mid if I wanted to change formation. Dan Badford as a midfield schemer. Wibbers and Pascal in case there was a chance to put some pressure on Fleetwood. Tom Westwood as a perfect player for a scenario where we didn''t have much possession - I was sorely tempted to use him from the start.


    And there was me. I felt light on my feet, agile, streamlined.


    Yeah, Fleetwood would probably dominate, probably win, and probably win by a few goals, but if they were slack or stupid we had a few weapons. Getting a win was on our map, even if it was not exactly a quick and easy journey.


    "Christian, I''m gonna rouse the troops now."


    He nodded and tapped Zach on the arm. They moved around the dressing room getting everyone''s attention. Because we were so early we had loosened the rules on bringing phones and iPads into the space and they were listening to music or watching TikToks - with headphones, otherwise it would have been unbearable.


    I got a notebook and peered at it as though I''d written loads of notes, which I hadn''t. "Okay. New season, new motivational methods. This is one I learned from, er," I flipped back and forth a few pages. "Oh, yeah. Literally every other manager ever since Babylonian times." I handed Sandra her notebook back and went on a single lap of the dressing room. "Personally, I like to motivate you by telling you that you are good at this sport and that we have a mint plan and maybe I give you some unifying theme or image to think about, but we''ve had enough of that this week."


    "Not me, boss," said Zach. "I''m ready for more."


    "Yeah? Cool, but we''re like a convoy. We move at the speed of our slowest ship. Don''t we, Lee C?"


    "What?" he said, which got some sniggers. He got the implication and smiled. "I bought a map, boss, after your speech."


    "Oh?" I said, interested. "A map of where? Mesopotamia?"


    "No, it''s a map of where in England people say bread roll, bap, bun, or muffin."


    The laughter did a lot for the mood. Lee Contreras, you beautiful idiot! "That''s great, Lee. Very useful." I was ready to start, but the tone was all wrong. We needed to be calm and serious to better absorb what was about to happen. "Okay let''s all count to ten because the next part isn''t funny." I left a pause and fussed with my socks. The new Grindhog ones had a very slight tendency to slip down my legs - when the others went out for their final warm ups I would get some tape or something. "Guys, you know I believe in you, but that opinion isn''t universal. I''m going to play you an extract from the Pyramid Schemers podcast. Before the season starts, they predict where they think each team will finish, from last place, 24th, to first. They think the top three will be Fleetwood, Cambridge, and Mansfield. We''re going to listen to what they say about you, okay?"


    I had connected my phone to the speakers already, so I opened my podcast app - not the default iPhone one, I''m not a savage - and pressed play.


    ***


    Extract from Pyramid Schemers, the original and best podcast dedicated to the 72 teams in tiers 2-4.


    Rocky: And that''s why we''re predicting that Newport County will finish twenty-first.


    Mike: Moving on to the club we have in twentieth place... it''s the new boys. It''s Chester. The Seals.


    Rocky: The Blues.


    Mike: The Blue Seals. We disagreed on this one, didn''t we?


    Rocky: We did. I am a little more optimistic than you. What have you got against Chester, Mike?


    Mike: Nothing, as you know. Big fan of Chester, great to see them back in the football league. I do have one or two doubts, though.


    Rocky: Let''s hear ''em.


    Mike: So we don''t pretend to be experts in the National League.


    Rocky: That''s true, we don''t.


    Mike: But they scraped their way to the title and their record against the top six teams was poor. Congratulations on the win, of course, but if you''re scraping by like that in the National League, to compete in League Two you''re gonna need a good transfer window, and I don''t think they''ve had that. What we know of the squad, of the key players, is not encouraging.


    Rocky: I like the goalkeeper.


    Mike: Steve Icke? He was a player with a lot of promise but we saw him drop down the leagues. If we were being uncharitable we might say National League was his level.


    Rocky: That''s so harsh.


    Mike: I know but we can only call it as we see it, right? Who else do we know? Eddie Moore, the left-back, didn''t pull up any trees at Sutton and I heard they were surprised to get a fee for him. Christian Fierce - we know a lot of League Two sides looked at him but none took it any further. Zach Green couldn''t get a game for Wrexham at this level. Lee Hudson completes a back line of players not wanted by League Two sides - couldn''t get a game for Barrow. That is a back four that would worry me if I were a Chester fan.


    Rocky: Not if you had one of the stars of the under 20 World Cup patrolling in front of them.


    Mike: Youngster.


    Rocky: Remember the name.


    Mike: Youngster.


    Rocky: Yes. You said that.


    Mike: I thought you said repeat the name. Can Chester keep him, though? I don''t know if they can keep a player that good, if he''ll want to play with - all due respect - players who aren''t on his level.


    Rocky: We''ve seen Ryan Jack and Lee Contreras do well in the football league.


    Mike: You''re really positioning me to be the naysayer on this one, aren''t you? Ryan Jack, great player, amazing player... ten years ago. Lee Contreras couldn''t get in a poor Tranmere team. I mean...


    Rocky: Contreras played his best football when Max Best was at Tranmere.


    Mike: Now that is something I definitely agree with. For a month he looked quality, but he couldn''t sustain it. Chester will need that partnership looking good again because I don''t see a lot of quality in that midfield.


    Rocky: We''ve seen Pascal Bochum in cup matches.


    Mike: He''s lively, innee? Fast. Clever. I can see him doing some damage. Wes Hayward, not so much. Wayward. But at least they''ve got a brilliant striker who did really well for Reading. Oh, wait.


    Rocky: If that''s a pop at Henri Lyons, I''m gonna defend him slightly. Reading were a complete mess then.


    Mike: His goalscoring record in the National League was fine. Just fine. We saw what a good League Two striker does when he plays in that league, and that good striker was called Marcus Wainwright. I think Lyons overtook him in goals scored near the end of the season, which is great except Wainwright had been sold five months earlier.


    Rocky: What do you think about Darren Smith?


    Mike: I think he''s a big lump who doesn''t score goals. I think he might fluke one in if you put a perfect cross on his head.


    ***


    I pressed pause and checked the faces of the squad. It seemed to me that this kind of thing was high-risk. Slagging the players off before a big game! But it wasn''t me saying that most of my squad weren''t up to the level, it was two nerds who had never played the sport. Football managers often posted critical newspaper headlines or tweets in the dressing room to rile their players up.


    Henri swore loudly in French. "Max, I want to shove it up their arse!"


    "Go for it," I said. "Just don''t get sent off or they''ll be the ones laughing."


    His eyes blazed at the image, but he nodded.


    Sticky was fuming. He was absolutely pissed at his portrayal, but he was able to think clearly. "Max. If they think we''re so shit, why don''t they have us in last place?"


    I didn''t like that question. "Er, they think there are a few teams worse than us, is all."


    Sticky got to his feet and growled in a way that was almost frightening. "Play the rest."


    "It''s an hour-long podcast, Steve."


    "Press play. I want to hear the rest."


    I glanced at Sandra, who gave me a tiny shrug. "Er," I said. "Have we got time? I don''t think we''ve got time."


    "We''ve got time," said Vimsy, who wasn''t quite on my wavelength. I really didn''t want to play the rest. If the first part of the podcast''s analysis of our squad could be used as motivation, as spite fuel, the rest was... well, it was cringe.


    ***


    Rocky: What do you think about Darren Smith?


    Mike: I think he''s a big lump who doesn''t score goals. I think he might fluke one in if you put a perfect cross on his head.


    Rocky: You''re talking about a team with Max Best on the wing. Max Best taking set pieces.


    Mike: That''s true. Smith could have decent numbers by the end of the season. And who knows? Maybe he''s better than he looks. It wouldn''t be hard. So why have we got Chester as high as they are? Why don''t we have them going straight back down?


    Rocky: We''ve said it - Max Best. He was unbelievable at Tranmere. He has this habit now of coming on for the last twenty minutes of games but there''s no way he won''t score enough goals and create enough mayhem for Chester to get enough points to avoid the drop.


    Mike: As a player he is far, far too good for the level. What about him as a manager?


    Rocky: There I''m torn. He didn''t get any wins from his five at Grimsby and I think that while it''s clever the way he adapts his formations and tactics on a game by game basis, in the end you do want a manager with a defined style.


    Mike: I''ve heard from a lot of insiders who say he''s the real deal, that he''s just as good as he thinks he is.


    Rocky: Which would be worrying for the rest of the league... in a different club.


    Mike: Right. So he adds twenty points as a manager, thirty points as a player. Chester are safe before they''ve kicked a ball!


    Rocky: What''s annoying is that''s probably true. But still, he''s working with the lowest budget in the league. You can''t defy financial gravity. I think he''ll get them safe this season and move onto bigger and better things next year. So long, thanks for the memories.


    Mike: Would you have him at Oxford?


    Rocky: [Pause.] Yes.


    Mike: In nineteenth place, another northern team with a budget a long way south of the others... Accrington Stanley.


    ***


    I shook my head as I pressed pause. That had been a disaster. Last time I''d stopped the recording, the lads were ready to go and smash bricks with their skulls. Now the mood had shifted.


    Uh-oh.


    "So, er," I said, but Sticky took over.


    "You heard the pricks," he boomed, bending slightly to look his team mates in the eye. "We''re shit, the boss is great. Is that right? We''ve got seventy minutes to prove ''em wrong. Get your arses out there!"


    Christian yelled something, as did Zach and Lee C, and the dressing room filled with shouts before it emptied.


    When the first eleven were gone, I turned to Sandra. "What do you think?"


    "Not sure," she said. "I think they were motivated enough beforehand, don''t you? First game of the season, first game in the EFL. We didn''t need the podcast today. Maybe do that in the third match."


    "Yeah but you can''t use the pre-season predictions before the third match, can you? It''s now or never."


    Sandra thought about it. "I think I liked it, overall. It was getting my blood boiling somehow."


    "It''s because what they were saying was true and that''s how we''re perceived on the outside and that''s a shock because in here we think positively of everyone. I read a lot of autobiographies of former players and so much of their motivation is them hearing a negative opinion and saying fuck you, I''ll prove you wrong."


    "I''m more interested in the players who didn''t get named. Magnus. William. Tom, Dan, Josh. They''re not even worth a slagging-off. That could be just as effective."


    "Wow," I said, because I hadn''t even thought of that. "I''m actually a genius."


    ***


    The Highbury Stadium, definitely in the top three most famous stadiums of that name, is located on the coast between Blackpool and Morecambe, where we had lost pre-season friendlies.


    The main stand was awesome, with its sleek curving roof, though the rest of the stadium was pretty functional. 831 Chester fans had travelled up to witness a big piece of the club''s history and they were in the mood to sing, sing, sing. I went over to the Percy Ronson Stand before kick off and let them serenade me.


    I had to talk to the TV people before the match but instead of answering their questions I quite reasonably pointed out that as player-manager I needed to warm up with my players and Sandra should be allowed to do the pre-match interviews. The interviewer seemed sympathetic to that point of view and since it was a unique situation it seemed that as long as I was in the matchday squad I would be spared one of the more tedious duties in football.


    Sadly, that was the only win I got, because when the match finally kicked off, Fleetwood did a number on us. Our lads stuck to the plan very well. Eddie and Lee H worked hard to prevent crosses, the centre backs won headers, Youngster mopped up. But it was one-way traffic and The Cod Army had far too much power and craft for us.


    Quite early in the half I realised it would be a miracle if we got anything from the match, so I experimented with the 5-3-2 setup. I''d already moved Youngster back one slot but there were countless little tweaks to test. I created a hot key that would switch Zach, my best passer from deep, from short passes to long balls. I felt that if I could mix things up we could take teams by surprise. It might have worked if we had more control of midfield, but we didn''t. We didn''t have control anywhere. Nor did my use of the With Ball and Without Ball screens achieve a great deal. Most of our match ratings settled on 6, with Youngster on 7 and Dazza on 5.


    Still, it was all instructive and interesting, in a dispassionate sort of way. From the moment the second goal went in, the Fleetwood fans turned from cheering their team to jeering us. They sang ''League Two? You''re having a laugh!'' They sang ''Fuck off back to Wales''. They sang ''two-nil in your cup final!''


    Their dugout, with a mediocre former player ruling the roost, was pretty classless on the whole, but in fairness I''d be classless too if the most famous news story about me started with the words ''Disgraced Scottish Midfielder''.


    To the great disappointment of Vimsy, I decided there was no point getting stuck in, getting involved, because at two-nil down it was hard to see us finding our way back into the match. We had too many players who were thirty, thirty-five points behind their rivals. Too many parts of our tablet had chipped off. It was enough for today that we were battling, that we were together.


    "What do you think?" said Sandra.


    "About what?"


    "About half-time. Your speech."


    "Oh. I''ve got nothing. Do you see a way back?"


    "Yes. You let the boys settle down, catch their breath, then you say ''my favourite band is called Fleetwood Maps'' and you riff on that."


    I smiled but my heart wasn''t in it. "This game''s dead. We''re done. Write it off, use five subs, get minutes in legs. Slap them at the Deva."


    "Mmm," she said, non-committal.


    I did my usual routine - checking match ratings, Condition scores, looking at possible injuries. That was all fine but the fire Beth had promised would return when the season resumed just wasn''t there. Maybe it had gone. Like, proper gone.


    "Are you all right?"


    "Yeah," I said, and it was true. I was all right. I was healthy and had a high income and was good at the main part of my job. On Tuesday night I would use Triple Captain and Bench Boost against Bolton Wanderers - why not? - and with that boost I would conceivably be good enough as a player to do something very, very naughty. "It''s weird we have more chance against a Championship side than one from League Two."


    "Do we, though?"


    "Yeah," I said. "Bolton will watch this and think we''re shit. If they put out one reserve too many we''ll fucking go for the jugular and see what happens. Fleetwood are this division''s Slovakia. A slightly thinner brick wall we keep crashing against." I sighed. "Starting the season with the hardest possible match is brutal. Don''t do this to us again, Mr. Fixture Computer."


    "Is it really a computer?"


    "I think so. I''ll ask when I go to the first EFL meeting."


    "Mmm," she said again, like it was her fucking catchphrase.


    "What?"


    "Nothing," she said. She looked over the pitch. "We''ll stay like this, will we? 5-3-2. You''ll come on for the last twenty, run around a bit."


    "Ugh. Can''t be bothered. It''s just an injury risk, innit?"


    Sandra bit her thumb nail. "Mmm. The fans would like it, though. Maybe you can do a nutmeg or some mid-match tekkers. Give them something to talk about on the drive home. Come on, Max. Bit of showboating for the fans. They''ve waited fifteen years for this."


    I found myself nodding. "Yeah. I''ll do some megs and one minor madness but I''m not going in for tackles. Yeah, okay."


    ***


    At half-time I was calm and technocratic. I tapped the magnets and gave out some pieces of advice. The usual things, like noticing that the number 20 preferred passing to the 9 than the 10. Zach could be on his toes for that.


    I was telling Dazza that he was getting dragged too far from Henri and was moving his magnet around when I stopped talking. I had a weird moment in a soundless bubble. I stepped back from the tactics board deeply, deeply confused.


    "How long has that been there?" I said.


    "What?" said the Brig, worried. Worried for my safety, worried for my sanity.


    "It''s because I wanted to move Youngster," I said, slowly. "I didn''t see it. How can I miss something so basic? What?"


    I stepped forward and reset the formation to 5-3-2. Then I slid one of the three centre-backs to the DM slot and fixed the gaps between the two remaining ones, just like the curse did.


    "Henri," I said. "What do you think?"


    He squinted. "4-1-3-2?"


    "Yeah. Do you like it?"


    "It''s still very narrow, but yes, I prefer it to 5-3-2. Though, of course," he added, sensing I was in a strange mood, "it is rational to use that formation today."


    I adjusted one of the magnets because it was a hair''s breadth out of place - I stepped back and threw my hands up like I''d been shocked.


    "What, sir? What happened?"


    I turned, slowly, with my hands up at first. I slunk to the side of the board so that I was facing everyone but could still move the magnets. "This was my favourite formation in Champion Manager." That''s why it hadn''t jumped out at me! "I ran this for years. Carlisle United, champions of Europe. That was based on this." I stared at the formation. As Henri had said, it was too narrow. Not a Max Best formation at all. But you''d get width if you had fast, attacking full backs with great stamina... If you had Alphonso Davies on the left and Roddy Jones on the right... And - yes, it was coming back to me - you needed goals from midfield. Ryan Jack and Lee Contreras were not my dream goalscoring CMs but I knew there was a way to tweak this formation to get them into the box. "A-ha," I said, chuckling to myself. "We''re doing this. Magnus, go to CM."


    "Yes, boss."


    Sandra tilted her head and looked at the board - she wasn''t impressed, I could tell. "You don''t think we''ll get overrun in defence?"


    "No," I said. I tapped the board a few times. "This is overpowered. Oh! And this is how we get Pascal on. Mate, make sure you''re warmed up, yeah? I''m not sure when. I need to take a look at it but I think I want late runs into the box, see if you can get on the ends of things."


    "Yes, boss."


    I faced the board with my eyes closed, running through the implications. More parity in midfield meant fewer attacks coming at us. Josh would give us more threat on the left than Eddie, but only fractionally and he was still so raw. It was good Sandra had made me use him against Slovakia, though. Josh was supposed to be a wing-back, meaning he wanted to play further forward than Eddie or Cole. It was easy to imagine tweaking this 4-1-3-2 to suit him. And having three CMs meant I could sub on for one of those guys and give myself a free role. It wouldn''t matter so much if I went a-roaming if I was one of three.


    "Boss?" It was Wibbers. "Did you just find an old map?"


    I beamed at him. "Ha! I don''t know. Maybe! Come on, lads. Go and get a grip of this match. Let''s see if there''s treasure at the end of this one."


    "Or if it''s dragons," said Sticky, morbidly.


    ***


    Okay so Fleetwood took their foot off the gas while we added a few tenths to our match ratings, but the start of the second half was really gratifying. We looked way better, and as I''d thought, having the extra midfielder did more to stop attacks than the fifth defender.


    There was still something of a chasm between the elevens, though, and the big chances that were created were created by the home team.


    "It''s better, isn''t it?"


    "Yes," said Sandra. "This suits us better. I think..."


    "What?"


    "I think it suits you better. You don''t like playing five at the back. You''d play four at the back and three defensive midfielders, but not five at the back."


    "Er, I think I did that once. We had two men sent off. Three DMs, yeah. Huh. I don''t think it even occurred to me that day to put five at the back."


    Sandra nodded. "We take our lead from you. If you don''t believe in something, it won''t work. It was worth doing it to get to a formation you do like."


    "Do you prefer this to 4-1-4-1?" I said. Sandra really wasn''t keen on that one.


    She stuck her tongue out. "They''re about equal. Do we want to play up the wings or through the middle? We, er..."


    "Go on."


    "We''re a bit short on reliable wingers and midfielders who thrive in tight spaces. I wish we had discussed 4-1-3-2 before we signed who we signed."


    I nodded. That would obviously have been better but I couldn''t see that it would have changed anything. Maybe we wouldn''t have gone for Lee C. "5-3-2 will let us give minutes to Sowunmi. That''s good. And I think Wibbers will do well as one of the three midfielders behind the strikers."


    Sandra brightened up. "That''s true. I''d like to see that."


    I was always worried about putting young players on in matches we were losing. So far it hadn''t blown up in my face but everyone said there was a risk of it messing with their heads. Just because we had a sports psychologist didn''t mean I needed to go round creating problems. "Not today, I reckon. I think we''ll give Tom a run out. Him, Pascal, me and that''s that."


    "Okay."


    ***


    With 70 minutes on the clock, the match was going pretty much as it had been. The Chester fans were singing and banging on the back of the stand almost non-stop. It was the party they had been longing for and the scoreline was almost irrelevant. Whether I could afford to lose five or six matches in a row, this one was almost a free hit.


    The Fleetwood fans were enjoying themselves and their team''s performance. Fleetwood''s manager was being a buffoon on the touchline. He looked like the sort who would trip a player as he raced down the line.


    "Who will we bring off?" said Sandra, interrupting my thoughts so abruptly I shook my head like a dog.


    "Oh. What do you think?"


    "Dazza and Ryan."


    "Agreed."


    "Now?"


    "Sure."


    Dazza had run around a lot and tried to affect the game. Against players his own age, his physicality was a huge advantage, but the Fleetwood centre backs were older, just as physical, and a lot more streetwise. Tom Westwood was worse than Dazza in almost every way, but he had been training with us and in his brief career he had played against a lot of hard bastards. Tom very quickly showed that I was onto something when I''d thought about naming him in the starting lineup - this kind of match, where we needed the strikers to do a lot of donkey work, a lot of thankless running, was perfect for him. His CA was way lower than Dazza''s, but if I gave him minutes he would start to catch up.


    "Give Tom some praise," I said.


    "Do it yourself," said Sandra, giving me a tiny push towards the fourth official. "Magnus is tired. Now remember, you promised me one nutmeg and one tekkers."


    I sighed and looked up at a floodlight. I just didn''t feel like it. "Fine," I said.


    ***


    There was still no fire in my belly and no ice in my veins but as I was announced to the fans, the away mob went bonkers, soon settling into a rolling rendition of ''Max Best''s blue-and-white army''. It perked me up, put a spring in my step, which allied to my general physical well-being made me feel like a baby gazelle.


    I bounced and boinged around the pitch, following the ball, helping my mates out, one-touching it to someone''s feet, flicking it over someone''s head before collecting on the other side, doing pointless tricks in the middle of nowhere.


    The Chester fans lapped it up and they started yelling Ol¨¦ when I played simple passes. One Fleetwood player, a prick called John Allen, didn''t like that and he booted me up the arse.


    I got up and laughed in his face, which I''m prepared to admit could be construed as mildly annoying. He asked me if I would like to go home in a fucking ambulance, which I''m sorry to say made me laugh even harder. I had the chance to send the free kick into the box but I told Pascal to pass the ball short to me and when he did, I dribbled straight at John Allen, did a couple of stepovers, and nutmegged the shit out of him.


    I passed to Henri and ran for the return, but he was isolated. Had there been an option to his left - some kind of hard-working Irishman with high stamina, perhaps - he might have been able to keep the move alive, but he didn''t.


    I shrugged off my disappointment in record time. It was always tough when you injected forward momentum into a move and someone else ruined it, but my general lack of belly fire was useful in that regard. It was my fault that Aff wasn''t there, and my fault that there was no left-mid of any kind.


    As Fleetwood rushed forward, after the referee turned around, John Allen smashed into me. A proper forearm smash to the jawline. I just about saw it coming and got my arm in the way to lessen the blow but it still sent me crashing to the turf. Henri saw it and went mental. The Chester fan party turned vicious. One word from me and they would have stormed the main stand.


    I waited on the turf, propping myself up with my elbows, until the ref let Physio Dean come to look at me.


    "Have I lost any teef?" I said, as he looked in my mouth.


    "No. There''s some blood though. Hold still."


    John Allen came over. "Not so funny now, is it?"


    "Max!" complained Henri. "I want to end him."


    I did something I normally hated doing on a football pitch - I spat. It came out pretty red. I grabbed some water, swigged, and spat again. "Why? He''s nothing. He''s nobody." I swigged on the water as I started to lift myself from the turf.


    The ref turned up. "You good to go, Best?"


    "I''m good to go whenever the fuck I''m good to go," I said, staring at him. "I just got elbowed in the face, as you''ll see on TV again and again, and you did nothing. You bottled it. You get a zero in my match report. Do not add insult to injury by making me hurry. Are we fucking clear?"


    "Don''t talk to me like that."


    "Why? What are you gonna do? Elbow me in the face? Join the fucking queue."


    I turned to Dean but found that he had gone. He was being led away by Henri, who was whispering in his ear. I still had the water bottle so I dropkicked it in the general direction of our dugout.


    I heard the home fans roar with approval while the away fans got one step closer to rioting. Why? Behind me, the ref was holding a yellow card over his head. Aimed at me.


    Yellow card for getting elbowed in the face. Guy doing the elbowing gets away scot-free.


    Yeah. Tell you what, mate. I felt a bit of the old fire in the belly. Not an awful lot of the ice in the veins.


    I pottered around for a minute feeling my jaw, spitting what might have been flecks of blood. And muttering. Chuntering. Getting myself worked up.


    The ball was fizzed to John Allen and I saw my chance. I sprinted at him and he laid the ball off - just as I knew he would. I got to the ball just as it reached its intended target, one of the centre-backs. I shoulder-barged the defender and as I fell away, I dragged the ball to the right. Slightly too far behind, but I dragged it again, and was just bringing it under my spell when I realised I was about to get clattered from behind, and this one would really hurt.


    So I drag-rolled the ball backwards and to the right before jumping slightly. Allen caught me but not enough to make me lose balance. I landed and suddenly everything was aligned - as the Fleetwood players got in each other''s way, I pushed the ball forward and to the right and hit it hard and low from thirty-five yards out.


    For the first few yards, the ball was hidden behind a defender, but the goalie still had time to get across and save it. Or so you''d think. Though he dived, it was like he got shorter when he did so. I found the bottom-right corner but I needn''t have been so accurate. This wasn''t the Slovakian national team goalie; this was a League Two journeyman who had nothing to do for eighty minutes except take very slow goal kicks.


    Two-one!


    Chester FC had scored its first fourth tier goal in fifteen years and the fans took the phrase limbs to new levels. Normally when you say limbs it means people jumping for joy, throwing their hands up, but I swear I saw some fucking legs in that seething mass of bodies. Guys doing handstands.


    It was a nice moment, I guess, one I might enjoy in retrospect, but right then and there I wanted my teammates to come and celebrate with me. We hugged and kissed and bumped each other in the normal fashion, but very, very close to John Allen. There was footage of me trying to include him in the celebrations but I''m pretty sure that was a deepfake. That dubious footage was followed by real video of what the TV company called ''a mass brawl'' but they really do go looking for narratives, sometimes. There was nothing in it.


    By the time the match finally resumed I hadn''t quite calmed down, by which I mean I had worked myself into a fucking whirlwind of hate and skill and put on an eight-minute show that drew the word ''breathtaking'' from the commentator, from Sandra, and on the next episode of the Pyramid Schemers podcast.


    I pinged long passes, I dribbled, I played one-touch, I fired a shot just over, I slapped a volley just wide. John Allen kept trying to give me verbals, kept trying to kick me, but my fury had long since risen to new levels, leaving him as one of the slugs it was my mission to destroy.


    With me running riot, the rest of the team suddenly clicked. Zach fired a pass to Lee C, who touched it first time back to Pascal. He had a nice angle for a pass to Tom, who touched it to Henri and spun away for the return.


    It never came. A Fleetwood defender, safe in the knowledge that the ref only booked players for being smacked in the gob, wrestled Henri to the ground before he could send the return pass.


    We got the free kick but - it almost made me laugh, which would have broken the spell - Henri got a yellow card for getting in the defender''s face. The defender was not carded.


    The free kick though, was in a dream position. Whether you prefer the early Fleetwood Mac line up or the one that released Rumours, you can''t deny that having a free kick twenty-five yards out, five yards to the left of the centre of the goal, is Max Best territory.


    John Allen took up the only position for which he was truly suited on a football pitch - what professionals call ''the slug''. Perhaps you have seen this. The goalkeeper assembles a wall of three or four men. They are supposed to jump as the ball is kicked in order to make it even harder for the ball to get past them. The act of jumping leaves a gap under their feet, though, which free-kick maestros of the past learned to exploit. Thus ''the slug'' was born. It wriggles to the ground and lies there, prone and useless, simply to block one potential route to goal.


    I closed my eyes and sketched a map. I could smash the ball wide and bend it into the far post, but the goalie was stood to that side. Even if I hit it hard, he''d be favourite, especially now that he had let a goal in and was wide awake.


    I could Beckham the ball up and over the wall, with enough curl so that even if the goalie danced across to my left and jumped, he wouldn''t be able to get a hand to it. For bonus points, I would aim between the heads of two of the wall - ideally the two with the lowest Bravery scores. They were the guys least likely to throw their heads at the ball, after all.


    That last option wasn''t available to me, since the two in the key position were cavemen from the warrior class.


    By the time the ref had finished fussing over everything, I still hadn''t decided what I wanted to do. He blew his whistle and I tried to make eye contact with the goalie - sometimes that helped. He would only look at the ball, though, so there was no advantage there.


    There was something about the way he was doing little tippy-toed moves that made me think he wanted to rush across goal and make a spectacular flying save. So I thought: okay, bubs. Let''s see how you get on.


    I took a step back, and two slow steps forward. That was a big old neon sign that said I was going to clip the ball slow and accurate over the wall. The goalie took three tiny, quick steps in that direction... and I slapped the ball to where the keeper had been. With a bit of extra leg speed, the shot went fast, up and down, but it was the element of surprise that did it. For the second time in the match the goalie did an inept, hunched dive that made him look like a rank amateur.


    Two-all!


    I took a few steps in the direction of John Allen, just to check if he had seen it from his position as the slug, but I found myself being bundled away by Henri, Zach, Christian, Lee C, Lee H - the whole fucking team. I found myself in front of eight hundred and thirty-one bouncing Chester fans, over eight hundred of whom seemed to be trying to make their own heads explode by screaming.


    I cupped my hand to my ear. I can''t hear you.


    I''m told the resulting roar could be heard from Bradford.


    ***


    At the final whistle, which came too early for me to finish what John Allen had started, I gave a Maxy Two-Thumbs to the away fans, then walked off the pitch ignoring everyone, especially Fleetwood''s manager and the referee. I grabbed Dean and took him to the dressing room. My jaw was really starting to hurt so I wrote a text that I showed him but didn''t actually send.


    I want the stuff.


    Dean rolled his eyes. "No, Max. Come on. We talked about that."


    Not in the mood. Give me the stuff.


    One good thing about owning a dentist was having access to all kinds of pharmaceuticals that normal people would struggle to get hold of. Dean looked up, sighed, but nodded. He went to his personal kit bag, looked around furtively, and rummaged in one of the side pockets.


    ***


    "Max Best, your first ever match in League Two."


    I shook my head.


    "No? Right, Grimsby."


    I did a rolling-forward hand gesture. Keep going.


    "Okay, and Tranmere, yes. But your first as the manager of Chester."


    I did an okay gesture. Correct!


    "Two-all. Do you think that''s a fair reflection on the course of the match?"


    I shrugged.


    "It''s traditional to talk, Max, in these interviews."


    I shook my head and pointed to my mouth. Can''t. I mimed elbowing someone, then mimed being elbowed.


    "Sorry, what are you doing?"


    I rolled my eyes and took a tablet computer from Dean, who was watching me with a nervous, sweaty sheen on his forehead. I tapped the screen. One incredible thing about being in League Two with every match televised was that footage was easy to come by. I had the incident where Allen had hit me - I let it play out.


    "You got elbowed?"


    I gave him the kind of look Dani Smith-Smithe gave me when I said something stupid. I backed it up by replaying the incident.


    "And you can''t talk?"


    I shook my head, and mimed showing a yellow card.


    "Yellow card? You got a yellow card, but John Allen didn''t."


    I nodded, making a stupid laughing sound.


    "Er, Max, I think I should let you go and get some treatment, perhaps. Congratulations on your two goals and a hard-earned point for your team."


    I held the tablet up with it paused on the exact moment John Allen''s elbow crashed into my face. The most perfect part was that the name ''Allen'' was clearly visible on his shirt. I knew this next scene would be the one that was used as the thumbnail, the one shared on social media. My face, the image on the tablet. I smiled at my interviewer. Upon opening my lips, the viewers could see blood all over my teeth, in every crevice, every nook and cranny. It was absolutely disgusting.


    "Er, Max Best, Chester''s two-goal hero. Thank you very much."


    ***


    Back in the dressing room, Dean gave me a toothbrush and I carefully set about brushing my teeth in front of one of the sinks.


    "What the hell is this?" cried Sticky, as he led a throng of players inside. "Are you still bleeding? Dean!"


    "He''s not bleeding," said Dean, folding his arms. He shook his head a few more times, but then unfolded his arms and laughed. "It''s red dye. Disclosing tablets from the dentist. You use them to find plaque so you can clean your teeth better or, you know, show your patients they''re not cleaning their teeth well."


    Sticky was astonished. "So Max doesn''t clean his teeth?"


    I laughed so hard I nearly choked on some red dye. I spat out a mouthful. "Don''t make me laugh, Steve. It really does hurt. The fucker got me good. I just wanted to make sure everyone knew he got me. Know what I mean? If he doesn''t get a ban, let''s just say I''ll bring it up at the next EFL meeting."


    Sticky marvelled at me for a moment while I got back to brushing my teeth. The dye was weirdly persistent. Sticky mused. "Seems like the nerds were right."


    "They''re not right," I said. "You''re mint. You kept us in the game so a sub could run at tired legs. That''s the plan." I washed the brush under the tap and got back to scrubbing. "Team," I added, as an afterthought, but it came out more like ''eem''.


    Sticky was unusually talkative. "Does today''s match fit the map theme or do we go on impulse, full-bore, when we feel like it?"


    Henri, exhausted but happy, slapped Sticky on the back. "It fits the theme. We have a mapmaker; Fleetwood don''t. If they did, they would know not to mess with Chesters. Their map would have an arrow pointing to us and it would say ''do not wake the dragon''."


    "I''m not a dragon," I said, but my mouth was sore and full of fluid.


    "What?" said Sticky. A few people came closer to hear better. Vimsy, the Brig, Sandra, Magnus.


    "I woh a wa-on!" I said.


    Vimsy pointed, as energetic as he ever got. "I want Rhiannon! He wants Rhiannon. Who''s in charge of the music? Come on, hurry up! We never get any good tunes around here! Five at the back, keep it tight first twenty, score from a set piece, running battles, nick a point and blast some Stevie Nicks. Finally, a day I can enjoy from start to finish. Ah! It makes sitting through history lessons worth it. Yes, lads! Come on! You know the words! Come on! Will you ever win? Yes! At Bolton on Tuesday."

 11.13 - Adding Insult to Injury

    13.


    On average, a footballer sustains two injuries per season, missing 23 days of action. Contact injuries represent 30% of cases. Hamstrings account for over 40% of soft tissue and muscular injuries.


    ***


    Monday, August 11


    "All right, lads, settle down. I''ve decided we''re going to bin off the usual drills - it''s time for us to learn Relationism. It''s going to be strange at first but when it clicks we''re going to be an unstoppable force. Relationism is new for some of you, so here''s Margot Robbie in a bubble bath to explain."


    I sipped my tea.


    "Max?" It was Henri.


    I woke from my reverie and remembered where I was - BoshCard HQ. There was no bubble bath, no champagne, and - well, there was a blonde Australian. "I was just thinking about The Big Short."


    "Is that your favourite movie?" said Youngster, with a big smile.


    "No, but we''re doing a financial planning talk soon, so..." I took a big sip of tea and pushed myself off the wall. This meeting could probably have been done as a long WhatsApp message but it was good to have rituals. If we skipped a Monday meeting it would discombobulate the lads, and the last thing I wanted was to get a phone call from a local farmer saying twenty lost and confused players had wandered into his field.


    "All right," I said, and Christian glared at everyone until there was quiet. "Some admin. We got some soft tissue injuries on Saturday and as far as I can tell they happened celebrating the second goal." The lads smiled as they relived the moment. "I know it''s a mad release of all the crap that''s built up but we can''t get injured celebrating goals. We don''t have the resources, guys. Can you just? Can you not? Sometimes I can''t even. If you''ve got a dodgy hamstring today tell Dean. The yoga lady is here at Bosh this lunchtime and I might ask if she can come in the morning, too. Quite fancy a bit of the old yogs right now. I''ve invented a new pose I call the Celebrating Seal. Doesn''t involve pulling a hammie or getting a groin strain or any kind of injury. Really modern stuff, this.


    "Our new home kit sold out. We''re talking to Grindhog about getting more, or not. Brooke thinks it might not be worth doing another run and we''ll build demand for the next release, but that''s supposed to be in two years. Also, if we don''t stock up, counterfeiters will come in. So... I don''t know, my instinct is to get more but that''s up the air at the moment. I know you guys are being hassled for kits - just say we''re sold out and you''re not sure what''s going to happen next. I think the unexpected demand shows that this city is ready for another good season. We give it to the fans, they''ll respond, you know what I mean?


    "Tomorrow night is Bolton away. I''ll come back to that, but in short it''s normal training today, chilled out in the morning, board Sealbiscuit around 3.


    "Saturday we''re home to Burton Albion, who just came down from League One. In theory they should be a fair chunk better than Fleetwood but I''ve seen some of the players they''ve lost and who they replaced them with and they''re much weaker. They''re still one of the very best teams in the league so it''ll be tough, but if you play like you did against Fleetwood we''ll be in with a shot, won''t we? It''ll be another party atmosphere at the Deva so be prepared for a strange day and whatever the score is, the fans are gonna be in the mood for a lap of honour so final whistle, whatever mood you''re in, fucking flip that switch and go applaud the mob.


    "Similar note. Remember I sent out a video asking for donations for the department at the Cheshire FA that runs schools football? The response was massive and the number of schools putting up teams is up 40% or something mad. So that''s great but I really want to strike while the iron is hot on that whole thing so the guy, Richard, is going to be our guest of honour on Saturday. I''m thinking three of you get to do bits with him for your socials. Take him round the inner sanctum, introduce him to the Chester Chatters, photos of you, him, and the kids we scouted playing for their schools. You can build your brands being associated with good people doing good things, right? Talk to Christian if you want to get in on that. Yes, Lee, you''re allowed. Actually, you''d be perfect for that, wouldn''t you? Get stuck in.


    "Okay, Bolton. First thing is they''ve got a beautiful stadium, 28,000, and we expect about 9,000 attendance. Pretty decent, right? But they normally get 22,000 and of this 9,000, five thousand will be Chester fans." That provoked a stir. "I know. We''re going to outnumber the home fans and it''s going to be mental. Why have we sold so many tickets? This is our return to the big time, isn''t it? First of all, it''s the AOK Cup and you need to be in the football league to play in that. Right? So it''s already, like, a novelty. Second, it''s Bolton. Founding members of the Football League, four-times FA Cup winners, Nat Lofthouse, some of the most delicious footy scran in the land, and best of all, it''s only an hour away. See the game, couple of pints on the coach home, back in bed by 11. It''s a perfect Tuesday night out, isn''t it? I mean, the demand for tickets sort of hints that maybe our fans aren''t convinced they''ll see another AOK match in the next two decades, but I don''t mind that. It''s up to us to show them we belong at this level, isn''t it?


    "Yeah but anyway, it''s going to be noisy as fuck so get excited. This is huge, lads.


    "Okay, what about Bolton, the team? They''ve been in the shit in recent times but they clawed their way back to the Championship, just about, and they''re holding on by their fingernails. They spent a long time doing three at the back; some 3-5-2, some 3-4-3, loads of variants.


    "Their current manager likes four at the back. Okay, no problem there, except he doesn''t have the squad for it. He''s trying to change course but he''s blocked the canal and he''s in the shit and the fans are turning - the ones that haven''t already turned. So even if he only rests a few lads against us, we might find there are juicy targets to aim at. Example: his backup fullbacks are likely to be centre-backs shunted out to the sides and Pascal and Sharky will fucking do them.


    "I''m getting ahead of myself. Expect Bolton 4-3-3, home advantage, lots of talented players, better than Fleetwood." By my reckoning, Bolton must have been in the CA 110-115 range. They would win League One but were out of their depth in the Championship - something for Chester to aspire to. "Okay? So we start with 5-3-2 and we - Vimsy?"


    "Keep things tight."


    "Let me tell you now, our subs are going to be key to this. We''ll start, ah, inexperienced, and in the hour before kickoff their analysts will look at our team sheet going who the fuck is this? No offence, Sunday." The young man smiled - I could tease him all I wanted if he started a big cup match. "New guys, one of the things we do here is let big oppos get complacent and as soon as their temperature drops we turn up the heat. Bolton will start strong and get weaker as they make subs, we''ll do the opposite, and, yeah, as long as we don''t get blown away at the very start, we really have a chance to dick them at the end."


    "How long will I get?" said Sunday, whose pleasure at being picked had diminished rapidly when he realised he would be subbed off unusually early.


    "Ten to fifteen minutes," I said. Sunday pulled a face. Mine hardened. "You don''t like it?"


    Henri reached out and put his hand on Sunday''s shoulder. "I''ll explain it to him, Max. It''s okay."


    I was mollified - slightly. "It better be okay because I''m picking a team to win this match and if there''s anyone who doesn''t want to be part of the biggest shock of the round, let me know now."


    Sunday was too busy regretting some of his life choices to speak, so once again Henri took over, speaking in a slightly soothing tone. "We all want to play, Max, and we will carry out your plan to the best of our ability. If we are not selected we will train hard to be ready for Burton Albion."


    I rubbed my forehead, partly to relax and partly to see if any veins were about to burst. From daydreams about beautiful women in bathtubs to Exit Triallists pulling faces at being given minutes in a huge cup tie. To guys I''d plucked from the beach demanding lobster money. Stupidity was creeping back into our preparations, our play, our goal celebrations. We had only been back in the EFL for five minutes and egos were already inflating out of proportion to on-pitch achievement.


    Before I could properly melt down, Sandra stepped into ''centre stage''. She moved the magnets on our tactics board into a 5-3-2 formation.


    "The boss and I are going to finalise the line up and tell you after the sesh, but we''re going to do something like we did against Fleetwood. Start really solid then open up. Almost certainly we''ll use young players to take the shine off the ball, as they say in cricket. It''s hard work, lads, and to the outside world it seems a bit mad but it''s part of the process and it''s why we''re in tier four instead of tier seven. Okay?"


    The young lads I wanted to use early on were Sunday, Tom, and Omari.


    Soon, I would send Omari to Saltney on loan, but there were potentially five more matches in August before the transfer window closed and I wanted to give him some minutes to show we valued him and he wasn''t just some object we chucked around like a hot potato. He was a lot more useful to me right now than Sunday fucking Sowunmi, that was for sure.


    Sandra moved one magnet. "As we get into the game, having weathered the early storm, we move to 4-1-3-2, sliding the central CM to DM, like we did against Fleetwood. The boss wants to bring Youngster and Pascal on, not start them, because he''s convinced Bolton won''t be expecting that and those guys will play out of their skin once they''ve had ten, twenty minutes to analyse the oppo. And if you''ve been around long enough, you''ll know the boss is normally right. Second half, when Bolton have had fifteen minutes to regroup and adjust to how we finished the first half, we whip out Henri and Dazza and see how they like that. Spoiler alert - they won''t. Last change, as per, about twenty minutes to go, the boss. We loosen the jar so he can feel strong when he opens it, yeah?"


    She looked at me to see if I had anything I wanted to add, but I didn''t. I had just come to a decision. Yes, we had hit a tipping point and there was no doubt about it - I didn''t like footballers.


    "Okay, lads," said Sandra. "Let''s get to it."


    They stood and shuffled out while I ground my teeth together. Sunday hesitated and took a step towards me. Both Henri and Youngster intercepted him and pulled him to join the stream. Sandra spoke to Well In, then came over to me. "You''re hangry."


    "I''m not hangry. I''m disappointed."


    "Let''s get you a smashed avocado on toast and we''ll finalise the team."


    "You asked Well In to take training?"


    "The start, yeah. Won''t take long to decide, will it?"


    I scratched my jaw. "No." We had plenty of options, most of which would crash and burn against a Championship team, leaving us with maybe three valid formations to choose from. But the AOK Cup allowed us to name NINE subs and we could use five. I had a perk called Bench Boost which made my subs play better; I could use it once per season per competition. Deploying Bench Boost and Triple Captain against Bolton was a no-brainer. If Bolton rested a few players and my reserves kept things tight while five stars lurked on our bench, I gave us a fifty-fifty shot at winning the tie. But even with the added complexity of thinking about who should start and who should come on - and in which formation - it wouldn''t take more than five minutes to hash it out. "No, it''s a piece of piss. Been here before, haven''t we?"


    "Sunday hasn''t."


    "Excuse me?"


    "Most people, Max, don''t know about this surprise subs thing you do. He has come from a club culture where being subbed off after ten minutes is a humiliation."


    "But ten minutes at the end is good?"


    "Yes. Come on, you know this. Don''t pretend what you do isn''t weird and his reaction isn''t completely normal."


    "He gave up the right to assume things will be normal the moment he signed his contract," I said, loftily.


    "Is Emma around?"


    "She''s working from home, but she''ll come at lunch for the yogs."


    "Oh, good."


    "What?"


    "You always cheer up when she''s around."


    ***


    Aided by our head of marketing, who had stopped by for breakfast, Sandra and I spent a while workshopping scenarios and running ideas up flagpoles to see if anything resonated. Then Brooke left the area and we got back to ''having a think'', as it used to be called.


    I started at the end. 4-1-3-2. Ben; my first-choice back four; Youngster; me, Lee, and Pascal in midfield; Henri and Dazza in attack. That would give us a CA of 72.4, and if I could use Bench Boost on Youngster, me, Pascal, Henri, and Dazza, we would be pretty potent going forward.


    Ben''s head had cleared, and while his morale was still bad, it was trending upwards and if I told him today that he''d definitely be playing, it could get to neutral by the morning. The rest of that eleven was fit and raring to go.


    So if that was the ideal ending eleven and I knew which players I wanted to bring on, then...


    "We start with Sunday, Ryan Jack, Omari, Wibbers, and Tom." I shook my head. "This is magical. I am a wizard. This is a masterpiece. Don''t you think?"


    "You know me. I love a starting eleven with an average age lower than Man City under 16s."


    "It''s not that bad," I said. "Omari, Tom, and Wibbers are battle hardened. No, nothing can go wrong with this," I said, as is tradition. "I defy the gods," I would have added, if I had thought about it. I chose to ignore the 58.3 average CA of my starting eleven. Anyway, even if we somehow bombed, sixteen players would get yet another big CA kick because of this experience.


    Speaking of improving, Well In was getting some good green from the group, so I suggested to Sandra she leave him in charge for the rest of the morning.


    We went up to my office and after a couple of minutes, someone knocked on the door.


    "Come in, Sunday," said Sandra.


    "Oh." Sunday was in his socks - remembering to take his boots off when he came in got him a relationship point. He took a minuscule step into the room and scratched his neck. "Sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to say that I thought I felt something, like, in my hammy. Not bad but a bit weird and I thought it might be good to let you know."


    I pretended to be concerned. Pretended not because I''m a horrible prick, which I''m not - other opinions are available - but because the curse was giving him a clean bill of health. It was possible that something might show up on his player profile tomorrow, but I was pretty sure I knew what was happening. "That''s a shame. You''re supposed to talk to Dean, though, not me. I''m actually very busy and important."


    "Right, yes. Yes, boss."


    "It''s a shame you''ll miss your debut," I mused. "Are you sure you felt a tweak?"


    He looked absolutely wretched for a second, but recovered. "Yes. I think so. Like a pre-tweak."


    "Hmm. Okay, well, prevention is better than cure. A few days off is better than a few months out, so take it easy today, yeah? And who knows? Maybe tomorrow morning it''ll be fine and you can play after all."


    "Oh. Oh!" He smiled, but then got sombre again. "Yes, boss. Hope so."


    "Mmm," I said, clicking my very important mouse on a very important document.


    Sandra gestured that Sunday should leave, and I heard his socks on the carpet and the fire doors flap closed at the entrance to the staircase.


    "Sandra," I whispered, giddily rushing to the side of the window, peering through my blinds. Sandra came beside me, also out of sight.


    "What is it?"


    "Ha, look!"


    Youngster was waiting for Sunday. He was ''hiding'' behind a lamppost, which only drew more attention to him. He and Sunday had an urgent conversation. Youngster shook his head and pushed Sunday back inside - towards the medical room - before he himself jogged away towards the training pitch.


    Sandra laughed and moved away. "How to get back in your good books, lesson one. No chance he has an injury for real?"


    "No."


    Sandra shook her head. "That was cute."


    I tried to look angry. "It''s not cute; they''re wasting Dean''s time."


    Sandra opened her mouth to defend the lads, but she was far too good at reading my face sometimes. "It was cute and it cheered you all the way up."


    ***


    I wandered out to watch the last ten minutes of the session while getting some fresh air.


    Well In had set up a really interesting drill that had people flocking around the ball in little groups and for a second I thought he was doing some Relationism, but it turned out to be a variation on a positional play standard. Strange how the extremes of a line seemed to curve and almost touch each other.


    "You okay, boss?" It was Dan Badford. He was such an oddball - I couldn''t even decide if he was extrovert or introvert.


    "Have you ever taken the Myers-Briggs personality test?"


    He put his hands up. "I left it where it was, boss, I promise."


    I laughed. "You cheeky fuck."


    Well In wandered over, wondering why one of his players was out of the drill. He might have shouted at Dan to get back had it been anyone other than me distracting him. "Everything good over here?"


    I shook my head and pointed at Dan''s shins. Like a lot of silky-smooth playmakers, he wore teeny tiny shinpads and rolled his socks down. It was a show of bravado mixed with a distaste for the aesthetic of the full-length sock. I''d tried to get him to protect himself properly but he felt he couldn''t be himself with big shinpads and a long sock. "We''re just talking about Chekhov''s shinpads over here."


    Well In sniffed. "Thinks he''s Alberto Tarantini, he does."


    ''Who?'' I thought. I was a student of the game but that was a new name - possibly made up. I would check it later. "Thinks he''s Cyrille Regis, he does," I said.


    "Thinks he''s Emlyn Hughes in the 1971 cup final, he does," said Well In. He was miles better at this game than me! So specific.


    "Thinks he''s Rui Costa, he does," I said, which drew a raised eyebrow of appreciation from my opponent.


    "What''s a Chekhov''s shinpad?" said Dan, ruining the game.


    I tutted. "It''s where we talk about you not being protected in the first act and you get your leg cracked open in the third act. All right?"


    "Okay," he said, confused, "but what''s an act?"


    Well In roared. "This lad," he said, ruffing Dan''s hair. "He''s very funny. Very funny, he is."


    ***


    The yoga students were a strange old mix. Emma and I were already on different ends of the ''person who does yoga'' scale, though when I became a professional footballer I became a lot more interested in anything that would keep my core strength up, keep me flexible, and keep me in rooms full of hot women.


    There was also Dan and Pascal, also on different ends of the ''person who does yoga'' scale, though perhaps the opposite end to the one you''d think. Pascal had been to more lessons than anyone, and while Dan seemed like the type to gravitate towards quiet, reflective pastimes, he had to be pushed by the physios to do his stretches and eat his kale. He seemed unbothered about having a long career, but then again, I couldn''t really get a read on him.


    We also had some randos from BoshCard.


    I liked yoga - it was easy enough that I could do the poses, while hard enough it made me concentrate. After an hour I normally felt refreshed and clear-headed.


    This time, though, there was a fair amount of hero worship to deal with. When we were doing Extended Side Angles, Pascal was recounting all the amazing things I''d done in my cameo against Fleetwood. At least six times I ordered him to stop but he flat-out disobeyed me (or maybe he didn''t hear me, not sure). Finally, we moved on to a topic that was more interesting.


    "Do you think I can ever be as good as you?" said Pascal.


    "As good as I was against Fleetwood?" I thought about it. Pascal''s PA was 133 while my CA was almost certainly in the region of 100. 110 maybe. Pascal would need to ''waste'' loads of points in order to build his physical profile to withstand the ravages of 90 minute games and 46 game seasons, but when he was maxed out he would be fucking mint. "Yeah, for sure. I wasn''t that good, you know. It was flashy more than anything."


    "Come on," said one of the BoshCard randos. "You scored two goals. Got us a point."


    "No, look," I said. "I did a few stepovers, a nutmeg, scored against a goalie who hadn''t been in the game for over an hour. Do you know what I mean? You can do twenty nutmegs without affecting the game. Can you run around a lot and be as effective as me? Yes because honestly most of what I did wasn''t effective. What it was, was annoying. That''s my superpower - I''m slappable. Aren''t I, babes?"


    "Uh," she said, because her core strength was dogshit and she had to focus.


    "Yeah that John Allen went absolutely tonto, didn''t he? It''s like his manager showed them footage of me clowning around and said ''are you gonna let him do that here in our gaff?'' It must have been something like that, right?" I took a deep breath to settle my heart rate; I didn''t want to bring my hatred of John Allen and his manager into my lovely yogaland. "The real answer, Pascal, is yes, you can be better than I am now. To be totes honest, I hope that when you catch me up I''ll have moved on a bit, if you know what I mean. Like that Greek turtle that can''t be hit by an arrow."


    "Random," said Dan. We eased into a Cobbler''s Pose as Sandra Lane came in, slightly flustered, apologising for being late. Once we''d settled, Dan was next to speak. "Boss, if you don''t mind me saying, you''ve been out of sorts."


    "Shit," I said. "Our sports psychologist has killed Dan and put his face over his face."


    "Max," complained Emma. "Can you stop talking about face swaps, please? Otherwise we''re never watching Face/Off again."


    "I was referencing Silence of the Lambs, but okay."


    Dan waited for us to finish, then continued. "I just... I was talking to my mum about it - well, I just said someone at work is acting strange and described it a bit - and she said ''oh, he sounds depressed''. And I''m just wondering if there''s anything you need or anything because I know people aren''t making it easier for you but even so, you''re normally a bit more zen."


    "Who, Max?" said Pascal, with shocking disloyalty.


    Dan twisted his neck left and right and settled back into the pose. "If it''s just there''s so much going on because of Bumpers and the new league and his phone''s still blowing up because of the transfer window, then yeah, that''s normal, right, but I don''t think it''s that because it''s like he doesn''t even like football any more."


    Perceptive little shit!


    "I like football," I said. "I don''t like footballers."


    "Max," said Emma. She didn''t like it when I talked about my players like that, unless I really needed to vent after a hard match. Then I was allowed, but not in the middle of the day when she was trying to keep her abductors aligned or whatever.


    I smiled. "Yeah, okay. Maybe it''s more the opposite. I did some Relationism stuff in Brazil and it was amazing. Addictive."


    "Addictive?" said Dan.


    "Yeah it''s like a rondo, right, but it''s eight against two in a small part of the pitch and you''re just taking the piss and then they send more bodies in and it''s eight against three, four, five, six, but if you''ve got balls you can keep it going and when you get stuck you can go back to your free man and he sends the ball back into the blob and you start again and it''s so disheartening for the oppo and you''re laughing your head off. I''ve never done nitrous oxide and I never will but there''s no way laughing gas is as fun as zipping the ball in a tight space while you get closer to goal. It is so for me. I was garbage at first but it''s so for me."


    Dan and Pascal looked at each other, excited. Pascal said, "When are you going to teach us?"


    "First, it''s not something I teach you. It''s something we learn together. Second, I''m not doing it with the first team. Pascal, you''re a positional play natural. If I fill your head with this mumbo jumbo it might stop you reaching your potential and I can''t risk that."


    Emma''s shape collapsed. "It was fine with Henri," she said, before reassembling herself.


    It was true - Henri''s profile hadn''t changed, as far as I could tell, but he had only had a few sessions in Brazil. "I''m willing to experiment on myself, and yes, on Henri, because for him a new experience is as valuable as, you know, fifty grand in the bank or whatever. But I''m completely risk-averse when it comes to you guys. I''m starting on the Welsh lads because they''re abysmal anyway so it doesn''t matter if I ruin them."


    "I heard about that," said Dan. "How''s that going?"


    "Um, I''m not the kind of person to blow my own trumpet but I would describe it as incredibly sensational," I said. I laughed as my body started to complain about the pressure I was putting on it. I focused for ten seconds and felt the cleansing happen. "Early results are promising but I''m not quite ready to start with the boys."


    "Which boys?" said Pascal.


    "Dan and those oiks," I said. "I think Dan might be the player at the club most likely to succeed at Relationism, so that''s good, but mostly I want to use it as a mind fuck to absolutely destroy a Premier League team in the Youth Cup. We won''t play one until December at the earliest, if I have my dates right, so that''s plenty of time to get started and try it out in a couple of games against minnows."


    We finished that pose and changed again, this time to the Happy Baby Gurgle.


    Dan had more to say. "Sorry, boss, for being all, you know, nosy, but you didn''t answer my question, I don''t think."


    "What was your question?"


    "I suppose it''s, why don''t you like football?"


    "Oh, I do," I said, waving my feet around like a contented baby or an upside-down cyclist. "What it is, right, is when I''m managing you lot I''m like a floating megabrain. It''s chess, really, but chess that I''m good at. Do you know what I mean? It''s kind of shit to think about it like that because you''re not pieces, you''re people, but that''s how I win. That''s how we''ll beat Bolton. The less I care about your feelings - I mean, Sunday is right to be annoyed that he starts and gets whipped off right away, isn''t he?"


    "Yes," said Dan and Sandra.


    "No," said Pascal.


    I smiled. It was always interesting when people gave different answers at the same time. "The less I care about your feelings the better the chance to win. You''re robots, do what you''re told. Okay, so we will have a glorious season based on my creativity and analytical skills and the fact that I''m a shit boss and an unfeeling monster isn''t just irrelevant but celebrated. It''s not really what... But Relationism, right, as a manager it''s like I''m saying to my players okay I trust you and believe in you and you can interpret the general principles I give you. Right? It''s more human. And as a player, when you''re in the middle of the blob you''ve got to focus. I can''t tune out and think ''hmm Eddie could be a few paces forward over there''. No! You''ve got to be in your blob being part of the blob otherwise the blob collapses."


    "You like saying blob, don''t you?" said the yoga teacher.


    "He really does," said Sandra.


    "Am I being too loud?"


    The yoga teacher gave me a mystical look, one handed down through a hundred generations of practitioners, and said, "You can say we''re going to beat Bolton a lot louder, if you like."


    The class cheered.


    Emma gave me a proud look, then sank back into her pose. I looked at Dan. "I got a big new idea this summer and I''m working hard not to let it overtake my brain - and the club. I''m trying to, like, have a healthy outlet for Relationism while I do my responsibilities the best I can, and doing that means positional play. So what we''re doing every day, you know, all that ''if he goes there you go there'' stuff, that''s like, my duty, but not my passion. I still enjoy it. The worst times are a billion times better than working for a soulless financial institution - no offence BoshCarders. I get to make a difference in people''s lives and I''m hitting the ball well and I feel as sharp as I have since the murder. Yeah things are fine but if it was, like, the pandemic again and I thought the season would be cancelled in a couple of weeks and there was no-one at the stadiums, we would be playing a 1-blob-1 formation and our line up would be most of the youth team with me running around literally cackling for ninety minutes."


    Pascal let out a chuckle. "Sandra wouldn''t let you."


    She considered it. "I think I''d like to see it. I''d want another job lined up, just in case."


    Dan had a dreamy look about him. "I can''t wait to get in the blob."


    "Yeah, well, it won''t be long, I don''t think. The army guys have a six-a-side tournament soon and if we don''t humiliate ourselves there I''ll try it out at eleven-a-side. It''s gonna be wild whatever happens and I''m looking forward to it. Maybe too much, to be honest, because I did nearly fly off the handle with Sowunmi and I didn''t mean to." I thought about that failure for a second but let it go; I couldn''t be good at everything. "Here at Chester, we''re never going to do pure Relationism. It''ll be a hybrid, so you need to learn what you''re being taught. It''s like, if I want to study maths with you in Chinese, do we learn maths first, or Chinese?"


    "Maths," said Dan.


    "Chinese," said Pascal.


    "I''d change schools," said Sandra, which drew a snort from Emma.


    I laughed. "Okay shush now. I need to get my zen on."


    ***


    Tuesday, August 12


    AOK Cup First Round - Bolton Wanderers versus Chester FC


    An hour before kick-off, I hopped, skipped, and almost jumped into the dressing room.


    I was hyper.


    "Holy shit, guys. Holy shit." I paced around while they shut up. The shutting up came faster than it had since we came back from our summer breaks. Progress! "Quick recap. AOK Cup, named after the low-cost airline. Man of the match gets a first class ticket to Dubai. That''s worth twenty-nine pounds. Ignore that last bit, I just made it up. This is what used to be called the League Cup; a cup played by teams in the league, whereas the FA Cup was for every team in the country. Tonight''s a straight knock-out. 90 minutes, no extra time, straight to penalties. Yeah? I''ve got an idea for a scam where we pretend to be playing for penalties and they come at us in the last ten and we dick them on counters, but I really don''t think it''s gonna come to that. We''re gonna fucking smash them! I can''t believe the team they''ve put out. I honestly can''t believe it."


    I was grinning from ear to ear as I strode to the tactics board in the spacious away dressing room. Despite players having tons of storage space, with two shelves and room under the bench, I nearly tripped over Sunday Sowunmi''s kit bag. I glared at him and nearly unleashed a hairdryer - are you trying to get someone injured you stupid twat? - but I had handed in the team sheet and didn''t want to trash his morale. I also wanted to give his teammates the chance to correct his behaviour. How had they let that happen? Glenn would have spotted it immediately - Christian, Zach, and the senior players needed to do better.


    The magnets.


    The magnets cheered me all the way back up. I swizzed them around and compared what I was seeing in the curse screens to Bolton''s player profiles.


    "4-3-3 like I thought. There are some really good managers in the EFL but this clown ain''t one of them. Christ, this is going to be brutal today. Totally unfair. It''s like we''re playing Fleetwood Mac with all their players in the wrong places."


    "Fleetwood Town," said Vimsy.


    "Yeah," I said, double-checking what the curse was showing me. Okay, Bolton''s average CA would be around 90 but it wasn''t a very optimised 90. Even with Bench Boost, we really, really shouldn''t have been in with a chance against a Championship side. It couldn''t be this easy, could it? Surely there was a trap lurking somewhere? "Okay the goalie''s fine. He''s their second-choice but he''ll be right up for this. He''ll see it as a way back into the first team."


    I realised I was accidentally describing Ben and nearly hurried on, but saw an opportunity for a subtle bit of guidance.


    "What managers want from their goalies in that sitch is to stay calm, treat it like a normal game, but don''t be surprised if this guy tries to be flashy. If he can get himself on the highlights the fans will be in their WhatsApp groups saying he should be back in the team." I shook my head. "That''s not what he should do. Just be solid! We''ll see. The defence is a fucking shambles. Well, shambles is harsh but this is fucking Bolton Wanderers, do you know what I mean? Nat Lofthouse, the Lion of Vienna. Jay Jay Okocha. Twenty thousand average attendance. You cannot be this shit. I mean, what the fuck. So the two centre backs are okay, I suppose. One old guy, one young buck. But the old one''s knackered. He''s so slow, guys! He might be the slowest player I''ve ever seen, and I''ve seen Ryan Jack."


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    "Thanks, boss."


    "The right back is a centre back. A pure centre back like Christian, not a double threat like Lee H. We can''t do much with that at the start but Wibbers, try and have a run at him. The left back - get ready for this, it''ll blow your mind - is a right back. Yes! Four right-footers across the back line. The manager is either rubbish or he thinks it''s Chester, I can name any old fucking mess and we''ll slap them."


    I briefly got myself worked up, but then I remembered his staff profile and nope - he was rubbish.


    "Okay in case it wasn''t clear: when we attack, we put pressure on the full backs. That''s the right back, number 14, Kieran Lovett, and the left back, number 28, Matt Harris."


    Henri spoke out to help make sure it was all crystal. "We will focus on the right back who is actually a centre back and the left back who is actually a right back."


    "Just slap down the wings! What the hell. Bolton''s midfield is serviceable. They''d do a good job... in League Two. Omari, I''m going to ask you to man-mark a guy who''s just back from injury. Matt McManus. He''s a Ryan Jack kinda schemer, he likes to get on the ball a lot and set the tempo. He''s probably the best player in their whole squad but yeah, that was a nasty injury he had. Bolton will want to play through him. When I say mark him, you don''t need to be Franco Baresi, just make him work hard to get on the ball, close him down so he doesn''t have time, follow him where he goes. If you do a good job they might sub him off at half time and that''s gonna be massive for us in the second half because we won''t have to commit so many bodies to the rest defence. Can you give me that?"


    "Yes, gaffer. Can I still take the free kicks?"


    I smiled. "All work and no play makes Omari a red-card danger. Yeah take the free kicks but before you strike, make sure you know where McManus is, okay? I don''t care if three guys sprint past you, get on him because he''s the guy who will pick out the right pass. Does that make sense?"


    "Got it."


    "The three forwards will spread out, you know, one wide left, one wide right. They''re doing the thing where they''ve got a right-footer on the left, so they''re going to cut inside and cross or shoot. You hear that, lads? These full-backs aren''t going to bomb forward so Bolton aren''t going to have proper width. They''re not going to get to the byline and make us defend facing our own goal. It''s going to be the same on either flank - winger pops the ball on his strong foot and hits a cross at an angle it''s hard to score a header from. I mean, I''ll take that over the alternative. Vimsy?"


    Vimsy stepped to the board. "When the winger cuts inside, one of the three CBs moves up to stop him getting good shots away. Chris, if you go, the other two need to be aware of the striker and look to your spacing. Don''t all go to the ball. Keep your heads. It can feel that you''re getting bombarded but actually..." He went through an enormous inner struggle. "Actually," he said, his eyes darting from me to the ghost of Ian Evans only Vimsy could see. "Actually, it''s all low xG chances."


    Chester''s last remaining football dinosaur was evolving! He had a map and was raising his little-used ''data analytics'' mountain.


    I gave him a hearty thwack on the shoulder. "Listen, guys. Bolton''s season has started terribly and don''t the fans know it. If we play more like a unit and a proper team than them, their fans are going to get restless and from there it''s a short step to quarrelsome, feisty, fractious, unruly, and mutinous. Sandra?"


    My assistant manager took Vimsy''s place. "They don''t play a lot of long balls. It''s all short through the middle and then give it out wide to their danger men. First thing we do is use our midfield to block off the passing lanes. Max, I just had a thought that we might go man-to-man in midfield."


    "Oh, three against three? That''s interesting."


    "Boys, be ready to switch to that. If they do get through midfield, it''s normally a ball to feet out wide. We will keep our full backs back. Make them dribble at you, stay on your feet, don''t get sucked into any nonsense. They tend to go on the outside once early in the match but that''s only to give you something to think about. In fact, they cut inside 99% of the time, okay? They''re a very predictable team. We should be able to cope with what they throw at us, but strikers, with you it''s all about work rate, giving us out balls. Chasing lost causes, maybe win us a throw-in high up the pitch and let us recover. The usual, Tom. Wibbers, if you can get on the ball, have a run at, er - "


    "Lovett and Harris," said Wibbers, who was totally up for this match. He had been out on the pitch and gawped at the stadium and it was clear to me what he had been thinking - I wouldn''t mind a piece of this.


    I clapped my hands. "That''s it. We know the plan. Stay calm, let our fans get at the referee, we stick to our jobs. We can win, but we''re gonna have to work fucking hard for it, do you get me? Captain."


    Christian Fierce stood up and cried. "Out we go, boys!"


    The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.


    The history books wouldn''t say we had beaten a shambolic side led by a nincompoop. They would say that lowly Chester had beaten the sleeping giants that were Bolton Wanderers.


    "Boss?" Sandra was giving me a worried look.


    I closed my eyes for half a second and tried to access that zen state I was so famous for. "I love the smell of glory in the morning."


    "What perfume does she wear?"


    I tutted and did the closest thing I ever did to an eye roll, but rose above it. "Sandra, check out the lineups of the other teams, yeah? I bet we are taking this competition more seriously than literally any other club."


    "I''ll have a decko," she said. She gave me another strange look, then tapped me. "We''ll do the pre-match TV together, okay?"


    "Aw, do I have to?" I whined.


    She laughed. "Whatever they ask, go on one of your misty-eyed, rose-tinted rambles about the history of Bolton. Nat Lofthouse and all that."


    "Yeah, sure, love talking about the history of the sport. But why?"


    Her eyes flashed hot, just for a second. "So when we humiliate their team, the fans will have something nice to say about us."


    I nodded a few times. "Yeah." Sandra was just as competitive as me, but she also had enough sense to realise our industry was small. Acting with a bit of class every now and then could help us get jobs in the future. For example, at Bolton. "Best is a prick, he was offside for his third goal, but he gets the club a lot more than our current manager does."


    Sandra got a fierce look about her, but then it turned to amusement. She fussed with my toggles until they were the same length. "Let''s do it now while you''re looking handsomely boyish."


    "Er, what am I going to look like later?"


    "Last time you did the interview looking like you''d survived a horror movie. As the villain. Oh! Mention AOK, too. They might want to sponsor us."


    "They can''t sponsor the cup and Chester, can they?"


    "I meant us. Me and you." Sandra smirked. "I''m kind of a big deal now, Max. I''m massive in Switzerland."


    ***


    After I charmed the Bolton fans and whored myself out to a climate criminal corporation, I went to the dugout to chill for a while.


    The stadium was amazing from the outside, really beautiful, stunning even, and while the inside was a bit more functional it was still very aesthetic with the same sort of curved roof that Fleetwood had, but on all four sides, hugging the pitch.


    Yeah, I liked it a lot, and Bolton was basically Manchester so I felt at home.


    In this competition, gate receipts were shared between the two teams. 45% each, with 10% going to the EFL, the organisers. If Bolton''s projections of selling 9,000 tickets were correct, and if the fans paid an average of 20 quid each, Chester would get in the region of 81,000 pounds. Not bad for a Tuesday night early in August! If we won, we would get 5,000 in prize money, which was garbage but all the bits and bobs we earned would add up quickly enough, I reckoned.


    I felt sure we would beat Bolton and get through to the next round. Who did I want? Another away trip to a Championship side for another decent payday? Or a tie against one of our League Two rivals - someone we could beat? If we got to the third round we might finally get a match away to a Premier League team.


    Man United would sell 50,000 tickets, easy, and would happily rinse their fans for 40 quid a pop. We could come out of that kind of fixture with 900,000 in the bank.


    I cut the daydreaming short - first we had to beat a team that was much better than us, and to do that we would need to get off to a good start.


    ***


    "Five minutes gone and it''s Bolton 1, Chester 0."


    I could just imagine what was being said up in the commentary booth. Welcome to the AOK Cup. David versus Goliath. Reality check.


    I stood in the technical area, shifting my weight from leg to leg. This was a reality check.


    In reality, you couldn''t field a team that included a CA 26 novice defender, a CA 44 striker who rarely scored, and a CA 42 midfielder whose role for the day was - for the first time in his life - to man-mark a very, very good Championship midfielder.


    In reality, grand schemes that worked in the subterranean non-league levels would wither and die when exposed to sunlight.


    In a strange way, I was glad to concede the goal. One day I would be the Championship manager putting out loads of reserves against some team of worms, and it was good to know that we didn''t live in a world where CA 26 players could actually perform against guys with CA 90, CA 100.


    Another perverse reason to be happy with the goal was that it proved Sandra and I knew what we were talking about. Most players knew that, of course, but for Lee H, Sunday, and even Dazza, seeing was believing.


    Bolton had started brightly, knocking the ball around, using the keeper as a passing option - which nullified Tom''s work rate to a huge degree - and counter-pressing us when we gained the ball. I hadn''t realised how nervous we were until three minutes in when I saw that our pass completion rate was under 40%. Even Ryan Jack was feeling it - his match rating slumped to 4.


    Ryan coughed up the ball, but Lee C snapped into a challenge and, seeing that Omari was blocking the pass to McManus, the third midfielder passed safely backwards and Bolton reset into the shapes they''d been working on.


    The centre backs combined with the goalie to take Tom out of the game, then a new triangle formed that included a midfielder, and as Omari lost his discipline, McManus was free. McManus slid a gorgeous pass through our lines to the striker, who fed the right winger. The winger cut inside, nutmegged Sunday as he made a reckless challenge, and struck a nasty shot that Ben could only parry. Bolton''s striker was on his toes, reacted fastest, and passed the ball low into the corner. Christian and Zach had been pulled out of shape by Sunday''s rush of blood to the head, and their attempts to get back were in vain.


    Wibbers had had three touches of the ball. Two of those were kick-offs.


    I rubbed my head furiously, but what could I do? This was the plan. The plan was perhaps not mint, but it was the kind of thing that had been working for three years. It seemed to be the best way to use Bench Boost. What else would you do? Start with your strongest eleven and bring on your weakest players? No way. I just had to accept that from time to time I would get my pants pulled down. It wasn''t like the tournament organisers would deduct prize money if we got hammered.


    I paced around, soaking up XP, wondering if it was too early to withdraw Sunday and Omari. Doing it after ten minutes when they knew about it was one thing, but doing it after five minutes would have been truly humiliating.


    No, I had to leave things alone for a minute. It would be interesting to see how the team reacted because Christ knew there would be plenty of matches like this in the coming ten months.


    Bolton''s morale had rocketed after the goal. They were playing with smiles, with freedom. They were already doing tricks and skills. Slightly annoying. Lads, you''re one-nil up against the worst team in the EFL. Do you want to calm down?


    Their fans were enjoying themselves, too. They were doing what Fleetwood had done - mocking us for being tiny, calling this match our cup final, all that kind of thing. After a brief lull as they digested the goal, the Chester mob found their voice again. The back-in-the-big-time party resumed.


    Another minute passed and we didn''t concede. Then another minute, and another.


    I checked the match ratings - diabolical - and moved Wibbers back one slot to be a CAM. Maybe he could help us get more control of the midfield, or at least help slow down Bolton''s attacks.


    Our Conditions were all fine.


    Our Morale though, was rock solid. So interesting. Sunday Sowunmi had been getting on my tits all week and he knew it, and he had started the match like a fucking chump. But his morale was steady. It might have been because Christian was being all Christian out there, blasting everyone with his Triple Captained Influence, but I think it was actually Chesterness. Sunday had been on the scrapheap and we had rescued him. He''d gone to boot camp and laughed in the white water rapids and cried with the injured soldiers. And every time he got something wrong, his mates gathered round him, talked him through it, showed him that they had his back.


    He rushed forward, took a loose ball on his chest, and passed it wide for Eddie Moore before retreating back into his shape. Sunday''s match rating went from 4 to 5 and I found myself dancing down the line punching the air.


    Electricity was building and Bolton were going to get shocked.


    ***


    Sunday and Omari did well enough to last until the 22nd minute. Bringing on Pascal and Youngster meant Wibbers had to go back to being a striker, but it didn''t matter because the flow of the game evened up. Youngster made interceptions and forced his oppo to run down blind alleys. Pascal toyed with Bolton''s players around the edges of where they wanted to go.


    It''s amazing what a bit of speed and a huge upgrade in decision-making will do for a football team. It would be an exaggeration to say we bossed the game from the second they came on, but I was already looking forward to the second half, when Henri and Dazza would be our strikers. With me on for the final twenty, I really couldn''t see how we could possibly lose.


    Bolton''s right winger cut inside Eddie Moore and had a crack at goal. Ben flapped at it but the ball went right through him somehow and cracked against the post, bouncing back into a very relieved goalkeeper''s hands.


    Yeah, okay. There were plenty of ways to lose.


    But still I turned my mind to the weeks ahead. "Sandra. Why is Zach so conservative with his passing, do you think? He''s finding Youngster all the time. He''s supposed to hit some to midfield."


    "I think they''re all overwhelmed, Max. Slovakia, Fleetwood, Bolton. Burton will be the same. It''s like you said, it''s a brutal start to the campaign and everyone''s trying to get by. He''ll open up when he finds his feet in the league. You''d rather he was defensively solid than pinging passes all over, wouldn''t you?"


    "Er, maybe. I suppose. Okay but look, I want drills where the midfielders zip around and Zach pings passes to them at mad angles. Oh! We''ll get him by the penalty area. Have five under eighteens sprint at him; he has to pass through them."


    "That sounds terrifying."


    "We''ll call it ''Zombie Apocalypse''. No, ''The Texas Chainsaw Massacre''. Can we get five chainsaws?"


    "How about a DM has the ball and the five lads jog between cones, all doing different lengths, and we blow a whistle, DM passes to Zach, the lads sprint from where they are towards him. It''ll be different every time and very slightly more realistic."


    "Fucking amazing. Scrap this match and let''s set that up right now. I''m not even joking."


    Sandra smiled. "I think it can wait till Thursday. Or maybe until September. Zach''s doing fine for now."


    I scanned the pitch. Having the extra quality around him had transformed Ryan Jack - he was up to a match rating of 6. But his footballing doppelganger, McManus, was also playing better, now that he wasn''t being man-marked.


    "Tell Pascal to dribble near McManus," I said.


    "Got it."


    One player in need of a tweak was Wibbers, but I couldn''t think of how to help him. I was using my one deformation to get Youngster into his preferred DM slot, and Wibbers just wasn''t quite wily enough to play with his back to goal against an experienced centre back. Wibbers was thrilling when he got the ball and built up a head of steam as he ran at defenders, but if he was facing his own goal, the sport was a lot more of a challenge. That was true for everyone, though, so I wasn''t worried about it. Being pocketed by a good defender was a necessary lesson for the lad.


    That said, he wasn''t always up against the experienced centre back. The young one was doing a number on Wibbers, too, which I found slightly surprising.


    "What do you think about swapping Pascal and Wibbers for a while? Let Will get involved in the match, get on the ball a bit, do some dribbles?"


    Sandra shrugged. "Normally I''d say absolutely but Pascal''s on fire. Better to leave it as it is, don''t you think?"


    Wibbers wasn''t exactly announcing himself to the England selectors with this performance, but I had to put the club first, and Sandra was right that Pascal was in the right place and in the right mood. "Yeah. Good. Leave it like this till half time."


    ***


    The atmosphere in the dressing room was upbeat. The lads were showing some of the same signs of exhilaration as after the Slovakia match, but this emotion was a different colour. Slovakia was red: they''re much better than us. This was green: they''re not much better than us.


    I spent a few minutes with Sandra and Vimsy talking about the scores and line-ups from the other matches. Folke Wester clearly wanted to get Bradford City knocked out so he could concentrate on the league - he had even included young Tom Hickman in his first eleven. Tranmere had given a start to Tony Herbert, their exotic new centre back, signed on my recommendation. Lucas Cook, the talented young striker, was starting, which was an indication that Jimmy Mustard didn''t want to progress in the cup. Cambridge, Carlisle, Swindon, most of the starting elevens were full of player names that weren''t in my extensive database.


    "Fuck me," I said. "Ten minutes into the new season you''re trying your best to get knocked out of a competition. It makes no sense to me. Fucking Swindon aren''t going to win the league, do you know what I mean? Why wouldn''t you have a go in the cups?"


    "Easier for us," shrugged Vimsy.


    I couldn''t argue with that. "Not much fun for Bolton''s fans, is it? They haven''t won a cup since the 50s."


    "The fans what''ve been slagging us off for an hour?" grumbled Vimsy. "Fuck ''em."


    I chuckled. "Yeah, good point."


    I wandered around, killing time, waiting to see if Bolton''s manager would make any changes. It took him ten minutes to decide, but eventually the tactics screen refreshed with three new names coming on. Two in midfield, one winger. McManus was coming off.


    "To the tactics board!" I cried, delighted, and the low murmur of conversation died down. "I think McManus won''t come out for the second half. I want to wait a minute just to make sure, but if he''s not there I want to have a good fucking pop at this second half, okay? Ryan, I need to take you out early so Wibbers can stay on a bit. Yeah, Tom and Ryan off, Henri and Dazza on. We''ll go 4-4-2 out of possession, 4-2-4 in."


    "4-2-4?" said Henri. "Away from home against a Championship team?"


    I went over to his spot, grabbed his wrists, and shook them. "It''s just like the old days, mate! Just like the old days! We''re going Full Max!" Still smiling, I walked around. "Lads, these guys aren''t that good and their morale is built on sand. We''re going to slap down the sides like the old days. Wibbers, do you want right mid or left?"


    "Right."


    "Pascal, you''re left. Youngster, you''ll play CM next to Lee C. Nice and compact when we''re defending, then fast breaks. If we can''t get it out wide quickly, keep the ball, circulate, breathe, draw Bolton into the middle then get it wide. We should be able to get Wibbers and PB into some juicy one-on-ones, yeah? Remember, Lovett and Harris aren''t proper full backs. They can''t cope with players of your quality running at them. But we''ll have to work fucking hard to get into those positions, lads. It''ll be tough out there. Keep at them."


    ***


    Not for the first time, I was dead wrong. It wasn''t tough out there. It was a piece of piss.


    Once we made the changes, we had an average CA of just over 70, but with four Bench Boosted guys. Youngster''s effective CA was very probably 100. He bossed the midfield and fed balls to the wings. Pascal had Lovett on toast. It was hilarious to see him skin the guy again and again, though Lovett didn''t see the funny side. He was getting more and more worked up, which was exactly what Pascal wanted to see.


    On the other side, Wibbers wasn''t having much joy against his opponent, but had got past him a couple of times only for Harris to recover. It was clear to the naked eye that Wibbers was a dangerous player, though, so Harris was staying close to him.


    That only opened up the centre for Henri and Dazza, who looked sharp and strong. Pascal''s only mistake so far had been that he was sliding crosses along the turf into the danger zone between defence and goalie, which was normally a good option, a high-percentage option, but today we had two guys with tremendous heading, Bench Boosted. I could hardly say that to Pascal, though, and anyway, if I left him alone he would probably work it out for himself.


    The flow of the match was so lopsided that the home fans started to flip. I didn''t know what Lovett had done to piss them off, but every time Pascal zoomed past him, the mood darkened. First there was annoyance. Then consternation. Rage was on the radar.


    Our fans were behind the goal we were attacking, and unlike the Bolton lot, they were right behind us. If we scored - I was sure we would - they were going to go bananas.


    Time was slightly running out, though. The clock was on 55 and okay, we were in the ascendency but hadn''t really made the keeper work all that much. We still had one substitution available and I had all kinds of options on my nine-man bench, but in reality it was going to be me. I hoped someone else would score the first goal, though. I''d scored both goals against Fleetwood and generated most of the expected threat. I didn''t want some kind of one-man team narrative to get going because that felt like it would be bad for morale and maybe even for teamwork. If players started to think, subconsciously or not, that I would get them out of the shit twice a week...


    Lee C played a pass slightly behind Pascal, who had to turn to get it. When he did, Lovett leaped, two-footed, his boots going over the ball and into Pascal''s shin.


    Pascal''s player profile turned red. Very red.


    "Holy fuck." The life drained out of me. Hands on head, I froze. Two seconds of mad, desperate panic. "Dean," I croaked, but our entire bench was up. Vimsy was already in his counterpart''s face, looking ready to rumble. Dean looked scared as he grabbed his bag and jogged across the pitch, but I knew his inner doctor would take over when he got there.


    In the stands, the Chester mob had gone feral. They were throwing punches at stewards who were trying to stop them from getting onto the pitch to have it out with Lovett.


    Dazza and Henri had no stewards stopping them, and they got there first, pushing the prick away from the scene of the crime. Henri''s eyes were popping out like the most tormented inmate of the most twisted asylum. Dazza had to turn his attention from putting aggro on Lovett to keeping Henri out of trouble. Zach and Christian pushed everyone clear of Pascal so Dean could work.


    The melee was normal after a bad tackle, but ten yards from it, facing away, was Eddie Moore on his knees, crying. That wasn''t normal. That wasn''t a good sign.


    Pascal''s profile read:


    Suspected leg injury.


    Yeah, you think?


    I wouldn''t get more information than that today, but in the morning or the day after, the curse would give me a pretty accurate estimate for how long Pascal would be out. Based on Eddie''s reaction - months. Right then and there I was more worried about if Pascal would even be able to walk again.


    While my guts turned inside out, while my knees got so weak I had to crouch and hold onto the grass, I forced myself to think.


    Shamefully, my first thought was about the match. What did I need to do? Who would go on to replace Pascal?


    Decency finally kicked in and I ran to pull Vimsy away from the other dugout. "Mate, what do we do? Do we tell his parents? Someone needs to go with him to the hospital. Who calls the parents? Is it me? I don''t have my phone."


    Vimsy, seeing my distress, put his hands on my shoulders. "You run the game, Max. You leave everything else to Dean and me. We''ll get the Brig if we need another hand. Don''t you worry about the details. You get back to letting them have it. Fuck them up, Max. Fuck them all the way up. For Pascal." He gave some verbals to the home dugout as he crossed the pitch to support Dean.


    I went for a walk with my hands pulling at my hair, but snapped my head round just as the ref showed Lovett a red card. I felt a vein on my forehead throbbing. Lovett would have to get past me and I would fucking murder him. Ryan, Dan, and Sharky seemed to read my mind because they made a kind of wall between me and the Bolton lot. The home team had their own tunnel over there so there was no way I was going to be able to get to him.


    Ryan said, "Beat him on the pitch, boss. Win the game. That''s the best thing right now. Win the game, boss, come on."


    They had sort of bodied me away without riling me up, which when I thought about it later was pretty impressive because I had a volcanic rage inside of me.


    I changed tack and walked five, ten yards away. Dean was calling for the stretcher. I saw something that nearly made my head explode and stormed back to my minders. I put all the anger into my index finger and pushed it quite slowly towards Dan. "Put some fucking proper shinpads on right fucking now."


    He licked his lips, glanced towards the far side of the pitch, and nodded. He zoomed off.


    I paced away, this time for twenty yards. I wanted to smash things up.


    I would start with Bolton Wanderers.


    ***


    It took time for Pascal to be put on the stretcher, given an oxygen mask, and taken away. I decided not to look at his injury in case it sent me all the way into outright lunacy the way it had done with Henri.


    I waved at Christian and made him gather the players in a huddle by the side of the pitch. While they were coming, I checked how Bolton''s manager would respond to losing a player. He was getting a defender ready and would go men behind ball. Low block. Me? The opposite.


    I turned to Sandra. "You''re in charge."


    "You''re going on?"


    "Yes. You''re in charge. I need you to set the formation, make sure everyone sticks to it. 2-4-4."


    Her eyes flickered towards the Bolton dugout - like everyone she was finding it hard to concentrate. "2-4-4."


    It seemed like she was about to call it absurd, to complain, to put up a fight. I didn''t have energy enough, spirit enough, to persuade her and then go on the pitch. I needed her to understand. "Please," I said, feeling all the energy seep out of me anyway.


    The lads had gathered. "Two-four-four," she said. "Boss is going left wing. Eddie, are you good?"


    I went to him; he looked distraught. "I''ve got him," I said, putting my hand on his back. I would cover him if he needed a minute. If he needed more than a minute, I''d still fucking cover him.


    "We''ll sort this out later," called Sandra. "What we do right now is we get that win. Knock these fuckers out of this cup. Do you hear me? Henri," she snapped. She went to him and I had the mad idea she would take a swing at him, but she just pushed her fists onto his chest. "Henri," she said, much more softly.


    He swallowed, looked up and away, and nodded.


    "Win," she said.


    We walked onto the pitch but Sandra grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I hadn''t subbed on yet, so if the ref saw me go on the pitch he''d have given me an instant yellow card. I pulled my hoodie off and waited while they did the rigamarole of holding up boards. The fourth assistant checked I was wearing shinpads. I nearly bit his head off but he wasn''t the enemy. I walked on the pitch and stood in front of Bolton''s dugout, staring at the manager for ten seconds.


    "Max!" called Christian, because it was our free kick and I had programmed the curse to automatically make me the free kick, corner, and penalty taker as soon as I stepped onto the pitch.


    I walked over to the left, thought I saw a patch of blood, but, amazingly, didn''t see red.


    I felt the fire.


    And I felt the ice.


    Eddie was the closest to the ball. I set him as the free kick taker. "Tap it," I commanded.


    He touched the ball so that it went through one rotation, and I booped it another one. The new right back came at me, hesitated, but came at me again.


    He was Pace 10, Acceleration 8.


    I pushed the ball down the line and burst past him, turned left, away from goal, and gestured for him to come again.


    Double dribble.


    He did what his manager would have wanted - got between me and the goal. I walked closer to him trying to trigger him into making a move. He flipped a foot towards the ball and I burst past him again, before cutting the ball towards the goal line. I made to smash the ball along the turf, the way Pascal had been doing, and a defender slid in front of me. He blocked fuck all, though, because I simply moved the ball back onto my right and chipped the ball to the far post. Henri looked favourite, but Dazza appeared out of nowhere with a gigantic, salmon-like leap.


    He headed the ball hard - against the crossbar. It bounced away and was hacked clear.


    I shook my head; Bolton''s strategy was pathetic and cowardly. 70 minutes gone and there would be at least ten minutes of injury time. They couldn''t just hope to hold on for half an hour.


    My direct opponent had Heading 14, Jumping 13.


    I told Eddie to come near me and waved at Zach, indicating my head. He saw me and pinged a high ball. "Go," I said, and Eddie ran on. I easily won the header and he was away. He sent in a nice-looking cross that was headed clear. Youngster anticipated where it would land and I anticipated where he would want to pass. He played it short and I clipped a soft, back-spinning ball to Wibbers on the right. He set himself to take a first touch back inside the defender, but instead dabbed it to the goal line. He smashed a low cross - good variety - that caused chaos.


    It was cleared again, pinballed back to Henri, who cleverly deflected the ball to the far post. The keeper saved it and a defender hacked it clear. Christian cushioned a header to Zach, who found Youngster. Zach rushed forward for the return pass - him leaving the back line was my kind of reckless - and hit a really decent cross to the far post. Dazza rose, nodding it sideways towards Henri. He lost his duel, but again the ball was only partially cleared. A Bolton guy got on it and dribbled towards the halfway line.


    "No foul," I called out, and Lee C dialled back his aggression. The Bolton twat flung himself to the ground, hoping to buy a free kick and ease the pressure, but the ref didn''t fall for it. Zach steamed forward, took a touch, and I was sure he was going to hit a long shot. I mean, rather him than Youngster but Bolton would take a full minute restarting the game.


    As a guy threw himself at the ball, Zach put his foot on it, turned square, and gave it to Lee C. Lee C rolled it to Lee H, who shaped for a cross but pushed it to Wibbers, who had more attacking threat.


    Wibbers clipped the ball first time, slowly, behind the line of our strikers - not a great choice, I''d have to talk to him about that - giving the defence an easy clearance. But the ball came to me at a nice height and at a nice angle, and because we had been working Bolton down the other flank, the path between me and goal wasn''t too crowded.


    I thought about dribbling through them. I thought about doing tekkers or a thunderbastard.


    I decided to score, and simply passed the ball into the bottom right of the goal.


    There was a tiny pause before the Chester fans roared. The other players didn''t know what to do - this was a big moment but Pascal was top of our minds. I knew what to do - I chased my shot and ran into the back of the net. I retrieved the ball and jogged back to the halfway line. I placed the ball down and while my guys hurried back I picked out the nearest Bolton player and screamed, "Hurry the fuck up!"


    They wasted as much time as they could, but the manager released them from their low block. They would come at us. The sensible thing would have been for us to drop into a 4-4-2 but I had no interest in that. Bolton tried to play a through ball in the middle - Youngster gobbled it up like Pac-Man - and soon the ball was on its way to me. The right back decided his best chance of stopping me was to stop the ball getting to my feet, and he darted to it. I got there first, flicking the ball two yards down the line into my stride.


    I glanced up and saw where everyone was, and drove not to the byline but towards the angle of the penalty area. From there, I''d be able to repeat my previous shot, and indeed, I did just that. At least, that''s what two defenders thought, as they threw themselves at my feet. I cut back onto my left foot, though, drove forward, cut inside another sliding tackle, and rolled the ball into the net with my right. Two-one! We were winning. I didn''t give a shit. I hurdled the goalie so I could grab the ball.


    This time the lads wanted to celebrate, but when they saw I''d collected the ball again, they got the message. We''re not finished.


    Bolton were frazzled. The foul on Pascal had turned this into something they weren''t prepared for, and even without the rage we would have slapped them in an 11 against 10 scenario.


    Fire and ice. "Hurry up!" I called as Bolton''s players once again tried to slow things down and take the heat out of us. Good luck with that. I was generating the heat.


    Ice, though. I needed to be careful with my stamina. Not that it would be a big deal if I was running on fumes in injury time, but I had the chance to do something really spectacular here. We could really run up the score and let people know: you don''t mess with Chesters. You send one of mine to the hospital, I''ll send your manager to the morgue.


    I glanced over at the stupid prick. He was doing that thing shit managers do where they start to point at something but realise no-one''s looking, no-one''s listening, and they pull their arms back.


    I slowed myself down for a minute, playing one-touch passes with Lee and Youngster, sending Eddie on dummy runs before sending the ball across the pitch, making Bolton''s defenders shuffle, slide, and burn calories. When the ball came back again, I did one more fake pass down the line, touched it to the side, and whipped it into the box.


    Dazza got a lovely little flick on it, but the goalie saved well.


    This seemed like one of those dilemmas. Run up the score by doing everything myself, or help Dazza score his first goal for the club? I looked down. Was this the very spot where Pascal''s career had been ended?


    No. He was fine. He would be fine.


    But just the thought that maybe -


    Not now, Max.


    I sprinted to the side and screamed for the ball. I passed to Wibbers, who shimmied left and right, threatened to nutmeg his marker, but instead rolled the ball into my path. I fucking leathered it first time, aiming about a yard to the right of the right-hand post. It swerved in, missing the inside of the upright by a whisker, before the Chester fans went full limbs. Once again, I kept my run going so I could pluck the ball from the back of the net, but this time there was a twist. As I got close, Bolton''s young centre back decided he would stop me with a push that sent me crashing into the post.


    I blinked and found myself tangled up in the net with a forest of legs nearby.


    The fuck?


    The guy had shoved me onto a metal post. What the hell was going on with these morons lately?


    In a slightly stunned state, I wondered if it was The Sentinel warning me. But that didn''t make sense. My goals against Fleetwood had been after the guy elbowed me in the gob. I mean, I''d been dicking around but as I''d told Pascal, it wasn''t productive.


    I thought about trying to get up but something felt wrong so I decided to wait. Dean had gone to the hospital with Pascal. I saw Livia approaching, but she veered off to the side because the ref had produced another red card which caused another outburst of pushing and shoving. I checked the curse commentary and saw it was for the guy who had assaulted me. Bolton were down to nine men. Nine!


    Was Old Nick making people attack me? Punishing me for something? Warning me not to get too flashy?


    Or were footballers at higher levels just as violent and idiotic as the ones in non-league?


    "Max, hold still. Where does it hurt?"


    "Um, it doesn''t. I''m fine."


    "You''re bleeding."


    "No," I said, genuinely surprised. Livia pressed a cotton pad onto my forehead and took it away, showing me the colour. "You''re using disclosing tablets."


    "Not in the mood for jokes, Max."


    "Okay."


    I also had a cut on my arm at the exact spot where Zach had broken it the year before. Livia went through her process and said I seemed to be fine but that I''d taken a knock to the head and had to go off. "Okay, I''m not in the mood for jokes either," I growled.


    She wasn''t intimidated by me in the slightest. "You''ve been in a coma. You''ve taken a blow to the head. You''re not playing another minute. Get off the pitch."


    I took a breath and tried to stay calm. "We''ve used all our subs. They could get back in this, even with nine."


    "See, that makes me think you''re more hurt than you''re letting on. The real Max Best knows you can make a concussion sub. You come off, send someone else on, we''re back to full strength."


    "If we do that, Bolton get another sub, too, though," I said, proving I was compos menti.


    "I''m just a physio," she said, zipping her bag closed with savage force. She got in my face. "But I say put Sharky on and let him run riot." She got up and offered me a helping hand. "But what do I know?"


    ***


    I let her shepherd me across the pitch - the jobsworth ref wanted me to go off the side and walk around but fuck that - and Liv told Sandra what was happening. Sandra turned to Dan, which I thought was fascinating, but Livia said, "No. Sharky."


    Livia tried to get me to keep moving, but I paused. I got Sandra and said, quietly, "Attack till we drop. Anyone who goes easy on them doesn''t play for this club again. Make sure they understand."


    With that, I went down the away team tunnel and let Livia give me a closer examination. When she was happy I wasn''t going to drop dead, I told her to get back to the dugout in case there were more injuries. She turned the light out as she went and I sat there in the dark, like a worm.


    I lay on my back on a treatment table, chewing on marathon paste, as I followed the match like I was playing Champion Manager.


    Bolton Wanderers 1 Chester 3


    It looks like Chester are adopting a more attacking approach.


    More attacking than 2-4-4? I popped the tactics screens up and saw that Sandra had gone to 2-3-5 with Christian Fierce as another striker. If Triple Captain had an area of effect, it was now boosting our goalscorers.


    85''


    Slick interplay from Chester.


    Lyons drops to collect a pass. He passes wide.


    Hayward takes on his man. And beats him!


    He has the chance to cross...


    Fierce is first to the ball.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Chester score their fourth goal!


    The home fans are streaming out.


    86''


    Roberts in space on the left. He cuts back inside...


    Flashes a shot just wide!


    It was so close to the head of Smith.


    Was it a shot or a cross?


    87''


    Roberts in space on the left. He cuts back inside...


    Gets a shot on target.


    Good save from the keeper!


    Bundled home by Fierce! He''s got his second!


    But the referee has disallowed it. He saw a foul in the build-up.


    88''


    Roberts in space on the left. He slips the ball down the line.


    Moore crosses first time.


    It evades everyone.


    Hayward collects. He drives forward and lashes the ball square into a mass of bodies.


    The ball squirts off Smith and onto a defender.


    It''s in the back of the net!


    The Chester players look to the referee.


    He points... to the centre circle!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Chester''s fifth goes down as an own goal.


    91''


    Relentless waves of attack from Chester.


    The home stands are virtually empty.


    The away end is raucous. They are chanting for Bochum.


    Green takes the ball and strides forward. He slips a pass through the lines...


    Roberts collects. He had drifted over from the left.


    Roberts has his heels clipped!


    The ref points to the spot!


    It''s a soft penalty, but the correct decision.


    Who will take it?


    92''


    Lyons wants Darren Smith to take it.


    Unselfish play from the Frenchman.


    Christian Fierce snatches the ball from Lyons'' hands...


    And gives it back to him.


    Lyons is getting an earful.


    93''


    The penalty will finally be taken.


    Lyons...


    Makes no mistake!


    He runs to the away fans. They can''t believe what is happening.


    The noise is ferocious.


    It is Bolton 1, Chester 6.


    95''


    Eddie Moore goes down with cramp. He''s in some discomfort.


    Contreras goes to offer his assistance.


    Christian Fierce jogs to the touchline and takes instruction from Sandra Lane.


    It looks like Chester are adopting a more cautious approach.


    ***


    Back on my treatment table, I nodded to myself.


    ***


    At full time, the lads went over to the fans, but Sandra came to find me. With the lights off in the dressing room, she immediately left. I called out.


    She frowned, turned the light on, and came towards me. "Why are you - oh, concussion. Are you all right?"


    "I''m being a good patient for once. Setting an example. Any word from Dean?"


    She shook her head. "Just that it looks bad." Her lips tightened as she got angry, then she placed her hands on the table and leaned on them. "Can we manage without him?" ''Him'' meant Pascal, not Dean.


    I closed my eyes and looked at the squad screen. It was somewhat lacking in creative forward players but we had some speed, some graft, and a great big Australian battering ram. That said, because a certain contract rebel had made me stop handing out new deals, I actually had nine hundred pounds a week left in my budget and three weeks remained in the transfer window. "Let''s talk about that later in the week. What was the final score?" I asked, as if I didn''t know, but Livia hadn''t let me get my phone - you didn''t let guys with concussion look at screens.


    "Six-one," said Sandra.


    "Acceptable," I said, trying to squash down the pride I felt in everyone. That could come later, after I''d been on TV. "The fans stopped roaring. You didn''t take your foot off the gas at the end or anything like that?" Sandra inhaled and was about to defend herself when I reached out and gently gripped her lower arm. "I''m joking."


    She looked relieved. "Eddie got a cramp and I was thinking, you know, Pascal wouldn''t want us adding injury to insult, if you know what I mean."


    "Yeah. I do."


    "How''s your head? Anything you want me to say to the media? I''m going in a second."


    I eased myself up and felt absolutely fine. No dizziness, no spinning rooms, no kaleidoscope of colour. I had a minor cut to the head, end of story. "We''re going to do the media."


    "You sure?"


    That was why I was pushing down the positive emotions. I wanted to tap into the anger. "Job''s not done till that fucker''s got the sack."


    Sandra thought about it. We would undo the bridge-building work we''d done in the pre-match interview. We would be less appealing to AOK. "Agreed. Let''s end him." She looked around the dressing room, silent except for the distant chanting of our mob. "That was epic. I wish you''d been out there instead of being in here all alone in the dark."


    Some positivity bubbled out of me against my will. I looked deep into her soul. "That last ten minutes," I said, with a slight gesture. I was waving towards the Match Overview but Sandra thought I was waving to the away fans, to the oohs, ahs, and cheers that told me what was going on. "That last ten minutes I didn''t feel alone. I felt like I was right there with you, watching you make the right moves, watching you drive the lads forward. And I was with the players, playing every pass, running every overlap. I know it sounds crazy but I was right there, right where I want to be."


    She nodded, and with a tiny smile, said, "Right in the middle of the blob." Her smile got a fraction bigger. "I can''t wait to read your essay about teaching Relationism to Welsh soldiers. I''m worried you saying ''we went into the blob and rolled and done a slap'' might not be, you know, forensic enough to pass the course."


    I clicked my fingers. "Forensic. Yes. That''s the right way to handle this. I''ll show you how forensic I can be. I''m going to dissect a football manager live on TV. You coming?"


    Her eyes flashed. "Wouldn''t miss it for the world."

 11.14 - Mit Einem Fuss im Grabe

    14.


    Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 6


    Chapter 14 - Epilogue


    Thursday, August 14


    1. Sinfonia


    The ceiling of room 156 at the private hospital in Manchester was painted white. There was nothing there except for shadows, and the shadows spelled numbers.


    Five. Five months out.


    One blink later and the shapes had changed.


    Ten. Ten months out.


    I would like to say I was stoic, I was strong, but a film covered my eyeballs and when I blinked away the tears, the shadows had reformed into the pedantic but accurate phrase ''five to ten months out''.


    "Schatz," said Tiggy. "You''re awake. Oh!"


    She had spotted my distress; I could not deny it. "My career''s over."


    "It''s not."


    "You can''t miss a full season in this sport. It''s ruthless. Max is ruthless. He''ll bin me off."


    Tiggy was by the side of the bed trying to smile at me, trying to give me some reassurance. She was bossy, she was forceful, but when she needed to show tenderness, there it was. What a woman. "Max is a dick but he would never bin you off for being injured. No way. I don''t want to listen to that, okay?"


    "Why hasn''t he been to see me?"


    Tiggy pushed my hair back. "We talked about this last night. Did you forget? He got concussion from, like, avenging you, so he''s got to take it easy. Doctor''s orders. He can''t tell you to do as you''re told if he won''t do it himself. And he put in the group chat that everyone goes to see injured players in the first couple of days and then it''s tumbleweed so they need to coordinate with Christian so you get at least one visitor per day. See? He''s thinking about you and I don''t say this very often but he''s right. What''s the point of twenty people coming all at once?"


    "I suppose."


    "You know what I think? I think five months is a long time but you could be back playing in February. Feb, March, April, May. There will be a lot of games, right? There might be some rain in the winter. Some snow. Matches will get pushed back like always happens and you''ll be fit to play in them." She smiled, took my hand, and kissed it. "You''ll get your league winners medal."


    "How are they going to win the league without me?"


    She tipped her head back and laughed. "That''s it! There''s my Pascal." She stood and looked at me with such affection I briefly forgot the pain. "I''m going to get a butty from downstairs. Do you want one?"


    The pain returned. It was as though blood was trying to rush through my leg but was crashing into the many and various traumas it encountered. I imagined a bloody torrent rushing through huge cracks in my bone, passing through me like a river, wearing away the tissue instead of healing it. "No, thanks." Tiggy sensed my shift in mood and hesitated. "Actually, yes, I would like one."


    The lie was necessary to stop her from worrying too much. I summoned a lightness of the face that I hoped would give her comfort. I''m sure it was a grotesque, gargoyle grimace. The closest thing a wretch like me can get to tenderness. The meanest, basest approximation of affection. "Bin schnell zur¨¹ck," she said. I''ll be back soon.


    ***


    2. Aria [Tenor]


    The door closed behind her. I popped in an earbud and pressed play on my phone, listening to a piece by Bach that reminded me of my mother. It was exactly the right amount of nostalgic and gloomy for my present mood, and I was trying to keep my mind occupied by translating it into English.


    Some parts were easier than others.


    Ich steh mit einem Fu? im Grabe.


    I stand with one foot in the grave.


    Another tear spilled as I wrote the next line: my sick body will soon fall in.


    The door flew open.


    "Knock knock! Who''s there? Max Best! All right, mate?" Max came in and looked around at the space. Moderately spacious, clean, and simple. He dumped his backpack on a chair that was pushed up against the wall. "Wow, nice this, innit? It''s bigger than my fridge!"


    "Have you got a big fridge?" I asked.


    Max gave me a stern look. "In England, it''s rude to ask a man about the size of his fridge." His face cracked into a big smile. "What''s that?" he said, indicating the far side of the room. When I turned, he snatched away my translation. "The shit is this? You''re writing poetry? I Have One Foot in the Grave. Holy fuck, I''m too late. It hasn''t been 48 hours and you''re already writing depressing songs. We don''t need more, lad. You''re in Manchester and we gave the world The Smiths."


    "It''s Bach," I said.


    "I''ll give it back when you explain what it is," he said, but again he laughed and handed it over. He was having one of those mornings when he was at 107% energy.


    "It''s Bach," I repeated. "My mother loves Bach. This reminds me of my childhood."


    He laughed again. "Well, that explains a lot." I had to smile at that, but he put a pause on his antics. "They''ve been to see you, right?"


    I nodded. "Yes," I said, as loud as a church mouse. "And Tiggy has been with me."


    He pointed at something. "Tiggy, right. Where''s your phone?"


    "Here," I said, finally realising the earphone was still playing the cantata. I tucked it away in its case.


    "Top. She''s downstairs, right? Send her a message that you need a biscuit Boost and a copy of The Economist."


    "No. Why?"


    "Because I want to give you your performance review and I won''t enjoy it if she''s here. Come on, just send the text already."


    Performance review? After two matches of the new season? Absurd... but I really wanted to know what he would say. "It''s not fair to send her on a wild goose hunt."


    "Chase."


    "It''s not fair. I will tell her that you are here and ask her to wait downstairs."


    "Don''t be fucking mental!" he said, throwing his hands over his eyes like I was the one being unreasonable. "She''s here to take care of you, right? Trust me, when she gets that text she''ll be ecstatic."


    "What?"


    "It''s like you''re getting better, know what I mean? You suddenly thought, huh, I could murder a biscuit Boost. She''s going to go to the nearest shop to get it and realise they don''t sell The Economist. So she''ll go and get that and okay I get a bit more time to talk to you in private but she gets a killer story. Right? She''s with her mates drinking straight gin and they''re all like ooh poor Pascal and she''s like yeah it has been tough but I knew he was on the mend when he asked me to go to the shops but you''ll never guess what he wanted!"


    "That isn''t a killer story," I said, but something about Max has a way of making you believe the preposterous things he wants you to believe. And in the shadows of a corner of my mind, I wondered why he had chosen the two items he had chosen. To force Tiggy to visit at least two shops, yes, but also to stimulate her. I never ate the Boost chocolate bars - I never ate British chocolate if I could help it - and I never read The Economist. The surprise would absolutely intrigue and delight Tiggy and Max knew it.


    I thumbed my phone, which emitted a whooshing sound.


    "Let me see," he said, and for some reason I showed him my screen. "Top top top." He sat by my bed, facing the door, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So much to do. I wanted to start small and get big but all the conversations bleed into one another."


    My phone pinged. I showed Max what Tiggy had sent. The word okay and a smiley face.


    Max grinned. "Told you. Right, first things first. Grapes." He pulled a plastic punnet of green grapes out of his bag. "I got you ones with seeds because I know you Germans like to do the opposite of what is nice."


    "Those are seedless," I said, pointing to the pack.


    "Yeah, well, I might have some."


    "Why do British people bring grapes to hospital?"


    Max tutted. "Because we are the height of class and sophistication. We''re civilised, okay? Now let''s talk about your mangled leg."


    ***


    3. Recitative [Bass]


    My mood had been on the rise - his manchild energy was infectious - but now it collapsed. I thought I had bottomed out but Max always knew how to find extremes beyond the extremes. He pulled out something that was clearly an X-ray - how did he have it? - and I was so stunned that I couldn''t even look away.


    "I need your permission to put this out on social media."


    Despair and denial mingled with anger. The throbbing in my leg, the pounding of blood against bone, made me feel nauseous. "What - " I started, but then I saw it. He held it up in front of me. I had told the doctors, I had told Dean that I didn''t want to see. I only wanted to focus on my healing, my recovery. And there it was.


    Very clearly a human leg, but shockingly broken in multiple places. Despair, denial, rage, nausea - but the nausea won. I slumped back on my pillow, turned white, and prepared to vomit all over the bed. While the bile rose I felt ashamed - the nurses would have to clean up and they had been so nice to me.


    "What the hell are you doing?"


    Max''s tone diminished my symptoms by a few percent. I turned towards him and saw that he was astonished by my reaction. I swallowed back what was in my gullet and let the anger take over enough that I could speak. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you show me that?"


    He looked at the X-ray, seemingly unable to comprehend how monstrously he was behaving. "This?"


    "My fucking leg, you Dummkopf!"


    He did one of the most maddening things I''ve ever seen - he broke into a smile. Not one of the smirks he can''t contain when he knows something better than you, or one of the playful lip-bites he uses to flirt with waitresses, but a warm, genuine smile that contained dollops of amusement and affection. "This isn''t your leg, Pascal."


    "Oh."


    He added a frown to the smile, and as he looked at the X-ray he side-eyed me. "Why would I use your X-ray on social media?"


    The moment had exhausted me. I held my arms over my eyes. "I don''t know."


    "Have a grape," he said. He took them over to the sink and washed them. He plopped one in his mouth and created a paper towel bed underneath the punnet so it wouldn''t leak too badly. I would have used a plate, but Max had his own way of doing things. "No, see," he said, as he experimentally put the grapes on the edge of the bed where I could get them easily. "Your X-ray is super boring."


    "I apologise," I said. He lifted the grapes and discovered the paper towel system had failed. He opened the drawers and found a Bible. He placed that down and was about to use it as a plate. "No, Max. Not that. Forget the grapes and tell me what you want."


    He tutted, not at me but his own inability to solve this challenge. He shrugged as he picked up the X-ray again. "Er, yeah. Bolton haven''t sacked Gregory yet so I am piling on the pressure. Got to do this before his next press conference." Max tapped his phone''s screen to bring up the date. Like me he had slightly lost track of time. I remembered Dean told me Max had hit his head and most of my annoyance at being shown the X-ray dissipated. "That will be tomorrow afternoon. You know those pressers, they''re super boring. Normally he would answer questions about the game at the weekend in front of maybe five journos. This week there will be at least six."


    "Bethany Alban," I said.


    Max smiled. "Yes. So the plan is, either today or tomorrow morning - I''m going to work with Beth on it because she can calculate the optimal timing better than me - we''re going to put this on our socials with, like, no words. Just hashtag Pascal hashtag Kieran Lovett."


    "But it''s not my leg."


    "We''re not saying it''s your leg. If somebody viewing the post thinks ''oh shit look what Kieran Lovett did to Pascal'', that''s, like, beyond my control. And if a Daily Mail reporter writes a piece about the incident showing this X-ray ''as posted on Chester''s socials'' next to a photo of Lovett and Gregory looking shady while leaving a building, I mean, that''s nothing to do with us."


    "Why not use my actual X-ray?"


    Max did a lop-sided smile. "That would be unethical, Pascal. I''d never ask you to do that." He tried to control his expression and decided that eating a grape would help. Maybe that''s what the grapes were for - to give people something to do while they had difficult conversations. "Anyway, like I said, yours is boring. This one. Mwah! Chef''s kiss. Even you were repulsed and you knew it wasn''t you." He frowned; I had thought it was me. "Hang on. You''ve seen your X-ray. Why did you freak out?"


    "I haven''t seen it. I know it''s bad." Max''s face lit up, just for a half a second, which shocked and irritated me but made more sense when I thought about it later. "I didn''t want to know. I don''t want to know, I only want to heal and get back on the pitch."


    "Top."


    I sighed. I went through cycles of trusting Max completely and being ready to impugn his character but everyone said he had gone supernova in reaction to Lovett''s assault. Surely I could give him the benefit of the doubt. "Why are you going after the manager? Why not Lovett?"


    "Because when Lovett got the red card, the manager was complaining to the ref that it wasn''t that bad a tackle. In the post-match interview he said Lovett ''wasn''t that sort of player'' which is a disgraceful thing to say because Lovett literally just did the thing his manager said he would never do. The manager creates the culture, right? You and I both know that players will sometimes go fucking mental and do something mad. Like, if you play a thousand matches in your career are you going to do a tackle like that at least once? Probably. But I think you know if you do that for my team you''re not getting back in the side for months, if ever. Right? You know I won''t go on TV and defend you."


    "I would expect the opposite."


    "Right. We do bad fouls, bad tackles, same as everyone. We''re no angels. If Henri lashes out and thumps a defender I''m not going to go apeshit, I don''t think, even if we''re all a bit disappointed in him. But I hope we can agree I haven''t created a culture where you can go round hurting people. All you''re doing is hurting the team, hurting the club. Anyway, the way I''m going after the manager is based on an assumption that Lovett is a minotaur, just a wild beast that has to be kept locked away. He''s not getting away with this. When the manager''s sacked, Beth''s going to start another media frenzy around whether the new guy will release the minotaur. And if there''s ever a sniff of Lovett getting another contract anywhere, that manager, that club are going to get bombarded with media enquiries. Why are you signing a literal monster, mate? What''s wrong with you? Etcetera, etcetera. No, Lovett''s a long-term revenge. Short-term we focus on Gregory. So I need you to let me use this X-ray, please."


    "Why do you need my permission if it isn''t me?"


    "Because it''s your career. Three years from now when you''re sick of my shit and you want to move clubs, a sporting director might think ''good player, dodgy leg''. I think it''s incredibly unlikely but it wouldn''t be fair to go all-out without you having some input."


    "Why do you think it''s unlikely?"


    "One thing at a time, please. I''ve been here for like seven minutes and we haven''t even got the preamble sorted. Can I go hard at this twat Gregory, yes or no?"


    Right then and there I didn''t care either way; I only wanted to heal, to know that I would walk again. But I also knew that the anger would come back and I would want revenge, and I knew that Max Best would keep this grudge in his heart forever. He would use Beth, the Brig, and every other weapon in his arsenal to hound Lovett and Gregory out of the sport entirely.


    I reached out for my translation and read:


    If you will because of my sins,


    place me on my sick-bed,


    my God, then I beg you,


    let your kindness be greater than your justice.


    Kindness for me. Justice for Gregory and Lovett. Leave it to the gaffer. The throbbing in my leg eased. "Yes."


    ***


    4 Aria [Alto]


    Max fired off a text. "Top bins," he said. "Right, what''s next? Your performance review. Will it be a 4.71 out of 5 that means you''re shit and don''t deserve happiness, or a 4.73 that means you''re an all-time legend? I don''t think this needs to take long. When you left the pitch it was one-nil to Bolton. Nuff said." He laughed. "Nah, but seriously - "


    "One moment, please," I said, because he was about to go on a monologue. "Henri came yesterday and he said you savaged Gregory in the post-match."


    "Yes but in French, to savage means to tenderly brush your lips on someone''s neck."


    "It does not. He said that today - yesterday - I was having the cockroach but that tomorrow - "


    "Wait what?"


    "To have the cockroach? You don''t know the phrase? It''s French. It means, you know, to be depressed. I was down and groggy on meds but tomorrow - today - I should find the video of you going at Gregory. He said you didn''t use the back of the spoon."


    "Jesus Christ, mate. You''re making these phrases up."


    "It means you didn''t hold back."


    Max shrugged and got his phone out. "See for yourself." He tapped a few times until he was on the EFL''s YouTube account. There was a video with the title ''Chester Boss Pulls NO Punches - full interview.''


    He gave me his phone, and I hesitated. "Dieter Bauer sent me a voicemail."


    "Course he did," said Max. "He''s a gentleman. He''s, like, the opposite of Gregory."


    I waited for more, but that seemed to be that. I pressed play, and immediately had a shock. "You''re bleeding!"


    "Pause," he said, and I obeyed. "I got a little cut scoring the third goal but Livia sorted it out. I asked Sandra to poke me until it bled again. She refused, of course, but I said if she didn''t I was going to smash my face against a wall until I drew blood. She was pretty fucking unhappy, mate, but she sort of jabbed her finger into the sore bit. It hurt like the devil but I egged her on. I was like hey have you started yet and oh that tickles and all that and, yeah, anyway."


    "You''re crazy."


    Max tutted and looked up at the ceiling. "What''s crazy about getting your assistant manager to draw blood so you can look suitably wounded while you''re being interviewed about how violent your oppo were? Come on, man. It''s not like I faked it."


    I had thoughts, but I kept them to myself. Suffice to say the blood very much added to the sense of immediacy, the sense that authentic words were being spoken.


    "Max Best, you''ve knocked a Championship side out of the AOK Cup. How do you feel?"


    "I''m gutted for the fans of Bolton Wanderers. We brought five thousand fans here tonight, sold out our entire allocation and had to ask for more, because this is Bolton Wanderers and it''s amazing to play them in the cup. Bolton are a huge part of the history of English football, a sleeping giant. Every true football fan in this country would say that Bolton Wanderers are a much bigger club than Manchester City."


    Max asked me to pause, and he pointed to Sandra Lane, who was beside him on his phone. She had been nodding along until the last part. "Look how she reacts to that." Max laughed. "That''s how furious she was about what happened to you, mate. She really doesn''t like it when I lay into City but here she lets me get on with it. I mean, she flinches, right, but you can see in her eyes she goes ''this is for Pascal''. Okay press play."


    "We''ve just seen one of the most pathetic, feeble, cowardly, and tactically inept performances in the history of this great club. When you think about Bolton you think about the Lion of Vienna. Now it is run by a mouse. When you think of Bolton you think of its rich history. Now there is only intellectual poverty.


    "We''ve got the manager there, Gregory, and serious questions have to be asked about how he ended up at the wheel. He is the worst manager, by far, in the entire football league. His starting line up today was a joke. He might have thought he was insulting Chester but he was only shaming Bolton. If you don''t have the players to play a system and you insist on using that system, fine, but that''s not tactics, that''s a letter of resignation.


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    "Gregory was lucky in the first half that McManus played well, because McManus covered a multitude of sins. Once he came off, the second half was Gregory versus Best. I have managed six matches in League Two and of those six I have won zero. Inept as I am, I made some adjustments that had Chester, with the lowest budget by far of the 92 league clubs, dominating against Bolton. Did Gregory notice? He didn''t change anything, so he can''t have noticed. If he can''t see what''s right in front of him, why is he managing anything other than a Sunday league side? If he saw it but didn''t know what to do, why is he managing one of the country''s most important institutions?


    "If you create a culture that rewards thuggish play, two-footed tackles, pushing people into the goalposts after they have scored, a culture that rewards players for constantly whinging and moaning at the referee instead of learning how to pass, you''re going to get red cards, you''re going to get fines, and sponsors are going to think twice about associating with you. If I were a sponsor of Bolton Wanderers today I would be looking at the small print of my contract because why is my brand logo on the shirts of players launching themselves two-footed at their opponents? I''m told poor Pascal Bochum might never walk again. Is that what we do here?"


    Max reached over to pause the video. "No-one said you wouldn''t walk again. That was just for shock value."


    "I understand." There wasn''t long left in the video; I pressed play.


    "If I was a Bolton fan today I would be livid. My club is being hollowed out, not by Gregory, but by the people who appointed him. Those people will sack Gregory, of course they will, because you can''t lose 6-1 to Chester. A club the size of Bolton can''t lose 6-1 to Chester, who started the match with four players under 19. So they''ll sack him, but they don''t have the competence to appoint someone better. Those decision-makers can''t stay at the club because if they do, Chester will be playing Bolton again next season, in League One, and I''ll look at that and think it''s an easy six points even if any two of their players earn more than my entire squad.


    "Now if you don''t mind, I''m going to hospital. First for a scan on my head and an X-ray on my arm, then to find out if my talented young player''s career is over. A horrible, appalling day in my life and the life of Pascal Bochum but for Gregory? It''s just another Tuesday."


    I licked my lips and Max came round the bed to pour me a glass of water. "I am speechless."


    "I rate it 4.72," said Max, who didn''t seem to be joking. "I obviously didn''t have time to write it and structure it properly but I think it hits the main points. Building Bolton up gets me the sympathies of their fans but also contrasts with how tiny Chester are - for now - and shines a light on just how crushing it is that we beat them. The threat that we would meet in League One if they didn''t change soon was pretty good, I think. I wasn''t too happy with the bits about me."


    "When you said you had never won a game in League Two."


    "I have as a player," smiled Max. "But I went from saying I was a shit manager to saying I made some tactical changes that worked. Do you know what I mean? It wasn''t completely internally consistent."


    "I think you might be underestimating yourself. I would give the speech 4.73."


    "I just really, really want the guy to get sacked and if I flubbed my chance, that''s going to eat at me forever."


    I tapped my Bach ''poem''. "What happens is as God wills it." Something occurred to me. "Your arm! Please tell me you didn''t break it again."


    Max scoffed. "God willed that a big boof-headed American should break it last season. You know bones heal stronger, right? That one little bit of my arm is like adamantium now. About half a centimetre of me is literally invincible. Then again, I''m still not convinced it ever actually broke. No, I''m all good, but because of the concussion protocol I do have to sit out the Burton Albion game. I''m not sure what to do - it''s ages since I had a match day off. What''s the best use of my time? Go and scout a couple of League One teams, maybe."


    "No! That''s our first home game back in the EFL! You have to be there."


    Max didn''t seem too bothered. "Without our two best players we don''t have much of a shot; Burton are going to be right up there at the end of the season. I knew we would lose a couple of matches early doors and Sandra gets to be the first female manager in League Two. Sucks that it''ll go down as a loss but it''s still history, isn''t it? And we will make it up to her near the end of the season when we''re flying. Her first six matches will look a lot better than mine. Won''t they?"


    I wasn''t sure how to get back to my performance review, and my attempt was clumsy. "Our two best players?"


    Max snorted in derision - he knew what I was trying to do. "Okay, fine. Quick recap. When I first scouted you at Darlington..." He rummaged in his backpack and came up with a player radar. The sections were, at most, three thin pencil lines deep.


    "What''s this?" I asked.


    "That''s your radar when I found you," he said. He pulled another one out and looked at it. "Hang on, the one you''re holding is the newest one." I looked in horror at the chart. Surely... surely I was better than this? The computer must have - Max pushed his finger to his lip while he considered something, but he couldn''t contain his amusement any longer. "Ha! Look how worried you are. Here''s where you are now."


    He handed me the real chart - some long bars, some short ones - and I devoured it. "Aerial duels bad," I said.


    Best tutted. "Don''t start with the worst stuff, you dick. Look at that. Carry and dribble volume. That''s mint, that."


    "This radar has different metrics from the one in the Maxterplan."


    "Yeah, I don''t know which one I like. Spectrum''s giving me different options. He loves it, all this data stuff, wants to get into it in a big way."


    "What about the youth teams?" Spectrum was in charge of the youth setup - he couldn''t spend too much time on data analysis.


    "Yeah," said Max. "I''ve told him the kids are his priority until I can find someone better than him and anyway, even if I do Spectrum will show him how I want things to go for the rest of the season. He gets it; he''s in no hurry but we get free data from all over the place now that we''re in League Two. It''s really amazing."


    "I''d love to help him," I said. "If I''m out for the rest of the season I could do some data stuff. I love it, too."


    Max scowled at me, then realised what he was doing. "No. I''ve got plans for you. They are completely mandatory. I mean, voluntary."


    "I see."


    "Let me say my things. So when I found you, you were too small to play in England. I made you my first signing, staked my entire reputation on you. Since then you''ve played loads, slapped teams pink, and got two league winners medals. Either I made you taller or you proved the doubters wrong big time. I asked you to do certain things at certain times and you did everything I ever asked. One very stupid way people talk about players is to ask how a team of eleven clones would do. Would eleven Messis beat eleven Ronaldos? I think a team of eleven Pascal Bochums would fucking destroy League Two, and that''s including set pieces. So that''s my appraisal. You are the perfect chess piece."


    "I''m a robot," I said. "You programme me and I follow instructions."


    "Yes and no. You add your own spin to my instructions. You interpret them."


    I felt the throbbing in my leg go faster and I tried to keep still. "I will have a short career, boss. Perhaps it is already over." Again, something flashed on Max''s face, but I continued. "If I make it back, I would like to learn Relationism." My throat tightened. "From you."


    "Er, no."


    "Please," I said, eyes welling up. "I don''t want to be the best robot. I don''t want to be a chess piece. I want to be more like Henri. I want to do something, create something." My throat tightened even more. "While I still can."


    Max got up and paced around. He flapped his arms and gestured like an Italian. "Mamma mia! What the shit is going on? Why doesn''t anyone listen to me? Max knows Best, remember that? I want to get you earning forty thousand Euro a week, mate, and you''re like oh now I''d rather learn about blobs. Blobs isn''t for you, PB. There are no Bad Boys in blobs."


    "Dan is a Bad Boy."


    "What?"


    "Badford."


    Max cackled. "Why did that never occur to me? Or did it and I forgot?" He went to the window and looked out, biting his nail. He turned suddenly. "I''ve got it. Here''s what you''re going to do and I don''t want to hear a fucking argument against it, you hear me? I just want to hear you say yes. Okay..." He pushed his index fingers into his temples as though analysing what he was about to say. Running it through a virus checker. "You are going to get your UEFA C badge in Wales. First you''ve got to do a course called Football Leaders, then there''s a Welsh thing called FAW C. They''re both really short but you''ll turn up, be the biggest fucking megabrain they''ve ever seen, and they''ll wave you through. Okay? Then you''ll be added to whatever UEFA C course is going on and if you''ve missed some you''ll catch up. You got that?"


    Why not do a course while I was injured? It would be another point of difference between me and the other players like me. Add a working knowledge of Relationism and I would surely be able to carve a niche in this industry. "Yes."


    "At the same time you''ll come to 3 R Welsh with me - I mean, it''s normally in Saltney unless there are matches - and you''ll learn about Relationism."


    "Okay."


    "As my assistant manager."


    "Oh! Yes!" My brain was swimming in happy chemicals. Nurse! I don''t need those pills - take them away! Nurse, bring the pills back. My face hurts from smiling. "I mean, yes. Love to."


    "Top. Last question for this section, I think. Do you think you could spend time with a cute girl and not fall head over heels and make things weird?"


    He was talking about Luisa, the waitress I had longed after. I felt heat burn my cheeks. "I am with Tiggy," I said.


    "I''m going to have to press you for a yes or no on that one."


    I set my jaw. He really was insufferable, that man. Highs followed by lows, but far more of the former. "Yes, I can spend time with a cute girl and not fall head over heels."


    "Huh," said Max. "Okay." He went to his bag and pulled out something I had seen a lot of, especially at the Fans Forum when Max was fighting off the Daddy Star takeover. The Chester logo took up half of the front cover.


    "A contract?" I said. My hands shook as I flicked through the pages. Max wasn''t thinking about binning me off. He wanted to give me a new deal. I flicked to the last page. 800 pounds a week! An increase of 300. In the world of football, peanuts. In the world of Chester''s stupidly tight budget, it was a vast fortune.


    I cannot lie. I wept.


    Finally, I got a grip. "Thank you," I said. "But I refuse."


    ***


    5 Recitative [Bass]


    And if that is your will, that I shall not be ill, then I shall thank you from my heart.


    Max, slappable to the last, laughed. "Don''t be a dick," he said. "Sign it before Tiggy comes and sees how little I''m offering and we have another Triplet fiasco."


    I inhaled a deep, shuddering, messy breath. I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve. "The club has 900 pounds a week left in its budget. I''m out for the season. You can sign a forward on loan, one who is earning 1800 a week. Clubs will loan players to you on half their salary because they know you''ll improve them."


    Max looked far to the left, a sure sign he was unimpressed. "Have you been playing Soccer Supremo? I don''t need help squad-building, thanks. I''m actually the best in the world, thanks. Sign the fucking contract before I lose my shit, thanks."


    "No. You have to replace me. For the team."


    Max''s faux-outrage puffed out of existence. "This isn''t a test of Chesterness, mate." He paced around the room before going to the door, opening it, and peeking down the corridor. He came back to the side of the bed closest to the door and whispered. I had to strain to hear. "First thing, no loans in. Remember Chipper? That was as stressful for me as for him. Second, we''re going to coach the fucking shit out of the players we''ve got. Wibbers is the best talent in England. Sharky can crush this level. Third, it''s an excuse for me to give minutes to kids. Tyson, Benny, Noah, Chas. They didn''t think they''d get much time in League Two games but now they will. And fourth - " He paused to check the door and got even quieter. "You''re fucking fine, mate."


    There was complete silence in the entire world. "Pardon me?"


    Max got a giddy look about him, the one he''d had on his face when he first entered the room. He checked behind him again. "You know Dean wants to build a database of all the ACL injuries but clubs won''t share their data? I''ve been going round, now and then, meeting their physios and doctors and whatnot, to try to persuade them to sign up. They fucking love a bit of attention from a big shot like me, Pascal, let me tell you. You think I''m good with waitresses? You should see me with a League One head physio. They''re putty in my hands. Along the way I''ve seen loads of gruesome shit I never, ever wanted to see. I saw an X-ray with a bone broken in two places just like yours. Guess what the doctors said?"


    "Five to ten months."


    "Right. Now, I wasn''t so sure because to me it looked like the bones were all just, I don''t know. They just needed to be eased back into place, sort of thing. You know if you get an atlas and cut out the continents you can shove Brazil next to Africa real good? It used to be one big thing, didn''t it? Pangea. Panagea, something like that. Maybe that can be next year''s Maxterplan. Anyway, call me crazy but I was like there''s no way that break is five months, but you know me, I''m a man of science, I trust experts, and I got what I wanted and fucked off. But fuck me, wasn''t that lad back training two months later?"


    "What? Two months?"


    Max tapped me on the shoulder. "You''ll be healed up in six to eight weeks and you can start light training again. That''s a fucking Maxy five-star triple-lock promise, okay?" He looked behind him again. "But you can''t tell anyone. That''s why Tiggy can''t be here - also because she won''t let me tease you - and that''s why this is going to be hard. You have to do what you''re told, go through the process, be sad when they talk about ten month timelines. But it''s not ten months, okay?"


    "I don''t..." My world was tumbling upside down. I was just getting used to the idea that I was crocked, that I was broken, perhaps forever. It would have been easy to dismiss Max''s dilettante diagnosis but I knew one person who wouldn''t and that was Physio Dean. Dean was flat-out terrified of Max''s intuition when it came to injuries. "You''re guessing, though. You don''t actually know."


    He smiled and tapped me again. "That''s the spirit! Maybe we don''t need to send you to acting class after all."


    The shadows on the ceiling shifted. No longer 5 to 10 but 6 to 8... and weeks not months! It couldn''t be true. There wasn''t even the slightest ghost of a chance. "And this is why I get a new contract? Because you think I''ll be back by... by December?"


    "You get a new contract because you''ve earned one over the last three years with your grit, courage, and skill. Sign it."


    I shook my head. Max was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. "We''re light. We still need another player."


    Max''s forehead sank into the bed and he mumbled, "Oh my God." He came up with a disbelieving look. "Fine, there''s another reason. Our main rivals. Check this shit out."


    He got his phone, hunted around, and showed me another video. It was Chip Star in a wild limo/van hybrid. The seats were luxurious, there was party lighting, and Chip and a male friend were inside with four models. Everyone was holding champagne.


    "Here we go with another Chip Star story! First match of the season. Bradford City, yo! We''re off to Harrow-gate in the Party Bus. We''re going up so you better get this party started! Oh, boy, fellas, am I excited about this. We''ve got a helluva roster, top head coach, and the best fans in the division, yo! Harrow-gate gonna get dominate. Let''s go, baby!"


    I felt almost as sick watching that as I had when Max showed me the horrible X-ray. "What the fuck did I just see?"


    Max smiled. He took his phone, tapped some more, and showed me the outside of the Party Bus. It was beyond vile, a sort of squashed team bus with two huge pictures of Chip. The one on the left was facing away, double-thumbing his name on a Bradford shirt with the name CHIP and the number 1. The other showed him facing forward, trying to look sexy in a cowboy get-up, tipping his hat. Some words were painted by his head: "Hey there, ladies!"


    Max was pleased by my reaction. "The Bradford fans are calling it ''The Chip Van''. Yeah, that''s our main threat this season. They were a fucking shambles in that match against Harrogate. Sorry, Harrow-gate. Obviously I feel bad for Aff and Carl but, you know. Fuck Chip."


    "Yeah," I said, but I had a strange feeling. Max was confident I would recover fast from my injury, and had dismissed a rival based on their owner''s taste in vehicles. Was that really enough to fritter away our meagre budget? "I just think that maybe - "


    "Conversation''s boring. Sign the contract or you''re sacked."


    He wasn''t serious about that, but it was clear that he had made his mind up. The remaining budget would go to the rest of the first team squad - if they signed new deals. I picked up the contract and skipped to the final pages, where the most important terms were. I was getting more money but there were no other changes. The club got nothing from this - it was purely a show of faith.


    Grant that my soul may be free from illness and always remain healthy.


    I signed my second ever contract as a professional footballer and my heart soared.


    Max loomed over me with a menacing look about him. He growled two words. "In triplicate."


    ***


    6. Chorale


    "Christ, what a palaver," said Max. "Why does everyone make everything so complicated? The fuck. Okay, we''re nearly done, I reckon. Er, got a sort of post-contract performance review for you. No, that''s not the right phrase. What''s it called when you tell your robots what you want them to do in future?"


    "By robots you mean employees? Goal-setting?"


    "Yeah. I think there''s a proper word. Ah, well, who gives a shit? So you''re doing some badges and you''ll help me with the soldiers. Oh by the way I''m going to be telling people your leg is proper fucked but that''s just to set up a miracle return narrative. We''ll get you fat stacks of sponsor money, trust me. Where was I?"


    "Badges and soldiers."


    "Right. But that''s like an hour a day at most. You''ll have visitors and the coaches are going to come and watch oppo video with you. So, let''s say three hours a day. I want you to use all this free time to do something so when I sell you I can make proper bank."


    "Yes, of course. Upper-body work? Er... hand-eye coordination? Advanced visualisation?"


    He pinched his nose again. "Could you stop wittering on? Watch this."


    He opened Instagram - which I found astonishing because he said he wasn''t on there. The account owner was Cliff Daps - I should have guessed. It was open at a page from a name it took me half a second to recognise - Foquita.


    With a frown of surprise, I pressed play. Foquita spoke first, but when the camera moved there was a beautiful woman (crying) to the left and what must have been the Peruvian striker''s mother to the right. She was gripping some Rosary beads.


    It was all in Spanish. Foquita said things, the crying woman said one line, and the mother interrupted once, too.


    "My Spanish is poor," I said.


    Max nodded and went through the video bit by bit. I was surprised by his language skills, but I quickly realised he was doing a lot of guessing. "Foquita is saying, like, Pascal my brother, I saw what happened, it''s a crime, it cannot be true, his heart is with you. This is his girlfriend - I hope he doesn''t bring her to Chester because that''ll be mayhem, holy shit, what a babe - and she goes ''it''s not right!'' Foquita says he believes you will recover soon and his mother says yes, she is sure, too, and she will pray for you. Foquita finishes by saying, like, I''ll be there in January and we will play together, I know we will, stay strong. Then the last bit is something like, ''I love the way you play''."


    That got me welling up again. "Okay," I said, because that''s all I could manage.


    "Then his mum finishes by saying please like and subscribe."


    I laughed. "No, she doesn''t."


    "Okay, fine, she doesn''t, but I''m pretty sure the rest is, you know, more or less right."


    "Your Spanish is good these days."


    "No, it''s dogshit, but you know what was strange? In Brazil I saw some stuff and heard words and I was like oh that''s almost the same as the Spanish I learned in school. It kind of brought some things back that I''d forgotten or never quite learned the first time round."


    "You learned Spanish in Brazil. That''s so you."


    "I can''t talk to Foquita in Spanish, though. I can''t actually communicate, do you know what I mean? Anyway, this isn''t about me. We''re talking about you. Try to focus, yeah? Your French is mint, isn''t it? You can read books in French. Your English is bonkers good, obvs. You picked up a bit of Portuguese. And you know that other one."


    "German."


    "That''s it! I can easily sell you to a team in the UK, MLS, Germany, Switzerland, er... what''s the other one?"


    "Austria."


    "Yes! Who else? The French leagues. Do you get me? That''s a lot of potential suitors. But there''s a gap. I would like you to learn Spanish."


    "To play for who? Valencia? Sevilla?"


    "I don''t know," said Max. "But having two clubs interested instead of one could add a hundred grand to your value. Having three clubs... you get the idea. Are you going to do it, si or no?"


    There was really no reason not to, but I had additional motivation in the form of Foquita''s message. One way to pay him back for his kindness was to speak his language. I could help to make him feel more welcome when he arrived - whether I was on the pitch by then or not. "Si," I said. "Is that why I get a pay rise? To pay for materials? Apps?"


    "Er," Max said, suddenly looking shifty. "I consulted top experts and they say nothing beats in-person language training. So I''ve paid for three lessons myself and if you want to continue the club will go halves with you. Something like that."


    Why was he looking shifty? Was he lying about booking lessons? It made no sense. "When do I start?"


    Max checked the time. "Twenty minutes ago. Let me just think if I''ve covered everything..." He looked around the room and nodded a few times, before picking up the page with the Bach on it. "Oh, check this out! Ist alles gut, wenn gut das End. Does that mean what I think it means?"


    "Probably."


    "Top. All right, put that away. It''s Spanish o''clock, do you get me?" He went around the bed to collect his bag, slid the signed contracts inside, and paused again. He pointed at the page of translations. "Video of you in a wheelchair. Classical music plays. You roll into a light source, turn round, camera zooms in super close. You do your best Christian Fierce impression and you say, ''I''ll be Bach.''" Max nodded, delighted with himself, but the nod turned into a shake. "No, cut that. That''s terrible. Okay remember what I told you. I won''t see you for a while, all right? Hasta la vista, baby."


    "Vaya con dios," I said.


    Max left and closed the door behind him.


    The room was suddenly incredibly empty and supernaturally quiet.


    Remember what I told you, he said.


    So many things. A new contract. I wasn''t as badly injured as feared. Bradford were a shambles. He wanted me to be his assistant manager and to learn a language to boost my transfer value. What else? There was more. It had all unfolded like a -


    There was a knock on the door and in walked Luisa. No, not Luisa! This stranger was about my own age, and by far the cutest woman I had ever seen.


    Short brown hair, huge brown eyes, eyebrows to die for.


    "Hola!" she said. "Me llamo Carmen."


    "Hola," I said. "Pascal."


    She looked around as she came close, and of all the places to sit, she sat down right next to me. Right next to me! "C¨®mo est¨¢s?" she said.


    "Muy bien!" I said, smiling.


    "En realidad?" she said, looking at my leg. She gave me a warm smile. She thought I was brave!


    I didn''t know how to reply, though. I barely would have known what to say in German, and for a long time after that moment I wondered if Max had chosen Carmen as a trick or a treat. I lay back on the pillow and looked towards the door. Tiggy would surely return soon, and what would she see? Me blushing every time Carmen spoke? I took a breath and tried to smile. "Si," I said. "No," I added, with a laugh.


    Carmen gave me a dazzling burst of perfect white teeth and picked up the Bach paper. "Alemana?"


    "Si," I said, nodding. I took the paper from her and pointed to one of the lines. The last line of the soprano''s Chorale. "Ist alles gut, wenn gut das End." She liked it, but didn''t understand. I translated. "All is good, if the end is good."


    "Si, claro," she said, agreeing, and she pulled some paper out of her bag.


    It was a worksheet with lots of familiar images. I grabbed at it with ridiculous haste, scanning and scanning and scanning. Carmen tapped the first image. "Cuatro cuatro dos," she said.


    "Cuatro cuatro dos," I repeated.


    The next picture showed only the defensive line of the 4-4-2 formation. I expected her to say ''flat back four''. "Linea de cuatro," she said, which was incredibly fascinating to me. Didn''t the Spanish describe this as flat? Then again, why call it flat when it was the default? The line of four - yes, it had a certain logic, didn''t it? "Linea de cuatro," she repeated, with a little more force.


    "Linea de cuatro," I said, with the biggest grin.


    The lessons continued in the same vein. That was the beautifully unorthodox way Max had asked Carmen to teach me her language, and it worked. My progress was phenomenal.


    And my recovery?


    Lo siento, but that story is told in the next volume. I think this is a good place to end.


    Oh, but... perhaps one more paragraph.


    Tiggy came in, striding purposefully into the room as though she owned it. She saw Carmen, paused, blinked, scanned the worksheets, eyed the grapes, and somehow instantly put together that she had been sent out on a wild goose chase. "That bloody Max Best," she said, dropping the chocolate and the magazine onto the bed. But then she looked at me, saw how my spirits had been lifted, and smiled. "One day I''m going to kick his arse."


    ...


    The men''s squad versus Bolton:


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="62"><col width="128"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Ben Cavanagh</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>620</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>67</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Rainman</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>99</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Sticky</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>55</td>


    <td>122</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Banksy</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>155</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>950</td>


    <td>66</td>


    <td>75</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Cole Adams</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>147</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Josh Owens</td>


    <td>DM L</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>119</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Zach Green</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>139</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>Christian Fierce</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>1500</td>


    <td>76</td>


    <td>120</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>Sunday Sowunmi</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>111</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Lee Hudson</td>


    <td>D RC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>1200</td>


    <td>71</td>


    <td>91</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Magnus Evergreen</td>


    <td>D,DM,M</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>620</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>-2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>DM, MC</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>720</td>


    <td>87</td>


    <td>181</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Dan Badford</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>450</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>-1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>770</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>151</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Omari Naysmith</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>103</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Lee Contreras</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>72</td>


    <td>98</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Andrew Harrison</td>


    <td>M RC</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>?</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>Max Best</td>


    <td>Omni</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>3000</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Wes Hayward</td>


    <td>AM LR</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>49</td>


    <td>86</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>WibRob</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>51</td>


    <td>185</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Pascal Bochum</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>73</td>


    <td>133</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Henri Lyons</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>1020</td>


    <td>74</td>


    <td>90</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tom Westwood</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>92</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Dazza</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>138</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The women''s squad at the start of pre-season:


    <table style="width: 89.9758%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col style="width: 4.84392%" width="45"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>No.</td>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Scottie Love</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>63</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Queenie</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Dafina</td>


    <td>DLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>118</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tanwen</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>106</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Bonnie</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>41</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Femi</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>50</td>


    <td>121</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Meghan</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>169</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Luxury Bell</td>


    <td>DRC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>88</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Ridley T</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Diane</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>60</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Fioled</td>


    <td>


    MLC


    </td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>122</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Mari Hughes</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>110</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Pippa Hoole</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>111</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Charlotte</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Maddy Hines</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>80</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Sarah Greene</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>59</td>


    <td>167</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Dani Smith-Smithe</td>


    <td>M, AM RLC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>177</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Kisi Yalley</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>143</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Alwen</td>


    <td>FC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Beatrice Pearce</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>36</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Julie McKay</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>53</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>155</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>

 12.1 - Full Spectrum Analysis

    Player Manager 12


    The story so far:


    Max Best has overcome adversity, financial inequality, and a bright yellow mohawk to give his football club, Chester FC, a squad with the talent to continue progressing in the league. With a formidable women''s team, tons of young talent, and a brand-new training ground, things are looking up. Top of Max''s mind, though, are the irresistible lure of cup glory and the shiny new object that is Relationism - a completely different way of playing the sport. Can he balance all his new interests while keeping all his old plates spinning?


    ***


    ¡°But who said that I am to be measured by how well I do things? In fact, who said that I should be measured at all? Who indeed? What is required to disengage oneself from this trap is a clear knowledge that the value of a human being cannot be measured by performance¡ªor by any other arbitrary measurement.¡± The Inner Game of Tennis


    ***


    1.


    Wednesday, August 27th, 2025


    Three days until Chester play Bradford City at home.


    Four days until the end of the summer transfer window.


    ***


    After training, I drove to Bumpers Bank, the new facility I had built using Chester FC''s meagre rations, and walked around, using my master key to pop into the bar, the showers, the toilets.


    After a few delays, things were coming together. There was running hot and cold water, some of the surfaces were not permanently caked in mud, the grass pitches were looking gorgeous, and the centrepiece - a beautiful 3G all-weather pitch worth half a million pounds - had passed inspection and was ready to use.


    As I daydreamed about the goals I would score there, a car turned off Bumpers Lane and into our small, unsurfaced staff car park. It was my assistant manager Sandra Lane in the new ride she had treated herself to. To take advantage of the charging ports we had installed at the Deva, she had gone for a second-hand Mercedes A250e hybrid. Nice car, good choice, but I couldn''t help but feel she had gone electric so that she could park in my personal space at the stadium. I could hardly complain (although I did complain) because I was still driving The Duchess, an old Subaru that was more duct tape and hope than rubber and steel. Not very eco-friendly.


    I poked my head into my new office, which was essentially a fancy garden shed for businessmen who wanted to work from home. It was almost perfect for my short term needs, what with its big panes of glass overlooking football pitches of various sizes. The only pitch I wouldn''t have a view of would be the main grass training pitch, but there was a simple workaround. Ten short strides and I would be able to see what was going on. It seemed unlikely I would ever have a pressing need to do that; civilians couldn''t rent that pitch - it was a Chester FC exclusive, and I could see the men''s and women''s first team squads in my head any time I wanted from anywhere in the world.


    When the part of the complex that included my office was eventually rebuilt - perhaps I should simply say built, since all we had really done so far was plump down some portable cabins - my office would be on the second floor and would have a panoramic view of all the football. All the football!


    "What are you cackling at?"


    "Nothing."


    Sandra smiled and ran her hand along the corner of the office shed. Working outdoors, eating as healthily as the players, doing the Brig''s specially-designed mobility workouts, and earning tons of money had done wonders for her; she was looking better than ever. "You did it, Max. It''s nearly done."


    "Yeah," I said, in an extremely unconfident tone. "It''s just all so grimy and muddy. So ugly."


    I was almost the only person who fretted about how Bumpers came across to outsiders. Sandra was one of many people who preferred to look on the bright side, but then again, she wasn¡¯t the one trying to sign new players. She said, "Yeah, well, when people start coming and using it, they''ll see what''s missing. Oh, this room needs a kettle, that sort of thing. Once it''s ours, once we''re using it, it''ll come to life. You''ll see. And the pitches?" She did a chef''s kiss gesture. "Mwah!" She did the same kind of daydreaming face I assume I had been doing shortly before, though her fantasies were probably about the drills she would run.


    For years, Chester had been training at BoshCard''s headquarters and while it was a really good home for a non-league club, we weren''t non-league any more. We needed a place of our own, and this was it. The pitches were a minimum of ten times better than the ones at the credit card company, and Sandra and I were convinced our players would improve faster as a result. "There are loads of media types coming for the grand opening on Monday. I can''t be arsed. You can do it."


    "Ah, no," she laughed. "This is your baby. If I was in charge of the purse strings I''d have spent it all on players."


    "Yeah, well," I said. "Maybe that would have been the right thing to do."


    She gave me a sharp look, but didn''t take the bait. The money was gone now, anyway. Decision made, and only time would tell if it had been a good one. It probably was - what use would it be to sign five great players if our shit facilities made them worse? Sandra pointed. "Can you explain this to me?"


    I locked up and followed her. We walked in companionable silence to the halfway line of the 3G. I stopped. "Are you thinking what I''m thinking?"


    She removed a bit of fluff from her top. "Based on conversations we''ve had before, no chance."


    "We should name this pitch. You know, Pitch 1, Pitch 2, that''s lame. We should call this one, like, Avalon. And the main grass pitch is Camelot."


    "Riiiiight." Sandra frowned. She clearly didn''t want to spend the next two years of her career saying ''Strikers go to Camelot, defence you''re on Avalon today.'' "Turns out we weren''t thinking the same thing. Quelle surprise. I was thinking it''s kind of noisy from the road, but quiet, too. It''s a bit unnatural, which I suppose is, er, natural. I know there are plans to make things nicer but maybe we could plant a line of trees by the road? Get some birds in? Couple of cheeky squirrels?"


    I stuck my bottom lip out while I tried to hear what was bothering her, but what was bothering her was silence. "When there are games going on it''ll all be whistles and shouts and all that and it''ll sound great, but I think I do know what you mean. We''ve been gouging at the earth with these diggers and now it''s time for some peace and quiet and to let nature back in."


    "That''s why I was thinking a simple line of trees. We can''t do much while they''re building that gym."


    "Mmm," I said. In the corner of our plot work had started on what was going to be the one beautiful space at Bumpers but was, for now, the biggest eyesore of all.


    Every company in Cheshire wanted to be involved in the project because being able to tell people you were working for Chester FC was a big deal - an increasingly big deal - and while the architects had whipped up the plans in record time, the builders had said they would have to work around projects they already had in their pipeline. They had come to dig out the foundations and then immediately fucked off to some other site. One day - with no notice - they would turn up and chuck a load of concrete and steel rods into the ground and then bounce again.


    If I let it frustrate me I would go very fucking mental very fucking quickly so I had decided to be a zen master about it.


    The curse that allowed me to run a football club operated on a fairly simple basis in some ways - it was all numbers. Let''s say that in the current setup at BoshCard we had an overall ''Facilities'' score of 18.3 out of 100 or some bullshit like that. We were moving to Bumpers but also keeping BoshCard for the rest of the season. It made sense to me that the curse would simply take the highest score for any particular metric and put that towards the total. So if Training Pitch Quality was a factor and we were moving from a 4 to an 8, the curse would increase our Facilities score. If the changing rooms at Bumpers were rated lower than the ones at BoshCard, it wouldn''t matter until our lease at Bosh ran out.


    That was all guesswork, of course, but the point was that opening Bumpers would surely, surely raise our Facilities score and that would increase what I called the ''soft cap'' on players. Instead of a player getting stuck at a Current Ability (CA) of 100, perhaps his new limit would be 110.


    It would take months for almost any of our players to approach any such limit, so it wasn''t a crisis that the gym would open late in the season. It was an aesthetic crisis, though. Having a fucking huge hole in the corner of our training ground was a bit like having a hole in a tooth.


    "The gym space is pretty horrific right now. Maybe some trees would help cheer us all up. I''ll talk to Henri."


    "Ace. Now explain this."


    "What?"


    "That." She indicated the halfway line of the not-yet-renamed pitch. There was the green of the artificial grass, the white of the lines, and either side of the pitch, cute little mini-stands with 27 seats each.


    "The stands? It''s just, you know, when you rent a football pitch it''s normally there you go, the end. You''re lucky if the nets are already up in the goals. Here at Bumpers, you get a higher class of service. You get to play in a mini-stadium. Bring your mates, your wife, your husband. See, part of the business model is the players go to the bar after the match. Why limit ourselves to 22 players, though? If everyone who plays brings 1.4 friends we can get the bar packed and sell more drinks." I shook my head. "I''m an actual genius. This is one of the best ideas I''ve ever had."


    "Mmm, I see," said Sandra. "Only problem is I know you saw those stands for sale and bought them and then rationalised why later. But that''s not what I''m talking about. I actually agree with you that they make the space look fun and it''ll make the sessions more fun, too. Especially when it''s raining... No, Max, come on. You know what I''m talking about."


    I suppose that deep down, deep deep down, I did. I got a big grin and strode forward. Either side of the stands were sets of two large electric advertising hoardings - the sort you get at Premier League grounds. "Aren''t they amazing?"


    Sandra had an exasperated look about her. "But what... why? Is this why we have no money for pay rises? Are we going to lose Andrew Harrison because you can''t stop buying toys?"


    I pulled a sad face. "Sandra, how could you? You''re the one splurging on new cars. I''m thrifty. It is known."


    "Explain this."


    "Glendale Logistics got the job to take them to the scrapheap and they asked me if I wanted them. Er, yes. Yes I do. Tyson''s dad, Bulldog, he''s got all kinds of contacts in the IT world and he found the right nerd for the job."


    "What job?"


    "To get these things to do what I want."


    "What is it you want?"


    "Well, first step is going to be simple. Cheap, too. I have to buy four raspberry pies, which even in Marks and Spencer is, what, twenty quid? I see you don''t get the joke. A Raspberry Pi is a tiny computer. The nerd is going to whip up two control panels that will be in the stands. Quite simple, first two buttons make the signs say ''Glendale'' or ''BoshCard''. Good, right? They will stay like that until another button is pressed. The next button will make the screens temporarily go ''Attack! Attack! Attack attack attack!'' The next one will be ''de-fence!'' You know, like they chant in America. So the home team, so to speak, can be doing attack while the away team''s fans are saying defend."


    Sandra was smiling. "My God, where do you get the energy?"


    "I want to have a button that goes ''WTFH was that?'' One that goes ''Off! Off! Off!'' for when there was a foul. It''s just a bit of fun that gives a more premium experience but I''m actually quite interested in what we could end up doing with this one day. When we rebuild the Deva we will have these screens all around the pitch and I like the idea of having some sort of control of what goes on them."


    "Max," said Sandra, as a kind of warning.


    "What?" I laughed. "We''re never selling space to gambling companies so why not have some fun? I''m just thinking, you know, maybe in one match we can make the boards say ''Max Best: Fouls 1, Yellow Cards 1; Joe Smith: Fouls 6, Yellow Cards 0.'' Just to, like, be informative to the fans."


    "Not to put pressure on the referee?"


    "No way!"


    She tried to look stern and failed. "Jesus. We will get slapped pink if we do that."


    I shrugged. "By then we''ll have so much cash there will be a nationwide sofa shortage."


    "Because we''ll stuff money down the back of the sofas?"


    "Right. If we get a fine, we''ll pay it. The FA will send us an email like ¡®that¡¯s a three sofa incident, lads.¡¯ There are other things we could do. Imagine we''re playing, I don''t know, Bradford City."


    "Hard to visualise, but sure."


    "You''re Carl Carlile, back at the Deva against your former team. Halfway through the first half you look around and huh! The advertising boards are saying ''Carl Carlile pass accuracy 48%''. What do you do? That''s a mind fuck, isn''t it?"


    Sandra got stern and stayed that way this time. "You''re not doing that against Carl."


    "It''s just an example. Of course I wouldn''t... Of course I probably wouldn''t do it against Carl. Or Aff. But imagine, right?"


    "If a club did that to you, it would inspire you to play better, wouldn''t it?"


    I nodded, delighted. "Yes! But check this out - Carl Carlile, pass accuracy 100%. Right?"


    "I don''t follow."


    "You''d think, oh! I wonder if I can go the whole 90 minutes with 100% pass completion. Maybe to jack your stats you play low-risk sideways passes that don''t hurt us."


    "That," started Sandra. "That one I like."


    "Yes!" I cried, arms aloft. "Me too. It''s kind of friendly, in a way, isn''t it? I was reading The Inner Game of Tennis and he gives an example of how to mess with someone''s head. You say something like ''oh your forehand is much better today, what did you change?'' So it''s a compliment but it gets the guy thinking shit, why is my forehand better? It''s because x, y, or z, but as soon as he thinks that he''s going to focus on x or y or z and his stroke will probably turn to shit. It''s an amazing idea. I made Kisi do something like that with Meghan when we played your Man City girls."


    "I remember."


    "But that was clumsy in comparison. Trash talking is trash. I want to evolve to dropping compliment bombs."


    "Will you be dropping compliment bombs against Bradford this weekend?"


    "Ha. No. No need for extra attention. They get battered then they fuck off out of my city. I might nod at Aff and Carl if I see them in the car park, but that''s it." I checked the time. "He should be ready. We can go this way, along Best Boulevard, or we can go around Avalon on Lane Lane. Your choice."


    Sandra blew air from her cheeks and briefly looked defeated. "First of all, this was Avalon and that was Camelot, so you need to choose names you can remember. Second, I actually like the sound of Lane Lane. How about we go this way, seeing as it''s three times shorter?"


    "The long way round is the fastest way home."


    "We''re not going home, so do shush your mouth."


    ***


    We went past the bar and turned left. The cabins that had been bought to serve as gyms had been relocated and while two contained exercise bikes and weights, the other had been bagsied by Spectrum and turned into a video analysis room. I was calling it Blockbuster, after the video rental shop from the olden days.


    The last time I had been inside the space it had been full of wires and mysterious boxes. I had dubbed it Wireland and spoke in an Irish accent to complain that the trip hazards were, indeed, deadly.


    I pushed the door open and held it for Sandra.


    Spectrum looked up and gave us a nervous smile. He was flustered; he really wanted to be given an analytics role and the best way was to create one for himself.


    The space was much, much nicer in the sense that it wasn''t a total deathtrap, but it was still very much a soulless, echoey box. The main piece of furniture was an ugly white table. There were five identical hard-backed wooden chairs to choose from. At the front of the room was a huge TV - it must have been 80 inches.


    All the wires had been neatly tucked away and the ones that crossed the floor were buried under soft rubber anti-trip casings. I felt bad that I complained about things and my employees felt they had to rush around catering to my whims, but then again, I didn''t want to die tripping in a fucking cabin while watching footage of Bradford against Crewe.


    "Spectrum, I feel much better in this room. I can''t put my finger on it but there''s an aura of, I don''t know, safety and thoughtfulness."


    "Oh!" he said, brightening. "I did the wires, Max. They go round the edges and all that. It''s funny because after you said about it, I went to get a tea and when I came in I tripped and the tea went everywhere."


    "That is funny," I said.


    Sandra sat next to Spectrum and looked at the many, many sheafs of paper in front of him. "What have you got for us?"


    I sat on the nearest chair and immediately, my back went on strike. I shot to my feet and just in time, got a grip on my temper.


    Sandra looked over. "What?"


    "It''s fine," I said. "It''s just the way the wooden back of the chair presses into my soul is, you know, a bit like being tormented for all eternity."


    "The chairs are fine, Max. Stop being a baby."


    I gripped the top of the chair and seethed quietly. I wasn''t mad at Sandra or Spectrum, but at the universe. We didn''t have budget for much in the way of luxuries and we were relying on freebies and handouts for anything beyond our basic needs. Our former captain Glenn had donated some of his kitchenware before heading off to Gibraltar; one of the mums from the Chester Knights had brought a bunch of pot plants; and judging by the hard-backed chairs, someone at Chester had a good in with a school for wayward boys from Victorian times, or perhaps a lunatic asylum from Victorian times. I thought about going to the Deva stadium to get something a bit more modern, but it would have been a bit of a slap in the face for whoever had taken time out of their busy day to source and collect the spine-breakers.


    I sat on the edge of the table, facing the TV.


    "Okay," said Spectrum, trying to stay positive. "So I''ve gathered loads of data. Got all kinds of graphs and charts and radars and heat maps and all sorts. It''s so great! But obviously Max has his own way of seeing the game so I''m just trying to find out if there''s any way I can support him with any of these tools. But also, anyone else at the club. Like I think Jackie Reaper would benefit from lots of these things but we don''t have this for the women, yet."


    "Let''s think in two categories for now," I said. "No, three. One, something useful to me. Two, something useful for Sandra, Vimsy, the coaches. Three, not immediately useful."


    "Sounds good," said Spectrum, and we waited for him to continue. "Oh, me again! You had your monologue face on. Okay, let''s see. We''ve got player data, individual match data, the season as a whole data."


    "Don''t give the players any info," I said. "What gets measured gets managed. I don''t want them obsessing over their running stats; I want them to work on their first touch. If needed, we can show players some bits and say ''this number has dipped below the minimum'' and when they go back to performing at the level, we say ''yeah you''re good now'' but we don''t keep showing them that metric. We have to be very careful with it."


    Spectrum nodded; I had said similar things in the past. "Here are the things I can show you. Number one, Expected Threat." He showed one of my favourite graphs. It was a simple timeline going from 0 minutes to 90. Either side of the line were blobs of colour - the bigger the blob, the closer the team had come to scoring a goal. With that chart you could instantly apprehend which team had played better.


    "I love those," I said. "They can be misleading because you tend to concede more threat when you''re 2-0 up and coasting. I don''t particularly need the charts so I wouldn''t, like, want you spending an hour on it but if it''s just click click print then yeah. Useful to me."


    He nodded and moved to his second sheet. "Shot maps."


    This chart showed where all the shots in a match were taken from. Each shot had an xG value assigned. For example, a shot from 35 yards out would be marked with a tiny circle and labelled 0.01, meaning you would expect that shot to lead to a goal one time in a hundred. "I don''t really see the need," I mused. "We know where our shots come from and we know all Youngster''s shots are zero xG. He breaks the model."


    "I''d like to see Bradford''s shot maps more than ours," said Sandra.


    I clicked my fingers. "Yes! That''s it. That''s exactly it. Oppo research. Useful to me and the coaches."


    Spectrum moved to the next thing. "Passing networks."


    This chart showed the starting eleven in their average positions, which was already quite useful because you could see that strikers sometimes played alongside midfielders, or left backs were almost next to the centre backs. Then there were lines drawn from every player to every other player they passed to during a match. Thicker lines meant more passes. By following the thick lines you could see which combinations were the most important, and in theory, you could try to disrupt them.


    "Yes, please," I said.


    "Ball carries," said Spectrum, and on it went. A never-ending mountain of data. Passes received. Passes received by zone. Progressive passes. Progressive carries. Big chances created. Expected Assists. You could spend three days climbing the mountain and find another match kicking off - a match that would generate a new peak to climb.


    And most of it was surely useless. If Ryan Jack''s running stats nosedived in the 72nd minute, it was almost certainly because I had tweaked his individual instructions or because he felt something in his ankle. The knowledge wasn''t especially valuable. Nor was any data from a match where there had been an early red card, or where one team had played two days before while the other had been on a lovely old break.


    In the end, I asked Spectrum to give me the Expected Threat graphs of the match we had just played, the pass networks for our next opponents, and to be ready to generate things on request by players and staff. He seemed happy with that.


    I asked him to show me what he had collected from the match against Burton Albion and sent him on a break.


    "So," I said, after he had closed the door behind him. "Sandra Lane. Trailblazer. Glass ceiling smasher." The Burton match had happened over a week before, but in an attempt to avoid overhyping something I wanted to become normal I had only talked about it superficially. This seemed like a good time to go a little deeper. "How does it feel?"


    She closed her eyes. "Feels good. Would have been happier with a win."


    I understood her all too well. It wasn''t just her innate competitiveness talking, it was the way the story would be told. Sandra Lane would be the answer to a pub quiz question. Who was the first woman to manage in the English football league? After giving the answer, the host would say, ''Of course, she lost'' and all the gammons in the pub would snigger. Fucking infuriating, but there was nothing I could do about it except make sure Sandra got some wins under her belt asap.


    I slid Spectrum''s papers around until I found the Expected Threat graph. I had been away scouting that day but knew Burton''s average CA was in the high 80s.


    I bent over the paper. "You were thrown in at the deep end. If I didn''t like you, this is exactly the match I would have assigned. Playing one of the favourites for the title without your two best forwards." I ran my finger along the timeline - almost all the projections were coloured yellow and black, Burton''s colours. There was almost nothing in blue and white. "First twenty, we get battered. We hold firm - just about - and the threat diminishes as you make little tweaks and adjustments and plug gaps and make it hard for them. You nearly get to half time and who knows what might have happened? But they fluke a goal just before the break. They come out second half nice and compact knowing we don''t have much ball progression, and we huff and puff but can''t summon our magic. This big swing to us here, is that when you sent Sharky on?"


    "Sharky and Wibbers, yeah."


    "It gave them a fright, didn''t it? But they swatted it away and came back at us looking for that second goal that would kill the game. They got it on 80 and you sent on the kids. Dan got ten minutes, so did Benny and Tyson. Burton got a third, game over." I tiptoed and stretched before leaning over the paper again. "You know, a lot of people would look at this and scoff but this is Chester. You started with a valid strategy, you showed you have in-game management skills, and when the time was right you rested key players and gave minutes to kids, even though that''s bad for your personal reputation." I laughed. "I mean, if that was a job interview, you got the job. Do you know what I mean?" I slid the paper away and looked at the nearest one - a passing network graph from the Notts County match. I would need that later when I talked to Dazza. Something - the fact that Sandra hadn''t replied, maybe - made me look up. "Oh, what?" I hurried around the table to where Sandra was in the throes of some emotion. "What what what? Did I mess up?"


    She pressed the base of her thumbs onto her cheeks and window-wiped herself. "No, boss. Max. It''s, you know, nice to hear nice things."


    "Again. Nice to hear nice things again. I''ve been saying you nailed it."


    "True, but with the data, you know, the graph, it feels more real."


    "That''s interesting," I said, disconnecting from the heart of the matter like a psycho. "That''s how we use the data, isn''t it? To back up what we''re telling people if they don''t believe us the first time."


    "I believed you, it''s just - "


    "While we''re on the subject of crippling self doubt and imposter syndrome," I said, which got a laugh. "Can we talk about your career and whatnot?"


    She composed herself. "Sure."


    "This is a time for growth. We''ve got plans for the players, Pascal''s doing a coaching badge, Spectrum''s doing this data stuff, I''m on my Relationism fantasy, but what about you? What... What do you want?"


    She looked at the Expected Threat graph and shook her head. "I''ve got loads to learn."


    "Oh, for fuck''s sake," I said, snatching the paper away from her. "You couldn''t have done better in that game. Jesus Christ, if we were still in the National League we wouldn''t even be the best team there. How are you supposed to do anything against a team that dropped from League One?" I mentally went to the Staff Profiles screen and checked her numbers. The important ones were good. Coaching Outfield Players 18. "You''re a great coach. You do varied and useful sessions. You know I love micromanaging things but when you''re running the sessions I''m happy to wander off and not even think about them." Tactical Knowledge 18. "As I said, you start with a plan and you''re willing to use different formations than your preferred one. That''s far more rare than it should be. And you can tweak and even change formation completely, mid-half. Top top top." She had low numbers relating to judging player ability. "Ah, okay. Here''s my question. Would you want a head coach role or to be a full manager like me?"


    "What''s the difference in, like, your personal vocabulary?"


    "Head coach is where you pick the team, set the strategy, shout at the referee. Manager does that plus transfers, too. If you were part of the evil empire -" This meant the so-called City Football Group, a gigantic, multinational law firm that fought endless legal battles against FIFA, UEFA, and the Premier League, and sometimes was involved in football matches. "If you were head coach at one of their eight thousand regional offices, which is what they call the football clubs they assimilate, they would send you players and you would work with them. No real need to have any talent ID skills of your own. If you were the manager of, I don''t know, Kilmarnock, you would be way more involved in transfers. Picking the right targets, knowing how much to pay. Seeing who to promote from the youth team. That sort of thing."


    "The parts you do now."


    "Yeah. I shouldn''t say this because I don''t want you to leave but you''re ready for a head coach job. Coaching? Bosh. Tactics? Bosh. Can go five minutes without getting into a feud? Bosh. So maybe you can work on your talent ID skills. I can''t really teach what I do because I''m a floating megabrain but how about all this data?" I rummaged around and picked up some player radars and heat maps. "Maybe you can find a way to use this stuff to sharpen your scouting sword. If you improve, great. If you don''t, you can still go down the manager route as long as you have a scout you trust. Like Bob at Kidderminster - he''s not even that much cop on his own but he''s got people doing the bits he''s not good at."


    Sandra took one of the radars and contemplated it. "Mmm. Would be good to have more career options, especially as the number of clubs that might employ me reduces by one a month."


    "What? Who wouldn''t employ you?"


    "Bolton''s the most recent."


    She wasn''t finished but I had to interrupt. "Oh! Let me show you what I do when I get a bit depressed. I watch this." I went to her side and held my phone up. I brought up a video clip I had saved. It was Sandra being interviewed before her debut as a league manager. With the eyes of the world watching, with little girls everywhere getting stars in their eyes thinking ''If she can do it, so can I'', Sandra had been charming, serious, and professional. And then...


    Interviewer: You''re making history today, how do you feel?


    Sandra: I''m excited, of course, but I''ll never forget that this is happening today because a Bolton Wanderers player pushed my boss into a metal pole.


    As always, the clip put the biggest smile on my face. Just as the commotion from the Bolton match was dying down and the media had moved on to some other story, Sandra had used her platform not to boost her own career but to help me avenge Pascal. Bolton''s useless manager hadn''t survived the weekend.


    I gave her the most aggressive hug I could muster given she was sitting and I was standing. "She shoots, she scores! Sandra the Slayer!"


    "Geroff," she said, laughing. That''s Mancunian for ''get off'', by the way. "Yeah, so Bolton aren''t going to employ me in the next thirty years, and I can imagine Bradford might not want anything to do with anyone from Chester after this weekend."


    In the summer, Bradford had bought two of my trusted lieutenants, Aff and Carl Carlile. That was before I knew the club had been bought by the dipshit known as Chip Star, the son of a son of a gun who tried to asset strip Chester. Chip had gazumped me for a number of talented young players, signed Chipper (a striker who despised me), and Raffi Brown (a player I had found and raised up from nothing before he betrayed me). Perhaps worst of all, Chip had appointed as manager a certain Folke Wester, a hoodlum who should have been a mafia enforcer and not a football manager. In an attempt to destabilise me, Wester had once commissioned a ''journalist'' to scour Darlington looking for dirt and in the process, disrespected my girlfriend. I had humiliated Wester and thought that was the end of it, but like shit villains in shit movies, he was back. Yeah, there was a lot going on between me and Bradford City.


    "Relax," I said. "Nothing''s gonna happen. It''s just another game."


    ***


    We took a short break during which I wandered over to the scar in the earth that would one day become a beautiful gym. It was possible to imagine its final form only because I had seen the architect''s rendering. It was actually far easier for me to look at my half-baked squad and imagine what it would look like by the time the gym was finished. In my mind''s eye I saw a formidable, tactically flexible team rampaging through League Two.


    That was the future, though.


    My goalkeepers were currently quite weak. Ben was a fair amount better than Sticky, but Ben''s Potential Ability (PA, a measure of how high his CA could reach) was only 67 and that was mid-tier National League quality. Sticky''s was 122, so if we could make it through this, ah, sticky patch, I would have a tremendous goalkeeper capable of rising with us through a couple of divisions. I had two younger keepers, too. One was on loan at Saltney Town, the Welsh club I owned, while the youngest and most talented of them all was still buzzing from playing ten minutes against Slovakia. I hoped the experience would stand Banksy in good stead for our FA Youth Cup run.


    The defence was below par for the level we were at, but it was in much better shape than the goalies. Eddie Moore''s PA was 75, which was the very bottom of the range for League Two players, but with Cole and Josh coming up the rails we were well-stocked at left back. Centre backs Christian Fierce and Zach Green had the potential to stay in the first team for another couple of years, while Lee H at right back was expected to be a one-year solution. There was a big drop to the next best centre back, Sunday Sowunmi, and that was an issue I would have to address next summer.


    For this season, a lot would rest on the hard-as-crystal shoulders of Magnus Evergreen. Magnus could play anywhere across the defence or midfield and he did a solid if unspectacular job. My attempts to get him to add some progressive strings to his bow had been derailed by last year''s shit winter and the pile-up of matches that ensued, but I was hoping the all-weather pitch at Bumpers Bank would let us really get into detail and that we would be able to train year-round despite what climate change threw at us. Anyway, if Magnus got injured we were fucked and if he decided to quit football - it wasn''t his passion - we were equally fucked, so I had used some of my remaining budget to give him a pay rise. It wasn''t much - it only brought him up to 700 pounds a week - but he appreciated the gesture.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    My phone vibrated. It was a text from my boss, MD.


    Mr. Brotherhood asked if he could bring Jamie today. Would be around 3 pm. Does that work for you?


    Jamie Brotherhood was a 16-year-old right back I had got a tip-off about from a scout who worked the Merseyside beat. First I had sent Chester''s only scout, Fleur, to watch Jamie, and she said he was worth a visit. Her recommendation was the threshold for the first guy to earn his hundred pounds - I wanted scouts to suggest players to me and I knew there were plenty for whom a hundred quid was a hundred quid.


    Since I had been ruled out of the Burton Albion match because of the concussion protocol, I''d used the time to follow up the Jamie lead. There were other prospects, some of whom were more likely to make the club a lot more money, but my youth team squad urgently needed a right back.


    I had Roddy Jones, a Welsh prodigy, but he was only 15. Brotherhood was only a year older but years ahead physically.


    I brought up Jamie¡¯s player profile from my growing database. Jamie Brotherhood had high Bravery, Leadership, Strength, and Tackling. In some ways he wasn''t a typical Max Best player but I knew we could work on his technical skills and I had learned in my time in non-league that you needed a few players who could battle, who could scrap, and who could put a tackle in. Brotherhood was an aggressive little so-and-so, the kind of player I hated coming up against.


    And what better recommendation is there than: you wouldn''t want to play against him.


    He was playing for Bootle''s youth team and we had a good relationship with that club, having loaned them players in the recent past. Their first team''s average CA was 29. Jamie, having not made an appearance for the firsts, was only CA 13 but his PA was 95. If Jamie agreed to move, we would pay a transfer fee of ten thousand pounds - next summer.


    Including fees for Darren ''Dazza'' Smith, the Peruvian wonderkid/wonderkind Foquita, and for Roddy Jones, the amount of money I was committed to paying next summer was rising rapidly and MD had politely suggested I might want to put a fucking lid on it. I had smiled and said that I''d be happy to cancel the transfer and who knew - maybe Saltney Town would want to buy Brotherhood. MD had asked me not to be dramatic and had given a grudging go-ahead.


    Yeah, whenever he wants. We''re at Bumpers doing analysis stuff.


    Some unexpected movement caught my eye and I pottered away from Blockbuster. Someone was moving around down at the lower pitches. It was probably Jonny Planter, our groundsman, but I wanted to check.


    "Max!" called Sandra. I turned back and saw that she was with Dazza. I squinted and decided it definitely was Jonny down there and he was probably straightening the grass or counting his worms or whatever he did.


    "Coming," I called, and took some slow steps towards the video room.


    The first team''s midfield was... fine. Not very inspiring, especially with Pascal Bochum being injured. The curse was assuring me he would be back six weeks from today, but the doctors kept talking about five months. At some point, the worlds would collide and someone would admit a mistake had been made.


    One of my midfielders was called Andrew Harrison. He was the older of three brothers we called The Triplets and earlier in the summer I had sat with him to talk about a small pay rise and a contract extension. He had brought his girlfriend to the meeting and she had demanded a doubling of his wages. The guy was a low 50s midfielder who only had a career because of me. I maybe should have talked over the situation a little more than I did, but in the end things turned out for the best.


    Not giving him a pay rise freed up just enough budget for me to reward almost all the rest of the squad. Henri and Ryan Jack got slight bumps, while all the younger lads got something, even if it wasn''t much. Youngster got the biggest rise - to 950 a week.


    Overall the squad was just on the right side of content, a few contracts had been extended, and I had told Andrew he was free to continue his career at one of the many other clubs willing to sign him for the wages he was looking for but that he needed to get a wiggle on because the transfer window was about to slam shut.


    I pushed the door open and saw Dazza was on one of the hard-backed chairs.


    "Oh, no thanks," I said, coaxing him to his feet. "Players don''t sit on the Spinebreakers. Pop yourself on the edge with me."


    Dazza gave an easy smile and obeyed. His career at Chester hadn''t started well, according to certain media outlets. No goals, not many shots, not much engagement with the rest of the team, balls bouncing off his shins, opposition fans chanting ''what a waste of money''.


    For although we would be handing the money over... drum roll... next summer, Dazza represented our club record signing. Two hundred and fifty thousand of His Majesty''s pounds sterling.


    "All right! Welcome to Blockbuster video."


    "This place? Good name, yeah. Like it."


    Spectrum coughed. "Boss, I told you. You didn''t watch movies in Blockbuster. You got the tapes or the DVDs and took them home. This place should be called The Odeon or something like that."


    "Er, yeah, I know," I said. "But it''s shaped like a block, so..."


    "The Spectroom," suggested Dazza.


    I eyed him. "Chesterness lesson one. After you say something cringe you say that''s terrible, cut that."


    "I like it," said Spectrum.


    I grimaced and checked out the tall blonde Aussie. Darren¡¯s Morale, as rated by the curse, was low. "Dazza, three league games under your belt, two AOK cup matches, one go against an actual country. How are you feeling?"


    His smile dimmed. "Yeah, I like it, boss. Nice people. Good laughs. It''s, er, it''s been a rough ride on the grass, like."


    I felt a weird stress in my jaw so I cricked my neck to the left. "Didn''t I tell you the start was going to be shit?"


    "You did."


    "So it''s shit. Surprise!"


    "I know but I don''t... I''m not happy with my contribution. I want to do more. Help the team more."


    I rubbed a spot above my eyebrow. "Yeah, that''s why we''re here. Our first ever video analysis session. Spectrum''s excited. Aren''t you, mate?"


    "I am a bit."


    I had created a presentation with Spectrum''s help and I was about to start when I remembered I wanted to let players get involved in their own development. "Is there anything you think you should work on?"


    "My finishing, boss."


    I frowned and looked around at Sandra and Spectrum like I was confused. I turned back to Dazza. "Why?"


    "Because I haven''t scored. I haven''t scored a goal."


    "Spectrum, have you got Dazza''s season stats there?"


    There was some clicking and then, "Yep."


    The curse gave me some data for my players which I sometimes used for situations like these. "Great. 63% passing accuracy. Caught offside 6 times. Fouls against, 5. Fouls committed, 9. Yellow cards, 2."


    Spectrum said, "Um, that''s not..."


    "Are you looking at league matches only?"


    "Yes. Hang on. Okay, with the AOK, yeah, those numbers are about right."


    "They''re not about right, they''re right. Dazza, I don''t need your help knowing how many goals you''ve scored, do you get me?"


    "Fair goes, yeah."


    I pinched the bridge of my nose and forced myself to stop. "Let''s clear one thing up right now. I don''t care what the newspapers are saying, what twats on social media are saying. There''s only one opinion that matters at this club and it''s mine. I''m happy with your contribution. Yes I want more and you''re going to give me more, but I do not give a fucking shit how many goals you''ve scored, all right? How can you score when we can''t get out of our own half? What the... Right, forget the pretence that this is a democracy. We''re back in the dictatorship."


    "You can''t spell dictator without dick," said Spectrum, helpfully.


    "Sandra, take that laptop from him.¡± Spectrum made a show of wrapping his arms around his baby. I said, sweetly, ¡°First slide, please." On the gigantic TV, a football pitch came up. We had shaded three zones: one across the very top, the very bottom, and a strip just below the middle. "We''re going to work on three situations and two game states. I''ve chosen them because you can help Chester over the next couple of months and because I think these situations will come up when you''re playing for Sockoalas."


    "Socceroos," said Spectrum.


    "Right. Let''s start at the bottom of the pitch."


    Dazza shuffled so that his bottom was barely touching the table - he leaned forward intently. "Ready."


    "One of the reasons a manager wants a hench boofhead like you up front is because if you can win an attacking header, you can win a defensive header. Whatever the game state, you should be an awesome tool for defensive set pieces, right? We''re going to look at corners from the Burton Albion match and Notts County."


    Dazza winced. We had lost 2-0 to Notts and one of their goals had come from a corner. "Okay."


    On the screen, six overhead still images came up. They showed the positions of all the players as Notts prepared to take a corner. I noticed a little arrow in the bottom left corner of each image. "Spectrum," I said. "Are these all taken from the same side?"


    "Yes, boss. I''ve removed one variable."


    "That''s clever of you."


    "Thanks."


    "Dazza, can you spot yourself in those images? Clue: you are a gigantic blonde Australian who looks like he should be married to a mermaid."


    Dazza smiled and pointed to the first image. "I''m there."


    "Hang on, let''s do some computer wizardry." Spectrum clicked to the next slide. It was exactly the same but he had put a white circle around Dazza in each image. I laughed at how low-tech it was, but it didn''t matter. It got the job done.


    "Shit," said Dazza. "I''m all over the place."


    "Never a truer word has been spoken!" I said. "It''s impressive, really. I would have thought you would have been in the same place twice just by luck, but no. I appreciate your commitment to freshness. I like to change things up myself so this? This is mwah." I chef''s kissed the TV.


    Dazza groaned. "That''s as ugly as a hatful of arseholes."


    I grinned. "Spectrum, this is great. I love this. The charts I can take or leave but this is killer."


    "Do you really mean it?"


    "I do."


    Dazza turned. "Yeah, mate. It makes me look a right knob jockey but it''s good. It''s what I need."


    "What you need," I said, "is a bit of coaching, that''s all. It''s not your fault you don''t know where to stand, is it? It''s a collective failure from absolutely everyone in the world except for me. Your former coaches, your teammates, Vimsy, everyone."


    "Harsh on Vimsy," suggested Dazza.


    "Life''s harsh. So what''s the solution?" Dazza opened his mouth to reply, but I forestalled him. He wasn''t anywhere close to thinking about football the way I wanted. "Yeah that was a rhetorical question. For now you can do what I say."


    "Right."


    "The solution is, I want you to train with the centre backs. Get in a 5-3-2 between Christian and Zach, learn to shuffle and slide from the back. That''ll be interesting, by the way. I find that when I do defensive work like that, the next match I''m way sharper attacking."


    "Attacking?"


    "Yeah, it''s like, I know where the defenders want to go, right, and I don''t let them. I don''t want you filling in as a centre back on Saturday but I don''t mind if you get a few more points of Positioning."


    "A few more points?"


    Spectrum said, "It''s from Soccer Supremo. We''re not allowed to talk about it, but Max is. It''s one of the hidden rules."


    Sandra said, "Another one is no pranks unless they¡¯re by Max."


    ¡°No arguing with refs unless it¡¯s Max doing it.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t trash talk the oppo unless your name is Max.¡±


    "Very funny," I said. "You can stop now. Dazza, you and your new centre back friends are going to get together with Vimsy and decide where you should stand on corners, okay?"


    Dazza got a quizzical look about him. "I thought you were going to tell me where."


    "No," I said. "Because I don''t know. And I don''t care. I''m a mystery winger. I used to score direct from corners, before my murder. Defending corners is possibly the most boring part of this whole sport for me. But you know who loves it?"


    "Christian, Zach, and Vimsy."


    "Bosh. Okay that''s that. Next." Spectrum flashed up the passing network from the Burton match. "Burton Albion. No Max, no Pascal. The connections between the players went to shit. Obviously we were being pressed to death but especially in this backs-to-the-wall kind of match I need a thick line between Zach and you."


    "I couldn''t hold the ball up. I don''t know what happened."


    "I know what happened. You got your arse handed to you by their centre backs. They''re wily old campaigners and you''re too busy checking what people are saying about you on Instagram to learn what they''re offering to teach you."


    "Max," complained Sandra.


    "Okay so what we need is to get you a bit more streetwise. Zach fires the ball to you - you can''t expect too much accuracy given the pressure he''s under, right? Either you turn out of the challenge and find one of the many fast runners we''re supposed to have - which wasn''t an option for you for most of that match - or you draw a foul. You get fouled, we get a free kick up here. We take thirty seconds off the clock, pump the ball into their penalty area, best case we get a shot, worst case we make them work through us all the way to our penalty box. They attack, we clear, you get us another free kick. A team can survive a lot longer if they have a bit of that going on."


    "Agreed, but if we played them tomorrow I wouldn''t know what to do different."


    I nodded. "This stuff''s going to take years to master, I reckon. The ultimate example is Harry Kane, so Spectrum''s putting together some montages of him strutting his stuff. Clive O''Keefe is your man for this, so take your extra sessions with him and work on your hold-up play. I want you running into legs and tripping up. If you''re happy to slam yourself down onto the ball that always looks dramatic - I''ve never seen a ref not give a free kick when a guy fell onto the ball. I want you insanely strong holding off the defender from behind, then as you get the ball on your chest you become insanely weak and you fall flat on your face. Feel free to land on the ball again."


    Dazza rubbed his mouth. "Does Henri do this?"


    "No, Henri lays the ball off first time. You''ll practise that, too, but that''s more useful when you''re in an even contest. If we''re getting battered, like against Notts, or Oz are playing Argentina, you need some of this or you''re just waiting to lose. You watch Harry Kane. He does this work better than anyone I''ve ever seen and once he has bought a few free kicks the defenders give him a little bit more space because he''s that good at, ah, persuading referees he has been fouled. With that space he absolutely destroys on through balls and the defenders get tight again. It''s a whole narrative, every match, and I''m sure it took him years to learn each element of what he does."


    "It''s strange we''re talking about what Harry Kane does in his own half and not his goalscoring record."


    "It''s really not strange, Dazza. He wouldn''t have half as many goals if his teams didn''t have an out ball."


    Dazza chewed his lip for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay." That seemed to be him committing to hours and hours of extra sessions doing tedious, repetitive work.


    "Top. Third thing. What I''ve seen of Australia is you''re either outmatched or far better than your oppo. That''s a bit like this season for Chester. We''re outgunned for now but you''ll start to see teams retreat against us and I reckon there will be a fair few low blocks like Bolton tried to do near the end when they were down to nine men. You put yourself about, caused a nuisance, opened up space for the others. All good, no complaints there, but against a low block with eleven men I think you''ll need to do better. Spectrum?"


    The next part was quite cool. Spectrum had used some software to track the runs of Dazza and Henri from a few similar positions, normally involving Sharky on the wing. Dazza''s runs were pretty straight, up and down. Henri''s were different in every clip.


    "Henri''s movement is way better than yours," I said. "Better''s a shit word. What''s a good word I can use here?"


    Sandra said, "Harder to defend against."


    "Unpredictable," said Dazza.


    "More sophisticated," said Spectrum.


    "There''s value to knowing where one striker is going to be," I said. "Someone like Henri can base his movement around yours and thrive, but if I could have two strikers like Henri I think there''s no contest really. I get private coaching from a guy called Cody Chambers - he''s excellent. I often share the session with Wibbers, but you can come a few times and we''ll work on these moves. I really like this one. Spectrum can you play it slowed down? Okay so Henri runs, slows, stops. If you''re a defender you might think he''s throwing a French tantrum and it''s amazing how often defenders drift away towards the back line and watch the ball instead of, you know, watching what the main goal threat is doing. So Henri comes sideways, out of sight of his marker, sprints far post, defender realises, panics, adjusts, wait where''s he gone? He''s gone to the near post, you prick."


    "I find that hard," said Dazza.


    "Which bit?"


    "Slowing down. Standing still."


    "That''s why it works. You''re all competitive nutjobs, aren''t you? You need to run, to rush, to do. I think this is when I like Henri the most. He achieves something by using the primitive meat-headedness of defenders against them. He gains an advantage in the most sophisticated way possible - by doing nothing."


    Sandra launched into a round of applause that Spectrum joined in on. Normally I would have found it funny but the echoes were literally ear-splitting. I looked around at the shit metal box and started to get annoyed again.


    Dazza was nodding, though. "What did you mean you''re all competitive nutjobs? You don''t include yourself in that?"


    "Me? I''m not that competitive."


    "You''re not?"


    "No. I''m a technocrat. You think we''ve had a bad start to the season but we haven''t. We''ve built a platform and we''re going up. Who cares about Burton or Notts? It''s just one data point out of 46. Do you know what I mean?"


    "Nah yeah I''m just a tad confused because you''ve scored six goals in about eighty minutes of play and when I said to Henri you were pretty fired up he said yes but wait till you see what he does against Bradford."


    I threw my arms up. "I''m not going to do anything against Bradford! They''re even shitter than we are but unlike us, they''re not going to get better. And that prick Chipper got himself sent off on his debut, didn''t he? He''s not even going to be in Chester, I''ve already slapped Folke Wester''s face off, and Chip Star is a parody of himself." I pushed my finger into Dazza''s bicep. "You just focus on your training, your diet, getting your rest, your sleep, all that stuff. Think about what we said today. All right?"


    He smiled. As shit as the container was, this session was the reason he had come to Chester - to improve as a player. "Yes, boss. And I''ll remember what you said about you not being competitive and Saturday''s not an important game."


    "Yeah," I scoffed, shaking my head. "Do that."


    ***


    We went outside into the fresh air and I treated myself to a massive stretch.


    Again there was some action on the grass pitch and I was about to go and check it out when Sandra tapped my arm. "Boss, is that our new player?"


    I turned and saw Jamie Brotherhood and his dad milling around looking into the cabins to see if any were occupied. I waved at them and they came our way. Dazza said, "New player?"


    "Jamie. Good young right back. He''ll train with us when he''s not at school, and he''ll get some first team minutes here and there."


    "He will?" said Sandra.


    "Yes," I said. "One thing I like about him is he''s from a footballing family. His dad played a bit, granddad was pretty good. I''m interested to see if it helps him develop faster. I reckon it will. Jamie! Mr. Brotherhood. Thanks for coming, sorry there¡¯s no reception yet."


    I made the introductions and did some small talk, but the whole time I was fidgety. I interrupted and said I wanted to go to see what was happening on the new grass pitch, so we walked and talked. Sandra told the Brotherhoods about Bumpers as we went. Soon enough we were by the pitch and it was immediately obvious what was happening.


    Jonny Planter was holding a tablet computer and a little robot thing was rolling around the pitch like Harry Kane.


    "Is it mowing the grass?" said Mr. Brotherhood.


    "No!" I said, as I had a kind of religious experience. "It''s marking the lines! Look, it''s doing the touchline." I went to see what was on the tablet, but it wasn''t like a Nintendo Switch where Jonny was directly controlling the movements - it was all done by GPS. "So clever," I said. "Oh! This is the first time this grass has ever had markings on. Ever. The pitch is being born! Oh, man. What a moment. What a moment for this football club! Welcome to Camelot."


    "What," said Jamie, in his Scouse accent.


    "The gaffer has worked hard to get to this point," said Sandra. "This is the fruition of a lot of hard work."


    "I bet," said Mr. Brotherhood. He was a pretty rough-looking character, pretty hard, unyielding, same as Jamie, but that was all on the surface. He was here, now, with his son, which meant that underneath, he was doing what he could to improve himself and build a better life for his family. I reckoned he was a hard but fair dad and that whatever he thought about me, he knew I was his son''s best shot at getting his football career going.


    "Sandra, Spectrum, can you do me a favour? Can you show Jamie and his dad around? Pop up to the Deva, too. Show them my Manager of the Month awards. You can park in my spot."


    Sandra gasped. "What an honour. What are you going to do? Stand here and cry as a robot slowly paints a football pitch?"


    "It''s not slow," both Jonny and I snapped back. I high-fived him.


    "Wow," said Sandra. She turned around, extending her arms to sort of gather the others. She stopped almost immediately. "You''re supposed to do your video session with Zach."


    "Bah," I said, waving my hand as I watched the little metal genius turn left to create the halfway line. "You do it."


    "I don''t know what you have planned."


    "Just tell him to stop being shit," I said, which caused some sniggering in the younger Brotherhood.


    "Max," said Sandra.


    "Oh, fine." I walked up to Jamie and held out my hand. Slightly confused, he went for a handshake, but I gripped him on the wrist and put my other hand on his shoulder. I looked deep into his eyes. "Jamie. You''re a Liverpool fan."


    "Yes."


    "I''m a Man United fan, or I was. The FA Youth Cup final is going to be at Old Trafford. 76,000 capacity, the Theatre of Dreams. Bobby Charlton, George Best, Denis Law. We''re gonna go there and we''re gonna fuck up anyone who gets in our way. United, Liverpool, City, whoever''s fucking stupid enough to get drawn against us. This season will be the greatest of your life. You could go back to Bootle and wait to get spotted by a better club with an even bigger robot, or you could come here. I''ll teach you to play, you''ll get a contract when you turn 17, and in a couple of years there will be clubs falling over themselves to buy you and you''ll be able to take your pick. Oh, and you''ll be one of the first players in the country to play my new style of football. Give me two years of your life and I''ll give you a career."


    I relaxed my grips on him but I still felt the connection. He looked from me to his dad and back again. "Where do I sign?"


    ***


    Everyone except Jonny left and I treated myself to a couple of minutes of watching the robot. It was mesmerising and although there must have been a thousand things - bad software, clouds, armed superworms - that could have sent him off course, I had complete trust in him. The little guy would paint that pitch exactly as ordered. Exactly as ordered. He was the ultimate in positional play, even better than Pascal.


    Pascal was a big loss. Without him, 4-2-3-1 became a lot less viable, and I had wanted to use that formation a lot this season. I was starting to get horny for 4-4-2 diamond - Youngster in his DM slot, Wibbers as the central attacking midfielder (CAM) behind two strikers. It was a lot of pressure on Wibbers but if he was having a good day, it would absolutely slap. Maybe. Probably.


    Pascal''s injury also meant the next formation in the perk shop was less attractive. 3-4-2-1 was a 3-4-3 variant with two CAMs replacing two of the strikers. Perfect for Pascal and Wibbers, less so for Wes ''Sharky'' Hayward.


    3-4-2-1 would cost 5,000 experience points. I gained those points when I watched football matches, earning more when the match was played to a high standard, and the rates were always doubled when I was the manager. I got the absolute minimum when I played, however, which is partly why I had adjusted my ''build'' to focus on technique and set pieces instead of stamina. Playing for twenty minutes per match allowed me to make a difference to the result while making sure I earned the XP I needed to improve my skills.


    I went into the screen that showed my current stash.


    XP balance: 7,600


    The screen reminded me that I still had a 10% discount voucher I could use on a perk. I was saving that for when I bought one called Relationism, which would allow me to use a totally different style of football from the one I used every week. The perk had started out at 30,000 XP - exorbitant - but was currently 29,948. The perk, uniquely, got cheaper when I watched matches that featured Relationist play but I had no opportunity to visit any such teams in the UK. If I used it in a match, I would be the only manager in the entire country brave enough - or foolish enough.


    I had volunteered to coach an army unit and was trying to teach them Relationism based on my own dubious understanding of the style, and the training sessions had been fun and interesting - to me, at least. The unit was currently only playing 6-a-side matches but soon their regular season would kick off and I would be able to experiment with Relationism in a more serious way.


    There was only one problem - I wasn''t sure how to do it. An hour before kickoff of any scheduled fixture, the curse would kick in and the players would be assigned tasks based on what was on my tactics screen. The default for the soldiers was currently 4-4-2 and that''s how they would line up at kick off. I couldn''t force them all to one side of the pitch to form a ''blob'', and that wasn''t really the point of Relationism anyway. The players were supposed to move and make decisions according to their own sense of what was happening, not be directed by me at every step of the way. I needed a way to turn the curse off for a particular match but planned to save my experiments until after the Bradford game.


    Still, the uncertainty about being able to put Relationism into practice meant I wasn''t spending any XP. I was ignoring the monthly perks that came up and was keeping an eye on which Premier League fixtures I would be able to attend when I wasn''t managing, training the army guys, doing my coaching badges, or blasting through the refereeing course I''d signed up to. Yeah, I was busy, but if I had to grind to unlock the Relationism perk just to start experimenting with it, I would.


    "Boss?"


    "Zach, shit, sorry."


    "You were in a trance."


    At some point I had settled into a kneel - I rose awkwardly. "I was watching little Jonny Painter there. You take a patch of grass, get your cool robot to mark the lines, now it''s a football pitch. It''s magical. It''s like when you take the sheriff badge and now you''re allowed to shoot people."


    Zach, strangely, wasn''t having a mystical experience watching paint dry. He was in a good mood, though. "You wanted to talk to me. We could do it out here. Nice enough day for it. Who was that kid? New signing?"


    "Yeah. Right back." I replayed what Zach had said. "Do it out here? No, Spectrum made loads of graphs and shit but mostly we need the video. Er, let''s go to..." I found I''d lost confidence in the Blockbuster name. "The place where we watch footage. Cinema. Sin. The place we watch all your mistakes. The Sinema."


    "Yikes."


    ***


    I sat on the edge of the table facing the TV, and to my right, Zach did the same. I had a little clicker so I could move between slides without being at the laptop.


    "Zach, how are you doing?"


    He was a big, strong, athletic Texan centre back with PA 139. Brooke, our head of business crap - her official title - fancied him but that whole will they won''t they thing had gone suspiciously quiet and one goal of this chat was to cleverly bait Zach into admitting they had gone full honkytonk. Zach was looking around the room. "I''m good. This is neat, isn''t it?"


    "No, it''s a nightmare but it''s better than nothing and I think we did a good session with Dazza. How do you feel he''s settling in?"


    "Good, fine. It has been tough, hasn''t it? Real tough start to the season. For most of us," he added.


    I ignored the last part and looked through some numbers Spectrum had cooked up. "We''ve played three league matches out of 46. We drew at Fleetwood, Burton pumped us, Notts slapped. One point from three games. If we continue at this rate we will finish on 15.333 points. I need to explain to Spectrum you can''t get a third of a point."


    "Would 15 be a record low?"


    "I doubt it," I mused. "I think clubs have finished on minus points because of deductions and whatnot. We knew it would be a tough start."


    Zach picked up a player radar and I wondered if we should let players see each other''s data. Most of it was publicly available so why not? We didn''t need to make it easy, though. Zach¡¯s good mood had him looking for an upside. "We''ve done well in the cup, though."


    After beating Bolton 6-1 in their stadium, we had been drawn away against Fleetwood Town, the team we had played in our first league match of the season. That Second Round match had taken place about eighteen hours ago, hence why I was still a little sore and a little stiff. Fleetwood hadn¡¯t taken the AOK Cup very seriously and had fielded a weakened team. I''d named my absolute best possible eleven, which was one-nil down until the 70th minute when I strolled on. I didn''t have Bench Boost to help me but I didn''t need it. One goal from a free kick, one corner planted onto Henri''s head, two-one to Max Best''s Blue and White Army, into the Third Round we go.


    "I don''t understand these managers. Fleetwood are better than us - for now. They could have a real pop at a cup. Did you see we got drawn against AFC Wimbledon? Another League Two side. We can win that." We would win that. As far as I was concerned, we had one foot in the AOK Cup Fourth Round. That was far beyond my expectations; it was hard not to do a little Samba dance every time I thought about it. "Meanwhile Arsenal and Liverpool are playing each other, ditto City and Chelsea. Big clubs are dropping like flies. There is a route to, I don''t know, the semis, for one of the League One or Two clubs."


    "Fleetwood must be sick of you."


    "I get that a lot."


    "And we drew them in the Vans Trophy. The rate you''re scoring..." His eyes popped as he thought about what my stats for the season could end up looking like. The thought triggered another. "Boss, I worked it out."


    "Worked what out?"


    "I don''t know why it didn''t hit me until now, it''s so obvious. You''ve got the FA Cup and the FA Trophy. You''ve got the League Cup and the League Trophy. Seems you Brits say cup when it''s big and prestigious, trophy when it''s for the mid-size teams, and vase for the even smaller ones. So if we can get to the semis of the League Cup, that means we can win the League Trophy. Right?"


    The League Trophy, called the Vans Trophy because it was sponsored by a van rental firm, was open to teams from the third and fourth tiers. In a fun twist, it also included some under 21 teams from the big clubs. Our mini-league included Fleetwood (a-fucking-gain), Wigan (from League One), and Liverpool under 21s.


    "Erm, yeah, we would need some luck to win a cup, I mean a trophy, but yeah. Next season I''ll fancy us to hit that one pretty hard. It''s ironic but I think we can do better in the AOK Cup because clubs outside the Prem look at it and see Man City, Arsenal, and think there''s no point getting to the next round because they''ll just get smashed. And maybe that''s true for us, too, but I don''t care if people laugh at us and I want the money." I put my finger to my lips while I gathered my thoughts. "I''m happy with how the season has started. Apart from, you know, my best forward being maimed. Don''t worry about the trajectory of the season, mate, we''re golden. Okay, let''s talk about Zach. I want to get a bit, um... How can I say this? I want to go a bit beyond these numbers which means getting personal but I don''t want to piss you off."


    "There''s nothing portentous about that."


    Part of my apprehension was that I had never tried anything psychological like this before. Another part was that I wasn''t sure if my instincts were right. How could I know what was going on in someone else''s head? But I pressed on because at the end of the day I did have some objective numbers to base my theory on. "Big picture. You are an important member of the first team and you''re an important part of our tactical arsenal. Actually, let''s get that out of the way before we go deeper." I rummaged around and came up with the recent passing networks. "Check this out. Against Burton you played a lot of passes to Lee H, some to midfield. Against Notts it''s similar. The line between you and Dazza is practically non-existent, right? But I need you to play those passes."


    "The ball wasn''t sticking."


    "I know, but when you stop passing to him it actually puts us under more pressure. And the more he stuffs up, the more we can show him the video in here and the more he''s motivated to fix it. Yeah, it''s maddening for that one particular game but it''s part of his development, isn''t it? Anyway, he wasn''t doing anything wrong, he was being outfoxed by the defenders. He''ll learn faster if you keep pinging the balls to him. Do you get me? I don''t give a shit about losing to Notts in the third game of the season. I want a twenty-match unbeaten streak to finish the season. That''s why I can stomach a few botched clearances from Sticky, some poor control from Dazza, some hilariously shit cameos from the young players. Okay? We''re building to something."


    "Trust the process."


    "Hey, I know what it feels like to pass to someone worse than you."


    "Which would be everyone."


    "Maybe, maybe not. But it''s not your job to cut off one lane. I want players to take ownership and, like, direct their own improvements and stuff but I can''t let you decide not to play vertical passes because the striker''s having a bad day."


    Zach moved his jaw from side to side and pressed the back of his hand against it. He must have taken a whack in last night''s game, but the curse didn''t show anything in the Injuries section. "I understand."


    "Just for the full picture, it''s better to play that pass and Dazza lose the ball than you never play the pass. When you stopped trying to find him, Notts''s second CB pushed up to be like a DM and that strangled us."


    "Right. Yeah. To be honest, I was just trying to hold out until you came on."


    "Yeah. That''s not... Well, fine. I suppose I''m on fire but I didn''t do fuck all against Notts, did I? We can''t rely on me all the time. Dazza''s gonna be doing some training with you defenders. You''ll teach him to shuffle and slide and give him a fixed role at corners. You''ll spend time with each other and that''ll help build this understanding. Huh."


    "You okay?"


    "Yeah, it''s interesting, isn''t it? All this chat from one little line."


    "A line that isn''t there."


    I grinned. "Okay the data''s cool sometimes. I want to get deeper, though. I want you to really kick on this season and the data isn''t going to help too much, I don''t think. You remember when you came here? You had mad enthusiasm that you sprayed liberally all over the gaff. You were doing that hey fellas that''s not good enough chat. You settled down."


    "Shut my flappy Texan gob."


    "Yeah, that''s what I said. And I think you realised that you didn''t need to yell all the time and the players around you improved just as fast whether you shouted or not. So now when Sunday makes a mistake you think ''oh, he''s very early on his personal development journey'' and when Christian makes a mistake you think ''wow that''s rare''. Is that fair comment?"


    "I think so. I mean, yeah, that''s how I try to see it."


    "Top. So I''d like you to extend the same kindness and patience to yourself."


    "Oof," he said, as though I had punched him in the gut. He slid off the table and walked around. Fortunately, there were no trip hazards so it was safe to do so.


    "I''m going to be honest but let''s be real, I''m not a psychologist and I''m barely in control of my own mind so I''m not judging and you can absolutely ignore this whole conversation. I was just thinking, like, what''s my role here? What can I do to help everyone succeed? Apart from building the physical world of Bumpers and helping you win games and all that. So far, the only real help I''ve ever been has been on the mental side. Like making Tyson more of a team player or encouraging Youngster to make better decisions. I think I''ll have a role to play when Pascal''s back from his injury, although I suspect the Brig will be better."


    "You mean, like, making Pascal feel it''s safe to go back into tackles?"


    "Yeah. It must be hard, right? After a leg break."


    "I think you''ll be better than the Brig, boss."


    "Me?"


    Zach gave me a strange look. "You came back from a coma. You didn''t head the ball for a long while, what I heard. You got over it."


    "Yeah," I said. "Okay, good point. Maybe I''ll be useful there. So, look. I''m happy with you. You''ve got a decent haircut, you''re a great guy, incredible example of professionalism for the young players. As a player, you''re improving." Zach had been CA 40 when I''d signed him, and he was CA 69 today. Very nice progression, but I would have expected him to be closer to 80 by now. "You''re going to be 26 this season. You should be approaching your prime and you''re not even close. I think you''re not improving anywhere near as fast as you could and for once I''m going to go out on a limb and say it''s not my fault. I''m giving you the perfect blend of minutes and rest." I paused to see if he wanted to say anything, but he didn''t. "I want you to race ahead this season so that you end up as by far the best defender in League Two. Minutes, rest, coaching, the all-new, all-singing, all-dancing Bumpers Bank. Now with robots."


    He did a very tiny smile. "Jonny Painter."


    I pointed to the TV. "Can I show you some stuff without you punching me?"


    His tiny smile turned wry. "If you have to ask..." He settled onto the table again with a determined look on his face. "Hit me."


    I reached out to give him a brotherly poke in the arm. "I''m only planting a seed here today. I think I have a decent idea of what''s going on but I''m not qualified to help you with it. I''ll plant the seed but you''ll talk to Alex about this, right?" Alex was our new sports psychologist. "Or not. It''s your choice. You might decide I''m totally wrong and that''s very, very possible. But check out these images." I clicked and a photo of Brooke came on screen. It was just a normal photo of her going about her business, but she looked like a million dollars. Or since we''re talking about Brooke, a billion dollars. "Oh, how did that get in there?" I said, eyeing Zach''s reaction.


    Zach was a decent poker player, if what I''d heard was true. "She needs to get an image rights clause inserted into her next contract."


    "Someone should have a word with her."


    "Someone should."


    That seemed to be the end of that scene so I went to the next slide. It was me on the touchline just after the sickening assault that left Pascal Bochum with a leg broken in two places. I was going berserk, being held away from Bolton''s staff by a gaggle of my players.


    "How would you describe me there?"


    "Handsome," said Zach. "Great hair."


    I laughed. "Come on. I want to go pet the robot before it goes home."


    "I mean... angry."


    "How angry?"


    "Volcanic."


    "How motivated to win the match do you think I am in that moment?"


    He scoffed. "Maximum. Whatever the maximum is, that''s it."


    "I''m starting with pictures of me because I know how I was feeling in those moments, by the way. Yes, maximum. Volcanic. Good words. Okay check this."


    The next picture was me scoring the first goal just after the Pascal incident. It was taken from behind the goal and showed my face and my whole body. I clicked two more times and two photos eerily similar to the first came up, until they filled the entire screen. "Your three goals," said Zach. "You''re so relaxed. It''s like you''re floating. It''s wild seeing these just after the volcano."


    "What''s my face like? Don''t say handsome."


    "Angelic," he said, laughing.


    I was about to complain but I took a good look at myself. "That''s not a bad word, is it?"


    "You are in the flow. The flow state. Hyper focus."


    "How''s my motivation?"


    "Oh, still maxed."


    "Yeah. It''s almost as though kicking a ball doesn''t need any facial muscles."


    There was a slight pause before Zach slid off the table and walked around with his head in his hands. "Oh, boy. Oh, no." He laughed. "What are you gonna show me? I''m too sensitive for this, boss."


    I smiled and patted the table until he came back. I clicked to a completely new set of photos. "Here''s Gabriel, the Arsenal defender. Very whole-hearted, very committed player. The top set are from four or five years ago. These are recent. You could probably find six other photos that showed the exact opposite point from the one I''m about to make but let''s just go with it. See here at the top? He''s so intense, so motivated. He''s running around desperate to do well but I think he''s also desperate to show he''s doing well. It''s on his face, isn''t it? He''s trying to prove himself to his teammates, his fans, his new manager. This is him now. You''ve seen them play. He''s got the same intensity, same motivation. But now he''s part of one of the best defences in Europe and everyone knows it. He doesn''t have to prove anything, he can just get on with his job. He''s outstanding. Right?"


    Zach was looking from the top to the bottom of the screen. "This is the thing where you think I''m wasting energy on trash talking, getting too physical, all that stuff?"


    "Yeah," I said. "But on a deeper level. We need to get deeper this season, mate. You, me, all of us. We''ve got no money. Whatever we want to use, we have to find it within ourselves. It''s very beautiful."


    He tutted, but smiled. "Are you going to show me me?"


    "Er, no. Maybe not. Skip that."


    "I can take it."


    I clicked through. It was six photos of Zach, but there was no before and after. Only him straining, face-first, to achieve various tasks on a football pitch. "You could power a floodlight with all the energy you put into your face muscles."


    Zach frowned at the photos. "It''s not - "


    "Thing is," I said, cutting him off. "It might be just that you have full commitment resting face. I don''t actually care about your face, I want to know what''s going on under the surface." I clicked and we cut to a video. I had asked for one camera to be trained on Zach during matches and recent training sessions. There was no audio but in each of these clips he was pacing around berating himself. I supplied the soundtrack. "Come on, Zach. Make that pass, Zach! Win that! That was your ball, you doofus!" Zach''s head dropped and he stared at his knuckles. I pressed on. "I hear what you say when we come in at half time. I suck today. I can''t control the ball today." I left a pause. "Commitment. Motivation. Will to win. It''s all mint. It''s mustard. But this is Chester. You don''t have to prove yourself to the other players or the fans because their opinion isn''t important. This isn''t a democracy. It''s one man, one vote, and I''m that man and I''ve already voted for you. You don''t have to show your drive to me because I know you''re always giving it 100%. I don''t need you to show anything. I only need you to jog around and win some headers. Like, really. That''s it. And this self-talk shit. That''s no good for anyone, is it? That has to be holding you back." Another pause. "Zach, say something."


    He squirmed. "Positive thinking? Affirmations? You want me to talk myself up?"


    "I don''t think I want that, no. Positive thinking implies a negative. If one tackle is good, another is bad. Right? So you can be as positive as you want but I don''t think you can hide from the negatives."


    "What do you want me to do?"


    "I want you to talk to Alex Short about this. I''m a great squad builder, good tactician, decent player. There''s no way I''m a great psychologist, too."


    "The Dunning-Kruger effect."


    "Good band. I love their second album."


    Zach smiled. "You know what it means."


    "It means I can suggest a topic for your sessions but then I back the fuck away, right, and leave it to the people who have a clue. That''s Alex."


    Zach nodded a few times while pushing his hand against his mouth. "I''ll think about it. I mean, no, I''ll do it. I''ll talk to him." We were quiet for a while, just sort of letting the topic settle. Zach leaned forward. "You didn''t do this with Dazza, did you?"


    "I don''t know him well enough."


    "Why did you start with me?"


    "Because you''re a key player. Because no-one should work as hard as you and not get the rewards. And because if you don''t like what I have to say..." I got up, pretended to stretch, and inched away to the other side of the table. "I know I can outrun you." I threw my shoulders to the left, then to the right, as if I was ready to evade him.


    He shook his head, amused but thoughtful. "Boss, look, it''s... I appreciate this. I do. You don''t need to worry about me reacting badly to you coaching me."


    "It''s brain stuff, though. It''s sort of invasive and personal, isn''t it? It''s none of my business, really."


    Zach shook his head. "I think it is."


    "Well, good. I can''t say I wasn''t worried how you¡¯d take it. I don''t want to fall out with you; I want to be invited to your wedding."


    His eyebrows rose. "I thought you hated weddings."


    "I do, they''re boring. But I''ve never been to a wedding on a superyacht."


    "Why would I - oh." He shook his head. "Wow." He looked around to see if there were any papers he was supposed to take with him, then went to the door and pushed it open.


    I followed, remembered the robot, and jogged over towards it, but the grass was fully marked and Jonny had gone. He had left behind a perfect, pristine pitch. "Ain''t that swell?" I said, in my flawless Texan accent, as I crossed the threshold.


    "It sure is preddy," said Zach. He scratched the back of his neck. "Am I in the team for Bradford?"


    "What? Why wouldn''t you be?"


    "Because it''s Wigan on Tuesday and you said we''re going hard at the cups. So logically you would rest me for Bradford. Unless, you know, you thought it was a key game or something like that."


    "Key game? Bradford City?" I made a dismissive noise.


    "I was thinking that maybe Brooke might not go to the Deva because her brother would be there and I thought maybe you''d think that was mighty unfair because this is her home, not his, and I thought that maybe that might wind you up and you''d go harder at it."


    I stared at him. "Mate. Listen carefully. We might have a decent lineup against Bradford only because if Wigan put out a good team on Tuesday, we''ll lose. But the Vans Trophy starts with a group stage, right, so we go weak against Wigan, lose that, Fleetwood think we''re binning off that cup like a normal club, we surprise them, bosh, three points, we beat Liverpool''s kids, double bosh, six points, we''re through. Okay? So if we go strong against Bradford it''s a strategy to help us get through the cup. It''s nothing to do with Chip or Folke or Chipper or Raffi Brown. It¡¯s 5D chess, okay?"


    He was trying to hide a smile, I know he was. "Yes, boss."


    I tutted. "How many times do I have to explain this? Bradford''s just another game, okay? In the story of this season, it won''t even warrant a page, let alone a whole chapter. You got that?"


    "Yes, boss."


    "Good."


    Next chapter: Bradford City

 12.2 - Bradford City

    2.


    British glossary: wonga. Money. Bread. Dosh. Dough. Lolly. Moolah.


    ***


    Monday, September 1


    I tested my neck and found that it was loose and mobile. My ankles hurt, of course they did, but if I lay flat on my back with my arms across my chest and focused on my breathing, the aches and pains abated. I tuned in to the pendular clicking of the grandfather clock and the more I matched my inhalations to the ticks and my exhales to the tocks, the more at peace with the universe I felt.


    "Okay, doc, I''m ready. Fix me."


    From my left, in the darkness, came the voice of Alex Short, our new sports psychologist. "Quick note," he said, in his hard-to-place accent. "I''m not a doctor and I''m not Coldplay so I won''t be attempting to fix you. But I''m here to support you in any way I can." He spoke in a rough, matey, blokey tone that would put footballers at ease. I''d seen his CV so I wasn''t buying his shtick - the guy was as sharp as Mr. Yalley in his Savile Row suit.


    I counted ticks and tocks, checking there were equal numbers of each. The metallic clink and clunk sounded like people going through the turnstiles at the Deva. Tick - in goes a season ticket holder. Tock - there goes his son. Five thousand three hundred and eighty-nine to see us play Bradford. A lot of ticks, a lot of tocks, a lot of wonga for the club. Chester was Willy Wonga''s Football Factory and I was the magical proprietor. The very tired proprietor. "Okay I''ll get a nice blanket and then you''ll do a soft spoken role play where you pretend to check me into a luxury hotel and in about half an hour you can wake me up and we''ll go out and tell Emma we had a really good, deep conversation."


    "I''d love to discuss the luxury hotel fantasy one day but I think this might be a good time to clarify that I won''t be lying to your girlfriend."


    "What if I pay you a million pounds a week?"


    "Then yeah, tell me what you want to say and I''ll say it. No problemo!"


    I smiled and the air in the room felt less dense, less clingy. "I don''t lie to Emma except about one thing."


    I thought I heard Alex scratch something. An eyebrow, maybe, or his beard, which straddled the line between scruffy and professional to microscopic accuracy. "That feels like an invitation to ask what the one thing is."


    "I am attracted to her mother."


    Alex sniggered, but only briefly. "Max, it''s good for my rep with the players if you''re so keen to see me you bagsy the first sesh but if you''re here under duress the time won''t be very useful. It could be counter-productive. Clients have to want to talk to me otherwise it''s like being sent to detention in school, isn''t it?"


    "I''m not under duress. Ems thinks I was more affected by the match than I''m willing to admit and she thinks she has been extremely patient over the weekend because she knows there was a lot going on, a lot for me to unpack, but she would like me to get your help with some of the bigger boxes which I totally agree with because it''s why you''re here. I mean I probably wouldn''t have insisted on doing the session first thing Monday morning when I want to watch the lads train on our new pitches and the dentist opens today and there are some media people coming to Bumpers in a bit but Ems said I should talk to you before I try to do any of the other stuff and Ems is a ledge and sometimes she''s right about these things, so."


    "What is it about you or your behaviour that makes Emma think you need to talk to someone?"


    "Don''t know," I lied. There might have been a bit more staring into space than normal, and what Emma thought was an unhealthy few hours spent curled up on the floor reading old football annuals and war comics.


    Alex didn''t believe me, but he let it go. "I suppose we need to talk about Bradford but first can I ask a few things about my role at the club?"


    "Of course."


    "First, what''s with the ticking?"


    I lifted myself up and turned towards him. Conditions outside were overcast and the lights in the cabin weren''t on; the room was dark. "It makes it feel like therapy like in the movies. Don''t you like it?"


    "I don''t mind it but again, this isn''t therapy, so I think it might contribute towards a false expectation of what we''re going to do. Ditto the way you''re lying on a table. But if you''re comfortable up there, I''m happy to continue."


    "Will I stop the ticking, yes or no?"


    He didn''t feel super comfortable answering, but he said, "I think it would be better."


    "Okay." I got my phone and closed the app I''d bought specifically for these sessions. "Bosh," I said, sadly.


    In the silence I closed my eyes and heard thousands of Chester fans on their feet singing ''Best! Best will tear you apart again!'' I wasn''t sure it was an improvement.


    Alex said, "Quick question about squad rotation. At most football clubs being in the team is the Holy Grail and losing your place is what triggers a visit to the SP. I know you do things different but I feel like players are going to spend a lot of time trying to reconcile how they perceive their worth as players and how much game time they''re getting. So if you could briefly explain your process that would probably be helpful for me in helping the lads."


    "You''re asking how I pick the team?"


    "I suppose I am, yes."


    My secretive nature kicked in, but only for a second. Alex''s request was totally reasonable and showed he had been doing his homework. My way was pretty unusual. "Let''s pop out to Amsterdam and see how the lads are getting on. I''ll explain out there."


    I hopped off the table and led Alex out into the fresh air. There was a nice cold bite to it - perfect football weather, but Emma was tucked indoors somewhere so I didn¡¯t see her. The mobile kitchen was in place and fully operational. Smells were wafting around Bumpers Bank - sausages, bacon, melted cheese. Delish - got my mouth watering. The morning was gloomy enough that the floodlights were on around the main training pitch. Alex nodded to where Jude was placing cones in a very specific pattern. "That''s Amsterdam, is it?"


    "Yep," I said. "We''re testing all the names for things to see what sticks."


    "Why Amsterdam?"


    "Because the grass is so good."


    Alex chuckled. "Right."


    "Don''t do drugs myself but it is easy to remember the name. I wanted to call the other pitch Man City. You know, because it''s plastic. Sandra wasn''t keen." Sandra was with the squad in the meeting cabin, outlining the plan for the week. Simple plan - try not to lose too heavily. I strolled towards the edge of the grass pitch - it was immaculate. I returned to Alex''s question about how I chose my starting elevens. "I hate when players ask why they aren''t in the team and I do react badly when players react badly so if you can help them not piss me off that would be tremendous." I put my thoughts into order. How did I pick the teams? "Okay so I suppose there are three sort of main considerations." I went to Jude''s pile and grabbed three cones, laying them out in a line as Alex and I got on our haunches. I pointed to each cone in turn, starting with the one furthest away. "There''s the season as a whole, the two-week period that follows the next match, and the match itself.


    "The match. I study the oppo and I think I want to play 3-5-2. I need a left back on the bench for if I want to change to a flat back four. Pretty straightforward, right? There''s no left back in the starting eleven, same as there''s no pole vaulter or computer programmer. A left back complaining about not being in the team is like a toddler whining that the sun''s too far away. Don''t waste my time with that shit, you pricks." I paused, wondering where the heat had come from. "The second consideration," I said, in a soothingly professional voice, "is the period in which the match takes place. At this level games come thick and fast. Home league match on Saturday, away cup match Tuesday, away league match Saturday, on and on it goes, endlessly. You can''t pick the strongest eleven every week because they will get fatigued and injured and their improvement will slow. Almost everything we do here is geared towards maximising our training output, so if we have five matches in two weeks, no-one should play more than four. I think I would even prefer three but the squad is thin in some areas. It''s hard to rest Christian Fierce, for example.


    "Then there''s the season view. I''d like Cole Adams and Josh Owens to start ten or fifteen matches each, if that''s possible. Henri Lyons will accept being rested but only to a certain extent. I can''t play him once a month, right? So that''s where a player could come to me and discuss their role in the overall season because they need a certain amount of play for their own careers. But I''m well aware of those issues and I do my best to give everyone what they need. If they really want to get minutes they should focus on training so that I can trust them in hard matches. I think what drives me crazy is that they come to me to discuss things I''ve already thought about and worried about seven hundred times."


    "They might think the squeaky wheel gets the grease."


    "The squeaky wheel gets sent to the bottom of the pile because I''m trying to run a football club and I don''t need fucking whiny babies pecking my head seven days a week." I unclenched my jaw. "Anyway, does it make sense that there''s a plan? It''s not just whatever I feel like on a particular Saturday?"


    "It makes enough sense that I can help the players come to those conclusions for themselves. It¡¯s good when I can help them see things from your point of view. Maybe I''ll have follow-up questions one day."


    "Sure. I really want you to be a success here because you could be a catalyst for some really fantastic growth. If there''s anything you need, let me know. Unless it costs money, in which case ask me next summer. Or the one after."


    A door opened and a few players came out. Henri was wearing black leggings and gloves as though he was playing in the Antarctic. "Max!" he said, jogging towards me. "Alex, good morning. Max, it''s wonderful. It''s simply wonderful."


    "What is?"


    "The pitch! I was out before. It''s spectacular. Jonny Planter is a wizard. I would like your permission to include him in my Christmas happening."


    "Your happening? It''s not going to be a play?"


    "No. I have created a completely new concept. I am very smug about it - I believe that in the future all football Christmas parties will look like mine and the world shall know that I, Henri Lyons, was this idea''s progenitor. I do not know if Jonny can take some light teasing though. I need your input."


    "You can poke fun at him but not his pitches."


    "Never!" said Henri. "There, it is decided. I will include him. Thank you, Max."


    He jogged off. I raised my eyebrows at Alex and nodded towards the video cabin. "I think my morale just improved," I said. Christmas fun to look forward to, and the new pitch making its debut! I couldn''t wait to see all the green in the player profiles. There was going to be so much green.


    Alex pushed the door open and held it for me. As I passed him, he said, "Should we talk about Bradford City, do you think?"


    I made my way to my table. "We can talk about whatever you want. We can talk about hands. How many fingers is the most amount of fingers you''d want?"


    "I''m happy with five. How did you sleep on Friday night?"


    "Sleep?" I said, surprised. "Fine. Good. Emma came to Chester after work. She lives in Newcastle more than here and she has been busy catching up with her projects because we had a looong summer holiday. She''s getting on top of it now and she''s a lot more relaxed and I always sleep better with her."


    "I''ve got to say I wasn''t expecting you to say you slept well. There is a lot of history between you and people from Bradford City." He added, in a worried tone, like he just realised he had been pranked by someone, "Isn''t there?"


    I thought about that as I lay down. "I mean, compared to most clubs, yeah, but it''s not a big deal, is it? I''m not going to lie awake worrying about Folke Wester. He is my defeated foe. He''s shit." I closed my eyes and heard the fans.


    Max Best''s blue and white army!


    Max Best''s blue and white army!


    Alex scribbled something. "I''ve been trying to get a handle on the trouble between you and him but it''s all quite vague. Can you tell me the story from your point of view?"


    I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. "There''s nothing much to say, I don''t think. He looks like the actor who comes second in every casting call for a serial killer. He nails the audition, looks the part, but when it comes time to make the final decision the director and producer both realise they''ve been sent a bullet in the post and somehow they know it was from him."


    A distant whistle blew - the first drills were starting. I checked the profiles wondering if the whole squad would all add an instant five points in CA - imagine that! No such luck.


    Alex coughed. "But what happened, though?"


    "I was playing for Darlington and clowned about in a match where Wester''s dad was the manager. He got sacked as a result and Folke decided to blame me instead of his shit dad. He becomes player-manager of Darlington, copies my tactics, and buys some good players who like kicking people. They eat our dust. Oh, the main thing. He pays a journalist to go around town getting all the hot goss on me and unleashes this scurrilous article that''s sort of based on things that are half true but twisted in the worst possible light. It doesn''t bother me much but it mentions my mum. That''s shitty but she''ll never read it. Emma did read it. And what it said about her was way way way over the line. So I went tonto in the first match and in the second I played goalkeeper and took the actual piss. I kept expecting Wester to be sacked but somehow he clung on and when we were winning the National League, Darlington won the National League North. That plus our so-called rivalry brought him to the attention of Chip."


    "Tell me about Chip."


    I visualised the grotesque limousine slash team bus that had appeared in our car park on Saturday. The Chip Van, as it was derisively called in Bradford, was Chip''s party bus. An ostentatious show of wealth from the owner of a football club that represented one of the poorest places in the UK. "Chip Star. Imagine a killer robot from the future whose job it is to fly to Pluto to wipe out the last human beings in the universe. That robot would one billion percent be more likeable than Chip Star. Chip Star once stood for election, unopposed, and came second."


    "Max."


    I laughed - if Alex hadn''t stopped me I could have riffed for hours. It was strange - I thought I wanted to get out of the sesh as soon as possible but I was drawing it out. "His old man is Daddy Star, owner of a retail chain in Texas. He''s about halfway to becoming a billionaire and he is also the father of Brooke, my Queen of Green, my Wizard of Wonga, my Princess of Profit and Sustainability Rules. He doesn''t want his daughter in England so he tried to buy the club so he could give it a punishment beating and get her to go home. During the takeover process, Chip talked a lot of shit about his data models but when they bought Bradford the model turned out to be ''copy Max Best''. Which, to be fair, is the second best squad building strategy in modern football."


    "What''s the best?"


    "Be me."


    "Right."


    "Yeah, Chip is an idiot but he has never directly hurt me so I don''t get emotional about him. It winds me up that he has signed some young players for a manager who won''t use them, but Bradford are far from unique in that respect. One of the reasons I went at the match so hard was that I thought I had a decent chance of getting Folke sacked this weekend."


    "Because of Bradford''s poor start to the season?"


    "Poor is one word for it. You have to think that Chester''s first team budget is 30,000 pounds a week. If it sounds like a lot, think again; it is buttons. Bradford are up to 98,000 a week so whatever we do, they should be doing three times better. But they got one point from the first three games, same as us. Their striker, Chipper, who I fell out with over the way he was always getting sent off, got sent off. Wester wants to play 4-1-4-1 because that''s his favourite - that''s official now - but he doesn''t have a proper defensive midfielder. He was using Raffi Brown in there and, like, no. Also, Brown was playing hurt. And, of course, Folke''s main tactic remains ''let''s kick people''. As you saw on Saturday," I added, darkly. "It''s just a mess. A shambles. I keep going back to that word because it''s really the only one you need."


    "So they''re spending a lot of money but they don''t have a good team."


    "Oh, they have a good team."


    ***


    Saturday - One Hour Before Kick Off


    I stood in the dugout, hoodie pulled over my dipped head, and peered at the Bradford squad. They had decent depth even without the suspended Chipper, and their first eleven, lined up in 4-1-4-1, would have an average CA of exactly 85.


    Apart from the three former Chester players (Carl, Aff, and Brown), the first eleven ranged from CA 84 (the left back) to 96 (the centre back and captain). They had a great spine which comprised a CA 87 goalkeeper, the aforementioned captain, a CA 94 central midfielder, and a CA 85 striker.


    I noted that Carl, their right back, had reached his ceiling - he took to the Deva pitch with CA 77. At left midfield, Aff was maxed on 72. Quite strange that I had used one of my most precious perks to boost his PA and now he was playing against me, but the money from his sale had been invested in a new 3G pitch in Hoole and I didn''t want to keep players who could no longer improve. I was happy for him; he was earning more than all but two of Chester''s squad.


    Raffi Brown was -


    "Max," said Sandra. "We have to talk to the TV guys."


    "Coming."


    ***


    I blinked. Alex was patiently waiting for me to continue - I suppose he was used to people spacing out while talking to him.


    "The previous manager froze out a couple of good players and Wester has brought them back into the fold. Wester has his best eleven on the pitch, that''s one point in his favour. Aff and Carl might drag the overall skill level down a fraction but they are very solid guys who don''t make many mistakes and they know how to fucking play." I tested the tension in my neck again. "I don''t regret selling them but it was hard hearing their names being cheered by the Bradford fans when the teams were read out. Very strange. No, Bradford are one of the top teams in the division. I would smash the title with that side. If Aff is comfortably your worst player, you''re in with a shot. I''m still holding out hope Wester will get sacked and then it will be interesting to see if the new manager can get them to the playoffs."


    "You don''t think Wester can do it?"


    "No."


    "Tell me about Saturday morning. Your preparations. That was the same as normal?"


    I closed my eyes and tried to recreate my movements. "Emma made me a tea and we did a puzzle in bed. That''s not a euphemism. I did my stretches, pottered around the garden. It''s looking great even though I wasn''t around to keep an eye on it. Ruth says it''s because I wasn''t there, but Ruth says a lot of things."


    "Who''s Ruth?"


    "My landlord. Former Chester board member. She runs an agency and I give her the benefit of my boundless wisdom for a small consideration."


    "Sorry, you''ve lost me."


    "Me get wonga."


    Alex laughed. "You meant it like that, okay."


    "Erm, lunch, stadium, Chester Chatters, sponsors, bit of glad-handing, you know. People like to see me, apparently. Sandra writes out the team sheet, I go out to see what the oppo are up to, pre-match media, pre-match team talk. Sometimes I''ve got a theme for the day, like I might briefly outline the difference between the Austrian school of economics versus Keynesianism and then I''ll get them pumped up by saying whoo let''s intervene in the business cycle and achieve a monopoly on those three points."


    "What, really?"


    "Really. There''s a weight of intellect behind it all."


    ***


    "All right," I called out, "shut the fuck up. Who would win," I said, scowling, "in a fight between a seal and a chicken?"


    "A seal," said Youngster.


    I switched to a big smile. "That''s right! We''re the Seals and Bradford are the Bantams. Do you know what a Bantam is?"


    "A chicken?" said Youngster.


    "Yes! Okay so we''re up against some chickens. I want you to go out there today and draw chalk lines on the grass. The chickens will put their heads to the lines and won''t be able to move away."


    Henri smiled. "Max, is your theme today tonic immobility?"


    "Oh my God, Henri," I groaned. "You always do this. I''m talking about hypnotising chickens. What are you - You know what? Never mind." I pulled the tactics board forward a little. "Reminder of the plan. 4-4-2 diamond. Ben''s in goal - "


    ***


    "Can I stop you there?" said Alex.


    "Well, you already did, so... sure."


    "Research shows that making predictions can help you understand a topic better, so I''ve been playing a game of guess the Chester FC lineup. When I get something wrong I''m normally able to follow the logic but this one blew my theories out of the water. I thought Ben was the cup keeper and Sticky was for the league."


    "Well, that''s basically right, but I felt Ben was more suited to this particular oppo."


    "Any particular reason?"


    Yeah. Ben was CA 65 and Sticky was 57. What more reason do you need? "I felt that Ben had more experience against Aff, Carl, and Brown and that could be useful."


    "Hmm," said a dubious psychologist.


    ***


    "Ben''s in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H. Youngster at the base of the diamond. Lee C and Ryan are the CMs. Wibbers in the hole behind Henri and Dazza."


    That eleven had an average CA of 71.2 - almost 14 points behind Bradford. It was possible they would absolutely blitz us but I wasn''t too worried. I wasn''t even planning to use Bench Boost, the once-per-competition perk that made substitutes play better. I would use it in the second half of the season when Pascal was back and I had Foquita available. A boosted Pascal passing to a boosted Max Best who would cross to a boosted Foquita - someone was going to get absolutely slaughtered. Bradford away was scheduled for January 3, which was too early, unfortunately. Foquita would still be jetlagged then.


    "You know the overall plan. Wibbers gets half an hour, then I''ll replace him. I''ll do the rest of the half and the start of the second and in that time I''ll go wee wee wee all the way home. That''s an official term from the FA''s coaching manual, by the way. Bradford might be expecting something like that, or they might not. It doesn''t really matter because there''s fuck all they can do about me and they won''t be able to regroup at half time because they don''t know how long I''ll stay on the pitch for.


    "Wibbers, this Brown guy is good but he''s not a DM. Work hard, get into pockets, move him around. He''s got a calf strain or something so any sprints you can draw him into, amazing. That''ll help me out, won''t it? And it''ll help the centre backs, too.


    "Christian, Zach, they''ve got a good striker and you''ll have your hands full but watch out for Brown making late runs into the box. Youngster can track him but he''s not going to win those headers, yeah? One of you make sure you get on Brown. We''re lucky his manager is shit and doesn''t know how to use him.


    "CMs, you''ve got a job of work today but when we''re under pressure defend wide as much as you can. I don''t expect much threat down the middle - they''ll use the wings.


    "Lee H, watch out for Aff. He''s got a great left foot, his crossing is a real nuisance, he can shoot, and he''s relentless. If you slack off or think you''ve got him in your pocket, he''ll fuck you up, I promise you that.


    "Eddie, their right mid is very, very good and you know Carl will bomb past on overlaps. You''ll need support from Ryan and Christian. If you find yourself in the shit, remember that you''ll have Youngster on his way. Just do what you can to hold them up, yeah? Don''t dive in. Buy us two seconds and we''ll be there.


    "Ben, when I come on, watch for my runs on counters. Ping it, yeah? But remember - one ping only."


    ***


    Alex shifted - the hard-backed chairs in the video room weren''t designed for comfort, they were designed to make people want to leave. "So there''s a fair amount of detail," he said.


    "Not really. Those are just, you know, the broad strokes. We go into more detail on the training ground but we''re trying to keep it simple in meetings. I had a big session with the coaches at the start of the season and we talked about how to increase the complexity of our patterns of play with and without the ball in a way that the players can absorb without even knowing it. So, like, we do drills that isolate Eddie Moore against a winger with a right back overlapping. The detail is, does he have help? If he does, he should track the overlap. If not, he should take a risk and try and stop the pass from happening. Maybe foul and stop the move. Risk a yellow. The football we''re facing is a slightly higher level now and the oppo managers are a little bit better with their in-game tweaks. It''s manageable but I''m already thinking ahead to next season because we will need solutions for all kinds of tactical challenges."


    "It sounds hard."


    "Yes and no. I need to sit with the coaches and discuss exactly what I want from all kinds of scenarios. Once they know what I want, they can design the sessions. The challenge is that there are so many variables, like the fact we often have loads of kids on the pitch, and I''m inexperienced. I haven''t seen everything so we''re in a quite reactive state. There were plenty of things Notts County did to us that we weren''t prepared for, so it''s like, which two do we want to fix?"


    "Why only two?"


    "Because we have limited training time and I want us to use it on getting our skill levels higher because that will automatically solve a lot of problems. If your technique is higher than the oppo''s, their press becomes less relevant because you can play through them, their attacking patterns are less relevant because you deny them the ball, and so on and so on. It''s interesting, though, especially for the coaches. We''re a very flawed team, actually, and that''s exciting for the types of coaches we have here. And I have to say that the players are hungry to learn, too, and you don''t need to teach them every little thing. Put them in a scenario a few times and they can learn it themselves. It''s quite interesting to watch and to hear how Sandra and Well In talk about their session designs."


    "So as 3 pm approached, everything was going well?"


    "We were well-prepared, yeah. A few things could have been better. Dazza was going too hard chasing his first goal. Some of my OGs like Youngster and Henri were freaked out that Brown was back and they didn''t know exactly how to conduct themselves around him. Wibbers was tense because he was in the key role and he knew he only had thirty minutes to make something happen. But there''s always going to be some little stories like that. I was confident."


    ***


    "Hello and welcome to Seals Live for match commentary of Chester against Bradford City. I''m your host, Boggy, and I hope you''ll be able to hear me. It''s loud in the Deva today. Very loud! Both sets of fans, even at this early stage, feel this could be a key encounter. Both clubs are winless in the league and are down near the foot of the table. Bradford are harbouring hopes of promotion and to be fair they''re much too big a club to be languishing in the fourth tier. As for Chester, there have been some promising moments this season but we have been well and truly outplayed for the majority of our games.


    "And we''re off! Bradford get us underway, kicking towards the Harry McNally stand. Both teams will shoot towards their fans in the second half but for now - oh! A loose pass and a crunching tackle on Lee Contreras! Foul says the referee, and all the home fans agree. Lee did well to get in the way of a passing lane, put pressure on his man, and turned the ball over. Ten seconds in and it''s clear this one''s going to be brutal. Typical Folke Wester. Hard tackling, late tackling, put pressure on the referee. No wonder they''ve been down to ten men in two of their first three matches.


    "And it''s kicking off on the sideline! Max Best is giving Folke Wester a piece of his mind. Wester giving a piece of his own mind back, though that''s like bringing a spoon to a gunfight.


    "Vimsy easing Max away. I have to say, if I were an opposition manager I wouldn''t want to get under Max Best''s skin right now. He has scored 6 goals in 90 minutes of action. He says it''s because he''s playing against tired opponents, but he''s clearly in scintillating form and after what happened to poor Pascal Bochum, he''s very sensitive to these late, reckless tackles.


    "Contreras seems good to continue. Bit of the old magic spray. No yellow card for that tackle, by the way. One wonders if that already sets the tone."


    ***


    I''d had enough of lying down and pulled myself up into a cross-legged position.


    Alex was scribbling on a wide notebook. "That first fifteen minutes was pretty brutal."


    "Folke Wester is a one-trick pony and the trick doesn''t work outside non-league. As bad as the refs are, they aren''t going to let you thug your way to victory. It was tough to watch my lads get the shit kicked out of them but honestly at that point I was thinking about which manager Chip would turn to next."


    "You were thinking that during the half?"


    "Yeah. There was nothing for me to do. It was a bit of stalemate. Bradford got the ball down the wings pretty well so they should have put Brown as a CAM, supporting the striker. Having him as a DM negated his main talent, which is getting into the box late and winning headers. Maybe Wester would have done that except Wibbers was looking bright and was making a nuisance of himself, so it made sense to have a DM. Like I said, stalemate, which given the relative strengths of the teams is amazing for us. I''ll take that."


    "You mentioned Chip thinking about managers. He was in the director''s box, right?"


    "Yeah, I didn''t want him in the stadium but MD put his foot down. Said it''s tradition to invite the oppo bigwigs and someone would need to do a lot worse than try to buy the club before MD made a scene."


    "How did you feel about that?"


    I shrugged. "I didn''t mind it. He''s right except that it meant Brooke wouldn''t attend. I had to beg her, almost. She put a hat on and sat with the Chester Chatters. I asked the Brig to sit with her, just in case."


    "Why did you insist?"


    "It''s like Zach said. This is her home. And it wouldn''t be right for her to miss the show."


    "The show?"


    "The show."


    "You were planning to put on a show, then?"


    "At this stage of the season it''s more like a preview. A trailer."


    "Pretty good trailer."


    ***


    "Half an hour gone here at the Deva and - what''s this? Substitution for Chester. It''s... William Roberts who''s going off. I wonder if one of those tackles has hurt him. Hope it isn''t anything too serious.


    "Listen to this! Standing ovation as Max Best stretches his hamstrings on the touchline. Warm applause for Roberts. Big hug from his manager. The hug continues. Now the roar as Best walks on. Walks! He''s got his game face on. A crackle of anticipation goes around the stadium. People leaning forward. Something''s going to happen, they can feel it.


    "Oh! What was that?


    "Best walked towards midfield, into the zone Raffi Brown is operating in. Chester''s former player and record sale extended a hand and Best blanked him. Totally blanked him! Brown looked hurt.


    "Wow. That was... That was as hard as any of the tackles we''ve seen today. I felt that from here."


    ***


    I sensed that I wasn''t going to enjoy the next part of the discussion so I moved the pillow to the end of the table and lay down.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    "Would you like to talk about Raffi Brown?"


    "Nothing to say. Bang average League Two midfielder."


    "Max."


    "Got a decent pass on him, can go box to box, can win a header. He was on 6 out of 10, flirting with 5. Wibbers is faster than he looks and Brown had that little injury that was affecting his mobility. The last thing you want is to be up against someone like Wibbers. Well, maybe the last thing you want is to be up against me."


    "It was pretty remarkable when you went on and he tried to shake your hand and you walked past him."


    "What''s remarkable about that?" I snapped. "I''ve got a job to do. It isn''t a yacht club."


    "It was remarkable in the stands," said Alex, not affected by my outburst. "There were gasps. There hadn''t been much reaction to Brown until that moment. It was like no-one knew what to do. After that, he got boos. You set the tone. I don''t know, I can''t describe it very well but there was a tangible feeling, a shift in mood that I felt in my bones. Tell me about it."


    ***


    I stretched my hamstrings while waiting to Wibbers to come to the side. He knew he was only getting thirty minutes but he was still pissed at being subbed off. He was frustrated he hadn''t been able to make his mark on the game. He had been giving Brown a bit of a runaround but we hadn''t been able to get the ball to him often enough, and when we had, Wibbers hadn''t been able to create anything.


    His Morale had dropped to very poor. I gave him a hug and kept him there. "What are you doing?" he demanded, after it had gone past the seven-second mark.


    "Stick to the plan," I said.


    I felt him roll his eyes, but he replied, "The plan is mint." I smiled and let him go. His Morale was up to okay.


    As I walked onto the pitch I saw Carl Carlile to my left, wearing the wrong kit, and that snapped me out of my happy little moment. Folke Wester was behind me. Should I stare him out before destroying him? Nah. The guy wasn''t worth the effort.


    I strolled to the middle checking all my hotkeys were lined up. I had a perk called Free Hit that would increase the chance one set piece would lead to a goal. I had one called Seal It Up that would make us more defensively solid for fifteen minutes. And I had one called Cupid''s Arrow that would make passes between two players more likely to succeed, also for fifteen minutes. I had two main choices with that one - I could link myself to Henri or Dazza to increase our goal threat. Or I could link Youngster or Zach to me so that we would be able to progress the ball from defence better.


    Either option seemed good, but I decided I would wait five minutes to see which side of the coin we needed more help with.


    As I was deep in that contemplative state, my brain purring like a Rolls Royce, I found Raffi ''The Saudi Snake'' Brown standing in front of me. To my utter incredulity, he stuck his hand out, offering to shake.


    ***


    "Look," I said, gesturing with my hands as though Alex was watching from above. "Everyone expects some sort of resolution to the Raffi Brown story but we had that. When he left, that was the resolution. There''s nothing beyond that moment. Nothing."


    "Can you take me through the steps? The history?"


    I tutted. "I found him playing indoor footy in Manchester and thought wow, what a player. I mean, I thought wow, he could do a job for a mediocre League Two team. I got my shit together, made some contacts in the industry, signed him as a client."


    "Right! You were an agent. I always forget that."


    "I didn''t know anyone or anything. What else could I have been? Yeah so I carved out a niche, got a bit of a rep as a player, leveraged that into the Chester director of football job. Brown was already here by then. His wife didn''t trust me and his dad thought he could get a better deal at a better club. I had put a release clause in his contract so that I wouldn''t get greedy and I''d be forced to accept a really good amount because as you know, the club is skint and will be for a couple more years yet. Anyway, at the worst possible moment, he bought out my agent contract then got a club in Saudi Arabia to pay the release clause. That''s it - bosh. Absolutely nothing to do, no way to stop it, and he didn''t talk to anyone so we didn''t even have a chance to match the offer or whatever. It''s not so much that he left, it''s how and when. Pascal was hit hardest, but everyone who was there at the time was pretty pissed off. Some of them want answers, they want to know why he did what he did but it''s obvious. For money. He got a million quid tax free and his club even paid it up early so they could bring in a different foreigner. Now he''s on four and a half grand a week at Bradford City. He''s got no medals, barely played, and he''s on more than me." That was mental considering he was CA 78. Bradford didn''t know he had PA 139 - what were they paying for? "So''s Chipper, by the way. You think crime doesn''t pay? Think again."


    "Was that the first time someone in your life left suddenly without saying anything?"


    "Topic''s over. I''m going to talk about me for a while now."


    ***


    The handshake stratagem did work, I must admit. It put me off my stride for a good couple of minutes. Thinking about Brown''s wife and dad being in the stadium somewhere, happy and proud now that he was playing for a proper club, wound me up. I put my energy into my face muscles, which made me glad Zach didn''t have a Spectrum working for him.


    But the ebb and flow of the game soon sucked me in. I found myself dropping to help in midfield, then moving wide and receiving passes from Youngster before turning and causing havoc. I found that if I played in the space to the right of Brown and the left of the left back, neither was sure if they should come and challenge me.


    I grew into the role and decided to use Cupid''s Arrow to make a line between Dazza and I. The next time I picked the ball up in the half space, I turned, dropped a shoulder left, burst right, and as the left back closed in on me I curled a cross towards the Australian. My position wasn''t ideal in terms of generating pace but my cross was accurate - Dazza flicked his head and the shot was on target. The goalie saved easily but it was a warning to Bradford.


    On the touchline, Wester was going mental.


    Maybe that''s because he had set his team, as per usual, to hard tackling, and that one setting was his entire philosophy. But it didn''t work if no-one could get anywhere near me. He had the sense to move Raffi one slot across so that he was playing as a kind of left-sided DM.


    I saw the change instantly and merely attacked up the opposite flank. With one fewer player near me I went on a devastating gallop that had the fans roaring. I shaped to shoot but instead clipped the ball waist height to Dazza. It would have dipped if he had only waited a second, but he was so keen to get his name on the scoresheet he did a weird snapshot that missed the ball completely.


    It bounced off his hip and Henri was on it like a flash. His shot was bound for the corner of the goal... but the captain had somehow read the whole series of events and threw himself in front of the ball. Incredible, really.


    The force was with us and I changed our team mentality to attacking. I used my screens to move Eddie Moore one slot forward, but that proved ineffective so I moved him back.


    Wester finally realised what I was doing and he ordered a midfielder to drop back as another DM. Both him and Brown were set to man-mark me.


    I mean, sensible, sure, but there was a hole in the middle, still. My plan was to appear to be a left-sided CAM but to burst into the empty central slots when possible. I would have to get rid of the ball fast before Brown came close, but it wasn''t like I was doing picnics.


    Another idea struck me and I dropped Henri back one slot. He was now a left-sided CAM, just like me. When I left that zone, my marker would follow me, and Henri would be alone. When someone dropped to pick him up, I would use a hotkey to make him a striker again.


    ***


    "Hudson. Green. Lovely ball from the Texan. Contreras touches it back to Jack. Jack looks up. Best is marked, but he sends the pass anyway. Best runs over the ball. Lyons gathers. Beautiful! Best scampers away. Lyons is unmarked, briefly. Best''s marker changes tack, goes to the ball. Best drops square. Lyons sprints ahead. Will Best find the ball over the top? He - no, he dribbles. He''s got a bit of space, Raffi Brown slides in to block the shot, Best evades, glances up. Lyons is far post. Here comes the cross - and Best is wiped out! Terrible challenge. Yet another terrible challenge and Best is in a heap. The physio runs on. Yellow card for the Bradford midfielder. That was a shocking tackle, but what do you expect from a Folke Wester team? Disgraceful. They have been disgraceful today. Will Best be okay, and will he punish them?"


    ***


    "What was going through your mind when you got to your feet?"


    "Erm, not much. Good angles. Near post screamer or far post cross. Just calculating the odds and that. And, yeah, visualising my celebration."


    "Ah. So it was planned."


    ***


    I used Masterpiece Theatre to spread my players out in a fairly unconventional way. I sent Dazza alone to the far post. Alone because I could pick him out pretty easily at the best of times but with Cupid''s Arrow it would be even easier. I put Henri and Lee Contreras fairly centrally, and Christian, Zach, and Lee H directly in front of me, menacing the near post.


    It was hard to imagine what I might do with my three big defenders where they were - a high chip that they might try to knock sideways into the danger area, perhaps. But the presence of those big lads drew Bradford''s big lads, leaving Carl Carlile to mark Dazza. Much as I respected Carl, that was a mismatch and a half.


    I used Free Hit, put a bit of pace on the ball (but not too much), and aimed it nicely in front of Dazza so that he''d be able to get a bit of a run and a leap and add some of his own power.


    He boofed it real good, the CA 87 goalie did an amazing stretch to keep it out, and Lee C was there to smash home the rebound. One-nil!


    I had words with the guy who had fouled me and then jogged to the main stand to blow kisses to Emma.


    ***


    "Tell me if I saw what I thought I saw. You put in a great cross, Dazza got a good head on it, Lee C was first to the rebound. You ran to one of the Bradford players - not Brown, obviously, because you wouldn''t talk to him - and you screamed in his face."


    "It was the guy who fouled me and I didn''t scream in his face," I said.


    "What did you not-scream in his not-face?"


    "I don''t remember exactly," I said. "But it might have been something like ''kick me again you dick, kick me again, see what happens.'' I mean, that''s a public service, really. I don''t know why he took it so personally. Or why the ref needed to have his say."


    "The ref got involved after you celebrated in front of the main stand."


    "Yeah."


    "About a yard in front of Folke Wester."


    "Was it?"


    "There was quite a kerfuffle."


    "Huh. Didn''t see that. All I know is I was blowing kisses to my girlfriend. If there was some aggro, I mean, what can I say? We''re winning and as long as Bradford are distracted and angry they aren''t going to put a lot of free-flowing moves together."


    "See, I think that you actually play football in good spirit most of the time. You talk to the opposition, you shake hands, you''re calm with the referee, when you lose you congratulate the player that did the most damage. Bradford was different. It was personal."


    I shook my head. "If you go in hard on my players, yeah it''s personal. You order your players to go in hard you get what''s coming to you."


    "Ah, so it''s like a revenge mission. You''re an avenger."


    "Yeah. I''m Doctor Slaps. I''m Captain Get Fucked."


    "It is interesting how angry you are in those moments and how well you play. Most people playing angry play badly and our sessions are about not overthinking what has gone wrong and trying to get back into a productive state. You''re angry but you''re productive."


    "That''s my secret. I''m always angry."


    "Heh. I''ve seen the movie. Good one."


    I smiled. "The anger is real but I''m acting, too. I want the intensity up. I don''t have long on the pitch and I want to make it count. The more they come at me in those moments the more they lose their positional discipline. I mean, you saw what happened next."


    ***


    "You''ve got to say this is a tremendous response from Bradford! They''re playing good football, moving the ball around. Raffi Brown looks like Paul Scholes reborn, spraying passes left and right. Aff is still very much Aff. It''s good pressure all round. Shot comes in... Saved! Ben Cavanagh, well played that man! It was a shot from just outside the area, Cavvers saw it late but he got a good hand to it and tipped it round the post.


    "It''ll be a corner to Bradford and there''s all sorts going on, as you can imagine. Pushing and shoving for days. There goes Youngster! Someone has pushed him to the turf. Referee isn''t interested. What''s that? Raffi Brown pushing his own player away! He offers Youngster a hand. Slight hesitation but he takes it. Everyone''s on their feet now. What does Best make of that, I wonder? He''s on the edge of the penalty area, glowering.


    "Everyone''s back for Chester... Danger here. Aff will whip this in... Incredible tension in the home ends...


    "Here it comes. Aff... Cavvers! Fierce and Green made the keeper a corridor and he plucked the cross from the air. He falls to the turf, clutching the ball. He wants to take some of the sting out of this Bradford fightback.


    "But he''s up! He''s sprinting. Where''s he - He''s launched it! Cavanagh has launched the ball down the pitch. Max Best is haring after it. Appeals for offside from my Bradford counterpart but you can''t be offside from your own half! Where will it bounce? It''s going out, is it?


    "Best keeps it in! He''s running a thousand miles an hour but he keeps it in somehow. He''s had to knock the ball miles ahead of him. The goalie''s coming out. It''s a flat race.


    "Best versus the keeper. Best will get there! Best will get there!


    "He looks right. There''s no-one for miles. He points - he''s going to pass. Who to?


    "He passes... No! Stepover. The keeper''s fallen on his arse! Best looks away, taps the ball towards goal, runs off to celebrate. It''s... The defenders are... It''s gone in! Oh my God that was extraordinary. Best did a no-look shot from all of thirty yards out. I thought the defenders might catch up with the ball on the line but no. That''s two-nil. Two-nil Chester!


    "Extraordinary!"


    ***


    The day had lightened and even inside the dingy cabin I could see Alex smiling. "Pretty nice goal."


    "Ben''s good at that. The first time we played together he did a long pass just like that one. Ian Evans didn''t want him to do it in matches and to be fair, neither do I; most of the time you''re just giving the ball away. Sometimes it''s worth the risk, though."


    "How would you react if one of your players took the ball round the keeper and shot without looking at the ball or the net and he missed?"


    I inhaled sharply. "Don''t think I''d like that very much. I reckon... immediate sub off and I don''t talk to him for a month."


    "Do you think it''s fair you''re allowed to do it?"


    I grinned. "I wouldn''t miss. Anyway, TikTok-friendly goals like that help with player recruitment."


    "Oh, that''s why you did it. The only reason."


    "Yep. Bit of content for Brooke to put on the socials. A little treat for her."


    "Gotcha. The last few minutes of the half was you, double man-marked, trying to drag Bradford players away from their duties as much as possible. Is that right? And when the half time whistle blew, there was another standing ovation and the Chester fans were singing Best Will Tear You Apart Again. How does - " He stopped mid-sentence as someone in heels barged into the cabin without knocking. "Hello?" Alex said, in a tone that showed he didn''t know her.


    I thought about who would barge into a private space like that, remembered what was on my schedule, and said, "Hello, Beth."


    ***


    I twisted myself into a sitting position with my legs dangling off the sides of the table. "Breaking and entering, Beth?"


    Beth didn''t seem too worried about being caught in a criminal act. "Nothing''s broken. Handle''s a bit stiff. I was told I''d find you in the Spectroom and didn''t know which one that was. There are no signs."


    "Yeah that''s the old name. Today it''s called the Sin Bin. Sin like cinema, bin because it looks like a bin. Alex, this is Beth. Beth works for the Daily Mail because while she enjoys the benefits of living in a liberal democracy she gets paid more if she helps to destroy it."


    "Hi Alex, I''m Bethany. You''ve met Max. He gets paid the same if he talks shit or not but somehow he always chooses shit."


    "Hi Bethany." Alex had a little smile that showed he didn''t mind who Beth worked for.


    "My head is too big so I''m getting it shrunk," I said. "Alex is my therapist." There was a quiet murmur of ''I''m not a therapist''.


    "Is that why you''re lying down in the dark? Is that a yoga mat?"


    "Yes. Alex always says therapy is like yoga for the mind."


    "It''s not therapy and I''ve never said that. I''m trying to help Max work through some of the issues that arose during the Bradford City match."


    I thought Beth would say something snarky. "That''s healthy, Max. And this will be a good example for the other players who maybe think it''s a bit woo-woo. If the boss does it, they''re free to do it with no pushback from the others. What are you working on? Your narcissism? Attachment anxiety? Being a control freak? Conflict management? Latent daddy issues?"


    I left a few beats of quiet before saying, "We were actually talking about how I''m too forgiving."


    Beth burst out laughing. "And how''s Alex doing?"


    "He''s good," I said. "He''s tricking me into saying things."


    "They do that," said Beth, as Alex wrote something down. "I''ve seen it on TV."


    "Are you here for the grand opening?"


    "Yes," said Beth. She looked around, unimpressed by the Sin Bin. "Not interesting for Mail readers but it''s a big day for you, isn''t it? You worked hard for this."


    "It''ll be a chapter in our book, will it?"


    Beth had talked about writing the official Max Best biography; I wasn''t sure if she had been joking. She sat on one of the hard-backed chairs and immediately stood again. The act reminded me of why I liked her. "Maybe not a whole chapter," she mumbled.


    "Beth, you''re wise sometimes. Do I even need to fix my brain?"


    She stared at me like it was a trick question. "Um, no comment."


    I smiled. "No but really. My flaws aren¡¯t bad when it comes to winning matches. Anger is fuel. Spite is motivation. Revenge is noble and cathartic. Our fans work long hours in dead end jobs and they have one release per week and that''s coming to the Deva to see what their local team gets up to. They pay twenty quid to see us wear their badge, they get dipped in the sewage of my broken psyche, they get milled, pulped, swept along. They laugh, they cry, they scream at the referee, they have moments of despair and ecstasy, and their earthly troubles are washed away with bread and wine. They don''t want to see Max Best the level-headed, thoughtful diplomat."


    "I wouldn''t worry about that any time soon."


    "You think I''m beyond repair?"


    "I think your flaws get magnified because you get an instant reaction from five thousand people."


    "All right well, I would like to be less of a mess, I think. Oh, hey! Let''s do it like this. Four topics from the Bradford match and you know the history as well as anyone. Tell me which one to fix."


    Alex said, "I''m not sure - "


    "Okay, first one. Chip."


    Beth joined me on the edge of the table. "Chip''s a rich brat whose dad always got him every toy you never had, and now he''s the owner of a football club, a position he has not earned, while you, an actual generational talent, have had to scrabble in the mud for everything you possess."


    "So you''re saying I should challenge him to a duel."


    "No, I''m saying fuck him. He''s not worth spending time on."


    "Agreed," I said.


    "Hang on, er..." said Alex.


    "Second topic. Chipper."


    Beth nodded. "Okay that whole mess would have happened sooner or later. You will always get into conflict with players and staff who don''t put the club first. If it hadn''t happened on that bus ride, it would have happened the next day, or the next. That''s why I understand your position with Andrew Harrison."


    I was ecstatic. Andrew wanted a big pay rise the club couldn''t afford. "So you think I''m right?"


    "You''re not right but you''re not wrong. If I were you I wouldn''t blame myself for what happened with Chipper. He''s not a team player. He''s not a Max Best player. You could get some therapy about why you signed him in the first place."


    "Yeah," I mused. "I think him being dropped at Crawley made his natural tendencies worse. I couldn''t have known."


    "There you go then."


    Beth was top at therapy! "Raffi Brown," I said.


    "Fuck that guy," said Beth. "Unless he wants to give me an interview in which case, come on Max, forgive and forget."


    Alex said, "Would you have shaken his hand?"


    "Would I fuck," said Beth, and I gave her such an intense stare I could have sworn she blushed.


    Alex might have been annoyed by the intrusion, but he was interested enough in Beth''s opinions to ask, "What about Folke Wester? Does Max have a problem there?"


    "Yeah. Max is out there doing legendary shit but people shrug and say it''s only against Folke Wester. He''s not a worthy opponent. Shit manager, shit person, doesn''t deserve respect." Beth kicked her legs; she was enjoying herself. "So yeah, in summary Max, you''re perfect."


    "Come on," I said, laughing. "I want to go deeper on something."


    "How about not dropping points in the league because you''re throwing on teenagers left, right, and centre?"


    "That''s non-negotiable."


    "Why?"


    "You''ll see. All right, I think we''re done here. Thanks for interrupting my private session, Beth, that was very Daily Mail of you. Two things, though. First, all this was off the record. Second, if I ever catch you sneaking into rooms you haven''t been invited into, here or at the Deva, it''s a seven-year ban."


    "Seven-year ban?"


    "Yeah. Okay, bye."


    She hopped off the table, quietly fuming, and tried not to show how mad she was in front of a stranger, especially one who might hear loads of my secrets. "Nice to meet you, Alex."


    "Beth," I said, as she reached the door. "Do you want to get ahead of a good story?"


    She sagged. "Of course I do."


    "Interview Pascal."


    "What? Why?"


    "Max Best has spoken."


    ***


    "I have a lot of questions about that interaction," said Alex.


    "Let''s get back to Bradford," I said. "Half time was very, very strange."


    "How so?"


    ***


    We clip-clopped into the dressing room, drained but happy, with a two-nil lead in our pockets. The lads sat, chatted, and ate marathon paste. I hopped on the treatment table and got a bit of a rub. I''d done fifteen minutes and hoped to stay on for as long as poss in the second half. I knew I had a good ten in me, and there was a chance I could drop to a DM slot and keep things tight for another ten.


    The way Bradford were playing there might not be any need. They were abysmal.


    Still, I didn''t want to leave anything to chance so I went through my options. My subs included Sticky and Sunday Sowunmi and I wouldn''t use either except in an emergency. That left Josh Owens, Magnus Evergreen, Sharky, and Tom Westwood. Good options, lots of tactical flexibility, but no-one that improved the eleven.


    If I could get a third goal I would probably take Ryan off, put Magnus on, and switch to 5-3-2 with Youngster nominally a centre back but actually playing DM. That would be very solid and we would take it easy for the rest of the match. Last ten minutes I would put Josh, Sharky, and Tom on.


    I was just about to discuss these thoughts with Sandra when I realised something was going on. Or rather - nothing was going on. There was no chat, no movement.


    "What''s happening?" I said, lifting myself up onto one elbow.


    Livia, who was massaging me, said, "It''s kicking off in the away dressing room. They''ve been screaming at each other since they came in. We''re all listening."


    "Can you hear what they''re saying?"


    "Not really. But Wester is losing his tiny mind. It''s impressive, really, the way he keeps shouting in one continuous blast. I keep expecting him to pause for breath."


    "It''s not only Wester," said Magnus Evergreen. "There are two or three voices."


    "Tag team," I said, to some amusement. I sensed that my players were entertained by what they were hearing, but also a bit freaked out. There was something off about the situation, something strange about the vibes. So much so that I wondered if Old Nick or the imps had done something to help me win this match.


    I sank back onto the table and brought up the match commentary. It looks like Bradford City have adopted a more attacking approach. Best rounds the keeper, he shoots, GOOOAAAALLLL!!!! It looks like Bradford City have adopted a more defensive approach. Yeah, it was all normal. I had out-thought Wester, out-managed him. His plan A was to kick me. When that didn''t work, there was no plan B.


    "He is fucking shit," I said, and nuzzled my face into the comfy head rest. Livia''s hands worked their magic.


    ***


    "So it was, what, five, six minutes of the most intense screaming you''ve ever heard and then silence?"


    "Silent as a grave. The grave of Folke Wester''s management career. I was about to hammer in another nail."


    "Talk me through it."


    ***


    "Forty-eight minutes gone. All Chester so far in the second half. Looks to me like Bradford are concentrating on keeping the score down. I haven''t seen... let me check the stats. We have stats now, ladies and gentlemen! Moving up in the world. Er, yes. No fouls in the second half. That''s very, very unusual for a Folke Wester team, as you can imagine. It''s not that they have given up exactly but... You know what it looks like? It looks like they''re down to ten men and they''re focussed on keeping their shape.


    "Fierce. Green. Back to Fierce. Touch for Cavanagh - the Bradford back line drops a couple of yards, ho ho, they''ve learned their lesson - Green. Simple to Youngster. Ryan Jack takes over. He finds Best. Best... is confused. Bradford are squatting in two banks of five ahead of him. It''s very odd, this. Best turns and... pumps the ball back to Cavanagh. The manager twirls his finger - movement! Players are going everywhere. What am I seeing?


    "I wish Spectrum were here to explain this to me. We''ve gone from 4-4-2 diamond to... well, I would say 3-4-3. It''s all a bit confusing. Eddie Moore''s there on left midfield. Lee Hudson has moved into the centre of the defence. Youngster is still defensive midfield, Max has moved to the right wing. Christian Fierce is playing as a third striker! It''s... 2-1-4-3. Best really going for the jugular here. If you defend, he is saying, I''ll attack.


    "Bradford in disarray once more. Nobody knows who to mark and the presence of the enormous Christian Fierce next to the huge Darren Smith must be a nightmare for the Bradford defence!


    "The ball is worked wide right. Best against Aff - never thought I''d be saying that. Aff looks wary, as he''s right to be. Will Best take him on? He fires a square pass to Lee Contreras. Contreras first time return ball. Best''s first touch takes him past the left back. Best down the wing! Look at him go! One of the most thrilling sights in football. Fast as a bullet, pace and purpose, and here comes the cross - it''s perfect! Fierce? Fierce! He couldn''t miss! The cross was perfection. Christian Fierce angled his head, the ball went down, up, and in! Listen to that noise. Listen to that crowd. It''s immense. The Deva is rocking. The Deva is rocking. Rock and roll, we''ve scored a goal.


    "Er...


    "As Max would say, that''s terrible, cut that.


    "But the score isn''t terrible. It''s Chester three, Bradford City nil!"


    ***


    "One thing that confused me," said Alex, "is that after the goal you switched things back and just passed the ball around. Like, you had them on the ropes. Why not go for the killer blow?"


    I was looking up at the ceiling again, but looked even more ''up'' as I tried to remember my thought process. "Well, based on what had happened, the second goal was the killer goal. Do you get me? There''s a psychology to a team and we had broken them. They came out second half all passive and humble. How can I say this? They''d changed their mentality from hard tackling to easy tackling."


    "Like in Soccer Supremo."


    "Yeah, I suppose. It was, like, over. But you can''t take your eye off the ball. People say two-nil is a dangerous score for the team that''s leading because if it''s one-nil you''re still on high alert but at two-nil you relax. It''s a man-in-the-pub level cliche but it''s not totally wrong. So I wanted to get the third goal to be sure, but then when that''s done, your mind turns to what else is going on. The first cone is green, let''s look at the second one, do you get me? We''ve got a match on Tuesday, another hard away match next Saturday. My legs were already running out of steam so it''s like, let''s shut up shop. Would I take three-nil against a team that''s much better than us on paper? Of course I would."


    "After the match, you were asked about why you only ever play twenty, thirty minutes and you evaded the question like you always do. Is it something you don''t want to discuss?"


    "I''m player-manager. It''s tiring. I''ve found I can manage for 70 minutes and play for 20 and not be too wrecked at the end."


    "You could ask Sandra to manage."


    "Alex, this is annoying."


    "Sorry. So it''s fair to say you stayed on the pitch far longer than you would normally want?"


    "Yeah. This is the kind of thing that makes me seem arrogant but I knew that as long as I was on the pitch, Bradford would be cautious. Even if I''m tired, they have to assume I''ve got enough in the tank for one sprint from halfway. They weren''t going to come at us so, yeah, I stayed on. There was a point where I thought about playing a big diag and just thought, this is going to tear up my calf if I do this. So I tapped out."


    "Job done?"


    "I mean, what else could I have done? It felt pretty comprehensive."


    "It did look like Bradford got a boost when you subbed yourself off."


    "They immediately went to normal tackling and came out of their low block. There was five minutes where it was a bit more of a contest but we were happy to absorb the pressure. Zach Green was pinging balls to Dazza and it was like a training session. I''d asked Zach to look for those passes so Dazza could work on his hold-up play."


    "We got into the last twenty minutes. I watched the highlights and they showed a clip with you and Sandra chatting away, having a laugh, loving life. Was that around then, do you think?"


    "Probably."


    "What are you saying to yourself at a time like that?"


    "It was all smiles. We had a plan, the plan was mint, the plan worked. It worked better than we could have dreamed. I didn''t have Bradford''s complete mental disintegration on my bingo card but I was happy to see it."


    "As well as putting Magnus on instead of you, we had Wes Hayward replacing Ryan Jack, and young Josh Owens instead of Eddie Moore. Those aren''t really like-for-like changes, are they?"


    "No but we adjust based on who''s on the pitch. Sharky in the centre doesn''t make a lot of sense but teams are scared of his pace wherever he is. Anyway, he needs minutes. I''m trying to use him in every match so he gets up to the level. If he can kick on just a little bit faster, he''ll really really help us in the second half of the season. I really hope he does because he needs more than five good games at the end of the season to get a good contract somewhere. There''s a lot of distrust of him so he needs to do it over a longer span of games to show it isn''t a fluke."


    "Is there any reason you''re talking about the end of the season instead of the end of the match?"


    I sighed. "You know there is."


    ***


    "Bradford building up a head of steam here. Do I detect a slight stiffening in the technical area? Best is biting his nails. Sandra Lane is organising.


    "Aff is on the left wing, just in front of Best, his old manager. The Irishman exchanges words with his new manager. Aff shouts at someone. I can''t see... Raffi Brown maybe?


    "Yes, looks like Wester is asking Brown to move forward. Why not? Nothing to lose except Wester''s dignity, and there wasn''t any of that to begin with.


    "Youngster is next to Brown. Something of a size mismatch. Bradford''s right midfielder has pushed up against Josh Owens. Another mismatch? I''m seeing a few more of those around the pitch.


    "Lee Hudson looks well capable of dealing with Aff, at least, and our centre backs haven''t been troubled by the lone striker.


    "More good possession for Bradford. Brown at the heart of things. He receives a pass, turns away from Youngster, slides it out to the wing. That''s beautiful. Round of applause from the Bradford fans. They have been boisterous. And Chip Star comes out of the box to take his seat in the main stand. He scurried inside, didn''t he, when Max was ruling the roost.


    "The ball''s still with Bradford City. Long spell of possession. It''s back with their captain. He fires it to Brown. Brown turns again, loses Youngster again. Another slick pass to Aff.


    "Aff shimmies. Goes outside Hudson. Steals a yard! Whips in a cross. Well defended by Fierce but it drops to Brown. Brown lines up a left-footed shot - into the corner! Into the net! Bradford score in front of their fans. They''re back in this and don''t they know it! Three-one and of course it had to be the Chester old boys who combined. It had to be!"


    ***


    "At that point, what are you thinking?"


    "I''m thinking about our individual performance levels, who''s struggling, who''s got a knock, things like that. Technocratic stuff. And I''m looking at the matchups. Lee Hudson and Aff are pretty much exactly the same level. Youngster''s better than Brown. Josh Owens is not as good as the winger he''s up against but he''s much fitter and fresher. The performance is good, the tactics are good, there''s nothing to worry about. You think that''s that but football''s got a mind of its own."


    ***


    "Ben with the ball in his hands. Long ball is pumped forward - far too far ahead of Lyons. He''s livid. Best drops down and slaps the turf. That''s just giving possession to the opposition!


    "Bradford build again. Neat and tidy play. Dazza tries to press but he has worked hard and looks tired. Tom Westwood will replace him soon, I''m hearing.


    "Ball goes into midfield. Brown drops to collect. Youngster not sure if he should follow or hold his position. He decides to hold. Brown with time. He glides to the right - such an elegant player when the ball''s at his feet - exchanges passes with the winger. Now Youngster arrives but OH MY WORD what a pass from Brown. What a pass! He''s slipped it inside Owens. Carlile is onto it.


    "Carl Carlile with a heavy first touch - he slides to stop the ball going out of play. Cuts it back! The striker''s there...


    "Goal for Bradford! They''ve scored a second. Bradford City playing like peak Chester. The neat interplay on the right, drawing the opposition to them, the overlap, the through ball, it''s like watching Chester! We''ve been slapped. Slapped by our own petard.


    "Ten minutes to go and it''s Chester three, Bradford two. It''s anybody''s game."


    ***


    "How - "


    "How was I thinking? I was pissed is how I was thinking. I made the mistake of turning to the executive box and Chip Star was jumping around and whooping and that got under my skin."


    "You wouldn''t have done the same?"


    "That''s our box. He''s a guest."


    Alex dipped into his box of psychology tricks. "And there''s a feeling of powerlessness. You can''t go back on the pitch. You throw Tom on and that''s the last of your subs. It''s out of your hands."


    "There are things you can do beyond making subs. We could have gone men behind ball and tried to hold out for the win that way."


    "But you didn''t."


    "No."


    "Was that pride? Stubbornness?"


    "Men behind ball is a pretty desperate strategy. We''re not so far off the levels that we need to park the bus in a home match. Bradford hadn''t made many changes, their players were running out of legs. And half their team were on yellow cards. If we get Sharky on a break and the wrong player fouls him, they''re down to ten men and that''s that. Plus if we get a fourth goal, that''s also good, and we won''t score if we''re camped in our penalty box. No, men behind ball is real last resort stuff. I wasn''t so furious at Chip that I made bad decisions. We were set up quite well. I quickly got back to feeling pretty chill."


    ***


    "Agony at the Deva. Suffering at the stadium. Bradford pushing and pushing, looking for an equaliser that seemed a million miles away when Chester scored their third goal just after the break.


    "Raffi Brown had a purple patch after being moved up the pitch but Youngster has worked out how to play him and Brown seems to be hobbling around. Bothered by his thigh, it looks to me. All around the pitch are battles, duels, scraps that Bradford were winning five minutes ago but that have evened out in the meantime.


    "Chester look solid, but not quite solid enough. It''s hard to watch for the home fans. It''s hard to watch for me. Sandra Lane trying to coax a little more out of some tired legs. That''s one area where we have the upper hand - the substitutions destabilised us but we have five fresh players on the pitch and that''s evident.


    "Good play from Evergreen! He evaded that tackle superbly well. He lays it off to Hayward.


    "Hayward at speed! Shark speed! Bradford suddenly look very weary, very tired. The last thing they want is - Hayward skips to the right. Here comes the tackle - the 6 has to be careful - he''s on a yellow. But he lets Hayward go past. Hayward with options. He looks for the little dink to Westwood. Westwood gets in front of the defender, is fouled... not given! Referee says play on. That''s terrible from the match official.


    "The ball''s in the keeper''s arms. He throws it out to the left. Clock''s ticking down. Four minutes to go. The left back miscontrols but just about keeps the ball in play. A lot of very tired legs out there. He plays it to Aff. Aff touches it straight back. You''d normally expect him to turn and sprint down the line but he doesn''t have it in him. If that doesn''t show how tired they all are, nothing does.


    "Ball goes into the middle. Good possession again from Bradford. They can play good football when they want, which isn''t often. It''s gone to the right. The winger holds, waits for Carl''s overlap. There he goes! Carlile with incredible energy but the pass doesn''t come. Chester''s back line shuffling, sliding, creaking.


    "Back on the left. Patient play from Bradford. The home fans are quiet. What will it be? How will this end? A Wes Hayward break? Or -


    "Little slip from Hudson there but he recovers before Aff can get free. That was a heart in mouth moment. Raffi Brown can barely move. Why is he still on the pitch?


    "Contreras tries to intercept - good battle with the 15, Contreras wins, just about, hacks the ball clear. Westwood chases. Look at the energy! Lyons moves to the far post, darts to the middle. Westwood fires a cross - but it''s behind Lyons. Oh, what an opportunity to put this game to bed. Best and Lane have their heads in their hands. What a moment that could have been.


    "Nerves abound at the Deva stadium as Bradford come again. Into the last three minutes of normal time. There won''t be too much added on, I don''t think. I can''t even remember a foul in the second half, and Bradford haven''t made any substitutions.


    "Contreras slides in, misses the ball, Brown first time lay-off to midfield. The ball''s out on the right. Carlile bursting a gut to provide the overload. He gets the pass - no! Josh Owens with tremendous athleticism to get in the way.


    "But the ball bounces kindly for Bradford. Brown again. First touch pass again. It''s gone left. Aff fakes to cut on his right. Hudson falls for it. He never goes on his right, man! Aff has a yard of space. Shapes to cross... Chester''s defence are well set... Aff pushes forward another couple of yards, changes the angle, goes high to the back post...


    "And it''s in! It''s in! Raffi Brown! Brown with a towering header. Brown with his second of the match. Plucked from obscurity by Max Best, sold against Best''s wishes after the British transfer window had closed, the former Chester player comes back to haunt his old manager and his old club. It''s three-all! Chester''s players slump to the ground. Bradford''s are behind the goal, celebrating with their fans.


    "The Bradford coaching staff have spilled onto the pitch - the ones who aren''t up in Max Best''s face.


    "Chip Star has vanished. Ejected from the stadium, let''s hope.


    "Three-all. The home fans are stunned.


    "That...


    "That was a sickening blow. I''m... I feel sick."


    ***


    I put my hands under my head and stared at the ceiling for a long time. After the equaliser and the over-the-top celebrations, the match had kicked off again and there had been a couple more minutes of action, but nothing interesting. At the final whistle, I''d gone straight down the tunnel to my manager''s room to try to get my head straight before going on camera.


    I hadn''t got my head straight. Not then, nor that evening, nor on Sunday.


    I didn''t really want to talk to Alex about my innermost feelings but I did want help. I knew I wasn''t going to get it if I wasn''t honest with him.


    "A point against Bradford at this stage of the team''s development is fantastic," I said. "If we were three-nil down and we''d recovered to three-all, we would be buzzing. It doesn''t really matter that it''s the other way round, does it? It only feels like it does."


    "I think it does matter," said Alex.


    "Yeah, it matters a lot." I realised I had been dishonest mere seconds after vowing to be more truthful. "I suppose you''ll ask how I felt. I mean, it''s a weird mix. Sort of numb. It''s disbelief because it was really the worst case scenario and you have those in your head all the time but it''s really, really rare that it actually happens. It''s Chip Star blasting bass from his party bus in our car park, it''s Folke Wester as happy as if he''d won the World Cup, it''s the Browns high fiving each other like this match vindicated all their decisions. It''s the feeling that you were so, so close to ending Wester''s management career and knowing that this failure will haunt you. The whole thing is like an anxiety dream except you''re sharing it with five thousand other people."


    "Do you often have anxiety dreams?"


    "Yes. They''re horrible. I''m not sure that match will feature in one, though. I really had nailed it. 9 out of 10 manager, 10 out of 10 player. I could have done more but only by not building a training ground or by using my once-a-season super amazing motivational speech that basically guarantees a win. The things I could have done different are basically things I would never, ever do different, do you know what I mean?"


    "From your tone I''d say you''re very comfortable with your decisions on Saturday."


    I sat up and got cross-legged while I faced Alex. "Yes. And I''m not mad at my players, there''s no blame to go round. They did what they could. You can pinpoint moments like Ben slapping the ball to the other goalie when we needed a breather, or Lee H not listening to the coaches when they said about how Aff attacks. I mean, they''re tired, too. Tired people make mistakes. I don''t want to put them on blast for every little thing. They know it, don''t they?" I wrung my hands and looked down at my knuckles. "I''ve still not won a League Two match as manager. Five at Grimsby, three here."


    "Does that bother you?"


    "Not really. We''ve got Chesterfield, Barrow, Mansfield next. Then Carlisle away, Gillingham away. That''s five more we''re unlikely to win. Our first win might be in October."


    "You''re talking about not winning but you say it doesn''t bother you."


    I nodded and bit my nail. There was something incongruous about what I was saying, all right. "I''m not a miracle worker. I''m, like, fighting with one hand behind my back but the rope is coming loose and when it''s free we''ll give this league a right old tear up. I''m not going to beat myself up about being at a disadvantage because anyway, I knew about it. I know about it. It''s factored into my decisions, right?"


    "You know about it," mused Alex. It was interesting that he''d latched onto that phrase.


    I got slightly more excited. Spoke faster. "That''s it. That''s what''s been bothering me. When we play team X we know it''s 3-5-2 and if they change it''ll be to 4-3-3 or whatever. Sometimes mad things happen near the ends of matches or after red cards or whatever. Or a defensive manager might say fuck it and go all-out attack, but most of the time a leopard doesn''t change his spots."


    "You think people are predictable."


    "When it comes to football, yes. Aff doesn''t cross with his right. Folke Wester will use a DM even if he doesn''t have a strong candidate. Chipper doesn''t go ten minutes without calling the referee something horrible. But what happened on Saturday? Everyone played their roles to perfection, lived up to their stereotypes. Folke Wester did Folke Wester things until half time. They had a blazing row. But instead of coming out even more fired up, they played possum."


    "That''s a new phrase for me."


    "They played dead. They were like oh, well, tomorrow''s another day. It was a trick. They waited for us to get weaker then they had a fucking good go. It''s... I don''t know what it is but it''s not Folke Wester football. Whatever happened, it wasn''t him. Chip Star didn''t go down at half time with a master plan. Do you know what I mean? I can''t get my head round it. I can''t get past it because I don''t know what happened. I need to know what happened so I can process it."


    "That''s the opposite of something you said earlier."


    "What?"


    "You don''t know why Raffi Brown left without saying a word. You don''t know what happened but you said you were over it."


    I nodded. "I see this is going to be one of those relationships where you remember the things I say. Those aren''t my favourite."


    "Who else do you have that sort of relationship with?"


    "Emma. Beth. Brooke. The Brig."


    Alex smiled. "I might be in good company then."


    I stared at one of the chairs while pulling at my bottom lip. I did that until my phone pinged. "Alex, everyone''s here. I have to go and smile at the media and all that. I''m, er, sorry I wasted your time."


    He looked at his notes. "I don''t think this was a waste of time."


    "No?"


    "No. As first sessions go, that was a banger. But Max, is there anything I can do for you right now? What''s a short-term challenge I can help you with?"


    "Just, you know, make it so I''m not huffing and puffing and sighing and being sarcastic and bitter in front of these media people, I guess."


    Alex tapped a finger against his lips for a few seconds. He looked down at his notes and something popped out at him. He brightened just as the sun came out from behind a cloud. "On a normal day, would you prefer to talk to me about your feelings or talk to football reporters about Bumpers Bank?"


    "Them. The second one."


    He came close and gave me a friendly arm punch. "There you go then! You''ve already done the hardest part. It''s all fun from here."


    He was right. I cheered all the way up! Morale plus two! "Fun. I remember that. Yeah! Let''s go have some fun!" I practically skipped to the door, but paused on the handle. "You know what''s even more fun than bragging about Bumpers Bank to some media types?"


    "No, what?"


    "Getting down in the trenches with my army guys. Their first game of the season is Wednesday afternoon and I''m finally going to unleash Relationism on this little island of ours." I had a thought that made me laugh pretty hard.


    "What?" smiled Alex, his mirror neurons firing.


    I gave him a playful slap on the arm. "This country''s going to need so much therapy by the time I''m finished with it! Everyone will be coming to you. Oh, Alex, I had another bad dream last night. You''ll be, like, was it the blob again? Yeah it was the blob again." I laughed some more.


    "Well," said my therapist. "I don''t know what you''re talking about but I can''t wait to hear more about it."


    "I''ll tell you about it on Monday."


    Alex got a big smile. I''d just booked a follow-up session with him, and in his world that was the biggest compliment of all.

 12.3 - Lets All Laugh at Chester

    3.


    Red Army is a hard-hitting Wrexham AFC podcast, unique in that club''s media ecosystem since criticism of Ryan Reynolds is permitted. The podcast has a Discord chat server open to its Patreon supporters. One of the channels on the server is called LALAC, a phrase which is never explained to newbies because if you don''t know what it means, you shouldn''t be there.


    The channel is as old as the podcast, but these extracts only go back to the start of the 2025/2026 transfer window.


    ***


    Wednesday, July 2


    Stoop


    I''ve just seen who that mob are trying to sign so I''m just here to add to my theory that Max SexPest brings one hottie into his fold every four months or so.


    For the women, my order goes like this: Their striker Angel (hallelujah); Best''s media trainer at Darlington (Miss Fox, Princess of the Pencil Skirt); the Chester physio (The Divine Ponytail); the board member who financed the women''s team and started an agency (REM=Rapidly Erect Member); the head of marketing (Brooke FiveStar, bit too perfect); his girlfriend (fit but bad taste); his girlfriend''s lawyer friend who looks like Julia Roberts (Eat, Pray, Lust); his scout (Fleur Me to the Moon).


    The objectively attractive men, in no particular order: Henri Lyons; the Texan Wrexham reject; Wayward Hayward; now this Australian lad.


    TopPoppy


    What the hell did I just read? Are you in the right Discord mate? This is for Wrexham fans.


    CrunchyAbs


    Yeah, totally. And by the way, we don''t objectify women around here. But link me to your photo collection.


    BeardedWonderwall


    On the topic of that particular player...


    Chester have got promoted, got some TV money, and they''re going to break their transfer record for the Aussie lad. That new record? You might want to sit down for this. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. What we were paying for backups in our National League days. Fuck me they''re such a tin pot little club. I actually feel bad coming in this channel these days; it''s like laughing at a special needs class you see on a day out at a beach. It''s raining, they''ve got ice cream all down their tops, but it''s the best day of their year.


    SummerhillBill


    Our women''s team manager is hotter than any of the women in that list. She''s a Catherine Zeta Jones regen and she''s the last Wrexham manager to beat a Jester team, plus the only one who''s ever beat Max Best.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Was that the match he threw a tantrum because his deaf girl got booked coz she didn''t hear the whistle? Didn''t we beat him when he was Grimsby manager?


    SummerhillBill


    No it was 4-all. Here''s a <video> of him trying not to cry at the final whistle.


    CrunchyAbs


    See THAT was funny. That''s the sort of content I want from this channel, not ''oh look how hot everyone at Chester is''. Fuck sake.


    ***


    Monday, July 7


    TopPoppy


    Some of you know my work does building supplies and I''ve just done a delivery to Chester''s new training ground. You will not believe what I''m about to show you but I swear this is all true. Check out <this photo> of the building site.


    Seriously, look at that photo before you do anything else.


    Typical building site, yeah? Temporary little work cabins, toilets, the usual.


    Got good news and bad news. The good news is, that''s it. That''s Chester''s new training ground. I don''t mean that''s the construction site, I mean that''s it. That''s its final form. Everything''s cheap cabins. Think of a toilet at Glastonbury. Now think of thirty toilets side by side - that''s what Chester live in now. That''s their level. No wonder their media guy is called Boggy.


    I mentioned bad news. Right. They''ve got a secret weapon. You ready for this?


    <Here is Chester''s secret weapon.>


    CrunchyAbs


    What am I looking at?


    TopPoppy


    That''s a billboard they''ve bought. They live in a toilet, they can''t keep their players, they don''t pay their match day staff, but they can afford a huge billboard that no-one looks at because it''s on a busy roundabout and if you take your eye off the road you''ll cause a fifty-car pile up.


    CrunchyAbs


    What are the odds Stoop will be adding that spot to the walking tours of Chester he gives?


    Stoop


    If they put up a fifty foot poster of Angel I''ll make regular - hang on - you said WALKING tours. I misread it.


    ***


    Wednesday, July 9


    BrokenGround


    All right lads, sound the emergency klaxon. Red alert, red alert, this is not a drill.


    I''m in the army. I won''t say which unit but if I''m right about what''s happening you''ll be able to work it out soon enough. Let''s just say we''re local and we play army football. Footy is a pretty big deal in the service and it is taken seriously. We have our own branch of the football association (Army FA), we train referees, it''s big. Every unit has a team, we train twice a week, we play sixes in tournaments and elevens in leagues. At the end of the season there are cup finals in Aldershot, which is like our Wembley as you might be able to guess.


    The best teams play in our version of the FA Cup final, the best players get selected for the regiments, and the best of THOSE get called up for the army against the navy or RAF, and then there''s even an armed forces team so the best of all the players can play against the German armed forces and so on.


    It''s very organised and like I said, we take it seriously. There''s a lot of rivalry, a lot of pride, a lot of fierce matches. You think Wrexham v Chester is intense? Wait till you see the army v the navy. Holy smokes.


    Okay so that''s some background. We had training today and our organiser got us inside before we went onto the pitch.


    TopPoppy


    Quick question. It''s 5 pm. What do you mean you had training today?


    BrokenGround


    We play our inter-unit league on Wednesday afternoons. It''s pre-season right now so we''re training instead. Pre-season for us doesn''t mean fitness work because if you''re in the army it''s your job to be fit. Next week we''re playing a sixes match and that''s against civvies so obviously we can''t do that on a weekday afternoon so that''s on Thursday night. Just think that footie is part of our regular job and it''ll make more sense that we do it in the daytime.


    TopPoppy


    Ah, interesting. It''s your job to be fit. I''ve never thought of the army like that.


    BrokenGround


    I''m going to try to do this without saying any ranks. I don''t need to get DD''d for talking about footie on Discord. Our main character is H. He''s basically our unit''s player-manager and he does all the organising. Making sure we''ve got a ref, a pitch, getting new kit, equipment. It''s a fucking hassle so we all appreciate it but it does mean he feels entitled to some time on the pitch and all things considered, we''d rather he didn''t. But that''s not the point.


    H gets us in our debriefing room and says, ''Lads, I''ve got some exciting news.'' We''ve often said we don''t think H even gets excited when he''s porking his missus, so this must be big.


    ''We''ve got a special head coach coming in for a few months. A professional player who is doing his badges. He''s going to be doing some new drills with us. He''s got special funding and special permission from the Football Association of Wales and the army. He could have chosen almost any unit but he has chosen us. He''ll come along to the match next week and then we''ll be training at his football club. Basically, he''ll be your manager for a month or two which means some slight changes to the routine. I have been asked to ask you to extend the army''s courtesy to him.''


    ''Who is it?'' we ask.


    ''That''s on a need-to-know basis, lads. I don''t know myself. All I know is he has friends in high places. All right, let''s get out there. Good session today, please, lads. Let''s try to learn left from right by Thursday; I don''t want to be embarrassed when he turns up.''


    TopPoppy


    Why is this in LALAC?


    Oh hang on.


    Hang the fuck on.


    Are you saying your new manager is going to be Max fucking Best?


    BrokenGround


    I think so! We know he''s got mates in the army even though he doesn''t wear a poppy and we know he''s connected to the FAW from that scandal where they built him a football pitch.


    Fuck - I just realised I''m going to be training on that very pitch. That''s probably how he got funded - promised to train some Welsh lads on there. We''ve got to go up to fucking Chester so he can tick a box and get half a million quid. Fuck!


    Teulu


    That''s sick. That''s not right.


    Stoop


    Er, hang on a second. A brilliant player is going to train BrokenGround and his unit? That''s bad, is it?


    CrunchyAbs


    Here comes the Chester fan.


    Stoop


    I''m not a Chester fan, I''m a Wrex season ticket holder. I''m on the highest tier of a Wrexham fans podcast. Use your fucking brain.


    This is to BG. Mate, if you don''t want a professional player to coach you, he can come to my Sunday League team. We''re shit and we need help and we won''t whine about it like a load of ungrateful little bitches.


    BrokenGround


    We''re shit too but better shit than playing for Max Best.


    CrunchyAbs


    The other lads in your unit, they Wrexham fans too?


    BrokenGround


    About half, yeah. We''ve got some Cards and Jacks and one sad bastard Newport lad. He''s so pathetic we don''t even bully him.


    CrunchyAbs


    What''s the mood like?


    BrokenGround


    They''re like H - excited. They haven''t been following Best''s joke of a career like we have. I''ll have to set them straight in the next week.


    BeardedWonderwall


    You''ve got to let us know how it goes, lad.


    CrunchyAbs


    This.


    ***


    Wednesday, July 16


    BrokenGround


    Wow. I''ve been at my unit''s six-a-side match and now I''m back home laughing my head off.


    It''s Max Best all right.


    TopPoppy


    You''re going to tell us what happened right?


    BrokenGround


    Yeah just give me a minute.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Whoa my heart''s pounding. What''s this? Is this what the humans call anticipation?


    BrokenGround


    All right so I told you we''ve got a sixes tournament coming up. We had a friendly against some lads from the university. They''re young and fit, right, which is a nightmare except we are the fucking British army, mate. You''re not fitter than us you speccy ponces. Get back to your hipster cafes and your poetry.


    There''s no sign of our top amazing wonderful new manager so H gets on with things as usual. First half kicks off and I forget anything''s supposed to be happening. I get busy dominating the midfield. Think Roy Keane mixed with Pirlo.


    TopPoppy


    Well, fuck. I thought this might be real. That''s disappointing.


    BrokenGround


    This is real, mate. This happened.


    Okay think Roy Keane mixed with Pirlo but not quite as good and a leg full of metal. You happy now?


    TopPoppy


    No. It''s fake. You''re doing a comedy bit in one of the comedy channels. At least with that pervert we get photos of beautiful women. You''re not even a good fantasist. Why would Max Best be coaching some lads in Wrexham?


    BrokenGround


    All right hang on I took a photo. Do NOT spread this around or I''ll have to fuck you up.


    BeardedWonderwall


    It''s a guy who looks like Max Best sitting on a bench looking bored. It could have been taken in any sports hall and it could have been taken anytime.


    BrokenGround


    Fuck me, you pricks are hard work.


    Stoop


    That''s a current photo. His hair''s still growing back at the sides from when he had his mohawk.


    BrokenGround


    The pervert has spoken! Do you want to hear the story or not? Jesus Christ.


    TopPoppy


    The story better end with you signing for Chester, since you''re the best footballer in Wales.


    BrokenGround


    Well him not signing me is just more proof that Best is a fraud, isn''t it?


    Right, anyway, I''m writing this down while it''s fresh because you''ll see one day that I was giving you the inside skinny. He''ll use this on his socials or in some fucking moronic credit card advert.


    Reminder: everything''s going great; we don''t need so-called help. We''re three-nil down at half time and Best comes over.


    TopPoppy


    Hahahahaha!


    BeardedWonderwall


    Petition to rename the channel ''Let''s All Laugh at BrokenGround''.


    BrokenGround


    What? What''s funny?


    TopPoppy


    Nothing. Tell us more about how it feels to dominate midfield.


    BrokenGround


    It''s not my fault the rest of the team is shit.


    So I''m busy laying into them, pointing out all the mistakes they''ve made, when H gets a moony sort of look in his eyes. Max Best has wandered over. He looks bored, not interested, it''s like he regrets offering to come and coach us.


    TopPoppy


    Which is how I''d feel if I was a manager and I''d just found the next Roy Keane. Jesus wept.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, funny. Okay we''re not much cop but it''s important to us, isn''t it? We''ve got our unit badges on our shirts. We''re playing for pride. It has meaning to us, do you get me? And he''s dismissive. He''s rude.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What did he say?


    BrokenGround


    Not much. He played musical chairs with us.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What does that mean?


    BrokenGround


    He looks at this little notebook he''s got and points at one of our lads - big, slow, slovenly soldier I''ll call Fatso - and says ''you go in the centre''. He moves two guys to striker. Puts me in defence. I''m livid. I can''t believe it. I''m our best midfielder by miles. Fatso can''t run. No-one can understand how he''s even still in the army - it''s like we''re so desperate for bodies they''ll let anyone in even if they don''t pass the tests. It does my head in, and now he''s in my slot in midfield?


    Then Best goes, ''Don''t play any long passes. Five yards, that''s it.''


    H tries to stand up to him. ''That''s not very practical.''


    Best goes ''nah that''ll slap you watch.''


    At this point I''m fuming so hard I can barely think let alone speak but I manage to get a couple of words out. ''I''m a midfielder. I play in midfield.''


    He looks confused and flips a page up and down in his notebook. ''That''s not what it says here'', he says, and some people laugh. And as if I wasn''t wound up enough, he puts his book down and I see the pages are all blank.


    He''s literally taking the piss. I fucking hate him!


    TopPoppy


    And then what?


    BrokenGround


    That''s it. He turns up, puts us all in the wrong positions, goes home and laughs to his mates.


    TopPoppy


    The match, man. What happened in the second half?


    BrokenGround


    Yeah well it was a disaster, wasn''t it? We were trying to do this five-yard pass thing and it kept breaking down. We ended up with the midfielders and strikers dropping back to give options and it was just frantic and chaotic. It was a joke. Total joke.


    TopPoppy


    So you got pummelled?


    BrokenGround


    Not pummelled no but we lost 4-3 in the end.


    TopPoppy


    Hahahahaha!


    Stoop


    Mate. Read what you are writing.


    BrokenGround


    Look, the only reason we didn''t get turned over was everyone was so confused. We were so busy trying to move the ball one inch at a time that the other team saw their chance and flooded at us and we were all in a panic and Fatso hacked the ball clear and one of our strikers ran onto it and scored.


    So the uni lads, smart lads aren''t they, thought it was deliberate so they didn''t rush at us again. We were doing all these little passes all squashed together and they didn''t really know how to defend it.


    Okay I''ve just re-read that and it makes it sound good but I''m telling you it was a total farce. It was beyond a joke, lads, really.


    Stoop


    Yeah I know what you''re going to say that I''m a Chester fan but more than being a top level Patron I''m someone who has the unique distinction as the only person in this Discord who has read and understood more than ten books and here''s what forty years of honing my reading comprehension skills is telling me.


    1) Best turns up, sees you''re all shit, reorganises you. 2) You''re in the right positions now and you do much better. 3) He makes you play short passes and as if by magic you start to have success. 4) You are thick as pigshit and can''t understand what has happened.


    BrokenGround


    Get fucked.


    ***


    Saturday, Jul 19


    ButteryCrumpets


    Blackpool 5 Chester 2


    Lol.


    ***


    Wednesday, Jul 23


    BrokenGround


    All right I didn''t plan to come back to this because apparently no-one''s interested in a close-up view of Max Fraud and apparently I''m the only only who thinks he''s a complete joke. But we just had our first proper training session with him at his taxpayer-funded pitch and I want to vent.


    His club is technically in a place called Saltney but it''s Chester. Hop on the bus, go up the A483, turn off where you see the giant piles of shit.


    The pitch is brand new and it''s nice and apparently we''re the first players to ever use it. The lads are pleased until it becomes clear that the reason no-one has been on it is that the inspectors haven''t been to sign it off. I ask if it''s safe and Best pinches his nose and says ''if you find any sinkholes or booby traps let me know. Oh, wait, no, good point, I did ask them to install a trap door that drops you into a shark tank so yeah, watch you don''t trigger that.''


    Sarky bastard.


    I''ve got to say that despite my reservations I was excited because the lads had spent the whole week wondering what the sessions would be like and it got me wondering. Maybe I''d actually learn a few tricks. Improve my game. Get picked for the regiment. The army, even!


    So we form three banks of six and we go through this stretching routine. Hamstrings, glute bridges, 90 90s, back curls, hip hikes, I mean it''s one after the other. Five minutes, ten minutes. No joke - we did thirty minutes of that! Half our session!


    I said it before but we''re the army. We''re paid to be fit. We don''t need some football ponce teaching us flexibility.


    You can imagine I''m fuming. He''s wasting our time, laughing at us.


    Finally a bag of footballs appears. Thank Christ!


    We practise one-twos.


    Three cones on a zig zag. Stand at cone one. Pass to cone two. Run to cone three while the player on cone two takes a touch and passes it ahead.


    The simplest, most basic drill. We do it again and again for half an hour.


    Best blows his whistle. ''Good sesh, lads. There''s hot water in the showers. See you on Saturday.''


    I''m livid.


    SummerhillBill


    That sounds bad. What did the others think?


    BrokenGround


    A couple are clinging onto the delusion that this is a treat of some sort, but that was an eye-opener for everyone else. All the stories I''ve been telling them are finally sinking in. It was quiet on the drive home. I sent out a montage of Best falling over and another of him getting kicked and that gave everyone a lift.


    SummerhillBill


    As it would.


    ***


    Jul 29, 2025


    ButteryCrumpets


    Morecambe 2 Chester 0


    Lol.


    ***


    Jul 31, 2025


    TopPoppy


    Did BrokenGround post his Max Best training update yesterday?


    BrokenGround


    No, I didn''t think anyone was interested.


    TopPoppy


    I''m fascinated. Please let us know what he''s doing. It doesn''t have to be funny.


    BeardedWonderwall


    I second that. We all spend so much time on here talking shit that we know nothing about but you''re in contact with a pro player and okay he''s a fucking nutcase but none of us will get to kick a ball on the Racecourse or even at the Colliers training ground so you''re the closest thing we''ve got to an expert.


    CrunchyAbs


    I''ve just realised that if you train with him on Wednesdays you''ll be up close with him after Chester get smashed on a Tuesday night. Morecambe dicked them this Tuesday. How was he yesterday?


    BrokenGround


    He was fine. I tried to tease him about it but he blanked me. Just stared at me like a serial killer. Dead eyes. Someone else said, ''He''s joking that you lost last night.'' Best goes ''What?'' ''You lost to Morecambe, Max!'' He frowns for a while then laughs. He does that thing where you pretend to squeeze tears out of your eyes with your hands. ''Boo hoo!'' he goes, the prick. ''I wost to Morecambe in a pre-season fwendly. Boo hoo. Best out.'' He stamps his foot like a toddler. ''Best OUT!'' The lads are pissing themselves, but I''m not. This is why he''s at Chester. He''s not a winner. You''ve got to play to win every match. There''s no such thing as a friendly.


    Anyway, training was maddening again. We did the same stretches in the same order. What was mad was that some of the lads couldn''t do some of the moves. Not that it matters because we''re soldiers not pole dancers.


    TopPoppy


    You can do all the stretches, then? You''re the Roy Keane of stretches? [Smiley face.]


    BrokenGround


    Well, no, because of some old injuries. But this is the winner thing again. He goes ''yeah if you can''t do ten, do five. If you can''t do five, hold the starting position for thirty seconds''. It''s like no wonder his team are getting their arses handed to them by everyone they play. He doesn''t have the drive to power through and do ten reps. Me? If it says ten reps I''m doing ten unless my body literally physically can''t do it.


    Half an hour of that bullshit, then fifteen minutes of one-twos.


    TopPoppy


    Again? Shit.


    BrokenGround


    I know. He just stands there. Barely says anything. Just watches. Sometimes he doesn''t even do that - he''s on his phone.


    But he did mix it up for the end. He got us to put more cones out to stretch the zig zag to about thirty yards. He put three guys on each side. One guy in the middle. Six attackers, one defender, basically.


    ''You can only do one-twos'' he says, and rolls a ball to the end of the line.


    I thought I must have missed some of the instructions but the guy at the side does a short pass and the guy on the other side chips it over the defender''s head towards the edge, the goal.


    Best blows his whistle. ''You can only do one-twos.''


    It makes no sense. What are we supposed to do and how are we supposed to do it?


    We go again. The first guy kicks the ball and runs for the return pass. He plays it on, runs around his teammate, the one who''s on his side of the line, and gets the return pass.


    Whistle. ''No overtaking. You can take over the second half of someone else''s one-two.''


    Well that just sounds like playing a pass to me but we go again and now we''re starting to see the shape of it. The guy in the middle realises the oppo are always going to do a one-two so he knows how and when he can intercept it. He does just that, and he takes up the slot of the guy who lost the ball.


    Okay so it''s a piggy-in-the-middle rondo drill but stretched out into a thin rectangle. Why didn''t Best just say that?


    We get a bit better at it and we get the ball all the way to the other end. Best changes some of the lads out and puts a second guy in the middle.


    We''re trying to move the ball along to the end but what we''re doing is so predictable the guys in the middle actually have the advantage. We''re getting frustrated because the whole thing makes no sense but then time''s up and we fuck off home and this time I don''t even bother with the funny videos. I''m just... I''m not even angry. I just want things to go back to how they were.


    TopPoppy


    Feel like pure shit just want H back.


    BrokenGround


    Ha. Yeah. Better the devil you know than the one you don''t.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Chin up, lad. He''ll get bored of it soon enough, won''t he?


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 2


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 0 Slovakia 4


    Lol.


    Also: wtf.


    ***


    Wednesday, Aug 6


    BrokenGround


    Just been to Chester for our latest sesh. Half an hour of stretching, then into the zigzag rondo thing.


    Some people said they didn''t understand my explanation last time.


    Think about a load of cones laid out on diagonals like the arm of a crane - just, yeah, or a zigzag. There are three lines of players. The attackers at the top are A1, A2, and so on. The attackers at the bottom are B1, B2. The defenders in the middle are just the piggies - they don''t get a name.


    We''ve made these names up ourselves, right, because as frustrated as we all were, some of the lads wanted to believe there''s some sort of purpose behind it all.


    Important to remind you that Best barely talks to us. He''ll pretend to forget that he got his arse handed to him by Slovakia and that he shamed an entire city by turning his patch into Bratislava for the day. He''ll respond to jokes about how he has never won a match in League Two and, you know, some general banter. But he won''t talk during the drills and certainly won''t tell us what we''re supposed to be doing or why.


    So we''re doing the drill, trying to move the ball along to the end of this route by doing one-twos following the diagonals of the cones. How it went at first was player A1, the guy at the start, would exchange passes with player B1, the next player in the zigzag, and when B1 had a good angle he''d send a pass to A2. The piggies are trying to stop it from happening, and Best''s main involvement is controlling the number of piggies. When the outsiders are struggling, a piggy is removed. When they get into a groove, another piggy goes in.


    So we''re doing this again and again and again and it''s driving me fucking crazy because it''s almost impossible to get anywhere if there is more than one piggy but suddenly Fatso does something mad. He''s A2 when it happens. We''ve been passing on diagonals because that''s how the cones were laid out, but as a piggy goes to press Fatso he passes to A1, the guy who''s *right next to him*. A1 panics and plays it to B1.


    Best blows his whistle. ''You must play one-twos'' he says. A1 made the mistake - apparently - so he goes to change places with the nearest piggy but Best tells him to stay where he is.


    We go again. Fatso does the same thing. He passes to A1.


    It''s like time has stood still. Half of us turn to Best to see what he''s going to do but he''s not doing anything. A1''s looking at the ball like... what? You can almost hear the cogs in his brain going. It''s got to be a one-two, right? Did Best ever say we had to pass diagonally? We just assumed the rules but he never said it... So A1 rolls the ball back to Fatso. Fatso bounces it straight back to A1. They do three quick one-twos and a piggy goes, what''s all this? He moves to intercept but when he does, Fatso takes a touch, turns, and hits a pass to B3 who passes to A3. We''ve done in two seconds what used to take twenty.


    And from then it''s a totally different game. The advantage is with the guys on the edge, not the piggies. You can pass the ball around as much as you want and if a piggy tries to get it you just pass to where he isn''t.


    Best blows his whistle. He''s got this huge, self-satisfied grin on his face and he''s not the only one. Even I was buzzing. We''d done it! ''Time''s up,'' he goes. ''Hot showers for you. Cold shower for me. You''ve got me all aroused, lads.''


    Stoop


    Oh my God that sounds amazing.


    TaranMellt


    I''ve just caught up with all this. BrokenGround please keep writing it! But don''t get yourself into trouble with your unit.


    BrokenGround


    Well Chester are away this Saturday so we will be doing our own training without him so the next instalment will be after they get thrashed by Bolton in the cup. Might get a few laughs out of that.


    ***


    Tuesday, Aug 12


    Stoop


    Fuck is anyone watching Bolton v Chester? They''ve just snapped the little German fella like a twig.


    Teulu


    I was gonna watch the highlights but I''m hearing it''s a proper horror tackle and I can''t watch that. I got royally effed up by a tackle like that. I hope he''s all right.


    TopPoppy


    Hey, BrokenGround, ask Max Best how to score three goals in ten minutes. I think he has been holding back in your training sessions.


    TopPoppy


    Oh fuck, he''s just been slammed into the post. Lol what the fuck am I even watching here? Bolton have lost the plot.


    Stoop


    Best concussion sub. No way he''s going to Wrexham tomorrow, is there?


    TopPoppy


    They do the sessions in Chester. But yeah. That''s a shame for BG. I think he likes Best really.


    ***


    Wednesday, Aug 13


    BrokenGround


    Best turned up. He looked pissed off, didn''t smile once, barely spoke. Last night he was bleeding all through his interview - something of a hobby - but today the only visible damage was a little plaster on his forehead.


    He was supposed to be in concussion protocol so he brought reinforcements. Remember Stoop updated his list of who''s hot at Chester? Not sure why that''s in the laugh at Chester section but no joke, he''s miles wrong. Best brought Livia Stranton, that physio, the one dating Jackie Reaper, and she is twenty times more beautiful in real life than on TV. Seriously, guys, I''m in love. She''s crazy perfect.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What was she doing there?


    BrokenGround


    Just stopping him from working, I think. The first half hour he sat at the side of the pitch and had this face like thunder, just proper angry. We still did the stretching thing but it was done by The Brig, Chester''s head of performance.


    BeardedWonderwall


    They don''t really call him the Brig, do they?


    BrokenGround


    They do.


    Okay this guy''s another one who''s totally different on camera. On screen he''s not much but in real life he reeks of danger. I''ve seen a few guys like that in the army. They go in two directions. One ends up as the lead story on the nine o''clock news with the word ''manhunt'' in big letters. The other goes into the SAS, commando, black ops, mercenary, all that movie shit. If you''re ever with the firm tearing up Chester and this guy comes along, drop your bricks and bottles, turn around, walk home.


    Yeah, he told us to do the stretches and we did the stretches. Turns out the Brig was the guy who invented the routine and every player at Chester does it four times a week, right down to the under 12s.


    We do the routine with no complaints. We''re tough army guys but we''re not stupid.


    For some reason when he''s doing his rounds, the Brig watches me in particular. I do the moves properly instead of half-arsing it and fuck me, it''s hard. When we''re done my knees are jelly. All my leg muscles are screaming they''ll cramp. Instead of thinking ''we''ve only got half an hour left'' I''m thinking ''we''ve only got half an hour left''.


    The Brig wanders off to ask Best what we''re supposed to do next and he comes back and says, ''Apparently you''ve been doing a one-two drill.''


    We start to explain it to him and he puts his hand up and says, ''show me''. We grab the cones, lay them out, and get stuck in.


    It goes fast. We bounce the ball around pretty nicely and get it to the end. We cheer.


    The Brig gives us a strange look. ''Did Mr. Best say you had to get the ball to the end?''


    Fatso slaps himself in the face and says ''fuck!'' and some of the lads laugh. I''m like, then what''s the point of the drill? What the shit is going on?


    Livia comes over. ''New drill. Make a big square from cones.''


    ''How big?'' says someone.


    ''Big. Hurry the fuck up!'' She''s mad at us for making Best work! We rush around and obey. ''One player at each corner. One piggy. The game is to find out the rules of the game.''


    An incredible thing to say. Reactions vary. Fatso''s excited, as are a few others. They want to be the one to crack this latest code. Some guys are mildly amused. Some are pissed. It''s just endless nonsense. When are we going to learn formations? Pressing? Counter-pressing? All that stuff we see on TV?


    The guys on the corners of the box pass the ball to each other. When they fuck up, they become the piggy. It''s a completely normal rondo. Livia is watching us carefully, but Best is ten yards back, now on his arse, slumped forward, probably thinking about his player in hospital. Which I understand, by the way, but why not cancel the session if you''re not in the mood?


    Pass, pass, pass. Rondos are a good warm up but they''re boring if you do them too long. We''re feeling our legs from doing the workout and things slow down. Someone passes to Fatso and he puts his foot on the ball while he thinks what to do. There has to be a trick, right, but he has already tried doing all kinds of one-two variations and Best hasn''t reacted. Maybe we did it right but he didn''t notice? Maybe Livia was supposed to notice but she''s a physio not a coach?


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Fatso has waited too long and the piggy gets close to him. Fatso fakes a pass left and goes right instead - it''s his only hope.


    ''Point!'' shouts Livia.


    We stop and look at her. Half of us missed the action. ''Fatso, what did you do?''


    ''I don''t know!'' he says. His mates get the ball back to him and he puts his foot on the ball again. He gets tackled and becomes the piggy.


    ''I''ve got it!'' shouts this guy we call Dick Gently. They get the ball to him and he points to the guy next to him and goes ''quick!''


    Fatso moves that way but DG passes the other way.


    ''Point!''


    ''You''ve got to dummy,'' shouts DG.


    There''s chaos and that''s the only time Best is interested. He''s still slumped but he''s got a kind of hungry look in his eye as we work out how to get points.


    You can''t do a dummy every time, right, or it''s too easy for the piggy. You have to wait for your moment and if you do it right, even though the piggy knows what you''re going to do, he can''t stop you.


    Time''s up and I''m relieved and disappointed. My legs couldn''t take much more but it was just getting good.


    Best doesn''t get up. We head to the changing rooms and he''s just there on the pitch with his hands around his knees. One of the proper Wrexham lads, Hot Rod, goes up to him and says, ''Good win, Max.''


    ''Win?''


    ''Last night.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Sorry about your player.''


    ''Yeah, thanks. Yeah.''


    ''Is he going to be all right?''


    Best''s head drops. He''s barely audible. ''I don''t know.''


    The Brig comes. ''Off you go, lads.''


    As I''m about to go through the door to have a shower, I turn back. Best''s still there, wrecked. Livia''s standing over him sort of protective. The Brig''s facing us. He''s one of us but he''s one of them. It''s such a strange scene.


    We''re quiet in the showers but after a few minutes on the bus home we just explode with chat.


    TaranMellt


    I just want to say I''m loving this series. It''s my new favourite web serial.


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 16


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 0 Burton Albion 3


    Lol.


    ***


    Wednesday, Aug 20


    BrokenGround


    Best was a lot more perked up today and he completely changed the routine. It was just him again, no babes, no Brigs.


    We''ve got our six-a-side tournament this coming Saturday so we moved the big goals off the pitch, brought out some little ones, and used a half of a half for some small-sided games. Six against six with three seemingly random line ups, five minute matches, winner stays on.


    At first it looked like he was just going to watch us as we played against each other, which I probably wouldn''t have minded all that much, but then he stopped us and got Fatso''s team into a huddle. I don''t know what he said but I think it was ''don''t pass more than five yards'' because they all got squashed together.


    They sucked at first, and lost, but then when it was their turn again, they had a bit more organisation and then they broke out the one-twos, the feints, and basically treated the match like a big version of the drills we''d been doing.


    And, yeah, they dominated. You couldn''t get the ball off them unless you overcommitted and if you did that, Fatso would clip a longer pass onto a runner and they''d get shots away.


    I was getting steamed up, especially because Best was just standing there with a bored look on his face. ''What are we supposed to do?'' I said. ''How do you defend against it?''


    He went, ''How should I know?''


    That got me fuming again and the next match I ran around in a fury and almost got us a win but not quite. At the break one of the smarter lads on our team went, ''I think we''re supposed to do the same thing.''


    ''What same thing?''


    ''The short passing. The one-twos. All that stuff.''


    ''Then why doesn''t he tell us to do that?''


    ''He didn''t tell us not to.''


    I thought, fuck it, let''s try it. So the next time we''re on, we''re doing to Fatso''s team what they''re doing to everyone else, except we''ve been on a losing streak so we''re really determined. We keep the ball but when the oppo come at us, Fatso yells at them to get back so we couldn''t get counters like they did.


    TaranMellt


    He''s not stupid, that guy.


    BrokenGround


    No, he''s not. Anyway, the session went like that. Sort of an arms race of who could do more tactics. Every now and then Best would say something to one of the teams and things would change slightly and the other two teams had to work out what was going on. He didn''t talk to my team. Oh, except one thing. One time he said, ''have you ever thought about using the side of the pitch?''


    We couldn''t work out what he meant and I went ''he''s fucking with us'' and said I didn''t want to hear more about it.


    TopPoppy


    Mate, what is wrong with you? I''m loving this story but why do you leave it to Fatso to do all the thinking?


    BrokenGround


    I know, I know. But be fair - this is the guy we''ve been hating and laughing at for three years. You can''t assume he''s trying to help you. But on the bus home I told the others what he said and we were trying to decipher it. I''ve got to say that almost makes this whole torture worth it. Talking about footy with your mates more than ''that ref was shit'' and the usual. You know the way Chester fans always go ''he''s done what lol''? I actually get it now.


    TopPoppy


    Next session Saturday?


    BrokenGround


    No, we might do some Saturday sessions when Chester are playing at home but this week they''re in Nottingham and they''ve got their stupid ecobus so they leave early. And my unit isn''t training - it''s our sixes tournament. We''ve been building to it for months. I just want to get through the group stage for fucking once. And beat E Company 8, the pricks, for once. Just once!


    BeardedWonderwall


    Fingers crossed, lad. We''re right behind you.


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 23


    ButteryCrumpets


    Notts County 2 Chester 0


    Lol.


    ***


    Sunday, Aug 24


    BrokenGround


    Got in late last night, lads. Did the tournament then had a few bevvies. My day summarised in one word: shit show.


    Stoop


    What happened? Spill the beans.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah so we had 1 Mercian first up and did all right but fell apart at the end. Fatso was like ''why are we playing the same old shit?'' He wanted us to do this Bestball stuff and I was like ''not in a fucking tournament mate'' and he was like why not it''s mint? And I was like ''because I don''t want people fucking laughing at me that''s why now shut your gob'' but H said yeah we should give it a try, right? Because he''s got the powers-that-be nagging him for updates about this super amazing thing that''s happening. Fuck, even the refs were coming to us going ''are you that team with Max Best?'' and they were disappointed when we said he wasn''t around.


    Sick of this!


    Back to the footy. We played 4 Scots and the lads tried to do one-twos and keep the ball and play short passes and all that and we got fucking annihilated. It was like 7-0 in fifteen minutes which is bad even for us. Lads from EC8 were by the touchline pissing their pants because they''d heard we were getting proper coaching and everything. ''What were you like before the coach turned up, holy fuck.'' Giving it large.


    After the match we were all acrimonious in a way we aren''t normally when we lose and H said guys, put a lid on it. But he said we''d play normal footy in the last game.


    So yeah, we lost all three games, bottom of the group, and we lost the wooden spoon playoff. We are officially the shittest team in the army.


    I was happier than ever to see Chester had lost. With any luck Best will get sacked and he''ll leave us alone.


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 30


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 3 Bradford City 3 (after being 3-0 up).


    Lol.


    SummerhillBill


    Fuck me that was hilarious. Jester are the gift that keep on giving. Someone find a close up of Best''s face at the end and I''ll give you a grand. Two grand if you catch the exact moment the first tear spills down his cheek, or his lip starts to wobble.


    Stoop


    Bradford celebrating at the end like they''d won the league was pretty low rent. Not sure I''d want that if I was one of their fans.


    TopPoppy


    Chester''s next fixtures are hard. A lot more pain to come if you ask me. If you had a bet on Max Best to get sacked first in League Two, put some champagne in the fridge.


    ***


    Tuesday, Sep 2


    ButteryCrumpets


    Wigan Athletic 5 Chester 0


    Lol.


    CrunchyAbs


    Oh my God this guy''s shit. He''s actually shit. I can''t believe we''ve wasted so much of our lives discussing him in these threads.


    BeardedWonderwall


    My Chester mates are going ''it''s only the Vans Trophy''. Pathetic.


    CrunchyAbs


    Why do you have mates who support Chester? That''s the real question.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 3


    BrokenGround


    Lads, I''ve just had an experience that has finally put to rest any lingering doubts I may have had about the character of Chester FC''s player-manager. I have been methodical, I have been diligent, I have checked my workings, had them peer reviewed, and I can finally, fully confirm that yes, Max Best is a dickhead.


    CrunchyAbs


    Genuinely excited right now. I''m supposed to pick up my kids from school but they''ll have to wait.


    BrokenGround


    It was our first eleven-a-side match of the season and remember we''ve done zero training for it. We''ve faffed about with some one-twos and prepared for our sixes tournament in a way that made us worse. I have zero faith in Best and his methods and that''s a feeling that''s finally spreading beyond the Wrexham and Grimsby fanbases, as you can hear on any neutral podcast or read about on any betting blog.


    We''re playing away and he meets us there. Seems like the Brig''s his driver so you''d think he might be a conduit between the army and the craziness but the Brig defers to Best when it comes to football. At times during the match we were pleading with him to do something but he just gave us strange looks.


    I''m getting ahead of myself.


    H has a suggestion for the starting eleven and Best goes yeah yeah yeah this is top oh but what if we change this to this and a minute later we''ve got a completely different starting line up and everyone''s out of position. H says okay but what''s the formation. Best goes ''eleven'' and the Brig laughs. So we''re going on the pitch with no plan, no training, no formation, no team talk. Actually that''s not fair. He says, ''My favourite movie is Platoon because he throws his hands up and goes waaah. Okay let''s slap.''


    It''s like he wants us to lose.


    H is unhappy. He doesn''t really have a say but he can feed back to the chain of command that this experiment, whatever it is, isn''t going well. He needs to pick his moment. For now his hands are tied because there are majors and lieutenant colonels who have taken an interest in the project. Any time a high-profile civilian takes an interest in army football, command are going to fawn all over him.


    I''d say that getting in with the army''s top brass was Best''s intention except he has shown numerous times he doesn''t know the first fucking thing about the army - as will be proven later - and he doesn''t seem to give a flying fig who we are or what we do.


    TopPoppy


    Looks like I picked the wrong day to run out of popcorn.


    BrokenGround


    The first half is a mess. We''re doing rolling subs and Best has us on and off, in and out like we''re jack-in-the-boxes. The only person who doesn''t come off is Fatso, who is Best''s blue-eyed boy.


    Best doesn''t give us any instructions, doesn''t move us around, doesn''t fix anything.


    One time, the Brig shouts encouragement and Best tells him not to. That''s not just my imagination - the subs heard him.


    We''re all just flailing around, goals are flying in, and the only time Best has anything to say is when he complains about the pitch.


    ''This is much better than our home pitch'', says Dick Gently.


    ''No way,'' says Best.


    ''Really,'' says DG. ''Ours is like the one at Chester when you fell flat on your face taking a corner.''


    DG is worried he has gone too far because Best goes distant. He''s only thinking of the match, though. ''That was offside,'' he says. ''I think I might actually be good at this. Fuck.'' He thinks about what DG said. ''Me falling flat on my face? I bet you liked that on your forums.'' That''s it. He''s not bothered.


    It''s four-nil at half time and we''re all muddy and stressed and bickering with each other. That''s when Best does the single most infuriating thing I''ve ever witnessed. He''s lucky the Brig was there. I''m deadly serious about that.


    TP, have you got your popcorn?


    TopPoppy


    [Popcorn emoji.]


    BrokenGround


    Half time. We go off to the side of the pitch and yell at each other but there''s no heat to it because we all know who is to blame.


    ''All right lads,'' says Best. ''Let''s all count to five. Nice, deep, cleansing breaths. Hom. Hommmm.''


    We''re ready to breathe flames. Best doesn''t realise how close he is to pushing a bunch of proud Welshmen too far.


    ''So listen everyone. I heard about how you got on in your tournament. There''s a bit of a mismatch between your old way of playing and your new way of playing. The old ways keep creeping back, don''t they? But you can''t do both. It''s one or the other, yeah? One of the reasons I wanted to coach an army team is that the Brig told me army lads are disciplined, hard-working, self-sufficient problem-solvers and that''s what I need for this project. So tell me now, is he wrong?''


    Of course, no-one says anything because if you agree, he''s going to trick you into doing things his way.


    Best shrugs. ''I think I need to establish dominance. Ah, I''ve got it.''


    He walks around, gesticulating grandly.


    ''I am Max Best. You can''t do what I can do.'' He flicks a ball up, does some kick ups, kicks it head high, then volleys it dramatically towards the distant goal. It spins wide and nearly hits the corner flag. ''Yeah, pretend that went in. As I was saying, you can''t do what I can do. I''m a legend of the game. I''m a generational talent. When I say jump, gravity says ''how high?''


    ''But I can do what you can do. You''re a rifle unit, yes? You can blindfold me and put any rifle manufactured in the northern hemisphere in the last fifty years on a table and I will strip it to bits and reassemble it within 22 seconds.


    ''I can hit a bullseye from a hip stance from 200 metres or I can do the lying-down thing and hit from 400.


    ''I can throw a grenade and blow up a building and walk away while it explodes behind me while I smoke a cigar. I recorded the world''s longest ever one-inch punch.


    ''I can drink whisky straight from the bottle while a foxy, pony-tailed field surgeon plucks a bullet from my innards with a big pair of tweezers while I say ''pain don''t hurt'' and then we bang.


    ''Okay? I''m a world-class expert in all aspects of human endeavour so do what I tell you.''


    There''s a silence during which I only hear myself scream. I visualise my name being read out on the news under the caption ''manhunt''. There''s a hideous squeaking and I realise half a dozen lads are struggling to breathe. They are pissing themselves laughing.


    Best lets out one quick laugh of his own. ''Wow, that was fun. It has been a while since I''ve talked that much shit.''


    The Brig''s mouth twitches. ''Has it, sir?''


    Best claps his hands together and looks around the group. ''Right. Enough foreplay. Do as you''re fucking told, please. Thank you.''


    Someone says, ''But you haven''t told us anything!''


    Best goes ''urgh!'' and he''s angry suddenly. The anger passes quickly but he''s as animated and lively as I''ve seen him in person. ''Five yard passes! Five yard passes! Hot Rod, did you hear me tell you to play five-yard passes yes or no?''


    ''Yes, Max, but that was in training.''


    ''What? What? What the fuck, guys. That''s the whole plan. It''s not going to change from week to week. I''m not going to say it every time we meet like you''re a bunch of simpletons. You''re intelligent people. The plan is five-yard passes. Always. Forever. That''s the whole plan. That''s the start of the plan and the end of the plan. Print it, laminate it. Carve it into the fucking moon. I don''t want to bin anyone off because I know none of you chose this and in the end you''re doing your bit for your country and all that but at the same time I''m not interested in begging you to trust me or some shit. I chose an army team because I thought you''d follow instructions and I could save a few months of social engineering. What are you resisting for? If this project is a huge fucking disaster it''s on my head. I''ll be the one getting laughed at. I''ll be the one being mocked on your Wrexham podcast forums.''


    Lads, he looked right at me when he said that! I got shivers.


    He says, ''By the way, I thought we''d done enough in our short time together to show that we were on the right track. No offence but when I took over you lot were shit.''


    ''None taken, sir,'' said the Brig.


    ''The good news is you''re not shit now but this lot are.''


    He meant the other team.


    ''I''ve given you a golden Willy Wonga ticket, entry to a magical world of wonder and whimsy. A way you can dominate almost every match you play. Get closer together, do the short passes. How simple do you want it?'' He shakes his head at our lack of gratitude. He picks up a ball and moves it around as he talks. ''How do you do short passes? A one-two is a good start, isn''t it? Think of the pitch like our zigzag drill. We move up into their half, nice and safe, in control, and when they lose their shape we fucking ram it down their throats. And if they keep their shape, we one-two all the way into the penalty area. I don''t want to say this out loud, lads. You need to work it out for yourselves.''


    I''m sick of his face, his voice, his hoodie, his arrogance, his girlfriend, his money, his fame. ''Or we could wait till you get sacked.''


    He looks at me and I feel like I''ve landed a good blow. I hope I''ve hurt him. But he''s only struggling to process what I''ve said. ''Sacked from the army?'' He shoots a nervous look from the Brig to H before looking at me again. ''I don''t work for the army, mate. I work for Chester Football Club.''


    ''Sacked from Chester.''


    He''s relieved that I''m not some sort of dum-dum there to make up the numbers, which gets me even more riled up. He smirks. I can''t remember the last time I''ve seen a smirk in real life. Never, maybe? ''I''m more likely to be made commander-in-chief of the army than I am to get sacked from Chester. Five-yard passes, guys. Think of the ball as a sandbag. You''re in a line passing sandbags to each other to build a wall for some army reason. I''ve seen you guys do it in movies and you do it very well.'' He smirks BIGGER. ''But not as well as me. Okay, off you pop.''


    CrunchyAbs


    Fuuuuuuuck I hate him.


    TopPoppy


    You won, though, didn''t you BG? You did what he said and you turned it around?


    BrokenGround


    No we lost five-nil.


    ***


    Saturday, Sep 6


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chesterfield 2 Chester 0


    Lol.


    Teulu


    Two points from five games is relegation form. Whisper it... could they?


    CrunchyAbs


    Put that on your giant billboard you stupid pricks.


    TopPoppy


    I''m starting to think that badly coaching a bunch of Squaddies who hate him is a bad use of Max Best''s time.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 10


    BrokenGround


    All right bit of a twist in the tale today. It was our unit''s first home game of the season and Best had brought a friend.


    First things first, we play in a local park near the barracks. There are goalposts and nets and corner flags but there the similarity to the training pitch at Saltney ends. That pitch is flat, true, and slightly spongy. Our pitch is rock hard with loads of divots, bumps, and holes. At this time of year it''s a pure ankle breaker. Over winter it turns into a bog. There''s always one day in November where the soil softens just enough to let us play some good football - we always win that game.


    ''We''re not playing on this,'' he says. ''You''re teasing me. This is a prank. Okay, you got me, let''s all laugh at Chester, it''s funny, now let''s go to the real place.''


    H is defensive. What''s he supposed to do with no budget? ''Max, this is it. This is where we play.''


    ''You''re the fucking army. Where are the facilities?''


    ''If you think this is bad, you should try using our gear.''


    Best does this thing where he''s sort of snarling and trying to control himself. He opens his eyes wide, looks up, and breathes. ''Unacceptable. I''ll sort it out by the next home game.''


    ''That''s next week,'' says H. He''s in a panic like he''s in trouble. No, mate, Best''s in trouble because he doesn''t know how to win in League Two. He''s the Peter Principle writ large. Promoted to the level of his incompetence.


    ''I need four beefy boys to help me move something,'' he says.


    Enough of the lads think Best is all right to volunteer, and they follow him to the car park. I''m at the side of the pitch wishing I''d volunteered so I could find out what was going on. You know, for this story.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What''s in the box? What''s in the booooxxxx?


    BrokenGround


    It wasn''t a box. It was a wheelchair. The little German player! They carry him all the way to the side of the pitch; I suppose I wouldn''t want to roll a wheelchair on that surface either, not with a broken leg.


    He''s supposed to be at home wrapped up in cotton wool. He''s all pale and he looks in pain but Best doesn''t give a shit. He gets the lads around.


    ''This is Pascal. He''s my assistant manager for this project startinnnnnnng... now.'' He slashes his finger down like it''s a race or something. ''His bones got smashed into a thousand pieces so one of the subs needs to stand here next to him and make sure the ball doesn''t hit him in the leg.''


    ''Can it hit him in the face?'' says DG.


    ''Yeah, sure. The more knocked around he gets the more fuss he gets from his harem. Isn''t that right, Pascal?''


    ''Hello, everyone. I''m very happy to be here. I must say I am jealous.''


    ''Jealous of what?'' I demand.


    Pascal looks confused. ''Why, you are - ''


    ''Oi,'' says Best. ''Don''t tell them.''


    ''What? They don''t know? How can they not know?''


    ''Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Best rode the six hundred. All right? Now, someone tell Pascal how you''re going to play.''


    I scoff. ''We''re going to play short passes and we''re going to lose.''


    Pascal gets these deep worry lines. I guess he''s been doing a lot of that recently. I heard the doctors said he''d be out for ten months. ''The one does not follow the other.''


    Best smiles. ''You watch them for the first half and we''ll talk about your first impressions during the break.''


    I say, ''Won''t we be talking tactics at half time?''


    ''Only if you don''t do what you''re told. It''ll save us all a lot of time and stress if you just stick to the plan.''


    BeardedWonderwall


    Let me guess. You got whupped.


    BrokenGround


    Well, it was nil-nil at half time. I wouldn''t say whupped but we didn''t create any chances. The pitch is so bad. Even if Best has some big genius plan we can''t do it on our patch, right? I kept wanting to boot the ball long but I knew he''d get sarky with me so I just gave it to Fatso and we''d move up the pitch until the ball bobbled. I mean, passes that we normally make would just shoot under someone''s foot or hit a divot and spin up and away. The other unit took one look at the pitch and decided, yeah, long ball.


    CrunchyAbs


    I don''t get why you don''t have a good place to play.


    BrokenGround


    If you were in the army you wouldn''t ask those questions.


    At half-time, Pascal cements himself as the best thing ever to come out of Chester. We''re all flopped on the side of the pitch taking on water and calories. ''Max,'' he goes. ''We can''t play like that in the second half.''


    ''Why the fuck not? That was mint. It''s working.''


    ''Because the pitch is abysmal! They cannot play a passing game on this surface.''


    Best stands and goes over and looms over the kid. Sticks his finger in his face. ''They can and they will. No retreat, no surrender.''


    ''I have a better idea.''


    Best flops to the ground, sits cross-legged like a kid in school. ''Teach me, master.''


    ''The defence should be allowed to hit long passes to the channels. Out for throw-ins, even. They can form the blob around the throw-in taker and go from there. It''s much less risky and you can still get what you want.''


    Best closes his eyes, thinks about it. ''The assman is wise.''


    I can''t believe it. ''You''re going to let us hoof the ball clear like a normal team?''


    ''Hoof?'' says Best, his face scrunched up like I''ve slagged off his girl.


    ''No hoofs,'' says Pascal. ''The clearance must be directed. Hit zone 15.''


    Best is up and walking around. ''What assman is trying to say is we''re not the fucking artillery. We don''t just lob bombs any-fucking-where. We are riflemen. We aim, we shoot, we hit the target. I do, anyway, not sure about you lot. Hot Rod, go over there. Away ten more yards. Spread your hands out. Spin around like Mary Poppins. Okay, lads, that''s zone 15.''


    Fatso points. ''The space in front of the penalty area is zone 14, right?''


    ''That is correct,'' says Pascal. ''Zone 15 is to the right. Zone 18 is one zone further forward, in line with the penalty area. You don''t want to hit the ball there or it will go straight out for a goal kick and the pressure will come right back at you. Aiming for zone 15 will give the pass a natural angle so that it goes out for a throw in. When that happens, you run up and form the blob there.''


    ''Why do you keep saying blob?'' says The Midnighter, who plays right mid.


    ''He''s German,'' says Max. ''They say strange things over there. He won''t do it again.''


    Fatso shoots to his feet. ''The blob is when we''re all bunched up on the pitch!''


    ''Pascal!'' yells Best. ''Look what you''ve done!''


    ''What?''


    ''We don''t teach them; they learn it!''


    ''I am sorry, boss.''


    ''Kin ''ell.''


    BeardedWonderwall


    Nothing about this story makes sense but I love it.


    Teulu


    Never thought my favourite character would be a diving German.


    BrokenGround


    I''ll just straight up say that we lost one-nil but it was a totally different feeling.


    First, there was the sense that there was a big plan that Best was guiding us towards. Pascal knew what it was and he said he was jealous, right?


    Second, we had a plan for the match. We launch the ball fifty yards and scramble to get numbers around and try to win the ball high up the pitch. Then we do the short passing shit. That''s actually fun. That works for me. What doesn''t work is starting from our goal kick and trying to do slick Premier League passing moves. It''s depressing, actually, thinking how hard you have to work and how perfect everything has to be to even get near the oppo''s box. Best is a good player and I think he doesn''t know what it''s like to be us. Pascal''s good, too, but he knows how hard it is because he''s little.


    Third, when we were chasing an equaliser we went long and turned the ball over from a throw in, just like we planned. Pascal screamed, ''Yes, lads! That''s it!'' Best told him not to cheer us on. Pascal went, ''Come on, Welsh! Yes mate! And again!'' Best just smiled. On his own he''s a prick, obvs, but with his people he''s all right.


    Fourth, yeah, the other unit, some lads from Merseyside, were getting frustrated with how we were playing and that was motivational. They were getting stuck in our blob and we actually played most of the half in their half.


    Right near the end, we had our big chance. We played a few passes before Fatso pinged a ball forward. We had two lads chasing it. Hot Rod went after the ball while The Midnighter went into the box. Square ball - great chance - blazed it over!


    Final whistle. We shake hands, go back to base. Best doesn''t care about the score but Pascal is gutted, same as me. He has been in the hospital, in his bed, and this was his first big trip outside and he''s sick as a parrot seeing us lose.


    We''re chatting a mile a minute because we all like how the half went and we lighten up enough to tease The Midnighter about his miss. If he could pull birds the way he''d pulled that shot he''d be a real ladies man. He blames the pitch and we all jeer.


    ''No,'' says Best, darkly. ''It was the pitch.''


    He goes off to chat to the refs who he says had a top game, and I see my chance to get some hot goss. ''Hey, Pascal,'' I say. ''What''s the mood with your lads? Are you all depressed?''


    ''Chester? Depressed is too strong. The fixtures are tough but we knew that going into the season. Max always outlines his plan and he''s always right. We are on track.''


    ''It doesn''t look like it from the outside.''


    He shrugs. ''I''m a tiny German forward trying to make a career in England. I know I don''t look like much. None of us look like much. We do not have the luxury of caring about appearances.''


    ''Not sure about that. I''m on a, er, Facebook group with Wrexham fans. One guy''s obsessed with how attractive people at Chester are.''


    Big smile. ''Yes, it''s unusual. Max always says he wants to sign some uggos for balance.'' He looks up at me. ''Maybe that''s why he chose 3 R Welsh.''


    I freeze, but I don''t get angry. I realise he''s joking even though he''s completely deadpan. Dry as a broken bone. ''Cheeky bastard.''


    ''I wish I was out there with you,'' he says.


    ''You''ll play again,'' I say. I''ve come back from worse.


    ''By then Max will have worked out how to teach this. You get to be in it from the start. You could be famous.''


    ''Famous?'' I scoff. ''For losing every match?''


    ''Why would you lose every match?''


    ''That''s what we''re doing. Best doesn''t care. No offence but that''s why Chester are in a tailspin.''


    He frowns at the word tailspin. ''We are in the same boat. I shouldn''t say boat since you are the army. We are in the same panzer. We have to work through the early stage of the process. Trust me, you will finish strong. When Max is finished with you there will be a lot of attention.''


    I look at the pitch where we played mostly inept football. ''Because of this? What is it?'' He mimes zipping his mouth closed. I bend down and get closer. ''He told us to use the sides but he won''t explain why.''


    Pascal checks Best isn''t looking, unzips his mouth, and whispers. ''Take the blob to the sides and use the touchline as an extra defender.''


    ''What? Why?''


    ''Just do it.'' He zips his mouth up.


    Teulu


    I love him! I want a Pascal spin-off.


    TaranMellt


    What do we reckon''s coming next? They gonna move the matches to Chester or what?


    BrokenGround


    I know it''s blasphemous but I''d prefer that to breaking my ankle. We''ll see. I know Best gets things done but I mean, just look at him. He''s a blow-hard. All hot air.


    ***


    Saturday, Sep 13


    BrokenGround


    We trained at Saltney with Pascal there. It''s more wheelchair-friendly so he was able to wheel himself around. Best asked someone to stick close and watch for stray balls again so we took turns doing that. I took a shift so I could get the goss on Best but didn''t get too far. Pascal confirmed some things we already knew and admitted Best is a maniac but he didn''t seem to think that was a problem.


    He kept saying he was jealous. That word again! Apparently Best almost never coaches but when he does it''s epic. That''s why people keep popping their head in to see what we''re doing.


    We skipped the stretches so that Best could talk Pascal through what we had been doing. We repeated the old drills and it felt good to be back on a flat surface.


    For the last twenty we got cones and made a rectangle on the edge of the pitch. While we were laying out the cones, Pascal was wagging his eyebrows at me, trying to make me realise this was significant.


    But all we did was a rondo variant. One group trying to keep the ball for as long as possible, the other trying to turn it over.


    Nothing special about it at all, but when we were done Pascal was like ''see?'' I smiled and nodded back but had no fucking clue. I would talk to Fatso and the others about it on the way home and see if we could piece it together.


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 1 Barrow 2


    Lol.


    Stoop


    Two points from six matches and the next two are sure-fire defeats. Best is a dead man walking.


    Teulu


    A cup win would keep him going. 4th round of the AOK Cup is good for a minnow like Chester.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 17


    BrokenGround


    Guys, my head is spinning. This adventure keeps getting weirder. Keep going further down the rabbit hole. You''ll never guess what happened.


    BeardedWonderwall


    They sacked him right there in front of you?


    BrokenGround


    Not even close. They''re playing tonight in the cup so I couldn''t even tease him about that one. I got stuck in on losing to Barrow, though. Asked Best if he was tired because he was carrying his team or because he was propping up the league table. He replied that his boss loved a good relegation scrap. ''That''s his milieu,'' he said, laughing. I had to look it up. It means, like, the environment he''s comfortable in. ''He''ll be sick when we go on a winning spree''.


    Okay now there are loads of things I should have said in response to that but we''ve missed a key fact that explains why things were strange.


    First up, our match was postponed. The other unit got called up to manoeuvres but Best tells H fine let''s train instead.


    So we get in our minibuses and drive off but we go the wrong way and we all remember Best saying we wouldn''t play on our pitch again. So where did we go?


    BeardedWonderwall


    Chester.


    BrokenGround


    Cold.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Aldershot.


    BrokenGround


    Colder.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Holy Christ just tell us.


    BrokenGround


    Colliers Park. Where Wrexham train. We drive there and park next to some very, very flash cars. One licence plate says Muggles but with 5s instead of Gs.


    BeardedWonderwall


    No way did Wrexham AFC let Max Best in.


    BrokenGround


    I knew you''d be like this so I took photos. I''ll post them later.


    So we''re all in a daze getting ready and Best just looks tired. I mean, for real, he''s carrying his team. He''s always getting messages and calls. I haven''t mentioned it but when he''s at Saltney people just turn up to ask him questions. It''s like he''s so busy he has to do meetings just whenever, wherever. It''s mad and it''s getting to him, you can see it.


    Pascal''s there. He''s got a big smile and I ask him what''s up and he says we''re the highlight of his week. He says we''re even better than Spanish lessons, which is the kind of bonkers thing everyone at Chester says.


    Colliers, though. The facilities are amazing, the staff are happy to see us, the pitches are perfect. We get a grass one that feels like a snooker table. Wrexham players wander past.


    We start our stretches distracted. ''Do it properly, you dicks.'' Never guess who yelled that. But I''m thinking, the guy came through. BeardedWonderwall, you said none of us would ever play at Colliers or the Racecourse but there I was! So I did the routine properly. Much less wobbly at the end this time.


    Then we do the rectangle-at-the-side drill except this time we go at it much harder because thanks to Pascal''s hints we''ve worked out what it''s for. In a match, instead of trying to pass up the middle of the pitch like a bunch of chumps, we''re going to go up the sides and if we lose the ball the oppo will have a hard time countering us.


    Best calls us in, says he likes the intensity, and is about to give us a new task when Paul Parker comes by.


    Half of us are buzzing. The Wrexham manager! In person! But there''s a tension, too. He and Best have history and it''s not all good. Off the top of my head, Best said Parker played ''pub team football'', mocked our long throws in a video (even though he has a long throw guy himself!), and Best worked with Crawley to knock us out of the playoffs.


    ''All right lads?'' says Parker. ''All right Best?''


    ''Yeah, top.''


    ''How''s your new training ground?''


    Best perks up. ''Very good. Not a slam dunk, but in off the backboard. Everyone''s kicking on, but especially the young players and the women. Loads of improvement there. There is some minor whinging, mostly from me, but yeah, pretty happy overall. Relieved.''


    ''You''ve got a big game tonight, don''t you?''


    ''Not as big as 3 R Welsh against R2D2 Lancs.''


    Parky looks at us. ''What''s all this about?'' he asks Best.


    ''Just helping out some lads with a dream. I got a letter written in crayon on army stationery. Dear Mr. Best, can you help us transform football forever? Can we please learn to mix north and south, old and new, yin and yang? I was like, yeah, sure, I''m free on Wednesdays.''


    Parky''s amused, as you would be if you''d won five out of six and looked certs to go up to the Championship while your local rivals were bottom of League Two. ''You were just about to change the drill, yeah?''


    ''Yeah. I thought since we were in Wrexham AFC''s training ground we should learn how to shuffle and slide. Keep it tight.''


    Best is taking the piss, saying Parky plays defensive football, but Parky rises above it. ''Yeah, go on. Let''s have a look.''


    Best looks from us to our hero. ''Some of these idiots are Wrexham fans. Can they get selfies or whatever?''


    ''Yeah, course they can.''


    Best nods at us. ''How many of you have your phone on you?''


    I say, ''They''re in our lockers.''


    ''Well,'' says Best. ''Tough shit. You missed your chance. Now let''s get back to work.''


    My blood starts to boil but Parky laughs. ''You''re fucking mental, you. Lads, I''ll come back when you''re done, yeah? Take all the photos you want. But like the man says, back to work.''


    Best grins at him - it''s like they''re mates even though they''re enemies. I don''t get that. He tells us what we''re doing next.


    We''re going to knock the ball around in the rectangle, same as before, but at some point Best will blow his whistle and he''ll play a pass across the pitch. There will be three attackers there and everyone from the rectangle - I suppose I should call it the blob - has to rush back and form a 4-4-2 to stop them scoring.


    ''I want you to erect a structure,'' says Best. ''From blob to structure in five seconds or fewer. Oh, this is Wrexham, isn''t it? From blob to structure in five seconds or less. You ready, lads?'' He taps on his phone - the stopwatch app. ''Let''s see how fast you can get erect.''


    I feel my cheeks flush not because of the joke but because Parky''s watching. He''s absolutely fascinated and so is Pascal. They''ve never seen anything like this.


    We pass the ball around until Best blows his whistle. We watch as he pings a pass all the way across the pitch. It looks like he''s sent it too far ahead but it spins back right onto the feet of one of the guys. That guy sets off into a sprint and I stop admiring the pass.


    I put my head down and run for all my life. Parky''s watching.


    Fourteen players around me are in a full sprint. Ten are in defensive bibs, four will join the other three as attackers. Every person on the pitch is rushing towards the same goal. It''s unprecedented. It''s mental.


    The defenders don''t make it. The strikers get to a line of cones after which they''re allowed to score, and they simply roll the ball into the net.


    Fuck.


    We trudge back to the rectangle, blowing hard. ''Guys,'' complains Best. ''Don''t embarrass me in front of Paul Parker, for fuck''s sake. Do it again.''


    We retake our positions and knock the ball around. I''ve learned my lesson - don''t watch the pass, just retreat. Best goes to kick his long pass and I sprint towards my penalty box.


    ''Boo!'' cries Best. ''Boo hiss! Same old Wrexham, always cheating!''


    I''ve gone twenty yards so I have to walk back, hands on head, sucking in air. My legs are on fire.


    Best goes to kick his ball and says ''ha!'' but no-one bought the fake.


    Then he blows his whistle, sprays another dreamy pass out wide, and the defenders rush back. I don''t bother - I can''t do three sprints in half a minute.


    The pass is right on the fucking money again and the attackers rush forward.


    ''Why are there three?'' says Parky. Best doesn''t reply.


    This time, the defenders get to the cones in time but the attackers pass to each other and carve out a shot. It goes wide even though it was an open net.


    ''Ah, got it,'' says Parky, but he doesn''t explain it to me. ''How many more of these are you going to do?''


    Best looks at his phone. ''We''ve got another forty minutes,'' he says.


    Parky''s horrified, and so am I, but one of us laughs. ''I see what you''re doing with this drill, though why you''d ever need it I don''t know. There''s something wrong with it, though. I can''t put my finger on it.''


    Pascal speaks up and it''s clear Parky hadn''t noticed him. ''The defenders should start out in 4-4-2, walk to the blob, play, then rush back to where they started. That will help them, ah, achieve erection.''


    ''Ah, mate,'' says Best. ''That is fucking mint. That''s it, yes.''


    ''Pascal Bochum,'' says Parky, going to the wheelchair and offering a handshake. ''Watched you on tape. Our stats guys love you.''


    ''Whoa whoa whoa,'' laughs Best. ''No tapping up my players. I, like, actually need this little fucker. Look what a mess we are without him.''


    ''Your stats guys love me?'' says Pascal, dreamily. He''s close to tears. ''Can I see the scouting reports?''


    ''No you fucking can''t,'' says Best. ''I am the state, remember. I don''t want you changing your play style to look good on fucking Wrexham''s stats. What the shit.''


    Parky''s laughing but he gets a text. ''I have to go and do some work but I''ll be back for the photos.''


    ''I''m gonna shoot off when they hit the showers,'' says Best. ''BrokenGround, make sure H knows to wait for Mr. Parker, yeah?''


    ''Yeah, course.''


    ''Seeya Best. Good luck tonight. Seeya later, BrokenGround.''


    He spoke to me! Parky spoke to me! And he came back like he said. Posed for selfies and told us how lucky we were and that all the lads were gonna come and watch us play and Eve would be around too. That''s the one who looks like Catherine Zeta Jones. I went, ''But Best is a fraud though, yeah?'' and Parky just laughed and said I was hilarious.


    And just because you''re a bunch of twats who never believe anything...


    BeardedWonderwall


    Fucking amazing, lad. Well done.


    SummerhillBill


    Good for you, BG. Good for you.


    ***


    [Later the same day.]


    TopPoppy


    Can anyone find a stream of the Chester match?


    BrokenGround


    No. I''m following on the blog by that old woman who does minute by minute updates until she gets distracted.


    TopPoppy


    What''s going on? I can only see the score.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah sounds like first twenty minutes was all Chester. Max Best running riot. He crossed to Henri Lyons for the opener. Then it was loads of long shots, proper siege. Best went off and ever since it has been all Wimbledon.


    TopPoppy


    Ask him why he only plays twenty minutes.


    TaranMellt


    I''m following it on Fotmob. It was all Chester and now they''re getting battered. No way they''ll survive this.


    SummerhillBill


    Jester get battered! Everywhere they go!


    Jester get battered! Everywhere they go!


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Full time! They did it. Held out. Jesus. They''re in the Fourth Round. How can you be so shit in the league and get to the Fourth Round of the cup?


    TopPoppy


    What time''s the draw for the next round?


    Stoop


    I think they''ll do it soon.


    TopPoppy


    If you''re a Chester fan what do you want?


    SummerhillBill


    Euthanasia.


    Stoop


    Looking at the other teams they''re going out for sure, so you might as well get an away match and make some money. Christ knows they could use it.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, you want a big away match. Prem.


    TopPoppy


    Man United home to Everton. Used to be a good game, that.


    Chelsea v Burnley.


    Yeah I think all the small teams are out of the hat so...


    Fuck it''s gonna be Newcastle.


    Home or away though?


    Away''s worth half a million quid.


    BrokenGround


    Home to Newcastle. They were 50-50 to get half a million. The one time you don''t want a home draw and they fucked it up.


    SummerhillBill


    lol


    Tinpot.


    ***


    Saturday, Sep 20


    BrokenGround


    Not much to say today, lads. We went to Saltney to train. That seems like it''ll be the pattern. Saltney Saturday, Wrexham Wednesday. Unless we''ve got an away match.


    We did a mix of the drills we''ve been doing then had a half-pitch match against ourselves. Best didn''t say anything, but Pascal shouted advice sometimes.


    For the first time, we had to get off the pitch on the dot because some lads had booked it after. Good money for Max Best, that. Nice little earner. If he keeps going like that, he''ll be able to afford a new car.


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 0 Mansfield 3


    Lol.


    CrunchyAbs


    I don''t understand this guy. He''s one-nil down with ten to go and puts on a couple of teenagers I''ve never heard of and turns defeat into humiliation. Jamie Brotherhood? Who? What''s he playing at?


    TaranMellt


    Who knows? He''s exhausting. 2 points from 7 games isn''t even funny. I mean, it is. It is funny. It is very funny. It is hilariously funny.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 24


    BrokenGround


    Wow. Okay. Where do I start with this?


    We went to play the army cadet officers in Bury. Best and Pascal drove separately, as usual, in Best''s shit car.


    The pitch is okay, not great, but we warm up and think we''re gonna be able to pass it around a bit.


    Best has told H he''s thinking of ending this thing, whatever it is, and he is even more subdued than normal and no wonder - Chester are deep in the League Two doo-doo. Your fancy cup runs aren''t gonna save your job, are they? Pascal does almost all the talking but even that isn''t much. Just names the team, says we''re gonna do the zone 15 thing, let Fatso set the tempo, keep your passes short, form your blob, use the sides, fast back into position when there''s danger.


    It doesn''t matter that they''re depressed. We aren''t there to chat with them, are we? Aren''t there to make friends.


    We warm up, match kicks off, the officers have never seen anything like us. We score two quick goals and we''re all over them. It''s the best we''ve ever played. Ever.


    I''m walking off the pitch absolutely buzzing. It''s like, this is something. I don''t know what exactly, but it''s something. It''s not a joke, he''s not taking the piss. Do you know what I mean? I''m thinking, can we beat E Company 8 if we play like this?


    The half time team talk goes like this. Max Best, famous for his motivational speeches, says, ''Yeah, do that again.'' He looks up, thinks, and adds, ''But when you score, do jazz hands. There''s a reason but I can''t tell you.''


    ''There isn''t a reason,'' says Pascal. ''But do it if you want.''


    We don''t do jazz hands when we score because we don''t score. Fatso turns his ankle, tries to play on, but Best won''t have it. They have a row on the touchline and I have to be honest, without Fatso we''re just not as good. He''s the one who knows when to collapse the blob to hit the out balls. He sets up most of our attacks these days.


    We concede a goal and then it''s backs to the wall for the last twenty minutes.


    Best had been chatting away to Pascal about God knows what but even he shut up and Pascal was cheering us on, bouncing on his wheelchair and we were throwing ourselves into blocks and doing last-ditch clearances off the line and everything.


    Near the end, someone gets the ball and boots it clear to buy us some breathing space and Best explodes. ''Pass the fucking ball!''


    He doesn''t get it. You can''t pass the ball when you''re under the cosh. You''ve got to get rid.


    The officers come right back at us, get it wide, nice cross, header, done. Two-all.


    Frustrating.


    Best normally says something before leaving but today he doesn''t. He shakes hands with the oppo, the ref, and wheels Pascal away. He helps the lad into the passenger seat, gets in his car... and nothing. It doesn''t start.


    He gets out, screams ''Fucking go you prick!''


    He kicks a tyre, gets back in. Still nothing.


    I turn to Hot Rod. ''Head''s gone.''


    ''He''s cracked.''


    Best wanders back towards the changing rooms - we''re all standing outside, watching the show. ''H. Can you take Pascal back with you, please? I know it''s a hassle but my car''s dead.''


    ''What about you?'' says H.


    ''What about me? Can you take care of my player, please.'' He doesn''t really say it as a question.


    I like Pascal. I don''t want him waiting here for hours for someone to turn up and fix Best''s car. ''H, why don''t you take Pascal home, car 2 can go with anyone who''s got school runs and all that, and car 3 can wait and make sure Best''s sorted.''


    Best looks at me with his tired, tired eyes. ''Leave no man behind, is it?''


    ''Fucking right,'' I say, even though he''s Chester and he''s the enemy and he''s a dick.


    ''Sorted,'' says Best. He gets his phone out. ''I want to shout at someone. Who can I shout at?''


    BeardedWonderwall


    Don''t tell me you spent an hour or two just you and Max Best?


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, pretty much! We had our showers, sorted Pascal out in the van. Second lot left. Me, Hot Rod, and The Frampton Menace had a look at Best''s car.


    ''You don''t need a mechanic,'' says Hot Rod. ''You need a priest.''


    ''I think it already gave up the ghost,'' says Frampton.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Are you seriously introducing a new character with no explanation?


    BrokenGround


    What? He''s a goalie. He''s just a guy. We''re army grunts, there''s nothing to say. This isn''t Tolstoy.


    Best is proper upset. He''s, like, distraught about the death of his car. I mean, I know it''s just the accumulation of all the things that are going wrong in his life and I know I''ve played a very small part in his misery and I''ve got to say, that brings me some comfort.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Fuck me, that''s savage.


    lol


    BrokenGround


    Best was hoping to be back in Chester in time to watch some school match. The Brig calls and says if Best has a lift he should take it and the Brig will sort the car out. Best doesn''t speak for ages, gets all his stuff, and goes in our van.


    ''I go in the front,'' says Frampton.


    ''Not today,'' says Best, and that''s the end of that conversation.


    We drive in silence for a while but I know it''s my one chance to land some blows for the Red Army. Best has spent three years digging the Wrex, hasn''t he, and now he''s a captive audience and I''m gonna give him a taste of his own medicine.


    TopPoppy


    Talk about kicking a man while he''s down.


    BrokenGround


    Best time to do it, isn''t it?


    I start with something simple. ''Bad timing with the car, isn''t it, what with you being so close to the sack?''


    He does something strange. He turns really slowly and he has this aura about him that is actually intimidating. It''s like, he''s at the end of his tether, his world is collapsing, and the guy who gave away the ball is the one giving him shit.


    TopPoppy


    You didn''t say you were the one who gave the ball away.


    BrokenGround


    Well, it didn''t seem relevant at the time.


    I''m just saying the guy''s a nutcase, he''s fit, strong, I think he somehow knows I''m here on the Discord ripping the piss out of him seven days a week, and we''re in a van. My training isn''t going to help in a fight on the motorway.


    The worst thing is - he''s smiling. ''The sack?'' He shows his teeth and my mouth goes dry. I fumbled around with my hands out of his sight looking for a weapon. It''s on. It''s about to happen. Wrexham v Chester the way it''s meant to be.


    Stoop


    Yeah, tell me more about his teeth and your mouth and your fumbling hands and your weapon.


    TopPoppy


    JFC this guy.


    BrokenGround


    Not like that! But it didn''t happen, anyway. Here''s what he did: he laughed.


    TopPoppy


    He laughed?


    BrokenGround


    Laughed his head off. Had tears and everything.


    ''You fucking twats rubbing yourselves off every Saturday thinking I''ll get sacked. What the fuck is wrong with you? Hee.'' That was one of those noises you make when you''ve finished a batch of laughs, right? ''Guys, sorry to ruin your sex life but I''m not getting sacked. Hee. What the hell.''


    Of course, him laughing at me gets me running my mouth off again. I go, ''It''s just that you''re bottom of the league and you''re never gonna win a match in League Two and even Chester aren''t stupid enough to keep you around and it doesn''t matter how far you go in the cups.''


    He does a fake recoil thing like he''s shocked I can say more than five words at a time, and he laughs some more. ''It''s true I''m not in the running for Manager of the Month, but it''s nice for someone else to have a turn.''


    ''The fuck are you talking about? Your team is shit.''


    ''Nah. We''re fine.''


    I can''t believe what I''m hearing. The guy''s completely delusional. It''s like he doesn''t even know he''s burned out. I tap Frampton and shake my head like ''can you believe this?'' He can''t. I know this channel is where we''re supposed to laugh at Chester but burnout is no laughing matter. ''Best, you''re depressed. Everyone can see that. And no wonder. You''re going to get relegated, your new striker can''t score, your best player''s injured, you''ve got a Wrexham reject shitting the bed twice a week, you didn''t get an away draw in the cup, Carlisle are going to turn you over this weekend, your training ground is a laughing stock, everyone hates you, we can''t play the football you want us to play, your girlfriend''s only the sixth hottest woman at your club, and your car just fucking died rather than take you home. You need help.''


    Best nods and covers his mouth and - of course - he''s laughing again, but not in a nasty way. ''I mean, honestly, thanks for the intervention. I seem to attract a lot of those. You''re shooting at the wrong target, though. I''m not depressed.''


    ''Course you fucking are.''


    ''I''m not. All right, let''s talk this out so I can put your mind at ease. Okay, my car. That''s the first thing. The easiest thing. Yeah I don''t want to buy a new car because I''ve got a little pot of money saved up that I''ll have to dip into, right? And that''s supposed to be reserved for my mum if she needs it for something.''


    ''Your mum is sick,'' I say, stupidly, because I knew that.


    ''Right. I want to move her into a house with a carer but I can''t afford a house with a carer and I can afford it a lot less now than I could this morning, do you get me? That''s not helpful. And okay, money is a stressful topic right now because I''ve got a lad joining Saltney in January and in the summer I''m supposed to pay a hundred grand to his club. Annnnd I don''t have it. So that''s looming.''


    ''Rent a car,'' says Hot Rod. ''You don''t need to buy one.''


    ''I''ll look into that, thanks. Yeah, I''ve got money on the mind, but it''s not, like, catastrophic. I think at this point I know enough people who would trust me enough to lend me some.'' He pulled at his lip a few times. ''What else is bothering me? Erm...''


    He''s making a big show of trying to think of things. I mean, either he''s a great actor or he''s got the memory of a goldfish. ''Relegation,'' I say.


    ''Nah, not that. Carlisle will beat us, sure, but then we have Gillingham who have spent a lot of money but they don''t seem to be any better than last season. I think we could surprise them. Doncaster at home? We''re favourites for that. We''re not that far off their level now. Sutton away is one of the easiest games we''ll play. Seven points from those three and the season''s off and running, right? I knew it would be like this and it isn''t fun and I thought we would have maybe a couple more points but I''m happy with the cup performances and we''ve given loads of minutes to our kids already. In every metric except points we''re flying. I''m delighted.''


    ''Delighted? Come on, you''re not delighted.''


    ''No, I am. The only thing that winds me up is seeing Bradford get their act together so fast. Chipper scoring goals, R. Brown resting his injury, no more of this foul-a-minute crap. I just can''t fucking understand what happened there. It''s like someone''s controlling Folke Wester. Some kind of puppet master. I was wondering if it was someone like me.''


    ''What do you mean?''


    ''Ah, nothing. Just sort of like a director of football but it isn''t Chip Star. You know what he did? He made Wester pick a captain of the defence, a captain of the midfield.''


    ''You''re joking,'' says Hot Rod.


    ''I''m really not. It''s what they do in the NFL I think but it''s so cringe in a footy team. I think we can agree Chip Star isn''t masterminding any-fucking-thing. No, that Bradford sitch is a mystery and a half but it''s not, like, making me depressed. It''s annoying, yeah. Loads of things are annoying.''


    ''What else is annoying?'' says Hot Rod.


    Best bursts out laughing again. ''You training to be a sports psychologist? Ha. You''re a natural. What else was on your list? My girlfriend''s only the sixth hottest... I mean, each to his own. Oh, and I''m depressed that you can''t play the way I want you to play. Guys, you''re doing it. You''re good. I''m loving it. I''m already feeling like it has been a success and I can move on to the youth team.''


    ''Move on?'' I say. It''s a sort of panic. ''We haven''t done anything yet. We haven''t won a game yet.''


    ''Yeah but you will. I''ve got the flywheel going, same as with Chester. You can''t see it moving but I can. I''m actually good at this. West are tearing up their league, Saltney, College, they''ve all flown out of the traps. Oh! You didn''t mention the women''s team. They won their first game in style. Piece of piss. They''re amazing because I''m amazing; what''s depressing about that? There''s a documentary coming out about them in the weeks leading up to Christmas. You''re probably sick of documentaries because you have to watch that saccharin-sweet hagiography about Ryan Reynolds but our one is good.''


    ''It''s about the women''s team?'' says Frampton. ''I don''t watch women''s football.''


    ''Okay, now I''m depressed. Got another hour in the car with this fucking gammon. Fuck me.''


    ''I''m not a gammon. I just don''t like it. I don''t want it shoved down my throat every time I go to a website.''


    ''Hot Rod, pull over. Let me out. I''ll walk from here.''


    I tut. ''No-one''s pulling over and no-one''s getting out. Frampton, shut the fuck up. He runs a fucking women''s team, doesn''t he? Don''t be a dick. No, just shut the fuck up.'' I feel like I''ve calmed the situation so I look out the window to see where we are but out of the corner of my eye I see Best flicking Vs at Frampton. ''Best!''


    ''What?'' He''s like a child and so is Frampton. The goalie''s got his arms folded and a sulky face on.


    ''Just... Okay, I''ve been watching you and you''re not delighted. You''re not happy.''


    Best pulls his bottom lip for a while. ''It''s like therapy, this, but cheaper. Okay so there''s another thing that''s getting me down a tiny bit. I can''t see how we''re gonna avoid this same thing next season.''


    ''When you''re in the National League?'' sneers Frampton, which I normally would have found funny but JFC man, read the room.


    ''In League One.''


    I snap. ''You''re bottom of League Two! You''re not getting promoted.''


    ''Course we fucking are. We''ll probably win the league, even. But then what? Our budget now is 30 grand. The lowest in League One is 70. Okay, I can work more miracles, work more magic, yay. Give me 60 and I''ll compete but it''s this shit again. Lose the first ten games, be a laughing stock. Okay it''s fun to shove it in everyone''s faces at the end but you know what? I wouldn''t mind just non-stop slapping from the start of the season to the end. But I can''t think of a way to break the cycle. I mean, it''s not the worst cycle, is it? It''s not like Wrexham treading water in the National League for 15 years.''


    ''You need outside investment,'' I say. ''Like we got.''


    ''Hmm. I kind of took that option off the table, though. Might not have done myself any favours there. Okay but Dylan, what I''m worried about comes after a season of glory and glamour. Right? It''s first world problems.''


    TopPoppy


    Did you just doxx yourself, mate?


    BrokenGround


    What?


    Okay I won''t write out the whole conversation if that''s what you''re saying. We talk some more and I think he''s not depressed. He''s tired from working too hard but in his head, everything''s going amazingly well. I feel like I''ve done my bit as a social worker so I turn to the most important topic - the unit.


    I say, ''Why are you doing this?''


    ''I want to see if I can teach you this new style of football.''


    ''But you''re not teaching us. You said.''


    ''Yeah, well, it sort of feels like something you learn by doing. It''s such a radical approach to us, isn''t it? Us Brits aren''t mentally ready for it on an intellectual level, but if I set you small enough challenges you can learn it step by step. That was the idea, anyway. I think I did it pretty well. It would have been easier if you weren''t so unfit.''


    Frampton goes, ''Bitch, we''re fit.''


    ''Bitch, please.''


    I say, ''Why us, though? They said you could have chosen any unit.''


    ''Yeah but you''re Welsh.''


    ''What does that mean?''


    ''The Welsh FA is supporting me big time and you''re part of the payback.''


    ''You mean they bought you a money-making pitch.''


    ''Yeah but it''s other stuff, too. Saltney''s manager, Well In, he came to see you train once. He''s amazing. He''s running Saltney for me. The pitch is nothing compared to getting the club into Europe. Well In wins pretty much every match; I couldn''t get that sort of talent normally. When Pascal got injured I was like shit, got to keep him busy. So I called the FAW and asked if they could slip him into a coaching course. You''ve heard him - he''s a tiny genius. He''s the type who will give back to Wales, too, one day. So it''s just a good, healthy relationship where we''re helping each other out. Of course I want to do my badges with a Welsh side.''


    ''But we''re Wrexham.''


    ''If that''s a Chester Wrexham comment you''re barking up the wrong tree. I''m from Manchester and I don''t give a shit about your rivalry. You''re two men with bad haircuts fighting over a comb. Share the fucking comb, mate. Take turns, you know what I mean?''


    I don''t know what he means but there''s no point going into it. ''How did you get the club to let us use their training ground?''


    He laughs. ''I called and said can I use a pitch please and they said who''s asking and I said Max Best and they said no. So I said it''s for the army and they said oh okay then. Absolutely not an issue.''


    ''I don''t think they''d have said yes if H called.''


    ''Yeah, well,'' says Best, suddenly facing forward, not wanting eye contact. ''Sometimes it helps to be Max Best.''


    ''The fuck does that mean?''


    ''Yeah, just, you know.''


    ''I don''t know.''


    ''I have something they want.''


    ''What?''


    He shakes his head. He''s not going to say. He nods. He has decided to tell us. He shakes his head again. He won''t tell us. He repeats the process; it''s maddening.


    ''Tell us what they want.''


    He does one quick little shrug. ''They want to show how generous they are, giving their resources to the local unit and all that guff. And they want to film me coaching you while Parky and Muggles watch in the background. They''ll probably set up a scene where the owners can come up to you, salute, and say thank you for your service. Military episode with me as the mad scientist comic relief.''


    ''They want you in Welcome to Wrexham? You''re joking.''


    ''Yeah but I''ve outfoxed them. You''ve got the pitch for the whole season. That''s locked in, right? But I never promised I would be there. So they can fucking swivel. Lolz.''


    Teulu


    That took a turn.


    BeardedWonderwall


    I''m speechless. He''s robbing the club to give... to you.


    BrokenGround


    We go a few more miles while Best works his phone.


    My head''s all over the place. I mean, yeah he''s awful, horrible, weird, but now that he''s saying he''s leaving, I want him to stay. It''s hard to explain but when you spend time with him you start to think he''s got everything worked out.


    ''This new football,'' I say, all clever-like because I''ve got a plan.


    ''Mmm?''


    ''Will we win with it?''


    ''On a good pitch you''ll fuck a lot of teams up. No-one will want to see you pull into the car park. They''ll be like shit, it''s 3 R Welsh. Guys will call in sick instead of playing you.''


    I look at Frampton. He doesn''t like Best but he likes the sound of that. I say one of the things that''s been bugging me the most. ''To be honest on the touchline it doesn''t really look like you care if we win or lose.''


    ''I don''t. If you''re going to boot the ball away like a fucking chump you''re never going to win so why would I let that bother me? I''m getting what I want out of this process. If you want to win, you need to play to win. Go all-in. Fearless football. Dive head-first into the blob. Know what I mean? But what you choose is nothing to do with me; I don''t pay you.''


    ''You''re going to do it with Chester?''


    ''Yeah. Gonna try it with the youth team. Do some giant-killings.''


    ''You haven''t perfected it, have you?''


    ''No but I''ve got the gist, I reckon.''


    ''You think? You should keep going with us. Make sure you''ve got it nailed on before you try it with those lads. Wait till we beat one of the big units, then you''ll know it''s working. Really working.'' I try to keep my voice level. ''We''ve got EC8 in a few weeks. Help us beat them, maybe.''


    Hot Rod is with me. ''Come on, Max. Stick around. Stay with us. You and Pascal. It''ll be a laugh, yeah?''


    ''A laugh, yeah,'' says Best. He shifts on his seat and looks right at me. ''All right.'' It''s mad but my heart''s pounding. He''s staring into my fucking soul, lads! ''I''ll stay on one condition.''


    ''What?'' I say, but I''ve got this premonition. He knows. He knows what I''ve been doing in this channel! ''What do you want?''


    ''If you want me to keep going, if you want Parky and his lads fawning over you, if you want to meet Eve, play at Aldershot, beat EC8... You''ve got to play how I want, no matter how much of a mind fuck it is. You''ve got to play how I want and BrokenGround has to look me in the eye, no blinking, and sing...''


    ''Sing what?''


    ''Let''s All Laugh at Wrexham.''

 12.4 - Youre So Money

    4.


    Monday, September 29


    Look at this drawing. Do you see a young woman in a fancy hat or an old hag wearing a plain shawl?


    How about this one? Do you see a rabbit or a duck?


    Listen to this audio clip. Is the voice saying ''yanny'' or ''laurel''?


    Is this dress gold or blue?


    Is Chester a football club on the up, or a tinpot little outfit having a disastrous, embarrassing season?


    Congratulations! You got every answer right.


    ***


    While the lads trained, I walked around Bumpers Bank enjoying the crisp morning air.


    The place was really up and running.


    I did a mini tour to stretch my legs. I''d gone bonkers up in Carlisle, trying to get us back into the game with half an hour to go, seeing if I could do my Superman act. I couldn''t - a lot of my shots and passes were nearly on the money but not quite - and as a result of my exertions I was unusually fatigued.


    It had been stupid to try to single-handedly turn the tide like that. Carlisle had an average CA of 89 and were one of the best teams in the league. They were well-financed and had stuffed the squad with good players. If that sounds familiar, it''s because we kept playing teams like that, and that''s why I lost my cool. It didn''t bother me too much that we only had 2 points from 8 games and were stranded at the bottom of the table. But losing to the teams who would be near the top of the table at the end of the season was starting to get on my tits. We could overhaul a 15-point gap, but multiple 20 point gaps?


    Ah, well. Maybe the best teams would take points off each other like they had done in the National League.


    My first stop was the changing room. There was some mud on the floor, a few stray kit bags. Up on the wall was a cardboard sign, replicated in the home team''s dressing room at the Deva stadium. Prize Money, it read on the left in careful handwriting. On the right, waiting to be overwritten, was the number 22,000. That was the paltry amount of bonus the club had earned for progressing to the Fourth Round of the AOK Cup. Kind of shit, seeing as only half would go to the players, but it was actually close to the most we could have accrued at this stage of the season. (We could have got an extra 8 grand if we had beaten Wigan in the first Trophy group match.)


    No humans were around so I walked on and poked my head into the reception cabin. This had been installed last to stop it from getting too dirty, and it was one of three nice-ish looking units. It looked a bit like a temporary showroom at a trade fair - nice wooden walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, bit of recessed lighting - it gave a good first impression to our visitors. I poked my head in - JoJo wasn''t there, so I moved on.


    Next on the tour was the mobile kitchen, where Patricia and Pete were cooking up a storm. They''d served breakfast and were getting lunch ready. We were getting good use out of the facility. All Chester''s teams were based at Bumpers these days, so there were lots of mouths to feed. We also had a small menu you could order from in the bar. The Bestburgers (beef, cheddar, my face on a cocktail stick) were outselling Henriburgers (beef, gorgonzola, French flag on a stick) five to one. The Butcher of Burnage Breakfast (full English with a tiny Ghanaian dip) was a smash hit with early-morning tradesmen.


    I went into the bar and noted right away that the door had been fixed. Top! JoJo was wiping the tables. She was someone we''d hired to do odd jobs; she was the receptionist when we were expecting visitors, she cleaned the toilets and showers, she helped in the bar. She was reliable, hard-working, and came with a ready smile.


    That was handy when you were watching your team''s Morale slide down to nothingness. Even with Chesterness, great training, and a sense of progress on multiple vectors, seeing the name Chester at the bottom of the league table was getting people down. The average Morale in the squad was 3.9 - just above average. If it got much lower we would start to lose games we should win. Avoiding a doom spiral was one of my top priorities.


    "Hi, Max! How are you?"


    "I''m sound. Came in for a drink. Can you pour me a triple whisky-brandy?"


    "Yes, sure. That''s two triples mixed together, is it?"


    "I suppose, but I was joking. That was the last of the expected losses. Carlisle are bloody good; I couldn''t dent their defence. It''s quite a frustrating sport sometimes."


    "Oh, well," she said. "At least your hair is nice."


    I slapped the bar. "Yes! Thank you!" My barnet had finally completely grown back enough so I could get it how I liked it. "You''d think I''d get 50 compliments a day, but no. Is there anything you need?"


    "More bathroom cleaner. Shower gel."


    "I''m not offering to take you to the shops," I said. "I''m very busy and important."


    "Oh, very much."


    "Also, there isn''t space on my scooter." Since the Duchess had died, I had been reliant on others for rides, so I had splashed out the best part of a grand buying an e-scooter. It was fine for getting from my house to work, or for popping from Bumpers to Saltney or Hoole. Best of all, it was amazing for Playdar. I was back on the Playdar grind big time, and loving every minute of it.


    JoJo moved onto the next table. "It was busy yesterday."


    "Was it?"


    "Yes. The pitch was booked out non-stop and the bar was packed."


    That was good money for the club, that. One day I would have a spare half a million and I would have to decide which part of Bumpers to build next. Top of the list at the moment was the showers and changing rooms, but running it increasingly close was a big sports bar with an upstairs function room, maybe even a roof terrace so we could rinse customers in the summer... I snapped out of my daydream. It struck me that JoJo was at Bumpers almost as often as I was. "You''re not overworking yourself, are you?"


    "No, Max. I''m grand."


    I rapped my knuckles on the bar and nodded. "Top top top."


    Outside, I strolled past the 3G pitch with its little stands and large electronic advertising boards. The teams that rented the pitch went weak at the knees when they saw the boards. It was just like playing in a real stadium!


    We didn''t rent it out in the mornings when the first team might need it, and it was currently being used as intended. A physio was with Eddie Moore putting him through his paces. Eddie''s injury was nothing serious, but it had kept him out of a couple of matches. More minutes for Cole and Josh, but we weren''t in a position to beat teams like Mansfield and Carlisle without our very best line up.


    I popped into the medical cabin, which I was trying to get people to call ''The Hippocrate''. More people were calling it ''Harley Street'' after the place in London where specialists treat rich people. I wasn''t sure if the name was a wry comment on how underpaid everyone was or if the lads simply liked pretending to be posh.


    Dean confirmed that apart from guys with the usual knocks and sprains, the only member of the squad who definitely wouldn''t be available for Gillingham was Pascal. The physios planned their shifts and their treatments on a big wallchart and the fact that the chart was in Harley Street and not in the better-equipped Deva or at BoshCard was telling.


    "So you prefer it here," I mused.


    Dean nodded. "Closer to the action. It''s cramped but so far we''ve been able to work around it. The overspill can go to the stadium, right?"


    "Just to confirm, if there''s an injury before lunchtime..."


    "Here," said Dean. "Or at Bosh if we''re training there. After lunch, the Deva. One of us comes back to Harley Street from five till ten, keeps an eye on the randos while doing paperwork or some late treatments."


    "Mint. It''s so good, isn''t it? It''s just great. I almost want to move wholesale from BoshCard. Hey, I notice you''ve still got Pascal on the long-term part of the board there."


    Dean gave me a funny look. "Yes, Max. Because of the compound fracture in his leg."


    "Hmm," I said. I wasn''t sure how to approach this particular conundrum. The curse was telling me Pascal would be healed in two weeks but medical science was saying yeah nah. "Every time I look at this chart I get a sort of chill down my spine. Sort of goosebumps or whatevs. I think the universe is telling me it might not be that long, do you know what I mean?"


    "The universe must have gone to a different university to me."


    "Hurr," I said. "Universe-ity." I picked up a refill for the diffuser and had a sniff. "I think I might send Pascal to get a new X-ray in a couple of weeks, just to quieten the little voices in my head."


    "The voices in your head sound like something you should talk to Alex about."


    "Mmm," I said, picking up a packet of something and putting it down again. "That''s settled, then. I can get back to focusing on tomorrow night''s match now. Good chat."


    Dean thought about complaining that an X-ray was a pointless waste of time and money, but decided there was no reason not to indulge me. Sometimes it''s good to have a reputation as being unreasonable.


    ***


    I took a detour to the far corner of our space to look at the horse chestnut tree we had planted, then popped into my cute little office and replied to a couple of emails - one from Chelli in Brazil and one from Vincent Addo''s father - before continuing the tour.


    We had three pitches. The 3G; an under-sixteens-sized grass one; and our full-sized grass training pitch. The small one was used a fair amount more than I expected. For example, Sticky, our superb goalkeeping coach, did most of his sessions on it.


    He was there now doing his mysterious routines.


    Ben Cavanagh had finally hit his cap, CA 67. He had been playing quite well in the cups, though like everyone he had been pretty shocking against Wigan. I had thrown Banksy on for ten minutes at the end, which baffled the journalists covering the match. They''d tried to turn that substitution into a story. Are you punishing Ben for his poor performance?


    Ben wasn''t happy at losing his slot as my main goalie but he knew better than the journalists what being subbed off in those situations meant - nothing. I was giving minutes to a young player, the end.


    With daily training, plus experience of playing against Slovakia and a League One team, Banksy had improved to CA 22. Still far far from being useful to the first team, but a lot lot closer to being absolutely amazing for the 18s. I had one eye on November 4 - the date of our first FA Youth Cup match. If I could get Banksy close to CA 30 by then I would be absolutely buzzing. 35 by Christmas, 40 by the time of the final?


    Sticky was my goalie for most league matches. He had improved to CA 61. The six-point difference between him and Ben were definitely costing us goals, definitely costing us points. But now that Ben had hit his cap, the psychological pain of my decision was easing. One day soon, Sticky would hit CA 68 - a level Ben could never, ever reach and my choice would be vindicated.


    Sticky blew for a break - I must have been giving the vibe of wanting to talk. Ben and Banksy went off to the side to get a drink. Sticky came over to me, far away from the others we could talk about them freely. "All good, gaffer?"


    "Yes," I said. "Where''s Rainman?"


    "Family thing. Nothing to worry about."


    "Okay. Listen..." I thought about how to say what I wanted to say. "What... What percentage of time do you give to training Cavvers versus training yourself?"


    Sticky blinked. Another Max Best masterclass in saying something bizarre. "I don''t know. I mean... we do the drills together. I suppose I prioritise Ben."


    "Can you prioritise yourself now? Think of it as... think of it as we''re only trying to maintain Ben''s levels."


    "Right."


    "Do we need to get a goalie coach for you?"


    "No, gaffer."


    "Good good good." I was about to walk away when I realised Sticky had reacted badly to something I''d said. And this was the frustrating and dangerous thing about being bottom of the league and having a figurehead who had managed 13 games in League Two and won none - comments that would normally have been accepted at face value were being turned over and over. "Steve, what''s up?"


    He ground his teeth before saying, "I''m letting you down. You''re in the crapper because of me."


    "What?" I scoffed. "Don''t talk shit."


    "I''ve seen it before. Managers go on a bad run, scramble around looking for things to fix. You don''t know how to tell me I''m stinking the place up."


    "Okay, first up, who''s on a bad run?" Sticky didn''t want to answer. I raised my eyebrows. "I don''t see it that way. Not in the slightest. When we''ve gone hard at a match we''ve done well. Fleetwood twice, Bolton, Bradford, Wimbledon. That tells me the levels are right, you know? We''re beating League One and Two teams in the cups; we can do it. We can''t do it twice a week every week... yet. Nah, man, come on. We''ve been through this. We''re golden. This isn''t me scrambling around, this is me very fractionally optimising a part of the organisation that might benefit from a tiny tweak. I''m serene, Steve. I''m floating around my big beautiful machine with a tiny, er... What''s a profession that uses small tools?"


    "Clockmaker."


    "Right, okay, sure. I''m walking around listening to everything tick along very nicely, thank you very much, but hey while I''m here I''ll give this cog a little twist with the world''s tiniest screwdriver. Things can always get better, right?"


    "They can''t get much worse."


    I laughed. Yorkshiremen were so dour. "You''ll see. Just to review - you''re my number one goalie and I want that to reflect in how you conduct training. That''s fair enough, isn''t it?"


    "Yeah, course."


    "Not a sign of my imminent mental breakdown? Not a harbinger of my complete loss of faith in you and your processes?"


    Steve smiled and looked abashed. "No. No, gaffer."


    "I don''t whistle but I would like you to imagine me walking away whistling, okay?"


    "Yes, gaffer."


    ***


    I got a text from my boss about a presentation I wanted him to give.


    MD: Are you sure about Wednesday?


    Me: 80% sure.


    MD: Okay. I''ll cancel 80% of my appointments. Jesus. I''m stressed, Max. Our friends in non-league are sending me memes. Memes, Max!


    Me: You love it. You''re gonna be upset when we take six points from six this week.


    MD: Why would that upset me?


    Me: Because that''s when you know the season''s going well and that''s when I start to make more of my famously reasonable requests.


    MD: You know what? Two draws will suit me just fine.


    ***


    I walked over to Sandra, who was in charge of the morning''s training. She looked good, but there were some shadows under her eyes that weren''t normally there. She was trying to stay upbeat, trying to believe in the plan, telling herself the plan was mint... but the league table went down to the number 24 and that''s where we were.


    "Only two teams go down, you know."


    She pulled a face. "I wasn''t thinking about that. We''re not even close to that."


    I looked around. "Is everyone busy?" Everyone meant the other coaches.


    "Yeah. Got them doing tactical work in small groups like you asked." I had interrupted the normal flow of our training to focus on the Gillingham match, and the sessions from Wednesday to Friday would focus on beating Doncaster. I wouldn''t normally do that except for a big cup game but the hit to our Morale from being bottom of the league had to be dealt with. Two quick wins would buy me another month to run the club however I wanted. I spotted Youngster practising his man-marking skills while Christian, Zach, and Lee H drilled as a back three. Sandra said, "Why?"


    "Need someone to whizz JoJo to the shops."


    On hearing the name, Sandra smiled. "She''s a breath of fresh air." She checked the time. "We''re done soon. I''ll take her. What are we getting?"


    "Cleaning stuff. Whatever she needs. Here." I handed over my company credit card. "The code is ohfuckwe''regoingdown." Sandra didn''t laugh. I sighed. "It''s 442442."


    "Of course it is."


    I let Sandra get on with the sesh while I sat on a bucket and had a good old peer.


    The move to Bumpers Bank seemed to have been a success. Attributes and CA scores were turning green in all our teams at all our age groups at what felt like a very slightly higher rate. I planned to use 3-5-2 against Gillingham the following night and our first eleven would have an average CA of 74.2.


    My research set the normal boundaries for League Two as 75 on the lower end and 90 at the top. We were, therefore, a good week of training away from being League Two quality.


    But tomorrow''s line up didn''t tell the whole story of where we were at because I was going to use Josh Owens instead of Eddie Moore. If I was willing to take a risk on the older player''s fitness, our CA would rise to 75.8. If I could play Pascal on the right instead of Magnus, we would be on 76.2!


    And then there was me. Mansfield and Carlisle had kept me at bay with aggressive man-marking, but I was surely in triple digits for CA. We had enough quality to put out a solid eleven that still had loads of room to grow. Unless something went terribly wrong or our training caps were lower than expected, our best eleven would surely finish the season as the best in the league.


    Other League Two squads had players with injuries, players missing. The real issue for Chester wasn''t our best eleven, but the lack of depth. The gap from the Eddies to the Joshes was uncomfortably big, but the more I played my fringe players, the closer they got to the levels.


    So we were on track for a good season, and a couple of good wins would restore belief in a big way. What could I do to make sure that happened?


    One area for improvement was staring me right in the face - Darren ''Dazza'' Smith, the hulking Australian striker. He was suffering because he hadn''t scored since joining the club even though he had played 11 of our 12 games. After another blank in the frozen wastelands of Cumbria, his Morale had tanked. No goals from 11 games was abysmal.


    I waited until his session was on a break and called him over. "Pull up a bucket, mate."


    "Yes, boss." He looked around, found nothing, and sat in the 90 90 position, lightly flexing his hips as we talked - one of the exercises the Brig was making us do. With his big blonde hair and massive thighs, Dazza looked like an extra from the movie Troy - one of the lads who ran around with Achilles. "What''s on your mind?"


    "You didn''t think we''d be bottom of the league at this point, did you?"


    "Not really, nah."


    "Me neither. You don''t seem to be questioning my abilities or anything like that."


    "You''re fucking amazing, boss. If it wasn''t for you..."


    "We''d have zero points instead of two." I smiled. "I''m literally worth two points."


    "Yeah nah you know what I mean. But I''m rank. How many wins would we have if I could hit the bloody target? I''m your record transfer and I''m making you look like a proper dongo. I''m as useless as an ashtray on a motorbike."


    "It''s true you''re making me look like a dongo," I said, "but in Manchester, dongo is positive."


    "Is it?"


    "No. But look, I''ve worked out why you''re not as sharp as normal."


    "You have?"


    "Yeah. You''re homesick."


    "I''m not, gaffer. I swear."


    "Ah, but listen. Back in Oz, you''re always on high alert. You turn any corner there''s liable to be jellyfish, eels, snakes, scorpions, sharknados, all kinds of things that want to kill you then eat you, or vice versa. In Perth you''re on your way to training like Huh? Huh? Huh? at every shape, every shadow. You get on the pitch and it''s all a piece of piss, isn''t it? Your reflexes are razor sharp. Compared to daily life, football''s a doddle. You come to Chester and the only excitement is when you go to Tesco and they''ve got a special offer on TimTams. I don''t know what those are, by the way. I did a search for ''garbage that only Australians like''."


    "Boss, no, TimTams are quality."


    "Okay, the real pep talk beginnnnnns... now. Ready? One. If you weren''t playing well I would fucking let you know, mate. If you pull on this shirt and laze about not giving it your all, you''ll be hauled off the pitch and I''ll give you a blast on your way back to the fucking airport, do you know what I mean? I will fucking let you know. We''re nowhere near that. Nowhere near that.


    "Two. I''m not that interested in your stats. We get all this data now and it''s handy but I wouldn''t base my whole fucking personality on it like you seem to want to do. It''s flawed. How many times have you forced the goalie into a save that''s led to a goal? How many times have you hit the crossbar? We could drive ourselves insane going through the xG of every shot you''ve had working out if that number is fair or not. I don''t care about it. Life can only be lived forwards, so live forwards.


    "Three. Or maybe this is 2b. Your value isn''t a number. Your value is how I feel you are contributing to the team and you''re doing great on the pitch and off it, at least, when you aren''t walking around with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp."


    "Have you been learning Aussie sayings for this chat?"


    "Yes. Don''t interrupt me when I''m on one. We are 24th in the league. Do you think I''m the 24th best manager?"


    "No."


    "Damn right. I''m fucking these pricks up, it''s just not showing on the scoreboard. Yet. And what about me the star player? It''s like 7 goals in 200 minutes or something. It''s decent, but those goals don¡¯t make me a good player. When I''m really firing, when I''m at my best I¡¯m an assist machine. Right now I¡¯m doing ten times more shots per ninety than I want and it''s not because I don¡¯t trust you or Henri but because I don¡¯t trust the midfield to generate more chances. So one number doesn''t say anything about how good I am as a manager, the other doesn''t say much about how good I am as a player."


    "It sort of does."


    "Yeah fine but not like you think. If I saw someone with my stats I''d want to go and scout him but the numbers don''t get him a contract here. It''s what he can do, who he is, all that stuff."


    "Would you sign yourself?"


    "I couldn''t afford myself."


    He closed his eyes. "This place is battier than a Brisbane belfry."


    "You know what''s batty?"


    "What?"


    "I wouldn''t mind if you didn''t score the whole season, then on the last day we''re winning four-nil and you score your first ever goal for the club to make it five-nil."


    "And we get into the playoffs on goal difference?"


    "No. Just a meaningless goal. That''d be funny. You''d finish the season on 30 assists, one goal."


    "Not sure I''d find it as funny."


    "Yeah well you don''t pick the team so tough shit. I love how you play and I love what you''re doing so that''s that. Wait, you distracted me. What number am I up to?"


    "Can''t remember."


    "Dazza, listen up. We¡¯ve all got to get better but you¡¯re in the¡­ what¡¯s one eleventh as a percentage?"


    "Don¡¯t know."


    "You¡¯re in the bottom twenty two percent question mark of my problems, do you get me? When I talk to the coaches about you it¡¯s about getting you better. Nothing negative comes up. You can start worrying about your future here when I start talking about how many goals you''re scoring."


    "Why?"


    "Because I like my players to go on goalscoring runs before I sell them so I can get bigger fees. I''ll be fattening you up to fetch a good price at market. Gorgeous Aussie merino sheep, aren''t you, mate! Hey, Max, why is Dazza on penalties? No reason, giggle. Yeah," I said, looking into the mid-distance, "I don''t mind you having a bad first season in terms of numbers. It means I get to keep you next season, too." I squinted, content with my daydream. The truth was, I would probably get offers for Dazza I wouldn''t be able to refuse. I snapped back into the present. "I envy you."


    "I doubt that."


    "No, I do. You get to have all these doubts, these worries, and experience the whole Chester roller coaster for the first time. This season is your Murder on the Orient Express. We only get one time to read it for the first time. This is your once. You¡¯re so lucky! This is my third time already. I know how it ends."


    "You know who the killer is."


    "I''m the killer. You''re my weapon." I shook my head at the unfairness of life. I''d been given an almighty crack to the head, fell into a coma, and when I woke up I remembered whodunnit in all the Agatha Christie books, knew the twists in The Sixth Sense and The Usual Suspects. What would I pay to be able to re-experience those things for the first time? Dazza was waiting for me to finish my reverie. I said, "Well, go and train. Fuck sake, don''t just sit there. Hey, what''s that?"


    He turned and looked behind him. "What?"


    When he turned back towards me I threw a large plastic spider at him. It hit him in the face before sliding down into his hands. I said, "I''ll be throwing that at you when you least expect it. Bit of a taste of home."


    He got to his feet and looked at the huge toy spider. "Thanks, gaffer. She''s a beaut."


    He chucked it back to me and jogged off with a spring in his step.


    I''d like to say it was my speech that had improved his Morale, but that would be a lie. His Morale went up when he saw the spider.


    ***


    I got a massage from a spare physio and went home for a few hours, lazing on my sofa while I re-watched footage of Gillingham. They had spent a lot of money but they weren''t a good unit. A lot of their moves went through their best player, Ennis, and I thought that if Youngster marked him, Gills would find it hard to score. Not a nailed-on win by any means, but the most even league game of our season so far.


    I snoozed for a while and woke feeling delightfully groggy.


    ***


    Having the club''s training centralised in one place was having all kinds of side benefits. Now, I didn''t have to whizz from place to place if I wanted to check on the under 12s, the women, the Knights. All I had to do was go to my office and let the players come to me.


    The Knights trained on the small pitch. In the past, their coach, Terry, had sometimes been isolated. Not forgotten, exactly, but not really at the heart of anything. Bumpers wasn''t ideal for the disabled team because the toilets and showers had limited accessibility, but Brooke said when we developed that part of the complex we could get all kinds of grants to help us bring things up to the required standards in the amounts we wanted. I wanted Bumpers to be able to host a pan-disability tournament one day, and that would mean having a lot more than one special bathroom.


    The boys under 12s were in high spirits. They trained on half the 3G pitch while the 14s trained on the other half. Spectrum liked to cross-pollinate the age groups so it was always quite random who would be playing alongside who, and doing what.


    With the surge in interest in schools football and me having free time in the evenings, I had been scouting and using Playdar to great effect. There was the not-inconsiderable bonus that I ''owned'' three pitches that local teams could hire and these pitches were pretty close together. I knew when matches were being played and it was a simple matter to ride The Green Baron to Saltney or to Hoole and quickly scout the players.


    As such, I''d stocked up on youth prospects. The 12s had five new lads aged as young as 8 ranging from PA 62 to 136 and there were plenty of schools I had never been to which had matches scheduled. I was gathering millions of pounds of future stars!


    I smiled as I noted that five of the 12-year-olds were training with the older boys.


    Simon Black, a lightning fast PA 77 striker, was still the star of his age group - he was scoring ludicrous amounts.


    Tadpole, a PA 130 goalie, was Sticky''s favourite. The miserable old sod changed completely when Tadpole was around - he told jokes, he did comedy bits.


    Mark Nelson was PA 70 and could play anywhere along the back line. He was developing very nicely.


    Lawrence ''Larry'' Shaw was a hulking centre back, PA 89, who towered above the other kids his age - and the age above. He was going to be as big as Goliath, the striker I had loaned a couple of years back. Larry would score thousands of goals from set pieces and his high PA meant he should turn into a proper good defender, too. I was incredibly interested in watching him develop.


    And finally, the pride of Chester''s youth system, Stephen Watson. I had found him on my first ever visit to Liverpool while Jackie Reaper was getting his knees checked out. Watson was PA 146, a defensive midfielder, and he boosted my Morale every time he took a pass in a tight area or deflected the ball into Simon Black''s path or lazily held off an opponent before bringing the ball under his control.


    The kid was spectacular and now I got to see him every time he trained.


    About a quarter of the parents watched from the mini stands, though of course they weren''t allowed to groan or yell when their kids did anything ''bad''. A quarter watched from the viewing room, which was similar to the reception cabin but not as pretty. The viewing room was warm and there was a tea and coffee station. We had put up some photos and scarves and stuff but it was still pretty bare. The rest of the parents waited in the bar where they got free tea and coffee and could buy food. Spectrum had the great idea to make it possible to send the feed from the 3G pitch''s cameras to the bar so that people could watch their kids, friends, or partners while giving us money.


    I found Stephen Watson''s dad and had a big old chat with him and two other other dads he had befriended.


    "You''re not worried about the league table," said Mr. Watson in his Scouse accent.


    "Not you as well," I laughed. "You''ve been with us long enough to know better."


    He smiled. "It''s a step up, isn''t it? It''s harder."


    "I expected it to be like this. I''ll be honest and say losing Pascal messed us up more than I would have realised. I used him for so many things, you know? He gave us speed, intelligence between the lines, he let us switch to all sorts of formations. Yeah, we are slightly short in creative, flexible forwards."


    "You could have signed a replacement in the window. Got a loan maybe."


    I pointed to one of the kids on the nearest TV. "That lad there. He''s a Pascal type. Next in line to the throne."


    "He''s nine!"


    I shrugged. "I''m a long-term planner."


    "You''re really not worried, then?" said one of the other dads.


    "Not in the slightest. The only thing I have to fear is fear itself. First time I met Mr. Watson I said, what did I say, have a bet on Chester to stay up, and have a bet on us to win seven in a row. And what happened?"


    "I lost me money," he said, with perfect delivery and timing. Got a big laugh.


    "Come on," I said. "We won six out of seven!"


    "It''s true," said Mr. Watson, to the others. "Would have been seven, I reckon, but that was when Max got attacked."


    "Oh, shit," said one of the others.


    "Yeah," I said. "But look, I can''t place bets myself. Even if I got my girlfriend to do it, it''d come out and there would be hell to pay. I basically don''t ever talk about betting, ever. It''s easier that way." I looked around me and leaned in closer. "But if you''ve got a spare tenner that isn''t helping you out much, stick that on us to win our two matches this week." I gave them a little nod. "Ah, reminds me. I wanted to talk to them."


    "Who?"


    "All of them. I want to tell them to work harder in school." The parents laughed - typical Max being weird.


    Another benefit of having my youth players under my wing - I could see who was coming to watch them train and play. A guy came in, leaned against the bar, rubbed his hands to warm them up, and asked for a tea. JoJo got right on it.


    "Guys, can you do me a tiny favour, please?"


    "Course we can, Max."


    "Don''t look now. I said don''t look!" I laughed, as the three turned. "The guy who just came in. Tell me which parent he talks to, would ya?"


    I looked up at the screen. Little Simon Black ran onto a pass and finished into the bottom of the goal as easily as JoJo added milk to the stranger''s tea.


    But the new guy wasn''t a complete stranger. I had seen him before at youth tournaments and while I''d never spoken to him directly, he had a big old rectangle hovering over his head.


    Wayne Robins (Liverpool)


    Scout


    Judging Player Ability 14


    ***


    With five minutes to go before the end of the session I walked out onto the pitch and asked the coaches on both halves to wrap things up. They did and the kids came over to me.


    Another benefit of having everyone close to hand was I could give them tiny speeches without needing to plan it.


    "All right, lads?"


    Lots of smiles. A few of them, like Future or Adam Roberts, had spent some time with me and knew I was more or less just another dude, but for many there was a lot of hero worship going on.


    "I thought we agreed that when I said all right lads you guys would yell YES SENSEI."


    "Naw, we didn''t agree that," said Stephen Watson.


    "Weird. Maybe it was a dream. Okay, listen. I''ve just been reading an article about Premier League academies. Okay, we definitely agreed to BOO when we talked about Prem clubs."


    "That was another dream an'' all," said Watson.


    "Was it? Shit, my dreams are boring. Note to self, have more exciting dreams. Okay, the article said that kids who join football academies are, like, above average at school. They get good marks. But when they leave the academy, they''re below average. What does that tell you?"


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    "That footballers are stupid," said Big Sam, a decent young goalie. He got some laughs.


    "Well, they start out brighter, don''t they? It''s the football that makes them stupid. I don''t want that to happen here. First of all, I don''t like stupid players. Second, I do weird team talks. Off the top of my head, I''ve talked about Babylonian maps, four-hundred-million-year-old sea beasts, and on Wednesday morning the first team are gonna get together and we''re all going to talk about money. Investments, interest rates, shares, I don''t know what. I''m not gonna lie and say I was good in school but I wasn''t a dick, either, and I was proper interested in some of the lessons. I wish I''d paid more attention in Spanish and German, I reckon. That''d help me now, wouldn''t it? But you never know when something you learned might pop up.


    "I don''t think I want to meet your teachers and check how you''re doing but if there''s an article about you one day where it says you binned school off I think I''ll be pretty disappointed. It''s a fucking neckache sometimes, isn''t it? Doing homework when you want to play Cards Against Humanity or whatever kids these days get up to. Pogs? But just make sure you keep your levels up, yeah? Power through.


    "Maybe I''ll do a competition. Show me a maths test from last week where you got a shit mark, one from next week where you did better. That gets you into the draw. Show me you got three good marks in a row. That gets you in. Winner gets to hang out with the first team or some shit. All right, that''s it. Do better at school, you little brats."


    ***


    Next came the 16s (on their special pitch, joined by lots of the 14s), the 18s (on the 3G), and the women (on the big grass pitch).


    The 16s cupboard was fairly bare, though I had found a pair of lads in the PA 50s recently. The lack of talent in one particular age group didn''t bother me - next season I could bring in half a dozen lads like Jamie Brotherhood - good talents who would cost me buttons. And Roddy Jones, the Baby Bale, was there. PA 184, a future legend. When I''d picked him up he had been playing as a striker and indeed, if he had stayed there he would still be scoring tons. Why, though? The results of those games didn''t matter. I''d moved him to right wing and told his coaches to give him minutes as a right mid. Maybe by the end of the season we would have him in his real position - right back. The challenge was to keep him and his dad interested and engaged and that was a lot easier when Roddy was scoring hat tricks every week.


    The 18s were packed to bursting. We had 23 players, not including Roddy who sometimes trained with them.


    Wibbers, Dan Badford, and Banksy were the stars of the group. Wibbers was on CA 58. It seemed like he had been in the 50s for eons but when he hit 60 I was going to think of him totally differently. CA 58 meant he was flighty, streaky, untrustworthy. CA 60 meant consistency. Logical? No. Dan was CA 49. That was rubbish. Garbage. But when he hit 50 - swoon! Logical? I''m going to say yes.


    After the three stars came the right back Jamie Brotherhood (PA 95), left back Lucas Friend (PA 62), and the young striker Chas Fungrieve (PA 83). Tyson (attacking midfield, PA 58) was the best of the rest, but after Noah Harrison (PA 51) there was a drop to a lot of lads in the 30-40 range.


    It wasn''t the best squad that would enter the FA Youth Cup, but it was going to be the squad with the most first team minutes and it wouldn''t even be close. Eight of the lads had seen first team action already this season and there was going to be a lot more.


    "What are you thinking?" said Benny. He was the son of a famous former player and a great lad but he only had PA 40. This attempt at the Youth Cup would be his last chance of real glory in the sport. He had sidled up next to me as I watched the others train; he had a foot injury that was keeping him out for a couple of weeks.


    "I''m thinking when I take over this training we will go to the grass pitch where no-one can see us."


    "Why do you let randos in to Bumpers?"


    I shrugged. "It''s a community club, isn''t it? If people want to watch, I don''t mind, as long as they''re quiet and don''t get in the way. And if they want to drop ten quid on a burger, even better. But the stuff I''m going to teach the 18s is not something I want our oppo knowing about."


    "I can''t wait," said Benny. "I''m so hyped for it. Everyone''s saying you turned the Welsh army into an unstoppable force."


    I pulled a face. "Let''s not go crazy. They still suck, but now they suck in a way that''s aesthetically pleasing."


    Training 3 R Welsh and getting them to do Relationism in matches - what they called ''Bestball'', urgh, vom - had been incredibly interesting.


    The first unique part of the experience was that I needed to operate without the Match Overview screens. Using those would force me to use positional play and I couldn''t get the lads into the blob if they were lined up in 4-4-2. So when the Overview screen had come up, I had been ready to battle to shut it down. In the end, it was easy. I ordered the Overview screen to close. An ''are you sure?'' message popped up. I thought ''yes''. A new message appeared. ''You won''t be able to get it back during this match. Are you sure you''re sure?'' I was sure, and it poofed out of existence, though I could still see the player profiles.


    So I had to manage those matches without my screens and without my perks. No match ratings, no instant awareness of what the oppo manager was doing, no using Bench Boost or Free Hit.


    I had been right, I was sure, to focus on simplicity. Short passes, safe passes, lots of passes. I had been lucky that there was one player in the unit who could make everything tick and had the imagination needed to pass out from the blob when opportunities presented themselves. Or maybe it wasn''t luck - I had put the players with high Decisions in the key roles.


    I had been unlucky with the pitches, but who knew the army played on Sunday League grounds? I had sorted it out, but it was clear to me after only a few weeks that what I was doing would work, and I gave myself mental permission to go hell-for-leather to buy the Relationism perk.


    The perk was down to a base cost of 29,570. Still crazy, but it was a number I could attack from both sides, first by continuing to manage 3 R Welsh - what better way to spend a Wednesday afternoon than ripping the piss out of them and making them beg for more? - and by grinding for XP in the normal way.


    With all the matches I was managing, plus watching the women, plus some of the evening games played at Bumpers, the XP was flowing very nicely.


    XP balance: 13,033


    Thirteen thousand... Why did that stick out? I looked around and saw Benny had gone.


    I got out my calculator and calculated the current cost of the Relationism perk if I applied my ten percent discount code - 26,613. Just about double what I had in the bank. I was halfway there!


    When I managed a League Two match for 70 minutes and played 20, I got about 580 XP. So that meant I was 23 League Two matches away from being able to afford the perk. If I only managed the League Two games and did nothing else, I would be able to unlock Relationism after playing Doncaster Rovers on February 14th.


    If I took into account cup matches, 3 R Welsh, and all the other footy I was watching... I was closer than I''d realised. Surely I would unlock it this calendar year?


    Oh, baby!


    I rubbed my hands and cut through the rows of cabins to get to the grass pitch. How were the women getting on?


    ***


    Jackie Reaper was busy doing a complicated-looking drill, so I looked for someone else to bother. Lucy, our former left back who was good in the air and had greatly improved the team with her leadership skills, was by the side of the pitch keeping a keen eye on the proceedings.


    "Hi Lucy," I said.


    "Hi boss."


    "What are you doing?"


    Lucy had decided to leave Chester''s women''s team in order to take up a great opportunity - being the first ever manager of Saltney Town Women. "Reminding myself how it''s supposed to be done. Now that I''m in the hot seat I realise I never paid all that much attention, you know? It was just ''am I in the team or not?'' You don''t mind me coming, do you?"


    "Course I don''t mind. Why would I mind?"


    "Jackie''s just brilliant. He''s so good. He keeps things moving, keeps things fresh. Hard drill followed by easy one. Twists, variants, it''s always interesting."


    "Yeah, he''s definitely one of the top five managers at Chester FC."


    She put her hand on my arm. "You''re very good, too, boss. Wow, I forgot how needy you get. Can I ask a question?"


    "Always."


    "The pre-season fixtures. How did you decide on them? I remember when I joined Chester you were doing a progression concept. Harder matches every week. I thought Chester''s pre-season fixtures this year were something like that, or maybe there were players you wanted to look at, but I couldn''t get my head around it. The opposition you chose made no sense."


    "Pre-season was a while ago and I was pretty busy. I think I didn''t go to the away matches. You know what? I can''t remember who it was we played."


    "I do. Stanway Pegasus, Bemerton Heath Harlequins, Coventry Sphinx."


    I smiled. "I remember now. Jackie was bothering Inga to set up some fixtures and Inga was bothering me. So I gave Emma a big list of teams and she picked those three because they had funny names."


    "Oh," said Lucy. "Pegasus, Harlequins, Sphinx. Okay. You know, sometimes I worry you might not be a floating megabrain."


    "It''s two long away trips, isn''t it? The entire squad packed into Sealbiscuit for hours, bonding, singing. It doesn''t matter who they play as long as they''re ready for the first proper match of the season and guess what? Mission accomplished. They played Chester le Street off the pitch."


    Chester le Street Town were from County Durham and had the nickname The Cestrians, which was like the name of Chester''s match day programme. I mean, get your own nicknames, what the fuck. Their women''s team had an average CA of 38, which made them better than any divisional rival we had ever faced. Jackie had used his favoured 3-5-2 with an average CA of 48.8.


    We were already ten points better than our opponents in the first game of the season!


    The squad was so strong that Bonnie didn''t make the starting eleven. She played in the next game, in the qualifying round of the Welsh Cup. There had been some chat about our participation in the cup last season, so this year we had agreed to play every match away. Jackie had rung the changes, giving starts to three of our Ffamous Five. Our talented but absurdly young squad had struggled to beat Aberaman, but with a couple of older heads appearing from the bench, we had prevailed 5-3.


    Chorley had CA 39 and we had dispatched them with Meghan and Sarah Greene making their home debuts. ''Home'' for now was a town in Wales called Flint, but Sarah was inspired and put in a man-of-the-match display in a 5-1 romp.


    Given the levels of the first two opponents, yesterday''s match against Huddersfield had been a bit of a shock. They were rocking an average CA of 48 - we were 50.4. Almost neck and neck in terms of overall quality. We had higher technique and youthful exuberance, but they had experience. It was the same old story for us, but we were getting experience every week. Assuming Huddersfield were one of the very best teams in the league, an away draw was a solid result. Bit of an early-season wake-up call, too.


    And a bit of a wake-up slap for me, too. I thought I had given Jackie a killer squad, but there were small, potentially consequential gaps.


    For left midfield we only really had Dani or Kisi, neither of whom you''d trust to put in a 90-minute defensive shift. Fioled, one of the Welsh starlets, was that kind of player, but she was 16 and CA 23. It was something of a risk trusting girls like her so much. Then again, Jackie had a top left back he could use if he felt we were at risk down that side.


    The main problem was the strikers. Angel was a big talent, of course, but Bea Pea had hit her ceiling. CA 36 was good enough as a backup option for the league but she had been our starting striker almost since we''d started the team. Julie McKay, she of the hooligan former boyfriend, was CA 33, PA 53, but she was pretty average in all respects. She didn''t have Angel''s finishing, Bea Pea''s work rate, she wasn''t especially fast or good in the air.


    Yeah, if Angel got injured we might have a problem.


    Or - and this was a valid option - we could pass to Sarah Greene and let her go nuts. The girl was fucking amazing. She had raced up to CA 63 and caused a bit of a secondary explosion in CA growth in the players around her. Suddenly, Dani and Charlotte were miles off the levels and it was making them work twice as hard.


    "I love it when you grin like that."


    "What? Who''s grinning? I''m scowling, mate. How can you draw against Huddersfield? This is one of the most expensive squads outside the top two divisions, you know. They need to sort themselves out or the next series of the documentary will be called Chesterness 2: The Purge."


    "Sure, boss. Sure."


    "When we get knocked out of the cups I might send you some young players. If you want."


    "If I want? Course I want. But you might be waiting a while."


    "Why''s that?"


    "These ladies are in no mood to be knocked out of anything. Don''t plan anything for Sundays, boss. These girls are filming Chesterness 2: The Relentlessness. That''s not my idea for a name, by the way. That''s Angel in cahoots with Henri."


    ***


    Mr. Watson: He was looking at Simon Black.


    ***


    Tuesday, September 30


    Match 9 of 46: Gillingham vs Chester


    If there''s one thing my career in football taught me, it''s that Gillingham is fucking miles away. It was a four and a half hour journey that would have stretched Sealbiscuit to breaking point and even I wasn''t eco-champion enough to take the risk. We''d hired one of our old buses for the journey.


    It was such a step down in quality and comfort I thought it might knock our Morale, but it had the opposite effect. Lads who were maybe looking at their pay packets wondering why the numbers were so small when I was investing in electric buses could feel the difference and could think ''oh right, that''s why''.


    I felt a sort of steely determination about the warm ups and the general preparations.


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I said, once everyone was in the dressing room and receptive. "Get your fucking game faces on. For the first time this season, we''re favourites." Gillingham were spending a mind-blowing 111,000 pounds a week on their first team squad and the average CA of their starting eleven was a truly shocking 77. "We''re favourites. We''re going to keep things tight, frustrate them, silence the crowd, and go mental in the last twenty minutes. Piece of piss."


    I slapped the tactics board.


    "3-5-2. Sticky in goal." CA 61. "Christian, Zach, Lee H." 81, 73, 76 respectively. "Youngster dropping to be DM." CA 90, surely the best young midfielder in the whole league. "Josh left, Magnus right." 54, 68, bit of a weak spot. "Ryan and Lee C in the middle." 69 and 78. Ryan was loving life at Bumpers. The sumptuous grass pitch took some of the strain off his joints. I had resolved not to use him on a bad surface until it was the direst possible emergency. "Henri and Dazza." Both strikers were on CA 80.


    That gave me an average of 73.6. Calling us favourites was a bit of a stretch, especially given my lack of options from the bench, but I was incredibly confident.


    "My favourite movie is called Swingers. It''s about Iron Man''s driver who has a bad break up and the guy from Dodgeball who is his mate who tries to cheer him up." I walked around until I was in front of Dazza. "The most famous quote goes like this. You''re money! You''re so money and you don''t even know it. No, I''m not happy with that. Dazza, what are you doing?"


    "Sorry, gaffer, I don''t follow."


    "I''m doing a scene. You''re my scene partner. You''re giving me nothing. Can you stand up, please?"


    They were cheers and whoops as he pushed himself to his feet. He really didn''t want an acting class, but I didn''t really care what he wanted. "Ready."


    "When you do an acting, you''re supposed to say ''what''s my motivation?''"


    "What''s my motivation, gaffer?"


    "You''ve had a bad break up."


    "What''s a bad break up?"


    More cheers and whoops. I grinned at his confidence. "That''s the spirit! All right, let''s do it the other way. I''ll be the sad one."


    Dazza had started collecting his hair into a band. He pulled the band off, flicked his hair back, and tucked it all away again. "Are you going to say action?"


    "No."


    He tried to remember his line. "You''re so money. You don''t even know how money you are."


    "Fuck sake," I said. "I''ve written the line out for you. Where did I put it? There, Vimsy has it."


    When I said Vimsy, Dazza turned, spotted danger, and recoiled as the man in question hurled a bucketful of giant plastic spiders at him. "Strewth," said Dazza, possibly. I couldn''t hear because everyone was pissing themselves.


    I stood with my hands on my hips. "Ah, that''s fun. All right, get to fucking work."


    Christian yelled, "Come on, Chester!" and they rushed out, Morale high.


    ***


    The first half was pretty even. We were able to nullify Gills and have the lion''s share of possession, but they were equally comfortable in thwarting our attacks. They tried to target the wings but I set my wide guys to ''make forward runs: no'' and used the Without Ball screens to drop them back as much as I could. Gills had a very specific way of defending set pieces that was both impressive and stupid - exploiting their reliance on the offside trap would need a little bit of creativity and someone who could cross a ball with pace and accuracy. I didn''t have too many of those. Squad-building on 30K a week came with a lot of compromises.


    I didn''t say much at half time. Things were going great, and all the goals would come in the very final section of the match.


    Or so I thought - in the 62nd minute, Youngster got sucked into a midfield scrap, the ball went wide, Josh was beaten for one of the only times in the match, the ball was played into Ennis, wide open for the first time, who clipped a quality pass through to the striker who slipped the ball past Sticky pretty easily.


    I clicked my teeth, but instead of having a meltdown I used the Finances perk to look at Gillingham''s numbers again. They really were blowing over a hundred grand a week on this lot. Almost four times what I had to work with.


    The perk showed some raw numbers plus a simple balance sheet that told me they were hugely in debt. Most football clubs lost money and had their debt or loans written off by their benefactors. When that money dried up, the club was in deep doo-doo. After a period of relative calm, a few clubs were starting to worry about their future and I was making sure I had scouted their first team, reserves, and youth teams in case the opportunity arose to snap up a few bargains if there was a fire sale.


    Sandra Lane took a break from giving instructions to look at me. "How can you be so relaxed?"


    "Who said I''m relaxed?"


    "You''re relaxed and you''re smiling. You''ve got a fucking blissful smile on you."


    "Oh, I suppose. I was thinking about that guy, that accountant fan who looked at our annual reports and decided they showed that MD had squirrelled away... what was it?"


    "One point one million."


    "Right." I hadn''t followed the story all that closely because the fan was well-meaning but wrong. I had Chester''s Finances screen in my head whenever I wanted to check it - MD was not lying to me. Our balance was very slightly in the red - there was no secret supply of cash. "Christ, can you imagine what I''d do with a million right now? And can you imagine what I''d do to MD if I found out he''d been holding out on me while I''d been under so much stress?"


    "Can you warm up, please?"


    That was unlike Sandra. She was normally chill about letting me ease my way into the match. "Do you need a hug?"


    "I need you to warm up and score eight quick goals, please."


    I laughed at looked at my bench options. Wibbers was there but there was something about him recently that made me hesitate before putting him on the pitch. I had been using him a lot but like Dazza he hadn''t scored. Maybe there was a slight doubt in his mind about whether he was good enough. The team would get two quick wins, Wibbers would hit CA 60, and when he got on the pitch next he''d be right back to being a phenomenon. "Cole and Sharky, I reckon."


    "Kay," said Sandra, and got them warming up. After staring at the pitch pretty hard for a couple of minutes, I joined them.


    ***


    70''


    Triple change for Chester.


    Off comes Josh Owens, Ryan Jack, and Lee Hudson.


    On comes Cole Adams, Wes Hayward, and Max Best.


    It looks like the player-manager will play as a centre back.


    ***


    2-6-2. Ian Evans had laughed at me. The world wasn''t ready for it.


    Cole for Josh was a like-for-like change, spreading the minutes around.


    Sharky for Ryan Jack (with Magnus switching into the centre) gave us lightning speed on the right and, more importantly, something for me to aim at.


    I moved Youngster up into the CM slot next to Lee C and Magnus.


    I moved myself from centre back to DM.


    The genius of the plan was that teams in League Two didn''t man-mark the other team''s defensive midfielders, so unlike against Mansfield and Carlisle I would be able to dominate the game. Okay, I''d be too far away to have ten shots and would be too central to get into crossing positions, but I felt like Sharky''s speed would cause havoc and would at least generate some free kicks. And I could use Cupid''s Arrows to combine with either Henri or Dazza and make it more likely that my passes would reach them.


    ***


    71''


    It''s hooked long.


    Fierce wins the header.


    Best controls on his chest and dabs the ball to Green.


    Green plays a simple return pass.


    Best launches the ball towards the right wing. Hayward hares after it.


    He gets there! Hayward continues his run.


    He gets to the byline and fizzes the ball across the face of goal.


    But it''s too far ahead of Lyons and Smith. They had a ten-yard head start and couldn''t keep up with their teammate!


    ***


    74''


    Neat turn by Ennis. He runs at Chester.


    He shapes to spread the ball wide but instead goes on a dribble.


    Ennis crashes into Best.


    Best comes away with the ball.


    He launches it to the right wing.


    Hayward gets there!


    Hayward is fouled!


    Will this be a yellow card? The defender gets away with a warning.


    Best has words for the referee about that decision, then he places the ball.


    Best to take the free kick from the right of the pitch, close to the touchline, thirty yards out. No chance to shoot from there.


    He has options in the box. Fierce, Green, Lyons, and Smith will be licking their lips.


    Best... moves away from the action. Evergreen plays the ball a yard ahead. Best takes it forward.


    The defence had rushed out to trigger the offside trap. They have to get back now!


    Best whips in a cross from the new angle.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    It''s Lyons. The cross was right onto his head, as though drawn by magic.


    Chester are level.


    ***


    Gillingham''s manager was shit at squad building but rather better as a tactician. He saw that I''d blown a hole in his 4-2-3-1 formation and reorganised into a 3-5-2. His plan was to match us up and let his better quality tell.


    I swapped us into 3-4-3 with Magnus joining the defensive line and me as the third striker. I would spend most of my time in the DM slot, and would only cross the halfway line when I was sure it would lead to something.


    My thought was that if I mostly stayed near my defenders I might get a few chances to menace the Gills penalty box without being man-marked, and when I did attack we would have three against three. It would be low-level carnage for as long as it took my opposite number to realise what I was doing.


    It was a huge risk, but as Pascal often said, no risk no fun.


    ***


    77''


    Icke takes the goal kick. He clips it to Evergreen.


    Evergreen controls and finds Green.


    Best drops to the DM slot to receive the ball. He gestures and his team drops ten yards.


    Perhaps he is happy to hold onto what would be a valuable point.


    Best exchanges passes with Contreras.


    Chester are in no hurry to get forward.


    Gillingham press hard.


    Best chips the ball over midfield to Smith.


    The Australian striker holds the ball up well.


    He has Lyons in support.


    But Smith turns his man. That''s good strength. He spots Hayward in space on the right.


    But Best is charging forward!


    Best takes the ball from Smith''s toes. Best slaloms past the last defender.


    Best must score! Only the keeper to beat.


    The goalie closes the angle...


    Best... backheels the ball sideways.


    Lyons has an open goal.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Chester are ahead!


    ***


    In the celebrations, Dazza was ecstatic. "You''re so money! You''re so money!"


    "You''re money," I said, hugging someone. "Everyone''s money!"


    ***


    I quite liked the 3-4-3-with-a-DM tactic, so I moved Youngster there and took his position in the centre of the pitch, creating a 3-1-4-2 formation.


    With me playing like a true box-to-box midfielder, we looked great. I was a Rolls Royce of a DM, if I say so myself, and when I moved to CAM I got double marked. In my brief stints as a true central midfielder, when I sprayed passes to Sharky Gills dropped back ten yards in a panic. I was creating tactical challenges all over the pitch and I was frazzling them.


    Gills wanted to attack, to build a head of steam, but in this setup and this mood we were far too good on counters.


    They kept at least six in the rest defence and that didn''t leave enough forward players to hurt us.


    It was only near the end when they sent bodies forward in huge numbers that they looked threatening, but we had two incredible counters. One when I pinged the ball for Henri to chase and he took a heavy touch that allowed Gills to get back, and one where I, fatigued, tried to ping a long one to Sharky that I got completely wrong. In a rare stroke of luck, the ball went exactly into Lee C''s path and he went marauding but his pass to Sharky was overhit.


    We were making mistakes all over the pitch, starting to cramp, our Condition scores were plummeting, so I changed to 4-5-1, shoved square pegs in round holes, and went Men Behind Ball for the three minutes of injury time.


    Not how I wanted to live my life but I couldn''t ask my guys to do more.


    The final whistle was such a relief.


    Two points became five. We were still bottom of the table but win the next game and we''d leapfrog three other teams.


    We were on the move.


    ***


    Wednesday, October 1


    I told the lads we were going to start the day at BoshCard. The cabins at Bumpers were fine for very quick ''here''s the plan for the week'' meetings, but this was a big one. An important one. One where I didn''t want everyone squashed together getting distracted.


    It was the money talk we had been planning ever since Ryan Jack had confessed he didn''t know how to invest. The plan had been to do it at the start of the season but I''d fallen out with Andrew Harrison over his shit wages and didn''t want to then have a big presentation about how to invest surplus income. Then we''d struggled so hard in the league people were talking about relegation. I mean, ludicrous, but it wasn''t the right time to talk about the future millions we would all be making.


    Now that they were working for a manager who had WON A LEAGUE TWO MATCH WHOO, now that everyone could see and feel and believe we were in a good place, it was time.


    MD did the first part while Brooke watched, nodding, as though she agreed with everything he was saying, which she did. The social proof the rich people gave each other was enormous.


    It was quite a slow, methodical presentation but I think every single person in the room was absolutely rapt - perhaps excluding Henri - and the high levels of attention were caused by a slide MD had shown very near the beginning of his talk. It was a slide that showed how much money MD had made following the advice he was now giving us. The chart didn''t have any numbers on but fuck me, it got our attention anyway.


    The theme of the presentation, boiled down, was that his father had given him the advice to take ten percent of every wage he ever got and save it for a rainy day. A young MD agreed with the general principle but did some maths and realised inflation would eat his savings and he''d be no better off. He learned about the stock market - MD briefly explained what shares were and answered a comment from Wibbers that no, buying shares wasn''t the same as gambling - and when he got his first job, started buying shares.


    MD had a spreadsheet with every trade he had ever made. They were all buys, he said. No sales. This was him paying his future self but once that was done he felt free to spend the rest of his money and not feel bad about it. Then came the chart before the chart.


    Small grey bars emerged from the X axis like the silhouette of a city centre skyline. These bars represented the amount of money MD had spent buying shares every year. The first bars, from when MD was a noob in the pharma industry, were tiny, but there was a steady increase in the height across 25 years. Sometimes there were huge spikes, sometimes slight dips. MD explained that when his company had done well he had earned bonuses that he dumped completely into shares, while in fallow years he couldn''t commit the full ten percent.


    He clicked from that chart to show the mind-blowing one. It had the same grey bars at the bottom but there was also a line that showed the total, cumulative value of his portfolio.


    The line went up and down but let''s be honest, mostly up. Up up and away.


    There were a few dotted lines crossing the screen to give it a sense of structure. As I said, MD had removed the actual values but I couldn''t help but think each dotted line represented a million and I don''t think I was alone in that thought. The guy''s portfolio was worth somewhere between ten and twenty million pounds.


    No wonder he could afford to work for Chester for free. No wonder he''d quit the daily grind to do a lucrative little consulting business. He didn''t need the money. He could pick and choose projects that suited him while buying nice watches and driving sweet motors.


    Of course, he couldn''t choose his football club and I was ruining his semi-retirement by dragging his beloved club kicking and screaming up the football league. To paraphrase a Wrexham fan, his misery brought me some comfort.


    Dan Badford put his hand up. "MD, do you want to marry my mum?"


    Big laugh, and the first time that morning MD didn''t look like a master of the universe.


    "Any questions about what I''ve said?" said MD. There were lots of questions that he and Brooke answered. I wondered what her portfolio looked like.


    Then it was time for the interactive portion of the event. I had volunteered to be a guinea pig for the others. I''d set up an account at the place MD used - not the cheapest, but it had been around for a hundred years - and I had sent a bit of money into it. My laptop was connected to the screen and MD told me how to buy a share.


    Somehow there was one share I could buy that replicated all the shares in the world and it was the simplest, easiest thing for the people in this room - again, except Henri - to get their heads around.


    I bought some shares.


    "Great!" beamed MD. "Welcome to the executive lounge, Max."


    "I do own a football club, you know," I complained.


    "Only one?" said MD, and there were some laughs from people who knew that story.


    "What do I do now?"


    "Nothing. Put your ten percent in every month and buy more of that share. It''s that simple. Everyone, if you want to do this, Brooke and myself will sit with you and guide you through the process, just like we did with Max."


    Ryan said, "Oh, me. Me first. Yes, please."


    "Oh, just one little moment." That was Henri. He was what banking insiders like me called a sophisticated investor. He had properties and was the sort of person who would invest in art and fine wine. "If I may hijack this meeting, please."


    I frowned. "You don''t think this investment plan is a good idea?"


    "I think it is an exceptional idea pitched exactly at the right level for the young men in this room. And Ryan."


    "Et tu, Henri," said Ryan, miming that he had been stabbed.


    "No, I mean it. This is wonderful. Simplicity meets compound interest meets low-cost ETFs. It is truly a masterpiece. MD, Brooke, thank you so much. I wish someone had sat me down when I was earning my first paycheques. Alas, I had to fend for myself and thus my tastes became rather exotic. To everyone in this room I say, do this."


    He pointed to the screen where I was watching my share lose a tiny amount of value every time I looked at it. MD had told us not to look at the current value but to keep buying, but that was four thousand pounds I could have put towards a car, or to my debts, or to buying my mum a house. I mean, it used to be four thousand pounds. These days it seemed to be worth three thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine.


    Henri said, "Do this indeed, but I would like to propose another investment opportunity. One that I think will be profitable and will reduce the strain on our magnificent Max."


    "What?" I said, confused.


    "You have signed Vincent Addo to your Welsh team. He will join in January, I believe, after he turns 18. He is a Ghanaian under 21 player who you scouted in Chile and Youngster here has given me character references for him. In the summer you must pay his club one hundred thousand pounds but alas, Max, you do not have such money. Which is why you are rushing around on a child''s toy instead of buying a replacement car."


    "RIP The Duchess," said Ben, who made the sign of the cross.


    "Here is my suggestion." Henri walked to the front of the room. "I will create a syndicate based mostly on the players in this room. We will each chip in a small amount, or a large amount, according to our means and our risk appetite. We will raise one hundred thousand pounds. We will loan it to you or to Saltney - I will check the tax implications if there is enough interest in getting the syndicate up and running - and you will sleep well at night. You will look after Vincent Addo''s career, as you do, and you will sell him to Chester for three hundred thousand pounds. Is that not so?"


    "That''s the plan, yeah. Something like that."


    "Something like that. MD, this number, this three hundred thousand, you would indulge Max in this amount?"


    MD squirmed as though he hadn''t just shown us a chart showing us that he, not I, was the biggest swinger in the Willy Wonga contest. "These aren''t numbers I''m comfortable with, you understand, but we have received offers for players that Max has brought to the club far in excess of that. If Vincent Addo is half as good..."


    "He means Youngster," I said, and spoke in a way that I can only attribute to being on a high from the night before. "Vincent is only half as good as Youngster, it''s true. Which means we''ll only get fifty million for him."


    Cheers, whoops, cries of ''Young-ster! Young-ster!''


    Henri smiled. "So there you go, Max. One hundred out, three hundred in. You will slice off some costs, retain some profit, and give us a one hundred percent return on our investment. Two hundred thousand for the syndicate. Not bad for six months'' work."


    There had been too many numbers in the meeting already. "You what?" I said.


    Brooke was giving Henri a very interested look. "That''s clever."


    "Isn''t it?" said the smug bastard.


    I looked to MD for an ally. "There are some ethical considerations," he mused. "Chester players and staff financing their manager''s club with the intention of trading a player back to Chester. It''s murky."


    "Perhaps," said Henri. "But Max already plans to do the Addo trade. If this is the only deal we do, I say why not make some money as we go? You have seen how this debt is preying on his mind. I for one am willing to get rich from Max''s genius. Personally, I should like to roll my profit over and go again."


    "Go again?" I said.


    "Reinvest in another player or two. Chester will pay ten thousand for Jamie Brotherhood, yes? We saw him - he looks a talent to me. If you think you can sell him for fifty, a hundred thousand in a couple of years, I believe you. Why not invest in five more just like him? You told me once about an idea to create a football factory. Okay, let''s do it. If money is the only object, I have some. All I need is an obscene return on investment."


    I was stunned. "MD, tell me this is bonkers, please."


    "It isn''t bonkers. It''s a good idea and apart from a thousand financial and legal questions the only issue will be how much Chester FC gets involved. If we''re going to buy the players, as in the case of Vincent, who sets the price? That''s ripe for abuse. If a player will be sold to a third-party club there are very few ethical concerns, but what does Chester get from having that player train here with us as you plan to do with Vincent?"


    Henri had thought about that. "Chester gets its underpaid players to make some easy money. Perhaps enough money to persuade some of them to stay longer because they''re making more from Max''s football factory than from their own careers."


    "That might be one degree of wish fulfilment too far," said MD.


    Henri nodded. "We can start with Vincent, though. It''s the easiest win-win in the history of commerce. MD, why don''t we have lunch and work things through?"


    "I''m in," said Brooke.


    "Of course!" said Henri. "We get the best tables when you join us."


    "I mean I''m in for the investment. Lunch, too."


    "Wait," said Ryan Jack. "Leave space for the little guys."


    They were all rushing to invest in Vincent Addo! "Hang on, hang on," I said, raising my voice over the hubbub. "You can''t invest in a football player like that. It''s against FIFA''s rules and it''s one I agree with."


    Henri gave me a sad look. "Max, we wouldn''t be investing in Vincent, or Chester, or even Saltney. It would be a loan with terms favourable to us, but risk, too. We do not seek to control Vincent''s economic interests or to take a stake in your club. If the deal bombs, we lose money. If it goes well, we make bank. Yes," he said, lifting his chin up, "I have thought of everything. Sleep well, tonight, Max. And look at buying a new car tomorrow. Your money problems are over."


    Youngster stood and pointed. "Until he buys another football club!"


    With a lot of laughs and chatter, everyone got up and left. Sealbiscuit was waiting outside waiting to take them to Bumpers where their attributes would turn green while they talked about making their money make money.


    I was left alone. I closed my eyes. What the fuck just happened?


    On the screen to my right, my investment was now worth four thousand and twelve pence.


    The number was coloured green.


    ***


    Monday, October 6


    After the Doncaster Rovers match, I texted Spectrum asking him to come in for an emergency meeting, first thing Monday morning.


    I settled into one side of my tiny office at Bumpers Bank, while he sat in the opposite corner, about twenty inches away, on the visitors'' bean bag.


    "Spectrum," I said, all serious.


    I realised I had made a mistake and he had spent half of Saturday and all of Sunday worrying about what the meeting would encompass. Dumb, but I couldn''t change the past. Duly noted, do better next time. "You won us three points this weekend."


    He sagged with relief - why had he thought the meeting would be anything bad? "Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you, Max."


    "Your analysis was mint. It would have been even better if you had told me how shit Doncaster were at playing the ball out from the back. If I''d been up in a forward position I would have caused pandemonium. Seriously, why are these teams trying to get their goalies to play like peak Iniesta? We need to talk seriously though. Deep shit. Are you ready?"


    "Yes. Of course."


    "You''ve got a job. You''re in charge of youth development and you run the youth teams. But you want a more analytical role. Is that a fair summary?"


    He nudged his glasses up, then down. "Yes. Er... yes."


    "Let''s start with the youth teams. Because everyone''s here all the time I can sort of just walk round of an evening and enjoy all the football. It''s glorious. Do you know what I saw last week?"


    "Yes. No."


    "I saw all the age groups mixed together to the point where I couldn''t tell who was the 12s and who was the 14s. And I thought, gosh, Spectrum is on the cutting edge of bio-bands. But then I remembered - that''s me. That''s what I wanted. I asked you to push the younger kids up to get a challenge, move them back down so they could absorb it, move them up to stress them again. During the first half against Donny I was thinking about the sessions I saw last week and they were, objectively, crazy bonkers. It was next level insanity such that there wasn''t a player on any pitch who wasn''t learning or relaxing or having fun or meeting their future teammates. It''s like you took what I said, turned it up to eleven, then turned it up to fifty. And I''ve been walking around going yeah this is normal. But there are maybe two people out of seventy million in this whole country who would do it like that, react to it like that."


    "Two? That number might be on the money."


    "Okay so then we come to your data skills." I shuffled some papers around. After the win against Gillingham, Spectrum had spent Wednesday in his man cave and had re-emerged into society on the Thursday with a vengeance. "You won us three points."


    "No," said Spectrum, modestly.


    "You did. Hang on, let me check the message you sent." I got my phone out and scrolled around. "Max don''t pick team been up all night on the cheese got an idea. I mean, I called Sandra and she was like, yeah, bin off our training plans, Spectrum''s got the scent in his nostrils."


    "She didn''t."


    "She did. We both did. We all think you''re fucking money, mate. So what did you say?" I picked up one of the papers. "I''ve worked out what the oppo are doing. Stop Max, Stop Chester. That''s the cry of the age. I mean, yeah, no big insight there to be fair. But you wondered what Donny''s analysts would be thinking. You came up with our average positions chart. Against Gills I played as DM, I played CAM. The average position shows me as CM. Okay, it helps that I did play in central midfield for a spell but let''s be honest, I was as close to playing CM as you were."


    "Tiny bit more, maybe."


    "Yeah but this is genius, bro. You thought Donny would flood midfield so they could man-mark me. And guess what?"


    "They did."


    "They fucking did you beautiful bastard. So what did I do?"


    "You played right back and fucked them up, boss."


    "Right. Went bonkers, didn''t I? What did I text you right after the match?"


    He panicked and got his phone out. "Er... clip my madnesses and send the video to Roddy Jones. Tell him that''s his final form."


    "Shit," I said, slapping my knee in frustration. "I thought I''d thanked you. I meant to thank you."


    "S''okay, boss. We all know you''re wrecked after matches."


    I nodded a few times, getting slower with every nod. "Thing is, you understand me. Emma and Henri understand me as a person, I think. Brooke gets where I''m coming from as a sort of eco-capitalist. Pascal gets me as a floating megabrain. But you get me when it comes to youth development and data. The youth or the data - two big topics. So the question is, which is to be master?"


    Spectrum sank into the bean bag. It was an expensive one, a premium one, but an expensive bean bag is still a fraction of the cost of a chair. He dipped his head. "I love the data, boss. It''s the latest frontier. The wild west. Chance for a man like me to stake his claim."


    I did something weird with my lips and tapped the glass by my head. "I know. But that''s not what I want. What you''re doing with the kids is priceless. It makes me proud the way it is. Happy kids, happy parents, jealous scouts. I don''t want to make you do something you''re not passionate about but I think you are just as into it as me. And I don''t want a massive data team. There''s no point. I want you, five times a year, up all night on the cheese because you''ve seen something odd and you can''t shake it off. I want 4 a.m. texts from you saying you''ve worked out how to beat Doncaster, or Derby, or Watford, or Wolves."


    "Sorry, boss, it''s not clear. I don''t follow."


    "Your priority is the youth system. You''re my youth development puppet master. I''m going to bring in two, three, four elite coaches and they''re going to work under you because you know what I want. You know my priorities, you know that what''s best for the kids is what''s best for the club. But overseeing them isn''t as much work as it seems, so you''ve got time to dip into the data. So when you get a brainwave you follow it. Every year that goes by I''ll buy you more and more data. I don''t need the charts and graphs, I need someone with a brain who I fucking respect who can give me ideas that will make a difference in matches. Do you get me? I need imagination and flair. I need something deeper and I''ll even hire you a minion to help you get there."


    "A minion?"


    "One of the nerds from the university. You can watch some footage and think, ''huh, do they leave the far post open or is it just me?'' and the boffin can do the hard yards."


    "The priority is the kids, though?"


    "Of course. What do you think? What''s more important to this club than Stephen Watson and Simon Black?"


    He thought for a while. "Kids... with a dip of data."


    "Yep."


    "Elite coaches and a data minion."


    "Yep."


    He shoved his thumbnail between his teeth. "The parents are in heaven, you know."


    "Why?"


    "You don''t seem to realise it but you are a big deal. You go to these dads and you''re so invested in their kids and their development... They want what''s best for their children."


    "I do. That''s why I want you."


    "Kids and data. It sounds like the best of both worlds. It... It makes me suspicious, somehow. Not suspicious, but..."


    "I think I know what you''re saying. But Spectrum, be real. I don''t need you looking at the data 40 games a season, do I? I''m pretty good and I know how to win. I only need your best ideas. If you go a whole season without spotting anything interesting, no problem. It''ll still be good to have you to bounce ideas off of. But if my kids aren''t all right I''m going to go off on a doom loop, aren''t I? I need you, mate. Seriously. You''re money. You''re so money and you don''t even know it."


    He flushed, swallowed, and said, "Okay."


    "Bosh!" I punched the air. "It might take two years but I''m going to put you on silly money. Lobster money. MD money."


    "MD money?"


    "I take that back. Lobster money."


    "What''s that?"


    "Don''t think about the numbers, yeah? The numbers will take care of themselves. Just know that I know. I know what you''ve done and what you''re doing. Okay? Start thinking about what pose you want for your statue."


    "Statue?"


    "Conversation''s over. I''ve got to go see my b-boys."


    ***


    I grabbed my scooter and zipped the short distance down Bumpers Lane to the Deva. While I waited for MD and Brooke in the boardroom, I checked the league table and read some articles.


    Super Seals Sink Dismal Donny


    Max Best''s resurgent Chester overwhelmed Doncaster Rovers at a noisy Deva stadium earlier today. Doncaster played like a team of strangers, but the only strange thing about Chester was that Best''s usual 20-minute cameo came at right back, a position from which he caused conniptions.


    The rest of the article was a bunch of guff about a nervous first half and Youngster marking star signing Danny Grant out of the game, followed by descriptions of our goals. The first was a free kick that I had got completely wrong and hit into the wall - something I rarely did. But the rebound fell nicely and I struck it with pace and swerve and the goalie got nowhere near it. The second was a simple Zach Green header from a corner.


    Bosh, 2-0, easy. Okay not easy but straightforward.


    We had risen to 21st, but more importantly we weren''t a complete laughing stock. MD wouldn''t be getting any more memes from his stupid mates. The fear factor was back - everything I had been saying in private and in public was coming true.


    It was happening.


    Brooke arrived first and I was able to get a very quick reassurance that she was on my side. She assured me that demand for tickets was firm even despite our poor start to the season, said the sponsors were happy, and the bookings for our all-weather pitches were meeting expectations.


    MD came in soon after, made himself a coffee, looked out onto the Deva''s pristine pitch, and said, "Six points from six, just like you said. And it makes me nervous, just like you said." He smiled, turned, and took his seat. He composed himself and looked at me. "You seem more relaxed, but you weren''t worried about the football, were you? You were worried about Vincent Addo. Are you going to go with Henri''s syndicate?"


    "It''s profit I could be keeping for myself but yeah, I think I will. It''s peace of mind, isn''t it? And it incentivises the investors to make sure Addo gets a good education here."


    MD sipped his coffee. "What''s this meeting all about, Max?"


    I waited, hoping the perfect form of words would come to me. They didn''t. I cleared my throat. "Quick chat about the Newcastle match. You want to put up the prices."


    "Of course I do. If we use dynamic pricing we can really cash in."


    I looked at Brooke and she nodded back to me. On her own, she probably would have used dynamic pricing, same as MD, but she was happy to think long-term, too. I said, "Thing is, MD, you''re treating this like a one-off. The mighty Saudi Arabia touring little old Chester. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Let''s jack up the prices for our lot and their lot. But this isn''t a special occasion. It''s totally, utterly normal. We''re in the fourth round of the AOK Cup not by chance but by design. We will get there again. We''ll go deeper into the cups every year. We will play Newcastle and Arsenal and Crystal Palace again and again. Do you get me?"


    "Not really."


    "The EFL takes ten percent of our gate receipts and we split the rest. If the tickets cost 60 quid or 20, it doesn''t make all that much difference to us."


    "It does."


    "It doesn''t. I''m going to fucking piss off a lot of Newcastle fans next time we play them but this time it''s all smiles. Come to Chester and remember we didn''t rip you off. Buy a kebab. Okay? If you put the prices up you''ll need to find a new manager for that match. I don''t like their owners or how they were received by the fans but those Geordies are working class. Charging them 60 quid would be disgraceful. Count me out. Do it my way and you get two things."


    MD was looking up, controlling his temper. "What are those two things?"


    "One, you get it again in the FA Cup and again next year in all the cups. I love cups, mate. It''s only a matter of time before we get our big away day. Do you want an instant half a million in ticket sales, yes or no? Second, selling out the stadium yet again makes a certain topic more urgent."


    "What topic is that?"


    "I need five million pounds, Mike. I need five million pounds pretty darn quick."


    MD reorganised himself, all kinds of annoyed. "Why do you need five million pounds, Max?"


    I licked my lips and looked at Brooke. She gave me yet another nod. She was behind me. "I need five million to demolish the Harry McNally terrace, dig up the whole pitch, relay it, and have one-quarter of our new stadium in place by the start of next season. We''ll earn an extra million a year in ticket sales and we''ll be able to bring the women home."


    MD glared at me. "And how, pray, do you think you''ll get this five million pounds?"


    I smiled. Grinned. Chuckled. All the Max Best hits. "I have no fucking idea."

 12.5 - Black and White

    5.


    "What''s black and white and red all over?


    A newspaper."


    - Traditional British joke


    ***


    Monday, October 13


    The season had settled into a new rhythm with Bumpers Bank as the bass drum. Bom bom bom, train, eat, improve. I was constantly pulling players aside having little talks with them. Rainman, Sharky, Sunday Sowunmi. A common experience was me going into one of the cabins and feeling slightly happier without quite knowing why, then discovering that Spectrum had installed acoustic foam in the Sin Bin or Ben''s dad had been to fix the flickering lights in the showers.


    I thought we would get a few months of this downbeat upward mobility, that I would be able to focus my attention on Relationism and fundraising. Mmm, not quite. Change was afoot.


    But one foot I hoped wouldn''t need changing was Pascal''s. (Wow. Terrible. Cut that.)


    The man in question was with me in the clinic, alongside Physio Dean, as we waited our turn for an X-ray.


    Having to wait was fairly surprising because every time I had been there in the past, including for my ''medical'' when I first came to Chester, I''d had the place to myself. Coming on a Monday morning made me realise this was a busy organisation.


    "I suppose that''s why they call it a business," I said, but Dean hadn''t been privy to any of my prior thoughts so he gave me a blank look and returned to his phone. He didn''t really want to be indulging my weirdnesses, especially with a full slate of battered and bruised footballers waiting for him.


    I got a text from Emma''s dad.


    Sebastian: Oh me lads, you should''ve seen us gannin''!


    Me: Pardon me, sir, are you quite well?


    Sebastian: Another win for the mighty Toon!


    Me: New phone who dis?


    Sebastian: You talk a big game, Max. If you think you can beat Noocastle, put your money where your mouth is. Your thousand against my two.


    Me: The Newcastle squad cost 500 million. Mine cost 500 thousand. By my maths, you need to beat us by 10,000 goals or you''ve underperformed.


    Sebastian: You won''t have a friendly wager then? What would change your mind?


    Me: If I had three lightning fast forwards.


    "Excuse me," said a rando. It was a middle-aged woman we were sharing the waiting room with. "Are you that Max Best?"


    "Yes."


    "Oh, I knew it. My Alan''s a big fan."


    "I''m a big fan of Alan''s."


    "Oh, you are funny. I don''t much follow the football, if I''m honest. I like to see the boys doing well, though. How are the boys doing?"


    I looked up. "What a question. Pascal?"


    "Ugh," he said. He was anxious and didn''t want to make small talk. I had promised him his leg wasn''t as badly broken as the doctors feared but in this medical space filled with highly-trained professionals striding confidently through the spaces, it was hard to believe they might have made a mistake.


    I smiled, but I was stressed too. The curse couldn''t be wrong, surely? We would know soon enough. "Well, Mrs, er..."


    "Turner," she said. "But call me Charlie."


    "Hang on," I said. "Your husband is Alan Turner?"


    "Yes, do you know him?"


    "He''s the manager of Newcastle United."


    Charlie Turner smiled. "Oh, he''s not that one."


    "Oh, good."


    "Do you not like him?"


    "No, he''s one of the worst men in football. I think he might be the actual worst."


    Physio Dean stirred. "Worse than Chip? Worse than Folke Wester? Worse than the president of FIFA?"


    I thought about it. "Yeah. I think so. Turner is everything that''s wrong with football, society, and the human condition. He''s a smug apologist for football''s greatest excesses."


    Dean''s eyes drifted left and right. "We''re playing them in a couple of weeks. October 28th, isn''t it? You''re not going to go full Max, are you?"


    I pulled my bottom lip. "No... No, I don''t think so. For, like, ten reasons, including the fact that we''ll lose and you can''t speak your mind if you get beat. Do you know what I mean? Sounds like sour grapes, no-one listens. No, there''s no point laying into him this time. I''ll have to be patient."


    "He might be the England manager by the time we play Newcastle next."


    I scoffed, with just a hint of bitterness. "That''d be perfect. He''s the perfect candidate for the English Football Association after they dared appoint a world class German. What they need next is a man with no moral compass, a man who can be bought and sold, a man you can sell to Daily Mail readers."


    "I read the Daily Mail," said the woman.


    "Yeah," I muttered, tuning out. "That''s why you married a guy called Alan Turner."


    Pascal had been my assistant manager in the 3 R Welsh project for a few weeks and he stepped into the role once more. "Our recent form is much better, Mrs. Turner. We surprised Fleetwood Town in the Vans Trophy. Max tricked them by putting out a weakened side against Wigan and a strong one against Doncaster. It very much appeared as though we were kicking the Trophy in the ton. Fleetwood rested their best players."


    "Oh," she said, and I realised that to an outsider, much of what we did sounded like gibberish. It didn''t help that Pascal had used an obscure German idiom in the middle of his speech.


    "We knocked them out of the AOK Cup and have probably knocked them out of the Vans Trophy. We also snatched a draw against them in the first league game of the season. They do not like us much."


    "No," said Mrs. Turner. She knew one thing to say to football fans. "What was the score?"


    "One-nil," said Pascal. "Max scored."


    "That''s good," she said, making an impressed face. The really impressive thing was that we had won the key match without using Bench Boost and I wouldn''t need to use it in the third and final group stage tie either.


    The Vans Trophy was made up of teams from the third and fourth tiers, plus under 21 sides from the academies of big clubs. Chester''s third group stage tie would be against Liverpool under 21s. The academy sides in the Vans Trophy had played a lot of great football but had lost almost every match. It was amazing experience for the future stars of Liverpool, Brighton, and the rest, but the youngsters didn''t have the nous or experience to actually beat rugged teams of hard men who didn''t want to be humiliated by kids.


    When Chester were in the Premier League, I would manage our under 21s and we would win the Trophy. Why? Because why not. That is, if we were allowed to compete. Currently the tournament was only open to clubs with Category 4 Academies and I was running Chester outside the official Academy system. The aim of that was to help protect my young players from being poached by big clubs - that concept was about to be tested. Liverpool were trying to steal my tiny goal machine, Simon Black.


    "This weekend we had a setback," said Pascal. "An away draw to Sutton United. Two-all after leading two-nil."


    "Oh no."


    Dean shook his head. "Away point''s a good point."


    "Max rates them the weakest team in the league. We have to win such matches."


    "Away point''s a good point," repeated Dean. "Beggars can''t be choosers."


    "No," I said. "It was bad. My fault. Sent on too many kids, didn''t I?"


    "Yes," agreed Pascal and Dean, simultaneously, which made them smile.


    I rubbed my face. I had given Christian Fierce a rest, played the first twenty minutes as captain, created space for Henri to score, whipped in a corner for Lee Hudson to nod home, and until the 70th minute we had bossed the game. When I sent on Dan and Lucas Friend (the young left back), Sutton hadn''t shown any ambition, so I''d thrown on Sunday Sowunmi and Tyson, too. Why not?


    Well, the reason why not was that Sutton saw the average age of the team had fallen to about ten and had come at us hard.


    "That was one of the biggest fumbles of my management career," I mused. Our starting CA of 73.3 was higher than Sutton''s 72 and we had played ten points better than them, but the mania for youth development had gone a step too far. "It was bad timing to drop two points."


    "Why?" said Dean, sharply, but the Polish doctor came to get us.


    Pascal hobbled on his crutches into the private room where his brace was carefully removed. The doctor complained that this whole session was stupid, a very terrible idea, a waste of time, but she got things set up and we stepped out. She clicked a button and X-rays smashed into Pascal''s leg.


    We went back in and waited. Our nerves weren''t as frayed as when we had finished our last game of the season and had to spend four dreadful minutes waiting for the Grimsby result to come through, but it was close.


    "Crappity crap," said the Pole when the black and white image came on her screen. "We did the wrong leg."


    I punched the air. "Yes," I hissed. I felt Dean''s eyes on me as I bounced around the room. "I fucking knew it."


    "What''s happening?" said Pascal, who was lying down with his arms over his head.


    "You''re all better," I said. "Get up off the bed and get back to work you lazy bastard. What the fuck." I checked his Condition score. The curse rated him as 30% fit.


    Dean rushed forward. "No no no, don''t move. There has been a mistake. The images are mixed up."


    "No they''re fucking not," I said. I exhaled massively. What a relief! Yes I was one step closer to being burned as a witch, but I was also one step closer to being able to play 3-4-3 diamond. Get the fuck in! "Okay let me think about this. Pascal, they''re gonna keep you here while they take more photos of your lovely legs but I''ve seen enough. I''m going. So the question is, do you want to play against Tranmere or Newcastle?"


    "Fuck sake, Max!" cried Dean. "He''s not playing this month! Not this year!"


    "Course he is. He''s fine. Pascal?"


    "Newcastle."


    "Top. Don''t tell anyone you''re healed. Seeya."


    I was striding out when Dean stopped me. "Max. No."


    "What now?"


    He pointed. "His leg can''t have healed. It can''t."


    Pascal said, "Can I tell my mother? What about Tiggy?"


    I gently eased Dean out of my way and moved to the table. "Only if you can trust them not to tell anyone else. Like not a single soul. Why don''t you say you had some good news about your recovery? That''ll cheer them up and you can bat away any follow-up questions. They''ve already been through the worst and they don''t need all the good news in one pop. I''d like to unleash you, mate. You know, as a surprise, as a fucking bolt from the blue. Newcastle have analysts for days but they won''t be doing reports on a guy who has eight months to go in a long term injury, will they?


    "I know you like being analysed but I like winning matches. I have zero chance to beat Newcastle but if you can give me ten minutes that increases our odds to one percent. Two percent. Okay let''s be straight up, I''m not going to take the slightest risk with your health for the slimmest possible chance of winning a match but if your rehab goes well and if I get the sense that Newcastle are going to put out an under 21 side, I''d like the option of using you. We can beat a Prem under 21 side. We can! Finish this, then I want you off to a counter-current pool in Manchester where you can get moving again without putting strain on your bits and without being recognised.


    "When Dean gets over his shock he''s going to get you back in the groove in record time. When you''re not training you''re wearing your brace okay? For show. Can you do a sad face?"


    He was smiling pretty hard. "Not right now, boss, no."


    "Imagine I''ve turned down a five million pound bid from Newcastle United for you."


    "Why would you do that?"


    "Because while you''d look amazing in that famous old black and white kit, I don''t want you playing for Alan Turner." Pascal frowned. I perked up. "There we go! Visualisation works. Maybe you don''t need those acting lessons after all."


    ***


    On my way out, I felt my phone vibrate.


    Sebastian: Come on, Max. Be a sport. Your thousand, my three. Four grand in the pot, winner takes all. All you have to do is beat Newcastle. What''s stopping you?


    Me: I don''t have a good scam. Sun Tsu told me to pick my battles.


    ***


    Outside the clinic, I hopped on the Green Baron, my cute little e-scooter, and did my customary curse check before turning off the screens so I could focus on the roads. Life was a lot more fragile without a sturdy metal shell around you.


    At some point in the very recent past I''d got cursemail. When I opened it, I almost had a dizzy spell.


    It was a monthly perk, but that made no sense because I had already been offered one on October 1. There were now two October perks in the shop.


    I had barely read the first one - I was determined to buy Relationism as soon as possible so I could get the fuck on with revolutionising football. The imps were trying to make me buy all kinds of vaguely-worded power-ups so that I would have to keep grinding for XP to unlock my full potential.


    No thanks. No distractions!


    As shocking as it was to be offered a second perk, it was just as shocking to read what it said.


    Seasonal Special Offer


    New perk collection available to buy until the witching hour on All Hallow''s Eve: Shocktober


    Cost: 2,777 XP


    Effects: Increases your chance of winning when playing a team with higher reputation in the month of October. This special offer contains three mini-packs: Expected Ghouls; The Full Protonic Reversal Pack; A Nightmare on Filbert Street.


    It was one of the earliest perk offers, repeated! The original offer, made two years prior, had seemed like an excuse for the imps to get silly and write loads of Halloween puns. There were three ''mini-packs'' which contained lots of ''mini-perks''.


    The imps had clearly enjoyed themselves coming up with the ideas but the perk itself had been easy to turn down. Too expensive, not enough benefit. It would help me win - to cause shocks - against bigger teams, which was almost everyone, but only in October.


    This time, though, I was more tempted. For a start, I was managing more matches. When Shocktober had first appeared I was the manager of the Beth Heads, end of list. Now I was the boss of Chester, who were in three different cups as well as the league, I was managing the worst unit in the army, and I was planning to take over the boy''s team. The men''s team had three big league games coming up - Walsall, Tranmere, and MK Dons, plus the AOK Cup match against Newcastle. We also had a Cheshire Cup match, though there was no chance we would be considered the underdogs.


    In short, the value proposition was completely different, and there was the question of when to rearrange our Vans Trophy match against Liverpool. The logical thing would be to reschedule it the first week of November, but if we kept it in October this perk would kick in. Whether they were fielding their kids or not, Liverpool were a bigger club than Chester.


    Scheduling the match in the last week of October would have been tight, but manageable. If we binned off the Newcastle match on the Tuesday, went hard at Liverpool on Thursday, we could put out a weak team on the Saturday - it was against Coalville Town F.C. in the FA Cup First Round. Easy.


    But when I checked the wording of the perk, a couple of things had changed and the second change was very significant.


    In the original version, one of the mini-perks had said this:


    Frankenstein Is The Doctor Not the Monster - Referees will make decisions in a fussy, pedantic manner. Activation optional.


    The name of the perk had been changed to:


    Frankenstein Is The Doctor And the Monster.


    Okay so one of the imps had been to a book club and learned that the so-called monster wasn''t the villain of the story. I didn''t think it was that black and white but fine. An interesting if utterly irrelevant change.


    But a whole segment of the Shocktober curse listed clubs against whom the mini-perks would always work (in October). For example, Frighten and Hove Albion and Shuddersfield Town. It was fairly unlikely I would ever play against those particular clubs in October, so it wasn''t awfully appealing.


    However, a new name had been added to the list:


    Nuke Hassle United.


    The imps thought adding that name would tempt me into spending my XP. Huh.


    I folded up the Green Baron, tucked it under my arm, and walked.


    ***


    Tuesday, October 14


    Cheshire Cup 1st Round: Chester versus Stalybridge Celtic FC


    Stalybridge came to town with an average CA of 25, which meant we could field almost any eleven and expect to win. Sandra and I had spent most of Monday morning bickering about a potential line up. She was in charge of the match but it was too good a chance to give minutes to younger players for me to not stick my oar in. As recompense, I promised to come off the bench and save the day if anything went wrong.


    I suggested using 4-4-2 to make it easier to integrate the under 18s.


    She asked for Ben (CA 67) in goal, and that was fine by me as long as Banksy (23) could come on for ten minutes if we were far enough ahead.


    A back four including Cole Adams (55), Sunday (33), and Jamie Brotherhood (20) was youthful, to say the least, but I let Sandra convince me to use Zach (74) in the match to provide some stability.


    From left to right of midfield: Josh Owens (55), Dan Badford (50), Andrew (56) and Noah Harrison (27).


    Up front, Tom Westwood (52) and Benny (35).


    Overall, a very respectable average of 47.6. It was amazing to think that when I had joined the club there were four members of the first team squad whose PA was under 40 and our starting left back was CA 29. We had come a long way since the days of Trick Williams.


    Sandra was happy to run the whole show and let me take the evening off, but there was one thing she thought was better coming from me - telling Zach he was Chester captain for the night. Have you ever seen a man''s chest inflate to three times its usual size? I have, twice. (The other being a baddie in a James Bond movie. He popped.)


    ***


    The match wasn''t all that interesting - we were better and it showed but we weren''t so much better that we could take the piss with slick moves. It got scrappy.


    Still, I was on fairly friendly terms with the Cheshire FA these days - I''d raised a ton of cash for the schools programme - and they had graciously permitted us to set our own prices for the match. We were charging a pound a person with cheap beer and that had attracted just over 700 to come - amazing numbers for the competition. Once again the Harry McNally was filled with people wearing bright yellow, while the stewards were in orange.


    Sebastian: 14 sleeps until the big night! Alan Turner''s a handsome fellow, isn''t he? Wonderful man. You''re lucky you get to meet him.


    While I was in the messages app I saw a text from Secretary Joe begging me for a final decision about the Liverpool under 21s game. I replied with the logical, sensible course - we would play it in the first week of November. No extra help from the curse, then, but if we did decide to go hard at Newcastle, we wouldn''t have to worry about fixture congestion.


    Physio Dean was next to me in the dugout. He had barely spoken to me since we''d seen Pascal''s X-rays, but he seemed to snap out of whatever spell the image had cast on him. "Boss," he said. "Seriously. How did you know about...?" He looked around, remembering the news was supposed to be kept under wraps for now.


    "I didn''t know, man," I said, sliding my phone back into my kit bag. "I just... Just had that feeling, you know? Like, I almost wanted to be wrong because I believe in science but there was something telling me it would heal fast. No harm in checking, is there?"


    "I suppose not."


    "Let''s not make a habit of getting long-term injur - you know what? I''m not even going to tempt fate."


    "I think that''s called character growth."


    "How was he today?"


    "Cloud nine. He wanted to go longer in the pool but I insisted he rest. Rest is just as important as the work he''s doing. I''d rather you didn''t use him for a while."


    "Yeah, well. I''m probably not gonna. But..."


    Dean was something of an expert in self-deception and he seemed to know what I was thinking. "What''s your deal with Alan Turner? I had a look and couldn''t see a connection between you. You''ve never played, never done a transfer. There''s no reason to hate him."


    I thought about covering my mouth to defend against lip readers, but there were no cameras getting close-ups of the dugout action. For now. "He''s a good coach, improves players, good on the tactics. If he was manager of, I don''t know, Bournemouth, I''d have a lot of time for him. He''s maybe about thirty percent too cheaty for my tastes but in a way I don''t mind him bending rules until they break - I more blame the feeble-minded weaklings who don''t enforce the rules. No, my problem with him isn''t football. It''s political."


    "Political?"


    "Yeah. I don''t really want to get into it, not this time, anyway."


    "Not this time?"


    "This time I''ll focus on the positives. The beautiful black and white kit, stories of Jackie Milburn, all that stuff I like. But we''re gonna play Newcastle again in the future and whoever is in the job then is gonna get it."


    "Get it? What''s it?"


    "It is that Chester will be sponsored by Amnesty International for one match and we''ll be shining a light on human rights abuses in countries that own English football clubs. The week before the match I''m gonna legally change my name to that of a journalist who was butchered by his own state and I''m going to wear that name on my shirt. Newcastle fans shouldn''t be happy they were bought by a regime that makes the Harkonnens look cuddly but I''ve spent enough time with Emma''s dad to sort of get past that. Mostly. I might land a few jabs... But nah. They can''t choose who they support, right? They want their team to do well. Fair enough."


    Sandra danced along the touchline shouting ''Switch! Switch!'' Noah clipped the ball ahead, Tom got there, pulled it back, Benny applied the finish. Four-nil!


    "Yeah, the fans are the fans," I said, returning to the topic. "And the country is the country. But the manager is there by choice and unless he''s pushing back against human rights abuses, he''s a toadie, he''s a stooge, he''s a servile coward. It is my professional opinion that Alan Turner is a fucking ghoul. There was a match early on where he was asked what he thought about the 80 citizens who were beheaded the day before and he said yeah if I start talking about that I''m on dangerous ground. Right. Dangerous ground. Like the embassy where they murdered the journalist while his fianc¨¦e was waiting outside.


    "That story haunts me, Dean. I think about it all the time. Fuck," I added, because I was getting wound up. I had been trying hard to keep my flappy Manc gob shut. I was a failing League Two manager. My opinions were worthless. I needed to get to the Prem before I went supernova but even then, what difference would it make? None. Almost none. There was one thing I could do. One thing that my powers would allow me to do better than almost anyone in the sport. "Alan Turner pretends he doesn''t know exactly what he''s doing but he does. The closer we get to the match the more I think it''s my duty to fuck him up. His only dream in life is to become the England manager and if I can end that dream I will think I''ve accomplished something. Fuck, wouldn''t that be amazing? I could be the agent of cosmic justice."


    Dean side-eyed me. "Is this because of Raffi Brown?"


    "What? What do you mean?"


    "The Saudi Pro League bought him against your wishes."


    "It''s got nothing to do with that. If they want to spend their money building up their football league so it''s the best in the world, that''s cool. That''s what you should do if you have a spare couple of trillion. If they had bought R. Brown six months later I would have been the happiest man who ever blew his lottery win on solar panels. Honestly, I don''t mind the SPL. Why shouldn''t Saudis have amazing players at their local clubs? If I was them I''d be buzzing. No, I know who was behind the R. Brown deal; I know who I should blame. What I blame Saudi Arabia for is buying Newcastle and turning English football into just another battleground in their endless geopolitical cold war and for revealing the moral bankruptcy of so many people."


    Dean said, "If you believe all that, why not say it now? You might not get another chance."


    "They''ll still be chopping people up next time, believe me. Their cruelty towards their people is all I have ever known."


    "I meant we might not get Newcastle again."


    "We will. But anyway, it''s a tricky time. We''re trying to get people to invest in the stadium rebuild, right? I need to be diplomatic until we get the money."


    "Oh, is that happening?"


    "Yeah. There''s only one real option - it involves a Newcastle fan, by the way, so there''s another reason I need to be diplomatic - but we have to look into other financial instruments to show the fans that we''re running the club properly. We will announce something soon. It''ll have to be soon because we need to get a wiggle on if we''re gonna demolish a stand this summer. Fuck."


    "What?"


    "Alan Turner makes four million a year, did you know that? The twat earns as much as this football club. I hate him and his smug face! Right, anyway. I''m mature, I''m diplomatic, I''m sophisticated, and when Newcastle come I''m going to play five-five-oh, try not to get beat too hard, and I''m going to project a bright, happy, shiny image of the future and not mention assassinations."


    Dean scoffed. "Most people find it easy not to mention assassinations, boss. Football managers, in particular, find it easy."


    I didn''t smile. "Don''t buy an English football club to distract from all the murders you do and I promise I''ll never mention all the murders you do. Deal?" I thought about getting my phone out and sending Sebastian a provocative reply, but there was one thing I could do that would make Alan Turner and Sebastian Weaver green with envy. "Gaffer?"


    Sandra came over. "Yes, boss?"


    "I''m in a mood. Can I go on and hit the ball very hard, please?"


    ***


    Wednesday, October 15


    I was alone in the Sin Bin watching videos on the big telly when Zach and Alex Short came in. Clearly they were going to have some therapy and I was in the way.


    "Just leaving," I said.


    "We''re early," said Alex. "No rush."


    I ripped my thoughts away from the screen. "Captain Zachtastic. Seven-one. Did you enjoy that?"


    "Yes, Max. Would have preferred a clean sheet but a win''s a win."


    "Mmm," I said. I had thoughts about Zach''s performance but wondered if I should bother explaining them. After all, when you''re in a hole, stop digging. Me being me, I ignored my own advice. "Zach, er, it''s hard for me to remember how it used to be, but when I used to play Sunday League there was a lot of shouting, a lot of caveman nonsense. They don''t want it! Win the second half! Get stuck in. You know, a whole load of dumb shit based on nothing and I think it''s obvious that my way''s better. Assume everyone is trying to win, focus on the process, get technical."


    "Yeah," said Zach.


    "But every now and then I''d be struggling, having a bad day, ball''s squirting off my shins, can''t beat my man, all that, and one of the lads I respected would scream get your head in the fucking game or something like that. And sometimes it helped. Sometimes you need a great big American doofus to give you the hairdryer. Get you fired up."


    He didn''t smile. "You want me to be... more vocal?"


    I shook my head, nodded, shook my head again. I was shit at this. "There were a couple of times last night when I would have liked to see the captain melt someone''s face off. When we had our last talk, I didn''t want to change your personality. You''re the squad''s vice-vice-captain and if you see something you don''t like you''re allowed to mouth off. Hairdryer on the pitch, arm around the shoulder in the dressing room, that sort of thing. You did half of it last night but ever since our talk I get the feeling you''ve overcompensated. I feel I''m bad at putting what I want into words but when I see something''s right or wrong, I see it. Wow. That was lame."


    Alex tried to articulate what I was saying. "Coming from a place of togetherness, understanding, and emotional intelligence, Zach is allowed, encouraged even, to yell at Dan Badford if he tries a stupid show-off trick that lets Stalybridge launch a counter-attack."


    I smiled. "Yes. Thank you. That''s it."


    "Understanding that we''re all on different parts of our journey doesn''t mean accepting mediocrity."


    That was even better. "Yes!"


    Alex made strong eye contact with me. "And how should he react if his boss is messing about trying to hit longer and longer crossfield passes?"


    "He should keep his flappy Texan gob shut because that''s my therapy process."


    "Is it?" said Alex.


    "Yeah. Football therapy. It''s like art therapy but instead of painting kittens it involves kicking the ball as hard as possible while maintaining accuracy."


    Zach said, "It was a sight to behold. Why not shoot instead of launching balls at Noah Harrison?"


    "Shoot?" I scoffed. "Because there are goalies. It would just be giving the ball away." And also because there was a cosmic policeman known as The Sentinel who would squash me flat if he caught me abusing my powers too hard. Most of what I did wasn''t extreme enough to attract the attention of the mainstream media, let alone eternal entities. Lots of players in the lower leagues could take a vicious corner and there were a few free kick specialists. There weren''t too many scoring from 40 yards four times a week.


    Zach said, "I think I know what you mean about yelling, boss. I have to find a balance. I hear ya. What were you watching?"


    "Bradford," I said, with a touch of guilt.


    "Anything interesting?"


    I played the last two clips I''d watched. "Last-minute equaliser. Last-minute winner. They''re bouncing. There''s spirit, togetherness, fire, much less stupidity. The fans are starting to like Chip Star. Some kid stole a shopping trolley and pimped it up as his Chip Van. USB lamp, portable speakers, beers, put a towel over the top and got his mate to push him around."


    "Christ," laughed Alex.


    "What are we gonna do about it?" demanded Zach.


    "We''re gonna beat them," I said. "That''s all we can do. But, listen. You live in Wrexham, right? I''m going there in a bit to do my army coaching. Pascal''s busy. Come and be my assistant manager for the day. Bring your dogs!"


    "I''d like that. Do you mean now?" said Zach.


    "No, after your therapy."


    "Sure thing, boss!"


    "One thing," I said, as I slipped off the table and turned the screen off. "In front of the army guys, Pascal has been calling me Commander-in-chief so if you could stick to that there would be less confusion."


    "Sure, boss."


    I ambled out and as I clicked the door behind me I was pretty sure I heard Alex say, "You know this isn''t therapy, right?"


    ***


    CrunchyAbs


    Had a shit day at work. Hoping BG will pop in with another update on his story.


    BrokenGround


    Guys, we won!


    We won. We beat RAPTC. They''re like the army''s P.E. teachers so obviously they''re fit. They''re pretty much the best of the second-tier units, if you get me. The army''s version of Leicester or Leeds. There was no Pascal but Best brought Zach Green with him, and Zach brought his dogs.


    CrunchyAbs


    Please tell me you have photos.


    (Of the dogs.)


    BrokenGround


    No I wasn''t thinking straight. It was a bonkers day and I''m still calming down. But they''re good boys. They''re called One, Two, Three in different languages.


    Er, so what happened? We went to Colliers, did the usual pre-match routines. Best was really interested in PTC''s warm ups. Somehow from that he could tell they had great coaches so we should get funky. He told us we would play ''normball'' first half so that the coaches wouldn''t be able to get involved at half time. First half we played 4-4-2 without Fatso, did the old stuff.


    Instead of watching us, Zach walked his dogs and Fatso and two other subs went with him, which I think tells you how entertaining it was (and how cute the dogs are).


    At half time Best puts on Fatso and everything goes haywire. We do blobs, we do artillery launches to zone 15, one-twos, all the hits. Zach''s jumping around - he can''t believe it.


    And PTC don''t know what the fuck has hit them! The coaches are yelling things, trying to reorganise. They switch to five at the back but with the five shifted across to our strong side so it was like they had two left backs.


    So Best calls Fatso over, they have a chat, and now we attack down the left instead. It''s not as natural because we''ve mostly got right-footers, but it messes PTC up for a minute. They reorganise again. We stay where we are except we put The Midnighter all the way on the right, all on his own. One of the defenders goes across to cover him, right, so Best puts Hot Rod over there, too. PTC put another guy there. So our blob is two men smaller but we''ve got less opponents and we''re moving the ball nicely.


    The wide men aren''t just for show. Fatso gets the ball, turns, hits an up-and-under towards the right. At first I''m excited - it''s two attackers against two defenders and you like those odds - but the ball''s behind everyone and PTC get a break. Danger!


    Except we''ve been doing Best''s ''Run You Worms'' drill and we get behind the ball, nice and solid, before PTC know what''s up. Still nil-nil. Best calls Fatso over. Fatso jogs back, comes over to me. "Gaffer wants you to play the big diags."


    "Me?"


    "Yeah. Stick to the blobs until the oppo is drawn over. Be patient. But if you think it''s on, go for it. Just don''t do what I did and play it too short. Better too long than too short, right?"


    "Right," I say. Too long and it''s a goal kick or a throw in. Too short and it''s a dangerous counter.


    Exciting! Best thinks I''m the best at long passes. That''s a rush but I''ve got to play smart. We form the blob, lose the ball, hustle to get it back, chill, form the blob again. Repeat, repeat, repeat, which could be demotivating except we can see the oppo losing their minds. They don''t know what to do, they don''t know how to play. When they rush in, Fatso clips the ball to a runner and we get shots. If they don''t rush in, we keep the ball. What are they supposed to do?


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    I get the chance to hit a big pass but I''m not sure so I keep it simple, play it to Fatso, we go again. I glance over and Best is gripping Zach''s arm like ''oh my God he did it right I can''t believe it'' which is, you know, both annoying and motivational.


    Second chance, I take a touch, look to the right where we''ve got the two guys waiting to attack their two, I compose myself, try to hit the ball behind the defenders, away from the goalie, give our lads half a chance of getting onto it.


    I don''t get a clean contact - I''m too excited - so the ball spins like a gyroscope. A defender''s in the way and he sticks out a foot to control the ball but all the spin makes it squirt off him in the direction of his own goal! It''s basically a perfect cushioned pass and The Midnighter is onto it in a flash. He''s got Hot Rod with him, and we''ve practised this a hundred times. It''s the other side of the Run You Worms drill. Engage the goalie, sideways pass, open net, goal, piece of piss.


    Piece of actual piss.


    We go nuts. Complete breakdown of discipline! Court-martials all round!


    It''s one-nil, final score, with some nervy moments at the end.


    There''s another great bit. When we''re done, we''re at the side of the pitch taking on water, waiting for our debrief before Best rushes off. Zach goes, ''Well, fellas, that was the craziest shit I''ve ever seen'' and we have a good laugh. He looks at his boss. ''Are we gonna be learning this, General?'' ''Maybe.'' Zach looks at me. ''I guess I''ll be playing the BrokenGround role. Guard the base, short passes into the mist, line-breaking passes out wide.'' ''Mist?'' says Best, and they go into a discussion about metaphors.


    I tune out. The BrokenGround role!


    I''ve got a role!


    Lads, I''m buzzing. I''ve been walking around with a big cheesy grin for two hours.


    ***


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 36%


    ***


    Saturday, October 18


    Match 12 of 46: Chester versus Walsall


    After watching 3 R Welsh win their match - they were so happy - I bought the Shocktober perk. It was unusually short-term of me, but if my instincts were right, a short-term burst of optimism could help us very much in the long term.


    In gaming parlance, the perk mostly offered passive effects - when we were at home, the fans would be noisier, for example, without me clicking on anything - but there were two parts that needed to be activated. First, I had to play Murder on the Dance Floor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor in order to boost Morale. Second, I got the option to make referees run the game in a fussy, pedantic manner. That didn''t sound fun, but maybe I would use it against Newcastle. I mean, why not, right? They were used to getting decisions their way all the time. What if a ref actually applied the laws of the game? Could be an area of opportunity...


    For the Walsall match, Sandra and I settled on 4-1-4-1. Fierce was back but I wanted to give Dazza a break. His Morale was fine but every match that went past without scoring was weighing on him and the best way to combat that was to talk to the psychologist and to train. I had considered letting him play against Stalybridge to get a goal, but what if he hadn''t scored? What if he had scored and then heard everyone say it was only the Cheshire Cup so it didn''t count? Nah, he had to do it in a real match. He was up to CA 81 and showed no signs of slowing - we were coaching the shit out of him, double sessions multiple times a week.


    Training was going well.


    Without me really noticing it, Eddie Moore had crept up close to his ceiling. He was only two points away from his PA of 75. Huh. He was doing all right defensively although we weren''t asking him to join attacks because otherwise he would get destroyed. A player hitting his limit was normally an excuse to get rid of him asap, but Eddie''s backups were twenty points off the pace so I couldn''t see a way to sell him until the summer.


    Youngster hadn''t improved for a while - he was CA 90. Nothing to worry about as long as the plateau didn''t last too long...


    Lee C had got his head down, trained, and was trying to find his place in the group. He had crept up to CA 79 and was only one point away from what I was calling ''Gold'' for League Two.


    His midfield partner Ryan Jack was improving at a glacial pace - fitting, in some ways, given how he ran - but he was improving. His CA clicked over to 70. Not amazing, but he was 37 years old and had had a major injury. All things considered, I felt like I was managing his minutes pretty well. He hated being subbed off all the time, but in the calm and respectful shouting matches we''d had on the topic, he had informed me that he preferred the current state of affairs to being kicked up the arse and stuffed into a wheelie bin.


    I was using the following levels to classify the players.


    CA 0-59 Tin


    60-69 Bronze


    70-79 Silver


    80-89 Gold


    90+ Platinum


    In our squad of 24 players (excluding me), we had 11 tin, although Wibbers and Sharky wouldn''t be there for much longer. 11 out of 24 who weren''t up to the standard of being a backup for the first team.


    There were 3 bronze. Three guys good enough to be a backup. Fine, but this group included Ben and Sticky - whoever I chose, I had a backup playing in possibly the most important position.


    Six silver. Being at that level meant you were a high-end National League player or solid League Two performer. A lot of the first team were in this group - three of my first-choice back four, my two best central midfielders, and Pascal.


    Gold - players with the ability to perform at the higher end of the spectrum. We had three: Fierce, Henri, and Dazza. Henri was a couple of months away from hitting his ceiling. Would I use God Save the King to give him a further boost? It wouldn''t be logical or financially beneficial to me or the club. But yeah, I probably would.


    Youngster had gone platinum, though that in itself caused a very minor headache. My best player was a DM, so I wanted to use formations that had a DM by default. If I used DM-less formations like 4-4-2 or 3-5-2, I often used my solitary deformation to open a slot for Youngster. There were times I might have benefited from tinkering with the attack instead, but Youngster only played to gold level when he played central midfield.


    ***


    Walsall came with a youthful team, expertly assembled on a tight budget. For 44,000 pounds a week they''d put together a team with an average CA of 80. Very, very impressive and I made careful note of their staff profiles.


    Sadly, their goalie was shit.


    ***


    Match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.


    Author: D.Cox


    Chester 3 Walsall 2 - Seals Exhale Sigh of Satisfaction as Saddlers Self-Sabotage


    Chester won a topsy-turvy affair at a packed Deva stadium earlier today, thanks in part to Walsall''s hapless goalkeeper. In fact, the match could be characterised as two promising, youthful, equally-matched teams being equally let down by their sticksmen. The deciding factor was, as it often has been this season, Max Best''s ruthlessness. Twice in the last ten minutes, Walsall''s goalie misplaced a pass to the midfield, and twice Best latched onto it, drove forward, and lashed the ball into the net.


    The first half was entertaining, with both sides attempting to pass the ball and create openings. Chester''s creaky defence was supported by Youngster, and boy did they need support.


    [And so on and so on. All a bit over the top, tbh. The win was never in doubt.]


    ***


    That evening, I noticed something strange - or I thought I did.


    During the match, Sandra was her normal self. Professional, demanding, focussed.


    She reacted with delight to our goals and with a huge, relieved smile to the final whistle.


    So far, so normal. But later I caught her leaning against a wall, staring into space, with the same vaguely haunted look on her face as when we were bottom of the league. We were 18th and flying, so what was that all about?


    I wished I had a Morale perk for my staff, but I didn''t, so I resolved to keep an eye on her.


    ***


    Sebastian: You''re unbeaten in six. Well done! I''m starting to think you might never lose another football match and I''m willing to bet on it. Your thousand to my five that Newcastle do what few can and beat Max Best''s Chester.


    Me: Or I could withdraw a grand and burn it while singing What Time Is Love. We have no chance, I told you. Plus we have a hard tie against MK Dons a few days before. Pick your battles, remember. This is Alan Turner''s problem: he goes hard at every game and his players get burned out. You should call your mates at Newcastle and tell him it''s okay to rest some of his lads against us. You can''t win a cup on goal difference.


    Sebastian: I can''t tell if you''re planning to throw the match or not.


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 44%


    ***


    Tuesday, October 21


    Match 13 of 46: Tranmere Rovers versus Chester


    This was a big game, a huge game. A titanic derby! The first encounter between the clubs in years! The vibe I got from outsiders, from social media, and from my friend Mateo - the owner of Tranmere, no less - was that the tension was rising.


    Not in Bumpers Bank.


    I spent Monday morning in the Sin Bin showing the lads some clips of their next opposition. With the acoustic panels, a chair I could actually sit in, and a very slightly upgraded speaker setup, the Bin was becoming a tolerable place to spend twenty minutes watching videos.


    I pointed out the basics, starting with the fact that Jimmy Mustard was using 4-5-1 in an attempt to stop the beatings his team was getting. I wasn''t keen to let Tranmere boss the midfield - I had some dignity - so I was toying with doing 4-1-4-1 again, possibly 4-5-1, but it would be the strongest possible team. We would then either go strong against MK Dons in the league or against Newcastle in the AOK Cup but not both. "I haven''t decided yet," I admitted. "Luckily it doesn''t affect how we need to approach the Tranmere game."


    I suggested that this would be a battle between Sam Topps and Lee Contreras. That got Lee''s jaw going - he had been let go by Tranmere because the new manager didn''t rate him - so I reminded him that if he got sent off, that would prove Mustard right. Lee got the message.


    I went through Tranmere''s squad, pointing out that their new Panamanian defender Tony Herbert was mint and class and wasn''t to be underestimated, that left back Jack the Lad was prone to lapses in concentration but would likely be fired up against me, and that Junior, the striker, was liable to finish any chances we allowed him. I noted that they had two young guns on the bench - Lucas Cook and Bark - who I had wanted to sign.


    "So there is talent in Tranmere, okay? But they''re not as good as us and Mustard is limited. If we get ahead he''ll stand on the sideline waving his arms around like a twat and his players aren''t paying much attention these days. Right, train as normal, don''t let the hype get to you, this one is going to be straightforward."


    Tranmere''s average CA was 77. I liked a lot of their players but there were low ceilings all over the place. Jack the Lad was PA 80, as was my former Darlington teammate Junior. Sam Topps was PA 60. Their high PA squad members were almost exclusively ones I had recommended to the club - the right midfielders Bark and Nelson Smith-Howes (PA 130 and 139 respectively), the striker Lucas Cook (142), Tony Herbert (150). Gabby, the Brazilian striker I''d found in Sao Paulo, would join in January.


    Their Morale was falling, ours was rising. Conditions were perfect to give them a good tonking.


    In the end, it was a shit match. The midfield was clogged, the scene of numerous running battles. Lee Contreras put himself about trying to do an all-action display. Ryan Jack couldn''t find a yard of space. Wes Hayward''s passing was wayward. Henri worked hard, but as so often, we couldn''t get the ball to him. We lacked a spark. Some guile in midfield. I found myself wondering if Mateo would sell me one of Bark or Smith-Howes on the cheap, since fucking Jimmy Mustard didn''t want to give them a chance.


    The game-within-the-game proved vital once more. The 20 minutes when I was on the pitch was completely different to the rest of the 90. I replaced Ryan and roamed around, though I couldn''t stay away from CM for too long or chaos would ensue.


    I got myself into position to have a couple of dribbles at Jack the Lad - the prick had been flirting with Emma in front of me - but he stuck to his task well and I got no change from him. When Tranmere had the advantage I dropped next to Youngster. But mostly I was trying to get up to support Henri.


    One of those times saw Eddie Moore hit a hopeful ball forward. I gambled that Henri would win the header. He did. It skimmed off his head and I latched onto it. Tony Herbert followed me but was left bamboozled by a chop-back. After I passed Herbert and lined up a shot, the Panamanian slid in to block, but he caught my standing foot.


    Penalty!


    (Penalty and a mangled ankle. That night it looked like a shrivelled pumpkin. This from a man I''d plucked from obscurity. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished.)


    I shook off the pain, rolled the ball into the net, and did an exaggerated ''don''t celebrate in front of your former team'' celebration.


    And that was it - I expected Tranmere to come at us, but they stuck to their plan of keeping things stodgy and didn''t even get the usual end-of-match barrage going.


    Three points, a clean sheet, up to 15th in the league. Sandra celebrated... until she thought no-one was looking.


    ***


    Mateo had invited us to dinner. Sandra wanted to get home, so the blue corner was me and the Brig. On the Tranmere side was Mateo, his wife Rachel, driver John, plus Jimmy Mustard and a couple of coaches.


    "And whose side are you on?" Mateo said to Emma.


    "Max''s," she said, hugging my arm.


    "And when they play Newcastle United?"


    She shrugged. "I want them both to win."


    "But if you had to choose one."


    "I choose one to win and the other to not lose." She suddenly got a bright smile. "A draw."


    "It''s a cup match," smiled Mateo. "Someone''s going out."


    "Okay then I choose Newcastle to win."


    That stunned me. I had a blob of soup on the way to my mouth; its journey was put on hold. I decided I would have a sip of wine after all, and Rachel asked the most important question of the age. "Why?"


    "Max can take losing much better than my dad." She didn''t give us much time to live with that statement. "Talking of losing with dignity, thanks for dinner, Matty."


    "Ouch," he said. "The worst part for me was that Max barely celebrated. A few high fives, hugs, clap the away fans, job done. There''s something ominous about it. Like he thinks we''re one of the worst teams in the league and are beneath his notice."


    I jabbed my spoon in his direction. "We did a video analysis session about you. We don''t do that with every team."


    Mateo seemed pleased. "Oh. That''s good."


    "Yeah," I said, loading the next spoonful. "It''s always good to start the week with a spot of comedy."


    Emma, the Brig, and John Driver stifled laughs while Mateo looked up at the ceiling with good-natured exasperation. He tried to tease me about making him sign Tony Herbert. "It helps that you''ve planted a double agent."


    "Yeah," I said. "So-called because you will double your money on him. He''s class." I nearly added, ''He''s so good even Jimmy can see it,'' but just about held my tongue.


    It was annoying that Mustard was there because I wanted to rip into the useless prick. My current Chester team had a poor midfield, one of the weakest defences in the league, and the worst goalkeeper. It was crazy not to throw the kitchen sink at us for the last ten minutes, at least. I wanted to get promoted this season and then drag Tranmere one division below me so I would have an ally close to our level. Jimmy Mustard wasn''t the man to get them promoted, no matter how many top talents I sent to Birkenhead. "I told you I''ll be first in line to buy Herbert when you want to sell." A throb of pain ran up my leg. "That said, next time he kicks me I''m going to fuck him up. Let him know." My phone vibrated. "Huh."


    Emma said, "What?"


    "Your dad''s absolutely bonkers about the match. He''s just texted, one week to go! He keeps trying to make me have a bet with him about who''ll win. Strangely, he won''t let me take the Newcastle side of the bet."


    "He''s not stupid," said Mateo, which was a fair dig. I raised my wine to him. "Really, though, you haven''t got a prayer, have you? Or have you?"


    I leaned forward and got intense. Me at my most charismatic. "I love my boys and I believe in them. If we all pull together, fight for every ball, stick to the plan, trust in each other... we might only lose 7-0."


    "Well," said Mateo. "At least Mr. Weaver will be happy."


    "Ah," I said, with a slight smile. "Maybe. I plan to text him just before kick off saying I know what his club means to him so I''ve decided to let them win. It will take about ten percent off his enjoyment."


    "Max," complained Emma.


    "What?" I said, innocently.


    She turned away from me and said, "How are things in Gibraltar?"


    The question cheered Mateo up. "Great! College are second. The Red Imps are first, three points ahead. They look unbeatable this season but we have thrown a completely new team together and we need time to gel. We''re still winning most games easily, though."


    Emma slapped my arm. "I thought we were going to win!"


    I rubbed the spot. "College and the Imps are evenly matched. I did say to Mateo that College needed one more player to make sure of the title but he wanted to be a cheapska - he wanted to be cost-conscious about it."


    He scoffed. "There''s nothing cheap about what we did. I''ll admit to getting cold feet quite a few times in the process. Glenn Ryder? I didn''t see it. But he''s out there dominating matches, being a leader in training, all that good stuff. I would be happy with finishing second in the first season. Then we will add two, three players with enough quality to give us a chance to get past the European qualification stages. Right, Max?"


    "Sounds good," I said, but I was drifting out of the conversation. College, Saltney, West, all the Chester teams - everything was on track. Going great. Smooth sailing.


    So why did it feel bumpy?


    ***


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 52%


    ***


    Wednesday, October 22


    Sandra took training and it was as good as ever. Better, even, because we had our routine down pat. Sandra in the middle, the ringmaster, doing 80 percent of the sessions. Around, spread two-dimensionally onto our overflow pitches, spread three-dimensionally to later in the day, were the skill-specific sessions. Dazza learning to turn his man, Zach passing through waves of zombies, Wibbers sprinting fifteen yards onto passes before hitting long shots.


    It was mint. I wanted it to go like this forever.


    I was in the Sin Bin watching videos of Newcastle in the AOK Cup. Their lineups were tailored for the opposition - against no-marks like Chester they would field a team that cost one hundred million pounds instead of one that cost five hundred million. That was one factor in our favour. Another was that Alan Turner never changed his system. I knew how they would play. Could I stop them?


    Er, no. Not with the players I had. But I had the slightest inkling of a possible plan if we drew them in a cup next season...


    I had the door open so that I would hear when the session ended. Sandra yelled, "Well done, lads. Well in." There was the sound of a lot of sweaty men walking in the same direction, laughing and joking, then a door being swung open and the sound of boots clomping indoors. Some of them touched a sign that was up. It read, Prize Money: 30,000.


    I counted to ten then stuck my head out. Mostly all clear.


    "Vimsy," I called out as I paced towards the grass pitch. "You can pick up, yeah?"


    Vimsy looked up to where Sandra was gathering the cones nearest her. "Sure, boss."


    "Sandra," I said, jerking my head. Not knowing what was going on was eating away at me. Time to gently prise the plaster off. Something was bothering her big time. My guess? She had been offered a job, a good one, and she didn''t know how to tell me.


    She fell into step beside me. "All good, boss?"


    "Oh, I''m tremendous," I said. "Not doing anything weird at all. No sighs. No forlorn glances. If there''s anything on my chest, I''ve long since got it off. Feels good, man, feels good."


    She stopped. "Oh." I spun on my heels and waited. She closed her eyes. "We''re doing that."


    "Only if you want," I said, softly. "It''s just that I have the emotional range of a bowl of porridge and if I''ve noticed, so have half the lads. Henri has probably written a Christmas musical called What''s Eating Sandra Lane?"


    She hesitated, started walking again, and we got to the car park. "What are you doing?" she said.


    I was standing on the Green Baron, my fancy e-scooter. I showed that there was space at the back where a woman''s foot could just about fit. "Hop on," I said.


    "Let''s take mine," she said, and beeped open her new car.


    I settled down into the passenger seat. I fastened my belt but Sandra didn''t and after a while I realised we would talk right there. I unclipped myself.


    "What have I been doing?" she said, not looking at me.


    "Um, not much. Absolutely nailing your assigned tasks before staring into the abyss, sighing. That sort of thing. You were getting pretty stressed when we were losing. We started winning, no change. That''s not good. I insist on perfect happiness at all times." She needed more time before opening up, so I tried to ease her into the chat by saying random stuff. "Dieter Bauer has been calling me a lot."


    "What? Why?"


    "I don''t know. As far as I can tell Bayern Munich are in rude health so it can''t be about football. I mean, I know it''s arrogant to think he would want to talk to me about football but what else? He''s not calling an Englishman to ask for cooking lessons."


    "Maybe he wants you to do World Cup commentary with him."


    "Er..."


    "What?"


    "Didn''t I tell you? I thought I told you. We''re probably going to do something together in the USA. Remember I painted an expensive camera with an enormous hot dog? And threatened a cameraman? They said they wouldn''t sue if I did some comms for them next summer. I pretended to complain, suggested they get Dieter over, too, and it''s looking likely. Not sure how much I''ll end up on screen because my profile is still pitiful but they liked my segments with Dieter. We''re a good team, apparently."


    "Emma must be delighted."


    "I mean, I haven''t told her I''ll be on TV because it might not happen. When it''s on paper in black and white, I''ll let her know. We''re almost certainly going, regardless. I''m not going to try to scout every World Cup game but I''ll go to a few. It''ll be one-tenth work, four-tenths pleasure, five-tenths food coma."


    "When you think of America and pleasure, what comes to mind?"


    "Drive down route 66, see the world''s biggest Cowboy Boots - those are in Texas, would you believe? - do a Fallout 4 tour of Boston."


    "Fallout 4," mused Sandra. "That''s the one with the dogs."


    "Yes," I said, because if Sandra had watched her partner play that game and that was what she remembered, er, okay I guess? I waited.


    Sandra wriggled on her seat until she was comfortable, leaned forward, sat back, tried leaning forward again. "When you came back from your Christmas break, after we bought Christian Fierce, we had a drunken night out and you promised me we would get promotion and I would get a pay raise."


    That made my brain explode. This was about money? What did she mean I promised a raise? She got it, didn''t she? Had MD not been paying the wages that were due? Was the accountant fan right that MD had been skimming? What?


    Sandra wasn''t looking at me, so she hadn''t seen the panic and mild rage I was displaying. She licked her lips. "Aiden and I, well, we decided we might try fertility treatment again."


    I took every thought I''d ever had, put them in the shredder, and placed a blank page in front of Sandra.


    "It''s five grand a pop and that''s loads but I knew you would come through - I''ll be honest, I thought it''d be through the playoffs - and that soon I''d be on what you call lobster money so why not, right? We want children. Let''s try. So we tried. And it worked. This time it worked, almost right away, Max. She''s pregnant."


    That sounded amazing, but the way the story was being told shredded me up. I couldn''t deal with baby stuff.


    "There have been complications."


    "Fuck no. No." I wanted to get out but I couldn''t move. I couldn''t feel my legs. Couldn''t feel anything.


    "I''m gonna need time off."


    My cheeks were stinging. "Yes. Of course. Whatever you need. Is Aiden okay?"


    "Everyone''s okay, Max. It''s all going to be okay."


    "I''d prefer if you told me that with some confidence."


    "It''s going to be okay."


    "That was worse. Fuck. What the fuck, Sandra? What can I do? I need to do something. I need to help."


    She did a tiny, heartbreaking sigh. "No-one can help. It''s up to God."


    I clenched my fists. Old Nick. I''d do him a favour. I''d give him something and he would sort this out. My fists loosened. And then what? He''d tell me about every sick baby in the world. I could save one if I went to watch Swansea versus Sunderland. I could save another with Leyton Orient versus Lincoln City. "I''m floundering."


    "I know, Max. I didn''t want to tell you until there was more to say. When we were losing I knew it was part of the plan but even the vaguest hint of relegation was making me think shit, I sure could use a stable income right now. You''re always worried about me running off to other clubs but that''s not..."


    I was quite still but my head was spinning harder than a long pass from a 3 R Welsh defender. Poorly babies with their tiny little stubby fingers, their helplessness... "Okay my imagination is running riot, can you please tell me the basics of what I need to know?"


    Sandra gripped the steering wheel pretty hard, then sat back and spoke in a flat voice. "The doctors are hinting at a premature birth sometime in December. I... If it goes well I''d like to spend time with Aiden and our child. If it''s..." She couldn''t say it.


    "Scenario B," I offered.


    "Scenario B, I''d still like to spend time with Aiden."


    "Time means... years?"


    "Days, Max."


    "Days? Don''t talk shit! Who have we got in December? Forest Green are awful. Crewe are my bunnies. Take December off. Bosh, sorted. New Year you''re off. Come say hi to Foquita when he arrives and you can have January off, too. Don''t worry about it." We sat in a heavy silence. I felt the need to fill the vacuum so I picked up on the least important thing I''d heard. "Don''t worry about money. You''ll always have a job here, or at Saltney, or at West. You can work in Gibraltar if you want. I''m scared of you leaving but I''d be more upset if you never left. You have to challenge yourself. We are House Chester and there is no call we do not answer. Unless it''s about consolidating our loans."


    Sandra tried to smile. "That''s nice Max but you just told me you can do without me for two months."


    "Yeah," I said, with a hint of petulance. "Because I''ve got an all-star cast who can run training for a couple of weeks. I''ve got Well In, Jackie Reaper, Clive OK, Ray Hart. I''ve been mollycoddling them and now it''s payback time."


    "Well In doesn''t work for Chester. The rest need careful handling or you''ll scare them away."


    "Fine. I''ll do Relationism."


    "You said it was way too early. You said you were years away from being confident enough to do it with the first team."


    She was right. I needed her. But by the time she went on leave we would already be competitive in the league and I would have had time to look around for options. Plus my needs were trivial. Max Best, Perspective 20. "I''ll work it out." I settled back on my seat. "I was worried we were improving too fast anyway."


    Sandra laughed. She laughed until her face crumpled, but it didn''t last long. She was all cried out. Fuck.


    She could use a little cheering up - I had been saving something for the right moment. Seemed like now. "Can you keep a secret?"


    "Yes," she said.


    "Pascal might be fit for the Newcastle game."


    She shot upwards; the car shook. "What?"


    "His bones have healed and I''ve had him secretly doing water-based training for, like, ten days. He''s doing ball work today. I''ve told Dean and the Brig I want ten minutes against Newcastle and then they can go back to normal rehab. That''s what they''re working towards."


    "Ten... Newcastle... Why?"


    "I don''t want Alan Turner to get the England job. Ever. If I can beat him with a League Two side, that''s a stain on his CV he''ll never erase. But... if I go full Max it''ll be drama and attention and it''ll be another club who won''t hire you."


    "Newcastle?"


    "Yeah."


    Sandra wrung her hands. "I loved Kevin Keegan''s Newcastle. They were amazing. That five-nil against United was one of my earliest memories. I''ve got a soft spot for the club."


    I rubbed my jaw. "I''ve heard a lot of people talk like that. Heard Newcastle played mad, attacking football and were everyone''s second favourite club. They''re not that club any more. I don''t think," I added, to give her a chance to push back.


    "No, they''re obviously not what they were. But..."


    "Ah, it doesn''t matter," I said. "Okay, let''s not rock any boats. I''ll be chill. You''ll shake the twat''s hand for the cameras, we''ll defend with a weakened team, keep the score respectable, go full tilt at MK Dons instead."


    I was trying to end the conversation, maybe ask the follow-up questions about the baby a socially normal person would ask. Sandra eyed me, though, and asked, "What''s your problem with Newcastle?"


    "What''s black and white and red all over? A Newcastle United kit at a public execution."


    "Fuck, Max."


    I rubbed my temples. "I know. I''ll keep my mouth shut. I promise. You don''t need my shit right now. I get it." Not sure why, but I felt the paralysis in my body again. "I''ll be good," I said, as much to my legs as Sandra. "Have you thought about baby names? I''m ace at names. Got a great name for you. Three letters, symmetrical. Surprisingly big advantage when dealing with mirrors."


    She looked away. "We don''t want to jinx it."


    "Jinx was a spy in a James Bond film. She was supposed to get her own spinoff but she was the least popular character ever. Right. Bin off Newcastle. We know the plan against MK Dons, yeah? They''ve got Jayden Ward at left back but the rest of the defence is dodgy. They''ll have loads of the ball but I''ll pick them off when their goalie makes mistakes."


    "Yes," said Sandra, checking her face. "Spectrum counted nine big chances the goalie had given away in thirteen games. No sign of them changing tack."


    "These fuckwit managers are always asking their players to do things they can''t."


    "Aren''t you asking some randos in the army to play fantasy football?"


    I let out a laugh, but I got an idea. A big idea. A way I could actually help my assistant. Assistant? Friend, I hoped. Talking about football, even for a minute, had put some colour back in her cheeks. There was no point her going home to worry. Until her child was born there was nothing she could do. As luck would have it, I had a secret weapon - a bunch of Chester-hating wretches who didn''t know how transformational they were. Pascal had seen some of the development so he knew the ''before'' as well as the ''after''. Zach had seen a dogshit 4-4-2 nothingburger of a first half and then the miraculous transformation of the second half. Sandra had seen a few minutes of training at Saltney but if she watched a 3 R Welsh match she would get the blob and nothing but the blob.


    "I know what you need," I said, with such a wicked smile Sandra laughed, recoiled, and said ''no no no''. "Yes," I said. "Call Aiden and tell her I''ve dragged you to Aldershot."


    "Well," said Sandra, looking at the time. "Can she come?"


    I slapped the dashboard with delight. "Let''s fucking go!" I clicked my seatbelt back on.


    "Uh," said Sandra. "Might just call her first? And nip to the loo? And get my stuff?"


    I released my belt and got out. People have no sense of narrative propulsion.


    ***


    "Sir?" said the Brig, while I pottered around, kicking stray stones. He was at Bumpers pretty often doing one-on-one physical work with guys who weren''t quite delivering in some area, or mentoring young players who might need a bit of encouragement. "Is everything in order?"


    "Yes," I sighed. "No. Maybe. It will be. It better be."


    He nodded. "Private?"


    "Yeah, probably."


    "I thought so, but then wondered why you''d do it in a car."


    I frowned. "So no-one could hear us."


    He tried to hide a smile under a cough. "A car is one of the worst places for privacy, sir."


    "The hell you talking about?"


    "Laser eavesdropping has been in use since the 1940s, sir. It is really trivially easy to listen in on someone if only a pane of glass separates you from their conversation."


    "Trivially easy?" I looked at the car park imagining anyone could listen to any conversation I had in my motor. Well, I didn''t have a car. Checkmate, spies! "Can you do it? Have you got a thingy?"


    "Do I possess or have access to a laser microphone? Is that your question, sir? I believe you are testing my ability to lie while winking. I most definitely do not have the requisite thirty pounds for a base entry model."


    "Thirty pounds to spy on someone?"


    "No-one with any self-respect would carry such a basic model. Mine cost over four thousand pounds."


    "Four... what?"


    "I note that you didn''t see me winking. Ah, well."


    I wasn''t in the mood. "Do you have one or not? Jesus."


    "No," he said, flatly. "But I do have a specialist microphone I use for my greatest passion in life - birdwatching. These days, many birds are kept indoors. Budgerigars, for example." He winked enormously. "Or the house martin." He scanned the skies. "Of course, they will have flown to Africa to escape the British winter. Nice to have wings."


    I pressed my middle fingers against my thumbs and said ''hommm''. "John, can you get your lasers, please? I have a mission for you. It''s not black ops. It''s not white ops. It''s black and white ops."


    He got serious. "Very good, sir. Grey mode activated."


    ***


    Sunday, October 26


    I watched the women win in the FA Cup First Round - their fourth win in various cups in the month of October. They were going deeper into the cups, growing in confidence.


    The cup runs were helping Jackie to climb the list of the best managers in the women''s game.


    Interesting, but my mind kept returning to one number in particular. A number that needed to hit 70 by Tuesday morning if I was to have any hope of progressing in the AOK Cup.


    Sebastian: One last try. Your thousand to my nine.


    Me: You know I could get way better odds in a bookies: we''re 20 to 1 to win. And you know I can''t risk a real bet, even a private one, because the FA will use any excuse to smash me. I would do a thing where the loser had to do an hour in a food bank.


    Sebastian: That works. I''m up for that.


    Me: I just don''t have the tools to win. It''s not fun. Next time.


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 63%


    ***


    Monday, October 27


    [No introductory music.]


    Boggy: Hello!


    J: Hello!


    Boggy: You''re listening to SealCast plus DevaStation - two podcasts, one episode.


    J: This is the most ambitious crossover event in history!


    Boggy: Is it?


    J: Yes. If you''re listening to this on the SealCast feed, make sure you subscribe to DevaStation, the number one podcast by fans, for fans. With mild swearing.


    Boggy: This has all been rather hastily arranged so we haven''t worked out who''s in charge, really.


    Max: That''d be me, I reckon. I control the horizontal and the vertical.


    J: Where do you come up with this stuff, man?


    Boggy: I think that was a Twilight Zone reference. From when television was broadcast in black and white.


    Max: It''s true we haven''t planned this. Where do we start? I want to start with the big news.


    J: No, Max. If we do that, everyone will turn off after five minutes and that''s bad for our retention figures in the algorithm. Boggy''s on salary but I''m paid by the click. Let''s start small. The fans know there''s a huge, huge announcement coming; they''ll stick to the end.


    Max: Are you sure?


    J: Max! See me bouncing? That''s not fake. I think I know what''s coming and I''m losing my tiny mind.


    Max: All right, I''m in your hands. You''ve washed them, right? Okay, begin the interview! What''s your tiniest question?


    J: Boggy? Me? You sure? Okay. Tiniest. Ah... what are you doing in Wales?


    Max: You mean 3 R Welsh? I''m coaching them for my badges. What? Is that controversial? I''ve got to do my badges so that I''m allowed to manage. You remember that English guy managing in France? He didn''t have his badges and the club had to pay a 20,000 Euro fine every match until he got them.


    J: No, we get that, Max. Of course you need your badges. It''s just a strange choice of... But okay, how''s it going?


    Max: It''s fun. It''s going well. I''m trying out some new things and I''m nearly ready to start doing them with our youth team.


    J: All right but you''re training in Wrexham. We see you on Instagram with Paul Parker, Muggles, all those guys.


    Max: So?


    J: So they''re our rivals.


    Max: So?


    J: So we don''t like seeing you with them.


    Max: You don''t like me having friends at Tranmere but you like me taking three points from Prenton Park. You like being in League Two instead of the... er... I forgot what the league below the National League North is called. It''s got the word Premier in it twice.


    Boggy: Northern Premier League Premier.


    Max: That''s it. J, I''m not coaching Wrexham, I''m coaching lads from the British army. When I started at Chester I had a vision that we would turn it into something like Ajax Amsterdam. Thousands of teams at all age groups, the entire city and beyond being trained up. In the meantime I''ve rejigged that plan. We have an elite core that gets proper looked after, but I haven''t given up on everyone else. When we have more money we''re going to be offering coaching on a huge scale. I want to be going into schools. We''ll coach Sunday League teams. The sport belongs to everyone. I believe everyone deserves a chance to play it.


    J: Except Andrew Harrison.


    Max: That was a good answer, wasn''t it? I got my dreamy voice going. I was all optimistic. Well done, Max!


    Boggy: I have a slightly bigger question. How do you feel the season is going?


    Max: The women are crushing everything. The kids are bored of winning. The men are on target for promotion.


    J: On target for promotion? We''re 18th in the league.


    Max: We''re only 12 points behind Bradford and Carlisle; it took us a minute to get our heads straight. Some of the lads are still doing that thing in cartoons where their legs are spinning dead fast but there''s no floor under them. You know what I mean? They''re like, wow, this is a step up! But we''re already solid and it''s just about bringing more aspects to our game. MK Dons came over the weekend and I thought we handled them pretty well. Their budget is 86,000 a week, did you know that? It''s another club on three times what we spend. On the face of it, two-all is a miracle result.


    J: That was a strong team you put out. Does that mean you feel you can''t beat Newcastle tomorrow night and you''re going to bin it off?


    Max: Ah, bin it off. I wouldn''t put it like that, although it''s a sell-out so I suppose being honest won''t hurt ticket sales! We will battle hard for ninety minutes, I can promise that, but just one of their players cost more than every single penny that has ever gone through Chester''s turnstiles in a hundred and fifty years, do you know what I mean? It''s not a contest in the dictionary definition. A point against MK Dons, a bruising defeat against Newcastle, safely through the First Round of the FA Cup. That''s about as good as we can do this week, right?


    J: That''s another point our listeners wanted to raise. Most people are happy we didn''t put the prices up for the Newcastle match, but some wanted them jacked up to get more cash for the club from part-time fans.


    Max: That makes no sense. We share the gate receipts with Newcastle. What happens if we put the prices up? Newcastle get richer. I reckon everyone listening to this falls into two camps. One says why does a totalitarian middle-eastern dictatorship own a historic working class football club in England? The other camp says I don''t care, stick to the football. But I think both camps would agree Saudi Arabia doesn''t need to be fed money from the hard-working people of Chester. So, no. Not putting the prices up.


    J: There are rumours of a falling-out between you and MD.


    Max: Nope. We''re closer than ever. Only the other day I offered him a foot rub. [Laughs.] That''s demented even for me. Cut that bit out.


    J: If we get promoted as you say, there will come a time where his, ah, frugality will hold you back.


    Max: Fine. I''m fine with that. His only goal is to keep the club alive. If I can''t achieve my goals within that framework, I''m not very good, am I?


    Boggy: He could maybe loosen the purse strings somewhat.


    Max: I want to achieve great things here and I will. MD is top. He''s very easy to work with. He doesn''t want the club to go bust and that''s not a character flaw. We''re in a league with 23 other clubs. Two or three break even or make small losses that can be covered by a local businessman or a Boost the Budget campaign. Twenty of our rivals are piling money on the pavement outside the stadium and setting fire to it in a weekly orgasmic ritual of excess. It''s absolutely insane. Okay my life is unimaginably difficult as a result but you know what? I don''t like the idea of burning cash. I''ll manage.


    Boggy: Max likes a challenge.


    Max: You know what I did? We had our first meeting of the EFL clubs. They do the regular ones as a Zoom call and only get together in person if it''s something major, so I was hanging around with MD while they all blabbed on about nothing. All I''m doing, right, is listening out for shady stuff that kills football and I have to say there was no sign of that. So far... But in the ''any other business'' section I put my hand up and asked a question. I basically said you''ve talked loads about raising revenues but what about cost-cutting?


    J: Cost-cutting?


    Max: I don''t mean sacking people. I said, you''re all blowing crazy amounts on mad stuff all the time. Is there any interest in some kind of money-saving knowledge sharing or even developing our own platforms? It''s not my idea, it came from Brooke. She''s startled by the difference from non-league to EFL. In non-league the clubs almost all use the same website maker, use the same video team, the same ticket selling platforms, email sending software, that kind of thing. But go on five League Two club websites you''ll see three, four, five different layouts. Why are League Two clubs investing in bespoke websites? Because it''s a vanity project for the owners. Which, yeah, do what you want, but when you get bored and the club''s relegated it''s ten times more painful because all that crap has to go. Yeah, no-one was picking up what I was putting down so whatever. We''ll blow past them, they''ll wonder why, they''ll redesign their badge for the third time in six years. You know, get to the heart of what''s important.


    Boggy: I think -


    Max: Bunch of clowns.


    Boggy: I think the last topic before the big one is the Vincent Addo situation.


    Max: Okay. It''s pretty simple. The guy''s quality and I want to sign him. We can sign two players on, what''s the word, generous work permit terms. Not generous. Flexible. Loose. Like Darren Smith wouldn''t qualify for a normal work permit but he gets one of these special ones.


    J: Maybe -


    Max: Don''t say something stupid, mate. Seriously, this isn''t like Wes Hayward where we need a while to coach him and find the right matches to use him and all that crap. Dazza''s ace right now. We''re asking him to do weird things because I''m a weird person. When it clicks, it''s going to click hard.


    J: I''m keeping shtum. But, if you don''t want to hear spicy takes on Darren Smith''s output, don''t listen to any recent episodes of DevaStation, available on all good podcast platforms.


    Max: Okay, I won''t. If that''s your level of chat it sounds rank. So these two slots. We''ve got Dazza and Foquita. Can''t sign Vincent, then, can I? But I can get him to Saltney Town, make sure he''s getting trained up the way I want, then bring him to Chester. That''s all pretty clear. The only questions are one, am I right that he''s good? To which the answer is duuuuhhhhhhh. And two, is the fee Chester have to pay acceptable? It''s a million-pound player for three hundred K. It''s free money for Chester Football Club. Apart from anything else, if I have Vincent I can entertain offers for Youngster. If I don''t have a defensive midfielder, I can''t even think about letting our prize asset go.


    Boggy: There are strange rumours about Chester players helping you to raise money to do the deal.


    Max: There''s nothing strange about it; that''s what happened. It isn''t just players, it''s a syndicate that includes all sorts. Waitresses, kebab sellers. I don''t know exactly who''s in it or how much they''re putting in, but it''s going so well they''re already talking about doing another round so I can bring more players in January. What it does is take one enormous weight off my shoulders so I can focus on winning matches and my own performance levels and I think that''s obviously a good thing for me and for Chester. Everybody wins on that one. Except Tranmere.


    Boggy: They would prefer if you were stressed and worried so you would have missed that penalty.


    Max: Being on the pitch is a release from all the stress so I don''t think I''d have played much differently but it''s about having a clear head in the time leading up to the games. Making good decisions about the starting elevens and that kind of thing. October has been pretty perfect, hasn''t it? Four wins, two draws. November will be good, too. There''s only one game where we might get a bit of a kicking, but I hope you''re pleased that I''ve brought such huge games back to the Deva.


    Boggy: I am!


    J: You get a pass from me if we get tonked against Newcastle. It''ll be a party atmosphere in the Harry McNally, whatever happens on the pitch.


    Max: Ah, top. That''s ace. Right, here we go. You, the fans, have done what I asked. You''ve filled the stadium, it''s noisy, you''re letting me get on with the job without a board slowing me down. The fans have been great and that''s why I''m here. To give something back.


    J: Argh, I feel like a toddler high on energy drinks.


    Max: I feel like I should be dressed in a jaunty hat for this. Hello, sir, would you like to buy a monorail? [Laughs.] Okay who brought a drum kit so we can do a drum roll?


    Boggy: I can load one up.


    Max: Wow. You love all the audio stuff, don''t you? No, let''s stop teasing everyone. Here it goes. I''m about to drop the S bomb.


    J: ARGH!


    Max: Ladies and gentlemen, it''s Max Best here. I''ve got good news and great news. The good news is, thanks to our investment plans and some splendid cooperation from the local council, we have the chance to bring the Deva stadium back into Chester FC''s control.


    [Sound of someone jumping around, not caring what equipment they bang.]


    Max: The great news is, everyone has a part to play in that process. I need to give a bit of background. The thing is, my top top top priority is actually the pitch, not the stadium, although that''s important too. I want to demolish a stand, dig up the pitch, put in top drainage, undersoil heating, and advanced stitching technology so that we can play three times as many games on the surface and not lose fixtures to bad weather. We will be able to bring the women''s team home, host summer tournaments, all kinds of things.


    Boggy: So the pitch and the stadium project are intertwined?


    Max: Right. It''s much easier to do the drainage and all that if there isn''t a huge big stand in the way. That makes sense, right? Now, I think the Harry McNally is the best place to start. We can knock it down after the last match of this season, work like demons - imps, I should say - and put up the new stand before the first match is played. I mentioned this on the EFL call, asking if we could plan to play our first matches next season away, just in case we weren''t quite ready, and they said ''of course, do you think yours is the first stadium that''s been rebuilt?''


    Boggy: And what of the council? The freehold?


    Max: Credit to Brooke for her tireless work on this one. The freehold will go into a nonprofit that''s controlled by Chester FC. Think of the club as having three departments - one, the players and staff, two, the stadium, three, the training ground slash charity work. With this development, all three will be powering ahead. Thundering ahead!


    J: [Quietly, almost sensually.] I need numbers.


    Max: Right now the McNally is all-standing, 1,200 capacity. The new stand will be 4,000, bringing the Deva to an 8,200 total capacity. We will have a decent amount of safe standing so we can keep the atmosphere. We''ll be able to convert the rails to seating when we host European matches.


    Boggy: Is that a scene from one of your cheese dreams?


    Max: I wouldn''t rule out us winning a cup, Boggy. We''re one match from the AOK quarter finals. Imagine us next year! And Saltney will need a place to play their UEFA Conference League matches. It''s Chester or Wrexham, isn''t it? Are you going to make me beg Ryan Reynolds? They''d love to have European football at the Racecourse. Wouldn''t they? There would be a whole episode about it on their documentary.


    Boggy: [Laughs.] If it comes to it, I think I''d be all right with you renting the Deva.


    Max: Okay, what else? We expect the McNally to be pretty full all this season and project it will bring in a little under half a million. Half a mill for the whole season, not including cups. With the new stand we''d get about 1.6 million. It''s 1.1 million a year extra, not including catering and all that.


    Boggy: An extra million just in ticket sales.


    Max: Yes. That extra income would be worth 20,000 a week which would give us a fighting chance of survival in League One. We think we can sell that many tickets next season if we get promoted.


    J: And you''ll jack up the prices?


    Max: No. No more than normal, anyway. It''s the McNally, isn''t it? It''s for young lads who want to stand and sing and get mental. We''ll have seats around the sides and on the upper level around the hospitality boxes for people like MD who love the atmosphere but whose knees have gone, but it''ll be the young, vibrant stand. Singing sections, drummer, a place where you''re allowed to dance around and throw beer on each other.


    J: What will the new name be?


    Max: Well, it''s a good time to rename it if that''s what you want to do. That''s something for the fans to decide. I''m happy with the Harry McNally. We''ve got time to think of all that kind of thing. Today''s about paying for it. Today''s about money. Give me your moneyyyy.


    J: Before you said there''s good news and great news. The great news is we get to pay for this.


    Max: Bingo.


    J: You''re unbelievable.


    Max: We looked at different financing options but there''s only one winner. It''s called a mini-bond. Norwich City did one to build their new academy, and AFC Wimbledon and QPR have done similar. How it goes is you, the people listening to this, invest money in the stadium starting with 500 pounds, no upper limit. You lend that to us for five years. Every year, we pay interest. 8%, in this case. That means if you lend me a grand, I''ll bang you 80 quid back, per year, and at the end of the five years, I''ll return your grand.


    J: That''s not bad.


    Max: Yeah it''s not bad but it comes with risk. If Chester goes bust, you''re not getting your money. The good news is the guy at the top is MD and ten minutes ago you were complaining he was too careful with the club''s finances. Okay, but now it''s your money he''s looking after! You like him being careful now, don''t you?


    J: I do like it. That''s actually...


    Max: I have to be careful about making promises because it''s, you know, the world of finance and stuff, and there are rules. The money we raise can only be used for the stadium. We''ve got a page on the website showing what it will all look like for anyone who just wants to daydream, but we''ve got an investor''s pack, too. Investor''s pack, listen to me! What it says in a nutshell is that the club is more or less breaking even and we are doing good businessy things like reducing our electricity costs and generating income from our 3G pitches. We''ve got talented players, too. As football clubs go, we''re not that risky and to prove that I''ve promised to be on my best behaviour for a while so I don''t rock the markets.


    Boggy: Rock the markets. I doubt the markets know what Chester FC is.


    Max: The plan is we get the money, we get the various builders lined up, Brooke project manages, it all goes seamlessly. And if it doesn''t, I''ll be on holiday in America with my phone off. Brooke can sort it out. [Laughs.] No, it''s all pretty straightforward, really. Oh, apart from one thing.


    J: Here we go.


    Max: So how these things work is you put a range. You say we need a minimum of three million, maximum five. Yeah? Norwich did it like that and they got to the maximum pretty quick. Their fans knew it was a good deal for their wallets and good for the club too. We''re working with a law firm called The Wall - I should say that it''s my girlfriend''s dad who owns it, but they made a better offer than the other lot. The Wall are trying to get into football and the legal stuff around this kind of investment is quite simple but I''ve put a twist on it. So basically the club needs five million pounds to complete the stand and that''s our target. So far, so good. But we have the potential to make decent money in the near future. I''m talking cup runs, sponsorships, player sales. We were fifty-fifty to get an away match at Newcastle and that could have made us half a million. What The Wall are letting us do is reduce the size of the mini-bonds in a dynamic way. If we get a big away day in the FA Cup and bank 500 grand, we can reduce the bond offer by that much.


    Boggy: So it would go down to 4.5 million.


    Max: That''s it. How I think it will go is, like, we''ll sell half a million pretty fast. A local business will buy a five-year rent on a hospitality box and we''ll put that into the mixer. People will see the availability of the mini-bonds going down, there will be FOMO -


    Boggy: Pardon me?


    Max: Fear of missing out. We''ll sell a player, more FOMO. It''s going to be great fun. It''ll be like a race to see who can get more money, me or the fans.


    J: Why don''t you keep the money from all that and use it?


    Max: I don''t want to pay 8% interest if I don''t have to, J. That''s lobster money, that. I don''t really like debt. The b-boys tell me debt used well can be good and obviously they''re right but I''m not comfortable with loading unnecessary costs onto the club. I''ve had a couple of weeks to get my head around these mini-bonds and they do what we need but I''d like it to be as small as poss. What''s fun is that if you want to make sure you get your money back all you have to do is come to watch matches at the Deva.


    Boggy: In the beautiful new stand we paid for.


    J: What''s the minimum investment again?


    Max: Five hundred pounds. One thing I''ll say is that I''ll be doing a lot of media stuff to promote this. I know you''re used to me being all distant and uncommunicative but for five million quid I''ll chat for England, do you know what I mean? It''s going to be bland stuff. Just trying to sound like a normal person, someone who you could trust with your savings. I''m steering clear of all controversy startinnnnnng... now.


    Boggy: What do you think of Alan Turner?


    Max: Great coach, improves players, well worth every penny of his wages. See? I can do it, Boggy. [Laughs.]


    Boggy: Why do I feel you practised that in front of a mirror?


    Max: Because I did. Right. Give me your money. Also, don''t be mad when I keep banging on about this mini-bond. I''m doing this for you. Your city, your community, your club.


    J: Done. I just bought a thousand.


    Max: What, just now?


    J: Yes.


    Max: Wow. Seems like there should have been some identity checks or something but great! Come here. [Sound of aggressive hugging.] You coming tomorrow?


    J: Course I am!


    Max: Top top top. Start saying farewell to the old Deva. The new Deva is waiting to rise. Rise? No, emerge. Waiting to ascend. I need to workshop this. Ah, but what a way for the Harry McNally terrace to say goodbye to the League Cup. Chester, blue and white stripes, against Newcastle, resplendent in their famous old black and white.


    Boggy: Sorry, what? [Nervous chuckle.] Max, you know they won''t be wearing black and white.


    Max: What''s that now?


    Boggy: The kits would be too similar. Newcastle will be wearing their change kit. The green one.


    J: The one that''s identical to the Saudi Arabia kit?


    Boggy: That''s the one.


    Max: They wouldn''t dare. Not here.


    Boggy: Max! They''ve already sent the details. I get them early so I can prepare my commentary. They will be in green. That''s done and dusted.


    J: Max?


    Boggy: Max? Are you...? Should we...?


    Max: One second. [Sound of a phone dialling out.] Sandra, hey. I''ve changed my mind. Yes. Can you get the lads to Bumpers, please? Yes, now. [Max stands up, a chair slides across a smooth floor.] Lads, I need to go. Someone just called an emergency training session.


    J: Holy shit what''s happening?


    Max: [Leaning into the microphone.] Chester, give me your money. I need your money. Thanks, bye.


    ***


    Me: Pray for Alan.


    Sebastian: What does that mean?


    Me: It means it''s on.

 12.6 - Turner Blindeye (Part One)

    6.


    Half an hour after leaving the podcast studio, almost every member of the first team squad was in the Sin Bin. We were only waiting for Henri, who had been getting his knees waxed, and Magnus, who was out geocaching and wouldn''t be able to get back in time.


    A few WAGs - wives and girlfriends - were in the bar, while others (especially the ones with kids) were in the viewing cabin, watching our youth teams train.


    I was in my office sketching out possible formations and line ups. It was blindingly obvious to me that if we tried to do anything approaching normal football we would get squashed flat. We had to get weird, to go off book, and that meant Sandra would be in charge. With the freedom to put players in any position, I started to think about what I''d learned in my time as a manager.


    Yeah, you won more games by having your best players in their best positions. That was the reason I thought so much about squad building, why I was so intense about training.


    But I''d learned that on special occasions you could skip all that. If you had one specific move you wanted to do or there was one thing you needed to shut down at all costs, you could put players in apparently stupid places. You could use Pascal to man-mark a left back. You could put an attacking midfielder in the defence because he was the best at long passes. I hadn''t done it much but you could use left backs at right back if you felt you needed a left footed defender on that side.


    Most such changes ended with that out-of-position player getting a poor match rating. The way Newcastle played, every one of my lads would get 4 or 5 out of ten. We were going to get soundly thrashed, that was for sure.


    But that didn''t mean we couldn''t win.


    Sandra: Ready.


    I got up and walked along Lane Lane in the direction of the Sin Bin. That took me past the grass pitch - currently called ¡®Lawn Michaels¡¯ - where the women were training.


    Angel flat out left the drill she was doing - just left the ball right there and ignored the complaints of her teammates - and jogged over. "Max," she said, walking next to me.


    "Mmm," I said, trying to keep in the right mental state for what I was about to say. If I gave off too much energy, the lads wouldn''t be able to sleep. If I was too vague about the plan, they wouldn''t be able to spend the next 24 hours visualising it. If I was too clear about the plan, there was a risk half a dozen of them would get morale drops because there was no way they would get on the pitch.


    "What are you doing? You''re doing something. The lads are all worked up." Some of the men had spilled out of the Sin Bin, had formed into little groups. "Why did you summon them?"


    "Summon? If I had the power to summon I think I''d start with a sexy dark elf. Or a mermaid."


    "If you''re doing epic things, you should have the cameras in with you."


    "Bye Angel," I said, and she stopped. I walked backwards while I said, "Well done against Wakefield. Into the second round of the FA Cup! The Relentlessness indeed. I love how the team is playing. Done good job."


    ***


    The buzz of anticipation in the packed cabin got my pulse up. Instant goosebumps.


    It used to be like this all the time, my life, all mad schemes and desperate gambits. Now it was mostly sedate. A calm and rational exploration of the country as we tried to turn 1.1 points per game into something a lot closer to 2.


    We had the first team squad and the coaches who weren''t out with the kids or the women. Dean and Alex were there, but not MD or Brooke. This was football stuff. Some of the teacher''s pets were sitting at Spectrum''s table, including Pascal (still in his brace, good lad), but the vast majority of the group were standing. The ones outside had seen me and had come in. The Sin Bin was cold, full to the brim with clean, fresh air. With so many bodies crammed in, how long would that last?


    "Listen up," I said.


    I was at the front. The TV had been wheeled to my right. To my left I had my trusty old flipchart.


    "Put your arm around someone."


    The reaction to this was electric. Men stood taller. There were a dozen jumps in Morale. Sandra held Vimsy. Zach held Dazza. Fierce held Andrew Harrison.


    Physio Dean and Alex Short were standing awkwardly by the door. They didn''t feel like part of the group. I pointed to them, then to the middle of the room. "Get in the blob."


    They shuffled forward, into the mass. Arms lifted like cranes, fell back down around their new cargo.


    I scanned the room from left to right. My employees. My teammates. My warriors. "Look around you."


    They did. They didn''t know what they were looking for, so their expressions stayed mostly neutral.


    "Make eye contact with someone until you get uncomfortable... then power through it."


    It was like I''d dialled the intensity from 7 to 9. Sparks flew.


    "Relax," I said, but while the energy levels dipped, I got the feeling the holds were stronger. They were gripping each other tighter.


    I looked down at the floor.


    "I¡¯m going to demand something I¡¯ve never asked for before."


    I looked up, picked out a few faces to engage with.


    "I¡¯m going to ask for courage."


    The grips got tighter. I had to make sure I didn''t overdo this or Sandra was going to rip Vimsy''s shoulder clean off.


    "I¡¯ve done batshit things in sports halls. I''ve done mad scientist experiments with army units on distant fields. Christ, I¡¯ve done tactics in the National League which seemed daring, seemed like I was an inch from national humiliation, only to find out no-one was watching."


    I took a couple of steps to the right.


    "People are watching now. We¡¯re going to play Newcastle United. I''m going to pit my wits against Alan Turner, the leading English manager. But that¡¯s not why you need courage. You need courage because maybe I¡¯ve finally lost the plot completely. Maybe I¡¯ve cracked. Maybe my head has actually gone."


    I did a weird snarling laugh but my attempts to get it off my face only made me sharper, more angular, more evil. I started pacing around like a revivalist preacher.


    "There''s something in the air, lads. I feel powerful. I''m going to use that power to serve a higher purpose. I¡¯ve got a fucking FERVOUR."


    Youngster said, "Amen."


    "Alan Turner''s greatest weakness as a manager is that he¡¯s in this for himself. Look at the person you''re holding. Do you see a person who believes in something more than themselves?"


    People turned, asked themselves how much they knew about their neighbours.


    I stepped in front of Andrew Harrison. The table was in the way but it was as close as I could get. I pointed at him. "Is there anything you believe in more than yourself?"


    "My family," he said.


    I nodded and stepped left. "Youngster, is there anything you believe in more than yourself?"


    I thought I knew the answer to that one, but I got a surprise. "My family," he said.


    I pointed up with both index fingers, the way some players do when they''ve scored a goal. "Anything higher?"


    "I believe in my manager," he said, which brought grins to a few faces and nearly overwhelmed me with the need to be on the pitch beating Newcastle right now. Right now!


    I used sign language to say ''done good job''.


    I spoke quietly, next. "It seems like our opponent has everything, but we have one advantage. It''s simple. I believe in things. I¡¯m willing to put my ego on the line for those things. I can afford to be humiliated. I went from having the best haircut in the northern hemisphere to the worst in the south. When I was trying to take corners on a mudbath and kept slipping, I got up and slipped even harder. I''m going to spend the next three months of my life begging for money so we can have a good pitch and bring the women home. If I had a five hundred million pound team and it was getting battered by a League Two minnow, I would go men behind ball and defend for our lives.


    "Alan Turner can''t do that. Alan Turner can''t afford to be humiliated. He wants to be the England manager. That''s a straitjacket. He''s a prisoner of his own ambition."


    I had thought about showing some clips at this point, but we could do that in the morning. This evening was all about alignment. Getting everyone in that cabin pulling in the same direction.


    "Newcastle are a brilliant team. Alan Turner''s brand of football looks exciting. It¡¯s intense. Attacking. Direct. Some of you are thinking, wow, that sounds like Max Best football. Does it fuck! It¡¯s the opposite. How they play is all about Turner''s career. It is hollow, it is empty. It generates xG and xT, all that stuff he can print out and bring to a job interview. It¡¯s the boldest you can be without taking any fucking risk!


    "I''d love to say his style is cowardly but it''s not. We''re not that lucky. It is fearful. It looks amazing but Turner is risk averse to an extreme that I can and will fucking exploit every time we meet, starting tomorrow.


    "I¡¯ve got a plan. It is all kinds of demented. None of you signed up for guaranteed humiliation live on TV. If you don¡¯t want to be part of it, leave now. I promise it will not affect your career here and that¡¯s a triple lock promise. If you¡¯re not comfortable being a joke on the back page of the Mail, being ripped to bits on every podcast in the world, this is the time to nope out. I¡¯m serious."


    Henri said, "How bad is your plan?"


    "Fucking mental. Any other manager putting out this lineup with these instructions a day after the club asked its fans for five million pounds would be sacked before half time. Sacked before kick off, maybe."


    "Okay," said Henri. "I''m in."


    I pointed at Alex Short. "You''ve just made a promise in front of a psychologist. That''s like swearing on the Bible."


    "It isn''t," said Alex and Youngster.


    "Anyone want to leave? Andrew?" The older triplet shook his head. I twisted my neck around to release some of the tension, turned to a new page of the flipchart, and picked up a marker. I flicked it up and caught it as I strolled around. "Right. Turnerball is always 4-3-3, morphing into 3-2-5 or 3-1-6 when they''re attacking. Key principles for how Newcastle play.


    "One. They press. Their press is ridiculously intense. We will get no time on the ball. We will have zero percent possession.


    "Two, they are fit. They are much fitter than us, and we are in pretty good shape. It isn''t a case of us waiting till the last ten minutes to go hard against tired legs. Nope. They will run insanely hard, insanely fast, for 98 minutes. If they need a break they will flop to the floor and pretend to have a head injury. That''s the most despicable form of cheating because it puts us all at risk. One day a ref won''t stop a game when there''s a genuine issue. By the way: fuck Alan Turner.


    "Three. They attack from all directions. Down the sides they do overloads and overlaps for days. Through the middle they have craft and long shots. They''re a menace from set pieces.


    "Four. They do a lot of positional rotation. Their 6 moves to 8, their 8 moves to 10, all that good stuff. It will cause us problems we don''t have solutions for.


    "Five. They play a high line. They will be right up on halfway against us. This compresses the pitch and makes their press more effective. The only way out is over the top.


    "Six. Their goalie plays high. He''ll be almost to the edge of the centre circle at times. If we chip a ball over the defensive line, he''ll get to it ninety-odd times per hundred and the ball will come right back at us."


    I smiled as I picked the flipchart up and moved it into the centre. There hadn''t been a whole load of good news in that speech.


    "On the plus side, it won''t be their best team. They''re being ground to dust, as per usual, and there are these international breaks where they''re flying around the world getting fatigued. No chance their top five players will even be on the private jet for the ten-minute flight from Newcastle. Climate Crime FC, lads, if you want a nice hashtag. I think we''ll get their squad players plus a hot prospect or two. Still terrific but, you know, human. Here''s the plan, in basic form. We''ll get more specific in the morning and do some game scenarios out on the grass. Walking pace, saving energy for the match." I drew a circle. "Release that breath you were holding. Yes, we will have a goalkeeper." I jerked my eyebrows up playfully. "Got a feeling we might need one." I drew two centre backs. "Defenders. Low block. No space in behind. You''re not going up for corners. There will be no counter-attack goals scored on us because we aren''t moving. You''ll be here the whole match, defending, defending, defending. It will be agony. No ecstasy. The amount of suffering will be unprecedented; this will be the worst 98 minutes of your lives."


    Those words filled Christian Fierce with a holy zeal. Zach''s eyes were shining.


    "We will have a left back and a right back. Behold the megabrain! Now, then. We know they love slapping down the sides so we will do one of two things. Either we will play a second full back on both flanks, so two left backs and two right backs, or we will have Josh and Magnus as wing backs. That would give us the illusion of not being ultra-defensive and could in theory give us an out ball when we''re in trouble. I''ll let Vimsy and Sandra think about it overnight."


    "A back six?" said Henri.


    "No, a back seven," I said. In addition to the wide defenders I drew a third centre back just slightly ahead of the other two. "DM. He''ll block long shots and drop into the box when there are overlaps. When the cutback comes in, the nearest centre back heads to the front post, the DM goes to the edge of the six-yard box to intercept balls played back at an angle. I''ve drawn him as a DM but the way the game will go, he''ll be in line with the centre backs more than not. Back seven. Backs to the wall. Clinging on for dear life."


    I paused to think about what I''d said so far.


    "Okay this is damage limitation. They can still hurt us, course they can, but with this we''ll make it hard. If we abandon the idea of trying to ever pass the football, the task becomes a lot clearer, right? They can''t counter-press us when we try to break because we''re not trying to break. And if we flood the backline, their pretty rotations won''t affect us as much. We''re marking the space, yeah? Not the players. They will be able to take long shots - our goal is to make them do it from 30 yards instead of 25. One might sail in. One might deflect in. Or they might have 50 and they all go miles over. Right, Youngster?"


    He did the closest thing in his repertoire to a patient sigh. "Yes, boss."


    "Okay last three players. Again, I''m going to let Sandra chew on this overnight, but it will be something very much along the lines of this..."


    I drew three circles in the striker positions, as if we were playing 4-3-3 with narrow forwards.


    Sandra said, "Seven-oh-three, boss?"


    "Three fast attackers stationed on the halfway line. We defend for our lives, punt, hope a ball bounces our way. It''s next level tactics. It''s scary how good I am." I wandered around in a loop, returning to tap the chart. "I have no idea how twatface will respond to this but if he does nothing and we get a lucky goal, all bets are off and I can rinse him in the post-match. If he drops the defence back ten yards, if he stops his DM pushing on, almost any reaction from him is good for us if it interrupts their patterns."


    I did another restless lap of my circuit.


    "If we get a couple of good breaks... Christ, if we get an early goal... We could get under their skin. They could start to worry. There''s no upside for Turner in beating us. It does nothing for his career. It does nothing for the careers of the squad players he picks. You scored against Chester? So what? For those players it''s only downsides. We could end five Newcastle careers tomorrow night and they know it." I nodded rapidly. "They''re always going to be five bad minutes away from a meltdown. We¡¯ve got the courage to lose big. Do they have the courage to lose small?"


    ***


    Tuesday, October 28


    The morning''s training was pretty strange. It was more like a series of negotiations than a real session, and there was strictly no running. We didn''t have a calorie to spare.


    First things first. I took the goalies aside and explained my thinking, which was simply that Ben would start the match because he had better long distribution and that was basically our entire plan. I would be able to name nine subs and use five, so there was an outside chance I would be able to bring Sticky on in the event of penalties. Not much chance, though, because the only way to survive the 90 minutes was to use every single sub. Sticky knew he probably wouldn''t get on the pitch.


    We''d decided to do the wingbacks thing, which meant we would start with our usual back four of Eddie, Fierce, Zach, and Lee H. I explained to Eddie, Lee, and Vimsy that I wanted the wide guys to play narrower, close to the centre backs. Newcastle would try to slip balls between the gaps in our lines. If the gaps weren''t there, that would obviously be harder. As the pressure came on us, Josh (left wing-back) and Magnus (right wing-back) would slide back, as would the DM.


    Vimsy was coaching a flat back seven. He was so much in his element there were times I thought he might actually be afloat.


    He was pretty surprised when I announced I would be the starting DM, mostly because everyone was expecting me to be one of the fast strikers. We had Sharky and Wibbers... who was the third?


    "I''ll play the first twenty, twenty-five, then it''ll be Youngster. It''s a key role and this way we can match Newcastle''s energy levels, yeah, in one part of the pitch at least."


    "Are you going to do the shuffle and slide walkthroughs this morning?"


    "No, use Youngster."


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    I wandered up to halfway, where Sandra had Sharky and Wibbers in discussion. Henri, Dazza, and Tom Westwood were there because while they weren''t fast, if I wanted to keep three up top for the whole match I was going to have to use at least one of the real strikers. Pascal was in the circle, apparently in his role as a trainee coach, but Sandra knew the German would start. He might not be able to run at his full pace, but if we did get a break he would make a dummy run that would create space for Wibbers, or would run into the goalie and give the ref a decision to make, or something.


    "We''ve decided," said Sandra, "that the front three should stick close together. Really close together. If we''re going to get weird, let''s get Max weird. Sharky, you''re the main man. We need you to conserve your energy and then get the fuck onto one of these long balls. Wibbers, you too."


    I said, "Yeah, William. You''re gonna see your mates suffering and you''re going to want to drop back to help. That isn''t helping. I need you to have the courage to stand here like a selfish twat while the crowd scream at you to do something. Do you get me?"


    He seemed startled by this new definition of courage. "I''ll do what the team needs."


    "I''ll tell you what your team needs," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders. I turned him sideways, so that he was facing where a dugout would be. I twisted his head to face the goal he was defending. "If the ball comes - big if - you need to be right on it. No delay, no time wasted twisting your body the right way. This is your starting position, yeah? You''re in your half so you''re onside. When the ball goes, you go."


    Pascal said, "If you spend too long facing this direction, the defender will find it easy to stand in your path. Turn sometimes so he has to move. Also, sometimes move behind Sharky so the defender cannot stop you getting momentum. Treat every moment of the match like we have a corner and you''re in the penalty area looking for space."


    "That''s good," I said. "Love that."


    I walked away, watching as the three groups - goalies, defenders, strikers - got to grips with their roles for the day. The tactical plan was simple and my only real job was to decide who would come on as a sub. I had a gaggle of midfielders off to the side not doing anything. One of them would be a key man. "Andrew," I said, and the prick jogged over.


    "Yes, boss?"


    "Do you want the worst job in the world?"


    "I thought I had that," he said, then his face fell. He had gone too far. "I mean, yes."


    "I''m going to make two early subs. I want you to be one of them."


    He would play most of the match! "Right. Yes. What? Great." Suspicion and doubt crept in. "This is part of my punishment, is it?"


    "You are top of our running stats. Turner won''t let us dick around the entire match, he''ll do something. I might ask you to play proper central midfield and do as much pressing as you can. Shuttle runs left and right, get in their passing lanes, disrupt them like they''re doing to us. Or you''ll mark their DM but be ready to join attacks. Something like that, but basically you will run like crazy and touch the ball a maximum of three times. It will be - "


    "I''ll do it. Whatever you need."


    "Top. Get those guys to stop moping around. I need everyone to understand all parts of the plan and be ready to rumble. It''s going to be chaos."


    "Yes, boss."


    I went to the side of the pitch and watched as our almost-accurate starting eleven, one that featured Andrew instead of Pascal and Youngster instead of me, walked around ''defending'' while Dan Badford and Ryan Jack rolled the ball to each other. We added more attackers until the oppo had a full eleven. I had to beg Sticky to come further and further out of his box to replicate what Newcastle''s guy would do. Even in a walking match designed to get the lads comfortable in their roles, he hated it.


    The ''Newcastle'' team passed the ball around at Ryan Jack''s top speed - the slowest a ball can go - while Vimsy yelled at the defenders to watch their spacing and Sandra suggested how the front three could maximise the effectiveness of their starting position. I was happy; the setup was as good as we were going to get at such short notice.


    In a break, I talked to Sandra. "What do you think?"


    She shrugged. "I have the courage to do this, but not the courage to tell you what I think about it."


    I laughed and told her to cut short the session. We needed to go home and save energy. It was going to be a long night.


    ***


    AOK Cup Fourth Round: Chester versus Newcastle United


    I got to the stadium early and went to hide in the manager''s office. It wasn''t a time for me to burn energy talking to fans or sponsors. I didn''t want to talk to the refs or anyone. I only wanted to get on the pitch and see how many blows I could land against Alan Turner.


    Turner was swanning around my stadium, my home, like he owned the place. Better if I avoided him until after the match, for lots of reasons.


    The curse offered me the chance to use the ''Frankenstein Is The Monster'' perk and I decided yes, sure, why the devil not. It would make the referee fussy and pedantic - the bonus being that we would know before kick off but Newcastle would have to work it out during the match. It could blow up in my face but generally speaking my players didn''t do most of the moronic things other teams did. We didn''t kick the ball away when a free kick had been awarded, nor did we stand over the ball to stop the other team taking a quick free kick. We didn''t waste time, we didn''t whip our shirts off and spin them around when we scored (except in cases of mad euphoria), and we didn''t get yellow cards for dissent.


    Alan Turner had picked almost the weakest starting eleven it was possible to imagine. It was absurdly strong.


    Masarik, their goalie, was playing at the Deva for the second time this season. He was the Slovakian national team keeper and had CA 155. He was a phenomenal shot-stopper, though that particular skill wouldn''t be in much use today. He was incredible at penalties, in the unlikely event we got that far. And he was quite decent at sweeping up.


    That said, he was also the most likely player on either team to get sent off. If we got a good pass over the top and Sharky reached it first, any contact from Masarik that sent our player to the floor was going to put the keeper in big, big trouble. That scenario was one of the main reasons I had decided to use the fussy referee perk.


    The centre back pairing was a little-used CA 120 29-year-old and Charlton, a CA 88 youth prodigy. The full backs were both under 23, too, with CA 114 on the left and 81 on the right.


    The three guys expecting a tough midfield battle were between CA 108 and 120.


    The left forward was a first-team regular returning from injury. He was fast, tricky, and a lethal finisher. Having a CA 140 guy as your main threat was quite appealing, to be fair. In the middle was a 19-year-old striker with CA 96, and to the right was a CA 93 academy product a year older.


    That gave them an average CA of 111, which was far, far lower than I was expecting. Clearly, they were building the profiles of some of these players in order to sell them. Academy players were counted as ''pure profit'' in the league''s financial rules. I even toyed with the idea of reshuffling my men into something of a more conventional shape. I mean, this Newcastle team was only about twenty percent better than Carlisle United or Mansfield.


    The real danger came from the subs bench. If they were winning comfortably, Turner had three other talented kids who could also get some experience. If things turned sour, there were five proper first-teamers who could pound us into submission. Guys with CA 160. 164. 171. Yeah. Intimidating.


    After I''d activated the fussiness perk, I stepped down from managing the match, mentally assigning it to Sandra. She would do the first half, at least, but probably the second, too. I would be missing out on stupendous amounts of XP - perhaps 14 a minute. But it had to be done.


    14 XP per minute. CA 155 goalies. 70 versus 111.


    I tried to stop all the numbers spinning. Tried to calm the nerves, the anxieties, tried to make my legs feel less heavy.


    I wished there was a way to go and spend a quiet minute with Emma, alone. I missed the smell of her hair and the way her lips danced when I was talking shit. My fingers twitched as I thought about calling her.


    I thought about an embassy and a journalist who went in one door and never came out. My fingers twisted into a clenched fist.


    Alan Turner thought he could turn a blind eye to anything so long as they paid him enough.


    I would show him something he couldn''t turn a blind eye to.


    The numbers stopped spinning.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Anyone watching Chester tonight?


    Stoop


    Might keep an eye on it, yeah.


    SummerhillBill


    You''ve already missed the best bit. BG''s best buddy did his pre-match interview. Not sure why he''s got the hump with Alan Turner but he got a few sly digs in. Absolutely hilarious. Got to say even I''m starting to warm to Best. Turns out he''s my kind of prick. Who knew?


    Stoop


    What did he say?


    SummerhillBill


    Nothing, that''s what''s so funny about it. Most people watching, it would go over their heads. It''s only because we know what he''s like that I knew he was being funny, if you get me. Let me try to think how it went.


    So there was a question about what a big game it was for Jester, you know, Newcastle United coming to town. Best, the prick, answered it like Jester were the biggest club in the world. He was politely confused the reporter had got it so wrong, if you follow me. ''We often host national teams'', he said. ''We had Slovakia, now Saudi Arabia, and it''s a great honour for them.''


    He slipped the ''for them'' in so subtle I nearly spat out my drink. I''m glad I read BG''s story here because now I can enjoy it for what it is.


    The next good bit was when he was asked about managing against Alan Turner.


    Best went, ''Oh, yeah, I read somewhere he''s considered one of the best English managers. It was on his blog, I think.''


    Again, absolutely savage but he kept such a straight face I don''t even think the reporter knew what had happened.


    I hope Jester lose 10-0, of course I do, but mind what goes on with the Geordie bench because something is up there.


    Stoop


    BG, did Best ever say anything about Alan Turner to you?


    BrokenGround


    No. The only manager he''s ever mentioned, I think, apart from Parky, was Dieter Bauer. Best got a call, pretended to be annoyed, Pascal said ''what?'', Best goes, ''it was that bloody Dieter Bauer again''. Pascal laughed so I think it was a private joke.


    ***


    After doing my media duties, I went out to warm up with the rest of the starting lineup - the other players were so stupefied that Pascal was playing that Morale collapsed. Interesting effect! Write that down.


    Back in the dressing room, Sandra restated the plan, explained that Pascal would get ten minutes before being replaced by Andrew, that Youngster would replace me. We would likely make another change at half-time, but then we would have to make our final two changes together. For example, if there was an injury in the 46th minute, we would be forced to make two subs otherwise we wouldn''t be able to use our fifth guy, and we absolutely needed to use every option available to us.


    Having to make a double sub even if we only really wanted to do one could lead to strange outcomes and - in a normal squad - unhappy players. Sandra asked everyone to understand that we were cooking with unknown ingredients, building the plane as we went. When she was done, she nodded in my direction.


    "Guys," I said, sombrely. I got to my feet and stood next to our manager. "Quick note about the ref. One of my mates texted that this guy''s wife''s left him or something and he''s in a sulk. He''s going to call every little thing today, okay? Make sure any stupid yellow cards go to Newcastle, not us." There wasn''t much more I could say about that, so I moved on. "With the gaffer''s permission, I would like to unveil a breakthrough I''ve made in football therapy. It''s a more holistic approach to pre-match hype. Gets the delta brainwaves going. Please lower your heads and close your eyes. Good lads. The next nearly four minutes are going to be a seminal moment in your career and I want you to savour every second of this experience."


    With that, I pressed play on my phone and Murder on the Dancefloor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor blasted out of our big speaker.


    The Morale of every Chester player shot to the maximum.


    With that out of the way, it was time to face the music.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Team sheet is wrong. I''ve never seen that.


    Stoop


    What''s up with it?


    BrokenGround


    The TV graphic got Pascal Bochum starting. I wonder what happened there. DigiWorld can be pretty shit sometimes.


    Teulu


    I wouldn''t know. I only use dodgy streams. He was out for ten months, right?


    BrokenGround


    Ten, yeah. I''m on the socials and they''ve all got the same eleven. It can''t be. Was he...


    Was he lying to me?


    SummerhillBill


    Don''t think so, lad. Best said it on the interview. Supposed to be five to ten months, but they did a scan after eight weeks, routine, the bone had all healed! The doctors were dumbfounded. Best said something like ''he''s a miracle man''. If you have DigiWorld+ you should be able to scroll back to the warm ups. You can see the Jester players are looking at the kid like he''s a ghost. You''re surprised? Look at their faces.


    BrokenGround


    That makes me feel better. Thanks.


    ***


    1''


    The roar from the home fans as Newcastle kicked off was shattering. It had been supernaturally boosted by the Shocktober perk. I wondered what Crackers, the former board member, was thinking. The referee awarded a free kick, Newcastle took it quickly, and he made them go back and take it from the exact place the foul had happened. Heh.


    3''


    Newcastle were playing exactly as expected. They passed, sprinted down the channels, passed, recovered, sprinted again, remorselessly, endlessly, while we shuffled and slid, desperately trying to plug the gaps they were creating. I had to be careful not to wear myself out because I needed to be able to put some quality on the ball if I ever got near it. That said, I was in a vital defensive role. I had to get out of the back line to block shots, had to stop midfielders clipping passes through or over the top, yet also had to get back into the six-yard area if Newcastle slapped down the sides.


    It was more than a full-time job, and I wondered if I had made a mistake thinking I could do it for any length of time. I had no appetite for launching myself in front of shots. Youngster did, and he had the energy and mindset to keep going back and forth between the same two or three spots contributing nothing with the ball.


    My three fast forwards stood where the left of the centre circle met the halfway line. Not one had touched the ball.


    4''


    I love cricket. I''m a massive cricket fan.


    If you are ''with bat'' in your local village test match and a leftwise bowl-boy flings the big cherry at your stump-and-crossbones, you have about 0.7 seconds to react.


    If you are doing the same against a good professional throw-dog, you have just over 0.5 seconds to nurdle the off long.


    Against one of the brutish Australian national team hurl-daddies, you have 0.4 seconds.


    Elite sport is far harder than the hardest thing you have ever attempted.


    A Newcastle midfielder, seeing there wasn''t a lot of space for his forwards to work in, drove forward and took a shot. It hit Zach and deflected in my direction. The first 0.4 seconds of my reaction were to smash the hotkey linking me and Sharky with Cupid''s Arrow, but I wasn''t the manager so the hotkeys weren''t there. That was fine - it was an easy pass anyway. All I had to do was get the ball under my control and -


    A sliding green shirt appeared on the edge of my awareness radar and almost as quickly, wiped me out.


    I stayed down on the turf for ten seconds, not because I was hurt, but because I was absolutely stunned by the pace Newcastle were playing at. It wasn''t possible to compete on such a level. I could boss League Two. League One, probably. With practice I would be a decent Championship player, for sure. This, though, this was mad. This was many levels above what I could ever do. The Newcastle boys in their disgusting green tops were like protons in a particle accelerator and when they collided with you, you stayed hit.


    I realised then the folly of my plan. Defend and play out for a fast break made conceptual sense but not one of our back eight had the reaction time or the fast-twitch muscles to control the ball and fire a pass before a green shirt would be right up in our grills. Even though we had removed one step from the process - looking up to see where our strikers were - we were as helpless as an English middle-order batsman in the 1990s.


    I got up and was immediately compelled to hurry to cover a potential cut-back. The cross didn''t come and I was suddenly five yards away from where I needed to be. The ball was played back. Josh Owens went to compete but his oppo went past like he wasn''t there. A cross came in from an unexpected angle. Zach rose but the Toon striker got there first and headed just over.


    I puffed air from my cheeks. The fuck was I even doing? This was over. I had to suffer but why was Pascal still on the pitch? He''d started the day on 66% Condition. The fans would love his return, as would Beth. What would her headline be? It had to be something with ''Miracle Man''. I''d tried to put it on a plate for her. I hoped Beth would run with the story and Brooke would turn it into cash.


    I jogged up towards Pascal. "Mate," I called out, gasping for breath already.


    He knew what I was thinking. "Fuck you, boss, I''m not going."


    "Come on," I said, with a pleading note in my voice.


    "You promised me ten minutes. Do you know how hard I worked for these ten minutes?¡± He was panting, too. ¡°Come and win this header. Flick it on to the left for Sharky. I''ll go right. Wibbers middle."


    I tutted, but turned to look at Ben. I waved at myself. Ben cracked a high, fairly accurate ball, but I got stonked by the CA 120 centre back and had to rush back to help out.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Get it launched! Get it to Pascal! Why don''t they pass?


    He''s fast, lads. He just needs one chance. You watch.


    Teulu


    I hope he doesn''t get injured again. You know what? Tell me when he gets subbed off. I can''t watch this. I keep thinking his leg can''t have healed and one little tap and...


    ***


    7''


    It was all Newcastle. They were bouncing the ball around like it was a video game, holding their triggers down to run fast, apparently at no cost. Chester were shit, every single one of us. Ben''s match rating was 5. Everyone else was on 4, apart from me. I was on 3.


    I thought about subbing myself off. Up in the executive box, Sebastian Weaver would be preening himself, smirking, borderline insufferable. Okay, Seb wouldn''t be as crass as Chip Star, especially not with his wife and daughter there, but he would still be loving every second of this nightmare. The longer I crabbed around like a lost boy at an outdoor market, like a piece of a shipwreck bobbing between eleven deadly rocks, the more he would fucking exult.


    I gritted my teeth.


    I had told my men that I was willing to humiliate myself.


    The ball was passed in front of me. I rushed out to make a tackle but by the time I got there, the ball was long since gone. A Newcastle player gave me a weird look, like, bro, whatchu doing?


    I was willing to humiliate myself.


    I locked onto the next target. Got nowhere close.


    Sebastian would laugh. Emma wouldn''t. I wish I''d gone to talk with her before the match, even if it meant having to put up with Sebastian. I needed her. I couldn''t do this without her.


    The ball zipped back across yet again, faster than ever.


    What do you believe in, Max?


    I believed I had asked for courage from my men. I believed we had survived seven minutes. I believed we could survive seven more.


    It was played out wide and I got myself to the edge of the six-yard box, ready to intercept any pull-backs.


    9''


    Still nil-nil. Still all one-way traffic but where there''s life there''s hope.


    Hope dies last.


    It''s the hope that kills you.


    10''


    We hadn''t had a single break, hadn''t spent more than ten seconds in Newcastle''s half, and it was getting harder to keep Wibbers up the pitch. He couldn''t bear to see us suffer. We were about to crack. The ref wasn¡¯t helping because there were so few stoppages in play. It was like a training match with one team walking, one team at full speed.


    At the next break, Andrew would come on. I decided he could join me as a second DM, could help me patrol zone 14, where most of Newcastle''s long shots would come from. After all, it didn''t really matter if we had two strikers or three if we couldn''t even get a long pass going.


    That wasn''t true, though, was it? It did matter. Three strikers was a statement. None of Newcastle''s back line had joined their attacks, except at corners. They were wary. Masarik was creeping forward, as he did, but when Turner and his coaching staff spotted what their goalie was doing, they forced him to move back ten yards. There was just the slightest lack of clarity in their setup, probably made worse because Masarik almost never played and was keen to impress. He was better at the sweeper-keeper role than the first-choice goalie. He was willing to take an eye-catching risk, even if his manager wasn''t.


    11''


    Pascal left the pitch to a spine-tingling standing ovation. He applauded all sides of the ground, got a big hug from everyone in the dugout, and sat on the bench, dripping with sweat.


    He had touched the ball three times.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Teulu, you can watch now. He''s off. Not injured. He''s grinning from ear to ear.


    Teulu


    Thank Christ. What was the point of all that, I wonder?


    ***


    12''


    Andrew sprinted onto the pitch. I yelled, "DM with me."


    "Sandra wants me further forward."


    "In a bit," I said.


    13''


    I thought I saw a chance to get on a loose ball and make something happen, but one of Newcastle''s busy midfielders got there first. He had seen the option and instead of calculating, he had simply assumed he would win the ball.


    Fucking fast, man. Crazy.


    Depressing.


    15''


    I wondered what I could do to shave a few hundredths of a second off my reaction time. The answer? Play in the Premier League for a couple of months. How was that going to happen?


    Maybe Alan Turner would sign me.


    As a ball boy.


    17''


    Still nil-nil, and still Newcastle spent almost all their time in a 3-2-5 formation.


    But while I continued to stink the place out, the rest of the defence were doing better. Ben had made a few saves from tepid long shots and his rating was up to 6. Christian and Zach had worked out that Newcastle¡¯s young striker wasn''t quite the unstoppable force he had seemed in the first few minutes, and they were getting on top of that battle. Crowding the spaces out wide had worked to limit the number of chances we conceded, but Josh and Magnus had been involved in a lot of action, a lot of scraps. They had lost more than they had won, but their opponents were starting to lose the fear factor. The CA 140 winger wasn''t at his sharpest and Magnus was learning his preferred moves.


    Meanwhile, Andrew Harrison was loving his role. Run around a lot! This was his destiny. That was what I''d imagined for him when I''d spotted him on a beach in Tenerife. His Chester career was over but he would impress watching managers with his work rate and stamina and he would get a contract offer in January. He was playing for his future in the sport and he was relishing it.


    That was all well and good but I had always hoped he would add a bit of quality to his game.


    We were desperate for some quality.


    ***


    19''


    BrokenGround


    Oh my fucking God!


    Stoop


    What the shit was that?


    Teulu


    What happened? What happened? My stream is about a minute behind.


    BrokenGround


    WATCH


    ***


    18''


    I was really starting to think about pulling myself off, a phrase I wouldn''t normally have used but I was too tired to worry about double entendres.


    Since the first whistle, our defensive line had been dropping deeper and deeper, given relief only by the referee awarding us cheap free kicks for collisions that would normally have passed by without comment. Back we went, deeper, ever deeper, but in the last few minutes that trend had reversed and we were getting higher.


    That was good. That meant we were in the match, competing, not losing every duel, playing some of the moments on our own terms.


    It was with this fractional lightening of the mood, this very slight release of the suffocation, that I darted forward to snap into a tackle and actually got a piece of the ball.


    Surprised, my oppo fell and pushed the ball to his mate. That guy was about to get a nasty surprise - Andrew Harrison was coming at him on his blind side.


    I forgot I was playing DM. I edged a few yards away from our back line and the closer I got to halfway, the lighter my legs felt.


    Andrew stabbed his foot at the ball - and got it! The bloody thing was about to come to me in a pocket of space just short of the centre circle.


    Time went haywire. Slowed to nothingness as though I had paused The Matrix to get a full 360 scan of my surroundings.


    It would return to normal all too soon and anyway, there was only one thing to do: quickly boop the ball on a leftwards diagonal and see if Sharky could get there.


    Sharky set off on his run. Wibbers was a fraction slower - his instinct was to come to the ball to get a touch. Not today, bro. With some mental effort, he spun to his left so he could hare after Sharky and offer him an option.


    Masarik, Slovakia''s national team goalie, sensed the danger from the fast winger. He took a couple of steps to his right. If he intercepted the pass it wouldn''t matter what Sharky did or where Wibbers ran.


    Even with time seemingly paused, the ball was trickling away from Andrew''s toe diagonally into my path, into my very stride. I was already deep in my quick-pass motion. Not the beautiful, Beckhamesque visual poetry I normally went for, but a stunted, ugly clip. That was all I had time for. An ugly hoik was all I could offer this crowd, the nationwide TV audience, the footballing gods. It was all I could offer Emma.


    Fuck that.


    I demanded and got one extra one hundredth of a second and pushed through the ball. My laces hit dead centre. I didn''t feel it.


    Masarik was moving sideways but when he saw what I''d done his eyes popped and he tried to retreat. He stumbled slightly as his sudden change in direction tested his balance.


    Stupidly, bravely, desperately, he jumped in an attempt to head the ball away but there has never been a more futile act.


    I''d hit it perfectly. It went so straight, so true, that its first bounce landed exactly on the penalty spot, and the ball zoomed across the plane of the goal line exactly halfway between the posts.


    I had scored from 60 yards.

 12.7 - Turner Blindeye (Part Two)

    7.


    From: Ken Carr


    To: Grindhog Board


    Subject: Chester FC


    Max Best just scored from his own half against Newcastle wearing a Grindhog top that NO-ONE CAN BUY. No more prevarication, Wayne. Green light the second run of Chester FC home kits NOW.


    From: Wayne Carr


    To: Board; Ken Carr


    Subject: Chester FC


    Ken, can you slow down, please? There is a reason that we haven''t gone for the second run which is that we''re losing money on the deal you negotiated. We will wait to see how Chester''s season develops. Best is a loose cannon and we want to have a good relationship with Alan Turner so we can get closer to providing the England kit. Don''t get sucked into Best''s narrative again.


    ***


    18''


    Photograph 1: I have just swished my foot through the ball while a Newcastle player looks towards his goal in horror. Josh Owens'' hands are on the way to his head and his mouth is forming an O.


    ***


    It took three seconds for the ball to nestle into the back of the net. In that time I had a great view of the Geordies in the away end, many of them topless, a study in grumpy stillness. Lol. Get wrecked.


    I initially wheeled to my left to exult in front of Alan Turner but decided against it. I ran off to the right, to the West stand, to a section that didn''t normally witness a lot of goal celebrations up close.


    Jump into the fans? Instant yellow card, especially with this referee. I wouldn''t be on the pitch for much longer, though...


    I decided not to be stupid, so merely leapt onto the advert hoardings and stood, arms wide, head back, while hundreds of residents of leafy Cheshire went feral.


    Could the Sentinel strike me down for scoring that goal? Surely not. My match rating had been 3 out of 10 until that point. Now it was 7. You don''t get squashed flat for a 7 out of 10 performance, right?


    Just don''t do it again, I told myself.


    My teammates had caught up with me - they were going mental. I hopped down into the blob, hugged, kissed, screamed, was screamed at.


    Finally, I turned back to the fans, threw punches at them, and yelled, "Give me your money! Give me your money!"


    They loved it.


    20''


    The weight was off. The scales fell from my eyes. The pounding of the drum was the pounding of my heart. Newcastle fizzed some passes around zone 14 and with a sudden burst of speed I got to the ball just as it reached its target, the guy playing as their creative fulcrum. One colossal shoulder-barge later we were both falling, both throwing our legs at the ball.


    I narrowly got there first and he whacked me in the ankle. Free kick to Chester.


    The deafening approval for such a minor piece of business told me that fans were in. All the way in. That wasn''t enough. I got to my feet, glared at the main stand, and demanded more noise.


    They obliged.


    21''


    We took as much time as we dared while pushing up. Our strikers plus Andrew formed a huddle near the corner flag. Ben pinged the ball that way and the lads fought and scrapped and won a throw-in. We took our time. Newcastle''s lads were getting fractious. Josh went over to do his long throw. I was knackered so I didn''t go up for it, but Newcastle''s analysts had prepared the coaches for what Josh could do. They knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.


    After almost thirty seconds of drying the ball on a towel and waving his teammates exactly where he wanted them, Josh then threw the ball five yards. Andrew cushioned the ball back to him, Josh took a touch, passed back to Eddie, who squared it to me in the centre circle.


    We had killed a minute.


    Newcastle came thundering out of their penalty box like dogs released on a country estate. Christian and Zach were behind me, but if I lost the ball in this position it would be trivial for Newcastle to score.


    The first guy reached me and I awkwardly tried to readjust my body to squirt the ball to Zach. The green-shirted forward shifted the angle of his sprint. I stopped pretending to be clumsy, rolled the ball a yard to the right, and that was the end of him.


    The next guy was already at me, though. I wasn''t confident enough to do a nutmeg but he saw me look up, astonished, as I spotted the keeper off his line again. Sentinel be damned! I lined up a massive shot and when the forward stuck a leg out to block it, I skipped around him. Buh-bye!


    No more messing about now. With the defenders surging out to form the high line, I leaned back and clipped a pass with a ton of side spin.


    Sharky and Wibbers were retreating to stay onside, but Eddie read my intentions. Setting off from his own half he raced down the line, collected my pass, and for the first time in the game we had Newcastle''s defenders running back to their own goal while we attacked at speed.


    Sharky went on an underlapping run. Eddie passed forward and Sharky got there miles ahead of anyone. Our first touch in Newcastle''s penalty box!


    Wibbers was busting a gut to support, but the move revealed the main flaw of my plan.


    Sharky didn''t trust his left foot - with reason - so he had to stop the ball and push it onto his right. That fractional delay allowed three defenders to get between Sharky and the goal, and suddenly the chance went from being mouth-watering to being biscuit dry.


    Sharky tried to chip the ball to Wibbers but it was easily cut out. Within seconds, the action was in our half and Eddie was out of position.


    Newcastle came through the centre first, which was something I''d noticed them doing. They hit you in the middle and when you moved bodies inside, they would suddenly blitz the wings.


    The 8 I''d previously got the better of ran onto the ball, laid it off, and came for the return pass. He knew I would be right on him when the ball arrived and I knew that he would be planning a beautiful spin. It would dump me on my arse. He was going to put the League Two prick in his place.


    It went exactly as he planned... for 0.1 seconds.


    As he started his skill, I flicked my foot out and dabbed the ball away.


    He reached out, grabbed a handful of my shirt, briefly stopped my momentum. The fractional delay actually helped.


    Sharky panicked, realising he was offside. He waved at me not to pass, wasting the move''s kinetic potential as he laboured to get back into position. Fucking lazy! Wibbers, wide-eyed, dropped deep to support me. Not what I wanted, really, but that was just his nature. I felt a counter-press coming from the right. Quick as I could, I pushed the ball to Wibbers. I moved right to get the return pass, drawing midfielders that way. Wibbers held off a defender and made to roll the ball into my path. Three Newcastle players went to that space.


    But once the guys had started tracking me, I had run left instead. Wibbers passed and I clipped the ball over the top. Sharky, now in position, chased it. Thousands of fans shot to their feet. Wes Hayward was our best chance of getting anywhere in this match and everyone knew it. Wes Hayward against a high line was box office.


    Wibbers ran to support, and I did my best to help. My tank was in the red but we needed a third body in this move.


    Wibbers glanced over his shoulder, saw me coming, and moved left, closer to Sharky, to make the initial pass easier.


    Sharky passed with his left foot, keeping most of the momentum in the move. Wibbers pointed to where I should go - cheeky fuck - and I ran like Michael Johnson in Atlanta 96, erect, head back, arms pumping. In a cartoon I would have sucked debris into the vortex I was creating, and I''d certainly blown a fucking hole in the defensive line. Newcastle guys were scattered - one on Sharky, three on me. In the goal, Masarik moved across to make life harder for me.


    There was only one thing everyone had forgotten - I didn''t have the ball.


    William B. Roberts, the prick, shot.


    He fucking shot after I''d broken the land speed record to get into position.


    I knew the kid had done it because I saw it in Masarik''s eyes. Pure panic - he was going to concede again!


    I saw up close what happened, had a phenomenal view of what would turn out to be the second of five timeless photos from the match.


    Wibbers had shaped to thread the ball into my path but at the last second had whipped a shot to the left-hand side post. It was fast and curving away from the keeper. Most goalies would have watched it sail into the top corner.


    Masarik was not most goalies.


    He sorted his feet out, took a few quick strides, used a blade of grass like a trampoline, extended one of his long arms, and got half a finger to the bottom of the ball.


    The photo showed this giant man, stretched out like an elastic hero, flying through the air.


    Beautiful.


    Less beautiful was the follow-up. I had continued my run - why not? - and when the shot came back off the post it rolled temptingly in front of Masarik and myself. I thought I was favourite to get there but he had those long arms. He got his big mittens on the ball just ahead of me. I gave his closest hand a fair old whack and tumbled over.


    The nearby defenders went nuts. I''m not sure if they thought I was diving or if they thought I''d cracked into their player on purpose. They tried to start some kind of beef with me but all I did was lie there on the turf, on my back, absolutely wrecked. Sweat was dripping off me to the point the Sentinel could have drowned me in my own juices if he wanted. I was breathing so hard it was like I wasn''t taking in any oxygen. I was seeing spots.


    I wanted to do one last move, one last something. Yeah, these guys were well-coached, well-drilled, and the intensity was crazy. But I''d just about managed to get into the game and the goal had stoked all kinds of belief all over the pitch. Wibbers had shaken off the last few weeks of his torpor and looked once more like the future of English football. Josh Owens looked like he felt he belonged. Eddie Moore had gone marauding. Against Newcastle! Against the supposed best English manager! Eddie, how?


    I pulled myself up a few inches and immediately fell back. I was done.


    While I waited for my body to stop crashing, I looked at the match overview screens. A few Newcastle guys who had been on 8 out of 10 had fallen to 7. Our 4s and 5s had crept up to 5s and 6s.


    And the number 8 who had grabbed my shirt had been given a yellow card. The ref had played the advantage and when the ball was dead, booked him.


    Masarik had been getting some treatment on his hand, but with that done he came over and pulled me up. "You good?" I said.


    "Yes, mister."


    "I had to go for that ball."


    "I know. We are cool. Better for our relationship if you do not lob me again."


    "Don''t go to the halfway line, then. Jesus." I saw that Youngster was waiting on the touchline. "I''m subbing off now," I said to the Slovak goalie. "That kid, Youngster? He can ping a lob from halfway, too. Best stay back here."


    "I do not believe you."


    I gave him a tiny smile. "Are you willing to take that risk?"


    I brought my arm up. He slapped his glove into my right hand and gripped it. "No risk, no fun."


    "No fun playing for Alan Turner then. Seeya."


    I trudged away and it took about ten paces for my mechanisms to smooth out. By the time I got to halfway I was walking easily and was able to slowly spin and applaud three-quarters of the ground. I gave Youngster a high-ten.


    People wanted to congratulate me. I waved them all away so I could sit on the edge of the bench and suffer. When I stopped sweating - if I stopped - I was going to get a shower. Maybe I would wait till half-time, since I was getting 7 XP per minute for watching the match. Good gains, that. Good gains.


    23''


    Newcastle had had enough of our shit and they came at us hard.


    Long shots, overloads, overlaps, underlaps, through balls. They had one problem, though. After his first interception was followed by a calm pass to a free man, Youngster''s match rating hit 8 and was soon 9.


    We had a chance!


    26''


    Sparks were flying.


    The match was lop-sided, but even without me on the pitch we had a counter-attacking threat. Alan Turner was wary enough of Sharky and Wibbers to keep four players back. Facing six Newcastle attackers felt like facing twelve League Two guys, but it could have been worse, and we were winning about half our duels. The game was getting scrappy, which suited us.


    One thing I wasn''t sure I liked - the number of yellow cards on both sides was totting up. Eddie, Lee H, and Wibbers got carded, while Ben was nailed on to get one for timewasting at some point, and Andrew was going to mistime one too many challenges. I could easily imagine finishing the match with seven yellows... or six and a red.


    Only two Newcastle guys were on yellows and they would only accrue more if we got more counter attacks going or if they lost their discipline. Masarik was patrolling the edge of his penalty area - with him that deep there was much less chance of him getting a red card.


    30''


    Sandra asked me if I wanted to take over. "You go till half time," I said, and the effort gave me a mild pang of headache. I ate more marathon paste.


    32''


    The noise from the home fans remained immense, remained relentless.


    There was a call and response chant going on. The McNally was shouting ''blue and white army'' which was followed by the main and west stands shouting ''blue and white army''.


    Blue and white army?


    Blue and white army!


    3 out of 10 for creativity, 10 out of 10 for vibes.


    I poked my head out of the dugout and saw Alan Turner trying to shout at his players, trying to give instructions. They couldn''t hear him.


    American crowds did this. They made it impossible for the away players to hear their head coach. I flew out of the dugout and waved my hands around. More! Give me more!


    The air crackled. A Newcastle player with Technique 20 slipped and Youngster gathered the ball. He dribbled slowly backwards - not now, mate! - drawing aggro onto himself before falling to the right in the process of chipping a ball left, over the top.


    Sharky chased it but the pass was half a fraction of a percent too strong. Masarik flew out of goal and booted the ball into the stands.


    The stands applauded like a forest of trees splintering and collapsing.


    Alan Turner shook his head in disgust and went to sit down.


    I punched the air.


    36''


    The Toon players got a grip. They had a spell of controlled possession that reminded them what they practised every day. Then they came at us again.


    The bombardment recommenced.


    Ben flapped at a long shot. Another whizzed past at an angle but somehow went wide. Was there a hole in the net? Chips over the top caused havoc. We picked up another yellow. A clever free kick routine left a guy with a free header at the back post. How did we have seven defenders and nobody marking that guy? And how did he miss?


    39''


    Agony.


    So much agony.


    I had stopped sweating, but the sweat had turned cold. If I stayed too long where I was, I would catch pneumonia.


    I marvelled at Youngster, Wibbers, and Josh. Fire in their hearts, ice in their veins.


    44''


    We had somehow survived without conceding but now I was up on my feet next to Sandra. The time just before the break was dangerous - it was when a player might look forward to his half-time oranges and a biscuit instead of focusing on the task.


    I was doing what I could to look animated, to keep the intensity up.


    Youngster was still relatively fresh and he got in the way of a pass. He was supposed to boot the ball clear and, indeed, Sharky, Wibbers, and the three Toon defenders ran away from him in anticipation of that event. But Youngster lent the ball to Andrew, got it back, passed to Magnus, followed it. Where was the goofy little twat going? Magnus bounced it back to him and when Youngster turned his body with the intention to give it to Lee H on the corner of the penalty area, I actually fell to my knees.


    This was almost as moronic as his shot in the World Cup. This was just giving the ball to Newcastle in a dangerous area. Hadn''t I specifically shown videos of this exact moment? This was one of Newcastle''s pressing traps!


    Sure enough, as soon as Youngster turned his body to play that pass, five Saudi-shirted players sprinted at Lee H.


    Youngster paused, rolled the ball backwards under his feet, and ran away down the touchline. He had taken half of the oppo out with one feint!


    I swear I saw him cackling.


    He wasn''t the fastest player but to me he seemed to blaze up the touchline as fast as young Ronaldo. Youngster the mystery winger! On and on he went, and in the centre Sharky and Wibbers made runs. Sharky to the far post, Wibbers the near.


    Youngster entered the side of the penalty box - all those Art of Slapping drills paying off - and slid the ball towards Sharky.


    Charlton, the talented young defender, had gone too far ahead so as he stopped himself, he fell. Sharky was cocking his foot. He had to score! Charlton somehow squirted a big toe out and deflected the ball no more than three degrees. It was enough to push it against Sharky''s ankle.


    With defenders splayed everywhere and Masarik having star-jumped to block the shot, Sharky had just enough time to turn, run away from goal, and get there before the onrushing DM. Sharky didn''t have many options. He hit it even further away from goal, into the path of Andrew Harrison. The Triplet took a snapshot that was going miles wide - a terrible, terrible shot.


    Or an amazing pass. It was going straight at the head of Wibbers. William leaned back and let the ball hit him between the eyes. It angled past Masarik... bounced, spun... wide!


    Four thousand Chester fans jumped, cheered, saw their mistake, fell into each other''s arms.


    Youngster, Andrew, Sharky, and Wibbers were on their backs, on their knees. Agony!


    Charlton took the goal kick in a hurry. The DM received the pass, turned, and played the ball to the CA 140 wide forward.


    He skinned Magnus and ran at Lee H. Careful, Lee!


    Lee couldn''t take him out and was easily beaten. The forward shot. Ben parried it - just about - but back into traffic. Newcastle''s young striker got his knee up and the ball ballooned over Ben''s head, fell, was going in. What a sickener!


    What an absolute sickener.


    Photograph number three shows the aftermath of Magnus Evergreen sliding from five yards away and kung-fu kicking the ball almost straight up - it clipped the front of the crossbar. Had the whole of the ball crossed the whole of the line? Referee said no. No goal. Ben caught the ball and fell on it.


    Three-quarters of the stadium rose to acclaim Magnus'' effort. Zach crushed the air out of him.


    The referee blew to end the half.


    The sigh of relief was as loud as a Deep Purple concert - loud.


    ***


    Half Time


    I followed the rest of the lads down the tunnel and into our dressing room. I waited a minute to see if I was needed, then went into the shower and blasted myself with healing water.


    While there, I checked the state of play. We were one-nil up but had been battered in almost every metric. Newcastle were equally dangerous across all three thirds so it wasn''t a case of shifting our defence around. Apart from making subs, the only genuine areas of flexibility were whether to keep two forwards and what to do with Andrew Harrison. But dropping the forwards into some kind of 7-2-1 would only invite more pressure.


    The subs, then. My team''s Condition scores had fallen fast and were just now climbing back up to the mid 80s. About twenty minutes into the second half we would be as tired as at the end of a League Two match, at which point Newcastle would surely put us to the sword.


    One of the benefits of Shocktober was that it had removed a few points of Condition from the Toon players overnight. It made little difference; after the first half almost all of them still had over 90% fitness.


    The rules around making subs made the next decision tricky. I could make three more changes but I had to make them in two windows: half-time and one other break. If I made three subs at half-time and someone got injured, we would be down to ten men. If I made two changes now I would lose a good ten minutes of hustle from someone. If I made one now and two later, I could end up with a strange eleven on the pitch.


    On the bench I had Sticky, Cole, Dan, Ryan, Lee C, Henri and Dazza. Goalie, left back, midfielders, strikers.


    My instinct was to replace Lee Hudson with Henri. Henri would do Henri things in attack, while I would move Magnus to right back and Andrew Harrison to right-wing back. It was a bit random, a bit desperate, but it would take one yellow carded player off the pitch and give Newcastle a slightly different headache.


    I finished my shower feeling much better and stepped into civilian clothes.


    As soon as I emerged, fragrant and relaxed, Vimsy pounced, way too close. "Boss, I''ve had an idea."


    "Hit me," I said.


    He waved Sandra over and urgently whispered to us. "Their lad Charlton looks a player but he''s so young. He''s raw, innee?"


    Sandra shrugged. "He has lost position a few times. He''s great on the ball."


    "Great on the ball," scoffed Vimsy, sounding the most like Ian Evans I''d ever heard him. "He''s a centre back. Supposed to be, anyway."


    "You don''t like him?" I said, surprised. I would have gone back to a yellow mohawk if I could have signed Charlton.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Vimsy made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, he''s good. Course he is. But they''ve taught him the wrong way round. Time was, your Ferdinands, your Paul McGraths, they learned to defend before they learned to pass, just as nature intended. This kid, he''ll learn, mebbes, but that''s too late for today, innit? Get fucking Dazza on him."


    "Dazza?"


    "He''ll make mincemeat out of this lad, boss. Hold the ball up, flick-ons, we can add another dimension to your plan. He''ll help us defend set pieces, too."


    "What if they put the other centre back on Dazza?"


    Vimsy shrugged. "Then Wibbers is on Charlton and that''s not gonna end well for Charlton."


    "Sandra?" I said.


    "I was thinking Henri for Lee."


    I beamed. "Me too!"


    Sandra said, "I like this, though. Can we get him on? Dazza for Lee?"


    I held my hand up while I was repeatedly smashed in the back of the skull by a fatigue demon. The moment passed and I eyed the current lineup in my tactics screen. Ben in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H. That was as solid as we were going to get. Josh was doing okay on the left and he gave us a long throw option that Alan Turner was hilariously discomfited by. Josh lining up a throw into the box had been the only time every single Newcastle player got back to defend. Magnus was doing fine on the right. Youngster and Andrew were doing their best to disrupt zone 14. Sharky and Wibbers were tiring but I couldn''t really imagine taking them off. Without some pace up top we were absolutely effed.


    "Can''t take Sharky or Wibbers off," I said. "Lee''s on a yellow."


    We were interrupted by Physio Dean. "Boss. Josh has a tight calf. Want to risk it?"


    I frowned and checked his player profile - nothing there, but I believed him. No-one on that pitch wanted to be taken off. "No, I don''t want to risk it. He''ll come off. Thanks, Dean." I rubbed my forehead and experienced a pretty long emptiness. It took me a while to get back to where I had been. "Josh comes off, Dazza goes up top. That leaves us weak on the left."


    "Move Sharky to left wing," said Sandra. "That''ll stop the right back joining the attacks."


    "You sure?"


    She nodded. "It''s like you said. He''s cautious."


    Sandra had been doing battle with Turner more directly than me. "How are we doing?"


    She knew what I meant. "We''ve rattled him. I''m enjoying it. More, please."


    "You know we''re going to get dicked?"


    She smiled. "I know that. Turner knows that. I''m not sure the ball knows that."


    "Sharky wide left. Fuck it." I did an internal chuckle - I was too tired to actually waste calories on frivolous expressions. "I''ll probably take over with about twenty to go. That okay with you?"


    Sandra gave me a strange look. "You don''t have to ask; you''re the boss."


    "Okay," I said. "I''m taking over with about twenty to go and if you don''t like it you can walk home."


    She tapped me on the chest. "That''s better. But you know I don''t live far."


    I went on a tiny tour of the dressing room. I told Josh he''d played well and I was made up he''d come forward with his injury. I made a fuss over Magnus - his goal line clearance would go down in legend. I told Sharky and Wibbers they were nailing the role. I arrived at Christian Fierce and found myself staring.


    "Boss?" he said.


    I crouched in front of him and closed my eyes. I had ignored one of the mini-perks from Shocktober because it was so stupid.


    The Mummy - Wrap a player in bandages to give him/her +1 influence.


    Until I took over near the end and gained access to Cupid''s Arrow and Seal It Up, this was the last possible way I could, ah, influence the match.


    "Christian, I need to get weird."


    ***


    With my captain''s head neatly bandaged, the only thing left was my half-time speech.


    I got to the front and looked around. "Same again, lads."


    ***


    46''


    Newcastle came out all guns blazing. Presumably Turner had let rip at half time, and his guys were responding. They played like their careers depended on it.


    It was like the old tale of the irresistible force versus the moveable object. Their attacks smashed into our rocks and left our rocks smashed.


    48''


    Fierce leapt for a header and bonked it miles. Fucking miles. It went to halfway, where Dazza was being grappled by the CA 120 defender. Dazza did well to hold the ball up. If that was all he''d done it would have been useful because while the tussle was going on, Fierce had moved our line five yards farther forward.


    But Dazza fed Wibbers a pass, and Wibbers clipped it behind Sharky''s defender.


    Sharky easily won the foot race but the defender slid and tackled the ball out of play for a throw in.


    In burning his man, Sharky had helped us burn a few seconds, and seared an image of Sharky accelerating ahead into the mind of the right back. He would be very, very careful about leaving Sharky unattended.


    50''


    Newcastle were knocking, as they say. The stats were becoming grotesque. Closing in on eighty percent possession, already past twenty shots. In a boxing match, the referee would have ended it.


    A desperate hoof from Zach was going nowhere until Dazza sprinted, leapt, and sent Charlton flying. Dazza nodded back to Andrew, who hoiked it to the left. Sharky once again got there, but his pass to Wibbers was cut out.


    Newcastle''s defence dropped five yards deeper and stayed there. In boxing terms, we had cut them.


    Not many in the stadium noticed. Sandra did. Vimsy did. Pascal, Henri, and Ryan Jack did.


    Alan bloody Turner did. He looked towards me and for the first time in his life, saw the contempt I had for him.


    He turned away and ordered his subs to warm up.


    55''


    Turner was tired of seeing Sharky get one-on-ones and ordered a midfielder to move to that side of the pitch to help cover the threat.


    Sandra moved Sharky to the right before I''d even got up to suggest the very same thing and if I had been fitter I would have lifted her up and spun her around.


    60''


    The mini game of cat and mouse ended when Turner reverted to his default formation and brought on the first of his big guns.


    Two central midfielders, proper first teamers. CA 160 and 171.


    Our fitness was fading. Sharky had sprinted his heart out. Wibbers was flagging. Dazza''s impact had been shocking but the defenders had adapted. With the extra security provided by the new midfielders, they pushed back up.


    The high line was back.


    The bombardment recommenced.


    I had no answer.


    66''


    For all that we got our arses handed to us all across the pitch, the first goal came from a long shot.


    Ben claimed he didn''t see it because there were so many bodies in the way, but he should have done better.


    One-all, and the relief from the travelling fans was laughable. The Chester fans taunted them with a song: ''You only sing when you''re drawing.''


    70''


    I talked with Sandra about how the rest of the match would play out and we agreed the current setup was more or less as good as it was going to get. That meant I could take over with no downsides and we would be able to use my perks. It was a risk because if I had to change anything it wasn''t going to look anything like what we were doing.


    No risk, no fun.


    I took the wheel, got my hotkeys back, and smashed Seal It Up.


    71''


    We got a free kick over on the left. I brought Youngster and Andrew all the way back so I could send Christian, Lee H, and Zach into the mixer. I used Free Hit but it came to nothing.


    72''


    Newcastle''s big guns combined with some quick direct passing. CA 160 to CA 171 to the CA 140 forward. He shaped to shoot, Ben came to close the angle, and a simple sideways pass was lashed into the net by the young striker.


    Two-one.


    Beautiful football. It would be years before we could face that when tired and expect to deal with it.


    We''d done well for 70 minutes. The stadium had been rocking for over an hour. Now reality was setting in.


    Five hundred million pounds versus five hundred thousand pounds.


    This had never been a contest, not really.


    Alan Turner gave me his smuggest, most slappable grin, and sent on a CA 164 centre back to replace Charlton and a CA 154 right back to take care of Sharky.


    The thing about dreams is they aren''t real.


    73''


    Another sensational Newcastle move led to the left-sided forward getting fouled by Lee H. The forward wanted to take a quick free kick but Lee stuck his foot out and blocked it.


    The away fans demanded a yellow card.


    The home fans kept quiet.


    The referee approached Lee H and fussily and pedantically showed him a second yellow card followed by a red.


    I was the submarine captain whose special trick had backfired.


    You arrogant ass! You''ve killed us.


    I met Lee on his way off the pitch and gave him a hug. I told him it wasn''t his fault. Told him he had put a shift in. Told him not to use all the hot water or Henri would go bonkers. Lee did his best to smile as he headed down the tunnel, head down.


    74''


    The free kick was smashed towards goal by the CA 171 midfielder. He blazed it out of the stadium and walked away, laughing. He was having a great time. They all were. The jeopardy had gone.


    Time to use Cupid''s Arrow. Use it or lose it.


    I wallowed in self-pity for half a minute, then looked at my bench. Two subs left. Henri would be one - he would enjoy getting on the pitch even if the final score turned into an embarrassment. The second. Cole? No point having more defenders. Ryan? He wouldn''t get a kick. Lee C? Yeah, probably Lee.


    My name is Max Best and my kink is being humiliated in public.


    "Dan," I called out. "You''re up."


    75''


    Chester Football Club were going to go down swinging.


    The formation was 4-2-4.


    Magnus and Zach Green were off.


    Youngster was playing centre back. Andrew Harrison was our right back.


    The midfield was a 17-year-old called Dan.


    We had four forwards.


    As director of football, it would have been my duty to sack any manager I caught doing this crap and that manager could have had no complaints. This was batshit. Pure batshit.


    I used Cupid''s Arrow to link Dan to Dazza. That would be the out ball. When we weren''t conceding goals, we would be knocking balls towards Dazza.


    Guys in the Newcastle dugout were pointing at our formation and laughing.


    76''


    Newcastle shot over the bar.


    77''


    They shot just wide.


    78''


    A slick move ended with a rampaging Premier League star getting on the end of a through ball. He chipped Ben and wheeled away, arms raised. Youngster stopped the ball on the line.


    He looked around and decided his best option was Dan. He played the ball that way.


    Two Newcastle midfielders rushed Dan and he repeated the crap trick he''d tried against Stalybridge in the Cheshire Cup - the one where I''d told Zach it was okay to melt the kid''s face off if he tried it again.


    Dan believed that it was easier to dribble through two opponents than one and he believed that because he was a stupid idiot. I''d only ever seen him complete this move in warm ups or half-hearted training matches, and even then it was usually after a coach had blown his whistle and all the defenders had stopped trying.


    Dan took a touch, moving towards contact with his opponent - WRONG - deliberately giving him a sniff of a chance - NO YOU CLOWN - tempting the second opponent to come closer - DOUBLE WRONG - and...


    And then he was away!


    He''d suckered them both in and they''d fallen for it! Maybe they couldn''t believe a professional would try such a move on two Premier League stars. But he had, and he slipped through the gap between them, sped up, and now it was pandemonium.


    We were five against four! Dan drove hard at Newcastle''s DM, who knew he couldn''t dive in. Dan did one of the single greatest moves I''ve ever seen - as the DM ran backwards, Dan closed the gap, dabbed the ball to Dazza, and ran into the DM''s legs. As far as the referee was concerned, the ball had gone and it was a harmless - and accidental - off-the-ball clash. Nope. Dan took him out!


    Dazza took a careful touch and passed it to Wibbers. Sharky and Henri were sprinting towards goal. Wibbers lined up a cross and - and waited.


    Andrew Harrison was on the overlap. He had run forty or fifty yards to join the attack. We had bodies everywhere.


    Sharky lost his mind and ran to the near post. Henri was already there. Wibbers slipped the ball into Andrew''s path, then put his head down and tried to get into the box. Three Newcastle players were covering and more were rushing back.


    Andrew''s first touch was shit - I spent 0.4 seconds furiously angry before coming, with elite reaction times, to blame myself. I''d frozen him out. He''d barely played any football.


    With all the momentum gone from the move, with Andrew trying and failing to shift his body weight, I found myself looking down at the touchline in front of me. You can''t do mad things against an elite team and hope anything good will come from it. Had I ever really believed we stood a chance?


    Not really.


    My head jerked up of its own accord.


    Andrew, falling away, hacked at the ball with his left foot.


    The cross was dogshit. Miles over the heads of everyone.


    The cross was delicious. Miles over the heads of everyone except Darren ''Dazza'' Smith.


    Cue the fourth legendary photo. Dazza is flat as a pancake, five feet off the ground, his magnificent hair flowing behind him like in a Renaissance painting, his neck muscles tight, his face a picture of concentration. The ball is two feet away from his forehead and the goalie is not going to get there.


    79''


    Pain? Tiredness? What''s that?


    I ran around like a crazy person. Two-all. Down to ten men and we had equalised.


    Jubilation coursed through me, replaced by fear. We had something to lose. A draw would be a miracle. An absolute miracle. One of the defining moments of my career.


    Max''s Misfits were on the march.


    Dazza - his first goal for the club was a preposterous diving header! Dan Badford, who I''d scouted while he had been watching his friend at Das Tournament, had wiped out three Premier League midfielders in one move. Andrew Harrison, an out-of-favour do-nothing midfielder I''d spotted on a beach in Tenerife, had two assists!


    Enough craziness - time to play the odds.


    I moved the lads into 4-4-2 (4-4-1 since we were playing with ten men) with Dazza on his own up top. I went men behind ball.


    Newcastle might still win 4-2. 5-2. Christ, 6-2 even.


    But they would have to fucking grind for every fucking yard they got.


    80''


    Shots. Crosses.


    81''


    Crosses and shots.


    I looked at Vimsy. He knew what I was asking. Can we do this? Can we hold out?


    He shook his head.


    82''


    I rotated Henri and Dazza.


    Six of my players had a Condition score below 70. We were at risk of picking up multiple serious injuries. Sharky was cramping up. Wibbers had nothing left in the tank. Eddie Moore had been quietly heroic. Andrew Harrison was our best runner but he was nowhere near match fit. He was blowing hard.


    This evening still had the potential to be a disaster on multiple levels.


    83''


    A winger skipped past Eddie and put in a stunning cross. Ben couldn''t come and claim. Newcastle players were lining up against poor Youngster...


    CHRISTIAN FIERCE WITH THE DOMINANT CLEARING HEADER!


    I saw the aura around him - a huge circle as he demanded the defenders push out. It lifted my guys up, demotivated Newcastle''s.


    The ball was played over the top - a forward chased it. Christian looked like he would wipe the guy out, a certain penalty, but he simply eased himself in front of his opponent and held him off as the ball went out of play for a goal kick.


    84''


    Ben was booked for time wasting.


    He booted the ball long, Henri lost the header, and we were back on our heels, as we had been almost the entire match.


    Newcastle had their 30th shot of the match.


    It screwed wide.


    Garbage.


    Little green men were berating each other.


    85''


    Ben waited as long as he thought possible, then booted the ball. I''d put Dazza back up top and he won the header. It bounced ahead, to the right, where there was not a Chester player in sight.


    Their left back ambled towards it, intending to play it back to the goalie. Dazza had followed his header, though, in the all-action style of Tom Westwood, and he barged the defender and got the ball. He was on! He was in! Only the keeper to beat. The defender, desperate, rugby tackled him.


    The hellish rage from the crowd was sweeter to my ears than the most beautiful music in heaven.


    Only a yellow card for the defender? Now that was a borderline decision. Dazza was far from goal, but he would have gotten a shot away before a covering defender caught up to him.


    Sandra wanted to know what I thought of the decision.


    "I would have given red," I said.


    "What if it was Magnus doing the foul?"


    "Nailed-on yellow," I said, reasonably.


    87''


    Newcastle were getting more desperate. Humiliation was waving at them. Failing to beat us would be terrible, but exiting the cup would be genuinely painful for the fans. They still hadn''t won anything since becoming the richest club in the world. Big sides were crashing out of the AOK Cup, and the Geordies fancied their chances of winning silverware at Wembley for the first time in many generations.


    Dan rushed to block a shot, turned away as he did - not the face! - the ball ballooned up from his leg, wrong-footing Ben, who watched, one knee on the ground, as the ball landed on top of the net.


    Holy shit that was close.


    88''


    Ben was seriously testing the referee''s patience now in a way that made no sense. Wasting an extra five seconds was nothing compared to us getting another man sent off! And please - anyone apart from the goalie! But I couldn''t scream at him to get a fucking move on because there was no space in the stadium for extra sound. It was a non-stop cacophony, an assault on the senses.


    Ben launched the ball and it came straight back at us. A loose pass from a star midfielder - he wasn''t mentally ready for this game and his performance was legitimately unprofessional - landed at the feet of Dan Badford.


    Astonishingly, it became clear that he was going to try his move again.


    I collapsed to my knees - I really needed to stop doing that - and watched through my fingers.


    Dan dropped his shoulder, drew the challenge, looked ready to burst through the tiny gap... and at the last second twisted himself away, dribbled back to his own goal, laughing.


    He pushed the ball safely back to Andrew Harrison... and had his feet swept from under him.


    A nasty, snide piece of business from the number 8, and my lads took the opportunity to cause some aggro and buy Sharky and Wibbers a bit of respite.


    The referee booked 8 and a quiet, disbelieving hush fell on the ground. Hadn''t he...? The referee put away the yellow card and pulled out a red.


    Two yellows equals red. Off you go, son.


    The Deva rocked.


    Two-all. Ten against ten. We would survive the last few minutes. The match would go to penalties!


    Five kicks to knock the Toon out of the cup!


    Five kicks from glory!


    Full Time


    I closed my eyes as I tried to make sense of what I was experiencing. I think I had hoped to give Alan Turner a bloody nose, plant some seeds of doubt in the minds of people who might one day want to hire him.


    Sandra, my staff, and Max''s Misfits had gone many steps beyond that. If we won the penalty shoot-out, the bloody nose would be a bloody everything.


    I knew it was a one-in-a-hundred freak performance. With the stats as lop-sided as they were, if we played this match a hundred times, Newcastle would score an average of four and we would score an average of none.


    This was statistical variance, an outlier among outliers.


    Or was it? We''d had the balls to put dangerous players in dangerous positions. We''d had the guts to take mad risks. If you did that, maybe you deserved your luck.


    Here was a thought - maybe I was lying to myself in the most blatant way yet. It would take a while to process everything, that was for sure.


    "Boss," said Sandra. She had her notebook out. "We need to pick the penno takers."


    "Fuck," I said, because I hadn''t thought about it. I closed my eyes and looked at the ten guys who were left on my tactics screen. There were not a lot of quality marksmen there, and there were young players I wished I could spare. Some penalty misses haunted players for the rest of their life. "Not Sharky," I said. "He can barely move. Not Ben. Henri should go first."


    "Not last? Score the pressure pen?"


    "No. No tricks with the order. Best player goes first, second best goes second." I''d seen too many times that the best penalty taker was listed fifth and his team had lost before it even got to him. "Wibbers two, Eddie three."


    "I agree."


    I reflected later that it was funny I wanted to protect the young players but hadn''t for a second thought to do that for William. "Got to be honest," I mused. "Don''t fancy the rest much."


    It was then that I realised I''d made a mistake. In my exhaustion and mental confusion I wasn''t fully aware of my surroundings. Andrew Harrison was virtually next to me. "Let me take one, Max."


    He wanted to score to help him get a contract at a new club. "You''re not my dream penalty taker, Andrew."


    He nodded and blobs of sweat fell from his hair. "I know. But you don''t want Dan taking one. Or Youngster. Let me."


    I reappraised the situation. "Are you taking one for the team, mate?"


    He nodded again. "Youngster fucked up at the World Cup, didn''t he? And Dan''s Noah''s age. I know you''d take a bullet for Noah. Let me take one for Dan."


    I blew some air out. "Fuck me," I said. "Andrew fourth pen. And... Dazza."


    Sandra said, "Let''s switch those round. Dazza scored in the match and he''s a fucking striker. If he can''t take a pen, why can''t he?"


    "Done," I said, and that was it. I crawled back to the dugout, pulled my hoodie down over my head, and watched from a distance.


    ***


    The good news was the curse was counting the shoot-out as part of the match. As the manager against a Premier League team I was gorging on XP. 14 per minute!


    Of course, every minute was agony.


    I thought about what I would say in the post-match interview.


    Thought about how I could make the world see Alan Turner the way I did. How could I point out that he was serving a brutal dictator? That he was a moral vacuum? That he wasn''t fit to become the England manager - ever.


    Newcastle won two coin tosses.


    They would shoot first.


    The pens would be taken in front of the away fans.


    Of course the rich team gets every advantage. Of course.


    ***


    The CA 171 guy who had been pretty poor stepped up.


    Ben looked tiny in the goal.


    Ben dived. One-nil.


    "Max, you gave Newcastle a lot of problems. What''s your secret?"


    Henri strode forward with purpose.


    Masarik was enormous. It felt impossible to score against him. How could you score when all he needed to do was -


    Henri made it look easy. One-all.


    "What''s my secret?"


    The CA 154 right back stepped up. Scored.


    "When you''re up against a club funded by a murderous state you need to take big problems and chop them up into smaller ones."


    Wibbers came. I was suddenly as nervous as I could remember. What had I done?


    Wibbers sneered at the enormous goalie, ran hard at the ball... and whipped it into the left of the net.


    Two-all.


    "You have to make your problems disappear. Permanently."


    Newcastle''s CA 140 forward walked up. He looked scared and I dared to hope.


    He cracked an unstoppable shot high, top-right.


    Okay, he didn''t look scared.


    Fuck me that was a good pen.


    "One thing I like to do with my problems is decapitate them in public."


    I shook my head. Rubbish. I had nothing to say. I was to politics what Ben was to saving penalties.


    Eddie Moore placed the ball, looked to his right.


    I broke into a cold sweat. Masarik was going to dive right.


    Surely Eddie was bluffing? He was bluffing, right?


    He wasn''t bluffing.


    The explosion of joy from the Newcastle fans told all of Chester what had happened.


    Newcastle''s fourth pen was flawless.


    Dazza stepped up and I could barely watch. He had to score to keep us in the contest. I can''t say I cared about losing in a penalty shootout but I cared very much about Dazza''s breakthrough performance ending in bitter disappointment.


    I hated everything about his technique. The way he picked up the ball, looked for the valve, the way he set it down, the awkward way he ran at it like he was about to kick a sandcastle and didn''t know for sure there wasn''t a concrete sculpture under the sand.


    He took the shittest penalty seen in the Deva for a very long time.


    Masarik dived the right way... and completely flubbed it. It squirted under him somehow. Hit his forearm near the elbow and dribbled over the goal line. Crazy. We were still in it. I was going to give Dazza some private lessons in what it looked like when a human being kicked a football, but we were still in it.


    Newcastle''s fifth guy was the CA 160 midfielder. If he scored, we were out. He placed the ball, counted to about 15, took three small steps to the left, twenty tiny little ones, then rolled the ball to the right as Ben dived to the left.


    Newcastle had scored all five penalties. They ran off to their fans. Alan Turner and his minions jumped around and spilled onto the pitch.


    My guys slumped.


    Action stations. I rushed out and grabbed Zach, Christian, and Henri. "Take care of Eddie," I demanded. Then I jogged through the morons in vomit green. They were celebrating inches away from Ben - classless pricks. I scooped him up and got him moving up to the halfway line.


    "I''m sorry, boss," he said, as tears formed around his eyelids.


    "Shut the fuck up," I said. "It''s a penalty shoot-out. It''s nothing. I don''t give a shit." I brought up his match stats. "Hey, you were good," I said, genuinely surprised. "Eight saves. That''s top! Eight out of ten performance, that. Against a Premier League team! Wow. Better than me, mate, that''s for sure. Got to say, though, when you kept timewasting after getting booked for timewasting, that gave me ulcers."


    He wasn''t sure if he should laugh or go back to crying. "I just thought - "


    "This is no time for thinking," I said. "Oi!" I called out. We were close enough to the other players that I could be heard. "Lads, get in. Fucking get in here right now." One by one they forced themselves up off the ground. I spotted one problem with the Chesterness of the situation. "Let''s move this huddle to Sharky," I said with a big smile. "Easier than him coming to us."


    Sharky was on the grass, on his back, after putting in the shift of a lifetime. We reformed the circle around him, which was weird, but this was Chester. Christian Fierce was still wearing his bandage, for God''s sake. Weird was par for the course.


    "Lads, amazing. I have so much to say but it can wait. Listen, you''ve got time off. I don''t want to see you tomorrow or Thursday. Friday will be easy and we''ll see how you''re doing fitness-wise. Saturday''s the FA Cup and we will rotate big time. If you want to go to the Blues Bar now and have a couple, you''ve got my permission. All right? Absolutely fucking outstanding, all of you. Oh, and by the way, fuck penalties. I don''t want to hear about what happened after the ref blew for full time. You understand me? Next time we''ll knock them out in 90 minutes. That''s it. Enjoy yourselves, you''ve earned it, see you on Friday."


    The huddle broke up but the lads didn''t move far. They wanted to stay out on the pitch, enjoy the atmosphere, the rare sight of TV cameramen rushing around trying to get the best shots. One came all the way up in my face and my fingers twitched. I needed a completo.


    What now?


    The post-match interview.


    What would I say?


    Something horrible and nasty that would leave a bad taste in everyone''s mouths.


    Or I could say meaningless shit like everyone else in the world.


    I inhaled and trudged towards the tunnel. Cameramen and photographers were there in surprising numbers. And for the second time that season, one of my enemies appeared out of nowhere and offered me a handshake.


    Alan Turner, offering the traditional post-match shake because if he didn''t it would be a controversy and if he attracted too much controversy he wouldn''t get the England job.


    You might be thinking, well, if he offered the handshake he might have meant it. Might have been acting with class and dignity.


    But on a flight to Brazil I had clinked glasses with Old Nick and he had told me it was rude not to look someone in the eye when doing so. Ever since, I had clinked hundreds of glasses, said hundreds of cheers, and it was absolutely right that if you didn''t look someone in the eye you didn''t mean it.


    Alan Turner was not looking me in the eye. He did not mean it.


    It is more or less irrelevant but I would like the record to be straight on the matter.


    Turner blinked when he realised I hadn''t taken his hand and with a jolt, he looked at me to find out why. His shocked recoil will live with me forever.


    Photograph 5: Turner has his hand out, expecting to feel the weight of mine. My right hand is covering the entire right side of my face, the way you might do during an eye test.


    See no evil, see no evil, see no evil.


    The piranhas of the media, scenting blood, went insane. Turner''s minions, including his assistant, a guy whose role in life was to find new ways to bend the sport''s rules, came at me.


    The Brig appeared and eased me away from and around the scrum.


    "Max!"


    The Brig pushed me towards the unfamiliar voice. I recognised the hair and the perfume. "Ems," I said, falling into her. She had come down from the executive suite to the front of the stand.


    She croaked, "Max, you were amazing. It was amazing. I''ve nearly lost me voice from cheering."


    I was sinking into her despite the metal bannister between us. I could have slept in her arms like that. We didn''t have much time. In a season where I wanted to go deeper, wanted to spend quality time with people, all I had was a few scant moments with my one hundred percent. Why was I doing this? "Worth twenty quid, isn''t it?"


    "Are you all right?"


    "No." I had won. I had lost. I had achieved my aims. I had achieved nothing: no money, no glory, no change. She squeezed me. I said, "I have to go and blast Alan Turner on TV. Then I''ll be right up."


    "Max, don''t," she croaked, moving away so she could check me out. She looked worried, but she put her freezing cold hands on my cheeks and gave me a smile. "You''ve already blasted him. You did, babes. You did. I was talking to Gemma about how you don''t like him and she said if you want to hurt him, shut your mouth."


    "Gemma''s first reaction to anything I say is shut your mouth."


    "Because the FA don''t like you and if you don''t like him it''s like the enemy of my enemy is my friend. If you chat a load of shit you might help him into the England job!"


    "Huh," I said. "That actually makes sense. So what do I say? I''ve got loads of zingers lined up."


    "Talk about Chester and what you''re doing here, not horrible things about chopping people up and suitcases buried in forests and all that. This is your chance to tell the story of Chesterness. Be positive. Mention the mini-bond!"


    The Brig came closer. "Sir, it''s time."


    I took one last hug, let Emma''s hair play against my cheek and neck, and let the Brig guide me through the tunnel to the crevice where we had the sponsors'' logos up on a wall. Put one football manager in front of that wall, get a camera, and it all looked much more serious and professional than it really was.


    I let the TV guy fuss with the lighting and the sound and kept my eyes down, saving energy until it started.


    "Max Best," said the presenter. "Amazing scenes! An incredible night. You must be proud of your players."


    I did my best to get a cocky, cheeky vibe going. I think I did okay. "I''m proud of them, yes. They showed what happens when you bring a lot of talented people together and invest in them. We''ve invested in those players and now you can too. Go to Chester FC dot co dot uk slash minibond to find out more."


    "Heartbreak in the penalty shoot-out."


    "That''s minibond, all one word. Heartbreak? Not for Newcastle''s players or fans! They were really into it, weren''t they? Very emotional lot. Oh, maybe they were celebrating the news that the Deva stadium is going to increase in capacity? Next time they come to Chester we will have at least one new stand. That''s what the mini-bond we launched yesterday is all about. We''re bringing the stadium back under the control of the Chester fans and making it bigger and better and next time a Premier League team comes and embarrasses themselves against us there will be thousands more people watching. 8% return on investment, conditions apply."


    "Tell us about your goal."


    "Yeah, sure. So the ball sat up real nice and I saw the keeper off his line and I thought, huh, is it this Sunday night when the first episode of our documentary will air for free on BBC 2? And as the ball hit the net and I saw those topless Newcastle fans there with their arms folded looking quite cross, I thought, tune into BBC 2 at 9pm this Sunday, lads, it''ll cheer you right up. Chesterness. It''s a brilliant show. I''m in it to a modest degree but it''s actually about our wonderful women''s team. Is what I thought as I was scoring that goal. And of course one of the aims of the mini-bond is to improve the pitch so we can bring the women''s team home."


    "What did you say to Alan Turner at the end?"


    "Nothing, I don''t think."


    "It got a bit heated."


    "Did it? I think you might have misread that, but it''s possible he was dubious that we''re offering an 8% return on investment in a falling interest rate environment, but no, it has all been fully costed and we can easily afford the repayments. We''re one of very few English football clubs that break even, you know, and the new stand will allow us to compete with clubs that can currently beat us. You know, big clubs like Mansfield and Carlisle United."


    "I get the feeling you don''t like Newcastle very much."


    "I spent two weeks holiday in Newcastle this summer - by choice! - with my girlfriend who is from that fair city. She''s got the accent and everything. It''s lovely there and the people are great. But their football club used to be everyone''s second-favourite and now they are very much not. My ambition is to make Chester everyone''s second favourite team. Tonight wasn''t a match between a rich club and a poor one, a big one and a little one, it was a clash of philosophies. If you''re sick of the way football is going - nation states, kleptoclubs, bloated tournaments, endless legal battles - I offer an alternative. Young players, exciting football, winning football, trophies, putting the fans first. Chester FC can never be as big as Newcastle, but we can be more liked, more respected, more admired, win more games, win more trophies, have more fans, have a better kit, have more swagger, have more fun, train more coaches, give more back, and you, yes you, can be part of it for as little as five hundred pounds. Chester FC dot co dot uk slash minibond."


    "Thanks for your time, Max."


    "Cheers."


    ***


    From: Wayne Carr


    To: Board; Ken Carr


    Subject: Chester FC


    All right... I''ve just watched both manager interviews. Turner is so afraid to say the wrong thing he never says anything.


    Best might be more trouble than he''s worth, but he''s worth a lot of trouble.


    Everyone''s second team? Holy shit what an ambition but when he said the kit was better than Newcastle''s I got a semi.


    Let''s do it.


    Time the announcement to coincide with the first episode of that documentary?


    What else have Chester got going on?


    From: Ken Carr


    To: Wayne Carr; Grindhog Board


    Subject: Chester FC


    Yes to let''s do it.


    Yes to the timing.


    I heard he''s doing something with the army but his next big thing is the under 18s boys team. Two of them played tonight against Newcastle. I could turn up to training with a few bin bags of swag?


    Fuck that''s a good idea. I''m running with it. I''ll let you know how I get on.

 12.8 - Make a Move

    8.


    "There are decades where nothing happens, there are weeks where decades happen, but I didn''t see any of it and the referee was shocking" - Lenin via Alan Turner.


    ***


    Wednesday, October 29. The morning after Newcastle.


    I woke up alone.


    After spending some much-needed but not very private time with Emma in the Blues Bar, I had watched her drive back up north with her mum and dad, saving her a train ride. All very logical, very reasonable, but I couldn''t help but feel Sebastian was punishing me for defying his team.


    I pottered out of my house looking for some human contact. Ruth wasn''t in. The Brig was out. The horses weren''t in a chatty mood.


    Back inside, I made a cup of tea and decided I would spend a lazy couple of days taking stock of the season so far, checking my plans, doing some admin. Top of the list was finding a way to cover for Sandra when she was off. What else? Get Andrew Harrison to a new club while he was on people''s minds. Check the mini-bonds were being sold. Pick an eleven that could win our easy FA Cup match while our key players rested for the potentially explosive one against Liverpool under 21s in the Vans Trophy. Manage our under 18s in the Youth Cup, introduce them to Relationism.


    It seemed straightforward enough but the universe had a couple of surprises in store. And when I say a couple I mean ten.


    ***


    I rode the Green Baron to Bumpers, taking a detour past our latest giant poster. It was advertising the Chesterness doc that would air on Sunday night. I had some ideas for next week''s design - when I got to my office I would sketch them on my ancient iPad and send them to Brooke.


    I was surprised by how full our car park was. I had given most of the lads two days off but loads had come anyway. Some had come to eat breakfast together, some (Josh, for example) were getting looked at by physios, and a few had asked Spectrum to take them through bits of video from last night. In truth, I think people just wanted to be together, to stretch the feeling of the evening before as far as it could go.


    I had brek - Full English, for once - which eased the aches and strains wonderfully. Spectrum was with Christian Fierce and Wibbers trying to answer their questions simultaneously.


    Sharky was there, basking in all the attention he was getting in real life and online. The Newcastle game had been his breakout performance and at the age of 27 he had finally arrived. If he could play like that at CA 59, imagine how useful he would be when he reached his ceiling of 86. I actually expected him to get within shouting distance of his peak this season, since he was getting minutes, the coaching was good, the facilities were good, and now one of his mental blocks had been obliterated. Surely it had. Right?


    Sandra''s car was in its spot, so when I finished eating I pottered around looking for her. I finally found her in the Sin Bin, watching some parts of the match on the big TV. She liked to watch without sound.


    I perched on the edge of the table. "Pressing traps," I said.


    "Yes, boss. They are sophisticated. I want to watch this while it''s all fresh in my mind so I can learn to do it and learn how to combat it."


    "Any news about...?"


    "No, Max."


    "Do you remember the thing they were doing against the double full backs? Kind of a zippy triangle."


    "Yes, boss."


    "When we start facing low blocks again that could be a nice move. And that in and out thing?"


    "Know exactly what you mean."


    "I''d love to add that to the Art of Slapping. And I liked the one where they draw you out all the way to the touchline and it''s bish bosh bash and they''re away."


    "Yep."


    "I loved all that. So simple but it just looked dead right every time. It¡¯s the Wayne Gretzky principle."


    "What''s that?"


    "It''s where you watch some sport and you pause it and say what the player should do with the ball. You say, well he should pass there and that guy should draw the player and pass square and then that guy should turn. Then you press play to see if he actually did that thing that''s obviously right. Wayne Gretzky always did the right thing. Decisions 20. Newcastle did that most of the time and it was only the last pass where they stuffed up. Everything leading up to that final step was gold."


    "I''ve never heard it put like that but I totally agree. So much of it was superb. Turner has actually coached out the decision-making process, though, boss. They''re not making those decisions, they''re going through their set patterns." She went through the move she was watching one more time.


    "Can we learn to do it?" I said, as green shirts swarmed Eddie. Sandra rewound and watched the move again, slower.


    "Yes," she said, "but there''s no point in doing this one if we can''t keep the ball when we have it."


    "Next time we''ll be better at that," I said. I felt confused, somehow. Did I want brilliant, unstoppable scripted passing moves or did I want my players to do it all samba-style? What level of hybrid system would I want if I could design it? "If it''s next year, we''ll have a more mature Wibbers, Dan, I''ll be more ready, Pascal will be fit. We have players who can pass, who can beat a press. But I''m thinking even further ahead. When we''re playing these sorts of matches every week can you give me these moves?"


    "Sure," said Sandra. "If you give me the training ground time."


    "Why wouldn''t I?"


    "Because then you''ll be asking where the passing drills are." She went much more Mancunian than normal, I suppose because she was doing an impression of me. "Where''s the technique? Where are the slaps?"


    I smiled. "That''s the trade-off, is it? If we focus on one thing, something else gets lost?"


    "Championship-winning teams play beautiful football, score goals, get a hundred points, go to the Prem and can''t do what they used to do. The step up is immense and most promoted teams go straight back down. We need to be very defensively solid, have a top-class goalie, and either attack well enough to scrape 40 points or defend well enough to do the same. We won''t be able to do both. Not in the first season."


    I smiled. "I love that you''re planning for the Prem."


    She gave me a level look. "That''s where we''re going, isn''t it? To the Prem to be everyone''s second favourite team."


    I checked the door was closed and was about to make a joke about the nearest Prem being the Northern Premier League Premier when my phone rang. "Better take this," I said. "It''s the manager of Morecambe calling to congratulate me." I pretended to sigh like it was such a chore. Sandra scoffed, shook her head, and got back to work.


    Five minutes later I knocked and went back into the cabin. Sandra looked over with a slight frown. It wasn''t like me to return to a finished conversation. "All good?"


    "Erm," I said, considering the question. "I mean... yeah? Morecambe want to sign Cavvers."


    "Ben?"


    I grabbed one of the new chairs, pulled it close, and sat. "They have the chance to get into the National League playoffs but the manager''s sick of his current goalie. He saw Ben against Newcastle and was like, there you go. Bit of skill, bit of character, won the NL before, and he''s not Chester''s first choice so we can get him cheap."


    "Can they?"


    "I mean, he offered fifty thousand."


    "Fifty?" she said, pulling a face. "That''s shit."


    I tapped the table a few times. She was right, but Ben was at his cap. CA 67 and we were out of the AOK Cup. Every cup we got knocked out of was a long stream of future matches that he wouldn''t be playing in. He would spend most of the rest of the season on the bench watching Sticky, losing value. "Yeah but it''s the most we''re ever going to get. He''ll never be as in-demand as he is now." I tapped some more while I looked at the goalkeepers in my squad page. Sticky, Ben, Banksy, Rainman. Rainman was on loan at Saltney and the gap from Ben to Banksy was vast. Without Ben, if Sticky got injured or suspended, we would be in big trouble. If I sold Ben I would need a replacement, and if I was getting a replacement, what was the point of the trade? Well, to get someone with a higher ceiling, obviously. Someone in the CA 50, PA 100 range. An upgrade. Someone who would benefit from having an elite goalie coach. "Ben gets a pay bump, first team football. Morecambe isn''t that far and it''s nice up there. I assume."


    While I was going through my database of goalie options, my phone rang again. It was my mate Timo, manager of Crawley. His side were struggling in League One but he was fairly unflappable. I showed Sandra who it was. "Crawley for Ben?" she said, baffled. I stood, intending to take the call outside but she grabbed me; she wanted to hear. "Just don''t let him blab about his latest girlfriend."


    This is what she heard:


    "TJ. Sup? Oh, you did? Oh, come on, it wasn''t 60 yards. 59 and a half maybe. Yeah! Who cares? Fuck him. Don''t remember doing that, no. Did you just want a chat? What? Are you fucking joking? Sharky?" I jumped up and Sandra did the same. "That''s mental. Are you low-balling me on my birthday? I''ve got two birthdays, mate. Two hundred? Haven''t you got all that bitcoin money? He''s my only winger. Two... The hell are you talking about? A triple threat like Sharky doesn''t get out of bed for less than three hundred grand! He''s a lethal weapon if he gets some space and teams are always battering you lot because you''re shit - he would destroy League One on counters. Don''t waste my time with... You''ll ask your board? Mate, your board is a teenager who made fifty mill by accident trading shitcoins, he''s not someone who gets to have an opinion on the market value of - oh, he''s gone."


    Sandra was agog. "Crawley want Sharky?"


    "I know," I said. "Talk about a bolt from the blue."


    I went into the curse shop and brought up the details of a perk called Interested Parties. It would add an indicator to a player''s profile that told me which clubs were interested in which players. It cost 6,000 XP but had the potential to transform how I did transfer business. After buying Shocktober and accumulating XP at a fairly steady rate, I was getting towards the amount I needed to buy Relationism.


    XP balance: 17,818


    I was within ten thousand now. It would be moronic to buy anything that delayed it. Apart from Shocktober - that had been ace.


    Sandra was waiting for clarity. "Do I understand it right that Crawley might offer 300,000 for Sharky? Don''t you think we could get more?"


    I did a slow circuit around the TV and then leaned on the table. "Yes, eventually. A fully-grown shark is worth half a mill. He''s still a baby shark, though, isn''t he? 300 would be generous. I think at 300 we''d be stupid not to bite. Hey," I said, rapping the table as I got up. "TJ''s board won''t go for it anyway. God, what a morning this is turning into."


    ***


    I caught Sharky as he was about to head off home and told him what had just happened. All kinds of emotions crossed his face - pride, worry, dollar signs. I promised to keep him updated.


    In need of a normal, non-weird conversation, I walked around Bumpers trying to chat to the ground staff, to JoJo, to the chefs, but I kept getting interrupted by callers who wanted my employees. I''d often heard games like the Newcastle one being described as a ''shop window'' for players but hadn''t really thought anyone meant it seriously. Apparently it was a real thing.


    I batted away enquiries about Wibbers and Youngster, and the market for Josh Owens was forming but wasn''t currently too serious. But when I suggested a price to club A for player X, other clubs seemed to instantly know about it. It became a known fact that I would take 50 for Ben, 300 for Sharky, and that I would accept one hundred thousand pound bids for Eddie Moore.


    It seemed like my January had the potential to be a lot busier than expected, which was good in one way - more money for the club - but bad in the sense that if Sandra was still on leave, I could be up to my neck in work at a time of year when I wasn''t at my effervescent best, what with my mum and everything.


    To take my mind off things, I scooted the short distance to the Deva, where I found Secretary Joe among some volunteers who were cleaning up the debris from last night''s match. I joined in but they soon kicked me out, since I was wincing every time I bent to pick up a crisp packet.


    Joe eased away from the others, put his hand on my back, and pushed me inside towards his office. "I''ve got something interesting to show you," he said.


    I told him about the bids for our players and that I was minded to accept them so if he wanted to get on his club secretary chat groups and spread the word, we could attract more offers for the guys in question and let them choose where they wanted to go.


    Joe listened carefully. "Four hundred thousand pounds for three players. It seems like a lot, but it isn''t really, is it?"


    "Wouldn''t buy that Charlton lad''s toenail. Better than a kick to the nuts though, isn''t it?"


    "They''re nice boys," said Joe, with a slightly accusing tone.


    "Yes. And they''re getting their rewards for all their hard work. If they leave," I added, because none of the interest seemed likely to actually turn into deals. "I''ve not had one of these shop window matches before. Maybe today everyone''s hyped and tomorrow it''s all forgotten? We will see. All right, what have you got?"


    He sat at his computer where he had read-only access to a spreadsheet that was being updated through The Wall''s cloud. "The mini-bonds, Max! Some interesting patterns I thought might amuse you."


    "How, er... How''s it going?"


    "Good! We did ninety thousand on Monday."


    "Ninety thousand... out of five million?" I tried to do the maths in my head. "At that rate, we''ll have sold out by the time a Chinese AI entity steals the secret of silk production from Japanese mecha-zoids."


    "The other way round, Max. Don''t let Henri hear you make that mistake. Well, I thought ninety was quite a good start seeing as we broke the news late. On Tuesday it went viral and we sold a lot more. Two hundred and twenty thousand."


    "Total?"


    "Extra. Mostly people in Cheshire, of course, as you''d expect."


    "Right." Joe clicked around and brought up a new screen. It showed sales per hour. What kind of nerd would be interested in that? Me, for one. "Are you having fun with this?"


    "Yes," he said. "Now look. Here''s the start of the Newcastle match. Bit of action. I think that''s uncertain Chester fans seeing their club on TV against a big team and thinking well I never thought I''d see this again, let''s look down the back of the sofa. Then..."


    "My goal."


    "Yes. Big spike."


    "What''s this one?" I said, pointing to another spike about ten minutes after the goal. I couldn''t think of anything that had happened in the match that would make people get their chequebooks out.


    "There was someone filming on his phone when you scored. He caught it, got you celebrating and you screaming give me your money! He posted it and people gave you their money."


    "Ha," I said. "Brooke will be pleased. She''s always at me to include a call to action in our stuff. We bicker about it; I find it tacky. Okay then there''s a sort of low hum of sales, that''s all good. I''m starting to get the hang of this now; it''s like an Expected Threat graph. Expected Wonga."


    "Expected Bread," said Joe.


    "Oh, that''s good. You win." I followed the line with my finger. "Another big spike when Dazza scores."


    "Yes. A couple of investors from Australia, too. Might be his relatives. And then this one is my favourite." He pointed to a spike from after full time.


    "Erm... oh. That''s when I was doing the advertorial."


    "Yes, but if we split these sales by geography..." He clicked to show me a different graph. There was the usual chunk from Cheshire, with bits from Wales, Merseyside - one from Darlington, which was unexpected - and a TON from the far north-east.


    "Not Newcastle fans," I said, finding it hard to believe.


    "No, Max!" squeaked Joe. He was loving this. "Sunderland!"


    I laughed. Where one door closes, another opens. Sunderland fans were voting with their wallets because I''d had a pop at their rivals. "Wow, okay. What a country this is, bloody hell. Okay so hit me with some numbers."


    Joe seemed less interested in the total than the stories that came with each surge. "As of last night, we had raised just over 550,000 pounds."


    "Ooh," I said, impressed. Half a mill from the bond, four hundred grand from player sales. A good day for MD''s blood pressure!


    "Yes," said Joe, dubiously. "Of course, the first days see the most take-up and it will tail off quickly, plus we don''t have another match as big as Newcastle on the horizon. You should expect the daily amounts to dwindle. On the other hand, Norwich City''s mini-bond sold out in two weeks. Perhaps there will be some further spikes of interest around our home fixtures and episodes of the documentary. Would you consider scoring from the halfway line again? That would help."


    "Sure thing," I said. My phone buzzed. "One second," I said. I picked up, heard that it was someone asking about Wibbers, rolled my eyes, and slowly left the office. I ended the conversation by saying ''a hundred million'' and as I stood in a corridor shaking my head, I realised Joe was lurking behind me, a polite distance away. "Joe! Want me to teach you how to make a proper cuppa for the hundredth time?"


    "I like it how I like it," he said. "But you might want to come and look at this."


    Intrigued, I followed him back and we re-took our positions at the spreadsheet. There was a new entry. In the last few moments, someone had bought three hundred thousand pounds of Chester FC mini-bonds. My eyes bulged and my mind raced. Who did I know with that kind of cash? Sebastian Weaver? No way. Mateo? He was investing in Gibraltar, wouldn''t directly invest in one of Tranmere''s rivals, and anyway I owed him a hundred grand. Ruth? She had mocked the 8% return on investment saying she could earn more by cleaning her riding boots on a private stream. "I wonder who it was?" I said.


    Joe gave me a strange look and pointed to a long cell on the left of the screen. It hadn''t immediately registered as a name.


    Aur¨¦lie Fragonard


    We stared at each other for a moment, before Joe copy-pasted the text into a search engine. "Not much to go on. It''s the same family name as a literature prize, podcast, perfume. I''m not seeing anyone with this exact name."


    "Could it be some sort of scam? A fake purchase from a disgruntled Geordie?"


    "I wouldn''t have thought so," said Joe. "I''d be astonished if the money wasn''t already in The Wall''s account. They''re very precise people. Er, as you know. Nice name, isn''t it?"


    "Aur¨¦lie?" I said. "Aur¨¦lie Fragonard. Yes, it''s nice. Oh, well, suppose it''s just some rando. So we''re on about eight-fifty now? That''s mint. Top. Amazeballs. Keep me posted."


    ***


    In anticipation of being absolutely mentally wrecked by the Newcastle game, I''d asked Pascal to be on standby for the 3 R Welsh match. As it was, I went after all, naming myself manager so I could get 2 XP per minute while the army guys jogged around the pitch. It was incredible how slow it all was compared to real football. It was like watching my old iPad try to load an app.


    In the time it took for a defender called Dylan to take a pass, look around, count his feet, and give the ball straight back, I told Pascal that I was happy with his ten minute cameo, made sure he understood it was a mad gamble from me and I wasn''t disappointed in him, but that I wanted him to forget about playing for a couple of weeks and build his fitness back up.


    He fell still but didn''t complain, and soon enough he was shouting at 3 R Welsh again.


    Pascal ended up doing most of the actual managing - such as it was - while I stole the XP and pounded my phone. Tiggy had driven us and in between calls I sounded her out about the possibility of her dad, Clive OK, doing a few hours a week extra when Sandra was away. Tiggy used neutral phrases and didn''t look at me - it was how I reacted when people asked about my mum. She didn''t think her dad pushing himself was a good idea. Okay, scratch that avenue.


    In between calls from other football club managers, I had quick chats with Ben, Eddie, and Sharky to keep them updated on their situations and to prime them for me formally accepting a bid. If that happened I wanted the contract talks with their new clubs to happen quickly so that I would have certainty that the deals would go through on January 1.


    It must have been crazy to get those calls. One night you''re in a completely harmonious team playing your best against a big club, the next your manager is talking about selling you. It was patently good news, of course. Everyone wants to be wanted. Everyone wants a pay raise. But the subtext to it all was: Max Best is willing to let you go.


    They would think about it, tell themselves that I was willing to sell due to the mini-bond as much as anything, and in the end, would take a move if the salary being offered was high enough. We were paying Ben 640 pounds a week, Eddie 950, and Sharky 600. The first two would double their money. Sharky would quintuple it.


    At half-time, I didn''t really have anything to say to 3 R Welsh, and they only wanted to talk about the Newcastle match. My phone rang just as the 50th person of the day asked me how it felt to score ''that goal''. To Pascal''s amusement, I showed him that the caller was, yet again, Dieter Bauer. We had been joking that he had been calling me as a sort of free weekly English lesson to keep his vocabulary fresh before the big summer event.


    I wandered away from the group - Pascal could make the subs and give pointers just as easily as I could - and did the usual small talk with Dieter. I always got the feeling he had an ulterior motive for contacting me but I always hung up wondering why he had called. He asked how I was and I told him about the offers for my players and how it always felt strange. He tried to put my mind at ease but seeing Tiggy tell off a player who wasn''t listening to Pascal - now delivering a thunderous half-time team talk, amazingly - reminded me of my real challenge. I had to find a part-time coach to stand in for Sandra, ideally one who could help me with tactical ideas during matches.


    I explained all that, then said, "If only there was a loan market for coaches the way there is for players." There was a silence. "Hello?"


    "I''m here, Max. You have given me an idea. When is Miss Lane away?"


    "Er, like December and January."


    "Okay," he said, and I heard him scribbling a note. "May I please call you back? I might have a small proposal to make that you will find beneficial."


    "Of course," I said. Suddenly it hit me - Dieter had been the one investing three hundred K. These old Germans had secret bank accounts for days, didn''t they? I turned away from the army guys, covered my mouth in case of lip readers, and murmured, "Aur¨¦lie Fragonard."


    "Pardon me? Are you still there, Max?"


    Nothing. Not him. "I was just ordering from the drive-through."


    He wasn''t listening. "Yes, good. Goodbye."


    ***


    Tiggy dropped me back at Bumpers and I immediately hopped on the Green Baron to check out a schools match happening at Saltney.


    With Henri''s Syndicate in line to pay Vincent Addo''s transfer fee, my immediate financial problems were gone. In fact, Henri was pushing me to sign more players to Saltney in January.


    Addo was on his way, as was Toquinho - as expected I had needed special permission for the unknown Brazilian but it hadn''t been too hard to get. Those were the two foreign players I was allowed and now I was more in the market for a Jamie Brotherhood type. Someone talented I could pick up for ten to twenty grand from a lower tier Welsh or English club and sell for a hundred in a couple of years.


    The Saltney Town project was purring along. Well In had led the team to the top of the table, which was made more impressive by the fact that unlike Jackie Reaper and Jay Cope, he didn''t have the best squad in the league. I''d had to be careful with my spending in summer and the average CA in the first matchday squad was 37. The best team had 40, but they didn''t have a coach like Well In. The ultimate goal, of course, was to catch the Welsh champions, The New Saints, who had 65.


    We looked likely to win the league with the squad we had, but now that the 3G pitch was generating money I planned to bring in another couple of players in January, just to be sure the club would get promoted if Well In took a better job. Those two new guys plus Addo and Tokkers, plus Tom Westwood on loan again, plus anyone else I bought with the Syndicate''s money - that would be a disgustingly overpowered squad for the level and potentially already enough to finish top half in the Cymru Premier.


    The only shame was that the squad Well In would have at his disposal by the end of the January transfer window would have a slim but tangible chance at winning the Welsh Cup. The prize for winning the cup was a place in Europe - ka-ching!


    Well In had made mincemeat of the previous opponents in the cup but they would face Cardiff Met FC in the third round. That was a solid mid-table Welsh Prem club, and beating them was maybe a little too much to ask.


    I couldn''t help but daydream about the money winning the cup would bring. Piles of cash always seemed to be just over the horizon.


    ***


    Saturday, November 1


    I woke up to cursemail. The imps thought they could distract me from buying Relationism with a perk called Shocktober 2: November. It did the same thing as Shocktober, but in November.


    It was the same price, 2,777 XP, but represented much worse value. First, there were far fewer matches in November, and this season''s schedule was fairly easy - we would win two of the three league matches without any supernatural help, while the two FA Cup matches were likely going to be against smaller clubs.


    It just wasn''t that tempting. The only thing that made me think hmm well maybe was the fact that I was getting a reliable 250 XP per week just from hanging around Bumpers Bank in the evening and watching parts of all the matches that were going on. Shocktober 2 was ten weeks of that... Nah. Relationism or bust.


    ***


    FA Cup First Round: Chester versus Coalville Town F.C.


    Brooke won yet another Employee of the Day award.


    She had done some research and discovered that a lot of our fans simply didn''t understand the mini-bond. They thought we were asking for a donation of five hundred pounds and didn''t realise it was an investment. So Brooke set up information booths outside the home stands. Brooke, MD, and Secretary Joe stood there for a couple of hours before kick off, patiently explaining what it all meant to people while to draw people towards the booths, Christian Fierce and other star players signed autographs and posed for selfies.


    The attendance was quite low, not even 1,500, but we sold a ton of mini-bonds. When people understood they would get the money back, when they saw the images of what the new Harry McNally stand would look like, when they realised the stadium would be back under the control of the football club again, it was no longer a case of selling the bonds but trying to make sure people didn''t invest more than they could afford.


    "Brooke," I said, after I had watched her convince a family to downsize their Christmas so we could upsize the Deva. "You are amazing at this. Absolutely amazing. Let''s go beyond the stadium on match day, what do you think? What about going to the town centre opposite the Liverpool FC shop? You can remind people we''re playing Liverpool this week."


    "It''s easier to sell a stadium bond when you are at the stadium, but I''ll think about it. MD is schmoozing some of his friends from the big pharmaceutical companies in the box today. We could sell more in five minutes in that one room than five days on the street. Are we going to win? It goes easier when we win."


    I tutted. "Please," I said, and thought about withdrawing her award.


    Coalville were a tier 9 side playing in something called the Hellenic League, which really should be in Greece. I let Sandra manage this one, but we collaborated over the starting eleven, opting for an attacking 4-3-3. With Sandra in charge, we could have spread the three forwards out if we wanted, but based on the characteristics of the players she opted to go narrow.


    I was tempted to push for Banksy in goal, but a good FA Cup run could solve a lot of our problems so we went with our cup goalie, the in-demand Ben Cavanagh.


    The back four was Cole Adams, Zach, Sunday Sowumni, and Jamie Brotherhood. Zach had played against Newcastle but the curse said he was fully fit. Lee H was suspended after his red card, which was actually perfect because we wouldn''t have used him in this match anyway.


    Lee C, Ryan Jack, and Noah H were the midfield three, while the strikers would be Tom Westwood, Benny, and Dazza. We told the Australian not to run around too much. "Just score," was the instruction.


    Coalville were strangely disorganised from set pieces and Ryan Jack had fun putting free kicks and corners into the danger zone. We quickly got a grip against a limited team, scoring three first half goals, including Dazza''s second for the club and big headers from Cole Adams and Zach Green. Zach was captain for the day and did it flawlessly.


    Sandra didn''t have much to do, but she kept herself busy making tiny tweaks. Her main decision was how many kids to bring on for the second half. She thought it safe to put Henk on as centre back, which wasn''t all that much of a risk in terms of CA. Henk''s was actually higher than Sunday Sowumni''s, but Henk was one point away from his cap. Tyson replaced Noah, and Chas Fungrieve got ten minutes, too. It was very, very good preparation for the Youth Cup.


    In the second half, Tom Westwood got the goal his work rate deserved, and Lee Contreras bagged another. That was his third goal of the season. Decent but Bradford City''s R. Brown already had six having played fewer games.


    I was an unused substitute and I spent most of the match wondering if I liked this easy life, where thousands of good decisions had got us to the point where our under 18s could have given Coalville a pasting, or if I preferred the high-wire knife-edge tension of playing mad formations against a fast and relentless Premier League team.


    I decided either one was fine as long as it ended with me and Emma being in the same bed.


    I tried to stick to the positives.


    Our total prize money for our cup heroics so far that season - which included an improbable win against Bolton, beating a very good Fleetwood side and neeeeearly dicking Newcastle - had stood at 30,000 pounds.


    The prize money for beating a tier 9 side in the FA Cup first round was 45,000, bringing the prize pot to a tasty 75 grand.


    I love the FA Cup!


    ***


    As I was looking through the results from the other matches, I saw that Ziggy had scored again. That was 5 in 10 games, most coming as a substitute. FC United''s new manager was taking his sweet time realising Ziggers was the best striker in the whole fucking league.


    I called Ziggy, had a quick chat with him, and realised what I needed was a night out in Manchester.


    I remembered I didn''t have a car and could not envision a universe where I would get on a train. Not in the north of the country, anyway.


    "Why don''t you buy a car, mate?" laughed Ziggy. "You''re rolling in bread. You''re cashed up."


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I shook my head. "No need to rush in, right?"


    "You need to visit your mum."


    "Yeah," I said. What I didn''t say was that if I bought a car, my emergency fund would be obliterated. "I''ll think about it."


    ***


    I watched Match of the Day, which showed highlights from the Premier League. I didn''t often watch the show but I didn''t have anything better to do. The first match was Newcastle versus Arsenal, and the action was pretty good.


    But there was a brief clip of what looked like hundreds of Arsenal fans covering one eye when Alan Turner was walking past.


    I had started something.


    ***


    Sunday, November 2


    Emma, as you may have guessed, didn''t spend the weekend with me. She said she was incredibly close to finishing a big project, after which she would see a lot more of me.


    I mean, hard to complain about that, isn''t it?


    I complained anyway, for some reason choosing Jackie Reaper as the guy most likely to lend me a sympathetic ear. He listened carefully as I described how little I was seeing of her, then he formed his hands into little fists and rubbed them against his eyes.


    "Waah," he said. "My girlfwend is working as hard on her caweer as I am on mine and I don''t wike it!"


    "I do like it," I said.


    "Then shut the fuck up," he said. "Now pay attention Maxy Boy. I''m going to teach you how to play rugby."


    ***


    Division 1 North: Chester Women versus Rugby Borough


    Rugby Borough came to Flint with an average CA of 45 and hopes of topping the table at the end of the season. They looked a good unit.


    That was, they looked a good unit in the twenty seconds until our ladies walked onto the pitch.


    Jackie had named his favourite 3-5-2 and it was ridiculous - an average of 54.2.


    Scottie Love, as usual, was the goalie. She had improved to CA 54 and her ceiling of 63 was in sight. I needed to scout the higher divisions to find a better keeper for next season. I''d probably keep Scottie as the backup for one season until Queenie, our 18-year-old PA 94 prospect, was more consistent.


    Femi (59), Meghan (65), and Luxury Bell (54) were the back three. Former captain Bonnie was getting decent minutes, what with all the cup matches we were playing in, but since she had hit her PA limit of 41 she had been sliding down the pecking order and was being left behind really quite quickly. I wondered if she would want to play for Saltney Women next season or move to another club entirely. It would be sad when she left, and as always I only hoped we would part on good terms. It was hard to envisage Sharky being mad that I''d sent him to quintuple his wages, but it was easy to imagine Bonnie feeling hurt.


    Kisi (50) had finally done enough to make the right midfield starting slot her own. Left or right - she switched with Dani (57) to give defenders different problems. Pippa''s CA 44 made her something of a weak link, and there were times when she looked like the token old woman in the team. The ex-Man City midfielders, Charlotte (58) and Sarah Green (66), were far too good for the teams we were facing, and Jackie was keeping them interested by always pitting them against each other in training. Maddy Hines was on the bench. At CA 44 she was a great option and she still had tons of room to improve. If she worked on her tackling she would displace Pippa in the centre, but Jackie wanted to keep her as a creative, attacking force.


    The strikers were Angel and one other. Today''s other was Julie McKay, edging out Bea Pea because Jackie had subconsciously realised that Julie''s CA had overtaken her rival''s - 39 against 36. Bea Pea, like Bonnie, had hit her ceiling. As with Bonnie, her all-action, somewhat rustic style would go great in the Welsh leagues, but again, I wasn''t sure if she would be into it. Maybe if I could get one of them to join, the other would, too. I couldn''t pay them, though.


    Angel was on CA 51. I had seen her flying around in training being absolutely lethal but today she spent the match walking around doing absolutely nothing - until it was time to score. I later learned that she was sick with worry about how the documentary would be received and whether it was true that her life was really about to start.


    The first half ended with us three-nil up, same as in the men''s FA Cup match. The difference was that Rugby Borough were supposed to be able to compete with us. They seemed stupefied by what had happened to them, by the quality of the moves they''d seen. Jackie must have told the ladies to take their foot off the pedal because the final score was only four-nil and we got three of the Ffamous Five into the fray. I texted Jackie that he was doing a great job giving minutes to the young players but warned him not to attend a real rugby match because his head might be mistaken for a ball.


    Anyone watching Chesterness that night and looking to see how the ladies were doing would see them right at the top of the table. And Brooke, being a smart cookie, had bought space on the top of search engines so that people typing ''Chester Women'' or similar were directed to a specially-written page that quickly morphed from pictures of happy players into a sales pitch promoting the benefits of the mini-bond to the women''s team specifically.


    Chef''s kiss.


    ***


    Emma surprised me with a video call ten minutes before Chesterness started, and we watched the whole thing while chatting about it. It was nice, like the time, early in our relationship, when we had watched The Proposal. The time I had fallen asleep but she had stayed on the call until the movie finished and I thought, oh maybe she really likes me.


    That had been years ago; I kinda thought we might be a bit closer by now. Like in the same city.


    The doc was just as I''d seen it but some scenes had better music. "This is so good," said Emma. "You''re fun in it. Aww, look, there''s Lucy. Aww."


    "She''s fine. She has moved on. If we can make their time at the club as memorable and enriching as possible, it''ll be easier to watch them leave."


    "If you''re gonna keep talking shit I''m gonna put you on mute."


    I smiled. "Soz. Do you think we''ll sell some mini-bonds because of this?"


    "Deffo," said Emma. "You''ll get people with big hearts who want the women they''re watching to do well. They''ll go on the website to find out the latest and they''ll see there''s a chance to support the club and make some money. And you''ll get horny dudes who think Angel''s fit."


    "Did your dad buy any?"


    "I don''t like the juxtaposition of what I said and how you replied to it."


    I turned red. "No! I didn''t mean... Oh my God. I''m going to go into the garden and cover myself with rocks. Goodbye forever. Bye."


    "I''m sure he didn''t and won''t ever buy any Chester FC mini-bonds, Max. He wishes he''d never got involved with them. After the match the Sunderland fans at his golf club were all texting him like hey Seb, do you think your Emma''s lad is really that good or should we wait to see if he can do it against a big club? That kind of thing."


    "Banter," I said, realising my actions would have real-life consequences for Sebastian and trying not to look too smug about it.


    "So much banter," she said, yawning. "We''re going to Manchester soon, location scouting. You know, because The Wall is going so good."


    "Oh, right."


    "Me mum and dad were wondering if they could meet your mum."


    I fell silent. What? What the actual what?


    Emma sat up on her bed. "Only, like, the way you do it. Not meet meet, all formal. Just in the big room where they play cards. They won''t say anything if you don''t want. They could be on the next table while you talk to your mum and Anna. And they want to get appraised by Solly."


    "I don''t know," I said, my insides eating me up. "It''s..." I started, but I didn''t know what it was. The fear of stressing mum? Anxiety about knowing how anxious I would be the entire day until the ordeal was over? Worry about why Sebastian and Rachel wanted to ''meet'' her?


    "Don''t worry, Max, we won''t do it. It''s okay. They just always ask me about it and I''ve been, you know, telling them to wait."


    "They always ask you about it?" I said. There was something about the phrase that I found relaxing. This wasn''t a new impulse. This wasn''t something that had come up after the Newcastle game.


    "Yeah. I''m sorry, let''s drop it. Is this one of the better episodes, do you think?"


    She was trying to change the subject but I couldn''t concentrate on the TV. My brain was doing loop-de-loops all over the north, playing join-the-dots from Chester to Manchester to Newcastle. Nothing good could come from any of it. No no no. Veto.


    I snapped out of it long enough to seem like a real boy in front of Ems, then said I was tired. We ended the call, I put my phone on silent and plugged it in on the far side of the room, and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.


    I knew what Chesterness was going to be: a sure-fire smash hit that made me look like a manic cross between Darth Vader and Willy Wonka, that made Charlotte look like the best player in Europe, and would surely turn Angel into one of the country''s top ten most famous female athletes.


    I wished I had such certainty about the success of any kind of ''meet the parents'' day.


    ***


    Tuesday, November 4


    Secretary Joe: I think the word to describe yesterday is... jackpot. We did four hundred and thirty grand off the back of the documentary! That''s one point nine million total.


    ***


    FA Youth Cup First Round: Chester versus Hartpury University F.C.


    I had been looking forward to this match for so long... and it was worth it. It was ALL worth it.


    Hartpury had done well to make it through the qualifying rounds given that their average CA was 9, so there wasn''t any particular jeopardy regarding the result.


    But I''m sure you remember that the previous season we had played Chelsea''s youth team and they''d had an average CA of 37. Admittedly, some of their better players hadn''t been there that day for various reasons, but I had a target. If I could get a team close to an average CA of 37, anyfuckingthing was possible.


    Our best formation was probably 4-3-3 so I went with that.


    In goal I had a choice between Banksy and Bivvy, who were both CA 25, but that wasn''t any sort of dilemma.


    In front of Banksy I had Lucas Friend (39), Captain (32, capped), Henk (37, also capped), and Jamie Brotherhood, who I''d been force-feeding first-team minutes like there was no tomorrow. He had swollen to a majestic CA 25 and his family had bought some bonds, too. They seemed to be loving the Chester story so far.


    Dan Badford was the star of the midfield with CA 52. Noah was on 33, and Tyson 41.


    Up front I had the lanky sixteen-year-old, Chas Fungrieve, whose first team exposure had helped him get to 29. Benny was 38, and Wibbers was 61. Still very much the star but with a lot of help from the supporting cast.


    The bench included decent options like Bomber, Sevenoaks, and a wide-eyed Roddy Jones, but it was the first eleven that got me excited because if you add up all those numbers and divide by eleven you get, drum roll please, 37.4.


    Thanks to all my hard work and yes, some dropped points in a few league matches, this Chester team was BETTER than the Chelsea team that had beaten us. It was close, of course, and Chelsea hadn''t brought all their starlets that day, but I felt sure that with Bench Boost and my perks we could beat the first Premier League team we faced.


    If we faced a second... well, that''s where continued exposure to the first team would kick in. 37.4 was our starting point - how high could we get by the final?


    By then, of course, we might have developed a secret weapon.


    I told the lads we would start our Relationism training on Friday - if we won today.


    I think they found the prospect motivational. They won ten-nil.


    ***


    Secretary Joe: Ten-nil! People loved that. Five goals from William! People love the idea we have a real star. Boggy''s broadcast brought in a hundred and forty thousand pounds. Same again tomorrow please!


    ***


    Wednesday, November 5


    Vans Trophy Group Stage match 3 of 3: Chester versus Liverpool under 21s


    We''d sold more tickets to this match than our FA Cup game and expected a quite decent attendance of 1,500, where the word decent is relative. I suppose I shouldn''t have been surprised that interest was high; Liverpool were a big draw in the area.


    I watched the warmups and saw that Liverpool''s young team would have an average CA around 85. That would make them a top ten League Two team, easily. They were better than us! We were coming with CA 77 ish.


    I nearly reconsidered allowing Sandra to manage this game - with her in charge I wouldn''t have access to Bench Boost. I really wanted to save it for the next round, though. If we crashed out in the group stage, so be it, but if we wanted to go deep I had to keep my powder dry.


    I decided to leave things as they were, meaning Sandra Lane was the gaffer. The under 21 teams were mostly brilliant and played outstanding football... but got beat in the end. I didn''t think this Liverpool mob would have the tools to handle Dazza, for example, while Christian Fierce played with a kind of barely-contained ferocity you couldn''t replicate in the genteel surroundings of a top academy.


    I went outside to help Brooke sell some mini-bonds. We had sold just over two million pounds already, which was great, but not quite enough at this stage to guarantee we would hit five million. Much of the early enthusiasm had faded and the fact we were slapping our fans with non-stop calls to action could turn positivity into resentment.


    "The problem," she said, after drinking something from a fancy bottle, "is the league position. The cups are great, Max, but we are 18th in the league. It''s too close to the bottom and people are wondering if the new stand will turn out to be a white elephant. Win today by all means, but if I could choose, I''d prefer three points against Wimbledon on the weekend."


    The Dons were CA 82 or thereabouts, and the match was down in London. As well as home advantage, Wimbledon had a tall team with good shape, hard-running strikers, and they always used all their subs so that they could keep pressing until the final whistle. Very Newcastle-esque, though much less technical. "That might be a big ask."


    "Well, I''m asking."


    I checked her out. She was dressed in smart-casual clothes which I''m sure were carefully chosen to straddle the line between looking good, being approachable, and being smart enough for someone to take financial advice from her. She had slightly rosy cheeks and on her little information booth were a pair of gloves. To me it was a gorgeous autumnal evening, perfect for footy under the floodlights, but I guess for her it was quite wintry. "How are you doing?"


    "Good, Max."


    She looked good. Healthy. The mini-bonds might have come at a good time to keep things fresh, give her a new challenge. The summer, of course, would involve lots of complicated project management, on-the-fly decisions, stress, pressure. All the stuff she loved. I looked around and leaned a little closer. "Listen. We''ve got like two million, right? That''s enough for the deposits on the demolition guys, the pitch people, the stand makers, the builders. I want you to give them all the go-ahead."


    Brooke made a show of biting back the first thing she wanted to say. With a very slight eye roll, she said, "We need five, and even that amount worries me. We have no contingency, we won''t be able to outfit all the bars, restaurants."


    She stopped talking as a rando passed by, gawping at us. It probably looked like I was making a move on Brooke.


    "I know," I said, when the rando was out of range. "I want that stand demolished and the pitch done. I''ll tell you one thing that will raise a fuckton of money pretty damn quick and that''s having a huge hole where half the stadium used to be. New slogan: Give me your fucking money or it''ll look like that for twenty years."


    She rubbed an eyebrow. "That''s your instruction, is it? Demolish a stand before we have the money to rebuild it?"


    "No," I smiled. "We will demolish it after the final game of the season, of course. But whether we quite have the money to pay for absolutely everything, we will demolish it. This summer." She was going through some calculations in her head. I said, "Do you think we will hit five million by May?"


    "If it''s a good season, yes."


    "There you go, then. There''s no time to waste. Strike while the iron is hot and make sure we don''t get bumped down the list of projects at one of the four suppliers. And," I said, doing some thinking of my own. If the league position was holding us back, which seemed logical, we needed to improve it fast. If I used Bench Boost against Wimbledon, then we won two straightforward matches against Newport and Colchester, we would get nine points from nine and move up to something like tenth in the league. It didn''t sit right to use Bench Boost for anything other than sporting reasons, but this had to take priority. "Okay, done. If you get everything booked, we will beat Wimbledon. I promise we''ll make a move up the table so fast you''ll have your finger in your ear to relieve the pressure."


    "And if we don''t sell enough bonds? How are we going to pay for everything?"


    "I''ll sell players." I got next to her and showed her tentative approaches we''d had for Wibbers and Youngster. The numbers were seven digits. I spoke more quietly. "I promise the club will be in no danger. The biggest risk is that we''re too late booking these companies and there''s, you know, a bottleneck. Imagine if we can''t get the stand demolished because we were too slow booking them."


    She bit her lip for a moment. "You''re asking me and not MD because he''ll say no."


    "Yes. Work with Secretary Joe to do, what''s it called? Letters of intent? If MD finds out before we''ve got all our ducks in a row, you front it out and look surprised because you thought it was obvious that when we hit two million we would blah blah. You can make up something business-sounding better than me. Oh, if he gets mad, offer to resign. He''ll shut right up."


    She inhaled. "You promise you''ll sell if we have to?"


    "Yes." I gave her a friendly shove. "If it cheers you up, I''m going to sell a player right now."


    She glanced towards the stadium. "Now? To Liverpool?"


    "Yep."


    "Who?"


    "Don''t worry, not Captain Zachtastic." I grinned. "I don''t want to jinx it by telling you. All right, why don''t you put your rich lady gloves on? You want to look relatable but I don''t want you getting frostbite, do I? Not before you''ve sent those emails, anyway."


    ***


    Liverpool''s academy managers had come to watch their team. Adrian Matthews, the Academy Director, was in the seat we''d reserved for him, near a bunch of his colleagues, scouts, and something called ''head of pre-academy recruitment''. Wayne Robins, the scout who had been watching little Simon Black, was there.


    I popped along the aisle and introduced myself to Adrian Matthews. He was inordinately pleased to be recognised. I invited him to come inside for a tiny bit of business. He joked that he didn''t want to buy any mini-bonds, but came along easily enough. The first sign of friction was when I suggested that he might want Wayne Robins to come, too.


    With increasing reluctance, the two followed me to the boardroom. The Brig appeared out of nowhere and closed the door behind us. While the two Liverpool guys sat down, the Brig simply loomed.


    "Okay, I won''t keep you too long," I said. "It''s about a lad in our youth system called Simon Black. Your boy Wayne there has been scouting him for a while and I understand you''re going to try to snatch the kid without offering compensation to Chester Football Club."


    "Bullshit," said Wayne.


    "Wayne, please," said Adrian. "I''m sure this is all a misunderstanding."


    I blew air from my cheeks while looking up at the ceiling. I didn¡¯t want a good relationship with these people and I had to get myself ready for the match. "Fine," I said, reaching for my laptop. "We''re going straight into dick mode are we? You don''t know who you''re dealing with. I am going to ruin your lives, ruin your careers, and when I''m done I''m going onto that pitch - " I pointed through the window - "and ruin those kids."


    "Who do - " said Adrian, but I had a sound file open on my MacBook.


    I pressed play.


    The audio was hissy but clear enough. We heard the voice of Wayne Robins and, coming through the speakerphone with double the hiss and extra crackles, someone who sounded very much like Adrian Matthews.


    "Wayne? You just done at Chester? How''d you get on?"


    "Good. Nearly dere with Simon. Lad wants a PlayStation 6 an'' some games. Dad wants ten grand."


    "Ten? Fucking bargain, that. Doesn''t he know his kid''s the next Michael Owen?"


    "I know. He''s been laid off, like. Strugglin'', else he wouldn''t leave Chester. Kid loves it and the dads get together and do stuff. We need to move fast, get this sorted now while he''s off work and he''s wondering how he can pay for Chrimbo."


    I pressed pause and spoke to John. "Up north, Chrimbo means Christmas. Posh guy like you wouldn''t know that."


    "In my house, we called it the Feast of Wenceslas."


    "Did you?" I creased up. "You''re fucking with me."


    "I am, sir."


    I pretended to be surprised the Liverpool guys were still there. I gave them my full attention and waited.


    "Er," said Adrian.


    Wayne went with, "That wasn''t me. You can''t illegally record someone and use it in a court of law. That''s worthless, that, whatever it is. AI deep fake."


    "Yeah," I said, getting bored. I''d already won. "Let''s leave it to the Daily Mail to decide if it sounds like you or not. If it''s fake or not. John, what''s the name of that Daily Mail reporter who''s always writing about how cute and wholesome our youth teams are?"


    "Bethany Alban, sir."


    "Bethany Alban," I said, typing her name plus Chester FC into a browser. "Article here about a youth tournament. The Wizard of Oz had eleven writers. Interesting. What else has she done? Loads about Dani. What''s this? Baby Bale? Fucking Beth! When did she do that one?"


    Adrian stirred. "If you release that audio, it''ll go badly on you. You''re recording people in their cars. That''s very, very strange. All sorts of illegal."


    "Thing is," I said, leaning back. "I''m one of those cut off my nose to spite my face kinda guys. Top of my bucket list is to blow up a building and walk away while it''s exploding behind me. Isn''t that right, John?"


    "You mention it really quite often, sir."


    "It''d be so cool. Blowing up the Liverpool academy? Mate, I''d be on that all day. Illegal? I can''t remember how I got this audio. I left my laptop open in Starbucks and when I came back, there it was. Legal problems? Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver. You two will lose your jobs and get football bans. Proper bans. I''ll get some parents making jokes about listening to Eros Ramazzotti in the car park. And if anyone at Chester is actually upset by this, I''ll score a hat trick and we''ll all be friends again. No," I sighed, "I have you on toast. The question is, do you want to keep your job?"


    I hadn''t said jobs, plural. Adrian glanced at Wayne, calculating how useful the twat was. To me, he said, "What do you want?"


    "You want to sign the next Michael Owen. What would Owen be worth today? Hundred and twenty million, easy. I want a hundred and twenty thousand for Simon Black."


    Adrian spluttered. "That''s crazy. He''s twelve! That''s impossible."


    "Man City paid almost two hundred grand for a 13-year-old. You lot paid two million for a 14-year-old. I know the market so don''t talk shit. I want a truckload of money and I want it tomorrow."


    Adrian got up, but when the Brig moved closer, stayed awkwardly tucked in behind his chair.


    I dialled Beth. She picked up right away. "Max?"


    I put her on speakerphone. "Is that Bethany Alban from the Daily Mail?"


    "Yes," she said, warily.


    "I have, what do you call it? A scoop."


    "Hang up," said Adrian.


    "Who''s that, Max? Shouldn''t you be warming up? What are you up to?"


    "I''m not sure but I think I might have uncovered a scandal. Big, nasty, ugly one. Big horrible story with some truly awful people taking advantage of the working poor and their cute, cute little kids."


    "Tell me," said Beth. Her voice was dripping with excitement. "Is it something to do with Liverpool? You''re playing them now, right?"


    Adrian was doing a weird gesture with his hands. Sort of pulsing his fingers. I put Beth on mute. "What?"


    "Fifty," he said. "I can do fifty."


    "You must think I''m fucking stupid. I''ve got you over a barrel. There''s loads of this audio and it''s all grotesque. The way this pig talks about kids and their parents is sick. I want a hundred grand and I never want to see your scouts at my training ground ever again."


    Adrian glared at Wayne, then sighed and placed his palms on the big table. "Sixty-five."


    "Seventy-five, deal''s done tomorrow and you never talk to me again. If I don''t have a fucking binding, watertight deal by one p.m., I''m going feral. And Mr. Black still gets his ten grand. I''m gonna ask him about it in about a month and if you haven''t sorted him out, I''m leaking this anyway. John, will you help them back to their seats?" I paced out. When I was far enough away, I unmuted Beth. "You still there?"


    She sighed. "Yes. Did you just use me in a negotiation? I''m not a toy, Max."


    "Thanks for your help. You were great."


    "Who was that voice? Sounded Scouse. You''d better tell me this story."


    "You did a good thing today, Beth. A good thing. Let''s Nando soon. Okay, got to run. Byes."


    ***


    The match itself went as a lot of the lower league men versus top tier academies went - the kids played brilliant football, took the lead, but were overwhelmed by the end.


    This one started with Liverpool scoring two goals in the first half an hour while we were adjusting to their style of play. They were doing 4-3-3, same as Newcastle, and the press was just as intense but only in patches. I wasn''t sure if they didn''t have the fitness to run that hard for ninety-plus minutes or if it was tactical, but when we beat one player we found that Liverpool fell back into neatly spaced rows and allowed us to pass the ball around. A much less frenetic experience, then, and one that Ryan Jack thrived in.


    We played 4-4-2 diamond with the CAM moved back to central midfield. The idea behind that was to have two hard runners, Lee C and Andrew Harrison, to do Ryan''s donkey work, leaving him able to concentrate on outwitting his inexperienced opponents.


    The formation also allowed me to use Youngster in his preferred role while keeping two strikers. As expected, Henri and Dazza were too much for Liverpool''s centre backs.


    When we pulled a goal back before half time - Ryan floating a ball to the far post that Dazza angled past the young goalie - I knew we would be all right.


    Two goals from Henri meant we were three-two up by the time I went on, and the only surprise was that I didn''t score more than one goal from my six shots on target. Four-two final score.


    A decent evening.


    We''d sold a load of mini-bonds, got a fee for a young player who might have left for nothing, put the fear of God into the academies of one of the kleptoclubs, added eight thousand pounds to the cup run prize pot, had burnished Sandra''s reputation, and were in the next round of the Vans Trophy.


    Amazing. Brilliant. Mega. The dressing room was absolutely buzzing. In one week we had drawn against Newcastle and beaten Liverpool, Dazza had three goals in three games, we were squeezing more juice out of our midfield.


    Before showering, Christian Fierce used his craft skills to update the prize money sign. It now read: 83,000. Then he put some banging tunes on to get everyone moving.


    I waited until the stadium had cleared and went home alone.


    ***


    Thursday, November 6


    Emma called in the morning. "Would you like to have lunch in Manchester with us?" Us meaning ''me''.


    Of course I did! In fact, this was the kick up the backside I needed to finally get a rental car. I scooted to the place, chose the second-cheapest model, paid for three months, bosh. I was fully mobile again.


    Before driving to Swagger Central (AKA The Jewel in the Crown AKA Manchester), I checked in on the end of training. Our CA numbers were healthy.


    I''d expected a big surge of green after the Newcastle match but I had given the lads a couple of days off - wisely, in my opinion - and I had put out a strong team against Liverpool. I would name pretty much the same one against AFC Wimbledon, too, so my key guys weren''t getting the kind of focussed training time that would let them pop fast - they were in non-stop recovery mode.


    They were improving so I wasn''t too stressed, and after an absolutely mad schedule - 12 games in 5 weeks - the rest of November was a piece of piss. We had four matches in four weeks, each on a Saturday. Any stored-up training gains would erupt out of the lads - so long as Sandra''s leave came on the dates we had planned.


    I got to Green''s, the famous vegetarian restaurant in West Didsbury, and immediately realised I''d been tricked. First of all, the place was closed. Permanently! Gone. An institution. Something older than me was no more.


    Secondly, Emma was not alone. Sebastian and Rachel were with her, as was Gemma and a slow, older man with hair turning white. He was introduced to me as Jimmy, but I had to piece it out from clues that he was Gemma''s dad. He was uncomfortable around me, as if Gemma had been bad-mouthing me for rather a long time.


    "You said you were alone," I complained, quietly.


    "I said come have lunch with us," she said, seeming to be confused by the conversation. She was a great actress, though. I wasn''t sure if she had scammed me or not.


    I looked at the shuttered frontage of a local landmark. "Green''s is history. Wow. What now?"


    She checked the time. The lawyers had worn suits because of an early meeting, while Rachel was in a striped, French-looking top under a beige coat. Gemma''s dad was in a dad jumper and jeans, and even that seemed like something his daughter had forced him into. "Oh, I don''t know. This road has some nice places, doesn''t it? Let''s get something fast like an avocado on toast. We''re off to look at houses later."


    "Houses?" I said, confused.


    "Yes, for Gems."


    "Oh. Where?"


    "I don''t want to say because you''ll get all weird about it."


    I looked around the group, hoping for some clues. Nothing doing. "What?"


    "I''ll tell you when we''re eating. I''m hungry, babes. Fill me with avocado, stat."


    "If you''re going house-hunting, tell me where and maybe there are nice places to eat nearby."


    Emma glanced at Gemma, who shook her head. Emma made a decision; she do opposite. "We''re going to Chorlton, Max."


    That was where my mum''s care home was. This was them trying to get to meet her. My head sank. I''d been well and truly scammed.


    Gemma felt the need to explain. "I was there a lot when Michael was playing for West Didsbury. It''s nice. It''s like where I live in Newcastle and there''s a tram to the city centre. We''ve seen a nice place online and me dad''s going to come and look to see if it''s sound."


    "You''re moving... to Manchester... for work," I said, slowly. Sebastian and Emma had been in Manchester for a meeting and Rachel had decided to join the squads to go house hunting for Emma''s best friend. It hit me for the first time ever that not everything was about me.


    "Yeah, I''ve been staying in an AirBnB during the week and all that and now it''s time to make the move permanent."


    Emma took my arm, looked up at me and croaked like a thirsty man who''d just come out of the desert. "Kah," she said. "Kah."


    I tried to smile but couldn''t. Something to get out of the way, first. "Let''s go see my mum. There are good places to eat in Chorlton village. Kale for days."


    Emma gripped me. "Babes, we don''t have to. I said to forget it."


    "It''ll be five minutes. Let''s pop in. Now or never."


    ***


    I went in first, dreading what version of mum I''d find in there. It was lunchtime so all the residents who could move were in the big room on their tables. Mum and Anna were in their usual spot - the home did a decent job of building a routine - and I went to join them. Solly wasn''t allowed in while food was being served.


    Anna didn''t look well.


    Mum was having a bad day.


    I sat there and was briefly furious. Why the fuck would anyone want to see this? Anna sensed my distress and gave me a sharp look. For mum''s benefit I let the anger leave me and all the highs and lows of the last week passed through me, replaced by emptiness.


    There was a new treatment that had shown promise, but it had failed. They were getting closer every time, weren''t they? I had to grind for money, grind for XP, keep Old Nick onside. He had promised to get me a drug that worked as soon as there was one.


    "Will you take Solly for a walk?" said Anna.


    I nodded. "I will come back after I eat and do a thing."


    "It will rain later."


    "Good," I said. "That''s thematic." I nearly got up to leave but it hadn''t even been two minutes. I felt eyes on me. Eyes on a scene that should have been private. "How are you, Anna?"


    "Bad."


    "Is there anything I can do?"


    "You can take Solly... for a walk."


    There was the tiniest fraction of a delay in the middle of that sentence. Anna had been about to ask me to take Solly when she died. Or had she? This wasn''t standard lunchtime chat, but I hadn''t been around much since The Duchess had died. "I''ll take Solly... for a walk."


    Anna''s lips wobbled. Mum smiled, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and said, "Lovely soup."


    ***


    To punish Sebastian for making me go through all that, I chose the most hipsterish restaurant in the north of England. It was called How Quaint! and offered vegan hotdogs, bowls of cereal, drinks with ironic names. Most of the early conversation was Rachel reading the menu and saying how funny it all was.


    I poked at a dismayed avocado on cooked bread while listlessly sipping a chai-in-the-sky.


    "Max," said Sebastian, sort of lifting himself up. He had barely spoken to me since the Newcastle match.


    Rachel reached out to touch him. "Not now, honey. Emma first."


    Emma wiggled on her chair and cleared her throat. "Ahem. I''ve got some news." I looked up. She was trying not to smile, was twisting her lips. "I am leaving Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver."


    "What?" I said.


    She nodded, smiling for real. "That was me last project I just finished. Did about eight months of work in three. I''m a proper legend."


    "Absolute ledge," agreed Gemma.


    "I''m going to work for The Wall," said Emma.


    "Wow," I said. Some good news, at last. And it made sense she would move into football law - it was much more interesting than the corporate crap she had been doing, and it would help us grow R.E.M. Suddenly, my brain was fizzing. She wouldn''t need to stay in Newcastle. She would move much closer to me. I would see her more - that''s what she had said. And - of course! If Seb and Rachel were in town, they weren''t only house-hunting for Gemma! "You''re moving to Manchester!" I said, beaming.


    There was uproarious laughter from the entire table, a vast release of tension. Even Jimmy chuckled. Emma eventually took pity on me. "No, you dimwit. I''m moving in with you." Serious joy from within me and a lip twist from Emma. "If I''m still allowed."


    "Of course you are," I said, now perma-smiling. "So you''ll commute to Manchester city centre?"


    "Sometimes. I''ll work from home, mostly. I''m going to ask Ruth if I can rent one of her rooms as a home office. I might stay overnight at Gemma''s new house if we''ve got a lot of work on and meetings."


    "Gemma''s new house," I said, nodding, with everything starting to make sense. The Wall was growing fast. Gemma was a partner and needed to live locally. Chorlton was a cool location for a hot young woman and her just-about-footballer boyfriend. "Tell me about it."


    Conversation flowed.


    ***


    We drove to the house Gemma was interested in and I hopped out of the car, super interested.


    I was immediately gobsmacked. Gemma had described a cute little place but this was one of the nicest houses in the area, newly redecorated, tasteful, big garden, beautiful finish. It had to be the best part of a million pounds.


    A million!


    We explored it like our first evening in a castle.


    Jimmy looked at the place from a structural point of view, looking for evidence of damp or subsidence or any of the other terrifying things homeowners have to worry about. Rachel was interested in the garden - where the sun would be at different times of the day and year. Emma was plotting which spare bedroom would be her one and where Noah Harrison would stay ''when Max sends him to West''. Seb was thinking out loud about converting bathrooms into bedrooms, adding extensions, doing a loft conversion.


    I drifted apart from the others. Emma was going to live with me. That was incredible. It was almost enough to make me forget what I''d seen at the care home. Almost, but not quite.


    Rachel saw me staring into the fireplace, one of those huge cast iron things that in my childhood had equated to wealth. "Can we talk, Max?"


    I nodded. She led me into the garden and with some unseen command, summoned Sebastian. "Thank you for letting us see your mother. I know it was very painful."


    "No-one should have to go through that," said Sebastian.


    I imagined Gemma and Andrew having garden parties in this space. Nice big lawn for the kids to run around. Safe, too. The road wasn''t busy and there were speed bumps. The big park was across the road and the tram stop was just beyond it. If you wanted to raise a family in a city but have a secluded, quiet retreat - oh, and you had a million quid sloshing around - this was it.


    Sebastian eyed Rachel; she nodded. He said, "Emma says you worry about money and that''s understandable because you have your priorities straight. Erm," he said, not sure how to continue.


    Rachel said, "I don''t know very much about football, as you are well aware, but I am told - " she glanced at her husband - "that you could be earning two hundred thousand pounds per week. The amount sounds preposterous to me but - "


    "He scored from sixty yards, love! He dropped two men on their arses and blew up the best offside trap in the country!"


    Rachel smiled at the outburst. "I take it there''s a reason you don''t want to move to a big club."


    I nodded. Answering that fully would take hours.


    Sebastian said, "I think you''re crazy but you want to do it your way and my daughter is..." I couldn''t quite tell what I was looking at but it turned out that he was trying not to burst into tears at the thought of his daughter finally, irrevocably flying the nest. Rachel put her hand on his back. He got a grip. "I''ve dreaded this day, Max, but this day has come." He went through some kind of steeling process that ended with him lifting his chin up. "You''re taking care of my daughter now. She likes you and you make her happy but you''re always worried about money. My daughter wants to go on nice holidays and while she doesn''t need you to have a flash motor..."


    "She needs you to have a car," said Rachel.


    "You put off even renting one, Max, because you''re so in your head about money. It''s good you''re not chucking money around like the footballers in the newspapers but at the same time you need to live your life and you need to give my daughter the experiences she wants to have while she''s young enough to have them. Salsa lessons in Rio, Max. That''s what I want for my little girl. You understand that, right?"


    "I understand," I mumbled, not looking at him.


    "We''re not your family, Max, not yet anyway, but we don''t want to see you suffer and torment yourself for the lack of money that you''ll have soon enough anyway. Emma said you wanted to buy a house in this area, near the care home, and move your mother in."


    Rachel nodded. "With your Irish player''s mother looking after her."


    "He was sold," explained Seb. I got the feeling Rachel had heard that before and it hadn''t stuck, the way I couldn''t remember the names of the horses at Ruth''s stable. I hadn''t spoken to Aff recently but I hoped we would still be on friendly terms when we next met. I had no idea if his mother had found a job in the meantime. Probably - she was amazing. Seb continued. "What I''m saying is that if you''ll let us, we will buy a house here. One that suits your mother''s needs. You can buy it from us in a few years, if you like. I thought about it and I probably would if I were you, to have that little extra peace of mind. From what I understand, you could afford to pay for a carer already."


    "And if you can''t quite," said Rachel. "We''ll help until you can."


    I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it straight away. Why? How? What about rent? Who would pay if my mum broke a window? There were infinite questions. Nothing mattered. If they were seriously going to buy an actual house that I could move my mother into, I didn''t want to say anything that would change their mind. One question seemed unavoidable. "What''s... the budget?"


    Rachel took me by the elbow and guided me back to the house, to the huge kitchen, where she coaxed me to sit on a stool at the large kitchen island. "I was wondering about a bungalow. Does she do well on stairs? Bungalow''s best, isn''t it, so you don¡¯t ever have to make a move again. We''re all here and Jimmy knows houses. Why don''t we look together?"


    "Today?"


    "Why not? We''re all here. It''s perfect."


    "I promised I''d walk the dog."


    Rachel pushed a strand of my hair back into place. "Sebastian will walk the dog."


    "Oh, will I?"


    "Yes, dear."


    I felt strange and hollow, scared to move too fast or this fantasy would evaporate. I risked eye contact with that confounding man. "You might meet some joggers."


    Sebastian looked puzzled, but brightened up. Somehow he had apprehended my meaning. "I like dogs. He''s a good boy, I heard. Yes, I''ll walk him."


    Rachel looked from me to her husband and sighed. "You''ll take your daughter. The dog knows her already so that''s best. Why don''t you go now before it rains?" She sat on the stool next to me, took out her phone, and brought up a property website. "Now, then. What''s the postcode here?"


    ***


    About an hour later, Rachel and I plus Gemma and Jimmy were inside a bungalow near Southern Cemetery, a short drive from the care home, close to Gemma''s new house (subject to contract) and not too distant from a football club owned by a Ghanaian entrepreneur.


    It was a three-bedroomed bungalow from the 50s or 60s, charming in an ugly way, on a surprisingly large plot. Solly would love the space. His own private park! At six hundred thousand pounds it was overpriced but any other buyer would be paying for the location and the chance to build something denser.


    The rain poured while an apologetic estate agent fretted about the furnishings. "Of course, it needs to be updated but it''s a wonderful plot. Significant scope to extend."


    "Needs to be updated?" I said.


    "Well," she said, passing her hand along the countertop by the sink. "I think it hasn''t been touched since the 80s. The bathroom looks like it might have been done in the 90s."


    "It''s perfect," I said, looking from the kitchen to the living room. It wouldn''t be easy to get it looking like our house from when I was a kid, but it would be possible. Some of it already felt familiar. The big ugly sofas, the hideous chandelier that was supposed to look classy, the yellow fabric curtain thing behind the sink, the flowery tiles in the bathroom. I would have to dig out the old photos from the house I''d grown up in.


    "We''d need to dig up the paving stones and get it all level," said Rachel. "And it needs a good clean. This isn''t exactly one where you''d just move in. Not like Gemma''s."


    Gemma squeezed her dad, beaming. I had the impression, later confirmed, that he was paying a huge deposit to make the monthly mortgage just about manageable. "I think it''s lovely," she said. "And it''s just down the road from mine. Mine! That''ll take some getting used to. I can pop by and check on her sometimes."


    "Really?"


    "Course," she said, popping a Polo mint into her mouth. "Every time you put Andrew in the team I''ll come and walk the dog."


    I raised my eyebrows - maybe amused, maybe not. "The poor dog," I said.


    "Maaaaax," complained Gemma. "Come on, we''re both having a legendary day. Let''s talk about Andrew. If not today, when?"


    "Well," I said, which as you can guess was the start of something incredibly biting and hilarious. The door opened and a blast of cold air whipped through the space. Two very damp Geordies dripped miserably onto the carpet.


    "Bloody Manchester!" complained Sebastian.


    "Max loves it," said Rachel, which was true, but she meant the house.


    "Oh," said Sebastian, eyebrows raised. He looked around. "It''s a bit dated."


    "Which is good," said Rachel.


    "What?" I watched as the cogs turned. It took about five seconds. "Oh, of course."


    Gemma said, "Max and I are about to have a rapprochement."


    "Oh!" I said. "I didn''t bring my helmet." Gemma snorted but I held up a finger. "Sorry everyone. Rude but I need to take this call. It''s Dieter Bauer."


    Jimmy and Sebastian looked at each other like schoolboys. Seb said, "Can we listen? Is it private? Please, Max."


    "Sure. He waffles, though."


    "Amazing," said Jimmy. "Is it really - ?"


    I picked up and put the call on speakerphone. The two men and Gemma moved closer and listened.


    "Hi, Dieter."


    "Max! I must be brief, I have a flight soon."


    "Top."


    "We talked about sending you a coach."


    "We did?"


    "To substitute Miss Lane when she is away."


    "Right," I said, though I had no memory of such a conversation.


    "I would like to send you one of our coaches for a few months. On secondment, was the phrase I learned. Is that right? A loan deal for a permanent member of staff. Of course, you did it yourself when you managed Grimsby Town. Ever the innovator! Now then, let me think. He is a very good coach and you will have no complaints about his skill level. He is well-respected here but I think he is too, how can I say it? He is too safe. Cautious? Not in a footballing sense but in a personal one. He works for Bayern M¨¹nchen, he has arrived, yes? I worry that if an opportunity comes up like the one you offered Miss Lane, he would be timid to accept. I would like to... what''s that phrase? It''s so simple but I forget it. Take him out of his comfort zone. Challenge him."


    "You think I''ll mess with his head for a couple of months and he''ll get motivated enough to shoot off on his own? What, like, if that clown Max Best can do it, so can I?"


    Dieter laughed hard. "Yes, perhaps. I am sure of one thing: it will be a memorable experience for him."


    "Hey, this is turning into one of the best days of my life, Dieter. If you want to send me a top coach from Bayern Munich to cover the time my assistant is away, I mean, yes. I can afford him, can I?"


    "Can you afford free?"


    "Yes."


    "Good. It is settled. The start of December, I think you said?"


    So much had happened in the last couple of hours that trying to remember anything from Chester felt like years ago. I was going to need so much therapy. "If he can come earlier that would be better so she can teach him what she does. Oh, but if he''s shit, I''m sending him back."


    Another big laugh. "I cannot promise that you will be besties or that he will even laugh at your jokes - which I know is very important to you - but I can promise you he is not shit. I must go."


    "One second." Sebastian was waving his hands frantically. I covered the mic. "What?"


    "Who is it?" he said, reminding me of a pretty basic question I really should have asked.


    I uncovered the mic and asked Dieter Bauer for the name of the coach.


    He told me. Mine was one of four jaws that fell open. The call ended abruptly and we all stared at the black screen.


    I recovered first and let out a low chuckle. "Now that''s a name that might shift a few bonds."

 12.9 - Staircase to Heaven

    9.


    Saturday, November 8


    BrokenGround


    Okay lads, yesterday was absolutely bonkers. I spent hours watching Max Best up close going about his normal daily business and, I mean, wow. It''s a story and a half if you want it. But it''s really a LOT of stuff about Chester and it''s not even funny and it makes me sound like a Chester fan. Four months ago if someone else kept banging on about that lot I would have been absolutely livid. So, it''s up to you if I should write it all out or what. Kinda don''t mind if you vote no because I can''t touch type lol.


    SummerhillBill


    I really would rather not read another long post about the goings-on at Jester. I vote no.


    BrokenGround


    Ah, yeah, I get that. I thought I should check the temperature. No worries, you''re right.


    SummerhillBill


    BG, I''m not right, I''m joking. Don''t worry about sounding like a Jester fan. As BW wrote when all this started, we''re on the outside. You''re on the inside, just about. I''ve enjoyed the whole story, even the bits that make Best look all right. Not sure about everyone else but if they don''t like it, fuck ''em. Who among us will be in the trenches when the bombs start dropping? Not them. You.


    BrokenGround


    That''s funny. Best said something like that yesterday. You''re not him, are you?


    SummerhillBill


    If I was him, I wouldn''t type in a Welsh accent, would I boyo?


    TopPoppy


    OMG best reply ever!


    Come on, BG, give us the scoop.


    BrokenGround


    Okay but it''s going to be a long one.


    Stoop


    As Max Best said to the Slovakian goalkeeper.


    TopPoppy


    Can we mute the pervert for an hour?


    BrokenGround


    Okay so how it starts is Best has decided the hard part of his season is over and he''s trained 3 R Welsh enough to start trying this new style of football (I''ll call it Bestball even though he hates it) with his under 18s team. They had their first Youth Cup match of the season, played normal football, won 10-zip. His idea is that the Chelseas and Liverpools will watch tape of that and think what Chester are doing is good but basic. When the time is right, he''ll surprise them.


    I''ll say up front I think he''s really good at his job, with caveats, but that he tends to overcomplicate things.


    Anyway, he gets it into his head that 3R might be interested in watching the kids go through what we went through and invites us to attend the first session with them. It''s at Chester''s gaff and we can meet the famous women''s team, have a tour of the dump (his words, not mine!), and have a meal in the restaurant, his treat. He says the decor is not Michelin level but the food''s mint. The whole unit is up for it, and the only question is can some of the lads get babysitters and all that.


    Stoop


    I know a website that specialises in babysitters.


    TopPoppy


    Not now!


    BrokenGround


    As it happens, yesterday afternoon I was getting my knees checked at my specialist in Liverpool.


    Actually, you know what? It''s going to be easier if I say up front that my name''s Dylan and I was wounded in action a few years ago and that''s why I''m a bit of a wreck and I''ve got anger issues and all that.


    TopPoppy


    Fuck, man.


    BrokenGround


    I know. I''m just saying it up top so I don''t have to explain it later and because Best wasn''t calling me BrokenGround.


    So I''m in Liverpool and I think what am I supposed to do for three hours until the kids start training, you know? No point going all the way home to Wrex and then back up to Chester. So I go to Chester early and immediately regret it. Like, what can I do here that I couldn''t have done in Liverpool?


    I decide to go to Chester''s training ground because I know there''s a caff and there are always games and training going on and yeah, okay, there are loads of fit birds.


    Stoop


    Why''s he allowed to say it but I''m not?


    BrokenGround


    I''m there about 5 o''clock and I''m uncomfortable. The enemy within! I get a cup of tea and sit in the cabin that''s been made into a bar. It turns out to be the restaurant, too. No airs and graces here and I''ll try not to give too many compliments but that''s really my speed, if you get me.


    There''s a lovely woman working and she puts me at ease. There''s a box of poppies on the counter but nowhere to pay.


    ''Where''s the money box?'' I say, which makes me sound like a burglar. ''I mean, is it all contactless?''


    ''We do both, love. Poppies are free, though. Take one if you want.''


    ''Free?'' I say, disappointed. The point of selling them is to raise money for the British Legion. If it''s free, wearing one is an empty gesture.


    She doesn''t understand why I''m unhappy but it''s not her fault - she''s wearing a poppy. I''m trying to learn that I can''t fight every battle and there is no point chatting it out with this lady. When Best wanted a new pitch he didn''t go to H about it. He went to the top. The top here is Best and he has weird opinions about wearing the poppy and he''s never going to change his mind.


    The little couple of seconds where I got angry has killed the conversation but anyway I''m basically happy to be left alone. Don''t know if you remember but there was a good thread in here about what to expect from Stevenage away and reading through that killed some time and I was just getting into it. Like, should we stick to a back three or does Davison''s good form mean we''ve got to use full backs?


    ''Dylan!''


    I look up. ¡®Best.''


    He''s come in looking for someone, I guess, and found me. ''What are you doing?''


    ''I''m early for the thing.''


    He looks at his phone. ''It''s seventeen hundred hours and the session is at nineteen hundred hours so you are two hundred hours early. That''s really sloppy, mate.''


    I''ve already said how he gets all his military information from movies. This latest speech fits my hypothesis, but a couple of things he says later make me wonder. ''Better too early than too late.''


    ''Yeah,'' he says, distracted. ''Have you seen Henri? French chap. About this high. The hair of Timoth¨¦e Chalamet, the dimples of Olivier Giroud, the rapacious claws of J.P. Morgan.''


    ''No.''


    ''Mmm,'' he says. ''You''re not going to sit there for two hours, are you?''


    ''There isn''t really enough time to - ''


    ''Why don''t you make yourself useful?''


    ''Like wash the dishes, or what?''


    ''People are always trying to murder me. Come and be my bodyguard for a bit.''


    I can''t quite tell if he''s making up an excuse to have someone to talk to or if he''s saving me from boredom. I would normally have said that I was all right and it was nice to have some downtime, something like that, but I thought about LALAC and went, fuck it. ''I can do that. What''s the threat level?''


    ''Omega,'' he says. ''Wait, that''s terrible. Midnight? Cut that. Just come to my office for now and if you hear any Scouse accents, do a kung fu stance.'' He thinks of something. ''Can you do a one-inch punch?''


    ''No.''


    He shakes his head. ''What do you even do all day?''


    We wander out past the all-weather pitch where a coach is laying out cones. Looks like any other drill to me, but seems these football guys can recognise the drill from the layouts.


    Best barely slows his stride. ''Jude. Close control?''


    The coach says, ''Yes, boss.''


    ''Can we get some finishing at the end? Also, I''ll chat to the boys after I talk to the parents.''


    Jude nods and gets on with his work. He pauses and looks around. He seems to be recalculating how the session will go, on the fly.


    Best faces his palms down and gestures in a wide circle. ''I was thinking of having my statue here. Fifty feet high, double thumbs pointing at my name and number. You can see it from Bristol.'' He shakes his head. ''It''d be the first target in any war. Bomb that and you spread dismay, big time. No, I think it''s best for morale if I stay humble.'' He does a big sigh.


    His office is at the end of the row of cabins and it''s nicer than most of the others. There is no desk. He sits in a tatty but cosy armchair with a footstool and pulls his MacBook onto his lap. There''s a cheap camping chair and a bean bag for me to choose from. I want to do the bean bag but I''m worried about getting up. Also, if I''m his bodyguard, I should be relatively alert. You''re probably all laughing at me but sometimes it''s genuinely hard to know how serious he is. I sit in the camping chair and it''s amazing how comfortable it is. ''Are you really worried about being attacked again?''


    ''No, not really, but I''ve been pissing a lot of people off, haven''t I?''


    ''The population of Newcastle.''


    ''Shit,'' he says. ''I forgot about them. I was thinking about football scouts. This one guy looks like he knows how to throw a punch; I''ve even been back in the gym. Donnie Westwood thinks I could be a half-decent boxer, you know. That was a weird conversation. Oh,'' he says. ''One good thing about having twenty army guys coming on a Friday is the women are training. They''re all, like, famous now. If someone untoward turns up, go ahead and beat the shit out of them. I didn''t say that, that wasn''t me, you can''t prove it. I think Alan Turner should be the next England manager. Man City have never cheated in the entire history of the sport! See? You can''t prove I said anything. This whole thing is a deep fake.''


    ''I''m not recording this,'' I say.


    ''Mmm,'' he says. ''Okay.'' He goes quiet. ''No seriously, if there''s someone making the women feel uncomfortable and you want to disassemble their car into its component pieces or something like that, I mean, I''ll say no don''t do that really quite strongly.''


    ''Are you expecting trouble with the women?''


    He smiles and points at me. ''Not tonight.'' He opens his laptop. ''Hey, is it all right if I take calls and that sort of thing?''


    ''Course, yeah. Pretend I''m not here.'' I sip on my tea. ''Who are you playing tomorrow?''


    ''AFC Wimbledon away.''


    ''Does your electric bus go that far?''


    ''Yeah. It''s only the edges where it''s dubious.''


    ''So what do you do, like, the day before a match?''


    ''Depends. Normally you''ve got an idea of your formation and nine or ten of the starting eleven. This week was a bit mad because everything got thrown out of whack by the Newcastle match, and we had the documentary, the Youth Cup, and Liverpool. I wanted to put out a weakened team tomorrow but we need to win, so.''


    ''Why would you put out a weakened team?''


    ''Because we went hard at the Prem teams. I know it''s not their top players but they''re still brilliant and I wanted to win both games. The idea is if you''ve got three big games in a week, you''ve got to choose which one to slack off. For Parky that''ll be the cups. For me it''s the league because if we lose or get a draw tomorrow, it''s not a big deal. If we get an injury, that''s a big deal. Looking at the fixtures, we will win 8 of the next 9 after tomorrow. If you think of a ten-match horizon, losing one is no big deal. We will shoot up the league, top six by Christmas. Only problem is people won''t buy the bonds if we''re near the bottom of the table so we have to get a move on.''


    ''So you say okay let''s win and that''s it? You just win?''


    He smiles. ''It''s not always that easy but we''re almost at Wimbledon''s level, so if I do one of my tricks on them, bosh. The thing is, that''s a one-time scheme and it won''t work again.''


    ''What''s the trick?''


    ''You''ll see. Or you won''t. Just don''t be surprised when we absolutely blitz them in the second half. Sometimes you have to suffer until half time to lull them into a false sense of security. Yeah, first half will be hot garbage.'' He scrunches his eyes for a second. ''You''ve got Stevenage, right? You should bosh that. Parky makes it hard for himself.''


    ''In what way?''


    ''Stevenage are solid but you''ve got the firepower to absolutely blow them to smithereens. With your squad, I would go all-out attack and there isn''t a chance in hell Stevenage would do anything other than a low block and hope to counter. If you go there defensive they can sucker you into a series of battles. Turn it into a slog.''


    ''What are you going to do tomorrow? All-out attack?''


    ''Nah, you don''t get me that easy. Ah, there he is.''


    Henri Lyons, the striker, comes in. It looks like he''s wearing two scarves but he can''t have been. He has arranged it or them in such a way that you can see he''s wearing a poppy. ''Hello,'' he says, to me.


    ''Hello.''


    ''Max, I have the book I told you about.'' He hands something over while I''m scanning Best to see if he''s wearing a poppy and sadly I don''t get a good look at the book. All I see is the word quest. ''Please do not read it in the bath.'' He looks at me. ''Max treats books with contempt.''


    ''I do not. Henri''s mad that I turned the page once. You know, in the corner.''


    ''To remember which page you''re up to,'' I say. ''Everyone does that.''


    Henri looks up, pained. ''Everyone does not do that. Do not say that everyone does that. Some of us are trying to live in a society.'' He looks at me again. ''The entire spine was ruined. He had lain it flat many times. It was brutal; I nearly wept. Max''s attitude to my books will feature in our Christmas happening.''


    Best isn''t listening. He''s scanning the back cover blurb. ''Is this the one with the cat?''


    ''No, it''s the one with the prison.''


    ''Okay.'' Best puts the book in a backpack he has down the side of the sofa. ''While you''re here, you''re not starting tomorrow.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Yeah, I decided we need to win. To shift some bonds.''


    Henri nods. He seems pleased, which is mad because it sounds to me like Best has just called him shit. I go, ''You''re happy he dropped you?''


    ''Dropped? I am not dropped. I am to come off the bench and star.''


    ''When did he tell you that?''


    ''Just now. Did you not hear? May I know your name?''


    ''Dylan. I''m from 3 R Welsh.''


    ''Oh, I see. Formidable.'' He leans back against one of the ceiling-high panes of glass. The next question is not aimed at me. ''How is our transfer business going?''


    ''Good,'' says Best.


    ''And the bonds?''


    ''Quite good. Do you know anyone called Aur¨¦lie?''


    Henri squints. ''Yes.''


    ''Relative?''


    ''Mother.''


    ''Ah. Problem?''


    ''For?''


    ''Me.''


    Henri shakes his head. ''No.''


    ''For Chester?''


    ''No.''


    ''For you?''


    Henri smiles. ''Of course.''


    Best thinks and does a big shrug. ''Okay.''


    Best''s vibe is like, that''s the end of the conversation. But Henri''s not done. ''May I make a request?''


    ''Yes.''


    The Frenchman takes his time finding the right words. ''When you sell the lads, don''t reduce the bond.''


    Best closes his laptop and shuts his eyes. He leans back like he''s trying to sleep, but he''s only trying to understand. ''Don''t... reduce the bond...''


    ''I have tried to explain this to you before and will do so again, perhaps with Brooke and MD by my side. Perhaps with Dylan if he is the one who can make the breakthrough.''


    I don''t like being brought into it, but it seems like he means well. Best goes, ''You''re talking about my frugality.''


    ''I am. The interest rate is so manageable even MD is comfortable with it. Of course he would happily pay less but he doesn''t fully appreciate your talent, even now. Leave the fans'' money in the stand, let them pay it off through season tickets, and reinvest what you earn from transfers into the squad. Turn the flywheel, Max. It is time to speed up.''


    ''You think I shouldn''t build new showers?''


    ''Of course you should, these are irredeemable, but I won''t be here next season so I care very little about the showers at Bumpers Bank.''


    ''You won''t be here?'' I blurt out.


    Henri eyes me. ''Max says I am to leave and cash myself up for a season or two, at which point he will find me some menial task in one of his enterprises.''


    ''Oh.'' With friends like Best, who needs enemies?


    ''All I am saying, Max, is prioritise the squad this summer. Give yourself an easier time next year. You can make it very, very easy for yourself and as you know, when you are winning twice a week, the money will flow. For once, start the season at a sprint. The new stand will be making money for the club for fifty years. You do not need to pay off the debt in three.''


    Best watches his friend, and twists his lips around. ''You''re the second person in two days to say something of the sort. Emma''s dad wants me to buy a Lotus Seven and whisk her off on adventures. He wants me to break out of my poverty mindset.''


    ''It is easy to tell you what to do,'' says Henri. ''Easier than to be you, I think. That is why I only speak about the bond. As I say, let the fans build their stadium and repay the interest. You build the squad. That is what they want from you and that is the force multiplier on this project. Good, I have spoken. I follow you regardless, as you know, but perhaps I can judge this risk better than you.''


    Henri opens the door and is ready to just leave. Just like that!


    Best goes, ''You okay?''


    Henri goes, ''Yes, actually. It''s a good moment. You?''


    Best does a small head shake. ''It has been all kinds of mad.''


    ''You are with the children tonight?'' Henri looks at me. ''When Max needs to be centred, we encourage him to spend time with the Knights or the children. It is his grounding. He is my role model; the more he gives, the more he gets. Now I must away for I have to evict a bad tenant from one of my properties. Adieu!''


    We watch him leave. Best says, ''He''s joking. He wants you to put that on social media so he can act hurt and get all French about it.''


    I go, ''Do you have a poverty mindset?''


    ''Of course I do.''


    ''That''s why you were in a shit car.''


    He glares at me. ''The Duchess was not a shit car.''


    ''People shouldn''t tell you how to spend your money, though. That''s not on.''


    ''I didn''t mind it from Emma''s dad because it''s like, that family''s pretty loaded and he wants his daughter to be happy. She''s not a pampered princess but she''s used to having nice experiences. Loads of holidays and posh restaurants. They''re the sort of people who buy Taylor Swift and Oasis tickets and don''t even notice the price, do you know what I mean? For them it''s do you want to go, yes or no. And look, he''s not saying I can''t marry her because I''ve got a shit car and no house. I mean, I''m the one having dinner with Donnie Wormwood and stuff like that. I''ve got things money can''t buy and he''s not trying to put me down. He''s kind of just saying can you at least book a hotel with hot water? Yesterday he did something so I don''t have to worry about money so much and now I''m a bit off centre, like, mentally.'' He scratches his head. ''I''m making myself sound like a right cheapskate. I got used to a small, simple life, right, and then when I started making money I was like okay, put ten grand away in case mum needs something. A couple of weeks of seeing that ten grand in the bank I was like that is nowhere near enough, is it? Twenty? Still no. So that number''s been going up and up and I never feel safe and I never will. Emma''s dad has done an intervention and broke the pattern. I need to readjust. It''s not easy.''


    ''What about him?'' I nod towards the door, where Henri''s scent lingers.


    ''He''s talking about the club''s money. I run the club like my own account. Ha! That sounds shady. Are you recording this?''


    ''No.''


    ''Some podcasters would love to hear me talk like that. I mean I run it like it''s my money. This woman I know is buying a house. Huge house. Big mortgage. Let''s say it''s a thousand pounds a week. No clue what the real number is, you get me, it''s just a thousand is easy to work with. Her dad pays half up front, now her mortgage is five hundred a week. That''s what I want to do for the stadium. The club''s mortgage - the fans'' mortgage, in the end - can go lower if I chip in. Instead of buying a new left back, I reduce the mortgage.''


    ''Makes sense to me.''


    ''Right. But Henri says I should buy a new left back because I''m amazing at finding players. Put out a winning team, get promoted, get prize money, and sell those players for a huge profit.''


    ''That... makes a lot of sense, too.''


    Best frowns. ''Yes. I think it''s one of those things where both ways are right but with the first one I can sleep well at night.''


    ''You''re running a football club. You need to be able to sleep at night. Got to look after yourself.''


    Best agrees with me to his core and it shows. ''Right? That''s what people don''t get. I''m under enough strain as it is. And what if I die? Does Chester die, too? I don''t want that. But...'' He gets up and looks around. I sit up in case there''s trouble. ''Thing is,'' he says. ''Remember you were all ''oh Best you''re shit you''re getting sacked'' and I was like ''no I''m crushing this season bro'' and you were like ''what really?'' and I said ''yeah watch me score from 70 yards against some chumps.''''


    I laugh. ''You didn''t say the last part.''


    ''I was complaining that next season - when we will be in League One, remember - will be the same as this one. Start slow, pick up speed. So yeah, what if I wait another year to build a proper changing room? What if I don''t put solar panels on the gym right away? Do you know what I mean? What if I fucking go for it on the pitch and just slap from day one?'' He rubs his temples and it''s like he''s talking to himself. ''League One ceiling is about 110. Keep the main squad together we''ll be over 90. Get as much TV money as MD will give me. Stand takes us to about 50K a week... Foquita''s worth another twenty, or a mill for signings. What about training caps? When we leave BoshCard what will our score be? It''s a big risk not to do the showers, at least.''


    He lapses into silence. I have no idea what he''s saying but guys, it''s amazing! He''s running a football club right before my eyes! I try to get him to explain some of it without making it seem like that''s what I''m doing because if I go straight at it, he''ll shut down. ''Is this to do with what Henri said about selling players?''


    ''Yeah,'' he goes, with a sigh. ''Spring clean for the May queen. We''re pretty likely to sell three guys. The trick is do I replace them and do I spend money replacing them?''


    ''How could you... not spend...?''


    He has a tactics whiteboard on the wall and he goes to it and moves blue magnets around. ''Four-four-two.'' He whips away the left-back and right-mid. ''I sell my backup goalie. Fine, who cares?'' He touches the goalie magnet. ''Er, everyone cares if you don''t have a replacement when this guy gets injured. So I buy a new backup and hope he''s better than what I''ve got. If I spend exactly what I get for the current one, it''s not going to move the needle much. If I spend more money, okay we''ve upgraded, but do I want the club''s scarce resources sitting in a backup goalie? No, unless the first choice gets injured, and then my backup goalie is the best investment I ever made.''


    ''We had terrible luck with goalies and injuries.''


    Best''s eyes widen. ''I know. I watch Welcome to Wrexham, Dylan. Dislocations, concussions, broken jaws, five goals conceded here, five goals there. If I was a goalie, I wouldn''t go to Wrexham. No offence.''


    ''None taken. For once.''


    He puts a left back on the board. ''I sell my left-back. No problem, I''ve got two hotshots coming up.'' He takes it off again. ''Very talented but very raw. If I play them every week I''ll lose points, guaranteed.''


    ''Change the formation,'' I say.


    ''Ah! Good. If we want to hide the fact we don''t have an oven-ready left back we can do 3-5-2 or 3-4-3. Yeah, I like both of those but not as much as I like having complete tactical flexibility. And neither are amazing for DMs.'' He plays with his magnets for a while but his hands move too fast for me to follow. He slows and obsesses over the ones at the sides. ''I''ll get a good price for my winger but that leaves me with Pascal as my only proper wide player.''


    ''How is he?''


    ''He''s coming along. I threw him in against Newcastle because I thought we might shock them with some quick breaks, but also because one of the hardest parts of a recovery is getting back on the pitch. The first tackle, you know? He was nervous, of course, but he survived and he''s gonna be raring to go. With our November schedule there''s no need to rush him so he''s in Dean''s hands and Pascal will have to put the work in like a normo. No, he''s fine, and he''s busy with his Spanish lessons - hubba hubba! - and his coaching badges and his physical work. I try to keep my injured players busy because they go tonto if they can''t play.''


    ''I bet.''


    ''Thing is, we''re very very light on the wings and that rules out most of our formations. We''re also lacking in CAMs. Sandra loves 4-2-3-1 but the only options for that are me, Pascal, and Wibbers, and for different reasons we''re not playing every minute of every match, right? So if I sell Jaws do I try to load up on CAMs? Maybe, but I use wide players more. And it makes no sense to play one up top when I''m going to have three of the best strikers in the division. I want...''


    Best seems to get stuck, like he doesn''t know what he wants. He opens the door, walks out, closes it behind him, and wanders off. I''m perfectly comfortable where I am - it''s quite cosy and I''m enjoying being in the space. I think I see him looking at a tree, and what''s odd is that it''s the only tree in the whole place.


    He comes back and sits cross-legged on his big chair. ''Do you play Soccer Supremo?''


    ''Not really, no. I have the mobile version from years ago but it doesn''t...''


    ''What wins, a team of guys with high Pace or a team with high Decisions?''


    ''Pace.''


    Best closes his eyes and has an internal debate. ''No. No, it''s Decisions. If you can get a guy with both you''re laughing, but that''s a fifty million pound combo right there, isn''t it? I have a weakness as a tactician in that I spend all my time thinking about what we do when we get the ball, but your Parky and most other managers are far more interested in the defensive side. What do you do when you don''t have the ball? Tsch''. That¡¯s a dismissive noise, like defending is beneath him. ''This is a mad sport, you know. In one game a player might be asked to make ten headers and take five shots but in the next the same player in the same position has to make four tackles and eight blocks. You need well-rounded players but you need specialists. You need on the ball skills but off the ball is important, too. It''s low-scoring so mistakes are critical but if you base your philosophy on waiting for a mistake, your fans will be bored and your players, too. It''s so dynamic with so many variables that unless you have a huge budget all you can do is get the best players possible and see what you can cook.'' He rubs his hands through his hair and down his face. ''It''s easy to imagine the perfect team. They''re all six foot four, pass like Michael Carrick, dribble like Stanley Matthews, are as fast as Jaws, and so on and so on. But what can I realistically get? What if I had a couple of hundred million to put together a realistic dream team? I don¡¯t even know what I want. Decisions, Passing, Technique, great. But you need some pace and you need some heading and you need and you need. Do you know what I mean?''


    ''Yes. No.''


    Best slides his legs from under him and sits normally. ''The good news is, I genuinely have no money so my poverty mindset is justified. All I can do is get the most talent for the buck and... But... Okay! I don''t need to go full opposite right away. I can line up a Jaws replacement right now.''


    I blink. ''You''re going to do a transfer? Are you going to let me listen?''


    ''Why not?'' He looks up and to the right with a frown. In his head, he has answered his own question. He smirks. ''If for any reason you feel the need to tell this story in the next few weeks, would you promise not to use any of the names you hear? You''d be crushing some poor bloke''s only chance at having a good career.''


    He knows! He knows I''m doing this and he doesn''t care. ''Yes.''


    ''Swear on Ryan Reynolds.''


    I laugh. ''I swear.''


    He gets on the phone. I have to put fake names because I did promise. ''Davido! Mad news. Captain Kirk wants to buy Jaws from me. Yeah, I know! No, I''m not calling to see if you''re interested. No, I''m not trying to start an auction. Why would Jaws move to you? That''s a step down and your shitty manager famously misuses every right midfielder he ever lays eyes on. Yes, that''s what this is about. A replacement, yes. Look, you know I don''t have any money because everything''s being sucked into the black hole that is the stadium. You''ve got two right midfielders rotting away and I will take one off your hands. Yes, for a fee. Jesus Christ, what do you think? No, I haven''t spoken to her. Because if you say you''re not interested I''ll go somewhere else. Honestly I don''t care which one. I need a body who can play wide and you''ve got two. I can give you fifty grand and we can get the deal wrapped up next week.''


    I get my phone out to look up the names of the players Best is talking about. One was released by an academy and the other was on loan at Chester before. I don''t believe Best when he says he doesn''t care which one he gets.


    ''You paid fifty for him, I know. And then you''ve let him rot. I should have started at thirty but you know I don''t like... Come on. Come on!''


    Best is frustrated. Doesn''t like the number he is hearing.


    ''Davido, you get one shot at this. If you piss me off I''ll go off in a huff and not talk to you for seven weeks. No, seven weeks. That''s the standard punishment. Well how long would you suggest? That''s not much of a punishment though, is it? Okay, listen. Charles was here before, he knows the area, knows the club, the fans liked him. In order to get some peace of mind and so that you can go to your fans and say you rinsed us and made a profit on this deal, I will give you seventy-five thousand pounds for a player who is nowhere near your first team and doesn''t improve ours.''


    Best leans back. I think 75 is going to be his final offer, and sure enough...


    ''Okay, no, I''m out. Don''t worry, in two years when his contract expires and he has played 86 minutes of football for you, I''ll be there to help him rebuild his shattered career. Don''t worry, mate, it''s only a young man''s life. Bye.''


    He hangs up and shakes his head.


    I say, ''Good news, is it?''


    That makes him smile again. ''You''re funny when you''re not boiling with anger at every little thing.''


    ''I could say the same about you.''


    ''I take it personally, though. There are two wingers who moved to that club on my advice and they were delighted at the time but they haven''t progressed. Either one would be smashing it here. I can''t do a hundred, though. This is the mad thing, right, is that I want to help people but I have to be ruthless, too.''


    ''Are they good players?''


    He looks around, trying to look guilty but the big smug grin shows what he really thinks. ''They''re way better than Jaws! I think this is what Henri is trying to tell me. If I sell a player for 300 and I can buy a better one for 75... I mean, at some point the wages will start to absolutely dick me and the risk of a bum deal gets more and more, ah, impactful... but in principle I should be wheeling and dealing like this. I kinda thought I would be but then I had flat out zero money. How can I not have a poverty mindset when I''ve had to put this squad together on free transfers, promissory notes...'' He''s suddenly staring at the glass behind me. ''And guys I found on a beach.''


    I vaguely recognise the man who knocks on the glass and comes to open the door, but thanks to our resident pervert I totally know the woman who''s with him. It''s the Julia Roberts one! Eat Pray Lust, AKA Gemma. As before, the pictures don''t do her justice and there''s something crazy that happens. The boyfriend - Andrew Harrison, I soon find out - doesn''t seem to know there are fucking SPARKS flying all over the place between Best and Gemma. It''s honestly really super intense and I''m absolutely riveted by everything that they say to each other because it seems to be riddled with subtext and sexual energy.


    ''Max,'' says Gemma, very bossily. But she spots me and gets cold and professional. She''s dressed as a lawyer. ''Hello.''


    ''I''m Dylan,'' I say, but it comes out weird.


    Gemma looks at Best for an explanation. He''s looking straight and only just barely turning his head in her direction which, you know, for a woman like that must be really challenging. ''He''s with me,'' says Best. It makes no sense, it''s not true, but it gets the blood pumping. I''m in the gang. I don''t want to be in the gang, but now that I''m in the gang I''m proud to be in the gang. It''s a tiny taste of what comes later.


    Gemma and Andrew are in the space with us and it''s really not big enough for four. Also, neither wants to sit on the bean bag. I think Best wants it like this because he doesn''t want people in there for too long. He doesn''t mind me, though. I get another flush of that unwanted happiness.


    ''Max, we need to sort this contract situation out.''


    ''Gosh,'' says Best, quite bored.


    Gemma grunts in frustration. (By the way: hot.) ''What do you want? Do you want us to beg?''


    Best grinds his teeth together and sort of rolls his head slightly. A lot of what he does is a performance, or he''s hiding his real emotions, but this, whatever it is, is real. He looks at the tactics board while he counts to whatever number. Then he looks from me to Gemma. ''Dylan is a Wrexham fan. He doesn''t give a shit about you, me, Andrew, or Chester. He does, though, have a pronounced sense of right and wrong, hates injustice, has good analytical skills. I nominate him as an independent judge.''


    Andrew says, ''Are you one of the army guys?''


    I don''t know what Best has been saying so I feel awkward. ''Yeah.''


    He does this sort of admiring O face.


    Gemma is less impressed. ''Max, this is unprofessional.''


    ''Pursuant to his Britannic Majesty''s royal decree I nominate Dylan of the British actual army to arbitrate in our exchange of grievances.'' He says this all dignified and solemn and I sit up straight.


    My reaction isn''t because I''m moved by his words or anything noble like that. It''s because I finally think I''ve got his sense of humour. He is a prick but he has chosen those words and that tone to get a rise out of Gemma and it works so hard she''s actually left speechless. I want to go through all the things he''s ever said to me that have made my blood boil but there''s no time.


    Best leans forward like a California girl and says, ''Dylan, get this.''


    The switch in his tone from the super-formal fake legalese to this casual pyjama-party chat nearly makes my head explode.


    ''I found Andrew and his brothers while I was recovering from my murder. There I was, on the island of Tenerife, trying to learn to walk again... and to trust again...'' He glares at Andrew, which has the mad, upside-down effect of making Andrew smile. ''And I say, hey, Triplets, would you like to stop being fucking nobodies and come and play football for my club? And they said yes, yes please, Max, because otherwise we''ll spend sixty years in a call centre selling unsuitable crypto products to elderly women.''


    Best cricks his neck. He''s just getting started.


    ''As you know, Dylan, from being a fan of moneybags Wrexham, Chester FC are fucking skint. They have a miracle worker in charge but they have no fucking money. Despite that, I gave a fuckton of Chester''s resources to the Triplets because I see potential in them to have careers as players and all I ask in return is that Chester''s investment in them is justified. I believe I can train Andrew into a really good player and sell him for loads and use that fucking money to give the same opportunities to all kinds of triplets that I find on all kinds of beaches.''


    Best is getting actually wound up now. Like, Gemma and Andrew can''t say anything because he is on a roll and it seems like they can''t find fault with any of the basic information.


    ''Last summer I come back from Brazil. I haven''t hit a home run in terms of talent ID but I''ve found enough guys to justify my carbon footprint and with those deals done, I know how much is left in my budget. I call Andrew in to offer him a pay rise but Gemma barges in and tells me I have to make Andrew Harrison one of the top earners at the club. I have to pay him more than Magnus, who is absolutely indispensable, more than Youngster, who I wouldn''t sell for five million, and more than Henri Lyons, who scores all our goals!''


    I look at Andrew and he''s deeply unhappy. He''s unhappy because he agrees with Best. Gemma is angry and she''s trying to control herself. It''s mad but I try to play peacemaker, and I start by putting the other side of the argument across. ''So you froze him out of the team.''


    ''Nope,'' says Best, sliding back onto the chair, relaxed. ''They did that.''


    Gemma is the one grinding her teeth now. ''It was a bargaining position.''


    ''How did that work out for you?'' Max Best is SUCH a prick.


    Gemma inhales. She''s way more impressive than Best, and I don''t mean her looks. In her position, I''d be looking for weapons. ''What do you want?''


    Best''s eyes widen and he lets his hands fall out, palms up. Like, are you serious? ''I want Andrew to sign a long-term contract so that I can use the resources of Chester Football Club to train him up! Like I said on day one!''


    ''That''s what I want,'' says Andrew, quietly.


    ''Training a footballer is expensive,'' says Best, as though he hasn''t heard. I think he has heard but he has decided to make this speech regardless. ''Coaches, pitches, physios, floodlights, fucking delicious meals twice a day, travel, transport, legal advice, insurance, a billion fucking things. For a club with no money, that''s a lot of money. If you want to go to Bradford and get paid, go to Bradford and get paid. Teach me a fucking lesson for trying to make you a valuable asset. You don''t want to suffer and sacrifice like the rest of us? You want to skip directly to Go and collect two hundred pounds? Be my guest. But if you aren''t willing to let this club cover its costs on you, you get nothing. This isn''t Andrew Harrison FC. This isn''t Gemma''s Boyfriend FC. This is Chester FC and I need money to pay for Jojo and Jude and dentists and Jonny Planter and little disabled girls who love football and dream of playing for England. How can it be that I make more money from a 12-year-old that I found in a park than a grown man who I invested two years of elite coaching into? Explain that to me. That''s what I want, Gemma. I want an explanation for why you don''t want to be part of something bigger than yourself. I want an explanation for how the most selfish man in Manchester is the least selfish man in this room.''


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Wow.


    Fucking Max Best launching truth bombs towards his own unit.


    When a bomb goes off, there''s this time where there''s no movement and the only sound is that ringing noise they do in movies. Trust me, I know.


    There''s no movement in that room. Best''s phone is ringing but he shuts it off.


    Gemma opens her mouth and I find myself leaning forward to hear what she says because it''s going to be epic.


    But Andrew reaches out and touches her lightly on the arm. She stops. He looks at Best. ''Do you want me gone?''


    ''I want to finish what I started.''


    ''I want that, too.''


    ''There''s no money,'' says Best.


    Gemma narrows her eyes. ''You''re selling three players. You''ll have budget.''


    ''There''s this guy called Foquita,'' says Best, and I try and fail to make the sound mean anything. Fajita?


    ''You''ve budgeted for him,'' says Gemma. ''These sales are new.''


    ''Three out, four in,'' says Best.


    ''Four?'' says Andrew.


    ''I thought you''d be leaving so I''m talking to a club about a replacement,'' says Best, and I''m more than ninety percent sure he''s lying because he''s just told me his plans. This is a mad whirlwind and I love it! ''Money''s gone. If life''s about money may I recommend Wrexham?''


    Andrew and Gemma look at each other and I see the exact moment Andrew''s heart breaks. They''ve gone to war with Best but there''s only going to be one winner there. Andrew''s shoulders slump and I find myself watching his fingers. They''re twitching like he''s already got them wrapped around the door handle. That''s it! His career at Chester is over.


    What comes over me? No fucking clue, but I decide it''s up to me to sort this out. This is a minor lover''s tiff - not sure how literally - and these people all want to be together. One or more is too stubborn to say that.


    As Best said, I''m not part of it. I''m independent. I can say things they are too prideful to say, and with me there''s no sexual tension getting in the way. At least I hope not. ''Best. Do you want Andrew to stay?''


    ''Yes.''


    ''Andrew, do you want to stay?''


    ''Yes.''


    I get confused then because it can''t be that simple and these clowns can''t be that stupid. Can they? I try to work it out. I look at Best. ''You''d give him a long-term contract but with no increase.''


    ''I suppose I could find a little bit down a sofa. But the real money comes later.''


    ''What - '' says Gemma, but I have this feeling that, smart and beautiful as she is, she''s not helping. As politely as possible, I put my hand up to stop her.


    I say, ''What does real money mean?''


    Best turns to the tactics board and moves the right midfielder into the centre and back again. ''Chester pay him call centre cash. He grinds for two years. We sell him. He skips lobster money, goes straight to Gemma money.''


    ''Gemma money,'' I say. ''What''s that in pounds and pence?''


    ''They know.''


    Gemma''s shaking her head. ''Gemma isn''t on Gemma money.''


    ''And neither is Andrew. And he won''t ever be unless he commits. The only way up is me. I am Andrew''s staircase to heaven.''


    Gemma''s fire gets more intense, I''m awestruck and terrified, and then it dies down. ''Nutcase, more like.'' Amazingly, she looks at me for help. What¡¯s the next move? I jerk my head away and she understands what I''m saying. She steps to me, offers a hand, pulls me up, and says in a ladylike tone, ''Would you escort me to the bar?'' She opens the door, we go through, and she puts her arm around mine.


    As we go, I look back and see the two men in the same pose, looking awkward. Best says something and Andrew laughs and goes to the camping chair.


    TopPoppy


    Fuck! Why is it always so intense?


    BrokenGround


    That was only the first ten minutes!


    I need to take a break. My wrists are killing me.


    Stoop


    Mine too.


    TopPoppy


    Log off, pervert!


    BrokenGround


    Okay I''m back. Where was I? Ah, yeah, Best is talking to Andrew.


    ''Thank you for that,'' says Gemma, once we''re out of sight of the shed.


    ''Um,'' I say, because there are more people milling about and they are looking over wondering why such a beautiful woman is with me. I tell myself I don''t give a shit what they think. ''Your boyfriend was good against Newcastle. He''s a grafter and he didn''t seem overawed by the occasion. Best wouldn''t have let him go, not really.''


    ''He would. He''s incredibly stubborn. He''s impossible.''


    ''He''s not,'' I say. ''Sorry to be, er, personal but I think you went at it head on and that''s not how you work him.''


    ''No?''


    ''You''ve got to go at an angle. Get him talking about something else then link it back to what you really want to talk about.'' She''s giving me a strange look. We''re just outside the bar. ''He was doing this weird football with us. We call it Bestball. He wouldn''t explain anything we were doing if we straight-up asked, but we learned that if you talked about the big match on TV last night you could get him talking about offside traps and then say ''is that why we play a high line?'' It doesn''t always work but it''s much better.''


    She gives me a different sort of strange look. I''m not used to being this close to women who look like movie stars, lads. ''What were you doing in his office?''


    ''Just waiting until seven. Passing the time.''


    ''Huh. Do you mind that we interrupted?''


    ''No.''


    ''Good. Okay, well, are you going to buy me a drink or what?''


    Lads, I got mad brave! ''You''re on Gemma money. Why don''t you buy me one?''


    She liked that, but she''s one who likes to be in charge. ''Why don''t you hold the door open for me like a gentleman?''


    Good point! I do just that, giving her a fancy bow as she goes past, and we get tea and coffee and chat and she''s proper normal really. Not stuck up or anything. ''How did all this start anyway?''


    ''Oh,'' she says. ''It''s like he said, he was dishing out contracts and we heard from some of the other lads they got tiny raises. Like a hundred here, two hundred there. But we''re in League Two now so that can''t be right. Where''s the million pounds from TV? Max runs this place like he''s all-powerful and he makes all the decisions without caring what people think. One day he''s saying Andrew can''t get a raise, the next he''s buying stupid advertising boards for the pitch out there. Do you know what I mean? No-one pushes back because they want to be the next Sam Topps and get a good move. Aff and Carl got good moves, and Glenn. Most of the players grumble about the pay but get on with it because when Max says you get paid later, he''s not talking out of his arse. Even MD doesn''t push back. If Max says we need six goalkeepers, MD will let him as long as it''s within budget. So I decided someone needed to stand up to him.''


    ''He''s Julius Caesar and you''re Brutus.''


    Gemma points a finger at me and I stare at her nails and get turned on. ''Don''t call me a brute, thank you very much.''


    ''I meant - ''


    ''I''m teasing you.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Well, he can be Julius Caesar with the other lads but not with Andrew. I want Andrew to be paid what he''s worth today and tomorrow because I think he''s brilliant.'' She gets a wry look about her that goes great on those lips. ''I admit I may have miscalculated market sentiment.''


    ''No bugger wanted him.''


    She laughs. ''Yeah. We had a bad time because Andrew wasn''t getting on the pitch - they call it getting minutes. I hate that phrase; it''s insipid. But if he''s not getting minutes he''s not improving and if he''s not on the pitch he''s not catching the eye. Andrew had a slump. It''s hard being frozen out like that. I can''t understand how Max can see one of his players suffer every day and not do anything about it.''


    ''Oh,'' I say.


    ''What?''


    ''It''s just, I''m a Wrexham fan and we talk about Chester a lot on our Discord.''


    She frowns. ''Why?''


    ''They''re our rivals.'' It sounds petty so I move on. ''We talked about that situation and we thought it was good.'' She glares at me. ''Sorry, I mean, good management from Best. From the club''s point of view. If you have a guy who wants too much money and you go nuclear on him, the other players fall into line. It happens in the army. They''ll beast someone who''s late so hard that no-one will be late again for three months. I know it isn''t nice to think about but...''


    ''He should do it with one of the others.''


    ''Andrew''s perfect, though, isn''t he? He''s close to Best but not a first team regular. It''s shocking for the other players but doesn''t weaken the team.''


    She takes an angry sip of coffee. ''You''re all such boys. There were twenty ways to handle it better.''


    ''I have no doubt that''s true.''


    She looks down into her cup. ''It has been pretty horrible. When we meet up with the WAGs there''s pity and fear. It could be their husband next, sort of thing. Probably loads of jokes about me.''


    ''They''re only jealous.''


    ''The other players were great. Told him to keep his head down, keep working hard, and try again in January. And Max, to be fair, is pushing Noah hard, giving him first team minutes, extra coaching. Michael''s doing well at Saltney. If you care about your brothers like Andrew does, it helps.'' She puts her hands around her cup and eyes me. ''You''re a Wrexham fan, are you? What do you think about that whole Ryan Reynolds thing?''


    We talk about that for a while and then Andrew comes in and sits with us. He''s smiling. He smiles at me. ''There''s the man of the hour! The man who saved my career!''


    ''What did he say?'' says Gemma.


    Andrew rocks his head back and laughs. ''All kinds of fucking mental things, as usual.''


    She pokes him. ''Tell me! Did you agree anything?''


    Andrew pinches his nose, still smiling, and launches into the tale. ''So you two left and he goes, right, let''s sort this out. Start by telling Gemma I apologised.''


    She is gobsmacked. ''He apologised? Max?''


    ''No,'' laughs Andrew. ''He told me to tell you that. Then he got serious and he was, like, you''ve done just about enough to become a squad player for a National League team. You can go somewhere and get minutes but you''ll never be a proper first team regular. You need to stay here and let me turn you into a Championship player. When you''re getting ten grand a week you won''t look back and be angry you were getting five hundred when you should have been getting seven.''


    ''Ten grand a week?'' I say. I know footballers get that kind of money, course I do. But this guy''s bang average at best and he''s sitting next to me in this crappy cabin.


    He nods. ''He said I''m gonna be 24 this season and if I pull my finger out I could be as good as Lee Contreras by the summer. I spend next season grinding up to League One quality, then he can start to think about selling me, or I do a season with Chester in the Championship. When I''m 26 or 27 he''ll sell me for a million and I''ll get five figures a week for a few years. We''ve talked about this before but that was when we were in non-league and I was just happy to be a footballer. Now it all seems a lot more real.''


    ''Hang on,'' I say, and even as I''m doing it I know I should stay quiet before they realise they''re saying all this in front of a stranger. ''You think that Best can turn you into a player who gets ten grand a week?''


    ''Yes.''


    ''And you risked that to get a tiny pay raise?'' Andrew looks away and Gemma glares at me. I''ve got nothing to lose, so I say, ''I can''t believe you''re making me say this, but I''m on Best''s side!''


    Gemma''s glare turns into an amused scoff. ''He can pay Andrew more now and more later. It''s not that hard, Dylan. So what was his offer?''


    ''Ah.'' Andrew gets shifty. ''He said because I''d been quote a dick unquote and because he couldn''t be seen to be backing down, he was only prepared to offer me five hundred a week and I had to sign a four-year contract and trust him.''


    I slammed my palm into the table causing all the crockery and cutlery to slam and crash. ''What!'' I find myself curling my fists into balls. ''What a prick! Fuck!''


    Gemma''s smiling at me again. I''m back in her good books. She isn''t mad, and the reason becomes clear soon enough. ''What did you say?''


    ''I said yes.''


    ''No!'' I cry. ''Mate! It''s just one of his willy-waving moves. A fucking test.''


    Andrew smiles. ''I know.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Yeah. I did some good acting in there, let me tell you. Said it was difficult. Said I was worried about losing face with Gems.'' Gemma reaches out and takes his hand, shaking her head. They look into each other''s eyes for a few seconds, forgetting I''m there. It''s not the SPARKS but it''s nice. They''re a good couple. ''Yeah, made a bit of a meal of it but said I wanted to play for Chester and prove myself and the Newcastle match made me hungry and I was a team player and if I had to show that by signing a shit contract, I would.''


    ''And he told you the real offer,'' says Gemma.


    ''Yeah. Said there''s no money now, that''s not a bargaining chip, but there should be some in January so I could go to 700. A grand next year, two K the year after. He would commit to that if I committed to staying long enough for me to get to my level. But he said he''d want to renegotiate every summer like he usually did and if I was patient and didn''t bring fire-breathing dragons to the meetings, he could imagine things going better than that.'' Gemma smiles at the dragons reference. ''But he said he''s always going to put the club first and if he needs my pay raise to pay for a backup goalie or whatever, he''s going to do it and I''ll have to suck it up. Then he quoted some song lyrics, I think.''


    ''What were they?''


    ''I only remember stairway and heaven. All that glitters isn''t gold, something like that. He said it meant that if I want to get where I want to go there are no shortcuts unless I marry a rich megababe.''


    ''I''m not rich,'' says Gemma.


    ''But you are a - '' I start, before I shut my gob pretty darn quick.


    She gets a couple of red spots on her cheeks and Andrew squeezes her hand. ''Yes, she is.'' I think they would have kissed if I hadn''t been there, but they didn''t want to make it awkward for me. ''I might start tomorrow, he said. He said to tell you to go easy on the rapprochement tonight. Not sure what he meant.''


    ''Me neither,'' says Gemma, but she''s lying. Even I know what it means. Andrew can''t be that dim, can he? Or maybe he knows and it''s him laughing at us for not knowing that he knows. ''Do we need to go home and rest?''


    ''No,'' says Andrew. ''I''m more than ready to play. We can stay out.''


    I''m confused. ''Are you coming to the meal tonight?''


    ''What? No. My brother is training later. They''re all excited about the new thing they''re going to do.''


    ''Ohhhh,'' I say. He''s got a younger brother in Chester''s youth teams. I knew that but sometimes it doesn''t click together, you know? It explains why Andrew is there at that time and why Gemma came straight from work.


    Best comes in, frowning. ''Dylan, the fuck? You vanished.''


    ''I''ve been in here.''


    ''Why? Why? Come on, I need you.''


    I''m cosy and Gemma''s so nice to look at. ''To do what?''


    ''To protect me from those who wish me ill.'' I hesitate, which gets him manic. ''Rather death than dishonour, yeah? Let''s go, come on.'' As I get to my feet, Best flits around the bar like a bumblebee, with mums and dads replacing flowers. He goes outside and almost everyone in the bar follows him.


    Outside, there are a bunch of other parents of the under-twelves and they gather around to listen. Best has a small plastic step that he stands on.


    ''Ladies and gentlemen!'' he calls out, and the last conversations die down. ''My name is Max and I work here.'' Some chuckles. ''My favourite song is Stairway to Heaven by Heart.''


    ''Led Zeppelin!'' cry three dads and one mum.


    ''No, I prefer the version by Heart. It is mint. The song''s like a progression fantasy and their staging of it really brings that out. Mwah! Chef''s kiss. One day I was like, gosh, what do these lyrics even mean? You look at them and they''re all about hedgehogs and you''re like whaaaat? So I called Joe Anka and he told me it was about someone who tries to buy her way into heaven but that ain''t gonna work. There''s a piper and he''s trying to tell the woman the right way to go to get what she wants but she doesn''t listen because she''s all about that sweet, sweet gold.''


    I look around because even for Chester, this can''t be normal. The fuck is he on about? Most people are listening carefully, though. I notice Andrew and Gemma have snuck up and joined us. He''s got his arm around her waist and she''s leaning into him. Life goals, man.


    ''So you might have heard rumours that Simon Black is going to Liverpool.''


    They''d clearly been dreading the news. Their best player, gone! What did it mean for their kids? There are a bunch of quiet comments, raised eyebrows, folded arms. It''s all dark and furtive.


    ''Before I get into it, I want to say that I am not mad at Mr. Black or Simon and if things don''t work out there they will be welcome back here. Chester are getting a compensation fee for all the training we''ve done and I have no complaints about that side of things. Based on what I''m about to say you might put two and two together and get five, so let me say it again, there is no beef between me and Mr. Black or Simon and there never will be. Unless he scores against us, the ungrateful little shhhhh.''


    This gets a few laughs and Best''s relaxed smile is winning people over.


    ''Dylan! Where''s my man Dylan?''


    I don''t like this development one little bit, but I push my way through the crowd until I''m next to Best.


    ''Dylan''s a Wrexham fan but ten minutes ago I put him and Andrew Harrison in a room together and now Andrew wants to sign a new contract.''


    This gets a spontaneous burst of applause! I can''t help but grin as though it actually happened the way Best said.


    ''Dylan doesn''t have a dog in this race and he''s more than happy to call a spade a spade.'' Best shows me a photo on his phone. ''What''s that?''


    ''It''s a spade,'' I confirm, and there are laughs.


    ''No, that''s a shovel.'' More laughs. ''Dylan. Imagine you''ve got a twelve-year-old boy who''s good at football. Would you want him here or in Liverpool''s academy?''


    Everyone''s looking at me. I feel like I''m supposed to say here but that''s not true, is it? ''Liverpool.''


    I''m braced for whistles or boos but there''s nothing like that.


    ''Nah, mate. Nah.'' Best is proper shaking his head. ''I''m sorry but that''s just not right. At worst we''re level.''


    ''You and Liverpool?'' I say, with zero diplomacy.


    ''Yeah.''


    ''Level?''


    ''Yeah. Right, let''s look at it. First of all, what is it they''ve got that we haven''t? Loads of fancy buildings and stuff. Yeah, great, mostly pointless. Those buildings are full of people moving commas around on graphics to announce the fifty-million pound striker they''ve just signed. The one who''s always going to be picked ahead of all the Simon Blacks in Liverpool''s system. They''ve got good coaches, so have we, they play good football, so do we. When it comes to what''s important, we''re as good or better.


    ''Here there''s a pathway to the first team. You want your kids to reach their potential and so do I, whether that''s top of the Premier League or top of the Cymru. I think being the best you can be is a worthy goal and all levels of footy have dignity. At Liverpool, if you''re not elite or they can''t flog you for a few million, they''re not interested. Simon has gone to a world where every year, eighty percent of his teammates will get cut.


    ''You know what I should do? I should ask Josh Owens to come and talk to you and he can tell you what it''s really like in an academy. It''s horrible to hear him talk about it. Heartbreaking. I''ve tried to make this place the opposite of what goes on there. One reason I didn''t fight harder for Simon to stay is that I got Liverpool to give us a big fee and because they gave a big fee they aren''t going to cut him. I think he''ll be there until he''s 17 at least, unless the current guy gets sacked and his replacement wants a clearout.


    ''So academies are awful and most of those lads are stressed to the max worrying and fretting and meanwhile all the Chester boys are training with the first team, on the bench in the FA Cup, playing in the Cheshire Cup. Look what we''re doing with Benny, Tyson, Chas, Noah, Jamie. When your children are old enough to get minutes it''s going to be harder because by then we will be in the Championship. That''s why I''ve hired Ryan Jack as a dedicated loans manager. He''ll make sure your boys get exposure to meaningful football so they can develop fast and have the longest possible career. It''s all planned and it''s all monitored and that''s why I want to keep the groups small. Fewer players, more attention, maximum development, and once you''re in you don''t need to worry about being cut for football reasons.''


    Best looks up past the floodlights to the night sky. There are a couple of stars out.


    ''You can''t buy a stairway to heaven. The path to the top needs to be built one step at a time. There are no shortcuts to anywhere worth going. It''s a lot of work and a lot of sacrifice - more for you than your kids, right? - but even they sacrifice. Friendships fade, they bin off parties, they can''t eat tasty junk.


    ''No shortcuts. It''s a long road, and a hard one, but if you see one of our youth team single-handedly destroying Newcastle''s midfield and you think nah it''s no good here...'' Lots of laughs on that one. I catch a woman''s eye in the crowd and smile as wide as she does. She looks familiar, but Best is talking again. ''Watch how we go in the Youth Cup. If we are drawn against Liverpool we will wipe them off the face of the planet. I''m serious - we will annihilate them. If they''re incredibly lucky, if they bribe a ref, if we get three red cards in the first ten minutes, they might scrape past us.'' I laugh some more. The guy''s absolutely bonkers. ''But you can''t say they''re a better youth system if our youth teams are running rings around theirs. You can''t, can you? Dylan, give me something.''


    ''I mean,'' I say, ''if you beat them... yeah, I''d be impressed. I might think about letting my kid come here.''


    ''Oh how magnanimous of you!'' laughs Best. ''He might think about letting his imaginary kid come here. Wow. Guys, think about this for a second. We ran Chelsea close last year.''


    ''Wait what?'' I blurt out, and people laugh at me, not unkindly.


    Best puts his hand on my shoulder. ''The Wrexham forums follow my adventures pretty closely, but not closely enough. Yes, Dylan, we slapped them up real good but fell short. This season we''re one of the strongest teams in the Youth Cup. Normally when it''s five-nil at half time I say okay lads, let''s not run up the score, yeah? But this season I''m saying, go ape. Big wins sell mini-bonds, and maybe it''s time to show what I already know - that Chester is one of the best youth set ups in the country and that your children are in the very best place for them.''


    That''s a good place to end. The parents are happy and I reckon Best has achieved his aim of stopping them from thinking about moving their kids, for a while at least. But he suppresses a grin and I know he''s about to say something he probably shouldn''t say.


    ''One more thing, maybe.'' He pauses to rearrange his face because the grin keeps coming out. ''Dylan,'' he says, and I back away. ''Stop that Welshman!'' he cries, even though I haven''t gone more than a few feet. ''Dylan, you promised to sing me a song.''


    Okay he thinks I''m going to sing ''Let''s all laugh at Wrexham'' here, in front of loads of Chester fans, in front of Eat Pray Love. I turn bright red and back away.


    ''Dylaaaannnnn,'' yells Best, in the style of someone from a movie. ''Ah, well, no song today but he''s still a Chester legend.''


    My voice starts working. ''No, I''m bloody not.'' I turn and walk away.


    Best says something to the parents, hops off the little step, and catches up with me. He pats me on the back. ''How did you know this was the next stop?''


    He rushes ahead, puts the step down in the centre circle, and with a blow of Jude''s whistle, the kids run over and form a semicircle around him. I wander over, but keep my distance. I don''t want to be his prop again. ''I only need the twelves,'' says Best, and the bigger kids rush away to their half of the pitch. The little ones are interested but fidgety, the way boys that age are. ''Okay, this will be quick. I sold Simon Black to Liverpool,'' he says.


    The kids are amazed. Most, anyway. A few look like they already knew.


    ''What that means is our top goalscorer is gone and we need to change things up. We have to spread the goals around and that means we have to change how we play.''


    A kid with a Scouse accent says, ''Will you get us a new striker?''


    Best considers that. ''Yeah, eventually, but I''m actually quite happy with this. You were getting one-dimensional. Pass to Simon, goal. I mean, it''s not much fun, is it?''


    ''It was, actually,'' says that kid.


    Best smiles. ''Fine, but this is a good chance to practise some other stuff. We''re going to do a false nine.'' The kids love this! They want to do the things they''ve seen on the telly - I know the feeling. ''And we''ll do a false ten. And a false eleven.'' The kids look confused. ''And we''ll do a false twelve, too.''


    Now they''re all rolling their eyes and flopping to the ground with their arms dangling. Like, how can you joke at a time like this? ''Max, what are we really gonna do?''


    ''Yeah, false nine. Two wingers in one zone. All kinds of stuff. Some of it will work, some of it won''t. It''s all part of your development. You want to be flexible players, right? Smart players.'' They do. ''Yeah so it''s sad when a teammate leaves but I''ll be much less busy in the next month and I reckon I''ll find a few new lads to come and play with you. So this might be our only chance to really do some crazy stuff, do you know what I mean? How do you feel about doing some crazy stuff, Steven?''


    The Scouse kid smiles. ''Yeah, okay.''


    ''Bosh!'' says Best. He gets down from the step but gets straight up again. ''Hands up if you''ve heard of Led Zeppelin.'' No-one puts their hand up. Best shrugs and gets down. Without a word, one of the kids takes the step from him and carries it to the side of the pitch. This place is manic, intense, silly, but there are routines, too and the kids are well-behaved.


    It''s interesting. I would send my child here.


    SummerhillBill


    So that was him heading off a run on the bank?


    BrokenGround


    Sorry, I don''t get your meaning.


    SummerhillBill


    In It''s a Wonderful Life, there''s a financial panic and all the customers run to the bank to take their money out. Jimmy Stewart gives a big speech to persuade them not to.


    BrokenGround


    Oh! I suppose it was like that, yes.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Just caught up on today''s instalment. Wonderful as always, BG! There''s about an hour before the teams are named for today''s three o''clock kick offs. Did you get any more gossip about Chester''s line up? It''s going to be interesting to compare what Best told you with what actually happens.


    BrokenGround


    I think everything I heard is in the text already. The next part was with the women''s team, and then it was the under eighteens. Oh, Dan Badford and William Roberts only did half the session, the light stuff, which I think means they''ll play today.


    What I gathered is that Chester will start defensive and then flip it at half time, but it''s possible Best was pranking me.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Do you think he was?


    BrokenGround


    Not really, to be honest. His vibe was: this is a nailed-on win.


    BeardedWonderwall


    I might put a cheeky tenner on it.


    BrokenGround


    Whoa whoa whoa don''t be blaming me if it goes tits-up.


    BeardedWonderwall


    No, I won''t.


    Stoop


    You said the next part was with the women?


    TopPoppy


    Oh my God how does this guy make everything sound creepy?


    BeardedWonderwall


    They''re 7 to 2.


    TopPoppy


    I don''t bet. What does that mean?


    BeardedWonderwall


    It means if I put fifty quid on them, I win 175 pounds.


    TopPoppy


    If they win.


    BeardedWonderwall


    BG promised us a win.


    BrokenGround


    I''m ignoring all this.


    Quick break and then the next part.


    Okay I''m back.


    TopPoppy


    Fuck, man, that was about half an hour! Don''t you know we need our fix?


    BrokenGround


    After Best talks to the kids he says he wants to go for a walk so we do a couple of laps and talk about stuff. When I have the lay of the land and know we are maximum distance from Gemma, I ask Best if there was anything between them. He laughs and says, ''She wishes''. It doesn''t feel right to mention the very obvious SPARKS so I let it drop.


    I ask if he could go back, would he change anything about the Andrew Harrison situation. He doesn''t think too hard. ''Yeah, I''d do it better. It''s not that easy, though, is it? Things happen. People piss me off, I piss people off. Trying to avoid that will drive you crazy, right? It''s about what happens next. If you leave it for two or three days, it''s done. I know I should go and talk to them but... I don''t want to.'' He says the last part childishly and he laughs at himself. He stays in this immature tone for the next part. ''Sorry I''m not perfect, Dylan. Sorry I fall short of perfection.''


    I don''t know how to reply so there''s a quiet moment before Best talks again.


    ''I''ve got this guy managing West Didsbury - that''s the club I don''t own. He''s amazing, great coach, great tactician. When I see some manager has been sacked I think wow, Jay could do a job there. But Jay''s even younger than me and he''s not a player. I get away with a lot of mistakes because I can fix it on the pitch, do you know what I mean? He should probably stay at West for a while. It''s a good vibe and if he wants to get some of his mistakes out of the way it''s a supportive culture and when he moves on he''ll have more track record and more experience of cleaning up his own mess.'' He slows down while he has a deep thought. ''No shortcuts,'' he says. ''Ah, look, your mates are here.''


    One of our vans has come early. The first wave of reinforcements!


    3 R Welsh in the area.


    Best gets a call and leaves. I hang out with the lads for a while; I''ll skip over that stuff because it''s not interesting for the most part. We keep half an eye on whatever sessions are on the big pitch while we have a quick drink in the bar. Starting slow, mind. No-one wants a load of drunken Squaddies marauding. The Brig is around and he comes to talk to us. The rest of the unit arrive and the Brig, Zach, and Pascal give us a tour of the place.


    It is a dump. Special mention to the huge health and safety hazard in the corner that is supposed to one day turn into a gym. The Chester guys are proud of their gaff, though, so there''s no ball-busting from us and like I said, I personally don''t mind things being a bit rough-looking if it''s good at heart.


    We''re back by the main pitch where the women''s team are gathering waiting for their turn to go on. It''s around quarter to seven by now, I reckon.


    Well, we''re not the best-looking bunch of lads, I don''t think, but put twenty-five young women and twenty-five soldiers in close proximity and things get spicy. Angel gets the most attention but there are a few others who would break your heart, and there are five young Welsh girls and they''re obviously the easiest to talk to.


    I''ve gone from being the only soldier and Best''s buddy to being just another number and I feel like my feet are in concrete. I stand there, swaying awkwardly.


    I''m not sure why she does it but Gemma Harrison comes and slips her arm around mine again and it''s like, back off ladies, he''s mine! So now I''m getting all kinds of looks from the women and I don''t mind it. Then Angel is in front of me and that''s intense. She looks me up and down. ''Do you follow me on Instagram?''


    ''What? No.''


    ''Why not? Don''t you like me?''


    My mouth''s dry. Gemma says, ''Dylan''s a Wrexham fan. He''d never follow you on Insta, not in a million years. Isn''t that right?''


    I go, ''Er, I might. If she wants.''


    Best chooses that moment to appear - Gemma slips away, not sure if that''s related - I think he looks pissed but when I look away and back, he''s normal. ''Did I hear the word Instagram? Bonnie,'' he calls, and she comes over. It''s the woman who smiled at me while Best was doing his speech. She''s in a white tracksuit with gold piping. I smile at her again but she doesn''t look at me. ''Angel''s on social media.''


    Bonnie''s a big woman. She''s as tall as me, broad shoulders, solid. I rack my brains trying to remember what position she plays but it''s obvious. She grimaces. ''Ruth persuaded me to let it happen. Get the account live now, rack up followers as the documentary hits. It''s being managed a hundred percent by Ruth, Brooke, and Emma.''


    ''Emma?'' says Best, stupefied.


    Angel says, ''She''s, like, my agent?'' Angel is gorgeous and she''s very charismatic in the documentary but in person she''s a bratty teenager. She''s younger than she is and makes me feel older than I am. ''Emma''s actually good on socials; she always stays on-trend.''


    Best squeezes his eyes shut. ''Angel... has accounts. She can''t post yet. The b-girls are posting safe, generic, sponsor-friendly crap.'' Bonnie nods. Best suddenly panics. ''Can she read the DMs she''s getting?''


    ''I''m right here,'' says Angel.


    ''No,'' says Bonnie.


    ''Thank fuck,'' says Best.


    TopPoppy


    Stoop, that explains why she isn''t writing back lol.


    BrokenGround


    I go, ''What''s the problem?''


    Bonnie says, ''Who are you?''


    Best goes, ''He''s the army.''


    Boom. I feel ten feet tall. My chest is on fire, heart''s pumping jets of pride. Fucking Max Best shouldn''t be able to do this to me.


    Bonnie''s face softens. ''We''ve had problems with stalkers and crazy people.''


    ''What? Fuck.''


    ''Introducing Angel to a nationwide audience is a nightmare.''


    This is what Best was on about when he was talking about someone making the women feel uncomfortable. I have to fight to unlock my jaw and unclench my fists.


    Angel doesn''t like that everyone is talking over her. ''I''ve got 20,000 followers on Insta and my TikTok dip dance has been viewed seventy thousand times.''


    Best thumbs his temples. ''Angel, may I speak to you over here for a moment please.''


    They go off and I''m left with Bonnie. ''Sorry if I said something wrong.''


    She looks surprised. ''When?''


    ''You gave me the evil eye just before, when I asked what the problem with social media was.''


    She lets out a laugh and drops her head. ''I''m sorry. Darren, was it?''


    ''Dylan.''


    ''Dylan. I''m Bonnie.'' We shake hands. ''I''m overprotective. I get crazy and of course, she provokes it.''


    ''What?''


    ''The male gaze,'' she mutters. She looks at her sister talking to Best. Angel is standing with her hands behind her back like a naughty schoolgirl and, yeah, it''s provocative.


    I wonder if Bonnie thinks Best is leering at her sister. ''What do you think they''re talking about?''


    ''Oh, that''s obvious.''


    I take another look and all I see is a girl who always gets what she wants. With a word she can get what she came for. ''Er...''


    ''He''s telling her to use this attention to improve her game.''


    Okay I wasn''t expecting that. ''Pardon me?''


    Bonnie sighs. ''People are discovering her now because of the documentary. All of us, I suppose.'' She looks behind and it seems like all the women are showing Squaddies something on their phone. All the likes and retweets they¡¯re getting, I reckon, and the funny comments. 3R is lapping it all up. ''Max is saying that if Angel works extra hard these eight weeks it''ll make great content.''


    ''Will it?''


    ''Yeah. People love an athlete who grinds. And he wants to get her in the England team so he''ll be saying if there''s ever two months where Angel needs to double down on her football, it''s actually now.''


    I watch and there''s a moment where Angel visibly stops looking up at Best with a pouty face. She starts nodding, there¡¯s agreement, and the pair return. ''Bonnie,'' says Angel. ''When you''re not in the drills, will you get some clips of me doing extra sprints after everyone else has stopped?''


    ''No because I have no interest in making the team look bad. Sarah and Meghan train twice as hard as you.''


    ''They do not! What the fuck, Bonnie?''


    Angel tuts, stretches her left foot up to her arse, then jogs away.


    I smile. ''You two are a good team.''


    ''Me and Angel?''


    ''You and Best. You got in her head.''


    For once Best doesn¡¯t look pleased with himself. ''She''s ambitious. That''s great. You want that but I''m worried she wants to be famous more than she wants to play. She''s easy to manage now but what about when she''s got a million in the bank? Football''s fucking hard and you have to want to get out of bed in the morning.''


    I say, ''It¡¯s tough to get out of bed to do roadwork at five a.m. when you¡¯ve been sleeping in silk pyjamas.''


    ''Hear that, Bonnie? Dylan''s got silk pyjamas. Talk about Gemma money. Wow.'' Best clicks his fingers. ''Dylan, you should watch Bonnie on Sunday. You could learn a lot from her.''


    I get quiet. ''I can''t.''


    ''Because she plays for Chester? Fuck me, that crap is getting old.''


    ''It''s Remembrance Sunday, Best.''


    Bonnie sees I''m uncomfortable and steps in, but I''m not sure she makes it better. ''Where''s your poppy, Max?''


    ''It''s on my other hoodie,'' he says, looking around.


    ''You only have one hoodie.''


    ''Mmm,'' he says. His phone rings and he wanders off.


    ''He doesn''t wear poppies,'' I say. ''There was a fuss about it last year. He says it''s because he had the Irish player who didn''t want to wear one. I was mad he came to train us.''


    ''You got over it.''


    ''We talked about it in the unit. Okay he doesn''t wear a poppy but he''s hired a veteran and he chose to do his coaching badges with us. We decided to live and let live on that one.''


    Bonnie sees the kids are packing up and it''s nearly their turn. Gemma is talking to Dani, the deaf girl, via an interpreter. ''How do you know Gemma?''


    ''I just met her today.''


    ''Max said you sorted out the issue with Andrew Harrison.''


    ''Well, it wasn''t much, to be honest.''


    Bonnie frowns. ''They''ve been beefing for months and you just sorted it out in one go?''


    I shrug. ''I barely did anything.''


    She frowns again. ''But he''s going to sign a deal?''


    ''Oh, yeah. As good as done, I think.''


    ''What about Wednesday?''


    ''Sorry, what?''


    ''We''re playing on Wednesday night in the Cheshire Cup. And I''ll be starting.'' It takes me a second to realise she''s asking me to go and watch her play. That delay makes her add, quickly, ''We play in Wales, you know.''


    I smile and she smiles and I don''t know lads but I think there might have been SPARKS.


    TopPoppy


    Holy shit I just punched the air!


    Get in, mate!


    BrokenGround


    I know. I was really happy all night, apart from the one time things went all kinds of wrong.


    I just realised I need to go shopping. Shit. I''ll be back in under two hours, I promise.


    Stoop


    No! Don''t cliff us like that.


    SummerhillBill


    I''m reading this on a coach just pulling up to Stevenage and I let out a huge groan. People think I''m a nutcase.


    BeardedWonderwall


    All the three o''clocks kicking off. Here we go. Riches here we come!


    BeardedWonderwall


    Shit.


    If ButteryCrumpets comes in with a score update and a lol I am going to beat him to death with his own keyboard.


    ButteryCrumpets


    lol


    Also: lol


    TaranMellt


    I''m a nervous wreck watching us try to break down Stevenage so I''ve been catching up with this. Amazing work, BrokenGround! I''m wondering about this Chester match. Two-nil down at half time and their odds have slipped to 10 to 1. Reckon that''s worth a punt?


    BeardedWonderwall


    Don''t do it. It''s agony. Best is a fraud. I hate him.


    Hang on, did you say ten to one?


    Fuck it.


    I''m having some of that. Double or bust!


    BrokenGround


    Just back. What''s been happening?


    Chester pulled a goal back. 2-1, Henri Lyons. Lads, that guy smells amazing.


    I''m gonna write the rest of the story and the speed I type it might be done before full time.


    Okay so I scored a date, maybe, I think, and I want to stay and watch the women train, but we were there to see the youth team learn Bestball.


    We go around the cabins, around Best''s office, to the big grass pitch they''ve got there. It''s an interesting design choice because the place is pretty open but if you want to see the first team you have to go around some buildings and you''ll stick out like a sore thumb. I think the women normally play on the grass but Best has bagsied it for his special project and it''s like Gemma says, unless his decisions are egregious no-one''s going to stand up to him.


    All the lads from 3 R Welsh gather together in the middle of the pitch, watching from the sidelines. We''re expecting to see the kids start with some one-twos or maybe one of the special piggy-in-the-middle drills. What actually happens is completely different and Best is just as surprised as we are.


    Let me try to paint the picture. We''re on one side of the pitch like I said. Some of our ''Chester friends'' are mixed in with us. I''m talking Pascal, Zach, the Brig.


    Across the other side are more first-teamers who are curious about what''s going on. These include the big captain (Fierce), Andrew and Gemma, Jackie Reaper and Livia.


    There''s also a guy in a sharp suit. He has the build of a boxer and he''s got three huge black bin bags with him. I later learn he''s the founder of Grindhog. He''s worth millions! Maybe billions one day!


    This is a Big Event.


    Pascal''s talking to Fatso. The German says, ''The boys have prepared a surprise for Max.''


    TopPoppy


    Oh, boy. This is not going to end well.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Ominous as fuck! How did you put this sense of dread into my head, Dylan?


    BrokenGround


    You''ve set me up perfectly to subvert expectations. Yes!!!


    What happened next was that the kids had different bibs on. Two teams and they started a match. Full Bestball!


    And it was amazing. They did one-twos, nutmegs, feints, and they kept doing that thing when one player passes, another guy runs over the ball, and a third guy gets it.


    ''Staircase!'' yelps Pascal, hopping around.


    ''What?'' says Fatso.


    ''It''s where you let the ball run between your legs. In Brazil they call it a staircase. The boys have been researching this.''


    ''They''re amazing,'' says Fatso, and he''s right. The ball''s zipping around, the blobs are fluid and when the ball is turned over there''s a counter-blob, which I''ve never seen before because until this very minute there has never been another team in the country playing Bestball. Now there are three!


    ''Fuck they''re good,'' I say. Like, it''s unsettling that these 17-year-olds are better than us but at the same time I''ve got a kinship with them because we''re doing something rare and it''s exciting to find someone who likes the same obscure band as you even if they''ve been to ten times as many gigs and know ten times as much about the band. Not sure if that works as a simile but you get the idea. 3 R Welsh are, to a man, fucking impressed.


    Pascal is fucking impressed.


    Everyone is fucking impressed.


    TopPoppy


    Now! Here we go! I feel it! It''s coming!


    BrokenGround


    Max Best is deeply fucking unimpressed.


    TopPoppy


    Yeeeeesssssss I knew it!


    Yes!


    He do opposite!


    What did he do?


    BrokenGround


    He stands there radiating displeasure and the vibe grows and grows. The kids are running around having fun, showing off, but it gets to them. One by one they stop playing and then it reaches critical mass and the game dies.


    The ball rolls and comes to a stop.


    Best twists his neck like kung fu fighters do before they launch into a rumble, but then he remembers 3 R Welsh are in the area.


    I wonder what he would have done if we weren''t there.


    One thing I feel safe in saying is a feature of the Max Best experience is that he''ll use the props that are to hand.


    SummerhillBill


    Like Jackie Chan fights with ladders or umbrellas.


    BrokenGround


    Right. Probably?


    He waves the kids over. Up close they''re all scrawny and half still have baby faces.


    ''Sit,'' he says, and they''re shitting themselves. Some are, anyway. Some still think maybe Best is acting and he''s going to praise them.


    It''s a weird scene, though this is Chester so maybe I should stop typing that.


    But think about it. There''s a semi-circle of kids at Best''s feet. Behind them is us, a load of riflemen. And across the pitch wondering what the fuck is happening are like twenty Chester VIPs and instead of watching the future of football they''re looking at Best''s back. They don''t know what to do until Livia grabs Jackie Reaper and pulls him across. The others follow.


    Best is shaking his head because even he thinks this is absurd.


    He closes his eyes and I feel him tune out everyone watching. Everyone except two. ''Dylan and Fatso, can you please come and stand here?''


    He wants us in front of the lads, but off to the side for now.


    ''Thanks.''


    He scratches his forehead and thinks about what to say. The kids have steam coming off them in the cold evening air. The wind is whispering and the floodlights make the pitch look amazing.


    ''Right. First thing is, you''ve done some homework. You''ve put in extra work because you''re excited and the worst thing I could do for you now is to tell you off for doing that. If you put in the work, go the extra mile, you will have success in life. You will. The mistake you''ve made isn''t doing extra to try to impress me. I''m not mad about that.''


    The kids who weren''t worried before... are. He''s not mad about that. But he''s mad about something.


    ''I have to be honest with you, though. I have to be because this is too important to pussyfoot around trying to spare your feelings.'' He scratches his head again. ''What I just saw looked like twenty TikTok pricks doing random shit on a football pitch and then someone spliced it all together. The greatest crossover event in history and guess what? None of them were even in the same country!'' He breathes out. ''That''s what it looked like.''


    I''ve got to hand it to Fatso, he''s getting pretty fearless these days. ''I thought it was good.''


    Best eyes him. ''It was faster than what you''re used to. It was technically good. Sadly it was also dogshit.'' He inhales and cricks his neck again. Instead of getting louder and bigger, he gets quieter and more emotional. ''All right, listen. You can''t learn this from a screen. It''s like learning to drive. You can read all the manuals you want but you only start learning the minute you sit in the driver''s seat. Does that make sense?''


    He''s not talking to me but I nod. ''That''s right,'' I say, surprised that I spoke.


    ''My favourite song is Stairway to Heaven,'' he says, and I wonder how that can work as a team talk if he always says the same thing. ''It''s about a footballer who wanted to learn something insanely difficult in ten seconds without putting the work in. Actually, forget that. You know what this is like? You''ve been in a club and you were talking to a megababe and this rando turns up and says hey baby wanna see some magic? And he pulls the 7 of hearts out of her bra. And you''ve gone home - alone - and thought huh I''d better learn to do that. So you''re in clubs trying to stick cards down bras and you''re getting bounced out because you''ve got to spend thousands of hours learning to, like, wibble cards along your knuckles and make a deck spin around and all that stuff. You need to drop ten thousand packs of cards before you drop one bra. Do you get what I mean?''


    The image of these guys trying to use close-up magic to attract women is a masterstroke. A few lads get dug in the arms. Busted!


    ''Here''s why I wanted to start this with the army. Did you ever think why the army wants its soldiers doing football? I wouldn''t want my army going round with broken legs all day but this army does want that. Why? Five reasons.''


    Here comes one of the bits where he knows more about the army than he lets on. The five things he says are straight off the desk of the joint commander, with Best''s own spin on it, of course.


    ''One, physical fitness. Almost everyone here will run ten times further if there''s a ball involved. Two, mental resilience. You win, you lose, you get unfairly sent off. Your weirdo manager makes you do tedious drills for hour after hour. Three, leadership. Football needs different skills at different times and you need different leaders at different times. When you''re under the cosh you look to Dylan.''


    FUCK, he''s done me again. The kids are looking up at me, so''s Livia, so''s the founder of Grindhog. I''m eleven feet tall. I''m literally floating.


    ''When you need a goal you get it to Fatso. Four, teamwork. Five, recruiting and retention. You stay in the army longer if you love playing footy for your unit, or if you''ve got the chance to win your league or you''re in the tournament next May or whatever.


    ''I thought Bestball was perfect for those five principles and for my mental image of what it''s like to be in the army.'' He calls it some other name, by the way, but it''s dumb and meaningless so I''m sticking to Bestball. ''Positional play is all about the manager, all about abstract space. Bestball is about teamwork and real, human connections. Captain, what''s the first thing I said to you back in our first game?''


    ''You said, I''m Max Best and I hate the Welsh army.''


    There is uproar and even Best laughs. Big, easy smile, all the tension gone. He looks at me and jabs his thumb at the kid. The balls on this fucking prick.


    Captain has done his big joke and now it''s back to business. ''You said, be a unit.''


    ''Right. Unit. United. Well here''s an actual unit. Here''s what we''re trying to get to, right? I broke the task down to the very smallest unit of football. The pass. Dylan passes to Fatso. Fatso passes back. We did that for hours. Ages and ages. I would have done it a lot more but I only get them a couple of hours a week. Now, what happens if you pass to Fatso for hours? One, you go crazy. Two, you learn that Fatso has a nice first touch on his right but not so much on his left. You try to hit his best side. If you make it easier for him you get the ball back quicker. Then we add a third player and a fourth and after fucking loads of repetition we learn that Hot Rod underhits his passes and Clitheroe overhits. We put the work in. Hours of this. Slowly building everything from the ground up.


    ''Now we start to get to bigger groups, what we''ve been calling the blob. When you watch these guys play you can fucking see that they''re a unit. You see their army training the way they look after each other. When they lose the ball there''s almost no yelling or complaining, it''s basically get back into position, sort things out. It''s fantastic. The only problem is they play other army units so we can''t exploit that advantage.''


    Best closes his eyes, smiles, shakes his head at the unfairness of it all.


    ''But when they''ve got the ball, that''s my training. You try to press them and they blob around. Dylan''s at the back. He plays it to Fatso''s good foot. If he takes a nice first touch the move goes on. If it''s a bad touch you''ll see everyone in the blob take a step back towards goal. I don''t think they know they''re doing it.''


    He''s right. I''ve never noticed that.


    ''It''s an automatic response because subconsciously they know it''s a moment of danger and they know that because we put the time in on those drills. Ditto when Hot Rod''s on the ball - you''ll see three guys take a step closer to him. The blob changes shape, see, depending on who has the ball and where.


    ''That''s part of the reason it''s no good you watching some fucking team in Brazil for this. Do you get me? Even watching 3R doesn''t teach you anything. If you''re there thinking ''shit where would Dylan be right now?'' you are fucked. Dylan''s in his blob. We''ve got Captain, Bomber, Henk. We don''t have Fatso, we have Dan. This blob will be much slippier.''


    Wibbers grabs Dan by the neck and shakes him around while the other lads laugh.


    ''Okay and if 3R could cover their ears for a second...'' Best does a stage whisper that everyone can hear. ''You guys are much better than them.'' He checks we''re not offended - I think that''s what he was doing - and goes back to his normal voice. ''You''ll be able to make the blob really small sometimes, or move much faster, or do double-bluffs with balls over the top, and, yes, you can do staircases.'' He changes tone. ''I learned it as rivers, not staircases, but that''s part of what I''m saying. We should start with a blank page, grind, work at it, see what emerges. It might look superficially similar to the examples you''ve been watching but the experience of how you do it will be quite different. If you don''t know what anything''s called, what anything''s supposed to look like, you will create something new and unique. You''ll have your own vocabulary, and you''ll invent your own tools and techniques. It will all grow from the work and from the unique combinations of talents we have here. Nothing comes from nothing. We''ll bake a universe from scratch.''


    Just then, when the message has been delivered loud and clear, his phone''s screen flashes. The sound''s off but he sees who it is, holds up a finger, and like seventy people watch him speak.


    ''Yes? Top. Amazing. First thing Monday. Done. Yes. Yes, I''m still speaking to you. Bye.''


    He jumps and punches the air, then wraps his arms around me.


    ''Don''t just buy it, bosh it! Yes, mate!''


    He follows a triple air punch with him acting like he''s been struck by lightning, arms wide, head back.


    All the lads are watching in absolute awe. What does it mean? Best looks at them and throws his hands up. ''What are you all down there for? Are you ready to do some fucking work or what?''


    They scramble to their feet and within seconds they''re doing a drill unlike anything we''ve ever done. It¡¯s the full pitch, two teams, but Best connects three sets of two players with the long elastic strips that goalies use. They''re the only players allowed to move ''freely'' - everyone else has to stay in assigned zones.


    It makes no sense. It''s mad and chaotic. The boys are laughing, we''re laughing, and Best is running around trying to get in the way of the elastic bands to make it even harder for the lads to play.


    The elastics come off and the playing area gets smaller. It''s a big rondo drill with players who change sides depending on who has the ball - we never did anything that complicated. It''s so fast I can barely keep up with the action.


    Five minutes of that, the teams get cut in half and so does the playing area. Five minutes later, it''s smaller again. By the end, the lads are doing one-twos.


    He has done what 3 R Welsh did but in reverse. I''m no expert on anything but I do have unique knowledge of this Bestball stuff and to me what he did with that session was absolute genius. I''d like to think that if he''d done it with us that way, we''d have realised that all the skills we were training were needed for the previous drill, if you get me. We''d have been motivated to do the smaller, more boring drills because we''d have understood how everything linked together.


    Of course, he had to try it the most obvious way with us to get to that conclusion.


    Teulu


    And he heard what Pascal said.


    BrokenGround


    What do you mean?


    Teulu


    You remember when you were at Colliers and Parky was watching your drill. You gave it a cool name. Retreat or something.


    BrokenGround


    Run, You Worms.


    Teulu


    That''s it! Pascal watched that and suggested an upgrade, didn''t he? Start at the end point so the players know where to run back to. It sounds to me like Best took that idea and applied that to his whole session. I''m guessing he''ll run every session in reverse like that until Pascal gives him an even better idea.


    BrokenGround


    That''s interesting.


    TopPoppy


    So did he buy that player? The one you called Charles, who I know as Calabash Barkley?


    BrokenGround


    I think so because I was the only one in the room with him when he made the offer and that''s why he celebrated with me.


    TopPoppy


    Why was the guy from Grindhog there?


    BrokenGround


    Oh, he was giving out gear to the youth team. They were buzzing. Three bin bags of swag and they were diving in pulling out what they liked. Best got pissed and said, ''Is this Chesterness?'' After that it was a lot more civilised.


    BeardedWonderwall


    85th minute. Wimbledon 3 Chester 3. Stevenage 0 Wrex 0.


    My nerves are wrecked.


    I hate football.


    TopPoppy


    Was that the end, BG?


    BrokenGround


    We had the dinner and got boozed up. The food was as good as he promised and, I mean, free booze.


    Oh, I suppose there was one tiny thing. It''s not even worth mentioning.


    Actually, maybe I will. It''s only fair to Best.


    It''s about the poppies. Best and the guy from Grindhog make themselves cosy behind the bar where there''s a tiny bit of space. That''s where they ate, I mean, and fair play to both of them for slumming it. They stayed for a couple of drinks, too. Alcohol-free for Best, your basic lager for the rich lad. He''s having fun, I reckon, with footballers and Squaddies all around. He used to play and he''s one of us really. Fits right in. Someone makes a joke about him making kits for 3R but Best goes, ''He can''t. He''s not allowed to reproduce military crests. You need a special licence.'' And there it is again - how much does he know and why does he pretend he''s clueless?


    Anyway, I promise it wasn''t me but someone brings up the poppies. I think the box got knocked on the floor in all the mayhem of having twice as many people in the cabin as it was supposed to have. Actually it just came to me. It was Frampton, the goalie, who''d had a couple too many maybe. He wasn''t nasty, just brought the mood down. He goes, ''Why don''t you wear a poppy? It''s not that you have to do it but you should do it.''


    Best shrugs the way he does and goes, ''What about people who don''t want to? I support the army, mate. I know who''ll be in the trenches when the bullets start flying. And I support veterans. I do things. But not everyone in this country wants to wear this particular symbol and for some reason that hits home with me. I don''t think I want to be forced to wear a symbol, even a good one.''


    I put my hand on Frampton to shut the clown up. Best is having a good day and so am I, and the unit had agreed to live and let live. ''I''m all right with you not wearing a poppy, Max.'' He gives me a funny look and it''s just now that I realise it''s the first time I haven''t called him Best. ''I''m fine with it if that''s your choice and I know you do your thing in your way but for us lads who are getting blown up on tours and all that - ''


    He looks horrified. ''You got blown up?''


    I don''t want to talk about it, obviously. ''Yeah but I''m just saying - ''


    ''You got blown up, did years of rehab... and went back into the army?''


    I look around. No-one''s talking now. Only a couple of the older lads have heard about me. The IED, the firefight, the doctors saying I''d never walk again. The unbelievable ecstasy of being able to climb a flight of stairs. I swallow hard. ''They''re my family, Max. It''s my unit. It''s all I''ve got.''


    It''s all quiet.


    I wonder what Best is thinking, wonder if he feels the same about Chester as I do about 3R. Probably not, right? He''s got his girlfriend. He''s got... Has he got anything else?


    He reaches into the box and fixes a poppy to his hoodie. He looks at the Grindhog guy but he''s already wearing one; he taps it.


    Frampton, the absolute shit, is still not happy and I want to smash an electric guitar over his skull. ''Aren''t you going to pay for that?''


    Best isn''t ruffled. He''s still thinking about what I said about the unit being my family. ''The team pays,'' he says.


    I go, ''Chester pays when someone takes a poppy?''


    ''Not Chester. The first team. Out of our party fund.''


    Frampton goes, ''Oh,'' sort of aggressive. But then he goes ''oh''. An appropriate oh, this time, from a human being who has very nearly killed the party.


    That girl Angel is about ten yards away in the mass of bodies. She uses the counter to pull herself up and goes, ''Dylan, will you talk about your experiences on my TikTok?'' Someone - I think I know who - pulls her back down and there''s some laughter from that area and then conversations break out all around the bar and the party''s back in full swing again.


    TopPoppy


    Actually welled up a bit reading that last part.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Not me! I''m laughing my head off.


    Full time!


    Wimbledon 3 Chester 5. Stevenage 0 Wrexham 1.


    Three points and the Red Dragons stay top of the table while Dylan''s best mate Max Best scores a late free kick to seal the win and DEFY THE BOOKIES! I''m up almost 700 quid from that!


    I love football and I love Dylan.


    BEST STORY EVER, mate!

 12.10 - The Grapes of Bath

    10.


    TV show glossary: Bottle episode. An episode set in a single location, usually with a reduced cast. Bottle episodes are normally used to save money but are sometimes employed for audacious artistic reasons. Cough bottle cough.


    ***


    Sunday, November 30


    XP balance: 23,566


    Base Cost of Relationism: 29,211


    Cost After 10% Discount: 26,290


    Analysis: Sooooonnnnnnn


    Mini-bonds sold: 3.05 million


    Target: 5 million


    Analysis: Tin-pot little non-league club lol get back in your crevice


    ***


    I got to Morton''s, the big wine shop near the city centre, a few minutes before it closed. Just enough time to grab a bottle, pay, and leave. Home in time for the start of the second half of Wrexham versus Blackpool, the final televised match of this year''s FA Cup second round. Wrexham were the big name, of course, while Blackpool and the FA Cup went together like chicken and chips.


    I had extra incentive to watch; we had drawn Blackpool in the first knockout round of the Vans Trophy. They were a mid-table League One side so I would have to use Bench Boost on them. There was far too much of that going on these days.


    I heard the trill of the door behind me. Someone coming or going? I needed to hurry up.


    Morton''s was overwhelming. Wine everywhere, which I know is the point of a wine shop but there were as many different bottles on shelves or artfully displayed on oak barrels as I had midfielders in my mental database of players.


    Henri had told me once I should think of a bottle of wine as being alive. Chemical processes were happening within. The quality of the wine was changing, the value of the product was fluctuating, some needed to be drunk now, some later. Some went well with cheese, some with pizza, some worked well in a good, old-fashioned 4-4-2. Eleven green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle should accidentally be sold to Walsall...


    "Is there anything I can help you with?"


    It was a guy around thirty and his expression made me wonder how long I''d been standing there motionless. The music that had been playing had stopped and now there was only a low electrical hum and, in a nearby room, a screen was tuned to the Wrexham match. Sounded like it was still the first half; maybe there had been a long stoppage. "I need a bath wine."


    "What''s a bath wine?"


    "A wine you drink in the bath."


    He smiled and looked around. The implication was: any will do. An older guy had just finished with a customer and was reversing the sign on the door. From my point of view it now read ''open'', which sent me into a brain freeze. "You''re Max Best, right?"


    "Yeah," I said.


    "Look, I know you don''t like to be bothered in public but we''re both big Chester fans. Dad," he called, and the older guy came over with a slight smile on his lips. "Dad, I was going to offer Max Best the deluxe private shopping experience."


    "Oh, right," said the dad.


    "What does that entail?" I asked.


    "You know," said the guy, whose name badge said Steve. "We lock out all the plebs and let the celebrity browse in peace."


    "Keep out the great unwashed," said the older guy. Name badge: Mike.


    "How often do you do this?" I asked.


    They looked at each other and babbled incoherently. "Do we count...?" "There was that actress..." "Remember Christmas?" "Ah, but was that really Stormzy?" Finally, Mike said, "This is the first time."


    I smiled. "Sure, yes, okay. It won''t be much of an experience for either of us, though. I''ll only need a minute."


    "Take your time," said Mike. "It''s amazing what you''ve done for this city."


    He went to lock the door and switched off a couple of lights to deter randos from approaching the big storefront. Steve backed away to give me a chance to settle into the wine buying mindset.


    The first area was a couple of tables of books about wine and some gift ideas. I breezed past.


    The next section hit me like a slap in the face. In among the selection of wine (with monks, nuns, or crosses on the label) was some unexpected religious tat - bookmarks with golden frills, copies of the Bible, posters of Jesus squashing red grapes. The name of the section was: Catholic Wine.


    "The hell?" I mumbled, and Steve came closer. Since I''d started it, I felt I had to talk to him. "I''m guessing you Mortons are big Catholics. Why do you open on Sundays? Not that I''m complaining, it''s ace."


    Steve said, "We''d be Church of England, I reckon, but weddings and funerals only. No, this is marketing. Catholics love a glass of wine, Mr. Best, and if you have this stuff for sale it absolves them of guilt and they buy more."


    "First of all, call me Max. Second, you''re joking."


    "I''m not."


    "He''s not," called the dad from across the way. Incredible hearing, that guy.


    There was an ornament for sale, one of those thin metal plates you can hang up in your kitchen. This one read:


    Love is that liquour sweet and most divine,


    Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.


    I couldn''t tell if it was romantic or creepy or what so I left it where it was and pulled out a religious bookmark. "Isaiah 63," I read. "Who is this coming... with his garments stained crimson? Who is this, robed in splendor, striding forward in the greatness of his strength?" I nodded. "Okay for once I wasn''t covered in blood but that sounds like me after the Wimbledon match."


    Steve''s face lit up. "Five-three away! Amazing second-half comeback!"


    "Yeah," I said, remembering how annoying that match had been. To get us shooting up the league I''d had to risk using my best players for the third time in a week and I''d had to waste Bench Boost. Not the right match to use it in, but I had no choice because at that point we still hadn''t hit halfway in bond sales. "It was end-to-end madness until I slipped that free kick under the wall. They didn''t have a draught excluder." Those are the players who lie flat on the floor behind a defensive wall. When the kick is about to be taken, the players in the wall jump, which makes it harder to score over the wall but leaves a juicy gap under it. The draught excluder fixes the problem. "Then a minute later when we got another free kick they used a draught excluder which meant they were a man short at the back post, I clipped it to Christian, he boshed it, rebound, craziness, ends up being given as an own goal."


    "Back of the net," said Steve, as though he was seven years old.


    "There''s this photo of me leaving the pitch at the end and I look all epic. Like this verse. Robed in splendor, striding forward in the greatness of his strength. The only thing is, though, that''s not how I was feeling."


    "No?"


    "No. Even with my best moves, that match could have gone either way. Wimbledon battered us for parts of the game. I don''t walk off the pitch after a win thinking wow let''s forget the sixty minutes where we were dogshit. Fans can do that but, yeah, I was thinking about all the work we needed to do on the training pitch. And what I was going to have for dinner. Oh, that reminds me. I''m having beef tonight."


    "Right," he said, briefly confused because he was still thinking about football. "So you want a bottle of red, I expect."


    "Yeah," I said, looking back at the bookmark. I looked up again. "Nice bit of beef, fresh veggies, glass of red. It''s not that indulgent, is it?"


    "No."


    "But we got a nice cut and I thought, okay, nice wine." I paused and contemplated for quite a long time. "I don''t know."


    Steve opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again.


    "I don''t know if I want to connect beef and wine. It''s already quite a strong link in my head. Do you want beef? Yes. You can''t have wine. Okay, then I don''t want beef. When I have pizza I want wine. When I have cheese after six p.m. I want wine. That''s not healthy, is it? I need to be careful. My grandmother hit the sauce really hard and I think that demon is in me. I had it last winter. Got pretty plastered because I was sad and bored."


    "You''re not bored now, though?" said Steve, hopefully. "Cup runs, fundraising, new stadiums."


    "It''s pretty boring sometimes, Steve. Newport County away. Four-one-four-one, keep things tight, goal from a set piece, switch to 5-3-2 defensive. It''s the right thing to do, it''s professional, it''s boring." I skimmed the bookmark again. The verse seemed to be about God crushing his enemies like grapes. "I trampled them in my anger and trod them down in my wrath; their blood spattered my garments, and I stained all my clothing. See that''s what I want to do. That''s epic. Blocking Newport''s passing lanes and man-marking their full-backs is the opposite of that. It''s like asking the grapes to crush themselves." I sighed. "Do you sell a lot of these?"


    "No, Max."


    I chuckled. "You sell more wine, though. Catholic wine. You guys are naughty. I love it."


    The next section was British wines. Skipped right past that.


    "Okay, French," I mused.


    "Henri Lyons comes," said Steve.


    "Does he give you shit about the selection?"


    "No, he''s very nice. Knows a lot but he''s not a snob. He''s learning about Portuguese wines from us. When you recommend a wine and he likes it, that''s a good feeling. While we''re here, let me find a Bordeaux I remember he raved about... He gave it four Henris. Four''s his maximum."


    Steve ran his finger along the shelves but I picked up a bottle. "Okay, this one, Steve. Look. See the font? That font makes me think mmm yes I''ll enjoy this. There''s a little picture of a horse. Horses are expensive - except in Ireland, never understood that - so it makes me feel like a real boy. And it''s got a badge. See the badge? 95 points."


    "Do you know what competition that is from?"


    "No but I only buy wines with badges and trophies."


    He smiled uncertainly. "It''s a good wine you''re holding. Good year."


    "Good year," I said, slowly, remembering an advertising campaign Nike had run in the olden days. "1966 was a good year for English football; Eric Cantona was born."


    "And England won the World Cup."


    "That''s the joke!" shouted his dad.


    "Oh, right," said Steve. "You''re a Manchester United fan."


    "I was," I said. "It''s just a business now. Big cash machine."


    "Dad was thinking about buying some bonds but it''s such a big commitment and so much could go wrong. And what if you leave? What if United sack their manager again and they ask you?"


    "I''ll say no," I said, touching the badge on the wine. "It''s embossed, Steve. Feel that."


    Mike shuffled closer. "You''d say no to Manchester United?"


    I made a gesture that encompassed - in my mind - the city, most of the county and quite a chunk of north Wales. "I''m not done here."


    Mike said, "Would you buy these bonds?"


    "Me personally? If I were you? Yeah. It''s free money. Sales are chugging along but it looks like I might have to sell players to make up the shortfall. That''s frustrating because I was just starting to convince myself to let loose. Ah, well, when the stand''s built it''ll all be worth it. Loads of clubs had to cut their cloth while their stadium was being built. Arsenal, Spurs. It''s life on hard mode, okay, but it''s not harder than fighting my demons."


    I put the wine back on the shelf, paused, then picked it right back up again.


    "I''m probably not going to buy any myself because people don''t like it when I mix my finances with the club''s, and I do understand that. Also, I was talking to Ruth. She''s a former board member and an agent. She got the women''s team started. I asked why she wasn''t piling in and she said: diversification. She warned me about it, too. It''s not just that all my money''s tied up in football, I''m paid by a football club, too. I have four thousand and one pounds in shares but everything else is football. For now it makes sense that I turn the flywheel but at some point I need to balance my portfolio. People buy wine like an investment, don''t they? Is any of this going to be worth big wonga one day?"


    One of the great frustrations of being a football insider was that virtually everyone I met only wanted to talk about one thing. Mike said, "I''m in a chat group with some friends and we were talking about the bonds. One mate said he wouldn''t buy any because our underlying numbers are bad and we concede too many early goals."


    "I think those statements might be contradictory," I said, vaguely. I was trying to focus on the wine. The 95 bottle felt good in my hand. The weight was as good as the font. I realised from their faces that I would have to explain. I put the wine back on the shelf. "Think back to last Saturday. We''re at home to Colchester and they''re pretty weak." United had an average CA of 71. We played 4-4-2 diamond with an average of 77. That 77 was exciting; it was high considering we had a few squad players in the eleven. Wibbers was the top of the diamond, Andrew Harrison celebrated his new contract with a hard-running midfield role, and Cole Adams started at left back. "They get an early goal. I''m delighted."


    "What?"


    "Okay, delighted is too strong, but this is what we do. We sucker the oppo into playing their way."


    Mike said, "Playing our way, you mean."


    "No, playing their way. Let''s take a typical example. A goal kick early in the match. Sticky places the ball, Zach and Christian drop to be level with him. The other team can''t go into the penalty box until the ball''s kicked so we get a safe pass and we can start to build through the thirds. You''ve seen that, right? It''s called ''playing out from the back.'' Every team in the Premier League does that. Most Championship teams. Maybe two-thirds of League One and League Two teams do it.


    "We do it and Colchester think, oh! We know this. They have a set response: they push their defensive line up to half way, squeeze us while the forwards work their socks off pressing us. If they turn over the ball they have it close to our goal with our defenders spread out and that''s deadly.


    "Now you''re probably thinking, I trust Zach on the ball but not so much Christian Fierce and definitely not Sticky. You''re thinking Max Best must be a fucking idiot to ask his players to do that. And I agree. Which is why we only do that for ten minutes. For the next 35 we go long but we drop Zach short every goal kick. It looks like we''re thinking about playing out from the back, right? It''s ''false playing out from the back.'' It''s fake.


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    "But Colchester get an early goal by forcing us into a mistake. After that, they''re like the hunter who saw a rabbit run into a tree. They''re sitting by the tree waiting for the next rabbit to kill himself. They don''t seem to realise we''re going long, or maybe they tell themselves we''re buckling under their pressure.


    "So think about what the pitch looks like. Their slow defenders are on the half way line. Our fast attackers are also there. We go long, Dazza wins a header, now we''ve got Sharky or Wibbers practically one-on-one with the keeper. We get two or three incredible chances like that but they tend to fall to our least developed players, which is one of the times the whole underlying numbers thing doesn''t paint much of a picture. The chances aren''t as good as the data suggests because of who the chances are falling to.


    "Okay but I don''t really care about particular data points - it''s my job to balance the overall risk and reward. When I''m watching matches like Colchester I love our balance and I can''t believe the other managers are happy with what''s happening but they are. They are! Or they don''t understand the meta game I''m playing with them. Who knows?


    "Most managers don¡¯t react to my early strategies until half time. Some don¡¯t react at all! The ones that do have data guys they listen to so I spend a lot of time devising routines to fool data guys. Like against Colchester I was sure they told the manager that we were playing long ball so the first five minutes of the second half I went short again so that the manager would lose faith in his analyst."


    Steve''s eyes had been getting wider as I spoke. "Wow."


    "Yeah," I said. "I''m not playing the same sport as most of these guys. I''m not sure if I''ve improved or if League Two is only a slight step above the National League. Some of the managers are good but half are doing things they aren¡¯t comfortable with. Imagine if Ian Evans got a League Two job now. If it''s the end of the season, ten games to go, he can do whatever he wants. But very few owners are going to hire him after seventeen games and say please play achingly dull, defensive football. Ian would have to try playing out from the back for at least five games, right, if that was a condition of him being hired. So you''ve got a bunch of managers doing things they aren''t comfortable with and don''t believe in. Another bunch believe in it and can coach it but don¡¯t have the players to do it; they do it anyway."


    Mike was frowning. "You''d think they would be more pragmatic."


    "I know. But 17 of the 24 managers do it. Playing out from the back is just football now. That''s what the sport looks like and you won¡¯t be sacked for following the herd. You¡¯ll be sacked for losing but not because of how you lost." I looked at the rows of bottles again. "Your chat room friend can look at the numbers all he wants but I''m telling you Colchester got battered. Trampled in anger. No, that''s not right, there was no anger. Mostly sadness. It was boring and the Wormwoods are big Colchester fans. I like them."


    I ambled around the corner to the large Italian section.


    "How about this?" said Steve. "It''s got a badge."


    "Primitivo," I said, pulling a face. "I want to be fancy, mate. I want the opposite of primitive."


    He smiled. "It''s named because the grape ripens earlier. It''s like the Chester youth team of grapes!"


    I pointed at him. "That... was amazing salesmanship. I like Primitivo now. Let me have a look." I took the bottle. "Only 94 points on the badge. Tusk tusk. Good font. I like how minimal it is. It''s letting the label breathe, isn''t it? Black and gold. Mysterious squiggle for a logo. Yes, this is an attractive bottle of wine."


    "It''ll go well with your beef," said Steve. "Celebrate your Youth Cup win."


    "Ah," I said, frowning. "Yes." Earlier in the week we had gone down to play Charlton Athletic''s under eighteens in their gaff. The Charlton Academy was highly-regarded, having produced six England players and plenty for Charlton''s first team and this current crop was top of the league they played in.


    I had worried I would need to use Bench Boost to assure our progress but the Charlton team that warmed up had an average CA of 25. There were some talented lads but they were nowhere near as battle-hardened as my lot. I''d been artificially fermenting my children - I''m extremely comfortable with this sentence - and in our now-customary 4-3-3 their average CA was over 40. Over 40! They had absolutely bossed the match from start to finish, with CA 67 William B. Roberts running rampant. We hadn''t done any Relationism in the match but training was going well. The lads were motivated and almost all were coming in for extra skills sessions. A lot of PA limits were being reached.


    The stronger the wine, the bigger the headache. At the end of the season I would have quite a few problems. What to do with Tyson, Benny, Lucas Friend and the like? They could grow no more; they needed to leave the club and to play first-team football. I couldn''t tell them yet because I needed them to dream they had a future. I needed them to think they were Chateau Lafite because if they won the Youth Cup, in a way, they would be.


    The draw for the third round had been made before I set off to the wine shop; we got West Ham United away. A big Premier League academy? That could very easily be the end of our Youth Cup run. If that happened, I would be able to send the boys out on loan in January and start to place them at suitable clubs for next season. I felt we would beat West Ham, though. I still had my Bench Boost for the Youth Cup, and the match would be played just before Christmas. My gift to the people of Chester - a remarkable win.


    I needed to win every match in December. One of our December games was going to be the first Chester match in the life of Sandra''s baby. If I had my way, that baby''s first words were going to be, ''He''s done what?!''


    "The thing about celebrating is," I said, smiling and holding the bottle carefully like it was a tiny, fragile creature. "If you win the league you get champagne and spray it around and you''re allowed to go and get wasted. If you nearly beat Newcastle the manager''s first instinct is to yell go and have a couple of pints. The reward for doing good things is alcohol. When we win I want a drink. If we lose I want a drink, too, but that''s a different topic. I''m thinking about these mental links again. Beef? Wine. Win? Wine. And me being me, I can''t have one glass. If the bottle''s open I''m going to finish it, which means I almost never bring booze home with me. But I want to have a nice evening with my girlfriend. She''ll cook and we''ll eat and have a glass each and her feet will get hot and she''ll take her socks off and she''ll get really giddy and laugh at anything and then fall asleep. I''ll take the rest of the bottle to the bath with me and have a lovely old time thinking up posters for the billboard and thinking about players to buy and all sorts."


    "That sounds pretty good," said Steve.


    "Yeah. That''s why I''m here. Emma likes a glass of red but she can have one and then stop, especially when she''s got work in the morning. She would pop a thing in the bottle and leave it there for weeks."


    "You can''t?"


    "No. If it''s open, it''s not lasting past midnight. I''d buy a small bottle but they never sell the good stuff in the small ones. I could buy this and pour half out as soon as I open it but that''s demented. Or I could not buy anything but why should Emma have tap water with her nice dinner because I don''t have a handle on myself?"


    I looked at the badge again. 94 points. The other one had 95.


    "It''s because her dad bought my mum a house," I mused. I sensed the men exchange a glance but I didn''t care. This was wine shop therapy, potentially the best therapy there was. "I don''t have that one big overwhelming thing to worry about so I''ve sunk a level deeper and there''s all kinds of shit going on." I took a deep breath. "I think I''ll buy a bottle. For Emma. Wait, that''s me lying to myself again, isn''t it?"


    I shook my head and moved to the next section. The sign here said: Other Europe.


    I pointed to a bottle called Steinbock. "Didn''t he write a book?"


    "I think that was Steinbeck," said Mike.


    "Is German stuff good?" I wondered.


    "Can be," said Steve. "Personally I think they do whites better than reds. And maybe their coaches are better than their wines, eh?"


    I turned away from the selection long enough to raise an eyebrow at him. There was a strong rumour going round that we were trying to sign an amazing German coach, though mercifully the name hadn''t leaked. I''d wanted him to start early but it hadn''t been easy to get a work permit. "If you''re fishing for a name, you''ll have to wait ages and ages." I checked the time. "By which I mean about fourteen hours. He starts tomorrow morning." The new coach would only get one day alongside Sandra before she went on leave. I hoped it would be enough and I hoped the coach would live up to his billing.


    Mike was a few yards to the right. "Do you like Cabernet Sauvignon? I''d say that was a good bath wine. We''ve got some great Californians here."


    I stepped that way but got distracted. "What''s this?"


    It was a large piece of card with a photo of a hot smiling woman in a university mortar board, a QR code, and the intriguing text: Women''s Wine Academy.


    "The wine industry in this country is very male-dominated, Max," said Steve. "This is a course to encourage women to get involved. Wine tasting skills, how to pair with cheese, prepares you for a qualification if you want to do that. Anyone who goes to this academy is going to buy more of the sort of wine we offer, plus they''d make good employees here. It''s hard to find staff who are passionate about the product. Anyone who shows interest in this course, well, that''s the start of the interview as far as I''m concerned."


    I laughed. "So someone says ooh I might try that and you say brilliant, also, do you want a job?"


    Mike smiled. "There may be intermediate steps."


    "Have a daughter instead of a son," I suggested. "Or one of each. Call them Red and White. Bosh."


    Steve said, "That''s what he did! My sister doesn''t like wine though. Not interested in the family business and she''s gone off doing her own thing. She''s in Denmark now. As far from decent wine as you can get."


    "What''s her name?"


    "Rose," he said, keeping a straight face for all of three seconds. "No, it''s Helen. We have a running joke about who is the cursed child, me or her."


    I was moving towards Mike but stopped dead. "Cursed child?"


    "Er, just a phrase, Max."


    The words untethered me slightly so I brought my attention back to the wine school poster. "Our women are on a tear."


    "I''ve been watching the documentary," said Steve. "So good."


    "I always liked Jackie Reaper," said Mike. "Got a great vibe about him. He comes across great on that show. Really happy to see him doing well. Er, he is doing well, isn''t he?"


    "He is," I said. The sounds of football had gone, replaced by chat. Half time in the televised match. "He has stepped things up recently. Not sure if there''s any particular reason but..." Jackie''s profile numbers hadn''t changed since the pre-season update but I got the impression he was operating at a higher level. It was possible the pain in his knee had gone. It was also possible, though unlikely, that I was imagining the whole thing and Jackie was simply being Jackie. "He likes 3-5-2, uses a back four sometimes to spread minutes around the squad. It''s all good but I don''t need to be there so I''ve been using my Sundays travelling around, scouting teams in the divisions above us so I can make good signings next summer. I wasn''t there for Norton Stockton, Llandudno, or Hashtag United and those were routine wins. Jackie sent me a text saying I should go today, to the Stockport County game. Said he had cooked something up he thought I might like."


    I took a couple of steps towards the New World section.


    "So I turn up and Stockport are fine. About the same level as the teams we''ve been beating three, four, five-nil. Nothing interesting there, but we''ve got something fun going on. We''re doing a 3-4-3 variant. Two of the strikers have been dropped to be CAMs, so it''s 3-4-2-1, the formation the new Man United manager likes to use. Jackie''s back on the cutting edge! Our forwards are Sarah Greene, Dani, and Angel, and that''s a mouth-watering combination. We''re too good, too fast, too creative, too clinical, it''s absolutely amazing. Some of the interplay is stunning and Stockport fall into full panic almost immediately and we pick them off. Five-nil but it was even more dominant than that. So good."


    The average CA of the starting eleven was up to 57.2 - miles ahead of the rest of the league. And while I needed to find a new starting goalie for next season and maybe a tough-tackling midfielder to replace Pippa, I''d had an incredible November scouting Chester''s schools. The talent hoover was at maximum suction.


    "They''re through to the third round of the Women''s FA Cup. Bristol City away. Bristol are in the Championship so that might be the end of the run but I don''t think Sarah Greene is going to be overawed. We''ve got a chance." Chester teams in the third round of the FA Cup getting drawn against high level opponents. The boys. The women. Copy paste. As with the cup draws, the bottles in front of me were strangely uniform. Like book covers, they tended to fall into certain patterns and once you saw them you couldn''t unsee them. The only thing I had to cling onto was the number on the badge. Was there a 96 somewhere? "What''s a wine for a 3-4-3 fan?"


    Mike closed his eyes. "Light colour, rounded texture, fruity finish. How about this one?" He lifted a bottle but I was distracted again.


    "What''s this?" There was a whole section of American-themed tat. Fridge magnets, CDs, small, square books with amusing titles.


    Steve said, "We get loads of American tourists, Max. They come in worried we''re English and uptight and we''re going to be posh snobs. They see this, they relax, they get the wallets out."


    "Do they exclusively buy American wine?"


    "Course they do. This one''s pretty much the best-seller in the whole shop." He pointed to a bottle called ''You Had Me at Merlot''.


    I picked up a CD case. "Battle Hymn of the Republic. Name rings a bell."


    "Max!" said Mike, laughing. "That''s your Man United song."


    "Is it? Which one?"


    "Glory Glory Man United."


    "Oooohhh!" I said, nodding. "Got it. But why''s it in a wine shop?"


    Mike had a half-decent singing voice and treated me to a verse:


    "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;


    He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;


    He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:


    His truth is marching on."


    I nodded and mumbled part of the chorus as sung on the terraces of Old Trafford. "When the reds go marching on! On! On!"


    "That''s it," smiled Mike.


    "I didn''t know that was American."


    "It''s the Battle Hymn of the Republic. We''re a monarchy."


    I bit my lip. I was pretty stupid sometimes, but there was so much information in the world. How could one person possibly know everything? "The grapes of wrath, okay. I get it. So your customers buy a Freedom Wine, a CD, then they go to Currys to buy a CD player."


    Mike shook his head; my joke made him feel old. "Some people still have them."


    I twinkled at him. "Kay." I left the New World section and found myself looking at white wines and ros¨¦s. That wasn''t what I was in the mood for so I went back to the start and looked at the 95 wine again. 95 in wine terms was like a PA 190 player, wasn''t it? But you wouldn''t know until you took the cork out if it actually tasted good. "We''re signing the best young striker in the world in January. Just in case that affects your decision."


    "Decision?" said Mike.


    "To buy bonds. This kid''s chosen us because we improve players and we''ll get a million in profit when we sell him in summer. It''s not just marquee signings where we''re cashing in. This Jan we''re selling three players and I''ve replaced one already. Remember Bark? We had him on loan and he''s coming back. So much potential, that kid. I''ve been looking at goalies with Sticky. The problem is, he rates all of them. He''s like the Brig with kids, thinks they can all do well. We''ll find one we both agree on by the turn of the year and the squad will be looking scary. I mean, we''re so talented. It''s absolutely crazy how good we are. I think part of being bored now is being bored by next season. If we can keep the squad together it''s going to be relentless winning. Couple of epic tussles in the cups, sure, but mostly month after month of routine wins. We''ll probably smash 100 points."


    "100 points?" said Mike. "Win League Two?"


    "What?" I said, louder than was polite, but it was just so shocking to me that he''d said that. "League One, Mike! League One! We''ll trample it like grapes."


    Mike eyed his son. "Of course, that would be wonderful. We''re more of a cup team, though, aren''t we?"


    "We''re whatever I want. Next season I might flip things round and do a run at the league and take it easy in the cups. That''s the way my mind is working right now because Bradford, Carlisle, Cambridge, Mansfield, they got a big head start on us. We''re undefeated in, like, fourteen games if you include Newcastle, which I do, and we''re moving up the league but not really moving closer to those teams, if you get me. I don''t know, I love cups but I wonder if it''s the right thing for the club. I think this is one of those things where I suddenly have enough time to worry about second-level problems. Is it really good for Chester if I go hard at the cups? We''ve put a lot of effort in for not all that much reward, really. If we''re being brutally honest."


    Okay, the Newcastle shop window had led to bids for half a dozen players, and selling Ben, Eddie, and Sharky was good business. But we hadn''t even got any prize money for the Newcastle defeat, and the shared gate receipts, since the tie had been played in our tiny stadium, were trivial.


    Steve said, "It depends who we get in the third round of the FA Cup, doesn''t it?"


    The day before, we had beaten Walsall, away, in the second round.


    You might remember we beat them 3-2 in the league at home. They had a good young team but a shaky goalie. They had replaced him for the cup tie with an older vintage but lost a point in CA in the process. That gave them an average of 79 - about the same as us - so I couldn''t be sure of beating them and ended up deciding to use Bench Boost. Better to get to the third round having used my joker than to take a big swing and end up with nothing.


    The squad was in great shape on the morning of the match. Morale had been steadily rising over the course of our unbeaten run, climbing from its lowest point of 3.9 (out of 7) to a much happier 5.2.


    Players were popping in CA all over the place. Andrew Harrison, with the ink on his new 3 plus 1 contract still drying, had gone bonkers, finally getting a move on. He was up to CA 63. Pascal''s recovery was going well and he was on 79. Beth''s Miracle Man story had brought him to the attention of Grindhog. Sponsorship incoming! Sharky, even though (or because) he had agreed a move to Crawley, was flying. Sticky had caught up with Ben.


    It always pleased me when someone''s first digit clicked up to the next number, and there were two examples of that in the first team squad. Zach''s recent run of green saw him shoot up to CA 80. Sunday Sowumni moved to 40, which was still miles off being useful but did seem to have happened quite fast. In a more bittersweet moment, little Benny hit 40, too, but that would be his last ever pop. He had hit his ceiling. Some grapes are used to make vinegar.


    Mike said, "You did strange tactics again. No-one understands what you do."


    "What I do?" I said. "I could say the same thing about the other managers. It''s like they''re not even trying half the time. But yesterday was pretty simple. Walsall like a three-five-two, boss midfield, frantic pressing. I wanted to do the last twenty in a 4-2-3-1 with me, Wibbers, and Pascal behind Dazza. So there''s four subs. Obviously Magnus starts. Do you risk starting Youngster on the bench? You could, but you might as well name him in the eleven and have a spare sub. I asked TJ if he minded me using Sharky and he said he was my player but if I could leave him out that would be great."


    Steve said, "Why?"


    His dad said, "So he won''t be cup tied. You can only play for one club in the FA Cup per season."


    "I know, I meant... Never mind."


    I continued. "Start 5-3-2, keep things tight. Tom Westwood lines up as a striker but he''s doing a defensive role. Him and Andrew Harrison run for days, it''s a stodgy game, Walsall don''t have a second gear, we do. Boom. Two-nil, into the third round we go. See who we get. Probably Fleetwood again. Ugh. Maybe I''ll buy two bottles. No, Max, come on, don''t even talk like that. You''re programming yourself."


    I cleared my head and tried to think of something positive.


    How about Bark and Foquita being available for the FA Cup third round?


    How about the rapturous reception to the documentary?


    How about spikes of mini-bonds flying off the shelves every Sunday night and every time the men''s team jumped up the table? We were tenth and would probably win our next five league matches without much hassle.


    How about 3 R Welsh beating E Company 8 in a titanic, ding-dong battle? And Dylan trying to act cool when he was clearly over the moon.


    How about my mum''s new house - my mum''s new house! - being made ready for her, Anna, and Solly to live in?


    How about Emma''s mum going through the photos I''d found in my cousin''s attic and making it her mission to find the right sofa, the right telephone, the right shitty watercolours to make the bungalow mimic the house in which mum had spent most of her life?


    I smiled. How about living with Emma and having a nice dinner with free-range beef and organic veggies and a nice - yes! A nice bottle of wine. Why the actual fuck not?


    Time to distil my quest for the perfect wine to its essence. I turned to the Mortons and asked the only truly pertinent question. "Have you got any bottles with a 96 badge?"


    Steve chuckled. "Max, you know football. We know wine. Take that first one you liked the look of. That''ll go great. It''s the perfect wine to drink in the bath."


    "Done," I said. "Sold!" I carried the bottle to the till and Mike wrapped it up in a nice piece of paper and slipped it into a fancy carrying bag. "Bonus," I said, admiring the bag, but Mike wasn''t looking at me.


    Steve had gone to the next room and returned with a laptop. He forced his dad to look at the screen. The dad''s eyes popped open and my first impulse was that the name of our special coach had leaked. "Max," said Steve, his voice hushed. "We got United in the third round."


    I knew that. The Youth Team were away to West Ham United. "Yeah. Not sure if they''ll play it in the London Stadium. Probably not, right, because there will only be a few hundred people there. Massive stadium though. That''d be good experience for the kids. It''s what, sixty thousand capacity?"


    Steve''s forehead creased while one side of his mouth curled up in a smile. The overall effect was of someone who was in a state of alarmed happy disbelief. He turned the laptop around to show me that the FA Cup third round draw was taking place. "Max, no. United. Manchester United. Third round of the FA Cup! A seventy-six thousand sell-out! A million pounds for the club. We''re going to play Manchester United at Old Trafford!"

 12.11 - The Cursed Child

    11.


    Monday, December 1


    I woke up to a noise in the house, remembered I no longer lived alone, and closed my eyes. I had cursemail.


    New perk available until Christmas Day: Secret Sandra


    Cost: 2,000 XP


    Effects: Gift up to 200 XP per day to boost one player¡¯s training rate. That player will receive their usual improvement plus bonus improvement calculated according to the amount of XP gifted.


    Fucking imps. Get wrecked.


    I went back to sleep.


    ***


    Emma ran her hand along my arm, gently coaxing me out of dreamland and into reality. "Made you a tea, babes."


    "Bonus," I mumbled. The last images from the dreams - red trains, low fog that looked like clouds - dissipated. My surroundings came into focus. "You''re dressed like a sexy lawyer. Is it that time again?"


    She twisted her lips. "I''m working, Max."


    "Working from home."


    "I like to get dressed. If I''m not smart I''m not a lawyer."


    I sat up and took the first sip of tea. It sent me into a different sort of dreamland. "You know what''s good?" I said.


    "What?"


    "Everything."


    "Even bacteria?"


    "You need bacteria to make cheese. And wine maybe, not sure."


    "What about bombs?"


    "You use bombs to blow up the asteroids that are coming at us. Give up, babes, I can do this all day."


    "What''s good about Alan Turner? Gammons?"


    "Yeah, okay, you win."


    She smiled and made as if to leave but I had misread her intention. She was only shuffling even deeper onto the bed. "You know me cousins?"


    Ems had some distant relatives who, by dint of being the closest thing to an extended family she had, were known as The Cousins. They lived in one of those countries where it''s always dark, cold, and it''s hard to understand the accent. Yes, this is a Scotland joke. "The Jocks and the Geordies. You could make a half-decent comic strip out of that concept."


    "It''s Wee Tosh McTavish''s birthday soon," she said, but I''ve changed the name for privacy purposes and also because there''s already a Bonnie. "They want to go down to London and do all the things and watch a play. We''re invited."


    "Ah, what a shame, I''m busy that day."


    "Don''t start that. It''ll be nice. Come on, I don''t have a big family."


    "Erm..." I thought about going down to do the London Eye again and the Natural History Museum again. So boring doing the same things all the time. "How about we take them to Nando''s instead?"


    "They want to go to the West End to see The Cursed Child."


    For the second time in two days, I froze at those very words.


    Emma didn''t notice the turmoil she had created, the sense of dread. "It''s very good, apparently. It''s about Harry Potter''s son. He''s struggling to cope with his legacy."


    "Wow. Sounds magical."


    Emma scoffed. "He falls for a hot blonde, apparently. You''d like it."


    "Don''t want to be uncivil or anything but I''m going to be going a hundred percent for the next six weeks at least. If they come to Chester they can get the VIP treatment and I''ll score them a goal and talk to them and everything but even thinking about going to London to watch a play for children is exhausting. I don''t have it in me to do that when I''m covering Sandra."


    She didn''t seem surprised or disappointed. "I understand. Maybe I''ll go with them to London on a Friday and the next morning, come through here on the way back to Scotland. Or meet in Manchester?" She shook her head, amazed at what she was about to say. "Nando''s in Manchester?"


    I reached out and took her hand. "Or Chinatown. Or the curry mile. Oh, shit! What if they''re your guests at Manchester United?"


    "That''s January 11th, right? It''s not her birthday then."


    I frowned, closed my eyes, and opened them with a smile. "You want to see that play. You want to relive your childhood spent reading Harry Potter all night and in every break at school."


    "Maybe I do."


    "That''s why you want to get married in a castle. I''ve never put two and two together. You want a Hogwarts wedding. I should tell you, I''m not going to marry a Hufflepuff."


    "You''ll marry me and you''ll like it. What house are you?"


    "Chester," I said, vaguely, because I was deep in thought. "It''s perfect. Take them to that show on the 10th. Old Trafford on the 11th. How''s that for a surprise? Best birthday ever, best cousin ever. Absolute bosh."


    Emma thought about it. "Are you going to score from 70 yards again?"


    I sipped my tea. "Don''t know. Have to discuss that with my new assistant."


    She rubbed my knee. "Are you excited?"


    I tutted. "Come on. There''s only one star at Chester. If you think I''m going to be excited to meet some dude you''ve got another thing coming." I drained my tea. "It''s just gonna be another day at the office."


    ***


    The new coach was in the Sin Bin. I''d made the entire first team squad sit on the grass nearby, plus Dean, Livia, and whoever else was around.


    Sandra opened the door and showed me a thumbs up.


    I pressed play on my phone and played Gonna Fly Now by Bill Conti over our Bluetooth speakers. If you don''t know the name, it''s the theme tune from the Rocky movies. Absolutely fucking epic if you want to train hard for three minutes or if you want to get your players hyped about a new member of staff.


    As the song was approaching the final minute I activated the smoke machines - probably should have mentioned those earlier - and with impeccable timing, just as the music was reaching its emotional peak, the new coach emerged from the white smoke and stood towering over the players.


    I blew a single note on a party horn. Toooot!


    Pascal shot to his feet. "Gott im Himmel!" he cried.


    The music ended and the coach looked from me to the players, shrugged, and threw a few shadow punches.


    I laughed and called out, "Behold! Behold our new coach! Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you..." We hadn''t rehearsed this, mostly because I knew that if I discussed this introduction with anyone, everyone would have vetoed it. I pointed at the coach, really jabbed my finger at him. "I give to you..."


    "Hi, everyone," he said, in a less clipped and precise accent than Pascal''s. He had spent some time in California as a kid so his English was smooth, though he was out of practice. He was twenty-five years old, a lean 6 foot 3, maybe six four. He had short, light-brown hair, and had played as a centre back before retiring cruelly early because of injury. "My name is Peter Bauer."


    The reaction was sensational. Vimsy''s hands shot to his head. Several players grabbed their nearest colleague by the nearest limb. A handful waved away the smoke.


    I turned off the closest machine and cupped my ear. "Could you say that again, please?"


    "My name is Peter Bauer."


    "Ha! Now you''re repeater Bauer. Bosh. My tenth joke of the day so I get a free one. All right, incredibly exciting. We''ve got one of Bayern Munich''s best young coaches for a few weeks so let''s make the most of it. Peter, don''t worry about learning their names this morning, we have a crazy week ahead."


    "I already know their names, Max."


    "What?" I said, but he didn''t seem to be joking. "Christian, stand up." I pointed to my captain. "What''s his name?"


    Peter smiled. "My grandfather loves your sense of humour. Christian Fierce, club captain, dominant centre back, formerly the club''s record signing. 24 appearances this season and I believe 2 goals."


    "Okay, you''ve done some homework. That''s awesome. Which player interests you the most?"


    His eyebrows bounced. "I choose not to say in case I am accused of sucking up."


    I stared at him blankly until it clicked. "Oh, me? Come on, be serious." My phone buzzed. Since the Man United announcement it had been going absolutely insane, revealing that my iPhone''s battery was getting sick of my shit. "Right, the schedule this week is insane even by the standards of English football."


    "Four matches in seven days," he said. "I do not see how it is possible."


    "It''s possible," I said. "Sandra''s going to give you a quick tour of the compound."


    Peter frowned and gestured at the squad. "Perhaps that could wait?"


    "No, because I need to talk about you behind your back."


    He dipped his head and smiled. "Of course. I will do... the tour." His gaze went from the Sin Bin to the giant hole in the ground to the other cabins. Bayern Munich this was not.


    "Hey," I said, serious. "They say you only cry twice in Chester. Once when you arrive; once when you leave."


    Wrinkles appeared on his forehead as he tried to work out my meaning, but Sandra patted him on the back of his shoulder and led him away.


    "All right," I said, looking around the group. "Couple of things I want to say in private. We had a nice, relaxing November but now it''s pure mayhem. Peter''s going to be helping and it''s good he''s done his research but basically I''ll be running this show on my own for the next six games up to Christmas and I''ve got the Youth Cup against West Ham, too. If you could fucking stow your temper tantrums because you''re not playing and all that crap, that would be very helpful. If you get a minute off, consider yourself lucky and enjoy it.


    "Another thing. You all know Sandra''s going on maternity leave and the baby could arrive at any minute. I don''t want that baby born on the back of a three-nil defeat, all right? You know I''m not superstitious but I have a weird feeling that the baby''s going to come during one of our matches and if we lose, gammons will grumble ''here comes The Cursed Child of Prophecy'' or some crap. No. No no no, okay? We win every game in December. Blackpool''s hard, Cambridge is hard, the others... I mean if we had a week to prepare we would smash all of them but with the relentless schedule we won''t be able to spend days and days thinking and planning, right? It''s win, sleep, light training, win, sleep, light training. We''ll need to be flexible, think on our feet, cut each other some slack. I''ll need to lean on my key players more than I''d normally like to.


    "We''re going to dial down the intensity of the main training, okay? Light training and for players who aren''t being ground to dust, it''s extra skills sessions with Peter. That''s my plan. To repeat - we are going to win every fucking game so when that baby is born, the first thing it sees is Sandra Lane''s smile. That means less game time for our own babies. The under eighteens are in good shape. We might give Jamie Brotherhood ten minutes, that sort of thing, but basically it''s us lot. Win win win.


    "And here''s one way we''ll win - no distractions. I don''t want to fucking hear about Manchester United, okay? That match is January 11th. January. Today is December 1st. Yes, it''s exciting but it''s all anyone''s going to be talking about out there, okay? I don''t want it in here, too. If you can''t get your head in the here and now you can fuck off in the transfer window. We''ve got work to do. Do you get me?


    "January the fourth against Bradford is twenty times bigger than Man U! And we need to beat Accrington Stanley tomorrow night and we need to do it with ruthless efficiency. Quick blitz, two early goals, straight into energy-saving mode. Why? Because we''ve got a big cup game 48 hours later! That''s the only cup game I want to hear about, do you get me? I know it''s my fault for bringing a big name to the club the day after we got the biggest draw possible, but I really, really need you to be professional. Accrington, Blackpool, Forest Green Rovers. That''s six points and we go into the quarter finals of the Vans Trophy.


    "This week takes us closer to promotion and a trip to Wembley, lads. Yes? Yes? Are you with me?"


    Henri put his hand up. "And the Cheshire Cup next Tuesday night? Are we going to bin it off?"


    I gritted my teeth. "What do you think, mate? It''s Winsford United. They''re tier ten. You want to shit the bed in front of Peter Bauer? You want Sandra''s baby coming into this world thinking Winsford United are the biggest team in Cheshire? The fuck kind of question is that? Didn''t you hear me say we''re going to win every game?"


    "I did, Max, yes. I thought I might clarify."


    "Oh, wonderful. What wonderful clarity we are all enjoying thanks to that question." I pinched my nose while I imagined I had a massive throbbing vein on my forehead that everyone could see. I inhaled slowly and treated the squad to a dose of laser eyes. "I''m about to inherit a million pounds, lads, with which I could replace the entire fucking squad in January. Anyone picked for the Cheshire Cup needs to treat it with the respect it deserves. That''s my cup, that''s Sandra''s cup, I want it, we want it, if you don''t want it, I don''t want you. Get fucking warmed up."


    ***


    I seethed for a while, which was partly performative. Drawing Man United was immense, incredible, for some of the squad a once-in-a-lifetime event, but it had the potential to derail our entire season. I''d grown up on stories of players shirking tackles in the league matches before a cup final, tales of players losing focus.


    The million pound threat was some protection against that.


    I left the lads with Vimsy and walked off to find out where Sandra and Peter had disappeared to. I needed Peter to start a session in order to see his attributes. High and I might lean on him, low and I''d give him busy work.


    I found my assistant managers with the Brig. The scene looked ominous. "Sir," said the Brig. "I hate to bring the mood down but there was an incident over the weekend I''ve just been told about. Bonnie, Angel, and some of the women were out on Saturday night celebrating a friend''s birthday. It''s not entirely clear what happened," he said, flicking his eyes towards Peter. The Brig knew more than he would say in front of a stranger. "What''s beyond doubt is that a young man became enraged and Bonnie and Angel fled into a bathroom and locked the door. Bonnie called a member of 3 R Welsh and he raced there with some mates. They, ah, subdued the aggressor and the women were able to escape unharmed."


    "Jesus fuck," I said. About eighty thoughts danced around, each demanding attention. I cut through them. "What do I need to do?"


    "As of now, nothing. If they are shaken, it is possible they will miss training tonight. I will inform Jackie Reaper."


    A suspicion hit me. "Don''t," I said.


    "Sir?"


    "Who knows about this?"


    "All the women, I should think."


    I pulled at my lip. I had a premonition that one of the women involved in the incident would be extremely excited and more than happy to be the centre of attention. I would tell Sophie not to bring the cameras to training. "I want to see how it plays out this evening."


    "Very good, sir."


    "One thing, though." I nodded to the left and the Brig and I moved away from Sandra and Peter. They didn''t need to get involved in any grey mode shenanigans. When we were a fair distance away, I mumbled, "Bonnie called Dylan?"


    "Yes, sir." He glanced to his left, checking no-one had come near. "She called me when I was at the gym but my phone was in my locker. When I called back, her phone was off. What I know, I heard from the police this morning. The detective whose career we helped has her ear to the ground, keeping us ahead of bad news. Shortly after Dylan and his mates cleared out, the police arrived and got the gist from the men and the bar staff. The men say that Angel was flirting with them, teasing one in particular. Leading him on, we used to call it. Then, abruptly, the hosepipe of attention was shut off. He took it badly. I suspect Angel will tell a different story. The detective expects it went rather like the men said, though that doesn''t excuse an outburst of anger so severe the women had to flee."


    "A lot of men think a woman even talking to them means she wants his body. Fuckwits everywhere, John. We''ll get something close to the truth from Bonnie, if she talks to us. I''ve been expecting something like this. If Angel created this mess, why now? She''s not getting more publicity than she already is. I''d better text Ruth and Emma that I don''t want this appearing on her socials in any form." I got my phone out and typed. While I did so, I asked, "How did Dylan do?"


    The Brig did something like an eye roll. "He... achieved his targets, sir. Mission accomplished."


    I scratched my nose. "No elegance."


    "No, sir."


    I finished typing. "Can you... teach Dylan to be briggier? It would be amazing to have a mini-Brig looking after Bonnie and anyone who might happen to be around Bonnie."


    The Brig scoffed at my barely-disguised dissembling, but gave my idea some thought. "I''m not sure there''s quite enough polish in the world for the task." He straightened. "It''s a good idea, sir. It''s a very good idea and now''s a good chance to pitch it to him. We can do some basic field training but I would always recommend a professional starter course. Bodyguard 101. It would cost in the region of three thousand pounds."


    "The agency will pay." I inhaled through my nose and exhaled. Three grand would buy a few hours of protection from a guy like the Brig. In theory, best case, it could buy Bonnie and Angel years. "Yeah, please have a chat with him."


    "Very good, sir."


    I walked off, shaking my head at the strangeness of my life, the way mornings could flip dark and turn back again. I collected Sandra and Peter and smiled. "Bet the Bayern manager doesn''t have to put up with half the crap I do."


    Peter didn''t smile. "He has different problems."


    "Yeah," I said. "Dealing with half a billion pounds of man-baby talent must be a fucking nightmare."


    "I don''t know," said Sandra. "I think I deal with you pretty well." I frowned at her for a while trying to understand what she meant. She cracked a smile, bumped sideways into Peter, and said, "That''s how you suck up to the boss."


    ***


    Sandra got the lads doing some fun, skills-based drills that got them moving without tiring them out.


    Peter Bauer, grandson of one of the game''s true legends, helped out. He had retired from playing so he didn''t have a player profile but his coaching profile was interesting.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Peter Bauer</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>17</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>3-4-3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The most important things were his high Coaching Outfield Players score - he would fill in for Sandra just fine - and his superb tactical knowledge. Tactics 20 meant I would be able to trust his recommendations for in-game tweaks even more than Sandra, whose score of 18 was more than enough in most cases. Of course, Sandra knew the players inside out, which helped. Then again, Peter was coming at the task with fresh eyes, so it was possible he might see something in a player Sandra and I had missed.


    I asked myself if I would hire him as a coach. Yes, of course, absolutely.


    As an assistant manager? Sandra had much better Man Management and Motivating, things that were as important in the lower leagues as tactics. She also crushed him on Working With Youngsters. It wasn''t clear to me what that attribute meant on a day to day basis. Did it mean working with the younger players in the first team squad or was it about working with the under eighteens, sixteens, and so on? Years after unlocking the staff profile page I was still guessing what half of it really meant. One thing was clear - for Chester, the higher that number the better.


    And would I employ him as a manager? Probably. Coaching was by far the most important part of the job and he would back up the improvements he made to players by optimising them on the pitch. So he lacked a bit of verve and drive. So what? He had a very good Judging Player Ability score, which most coaches didn''t have. That would give me the confidence to give him a squad - West or Saltney, for example - and let him get on with it.


    Plus, over time, as he aged, some of his scores would surely increase. He would learn ways to motivate players and how to deal with them. Christ, his Man Management score was probably better than mine.


    An interesting thought experiment but a futile one - Peter Bauer worked for Bayern Munich. He wouldn''t take twenty career steps down and a ninety percent pay cut in order to join Chester.


    ***


    I got Sandra, Peter, and Vimsy in the Sin Bin to discuss the coming matches.


    "Right," I said, tossing a marker up and catching it. "Tuesday night, Thursday night. My overall concept is we have a strong first half against Accrington and a strong second half against Blackpool. Peter, you happy with that?"


    "Happy?" he said, looking down at some notes. "The schedule is absurd. There is no good way to do it. Blackpool have the same schedule, though. Perhaps they will rotate for the cup game?"


    "That would help," I said. "Let''s start with the Thursday match and work back to tomorrow''s. Blackpool away. They''re managed by a former Man United defender. Nice guy, apparently, but basically a caveman. 4-4-2, no frills."


    I''d already used Bench Boost and Triple Captain in the league, FA Cup, and AOK Cup, but I still had it in reserve for the Cheshire Cup and Vans Trophy. Blackpool would have CA over 100 so our only hope was to use all my jokers.


    "I''d like to do the last twenty minutes with 4-2-3-1, blast through their middle. Me, Pascal, Wibbers."


    "Wibbers?" said Peter, turning to a folder full of laminated sheets.


    "William Roberts," said Sandra.


    "Wibbers," he said, nodding. I didn''t get the sense that Peter was terribly happy to be in Chester but he was determined to be professional. Maybe he was worried about what feedback I would give his grandad.


    "Pascal''s not fully fit and during December I think he and I can come on for twenty minutes at a time. Wibbers can go on at half time unless we use him too much against Accrington."


    Sandra was making notes. "Tell us what you want from that match."


    "Accrington do 3-4-1-2. Quite a lot goes through their CAM so obviously we''ll use Youngster at DM and he will snuff out most of their attacks. I''m thinking 4-3-3. If Pascal and I start as forwards we can go wide, but if we go Dazza, Henri, and Tom it''s a narrow formation."


    Peter frowned. "Question. Why is it narrow?"


    Okay, deep breath. It had been a while since I''d had to explain the limits of the curse to anyone. "This is the fourth tier of English football. We have some good players but they''re learning, and I''m learning, too. We have some set formations, ones we know. If we stick to them, we do well. I know where everyone''s supposed to be and so do they. We''re slowly getting more flexible but for now that''s a limitation when I''m the manager. If we want to go crazy like against Newcastle, Sandra''s in charge. It''s normally better to accept these boundaries, though. What we can do is move one guy out of place. I can process that and so can the players. Do you get me? Our version of 4-3-3 comes with narrow strikers but we can move one to a wide forward role."


    "Or drop him to be a CAM," said Peter.


    "Yes and we do that quite a lot and we will do it more as Wibbers develops. He''s amazing there and he has a wicked long shot. Looking at Accrington''s wide areas I''m thinking we want to attack wide - I''d love a 4-2-4 - but having Youngster in his proper DM slot is something of a cheat code. So Pascal goes wide left. The other concept is that there''s no problem with me going wherever I want. The players are used to it and obviously because it''s me I know where I am." I laughed; so stupid. "Pascal wide left, me right, Dazza in the middle. Twenty-minute onslaught, get a lead, we switch to four-one-four-one and turtle up. Swap Dazza at half time and we''ve rested three of the guys who will end the game on Thursday."


    Peter looked at his notes. "The rules are arbitrary."


    "They work. One thing to know is that we have pretty much the best technique in the league. Top three, anyway. That means we can pass the ball around comfortably against most teams, kill the clock. We can do a decent low block, and we can shift mentality better than anyone. Defend, defend, all-out-attack, defend. Example - an oppo is off the pitch getting stitches, we''ll blitz until he comes back on, turtle up again, seamless. We''ll set up the basic plan but constantly be tweaking and optimising depending on who''s playing shit etc."


    Peter frowned. I wasn''t sure he believed me. "Okay."


    "Here''s what I think. Sticky in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H."


    Sandra made a gesture. "Eddie left-back? I would have thought you''d use him against Blackpool."


    "We''ll use Cole against them." I turned to Peter. "He''s taller. Helps with set pieces. Back to Accrington. Midfield: Youngster, Ryan, Lee C. Forwards: Dazza, Pascal, me." I didn''t know my own CA for sure but the other ten players had an average CA of 80.8. A red letter day! Our first starting eleven that broke the 80 barrier. "We reserve three changes to bring off Pascal, me, and Dazza. If we can swap Ryan for Andrew or Magnus at half time, great. More legs, more energy. Sharky probably won''t play against Blackpool so let''s plan to finish with Sharky left mid, Magnus and Lee C in the middle, Andrew right, Tom Westwood up top." Ending the match with an average CA of 75 was a step down in quality but came with an increase in work rate. "If we can get away with not using Henri, that''s going to pay off."


    Peter was fast on the uptake. "You would use two subs after twenty minutes and three at half time? 45 minutes is a long time with no subs. A lot can happen."


    "Yep," I said. "Totes agree. We''ll keep one in reserve for the last twenty. Okay, let''s talk Blackpool."


    ***


    It must have been bewildering for Peter. We picked two teams and planned the subs for two matches without referring to video or data, and I sketched how I thought the Forest Green match would play out, too.


    He went to have lunch with Sandra; she had a bunch of tips for him.


    I left them to it while I wondered how strong to go on the Angel thing. Pretty strong, I reckoned. If she was dialling her persona up to eleven on the back of her fame, that was potentially deadly, and it was partially my fault. I''d made her progress a cakewalk. Maybe she needed to experience a setback. A small bump in the road that would make her realise she was driving too fast.


    When Sandra was done she went to the medical room and talked to its occupants, then sought out JoJo and said goodbye to her.


    I caught up with my assistant manager in the car park. She was being stoic but there was a certain stiffness to her back as she threw her bag onto the passenger seat.


    "You''re on leave," I said. "Startiiiiiing now."


    She smiled. "Okay?"


    "That means we don''t currently have an employer-employee relationship."


    "Okay?"


    "That means it''s not inappropriate for me to ask for a hug."


    She shut the door and wrapped her arms around me. "You''re still my boss, boss."


    I tried to be stoic and failed big time. Lips wobbled. Dementors crept closer. "I''ve got baby name ideas, remember. Just saying."


    "You have one idea," she said.


    "Max Lane-Beeks. Maxy two-names. It''s so money."


    "It''s on the list."


    "Is it?"


    "It''s on the bottom of the list."


    I beamed. "I''ll take it."


    She walked around to the other side of the car and opened the driver''s door. "Boss," she said. "Gaffer."


    Uh-oh. Whatever this was, she was having a hard time saying it. "Yes?"


    "Don''t do anything mad, will you?"


    I tried to look offended, but who knows what actually happened on my face; I was a wreck. "Mad? Like what?"


    She looked down at the bare surface of the car park. "Like buy a new striker. We''ve already got enough. And don''t do Bestball against Man United."


    "Wow," I said, because I hadn''t even thought about doing that for the slightest one-tenth of a second. Relationism against Man United? Live on TV in front of millions? It would cause a fucking sensation. "Wow," I said again, and I was no longer moored to this grubby earth. I was afloat on a cloud of possibilities.


    "Noooo," she said, banging herself in the forehead with her fist. "Please. Please, no."


    But I was already thinking about the rest of the week''s training. We couldn''t do anything strenuous, could we? There were too many matches. What about a few one-two drills? What about a couple of games of Take Me to the River, AKA Staircase to Heaven? Just for the lols.


    If nothing else, doing some Relationism drills ahead of the time I bought the perk would help me explain to Peter how we were suddenly able to utterly transform the way we were playing.


    "I probably won''t," I said, honestly. My narrative sense was telling me to use it with the youth teams first and slowly introduce it to the first team. Putting it on national TV before I''d mastered it was the kind of stupid that I hated. I slapped the top of the car. "Good chat! You''re in our hearts and in our thoughts. Call if you need anything."


    "I need to see us at Old Trafford doing 4-4-2, low block, keeping the score down, Max."


    "Mmm. That''s certainly one way we could approach the fixture. Toodle-pip!"


    ***


    That evening, I went back to Bumpers to watch the women train. As I suspected, Angel told the story of her narrow escape again and again, and since there wasn''t a camera crew around she was filming it on her phone.


    Bonnie brushed me off when I tried to ask what had happened in the bar, so I had to go on my instinct.


    "Angel," I said, calling her over to a spot where we could talk.


    She started out filming but thought better of it and put her phone away. "Yes, Max?"


    "Heard there was a bit of an incident."


    "Oh, it was nothing really. A boy got drunk and Bonnie arranged for a rescue. It was only so she could meet up with her army man. She''s crushing on him pretty bad."


    "Right, except she called the Brig first."


    Angel''s eyes narrowed and her bubbly persona diminished. "Did she? So what? It was a storm in a teacup. I hope you aren''t going to do one of your overreactions."


    I eyed her. "I was cracked over the head with a metal bar. When it comes to safety, I don''t believe anything I do is an overreaction. I''m not blaming you for a guy going tonto the same way I don''t blame myself for cutting a player who was never going to make it. How other people react is up to them, that''s clear. But if your fame is putting you in danger, and Bonnie in danger, and anyone who happens to be around you in danger, the solution seems obvious to me."


    She didn''t like where this was going. "What''s that?"


    "There are eight episodes planned for season two of the documentary. I''ve asked Sophie and Henri to cut you out of one."


    Absolute, instant fury, replaced by cold, dead eyes. "Cut me out?"


    "Yeah. And I''m thinking if there are any more incidents like this one, you know, ones that aren''t your fault, I''ll cut you out of another two and another three. If there are scenes where you say something important, Sophie can cut to a reaction shot from one of the others and we''ll hear your voice or even just put subtitles. You know, we''ll pretend the microphone failed in that moment. Do you get me? I suppose you could say it''s a choice between getting famous in a bar with some nobody, or being on TV."


    Another flash of rage as she realised I had absolutely stitched her up. "It''s my choice, is it?"


    "Everything''s a choice."


    Her eyes went from left to right. The jerky motion reminded me of an old-fashioned typewriter. "You can''t cut me out completely. I''m in the title sequence."


    Before she''d even finished the last word I got my phone out and called Sophie. "Hey, it''s Max. I want a new title sequence. Can you have a think about some concepts? Game of Thrones, Westworld, Fresh Prince of Bel Air, whatever you want. Yes, I''ll give you budget. Yes. Okay, top."


    Angel glared at me. "This is unfair. I didn''t do anything wrong."


    "No-one said you did."


    I had thought this was a genius way of getting through to her, but to my surprise she got angrier. She had enough presence of mind to glance at the rest of the players. Some had their phones out, and many were wondering what we were discussing. If Angel exploded, it would be caught on video and could come out at any time. Instead of blowing up, she got quiet and practically hissed, "I''m the best striker in this whole city. You need me if you want to get promoted and live out your Soccer Supremo fantasy. Don''t piss me off."


    She strode off. I turned and walked to my office. She had made a good point, to be fair.


    ***


    Tuesday, December 2


    Match 18 of 46: Chester versus Accrington Stanley


    There were no surprises from Accrington. They came with the expected 3-4-1-2 formation and an average CA of 74. It was the kind of match we needed to win if we still harboured hopes of winning the league.


    I paraded Peter on the pitch before the match, giving big waves to three stands. The Accrington lot chanted ''Who the fucking ''ell are you?''


    Peter took us through the warm-ups, doing it quite different from Sandra. That kind of change can be exciting but I was worried the warm up was too intense given the schedule.


    "Mate," I said, blowing as though I had played ten minutes against Newcastle. "Remember the fixture list. Can you give us the fifty percent version?"


    "This is the fifty percent version!"


    I wasn''t sure what he thought about me, the squad, and our tiny little stadium, but he can''t have had any complaints about how we came out of the blocks, or about my strategy.


    Accrington had the second-lowest budget in the league and if they had a data guy, he obviously wasn''t qualified to analyse me because our wide forwards destroyed their back line and they took their sweet time responding.


    Youngster to Jack.


    Jack looks up. He clips it into space on the wing.


    Best hares after it. First time cross.


    Darren Smith...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    An inch-perfect cross and a header to match!


    Accrington''s manager eventually dropped a wide player to help contain me so I switched to the left and shifted Pascal into a CAM role. Accrington''s wing-back was therefore defending against no-one, and he could only watch and admire as we built through the other two-thirds of the pitch.


    Good energy from Contreras.


    He breaks the lines and feeds Smith.


    Smith holds the ball up well.


    He lays it off for Best.


    Best looks to line up a shot.


    Accrington know he can hit them from there!


    A defender leaps in to make a block.


    Best skips past him. He looks up, likes what he sees...


    Cocks his leg...


    But he passes!


    The ball''s slipped through and Bochum is onto it in a flash.


    Bochum with only the keeper to beat...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Never in doubt!


    Accrington appeal for offside but the referee isn''t interested.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    At two-nil, I went through with the changes I''d planned. I felt good, felt like I could have played longer, but when a plan is mint you have to stick to it. Four-one-four-one and the great December rotation had begun.


    I spent the rest of the half eating marathon paste and pointing out to Peter the strengths and weaknesses of our players, paying particular attention to what it meant in terms of formations and styles. He absorbed everything quickly; I didn''t need to tell him twice.


    At half time we made two more changes and the fifth on 70 minutes.


    Exactly as planned. Accrington huffed and puffed but we dealt with their threat comfortably enough.


    The curse gave man of the match to Lee Contreras.


    ***


    I took Peter with me to talk to a few people. The first were Secretary Joe and MD, who couldn''t stop babbling about the upcoming Man United match.


    I tried to be patient. "Guys, we''ve just moved up to ninth in the league. We''re picking up steam. Live in the moment, yeah?"


    They didn''t want to live in the moment. They wanted to live on January 11th. True to form, MD was already worrying about being humiliated.


    I gave MD a blank look and turned to Joe. "Where are we with bonds?"


    "Amazing. The Man United news, followed by your hints that you would use the gate receipts to take some bonds off the market, drove a lot of sales. Today''s announcement about Dieter Bauer''s grandson was another jolt. We''re up to something like 3.4 million but they''re going fast again. I really think we''ll sell out by the United game."


    "Good, thanks."


    "Peter, will your grandfather come? I will organise tickets if so."


    Peter''s eyes darted around. "I will find out."


    ***


    Wednesday, December 3


    Peter did the first half of training - very advanced, very exciting for the players even if we were taking it easy.


    I did the second half, keeping Peter as the ''official coach'' in case it helped us to get some pops. We did the building blocks of Relationism and there were no complaints about how remedial the drills were. Perhaps it would have been better if there had been - it might have made us seem like a more serious club. Peter can''t have been impressed seeing how enthusiastically the squad did one-twos and slow rondos.


    But I wasn''t running Chester FC for the benefit of Peter Bauer. I still wasn''t totally sure what he wanted to get out of the experience, if anything. Things were going so fast we didn''t have time for a heart-to-heart. Maybe when the day came it would go easier with four or five wins under our belt, after we had been in the trenches together.


    I asked him to come back to Bumpers before the eighteens trained. We waited in my office and he asked why I had a large bucket of chestnuts.


    "We''ve got a horse chestnut tree out there and it went nuts, literally. We have a game here called Conkers. You tie strings through the chestnuts. You hold yours up and I give it a whack with mine. Then it''s your turn. When one conker is smashed to bits, that''s the loser."


    "I see why England is associated with 4-4-2."


    "It''s top fun. I haven''t done it since I was little so I thought as part of the Christmas fun we might have a tournament." Two people arrived and I waved them in. "Peter, this is Fleur. She''s our scouting department."


    He was getting used to my humour. "The entire department?"


    "Yes." He shook her hand and did the same with her son. I said, "That''s Henk. Centre back from our under eighteens. I''ve been asking Fleur to scout Bradford City for us. They seem likely to be our main rivals for the title but I can''t understand what changed there."


    "Changed?" said Peter.


    "They were a shambles and they switched, just like that. They play efficient football, take sensible risks, have players in the right positions, do some rotation, there''s good spirit."


    Fleur said, "I''ve been to see them five times this season. Max has never asked me to watch a team more than once. He''s obsessed." She smiled at Peter, who smiled back. Sparks? Henk thought so - he frowned. Fleur didn''t notice her son''s reaction; she was busy flipping through her notebook. "Max, it''s the same. Four-four-one-one. Raffi Brown as the CAM arriving late on the end of crosses, getting up to support Chipper. There''s no magic. It''s solid football like you said. Efficient and sensible. I''ll say that they look to be getting better. Brown and Chipper are developing a great understanding and the overall speed and quality of play is faster and more intense. They''re really good but I can''t see the secret sauce you''re looking for."


    "Sudden formation shifts?"


    "No."


    "Instant reaction to oppo changes?"


    "No."


    "R. Brown is actually Jude Bellingham who drank Polyjuice Potion?"


    She smiled. "I did notice that he drinks exclusively from a small metal flask."


    I tapped the arm of my chair. "Folke Wester is calling the shots?"


    "Definitely."


    I didn''t know what to do about Bradford. Fleur couldn''t spot anything different at that club and I couldn''t go myself because we were always playing at the same time. I''d seen their second half switch with my own two eyes and I couldn''t explain it. Sending the Brig to spy on them or hack into their emails felt like it would cross a line.


    I sighed. "Hickman? The Exit Trial kids?"


    She shook her head.


    I would have to drop it for now - sending Fleur again and again was moronic. I clicked my teeth a few times. "All right, fine. Thanks. I''ll talk to Peter for a bit and I''ll be out in a minute. Henk, you can get them warmed up if you want."


    "I''ll do it," said Peter.


    "What, really?"


    "Yes. I''ll show you how we do it in Bavaria."


    I was about to make a joke but it died on my lips. "Thanks! That''ll be top. Henk, gather the lads and tell a story without using the letter E." Fleur and Henk left.


    "You wanted to say something," said Peter.


    "It''s not important, really. I mean it''s important but... Look, you''re my Sandra for a few weeks so I need to say things to you. Dump thoughts into you. Do you know what I mean?"


    "No."


    "Micro-therapy. Things I need to get off my chest. Things someone who has played the game understands better than a sports psychologist."


    "Oh. I see." He looked uncomfortable. Man Management 8.


    "I keep hearing the phrase ''cursed child'' and I wonder who it''s about. You look at Bonnie and Angel and think it''s easy to know which one''s blessed and which one''s cursed. Just look at them, right? But you go deeper and it''s the opposite because one can never be happy. Wait long enough it switches around again because the first can have moments of superficial happiness but the other can''t ever be happy.


    "And think about Henk and Benny and Tyson. Sometimes I wonder if I''m doing them wrong by boosting them the way I am. Henk''s a tier 6 player but he looks like a top quality defender. You watch him in a minute - he moves like Virgil Van Dijk. Isn''t that horrible? Better to look shit, right? How can you move so gracefully and appear to tick all the boxes and not get anywhere?


    "And Benny. Is he the most cursed? His dad''s a legend around here." I pushed my finger against my lips. "He has two first team goals. He''s got that, if he can find peace with it. Two goals and a Youth Cup win. Wouldn''t that be something? Can''t just tell him he''s shit and dump him, can I? He could be a legend for Warrington Town. Is Tyson cursed? He''s good enough to win three or four National League North titles, play hundreds of games. His dad''s got some money. He''s good-looking. He''ll be able to accept he''s not EFL quality easier than the others. Or will he?"


    "I do not know the players," said Peter, looking somehow even more uncomfortable.


    "I wonder if these thoughts are so present because of the Angel chat? A guy tried to kill me, Peter."


    "I know."


    "You could say he did it because his son wasn''t good enough. That''s not the reason - the reason is that he''s a fucking psycho - but it''s a warning, isn''t it? Maybe I''m the cursed child after all. I know how good they''re going to be and I want to push them to their limit but if you stop improving when you hit 18, wow. That''s mental, isn''t it? That''s a mindfuck. I don''t know how to prepare them for the realisation while keeping them motivated to play. I know with me I get demotivated if I stop improving but they''re here and they''re working their nuts off so I should let them get on with it and make their own decisions, right?"


    "Are you asking what my grandfather would advise you?"


    I blinked. What a strange thing to say. It felt important, but my phone beeped. Time to start the session. "Good chat. Thanks. Let''s curse some children, yeah?"


    ***


    Thursday, December 4


    Vans Trophy Round of 32: Blackpool versus Chester


    To: DB


    From: PB


    Subject: Blackpool


    Lieber Opi,


    I apologise for not writing a review of the Accrington match but they really dropped me in at the deep end. Sandra Lane showed me the lie of the land in a few hours and then I was left to sink or swim.


    Max Best does not suspect the true purpose of my visit. He has a mercenary view of my skills, seeing me as a coach who can improve his players and while he bounces tactical ideas off me, he might as well be talking to a mirror. I should perhaps be annoyed but I find it refreshing; the only reflection he sees is that of himself.


    Before the Accrington match, Max made some predictions and outlined a plan and in real time I thought that''s exactly how the match went, but later in my hotel room I watched it back and was bewildered by what I saw. Max had all but ruled out using a CAM but there were stretches where your friend Pascal played in that very spot. Meanwhile Max was on the left and we didn''t attack at all down the right. All because what they call the ''oppo'' manager had strengthened the right flank. When the oppo adjusted, so did Max, instantly. Instantly, Opi! Perhaps it is because he only plays for 20 minutes and there is no time to waste, but most managers wait to see how a change affects the flow of the match before they counter it.


    That was two days ago. A few hours ago we took the eco-bus north to Blackpool. Max''s video analysis of the opposition was to watch clips of Stanley Matthews from the 1950s.


    He predicted 4-4-2 and a strong opposition, and that is what we got. The first half was extremely tedious, very English. Many long balls disguised as ''big diags''. Max had selected a tall left back to help cope with the aerial bombardment and to rest the first-choice left back.


    We started with 4-1-4-1 and an instruction to ''keep things tight first 45'', which was taken as a joke but is also what they attempted to do. Chester have some good players - the two centre backs, the right back, Youngster, Lee Contreras, and Henri Lyons, the charming striker whose German is perfect. They competed well against their counterparts, but Cole Adams, the young left back, Andrew Harrison, Wes Hayward, and even Ryan Jack, formerly of Everton, were a marked step below the rest and the gulf between them and the Blackpool starters was visible. Being level at nil-nil going into the break was deserved in terms of work rate and application, but was not sustainable.


    Max praised his players at half time. It''s a feature of his dressing room that it is quiet and reflective. Near the end of the break he gives a few simple instructions and an image or thought for the players to carry with them. Today was ''do it for little baby Max''. Henri asked if Sandra had promised to call the baby that. Max said no but she would if we won. It stood to reason.


    Funny, but a simple reminder that they were playing for others. Their families, their friends, the community. I find myself looking at most of Max''s work as being very simple. Clear, simple formations with clear, simple tasks for the players. But is it the simplicity of the amateur or the simplicity of the master?


    I was enjoying the mental discussion until, with 25 minutes to go he brought five players off and sent five on, including himself. This was where, to quote Vimsy, I should ''strap in because all hell is about to break loose.''


    Three of the weaker players: Wes, Andrew, and Ryan went off. Magnus Evergreen joined Youngster as the DMs in the promised 4-2-3-1. The 3 were Max, Pascal, and Wibbers. Dazza the striker.


    But Max couldn''t keep still. I need to watch the tape to see if it''s ADHD or if he was looking for pockets of space to exploit. He popped up on the far right, left, and even as a third DM. Pascal moved with great intelligence and with the ball looked for clever interplay. Wibbers took long shots, went on dribbles, and attracted defenders to him like he was magnetic.


    Blackpool were reeling but Chester''s goal came from a free kick. We don''t practise free kick routines on the training ground, according to the sample schedule Sandra gave me, but this was perfectly executed. It was too far for a cross so Pascal sprinted along the edge of the penalty area like a wide receiver in motion in the NFL. He continued his run, Max passed to him, Pascal touched it back, and Best, from fifteen yards closer, crossed left-footed for Christian Fierce to head down into the goal. Very nice but when I asked Pascal how he knew to make that run he simply said ''it felt right''. Perhaps the football here is too much based on what they call ''vibes''.


    But while Max''s two-match plan had been executed pretty much perfectly until that moment, the flaws in it were apparent. Cole Adams was targeted and while he can win a header, his positioning is not currently up to scratch. In his defence, Max offered him little protection from midfield, choosing instead to station himself as a left-winger. He told me afterwards that it was a risk-reward play in Chester''s favour because if he got the ball he would have ripped Blackpool ''several new arses''.


    Blackpool scored, however, and after a frantic few minutes where both sides really went for it, the match finished one-all.


    No extra time - straight to penalties.


    Max was incredibly confident - Sticky in goal is imposing and for once Chester won the coin toss to go first. I didn''t have much to contribute to the order so I tried to say positive things to those who would take the five penalties.


    Max was the first. He was extremely fatigued but sent the keeper the wrong way and rolled the ball into the net.


    Blackpool took their first penalty, Sticky dived the wrong way, goal. One-all.


    Wibbers scored, as did Blackpool.


    Pascal scored. Ditto.


    Darren Smith, the Australian striker who after a tough start had scored 7 in 9, took an abysmal penalty that was easily saved.


    Blackpool scored to lead 4-3.


    I was surprised to see Magnus Evergreen stride forward as the fifth taker, but he took an ice-cold penalty.


    If Blackpool scored, they won.


    I haven''t mentioned the atmosphere because the turnout was low and the game only really got going when Best made the five changes. It was noisy now, though. A few hundred Chester fans pounded whatever was nearby...


    And the shot was saved!


    Sticky had got his timing spot on, guessed the right way, and reached out a long arm and a huge hand to deflect the ball behind.


    He ran off, crunching his abs as he shouted in triumph.


    Until he heard the repeated whistle. The referee had judged that Sticky had moved off his line too soon and forced the penalty to be retaken.


    Despair!


    So now the game theory. Should the penalty taker go the same way? Should Sticky?


    In the end, they both chose the same as before, but the penalty strike was cleaner and it zipped along the ground and into the net.


    Defeat on penalties, again.


    Worse news was to come. Four minor injuries were reported: Cole, Ryan, Lee C and Wes Hayward. Normally not a problem, but with another two-day turnaround, there''s no chance they can make the squad on Saturday. Cole is not a big loss because there are two other left back options, but Max has leaned on the other three. I am going to spend the rest of the ride home trying to piece together a formation that fits the players who remain.


    Match summary: Max is a gambler and today not all his bets paid off. He has taken it hard.


    P.S. In a lame attempt to cheer him up, I told him I had looked up The Cursed Child and found the story heavily featured ''Time Turners''. I asked Max if he had a Time Turner, what would he change from his lineup or substitutions? ''Nothing,'' he said. ''I absolutely nailed it.'' ''Then you cannot feel sad.'' ''I''m not sad. I''m fucking devastated.''


    P.P.S. It''s five minutes later. Max just handed me a team sheet for Saturday. 3-4-3 against Forest Green Rovers'' 4-5-1. A rest for Youngster, with Pascal and Wibbers on the bench to replace Dazza and anyone else who shows signs of fatigue. Max said he might have to play the second half as a centre back to give one of those lads a break. He didn''t seem to be joking but then he did smile. ''Unless YOU want to play.'' I said, ''I''m not as good as my grandfather, Max.'' He got annoyed. ''I don''t need you to be as good as him, do I? I need you to be better than Sunday Sowumni so I can rest Christian Fierce for fucking once.'' He calmed a little and said, ''I bet your grandad wasn''t as good as your grandad half the time.'' With that cryptic comment, he put his big headphones on and listened to music while, inexplicably, he looked at photos of commercial bathrooms on an antique iPad.


    From: DB


    To: PB


    Subject: Blackpool


    ''I bet your grandad wasn''t as good as your grandad half the time.''


    He''s right! Wonderful line. I might steal it.


    Please pay attention, Peter. Max Best knows a lot, including how far he can push his players. I am more convinced than ever that this is just what you need. Stick with it.


    ***


    Friday, December 5


    I had a bad morning when I realised the mad schedule, the disrupted training, the injuries, the travel, and the cup defeat had left us with an entire week of training that featured zero pops. Zero improvement!


    It wasn''t Peter''s fault - he was good. Without the curse, I might have had some doubts about that because a few players had come to me to low-level complain about his methods. The drills were new, fresh, interesting, but Peter stopped them when a player made a mistake. He would explain what had gone wrong and restart the drill from the beginning.


    Sandra, Jude, and Well In tended to allow the drills to flow and give corrections at the end. Peter''s way was jarring.


    One such complaint came from Lee C, who was watching training while waiting for a free physio. I replied, "Yeah it''s a bit fussy and you''re frustrated in the moment but this is the kind of precision they demand at a superclub. This is what elite training looks like. Don''t you want a taste of it?"


    He did.


    I went into the curse shop and looked at the monthly special offer. Secret Sandra would let me boost someone''s training rate - at a cost. At two costs, in fact, since I had to buy the fucking thing before I started piling XP into it.


    I had to give the imps some credit - they knew how to press my buttons. Since it had appeared in the shop it had been nagging at me. I had two left backs, Josh and Cole, who had been improving at almost identical rates since their arrival. With Secret Sandra I could gift one of them ten or twenty XP per day and track what difference it made to their CA levels over, say, three months. That would give me an extremely solid idea of what the perk did.


    It would also delay me from buying Relationism and lock me into some element of future grinding. But I was getting 250 XP a week just from hanging around Bumpers Bank - I could invest some of that into Cole Adams, right?


    If I was careful, I would be able to afford Relationism before the West Ham United match.


    Fuck it - the perk was solid and I''d always wanted a training boost. I spent the 2,000 XP to unlock it, and since it was too late to use it on the men''s first team, I went to the women''s squad page and gifted 10 XP to Dani.


    After training, Peter and I walked along Bumpers Lane to the Deva. "I don''t think Dieter was being totally honest when he sent you over, Peter. I think he wants me to show you what it''s like being the manager of a small club because he wants you to go off on your own and do it. How close am I?"


    He didn''t break stride. "Somewhat close."


    "Okay. You''ll come to this meeting and get a taste of the behind-the-scenes work. Depending on the size of the club you''re managing you''ll need to get involved with all sorts of crap. I doubt you''d go low enough that you''d need to wash the kits yourself."


    "Why do you say that?" he said, in what might have been a sharp tone.


    "Because not even I started that low. Here''s something interesting: Lee Contreras. When I met him he was in the direction of manic, put more effort into his TikToks than his game. Now he''s really serious and focused."


    "This is bad?"


    I smiled. "I wish it was something I had done, right? So I could take the credit."


    "Perhaps you can."


    He didn''t explain and we crossed the road. By the time we got to the other side, I had a new topic. "Okay, you''re going to meet a few of the admin team. The money people. MD''s the closest thing I have to a boss but the interesting character is Brooke. You''ll find she''s smart and determined and has a big heart. Her brother is Chip, the fucking hateful dipshit who is running Bradford City. They''re, what, fifteen points ahead of us? He is gobby as fuck right now so we need to shut him up on January 4. If this was a fairytale, who would you say is the one who''d been cursed?


    "Chip, cursed by stupidity, winning by pure luck on the back of other people''s labour and daddy''s money, thinking it makes him big and strong? Or Brooke, who should be turning a three hundred million dollar business into a three billion dollar one but would like to go out and see the world while she''s young. Instead she''s turning a three million pound business into a four million pound one while people write glowing profiles about her shitty brother.


    "She''s in a Greek tragedy." I stopped walking. "We all are. Maybe that''s the answer. We''re all cursed. None of us are ever going to be happy. We''ll never get what we want if we look for it from other people because we live in a world where Chip Star is popular and if I lose on penalties to a team with four times our budget I''m a figure of fun and mockery."


    Peter didn''t say anything and didn''t seem very interested in the conversation so I shut my gob. We went up and into the boardroom.


    ***


    I made the introductions and noted the older men were starstruck by Peter while Peter was Star struck. There followed the usual small talk - yes, I''m disappointed about losing another penalty shoot-out, yes Dazza is practising penalties, no it isn''t as easy as it looks - and we got to business.


    Secretary Joe confirmed that we were past 3.5 million in bond sales. MD said he was in discussions with Man United about our ticket allocation (we would likely get about five thousand tickets to sell to our fans, but MD was hoping to get 9,000). Brooke updated us on the 3G pitch income. The pitch at Bumpers was rammed and was bringing in a solid 2,000 a week. Hoole was slightly less popular but had more hours available on it, and the income had settled down at 2,300 a week, though we didn''t own a nearby watering hole where we could extract even more money from the players. Brooke said we were vanishingly unlikely to ever be allowed to build a pub anywhere close.


    Ah, well. It was all good. MD agreed to increase my budget by 4,300 pounds a week starting on the first of January.


    "Great," I said, sarcastically. "That''ll pay for four days of Peter''s hair gel."


    We turned to look at him while his hand shot up to touch his hair. "Is it - ? Does it look - ?"


    Brooke said, "It suits you. Ignore Max, he''s not used to having competition in the best hair stakes."


    While she was lying straight to our guest''s face, I got up and walked behind MD. As best I could, I bear-hugged him and squeezed. "Fank ooooooh. Fank ooh, MD. Do you want a little peck on the cheek?"


    "Not in the workplace, Max."


    "Kay. Shoulder massage?" I suggested. "Looks like a lot of tension there. If you don''t want a shoulder rub, can I give you a voucher for a spa day? Peter, when you get a job don''t forget you need to manage up, too."


    MD made a scoffing noise.


    Secretary Joe said, "What if he''s a future Bayern manager?"


    I shrugged. "What''s the difference? Even bosses deserve relaxation."


    Peter shook his head with a slight smile. "I don''t think I would offer my boss at Bayern a shoulder rub, even as a joke. Our president ran Adidas for fifteen years. He would not find it charming."


    "Who said I found it charming?" said MD.


    I finger-gunned Peter. "We need more sponsors out here. The club and the players. Get me an in with Adidas and I''ll let you beat me at Conkers."


    Brooke said, "Ruth would love to meet someone from Adidas. The big sports companies don''t seem to value her agency''s young stars to the same level Max does."


    I felt I had made a mistake in introducing the Adidas chat, so I killed it. "Peter isn''t here to get Angel another sponsor; he''s here to learn to be a football manager. To learn from the best. Max Best." I laughed at how pompous I sounded and walked over to my trusty flipchart and turned to a fresh page. "All this info gets released in the accounts, Peter, so don''t worry that you''re hearing secret stuff, but I''m about to find out my transfer budget so please don''t let that out of this room. And there will be some brainstorming and I''m liable to say some fucking outrageous things - " MD groaned. "So, yeah, embargo this until the summer at least, please."


    "I will say nothing."


    "Top top top. Okay our budget right now is 30 grand." I wrote that on the board. "From Jan 1 it''s plus 4,300. We''ve got Foquita coming in for two thousand and I promised Andrew two hundred."


    All eyes were on me and I briefly felt absurd and out of place. When Brooke''s father died, unless he was incredibly spiteful, she was going to be a billionaire. MD had fat stacks. Peter came from a background of top-tier footballer wealth. Only Secretary Joe understood what two hundred pounds meant when you didn''t have it.


    I pressed on. "We''re freeing up 950 from Eddie, 600 from Sharky, 640 from Ben. Bark''s coming in at 700. Therefore," I said, grandly, "the amount of money remaining in my wage budget will be... What the fuck, guys? I''m waiting for someone to do the maths for me."


    "Three thousand, seven hundred and ninety pounds a week," said Joe.


    I wrote 3790 on the flipchart and drew a rectangle around it. "That," I mused, "is very fucking decent. I want two players, I think. A goalie and someone who can play left-mid. Or I could get a huge batch of prospects."


    "You''re short on centre backs," said Peter.


    "Yeah," I said, rubbing my forehead. The gap from the first choice guys to Sunday Sowumni was so enormous I had barely been able to use him. Lee H could play centre back, as could Magnus, but things were strained. On the other hand, our latest cup exit snipped off three fixtures we might potentially have had. More rest for the lads over the coming months. I had five reliable centre backs and one prospect. That had to be enough, right? "I think we''ll have to tough it out. If we get an Aff type or some kind of skilful left-footer who can play wide or as a CAM, that will make 3-5-2 and 3-4-3 more viable. And there''s always..."


    I checked the perk store. The next formation I could buy was 3-4-2-1, the cutting-edge formation favoured by Man United''s new manager. What if I surprised him by using his own formation against him? It would make even more sense if I had another creative forward to go with Pascal and Wibbers. Unlocking the formation would cost 5,000 XP...


    "Peter, can you give me an analysis on 3-4-2-1? Obviously an emphasis on how United use it, but also do you think it would work for us? From what I know of it, one of the midfielders sits and patrols so that would suit Youngster."


    "I would be happy to."


    "Bosh," I mumbled. "I''d love another top centre back, though. If there''s a bargain on the market I might consider it. Could be worth it just to let Zach and Christian spend more time on the training pitch. Another guy like Lee H but with more of a ceiling. Yeah. Okay this has cheered me up. Let''s talk about my millions of pounds."


    I thought I saw MD''s shoulders tense again so I made a massaging motion and raised my eyebrows. Do you want...? He did not want.


    On the board I wrote 158,000. "Our cup prize money. Half goes to the players, as agreed. It''s about three grand per man depending on whether they were named in squads or not. I hope it isn''t overly pessimistic to say we probably won''t be adding to that. I''d like to use the club''s half to invest in equipment for the players but there''s nowhere to store anything right now so..."


    I crossed out that number and wrote 79,000. Below that, I wrote 75,000, 50,000, 100,000, and 300,000. "Incoming transfer fees for Simon Black, Ben, Eddie, and Sharky." Minus 75,000. "Outgoing fee for Bark. MD, what are we projecting from Man U?"


    "I''m budgeting 1.1 million from our share of the ticket sales, plus over 100,000 from TV. I''ve assigned that hundred for extra marketing efforts and sundry expenses but the ticket sales you can keep."


    Brooke said, "We''ll shift a lot of merch and Grindhog are saying we might sell out on home kits again. They''re pulling their hair out."


    MD said, "We won''t know the numbers at the start of the transfer window so I wouldn''t want to plan around them."


    "No stress," I said. "I''m not going to be nagging you about the half-and-half scarf sales."


    "Do you promise?"


    "Let''s just round this 79 up to 80 so my tiny head can deal with the numbers. Good?"


    "I think we can agree to that."


    I tapped the marker pen against my temple. "Prize money, transfers, Man United. Is there anything I''ve forgotten?"


    MD said, "We got the money from FIFA for Youngster playing in the World Cup."


    "Oh, cool," I said. "It''s a few thousand, right? Why don''t we give that to the food bank Youngster helps at? Would that go down well? Shift some bonds?"


    Brooke said, "I don''t think so. More likely the opposite effect because people would think we don''t need the money and they don''t want to invest in us if we''re being political."


    I gritted my teeth and simmered. "Feeding the hungry is political. Helping people in need is political. Right. It''s like Jesus said, fuck thy neighbour."


    "Max," complained MD, but I had come to the boil.


    I stared out the window onto the green, green grass of home. One last push and I''d be free of the gammons forever. This was the last time I would ever need outside help. When the fund hit five million I was free to go full anti-gammon, from here till eternity, till death do us part, and if the sponsors didn''t like it, we could go blank because there would always be a market for strikers and I knew how to find them. Gammons weren''t born to this world to be happy. They weren''t supposed to be enjoying it.


    As a football manager I could wind them up better than almost anyone in the country. I would establish the Premier League''s first ever hedgehog-specific veterinarian clinic. I would fly a pride flag next to those of Wales, Germany, and France. I would give a room at Bumpers over to a migrant from a war-torn country. There would be regular spikes in the incidence of ulcers nationwide. Put that number on my Wikipedia page.


    Gammons were the cursed children and there were millions of them shuffling around, as apocalyptic and damaging as a zombie horde. Unlike zombies, they weren''t interested in brains.


    "Max?" said MD, which brought me back to the here and now. I had to pretend to be puny and weak for just a little while longer.


    "Look at the pretty numbers," said Joe in a soothing tone, which made me smile. "It''s one point six three million total, Max."


    I wrote it down. "Number go up," I said. The magnificent heft of the number calmed me all the way down. "And we''ll get a million in the summer when Foquita moves on. Plus the TV money goes up by half a million. Printer go brr." I walked to the window and looked out onto the pitch. Next season it would be modern and one entire stand would have been rebuilt. If I bought the right players now, next season would be one of the greatest in the history of the sport.


    "We are likely to need some cash to kit out the McNally," said Brooke. "I think we can get the stand up in time for the season but the food and drink provision will be extremely limited and the hospitality boxes will be shells."


    I nodded. The budget was tight and any slippage or extra costs meant some of the finishing touches would be postponed. Of course, those finishing touches were the ones that generated revenue. "It''ll be fine," I said. "Every home match we''ll open a new section of the concourse. It''ll be more exciting than if it was all ready on day one."


    "We might have to offer a discount on season tickets."


    "No problem. Open the poverty mindset document. Control A, select all, delete. Bosh. We''ll be playing Newcastle and Man United every season. Write that down."


    MD chuckled. "Max, be serious."


    I gave him a level stare. "I''m being serious. Our first eleven is getting to be a match for anyone in League Two and if I spend wisely we''ll extend that to League One soon enough. The new challenge is to get two good players in every position. I want to be able to cope with weeks like these, and we need to start preparing for life in the Championship."


    "League One," said MD.


    "Nope. Control F, find League One. Find and replace with Championship. We are on the march and we need to prepare." From what I''d seen, CAs in the Championship ranged from 110 to 149. 110 to 130 were the bottom half teams. 131 to 149 included well-managed playoff teams and the big dogs who''d come down from the Prem. I had a few lads who wouldn''t make the grade - Omari and Tom, for example - plus a few who would be good squad players - Andrew, Sticky, Josh. Christian would fit in that category but it wasn''t his destiny to be fourth choice centre back for anyone. "We need to use this money to get some proper mega quality in. But we can''t let training suffer so I''m thinking we should commit to getting the showers done."


    "The showers?" said Peter.


    "Yeah. Think of Bumpers. There''s a meeting room we don''t use much. That would be one corner of the building and the opposite corner would be the viewing room that overlooks the 3G pitch. Make sense?"


    "Yes, I can picture it."


    "Control A on all those cabins, delete. Open new file: six changing rooms with showers, two boot rooms, a laundry room, disabled toilets, loads of lockers for when we''re hosting tournaments."


    Brooke said, "The architects had more time to think about it, Max, and they''ve offered another option. You can get the basic one for 400,000, or add a second floor for 600."


    "What goes on the second floor?"


    "Whatever you want. Offices. The charity needs an office. Meeting rooms, media rooms, classrooms. You could put some golf simulators up there; the players would love it. Or the vast dental clinic you keep talking about. You wouldn''t need to decide immediately but it''s a chance to think ahead. You told me you want most of the site''s footprint used for pitches so if we keep adding rooms, we will need to get vertical at some stage."


    Another one of those dilemmas! The basic version would be a huge upgrade on what we had, but the deluxe version would pay off manyfold in the long term. Two hundred thousand was nothing in comparison to getting an extra floor, but the difference between having a transfer budget of one million versus one point two, at this stage of our project, instinctively felt enormous and significant.


    Brooke continued. "Just a reminder that doing the restaurant would generate revenue. And to put it out there, there''s enough in the budget to do the deluxe versions of both."


    I thought about Chip Star. He was having a ball running a football club, spending all his money on players. He was prune juicing it, though. Money in, money out. He would leave nothing except a Wikipedia mention of a second-place finish. I wanted to leave behind tangible proof that I had been there, and I wanted the club to be able to sustain itself. Replacing a handful of ugly cabins with a beautiful building that contained a restaurant and a sports bar supported by two massive kitchens, with function rooms, even a roof terrace... It would be a solid investment that would last after I was gone. "That one has to wait, I''m afraid, but I want it bad. And I want more 3G pitches all over Cheshire and North Wales. Soon. Soooon. For now, let me see what I can do in the transfer market and I''ll let you know about the shower block asap."


    That was pretty much the meeting. I took one last look at the number on the board. 1.63 million pounds.


    That was a lot of Exit Triallists.


    ***


    Saturday, December 6


    Match 19 of 46: Forest Green Rovers versus Chester


    To: DB


    From: PB


    We are on the bus coming back from a tiny village that somehow has an English football league team. Final score 0-0, so Chester are still 9th in the table but they are now 17 points behind Bradford City.


    The match was more interesting than expected. I have seen reporters on social media say Chester played for a draw. Not true - Max prioritised fitness and avoiding injury over winning, which is not something I can say I have ever seen before.


    There were prominent roles for Andrew Harrison and Tom Westwood, two men who can run and run. Dazza, Wibbers, and Pascal shared two slots, and there was an injury scare for Henri. Max subbed him off immediately and went up front himself. Shame - I was interested to see him play as a centre back!


    He was even more drained than he looked, though, and Forest Green''s 4-5-1 didn''t leave him any space to exploit. He nearly created a goal from a crossed free kick but with five minutes to go he came to me and asked if I had any good scams up my sleeve. I told him the side looked shattered and the only way to generate threat would be to send defenders forward but that the risk/return was horrible.


    He said he agreed with me and finished the match as a defensive midfielder, but in the dressing room he was very down and there was a remarkable exchange. It started when Max asked for everyone''s attention.


    ''Lads, we had a bad week and I know a few of you are as sick about it as I am. But look, it''s on me. No-one could fault your commitment, quality, or desire. I hold my hands up. I looked at the fixtures and wanted to win them all. It might have been better to bin one off. Get six points, or three and go through in the cup. There''s a saying, a man who chases two rabbits catches none. I chased three rabbits this week and got none.''


    Henri stood up. ''Sorry, my friend, but you are speaking crap. We took a League One side to penalties and got four points from six. It is, at worst, a 7 out of 10 week.''


    ''We were lucky we didn''t get even more injuries than we did.''


    ''It is December in England and the matches come thick and fast. Players get injured. Thanks to you we do not have months of fatigue in our legs and thanks to the Brig we have resilience in our joints. Stop being so dramatic. Sit down and suffer in silence.''


    ''No. We''ve been through the grind and now it''s time to win every match. For Sandra and little baby Max.''


    ''Little baby Henri has not been born and by the way, that is very good news. We should focus on the positives. We have two easy weeks ahead, do we not? There is no club in the world that can play four matches in seven days and expect to win them all. But since you are miserable, I will cheer you up. I volunteer to start against Winsford United on Tuesday.''


    ''Whoa!'' said Dazza, jumping up. ''I only played a half today. I''m fit for Tuesday.''


    ''What about me?'' cried Tom, who had just run like a ferret for ninety minutes. ''I''m supposed to play the Cheshire Cup! I want to score for little baby Tom.''


    Suddenly the entire squad was on its feet, shouting out reasons they should be picked. Max had already told me he expects to use players almost exclusively from the under eighteens, but this show of support brought a smile to his face. He held up his hands. ''All right, all right, you''ve cheered me up. You''re allowed to talk about Man United on the bus home.''


    Youngster clenched a fist and hissed ''yessss!''


    Pascal yelled, ''Are we still going up, boss?''


    ''Of course we''re fucking going up,'' said Max, and he got ready to deliver a monologue, but Pascal interrupted by shouting ''We. Are. Going up! Said we are going up.''


    The chant was taken up by the others and the mood was as though we had won.


    I''m learning to expect the unexpected. Which is exactly what you told me to expect.


    ***


    Sunday, December 7


    The women went down to Bristol to play their FA Cup third round match. Since it was likely to be the team''s last competitive match of the season - Bristol were seventh in the Championship, two levels higher - I decided to show my face. I invited Peter, not really expecting him to want to come, but he accepted and sat in the back with Emma.


    I picked up a tasty 547 experience points that put me right back on track to affording Relationism.


    XP balance: 23,890


    I was 2,400 XP away from picking up the perk, and after that, if I went absolutely bonkers, I would also be able to afford a new formation before the Man United game.


    "Babes," said Emma.


    I realised I was driving like a fucking nutjob. "Soz," I said.


    Extra grinding? No chance. I couldn''t push myself any harder than I already was. Not at Christmas.


    Instead of piling on future responsibilities, I thought back to what I''d just seen.


    The match itself had been an all-time classic. Jackie Reaper''s 3-4-2-1 used Ridley T, a left back, at left midfield, but she was told not to make forward runs. Putting our strongest eleven on the pitch - Maddy might disagree - gave us an average CA of 58.


    Bristol''s was 77.


    They were playing 3-4-3 and had two young players I started lusting after immediately, but there was no way they would drop two tiers to play for us. On the other hand, they were being paid buttons. Maybe they would!


    I would need to wait to watch the documentary to know what Jackie said to our players, but they came out firing on all cylinders. All the things that bothered me when they got complacent - the slow passes, the lack of intensity, not getting into position to support a teammate - there was none of that. Given the quality of the opposition, it might have been the best 45 minutes from any Chester team so far that season.


    At the heart of it was Sarah Greene. She had learned to pass at Man City but she was born to run. For the first goal she danced through four defenders, sat the goalie on her arse, and dinked the ball up, over, and in. For the second she exchanged passes with Dani and struck an early shot before Bristol''s goalie had set herself.


    Our third came from a corner, when Femi showed more desire than any defender and powered in a header.


    I was keeping a close eye on Angel and she played well in the first half. The curse rated her 7 out of 10 and she was selfless with her work off the ball, often moving into space to create gaps for Sarah and Dani, and twice she won a free kick in a dangerous position by holding the ball up as the coaches had been teaching her.


    In the second half, though, as Bristol struggled to get back into the match, Angel was clearly thinking about how the fixture would look in the documentary. The episode would be called The Sarah Greene Show, wouldn''t it, and I wouldn''t need to artificially cut Angel out.


    Angel decided to get herself some attention by faking an injury. She lay on the grass until treatment came, and the physio made the ''sub'' gesture. I could imagine the narrator''s voice. "This injury comes at a terrible time for Chester. Angel is so important for the team. What will they do without her?"


    Jackie chose Bea Pea as her replacement ahead of the slightly more able Julie McKay. Bea Pea, lacking match sharpness, struggled from the off and Bristol sensed that the tide had turned. One of the centre backs pushed out to man-mark Sarah and their midfield established dominance over ours.


    Suddenly we were hanging on.


    The first of the two players I liked was Penny Wise, a fast, powerful left-midfielder who was basically my dream Aff replacement. She caused mayhem with her dribbling and crossing.


    The second was a redhead striker called Hodges. 22 years old, high CA, high PA, and my opinion was that she would be even more stunning in blue and white instead of red. She scored a header followed by a screamer from the edge of the penalty area.


    The last fifteen minutes were torture. We got pushed back, and back... but held firm.


    Bristol City 2, Chester 3.


    Yes, Jackie mate!


    Peter had got sucked into the drama and tension. He had been quiet on the way down but was now chatting away with Emma and I realised the topic was his grandfather.


    "I''m his legacy but all I can ever be is a disappointment. He was one of the best defenders who ever played the game. Some say the best. He was one of the best managers who ever managed. Some say the best. I can never even get close to that. People look at me and all they see is a shadow."


    I made a harsh buzzing noise. "Sorry, wrong answer. I think you''re fucking mint."


    "Max!" said Emma, outraged. "Peter is talking about his feelings."


    "Yeah? Living up to your name? How about living up to yourself? I was the best player in the world for a few months. Now I''m shit. That''s the shadow. I read that book Moneyball and one of the older players hits a shot that goes quite far but he''s disappointed. That used to be a home run, he says. That''s how it was for me. Imagine being able to do anything with a football to the extent you''re trying to defy physics."


    "What is that in reference to?" said Peter.


    "I was trying to create a new kind of free kick. I wanted it to spin madly when it bounced so it would pop off the goalie and whoever was first to the ball could score."


    "Why not score yourself?"


    "My goal bonuses would have bankrupted the club," I said, smiling at the memory. I''d come a long way since Darlo.


    "Why not renegotiate your contract?"


    I smiled. "It was easier to rewrite physics. That''s what I''m saying. You can''t believe how good I was." I let out a sigh. Would I get back to those levels? If I kept going, yes. I would have a year or two of pure mystery winger and I would be able to play full 90 minute matches if I chose. That wasn''t compatible with being a top manager but perhaps I''d treat myself to one match a month. In a packed Deva stadium, twenty thousand singing my name, defenders begging me to stop dribbling.


    "How do you stand it? Not being as good as you''re supposed to be?"


    "Erm," I said, as I carefully overtook a caravan. Who caravans in the British winter? "It''s easier because I''m the manager, I think. I live through the team, the club. On the pitch I do my small part but it doesn''t really matter if it''s me or Dazza or Wibbers scoring. Better if it''s them, actually, because it increases their value and I''ll get more money when I sell. If I score every goal, like at the start of the season, it''s not a good sign. That said, it helps that I create chances and threat. If I was a centre back like you it''d be harder to go on for twenty minutes and make a difference. Maybe I''d go to DM - that''s overpowered - or man-mark a troublesome opponent. I think if I was a CB I''d play the whole 90 or not at all."


    It got quiet in the back so I tried to put myself in Peter''s shoes. He was struggling with his legacy. It would be every boy''s dream to have a grandfather like Dieter, but what if it wasn''t as good as it seemed? Maybe it was better to be Jamie Brotherhood and be better than your dad.


    "No-one can say I''m failing because I have different aims to everyone else in football. Chip Star''s goal is to make a big splash and, presumably, sell Bradford for a big profit. They come second, he ten exes his dad''s investment, he gets a child of the week trophy. Alan Turner wants to manage England. Bristol City''s women, today, they''re in a tough spot because they can''t compete in the Super League so they''re finding it hard to keep hold of talent when they get it. They''re just bumbling along and they''re out of the cup. What''s the point of their season now? None. But they''ll play their hearts out every week, won''t they?"


    "Yes," said Peter.


    "My long-term ambitions are massive but sometimes it''s the little things that make my day. We have a dentist, did you know that? A club dentist. That''s healthcare for the people I''m responsible for, plus their families. I''m proud of that. The struggle is worth it. By the way, any hack can win the Bundesliga with Bayern and loads of shit managers have won World Cups. Your grandad was great, no doubt about it, but could he beat Winsford United away on a cold Tuesday night?"


    "Absolutely yes."


    I laughed. "I think I''m supposed to get you to do some managing. You can do that game if you want."


    The astonishment he was feeling was evident. "Are you for real?"


    "Sure, why not? It''s the easiest win of all time."


    "Don''t you want it for your own legacy? Your own win percentage?"


    "Nah," I said. "I cared about that stuff at first but it''s not a good measure of the job I''m doing, is it? What about the overall value of the squad? I''ve won two leagues and sold players for over a million and a half. If you knew what I had when I started you''d know how astonishing that is. I care even less about my personal stats since I hired Sandra. I give her as many matches as I can, especially the easy ones. She''s going to be part of my legacy when she takes over a men''s team."


    Emma said, "Sandra''s a ledge."


    "The offer''s there, Peter. It''d be fun, wouldn''t it? Cool story for the Winsford United players, too. I really like your grandad and if he wants you to be a manager this will put a smile on his face. You can always say you didn''t like it and that''s that, right? I don''t really mind either way because I''ll get credit just for making the offer." I laughed. "You can let me down as long as you tell Dieter how great I am." I laughed some more. "Seriously, though, I don''t like being told what to do by anyone and that''s not what''s happening here. Ah, that reminds me. I do need to tell you what to do... Tomorrow morning the lads will still be tired so can we do some of my Relationism drills and then have a slow-motion game?"


    "Of course."


    "The rest of the week''s yours and you can push them hard. We''ll beat Crewe if we get enough players fully fit."


    "Good. It will be nice to have a win on the board for when little baby Peter is born."


    I bounced and punched the steering wheel with delight. "Yes! Peter Bauer in the area! We''ll fill you with Chesterness, don''t you doubt it."


    Emma pushed him and chanted, "One of us! One of us!"


    Peter did a goofy grin for a while.


    I looked through the squad screen. We had far too many players with low Condition. "Ems," I said. "Can we get you in a Chester training kit tomorrow morning? We need some bodies for a slow-motion session. You just have to move around in a big blob. No running, guaranteed."


    "Can''t, babes. Not sure if I ever told you this but I''m actually a superstar lawyer star. I''m doing a legacy. My Wikipedia page doesn''t say ''slacked off every Monday morning to have lukewarm showers with loads of hot, sweaty elite athletes''. Actually, hang on. I''m not that busy tomorrow."


    Peter laughed. "I''ll do it, Max. I''m incredibly interested in Relationism. Pascal is an effective evangelist."


    "Oh, top," I said, relieved. All he had to do was stroll around and he wouldn''t need to be told who was on his team every five seconds unlike certain other people. "Babes, you''re sacked."


    "Oi," she said.


    That conversation, believe it or not, had far-reaching consequences and I would soon realise that Peter Bauer had not been sent to Chester for the reason I thought.


    ***


    Monday, December 8


    It struck me over the weekend that I had exactly one chance to get seriously good data about the Secret Sandra perk. I might never again have a pair of players who had grown at the exact same pace for such a long period as Cole and Josh. It made more sense to dump a substantial chunk of XP into Cole''s development in order to see what was possible and how much the perk could benefit me and the club.


    My initial plan had to be to ''gift'' him 10 XP per day, but of course we didn''t train on weekends. If I bumped it up to 50 a day, that would cost me 250 a week. If I consistently did that over three months I would get very, very solid results and I would know if it was ever going to be worth investing more.


    I gifted Cole 50 XP and watched to see if he glowed or if a sky-high pillar of light shot out from his crown. Nothing of the sort happened, but then again, most curse effects were not visible.


    Peter did some German recovery session drills and then I asked Dan, Wibbers, and Pascal to demonstrate some of the basic principles of Relationism. Their enthusiasm was cute but they veered into wild-eyed explanations of using the touchline as a defender and the importance of using flicks to move the ball away from the press so I shushed them and said it was better to learn by doing. I made Dan and Wibbers team captains for one side, Pascal for the other, and we did a very simple, slow, match.


    Peter Bauer was on Pascal''s team and sometimes they shouted incomprehensible things to each other like ''Rechts!'' and ''Achtung'' and ''tiptop, super.''


    We were only doing the sessions in case I ended up using Relationism in the Man United match so I didn''t care how good it was or how it looked. It was all about establishing plausible deniability. I couldn''t just turn up and force a football team into a blob. Making some randos play 4-4-2 better was completely believable. Having the entire team move to the side of the pitch without a word from me was going to get me covered in electrodes and put in a glass case.


    Yeah, I had to put some token amount of work in.


    What did the rest of my day look like? Busy getting ready for Christmas with Emma, Henri, and Luisa. Lots of different things to buy that would take us from one side of Chester to the other. Was there a gap where I could trigger Playdar? While I was passing a school, maybe. It was one of those days when it would be pretty crazy if I suddenly got out of the car and signed a kid. Nah, forget it. As always, it was a shame to waste the gift; it was a once-per-24-hour shot.


    I watched as Peter Bauer took a pass and played it simply on, deeper into the blob.


    A crazy thought struck me. What if I used Playdar now? Wouldn''t it show me his profile? Perhaps not, because he had retired from football. I hadn''t asked about his injuries because it was always the same - knees - and because he was probably sick of talking about them. That was also why I''d never asked him about Dieter. He wanted to be his own man, didn''t he? The more time I spent with him, the more I understood how it was. People didn''t see Peter, they saw Dieter. It would drive you tonto.


    It wouldn''t cost me anything to have a peek, though, would it? He was there kicking the ball. Any kid in the world, any demon, any imp, would say that Peter Bauer was playing football, but if the curse chose not to show me his profile, it wouldn''t have cost me anything.


    Fuck it. Let''s see how much worse than his grandad he actually was. I reckoned it was a safe bet to say that Dieter was PA 200 and had maxed his talent.


    I waited for the ball to be rolling towards my target and hit Playdar.


    A bright yellow column of light erupted from Peter just as he took a touch, looked up, and saw Pascal making a slow run. Peter made to clip the ball over the top but then remembered his shit knees. He held a hand up in apology and played a short pass instead. Pascal looked annoyed, realised why the pass hadn''t come, and gave a thumbs up, big smile, moved back into the blob.


    Pascal had surprised me by falling in love with Relationism. The space invader, the positional master, loved the hectic intensity of the blob, and he loved being on the same team as the legend''s shadow.


    The legend''s shadow.


    I took a shaky half-step backwards. Playdar had revealed Peter''s player profile.


    Peter Bauer, it read. German. Centre back. Aged 25. Yeah yeah yeah.


    Positioning 19. Passing 18. Technique 18. Influence 17. Tell me you''re Dieter Bauer''s grandson without telling me.


    Current Ability: 40. Yeah. The guy took training with Bayern Munich every day. He hadn''t completely lost it.


    Potential Ability: 166. We had Lee Hudson, Lee Contreras, and now we had hooooooo-lee fuck.


    Peter Bauer could have been earning two hundred grand a week playing for a top six Premier League team. He could have had ten caps for Germany by now.


    It was such a shame that...


    Hang on.


    I clicked in, out, in, out. I closed the curse. I walked away until the player profiles vanished, walked back.


    One more time I went to Peter Bauer''s inner tabs, saw again that he was earning an utterly insane seven thousand pounds a week, and found myself getting absolutely furious, incandescently angry. It wasn¡¯t that fact that he was being paid more than twice what I was.


    Two words were winding me all the way up. All the way up and more!


    Injuries, said the curse, which was never, ever wrong about this stuff.


    Injuries, it said... none.


    ***


    Tuesday, December 9


    To: DB


    From: PB


    Subject: Cheshire Cup Second Round


    The Cheshire Cup is a regional trophy and was won by Chester in the past two seasons. Sandra Lane is normally in charge of these matches and negotiates with Max about the line up. Her motivation is to win the match and thus she pushes for the strongest possible starting eleven. Max tries to assure victory while giving minutes to players returning from injury, youth prospects, squad players, and so on. He puts himself on the bench in case anything goes wrong because he is unusually motivated to win this competition.


    ''It''s the Cheshire Cup'', he says. ''Chester is in Cheshire. I want us to be the number one team in Cheshire. Fuck, I want us to be the number one team in Europe but we''re not in the Champions League yet. We''re in this so we win this. End of conversation.''


    Max picked a youthful team. Basically the under eighteens plus Sunday Sowunmi and Tom Westwood with some big names on the bench in case of emergency.


    The manager picked a very English 4-4-2 and had fun tweaking things. Lucas Friend, a left back, was outstanding and the manager gave him licence to attack. To ensure defensive stability, the manager kept Jamie Brotherhood, the right back, in defensive pose.


    The players listened to the manager and tried their best to follow his instructions. At times they were unable to and the manager had to undo his error but they showed great spirit and a complete lack of ego. They play for the team and if they are asked to do something they will try. It is up to the manager to ask them the right questions.


    The score at half time was two-nil thanks to goals from the striker Tom Westwood, a player who redefines the word indefatigable.


    In the dressing room, Max asked who among the subs wanted to play for their legendary manager and eleven hands went up. There are five subs in this competition, which means every sub put both hands up and one man cheated.


    The manager kept faith with his young players, who went three-nil ahead, then made three changes. He put Max Best on at right-midfield but immediately regretted it as Max did all kinds of inane things such as touching his knee to the ball and spraying pointless but incredible 70-yard passes from right wing to left back.


    He persuaded Max to play properly for a moment. It was enough. Four-nil! The manager was content.


    The manager was me.


    I was the manager.


    By the time you read this I will have been added to Wikipedia''s list of managers of Chester Football Club. Max Best, Sandra Lane, Peter Bauer.


    My win percentage is one hundred percent. I managed Max Best. I helped with the development of many young players. A player called Fungrieve scored his first goal for the club under my watchful eye.


    Just before we got on the coach after the victory, Max put his hand on my shoulder and gazed into my soul. ''Every blessing ignored becomes a curse.''


    I said, ''I don''t believe in curses.''


    He leaned closer. ''Believe in this one, because I know what you are. I know what you have to offer.''


    ''I''m just a coach.''


    ''You''re the same as me. Those kids tonight. Henk, Tyson, Benny, they loved it. I loved it. You lifted our curses and I''m going to make your life miserable until you fall back in love with football. That''s a fucking Maxy two-thumbs triple-lock promise for the ages, mate.''


    Message delivered, he wandered off. This was a meaningless match in a provincial tournament watched by one man and his dog. How does he make it feel so monumental?


    And whatever did he mean?

 12.12 - Acta Non Verba

    12.


    Wednesday, December 10


    I spent a restless night with my brain randomly spinning up like a disc drive. I had three main problems and I blamed Sebastian Weaver for all of them.


    First, Angel. It felt like 50-50 if I would handle the situation well. My record when dealing with troublemakers was spotty, to be generous, and I had far more power than she did, which usually led to quick, decisive, one-sided outcomes. Angel had played a weak hand incredibly poorly but I had no appetite to throw down five aces and scoop up all the chips. Unless I could prove she had faked her injury, taking a hard line wouldn''t benefit the squad in any way. Going nuclear on Pascal, Chipper, and Andrew had spread healthy fear amongst the other players. Taking Angel down from the top of the Christmas tree and throwing her into the box with the torn tinsel and broken baubles would only cause puzzlement. What''s got into Max? She''s just a kid. Also, she was a client of my agency and I would personally benefit from her becoming rich and famous.


    Second, Peter Bauer. He was my dream centre back and he was uninjured - physically, at least. I wanted to sign him as a player-coach and I wanted it badly, but he had demons for days and if I went full Max I would scare him away. I needed to be tactful and sensitive but I also needed to move fast.


    If I couldn''t sign him before the end of the January transfer window it would delay his growth by another six months and it would realistically be too late for him to reach his potential in time to enjoy it. I''d checked his profile and he had played six times for Bayern, so he must once have been CA 100 at least.


    I knew it was easy getting players back to their former levels, but it wasn''t necessarily quick. If I got Peter in January I could bring him to, say, CA 75 by the end of this season and CA 100 next Jan. Even faster, maybe! I''d always thought that players with coaching badges improved faster. And once I had finished my experiment with Cole Adams, I could use Secret Sandra to boost Peter''s growth. So a whole year just to get to the bottom of the mountain...


    The biggest hurdle was that signing him in January actually meant agreeing the deal in December, and that was related to my third problem - how to spend my one point six million pounds of transfer funds and my three thousand seven hundred and ninety pounds of wages.


    The more I thought about it, the more I realised I wasn''t going to spend the whole one point six million on transfers and that wasn''t by choice. A million-pound player would want million-pound player wages, and I couldn''t offer that. No-one at Chester was earning Gemma money. If I fenced off some of the transfer funds, I could redirect them into wages. If I set aside two hundred thousand, MD would allow me to sign a guy on 2,000 a week on a two plus one contract. Two thousand a week would match what Sticky, Zach, Dazza, and Foquita were on. Not Gemma money, maybe not even lobster money, but for League One and Two players who were desperate for first-team football like Zach had been, it might be enough.


    I could certainly sign three players who would walk into the first eleven while having decent resale value, and I would still have enough to do the showers. I was 98% sure I would upgrade the showers - the thought of having our facilities score decline next season was stressing me out - and it made absolute sense to build the second floor.


    Do the showers and buy three players, then. And when those deals were complete, what would I do when Peter told me he wanted to play for Chester? MD might agree to let the club go overdrawn to pay Peter''s wages. The chances were similar to the odds that Angel would come to me before getting on the bus for tonight''s Welsh Cup quarter final and apologise for what she had done.


    Yeah.


    Emma was frying eggs and the smell drove me crazy. I pushed myself out of bed and went to the kitchen. "That smells good," I said, in a whiny voice.


    She smiled. "Want some?"


    "Don''t go to any trouble over little old me," I said. "I''ll just watch you eat."


    The toaster popped. She buttered the bread, plopped the fried egg on top, and slid the plate towards me. "Pepper''s there if you want."


    "Oh my God, you''re the best."


    "I know."


    She popped another couple of slices of bread in the toaster. She didn''t adjust the dial from 4 to 3 because she had absolute faith that the toaster ''knew'' it had recently made some toast and ''knew'' that its elements were hot. I believed the dial was simply a timer and you had to adjust the setting manually to get the right amount of toasting done. Like Emma''s bread, the arguments got overheated sometimes, but it wasn''t worth breaking up over. She saw me staring at the dial and gave me an affectionate, exasperated smile, before taking two eggs out of the carton.


    I said, "I didn''t sleep well."


    "I know."


    I must have been tossing and turning. "Soz."


    "S''okay. It''s not easy."


    "It''s your dad''s fault," I said, munching away. Any bite now and the delicious eggy goo would be released. Nom nom nom.


    "How''s that?"


    I talked while Emma worked the pan. "He''s fixed the mum situation as best as it can be fixed. If she reacts badly to the bungalow, that''s it. Care home forever. If she loves it, great. Yeah, it''s nagging away at me but we''ll know on Friday, won''t we? So that''s that. Now things that used to be C-level problems are B-level and the old B is the new A. I read about this guy once who was annoyed by his noisy neighbours so he moved to the countryside. Then he was annoyed by planes so he got special windows so he couldn''t hear them. Then his fridge started winding him up so he got a quiet fridge. Every time he solved his noise problem he''d find something else was suddenly super loud. The story ended with him furiously angry at the sound of the water rushing through his radiators."


    Emma scoffed, amused. "Can I make one request?"


    "Yeff," I said, crunching deeper into the butty. I''d hit the goo!


    "It''s not my dad. It''s my mum and dad. It''s her money, too."


    I nodded a few times while I pointed to my full mouth. Emma''s toast popped - they had come out all right, despite her best efforts - and she gave them a quick wipe of butter. When I swallowed, I said, "You''re right. You''re a billion percent right. And she''s incredible, finding all this old stuff. I just think of it as his money because he''s the big lawyer man."


    "She was a big lawyer woman until she had me. She always planned to go back but found she didn''t have anything to prove and she liked the quiet life. That''s what you''re always talking about doing. Win the Premier League, retire. Just because you''re pottering around the garden while Ruth and I make you rich doesn''t mean people should dismiss what you did."


    "Yep. Got it. Have I said it wrong in front of her?"


    "I don''t think so but..."


    I tutted and squashed my eyes closed. "I''ll do better. Should I say something?"


    "Don''t beat yourself up, babes. It''s just an area of improvement. And no, don''t say anything. Acta non verba."


    "Soz, what?"


    "Acta non verba."


    I made a face like I was trying to solve a quadratic equation while examining a crime scene. "Er... actors are not worms."


    "Actions speak louder than words. Show, don''t tell. For example, if you want to show someone you like them, give them your fried egg butty."


    That brought an early-morning twinkle to the eye. "Do you want me to pick you up and spin you around?"


    She laid her fried egg onto the toast and took a bite. "Yeff. But not now. Busy."


    While I let her eat in peace for a minute, I put the kettle on and took two cups from the cupboard. I started our teas brewing and leaned against the fridge. "The Angel sitch," I said. "I''ve got some actions that speak louder than words. Yeah, she''ll understand what I''m not saying, all right. There''s a risk she''ll take it badly and leave the club but if she does that she''s never getting to the top."


    "Leave the club?" said Emma. "You didn''t say it was so bad."


    "It''s not but you know me, I always think what''s the worst that could happen. I think my solution is pretty amazing, to be honest, but who knows how she''ll react? She''s had a sheltered life and now she''s on the verge of big fame. I''m going to acta non verba but it would be good if you, Ruth, maybe Brooke, could be there for her. Nudge her back to the path of righteousness."


    Emma was giving me an unblinking stare. "What are you going to do?"


    "I''m going to give her what she wants. I''m going to treat her like she''s the most important player on the team. I''m going to treat her like she''s irreplaceable."


    "Why are you smirking?"


    "I''m not. This is a very serious and delicate topic."


    "Your smugness is off the charts. Oh my God, this is the worst I''ve seen you since we went to that pub quiz and you knew all the literature questions."


    "You''re still mad there were no questions about Latin. You and your dad are such snobs. Okay so I think it will go well but if there''s ever a chance for you to tell her that what I want and what she wants is one hundred percent the same, that would be great."


    "What do you want?"


    "I want her to be world famous for scoring hundreds of goals and for winning trophies. I want her to score a hat trick for England in the World Cup final." I looked away. "I want her to be so rich she can look after her whole family, forever. Ideally she''d do it without doing that whole raunchy pop star phase but that''s nothing to do with me, really."


    "It better not be."


    I laughed. "I just think she''ll get way more famous and stay famous longer the classier she keeps it. She can be sexy but she should go for a thingy vibe. Who''s that actress from the olden days?"


    "Mary Pickford."


    "Married the same Welshman six times. Er... Not the one from Gone With the Wind. Cleopatra."


    "Elizabeth Taylor."


    "Yesssss!"


    "I think Vivien Leigh is a better comp."


    "Well, anyway, something like that. Angel could position herself as an unearthly, unattainable beauty and do high-end perfume and watch ads, but all she knows is Love Island. That kind of advice might be better coming from a woman."


    "You want me to talk to her?"


    "Yes but it might be better to wait for the right moment. Discuss this with Ruth, too, because it''s possible by this evening she''ll be mad at me and by extension, you."


    "You mean Angel, not Ruth, right?"


    "Right. Why would Ruth be mad at me? I''m the best thing that ever happened to her. Because of me she gets to take the piss out of loads of over-promoted, under-prepared men. Just be ready to plant some seeds with Angel. Do you want to be the biggest star in the world or the hottest girl on season 12 of One Night Bang?"


    "Interesting." Ems sipped her tea. "I don''t suppose you have a detailed outline of how Angel''s career in advertisements should go over the next ten years, along with outfit suggestions?"


    "Of course I do not," I said, with one hundred percent sincerity. "More like twenty years."


    That got a laugh. "I don''t even want to know."


    "She''s like me. She''s not a bad person but when life gets too easy she goes looking for trouble. We''re crushing the league and even when she plays shit she gets a goal. When a teammate really needs her, she''s there." I remembered the way Old Nick had intervened to make my life much harder by selling R. Brown to the Saudi league. It got my attention all right, and came with long-term benefits. While Emma got on with her fried egg butty, I texted Sophie, asking her to bring the camera crew to Bumpers later. "Yeah, good, that''s sorted. Okay and then there''s Peter. I think if he came to Chester I could get him playing to a high standard but as soon as he sees Dieter''s shadow he''s going to curl back into his shell. My only idea is to trick him into coming and then frog him."


    "Frog him?"


    "You know, that thing. What is it? You put a frog in some water and heat it up and the frog doesn''t notice. But if you put him straight in hot water he jumps out."


    "You want to boil Peter Bauer?"


    "Yes I want to boil Peter Bauer, is that okay?"


    Emma booped me so she could open the fridge and put some things away. "I don''t know, babes. I don''t see it."


    "You don''t see him at Chester?"


    "Oh, I see that. I just don''t see it working. Any day he might wake up and think, why am I here? No, that won''t fly."


    "Yeah. You''re right. I just don''t know how to even approach it."


    "With honesty, for a start. But take it slow. Instead of being - what did you call him? - an elegant defender from a more civilised age, treat him like he''s a Geordie megababe."


    "You mean ignore him for six months until he jumps me in Darlington?"


    She twisted her lips. "I mean give him the big speech about why you like football."


    "You said acta non verba."


    "I did, didn''t I? Okay just show him your passion."


    "Show him my what?"


    Emma smiled but she was starting to get into work mode. She pulled her jacket on and closed her eyes. "How big is Bayern Munich?"


    "Quite big," I said.


    "One of the biggest clubs in Europe, right?"


    I scoffed. "It''s not bigger than Chester."


    "Babes, be serious. I''m trying to help."


    "Fine," I said, throwing my arms up. "It''s about as big as Chester."


    Emma rolled her eyes. "They''ve got that huge stadium where you did commentary that time."


    "It''s beyond belief."


    "And he''s paid Gemma money and he gets to coach elite players. And if he wants to start playing again he can do it there. You need to offer him something he can''t get anywhere else."


    "Henri''s Christmas happening."


    "Yeah," said Emma, giving me a kiss on the lips. "Maybe get him signed up before he goes to that." She waited for me to stop laughing, then said, "Any news from Sandra?"


    "No," I said, narrowing my eyes.


    "No news is good news."


    "Actions speak louder than words," I said. "Here''s what I want. Sandra comes to training this morning, firm handshakes all round, zooms off with a big smile on her face."


    "Yes, please. Or she could just send everyone photos of little baby Emma."


    ***


    I drove to Bumpers, gifted 50 XP to Cole Adams, and watched as Peter did an intense session with some very welcome pops. With twenty minutes to go I interrupted and said I wanted to do a low-stakes match along Relationist principles.


    "Basically a big rondo," I said. "Sunday, you played last night. Can you step out, please?"


    "We''ll be a man short," he said, hoping I would let him stay.


    "Well, shit," I said. "I suppose we can do ten v eleven. Wasn''t really what I wanted, though."


    "I''ll play," said Peter.


    I tried to play it cool. "Top. Bosh. Thanks." No biggie. Lol.


    I allowed the game to flow, but paused a couple of times to give some tips. After a while I changed the teams so that the guys with the most experience of Relationism were on the same side. Dan, Wibbers, Pascal, Zach, and Henri. I put Peter in that group.


    With all the knowledge tied up on one team, the other reverted to normal positional play. Fascinating. I didn''t mind it in theory - my instinct was to let it happen, let the bonds break and reattach as they wanted. The point of the session, though, was getting Peter to play. He was curious about Relationism and I was following Emma''s advice by giving him something he couldn''t get anywhere else.


    "From now on," I called out. "You can only score if you''ve played at least one one-two and done at least one river."


    The reaction to that instruction was thrilling. The team that had slipped into its old habits went hard at Relationism. The session went from being a strange variant on a normal match, the usual daily business, to madness and mayhem. Players moved out of their zones more freely, mini-blobs formed spontaneously, quickly followed by counter-blobs. The pitch took on the aspect of a lava lamp. Big blobs formed and melted away, always at least one small blob somewhere. Getting a one-two was pretty easy - that happened reliably with positional play. But forcing the river to happen was difficult.


    I noticed Peter getting into the flow state. He didn''t play long passes but apart from that, you wouldn''t have known he hadn''t played a professional match in over two years.


    When his CA turned green I ended the session. Always leave them wanting more.


    I walked over to him and smiled. "Fun?"


    He was flushed, excited, happy. "Yes, Max!"


    "Top." Should I talk to him now? No. Actions, not words. "I''ve got us two tickets to see Man United tomorrow night. You in?"


    "Of course!"


    "Mint."


    ***


    Chesterness


    Series 2 Episode 4: The Actas of the Apostles


    Wide shot: Angel and Jackie Reaper walking towards and entering the Sin Bin.


    Screen text: Six hours before the Welsh Cup quarter final. An emergency meeting has been called by director of football Max Best.


    Medium shot: A plain white table. Jackie sits on the left, Angel in the middle, Max on the right.


    Max: [Warmly] Thanks for coming to the Your Company Name Here meeting room.


    Jackie: The what?


    Max: I didn''t ask you here to talk about the many and varied sponsorship opportunities that are available to bright, nimble companies who align with our values of delighting our stakeholders in an ever-changing world.


    Jackie: If you ask me to do an ad read, I''m leaving.


    Angel: I''ll do it.


    Max: Okay, what it is, right, is I couldn''t sleep last night even though I have a sponsor me premium bed that normally guarantees the eight hours I need to deliver non-stop excellence. My mind kept going back to that image of Angel collapsing to the turf with no-one anywhere near her. I''m worried, Jackie.


    Angel: I''m fine now. It was a phantom injury.


    Max: I don''t believe in phantom injuries. I think your body is trying to tell you something. Jackie knows my biggest nightmare is a player getting an ACL injury and I''ll go to mad lengths to avoid that.


    Angel: Mad lengths?


    Max: Jackie, I''m stressed ay eff. Even a bar of slash glass of slash unit of the consumable product I will one day soon personally endorse couldn''t help me. I know you''ve got Aberystwyth Town tonight and you''ve done your plans and everything but the idea of Angel being in the team and doing her ACL is really freaking me out.


    Jackie: You want me to leave her out? The physios couldn''t find anything wrong with her.


    Max: She wouldn''t be carried off the pitch in a vital cup match for no reason, would she? Look, you''re the manager. It''s your call.


    Jackie: It''s not though, is it? Because if I pick her and she gets injured you''ll go ballistic.


    Max: I won''t go ballistic, no. I''ll be diplomatic. I hope we''ll still be friends and stay in touch.


    Jackie: [scoffs] Great. Can you find a thinner veil for that threat? [He''s angry, but not for long.] Not going to risk it. You know I trust your instincts. I wish you''d been my manager back in the day. Might still have knees. Would you like me to pick Bea Pea or Julie?


    Angel: Wait, hang on.


    Max: You''re the manager. Pick whatever team you want but just for funsies, let''s talk about false nines.


    Jackie: [Interested and happy.] Oh!


    Max: What I''d love to see tonight is Maddy starting in the striker slot and dropping to CAM alongside Sarah and Dani.


    Angel: Maddy replacing me? Are you - ? [Her eyes dart towards the nearest camera; she goes quiet.]


    Max: Maddy has a good shout for being one of the best eleven players at the club and I think she''s earned a chance to shine. If it works, which it will, we can give Angel the whole rest of December off. Jackie, your next tough match is January 11.


    Jackie: Can''t believe we have to play the same day as you''re going to Old Trafford. You''ll either beat them, which will be funny as fuck, or you''ll get your arse handed to you, which ditto.


    Max: Focus, mate. With this restriction, the next few weeks will be artificially harder than they needed to be and we''ll need to try radical solutions like false nines but I think we can just, juuuuuuust scrape by without Angel for a few matches. Use Bea Pea and Julie in the second half to give Sarah and Dani some rest.


    Jackie: I was going to use the Welsh girls tonight, since it''s the Welsh cup.


    Max: Bosh! Amazing. But start strong, please. I want to get through to the last four. Imagine if we play Wrexham in the semis or the final! Think of the publicity. Their documentary crew will be there, so will ours. They''ll be beefing with each other, getting in each other''s way. Christ, imagine if Ryan Reynolds turns up and says he''ll talk to our crew if me, Peter, and Sarah Greene agree to go on Welcome to Wrexham.


    Angel: Why Sarah?


    Max: The semi-final''s in March so who knows what the team will look like then? Well, I know one thing - unless her leg falls off, Sarah Greene will be playing. She defines the word relentless. Such sporting charisma! I''ve seen the latest demo episodes and she pops off the screen. An absolute breakout star if I''ve ever seen one. If series 2 is going to be called The Relentlessness, it''s about Sarah, isn''t it? She''s the one who''s always on the pitch, always driving the team forward, always leading by example. Wrexham''s documentary crew will know she''s the star player.


    Jackie: I think they''d want Sandra, too.


    Max: Yeah. It''s good here, isn''t it? We''ve got loads of people with exploding careers and that''s causing synergy and emergent events so there''s always something mad happening but it''s so wholesome and uplifting. An upmarket watch company could sponsor me just in time for my handshake with Ryan Reynolds. Close-up on the hands. Bosh! There''s the name of the brand, seen by millions in America and the UK. Next I''m at Old Trafford pointedly checking how long''s left in the style of Alex Ferguson, next I''m talking to the England under 19s manager explaining how to use Kisi and Dani.


    Angel: What about me?


    Max: You''re injured. Then I''ll be chatting to some Royal about the new stand. Is there a Duke of Chester? [He calls out to the crew.] Someone find out, please. [Normal voice.] He''ll be like, gosh, what''s the time, I don''t want to miss Eastenders. And I''ll get my luxury watch out and say ''it''s two o''clock, your majesty.'' He''ll go, ''nice piece''. I''ll go, ''time is a luxury few can afford''. Bosh! Invented a new slogan on the spot. Wow. I''m going to make so much money from that deal.


    Jackie: You don''t even wear watches.


    Angel: Didn''t you kick a football at someone''s head?


    Max: I''ve just daydreamed a whole entire advertisement. Check it out. I''m playing a match and I take a shot. We follow the ball, spinning, it turns into the moon. Now I''m in space surrounded by planets and comets and shit. I grab one of the planets and put it on my wrist and when I take my hand away, it''s a watch from whatever brand pays me. I say: time is the heartbeat of the cosmos. Boom! Four percent increase in year on year sales. Oh, got one. Dress me up real nice topped off with a long Dr. Who scarf. I pop out of a phone box, see there''s loads of dinosaurs. Get back in, open the door again, now I''m on a planet with hundreds of sexy people and they''re all wearing my watch. Slogan: travel through time in style. Fuck! Just thought of another one. There''s loads of fog and there''s me and a hot redhead and she''s wearing like, just ribbons and the camera''s all sweeping around us capturing our stolen glances. I say: Time... is of the essence. Yeah, amazing. [He looks at the camera.] Two million quid and it''s yours.


    [Silence.]


    Jackie: So in summary, you don''t want me to use Angel tonight.


    ***


    Aberystwyth Town 1 Chester 4


    Seasiders Slayed by Super Sarah


    An inspired performance from Chester''s dynamic young team left Aberystwyth Greene with envy.


    Under the watchful eye of director of football Max Best and caretaker assistant manager Peter Bauer, Jackie Reaper''s side tore the Welsh team to shreds with insightful movement and clever passing. The team shrugged off the recent injury to star striker Angel. Playing without a focal point meant attacks came from all directions. Dani Smith-Smithe had a free role, Kisi Yalley rampaged down the wings, while captain Bonnie organised the defence masterfully. But it was the England under 19 midfielder Sarah Greene who caught the eye by marrying her sensational range of passing to an elusive dribbling style. She was unstoppable.


    It was only in the second half as Chester''s young Welsh talents flooded onto the pitch that the home team were able to muster any threat, but by then the Seals were out of sight.


    The first goal came after just seven minutes, when... [continued on page 37.]


    ***


    Thursday, December 11


    I hadn''t planned to go to watch United but a few things changed my mind.


    First, I absolutely had to unlock Relationism before December 16 when the kids would be playing West Ham United, for my mental health as much as any footballing reason. I would get at least 630 XP from watching United in the Europa League, which would propel me towards my target.


    Second, it was an excuse to spend time with Peter.


    Third, watching our opposition was always a good idea.


    Last but not least, the bungalow was ready, Aff''s mum (Angela) was available, and we had the chance to do a test run. I could stay overnight in Manchester, spend some of the morning with my mum, find out what else we needed to do to get the house feeling like home. Peter wouldn''t be interested in that, of course, but he could have a day off in the big city while Well In took first team training.


    The match kicked off and Peter and I spent the first twenty minutes watching the patterns of play and discussing the tactics and personnel.


    United were playing FK Bod? Glimt, a team from the far north of Norway. So far north, in fact, that the teams in the south refused to let them into the top tier until the 1970s. In recent times they had improved year on year, gaining qualification into European competitions, progressing further and further, reinvesting the prize money wisely.


    United, of course, had been in decline ever since Sir Alex Ferguson retired. They had blown well over a billion pounds on mostly crap players to go with the billion pounds in interest paid on the debt created when a random American family were allowed to use the club''s money to buy itself. United''s new Portuguese manager, Pedro Porto, was a rising star of the game. But all of United''s managers were rising stars until the pressure of the job crushed them.


    Peter said, "Should I present my analysis of 3-4-2-1 now?"


    I looked around. We were in the VIP section along with bigwigs from United and other clubs. My profile might have been high enough to get a seat just by asking, and Peter''s certainly was, but United had given us the seats so we could scout them, as was the custom in England. The director of football from Stockport County was nearby, but he was the only guy from any club we were likely to play in the next eighteen months. "Yes, please."


    "In possession the wing backs push forward to join the top line. This creates an instant 3-2-5."


    "Yes," I said. Most big teams ended up with five front players when attacking. United''s front five featured two international superstars who had progressed through United''s youth system, an insanely expensive striker, an insanely expensive creative midfielder, and one cheap guy. He only cost enough for Chester to build an entire stadium. The weekly wage bill for those five players was close to one point six million pounds - the amount it had taken me three years of grafting to acquire. "They''re quite shit considering what they''re paid. Their decision-making is honestly scandalous." An old guy nearby turned to look at me; I glared at him until he fucked off.


    Peter said, "They are fast so we need to take care on counters. And while they are careless with the ball, they do have the capacity to create something out of nothing."


    "I''d say they have the chance to create nothing out of something. How many times do they have a great opening and they just blast a shot into some defender? They have five players who only want to shoot. It''s complete fucking garbage."


    Peter lowered his voice in a futile attempt to get me to do the same. "The two central midfielders sit most of the time. The Uruguayan will hold back and protect the back three. The other does the same but is allowed to dribble forward. This gives the system variety and makes it harder to set up against them."


    "Yeah, or you can just do nothing and let them make mistakes. What a joke."


    "In defence, the wing backs drop to create a back five. That makes Pedro Porto almost unique among Europe''s elite coaches. Most like a 4-4-2 when defending. Porto''s teams do 5-4-1."


    That didn''t seem like a big deal to me, but Peter was a lot more interested in the defensive side of the game than I was; his opinions would be a lot more valid than mine. "Hmm. Why do we want 4-4-2?"


    "It is simply the most efficient defensive setup."


    "So why does Porto do it like this?"


    "I think because he has previously worked with limited resources. It was quite interesting to watch him over the last few years."


    "Oh, Bayern were watching him?"


    "Of course. We track the progress of all the top coaches. We may want to hire one, and we will certainly have to play against them."


    "That''s smart."


    "Porto''s system is interesting in that it is easy for the players. They are asked to do things they can do. The CMs play as CMs, the CAMs play as CAMs. Only the wing backs change from wingers to defenders. What it means is that when the player is sold, it is easy to find a replacement. Other head coaches develop intricate systems based on the characteristics of key players. Example. At Bayern, Pep asked Philip Lahm to drift from right back into central midfield. The results were spectacular but if Lahm was injured or suspended, who could step into the role? It is not so easy; he had an extremely specific skill set. Do you see?"


    "Okay so it''s like if I had you as my starting centre back I could do all kinds of amazing tactics but when I sold you for thirty million pounds, I would have to drop that particular plan because only you could do such wonderful things."


    "Er, yes. Something like that. One way Porto makes it easier for himself is by using asymmetrical pairs. We already talked about the differing roles of the central midfielders. If the left wing back is adventurous, like today, the right-sided one is more defensive. The two CAMs often have different profiles. The dribbler versus the passer, for example."


    That made sense in terms of tactics - he had a little bit of everything on the pitch. And it made sense in terms of squad-building. It was easy to find a midfielder who could dribble and a midfielder who could pass. It was harder to find one who could do both. "Right. But he doesn''t need to sell his best players every year now he''s at Man United."


    "Indeed. It will be fascinating to watch how he develops and if he adds complexity to his approach."


    "This is fun. I like this conversation. It''s like talking to a Jackie Reaper who isn''t constantly scanning everything I say for subtext and subterfuge."


    Peter didn''t know how to reply to that. "Are you excited to play here?"


    I looked around at the massive stands. "Scoring to shut up 70,000 gobby Manc twats in the stadium I grew up dreaming of playing in? Haven''t given it a second''s thought, mate."


    "How do you plan to approach the United match?"


    "It depends what sort of team he picks. Okay he''s not going to use loads of squad players like Newcastle did, but I''d be amazed if Garnacho started." Garnacho was one of the first players I had scouted after I got the curse. He had just broken into the United team and now he was a full international and most of United''s moves went through him. "There are international matches in the week before we play, so he''ll be in South America. No way he''s playing against Chester after two internationals and a long-haul flight. I''m not sure what the new ownership think about the FA Cup. Not much, probably."


    United''s ownership, like everything else about the club, was a mess. Most of the shares were still owned by the vampiric American family, but a chemicals company called BigTox had bought a minority stake. That stake allowed them to make all the footballing decisions. I wasn''t particularly confident a chemicals company knew how to run a football club, but these days my only real interest in United was the million pounds they were about to give me.


    "I reckon United will pick up two injuries in the international break, they''ll give their backup goalie a go, and they''ll maybe start with one young guy. We''ll get Pascal fit and he''ll operate on whichever flank United''s wing back is attacking."


    "You like to attack the side that''s attacking you?"


    "Yes. It''s by definition weaker defensively and sometimes you''ll flat out stop their attacks."


    "Attack is the best form of defence."


    "A lot of the time, yes it is."


    Peter hesitated. "I have been watching past Chester matches, talking to Henri, Pascal, the other coaches, the youth team players, and I couldn''t say what your style is. Do you have a preferred formation? You often talk about attacking but you can be quite defensive. You talk about playing with wingers but in more than half of the matches this season, there were no wingers. The only thing I can find which is consistent is that you try to always have a defensive midfielder."


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "I have the smallest budget in the league and a complete mishmash of players. I cook with what I''ve got."


    "Yes, good, but if you had unlimited resources, what would your preferred formation be?"


    "Depends on the players."


    "If you managed Manchester United. This squad."


    I thought about it. "Difficult. Each of the previous four managers signed six players so you''ve got half of a counter-attacking team, half of a keep-ball team, half of a vibes team, and half of a buy-all-the-Dutch-players team." I tried to imagine a day in the future when I would have all the formations and complete flexibility. "United''s midfield has been a joke for a long time so the temptation is to overload it. Got to avoid that. And you have to be honest about the capabilities of some of these players. There are huge names who aren''t producing." I kept thinking about the wide players. "This is Man United. I want to see flying wingers. I want fantasy and I''m not going to get it from this lot. You know what I''m thinking? 4-5-1. Solid, don''t let teams at you. The potential is there for fast breaks. Any player shooting at random gets hauled off. They get to the byline and cut the ball back for the striker or they move to another club. We get solid in midfield and when that''s achieved, the full-backs can attack. That said, the ones here are shit so there''s an instant flaw with the plan. Yeah, anything with a back four is going to get found out. Back three is better but you''re always going to get killed down the flanks because the wide guys aren''t team players. Low Team Work, low Decisions. It''s a nightmare."


    "Sounds like Chester should beat them," said Peter.


    "They still have incredible quality. Explosive firepower. They''ll beat us with two moments of individual quality but as a manager that''s frustrating. The system should generate threat and on top of that comes the individual quality. Pedro Porto needs four transfer windows to get rid of the deadwood here and get players who can do what he wants. Will he get that much time?"


    "What would you do at a better-functioning club like Bayern?"


    "I would forfeit the first 17 matches in a desperate attempt to make the second half of the season interesting."


    Peter tutted. "Why do you say that? The Bundesliga is excellent."


    "No, it''s tedious."


    "The football is excellent. The skills are top. Fans own the clubs."


    "And Bayern will win 27 of the next 30 leagues. That''s not sport, Peter. That''s ossification. Sport is expertise, athleticism, moments of surprise. The only surprise in Germany is when someone beats Bayern, do you buy their best player or their two best players? If I was born in, I don''t know, Stuttgart, I''m sure I''d find it interesting and that''s right and proper but it''s not for me."


    "It is barely more diverse in England."


    "I agree, and that''s what I''m working to stop. It''s funny, there''s so much attention paid to the superclubs but everything they do is so predictable it''s really fucking tedious. Here''s a really interesting football club. Bodo Glimt from the far reaches of Norway, cleverly building a team, husbanding their resources, being smart, smarter than their rivals, playing the best football it''s possible to play on their budget, reinvesting, still making a profit, competing against much bigger clubs. This is one of the greatest stories in European football and I''d rather be in that dugout than the one in Munich, no matter how cool the stadium is."


    "Why do I feel reprimanded?" He chuckled. "What did you mean about predictability?"


    "Well, take the format of this competition. In the old days, European tournaments were like the FA Cup. Draw 32 teams from a hat, bosh, knockout, get on with it. Every match was of the utmost importance, the drama was sensational. We built this sport on those nights, didn''t we? But the bosses of the big clubs didn''t like being knocked out by Anderlecht or Split or Bodo Glimt. Why are these tiny teams allowed to beat us? So they spent the last thirty years throwing their weight around, bullying the cowards at UEFA into changing the format. First a league and a knockout. Then a league followed by a league. Now this joke of a tournament. Eighty-seven clubs play one hundred and eleven matches to determine the coefficients for the top-ranked sixty teams to go through while the other forty-nine play a Swiss-model playoff elimination league spanning three months to decide which three teams will drop out of the competition." I did an excited face. "Then the fun begins!"


    "Come on," laughed Peter. "It''s not that bad."


    "It is. It''s boring. Think about it - the draw is literally too complicated for a human being to do it. If your football tournament can only be programmed by a computer, you''ve fucked up. It''s soooooo boring, mate. I''d honestly rather watch TikTokers box each other. And you''re trying to make football more boring! Every year there''s a new backdoor rule that guarantees Madrid, Barcelona, and Munich are allowed in even if they didn''t get there on sporting merit. Sporting merit are two words you cannot fuck with because if it''s not a meritocracy, it''s not sport. I don''t watch European football until the final, and even then it''s only if I''ve got nothing better to do. You''ve killed German football and you''ve moved on to bigger fish."


    "I?"


    "Bayern Munich."


    "That is harsh."


    "Nope. You''re one of the prime movers. Actions speak louder than words and your actions show that you think football exists to make the rich teams richer. Every year you push for changes that make you richer still. The cost? Fun. Competition. Entertainment. The health of the sport itself. No, Peter, don''t ask me to name a Bayern Munich eleven because I would rather become a jellyfish trainer in Australia than work for one of the clubs that is killing this game I love."


    He didn''t reply.


    In fact, he didn''t reply for so long I assumed he had taken my rant personally. "Are we still friends?" I said.


    "Yes. It is unusual for someone to speak like that to me. You know my grandfather is responsible for much of what the club did in the time you describe?"


    I nodded. "Yeah. It''s disappointing. It''s hard to come to terms with it because I really like him and it''s possible to say that overall he has been a force for good in the game. No, it''s obviously completely true that he has done more good than harm on a personal level. I tell myself I should blame his entire generation. There''s no ancient grove they wouldn''t cut down so they could sell the wood for fifty quid. His peers at other clubs are less sympathetic on a personal level but it doesn''t matter who wrecked the planet, who wrecked football. It happened and it''s not going to get better. What they didn''t count on was a new superclub being born. I''m going to smash the door down, win their fucking tedious competitions, hoover up all the prize money and talent, and then - " I laughed, because I had just come up with a radical idea. It popped into my head, fully formed. "When I''ve rubbed their noses into their own mess for a few years, I''m going to give them a choice."


    "A choice?"


    "Yeah. Roll back the worst of this monopoly crap and I''ll ride off into the sunset."


    "You''ll quit?"


    "Yeah. Five European Cups in my pocket. First you have to show me a proper plan to distribute wealth and ensure there is healthy competition. A club from Poland or Scotland should be able to win a European trophy. Bodo Glimt should be able to win the Europa League. If not, I''m staying. I''ll win again and again and again and show you what it feels like. Haha, oh my God, that''s perfect. I might actually do that."


    Peter shook his head. "I think I would be more inspired by the image if Chester''s budget could afford any of the players on the pitch right now."


    I side-eyed him. "The player I would most want to buy is earning five thousand pounds a week. I''ll be able to afford that soon enough."


    "Who?" he said, scanning the pitch. "Who''s your favourite?"


    "You''ll know when I sign him. Acta non verba, baby."


    ***


    At half time the VIPs went inside and I went straight up to Tony, the Stockport guy. Tony looked quite a lot like Ken from Grindhog, but with less charisma and intelligence. He knew me, but I introduced my companion only as Peter.


    "You work for Stockport, right? How come you''re here?"


    Tony said, "Used to play for United, Max. The youth team, anyway. Got on the bench for the seniors a couple of times but never quite made it."


    "Still pretty good, though," I said. "You got closer than 99% of United fans."


    "99.9999 percent," said Peter.


    "It was hard being released, Max. I heard about what you''re doing with the Exit Trial lads. That''s amazing. I''m rooting for you."


    "You''ll be rooting against me - " I started. I was going to brag about thrashing Stockport next season when we played them in League One. Just in time, I realised that was dumb because I wanted him to sell me a player. "You won''t be rooting for me on January 11th when I''m doing my George Best impression."


    "Ah, well," he smiled. "I''d love to see that. I''d fucking love it. 4-3 United with a swaggering Max Best hat trick. Who wouldn''t want to see that?"


    The Sentinel, I thought. "Listen, I don''t want to be rude and ignore the other VIPs. I''m sure they''re dead keen to meet me. I noticed your lad Weller hasn''t been in the team much and we''re gasping for a left-mid. Any chance of anything happening there?"


    He gave me a strange smile. "Steve Weller? Are you serious?"


    "Yeah, why?"


    "I thought you were skint."


    "I am skint. I can be skint and have some cash, though. That''s modern finance. Look, obviously the stadium''s eating all the money but we need a left mid so what do you think?"


    He rubbed his chin. "He fell out with the manager. Good lad. Headstrong. I like him, to be honest, Max. I''d hate to sell Steve in January and in Feb we end up replacing the manager and appoint someone who would use him."


    Weller was an Aff-style left mid. Quite fast, good dribbler, good crossing, high team work. Not as technical as I would like but with all the skills sessions we did, we''d get him into double figures for Technique soon enough. He was 23 and when I''d seen him, his CA had been 87. That had been a while ago so his CA could have been higher because Stockport had settled in League One, or lower because he hadn''t played much. I had no doubt he''d do well for Chester, and his PA of 120 meant he could help us out in the short term and I''d double my money on him. It was basically the same as buying Andrew Harrison much further in his development.


    "Can you hint at a price?"


    Peter said, "Max, you should make the first offer. The first number mentioned anchors the conversation towards that number."


    I shook my head. "That''s not how I do it. There''s a range where the numbers are fair and I''m happy to deal in that range. If they try to burn me they''ll regret it when they want to buy a player in future."


    "Max," insisted Peter. "You are skint. You need to push hard for every dollar in savings."


    The Stockport guy and I looked at each other. We spoke simultaneously.


    "Hundred K," I said.


    "Million," he said.


    After the unpleasant silence that followed, I said, "Nice meeting you" and turned away. "I need a beer."


    "Max, wait. I was joking."


    "Sure. Big joke. Very funny. Bye."


    "No, come on. Let me talk to the manager and I''ll see what he says."


    The old ''I need to talk to the boss'' trick. Please. "Yeah. Tell him you had the chance to shift an unwanted player out of his squad, a guy he hates but has to look at every day, at a price that''s more than what you paid, but that you decided to take the piss out of the new kid instead."


    "Fucking hell, Max," said Tony. "I was only joking."


    "Yeah, tell Weller you turned his career into a joke, Tony. Good. We''re done here."


    "Urgh!" he said. "Do you want a price on him or not?"


    I tried to unclench my jaw. I was half-pretending to be angry but I had tipped over from pretending, I think. Gemma had accused me of not caring that Andrew Harrison had suffered when he was frozen out. I did care. Steve Weller was suffering and so was his manager. Tony should have been desperately working towards a solution. "Yeah, send me an offer," I said.


    Peter and I walked over to the bar. I had parked at our hotel and we''d taken a taxi to the stadium, so I felt free to have a couple of beers. "Max," said Peter. "Has anyone ever said you should allow someone else to do your transfer negotiations for you?"


    "No."


    "Don''t you think that might be a good idea?"


    "No."


    "And why is that?"


    "I know the values of the players."


    "Yes, but, how can I say this? You are combustible."


    "Think you can do better?"


    "It is not a competition," he said. "Your style is more like a hostage negotiator."


    I smiled. "I would be terrible at that. Give me the hostage or it''s sniper time." I thought about what he had said. No-one had explicitly told me I shouldn''t do the negotiations myself but there had been a few raised eyebrows amongst people watching me, and MD had quietly told me off a couple of times. With non-league clubs, MD had been able to smooth things out, but we didn''t know many people in the football league. If I kept going the way I was, I would run out of clubs who would deal with me. Could I build a team of European Champions entirely from free transfers? Yes, but it would take ten times as long as if I could buy ready-made solutions. "Let''s do it like this. Peter, you''re charming as fuck. You''ve got that diplomat vibe. How about you join Chester as player-coach-head-of-transfers?"


    "Join Chester?" he said. "I know your plan to conquer European football. If I help you, I would be culpable."


    "True," I said. I raised my beer, he did the same, and I looked him in the eye while we clinked them together. "It pisses me off that these pricks are shit at their jobs, though. I can get that player for free if I wait 18 months. Stockport are rich but they''re not so rich they can chuck two hundred grand down the drain. It''s fucking mental what just happened. I know it looks bad on me and I have to do better, I really do know that, but that was fucking abysmal. I don''t have perfect knowledge of the market but I''ve got something pretty fucking close to it. I don''t dick about with these deals but almost everyone else does. It winds me up. Soz not soz."


    "Excuse me." It was the guy who had turned his head when I''d been bad-mouthing United during the match. Old, white, loads of money, got enthusiastic about new sports, had gradually been increasing the font size on his phone until now the screen showed one app at a time.


    I tensed, ready for yet more needless conflict. "Yes?"


    "You''re Max Best."


    "Yes."


    "I didn''t mean to eavesdrop but you weren''t exactly discreet. I heard your conversation with the chap from Stockport. He said something about you helping the Exit Triallists?"


    "May I know your name?"


    He smiled. "Name''s Andy. I work for BigTox. We dump billions of tons of poisons and greenhouse gases into the atmosphere killing countless animals and making millions of humans sick but we also bought a few sports teams to ensure no-one will look too closely at our core activities." I think that''s what he said, anyway. "Our founder is from Manchester and not the middle-east, so that keeps the British press off our case." I think that''s what he said, anyway. "I have been tasked with modernising United''s youth system and we''ve got a plan to radically overhaul it in the next few weeks."


    "Sorry," I said. "Can you explain that to me? You''re working for United but you don''t work for United?"


    My question came because he didn''t have any kind of curse profile over his head. With every summer update, the curse expanded its understanding of modern football. At first it had only told me about core roles like managers, coaches, scouts, physios, and owners, but these days if a guy worked for a football club in almost any kind of meaningful role, his name and job title floated above his head. For most of the new roles like ''Head of Cradle Snatching'' there were no attributes, but it was still useful because it showed me who I might want to talk to, and me knowing their name was always flattering.


    This guy had nothing.


    He explained that he didn''t work for United. He was more like a consultant, but he was well-connected with the leadership of BigTox.


    "So it''s like... if you were the brother of the owner and he sent you to revamp the youth system, you wouldn''t be able to say you worked for United, but you''re doing the job of someone who worked there."


    "I suppose you could put it like that."


    "Okay." With all the mixed ownerships and multi-club models, this sort of thing could get complicated and potentially lead me to make fatal mistakes. What if a scout from a multi-club organisation went from New York to be a physio in Manchester for six months? Would the curse be able to get its head around that? I doubted it. Dismissing someone because he didn''t have a business card floating over his head was a bad idea. I needed to be careful.


    Andy said, "I checked you out just now. You''ve got, what, five Exit Triallists in your first team squad?"


    "Seven," I said.


    "Incredible. And you are on a nine-match unbeaten run?"


    "Nineteen."


    "Pardon me?"


    "Newcastle didn''t beat us. Blackpool didn''t beat us. We played two games in the Cheshire Cup. That makes nineteen games since we last lost."


    "Okay, nineteen."


    "You don''t have to smile at me like you''re indulging a child."


    "Max," said Peter, as a warning.


    "What?" I snapped. "It''s a fucking fact! If we beat Crewe this weekend, which we will, and then smash Swindon, who are shit, we''ll be in the playoffs for Christmas. We''re going up, we have potentially the single best youth team in the country, and we did it without burning down any forests. I didn''t come here to be patronised by anyone."


    The Andy guy put his hand up. "I didn''t mean to come across that way, Max. I was admiring your passion. Our company invests in sports because it''s a symbolic arena in which excellence is rewarded and because passion is intoxicating. The corollary to excellence, though, is the brutality of cutting teammates who don''t quite make it. We''re pushing for higher standards here at United, and that includes the youth teams. It''s in our nature to be ruthless, to drive forward, to take the tough decisions, but we''re human beings, too. Most of us are fathers. I look at what you are doing and I see a chance - I''ll admit it - to wash some of the guilt off our hands. If we can send some of the young men to you, it will be much less painful."


    "Sorry, what are you talking about?" I said.


    He nodded; he had been unclear. "We plan to sign several top young talents in January, Max. They will go into our academy system and some will be cut to make way. In the normal run of affairs they will appear in Exit Trials in May, or be released early and bounce around from trial to trial until they land somewhere. Many will leave the sport forever. I heard you talking, looked you up, and thought of a better idea. Why don''t they join you this January? That''s quite the safety net, isn''t it? Sorry, Johnny, we have to let you go. But look, here''s an option! You can join high-flying Chester FC who are unbeaten in nineteen matches... if you squint."


    He was rinsing me, but he was also offering me something. "What exactly...?"


    "Come to watch our training sessions, or we can send the players to you for a trial. Whatever you want. If there are one or two you like, and they are minded to join you, perfect. Our academy staff are excellent, Max, but their high empathy means pain when players leave. To see them join a good club is not painful but a source of pride."


    "Right," I said. "I come to one of your sessions. You point to a few players and I can take my pick of those?"


    "Yes. If they want to join you. Some will want to stay and try to prove themselves. Who knows? Perhaps they will. Elite sport is cut-throat but unpredictable."


    "Okay so it''s January 12th and we''re supposed to meet to sign the docs but I''ve spent the last 24 hours slagging you off because your club''s a joke and you only beat us 4-3. I''ve absolutely laid into you, it''s savage, it''s hilarious. You''re getting non-stop texts from your mates going ''wow that kid absolutely did you''. You''ll swear right now that you''ll sign the papers to release the lads?"


    He rocked his head back and laughed loud. "I can''t promise that, no. I do have feelings. But I promise you, hand on heart, I want what''s best for these young men." He gave me a level look and calculated. "If there''s any business to do, maybe we ought to do it before our encounter. Eh? Then we can all stay friends. I promise, if you do right by our young men, I''ll do right by you. You don''t need to worry about my friends teasing me; I don''t have any."


    He was joking but my disc drive was spinning again. If I had the chance to sign some of the best prospects in the country I needed to go for it. There was no way an eighteen-year-old Man United player had poor technique. "Fine," I said. "We''ll be there tomorrow."


    Peter looked panicked. "Max! We need to prepare for Crewe!"


    "Do we fuck," I said. "It''s Crewe. We''ll score and they''ll crawl back down the little crack in the road where they live." A thought came to me. If I picked up one or two of the United players who were going to get cut, the Brig would be happy and I wouldn''t need to go to the next Exit Trials. There was little incentive for me to go to the next ones anyway, since some prick was telling Chip Star every player I was interested in. Maybe Ryan Jack could set up visits where I could scout the players other big clubs wanted to cut. It was in an academy''s interest to see its alumni do well. "Andy, I''ll be there. Bosh."


    ***


    Friday, December 12


    The final score at the United match was somewhere between five-nil to the home side and four-nil to the away side. I mean, seriously, who gives a fuck?


    All that mattered was that I got my XP, set up a chance to scout some talented kids before anyone else got a look, registered interest in the new Aff, and spent some time with Peter.


    Not sure the last part was an unmitigated success - I had spent a lot of that time shitting on his club and low-key slagging off his grandfather, but nobody''s perfect.


    Peter surprised me by saying he wanted to come and help with my mother - Anna would need assistance getting into a van, for a start - and if I took him to lunch we could role play the kinds of conversations I would have at United''s Carrington training complex. He said he would teach me ''an alternate approach to negotiating that didn''t end with its participants rushing to the medical cabinet to treat the burns''.


    We had a quick brek in the hotel and we drove down to Chorlton. I wanted to check the bungalow was ready before picking mum up. Our route took us past Gemma''s mansion and we talked about the whole Andrew Harrison situation as an example of how my negotiating style was actually supremely effective. Peter sighed.


    I parked and we got out of the car. "This is nice," said Peter. "I like the trees. It''s peaceful here."


    "Oh shit," I said, as we pottered along the drive.


    "What?" said Peter.


    "It looks like they did all the things. You don''t have a before and after picture but this path was all paving stones and they were disjointed or whatever the word is. Now it''s all smooth and it has been pressure washed. No trip hazard!"


    "They did a good job."


    "The fence has been painted. The garden''s different. Not sure exactly... It''s less soggy? Oh, there''s a kennel!"


    Peter frowned. "Your mother has a dog?"


    "No, her friend. Solly, the psychic dog. I told you about him."


    "You certainly did not."


    "He''s not quite as good at his job as he thinks, the little shit. Pure babe magnet, though. When you get bored of flirting with everyone at Chester, you can come and take him for walks."


    Peter shook his head. "I do not flirt. Women flirt with me."


    I lunged at him and grabbed his arm, eyes bulging. "That''s one of my lines!"


    "I said it first," he said.


    "No way. I invented that."


    "Tsch," he said, which is German for ''yes, busted, I''m wrong, soz.''


    We went in and Aff''s mum, Angela, appeared as if summoned by a genie. She looked from me to Peter, up and down, all business, and nodded. "She just got here."


    "What?" I hissed, pissed. That wasn''t the plan. I hated it when the care home changed the plans.


    "There was an issue with the minivan so it was now or never. But Max, it''s all good. We''ve had a cup of tea and they''re in the living room watching TV. So far so good."


    "Really?" I said, my energy changing instantly. Pathetic. Desperate.


    Angela nodded and whispered. "The layout works and the sofa is perfect. Your ma went straight to her spot, no hesitation. The coffee table isn''t quite right but I can''t tell why. The remote control is the one she''s used to; she''s using it like a wizard''s wand. It''s those little things, Max. You''ve done well."


    I didn''t want Peter to see me cry, and for a flash of a second I was angry that he was even there. I closed my eyes and flicked my wrists, fingers loose, to try to calm down. I nodded in an increasingly vigorous series. Max Best, son, enters stage right. Or does he? "Maybe just the house is a good start? I can come back."


    Angela pulled me towards the living room. I sat in my usual spot - with ''usual'' being a strange word to describe the seating layout from, what, ten, fifteen years ago?


    Anna was there, looking very tired but slightly better than the last time I had seen her. Solly was in a corner feeling sorry for himself. In the care home he was a big star and got all kinds of fusses and attention. He was fretting that this bleak, quiet dump was exactly what it looked like - his new home. He was a star of the Man United youth teams who had just been told he was moving to Chester.


    Anna and I made some awkward small talk while mum stared at the TV with a blank look on her face. One of those days. Okay, but that didn''t mean anything. The bungalow only needed to be one percent better than the care home for everything to have been worth it.


    We were there for fifteen minutes with not much happening and okay I know this isn''t a lot of fun to hear but I got depressed. There was just too much going on that was making my mental disc drive spin wildly and there was something about being there in the quiet tedium of the bungalow that made it all feel ten times as vivid. Angel and Bonnie''s complicated relationship made ever more complicated by me and my demands. Sandra and Aiden and the health of little baby Max. Peter and his legacy and my self-destructive need to shoot my mouth off about the one thing in football Peter loved, his club. My inability to handle the simplest negotiation in the history of football, a basic left mid option from Stockport County. Most of all, my pathetic, childish hope that buying a squeaky leather sofa might cure my mother of her incurable disease.


    Yeah, it got me down.


    Angela put a cup of tea in my hand and offered me a biscuit. I frowned, vaguely angry, until I realised the tin was exactly the one we''d had when I was young. About as wide as a football, round, metal, and when you opened it, it smelled of custard creams and bourbon biscuits. The smell hit me so powerfully that in some alternate universes I spent the next 13 years writing 1.5 million words about all the memories it stirred.


    I put my tea down and took the lid all the way off. "You''ve got the pink ones," I said, amazed. I hadn''t seen the light, fluffy pink biscuits for so long. I reckoned the chance they were still mass produced was zero. How were they here? "And the horrible ones with jam in."


    "Which ones do you like?" said Angela. She would store the information away and remember it forever. She was amazing.


    "None, they are all horrible," I said. "The pink ones are - Oh! There used to be another one. I remember. It was like a biscuit rectangle with six... I think it was six... sort of blobs of creamy sugar stuff. They were the best ones. Fuck! What were they called?"


    "Jam mallows," said Angela. "You liked those?"


    "They were legit nice, not just best-in-the-tin nice. There''s no way they still make them."


    "They do," said Angela. "They''re Irish. I can get some."


    I smiled, handing her back the tin. "Is Ireland like England from twenty years ago or something?"


    She was torn between being annoyed and agreeing, and took the tin to the kitchen.


    It went quiet again, and my burst of optimism started to fade. Anna wanted to lift the mood, but couldn''t. I waved a hand. Please don''t exhaust yourself.


    I was thinking about how quickly we should go because there always came a point where mum radiated anxiety and the only cure was for everyone except Anna to leave. I was trying to work out if this move out of the care home was even a good idea when Peter''s phone rang. He mumbled an apology but picked up and spoke a few sentences in German. He hung up. "Work, sorry," he said to the room.


    But mum had locked onto him as soon as he spoke German. She peered at him. "Wer bist du?" she said, and might have well zapped me with a taser. Mum spoke German? Ah... no. No way.


    "Peter," said Peter.


    "Peter," said my mum. "You look like Dieter Bauer."


    Another zap, bigger than ever. What the fuck was happening? For the first time since I''d met him, the mention of his legendary relative didn''t provoke a negative reaction. "He''s my grandfather."


    "Oh, yes," said mum. "Yes, that would explain it." She looked down and around, confused, and all my dread came flooding back. I didn''t want the moment of lucidity to end. She said, "Where are my photos?"


    "They''re here, dear," said Angela, moving quickly but calmly.


    "Why aren''t they under the table?" said mum.


    "It''s my fault," said Angela. "I was cleaning up. I''ll put them back soon."


    Angela and I exchanged a glance; we needed a shelf under the coffee table! We''d seen the glass top and the general shape of it from the photos I''d found in my cousin''s attic, but we hadn''t known about the shelf. This was incredible. This was better than scoring any goal. My heart was racing. With my eyes, I begged Peter to continue.


    He said, "Here come your albums, Mrs. Best. What did you want to show us?"


    "Not this one!" said mum, sharply. She got annoyed with Angela as the Irishwoman offered three albums, none of which fit the bill. "The scrapbook."


    "It''s here," said Angela. She rushed to some cupboard and came back with a smaller, red-covered album. I moved from my spot to sit next to mum, and Peter knelt by her on the other side.


    We had front row seats, therefore, as mum opened the so-called scrapbook, which was just the same as the other photo albums but smaller. She turned a few pages. Each turn made a horrible squelching sound because the photos were kept protected behind a layer of sticky plastic. Squelch! Squellllch! There didn''t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what was contained within the scrapbook. It certainly wasn''t a record of my achievements - most of it was stuff from before I was born. A newspaper clipping about a restaurant that was opening. Was mum involved? Someone she knew? A flyer from a women''s choir. A torn train ticket. Suddenly, mum turned to the back, squelched a few times, and alighted on a page with an envelope.


    She peeled the plastic away - the sound went right through me and I remembered why I had never investigated this stuff - and she pulled it out.


    Inside were a few folded-up pieces of paper.


    The first had a very, VERY old-fashioned letterhead from Manchester United. I had just enough time to scan it and see that it was wishing mum well on the birth of her child. What? Why would a football club do that? It made no sense.


    The next was from Nottingham Forest, the next from Stoke City, and another, bizarrely, was from Hamburger SV.


    My head was ready to explode, but I was keeping very, very still while my mum went about her work.


    At the back of the little stack of letters was one with a paperclip. "Here," she said.


    "Bayern M¨¹nchen," whispered Peter, just as amazed as me. My mum handed him the letter, which was in German. He skimmed it. "As requested, we are pleased to enclose a gift for little baby Max..."


    Mate. Tears burst out of me. Lips wobbled, shuddering breaths, fighting not to have a full meltdown. It had hit me so suddenly I had no defence against it.


    "Aw," said Anna. Solly came over to me and let his head drop onto my lap.


    Peter slid the paperclip off and his fingertips fluttered over a white square less than half the size of the letter. "What is it?" he said.


    Now it was his turn to get a blast from the emotion cannon. It was a photo and it showed Dieter Bauer - a very young Dieter Bauer - on his haunches, looking at the camera with a tiny smile, holding a ball in his hands. He had signed the front.


    He had probably signed two hundred such photos in one go, but on this one, someone had asked him to go the extra mile.


    Peter, hands shaking slightly, flipped the photo over. "Dear Max, You are the same age as my grandson and though you are divided by borders, you are united in having wonderful mothers who fight for you and care for you! I wish you all the Best! Dieter Bauer."


    "I thought he didn''t much like my mother," said Peter.


    "Why is he young?" asked Angela, because Dieter had been in his fifties when I was born.


    Mum didn''t answer. She had gone internal.


    Peter took the photo, placed it on the coffee table, and snapped both sides with his phone. "I can''t believe this," he said. "May I send it to him and ask if he remembers?"


    "Of course," I said, but I was starting to panic that we had been there too long and were stressing mum. Once he had finished digitising the images, I tried to gesture to him that it was time to go. He was busy staring at the original, turning it over and over.


    "The pen on the front is different. I think this is a signed photo that your mother sent to Germany to get the dedication added. That''s why he''s young."


    "Peter," I said, and looked from him to the front door. He understood and put the photo and envelope back as it had been while I gave Anna''s hand a squeeze and promised Solly I''d be back to take him for a walk. That didn''t impress him much. "How about a walk with a hot Julia Roberts comp?" He made a tiny dog noise. "Yeah, I thought so, you little hound. She lives round the corner, so stop sulking."


    Angela came to the front door. "Aw, Max," she said.


    "Why did she have those letters? Did all the clubs in Europe know a golden child had been born?"


    Angela tried to hide her amusement. Because I had been kind to her son she thought everything I did was brilliant and tolerated my outbursts of egocentricity. "Your ma wrote to all those clubs asking for memorabilia."


    "What?" I said. "That''s mental."


    "No, Max. It''s what we used to do. I did it when Diarmuid was born. Liverpool FC sent us a pin badge. His father tried to nab it but I put a stop to that. Diarmuid loved that pin. He was so proud of it."


    I shook my head. The past was a foreign country. Ah, but I had a tour guide! Angela wasn''t just amazing with my mum and Anna, she also remembered things from the past that I either never knew or had forgotten. She would know how to send a fax, use Teletext, or arrange a party without using text messages. She was top, the house was mint, let''s fucking go. "When can you start?" I said.


    "Sure, that''s up to you."


    "We never really talked about pay."


    "Oh," she said, looking away. The topic made her uncomfortable, like she''d do it for free if she was allowed.


    "Thirty grand, rent''s free, you get raises when I do."


    "Careful Max," said Peter. "You''ll have her earning more than her son."


    "Yes," I said. "I will."


    ***


    I sat in the driver''s seat with my hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.


    What on earth had just happened? I had so many questions. How many clubs had mum written to and had she chosen them at random? How did mum know German? Did I like Dieter because she did? How could such a simple gesture as signing a photograph have such meaning after so long?


    Peter had a go at summarising the madness. "Small world."


    That seemed to sum things up. I didn''t feel like talking or getting emotional in front of a Rolls Royce centre back. I started the car but I didn''t know where we were going. "Do you want me to drive you to Chester?"


    "What will you do?"


    I felt the emotions welling up again and had to punch the steering wheel to batter them down. Get back, you worms! I set my jaw. "I''m going to pay it forward."


    "What does that mean?"


    "It means I''m going to save those Man United kids."


    "Which ones?"


    "All of them."


    "What if they''re shit?"


    "That''s why God invented the Welsh leagues."


    He laughed. "I will join you if I''m invited."


    I drove down the road for about twenty metres, which took approximately fifteen seconds. I stopped and composed myself as best as I could but there was something that needed to be said and it needed to be said right away. "Thank you, Peter." Suddenly, the bathtub of emotion was full and pouring out the sides. "I thought I''d never see her like that again. It''s such a relief. Such a relief. I know you don''t like being compared to Dieter but I''m pretty fucking happy you look like him. I got my mum back for a few minutes." I was going to say something like ''if you ever need anything, let me know'' but remembered what Emma had said. Actions, not words. "I''ve got ages before United''s kids train. Let''s have vegan hotdogs and I''ll show you around West."


    "That is the football club you don''t own."


    "Yes."


    "I have questions about your MCM."


    "MCM?"


    "Maxy Club Model. That''s what Henri calls it."


    "I prefer the Max Best Universe." I took in a deep breath and declared myself fit to drive. "Let me answer a different question first. If I was Bayern manager - trainer, I suppose you''d say - I''d start with 4-1-3-2. Strikers and midfielders, whatever, they''re all good. Let them roam. Guti? the DM; he''s amazing from what I''ve seen. For width you put Davies at left-back, a one-man solution to every left-sided problem. I love him. Then you need someone of that level on the right."


    "Who do you propose?"


    I scoffed. "Sorry, in this scenario aren''t I at the club?"


    He dipped his head. "Player-trainer. Of course."


    "Player-trainer," I said. "Urgh. Veto that phrase forever. I''m a mint right back. Love whipping those crosses in."


    "Do you have the discipline to defend for an entire match?"


    "Defend? If you put me in charge of a superclub we''re not going to fucking defend. Jesus, man." I laughed. "What the fuuuu."


    I wiped my eyes, counted to five, and drove away at normal speed.


    ***


    We spent a nice afternoon together that included driving past the Death Star. I told him it was traditional in Manchester to give the Man City campus the middle finger and he was happy to oblige. What a great guy.


    We got to Carrington, United''s training base, and were met by one of the academy guys. He showed us around. It wasn''t as obnoxious as City''s compound, but it was just as massive and just as good. Facilities 100, or close to it.


    To my relief, our guide didn''t ask Peter about his grandfather. He wanted to talk about how great the rebuilt training ground was, but I didn''t give much of a shit. Bumpers was best. "How did the lads take it when they were told they were getting cut?"


    "We haven''t told them quite yet."


    I stopped and pinched my nose. "Then they''re not going to be looking for alternatives, are they? They''re going to think I''m some no-mark and they''re not going to listen. What''s the fucking point me being here?"


    He looked awkward and I sensed he agreed with me but that he had to do what the people from BigTox told him. "You can have a look at them, still. Introduce yourself and when the time comes they''ll remember and look you up and when we give them the news, we can say hey but that Max Best liked you."


    I tutted, but Peter said, "Yes, that''s good. It''s not ideal but it''s fine. Isn''t it, Max?"


    "Sure, yeah. It''s better than fine. It''s brilliant."


    My mood improved as soon as we got out onto the grass. There were fucking tons of Man United players everywhere! I must have added 70 boys and girls to my database in the first ten seconds. Plenty of good ones, too. If any of these boys or girls were released I would see they were ''free agents'' and I''d be able to swoop in the very next day. I needed to get to all the academies.


    The dude told me which six players were on the verge of being released and I said I''d need to watch for a while and could they do a mini-match at some point so I could see the lads in action?


    That was easily arranged, but of course I didn''t need it for scouting purposes. It was to make me seem like a real scout but also to get an idea of how United played. The youth teams were still doing the 4-3-3 the first team had been doing for most of the last decade. Maybe that''s why BigTox were signing loads of new players - to align the youth teams with how the first team played. For that, they needed wing backs.


    "What do you think?" said Peter, casting his eye around. His own scouting skills weren''t bad if you needed a ready-made player, but his Judging Player Potential score was low.


    "They''re good," I said, looking from a very technical PA 133 midfield schemer to a PA 125 striker with low Finishing. "The best is a left back, of course."


    "Why of course?"


    "Because I already have two good young lads and it''s going to be hard for me to give out minutes even to one as good as him." He was on the short side but had PA 137 and he was fast as fuck. Useful.


    "What about Saltney Town?"


    "Yeah, if the kid would go there. I suppose I''ll just introduce myself for now, like the guy said, and they can look me up. I don''t know. What should my vibe be? What can I offer them they can''t get at a hundred other clubs?"


    Peter smiled at the question. "Expertise. Athleticism. Moments of surprise." He looked around at the other pitches. The very young players looked excited but there was a noticeable increase in the tension levels through the age groups. There were vanishingly few smiles among the eighteens we were watching. "Enjoyment."


    "Yeah," I said.


    "And the chance to be coached by me."


    I laughed - a big one. I needed that. "Mate. You''re so money." That seemed like the right moment to make my pitch that he should come to join Chester on a permanent basis, but all of a sudden that felt tawdry. I needed to stop trying to manage the whole world. He worked for the club he loved. That was pretty good, wasn''t it? He had helped me enough by covering for Sandra and shifting a ton of mini-bonds. "Check this out," I said, moving closer to him. I brought up a video Emma had sent me and I was about to press play when I realised it would make no sense. "Okay, context. I was staying in this house on my own and there was a pine marten living in the attic. That''s, er, marder or something in German."


    "Marder, yes. What, really? In the attic?"


    "Yes. No-one else ever saw it so there''s a bit of a running joke that I imagined the whole thing. It''s gone now - they leave in the spring and live in the woods - and we meshed up the roof so it can''t get back in. Okay, that''s the background. Check this out."


    Here''s what he saw.


    Interior: Ruth''s grandad''s cottage, AKA The Barn.


    It is pitch black and Emma is in a white night-dress shining a torch in her face. She''s recording on her phone.


    EMMA


    There''s something in the house! In the attic! In the walls! There, did you hear?


    Pan to: a wall.


    Back to: Emma''s face. It''s moist, as though she has been crying.


    EMMA


    I moved here to be with Max but no sooner do I unpack my last box than he says he''s staying the night in Manchester with a dreamy German. Now I''m here alone in this haunted house.


    Pan to: a wall.


    We see Emma''s hand reaching out, delicately touching things while she breathes heavily.


    EMMA


    I''m scared. I''m so so scared. Huh?


    There''s a sudden movement, a thump, a crash, and the scene ends with Emma''s head on the floor and her lifeless eyes open, unblinking. It stays like that for over twenty seconds.


    Peter gave me a strange look. "I have to ask. Is she okay?"


    "Yes. She''s just a complete nutjob." I scrubbed through the frames. "She doesn''t even watch horror movies. I don''t know how she knows the beats." I put my phone in my pocket and bit my lip. "She''s taking the piss out of me while keeping in touch. She''s amazing. The world is a flaming dumpster fire but I get to be with her." Maybe it was because there were a hundred people running around in Man United gear, but my mind turned to the upcoming match. "I''m going to attack. We can really get at them if we go for the throat. Who cares if they dick us? I get to go home to Emma. How bad can it be?"


    "Pretty bad."


    I clicked my neck. "I can take it. You can nope out if you want. You have to consider your reputation. We can say I sent you to scout our next league opponents."


    "Can I decide after the Crewe match?"


    "Sure. It''s going to be boring, though."


    "I''ll believe that when I see it."


    ***


    Saturday, December 13


    Post from The War Chest, your number one resource for the hottest transfer news and gossip.


    BREAKING! Chester have made a ¡ê200,000 offer for out-of-favour Stockport County winger Steve Weller. Weller won''t be keen to drop a division, but may be tempted by the offer of first-team football and the chance to play against Manchester United.


    Text from me to the DOF at Stockport County: Tony, why is everyone asking me about my interest in Steve Weller? I haven''t told anyone about my interest in Steve Weller. Have you been telling everyone about my interest in Steve Weller? That''s rather annoying, Tony. It''s not in my interest to have everyone know about my interest, Tony.


    Tony: I might have mentioned it to a couple of other clubs. It''s called creating a market for your product, Max. If I don''t try to drive the price up I''m not doing my job.


    Me: And if I publicly pull out of the deal everyone will know you pissed me off. You''d better hope some idiot takes the bait and you''d better hope we beat Crewe today because come 6 p.m. if I''m in a bad mood I''m taking it out on you.


    ***


    Match 20 of 46: Chester versus Crewe Alexandra


    Tony probably breathed sighs of relief as our goals went in, but I only breathed sighs of listlessness. I turned to Peter. "I told you it''d be boring," I said, as the clock hit 70 minutes.


    Crewe had come to the Deva with their usual 3-5-2 and a team full of young players. Their CA 80 made them the 12th strongest side in the league on paper, but that paper wasn''t worth the paper it was written on.


    I''d gone for my trusty 4-1-4-1. Having Cole at left back and Josh left midfield brought our average down to 78.5 but we had great balance, Crewe couldn''t hurt us, and Pascal was enjoying being back in the starting line up. I''d stationed him at right mid and told him to go crazy. He had climbed to CA 80 and had a good forty-five minutes of fitness in his legs. He created the first goal with a burst of pace and a simple pass to Henri.


    The second came when the young Crewe players switched off from a free kick. Ryan Jack clipped a ball over the top, Henri fought for it, scrapped against a centre back, and bundled the ball through the keeper and into the net. The Crewe lads complained that we took the kick too quickly but weirdly, no-one in blue-and-white agreed with them. More importantly, neither did the ref. The goal stood.


    At half time I had put Sharky on for Pascal, and after sixty minutes put Magnus and Dazza on instead of Ryan and Henri.


    It was extremely rudimentary stuff. If Peter had been hoping to see me do some wizard stuff, he was barking up the wrong tree.


    The fans seemed to be enjoying themselves and the women''s squad were singing and dancing up in their now-traditional corner of the Harry McNally but to me this match was dull as dishwater. Three points, clean sheet, climb to 8th in the league, yawn.


    ***


    Extract from Seals Live


    Boggy: Approaching the final ten minutes here at the Deva. Chester well in control, well on top. It seems we won''t see Max Best today.


    Spectrum: This isn''t his kind of match. We''re so comfortable and he''ll be content to let his players see out the win. Remember the early part of the season when he was having to do everything himself? He''ll be loving this. Absolutely loving this.


    Boggy: Understandable, very understandable, though of course the home fans would like to see him in full flight. Ah, well. Perhaps he is thinking about transfers. Lots of rumours flying around today, and a lot of bonds being sold on the backs of those stories.


    Spectrum: That will infuriate him. Max did all those interviews for nothing. He¡¯ll be fuming when he realises he could have simply dropped some transfer hints instead!


    Boggy: Green to Hudson. Ball clipped over the top. Hayward runs onto it. The home fans are off their seats!


    Spectrum: Crewe have left that hole there the entire match. It''s crazy.


    Boggy: Hayward gathers, looks up. Only two more home matches until his big move to Crawley. He doesn''t like his options, though, and turns back.


    Spectrum: Oh, that''s excellent. The fans are frustrated but that''s excellent.


    Boggy: Max Best with big, over-the-top applause. He''s signalling to the fans that Sharky did the right thing. Yes, and... Oh, now what''s this? Some urgent discussions there in the technical area. Who''s that?


    Spectrum: That''s Livia Stranton, one of the physios.


    Boggy: Oh, dear. Someone has picked up an injury?


    Spectrum: Never good news, but especially this time of year. The matches come thick and fast and when players are out it puts more strain on the others. Max will be worried.


    Boggy: He looks extremely stern. In fact, he''s getting ready to come on! I can''t tell who for.


    Spectrum: Josh.


    Boggy: That''s right. Josh Owens. But Owens is sprinting across the pitch. He looks fine. What''s going on? Very strange buzz around the main stand. Lots of worried faces. Peter Bauer is yelling: what''s going on? Welcome to Chester, Peter. Suggestion from the chat. New motto idea. Chester FC, where you''re always the last to know. [Chuckles.] It does feel like that sometimes, yes.


    Spectrum: Josh straight onto the bench, puts his jacket on, laughing and joking. He''s fine.


    Boggy: Around him, the worried murmur intensifies. The game continues with Crewe playing out from the back. Dazza makes a half-hearted attempt to press. Evergreen closes the 14. Crewe cycling the ball nicely. Max Best is very still. Motionless, in fact.


    Spectrum: What''s the difference?


    Boggy: Motionless is stiller than still.


    Spectrum: What?


    [Fan noise intensifies.]


    Boggy: Best with the interception! He waited for his moment and... He''s on the march! Off he goes. The speed is - Past one. Past two. Shapes to shoot. One-two with Smith. The Australian overhits the return pass! It''s gone wide but Best gets there ahead of the goalie. Best is forced away from goal, onto his left. Points for Smith to come closer. The defenders are all back. Best passes -


    [Fans roar.]


    Best scores! His back was to goal and he was too far wide. He shaped to pass but chipped the goalie! Left-footed from an angle. What a goal!


    Spectrum: Look!


    Boggy: And the rarest of all sights - a Max Best goal celebration. He''s gleeful! He''s beaming! What''s...? He''s in front of the McNally, waving his arms left and right. Palms facing upwards. Baby! He''s miming that he''s rocking a baby! It''s the iconic baby celebration from the 1994 Brazil side!


    Spectrum: Sandra Lane''s baby! Little baby Spectrum!


    Boggy: The rest of the team are alongside Best, copying the celebration. Now they hug. Now they dance! Now they weep!


    Spectrum: Oh my God, amazing. So amazing.


    Boggy: Are you okay, mate?


    Spectrum: Yeah, it''s just... Been so worried...


    [Long stretch of quiet.]


    Boggy: Oh, no. This is ominous. Peter Bauer caught Best''s attention, waved him over. It looks like he has given Best some bad news. Best all but slapped the turf!


    Spectrum: Oh, shit. The good news wasn''t good after all. No! Where''s my phone?


    Boggy: No phones, please. It messes up the broadcast.


    Spectrum: I can''t handle it, Boggy. I''m sorry. I have to go and find out.


    Boggy: [Audibly gripping Spectrum by the arm.] Wait. We''ve kicked off again and Best is in a fury. He''s pressing like a madman. Smith joins in! Contreras backing up! The whole of the team is pressing! There''s... Zach Green in midfield. Fierce in midfield! Who''s back?


    Spectrum: Youngster.


    Boggy: Youngster is a one-man defence! Everyone else is haring around the pitch, chasing that ball. It''s pumped long. Cole Adams retreats, takes it on the chest. Very nice. Plays it to Youngster. Crewe rush to block the passing lanes. That''s an open invitation to dribble! He surges forward. Green and Fierce back in position. It''s still Youngster. He exchanges passes with Evergreen. The Ghanaian under 20 star threatens to clip the ball over the top to Hayward. Crewe push up to catch him offside but the pass doesn''t come.


    Spectrum: It''s Sandra''s Switch! This is her move! Look left.


    Boggy: Youngster clips the ball over the top. Best rushes onto it. The defence is too far from goal! Best is through on the keeper, just like that.


    Spectrum: Timed to perfection. Watch companies, what are you waiting for?


    Boggy: Best... He''s got Smith trying to catch up to offer an option. Best... thrashes the ball into the net! [Intense crowd roar.] He hit that with such venom it could have taken the keeper''s head off! The crowd go bonkers. Limbs! Best rushes into the back of the net. He gets the ball. It''s four-nil, Max! Someone tell him it''s four-nil! Now he''s sprinting towards the technical area. Peter Bauer is bouncing around. Best... shoves the ball up his shirt! And sucks his thumb! Well, is he pregnant or is he a baby? He''s wrapped up by his coaches on one side, his players from the other.


    Spectrum: Message on the chat!


    Boggy: It''s from Sandra Lane! She''s listening! Aiden gave birth to a healthy baby boy. All is well. Sounds like Peter told Max his goal celebration was out of date so he''s gone and scored another. In honour of this wonderful win, we''re thinking of naming him... Alex.


    Spectrum: Alex? Because of Crewe Alexandra? Sandra, that''s terrible. They''re losing! And you can''t name him after the sports psychologist!


    Boggy: Message from the chat. Peter tells Max to score, Max scores. That''s called an infinite goal glitch. What is the club doing to make sure Peter stays? It''s a good question, Spectrum. Will he stay?


    Spectrum: Look around. The stadium is bouncing, there are smiles everywhere, the manager''s a wizard. We''re going to beat Man United, win the Youth Cup, and win League Two. This... this is the only place to be.

 12.13 - Epilogue: William the Conkerer

    13.


    Monday, December 15


    The crowd hushed as William B. Roberts, one of the best young strikers of his generation, lined up a shot.


    "Good form," I said into the microphone. "Good intensity. He''s a killer. Grrrr."


    Will''s tongue poked out between his lips but he got his game face back on and - thwack!


    "Great shot," I cried out. "But no luck."


    "Come on William!" cried a woman and there was much applause.


    Will took his second shot, and his third, but didn''t achieve his goal.


    It was Peter Bauer''s turn. "I still don''t know the rules!" he wailed. "What ought I do?"


    "Boo," I said. "Boo, get on with it." Peter shook his head and took a shot. He missed. "Terrible. This is the biggest choke in a final since Tottenham in the Champions League."


    "Tottenham were robbed by the referee," said Peter, stalling for time.


    "Everyone boo Peter," I demanded. No-one did; he was too popular.


    Peter was holding a shoelace. At the end of the shoelace was a horse chestnut seed that the tree at Bumpers Bank had dropped in the autumn. The tree produced green, spiky shells which contained one, sometimes two seeds, and the seeds were beautiful. An inch or so wide, the polished, shiny brown of your mum''s coffee table, with a light brown top. Carve a thin hole through the seed, push a shoelace through, tie off one end and you have created a conker.


    Peter''s job was to use his conker to annihilate William''s, but he was terrible at the attacking side of the game.


    "Peter lines up his second shot. Oh but that''s a bad miss. Heh."


    I was commentating from my vantage point close to the action. We were on the 3G pitch at Bumpers and there was a healthy crowd of Chester players, their WAGs, kids, and all sorts of admin people. The event had developed organically and quickly from this Conkers tournament into our unofficial Christmas party.


    "Peter with his third shot. And the misfiring German has finally managed to land a hit!"


    In this tournament, the players had three goes each. Now it was Will''s turn again.


    Peter smoothed out his shoelace and dangled the conker at arm''s length. William wrapped his lace around his wrist a couple of times to shorten the length and impart maximum power to his attack.


    Will cracked his conker against Peter''s, sending both veering off, their paths constrained by the shoelace. Peter''s conker wrapped around and into his arm. Will''s somehow hit him on the top of his own head. Conkers is banned in a lot of British schools.


    "A reminder that Peter got through the knockout rounds with a tedious, defensive style. If Jose Mourinho played Conkers..." That got some laughs. One of the risks in Conkers is that if you land a good strike you can break your own seed as easily as you can break your opponents. "The aim of the game is destruction," I said. "Destroy, Will! Get him! Get him, Will!"


    Will stuck his tongue out again, looked around at the crowd, and blushed slightly. That was amazing. I had no doubt he would strut around Old Trafford and if he scored he would shush the 70,000 Man United fans. In a football match nothing fazed him. In the real world, he was a normal 17-year-old boy.


    Will''s second shot came with a meaty impact sound, but no visible damage to either conker.


    "The crowd hushes as Will lines up his third and final go. Future? Big Sam? I said the crowd hushes."


    Crack!


    "Ooh, big one! But Peter survives. After the bombs drop there will only be cockroaches and Peter''s conker. What a specimen! Now it''s Peter''s turn. A reminder that Conkers has been played on these islands for thousands of years. Some say Stonehenge was built to host the country''s first tournament. Then, as now, light cheating was allowed. Vinegar. Slow-baking the conkers." Someone called something out. "If that''s Henri saying the horse chestnut isn''t native to Britain, jab him in the ribs." There followed a loud ''ow!'' "I happen to know that we exported the horse chestnut to Europe and then took it back a few thousand years later. It was merely out on loan."


    Peter was listening to me babble. "Should I strike now or - ?"


    "Yes! Stop timewasting! Boo!"


    He decided to copy Will''s technique of shortening the shoelace. It helped you get more accuracy but less power, and when you got a good contact - "Ow!" he cried, as the hard nut flew around and into his knuckles.


    He frowned. Why were we playing this stupid game? His hands were far too cold to be taking impacts. "Oh no," I said, in a baby voice. "Peter got an ouchie."


    He gritted his teeth and took his second and third shots.


    "Ooh, do I see a bit of a buckle there?" I said, stepping closer. Johnny, the groundsman, had been aghast when I told him I''d be using the pitch to host the final. I felt the floodlights and the early evening mist would add to the sense of drama; Johnny claimed there would be bits of conker in the weaves of the artificial grass forever. That was a good point but we had compromised. He had put down a big sheet to collect the broken pieces. "Yes! There''s a big crack in Peter''s conker. Will! Look! Hit it there!" William lined up his first shot and hit the target. A visible chunk of Peter''s conker flew off. "Yerrssssss! And now the death blow! Death! Blow! Death! Blow!" I whipped the crowd up until their bloodlust was enough to join in the chant.


    William, under pressure, missed the target.


    "The hell was that? Boo! Focus! Use the force. The spirits of the ancient druids are watching. Don''t let them down."


    William''s third shot obliterated Peter''s conker. A cheer rose up.


    There was a handshake and a polite exchange of ''well dones'' before I lifted Will''s hand and displayed him to the onlookers.


    Before the celebrations had even started to die down, Johnny Planter and his staff were rolling up the sheet, carefully making sure no bits of foreign material got into the precious crevices.


    "There you have it," I said. "William the Conkerer defeats Peter the Great! Thrilling. Will, you win one therapy session with your unqualified manager. Can we get four or five physios to look at Peter''s ouchie, please? Thanks to Johnny and his team for collecting the horse chestnuts, thanks to the under twelves for turning them into conkers, thanks to everyone who took part in the tournament. There are nibbles, drinks, mini-games. Have a wander around, mingle, talk to someone you''ve never met before. All right? Is it too early to say Merry Christmas? Ah, whatevs. Merry Christmas!"


    The crowd replied "Merry Christmas," and made a beeline for the mini-games or the tables laden with white wine, as per their age and inclination. I handed the microphone to a volunteer and walked off. William came with me. We were going to have a quick chat in the Sin Bin before rejoining the party, but there were a couple of people I needed to talk to first in case they left early.


    ***


    "Dazza," I said, and the big boofhead turned around. He was, surprise, surprise, surrounded by women. These included Meghan, Sarah Greene, and Kisi.


    "G''day boss. Champ," he added, nodding at Wibbers. Will barely noticed; he was eyeing the ladies.


    I said, "Well, Darren. I''ll just say that it''s good you don''t play Conkers for a living. You are hot garbage."


    "Fair dinkum, boss. Never played before but it was fun to give it a burl. Picked out a proper cactus, didn''t I?"


    "Mmm," I said. I thought he was complaining about the conker he had taken from the bag, but he could have been saying anything. "Maybe let''s talk about football. I got your recent data. Number goes up."


    He was pleased. "Anything in particular?"


    "You know the specifics don''t matter," I said. "You''re doing great and I like your approach. I''m almost tempted to stop throwing spiders at you."


    His eyebrows shot up. "The data''s that good?"


    "Yep. We''re gonna get offers for you in the summer and you could probably skip League One and go straight to the Championship. Where''s your head at right now?"


    He frowned, but only for a moment. "You''re asking coz my decision could change what you do this transfer window."


    "Right." If he was likely to leave in the summer, along with Foquita and Henri, the only senior striker I would have on the books would be Tom Westwood and he wasn''t League One quality. If Dazza was thinking about leaving, I could get ahead of the problem by signing someone like Lucas Cook, the Exit Triallist I''d sent to Tranmere, who could get some minutes as a backup for the rest of this season and be one of the two starters next.


    "What do you want?" he said, stepping away from his admirers and speaking more softly.


    "Erm..." If we sold Dazza this summer, I''d make the money make more money. If we kept him, that was good too. What would be best for his career? "It depends how you go in the Champ. If your numbers are bad at the start and the manager loses faith you might be on the sidelines for a while, but you''ll be at a high level with great facilities. If you stay with us it''s more of a slow and steady rise. More of a sure thing but with much less money."


    "Which one''s going to get me playing for my country?"


    I glanced at William. The England selectors hadn''t shown any interest in him. "If your lot are as lazy as ours, they''re not looking in the lower leagues for players. They''re definitely looking in the Championship."


    Dazza looked to my right. "What would you do, Will?"


    Will looked at me. "What would you do, boss?"


    I shrugged. "If my main goal was to play for Oz, I''d stay here another season. I''d keep building my technical base, keep adding bits to my game. When I get my chance in the famous baggy green shell suit, I''m taking it and keeping it. And I wouldn''t even ask for a raise this coming summer, to prove just how determined I was."


    Will nodded. "I asked Henri to double my rent because I love the grind that much."


    Dazza laughed and high-fived Will. "Reckon I''ll stay if you''ll have me. I''d be a right conker if I left while I was having so much apples."


    I inhaled. "Will, did you hear that? Having so much apples?"


    "Yes, boss."


    I shook my head. "Sometimes I wonder if I''m hallucinating half of it."


    ***


    I found Peter in conversation with Physio Dean and Livia. "Max," complained Peter. "They are making fun of me." He smiled and rubbed his hand. "That really hurt! It''s like being hit by a stone."


    A quick rub of my upper lip hid a smile. "We''ll toughen you up by the next tournament. And if you practise hard, you might be able to hit a stationary target from six inches away."


    "I won''t be participating in this tournament again. I didn''t know what I was agreeing to."


    "Yep yep yep," I said. "Only problem with that theory is that you''ll spend the next eleven months thinking about conkers, wondering if you could have done it better. You''ll come up with plans and strategies."


    "There is no strategy! It''s all about which chestnut you pick from the hat."


    "Is it? Ah, that''s interesting. Isn''t that interesting, William?"


    Will nodded. "Yes, boss. Very interesting that he would think that."


    The four English people kept a straight face while Peter tried to work out what we meant. I clapped my hands together. "You need some glue wine. Pascal''s dad made a batch."


    "Gl¨¹hwein?" said Peter, perking up. "Authentic German recipe?"


    "I don''t know," I said. "Probably. Come and try." There was a little queue and, unforgivably, I cut in. "Sorry, everyone! Legit doing some work."


    "Boo!" cried Zach, who was lining up patiently next to Brooke, who was all wrapped up in coats, gloves, and a cute hat.


    "If you want special treatment," I said, "don''t get knocked out in the first round of the tournament!"


    "My conker was bad."


    Will said, with a suspiciously innocent expression, "You have to nut harder."


    "No," I said, pushing him away. "You go to the back of the line for that. Awful." I pushed him away but he came right back. "Can I have a quick word in a second, Brooke? I''ll be over there with my glue wine. Guten abend, Herr Bochum!" I said, in a flawless Mancunian accent.


    "How many?" said Pascal''s dad.


    "Three, please."


    He ladled three big blobs into paper cups and the finalists and I moved away, took a sip, and let out simultaneous ''ahhs''. Peter smiled. "Sehr gut gemacht."


    "We had this at the digs last year," said William. "What is it?"


    "Mulled wine," I said. "Warms you up on a cold winter''s evening. Makes everything ten percent more Christmassy."


    I took a contented look around. Emma and Gemma were over there being besties. Benny and his dad, Chester legend Nice One, were talking to Ben and Sharky. Jill and Smasho were with some of the players who had moved to Saltney''s women''s team. Angel was talking animatedly to Sophie and Henri while Luisa watched the younger woman''s every move like a hawk. Pete, one of our chefs, was walking around with a plate of nibbles and explaining what they were.


    Ryan Jack and Ruth came towards us. Ryan looked worried. Ruth, like Brooke, was tucked into some warm winter clothes in extremely pleasing fashion. "Gaffer," said Ryan. "Bad news. Heard from me sources that Weller''s going to Bradford."


    "Fuck," said William.


    "How much?" I said.


    "Two forty."


    "Gazumped again," I said, cheerily. I took another sip. "Peter, this is my new transfer team. You know Ryan. Have you met Ruth? She runs the UK''s fastest growing sports agency."


    "Transfer team?" said Peter.


    "I thought about what you said and yeah, deals are only going to get more and more complicated and clubs are going to wind me up more and more. Ryan is charming and patient, Ruth is charming and patient and menacing. I''ll tell them who I''m interested in, give them a budget range, let them at it."


    "Oh," said Peter. "I didn''t think you''d listen."


    "Why would you think that?" I said, taking another sip. It was good stuff.


    "Everyone said you''re stubborn as hell."


    "Who? Name names. I''ll batter them!"


    William scratched his head. His agent was half of my transfer team. "Ruth doesn''t work for Chester, does she?"


    "No. She''ll be something like an outside consultant. The club will pay her a flat fee per deal. I''ll have to explain it on a podcast and there will be some grumbling but not much, I don''t think. People want transfers. They don''t want to hear that I botched a deal and put another club on my shit list." So Weller had gone to join Bradford. My first thought was for Aff. I had got the impression Folke Wester was happy with the Irishman''s performances. Then again, it didn''t really matter what Wester thought. Chip Star was top of the league and clearly he had successfully petitioned Daddy for more of a war chest. "Bradford aren''t going to be in for another left-mid so we should be able to get our second target. I''ll text you some names. Hey, Ruth, can you - as sweetly as possible, please - ask Mateo about Lucas Cook? If he''d sell, what sort of price would we be looking at? Tell him I''m worried the Foquita deal will fall through at the last minute."


    "What?" said William. "How can it? No way!"


    Ruth gave Will a strange look. To me, she said, "I''m always sweet, Max. Aren''t I, Ryan?"


    Ryan thought about it. "You smile as you''re delivering the bad news. Does that count?"


    Zach and Brooke came over. "Bad news?" said Brooke.


    "Nothing to worry about." I sipped the hot wine. "Just Chip being Chip."


    "Yeah," Brooke said. "He does that. Max, people are lovin¡¯ this. The atmosphere, spending time together, exploring the tables and what''s in the bar. People are saying we should do a Christmas market. German style with cabins and beer tents and Christmas lights, someone dressed as Father Christmax."


    "A Christmas market, here? Yes, please," said Ruth.


    "Love it," I said. "Who will I delegate that task to, do you think?"


    Brooke smiled. "Peter gets things done."


    "Yeah, he does. Peter, who should I give this task to?"


    "I think I am expected to say Brooke?"


    "Amazing choice! Brooke, you are in charge of next year''s Christmas market. Er, quick little thing." I handed my wine to William, but there was only a bit left so I took it back, downed it, and gave him the cup. He slid his cup into mine. "Team work!" I said, then coughed slightly as the spices tickled my throat. "Worr, that one got me. Amazing stuff. Okay, Brooke, I know you''re taking a vacation so I won''t see you before Christmas." I fumbled in my pockets and realised my hands were proper cold. I found what I was looking for - a simple piece of paper. "In recent times I''ve been told I''m a terrible negotiator."


    Peter said, "By whom? Name names! I''ll have a stern word with them!"


    I smiled. "I''m actually not bad, I think. If it''s another football club that cares about their employees, it''s easy. It''s just a question of what''s best for the player and what''s a fee we can both agree on. Simples. Most football clubs, though, you call them and as soon as you say you want a player it''s like you''ve landed them in episode 7 of The Traitors. They''re trying to play 6D chess with a 2D brain."


    I paused to enjoy what I''d just said.


    William said, "Sorry, what''s the topic?"


    "Yeah, got confusing, didn''t I? Simple version: Brooke, I got you a Christmas present." I was about to hand the paper over but decided a little more ceremony was in order. "I want to give you a raise and you more than deserve it. I plan to put you on Gemma money within two years. I know that''s still a big drop from what you''re used to." Brooke rolled her eyes; I continued. "But for now, this is the best I can do."


    I offered the paper. She handed her drink to Zach; he was already reaching out to take it. Brooke opened the paper and looked as puzzled as her carefully-inexpressive face ever got. All that was written there was a pound sign followed by a five-digit number. "What...?"


    "They will sell you Biccy for that price."


    Her face did cartwheels, which was impressive for at least two reasons. "Biscotti? They say they wouldn''t ever..."


    "They will. Bosh. Merry Christmas."


    She threw herself at me and treated me to the vibrations of a happy cry.


    Peter said, "Biscotti?"


    "It''s a pony," I said.


    Brooke peeled herself away from me and looked at the paper, not even trying to hide her delight. "How did you do it?"


    "Simple," I said, seriously. "Carrot and stick. Carrot, loads of money. Stick, agree to sell or I''ll come back with 500 hooligans and we''ll trash the place."


    Brooke looked like a little girl when she smiled and said, "No! Tell me!"


    I smiled. "I told them that all this - " I waved my finger around - "Is you. Told them about Chester Chatters, the dentist - is he here? We invited him, right? Just said it''s Christmas and that''s the time of year I decide who''s been naughty and who''s been nice."


    Peter said, "You make a list and check it twice."


    "No, mate," I said, fake annoyed. "I don''t check because I don''t make mistakes. Anyway, they agreed that Brooke deserved to have the opportunity to buy the pony at a sickening mark-up. I''m honestly not sure if it was my charm that sealed the deal or if they want to put in another swimming pool or what."


    Brooke shook her head as the first tiny tear started to form. "I didn''t think... I''m astonished. But if I buy Biccy I can go, Max. I can go somewhere warm. Aren''t you worried?"


    I turned to the left where Pascal''s father was already coming to the end of his glue wine. Who knew free, warming, delicious alcohol would be such a hit? Behind him, spread out all the way to the penalty box on the 3G, were parents of kids in the youth system, first teamers, the women. There were some cliques but a fair amount of mingling. It felt like a Christmas market even if there were no lights, decorations, music, or cute wooden huts. Steam was coming out of everyone''s mouths as they joked and laughed and huddled together. "Don''t know, Brooke. It''s pretty warm here."


    "Yeah, it is," she said, wiping her eyes.


    "Guys," I said, looking from Ruth to Ryan to Zach via Peter and William. "That is the Christmas present equivalent of scoring from 60 yards, all right? Watch and learn." I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warm glow of smugness. It was tastier and spicier than any alcohol. "Hmm. We should have done that with the camera crew here. Black and white filter, acoustic version of an 80s classic, put that on the socials and make everyone''s parents cry. Give the gift of Chester this Christmas. Buy your loved ones tickets for Notts County."


    "Well done, Max," said Ruth. It seemed like a comment on the gift, not on the advert idea.


    "Yeah, amazing," said Ryan. "Hats off."


    I mimed doffing my cap to him. "Last thing. Peter, will you give me the gift of being my assistant manager tomorrow?"


    "In the FA Youth Cup against West Ham United? I would love to."


    "Yesss!" hissed William, pulling his fist down. Peter''s eyes widened; I was thrilled. No way was he getting genuine outbursts of enthusiasm from the young stars at Bayern.


    "William. Time for some therapy!"


    ***


    I checked the time. I was 21 XP short of affording the Relationism module and while I was hyper about it, I knew there was no point rushing to get it. Our next match was tomorrow evening in the Youth Cup and I would, at most, use Relationism for two minutes at the end just to see how it all worked. Whether I bought it now or in a few hours made no difference, and at 7 p.m. a bunch of randos would come to Bumpers to use the pitch and I would watch them for 21 minutes.


    It was hard to concentrate on our discussion, though, with a giant box of amazingness vibrating gently under the Christmas tree. Mum said I couldn''t open it until tomorrow night. Not fair! The other boys got to open one present a day early!


    "Will, did your parents make you wait to open your pressies or did they let you have one early?"


    We were in the Sin Bin and I was clicking around on my laptop. Wibbers was in the middle of the white table, directly in front of the TV. I was to the side, as I had been when I had outfoxed Angel. After I had convinced Jackie not to use her for the rest of the calendar year, she had whispered, ''Well played.'' What a good sport she was. Shame I wasn''t finished showing her who was boss.


    William said, "We get one early, yeah. But it''s never one of the good ones."


    "You were dead impatient. An impossible little brat."


    "Nah, I was all right, gaffer, honest. When I was little they said you get the pressies on Christmas morning. Yeah I ran around the house making a racket until they woke up, but it didn''t occur to me to, like, ask for it even earlier. That was Adam."


    "Your brother''s impatient?"


    "To say the least. He''s a pest. On Christmas Eve they let him open one. A new jumper. Box of chocolates. Some book."


    "Ah, that reminds me. The charity wants to do a new project."


    "Which charity?"


    "Ours. The Chester one. The one that technically owns Bumpers. It''s Brooke, really, but with more and more volunteers. I basically just let them get on with it. Brooke''s intern, Kian, found out about this thing they do in Germany where football players go to schools to encourage kids to read. Kids who read are better at sports, apparently, and communicate better and so on. I was thinking we could do it together."


    "Me?"


    "Yeah. That''s a good division of skills. I''ll do some weird, mad stuff, and you''ll tell them you like Striker! by Steve Bruce or The Lightning Thief."


    "Why?"


    "I''m in an anti-gammon mood, Will. This will get attention, right, the first time we go. I''ll be like, here are five books that the Daily Mail doesn''t want you to read! And you''ll be like that''s nice but I like ones with a story and cool pictures." He pulled a face I saw a lot - smile plus frown equals can''t tell if you''re joking. I said, "I''ll get what I want but we will also achieve our mission of getting kids to stop looking at screens. Win-win. Love it. Okay, let''s do some video analysis. Sound the irony klaxon!"


    Will sat up. A lot of the younger players were the same - they loved when a coach took them through game scenarios on the screen, especially when it involved the players themselves.


    Alex, our sports psychologist, had been working with Will and one of Will''s issues was some uncertainty about how he was supposed to think when on the pitch. They''d agreed that Will should ask me to do some video sessions with him and I was totes into it. The theme of the first half of the season was getting deeper than pure numbers, right?


    My approach to these video sessions was ''a little but often'', so we mostly watched one clip of him and he talked me through what he was thinking, and he chose a clip of me and I talked him through my process. The sessions had already led to one pop in his Decisions score so they were having some impact though I knew better than to think I''d contributed more than the last little fraction of a percent.


    Although there was a party going on outside, the West Ham match was of paramount importance and missing ten minutes of gawping at women wasn''t going to do him any harm.


    "Before we look at the clips," I said, rummaging in my pockets for a Post-It. "I thought we could quickly go over some things we''ve learned this season so far."


    "Sure," he said. He leaned back, relaxed.


    "Are you happy with the technical feedback you''re getting? Your charts, your physical stats?"


    "We don''t get much. I keep an eye on them but I''m trying not to let the numbers tell me what to do, like you said. Are you happy with my data?"


    I smiled. He was slightly unusual in asking questions like that. Pascal did. Dan did. Most of the others had a more fearful approach and I had to work hard to coax their feelings out of them.


    "Yes," I said. "You are right on track. Next topic. Alex Short. Are you finding those sessions useful?"


    "Definitely. Sometimes when I get angry I think about talking to him and that''s enough."


    I nodded. "I know exactly what you mean; I''m the same. Do you talk to him anyway?"


    "Not about that thing, no."


    "Might be good," I mused. "Even if you''re over it. Could have a quick chat about your triggers; get ahead of it."


    "Okay."


    I tapped the table. "When we met you were a bit of a hothead, weren''t you? You''re way better now but as you get more profile, like against Newcastle or what you''re going to do tomorrow, teams are going to think up plans against you. Double-marking, snide challenges, guys pinching you, calling your mum, all kinds of shit. Getting angry''s fine if you channel it."


    "Like you did against Bolton."


    "Yeah, that''s pretty much ideal, I reckon." I smiled. "Can''t promise to react like that every time. I know I''m going to go full smashy-smashy one day."


    Will tilted his head and put a finger to his jaw. "How about you get ahead of it by talking to Alex?"


    "Sarky bastard," I said. "But I will if you will."


    "Deal," he said, reaching forward. We shook on it.


    I returned to the Post-It and went down one bullet point. "Are you still putting your money away like we talked about?"


    He nodded urgently. "Yes! Want to check?"


    "No, I don''t want to check. Never let anyone see your bank account, mate. That''s yours. Anyone who starts asking, that''s a red flag. You get me?"


    "Yes."


    "Biggest problem for you, from what I''ve heard about what goes on in the Prem, is going to be so-called friends sponging off you. That''s why you put that 10 percent away, right? You need to finish this career rich and stay rich. If you want to take some mates to Ibiza and pay for everything, yeah, okay. But if you do it once and they expect you to do it again the next year, bin them off."


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    "I don''t have that kind of money."


    "You will. Need to watch out for leeches and bloodsuckers."


    "My mates aren''t like that."


    "They''d better not be because I''ll Brig anyone who starts taking liberties."


    Will smiled. "What if I''m at Man City?"


    I shrugged. "Depends how much I sold you for and whether you demanded a move ten minutes before the transfer deadline."


    "Are you still thinking of loaning me to a club in a higher league?"


    "Yep."


    "I said it to loads of people and they think you''re crazy. They say you''re a wizard but not a miracle worker."


    "Well, that kind of negativity is a topic we could get into one day, mate. You and I can do things those people can''t. Do you get me? If you go round thinking about all the things you can''t do, you''ll never do anything."


    "But how would it work?"


    I smiled. "Okay, here''s one example from, conservatively, a billion ideas I''ve already had. We win the league this year. We win the league next year. I''m pretty good at this management lark but I think we need a consolidation year in the Championship before we go up to the Prem. If we went straight through we would be the least prepared team of all time and we would get absolutely pummelled. The first year in the Champ you and Youngster would still be learning. I think it would be fine to keep you that year. The second year, though. You wouldn''t learn much, would you? You need to be in the Prem that year. Playing for who? There''s often a team that scrapes into Europe, isn''t there? They''ve got the Premier League, the FA Cup, AOK Cup, and the Europa League. Potentially over 70 matches. Say it''s Brentford. They don''t want to buy five new players, do they? What if it''s their only season with European football? They bought five players they don''t need and they''re paying huge money over four years. Oops! But I''ve just spoken to that lovely Max Best and he''s given me an idea..."


    Wibbers smiled. "Loan me and Youngster for that season. Brentford aren''t committed to a long-term deal but they get a couple of extra bodies."


    I beamed. "And you get some Prem experience, some European exposure. Not loads, no, but that''s better than retreading old ground in the Championship. Mate, the concept is foolproof. No-one can possibly argue this isn''t realistic, plausible, shit - even necessary. As always, I''m ahead of the game. Max Best one, naysayers nil."


    Will shook his head with a smile. My idea had logic... on paper. "It could work," he said, diplomatically.


    "Whatever happens, I''m going to loan you to a so-called bigger club for at least a month just to establish dominance over those who doubt me. You okay with that?"


    He smiled. "Yes, boss. Can I ask a squad-building question?"


    "Yes."


    "How fucked are we?"


    "Because we didn''t get Weller? Zero percent fucked."


    "The lads are worried there will be another Raffi Brown transfer twist."


    "There won''t be," I said. "We can win the league with the squad we''ve got. No-one has a release clause. Nothing can go wrong."


    He looked worried. "What if the twist is that Foquita doesn''t come?"


    I scoffed. "That''s the twist, all right. But the twist isn''t what you think."


    "What?"


    "The twist is... he''s already here."


    "He''s in England?"


    "Yep. He''s doing tourist things with his girlfriend and then she''ll go back to Peru. They''ll be coming to The Happening. All right?"


    "All right," he said, smiling. "She''s quite fit, isn''t she? Exotic."


    "Yes. Don''t fall in love with her."


    "I won''t if you won''t," he said, and extended his hand.


    I didn''t take the offer. "Mmmmight not shake on that one, bro," I laughed. "I''m only human. Okay, focus."


    I tapped my keyboard and a video showed on the big telly. We watched three clips in silence. They were remarkably similar.


    In the first, Wibbers was running through on goal on the left-half of the D. The goalie was rushing out. Wibbers had a few choices of what to do but didn''t like any of them so he turned away from goal and passed to Dazza. The ball wasn''t in his stride so he ended up flubbing the shot.


    In the second, Sarah Greene was through in an almost identical position. She chipped the goalie.


    In the third, Sarah Greene was through, faked a chip, and dribbled around the goalie before rolling the ball into the net.


    I went back to the first clip and played it slowly, pausing at William''s moment of decision.


    "What are you thinking?"


    "Yeah, I wanted to run around the keeper but the defender there is really fast. I wasn''t sure he wouldn''t tackle me."


    I nodded. Made sense. "What about the chip?"


    Wibbers got up and walked to the screen. He used his finger to show the flight of the ball. His fingertip went up and curved towards the top left of the goal. "Chip goes here, over the keeper. I felt he would get a hand to it."


    I nodded towards the other side of the goal. "Could you have put it there?"


    "Normally yeah but... look... well, you can''t see it but the ball''s not in the right place. It looks it, but it''s not. If I tried to wrap my foot around it I would have tripped myself up."


    "I know exactly what you mean," I said. "What about rolling the ball wide? Put some spin on it, bends round the keeper, easy. I love a slow-motion goal. It''s even more of a fuck-you than a thunderbastard, sometimes."


    Wibbers bit his lip. "Not sure. The keepers are so tall. I feel they''ll just bend and get the ball and I''ll look a dick."


    I leaned back. "Okay. I''m happy with that. You could have been more sympathetic with the pass to Dazza. You know he''s not the most technical. But I''m happy with your process."


    The point of the sessions, for me at least, wasn''t to tell them what to do but to check they were thinking about their game. Wibbers did little else. "What would you have done?"


    "Erm," I said, scrubbing through Sarah Greene''s versions. Both were classy. "Sarah''s up against tiny goalies who don''t always have amazing agility. It''ll be interesting to see if she still chips in that situation in the WSL. Taking it round the keeper here is delicious but as you say, you''re careful about doing that against a lightning fast defender. One dummy should take him out, though. As I said, I don''t mind your choice but generally speaking I get queasy when you turn away from goal in those situations. It takes all the energy out of the move. If you keep driving towards goal the defenders are frazzled. But if it''s me running there instead of Dazza, yeah, fucking pass because that''s like an open goal for me, that situation."


    "I know," he smiled. "But you didn''t answer my question. Go back to where I''m about to shoot." I did. "What do you do there?"


    "Roll it around him," I said. "Okay, it looks dogshit if the keeper saves it, but he''s not going to. Plus you will fry his brain because for the first half a second it looks like you''re kicking it miles wide. When he realises his mistake, the ball''s past him."


    He looked at the screen very intently and I was convinced he would pop in Decisions again. That would have been an incredible result from a bunch of very quick, fun, sessions. "Can you show me Sarah again?"


    I scrubbed through to Sarah''s chip. She was beautifully balanced, no particular evidence of exertion, no doubt that she was going to make the exact contact with the ball that was on her mind. "Gorgeous," I said. "I like watching Kisi dribble. Dani or Sharky in full flight is thrilling. Christian thundering into a tackle makes me want to run through a brick wall. But Sarah''s just gorgeous." I sighed happily as I played the clip and half of the next one. I paused just as she sent the keeper onto her arse. "Looks the exact fucking same as the chip but we know she''s going to dribble. Look at the balance. The purity of the movement. It''s effortless. Sorry, Will. You might be the best player I ever manage but she''s my favourite."


    "Mine too," he mumbled.


    "Oh-oh," I said, with a laugh.


    "No, I didn''t mean it like that," he lied. "It''s just... I was thinking maybe I would ask her to come with me to The Happening." My first thought was of the genetics of their offspring. PA 250, minimum. Wibbers took my silence for disapproval. "No," he said. "Not really. She wouldn''t..."


    I closed my laptop, cruelly removing the picture of Sarah from the screen. I pointed to the door. "Go and ask her now."


    "What? No."


    "Go and do it right now and then come back. And get a wiggle on; we''ve got another clip to watch."


    He had turned even whiter. "What do I say?"


    I groaned in mock exasperation. Thought was the enemy of success. "Say one nice thing about her then ask her to be your date to the thing then say you need to get back to the Sin Bin for your sesh."


    "What if she asks why I left the sesh to ask her out?"


    I exploded and it was only about 10% acting. "She won''t! What the fuck kind of thing is that to worry about? Just say I''m on a call, for Christ''s sake! Hurry up and do it. Jesus wept."


    "Er," he said, but all of a sudden he zoomed off. He left the door open, the prick, and I got smashed with freezing cold air. I closed it and went over to the space heater and warmed my hands.


    So Steve Weller was going to Bradford. What a pain in the arse transfers were! The heater was feeble but it took the edge off. I sorted my mental database by Decisions, by Technique, by Pace, looking for likely candidates who might be interested in joining Chester. I paid particular attention to guys whose contracts were ending in the summer. They would come at a discount.


    I thought about backup goalies and left-footed midfielders until Wibbers rushed back in. Now that he was on the inside, he remembered to close the door. Funny that.


    "She said she''d think about it!" he said, torn between ecstasy and humiliation. "That''s bad, isn''t it?"


    "Honestly? Yes. How do you feel?"


    "Um... Okay! She was with Dazza again. Do you think she likes him?"


    I went back to my laptop, opened it, and replayed the clip where Dazza had made a pig''s ear of a simple chance to score after great work from Will. "Dazza''s nice. He''s exotic and he knows where to find antivenoms at short notice." I looked Will in the eye. "But he ain''t no WibRob."


    He grinned. "Okay. Let''s look at the last clip. It''s fun out there."


    "Want to call it quits?"


    "No," he said, pushing his head forward decisively. "I want to learn."


    "Kay. You chose this clip." I brought it up. It was from the recent Crewe match when I was charging around like a maniac to get the ball and the rest of the team went mental along with me. I watched as the mayhem unfolded. "What do you want to know?"


    "Well," he said, choosing his words as carefully as he could given the recent spike in his excitement levels. "This isn''t good, is it?"


    "No."


    "And we don''t practise running around like headless chickens."


    "We don''t."


    "Everyone lost their minds."


    "Yes."


    "Because you did."


    "I think that''s right."


    "And because we did Bestball."


    I frowned. "What do you mean?"


    "Sorry, Relationism."


    "Yes but what do you mean?"


    Wibbers pointed. "Everyone has left their posts and it''s a mad ball of chaos. It''s not how the eighteens do it or how 3 R Welsh do it but you said every side would do it different. Right? So this is the Chester men version."


    "Ah," I said, smiling now that I understood. "I think this goal was a one-off. I think that''s just me in a frenzy because of little baby... Alex? He''s not going to be Alex really, is he? Sandra¡¯s trolling us."


    "What I don''t get is that Youngster dropped to cover so it was wild but it was controlled. Someone was still seeing the bigger picture. I think my question is, if this happens again do you want me to go tonto or do you want me giving some control?"


    The door opened and a thousand gallons of ice-cold air blew in, followed by Sarah Greene. She didn''t close the door - fucking hell! - but strode forward. "William," she said. "You took me by surprise just now. Yes, I''d like to go to The Happening with you."


    I shot to my feet. "Whoa whoa whoa!" I cried, moving to close the door. When it was closed, I said, "Don''t do that. Tell him you''ll only go on a date with him if he scores a hat trick against West Ham tomorrow."


    "No," she said. "He''s fit and kind and he''s amazing."


    I spread my arms wide. "Can I get some fucking teamwork here, please? I need to win that match and William''s my secret weapon. I''ve been lurking in the shadows for thousands of years creating the perfect combinations of bloodlines that will lead to the birth of the kwisatz haderach. The prophecy says you will know him by the way he coats his conkers with nail varnish. Behold!" I said, pointing to Will.


    "I didn''t use nail varnish," he said. "I''m just the best at Conkers."


    Sarah said, "Max, I can''t deal with your weird movie fantasies right now." She looked at the screen and smiled. "That''s my favourite goal of yours, I think. You actually did a selfless thing for once. Bye, William," she said, giving him a blast of eye contact. She shoots, she scores! She makes it look so easy!


    "Um, bye."


    She had her fingers wrapped around the door handle when she turned back. "You don''t have to score a hat trick tomorrow, William." She smiled. "Two will be just fine."


    ***


    Tuesday, December 16


    FA Youth Cup 3rd round: West Ham United versus Chester


    We rode Sealbiscuit down to London and pulled into the Rush Green stadium, part of the Irons'' academy setup and also where their women played. The pitch was nice and there was a chunky stand but it was sparsely populated; apart from the parents of the players and a few die hard fans there wasn''t much interest in the arrival of tiny little Chester.


    The lack of interest got under my skin and so did their manager. The guy was a former Hammer - by the way, how moronic to have two nicknames for one club? Make up your fucking mind - and he didn''t give the Blues the respect we deserved. He came up to me about ten minutes before kick off and, flanked by about a dozen support staff, he tried to do some mind games on me, the manager of the Seals. Peter hovered behind in an attempt to avoid the usual chat about Dieter.


    The curse told me the guy was called Sam Norman. It didn''t tell me that he was full of himself, but I didn''t need help seeing that. "Are you Chester? Shame you didn''t bring your women''s team."


    "Why''s that?" I said, dryly. I wanted to get pissed off, to make our victory even more enjoyable.


    "Nicer to look at, aren''t they?"


    One of Norman''s minions said, "They might give us more of a game, too. Look at that gangly little..." He was going to say ''freak'', in reference to Chas Fungrieve. "Looks like a baby giraffe on ice."


    They chuckled at that but I got a good jab in by hitting the prick where it hurt - his ego. "I''m Max, by the way. And you are?"


    Slap! That one hurt. So you played in the Premier League? Think you''re famous? You''re not, mate. Norman switched tack pretty quickly, trying to beat me at my own game. "Sam Norman. I played against Chester when I was coming up," said the guy. "Tried really hard, they did. I''m glad to see you''re doing okay. Big day for you this, isn''t it?"


    "Yeah, this is bigger than when we played Slovakia or Newcastle. I think meeting you will be the highlight of the kids'' careers, Greg."


    "Sam."


    "Sam, yeah. That''s what I said. Have you finished? Can I get on with dumping you out of the cup now?"


    "Dumping me...?" He couldn''t believe what I''d said. "You had a decent result against Charlton but this is West Ham, lad. This is the original academy of football. We''re going to teach you how to play, all right?"


    "Thing is, Sam, Chelsea beat us last season in the Battle of Stamford Bridge but you''re no Chelsea. You don''t have a single player who would get in my team." That was a bit of an exaggeration but there are times a half-truth is truer than the truth. West Ham''s average, in a very Chester-like 4-1-4-1, CA was 33. That was a smidge lower than Chelsea''s 37 but West Ham''s average was flatter. They didn''t have big stars and competed on teamwork and graft. I mean, lol. We had that plus Dan and Wibbers. Our 4-3-3 gave us an average of 41.6. Stupendous!


    As for Norman himself, he was awful. Low in coaching, scouting, and tactics. Being a former player was a bonus but not in itself a qualification for a position in a football club.


    I had Triple Captain and Bench Boost in reserve but I was so confident that, despite Norman''s jibes, I wasn''t seriously tempted to use them.


    "My advice," I said, as Sam and his staff mocked me in various ways, "is that you stay quiet in your technical area and if you behave yourself I won''t take the piss after the match. You can call yourself the Academy of Football if you want, but today you''re getting a lesson from the School of Slaps. Good? Seeya."


    Peter scurried after me. "Fucking hell, Max! What is wrong with you? This is West Ham. You can''t seriously think you''ll win. He''ll be the one taking the piss. I wouldn''t have come if I''d known you would embarrass me."


    You know that feeling when you''ve had an amazing nap and you go up or down the staircase and there''s one more or one less step than you expected? I had it then. I led him onto the pitch where we would be visible but where we could talk without being overheard.


    "Peter, what? What are you talking about? We can''t beat West Ham? They''re... Look, they''re fine. Honestly, stepping back, I like them. 4-1-4-1, team work, work rate. Morale is high. They seem like a good bunch. But they don''t have any stardust. We will win easily. Easily, mate. Haven''t you been paying attention?"


    For the first time since I met him, he showed visible displeasure. "I understand you have to project an image in front of the players, the coaches, the fans, to give them belief and sell your bonds. But not with me, Max. Not here. Look around. This is a spare stadium that West Ham own. These young men have been scouted and tested and run through the fires and the flames, year after year. Your young players don''t have internal competition; you don''t release the weak. William is good. Dan has moments where he looks pretty. Most of your players you brought from the sixth tier. This will be a walkover. Please be real with me. With me, Max."


    I looked around and wondered what he was seeing, what he was reacting to. It could only be the badge. The name. That was a weakness, wasn''t it? If you grew up in the Bayern Munich ecosystem you couldn''t envisage being beaten by Leverkusen or Union Berlin, or God forbid, 1860 Munich. Was that something to do with why he''d faked his career-ending injury? He was only good enough to play for the second-ranked clubs. Like 3 R Welsh''s motto, he had chosen death before dishonour. I couldn''t hate him for it, but that wasn''t my way. "I''ll be honest with you, Peter. You''re going to see something extraordinary today. You''re going to see my sixth tier lads crush a Premier League side. William the Conkerer and the Norman Conquest. That''s what you''re going to see and honestly I''m surprised that you''re surprised. But let me use that to my advantage, okay? I think your granddad wants you to come and play for me."


    "Play?" he said, astonished.


    "Yeah, I was wrong when I thought it was about teaching you to be a manager. It might be that, too, but for now it''s about playing. This is last-chance saloon for your career. Join me as player-coach and I''ll take everything you know about football and smash it like a conker. Dieter Bauer is ancient history. This is the age of Best. Chesterness, Bestball, player-manager, glorious chaos, and the only certainty is that it''s better to be on the inside laughing than on the outside mocking."


    He was eyeing me like I was mental. "Join Chester? How would that work?"


    "The usual way. You quit your job and start here in January."


    "Quit Bayern?"


    "Here''s the deal. We''re going to win today and that''s going to be so shocking you''re going to be forced to go deeper. Everyone at Chester has been going deeper this season. Dazza, Zach, Kisi, Jackie, me, everyone. It''s fucking hard but if it was easy, everyone would do it." I set my jaw. That hadn''t been a good speech. Not even slightly. I pointed a finger up in his general direction. "One last thing. Never doubt my players again."


    With that, I strode off to the dressing room to give the speech of a lifetime.


    ***


    To: DB


    From: PB


    Subject: West Ham United (Part One)


    Dear Opi,


    A very strange match today!


    It started with me accidentally triggering Max. Recently, I called him a bad negotiator and he changed his org chart, giving responsibility to people more suited to the role. I told him the warm ups weren''t activating the players properly and he listened and decided to change the method across all teams at all ages. But when I suggested his team might not win against their much more storied opponents, he became furious! Never doubt my players, he growled. Batman was never so dreadful. I didn''t want to go into the dressing room in case he used my doubts to inspire the youngsters so I sat in the dugout and watched.


    We played 4-3-3 against West Ham''s 4-1-4-1. Their home advantage lasted two minutes. Fungrieve, the young man who scored his first senior goal when I was the manager, won a header, Wibbers ran onto it and had an easy pass to Benny, but instead of setting up his mate, Wibbers dinked the ball over the keeper. One-nil! Great finish, as cool as a cucumber.


    Max went ballistic, demanding Wibbers come to the side to get berated.


    ''What?'' said the young man. ''I scored.''


    ''Don''t give me that shit,'' said Best. ''You know what you fucking did.''


    ''I fucking scored! It''s the point of the game.''


    ''I should fucking sub you off right now. I''d rather lose than watch that trash. That''s abysmal. What am I even doing here? We''ve all come down to watch the Wibbers show, have we? You gonna walk up the cameras going who else, why always me? Is that it? All those fucking sessions and it comes to this?''


    ''Look I made a mistake, okay?''


    ''Oh, so now you admit it.''


    Wibbers was madly conflicted. He crouched, almost tearing his hair out, before standing tall. ''Yes. It was stupid. I was thinking of Sarah.''


    Max stopped shouting. He was quiet when he said, ''Sarah''s a team player, mate.'' He spun his finger around. ''Get back to work.''


    I thought he''d made a misjudgment, a huge misjudgment, in aggravating his best player but the next ten minutes were incredible. Wibbers dominated the match and appeared to be trying to set Benny up with a goal to make up for the one he should have had. But when Wibbers brushed past West Ham''s defensive midfielder and spotted that Benny and Chas were being tightly marked, he surged forward and cracked the ball just as he did to my conker.


    It flew, as they say here, top bins.


    The rest of the bench went bananas, the subs ran two yards onto the pitch to dance, the players surrounded Wibbers.


    Max gave him a single thumbs up.


    Finally, with two minutes to go before half time, Wibbers and Dan passed the ball around midfield, Wibbers went for a run (taking half the defence away), Tyson dribbled forward and tried to feed Wibbers for his hat trick goal. It wasn''t on so Tyson turned back and the midfield passing continued. It went to the right-sided CM, Noah Harrison, who fizzed the ball diagonally to Wibbers, who was back onside. Now he played the one-two with Tyson and now it worked.


    He was through on goal!


    The keeper saw the danger early and rushed out, leaving himself open to a chip. I know from training that Wibbers loves a chip but while I was looking at the spot I would have hit, I saw movement and the ball was nestling into the net. I think Wibbers passed it along the ground, calm as you like. Almost disappointing in its simplicity, but Max went nuts. He jumped around doing unattractive bunny hops and schoolgirl skips until Wibbers crashed into him. They enjoyed that goal for a reason I could not tell you.


    Three-nil at half time. It''s fair to say I was close to speechless.


    Not quite perfectly mute, however. I asked a physio what Max had said before kick off to wind the kids up. "Oh. Er, nothing really. He asked if any of the kids knew anything about 1066. None of them did. He said yeah me neither. He said all right lads, listen up. My favourite tapestry is... Yeah, nah. Just beat them and I''ll think of something cool to say in the break. Deal?"


    The half time speech went like this: "Guys let''s switch to 4-5-1 for a bit to see if this idiot even notices. Keep your fucking wits about you, okay? Calm intensity. No dicking about and if we''ve got a three-goal lead or more with ten minutes to go..."


    Captain stood up. "Unleash us, gaffer!"


    Tyson laughed. "Yes, boss. Let''s go for it from the off. If it''s a disaster we can switch back."


    Max pulled a face. "I''m not sure we can. This isn''t like 3 R Welsh, lads. This is important to me, okay? It''s important to you, even if you don''t know it. You''ve got to earn the right to have fun. Graft, grind, teamwork, togetherness, and when the clock hits 80, you''ll get your reward. Okay?"


    They grafted. They ground. They kept West Ham at bay quite easily, and Banksy only needed to pluck some long shots and desperate crosses from the air.


    With ten minutes to go, Max gave the signal.


    He used his hare-brained scheme, Bestball, in a match against a Premier League academy.


    I''m laughing just thinking about it. It will need a separate email, though. I need to find the words to describe what I saw and how I felt...


    ***


    80 minutes.


    The West Ham lads trained harder, longer, and more scientifically than ours, but in this match they were having to run hard just to stop us overwhelming them. Whenever Wibbers got the ball, six Hammers sprinted back. Our Condition scores were more or less equal. I wanted to make my subs early but the players I subbed off would have been annoyed to miss out on Chester''s first ever attempt at Relationism.


    I''d bought the perk, of course, as soon as I had earned the XP needed. I didn''t want to wake up to a tempting offer that would have derailed me.


    I had put the work in and learned Relationism to a decent standard without the curse''s help. My knowledge was basic, sure, but I had grafted and learned the principles and put them in action. I was pretty proud of what I''d done with 3R and with the eighteens.


    The perk would take the concept to a new level, I was sure, but mostly I needed it to be able to switch back and forth between Relationism and positional play at the speed of thought. I assumed that would be possible but if it wasn''t I had probably just wasted seven months of grinding because when would I ever use Relationism for an entire match? The next ten minutes were going to answer a lot of questions.


    I got down on one knee, breathed deeply, exhaled shakily, and chuckled nervously. So much work to get to this point. So many doubts. And what if we lost 4-3 as a result of this? Sam Norman couldn''t be the man who killed Relationism in Britain. The world wasn''t so cruel.


    It was, though.


    It was exactly the kind of thing that happened ten times a day, as reported gleefully by the Daily Mail. Uppity Woke Brat Gets Arse Handed to Him by Proper Football Man.


    I broke into a cold sweat and thought of Emma. My mum. All the people who were counting on me. Better to stick to positional play forever, earn money, take care of people in the most rational way possible. I tuned everything out. When the match had kicked off, a new toggle had appeared in the top-right corner of my vision. It was the most basic possible button. Left for positional play, right for Relationism. I had mentally jiggled it a couple of times but unlike my other buttons it had a kind of weight that spoke of gravitas and importance. It meant, this is one button you don''t press for a quick twenty-second experiment.


    I forced it to the right and it resisted. What! That pissed me off so I struggled against it. Get over there, you worm!


    It clicked into place and...


    And I was in the Relationism module.


    My head felt like it would rip itself apart. The pain was shattering, but it faded away and never came back.


    The players were still lined up in 4-5-1, defending. I looked around my new screen. It bore almost no, ah, relation to the screens I was used to. At first I thought it was almost completely empty but a lot of things had simply been shifted to the background. One such section had the match data. I could make it bigger if I wanted to check the numbers like the possession stats or the match ratings. Along the bottom left I still had some hotkeys and could use Cupid''s Arrow or Seal It Up whenever I wanted.


    A mini-map showed where my players were. I was aware that there was an option to change the formation - it was the defensive shape we would assume when we lost the ball. I changed us to 4-3-3, thinking it would be less strenuous for the players, but wondered how to instruct the lads to do a blob. All this time, all this dreaming, but there was no button marked BLOB. Why not? I fretted for a few seconds while West Ham had the ball. Maybe when we got possession the option would show?


    We turned the ball over. No button. I felt my heart sink. What was I supposed to - ?


    Wait.


    As the ball was cycled around midfield, my lads began to drift together on the pitch. On the mini-map a blue outline formed around them. As the lads got closer together, the polygon filled with colour, Chester blue, getting deeper, pulsing slightly.


    I hadn''t done it - I had little to no control over what the individual players were doing. This blob was forming organically from the combinations of players on the pitch and what they thought was the right thing to do.


    "Argh!" I cried. "It''s happening!"


    Wibbers passed to Dan. Dan turned and passed it to Henk. Henk glided forward for the first time in the match, bypassing a striker who was trying to press him. As Henk moved into the blob, that part of the mini-map turned deeper blue. I tried to drag the blob up the mini-map, mentally pushed it to the left.


    Nope. It wasn''t for me to control.


    Henk passed to Noah and continued a forward run. Captain moved to the base of the blob, Lucas Friend stayed outside, ten yards to the left, covering any potential breaks while being a safe passing option. The three strikers moved in and out as they wished.


    Noah passed to Jamie, who played it to Chas. Chas touched it back to Jamie and made a sideways run.


    ONE TWO!


    The words, in a funky font, appeared on the left of my vision, got bigger, shook, and exploded with a very satisfying, crunchy sound effect. The text was replaced by a kind of thermometer graphic - a slim tube with a ball at the end.


    Wibbers passed to Tyson and got the ball back.


    ONE TWO!


    The words appeared, exploded - this time with what sounded like a mermaid''s tinkling laughter - and fed the thermometer. It was about half full.


    What would happen when the ''liquid'' reached the ''ball'' at the end? Something good!


    I scrambled to my feet, or tried to. I fell, turned it into a forward roll, and bounced up, gleeful. "Guys! One-twos! More one-twos!"


    They obeyed. West Ham''s players didn''t know what the shit was happening so they were either stock still or running around in an uncoordinated mess. Passing around them was child''s play.


    Another one-two happened, then another.


    The thermometer thing started shaking. What?


    I knew what to do, though. I clicked on it.


    The graphic shook, got ten times bigger, and exploded in a shower of colour. French horns blasted.


    I felt a rush of joy like I¡¯d scored a goal.


    On the pitch, my players seemed to get faster. They raced up the pitch.


    SUUUURGE! laughed the curse.


    Yes, laughed. It was laughing and so was I. Everything was joyful and hilarious.


    The blob was up on the right of the pitch and West Ham had all their players back. One slid to intercept a pass, took control, but our guys swarmed him and retrieved the ball.


    COUNTER-PRESS yelled some text, and the mood was triumphant.


    RAPID RECOVERY, it screamed, making me clench my fist.


    The words grew, popped, and were replaced by thermometer things.


    Every time a word popped, I got a rush of something. Straight dopamine, it felt like.


    "Fucking imps," I said, cackling. They didn''t have a game to base Relationism on so they''d turned my brain into fucking Candy Crush! I''d played it once, briefly, but there were millions of similar games, right? They were always based on colourful balls that you moved around in some tactile way and when you lined them up you made things pop, got a rush of colour, noise, and excitement.


    The Chester lads kept pinging the ball around or rushing to recover it, kept making the meters fill up. When I popped them, I couldn''t help but cackle, giggle, snigger. It was all incredibly delightful, and it had effects. Every big pop was like giving my players Bench Boost for ten seconds, and there seemed to be other effects I was too fucking drunk on joy to notice.


    "Max, are you okay?"


    Peter was worried by my insane change in demeanour. I was about to reassure him that I was fine when Dan fizzed a pass to Wibbers, now causing pure panic whenever the ball was anywhere near him. Wibbers let it run through his legs and zoomed off.


    RIVERRRRRRRR!!!


    I laughed and threw my arms around Peter.


    "You''re great! You''re Peter the Great. I''m sorry about before. I shouldn''t be so bossy. You do you and I''m there all the way. Oh." Something had happened. I''d earned enough somethings to generate something. A blue prize rosette appeared and throbbed gently. I could press it. What would it do?


    The first thing it did was give me another dose of liquid football, straight to the brain stem.


    Massive, chunky text flew across my vision.


    BOOOOOOOOST!!!


    Tyson passed to Dan, who rushed out of the blob, dribbled past two players, shaped to shoot, and slid the ball through to the onrushing Wibbers.


    He took the ball around the goalie as beautifully as Sarah Greene, drove forward, paused, rolled the ball away from the goal line.


    Benny gleefully smashed the ball high into the net and jumped into Wibbers.


    "AhahahAHAHAHhahahahHA," I said, running around and slapping myself on the head like a chimp.


    FLAWLESS!


    FLAIR BONUS!


    MORALE CRUSHER BONUS!


    TOUCHLINE ANTICS BONUS!


    HAMMER THE HAMMERS!


    UNIQUE COMBO!


    Every new ''achievement'' came with a rosette, and each one made me laugh harder. I wiped the tears from my eyes as, from a vast distance, I spotted West Ham making a change.


    "Fuck," I said, sobering up just about enough to remember I had promises to keep. "Subs! All the subs!"


    Peter rushed to the assistant referee to get those going. What else did I urgently need to do?


    The module toggle. Could I slide the button back to positional play? That was essential information.


    Yes, I could!


    The old screens came up. I switched back and forth a couple more times, just to see if there were any obvious limitations. But how boring and stale the old screens were! Nothing popped, nothing exploded, nothing sparked joy, there were no sound effects.


    I decided it would be better to revert to positional play for the last few minutes. It would be more dignified, classier.


    Or not.


    I lasted five seconds before I got itchy and hit the toggle. I felt better instantly. The colour, the life, the sense of discovery, it was all intoxicating.


    The bonuses I had earned remained despite me switching back and forth between modules. I wondered if I could earn some rosettes in the first half of a match and bank them for the second. What would the point of that be? I wasn''t sure, but it felt like it might be cool and funny.


    While Tyson and Benny combined to get me another river point, the maddest thing yet happened.


    In the bottom right of my vision came a giant, friendly cartoon seal wearing a blue-and-white Chester top and white gloves. He was holding a dart and he went through a throwing motion. On the left, I suddenly realised, a large, spinning wheel had appeared - the sort you get in a TV game show. The seal threw the dart at the wheel and it stopped dead. It zoomed in to show me the word written on the top of that segment.


    MEGS


    What? What did that mean?


    For once, the curse explained.


    DO MEGS


    Time was running out. "Wibbers! Dan! Megs! Do nutmegs!"


    They looked at each other, shrugged, and waited. West Ham put together a decent move that was snuffed out when they got too close to our lines. Henk slid the ball forward to Wibbers, who threw a shoulder left and pushed the ball through the legs of the guy to his right as easily as putting on a sock.


    MEEEEGGGGGGGSSSSSSS laughed the curse.


    A red rosette appeared and throbbed gently. Another power-up I could activate manually. Would it carry over to the next match? Of course it wouldn''t, but there were only seconds left and West Ham were toast. I left the rosette unclicked, just in case.


    I walked down the touchline, away from everyone else. I didn''t know what Sam Norman was going to say about my laughter. I didn''t know if Peter would be repulsed or if the outstanding victory meant we had half a chance of bringing him to the club. I didn''t know if Relationism was what I wanted it to be.


    I knew one thing, though.


    Football had never been this much fun.


    ***


    End of Book Numbers


    XP balance: 190


    League Two Relative Standings


    1. Bradford +17


    2. Mansfield +13


    3. Carlisle United +13


    4. Cambridge United +10


    5. Fleetwood Town +5


    6. Burton Albion +5


    7. MK Dons +3


    8. Chester


    Team Goals (All Competitons)


    Goals For: 67


    Goals Against: 42


    Top Scorers (All Competitions)


    Best 20


    Lyons 12


    Westwood 7


    Dazza 7


    Green 4


    Fierce 3


    Contreras 3


    OG 3


    Bochum 2


    Hudson 2


    Benny


    Adams


    Tyson


    Fungrieve


    Men''s Squad


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="150"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Int</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    <td>CA +/-</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Ben Cavanagh</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>640</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Rainman</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>99</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Sticky</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>122</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Banksy</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>155</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>950</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Cole Adams</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>147</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Josh Owens</td>


    <td>DM L</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>62</td>


    <td>119</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Zach Green</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>81</td>


    <td>139</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>Christian Fierce</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>1500</td>


    <td>88</td>


    <td>120</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>Sunday Sowunmi</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>111</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Lee Hudson</td>


    <td>D RC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>1200</td>


    <td>83</td>


    <td>91</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Magnus Evergreen</td>


    <td>D,DM,M</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>-2</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>DM, MC</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>GHA u21</td>


    <td>950</td>


    <td>95</td>


    <td>181</td>


    <td>9</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Dan Badford</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>450</td>


    <td>59</td>


    <td>-1</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>800</td>


    <td>74</td>


    <td>151</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Omari Naysmith</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>103</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Lee Contreras</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>84</td>


    <td>98</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Andrew Harrison</td>


    <td>M RC</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>64</td>


    <td>1??</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>Max Best</td>


    <td>Omni</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>3000</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>0</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Wes Hayward</td>


    <td>AM LR</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>86</td>


    <td>22</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>WibRob</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>185</td>


    <td>23</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Pascal Bochum</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>800</td>


    <td>80</td>


    <td>133</td>


    <td>10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Henri Lyons</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>1100</td>


    <td>86</td>


    <td>90</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tom Westwood</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>92</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Dazza</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>AUS u21</td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>88</td>


    <td>138</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Men''s Squad Estimated Transfer Value


    10.9m


    (Includes Ben, Eddie, and Sharky.)


    Women''s Squad


    vs Bristol City, December 7, 2025


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>No.</td>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td>Pos</td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Int</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Scottie Love</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>63</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Queenie</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Dafina</td>


    <td>DLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>118</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tanwen</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>106</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Bonnie</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>41</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Femi</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>121</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Meghan</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>ENG u19</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>169</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Luxury Bell</td>


    <td>DRC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>88</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Ridley T</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>55</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Diane</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>60</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Fioled</td>


    <td>MLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>122</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Mari Hughes</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>110</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Pippa Hoole</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>111</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Charlotte</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>62</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Maddy Hines</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>80</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Sarah Greene</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>ENG u19</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>167</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Dani Smith-Smithe</td>


    <td>M, AM RLC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>61</td>


    <td>177</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Kisi Yalley</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>143</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Alwen</td>


    <td>FC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Beatrice Pearce</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>36</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Julie McKay</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>53</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>57</td>


    <td>155</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>

 13.1 - The Cam Before the Storm

    Player Manager 13


    Unluckily for some, Max Best''s projects are gathering steam. Chester FC''s men''s team have shrugged off a difficult start in League Two (England''s fourth tier) and have won admirers and new fans for their cup exploits. A money-spinning trip to Old Trafford awaits in the FA Cup Third Round. The women''s team are crushing all that comes before them. The men''s under eighteens are through to the fourth round of the FA Youth Cup, having demolished Premier League opponents in a 4-0 drubbing that included ten ecstatic minutes of Max''s new way of playing football - Relationism, AKA Bestball.


    Meanwhile, the other teams in the Max Best Universe - College 1975 (Gibraltar), Saltney Town (Wales'' second tier), West Didsbury and Chorlton (the English eighth tier) - are either first or second in their leagues.


    ***


    "Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do." Voltaire.


    ***


    1 - The Cam Before the Storm


    1.


    Tuesday, December 23, 2025


    Sometimes I fantasise.


    Thus starts the chorus of the song that most sounds like Manchester at night, Made of Stone by The Stone Roses. 40 miles to the west of my home, on streets both cold and lonely, a solitary taxi pushed through dirty sleet heading towards God knew where and I, Max Best, Manchester''s greatest export since atomic theory, computers, or the very concept of league football (proposed in the Royal Hotel on 17 April, 1888) was fantasising.


    I was fantasising that we could win the league. We were only 17 points behind Bradford City and they had played two games more than us. If we won our games in hand and beat them in a couple of weeks, it would be Devon Loch all over again. Bradford had been playing well but had been incredibly lucky on half a dozen occasions. Their luck would run out.


    I was fantasising that we could beat Manchester United. They were talented but mentally weak. We could hurt them and if we did their fans might turn on an expensively-assembled collection of underperformers. With 5,000 away fans cheering Chester on and 70,000 home fans booing their players, who knew what was possible? Dream it, dare it, do it.


    I was fantasising that we could buy two or three amazing players in the coming January transfer window. We were already able to attract talent like Foquita, a Potential Ability (PA) 190 Peruvian. If we could sign someone who would one day challenge for the mantle of the best striker in the world, why couldn''t I sign a left-midfielder who could create goals and defend? Maybe I could have my cake and eat it by signing a genius midfielder and getting my dream defender, Peter Bauer, for free.


    "Max," said Emma, gently shaking my wrist. "Don''t fall asleep."


    "I wasn''t," I said.


    "You were," she said.


    "I wasn''t," I said.


    "You were," said the driver. "Are you all right, Mr. Best?"


    "Er, yeah," I said, and looked out of the window. It was all black roads with a few mounds of mud-splattered snow here and there. Ice-cold water dribbling towards metal grids reflected yellow street lights. I heard music, saw burning cars. In my head canon, Made of Stone was about a drug dealer launching himself off a motorway, crashing and burning. Bad money dies, it goes. No. Bad money comes to the Premier League through various shitty owners and I claw huge chunks of it away. Bad money lives. I steal from the rich to give to the poor. I''m Robin Hood. I''m the Sheriff of Slappingham. Emma poked me in the side. "Mate," I complained.


    "It''s Henri''s big night, babes."


    I wriggled myself upright and rubbed my face hard. "Yes yes yes. I''m awake." I glanced at Emma. She was looking straight ahead, thousand-yard stare, pulling at a strand of blonde hair. She didn''t know what to do about me. "Babes, I''m mad for it. It''s all good. We''ll have a great time. I promise not to be mental or fall asleep in a corner."


    "I wouldn''t mind that at all. Just don''t do it in the taxi. Not while the meter''s running, anyway."


    The driver laughed. "Thrifty as well as beautiful. Some men have all the luck." He leaned forward as he slowed the car. "I think it''s that one."


    Emma looked out of her window and tutted. "The fuck, Henri?"


    We drove past a wall and into a car park. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I was aware of Emma paying the driver. My attention was drawn to four circular safety signs that were next to each other on what looked like a massive garage door. Two were yellow, two were red. My brain tried to lock onto them and swap them round so that they would line up, match, and pop.


    And when they popped -


    I gasped the way people in movies do when they want to show they''ve woken from a nightmare. The driver''s back stiffened.


    Emma had left the car, so I clambered out of my side and was stunned by the intensity of the cold. On autopilot, I shut the door and the taxi rolled ahead and began to turn back the way we''d come, looking for another fare. Grinding. Number goes up.


    I didn''t move right away. We had been deposited in the car park of what seemed to be a disused industrial estate. Low buildings, sinister chimneys, brick, aggressive anti-vandal defences, a very familiar vibe. What was it? It definitely fit the urban hellscape of my mood. This would have fit right into the Manchester of the late-eighties of my imagination. Urban decay. Another unloved piece of real estate falling into slow disrepair, so hideous, so harshly concreted that even nature didn''t want to reclaim it. Got it! It was familiar because this could have been the setting of a video game, a level in a multiplayer shooter. Someone would be behind that chimney ready to headshot me. That window there would be perfect for lobbing a grenade through. Danger lurked around every -


    Someone grabbed me and I freaked all the way out. "Argh!"


    "Max!" cried Emma from twenty yards away. She might have rushed towards me but she was wearing 60s Go-go boots and wasn''t used to the heels.


    A six foot tall man had snuck up to me but now he was holding his hands up, palms facing me. He had a very calm, serious face. His hair was short, black, and slightly curly. "Lo siento," he said.


    I checked my heart wasn''t about to explode - it was, but I bravely chose to ignore that tiny fly in my medical ointment - and threw my arms around the guy. "Foquita!" I cried as I slapped him three times on the back. I put my hands on his shoulders and gave him the admiration his player profile deserved, looking from eye to eye, drinking it all in. This was Foquita, all right. Joy bubbled out of my flappy Manc gob. "Oh my God you''re actually here I''m actually the best manager in the world holy shit."


    It was fascinating how unremarkable he was. He had the slightly sloping nose I associated with Romans, a nice smile, smaller-than-average ears, but he didn''t look like a guy who would be world-famous, who might one day transfer from Bayern Munich to Real Madrid for a hundred million Euro. He gave me a tiny smile and said something in Spanish.


    I hugged him again. "I don''t understand but you are the mint sauce on my roast beef."


    To my right came footsteps and a delightful, extremely feminine laugh. Foquita''s girlfriend, who I''d only ever seen on Instagram, came closer, and I realised I didn''t know her name. A rose, by any other name, would look as fucking unbelievable. She was in gloves and a thick, warm coat but she wasn''t wearing any kind of hat and that foregrounded the long, black hair, black eyes, sweeping eyebrows, wide, Gemma-style lips.


    I had instructed William B. Roberts, my teenage prodigy, not to fall for her.


    That was going to be a difficult task for all of us.


    "I hate to be uncivilised," she said, in a lightly-accented voice that came with a free shoulder massage, "but can we do the introductions inside? It is, as you say, bloody freezing out here."


    Emma laughed. "Why are you out here?"


    The girlfriend smiled. "We don''t understand where the entrance is. There is a door but someone has put up a sign in front."


    "What does it say?" said Emma.


    "This is not the entrance."


    Emma and I smiled at each other. "That''s it," she said. "Lead the way."


    I slapped Foquita on the back one more time. My palm on his back made a meaty thumping noise. It sounded like a million pounds in transfer profit. It sounded like 70,000 Mancunians falling silent. It sounded like goals.


    ***


    Inside was a coat station manned and womanned by a pair of black-clad people wearing those fancy Venetian masquerade eye masks. They started by taking Emma''s coat. She was in a fun 60s outfit with big round earrings plus a headband and white boots. Foquita and I were wearing suits.


    One of Emma''s best and worst qualities was the way she was interested in everyone she ever met. I loved that she was kind to the fumbling teenage waiters who couldn''t believe they had to pour wine for the hottest woman they''d ever seen. I hated that she talked to the randos next to us on a plane or in a restaurant. I loved that she was learning the names of the stewards who had the thankless task of keeping us safe at the Deva.


    Emma chatted to the greeters while Foquita and I got our bearings. All we could see was a long corridor with a table blocking part of the way, but there was the sound of chat and laughter. Somewhere inside was the men''s team, the women, the backroom staff. Strictly no wives and girlfriends - in the olden times these football club Christmas parties were the stuff of debauched legend. The men had a match in three days so we couldn''t go mental, but the women could get tipsy and the admin staff were allowed - encouraged, since we were living vicariously through them - to get fucking bombed.


    "What''s the plan for the evening?" Emma asked the workers. "What''s the theme?"


    "Sorry, miss. Can''t tell you. We''re not even allowed to tell His Highness."


    "Is that Max?"


    "Yes, miss. We''re to call him His Highness even if he asks us to stop."


    Emma smiled. "Henri''s a ledge."


    Foquita''s girlfriend peeled her gloves off, handed them across the little counter, and slipped out of her big coat.


    My jaw dropped open and in true sitcom style I closed it in the split second before my girlfriend looked at me.


    Miss Foquita was wearing a tight silver number that swept up and down her curves. The fabric cried out to be touched. It had a kind of rippling effect and was bunched up into ruffles around one side. There were no straps so her shoulders were bare and she put on some long silver earrings that her partner had been carrying for her. Her stilettos were thin with near-invisible straps, making it look like she was floating barefoot across a beach rather than trudging around some crappy building in the outskirts of Chester. I was wearing - no false modesty this time - the actual best suit in Chester yet I felt massively underdressed.


    "Please proceed to the sorting brat," said the female worker. I got the feeling the dude had said it to everyone else but the vision in the silver dress had twisted his tongue.


    We walked along the corridor to the table. Another waiter-type had walky-run towards it when we''d entered. My guess was that he had been serving drinks in the room where all the noise was coming from and had been summoned when we''d arrived.


    "Dude," I asked him. "It sounds like the party has been going on for ages. Was I given a later starting time than everyone else?"


    "I''m not allowed to say, Your Highness," said the guy. I think he winked but his eye mask made it unclear. "Please choose a mask."


    I looked down and ran my hand across the table. It was covered in a thick and expensive fabric like you get on a church altar. There were half a dozen eye masks to choose from and there was space for many more. Either these were the dregs or they''d been placed specially for the four of us.


    Miss Foquita said to the guy, "Would you excuse us for a moment?"


    He looked to his right. "I can just go, I think. I''m supposed to make you choose an eye mask but you''re the last guests so, I mean... Yeah, I can go." He scooted off.


    Miss Foquita picked up an eye mask and said, "My name is Caramel. I''m Foquita''s partner."


    "Caramel," I said. It was an amazing name but somehow I wasn''t in the mood for it. Hard to explain.


    There was a mirror where you could look at yourself in the various eye masks. Caramel stood in front of it and said, "Miss Emma."


    Ems was poring over the options like it was the most important decision of her life but she glanced up and understood she was to look into the mirror.


    Caramel gave her the one she had picked up. "This suits you best."


    It did. With one accessory, Emma turned into a mystery wrapped in an enigma inside a mod mini dress. No-one at the ball would know who she was. A princess, of course, but from where? She pouted at herself. "I''m the Queen of Chester. Fetch me an alcoholic beverage!"


    Caramel fussed with Emma''s hair where the eye mask had disrupted it, which I found incredibly easy to watch. "Miss Emma, may I make a request?"


    "Course, love, what are you thinking?"


    Caramel put her arm around Foquita''s waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I''ve been in England with this lump for two weeks. He''s wonderful, of course he is, but I seek a different energy."


    "He doesn''t understand what we''re saying?"


    "He only understands English when it comes to f¨²tbol." The way she said the word fucking melted me.


    "F¨²tbol?" said Foquita, perking up. It was less effective when he said it, strangely.


    "Come with us," said Ems, who seemed to know exactly what Caramel was talking about. "All the girls are inside. The players and Brooke, anyway. We''re great fun!"


    "I have no doubt about it but I have always sought out masculine energy. My partner is very stable, very serious, he makes me feel safe. But after two weeks of safety I have cravings for danger."


    "Danger?"


    "Surprise, flights of fancy, moments of genius. And I have preguntitas."


    I thought I had been following, more or less, and even understood that the last word meant ''questions'', but then Emma blew my mind by saying, "Yeah, you can borrow him." What did that have to do with anything?


    Caramel spoke Spanish to her man. He picked an eye mask at random and put it on. More instructions followed and when Emma made a crook in her arm, Foquita and my girlfriend wandered off down the corridor. I watched with very few mental processes activated as they turned to the right and vanished. "What''s going on?" I said, eventually.


    "Choose a mask," said Caramel.


    I looked down at my options and knew that if I wore one, so would she. "No. I prefer you as you are."


    "I could say the same."


    "You have questions?"


    "They can wait. Come. Let''s walk."


    She grabbed my arm as we walked down the corridor. There were some artworks to my left, but not to my right. Not unless you counted Caramel. I stopped and turned towards her. "Your name isn''t Caramel."


    "I''m a model; my real name is too common. Caramel is memorable."


    "Caramel is delicious." We kept our eye contact going and I kept waiting for the sparks to fly. Maybe they did. Maybe I was too tired to feel them. "What''s your real name, please?"


    "Camila."


    "May I call you that?"


    "If you prefer to."


    "I do."


    We walked on until we got to the end of the corridor. There was another corridor going off to the right but before that was an entrance to a large, square room. A stage had been set up at the front, there were chairs and tables stacked at the sides, and in the middle was everyone from Chester Football Club, milling around, drinking the hardest drinks their schedule would allow, chatting, laughing. I couldn''t see Henri.


    "What is this, Meester Max?"


    Holy fucking shit, her voice tickled my very spinal cord. "This is our Christmas party. In the past, teams used to go out and binge drink. That''s not compatible with winning but players need a break, especially if they don''t get a winter break. We need a way to let our hair down, let off steam. This is a mad, Frenchified version of what other clubs do. Bit less alcohol, bit more warrior-poet. I suppose it''s hard to imagine but while the rest of the country is with their kids and family, we''re training."


    "Training?"


    "We''ll be training on Christmas day."


    "That''s loco." Another word pronounced in a way that completely bypassed my defences.


    "I know. But it''s a public service. On Boxing Day, people will come to watch us. Huge crowd, party atmosphere. If you''re in the crowd it''s amazing. They don''t really think about what we''ve sacrificed, but that''s okay. We''re well paid." I smiled. "I am, anyway. Not everyone there will agree that they are." I pulled her away from the doorway. "Sorry, I can''t go in yet."


    "Ees okay."


    "Why''s your English so good?"


    "I''m a model." She seemed to think that was enough explanation. "Is that you? It is you. I have seen this before."


    I followed her gaze and we moved as one, with her still holding me, towards the other side of the wall. I was there in black and white along with five other photos. They were all taken at the same match. I looked to the left, to the right, and my neck started to tingle. "Henri," I said. "He''s up to something."


    "Is he?"


    "Yes! Look!"


    "I''m looking."


    "This way," I said, coaxing her back towards the entrance. When we got there I pointed to the first two pieces of ''art''. "Yes! I knew it! It''s a timeline! What''s he playing at?"


    Camila held onto me tighter, leant into me, and smiled. "Explain it to me." The words felt familiar. It was amazing, given how fucking sexy this woman was, how at peace she was making me feel.


    "Explain what?"


    "Everything."


    ***


    One of Henri''s minions hurried along the corridor to ask if we wanted a drink. Camila said no and I dittoed it.


    "Yes, Your Highness," the woman said, before scooting off.


    "Ees funny," said Camila. "They are respectful but it feels disrespectful."


    I nodded. "That''s the culture of these events. I''m not sure how to explain it. Once a year you''re allowed to make fun of your boss. It''s not quite anything goes, but they have a lot of leeway if they want to have a joke at my expense."


    Her eyes got wide. "I understand. Once a year you have a sense of humour."


    I laughed. "I think I score highly on that metric. I know I''m not perfect and I do things that can be seen as funny. These events, though, they can get savage. If you''ve got thin skin and can''t take your players doing a pantomime where you''re the wicked witch, you''re not going to last long in the game. Oh, and don''t log onto social media after you''ve lost to York City. Henri has a great sense of where the line is and the unwritten rule goes something like, if people laugh, you can''t complain. I don''t know. The rules are really subtle. I could tell you five things that would seriously piss me off tonight but Henri''s so clever that if he wants to poke me in a specific way he''ll set it up so that I have to take it and won''t be able to get mad at him."


    "I want to meet this Henri."


    "Yeah, you do. What was it you wanted? Flights of fancy? That''s him. Ask him to tell you about Silk! That was the last Christmas thing he planned." I closed my eyes, just for a second, and had a tiny moment of panic that I had fallen asleep for, like, three minutes. "Um... Okay so what I think we''re dealing with here is a reverse timeline."


    "Oh," said Camila, looking to her right where the art stretched down the corridor. "Tell me more."


    I indicated the two framed images in front of us. The first was simply the most recent league table. It had Bradford City at the top. "Bradford, played 23, first in the league, 52 points. Seventh, the mighty Chester FC. Played 21, 35 points."


    "That''s a big gap."


    "Well, yes and no. We play them soon. Beat them, win the games in hand, bosh."


    "Bosh," she repeated, and my pleasure receptors ran amok.


    "I''m confident we''ll catch them. The problem is Mansfield, Carlisle, Cambridge. They''ve all got huge budgets and it''s possible one of them will go on a run that matches us. Do you know what I mean? We can have a legendary five months but if one of these pricks has a very good five months, they might pip us to the post."


    "You have a huge budget," she said, which was incredibly charming in its innocence. That was the moment I realised she knew fuck all about football. "You bought Foquita."


    I gave her a disappointingly chaste squeeze. "I am..." No metaphors came quickly to mind, but I was staring at a string of framed photos. "I''m Leonardo da Vinci''s apprentice. I''m the second-best artist of all time but no-one knows my name so no-one buys my paintings. My opponents are guys who just paint red squares, spray canvases at random like they''re putting mustard on a hotdog, or draw things they found in their kitchen cupboard."


    She looked up at me. "Rothko, Pollock... Warhol?"


    Amazing. In my own mind, the second one was Hockney, but I recognised she''d given the right answer. "I''d love you on my pub quiz team."


    "Pub quiz? Do you do that?"


    "No," I sighed. "I can''t go in Chester, I''m too big a star now. I need to go further afield where no-one gives a shit who I am, but that limits who''s going to come with me. Half the fun of a pub quiz is having the same team and playing the same teams. If you''re always second but one week you win, that''s amazing." I crunched my eyes closed. "Those days are gone for me. I can go to a pub in Manchester and be incognito, but I can''t go every Monday night with Henri, Sticky, and Joe Anka." Her big round eyes asked a question. "Joe used to play for us. Music guy. You need a music guy. I only know the songs that go whoo."


    "Meester Max, do I need to worry?"


    "About what? My inability to name the members of Take That?"


    "About Foquita being paid."


    She seemed to be serious, so I gave her another squeeze. "No. We''re poor but we have a budget and we stick to it. It''s true that most English football clubs lose money..." I trailed off because the news had only come through that morning that the EFL, the body which ran the English leagues from the second to fourth tier, had scheduled an emergency meeting to discuss the case of Reading FC. For the millionth time Reading hadn''t paid their players, in addition to not paying staff and the tax man. "Our fans get mad at us when we don''t spend loads, when my boss is too careful. I say we can win on a tight budget. I would like a little more money," I laughed, "but things are coming together. We will play Manchester United soon and that will give us a million pounds."


    "A million pounds? One match?"


    "Yes. When are you going back to Peru?"


    "In a couple of days. Tomorrow to London, then home."


    Even though she was right next to me, leaning against me, warming me, I felt a mad pang of loss. The human brain is not fit for purpose. "When you''re gone, I''m going to take care of your boyfriend." I nodded towards the many and varied voices. "We all are. This is Chester; we''re a family." My eyes felt heavy again. "His agent is amazing but I don''t think even he realises how perfect this is. We''ll fix his stats, improve him, and if he can hack the north of England no-one in Europe will doubt his professionalism."


    "Fix his stats?"


    "His stats are dogshit," I said. "8 goals in 25 games is not a suitable return for a player of his talent."


    Camila undocked from me like she was a space station and I was a ship carrying thousands of tech bros. "He won la liga."


    "Yeah but think what it could have been. Take two months off, let your injury heal, come back and score 15 in 15. Anyway, I''ll sort him out." I leaned closer to the second piece of art.


    It was a match report that had either been cut out of a newspaper or printed to look like that. It read:


    Swindon Town 0 Chester 2


    Blues Make Robins an Endangered Species


    "What is it?" said Camila.


    "Our last match," I said. I pointed to my right, to the far end of the corridor. "My theory is that the photos and match reports go back in time. I wonder how many of the lads zipped right past all this and went straight to the booze? All of them, I reckon. The league table is right now. This match report is from Saturday. We went down to Swindon and gave them a bit of a hiding, to be honest. Smacked them into the second relegation slot. They have a caveman type manager and the team is all hulking brutes. They''re supposed to win by keeping things tight and scoring from set pieces. I put Cole Adams at left back - he''s as tall as a centre back - and played 4-2-3-1 so that we had loads of numbers back and to match them in the middle. They played 4-3-3. Up front we had Pascal, Wibbers, Sharky, and Henri and their quality and movement was far too good."


    Swindon had CA 74 and my eleven, though not our strongest, was 78.3. Camila slipped her arm around mine again. "Brutes?"


    "Yeah it''s a thing I see less and less but you can''t come at Chester with this big boy shit. We''ve come up from the National League North, mate. We''ve scrapped and battled against lads who''d claw your eyes out to get a win so they can pay their mortgage that month. We''re battle-hardened. Where the fuck do you get off thinking we''ll shirk a fight? I''m placid as fuck but even I''ll fucking waste you." I tried to calm myself and failed. "Christian Fierce. Zach. Cole, the Lees, Henri. Most of my team''s first words as a baby were ''are you talking to me?'' I can''t believe there are still managers who think we can''t mix it. Fuck sake. The match was one huge scrap until they realised we weren''t going to back down. Ever."


    "Did you play?"


    "No," I said, gently easing Camila towards the next artwork. It was a photo of a man celebrating a goal. "There''s Henri. I think that was his second goal. We got two-nil up in the first half and I switched things round, made some subs. Games come thick and fast this time of year so a lot of my job is about managing workload. We went to 4-4-2 with Dazza and Tom up front. Wasn''t really trying to score more, just save energy." Energy. I felt like I had loads but I also felt tired all the time. "I need to decide what to do with Tom. He''s fourth-choice striker for the next six months. It''s good for the club to keep him around, but it''s good for him to loan him out and get minutes into his legs." I frowned and touched the glass that covered the photo. "All the pitches are turning to onion fields. The groundsmen do their best but the winters are so brutal. If it''s not snow it''s rain. If it''s not weather it''s concerts. Bradford''s pitch always goes to pot but they got a game played early somehow. Very clever; wish I''d thought of that. Not that we had any spare time with all our cup runs." I blinked. Was I talking shit? "We''ll be able to train to a high standard all through the winter but if the Deva cuts up, what kind of football are we going to play? Not Relationism, that''s for sure."


    "What''s that?"


    "Nothing," I said, morbidly, but when we moved to the next photo, there it was. Our boys against West Ham''s. The angle of the camera wasn''t as high as in a proper stadium, but it was clear enough. Eight Chester players were gathered in a slim rectangle on one side of the pitch. "Okay, actually, this is Relationism. Have you ever seen this before?"


    The concept was far more common in South America than in Europe, but Camila wasn''t a big football fan. She shook her head. "It looks strange."


    I sighed. "It is strange." I pinched my nose as a wave of fatigue hit me. My feelings towards my new module were all over the place. "Do you know when you work hard for something for ages and then you do it?"


    "Yes?"


    "People get sick when it''s done. Something was pushing you forward for weeks, months, it was the reason you got out of bed, the thing that kept you up until three in the morning, and then puff - it''s over. All the germs and viruses your body has been suppressing, they get their day in the sun."


    "Are you sick?"


    "I feel like it. And I can''t sleep."


    She peered at the strange image. "Because of this?"


    "A few different things. My assistant had a baby. We were all worried about him, the baby, because he was coming early. When he was born healthy it was such a relief. Such a relief. That''s one thing. Another is just the team in general. We got to the stage where I can put in some kids and we can beat Swindon with no alarms and I don''t need to even touch the pitch. That''s a milestone, even if no-one else realises it. And, yeah, this new way of playing."


    I stared at the photo for ages.


    It had taken me many, many months to save the experience points I needed to unlock the Relationism module. There was only one way I could earn XP and that was by watching live football or by managing a team, which gave me double rations. The demon who cursed me didn''t want me to play so I only got minimal XP when I was on the pitch, but he had messed up and in the process of granting me my powers, he had accidentally made me a star player. Balancing how much I played versus how much I managed was tricky but I''d settled on playing for 20 minutes per match, normally at the end when the oppo was tired and I could do more damage.


    The curse and the upgrades it gave me were all targeted at Max Best the manager, though. Since I''d been cursed I had been slowly mastering what is known as positional play, in which the manager is king and the main currency in his realm is space. By using players such as Pascal, the self-titled space invader, a clever manager can give his opponent problems they can''t solve.


    Thinking years into the future, however, to a time when my Chester team had the 20th highest budget in the 20-team Premier League, I knew I would need radical solutions to bridge the gap. In Relationism I saw a way of playing that could, theoretically, negate the financial advantage the top Premier League clubs would have. It was the opposite of positional play - instead of spreading out to perform pre-planned, much-rehearsed moves, my players would create a rolling, sentient blob that would maraud around the pitch as it wanted, dictating the play through the simple medium of short passes and organic combinations.


    The only problem was that when I had finally come to use it, both my players and I had gone fucking haywire. The boys had rushed into the blob, playing short passes, doing tricks and flicks to retain possession, attacking like whirling dervishes to recover lost balls. Meanwhile, my new interface seemed to have been styled on addictive mobile games like Candy Crush. It was incredible, funny, joyous, but terrifying.


    I counted myself lucky that I had no chance to use Relationism before the new year. The army team I was coaching, 3 R Welsh, were on a winter break, and the next FA Youth Cup match would be in three weeks. I had no intention of using Relationism with the first team until I knew it was safe. I had a lot of time to think about how the new module had made me feel.


    Camila had stopped looking at the photo and was looking at me. "This made you unwell?"


    I shook my head. "No. Yes. It was crazy. It should be like that but not like that. I run a football club. I can make any two teams play against each other and I can be the manager and I can experience it again. I haven''t done that, and that says a lot, I think. I''m up all night reliving what happened. I genuinely don''t think they meant it to be so intense but do I want to take the risk?" She didn''t pick up on my moronic use of the word ''they'', so I continued. "I''m not as stupid as people think, I don''t think. That was pure crack. First sample free to get me hooked. No thanks."


    Camila read aloud from a little placard under the photo that I hadn''t noticed. I heard Henri''s voice beneath hers. "Best''s Babes Humiliate Hammers ran the headline. Match coverage focused on the apparent animosity between Max and Sam Norman. Max''s renegade new approach was barely mentioned, with the notable exception of one hipster YouTube channel. The nerd behind it used the scant footage available to him while running the ghastly title: ''The World''s Most EXCITING New Strat Is from... CHESTER?!''"


    I yawned massively. "Sorry. Bit sleep deprived. That just reminded me; there was one new thing in the Swindon match. The game was a damp squib so it didn''t register at first but when I think about it now, it''s seismic. I just don''t know how to activate it."


    "Maybe Foquita will help."


    "Yes," I lied.


    We had been so in control against Swindon and I''d gotten so good at using the hotkeys that I''d been able to run the match in my crazily sleep-deprived state. Playing would have been a totally different matter, but I''d named myself on the bench for Morale purposes and to make my opposite number''s life harder. I was the best player in the division, after all.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    But at some point in the first half I was stunned to discover a new option in a player''s individual instructions. There was the usual ''make forward runs, yes or no'', ''pressing yes or no'', and so on. But in addition to those old faithfuls there was a new line.


    Bestball yes or no.


    First of all, maddening that the imps who ran the curse had called it Bestball instead of its proper name, Relationism.


    Second, what? I mean, what would happen if I clicked yes?


    Third, I couldn''t click yes. When I clicked on a player to change his option, the toggle flipped straight back to no.


    Yep. It was all kinds of intriguing and I hoped it would one day actually lead to something. If I could run Relationism through the plain, vanilla, safe curse screen and not the manic new version, that would be a huge relief. A huuuuuge relief.


    Camila had moved on to the next object. It was another text-heavy one, in what looked like the font from The Guardian. "Chesterness Review: Pitch-Perfect Sports Doc Scores From Every Angle. What''s this?"


    "That''s our documentary. Like Welcome to Wrexham but better in every way. You should watch it while you''re here. Not sure when we''re selling it to Peru. Shit! Did we retain the international rights? We could make another mill!"


    "Is Ryan Reynolds in it?"


    "No. That''s why it''s better."


    She smiled. "I''ve met him at a fashion show. He''s muy simp¨¢tico. Will Foquita be in it?"


    "Not much; it''s about the women''s team. Sometimes Henri and Sophie consider it narratively satisfying to watch the women watch the men and lots of scenes are filmed at Bumpers Bank - that''s our training centre - so you might see him in the background of shots."


    "Why is it only about the women?"


    "Because I''m not interesting," I said, and tried to ease her along the wall.


    She resisted and dragged her finger along a line of text. "But it is director of football Max Best who steals the show. His slapstick humour, manic energy, and passion for the sport drive the team - and the narrative - forward."


    "That''s a four-star review. Every word is positive but the reviewer only gives four stars. They''re like those people who review books and say this is the best thing I''ve ever read, love it unreservedly, four stars because I never give five because nothing''s perfect."


    She smiled again. "Perhaps four stars is the maximum in that newspaper."


    "That was a good point about the international rights, wasn''t it? I bet we could get twenty grand selling it to Slovakian TV. That''s a lot of self-cleaning toilets. And I''m massive in Malta!"


    We shuffled to the next photo. It was me looking heroic at the end of the AFC Wimbledon match. I''d used Bench Boost, a precious and overpowered once-per-competition-per-season perk, to make sure we got a win in order to sell mini-bonds. In the photo I looked all kinds of epic, with my hair flying around and my eyes ready to fire laser beams. "You''re very dashing," said Camila.


    I sighed. "I know. This happens all the time now. I go to TESCO and my hair starts blowing around like there''s a storm. I''m banned from the fruit section. It did the job, though."


    "What did?"


    "That win. Gave the fans belief we could compete in the league, opened a lot of wallets. That look in my eyes there, that''s not triumph. That''s just... emptiness. I had to do it so I did it. It doesn''t feel good. I should be able to find a clever hack. A solution that gives me the win and the new stadium and keeps my powder dry for later in the season."


    "You did what you had to do."


    "Yeah," I said.


    "That''s what a real man does. You can do for yourself later but first put food on the table for your children."


    I stared at the past version of me. I knew using Bench Boost in that match was right but I hadn''t ever tried to reframe it into something that spoke well of me. I had fixated on what I couldn''t do but Camila had a clearer view of the sitch. I had put food on the table and that was my duty.


    I turned and looked at her more closely. Yes she was pure eye candy and the stage name Caramel seemed ever more appropriate. But her real attraction was in the extremely strong feminine energy she was broadcasting. Her looks, her energy, her accent - she was a perfect storm and the longer I spent with her, the less I was twisting in the wind.


    Emma was amazing but her energy was variable. She might go clubbing one night and beg me to do prank phone calls with her the next.


    Brooke, Chester''s Chief Operating Officer Lady, hid her energy as far behind her mask as she could.


    Ruth, my landlord and business partner, had stable energy with almost everyone. With me, she launched into every interaction scrabbling for higher status but always ended lower.


    The closest woman I knew to having Camila''s vibe was Emma''s mother. Her state was serenity itself.


    I''d been staring at Camila for a while. For the first time, her energy changed. She briefly looked uncertain. "What?"


    "Thank you," I said. "Let''s speed up, shall we? I suspect there will be loads of this and Henri definitely has some big caper planned."


    "Caper?"


    "Some big, silly thing. The centrepiece of the whole night. Last time he wrote a play about robots in the future and we were all in it. The players, I mean. It was bonkers but people still talk about it. Okay, this one is Henri and Dazza celebrating their goals against Liverpool."


    "Liverpool?"


    "You''ve heard of them, eh? It was their under twenty-one team so it was all guys like Foquita. Really good but they don''t have experience of playing players like mine."


    "What sort of players do you have?"


    "Tough bastards. Problem solvers. The thing I remember from that night was our old campaigner being the guy who reacted fastest. His legs barely work, ditto his scalp follicles, but he''s a master craftsman of the game. He still has a role." Ryan Jack was a 37-year-old central midfielder and was very clever. "I can see him connecting with Foquita in an interesting way. Okay this little group is from where we played Newcastle United. Oh, I''ve never seen this one."


    "Pascalito!"


    "Right. You sent that lovely message when he got injured. He was supposed to be out for a year but he came back in two months. I hadn''t told anyone. This is him warming up and the rest of the players are looking at him thinking ''what the shit is this?''"


    "He is popular, no?"


    "Oh, yes, it''s more like, has he got a bionic leg? Like how is he even ambulant? I love that word; I''ve been waiting ages to say it. Their faces look unfriendly, yeah, but they''re only worried about him."


    "I know this," she said, pointing to the photo of me scoring from 60 yards. "Foquita watched it again and again."


    "Yeah, well tell him if he tries it he''s dropped."


    "Dropped?"


    "Out of the team."


    "You can, but not him."


    "Correct."


    She shrugged. "You''re the boss. I like this one," she said, pointing to the photo of Newcastle''s Slovak goalkeeper leaping dramatically to save a shot.


    "Yeah, that''s beautiful. I''d love to sign him one day but we''re not even close to that." To buy him would cost at least ten million pounds. I was selling Ben Cavanagh for fifty thousand. "I''ve got a slot in my squad for a goalie but I''m really torn on what to do about it. There''s a guy who''s basically Ben with a higher ceiling. If I could get him for 50K that''s a simple upgrade but it doesn''t move the needle much. There are more young whippersnappers like Banksy and Rainman who I could get for cheap but goalies seem to develop slowly and the gap between my first choice and his backup can''t be so huge. But then if I buy a premium guy, what''s the point of Sticky? I put a lot of the club''s resources into him and if I just buy a better one, I mean, that can''t be right, can it?"


    She smiled, gently giving out energy. She was the peace at the centre of the hurricane. A little less hot air might be welcome.


    I brought my voice down. "I was hoping you''d tell me what to do. No? Okay, what''s next?"


    There was a gap in time to the first league match of the season. Chester FC''s first match back in the football league since its destruction at the hands of hideous, uncaring owners.


    We got a two-all draw against Fleetwood Town thanks to some Max Best heroics, but Henri had correctly picked a photo of the away end when my second went in. "We call this kind of celebration ''limbs''."


    "How to use it in a sentence?"


    "Mostly you just shout limbs, but you can say oh it was bouncing, it was absolute limbs."


    "Absolute limbs," she said. Her eyebrows shot up, amused.


    We picked up the pace. "Pre-season friendly against Slovakia. The opening of Bumpers Bank. Youngster and Dazza in the under 20 World Cup. That''s where I spotted Foquita."


    "You knew he was injured. Adrian was very stressed. He repeats, how did he know? How did he know? So... how did you know?"


    I shrugged. "He looked injured. Wasn''t running freely. I''m always surprised that I''m the only one who sees it. It''s blindingly obvious."


    "You liked Foquita even though he was injured?"


    "Yep. His talent is clear. I didn''t think I had a chance with him but Adrian is a good agent. He''s managing Foquita''s career very well."


    "Five stars?"


    "Four," I smiled.


    Camila stepped back and looked me up and down. "What could be better?"


    "From what they told me, Foquita''s next step will be to Germany to get him ready for one of the big Spanish clubs or, if he survives the frozen wastelands around here, a big Prem team. Imagine a slider with weather on one end, money on the other. You''ll have some input, I reckon."


    "Weather," she said, sliding an imaginary object all the way to her left.


    I laughed. "If it was my client and he was as good as Foquita, I''d send him to Portugal for two years. Then a year or two in Germany. He''ll be the outstanding striker in the world aged 24. Hundred million pound transfer, bosh."


    "They talk about Portugal but they believe they can jump it."


    "Don''t skip steps," I said.


    "Don''t skip steps," she said, thoughtfully. "Don''t you want him to stay here?"


    "Of course I do. It''s by far the most romantic option."


    "Are you romantic, Meester Max?"


    I pointed to the next photo. It showed Henri, his girlfriend Luisa, plus me, Ems, and a massive statue of Jesus. I was sporting a yellow mohawk and a wide smile. "Question answered."


    "If you want him, why don''t you fight for him?"


    I was enjoying this. Didn''t want it to end. It would, though. All too soon, it would; the door was behind us and we were practically at the end of the line. "It''s not my destiny to have him longer. I get to walk down one corridor with him, but then we go our separate ways."


    "We''ll always have the caper," she said.


    "Yeah."


    She looked behind her. "There''s another corridor. There is more art."


    For the first time in a week, my head felt clear. "I love looking at art. Have I mentioned how passionate I am about art?"


    "You''re passionate, you''re romantic. Such a dream. I love this shot of you."


    She had moved in front of a photo taken from the last Exit Trials. I was at the back of the stand, fast asleep, with Meghan and Sarah Green sitting next to me. Behind were a dozen others, trying to take the most demented possible photo without waking me up. The Brig and Ruth were holding each other, the young players we''d brought had their arms and legs spread everywhere like they were playing Twister, and someone was giving me bunny ears.


    "I''ve never seen this," I said. "So funny."


    She stepped away so I got in close to look at all the faces, imagining Tom and Josh egging each other on. Camila came back, grabbed my arm, and pulled me past photos from the previous two seasons - celebrations, trophies, fans shedding happy tears - to the penultimate artwork. It was a montage of photos of Chester players and staff, ranging from baby pics to ones taken in primary school.


    "Which one are you?"


    I quickly scanned the images. Baby Christian Fierce was instantly recognisable. The toddler Youngster already had the goofy grin. Ten-year-old Bonnie was holding a baby in her arms. "Already looking out for her sister," I said. "God, this is maximum adorbs. Oh, shit! Look at little baby Henri! He''s got a little baby scarf. Julie''s McKay''s freckles." Julie was a local girl who had been in a bad relationship when I''d met her. Her waste of space boyfriend had been the prime suspect in my murder. She was blameless but I still felt a dull pain at the back of my head every time I thought about her. I quickly moved on. "Is this Brooke doing a tea party? Look how serious she is. Those dolls better not ask for soy milk. Lee Contreras? Got to be. Hey, he was a good-looking kid, wasn''t he? Why do I get the feeling he kept pushing his hair back and had a catchphrase? Who''s missing? I need a pic of Dazza in a kangaroo pouch."


    "Which one are you?"


    "I''m not here."


    "You are," she said, suddenly. "Aqu¨ª."


    "No, that''s some rando." Camila''s energy changed so with a frown, I leaned forward. Someone had scrawled ''Max, 9'' on the photo, but I didn''t recognise the kid whatsoever. He had a shit trim and hideous, thin trousers. His ears stuck out. He looked like a complete dipshit. "I think this is the caper. Henri''s trying to gaslight me into thinking this was me. Before the end of the night I''ll believe I grew up a Man City fan and I prefer Oasis to The Stone Roses. It''s just, nah, soz. Come on."


    Camila frowned, but decided she believed me. Or she believed that I thought I was telling the truth. She slipped a huge phone out of some crevice in the fabric of her dress and tapped away. Soon she was showing me a photo of a pudgy girl, maybe 12 years old, wearing braces and horrible glasses. She looked like she was one inspirational teacher away from spending her life studying geology. "Me," she said.


    I shook my head. Her transformation was almost total but I found I liked the girl in the photo. "I''m glad you kept the smile."


    There was a tremor in her energy but she recovered and said, "I''m glad you kept the sweetness."


    "It''s strange when I see what I looked like but I always remember wanting to be a model," I said. Her eyebrows twitched. "I even had a name picked out."


    She was suspicious. "Yes?"


    "Double Choc."


    She folded up with laughter. "You''re teasing me."


    I grinned but internally, let out a deep sigh. My time with Camila was up. "Shall we go into the main room?"


    She shook her head. "There''s one more."


    I hadn''t quite noticed it because it was long and wasn''t framed and the background was black while the walls were dark. I got closer and burst out laughing. "The guy''s such a fucking nutjob. Jesus Christ. If you took a journey backwards in time you''d stop at your baby photos. That''s what most people would do, right? This madman, though..."


    Henri had based this final piece on a textbook image of the creatures from the Cambrian era - the ones that had evolved into all kinds of wild shapes, the hard shells, the soft shells, the killer shrimp. But Henri being Henri, he had merged our faces onto the creatures. Christian Fierce was a hard-shelled proto-crab. Dazza was a jellyfish. Vimsy was a weird tube thing that came out of the seabed. I was a human brain riding on a tactics board. Henri, of course, was the apex predator of the era, the fearsome Anomalocaris.


    "I''m ready for a drink," I said.


    "Lead the way."


    ***


    We went into the main room, which was a hive of life and laughter. Everyone was wearing eye masks, which really enhanced the mood. It was great to see everyone so happy but I felt tired just thinking about all the small talk I''d have to do. Going from one vastly enjoyable conversation to sixty banal ones was a very definite step down.


    Camila went off to check on Foquita and I knew she wouldn''t come back.


    I went to get a glass of white wine - Henri always chose amazing stuff and the first team''s party budget was massive - and went to watch as some of the lads moved tables from the edges of the room into the middle. Were we going to eat? I glanced around, tried to smell food, but a movement caught my eye. Dazza and Foquita were lining up a table so that it matched two others. I should have wondered if they''d met at the World Cup, should have asked if Dazza spoke Spanish or if this was all happening on vibes. But no - I locked onto the circular tables. Circles in a line. Three. In my mind''s eye I saw them gently vibrating, begging me to pop them. Pop and get a boost! Plus ten percent happiness to everyone within twenty-five yards.


    Emma put her hand on my back and clinked her glass into mine. "Did you enjoy that, you dog?"


    "Did I enjoy welcoming our special guest to the club? Yes. I''m kind. I have a big heart."


    "Yeah. And eyes as big as saucers when she took that coat off. Can''t blame you. Woof!"


    I laughed. "Come on. What happens is, sometimes I try on new anatomical costumes like the creatures of the Cambrian era. Like, what if my eyes sort of bulged out like in a cartoon?"


    "And what if your tongue rolled down to the floor?"


    "Is Foquita okay?"


    Emma turned and checked. "Yeah. The lads took him off my hands right away. Henri, Pascal, and Zach have some Spanish. Brooke too, I think, but she''s working the room."


    I snapped into manager mode in a way that almost hurt. "Camila will sit next to him for whatever this thing is. There''s Dani so there will be voice-to-text going on, Henri''s great about that. Let''s see if we can get it translated."


    Emma pushed herself into me and leaned. She stayed there for about ten seconds until she felt me relax. She looked up at me. "No, babes. This is Henri''s show; don¡¯t try to micromanage it. And if Foquita has to struggle and the lads have to explain things to him, isn''t that better?"


    "Yes," I said. "You''re right." I tried to relax some more, but glanced at a box of pens that had appeared on one of the tables. Charlotte was picking them out, lining them up one by one. Three for a pop. Swap the red one to the end and you''ll get three blues in a row. If you could slot a pen in wherever you wanted, the game would be too easy. What if you can only add pens to the sides? How would that change your strategy?


    Ems put her drink down, straightened my tie, fussed with my waistcoat. "Spend more time with Caramel."


    "Who? Oh. Why?"


    "It''s good for you. Go on. Whatever this thing is, it''s going to start in ten minutes or so."


    Tempting. I wanted to, of course, but wasn''t dumb enough to say so. "No, I''ll stay with you. Protect me from conversations, babes. I don''t have the energy."


    She pushed her hands towards my shoulders. "You''ve been out there chatting away, being cool and charming and the tension''s melting off you."


    I pulled a face. "You''re actually my dream woman, actually. I relax around you."


    "You know the phrase ''a change is as good as a rest?'' That''s what Caramel was asking for. A break from her boyfriend, who she''s clearly crazy about. You need a break, Max. I moved in with you, Sandra''s on maternity leave, you''re working hard, and I think you''re actually a little bit sick but you''re trying to fight it off. Go get that woman and talk shit with her until Henri starts this show."


    "I think the show is that there''s no show. The show is the art that no-one''s looking at."


    Emma smiled and tapped me on the heart. "See? That''s the kind of thing Caramel wants to hear and when she gasps in admiration at your brilliance you''ll do a cute little smile of accomplishment and you''ll say more things and tonight will be like a big reset button and you''ll sleep ten hours and wake up ready for anything and strangely keen to learn Spanish."


    I tutted. "You''re as mental as Henri. Where do you get these mad ideas from? Gasp at my brilliance? We were talking about Fleetwood away and the weather. Anyway, she''s probably had enough of me. There''s loads of hot men around."


    With impeccable timing, Camila re-appeared. "What nice people! So kind."


    "I bet," said Emma, with dark amusement. "Max has a theory he can''t wait to tell you."


    "Oh?" said Camila, slipping her arm around mine.


    "Er," I said. The silver dress was dazzling, the eyes so black no light could escape. "The show is that there''s no show."


    "Ah!" she said, delighted. "We wait for the show and that''s the show."


    I smiled eagerly, pointing my nose towards the lads who were moving tables around. "We even help prepare it."


    "We should search the next corridor. Perhaps there will be a Sphinx and a riddle and we will have had to study the art to answer its questions."


    Emma was smiling. "I''ll leave yers to it."


    ***


    Camila and I left the big room through the same door we''d entered so we could enjoy the next corridor in the sequence the artist intended. As before, all the artworks were on the left, though this time I didn''t think there was any particular organisational concept.


    It was a wall of memes.


    The first was the famous ''distracted boyfriend'' meme. A boyfriend (a dead ringer for the Spanish goalkeeper David de Gea) and girlfriend are walking down a high street. The boyfriend has seen a fly honey in a red dress and is looking back towards her while thinking ''hubba hubba''. His girlfriend is pissed.


    Henri had labelled the boyfriend ''Max Best'', because of course. The girlfriend was labelled ''Reliable First Team Player''. The girl in the red dress was labeled ''some nobody from a beach/a park/Crawley under 18s/fucking Wales.''


    "Wow," I said, but there was very little I could add.


    The second one was the Galaxy Brain meme, a series of images of brains getting bigger and more powerful with every step. Beside the first image, in which the brain was small and the colour scheme was dull, Henri had written ''4-1-4-1''. The next brain, bigger with bright dots showing the synapses were firing, came with the text ''4-2-3-1''. The next was ''3-4-3''. Finally, where the brain activity was reaching out beyond the body of the human, connecting with the very galaxy, the text read ''4-1-4-1''.


    I laughed pretty hard.


    "I don''t understand," said Camila.


    "He''s making fun of me," I said. "4-1-4-1 was my favourite formation back in non-league and I''ve been using these more sophisticated ones but now I like 4-1-4-1 again."


    "It''s a boy joke."


    "Sure, maybe. He''s laughing at my ego because I always call myself a floating megabrain but what I do is often pretty basic."


    "Keep it simple."


    "Exactly. I''m sorry, I can''t explain why it''s funny. Maybe you need to have been on this three-year journey with us."


    "Ees okay. I get the... the silhouette of the humour."


    The next meme was known on the internet as ''Young Thug at Computer''. On the left, two rappers are staring intently at a computer screen, probably at some music editing software. But on the right we ''see'' what they''re seeing on the screen. The one I knew showed them playing the Windows game Minesweeper, the humour coming from the juxtaposition of how seriously they are concentrating and how low-stakes the game is.


    Henri had used something like Microsoft Paint to sketch a footballer''s skills radar. There were eight ''slices'' of the chart and they started off pretty normal: xG per 90, xT per 90, final third entries, goal contributions. Then they got weird. Handsomeness. Cocky confidence. Gasps per 90. Swoonworthiness.


    Every segment was rated 100 out of 100. The heading said ''Max Best'' and at the bottom, in spidery teenage boy handwriting, ''by Spectrum''.


    "Who is Spectrum?"


    "He runs our youth system and he does this kind of data stuff on the side."


    "What is the swoonworthiness of Foquita?"


    "There''s not yet enough data to support any conclusions."


    She smiled. "Spectrum is a big fan of yours?"


    "He hated me at first but I won him over by making him do strange things until he quit."


    "The oldest trick in the book. Are you going to repeat that with Foquita?"


    "No. I''ll make sure he''s healthy and if he is, feed him assists and let him rack up goals. There''s nothing for me to do except let it happen."


    "If he is healthy? Foquita wants to play every game."


    "Yeah, well," I said, trying to ease her to the next meme. "He''s not gonna."


    She didn''t want to move. "There''s nothing for you to do? What do you mean?"


    "I mean he''s on his path and it''s best for me to let him stay on it. The only thing I might want to improve is his teamwork. He''s selfish, which isn''t terrible for a striker but there are times you want him to pass to a player in a better position and there are times he needs to suffer defensively. Which, yeah, if he was staying here I''d definitely wade in on but my job is to make him look good so he can get his next move on schedule."


    She was watching me carefully. "Foquita wants to be the best. Can you help him?"


    I clicked my tongue. "He''s just passing through. It''ll be hard enough for him, won''t it? The cold, the rain, no family, no Caramel. He doesn''t need me screaming at him twice a week, subbing him off after 17 minutes, making him look like a twat. This... This is just business, isn''t it? I need to do my part, which is to let him score goals."


    Her voice got lower. "He wants to be the best. He wants to be pushed. Will he be unhappy? Maybe. But he will love you for it."


    I stepped away, turned around, messed up my hair in my hands. "I don''t know if I have the energy," I admitted, as I turned back. "It takes a lot out of me, out of the staff. We have to hammer the message home every time he does something wrong. If ever we ease off, he goes right back to the start. I''m already frazzled and close to the edge. I might be past the edge, if I''m being honest. Christmas is a bad time for me."


    She eyed me. "Because of your mother."


    "Right."


    "We know the history. So sad. But you are not alone. You have the famous German coach." She smiled and indicated the radar chart. "And Spectrum. And you have the support of me and Foquita''s mother. I will explain it to her. Foquita will phone us when he is unhappy and we will calm him down. I will tell him that if he wants to be the best he has to learn from the Best."


    The thought of going full Max to get Foquita a few more points in Teamwork and Decisions was exhausting, but looking at Camila returned most of the energy. She was an unbelievable ally. All I had to do was rage at Foquita when he did something shit and she would spend hours on the phone convincing him I was right. It had the potential to be the easiest coaching I ever did. I got a cheeky grin. "To be honest, I''m not sure I can stand by while one of my players plays for his own glory instead of the team. All right. You''ll have to teach me the Spanish for ''that''s fucking dogshit mate, get wrecked, do that again you''re going right in the bin.''"


    She spoke quickly and I didn''t catch so much as a word.


    "Change of plan," I said. "He''ll learn English."


    ***


    From the main room we heard someone speak through a microphone followed by a huge buzz of chat and chairs scraping.


    "Want to go?" said Camila.


    "I''d like to make sure all these things aren''t about me," I said.


    They weren''t.


    Next was the ''first world problems'' meme, which featured a tearful woman stressing about trivial things. The Chester version had text at the top: Dazza ate the last avocado again. Bottom text: Now I have to eat Greek yoghurt topped with fresh fruits, granola, and chia seeds.


    "Ha," said Camila. "I feel that one."


    The next was a Photoshopped Sticky sitting behind a desk in a park. Taped to the desk was a large piece of card that read: You should always play your first-choice goalkeeper. CHANGE MY MIND.


    Next was the famous ''handshake'' meme where two beefy arms slap into each other. It''s used to show one thing that two seemingly different groups have in common. The arm on the left was tagged: ''Sealbiscuit''. The right said ''Andrew Harrison.'' Over their clasped hands were the words, ''Stops running after three hundred miles.''


    "Sealbiscuit?" said Camila.


    "That''s our team bus. It''s electric. We love it. It''s the best three hundred grand I ever amortised. No, depreciated. What''s the word? Ah, fuck it."


    The last one we looked at was a Venn diagram with three overlapping circles. The circle on the right was labelled ''Charlotte''. The one on the left was ''Formula 1 Champions''. The third said ''world-shattering tectonic movements''. The part in the middle, the one thing all three had in common, said, ''knows how to make a pass''.


    "Max," called Charlotte, which freaked me out for two reasons. One, because I''d just been thinking about her. Two, because a door had appeared just a few yards away like we were in Hogwarts. "We''re ready for you. Use this door." She pulled her mask back over her eyes and vanished.


    I got as excited as when a referee blew his whistle after witnessing a foul in the box. Was he going to give a penalty... or a yellow card for diving? Was this going to be the new SILK! or was it going to be pure dogshit?


    "This is fun," I said, rubbing my hands together. "There could be absolutely anything in there. French acrobats. Elephants. Literally anything''s possible."


    She pointed to the three parts of the ''handshake'' meme. "Your players. Camila. Following you wherever you lead."


    I escorted her through the door with a colossal smile on my face.


    ***


    The door led directly to the stage and there was applause as I appeared. Ahead of me were a dozen tables, now covered with rich fabrics, drinks, nibbles, and Christmas ornaments. Most of the tables had five people each and at a glance I noted that the admins and backroom staff had been mixed up. MD was to my left, Brooke to my right. Physio Dean was near the back, Livia near the front. If Henri had assigned the tables, that made sense.


    He himself was over to the right of the stage, in front of a lectern. He was in a tuxedo, beautifully black and white, slimming, bulging at the biceps. He wore a blue-and-white bowtie but no eye mask.


    "Welcome, your Highness. Please take your throne." On the left of the stage was a red-and-gold high-backed armchair. "Miss Caramel, you may choose a team."


    Camila looked around the room. Emma was waving her over. Foquita was signalling, too. Youngster, the dog, had an empty chair next to him and he pushed it backwards as if to say, ''how about here?'' Meghan slapped him on the arm and he pulled his neck in like a grinning turtle.


    "I choose Team Max."


    When he was in these moods, Henri was absolutely unflappable. "A wise choice. May we have a chair, please?"


    About seven guys shot to their feet, rushing to be the one to carry the chair up to the stage. I laughed and guided Camila into the throne, and took a chair from Wibbers. I sat; it was more comfortable than it looked.


    Henri waited for everyone to sit back down and said, "Those of you who said Max would refuse to wear an eye mask... award yourselves one point."


    "Yessss!" cried more than half of the teams.


    Teams. Points. Henri dressed like a game show host. Was this...?


    "Your Highness, we are playing a pub quiz."


    "Oh, mint," I said. I wouldn''t have minded some sword-swallowers or a human pyramid, but a pub quiz was fun, too.


    "Many of the questions will be football-related. I thought it would be fun for the others to pit their wits against you. And now you have help you will be even more formidable."


    "Is there a music round?"


    "No, Your Highness, there is not a music round." Henri was holding a microphone and some white cards. He slid one to the back. "Thank you all for coming. We''re delighted to welcome our special guests, Foquita and his partner, Caramel." Generous applause followed. Foquita was between Brooke and Zach and they were doing the translations for him. "It has been another wonderful year. Chester FC have gone from strength to strength and that is because of everyone''s hard work. Thank you all." Applause. "Thank you to Christian for smashing the party fund piggy bank for tonight." Cheers and whoops. "Without further ado, let the quiz commence. First prize is eternal glory. Second prize is one bottle of very nice red for each team member. Remember that the referee''s decision is final."


    Henri took a clipboard from the lectern and brought it over to me, along with a pen. I scanned the page. Typical pub quiz fare. "Do we need a team name?"


    "Yes," he said, walking back to his side of the stage before I could ask why the prize for second was better than for first.


    I wrote ''Double Choc and Caramel'', which got a giggle from my teammate.


    Henri said, "Question one. Nice easy start. On which date is Christmas Day?"


    I frowned and wrote December 25th.


    "It''s the 24th," said Camila, leaning close to whisper so the nearby tables couldn''t hear. She was so close I felt her breath on my ear.


    "What?" I said, thinking she was joking, but then I remembered that in some countries they did it different. Maybe the quiz would force us to learn about each other. Maybe that was Henri''s devious plan. I looked around to see who was placed where, but two tables away my eyes landed on Angel. She was watching Camila with a faraway expression. I whispered back. "Here the main day is the 25th. That''s when you get the presents and have dinner with your family and eat too much and watch a James Bond film. The next day is Boxing Day and you eat too much and watch a film from a different James Bond."


    "Question two," said Henri. "Should little baby Lane-Beeks be allowed to open Christmas presents on Christmas Eve?"


    I scoffed and shook my head. "The fuck? There''s no right answer to that." The other teams didn''t share my doubt - they were leaning towards each other, whispering urgently.


    Camila leaned close again. "Little baby Lane...?"


    "It''s my assistant manager''s newborn. I don''t think the question is about that baby in particular. It''s, you know, general. Wibbers told me he was fine waiting till Christmas Day but his brother kicked up a fuss and made his parents give him something the day before. Parents shouldn''t reward tantrums, right? And there''s value to waiting for something. Most of the time the presents are underwhelming and the anticipation is more thrilling."


    "Question three," said Henri.


    "Shit," I said, and wrote ''yes'' in the second slot. It''s Christmas. Spoil your kids.


    The final three questions were also Christmas themed.


    Henri took my answers and brought them to the lectern. "Oh, interesting. As I expected, Our Majesties have got all the answers right." That announcement came with a very strange noise from the other teams. Something between a cheer and a jeer. "Please pass your answer sheets to the team next to you for marking. Okay, the answers." Since I''d got them all right, Henri read from my sheet. "Question one, Christmas Day is the 25th." A cheer from the players. "Question two. Should little baby Henri be allowed to open presents the day before? Yes." The word exploded like a bomb. Hands flew to heads in utter disbelief. Emma''s team shot to their feet, all pointing at her while she crumpled into a giggling, embarrassed ball. Henri powered through. "Question three. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Answer, of fucking course. I''ll give you a point for yes," he said, smoothly. "Four. Should a snowman be made from two balls or three? Answer: Whatever. To be clear, if you wrote 2, no points. If you wrote 3, no points. You only score if you wrote whatever, either/or, or that you don''t care. Five. What''s the best Christmas song? Answer: Fairytale of New York by The Pogues." Vimsy''s team stood and high-tenned each other.


    Camila leaned close to me again. "How can ''whatever'' be an answer?"


    "No clue. The guy''s a total whacko. Or he might be doing a post-modern deconstruction of pub quizzes."


    "Round two is the football round," said Henri, to a big cheer. "The answers are all members of the men''s or women''s squads." I got the feeling that the pace of drinking had accelerated since the pub quiz had started. I''d been nursing my white wine but now signalled a waiter for a top-up. It came in a new glass. Swanky! In the next round there were ten perplexing questions and again Henri took my answers and, with an impressed face, declared I had scored very well. He took my answers away with him, presumably to mark them.


    "How is that - " I started, but Camila gently touched me to shut me up.


    "Question one. Which player would make the best manager? Answer: Pascal." Cheer. "Two. Which player would be hardest to replace? Answer: Magnus Evergreen." A surprised murmur swept the room, followed by chants of ''Mag-nus! Mag-nus!'' "Three. Who is the boss''s favourite player? Answer: Sarah Greene." A big shriek from the table that featured Wibbers and Sarah. Wibbers was nodding proudly. "Four. Which player is most likely to annoy Max and get sent to the bomb squad or sold? Answer: No-one, they''re all angels, actually that''s a good point, Angel." He had read my answer word for word, which was cheeky and potentially unhelpful. It got quite a few laughs, especially from Bonnie. Her younger sister was exasperated and tried not to smile. It didn''t last long. I looked at her and mouthed ''sorry'' and she said it was okay. "Five. Who is the most underpaid? Youngster. Six. Who has the best bromance? Answer: Josh and Tom. Seven. Who is the most likely to go into politics? Answer: Mari Hughes." Nobody cheered, a sign that no-one had written that as the answer, but Mari''s table gave her some good-natured verbals. Mari was the daughter of one of the bigwigs at the Welsh Football Association so to me it was obvious she had the genes to want to run things. I had been so focused on trying to get the answers right I hadn''t been looking for the meta-game, but on hearing Mari''s name I got a sudden suspicion about the true nature of what''s going on. Henri kept going. "Eight. Who is most likely to demand better service by yelling ''Do you know who I am?!'' Answer: Tom Westwood."


    I was sure no-one else would have written that; I shot to my feet. "Hey," I said, to lots of sniggers.


    "Max, please," said Henri. "I don''t interrupt your team talks."


    "You do, actually."


    "Question nine. Who is most likely to marry badly?"


    "No, no, no," I said, waving my hands around.


    I was met with jeers and was struck by a few balled-up napkins. "Sit down, Your Highness!" yelled someone.


    I glanced from Camila to Henri, not sure what to do. Henri took his chance. "Answer: Julie McKay."


    "Oh, fuck no," I said. "You''re just reading out my answers. Why are you reading out my answers?"


    "You are the state!" yelled Henri, jabbing his finger at me. "Your opinion is the only one that matters! Question ten."


    "Don''t," I said, with a warning tone.


    Henri nodded and made a show of turning his microphone off. He looked sad and gave a big shrug. Suddenly he was two yards further to the right and the mic was on. "Apart from Max and Henri, who has the hottest girlfriend? Answer..."


    I was on him, trying to wrestle the mic out of his idiot fingers. He lost his serious demeanour and broke into fits of laughter. It might have been the way I hadn''t slept for a week but I joined in. We laughed like mad idiots while genuinely wrestling hard to get the mic.


    "Max!" called Emma. "That''s a Boateng Boateng! That was a gift!" She meant my suit. I bounced away, hands up. "And we all want to know who you fancy."


    This proclamation was met with wolf whistles, sniggers, and whoops. With as much dignity as I could muster, I ambled back to my seat and put my player-manager face on.


    "The hottest girlfriend for anyone on the current squad, thus excluding Foquita, of course... is Gemma." If the cheers were anything to go by, two tables had chosen that, including the one containing the Brig. ¡°You get a point, of course, if you actually listened to the question and wrote Andrew.¡± Henri smiled as he adjusted his bow tie. "I believe Max has worked out the game, and why second prize is the real prize. That ends the quiz. Please add up your scores."


    There followed a minute of admin and the announcement that the Brig''s team had won. They got generous cheers and the staff brought five bottles of wine to their table.


    "Thank you for playing Beat the Boss! You may now visit galleries 1 and 2. I will escort His Highness to gallery 3. Adieu!"


    There was rapid applause followed by a rush to the corridors I''d been down. So it wasn''t that people hadn''t been interested - they hadn''t been allowed. Or perhaps the pictures had been put up in the time between the normal guests arriving, and me.


    Henri came over. I said, "Whatever I said was the right answer."


    "Yes."


    "So they were guessing what I would write. You told them the rules before I arrived."


    "Yes."


    "That''s diabolical."


    He rubbed his nose to hide a smirk. "I had no conception that you would be so inflammatory with your answers."


    I tutted and sighed. "You''ve stirred the pot big time."


    "Yes." He sighed. "I must admit I''m glad you worked it out so fast. The questions for round three are hot garbage. Would you follow me?"


    "Am I invited?" said Camila.


    "Rather you than Max," said Henri, reaching out to help her up. Smooth bastard. "Do you know he plans to replace me with a younger model? I thought he meant Foquita but I now suspect I misunderstood."


    She smiled and fell into step beside him. I followed along like a jealous sausage dog.


    But when we arrived at ''gallery 3'', Henri took a step back and Camila and I went from piece to piece. "Fuck," I said, the brief moment of annoyance forgotten. "Henri! You''ve outdone yourself. I demand a hug."


    He laughed and gave me one, then I returned to the art.


    The first one was simply a foosball table but with Chester Men against Chester Women. 3-5-2 against 3-5-2. The women were in our away kit and all the faces and squad numbers were authentic. Henri said, "I thought about having every player be Best 77 but it would only have been funny for a moment. This, I think, will be popular in Bumpers."


    "It''s so mint," I laughed, spinning the midfield around. Best 77 was on the right, next to Bochum 18. "I love it. This is custom-made, right? Can you get more? I''d love one that was like 4-4-2 against 4-3-3."


    "I can hook you up with the creator."


    I tapped it. "I want to play this all night. Am I right in thinking no-one''s allowed in this section until I''ve seen it?"


    "Yes."


    "Because I''m the king or whatever."


    "Yes."


    I knew that by the time I''d got to the end of the art, the table football zone would be packed with people and there would be a staggeringly long queue. Ah, well.


    The next piece - I''d only been gone three seconds and the fucking foosball table was already in use! - didn''t make much sense at first. It was the men''s first team squad photo we''d taken at the start of the season. Three rows, front sitting, back standing on a bench. Goalies and coaches to the ends. Me in the middle at the front. "I don''t get it," I said. It was just a large photo. Not Henri''s style at all.


    Camila stepped closer, reached up, and pulled on a stick that was hard to spot against the dark wall. When she did, Ben Cavanagh''s face slid off the photo. She pulled three more away - Sharky, Eddie, and Tom Westwood.


    "That''s fucking brutal, mate," I said.


    "Perhaps you would like to look in the mirror."


    "I would like to look in the mirror, as you know." I smiled in the direction of Camila to see if she had noticed that I''d won the conversation. "If I know the way Henri thinks, there''s a way to put new faces to replace those." She nodded, slunk in front of me, and found more sticks on the right. One slipped Foquita into Tom''s position. Another pushed the face of the current Bayern Munich goalkeeper into Ben''s slot. "Torben Ulrich, mate? Have you got a spare 70 million to lend me?"


    "In this space, we are only limited by our imagination." He curled his lips at Camila. "And my imagination has no limits."


    Camila played with another stick but nothing happened. "Move Torben Ulrich out of the way," I suggested.


    She did. There was another face lurking behind. "Who''s that?" she said, frowning.


    "That''s Ben Cavanagh in a fake moustache." I shook my head. "Henri, please talk to Alex about the voices in your head. At least one isn''t meant to be there."


    Henri was delighted by that feedback and led us through more of his mental fault lines.


    One piece was a small 3D model of the fully redeveloped Deva stadium, which, by the way, was incredibly cool. Henri had also 3D printed a small statue of me and we were supposed to put it where we thought it should go. The statue came close to the height of the stadium roof.


    The next piece was an old-fashioned weighing scales. In front of it lay nine small wooden boxes with player names on. A sign informed us that the weight of the box represented a player''s salary and that we should try to balance three against six. "Jesus Christ," I complained.


    "Can you solve it?" he said.


    I moved three boxes to the side. Our wages weren''t all public knowledge but it was possible the nine players had told Henri what they were making. "This?"


    Henri stared at my hand, blankly. "That''s actually impressive."


    "Show me on the balanza," said Camila.


    I shuffled the boxes around and pulled her away. "Sorry, that''s not a good idea. Money''s a sensitive topic around here. It''s all right if the lads joke about it but I shouldn''t. Do you know what I mean?" I ruffled my hair and looked down the corridor. There were more interactive pieces. "Mate," I said. "How long did all this take you?"


    He tutted. "One does not measure art by how long it took to create. One measures it by the amount of emotion it generates. Joy, antipathy, disgust. You feel joy there, disgust here. I am content."


    "Yeah, it''s good," I said, vaguely. I looked around and checked the time. "So when are the strippers coming?"


    Henri''s face contorted.


    I smiled. "You''re disgusted. See? I can do art, too."


    He nodded rapidly. "Yes. Very good, Max. Very, very good." He continued to seethe until all at once his face cleared up. "You are the state, Max. I find I''m in need of validation. What do you think of the evening?"


    "The Wall of Time is amazing."


    "I call it - " he brought his palms up and spread them wide. "Time''s Narrow."


    "Bosh. Perfect. The memes..."


    "The Memery Palace."


    "Okay! They''re funny. I need to go back and look at the rest. And this stuff is great. Oh, and the pub quiz was deranged. Yeah, all in all, a good event. I rate it four stars but is it out of four or five? You''ll never know."


    Camila said, "It''s out of four."


    "What she said."


    Camila said, "I have felt tired these last few days. England is so cold, so wet. But I''m full of energy again and I''m happy Foquita is coming here. Yes, very happy."


    "Henri," I said. "Camila wants us to give Foquita the full Tyson treatment."


    Henri''s eyes widened. "Are you sure, miss?"


    She looked uncertain. "I thought I was."


    I got serious. "Henri, Reading are in trouble."


    He looked at Camila. "My former club."


    "I''ve got an EFL call about it tomorrow. If it''s what I think it is, can you sneak me into one of their training sessions? Like, asap?"


    "Are you going to pillage a club in crisis, Your Highness?"


    "Yes."


    He nodded. "You have been strangely calm this past week. I see now it was the calm before the storm. Of course I will help you."


    I slapped him on the arm. To Camila I said, "Let''s check the future of Peruvian football is all right, yeah?"


    She came with me into the big room where we found Foquita perched next to Dani on the edge of the stage. He spoke into her phone, there was a beat, and she read what it said. I signed a question mark and Dani showed me that she was using an app that listened to Foquita and automatically provided the translation. She typed away and it turned the text into Spanish.


    "That''s going to be handy," I mused, and the app translated it. Both Dani and Foquita agreed. "Dani, show the video of the day I found you."


    She read what I¡¯d written, smiled and swiped.


    I moved away, letting them get to know each other. Camila said, "The day you found her?"


    "She was playing in a pan-disability tournament but she''s one of the best players in the country. I was angry because I thought she was cheating. When I realised my mistake I knew I had to sign her. She didn''t want to come but I convinced her with my dance moves."


    "Oh?" Camila raised an eyebrow. An invitation to strut my stuff.


    "That was before I was put in a coma. I''m still recovering. Got this weird feeling that dancing will come back last. Yep, pretty sure. Dani''s doing great, though. She has to be close to an England call-up."


    Emma bustled over and joined us. She looked like she''d been having a good time. She dropped her mask on the nearest table and rubbed her forehead. "England? Who?"


    "Loads," I said. "Dani, Angel, Kisi. Meghan and Sarah again, of course. Wibbers has to be right up there. Dan maybe? He passes the eye test. Cole has to be close to an Ireland call-up. I''ve been bigging them up to people close to their national teams but there hasn''t been a lot of activity that I''ve seen. It''s one of my challenges for the next six months."


    Camila said, "What else is, ah, on your plate?"


    "Spend all the club''s money. Beat Bradford, beat Manchester United. Oh, fix Welsh football."


    "That one sounds hard."


    "Nope. I''m going to do it in a few hours, a week on Friday."


    Camila laughed and fell into me. To Emma she said, "He''s so funny!"


    Ems smiled back and gave me an affectionate cheek rub. "He is, but he''s not joking."


    "Ems is right; I''m not," I said, almost apologetically. "What else? Win the league, win the Youth Cup. Oh, piss Angel aaaaaalllll the way off. Heh."


    "Max," complained Emma. "You shouldn''t enjoy it so much." We made eye contact and it got pretty heated. She twisted her lips, but then changed energy completely. She slapped my knee. "Relationism! You need to do more of that!"


    I squinted; Camila had distracted me from thinking about it. Relationism. A player-first approach built on combinations. A system that cried out for flair and imagination. Flicks, tricks, and skills aplenty, but built around a very serious, simple core - together we can build a better world one pass at a time. The version I had in mind would be as beguiling as spending time with a beautiful woman. Serious, simple, winning football for the TikTok generation. Every boy and girl in the world would watch my teams play and hear the same words: sometimes I fantasise.


    For the first time in a week, thinking about Relationism didn''t send my head spinning. For the first time in a week it got me fired up.


    "There''s a storm coming," I started.


    Camila finished the thought. "And his name is Foquita."


    I gasped. Emma and I looked at each other, mouths wide open. "Camila bringing the sass!"


    Emma smiled. "She''s an absolute ledge. Come on, His Highness has had you to himself long enough. Let''s mingle."


    "Love to," said Camila. The pair of them went off towards gallery 1, arm in arm, leaving me mostly alone in the main room.


    In the corridors around me were sixty people, laughing, joking, looking at art, playing foosball. My people. My family.


    I got up, clapped my hands together, and headed to gallery 3 to have the first of sixty chats. I had so much fucking energy to burn.

 13.2 - Imagine Dragons

    2.


    Excerpts from a Discord channel called ''Let''s All Laugh At Chester,'' populated by hard-core Wrexham fans.


    Thursday, December 25


    Stoop


    Merry Christmas to all my fellow Chester haters! I come bearing gifts.


    TopPoppy


    Oh, shit. The pervert''s back.


    Stoop


    Nothing perverted about this! Just added a few photos to the Dropbox for the benefit of us hot-blooded Welshmen. These were taken at Chester''s Christmas party. They''re <here>. Enjoy!


    TopPoppy


    I''m not clicking on that.


    CrunchyAbs


    Me neither. But who''s the woman in the silver dress?


    Stoop


    She''s the girlfriend of their new striker. Foquita.


    CrunchyAbs


    Foquita? I hardly know her!


    TopPoppy


    Amazing.


    Well, Stoop, I don''t know where you get this stuff and I don''t want to know but yeah, lot of attractive people there. Why are they looking at art? Did they have their Christmas do in a gallery? Typical poncey English shit. What''s wrong with a dinner dance like the old days?


    BeardedWonderwall


    I thought Best only wore shit hoodies. Why''s he ragged up like one of them Peaky Blinders?


    Teulu


    We need BrokenGround to give us the inside track!


    BrokenGround


    Don''t know anything about their Christmas party except Bonnie had a laugh. 3 R Welsh are on our winter break so I haven''t seen Best. He''s asked some of us to help him with something on Jan 2, though. Nothing to do with Chester, apparently, but if it turns mental I''ll write it up.


    CrunchyAbs


    It''s Max Best. It''ll turn mental.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, probably, haha! Merry Christmas, everyone!


    ***


    Friday, December 26


    TaranMellt


    Anyone else think it''d be funny if Chester''s match was snowed off? They keep missing out on big attendances on Boxing Day.


    Stoop


    It would be funny but I think they''ll be able to play today and you''ve got to expect them to beat Harrogate. Best will be more concerned about the state of their pitch for the next couple of months. Snow plus rain plus no drainage equals peat marsh. Play your tiki-taka on that, you knob!


    SummerhillBill


    They''ve been selling out so far this season. Easy when your stadium is only slightly bigger than a shoebox but just goes to show they don''t have proper fans. Half this lot have come out of the woodwork now they''re on TV but where were they when the team was shit?


    ***


    TaranMellt


    It was on Sky so I watched it. Harrogate were shocking but there was no quality from Chester, either. Camera kept cutting to Best and he looked embarrassed by the whole thing. One-nil win, goal from a Wrexham reject from a set piece. It''s not fantasy football, is it?


    Stoop


    I liked Zach Green. We didn''t give him a chance.


    SummerhillBill


    That result worries me. Jester aren''t supposed to play shit and grind out a win. That''s what good teams do.


    ***


    Monday, December 29


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 1 Cambridge United 2


    Lol.


    SummerhillBill


    That''s more like it! Get in!


    TopPoppy


    What happened? Anyone know?


    TaranMellt


    Cambridge did 3-4-3 and attacked. The pitch was poor so they went direct. Best rested some of his key players, it looked like, and brought himself on with twenty to go. He scored to get it back to two-one but Cambridge held out pretty easily.


    SummerhillBill


    I''m delighted. I''m absolutely beaming. That long unbeaten run from Jester was worrying me but now I see it for what it was - a mirage. The first decent team they play and they fold. They live in a shoe box and train in a literal dump. Their squad''s as thin as tracing paper. They''ll be out of the playoff spots now, won''t they?


    TaranMellt


    Yes, MK Dons won so they''ve gone back ahead of Chester. There''s 6 points separating 5th and 8th and above that is another big gap. Cambridge are up to third, which isn''t bad considering their strikers are horseshit. Bradford drew today so they''re only two clear of Mansfield.


    SummerhillBill


    You bet Best will be giving it large like ''only 18 points behind first place, we can do it!'' No you fucking can''t, laddie, sit yourself down. This is a big boy league you''re in and those teams above you will be spending American greenbacks in January. Go back to the alcove you call your manager''s office and count up your pennies, there''s a good lad.


    TaranMellt


    That reminds me. Chester had an ''emotional'' pre-match ceremony for the players who are about to leave. The goalie, the left back, and the fast lad. I''ve got his name as Jaws for some reason.


    SummerhillBill


    Didn''t BrokenGround break news of that transfer in here?


    TaranMellt


    He did! He should get himself on Bluesky and drop juicy transfer gossip.


    SummerhillBill


    How do people even make money doing that? I''ve never understood it.


    TaranMellt


    I think it helps them get jobs at media groups.


    SummerhillBill


    That it? Pointless. I''d go for another betting tip though. BrokenGround, what do you think? Can you hook us up?


    TaranMellt


    You won''t get a reply. He''s all loved up :)


    BrokenGround


    True, Taran! I''m still here, though. You marry me, you marry this Discord.


    Lol, just read that back. I haven''t told Bonnie that! Not going to put it as part of my vows, to be honest!


    I''m seeing Best in a few days. I can''t go at it direct because he clams up. Who are they playing on the Sunday? It''s Bradford, isn''t it? His number one enemy. He''ll be going all-out, I know that for sure. I''ll try and get a sense of how confident he is but I think that''s one game where anything can happen.


    SummerhillBill


    Find out if he''s going to play. Chester to win and Best to score should be good odds.


    BrokenGround


    No promises! I don''t want to piss him off. He''s really edgy about the betting stuff. He thinks the English FA are out to get him.


    Oh, and if I''m not back on in the next few days - welcome to the new age!


    TaranMellt


    Ha! Forgot you were a big Imagine Dragons fan. Take care, mate.


    ***


    Thursday, January 1, 2026


    CrunchyAbs


    First!


    TopPoppy


    I think you''re trying to say Happy New Year.


    CrunchyAbs


    Sure, yeah.


    Also: the transfer window opens in a few hours! Let''s see if this Foquita fella actually turns up. If he doesn''t I''m going to piss myself.


    SummerhillBill


    He scored 8 goals in Peru. Who gives a shit? Let Best waste his club''s money. So much the better!


    TopPoppy


    Anyone doing New Year''s Resolutions?


    SummerhillBill


    Yeah. Mine''s to get a life and stop coming on here.


    TopPoppy


    Me too.


    ***


    TopPoppy


    Okay. Big flurry of deals confirmed. Chester out: Ben Cavanagh, Eddie Moore, Wes Hayward, Simon Black. Who the fuck is Simon Black?


    CrunchyAbs


    Little kid who went to Liverpool. Next Michael Owen, apparently. It was in one of BG''s stories.


    TopPoppy


    Right! 75,000 for a twelve-year-old is mental, unless he is the next Michael Owen in which case that''s a pathetic amount of money.


    Chester in: Calabash Barkley from Tranmere. He''s that kid they had before, right? Knew Best from Darlington. And Foquita confirmed. Shirt number 7. Thought he was a striker? Why not give 7 to Barkley if he''s a right mid? I thought Best was a football romantic. 7''s for your right winger, not a striker. Best is really annoying sometimes (beyond being Chester manager, obvs). Wonder if the new guys will play today.


    CrunchyAbs


    Sunday Sowunmi gone on loan to Buxton. Tier 6. Weird. I had the strangest feeling he''d play against Bradford and get folded up.


    Pay rise and new contract for Andrew Harrison. He''s the one dating Eat Pray Lust.


    TopPoppy


    Loads going on at Saltney. They''re going to loan Tom Westwood from Chester when Foquita''s recovered from injury. Oh! That''s actually kind of important information for the betting channel. Better paste this there before people waste their money betting he''ll score today.


    Saltney have also signed Vincent Addo from some club I''ve never heard of. Ghanaian under-20 international. Why''s he going to the second division in Wales? Fee will rise to a hundred thousand! How''s Best got that kind of dough?


    CrunchyAbs


    Remember that thing where some of his players are doing a syndicate to pay for signings? That''s that kid it''s all about. He''s friends with the Youngster lad.


    TopPoppy


    I can''t keep track of all the madnesses.


    Okay they''ve also signed a Brazilian lad called Toquinho. Scouted by Best on his big summer trip, apparently.


    CrunchyAbs


    Tranmere have signed a Brazilian, too. Gabby. Striker. No prizes for guessing who set that deal up.


    TopPoppy


    When are the Wrex going to get a Brazilian striker, for fuck''s sake?


    ButteryCrumpets


    Important announcement regarding Chester''s top transfer target.


    Ahem.


    Steve Weller from Stockport County to Bradford City CONFIRMED.


    Lol.


    Likely to make his debut against Chester.


    Double lol.


    TopPoppy


    Just got a text from a mate. He says Chester have loaned two players to Corinthians, big team in Brazil. Thomzella and Nasa. The fuck? Godzilla and Nasa? This has to be a joke, right?


    Stoop


    Man United signed a 17-year-old who has never played a minute of footy for six million quid. Another three incoming for a million plus.


    TopPoppy


    Wrong channel, mate. This is for stuff that might hurt Chester.


    Stoop


    Right, right. Just saying - the game''s gone. It''s literally mental.


    But so far it''s a whole bunch of nothing, right? Stuff we knew, stuff around the fringes. Best hasn''t touched his war chest. I want him to sign a Dutch goalie with a bombshell wife.


    TopPoppy


    Dude, please. Seriously. How about a new year''s resolution to stop saying distressing things? Yeah?


    ***


    BeardedWonderwall


    No Foquita in the squad against Accrington. Typical Chester. Buy a star striker and he''s injured.


    SummerhillBill


    Star striker? He''s got about ten career goals. He''s worse than Garry Birtles.


    CrunchyAbs


    Red card Accrington! What the fuck!


    SummerhillBill


    I''m raging about that. Fuming. Jester are crap, they''re tired, they''re there for the taking, your team is in a relegation dogfight and you get sent off in the first ten minutes. What a twat. He''s let everyone down. His family, his club, his manager, but especially me. I''m fucking off for a walk.


    CrunchyAbs


    Two-nil final score. Chester barely broke into a sweat the entire second half. Fresh legs for the big one. Bradford away in three days. Might watch it. Hope BG gets us some betting info so we can cash in!


    ***


    Friday January 2


    BrokenGround


    Lads I don''t want to rile you up or anything but I''m with Best now and it''s shaping up to be another all-time classic story. I''ll see about writing it out later when I get home. I can tell you that Best is calling it Operation Imagine Dragons and you''ll love it and hate it. He has been winding people up BIG TIME. Mostly me, now that I think about it. Yeah, if you''ve got some good booze left over from Christmas, get that ready. You won''t believe what''s going on. I''m here and I don''t believe it and the best part is coming after lunch.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Yerrrrssss! I''m having a shit day but here comes BG to the rescue. That''s what I''m talking about! Fucking love this community, man.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Right. I''m ready to start. Drinks ready? Good.


    Couple of weeks ago I get a text from Best. Do I want to make a quick hundo and help him do to Wales what he did to Chester?


    BeardedWonderwall


    What does that mean? You could interpret that loads of ways. Like, turn it into his personal playground. Win loads of games while making everyone think we wear clown shoes. Dig a huge hole in the ground and say ''one day that will have a roof''? Do a documentary about us, refuse to be in it, but be in it the most of anyone?


    You know what? No-one reply to all this. Go on, BG!


    BrokenGround


    I didn''t overthink that part, tbh. He asked and I just said yeah. Bank holiday, isn''t it? Shops are closed, nothing to do. He wanted six lads, told us to park at Bumpers at nine, get ourselves some chow, be ready for jump-off at half past. He''d have a bird ready, he said.


    TopPoppy


    Oh! Max Best is Stoop, confirmed!!!


    BrokenGround


    He meant helicopter. I told you before he always says loads of military jargon he hears in movies.


    It''s me, Hot Rod, The Midnighter, Frampton, ET, and Pong in the little bar area, stuffing ourselves. Chester''s lads are out in the cold, training. Normal work day for them, isn''t it?


    There''s a sign up behind the bar. It''s Best''s New Year''s Resolutions. We ask why they''re public like that and the nice lady tells us it''s the psychologist''s idea so that Best has to be more accountable. Something like that, anyway!


    I took a photo. Here''s what they said:


    <ul>


    <li>Stop being so secretive</li>


    <li>Stop spending money on things I can¡¯t afford (like football clubs)</li>


    <li>Stop blowing my top at trivial things</li>


    <li>Spread joy and happiness wherever I go</li>


    <li>Don¡¯t play 5D chess against 2D minds</li>


    </ul>


    We''re trying to think why he''s chosen that five and having a blast adding to the list when he bursts in. He''s all hyper. ''Enemy spotted! Hands off cocks, on socks! ETA two clicks! Roust! Roust!''


    TopPoppy


    The hell is roust?


    BrokenGround


    Oh, who knows? We''ve learned to let him get on with it. We''re pretty sure that in his head two clicks means two minutes so we take our plates to the kitchen and they''re delighted and say they wish Vimsy was as considerate. Well In turns up in a big van and we hop inside.


    Well In''s an important character today so I should refresh your memory.


    His real name''s Llewellyn and he does something in the Welsh FA''s coaching system. We know him for being the manager of Saltney Town and we''ve kicked up a fuss before, haven''t we, that he''s basically working for Max Best for free, meaning the Welsh FA is subsidising Best''s vanity project.


    He''s good, too. They won the third division at a canter even though he only took over halfway. Now Saltney are miles ahead at the top of the Cymru North and they''ll get promoted to the Premier and we know they''ll be let in even though they don''t fulfil the criteria for promotion. We wondered why but I think this story will mostly explain it.


    Last thing - Best thinks Well In is the bees knees and Best isn''t exactly liberal with his praise.


    Teulu


    Very happy to hear about an up-and-coming Welsh coach.


    BrokenGround


    We drive a few minutes to Saltney. I''m about to ask Best why we couldn''t have gone straight there but it''s obvious - there are eight big coaches taking up every bit of space.


    We exit the van and Best gets us together.


    ''All right, lads, your mission, should you have chosen to accept it two weeks ago when you accepted it - fuck. Twisted myself in knots with that one, didn''t I? Er, okay scratch all that.'' He scouts the area looking for inspiration, gives up. ''Welcome to Operation Imagine Dragons. We''re going to do some training with about one percent of the teams in Wales. What a joke.''


    Well In pulls a ''don''t be like that'' face. ''Max, come on. It''s just a test run. It''s expensive doing this kind of thing. We''re not a rich country.''


    ''I could do the entire north of Wales in two hours. Instead I have to prove myself - a-fucking-gain. Eight teams from one age group. What the fuck, man! It''s a joke.''


    Frampton goes, ''What are we doing? I was told this wasn''t anything to benefit Chester.''


    Best goes to Frampton and cups his hand under his mouth. You know, like you were asking a kid to spit out some chewing gum. ''Give me the breakfast back. Come on, that was expensive, that. No? You''ll eat Chester''s Greek yoghurt and superfoods but you won''t help these kids?''


    Well In says, ''It''s not for Chester. This is for the FAW.''


    The Football Association of Wales! ''Oh,'' says Frampton.


    Max wags his finger. ''Everyone''s pissing me off already. You know what? I''ve decided to rise above it. It''s like that song from my favourite band, Imagine Dragons.''


    I go, ''I''m a pretty big Imagine Dragons fan but that one doesn''t ring a bell. What song are you talking about?''


    Max gives me a sad look. ''It''s called ''Rise Above It''.


    Well In frowns. ''Your favourite band is Imagine Dragons? I''ve never heard you listen to their stuff.''


    ''I do, big time.''


    I''m thinking it must be a B-side or something like that. I say, ''How does that one go?''


    Best drums the air with his head and lets out a little percussive ''mmm''. He does a Dan Reynolds impersonation. ''They drag you down/with their stuff/don''t go with/gotta rise above.''


    ET shrugs. ''Sounds like Imagine Dragons all right.''


    Best says, ''One billion views on YouTube. Top comment is "who else is still listening in 2026?" 3R, you''ll be helping put cones out for the drills and herding kids and stuff like that. Well In will tell you what to do. Chain of command is me followed by Well In followed by Elin.'' That seemed to be a joke but no, a minute later we meet a coach called Elin. Another one who helps Chester while working for the FAW. Nice girl. Back in the present, Max is still whingeing. ''There should be literally 400 teams here today but there''s 8 so...'' He lifts his middle fingers in the direction of central Wales and paces away.


    ''Maaaax!'' complains Well In, who scurries behind.


    I look at my mates and shrug. ''Cone duty, lads!''


    Frampton goes, ''It''s for the FAW. What does that even mean?''


    ''Let''s go find out.''


    We hurry after them.


    Teulu


    I''m searching for that song but I can''t find it.


    BrokenGround


    It''s fair to say Best was talking complete horseshit the whole day. Don''t believe anything that comes out of his mouth unless it''s about football.


    That was my introduction to the day and as you can imagine, it put me off balance.


    We go through the solitary building - it''s got showers and two dressing rooms, space to sit and chill, some offices upstairs. That and the pitch is basically Saltney Town, the most exciting football club in the Welsh leagues.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Oof.


    That hit me like a gut punch.


    BrokenGround


    Not so fast, mate. I actually wasn''t being sarcastic. It''s not about the buildings, is it?


    BeardedWonderwall


    You''re right. Go on.


    BrokenGround


    The buses have brought eight youth teams from all over north Wales. Criccieth, Corwen, Bangor. The players are the under elevens and they''re said to be good sides. Some of the best.


    The action is supposed to start at ten, in about ten minutes. Feels like we''re cutting things tight but turns out we''re not really. The Chester lot seem slapdash sometimes but they''re pretty good with timekeeping and Best in particular doesn''t waste time with introductions and small talk.


    The kids warm up around the sides while we lay cones on one half of the pitch the way Well In and Elin tell us.


    At ten on the dot, Best double peeps his whistle and gets the kids over to him. They sit down and listen. There are about a hundred, all told. A hundred little Welsh lads. They know what''s going on a lot more than I do.


    ''First drill! Dribble across the width. Nice and smooth, please. You can go on your stronger foot like this.'' Best drops the ball he''s holding and pushes the ball with his right foot, going slowly for ten yards. ''Dylan, come and stand there. Thanks, mate.'' I''m ten yards from him. Best points at me. ''If you''re going at some malcoordinated hack... Some slack-jawed yokel with bad motor skills... Some weirdo rando who sees fit to grace the same football pitch as you...''


    ''Thanks, Max,'' I say, being a good straight man because the kids already think Best is brilliant.


    ''I don''t mean you!'' he bellows. ''You''re a top defender! You won''t let me nutmeg you right now in front of a hundred Welsh kids. That would be humiliating, wouldn''t it?''


    I regret everything. ''Yes, Max. That would be humiliating.''


    ''Right so I push the ball...'' Best comes at me, suspiciously slow. I can''t believe this is happening but I come up with a plan. I''ll keep my legs shut! Can''t meg me that way, can he?


    BeardedWonderwall


    BG, the pride of Wales!


    BrokenGround


    Ha. He can put me on blast but I''m not going to let him meg me. No way.


    So he comes at me, talking the whole way.


    ''I''m nice and balanced. I''ve got my foot going through the middle of the ball so I can push it right... Right... Right... Or left... left... And the defender doesn''t know what''s up.''


    When he''s a yard away, Best feints right, jinks around me to the left. He goes past me, everyone''s happy.


    I make the mistake of thinking it''s over. I open my legs and Best pushes the ball through from behind.


    ''Megs!'' he yells. ''Meeeeggggs.''


    ''That doesn''t count,'' I say.


    ''Meeeeggggs,'' he says, running along the front of the mass of kids getting high fives. ''Option two,'' he says, getting his game face back on. ''I like to do this when there''s no oppo.'' He waves me away. ''Push the ball left foot, right foot, one touch with every stride. Like this.''


    He dribbles just as he describes but it''s considerably cooler in reality than, you know, written down. It''s as though he''s doing cross country skiing or he''s jogging with a pram. You know the way some people do that? Imagine the pram''s a football that¡¯s always the same distance from him. It makes him look in complete control.


    ''Third option. Kick the ball twenty yards, chase after it. We call that "The Racecourse Rabbit". I won''t demonstrate it because I have standards. You can see it any time you watch Wrexham FC.''


    He knows it''s AFC but he has never said the A ever since I confessed I hated when people got the name of the club wrong.


    ''Up you get. Dribble across team by team. Dribble back when Well In tells you. Ready?''


    He blows his whistle and the first lot of kids get going.


    I sidle up to Best. ''What are we doing?''


    ''What do you think?''


    ''Some kind of mass production training so you can hit a quota. But you''ve got an ulterior motive and I''ve worked out your plan.''


    ''Have you?''


    ''Yeah. You want to see who tries the second way because they''ll be easier to coach. They''ll improve faster and you''ll sign them to Chester.''


    He grins. ''That''s genius. Heh. Stealing that.'' He closes his eyes and an absolutely beatific smile comes across his face. He tells Well In to take charge. Best goes off to talk to a woman. She is, of course, the most attractive one for miles.


    The eight teams dribble across the pitch and when all eight are on the other side, they dribble back again. I still don''t know what we''re doing but if Best is looking for gems, there''s no way he can find them like this. There are too many kids and the vibe is barely-controlled chaos. Watching on the side are a lot of dubious parents and the actual coaches of these teams. Well In keeps shooting looks at some men in suits. My guess is they''re from the FAW and they''ve paid for this event. Well In is going to have to defend his role in what seems to be nothing short of a farce.


    There''s a delay as Best finishes what seems to be a huge argument with the attractive woman. Bizarrely, it ends with Best pointing at me.


    I''m no lip reader but I feel sure he says something like, ''If it comes from him everyone will accept it!''


    That makes no sense so I wait for further instructions.


    ''Next,'' says Best, striding back while trying to suppress a grin. He''s up to something! I soon realise he''s only excited about showing off. When the kids are settled down he goes, ''Another nice, easy one. You''re going to do keepy-uppies all the way across the width. What? You do tekkers all day in your garden, don''t you? Think you can''t handle some kick-ups?'' He blows a raspberry. ''Here''s one way to do it.'' He flicks the ball up and retreats five yards while doing tiny, safe kick-ups. He comes back. ''Or if you''re feeling a bit more frisky...'' He lets the ball roll to a stop between his feet. He flinches but doesn''t move. I think I feel his eyes flick towards me. ''I call this one "Around the Clock", named after my favourite song from Imagine Dragons, my favourite band.''


    He flicks his feet together and the ball pops up. He does faster-than-the-eye-can-see tekkers while slowly turning in a semi-circle. By the time he is finished, he''s five yards away and has used every part of his right foot, shin, knee, thigh, god-knows-what-else. He balances the ball on the top of his boot while he talks.


    ''If you want, you can do the whole width on one leg but I like to go clockwise then anti-clockwise, which means I do half the distance using my left.''


    He does another semi-circle, moving ever further away, this time using various spots on his left foot.


    ''I know it''s a bit basic,'' he shouts, while doing ever more complicated skills, as a hundred Welsh kids become lifelong Max Best fans. ''But it helps me learn to tell time, too. The big hand, the little hand, it''s so confusing!'' He finishes with a smug smile. ''All right. Show us your best madnesses. Team 1, let''s go.''


    The first group go. Almost all of them keep things simple, but a few brave lads try to do Best''s insane circle thing. They get teased by their mates, give some verbals back. Best is supportive, dishes out high fives. I shout encouragement, then it''s the next lot, then the next. Eight squads trying to copy a pro.


    You can''t imagine how mad it is. Literal waves of kids going slowly across the pitch, balls flying everywhere, laughs, jokes, Best doing energetic ''The Scream'' re-enactments when a kid does something good.


    Best blows his whistle and we move to the other half of the pitch where there are eight squares made of cones - Well In and the rest of 3R had been laying them out while the mayhem was going on.


    ''Need a hand, Max?''


    Lads, that was the voice of Peter Bauer!


    SummerhillBill


    No! No fucking way! You got to meet him?


    BrokenGround


    I did.


    SummerhillBill


    My dad was a huge fan of his granddad, doubly so when he dumped England out of the World Cup.


    BrokenGround


    Ha. Well, Peter''s over here covering for Sandra Lane and I think he was bored that day so he came to help out when Chester training was over. He''s completely down to earth. Just a good lad, no airs and graces.


    Pascal comes too. Later he tells me the Welsh FA has been good to him so he''s happy to give back.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Sorry, BG. I think I missed the part where you explained what the whole thing was about.


    BrokenGround


    You didn''t miss it. At this point, I still didn''t know. I was thinking it was a big experiment in mass training. Like Best is so arrogant he thinks he can coach a hundred teams simultaneously, something like that.


    For now, imagine eight rondos. Four are being directed by Well In, Elin, Peter fucking Bauer, and Pascal Bochum. Four are being run by absolute reprobates from 3 R Welsh. Best is off to the side, shaking his head. The fit woman is there again and they''re having another bicker.


    I get the feeling he''s still mad there are only eight teams but I have a flash of insight. Bonnie loves detective stories and she loves it when there''s a thing that should be there that you don''t see. Like the dog that didn''t bark in the nighttime.


    I realise Best doesn''t have a pen or paper, he''s not making notes on his phone. It''s obvious he''s not actually doing whatever he''s supposed to be doing, if you get me. The woman has seen it, too and she''s complaining. She doesn''t think he''s taking it seriously.


    Lads, got to take a quick shower. I''m rank. I''ll be back soon, I promise.


    Teulu


    I''m thinking when we built his 3G pitch he committed to training, like, 400 Welsh players and was hoping to get it all done in one mad day.


    BeardedWonderwall


    That''s what I was thinking, too.


    The woman sounds like the one from the FAW. She''s always getting into trouble in the media because of her cosy relationship with Best. We''ve given him loads of resources and now it''s time for him to pay us back he''s trying to half-arse it.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    To be honest, though, the way he goes the extra mile with BG''s platoon, I don''t know what to think.


    Teulu


    Yeah. He''s more on the opposite end of the scale, isn''t he? All or nothing. Maybe he really thinks he can train a thousand players in one go, like in North Korea.


    BrokenGround


    Whoo! I needed that. Bonnie bought me a new shower gel. Citrus Confidence. It centres my masculine energy!


    Teulu


    Oh my God there''s nothing better than a long-term singleton who found love.


    BrokenGround


    Ha!


    I think we can fast forward through the rest of the drills. The drills on the main pitch get more and more serious while Sticky, Chester''s goalie coach, gruff Yorkshireman, turns up and about ten kids peel off and go to one part of the outfield to do specialist goalie stuff. The ground''s frozen, though, so they end up getting in a couple of vans with a few of the parents and they go to Bumpers.


    I drive Well In''s van and I hear one of the kids go ''But how did he know I was a goalie?''


    A good point - the kid was wearing the same top as the other lads on his team, no gloves.


    One of the dads makes a joke. ''It''s because when everyone else was doing kick-ups, you drop-kicked the ball all the way to England.''


    That was funny but as I drove back to Saltney I was actually freaked out. How can you be that good that you can just look at a one kid in the middle of a fucking vortex and go you''re a goalie.


    Teulu


    There''s got to be a rational reason, surely? Best has lists of all the players from all the teams, he heard someone say the kid''s name.


    BrokenGround


    That''s basically what I said to him!


    I get back to Saltney and go up to Best and say, you knew that kid was a goalie from the lists, right?


    ''Lists?'' he says. He''s not really present. But then he blinks, side-eyes me, and goes, ''Of course it''s because of the lists. What do you think? Yeah. I''ve got loads of lists and every time you''re not looking, I check the lists.'' He unzips his backpack and he''s got a clipboard with ten pages - one from each team and two blank ones.


    I notice he hasn''t made any notes but he flicks to the third or fourth page and points to the name of the kid I''d just had in the van. ''There you go. Goalkeeper. Bosh. All right, give me a second. I need to concentrate.''


    The kids are back on the first pitch, doing some drills that look like attack versus defence, four against two. It''s hard to guess the rules just from looking, which is something I''ve found from watching pro teams.


    ''I want a medley,'' says Best. He blows his whistle three times, yells "break!" and gathers his coaches while the kids go back to their bases and chat away. To his four star coaches he goes, ''Guys, you get a quarter of the pitch each. Set up your most fun drills and I''ll send every team across in six-minute bursts. Make sure you can explain it quickly, right?''


    They know what he means and soon 3R are rushing around moving the cones for these new drills. Four teams take the four slots. Max blows his whistle, there''s a quiet time while the coaches explain to the kids what they''re supposed to do, then there''s five minutes of action. Peep! The teams move one place over. They switch again and again for about half an hour.


    Triple peep and Best tells them to go have lunch.


    The kids, I have to say, are buzzing. I wander over to see what the scran is like and it''s great. It''s come in big metal trays like we used to have in school but it''s delicious. Freshly made just down the road. Beef in gravy, chicken, pasta, loads of veggies. One kid goes ''ew broccoli'' and the cook goes, ''Don''t let Max hear you talk like that! He wouldn''t sign a player who didn''t eat his greens.''


    A sharp kid holds his plate up and yells, ''I like broccoli!''


    ''Double broccoli for me, please,'' comes the next one.


    It''s a broccoli frenzy all of a sudden and I have to wade in and ask the lads to settle down. One wag goes ''Aren''t you a slack-jawed yokel?'' Sniggers abound. Thanks, Best. But I remember another thing he said once and I stand tall and I go ''I''m the army.'' That impresses them.


    The cook goes, ''Max is teaching Dylan a whole new way of playing football. It''s top secret.''


    ''It''s not top secret,'' I say. ''I''m just not allowed to tell anyone.'' As that lands, I''m overly pleased with the reaction but later I realise it''s the kind of thing Best says. Ah, well.


    So the food''s nice and the kids get real plates and cutlery and hot drinks but there is nowhere near space for a hundred in that building and half the lads are outside on towels on the cold grass and that kind of thing. Good picnic vibe but I wonder why the event is being held there because it isn''t suitable for that many kids if they are going to have lunch and how on earth are they going to shower at the same time? Having one pitch is only suitable for the drills because Best''s coaches are used to craziness. The day is running on vibes; no wonder that woman is annoyed.


    I go to find him to discuss all that plus a dozen other things like ''what is the purpose of all this?''


    I find him in the middle of a showdown.


    Best has Well In, Peter Bauer, and the other coaches behind him. On the other side is the black-haired, middle-aged woman and four men in suits. It doesn''t take me long to realise this is the FAW.


    I move close and listen.


    Best is speaking strangely loud, like he¡¯s on stage. ''I wanted the place packed, Gwen. I don''t know if you realise I''m under a lot of strain.''


    ''I know, Max, but thank God we didn''t bring every club in north Wales, as you suggested. This trial run has shown that Saltney can''t cope with a big influx of players. There aren''t enough toilets, there isn''t enough space for everyone to eat. There is only one pitch!''


    ''We can do the next event at Bumpers but then every Welsh football fan is going to throw a hissy fit, like, why did we pay for this thing in Saltney, then?''


    ''If it''s in the summer that will be easier. Nice weather, we put up some tents. Look, we have to do something here anyway.''


    ''What do you mean?''


    Gwen looks around. ''This can''t be a Cymru Premier stadium, Max. For a start, there''s no stadium!''


    ''What do you call that?'' Max asks, petulantly. He''s pointing to a stand that might perhaps seat 60 people. I''ve seen bigger dugouts.


    ''I call that a big shed. In the Premier you need to be able to hold two thousand fans.''


    ''We''re going to play our matches in Flint.''


    ''Flint are in the Prem, Max. Where will they play?''


    Max drops the annoyed vibe long enough to get cheeky. ''They can play here.''


    Gwen folds her arms and tuts. ''If you built a couple of stands you''d be able to put in multiple changing rooms, showers, lockers, disabled toilets. Add a few break rooms and Saltney would be fit to stage these kinds of events.''


    ''Top. Sorted.'' Best looks at me. ''Dylan, come here. Lend me two million quid, mate?''


    Gwen seems to know who I am. She smiles. ''Are you from 3 R Welsh?''


    ''Yes, miss.''


    ''I''m Gwen Hughes, FAW. We helped get Max assigned to you. How much do you hate me for that?''


    I laugh. ''Not much, miss. He''s all right when you get to know him.''


    Best whoops and runs around offering high fives to everyone. ''Dylan Seal of Approval! Dylan Seal of Approval! Yes! Yes, mate!''


    Gwen exchanges a glance with some of the FAW suits. ''Max,'' she says, and her tone brings him back. ''What... What have we learned today?''


    ''Acta non verba, baby. I''m going to show you.''


    She''s pissed. ''Oh, okay.''


    ''Yeah.'' Best looks at me. ''D-dog. D-train. D-spot. You know the Welsh national team better than me. Would you agree most of the players are Championship level? Best you can hope for is a Championship squad with a few Premier League guys. That keeps you more or less competitive when it comes to Euros and World Cup qualifiers. Every so often you get a world class player who gives you a chance of winning a few games in a row and if you''re lucky that takes you to a semi-final.''


    ''Sounds about right. Championship as a base, yeah, I''d sign off on that.''


    He nods. ''Right. Well, I''ve found you three Premier League guys this morning and I''ve already got your elite player at Chester. So that''s four-elevenths of the best Welsh team of all time. Bosh. Next time, Gwen, we''ll do it my way. Thank you.''


    ''Three?'' says Gwen. She''s suddenly flushed with excitement. ''Who?''


    ''Ah-ah,'' says Best. ''Acta non verba. But before I do anything else, I have a big problem.''


    ''Jesus,'' mumbles one of the suits. ''What''s this going to cost us?''


    Best glares at the guy and even I think it''s a shitty thing to say. I''m surprised when Best doesn''t take the bait. He focuses on Gwen. ''You''ve invited a team from Rhyl.''


    ''Yes. They''re one of the best at this age group.''


    Best nods. ''Yes, that makes sense. Some good players there. Only thing is, I''ve never seen a more depressed and miserable bunch of lads in my entire career in football.'' He points at me. ''And I''ve met this guy.''


    ''They seemed happy,'' I say.


    Best gives me the glare, now. ''That''s because I fucking CHEERED THEM UP, mate. Did you see me do tekkers? Have you ever seen me do tekkers before? Like a performing seal? No, you haven''t. I did it for those little fucks. It''s impossible so many players in one team can be that depressed unless their coach is a fucking ghoul and before I fix your pipeline I want assurances that the FA of Wales are going to remove the guy from his position.''


    Pipeline? The word puts me even more off-balance. This isn''t what I thought it was.


    Gwen says, ''It''s a strange accusation, Max. What exactly...?''


    ''Oh, fuck this,'' he says, and he storms off.


    I''ve seen him do a lot of mad things but I don''t think I''ve ever seen him flounce out of a conversation. Especially not one with an attractive woman. We''re all stunned and Gwen starts doing small talk with Well In but then Best comes back. He''s got one of the kids with him.


    ''Deano,'' says Best. ''Midfielder, aren''t you?''


    ''Yes, Max,'' says the kid. He''s star-struck to the point he doesn''t mind there are loads of adults nearby listening in.


    ''Got a nice left foot. Do you take free kicks?''


    ''Yeah, sometimes. We take turns, mostly. I think I''m the best but Jammo is good, too. He''s better at corners ''an me. I score more goals but he does more assists.''


    ''I like Jammo. He''s got good technique. You must be a pretty boss midfield.''


    ''Yeah.''


    ''It''s been fun this morning, hasn''t it?''


    Deano''s eyes light up. ''Yeah! It''s amazing. It''s the best ever!''


    ''See,'' says Best. ''My teams are all about having fun because if it''s fun people will work harder and do more. Dylan, remember that Welsh team with Gareth Bale?''


    ''Semi-finals of the Euros, Max. You don''t forget nights like those.''


    ''They had fun, that team. Loads of laughs. Deano, back home, do you do loads of fun sessions like this one?''


    Deano mumbles, ''No.'' Can''t explain it but my fists are clenched. Best fucking knows! He''s never wrong about football! The madder his ideas, the righter he is.


    ''Yeah,'' says Best. He''s pretending to be thinking about something. ''If I ask you a question, will you promise not to tell your coach?''


    ''Okay.''


    ''His name is Freddie, right? I was thinking of asking Freddie to do some drills after lunch and I was wondering what good ones he knows. What do you think he''d say?''


    ''Er.'' The kid''s forehead scrunches up. ''We don''t do fun drills, mostly. Ever. I mean, it''s good training and we win, but...''


    ''But it''s not fun.''


    ''No.''


    ''He looks like a teacher I had who used to shout at me loads.''


    Deano laughs. ''Yes! Maybe it''s the same guy. Where did you go to school?''


    ''Manchester. I don''t think it''s him. So he''s a bit shouty?''


    ''Very shouty.''


    ''Oh. I had a coach like that once and I hated going to training. Wanted to back out but my dad always made me keep going. Said it would toughen me up.''


    This astonishes me because Best never talks about his dad. It takes me a minute to realise this story is as real as talk of his favourite band, and that asking Deano not to tell his coach about this conversation was a masterstroke. He has opened the kid up like a clam.


    Deano looks down with a sigh. ''My dad''s like that. I don''t want to go but I have to coz he''s proud of me.''


    ''What do you do when the other kids cry in the dressing room?''


    ''Nothing. Dad says it''s none of my business what the other kids do.''


    Best nods. ''Maybe I''ll stick with my coaches for this afternoon, then.''


    Deano''s face widens in every direction; it''s inadvertently heartbreaking. ''Yes, please!''


    ''Sorted,'' says Best. ''We won''t be doing much, though. Just a bit before the big match. All right, thanks. Can you find your way back?''


    Deano pulls a face. ''It''s just there.''


    Best pulls a face. ''That was me telling you to clear off.'' Best grins, Deano grins back, departs. Best''s grin dies. ''Option one. I get 3 R Welsh to beat the shit out of Freddie.''


    Gwen has a troubled look about her. She''s rubbing her eyes. ''Can you not jump to thoughts of violence so quickly, please?''


    A lot of emotions cross Best''s face. ''I choose not to answer on grounds it may incriminate me.''


    The suit who had mentioned how much Best was costing the FAW shakes his head. ''I have kids, Max. I don''t want some coach screaming in their faces three times a week. We''ll do something.''


    ''Dylan,'' says Best. ''There are fifteen fucking miserable kids over there. Are you happy with letting the Football Association of Wales do a six-month investigation while Freddie stays in his post making those lovely, talented kids the most miserable human beings on this fucking island?''


    ''No, Best.''


    Gwen sighs. ''Max, you have to trust us. Please let us do things the proper way.''


    Best looks over his shoulder at his coaches. Well In nods. Best mumbles ''Fine'' but I can see the cogs in his head are whirring. He''s cooking up a parallel plan, almost certainly involving the Brig.


    ''What''s this about a match later?'' asks one of the suits, trying to put the incident behind us. ''That wasn''t in the itinerary.''


    ''Yeah,'' says Best, still in his revenge fantasy daydream. He wakes up and eyes the FAW. ''I knew you''d be like this so I''ve prepared a demonstration. The best under eleven team in Wales is from Cardiff. They haven''t lost a league match in about six years and they regularly win international tournaments. They''re on their way here. I''m going to hand pick an eleven from these eight teams you''ve brought me and we''re going to beat Cardiff. Then I want you to think, really imagine... if I can do that in two hours what it''s going to be like when you bring every team in Wales to these events? I''ll pick squads of twenty-five that you can keep together all the way through to the national team. I can''t promise to improve the levels because that depends on what''s out there but I can promise you''ll get loads more kids through into the Championship and League One and you won''t have fallow years where suddenly you''ve only got five decent players. I can guarantee to raise the floor and if we''re lucky we''ll push the ceiling up, too. But none of it matters if the kids are getting shitty coaches who make them want to quit the sport. Fuck.''


    He gets himself worked up but grits his teeth.


    ''Hang on,'' I say. ''You''re scouting players for the Welsh national team?''


    Best gives me a disappointed look. ''What did you think we were doing?''


    ''Scouting for Chester or... I don''t know. You didn''t tell me.''


    Best is exasperated. ''I told you eight or nine times! Why does no-one ever listen?''


    Well In says, ''What''s the plan after lunch, boss?''


    Best gives me one last shake of the head before turning to the coach he rates so highly. ''We''ll get the goalies back and I''ll pick my sixteen players who should rest up. The others can do something fun. What''s fun? Technique? Transitions? Let''s get some scran and think about it.''


    TopPoppy


    I''m stressed thinking about this coach who''s screaming at the kids. Please tell me that gets resolved.


    BrokenGround


    Not like, as of today, but this is where Best being a prick comes in handy. You''ll see later what he''s like. I know him quite well and he''ll be on the phone to Gwen every two hours asking what she''s done in the last two hours. Which parents has she spoken with? Which players? Which former players? Which opposition managers? Which referees? Honestly, lads, he''s going to be at it like a dog with a bone.


    TopPoppy


    Okay. I think I feel better.


    BrokenGround


    I''ve re-read what I wrote before and he comes across quite belligerent but he''s actually on really good terms with the FAW guys. It''s just they''re lower on his list of priorities than some eleven-year-olds who gasp when he does tekkers, which honestly I''m fine with. And so are the FAW, strangely.


    CrunchyAbs


    Just catching up with this. Best looks around a hundred kids doing keepie-uppies, picks out ten goalkeepers, picks out fifteen kids who are miserable, picks out sixteen to beat an unbeatable team. I can''t tell if this is fiction or not. You''re going to tell us about the match, right?


    TopPoppy


    No spoilers! We''re not there yet!


    BrokenGround


    There will be my attempt at a match report, yes.


    Re: ten goalkeepers. He only picked out one goalie. The others were dressed conventionally as goalies, if you get me. The tenth wanted to do the same drills as everyone else.


    Where was I?


    Okay so I sat next to Best and Gwen while we grabbed some food. I''d stuffed myself at breakfast but Best was starving. He said he''d been training hard and was burning calories like a mo-fo.


    He and Gwen chatted about her daughter, Mari, who is doing well in Chester''s youth teams. She was on the final episode of Chesterness, apparently. She was in the background as the players were parading their trophy around the stadium. I didn''t notice; I only had eyes for Bonnie.


    Anyway, when I get the chance I ask Best to explain what is really going on. ''You''re not doing this for the love of Wales. You''ve already got the pitch you can rent out and we''re not going to pay for a stadium for you.'' I get unsure and look at Gwen. ''Are we?'' She shakes her head. I look at Best again. ''What do you really get out of today? Is it so you can keep Well In?''


    He chews for a while, swallows, and takes a swig of water. ''Not everything is transactional like that. The English FA hate me and they''d love to ban me if they could. If they do I might go all-out with Wales. That''s called spite, mate. It''s fun, you should try it.'' He takes another swig. ''In England everyone works, whether they realise it or not, for the top six clubs. That''s all the FA care about. They''re a bunch of servile non-entities. Wales is trying to build something and I love building. I''m disappointed in today - though I accept I hadn''t fully considered the logistics - because I wanted to just go ''bosh!'' and create fully-formed teams for all the age groups. I don''t have the time to single-handedly fix Wales but it''s a nice thought, isn''t it? I grew up on stories of the Class of ''92. Six young lads playing for Man United''s youth teams for years and years, then they win the Youth Cup, break into the first team, become the backbone of the England team. That''s the ideal, right? You get the kids together as early as possible. When Gwen said she''d only bring 8 teams today, I said fucking hell what? When I was calm-ish I said, okay, bring the elevens. If we get eight or nine kids playing together regularly for the next seven years knowing they''ll play for the national team one day, that''s going to be incredibly powerful, isn''t it?''


    I ask the stupidest question of the year so far. ''How do you know they''ll play for the national team?''


    Best drops his fork and rubs his face. ''Jesus Christ,'' he mumbles.


    Gwen says, ''People say Max uses artificial intelligence to help him scout.''


    ''Yeah,'' says Best, shoving a gravy-laden hunk of bread into his gob. ''Got a ''ig computer. Spefal foftware.'' He sniggers and nearly chokes on the bread. He turns red, recovers, takes a sip, pretends he didn''t make a fool of himself. ''Yeah, so,'' he says, back to being the cool kid. ''I was thinking about Chester''s under eighteens. I''ve had them for three seasons. Most of them were together for years before that and since I turned up they''ve been through thick and thin. You can imagine the constant drama, can''t you, Dylan?'' Best beams, delighted at how difficult he is. ''I think that''s part of what happened at West Ham. The lads are such a tight unit, aren''t they? They feel the combinations with amazing intensity. That''s why Relationism hit hard. I fucking hope that''s what it is, anyway.''


    ''What are you talking about?'' I say.


    He waves that tangent away. ''I''m saying Wales has talent and we can get it on the pitch but building the connections years in advance is maybe a secret weapon. It puts Wales to the top of its class, if you get me. Say there are twenty countries with similar squads but one has a core that have been playing together since they were eleven or twelve. That''s a powerful advantage. That turns into money, doesn''t it? Getting further in tournaments. Qualifying for World Cups. You''ve got to let me go at this hard, Gwen. There''s no point doing the one percent version.''


    Gwen seems to have decided not to engage with Best until Cardiff turn up. ''How are Saltney doing?''


    ''Top,'' says Best.


    ''You''re happy with Llewellyn, then?''


    Best smiles - it doesn''t reach his eyes. ''You can''t threaten me. You''re moving your entire league to Friday nights. I¡¯m free on Friday nights. If you recall Well In, I can be the manager.''


    It''s my turn to choke to death. Best helpfully clobbers me on the back until I stop him. I suck in some healing breaths, calm down, and ask the burning question. ''You''d manage Saltney on Friday night, Chester on Saturday?''


    ''Why not?''


    ''You can''t work in two countries.''


    Best scoffs. ''You do.''


    ''What?''


    ''You do whatever you do in Wrexham and you''re always shuttling to Aldershot or York or wherever the fuck. That''s two countries. Do you ever go to Scotland? Northern Ireland? You don''t dread a knock at your door from the work permit police, do you? Are the Daily Mail going to send the Welsh army to do a mass deportation on me? Where do I get airlifted to, mate? Jersey?''


    ''It''s weird, admit it.''


    ''I''m just saying, Dylan, that if Gwen wants to threaten me she should choose something that doesn''t let me win the league even more crushingly while depriving a Welsh coach a platform to hone his skills.'' Best scoffs at the idea he shouldn''t manage the team he owns.


    Gwen has a placid look about her. She has lost that particular battle but doesn''t mind. ''We at the FAW know all about the Bluebirds; they''re the backbone of our youth teams. I don''t think you can seriously expect to cobble a team together and challenge them.''


    ''You''re right,'' says Best, staring at something so hard I turn to see what he''s looking at. It''s nothing, so why does he look euphoric? ''I should cobble together TWO teams and win with both!''


    Gwen laughs and reaches out to grab his wrist. ''Okay, down boy. Easy, tiger. One will be enough to prove your point. If you really have the Bluebirds coming, it''s a four-hour drive home.''


    I go ''Oh! Oh! Oh!'' like I''m at a pub quiz and I''ve just remembered the answer. ''Your resolutions, Best! Spread joy and happiness wherever you go.''


    The extra light fades from Best''s face. ''I knew it was a bad idea to put that list up. People remember things... Okay, fine. Thing is...''


    Gwen goes, ''What?''


    ''It seemed obvious I''d win two-nil, three-nil, something like that.'' He gets cheeky. ''But, ah, yeah. You''ve accidentally brought me a couple of major weapons.'' He goes into a reverie but snaps out of it. ''Fine. I''ll beat Cardiff by a couple of goals and then let them do some fun drills. Send them home happy. They won''t even realise they''ve been tonked. But everyone here will realise and you''ll finally trust my judgement.''


    A question pops out of me, one that''s been bugging me for ages. ''Are you making money from this?''


    ''From today? From Saltney? No to either.''


    ''But the pitch...''


    ''Okay,'' says Best. ''Let''s see. I''m getting about a hundred K from the pitch rental because I let schools use it for cheap and that sort of thing. Get a few grand from sponsorships. We don''t make anything from ticket sales, catering, or merch. We''ve got a squad of part-timers, good Welsh lads mostly, earning about forty grand total. Michael Harrison is on a decent chunk, comparatively. It''s not enough for him to live off so he does bits and bobs of outside work. We''ve got three loanees from Chester - two and one more coming later this month, to be accurate - and three from Tranmere. We''re not contributing to their wages because we can''t but they''re getting minutes and a trophy. For a lot of young players that''s amazing and all three Tranmere lads wanted to extend their stay. We started as the second-best squad in the league but Well In''s the best manager so they''re clear at the top and we''re starting to race ahead in terms of talent. Yesterday we signed Addo and Tockers. They''re both raw in different ways but in terms of potential they are probably the best players in the Welsh second tier in twenty years. Thing is, because of work permit rules they have to be on 40 grand a year each. Add it up and I personally am 40 to 50 grand a year in the red.''


    ''Shit.''


    ''Yeah. Thanks to my girlfriend''s dad looking after my mum I can cover it without tossing and turning all night. That was my resolution that you saw: Don''t go spending money I haven''t got. That''s why I''ve got no intention of building a fucking stadium here.'' He scoffs but gets back to the topic. ''The team''s getting stronger and we''re looking to sign more talents, too. I''ve got options but I''m not in any hurry. When Tom gets here, we''ll be a solid mid-table Premier side. I''m convinced we''ll finish second at least in our first season in the Prem.''


    ''The problem is the stadium,'' says Gwen.


    Best''s head drops all the way horizontal but he comes up smiling. ''Move fast and break things, Dylan. That''s one of my favourite songs.''


    ''Is that by Imagine Dragons? How does it go?''


    He repeats his impression of that band. ''Move fast/break things/don''t never stop ra-cing.''


    Gwen looks puzzled because she''s never heard that one but in the moment it does sound authentic. ''What Max is trying to say is that we think he''s great but we didn''t really think Saltney would be in the Prem so soon. Now it looks inevitable and we''re panicking. Okay, they''ll have to share a stadium next year but let''s be honest, it''s going to be the Deva. How''s that going to look? And forget this false modesty - he''s going to win the league at the first go, isn''t he? The only hindrance was money and that has cleared up.''


    Best shakes his head. ''TNS have a budget of a million a year. A million.'' He looks at me. ''They''ve been gobbling up UEFA money for years and reinvesting it in the squad. Not sure I can bridge it in one go. That''s the selfish part of this caper, mate. If I can dislodge TNS I''ll be the one getting all that prize money. I''d love to do it with mostly Welsh players.''


    Gwen makes an exasperated noise. ''The stadium, Max! What are we going to do?''


    He looks up and exhales. ''I know you don''t want the Welsh champions playing in England but TNS already do.''


    She grits her teeth. ''That''s a pain in the arse but we can shrug it off as weird history. Once is misfortune...''


    ''Twice looks like carelessness,'' I say.


    Best goes, ''What do you want, though? A tiny little stadium would be five mill and there''s no point. There are no fans. It would be a white elephant. An empty stand looks just as shit on TV as a field.'' He hears something - a coach? ''We''ll play at Flint. You''ll arrange it so we alternate home fixtures. And, er... we''ll look into throwing something up at Saltney.''


    ''You need more pitches if you want us to do the northern powerhouse for real.''


    ''Oh my God!'' Best raps the table and gets up. ''That''s a hundred grand a pop for basic grass ones that can''t stand up to any kind of use. I was just starting to feel good about my bank balance.'' He laughs. ''Jesus, Gwen, I''m not doing it. Any of it.'' He wanders off.


    We''re quiet for a few seconds. I ask, ''What''s the northern powerhouse?''


    Her brows rise and she chooses her words carefully. ''It was his idea. We bring thousands of kids for him to scout, he sorts them, picks out the best ones. We organise them into groups of some sort. North-east, north-west, something like that. Basically, he tells us who''s got a chance and then it''s over to us. That discussion was over a year ago. We couldn¡¯t get past the idea that Welsh football fans would hate it and we¡¯d be kicked out of our roles. Long story short, we were too slow and now he''s a big deal. We might have missed our chance to get it rolling.'' She falls quiet.


    I go, ''You know he''s going to beat Cardiff, right?''


    She smiles and lets her hands flop flat onto the table. ''Yeah.''


    ''I''m on a Wrexham AFC Discord. We''ve got a channel called Always Bet on Best. We listen to what he says and try to work out if he''s taking the piss or not. If he''s serious, we bet on what he predicts. Some of the lads are making good money.''


    She smiles. ''Always Bet on Best. Yeah. That''s what we''re trying to do. It''s not easy, though. Okay he hands over a list of twenty talented eleven-year-olds. Then what? We send them to Rhyl? You saw those kids. Did you see anything different about them?''


    ''No.''


    ''Right? We could easily put our prospects in the hands of someone like Freddie. His teams win and we''ve never had any complaints. If we put all our eggs in one basket and hand that basket to the wrong man, all we''ll get is scrambled eggs.''


    ''And an earful from Best.''


    She laughs. ''Yeah. It''s cowardly but it''s safer to keep things as they are. We might lose a player in Rhyl and one in Swansea and one in wherever but most of the players who were going to make it will still make it.''


    All the bits of metal in me turn white hot and it''s all I can do to not pass out. I''ve just had a horrible, traitorous idea. But it''s only traitorous for a Wrexham fan. Bigger picture, it''s good for Wales. ''You need to send them to Chester. Let Best look after them. There isn''t a day that goes by that I don''t want to slap the smugness off his face but I''d send my kid to Chester, no problem. They don''t get cut, either. Did you see them beat West Ham?''


    ''Yes,'' she says. ''I did.'' She seems to be thinking about what I''ve said but then there''s a flurry of noise and activity.


    The Bluebirds have arrived and they stream past us.


    First, the coaches, in grey and puce training gear.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Correction: grey and puke.


    BrokenGround


    Noted!


    They stride through looking all invincible and whatnot. Six years unbeaten! They''re the fucking E Company 8 of kids football.


    Then the brats themselves swan in. They''re only eleven and they''re not the ones that won the league last year but they''ve got that swagger about them like they''re the ones who haven''t lost in that long, do you get me? Cocky little bastards. I was never so full of myself. I get this surge of satisfaction knowing that Best is going to send them home crying. On the other hand, if some of those lads are going to be in the Welsh national team one day, it''s good they''re confident, isn''t it?


    They go to warm up and when I''m back out in the cold, Best is over to the side with his chosen ones and I get another surge. This time it''s excitement. Best''s grumpiness is totally gone and he''s up for the match.


    I go over and ask if he wants an assistant manager and he does one of his dickiest things ever. In front of all the kids, he puts his finger to his cheek and goes, ''Hmm, do I want the best Welsh coach, a future national team manager? Do I want Peter Bauer, who will be a fucking legend by the time I''ve finished with him? Do I want Pascal Bochum, who might be the most likely guy here to win a Champions League as manager? Or do I want Dylan?'' He says my name as though I''m the opposite of the other three, which I suppose I am.


    TopPoppy


    I know this one! He chooses you! It''s the old switcheroo.


    BrokenGround


    Yes, exactly. Is he that predictable? I never feel I know where I stand with him.


    He goes, ''My favourite song is called ''It''s Okay to Settle''. Billion views on YouTube.''


    Best tells me I''ll warm the kids up after he gives his team talk but then thinks better of it. He tells me to tell Peter Bauer that he''s my assistant warm up coach. I mean, think of that.


    SummerhillBill


    You didn''t tell the grandson of a living legend that he was your assistant warm up coach?


    BrokenGround


    I did! I was sweating the whole time but I did.


    Anyway, Peter just laughs and says sure. I miss the team talk, which now that I think about it was Max''s plan. But we started as 4-4-2, everything normal. No Bestball stuff.


    CrunchyAbs


    Wait, are we straight into the match? I thought there would be more build-up.


    BrokenGround


    Er, no sorry. It''s not the World Cup final, is it? There aren''t marching bands and all that. It was just: clear the cones off the pitch. Check the corner flags are in. Decide how long the game''s gonna be. It was twenty minutes a half. Just a demo match really.


    I think what I want to focus on is what I talked to Best about while it was going on.


    CrunchyAbs


    Go for it!


    BrokenGround


    The first few minutes he''s pretty quiet. Then he turns to me, grabs my arm and goes, ''I''ve made a horrible mistake. I think I might lose this.''


    ''Fuck,'' I say, thinking through the ramifications. I was getting into the idea that Best would do this northern powerhouse thing.


    ''Yeah, not really.'' He laughs at my expression. ''Relax, bro. Cardiff¡¯s coaches are seriously good and the kids are talented. But they''re eleven. The difference between them and my guys isn''t that much. Don''t tell Gwen but what''s about to happen isn''t impressive. Not really.''


    ''You make me a/you make me a/believer.''


    He frowns and looks around. ''Maybe I''ll get Well In over here.''


    ''It''s a lyric from the most famous Imagine Dragons song. I don''t think you know the first thing about them! Why do you keep pretending?''


    Best points to the pitch. ''I''ve got three future Welsh players here. Cardiff have two. That''s half a team, Dylan. Think about these kids ten years from now wearing your national team kit. Tapping your badge.''


    ''Tapping the dragon.'' I sense enlightenment is just around the corner. Best watches the cogs in my brain clunk around; he seems fascinated. The penny drops! ''Imagine dragons,'' I say, and it sucker punches me. Before lunch there were a hundred baby dragons racing around, now there are a hundred and twenty. Best thinks five can play for Wales. I''m literally winded by the promise of youth, their intangible hopes and dreams made concrete by the genius who sees it all, the shaman who guides them down the path.


    ''Fucking right,'' he goes, and I swear he''s as into it as I am. ''We can create the powerhouse as long as the average Welshman gets behind us, gives Gwen long enough in the job to get things done and see the results. That''s the real obstacle. We need normal fans to give us a chance. We need believers.''


    ''What about when we play England?''


    ''What about it?''


    ''Who do you want to win?''


    ''The best team,'' he says, flatly. He''s disappointed in me in some way.


    I click my tongue but you can''t make him talk when he''s in that kind of mood. I sweep my hand in front of me. ''So who''s good?''


    He shakes his head. ''Wait. I''ve made it so that it''ll be super fucking obvious.'' He gets his clipboard, moves a blank team sheet to the front, writes five names. He folds it up and puts the paper in his pocket.


    TopPoppy


    Oh, snap.


    Argh! I fucking love these stories, Dylan lad!


    BrokenGround


    The first five minutes, Cardiff are on top. It makes sense; they''ve played together loads and Best''s Bales are literal strangers. Cardiff are in blue, we''re in red bibs.


    Best and I are close to the halfway line where a technical area has been painted onto the turf. Opposite us, the kids who aren''t in the squad are on the touchline cheering their mates on. The FAW are to my left looking worried. Some parents are near them, some are with the mass of kids. Peter Bauer, Well In, Elin, and Pascal are between us and the FAW guys. Sometimes they call out some banter aimed at Best. The Cardiff coaches are yelping out short, sharp instructions.


    Cardiff go one-nil up from a neat move. They''re tidy on the ball and most of them have good skills.


    Best watches, his eyes darting around, then he does one of his most surprising things yet. I''ve seen him rant, rave, pump teams up, cool them down, but I haven''t seen him coach. Not really coach like Well In does. One by one he subs every player on the pitch off, including the goalie. He gives them tips before sending them back on.


    With the full backs he works on their body shape. They''re too square, he says, making me stand in front of them. He takes their shoulders and turns them about 45 degrees. ''Now you can rush back faster and you''re in a better position to receive a pass.'' One of the kids says he doesn''t like it because he wants to see where the oppo winger is. Best goes, ''Oh yeah I heard that Welsh people are born with no neck. It''s famous, isn''t it? Welsh people all walk around like Batman. Maybe we can get you some wing mirrors or LIDAR to stop you bumping into everything.'' Kid goes, ''Okay I get it. Turn my neck.'' Best says, ''You can turn your neck faster than you can turn your body. That''s the first line of my favourite song, Do As You''re Told by Imagine Dragons. One billion views on YouTube.''


    With the centre backs he''s all about putting pressure on without giving fouls away and including the goalie in passing build ups. The midfielders get another neck discussion. The forwards are told to stay within ten yards of one another. The goalie is told to pass short to the left because the right mid is lazy and won''t put pressure on.


    ''Bosh,'' says Best, when he has spoken to every kid.


    ''What? It looks the same.''


    ''Does it?'' he says, smugly.


    ''Yes,'' I say. I''m no expert but I''ve seen a lot of football in my life. To hear him you''d think he''d done something actually magical. ''4-4-2, same patterns of play.''


    ''Oh,'' he says, pulling his neck in, pretending to be cowed. ''That''s me told.''


    ''You''re such a baby.''


    ''You''re such a baby.''


    ''Why - ''


    ''Know you are, said you are, so what am I?''


    I laugh and tell him I want to ask a serious question but that''s when I see it. The magic! Two actual baby dragons hatch before my eyes. It''s not long until Best has nicknamed them Hammer and Spike.


    Our centre back passes back to the goalie, who rolls it out to the left. Sure enough, the guy has a few seconds to control the ball and think before his oppo decides to engage him. The ball goes to midfield and there''s a simple pass to Hammer.


    The next part happens at a different speed. It''s fast.


    Hammer touches the ball, pushes it forward to his strike partner. Spike moves the ball from left foot to right while shifting his balance for a dribble. A faked pass unbalances a defender just enough for Spike to power forward. The keeper rushes out to block his shot but Spike squares it and Hammer gently taps the ball into the net.


    What a goal!


    ''Holy shit!'' I say, head in hands.


    ''No swearing in front of the fucking children, Dylan.''


    ''Are they two of the good players?''


    Best laughs loud. ''Who, the Double Dragons? I think they might turn out pretty good, yeah.''


    ''Double Dragons,'' I say. ''That''s an awesome name.''


    Best''s mask slips and he gets all kinds of excited. ''They''re almost identical players! Almost the same in every way. They''ve even got...'' Best''s smile dips and he gets his clipboard and flips through. ''Yeah, almost the same birthday. I''ve got their birthdays here, mate. It''s normal that I would have spotted their birthdays from this paper here.'' He frowns, drops the clipboard, and goes back to being hyper. ''Seriously, it''s like they''re twins. Okay they''re not as good as Wibbers but keep them in the same team for years, buy and sell them as a combo and bosh, you''ve got yourself a very, very good international strike force. They''ll mess up a lot of teams, let me tell you.''


    ''How do you know all this stuff?''


    That winds him up. ''Fucking look at them, mate!''


    ''Well, yeah,'' I say. ''I think I might not be as good at imagining dragons as you.''


    CrunchyAbs


    Checking Wikipedia. Says Double Dragon was a video game released in 1987. It was a beat ''em up.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, that fits. They beat Cardiff up. It was three-one at half time but Spike hit the post and Hammer put two shots just over. Best said Cardiff had two good players and we had a third but I couldn''t say who it was.


    CrunchyAbs


    He didn''t tell you?


    BrokenGround


    No, he didn''t tell anyone. It was all part of his rant about the unhappy kids. ''Sort that out or else I don''t tell you anything'' kind of thing, though he was right it was obvious the Double Dragons were different gravy. He stopped talking about winning by two goals pretty early in the day, now that I think about it.


    Half time was amazing. The kids are in a semicircle taking on water and munching on paste. They''re looking around at each other in disbelief because they''re beating the so-called best team in Wales and it isn''t even a contest. They''re in dreamland, they''re soaking it all in.


    Peter Bauer and the other coaches, the FAW and the parents, everyone comes over like ''wow, how are you doing this?''


    Best pretends to be annoyed, or maybe he actually is. He lectures them never to barge into a dressing room at half time, says his coaching methods are top secret and that he doesn''t wander into their offices and watch them try to use the double-sided function on the photocopier. Everyone goes off with their tails between their legs.


    Best waits for them to scarper before he talks to the kids. ''What the... Okay team talk time. My favourite song is No Second Acts by Imagine Dragons. It''s based on a quote from F Scott Fitzgerald and it''s a kind of bombastic, arena-friendly exploration of what the quote actually means. It''s a banger,'' he adds. ''One billion views on YouTube.''


    I tut and sigh. I don''t like that he''s taking the piss out of Imagine Dragons. It''s a good band and I don''t want his mockery in my head every time one of their hits comes on. ''What''s the quote?''


    ''There are no second acts in Welsh lives.'' There''s a long pause. Best raises his hands. ''Okay, you got me, confession time, I made that one up. Scrap all that. Lads, no need for a big speech. You got this. The only thing I''d say is the back line, you''re playing as individuals. That''s understandable, right, course it is. But you need to defend as a unit, think as a unit. And as I always say to my players, there''s no you in unit.''


    ''Yes, there is,'' I say. I''m suddenly really annoyed. ''How can you be so sloppy and flippant and talk such shit and keep getting away with it?''


    ''Is there something in particular that''s bothering you?''


    ''Yeah! That was the FAW you told to leave. They pay for all this, they give it to you wrapped in a red ribbon and you kick them out when they show interest and for what? So you can gibber and blabber?''


    He jabs his finger at me before pointing it to the ground beneath him. ''You don''t go in dressing rooms without permission, Dylan. I don''t care if it''s the FAW or Ryan Reynolds or a tech bro billionaire or a dictator. I don''t care if the dressing room is a few kit bags and water bottles on the side of the pitch or a double-height all-marble wonderland. I don''t care if I''m doing intense tactics or if we''re all quietly doing sudoku. There''s one space that''s for the squad, one room you don''t sell tickets to, and that''s right here. It might not seem like a big deal but this is where players come to let off steam and get their heads right. As a manager you have to fight for every inch of advantage every step of the way or some fucker will take it all from you. This is just a friendly, just a laugh, but for forty minutes and all of half time, this is my team, these are my lads, and we''re doing it my way. My team, my lads, my way.'' Best steps through the kids. They''re looking at him, wide-eyed. ''There''s nothing sloppy and flippant about what''s happening on that pitch, mate. These lads are fucking crushing it. They''re treating this like a proper match, like it means something, so how are we gonna have a fucking VIP picnic in the middle of it? We''re fucking not. No fucking way, not ever, not on my watch. On your feet, lads.'' They get up and surround him; he glares at them. ''In this world, it''s just us. You don''t know each other very well but you all made the same choice - to come here on your day off and when you put on those red bibs every single one of you stood taller. I want you to imagine yourselves as dragons. Red dragons, this is your patch. Some gobby little fuckwit Bluebirds have been coming up the motorway, chirping non-stop for four hours about how they''re gonna thrash you and trash this place. You get on that pitch and show them how we do it in north Wales. You look after each other and I''ve got your back over here. That''s it. Dragons on three. One two three - ''


    ''Dragons!''


    Goosebumps, lads. Sixteen Welsh lads on their feet, high-tenning each other, fists clenched, jaws set, ready to run through brick walls for this stranger who''s ready to go to war for them.


    I suspect Best didn''t really give a shit about the so-called intrusion and used it to work himself up so that he could fire up the kids for the second half. As it kicks off, Best paces around, looking stern. Cardiff start fast, have half a chance, but the ball goes straight back up the other end and Spike scores his second with a thunderbastard.


    Thunder.


    It''s Time, Demons, Enemy, Whatever It Takes.


    Believer.


    I don''t need to imagine any dragons. Like Best said, they''re as plain as the nose on your face.


    Spike sprints to the far touchline, thinks about doing a knee slide, decides not to risk it on the artificial surface so does a cartwheel.


    The first three goals were celebrated by the strikers and the nearest midfielder, but this one gets everyone into the action. Fucking Best has turned them into a team with one rant.


    ''Max,'' I say, because there''s an awkward atmosphere between us and I want to clear the air.


    He doesn''t hear me, though. He''s in a trance, watching, moving, calling out. One time his neck snaps round towards the Cardiff bench.


    Best grimaces, which turns into an evil grin. Lips wide, teeth showing. He rushes around like a maniac, calling out instructions. When the dust has settled, we''re doing 3-5-2 and so are Cardiff. We continue to dominate but now there are only three defenders where before there were four. The Double Dragons score another goal each.


    Best runs around again and we revert to 4-4-2. It takes me a while to realise Cardiff were still in the process of making the same switch.


    Nothing they do can stop the flow of goals, and the only respite comes from the final whistle. It''s 7-1 in 40 minutes against a team that hasn''t lost a match in Wales for six years.


    One of the oppo players is kneeling on the pitch with his hands on his hips. The Cardiff bench look like they''re at a funeral. Me? I''m utterly, utterly drained.


    ''Fun,'' says Best, rubbing his hands. ''I enjoyed that.''


    TaranMellt


    You have this way of writing scenes that makes me think I''m reading a fever dream.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Seven-one?


    But how?


    BrokenGround


    I don''t know but later I talked to some parents and coaches and they were astonished that their strikers were playing left mid and all that kind of thing. Apparently Hammer had been a centre back and they had tried him as a forward but it had never worked.


    After the match there was a strange five minutes where the reds were gleeful and Cardiff were a huge mess but Best got 3R to move the big goals off the pitch and put small ones on, along with cones to divide the pitch into eighths. He took the players from Cardiff and merged them with everyone else. Well In and the coaches ran some five-a-side matches, 3R helped with refereeing, but Best picked the teams. I have no idea what his concept was but he split Hammer and Spike up and sprinkled Cardiff kids around.


    The 7-1 drubbing was forgotten, for a while at least, while these matches went on. The event ended with what Best called a ''mega-final'', a hotly-contested ten-minute six-a-side match with two Cardiff players on each team.


    TaranMellt


    I like that. It''s not 7-1, so long, suckers. It''s okay I''ve made my point now lets everyone go home with a smile on their face.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Except the Cardiff coaches.


    TaranMellt


    Who can take it.


    BeardedWonderwall


    And if they can''t, serves them right for being from Cardiff.


    BrokenGround


    All right, so far, so mad. But it gets weirder and I think I accidentally made Best a few million quid.


    SummerhillBill


    Noooo what are you doing, Dylan? Last time you fixed that midfielder for him. Got him to sign a new contract.


    TaranMellt


    Stop helping Max Best lol.


    BrokenGround


    I know, but I was in the diplomat role again, wasn''t I?


    Okay so the kids start leaving, after posing for team photos and selfies with Best, Peter, Well In, all that kind of thing. Bonnie turns up and she''s sad she missed the action but I''m happy she''s there and I tell her all about it.


    After a while the place is empty and it feels really, really quiet. We put away the goals and cones, lock up the storage, all that kind of thing, then we''re having tea and coffee in the building. The rest of 3R is over on another table with the cooks, Elin, Pascal, Peter.


    I''m on the end of our table with Bonnie squeezed beside me. I''m next to Best. Gwen''s opposite him. Then it''s suit, Well In, suit.


    As usual, most of the talking is between Best and Gwen and this time it''s strangely stilted like they''re thinking extra hard about what they''re saying.


    Gwen starts by asking how he did it. Best replies with a load of horseshit - of course - and Gwen rolls her eyes and goes, ¡®Well that was quite a demonstration¡¯. She looks at me, twinkles, looks at Best. ''In the FAW we have a saying. Always Bet on Best.''


    Best gives me a level stare for way too long. I''m telling you lads, he knows about these channels! He''s probably reading this right now. ''I only bet on coin tosses. Tails never fails.''


    ''Max, what would you do if you were me?''


    Best''s face splits into a grin and he quickly forces it back into something like serious. ''You meant about football, right?'' She''s exasperated but she walked right into that one. Whatever private jokes they''ve got, they''re both thinking the same thing. He lets out a happy sigh and says, ''If I were you, I''d get every boy and girl in Wales through these doors. Let me use my highly advanced AI technology on them and I''ll identify the prospects.''


    ''Right, but what then?''


    ''I dunno,'' says Best. ''That''s your thing, isn''t it? My bit is telling you who''s good.''


    ''Think about it for a minute.''


    He groans. The topic is boring to him. He flaps his hand around like a fish swimming through an ocean of possibilities. ''Yeah, just make sure they''re being trained well, make sure they''re not so miserable they''re going to drop out, and try to give them as much time together as poss. Move them onto the same team or have them train together instead of playing for their club sides. That''s it - treat them like a club side. Easy.''


    ''Right but we''re not a football club, we''re football administrators.''


    ''Well In can do it.''


    Gwen turns to her left. ''Well In, can you do what Max did today?''


    ''Course,'' he says. ''If you give me six months of trial and error.''


    Best shakes his head, smiling. ''Come on. You''re mint. Tell you what, Gwen. One way I can help you - convince the Double Dragons to join Chester. I''ll turn them into superstars, guaranteed.''


    ''Max we''re administrators. We like processes. Things that can be repeated. You cherry-picking our best players isn''t the worst idea but it isn''t the best, is it? We''re hoping promising Welsh players will start and end their careers in the Welsh leagues.''


    I get struck by a bolt from the blue. ''Saltney Town,'' I say. Everyone turns to look at me. ''Use Saltney Town as the northern powerhouse. It''s right next to Bumpers so you can use those facilities while you''re building this place up.''


    Best pouts. ''I''m not building anything up, Dylan.''


    ''You will!'' I say. ''It all works! If the Double Dragons come here, sign for Saltney, play in the Welsh leagues until they''re ready - ''


    Well In is on my wavelength. ''And in Europe!'' he adds.


    ''Yes! They''ll compete with TNS for the title, play in Europe, then move on to a club in England. And who will pocket the transfer fees?''


    ''Me,'' says Best, quietly. It''s incredible but he doesn''t seem to have ever considered the possibility.


    ''Right! Imagine you''ve got the best twenty eleven-year olds in Wales coming through the pipeline. Every year the best. We''re happy because you''re giving them a good start like you do with your Chester lads. You''ve got Well In who''s got the same goal as you - a strong Welsh national team. He puts the kids in the team when he can, same as what you do. You''re keeping an eye on it all the time. That''s why you bought Saltney, right? Because it''s easy for you. With all the money you''re gonna make, it makes sense to build a little stadium, more pitches, gyms, pools, whatever you need.''


    Best is frowning hard. ''I don''t have any kind of planning permission.''


    One of the suits says, ''Max, investing millions in youth sport... Putting Saltney on the map... It won''t be a problem. And there¡¯s plenty of space for expansion here. You could build a fantastic facility.''


    Best sips his tea. ''Didn''t we talk about this before? You said me helping was a good idea in theory but as soon as the general population found out about it they''d be at your HQ with pitchforks.''


    Gwen points to me. ''It was Dylan''s idea. If he''s thinking it, it can''t be that unpopular. You¡¯ll have our back, won¡¯t you, Dylan? Help us explain it to your army mates and the Wrexham lot. If Wrexham fans are backing Max, that¡¯s going to make a lot of other people think there¡¯s something to it.¡¯


    ¡®Course, yeah! It¡¯s for the national team. Who¡¯d argue with that? If it¡¯s done right it¡¯ll be popular.¡¯


    Gwen goes, ¡®And you''re a big name these days, Max. People can''t ignore your talent. It''s different from last time we spoke.''


    ''Huh,'' says Best. ''I mean, as Dylan says, it''s Welsh players going to a Welsh team in the Welsh leagues. Yeah...'' He closes his eyes for a while before they pop open. ''Right. You bring every team you can get hold of in the north of Wales, I point out players I like. You persuade their parents to let me have them. You rent a couple of minivans every Saturday and they go from Snowdonia to Chester, picking up players along the way. Make it easy for the parents. Well In coaches them, we play a match.'' He goes deep into some daydream. ''No, no good. We need a place for them to stay overnight. They can come on Friday, watch the first team, spend Saturday and Sunday training. Boarding school. Hogwarts for dragons. It would be sensational. Wales would almost instantly become a top ten team at every age group.'' Best shakes his head. ''If we did it I would literally corner the market in north Welsh talent. You''d be handing me a monopoly.''


    Well In says, ''Right now, no-one in Wales is making any of that money so we¡¯re not losing anything. Centralising the talent, getting it into the Cymru Premier at least for a season, strengthening the national team. I doubt there''s a Welshman who''d begrudge you taking some profit when they can see how much value you''re adding.''


    Best looks at me, his face a question. I shrug. ''I could live with it. And the kids would love it.''


    ''So,'' says Best, leaning his elbow on the table and rubbing the top of his head. ''I get 20 Championship quality players every year and it''s much harder for English teams to poach them because these lads know they''re on the fast-track to playing for their country. You know what? We''d get to the group stage of UEFA tournaments just with our Welsh lads.''


    ''Wow,'' says Gwen.


    ''Okay,'' says Best, shaking his head. ''In principle, I agree. It''s a no-brainer. Three things. One, I''d need help. I''m stretched like my metaphors. I could use a hand doing some of the admin. Maybe a player who moves to Saltney''s women''s team in the summer would be interested?''


    It''s just another bonkers thing out of his mouth but I''m staggered when Bonnie says, ''I think I''d like that.'' She rubs my back and gives me a smile.


    Did Best just offer my girlfriend a job? Is that how he does things? There''s no time to think about it because he''s not done acting like a little prince.


    ''Two,'' he goes, ''you get rid of that coach from today. I don''t want to hear that he''s working with kids.''


    There are groans and sighs from the FAW. I lift my hand. ''Just checking, here. We''re dangling millions of pounds in front of you but you want to talk about one shitty coach in a place you''ve never been?''


    ''I have been to Rhyl, actually. With Emma.''


    Gwen''s annoyed. She gets fired up. ''Are we allowed to give the coach a chance to improve? Are we allowed to deal with the situation like adults?''


    Best smiles; he likes Gwen. ''Yes.''


    She''s placated. ''Third thing?''


    ''There are 378 clubs in the top five tiers of Welsh football. So far in this project you''ve brought eight... in one age group.''


    ''What exactly are you saying?''


    Best takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it. It''s a simple team sheet laid out in 4-4-2 formation. There are five names filled in - a goalie, a centre back, left mid (not Deano), two strikers (Hammer and Spike). ''That could be five of your starting lineup in the 2034 World Cup semi-final. If you want a full team you need to hurry up. Dragons don''t walk into battle, and neither do I.'' He jabs his thumb behind him. ''Fill this place with young players every Saturday and Sunday morning and I''ll fill in the rest of that team sheet. Then I''ll build you a squad. Then I''ll build a squad around the squad. Two backups in every position.'' Best sits back and smiles. ''Then we can do it all again with the ladies.''


    The CFO''s head drops as he thinks about the expense but he laughs and says maybe they can go faster than one event per year. That seems to be that. They¡¯re going to do some version of this northern powerhouse thing. Max Best is going to be the brains behind Welsh football and the idea gets my knee bouncing; Bonnie puts her hand on my thigh and I calm down.


    The conversation turns to the Chesterness documentary. Bonnie''s the star of that chat.


    I remember I''m supposed to be getting betting tips, not making Max Best rich. I lean close to him and say, ''How are you feeling about the big game tomorrow? Bradford look tasty, don''t they? Think you can handle them? Shame your new striker isn''t fit.''


    Best eyes me coldly and then with amusement. ''It won''t be 7-1, but I don''t think it will be close.''


    ''In which direction?''


    He scoffs. ''No comment.''


    I try one last throw of the dice. ''Be less secretive. Your resolution.''


    ''Announcing my plans and tactics to gamblers so that I get banned by the FA is not what I meant.''


    I shake my head. ''You know, I think I''ve seen you break four of your resolutions already today.''


    ¡®Which one¡¯s missing?¡¯


    ¡®I haven¡¯t seen you play 5D chess with anyone.¡¯


    He rocks his head back and laughs hard. ''Yeah, you got me. I guess I¡¯m not as smart as I thought.¡¯ He sinks into the chair, smiles, and closes his eyes in a satisfied way. They open and he looks across to the other table. ¡®Maybe you can help me with another project, Dylan. I wonder what Peter Bauer¡¯s favourite band is¡­¡¯

 13.3 - 5D Chess

    3.


    Sunday, January 4


    Match 25 of 46: Bradford City versus Chester


    Transcript from Seals Live


    Boggy: Incredible atmosphere at Valley Parade for this must-win game. I''m told there could be over 20,000 here today. Twenty thousand in the fourth tier! The home fans are really behind their team, a team which has slumbered too long. Is the sleeping giant set to awaken? They''re top of the league and have a great-looking side. Featuring two former Chester players, of course!


    Spectrum: Three.


    Boggy: That''s right. Only two playing today, though. All quite cagey in the opening moments. Bradford content to pass the ball around their back line. No pressure from Chester. Max Best has picked, ah, a rather unusual team. As with the last encounter, he has named himself in the starting eleven.


    [Boggy stops talking so the atmosphere comes through.]


    Listen to that! The away fans more than playing their part, as always.


    Spectrum: They''re brilliant.


    Boggy: The ball is moved down the right. The winger doesn''t like his options. Back it goes, now over to the left, the Bradford left. Former Chester transfer target Steve Weller gets his first touch as a Bradford City player. Cheers from the home fans, jeers from... well, you can guess. What formation are we doing? Where''s Max playing?


    Spectrum: He''s not playing where we discussed in the team meeting. He''s further forward, although I suppose flexibility was part of the plan.


    Boggy: He hasn''t touched the ball yet as far as I can see. Is he in a mood? He''s got one of those faces on.


    Spectrum: You can''t see his face from here, Boggy.


    Boggy: You don''t need to see his face to see his face. Acceleration from Bradford! Through the midfield, clipped towards Brown, Best intercepts. He looks for options... and he boots the ball out of the stadium! He boots the ball towards, I don''t know, Leeds!


    Spectrum: I think that way is Sheffield.


    Boggy: What on earth was that all about? Max Best got the ball, glided away from Brown, sped up, turned back towards his own goal and leathered the ball up and away. It''s a corner to Bradford City! All their dangerous players are trundling forward and they will have a glorious chance to get ahead!


    [Pause.]


    Spectrum: Okay I think he might be in a mood.


    ***


    ONE HOUR EARLIER


    Bradford City had themselves a megabrain.


    It was the strangest thing but I could almost feel the guy''s eyes following every stroke of the pen as I filled out the team sheet. I found I didn''t want to talk tactics out loud and was seriously thinking about taking the lads back out to Sealbiscuit to do my team talk on board. I decided against it. That would be too strange and even in the cut-throat world of English football I doubted a team would put microphones or cameras in the away dressing room - the sanctions for being caught would be swift and shocking - but if Bradford had a curse user they wouldn''t need to listen in, would they?


    I sat on my part of the bench with my head resting against the wall.


    The stakes were massive. If we lost today, Bradford would go 21 points ahead of us. We still had half the season left but if you''re 21 points behind, you''re not winning the title.


    If we beat Bradford, we would go 15 points behind with two games in hand. It was tempting to assume those matches would bring us 6 points, closing the gap to 9, but I knew from experience it wouldn''t be so easy. For a start, there were still plenty of teams stronger than us. Also, our home pitch was degrading, limiting the quality of the football we''d be able to play for the next couple of months. The Man United cup tie next weekend clashed with our league match against Notts County. We had been able to move that fixture to the middle of March, which came with pros and cons. As always, we would be stronger near the end of the season, but with 7 matches in March and potentially 7 in April, we would have to manage our fatigue levels and any injuries would be costly.


    I had Bradford''s match programme open; I skimmed through Folke Wester''s latest manager notes. He must have done the same writing course as Jackie Reaper but I wasn''t reading for pleasure. Someone at Bradford was playing 4D chess and I was on the hunt for clues as to who.


    Today we are pleased to welcome Chester to the Valley. It will be an exciting match I''m sure and it will be of special interest to Carl, Aff, and Raffi.


    I am happy with our recent performances and our position at the top of the table is well-deserved after the run we have been on.


    We are all keen to kick on in the second half of the season but of course injuries are starting to bite as they always do at this time of year.


    I know the board is keen for us to continue our good form and they will back us as much as they can. I feel we have a fantastic eleven and squad players who can do a job but as a manager you always look to improve and for where we are and where we want to go, that will not come cheap.


    We have identified a few key players who could come in and cement our promotion and we hope to pursue those targets in the January transfer window.


    Meanwhile we must continue to work hard at Woodhouse Grove... and in the medical rooms!


    There followed quite a lengthy discussion of various players and their injuries, how long they would be out for, who was playing with pain-killing injections, who was postponing an operation until more bodies were available.


    I couldn''t help but notice that Wester''s first eleven weren''t mentioned except in the ''playing through pain'' category.


    I stood and went to the tactics board. My players shut up.


    "Let''s recap. When they played us, Bradford switched from 4-1-4-1 with R. Brown as the DM to 4-4-1-1 with R. Brown as a central attacking midfielder. That formation has stuck and they''re having a lot of success with it. R. Brown is getting a lot of goals from late runs into the box, headers from corners, free kicks, whatnot. They''re quite a big team overall so if you can give away a throw instead of a corner, do that."


    Brown, thanks to some rest, had recovered from his minor injury and now that he was fully fit, his CA had increased from 78 to 86. Quite good progress for a guy who played every minute that he was available.


    "Youngster, you''ll need to be sharp to contain him. You feeling sharp?"


    He grinned. "Yes, boss."


    "What are you as sharp as?"


    "Pardon me?" He looked puzzled but when he realised I wasn''t going to repeat myself, he said, "I feel as sharp as a tack?"


    "Attack!" I said. "Weird. I just asked you to defend."


    He lifted his hands in the universal gesture of ''what the hell is going on?'' Dazza gave him a friendly shake.


    I continued. "You''ve been watching the tape from the second half of our previous game. We got surprised, didn''t we? There will be no surprises today. We''re going to assume they''ve got tricks up their sleeve, okay? Constant vigilance! They have their new lad starting at left-mid instead of Aff, which I''m not convinced is a good idea."


    Over Christmas and New Year I had been doing a lot of thinking - too much thinking, Emma said - and had been staring and staring at what was available in the perk shop. When I drafted and re-drafted my wishlists, there were the usual things at the top - new attributes, improving Playdar, getting more formations. There were perks that would help me in the transfer market and ones that would let me keep track of the players in all my teams.


    But I had suddenly grown sick of looking at some of the names that had been there longest. I was still reeling from what had happened when I''d used Relationism against West Ham and while I was in this state of minor uncertainty, of not knowing where I wanted to develop my powers next, I decided it was time to buy some of the super-basic perks the imps probably intended me to buy as soon as they became available. They tended to be cheap.


    The first one I bought was called Form. For 500 XP I got a new field on a player profile. It simply showed a player''s match rating for the last five games he played.


    Sticky''s Form read 6-6-7-6-7 but those sixes meant very different things. The first two came against Crewe and Swindon and showed that he had almost nothing to do in the entire match. The third six represented a genuinely below-average performance against Cambridge. I had to expect some below-average performances, though, didn''t I? He had improved to CA 71 but the minimum for a League Two player was 75.


    Henri''s Form was 5-9-10-6-7. The 5 came in the drab match against Forest Green - we just couldn''t get going. The 9 was a great display against Crewe in which he bagged two goals. The 10 was a crushing display of warrior-poet magnificence against a fairly hapless Swindon backline. The 6 came against Harrogate, I rested him against Cambridge, and the 7 was a fairly poor performance against Accrington in which he boosted his match rating by getting an assist.


    "Steve Weller''s form is terrible," I told the lads. "Aff''s is great. If I get the chance to move to the right wing I''m going to tear Steve Weller a new one." Tiny grin. "Not that I''m mad he chose to move to Bradford instead of Chester. That''s got nothing to do with it."


    That got some chuckles from the lads.


    "They do have guys in good form. Chipper, the prick, is flying. Zach, Christian, on your toes. The guy is just getting back to his best." Chipper had improved to CA 88. Not a huge jump from last time we''d played, but he was playing every minute he wasn''t suspended, which, amazingly, wasn''t often. "He has been behaving himself better recently. He''s still playing slightly over the edge in my opinion, but he isn''t trying to get sent off. He''s still Chipper, though. Zach, you might want to remind him of that fact."


    "Mental disintegration, gaffer?"


    "Oh, with Chipper that process finished a long time ago. I''m thinking straight up trash talk. Straight up tell him he''s shit. Get him a red card and I''ll buy you a set of steak knives. Remember, though, don''t get sucked into any of their shit. You know they''ll be coming after me and I''m ordering you now to let it happen."


    I had been looking forward to seeing Chipper and R. Brown''s improvement - Carl Carlile and Aff were maxed out, of course - but I found Bradford''s overall progress just as interesting. They had decent training facilities, decent coaches, and, thanks to their winning run, high morale. They were a win-now team under a win-now manager. They did a lot more set piece training than we did, and okay it helped them concede fewer goals and score more, which was not a bad idea overall. But all that time Wester spent on set pieces, I spent on skills. If there was a metric like ''total CA added'' I was having one of the all-time great seasons, for sure.


    Wester''s gains were much more shallow and were targeted at his most important fifteen or sixteen players. Most of those guys had improved at least a point or two, and with Weller replacing Aff, their average CA against us would be 88.4. That put their first eleven near the top of the division.


    There was a big drop-off to today¡¯s subs, though. Weller to Aff was a 15-point drop. Their CA 90 starting goalie had a CA 66 backup. Their CA 97 and 94 centre back partnership was outstanding but on the bench they had named a guy called Tom Hickman. He was a player I had long admired but after years of neglect he was only up to CA 60. Wester had even named two of the Exit Triallists they had poached from under my nose. I was fairly sure they hadn''t been on the bench for any league match, so this was clearly an attempt to wind me up.


    "We all know and love Aff but if this is a tight game, keep in it, stick to your work, and when the subs start happening we will dick them. All right, that''s it for now. Let''s get warmed up and we''ll go over everything one last time before kick off."


    ***


    The starting eleven went out onto the pitch and Peter did his Bayern Munich warm-up drills with us. I was so distracted he kicked me out and told me to ''go for a jog or something''.


    That made the others laugh and I was glad of it. Despite the setback against Cambridge, we were in good spirits. Our average Morale was a very healthy 5.3, just a touch behind Bradford''s 5.4.


    I scanned the stadium hoping to spot the megabrain, but the stands were only just starting to fill. Emma and the Brig were in their spots and, of course, Emma was chatting away to some rando she had just met.


    There had to be a megabrain and it was someone who had been at the Deva stadium when we had played Bradford. Someone had turned a three-nil drubbing into a three-all draw. People remarked that Folke Wester had morphed into Max Best, had used my own tricks against me. The comeback had kickstarted Bradford''s season.


    Dazza was warming up even though he wasn''t in the match day squad. That was a precaution in case one of the eighteen dropped out, and it made his long journey on Sealbiscuit seem slightly less pointless.


    Bradford were doing the same thing with some of the players who weren''t in their squad. Some of the guys Wester was saying were too injured to actually play. To a man, there was nothing in their Injuries tab, and they each had Condition 100. The curse said they were fit to play. My neck exploded with tingles.


    "Peter," I said, interrupting the warm up. He hurried over. "I think there might be a late change to Bradford''s line up. They''ll say someone''s hurt himself in the warm up and they''ll change things up." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I could see them jiggling things round to a 3-5-2 or even a 3-4-3."


    Peter nodded. "Okay. When I''ve done this and the media I''ll hover around in front of the referee''s room so I''ll know as soon as the change is made."


    I shook my head. "Fucking amazing. I didn''t even think of that."


    He smiled. "That''s why you pay me the big bucks."


    He was currently working for free, though he wasn''t going to starve; Bayern Munich were still paying his 7,000 pounds per week salary.


    I ran around, noting where the pitch had become slightly worn. Bradford had been having trouble with their surface for years. Their megabrain hadn''t found the million pounds it would cost to dig the whole thing up and sort it once and for all.


    The thought cheered me up until I spotted that Chip Star was in his royal box with his latest squeeze. Chip was waving at some Bradford fans. He held up a red, amber, and black scarf to huge applause. I decided I was warm enough. Warm enough to bring the heat. I went inside.


    ***


    With ten minutes to go, I went over the plan once more. The squad and staff were focused. It was going to be a very professional performance, I could feel it.


    "Right. Basic tactical outline. Bradford will attack us. We will repulse their attacks - insert joke about Youngster looking repulsive - and counter at lightning speed. Their defence is very good but it''s relatively slow.


    "That''s why we''re going to do 5-3-2.


    "Sticky in goal." So far so good but with the start of the year being so jam-packed, I hadn''t been able to get a new goalie in to replace Ben and that meant young Banksy was my backup. Talent for days but only CA 31. If he was needed today, we were in deep, deep doo-doo.


    "Back four is Cole, Christian, Zach, Lee H." Now that I had sold Eddie Moore, Cole Adams was my best left back. I was using 50 experience points per weekday to boost his training rates via a perk called Secret Sandra and it was already making a difference. He had started the experiment dead level with Josh Owens, but already there was daylight between them. Cole was CA 67, Josh 64. "Lee, remember last time. We warned you about Aff and the new guy is better¡­ in theory. Please be on your toes the whole ninety."


    The implication that he had switched off in the previous match made Lee bristle, but I didn''t care about his feelings. He had cost us a win by underestimating Aff and his sloppiness had possibly kept Wester in a job. If Lee let our right side buckle again today I would go mental so it was only fair to tell him my expectations.


    "I''ll be the third centre back doing a Peter Bauer impression.


    "Midfield is Youngster dropping back to DM, plus Ryan and Lee C. It''ll be hard to get much control so think defensively. Safety first but looking for quick breaks.


    "Forwards are Pascal and Wibbers. Save your energy for those counters. If we get a lead you can drop and support the midfield and we''ll play keep ball, but basically I want you right on the defenders, ready for the ball over the top. Stay onside!" On the tactics board I made a 5-3-2 shape, moved the middle CM back one slot, and moved the middle CB up one slot. "A lot of the time it will look like this. Four-two-two-oh-two. But like I said, when I get the chance I''m going to go to the right and fuck up the new kid."


    While Pascal and Wibbers exchanged excited grins, I reflected that our average CA was a mere 80.2. It looked anemic but was actually 9 points better than last time, and would improve when I brought my star strikers on.


    "Any questions?"


    Henri did. "Yes. Will I be going on after ten minutes or fifteen?"


    I rolled my eyes. "I told you. Foquita''s first and I want to get to half time before making any changes if that''s possible."


    "That''s why you have been doing more fitness work than usual."


    "Yeah," I said, vaguely. I had been doing some 4D chess of my own, hadn''t I? I had left Foquita out of the Accrington match and mentioned he was injured but only in a social media post from Saltney Town''s account. Foquita had hated not playing, as he was hating being a sub for this match. But I had got Camila on the phone and said that beating Bradford was the single most important thing in our season and this was how I wanted to do it. Foquita, of his own volition, had got onto Sealbiscuit on crutches. Folke Wester was in the next room wondering if my new striker was fit or not. He probably suspected I was dicking around but he couldn''t be sure, could he?


    "Are you okay, boss?" Vimsy had sidled up to me and was almost whispering.


    I snapped out of my reverie, clapped my hands, filling the room with energy. The time for moves and counter-moves was over. Now it was action. Peter entered and shook his head. I checked the tactics screens. No late change in the lineup for Bradford. Weird.


    "Okay, lads. You know what I want. Win your duels, compete, make it hard for them, and we will fuck them all the way up. Remember, if things get dicey, we only need to hold out until the last fifteen or twenty minutes, right? Our subs will murder them. Oh!" I added, just as Christian opened his mouth to bellow something. I stretched my hands up and out while I turned to look at everyone in the room. "Keep your eyes on a fucking swivel today, lads. These bastards are up to something, I can feel it. Okay? Concen-fucking-tration. CF, they''re all yours."


    "Come on your Seals!" yelled my captain, triggering a guttural roar from the others.


    Oh, to have Triple Captain available for this match. Bench Boost, too. I''d already used those perks in the league but only yesterday I''d triggered them in a match between what Dylan called ''Best''s Bales'' and Cardiff Bluebirds. I''d rotated every single player off and onto the pitch and they had gone tonto. The 7-1 win had been enough to convince Dylan that Wales needed to get on board the Max Best Express and if he was the King, he would send every kid in Wales to me for training. Even if I only got half the kids in north Wales I would make millions. That one use of Bench Boost would potentially pay off to the tune of ten million quid a year in transfer fees!


    I smiled. All it would cost me was five to ten million quid to build a world-class training centre, but one thing at a time, hey?


    ***


    I stayed on the bench for the pre-match rituals. By pretending to be going over some tactics with Peter I was able to skip the handshake rigamarole and hopefully spare the world some of the most tedious headlines in all of sport. Max Best refuses to shake R. Brown''s hand! Max Best refuses to shake Steve Weller''s hand! Max Best refuses to shake Chipper''s hand!


    One last check of the main stand to see if there was someone with a strange profile. A director of sport, perhaps, or a head of performance. No - there was nothing except an older chap who couldn¡¯t believe a hot blonde was interested in what he had to say.


    Either the megabrain was way back in the shadows or it was Chip Star, Folke Wester, or one of the players.


    The match kicked off, Bradford didn¡¯t surge forward, and I realised that with all the fretting about my genius opponent that I hadn''t done some very basic checks. Bradford''s defenders and their two central midfielders were on make forward runs: no. Their team mentality was set to defensive.


    I narrowed my eyes. Was Folke Wester going to play for a draw? A draw would suit him just fine in terms of keeping Chester at bay, but Mansfield were snapping at their heels in the race for the title. What was the plan? Chester draw against Bradford and beat Mansfield? We hand the title to Chip and Folke?


    That was a dumb hope. Mansfield was going to be our third match in seven days at the end of January. It would make far more sense for me to try to win the first two and throw that one.


    "Max!" called Ryan, as I strolled around not affecting the match whatsoever.


    I stopped thinking about the end of January. What about right now? Bradford weren''t going to come at us so our plan to counter-attack wasn''t going to work.


    Unless...


    ***


    Boggy: And it''s a corner to Bradford City! All their dangerous players are trundling forward and they will have a glorious chance to get ahead!


    [Pause.]


    Spectrum: Okay I think he might be in a mood.


    Boggy: Steve Weller trots across to take the corner. Chester have everyone back in their own six-yard box. Bradford are piling bodies forward. Weller spots the ball. The referee tells him to wait while he deals with some argy-bargy in the box. Looks like Green and Chipper are getting into it. The ref tells them to cut it out. Weller raises a hand. Lots of movement. Er... Chester players are sprinting away from goal. What? Here comes the corner... Whipped in left-footed... Plucked out of the air by Sticky! Chipper collides with him. That looked painful. Young Wilfred Banks is the... Sticky flings the ball to the right. Best is there.


    Spectrum: [Squeaks.] Men over! Men over!


    Boggy: Roberts and Bochum are sprinting, trying to keep up with Best! So is Carl Carlile. Best''s, er... A challenge comes in. Best touches the ball square, defender gets a whole chunk of nothing.


    Spectrum: Don''t dive in! What an idiot!


    Boggy: The defender has taken himself out of the game. It''s three against one! Bradford players streaming back to help Carlile but they''ve been left for dead by this break. Bochum... forward to Roberts. He slows, waiting for Best to overlap on his left. Best sprinting like a demon! He''s in place. Carlile goes to cover the danger man. Roberts... rolls the ball into the goal! [We hear 1,800 individual Chester fans attempt to merge into one giant superbeing through the medium of hugging.] Roberts kept his composure at the end of that sprint and simply passed the ball into the bottom right. Carlile was abandoned, the keeper had no chance. Two minutes gone and Chester are ahead!


    ***


    Shit shit shit!


    That was too easy. Was that part of their plan? Chipper had taken a pop at Sticky. That was an obvious move - knock the experienced guy out, get the kid on, profit. Sticky seemed good to continue for now. Maybe don''t give away another corner...


    "Boss!" cried Wibbers. "Was that all right? Are you mad at me?"


    "What for?"


    "I should of passed!"


    I blinked and replayed the move in my head. "Nah, you did it right. I''m just thinking about what next."


    "Okay," he said, flushed, delighted. Why so happy?


    "Wait," I said, slipping out of my state of anxiety. Another perk I''d bought was the third level of a player''s profile. The imps called it Nerdlonger. All it did was give me more history on a player''s profile. Instead of only being able to see last season''s appearances, yellow cards, goals, etc., it extended the data to five years. That would help me with conversations with potential new signings - people liked it when I pretended I''d been scouting them for years.


    Buying the perk led to the final one in that particular chain. For another 500 XP I got all a player''s data, including from the current season. It was a lot of XP for something I didn''t really need, but it was almost all worth it just for this moment.


    William''s profile showed me this was his first goal for the seniors this season. He''d scored loads for the youth team and seemed to hit the post or crossbar every match.


    "Was that your first of the season, mate?"


    "Yeah," he grinned. Clearly it was a monkey off his back.


    "The fuck?" I laughed. "Benny has a first-team goal! Tyson has a first-team goal!"


    He tutted. "In the Cheshire Cup."


    "Ahhhhh," I went, as I wrapped my arms around him. "You deserve it. You''ve worked hard and you''ve been patient. Well in, mate."


    He had been working hard. He had hit CA 70 and the change from a 6 at the front to a 7 really made him feel dangerous. I had used him sparingly, twenty minutes here, a half there. Now he was CA 70 and scoring against the league leaders two months before he turned 18. Surely he was going to be my greatest achievement? My ultimate gift to the world?


    We crossed half way just as the referee was getting angsty, and Bradford resumed with grim determination etched onto their faces. I didn''t like it. I brought us back into a low block for a few minutes waiting to see how that early goal would bite us on the arse.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    If anything happened, it was too subtle for me to notice so I slowly, carefully, reverted to our original plan. Stay compact, stay cautious, look to hit them on the break. The plan would work even better now that we were ahead, since Bradford would have to come at us and leave gaps.


    Unless that was what they wanted us to think?


    I commanded everyone to fall into a defensive posture again. Parked the bus.


    Time crawled by while I patrolled the space in front of Zach and Christian. Youngster stuck tight to R. Brown.


    Then my legs told me I needed to go right.


    ***


    Boggy: Steve Weller is having a tough debut against Lee Hudson. Hudson seems fired up. There''s another big tackle! The ball rolls to Best, who has popped up over on the right. He points left. Wants to hit one of his booming long diagonals. Bochum isn''t moving. Best is taking too long on the ball! Weller is back up, challenges...


    Spectrum: Megs!


    Boggy: [Tries to stifle a laugh.] That''s why Bochum didn''t - oh, another nutmeg! Best put the ball through Weller''s legs, waited for him to turn around, then did it again! Weller, I''m sorry to say, is having a stinker and Best is not helping.


    Spectrum: That was the first smile from Max today. I think he enjoyed it.


    Boggy: One man who didn''t - Chipper. He was steaming over to the right to get involved but Best had already given the ball to Contreras. There is, how can I put it, a full and frank exchange of views going on between Best and his former player.


    Spectrum: Max wouldn''t normally get involved with that - no, don''t laugh - but I think they''re targeting Chipper as a potential red card.


    Boggy: [Drily.] I wonder why. Chester keeping the ball well, but they''re still trying to entice Bradford forward.


    Spectrum: This is interesting, Boggy. Bradford''s back four are quite deep, aren''t they?


    Boggy: Yes. That''s to prevent another counter-attack like the one that led to the goal?''


    Spectrum: Exactly. And our back four are even deeper. So the amount of space from line to line is huge. Much more than you normally get and that suits us to a tee. We''re far more technical and you can see Wibbers and Pascal are more than comfortable coming back to make triangles. Bradford will have to do something because they won''t get the ball off us the way they''re set up.


    Boggy: So interesting. And if they compress the space, that simply gives us the option to hit balls over the top?


    Spectrum: Ten out of ten, Boggy. Their best chance to get at us leads to our best chance to score another. Max is playing 4D chess today.


    Boggy: Wow. I like the sound of that.


    ***


    My main involvement in the match was offering myself as a passing option and first-timing the ball to a teammate. We were able to keep the ball for long stretches and when Bradford got a tackle in, we were content to let them pass the ball around in front of us. They seemed reluctant to use their left flank - Weller was having a proper 4 out of 10 nightmare debut.


    Lol.


    The third and final old-school perk I had bought was Match Stats 3: Action Zones. All it did was give me a simple graphic showing what percentage of the match was being played in certain areas. The part of the pitch we were attacking had seen 3% of the action - almost all of which must have been the goal.


    Our defensive third was home to 36% of the action, which would make it seem like we were being crushed. Nothing could be further from the truth. The remaining 61% had happened in the midfield.


    Not exactly thrilling information but it had only cost 300 XP and might prove useful one day. Plus removing it from the list made the perk shop seem less cluttered and overwhelming.


    The match was going just as I had planned - better than I had planned in some ways, and I started to enjoy it. Macro-management could wait till half time. For now I was free to focus on the ball, the next pass, the next layoff, the next recovery sprint.


    Glorious minutes passed without me thinking about megabrains. I lost myself in the controlled chaos. Sure, I took extra relish in beating R. Brown to a loose ball, openly laughed as Zach beat Chipper to a header, and just as Bradford''s back line was sneaking higher I pinged a ball over for Wibbers to chase. He could have had a long shot but dribbled and tried to square to Pascal. The CA 97 defender slid and blocked the pass - really good player, him. Smart, too. He gave up on pushing forward and we resumed our sterile domination of midfield where we effectively had six players - me, Youngster, Ryan, Lee C, plus Wibbers and Pascal.


    The half threatened to peter out - I wouldn''t have minded - but then something happened that briefly made me forget the match situation. It was related to the monthly perk that had dropped earlier that morning.


    New perk available this month: Happy New Yie-Ar


    Cost: 1,000 XP


    Effects: For a ten-minute period (of your choosing) per match, one-twos are slightly easier to perform.


    The name of the perk led me down a rabbit hole of research into an old-school arcade beat-em-up called Yie-Ar Kung Fu. I presumed 80s beat-em-ups were fresh in the imps'' minds because I''d been talking about Double Dragon to Dylan. Yie-Ar Kung Fu was a precursor to Double Dragon, but I couldn''t find any link between it and football except for the name. Yie-Ar seemed to be a unique (AKA wrong) way to write ''Yi-Er'' - the Chinese Mandarin for one-two.


    Despite my reservations about the name, I bought it almost straight away. Why? First, these in-game boosts were handy, even if they tended to be marginal in effect. Second, it was very clearly aimed at improving Relationism. Third, even if I played positional football, one-twos were quite common (or they were the way I wanted my teams to play). Fourth, if I used this perk in conjunction with Cupid''s Arrow, on the same two players, wouldn''t that provide a double dose of extra connection?


    So just before the half hour mark in the Bradford match, and with my energy reserves still seemingly decent, I decided to try it.


    I used Cupid''s Arrow to connect Wibbers and Pascal. I further blasted them with Happy New One-Two. I slapped Seal It Up to give us some defensive solidity while I pushed forward.


    And then came the opposition megabrain!


    My timers on these perks didn''t stop counting down when there was an injury delay or the floodlights went out. Ten minutes meant ten minutes and fifteen minutes meant fifteen minutes.


    All of a sudden, Bradford players were falling to the turf all over the shop, including their big tough centre back, and not one of them was really hurt. How do I know? The curse, mate.


    I was getting angry until I realised - that''s what they want. They know I''m using the perks, they know this will get under my skin, they know I''ll explode.


    While the latest pathetic exhibition was going on, I sat cross-legged and pinched my thumb and index fingers together. "Hom," I said, almost instantly entering a state of complete inner peace.


    "Fuck you, you fucking ugly prick!" This was Chipper, attempting to prevent me from achieving zen. "Think you''re fucking funny? I''ll wipe that smile off your face."


    I winked at him and said, "Hommm."


    His eye started twitching and I laughed, but while I was down there I was going through my screens and saw something utterly bonkers.


    When I tried clicking ''Bestball: yes'' on Wibbers and Pascal... it worked! It went yes and stayed yes.


    I shot to my feet and ran around, not zen. "Attack!" I yelled. "Attack!"


    "What''s going on?" said Carl Carlile.


    "You''re gonna get dicked," said Wibbers.


    The match restarted and it took thirty agonising seconds for us to get the ball. The timer on the 1-2 perk was down to the last three minutes. Lee C got the ball and dabbed it to Ryan. He looked to chip over the top but felt me thundering past him. Pascal and Wibbers made strange moves and I changed course. Ryan played a pass towards me. I ran over the ball. Wibbers was in line behind it. He did an exaggerated shake n bake move and also let the ball run between his legs. He peeled to his left, Chester''s right, moving diagonally. Pascal was third in the river. He touched the ball into Will''s path. Will chipped it over the top, first time, to where I was still storming ahead.


    The ball bounced awkwardly on a bare part of the pitch and with a frustrated grunt I had to let go of the idea of hitting it first time.


    I pushed the ball diagonally to the right, away from their superb defender, but since I was tired and had been swapping stamina for technique, I touched the ball far too hard.


    The keeper scampered out and looked favourite to get there, but by leaning back I was able to flick my foot out and gently scoop it over him.


    It dribbled towards the goal - the defender was going to get there - they arrived on the goal line at the same time - in his off-balance attempt to clear the danger, he only managed to boot the ball high into the roof of the net.


    I ran to the away end, my eyes bursting out of my head. The greatest move in the history of history. The team goal to end all team goals! Wibbers and Pascal competed to be the one to jump onto my back (meaning I got clobbered by both of them).


    The Chester fans were pure limbs. The goal was a complete sensation, the sound a wild cacophony.


    In the middle of the din... frantic, repeated whistling.


    I closed my eyes and saw...


    Bradford City 0 Chester 1


    The commentary told the tale - the goal had been disallowed for offside.


    The curse knew, and so did every player on the pitch, that I had timed my run to perfection.


    I sank to the turf and rolled onto my back, mentally commanding the others to get back into a low block.


    It took me twenty seconds to come to terms with the injustice of it all. The world had been denied an all-time classic goal because the linesman was inept. Fuck sake.


    I clambered to one knee, then got up. I was spent but there was less than ten minutes to go until half time. If I could hold on till then, I''d be able to see what Bradford''s megabrain had in store for me.


    I walked back to the DM slot and lazily helped Youngster tidy up. He didn''t leave much of a mess, the selfish bastard.


    Despite the anxiety of not being able to crack Bradford''s secrets, despite the enormity of the situation and the stakes, I found myself strolling around with a big grin on my face.


    Youngster was a football hoover, effortlessly patrolling a huge section of any pitch. Wibbers and Pascal were smart, brave, and their talent was blossoming. Somehow the curse allowed me to use Relationism with them while keeping to a positional play structure. Maybe it was because of my new perk and I would be able to do the same with any pair, but I had the feeling it was not something that would work on just anyone.


    And as if I didn''t have enough young talents to boast about, in the second half I would unleash Foquita onto an unsuspecting public.


    Heh. You can take your 4D chess and shove it up your -


    As I played a simple first-time pass out to Cole on the left, I felt a dagger strike me in the calf.


    I folded up and crashed backwards. Everything went white briefly and I saw Chipper loom over me, giving me a barrage of abuse. I didn''t hear a word, but got the message.


    Mayhem ensued as Zach piled in, pushing the Welshman away from me.


    Oh, Zach, I thought. You''re going to let him off the hook.


    But off the hook for what? I read the commentary and it seemed that as I''d passed with my right foot, Chipper had gone in hard and hit my standing heel. If he''d hit the heel, why had my calf felt it?


    Yeah. That didn''t sound good.


    Physio Dean was soon with me, doing his preliminary tests.


    I felt a strange peace descend over me.


    For a start, one part of the enemy''s plan had been revealed. Injure me, yes, but do it before half time so that I would have to make a sub. In making a sub I would show my hand for the second half and Folke - or the megabrain - would be able to concoct a solution.


    Well, that one was easily dealt with. I would go off and we would simply play with ten men for the rest of the half.


    I turned my head and saw that both Chipper and Zach were getting yellow cards. Jesus, Zach. Just stay out of it and it''s a clear red for Chipper!


    After a moment, I decided I wasn''t really mad. You can''t do nothing while someone does snide shit to your best player. It actually felt good that my players cared so much.


    Another reason for my sense of peace was that the chessboard I played on had split into three. One board showed moves I''d made long in the past, the other moves I was yet to make. Taking an enemy piece on any board removed them from all boards. I was slaughtering everyone.


    In my imagination I picked up a pawn and with a gentle boop on his head, turned him into a king. And then another boop to downgrade him to a knight. No need to go crazy.


    With another blink I killed another thousand enemy pawns. Even if I was only badly bruised, there was no way I would be able to play against Manchester United. Crying about it would delight Chipper. Complaining would make his entire year, maybe his entire miserable life. I had a crystal clear vision of me on the touchline at Old Trafford, stripped and ready to play. Telling the assistant referee that I was ready to go on... Before having a last-second change of heart to give my spot in the team to... To someone else.


    What a moment! What generosity from Chester''s player-manager! We all know he was a boyhood United fan but he loves his players so much he''d rather they have this magical moment than him...


    Everyone¡¯s second-favourite team. The premier destination for talented young players.


    "Dean," I said, happily. "Pull me up."


    To my relief, I was able to walk off under my own steam. Obviously the impact site hurt like hell but to Chipper, to the rest of the world, even to Dean there was absolutely no indication of any lasting damage. "Max," said Dean, as we neared the touchline. "I think I''d like to take you for a scan."


    "Erm," I said. "Nah."


    "But - "


    I gave him a big smile as I put my hands on his shoulders. "Mate. I''m fine. If I''m not, I''ll tell you. Okay? Now do you mind if I do my job? We need to win this."


    "Right right right," he said, stepping off the pitch as the referee assaulted us with whistles. Apparently the prick wasn''t happy with the speed at which I was departing. I thought about giving him an earful - he had handled that sequence like a rank amateur - but he could still make my life miserable in the second half.


    "Dean, stay here, please. Peter, we''re not subbing anyone on. All out defence until half time. Make sure no-one goes looking for revenge, especially not one of our centre-backs. Magnus, can you come and be my bodyguard, please?"


    "Yes, boss," said three guys.


    I strolled down the tunnel with Magnus by my side.


    ***


    In the dressing room I tutted and sighed. "I think he got me pretty bad, Magnus."


    "It looked bad."


    "Right, look. I need you to keep this quiet for now. Please? It''s important. I''m going to have a quick shower and you''ll help me get dressed if I can''t bend or whatever."


    "Let me look at you first."


    I shook my head. ¡°I need to be dressed by the time the lads get in here. No-one can know if I''m injured or not. Okay? I''m not asking you to lie because I know you hate that. If anyone asks, you say you don''t know if I''m injured. Which is true because neither do I. I can see you''re going to complain. Listen, just help me for a couple of minutes and I''ll explain more."


    I was able to bend and get my boots off but there was already a nasty swelling around my achilles. Magnus swore under his breath.


    I showered quickly, dried myself off, and got most of the way dressed without help. Magnus had to help with my left sock. "Ow, you dick," I said, snapping. "Sorry." I ended up grinning. "Fucking Chipper. What a colossal arsehole."


    "You said you would explain why we are keeping this secret."


    "Okay," I said, leaning forward as he helped me into a nice, soft trainer. "I think I can use this to get Peter Bauer to join us permanently."


    "Oh!" he said. I think he had been expecting something more along the revenge line. "That would be good."


    "Yes. We''re going to bring him into this conspiracy, okay? I haven''t thought the whole thing through but there has to be a way. Er, yeah. I''ve got other ideas, too, but they only work if people think I''m fit to play against United. It''s all good stuff, mate. I''m going to spread joy and happiness."


    He was trying to soulgaze me, which is what normal people call ''seeing if I was telling the truth''. "I''m still a physio here. I''m supposed to look after you."


    I smiled and got my phone from my bag. "Can you check the corridor, please?" He did and gave me a thumbs-up. I dialled Mateo; he picked up instantly.


    "Fucking hell, Max! I''m watching on TV. Chipper did a number on you. Are you all right?"


    "Not sure. Listen, we''ve got United in a week. I need people to think I''m fit and that means hiding this from my medical team." Magnus bristled but I smiled at him and did a slow ''calm down'' wave. "But obviously I''m not stupid and I need to get checked out. Can you get your top man to do a scan on me? I''ll be there a couple of hours after this finishes."


    "A secret scan?" he scoffed. "Get your own people to do it!"


    "Mateo! If Bradford know they''ve hurt me, they''re throwing a party tonight. Is that what you want?" I felt him waver and pressed home my advantage. "I''m cooking up a scam. A caper of legend. It could very well end up with me bringing Tranmere Rovers its most famous manager of all time."


    "You?"


    "Dream on," I said. "But how about... Peter Bauer?"


    "You''re joking."


    "It goes from being zero percent chance to some percent chance. Five years from now maybe."


    "I could wait for a name like that."


    "Right. Now stop being difficult and set up a clandestine meeting at a deserted clinic. Thank you." I hung up and closed my eyes for a few seconds. This thing was going to start hurting, wasn''t it? "Should I take a painkiller? Anti-inflammatory?"


    "No," said Magnus. "They''ll interfere with the tendon''s healing process. I''ll tell you about relative rest later. Basically you bring your activity level down to the point it doesn''t hurt. And I''ll give you a lift for your heel that will help your fibres knit back together."


    I nodded. "Sounds easy enough."


    He frowned. "It''ll be easy to disguise that you aren''t training properly because you almost never join in. It''s like you planned for this years ago."


    "That''s called 4D chess. What do you reckon for this injury? Days? Months?"


    "If it''s simple tendonitis... six weeks. Of course with you - "


    I got a twinge of panic. "Don''t tell Peter I heal fast!"


    Magnus frowned but the rest of the team came in and I got back into manager mode. We were still leading one-nil and I had a lot of decisions to make.


    ***


    When the lads came in and asked how I was doing, I laughed off talk of injury, saying I felt fine (mostly true) and that I hadn¡¯t made an instant sub because I didn¡¯t want to make life easy for Folke Wester (extremely true). We had our usual quiet debrief while I waited for the megabrain to make his move.


    The most obvious change was to replace the inept Steve Weller with Aff. Go back to the team that had been on a long winning streak. That would weaken Bradford in terms of CA but CA wasn''t everything.


    How would I respond? Foquita to replace me was the starting point.


    When I''d seen him in the World Cup he had been CA 99. Since then he had only improved slightly - I suspected he had hit a soft cap caused by his club''s training facilities or the standard of the league - but at CA 102 he was hilariously overpowered for the league and my first triple-digit player.


    I went to him, bent, felt a twinge of pain, stood, got him to stand. "Are you ready?"


    "Ready, si."


    "Muy bien. Henri, what''s mission in Spanish?"


    "Misi¨®n."


    "Wow! My Spanish is great. Foquita. Tu misi¨®n es gols. Gols gols gols. Mucho gols."


    He nodded seriously. "Si, jefe." He added another couple of sentences too fast for the English ear to process.


    Henri helped out. "He said he thinks I should go on ahead of him."


    "No he didn''t."


    Henri said, "Do you want to know what mission is in French?"


    "Nah, I''m good, thanks." I went over to Magnus. "You good to play?"


    He thought about it. "Yes, jefe."


    I laughed. "Not sure about this jefe thing." I walked to the tactics board and thought about formations for a few minutes. 4-2-3-1 wasn''t optimal because I didn''t have three CAMs, but I could deform it to have two CAMs and two strikers. The front four could be Wibbers and Pascal, Henri and Foquita. Decent!


    Another option was a simple 4-4-2. Pascal could go left mid with Andrew Harrison or Bark right mid. I wanted Andrew to replace Ryan Jack at some point, though.


    My heel throbbed. I made the mistake of glancing at Dean - he narrowed his eyes. I overcompensated with a big smile and a double thumbs-up.


    Just as I was starting to fret that Wester wasn''t going to make any changes, he did.


    My paranoia kicked into maximum overdrive.


    What the actual hell was I looking at?


    Peter came over. "Bad news?"


    "Hmm? Don''t think so. Let me just see if any team news is leaking." I got my phone out and opened Bluesky. I pretended to scroll around for half a minute. "Kay. The rumour is that he''s taking Chipper and their best centre back off."


    "What?" Peter tried to look at my phone but all he saw was a cat in a small cardboard box. "That''s crazy. Or... Chipper''s on a yellow card. The CB had a slight knock."


    "Mmm," I said. "Sensible. But he''s bringing on Tom Hickman and the striker will be this guy I spotted at the Exit Trials. He''s fast but..." I checked his profile. The extra stats were helpful. "Yeah, this will be his debut. Hickman has played a few cup games and come on as a sub five times in the league. This is... a capitulation." I pulled on my lip. "Or is it? What''s going on?"


    "The internet must be wrong," said Peter.


    "Oh, it is," I said. "But not about this. Fuck! What the shit is happening?"


    Peter''s watch beeped. Two minutes to go. "We need to decide what to do."


    I scoffed. "I mean, all-out attack. Fuck them up. But maybe that''s the trap."


    "How can it be a trap?"


    I sighed. The headache from the 4D chess was worse than having a thirteen stone Welshman smack into one square inch of my heel. "Four-three-three? No, fuck it. Three-five-two. Cole can slide to left mid... Bark right. Henri and Foquita up top. Take Ryan and Wibbers off."


    "On it," he said, rushing to tell the assistant ref of our subs.


    The changes would bring our average CA to 82.8 while Bradford''s fell below 80, but more pertinently Foquita (102) would be up against Tom Hickman (60). It would surely be the biggest mis-match of the entire season, narrowly behind a CA 30 Exit Triallist playing against Christian Fierce (89).


    What was Wester thinking?


    ***


    The second half was a strange kind of agony, and I don''t mean whatever was wrong with my foot.


    I kept waiting for the hammer blow to fall and every minute that it didn''t made me even more nervous. I micro-managed Pascal and Youngster''s positions to a ludicrous extent, giving us more defensive structure while creating a new triangle in attack.


    Our three-man defence was untroubled, Youngster stuck to R. Brown, Weller continued to stink the place up.


    Meanwhile...


    ***


    Boggy: Chester stroking the ball around midfield with relative ease. Bochum is playing deeper this half. Seems to be more or less an orthodox midfielder?


    Spectrum: That''s partly right, but when we have the ball he''s pushing forward into CAM. Out of possession, Youngster is dropping to DM while Pascal reverts to the CM role. It''s very interesting, that. I haven''t seen us do it quite so fluidly. I''m not sure what Max is worried about - Bradford are offering nothing this half.


    Boggy: It''s on the right with Bark, one of our key January signings. 75,000 pounds for the man from Tranmere. Happy to have him back, Spectrum?


    Spectrum: Very happy. He gives us good natural width and Max is a big fan of his technical qualities.


    Boggy: He''s very tidy on the ball. It has gone over to the left where Cole Adams is perhaps not as suited to midfield as Josh Owens.


    Spectrum: Josh will come on if we stick to this shape. Cole is fine, though, and his height is always useful.


    Boggy: I have to say the atmosphere is very strange, all of a sudden. The air has been sucked out of the stadium by those half-time changes. Bradford look incredibly diminished and the home fans can sense it. The ball''s back with Bark. One criticism of him in his loan spell was a certain shyness. But he takes on his man and beats him! That was smooth! He''s racing down the line. Looks up. Lots of movement in the box. Bark shapes to cross... He''s overhit it! No, wait -


    [Crowd roars.]


    Spectrum: [Squeaking.] Foquita what have you done?!


    [Roar continues.]


    Boggy: Goal for Chester! The cross from Bark was hit hard but too far, too high. Foquita, the new signing, the man Best believes will have a long and storied career, leapt! He leapt! Angled his body, contorted his neck. Somehow as he was diving away he got enough purchase on the ball to nod it down, across goal, under the keeper''s legs. It was incredible! He has scored on his debut! He runs to the nearest camera, grips it, gives it a kiss. Jubilation on the Chester bench... Except for Max Best. He looks worried.


    Spectrum: They say two-nil is the most dangerous scoreline. He might be thinking about a possible comeback.


    Boggy: Bradford have come back from two goals down four times this year, three times in this stadium. Can they do it again?


    [Long pause.]


    Spectrum: No.


    ***


    With an hour gone, I swapped Lee H for Magnus.


    I gave Lee a hug and wouldn''t let go until he laughed. All is forgiven when you win.


    No! We haven''t won yet! Concentrate!


    ***


    Boggy: Good play from Bradford and the ball is slipped to Brown at the edge of the area. He shapes to shoot... Blocked by Youngster. He slid in just in time, got his leg in the way. The ball''s rebounded... to Bark. First time to Contreras. Forward to Lyons. First time to Bark. Instant reply to Lyons! Amazing play! Lyons slips the ball forward... Foquitaaaaaaaaa!


    [Roar.]


    Two goals on his debut! Henri Lyons slipped the ball between two defenders and the Peruvian sensation was onto it in a flash. No hesitation - clinical finish into the bottom left of the goal. That was stupendously good football from Chester! This is a statement. This is a statement. Could we? We could!


    Bradford fans are leaving!


    Spectrum: And booing.


    Boggy: Some are booing as they''re leaving. Can''t beat a bit of multi-tasking.


    ***


    On 70 minutes the action areas were so distorted it seemed like we were doing an attack versus defence drill. I swapped Cole for Josh Owens. If Bradford somehow came at us, I had players like Josh and Magnus who could let me switch to a back four.


    The thought didn''t bring me any comfort.


    ***


    Boggy: Good tackle to prevent Bochum from breaking clear. Josh Owens will take the throw. He hurls it long, down the line! Bradford weren''t ready. Lyons chases it. He has a head start on Carlile. Lyons clips the ball left-footed to Foquita. He holds it up, turns, lays it off to Bark. Quality forward play! Bark drills it low. Foquita is there for the hat-trick! Incredible save! Partially cleared. Bochum on the follow-up... Draws the defenders, rolls it left, Lyons sweeps it into the net!


    [Disbelieving roar.]


    It''s four-nil to Chester!


    The boos from the home fans are deafening. What are they chanting?


    Spectrum: I can''t quite make it out. They want someone out. Honestly, that''s wild. They''re top of the league! You''re allowed one blip. Especially against Chester. Everyone knows we can beat anyone on our day.


    ***


    Four-nil, I mused. Away. To my fiercest rivals. The league leaders.


    Folke Wester was fuming. Behind him on the bench, Aff looked grim. Chipper was seething.


    Fake fake fake.


    I brought everyone back into a low block, defensive mindset. Run down the clock. No comeback for you!


    Bradford huffed and puffed but kept running into blind alleys. The curse had upgraded Steve Weller to five out of ten, but that rating was shared by Tom Hickman and the poor striker. R. Brown had won enough headers to bump his score up to six. Carl Carlile had stuck to his task and was on seven.


    The Bradford fans were chanting at Chip Star. ''Chequebook out! Chequebook out!'' That one overlapped with a rousing chorus of ''Spend some fucking money!'' And finally, one guy with a supremely loud voice, during a rare lull yelled ''Stop buying fucking Chester rejects you stupid twat!''


    Chip wasn''t there. He''d vanished shortly after the second goal.


    I realised I was getting distracted by what the fans were doing and concentrated intently on the pitch until the final whistle blew. Even then I waited to check there wasn¡¯t some crazy twist in the tale like the ref insisting we replay the last five minutes.


    "Peter," I said, and was surprised to find that he wasn¡¯t next to me; he had rushed onto the pitch to celebrate. "Mate," I called out. He rushed back, flushed with pleasure. I cracked a smile. "I''m in a mood," I said, though seeing his joy was helping with that. "Can you do the post-match?"


    "Sure. What do you want me to say?"


    I waved. "Whatever the first question is, suggest that in Germany a tackle such as Chipper¡¯s would be reviewed on video and punished with a long ban.¡±


    ¡°He got a yellow card so they can¡¯t review it.¡±


    ¡°They can,¡± I said. ¡°The yellow was for beefing with Zach not for the tackle. Just put that out there. Whatever the second question is, say you want to talk about our lads. Then go through them one by one saying how good they were. If they interrupt, say that''s an interesting question then go back to exactly where you were."


    He laughed and some eruption of joy made him throw his arms around me. "You don''t like the media, do you Max?"


    "Sure, as a fan, as a reader. As me, no thanks."


    He stepped back and wagged his finger. "You''ll have to deal with a lot more than the pre- and post-match when you''re manager of a big club."


    I eyed him and as I spoke, he laughed again and joined in. "Chester is a big club."


    ***


    I hung around in the dressing room for a while. The home club is required to provide food for the away team and my lads were going to scran up before hitting Sealbiscuit. I wasn''t hungry but was simply waiting for the Brig to give me the go-ahead to leave. With Emma, Peter, and Magnus, it would be a cosy car, but so much the better.


    The home fans departing early in their droves helped. The Brig gave the green light half an hour ahead of schedule.


    I had one last chat with every player, including Dazza, Dan, and Tom, who had travelled just in case we needed them, and done so with good cheer. I knew it wouldn''t always be like that so I was extra charming with them. Tom was in the best mood of the three.


    "I was a bit put out you were shipping me on loan again," he said. "But now I''ve seen Foquita in action, I get it. He''s different gravy."


    "He is," I said, before adding, with utmost seriousness, "but you''ve got something he will never have."


    "What''s that?"


    I tapped him on the chest. "A Welsh third division winner''s medal."


    He cracked up. "Thanks, boss. Feel much better now. How''s your, you know, foot?"


    "Pristine," I said, truthfully. It''s not like he specified which one.


    ***


    The outskirts of the stadium weren''t quite as empty as we¡¯d hoped and I pulled my hoodie all the way down so no-one would recognise me.


    While the Brig patiently waited for the police to let us leave, I checked my experience points.


    XP balance: 1,336


    Not bad considering I''d bought four perks since the turn of the year.


    I liked my new toys. The extra player profile stats were long overdue and had already proven useful. The match action percentages were a tool to measure the ''eye test'' of how I thought a match was going against reality. And the 1-2 perk had triggered something wonderful - a brief flurry of Relationism within the structures of positional play. More - much more - testing was needed on that one, but our next match was against a certain Manchester United and I doubted I would be doing mad experiments in front of 76,000 people.


    When we were clear of the unhappy home fans, I swore everyone in the car to secrecy and fessed up that my heel might be more injured than I was letting on. I lied about the likely prognosis, saying I wouldn''t be surprised if I was out for three months. That was intended to get Peter into the mindset where he would stay at Chester longer, but I assured Emma it wouldn''t be as bad as my previous injuries; I would be able to walk and drive and wouldn''t be a grumpy prick.


    "That remains to be seen," mumbled someone from the back of the car. Not sure who, but it wasn''t Peter or Magnus.


    "You were in a strange mood today, sir," said the Brig, causing me to launch into an examination of all my doubts from before and during the match.


    I started with Folke Wester''s match programme and his hints that he had some transfer targets. I told them about the injured players who weren''t actually injured. I skipped over the way Bradford knew I was using perks with a timer and explained my theory that Chipper''s assault on me was timed to make me reveal my plans for the second half. I noted the way Wester had seemed to almost go out of his way to make Steve Weller, Tom Hickman, and the Exit Trial striker look shit.


    I told them I had been outplayed and outwitted in some way I didn''t understand.


    "Someone''s playing 5D chess against me," I mused. "And I don''t even know who it is. That''s how good they are."


    There was what I thought was an impressed silence from the back of the car, ruined by Emma trying to squash down a laugh. "Babes," she said.


    "What?" I said, pissed.


    "Put your hand up if you know who''s playing 5D chess," she said.


    I turned and saw three hands were up in the back. In the front, the Brig''s hand was up. "Would you kindly return your grip to the ten-to-two thingy, please?"


    "Very good, sir," he said, lips wobbling with amusement.


    I faced the front and tried to work out what it was that everyone else knew. I ended up shaking my head rapidly, getting frustrated. "What letter does his name start with?"


    "M," sniggered Emma.


    "M," I said, softly, triggering another bout of fucking irritating merriment behind me. "Moss Brown," I said. "The idiot father who took R. Brown away from me. For what? A million pounds?" I shook my head. "Scratch that. That makes it sound awesome. I''d fucking abandon me for a million pounds. Can''t be Moss. He''s pretty basic. M, M, M," I said.


    "Come on!" said Emma, punching my headrest.


    I turned and in a posh, strident voice said, "Do you awfully mind?¡± I relaxed. ¡°Just tell me."


    "John, pull over. I can''t live with this dumbo. I''m going back to Newcastle."


    "Sorry, miss. You know how he gets in clinics. He''s either flirting or trying to climb out the windows when he sees a needle."


    "That''s true," she said. I heard her shuffle forward. "Max! No-one''s playing 5D chess except you! The guy who was sitting next to me today told me that Folke Wester is trying to put pressure on Chip Star to give him money for transfers and he has done it in a way that takes the power away from Chip. Wester wants to be the one who chooses who they buy. Okay?"


    Magnus said, "He made Chip Star''s signings look bad and those players who are injured will all miraculously recover on the first of February."


    My head had been spinning all day and now it was spinning harder and in the opposite direction. "So what does that have to do with Chipper fouling me just before half time?"


    Peter chuckled. "That was merely the first time you let anyone get anywhere near you. I think you play the Peter Bauer role rather better than Peter Bauer."


    That left the whole running-down-the-perk-timers thing, but that could have been coincidence. Wester might have told his centre back to go down at least once in the first half as cover for a half-time sub.


    Hmm.


    We drove in silence for about half a minute. I thought back through the day. I had been unusually careful. Seeing ghosts around every corner had made me careful, diligent, and thorough. I''d overprepared, had come up with a sound tactical plan and when it hadn''t worked, I''ve given it something more than a nudge. With every goal we''d scored I''d concentrated harder, hadn''t worried about the optics of going defensive for long periods, hadn''t cared one jot about what anyone might say about the entertainment value.


    And we''d fucking dicked them.


    "Okay," I said, finally. "Okay I think most of what you''ve said makes sense. Some of what was happening was random noise, some of it was Folke trying to show that my picks weren''t good and that he needed funds to bring in some players of his own. And he''s not worried about Chester. If he gets the players he wants, he thinks he''ll bosh this league. Yeah, okay." I fussed with the toggles on my hoodie. "But who''s their mastermind?"


    The back of the car erupted with complaints and people talking over each other. All I heard were snippets like four-nil, masterclass, title charge, Devon Loch. The Brig laughed out loud. "Emma, call your parents and tell them to put the heating on in your old bedroom; we''ll be there in an hour."


    "Hey," I said. I had to smile because everyone else was in such a good mood. I thunked my head back onto the rest and covered my eyes with my fists. "Something''s going on," I whined. "I can feel it, just out of reach."


    "If it''s out of reach," said Emma, "you can''t feel it."


    Magnus had the last word. "Boss, all that''s going on is we''re going to beat Man United and then we''re going to win the league. Okay? Brig, how about some driving music? Peter, what''s your favourite band?"


    "Oh," he said, thoughtfully, as my heart started thumping. Had I told Magnus to ask him that? Peter said, "I suppose it''s Oasis."


    My heart fell. I was never going to bond with anyone over a band so closely associated with Man City. I closed my eyes... and heard sniggering. I turned and looked at the three people behind me. "You''re rinsing me when I''m injured! That''s an absolute scandal!"


    "Laughter is the best medicine," said Peter. He smirked. "I can play 4D chess, too, Max."


    "Okay, you got me," I said. "You got me good."


    Peter smiled, pleased with himself, as he turned to look out of the window at the lights of some Yorkshire village. I made eye contact with Magnus. He nodded. He wasn''t a bad 4D chess player himself.


    I turned to the front and closed my eyes. Peter was a catch, but so was a versatile player with no apparent ceiling. In getting Magnus to help me seduce Peter, wasn''t I also seducing Magnus?


    I felt sure that by the end of January, Peter would be a player-coach, and in the summer, Magnus would extend his contract. I tried to stop myself from smiling too hard.


    My heel was mashed up but I was still scoring mucho, mucho, mucho gols.

 11.11 - Chesterslovakia

    11.


    I heard you like numbers. Check these ones out!


    1.2.


    22. 44.


    130. 3-5-2.


    5,400. 8 million.


    And now the director''s commentary version.


    1, 2. Czechoslovakia was one country, now it''s two. Here''s a fun thing to try at parties: Ask an old person what country Martina Navratilova is from and watch their brains melt in real time.


    22. The total number of players I could use in our friendly against Slovakia. 44. The number of players hoping to play in that match.


    Also 44. Slovakia''s world ranking.


    130. My estimate for the average CA we would be up against.


    3-5-2. The Slovakian manager''s favourite formation. They would dominate midfield for sure.


    5,400. The capacity of the Deva Stadium - for now - and also the exact number of tickets sold or given away (to sponsors, players, politicians, and to one woman who was jogging in the right place at the right time).


    8 million Euro. The fee paid to buy Leo, the Slovakian Messi, after Euro 2024.


    ***


    Monday, July 28


    In the summer of ''24, during the Men''s European Championships, I had a brief stint as a pitchside analyst for the official broadcasters. Beth wrote an article about it called something like ''How to Tour Germany On The Cheap by Blagging Meals from Your Old Mate Max.'' During that time, I became friendly with the Slovakian national team and helped to get a talented young player fast-tracked into their first team, with spectacular results.


    Leo (the Slovakian Messi?) fired them into second place in their group and gave England a few scares in the next round. After the tournament, he was sold for big money but more importantly, the idea that Slovakia should play a friendly match in Chester took hold. The uniqueness of the event virtually guaranteed a sell-out, with all profits going to a charity in Slovakia and the Slovakian contingent being treated to an all-you-can-eat night out at Nando''s.


    As the event had drawn closer, Chester had begun to really buzz about it. The city''s football club was going to play against a national team! It wasn''t completely unique in the history of the sport, but club versus country match-ups were increasingly rare. There was almost no space on the calendar, for a start. But here it was. This coming Saturday, Chester versus Slovakia, live at the Deva stadium.


    Wow.


    The narrative aspect was fun - tiny non-league club (as we were at the time) playing the 44th best national team - but for me this was a test of my mathematical and analytical skills and if I got it right I could potentially launch my club along two different paths of glory.


    I was fairly certain you couldn''t pitch club teams against national teams in Champion Manager. You certainly couldn''t in Soccer Supremo; I had asked Spectrum. So what was going to happen when the referee blew his whistle at 3pm? There were plenty of examples of the curse taking its lead from the highest-ranked club in a particular match (for example, when determining the XP generated by a cup tie), so I was absolutely convinced the curse would treat Saturday''s game like an international. Just to be sure I''d organised it to look and feel like one - flags, national anthems, pageantry, visiting dignitaries - the works.


    If I was right, I would get baseline XP of 7 per minute, 6 at the worst. Whatever the number was, it would be doubled because I was the manager, and increased by 50% because of my Friendzone perk. I could get almost 2,000 XP from one match!


    Incredible hack, right?


    But that was far from the most interesting thing. If the quality of the opposition played a role in player development, then surely playing a national team with guys whose CA was DOUBLE yours would be a major boost. I was expecting massive things from this match and it was essential that I chose the starters and reserves very wisely.


    One of the 22 had to be me. When I was playing in the fifth tier, my CA had drifted down to what I called the ''soft cap'' - the maximum CA you could sustain based on your club''s facilities and the standard of the league. In the National League I reckoned Chester''s cap was between 80 and 90. When I''d slipped below that level, I had felt it. I could pinpoint it almost to the minute - the ball hadn''t come under my spell so easily, passes went astray, shots lost power. My solution was to train at Tranmere (who had a higher soft cap) and that had bought me at least 20 points of CA, while a couple of hours spent at Everton had probably bumped me up a whole lot more - before the slide had once more set in.


    I expected the Slovakia match to give me a similar boost to training at Everton, a boost that I could ride for months before the curse caught up with reality. By then, I hoped Bumpers Bank, quality coaching, and matches against good opposition would give us a soft cap of 100, but all of this was new territory for me and the club.


    Regardless, I had to play, but play as little as possible in order to maximise how much XP I trousered. I reckoned five minutes would be enough to add 20 or 30 points in available CA, which I would assign to free kicks, passing, pace, and technique with a week of intensive training. Yep, this event was going to kick me back towards mystery winger status. League Two beware!


    So who else got to play? For once there was overlap between how I wanted to exploit the curse and what the players wanted. Just getting on the pitch, being able to say you''d played against Slovakia, was highly motivational; everyone wanted to be involved. I had to include players who needed a boost to their CA, but leaving anyone out risked tanking their morale.


    Case in point.


    "Rainman," I said, before sipping my tea. We were in my office at Bumpers and I suppose he knew what was coming because I''d made him a cup of tea and when your manager did that, it was never good news. "How you doing?"


    "Good, boss, yeah."


    I looked up, then at Sandra, who was back from the Women''s Euros. She gave me a nod. "Mate," I said, putting my cup down so I could gesture. "I know you expect to play on Saturday but I fucked up. I was hyper on the podcast, blabbing, talking shit. The guy said I shouldn''t keep using four goalies every match and I rose to the bait, didn''t I? Like a clown. The simple fact is I can''t play four goalies against Slovakia. That was insane, even for me."


    His head dropped, but he was no pushover. "So you want me to tell Banksy he''s not playing."


    I smiled. Great line! "You''re third choice keeper and you''re miles ahead of him. If it''s the FA Cup final tomorrow and Sticky and Ben are out, you''re starting. It''s not even close. The difference between you and Banksy is that he can play in the Youth Cup this year, and if he has played against international players he''s not going to be worried about some pipsqueaks from fucking Northampton or wherever. But even that''s not an easy call, is it, because Bivvy''s ahead of him in the Youth Team. So do I give Bivvy five minutes?"


    Bivvy was the youth team''s goalie. Local lad, good kid, but he only had PA 30 - it was mad to even think about giving him one of my golden tickets. Mad, but that''s exactly what I was doing. Bivvy was only ten points ahead of Banksy, so it was reasonable to think he would be overtaken by his far more talented rival soon enough.


    "Look, what I''ve decided to do is start the match with my strongest eleven. Those are the guys who will start against Fleetwood. Then comes what I''m calling the Velvet Divorce: at some point in the second half I''m going to take all eleven off and put on the Youth Cup team."


    Sandra nearly spat out her tea. "Sorry, what?"


    "We''ve got two goals this year. Get promoted, win the Youth Cup. This plan helps us both."


    Sandra opened her mouth to reply but a quick glance at Rainman made her pause. Meanwhile, the disappointment he felt had very definitely been tempered. His boss was being a lunatic again - not playing on Saturday wasn''t personal. Sandra said, "Obviously, Max and I need to discuss the lineups and the subs and perhaps the final version won''t be as extreme as that, but as he says, we will only be using two goalies. You keep yourself on your toes this week, though. There could be injuries, sickness. If I were you I''d want to be raring to go, just in case."


    I wagged a finger in agreement. "Yes! It''s football, anything can happen but it can only happen if you''re ready for action. Okay you''ve heard my plan and it seems Sandra wants to change my mind which is bonkers because the plan is literally flawless, but the point is you''re not playing on Saturday which normally wouldn''t be a big deal except I kind of said you would be. I fucked up and I''m sorry about that."


    "I was excited."


    Way to punch me in the dick! "I know. Saying one thing and doing another is what idiot football managers do and I hate that I did it. Like, if it''s a big FA Cup match or whatever I do whatever the club needs, easy, and if you miss out there''s the next round and next season, but playing a national team is maybe a once-in-a-lifetime thing so I should have been way more guarded. I''d love to give you five or ten minutes on Saturday, I really would, but I just can''t. It''s really hard, Rainman. It''s like deciding which child gets to eat today."


    "It''s not like that," said Sandra. "Being picked for the match is a treat, something to tell your kids, but not being picked isn''t a slap in the face. Is it, Rainman?"


    "No," he lied.


    I said, "Okay this is a disappointing start to your week but you''ve played the first four friendlies and if you''re cool you''ll play against Morecambe tomorrow night, too."


    "What if I''m not cool?"


    "Then I''ll throw a tantrum and not speak to you for a month."


    "The Andrew Harrison story," he said.


    "I don''t know what you mean," I said. "Hey, you''re one of the lucky ones. You''re a guaranteed first team starter for Saltney - unless your form goes completely haywire, anyway. You can enjoy your season and focus on your skills and development. Okay some people get to play against a national team but they''d kill for your career path, for your guaranteed minutes, and to be as close as you to European football. By the way, there are goalies at Premier League teams who don''t have a coach as good as Sticky. You''re doing great." I sipped my tea. "Did you enjoy boot camp?"


    A smile escaped him. "Yeah!"


    I nodded. "See, I miss out on all that. I think I''d prefer white water rafting and playing soldiers to playing Slovakia."


    "Okay," he said. "Next time we''ll swap."


    "Done," I said. "Next time the boot camp is white water rafting and Chester FC play against Slovakia, you can be the manager and I''ll be the guy in the yellow life jacket looking absolutely terrified."


    "I didn''t look terrified," he said.


    "You didn''t see all the photos." I checked the time. "Training, mate. Be ready for tomorrow night, yeah? Morecambe are good."


    He left with his morale unchanged, which I thought was a massive win.


    Sandra closed the door - players never did - and moved to the left-hand side of my desk, notebook in hand. "You''re taking this much too seriously."


    "You''re right," I said. "It should be fun. Bit of fun." I did a thousand-yard stare. "It''s not, though. Let''s treat this match like we''re loading 22 players with rocket fuel, right? Big boost before the season. Ben''s one of the hardest decisions. He''s our best goalie but he''s near his ceiling so there''s no benefit to filling him up with metallic hydrogen and watching him go whee. It''s just that there could be a morale hit if he isn''t included."


    "How has training been?"


    "Um, fine." That was a bit of a lie. CA improvement hadn''t been as dramatic as I''d wanted, and maybe everyone was a point lower than they really should have been, but there were three easy explanations. One, Sandra had been away for July. Her replacements had good numbers but they weren''t my assistant manager, were they? A coach''s place in the hierarchy seemed important, at least to some degree. Two, we had mostly been doing fitness work. Three, BoshCard definitely felt like a non-league facility these days, and I was increasingly certain Bumpers would be an upgrade even if it was all a bit ugly. "Yeah, I think we''ll have some mad gainz before the end of the year. I''m chill. But we have to get Saturday absolutely spot on."


    Sandra didn''t look entirely convinced, but she would see for herself soon enough. "Let me check your basic principles for this Slovakia game. You think this experience will instil a hunger for more, a desire to play at a higher level in front of bigger crowds, an awareness of what the top levels of football look and feel like, and generally act as a catalyst for growth. Yes? I agree with that. It always happened with the girls when they came back from international duty and we saw it very clearly with Youngster. So, good, let''s pick the team with that in mind. I absolutely agree. Are we going to use every sub?"


    "Totally. We get 22 doses of rocket fuel. The first eleven and the youth team. Boomshackalack!"


    I thought Sandra pursed her lips but when I looked again her face was neutral. "Who''s going to be right back for the youth team?"


    "Roddy Jones," I said, like she was crazy. Who else?


    "Tell me you have job security without telling me you have job security," she mumbled.


    "Sorry, what?"


    "Nothing. What''s the first team?"


    "Yeah," I said, shifting so that I could look at the magnets on the wall to my right. On the left, two sets of eleven were arranged in neat formations. Each magnet had a name attached. "Sticky in goal."


    "Have you told Ben?"


    "No. I''ll do it on Friday, I think, if there are no injuries. If Sticky hurts his hand tomorrow night, Ben''s in, no morale drop. Easy. Slovakia play 3-5-2 most of the time, and Fleetwood Town do 3-1-4-2, so it''s the same but with a DM. What''s your go-to against 3-5-2?"


    "3-4-3," she said.


    "That''s your answer to everything."


    "That''s right. It''s mint."


    "I think I want a back four," I mused. "And there doesn''t seem much point playing two strikers when we''re going to struggle to get the ball."


    Sandra''s lips twitched. "Your attachment to 4-1-4-1 is endearing and, yes, reassuring. You haven''t gone completely off the rails."


    "I''m on the rails. I''m nailed to the rails. Everything I do is completely mathematical, completely rational. Some people call me a mad scientist. I like to think they''ll flip that round and say ''Dam, he''s a scientist!'' By the way, I''ve been thinking a lot about 5-3-2. I think we''re gonna need it when we''re under the cosh, which could happen more than we''d like. I''d like to see it in training sometimes, but with Pascal and Wibbers as the strikers."


    "Huh," said Sandra. "Soak up pressure, fast breaks."


    "Yeah. It''s really not my favourite way to play but I can imagine it being effective against a few teams that would dick us if we tried to go toe-to-toe."


    She wrote something in her notebook. "Got it." She sighed slightly. "Well, our 4-1-4-1 picks itself, mostly. Andrew Harrison right midfield, yes?"


    I knew she was goading me but I rose above it with class and sophistication. "Pascal right. I''ll play left, I suppose. It won''t be a fast and furious match so I should be able to do forty-five minutes of that. Only question is about the second half: do we use Wibbers as a striker or right-mid?" Sandra wrote something and frowned. "What?" I said.


    "Just thinking about this first team/youth team plan. It''s genius, obviously. Very clever. I''m just thinking about Cole."


    "Cole?"


    "Yeah, we want him to get picked up by Ireland, right? And this match is going to be streamed on our website, isn''t it? They might think it''s worth having a look. They pay ten pounds, tune in, see he isn''t there, isn''t even on the bench. If you don''t pick him, why should they?"


    "So, what? You want Cole instead of Eddie?"


    "Of course not. Eddie has to start. He still has room for growth, doesn''t he?"


    "Er, yeah." Since the start of pre-season, Eddie had moved to CA 64. When he reached his PA of 75 he would pass the threshold of being a League Two player. Next season I would want to move on from him but for now it was unthinkable that he wouldn''t start against Slovakia. "Okay but if I use Cole, I have to drop Lucas Friend from the second half team and he''s one of the best prospects."


    "I like Lucas but I don''t think he''s as important to the club as Eddie, Cole, and Josh, and if we give Lucas a few minutes against Burton Albion or Notts County that will be enough of a step up for him. Too much, maybe. Maybe we let him train with the firsts once a week, use him in the Cheshire Cup, that sort of thing. He''ll be on cloud nine with that, won''t he?"


    "Um, sure. I guess," I started, as I did some calculations. International call ups were so beneficial it was like a system hack. "I guess getting Cole into the Irish system is a boost worth chasing, yeah."


    "And Roddy Jones is a cert to get in the Welsh setup, isn''t he? You don''t need to shove him in our squad to get a once-in-a-lifetime experience, do you? He''ll actually play against them for real, at every age group. He''ll be sick of playing Slovakia by the time he''s in his mid-twenties."


    "That''s true."


    "So can we swap him with Magnus, please? Magnus is our go-to guy in nine out of ten matches. There''s an injury? Magnus. We need to switch formation? Magnus."


    "That''s true," I said. "Fine. We''ll put Cole and Magnus in for the second half, but no more compromises. I have a vision and the vision is mint. One match, two rocket ships."


    "I totally agree," said Sandra, sipping her tea. "Except..."


    She left it dangling and I had to go after it. "What?"


    "I was just thinking about Wibbers."


    "Wibbers?"


    "He''s your big project, isn''t he? Maybe even more so than Youngster. He comes on for the second half - "


    "After fifty minutes."


    "Oh? Why?"


    "So Henri can get an ovation."


    Sandra smiled. "Of course. But Wibbers plays most of the second half in a match where he can really test himself against superstar defenders who play for AC Milan, Napoli, PSG. And he looks around for a pass... and it''s Benny and Tyson. I''m sorry, Max, but I don''t think he''s going to learn anything from that match. He won''t get a kick of the ball, for a start."


    I tapped my desk. "Yeah."


    "All I''m saying is, to really benefit from this experience we have to get as close to Slovakia''s level as we can. Okay, use all the subs at the end but the final few lads aren''t going to benefit much, are they? It''ll be a glorified rondo with our under eighteens chasing shadows."


    I stopped tapping. "I get what you''re saying. Wibbers needs to start. He needs to play in the first half."


    Sandra looked alarmed, briefly, which was odd, but she pushed through it. "That might be a good idea, boss, but I''m wondering what the Brig would say about our youth team being thrown in at the deep end like that. If Slovakia want to run up the score it could easily get to 10-0, 12-0. It could be disastrous for the club and for the mental health of the young players. They''ll be happy enough to be in the dressing room, to meet the Slovakians, to get clips for their Instas, all that stuff. They don''t need to get humiliated in an actual match."


    "Hmm."


    "I''m worried Slovakia will find it disrespectful if they come all this way and the average age of the team they play is 16. Do you know what I mean? And it''s a sell-out, isn''t it? Five thousand fans, many of them coming for the first time, to see what all the fuss is about. The new Chester FC. This is the waiting list you want, isn''t it? Put on a good show and we''ll have two thousand people who want to come next season. You''ll take that waiting list to MD and you''ll say, look, we''re ready to expand. But not if we take the piss, Max, not if we chuck on loads of toddlers."


    "Yeah," I said, frowning. Something strange was happening - I was agreeing with everything she said so hard I couldn''t think why I''d ever thought I should play an entire youth team in the second half.


    Sandra went to the magnets. "May I?" she said. I nodded. She pushed the youth team magnets down, but slid three of them back up. "Banksy, Wibbers, Dan Badford. They''re in first team training and the youth team. We''ll use them on Saturday, so there''s three of your Youth Cup starters getting great exposure."


    "Give me Tyson and Chas," I said. "Tyson gives us more goal threat, and Chas can make money for the club one day."


    "Sounds good," she said, sliding their magnets up, before pushing all the others to the far right edge of the board. "Ah, this is good. Now we can include Josh - I think that''s important; he''ll get a lot of minutes this season - and Tom." She found the magnets of guys like Ryan Jack and moved them into the main blob. After a few seconds she had put most of the first team squad there. "How many''s this?" She counted and found she had 21 names on the left. "That leaves one slot for Omari Naysmith, Andrew Harrison, Sunday Sowumni, Ben, or Sharky, who is one of our major weapons and will be a major threat off the bench late in games and who you told me I had to believe in."


    I scoffed. "Bit of a leading tone to your voice, Sandra. Er, yeah. It''s Sharky, isn''t it?"


    As she slid the last magnet into place, I got up and walked to the far side of the room, hoping to return with fresh eyes. My beautiful concept was dead and buried, replaced by intense pragmatism. But five of my Youth Cup side would get minutes against Slovakia - that was pretty good, while ensuring the event wouldn''t turn into a freak show.


    I got close to the whiteboard and gave it a good old stare. Yes, this 22 was solid and wouldn''t embarrass Slovakia or Chester itself, and that was an important consideration I''d forgotten when trying to optimise for CA growth across two teams. The men''s first team set the tone for the entire club and, in some ways, for the entire city. That''s why I''d gone to South America looking for top players instead of spending my summer at under 18 tournaments.


    "Okay. Five to ten minutes at the end for Banksy, Tyson, and Chas. And me. Do you want to have a think about the rest? Pick a first half formation then three sets of changes that use all the lads. We might have to use Tom at right midfield or something. I wouldn''t worry too much about using people in weird positions for five or ten minutes."


    Sandra plucked one of the magnets that hadn''t made it to the final 22. "Omari doesn''t look like he''s going to see a lot of action this season."


    "No," I mused.


    "Why don''t you loan him to Saltney and spread his wages around some of the others?"


    "Sounds like you''re asking me to take a five hundred pound a week pay cut. Want to go halves?"


    She smiled. "I thought the point of Saltney was the 3G pitch would raise enough money to put together a winning team?"


    "Yeah but that''s slightly out of the window, isn''t it, because of the Vincent Addo thing. His wages alone are half the projected income."


    "Isn''t he joining in January?"


    "Yeah."


    She tutted. "On that podcast, you said his wages were 40 thousand. But he''s only coming halfway through the season, right? You only need to put away twenty."


    "Er, right," I said, brightening slightly. "Yeah I should think in seasons, not years. Yeah, okay, that''s a fair point but I still can''t pay Omari''s wages. I''m quite financially stretched right now. It''s like if two things go wrong I can probably cover it, but not three. I like the idea, though. I''ll keep it in mind."


    "You''re already getting Rainman for free. If you actually pay for Omari, it''s like two for the price of one. And I bet you''ve got your eye on Tom from January, you greedy get."


    I laughed. The thought had crossed my mind. Tom might not get much action once Foquita arrived. I switched my attention to the main blob of magnets. Loads of winners, there. Some back-to-back champions. "I know we can''t seriously beat a strong national team, especially when we bring on the kids, but do you think we could win the first half?"


    "We could if our best player was playing."


    I nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. At the exact same time, we both said "Roddy Jones."


    Sandra added, "I knew you were going to say that."


    "This relationship is great, especially the mind-reading. We''re like those couples where they finish each other''s... Finish each other''s... Sandra, come on. Don''t leave me hanging."


    She took a few steps to my desk, gathered her notebook, and slapped it with her free hand. "I''m gonna think about this in Bosh Bistro."


    "Mmm," I said, leaning back. "I suppose we should think of a plan for Morecambe tomorrow night. I might go down to Best Bistro and do it there."


    "Patricia''s still mad at you for Cole coming back from boot camp with a black eye."


    "How is it my fault he smacked himself in the face with a paddle?" I made an annoyed noise. "Culinary school''s five times as dangerous as what those kids did. All those knives dangling off counters, chilli powder everywhere, chip fat fires, oil spills, peanut allergies, exploding ovens, shit music on the radio. Yeah. I think I''ll stay up here."


    ***


    Saturday, August 2


    Pre-season friendly 6 of 6: Chester FC versus Slovakia


    About an hour before kickoff, I walked around the stadium taking in the atmosphere. Our final home match at the end of last season had been a near-sellout against Southend but it was nothing like this.


    That day had been full of anxiety and dreadful hope and the season ticket holders had turned up at their usual times and shuffled into the stadium barely daring to dream about what we might accomplish.


    This match wasn''t included in the season ticket package, so we had a lot of people attending for the first time, judging by the way they were looking from their phones to the signage. I was pleased to see our stewards were spotting these lost lambs and were going over to help. All very friendly, very cheerful. That was good - it would make people more likely to come back. I felt there was tremendous potential demand for tickets at a revitalised Chester FC, but it would be moronic to take that for granted. We had to scrap and grind for every fan. Hard work off the pitch same as on it, and a smile from a steward was just as effective as one of Brooke''s hyper-targeted emails or Facebook ads.


    I spotted a few tweaks to the stadium''s footprint. Someone - Brooke, most likely - had installed a couple of information desks where visitors could go and ask questions. That was a good idea - it would help us make sure newbies were comfortable visiting the stadium. Emre''s was open but the queue was so long I decided against going to chat to him. There were a lot more spaces for posters - ones of the men''s team, the women''s team, the bus parade, and lots that had been specially-designed for the day''s match and written in Slovak.


    Another difference between this match and the one against Southend: the weather was better today. There was much more of a party mood. So what if little Chester lost to Slovakia? It was a rare football match where you could enjoy the day no matter the result. I noticed quite a lot of people wearing ''Leo'' shirts, which meant Brooke had advertised the match to people keen on seeing the man himself. After bursting onto the scene in ideal conditions, he was finding his career a lot more of a struggle than most people had anticipated, but he was still the bright young thing of Slovak football. Had Brooke run ads on his personal Instagram page? The woman was far, far too good and every time I thought about how good she was, I thought about her leaving.


    Stupid, hateful, fearful brain!


    I got introspective and told the Brig I was ready to head back inside. While deep in thought I got a vague impression of masses of blue and white heading to the stadium.


    CA boosts, a permanent increase in ticket demand, the season ticket waiting list going up - today was going to lift the whole club.


    ***


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I said, striding into the dressing room like a colossus (five seconds after pulling the door open a tiny crack to make sure Sandra wasn''t in the middle of anything. I''m polite like that). I went to the whiteboard. "4-2-3-1?" I said, pretending to be surprised. "Huh. I thought we might play 4-4-2. Slovak to basics. Hazza and Dazza up top."


    "Henri will start," said Sandra. "He''ll come off after fifty minutes so he can get an ovation."


    "He likes those, doesn''t he?" I clapped, once, scanning the room. Dazza was eyeing me carefully, as were Lees Hudson and Contreras. They had heard stories about how strangely I ran my dressing room, and now they were going to see it up close. "Right, we''re all excited, it''s a big day, blah blah blah. My favourite Slovakian movie is called All or Nothing. It''s rated 4.7 out of 10 and like all Slovakian films, I haven''t seen it." I pointed to the door. "There are more flags than usual out there and I''m letting them play some music before kick off for a change but at the end of the day, it''s just a football match. They''ve got some top-class players, especially in the defence, so we''ll have to play decent football if we''re going to hurt them.


    "The flip side is, if we keep our shape and work for each other, we''re not going to get rolled over. Eddie, be on your toes against Leo. He doesn''t look like a menace but he is, okay? Youngster, you drift left to help Eddie. Ah, Sandra has told you all this, hasn''t she? Look, just try to think of this as what it is - a pre-season friendly. You''re allowed to enjoy yourselves, soak up the atmosphere and all that, but get the balance right in that you''re playing for your place against Fleetwood a week from now. That''s it - I''ll do my big start-of-season speech on Monday or Tuesday next week. Today''s just a match, same as West Didsbury, same as Morecambe. Go through your usual routines, do your warm ups, and I''ll see you back here ten minutes before go."


    "Let''s go Chester!" called Christian Fierce, our new captain for the season. His words triggered a lot of claps, stomps, and yells.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    I felt a tingle on the back of my neck. A few hairs stood on end, but they settled down again.


    Today wasn''t about emotion, it was all about the numbers. The green of the CA, the green of the money we were raking in. Much of this particular green would go to charity, but we expected every home match to be sold out and Brooke had big plans to increase our catering income. If she succeeded, we would be able to ask MD to increase the budget a little, and even a little could have a big impact.


    Some lads who hadn''t made the final 22 were in the dressing room, slow to depart. Why hurry? I felt someone''s eyes on me but when I looked at Andrew, he was on his phone.


    There were two main currencies in the dressing room, money and playing time. Both were finite. As we climbed the leagues, a player''s need to play would grow ever bigger, and being left out of the team would be seen as a bigger and bigger slap in the face. I wondered if I could get to the very top of football on a small budget and a big dollop of Chesterness.


    I doubted it.


    But being a contract rebel worked both ways. If you weren''t going to share your market value with Chester, I wasn''t going to boost your market value. It sucked to have to take a hard line with Andrew, but he was the first to defy me on the issue. Since the abrupt end of our chat, not a single player had come asking for more money or even joked about how underpaid everyone was, which was normally a staple joke around these parts.


    I shook my head. I was pretty sure we would resolve this particular situation - after a healthy period of everyone being scared shitless by my hardline stance - but if we didn''t, Christmas dinner at the Weaver household with Andrew and Gemma was going to be awk-ward.


    Or maybe not. If the Czechs and Slovaks could divorce and stay civil, so could Andrew and I. You know, in theory.


    ***


    While Sandra ran the warmups and talked to the referee and all that, I had more than half an hour to spare. I pottered around and shook hands with the Slovakian coaches. They were almost all Italian and the manager also ran a club team. That club was in European qualifying matches so he was doing that while his assistant took care of this match.


    The crew seemed happy to be in Chester, which was nice, but as we talked, guess who popped up? Beth!


    "Whoa! No girls in the dugouts. Ew."


    "Hi, Max," she said, dragging me away from the coaches. "How are you doing?"


    "Good, top, no comment. What are you doing here?"


    She was amused. "Someone at Chester suggested I embed myself into the Slovakian team for the day so I can get the inside track on this special event."


    "Oh, you''d love to embed yourself with the Slovakian team."


    She tilted her head. "I know it was your idea, Max, so don''t give me that. Are you losing your touch? People are saying you''ve cracked. In five matches you''ve drawn to Buxton and lost to Blackpool and Morecambe."


    "Just find it hard to play against seaside towns, there''s no shame in that. Everyone''s got a weakness. Mine are rocky beaches where the rocks are too big and wobbly and weirdly slimy, do you know what I mean? Is this an interview? I didn''t agree to be grilled by The Daily Mail. How''s your story looking?"


    "It could use some juicy quotes. Maybe a footballing hook. Do you think you might win?"


    "Win? We''re all winners, just for showing up. Is Leo around? Oh, he''s warming up. Have you spoken to him?"


    "He''s down. He was on such a high at the Euros and now reality is catching up. Teams have worked him out."


    "Yeah," I said. The element of surprise had done a lot for him. "He''s in this phase where he''s expected to be good but he won''t be that good consistently for a couple of years but what people will remember from his career is this period where everyone''s disappointed in him."


    "Er, thanks for the quote, Max, but that''s pretty bleak. I think this is a positive story. An upbeat one. Isn''t it?"


    I frowned. "Yeah," I said, but it didn''t really convince me. "Their centre backs and goalie are spectacular. They are absolutely monstrous, right? The number 4 is a hundred million pound player on 400,000 pounds a week. Playing against him is absolutely zero fun but even if today tastes bitter it''s medicine for us. We''ll get closer to those levels, right? But yeah it could be a long ninety minutes and it''s one thing looking at all this on spreadsheets and another seeing it on the grass."


    Beth moved closer and examined my eye sockets. "You sound weird. You''re not your usual self."


    I slapped my hips. "Um... no, I''m fine. It''s just, like, maybe I''ve lost some of that fire, you know? I''ve been in matches like this before when it seemed like we were up against a brick wall but I''ve come up with a plan or at least had something to give us a one in a hundred chance, but there''s nothing there today. Nothing in the tank and that''s strange because I''m rested and I thought I was up for it today."


    "Your squad looks fired up."


    "Oh, big time," I said, with a smile. My players jogged up and down through and around cones. "They''re ready for another winning season. Ready to grind and put the work in and all that."


    "Are you burned out?"


    "Erm... no, not even close. I''ve got energy, I think. Yeah. I''m, er... I mean, look at it. It''s a lovely day, the stadium''s filling up, pitch looks mustard, the Slovakians are super friendly, the match is a friendly. It''s just nice, isn''t it?"


    "You''re a big game player. Today doesn''t fire you up because it''s not a big game."


    "It is. This is really important for our season."


    Beth shook her head. "You don''t believe that. If you did, you wouldn''t be talking to me. It might be big for the players, for the club, but not for you." She nodded, apparently satisfied that I wasn''t sick or depressed. "It''ll come next Saturday when the season starts."


    "What will?"


    "The devil in you."


    "Devils, curses, wizards. Why do you write me as some kind of fantasy character?" On hearing how that sounded, I instantly held up my palm. "Don''t answer that," I said, with a bit of a grin. "I think I want to go pose for selfies and stuff. Enjoy your embedding."


    "I''ll see you at Nando''s, will I?"


    My mouth dropped open. "You got yourself invited to that, too? When are you going to stop freeloading meals off me? Tsch!" I went off, shaking my head.


    ***


    The next fifteen minutes were incredibly strange, though I didn''t fully realise it at the time. I walked around the edge of the pitch ready to pose for selfies or sign the match programme, but nine out of ten people looked at me and then looked away. They didn''t know who I was!


    There were still more than enough people who did, of course, so I smiled at their phones and signed things.


    One person asked me to sign his programme. I think that''s what he wanted, anyway, but he didn''t speak English. I took the pen and hesitated, because the programme wasn''t in English, either.


    "That''s right," I said, flicking through the pages. "We got it translated into Slovakian. Or do you say Slovak? It''s nice and glossy, isn''t it? We''ve got a graphic designer helping us with the covers and a new writer." I flicked through the pages. The quality of the design had gone up a few notches. "This is very nice. I must remember to get my own copy."


    The guy smiled and nodded and waited for me to stop babbling. With a shrug, I signed it and handed it back. That''s when I noticed his scarf - blue, white, and red.


    I frowned and took a few steps away, onto the edge of the pitch where the Slovakian team was doing their own drills. Leo waved at me with a big smile, which caused a bit of fuss in the stand. I looked from Leo to the crowd and realised that while there was an appropriate amount of blue and white, there was far too much red.


    "The fuck?" I said.


    I strolled around some more and it started to add up.


    Some in the crowd were singing along to the Slovakian music we were playing over the PA.


    Most were in white tops with blue shoulders and a red flash up the sides and they were waving scarves and flags that we didn''t sell in the club shop.


    This crowd was something like 80% Slovakians!


    Leo, slightly out of breath, came and put his hand on my shoulder as we admired the scene. "So good," he said. "Feels like home!"


    "Yeah," I said. "It would." I turned and checked him out. Since I''d seen him at the Euros, his Attributes were up, his wages were way up, but his Morale was in the toilet. "How you doing? It''s hard being the golden boy, I think."


    Pain flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced by a smile. "I''ll get better. Do you have any tips for me?" The slight note of pleading in his voice was heartbreaking.


    "Yes," I said.


    "Well?" Leo said, when he realised I''d stopped talking.


    "I''ll tell you after the match," I said, giving him a friendly punch to the chest.


    He rolled his eyes but went back to his warm up with his Morale one point higher. Very humanitarian of me but not the best timing! I supposed Beth was right and my heart wasn''t fully in this as a sporting contest. It was a hack, a go-faster token you collect in a driving game.


    I walked back towards the dugouts and caught Brooke talking to one of the big shots from the Slovakian FA. I introduced myself, got a big handshake and a very intimate hug (from the man, sadly) and took Brooke aside. "It''s, er, it''s very, er, foreign around here."


    "I thought that''s what you wanted," she said.


    "Why would I want that?" I said, which could have been misconstrued as gammony, so I continued hurriedly. "I mean, it''s fun, I guess. Nothing wrong with it, but I was hoping our next five hundred season ticket buyers would be here."


    "Maybe they are," she said.


    "Huh."


    "And we''re doing crazy numbers online."


    "Crazy numbers?"


    "We''ve sold 30,000 online passes for this match. About 29,000 of those are in Slovakia."


    "Holy shit!" Those passes were ten pounds each. I lowered my voice. "Does the club keep that cash?"


    "No, that''ll go to charity, too; it was part of the sales pitch. We''re only keeping the catering income and any merch we sell. But it''s still good, right? This is how English clubs build worldwide fan bases. Although," she added, "it''s more conventional for the club to tour the country, not for the country to tour the club."


    "Er, Brooke?" I said, eyes wide.


    "Yes, Max?"


    "You''ve just blown my mind. I''m fizzing."


    She gave me a wry look. "Please don''t whip my skirt off."


    ***


    I got sucked into conversations with god-knows-who. Some politicians, people from various FAs, I think there was even someone from UEFA who was on holiday in the north-west and had bought a ticket.


    When I finally found myself in the dressing room with the lads waiting for me to give my pre-match speech, I had to work hard to bring myself down to ground level because my mind was absolutely in orbit.


    "Lads, very slight change in what I expect of you. How can I put this? Let''s start at the beginning. Everyone wanted to play today and the people who aren''t involved are gutted. But what if this wasn''t a one-off?" I took a few paces around and scratched my chin. Yeah, that was the point, wasn''t it? Repeatability. This match was a curiosity that five thousand UK-based Slovaks thought was worth paying twenty quid to attend, while thirty thousand back home had forked over ten quid each. In theory we could tempt more national teams into doing this - if we paid them enough.


    While a bit of extra income would be very useful in the short-term, long-term I valued the CA growth more than almost anything, so a country''s FA could have all the profits. The people running FAs were people who liked money and who liked being wined and dined. If we could get six pre-season friendlies against national teams, I mean Jesus Christ, that would be one of the biggest hacks imaginable. It would be like sending my entire squad to play in a World Cup and I could do it every summer!


    "Not a one-off?" said Henri, who as always was the most likely to speak when I was mid-rant or mid-thought.


    "Yeah. It''s a sell-out, right? Five thousand odd tickets were on general release but it''s 80% Slovakians out there. We''ve got their flags up everywhere, we''re playing their music, we''ve got some folk dancers outside and they''re gonna do stuff at half time, we''re selling Slovak food, we printed match programmes in - I mean, you get it. I thought I was being polite, just sort of thanking the team for coming, but what I''ve done - "


    Henri shook his head. "You''ve turned this into a home match for the away team."


    "Yes," I said. "It''s not my fault. Who knew there were so many Slovakian people living in the UK?" Almost every hand in the room went up. "That was a rhetorical question! But look, I think we could do this again. I did it by accident but I think... yeah, I''ve brought Bratislava to the Deva stadium. I think people are going to lap this up! Think of the people over in Slovakia watching this thinking, wait, is the match in England or here or what? You''d love it, wouldn''t you lads, if we went to play in some country and they served beans on toast and put a red mailbox in the centre circle? You''d think, this is a laugh, let''s come back here. Right?"


    "Max," said Henri, "You''re right. Wherever there is beans on toast, so there will be English tourists. But what do you want from us, the players?"


    I jabbed my finger towards him. "Yes, practicalities. Yes. Er, let''s try and win the match and all that sort of stuff, yeah, but let''s be diplomatic about it. There''s going to be loads of flags and national anthems and pageantry. We''ve got fifty little kids waving a giant Chester crest and fifty more doing a big Slovakian flag. We''ve got the ambassador who''s gonna shake your hand. There''s all kinds of stuff going on, right, so just smile and go with it. What do I want from you? Respect the national anthems, for a start. We''ve got some royal from the far north and she''ll be going up the line shaking your hand. Don''t turn to your mate when she''s gone past and leer, do you know what I mean? Don''t go phwoar did you see that?! You''re on camera, lads. Everything you do is being filmed on twelve cameras and five thousand smartphones. What else? Right, when the match starts, if someone boots you up the arse, get up and have words if you want but then fucking drop it. You hear me? We''re not having the Battle of Bratislava out there. We''re going to turn the other cheek, aren''t we, Youngster?"


    "Always, Mr. Best."


    "Just think how awesome it is to play in a match like this and say to yourself: if I behave myself, Max might be able to schedule more matches like this. All right? If today''s a success we might get the Polish national team interested. Who else are there loads of in England?"


    "English," suggested Henri.


    "A match involving the English FA might be hard to arrange," I said, glaring at him.


    "Irish," said Cole.


    "Welsh," said Rainman, who was in a tracksuit so he could join in the pre-match warmups and be in the photos and so on.


    "Hey, that''s not the worst idea," I said. I could boost Welsh kids by arranging matches against Wales. It would be a hell of a conversation with Gwen but it would work, wouldn''t it? "Okay my brain is exploding right now. I thought this was one and done but... Get out there and fucking smile. Smile, you miserable bastards! Come on! Go and be fucking charming, you worms!"


    ***


    When the clock struck 3, I was bouncing, absolutely convinced I''d be able to get more national teams here. Why the hell not?


    My players lined up and stood proudly for the English national anthem, and stood respectfully for the Slovak one.


    There''s a bit of a cultural black hole in England that makes English people boo the national anthems of other countries. I did some research on the phenomenon and it dates back to high rates of glue sniffing in the 70s and 80s. Today there was no such issue, perhaps because the English fans were massively outnumbered and there was no segregation.


    "The players of both teams will now meet the Queen of Iceland and His Excellency the Ambassador of the Slovak Republic to the United Kingdom," said our announcer. The queen, of course, was Emma in her big floppy hat. It was an inside joke that got taken far too seriously and had been funny to me right up until the moment the captains led the guests down the row of players.


    Sandra said, "This is going to bite us on the arse."


    "When we were talking to the politicos I said ''oh yeah the queen might come'' as a callback to when I met the Slovaks in the Euros and at some point it got too late to fess up. Anyway, the ambassador gets to flirt with Emma all day. I really don''t think he''s going to mind."


    "Max," said Physio Dean. He directed my attention to someone in the crowd. An average-looking woman who was in floods of tears.


    "What happened?" I said.


    "Don''t know," said Dean.


    The match was about to kick off and I couldn''t spare so much as a minute, not with so much XP on offer. I waved at Beth and she hurried over. "Can you find out what''s up with that woman there and help her out maybe?"


    Beth followed my gaze - the crying woman was hard to miss. "Oh, sure, will do."


    ***


    To try to combat Slovakia''s 3-5-2, Sandra and I had cooked up a fairly ambitious scheme. The kind of plan that works very well in the National League.


    We did 4-2-3-1 with a pretty strong back six and a fast front four.


    Sticky (CA 53) was in goal, behind Eddie (64), Christian Fierce (74), Zach (65), and Lee H (70).


    Patrolling ahead of them were Youngster and Magnus, whose CAs were 86 and 61 respectively.


    The three fast forwards were Pascal (72), Wibbers (48), and Wes ''Sharky'' Hayward (48). The idea with Sharky was that, okay he was far from international quality but he was still the fastest player on the pitch and if we could get him into space he could destroy any team. That concept was slightly diluted by him playing through the middle where the pitch was crowded, but it was the sort of thing we had been doing in the National League with great effect.


    The final starter was Henri, CA 73, which gave us an average of 64.9, almost exactly half of Slovakia''s 130.


    It was fair to say that anything that worked today would work twice as well against Fleetwood next weekend. It was also fair to say that seeing the contrast in numbers up close knocked me off my stride for a while.


    The match kicked off and while my lads won a few headers, won a few races, and tried to pass the ball around, it was a no-contest from the very first minute. We were outclassed and my thoughts kept returning to that number: 64.9. That wasn''t any sort of number. Not against Slovakia, not against Fleetwood, and not even against the weakest team in League Two, Colchester United.


    I bit my nails for a minute but the vibe of the day was so positive, so upbeat, that I was able to look on the bright side. Unlike Fleetwood, unlike Colchester, my team had room to grow. If I counted up the PA and divided by ten (because I didn''t understand what Magnus''s minus 2 meant) it came to 122. This team, at their peak, would get close to Slovakia''s level. Really close!


    I clapped myself into a more positive frame of mind. Okay, we were miles off the pace but it was still eleven against eleven. There were still tweaks and optimisations. I had my hotkeys, my once-a-game perks. I used Seal It Up to try to keep it tight first twenty! (That perk, you remember, increased the positioning score of my defenders by 1 for quarter of an hour). I used Cupid''s Arrow - which made passes between certain players more likely to succeed - on Zach and Magnus. I hoped that would allow us to move the ball out of defence and through Slovakia''s press. It wasn''t anywhere near as intense as what those forwards did in real matches, but it was still too much for our low-technique players.


    Despite my tweaks and my player''s best efforts, the first half went as you might expect. Slovakia crushed us in midfield, carefully tore us to shreds with clever, patient passing and movement, and low-key bombarded Sticky''s goal. Fortunately, he saved the first shot on target, which gave him the confidence to rise to the day''s challenge. If the first one had gone in I really think we''d have conceded six in that half.


    Our strategy was to bypass midfield and hit them with fast counters and it died a death. Slovakia had three world-class centre backs and their goalie was fucking mint, too. The rest of the team weren''t at that level, although they had a bit of stardust in Leo, but having a defence like that was very appealing. Take it from me, if you know you aren''t going to score, matches get demoralising.


    Our clean sheet lasted eight minutes. The second goal came after thirteen. I braced myself for a humiliation but the lads had been through some shit at boot camp and it paid off here with a gritty show of togetherness. They battled and suffered and rode out the worst of the storm.


    "There will be more of this," I said, looking over my shoulder at my assistant. I didn''t want to do that too much because the XP I was getting was immense. "We need a 5-3-2 option for games like this. Move that to the top of the priority list."


    "Agreed."


    I turned my attention to individual players.


    "Sandra," I said, and she appeared next to me with her notebook. "There''s something off with Eddie''s spacing. Can you check the tapes? Christian''s trying too hard. I suppose he''ll calm down when he''s been proper captain long enough but keep an eye on him, maybe have a quiet word some time. Zach''s been caught out a few times but that''s the risk of how we want him to play, right? I say we double down on him going for the interception."


    "It cost us a goal."


    "Are you playing devil''s advocate or do you really disagree?"


    "Devil''s advocate. I like how he''s playing but, yeah, these strikers are another level and they play against better defenders every week. We can''t expect our guys to shut them down but if we can stop them even getting the ball... yeah we should keep pushing Zach to be aggressive."


    "Yeah. Lee H is fine, isn''t he?"


    "Rusty."


    "That''s a problem that solves itself. I don''t have much to say about him."


    "He doesn''t slap like Carl."


    "No, but he''s way better defensively. His positioning is better and he makes better decisions with the ball. He''s fine. I do wish I had an attacking right back option but I don''t. Youngster''s our only player who looks decent, as you''d expect. This is another level from the World Cup but he''s loving it. He''s actually competitive, have you noticed? Magnus is struggling but only to the level I expect. No worries there. Sharky''s ineffective in the centre against this kind of quality. We need to make sure he''s always out wide. Wibbers is trying to run through the defence but it''s a brick wall. He''s got craft but he''s not engaging his brain. That''s something to talk to him about. Pascal''s hitting the space like he always does but we don''t have good control of the ball so he''s not helping. First we need him to drop to move possession in a triangle so we can get a grip and then build from there. Do you know what I mean? Henri''s putting himself about a bit but he''s outclassed. At least he''s not losing his temper. Make sure we give him some praise, yeah? This is a selfless performance from him."


    "What about Sticky?"


    "He''s doing okay, isn''t he? He could have done better with the goals but he knows that. We don''t need to tell him, I don''t think. We''ll only coach him when it comes to what he does with the ball at his feet, I think, and how he interacts with the outfielders. But if you ever bump into that guy who runs the goalie academy you could ask him to come and watch a match so he can give us some unbiased, outside, expert opinion."


    "Got it."


    "This formation was a good plan but it''s not working." I rubbed my eyebrow, fretting about the Fleetwood match. They played in a similar way to Slovakia. "We need to test them out wide. Let''s go 4-1-4-1 and give Sharky some passes to run onto."


    ***


    At half-time it was still 2-0 but the lads had worked their arses off. They trudged into the dressing room and stayed quiet not because that''s how I liked it, but because they were shattered.


    I stood by the tactics board and idly moved some magnets around. I was getting a stupendous 18 XP per minute for managing this game and was already 819 up for the day. I was absolutely convinced the players were getting CA by the bucketload, but the gains always came over time and were sometimes hard to pinpoint. If Pascal turned green tomorrow would it be because he had played in Morecambe, because he had picked up a great tip in training, or because of Slovakia? It was hard to tell on a day-to-day basis but when I looked over a season there were definite bumps that came with matches like these.


    This one, our first League Two game against Fleetwood, a cup match against Bolton. You could look at it and see three demoralising losses, or you could think of it as three carefully-placed mini trampolines helping you reach a high platform.


    "Lads," I said. "Fucking outstanding. Work rate, sticking together, all top class. Give me ten minutes more, please, then I''ll start ringing the changes. Don''t forget our little performance at the start of the second-half. Everyone knows where to go, right? One more thing. I''ll text and I''ll email you so you don''t forget but I want to do the Maxterplan on Wednesday after training so if you need help with babysitters or anything let us know, but you know that''s a big deal." Doing it on Wednesday would let me see three days of training pops. If we got nothing from this international match that would push our season in one direction - dour, defensive, scrappy football. If we got the sort of green I was expecting, I would paint a bright, breezy, optimistic view of the coming season. "I think that''s it. Nothing more to say, lads, you''re doing great. Well done."


    I went into the corridor to see if there was any media stuff to do. I saw Brooke holding her phone up in front of a Slovak player who barely looked out of breath. Our fitness levels seemed high, but then you saw the elite players and realised how far behind you really were. Brooke pressed the red button on her phone and said ''thanks!'' The guy hesitated, maybe wondering if he should say, ''while your phone is out...'' But he realised she was out of his class and decided to fuck off with his dignity intact.


    "Whatcha doin''?"


    Brooke showed me. The clip was in Slovak but it was clear enough. The guy was saying something like ''I''m Marek Shranc and you''re watching Chester TV!''


    "Are they called stings? Trails? I think I have the word in my head somewhere."


    Brooke shrugged. "Whatever they''re called, we can add them to our broadcasts to IP addresses in Slovakia."


    I shook my head. "No-one there is going to watch a Chester match ever again."


    She smiled. "Wanna bet?"


    "You''re good, Brooke, but no-one''s that good. No-one''s ''I''m gonna build a fan base in eastern Europe in my spare time¡¯ good. Come on."


    "This match plus Bethany''s article plus Chesterness will cause more than a ripple of interest and from tiny ripples mighty waterfalls are made."


    "Is that a Texan saying? I thought it was all cactuses there. Cactus, one-horse town, tumbleweed, 80,000-seater college football stadium."


    She actually laughed. "We have to get you to Texas soon. You''d love it, you know."


    "Have they got beans on toast?" I clicked my fingers. "I saw a bunch of scouts I wanted to talk to before the second half. See you at Nando''s, right?"


    ***


    Half-time on the pitch was a festival of Slovakian-ness. Folk dancing, a guy crooning along with a guitar, and the ambassador giving a deathly dull speech. With those boxes ticked it was time for what was supposed to be one of the highlights of the day.


    My starting eleven - unchanged so far - lined up for the start of the second half but when the ref blew his whistle, my guys jogged off to the other three stands. Meanwhile all the subs, including me, jogged along the main stand and when the ref blew his whistle again we all stripped off. Tops only, to the disappointment of some.


    We handed our old tops to the first Chester fans we found then collected our brand new, shiny, magnificent Grindhog creations.


    Had it been a full house of Chester fans there would have been deafening cheers and applause, I''m sure, because word had spread that we had gotten a hell of a deal from the manufacturer and interest in the kit was sky high. Some photos were online, one or two videos were up with people who said they had a new kit before its release somehow, but whether those shirts were real or not, the videos only added to the mystery and sense of anticipation.


    Instead of a standing ovation, four thousand bemused Slovaks looked at each other thinking, "These Britons are crazy."


    Oh, well!


    At least the kits were nice. They had an insubstantial, silky smoothness. They were comfortable and stayed that way. Plus they looked great - blue and white hoops, a premium but unobtrusive font, and some subtle details you only saw up close. Pretty much ten out of ten right out of the gate from the Grindhog team.


    As for our team, we were soon under the cosh in the second half and there was almost nothing I could do about it. I signalled that Dazza should replace Henri just as the Slovakian manager was about to make a raft of changes himself. I paused the sub and went to negotiate with him. Maddeningly, Beth overheard me beg him to wait a minute so Henri could get a private ovation. There was no chance that detail wouldn''t end up in her stupid article, but what could I do?


    Henri came off, and there was a great reception for our new star striker.


    I didn''t let Henri sit down just yet, though he needed it. I had to keep getting that XP so I talked to him sideways, only looking away for two-tenths of a second at a time.


    "How was that, mon ami?"


    Henri shook his head, squirted water into his mouth and all over his face, and sucked in air. "Incredible."


    I smiled. "Are you joking now or what?"


    "Max, I am not joking. I am exhilarated. What a test! That defender had me on toast. Beans on toast." He squirted and panted some more. "Normally I feel if I keep plugging away I will get something, but today? This guy? He''s another level."


    I spared a few seconds to check out Henri''s expression. He was knackered, but he wasn''t lying about the exhilaration. I beamed - there was no fucking way Henri wouldn''t get 3 CA out of that game. Minimum! I slapped him on the back. "Sit down, mate. You were great out there. I''m really happy."


    He didn''t move and I had to lose another few seconds of XP to find out why. He peered at me. "You are happy."


    I pulled him for a hug. "I''m happy I could give you this experience, mate. This is what it''s all about, isn''t it? The journey. Doing mad things. Seeing new places."


    "Getting our arses handed to us in front of five thousand strangers," he said, but he wasn''t serious.


    "All the best clubs in Slovakia are ones where you get spanked in front of strangers," I said.


    He laughed. "It''s not even funny. That''s how tired I am." He went to the dugout and ate paste while the other subs excitedly asked him questions about what it was like out there.


    A minute later, Slovakia''s first subs happened. Leo had been kept fairly quiet by Eddie and Youngster, but had slipped away twice and found holes in our lines that he exploited with speed and clarity of thought. The curse rated him 8 out of 10 even though he had barely broken into a sprint.


    I stood by the subs who were entering the pitch so I could give Leo a high-ten and a hug. He said, "You''re going to play, aren''t you?"


    "Yeah," I said, without enthusiasm. "Five, ten minutes maybe."


    He placed his finger on my chest - a polite but insistent gesture. "I came here to see you play. And don''t forget you promised me a tip!"


    "I''m going to be right midfield in a 3-4-3," I said. "I''ll show you a couple of things."


    "Yes, perfect. Good."


    ***


    I made the rest of the subs fairly cautiously, trying not to give too many minutes to the youngest players. It helped that Slovakia''s reserves were much worse than their starters - this wasn''t counting as a proper international so they weren''t getting caps. As far as the statisticians were concerned, it was a charity match, so while it made some kind of sense for the starters to come, some of the reserves had ''picked up a calf strain'' which meant they didn''t travel.


    I put Cole on at left back, and revamped midfield so that it was Josh, Ryan, and Lee C. Pascal got to stay on for a while longer on the right.


    We conceded a third goal, but once again the lads dug deep and found a bit more shape.


    I took Youngster off and put Dan Badford on as DM. It was only intended for a minute before I switched to 4-5-1, but something weird happened.


    Dan Badford almost instantly looked like our best player.


    I mean, he glided around the pitch very much like Youngster, but instead of racking up interceptions like he was playing cornerback against the Cleveland Browns, Dan was just sort of... connecting things. He took the ball from Zach, ignored the pressure on him and rolled the ball to Ryan Jack before moving to be an option for the return pass.


    Our passing stats, which had been diabolical for the whole match, started to tick up. We even briefly got more than 40% possession.


    I sat on my haunches staring at it for a while. I was getting very curious about ignoring the position field on a player profile, but I had a mental image of a defensive midfielder. I suppose I had two. One was big and tall, a destructive presence, someone who could break up play and help on set pieces. Another was a Youngster type. Someone who could run for miles, someone indefatigable, a buzzing wasp you could never, ever swat away.


    And there against a bunch of Slovakia''s best was a silky-smooth playmaker who was connecting the defence to the midfield without the help of Cupid''s Arrow. "Sandra," I said, and she came and crouched near me. "Can we have some practice of 4-2-3-1 with Youngster and Dan as the double pivot?"


    "You like him there?"


    "Don''t you?"


    She shrugged. "It doesn''t look right."


    "Huh," I said, standing up. "It looks right to me. It looks amazing." I glanced at her. "You''re really not into it."


    She shoved her bottom lip out. "No, sorry. But I''ll do it."


    "What happened to finishing each other''s...?"


    She laughed. "I don''t think we''ve ever actually done that, boss."


    I pointed to Dan. "That right there might be the best thing to come out of this match. Okay, time''s running out and we''re not getting battered. We need to get Tom on. Take Zach off and switch to 3-5-2."


    ***


    All the substitutions took their toll - the match took on a weird, shapeless form. Neither team had any kind of momentum, there were too many unfamiliar partnerships, too many square pegs in round holes, and that only got worse near the end as I put Banksy, Tyson, and Chas on. Oh, and myself.


    We had a strange old team at that point, crammed somehow into a 3-4-3.


    We had a CA 13 goalkeeper. Cole (45) was the left centre back, with Ryan Jack (62) and Lee C (71) as his partners.


    Josh Owens (45) was left-mid while Dan Badford (40) and Tyson (34) were a crazily young central midfield partnership. I wanted to move Dan back to the DM slot to continue that experiment, but it looked ugly on the tactics screen so I kept to the default.


    Dazza (74), Tom Westwood (43), and Chas Fungrieve (19) was an attack with a bit of height and not all that much else.


    I was the right mid and took the captain''s armband from Christian.


    Yep, this was fifty times stronger than the team I had been planning to finish the match with, and the very thought gave me a full-body cringe because this was absolutely shocking. CA 44.6 and an average age of about ten. Not for the first time, I was happy to have Sandra around keeping me sane.


    There were only a few minutes to go, though, so how bad could it get? It''s fair to say Slovakia approached the final stage of the match the same way they did when playing in the back garden against toddlers, but my youngsters gave a pretty good account of themselves, battling hard, working hard, trying to get some quality when they had the ball.


    There were too many weak spots, though, too many black holes and you can''t have that against a team of Slovakia''s quality. Our opponents moved the ball around, opened a huge gap in our lines, and though I sprinted back to try to clear the ball off the line I didn''t really have a chance. Nor did Banksy with the shot, but his positioning was awful.


    Four-nil down and I thought about going men behind ball for the rest of the match just to avoid humiliation. I decided losing 5-0 would still be respectable, so I didn''t park the bus.


    As we kicked off and the Slovakians jogged half-heartedly into our half of the pitch, I decided I was proud of the players. Proud of how they had conducted themselves, proud of their effort, and more convinced than ever that everyone involved would benefit hugely from the experience.


    But as a player, something felt off.


    It was my job to patrol the entire right side of the pitch and I was doing that task to the letter because if I didn''t, Slovakia''s tactically-savvy players would rush into the space I left and there would be carnage.


    So I did my job, but when the ball came to me I felt so isolated. I mean, Chas was an option ahead, or I could hit Dazza at the far post and he could go for a knock-down. One of Dan or Tyson always raced across to offer a sideways option, and Lee C was gamely trying to do a Zach impression. But they felt like they were fifty yards away. In Brazil I had six teammates close enough to hit with a yo-yo, and indeed one of the moves in Relationism is called a yo-yo. Where was everyone? Why were they so far away?


    I didn''t like it.


    I swapped places with Tyson and went into the middle. I took a pass from Lee C, touching the ball away from an onrushing Slovak. I dabbed a short pass to Dan, who gave it straight back. I shot it back to Ryan and he gave it right back to me. A Slovak dude was rushing at me and I decided I had to bring the ball away, so I shot in the direction of the left wing and he followed but oh-oh! I let the ball run through my legs. Dan collected it.


    Was that my first ever river in English football? I doubted it, but it felt like the first.


    My blood was pumping and I sensed a shift in the mood - on both teams. Slovakia''s intensity increased, but so did ours.


    Jaw clenched, I ran towards Dan and took a short pass from him. I gave it back, took it back. When a Slovak came close I brought Lee into the action. He was a midfielder and so was Ryan. We played short passes in a whir while drawing more opposition players towards us.


    Relationism! I hadn''t even coached it yet but the guys knew what I wanted.


    I could have stayed in that blob, in that wonderful pool of quick passes, of one-twos, but the pressure got too much for Lee. Perhaps he would have kept going if he was twenty yards forward with Zach and Christian behind him if he lost the ball, but he was the last defender in front of a kid, so he decided to break the flow.


    He fizzed a hard pass twenty yards to the left to Cole. A forward, annoyed by our dicking about, was running at Cole hard - elite level press incoming!


    Cole hunched up, ready to turn inwards, and the forward pounced. He got... nothing. Cole opened his body, let the ball run across him, and used his first touch to move the ball forwards.


    My legs started moving.


    Cole passed to Josh, who took a bump from behind as he laid it back to Cole. Cole passed to Dan, who slipped it first time to Dazza. He held the ball up well and touched it back to Tom. Tom decided he wanted to take a shot, which was in the direction of Youngster levels of decision-making because there were two huge defenders in front of him. He could have argued a defender might deflect it but yeah, not a good end to a very nice move.


    Except it didn''t end.


    The ball had ballooned high and with wicked spin towards me and Slovakia''s nearest centre mid. He was CA 116 and was a solid all-rounder.


    I stepped towards him to stop him competing for a header - he seemed happy to let me try and fail to take control of the spinning, dropping ball, and I felt his gaze move towards the strikers. He was plotting ahead. As soon as I lost control...


    The ball was going to drop to my left, towards our goal. I planted my left foot about twenty inches away and bent my right leg behind it, giving the ball a little kiss with the inside of my boot. It stopped there for a second as though caught in a Star Trek tractor beam.


    My opponent goggled as the main stand burst into applause, but my slow, lazy movements told him the ball would be in his possession soon enough. While I sorted my feet out and pointed for a dull sideways pass, the guy stabbed his foot towards the ball. Strangely, by the time his foot should have made contact, the ball wasn''t there. I''d flicked it over the path of his foot and I was away.


    His attempt to grab me was both feeble and annoying - it''s a new shirt, mate! I felt myself snarling as I powered diagonally right. While I ran, I switched Tyson back to CM to give us numbers in the rest defence.


    Seeing me maraud down the wing got the Chester fans up on their feet, and some of the Slovaks, too.


    I glanced left and saw the three strikers running into the box. Options!


    I also saw a Slovak midfielder running hard on an intercept course. Before he could affect play, I knocked the ball a little more to the right and thwacked a low cross whose twelfth bounce was exactly in the stride of Dazza.


    He couldn''t miss!


    He made a sweet connection, hit it hard and high, and his arms lifted themselves in celebration.


    But the keeper saved it! He had danced across the goal as the ball passed in front of him, and he was just close enough to fling an arm out and tip the ball over the bar.


    Standing O for the move, standing O for the keeper.


    I wandered over but let Tyson take the corner. I was thirty yards from him, pretending to be absolutely wrecked by the exertion of my sprint. Tyson knew better, and passed to me even though I was facing the west stand. I touched the ball and whipped it to the far post, where Tom got a half-decent head on it. He knocked it back across goal and Chas flung out a long leg. Shot on target! It''s going in! Goal for the fifteen-year-old? No. The goalie got down low and tipped it behind for another corner.


    The fucker had nothing to do the whole game. How was he this sharp?


    Tyson ran to take the corner - it would be the last action of the game and if we could get a goal we would be incredibly happy. He fizzed it to me but this time Slovakia were alert. As a guy sprinted at me I dropped a shoulder left, pushed the ball right, and lined up a shot.


    It fucking flew to the top-right corner. I mean, it was perfect. Flawless. Power, bend, even a bit of dip.


    The goalie saved it again and the ref blew his whistle to end the game.


    So that''s what CA 155 looks like. Take note, Banksy. Take note.


    ***


    Some more numbers for you:


    Chester 0 Slovakia 4.


    1,540 experience points earned.


    I went round doling out hugs and smiles, promised to swap shirts with Leo, and went to collect Beth and bring her to the other media people for a post-match interview.


    "Max, tough day, how do you feel?"


    "We knew it would go something like this so we had, you know, very specific ambitions. We didn''t win the first half, we didn''t score a goal, and I''m not sure we won a lot of new fans with the way we got dominated, but I think everyone in the stadium had a good time and we raised a lot of money for charity."


    "It was exciting near the end!"


    "The passing move? Now I know why Pep Guardiola used to put eleven midfielders on the pitch. It''s addictive completing passes against a good team."


    "No! When you were doing your skills and showing off. If that''s a taste of what''s to come this season, the Chester fans should be very excited."


    I shook my head. "It''s a team game. We need team solutions but I think it''s clear that we''ve got the core things right. The mentality, the spirit, and we''ll add what''s missing as we go. I think this match will help us develop. As a group of players we''re motivated, determined, and ambitious. As coaches we''ve seen our players get a very serious test and I think we''ll be looking at this footage a hell of a lot over the next couple of weeks mining it for areas of improvement. It''s just a top day. I think this will be a great season."


    "What did Leo say to you at the end?"


    "He said thanks for the tip but if I do that in a game my manager will kill me. I told him if he''s the player-manager he can do what he wants. He said he''d think about it. Oh, Beth, what was up with that woman? Nothing bad, I hope?"


    "No, Max. She was happy, she loved it. I''ve got the quote here. ''You sell Bazant beer, you smile at us, you play our national hymn!'' She said she had been in England for five years and this was the first time she really felt welcome."


    Well, that got me going and I had to look down at the concrete floor for a few seconds to compose myself. "She''s welcome back here any time," I said. "This is Chester."


    "Do you think you''ll get the same level of welcome next week at Fleetwood?"


    I smiled. "Of course we will. We''re little old Chester. No threat to anyone in League Two, are we?"

 11.12 - Fleetwood Max

    12.


    Wednesday, August 6


    Before our first competitive game of the season (against Fleetwood Town, our first fourth tier fixture in fifteen years) I had to tell the men''s first team squad our plan for the campaign as a whole.


    Monday was the only logical choice for when to give the talk, but I had moved it back to Wednesday. The seemingly pointless change could have been seen as more proof that I was untethering, but the reality was much more mundane - I simply wanted to know if playing against Slovakia had done anything.


    And? Had it?


    Yup. Seen from the right angle, the results were already stupendous. Every single player involved had increased in CA by at least one point. Banksy, who had played goalie for the final seven minutes, had popped once per day of training, roaring ahead to a mighty CA 16. He was still useless, but a twenty-three percent increase in ability from seven minutes was nothing to be sniffed at.


    Other players had only increased by one point but I felt sure more was to come. It takes time for a human brain to absorb shocks, and the sheer gulf in class, quality, control, and tactical awareness between us and a major team was not one we could cross in three days. The training sessions had been mint, though. Players zipped around, focused on every drill, talked about what they''d experienced, begged the coaches to hurry up and clip out relevant bits of video.


    I decided I would give the optimistic version of my speech. The one where our players improved rapidly and, after a few dubious results, got into their groove faster than anyone could have expected.


    As for me, my extra training was going well. We had four first team goalies and I got them to give me fifteen minutes each, in shifts, every day from Sunday to Tuesday. Three days where I took different kinds of penalties, free kicks, corners, and long shots. I had split them up, sensing that seeing me demolish the others might have been demoralising, and that proved to be a good instinct. I wasn''t back to my Darlington best, but I felt sharper than I had for a while. My crosses had more whip, my shots more power, my free kicks and pennos led to howls of frustration.


    Yeah. The optimistic version for sure.


    ***


    We were in the meeting room at BoshCard. We had the entire first team, physios, coaches, Jackie, MD, Brooke, but no-one from the board. The board had very quietly been put on pause. I wasn''t sure who had agreed to that, if anyone, or if MD had simply not sent out certain emails. It seemed more likely he had got together with a bunch of key fans and they had agreed to leave me the fuck alone for a year. Whatever - it was one less thing to do my head in, and no board meant no possibility of a takeover.


    Spectrum was helping me with my tech setup and I had the luxury of a clean flipchart and three new marker pens. Chester moving up in the world!


    "All right," I said, and the noise level died down.


    "Quiet," growled Christian Fierce, the new club captain, and noise ceased. He was a lot more intense than Glenn Ryder, which was partly his character and partly his eagerness to nail his new role. When I had signed him, his player profile had said ''Keen to impress his new manager'' for a long time. Now it said ''Proud to be at Chester'' and ''Proud to be the captain of Chester''. It also said ''Hopes Max Best will remain manager for a very long time'', but that doesn''t seem relevant, really. Might delete that.


    "New guys. Where my new guys? New guys stand up." A few people got to their feet and I introduced them before gesturing they could sit again. "Dazza Smith, Australian striker. Will call someone a bloke but won''t use the word strewth. I can''t make him out, but he told me his top bucket list goal is to visit the seven wonders of the world. Sunday Sowumni, centre back. Good skills, good base, needs some experience to kick on. Banksy, goalie, talented, ditto. Lee Hudson, ten years at Barrow, knows a fuck of a lot more about League Two than we do. Ask him questions but don''t peck his head, all right? Lee, we might ask you on a Monday morning to say a word or two about the teams we''re facing that week. Nothing in-depth, just things like it''s noisy, it''s quiet, they''re a good lot, they''re wind-up merchants, that kind of thing. Quick thoughts on Fleetwood?"


    "They''re noisy when they''re winning. They''re wind-up merchants."


    I smiled. It wasn''t exactly megabrain stuff but it did help us prepare. "Thanks. Lee Contreras. Tranmere. He''s Sam Topps but faster and more technical. You might be confused because Tranmere kept Sam and let Lee go. Yeah, I don''t understand it either. Dan Badford didn''t stand up when he was told but - yeah, bit late now, Dan - but he''s proper in the squad. He''s on the edge of seventeen. Great, top. You know Clive OK and Ray Hart as part-time coaches but I think this might be their first Maxterplan so it''s good to acknowledge them as part of the team. You might recognise that guy. That''s Kian, former youth teamer I scouted when he was skipping school. Now he''s Brooke''s intern. Who says crime doesn''t pay? Last but not least, our new sports psychologist, Alex Short. Now, I did ask Brooke to find me one with great legs, but..."


    Brooke gave me something of a glare. "Max, that isn''t appropriate."


    Alex was a very slightly scruffy guy. He was average height, average build, but with a hint that he had played a lot of sport himself. My first instinct on seeing him was career-ending injury, wants to stay in the game. His short beard looked itchy but he seemed approachable and if one of my lads was having a bad time and really needed help but didn''t feel comfortable talking to a suit, Alex would grab his car keys and say, ''come on, pub''.


    Yeah, very good first impression from him. But how would he handle my banter?


    He smiled. "To be fair, Brooke, I do have great legs."


    The group loved that. Bosh! Scored on his debut.


    I turned my attention back to my players. "Alex isn''t starting just yet but I asked him to come today because I get the feeling a lot of what you talk to him about will be triggered by today''s session." I paused with my tongue slightly sticking out to show I knew these meetings veered towards the ridiculous. "Seriously, though, Alex is a great resource. I''m going to see him once a month at least. I don''t really know what to expect but I think having someone to talk to might help calm me the fuck down or whatever. It''s worth a try, right? For you lot it''s playing under pressure, recovering from injury, dealing with your manbaby boss." I smiled again. "It''s not mandatory but if it''s the FA Cup Final tomorrow and I have two players of equal talent in good form I''m going to pick the one who''s been talking to Alex because why the fuck wouldn''t I pick the guy who has been doing his best to improve over the last ten months? Do you know what I mean? It''s not intrusive therapy like you''ve seen on TV, it''s looking for an edge in your game. Think of Alex as another coach. I can''t stress this enough - seeing him is not mandatory."


    Youngster put his hand up, then slowly put it down.


    "Okay I want to hurry through this presentation but you know what we say - go slow to go fast. It''s better if I''m methodical, I think. The first game of the season is against Fleetwood, so there''s a pretty obvious theme for this speech."


    Spectrum tapped a key and tinny music blared out of his laptop. It was Dreams by Gabrielle. I shook my head and crossed my hands in the universal gesture of ''stop, that''s wrong''. He stopped the music; I pinched my nose.


    "That''s the wrong Dreams! That''s... how can you even...? Pretend that never happened, everyone."


    I cleared my throat.


    "For the new guys, what''s happening now is that I''m setting out my dreams for the season. It''s more like a prediction, really. You can go your own way if you want, but if you come with me and you don''t stop, you can go everywhere and you can be the ledge. Open your sweet little eyes, come a little bit closer, and the sky''s the limit."


    Vimsy called out, "You haven''t said Rhiannon yet."


    "Why would I do that?" I said, pretending to be annoyed. "So weird. Alex, fix Vimsy first." I nodded at Spectrum. He turned our big screen on and pressed a key on his laptop. A slide came up. It simply said ''We''re all part of the Maxterplan''. I pinched my nose. "Isn''t that an Oasis lyric? I told you we were doing Fleetwood Mac."


    "Aha!" said Vimsy, pointing in triumph.


    I grinned and said aha back. "Guess what? We''re not doing Fleetwood Mac. It''s too obvious. Good band, many bangers, but far too obvious. Here, Alex, check this out. Last January, I think it was, I updated the Maxterplan. It isn''t set and forget, right, we update it based on facts and evidence. I''m very scientific like that. The presentation happened to be the first day at the club for Christian, Well In, and Chipper and let''s say things got weird."


    "Megashrimp!" called out Wes Hayward.


    I frowned and spoke to Alex in sotto voce. "I know your sessions are private, but can you ask him why he keeps shouting that? Thanks." I twinkled at Wes and paced around. "Yeah, in retrospect that was a pretty strange introduction to Chester and it''s no wonder Chipper went absolutely tonto. So this time I decided to keep things simple. Nothing from four hundred million years ago, nothing too abstract, nothing that makes people think I''m a fucking nutjob." I paused and made a show of thinking over what I''d said. "Hang on. Everything I said that day was true. In fact, it turned out better than even I thought possible. You grew hard shells and claws, we won the league, I ascended into legend. Huh. Maybe I should... Maybe I should say whatever the fuck I want?"


    Zach said, "Lay it on us, boss!"


    "Ah," I said, swinging from bombastic to worried in an instant. "Zach. Forgot you were here. Oh, this is awkward."


    Zach stood up and gripped his hair with both hands. He paced around while his teammates laid consoling hands on him.


    Alex''s eyes were bulging cartoonishly. "What''s going on?"


    Youngster helped out. "Mr. Best''s last presentation was a delight for Zach, but Zach was not permitted to speak during the lecture."


    Alex gave me a strange look and said, "Why not?" I felt like I was being psychoanalysed and in that moment regretted hiring a psychologist.


    "I don''t like being fact checked," I said. "Ain''t nobody got time for that. Zach, good news and bad news. Good news, you''re gonna love this presentation. Bad news, every time you speak I''m taking a hundred pounds from the player pot and sending it to a flat-earth society."


    "Boss," he croaked.


    "Just shush so I can get through this. To everyone else, all the information you''re about to receive has been independently verified by, er, top, top people." I clicked my neck left and right. "Let''s fucking go!" I took a few steps to my left to my backpack and pulled out a very strange object that was about the length of my hand.


    Zach stood and did his hair-pulling routine again. "Urgh," he said.


    I smiled sweetly at him. "Zach, if you behave, you can keep this."


    "Really?" he said.


    "Yeah, I knew you''d like it so I bought two." I got the second one out.


    "But - "


    "Shush please." I handed one to Jackie Reaper, who was the nearest person to me on the left. He enjoyed coming to these big speeches even if these days he didn''t say much. Then I handed the other to Alex on the right. "Take a look, pass them round." The energy in the room spiked. Having a tangible object people could hold and study was great and a smack in the gob for anyone who said the megashrimp theme had been too abstract.


    "What is it?" said Brooke, turning it around. She had asked Zach, but her cheeks turned very fractionally red. "Sorry."


    "It''s a clay tablet," I said. "Four point eight inches long. The words and pictures you''re looking at were carved into that clay two thousand nine hundred years ago in Mesopotamia, which you all know as the location of an Agatha Christie murder. Also, it''s Iraq."


    "Is it the first ever football match programme?" said Pascal, apparently in earnest.


    I laughed, not harshly. "That would be fun, wouldn''t it? Babylon Villa versus Sumeria City, expected formations on the front, line ups on the back. No, this is something a lot more basic. A lot more astonishing, I think. Let''s take a look at it." Spectrum clicked to the next slide. "On the back there''s loads of writing. It''s a big part of the tablet''s story, obviously, but not that interesting to us." Next slide. "On the front at the top, more writing. The story of how the world was made, apparently, but what we''re interested in today - two of us, anyway - are the pictures." Spectrum clicked and we got a close-up of the lines and scratches that made up the bulk of the image. He clicked again to highlight two concentric circles. "Check out these circles. See the text that wraps round? It says ''Bitter River''. See these triangles? They''re mountains. What are we looking at?"


    Christian said, "You already said. It''s Iraq."


    "It''s a what of Iraq?"


    "A map?"


    I nodded, getting myself worked up. "This little clay tablet is the oldest map of the world in the world. It''s in the British Museum and it''s one of the big boy exhibits. I watched an 18-minute video about this fucking ancient clay tablet that was more interesting and gripping than anything I''ve seen on Netflix in years, but not better than The Traitors. Spectrum, show the next one." He clicked and all the elements of the map were highlighted. "When you first look at the picture it seems like a whole lot of nothing, right? But look! That rectangle is the city of Babylon. That''s the Euphrates river. These little circles are cities. It''s a map, lads!


    "This is the kind of thing that gets my blood pumping. Yes, it''s quite good scoring last-minute winners and dribbling fifty yards at high-speed while defenders try to take you out and you hear the slap of every seat in the stadium because people are standing up to get a better view of your magnificence. But I really love this stuff. The oldest map of the world. It makes me think wow, once upon a time there was a guy who drew the first map of any sort, ever. That''s a wild thought. Imagine someone says hey where''s the nearest Tesco and you get a stick and draw some squiggles in the soil. Follow the river, turn right at the house of the woman who''s trying to invent the wheel. The guy looks at you like you''re crazy. What are those squiggles? That''s the river. That''s the river? Heh. I don''t know, maybe it''s just me but I like daydreaming about that kind of thing.


    "What are maps, anyway? They show you where you can go, obviously, but this particular map was also a warning. This circle was the whole world for these Mesopotamians. The mountains represent distant magical lands, which sounds fun to us because we''ve grown up watching Harry Potter, but for those guys it was scary. The guy who drew this map was saying ''don''t leave home; there be dragons''. Okay so it''s a guide and it''s a warning.


    "Spectrum? Okay so you see the tablet was damaged but it''s clear there used to be eight triangles representing eight mountains, AKA eight exotic ways to get yourself killed. Only three triangles survived the ravages of time, but the boffins who study this stuff were able to work out quite a lot about what it all represented and they could make some pretty good guesses about what was missing, but then they hit a wall."


    I left a pause so unexpected that the mood in the room shifted.


    "Hit a wall. That''s a phrase we use in sports, isn''t it? Yes, the Lees, Banksy, Alex, Sunday, this is a football club, I didn''t forget.


    "We hit a wall against Slovakia, didn''t we lads? We didn''t have a map to get us through that challenge, did we? Ah! I see a few of you are starting to see where this is going. But hang on, because this tablet is really worth a bit more of your time.


    "You see, the writing is called - holy shit I''m going to butcher this - cuneiform. And the guy at the British museum who''s in charge of this tablet is nuts about that language. He was giving a lecture once and there was a woman listening who thought, huh, I am now also obsessed with it. She got a job helping at the museum. One of her tasks was to look in these millions of boxes of stones and rubble looking for anything with this writing on. She found an interesting piece and took it to the mad professor and he thought, as she did, that it looked a lot like the other triangles on this tablet. So they opened the display case of this priceless object and the professor said gosh look this would fit perfectly, wouldn''t it? And just out of curiosity he sort of popped it down and the tablet swallowed it up. It fit so well they couldn''t get it back out! It was a fourth mountain after God knows how many years. A piece of the puzzle! A piece of the map! Now you might think okay cool story bro but there''s no treasure at the end, is there? I prefer The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. And normally I''d agree with you, but what they found was that this mountain was called, in our language, Mount Ararat."


    Youngster half-shot to his feet. "Ararat?"


    "Yep. What does that name mean to you?"


    He looked around the room, awestruck, trying to convey his sense of wonder. "It is where Noah built the ark."


    Spectrum clicked to show a drawing of Noah''s ark with lots of animals leaving it, two by two.


    I went to retrieve the nearest tablet replica and admired it. "A treasure map after all! The tablet describes the location of the ark. If you lived in Babylon and you were brave enough to ignore the fact that you would die if you left home, you could go and see that famous old ship... if you took your map with you." I tucked the tablet replica under my arm and walked around as though deep in thought. "Where do we want to go, where don''t we want to go? It''s my job to carve some maps, isn''t it? The map of this season, for a start. I have some pretty clear ideas about where this club should go, what the team will achieve, and how you should develop as players. If you think this metaphor is overly stretched, check this out."


    The next graphic was a series of concentric circles that looked like a radar. It was divided into 12 segments in three colours. Blue was labeled ''attacking'', red was ''defending'', and green was ''possession''.


    "You''ve all seen these, right?" I said. Almost everyone nodded, but Brooke seemed daunted by the flood of information - her eyes were darting around the graphic trying to find something to latch onto, a key that would explain the rest. "It''s called a radar chart; it''s a quick way to visualise a player''s strengths and weaknesses. This one segment here shows this particular player''s ability to carry the ball forward. The closer it gets to the outside edge, the better. This one is shots, this is assists, pass completion, headers won, and so on and so on. From this chart, you can see at a glance this particular guy is amazing with the ball, causes a lot of threat, but doesn''t defend well. In fact, he''s dogshit. Er, Spectrum, who is this?"


    "It''s Wibbers, Max."


    There was rather a lot of laughter and a lot of teasing of Wibbers who was torn between rising above it and being annoyed. I tutted at Spectrum and looked up at the ceiling. "Come on, man. I said don''t use our players to avoid the very scenario that just happened."


    "When I was doing the slides I got sucked into learning about cuneiform, boss. It''s really interesting! Sorry."


    I shook it off. "Okay, it was a point I was going to bring up later but let''s do it now. I''ve been artificially keeping William''s defensive skills down so that he could focus on being a fucking world-class goal machine, but we''re going to have a talk soon and we''re going to see what kind of map he wants to draw, because in a way this particular map defines who he is. It tells me and his next managers where he can go, where he can''t. You get that? We have some amount of choice in where we want to go as players, which mountains we want to explore."


    I held the replica up next to the radar chart. One was twenty times bigger than the other.


    "Do you all get why I saw this map of the world and saw a radar chart?" It wasn''t universal, but there was a fair amount of nodding. "All right, let''s bring this, ah, full circle." Spectrum clicked to the next slide, which was one we''d seen before - the one that showed the locations of places in ancient Iraq. He clicked again and it was the same image but we''d changed the text. "This is our world. Instead of Babylon, we''ve got the Deva stadium. Instead of this swamp we''ve got Bumpers Bank. Christ, I hope that''s not an omen. Instead of Assyria we''ve got Wrexham. Not sure if that works or not but it probably does, right? Cities always hated their neighbours. Okay but instead of the Euphrates river, the source of all life in the area, I''ve written culture.


    "Our culture is the most important part of our map. Whatever we do, wherever we go, we have to keep that in the centre of our world. If we turn on each other, if we exclude talented players or staff, if we go back to the old ways, we are fucked. Culture is funda-fucking-mental and you will drive me mental if you work against the culture and I will drive you out of the club if I even suspect you''re thinking of considering maybe hypothetically doing some light bullying or voicing problematic opinions on your socials.


    "We''re going to have a day on social media use, by the way. Until then, stick to posting photos of your breakfast.


    "After culture, the next most important thing is training. We''re going to sit with each of you and talk about your personal development. Spectrum is putting together these radar maps for everyone. You''ll say if you agree with the chart and how you think your skills should develop and I''ll tell you the exact opposite but in a way that makes you think it was your idea all along." This got some smiles. "No, but really, we''re going to do that. It''ll help make sure you''re getting the most out of training.


    "Most of you know my thoughts on training. New guys, you can talk to the old guard to find out more, but in short, you''re not paid to play, you''re paid to train. If there''s a two-week slot in December where you probably won''t play, I''ll tell you. That''s not the cue for you to throw a tantrum, that''s the cue for you to pick up your map and train like hell building up your mountains. Do you get me? A two-week break in December to work on your skills? If you think that''s a punishment, don''t leave this room without booking an appointment with Alex. I''m deadly serious.


    "Okay, you need to think about your personal development, your personal career maps, but the team has an incomplete map, too, and so does the club. So do I. For example, as you know we''re testing out 5-3-2 as a way to get solid against teams that might crush us. Working on a cautious, defensive way of playing isn''t fun for me but that''s the point of this tablet, isn''t it? It doesn''t just show your comfort zone, it shows you places you might not want to go. I''m on my own journey and I''ve got to get way, way better in all my mountains.


    "What about the club as a whole? I think it''s pretty clear. We''re going full speed towards the mountains and we''re going up into strange, scary new territory. MD can wear his sackcloth and ashes and wave a stick at us saying turn back, turn back! But it won''t stop us." The man in question shook his head with a wry smile. I held up my tablet. "I''ve got a map, mate. It''ll be fine.


    "That said, the map has got pieces missing. A big topic this season, a big topic for you and for the club is money. We ain''t got none. But look at the edge of our world; we''re surrounded by money. Mountains of money. The closer we get to the edge of our map, the closer to the top, the more money will rain down on us." I beamed. "Holy shit, this is even better than the megashrimp thing. Zach, are you enjoying yourself?"


    He mimed zipping his mouth and that got some laughs.


    "New guys, contrary to how it might seem, I''m not a complete idiot. I know I can''t keep talented players unless I can get our wages somewhere close to market rates. I have to balance a lot of needs." I pointed to the ''Bitter Sea'' that encircled ancient Iraq. "We need a boat to cross the sea. I have to build the boat as well as pay the sailors, do you get me? I also need some enchanted swords, healing potions, and seasickness tablets for Magnus, from what I heard about boot camp.


    "But this isn''t like a normal club. When we have problems, we have the power to fucking fix them.


    "I see the map of our season in different ways. One way is as a spreadsheet with all our fixtures typed in. That''s a very clinical way of organising our thoughts, isn''t it? What about something more like one of those radar graphs? One segment is the league, one''s the AOK Cup, one''s the Vans Trophy, one''s the Cheshire Cup, one''s the FA Cup. Make sense?


    "MD has agreed to a new and I think pretty unique distribution model. Other clubs pay bonuses as you progress in cups, but I think ours is a lot more immediate and motivational. The club and the men''s first team squad will share any cup prize money we earn 50:50. I''ve talked to Christian and come up with a distribution formula that''s quite fair. Every player shares from the pot, but you earn a little more if you''re in a matchday squad. You can talk to him if you want to know more, but the way to benefit most isn''t to score a hat trick in one round but to ensure that we progress as far as possible in as many cups as possible.


    "To that end, I can say that I think it''s important to attack the cups as hard as we can. If the club gets half a million in prize money, every first team squadder is going to get around ten grand. I don''t think there are too many people in this room who would turn their noses up at ten grand.


    "I''ve done calculations and projections and I think prioritising the cups will cost us a few points in the league. We''ll also lose a few points because I''ll be cycling youth team players into the first team as much as I can possibly get away with, especially until January."


    "Why?" said Lee Hudson, who didn''t know about my ambition to win the Youth Cup.


    "Because that''s what we do here - we develop players. Going hard at the FA Youth Cup is part of my journey. If you don''t understand it, that''s fine, we''re looking at different maps.


    "What I think is going to happen is that we''re going to have some frustrating weekends. Things might get a bit scrappy in the league for a while, but new guys, the rest of us have been doing this for three years. We know it works and when we get on a roll it''ll be hard to stop us. It''s three points for a win so we can lose a few matches and still be top of the table. Here''s a wild thought. We could lose 16 matches and finish on 90 points. You get me? That''s an extreme example but that''s why we go for wins and that''s why I''m not going to smash up the dressing room when we lose. League Two has three automatic promotion places. Three! And one club goes up through the playoffs.


    "Will we be one of the four teams promoted? Absolutely. That is absolutely nailed on. We will go for the league title, sure, but right now our map goes off in five paths and I say we run down all of them as fast as we can. When we hit a wall in one, like we probably will against Bolton, we pick ourselves up and go even harder at the others, and somewhere we''ll have a big Ted Lasso motivational sign but it won''t say anything soft and sappy, it''ll be a hard number with a pound sterling sign in front of it. Money, lads! Money and glory. Money, glory, and big love from the fans.


    "I said this last year and was right in a big way. This will be a winning season. We will win a lot of football matches. Some will be easy, some will need luck, and some will seem impossible..." I traced a line on the tablet from Babylon to Noah''s Ark. "But we will find a way."


    ***


    Saturday, August 9


    Back in the big time. Back in football league, just like the old days.


    Actually, not just like the old days. We had changed our away day routine - we would now depart an hour earlier than we would normally have done. Brooke had teased our socials that something special was going on if anyone wanted to come by the Deva stadium in the morning.


    Quite a few people were intrigued enough to stop by and what they saw was the first ride of our swanky new electric team bus.


    It was all-white with the Chester FC crest towards the rear. Absolutely gorgeous on the outside, swanky on the inside. It moved quietly, humming with power like a wizard''s staff. Six players got a morale boost as soon as they stepped onboard, which validated the expenditure, in my opinion.


    "Max!" called out Gary, who was still working for the local newspaper. I went towards him, since it had been made clear by MD that while there was no board I needed to talk to the fans more. That seemed fair enough. MD had also stressed that I couldn''t skip every pre- and post-match interview, especially with the TV companies; they would punish us financially if I didn''t show up. Gary pointed his phone at me. "Tell us about this new bus!"


    "It''s electric, very nice seats, USB chargers and whatnot - we''ll let you have a look inside if you want but we have to set off on time. The idea is we can charge the battery on our solar panels, so it''s, you know, efficient. We have to leave a bit earlier so we can charge it up when we get to the away ground, but I think in a few years all teams will be doing this and clubs will adapt. What else? I wanted to give it a cool name like Red October because then I could say ''engage the silent drive'' instead of ''begin driving'', but that was voted down. Then I wanted to give it a Roman name, like the Deva stadium, and I was looking at famous Roman horses but they don''t trip off the tongue, most of them. That idea turned into us looking at general horse names, right, and I was thinking it should be something Chester related if possible. It really didn''t take long to find the perfect name. The team bus is called... drum roll please... Sealbiscuit."


    "After the famous American horse?"


    "Yeah. I''m pretty sure Seabiscuit was white with a Chester FC badge on its arse, so that tracks."


    "Can you give us any information about the new home kit?"


    "Gary, we did all this. We send you media packs and stuff. Learn to open PDFs, man."


    "I''m asking when you''ll get more stock."


    "What?"


    "It''s sold out, Max! You can''t get one anywhere."


    "They made enough for two years of sales."


    "Apparently not."


    "This is news to me, Gary. Let me ask around. It can''t be sold out after a week, come on. There are probably loads in a van or whatever, but I''ll ask my peeps. Hey, let''s get you on board Sealbiscuit real quick so you can get a feel for it but then we''ve got to go."


    "What are you going to do with all the extra time in Fleetwood?"This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "I''m experimenting with different motivational strategies this year."


    "Can you tell me more?"


    "Um... only if it goes well. If it bombs, I''m not telling you."


    "I hope it goes well, then!"


    ***


    Match 1 of 46: Fleetwood Town versus Chester FC


    I had spent a few hours alone and with Sandra watching footage of Fleetwood and they seemed extremely wedded to their 3-1-4-2 formation. I had most of their likely first eleven in my database so I knew more or less what to expect, and what I expected was pain. An away match to one of the best teams in the division, one that had come down from League One and would have an average CA in the region of 90. (I was close; they were actually CA 91.)


    They could pass the ball around pretty well, and they had some technical forwards. They also had some cavemen types who would win headers and hurt us on set pieces. In short, they could come at us from different angles and I worried enough about getting spanked that I bought 5-3-2 for 4,532 XP. As usual, the formation I bought was instantly replaced in the perk shop, this time by 3-4-2-1, which sounded like 3-4-3 with two of the strikers pulled into CAM slots. Now that sounded much more like it! It was 5,000 XP, though, and I needed to play with my new toy before buying another one.


    5-3-2 featured a flat back five, three central midfielders, and two strikers.


    The idea was that we would give up the wings, with our full backs doing their best to stop Fleetwood, nicknamed ''The Mac'', from getting quality crosses in. When crosses did come in, we would have three centre backs, so chances were one of our lads would be in pole position to win the header. Also, having so many bodies back would make it hard for Fleetwood''s clever players to find space. No space, no disgrace.


    In front of the back line, our three CMs would scrap and make the game bitty, while having two strong strikers would give us an out ball. If the strikers could hold the ball up, it would give our defence a chance to move away from our penalty box and catch their breath, and if the strikers could go one better and win a free kick in a dangerous position, we might even nab a goal.


    I''d decided to put Sticky in net for the league games, with Ben starting cup ties. Despite what I''d said in the Maxterplan about our priorities for the season, Ben knew he had been demoted. He didn''t throw a tantrum but coming so soon after missing out on the Slovakia experience, his morale collapsed. I could only hope he sorted his head out before Tuesday because we were due to play Bolton Wanderers - a Championship team - and I wasn''t sure I would pick a goalie in such a mood.


    Sticky was tall and would help on crosses and set pieces. He was not good with the ball at his feet but we didn''t ask him to be - most teams in League Two used their goalie as an extra passing option, but the goalies weren''t technical enough to actually play the role so it was pretty stupid. I was using Sticky as more or less a traditional shot-stopper. It prevented us from doing certain moves, but unlike most managers I worked with what I had.


    Our back five - God, what a horrible phrase - was Eddie, Christian, Zach, Magnus, and Lee H.


    The midfielders were Youngster - I would slide him back to DM for even more protection - plus Ryan Jack and Lee C.


    Henri and Dazza were the strikers.


    That gave us an average CA of 69.8, which was feeble but I couldn''t fret too much about it. We would improve quickly!


    Our level versus that of the opposition made me decide against naming any of the youth team on the bench, except for those who were in the first team squad. No Tyson, no Chas. But the bench was very, very pleasing, and not only because I had seven guys to choose from and was allowed to use five.


    Ben, a backup goalie better than the starter.


    Josh Owens as cover for left back, plus an option for left-mid if I wanted to change formation. Dan Badford as a midfield schemer. Wibbers and Pascal in case there was a chance to put some pressure on Fleetwood. Tom Westwood as a perfect player for a scenario where we didn''t have much possession - I was sorely tempted to use him from the start.


    And there was me. I felt light on my feet, agile, streamlined.


    Yeah, Fleetwood would probably dominate, probably win, and probably win by a few goals, but if they were slack or stupid we had a few weapons. Getting a win was on our map, even if it was not exactly a quick and easy journey.


    "Christian, I''m gonna rouse the troops now."


    He nodded and tapped Zach on the arm. They moved around the dressing room getting everyone''s attention. Because we were so early we had loosened the rules on bringing phones and iPads into the space and they were listening to music or watching TikToks - with headphones, otherwise it would have been unbearable.


    I got a notebook and peered at it as though I''d written loads of notes, which I hadn''t. "Okay. New season, new motivational methods. This is one I learned from, er," I flipped back and forth a few pages. "Oh, yeah. Literally every other manager ever since Babylonian times." I handed Sandra her notebook back and went on a single lap of the dressing room. "Personally, I like to motivate you by telling you that you are good at this sport and that we have a mint plan and maybe I give you some unifying theme or image to think about, but we''ve had enough of that this week."


    "Not me, boss," said Zach. "I''m ready for more."


    "Yeah? Cool, but we''re like a convoy. We move at the speed of our slowest ship. Don''t we, Lee C?"


    "What?" he said, which got some sniggers. He got the implication and smiled. "I bought a map, boss, after your speech."


    "Oh?" I said, interested. "A map of where? Mesopotamia?"


    "No, it''s a map of where in England people say bread roll, bap, bun, or muffin."


    The laughter did a lot for the mood. Lee Contreras, you beautiful idiot! "That''s great, Lee. Very useful." I was ready to start, but the tone was all wrong. We needed to be calm and serious to better absorb what was about to happen. "Okay let''s all count to ten because the next part isn''t funny." I left a pause and fussed with my socks. The new Grindhog ones had a very slight tendency to slip down my legs - when the others went out for their final warm ups I would get some tape or something. "Guys, you know I believe in you, but that opinion isn''t universal. I''m going to play you an extract from the Pyramid Schemers podcast. Before the season starts, they predict where they think each team will finish, from last place, 24th, to first. They think the top three will be Fleetwood, Cambridge, and Mansfield. We''re going to listen to what they say about you, okay?"


    I had connected my phone to the speakers already, so I opened my podcast app - not the default iPhone one, I''m not a savage - and pressed play.


    ***


    Extract from Pyramid Schemers, the original and best podcast dedicated to the 72 teams in tiers 2-4.


    Rocky: And that''s why we''re predicting that Newport County will finish twenty-first.


    Mike: Moving on to the club we have in twentieth place... it''s the new boys. It''s Chester. The Seals.


    Rocky: The Blues.


    Mike: The Blue Seals. We disagreed on this one, didn''t we?


    Rocky: We did. I am a little more optimistic than you. What have you got against Chester, Mike?


    Mike: Nothing, as you know. Big fan of Chester, great to see them back in the football league. I do have one or two doubts, though.


    Rocky: Let''s hear ''em.


    Mike: So we don''t pretend to be experts in the National League.


    Rocky: That''s true, we don''t.


    Mike: But they scraped their way to the title and their record against the top six teams was poor. Congratulations on the win, of course, but if you''re scraping by like that in the National League, to compete in League Two you''re gonna need a good transfer window, and I don''t think they''ve had that. What we know of the squad, of the key players, is not encouraging.


    Rocky: I like the goalkeeper.


    Mike: Steve Icke? He was a player with a lot of promise but we saw him drop down the leagues. If we were being uncharitable we might say National League was his level.


    Rocky: That''s so harsh.


    Mike: I know but we can only call it as we see it, right? Who else do we know? Eddie Moore, the left-back, didn''t pull up any trees at Sutton and I heard they were surprised to get a fee for him. Christian Fierce - we know a lot of League Two sides looked at him but none took it any further. Zach Green couldn''t get a game for Wrexham at this level. Lee Hudson completes a back line of players not wanted by League Two sides - couldn''t get a game for Barrow. That is a back four that would worry me if I were a Chester fan.


    Rocky: Not if you had one of the stars of the under 20 World Cup patrolling in front of them.


    Mike: Youngster.


    Rocky: Remember the name.


    Mike: Youngster.


    Rocky: Yes. You said that.


    Mike: I thought you said repeat the name. Can Chester keep him, though? I don''t know if they can keep a player that good, if he''ll want to play with - all due respect - players who aren''t on his level.


    Rocky: We''ve seen Ryan Jack and Lee Contreras do well in the football league.


    Mike: You''re really positioning me to be the naysayer on this one, aren''t you? Ryan Jack, great player, amazing player... ten years ago. Lee Contreras couldn''t get in a poor Tranmere team. I mean...


    Rocky: Contreras played his best football when Max Best was at Tranmere.


    Mike: Now that is something I definitely agree with. For a month he looked quality, but he couldn''t sustain it. Chester will need that partnership looking good again because I don''t see a lot of quality in that midfield.


    Rocky: We''ve seen Pascal Bochum in cup matches.


    Mike: He''s lively, innee? Fast. Clever. I can see him doing some damage. Wes Hayward, not so much. Wayward. But at least they''ve got a brilliant striker who did really well for Reading. Oh, wait.


    Rocky: If that''s a pop at Henri Lyons, I''m gonna defend him slightly. Reading were a complete mess then.


    Mike: His goalscoring record in the National League was fine. Just fine. We saw what a good League Two striker does when he plays in that league, and that good striker was called Marcus Wainwright. I think Lyons overtook him in goals scored near the end of the season, which is great except Wainwright had been sold five months earlier.


    Rocky: What do you think about Darren Smith?


    Mike: I think he''s a big lump who doesn''t score goals. I think he might fluke one in if you put a perfect cross on his head.


    ***


    I pressed pause and checked the faces of the squad. It seemed to me that this kind of thing was high-risk. Slagging the players off before a big game! But it wasn''t me saying that most of my squad weren''t up to the level, it was two nerds who had never played the sport. Football managers often posted critical newspaper headlines or tweets in the dressing room to rile their players up.


    Henri swore loudly in French. "Max, I want to shove it up their arse!"


    "Go for it," I said. "Just don''t get sent off or they''ll be the ones laughing."


    His eyes blazed at the image, but he nodded.


    Sticky was fuming. He was absolutely pissed at his portrayal, but he was able to think clearly. "Max. If they think we''re so shit, why don''t they have us in last place?"


    I didn''t like that question. "Er, they think there are a few teams worse than us, is all."


    Sticky got to his feet and growled in a way that was almost frightening. "Play the rest."


    "It''s an hour-long podcast, Steve."


    "Press play. I want to hear the rest."


    I glanced at Sandra, who gave me a tiny shrug. "Er," I said. "Have we got time? I don''t think we''ve got time."


    "We''ve got time," said Vimsy, who wasn''t quite on my wavelength. I really didn''t want to play the rest. If the first part of the podcast''s analysis of our squad could be used as motivation, as spite fuel, the rest was... well, it was cringe.


    ***


    Rocky: What do you think about Darren Smith?


    Mike: I think he''s a big lump who doesn''t score goals. I think he might fluke one in if you put a perfect cross on his head.


    Rocky: You''re talking about a team with Max Best on the wing. Max Best taking set pieces.


    Mike: That''s true. Smith could have decent numbers by the end of the season. And who knows? Maybe he''s better than he looks. It wouldn''t be hard. So why have we got Chester as high as they are? Why don''t we have them going straight back down?


    Rocky: We''ve said it - Max Best. He was unbelievable at Tranmere. He has this habit now of coming on for the last twenty minutes of games but there''s no way he won''t score enough goals and create enough mayhem for Chester to get enough points to avoid the drop.


    Mike: As a player he is far, far too good for the level. What about him as a manager?


    Rocky: There I''m torn. He didn''t get any wins from his five at Grimsby and I think that while it''s clever the way he adapts his formations and tactics on a game by game basis, in the end you do want a manager with a defined style.


    Mike: I''ve heard from a lot of insiders who say he''s the real deal, that he''s just as good as he thinks he is.


    Rocky: Which would be worrying for the rest of the league... in a different club.


    Mike: Right. So he adds twenty points as a manager, thirty points as a player. Chester are safe before they''ve kicked a ball!


    Rocky: What''s annoying is that''s probably true. But still, he''s working with the lowest budget in the league. You can''t defy financial gravity. I think he''ll get them safe this season and move onto bigger and better things next year. So long, thanks for the memories.


    Mike: Would you have him at Oxford?


    Rocky: [Pause.] Yes.


    Mike: In nineteenth place, another northern team with a budget a long way south of the others... Accrington Stanley.


    ***


    I shook my head as I pressed pause. That had been a disaster. Last time I''d stopped the recording, the lads were ready to go and smash bricks with their skulls. Now the mood had shifted.


    Uh-oh.


    "So, er," I said, but Sticky took over.


    "You heard the pricks," he boomed, bending slightly to look his team mates in the eye. "We''re shit, the boss is great. Is that right? We''ve got seventy minutes to prove ''em wrong. Get your arses out there!"


    Christian yelled something, as did Zach and Lee C, and the dressing room filled with shouts before it emptied.


    When the first eleven were gone, I turned to Sandra. "What do you think?"


    "Not sure," she said. "I think they were motivated enough beforehand, don''t you? First game of the season, first game in the EFL. We didn''t need the podcast today. Maybe do that in the third match."


    "Yeah but you can''t use the pre-season predictions before the third match, can you? It''s now or never."


    Sandra thought about it. "I think I liked it, overall. It was getting my blood boiling somehow."


    "It''s because what they were saying was true and that''s how we''re perceived on the outside and that''s a shock because in here we think positively of everyone. I read a lot of autobiographies of former players and so much of their motivation is them hearing a negative opinion and saying fuck you, I''ll prove you wrong."


    "I''m more interested in the players who didn''t get named. Magnus. William. Tom, Dan, Josh. They''re not even worth a slagging-off. That could be just as effective."


    "Wow," I said, because I hadn''t even thought of that. "I''m actually a genius."


    ***


    The Highbury Stadium, definitely in the top three most famous stadiums of that name, is located on the coast between Blackpool and Morecambe, where we had lost pre-season friendlies.


    The main stand was awesome, with its sleek curving roof, though the rest of the stadium was pretty functional. 831 Chester fans had travelled up to witness a big piece of the club''s history and they were in the mood to sing, sing, sing. I went over to the Percy Ronson Stand before kick off and let them serenade me.


    I had to talk to the TV people before the match but instead of answering their questions I quite reasonably pointed out that as player-manager I needed to warm up with my players and Sandra should be allowed to do the pre-match interviews. The interviewer seemed sympathetic to that point of view and since it was a unique situation it seemed that as long as I was in the matchday squad I would be spared one of the more tedious duties in football.


    Sadly, that was the only win I got, because when the match finally kicked off, Fleetwood did a number on us. Our lads stuck to the plan very well. Eddie and Lee H worked hard to prevent crosses, the centre backs won headers, Youngster mopped up. But it was one-way traffic and The Cod Army had far too much power and craft for us.


    Quite early in the half I realised it would be a miracle if we got anything from the match, so I experimented with the 5-3-2 setup. I''d already moved Youngster back one slot but there were countless little tweaks to test. I created a hot key that would switch Zach, my best passer from deep, from short passes to long balls. I felt that if I could mix things up we could take teams by surprise. It might have worked if we had more control of midfield, but we didn''t. We didn''t have control anywhere. Nor did my use of the With Ball and Without Ball screens achieve a great deal. Most of our match ratings settled on 6, with Youngster on 7 and Dazza on 5.


    Still, it was all instructive and interesting, in a dispassionate sort of way. From the moment the second goal went in, the Fleetwood fans turned from cheering their team to jeering us. They sang ''League Two? You''re having a laugh!'' They sang ''Fuck off back to Wales''. They sang ''two-nil in your cup final!''


    Their dugout, with a mediocre former player ruling the roost, was pretty classless on the whole, but in fairness I''d be classless too if the most famous news story about me started with the words ''Disgraced Scottish Midfielder''.


    To the great disappointment of Vimsy, I decided there was no point getting stuck in, getting involved, because at two-nil down it was hard to see us finding our way back into the match. We had too many players who were thirty, thirty-five points behind their rivals. Too many parts of our tablet had chipped off. It was enough for today that we were battling, that we were together.


    "What do you think?" said Sandra.


    "About what?"


    "About half-time. Your speech."


    "Oh. I''ve got nothing. Do you see a way back?"


    "Yes. You let the boys settle down, catch their breath, then you say ''my favourite band is called Fleetwood Maps'' and you riff on that."


    I smiled but my heart wasn''t in it. "This game''s dead. We''re done. Write it off, use five subs, get minutes in legs. Slap them at the Deva."


    "Mmm," she said, non-committal.


    I did my usual routine - checking match ratings, Condition scores, looking at possible injuries. That was all fine but the fire Beth had promised would return when the season resumed just wasn''t there. Maybe it had gone. Like, proper gone.


    "Are you all right?"


    "Yeah," I said, and it was true. I was all right. I was healthy and had a high income and was good at the main part of my job. On Tuesday night I would use Triple Captain and Bench Boost against Bolton Wanderers - why not? - and with that boost I would conceivably be good enough as a player to do something very, very naughty. "It''s weird we have more chance against a Championship side than one from League Two."


    "Do we, though?"


    "Yeah," I said. "Bolton will watch this and think we''re shit. If they put out one reserve too many we''ll fucking go for the jugular and see what happens. Fleetwood are this division''s Slovakia. A slightly thinner brick wall we keep crashing against." I sighed. "Starting the season with the hardest possible match is brutal. Don''t do this to us again, Mr. Fixture Computer."


    "Is it really a computer?"


    "I think so. I''ll ask when I go to the first EFL meeting."


    "Mmm," she said again, like it was her fucking catchphrase.


    "What?"


    "Nothing," she said. She looked over the pitch. "We''ll stay like this, will we? 5-3-2. You''ll come on for the last twenty, run around a bit."


    "Ugh. Can''t be bothered. It''s just an injury risk, innit?"


    Sandra bit her thumb nail. "Mmm. The fans would like it, though. Maybe you can do a nutmeg or some mid-match tekkers. Give them something to talk about on the drive home. Come on, Max. Bit of showboating for the fans. They''ve waited fifteen years for this."


    I found myself nodding. "Yeah. I''ll do some megs and one minor madness but I''m not going in for tackles. Yeah, okay."


    ***


    At half-time I was calm and technocratic. I tapped the magnets and gave out some pieces of advice. The usual things, like noticing that the number 20 preferred passing to the 9 than the 10. Zach could be on his toes for that.


    I was telling Dazza that he was getting dragged too far from Henri and was moving his magnet around when I stopped talking. I had a weird moment in a soundless bubble. I stepped back from the tactics board deeply, deeply confused.


    "How long has that been there?" I said.


    "What?" said the Brig, worried. Worried for my safety, worried for my sanity.


    "It''s because I wanted to move Youngster," I said, slowly. "I didn''t see it. How can I miss something so basic? What?"


    I stepped forward and reset the formation to 5-3-2. Then I slid one of the three centre-backs to the DM slot and fixed the gaps between the two remaining ones, just like the curse did.


    "Henri," I said. "What do you think?"


    He squinted. "4-1-3-2?"


    "Yeah. Do you like it?"


    "It''s still very narrow, but yes, I prefer it to 5-3-2. Though, of course," he added, sensing I was in a strange mood, "it is rational to use that formation today."


    I adjusted one of the magnets because it was a hair''s breadth out of place - I stepped back and threw my hands up like I''d been shocked.


    "What, sir? What happened?"


    I turned, slowly, with my hands up at first. I slunk to the side of the board so that I was facing everyone but could still move the magnets. "This was my favourite formation in Champion Manager." That''s why it hadn''t jumped out at me! "I ran this for years. Carlisle United, champions of Europe. That was based on this." I stared at the formation. As Henri had said, it was too narrow. Not a Max Best formation at all. But you''d get width if you had fast, attacking full backs with great stamina... If you had Alphonso Davies on the left and Roddy Jones on the right... And - yes, it was coming back to me - you needed goals from midfield. Ryan Jack and Lee Contreras were not my dream goalscoring CMs but I knew there was a way to tweak this formation to get them into the box. "A-ha," I said, chuckling to myself. "We''re doing this. Magnus, go to CM."


    "Yes, boss."


    Sandra tilted her head and looked at the board - she wasn''t impressed, I could tell. "You don''t think we''ll get overrun in defence?"


    "No," I said. I tapped the board a few times. "This is overpowered. Oh! And this is how we get Pascal on. Mate, make sure you''re warmed up, yeah? I''m not sure when. I need to take a look at it but I think I want late runs into the box, see if you can get on the ends of things."


    "Yes, boss."


    I faced the board with my eyes closed, running through the implications. More parity in midfield meant fewer attacks coming at us. Josh would give us more threat on the left than Eddie, but only fractionally and he was still so raw. It was good Sandra had made me use him against Slovakia, though. Josh was supposed to be a wing-back, meaning he wanted to play further forward than Eddie or Cole. It was easy to imagine tweaking this 4-1-3-2 to suit him. And having three CMs meant I could sub on for one of those guys and give myself a free role. It wouldn''t matter so much if I went a-roaming if I was one of three.


    "Boss?" It was Wibbers. "Did you just find an old map?"


    I beamed at him. "Ha! I don''t know. Maybe! Come on, lads. Go and get a grip of this match. Let''s see if there''s treasure at the end of this one."


    "Or if it''s dragons," said Sticky, morbidly.


    ***


    Okay so Fleetwood took their foot off the gas while we added a few tenths to our match ratings, but the start of the second half was really gratifying. We looked way better, and as I''d thought, having the extra midfielder did more to stop attacks than the fifth defender.


    There was still something of a chasm between the elevens, though, and the big chances that were created were created by the home team.


    "It''s better, isn''t it?"


    "Yes," said Sandra. "This suits us better. I think..."


    "What?"


    "I think it suits you better. You don''t like playing five at the back. You''d play four at the back and three defensive midfielders, but not five at the back."


    "Er, I think I did that once. We had two men sent off. Three DMs, yeah. Huh. I don''t think it even occurred to me that day to put five at the back."


    Sandra nodded. "We take our lead from you. If you don''t believe in something, it won''t work. It was worth doing it to get to a formation you do like."


    "Do you prefer this to 4-1-4-1?" I said. Sandra really wasn''t keen on that one.


    She stuck her tongue out. "They''re about equal. Do we want to play up the wings or through the middle? We, er..."


    "Go on."


    "We''re a bit short on reliable wingers and midfielders who thrive in tight spaces. I wish we had discussed 4-1-3-2 before we signed who we signed."


    I nodded. That would obviously have been better but I couldn''t see that it would have changed anything. Maybe we wouldn''t have gone for Lee C. "5-3-2 will let us give minutes to Sowumni. That''s good. And I think Wibbers will do well as one of the three midfielders behind the strikers."


    Sandra brightened up. "That''s true. I''d like to see that."


    I was always worried about putting young players on in matches we were losing. So far it hadn''t blown up in my face but everyone said there was a risk of it messing with their heads. Just because we had a sports psychologist didn''t mean I needed to go round creating problems. "Not today, I reckon. I think we''ll give Tom a run out. Him, Pascal, me and that''s that."


    "Okay."


    ***


    With 70 minutes on the clock, the match was going pretty much as it had been. The Chester fans were singing and banging on the back of the stand almost non-stop. It was the party they had been longing for and the scoreline was almost irrelevant. Whether I could afford to lose five or six matches in a row, this one was almost a free hit.


    The Fleetwood fans were enjoying themselves and their team''s performance. Fleetwood''s manager was being a buffoon on the touchline. He looked like the sort who would trip a player as he raced down the line.


    "Who will we bring off?" said Sandra, interrupting my thoughts so abruptly I shook my head like a dog.


    "Oh. What do you think?"


    "Dazza and Ryan."


    "Agreed."


    "Now?"


    "Sure."


    Dazza had run around a lot and tried to affect the game. Against players his own age, his physicality was a huge advantage, but the Fleetwood centre backs were older, just as physical, and a lot more streetwise. Tom Westwood was worse than Dazza in almost every way, but he had been training with us and in his brief career he had played against a lot of hard bastards. Tom very quickly showed that I was onto something when I''d thought about naming him in the starting lineup - this kind of match, where we needed the strikers to do a lot of donkey work, a lot of thankless running, was perfect for him. His CA was way lower than Dazza''s, but if I gave him minutes he would start to catch up.


    "Give Tom some praise," I said.


    "Do it yourself," said Sandra, giving me a tiny push towards the fourth official. "Magnus is tired. Now remember, you promised me one nutmeg and one tekkers."


    I sighed and looked up at a floodlight. I just didn''t feel like it. "Fine," I said.


    ***


    There was still no fire in my belly and no ice in my veins but as I was announced to the fans, the away mob went bonkers, soon settling into a rolling rendition of ''Max Best''s blue-and-white army''. It perked me up, put a spring in my step, which allied to my general physical well-being made me feel like a baby gazelle.


    I bounced and boinged around the pitch, following the ball, helping my mates out, one-touching it to someone''s feet, flicking it over someone''s head before collecting on the other side, doing pointless tricks in the middle of nowhere.


    The Chester fans lapped it up and they started yelling Ol¨¦ when I played simple passes. One Fleetwood player, a prick called John Allen, didn''t like that and he booted me up the arse.


    I got up and laughed in his face, which I''m prepared to admit could be construed as mildly annoying. He asked me if I would like to go home in a fucking ambulance, which I''m sorry to say made me laugh even harder. I had the chance to send the free kick into the box but I told Pascal to pass the ball short to me and when he did, I dribbled straight at John Allen, did a couple of stepovers, and nutmegged the shit out of him.


    I passed to Henri and ran for the return, but he was isolated. Had there been an option to his left - some kind of hard-working Irishman with high stamina, perhaps - he might have been able to keep the move alive, but he didn''t.


    I shrugged off my disappointment in record time. It was always tough when you injected forward momentum into a move and someone else ruined it, but my general lack of belly fire was useful in that regard. It was my fault that Aff wasn''t there, and my fault that there was no left-mid of any kind.


    As Fleetwood rushed forward, after the referee turned around, John Allen smashed into me. A proper forearm smash to the jawline. I just about saw it coming and got my arm in the way to lessen the blow but it still sent me crashing to the turf. Henri saw it and went mental. The Chester fan party turned vicious. One word from me and they would have stormed the main stand.


    I waited on the turf, propping myself up with my elbows, until the ref let Physio Dean come to look at me.


    "Have I lost any teef?" I said, as he looked in my mouth.


    "No. There''s some blood though. Hold still."


    John Allen came over. "Not so funny now, is it?"


    "Max!" complained Henri. "I want to end him."


    I did something I normally hated doing on a football pitch - I spat. It came out pretty red. I grabbed some water, swigged, and spat again. "Why? He''s nothing. He''s nobody." I swigged on the water as I started to lift myself from the turf.


    The ref turned up. "You good to go, Best?"


    "I''m good to go whenever the fuck I''m good to go," I said, staring at him. "I just got elbowed in the face, as you''ll see on TV again and again, and you did nothing. You bottled it. You get a zero in my match report. Do not add insult to injury by making me hurry. Are we fucking clear?"


    "Don''t talk to me like that."


    "Why? What are you gonna do? Elbow me in the face? Join the fucking queue."


    I turned to Dean but found that he had gone. He was being led away by Henri, who was whispering in his ear. I still had the water bottle so I dropkicked it in the general direction of our dugout.


    I heard the home fans roar with approval while the away fans got one step closer to rioting. Why? Behind me, the ref was holding a yellow card over his head. Aimed at me.


    Yellow card for getting elbowed in the face. Guy doing the elbowing gets away scot-free.


    Yeah. Tell you what, mate. I felt a bit of the old fire in the belly. Not an awful lot of the ice in the veins.


    I pottered around for a minute feeling my jaw, spitting what might have been flecks of blood. And muttering. Chuntering. Getting myself worked up.


    The ball was fizzed to John Allen and I saw my chance. I sprinted at him and he laid the ball off - just as I knew he would. I got to the ball just as it reached its intended target, one of the centre-backs. I shoulder-barged the defender and as I fell away, I dragged the ball to the right. Slightly too far behind, but I dragged it again, and was just bringing it under my spell when I realised I was about to get clattered from behind, and this one would really hurt.


    So I drag-rolled the ball backwards and to the right before jumping slightly. Allen caught me but not enough to make me lose balance. I landed and suddenly everything was aligned - as the Fleetwood players got in each other''s way, I pushed the ball forward and to the right and hit it hard and low from thirty-five yards out.


    For the first few yards, the ball was hidden behind a defender, but the goalie still had time to get across and save it. Or so you''d think. Though he dived, it was like he got shorter when he did so. I found the bottom-right corner but I needn''t have been so accurate. This wasn''t the Slovakian national team goalie; this was a League Two journeyman who had nothing to do for eighty minutes except take very slow goal kicks.


    Two-one!


    Chester FC had scored its first fourth tier goal in fifteen years and the fans took the phrase limbs to new levels. Normally when you say limbs it means people jumping for joy, throwing their hands up, but I swear I saw some fucking legs in that seething mass of bodies. Guys doing handstands.


    It was a nice moment, I guess, one I might enjoy in retrospect, but right then and there I wanted my teammates to come and celebrate with me. We hugged and kissed and bumped each other in the normal fashion, but very, very close to John Allen. There was footage of me trying to include him in the celebrations but I''m pretty sure that was a deepfake. That dubious footage was followed by real video of what the TV company called ''a mass brawl'' but they really do go looking for narratives, sometimes. There was nothing in it.


    By the time the match finally resumed I hadn''t quite calmed down, by which I mean I had worked myself into a fucking whirlwind of hate and skill and put on an eight-minute show that drew the word ''breathtaking'' from the commentator, from Sandra, and on the next episode of the Pyramid Schemers podcast.


    I pinged long passes, I dribbled, I played one-touch, I fired a shot just over, I slapped a volley just wide. John Allen kept trying to give me verbals, kept trying to kick me, but my fury had long since risen to new levels, leaving him as one of the slugs it was my mission to destroy.


    With me running riot, the rest of the team suddenly clicked. Zach fired a pass to Lee C, who touched it first time back to Pascal. He had a nice angle for a pass to Tom, who touched it to Henri and spun away for the return.


    It never came. A Fleetwood defender, safe in the knowledge that the ref only booked players for being smacked in the gob, wrestled Henri to the ground before he could send the return pass.


    We got the free kick but - it almost made me laugh, which would have broken the spell - Henri got a yellow card for getting in the defender''s face. The defender was not carded.


    The free kick though, was in a dream position. Whether you prefer the early Fleetwood Mac line up or the one that released Rumours, you can''t deny that having a free kick twenty-five yards out, five yards to the left of the centre of the goal, is Max Best territory.


    John Allen took up the only position for which he was truly suited on a football pitch - what professionals call ''the slug''. Perhaps you have seen this. The goalkeeper assembles a wall of three or four men. They are supposed to jump as the ball is kicked in order to make it even harder for the ball to get past them. The act of jumping leaves a gap under their feet, though, which free-kick maestros of the past learned to exploit. Thus ''the slug'' was born. It wriggles to the ground and lies there, prone and useless, simply to block one potential route to goal.


    I closed my eyes and sketched a map. I could smash the ball wide and bend it into the far post, but the goalie was stood to that side. Even if I hit it hard, he''d be favourite, especially now that he had let a goal in and was wide awake.


    I could Beckham the ball up and over the wall, with enough curl so that even if the goalie danced across to my left and jumped, he wouldn''t be able to get a hand to it. For bonus points, I would aim between the heads of two of the wall - ideally the two with the lowest Bravery scores. They were the guys least likely to throw their heads at the ball, after all.


    That last option wasn''t available to me, since the two in the key position were cavemen from the warrior class.


    By the time the ref had finished fussing over everything, I still hadn''t decided what I wanted to do. He blew his whistle and I tried to make eye contact with the goalie - sometimes that helped. He would only look at the ball, though, so there was no advantage there.


    There was something about the way he was doing little tippy-toed moves that made me think he wanted to rush across goal and make a spectacular flying save. So I thought: okay, bubs. Let''s see how you get on.


    I took a step back, and two slow steps forward. That was a big old neon sign that said I was going to clip the ball slow and accurate over the wall. The goalie took three tiny, quick steps in that direction... and I slapped the ball to where the keeper had been. With a bit of extra leg speed, the shot went fast, up and down, but it was the element of surprise that did it. For the second time in the match the goalie did an inept, hunched dive that made him look like a rank amateur.


    Two-all!


    I took a few steps in the direction of John Allen, just to check if he had seen it from his position as the slug, but I found myself being bundled away by Henri, Zach, Christian, Lee C, Lee H - the whole fucking team. I found myself in front of eight hundred and thirty-one bouncing Chester fans, over eight hundred of whom seemed to be trying to make their own heads explode by screaming.


    I cupped my hand to my ear. I can''t hear you.


    I''m told the resulting roar could be heard from Bradford.


    ***


    At the final whistle, which came too early for me to finish what John Allen had started, I gave a Maxy Two-Thumbs to the away fans, then walked off the pitch ignoring everyone, especially Fleetwood''s manager and the referee. I grabbed Dean and took him to the dressing room. My jaw was really starting to hurt so I wrote a text that I showed him but didn''t actually send.


    I want the stuff.


    Dean rolled his eyes. "No, Max. Come on. We talked about that."


    Not in the mood. Give me the stuff.


    One good thing about owning a dentist was having access to all kinds of pharmaceuticals that normal people would struggle to get hold of. Dean looked up, sighed, but nodded. He went to his personal kit bag, looked around furtively, and rummaged in one of the side pockets.


    ***


    "Max Best, your first ever match in League Two."


    I shook my head.


    "No? Right, Grimsby."


    I did a rolling-forward hand gesture. Keep going.


    "Okay, and Tranmere, yes. But your first as the manager of Chester."


    I did an okay gesture. Correct!


    "Two-all. Do you think that''s a fair reflection on the course of the match?"


    I shrugged.


    "It''s traditional to talk, Max, in these interviews."


    I shook my head and pointed to my mouth. Can''t. I mimed elbowing someone, then mimed being elbowed.


    "Sorry, what are you doing?"


    I rolled my eyes and took a tablet computer from Dean, who was watching me with a nervous, sweaty sheen on his forehead. I tapped the screen. One incredible thing about being in League Two with every match televised was that footage was easy to come by. I had the incident where Allen had hit me - I let it play out.


    "You got elbowed?"


    I gave him the kind of look Dani Smith-Smithe gave me when I said something stupid. I backed it up by replaying the incident.


    "And you can''t talk?"


    I shook my head, and mimed showing a yellow card.


    "Yellow card? You got a yellow card, but John Allen didn''t."


    I nodded, making a stupid laughing sound.


    "Er, Max, I think I should let you go and get some treatment, perhaps. Congratulations on your two goals and a hard-earned point for your team."


    I held the tablet up with it paused on the exact moment John Allen''s elbow crashed into my face. The most perfect part was that the name ''Allen'' was clearly visible on his shirt. I knew this next scene would be the one that was used as the thumbnail, the one shared on social media. My face, the image on the tablet. I smiled at my interviewer. Upon opening my lips, the viewers could see blood all over my teeth, in every crevice, every nook and cranny. It was absolutely disgusting.


    "Er, Max Best, Chester''s two-goal hero. Thank you very much."


    ***


    Back in the dressing room, Dean gave me a toothbrush and I carefully set about brushing my teeth in front of one of the sinks.


    "What the hell is this?" cried Sticky, as he led a throng of players inside. "Are you still bleeding? Dean!"


    "He''s not bleeding," said Dean, folding his arms. He shook his head a few more times, but then unfolded his arms and laughed. "It''s red dye. Disclosing tablets from the dentist. You use them to find plaque so you can clean your teeth better or, you know, show your patients they''re not cleaning their teeth well."


    Sticky was astonished. "So Max doesn''t clean his teeth?"


    I laughed so hard I nearly choked on some red dye. I spat out a mouthful. "Don''t make me laugh, Steve. It really does hurt. The fucker got me good. I just wanted to make sure everyone knew he got me. Know what I mean? If he doesn''t get a ban, let''s just say I''ll bring it up at the next EFL meeting."


    Sticky marvelled at me for a moment while I got back to brushing my teeth. The dye was weirdly persistent. Sticky mused. "Seems like the nerds were right."


    "They''re not right," I said. "You''re mint. You kept us in the game so a sub could run at tired legs. That''s the plan." I washed the brush under the tap and got back to scrubbing. "Team," I added, as an afterthought, but it came out more like ''eem''.


    Sticky was unusually talkative. "Does today''s match fit the map theme or do we go on impulse, full-bore, when we feel like it?"


    Henri, exhausted but happy, slapped Sticky on the back. "It fits the theme. We have a mapmaker; Fleetwood don''t. If they did, they would know not to mess with Chesters. Their map would have an arrow pointing to us and it would say ''do not wake the dragon''."


    "I''m not a dragon," I said, but my mouth was sore and full of fluid.


    "What?" said Sticky. A few people came closer to hear better. Vimsy, the Brig, Sandra, Magnus.


    "I woh a wa-on!" I said.


    Vimsy pointed, as energetic as he ever got. "I want Rhiannon! He wants Rhiannon. Who''s in charge of the music? Come on, hurry up! We never get any good tunes around here! Five at the back, keep it tight first twenty, score from a set piece, running battles, nick a point and blast some Stevie Nicks. Finally, a day I can enjoy from start to finish. Ah! It makes sitting through history lessons worth it. Yes, lads! Come on! You know the words! Come on! Will you ever win? Yes! At Bolton on Tuesday."

 11.13 - Adding Insult to Injury

    13.


    On average, a footballer sustains two injuries per season, missing 23 days of action. Contact injuries represent 30% of cases. Hamstrings account for over 40% of soft tissue and muscular injuries.


    ***


    Monday, August 11


    "All right, lads, settle down. I''ve decided we''re going to bin off the usual drills - it''s time for us to learn Relationism. It''s going to be strange at first but when it clicks we''re going to be an unstoppable force. Relationism is new for some of you, so here''s Margot Robbie in a bubble bath to explain."


    I sipped my tea.


    "Max?" It was Henri.


    I woke from my reverie and remembered where I was - BoshCard HQ. There was no bubble bath, no champagne, and - well, there was a blonde Australian. "I was just thinking about The Big Short."


    "Is that your favourite movie?" said Youngster, with a big smile.


    "No, but we''re doing a financial planning talk soon, so..." I took a big sip of tea and pushed myself off the wall. This meeting could probably have been done as a long WhatsApp message but it was good to have rituals. If we skipped a Monday meeting it would discombobulate the lads, and the last thing I wanted was to get a phone call from a local farmer saying twenty lost and confused players had wandered into his field.


    "All right," I said, and Christian glared at everyone until there was quiet. "Some admin. We got some soft tissue injuries on Saturday and as far as I can tell they happened celebrating the second goal." The lads smiled as they relived the moment. "I know it''s a mad release of all the crap that''s built up but we can''t get injured celebrating goals. We don''t have the resources, guys. Can you just? Can you not? Sometimes I can''t even. If you''ve got a dodgy hamstring today tell Dean. The yoga lady is here at Bosh this lunchtime and I might ask if she can come in the morning, too. Quite fancy a bit of the old yogs right now. I''ve invented a new pose I call the Celebrating Seal. Doesn''t involve pulling a hammie or getting a groin strain or any kind of injury. Really modern stuff, this.


    "Our new home kit sold out. We''re talking to Grindhog about getting more, or not. Brooke thinks it might not be worth doing another run and we''ll build demand for the next release, but that''s supposed to be in two years. Also, if we don''t stock up, counterfeiters will come in. So... I don''t know, my instinct is to get more but that''s up the air at the moment. I know you guys are being hassled for kits - just say we''re sold out and you''re not sure what''s going to happen next. I think the unexpected demand shows that this city is ready for another good season. We give it to the fans, they''ll respond, you know what I mean?


    "Tomorrow night is Bolton away. I''ll come back to that, but in short it''s normal training today, chilled out in the morning, board Sealbiscuit around 3.


    "Saturday we''re home to Burton Albion, who just came down from League One. In theory they should be a fair chunk better than Fleetwood but I''ve seen some of the players they''ve lost and who they replaced them with and they''re much weaker. They''re still one of the very best teams in the league so it''ll be tough, but if you play like you did against Fleetwood we''ll be in with a shot, won''t we? It''ll be another party atmosphere at the Deva so be prepared for a strange day and whatever the score is, the fans are gonna be in the mood for a lap of honour so final whistle, whatever mood you''re in, fucking flip that switch and go applaud the mob.


    "Similar note. Remember I sent out a video asking for donations for the department at the Cheshire FA that runs schools football? The response was massive and the number of schools putting up teams is up 40% or something mad. So that''s great but I really want to strike while the iron is hot on that whole thing so the guy, Richard, is going to be our guest of honour on Saturday. I''m thinking three of you get to do bits with him for your socials. Take him round the inner sanctum, introduce him to the Chester Chatters, photos of you, him, and the kids we scouted playing for their schools. You can build your brands being associated with good people doing good things, right? Talk to Christian if you want to get in on that. Yes, Lee, you''re allowed. Actually, you''d be perfect for that, wouldn''t you? Get stuck in.


    "Okay, Bolton. First thing is they''ve got a beautiful stadium, 28,000, and we expect about 9,000 attendance. Pretty decent, right? But they normally get 22,000 and of this 9,000, five thousand will be Chester fans." That provoked a stir. "I know. We''re going to outnumber the home fans and it''s going to be mental. Why have we sold so many tickets? This is our return to the big time, isn''t it? First of all, it''s the AOK Cup and you need to be in the football league to play in that. Right? So it''s already, like, a novelty. Second, it''s Bolton. Founding members of the Football League, four-times FA Cup winners, Nat Lofthouse, some of the most delicious footy scran in the land, and best of all, it''s only an hour away. See the game, couple of pints on the coach home, back in bed by 11. It''s a perfect Tuesday night out, isn''t it? I mean, the demand for tickets sort of hints that maybe our fans aren''t convinced they''ll see another AOK match in the next two decades, but I don''t mind that. It''s up to us to show them we belong at this level, isn''t it?


    "Yeah but anyway, it''s going to be noisy as fuck so get excited. This is huge, lads.


    "Okay, what about Bolton, the team? They''ve been in the shit in recent times but they clawed their way back to the Championship, just about, and they''re holding on by their fingernails. They spent a long time doing three at the back; some 3-5-2, some 3-4-3, loads of variants.


    "Their current manager likes four at the back. Okay, no problem there, except he doesn''t have the squad for it. He''s trying to change course but he''s blocked the canal and he''s in the shit and the fans are turning - the ones that haven''t already turned. So even if he only rests a few lads against us, we might find there are juicy targets to aim at. Example: his backup fullbacks are likely to be centre-backs shunted out to the sides and Pascal and Sharky will fucking do them.


    "I''m getting ahead of myself. Expect Bolton 4-3-3, home advantage, lots of talented players, better than Fleetwood." By my reckoning, Bolton must have been in the CA 110-115 range. They would win League One but were out of their depth in the Championship - something for Chester to aspire to. "Okay? So we start with 5-3-2 and we - Vimsy?"


    "Keep things tight."


    "Let me tell you now, our subs are going to be key to this. We''ll start, ah, inexperienced, and in the hour before kickoff their analysts will look at our team sheet going who the fuck is this? No offence, Sunday." The young man smiled - I could tease him all I wanted if he started a big cup match. "New guys, one of the things we do here is let big oppos get complacent and as soon as their temperature drops we turn up the heat. Bolton will start strong and get weaker as they make subs, we''ll do the opposite, and, yeah, as long as we don''t get blown away at the very start, we really have a chance to dick them at the end."


    "How long will I get?" said Sunday, whose pleasure at being picked had diminished rapidly when he realised he would be subbed off unusually early.


    "Ten to fifteen minutes," I said. Sunday pulled a face. Mine hardened. "You don''t like it?"


    Henri reached out and put his hand on Sunday''s shoulder. "I''ll explain it to him, Max. It''s okay."


    I was mollified - slightly. "It better be okay because I''m picking a team to win this match and if there''s anyone who doesn''t want to be part of the biggest shock of the round, let me know now."


    Sunday was too busy regretting some of his life choices to speak, so once again Henri took over, speaking in a slightly soothing tone. "We all want to play, Max, and we will carry out your plan to the best of our ability. If we are not selected we will train hard to be ready for Burton Albion."


    I rubbed my forehead, partly to relax and partly to see if any veins were about to burst. From daydreams about beautiful women in bathtubs to Exit Triallists pulling faces at being given minutes in a huge cup tie. To guys I''d plucked from the beach demanding lobster money. Stupidity was creeping back into our preparations, our play, our goal celebrations. We had only been back in the EFL for five minutes and egos were already inflating out of proportion to on-pitch achievement.


    Before I could properly melt down, Sandra stepped into ''centre stage''. She moved the magnets on our tactics board into a 5-3-2 formation.


    "The boss and I are going to finalise the line up and tell you after the sesh, but we''re going to do something like we did against Fleetwood. Start really solid then open up. Almost certainly we''ll use young players to take the shine off the ball, as they say in cricket. It''s hard work, lads, and to the outside world it seems a bit mad but it''s part of the process and it''s why we''re in tier four instead of tier seven. Okay?"


    The young lads I wanted to use early on were Sunday, Tom, and Omari.


    Soon, I would send Omari to Saltney on loan, but there were potentially five more matches in August before the transfer window closed and I wanted to give him some minutes to show we valued him and he wasn''t just some object we chucked around like a hot potato. He was a lot more useful to me right now than Sunday fucking Sowumni, that was for sure.


    Sandra moved one magnet. "As we get into the game, having weathered the early storm, we move to 4-1-3-2, sliding the central CM to DM, like we did against Fleetwood. The boss wants to bring Youngster and Pascal on, not start them, because he''s convinced Bolton won''t be expecting that and those guys will play out of their skin once they''ve had ten, twenty minutes to analyse the oppo. And if you''ve been around long enough, you''ll know the boss is normally right. Second half, when Bolton have had fifteen minutes to regroup and adjust to how we finished the first half, we whip out Henri and Dazza and see how they like that. Spoiler alert - they won''t. Last change, as per, about twenty minutes to go, the boss. We loosen the jar so he can feel strong when he opens it, yeah?"


    She looked at me to see if I had anything I wanted to add, but I didn''t. I had just come to a decision. Yes, we had hit a tipping point and there was no doubt about it - I didn''t like footballers.


    "Okay, lads," said Sandra. "Let''s get to it."


    They stood and shuffled out while I ground my teeth together. Sunday hesitated and took a step towards me. Both Henri and Youngster intercepted him and pulled him to join the stream. Sandra spoke to Well In, then came over to me. "You''re hangry."


    "I''m not hangry. I''m disappointed."


    "Let''s get you a smashed avocado on toast and we''ll finalise the team."


    "You asked Well In to take training?"


    "The start, yeah. Won''t take long to decide, will it?"


    I scratched my jaw. "No." We had plenty of options, most of which would crash and burn against a Championship team, leaving us with maybe three valid formations to choose from. But the AOK Cup allowed us to name NINE subs and we could use five. I had a perk called Bench Boost which made my subs play better; I could use it once per season per competition. Deploying Bench Boost and Triple Captain against Bolton was a no-brainer. If Bolton rested a few players and my reserves kept things tight while five stars lurked on our bench, I gave us a fifty-fifty shot at winning the tie. But even with the added complexity of thinking about who should start and who should come on - and in which formation - it wouldn''t take more than five minutes to hash it out. "No, it''s a piece of piss. Been here before, haven''t we?"


    "Sunday hasn''t."


    "Excuse me?"


    "Most people, Max, don''t know about this surprise subs thing you do. He has come from a club culture where being subbed off after ten minutes is a humiliation."


    "But ten minutes at the end is good?"


    "Yes. Come on, you know this. Don''t pretend what you do isn''t weird and his reaction isn''t completely normal."


    "He gave up the right to assume things will be normal the moment he signed his contract," I said, loftily.


    "Is Emma around?"


    "She''s working from home, but she''ll come at lunch for the yogs."


    "Oh, good."


    "What?"


    "You always cheer up when she''s around."


    ***


    Aided by our head of marketing, who had stopped by for breakfast, Sandra and I spent a while workshopping scenarios and running ideas up flagpoles to see if anything resonated. Then Brooke left the area and we got back to ''having a think'', as it used to be called.


    I started at the end. 4-1-3-2. Ben; my first-choice back four; Youngster; me, Lee, and Pascal in midfield; Henri and Dazza in attack. That would give us a CA of 72.4, and if I could use Bench Boost on Youngster, me, Pascal, Henri, and Dazza, we would be pretty potent going forward.


    Ben''s head had cleared, and while his morale was still bad, it was trending upwards and if I told him today that he''d definitely be playing, it could get to neutral by the morning. The rest of that eleven was fit and raring to go.


    So if that was the ideal ending eleven and I knew which players I wanted to bring on, then...


    "We start with Sunday, Ryan Jack, Omari, Wibbers, and Tom." I shook my head. "This is magical. I am a wizard. This is a masterpiece. Don''t you think?"


    "You know me. I love a starting eleven with an average age lower than Man City under 16s."


    "It''s not that bad," I said. "Omari, Tom, and Wibbers are battle hardened. No, nothing can go wrong with this," I said, as is tradition. "I defy the gods," I would have added, if I had thought about it. I chose to ignore the 58.3 average CA of my starting eleven. Anyway, even if we somehow bombed, sixteen players would get yet another big CA kick because of this experience.


    Speaking of improving, Well In was getting some good green from the group, so I suggested to Sandra she leave him in charge for the rest of the morning.


    We went up to my office and after a couple of minutes, someone knocked on the door.


    "Come in, Sunday," said Sandra.


    "Oh." Sunday was in his socks - remembering to take his boots off when he came in got him a relationship point. He took a minuscule step into the room and scratched his neck. "Sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to say that I thought I felt something, like, in my hammy. Not bad but a bit weird and I thought it might be good to let you know."


    I pretended to be concerned. Pretended not because I''m a horrible prick, which I''m not - other opinions are available - but because the curse was giving him a clean bill of health. It was possible that something might show up on his player profile tomorrow, but I was pretty sure I knew what was happening. "That''s a shame. You''re supposed to talk to Dean, though, not me. I''m actually very busy and important."


    "Right, yes. Yes, boss."


    "It''s a shame you''ll miss your debut," I mused. "Are you sure you felt a tweak?"


    He looked absolutely wretched for a second, but recovered. "Yes. I think so. Like a pre-tweak."


    "Hmm. Okay, well, prevention is better than cure. A few days off is better than a few months out, so take it easy today, yeah? And who knows? Maybe tomorrow morning it''ll be fine and you can play after all."


    "Oh. Oh!" He smiled, but then got sombre again. "Yes, boss. Hope so."


    "Mmm," I said, clicking my very important mouse on a very important document.


    Sandra gestured that Sunday should leave, and I heard his socks on the carpet and the fire doors flap closed at the entrance to the staircase.


    "Sandra," I whispered, giddily rushing to the side of the window, peering through my blinds. Sandra came beside me, also out of sight.


    "What is it?"


    "Ha, look!"


    Youngster was waiting for Sunday. He was ''hiding'' behind a lamppost, which only drew more attention to him. He and Sunday had an urgent conversation. Youngster shook his head and pushed Sunday back inside - towards the medical room - before he himself jogged away towards the training pitch.


    Sandra laughed and moved away. "How to get back in your good books, lesson one. No chance he has an injury for real?"


    "No."


    Sandra shook her head. "That was cute."


    I tried to look angry. "It''s not cute; they''re wasting Dean''s time."


    Sandra opened her mouth to defend the lads, but she was far too good at reading my face sometimes. "It was cute and it cheered you all the way up."


    ***


    I wandered out to watch the last ten minutes of the session while getting some fresh air.


    Well In had set up a really interesting drill that had people flocking around the ball in little groups and for a second I thought he was doing some Relationism, but it turned out to be a variation on a positional play standard. Strange how the extremes of a line seemed to curve and almost touch each other.


    "You okay, boss?" It was Dan Badford. He was such an oddball - I couldn''t even decide if he was extrovert or introvert.


    "Have you ever taken the Myers-Briggs personality test?"


    He put his hands up. "I left it where it was, boss, I promise."


    I laughed. "You cheeky fuck."


    Well In wandered over, wondering why one of his players was out of the drill. He might have shouted at Dan to get back had it been anyone other than me distracting him. "Everything good over here?"


    I shook my head and pointed at Dan''s shins. Like a lot of silky-smooth playmakers, he wore teeny tiny shinpads and rolled his socks down. It was a show of bravado mixed with a distaste for the aesthetic of the full-length sock. I''d tried to get him to protect himself properly but he felt he couldn''t be himself with big shinpads and a long sock. "We''re just talking about Chekhov''s shinpads over here."


    Well In sniffed. "Thinks he''s Alberto Tarantini, he does."


    ''Who?'' I thought. I was a student of the game but that was a new name - possibly made up. I would check it later. "Thinks he''s Cyrille Regis, he does," I said.


    "Thinks he''s Emlyn Hughes in the 1971 cup final, he does," said Well In. He was miles better at this game than me! So specific.


    "Thinks he''s Rui Costa, he does," I said, which drew a raised eyebrow of appreciation from my opponent.


    "What''s a Chekhov''s shinpad?" said Dan, ruining the game.


    I tutted. "It''s where we talk about you not being protected in the first act and you get your leg cracked open in the third act. All right?"


    "Okay," he said, confused, "but what''s an act?"


    Well In roared. "This lad," he said, ruffing Dan''s hair. "He''s very funny. Very funny, he is."


    ***


    The yoga students were a strange old mix. Emma and I were already on different ends of the ''person who does yoga'' scale, though when I became a professional footballer I became a lot more interested in anything that would keep my core strength up, keep me flexible, and keep me in rooms full of hot women.


    There was also Dan and Pascal, also on different ends of the ''person who does yoga'' scale, though perhaps the opposite end to the one you''d think. Pascal had been to more lessons than anyone, and while Dan seemed like the type to gravitate towards quiet, reflective pastimes, he had to be pushed by the physios to do his stretches and eat his kale. He seemed unbothered about having a long career, but then again, I couldn''t really get a read on him.


    We also had some randos from BoshCard.


    I liked yoga - it was easy enough that I could do the poses, while hard enough it made me concentrate. After an hour I normally felt refreshed and clear-headed.


    This time, though, there was a fair amount of hero worship to deal with. When we were doing Extended Side Angles, Pascal was recounting all the amazing things I''d done in my cameo against Fleetwood. At least six times I ordered him to stop but he flat-out disobeyed me (or maybe he didn''t hear me, not sure). Finally, we moved on to a topic that was more interesting.


    "Do you think I can ever be as good as you?" said Pascal.


    "As good as I was against Fleetwood?" I thought about it. Pascal''s PA was 133 while my CA was almost certainly in the region of 100. 110 maybe. Pascal would need to ''waste'' loads of points in order to build his physical profile to withstand the ravages of 90 minute games and 46 game seasons, but when he was maxed out he would be fucking mint. "Yeah, for sure. I wasn''t that good, you know. It was flashy more than anything."


    "Come on," said one of the BoshCard randos. "You scored two goals. Got us a point."


    "No, look," I said. "I did a few stepovers, a nutmeg, scored against a goalie who hadn''t been in the game for over an hour. Do you know what I mean? You can do twenty nutmegs without affecting the game. Can you run around a lot and be as effective as me? Yes because honestly most of what I did wasn''t effective. What it was, was annoying. That''s my superpower - I''m slappable. Aren''t I, babes?"


    "Uh," she said, because her core strength was dogshit and she had to focus.


    "Yeah that John Allen went absolutely tonto, didn''t he? It''s like his manager showed them footage of me clowning around and said ''are you gonna let him do that here in our gaff?'' It must have been something like that, right?" I took a deep breath to settle my heart rate; I didn''t want to bring my hatred of John Allen and his manager into my lovely yogaland. "The real answer, Pascal, is yes, you can be better than I am now. To be totes honest, I hope that when you catch me up I''ll have moved on a bit, if you know what I mean. Like that Greek turtle that can''t be hit by an arrow."


    "Random," said Dan. We eased into a Cobbler''s Pose as Sandra Lane came in, slightly flustered, apologising for being late. Once we''d settled, Dan was next to speak. "Boss, if you don''t mind me saying, you''ve been out of sorts."


    "Shit," I said. "Our sports psychologist has killed Dan and put his face over his face."


    "Max," complained Emma. "Can you stop talking about face swaps, please? Otherwise we''re never watching Face/Off again."


    "I was referencing Silence of the Lambs, but okay."


    Dan waited for us to finish, then continued. "I just... I was talking to my mum about it - well, I just said someone at work is acting strange and described it a bit - and she said ''oh, he sounds depressed''. And I''m just wondering if there''s anything you need or anything because I know people aren''t making it easier for you but even so, you''re normally a bit more zen."


    "Who, Max?" said Pascal, with shocking disloyalty.


    Dan twisted his neck left and right and settled back into the pose. "If it''s just there''s so much going on because of Bumpers and the new league and his phone''s still blowing up because of the transfer window, then yeah, that''s normal, right, but I don''t think it''s that because it''s like he doesn''t even like football any more."


    Perceptive little shit!


    "I like football," I said. "I don''t like footballers."


    "Max," said Emma. She didn''t like it when I talked about my players like that, unless I really needed to vent after a hard match. Then I was allowed, but not in the middle of the day when she was trying to keep her abductors aligned or whatever.


    I smiled. "Yeah, okay. Maybe it''s more the opposite. I did some Relationism stuff in Brazil and it was amazing. Addictive."


    "Addictive?" said Dan.


    "Yeah it''s like a rondo, right, but it''s eight against two in a small part of the pitch and you''re just taking the piss and then they send more bodies in and it''s eight against three, four, five, six, but if you''ve got balls you can keep it going and when you get stuck you can go back to your free man and he sends the ball back into the blob and you start again and it''s so disheartening for the oppo and you''re laughing your head off. I''ve never done nitrous oxide and I never will but there''s no way laughing gas is as fun as zipping the ball in a tight space while you get closer to goal. It is so for me. I was garbage at first but it''s so for me."


    Dan and Pascal looked at each other, excited. Pascal said, "When are you going to teach us?"


    "First, it''s not something I teach you. It''s something we learn together. Second, I''m not doing it with the first team. Pascal, you''re a positional play natural. If I fill your head with this mumbo jumbo it might stop you reaching your potential and I can''t risk that."


    Emma''s shape collapsed. "It was fine with Henri," she said, before reassembling herself.


    It was true - Henri''s profile hadn''t changed, as far as I could tell, but he had only had a few sessions in Brazil. "I''m willing to experiment on myself, and yes, on Henri, because for him a new experience is as valuable as, you know, fifty grand in the bank or whatever. But I''m completely risk-averse when it comes to you guys. I''m starting on the Welsh lads because they''re abysmal anyway so it doesn''t matter if I ruin them."


    "I heard about that," said Dan. "How''s that going?"


    "Um, I''m not the kind of person to blow my own trumpet but I would describe it as incredibly sensational," I said. I laughed as my body started to complain about the pressure I was putting on it. I focused for ten seconds and felt the cleansing happen. "Early results are promising but I''m not quite ready to start with the boys."


    "Which boys?" said Pascal.


    "Dan and those oiks," I said. "I think Dan might be the player at the club most likely to succeed at Relationism, so that''s good, but mostly I want to use it as a mind fuck to absolutely destroy a Premier League team in the Youth Cup. We won''t play one until December at the earliest, if I have my dates right, so that''s plenty of time to get started and try it out in a couple of games against minnows."


    We finished that pose and changed again, this time to the Happy Baby Gurgle.


    Dan had more to say. "Sorry, boss, for being all, you know, nosy, but you didn''t answer my question, I don''t think."


    "What was your question?"


    "I suppose it''s, why don''t you like football?"


    "Oh, I do," I said, waving my feet around like a contented baby or an upside-down cyclist. "What it is, right, is when I''m managing you lot I''m like a floating megabrain. It''s chess, really, but chess that I''m good at. Do you know what I mean? It''s kind of shit to think about it like that because you''re not pieces, you''re people, but that''s how I win. That''s how we''ll beat Bolton. The less I care about your feelings - I mean, Sunday is right to be annoyed that he starts and gets whipped off right away, isn''t he?"


    "Yes," said Dan and Sandra.


    "No," said Pascal.


    I smiled. It was always interesting when people gave different answers at the same time. "The less I care about your feelings the better the chance to win. You''re robots, do what you''re told. Okay, so we will have a glorious season based on my creativity and analytical skills and the fact that I''m a shit boss and an unfeeling monster isn''t just irrelevant but celebrated. It''s not really what... But Relationism, right, as a manager it''s like I''m saying to my players okay I trust you and believe in you and you can interpret the general principles I give you. Right? It''s more human. And as a player, when you''re in the middle of the blob you''ve got to focus. I can''t tune out and think ''hmm Eddie could be a few paces forward over there''. No! You''ve got to be in your blob being part of the blob otherwise the blob collapses."


    "You like saying blob, don''t you?" said the yoga teacher.


    "He really does," said Sandra.


    "Am I being too loud?"


    The yoga teacher gave me a mystical look, one handed down through a hundred generations of practitioners, and said, "You can say we''re going to beat Bolton a lot louder, if you like."


    The class cheered.


    Emma gave me a proud look, then sank back into her pose. I looked at Dan. "I got a big new idea this summer and I''m working hard not to let it overtake my brain - and the club. I''m trying to, like, have a healthy outlet for Relationism while I do my responsibilities the best I can, and doing that means positional play. So what we''re doing every day, you know, all that ''if he goes there you go there'' stuff, that''s like, my duty, but not my passion. I still enjoy it. The worst times are a billion times better than working for a soulless financial institution - no offence BoshCarders. I get to make a difference in people''s lives and I''m hitting the ball well and I feel as sharp as I have since the murder. Yeah things are fine but if it was, like, the pandemic again and I thought the season would be cancelled in a couple of weeks and there was no-one at the stadiums, we would be playing a 1-blob-1 formation and our line up would be most of the youth team with me running around literally cackling for ninety minutes."


    Pascal let out a chuckle. "Sandra wouldn''t let you."


    She considered it. "I think I''d like to see it. I''d want another job lined up, just in case."


    Dan had a dreamy look about him. "I can''t wait to get in the blob."


    "Yeah, well, it won''t be long, I don''t think. The army guys have a six-a-side tournament soon and if we don''t humiliate ourselves there I''ll try it out at eleven-a-side. It''s gonna be wild whatever happens and I''m looking forward to it. Maybe too much, to be honest, because I did nearly fly off the handle with Sowumni and I didn''t mean to." I thought about that failure for a second but let it go; I couldn''t be good at everything. "Here at Chester, we''re never going to do pure Relationism. It''ll be a hybrid, so you need to learn what you''re being taught. It''s like, if I want to study maths with you in Chinese, do we learn maths first, or Chinese?"


    "Maths," said Dan.


    "Chinese," said Pascal.


    "I''d change schools," said Sandra, which drew a snort from Emma.


    I laughed. "Okay shush now. I need to get my zen on."


    ***


    Tuesday, August 12


    AOK Cup First Round - Bolton Wanderers versus Chester FC


    An hour before kick-off, I hopped, skipped, and almost jumped into the dressing room.


    I was hyper.


    "Holy shit, guys. Holy shit." I paced around while they shut up. The shutting up came faster than it had since we came back from our summer breaks. Progress! "Quick recap. AOK Cup, named after the low-cost airline. Man of the match gets a first class ticket to Dubai. That''s worth twenty-nine pounds. Ignore that last bit, I just made it up. This is what used to be called the League Cup; a cup played by teams in the league, whereas the FA Cup was for every team in the country. Tonight''s a straight knock-out. 90 minutes, no extra time, straight to penalties. Yeah? I''ve got an idea for a scam where we pretend to be playing for penalties and they come at us in the last ten and we dick them on counters, but I really don''t think it''s gonna come to that. We''re gonna fucking smash them! I can''t believe the team they''ve put out. I honestly can''t believe it."


    I was grinning from ear to ear as I strode to the tactics board in the spacious away dressing room. Despite players having tons of storage space, with two shelves and room under the bench, I nearly tripped over Sunday Sowumni''s kit bag. I glared at him and nearly unleashed a hairdryer - are you trying to get someone injured you stupid twat? - but I had handed in the team sheet and didn''t want to trash his morale. I also wanted to give his teammates the chance to correct his behaviour. How had they let that happen? Glenn would have spotted it immediately - Christian, Zach, and the senior players needed to do better.


    The magnets.


    The magnets cheered me all the way back up. I swizzed them around and compared what I was seeing in the curse screens to Bolton''s player profiles.


    "4-3-3 like I thought. There are some really good managers in the EFL but this clown ain''t one of them. Christ, this is going to be brutal today. Totally unfair. It''s like we''re playing Fleetwood Mac with all their players in the wrong places."


    "Fleetwood Town," said Vimsy.


    "Yeah," I said, double-checking what the curse was showing me. Okay, Bolton''s average CA would be around 90 but it wasn''t a very optimised 90. Even with Bench Boost, we really, really shouldn''t have been in with a chance against a Championship side. It couldn''t be this easy, could it? Surely there was a trap lurking somewhere? "Okay the goalie''s fine. He''s their second-choice but he''ll be right up for this. He''ll see it as a way back into the first team."


    I realised I was accidentally describing Ben and nearly hurried on, but saw an opportunity for a subtle bit of guidance.


    "What managers want from their goalies in that sitch is to stay calm, treat it like a normal game, but don''t be surprised if this guy tries to be flashy. If he can get himself on the highlights the fans will be in their WhatsApp groups saying he should be back in the team." I shook my head. "That''s not what he should do. Just be solid! We''ll see. The defence is a fucking shambles. Well, shambles is harsh but this is fucking Bolton Wanderers, do you know what I mean? Nat Lofthouse, the Lion of Vienna. Jay Jay Okocha. Twenty thousand average attendance. You cannot be this shit. I mean, what the fuck. So the two centre backs are okay, I suppose. One old guy, one young buck. But the old one''s knackered. He''s so slow, guys! He might be the slowest player I''ve ever seen, and I''ve seen Ryan Jack."Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "Thanks, boss."


    "The right back is a centre back. A pure centre back like Christian, not a double threat like Lee H. We can''t do much with that at the start but Wibbers, try and have a run at him. The left back - get ready for this, it''ll blow your mind - is a right back. Yes! Four right-footers across the back line. The manager is either rubbish or he thinks it''s Chester, I can name any old fucking mess and we''ll slap them."


    I briefly got myself worked up, but then I remembered his staff profile and nope - he was rubbish.


    "Okay in case it wasn''t clear: when we attack, we put pressure on the full backs. That''s the right back, number 14, Kieran Lovett, and the left back, number 28, Matt Harris."


    Henri spoke out to help make sure it was all crystal. "We will focus on the right back who is actually a centre back and the left back who is actually a right back."


    "Just slap down the wings! What the hell. Bolton''s midfield is serviceable. They''d do a good job... in League Two. Omari, I''m going to ask you to man-mark a guy who''s just back from injury. Matt McManus. He''s a Ryan Jack kinda schemer, he likes to get on the ball a lot and set the tempo. He''s probably the best player in their whole squad but yeah, that was a nasty injury he had. Bolton will want to play through him. When I say mark him, you don''t need to be Franco Baresi, just make him work hard to get on the ball, close him down so he doesn''t have time, follow him where he goes. If you do a good job they might sub him off at half time and that''s gonna be massive for us in the second half because we won''t have to commit so many bodies to the rest defence. Can you give me that?"


    "Yes, gaffer. Can I still take the free kicks?"


    I smiled. "All work and no play makes Omari a red-card danger. Yeah take the free kicks but before you strike, make sure you know where McManus is, okay? I don''t care if three guys sprint past you, get on him because he''s the guy who will pick out the right pass. Does that make sense?"


    "Got it."


    "The three forwards will spread out, you know, one wide left, one wide right. They''re doing the thing where they''ve got a right-footer on the left, so they''re going to cut inside and cross or shoot. You hear that, lads? These full-backs aren''t going to bomb forward so Bolton aren''t going to have proper width. They''re not going to get to the byline and make us defend facing our own goal. It''s going to be the same on either flank - winger pops the ball on his strong foot and hits a cross at an angle it''s hard to score a header from. I mean, I''ll take that over the alternative. Vimsy?"


    Vimsy stepped to the board. "When the winger cuts inside, one of the three CBs moves up to stop him getting good shots away. Chris, if you go, the other two need to be aware of the striker and look to your spacing. Don''t all go to the ball. Keep your heads. It can feel that you''re getting bombarded but actually..." He went through an enormous inner struggle. "Actually," he said, his eyes darting from me to the ghost of Ian Evans only Vimsy could see. "Actually, it''s all low xG chances."


    Chester''s last remaining football dinosaur was evolving! He had a map and was raising his little-used ''data analytics'' mountain.


    I gave him a hearty thwack on the shoulder. "Listen, guys. Bolton''s season has started terribly and don''t the fans know it. If we play more like a unit and a proper team than them, their fans are going to get restless and from there it''s a short step to quarrelsome, feisty, fractious, unruly, and mutinous. Sandra?"


    My assistant manager took Vimsy''s place. "They don''t play a lot of long balls. It''s all short through the middle and then give it out wide to their danger men. First thing we do is use our midfield to block off the passing lanes. Max, I just had a thought that we might go man-to-man in midfield."


    "Oh, three against three? That''s interesting."


    "Boys, be ready to switch to that. If they do get through midfield, it''s normally a ball to feet out wide. We will keep our full backs back. Make them dribble at you, stay on your feet, don''t get sucked into any nonsense. They tend to go on the outside once early in the match but that''s only to give you something to think about. In fact, they cut inside 99% of the time, okay? They''re a very predictable team. We should be able to cope with what they throw at us, but strikers, with you it''s all about work rate, giving us out balls. Chasing lost causes, maybe win us a throw-in high up the pitch and let us recover. The usual, Tom. Wibbers, if you can get on the ball, have a run at, er - "


    "Lovett and Harris," said Wibbers, who was totally up for this match. He had been out on the pitch and gawped at the stadium and it was clear to me what he had been thinking - I wouldn''t mind a piece of this.


    I clapped my hands. "That''s it. We know the plan. Stay calm, let our fans get at the referee, we stick to our jobs. We can win, but we''re gonna have to work fucking hard for it, do you get me? Captain."


    Christian Fierce stood up and cried. "Out we go, boys!"


    The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.


    The history books wouldn''t say we had beaten a shambolic side led by a nincompoop. They would say that lowly Chester had beaten the sleeping giants that were Bolton Wanderers.


    "Boss?" Sandra was giving me a worried look.


    I closed my eyes for half a second and tried to access that zen state I was so famous for. "I love the smell of glory in the morning."


    "What perfume does she wear?"


    I tutted and did the closest thing I ever did to an eye roll, but rose above it. "Sandra, check out the lineups of the other teams, yeah? I bet we are taking this competition more seriously than literally any other club."


    "I''ll have a decko," she said. She gave me another strange look, then tapped me. "We''ll do the pre-match TV together, okay?"


    "Aw, do I have to?" I whined.


    She laughed. "Whatever they ask, go on one of your misty-eyed, rose-tinted rambles about the history of Bolton. Nat Lofthouse and all that."


    "Yeah, sure, love talking about the history of the sport. But why?"


    Her eyes flashed hot, just for a second. "So when we humiliate their team, the fans will have something nice to say about us."


    I nodded a few times. "Yeah." Sandra was just as competitive as me, but she also had enough sense to realise our industry was small. Acting with a bit of class every now and then could help us get jobs in the future. For example, at Bolton. "Best is a prick, he was offside for his third goal, but he gets the club a lot more than our current manager does."


    Sandra got a fierce look about her, but then it turned to amusement. She fussed with my toggles until they were the same length. "Let''s do it now while you''re looking handsomely boyish."


    "Er, what am I going to look like later?"


    "Last time you did the interview looking like you''d survived a horror movie. As the villain. Oh! Mention AOK, too. They might want to sponsor us."


    "They can''t sponsor the cup and Chester, can they?"


    "I meant us. Me and you." Sandra smirked. "I''m kind of a big deal now, Max. I''m massive in Switzerland."


    ***


    After I charmed the Bolton fans and whored myself out to a climate criminal corporation, I went to the dugout to chill for a while.


    The stadium was amazing from the outside, really beautiful, stunning even, and while the inside was a bit more functional it was still very aesthetic with the same sort of curved roof that Fleetwood had, but on all four sides, hugging the pitch.


    Yeah, I liked it a lot, and Bolton was basically Manchester so I felt at home.


    In this competition, gate receipts were shared between the two teams. 45% each, with 10% going to the EFL, the organisers. If Bolton''s projections of selling 9,000 tickets were correct, and if the fans paid an average of 20 quid each, Chester would get in the region of 81,000 pounds. Not bad for a Tuesday night early in August! If we won, we would get 5,000 in prize money, which was garbage but all the bits and bobs we earned would add up quickly enough, I reckoned.


    I felt sure we would beat Bolton and get through to the next round. Who did I want? Another away trip to a Championship side for another decent payday? Or a tie against one of our League Two rivals - someone we could beat? If we got to the third round we might finally get a match away to a Premier League team.


    Man United would sell 50,000 tickets, easy, and would happily rinse their fans for 40 quid a pop. We could come out of that kind of fixture with 900,000 in the bank.


    I cut the daydreaming short - first we had to beat a team that was much better than us, and to do that we would need to get off to a good start.


    ***


    "Five minutes gone and it''s Bolton 1, Chester 0."


    I could just imagine what was being said up in the commentary booth. Welcome to the AOK Cup. David versus Goliath. Reality check.


    I stood in the technical area, shifting my weight from leg to leg. This was a reality check.


    In reality, you couldn''t field a team that included a CA 26 novice defender, a CA 44 striker who rarely scored, and a CA 42 midfielder whose role for the day was - for the first time in his life - to man-mark a very, very good Championship midfielder.


    In reality, grand schemes that worked in the subterranean non-league levels would wither and die when exposed to sunlight.


    In a strange way, I was glad to concede the goal. One day I would be the Championship manager putting out loads of reserves against some team of worms, and it was good to know that we didn''t live in a world where CA 26 players could actually perform against guys with CA 90, CA 100.


    Another perverse reason to be happy with the goal was that it proved Sandra and I knew what we were talking about. Most players knew that, of course, but for Lee H, Sunday, and even Dazza, seeing was believing.


    Bolton had started brightly, knocking the ball around, using the keeper as a passing option - which nullified Tom''s work rate to a huge degree - and counter-pressing us when we gained the ball. I hadn''t realised how nervous we were until three minutes in when I saw that our pass completion rate was under 40%. Even Ryan Jack was feeling it - his match rating slumped to 4.


    Ryan coughed up the ball, but Lee C snapped into a challenge and, seeing that Omari was blocking the pass to McManus, the third midfielder passed safely backwards and Bolton reset into the shapes they''d been working on.


    The centre backs combined with the goalie to take Tom out of the game, then a new triangle formed that included a midfielder, and as Omari lost his discipline, McManus was free. McManus slid a gorgeous pass through our lines to the striker, who fed the right winger. The winger cut inside, nutmegged Sunday as he made a reckless challenge, and struck a nasty shot that Ben could only parry. Bolton''s striker was on his toes, reacted fastest, and passed the ball low into the corner. Christian and Zach had been pulled out of shape by Sunday''s rush of blood to the head, and their attempts to get back were in vain.


    Wibbers had had three touches of the ball. Two of those were kick-offs.


    I rubbed my head furiously, but what could I do? This was the plan. The plan was perhaps not mint, but it was the kind of thing that had been working for three years. It seemed to be the best way to use Bench Boost. What else would you do? Start with your strongest eleven and bring on your weakest players? No way. I just had to accept that from time to time I would get my pants pulled down. It wasn''t like the tournament organisers would deduct prize money if we got hammered.


    I paced around, soaking up XP, wondering if it was too early to withdraw Sunday and Omari. Doing it after ten minutes when they knew about it was one thing, but doing it after five minutes would have been truly humiliating.


    No, I had to leave things alone for a minute. It would be interesting to see how the team reacted because Christ knew there would be plenty of matches like this in the coming ten months.


    Bolton''s morale had rocketed after the goal. They were playing with smiles, with freedom. They were already doing tricks and skills. Slightly annoying. Lads, you''re one-nil up against the worst team in the EFL. Do you want to calm down?


    Their fans were enjoying themselves, too. They were doing what Fleetwood had done - mocking us for being tiny, calling this match our cup final, all that kind of thing. After a brief lull as they digested the goal, the Chester mob found their voice again. The back-in-the-big-time party resumed.


    Another minute passed and we didn''t concede. Then another minute, and another.


    I checked the match ratings - diabolical - and moved Wibbers back one slot to be a CAM. Maybe he could help us get more control of the midfield, or at least help slow down Bolton''s attacks.


    Our Conditions were all fine.


    Our Morale though, was rock solid. So interesting. Sunday Sowumni had been getting on my tits all week and he knew it, and he had started the match like a fucking chump. But his morale was steady. It might have been because Christian was being all Christian out there, blasting everyone with his Triple Captained Influence, but I think it was actually Chesterness. Sunday had been on the scrapheap and we had rescued him. He''d gone to boot camp and laughed in the white water rapids and cried with the injured soldiers. And every time he got something wrong, his mates gathered round him, talked him through it, showed him that they had his back.


    He rushed forward, took a loose ball on his chest, and passed it wide for Eddie Moore before retreating back into his shape. Sunday''s match rating went from 4 to 5 and I found myself dancing down the line punching the air.


    Electricity was building and Bolton were going to get shocked.


    ***


    Sunday and Omari did well enough to last until the 22nd minute. Bringing on Pascal and Youngster meant Wibbers had to go back to being a striker, but it didn''t matter because the flow of the game evened up. Youngster made interceptions and forced his oppo to run down blind alleys. Pascal toyed with Bolton''s players around the edges of where they wanted to go.


    It''s amazing what a bit of speed and a huge upgrade in decision-making will do for a football team. It would be an exaggeration to say we bossed the game from the second they came on, but I was already looking forward to the second half, when Henri and Dazza would be our strikers. With me on for the final twenty, I really couldn''t see how we could possibly lose.


    Bolton''s right winger cut inside Eddie Moore and had a crack at goal. Ben flapped at it but the ball went right through him somehow and cracked against the post, bouncing back into a very relieved goalkeeper''s hands.


    Yeah, okay. There were plenty of ways to lose.


    But still I turned my mind to the weeks ahead. "Sandra. Why is Zach so conservative with his passing, do you think? He''s finding Youngster all the time. He''s supposed to hit some to midfield."


    "I think they''re all overwhelmed, Max. Slovakia, Fleetwood, Bolton. Burton will be the same. It''s like you said, it''s a brutal start to the campaign and everyone''s trying to get by. He''ll open up when he finds his feet in the league. You''d rather he was defensively solid than pinging passes all over, wouldn''t you?"


    "Er, maybe. I suppose. Okay but look, I want drills where the midfielders zip around and Zach pings passes to them at mad angles. Oh! We''ll get him by the penalty area. Have five under eighteens sprint at him; he has to pass through them."


    "That sounds terrifying."


    "We''ll call it ''Zombie Apocalypse''. No, ''The Texas Chainsaw Massacre''. Can we get five chainsaws?"


    "How about a DM has the ball and the five lads jog between cones, all doing different lengths, and we blow a whistle, DM passes to Zach, the lads sprint from where they are towards him. It''ll be different every time and very slightly more realistic."


    "Fucking amazing. Scrap this match and let''s set that up right now. I''m not even joking."


    Sandra smiled. "I think it can wait till Thursday. Or maybe until September. Zach''s doing fine for now."


    I scanned the pitch. Having the extra quality around him had transformed Ryan Jack - he was up to a match rating of 6. But his footballing doppelganger, McManus, was also playing better, now that he wasn''t being man-marked.


    "Tell Pascal to dribble near McManus," I said.


    "Got it."


    One player in need of a tweak was Wibbers, but I couldn''t think of how to help him. I was using my one deformation to get Youngster into his preferred DM slot, and Wibbers just wasn''t quite wily enough to play with his back to goal against an experienced centre back. Wibbers was thrilling when he got the ball and built up a head of steam as he ran at defenders, but if he was facing his own goal, the sport was a lot more of a challenge. That was true for everyone, though, so I wasn''t worried about it. Being pocketed by a good defender was a necessary lesson for the lad.


    That said, he wasn''t always up against the experienced centre back. The young one was doing a number on Wibbers, too, which I found slightly surprising.


    "What do you think about swapping Pascal and Wibbers for a while? Let Will get involved in the match, get on the ball a bit, do some dribbles?"


    Sandra shrugged. "Normally I''d say absolutely but Pascal''s on fire. Better to leave it as it is, don''t you think?"


    Wibbers wasn''t exactly announcing himself to the England selectors with this performance, but I had to put the club first, and Sandra was right that Pascal was in the right place and in the right mood. "Yeah. Good. Leave it like this till half time."


    ***


    The atmosphere in the dressing room was upbeat. The lads were showing some of the same signs of exhilaration as after the Slovakia match, but this emotion was a different colour. Slovakia was red: they''re much better than us. This was green: they''re not much better than us.


    I spent a few minutes with Sandra and Vimsy talking about the scores and line-ups from the other matches. Folke Wester clearly wanted to get Bradford City knocked out so he could concentrate on the league - he had even included young Tom Hickman in his first eleven. Tranmere had given a start to Tony Herbert, their exotic new centre back, signed on my recommendation. Lucas Cook, the talented young striker, was starting, which was an indication that Jimmy Mustard didn''t want to progress in the cup. Cambridge, Carlisle, Swindon, most of the starting elevens were full of player names that weren''t in my extensive database.


    "Fuck me," I said. "Ten minutes into the new season you''re trying your best to get knocked out of a competition. It makes no sense to me. Fucking Swindon aren''t going to win the league, do you know what I mean? Why wouldn''t you have a go in the cups?"


    "Easier for us," shrugged Vimsy.


    I couldn''t argue with that. "Not much fun for Bolton''s fans, is it? They haven''t won a cup since the 50s."


    "The fans what''ve been slagging us off for an hour?" grumbled Vimsy. "Fuck ''em."


    I chuckled. "Yeah, good point."


    I wandered around, killing time, waiting to see if Bolton''s manager would make any changes. It took him ten minutes to decide, but eventually the tactics screen refreshed with three new names coming on. Two in midfield, one winger. McManus was coming off.


    "To the tactics board!" I cried, delighted, and the low murmur of conversation died down. "I think McManus won''t come out for the second half. I want to wait a minute just to make sure, but if he''s not there I want to have a good fucking pop at this second half, okay? Ryan, I need to take you out early so Wibbers can stay on a bit. Yeah, Tom and Ryan off, Henri and Dazza on. We''ll go 4-4-2 out of possession, 4-2-4 in."


    "4-2-4?" said Henri. "Away from home against a Championship team?"


    I went over to his spot, grabbed his wrists, and shook them. "It''s just like the old days, mate! Just like the old days! We''re going Full Max!" Still smiling, I walked around. "Lads, these guys aren''t that good and their morale is built on sand. We''re going to slap down the sides like the old days. Wibbers, do you want right mid or left?"


    "Right."


    "Pascal, you''re left. Youngster, you''ll play CM next to Lee C. Nice and compact when we''re defending, then fast breaks. If we can''t get it out wide quickly, keep the ball, circulate, breathe, draw Bolton into the middle then get it wide. We should be able to get Wibbers and PB into some juicy one-on-ones, yeah? Remember, Lovett and Harris aren''t proper full backs. They can''t cope with players of your quality running at them. But we''ll have to work fucking hard to get into those positions, lads. It''ll be tough out there. Keep at them."


    ***


    Not for the first time, I was dead wrong. It wasn''t tough out there. It was a piece of piss.


    Once we made the changes, we had an average CA of just over 70, but with four Bench Boosted guys. Youngster''s effective CA was very probably 100. He bossed the midfield and fed balls to the wings. Pascal had Lovett on toast. It was hilarious to see him skin the guy again and again, though Lovett didn''t see the funny side. He was getting more and more worked up, which was exactly what Pascal wanted to see.


    On the other side, Wibbers wasn''t having much joy against his opponent, but had got past him a couple of times only for Harris to recover. It was clear to the naked eye that Wibbers was a dangerous player, though, so Harris was staying close to him.


    That only opened up the centre for Henri and Dazza, who looked sharp and strong. Pascal''s only mistake so far had been that he was sliding crosses along the turf into the danger zone between defence and goalie, which was normally a good option, a high-percentage option, but today we had two guys with tremendous heading, Bench Boosted. I could hardly say that to Pascal, though, and anyway, if I left him alone he would probably work it out for himself.


    The flow of the match was so lopsided that the home fans started to flip. I didn''t know what Lovett had done to piss them off, but every time Pascal zoomed past him, the mood darkened. First there was annoyance. Then consternation. Rage was on the radar.


    Our fans were behind the goal we were attacking, and unlike the Bolton lot, they were right behind us. If we scored - I was sure we would - they were going to go bananas.


    Time was slightly running out, though. The clock was on 55 and okay, we were in the ascendency but hadn''t really made the keeper work all that much. We still had one substitution available and I had all kinds of options on my nine-man bench, but in reality it was going to be me. I hoped someone else would score the first goal, though. I''d scored both goals against Fleetwood and generated most of the expected threat. I didn''t want some kind of one-man team narrative to get going because that felt like it would be bad for morale and maybe even for teamwork. If players started to think, subconsciously or not, that I would get them out of the shit twice a week...


    Lee C played a pass slightly behind Pascal, who had to turn to get it. When he did, Lovett leaped, two-footed, his boots going over the ball and into Pascal''s shin.


    Pascal''s player profile turned red. Very red.


    "Holy fuck." The life drained out of me. Hands on head, I froze. Two seconds of mad, desperate panic. "Dean," I croaked, but our entire bench was up. Vimsy was already in his counterpart''s face, looking ready to rumble. Dean looked scared as he grabbed his bag and jogged across the pitch, but I knew his inner doctor would take over when he got there.


    In the stands, the Chester mob had gone feral. They were throwing punches at stewards who were trying to stop them from getting onto the pitch to have it out with Lovett.


    Dazza and Henri had no stewards stopping them, and they got there first, pushing the prick away from the scene of the crime. Henri''s eyes were popping out like the most tormented inmate of the most twisted asylum. Dazza had to turn his attention from putting aggro on Lovett to keeping Henri out of trouble. Zach and Christian pushed everyone clear of Pascal so Dean could work.


    The melee was normal after a bad tackle, but ten yards from it, facing away, was Eddie Moore on his knees, crying. That wasn''t normal. That wasn''t a good sign.


    Pascal''s profile read:


    Suspected leg injury.


    Yeah, you think?


    I wouldn''t get more information than that today, but in the morning or the day after, the curse would give me a pretty accurate estimate for how long Pascal would be out. Based on Eddie''s reaction - months. Right then and there I was more worried about if Pascal would even be able to walk again.


    While my guts turned inside out, while my knees got so weak I had to crouch and hold onto the grass, I forced myself to think.


    Shamefully, my first thought was about the match. What did I need to do? Who would go on to replace Pascal?


    Decency finally kicked in and I ran to pull Vimsy away from the other dugout. "Mate, what do we do? Do we tell his parents? Someone needs to go with him to the hospital. Who calls the parents? Is it me? I don''t have my phone."


    Vimsy, seeing my distress, put his hands on my shoulders. "You run the game, Max. You leave everything else to Dean and me. We''ll get the Brig if we need another hand. Don''t you worry about the details. You get back to letting them have it. Fuck them up, Max. Fuck them all the way up. For Pascal." He gave some verbals to the home dugout as he crossed the pitch to support Dean.


    I went for a walk with my hands pulling at my hair, but snapped my head round just as the ref showed Lovett a red card. I felt a vein on my forehead throbbing. Lovett would have to get past me and I would fucking murder him. Ryan, Dan, and Sharky seemed to read my mind because they made a kind of wall between me and the Bolton lot. The home team had their own tunnel over there so there was no way I was going to be able to get to him.


    Ryan said, "Beat him on the pitch, boss. Win the game. That''s the best thing right now. Win the game, boss, come on."


    They had sort of bodied me away without riling me up, which when I thought about it later was pretty impressive because I had a volcanic rage inside of me.


    I changed tack and walked five, ten yards away. Dean was calling for the stretcher. I saw something that nearly made my head explode and stormed back to my minders. I put all the anger into my index finger and pushed it quite slowly towards Dan. "Put some fucking proper shinpads on right fucking now."


    He licked his lips, glanced towards the far side of the pitch, and nodded. He zoomed off.


    I paced away, this time for twenty yards. I wanted to smash things up.


    I would start with Bolton Wanderers.


    ***


    It took time for Pascal to be put on the stretcher, given an oxygen mask, and taken away. I decided not to look at his injury in case it sent me all the way into outright lunacy the way it had done with Henri.


    I waved at Christian and made him gather the players in a huddle by the side of the pitch. While they were coming, I checked how Bolton''s manager would respond to losing a player. He was getting a defender ready and would go men behind ball. Low block. Me? The opposite.


    I turned to Sandra. "You''re in charge."


    "You''re going on?"


    "Yes. You''re in charge. I need you to set the formation, make sure everyone sticks to it. 2-4-4."


    Her eyes flickered towards the Bolton dugout - like everyone she was finding it hard to concentrate. "2-4-4."


    It seemed like she was about to call it absurd, to complain, to put up a fight. I didn''t have energy enough, spirit enough, to persuade her and then go on the pitch. I needed her to understand. "Please," I said, feeling all the energy seep out of me anyway.


    The lads had gathered. "Two-four-four," she said. "Boss is going left wing. Eddie, are you good?"


    I went to him; he looked distraught. "I''ve got him," I said, putting my hand on his back. I would cover him if he needed a minute. If he needed more than a minute, I''d still fucking cover him.


    "We''ll sort this out later," called Sandra. "What we do right now is we get that win. Knock these fuckers out of this cup. Do you hear me? Henri," she snapped. She went to him and I had the mad idea she would take a swing at him, but she just pushed her fists onto his chest. "Henri," she said, much more softly.


    He swallowed, looked up and away, and nodded.


    "Win," she said.


    We walked onto the pitch but Sandra grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I hadn''t subbed on yet, so if the ref saw me go on the pitch he''d have given me an instant yellow card. I pulled my hoodie off and waited while they did the rigamarole of holding up boards. The fourth assistant checked I was wearing shinpads. I nearly bit his head off but he wasn''t the enemy. I walked on the pitch and stood in front of Bolton''s dugout, staring at the manager for ten seconds.


    "Max!" called Christian, because it was our free kick and I had programmed the curse to automatically make me the free kick, corner, and penalty taker as soon as I stepped onto the pitch.


    I walked over to the left, thought I saw a patch of blood, but, amazingly, didn''t see red.


    I felt the fire.


    And I felt the ice.


    Eddie was the closest to the ball. I set him as the free kick taker. "Tap it," I commanded.


    He touched the ball so that it went through one rotation, and I booped it another one. The new right back came at me, hesitated, but came at me again.


    He was Pace 10, Acceleration 8.


    I pushed the ball down the line and burst past him, turned left, away from goal, and gestured for him to come again.


    Double dribble.


    He did what his manager would have wanted - got between me and the goal. I walked closer to him trying to trigger him into making a move. He flipped a foot towards the ball and I burst past him again, before cutting the ball towards the goal line. I made to smash the ball along the turf, the way Pascal had been doing, and a defender slid in front of me. He blocked fuck all, though, because I simply moved the ball back onto my right and chipped the ball to the far post. Henri looked favourite, but Dazza appeared out of nowhere with a gigantic, salmon-like leap.


    He headed the ball hard - against the crossbar. It bounced away and was hacked clear.


    I shook my head; Bolton''s strategy was pathetic and cowardly. 70 minutes gone and there would be at least ten minutes of injury time. They couldn''t just hope to hold on for half an hour.


    My direct opponent had Heading 14, Jumping 13.


    I told Eddie to come near me and waved at Zach, indicating my head. He saw me and pinged a high ball. "Go," I said, and Eddie ran on. I easily won the header and he was away. He sent in a nice-looking cross that was headed clear. Youngster anticipated where it would land and I anticipated where he would want to pass. He played it short and I clipped a soft, back-spinning ball to Wibbers on the right. He set himself to take a first touch back inside the defender, but instead dabbed it to the goal line. He smashed a low cross - good variety - that caused chaos.


    It was cleared again, pinballed back to Henri, who cleverly deflected the ball to the far post. The keeper saved it and a defender hacked it clear. Christian cushioned a header to Zach, who found Youngster. Zach rushed forward for the return pass - him leaving the back line was my kind of reckless - and hit a really decent cross to the far post. Dazza rose, nodding it sideways towards Henri. He lost his duel, but again the ball was only partially cleared. A Bolton guy got on it and dribbled towards the halfway line.


    "No foul," I called out, and Lee C dialled back his aggression. The Bolton twat flung himself to the ground, hoping to buy a free kick and ease the pressure, but the ref didn''t fall for it. Zach steamed forward, took a touch, and I was sure he was going to hit a long shot. I mean, rather him than Youngster but Bolton would take a full minute restarting the game.


    As a guy threw himself at the ball, Zach put his foot on it, turned square, and gave it to Lee C. Lee C rolled it to Lee H, who shaped for a cross but pushed it to Wibbers, who had more attacking threat.


    Wibbers clipped the ball first time, slowly, behind the line of our strikers - not a great choice, I''d have to talk to him about that - giving the defence an easy clearance. But the ball came to me at a nice height and at a nice angle, and because we had been working Bolton down the other flank, the path between me and goal wasn''t too crowded.


    I thought about dribbling through them. I thought about doing tekkers or a thunderbastard.


    I decided to score, and simply passed the ball into the bottom right of the goal.


    There was a tiny pause before the Chester fans roared. The other players didn''t know what to do - this was a big moment but Pascal was top of our minds. I knew what to do - I chased my shot and ran into the back of the net. I retrieved the ball and jogged back to the halfway line. I placed the ball down and while my guys hurried back I picked out the nearest Bolton player and screamed, "Hurry the fuck up!"


    They wasted as much time as they could, but the manager released them from their low block. They would come at us. The sensible thing would have been for us to drop into a 4-4-2 but I had no interest in that. Bolton tried to play a through ball in the middle - Youngster gobbled it up like Pac-Man - and soon the ball was on its way to me. The right back decided his best chance of stopping me was to stop the ball getting to my feet, and he darted to it. I got there first, flicking the ball two yards down the line into my stride.


    I glanced up and saw where everyone was, and drove not to the byline but towards the angle of the penalty area. From there, I''d be able to repeat my previous shot, and indeed, I did just that. At least, that''s what two defenders thought, as they threw themselves at my feet. I cut back onto my left foot, though, drove forward, cut inside another sliding tackle, and rolled the ball into the net with my right. Two-one! We were winning. I didn''t give a shit. I hurdled the goalie so I could grab the ball.


    This time the lads wanted to celebrate, but when they saw I''d collected the ball again, they got the message. We''re not finished.


    Bolton were frazzled. The foul on Pascal had turned this into something they weren''t prepared for, and even without the rage we would have slapped them in an 11 against 10 scenario.


    Fire and ice. "Hurry up!" I called as Bolton''s players once again tried to slow things down and take the heat out of us. Good luck with that. I was generating the heat.


    Ice, though. I needed to be careful with my stamina. Not that it would be a big deal if I was running on fumes in injury time, but I had the chance to do something really spectacular here. We could really run up the score and let people know: you don''t mess with Chesters. You send one of mine to the hospital, I''ll send your manager to the morgue.


    I glanced over at the stupid prick. He was doing that thing shit managers do where they start to point at something but realise no-one''s looking, no-one''s listening, and they pull their arms back.


    I slowed myself down for a minute, playing one-touch passes with Lee and Youngster, sending Eddie on dummy runs before sending the ball across the pitch, making Bolton''s defenders shuffle, slide, and burn calories. When the ball came back again, I did one more fake pass down the line, touched it to the side, and whipped it into the box.


    Dazza got a lovely little flick on it, but the goalie saved well.


    This seemed like one of those dilemmas. Run up the score by doing everything myself, or help Dazza score his first goal for the club? I looked down. Was this the very spot where Pascal''s career had been ended?


    No. He was fine. He would be fine.


    But just the thought that maybe -


    Not now, Max.


    I sprinted to the side and screamed for the ball. I passed to Wibbers, who shimmied left and right, threatened to nutmeg his marker, but instead rolled the ball into my path. I fucking leathered it first time, aiming about a yard to the right of the right-hand post. It swerved in, missing the inside of the upright by a whisker, before the Chester fans went full limbs. Once again, I kept my run going so I could pluck the ball from the back of the net, but this time there was a twist. As I got close, Bolton''s young centre back decided he would stop me with a push that sent me crashing into the post.


    I blinked and found myself tangled up in the net with a forest of legs nearby.


    The fuck?


    The guy had shoved me onto a metal post. What the hell was going on with these morons lately?


    In a slightly stunned state, I wondered if it was The Sentinel warning me. But that didn''t make sense. My goals against Fleetwood had been after the guy elbowed me in the gob. I mean, I''d been dicking around but as I''d told Pascal, it wasn''t productive.


    I thought about trying to get up but something felt wrong so I decided to wait. Dean had gone to the hospital with Pascal. I saw Livia approaching, but she veered off to the side because the ref had produced another red card which caused another outburst of pushing and shoving. I checked the curse commentary and saw it was for the guy who had assaulted me. Bolton were down to nine men. Nine!


    Was Old Nick making people attack me? Punishing me for something? Warning me not to get too flashy?


    Or were footballers at higher levels just as violent and idiotic as the ones in non-league?


    "Max, hold still. Where does it hurt?"


    "Um, it doesn''t. I''m fine."


    "You''re bleeding."


    "No," I said, genuinely surprised. Livia pressed a cotton pad onto my forehead and took it away, showing me the colour. "You''re using disclosing tablets."


    "Not in the mood for jokes, Max."


    "Okay."


    I also had a cut on my arm at the exact spot where Zach had broken it the year before. Livia went through her process and said I seemed to be fine but that I''d taken a knock to the head and had to go off. "Okay, I''m not in the mood for jokes either," I growled.


    She wasn''t intimidated by me in the slightest. "You''ve been in a coma. You''ve taken a blow to the head. You''re not playing another minute. Get off the pitch."


    I took a breath and tried to stay calm. "We''ve used all our subs. They could get back in this, even with nine."


    "See, that makes me think you''re more hurt than you''re letting on. The real Max Best knows you can make a concussion sub. You come off, send someone else on, we''re back to full strength."


    "If we do that, Bolton get another sub, too, though," I said, proving I was compos menti.


    "I''m just a physio," she said, zipping her bag closed with savage force. She got in my face. "But I say put Sharky on and let him run riot." She got up and offered me a helping hand. "But what do I know?"


    ***


    I let her shepherd me across the pitch - the jobsworth ref wanted me to go off the side and walk around but fuck that - and Liv told Sandra what was happening. Sandra turned to Dan, which I thought was fascinating, but Livia said, "No. Sharky."


    Livia tried to get me to keep moving, but I paused. I got Sandra and said, quietly, "Attack till we drop. Anyone who goes easy on them doesn''t play for this club again. Make sure they understand."


    With that, I went down the away team tunnel and let Livia give me a closer examination. When she was happy I wasn''t going to drop dead, I told her to get back to the dugout in case there were more injuries. She turned the light out as she went and I sat there in the dark, like a worm.


    I lay on my back on a treatment table, chewing on marathon paste, as I followed the match like I was playing Champion Manager.


    Bolton Wanderers 1 Chester 3


    It looks like Chester are adopting a more attacking approach.


    More attacking than 2-4-4? I popped the tactics screens up and saw that Sandra had gone to 2-3-5 with Christian Fierce as another striker. If Triple Captain had an area of effect, it was now boosting our goalscorers.


    85''


    Slick interplay from Chester.


    Lyons drops to collect a pass. He passes wide.


    Hayward takes on his man. And beats him!


    He has the chance to cross...


    Fierce is first to the ball.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Chester score their fourth goal!


    The home fans are streaming out.


    86''


    Roberts in space on the left. He cuts back inside...


    Flashes a shot just wide!


    It was so close to the head of Smith.


    Was it a shot or a cross?


    87''


    Roberts in space on the left. He cuts back inside...


    Gets a shot on target.


    Good save from the keeper!


    Bundled home by Fierce! He''s got his second!


    But the referee has disallowed it. He saw a foul in the build-up.


    88''


    Roberts in space on the left. He slips the ball down the line.


    Moore crosses first time.


    It evades everyone.


    Hayward collects. He drives forward and lashes the ball square into a mass of bodies.


    The ball squirts off Smith and onto a defender.


    It''s in the back of the net!


    The Chester players look to the referee.


    He points... to the centre circle!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Chester''s fifth goes down as an own goal.


    91''


    Relentless waves of attack from Chester.


    The home stands are virtually empty.


    The away end is raucous. They are chanting for Bochum.


    Green takes the ball and strides forward. He slips a pass through the lines...


    Roberts collects. He had drifted over from the left.


    Roberts has his heels clipped!


    The ref points to the spot!


    It''s a soft penalty, but the correct decision.


    Who will take it?


    92''


    Lyons wants Darren Smith to take it.


    Unselfish play from the Frenchman.


    Christian Fierce snatches the ball from Lyons'' hands...


    And gives it back to him.


    Lyons is getting an earful.


    93''


    The penalty will finally be taken.


    Lyons...


    Makes no mistake!


    He runs to the away fans. They can''t believe what is happening.


    The noise is ferocious.


    It is Bolton 1, Chester 6.


    95''


    Eddie Moore goes down with cramp. He''s in some discomfort.


    Contreras goes to offer his assistance.


    Christian Fierce jogs to the touchline and takes instruction from Sandra Lane.


    It looks like Chester are adopting a more cautious approach.


    ***


    Back on my treatment table, I nodded to myself.


    ***


    At full time, the lads went over to the fans, but Sandra came to find me. With the lights off in the dressing room, she immediately left. I called out.


    She frowned, turned the light on, and came towards me. "Why are you - oh, concussion. Are you all right?"


    "I''m being a good patient for once. Setting an example. Any word from Dean?"


    She shook her head. "Just that it looks bad." Her lips tightened as she got angry, then she placed her hands on the table and leaned on them. "Can we manage without him?" ''Him'' meant Pascal, not Dean.


    I closed my eyes and looked at the squad screen. It was somewhat lacking in creative forward players but we had some speed, some graft, and a great big Australian battering ram. That said, because a certain contract rebel had made me stop handing out new deals, I actually had nine hundred pounds a week left in my budget and three weeks remained in the transfer window. "Let''s talk about that later in the week. What was the final score?" I asked, as if I didn''t know, but Livia hadn''t let me get my phone - you didn''t let guys with concussion look at screens.


    "Six-one," said Sandra.


    "Acceptable," I said, trying to squash down the pride I felt in everyone. That could come later, after I''d been on TV. "The fans stopped roaring. You didn''t take your foot off the gas at the end or anything like that?" Sandra inhaled and was about to defend herself when I reached out and gently gripped her lower arm. "I''m joking."


    She looked relieved. "Eddie got a cramp and I was thinking, you know, Pascal wouldn''t want us adding injury to insult, if you know what I mean."


    "Yeah. I do."


    "How''s your head? Anything you want me to say to the media? I''m going in a second."


    I eased myself up and felt absolutely fine. No dizziness, no spinning rooms, no kaleidoscope of colour. I had a minor cut to the head, end of story. "We''re going to do the media."


    "You sure?"


    That was why I was pushing down the positive emotions. I wanted to tap into the anger. "Job''s not done till that fucker''s got the sack."


    Sandra thought about it. We would undo the bridge-building work we''d done in the pre-match interview. We would be less appealing to AOK. "Agreed. Let''s end him." She looked around the dressing room, silent except for the distant chanting of our mob. "That was epic. I wish you''d been out there instead of being in here all alone in the dark."


    Some positivity bubbled out of me against my will. I looked deep into her soul. "That last ten minutes," I said, with a slight gesture. I was waving towards the Match Overview but Sandra thought I was waving to the away fans, to the oohs, ahs, and cheers that told me what was going on. "That last ten minutes I didn''t feel alone. I felt like I was right there with you, watching you make the right moves, watching you drive the lads forward. And I was with the players, playing every pass, running every overlap. I know it sounds crazy but I was right there, right where I want to be."


    She nodded, and with a tiny smile, said, "Right in the middle of the blob." Her smile got a fraction bigger. "I can''t wait to read your essay about teaching Relationism to Welsh soldiers. I''m worried you saying ''we went into the blob and rolled and done a slap'' might not be, you know, forensic enough to pass the course."


    I clicked my fingers. "Forensic. Yes. That''s the right way to handle this. I''ll show you how forensic I can be. I''m going to dissect a football manager live on TV. You coming?"


    Her eyes flashed. "Wouldn''t miss it for the world."

 11.14 - Mit Einem Fuss im Grabe

    14.


    Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 6


    Chapter 14 - Epilogue


    Thursday, August 14


    1. Sinfonia


    The ceiling of room 156 at the private hospital in Manchester was painted white. There was nothing there except for shadows, and the shadows spelled numbers.


    Five. Five months out.


    One blink later and the shapes had changed.


    Ten. Ten months out.


    I would like to say I was stoic, I was strong, but a film covered my eyeballs and when I blinked away the tears, the shadows had reformed into the pedantic but accurate phrase ''five to ten months out''.


    "Schatz," said Tiggy. "You''re awake. Oh!"


    She had spotted my distress; I could not deny it. "My career''s over."


    "It''s not."


    "You can''t miss a full season in this sport. It''s ruthless. Max is ruthless. He''ll bin me off."


    Tiggy was by the side of the bed trying to smile at me, trying to give me some reassurance. She was bossy, she was forceful, but when she needed to show tenderness, there it was. What a woman. "Max is a dick but he would never bin you off for being injured. No way. I don''t want to listen to that, okay?"


    "Why hasn''t he been to see me?"


    Tiggy pushed my hair back. "We talked about this last night. Did you forget? He got concussion from, like, avenging you, so he''s got to take it easy. Doctor''s orders. He can''t tell you to do as you''re told if he won''t do it himself. And he put in the group chat that everyone goes to see injured players in the first couple of days and then it''s tumbleweed so they need to coordinate with Christian so you get at least one visitor per day. See? He''s thinking about you and I don''t say this very often but he''s right. What''s the point of twenty people coming all at once?"


    "I suppose."


    "You know what I think? I think five months is a long time but you could be back playing in February. Feb, March, April, May. There will be a lot of games, right? There might be some rain in the winter. Some snow. Matches will get pushed back like always happens and you''ll be fit to play in them." She smiled, took my hand, and kissed it. "You''ll get your league winners medal."


    "How are they going to win the league without me?"


    She tipped her head back and laughed. "That''s it! There''s my Pascal." She stood and looked at me with such affection I briefly forgot the pain. "I''m going to get a butty from downstairs. Do you want one?"


    The pain returned. It was as though blood was trying to rush through my leg but was crashing into the many and various traumas it encountered. I imagined a bloody torrent rushing through huge cracks in my bone, passing through me like a river, wearing away the tissue instead of healing it. "No, thanks." Tiggy sensed my shift in mood and hesitated. "Actually, yes, I would like one."


    The lie was necessary to stop her from worrying too much. I summoned a lightness of the face that I hoped would give her comfort. I''m sure it was a grotesque, gargoyle grimace. The closest thing a wretch like me can get to tenderness. The meanest, basest approximation of affection. "Bin schnell zur¨¹ck," she said. I''ll be back soon.


    ***


    2. Aria [Tenor]


    The door closed behind her. I popped in an earbud and pressed play on my phone, listening to a piece by Bach that reminded me of my mother. It was exactly the right amount of nostalgic and gloomy for my present mood, and I was trying to keep my mind occupied by translating it into English.


    Some parts were easier than others.


    Ich steh mit einem Fu? im Grabe.


    I stand with one foot in the grave.


    Another tear spilled as I wrote the next line: my sick body will soon fall in.


    The door flew open.


    "Knock knock! Who''s there? Max Best! All right, mate?" Max came in and looked around at the space. Moderately spacious, clean, and simple. He dumped his backpack on a chair that was pushed up against the wall. "Wow, nice this, innit? It''s bigger than my fridge!"


    "Have you got a big fridge?" I asked.


    Max gave me a stern look. "In England, it''s rude to ask a man about the size of his fridge." His face cracked into a big smile. "What''s that?" he said, indicating the far side of the room. When I turned, he snatched away my translation. "The shit is this? You''re writing poetry? I Have One Foot in the Grave. Holy fuck, I''m too late. It hasn''t been 48 hours and you''re already writing depressing songs. We don''t need more, lad. You''re in Manchester and we gave the world The Smiths."


    "It''s Bach," I said.


    "I''ll give it back when you explain what it is," he said, but again he laughed and handed it over. He was having one of those mornings when he was at 107% energy.


    "It''s Bach," I repeated. "My mother loves Bach. This reminds me of my childhood."


    He laughed again. "Well, that explains a lot." I had to smile at that, but he put a pause on his antics. "They''ve been to see you, right?"


    I nodded. "Yes," I said, as loud as a church mouse. "And Tiggy has been with me."


    He pointed at something. "Tiggy, right. Where''s your phone?"


    "Here," I said, finally realising the earphone was still playing the cantata. I tucked it away in its case.


    "Top. She''s downstairs, right? Send her a message that you need a biscuit Boost and a copy of The Economist."


    "No. Why?"


    "Because I want to give you your performance review and I won''t enjoy it if she''s here. Come on, just send the text already."


    Performance review? After two matches of the new season? Absurd... but I really wanted to know what he would say. "It''s not fair to send her on a wild goose hunt."


    "Chase."


    "It''s not fair. I will tell her that you are here and ask her to wait downstairs."


    "Don''t be fucking mental!" he said, throwing his hands over his eyes like I was the one being unreasonable. "She''s here to take care of you, right? Trust me, when she gets that text she''ll be ecstatic."


    "What?"


    "It''s like you''re getting better, know what I mean? You suddenly thought, huh, I could murder a biscuit Boost. She''s going to go to the nearest shop to get it and realise they don''t sell The Economist. So she''ll go and get that and okay I get a bit more time to talk to you in private but she gets a killer story. Right? She''s with her mates drinking straight gin and they''re all like ooh poor Pascal and she''s like yeah it has been tough but I knew he was on the mend when he asked me to go to the shops but you''ll never guess what he wanted!"


    "That isn''t a killer story," I said, but something about Max has a way of making you believe the preposterous things he wants you to believe. And in the shadows of a corner of my mind, I wondered why he had chosen the two items he had chosen. To force Tiggy to visit at least two shops, yes, but also to stimulate her. I never ate the Boost chocolate bars - I never ate British chocolate if I could help it - and I never read The Economist. The surprise would absolutely intrigue and delight Tiggy and Max knew it.


    I thumbed my phone, which emitted a whooshing sound.


    "Let me see," he said, and for some reason I showed him my screen. "Top top top." He sat by my bed, facing the door, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So much to do. I wanted to start small and get big but all the conversations bleed into one another."


    My phone pinged. I showed Max what Tiggy had sent. The word okay and a smiley face.


    Max grinned. "Told you. Right, first things first. Grapes." He pulled a plastic punnet of green grapes out of his bag. "I got you ones with seeds because I know you Germans like to do the opposite of what is nice."


    "Those are seedless," I said, pointing to the pack.


    "Yeah, well, I might have some."


    "Why do British people bring grapes to hospital?"


    Max tutted. "Because we are the height of class and sophistication. We''re civilised, okay? Now let''s talk about your mangled leg."


    ***


    3. Recitative [Bass]


    My mood had been on the rise - his manchild energy was infectious - but now it collapsed. I thought I had bottomed out but Max always knew how to find extremes beyond the extremes. He pulled out something that was clearly an X-ray - how did he have it? - and I was so stunned that I couldn''t even look away.


    "I need your permission to put this out on social media."


    Despair and denial mingled with anger. The throbbing in my leg, the pounding of blood against bone, made me feel nauseous. "What - " I started, but then I saw it. He held it up in front of me. I had told the doctors, I had told Dean that I didn''t want to see. I only wanted to focus on my healing, my recovery. And there it was.


    Very clearly a human leg, but shockingly broken in multiple places. Despair, denial, rage, nausea - but the nausea won. I slumped back on my pillow, turned white, and prepared to vomit all over the bed. While the bile rose I felt ashamed - the nurses would have to clean up and they had been so nice to me.


    "What the hell are you doing?"


    Max''s tone diminished my symptoms by a few percent. I turned towards him and saw that he was astonished by my reaction. I swallowed back what was in my gullet and let the anger take over enough that I could speak. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you show me that?"


    He looked at the X-ray, seemingly unable to comprehend how monstrously he was behaving. "This?"


    "My fucking leg, you Dummkopf!"


    He did one of the most maddening things I''ve ever seen - he broke into a smile. Not one of the smirks he can''t contain when he knows something better than you, or one of the playful lip-bites he uses to flirt with waitresses, but a warm, genuine smile that contained dollops of amusement and affection. "This isn''t your leg, Pascal."


    "Oh."


    He added a frown to the smile, and as he looked at the X-ray he side-eyed me. "Why would I use your X-ray on social media?"


    The moment had exhausted me. I held my arms over my eyes. "I don''t know."


    "Have a grape," he said. He took them over to the sink and washed them. He plopped one in his mouth and created a paper towel bed underneath the punnet so it wouldn''t leak too badly. I would have used a plate, but Max had his own way of doing things. "No, see," he said, as he experimentally put the grapes on the edge of the bed where I could get them easily. "Your X-ray is super boring."


    "I apologise," I said. He lifted the grapes and discovered the paper towel system had failed. He opened the drawers and found a Bible. He placed that down and was about to use it as a plate. "No, Max. Not that. Forget the grapes and tell me what you want."


    He tutted, not at me but his own inability to solve this challenge. He shrugged as he picked up the X-ray again. "Er, yeah. Bolton haven''t sacked Gregory yet so I am piling on the pressure. Got to do this before his next press conference." Max tapped his phone''s screen to bring up the date. Like me he had slightly lost track of time. I remembered Dean told me Max had hit his head and most of my annoyance at being shown the X-ray dissipated. "That will be tomorrow afternoon. You know those pressers, they''re super boring. Normally he would answer questions about the game at the weekend in front of maybe five journos. This week there will be at least six."


    "Bethany Alban," I said.


    Max smiled. "Yes. So the plan is, either today or tomorrow morning - I''m going to work with Beth on it because she can calculate the optimal timing better than me - we''re going to put this on our socials with, like, no words. Just hashtag Pascal hashtag Kieran Lovett."


    "But it''s not my leg."


    "We''re not saying it''s your leg. If somebody viewing the post thinks ''oh shit look what Kieran Lovett did to Pascal'', that''s, like, beyond my control. And if a Daily Mail reporter writes a piece about the incident showing this X-ray ''as posted on Chester''s socials'' next to a photo of Lovett and Gregory looking shady while leaving a building, I mean, that''s nothing to do with us."


    "Why not use my actual X-ray?"


    Max did a lop-sided smile. "That would be unethical, Pascal. I''d never ask you to do that." He tried to control his expression and decided that eating a grape would help. Maybe that''s what the grapes were for - to give people something to do while they had difficult conversations. "Anyway, like I said, yours is boring. This one. Mwah! Chef''s kiss. Even you were repulsed and you knew it wasn''t you." He frowned; I had thought it was me. "Hang on. You''ve seen your X-ray. Why did you freak out?"


    "I haven''t seen it. I know it''s bad." Max''s face lit up, just for a half a second, which shocked and irritated me but made more sense when I thought about it later. "I didn''t want to know. I don''t want to know, I only want to heal and get back on the pitch."


    "Top."


    I sighed. I went through cycles of trusting Max completely and being ready to impugn his character but everyone said he had gone supernova in reaction to Lovett''s assault. Surely I could give him the benefit of the doubt. "Why are you going after the manager? Why not Lovett?"


    "Because when Lovett got the red card, the manager was complaining to the ref that it wasn''t that bad a tackle. In the post-match interview he said Lovett ''wasn''t that sort of player'' which is a disgraceful thing to say because Lovett literally just did the thing his manager said he would never do. The manager creates the culture, right? You and I both know that players will sometimes go fucking mental and do something mad. Like, if you play a thousand matches in your career are you going to do a tackle like that at least once? Probably. But I think you know if you do that for my team you''re not getting back in the side for months, if ever. Right? You know I won''t go on TV and defend you."


    "I would expect the opposite."


    "Right. We do bad fouls, bad tackles, same as everyone. We''re no angels. If Henri lashes out and thumps a defender I''m not going to go apeshit, I don''t think, even if we''re all a bit disappointed in him. But I hope we can agree I haven''t created a culture where you can go round hurting people. All you''re doing is hurting the team, hurting the club. Anyway, the way I''m going after the manager is based on an assumption that Lovett is a minotaur, just a wild beast that has to be kept locked away. He''s not getting away with this. When the manager''s sacked, Beth''s going to start another media frenzy around whether the new guy will release the minotaur. And if there''s ever a sniff of Lovett getting another contract anywhere, that manager, that club are going to get bombarded with media enquiries. Why are you signing a literal monster, mate? What''s wrong with you? Etcetera, etcetera. No, Lovett''s a long-term revenge. Short-term we focus on Gregory. So I need you to let me use this X-ray, please."


    "Why do you need my permission if it isn''t me?"


    "Because it''s your career. Three years from now when you''re sick of my shit and you want to move clubs, a sporting director might think ''good player, dodgy leg''. I think it''s incredibly unlikely but it wouldn''t be fair to go all-out without you having some input."


    "Why do you think it''s unlikely?"


    "One thing at a time, please. I''ve been here for like seven minutes and we haven''t even got the preamble sorted. Can I go hard at this twat Gregory, yes or no?"


    Right then and there I didn''t care either way; I only wanted to heal, to know that I would walk again. But I also knew that the anger would come back and I would want revenge, and I knew that Max Best would keep this grudge in his heart forever. He would use Beth, the Brig, and every other weapon in his arsenal to hound Lovett and Gregory out of the sport entirely.


    I reached out for my translation and read:


    If you will because of my sins,


    place me on my sick-bed,


    my God, then I beg you,


    let your kindness be greater than your justice.


    Kindness for me. Justice for Gregory and Lovett. Leave it to the gaffer. The throbbing in my leg eased. "Yes."


    ***


    4 Aria [Alto]


    Max fired off a text. "Top bins," he said. "Right, what''s next? Your performance review. Will it be a 4.71 out of 5 that means you''re shit and don''t deserve happiness, or a 4.73 that means you''re an all-time legend? I don''t think this needs to take long. When you left the pitch it was one-nil to Bolton. Nuff said." He laughed. "Nah, but seriously - "


    "One moment, please," I said, because he was about to go on a monologue. "Henri came yesterday and he said you savaged Gregory in the post-match."


    "Yes but in French, to savage means to tenderly brush your lips on someone''s neck."


    "It does not. He said that today - yesterday - I was having the cockroach but that tomorrow - "


    "Wait what?"


    "To have the cockroach? You don''t know the phrase? It''s French. It means, you know, to be depressed. I was down and groggy on meds but tomorrow - today - I should find the video of you going at Gregory. He said you didn''t use the back of the spoon."


    "Jesus Christ, mate. You''re making these phrases up."


    "It means you didn''t hold back."


    Max shrugged and got his phone out. "See for yourself." He tapped a few times until he was on the EFL''s YouTube account. There was a video with the title ''Chester Boss Pulls NO Punches - full interview.''


    He gave me his phone, and I hesitated. "Dieter Bauer sent me a voicemail."


    "Course he did," said Max. "He''s a gentleman. He''s, like, the opposite of Gregory."


    I waited for more, but that seemed to be that. I pressed play, and immediately had a shock. "You''re bleeding!"


    "Pause," he said, and I obeyed. "I got a little cut scoring the third goal but Livia sorted it out. I asked Sandra to poke me until it bled again. She refused, of course, but I said if she didn''t I was going to smash my face against a wall until I drew blood. She was pretty fucking unhappy, mate, but she sort of jabbed her finger into the sore bit. It hurt like the devil but I egged her on. I was like hey have you started yet and oh that tickles and all that and, yeah, anyway."


    "You''re crazy."


    Max tutted and looked up at the ceiling. "What''s crazy about getting your assistant manager to draw blood so you can look suitably wounded while you''re being interviewed about how violent your oppo were? Come on, man. It''s not like I faked it."


    I had thoughts, but I kept them to myself. Suffice to say the blood very much added to the sense of immediacy, the sense that authentic words were being spoken.


    "Max Best, you''ve knocked a Championship side out of the AOK Cup. How do you feel?"


    "I''m gutted for the fans of Bolton Wanderers. We brought five thousand fans here tonight, sold out our entire allocation and had to ask for more, because this is Bolton Wanderers and it''s amazing to play them in the cup. Bolton are a huge part of the history of English football, a sleeping giant. Every true football fan in this country would say that Bolton Wanderers are a much bigger club than Manchester City."


    Max asked me to pause, and he pointed to Sandra Lane, who was beside him on his phone. She had been nodding along until the last part. "Look how she reacts to that." Max laughed. "That''s how furious she was about what happened to you, mate. She really doesn''t like it when I lay into City but here she lets me get on with it. I mean, she flinches, right, but you can see in her eyes she goes ''this is for Pascal''. Okay press play."


    "We''ve just seen one of the most pathetic, feeble, cowardly, and tactically inept performances in the history of this great club. When you think about Bolton you think about the Lion of Vienna. Now it is run by a mouse. When you think of Bolton you think of its rich history. Now there is only intellectual poverty.


    "We''ve got the manager there, Gregory, and serious questions have to be asked about how he ended up at the wheel. He is the worst manager, by far, in the entire football league. His starting line up today was a joke. He might have thought he was insulting Chester but he was only shaming Bolton. If you don''t have the players to play a system and you insist on using that system, fine, but that''s not tactics, that''s a letter of resignation.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "Gregory was lucky in the first half that McManus played well, because McManus covered a multitude of sins. Once he came off, the second half was Gregory versus Best. I have managed six matches in League Two and of those six I have won zero. Inept as I am, I made some adjustments that had Chester, with the lowest budget by far of the 92 league clubs, dominating against Bolton. Did Gregory notice? He didn''t change anything, so he can''t have noticed. If he can''t see what''s right in front of him, why is he managing anything other than a Sunday league side? If he saw it but didn''t know what to do, why is he managing one of the country''s most important institutions?


    "If you create a culture that rewards thuggish play, two-footed tackles, pushing people into the goalposts after they have scored, a culture that rewards players for constantly whinging and moaning at the referee instead of learning how to pass, you''re going to get red cards, you''re going to get fines, and sponsors are going to think twice about associating with you. If I were a sponsor of Bolton Wanderers today I would be looking at the small print of my contract because why is my brand logo on the shirts of players launching themselves two-footed at their opponents? I''m told poor Pascal Bochum might never walk again. Is that what we do here?"


    Max reached over to pause the video. "No-one said you wouldn''t walk again. That was just for shock value."


    "I understand." There wasn''t long left in the video; I pressed play.


    "If I was a Bolton fan today I would be livid. My club is being hollowed out, not by Gregory, but by the people who appointed him. Those people will sack Gregory, of course they will, because you can''t lose 6-1 to Chester. A club the size of Bolton can''t lose 6-1 to Chester, who started the match with four players under 19. So they''ll sack him, but they don''t have the competence to appoint someone better. Those decision-makers can''t stay at the club because if they do, Chester will be playing Bolton again next season, in League One, and I''ll look at that and think it''s an easy six points even if any two of their players earn more than my entire squad.


    "Now if you don''t mind, I''m going to hospital. First for a scan on my head and an X-ray on my arm, then to find out if my talented young player''s career is over. A horrible, appalling day in my life and the life of Pascal Bochum but for Gregory? It''s just another Tuesday."


    I licked my lips and Max came round the bed to pour me a glass of water. "I am speechless."


    "I rate it 4.72," said Max, who didn''t seem to be joking. "I obviously didn''t have time to write it and structure it properly but I think it hits the main points. Building Bolton up gets me the sympathies of their fans but also contrasts with how tiny Chester are - for now - and shines a light on just how crushing it is that we beat them. The threat that we would meet in League One if they didn''t change soon was pretty good, I think. I wasn''t too happy with the bits about me."


    "When you said you had never won a game in League Two."


    "I have as a player," smiled Max. "But I went from saying I was a shit manager to saying I made some tactical changes that worked. Do you know what I mean? It wasn''t completely internally consistent."


    "I think you might be underestimating yourself. I would give the speech 4.73."


    "I just really, really want the guy to get sacked and if I flubbed my chance, that''s going to eat at me forever."


    I tapped my Bach ''poem''. "What happens is as God wills it." Something occurred to me. "Your arm! Please tell me you didn''t break it again."


    Max scoffed. "God willed that a big boof-headed American should break it last season. You know bones heal stronger, right? That one little bit of my arm is like adamantium now. About half a centimetre of me is literally invincible. Then again, I''m still not convinced it ever actually broke. No, I''m all good, but because of the concussion protocol I do have to sit out the Burton Albion game. I''m not sure what to do - it''s ages since I had a match day off. What''s the best use of my time? Go and scout a couple of League One teams, maybe."


    "No! That''s our first home game back in the EFL! You have to be there."


    Max didn''t seem too bothered. "Without our two best players we don''t have much of a shot; Burton are going to be right up there at the end of the season. I knew we would lose a couple of matches early doors and Sandra gets to be the first female manager in League Two. Sucks that it''ll go down as a loss but it''s still history, isn''t it? And we will make it up to her near the end of the season when we''re flying. Her first six matches will look a lot better than mine. Won''t they?"


    I wasn''t sure how to get back to my performance review, and my attempt was clumsy. "Our two best players?"


    Max snorted in derision - he knew what I was trying to do. "Okay, fine. Quick recap. When I first scouted you at Darlington..." He rummaged in his backpack and came up with a player radar. The sections were, at most, three thin pencil lines deep.


    "What''s this?" I asked.


    "That''s your radar when I found you," he said. He pulled another one out and looked at it. "Hang on, the one you''re holding is the newest one." I looked in horror at the chart. Surely... surely I was better than this? The computer must have - Max pushed his finger to his lip while he considered something, but he couldn''t contain his amusement any longer. "Ha! Look how worried you are. Here''s where you are now."


    He handed me the real chart - some long bars, some short ones - and I devoured it. "Aerial duels bad," I said.


    Best tutted. "Don''t start with the worst stuff, you dick. Look at that. Carry and dribble volume. That''s mint, that."


    "This radar has different metrics from the one in the Maxterplan."


    "Yeah, I don''t know which one I like. Spectrum''s giving me different options. He loves it, all this data stuff, wants to get into it in a big way."


    "What about the youth teams?" Spectrum was in charge of the youth setup - he couldn''t spend too much time on data analysis.


    "Yeah," said Max. "I''ve told him the kids are his priority until I can find someone better than him and anyway, even if I do Spectrum will show him how I want things to go for the rest of the season. He gets it; he''s in no hurry but we get free data from all over the place now that we''re in League Two. It''s really amazing."


    "I''d love to help him," I said. "If I''m out for the rest of the season I could do some data stuff. I love it, too."


    Max scowled at me, then realised what he was doing. "No. I''ve got plans for you. They are completely mandatory. I mean, voluntary."


    "I see."


    "Let me say my things. So when I found you, you were too small to play in England. I made you my first signing, staked my entire reputation on you. Since then you''ve played loads, slapped teams pink, and got two league winners medals. Either I made you taller or you proved the doubters wrong big time. I asked you to do certain things at certain times and you did everything I ever asked. One very stupid way people talk about players is to ask how a team of eleven clones would do. Would eleven Messis beat eleven Ronaldos? I think a team of eleven Pascal Bochums would fucking destroy League Two, and that''s including set pieces. So that''s my appraisal. You are the perfect chess piece."


    "I''m a robot," I said. "You programme me and I follow instructions."


    "Yes and no. You add your own spin to my instructions. You interpret them."


    I felt the throbbing in my leg go faster and I tried to keep still. "I will have a short career, boss. Perhaps it is already over." Again, something flashed on Max''s face, but I continued. "If I make it back, I would like to learn Relationism." My throat tightened. "From you."


    "Er, no."


    "Please," I said, eyes welling up. "I don''t want to be the best robot. I don''t want to be a chess piece. I want to be more like Henri. I want to do something, create something." My throat tightened even more. "While I still can."


    Max got up and paced around. He flapped his arms and gestured like an Italian. "Mamma mia! What the shit is going on? Why doesn''t anyone listen to me? Max knows Best, remember that? I want to get you earning forty thousand Euro a week, mate, and you''re like oh now I''d rather learn about blobs. Blobs isn''t for you, PB. There are no Bad Boys in blobs."


    "Dan is a Bad Boy."


    "What?"


    "Badford."


    Max cackled. "Why did that never occur to me? Or did it and I forgot?" He went to the window and looked out, biting his nail. He turned suddenly. "I''ve got it. Here''s what you''re going to do and I don''t want to hear a fucking argument against it, you hear me? I just want to hear you say yes. Okay..." He pushed his index fingers into his temples as though analysing what he was about to say. Running it through a virus checker. "You are going to get your UEFA C badge in Wales. First you''ve got to do a course called Football Leaders, then there''s a Welsh thing called FAW C. They''re both really short but you''ll turn up, be the biggest fucking megabrain they''ve ever seen, and they''ll wave you through. Okay? Then you''ll be added to whatever UEFA C course is going on and if you''ve missed some you''ll catch up. You got that?"


    Why not do a course while I was injured? It would be another point of difference between me and the other players like me. Add a working knowledge of Relationism and I would surely be able to carve a niche in this industry. "Yes."


    "At the same time you''ll come to 3 R Welsh with me - I mean, it''s normally in Saltney unless there are matches - and you''ll learn about Relationism."


    "Okay."


    "As my assistant manager."


    "Oh! Yes!" My brain was swimming in happy chemicals. Nurse! I don''t need those pills - take them away! Nurse, bring the pills back. My face hurts from smiling. "I mean, yes. Love to."


    "Top. Last question for this section, I think. Do you think you could spend time with a cute girl and not fall head over heels and make things weird?"


    He was talking about Luisa, the waitress I had longed after. I felt heat burn my cheeks. "I am with Tiggy," I said.


    "I''m going to have to press you for a yes or no on that one."


    I set my jaw. He really was insufferable, that man. Highs followed by lows, but far more of the former. "Yes, I can spend time with a cute girl and not fall head over heels."


    "Huh," said Max. "Okay." He went to his bag and pulled out something I had seen a lot of, especially at the Fans Forum when Max was fighting off the Daddy Star takeover. The Chester logo took up half of the front cover.


    "A contract?" I said. My hands shook as I flicked through the pages. Max wasn''t thinking about binning me off. He wanted to give me a new deal. I flicked to the last page. 800 pounds a week! An increase of 300. In the world of football, peanuts. In the world of Chester''s stupidly tight budget, it was a vast fortune.


    I cannot lie. I wept.


    Finally, I got a grip. "Thank you," I said. "But I refuse."


    ***


    5 Recitative [Bass]


    And if that is your will, that I shall not be ill, then I shall thank you from my heart.


    Max, slappable to the last, laughed. "Don''t be a dick," he said. "Sign it before Tiggy comes and sees how little I''m offering and we have another Triplet fiasco."


    I inhaled a deep, shuddering, messy breath. I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve. "The club has 900 pounds a week left in its budget. I''m out for the season. You can sign a forward on loan, one who is earning 1800 a week. Clubs will loan players to you on half their salary because they know you''ll improve them."


    Max looked far to the left, a sure sign he was unimpressed. "Have you been playing Soccer Supremo? I don''t need help squad-building, thanks. I''m actually the best in the world, thanks. Sign the fucking contract before I lose my shit, thanks."


    "No. You have to replace me. For the team."


    Max''s faux-outrage puffed out of existence. "This isn''t a test of Chesterness, mate." He paced around the room before going to the door, opening it, and peeking down the corridor. He came back to the side of the bed closest to the door and whispered. I had to strain to hear. "First thing, no loans in. Remember Chipper? That was as stressful for me as for him. Second, we''re going to coach the fucking shit out of the players we''ve got. Wibbers is the best talent in England. Sharky can crush this level. Third, it''s an excuse for me to give minutes to kids. Tyson, Benny, Noah, Chas. They didn''t think they''d get much time in League Two games but now they will. And fourth - " He paused to check the door and got even quieter. "You''re fucking fine, mate."


    There was complete silence in the entire world. "Pardon me?"


    Max got a giddy look about him, the one he''d had on his face when he first entered the room. He checked behind him again. "You know Dean wants to build a database of all the ACL injuries but clubs won''t share their data? I''ve been going round, now and then, meeting their physios and doctors and whatnot, to try to persuade them to sign up. They fucking love a bit of attention from a big shot like me, Pascal, let me tell you. You think I''m good with waitresses? You should see me with a League One head physio. They''re putty in my hands. Along the way I''ve seen loads of gruesome shit I never, ever wanted to see. I saw an X-ray with a bone broken in two places just like yours. Guess what the doctors said?"


    "Five to ten months."


    "Right. Now, I wasn''t so sure because to me it looked like the bones were all just, I don''t know. They just needed to be eased back into place, sort of thing. You know if you get an atlas and cut out the continents you can shove Brazil next to Africa real good? It used to be one big thing, didn''t it? Pangea. Panagea, something like that. Maybe that can be next year''s Maxterplan. Anyway, call me crazy but I was like there''s no way that break is five months, but you know me, I''m a man of science, I trust experts, and I got what I wanted and fucked off. But fuck me, wasn''t that lad back training two months later?"


    "What? Two months?"


    Max tapped me on the shoulder. "You''ll be healed up in six to eight weeks and you can start light training again. That''s a fucking Maxy five-star triple-lock promise, okay?" He looked behind him again. "But you can''t tell anyone. That''s why Tiggy can''t be here - also because she won''t let me tease you - and that''s why this is going to be hard. You have to do what you''re told, go through the process, be sad when they talk about ten month timelines. But it''s not ten months, okay?"


    "I don''t..." My world was tumbling upside down. I was just getting used to the idea that I was crocked, that I was broken, perhaps forever. It would have been easy to dismiss Max''s dilettante diagnosis but I knew one person who wouldn''t and that was Physio Dean. Dean was flat-out terrified of Max''s intuition when it came to injuries. "You''re guessing, though. You don''t actually know."


    He smiled and tapped me again. "That''s the spirit! Maybe we don''t need to send you to acting class after all."


    The shadows on the ceiling shifted. No longer 5 to 10 but 6 to 8... and weeks not months! It couldn''t be true. There wasn''t even the slightest ghost of a chance. "And this is why I get a new contract? Because you think I''ll be back by... by December?"


    "You get a new contract because you''ve earned one over the last three years with your grit, courage, and skill. Sign it."


    I shook my head. Max was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. "We''re light. We still need another player."


    Max''s forehead sank into the bed and he mumbled, "Oh my God." He came up with a disbelieving look. "Fine, there''s another reason. Our main rivals. Check this shit out."


    He got his phone, hunted around, and showed me another video. It was Chip Star in a wild limo/van hybrid. The seats were luxurious, there was party lighting, and Chip and a male friend were inside with four models. Everyone was holding champagne.


    "Here we go with another Chip Star story! First match of the season. Bradford City, yo! We''re off to Harrow-gate in the Party Bus. We''re going up so you better get this party started! Oh, boy, fellas, am I excited about this. We''ve got a helluva roster, top head coach, and the best fans in the division, yo! Harrow-gate gonna get dominate. Let''s go, baby!"


    I felt almost as sick watching that as I had when Max showed me the horrible X-ray. "What the fuck did I just see?"


    Max smiled. He took his phone, tapped some more, and showed me the outside of the Party Bus. It was beyond vile, a sort of squashed team bus with two huge pictures of Chip. The one on the left was facing away, double-thumbing his name on a Bradford shirt with the name CHIP and the number 1. The other showed him facing forward, trying to look sexy in a cowboy get-up, tipping his hat. Some words were painted by his head: "Hey there, ladies!"


    Max was pleased by my reaction. "The Bradford fans are calling it ''The Chip Van''. Yeah, that''s our main threat this season. They were a fucking shambles in that match against Harrogate. Sorry, Harrow-gate. Obviously I feel bad for Aff and Carl but, you know. Fuck Chip."


    "Yeah," I said, but I had a strange feeling. Max was confident I would recover fast from my injury, and had dismissed a rival based on their owner''s taste in vehicles. Was that really enough to fritter away our meagre budget? "I just think that maybe - "


    "Conversation''s boring. Sign the contract or you''re sacked."


    He wasn''t serious about that, but it was clear that he had made his mind up. The remaining budget would go to the rest of the first team squad - if they signed new deals. I picked up the contract and skipped to the final pages, where the most important terms were. I was getting more money but there were no other changes. The club got nothing from this - it was purely a show of faith.


    Grant that my soul may be free from illness and always remain healthy.


    I signed my second ever contract as a professional footballer and my heart soared.


    Max loomed over me with a menacing look about him. He growled two words. "In triplicate."


    ***


    6. Chorale


    "Christ, what a palaver," said Max. "Why does everyone make everything so complicated? The fuck. Okay, we''re nearly done, I reckon. Er, got a sort of post-contract performance review for you. No, that''s not the right phrase. What''s it called when you tell your robots what you want them to do in future?"


    "By robots you mean employees? Goal-setting?"


    "Yeah. I think there''s a proper word. Ah, well, who gives a shit? So you''re doing some badges and you''ll help me with the soldiers. Oh by the way I''m going to be telling people your leg is proper fucked but that''s just to set up a miracle return narrative. We''ll get you fat stacks of sponsor money, trust me. Where was I?"


    "Badges and soldiers."


    "Right. But that''s like an hour a day at most. You''ll have visitors and the coaches are going to come and watch oppo video with you. So, let''s say three hours a day. I want you to use all this free time to do something so when I sell you I can make proper bank."


    "Yes, of course. Upper-body work? Er... hand-eye coordination? Advanced visualisation?"


    He pinched his nose again. "Could you stop wittering on? Watch this."


    He opened Instagram - which I found astonishing because he said he wasn''t on there. The account owner was Cliff Daps - I should have guessed. It was open at a page from a name it took me half a second to recognise - Foquita.


    With a frown of surprise, I pressed play. Foquita spoke first, but when the camera moved there was a beautiful woman (crying) to the left and what must have been the Peruvian striker''s mother to the right. She was gripping some Rosary beads.


    It was all in Spanish. Foquita said things, the crying woman said one line, and the mother interrupted once, too.


    "My Spanish is poor," I said.


    Max nodded and went through the video bit by bit. I was surprised by his language skills, but I quickly realised he was doing a lot of guessing. "Foquita is saying, like, Pascal my brother, I saw what happened, it''s a crime, it cannot be true, his heart is with you. This is his girlfriend - I hope he doesn''t bring her to Chester because that''ll be mayhem, holy shit, what a babe - and she goes ''it''s not right!'' Foquita says he believes you will recover soon and his mother says yes, she is sure, too, and she will pray for you. Foquita finishes by saying, like, I''ll be there in January and we will play together, I know we will, stay strong. Then the last bit is something like, ''I love the way you play''."


    That got me welling up again. "Okay," I said, because that''s all I could manage.


    "Then his mum finishes by saying please like and subscribe."


    I laughed. "No, she doesn''t."


    "Okay, fine, she doesn''t, but I''m pretty sure the rest is, you know, more or less right."


    "Your Spanish is good these days."


    "No, it''s dogshit, but you know what was strange? In Brazil I saw some stuff and heard words and I was like oh that''s almost the same as the Spanish I learned in school. It kind of brought some things back that I''d forgotten or never quite learned the first time round."


    "You learned Spanish in Brazil. That''s so you."


    "I can''t talk to Foquita in Spanish, though. I can''t actually communicate, do you know what I mean? Anyway, this isn''t about me. We''re talking about you. Try to focus, yeah? Your French is mint, isn''t it? You can read books in French. Your English is bonkers good, obvs. You picked up a bit of Portuguese. And you know that other one."


    "German."


    "That''s it! I can easily sell you to a team in the UK, MLS, Germany, Switzerland, er... what''s the other one?"


    "Austria."


    "Yes! Who else? The French leagues. Do you get me? That''s a lot of potential suitors. But there''s a gap. I would like you to learn Spanish."


    "To play for who? Valencia? Sevilla?"


    "I don''t know," said Max. "But having two clubs interested instead of one could add a hundred grand to your value. Having three clubs... you get the idea. Are you going to do it, si or no?"


    There was really no reason not to, but I had additional motivation in the form of Foquita''s message. One way to pay him back for his kindness was to speak his language. I could help to make him feel more welcome when he arrived - whether I was on the pitch by then or not. "Si," I said. "Is that why I get a pay rise? To pay for materials? Apps?"


    "Er," Max said, suddenly looking shifty. "I consulted top experts and they say nothing beats in-person language training. So I''ve paid for three lessons myself and if you want to continue the club will go halves with you. Something like that."


    Why was he looking shifty? Was he lying about booking lessons? It made no sense. "When do I start?"


    Max checked the time. "Twenty minutes ago. Let me just think if I''ve covered everything..." He looked around the room and nodded a few times, before picking up the page with the Bach on it. "Oh, check this out! Ist alles gut, wenn gut das End. Does that mean what I think it means?"


    "Probably."


    "Top. All right, put that away. It''s Spanish o''clock, do you get me?" He went around the bed to collect his bag, slid the signed contracts inside, and paused again. He pointed at the page of translations. "Video of you in a wheelchair. Classical music plays. You roll into a light source, turn round, camera zooms in super close. You do your best Christian Fierce impression and you say, ''I''ll be Bach.''" Max nodded, delighted with himself, but the nod turned into a shake. "No, cut that. That''s terrible. Okay remember what I told you. I won''t see you for a while, all right? Hasta la vista, baby."


    "Vaya con dios," I said.


    Max left and closed the door behind him.


    The room was suddenly incredibly empty and supernaturally quiet.


    Remember what I told you, he said.


    So many things. A new contract. I wasn''t as badly injured as feared. Bradford were a shambles. He wanted me to be his assistant manager and to learn a language to boost my transfer value. What else? There was more. It had all unfolded like a -


    There was a knock on the door and in walked Luisa. No, not Luisa! This stranger was about my own age, and by far the cutest woman I had ever seen.


    Short brown hair, huge brown eyes, eyebrows to die for.


    "Hola!" she said. "Me llamo Carmen."


    "Hola," I said. "Pascal."


    She looked around as she came close, and of all the places to sit, she sat down right next to me. Right next to me! "C¨®mo est¨¢s?" she said.


    "Muy bien!" I said, smiling.


    "En realidad?" she said, looking at my leg. She gave me a warm smile. She thought I was brave!


    I didn''t know how to reply, though. I barely would have known what to say in German, and for a long time after that moment I wondered if Max had chosen Carmen as a trick or a treat. I lay back on the pillow and looked towards the door. Tiggy would surely return soon, and what would she see? Me blushing every time Carmen spoke? I took a breath and tried to smile. "Si," I said. "No," I added, with a laugh.


    Carmen gave me a dazzling burst of perfect white teeth and picked up the Bach paper. "Alemana?"


    "Si," I said, nodding. I took the paper from her and pointed to one of the lines. The last line of the soprano''s Chorale. "Ist alles gut, wenn gut das End." She liked it, but didn''t understand. I translated. "All is good, if the end is good."


    "Si, claro," she said, agreeing, and she pulled some paper out of her bag.


    It was a worksheet with lots of familiar images. I grabbed at it with ridiculous haste, scanning and scanning and scanning. Carmen tapped the first image. "Cuatro cuatro dos," she said.


    "Cuatro cuatro dos," I repeated.


    The next picture showed only the defensive line of the 4-4-2 formation. I expected her to say ''flat back four''. "Linea de cuatro," she said, which was incredibly fascinating to me. Didn''t the Spanish describe this as flat? Then again, why call it flat when it was the default? The line of four - yes, it had a certain logic, didn''t it? "Linea de cuatro," she repeated, with a little more force.


    "Linea de cuatro," I said, with the biggest grin.


    The lessons continued in the same vein. That was the beautifully unorthodox way Max had asked Carmen to teach me her language, and it worked. My progress was phenomenal.


    And my recovery?


    Lo siento, but that story is told in the next volume. I think this is a good place to end.


    Oh, but... perhaps one more paragraph.


    Tiggy came in, striding purposefully into the room as though she owned it. She saw Carmen, paused, blinked, scanned the worksheets, eyed the grapes, and somehow instantly put together that she had been sent out on a wild goose chase. "That bloody Max Best," she said, dropping the chocolate and the magazine onto the bed. But then she looked at me, saw how my spirits had been lifted, and smiled. "One day I''m going to kick his arse."


    ...


    The men''s squad versus Bolton:


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="62"><col width="128"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Ben Cavanagh</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>620</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>67</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Rainman</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>99</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Sticky</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>55</td>


    <td>122</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Banksy</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>155</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>950</td>


    <td>66</td>


    <td>75</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Cole Adams</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>147</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Josh Owens</td>


    <td>DM L</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>119</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Zach Green</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>139</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>Christian Fierce</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>1500</td>


    <td>76</td>


    <td>120</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>Sunday Sowunmi</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>111</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Lee Hudson</td>


    <td>D RC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td>1200</td>


    <td>71</td>


    <td>91</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Magnus Evergreen</td>


    <td>D,DM,M</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td>620</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>-2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>DM, MC</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>720</td>


    <td>87</td>


    <td>181</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Dan Badford</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>450</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>-1</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>770</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>151</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Omari Naysmith</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>103</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Lee Contreras</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>72</td>


    <td>98</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Andrew Harrison</td>


    <td>M RC</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>?</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>Max Best</td>


    <td>Omni</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>3000</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Wes Hayward</td>


    <td>AM LR</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>49</td>


    <td>86</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>WibRob</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>51</td>


    <td>185</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Pascal Bochum</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>73</td>


    <td>133</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Henri Lyons</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>1020</td>


    <td>74</td>


    <td>90</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tom Westwood</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>92</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Dazza</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>138</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The women''s squad at the start of pre-season:


    <table style="width: 89.9758%" border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col style="width: 4.84392%" width="45"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"><col style="width: 10.7643%" width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>No.</td>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Scottie Love</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>63</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Queenie</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Dafina</td>


    <td>DLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>118</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tanwen</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>106</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Bonnie</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>41</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Femi</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>50</td>


    <td>121</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Meghan</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>169</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Luxury Bell</td>


    <td>DRC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>88</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Ridley T</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>44</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Diane</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>60</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Fioled</td>


    <td>


    MLC


    </td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>122</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Mari Hughes</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>110</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Pippa Hoole</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>111</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Charlotte</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Maddy Hines</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>80</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Sarah Greene</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>59</td>


    <td>167</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Dani Smith-Smithe</td>


    <td>M, AM RLC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>47</td>


    <td>177</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Kisi Yalley</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>143</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Alwen</td>


    <td>FC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Beatrice Pearce</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>36</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Julie McKay</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>53</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>42</td>


    <td>155</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>

 12.1 - Full Spectrum Analysis

    Player Manager 12


    The story so far:


    Max Best has overcome adversity, financial inequality, and a bright yellow mohawk to give his football club, Chester FC, a squad with the talent to continue progressing in the league. With a formidable women''s team, tons of young talent, and a brand-new training ground, things are looking up. Top of Max''s mind, though, are the irresistible lure of cup glory and the shiny new object that is Relationism - a completely different way of playing the sport. Can he balance all his new interests while keeping all his old plates spinning?


    ***


    ¡°But who said that I am to be measured by how well I do things? In fact, who said that I should be measured at all? Who indeed? What is required to disengage oneself from this trap is a clear knowledge that the value of a human being cannot be measured by performance¡ªor by any other arbitrary measurement.¡± The Inner Game of Tennis


    ***


    1.


    Wednesday, August 27th, 2025


    Three days until Chester play Bradford City at home.


    Four days until the end of the summer transfer window.


    ***


    After training, I drove to Bumpers Bank, the new facility I had built using Chester FC''s meagre rations, and walked around, using my master key to pop into the bar, the showers, the toilets.


    After a few delays, things were coming together. There was running hot and cold water, some of the surfaces were not permanently caked in mud, the grass pitches were looking gorgeous, and the centrepiece - a beautiful 3G all-weather pitch worth half a million pounds - had passed inspection and was ready to use.


    As I daydreamed about the goals I would score there, a car turned off Bumpers Lane and into our small, unsurfaced staff car park. It was my assistant manager Sandra Lane in the new ride she had treated herself to. To take advantage of the charging ports we had installed at the Deva, she had gone for a second-hand Mercedes A250e hybrid. Nice car, good choice, but I couldn''t help but feel she had gone electric so that she could park in my personal space at the stadium. I could hardly complain (although I did complain) because I was still driving The Duchess, an old Subaru that was more duct tape and hope than rubber and steel. Not very eco-friendly.


    I poked my head into my new office, which was essentially a fancy garden shed for businessmen who wanted to work from home. It was almost perfect for my short term needs, what with its big panes of glass overlooking football pitches of various sizes. The only pitch I wouldn''t have a view of would be the main grass training pitch, but there was a simple workaround. Ten short strides and I would be able to see what was going on. It seemed unlikely I would ever have a pressing need to do that; civilians couldn''t rent that pitch - it was a Chester FC exclusive, and I could see the men''s and women''s first team squads in my head any time I wanted from anywhere in the world.


    When the part of the complex that included my office was eventually rebuilt - perhaps I should simply say built, since all we had really done so far was plump down some portable cabins - my office would be on the second floor and would have a panoramic view of all the football. All the football!


    "What are you cackling at?"


    "Nothing."


    Sandra smiled and ran her hand along the corner of the office shed. Working outdoors, eating as healthily as the players, doing the Brig''s specially-designed mobility workouts, and earning tons of money had done wonders for her; she was looking better than ever. "You did it, Max. It''s nearly done."


    "Yeah," I said, in an extremely unconfident tone. "It''s just all so grimy and muddy. So ugly."


    I was almost the only person who fretted about how Bumpers came across to outsiders. Sandra was one of many people who preferred to look on the bright side, but then again, she wasn¡¯t the one trying to sign new players. She said, "Yeah, well, when people start coming and using it, they''ll see what''s missing. Oh, this room needs a kettle, that sort of thing. Once it''s ours, once we''re using it, it''ll come to life. You''ll see. And the pitches?" She did a chef''s kiss gesture. "Mwah!" She did the same kind of daydreaming face I assume I had been doing shortly before, though her fantasies were probably about the drills she would run.


    For years, Chester had been training at BoshCard''s headquarters and while it was a really good home for a non-league club, we weren''t non-league any more. We needed a place of our own, and this was it. The pitches were a minimum of ten times better than the ones at the credit card company, and Sandra and I were convinced our players would improve faster as a result. "There are loads of media types coming for the grand opening on Monday. I can''t be arsed. You can do it."


    "Ah, no," she laughed. "This is your baby. If I was in charge of the purse strings I''d have spent it all on players."


    "Yeah, well," I said. "Maybe that would have been the right thing to do."


    She gave me a sharp look, but didn''t take the bait. The money was gone now, anyway. Decision made, and only time would tell if it had been a good one. It probably was - what use would it be to sign five great players if our shit facilities made them worse? Sandra pointed. "Can you explain this to me?"


    I locked up and followed her. We walked in companionable silence to the halfway line of the 3G. I stopped. "Are you thinking what I''m thinking?"


    She removed a bit of fluff from her top. "Based on conversations we''ve had before, no chance."


    "We should name this pitch. You know, Pitch 1, Pitch 2, that''s lame. We should call this one, like, Avalon. And the main grass pitch is Camelot."


    "Riiiiight." Sandra frowned. She clearly didn''t want to spend the next two years of her career saying ''Strikers go to Camelot, defence you''re on Avalon today.'' "Turns out we weren''t thinking the same thing. Quelle surprise. I was thinking it''s kind of noisy from the road, but quiet, too. It''s a bit unnatural, which I suppose is, er, natural. I know there are plans to make things nicer but maybe we could plant a line of trees by the road? Get some birds in? Couple of cheeky squirrels?"


    I stuck my bottom lip out while I tried to hear what was bothering her, but what was bothering her was silence. "When there are games going on it''ll all be whistles and shouts and all that and it''ll sound great, but I think I do know what you mean. We''ve been gouging at the earth with these diggers and now it''s time for some peace and quiet and to let nature back in."


    "That''s why I was thinking a simple line of trees. We can''t do much while they''re building that gym."


    "Mmm," I said. In the corner of our plot work had started on what was going to be the one beautiful space at Bumpers but was, for now, the biggest eyesore of all.


    Every company in Cheshire wanted to be involved in the project because being able to tell people you were working for Chester FC was a big deal - an increasingly big deal - and while the architects had whipped up the plans in record time, the builders had said they would have to work around projects they already had in their pipeline. They had come to dig out the foundations and then immediately fucked off to some other site. One day - with no notice - they would turn up and chuck a load of concrete and steel rods into the ground and then bounce again.


    If I let it frustrate me I would go very fucking mental very fucking quickly so I had decided to be a zen master about it.


    The curse that allowed me to run a football club operated on a fairly simple basis in some ways - it was all numbers. Let''s say that in the current setup at BoshCard we had an overall ''Facilities'' score of 18.3 out of 100 or some bullshit like that. We were moving to Bumpers but also keeping BoshCard for the rest of the season. It made sense to me that the curse would simply take the highest score for any particular metric and put that towards the total. So if Training Pitch Quality was a factor and we were moving from a 4 to an 8, the curse would increase our Facilities score. If the changing rooms at Bumpers were rated lower than the ones at BoshCard, it wouldn''t matter until our lease at Bosh ran out.


    That was all guesswork, of course, but the point was that opening Bumpers would surely, surely raise our Facilities score and that would increase what I called the ''soft cap'' on players. Instead of a player getting stuck at a Current Ability (CA) of 100, perhaps his new limit would be 110.


    It would take months for almost any of our players to approach any such limit, so it wasn''t a crisis that the gym would open late in the season. It was an aesthetic crisis, though. Having a fucking huge hole in the corner of our training ground was a bit like having a hole in a tooth.


    "The gym space is pretty horrific right now. Maybe some trees would help cheer us all up. I''ll talk to Henri."


    "Ace. Now explain this."


    "What?"


    "That." She indicated the halfway line of the not-yet-renamed pitch. There was the green of the artificial grass, the white of the lines, and either side of the pitch, cute little mini-stands with 27 seats each.


    "The stands? It''s just, you know, when you rent a football pitch it''s normally there you go, the end. You''re lucky if the nets are already up in the goals. Here at Bumpers, you get a higher class of service. You get to play in a mini-stadium. Bring your mates, your wife, your husband. See, part of the business model is the players go to the bar after the match. Why limit ourselves to 22 players, though? If everyone who plays brings 1.4 friends we can get the bar packed and sell more drinks." I shook my head. "I''m an actual genius. This is one of the best ideas I''ve ever had."


    "Mmm, I see," said Sandra. "Only problem is I know you saw those stands for sale and bought them and then rationalised why later. But that''s not what I''m talking about. I actually agree with you that they make the space look fun and it''ll make the sessions more fun, too. Especially when it''s raining... No, Max, come on. You know what I''m talking about."


    I suppose that deep down, deep deep down, I did. I got a big grin and strode forward. Either side of the stands were sets of two large electric advertising hoardings - the sort you get at Premier League grounds. "Aren''t they amazing?"


    Sandra had an exasperated look about her. "But what... why? Is this why we have no money for pay rises? Are we going to lose Andrew Harrison because you can''t stop buying toys?"


    I pulled a sad face. "Sandra, how could you? You''re the one splurging on new cars. I''m thrifty. It is known."


    "Explain this."


    "Glendale Logistics got the job to take them to the scrapheap and they asked me if I wanted them. Er, yes. Yes I do. Tyson''s dad, Bulldog, he''s got all kinds of contacts in the IT world and he found the right nerd for the job."


    "What job?"


    "To get these things to do what I want."


    "What is it you want?"


    "Well, first step is going to be simple. Cheap, too. I have to buy four raspberry pies, which even in Marks and Spencer is, what, twenty quid? I see you don''t get the joke. A Raspberry Pi is a tiny computer. The nerd is going to whip up two control panels that will be in the stands. Quite simple, first two buttons make the signs say ''Glendale'' or ''BoshCard''. Good, right? They will stay like that until another button is pressed. The next button will make the screens temporarily go ''Attack! Attack! Attack attack attack!'' The next one will be ''de-fence!'' You know, like they chant in America. So the home team, so to speak, can be doing attack while the away team''s fans are saying defend."


    Sandra was smiling. "My God, where do you get the energy?"


    "I want to have a button that goes ''WTFH was that?'' One that goes ''Off! Off! Off!'' for when there was a foul. It''s just a bit of fun that gives a more premium experience but I''m actually quite interested in what we could end up doing with this one day. When we rebuild the Deva we will have these screens all around the pitch and I like the idea of having some sort of control of what goes on them."


    "Max," said Sandra, as a kind of warning.


    "What?" I laughed. "We''re never selling space to gambling companies so why not have some fun? I''m just thinking, you know, maybe in one match we can make the boards say ''Max Best: Fouls 1, Yellow Cards 1; Joe Smith: Fouls 6, Yellow Cards 0.'' Just to, like, be informative to the fans."


    "Not to put pressure on the referee?"


    "No way!"


    She tried to look stern and failed. "Jesus. We will get slapped pink if we do that."


    I shrugged. "By then we''ll have so much cash there will be a nationwide sofa shortage."


    "Because we''ll stuff money down the back of the sofas?"


    "Right. If we get a fine, we''ll pay it. The FA will send us an email like ¡®that¡¯s a three sofa incident, lads.¡¯ There are other things we could do. Imagine we''re playing, I don''t know, Bradford City."


    "Hard to visualise, but sure."


    "You''re Carl Carlile, back at the Deva against your former team. Halfway through the first half you look around and huh! The advertising boards are saying ''Carl Carlile pass accuracy 48%''. What do you do? That''s a mind fuck, isn''t it?"


    Sandra got stern and stayed that way this time. "You''re not doing that against Carl."


    "It''s just an example. Of course I wouldn''t... Of course I probably wouldn''t do it against Carl. Or Aff. But imagine, right?"


    "If a club did that to you, it would inspire you to play better, wouldn''t it?"


    I nodded, delighted. "Yes! But check this out - Carl Carlile, pass accuracy 100%. Right?"


    "I don''t follow."


    "You''d think, oh! I wonder if I can go the whole 90 minutes with 100% pass completion. Maybe to jack your stats you play low-risk sideways passes that don''t hurt us."


    "That," started Sandra. "That one I like."


    "Yes!" I cried, arms aloft. "Me too. It''s kind of friendly, in a way, isn''t it? I was reading The Inner Game of Tennis and he gives an example of how to mess with someone''s head. You say something like ''oh your forehand is much better today, what did you change?'' So it''s a compliment but it gets the guy thinking shit, why is my forehand better? It''s because x, y, or z, but as soon as he thinks that he''s going to focus on x or y or z and his stroke will probably turn to shit. It''s an amazing idea. I made Kisi do something like that with Meghan when we played your Man City girls."


    "I remember."


    "But that was clumsy in comparison. Trash talking is trash. I want to evolve to dropping compliment bombs."


    "Will you be dropping compliment bombs against Bradford this weekend?"


    "Ha. No. No need for extra attention. They get battered then they fuck off out of my city. I might nod at Aff and Carl if I see them in the car park, but that''s it." I checked the time. "He should be ready. We can go this way, along Best Boulevard, or we can go around Avalon on Lane Lane. Your choice."


    Sandra blew air from her cheeks and briefly looked defeated. "First of all, this was Avalon and that was Camelot, so you need to choose names you can remember. Second, I actually like the sound of Lane Lane. How about we go this way, seeing as it''s three times shorter?"


    "The long way round is the fastest way home."


    "We''re not going home, so do shush your mouth."


    ***


    We went past the bar and turned left. The cabins that had been bought to serve as gyms had been relocated and while two contained exercise bikes and weights, the other had been bagsied by Spectrum and turned into a video analysis room. I was calling it Blockbuster, after the video rental shop from the olden days.


    The last time I had been inside the space it had been full of wires and mysterious boxes. I had dubbed it Wireland and spoke in an Irish accent to complain that the trip hazards were, indeed, deadly.


    I pushed the door open and held it for Sandra.


    Spectrum looked up and gave us a nervous smile. He was flustered; he really wanted to be given an analytics role and the best way was to create one for himself.


    The space was much, much nicer in the sense that it wasn''t a total deathtrap, but it was still very much a soulless, echoey box. The main piece of furniture was an ugly white table. There were five identical hard-backed wooden chairs to choose from. At the front of the room was a huge TV - it must have been 80 inches.


    All the wires had been neatly tucked away and the ones that crossed the floor were buried under soft rubber anti-trip casings. I felt bad that I complained about things and my employees felt they had to rush around catering to my whims, but then again, I didn''t want to die tripping in a fucking cabin while watching footage of Bradford against Crewe.


    "Spectrum, I feel much better in this room. I can''t put my finger on it but there''s an aura of, I don''t know, safety and thoughtfulness."


    "Oh!" he said, brightening. "I did the wires, Max. They go round the edges and all that. It''s funny because after you said about it, I went to get a tea and when I came in I tripped and the tea went everywhere."


    "That is funny," I said.


    Sandra sat next to Spectrum and looked at the many, many sheafs of paper in front of him. "What have you got for us?"


    I sat on the nearest chair and immediately, my back went on strike. I shot to my feet and just in time, got a grip on my temper.


    Sandra looked over. "What?"


    "It''s fine," I said. "It''s just the way the wooden back of the chair presses into my soul is, you know, a bit like being tormented for all eternity."


    "The chairs are fine, Max. Stop being a baby."


    I gripped the top of the chair and seethed quietly. I wasn''t mad at Sandra or Spectrum, but at the universe. We didn''t have budget for much in the way of luxuries and we were relying on freebies and handouts for anything beyond our basic needs. Our former captain Glenn had donated some of his kitchenware before heading off to Gibraltar; one of the mums from the Chester Knights had brought a bunch of pot plants; and judging by the hard-backed chairs, someone at Chester had a good in with a school for wayward boys from Victorian times, or perhaps a lunatic asylum from Victorian times. I thought about going to the Deva stadium to get something a bit more modern, but it would have been a bit of a slap in the face for whoever had taken time out of their busy day to source and collect the spine-breakers.


    I sat on the edge of the table, facing the TV.


    "Okay," said Spectrum, trying to stay positive. "So I''ve gathered loads of data. Got all kinds of graphs and charts and radars and heat maps and all sorts. It''s so great! But obviously Max has his own way of seeing the game so I''m just trying to find out if there''s any way I can support him with any of these tools. But also, anyone else at the club. Like I think Jackie Reaper would benefit from lots of these things but we don''t have this for the women, yet."


    "Let''s think in two categories for now," I said. "No, three. One, something useful to me. Two, something useful for Sandra, Vimsy, the coaches. Three, not immediately useful."


    "Sounds good," said Spectrum, and we waited for him to continue. "Oh, me again! You had your monologue face on. Okay, let''s see. We''ve got player data, individual match data, the season as a whole data."


    "Don''t give the players any info," I said. "What gets measured gets managed. I don''t want them obsessing over their running stats; I want them to work on their first touch. If needed, we can show players some bits and say ''this number has dipped below the minimum'' and when they go back to performing at the level, we say ''yeah you''re good now'' but we don''t keep showing them that metric. We have to be very careful with it."


    Spectrum nodded; I had said similar things in the past. "Here are the things I can show you. Number one, Expected Threat." He showed one of my favourite graphs. It was a simple timeline going from 0 minutes to 90. Either side of the line were blobs of colour - the bigger the blob, the closer the team had come to scoring a goal. With that chart you could instantly apprehend which team had played better.


    "I love those," I said. "They can be misleading because you tend to concede more threat when you''re 2-0 up and coasting. I don''t particularly need the charts so I wouldn''t, like, want you spending an hour on it but if it''s just click click print then yeah. Useful to me."


    He nodded and moved to his second sheet. "Shot maps."


    This chart showed where all the shots in a match were taken from. Each shot had an xG value assigned. For example, a shot from 35 yards out would be marked with a tiny circle and labelled 0.01, meaning you would expect that shot to lead to a goal one time in a hundred. "I don''t really see the need," I mused. "We know where our shots come from and we know all Youngster''s shots are zero xG. He breaks the model."


    "I''d like to see Bradford''s shot maps more than ours," said Sandra.


    I clicked my fingers. "Yes! That''s it. That''s exactly it. Oppo research. Useful to me and the coaches."


    Spectrum moved to the next thing. "Passing networks."


    This chart showed the starting eleven in their average positions, which was already quite useful because you could see that strikers sometimes played alongside midfielders, or left backs were almost next to the centre backs. Then there were lines drawn from every player to every other player they passed to during a match. Thicker lines meant more passes. By following the thick lines you could see which combinations were the most important, and in theory, you could try to disrupt them.


    "Yes, please," I said.


    "Ball carries," said Spectrum, and on it went. A never-ending mountain of data. Passes received. Passes received by zone. Progressive passes. Progressive carries. Big chances created. Expected Assists. You could spend three days climbing the mountain and find another match kicking off - a match that would generate a new peak to climb.


    And most of it was surely useless. If Ryan Jack''s running stats nosedived in the 72nd minute, it was almost certainly because I had tweaked his individual instructions or because he felt something in his ankle. The knowledge wasn''t especially valuable. Nor was any data from a match where there had been an early red card, or where one team had played two days before while the other had been on a lovely old break.


    In the end, I asked Spectrum to give me the Expected Threat graphs of the match we had just played, the pass networks for our next opponents, and to be ready to generate things on request by players and staff. He seemed happy with that.


    I asked him to show me what he had collected from the match against Burton Albion and sent him on a break.


    "So," I said, after he had closed the door behind him. "Sandra Lane. Trailblazer. Glass ceiling smasher." The Burton match had happened over a week before, but in an attempt to avoid overhyping something I wanted to become normal I had only talked about it superficially. This seemed like a good time to go a little deeper. "How does it feel?"


    She closed her eyes. "Feels good. Would have been happier with a win."


    I understood her all too well. It wasn''t just her innate competitiveness talking, it was the way the story would be told. Sandra Lane would be the answer to a pub quiz question. Who was the first woman to manage in the English football league? After giving the answer, the host would say, ''Of course, she lost'' and all the gammons in the pub would snigger. Fucking infuriating, but there was nothing I could do about it except make sure Sandra got some wins under her belt asap.


    I slid Spectrum''s papers around until I found the Expected Threat graph. I had been away scouting that day but knew Burton''s average CA was in the high 80s.


    I bent over the paper. "You were thrown in at the deep end. If I didn''t like you, this is exactly the match I would have assigned. Playing one of the favourites for the title without your two best forwards." I ran my finger along the timeline - almost all the projections were coloured yellow and black, Burton''s colours. There was almost nothing in blue and white. "First twenty, we get battered. We hold firm - just about - and the threat diminishes as you make little tweaks and adjustments and plug gaps and make it hard for them. You nearly get to half time and who knows what might have happened? But they fluke a goal just before the break. They come out second half nice and compact knowing we don''t have much ball progression, and we huff and puff but can''t summon our magic. This big swing to us here, is that when you sent Sharky on?"


    "Sharky and Wibbers, yeah."


    "It gave them a fright, didn''t it? But they swatted it away and came back at us looking for that second goal that would kill the game. They got it on 80 and you sent on the kids. Dan got ten minutes, so did Benny and Tyson. Burton got a third, game over." I tiptoed and stretched before leaning over the paper again. "You know, a lot of people would look at this and scoff but this is Chester. You started with a valid strategy, you showed you have in-game management skills, and when the time was right you rested key players and gave minutes to kids, even though that''s bad for your personal reputation." I laughed. "I mean, if that was a job interview, you got the job. Do you know what I mean?" I slid the paper away and looked at the nearest one - a passing network graph from the Notts County match. I would need that later when I talked to Dazza. Something - the fact that Sandra hadn''t replied, maybe - made me look up. "Oh, what?" I hurried around the table to where Sandra was in the throes of some emotion. "What what what? Did I mess up?"


    She pressed the base of her thumbs onto her cheeks and window-wiped herself. "No, boss. Max. It''s, you know, nice to hear nice things."


    "Again. Nice to hear nice things again. I''ve been saying you nailed it."


    "True, but with the data, you know, the graph, it feels more real."


    "That''s interesting," I said, disconnecting from the heart of the matter like a psycho. "That''s how we use the data, isn''t it? To back up what we''re telling people if they don''t believe us the first time."


    "I believed you, it''s just - "


    "While we''re on the subject of crippling self doubt and imposter syndrome," I said, which got a laugh. "Can we talk about your career and whatnot?"


    She composed herself. "Sure."


    "This is a time for growth. We''ve got plans for the players, Pascal''s doing a coaching badge, Spectrum''s doing this data stuff, I''m on my Relationism fantasy, but what about you? What... What do you want?"


    She looked at the Expected Threat graph and shook her head. "I''ve got loads to learn."


    "Oh, for fuck''s sake," I said, snatching the paper away from her. "You couldn''t have done better in that game. Jesus Christ, if we were still in the National League we wouldn''t even be the best team there. How are you supposed to do anything against a team that dropped from League One?" I mentally went to the Staff Profiles screen and checked her numbers. The important ones were good. Coaching Outfield Players 18. "You''re a great coach. You do varied and useful sessions. You know I love micromanaging things but when you''re running the sessions I''m happy to wander off and not even think about them." Tactical Knowledge 18. "As I said, you start with a plan and you''re willing to use different formations than your preferred one. That''s far more rare than it should be. And you can tweak and even change formation completely, mid-half. Top top top." She had low numbers relating to judging player ability. "Ah, okay. Here''s my question. Would you want a head coach role or to be a full manager like me?"


    "What''s the difference in, like, your personal vocabulary?"


    "Head coach is where you pick the team, set the strategy, shout at the referee. Manager does that plus transfers, too. If you were part of the evil empire -" This meant the so-called City Football Group, a gigantic, multinational law firm that fought endless legal battles against FIFA, UEFA, and the Premier League, and sometimes was involved in football matches. "If you were head coach at one of their eight thousand regional offices, which is what they call the football clubs they assimilate, they would send you players and you would work with them. No real need to have any talent ID skills of your own. If you were the manager of, I don''t know, Kilmarnock, you would be way more involved in transfers. Picking the right targets, knowing how much to pay. Seeing who to promote from the youth team. That sort of thing."


    "The parts you do now."


    "Yeah. I shouldn''t say this because I don''t want you to leave but you''re ready for a head coach job. Coaching? Bosh. Tactics? Bosh. Can go five minutes without getting into a feud? Bosh. So maybe you can work on your talent ID skills. I can''t really teach what I do because I''m a floating megabrain but how about all this data?" I rummaged around and picked up some player radars and heat maps. "Maybe you can find a way to use this stuff to sharpen your scouting sword. If you improve, great. If you don''t, you can still go down the manager route as long as you have a scout you trust. Like Bob at Kidderminster - he''s not even that much cop on his own but he''s got people doing the bits he''s not good at."


    Sandra took one of the radars and contemplated it. "Mmm. Would be good to have more career options, especially as the number of clubs that might employ me reduces by one a month."


    "What? Who wouldn''t employ you?"


    "Bolton''s the most recent."


    She wasn''t finished but I had to interrupt. "Oh! Let me show you what I do when I get a bit depressed. I watch this." I went to her side and held my phone up. I brought up a video clip I had saved. It was Sandra being interviewed before her debut as a league manager. With the eyes of the world watching, with little girls everywhere getting stars in their eyes thinking ''If she can do it, so can I'', Sandra had been charming, serious, and professional. And then...


    Interviewer: You''re making history today, how do you feel?


    Sandra: I''m excited, of course, but I''ll never forget that this is happening today because a Bolton Wanderers player pushed my boss into a metal pole.


    As always, the clip put the biggest smile on my face. Just as the commotion from the Bolton match was dying down and the media had moved on to some other story, Sandra had used her platform not to boost her own career but to help me avenge Pascal. Bolton''s useless manager hadn''t survived the weekend.


    I gave her the most aggressive hug I could muster given she was sitting and I was standing. "She shoots, she scores! Sandra the Slayer!"


    "Geroff," she said, laughing. That''s Mancunian for ''get off'', by the way. "Yeah, so Bolton aren''t going to employ me in the next thirty years, and I can imagine Bradford might not want anything to do with anyone from Chester after this weekend."


    In the summer, Bradford had bought two of my trusted lieutenants, Aff and Carl Carlile. That was before I knew the club had been bought by the dipshit known as Chip Star, the son of a son of a gun who tried to asset strip Chester. Chip had gazumped me for a number of talented young players, signed Chipper (a striker who despised me), and Raffi Brown (a player I had found and raised up from nothing before he betrayed me). Perhaps worst of all, Chip had appointed as manager a certain Folke Wester, a hoodlum who should have been a mafia enforcer and not a football manager. In an attempt to destabilise me, Wester had once commissioned a ''journalist'' to scour Darlington looking for dirt and in the process, disrespected my girlfriend. I had humiliated Wester and thought that was the end of it, but like shit villains in shit movies, he was back. Yeah, there was a lot going on between me and Bradford City.


    "Relax," I said. "Nothing''s gonna happen. It''s just another game."


    ***


    We took a short break during which I wandered over to the scar in the earth that would one day become a beautiful gym. It was possible to imagine its final form only because I had seen the architect''s rendering. It was actually far easier for me to look at my half-baked squad and imagine what it would look like by the time the gym was finished. In my mind''s eye I saw a formidable, tactically flexible team rampaging through League Two.


    That was the future, though.


    My goalkeepers were currently quite weak. Ben was a fair amount better than Sticky, but Ben''s Potential Ability (PA, a measure of how high his CA could reach) was only 67 and that was mid-tier National League quality. Sticky''s was 122, so if we could make it through this, ah, sticky patch, I would have a tremendous goalkeeper capable of rising with us through a couple of divisions. I had two younger keepers, too. One was on loan at Saltney Town, the Welsh club I owned, while the youngest and most talented of them all was still buzzing from playing ten minutes against Slovakia. I hoped the experience would stand Banksy in good stead for our FA Youth Cup run.


    The defence was below par for the level we were at, but it was in much better shape than the goalies. Eddie Moore''s PA was 75, which was the very bottom of the range for League Two players, but with Cole and Josh coming up the rails we were well-stocked at left back. Centre backs Christian Fierce and Zach Green had the potential to stay in the first team for another couple of years, while Lee H at right back was expected to be a one-year solution. There was a big drop to the next best centre back, Sunday Sowumni, and that was an issue I would have to address next summer.


    For this season, a lot would rest on the hard-as-crystal shoulders of Magnus Evergreen. Magnus could play anywhere across the defence or midfield and he did a solid if unspectacular job. My attempts to get him to add some progressive strings to his bow had been derailed by last year''s shit winter and the pile-up of matches that ensued, but I was hoping the all-weather pitch at Bumpers Bank would let us really get into detail and that we would be able to train year-round despite what climate change threw at us. Anyway, if Magnus got injured we were fucked and if he decided to quit football - it wasn''t his passion - we were equally fucked, so I had used some of my remaining budget to give him a pay rise. It wasn''t much - it only brought him up to 700 pounds a week - but he appreciated the gesture.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    My phone vibrated. It was a text from my boss, MD.


    Mr. Brotherhood asked if he could bring Jamie today. Would be around 3 pm. Does that work for you?


    Jamie Brotherhood was a 16-year-old right back I had got a tip-off about from a scout who worked the Merseyside beat. First I had sent Chester''s only scout, Fleur, to watch Jamie, and she said he was worth a visit. Her recommendation was the threshold for the first guy to earn his hundred pounds - I wanted scouts to suggest players to me and I knew there were plenty for whom a hundred quid was a hundred quid.


    Since I had been ruled out of the Burton Albion match because of the concussion protocol, I''d used the time to follow up the Jamie lead. There were other prospects, some of whom were more likely to make the club a lot more money, but my youth team squad urgently needed a right back.


    I had Roddy Jones, a Welsh prodigy, but he was only 15. Brotherhood was only a year older but years ahead physically.


    I brought up Jamie¡¯s player profile from my growing database. Jamie Brotherhood had high Bravery, Leadership, Strength, and Tackling. In some ways he wasn''t a typical Max Best player but I knew we could work on his technical skills and I had learned in my time in non-league that you needed a few players who could battle, who could scrap, and who could put a tackle in. Brotherhood was an aggressive little so-and-so, the kind of player I hated coming up against.


    And what better recommendation is there than: you wouldn''t want to play against him.


    He was playing for Bootle''s youth team and we had a good relationship with that club, having loaned them players in the recent past. Their first team''s average CA was 29. Jamie, having not made an appearance for the firsts, was only CA 13 but his PA was 95. If Jamie agreed to move, we would pay a transfer fee of ten thousand pounds - next summer.


    Including fees for Darren ''Dazza'' Smith, the Peruvian wonderkid/wonderkind Foquita, and for Roddy Jones, the amount of money I was committed to paying next summer was rising rapidly and MD had politely suggested I might want to put a fucking lid on it. I had smiled and said that I''d be happy to cancel the transfer and who knew - maybe Saltney Town would want to buy Brotherhood. MD had asked me not to be dramatic and had given a grudging go-ahead.


    Yeah, whenever he wants. We''re at Bumpers doing analysis stuff.


    Some unexpected movement caught my eye and I pottered away from Blockbuster. Someone was moving around down at the lower pitches. It was probably Jonny Planter, our groundsman, but I wanted to check.


    "Max!" called Sandra. I turned back and saw that she was with Dazza. I squinted and decided it definitely was Jonny down there and he was probably straightening the grass or counting his worms or whatever he did.


    "Coming," I called, and took some slow steps towards the video room.


    The first team''s midfield was... fine. Not very inspiring, especially with Pascal Bochum being injured. The curse was assuring me he would be back six weeks from today, but the doctors kept talking about five months. At some point, the worlds would collide and someone would admit a mistake had been made.


    One of my midfielders was called Andrew Harrison. He was the older of three brothers we called The Triplets and earlier in the summer I had sat with him to talk about a small pay rise and a contract extension. He had brought his girlfriend to the meeting and she had demanded a doubling of his wages. The guy was a low 50s midfielder who only had a career because of me. I maybe should have talked over the situation a little more than I did, but in the end things turned out for the best.


    Not giving him a pay rise freed up just enough budget for me to reward almost all the rest of the squad. Henri and Ryan Jack got slight bumps, while all the younger lads got something, even if it wasn''t much. Youngster got the biggest rise - to 950 a week.


    Overall the squad was just on the right side of content, a few contracts had been extended, and I had told Andrew he was free to continue his career at one of the many other clubs willing to sign him for the wages he was looking for but that he needed to get a wiggle on because the transfer window was about to slam shut.


    I pushed the door open and saw Dazza was on one of the hard-backed chairs.


    "Oh, no thanks," I said, coaxing him to his feet. "Players don''t sit on the Spinebreakers. Pop yourself on the edge with me."


    Dazza gave an easy smile and obeyed. His career at Chester hadn''t started well, according to certain media outlets. No goals, not many shots, not much engagement with the rest of the team, balls bouncing off his shins, opposition fans chanting ''what a waste of money''.


    For although we would be handing the money over... drum roll... next summer, Dazza represented our club record signing. Two hundred and fifty thousand of His Majesty''s pounds sterling.


    "All right! Welcome to Blockbuster video."


    "This place? Good name, yeah. Like it."


    Spectrum coughed. "Boss, I told you. You didn''t watch movies in Blockbuster. You got the tapes or the DVDs and took them home. This place should be called The Odeon or something like that."


    "Er, yeah, I know," I said. "But it''s shaped like a block, so..."


    "The Spectroom," suggested Dazza.


    I eyed him. "Chesterness lesson one. After you say something cringe you say that''s terrible, cut that."


    "I like it," said Spectrum.


    I grimaced and checked out the tall blonde Aussie. Darren¡¯s Morale, as rated by the curse, was low. "Dazza, three league games under your belt, two AOK cup matches, one go against an actual country. How are you feeling?"


    His smile dimmed. "Yeah, I like it, boss. Nice people. Good laughs. It''s, er, it''s been a rough ride on the grass, like."


    I felt a weird stress in my jaw so I cricked my neck to the left. "Didn''t I tell you the start was going to be shit?"


    "You did."


    "So it''s shit. Surprise!"


    "I know but I don''t... I''m not happy with my contribution. I want to do more. Help the team more."


    I rubbed a spot above my eyebrow. "Yeah, that''s why we''re here. Our first ever video analysis session. Spectrum''s excited. Aren''t you, mate?"


    "I am a bit."


    I had created a presentation with Spectrum''s help and I was about to start when I remembered I wanted to let players get involved in their own development. "Is there anything you think you should work on?"


    "My finishing, boss."


    I frowned and looked around at Sandra and Spectrum like I was confused. I turned back to Dazza. "Why?"


    "Because I haven''t scored. I haven''t scored a goal."


    "Spectrum, have you got Dazza''s season stats there?"


    There was some clicking and then, "Yep."


    The curse gave me some data for my players which I sometimes used for situations like these. "Great. 63% passing accuracy. Caught offside 6 times. Fouls against, 5. Fouls committed, 9. Yellow cards, 2."


    Spectrum said, "Um, that''s not..."


    "Are you looking at league matches only?"


    "Yes. Hang on. Okay, with the AOK, yeah, those numbers are about right."


    "They''re not about right, they''re right. Dazza, I don''t need your help knowing how many goals you''ve scored, do you get me?"


    "Fair goes, yeah."


    I pinched the bridge of my nose and forced myself to stop. "Let''s clear one thing up right now. I don''t care what the newspapers are saying, what twats on social media are saying. There''s only one opinion that matters at this club and it''s mine. I''m happy with your contribution. Yes I want more and you''re going to give me more, but I do not give a fucking shit how many goals you''ve scored, all right? How can you score when we can''t get out of our own half? What the... Right, forget the pretence that this is a democracy. We''re back in the dictatorship."


    "You can''t spell dictator without dick," said Spectrum, helpfully.


    "Sandra, take that laptop from him.¡± Spectrum made a show of wrapping his arms around his baby. I said, sweetly, ¡°First slide, please." On the gigantic TV, a football pitch came up. We had shaded three zones: one across the very top, the very bottom, and a strip just below the middle. "We''re going to work on three situations and two game states. I''ve chosen them because you can help Chester over the next couple of months and because I think these situations will come up when you''re playing for Sockoalas."


    "Socceroos," said Spectrum.


    "Right. Let''s start at the bottom of the pitch."


    Dazza shuffled so that his bottom was barely touching the table - he leaned forward intently. "Ready."


    "One of the reasons a manager wants a hench boofhead like you up front is because if you can win an attacking header, you can win a defensive header. Whatever the game state, you should be an awesome tool for defensive set pieces, right? We''re going to look at corners from the Burton Albion match and Notts County."


    Dazza winced. We had lost 2-0 to Notts and one of their goals had come from a corner. "Okay."


    On the screen, six overhead still images came up. They showed the positions of all the players as Notts prepared to take a corner. I noticed a little arrow in the bottom left corner of each image. "Spectrum," I said. "Are these all taken from the same side?"


    "Yes, boss. I''ve removed one variable."


    "That''s clever of you."


    "Thanks."


    "Dazza, can you spot yourself in those images? Clue: you are a gigantic blonde Australian who looks like he should be married to a mermaid."


    Dazza smiled and pointed to the first image. "I''m there."


    "Hang on, let''s do some computer wizardry." Spectrum clicked to the next slide. It was exactly the same but he had put a white circle around Dazza in each image. I laughed at how low-tech it was, but it didn''t matter. It got the job done.


    "Shit," said Dazza. "I''m all over the place."


    "Never a truer word has been spoken!" I said. "It''s impressive, really. I would have thought you would have been in the same place twice just by luck, but no. I appreciate your commitment to freshness. I like to change things up myself so this? This is mwah." I chef''s kissed the TV.


    Dazza groaned. "That''s as ugly as a hatful of arseholes."


    I grinned. "Spectrum, this is great. I love this. The charts I can take or leave but this is killer."


    "Do you really mean it?"


    "I do."


    Dazza turned. "Yeah, mate. It makes me look a right knob jockey but it''s good. It''s what I need."


    "What you need," I said, "is a bit of coaching, that''s all. It''s not your fault you don''t know where to stand, is it? It''s a collective failure from absolutely everyone in the world except for me. Your former coaches, your teammates, Vimsy, everyone."


    "Harsh on Vimsy," suggested Dazza.


    "Life''s harsh. So what''s the solution?" Dazza opened his mouth to reply, but I forestalled him. He wasn''t anywhere close to thinking about football the way I wanted. "Yeah that was a rhetorical question. For now you can do what I say."


    "Right."


    "The solution is, I want you to train with the centre backs. Get in a 5-3-2 between Christian and Zach, learn to shuffle and slide from the back. That''ll be interesting, by the way. I find that when I do defensive work like that, the next match I''m way sharper attacking."


    "Attacking?"


    "Yeah, it''s like, I know where the defenders want to go, right, and I don''t let them. I don''t want you filling in as a centre back on Saturday but I don''t mind if you get a few more points of Positioning."


    "A few more points?"


    Spectrum said, "It''s from Soccer Supremo. We''re not allowed to talk about it, but Max is. It''s one of the hidden rules."


    Sandra said, "Another one is no pranks unless they¡¯re by Max."


    ¡°No arguing with refs unless it¡¯s Max doing it.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t trash talk the oppo unless your name is Max.¡±


    "Very funny," I said. "You can stop now. Dazza, you and your new centre back friends are going to get together with Vimsy and decide where you should stand on corners, okay?"


    Dazza got a quizzical look about him. "I thought you were going to tell me where."


    "No," I said. "Because I don''t know. And I don''t care. I''m a mystery winger. I used to score direct from corners, before my murder. Defending corners is possibly the most boring part of this whole sport for me. But you know who loves it?"


    "Christian, Zach, and Vimsy."


    "Bosh. Okay that''s that. Next." Spectrum flashed up the passing network from the Burton match. "Burton Albion. No Max, no Pascal. The connections between the players went to shit. Obviously we were being pressed to death but especially in this backs-to-the-wall kind of match I need a thick line between Zach and you."


    "I couldn''t hold the ball up. I don''t know what happened."


    "I know what happened. You got your arse handed to you by their centre backs. They''re wily old campaigners and you''re too busy checking what people are saying about you on Instagram to learn what they''re offering to teach you."


    "Max," complained Sandra.


    "Okay so what we need is to get you a bit more streetwise. Zach fires the ball to you - you can''t expect too much accuracy given the pressure he''s under, right? Either you turn out of the challenge and find one of the many fast runners we''re supposed to have - which wasn''t an option for you for most of that match - or you draw a foul. You get fouled, we get a free kick up here. We take thirty seconds off the clock, pump the ball into their penalty area, best case we get a shot, worst case we make them work through us all the way to our penalty box. They attack, we clear, you get us another free kick. A team can survive a lot longer if they have a bit of that going on."


    "Agreed, but if we played them tomorrow I wouldn''t know what to do different."


    I nodded. "This stuff''s going to take years to master, I reckon. The ultimate example is Harry Kane, so Spectrum''s putting together some montages of him strutting his stuff. Clive O''Keefe is your man for this, so take your extra sessions with him and work on your hold-up play. I want you running into legs and tripping up. If you''re happy to slam yourself down onto the ball that always looks dramatic - I''ve never seen a ref not give a free kick when a guy fell onto the ball. I want you insanely strong holding off the defender from behind, then as you get the ball on your chest you become insanely weak and you fall flat on your face. Feel free to land on the ball again."


    Dazza rubbed his mouth. "Does Henri do this?"


    "No, Henri lays the ball off first time. You''ll practise that, too, but that''s more useful when you''re in an even contest. If we''re getting battered, like against Notts, or Oz are playing Argentina, you need some of this or you''re just waiting to lose. You watch Harry Kane. He does this work better than anyone I''ve ever seen and once he has bought a few free kicks the defenders give him a little bit more space because he''s that good at, ah, persuading referees he has been fouled. With that space he absolutely destroys on through balls and the defenders get tight again. It''s a whole narrative, every match, and I''m sure it took him years to learn each element of what he does."


    "It''s strange we''re talking about what Harry Kane does in his own half and not his goalscoring record."


    "It''s really not strange, Dazza. He wouldn''t have half as many goals if his teams didn''t have an out ball."


    Dazza chewed his lip for a few seconds. "Yeah, okay." That seemed to be him committing to hours and hours of extra sessions doing tedious, repetitive work.


    "Top. Third thing. What I''ve seen of Australia is you''re either outmatched or far better than your oppo. That''s a bit like this season for Chester. We''re outgunned for now but you''ll start to see teams retreat against us and I reckon there will be a fair few low blocks like Bolton tried to do near the end when they were down to nine men. You put yourself about, caused a nuisance, opened up space for the others. All good, no complaints there, but against a low block with eleven men I think you''ll need to do better. Spectrum?"


    The next part was quite cool. Spectrum had used some software to track the runs of Dazza and Henri from a few similar positions, normally involving Sharky on the wing. Dazza''s runs were pretty straight, up and down. Henri''s were different in every clip.


    "Henri''s movement is way better than yours," I said. "Better''s a shit word. What''s a good word I can use here?"


    Sandra said, "Harder to defend against."


    "Unpredictable," said Dazza.


    "More sophisticated," said Spectrum.


    "There''s value to knowing where one striker is going to be," I said. "Someone like Henri can base his movement around yours and thrive, but if I could have two strikers like Henri I think there''s no contest really. I get private coaching from a guy called Cody Chambers - he''s excellent. I often share the session with Wibbers, but you can come a few times and we''ll work on these moves. I really like this one. Spectrum can you play it slowed down? Okay so Henri runs, slows, stops. If you''re a defender you might think he''s throwing a French tantrum and it''s amazing how often defenders drift away towards the back line and watch the ball instead of, you know, watching what the main goal threat is doing. So Henri comes sideways, out of sight of his marker, sprints far post, defender realises, panics, adjusts, wait where''s he gone? He''s gone to the near post, you prick."


    "I find that hard," said Dazza.


    "Which bit?"


    "Slowing down. Standing still."


    "That''s why it works. You''re all competitive nutjobs, aren''t you? You need to run, to rush, to do. I think this is when I like Henri the most. He achieves something by using the primitive meat-headedness of defenders against them. He gains an advantage in the most sophisticated way possible - by doing nothing."


    Sandra launched into a round of applause that Spectrum joined in on. Normally I would have found it funny but the echoes were literally ear-splitting. I looked around at the shit metal box and started to get annoyed again.


    Dazza was nodding, though. "What did you mean you''re all competitive nutjobs? You don''t include yourself in that?"


    "Me? I''m not that competitive."


    "You''re not?"


    "No. I''m a technocrat. You think we''ve had a bad start to the season but we haven''t. We''ve built a platform and we''re going up. Who cares about Burton or Notts? It''s just one data point out of 46. Do you know what I mean?"


    "Nah yeah I''m just a tad confused because you''ve scored six goals in about eighty minutes of play and when I said to Henri you were pretty fired up he said yes but wait till you see what he does against Bradford."


    I threw my arms up. "I''m not going to do anything against Bradford! They''re even shitter than we are but unlike us, they''re not going to get better. And that prick Chipper got himself sent off on his debut, didn''t he? He''s not even going to be in Chester, I''ve already slapped Folke Wester''s face off, and Chip Star is a parody of himself." I pushed my finger into Dazza''s bicep. "You just focus on your training, your diet, getting your rest, your sleep, all that stuff. Think about what we said today. All right?"


    He smiled. As shit as the container was, this session was the reason he had come to Chester - to improve as a player. "Yes, boss. And I''ll remember what you said about you not being competitive and Saturday''s not an important game."


    "Yeah," I scoffed, shaking my head. "Do that."


    ***


    We went outside into the fresh air and I treated myself to a massive stretch.


    Again there was some action on the grass pitch and I was about to go and check it out when Sandra tapped my arm. "Boss, is that our new player?"


    I turned and saw Jamie Brotherhood and his dad milling around looking into the cabins to see if any were occupied. I waved at them and they came our way. Dazza said, "New player?"


    "Jamie. Good young right back. He''ll train with us when he''s not at school, and he''ll get some first team minutes here and there."


    "He will?" said Sandra.


    "Yes," I said. "One thing I like about him is he''s from a footballing family. His dad played a bit, granddad was pretty good. I''m interested to see if it helps him develop faster. I reckon it will. Jamie! Mr. Brotherhood. Thanks for coming, sorry there¡¯s no reception yet."


    I made the introductions and did some small talk, but the whole time I was fidgety. I interrupted and said I wanted to go to see what was happening on the new grass pitch, so we walked and talked. Sandra told the Brotherhoods about Bumpers as we went. Soon enough we were by the pitch and it was immediately obvious what was happening.


    Jonny Planter was holding a tablet computer and a little robot thing was rolling around the pitch like Harry Kane.


    "Is it mowing the grass?" said Mr. Brotherhood.


    "No!" I said, as I had a kind of religious experience. "It''s marking the lines! Look, it''s doing the touchline." I went to see what was on the tablet, but it wasn''t like a Nintendo Switch where Jonny was directly controlling the movements - it was all done by GPS. "So clever," I said. "Oh! This is the first time this grass has ever had markings on. Ever. The pitch is being born! Oh, man. What a moment. What a moment for this football club! Welcome to Camelot."


    "What," said Jamie, in his Scouse accent.


    "The gaffer has worked hard to get to this point," said Sandra. "This is the fruition of a lot of hard work."


    "I bet," said Mr. Brotherhood. He was a pretty rough-looking character, pretty hard, unyielding, same as Jamie, but that was all on the surface. He was here, now, with his son, which meant that underneath, he was doing what he could to improve himself and build a better life for his family. I reckoned he was a hard but fair dad and that whatever he thought about me, he knew I was his son''s best shot at getting his football career going.


    "Sandra, Spectrum, can you do me a favour? Can you show Jamie and his dad around? Pop up to the Deva, too. Show them my Manager of the Month awards. You can park in my spot."


    Sandra gasped. "What an honour. What are you going to do? Stand here and cry as a robot slowly paints a football pitch?"


    "It''s not slow," both Jonny and I snapped back. I high-fived him.


    "Wow," said Sandra. She turned around, extending her arms to sort of gather the others. She stopped almost immediately. "You''re supposed to do your video session with Zach."


    "Bah," I said, waving my hand as I watched the little metal genius turn left to create the halfway line. "You do it."


    "I don''t know what you have planned."


    "Just tell him to stop being shit," I said, which caused some sniggering in the younger Brotherhood.


    "Max," said Sandra.


    "Oh, fine." I walked up to Jamie and held out my hand. Slightly confused, he went for a handshake, but I gripped him on the wrist and put my other hand on his shoulder. I looked deep into his eyes. "Jamie. You''re a Liverpool fan."


    "Yes."


    "I''m a Man United fan, or I was. The FA Youth Cup final is going to be at Old Trafford. 76,000 capacity, the Theatre of Dreams. Bobby Charlton, George Best, Denis Law. We''re gonna go there and we''re gonna fuck up anyone who gets in our way. United, Liverpool, City, whoever''s fucking stupid enough to get drawn against us. This season will be the greatest of your life. You could go back to Bootle and wait to get spotted by a better club with an even bigger robot, or you could come here. I''ll teach you to play, you''ll get a contract when you turn 17, and in a couple of years there will be clubs falling over themselves to buy you and you''ll be able to take your pick. Oh, and you''ll be one of the first players in the country to play my new style of football. Give me two years of your life and I''ll give you a career."


    I relaxed my grips on him but I still felt the connection. He looked from me to his dad and back again. "Where do I sign?"


    ***


    Everyone except Jonny left and I treated myself to a couple of minutes of watching the robot. It was mesmerising and although there must have been a thousand things - bad software, clouds, armed superworms - that could have sent him off course, I had complete trust in him. The little guy would paint that pitch exactly as ordered. Exactly as ordered. He was the ultimate in positional play, even better than Pascal.


    Pascal was a big loss. Without him, 4-2-3-1 became a lot less viable, and I had wanted to use that formation a lot this season. I was starting to get horny for 4-4-2 diamond - Youngster in his DM slot, Wibbers as the central attacking midfielder (CAM) behind two strikers. It was a lot of pressure on Wibbers but if he was having a good day, it would absolutely slap. Maybe. Probably.


    Pascal''s injury also meant the next formation in the perk shop was less attractive. 3-4-2-1 was a 3-4-3 variant with two CAMs replacing two of the strikers. Perfect for Pascal and Wibbers, less so for Wes ''Sharky'' Hayward.


    3-4-2-1 would cost 5,000 experience points. I gained those points when I watched football matches, earning more when the match was played to a high standard, and the rates were always doubled when I was the manager. I got the absolute minimum when I played, however, which is partly why I had adjusted my ''build'' to focus on technique and set pieces instead of stamina. Playing for twenty minutes per match allowed me to make a difference to the result while making sure I earned the XP I needed to improve my skills.


    I went into the screen that showed my current stash.


    XP balance: 7,600


    The screen reminded me that I still had a 10% discount voucher I could use on a perk. I was saving that for when I bought one called Relationism, which would allow me to use a totally different style of football from the one I used every week. The perk had started out at 30,000 XP - exorbitant - but was currently 29,948. The perk, uniquely, got cheaper when I watched matches that featured Relationist play but I had no opportunity to visit any such teams in the UK. If I used it in a match, I would be the only manager in the entire country brave enough - or foolish enough.


    I had volunteered to coach an army unit and was trying to teach them Relationism based on my own dubious understanding of the style, and the training sessions had been fun and interesting - to me, at least. The unit was currently only playing 6-a-side matches but soon their regular season would kick off and I would be able to experiment with Relationism in a more serious way.


    There was only one problem - I wasn''t sure how to do it. An hour before kickoff of any scheduled fixture, the curse would kick in and the players would be assigned tasks based on what was on my tactics screen. The default for the soldiers was currently 4-4-2 and that''s how they would line up at kick off. I couldn''t force them all to one side of the pitch to form a ''blob'', and that wasn''t really the point of Relationism anyway. The players were supposed to move and make decisions according to their own sense of what was happening, not be directed by me at every step of the way. I needed a way to turn the curse off for a particular match but planned to save my experiments until after the Bradford game.


    Still, the uncertainty about being able to put Relationism into practice meant I wasn''t spending any XP. I was ignoring the monthly perks that came up and was keeping an eye on which Premier League fixtures I would be able to attend when I wasn''t managing, training the army guys, doing my coaching badges, or blasting through the refereeing course I''d signed up to. Yeah, I was busy, but if I had to grind to unlock the Relationism perk just to start experimenting with it, I would.


    "Boss?"


    "Zach, shit, sorry."


    "You were in a trance."


    At some point I had settled into a kneel - I rose awkwardly. "I was watching little Jonny Painter there. You take a patch of grass, get your cool robot to mark the lines, now it''s a football pitch. It''s magical. It''s like when you take the sheriff badge and now you''re allowed to shoot people."


    Zach, strangely, wasn''t having a mystical experience watching paint dry. He was in a good mood, though. "You wanted to talk to me. We could do it out here. Nice enough day for it. Who was that kid? New signing?"


    "Yeah. Right back." I replayed what Zach had said. "Do it out here? No, Spectrum made loads of graphs and shit but mostly we need the video. Er, let''s go to..." I found I''d lost confidence in the Blockbuster name. "The place where we watch footage. Cinema. Sin. The place we watch all your mistakes. The Sinema."


    "Yikes."


    ***


    I sat on the edge of the table facing the TV, and to my right, Zach did the same. I had a little clicker so I could move between slides without being at the laptop.


    "Zach, how are you doing?"


    He was a big, strong, athletic Texan centre back with PA 139. Brooke, our head of business crap - her official title - fancied him but that whole will they won''t they thing had gone suspiciously quiet and one goal of this chat was to cleverly bait Zach into admitting they had gone full honkytonk. Zach was looking around the room. "I''m good. This is neat, isn''t it?"


    "No, it''s a nightmare but it''s better than nothing and I think we did a good session with Dazza. How do you feel he''s settling in?"


    "Good, fine. It has been tough, hasn''t it? Real tough start to the season. For most of us," he added.


    I ignored the last part and looked through some numbers Spectrum had cooked up. "We''ve played three league matches out of 46. We drew at Fleetwood, Burton pumped us, Notts slapped. One point from three games. If we continue at this rate we will finish on 15.333 points. I need to explain to Spectrum you can''t get a third of a point."


    "Would 15 be a record low?"


    "I doubt it," I mused. "I think clubs have finished on minus points because of deductions and whatnot. We knew it would be a tough start."


    Zach picked up a player radar and I wondered if we should let players see each other''s data. Most of it was publicly available so why not? We didn''t need to make it easy, though. Zach¡¯s good mood had him looking for an upside. "We''ve done well in the cup, though."


    After beating Bolton 6-1 in their stadium, we had been drawn away against Fleetwood Town, the team we had played in our first league match of the season. That Second Round match had taken place about eighteen hours ago, hence why I was still a little sore and a little stiff. Fleetwood hadn¡¯t taken the AOK Cup very seriously and had fielded a weakened team. I''d named my absolute best possible eleven, which was one-nil down until the 70th minute when I strolled on. I didn''t have Bench Boost to help me but I didn''t need it. One goal from a free kick, one corner planted onto Henri''s head, two-one to Max Best''s Blue and White Army, into the Third Round we go.


    "I don''t understand these managers. Fleetwood are better than us - for now. They could have a real pop at a cup. Did you see we got drawn against AFC Wimbledon? Another League Two side. We can win that." We would win that. As far as I was concerned, we had one foot in the AOK Cup Fourth Round. That was far beyond my expectations; it was hard not to do a little Samba dance every time I thought about it. "Meanwhile Arsenal and Liverpool are playing each other, ditto City and Chelsea. Big clubs are dropping like flies. There is a route to, I don''t know, the semis, for one of the League One or Two clubs."


    "Fleetwood must be sick of you."


    "I get that a lot."


    "And we drew them in the Vans Trophy. The rate you''re scoring..." His eyes popped as he thought about what my stats for the season could end up looking like. The thought triggered another. "Boss, I worked it out."


    "Worked what out?"


    "I don''t know why it didn''t hit me until now, it''s so obvious. You''ve got the FA Cup and the FA Trophy. You''ve got the League Cup and the League Trophy. Seems you Brits say cup when it''s big and prestigious, trophy when it''s for the mid-size teams, and vase for the even smaller ones. So if we can get to the semis of the League Cup, that means we can win the League Trophy. Right?"


    The League Trophy, called the Vans Trophy because it was sponsored by a van rental firm, was open to teams from the third and fourth tiers. In a fun twist, it also included some under 21 teams from the big clubs. Our mini-league included Fleetwood (a-fucking-gain), Wigan (from League One), and Liverpool under 21s.


    "Erm, yeah, we would need some luck to win a cup, I mean a trophy, but yeah. Next season I''ll fancy us to hit that one pretty hard. It''s ironic but I think we can do better in the AOK Cup because clubs outside the Prem look at it and see Man City, Arsenal, and think there''s no point getting to the next round because they''ll just get smashed. And maybe that''s true for us, too, but I don''t care if people laugh at us and I want the money." I put my finger to my lips while I gathered my thoughts. "I''m happy with how the season has started. Apart from, you know, my best forward being maimed. Don''t worry about the trajectory of the season, mate, we''re golden. Okay, let''s talk about Zach. I want to get a bit, um... How can I say this? I want to go a bit beyond these numbers which means getting personal but I don''t want to piss you off."


    "There''s nothing portentous about that."


    Part of my apprehension was that I had never tried anything psychological like this before. Another part was that I wasn''t sure if my instincts were right. How could I know what was going on in someone else''s head? But I pressed on because at the end of the day I did have some objective numbers to base my theory on. "Big picture. You are an important member of the first team and you''re an important part of our tactical arsenal. Actually, let''s get that out of the way before we go deeper." I rummaged around and came up with the recent passing networks. "Check this out. Against Burton you played a lot of passes to Lee H, some to midfield. Against Notts it''s similar. The line between you and Dazza is practically non-existent, right? But I need you to play those passes."


    "The ball wasn''t sticking."


    "I know, but when you stop passing to him it actually puts us under more pressure. And the more he stuffs up, the more we can show him the video in here and the more he''s motivated to fix it. Yeah, it''s maddening for that one particular game but it''s part of his development, isn''t it? Anyway, he wasn''t doing anything wrong, he was being outfoxed by the defenders. He''ll learn faster if you keep pinging the balls to him. Do you get me? I don''t give a shit about losing to Notts in the third game of the season. I want a twenty-match unbeaten streak to finish the season. That''s why I can stomach a few botched clearances from Sticky, some poor control from Dazza, some hilariously shit cameos from the young players. Okay? We''re building to something."


    "Trust the process."


    "Hey, I know what it feels like to pass to someone worse than you."


    "Which would be everyone."


    "Maybe, maybe not. But it''s not your job to cut off one lane. I want players to take ownership and, like, direct their own improvements and stuff but I can''t let you decide not to play vertical passes because the striker''s having a bad day."


    Zach moved his jaw from side to side and pressed the back of his hand against it. He must have taken a whack in last night''s game, but the curse didn''t show anything in the Injuries section. "I understand."


    "Just for the full picture, it''s better to play that pass and Dazza lose the ball than you never play the pass. When you stopped trying to find him, Notts''s second CB pushed up to be like a DM and that strangled us."


    "Right. Yeah. To be honest, I was just trying to hold out until you came on."


    "Yeah. That''s not... Well, fine. I suppose I''m on fire but I didn''t do fuck all against Notts, did I? We can''t rely on me all the time. Dazza''s gonna be doing some training with you defenders. You''ll teach him to shuffle and slide and give him a fixed role at corners. You''ll spend time with each other and that''ll help build this understanding. Huh."


    "You okay?"


    "Yeah, it''s interesting, isn''t it? All this chat from one little line."


    "A line that isn''t there."


    I grinned. "Okay the data''s cool sometimes. I want to get deeper, though. I want you to really kick on this season and the data isn''t going to help too much, I don''t think. You remember when you came here? You had mad enthusiasm that you sprayed liberally all over the gaff. You were doing that hey fellas that''s not good enough chat. You settled down."


    "Shut my flappy Texan gob."


    "Yeah, that''s what I said. And I think you realised that you didn''t need to yell all the time and the players around you improved just as fast whether you shouted or not. So now when Sunday makes a mistake you think ''oh, he''s very early on his personal development journey'' and when Christian makes a mistake you think ''wow that''s rare''. Is that fair comment?"


    "I think so. I mean, yeah, that''s how I try to see it."


    "Top. So I''d like you to extend the same kindness and patience to yourself."


    "Oof," he said, as though I had punched him in the gut. He slid off the table and walked around. Fortunately, there were no trip hazards so it was safe to do so.


    "I''m going to be honest but let''s be real, I''m not a psychologist and I''m barely in control of my own mind so I''m not judging and you can absolutely ignore this whole conversation. I was just thinking, like, what''s my role here? What can I do to help everyone succeed? Apart from building the physical world of Bumpers and helping you win games and all that. So far, the only real help I''ve ever been has been on the mental side. Like making Tyson more of a team player or encouraging Youngster to make better decisions. I think I''ll have a role to play when Pascal''s back from his injury, although I suspect the Brig will be better."


    "You mean, like, making Pascal feel it''s safe to go back into tackles?"


    "Yeah. It must be hard, right? After a leg break."


    "I think you''ll be better than the Brig, boss."


    "Me?"


    Zach gave me a strange look. "You came back from a coma. You didn''t head the ball for a long while, what I heard. You got over it."


    "Yeah," I said. "Okay, good point. Maybe I''ll be useful there. So, look. I''m happy with you. You''ve got a decent haircut, you''re a great guy, incredible example of professionalism for the young players. As a player, you''re improving." Zach had been CA 40 when I''d signed him, and he was CA 69 today. Very nice progression, but I would have expected him to be closer to 80 by now. "You''re going to be 26 this season. You should be approaching your prime and you''re not even close. I think you''re not improving anywhere near as fast as you could and for once I''m going to go out on a limb and say it''s not my fault. I''m giving you the perfect blend of minutes and rest." I paused to see if he wanted to say anything, but he didn''t. "I want you to race ahead this season so that you end up as by far the best defender in League Two. Minutes, rest, coaching, the all-new, all-singing, all-dancing Bumpers Bank. Now with robots."


    He did a very tiny smile. "Jonny Painter."


    I pointed to the TV. "Can I show you some stuff without you punching me?"


    His tiny smile turned wry. "If you have to ask..." He settled onto the table again with a determined look on his face. "Hit me."


    I reached out to give him a brotherly poke in the arm. "I''m only planting a seed here today. I think I have a decent idea of what''s going on but I''m not qualified to help you with it. I''ll plant the seed but you''ll talk to Alex about this, right?" Alex was our new sports psychologist. "Or not. It''s your choice. You might decide I''m totally wrong and that''s very, very possible. But check out these images." I clicked and a photo of Brooke came on screen. It was just a normal photo of her going about her business, but she looked like a million dollars. Or since we''re talking about Brooke, a billion dollars. "Oh, how did that get in there?" I said, eyeing Zach''s reaction.


    Zach was a decent poker player, if what I''d heard was true. "She needs to get an image rights clause inserted into her next contract."


    "Someone should have a word with her."


    "Someone should."


    That seemed to be the end of that scene so I went to the next slide. It was me on the touchline just after the sickening assault that left Pascal Bochum with a leg broken in two places. I was going berserk, being held away from Bolton''s staff by a gaggle of my players.


    "How would you describe me there?"


    "Handsome," said Zach. "Great hair."


    I laughed. "Come on. I want to go pet the robot before it goes home."


    "I mean... angry."


    "How angry?"


    "Volcanic."


    "How motivated to win the match do you think I am in that moment?"


    He scoffed. "Maximum. Whatever the maximum is, that''s it."


    "I''m starting with pictures of me because I know how I was feeling in those moments, by the way. Yes, maximum. Volcanic. Good words. Okay check this."


    The next picture was me scoring the first goal just after the Pascal incident. It was taken from behind the goal and showed my face and my whole body. I clicked two more times and two photos eerily similar to the first came up, until they filled the entire screen. "Your three goals," said Zach. "You''re so relaxed. It''s like you''re floating. It''s wild seeing these just after the volcano."


    "What''s my face like? Don''t say handsome."


    "Angelic," he said, laughing.


    I was about to complain but I took a good look at myself. "That''s not a bad word, is it?"


    "You are in the flow. The flow state. Hyper focus."


    "How''s my motivation?"


    "Oh, still maxed."


    "Yeah. It''s almost as though kicking a ball doesn''t need any facial muscles."


    There was a slight pause before Zach slid off the table and walked around with his head in his hands. "Oh, boy. Oh, no." He laughed. "What are you gonna show me? I''m too sensitive for this, boss."


    I smiled and patted the table until he came back. I clicked to a completely new set of photos. "Here''s Gabriel, the Arsenal defender. Very whole-hearted, very committed player. The top set are from four or five years ago. These are recent. You could probably find six other photos that showed the exact opposite point from the one I''m about to make but let''s just go with it. See here at the top? He''s so intense, so motivated. He''s running around desperate to do well but I think he''s also desperate to show he''s doing well. It''s on his face, isn''t it? He''s trying to prove himself to his teammates, his fans, his new manager. This is him now. You''ve seen them play. He''s got the same intensity, same motivation. But now he''s part of one of the best defences in Europe and everyone knows it. He doesn''t have to prove anything, he can just get on with his job. He''s outstanding. Right?"


    Zach was looking from the top to the bottom of the screen. "This is the thing where you think I''m wasting energy on trash talking, getting too physical, all that stuff?"


    "Yeah," I said. "But on a deeper level. We need to get deeper this season, mate. You, me, all of us. We''ve got no money. Whatever we want to use, we have to find it within ourselves. It''s very beautiful."


    He tutted, but smiled. "Are you going to show me me?"


    "Er, no. Maybe not. Skip that."


    "I can take it."


    I clicked through. It was six photos of Zach, but there was no before and after. Only him straining, face-first, to achieve various tasks on a football pitch. "You could power a floodlight with all the energy you put into your face muscles."


    Zach frowned at the photos. "It''s not - "


    "Thing is," I said, cutting him off. "It might be just that you have full commitment resting face. I don''t actually care about your face, I want to know what''s going on under the surface." I clicked and we cut to a video. I had asked for one camera to be trained on Zach during matches and recent training sessions. There was no audio but in each of these clips he was pacing around berating himself. I supplied the soundtrack. "Come on, Zach. Make that pass, Zach! Win that! That was your ball, you doofus!" Zach''s head dropped and he stared at his knuckles. I pressed on. "I hear what you say when we come in at half time. I suck today. I can''t control the ball today." I left a pause. "Commitment. Motivation. Will to win. It''s all mint. It''s mustard. But this is Chester. You don''t have to prove yourself to the other players or the fans because their opinion isn''t important. This isn''t a democracy. It''s one man, one vote, and I''m that man and I''ve already voted for you. You don''t have to show your drive to me because I know you''re always giving it 100%. I don''t need you to show anything. I only need you to jog around and win some headers. Like, really. That''s it. And this self-talk shit. That''s no good for anyone, is it? That has to be holding you back." Another pause. "Zach, say something."


    He squirmed. "Positive thinking? Affirmations? You want me to talk myself up?"


    "I don''t think I want that, no. Positive thinking implies a negative. If one tackle is good, another is bad. Right? So you can be as positive as you want but I don''t think you can hide from the negatives."


    "What do you want me to do?"


    "I want you to talk to Alex Short about this. I''m a great squad builder, good tactician, decent player. There''s no way I''m a great psychologist, too."


    "The Dunning-Kruger effect."


    "Good band. I love their second album."


    Zach smiled. "You know what it means."


    "It means I can suggest a topic for your sessions but then I back the fuck away, right, and leave it to the people who have a clue. That''s Alex."


    Zach nodded a few times while pushing his hand against his mouth. "I''ll think about it. I mean, no, I''ll do it. I''ll talk to him." We were quiet for a while, just sort of letting the topic settle. Zach leaned forward. "You didn''t do this with Dazza, did you?"


    "I don''t know him well enough."


    "Why did you start with me?"


    "Because you''re a key player. Because no-one should work as hard as you and not get the rewards. And because if you don''t like what I have to say..." I got up, pretended to stretch, and inched away to the other side of the table. "I know I can outrun you." I threw my shoulders to the left, then to the right, as if I was ready to evade him.


    He shook his head, amused but thoughtful. "Boss, look, it''s... I appreciate this. I do. You don''t need to worry about me reacting badly to you coaching me."


    "It''s brain stuff, though. It''s sort of invasive and personal, isn''t it? It''s none of my business, really."


    Zach shook his head. "I think it is."


    "Well, good. I can''t say I wasn''t worried how you¡¯d take it. I don''t want to fall out with you; I want to be invited to your wedding."


    His eyebrows rose. "I thought you hated weddings."


    "I do, they''re boring. But I''ve never been to a wedding on a superyacht."


    "Why would I - oh." He shook his head. "Wow." He looked around to see if there were any papers he was supposed to take with him, then went to the door and pushed it open.


    I followed, remembered the robot, and jogged over towards it, but the grass was fully marked and Jonny had gone. He had left behind a perfect, pristine pitch. "Ain''t that swell?" I said, in my flawless Texan accent, as I crossed the threshold.


    "It sure is preddy," said Zach. He scratched the back of his neck. "Am I in the team for Bradford?"


    "What? Why wouldn''t you be?"


    "Because it''s Wigan on Tuesday and you said we''re going hard at the cups. So logically you would rest me for Bradford. Unless, you know, you thought it was a key game or something like that."


    "Key game? Bradford City?" I made a dismissive noise.


    "I was thinking that maybe Brooke might not go to the Deva because her brother would be there and I thought maybe you''d think that was mighty unfair because this is her home, not his, and I thought that maybe that might wind you up and you''d go harder at it."


    I stared at him. "Mate. Listen carefully. We might have a decent lineup against Bradford only because if Wigan put out a good team on Tuesday, we''ll lose. But the Vans Trophy starts with a group stage, right, so we go weak against Wigan, lose that, Fleetwood think we''re binning off that cup like a normal club, we surprise them, bosh, three points, we beat Liverpool''s kids, double bosh, six points, we''re through. Okay? So if we go strong against Bradford it''s a strategy to help us get through the cup. It''s nothing to do with Chip or Folke or Chipper or Raffi Brown. It¡¯s 5D chess, okay?"


    He was trying to hide a smile, I know he was. "Yes, boss."


    I tutted. "How many times do I have to explain this? Bradford''s just another game, okay? In the story of this season, it won''t even warrant a page, let alone a whole chapter. You got that?"


    "Yes, boss."


    "Good."


    Next chapter: Bradford City

 12.2 - Bradford City

    2.


    British glossary: wonga. Money. Bread. Dosh. Dough. Lolly. Moolah.


    ***


    Monday, September 1


    I tested my neck and found that it was loose and mobile. My ankles hurt, of course they did, but if I lay flat on my back with my arms across my chest and focused on my breathing, the aches and pains abated. I tuned in to the pendular clicking of the grandfather clock and the more I matched my inhalations to the ticks and my exhales to the tocks, the more at peace with the universe I felt.


    "Okay, doc, I''m ready. Fix me."


    From my left, in the darkness, came the voice of Alex Short, our new sports psychologist. "Quick note," he said, in his hard-to-place accent. "I''m not a doctor and I''m not Coldplay so I won''t be attempting to fix you. But I''m here to support you in any way I can." He spoke in a rough, matey, blokey tone that would put footballers at ease. I''d seen his CV so I wasn''t buying his shtick - the guy was as sharp as Mr. Yalley in his Savile Row suit.


    I counted ticks and tocks, checking there were equal numbers of each. The metallic clink and clunk sounded like people going through the turnstiles at the Deva. Tick - in goes a season ticket holder. Tock - there goes his son. Five thousand three hundred and eighty-nine to see us play Bradford. A lot of ticks, a lot of tocks, a lot of wonga for the club. Chester was Willy Wonga''s Football Factory and I was the magical proprietor. The very tired proprietor. "Okay I''ll get a nice blanket and then you''ll do a soft spoken role play where you pretend to check me into a luxury hotel and in about half an hour you can wake me up and we''ll go out and tell Emma we had a really good, deep conversation."


    "I''d love to discuss the luxury hotel fantasy one day but I think this might be a good time to clarify that I won''t be lying to your girlfriend."


    "What if I pay you a million pounds a week?"


    "Then yeah, tell me what you want to say and I''ll say it. No problemo!"


    I smiled and the air in the room felt less dense, less clingy. "I don''t lie to Emma except about one thing."


    I thought I heard Alex scratch something. An eyebrow, maybe, or his beard, which straddled the line between scruffy and professional to microscopic accuracy. "That feels like an invitation to ask what the one thing is."


    "I am attracted to her mother."


    Alex sniggered, but only briefly. "Max, it''s good for my rep with the players if you''re so keen to see me you bagsy the first sesh but if you''re here under duress the time won''t be very useful. It could be counter-productive. Clients have to want to talk to me otherwise it''s like being sent to detention in school, isn''t it?"


    "I''m not under duress. Ems thinks I was more affected by the match than I''m willing to admit and she thinks she has been extremely patient over the weekend because she knows there was a lot going on, a lot for me to unpack, but she would like me to get your help with some of the bigger boxes which I totally agree with because it''s why you''re here. I mean I probably wouldn''t have insisted on doing the session first thing Monday morning when I want to watch the lads train on our new pitches and the dentist opens today and there are some media people coming to Bumpers in a bit but Ems said I should talk to you before I try to do any of the other stuff and Ems is a ledge and sometimes she''s right about these things, so."


    "What is it about you or your behaviour that makes Emma think you need to talk to someone?"


    "Don''t know," I lied. There might have been a bit more staring into space than normal, and what Emma thought was an unhealthy few hours spent curled up on the floor reading old football annuals and war comics.


    Alex didn''t believe me, but he let it go. "I suppose we need to talk about Bradford but first can I ask a few things about my role at the club?"


    "Of course."


    "First, what''s with the ticking?"


    I lifted myself up and turned towards him. Conditions outside were overcast and the lights in the cabin weren''t on; the room was dark. "It makes it feel like therapy like in the movies. Don''t you like it?"


    "I don''t mind it but again, this isn''t therapy, so I think it might contribute towards a false expectation of what we''re going to do. Ditto the way you''re lying on a table. But if you''re comfortable up there, I''m happy to continue."


    "Will I stop the ticking, yes or no?"


    He didn''t feel super comfortable answering, but he said, "I think it would be better."


    "Okay." I got my phone and closed the app I''d bought specifically for these sessions. "Bosh," I said, sadly.


    In the silence I closed my eyes and heard thousands of Chester fans on their feet singing ''Best! Best will tear you apart again!'' I wasn''t sure it was an improvement.


    Alex said, "Quick question about squad rotation. At most football clubs being in the team is the Holy Grail and losing your place is what triggers a visit to the SP. I know you do things different but I feel like players are going to spend a lot of time trying to reconcile how they perceive their worth as players and how much game time they''re getting. So if you could briefly explain your process that would probably be helpful for me in helping the lads."


    "You''re asking how I pick the team?"


    "I suppose I am, yes."


    My secretive nature kicked in, but only for a second. Alex''s request was totally reasonable and showed he had been doing his homework. My way was pretty unusual. "Let''s pop out to Amsterdam and see how the lads are getting on. I''ll explain out there."


    I hopped off the table and led Alex out into the fresh air. There was a nice cold bite to it - perfect football weather, but Emma was tucked indoors somewhere so I didn¡¯t see her. The mobile kitchen was in place and fully operational. Smells were wafting around Bumpers Bank - sausages, bacon, melted cheese. Delish - got my mouth watering. The morning was gloomy enough that the floodlights were on around the main training pitch. Alex nodded to where Jude was placing cones in a very specific pattern. "That''s Amsterdam, is it?"


    "Yep," I said. "We''re testing all the names for things to see what sticks."


    "Why Amsterdam?"


    "Because the grass is so good."


    Alex chuckled. "Right."


    "Don''t do drugs myself but it is easy to remember the name. I wanted to call the other pitch Man City. You know, because it''s plastic. Sandra wasn''t keen." Sandra was with the squad in the meeting cabin, outlining the plan for the week. Simple plan - try not to lose too heavily. I strolled towards the edge of the grass pitch - it was immaculate. I returned to Alex''s question about how I chose my starting elevens. "I hate when players ask why they aren''t in the team and I do react badly when players react badly so if you can help them not piss me off that would be tremendous." I put my thoughts into order. How did I pick the teams? "Okay so I suppose there are three sort of main considerations." I went to Jude''s pile and grabbed three cones, laying them out in a line as Alex and I got on our haunches. I pointed to each cone in turn, starting with the one furthest away. "There''s the season as a whole, the two-week period that follows the next match, and the match itself.


    "The match. I study the oppo and I think I want to play 3-5-2. I need a left back on the bench for if I want to change to a flat back four. Pretty straightforward, right? There''s no left back in the starting eleven, same as there''s no pole vaulter or computer programmer. A left back complaining about not being in the team is like a toddler whining that the sun''s too far away. Don''t waste my time with that shit, you pricks." I paused, wondering where the heat had come from. "The second consideration," I said, in a soothingly professional voice, "is the period in which the match takes place. At this level games come thick and fast. Home league match on Saturday, away cup match Tuesday, away league match Saturday, on and on it goes, endlessly. You can''t pick the strongest eleven every week because they will get fatigued and injured and their improvement will slow. Almost everything we do here is geared towards maximising our training output, so if we have five matches in two weeks, no-one should play more than four. I think I would even prefer three but the squad is thin in some areas. It''s hard to rest Christian Fierce, for example.


    "Then there''s the season view. I''d like Cole Adams and Josh Owens to start ten or fifteen matches each, if that''s possible. Henri Lyons will accept being rested but only to a certain extent. I can''t play him once a month, right? So that''s where a player could come to me and discuss their role in the overall season because they need a certain amount of play for their own careers. But I''m well aware of those issues and I do my best to give everyone what they need. If they really want to get minutes they should focus on training so that I can trust them in hard matches. I think what drives me crazy is that they come to me to discuss things I''ve already thought about and worried about seven hundred times."


    "They might think the squeaky wheel gets the grease."


    "The squeaky wheel gets sent to the bottom of the pile because I''m trying to run a football club and I don''t need fucking whiny babies pecking my head seven days a week." I unclenched my jaw. "Anyway, does it make sense that there''s a plan? It''s not just whatever I feel like on a particular Saturday?"


    "It makes enough sense that I can help the players come to those conclusions for themselves. It¡¯s good when I can help them see things from your point of view. Maybe I''ll have follow-up questions one day."


    "Sure. I really want you to be a success here because you could be a catalyst for some really fantastic growth. If there''s anything you need, let me know. Unless it costs money, in which case ask me next summer. Or the one after."


    A door opened and a few players came out. Henri was wearing black leggings and gloves as though he was playing in the Antarctic. "Max!" he said, jogging towards me. "Alex, good morning. Max, it''s wonderful. It''s simply wonderful."


    "What is?"


    "The pitch! I was out before. It''s spectacular. Jonny Planter is a wizard. I would like your permission to include him in my Christmas happening."


    "Your happening? It''s not going to be a play?"


    "No. I have created a completely new concept. I am very smug about it - I believe that in the future all football Christmas parties will look like mine and the world shall know that I, Henri Lyons, was this idea''s progenitor. I do not know if Jonny can take some light teasing though. I need your input."


    "You can poke fun at him but not his pitches."


    "Never!" said Henri. "There, it is decided. I will include him. Thank you, Max."


    He jogged off. I raised my eyebrows at Alex and nodded towards the video cabin. "I think my morale just improved," I said. Christmas fun to look forward to, and the new pitch making its debut! I couldn''t wait to see all the green in the player profiles. There was going to be so much green.


    Alex pushed the door open and held it for me. As I passed him, he said, "Should we talk about Bradford City, do you think?"


    I made my way to my table. "We can talk about whatever you want. We can talk about hands. How many fingers is the most amount of fingers you''d want?"


    "I''m happy with five. How did you sleep on Friday night?"


    "Sleep?" I said, surprised. "Fine. Good. Emma came to Chester after work. She lives in Newcastle more than here and she has been busy catching up with her projects because we had a looong summer holiday. She''s getting on top of it now and she''s a lot more relaxed and I always sleep better with her."


    "I''ve got to say I wasn''t expecting you to say you slept well. There is a lot of history between you and people from Bradford City." He added, in a worried tone, like he just realised he had been pranked by someone, "Isn''t there?"


    I thought about that as I lay down. "I mean, compared to most clubs, yeah, but it''s not a big deal, is it? I''m not going to lie awake worrying about Folke Wester. He is my defeated foe. He''s shit." I closed my eyes and heard the fans.


    Max Best''s blue and white army!


    Max Best''s blue and white army!


    Alex scribbled something. "I''ve been trying to get a handle on the trouble between you and him but it''s all quite vague. Can you tell me the story from your point of view?"


    I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. "There''s nothing much to say, I don''t think. He looks like the actor who comes second in every casting call for a serial killer. He nails the audition, looks the part, but when it comes time to make the final decision the director and producer both realise they''ve been sent a bullet in the post and somehow they know it was from him."


    A distant whistle blew - the first drills were starting. I checked the profiles wondering if the whole squad would all add an instant five points in CA - imagine that! No such luck.


    Alex coughed. "But what happened, though?"


    "I was playing for Darlington and clowned about in a match where Wester''s dad was the manager. He got sacked as a result and Folke decided to blame me instead of his shit dad. He becomes player-manager of Darlington, copies my tactics, and buys some good players who like kicking people. They eat our dust. Oh, the main thing. He pays a journalist to go around town getting all the hot goss on me and unleashes this scurrilous article that''s sort of based on things that are half true but twisted in the worst possible light. It doesn''t bother me much but it mentions my mum. That''s shitty but she''ll never read it. Emma did read it. And what it said about her was way way way over the line. So I went tonto in the first match and in the second I played goalkeeper and took the actual piss. I kept expecting Wester to be sacked but somehow he clung on and when we were winning the National League, Darlington won the National League North. That plus our so-called rivalry brought him to the attention of Chip."


    "Tell me about Chip."


    I visualised the grotesque limousine slash team bus that had appeared in our car park on Saturday. The Chip Van, as it was derisively called in Bradford, was Chip''s party bus. An ostentatious show of wealth from the owner of a football club that represented one of the poorest places in the UK. "Chip Star. Imagine a killer robot from the future whose job it is to fly to Pluto to wipe out the last human beings in the universe. That robot would one billion percent be more likeable than Chip Star. Chip Star once stood for election, unopposed, and came second."


    "Max."


    I laughed - if Alex hadn''t stopped me I could have riffed for hours. It was strange - I thought I wanted to get out of the sesh as soon as possible but I was drawing it out. "His old man is Daddy Star, owner of a retail chain in Texas. He''s about halfway to becoming a billionaire and he is also the father of Brooke, my Queen of Green, my Wizard of Wonga, my Princess of Profit and Sustainability Rules. He doesn''t want his daughter in England so he tried to buy the club so he could give it a punishment beating and get her to go home. During the takeover process, Chip talked a lot of shit about his data models but when they bought Bradford the model turned out to be ''copy Max Best''. Which, to be fair, is the second best squad building strategy in modern football."


    "What''s the best?"


    "Be me."


    "Right."


    "Yeah, Chip is an idiot but he has never directly hurt me so I don''t get emotional about him. It winds me up that he has signed some young players for a manager who won''t use them, but Bradford are far from unique in that respect. One of the reasons I went at the match so hard was that I thought I had a decent chance of getting Folke sacked this weekend."


    "Because of Bradford''s poor start to the season?"


    "Poor is one word for it. You have to think that Chester''s first team budget is 30,000 pounds a week. If it sounds like a lot, think again; it is buttons. Bradford are up to 98,000 a week so whatever we do, they should be doing three times better. But they got one point from the first three games, same as us. Their striker, Chipper, who I fell out with over the way he was always getting sent off, got sent off. Wester wants to play 4-1-4-1 because that''s his favourite - that''s official now - but he doesn''t have a proper defensive midfielder. He was using Raffi Brown in there and, like, no. Also, Brown was playing hurt. And, of course, Folke''s main tactic remains ''let''s kick people''. As you saw on Saturday," I added, darkly. "It''s just a mess. A shambles. I keep going back to that word because it''s really the only one you need."


    "So they''re spending a lot of money but they don''t have a good team."


    "Oh, they have a good team."


    ***


    Saturday - One Hour Before Kick Off


    I stood in the dugout, hoodie pulled over my dipped head, and peered at the Bradford squad. They had decent depth even without the suspended Chipper, and their first eleven, lined up in 4-1-4-1, would have an average CA of exactly 85.


    Apart from the three former Chester players (Carl, Aff, and Brown), the first eleven ranged from CA 84 (the left back) to 96 (the centre back and captain). They had a great spine which comprised a CA 87 goalkeeper, the aforementioned captain, a CA 94 central midfielder, and a CA 85 striker.


    I noted that Carl, their right back, had reached his ceiling - he took to the Deva pitch with CA 77. At left midfield, Aff was maxed on 72. Quite strange that I had used one of my most precious perks to boost his PA and now he was playing against me, but the money from his sale had been invested in a new 3G pitch in Hoole and I didn''t want to keep players who could no longer improve. I was happy for him; he was earning more than all but two of Chester''s squad.


    Raffi Brown was -


    "Max," said Sandra. "We have to talk to the TV guys."


    "Coming."


    ***


    I blinked. Alex was patiently waiting for me to continue - I suppose he was used to people spacing out while talking to him.


    "The previous manager froze out a couple of good players and Wester has brought them back into the fold. Wester has his best eleven on the pitch, that''s one point in his favour. Aff and Carl might drag the overall skill level down a fraction but they are very solid guys who don''t make many mistakes and they know how to fucking play." I tested the tension in my neck again. "I don''t regret selling them but it was hard hearing their names being cheered by the Bradford fans when the teams were read out. Very strange. No, Bradford are one of the top teams in the division. I would smash the title with that side. If Aff is comfortably your worst player, you''re in with a shot. I''m still holding out hope Wester will get sacked and then it will be interesting to see if the new manager can get them to the playoffs."


    "You don''t think Wester can do it?"


    "No."


    "Tell me about Saturday morning. Your preparations. That was the same as normal?"


    I closed my eyes and tried to recreate my movements. "Emma made me a tea and we did a puzzle in bed. That''s not a euphemism. I did my stretches, pottered around the garden. It''s looking great even though I wasn''t around to keep an eye on it. Ruth says it''s because I wasn''t there, but Ruth says a lot of things."


    "Who''s Ruth?"


    "My landlord. Former Chester board member. She runs an agency and I give her the benefit of my boundless wisdom for a small consideration."


    "Sorry, you''ve lost me."


    "Me get wonga."


    Alex laughed. "You meant it like that, okay."


    "Erm, lunch, stadium, Chester Chatters, sponsors, bit of glad-handing, you know. People like to see me, apparently. Sandra writes out the team sheet, I go out to see what the oppo are up to, pre-match media, pre-match team talk. Sometimes I''ve got a theme for the day, like I might briefly outline the difference between the Austrian school of economics versus Keynesianism and then I''ll get them pumped up by saying whoo let''s intervene in the business cycle and achieve a monopoly on those three points."


    "What, really?"


    "Really. There''s a weight of intellect behind it all."


    ***


    "All right," I called out, "shut the fuck up. Who would win," I said, scowling, "in a fight between a seal and a chicken?"


    "A seal," said Youngster.


    I switched to a big smile. "That''s right! We''re the Seals and Bradford are the Bantams. Do you know what a Bantam is?"


    "A chicken?" said Youngster.


    "Yes! Okay so we''re up against some chickens. I want you to go out there today and draw chalk lines on the grass. The chickens will put their heads to the lines and won''t be able to move away."


    Henri smiled. "Max, is your theme today tonic immobility?"


    "Oh my God, Henri," I groaned. "You always do this. I''m talking about hypnotising chickens. What are you - You know what? Never mind." I pulled the tactics board forward a little. "Reminder of the plan. 4-4-2 diamond. Ben''s in goal - "


    ***


    "Can I stop you there?" said Alex.


    "Well, you already did, so... sure."


    "Research shows that making predictions can help you understand a topic better, so I''ve been playing a game of guess the Chester FC lineup. When I get something wrong I''m normally able to follow the logic but this one blew my theories out of the water. I thought Ben was the cup keeper and Sticky was for the league."


    "Well, that''s basically right, but I felt Ben was more suited to this particular oppo."


    "Any particular reason?"


    Yeah. Ben was CA 65 and Sticky was 57. What more reason do you need? "I felt that Ben had more experience against Aff, Carl, and Brown and that could be useful."


    "Hmm," said a dubious psychologist.


    ***


    "Ben''s in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H. Youngster at the base of the diamond. Lee C and Ryan are the CMs. Wibbers in the hole behind Henri and Dazza."


    That eleven had an average CA of 71.2 - almost 14 points behind Bradford. It was possible they would absolutely blitz us but I wasn''t too worried. I wasn''t even planning to use Bench Boost, the once-per-competition perk that made substitutes play better. I would use it in the second half of the season when Pascal was back and I had Foquita available. A boosted Pascal passing to a boosted Max Best who would cross to a boosted Foquita - someone was going to get absolutely slaughtered. Bradford away was scheduled for January 3, which was too early, unfortunately. Foquita would still be jetlagged then.


    "You know the overall plan. Wibbers gets half an hour, then I''ll replace him. I''ll do the rest of the half and the start of the second and in that time I''ll go wee wee wee all the way home. That''s an official term from the FA''s coaching manual, by the way. Bradford might be expecting something like that, or they might not. It doesn''t really matter because there''s fuck all they can do about me and they won''t be able to regroup at half time because they don''t know how long I''ll stay on the pitch for.


    "Wibbers, this Brown guy is good but he''s not a DM. Work hard, get into pockets, move him around. He''s got a calf strain or something so any sprints you can draw him into, amazing. That''ll help me out, won''t it? And it''ll help the centre backs, too.


    "Christian, Zach, they''ve got a good striker and you''ll have your hands full but watch out for Brown making late runs into the box. Youngster can track him but he''s not going to win those headers, yeah? One of you make sure you get on Brown. We''re lucky his manager is shit and doesn''t know how to use him.


    "CMs, you''ve got a job of work today but when we''re under pressure defend wide as much as you can. I don''t expect much threat down the middle - they''ll use the wings.


    "Lee H, watch out for Aff. He''s got a great left foot, his crossing is a real nuisance, he can shoot, and he''s relentless. If you slack off or think you''ve got him in your pocket, he''ll fuck you up, I promise you that.


    "Eddie, their right mid is very, very good and you know Carl will bomb past on overlaps. You''ll need support from Ryan and Christian. If you find yourself in the shit, remember that you''ll have Youngster on his way. Just do what you can to hold them up, yeah? Don''t dive in. Buy us two seconds and we''ll be there.


    "Ben, when I come on, watch for my runs on counters. Ping it, yeah? But remember - one ping only."


    ***


    Alex shifted - the hard-backed chairs in the video room weren''t designed for comfort, they were designed to make people want to leave. "So there''s a fair amount of detail," he said.


    "Not really. Those are just, you know, the broad strokes. We go into more detail on the training ground but we''re trying to keep it simple in meetings. I had a big session with the coaches at the start of the season and we talked about how to increase the complexity of our patterns of play with and without the ball in a way that the players can absorb without even knowing it. So, like, we do drills that isolate Eddie Moore against a winger with a right back overlapping. The detail is, does he have help? If he does, he should track the overlap. If not, he should take a risk and try and stop the pass from happening. Maybe foul and stop the move. Risk a yellow. The football we''re facing is a slightly higher level now and the oppo managers are a little bit better with their in-game tweaks. It''s manageable but I''m already thinking ahead to next season because we will need solutions for all kinds of tactical challenges."


    "It sounds hard."


    "Yes and no. I need to sit with the coaches and discuss exactly what I want from all kinds of scenarios. Once they know what I want, they can design the sessions. The challenge is that there are so many variables, like the fact we often have loads of kids on the pitch, and I''m inexperienced. I haven''t seen everything so we''re in a quite reactive state. There were plenty of things Notts County did to us that we weren''t prepared for, so it''s like, which two do we want to fix?"


    "Why only two?"


    "Because we have limited training time and I want us to use it on getting our skill levels higher because that will automatically solve a lot of problems. If your technique is higher than the oppo''s, their press becomes less relevant because you can play through them, their attacking patterns are less relevant because you deny them the ball, and so on and so on. It''s interesting, though, especially for the coaches. We''re a very flawed team, actually, and that''s exciting for the types of coaches we have here. And I have to say that the players are hungry to learn, too, and you don''t need to teach them every little thing. Put them in a scenario a few times and they can learn it themselves. It''s quite interesting to watch and to hear how Sandra and Well In talk about their session designs."


    "So as 3 pm approached, everything was going well?"


    "We were well-prepared, yeah. A few things could have been better. Dazza was going too hard chasing his first goal. Some of my OGs like Youngster and Henri were freaked out that Brown was back and they didn''t know exactly how to conduct themselves around him. Wibbers was tense because he was in the key role and he knew he only had thirty minutes to make something happen. But there''s always going to be some little stories like that. I was confident."


    ***


    "Hello and welcome to Seals Live for match commentary of Chester against Bradford City. I''m your host, Boggy, and I hope you''ll be able to hear me. It''s loud in the Deva today. Very loud! Both sets of fans, even at this early stage, feel this could be a key encounter. Both clubs are winless in the league and are down near the foot of the table. Bradford are harbouring hopes of promotion and to be fair they''re much too big a club to be languishing in the fourth tier. As for Chester, there have been some promising moments this season but we have been well and truly outplayed for the majority of our games.


    "And we''re off! Bradford get us underway, kicking towards the Harry McNally stand. Both teams will shoot towards their fans in the second half but for now - oh! A loose pass and a crunching tackle on Lee Contreras! Foul says the referee, and all the home fans agree. Lee did well to get in the way of a passing lane, put pressure on his man, and turned the ball over. Ten seconds in and it''s clear this one''s going to be brutal. Typical Folke Wester. Hard tackling, late tackling, put pressure on the referee. No wonder they''ve been down to ten men in two of their first three matches.


    "And it''s kicking off on the sideline! Max Best is giving Folke Wester a piece of his mind. Wester giving a piece of his own mind back, though that''s like bringing a spoon to a gunfight.


    "Vimsy easing Max away. I have to say, if I were an opposition manager I wouldn''t want to get under Max Best''s skin right now. He has scored 6 goals in 90 minutes of action. He says it''s because he''s playing against tired opponents, but he''s clearly in scintillating form and after what happened to poor Pascal Bochum, he''s very sensitive to these late, reckless tackles.


    "Contreras seems good to continue. Bit of the old magic spray. No yellow card for that tackle, by the way. One wonders if that already sets the tone."


    ***


    I''d had enough of lying down and pulled myself up into a cross-legged position.


    Alex was scribbling on a wide notebook. "That first fifteen minutes was pretty brutal."


    "Folke Wester is a one-trick pony and the trick doesn''t work outside non-league. As bad as the refs are, they aren''t going to let you thug your way to victory. It was tough to watch my lads get the shit kicked out of them but honestly at that point I was thinking about which manager Chip would turn to next."


    "You were thinking that during the half?"


    "Yeah. There was nothing for me to do. It was a bit of stalemate. Bradford got the ball down the wings pretty well so they should have put Brown as a CAM, supporting the striker. Having him as a DM negated his main talent, which is getting into the box late and winning headers. Maybe Wester would have done that except Wibbers was looking bright and was making a nuisance of himself, so it made sense to have a DM. Like I said, stalemate, which given the relative strengths of the teams is amazing for us. I''ll take that."


    "You mentioned Chip thinking about managers. He was in the director''s box, right?"


    "Yeah, I didn''t want him in the stadium but MD put his foot down. Said it''s tradition to invite the oppo bigwigs and someone would need to do a lot worse than try to buy the club before MD made a scene."


    "How did you feel about that?"


    I shrugged. "I didn''t mind it. He''s right except that it meant Brooke wouldn''t attend. I had to beg her, almost. She put a hat on and sat with the Chester Chatters. I asked the Brig to sit with her, just in case."


    "Why did you insist?"


    "It''s like Zach said. This is her home. And it wouldn''t be right for her to miss the show."


    "The show?"


    "The show."


    "You were planning to put on a show, then?"


    "At this stage of the season it''s more like a preview. A trailer."


    "Pretty good trailer."


    ***


    "Half an hour gone here at the Deva and - what''s this? Substitution for Chester. It''s... William Roberts who''s going off. I wonder if one of those tackles has hurt him. Hope it isn''t anything too serious.


    "Listen to this! Standing ovation as Max Best stretches his hamstrings on the touchline. Warm applause for Roberts. Big hug from his manager. The hug continues. Now the roar as Best walks on. Walks! He''s got his game face on. A crackle of anticipation goes around the stadium. People leaning forward. Something''s going to happen, they can feel it.


    "Oh! What was that?


    "Best walked towards midfield, into the zone Raffi Brown is operating in. Chester''s former player and record sale extended a hand and Best blanked him. Totally blanked him! Brown looked hurt.


    "Wow. That was... That was as hard as any of the tackles we''ve seen today. I felt that from here."


    ***


    I sensed that I wasn''t going to enjoy the next part of the discussion so I moved the pillow to the end of the table and lay down.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    "Would you like to talk about Raffi Brown?"


    "Nothing to say. Bang average League Two midfielder."


    "Max."


    "Got a decent pass on him, can go box to box, can win a header. He was on 6 out of 10, flirting with 5. Wibbers is faster than he looks and Brown had that little injury that was affecting his mobility. The last thing you want is to be up against someone like Wibbers. Well, maybe the last thing you want is to be up against me."


    "It was pretty remarkable when you went on and he tried to shake your hand and you walked past him."


    "What''s remarkable about that?" I snapped. "I''ve got a job to do. It isn''t a yacht club."


    "It was remarkable in the stands," said Alex, not affected by my outburst. "There were gasps. There hadn''t been much reaction to Brown until that moment. It was like no-one knew what to do. After that, he got boos. You set the tone. I don''t know, I can''t describe it very well but there was a tangible feeling, a shift in mood that I felt in my bones. Tell me about it."


    ***


    I stretched my hamstrings while waiting to Wibbers to come to the side. He knew he was only getting thirty minutes but he was still pissed at being subbed off. He was frustrated he hadn''t been able to make his mark on the game. He had been giving Brown a bit of a runaround but we hadn''t been able to get the ball to him often enough, and when we had, Wibbers hadn''t been able to create anything.


    His Morale had dropped to very poor. I gave him a hug and kept him there. "What are you doing?" he demanded, after it had gone past the seven-second mark.


    "Stick to the plan," I said.


    I felt him roll his eyes, but he replied, "The plan is mint." I smiled and let him go. His Morale was up to okay.


    As I walked onto the pitch I saw Carl Carlile to my left, wearing the wrong kit, and that snapped me out of my happy little moment. Folke Wester was behind me. Should I stare him out before destroying him? Nah. The guy wasn''t worth the effort.


    I strolled to the middle checking all my hotkeys were lined up. I had a perk called Free Hit that would increase the chance one set piece would lead to a goal. I had one called Seal It Up that would make us more defensively solid for fifteen minutes. And I had one called Cupid''s Arrow that would make passes between two players more likely to succeed, also for fifteen minutes. I had two main choices with that one - I could link myself to Henri or Dazza to increase our goal threat. Or I could link Youngster or Zach to me so that we would be able to progress the ball from defence better.


    Either option seemed good, but I decided I would wait five minutes to see which side of the coin we needed more help with.


    As I was deep in that contemplative state, my brain purring like a Rolls Royce, I found Raffi ''The Saudi Snake'' Brown standing in front of me. To my utter incredulity, he stuck his hand out, offering to shake.


    ***


    "Look," I said, gesturing with my hands as though Alex was watching from above. "Everyone expects some sort of resolution to the Raffi Brown story but we had that. When he left, that was the resolution. There''s nothing beyond that moment. Nothing."


    "Can you take me through the steps? The history?"


    I tutted. "I found him playing indoor footy in Manchester and thought wow, what a player. I mean, I thought wow, he could do a job for a mediocre League Two team. I got my shit together, made some contacts in the industry, signed him as a client."


    "Right! You were an agent. I always forget that."


    "I didn''t know anyone or anything. What else could I have been? Yeah so I carved out a niche, got a bit of a rep as a player, leveraged that into the Chester director of football job. Brown was already here by then. His wife didn''t trust me and his dad thought he could get a better deal at a better club. I had put a release clause in his contract so that I wouldn''t get greedy and I''d be forced to accept a really good amount because as you know, the club is skint and will be for a couple more years yet. Anyway, at the worst possible moment, he bought out my agent contract then got a club in Saudi Arabia to pay the release clause. That''s it - bosh. Absolutely nothing to do, no way to stop it, and he didn''t talk to anyone so we didn''t even have a chance to match the offer or whatever. It''s not so much that he left, it''s how and when. Pascal was hit hardest, but everyone who was there at the time was pretty pissed off. Some of them want answers, they want to know why he did what he did but it''s obvious. For money. He got a million quid tax free and his club even paid it up early so they could bring in a different foreigner. Now he''s on four and a half grand a week at Bradford City. He''s got no medals, barely played, and he''s on more than me." That was mental considering he was CA 78. Bradford didn''t know he had PA 139 - what were they paying for? "So''s Chipper, by the way. You think crime doesn''t pay? Think again."


    "Was that the first time someone in your life left suddenly without saying anything?"


    "Topic''s over. I''m going to talk about me for a while now."


    ***


    The handshake stratagem did work, I must admit. It put me off my stride for a good couple of minutes. Thinking about Brown''s wife and dad being in the stadium somewhere, happy and proud now that he was playing for a proper club, wound me up. I put my energy into my face muscles, which made me glad Zach didn''t have a Spectrum working for him.


    But the ebb and flow of the game soon sucked me in. I found myself dropping to help in midfield, then moving wide and receiving passes from Youngster before turning and causing havoc. I found that if I played in the space to the right of Brown and the left of the left back, neither was sure if they should come and challenge me.


    I grew into the role and decided to use Cupid''s Arrow to make a line between Dazza and I. The next time I picked the ball up in the half space, I turned, dropped a shoulder left, burst right, and as the left back closed in on me I curled a cross towards the Australian. My position wasn''t ideal in terms of generating pace but my cross was accurate - Dazza flicked his head and the shot was on target. The goalie saved easily but it was a warning to Bradford.


    On the touchline, Wester was going mental.


    Maybe that''s because he had set his team, as per usual, to hard tackling, and that one setting was his entire philosophy. But it didn''t work if no-one could get anywhere near me. He had the sense to move Raffi one slot across so that he was playing as a kind of left-sided DM.


    I saw the change instantly and merely attacked up the opposite flank. With one fewer player near me I went on a devastating gallop that had the fans roaring. I shaped to shoot but instead clipped the ball waist height to Dazza. It would have dipped if he had only waited a second, but he was so keen to get his name on the scoresheet he did a weird snapshot that missed the ball completely.


    It bounced off his hip and Henri was on it like a flash. His shot was bound for the corner of the goal... but the captain had somehow read the whole series of events and threw himself in front of the ball. Incredible, really.


    The force was with us and I changed our team mentality to attacking. I used my screens to move Eddie Moore one slot forward, but that proved ineffective so I moved him back.


    Wester finally realised what I was doing and he ordered a midfielder to drop back as another DM. Both him and Brown were set to man-mark me.


    I mean, sensible, sure, but there was a hole in the middle, still. My plan was to appear to be a left-sided CAM but to burst into the empty central slots when possible. I would have to get rid of the ball fast before Brown came close, but it wasn''t like I was doing picnics.


    Another idea struck me and I dropped Henri back one slot. He was now a left-sided CAM, just like me. When I left that zone, my marker would follow me, and Henri would be alone. When someone dropped to pick him up, I would use a hotkey to make him a striker again.


    ***


    "Hudson. Green. Lovely ball from the Texan. Contreras touches it back to Jack. Jack looks up. Best is marked, but he sends the pass anyway. Best runs over the ball. Lyons gathers. Beautiful! Best scampers away. Lyons is unmarked, briefly. Best''s marker changes tack, goes to the ball. Best drops square. Lyons sprints ahead. Will Best find the ball over the top? He - no, he dribbles. He''s got a bit of space, Raffi Brown slides in to block the shot, Best evades, glances up. Lyons is far post. Here comes the cross - and Best is wiped out! Terrible challenge. Yet another terrible challenge and Best is in a heap. The physio runs on. Yellow card for the Bradford midfielder. That was a shocking tackle, but what do you expect from a Folke Wester team? Disgraceful. They have been disgraceful today. Will Best be okay, and will he punish them?"


    ***


    "What was going through your mind when you got to your feet?"


    "Erm, not much. Good angles. Near post screamer or far post cross. Just calculating the odds and that. And, yeah, visualising my celebration."


    "Ah. So it was planned."


    ***


    I used Masterpiece Theatre to spread my players out in a fairly unconventional way. I sent Dazza alone to the far post. Alone because I could pick him out pretty easily at the best of times but with Cupid''s Arrow it would be even easier. I put Henri and Lee Contreras fairly centrally, and Christian, Zach, and Lee H directly in front of me, menacing the near post.


    It was hard to imagine what I might do with my three big defenders where they were - a high chip that they might try to knock sideways into the danger area, perhaps. But the presence of those big lads drew Bradford''s big lads, leaving Carl Carlile to mark Dazza. Much as I respected Carl, that was a mismatch and a half.


    I used Free Hit, put a bit of pace on the ball (but not too much), and aimed it nicely in front of Dazza so that he''d be able to get a bit of a run and a leap and add some of his own power.


    He boofed it real good, the CA 87 goalie did an amazing stretch to keep it out, and Lee C was there to smash home the rebound. One-nil!


    I had words with the guy who had fouled me and then jogged to the main stand to blow kisses to Emma.


    ***


    "Tell me if I saw what I thought I saw. You put in a great cross, Dazza got a good head on it, Lee C was first to the rebound. You ran to one of the Bradford players - not Brown, obviously, because you wouldn''t talk to him - and you screamed in his face."


    "It was the guy who fouled me and I didn''t scream in his face," I said.


    "What did you not-scream in his not-face?"


    "I don''t remember exactly," I said. "But it might have been something like ''kick me again you dick, kick me again, see what happens.'' I mean, that''s a public service, really. I don''t know why he took it so personally. Or why the ref needed to have his say."


    "The ref got involved after you celebrated in front of the main stand."


    "Yeah."


    "About a yard in front of Folke Wester."


    "Was it?"


    "There was quite a kerfuffle."


    "Huh. Didn''t see that. All I know is I was blowing kisses to my girlfriend. If there was some aggro, I mean, what can I say? We''re winning and as long as Bradford are distracted and angry they aren''t going to put a lot of free-flowing moves together."


    "See, I think that you actually play football in good spirit most of the time. You talk to the opposition, you shake hands, you''re calm with the referee, when you lose you congratulate the player that did the most damage. Bradford was different. It was personal."


    I shook my head. "If you go in hard on my players, yeah it''s personal. You order your players to go in hard you get what''s coming to you."


    "Ah, so it''s like a revenge mission. You''re an avenger."


    "Yeah. I''m Doctor Slaps. I''m Captain Get Fucked."


    "It is interesting how angry you are in those moments and how well you play. Most people playing angry play badly and our sessions are about not overthinking what has gone wrong and trying to get back into a productive state. You''re angry but you''re productive."


    "That''s my secret. I''m always angry."


    "Heh. I''ve seen the movie. Good one."


    I smiled. "The anger is real but I''m acting, too. I want the intensity up. I don''t have long on the pitch and I want to make it count. The more they come at me in those moments the more they lose their positional discipline. I mean, you saw what happened next."


    ***


    "You''ve got to say this is a tremendous response from Bradford! They''re playing good football, moving the ball around. Raffi Brown looks like Paul Scholes reborn, spraying passes left and right. Aff is still very much Aff. It''s good pressure all round. Shot comes in... Saved! Ben Cavanagh, well played that man! It was a shot from just outside the area, Cavvers saw it late but he got a good hand to it and tipped it round the post.


    "It''ll be a corner to Bradford and there''s all sorts going on, as you can imagine. Pushing and shoving for days. There goes Youngster! Someone has pushed him to the turf. Referee isn''t interested. What''s that? Raffi Brown pushing his own player away! He offers Youngster a hand. Slight hesitation but he takes it. Everyone''s on their feet now. What does Best make of that, I wonder? He''s on the edge of the penalty area, glowering.


    "Everyone''s back for Chester... Danger here. Aff will whip this in... Incredible tension in the home ends...


    "Here it comes. Aff... Cavvers! Fierce and Green made the keeper a corridor and he plucked the cross from the air. He falls to the turf, clutching the ball. He wants to take some of the sting out of this Bradford fightback.


    "But he''s up! He''s sprinting. Where''s he - He''s launched it! Cavanagh has launched the ball down the pitch. Max Best is haring after it. Appeals for offside from my Bradford counterpart but you can''t be offside from your own half! Where will it bounce? It''s going out, is it?


    "Best keeps it in! He''s running a thousand miles an hour but he keeps it in somehow. He''s had to knock the ball miles ahead of him. The goalie''s coming out. It''s a flat race.


    "Best versus the keeper. Best will get there! Best will get there!


    "He looks right. There''s no-one for miles. He points - he''s going to pass. Who to?


    "He passes... No! Stepover. The keeper''s fallen on his arse! Best looks away, taps the ball towards goal, runs off to celebrate. It''s... The defenders are... It''s gone in! Oh my God that was extraordinary. Best did a no-look shot from all of thirty yards out. I thought the defenders might catch up with the ball on the line but no. That''s two-nil. Two-nil Chester!


    "Extraordinary!"


    ***


    The day had lightened and even inside the dingy cabin I could see Alex smiling. "Pretty nice goal."


    "Ben''s good at that. The first time we played together he did a long pass just like that one. Ian Evans didn''t want him to do it in matches and to be fair, neither do I; most of the time you''re just giving the ball away. Sometimes it''s worth the risk, though."


    "How would you react if one of your players took the ball round the keeper and shot without looking at the ball or the net and he missed?"


    I inhaled sharply. "Don''t think I''d like that very much. I reckon... immediate sub off and I don''t talk to him for a month."


    "Do you think it''s fair you''re allowed to do it?"


    I grinned. "I wouldn''t miss. Anyway, TikTok-friendly goals like that help with player recruitment."


    "Oh, that''s why you did it. The only reason."


    "Yep. Bit of content for Brooke to put on the socials. A little treat for her."


    "Gotcha. The last few minutes of the half was you, double man-marked, trying to drag Bradford players away from their duties as much as possible. Is that right? And when the half time whistle blew, there was another standing ovation and the Chester fans were singing Best Will Tear You Apart Again. How does - " He stopped mid-sentence as someone in heels barged into the cabin without knocking. "Hello?" Alex said, in a tone that showed he didn''t know her.


    I thought about who would barge into a private space like that, remembered what was on my schedule, and said, "Hello, Beth."


    ***


    I twisted myself into a sitting position with my legs dangling off the sides of the table. "Breaking and entering, Beth?"


    Beth didn''t seem too worried about being caught in a criminal act. "Nothing''s broken. Handle''s a bit stiff. I was told I''d find you in the Spectroom and didn''t know which one that was. There are no signs."


    "Yeah that''s the old name. Today it''s called the Sin Bin. Sin like cinema, bin because it looks like a bin. Alex, this is Beth. Beth works for the Daily Mail because while she enjoys the benefits of living in a liberal democracy she gets paid more if she helps to destroy it."


    "Hi Alex, I''m Bethany. You''ve met Max. He gets paid the same if he talks shit or not but somehow he always chooses shit."


    "Hi Bethany." Alex had a little smile that showed he didn''t mind who Beth worked for.


    "My head is too big so I''m getting it shrunk," I said. "Alex is my therapist." There was a quiet murmur of ''I''m not a therapist''.


    "Is that why you''re lying down in the dark? Is that a yoga mat?"


    "Yes. Alex always says therapy is like yoga for the mind."


    "It''s not therapy and I''ve never said that. I''m trying to help Max work through some of the issues that arose during the Bradford City match."


    I thought Beth would say something snarky. "That''s healthy, Max. And this will be a good example for the other players who maybe think it''s a bit woo-woo. If the boss does it, they''re free to do it with no pushback from the others. What are you working on? Your narcissism? Attachment anxiety? Being a control freak? Conflict management? Latent daddy issues?"


    I left a few beats of quiet before saying, "We were actually talking about how I''m too forgiving."


    Beth burst out laughing. "And how''s Alex doing?"


    "He''s good," I said. "He''s tricking me into saying things."


    "They do that," said Beth, as Alex wrote something down. "I''ve seen it on TV."


    "Are you here for the grand opening?"


    "Yes," said Beth. She looked around, unimpressed by the Sin Bin. "Not interesting for Mail readers but it''s a big day for you, isn''t it? You worked hard for this."


    "It''ll be a chapter in our book, will it?"


    Beth had talked about writing the official Max Best biography; I wasn''t sure if she had been joking. She sat on one of the hard-backed chairs and immediately stood again. The act reminded me of why I liked her. "Maybe not a whole chapter," she mumbled.


    "Beth, you''re wise sometimes. Do I even need to fix my brain?"


    She stared at me like it was a trick question. "Um, no comment."


    I smiled. "No but really. My flaws aren¡¯t bad when it comes to winning matches. Anger is fuel. Spite is motivation. Revenge is noble and cathartic. Our fans work long hours in dead end jobs and they have one release per week and that''s coming to the Deva to see what their local team gets up to. They pay twenty quid to see us wear their badge, they get dipped in the sewage of my broken psyche, they get milled, pulped, swept along. They laugh, they cry, they scream at the referee, they have moments of despair and ecstasy, and their earthly troubles are washed away with bread and wine. They don''t want to see Max Best the level-headed, thoughtful diplomat."


    "I wouldn''t worry about that any time soon."


    "You think I''m beyond repair?"


    "I think your flaws get magnified because you get an instant reaction from five thousand people."


    "All right well, I would like to be less of a mess, I think. Oh, hey! Let''s do it like this. Four topics from the Bradford match and you know the history as well as anyone. Tell me which one to fix."


    Alex said, "I''m not sure - "


    "Okay, first one. Chip."


    Beth joined me on the edge of the table. "Chip''s a rich brat whose dad always got him every toy you never had, and now he''s the owner of a football club, a position he has not earned, while you, an actual generational talent, have had to scrabble in the mud for everything you possess."


    "So you''re saying I should challenge him to a duel."


    "No, I''m saying fuck him. He''s not worth spending time on."


    "Agreed," I said.


    "Hang on, er..." said Alex.


    "Second topic. Chipper."


    Beth nodded. "Okay that whole mess would have happened sooner or later. You will always get into conflict with players and staff who don''t put the club first. If it hadn''t happened on that bus ride, it would have happened the next day, or the next. That''s why I understand your position with Andrew Harrison."


    I was ecstatic. Andrew wanted a big pay rise the club couldn''t afford. "So you think I''m right?"


    "You''re not right but you''re not wrong. If I were you I wouldn''t blame myself for what happened with Chipper. He''s not a team player. He''s not a Max Best player. You could get some therapy about why you signed him in the first place."


    "Yeah," I mused. "I think him being dropped at Crawley made his natural tendencies worse. I couldn''t have known."


    "There you go then."


    Beth was top at therapy! "Raffi Brown," I said.


    "Fuck that guy," said Beth. "Unless he wants to give me an interview in which case, come on Max, forgive and forget."


    Alex said, "Would you have shaken his hand?"


    "Would I fuck," said Beth, and I gave her such an intense stare I could have sworn she blushed.


    Alex might have been annoyed by the intrusion, but he was interested enough in Beth''s opinions to ask, "What about Folke Wester? Does Max have a problem there?"


    "Yeah. Max is out there doing legendary shit but people shrug and say it''s only against Folke Wester. He''s not a worthy opponent. Shit manager, shit person, doesn''t deserve respect." Beth kicked her legs; she was enjoying herself. "So yeah, in summary Max, you''re perfect."


    "Come on," I said, laughing. "I want to go deeper on something."


    "How about not dropping points in the league because you''re throwing on teenagers left, right, and centre?"


    "That''s non-negotiable."


    "Why?"


    "You''ll see. All right, I think we''re done here. Thanks for interrupting my private session, Beth, that was very Daily Mail of you. Two things, though. First, all this was off the record. Second, if I ever catch you sneaking into rooms you haven''t been invited into, here or at the Deva, it''s a seven-year ban."


    "Seven-year ban?"


    "Yeah. Okay, bye."


    She hopped off the table, quietly fuming, and tried not to show how mad she was in front of a stranger, especially one who might hear loads of my secrets. "Nice to meet you, Alex."


    "Beth," I said, as she reached the door. "Do you want to get ahead of a good story?"


    She sagged. "Of course I do."


    "Interview Pascal."


    "What? Why?"


    "Max Best has spoken."


    ***


    "I have a lot of questions about that interaction," said Alex.


    "Let''s get back to Bradford," I said. "Half time was very, very strange."


    "How so?"


    ***


    We clip-clopped into the dressing room, drained but happy, with a two-nil lead in our pockets. The lads sat, chatted, and ate marathon paste. I hopped on the treatment table and got a bit of a rub. I''d done fifteen minutes and hoped to stay on for as long as poss in the second half. I knew I had a good ten in me, and there was a chance I could drop to a DM slot and keep things tight for another ten.


    The way Bradford were playing there might not be any need. They were abysmal.


    Still, I didn''t want to leave anything to chance so I went through my options. My subs included Sticky and Sunday Sowunmi and I wouldn''t use either except in an emergency. That left Josh Owens, Magnus Evergreen, Sharky, and Tom Westwood. Good options, lots of tactical flexibility, but no-one that improved the eleven.


    If I could get a third goal I would probably take Ryan off, put Magnus on, and switch to 5-3-2 with Youngster nominally a centre back but actually playing DM. That would be very solid and we would take it easy for the rest of the match. Last ten minutes I would put Josh, Sharky, and Tom on.


    I was just about to discuss these thoughts with Sandra when I realised something was going on. Or rather - nothing was going on. There was no chat, no movement.


    "What''s happening?" I said, lifting myself up onto one elbow.


    Livia, who was massaging me, said, "It''s kicking off in the away dressing room. They''ve been screaming at each other since they came in. We''re all listening."


    "Can you hear what they''re saying?"


    "Not really. But Wester is losing his tiny mind. It''s impressive, really, the way he keeps shouting in one continuous blast. I keep expecting him to pause for breath."


    "It''s not only Wester," said Magnus Evergreen. "There are two or three voices."


    "Tag team," I said, to some amusement. I sensed that my players were entertained by what they were hearing, but also a bit freaked out. There was something off about the situation, something strange about the vibes. So much so that I wondered if Old Nick or the imps had done something to help me win this match.


    I sank back onto the table and brought up the match commentary. It looks like Bradford City have adopted a more attacking approach. Best rounds the keeper, he shoots, GOOOAAAALLLL!!!! It looks like Bradford City have adopted a more defensive approach. Yeah, it was all normal. I had out-thought Wester, out-managed him. His plan A was to kick me. When that didn''t work, there was no plan B.


    "He is fucking shit," I said, and nuzzled my face into the comfy head rest. Livia''s hands worked their magic.


    ***


    "So it was, what, five, six minutes of the most intense screaming you''ve ever heard and then silence?"


    "Silent as a grave. The grave of Folke Wester''s management career. I was about to hammer in another nail."


    "Talk me through it."


    ***


    "Forty-eight minutes gone. All Chester so far in the second half. Looks to me like Bradford are concentrating on keeping the score down. I haven''t seen... let me check the stats. We have stats now, ladies and gentlemen! Moving up in the world. Er, yes. No fouls in the second half. That''s very, very unusual for a Folke Wester team, as you can imagine. It''s not that they have given up exactly but... You know what it looks like? It looks like they''re down to ten men and they''re focussed on keeping their shape.


    "Fierce. Green. Back to Fierce. Touch for Cavanagh - the Bradford back line drops a couple of yards, ho ho, they''ve learned their lesson - Green. Simple to Youngster. Ryan Jack takes over. He finds Best. Best... is confused. Bradford are squatting in two banks of five ahead of him. It''s very odd, this. Best turns and... pumps the ball back to Cavanagh. The manager twirls his finger - movement! Players are going everywhere. What am I seeing?


    "I wish Spectrum were here to explain this to me. We''ve gone from 4-4-2 diamond to... well, I would say 3-4-3. It''s all a bit confusing. Eddie Moore''s there on left midfield. Lee Hudson has moved into the centre of the defence. Youngster is still defensive midfield, Max has moved to the right wing. Christian Fierce is playing as a third striker! It''s... 2-1-4-3. Best really going for the jugular here. If you defend, he is saying, I''ll attack.


    "Bradford in disarray once more. Nobody knows who to mark and the presence of the enormous Christian Fierce next to the huge Darren Smith must be a nightmare for the Bradford defence!


    "The ball is worked wide right. Best against Aff - never thought I''d be saying that. Aff looks wary, as he''s right to be. Will Best take him on? He fires a square pass to Lee Contreras. Contreras first time return ball. Best''s first touch takes him past the left back. Best down the wing! Look at him go! One of the most thrilling sights in football. Fast as a bullet, pace and purpose, and here comes the cross - it''s perfect! Fierce? Fierce! He couldn''t miss! The cross was perfection. Christian Fierce angled his head, the ball went down, up, and in! Listen to that noise. Listen to that crowd. It''s immense. The Deva is rocking. The Deva is rocking. Rock and roll, we''ve scored a goal.


    "Er...


    "As Max would say, that''s terrible, cut that.


    "But the score isn''t terrible. It''s Chester three, Bradford City nil!"


    ***


    "One thing that confused me," said Alex, "is that after the goal you switched things back and just passed the ball around. Like, you had them on the ropes. Why not go for the killer blow?"


    I was looking up at the ceiling again, but looked even more ''up'' as I tried to remember my thought process. "Well, based on what had happened, the second goal was the killer goal. Do you get me? There''s a psychology to a team and we had broken them. They came out second half all passive and humble. How can I say this? They''d changed their mentality from hard tackling to easy tackling."


    "Like in Soccer Supremo."


    "Yeah, I suppose. It was, like, over. But you can''t take your eye off the ball. People say two-nil is a dangerous score for the team that''s leading because if it''s one-nil you''re still on high alert but at two-nil you relax. It''s a man-in-the-pub level cliche but it''s not totally wrong. So I wanted to get the third goal to be sure, but then when that''s done, your mind turns to what else is going on. The first cone is green, let''s look at the second one, do you get me? We''ve got a match on Tuesday, another hard away match next Saturday. My legs were already running out of steam so it''s like, let''s shut up shop. Would I take three-nil against a team that''s much better than us on paper? Of course I would."


    "After the match, you were asked about why you only ever play twenty, thirty minutes and you evaded the question like you always do. Is it something you don''t want to discuss?"


    "I''m player-manager. It''s tiring. I''ve found I can manage for 70 minutes and play for 20 and not be too wrecked at the end."


    "You could ask Sandra to manage."


    "Alex, this is annoying."


    "Sorry. So it''s fair to say you stayed on the pitch far longer than you would normally want?"


    "Yeah. This is the kind of thing that makes me seem arrogant but I knew that as long as I was on the pitch, Bradford would be cautious. Even if I''m tired, they have to assume I''ve got enough in the tank for one sprint from halfway. They weren''t going to come at us so, yeah, I stayed on. There was a point where I thought about playing a big diag and just thought, this is going to tear up my calf if I do this. So I tapped out."


    "Job done?"


    "I mean, what else could I have done? It felt pretty comprehensive."


    "It did look like Bradford got a boost when you subbed yourself off."


    "They immediately went to normal tackling and came out of their low block. There was five minutes where it was a bit more of a contest but we were happy to absorb the pressure. Zach Green was pinging balls to Dazza and it was like a training session. I''d asked Zach to look for those passes so Dazza could work on his hold-up play."


    "We got into the last twenty minutes. I watched the highlights and they showed a clip with you and Sandra chatting away, having a laugh, loving life. Was that around then, do you think?"


    "Probably."


    "What are you saying to yourself at a time like that?"


    "It was all smiles. We had a plan, the plan was mint, the plan worked. It worked better than we could have dreamed. I didn''t have Bradford''s complete mental disintegration on my bingo card but I was happy to see it."


    "As well as putting Magnus on instead of you, we had Wes Hayward replacing Ryan Jack, and young Josh Owens instead of Eddie Moore. Those aren''t really like-for-like changes, are they?"


    "No but we adjust based on who''s on the pitch. Sharky in the centre doesn''t make a lot of sense but teams are scared of his pace wherever he is. Anyway, he needs minutes. I''m trying to use him in every match so he gets up to the level. If he can kick on just a little bit faster, he''ll really really help us in the second half of the season. I really hope he does because he needs more than five good games at the end of the season to get a good contract somewhere. There''s a lot of distrust of him so he needs to do it over a longer span of games to show it isn''t a fluke."


    "Is there any reason you''re talking about the end of the season instead of the end of the match?"


    I sighed. "You know there is."


    ***


    "Bradford building up a head of steam here. Do I detect a slight stiffening in the technical area? Best is biting his nails. Sandra Lane is organising.


    "Aff is on the left wing, just in front of Best, his old manager. The Irishman exchanges words with his new manager. Aff shouts at someone. I can''t see... Raffi Brown maybe?


    "Yes, looks like Wester is asking Brown to move forward. Why not? Nothing to lose except Wester''s dignity, and there wasn''t any of that to begin with.


    "Youngster is next to Brown. Something of a size mismatch. Bradford''s right midfielder has pushed up against Josh Owens. Another mismatch? I''m seeing a few more of those around the pitch.


    "Lee Hudson looks well capable of dealing with Aff, at least, and our centre backs haven''t been troubled by the lone striker.


    "More good possession for Bradford. Brown at the heart of things. He receives a pass, turns away from Youngster, slides it out to the wing. That''s beautiful. Round of applause from the Bradford fans. They have been boisterous. And Chip Star comes out of the box to take his seat in the main stand. He scurried inside, didn''t he, when Max was ruling the roost.


    "The ball''s still with Bradford City. Long spell of possession. It''s back with their captain. He fires it to Brown. Brown turns again, loses Youngster again. Another slick pass to Aff.


    "Aff shimmies. Goes outside Hudson. Steals a yard! Whips in a cross. Well defended by Fierce but it drops to Brown. Brown lines up a left-footed shot - into the corner! Into the net! Bradford score in front of their fans. They''re back in this and don''t they know it! Three-one and of course it had to be the Chester old boys who combined. It had to be!"


    ***


    "At that point, what are you thinking?"


    "I''m thinking about our individual performance levels, who''s struggling, who''s got a knock, things like that. Technocratic stuff. And I''m looking at the matchups. Lee Hudson and Aff are pretty much exactly the same level. Youngster''s better than Brown. Josh Owens is not as good as the winger he''s up against but he''s much fitter and fresher. The performance is good, the tactics are good, there''s nothing to worry about. You think that''s that but football''s got a mind of its own."


    ***


    "Ben with the ball in his hands. Long ball is pumped forward - far too far ahead of Lyons. He''s livid. Best drops down and slaps the turf. That''s just giving possession to the opposition!


    "Bradford build again. Neat and tidy play. Dazza tries to press but he has worked hard and looks tired. Tom Westwood will replace him soon, I''m hearing.


    "Ball goes into midfield. Brown drops to collect. Youngster not sure if he should follow or hold his position. He decides to hold. Brown with time. He glides to the right - such an elegant player when the ball''s at his feet - exchanges passes with the winger. Now Youngster arrives but OH MY WORD what a pass from Brown. What a pass! He''s slipped it inside Owens. Carlile is onto it.


    "Carl Carlile with a heavy first touch - he slides to stop the ball going out of play. Cuts it back! The striker''s there...


    "Goal for Bradford! They''ve scored a second. Bradford City playing like peak Chester. The neat interplay on the right, drawing the opposition to them, the overlap, the through ball, it''s like watching Chester! We''ve been slapped. Slapped by our own petard.


    "Ten minutes to go and it''s Chester three, Bradford two. It''s anybody''s game."


    ***


    "How - "


    "How was I thinking? I was pissed is how I was thinking. I made the mistake of turning to the executive box and Chip Star was jumping around and whooping and that got under my skin."


    "You wouldn''t have done the same?"


    "That''s our box. He''s a guest."


    Alex dipped into his box of psychology tricks. "And there''s a feeling of powerlessness. You can''t go back on the pitch. You throw Tom on and that''s the last of your subs. It''s out of your hands."


    "There are things you can do beyond making subs. We could have gone men behind ball and tried to hold out for the win that way."


    "But you didn''t."


    "No."


    "Was that pride? Stubbornness?"


    "Men behind ball is a pretty desperate strategy. We''re not so far off the levels that we need to park the bus in a home match. Bradford hadn''t made many changes, their players were running out of legs. And half their team were on yellow cards. If we get Sharky on a break and the wrong player fouls him, they''re down to ten men and that''s that. Plus if we get a fourth goal, that''s also good, and we won''t score if we''re camped in our penalty box. No, men behind ball is real last resort stuff. I wasn''t so furious at Chip that I made bad decisions. We were set up quite well. I quickly got back to feeling pretty chill."


    ***


    "Agony at the Deva. Suffering at the stadium. Bradford pushing and pushing, looking for an equaliser that seemed a million miles away when Chester scored their third goal just after the break.


    "Raffi Brown had a purple patch after being moved up the pitch but Youngster has worked out how to play him and Brown seems to be hobbling around. Bothered by his thigh, it looks to me. All around the pitch are battles, duels, scraps that Bradford were winning five minutes ago but that have evened out in the meantime.


    "Chester look solid, but not quite solid enough. It''s hard to watch for the home fans. It''s hard to watch for me. Sandra Lane trying to coax a little more out of some tired legs. That''s one area where we have the upper hand - the substitutions destabilised us but we have five fresh players on the pitch and that''s evident.


    "Good play from Evergreen! He evaded that tackle superbly well. He lays it off to Hayward.


    "Hayward at speed! Shark speed! Bradford suddenly look very weary, very tired. The last thing they want is - Hayward skips to the right. Here comes the tackle - the 6 has to be careful - he''s on a yellow. But he lets Hayward go past. Hayward with options. He looks for the little dink to Westwood. Westwood gets in front of the defender, is fouled... not given! Referee says play on. That''s terrible from the match official.


    "The ball''s in the keeper''s arms. He throws it out to the left. Clock''s ticking down. Four minutes to go. The left back miscontrols but just about keeps the ball in play. A lot of very tired legs out there. He plays it to Aff. Aff touches it straight back. You''d normally expect him to turn and sprint down the line but he doesn''t have it in him. If that doesn''t show how tired they all are, nothing does.


    "Ball goes into the middle. Good possession again from Bradford. They can play good football when they want, which isn''t often. It''s gone to the right. The winger holds, waits for Carl''s overlap. There he goes! Carlile with incredible energy but the pass doesn''t come. Chester''s back line shuffling, sliding, creaking.


    "Back on the left. Patient play from Bradford. The home fans are quiet. What will it be? How will this end? A Wes Hayward break? Or -


    "Little slip from Hudson there but he recovers before Aff can get free. That was a heart in mouth moment. Raffi Brown can barely move. Why is he still on the pitch?


    "Contreras tries to intercept - good battle with the 15, Contreras wins, just about, hacks the ball clear. Westwood chases. Look at the energy! Lyons moves to the far post, darts to the middle. Westwood fires a cross - but it''s behind Lyons. Oh, what an opportunity to put this game to bed. Best and Lane have their heads in their hands. What a moment that could have been.


    "Nerves abound at the Deva stadium as Bradford come again. Into the last three minutes of normal time. There won''t be too much added on, I don''t think. I can''t even remember a foul in the second half, and Bradford haven''t made any substitutions.


    "Contreras slides in, misses the ball, Brown first time lay-off to midfield. The ball''s out on the right. Carlile bursting a gut to provide the overload. He gets the pass - no! Josh Owens with tremendous athleticism to get in the way.


    "But the ball bounces kindly for Bradford. Brown again. First touch pass again. It''s gone left. Aff fakes to cut on his right. Hudson falls for it. He never goes on his right, man! Aff has a yard of space. Shapes to cross... Chester''s defence are well set... Aff pushes forward another couple of yards, changes the angle, goes high to the back post...


    "And it''s in! It''s in! Raffi Brown! Brown with a towering header. Brown with his second of the match. Plucked from obscurity by Max Best, sold against Best''s wishes after the British transfer window had closed, the former Chester player comes back to haunt his old manager and his old club. It''s three-all! Chester''s players slump to the ground. Bradford''s are behind the goal, celebrating with their fans.


    "The Bradford coaching staff have spilled onto the pitch - the ones who aren''t up in Max Best''s face.


    "Chip Star has vanished. Ejected from the stadium, let''s hope.


    "Three-all. The home fans are stunned.


    "That...


    "That was a sickening blow. I''m... I feel sick."


    ***


    I put my hands under my head and stared at the ceiling for a long time. After the equaliser and the over-the-top celebrations, the match had kicked off again and there had been a couple more minutes of action, but nothing interesting. At the final whistle, I''d gone straight down the tunnel to my manager''s room to try to get my head straight before going on camera.


    I hadn''t got my head straight. Not then, nor that evening, nor on Sunday.


    I didn''t really want to talk to Alex about my innermost feelings but I did want help. I knew I wasn''t going to get it if I wasn''t honest with him.


    "A point against Bradford at this stage of the team''s development is fantastic," I said. "If we were three-nil down and we''d recovered to three-all, we would be buzzing. It doesn''t really matter that it''s the other way round, does it? It only feels like it does."


    "I think it does matter," said Alex.


    "Yeah, it matters a lot." I realised I had been dishonest mere seconds after vowing to be more truthful. "I suppose you''ll ask how I felt. I mean, it''s a weird mix. Sort of numb. It''s disbelief because it was really the worst case scenario and you have those in your head all the time but it''s really, really rare that it actually happens. It''s Chip Star blasting bass from his party bus in our car park, it''s Folke Wester as happy as if he''d won the World Cup, it''s the Browns high fiving each other like this match vindicated all their decisions. It''s the feeling that you were so, so close to ending Wester''s management career and knowing that this failure will haunt you. The whole thing is like an anxiety dream except you''re sharing it with five thousand other people."


    "Do you often have anxiety dreams?"


    "Yes. They''re horrible. I''m not sure that match will feature in one, though. I really had nailed it. 9 out of 10 manager, 10 out of 10 player. I could have done more but only by not building a training ground or by using my once-a-season super amazing motivational speech that basically guarantees a win. The things I could have done different are basically things I would never, ever do different, do you know what I mean?"


    "From your tone I''d say you''re very comfortable with your decisions on Saturday."


    I sat up and got cross-legged while I faced Alex. "Yes. And I''m not mad at my players, there''s no blame to go round. They did what they could. You can pinpoint moments like Ben slapping the ball to the other goalie when we needed a breather, or Lee H not listening to the coaches when they said about how Aff attacks. I mean, they''re tired, too. Tired people make mistakes. I don''t want to put them on blast for every little thing. They know it, don''t they?" I wrung my hands and looked down at my knuckles. "I''ve still not won a League Two match as manager. Five at Grimsby, three here."


    "Does that bother you?"


    "Not really. We''ve got Chesterfield, Barrow, Mansfield next. Then Carlisle away, Gillingham away. That''s five more we''re unlikely to win. Our first win might be in October."


    "You''re talking about not winning but you say it doesn''t bother you."


    I nodded and bit my nail. There was something incongruous about what I was saying, all right. "I''m not a miracle worker. I''m, like, fighting with one hand behind my back but the rope is coming loose and when it''s free we''ll give this league a right old tear up. I''m not going to beat myself up about being at a disadvantage because anyway, I knew about it. I know about it. It''s factored into my decisions, right?"


    "You know about it," mused Alex. It was interesting that he''d latched onto that phrase.


    I got slightly more excited. Spoke faster. "That''s it. That''s what''s been bothering me. When we play team X we know it''s 3-5-2 and if they change it''ll be to 4-3-3 or whatever. Sometimes mad things happen near the ends of matches or after red cards or whatever. Or a defensive manager might say fuck it and go all-out attack, but most of the time a leopard doesn''t change his spots."


    "You think people are predictable."


    "When it comes to football, yes. Aff doesn''t cross with his right. Folke Wester will use a DM even if he doesn''t have a strong candidate. Chipper doesn''t go ten minutes without calling the referee something horrible. But what happened on Saturday? Everyone played their roles to perfection, lived up to their stereotypes. Folke Wester did Folke Wester things until half time. They had a blazing row. But instead of coming out even more fired up, they played possum."


    "That''s a new phrase for me."


    "They played dead. They were like oh, well, tomorrow''s another day. It was a trick. They waited for us to get weaker then they had a fucking good go. It''s... I don''t know what it is but it''s not Folke Wester football. Whatever happened, it wasn''t him. Chip Star didn''t go down at half time with a master plan. Do you know what I mean? I can''t get my head round it. I can''t get past it because I don''t know what happened. I need to know what happened so I can process it."


    "That''s the opposite of something you said earlier."


    "What?"


    "You don''t know why Raffi Brown left without saying a word. You don''t know what happened but you said you were over it."


    I nodded. "I see this is going to be one of those relationships where you remember the things I say. Those aren''t my favourite."


    "Who else do you have that sort of relationship with?"


    "Emma. Beth. Brooke. The Brig."


    Alex smiled. "I might be in good company then."


    I stared at one of the chairs while pulling at my bottom lip. I did that until my phone pinged. "Alex, everyone''s here. I have to go and smile at the media and all that. I''m, er, sorry I wasted your time."


    He looked at his notes. "I don''t think this was a waste of time."


    "No?"


    "No. As first sessions go, that was a banger. But Max, is there anything I can do for you right now? What''s a short-term challenge I can help you with?"


    "Just, you know, make it so I''m not huffing and puffing and sighing and being sarcastic and bitter in front of these media people, I guess."


    Alex tapped a finger against his lips for a few seconds. He looked down at his notes and something popped out at him. He brightened just as the sun came out from behind a cloud. "On a normal day, would you prefer to talk to me about your feelings or talk to football reporters about Bumpers Bank?"


    "Them. The second one."


    He came close and gave me a friendly arm punch. "There you go then! You''ve already done the hardest part. It''s all fun from here."


    He was right. I cheered all the way up! Morale plus two! "Fun. I remember that. Yeah! Let''s go have some fun!" I practically skipped to the door, but paused on the handle. "You know what''s even more fun than bragging about Bumpers Bank to some media types?"


    "No, what?"


    "Getting down in the trenches with my army guys. Their first game of the season is Wednesday afternoon and I''m finally going to unleash Relationism on this little island of ours." I had a thought that made me laugh pretty hard.


    "What?" smiled Alex, his mirror neurons firing.


    I gave him a playful slap on the arm. "This country''s going to need so much therapy by the time I''m finished with it! Everyone will be coming to you. Oh, Alex, I had another bad dream last night. You''ll be, like, was it the blob again? Yeah it was the blob again." I laughed some more.


    "Well," said my therapist. "I don''t know what you''re talking about but I can''t wait to hear more about it."


    "I''ll tell you about it on Monday."


    Alex got a big smile. I''d just booked a follow-up session with him, and in his world that was the biggest compliment of all.

 12.3 - Lets All Laugh at Chester

    3.


    Red Army is a hard-hitting Wrexham AFC podcast, unique in that club''s media ecosystem since criticism of Ryan Reynolds is permitted. The podcast has a Discord chat server open to its Patreon supporters. One of the channels on the server is called LALAC, a phrase which is never explained to newbies because if you don''t know what it means, you shouldn''t be there.


    The channel is as old as the podcast, but these extracts only go back to the start of the 2025/2026 transfer window.


    ***


    Wednesday, July 2


    Stoop


    I''ve just seen who that mob are trying to sign so I''m just here to add to my theory that Max SexPest brings one hottie into his fold every four months or so.


    For the women, my order goes like this: Their striker Angel (hallelujah); Best''s media trainer at Darlington (Miss Fox, Princess of the Pencil Skirt); the Chester physio (The Divine Ponytail); the board member who financed the women''s team and started an agency (REM=Rapidly Erect Member); the head of marketing (Brooke FiveStar, bit too perfect); his girlfriend (fit but bad taste); his girlfriend''s lawyer friend who looks like Julia Roberts (Eat, Pray, Lust); his scout (Fleur Me to the Moon).


    The objectively attractive men, in no particular order: Henri Lyons; the Texan Wrexham reject; Wayward Hayward; now this Australian lad.


    TopPoppy


    What the hell did I just read? Are you in the right Discord mate? This is for Wrexham fans.


    CrunchyAbs


    Yeah, totally. And by the way, we don''t objectify women around here. But link me to your photo collection.


    BeardedWonderwall


    On the topic of that particular player...


    Chester have got promoted, got some TV money, and they''re going to break their transfer record for the Aussie lad. That new record? You might want to sit down for this. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. What we were paying for backups in our National League days. Fuck me they''re such a tin pot little club. I actually feel bad coming in this channel these days; it''s like laughing at a special needs class you see on a day out at a beach. It''s raining, they''ve got ice cream all down their tops, but it''s the best day of their year.


    SummerhillBill


    Our women''s team manager is hotter than any of the women in that list. She''s a Catherine Zeta Jones regen and she''s the last Wrexham manager to beat a Jester team, plus the only one who''s ever beat Max Best.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Was that the match he threw a tantrum because his deaf girl got booked coz she didn''t hear the whistle? Didn''t we beat him when he was Grimsby manager?


    SummerhillBill


    No it was 4-all. Here''s a <video> of him trying not to cry at the final whistle.


    CrunchyAbs


    See THAT was funny. That''s the sort of content I want from this channel, not ''oh look how hot everyone at Chester is''. Fuck sake.


    ***


    Monday, July 7


    TopPoppy


    Some of you know my work does building supplies and I''ve just done a delivery to Chester''s new training ground. You will not believe what I''m about to show you but I swear this is all true. Check out <this photo> of the building site.


    Seriously, look at that photo before you do anything else.


    Typical building site, yeah? Temporary little work cabins, toilets, the usual.


    Got good news and bad news. The good news is, that''s it. That''s Chester''s new training ground. I don''t mean that''s the construction site, I mean that''s it. That''s its final form. Everything''s cheap cabins. Think of a toilet at Glastonbury. Now think of thirty toilets side by side - that''s what Chester live in now. That''s their level. No wonder their media guy is called Boggy.


    I mentioned bad news. Right. They''ve got a secret weapon. You ready for this?


    <Here is Chester''s secret weapon.>


    CrunchyAbs


    What am I looking at?


    TopPoppy


    That''s a billboard they''ve bought. They live in a toilet, they can''t keep their players, they don''t pay their match day staff, but they can afford a huge billboard that no-one looks at because it''s on a busy roundabout and if you take your eye off the road you''ll cause a fifty-car pile up.


    CrunchyAbs


    What are the odds Stoop will be adding that spot to the walking tours of Chester he gives?


    Stoop


    If they put up a fifty foot poster of Angel I''ll make regular - hang on - you said WALKING tours. I misread it.


    ***


    Wednesday, July 9


    BrokenGround


    All right lads, sound the emergency klaxon. Red alert, red alert, this is not a drill.


    I''m in the army. I won''t say which unit but if I''m right about what''s happening you''ll be able to work it out soon enough. Let''s just say we''re local and we play army football. Footy is a pretty big deal in the service and it is taken seriously. We have our own branch of the football association (Army FA), we train referees, it''s big. Every unit has a team, we train twice a week, we play sixes in tournaments and elevens in leagues. At the end of the season there are cup finals in Aldershot, which is like our Wembley as you might be able to guess.


    The best teams play in our version of the FA Cup final, the best players get selected for the regiments, and the best of THOSE get called up for the army against the navy or RAF, and then there''s even an armed forces team so the best of all the players can play against the German armed forces and so on.


    It''s very organised and like I said, we take it seriously. There''s a lot of rivalry, a lot of pride, a lot of fierce matches. You think Wrexham v Chester is intense? Wait till you see the army v the navy. Holy smokes.


    Okay so that''s some background. We had training today and our organiser got us inside before we went onto the pitch.


    TopPoppy


    Quick question. It''s 5 pm. What do you mean you had training today?


    BrokenGround


    We play our inter-unit league on Wednesday afternoons. It''s pre-season right now so we''re training instead. Pre-season for us doesn''t mean fitness work because if you''re in the army it''s your job to be fit. Next week we''re playing a sixes match and that''s against civvies so obviously we can''t do that on a weekday afternoon so that''s on Thursday night. Just think that footie is part of our regular job and it''ll make more sense that we do it in the daytime.


    TopPoppy


    Ah, interesting. It''s your job to be fit. I''ve never thought of the army like that.


    BrokenGround


    I''m going to try to do this without saying any ranks. I don''t need to get DD''d for talking about footie on Discord. Our main character is H. He''s basically our unit''s player-manager and he does all the organising. Making sure we''ve got a ref, a pitch, getting new kit, equipment. It''s a fucking hassle so we all appreciate it but it does mean he feels entitled to some time on the pitch and all things considered, we''d rather he didn''t. But that''s not the point.


    H gets us in our debriefing room and says, ''Lads, I''ve got some exciting news.'' We''ve often said we don''t think H even gets excited when he''s porking his missus, so this must be big.


    ''We''ve got a special head coach coming in for a few months. A professional player who is doing his badges. He''s going to be doing some new drills with us. He''s got special funding and special permission from the Football Association of Wales and the army. He could have chosen almost any unit but he has chosen us. He''ll come along to the match next week and then we''ll be training at his football club. Basically, he''ll be your manager for a month or two which means some slight changes to the routine. I have been asked to ask you to extend the army''s courtesy to him.''


    ''Who is it?'' we ask.


    ''That''s on a need-to-know basis, lads. I don''t know myself. All I know is he has friends in high places. All right, let''s get out there. Good session today, please, lads. Let''s try to learn left from right by Thursday; I don''t want to be embarrassed when he turns up.''


    TopPoppy


    Why is this in LALAC?


    Oh hang on.


    Hang the fuck on.


    Are you saying your new manager is going to be Max fucking Best?


    BrokenGround


    I think so! We know he''s got mates in the army even though he doesn''t wear a poppy and we know he''s connected to the FAW from that scandal where they built him a football pitch.


    Fuck - I just realised I''m going to be training on that very pitch. That''s probably how he got funded - promised to train some Welsh lads on there. We''ve got to go up to fucking Chester so he can tick a box and get half a million quid. Fuck!


    Teulu


    That''s sick. That''s not right.


    Stoop


    Er, hang on a second. A brilliant player is going to train BrokenGround and his unit? That''s bad, is it?


    CrunchyAbs


    Here comes the Chester fan.


    Stoop


    I''m not a Chester fan, I''m a Wrex season ticket holder. I''m on the highest tier of a Wrexham fans podcast. Use your fucking brain.


    This is to BG. Mate, if you don''t want a professional player to coach you, he can come to my Sunday League team. We''re shit and we need help and we won''t whine about it like a load of ungrateful little bitches.


    BrokenGround


    We''re shit too but better shit than playing for Max Best.


    CrunchyAbs


    The other lads in your unit, they Wrexham fans too?


    BrokenGround


    About half, yeah. We''ve got some Cards and Jacks and one sad bastard Newport lad. He''s so pathetic we don''t even bully him.


    CrunchyAbs


    What''s the mood like?


    BrokenGround


    They''re like H - excited. They haven''t been following Best''s joke of a career like we have. I''ll have to set them straight in the next week.


    BeardedWonderwall


    You''ve got to let us know how it goes, lad.


    CrunchyAbs


    This.


    ***


    Wednesday, July 16


    BrokenGround


    Wow. I''ve been at my unit''s six-a-side match and now I''m back home laughing my head off.


    It''s Max Best all right.


    TopPoppy


    You''re going to tell us what happened right?


    BrokenGround


    Yeah just give me a minute.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Whoa my heart''s pounding. What''s this? Is this what the humans call anticipation?


    BrokenGround


    All right so I told you we''ve got a sixes tournament coming up. We had a friendly against some lads from the university. They''re young and fit, right, which is a nightmare except we are the fucking British army, mate. You''re not fitter than us you speccy ponces. Get back to your hipster cafes and your poetry.


    There''s no sign of our top amazing wonderful new manager so H gets on with things as usual. First half kicks off and I forget anything''s supposed to be happening. I get busy dominating the midfield. Think Roy Keane mixed with Pirlo.


    TopPoppy


    Well, fuck. I thought this might be real. That''s disappointing.


    BrokenGround


    This is real, mate. This happened.


    Okay think Roy Keane mixed with Pirlo but not quite as good and a leg full of metal. You happy now?


    TopPoppy


    No. It''s fake. You''re doing a comedy bit in one of the comedy channels. At least with that pervert we get photos of beautiful women. You''re not even a good fantasist. Why would Max Best be coaching some lads in Wrexham?


    BrokenGround


    All right hang on I took a photo. Do NOT spread this around or I''ll have to fuck you up.


    BeardedWonderwall


    It''s a guy who looks like Max Best sitting on a bench looking bored. It could have been taken in any sports hall and it could have been taken anytime.


    BrokenGround


    Fuck me, you pricks are hard work.


    Stoop


    That''s a current photo. His hair''s still growing back at the sides from when he had his mohawk.


    BrokenGround


    The pervert has spoken! Do you want to hear the story or not? Jesus Christ.


    TopPoppy


    The story better end with you signing for Chester, since you''re the best footballer in Wales.


    BrokenGround


    Well him not signing me is just more proof that Best is a fraud, isn''t it?


    Right, anyway, I''m writing this down while it''s fresh because you''ll see one day that I was giving you the inside skinny. He''ll use this on his socials or in some fucking moronic credit card advert.


    Reminder: everything''s going great; we don''t need so-called help. We''re three-nil down at half time and Best comes over.


    TopPoppy


    Hahahahaha!


    BeardedWonderwall


    Petition to rename the channel ''Let''s All Laugh at BrokenGround''.


    BrokenGround


    What? What''s funny?


    TopPoppy


    Nothing. Tell us more about how it feels to dominate midfield.


    BrokenGround


    It''s not my fault the rest of the team is shit.


    So I''m busy laying into them, pointing out all the mistakes they''ve made, when H gets a moony sort of look in his eyes. Max Best has wandered over. He looks bored, not interested, it''s like he regrets offering to come and coach us.


    TopPoppy


    Which is how I''d feel if I was a manager and I''d just found the next Roy Keane. Jesus wept.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, funny. Okay we''re not much cop but it''s important to us, isn''t it? We''ve got our unit badges on our shirts. We''re playing for pride. It has meaning to us, do you get me? And he''s dismissive. He''s rude.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What did he say?


    BrokenGround


    Not much. He played musical chairs with us.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What does that mean?


    BrokenGround


    He looks at this little notebook he''s got and points at one of our lads - big, slow, slovenly soldier I''ll call Fatso - and says ''you go in the centre''. He moves two guys to striker. Puts me in defence. I''m livid. I can''t believe it. I''m our best midfielder by miles. Fatso can''t run. No-one can understand how he''s even still in the army - it''s like we''re so desperate for bodies they''ll let anyone in even if they don''t pass the tests. It does my head in, and now he''s in my slot in midfield?


    Then Best goes, ''Don''t play any long passes. Five yards, that''s it.''


    H tries to stand up to him. ''That''s not very practical.''


    Best goes ''nah that''ll slap you watch.''


    At this point I''m fuming so hard I can barely think let alone speak but I manage to get a couple of words out. ''I''m a midfielder. I play in midfield.''


    He looks confused and flips a page up and down in his notebook. ''That''s not what it says here'', he says, and some people laugh. And as if I wasn''t wound up enough, he puts his book down and I see the pages are all blank.


    He''s literally taking the piss. I fucking hate him!


    TopPoppy


    And then what?


    BrokenGround


    That''s it. He turns up, puts us all in the wrong positions, goes home and laughs to his mates.


    TopPoppy


    The match, man. What happened in the second half?


    BrokenGround


    Yeah well it was a disaster, wasn''t it? We were trying to do this five-yard pass thing and it kept breaking down. We ended up with the midfielders and strikers dropping back to give options and it was just frantic and chaotic. It was a joke. Total joke.


    TopPoppy


    So you got pummelled?


    BrokenGround


    Not pummelled no but we lost 4-3 in the end.


    TopPoppy


    Hahahahaha!


    Stoop


    Mate. Read what you are writing.


    BrokenGround


    Look, the only reason we didn''t get turned over was everyone was so confused. We were so busy trying to move the ball one inch at a time that the other team saw their chance and flooded at us and we were all in a panic and Fatso hacked the ball clear and one of our strikers ran onto it and scored.


    So the uni lads, smart lads aren''t they, thought it was deliberate so they didn''t rush at us again. We were doing all these little passes all squashed together and they didn''t really know how to defend it.


    Okay I''ve just re-read that and it makes it sound good but I''m telling you it was a total farce. It was beyond a joke, lads, really.


    Stoop


    Yeah I know what you''re going to say that I''m a Chester fan but more than being a top level Patron I''m someone who has the unique distinction as the only person in this Discord who has read and understood more than ten books and here''s what forty years of honing my reading comprehension skills is telling me.


    1) Best turns up, sees you''re all shit, reorganises you. 2) You''re in the right positions now and you do much better. 3) He makes you play short passes and as if by magic you start to have success. 4) You are thick as pigshit and can''t understand what has happened.


    BrokenGround


    Get fucked.


    ***


    Saturday, Jul 19


    ButteryCrumpets


    Blackpool 5 Chester 2


    Lol.


    ***


    Wednesday, Jul 23


    BrokenGround


    All right I didn''t plan to come back to this because apparently no-one''s interested in a close-up view of Max Fraud and apparently I''m the only only who thinks he''s a complete joke. But we just had our first proper training session with him at his taxpayer-funded pitch and I want to vent.


    His club is technically in a place called Saltney but it''s Chester. Hop on the bus, go up the A483, turn off where you see the giant piles of shit.


    The pitch is brand new and it''s nice and apparently we''re the first players to ever use it. The lads are pleased until it becomes clear that the reason no-one has been on it is that the inspectors haven''t been to sign it off. I ask if it''s safe and Best pinches his nose and says ''if you find any sinkholes or booby traps let me know. Oh, wait, no, good point, I did ask them to install a trap door that drops you into a shark tank so yeah, watch you don''t trigger that.''


    Sarky bastard.


    I''ve got to say that despite my reservations I was excited because the lads had spent the whole week wondering what the sessions would be like and it got me wondering. Maybe I''d actually learn a few tricks. Improve my game. Get picked for the regiment. The army, even!


    So we form three banks of six and we go through this stretching routine. Hamstrings, glute bridges, 90 90s, back curls, hip hikes, I mean it''s one after the other. Five minutes, ten minutes. No joke - we did thirty minutes of that! Half our session!


    I said it before but we''re the army. We''re paid to be fit. We don''t need some football ponce teaching us flexibility.


    You can imagine I''m fuming. He''s wasting our time, laughing at us.


    Finally a bag of footballs appears. Thank Christ!


    We practise one-twos.


    Three cones on a zig zag. Stand at cone one. Pass to cone two. Run to cone three while the player on cone two takes a touch and passes it ahead.


    The simplest, most basic drill. We do it again and again for half an hour.


    Best blows his whistle. ''Good sesh, lads. There''s hot water in the showers. See you on Saturday.''


    I''m livid.


    SummerhillBill


    That sounds bad. What did the others think?


    BrokenGround


    A couple are clinging onto the delusion that this is a treat of some sort, but that was an eye-opener for everyone else. All the stories I''ve been telling them are finally sinking in. It was quiet on the drive home. I sent out a montage of Best falling over and another of him getting kicked and that gave everyone a lift.


    SummerhillBill


    As it would.


    ***


    Jul 29, 2025


    ButteryCrumpets


    Morecambe 2 Chester 0


    Lol.


    ***


    Jul 31, 2025


    TopPoppy


    Did BrokenGround post his Max Best training update yesterday?


    BrokenGround


    No, I didn''t think anyone was interested.


    TopPoppy


    I''m fascinated. Please let us know what he''s doing. It doesn''t have to be funny.


    BeardedWonderwall


    I second that. We all spend so much time on here talking shit that we know nothing about but you''re in contact with a pro player and okay he''s a fucking nutcase but none of us will get to kick a ball on the Racecourse or even at the Colliers training ground so you''re the closest thing we''ve got to an expert.


    CrunchyAbs


    I''ve just realised that if you train with him on Wednesdays you''ll be up close with him after Chester get smashed on a Tuesday night. Morecambe dicked them this Tuesday. How was he yesterday?


    BrokenGround


    He was fine. I tried to tease him about it but he blanked me. Just stared at me like a serial killer. Dead eyes. Someone else said, ''He''s joking that you lost last night.'' Best goes ''What?'' ''You lost to Morecambe, Max!'' He frowns for a while then laughs. He does that thing where you pretend to squeeze tears out of your eyes with your hands. ''Boo hoo!'' he goes, the prick. ''I wost to Morecambe in a pre-season fwendly. Boo hoo. Best out.'' He stamps his foot like a toddler. ''Best OUT!'' The lads are pissing themselves, but I''m not. This is why he''s at Chester. He''s not a winner. You''ve got to play to win every match. There''s no such thing as a friendly.


    Anyway, training was maddening again. We did the same stretches in the same order. What was mad was that some of the lads couldn''t do some of the moves. Not that it matters because we''re soldiers not pole dancers.


    TopPoppy


    You can do all the stretches, then? You''re the Roy Keane of stretches? [Smiley face.]


    BrokenGround


    Well, no, because of some old injuries. But this is the winner thing again. He goes ''yeah if you can''t do ten, do five. If you can''t do five, hold the starting position for thirty seconds''. It''s like no wonder his team are getting their arses handed to them by everyone they play. He doesn''t have the drive to power through and do ten reps. Me? If it says ten reps I''m doing ten unless my body literally physically can''t do it.


    Half an hour of that bullshit, then fifteen minutes of one-twos.


    TopPoppy


    Again? Shit.


    BrokenGround


    I know. He just stands there. Barely says anything. Just watches. Sometimes he doesn''t even do that - he''s on his phone.


    But he did mix it up for the end. He got us to put more cones out to stretch the zig zag to about thirty yards. He put three guys on each side. One guy in the middle. Six attackers, one defender, basically.


    ''You can only do one-twos'' he says, and rolls a ball to the end of the line.


    I thought I must have missed some of the instructions but the guy at the side does a short pass and the guy on the other side chips it over the defender''s head towards the edge, the goal.


    Best blows his whistle. ''You can only do one-twos.''


    It makes no sense. What are we supposed to do and how are we supposed to do it?


    We go again. The first guy kicks the ball and runs for the return pass. He plays it on, runs around his teammate, the one who''s on his side of the line, and gets the return pass.


    Whistle. ''No overtaking. You can take over the second half of someone else''s one-two.''


    Well that just sounds like playing a pass to me but we go again and now we''re starting to see the shape of it. The guy in the middle realises the oppo are always going to do a one-two so he knows how and when he can intercept it. He does just that, and he takes up the slot of the guy who lost the ball.


    Okay so it''s a piggy-in-the-middle rondo drill but stretched out into a thin rectangle. Why didn''t Best just say that?


    We get a bit better at it and we get the ball all the way to the other end. Best changes some of the lads out and puts a second guy in the middle.


    We''re trying to move the ball along to the end but what we''re doing is so predictable the guys in the middle actually have the advantage. We''re getting frustrated because the whole thing makes no sense but then time''s up and we fuck off home and this time I don''t even bother with the funny videos. I''m just... I''m not even angry. I just want things to go back to how they were.


    TopPoppy


    Feel like pure shit just want H back.


    BrokenGround


    Ha. Yeah. Better the devil you know than the one you don''t.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Chin up, lad. He''ll get bored of it soon enough, won''t he?


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 2


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 0 Slovakia 4


    Lol.


    Also: wtf.


    ***


    Wednesday, Aug 6


    BrokenGround


    Just been to Chester for our latest sesh. Half an hour of stretching, then into the zigzag rondo thing.


    Some people said they didn''t understand my explanation last time.


    Think about a load of cones laid out on diagonals like the arm of a crane - just, yeah, or a zigzag. There are three lines of players. The attackers at the top are A1, A2, and so on. The attackers at the bottom are B1, B2. The defenders in the middle are just the piggies - they don''t get a name.


    We''ve made these names up ourselves, right, because as frustrated as we all were, some of the lads wanted to believe there''s some sort of purpose behind it all.


    Important to remind you that Best barely talks to us. He''ll pretend to forget that he got his arse handed to him by Slovakia and that he shamed an entire city by turning his patch into Bratislava for the day. He''ll respond to jokes about how he has never won a match in League Two and, you know, some general banter. But he won''t talk during the drills and certainly won''t tell us what we''re supposed to be doing or why.


    So we''re doing the drill, trying to move the ball along to the end of this route by doing one-twos following the diagonals of the cones. How it went at first was player A1, the guy at the start, would exchange passes with player B1, the next player in the zigzag, and when B1 had a good angle he''d send a pass to A2. The piggies are trying to stop it from happening, and Best''s main involvement is controlling the number of piggies. When the outsiders are struggling, a piggy is removed. When they get into a groove, another piggy goes in.


    So we''re doing this again and again and again and it''s driving me fucking crazy because it''s almost impossible to get anywhere if there is more than one piggy but suddenly Fatso does something mad. He''s A2 when it happens. We''ve been passing on diagonals because that''s how the cones were laid out, but as a piggy goes to press Fatso he passes to A1, the guy who''s *right next to him*. A1 panics and plays it to B1.


    Best blows his whistle. ''You must play one-twos'' he says. A1 made the mistake - apparently - so he goes to change places with the nearest piggy but Best tells him to stay where he is.


    We go again. Fatso does the same thing. He passes to A1.


    It''s like time has stood still. Half of us turn to Best to see what he''s going to do but he''s not doing anything. A1''s looking at the ball like... what? You can almost hear the cogs in his brain going. It''s got to be a one-two, right? Did Best ever say we had to pass diagonally? We just assumed the rules but he never said it... So A1 rolls the ball back to Fatso. Fatso bounces it straight back to A1. They do three quick one-twos and a piggy goes, what''s all this? He moves to intercept but when he does, Fatso takes a touch, turns, and hits a pass to B3 who passes to A3. We''ve done in two seconds what used to take twenty.


    And from then it''s a totally different game. The advantage is with the guys on the edge, not the piggies. You can pass the ball around as much as you want and if a piggy tries to get it you just pass to where he isn''t.


    Best blows his whistle. He''s got this huge, self-satisfied grin on his face and he''s not the only one. Even I was buzzing. We''d done it! ''Time''s up,'' he goes. ''Hot showers for you. Cold shower for me. You''ve got me all aroused, lads.''


    Stoop


    Oh my God that sounds amazing.


    TaranMellt


    I''ve just caught up with all this. BrokenGround please keep writing it! But don''t get yourself into trouble with your unit.


    BrokenGround


    Well Chester are away this Saturday so we will be doing our own training without him so the next instalment will be after they get thrashed by Bolton in the cup. Might get a few laughs out of that.


    ***


    Tuesday, Aug 12


    Stoop


    Fuck is anyone watching Bolton v Chester? They''ve just snapped the little German fella like a twig.


    Teulu


    I was gonna watch the highlights but I''m hearing it''s a proper horror tackle and I can''t watch that. I got royally effed up by a tackle like that. I hope he''s all right.


    TopPoppy


    Hey, BrokenGround, ask Max Best how to score three goals in ten minutes. I think he has been holding back in your training sessions.


    TopPoppy


    Oh fuck, he''s just been slammed into the post. Lol what the fuck am I even watching here? Bolton have lost the plot.


    Stoop


    Best concussion sub. No way he''s going to Wrexham tomorrow, is there?


    TopPoppy


    They do the sessions in Chester. But yeah. That''s a shame for BG. I think he likes Best really.


    ***


    Wednesday, Aug 13


    BrokenGround


    Best turned up. He looked pissed off, didn''t smile once, barely spoke. Last night he was bleeding all through his interview - something of a hobby - but today the only visible damage was a little plaster on his forehead.


    He was supposed to be in concussion protocol so he brought reinforcements. Remember Stoop updated his list of who''s hot at Chester? Not sure why that''s in the laugh at Chester section but no joke, he''s miles wrong. Best brought Livia Stranton, that physio, the one dating Jackie Reaper, and she is twenty times more beautiful in real life than on TV. Seriously, guys, I''m in love. She''s crazy perfect.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What was she doing there?


    BrokenGround


    Just stopping him from working, I think. The first half hour he sat at the side of the pitch and had this face like thunder, just proper angry. We still did the stretching thing but it was done by The Brig, Chester''s head of performance.


    BeardedWonderwall


    They don''t really call him the Brig, do they?


    BrokenGround


    They do.


    Okay this guy''s another one who''s totally different on camera. On screen he''s not much but in real life he reeks of danger. I''ve seen a few guys like that in the army. They go in two directions. One ends up as the lead story on the nine o''clock news with the word ''manhunt'' in big letters. The other goes into the SAS, commando, black ops, mercenary, all that movie shit. If you''re ever with the firm tearing up Chester and this guy comes along, drop your bricks and bottles, turn around, walk home.


    Yeah, he told us to do the stretches and we did the stretches. Turns out the Brig was the guy who invented the routine and every player at Chester does it four times a week, right down to the under 12s.


    We do the routine with no complaints. We''re tough army guys but we''re not stupid.


    For some reason when he''s doing his rounds, the Brig watches me in particular. I do the moves properly instead of half-arsing it and fuck me, it''s hard. When we''re done my knees are jelly. All my leg muscles are screaming they''ll cramp. Instead of thinking ''we''ve only got half an hour left'' I''m thinking ''we''ve only got half an hour left''.


    The Brig wanders off to ask Best what we''re supposed to do next and he comes back and says, ''Apparently you''ve been doing a one-two drill.''


    We start to explain it to him and he puts his hand up and says, ''show me''. We grab the cones, lay them out, and get stuck in.


    It goes fast. We bounce the ball around pretty nicely and get it to the end. We cheer.


    The Brig gives us a strange look. ''Did Mr. Best say you had to get the ball to the end?''


    Fatso slaps himself in the face and says ''fuck!'' and some of the lads laugh. I''m like, then what''s the point of the drill? What the shit is going on?


    Livia comes over. ''New drill. Make a big square from cones.''


    ''How big?'' says someone.


    ''Big. Hurry the fuck up!'' She''s mad at us for making Best work! We rush around and obey. ''One player at each corner. One piggy. The game is to find out the rules of the game.''


    An incredible thing to say. Reactions vary. Fatso''s excited, as are a few others. They want to be the one to crack this latest code. Some guys are mildly amused. Some are pissed. It''s just endless nonsense. When are we going to learn formations? Pressing? Counter-pressing? All that stuff we see on TV?


    The guys on the corners of the box pass the ball to each other. When they fuck up, they become the piggy. It''s a completely normal rondo. Livia is watching us carefully, but Best is ten yards back, now on his arse, slumped forward, probably thinking about his player in hospital. Which I understand, by the way, but why not cancel the session if you''re not in the mood?


    Pass, pass, pass. Rondos are a good warm up but they''re boring if you do them too long. We''re feeling our legs from doing the workout and things slow down. Someone passes to Fatso and he puts his foot on the ball while he thinks what to do. There has to be a trick, right, but he has already tried doing all kinds of one-two variations and Best hasn''t reacted. Maybe we did it right but he didn''t notice? Maybe Livia was supposed to notice but she''s a physio not a coach?Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Fatso has waited too long and the piggy gets close to him. Fatso fakes a pass left and goes right instead - it''s his only hope.


    ''Point!'' shouts Livia.


    We stop and look at her. Half of us missed the action. ''Fatso, what did you do?''


    ''I don''t know!'' he says. His mates get the ball back to him and he puts his foot on the ball again. He gets tackled and becomes the piggy.


    ''I''ve got it!'' shouts this guy we call Dick Gently. They get the ball to him and he points to the guy next to him and goes ''quick!''


    Fatso moves that way but DG passes the other way.


    ''Point!''


    ''You''ve got to dummy,'' shouts DG.


    There''s chaos and that''s the only time Best is interested. He''s still slumped but he''s got a kind of hungry look in his eye as we work out how to get points.


    You can''t do a dummy every time, right, or it''s too easy for the piggy. You have to wait for your moment and if you do it right, even though the piggy knows what you''re going to do, he can''t stop you.


    Time''s up and I''m relieved and disappointed. My legs couldn''t take much more but it was just getting good.


    Best doesn''t get up. We head to the changing rooms and he''s just there on the pitch with his hands around his knees. One of the proper Wrexham lads, Hot Rod, goes up to him and says, ''Good win, Max.''


    ''Win?''


    ''Last night.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Sorry about your player.''


    ''Yeah, thanks. Yeah.''


    ''Is he going to be all right?''


    Best''s head drops. He''s barely audible. ''I don''t know.''


    The Brig comes. ''Off you go, lads.''


    As I''m about to go through the door to have a shower, I turn back. Best''s still there, wrecked. Livia''s standing over him sort of protective. The Brig''s facing us. He''s one of us but he''s one of them. It''s such a strange scene.


    We''re quiet in the showers but after a few minutes on the bus home we just explode with chat.


    TaranMellt


    I just want to say I''m loving this series. It''s my new favourite web serial.


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 16


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 0 Burton Albion 3


    Lol.


    ***


    Wednesday, Aug 20


    BrokenGround


    Best was a lot more perked up today and he completely changed the routine. It was just him again, no babes, no Brigs.


    We''ve got our six-a-side tournament this coming Saturday so we moved the big goals off the pitch, brought out some little ones, and used a half of a half for some small-sided games. Six against six with three seemingly random line ups, five minute matches, winner stays on.


    At first it looked like he was just going to watch us as we played against each other, which I probably wouldn''t have minded all that much, but then he stopped us and got Fatso''s team into a huddle. I don''t know what he said but I think it was ''don''t pass more than five yards'' because they all got squashed together.


    They sucked at first, and lost, but then when it was their turn again, they had a bit more organisation and then they broke out the one-twos, the feints, and basically treated the match like a big version of the drills we''d been doing.


    And, yeah, they dominated. You couldn''t get the ball off them unless you overcommitted and if you did that, Fatso would clip a longer pass onto a runner and they''d get shots away.


    I was getting steamed up, especially because Best was just standing there with a bored look on his face. ''What are we supposed to do?'' I said. ''How do you defend against it?''


    He went, ''How should I know?''


    That got me fuming again and the next match I ran around in a fury and almost got us a win but not quite. At the break one of the smarter lads on our team went, ''I think we''re supposed to do the same thing.''


    ''What same thing?''


    ''The short passing. The one-twos. All that stuff.''


    ''Then why doesn''t he tell us to do that?''


    ''He didn''t tell us not to.''


    I thought, fuck it, let''s try it. So the next time we''re on, we''re doing to Fatso''s team what they''re doing to everyone else, except we''ve been on a losing streak so we''re really determined. We keep the ball but when the oppo come at us, Fatso yells at them to get back so we couldn''t get counters like they did.


    TaranMellt


    He''s not stupid, that guy.


    BrokenGround


    No, he''s not. Anyway, the session went like that. Sort of an arms race of who could do more tactics. Every now and then Best would say something to one of the teams and things would change slightly and the other two teams had to work out what was going on. He didn''t talk to my team. Oh, except one thing. One time he said, ''have you ever thought about using the side of the pitch?''


    We couldn''t work out what he meant and I went ''he''s fucking with us'' and said I didn''t want to hear more about it.


    TopPoppy


    Mate, what is wrong with you? I''m loving this story but why do you leave it to Fatso to do all the thinking?


    BrokenGround


    I know, I know. But be fair - this is the guy we''ve been hating and laughing at for three years. You can''t assume he''s trying to help you. But on the bus home I told the others what he said and we were trying to decipher it. I''ve got to say that almost makes this whole torture worth it. Talking about footy with your mates more than ''that ref was shit'' and the usual. You know the way Chester fans always go ''he''s done what lol''? I actually get it now.


    TopPoppy


    Next session Saturday?


    BrokenGround


    No, we might do some Saturday sessions when Chester are playing at home but this week they''re in Nottingham and they''ve got their stupid ecobus so they leave early. And my unit isn''t training - it''s our sixes tournament. We''ve been building to it for months. I just want to get through the group stage for fucking once. And beat E Company 8, the pricks, for once. Just once!


    BeardedWonderwall


    Fingers crossed, lad. We''re right behind you.


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 23


    ButteryCrumpets


    Notts County 2 Chester 0


    Lol.


    ***


    Sunday, Aug 24


    BrokenGround


    Got in late last night, lads. Did the tournament then had a few bevvies. My day summarised in one word: shit show.


    Stoop


    What happened? Spill the beans.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah so we had 1 Mercian first up and did all right but fell apart at the end. Fatso was like ''why are we playing the same old shit?'' He wanted us to do this Bestball stuff and I was like ''not in a fucking tournament mate'' and he was like why not it''s mint? And I was like ''because I don''t want people fucking laughing at me that''s why now shut your gob'' but H said yeah we should give it a try, right? Because he''s got the powers-that-be nagging him for updates about this super amazing thing that''s happening. Fuck, even the refs were coming to us going ''are you that team with Max Best?'' and they were disappointed when we said he wasn''t around.


    Sick of this!


    Back to the footy. We played 4 Scots and the lads tried to do one-twos and keep the ball and play short passes and all that and we got fucking annihilated. It was like 7-0 in fifteen minutes which is bad even for us. Lads from EC8 were by the touchline pissing their pants because they''d heard we were getting proper coaching and everything. ''What were you like before the coach turned up, holy fuck.'' Giving it large.


    After the match we were all acrimonious in a way we aren''t normally when we lose and H said guys, put a lid on it. But he said we''d play normal footy in the last game.


    So yeah, we lost all three games, bottom of the group, and we lost the wooden spoon playoff. We are officially the shittest team in the army.


    I was happier than ever to see Chester had lost. With any luck Best will get sacked and he''ll leave us alone.


    ***


    Saturday, Aug 30


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 3 Bradford City 3 (after being 3-0 up).


    Lol.


    SummerhillBill


    Fuck me that was hilarious. Jester are the gift that keep on giving. Someone find a close up of Best''s face at the end and I''ll give you a grand. Two grand if you catch the exact moment the first tear spills down his cheek, or his lip starts to wobble.


    Stoop


    Bradford celebrating at the end like they''d won the league was pretty low rent. Not sure I''d want that if I was one of their fans.


    TopPoppy


    Chester''s next fixtures are hard. A lot more pain to come if you ask me. If you had a bet on Max Best to get sacked first in League Two, put some champagne in the fridge.


    ***


    Tuesday, Sep 2


    ButteryCrumpets


    Wigan Athletic 5 Chester 0


    Lol.


    CrunchyAbs


    Oh my God this guy''s shit. He''s actually shit. I can''t believe we''ve wasted so much of our lives discussing him in these threads.


    BeardedWonderwall


    My Chester mates are going ''it''s only the Vans Trophy''. Pathetic.


    CrunchyAbs


    Why do you have mates who support Chester? That''s the real question.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 3


    BrokenGround


    Lads, I''ve just had an experience that has finally put to rest any lingering doubts I may have had about the character of Chester FC''s player-manager. I have been methodical, I have been diligent, I have checked my workings, had them peer reviewed, and I can finally, fully confirm that yes, Max Best is a dickhead.


    CrunchyAbs


    Genuinely excited right now. I''m supposed to pick up my kids from school but they''ll have to wait.


    BrokenGround


    It was our first eleven-a-side match of the season and remember we''ve done zero training for it. We''ve faffed about with some one-twos and prepared for our sixes tournament in a way that made us worse. I have zero faith in Best and his methods and that''s a feeling that''s finally spreading beyond the Wrexham and Grimsby fanbases, as you can hear on any neutral podcast or read about on any betting blog.


    We''re playing away and he meets us there. Seems like the Brig''s his driver so you''d think he might be a conduit between the army and the craziness but the Brig defers to Best when it comes to football. At times during the match we were pleading with him to do something but he just gave us strange looks.


    I''m getting ahead of myself.


    H has a suggestion for the starting eleven and Best goes yeah yeah yeah this is top oh but what if we change this to this and a minute later we''ve got a completely different starting line up and everyone''s out of position. H says okay but what''s the formation. Best goes ''eleven'' and the Brig laughs. So we''re going on the pitch with no plan, no training, no formation, no team talk. Actually that''s not fair. He says, ''My favourite movie is Platoon because he throws his hands up and goes waaah. Okay let''s slap.''


    It''s like he wants us to lose.


    H is unhappy. He doesn''t really have a say but he can feed back to the chain of command that this experiment, whatever it is, isn''t going well. He needs to pick his moment. For now his hands are tied because there are majors and lieutenant colonels who have taken an interest in the project. Any time a high-profile civilian takes an interest in army football, command are going to fawn all over him.


    I''d say that getting in with the army''s top brass was Best''s intention except he has shown numerous times he doesn''t know the first fucking thing about the army - as will be proven later - and he doesn''t seem to give a flying fig who we are or what we do.


    TopPoppy


    Looks like I picked the wrong day to run out of popcorn.


    BrokenGround


    The first half is a mess. We''re doing rolling subs and Best has us on and off, in and out like we''re jack-in-the-boxes. The only person who doesn''t come off is Fatso, who is Best''s blue-eyed boy.


    Best doesn''t give us any instructions, doesn''t move us around, doesn''t fix anything.


    One time, the Brig shouts encouragement and Best tells him not to. That''s not just my imagination - the subs heard him.


    We''re all just flailing around, goals are flying in, and the only time Best has anything to say is when he complains about the pitch.


    ''This is much better than our home pitch'', says Dick Gently.


    ''No way,'' says Best.


    ''Really,'' says DG. ''Ours is like the one at Chester when you fell flat on your face taking a corner.''


    DG is worried he has gone too far because Best goes distant. He''s only thinking of the match, though. ''That was offside,'' he says. ''I think I might actually be good at this. Fuck.'' He thinks about what DG said. ''Me falling flat on my face? I bet you liked that on your forums.'' That''s it. He''s not bothered.


    It''s four-nil at half time and we''re all muddy and stressed and bickering with each other. That''s when Best does the single most infuriating thing I''ve ever witnessed. He''s lucky the Brig was there. I''m deadly serious about that.


    TP, have you got your popcorn?


    TopPoppy


    [Popcorn emoji.]


    BrokenGround


    Half time. We go off to the side of the pitch and yell at each other but there''s no heat to it because we all know who is to blame.


    ''All right lads,'' says Best. ''Let''s all count to five. Nice, deep, cleansing breaths. Hom. Hommmm.''


    We''re ready to breathe flames. Best doesn''t realise how close he is to pushing a bunch of proud Welshmen too far.


    ''So listen everyone. I heard about how you got on in your tournament. There''s a bit of a mismatch between your old way of playing and your new way of playing. The old ways keep creeping back, don''t they? But you can''t do both. It''s one or the other, yeah? One of the reasons I wanted to coach an army team is that the Brig told me army lads are disciplined, hard-working, self-sufficient problem-solvers and that''s what I need for this project. So tell me now, is he wrong?''


    Of course, no-one says anything because if you agree, he''s going to trick you into doing things his way.


    Best shrugs. ''I think I need to establish dominance. Ah, I''ve got it.''


    He walks around, gesticulating grandly.


    ''I am Max Best. You can''t do what I can do.'' He flicks a ball up, does some kick ups, kicks it head high, then volleys it dramatically towards the distant goal. It spins wide and nearly hits the corner flag. ''Yeah, pretend that went in. As I was saying, you can''t do what I can do. I''m a legend of the game. I''m a generational talent. When I say jump, gravity says ''how high?''


    ''But I can do what you can do. You''re a rifle unit, yes? You can blindfold me and put any rifle manufactured in the northern hemisphere in the last fifty years on a table and I will strip it to bits and reassemble it within 22 seconds.


    ''I can hit a bullseye from a hip stance from 200 metres or I can do the lying-down thing and hit from 400.


    ''I can throw a grenade and blow up a building and walk away while it explodes behind me while I smoke a cigar. I recorded the world''s longest ever one-inch punch.


    ''I can drink whisky straight from the bottle while a foxy, pony-tailed field surgeon plucks a bullet from my innards with a big pair of tweezers while I say ''pain don''t hurt'' and then we bang.


    ''Okay? I''m a world-class expert in all aspects of human endeavour so do what I tell you.''


    There''s a silence during which I only hear myself scream. I visualise my name being read out on the news under the caption ''manhunt''. There''s a hideous squeaking and I realise half a dozen lads are struggling to breathe. They are pissing themselves laughing.


    Best lets out one quick laugh of his own. ''Wow, that was fun. It has been a while since I''ve talked that much shit.''


    The Brig''s mouth twitches. ''Has it, sir?''


    Best claps his hands together and looks around the group. ''Right. Enough foreplay. Do as you''re fucking told, please. Thank you.''


    Someone says, ''But you haven''t told us anything!''


    Best goes ''urgh!'' and he''s angry suddenly. The anger passes quickly but he''s as animated and lively as I''ve seen him in person. ''Five yard passes! Five yard passes! Hot Rod, did you hear me tell you to play five-yard passes yes or no?''


    ''Yes, Max, but that was in training.''


    ''What? What? What the fuck, guys. That''s the whole plan. It''s not going to change from week to week. I''m not going to say it every time we meet like you''re a bunch of simpletons. You''re intelligent people. The plan is five-yard passes. Always. Forever. That''s the whole plan. That''s the start of the plan and the end of the plan. Print it, laminate it. Carve it into the fucking moon. I don''t want to bin anyone off because I know none of you chose this and in the end you''re doing your bit for your country and all that but at the same time I''m not interested in begging you to trust me or some shit. I chose an army team because I thought you''d follow instructions and I could save a few months of social engineering. What are you resisting for? If this project is a huge fucking disaster it''s on my head. I''ll be the one getting laughed at. I''ll be the one being mocked on your Wrexham podcast forums.''


    Lads, he looked right at me when he said that! I got shivers.


    He says, ''By the way, I thought we''d done enough in our short time together to show that we were on the right track. No offence but when I took over you lot were shit.''


    ''None taken, sir,'' said the Brig.


    ''The good news is you''re not shit now but this lot are.''


    He meant the other team.


    ''I''ve given you a golden Willy Wonga ticket, entry to a magical world of wonder and whimsy. A way you can dominate almost every match you play. Get closer together, do the short passes. How simple do you want it?'' He shakes his head at our lack of gratitude. He picks up a ball and moves it around as he talks. ''How do you do short passes? A one-two is a good start, isn''t it? Think of the pitch like our zigzag drill. We move up into their half, nice and safe, in control, and when they lose their shape we fucking ram it down their throats. And if they keep their shape, we one-two all the way into the penalty area. I don''t want to say this out loud, lads. You need to work it out for yourselves.''


    I''m sick of his face, his voice, his hoodie, his arrogance, his girlfriend, his money, his fame. ''Or we could wait till you get sacked.''


    He looks at me and I feel like I''ve landed a good blow. I hope I''ve hurt him. But he''s only struggling to process what I''ve said. ''Sacked from the army?'' He shoots a nervous look from the Brig to H before looking at me again. ''I don''t work for the army, mate. I work for Chester Football Club.''


    ''Sacked from Chester.''


    He''s relieved that I''m not some sort of dum-dum there to make up the numbers, which gets me even more riled up. He smirks. I can''t remember the last time I''ve seen a smirk in real life. Never, maybe? ''I''m more likely to be made commander-in-chief of the army than I am to get sacked from Chester. Five-yard passes, guys. Think of the ball as a sandbag. You''re in a line passing sandbags to each other to build a wall for some army reason. I''ve seen you guys do it in movies and you do it very well.'' He smirks BIGGER. ''But not as well as me. Okay, off you pop.''


    CrunchyAbs


    Fuuuuuuuck I hate him.


    TopPoppy


    You won, though, didn''t you BG? You did what he said and you turned it around?


    BrokenGround


    No we lost five-nil.


    ***


    Saturday, Sep 6


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chesterfield 2 Chester 0


    Lol.


    Teulu


    Two points from five games is relegation form. Whisper it... could they?


    CrunchyAbs


    Put that on your giant billboard you stupid pricks.


    TopPoppy


    I''m starting to think that badly coaching a bunch of Squaddies who hate him is a bad use of Max Best''s time.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 10


    BrokenGround


    All right bit of a twist in the tale today. It was our unit''s first home game of the season and Best had brought a friend.


    First things first, we play in a local park near the barracks. There are goalposts and nets and corner flags but there the similarity to the training pitch at Saltney ends. That pitch is flat, true, and slightly spongy. Our pitch is rock hard with loads of divots, bumps, and holes. At this time of year it''s a pure ankle breaker. Over winter it turns into a bog. There''s always one day in November where the soil softens just enough to let us play some good football - we always win that game.


    ''We''re not playing on this,'' he says. ''You''re teasing me. This is a prank. Okay, you got me, let''s all laugh at Chester, it''s funny, now let''s go to the real place.''


    H is defensive. What''s he supposed to do with no budget? ''Max, this is it. This is where we play.''


    ''You''re the fucking army. Where are the facilities?''


    ''If you think this is bad, you should try using our gear.''


    Best does this thing where he''s sort of snarling and trying to control himself. He opens his eyes wide, looks up, and breathes. ''Unacceptable. I''ll sort it out by the next home game.''


    ''That''s next week,'' says H. He''s in a panic like he''s in trouble. No, mate, Best''s in trouble because he doesn''t know how to win in League Two. He''s the Peter Principle writ large. Promoted to the level of his incompetence.


    ''I need four beefy boys to help me move something,'' he says.


    Enough of the lads think Best is all right to volunteer, and they follow him to the car park. I''m at the side of the pitch wishing I''d volunteered so I could find out what was going on. You know, for this story.


    BeardedWonderwall


    What''s in the box? What''s in the booooxxxx?


    BrokenGround


    It wasn''t a box. It was a wheelchair. The little German player! They carry him all the way to the side of the pitch; I suppose I wouldn''t want to roll a wheelchair on that surface either, not with a broken leg.


    He''s supposed to be at home wrapped up in cotton wool. He''s all pale and he looks in pain but Best doesn''t give a shit. He gets the lads around.


    ''This is Pascal. He''s my assistant manager for this project startinnnnnnng... now.'' He slashes his finger down like it''s a race or something. ''His bones got smashed into a thousand pieces so one of the subs needs to stand here next to him and make sure the ball doesn''t hit him in the leg.''


    ''Can it hit him in the face?'' says DG.


    ''Yeah, sure. The more knocked around he gets the more fuss he gets from his harem. Isn''t that right, Pascal?''


    ''Hello, everyone. I''m very happy to be here. I must say I am jealous.''


    ''Jealous of what?'' I demand.


    Pascal looks confused. ''Why, you are - ''


    ''Oi,'' says Best. ''Don''t tell them.''


    ''What? They don''t know? How can they not know?''


    ''Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Best rode the six hundred. All right? Now, someone tell Pascal how you''re going to play.''


    I scoff. ''We''re going to play short passes and we''re going to lose.''


    Pascal gets these deep worry lines. I guess he''s been doing a lot of that recently. I heard the doctors said he''d be out for ten months. ''The one does not follow the other.''


    Best smiles. ''You watch them for the first half and we''ll talk about your first impressions during the break.''


    I say, ''Won''t we be talking tactics at half time?''


    ''Only if you don''t do what you''re told. It''ll save us all a lot of time and stress if you just stick to the plan.''


    BeardedWonderwall


    Let me guess. You got whupped.


    BrokenGround


    Well, it was nil-nil at half time. I wouldn''t say whupped but we didn''t create any chances. The pitch is so bad. Even if Best has some big genius plan we can''t do it on our patch, right? I kept wanting to boot the ball long but I knew he''d get sarky with me so I just gave it to Fatso and we''d move up the pitch until the ball bobbled. I mean, passes that we normally make would just shoot under someone''s foot or hit a divot and spin up and away. The other unit took one look at the pitch and decided, yeah, long ball.


    CrunchyAbs


    I don''t get why you don''t have a good place to play.


    BrokenGround


    If you were in the army you wouldn''t ask those questions.


    At half-time, Pascal cements himself as the best thing ever to come out of Chester. We''re all flopped on the side of the pitch taking on water and calories. ''Max,'' he goes. ''We can''t play like that in the second half.''


    ''Why the fuck not? That was mint. It''s working.''


    ''Because the pitch is abysmal! They cannot play a passing game on this surface.''


    Best stands and goes over and looms over the kid. Sticks his finger in his face. ''They can and they will. No retreat, no surrender.''


    ''I have a better idea.''


    Best flops to the ground, sits cross-legged like a kid in school. ''Teach me, master.''


    ''The defence should be allowed to hit long passes to the channels. Out for throw-ins, even. They can form the blob around the throw-in taker and go from there. It''s much less risky and you can still get what you want.''


    Best closes his eyes, thinks about it. ''The assman is wise.''


    I can''t believe it. ''You''re going to let us hoof the ball clear like a normal team?''


    ''Hoof?'' says Best, his face scrunched up like I''ve slagged off his girl.


    ''No hoofs,'' says Pascal. ''The clearance must be directed. Hit zone 15.''


    Best is up and walking around. ''What assman is trying to say is we''re not the fucking artillery. We don''t just lob bombs any-fucking-where. We are riflemen. We aim, we shoot, we hit the target. I do, anyway, not sure about you lot. Hot Rod, go over there. Away ten more yards. Spread your hands out. Spin around like Mary Poppins. Okay, lads, that''s zone 15.''


    Fatso points. ''The space in front of the penalty area is zone 14, right?''


    ''That is correct,'' says Pascal. ''Zone 15 is to the right. Zone 18 is one zone further forward, in line with the penalty area. You don''t want to hit the ball there or it will go straight out for a goal kick and the pressure will come right back at you. Aiming for zone 15 will give the pass a natural angle so that it goes out for a throw in. When that happens, you run up and form the blob there.''


    ''Why do you keep saying blob?'' says The Midnighter, who plays right mid.


    ''He''s German,'' says Max. ''They say strange things over there. He won''t do it again.''


    Fatso shoots to his feet. ''The blob is when we''re all bunched up on the pitch!''


    ''Pascal!'' yells Best. ''Look what you''ve done!''


    ''What?''


    ''We don''t teach them; they learn it!''


    ''I am sorry, boss.''


    ''Kin ''ell.''


    BeardedWonderwall


    Nothing about this story makes sense but I love it.


    Teulu


    Never thought my favourite character would be a diving German.


    BrokenGround


    I''ll just straight up say that we lost one-nil but it was a totally different feeling.


    First, there was the sense that there was a big plan that Best was guiding us towards. Pascal knew what it was and he said he was jealous, right?


    Second, we had a plan for the match. We launch the ball fifty yards and scramble to get numbers around and try to win the ball high up the pitch. Then we do the short passing shit. That''s actually fun. That works for me. What doesn''t work is starting from our goal kick and trying to do slick Premier League passing moves. It''s depressing, actually, thinking how hard you have to work and how perfect everything has to be to even get near the oppo''s box. Best is a good player and I think he doesn''t know what it''s like to be us. Pascal''s good, too, but he knows how hard it is because he''s little.


    Third, when we were chasing an equaliser we went long and turned the ball over from a throw in, just like we planned. Pascal screamed, ''Yes, lads! That''s it!'' Best told him not to cheer us on. Pascal went, ''Come on, Welsh! Yes mate! And again!'' Best just smiled. On his own he''s a prick, obvs, but with his people he''s all right.


    Fourth, yeah, the other unit, some lads from Merseyside, were getting frustrated with how we were playing and that was motivational. They were getting stuck in our blob and we actually played most of the half in their half.


    Right near the end, we had our big chance. We played a few passes before Fatso pinged a ball forward. We had two lads chasing it. Hot Rod went after the ball while The Midnighter went into the box. Square ball - great chance - blazed it over!


    Final whistle. We shake hands, go back to base. Best doesn''t care about the score but Pascal is gutted, same as me. He has been in the hospital, in his bed, and this was his first big trip outside and he''s sick as a parrot seeing us lose.


    We''re chatting a mile a minute because we all like how the half went and we lighten up enough to tease The Midnighter about his miss. If he could pull birds the way he''d pulled that shot he''d be a real ladies man. He blames the pitch and we all jeer.


    ''No,'' says Best, darkly. ''It was the pitch.''


    He goes off to chat to the refs who he says had a top game, and I see my chance to get some hot goss. ''Hey, Pascal,'' I say. ''What''s the mood with your lads? Are you all depressed?''


    ''Chester? Depressed is too strong. The fixtures are tough but we knew that going into the season. Max always outlines his plan and he''s always right. We are on track.''


    ''It doesn''t look like it from the outside.''


    He shrugs. ''I''m a tiny German forward trying to make a career in England. I know I don''t look like much. None of us look like much. We do not have the luxury of caring about appearances.''


    ''Not sure about that. I''m on a, er, Facebook group with Wrexham fans. One guy''s obsessed with how attractive people at Chester are.''


    Big smile. ''Yes, it''s unusual. Max always says he wants to sign some uggos for balance.'' He looks up at me. ''Maybe that''s why he chose 3 R Welsh.''


    I freeze, but I don''t get angry. I realise he''s joking even though he''s completely deadpan. Dry as a broken bone. ''Cheeky bastard.''


    ''I wish I was out there with you,'' he says.


    ''You''ll play again,'' I say. I''ve come back from worse.


    ''By then Max will have worked out how to teach this. You get to be in it from the start. You could be famous.''


    ''Famous?'' I scoff. ''For losing every match?''


    ''Why would you lose every match?''


    ''That''s what we''re doing. Best doesn''t care. No offence but that''s why Chester are in a tailspin.''


    He frowns at the word tailspin. ''We are in the same boat. I shouldn''t say boat since you are the army. We are in the same panzer. We have to work through the early stage of the process. Trust me, you will finish strong. When Max is finished with you there will be a lot of attention.''


    I look at the pitch where we played mostly inept football. ''Because of this? What is it?'' He mimes zipping his mouth closed. I bend down and get closer. ''He told us to use the sides but he won''t explain why.''


    Pascal checks Best isn''t looking, unzips his mouth, and whispers. ''Take the blob to the sides and use the touchline as an extra defender.''


    ''What? Why?''


    ''Just do it.'' He zips his mouth up.


    Teulu


    I love him! I want a Pascal spin-off.


    TaranMellt


    What do we reckon''s coming next? They gonna move the matches to Chester or what?


    BrokenGround


    I know it''s blasphemous but I''d prefer that to breaking my ankle. We''ll see. I know Best gets things done but I mean, just look at him. He''s a blow-hard. All hot air.


    ***


    Saturday, Sep 13


    BrokenGround


    We trained at Saltney with Pascal there. It''s more wheelchair-friendly so he was able to wheel himself around. Best asked someone to stick close and watch for stray balls again so we took turns doing that. I took a shift so I could get the goss on Best but didn''t get too far. Pascal confirmed some things we already knew and admitted Best is a maniac but he didn''t seem to think that was a problem.


    He kept saying he was jealous. That word again! Apparently Best almost never coaches but when he does it''s epic. That''s why people keep popping their head in to see what we''re doing.


    We skipped the stretches so that Best could talk Pascal through what we had been doing. We repeated the old drills and it felt good to be back on a flat surface.


    For the last twenty we got cones and made a rectangle on the edge of the pitch. While we were laying out the cones, Pascal was wagging his eyebrows at me, trying to make me realise this was significant.


    But all we did was a rondo variant. One group trying to keep the ball for as long as possible, the other trying to turn it over.


    Nothing special about it at all, but when we were done Pascal was like ''see?'' I smiled and nodded back but had no fucking clue. I would talk to Fatso and the others about it on the way home and see if we could piece it together.


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 1 Barrow 2


    Lol.


    Stoop


    Two points from six matches and the next two are sure-fire defeats. Best is a dead man walking.


    Teulu


    A cup win would keep him going. 4th round of the AOK Cup is good for a minnow like Chester.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 17


    BrokenGround


    Guys, my head is spinning. This adventure keeps getting weirder. Keep going further down the rabbit hole. You''ll never guess what happened.


    BeardedWonderwall


    They sacked him right there in front of you?


    BrokenGround


    Not even close. They''re playing tonight in the cup so I couldn''t even tease him about that one. I got stuck in on losing to Barrow, though. Asked Best if he was tired because he was carrying his team or because he was propping up the league table. He replied that his boss loved a good relegation scrap. ''That''s his milieu,'' he said, laughing. I had to look it up. It means, like, the environment he''s comfortable in. ''He''ll be sick when we go on a winning spree''.


    Okay now there are loads of things I should have said in response to that but we''ve missed a key fact that explains why things were strange.


    First up, our match was postponed. The other unit got called up to manoeuvres but Best tells H fine let''s train instead.


    So we get in our minibuses and drive off but we go the wrong way and we all remember Best saying we wouldn''t play on our pitch again. So where did we go?


    BeardedWonderwall


    Chester.


    BrokenGround


    Cold.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Aldershot.


    BrokenGround


    Colder.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Holy Christ just tell us.


    BrokenGround


    Colliers Park. Where Wrexham train. We drive there and park next to some very, very flash cars. One licence plate says Muggles but with 5s instead of Gs.


    BeardedWonderwall


    No way did Wrexham AFC let Max Best in.


    BrokenGround


    I knew you''d be like this so I took photos. I''ll post them later.


    So we''re all in a daze getting ready and Best just looks tired. I mean, for real, he''s carrying his team. He''s always getting messages and calls. I haven''t mentioned it but when he''s at Saltney people just turn up to ask him questions. It''s like he''s so busy he has to do meetings just whenever, wherever. It''s mad and it''s getting to him, you can see it.


    Pascal''s there. He''s got a big smile and I ask him what''s up and he says we''re the highlight of his week. He says we''re even better than Spanish lessons, which is the kind of bonkers thing everyone at Chester says.


    Colliers, though. The facilities are amazing, the staff are happy to see us, the pitches are perfect. We get a grass one that feels like a snooker table. Wrexham players wander past.


    We start our stretches distracted. ''Do it properly, you dicks.'' Never guess who yelled that. But I''m thinking, the guy came through. BeardedWonderwall, you said none of us would ever play at Colliers or the Racecourse but there I was! So I did the routine properly. Much less wobbly at the end this time.


    Then we do the rectangle-at-the-side drill except this time we go at it much harder because thanks to Pascal''s hints we''ve worked out what it''s for. In a match, instead of trying to pass up the middle of the pitch like a bunch of chumps, we''re going to go up the sides and if we lose the ball the oppo will have a hard time countering us.


    Best calls us in, says he likes the intensity, and is about to give us a new task when Paul Parker comes by.


    Half of us are buzzing. The Wrexham manager! In person! But there''s a tension, too. He and Best have history and it''s not all good. Off the top of my head, Best said Parker played ''pub team football'', mocked our long throws in a video (even though he has a long throw guy himself!), and Best worked with Crawley to knock us out of the playoffs.


    ''All right lads?'' says Parker. ''All right Best?''


    ''Yeah, top.''


    ''How''s your new training ground?''


    Best perks up. ''Very good. Not a slam dunk, but in off the backboard. Everyone''s kicking on, but especially the young players and the women. Loads of improvement there. There is some minor whinging, mostly from me, but yeah, pretty happy overall. Relieved.''


    ''You''ve got a big game tonight, don''t you?''


    ''Not as big as 3 R Welsh against R2D2 Lancs.''


    Parky looks at us. ''What''s all this about?'' he asks Best.


    ''Just helping out some lads with a dream. I got a letter written in crayon on army stationery. Dear Mr. Best, can you help us transform football forever? Can we please learn to mix north and south, old and new, yin and yang? I was like, yeah, sure, I''m free on Wednesdays.''


    Parky''s amused, as you would be if you''d won five out of six and looked certs to go up to the Championship while your local rivals were bottom of League Two. ''You were just about to change the drill, yeah?''


    ''Yeah. I thought since we were in Wrexham AFC''s training ground we should learn how to shuffle and slide. Keep it tight.''


    Best is taking the piss, saying Parky plays defensive football, but Parky rises above it. ''Yeah, go on. Let''s have a look.''


    Best looks from us to our hero. ''Some of these idiots are Wrexham fans. Can they get selfies or whatever?''


    ''Yeah, course they can.''


    Best nods at us. ''How many of you have your phone on you?''


    I say, ''They''re in our lockers.''


    ''Well,'' says Best. ''Tough shit. You missed your chance. Now let''s get back to work.''


    My blood starts to boil but Parky laughs. ''You''re fucking mental, you. Lads, I''ll come back when you''re done, yeah? Take all the photos you want. But like the man says, back to work.''


    Best grins at him - it''s like they''re mates even though they''re enemies. I don''t get that. He tells us what we''re doing next.


    We''re going to knock the ball around in the rectangle, same as before, but at some point Best will blow his whistle and he''ll play a pass across the pitch. There will be three attackers there and everyone from the rectangle - I suppose I should call it the blob - has to rush back and form a 4-4-2 to stop them scoring.


    ''I want you to erect a structure,'' says Best. ''From blob to structure in five seconds or fewer. Oh, this is Wrexham, isn''t it? From blob to structure in five seconds or less. You ready, lads?'' He taps on his phone - the stopwatch app. ''Let''s see how fast you can get erect.''


    I feel my cheeks flush not because of the joke but because Parky''s watching. He''s absolutely fascinated and so is Pascal. They''ve never seen anything like this.


    We pass the ball around until Best blows his whistle. We watch as he pings a pass all the way across the pitch. It looks like he''s sent it too far ahead but it spins back right onto the feet of one of the guys. That guy sets off into a sprint and I stop admiring the pass.


    I put my head down and run for all my life. Parky''s watching.


    Fourteen players around me are in a full sprint. Ten are in defensive bibs, four will join the other three as attackers. Every person on the pitch is rushing towards the same goal. It''s unprecedented. It''s mental.


    The defenders don''t make it. The strikers get to a line of cones after which they''re allowed to score, and they simply roll the ball into the net.


    Fuck.


    We trudge back to the rectangle, blowing hard. ''Guys,'' complains Best. ''Don''t embarrass me in front of Paul Parker, for fuck''s sake. Do it again.''


    We retake our positions and knock the ball around. I''ve learned my lesson - don''t watch the pass, just retreat. Best goes to kick his long pass and I sprint towards my penalty box.


    ''Boo!'' cries Best. ''Boo hiss! Same old Wrexham, always cheating!''


    I''ve gone twenty yards so I have to walk back, hands on head, sucking in air. My legs are on fire.


    Best goes to kick his ball and says ''ha!'' but no-one bought the fake.


    Then he blows his whistle, sprays another dreamy pass out wide, and the defenders rush back. I don''t bother - I can''t do three sprints in half a minute.


    The pass is right on the fucking money again and the attackers rush forward.


    ''Why are there three?'' says Parky. Best doesn''t reply.


    This time, the defenders get to the cones in time but the attackers pass to each other and carve out a shot. It goes wide even though it was an open net.


    ''Ah, got it,'' says Parky, but he doesn''t explain it to me. ''How many more of these are you going to do?''


    Best looks at his phone. ''We''ve got another forty minutes,'' he says.


    Parky''s horrified, and so am I, but one of us laughs. ''I see what you''re doing with this drill, though why you''d ever need it I don''t know. There''s something wrong with it, though. I can''t put my finger on it.''


    Pascal speaks up and it''s clear Parky hadn''t noticed him. ''The defenders should start out in 4-4-2, walk to the blob, play, then rush back to where they started. That will help them, ah, achieve erection.''


    ''Ah, mate,'' says Best. ''That is fucking mint. That''s it, yes.''


    ''Pascal Bochum,'' says Parky, going to the wheelchair and offering a handshake. ''Watched you on tape. Our stats guys love you.''


    ''Whoa whoa whoa,'' laughs Best. ''No tapping up my players. I, like, actually need this little fucker. Look what a mess we are without him.''


    ''Your stats guys love me?'' says Pascal, dreamily. He''s close to tears. ''Can I see the scouting reports?''


    ''No you fucking can''t,'' says Best. ''I am the state, remember. I don''t want you changing your play style to look good on fucking Wrexham''s stats. What the shit.''


    Parky''s laughing but he gets a text. ''I have to go and do some work but I''ll be back for the photos.''


    ''I''m gonna shoot off when they hit the showers,'' says Best. ''BrokenGround, make sure H knows to wait for Mr. Parker, yeah?''


    ''Yeah, course.''


    ''Seeya Best. Good luck tonight. Seeya later, BrokenGround.''


    He spoke to me! Parky spoke to me! And he came back like he said. Posed for selfies and told us how lucky we were and that all the lads were gonna come and watch us play and Eve would be around too. That''s the one who looks like Catherine Zeta Jones. I went, ''But Best is a fraud though, yeah?'' and Parky just laughed and said I was hilarious.


    And just because you''re a bunch of twats who never believe anything...


    BeardedWonderwall


    Fucking amazing, lad. Well done.


    SummerhillBill


    Good for you, BG. Good for you.


    ***


    [Later the same day.]


    TopPoppy


    Can anyone find a stream of the Chester match?


    BrokenGround


    No. I''m following on the blog by that old woman who does minute by minute updates until she gets distracted.


    TopPoppy


    What''s going on? I can only see the score.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah sounds like first twenty minutes was all Chester. Max Best running riot. He crossed to Henri Lyons for the opener. Then it was loads of long shots, proper siege. Best went off and ever since it has been all Wimbledon.


    TopPoppy


    Ask him why he only plays twenty minutes.


    TaranMellt


    I''m following it on Fotmob. It was all Chester and now they''re getting battered. No way they''ll survive this.


    SummerhillBill


    Jester get battered! Everywhere they go!


    Jester get battered! Everywhere they go!


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Full time! They did it. Held out. Jesus. They''re in the Fourth Round. How can you be so shit in the league and get to the Fourth Round of the cup?


    TopPoppy


    What time''s the draw for the next round?


    Stoop


    I think they''ll do it soon.


    TopPoppy


    If you''re a Chester fan what do you want?


    SummerhillBill


    Euthanasia.


    Stoop


    Looking at the other teams they''re going out for sure, so you might as well get an away match and make some money. Christ knows they could use it.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, you want a big away match. Prem.


    TopPoppy


    Man United home to Everton. Used to be a good game, that.


    Chelsea v Burnley.


    Yeah I think all the small teams are out of the hat so...


    Fuck it''s gonna be Newcastle.


    Home or away though?


    Away''s worth half a million quid.


    BrokenGround


    Home to Newcastle. They were 50-50 to get half a million. The one time you don''t want a home draw and they fucked it up.


    SummerhillBill


    lol


    Tinpot.


    ***


    Saturday, Sep 20


    BrokenGround


    Not much to say today, lads. We went to Saltney to train. That seems like it''ll be the pattern. Saltney Saturday, Wrexham Wednesday. Unless we''ve got an away match.


    We did a mix of the drills we''ve been doing then had a half-pitch match against ourselves. Best didn''t say anything, but Pascal shouted advice sometimes.


    For the first time, we had to get off the pitch on the dot because some lads had booked it after. Good money for Max Best, that. Nice little earner. If he keeps going like that, he''ll be able to afford a new car.


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 0 Mansfield 3


    Lol.


    CrunchyAbs


    I don''t understand this guy. He''s one-nil down with ten to go and puts on a couple of teenagers I''ve never heard of and turns defeat into humiliation. Jamie Brotherhood? Who? What''s he playing at?


    TaranMellt


    Who knows? He''s exhausting. 2 points from 7 games isn''t even funny. I mean, it is. It is funny. It is very funny. It is hilariously funny.


    ***


    Wednesday, Sep 24


    BrokenGround


    Wow. Okay. Where do I start with this?


    We went to play the army cadet officers in Bury. Best and Pascal drove separately, as usual, in Best''s shit car.


    The pitch is okay, not great, but we warm up and think we''re gonna be able to pass it around a bit.


    Best has told H he''s thinking of ending this thing, whatever it is, and he is even more subdued than normal and no wonder - Chester are deep in the League Two doo-doo. Your fancy cup runs aren''t gonna save your job, are they? Pascal does almost all the talking but even that isn''t much. Just names the team, says we''re gonna do the zone 15 thing, let Fatso set the tempo, keep your passes short, form your blob, use the sides, fast back into position when there''s danger.


    It doesn''t matter that they''re depressed. We aren''t there to chat with them, are we? Aren''t there to make friends.


    We warm up, match kicks off, the officers have never seen anything like us. We score two quick goals and we''re all over them. It''s the best we''ve ever played. Ever.


    I''m walking off the pitch absolutely buzzing. It''s like, this is something. I don''t know what exactly, but it''s something. It''s not a joke, he''s not taking the piss. Do you know what I mean? I''m thinking, can we beat E Company 8 if we play like this?


    The half time team talk goes like this. Max Best, famous for his motivational speeches, says, ''Yeah, do that again.'' He looks up, thinks, and adds, ''But when you score, do jazz hands. There''s a reason but I can''t tell you.''


    ''There isn''t a reason,'' says Pascal. ''But do it if you want.''


    We don''t do jazz hands when we score because we don''t score. Fatso turns his ankle, tries to play on, but Best won''t have it. They have a row on the touchline and I have to be honest, without Fatso we''re just not as good. He''s the one who knows when to collapse the blob to hit the out balls. He sets up most of our attacks these days.


    We concede a goal and then it''s backs to the wall for the last twenty minutes.


    Best had been chatting away to Pascal about God knows what but even he shut up and Pascal was cheering us on, bouncing on his wheelchair and we were throwing ourselves into blocks and doing last-ditch clearances off the line and everything.


    Near the end, someone gets the ball and boots it clear to buy us some breathing space and Best explodes. ''Pass the fucking ball!''


    He doesn''t get it. You can''t pass the ball when you''re under the cosh. You''ve got to get rid.


    The officers come right back at us, get it wide, nice cross, header, done. Two-all.


    Frustrating.


    Best normally says something before leaving but today he doesn''t. He shakes hands with the oppo, the ref, and wheels Pascal away. He helps the lad into the passenger seat, gets in his car... and nothing. It doesn''t start.


    He gets out, screams ''Fucking go you prick!''


    He kicks a tyre, gets back in. Still nothing.


    I turn to Hot Rod. ''Head''s gone.''


    ''He''s cracked.''


    Best wanders back towards the changing rooms - we''re all standing outside, watching the show. ''H. Can you take Pascal back with you, please? I know it''s a hassle but my car''s dead.''


    ''What about you?'' says H.


    ''What about me? Can you take care of my player, please.'' He doesn''t really say it as a question.


    I like Pascal. I don''t want him waiting here for hours for someone to turn up and fix Best''s car. ''H, why don''t you take Pascal home, car 2 can go with anyone who''s got school runs and all that, and car 3 can wait and make sure Best''s sorted.''


    Best looks at me with his tired, tired eyes. ''Leave no man behind, is it?''


    ''Fucking right,'' I say, even though he''s Chester and he''s the enemy and he''s a dick.


    ''Sorted,'' says Best. He gets his phone out. ''I want to shout at someone. Who can I shout at?''


    BeardedWonderwall


    Don''t tell me you spent an hour or two just you and Max Best?


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, pretty much! We had our showers, sorted Pascal out in the van. Second lot left. Me, Hot Rod, and The Frampton Menace had a look at Best''s car.


    ''You don''t need a mechanic,'' says Hot Rod. ''You need a priest.''


    ''I think it already gave up the ghost,'' says Frampton.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Are you seriously introducing a new character with no explanation?


    BrokenGround


    What? He''s a goalie. He''s just a guy. We''re army grunts, there''s nothing to say. This isn''t Tolstoy.


    Best is proper upset. He''s, like, distraught about the death of his car. I mean, I know it''s just the accumulation of all the things that are going wrong in his life and I know I''ve played a very small part in his misery and I''ve got to say, that brings me some comfort.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Fuck me, that''s savage.


    lol


    BrokenGround


    Best was hoping to be back in Chester in time to watch some school match. The Brig calls and says if Best has a lift he should take it and the Brig will sort the car out. Best doesn''t speak for ages, gets all his stuff, and goes in our van.


    ''I go in the front,'' says Frampton.


    ''Not today,'' says Best, and that''s the end of that conversation.


    We drive in silence for a while but I know it''s my one chance to land some blows for the Red Army. Best has spent three years digging the Wrex, hasn''t he, and now he''s a captive audience and I''m gonna give him a taste of his own medicine.


    TopPoppy


    Talk about kicking a man while he''s down.


    BrokenGround


    Best time to do it, isn''t it?


    I start with something simple. ''Bad timing with the car, isn''t it, what with you being so close to the sack?''


    He does something strange. He turns really slowly and he has this aura about him that is actually intimidating. It''s like, he''s at the end of his tether, his world is collapsing, and the guy who gave away the ball is the one giving him shit.


    TopPoppy


    You didn''t say you were the one who gave the ball away.


    BrokenGround


    Well, it didn''t seem relevant at the time.


    I''m just saying the guy''s a nutcase, he''s fit, strong, I think he somehow knows I''m here on the Discord ripping the piss out of him seven days a week, and we''re in a van. My training isn''t going to help in a fight on the motorway.


    The worst thing is - he''s smiling. ''The sack?'' He shows his teeth and my mouth goes dry. I fumbled around with my hands out of his sight looking for a weapon. It''s on. It''s about to happen. Wrexham v Chester the way it''s meant to be.


    Stoop


    Yeah, tell me more about his teeth and your mouth and your fumbling hands and your weapon.


    TopPoppy


    JFC this guy.


    BrokenGround


    Not like that! But it didn''t happen, anyway. Here''s what he did: he laughed.


    TopPoppy


    He laughed?


    BrokenGround


    Laughed his head off. Had tears and everything.


    ''You fucking twats rubbing yourselves off every Saturday thinking I''ll get sacked. What the fuck is wrong with you? Hee.'' That was one of those noises you make when you''ve finished a batch of laughs, right? ''Guys, sorry to ruin your sex life but I''m not getting sacked. Hee. What the hell.''


    Of course, him laughing at me gets me running my mouth off again. I go, ''It''s just that you''re bottom of the league and you''re never gonna win a match in League Two and even Chester aren''t stupid enough to keep you around and it doesn''t matter how far you go in the cups.''


    He does a fake recoil thing like he''s shocked I can say more than five words at a time, and he laughs some more. ''It''s true I''m not in the running for Manager of the Month, but it''s nice for someone else to have a turn.''


    ''The fuck are you talking about? Your team is shit.''


    ''Nah. We''re fine.''


    I can''t believe what I''m hearing. The guy''s completely delusional. It''s like he doesn''t even know he''s burned out. I tap Frampton and shake my head like ''can you believe this?'' He can''t. I know this channel is where we''re supposed to laugh at Chester but burnout is no laughing matter. ''Best, you''re depressed. Everyone can see that. And no wonder. You''re going to get relegated, your new striker can''t score, your best player''s injured, you''ve got a Wrexham reject shitting the bed twice a week, you didn''t get an away draw in the cup, Carlisle are going to turn you over this weekend, your training ground is a laughing stock, everyone hates you, we can''t play the football you want us to play, your girlfriend''s only the sixth hottest woman at your club, and your car just fucking died rather than take you home. You need help.''


    Best nods and covers his mouth and - of course - he''s laughing again, but not in a nasty way. ''I mean, honestly, thanks for the intervention. I seem to attract a lot of those. You''re shooting at the wrong target, though. I''m not depressed.''


    ''Course you fucking are.''


    ''I''m not. All right, let''s talk this out so I can put your mind at ease. Okay, my car. That''s the first thing. The easiest thing. Yeah I don''t want to buy a new car because I''ve got a little pot of money saved up that I''ll have to dip into, right? And that''s supposed to be reserved for my mum if she needs it for something.''


    ''Your mum is sick,'' I say, stupidly, because I knew that.


    ''Right. I want to move her into a house with a carer but I can''t afford a house with a carer and I can afford it a lot less now than I could this morning, do you get me? That''s not helpful. And okay, money is a stressful topic right now because I''ve got a lad joining Saltney in January and in the summer I''m supposed to pay a hundred grand to his club. Annnnd I don''t have it. So that''s looming.''


    ''Rent a car,'' says Hot Rod. ''You don''t need to buy one.''


    ''I''ll look into that, thanks. Yeah, I''ve got money on the mind, but it''s not, like, catastrophic. I think at this point I know enough people who would trust me enough to lend me some.'' He pulled at his lip a few times. ''What else is bothering me? Erm...''


    He''s making a big show of trying to think of things. I mean, either he''s a great actor or he''s got the memory of a goldfish. ''Relegation,'' I say.


    ''Nah, not that. Carlisle will beat us, sure, but then we have Gillingham who have spent a lot of money but they don''t seem to be any better than last season. I think we could surprise them. Doncaster at home? We''re favourites for that. We''re not that far off their level now. Sutton away is one of the easiest games we''ll play. Seven points from those three and the season''s off and running, right? I knew it would be like this and it isn''t fun and I thought we would have maybe a couple more points but I''m happy with the cup performances and we''ve given loads of minutes to our kids already. In every metric except points we''re flying. I''m delighted.''


    ''Delighted? Come on, you''re not delighted.''


    ''No, I am. The only thing that winds me up is seeing Bradford get their act together so fast. Chipper scoring goals, R. Brown resting his injury, no more of this foul-a-minute crap. I just can''t fucking understand what happened there. It''s like someone''s controlling Folke Wester. Some kind of puppet master. I was wondering if it was someone like me.''


    ''What do you mean?''


    ''Ah, nothing. Just sort of like a director of football but it isn''t Chip Star. You know what he did? He made Wester pick a captain of the defence, a captain of the midfield.''


    ''You''re joking,'' says Hot Rod.


    ''I''m really not. It''s what they do in the NFL I think but it''s so cringe in a footy team. I think we can agree Chip Star isn''t masterminding any-fucking-thing. No, that Bradford sitch is a mystery and a half but it''s not, like, making me depressed. It''s annoying, yeah. Loads of things are annoying.''


    ''What else is annoying?'' says Hot Rod.


    Best bursts out laughing again. ''You training to be a sports psychologist? Ha. You''re a natural. What else was on your list? My girlfriend''s only the sixth hottest... I mean, each to his own. Oh, and I''m depressed that you can''t play the way I want you to play. Guys, you''re doing it. You''re good. I''m loving it. I''m already feeling like it has been a success and I can move on to the youth team.''


    ''Move on?'' I say. It''s a sort of panic. ''We haven''t done anything yet. We haven''t won a game yet.''


    ''Yeah but you will. I''ve got the flywheel going, same as with Chester. You can''t see it moving but I can. I''m actually good at this. West are tearing up their league, Saltney, College, they''ve all flown out of the traps. Oh! You didn''t mention the women''s team. They won their first game in style. Piece of piss. They''re amazing because I''m amazing; what''s depressing about that? There''s a documentary coming out about them in the weeks leading up to Christmas. You''re probably sick of documentaries because you have to watch that saccharin-sweet hagiography about Ryan Reynolds but our one is good.''


    ''It''s about the women''s team?'' says Frampton. ''I don''t watch women''s football.''


    ''Okay, now I''m depressed. Got another hour in the car with this fucking gammon. Fuck me.''


    ''I''m not a gammon. I just don''t like it. I don''t want it shoved down my throat every time I go to a website.''


    ''Hot Rod, pull over. Let me out. I''ll walk from here.''


    I tut. ''No-one''s pulling over and no-one''s getting out. Frampton, shut the fuck up. He runs a fucking women''s team, doesn''t he? Don''t be a dick. No, just shut the fuck up.'' I feel like I''ve calmed the situation so I look out the window to see where we are but out of the corner of my eye I see Best flicking Vs at Frampton. ''Best!''


    ''What?'' He''s like a child and so is Frampton. The goalie''s got his arms folded and a sulky face on.


    ''Just... Okay, I''ve been watching you and you''re not delighted. You''re not happy.''


    Best pulls his bottom lip for a while. ''It''s like therapy, this, but cheaper. Okay so there''s another thing that''s getting me down a tiny bit. I can''t see how we''re gonna avoid this same thing next season.''


    ''When you''re in the National League?'' sneers Frampton, which I normally would have found funny but JFC man, read the room.


    ''In League One.''


    I snap. ''You''re bottom of League Two! You''re not getting promoted.''


    ''Course we fucking are. We''ll probably win the league, even. But then what? Our budget now is 30 grand. The lowest in League One is 70. Okay, I can work more miracles, work more magic, yay. Give me 60 and I''ll compete but it''s this shit again. Lose the first ten games, be a laughing stock. Okay it''s fun to shove it in everyone''s faces at the end but you know what? I wouldn''t mind just non-stop slapping from the start of the season to the end. But I can''t think of a way to break the cycle. I mean, it''s not the worst cycle, is it? It''s not like Wrexham treading water in the National League for 15 years.''


    ''You need outside investment,'' I say. ''Like we got.''


    ''Hmm. I kind of took that option off the table, though. Might not have done myself any favours there. Okay but Dylan, what I''m worried about comes after a season of glory and glamour. Right? It''s first world problems.''


    TopPoppy


    Did you just doxx yourself, mate?


    BrokenGround


    What?


    Okay I won''t write out the whole conversation if that''s what you''re saying. We talk some more and I think he''s not depressed. He''s tired from working too hard but in his head, everything''s going amazingly well. I feel like I''ve done my bit as a social worker so I turn to the most important topic - the unit.


    I say, ''Why are you doing this?''


    ''I want to see if I can teach you this new style of football.''


    ''But you''re not teaching us. You said.''


    ''Yeah, well, it sort of feels like something you learn by doing. It''s such a radical approach to us, isn''t it? Us Brits aren''t mentally ready for it on an intellectual level, but if I set you small enough challenges you can learn it step by step. That was the idea, anyway. I think I did it pretty well. It would have been easier if you weren''t so unfit.''


    Frampton goes, ''Bitch, we''re fit.''


    ''Bitch, please.''


    I say, ''Why us, though? They said you could have chosen any unit.''


    ''Yeah but you''re Welsh.''


    ''What does that mean?''


    ''The Welsh FA is supporting me big time and you''re part of the payback.''


    ''You mean they bought you a money-making pitch.''


    ''Yeah but it''s other stuff, too. Saltney''s manager, Well In, he came to see you train once. He''s amazing. He''s running Saltney for me. The pitch is nothing compared to getting the club into Europe. Well In wins pretty much every match; I couldn''t get that sort of talent normally. When Pascal got injured I was like shit, got to keep him busy. So I called the FAW and asked if they could slip him into a coaching course. You''ve heard him - he''s a tiny genius. He''s the type who will give back to Wales, too, one day. So it''s just a good, healthy relationship where we''re helping each other out. Of course I want to do my badges with a Welsh side.''


    ''But we''re Wrexham.''


    ''If that''s a Chester Wrexham comment you''re barking up the wrong tree. I''m from Manchester and I don''t give a shit about your rivalry. You''re two men with bad haircuts fighting over a comb. Share the fucking comb, mate. Take turns, you know what I mean?''


    I don''t know what he means but there''s no point going into it. ''How did you get the club to let us use their training ground?''


    He laughs. ''I called and said can I use a pitch please and they said who''s asking and I said Max Best and they said no. So I said it''s for the army and they said oh okay then. Absolutely not an issue.''


    ''I don''t think they''d have said yes if H called.''


    ''Yeah, well,'' says Best, suddenly facing forward, not wanting eye contact. ''Sometimes it helps to be Max Best.''


    ''The fuck does that mean?''


    ''Yeah, just, you know.''


    ''I don''t know.''


    ''I have something they want.''


    ''What?''


    He shakes his head. He''s not going to say. He nods. He has decided to tell us. He shakes his head again. He won''t tell us. He repeats the process; it''s maddening.


    ''Tell us what they want.''


    He does one quick little shrug. ''They want to show how generous they are, giving their resources to the local unit and all that guff. And they want to film me coaching you while Parky and Muggles watch in the background. They''ll probably set up a scene where the owners can come up to you, salute, and say thank you for your service. Military episode with me as the mad scientist comic relief.''


    ''They want you in Welcome to Wrexham? You''re joking.''


    ''Yeah but I''ve outfoxed them. You''ve got the pitch for the whole season. That''s locked in, right? But I never promised I would be there. So they can fucking swivel. Lolz.''


    Teulu


    That took a turn.


    BeardedWonderwall


    I''m speechless. He''s robbing the club to give... to you.


    BrokenGround


    We go a few more miles while Best works his phone.


    My head''s all over the place. I mean, yeah he''s awful, horrible, weird, but now that he''s saying he''s leaving, I want him to stay. It''s hard to explain but when you spend time with him you start to think he''s got everything worked out.


    ''This new football,'' I say, all clever-like because I''ve got a plan.


    ''Mmm?''


    ''Will we win with it?''


    ''On a good pitch you''ll fuck a lot of teams up. No-one will want to see you pull into the car park. They''ll be like shit, it''s 3 R Welsh. Guys will call in sick instead of playing you.''


    I look at Frampton. He doesn''t like Best but he likes the sound of that. I say one of the things that''s been bugging me the most. ''To be honest on the touchline it doesn''t really look like you care if we win or lose.''


    ''I don''t. If you''re going to boot the ball away like a fucking chump you''re never going to win so why would I let that bother me? I''m getting what I want out of this process. If you want to win, you need to play to win. Go all-in. Fearless football. Dive head-first into the blob. Know what I mean? But what you choose is nothing to do with me; I don''t pay you.''


    ''You''re going to do it with Chester?''


    ''Yeah. Gonna try it with the youth team. Do some giant-killings.''


    ''You haven''t perfected it, have you?''


    ''No but I''ve got the gist, I reckon.''


    ''You think? You should keep going with us. Make sure you''ve got it nailed on before you try it with those lads. Wait till we beat one of the big units, then you''ll know it''s working. Really working.'' I try to keep my voice level. ''We''ve got EC8 in a few weeks. Help us beat them, maybe.''


    Hot Rod is with me. ''Come on, Max. Stick around. Stay with us. You and Pascal. It''ll be a laugh, yeah?''


    ''A laugh, yeah,'' says Best. He shifts on his seat and looks right at me. ''All right.'' It''s mad but my heart''s pounding. He''s staring into my fucking soul, lads! ''I''ll stay on one condition.''


    ''What?'' I say, but I''ve got this premonition. He knows. He knows what I''ve been doing in this channel! ''What do you want?''


    ''If you want me to keep going, if you want Parky and his lads fawning over you, if you want to meet Eve, play at Aldershot, beat EC8... You''ve got to play how I want, no matter how much of a mind fuck it is. You''ve got to play how I want and BrokenGround has to look me in the eye, no blinking, and sing...''


    ''Sing what?''


    ''Let''s All Laugh at Wrexham.''

 12.4 - Youre So Money

    4.


    Monday, September 29


    Look at this drawing. Do you see a young woman in a fancy hat or an old hag wearing a plain shawl?


    How about this one? Do you see a rabbit or a duck?


    Listen to this audio clip. Is the voice saying ''yanny'' or ''laurel''?


    Is this dress gold or blue?


    Is Chester a football club on the up, or a tinpot little outfit having a disastrous, embarrassing season?


    Congratulations! You got every answer right.


    ***


    While the lads trained, I walked around Bumpers Bank enjoying the crisp morning air.


    The place was really up and running.


    I did a mini tour to stretch my legs. I''d gone bonkers up in Carlisle, trying to get us back into the game with half an hour to go, seeing if I could do my Superman act. I couldn''t - a lot of my shots and passes were nearly on the money but not quite - and as a result of my exertions I was unusually fatigued.


    It had been stupid to try to single-handedly turn the tide like that. Carlisle had an average CA of 89 and were one of the best teams in the league. They were well-financed and had stuffed the squad with good players. If that sounds familiar, it''s because we kept playing teams like that, and that''s why I lost my cool. It didn''t bother me too much that we only had 2 points from 8 games and were stranded at the bottom of the table. But losing to the teams who would be near the top of the table at the end of the season was starting to get on my tits. We could overhaul a 15-point gap, but multiple 20 point gaps?


    Ah, well. Maybe the best teams would take points off each other like they had done in the National League.


    My first stop was the changing room. There was some mud on the floor, a few stray kit bags. Up on the wall was a cardboard sign, replicated in the home team''s dressing room at the Deva stadium. Prize Money, it read on the left in careful handwriting. On the right, waiting to be overwritten, was the number 22,000. That was the paltry amount of bonus the club had earned for progressing to the Fourth Round of the AOK Cup. Kind of shit, seeing as only half would go to the players, but it was actually close to the most we could have accrued at this stage of the season. (We could have got an extra 8 grand if we had beaten Wigan in the first Trophy group match.)


    No humans were around so I walked on and poked my head into the reception cabin. This had been installed last to stop it from getting too dirty, and it was one of three nice-ish looking units. It looked a bit like a temporary showroom at a trade fair - nice wooden walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, bit of recessed lighting - it gave a good first impression to our visitors. I poked my head in - JoJo wasn''t there, so I moved on.


    Next on the tour was the mobile kitchen, where Patricia and Pete were cooking up a storm. They''d served breakfast and were getting lunch ready. We were getting good use out of the facility. All Chester''s teams were based at Bumpers these days, so there were lots of mouths to feed. We also had a small menu you could order from in the bar. The Bestburgers (beef, cheddar, my face on a cocktail stick) were outselling Henriburgers (beef, gorgonzola, French flag on a stick) five to one. The Butcher of Burnage Breakfast (full English with a tiny Ghanaian dip) was a smash hit with early-morning tradesmen.


    I went into the bar and noted right away that the door had been fixed. Top! JoJo was wiping the tables. She was someone we''d hired to do odd jobs; she was the receptionist when we were expecting visitors, she cleaned the toilets and showers, she helped in the bar. She was reliable, hard-working, and came with a ready smile.


    That was handy when you were watching your team''s Morale slide down to nothingness. Even with Chesterness, great training, and a sense of progress on multiple vectors, seeing the name Chester at the bottom of the league table was getting people down. The average Morale in the squad was 3.9 - just above average. If it got much lower we would start to lose games we should win. Avoiding a doom spiral was one of my top priorities.


    "Hi, Max! How are you?"


    "I''m sound. Came in for a drink. Can you pour me a triple whisky-brandy?"


    "Yes, sure. That''s two triples mixed together, is it?"


    "I suppose, but I was joking. That was the last of the expected losses. Carlisle are bloody good; I couldn''t dent their defence. It''s quite a frustrating sport sometimes."


    "Oh, well," she said. "At least your hair is nice."


    I slapped the bar. "Yes! Thank you!" My barnet had finally completely grown back enough so I could get it how I liked it. "You''d think I''d get 50 compliments a day, but no. Is there anything you need?"


    "More bathroom cleaner. Shower gel."


    "I''m not offering to take you to the shops," I said. "I''m very busy and important."


    "Oh, very much."


    "Also, there isn''t space on my scooter." Since the Duchess had died, I had been reliant on others for rides, so I had splashed out the best part of a grand buying an e-scooter. It was fine for getting from my house to work, or for popping from Bumpers to Saltney or Hoole. Best of all, it was amazing for Playdar. I was back on the Playdar grind big time, and loving every minute of it.


    JoJo moved onto the next table. "It was busy yesterday."


    "Was it?"


    "Yes. The pitch was booked out non-stop and the bar was packed."


    That was good money for the club, that. One day I would have a spare half a million and I would have to decide which part of Bumpers to build next. Top of the list at the moment was the showers and changing rooms, but running it increasingly close was a big sports bar with an upstairs function room, maybe even a roof terrace so we could rinse customers in the summer... I snapped out of my daydream. It struck me that JoJo was at Bumpers almost as often as I was. "You''re not overworking yourself, are you?"


    "No, Max. I''m grand."


    I rapped my knuckles on the bar and nodded. "Top top top."


    Outside, I strolled past the 3G pitch with its little stands and large electronic advertising boards. The teams that rented the pitch went weak at the knees when they saw the boards. It was just like playing in a real stadium!


    We didn''t rent it out in the mornings when the first team might need it, and it was currently being used as intended. A physio was with Eddie Moore putting him through his paces. Eddie''s injury was nothing serious, but it had kept him out of a couple of matches. More minutes for Cole and Josh, but we weren''t in a position to beat teams like Mansfield and Carlisle without our very best line up.


    I popped into the medical cabin, which I was trying to get people to call ''The Hippocrate''. More people were calling it ''Harley Street'' after the place in London where specialists treat rich people. I wasn''t sure if the name was a wry comment on how underpaid everyone was or if the lads simply liked pretending to be posh.


    Dean confirmed that apart from guys with the usual knocks and sprains, the only member of the squad who definitely wouldn''t be available for Gillingham was Pascal. The physios planned their shifts and their treatments on a big wallchart and the fact that the chart was in Harley Street and not in the better-equipped Deva or at BoshCard was telling.


    "So you prefer it here," I mused.


    Dean nodded. "Closer to the action. It''s cramped but so far we''ve been able to work around it. The overspill can go to the stadium, right?"


    "Just to confirm, if there''s an injury before lunchtime..."


    "Here," said Dean. "Or at Bosh if we''re training there. After lunch, the Deva. One of us comes back to Harley Street from five till ten, keeps an eye on the randos while doing paperwork or some late treatments."


    "Mint. It''s so good, isn''t it? It''s just great. I almost want to move wholesale from BoshCard. Hey, I notice you''ve still got Pascal on the long-term part of the board there."


    Dean gave me a funny look. "Yes, Max. Because of the compound fracture in his leg."


    "Hmm," I said. I wasn''t sure how to approach this particular conundrum. The curse was telling me Pascal would be healed in two weeks but medical science was saying yeah nah. "Every time I look at this chart I get a sort of chill down my spine. Sort of goosebumps or whatevs. I think the universe is telling me it might not be that long, do you know what I mean?"


    "The universe must have gone to a different university to me."


    "Hurr," I said. "Universe-ity." I picked up a refill for the diffuser and had a sniff. "I think I might send Pascal to get a new X-ray in a couple of weeks, just to quieten the little voices in my head."


    "The voices in your head sound like something you should talk to Alex about."


    "Mmm," I said, picking up a packet of something and putting it down again. "That''s settled, then. I can get back to focusing on tomorrow night''s match now. Good chat."


    Dean thought about complaining that an X-ray was a pointless waste of time and money, but decided there was no reason not to indulge me. Sometimes it''s good to have a reputation as being unreasonable.


    ***


    I took a detour to the far corner of our space to look at the horse chestnut tree we had planted, then popped into my cute little office and replied to a couple of emails - one from Chelli in Brazil and one from Vincent Addo''s father - before continuing the tour.


    We had three pitches. The 3G; an under-sixteens-sized grass one; and our full-sized grass training pitch. The small one was used a fair amount more than I expected. For example, Sticky, our superb goalkeeping coach, did most of his sessions on it.


    He was there now doing his mysterious routines.


    Ben Cavanagh had finally hit his cap, CA 67. He had been playing quite well in the cups, though like everyone he had been pretty shocking against Wigan. I had thrown Banksy on for ten minutes at the end, which baffled the journalists covering the match. They''d tried to turn that substitution into a story. Are you punishing Ben for his poor performance?


    Ben wasn''t happy at losing his slot as my main goalie but he knew better than the journalists what being subbed off in those situations meant - nothing. I was giving minutes to a young player, the end.


    With daily training, plus experience of playing against Slovakia and a League One team, Banksy had improved to CA 22. Still far far from being useful to the first team, but a lot lot closer to being absolutely amazing for the 18s. I had one eye on November 4 - the date of our first FA Youth Cup match. If I could get Banksy close to CA 30 by then I would be absolutely buzzing. 35 by Christmas, 40 by the time of the final?


    Sticky was my goalie for most league matches. He had improved to CA 61. The six-point difference between him and Ben were definitely costing us goals, definitely costing us points. But now that Ben had hit his cap, the psychological pain of my decision was easing. One day soon, Sticky would hit CA 68 - a level Ben could never, ever reach and my choice would be vindicated.


    Sticky blew for a break - I must have been giving the vibe of wanting to talk. Ben and Banksy went off to the side to get a drink. Sticky came over to me, far away from the others we could talk about them freely. "All good, gaffer?"


    "Yes," I said. "Where''s Rainman?"


    "Family thing. Nothing to worry about."


    "Okay. Listen..." I thought about how to say what I wanted to say. "What... What percentage of time do you give to training Cavvers versus training yourself?"


    Sticky blinked. Another Max Best masterclass in saying something bizarre. "I don''t know. I mean... we do the drills together. I suppose I prioritise Ben."


    "Can you prioritise yourself now? Think of it as... think of it as we''re only trying to maintain Ben''s levels."


    "Right."


    "Do we need to get a goalie coach for you?"


    "No, gaffer."


    "Good good good." I was about to walk away when I realised Sticky had reacted badly to something I''d said. And this was the frustrating and dangerous thing about being bottom of the league and having a figurehead who had managed 13 games in League Two and won none - comments that would normally have been accepted at face value were being turned over and over. "Steve, what''s up?"


    He ground his teeth before saying, "I''m letting you down. You''re in the crapper because of me."


    "What?" I scoffed. "Don''t talk shit."


    "I''ve seen it before. Managers go on a bad run, scramble around looking for things to fix. You don''t know how to tell me I''m stinking the place up."


    "Okay, first up, who''s on a bad run?" Sticky didn''t want to answer. I raised my eyebrows. "I don''t see it that way. Not in the slightest. When we''ve gone hard at a match we''ve done well. Fleetwood twice, Bolton, Bradford, Wimbledon. That tells me the levels are right, you know? We''re beating League One and Two teams in the cups; we can do it. We can''t do it twice a week every week... yet. Nah, man, come on. We''ve been through this. We''re golden. This isn''t me scrambling around, this is me very fractionally optimising a part of the organisation that might benefit from a tiny tweak. I''m serene, Steve. I''m floating around my big beautiful machine with a tiny, er... What''s a profession that uses small tools?"


    "Clockmaker."


    "Right, okay, sure. I''m walking around listening to everything tick along very nicely, thank you very much, but hey while I''m here I''ll give this cog a little twist with the world''s tiniest screwdriver. Things can always get better, right?"


    "They can''t get much worse."


    I laughed. Yorkshiremen were so dour. "You''ll see. Just to review - you''re my number one goalie and I want that to reflect in how you conduct training. That''s fair enough, isn''t it?"


    "Yeah, course."


    "Not a sign of my imminent mental breakdown? Not a harbinger of my complete loss of faith in you and your processes?"


    Steve smiled and looked abashed. "No. No, gaffer."


    "I don''t whistle but I would like you to imagine me walking away whistling, okay?"


    "Yes, gaffer."


    ***


    I got a text from my boss about a presentation I wanted him to give.


    MD: Are you sure about Wednesday?


    Me: 80% sure.


    MD: Okay. I''ll cancel 80% of my appointments. Jesus. I''m stressed, Max. Our friends in non-league are sending me memes. Memes, Max!


    Me: You love it. You''re gonna be upset when we take six points from six this week.


    MD: Why would that upset me?


    Me: Because that''s when you know the season''s going well and that''s when I start to make more of my famously reasonable requests.


    MD: You know what? Two draws will suit me just fine.


    ***


    I walked over to Sandra, who was in charge of the morning''s training. She looked good, but there were some shadows under her eyes that weren''t normally there. She was trying to stay upbeat, trying to believe in the plan, telling herself the plan was mint... but the league table went down to the number 24 and that''s where we were.


    "Only two teams go down, you know."


    She pulled a face. "I wasn''t thinking about that. We''re not even close to that."


    I looked around. "Is everyone busy?" Everyone meant the other coaches.


    "Yeah. Got them doing tactical work in small groups like you asked." I had interrupted the normal flow of our training to focus on the Gillingham match, and the sessions from Wednesday to Friday would focus on beating Doncaster. I wouldn''t normally do that except for a big cup game but the hit to our Morale from being bottom of the league had to be dealt with. Two quick wins would buy me another month to run the club however I wanted. I spotted Youngster practising his man-marking skills while Christian, Zach, and Lee H drilled as a back three. Sandra said, "Why?"


    "Need someone to whizz JoJo to the shops."


    On hearing the name, Sandra smiled. "She''s a breath of fresh air." She checked the time. "We''re done soon. I''ll take her. What are we getting?"


    "Cleaning stuff. Whatever she needs. Here." I handed over my company credit card. "The code is ohfuckwe''regoingdown." Sandra didn''t laugh. I sighed. "It''s 442442."


    "Of course it is."


    I let Sandra get on with the sesh while I sat on a bucket and had a good old peer.


    The move to Bumpers Bank seemed to have been a success. Attributes and CA scores were turning green in all our teams at all our age groups at what felt like a very slightly higher rate. I planned to use 3-5-2 against Gillingham the following night and our first eleven would have an average CA of 74.2.


    My research set the normal boundaries for League Two as 75 on the lower end and 90 at the top. We were, therefore, a good week of training away from being League Two quality.


    But tomorrow''s line up didn''t tell the whole story of where we were at because I was going to use Josh Owens instead of Eddie Moore. If I was willing to take a risk on the older player''s fitness, our CA would rise to 75.8. If I could play Pascal on the right instead of Magnus, we would be on 76.2!


    And then there was me. Mansfield and Carlisle had kept me at bay with aggressive man-marking, but I was surely in triple digits for CA. We had enough quality to put out a solid eleven that still had loads of room to grow. Unless something went terribly wrong or our training caps were lower than expected, our best eleven would surely finish the season as the best in the league.


    Other League Two squads had players with injuries, players missing. The real issue for Chester wasn''t our best eleven, but the lack of depth. The gap from the Eddies to the Joshes was uncomfortably big, but the more I played my fringe players, the closer they got to the levels.


    So we were on track for a good season, and a couple of good wins would restore belief in a big way. What could I do to make sure that happened?


    One area for improvement was staring me right in the face - Darren ''Dazza'' Smith, the hulking Australian striker. He was suffering because he hadn''t scored since joining the club even though he had played 11 of our 12 games. After another blank in the frozen wastelands of Cumbria, his Morale had tanked. No goals from 11 games was abysmal.


    I waited until his session was on a break and called him over. "Pull up a bucket, mate."


    "Yes, boss." He looked around, found nothing, and sat in the 90 90 position, lightly flexing his hips as we talked - one of the exercises the Brig was making us do. With his big blonde hair and massive thighs, Dazza looked like an extra from the movie Troy - one of the lads who ran around with Achilles. "What''s on your mind?"


    "You didn''t think we''d be bottom of the league at this point, did you?"


    "Not really, nah."


    "Me neither. You don''t seem to be questioning my abilities or anything like that."


    "You''re fucking amazing, boss. If it wasn''t for you..."


    "We''d have zero points instead of two." I smiled. "I''m literally worth two points."


    "Yeah nah you know what I mean. But I''m rank. How many wins would we have if I could hit the bloody target? I''m your record transfer and I''m making you look like a proper dongo. I''m as useless as an ashtray on a motorbike."


    "It''s true you''re making me look like a dongo," I said, "but in Manchester, dongo is positive."


    "Is it?"


    "No. But look, I''ve worked out why you''re not as sharp as normal."


    "You have?"


    "Yeah. You''re homesick."


    "I''m not, gaffer. I swear."


    "Ah, but listen. Back in Oz, you''re always on high alert. You turn any corner there''s liable to be jellyfish, eels, snakes, scorpions, sharknados, all kinds of things that want to kill you then eat you, or vice versa. In Perth you''re on your way to training like Huh? Huh? Huh? at every shape, every shadow. You get on the pitch and it''s all a piece of piss, isn''t it? Your reflexes are razor sharp. Compared to daily life, football''s a doddle. You come to Chester and the only excitement is when you go to Tesco and they''ve got a special offer on TimTams. I don''t know what those are, by the way. I did a search for ''garbage that only Australians like''."


    "Boss, no, TimTams are quality."


    "Okay, the real pep talk beginnnnnns... now. Ready? One. If you weren''t playing well I would fucking let you know, mate. If you pull on this shirt and laze about not giving it your all, you''ll be hauled off the pitch and I''ll give you a blast on your way back to the fucking airport, do you know what I mean? I will fucking let you know. We''re nowhere near that. Nowhere near that.


    "Two. I''m not that interested in your stats. We get all this data now and it''s handy but I wouldn''t base my whole fucking personality on it like you seem to want to do. It''s flawed. How many times have you forced the goalie into a save that''s led to a goal? How many times have you hit the crossbar? We could drive ourselves insane going through the xG of every shot you''ve had working out if that number is fair or not. I don''t care about it. Life can only be lived forwards, so live forwards.


    "Three. Or maybe this is 2b. Your value isn''t a number. Your value is how I feel you are contributing to the team and you''re doing great on the pitch and off it, at least, when you aren''t walking around with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp."


    "Have you been learning Aussie sayings for this chat?"


    "Yes. Don''t interrupt me when I''m on one. We are 24th in the league. Do you think I''m the 24th best manager?"


    "No."


    "Damn right. I''m fucking these pricks up, it''s just not showing on the scoreboard. Yet. And what about me the star player? It''s like 7 goals in 200 minutes or something. It''s decent, but those goals don¡¯t make me a good player. When I''m really firing, when I''m at my best I¡¯m an assist machine. Right now I¡¯m doing ten times more shots per ninety than I want and it''s not because I don¡¯t trust you or Henri but because I don¡¯t trust the midfield to generate more chances. So one number doesn''t say anything about how good I am as a manager, the other doesn''t say much about how good I am as a player."


    "It sort of does."


    "Yeah fine but not like you think. If I saw someone with my stats I''d want to go and scout him but the numbers don''t get him a contract here. It''s what he can do, who he is, all that stuff."


    "Would you sign yourself?"


    "I couldn''t afford myself."


    He closed his eyes. "This place is battier than a Brisbane belfry."


    "You know what''s batty?"


    "What?"


    "I wouldn''t mind if you didn''t score the whole season, then on the last day we''re winning four-nil and you score your first ever goal for the club to make it five-nil."


    "And we get into the playoffs on goal difference?"


    "No. Just a meaningless goal. That''d be funny. You''d finish the season on 30 assists, one goal."


    "Not sure I''d find it as funny."


    "Yeah well you don''t pick the team so tough shit. I love how you play and I love what you''re doing so that''s that. Wait, you distracted me. What number am I up to?"


    "Can''t remember."


    "Dazza, listen up. We¡¯ve all got to get better but you¡¯re in the¡­ what¡¯s one eleventh as a percentage?"


    "Don¡¯t know."


    "You¡¯re in the bottom twenty two percent question mark of my problems, do you get me? When I talk to the coaches about you it¡¯s about getting you better. Nothing negative comes up. You can start worrying about your future here when I start talking about how many goals you''re scoring."


    "Why?"


    "Because I like my players to go on goalscoring runs before I sell them so I can get bigger fees. I''ll be fattening you up to fetch a good price at market. Gorgeous Aussie merino sheep, aren''t you, mate! Hey, Max, why is Dazza on penalties? No reason, giggle. Yeah," I said, looking into the mid-distance, "I don''t mind you having a bad first season in terms of numbers. It means I get to keep you next season, too." I squinted, content with my daydream. The truth was, I would probably get offers for Dazza I wouldn''t be able to refuse. I snapped back into the present. "I envy you."


    "I doubt that."


    "No, I do. You get to have all these doubts, these worries, and experience the whole Chester roller coaster for the first time. This season is your Murder on the Orient Express. We only get one time to read it for the first time. This is your once. You¡¯re so lucky! This is my third time already. I know how it ends."


    "You know who the killer is."


    "I''m the killer. You''re my weapon." I shook my head at the unfairness of life. I''d been given an almighty crack to the head, fell into a coma, and when I woke up I remembered whodunnit in all the Agatha Christie books, knew the twists in The Sixth Sense and The Usual Suspects. What would I pay to be able to re-experience those things for the first time? Dazza was waiting for me to finish my reverie. I said, "Well, go and train. Fuck sake, don''t just sit there. Hey, what''s that?"


    He turned and looked behind him. "What?"


    When he turned back towards me I threw a large plastic spider at him. It hit him in the face before sliding down into his hands. I said, "I''ll be throwing that at you when you least expect it. Bit of a taste of home."


    He got to his feet and looked at the huge toy spider. "Thanks, gaffer. She''s a beaut."


    He chucked it back to me and jogged off with a spring in his step.


    I''d like to say it was my speech that had improved his Morale, but that would be a lie. His Morale went up when he saw the spider.


    ***


    I got a massage from a spare physio and went home for a few hours, lazing on my sofa while I re-watched footage of Gillingham. They had spent a lot of money but they weren''t a good unit. A lot of their moves went through their best player, Ennis, and I thought that if Youngster marked him, Gills would find it hard to score. Not a nailed-on win by any means, but the most even league game of our season so far.


    I snoozed for a while and woke feeling delightfully groggy.


    ***


    Having the club''s training centralised in one place was having all kinds of side benefits. Now, I didn''t have to whizz from place to place if I wanted to check on the under 12s, the women, the Knights. All I had to do was go to my office and let the players come to me.


    The Knights trained on the small pitch. In the past, their coach, Terry, had sometimes been isolated. Not forgotten, exactly, but not really at the heart of anything. Bumpers wasn''t ideal for the disabled team because the toilets and showers had limited accessibility, but Brooke said when we developed that part of the complex we could get all kinds of grants to help us bring things up to the required standards in the amounts we wanted. I wanted Bumpers to be able to host a pan-disability tournament one day, and that would mean having a lot more than one special bathroom.


    The boys under 12s were in high spirits. They trained on half the 3G pitch while the 14s trained on the other half. Spectrum liked to cross-pollinate the age groups so it was always quite random who would be playing alongside who, and doing what.


    With the surge in interest in schools football and me having free time in the evenings, I had been scouting and using Playdar to great effect. There was the not-inconsiderable bonus that I ''owned'' three pitches that local teams could hire and these pitches were pretty close together. I knew when matches were being played and it was a simple matter to ride The Green Baron to Saltney or to Hoole and quickly scout the players.


    As such, I''d stocked up on youth prospects. The 12s had five new lads aged as young as 8 ranging from PA 62 to 136 and there were plenty of schools I had never been to which had matches scheduled. I was gathering millions of pounds of future stars!


    I smiled as I noted that five of the 12-year-olds were training with the older boys.


    Simon Black, a lightning fast PA 77 striker, was still the star of his age group - he was scoring ludicrous amounts.


    Tadpole, a PA 130 goalie, was Sticky''s favourite. The miserable old sod changed completely when Tadpole was around - he told jokes, he did comedy bits.


    Mark Nelson was PA 70 and could play anywhere along the back line. He was developing very nicely.


    Lawrence ''Larry'' Shaw was a hulking centre back, PA 89, who towered above the other kids his age - and the age above. He was going to be as big as Goliath, the striker I had loaned a couple of years back. Larry would score thousands of goals from set pieces and his high PA meant he should turn into a proper good defender, too. I was incredibly interested in watching him develop.


    And finally, the pride of Chester''s youth system, Stephen Watson. I had found him on my first ever visit to Liverpool while Jackie Reaper was getting his knees checked out. Watson was PA 146, a defensive midfielder, and he boosted my Morale every time he took a pass in a tight area or deflected the ball into Simon Black''s path or lazily held off an opponent before bringing the ball under his control.


    The kid was spectacular and now I got to see him every time he trained.


    About a quarter of the parents watched from the mini stands, though of course they weren''t allowed to groan or yell when their kids did anything ''bad''. A quarter watched from the viewing room, which was similar to the reception cabin but not as pretty. The viewing room was warm and there was a tea and coffee station. We had put up some photos and scarves and stuff but it was still pretty bare. The rest of the parents waited in the bar where they got free tea and coffee and could buy food. Spectrum had the great idea to make it possible to send the feed from the 3G pitch''s cameras to the bar so that people could watch their kids, friends, or partners while giving us money.


    I found Stephen Watson''s dad and had a big old chat with him and two other other dads he had befriended.


    "You''re not worried about the league table," said Mr. Watson in his Scouse accent.


    "Not you as well," I laughed. "You''ve been with us long enough to know better."


    He smiled. "It''s a step up, isn''t it? It''s harder."


    "I expected it to be like this. I''ll be honest and say losing Pascal messed us up more than I would have realised. I used him for so many things, you know? He gave us speed, intelligence between the lines, he let us switch to all sorts of formations. Yeah, we are slightly short in creative, flexible forwards."


    "You could have signed a replacement in the window. Got a loan maybe."


    I pointed to one of the kids on the nearest TV. "That lad there. He''s a Pascal type. Next in line to the throne."


    "He''s nine!"


    I shrugged. "I''m a long-term planner."


    "You''re really not worried, then?" said one of the other dads.


    "Not in the slightest. The only thing I have to fear is fear itself. First time I met Mr. Watson I said, what did I say, have a bet on Chester to stay up, and have a bet on us to win seven in a row. And what happened?"


    "I lost me money," he said, with perfect delivery and timing. Got a big laugh.


    "Come on," I said. "We won six out of seven!"


    "It''s true," said Mr. Watson, to the others. "Would have been seven, I reckon, but that was when Max got attacked."


    "Oh, shit," said one of the others.


    "Yeah," I said. "But look, I can''t place bets myself. Even if I got my girlfriend to do it, it''d come out and there would be hell to pay. I basically don''t ever talk about betting, ever. It''s easier that way." I looked around me and leaned in closer. "But if you''ve got a spare tenner that isn''t helping you out much, stick that on us to win our two matches this week." I gave them a little nod. "Ah, reminds me. I wanted to talk to them."


    "Who?"


    "All of them. I want to tell them to work harder in school." The parents laughed - typical Max being weird.


    Another benefit of having my youth players under my wing - I could see who was coming to watch them train and play. A guy came in, leaned against the bar, rubbed his hands to warm them up, and asked for a tea. JoJo got right on it.


    "Guys, can you do me a tiny favour, please?"


    "Course we can, Max."


    "Don''t look now. I said don''t look!" I laughed, as the three turned. "The guy who just came in. Tell me which parent he talks to, would ya?"


    I looked up at the screen. Little Simon Black ran onto a pass and finished into the bottom of the goal as easily as JoJo added milk to the stranger''s tea.


    But the new guy wasn''t a complete stranger. I had seen him before at youth tournaments and while I''d never spoken to him directly, he had a big old rectangle hovering over his head.


    Wayne Robins (Liverpool)


    Scout


    Judging Player Ability 14


    ***


    With five minutes to go before the end of the session I walked out onto the pitch and asked the coaches on both halves to wrap things up. They did and the kids came over to me.


    Another benefit of having everyone close to hand was I could give them tiny speeches without needing to plan it.


    "All right, lads?"


    Lots of smiles. A few of them, like Future or Adam Roberts, had spent some time with me and knew I was more or less just another dude, but for many there was a lot of hero worship going on.


    "I thought we agreed that when I said all right lads you guys would yell YES SENSEI."


    "Naw, we didn''t agree that," said Stephen Watson.


    "Weird. Maybe it was a dream. Okay, listen. I''ve just been reading an article about Premier League academies. Okay, we definitely agreed to BOO when we talked about Prem clubs."


    "That was another dream an'' all," said Watson.


    "Was it? Shit, my dreams are boring. Note to self, have more exciting dreams. Okay, the article said that kids who join football academies are, like, above average at school. They get good marks. But when they leave the academy, they''re below average. What does that tell you?"The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "That footballers are stupid," said Big Sam, a decent young goalie. He got some laughs.


    "Well, they start out brighter, don''t they? It''s the football that makes them stupid. I don''t want that to happen here. First of all, I don''t like stupid players. Second, I do weird team talks. Off the top of my head, I''ve talked about Babylonian maps, four-hundred-million-year-old sea beasts, and on Wednesday morning the first team are gonna get together and we''re all going to talk about money. Investments, interest rates, shares, I don''t know what. I''m not gonna lie and say I was good in school but I wasn''t a dick, either, and I was proper interested in some of the lessons. I wish I''d paid more attention in Spanish and German, I reckon. That''d help me now, wouldn''t it? But you never know when something you learned might pop up.


    "I don''t think I want to meet your teachers and check how you''re doing but if there''s an article about you one day where it says you binned school off I think I''ll be pretty disappointed. It''s a fucking neckache sometimes, isn''t it? Doing homework when you want to play Cards Against Humanity or whatever kids these days get up to. Pogs? But just make sure you keep your levels up, yeah? Power through.


    "Maybe I''ll do a competition. Show me a maths test from last week where you got a shit mark, one from next week where you did better. That gets you into the draw. Show me you got three good marks in a row. That gets you in. Winner gets to hang out with the first team or some shit. All right, that''s it. Do better at school, you little brats."


    ***


    Next came the 16s (on their special pitch, joined by lots of the 14s), the 18s (on the 3G), and the women (on the big grass pitch).


    The 16s cupboard was fairly bare, though I had found a pair of lads in the PA 50s recently. The lack of talent in one particular age group didn''t bother me - next season I could bring in half a dozen lads like Jamie Brotherhood - good talents who would cost me buttons. And Roddy Jones, the Baby Bale, was there. PA 184, a future legend. When I''d picked him up he had been playing as a striker and indeed, if he had stayed there he would still be scoring tons. Why, though? The results of those games didn''t matter. I''d moved him to right wing and told his coaches to give him minutes as a right mid. Maybe by the end of the season we would have him in his real position - right back. The challenge was to keep him and his dad interested and engaged and that was a lot easier when Roddy was scoring hat tricks every week.


    The 18s were packed to bursting. We had 23 players, not including Roddy who sometimes trained with them.


    Wibbers, Dan Badford, and Banksy were the stars of the group. Wibbers was on CA 58. It seemed like he had been in the 50s for eons but when he hit 60 I was going to think of him totally differently. CA 58 meant he was flighty, streaky, untrustworthy. CA 60 meant consistency. Logical? No. Dan was CA 49. That was rubbish. Garbage. But when he hit 50 - swoon! Logical? I''m going to say yes.


    After the three stars came the right back Jamie Brotherhood (PA 95), left back Lucas Friend (PA 62), and the young striker Chas Fungrieve (PA 83). Tyson (attacking midfield, PA 58) was the best of the rest, but after Noah Harrison (PA 51) there was a drop to a lot of lads in the 30-40 range.


    It wasn''t the best squad that would enter the FA Youth Cup, but it was going to be the squad with the most first team minutes and it wouldn''t even be close. Eight of the lads had seen first team action already this season and there was going to be a lot more.


    "What are you thinking?" said Benny. He was the son of a famous former player and a great lad but he only had PA 40. This attempt at the Youth Cup would be his last chance of real glory in the sport. He had sidled up next to me as I watched the others train; he had a foot injury that was keeping him out for a couple of weeks.


    "I''m thinking when I take over this training we will go to the grass pitch where no-one can see us."


    "Why do you let randos in to Bumpers?"


    I shrugged. "It''s a community club, isn''t it? If people want to watch, I don''t mind, as long as they''re quiet and don''t get in the way. And if they want to drop ten quid on a burger, even better. But the stuff I''m going to teach the 18s is not something I want our oppo knowing about."


    "I can''t wait," said Benny. "I''m so hyped for it. Everyone''s saying you turned the Welsh army into an unstoppable force."


    I pulled a face. "Let''s not go crazy. They still suck, but now they suck in a way that''s aesthetically pleasing."


    Training 3 R Welsh and getting them to do Relationism in matches - what they called ''Bestball'', urgh, vom - had been incredibly interesting.


    The first unique part of the experience was that I needed to operate without the Match Overview screens. Using those would force me to use positional play and I couldn''t get the lads into the blob if they were lined up in 4-4-2. So when the Overview screen had come up, I had been ready to battle to shut it down. In the end, it was easy. I ordered the Overview screen to close. An ''are you sure?'' message popped up. I thought ''yes''. A new message appeared. ''You won''t be able to get it back during this match. Are you sure you''re sure?'' I was sure, and it poofed out of existence, though I could still see the player profiles.


    So I had to manage those matches without my screens and without my perks. No match ratings, no instant awareness of what the oppo manager was doing, no using Bench Boost or Free Hit.


    I had been right, I was sure, to focus on simplicity. Short passes, safe passes, lots of passes. I had been lucky that there was one player in the unit who could make everything tick and had the imagination needed to pass out from the blob when opportunities presented themselves. Or maybe it wasn''t luck - I had put the players with high Decisions in the key roles.


    I had been unlucky with the pitches, but who knew the army played on Sunday League grounds? I had sorted it out, but it was clear to me after only a few weeks that what I was doing would work, and I gave myself mental permission to go hell-for-leather to buy the Relationism perk.


    The perk was down to a base cost of 29,570. Still crazy, but it was a number I could attack from both sides, first by continuing to manage 3 R Welsh - what better way to spend a Wednesday afternoon than ripping the piss out of them and making them beg for more? - and by grinding for XP in the normal way.


    With all the matches I was managing, plus watching the women, plus some of the evening games played at Bumpers, the XP was flowing very nicely.


    XP balance: 13,033


    Thirteen thousand... Why did that stick out? I looked around and saw Benny had gone.


    I got out my calculator and calculated the current cost of the Relationism perk if I applied my ten percent discount code - 26,613. Just about double what I had in the bank. I was halfway there!


    When I managed a League Two match for 70 minutes and played 20, I got about 580 XP. So that meant I was 23 League Two matches away from being able to afford the perk. If I only managed the League Two games and did nothing else, I would be able to unlock Relationism after playing Doncaster Rovers on February 14th.


    If I took into account cup matches, 3 R Welsh, and all the other footy I was watching... I was closer than I''d realised. Surely I would unlock it this calendar year?


    Oh, baby!


    I rubbed my hands and cut through the rows of cabins to get to the grass pitch. How were the women getting on?


    ***


    Jackie Reaper was busy doing a complicated-looking drill, so I looked for someone else to bother. Lucy, our former left back who was good in the air and had greatly improved the team with her leadership skills, was by the side of the pitch keeping a keen eye on the proceedings.


    "Hi Lucy," I said.


    "Hi boss."


    "What are you doing?"


    Lucy had decided to leave Chester''s women''s team in order to take up a great opportunity - being the first ever manager of Saltney Town Women. "Reminding myself how it''s supposed to be done. Now that I''m in the hot seat I realise I never paid all that much attention, you know? It was just ''am I in the team or not?'' You don''t mind me coming, do you?"


    "Course I don''t mind. Why would I mind?"


    "Jackie''s just brilliant. He''s so good. He keeps things moving, keeps things fresh. Hard drill followed by easy one. Twists, variants, it''s always interesting."


    "Yeah, he''s definitely one of the top five managers at Chester FC."


    She put her hand on my arm. "You''re very good, too, boss. Wow, I forgot how needy you get. Can I ask a question?"


    "Always."


    "The pre-season fixtures. How did you decide on them? I remember when I joined Chester you were doing a progression concept. Harder matches every week. I thought Chester''s pre-season fixtures this year were something like that, or maybe there were players you wanted to look at, but I couldn''t get my head around it. The opposition you chose made no sense."


    "Pre-season was a while ago and I was pretty busy. I think I didn''t go to the away matches. You know what? I can''t remember who it was we played."


    "I do. Stanway Pegasus, Bemerton Heath Harlequins, Coventry Sphinx."


    I smiled. "I remember now. Jackie was bothering Inga to set up some fixtures and Inga was bothering me. So I gave Emma a big list of teams and she picked those three because they had funny names."


    "Oh," said Lucy. "Pegasus, Harlequins, Sphinx. Okay. You know, sometimes I worry you might not be a floating megabrain."


    "It''s two long away trips, isn''t it? The entire squad packed into Sealbiscuit for hours, bonding, singing. It doesn''t matter who they play as long as they''re ready for the first proper match of the season and guess what? Mission accomplished. They played Chester le Street off the pitch."


    Chester le Street Town were from County Durham and had the nickname The Cestrians, which was like the name of Chester''s match day programme. I mean, get your own nicknames, what the fuck. Their women''s team had an average CA of 38, which made them better than any divisional rival we had ever faced. Jackie had used his favoured 3-5-2 with an average CA of 48.8.


    We were already ten points better than our opponents in the first game of the season!


    The squad was so strong that Bonnie didn''t make the starting eleven. She played in the next game, in the qualifying round of the Welsh Cup. There had been some chat about our participation in the cup last season, so this year we had agreed to play every match away. Jackie had rung the changes, giving starts to three of our Ffamous Five. Our talented but absurdly young squad had struggled to beat Aberaman, but with a couple of older heads appearing from the bench, we had prevailed 5-3.


    Chorley had CA 39 and we had dispatched them with Meghan and Sarah Greene making their home debuts. ''Home'' for now was a town in Wales called Flint, but Sarah was inspired and put in a man-of-the-match display in a 5-1 romp.


    Given the levels of the first two opponents, yesterday''s match against Huddersfield had been a bit of a shock. They were rocking an average CA of 48 - we were 50.4. Almost neck and neck in terms of overall quality. We had higher technique and youthful exuberance, but they had experience. It was the same old story for us, but we were getting experience every week. Assuming Huddersfield were one of the very best teams in the league, an away draw was a solid result. Bit of an early-season wake-up call, too.


    And a bit of a wake-up slap for me, too. I thought I had given Jackie a killer squad, but there were small, potentially consequential gaps.


    For left midfield we only really had Dani or Kisi, neither of whom you''d trust to put in a 90-minute defensive shift. Fioled, one of the Welsh starlets, was that kind of player, but she was 16 and CA 23. It was something of a risk trusting girls like her so much. Then again, Jackie had a top left back he could use if he felt we were at risk down that side.


    The main problem was the strikers. Angel was a big talent, of course, but Bea Pea had hit her ceiling. CA 36 was good enough as a backup option for the league but she had been our starting striker almost since we''d started the team. Julie McKay, she of the hooligan former boyfriend, was CA 33, PA 53, but she was pretty average in all respects. She didn''t have Angel''s finishing, Bea Pea''s work rate, she wasn''t especially fast or good in the air.


    Yeah, if Angel got injured we might have a problem.


    Or - and this was a valid option - we could pass to Sarah Greene and let her go nuts. The girl was fucking amazing. She had raced up to CA 63 and caused a bit of a secondary explosion in CA growth in the players around her. Suddenly, Dani and Charlotte were miles off the levels and it was making them work twice as hard.


    "I love it when you grin like that."


    "What? Who''s grinning? I''m scowling, mate. How can you draw against Huddersfield? This is one of the most expensive squads outside the top two divisions, you know. They need to sort themselves out or the next series of the documentary will be called Chesterness 2: The Purge."


    "Sure, boss. Sure."


    "When we get knocked out of the cups I might send you some young players. If you want."


    "If I want? Course I want. But you might be waiting a while."


    "Why''s that?"


    "These ladies are in no mood to be knocked out of anything. Don''t plan anything for Sundays, boss. These girls are filming Chesterness 2: The Relentlessness. That''s not my idea for a name, by the way. That''s Angel in cahoots with Henri."


    ***


    Mr. Watson: He was looking at Simon Black.


    ***


    Tuesday, September 30


    Match 9 of 46: Gillingham vs Chester


    If there''s one thing my career in football taught me, it''s that Gillingham is fucking miles away. It was a four and a half hour journey that would have stretched Sealbiscuit to breaking point and even I wasn''t eco-champion enough to take the risk. We''d hired one of our old buses for the journey.


    It was such a step down in quality and comfort I thought it might knock our Morale, but it had the opposite effect. Lads who were maybe looking at their pay packets wondering why the numbers were so small when I was investing in electric buses could feel the difference and could think ''oh right, that''s why''.


    I felt a sort of steely determination about the warm ups and the general preparations.


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I said, once everyone was in the dressing room and receptive. "Get your fucking game faces on. For the first time this season, we''re favourites." Gillingham were spending a mind-blowing 111,000 pounds a week on their first team squad and the average CA of their starting eleven was a truly shocking 77. "We''re favourites. We''re going to keep things tight, frustrate them, silence the crowd, and go mental in the last twenty minutes. Piece of piss."


    I slapped the tactics board.


    "3-5-2. Sticky in goal." CA 61. "Christian, Zach, Lee H." 81, 73, 76 respectively. "Youngster dropping to be DM." CA 90, surely the best young midfielder in the whole league. "Josh left, Magnus right." 54, 68, bit of a weak spot. "Ryan and Lee C in the middle." 69 and 78. Ryan was loving life at Bumpers. The sumptuous grass pitch took some of the strain off his joints. I had resolved not to use him on a bad surface until it was the direst possible emergency. "Henri and Dazza." Both strikers were on CA 80.


    That gave me an average of 73.6. Calling us favourites was a bit of a stretch, especially given my lack of options from the bench, but I was incredibly confident.


    "My favourite movie is called Swingers. It''s about Iron Man''s driver who has a bad break up and the guy from Dodgeball who is his mate who tries to cheer him up." I walked around until I was in front of Dazza. "The most famous quote goes like this. You''re money! You''re so money and you don''t even know it. No, I''m not happy with that. Dazza, what are you doing?"


    "Sorry, gaffer, I don''t follow."


    "I''m doing a scene. You''re my scene partner. You''re giving me nothing. Can you stand up, please?"


    They were cheers and whoops as he pushed himself to his feet. He really didn''t want an acting class, but I didn''t really care what he wanted. "Ready."


    "When you do an acting, you''re supposed to say ''what''s my motivation?''"


    "What''s my motivation, gaffer?"


    "You''ve had a bad break up."


    "What''s a bad break up?"


    More cheers and whoops. I grinned at his confidence. "That''s the spirit! All right, let''s do it the other way. I''ll be the sad one."


    Dazza had started collecting his hair into a band. He pulled the band off, flicked his hair back, and tucked it all away again. "Are you going to say action?"


    "No."


    He tried to remember his line. "You''re so money. You don''t even know how money you are."


    "Fuck sake," I said. "I''ve written the line out for you. Where did I put it? There, Vimsy has it."


    When I said Vimsy, Dazza turned, spotted danger, and recoiled as the man in question hurled a bucketful of giant plastic spiders at him. "Strewth," said Dazza, possibly. I couldn''t hear because everyone was pissing themselves.


    I stood with my hands on my hips. "Ah, that''s fun. All right, get to fucking work."


    Christian yelled, "Come on, Chester!" and they rushed out, Morale high.


    ***


    The first half was pretty even. We were able to nullify Gills and have the lion''s share of possession, but they were equally comfortable in thwarting our attacks. They tried to target the wings but I set my wide guys to ''make forward runs: no'' and used the Without Ball screens to drop them back as much as I could. Gills had a very specific way of defending set pieces that was both impressive and stupid - exploiting their reliance on the offside trap would need a little bit of creativity and someone who could cross a ball with pace and accuracy. I didn''t have too many of those. Squad-building on 30K a week came with a lot of compromises.


    I didn''t say much at half time. Things were going great, and all the goals would come in the very final section of the match.


    Or so I thought - in the 62nd minute, Youngster got sucked into a midfield scrap, the ball went wide, Josh was beaten for one of the only times in the match, the ball was played into Ennis, wide open for the first time, who clipped a quality pass through to the striker who slipped the ball past Sticky pretty easily.


    I clicked my teeth, but instead of having a meltdown I used the Finances perk to look at Gillingham''s numbers again. They really were blowing over a hundred grand a week on this lot. Almost four times what I had to work with.


    The perk showed some raw numbers plus a simple balance sheet that told me they were hugely in debt. Most football clubs lost money and had their debt or loans written off by their benefactors. When that money dried up, the club was in deep doo-doo. After a period of relative calm, a few clubs were starting to worry about their future and I was making sure I had scouted their first team, reserves, and youth teams in case the opportunity arose to snap up a few bargains if there was a fire sale.


    Sandra Lane took a break from giving instructions to look at me. "How can you be so relaxed?"


    "Who said I''m relaxed?"


    "You''re relaxed and you''re smiling. You''ve got a fucking blissful smile on you."


    "Oh, I suppose. I was thinking about that guy, that accountant fan who looked at our annual reports and decided they showed that MD had squirrelled away... what was it?"


    "One point one million."


    "Right." I hadn''t followed the story all that closely because the fan was well-meaning but wrong. I had Chester''s Finances screen in my head whenever I wanted to check it - MD was not lying to me. Our balance was very slightly in the red - there was no secret supply of cash. "Christ, can you imagine what I''d do with a million right now? And can you imagine what I''d do to MD if I found out he''d been holding out on me while I''d been under so much stress?"


    "Can you warm up, please?"


    That was unlike Sandra. She was normally chill about letting me ease my way into the match. "Do you need a hug?"


    "I need you to warm up and score eight quick goals, please."


    I laughed at looked at my bench options. Wibbers was there but there was something about him recently that made me hesitate before putting him on the pitch. I had been using him a lot but like Dazza he hadn''t scored. Maybe there was a slight doubt in his mind about whether he was good enough. The team would get two quick wins, Wibbers would hit CA 60, and when he got on the pitch next he''d be right back to being a phenomenon. "Cole and Sharky, I reckon."


    "Kay," said Sandra, and got them warming up. After staring at the pitch pretty hard for a couple of minutes, I joined them.


    ***


    70''


    Triple change for Chester.


    Off comes Josh Owens, Ryan Jack, and Lee Hudson.


    On comes Cole Adams, Wes Hayward, and Max Best.


    It looks like the player-manager will play as a centre back.


    ***


    2-6-2. Ian Evans had laughed at me. The world wasn''t ready for it.


    Cole for Josh was a like-for-like change, spreading the minutes around.


    Sharky for Ryan Jack (with Magnus switching into the centre) gave us lightning speed on the right and, more importantly, something for me to aim at.


    I moved Youngster up into the CM slot next to Lee C and Magnus.


    I moved myself from centre back to DM.


    The genius of the plan was that teams in League Two didn''t man-mark the other team''s defensive midfielders, so unlike against Mansfield and Carlisle I would be able to dominate the game. Okay, I''d be too far away to have ten shots and would be too central to get into crossing positions, but I felt like Sharky''s speed would cause havoc and would at least generate some free kicks. And I could use Cupid''s Arrows to combine with either Henri or Dazza and make it more likely that my passes would reach them.


    ***


    71''


    It''s hooked long.


    Fierce wins the header.


    Best controls on his chest and dabs the ball to Green.


    Green plays a simple return pass.


    Best launches the ball towards the right wing. Hayward hares after it.


    He gets there! Hayward continues his run.


    He gets to the byline and fizzes the ball across the face of goal.


    But it''s too far ahead of Lyons and Smith. They had a ten-yard head start and couldn''t keep up with their teammate!


    ***


    74''


    Neat turn by Ennis. He runs at Chester.


    He shapes to spread the ball wide but instead goes on a dribble.


    Ennis crashes into Best.


    Best comes away with the ball.


    He launches it to the right wing.


    Hayward gets there!


    Hayward is fouled!


    Will this be a yellow card? The defender gets away with a warning.


    Best has words for the referee about that decision, then he places the ball.


    Best to take the free kick from the right of the pitch, close to the touchline, thirty yards out. No chance to shoot from there.


    He has options in the box. Fierce, Green, Lyons, and Smith will be licking their lips.


    Best... moves away from the action. Evergreen plays the ball a yard ahead. Best takes it forward.


    The defence had rushed out to trigger the offside trap. They have to get back now!


    Best whips in a cross from the new angle.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    It''s Lyons. The cross was right onto his head, as though drawn by magic.


    Chester are level.


    ***


    Gillingham''s manager was shit at squad building but rather better as a tactician. He saw that I''d blown a hole in his 4-2-3-1 formation and reorganised into a 3-5-2. His plan was to match us up and let his better quality tell.


    I swapped us into 3-4-3 with Magnus joining the defensive line and me as the third striker. I would spend most of my time in the DM slot, and would only cross the halfway line when I was sure it would lead to something.


    My thought was that if I mostly stayed near my defenders I might get a few chances to menace the Gills penalty box without being man-marked, and when I did attack we would have three against three. It would be low-level carnage for as long as it took my opposite number to realise what I was doing.


    It was a huge risk, but as Pascal often said, no risk no fun.


    ***


    77''


    Icke takes the goal kick. He clips it to Evergreen.


    Evergreen controls and finds Green.


    Best drops to the DM slot to receive the ball. He gestures and his team drops ten yards.


    Perhaps he is happy to hold onto what would be a valuable point.


    Best exchanges passes with Contreras.


    Chester are in no hurry to get forward.


    Gillingham press hard.


    Best chips the ball over midfield to Smith.


    The Australian striker holds the ball up well.


    He has Lyons in support.


    But Smith turns his man. That''s good strength. He spots Hayward in space on the right.


    But Best is charging forward!


    Best takes the ball from Smith''s toes. Best slaloms past the last defender.


    Best must score! Only the keeper to beat.


    The goalie closes the angle...


    Best... backheels the ball sideways.


    Lyons has an open goal.


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Chester are ahead!


    ***


    In the celebrations, Dazza was ecstatic. "You''re so money! You''re so money!"


    "You''re money," I said, hugging someone. "Everyone''s money!"


    ***


    I quite liked the 3-4-3-with-a-DM tactic, so I moved Youngster there and took his position in the centre of the pitch, creating a 3-1-4-2 formation.


    With me playing like a true box-to-box midfielder, we looked great. I was a Rolls Royce of a DM, if I say so myself, and when I moved to CAM I got double marked. In my brief stints as a true central midfielder, when I sprayed passes to Sharky Gills dropped back ten yards in a panic. I was creating tactical challenges all over the pitch and I was frazzling them.


    Gills wanted to attack, to build a head of steam, but in this setup and this mood we were far too good on counters.


    They kept at least six in the rest defence and that didn''t leave enough forward players to hurt us.


    It was only near the end when they sent bodies forward in huge numbers that they looked threatening, but we had two incredible counters. One when I pinged the ball for Henri to chase and he took a heavy touch that allowed Gills to get back, and one where I, fatigued, tried to ping a long one to Sharky that I got completely wrong. In a rare stroke of luck, the ball went exactly into Lee C''s path and he went marauding but his pass to Sharky was overhit.


    We were making mistakes all over the pitch, starting to cramp, our Condition scores were plummeting, so I changed to 4-5-1, shoved square pegs in round holes, and went Men Behind Ball for the three minutes of injury time.


    Not how I wanted to live my life but I couldn''t ask my guys to do more.


    The final whistle was such a relief.


    Two points became five. We were still bottom of the table but win the next game and we''d leapfrog three other teams.


    We were on the move.


    ***


    Wednesday, October 1


    I told the lads we were going to start the day at BoshCard. The cabins at Bumpers were fine for very quick ''here''s the plan for the week'' meetings, but this was a big one. An important one. One where I didn''t want everyone squashed together getting distracted.


    It was the money talk we had been planning ever since Ryan Jack had confessed he didn''t know how to invest. The plan had been to do it at the start of the season but I''d fallen out with Andrew Harrison over his shit wages and didn''t want to then have a big presentation about how to invest surplus income. Then we''d struggled so hard in the league people were talking about relegation. I mean, ludicrous, but it wasn''t the right time to talk about the future millions we would all be making.


    Now that they were working for a manager who had WON A LEAGUE TWO MATCH WHOO, now that everyone could see and feel and believe we were in a good place, it was time.


    MD did the first part while Brooke watched, nodding, as though she agreed with everything he was saying, which she did. The social proof the rich people gave each other was enormous.


    It was quite a slow, methodical presentation but I think every single person in the room was absolutely rapt - perhaps excluding Henri - and the high levels of attention were caused by a slide MD had shown very near the beginning of his talk. It was a slide that showed how much money MD had made following the advice he was now giving us. The chart didn''t have any numbers on but fuck me, it got our attention anyway.


    The theme of the presentation, boiled down, was that his father had given him the advice to take ten percent of every wage he ever got and save it for a rainy day. A young MD agreed with the general principle but did some maths and realised inflation would eat his savings and he''d be no better off. He learned about the stock market - MD briefly explained what shares were and answered a comment from Wibbers that no, buying shares wasn''t the same as gambling - and when he got his first job, started buying shares.


    MD had a spreadsheet with every trade he had ever made. They were all buys, he said. No sales. This was him paying his future self but once that was done he felt free to spend the rest of his money and not feel bad about it. Then came the chart before the chart.


    Small grey bars emerged from the X axis like the silhouette of a city centre skyline. These bars represented the amount of money MD had spent buying shares every year. The first bars, from when MD was a noob in the pharma industry, were tiny, but there was a steady increase in the height across 25 years. Sometimes there were huge spikes, sometimes slight dips. MD explained that when his company had done well he had earned bonuses that he dumped completely into shares, while in fallow years he couldn''t commit the full ten percent.


    He clicked from that chart to show the mind-blowing one. It had the same grey bars at the bottom but there was also a line that showed the total, cumulative value of his portfolio.


    The line went up and down but let''s be honest, mostly up. Up up and away.


    There were a few dotted lines crossing the screen to give it a sense of structure. As I said, MD had removed the actual values but I couldn''t help but think each dotted line represented a million and I don''t think I was alone in that thought. The guy''s portfolio was worth somewhere between ten and twenty million pounds.


    No wonder he could afford to work for Chester for free. No wonder he''d quit the daily grind to do a lucrative little consulting business. He didn''t need the money. He could pick and choose projects that suited him while buying nice watches and driving sweet motors.


    Of course, he couldn''t choose his football club and I was ruining his semi-retirement by dragging his beloved club kicking and screaming up the football league. To paraphrase a Wrexham fan, his misery brought me some comfort.


    Dan Badford put his hand up. "MD, do you want to marry my mum?"


    Big laugh, and the first time that morning MD didn''t look like a master of the universe.


    "Any questions about what I''ve said?" said MD. There were lots of questions that he and Brooke answered. I wondered what her portfolio looked like.


    Then it was time for the interactive portion of the event. I had volunteered to be a guinea pig for the others. I''d set up an account at the place MD used - not the cheapest, but it had been around for a hundred years - and I had sent a bit of money into it. My laptop was connected to the screen and MD told me how to buy a share.


    Somehow there was one share I could buy that replicated all the shares in the world and it was the simplest, easiest thing for the people in this room - again, except Henri - to get their heads around.


    I bought some shares.


    "Great!" beamed MD. "Welcome to the executive lounge, Max."


    "I do own a football club, you know," I complained.


    "Only one?" said MD, and there were some laughs from people who knew that story.


    "What do I do now?"


    "Nothing. Put your ten percent in every month and buy more of that share. It''s that simple. Everyone, if you want to do this, Brooke and myself will sit with you and guide you through the process, just like we did with Max."


    Ryan said, "Oh, me. Me first. Yes, please."


    "Oh, just one little moment." That was Henri. He was what banking insiders like me called a sophisticated investor. He had properties and was the sort of person who would invest in art and fine wine. "If I may hijack this meeting, please."


    I frowned. "You don''t think this investment plan is a good idea?"


    "I think it is an exceptional idea pitched exactly at the right level for the young men in this room. And Ryan."


    "Et tu, Henri," said Ryan, miming that he had been stabbed.


    "No, I mean it. This is wonderful. Simplicity meets compound interest meets low-cost ETFs. It is truly a masterpiece. MD, Brooke, thank you so much. I wish someone had sat me down when I was earning my first paycheques. Alas, I had to fend for myself and thus my tastes became rather exotic. To everyone in this room I say, do this."


    He pointed to the screen where I was watching my share lose a tiny amount of value every time I looked at it. MD had told us not to look at the current value but to keep buying, but that was four thousand pounds I could have put towards a car, or to my debts, or to buying my mum a house. I mean, it used to be four thousand pounds. These days it seemed to be worth three thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine.


    Henri said, "Do this indeed, but I would like to propose another investment opportunity. One that I think will be profitable and will reduce the strain on our magnificent Max."


    "What?" I said, confused.


    "You have signed Vincent Addo to your Welsh team. He will join in January, I believe, after he turns 18. He is a Ghanaian under 21 player who you scouted in Chile and Youngster here has given me character references for him. In the summer you must pay his club one hundred thousand pounds but alas, Max, you do not have such money. Which is why you are rushing around on a child''s toy instead of buying a replacement car."


    "RIP The Duchess," said Ben, who made the sign of the cross.


    "Here is my suggestion." Henri walked to the front of the room. "I will create a syndicate based mostly on the players in this room. We will each chip in a small amount, or a large amount, according to our means and our risk appetite. We will raise one hundred thousand pounds. We will loan it to you or to Saltney - I will check the tax implications if there is enough interest in getting the syndicate up and running - and you will sleep well at night. You will look after Vincent Addo''s career, as you do, and you will sell him to Chester for three hundred thousand pounds. Is that not so?"


    "That''s the plan, yeah. Something like that."


    "Something like that. MD, this number, this three hundred thousand, you would indulge Max in this amount?"


    MD squirmed as though he hadn''t just shown us a chart showing us that he, not I, was the biggest swinger in the Willy Wonga contest. "These aren''t numbers I''m comfortable with, you understand, but we have received offers for players that Max has brought to the club far in excess of that. If Vincent Addo is half as good..."


    "He means Youngster," I said, and spoke in a way that I can only attribute to being on a high from the night before. "Vincent is only half as good as Youngster, it''s true. Which means we''ll only get fifty million for him."


    Cheers, whoops, cries of ''Young-ster! Young-ster!''


    Henri smiled. "So there you go, Max. One hundred out, three hundred in. You will slice off some costs, retain some profit, and give us a one hundred percent return on our investment. Two hundred thousand for the syndicate. Not bad for six months'' work."


    There had been too many numbers in the meeting already. "You what?" I said.


    Brooke was giving Henri a very interested look. "That''s clever."


    "Isn''t it?" said the smug bastard.


    I looked to MD for an ally. "There are some ethical considerations," he mused. "Chester players and staff financing their manager''s club with the intention of trading a player back to Chester. It''s murky."


    "Perhaps," said Henri. "But Max already plans to do the Addo trade. If this is the only deal we do, I say why not make some money as we go? You have seen how this debt is preying on his mind. I for one am willing to get rich from Max''s genius. Personally, I should like to roll my profit over and go again."


    "Go again?" I said.


    "Reinvest in another player or two. Chester will pay ten thousand for Jamie Brotherhood, yes? We saw him - he looks a talent to me. If you think you can sell him for fifty, a hundred thousand in a couple of years, I believe you. Why not invest in five more just like him? You told me once about an idea to create a football factory. Okay, let''s do it. If money is the only object, I have some. All I need is an obscene return on investment."


    I was stunned. "MD, tell me this is bonkers, please."


    "It isn''t bonkers. It''s a good idea and apart from a thousand financial and legal questions the only issue will be how much Chester FC gets involved. If we''re going to buy the players, as in the case of Vincent, who sets the price? That''s ripe for abuse. If a player will be sold to a third-party club there are very few ethical concerns, but what does Chester get from having that player train here with us as you plan to do with Vincent?"


    Henri had thought about that. "Chester gets its underpaid players to make some easy money. Perhaps enough money to persuade some of them to stay longer because they''re making more from Max''s football factory than from their own careers."


    "That might be one degree of wish fulfilment too far," said MD.


    Henri nodded. "We can start with Vincent, though. It''s the easiest win-win in the history of commerce. MD, why don''t we have lunch and work things through?"


    "I''m in," said Brooke.


    "Of course!" said Henri. "We get the best tables when you join us."


    "I mean I''m in for the investment. Lunch, too."


    "Wait," said Ryan Jack. "Leave space for the little guys."


    They were all rushing to invest in Vincent Addo! "Hang on, hang on," I said, raising my voice over the hubbub. "You can''t invest in a football player like that. It''s against FIFA''s rules and it''s one I agree with."


    Henri gave me a sad look. "Max, we wouldn''t be investing in Vincent, or Chester, or even Saltney. It would be a loan with terms favourable to us, but risk, too. We do not seek to control Vincent''s economic interests or to take a stake in your club. If the deal bombs, we lose money. If it goes well, we make bank. Yes," he said, lifting his chin up, "I have thought of everything. Sleep well, tonight, Max. And look at buying a new car tomorrow. Your money problems are over."


    Youngster stood and pointed. "Until he buys another football club!"


    With a lot of laughs and chatter, everyone got up and left. Sealbiscuit was waiting outside waiting to take them to Bumpers where their attributes would turn green while they talked about making their money make money.


    I was left alone. I closed my eyes. What the fuck just happened?


    On the screen to my right, my investment was now worth four thousand and twelve pence.


    The number was coloured green.


    ***


    Monday, October 6


    After the Doncaster Rovers match, I texted Spectrum asking him to come in for an emergency meeting, first thing Monday morning.


    I settled into one side of my tiny office at Bumpers Bank, while he sat in the opposite corner, about twenty inches away, on the visitors'' bean bag.


    "Spectrum," I said, all serious.


    I realised I had made a mistake and he had spent half of Saturday and all of Sunday worrying about what the meeting would encompass. Dumb, but I couldn''t change the past. Duly noted, do better next time. "You won us three points this weekend."


    He sagged with relief - why had he thought the meeting would be anything bad? "Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you, Max."


    "Your analysis was mint. It would have been even better if you had told me how shit Doncaster were at playing the ball out from the back. If I''d been up in a forward position I would have caused pandemonium. Seriously, why are these teams trying to get their goalies to play like peak Iniesta? We need to talk seriously though. Deep shit. Are you ready?"


    "Yes. Of course."


    "You''ve got a job. You''re in charge of youth development and you run the youth teams. But you want a more analytical role. Is that a fair summary?"


    He nudged his glasses up, then down. "Yes. Er... yes."


    "Let''s start with the youth teams. Because everyone''s here all the time I can sort of just walk round of an evening and enjoy all the football. It''s glorious. Do you know what I saw last week?"


    "Yes. No."


    "I saw all the age groups mixed together to the point where I couldn''t tell who was the 12s and who was the 14s. And I thought, gosh, Spectrum is on the cutting edge of bio-bands. But then I remembered - that''s me. That''s what I wanted. I asked you to push the younger kids up to get a challenge, move them back down so they could absorb it, move them up to stress them again. During the first half against Donny I was thinking about the sessions I saw last week and they were, objectively, crazy bonkers. It was next level insanity such that there wasn''t a player on any pitch who wasn''t learning or relaxing or having fun or meeting their future teammates. It''s like you took what I said, turned it up to eleven, then turned it up to fifty. And I''ve been walking around going yeah this is normal. But there are maybe two people out of seventy million in this whole country who would do it like that, react to it like that."


    "Two? That number might be on the money."


    "Okay so then we come to your data skills." I shuffled some papers around. After the win against Gillingham, Spectrum had spent Wednesday in his man cave and had re-emerged into society on the Thursday with a vengeance. "You won us three points."


    "No," said Spectrum, modestly.


    "You did. Hang on, let me check the message you sent." I got my phone out and scrolled around. "Max don''t pick team been up all night on the cheese got an idea. I mean, I called Sandra and she was like, yeah, bin off our training plans, Spectrum''s got the scent in his nostrils."


    "She didn''t."


    "She did. We both did. We all think you''re fucking money, mate. So what did you say?" I picked up one of the papers. "I''ve worked out what the oppo are doing. Stop Max, Stop Chester. That''s the cry of the age. I mean, yeah, no big insight there to be fair. But you wondered what Donny''s analysts would be thinking. You came up with our average positions chart. Against Gills I played as DM, I played CAM. The average position shows me as CM. Okay, it helps that I did play in central midfield for a spell but let''s be honest, I was as close to playing CM as you were."


    "Tiny bit more, maybe."


    "Yeah but this is genius, bro. You thought Donny would flood midfield so they could man-mark me. And guess what?"


    "They did."


    "They fucking did you beautiful bastard. So what did I do?"


    "You played right back and fucked them up, boss."


    "Right. Went bonkers, didn''t I? What did I text you right after the match?"


    He panicked and got his phone out. "Er... clip my madnesses and send the video to Roddy Jones. Tell him that''s his final form."


    "Shit," I said, slapping my knee in frustration. "I thought I''d thanked you. I meant to thank you."


    "S''okay, boss. We all know you''re wrecked after matches."


    I nodded a few times, getting slower with every nod. "Thing is, you understand me. Emma and Henri understand me as a person, I think. Brooke gets where I''m coming from as a sort of eco-capitalist. Pascal gets me as a floating megabrain. But you get me when it comes to youth development and data. The youth or the data - two big topics. So the question is, which is to be master?"


    Spectrum sank into the bean bag. It was an expensive one, a premium one, but an expensive bean bag is still a fraction of the cost of a chair. He dipped his head. "I love the data, boss. It''s the latest frontier. The wild west. Chance for a man like me to stake his claim."


    I did something weird with my lips and tapped the glass by my head. "I know. But that''s not what I want. What you''re doing with the kids is priceless. It makes me proud the way it is. Happy kids, happy parents, jealous scouts. I don''t want to make you do something you''re not passionate about but I think you are just as into it as me. And I don''t want a massive data team. There''s no point. I want you, five times a year, up all night on the cheese because you''ve seen something odd and you can''t shake it off. I want 4 a.m. texts from you saying you''ve worked out how to beat Doncaster, or Derby, or Watford, or Wolves."


    "Sorry, boss, it''s not clear. I don''t follow."


    "Your priority is the youth system. You''re my youth development puppet master. I''m going to bring in two, three, four elite coaches and they''re going to work under you because you know what I want. You know my priorities, you know that what''s best for the kids is what''s best for the club. But overseeing them isn''t as much work as it seems, so you''ve got time to dip into the data. So when you get a brainwave you follow it. Every year that goes by I''ll buy you more and more data. I don''t need the charts and graphs, I need someone with a brain who I fucking respect who can give me ideas that will make a difference in matches. Do you get me? I need imagination and flair. I need something deeper and I''ll even hire you a minion to help you get there."


    "A minion?"


    "One of the nerds from the university. You can watch some footage and think, ''huh, do they leave the far post open or is it just me?'' and the boffin can do the hard yards."


    "The priority is the kids, though?"


    "Of course. What do you think? What''s more important to this club than Stephen Watson and Simon Black?"


    He thought for a while. "Kids... with a dip of data."


    "Yep."


    "Elite coaches and a data minion."


    "Yep."


    He shoved his thumbnail between his teeth. "The parents are in heaven, you know."


    "Why?"


    "You don''t seem to realise it but you are a big deal. You go to these dads and you''re so invested in their kids and their development... They want what''s best for their children."


    "I do. That''s why I want you."


    "Kids and data. It sounds like the best of both worlds. It... It makes me suspicious, somehow. Not suspicious, but..."


    "I think I know what you''re saying. But Spectrum, be real. I don''t need you looking at the data 40 games a season, do I? I''m pretty good and I know how to win. I only need your best ideas. If you go a whole season without spotting anything interesting, no problem. It''ll still be good to have you to bounce ideas off of. But if my kids aren''t all right I''m going to go off on a doom loop, aren''t I? I need you, mate. Seriously. You''re money. You''re so money and you don''t even know it."


    He flushed, swallowed, and said, "Okay."


    "Bosh!" I punched the air. "It might take two years but I''m going to put you on silly money. Lobster money. MD money."


    "MD money?"


    "I take that back. Lobster money."


    "What''s that?"


    "Don''t think about the numbers, yeah? The numbers will take care of themselves. Just know that I know. I know what you''ve done and what you''re doing. Okay? Start thinking about what pose you want for your statue."


    "Statue?"


    "Conversation''s over. I''ve got to go see my b-boys."


    ***


    I grabbed my scooter and zipped the short distance down Bumpers Lane to the Deva. While I waited for MD and Brooke in the boardroom, I checked the league table and read some articles.


    Super Seals Sink Dismal Donny


    Max Best''s resurgent Chester overwhelmed Doncaster Rovers at a noisy Deva stadium earlier today. Doncaster played like a team of strangers, but the only strange thing about Chester was that Best''s usual 20-minute cameo came at right back, a position from which he caused conniptions.


    The rest of the article was a bunch of guff about a nervous first half and Youngster marking star signing Danny Grant out of the game, followed by descriptions of our goals. The first was a free kick that I had got completely wrong and hit into the wall - something I rarely did. But the rebound fell nicely and I struck it with pace and swerve and the goalie got nowhere near it. The second was a simple Zach Green header from a corner.


    Bosh, 2-0, easy. Okay not easy but straightforward.


    We had risen to 21st, but more importantly we weren''t a complete laughing stock. MD wouldn''t be getting any more memes from his stupid mates. The fear factor was back - everything I had been saying in private and in public was coming true.


    It was happening.


    Brooke arrived first and I was able to get a very quick reassurance that she was on my side. She assured me that demand for tickets was firm even despite our poor start to the season, said the sponsors were happy, and the bookings for our all-weather pitches were meeting expectations.


    MD came in soon after, made himself a coffee, looked out onto the Deva''s pristine pitch, and said, "Six points from six, just like you said. And it makes me nervous, just like you said." He smiled, turned, and took his seat. He composed himself and looked at me. "You seem more relaxed, but you weren''t worried about the football, were you? You were worried about Vincent Addo. Are you going to go with Henri''s syndicate?"


    "It''s profit I could be keeping for myself but yeah, I think I will. It''s peace of mind, isn''t it? And it incentivises the investors to make sure Addo gets a good education here."


    MD sipped his coffee. "What''s this meeting all about, Max?"


    I waited, hoping the perfect form of words would come to me. They didn''t. I cleared my throat. "Quick chat about the Newcastle match. You want to put up the prices."


    "Of course I do. If we use dynamic pricing we can really cash in."


    I looked at Brooke and she nodded back to me. On her own, she probably would have used dynamic pricing, same as MD, but she was happy to think long-term, too. I said, "Thing is, MD, you''re treating this like a one-off. The mighty Saudi Arabia touring little old Chester. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Let''s jack up the prices for our lot and their lot. But this isn''t a special occasion. It''s totally, utterly normal. We''re in the fourth round of the AOK Cup not by chance but by design. We will get there again. We''ll go deeper into the cups every year. We will play Newcastle and Arsenal and Crystal Palace again and again. Do you get me?"


    "Not really."


    "The EFL takes ten percent of our gate receipts and we split the rest. If the tickets cost 60 quid or 20, it doesn''t make all that much difference to us."


    "It does."


    "It doesn''t. I''m going to fucking piss off a lot of Newcastle fans next time we play them but this time it''s all smiles. Come to Chester and remember we didn''t rip you off. Buy a kebab. Okay? If you put the prices up you''ll need to find a new manager for that match. I don''t like their owners or how they were received by the fans but those Geordies are working class. Charging them 60 quid would be disgraceful. Count me out. Do it my way and you get two things."


    MD was looking up, controlling his temper. "What are those two things?"


    "One, you get it again in the FA Cup and again next year in all the cups. I love cups, mate. It''s only a matter of time before we get our big away day. Do you want an instant half a million in ticket sales, yes or no? Second, selling out the stadium yet again makes a certain topic more urgent."


    "What topic is that?"


    "I need five million pounds, Mike. I need five million pounds pretty darn quick."


    MD reorganised himself, all kinds of annoyed. "Why do you need five million pounds, Max?"


    I licked my lips and looked at Brooke. She gave me yet another nod. She was behind me. "I need five million to demolish the Harry McNally terrace, dig up the whole pitch, relay it, and have one-quarter of our new stadium in place by the start of next season. We''ll earn an extra million a year in ticket sales and we''ll be able to bring the women home."


    MD glared at me. "And how, pray, do you think you''ll get this five million pounds?"


    I smiled. Grinned. Chuckled. All the Max Best hits. "I have no fucking idea."

 12.5 - Black and White

    5.


    "What''s black and white and red all over?


    A newspaper."


    - Traditional British joke


    ***


    Monday, October 13


    The season had settled into a new rhythm with Bumpers Bank as the bass drum. Bom bom bom, train, eat, improve. I was constantly pulling players aside having little talks with them. Rainman, Sharky, Sunday Sowumni. A common experience was me going into one of the cabins and feeling slightly happier without quite knowing why, then discovering that Spectrum had installed acoustic foam in the Sin Bin or Ben''s dad had been to fix the flickering lights in the showers.


    I thought we would get a few months of this downbeat upward mobility, that I would be able to focus my attention on Relationism and fundraising. Mmm, not quite. Change was afoot.


    But one foot I hoped wouldn''t need changing was Pascal''s. (Wow. Terrible. Cut that.)


    The man in question was with me in the clinic, alongside Physio Dean, as we waited our turn for an X-ray.


    Having to wait was fairly surprising because every time I had been there in the past, including for my ''medical'' when I first came to Chester, I''d had the place to myself. Coming on a Monday morning made me realise this was a busy organisation.


    "I suppose that''s why they call it a business," I said, but Dean hadn''t been privy to any of my prior thoughts so he gave me a blank look and returned to his phone. He didn''t really want to be indulging my weirdnesses, especially with a full slate of battered and bruised footballers waiting for him.


    I got a text from Emma''s dad.


    Sebastian: Oh me lads, you should''ve seen us gannin''!


    Me: Pardon me, sir, are you quite well?


    Sebastian: Another win for the mighty Toon!


    Me: New phone who dis?


    Sebastian: You talk a big game, Max. If you think you can beat Noocastle, put your money where your mouth is. Your thousand against my two.


    Me: The Newcastle squad cost 500 million. Mine cost 500 thousand. By my maths, you need to beat us by 10,000 goals or you''ve underperformed.


    Sebastian: You won''t have a friendly wager then? What would change your mind?


    Me: If I had three lightning fast forwards.


    "Excuse me," said a rando. It was a middle-aged woman we were sharing the waiting room with. "Are you that Max Best?"


    "Yes."


    "Oh, I knew it. My Alan''s a big fan."


    "I''m a big fan of Alan''s."


    "Oh, you are funny. I don''t much follow the football, if I''m honest. I like to see the boys doing well, though. How are the boys doing?"


    I looked up. "What a question. Pascal?"


    "Ugh," he said. He was anxious and didn''t want to make small talk. I had promised him his leg wasn''t as badly broken as the doctors feared but in this medical space filled with highly-trained professionals striding confidently through the spaces, it was hard to believe they might have made a mistake.


    I smiled, but I was stressed too. The curse couldn''t be wrong, surely? We would know soon enough. "Well, Mrs, er..."


    "Turner," she said. "But call me Charlie."


    "Hang on," I said. "Your husband is Alan Turner?"


    "Yes, do you know him?"


    "He''s the manager of Newcastle United."


    Charlie Turner smiled. "Oh, he''s not that one."


    "Oh, good."


    "Do you not like him?"


    "No, he''s one of the worst men in football. I think he might be the actual worst."


    Physio Dean stirred. "Worse than Chip? Worse than Folke Wester? Worse than the president of FIFA?"


    I thought about it. "Yeah. I think so. Turner is everything that''s wrong with football, society, and the human condition. He''s a smug apologist for football''s greatest excesses."


    Dean''s eyes drifted left and right. "We''re playing them in a couple of weeks. October 28th, isn''t it? You''re not going to go full Max, are you?"


    I pulled my bottom lip. "No... No, I don''t think so. For, like, ten reasons, including the fact that we''ll lose and you can''t speak your mind if you get beat. Do you know what I mean? Sounds like sour grapes, no-one listens. No, there''s no point laying into him this time. I''ll have to be patient."


    "He might be the England manager by the time we play Newcastle next."


    I scoffed, with just a hint of bitterness. "That''d be perfect. He''s the perfect candidate for the English Football Association after they dared appoint a world class German. What they need next is a man with no moral compass, a man who can be bought and sold, a man you can sell to Daily Mail readers."


    "I read the Daily Mail," said the woman.


    "Yeah," I muttered, tuning out. "That''s why you married a guy called Alan Turner."


    Pascal had been my assistant manager in the 3 R Welsh project for a few weeks and he stepped into the role once more. "Our recent form is much better, Mrs. Turner. We surprised Fleetwood Town in the Vans Trophy. Max tricked them by putting out a weakened side against Wigan and a strong one against Doncaster. It very much appeared as though we were kicking the Trophy in the ton. Fleetwood rested their best players."


    "Oh," she said, and I realised that to an outsider, much of what we did sounded like gibberish. It didn''t help that Pascal had used an obscure German idiom in the middle of his speech.


    "We knocked them out of the AOK Cup and have probably knocked them out of the Vans Trophy. We also snatched a draw against them in the first league game of the season. They do not like us much."


    "No," said Mrs. Turner. She knew one thing to say to football fans. "What was the score?"


    "One-nil," said Pascal. "Max scored."


    "That''s good," she said, making an impressed face. The really impressive thing was that we had won the key match without using Bench Boost and I wouldn''t need to use it in the third and final group stage tie either.


    The Vans Trophy was made up of teams from the third and fourth tiers, plus under 21 sides from the academies of big clubs. Chester''s third group stage tie would be against Liverpool under 21s. The academy sides in the Vans Trophy had played a lot of great football but had lost almost every match. It was amazing experience for the future stars of Liverpool, Brighton, and the rest, but the youngsters didn''t have the nous or experience to actually beat rugged teams of hard men who didn''t want to be humiliated by kids.


    When Chester were in the Premier League, I would manage our under 21s and we would win the Trophy. Why? Because why not. That is, if we were allowed to compete. Currently the tournament was only open to clubs with Category 4 Academies and I was running Chester outside the official Academy system. The aim of that was to help protect my young players from being poached by big clubs - that concept was about to be tested. Liverpool were trying to steal my tiny goal machine, Simon Black.


    "This weekend we had a setback," said Pascal. "An away draw to Sutton United. Two-all after leading two-nil."


    "Oh no."


    Dean shook his head. "Away point''s a good point."


    "Max rates them the weakest team in the league. We have to win such matches."


    "Away point''s a good point," repeated Dean. "Beggars can''t be choosers."


    "No," I said. "It was bad. My fault. Sent on too many kids, didn''t I?"


    "Yes," agreed Pascal and Dean, simultaneously, which made them smile.


    I rubbed my face. I had given Christian Fierce a rest, played the first twenty minutes as captain, created space for Henri to score, whipped in a corner for Lee Hudson to nod home, and until the 70th minute we had bossed the game. When I sent on Dan and Lucas Friend (the young left back), Sutton hadn''t shown any ambition, so I''d thrown on Sunday Sowumni and Tyson, too. Why not?


    Well, the reason why not was that Sutton saw the average age of the team had fallen to about ten and had come at us hard.


    "That was one of the biggest fumbles of my management career," I mused. Our starting CA of 73.3 was higher than Sutton''s 72 and we had played ten points better than them, but the mania for youth development had gone a step too far. "It was bad timing to drop two points."


    "Why?" said Dean, sharply, but the Polish doctor came to get us.


    Pascal hobbled on his crutches into the private room where his brace was carefully removed. The doctor complained that this whole session was stupid, a very terrible idea, a waste of time, but she got things set up and we stepped out. She clicked a button and X-rays smashed into Pascal''s leg.


    We went back in and waited. Our nerves weren''t as frayed as when we had finished our last game of the season and had to spend four dreadful minutes waiting for the Grimsby result to come through, but it was close.


    "Crappity crap," said the Pole when the black and white image came on her screen. "We did the wrong leg."


    I punched the air. "Yes," I hissed. I felt Dean''s eyes on me as I bounced around the room. "I fucking knew it."


    "What''s happening?" said Pascal, who was lying down with his arms over his head.


    "You''re all better," I said. "Get up off the bed and get back to work you lazy bastard. What the fuck." I checked his Condition score. The curse rated him as 30% fit.


    Dean rushed forward. "No no no, don''t move. There has been a mistake. The images are mixed up."


    "No they''re fucking not," I said. I exhaled massively. What a relief! Yes I was one step closer to being burned as a witch, but I was also one step closer to being able to play 3-4-3 diamond. Get the fuck in! "Okay let me think about this. Pascal, they''re gonna keep you here while they take more photos of your lovely legs but I''ve seen enough. I''m going. So the question is, do you want to play against Tranmere or Newcastle?"


    "Fuck sake, Max!" cried Dean. "He''s not playing this month! Not this year!"


    "Course he is. He''s fine. Pascal?"


    "Newcastle."


    "Top. Don''t tell anyone you''re healed. Seeya."


    I was striding out when Dean stopped me. "Max. No."


    "What now?"


    He pointed. "His leg can''t have healed. It can''t."


    Pascal said, "Can I tell my mother? What about Tiggy?"


    I gently eased Dean out of my way and moved to the table. "Only if you can trust them not to tell anyone else. Like not a single soul. Why don''t you say you had some good news about your recovery? That''ll cheer them up and you can bat away any follow-up questions. They''ve already been through the worst and they don''t need all the good news in one pop. I''d like to unleash you, mate. You know, as a surprise, as a fucking bolt from the blue. Newcastle have analysts for days but they won''t be doing reports on a guy who has eight months to go in a long term injury, will they?


    "I know you like being analysed but I like winning matches. I have zero chance to beat Newcastle but if you can give me ten minutes that increases our odds to one percent. Two percent. Okay let''s be straight up, I''m not going to take the slightest risk with your health for the slimmest possible chance of winning a match but if your rehab goes well and if I get the sense that Newcastle are going to put out an under 21 side, I''d like the option of using you. We can beat a Prem under 21 side. We can! Finish this, then I want you off to a counter-current pool in Manchester where you can get moving again without putting strain on your bits and without being recognised.


    "When Dean gets over his shock he''s going to get you back in the groove in record time. When you''re not training you''re wearing your brace okay? For show. Can you do a sad face?"


    He was smiling pretty hard. "Not right now, boss, no."


    "Imagine I''ve turned down a five million pound bid from Newcastle United for you."


    "Why would you do that?"


    "Because while you''d look amazing in that famous old black and white kit, I don''t want you playing for Alan Turner." Pascal frowned. I perked up. "There we go! Visualisation works. Maybe you don''t need those acting lessons after all."


    ***


    On my way out, I felt my phone vibrate.


    Sebastian: Come on, Max. Be a sport. Your thousand, my three. Four grand in the pot, winner takes all. All you have to do is beat Newcastle. What''s stopping you?


    Me: I don''t have a good scam. Sun Tsu told me to pick my battles.


    ***


    Outside the clinic, I hopped on the Green Baron, my cute little e-scooter, and did my customary curse check before turning off the screens so I could focus on the roads. Life was a lot more fragile without a sturdy metal shell around you.


    At some point in the very recent past I''d got cursemail. When I opened it, I almost had a dizzy spell.


    It was a monthly perk, but that made no sense because I had already been offered one on October 1. There were now two October perks in the shop.


    I had barely read the first one - I was determined to buy Relationism as soon as possible so I could get the fuck on with revolutionising football. The imps were trying to make me buy all kinds of vaguely-worded power-ups so that I would have to keep grinding for XP to unlock my full potential.


    No thanks. No distractions!


    As shocking as it was to be offered a second perk, it was just as shocking to read what it said.


    Seasonal Special Offer


    New perk collection available to buy until the witching hour on All Hallow''s Eve: Shocktober


    Cost: 2,777 XP


    Effects: Increases your chance of winning when playing a team with higher reputation in the month of October. This special offer contains three mini-packs: Expected Ghouls; The Full Protonic Reversal Pack; A Nightmare on Filbert Street.


    It was one of the earliest perk offers, repeated! The original offer, made two years prior, had seemed like an excuse for the imps to get silly and write loads of Halloween puns. There were three ''mini-packs'' which contained lots of ''mini-perks''.


    The imps had clearly enjoyed themselves coming up with the ideas but the perk itself had been easy to turn down. Too expensive, not enough benefit. It would help me win - to cause shocks - against bigger teams, which was almost everyone, but only in October.


    This time, though, I was more tempted. For a start, I was managing more matches. When Shocktober had first appeared I was the manager of the Beth Heads, end of list. Now I was the boss of Chester, who were in three different cups as well as the league, I was managing the worst unit in the army, and I was planning to take over the boy''s team. The men''s team had three big league games coming up - Walsall, Tranmere, and MK Dons, plus the AOK Cup match against Newcastle. We also had a Cheshire Cup match, though there was no chance we would be considered the underdogs.


    In short, the value proposition was completely different, and there was the question of when to rearrange our Vans Trophy match against Liverpool. The logical thing would be to reschedule it the first week of November, but if we kept it in October this perk would kick in. Whether they were fielding their kids or not, Liverpool were a bigger club than Chester.


    Scheduling the match in the last week of October would have been tight, but manageable. If we binned off the Newcastle match on the Tuesday, went hard at Liverpool on Thursday, we could put out a weak team on the Saturday - it was against Coalville Town F.C. in the FA Cup First Round. Easy.


    But when I checked the wording of the perk, a couple of things had changed and the second change was very significant.


    In the original version, one of the mini-perks had said this:


    Frankenstein Is The Doctor Not the Monster - Referees will make decisions in a fussy, pedantic manner. Activation optional.


    The name of the perk had been changed to:


    Frankenstein Is The Doctor And the Monster.


    Okay so one of the imps had been to a book club and learned that the so-called monster wasn''t the villain of the story. I didn''t think it was that black and white but fine. An interesting if utterly irrelevant change.


    But a whole segment of the Shocktober curse listed clubs against whom the mini-perks would always work (in October). For example, Frighten and Hove Albion and Shuddersfield Town. It was fairly unlikely I would ever play against those particular clubs in October, so it wasn''t awfully appealing.


    However, a new name had been added to the list:


    Nuke Hassle United.


    The imps thought adding that name would tempt me into spending my XP. Huh.


    I folded up the Green Baron, tucked it under my arm, and walked.


    ***


    Tuesday, October 14


    Cheshire Cup 1st Round: Chester versus Stalybridge Celtic FC


    Stalybridge came to town with an average CA of 25, which meant we could field almost any eleven and expect to win. Sandra and I had spent most of Monday morning bickering about a potential line up. She was in charge of the match but it was too good a chance to give minutes to younger players for me to not stick my oar in. As recompense, I promised to come off the bench and save the day if anything went wrong.


    I suggested using 4-4-2 to make it easier to integrate the under 18s.


    She asked for Ben (CA 67) in goal, and that was fine by me as long as Banksy (23) could come on for ten minutes if we were far enough ahead.


    A back four including Cole Adams (55), Sunday (33), and Jamie Brotherhood (20) was youthful, to say the least, but I let Sandra convince me to use Zach (74) in the match to provide some stability.


    From left to right of midfield: Josh Owens (55), Dan Badford (50), Andrew (56) and Noah Harrison (27).


    Up front, Tom Westwood (52) and Benny (35).


    Overall, a very respectable average of 47.6. It was amazing to think that when I had joined the club there were four members of the first team squad whose PA was under 40 and our starting left back was CA 29. We had come a long way since the days of Trick Williams.


    Sandra was happy to run the whole show and let me take the evening off, but there was one thing she thought was better coming from me - telling Zach he was Chester captain for the night. Have you ever seen a man''s chest inflate to three times its usual size? I have, twice. (The other being a baddie in a James Bond movie. He popped.)


    ***


    The match wasn''t all that interesting - we were better and it showed but we weren''t so much better that we could take the piss with slick moves. It got scrappy.


    Still, I was on fairly friendly terms with the Cheshire FA these days - I''d raised a ton of cash for the schools programme - and they had graciously permitted us to set our own prices for the match. We were charging a pound a person with cheap beer and that had attracted just over 700 to come - amazing numbers for the competition. Once again the Harry McNally was filled with people wearing bright yellow, while the stewards were in orange.


    Sebastian: 14 sleeps until the big night! Alan Turner''s a handsome fellow, isn''t he? Wonderful man. You''re lucky you get to meet him.


    While I was in the messages app I saw a text from Secretary Joe begging me for a final decision about the Liverpool under 21s game. I replied with the logical, sensible course - we would play it in the first week of November. No extra help from the curse, then, but if we did decide to go hard at Newcastle, we wouldn''t have to worry about fixture congestion.


    Physio Dean was next to me in the dugout. He had barely spoken to me since we''d seen Pascal''s X-rays, but he seemed to snap out of whatever spell the image had cast on him. "Boss," he said. "Seriously. How did you know about...?" He looked around, remembering the news was supposed to be kept under wraps for now.


    "I didn''t know, man," I said, sliding my phone back into my kit bag. "I just... Just had that feeling, you know? Like, I almost wanted to be wrong because I believe in science but there was something telling me it would heal fast. No harm in checking, is there?"


    "I suppose not."


    "Let''s not make a habit of getting long-term injur - you know what? I''m not even going to tempt fate."


    "I think that''s called character growth."


    "How was he today?"


    "Cloud nine. He wanted to go longer in the pool but I insisted he rest. Rest is just as important as the work he''s doing. I''d rather you didn''t use him for a while."


    "Yeah, well. I''m probably not gonna. But..."


    Dean was something of an expert in self-deception and he seemed to know what I was thinking. "What''s your deal with Alan Turner? I had a look and couldn''t see a connection between you. You''ve never played, never done a transfer. There''s no reason to hate him."


    I thought about covering my mouth to defend against lip readers, but there were no cameras getting close-ups of the dugout action. For now. "He''s a good coach, improves players, good on the tactics. If he was manager of, I don''t know, Bournemouth, I''d have a lot of time for him. He''s maybe about thirty percent too cheaty for my tastes but in a way I don''t mind him bending rules until they break - I more blame the feeble-minded weaklings who don''t enforce the rules. No, my problem with him isn''t football. It''s political."


    "Political?"


    "Yeah. I don''t really want to get into it, not this time, anyway."


    "Not this time?"


    "This time I''ll focus on the positives. The beautiful black and white kit, stories of Jackie Milburn, all that stuff I like. But we''re gonna play Newcastle again in the future and whoever is in the job then is gonna get it."


    "Get it? What''s it?"


    "It is that Chester will be sponsored by Amnesty International for one match and we''ll be shining a light on human rights abuses in countries that own English football clubs. The week before the match I''m gonna legally change my name to that of a journalist who was butchered by his own state and I''m going to wear that name on my shirt. Newcastle fans shouldn''t be happy they were bought by a regime that makes the Harkonnens look cuddly but I''ve spent enough time with Emma''s dad to sort of get past that. Mostly. I might land a few jabs... But nah. They can''t choose who they support, right? They want their team to do well. Fair enough."


    Sandra danced along the touchline shouting ''Switch! Switch!'' Noah clipped the ball ahead, Tom got there, pulled it back, Benny applied the finish. Four-nil!


    "Yeah, the fans are the fans," I said, returning to the topic. "And the country is the country. But the manager is there by choice and unless he''s pushing back against human rights abuses, he''s a toadie, he''s a stooge, he''s a servile coward. It is my professional opinion that Alan Turner is a fucking ghoul. There was a match early on where he was asked what he thought about the 80 citizens who were beheaded the day before and he said yeah if I start talking about that I''m on dangerous ground. Right. Dangerous ground. Like the embassy where they murdered the journalist while his fianc¨¦e was waiting outside.


    "That story haunts me, Dean. I think about it all the time. Fuck," I added, because I was getting wound up. I had been trying hard to keep my flappy Manc gob shut. I was a failing League Two manager. My opinions were worthless. I needed to get to the Prem before I went supernova but even then, what difference would it make? None. Almost none. There was one thing I could do. One thing that my powers would allow me to do better than almost anyone in the sport. "Alan Turner pretends he doesn''t know exactly what he''s doing but he does. The closer we get to the match the more I think it''s my duty to fuck him up. His only dream in life is to become the England manager and if I can end that dream I will think I''ve accomplished something. Fuck, wouldn''t that be amazing? I could be the agent of cosmic justice."


    Dean side-eyed me. "Is this because of Raffi Brown?"


    "What? What do you mean?"


    "The Saudi Pro League bought him against your wishes."


    "It''s got nothing to do with that. If they want to spend their money building up their football league so it''s the best in the world, that''s cool. That''s what you should do if you have a spare couple of trillion. If they had bought R. Brown six months later I would have been the happiest man who ever blew his lottery win on solar panels. Honestly, I don''t mind the SPL. Why shouldn''t Saudis have amazing players at their local clubs? If I was them I''d be buzzing. No, I know who was behind the R. Brown deal; I know who I should blame. What I blame Saudi Arabia for is buying Newcastle and turning English football into just another battleground in their endless geopolitical cold war and for revealing the moral bankruptcy of so many people."


    Dean said, "If you believe all that, why not say it now? You might not get another chance."


    "They''ll still be chopping people up next time, believe me. Their cruelty towards their people is all I have ever known."


    "I meant we might not get Newcastle again."


    "We will. But anyway, it''s a tricky time. We''re trying to get people to invest in the stadium rebuild, right? I need to be diplomatic until we get the money."


    "Oh, is that happening?"


    "Yeah. There''s only one real option - it involves a Newcastle fan, by the way, so there''s another reason I need to be diplomatic - but we have to look into other financial instruments to show the fans that we''re running the club properly. We will announce something soon. It''ll have to be soon because we need to get a wiggle on if we''re gonna demolish a stand this summer. Fuck."


    "What?"


    "Alan Turner makes four million a year, did you know that? The twat earns as much as this football club. I hate him and his smug face! Right, anyway. I''m mature, I''m diplomatic, I''m sophisticated, and when Newcastle come I''m going to play five-five-oh, try not to get beat too hard, and I''m going to project a bright, happy, shiny image of the future and not mention assassinations."


    Dean scoffed. "Most people find it easy not to mention assassinations, boss. Football managers, in particular, find it easy."


    I didn''t smile. "Don''t buy an English football club to distract from all the murders you do and I promise I''ll never mention all the murders you do. Deal?" I thought about getting my phone out and sending Sebastian a provocative reply, but there was one thing I could do that would make Alan Turner and Sebastian Weaver green with envy. "Gaffer?"


    Sandra came over. "Yes, boss?"


    "I''m in a mood. Can I go on and hit the ball very hard, please?"


    ***


    Wednesday, October 15


    I was alone in the Sin Bin watching videos on the big telly when Zach and Alex Short came in. Clearly they were going to have some therapy and I was in the way.


    "Just leaving," I said.


    "We''re early," said Alex. "No rush."


    I ripped my thoughts away from the screen. "Captain Zachtastic. Seven-one. Did you enjoy that?"


    "Yes, Max. Would have preferred a clean sheet but a win''s a win."


    "Mmm," I said. I had thoughts about Zach''s performance but wondered if I should bother explaining them. After all, when you''re in a hole, stop digging. Me being me, I ignored my own advice. "Zach, er, it''s hard for me to remember how it used to be, but when I used to play Sunday League there was a lot of shouting, a lot of caveman nonsense. They don''t want it! Win the second half! Get stuck in. You know, a whole load of dumb shit based on nothing and I think it''s obvious that my way''s better. Assume everyone is trying to win, focus on the process, get technical."


    "Yeah," said Zach.


    "But every now and then I''d be struggling, having a bad day, ball''s squirting off my shins, can''t beat my man, all that, and one of the lads I respected would scream get your head in the fucking game or something like that. And sometimes it helped. Sometimes you need a great big American doofus to give you the hairdryer. Get you fired up."


    He didn''t smile. "You want me to be... more vocal?"


    I shook my head, nodded, shook my head again. I was shit at this. "There were a couple of times last night when I would have liked to see the captain melt someone''s face off. When we had our last talk, I didn''t want to change your personality. You''re the squad''s vice-vice-captain and if you see something you don''t like you''re allowed to mouth off. Hairdryer on the pitch, arm around the shoulder in the dressing room, that sort of thing. You did half of it last night but ever since our talk I get the feeling you''ve overcompensated. I feel I''m bad at putting what I want into words but when I see something''s right or wrong, I see it. Wow. That was lame."


    Alex tried to articulate what I was saying. "Coming from a place of togetherness, understanding, and emotional intelligence, Zach is allowed, encouraged even, to yell at Dan Badford if he tries a stupid show-off trick that lets Stalybridge launch a counter-attack."


    I smiled. "Yes. Thank you. That''s it."


    "Understanding that we''re all on different parts of our journey doesn''t mean accepting mediocrity."


    That was even better. "Yes!"


    Alex made strong eye contact with me. "And how should he react if his boss is messing about trying to hit longer and longer crossfield passes?"


    "He should keep his flappy Texan gob shut because that''s my therapy process."


    "Is it?" said Alex.


    "Yeah. Football therapy. It''s like art therapy but instead of painting kittens it involves kicking the ball as hard as possible while maintaining accuracy."


    Zach said, "It was a sight to behold. Why not shoot instead of launching balls at Noah Harrison?"


    "Shoot?" I scoffed. "Because there are goalies. It would just be giving the ball away." And also because there was a cosmic policeman known as The Sentinel who would squash me flat if he caught me abusing my powers too hard. Most of what I did wasn''t extreme enough to attract the attention of the mainstream media, let alone eternal entities. Lots of players in the lower leagues could take a vicious corner and there were a few free kick specialists. There weren''t too many scoring from 40 yards four times a week.


    Zach said, "I think I know what you mean about yelling, boss. I have to find a balance. I hear ya. What were you watching?"


    "Bradford," I said, with a touch of guilt.


    "Anything interesting?"


    I played the last two clips I''d watched. "Last-minute equaliser. Last-minute winner. They''re bouncing. There''s spirit, togetherness, fire, much less stupidity. The fans are starting to like Chip Star. Some kid stole a shopping trolley and pimped it up as his Chip Van. USB lamp, portable speakers, beers, put a towel over the top and got his mate to push him around."


    "Christ," laughed Alex.


    "What are we gonna do about it?" demanded Zach.


    "We''re gonna beat them," I said. "That''s all we can do. But, listen. You live in Wrexham, right? I''m going there in a bit to do my army coaching. Pascal''s busy. Come and be my assistant manager for the day. Bring your dogs!"


    "I''d like that. Do you mean now?" said Zach.


    "No, after your therapy."


    "Sure thing, boss!"


    "One thing," I said, as I slipped off the table and turned the screen off. "In front of the army guys, Pascal has been calling me Commander-in-chief so if you could stick to that there would be less confusion."


    "Sure, boss."


    I ambled out and as I clicked the door behind me I was pretty sure I heard Alex say, "You know this isn''t therapy, right?"


    ***


    CrunchyAbs


    Had a shit day at work. Hoping BG will pop in with another update on his story.


    BrokenGround


    Guys, we won!


    We won. We beat RAPTC. They''re like the army''s P.E. teachers so obviously they''re fit. They''re pretty much the best of the second-tier units, if you get me. The army''s version of Leicester or Leeds. There was no Pascal but Best brought Zach Green with him, and Zach brought his dogs.


    CrunchyAbs


    Please tell me you have photos.


    (Of the dogs.)


    BrokenGround


    No I wasn''t thinking straight. It was a bonkers day and I''m still calming down. But they''re good boys. They''re called One, Two, Three in different languages.


    Er, so what happened? We went to Colliers, did the usual pre-match routines. Best was really interested in PTC''s warm ups. Somehow from that he could tell they had great coaches so we should get funky. He told us we would play ''normball'' first half so that the coaches wouldn''t be able to get involved at half time. First half we played 4-4-2 without Fatso, did the old stuff.


    Instead of watching us, Zach walked his dogs and Fatso and two other subs went with him, which I think tells you how entertaining it was (and how cute the dogs are).


    At half time Best puts on Fatso and everything goes haywire. We do blobs, we do artillery launches to zone 15, one-twos, all the hits. Zach''s jumping around - he can''t believe it.


    And PTC don''t know what the fuck has hit them! The coaches are yelling things, trying to reorganise. They switch to five at the back but with the five shifted across to our strong side so it was like they had two left backs.


    So Best calls Fatso over, they have a chat, and now we attack down the left instead. It''s not as natural because we''ve mostly got right-footers, but it messes PTC up for a minute. They reorganise again. We stay where we are except we put The Midnighter all the way on the right, all on his own. One of the defenders goes across to cover him, right, so Best puts Hot Rod over there, too. PTC put another guy there. So our blob is two men smaller but we''ve got less opponents and we''re moving the ball nicely.


    The wide men aren''t just for show. Fatso gets the ball, turns, hits an up-and-under towards the right. At first I''m excited - it''s two attackers against two defenders and you like those odds - but the ball''s behind everyone and PTC get a break. Danger!


    Except we''ve been doing Best''s ''Run You Worms'' drill and we get behind the ball, nice and solid, before PTC know what''s up. Still nil-nil. Best calls Fatso over. Fatso jogs back, comes over to me. "Gaffer wants you to play the big diags."


    "Me?"


    "Yeah. Stick to the blobs until the oppo is drawn over. Be patient. But if you think it''s on, go for it. Just don''t do what I did and play it too short. Better too long than too short, right?"


    "Right," I say. Too long and it''s a goal kick or a throw in. Too short and it''s a dangerous counter.


    Exciting! Best thinks I''m the best at long passes. That''s a rush but I''ve got to play smart. We form the blob, lose the ball, hustle to get it back, chill, form the blob again. Repeat, repeat, repeat, which could be demotivating except we can see the oppo losing their minds. They don''t know what to do, they don''t know how to play. When they rush in, Fatso clips the ball to a runner and we get shots. If they don''t rush in, we keep the ball. What are they supposed to do?If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    I get the chance to hit a big pass but I''m not sure so I keep it simple, play it to Fatso, we go again. I glance over and Best is gripping Zach''s arm like ''oh my God he did it right I can''t believe it'' which is, you know, both annoying and motivational.


    Second chance, I take a touch, look to the right where we''ve got the two guys waiting to attack their two, I compose myself, try to hit the ball behind the defenders, away from the goalie, give our lads half a chance of getting onto it.


    I don''t get a clean contact - I''m too excited - so the ball spins like a gyroscope. A defender''s in the way and he sticks out a foot to control the ball but all the spin makes it squirt off him in the direction of his own goal! It''s basically a perfect cushioned pass and The Midnighter is onto it in a flash. He''s got Hot Rod with him, and we''ve practised this a hundred times. It''s the other side of the Run You Worms drill. Engage the goalie, sideways pass, open net, goal, piece of piss.


    Piece of actual piss.


    We go nuts. Complete breakdown of discipline! Court-martials all round!


    It''s one-nil, final score, with some nervy moments at the end.


    There''s another great bit. When we''re done, we''re at the side of the pitch taking on water, waiting for our debrief before Best rushes off. Zach goes, ''Well, fellas, that was the craziest shit I''ve ever seen'' and we have a good laugh. He looks at his boss. ''Are we gonna be learning this, General?'' ''Maybe.'' Zach looks at me. ''I guess I''ll be playing the BrokenGround role. Guard the base, short passes into the mist, line-breaking passes out wide.'' ''Mist?'' says Best, and they go into a discussion about metaphors.


    I tune out. The BrokenGround role!


    I''ve got a role!


    Lads, I''m buzzing. I''ve been walking around with a big cheesy grin for two hours.


    ***


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 36%


    ***


    Saturday, October 18


    Match 12 of 46: Chester versus Walsall


    After watching 3 R Welsh win their match - they were so happy - I bought the Shocktober perk. It was unusually short-term of me, but if my instincts were right, a short-term burst of optimism could help us very much in the long term.


    In gaming parlance, the perk mostly offered passive effects - when we were at home, the fans would be noisier, for example, without me clicking on anything - but there were two parts that needed to be activated. First, I had to play Murder on the Dance Floor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor in order to boost Morale. Second, I got the option to make referees run the game in a fussy, pedantic manner. That didn''t sound fun, but maybe I would use it against Newcastle. I mean, why not, right? They were used to getting decisions their way all the time. What if a ref actually applied the laws of the game? Could be an area of opportunity...


    For the Walsall match, Sandra and I settled on 4-1-4-1. Fierce was back but I wanted to give Dazza a break. His Morale was fine but every match that went past without scoring was weighing on him and the best way to combat that was to talk to the psychologist and to train. I had considered letting him play against Stalybridge to get a goal, but what if he hadn''t scored? What if he had scored and then heard everyone say it was only the Cheshire Cup so it didn''t count? Nah, he had to do it in a real match. He was up to CA 81 and showed no signs of slowing - we were coaching the shit out of him, double sessions multiple times a week.


    Training was going well.


    Without me really noticing it, Eddie Moore had crept up close to his ceiling. He was only two points away from his PA of 75. Huh. He was doing all right defensively although we weren''t asking him to join attacks because otherwise he would get destroyed. A player hitting his limit was normally an excuse to get rid of him asap, but Eddie''s backups were twenty points off the pace so I couldn''t see a way to sell him until the summer.


    Youngster hadn''t improved for a while - he was CA 90. Nothing to worry about as long as the plateau didn''t last too long...


    Lee C had got his head down, trained, and was trying to find his place in the group. He had crept up to CA 79 and was only one point away from what I was calling ''Gold'' for League Two.


    His midfield partner Ryan Jack was improving at a glacial pace - fitting, in some ways, given how he ran - but he was improving. His CA clicked over to 70. Not amazing, but he was 37 years old and had had a major injury. All things considered, I felt like I was managing his minutes pretty well. He hated being subbed off all the time, but in the calm and respectful shouting matches we''d had on the topic, he had informed me that he preferred the current state of affairs to being kicked up the arse and stuffed into a wheelie bin.


    I was using the following levels to classify the players.


    CA 0-59 Tin


    60-69 Bronze


    70-79 Silver


    80-89 Gold


    90+ Platinum


    In our squad of 24 players (excluding me), we had 11 tin, although Wibbers and Sharky wouldn''t be there for much longer. 11 out of 24 who weren''t up to the standard of being a backup for the first team.


    There were 3 bronze. Three guys good enough to be a backup. Fine, but this group included Ben and Sticky - whoever I chose, I had a backup playing in possibly the most important position.


    Six silver. Being at that level meant you were a high-end National League player or solid League Two performer. A lot of the first team were in this group - three of my first-choice back four, my two best central midfielders, and Pascal.


    Gold - players with the ability to perform at the higher end of the spectrum. We had three: Fierce, Henri, and Dazza. Henri was a couple of months away from hitting his ceiling. Would I use God Save the King to give him a further boost? It wouldn''t be logical or financially beneficial to me or the club. But yeah, I probably would.


    Youngster had gone platinum, though that in itself caused a very minor headache. My best player was a DM, so I wanted to use formations that had a DM by default. If I used DM-less formations like 4-4-2 or 3-5-2, I often used my solitary deformation to open a slot for Youngster. There were times I might have benefited from tinkering with the attack instead, but Youngster only played to gold level when he played central midfield.


    ***


    Walsall came with a youthful team, expertly assembled on a tight budget. For 44,000 pounds a week they''d put together a team with an average CA of 80. Very, very impressive and I made careful note of their staff profiles.


    Sadly, their goalie was shit.


    ***


    Match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.


    Author: D.Cox


    Chester 3 Walsall 2 - Seals Exhale Sigh of Satisfaction as Saddlers Self-Sabotage


    Chester won a topsy-turvy affair at a packed Deva stadium earlier today, thanks in part to Walsall''s hapless goalkeeper. In fact, the match could be characterised as two promising, youthful, equally-matched teams being equally let down by their sticksmen. The deciding factor was, as it often has been this season, Max Best''s ruthlessness. Twice in the last ten minutes, Walsall''s goalie misplaced a pass to the midfield, and twice Best latched onto it, drove forward, and lashed the ball into the net.


    The first half was entertaining, with both sides attempting to pass the ball and create openings. Chester''s creaky defence was supported by Youngster, and boy did they need support.


    [And so on and so on. All a bit over the top, tbh. The win was never in doubt.]


    ***


    That evening, I noticed something strange - or I thought I did.


    During the match, Sandra was her normal self. Professional, demanding, focussed.


    She reacted with delight to our goals and with a huge, relieved smile to the final whistle.


    So far, so normal. But later I caught her leaning against a wall, staring into space, with the same vaguely haunted look on her face as when we were bottom of the league. We were 18th and flying, so what was that all about?


    I wished I had a Morale perk for my staff, but I didn''t, so I resolved to keep an eye on her.


    ***


    Sebastian: You''re unbeaten in six. Well done! I''m starting to think you might never lose another football match and I''m willing to bet on it. Your thousand to my five that Newcastle do what few can and beat Max Best''s Chester.


    Me: Or I could withdraw a grand and burn it while singing What Time Is Love. We have no chance, I told you. Plus we have a hard tie against MK Dons a few days before. Pick your battles, remember. This is Alan Turner''s problem: he goes hard at every game and his players get burned out. You should call your mates at Newcastle and tell him it''s okay to rest some of his lads against us. You can''t win a cup on goal difference.


    Sebastian: I can''t tell if you''re planning to throw the match or not.


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 44%


    ***


    Tuesday, October 21


    Match 13 of 46: Tranmere Rovers versus Chester


    This was a big game, a huge game. A titanic derby! The first encounter between the clubs in years! The vibe I got from outsiders, from social media, and from my friend Mateo - the owner of Tranmere, no less - was that the tension was rising.


    Not in Bumpers Bank.


    I spent Monday morning in the Sin Bin showing the lads some clips of their next opposition. With the acoustic panels, a chair I could actually sit in, and a very slightly upgraded speaker setup, the Bin was becoming a tolerable place to spend twenty minutes watching videos.


    I pointed out the basics, starting with the fact that Jimmy Mustard was using 4-5-1 in an attempt to stop the beatings his team was getting. I wasn''t keen to let Tranmere boss the midfield - I had some dignity - so I was toying with doing 4-1-4-1 again, possibly 4-5-1, but it would be the strongest possible team. We would then either go strong against MK Dons in the league or against Newcastle in the AOK Cup but not both. "I haven''t decided yet," I admitted. "Luckily it doesn''t affect how we need to approach the Tranmere game."


    I suggested that this would be a battle between Sam Topps and Lee Contreras. That got Lee''s jaw going - he had been let go by Tranmere because the new manager didn''t rate him - so I reminded him that if he got sent off, that would prove Mustard right. Lee got the message.


    I went through Tranmere''s squad, pointing out that their new Panamanian defender Tony Herbert was mint and class and wasn''t to be underestimated, that left back Jack the Lad was prone to lapses in concentration but would likely be fired up against me, and that Junior, the striker, was liable to finish any chances we allowed him. I noted that they had two young guns on the bench - Lucas Cook and Bark - who I had wanted to sign.


    "So there is talent in Tranmere, okay? But they''re not as good as us and Mustard is limited. If we get ahead he''ll stand on the sideline waving his arms around like a twat and his players aren''t paying much attention these days. Right, train as normal, don''t let the hype get to you, this one is going to be straightforward."


    Tranmere''s average CA was 77. I liked a lot of their players but there were low ceilings all over the place. Jack the Lad was PA 80, as was my former Darlington teammate Junior. Sam Topps was PA 60. Their high PA squad members were almost exclusively ones I had recommended to the club - the right midfielders Bark and Nelson Smith-Howes (PA 130 and 139 respectively), the striker Lucas Cook (142), Tony Herbert (150). Gabby, the Brazilian striker I''d found in Sao Paulo, would join in January.


    Their Morale was falling, ours was rising. Conditions were perfect to give them a good tonking.


    In the end, it was a shit match. The midfield was clogged, the scene of numerous running battles. Lee Contreras put himself about trying to do an all-action display. Ryan Jack couldn''t find a yard of space. Wes Hayward''s passing was wayward. Henri worked hard, but as so often, we couldn''t get the ball to him. We lacked a spark. Some guile in midfield. I found myself wondering if Mateo would sell me one of Bark or Smith-Howes on the cheap, since fucking Jimmy Mustard didn''t want to give them a chance.


    The game-within-the-game proved vital once more. The 20 minutes when I was on the pitch was completely different to the rest of the 90. I replaced Ryan and roamed around, though I couldn''t stay away from CM for too long or chaos would ensue.


    I got myself into position to have a couple of dribbles at Jack the Lad - the prick had been flirting with Emma in front of me - but he stuck to his task well and I got no change from him. When Tranmere had the advantage I dropped next to Youngster. But mostly I was trying to get up to support Henri.


    One of those times saw Eddie Moore hit a hopeful ball forward. I gambled that Henri would win the header. He did. It skimmed off his head and I latched onto it. Tony Herbert followed me but was left bamboozled by a chop-back. After I passed Herbert and lined up a shot, the Panamanian slid in to block, but he caught my standing foot.


    Penalty!


    (Penalty and a mangled ankle. That night it looked like a shrivelled pumpkin. This from a man I''d plucked from obscurity. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished.)


    I shook off the pain, rolled the ball into the net, and did an exaggerated ''don''t celebrate in front of your former team'' celebration.


    And that was it - I expected Tranmere to come at us, but they stuck to their plan of keeping things stodgy and didn''t even get the usual end-of-match barrage going.


    Three points, a clean sheet, up to 15th in the league. Sandra celebrated... until she thought no-one was looking.


    ***


    Mateo had invited us to dinner. Sandra wanted to get home, so the blue corner was me and the Brig. On the Tranmere side was Mateo, his wife Rachel, driver John, plus Jimmy Mustard and a couple of coaches.


    "And whose side are you on?" Mateo said to Emma.


    "Max''s," she said, hugging my arm.


    "And when they play Newcastle United?"


    She shrugged. "I want them both to win."


    "But if you had to choose one."


    "I choose one to win and the other to not lose." She suddenly got a bright smile. "A draw."


    "It''s a cup match," smiled Mateo. "Someone''s going out."


    "Okay then I choose Newcastle to win."


    That stunned me. I had a blob of soup on the way to my mouth; its journey was put on hold. I decided I would have a sip of wine after all, and Rachel asked the most important question of the age. "Why?"


    "Max can take losing much better than my dad." She didn''t give us much time to live with that statement. "Talking of losing with dignity, thanks for dinner, Matty."


    "Ouch," he said. "The worst part for me was that Max barely celebrated. A few high fives, hugs, clap the away fans, job done. There''s something ominous about it. Like he thinks we''re one of the worst teams in the league and are beneath his notice."


    I jabbed my spoon in his direction. "We did a video analysis session about you. We don''t do that with every team."


    Mateo seemed pleased. "Oh. That''s good."


    "Yeah," I said, loading the next spoonful. "It''s always good to start the week with a spot of comedy."


    Emma, the Brig, and John Driver stifled laughs while Mateo looked up at the ceiling with good-natured exasperation. He tried to tease me about making him sign Tony Herbert. "It helps that you''ve planted a double agent."


    "Yeah," I said. "So-called because you will double your money on him. He''s class." I nearly added, ''He''s so good even Jimmy can see it,'' but just about held my tongue.


    It was annoying that Mustard was there because I wanted to rip into the useless prick. My current Chester team had a poor midfield, one of the weakest defences in the league, and the worst goalkeeper. It was crazy not to throw the kitchen sink at us for the last ten minutes, at least. I wanted to get promoted this season and then drag Tranmere one division below me so I would have an ally close to our level. Jimmy Mustard wasn''t the man to get them promoted, no matter how many top talents I sent to Birkenhead. "I told you I''ll be first in line to buy Herbert when you want to sell." A throb of pain ran up my leg. "That said, next time he kicks me I''m going to fuck him up. Let him know." My phone vibrated. "Huh."


    Emma said, "What?"


    "Your dad''s absolutely bonkers about the match. He''s just texted, one week to go! He keeps trying to make me have a bet with him about who''ll win. Strangely, he won''t let me take the Newcastle side of the bet."


    "He''s not stupid," said Mateo, which was a fair dig. I raised my wine to him. "Really, though, you haven''t got a prayer, have you? Or have you?"


    I leaned forward and got intense. Me at my most charismatic. "I love my boys and I believe in them. If we all pull together, fight for every ball, stick to the plan, trust in each other... we might only lose 7-0."


    "Well," said Mateo. "At least Mr. Weaver will be happy."


    "Ah," I said, with a slight smile. "Maybe. I plan to text him just before kick off saying I know what his club means to him so I''ve decided to let them win. It will take about ten percent off his enjoyment."


    "Max," complained Emma.


    "What?" I said, innocently.


    She turned away from me and said, "How are things in Gibraltar?"


    The question cheered Mateo up. "Great! College are second. The Red Imps are first, three points ahead. They look unbeatable this season but we have thrown a completely new team together and we need time to gel. We''re still winning most games easily, though."


    Emma slapped my arm. "I thought we were going to win!"


    I rubbed the spot. "College and the Imps are evenly matched. I did say to Mateo that College needed one more player to make sure of the title but he wanted to be a cheapska - he wanted to be cost-conscious about it."


    He scoffed. "There''s nothing cheap about what we did. I''ll admit to getting cold feet quite a few times in the process. Glenn Ryder? I didn''t see it. But he''s out there dominating matches, being a leader in training, all that good stuff. I would be happy with finishing second in the first season. Then we will add two, three players with enough quality to give us a chance to get past the European qualification stages. Right, Max?"


    "Sounds good," I said, but I was drifting out of the conversation. College, Saltney, West, all the Chester teams - everything was on track. Going great. Smooth sailing.


    So why did it feel bumpy?


    ***


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 52%


    ***


    Wednesday, October 22


    Sandra took training and it was as good as ever. Better, even, because we had our routine down pat. Sandra in the middle, the ringmaster, doing 80 percent of the sessions. Around, spread two-dimensionally onto our overflow pitches, spread three-dimensionally to later in the day, were the skill-specific sessions. Dazza learning to turn his man, Zach passing through waves of zombies, Wibbers sprinting fifteen yards onto passes before hitting long shots.


    It was mint. I wanted it to go like this forever.


    I was in the Sin Bin watching videos of Newcastle in the AOK Cup. Their lineups were tailored for the opposition - against no-marks like Chester they would field a team that cost one hundred million pounds instead of one that cost five hundred million. That was one factor in our favour. Another was that Alan Turner never changed his system. I knew how they would play. Could I stop them?


    Er, no. Not with the players I had. But I had the slightest inkling of a possible plan if we drew them in a cup next season...


    I had the door open so that I would hear when the session ended. Sandra yelled, "Well done, lads. Well in." There was the sound of a lot of sweaty men walking in the same direction, laughing and joking, then a door being swung open and the sound of boots clomping indoors. Some of them touched a sign that was up. It read, Prize Money: 30,000.


    I counted to ten then stuck my head out. Mostly all clear.


    "Vimsy," I called out as I paced towards the grass pitch. "You can pick up, yeah?"


    Vimsy looked up to where Sandra was gathering the cones nearest her. "Sure, boss."


    "Sandra," I said, jerking my head. Not knowing what was going on was eating away at me. Time to gently prise the plaster off. Something was bothering her big time. My guess? She had been offered a job, a good one, and she didn''t know how to tell me.


    She fell into step beside me. "All good, boss?"


    "Oh, I''m tremendous," I said. "Not doing anything weird at all. No sighs. No forlorn glances. If there''s anything on my chest, I''ve long since got it off. Feels good, man, feels good."


    She stopped. "Oh." I spun on my heels and waited. She closed her eyes. "We''re doing that."


    "Only if you want," I said, softly. "It''s just that I have the emotional range of a bowl of porridge and if I''ve noticed, so have half the lads. Henri has probably written a Christmas musical called What''s Eating Sandra Lane?"


    She hesitated, started walking again, and we got to the car park. "What are you doing?" she said.


    I was standing on the Green Baron, my fancy e-scooter. I showed that there was space at the back where a woman''s foot could just about fit. "Hop on," I said.


    "Let''s take mine," she said, and beeped open her new car.


    I settled down into the passenger seat. I fastened my belt but Sandra didn''t and after a while I realised we would talk right there. I unclipped myself.


    "What have I been doing?" she said, not looking at me.


    "Um, not much. Absolutely nailing your assigned tasks before staring into the abyss, sighing. That sort of thing. You were getting pretty stressed when we were losing. We started winning, no change. That''s not good. I insist on perfect happiness at all times." She needed more time before opening up, so I tried to ease her into the chat by saying random stuff. "Dieter Bauer has been calling me a lot."


    "What? Why?"


    "I don''t know. As far as I can tell Bayern Munich are in rude health so it can''t be about football. I mean, I know it''s arrogant to think he would want to talk to me about football but what else? He''s not calling an Englishman to ask for cooking lessons."


    "Maybe he wants you to do World Cup commentary with him."


    "Er..."


    "What?"


    "Didn''t I tell you? I thought I told you. We''re probably going to do something together in the USA. Remember I painted an expensive camera with an enormous hot dog? And threatened a cameraman? They said they wouldn''t sue if I did some comms for them next summer. I pretended to complain, suggested they get Dieter over, too, and it''s looking likely. Not sure how much I''ll end up on screen because my profile is still pitiful but they liked my segments with Dieter. We''re a good team, apparently."


    "Emma must be delighted."


    "I mean, I haven''t told her I''ll be on TV because it might not happen. When it''s on paper in black and white, I''ll let her know. We''re almost certainly going, regardless. I''m not going to try to scout every World Cup game but I''ll go to a few. It''ll be one-tenth work, four-tenths pleasure, five-tenths food coma."


    "When you think of America and pleasure, what comes to mind?"


    "Drive down route 66, see the world''s biggest Cowboy Boots - those are in Texas, would you believe? - do a Fallout 4 tour of Boston."


    "Fallout 4," mused Sandra. "That''s the one with the dogs."


    "Yes," I said, because if Sandra had watched her partner play that game and that was what she remembered, er, okay I guess? I waited.


    Sandra wriggled on her seat until she was comfortable, leaned forward, sat back, tried leaning forward again. "When you came back from your Christmas break, after we bought Christian Fierce, we had a drunken night out and you promised me we would get promotion and I would get a pay raise."


    That made my brain explode. This was about money? What did she mean I promised a raise? She got it, didn''t she? Had MD not been paying the wages that were due? Was the accountant fan right that MD had been skimming? What?


    Sandra wasn''t looking at me, so she hadn''t seen the panic and mild rage I was displaying. She licked her lips. "Aiden and I, well, we decided we might try fertility treatment again."


    I took every thought I''d ever had, put them in the shredder, and placed a blank page in front of Sandra.


    "It''s five grand a pop and that''s loads but I knew you would come through - I''ll be honest, I thought it''d be through the playoffs - and that soon I''d be on what you call lobster money so why not, right? We want children. Let''s try. So we tried. And it worked. This time it worked, almost right away, Max. She''s pregnant."


    That sounded amazing, but the way the story was being told shredded me up. I couldn''t deal with baby stuff.


    "There have been complications."


    "Fuck no. No." I wanted to get out but I couldn''t move. I couldn''t feel my legs. Couldn''t feel anything.


    "I''m gonna need time off."


    My cheeks were stinging. "Yes. Of course. Whatever you need. Is Aiden okay?"


    "Everyone''s okay, Max. It''s all going to be okay."


    "I''d prefer if you told me that with some confidence."


    "It''s going to be okay."


    "That was worse. Fuck. What the fuck, Sandra? What can I do? I need to do something. I need to help."


    She did a tiny, heartbreaking sigh. "No-one can help. It''s up to God."


    I clenched my fists. Old Nick. I''d do him a favour. I''d give him something and he would sort this out. My fists loosened. And then what? He''d tell me about every sick baby in the world. I could save one if I went to watch Swansea versus Sunderland. I could save another with Leyton Orient versus Lincoln City. "I''m floundering."


    "I know, Max. I didn''t want to tell you until there was more to say. When we were losing I knew it was part of the plan but even the vaguest hint of relegation was making me think shit, I sure could use a stable income right now. You''re always worried about me running off to other clubs but that''s not..."


    I was quite still but my head was spinning harder than a long pass from a 3 R Welsh defender. Poorly babies with their tiny little stubby fingers, their helplessness... "Okay my imagination is running riot, can you please tell me the basics of what I need to know?"


    Sandra gripped the steering wheel pretty hard, then sat back and spoke in a flat voice. "The doctors are hinting at a premature birth sometime in December. I... If it goes well I''d like to spend time with Aiden and our child. If it''s..." She couldn''t say it.


    "Scenario B," I offered.


    "Scenario B, I''d still like to spend time with Aiden."


    "Time means... years?"


    "Days, Max."


    "Days? Don''t talk shit! Who have we got in December? Forest Green are awful. Crewe are my bunnies. Take December off. Bosh, sorted. New Year you''re off. Come say hi to Foquita when he arrives and you can have January off, too. Don''t worry about it." We sat in a heavy silence. I felt the need to fill the vacuum so I picked up on the least important thing I''d heard. "Don''t worry about money. You''ll always have a job here, or at Saltney, or at West. You can work in Gibraltar if you want. I''m scared of you leaving but I''d be more upset if you never left. You have to challenge yourself. We are House Chester and there is no call we do not answer. Unless it''s about consolidating our loans."


    Sandra tried to smile. "That''s nice Max but you just told me you can do without me for two months."


    "Yeah," I said, with a hint of petulance. "Because I''ve got an all-star cast who can run training for a couple of weeks. I''ve got Well In, Jackie Reaper, Clive OK, Ray Hart. I''ve been mollycoddling them and now it''s payback time."


    "Well In doesn''t work for Chester. The rest need careful handling or you''ll scare them away."


    "Fine. I''ll do Relationism."


    "You said it was way too early. You said you were years away from being confident enough to do it with the first team."


    She was right. I needed her. But by the time she went on leave we would already be competitive in the league and I would have had time to look around for options. Plus my needs were trivial. Max Best, Perspective 20. "I''ll work it out." I settled back on my seat. "I was worried we were improving too fast anyway."


    Sandra laughed. She laughed until her face crumpled, but it didn''t last long. She was all cried out. Fuck.


    She could use a little cheering up - I had been saving something for the right moment. Seemed like now. "Can you keep a secret?"


    "Yes," she said.


    "Pascal might be fit for the Newcastle game."


    She shot upwards; the car shook. "What?"


    "His bones have healed and I''ve had him secretly doing water-based training for, like, ten days. He''s doing ball work today. I''ve told Dean and the Brig I want ten minutes against Newcastle and then they can go back to normal rehab. That''s what they''re working towards."


    "Ten... Newcastle... Why?"


    "I don''t want Alan Turner to get the England job. Ever. If I can beat him with a League Two side, that''s a stain on his CV he''ll never erase. But... if I go full Max it''ll be drama and attention and it''ll be another club who won''t hire you."


    "Newcastle?"


    "Yeah."


    Sandra wrung her hands. "I loved Kevin Keegan''s Newcastle. They were amazing. That five-nil against United was one of my earliest memories. I''ve got a soft spot for the club."


    I rubbed my jaw. "I''ve heard a lot of people talk like that. Heard Newcastle played mad, attacking football and were everyone''s second favourite club. They''re not that club any more. I don''t think," I added, to give her a chance to push back.


    "No, they''re obviously not what they were. But..."


    "Ah, it doesn''t matter," I said. "Okay, let''s not rock any boats. I''ll be chill. You''ll shake the twat''s hand for the cameras, we''ll defend with a weakened team, keep the score respectable, go full tilt at MK Dons instead."


    I was trying to end the conversation, maybe ask the follow-up questions about the baby a socially normal person would ask. Sandra eyed me, though, and asked, "What''s your problem with Newcastle?"


    "What''s black and white and red all over? A Newcastle United kit at a public execution."


    "Fuck, Max."


    I rubbed my temples. "I know. I''ll keep my mouth shut. I promise. You don''t need my shit right now. I get it." Not sure why, but I felt the paralysis in my body again. "I''ll be good," I said, as much to my legs as Sandra. "Have you thought about baby names? I''m ace at names. Got a great name for you. Three letters, symmetrical. Surprisingly big advantage when dealing with mirrors."


    She looked away. "We don''t want to jinx it."


    "Jinx was a spy in a James Bond film. She was supposed to get her own spinoff but she was the least popular character ever. Right. Bin off Newcastle. We know the plan against MK Dons, yeah? They''ve got Jayden Ward at left back but the rest of the defence is dodgy. They''ll have loads of the ball but I''ll pick them off when their goalie makes mistakes."


    "Yes," said Sandra, checking her face. "Spectrum counted nine big chances the goalie had given away in thirteen games. No sign of them changing tack."


    "These fuckwit managers are always asking their players to do things they can''t."


    "Aren''t you asking some randos in the army to play fantasy football?"


    I let out a laugh, but I got an idea. A big idea. A way I could actually help my assistant. Assistant? Friend, I hoped. Talking about football, even for a minute, had put some colour back in her cheeks. There was no point her going home to worry. Until her child was born there was nothing she could do. As luck would have it, I had a secret weapon - a bunch of Chester-hating wretches who didn''t know how transformational they were. Pascal had seen some of the development so he knew the ''before'' as well as the ''after''. Zach had seen a dogshit 4-4-2 nothingburger of a first half and then the miraculous transformation of the second half. Sandra had seen a few minutes of training at Saltney but if she watched a 3 R Welsh match she would get the blob and nothing but the blob.


    "I know what you need," I said, with such a wicked smile Sandra laughed, recoiled, and said ''no no no''. "Yes," I said. "Call Aiden and tell her I''ve dragged you to Aldershot."


    "Well," said Sandra, looking at the time. "Can she come?"


    I slapped the dashboard with delight. "Let''s fucking go!" I clicked my seatbelt back on.


    "Uh," said Sandra. "Might just call her first? And nip to the loo? And get my stuff?"


    I released my belt and got out. People have no sense of narrative propulsion.


    ***


    "Sir?" said the Brig, while I pottered around, kicking stray stones. He was at Bumpers pretty often doing one-on-one physical work with guys who weren''t quite delivering in some area, or mentoring young players who might need a bit of encouragement. "Is everything in order?"


    "Yes," I sighed. "No. Maybe. It will be. It better be."


    He nodded. "Private?"


    "Yeah, probably."


    "I thought so, but then wondered why you''d do it in a car."


    I frowned. "So no-one could hear us."


    He tried to hide a smile under a cough. "A car is one of the worst places for privacy, sir."


    "The hell you talking about?"


    "Laser eavesdropping has been in use since the 1940s, sir. It is really trivially easy to listen in on someone if only a pane of glass separates you from their conversation."


    "Trivially easy?" I looked at the car park imagining anyone could listen to any conversation I had in my motor. Well, I didn''t have a car. Checkmate, spies! "Can you do it? Have you got a thingy?"


    "Do I possess or have access to a laser microphone? Is that your question, sir? I believe you are testing my ability to lie while winking. I most definitely do not have the requisite thirty pounds for a base entry model."


    "Thirty pounds to spy on someone?"


    "No-one with any self-respect would carry such a basic model. Mine cost over four thousand pounds."


    "Four... what?"


    "I note that you didn''t see me winking. Ah, well."


    I wasn''t in the mood. "Do you have one or not? Jesus."


    "No," he said, flatly. "But I do have a specialist microphone I use for my greatest passion in life - birdwatching. These days, many birds are kept indoors. Budgerigars, for example." He winked enormously. "Or the house martin." He scanned the skies. "Of course, they will have flown to Africa to escape the British winter. Nice to have wings."


    I pressed my middle fingers against my thumbs and said ''hommm''. "John, can you get your lasers, please? I have a mission for you. It''s not black ops. It''s not white ops. It''s black and white ops."


    He got serious. "Very good, sir. Grey mode activated."


    ***


    Sunday, October 26


    I watched the women win in the FA Cup First Round - their fourth win in various cups in the month of October. They were going deeper into the cups, growing in confidence.


    The cup runs were helping Jackie to climb the list of the best managers in the women''s game.


    Interesting, but my mind kept returning to one number in particular. A number that needed to hit 70 by Tuesday morning if I was to have any hope of progressing in the AOK Cup.


    Sebastian: One last try. Your thousand to my nine.


    Me: You know I could get way better odds in a bookies: we''re 20 to 1 to win. And you know I can''t risk a real bet, even a private one, because the FA will use any excuse to smash me. I would do a thing where the loser had to do an hour in a food bank.


    Sebastian: That works. I''m up for that.


    Me: I just don''t have the tools to win. It''s not fun. Next time.


    Pascal Bochum


    Condition: 63%


    ***


    Monday, October 27


    [No introductory music.]


    Boggy: Hello!


    J: Hello!


    Boggy: You''re listening to SealCast plus DevaStation - two podcasts, one episode.


    J: This is the most ambitious crossover event in history!


    Boggy: Is it?


    J: Yes. If you''re listening to this on the SealCast feed, make sure you subscribe to DevaStation, the number one podcast by fans, for fans. With mild swearing.


    Boggy: This has all been rather hastily arranged so we haven''t worked out who''s in charge, really.


    Max: That''d be me, I reckon. I control the horizontal and the vertical.


    J: Where do you come up with this stuff, man?


    Boggy: I think that was a Twilight Zone reference. From when television was broadcast in black and white.


    Max: It''s true we haven''t planned this. Where do we start? I want to start with the big news.


    J: No, Max. If we do that, everyone will turn off after five minutes and that''s bad for our retention figures in the algorithm. Boggy''s on salary but I''m paid by the click. Let''s start small. The fans know there''s a huge, huge announcement coming; they''ll stick to the end.


    Max: Are you sure?


    J: Max! See me bouncing? That''s not fake. I think I know what''s coming and I''m losing my tiny mind.


    Max: All right, I''m in your hands. You''ve washed them, right? Okay, begin the interview! What''s your tiniest question?


    J: Boggy? Me? You sure? Okay. Tiniest. Ah... what are you doing in Wales?


    Max: You mean 3 R Welsh? I''m coaching them for my badges. What? Is that controversial? I''ve got to do my badges so that I''m allowed to manage. You remember that English guy managing in France? He didn''t have his badges and the club had to pay a 20,000 Euro fine every match until he got them.


    J: No, we get that, Max. Of course you need your badges. It''s just a strange choice of... But okay, how''s it going?


    Max: It''s fun. It''s going well. I''m trying out some new things and I''m nearly ready to start doing them with our youth team.


    J: All right but you''re training in Wrexham. We see you on Instagram with Paul Parker, Muggles, all those guys.


    Max: So?


    J: So they''re our rivals.


    Max: So?


    J: So we don''t like seeing you with them.


    Max: You don''t like me having friends at Tranmere but you like me taking three points from Prenton Park. You like being in League Two instead of the... er... I forgot what the league below the National League North is called. It''s got the word Premier in it twice.


    Boggy: Northern Premier League Premier.


    Max: That''s it. J, I''m not coaching Wrexham, I''m coaching lads from the British army. When I started at Chester I had a vision that we would turn it into something like Ajax Amsterdam. Thousands of teams at all age groups, the entire city and beyond being trained up. In the meantime I''ve rejigged that plan. We have an elite core that gets proper looked after, but I haven''t given up on everyone else. When we have more money we''re going to be offering coaching on a huge scale. I want to be going into schools. We''ll coach Sunday League teams. The sport belongs to everyone. I believe everyone deserves a chance to play it.


    J: Except Andrew Harrison.


    Max: That was a good answer, wasn''t it? I got my dreamy voice going. I was all optimistic. Well done, Max!


    Boggy: I have a slightly bigger question. How do you feel the season is going?


    Max: The women are crushing everything. The kids are bored of winning. The men are on target for promotion.


    J: On target for promotion? We''re 18th in the league.


    Max: We''re only 12 points behind Bradford and Carlisle; it took us a minute to get our heads straight. Some of the lads are still doing that thing in cartoons where their legs are spinning dead fast but there''s no floor under them. You know what I mean? They''re like, wow, this is a step up! But we''re already solid and it''s just about bringing more aspects to our game. MK Dons came over the weekend and I thought we handled them pretty well. Their budget is 86,000 a week, did you know that? It''s another club on three times what we spend. On the face of it, two-all is a miracle result.


    J: That was a strong team you put out. Does that mean you feel you can''t beat Newcastle tomorrow night and you''re going to bin it off?


    Max: Ah, bin it off. I wouldn''t put it like that, although it''s a sell-out so I suppose being honest won''t hurt ticket sales! We will battle hard for ninety minutes, I can promise that, but just one of their players cost more than every single penny that has ever gone through Chester''s turnstiles in a hundred and fifty years, do you know what I mean? It''s not a contest in the dictionary definition. A point against MK Dons, a bruising defeat against Newcastle, safely through the First Round of the FA Cup. That''s about as good as we can do this week, right?


    J: That''s another point our listeners wanted to raise. Most people are happy we didn''t put the prices up for the Newcastle match, but some wanted them jacked up to get more cash for the club from part-time fans.


    Max: That makes no sense. We share the gate receipts with Newcastle. What happens if we put the prices up? Newcastle get richer. I reckon everyone listening to this falls into two camps. One says why does a totalitarian middle-eastern dictatorship own a historic working class football club in England? The other camp says I don''t care, stick to the football. But I think both camps would agree Saudi Arabia doesn''t need to be fed money from the hard-working people of Chester. So, no. Not putting the prices up.


    J: There are rumours of a falling-out between you and MD.


    Max: Nope. We''re closer than ever. Only the other day I offered him a foot rub. [Laughs.] That''s demented even for me. Cut that bit out.


    J: If we get promoted as you say, there will come a time where his, ah, frugality will hold you back.


    Max: Fine. I''m fine with that. His only goal is to keep the club alive. If I can''t achieve my goals within that framework, I''m not very good, am I?


    Boggy: He could maybe loosen the purse strings somewhat.


    Max: I want to achieve great things here and I will. MD is top. He''s very easy to work with. He doesn''t want the club to go bust and that''s not a character flaw. We''re in a league with 23 other clubs. Two or three break even or make small losses that can be covered by a local businessman or a Boost the Budget campaign. Twenty of our rivals are piling money on the pavement outside the stadium and setting fire to it in a weekly orgasmic ritual of excess. It''s absolutely insane. Okay my life is unimaginably difficult as a result but you know what? I don''t like the idea of burning cash. I''ll manage.


    Boggy: Max likes a challenge.


    Max: You know what I did? We had our first meeting of the EFL clubs. They do the regular ones as a Zoom call and only get together in person if it''s something major, so I was hanging around with MD while they all blabbed on about nothing. All I''m doing, right, is listening out for shady stuff that kills football and I have to say there was no sign of that. So far... But in the ''any other business'' section I put my hand up and asked a question. I basically said you''ve talked loads about raising revenues but what about cost-cutting?


    J: Cost-cutting?


    Max: I don''t mean sacking people. I said, you''re all blowing crazy amounts on mad stuff all the time. Is there any interest in some kind of money-saving knowledge sharing or even developing our own platforms? It''s not my idea, it came from Brooke. She''s startled by the difference from non-league to EFL. In non-league the clubs almost all use the same website maker, use the same video team, the same ticket selling platforms, email sending software, that kind of thing. But go on five League Two club websites you''ll see three, four, five different layouts. Why are League Two clubs investing in bespoke websites? Because it''s a vanity project for the owners. Which, yeah, do what you want, but when you get bored and the club''s relegated it''s ten times more painful because all that crap has to go. Yeah, no-one was picking up what I was putting down so whatever. We''ll blow past them, they''ll wonder why, they''ll redesign their badge for the third time in six years. You know, get to the heart of what''s important.


    Boggy: I think -


    Max: Bunch of clowns.


    Boggy: I think the last topic before the big one is the Vincent Addo situation.


    Max: Okay. It''s pretty simple. The guy''s quality and I want to sign him. We can sign two players on, what''s the word, generous work permit terms. Not generous. Flexible. Loose. Like Darren Smith wouldn''t qualify for a normal work permit but he gets one of these special ones.


    J: Maybe -


    Max: Don''t say something stupid, mate. Seriously, this isn''t like Wes Hayward where we need a while to coach him and find the right matches to use him and all that crap. Dazza''s ace right now. We''re asking him to do weird things because I''m a weird person. When it clicks, it''s going to click hard.


    J: I''m keeping shtum. But, if you don''t want to hear spicy takes on Darren Smith''s output, don''t listen to any recent episodes of DevaStation, available on all good podcast platforms.


    Max: Okay, I won''t. If that''s your level of chat it sounds rank. So these two slots. We''ve got Dazza and Foquita. Can''t sign Vincent, then, can I? But I can get him to Saltney Town, make sure he''s getting trained up the way I want, then bring him to Chester. That''s all pretty clear. The only questions are one, am I right that he''s good? To which the answer is duuuuhhhhhhh. And two, is the fee Chester have to pay acceptable? It''s a million-pound player for three hundred K. It''s free money for Chester Football Club. Apart from anything else, if I have Vincent I can entertain offers for Youngster. If I don''t have a defensive midfielder, I can''t even think about letting our prize asset go.


    Boggy: There are strange rumours about Chester players helping you to raise money to do the deal.


    Max: There''s nothing strange about it; that''s what happened. It isn''t just players, it''s a syndicate that includes all sorts. Waitresses, kebab sellers. I don''t know exactly who''s in it or how much they''re putting in, but it''s going so well they''re already talking about doing another round so I can bring more players in January. What it does is take one enormous weight off my shoulders so I can focus on winning matches and my own performance levels and I think that''s obviously a good thing for me and for Chester. Everybody wins on that one. Except Tranmere.


    Boggy: They would prefer if you were stressed and worried so you would have missed that penalty.


    Max: Being on the pitch is a release from all the stress so I don''t think I''d have played much differently but it''s about having a clear head in the time leading up to the games. Making good decisions about the starting elevens and that kind of thing. October has been pretty perfect, hasn''t it? Four wins, two draws. November will be good, too. There''s only one game where we might get a bit of a kicking, but I hope you''re pleased that I''ve brought such huge games back to the Deva.


    Boggy: I am!


    J: You get a pass from me if we get tonked against Newcastle. It''ll be a party atmosphere in the Harry McNally, whatever happens on the pitch.


    Max: Ah, top. That''s ace. Right, here we go. You, the fans, have done what I asked. You''ve filled the stadium, it''s noisy, you''re letting me get on with the job without a board slowing me down. The fans have been great and that''s why I''m here. To give something back.


    J: Argh, I feel like a toddler high on energy drinks.


    Max: I feel like I should be dressed in a jaunty hat for this. Hello, sir, would you like to buy a monorail? [Laughs.] Okay who brought a drum kit so we can do a drum roll?


    Boggy: I can load one up.


    Max: Wow. You love all the audio stuff, don''t you? No, let''s stop teasing everyone. Here it goes. I''m about to drop the S bomb.


    J: ARGH!


    Max: Ladies and gentlemen, it''s Max Best here. I''ve got good news and great news. The good news is, thanks to our investment plans and some splendid cooperation from the local council, we have the chance to bring the Deva stadium back into Chester FC''s control.


    [Sound of someone jumping around, not caring what equipment they bang.]


    Max: The great news is, everyone has a part to play in that process. I need to give a bit of background. The thing is, my top top top priority is actually the pitch, not the stadium, although that''s important too. I want to demolish a stand, dig up the pitch, put in top drainage, undersoil heating, and advanced stitching technology so that we can play three times as many games on the surface and not lose fixtures to bad weather. We will be able to bring the women''s team home, host summer tournaments, all kinds of things.


    Boggy: So the pitch and the stadium project are intertwined?


    Max: Right. It''s much easier to do the drainage and all that if there isn''t a huge big stand in the way. That makes sense, right? Now, I think the Harry McNally is the best place to start. We can knock it down after the last match of this season, work like demons - imps, I should say - and put up the new stand before the first match is played. I mentioned this on the EFL call, asking if we could plan to play our first matches next season away, just in case we weren''t quite ready, and they said ''of course, do you think yours is the first stadium that''s been rebuilt?''


    Boggy: And what of the council? The freehold?


    Max: Credit to Brooke for her tireless work on this one. The freehold will go into a nonprofit that''s controlled by Chester FC. Think of the club as having three departments - one, the players and staff, two, the stadium, three, the training ground slash charity work. With this development, all three will be powering ahead. Thundering ahead!


    J: [Quietly, almost sensually.] I need numbers.


    Max: Right now the McNally is all-standing, 1,200 capacity. The new stand will be 4,000, bringing the Deva to an 8,200 total capacity. We will have a decent amount of safe standing so we can keep the atmosphere. We''ll be able to convert the rails to seating when we host European matches.


    Boggy: Is that a scene from one of your cheese dreams?


    Max: I wouldn''t rule out us winning a cup, Boggy. We''re one match from the AOK quarter finals. Imagine us next year! And Saltney will need a place to play their UEFA Conference League matches. It''s Chester or Wrexham, isn''t it? Are you going to make me beg Ryan Reynolds? They''d love to have European football at the Racecourse. Wouldn''t they? There would be a whole episode about it on their documentary.


    Boggy: [Laughs.] If it comes to it, I think I''d be all right with you renting the Deva.


    Max: Okay, what else? We expect the McNally to be pretty full all this season and project it will bring in a little under half a million. Half a mill for the whole season, not including cups. With the new stand we''d get about 1.6 million. It''s 1.1 million a year extra, not including catering and all that.


    Boggy: An extra million just in ticket sales.


    Max: Yes. That extra income would be worth 20,000 a week which would give us a fighting chance of survival in League One. We think we can sell that many tickets next season if we get promoted.


    J: And you''ll jack up the prices?


    Max: No. No more than normal, anyway. It''s the McNally, isn''t it? It''s for young lads who want to stand and sing and get mental. We''ll have seats around the sides and on the upper level around the hospitality boxes for people like MD who love the atmosphere but whose knees have gone, but it''ll be the young, vibrant stand. Singing sections, drummer, a place where you''re allowed to dance around and throw beer on each other.


    J: What will the new name be?


    Max: Well, it''s a good time to rename it if that''s what you want to do. That''s something for the fans to decide. I''m happy with the Harry McNally. We''ve got time to think of all that kind of thing. Today''s about paying for it. Today''s about money. Give me your moneyyyy.


    J: Before you said there''s good news and great news. The great news is we get to pay for this.


    Max: Bingo.


    J: You''re unbelievable.


    Max: We looked at different financing options but there''s only one winner. It''s called a mini-bond. Norwich City did one to build their new academy, and AFC Wimbledon and QPR have done similar. How it goes is you, the people listening to this, invest money in the stadium starting with 500 pounds, no upper limit. You lend that to us for five years. Every year, we pay interest. 8%, in this case. That means if you lend me a grand, I''ll bang you 80 quid back, per year, and at the end of the five years, I''ll return your grand.


    J: That''s not bad.


    Max: Yeah it''s not bad but it comes with risk. If Chester goes bust, you''re not getting your money. The good news is the guy at the top is MD and ten minutes ago you were complaining he was too careful with the club''s finances. Okay, but now it''s your money he''s looking after! You like him being careful now, don''t you?


    J: I do like it. That''s actually...


    Max: I have to be careful about making promises because it''s, you know, the world of finance and stuff, and there are rules. The money we raise can only be used for the stadium. We''ve got a page on the website showing what it will all look like for anyone who just wants to daydream, but we''ve got an investor''s pack, too. Investor''s pack, listen to me! What it says in a nutshell is that the club is more or less breaking even and we are doing good businessy things like reducing our electricity costs and generating income from our 3G pitches. We''ve got talented players, too. As football clubs go, we''re not that risky and to prove that I''ve promised to be on my best behaviour for a while so I don''t rock the markets.


    Boggy: Rock the markets. I doubt the markets know what Chester FC is.


    Max: The plan is we get the money, we get the various builders lined up, Brooke project manages, it all goes seamlessly. And if it doesn''t, I''ll be on holiday in America with my phone off. Brooke can sort it out. [Laughs.] No, it''s all pretty straightforward, really. Oh, apart from one thing.


    J: Here we go.


    Max: So how these things work is you put a range. You say we need a minimum of three million, maximum five. Yeah? Norwich did it like that and they got to the maximum pretty quick. Their fans knew it was a good deal for their wallets and good for the club too. We''re working with a law firm called The Wall - I should say that it''s my girlfriend''s dad who owns it, but they made a better offer than the other lot. The Wall are trying to get into football and the legal stuff around this kind of investment is quite simple but I''ve put a twist on it. So basically the club needs five million pounds to complete the stand and that''s our target. So far, so good. But we have the potential to make decent money in the near future. I''m talking cup runs, sponsorships, player sales. We were fifty-fifty to get an away match at Newcastle and that could have made us half a million. What The Wall are letting us do is reduce the size of the mini-bonds in a dynamic way. If we get a big away day in the FA Cup and bank 500 grand, we can reduce the bond offer by that much.


    Boggy: So it would go down to 4.5 million.


    Max: That''s it. How I think it will go is, like, we''ll sell half a million pretty fast. A local business will buy a five-year rent on a hospitality box and we''ll put that into the mixer. People will see the availability of the mini-bonds going down, there will be FOMO -


    Boggy: Pardon me?


    Max: Fear of missing out. We''ll sell a player, more FOMO. It''s going to be great fun. It''ll be like a race to see who can get more money, me or the fans.


    J: Why don''t you keep the money from all that and use it?


    Max: I don''t want to pay 8% interest if I don''t have to, J. That''s lobster money, that. I don''t really like debt. The b-boys tell me debt used well can be good and obviously they''re right but I''m not comfortable with loading unnecessary costs onto the club. I''ve had a couple of weeks to get my head around these mini-bonds and they do what we need but I''d like it to be as small as poss. What''s fun is that if you want to make sure you get your money back all you have to do is come to watch matches at the Deva.


    Boggy: In the beautiful new stand we paid for.


    J: What''s the minimum investment again?


    Max: Five hundred pounds. One thing I''ll say is that I''ll be doing a lot of media stuff to promote this. I know you''re used to me being all distant and uncommunicative but for five million quid I''ll chat for England, do you know what I mean? It''s going to be bland stuff. Just trying to sound like a normal person, someone who you could trust with your savings. I''m steering clear of all controversy startinnnnnng... now.


    Boggy: What do you think of Alan Turner?


    Max: Great coach, improves players, well worth every penny of his wages. See? I can do it, Boggy. [Laughs.]


    Boggy: Why do I feel you practised that in front of a mirror?


    Max: Because I did. Right. Give me your money. Also, don''t be mad when I keep banging on about this mini-bond. I''m doing this for you. Your city, your community, your club.


    J: Done. I just bought a thousand.


    Max: What, just now?


    J: Yes.


    Max: Wow. Seems like there should have been some identity checks or something but great! Come here. [Sound of aggressive hugging.] You coming tomorrow?


    J: Course I am!


    Max: Top top top. Start saying farewell to the old Deva. The new Deva is waiting to rise. Rise? No, emerge. Waiting to ascend. I need to workshop this. Ah, but what a way for the Harry McNally terrace to say goodbye to the League Cup. Chester, blue and white stripes, against Newcastle, resplendent in their famous old black and white.


    Boggy: Sorry, what? [Nervous chuckle.] Max, you know they won''t be wearing black and white.


    Max: What''s that now?


    Boggy: The kits would be too similar. Newcastle will be wearing their change kit. The green one.


    J: The one that''s identical to the Saudi Arabia kit?


    Boggy: That''s the one.


    Max: They wouldn''t dare. Not here.


    Boggy: Max! They''ve already sent the details. I get them early so I can prepare my commentary. They will be in green. That''s done and dusted.


    J: Max?


    Boggy: Max? Are you...? Should we...?


    Max: One second. [Sound of a phone dialling out.] Sandra, hey. I''ve changed my mind. Yes. Can you get the lads to Bumpers, please? Yes, now. [Max stands up, a chair slides across a smooth floor.] Lads, I need to go. Someone just called an emergency training session.


    J: Holy shit what''s happening?


    Max: [Leaning into the microphone.] Chester, give me your money. I need your money. Thanks, bye.


    ***


    Me: Pray for Alan.


    Sebastian: What does that mean?


    Me: It means it''s on.

 12.6 - Turner Blindeye (Part One)

    6.


    Half an hour after leaving the podcast studio, almost every member of the first team squad was in the Sin Bin. We were only waiting for Henri, who had been getting his knees waxed, and Magnus, who was out geocaching and wouldn''t be able to get back in time.


    A few WAGs - wives and girlfriends - were in the bar, while others (especially the ones with kids) were in the viewing cabin, watching our youth teams train.


    I was in my office sketching out possible formations and line ups. It was blindingly obvious to me that if we tried to do anything approaching normal football we would get squashed flat. We had to get weird, to go off book, and that meant Sandra would be in charge. With the freedom to put players in any position, I started to think about what I''d learned in my time as a manager.


    Yeah, you won more games by having your best players in their best positions. That was the reason I thought so much about squad building, why I was so intense about training.


    But I''d learned that on special occasions you could skip all that. If you had one specific move you wanted to do or there was one thing you needed to shut down at all costs, you could put players in apparently stupid places. You could use Pascal to man-mark a left back. You could put an attacking midfielder in the defence because he was the best at long passes. I hadn''t done it much but you could use left backs at right back if you felt you needed a left footed defender on that side.


    Most such changes ended with that out-of-position player getting a poor match rating. The way Newcastle played, every one of my lads would get 4 or 5 out of ten. We were going to get soundly thrashed, that was for sure.


    But that didn''t mean we couldn''t win.


    Sandra: Ready.


    I got up and walked along Lane Lane in the direction of the Sin Bin. That took me past the grass pitch - currently called ¡®Lawn Michaels¡¯ - where the women were training.


    Angel flat out left the drill she was doing - just left the ball right there and ignored the complaints of her teammates - and jogged over. "Max," she said, walking next to me.


    "Mmm," I said, trying to keep in the right mental state for what I was about to say. If I gave off too much energy, the lads wouldn''t be able to sleep. If I was too vague about the plan, they wouldn''t be able to spend the next 24 hours visualising it. If I was too clear about the plan, there was a risk half a dozen of them would get morale drops because there was no way they would get on the pitch.


    "What are you doing? You''re doing something. The lads are all worked up." Some of the men had spilled out of the Sin Bin, had formed into little groups. "Why did you summon them?"


    "Summon? If I had the power to summon I think I''d start with a sexy dark elf. Or a mermaid."


    "If you''re doing epic things, you should have the cameras in with you."


    "Bye Angel," I said, and she stopped. I walked backwards while I said, "Well done against Wakefield. Into the second round of the FA Cup! The Relentlessness indeed. I love how the team is playing. Done good job."


    ***


    The buzz of anticipation in the packed cabin got my pulse up. Instant goosebumps.


    It used to be like this all the time, my life, all mad schemes and desperate gambits. Now it was mostly sedate. A calm and rational exploration of the country as we tried to turn 1.1 points per game into something a lot closer to 2.


    We had the first team squad and the coaches who weren''t out with the kids or the women. Dean and Alex were there, but not MD or Brooke. This was football stuff. Some of the teacher''s pets were sitting at Spectrum''s table, including Pascal (still in his brace, good lad), but the vast majority of the group were standing. The ones outside had seen me and had come in. The Sin Bin was cold, full to the brim with clean, fresh air. With so many bodies crammed in, how long would that last?


    "Listen up," I said.


    I was at the front. The TV had been wheeled to my right. To my left I had my trusty old flipchart.


    "Put your arm around someone."


    The reaction to this was electric. Men stood taller. There were a dozen jumps in Morale. Sandra held Vimsy. Zach held Dazza. Fierce held Andrew Harrison.


    Physio Dean and Alex Short were standing awkwardly by the door. They didn''t feel like part of the group. I pointed to them, then to the middle of the room. "Get in the blob."


    They shuffled forward, into the mass. Arms lifted like cranes, fell back down around their new cargo.


    I scanned the room from left to right. My employees. My teammates. My warriors. "Look around you."


    They did. They didn''t know what they were looking for, so their expressions stayed mostly neutral.


    "Make eye contact with someone until you get uncomfortable... then power through it."


    It was like I''d dialled the intensity from 7 to 9. Sparks flew.


    "Relax," I said, but while the energy levels dipped, I got the feeling the holds were stronger. They were gripping each other tighter.


    I looked down at the floor.


    "I¡¯m going to demand something I¡¯ve never asked for before."


    I looked up, picked out a few faces to engage with.


    "I¡¯m going to ask for courage."


    The grips got tighter. I had to make sure I didn''t overdo this or Sandra was going to rip Vimsy''s shoulder clean off.


    "I¡¯ve done batshit things in sports halls. I''ve done mad scientist experiments with army units on distant fields. Christ, I¡¯ve done tactics in the National League which seemed daring, seemed like I was an inch from national humiliation, only to find out no-one was watching."


    I took a couple of steps to the right.


    "People are watching now. We¡¯re going to play Newcastle United. I''m going to pit my wits against Alan Turner, the leading English manager. But that¡¯s not why you need courage. You need courage because maybe I¡¯ve finally lost the plot completely. Maybe I¡¯ve cracked. Maybe my head has actually gone."


    I did a weird snarling laugh but my attempts to get it off my face only made me sharper, more angular, more evil. I started pacing around like a revivalist preacher.


    "There''s something in the air, lads. I feel powerful. I''m going to use that power to serve a higher purpose. I¡¯ve got a fucking FERVOUR."


    Youngster said, "Amen."


    "Alan Turner''s greatest weakness as a manager is that he¡¯s in this for himself. Look at the person you''re holding. Do you see a person who believes in something more than themselves?"


    People turned, asked themselves how much they knew about their neighbours.


    I stepped in front of Andrew Harrison. The table was in the way but it was as close as I could get. I pointed at him. "Is there anything you believe in more than yourself?"


    "My family," he said.


    I nodded and stepped left. "Youngster, is there anything you believe in more than yourself?"


    I thought I knew the answer to that one, but I got a surprise. "My family," he said.


    I pointed up with both index fingers, the way some players do when they''ve scored a goal. "Anything higher?"


    "I believe in my manager," he said, which brought grins to a few faces and nearly overwhelmed me with the need to be on the pitch beating Newcastle right now. Right now!


    I used sign language to say ''done good job''.


    I spoke quietly, next. "It seems like our opponent has everything, but we have one advantage. It''s simple. I believe in things. I¡¯m willing to put my ego on the line for those things. I can afford to be humiliated. I went from having the best haircut in the northern hemisphere to the worst in the south. When I was trying to take corners on a mudbath and kept slipping, I got up and slipped even harder. I''m going to spend the next three months of my life begging for money so we can have a good pitch and bring the women home. If I had a five hundred million pound team and it was getting battered by a League Two minnow, I would go men behind ball and defend for our lives.


    "Alan Turner can''t do that. Alan Turner can''t afford to be humiliated. He wants to be the England manager. That''s a straitjacket. He''s a prisoner of his own ambition."


    I had thought about showing some clips at this point, but we could do that in the morning. This evening was all about alignment. Getting everyone in that cabin pulling in the same direction.


    "Newcastle are a brilliant team. Alan Turner''s brand of football looks exciting. It¡¯s intense. Attacking. Direct. Some of you are thinking, wow, that sounds like Max Best football. Does it fuck! It¡¯s the opposite. How they play is all about Turner''s career. It is hollow, it is empty. It generates xG and xT, all that stuff he can print out and bring to a job interview. It¡¯s the boldest you can be without taking any fucking risk!


    "I''d love to say his style is cowardly but it''s not. We''re not that lucky. It is fearful. It looks amazing but Turner is risk averse to an extreme that I can and will fucking exploit every time we meet, starting tomorrow.


    "I¡¯ve got a plan. It is all kinds of demented. None of you signed up for guaranteed humiliation live on TV. If you don¡¯t want to be part of it, leave now. I promise it will not affect your career here and that¡¯s a triple lock promise. If you¡¯re not comfortable being a joke on the back page of the Mail, being ripped to bits on every podcast in the world, this is the time to nope out. I¡¯m serious."


    Henri said, "How bad is your plan?"


    "Fucking mental. Any other manager putting out this lineup with these instructions a day after the club asked its fans for five million pounds would be sacked before half time. Sacked before kick off, maybe."


    "Okay," said Henri. "I''m in."


    I pointed at Alex Short. "You''ve just made a promise in front of a psychologist. That''s like swearing on the Bible."


    "It isn''t," said Alex and Youngster.


    "Anyone want to leave? Andrew?" The older triplet shook his head. I twisted my neck around to release some of the tension, turned to a new page of the flipchart, and picked up a marker. I flicked it up and caught it as I strolled around. "Right. Turnerball is always 4-3-3, morphing into 3-2-5 or 3-1-6 when they''re attacking. Key principles for how Newcastle play.


    "One. They press. Their press is ridiculously intense. We will get no time on the ball. We will have zero percent possession.


    "Two, they are fit. They are much fitter than us, and we are in pretty good shape. It isn''t a case of us waiting till the last ten minutes to go hard against tired legs. Nope. They will run insanely hard, insanely fast, for 98 minutes. If they need a break they will flop to the floor and pretend to have a head injury. That''s the most despicable form of cheating because it puts us all at risk. One day a ref won''t stop a game when there''s a genuine issue. By the way: fuck Alan Turner.


    "Three. They attack from all directions. Down the sides they do overloads and overlaps for days. Through the middle they have craft and long shots. They''re a menace from set pieces.


    "Four. They do a lot of positional rotation. Their 6 moves to 8, their 8 moves to 10, all that good stuff. It will cause us problems we don''t have solutions for.


    "Five. They play a high line. They will be right up on halfway against us. This compresses the pitch and makes their press more effective. The only way out is over the top.


    "Six. Their goalie plays high. He''ll be almost to the edge of the centre circle at times. If we chip a ball over the defensive line, he''ll get to it ninety-odd times per hundred and the ball will come right back at us."


    I smiled as I picked the flipchart up and moved it into the centre. There hadn''t been a whole load of good news in that speech.


    "On the plus side, it won''t be their best team. They''re being ground to dust, as per usual, and there are these international breaks where they''re flying around the world getting fatigued. No chance their top five players will even be on the private jet for the ten-minute flight from Newcastle. Climate Crime FC, lads, if you want a nice hashtag. I think we''ll get their squad players plus a hot prospect or two. Still terrific but, you know, human. Here''s the plan, in basic form. We''ll get more specific in the morning and do some game scenarios out on the grass. Walking pace, saving energy for the match." I drew a circle. "Release that breath you were holding. Yes, we will have a goalkeeper." I jerked my eyebrows up playfully. "Got a feeling we might need one." I drew two centre backs. "Defenders. Low block. No space in behind. You''re not going up for corners. There will be no counter-attack goals scored on us because we aren''t moving. You''ll be here the whole match, defending, defending, defending. It will be agony. No ecstasy. The amount of suffering will be unprecedented; this will be the worst 98 minutes of your lives."


    Those words filled Christian Fierce with a holy zeal. Zach''s eyes were shining.


    "We will have a left back and a right back. Behold the megabrain! Now, then. We know they love slapping down the sides so we will do one of two things. Either we will play a second full back on both flanks, so two left backs and two right backs, or we will have Josh and Magnus as wing backs. That would give us the illusion of not being ultra-defensive and could in theory give us an out ball when we''re in trouble. I''ll let Vimsy and Sandra think about it overnight."


    "A back six?" said Henri.


    "No, a back seven," I said. In addition to the wide defenders I drew a third centre back just slightly ahead of the other two. "DM. He''ll block long shots and drop into the box when there are overlaps. When the cutback comes in, the nearest centre back heads to the front post, the DM goes to the edge of the six-yard box to intercept balls played back at an angle. I''ve drawn him as a DM but the way the game will go, he''ll be in line with the centre backs more than not. Back seven. Backs to the wall. Clinging on for dear life."


    I paused to think about what I''d said so far.


    "Okay this is damage limitation. They can still hurt us, course they can, but with this we''ll make it hard. If we abandon the idea of trying to ever pass the football, the task becomes a lot clearer, right? They can''t counter-press us when we try to break because we''re not trying to break. And if we flood the backline, their pretty rotations won''t affect us as much. We''re marking the space, yeah? Not the players. They will be able to take long shots - our goal is to make them do it from 30 yards instead of 25. One might sail in. One might deflect in. Or they might have 50 and they all go miles over. Right, Youngster?"


    He did the closest thing in his repertoire to a patient sigh. "Yes, boss."


    "Okay last three players. Again, I''m going to let Sandra chew on this overnight, but it will be something very much along the lines of this..."


    I drew three circles in the striker positions, as if we were playing 4-3-3 with narrow forwards.


    Sandra said, "Seven-oh-three, boss?"


    "Three fast attackers stationed on the halfway line. We defend for our lives, punt, hope a ball bounces our way. It''s next level tactics. It''s scary how good I am." I wandered around in a loop, returning to tap the chart. "I have no idea how twatface will respond to this but if he does nothing and we get a lucky goal, all bets are off and I can rinse him in the post-match. If he drops the defence back ten yards, if he stops his DM pushing on, almost any reaction from him is good for us if it interrupts their patterns."


    I did another restless lap of my circuit.


    "If we get a couple of good breaks... Christ, if we get an early goal... We could get under their skin. They could start to worry. There''s no upside for Turner in beating us. It does nothing for his career. It does nothing for the careers of the squad players he picks. You scored against Chester? So what? For those players it''s only downsides. We could end five Newcastle careers tomorrow night and they know it." I nodded rapidly. "They''re always going to be five bad minutes away from a meltdown. We¡¯ve got the courage to lose big. Do they have the courage to lose small?"


    ***


    Tuesday, October 28


    The morning''s training was pretty strange. It was more like a series of negotiations than a real session, and there was strictly no running. We didn''t have a calorie to spare.


    First things first. I took the goalies aside and explained my thinking, which was simply that Ben would start the match because he had better long distribution and that was basically our entire plan. I would be able to name nine subs and use five, so there was an outside chance I would be able to bring Sticky on in the event of penalties. Not much chance, though, because the only way to survive the 90 minutes was to use every single sub. Sticky knew he probably wouldn''t get on the pitch.


    We''d decided to do the wingbacks thing, which meant we would start with our usual back four of Eddie, Fierce, Zach, and Lee H. I explained to Eddie, Lee, and Vimsy that I wanted the wide guys to play narrower, close to the centre backs. Newcastle would try to slip balls between the gaps in our lines. If the gaps weren''t there, that would obviously be harder. As the pressure came on us, Josh (left wing-back) and Magnus (right wing-back) would slide back, as would the DM.


    Vimsy was coaching a flat back seven. He was so much in his element there were times I thought he might actually be afloat.


    He was pretty surprised when I announced I would be the starting DM, mostly because everyone was expecting me to be one of the fast strikers. We had Sharky and Wibbers... who was the third?


    "I''ll play the first twenty, twenty-five, then it''ll be Youngster. It''s a key role and this way we can match Newcastle''s energy levels, yeah, in one part of the pitch at least."


    "Are you going to do the shuffle and slide walkthroughs this morning?"


    "No, use Youngster."Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    I wandered up to halfway, where Sandra had Sharky and Wibbers in discussion. Henri, Dazza, and Tom Westwood were there because while they weren''t fast, if I wanted to keep three up top for the whole match I was going to have to use at least one of the real strikers. Pascal was in the circle, apparently in his role as a trainee coach, but Sandra knew the German would start. He might not be able to run at his full pace, but if we did get a break he would make a dummy run that would create space for Wibbers, or would run into the goalie and give the ref a decision to make, or something.


    "We''ve decided," said Sandra, "that the front three should stick close together. Really close together. If we''re going to get weird, let''s get Max weird. Sharky, you''re the main man. We need you to conserve your energy and then get the fuck onto one of these long balls. Wibbers, you too."


    I said, "Yeah, William. You''re gonna see your mates suffering and you''re going to want to drop back to help. That isn''t helping. I need you to have the courage to stand here like a selfish twat while the crowd scream at you to do something. Do you get me?"


    He seemed startled by this new definition of courage. "I''ll do what the team needs."


    "I''ll tell you what your team needs," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders. I turned him sideways, so that he was facing where a dugout would be. I twisted his head to face the goal he was defending. "If the ball comes - big if - you need to be right on it. No delay, no time wasted twisting your body the right way. This is your starting position, yeah? You''re in your half so you''re onside. When the ball goes, you go."


    Pascal said, "If you spend too long facing this direction, the defender will find it easy to stand in your path. Turn sometimes so he has to move. Also, sometimes move behind Sharky so the defender cannot stop you getting momentum. Treat every moment of the match like we have a corner and you''re in the penalty area looking for space."


    "That''s good," I said. "Love that."


    I walked away, watching as the three groups - goalies, defenders, strikers - got to grips with their roles for the day. The tactical plan was simple and my only real job was to decide who would come on as a sub. I had a gaggle of midfielders off to the side not doing anything. One of them would be a key man. "Andrew," I said, and the prick jogged over.


    "Yes, boss?"


    "Do you want the worst job in the world?"


    "I thought I had that," he said, then his face fell. He had gone too far. "I mean, yes."


    "I''m going to make two early subs. I want you to be one of them."


    He would play most of the match! "Right. Yes. What? Great." Suspicion and doubt crept in. "This is part of my punishment, is it?"


    "You are top of our running stats. Turner won''t let us dick around the entire match, he''ll do something. I might ask you to play proper central midfield and do as much pressing as you can. Shuttle runs left and right, get in their passing lanes, disrupt them like they''re doing to us. Or you''ll mark their DM but be ready to join attacks. Something like that, but basically you will run like crazy and touch the ball a maximum of three times. It will be - "


    "I''ll do it. Whatever you need."


    "Top. Get those guys to stop moping around. I need everyone to understand all parts of the plan and be ready to rumble. It''s going to be chaos."


    "Yes, boss."


    I went to the side of the pitch and watched as our almost-accurate starting eleven, one that featured Andrew instead of Pascal and Youngster instead of me, walked around ''defending'' while Dan Badford and Ryan Jack rolled the ball to each other. We added more attackers until the oppo had a full eleven. I had to beg Sticky to come further and further out of his box to replicate what Newcastle''s guy would do. Even in a walking match designed to get the lads comfortable in their roles, he hated it.


    The ''Newcastle'' team passed the ball around at Ryan Jack''s top speed - the slowest a ball can go - while Vimsy yelled at the defenders to watch their spacing and Sandra suggested how the front three could maximise the effectiveness of their starting position. I was happy; the setup was as good as we were going to get at such short notice.


    In a break, I talked to Sandra. "What do you think?"


    She shrugged. "I have the courage to do this, but not the courage to tell you what I think about it."


    I laughed and told her to cut short the session. We needed to go home and save energy. It was going to be a long night.


    ***


    AOK Cup Fourth Round: Chester versus Newcastle United


    I got to the stadium early and went to hide in the manager''s office. It wasn''t a time for me to burn energy talking to fans or sponsors. I didn''t want to talk to the refs or anyone. I only wanted to get on the pitch and see how many blows I could land against Alan Turner.


    Turner was swanning around my stadium, my home, like he owned the place. Better if I avoided him until after the match, for lots of reasons.


    The curse offered me the chance to use the ''Frankenstein Is The Monster'' perk and I decided yes, sure, why the devil not. It would make the referee fussy and pedantic - the bonus being that we would know before kick off but Newcastle would have to work it out during the match. It could blow up in my face but generally speaking my players didn''t do most of the moronic things other teams did. We didn''t kick the ball away when a free kick had been awarded, nor did we stand over the ball to stop the other team taking a quick free kick. We didn''t waste time, we didn''t whip our shirts off and spin them around when we scored (except in cases of mad euphoria), and we didn''t get yellow cards for dissent.


    Alan Turner had picked almost the weakest starting eleven it was possible to imagine. It was absurdly strong.


    Masarik, their goalie, was playing at the Deva for the second time this season. He was the Slovakian national team keeper and had CA 155. He was a phenomenal shot-stopper, though that particular skill wouldn''t be in much use today. He was incredible at penalties, in the unlikely event we got that far. And he was quite decent at sweeping up.


    That said, he was also the most likely player on either team to get sent off. If we got a good pass over the top and Sharky reached it first, any contact from Masarik that sent our player to the floor was going to put the keeper in big, big trouble. That scenario was one of the main reasons I had decided to use the fussy referee perk.


    The centre back pairing was a little-used CA 120 29-year-old and Charlton, a CA 88 youth prodigy. The full backs were both under 23, too, with CA 114 on the left and 81 on the right.


    The three guys expecting a tough midfield battle were between CA 108 and 120.


    The left forward was a first-team regular returning from injury. He was fast, tricky, and a lethal finisher. Having a CA 140 guy as your main threat was quite appealing, to be fair. In the middle was a 19-year-old striker with CA 96, and to the right was a CA 93 academy product a year older.


    That gave them an average CA of 111, which was far, far lower than I was expecting. Clearly, they were building the profiles of some of these players in order to sell them. Academy players were counted as ''pure profit'' in the league''s financial rules. I even toyed with the idea of reshuffling my men into something of a more conventional shape. I mean, this Newcastle team was only about twenty percent better than Carlisle United or Mansfield.


    The real danger came from the subs bench. If they were winning comfortably, Turner had three other talented kids who could also get some experience. If things turned sour, there were five proper first-teamers who could pound us into submission. Guys with CA 160. 164. 171. Yeah. Intimidating.


    After I''d activated the fussiness perk, I stepped down from managing the match, mentally assigning it to Sandra. She would do the first half, at least, but probably the second, too. I would be missing out on stupendous amounts of XP - perhaps 14 a minute. But it had to be done.


    14 XP per minute. CA 155 goalies. 70 versus 111.


    I tried to stop all the numbers spinning. Tried to calm the nerves, the anxieties, tried to make my legs feel less heavy.


    I wished there was a way to go and spend a quiet minute with Emma, alone. I missed the smell of her hair and the way her lips danced when I was talking shit. My fingers twitched as I thought about calling her.


    I thought about an embassy and a journalist who went in one door and never came out. My fingers twisted into a clenched fist.


    Alan Turner thought he could turn a blind eye to anything so long as they paid him enough.


    I would show him something he couldn''t turn a blind eye to.


    The numbers stopped spinning.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Anyone watching Chester tonight?


    Stoop


    Might keep an eye on it, yeah.


    SummerhillBill


    You''ve already missed the best bit. BG''s best buddy did his pre-match interview. Not sure why he''s got the hump with Alan Turner but he got a few sly digs in. Absolutely hilarious. Got to say even I''m starting to warm to Best. Turns out he''s my kind of prick. Who knew?


    Stoop


    What did he say?


    SummerhillBill


    Nothing, that''s what''s so funny about it. Most people watching, it would go over their heads. It''s only because we know what he''s like that I knew he was being funny, if you get me. Let me try to think how it went.


    So there was a question about what a big game it was for Jester, you know, Newcastle United coming to town. Best, the prick, answered it like Jester were the biggest club in the world. He was politely confused the reporter had got it so wrong, if you follow me. ''We often host national teams'', he said. ''We had Slovakia, now Saudi Arabia, and it''s a great honour for them.''


    He slipped the ''for them'' in so subtle I nearly spat out my drink. I''m glad I read BG''s story here because now I can enjoy it for what it is.


    The next good bit was when he was asked about managing against Alan Turner.


    Best went, ''Oh, yeah, I read somewhere he''s considered one of the best English managers. It was on his blog, I think.''


    Again, absolutely savage but he kept such a straight face I don''t even think the reporter knew what had happened.


    I hope Jester lose 10-0, of course I do, but mind what goes on with the Geordie bench because something is up there.


    Stoop


    BG, did Best ever say anything about Alan Turner to you?


    BrokenGround


    No. The only manager he''s ever mentioned, I think, apart from Parky, was Dieter Bauer. Best got a call, pretended to be annoyed, Pascal said ''what?'', Best goes, ''it was that bloody Dieter Bauer again''. Pascal laughed so I think it was a private joke.


    ***


    After doing my media duties, I went out to warm up with the rest of the starting lineup - the other players were so stupefied that Pascal was playing that Morale collapsed. Interesting effect! Write that down.


    Back in the dressing room, Sandra restated the plan, explained that Pascal would get ten minutes before being replaced by Andrew, that Youngster would replace me. We would likely make another change at half-time, but then we would have to make our final two changes together. For example, if there was an injury in the 46th minute, we would be forced to make two subs otherwise we wouldn''t be able to use our fifth guy, and we absolutely needed to use every option available to us.


    Having to make a double sub even if we only really wanted to do one could lead to strange outcomes and - in a normal squad - unhappy players. Sandra asked everyone to understand that we were cooking with unknown ingredients, building the plane as we went. When she was done, she nodded in my direction.


    "Guys," I said, sombrely. I got to my feet and stood next to our manager. "Quick note about the ref. One of my mates texted that this guy''s wife''s left him or something and he''s in a sulk. He''s going to call every little thing today, okay? Make sure any stupid yellow cards go to Newcastle, not us." There wasn''t much more I could say about that, so I moved on. "With the gaffer''s permission, I would like to unveil a breakthrough I''ve made in football therapy. It''s a more holistic approach to pre-match hype. Gets the delta brainwaves going. Please lower your heads and close your eyes. Good lads. The next nearly four minutes are going to be a seminal moment in your career and I want you to savour every second of this experience."


    With that, I pressed play on my phone and Murder on the Dancefloor by Sophie Ellis-Bextor blasted out of our big speaker.


    The Morale of every Chester player shot to the maximum.


    With that out of the way, it was time to face the music.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Team sheet is wrong. I''ve never seen that.


    Stoop


    What''s up with it?


    BrokenGround


    The TV graphic got Pascal Bochum starting. I wonder what happened there. DigiWorld can be pretty shit sometimes.


    Teulu


    I wouldn''t know. I only use dodgy streams. He was out for ten months, right?


    BrokenGround


    Ten, yeah. I''m on the socials and they''ve all got the same eleven. It can''t be. Was he...


    Was he lying to me?


    SummerhillBill


    Don''t think so, lad. Best said it on the interview. Supposed to be five to ten months, but they did a scan after eight weeks, routine, the bone had all healed! The doctors were dumbfounded. Best said something like ''he''s a miracle man''. If you have DigiWorld+ you should be able to scroll back to the warm ups. You can see the Jester players are looking at the kid like he''s a ghost. You''re surprised? Look at their faces.


    BrokenGround


    That makes me feel better. Thanks.


    ***


    1''


    The roar from the home fans as Newcastle kicked off was shattering. It had been supernaturally boosted by the Shocktober perk. I wondered what Crackers, the former board member, was thinking. The referee awarded a free kick, Newcastle took it quickly, and he made them go back and take it from the exact place the foul had happened. Heh.


    3''


    Newcastle were playing exactly as expected. They passed, sprinted down the channels, passed, recovered, sprinted again, remorselessly, endlessly, while we shuffled and slid, desperately trying to plug the gaps they were creating. I had to be careful not to wear myself out because I needed to be able to put some quality on the ball if I ever got near it. That said, I was in a vital defensive role. I had to get out of the back line to block shots, had to stop midfielders clipping passes through or over the top, yet also had to get back into the six-yard area if Newcastle slapped down the sides.


    It was more than a full-time job, and I wondered if I had made a mistake thinking I could do it for any length of time. I had no appetite for launching myself in front of shots. Youngster did, and he had the energy and mindset to keep going back and forth between the same two or three spots contributing nothing with the ball.


    My three fast forwards stood where the left of the centre circle met the halfway line. Not one had touched the ball.


    4''


    I love cricket. I''m a massive cricket fan.


    If you are ''with bat'' in your local village test match and a leftwise bowl-boy flings the big cherry at your stump-and-crossbones, you have about 0.7 seconds to react.


    If you are doing the same against a good professional throw-dog, you have just over 0.5 seconds to nurdle the off long.


    Against one of the brutish Australian national team hurl-daddies, you have 0.4 seconds.


    Elite sport is far harder than the hardest thing you have ever attempted.


    A Newcastle midfielder, seeing there wasn''t a lot of space for his forwards to work in, drove forward and took a shot. It hit Zach and deflected in my direction. The first 0.4 seconds of my reaction were to smash the hotkey linking me and Sharky with Cupid''s Arrow, but I wasn''t the manager so the hotkeys weren''t there. That was fine - it was an easy pass anyway. All I had to do was get the ball under my control and -


    A sliding green shirt appeared on the edge of my awareness radar and almost as quickly, wiped me out.


    I stayed down on the turf for ten seconds, not because I was hurt, but because I was absolutely stunned by the pace Newcastle were playing at. It wasn''t possible to compete on such a level. I could boss League Two. League One, probably. With practice I would be a decent Championship player, for sure. This, though, this was mad. This was many levels above what I could ever do. The Newcastle boys in their disgusting green tops were like protons in a particle accelerator and when they collided with you, you stayed hit.


    I realised then the folly of my plan. Defend and play out for a fast break made conceptual sense but not one of our back eight had the reaction time or the fast-twitch muscles to control the ball and fire a pass before a green shirt would be right up in our grills. Even though we had removed one step from the process - looking up to see where our strikers were - we were as helpless as an English middle-order batsman in the 1990s.


    I got up and was immediately compelled to hurry to cover a potential cut-back. The cross didn''t come and I was suddenly five yards away from where I needed to be. The ball was played back. Josh Owens went to compete but his oppo went past like he wasn''t there. A cross came in from an unexpected angle. Zach rose but the Toon striker got there first and headed just over.


    I puffed air from my cheeks. The fuck was I even doing? This was over. I had to suffer but why was Pascal still on the pitch? He''d started the day on 66% Condition. The fans would love his return, as would Beth. What would her headline be? It had to be something with ''Miracle Man''. I''d tried to put it on a plate for her. I hoped Beth would run with the story and Brooke would turn it into cash.


    I jogged up towards Pascal. "Mate," I called out, gasping for breath already.


    He knew what I was thinking. "Fuck you, boss, I''m not going."


    "Come on," I said, with a pleading note in my voice.


    "You promised me ten minutes. Do you know how hard I worked for these ten minutes?¡± He was panting, too. ¡°Come and win this header. Flick it on to the left for Sharky. I''ll go right. Wibbers middle."


    I tutted, but turned to look at Ben. I waved at myself. Ben cracked a high, fairly accurate ball, but I got stonked by the CA 120 centre back and had to rush back to help out.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Get it launched! Get it to Pascal! Why don''t they pass?


    He''s fast, lads. He just needs one chance. You watch.


    Teulu


    I hope he doesn''t get injured again. You know what? Tell me when he gets subbed off. I can''t watch this. I keep thinking his leg can''t have healed and one little tap and...


    ***


    7''


    It was all Newcastle. They were bouncing the ball around like it was a video game, holding their triggers down to run fast, apparently at no cost. Chester were shit, every single one of us. Ben''s match rating was 5. Everyone else was on 4, apart from me. I was on 3.


    I thought about subbing myself off. Up in the executive box, Sebastian Weaver would be preening himself, smirking, borderline insufferable. Okay, Seb wouldn''t be as crass as Chip Star, especially not with his wife and daughter there, but he would still be loving every second of this nightmare. The longer I crabbed around like a lost boy at an outdoor market, like a piece of a shipwreck bobbing between eleven deadly rocks, the more he would fucking exult.


    I gritted my teeth.


    I had told my men that I was willing to humiliate myself.


    The ball was passed in front of me. I rushed out to make a tackle but by the time I got there, the ball was long since gone. A Newcastle player gave me a weird look, like, bro, whatchu doing?


    I was willing to humiliate myself.


    I locked onto the next target. Got nowhere close.


    Sebastian would laugh. Emma wouldn''t. I wish I''d gone to talk with her before the match, even if it meant having to put up with Sebastian. I needed her. I couldn''t do this without her.


    The ball zipped back across yet again, faster than ever.


    What do you believe in, Max?


    I believed I had asked for courage from my men. I believed we had survived seven minutes. I believed we could survive seven more.


    It was played out wide and I got myself to the edge of the six-yard box, ready to intercept any pull-backs.


    9''


    Still nil-nil. Still all one-way traffic but where there''s life there''s hope.


    Hope dies last.


    It''s the hope that kills you.


    10''


    We hadn''t had a single break, hadn''t spent more than ten seconds in Newcastle''s half, and it was getting harder to keep Wibbers up the pitch. He couldn''t bear to see us suffer. We were about to crack. The ref wasn¡¯t helping because there were so few stoppages in play. It was like a training match with one team walking, one team at full speed.


    At the next break, Andrew would come on. I decided he could join me as a second DM, could help me patrol zone 14, where most of Newcastle''s long shots would come from. After all, it didn''t really matter if we had two strikers or three if we couldn''t even get a long pass going.


    That wasn''t true, though, was it? It did matter. Three strikers was a statement. None of Newcastle''s back line had joined their attacks, except at corners. They were wary. Masarik was creeping forward, as he did, but when Turner and his coaching staff spotted what their goalie was doing, they forced him to move back ten yards. There was just the slightest lack of clarity in their setup, probably made worse because Masarik almost never played and was keen to impress. He was better at the sweeper-keeper role than the first-choice goalie. He was willing to take an eye-catching risk, even if his manager wasn''t.


    11''


    Pascal left the pitch to a spine-tingling standing ovation. He applauded all sides of the ground, got a big hug from everyone in the dugout, and sat on the bench, dripping with sweat.


    He had touched the ball three times.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Teulu, you can watch now. He''s off. Not injured. He''s grinning from ear to ear.


    Teulu


    Thank Christ. What was the point of all that, I wonder?


    ***


    12''


    Andrew sprinted onto the pitch. I yelled, "DM with me."


    "Sandra wants me further forward."


    "In a bit," I said.


    13''


    I thought I saw a chance to get on a loose ball and make something happen, but one of Newcastle''s busy midfielders got there first. He had seen the option and instead of calculating, he had simply assumed he would win the ball.


    Fucking fast, man. Crazy.


    Depressing.


    15''


    I wondered what I could do to shave a few hundredths of a second off my reaction time. The answer? Play in the Premier League for a couple of months. How was that going to happen?


    Maybe Alan Turner would sign me.


    As a ball boy.


    17''


    Still nil-nil, and still Newcastle spent almost all their time in a 3-2-5 formation.


    But while I continued to stink the place out, the rest of the defence were doing better. Ben had made a few saves from tepid long shots and his rating was up to 6. Christian and Zach had worked out that Newcastle¡¯s young striker wasn''t quite the unstoppable force he had seemed in the first few minutes, and they were getting on top of that battle. Crowding the spaces out wide had worked to limit the number of chances we conceded, but Josh and Magnus had been involved in a lot of action, a lot of scraps. They had lost more than they had won, but their opponents were starting to lose the fear factor. The CA 140 winger wasn''t at his sharpest and Magnus was learning his preferred moves.


    Meanwhile, Andrew Harrison was loving his role. Run around a lot! This was his destiny. That was what I''d imagined for him when I''d spotted him on a beach in Tenerife. His Chester career was over but he would impress watching managers with his work rate and stamina and he would get a contract offer in January. He was playing for his future in the sport and he was relishing it.


    That was all well and good but I had always hoped he would add a bit of quality to his game.


    We were desperate for some quality.


    ***


    19''


    BrokenGround


    Oh my fucking God!


    Stoop


    What the shit was that?


    Teulu


    What happened? What happened? My stream is about a minute behind.


    BrokenGround


    WATCH


    ***


    18''


    I was really starting to think about pulling myself off, a phrase I wouldn''t normally have used but I was too tired to worry about double entendres.


    Since the first whistle, our defensive line had been dropping deeper and deeper, given relief only by the referee awarding us cheap free kicks for collisions that would normally have passed by without comment. Back we went, deeper, ever deeper, but in the last few minutes that trend had reversed and we were getting higher.


    That was good. That meant we were in the match, competing, not losing every duel, playing some of the moments on our own terms.


    It was with this fractional lightening of the mood, this very slight release of the suffocation, that I darted forward to snap into a tackle and actually got a piece of the ball.


    Surprised, my oppo fell and pushed the ball to his mate. That guy was about to get a nasty surprise - Andrew Harrison was coming at him on his blind side.


    I forgot I was playing DM. I edged a few yards away from our back line and the closer I got to halfway, the lighter my legs felt.


    Andrew stabbed his foot at the ball - and got it! The bloody thing was about to come to me in a pocket of space just short of the centre circle.


    Time went haywire. Slowed to nothingness as though I had paused The Matrix to get a full 360 scan of my surroundings.


    It would return to normal all too soon and anyway, there was only one thing to do: quickly boop the ball on a leftwards diagonal and see if Sharky could get there.


    Sharky set off on his run. Wibbers was a fraction slower - his instinct was to come to the ball to get a touch. Not today, bro. With some mental effort, he spun to his left so he could hare after Sharky and offer him an option.


    Masarik, Slovakia''s national team goalie, sensed the danger from the fast winger. He took a couple of steps to his right. If he intercepted the pass it wouldn''t matter what Sharky did or where Wibbers ran.


    Even with time seemingly paused, the ball was trickling away from Andrew''s toe diagonally into my path, into my very stride. I was already deep in my quick-pass motion. Not the beautiful, Beckhamesque visual poetry I normally went for, but a stunted, ugly clip. That was all I had time for. An ugly hoik was all I could offer this crowd, the nationwide TV audience, the footballing gods. It was all I could offer Emma.


    Fuck that.


    I demanded and got one extra one hundredth of a second and pushed through the ball. My laces hit dead centre. I didn''t feel it.


    Masarik was moving sideways but when he saw what I''d done his eyes popped and he tried to retreat. He stumbled slightly as his sudden change in direction tested his balance.


    Stupidly, bravely, desperately, he jumped in an attempt to head the ball away but there has never been a more futile act.


    I''d hit it perfectly. It went so straight, so true, that its first bounce landed exactly on the penalty spot, and the ball zoomed across the plane of the goal line exactly halfway between the posts.


    I had scored from 60 yards.

 12.7 - Turner Blindeye (Part Two)

    7.


    From: Ken Carr


    To: Grindhog Board


    Subject: Chester FC


    Max Best just scored from his own half against Newcastle wearing a Grindhog top that NO-ONE CAN BUY. No more prevarication, Wayne. Green light the second run of Chester FC home kits NOW.


    From: Wayne Carr


    To: Board; Ken Carr


    Subject: Chester FC


    Ken, can you slow down, please? There is a reason that we haven''t gone for the second run which is that we''re losing money on the deal you negotiated. We will wait to see how Chester''s season develops. Best is a loose cannon and we want to have a good relationship with Alan Turner so we can get closer to providing the England kit. Don''t get sucked into Best''s narrative again.


    ***


    18''


    Photograph 1: I have just swished my foot through the ball while a Newcastle player looks towards his goal in horror. Josh Owens'' hands are on the way to his head and his mouth is forming an O.


    ***


    It took three seconds for the ball to nestle into the back of the net. In that time I had a great view of the Geordies in the away end, many of them topless, a study in grumpy stillness. Lol. Get wrecked.


    I initially wheeled to my left to exult in front of Alan Turner but decided against it. I ran off to the right, to the West stand, to a section that didn''t normally witness a lot of goal celebrations up close.


    Jump into the fans? Instant yellow card, especially with this referee. I wouldn''t be on the pitch for much longer, though...


    I decided not to be stupid, so merely leapt onto the advert hoardings and stood, arms wide, head back, while hundreds of residents of leafy Cheshire went feral.


    Could the Sentinel strike me down for scoring that goal? Surely not. My match rating had been 3 out of 10 until that point. Now it was 7. You don''t get squashed flat for a 7 out of 10 performance, right?


    Just don''t do it again, I told myself.


    My teammates had caught up with me - they were going mental. I hopped down into the blob, hugged, kissed, screamed, was screamed at.


    Finally, I turned back to the fans, threw punches at them, and yelled, "Give me your money! Give me your money!"


    They loved it.


    20''


    The weight was off. The scales fell from my eyes. The pounding of the drum was the pounding of my heart. Newcastle fizzed some passes around zone 14 and with a sudden burst of speed I got to the ball just as it reached its target, the guy playing as their creative fulcrum. One colossal shoulder-barge later we were both falling, both throwing our legs at the ball.


    I narrowly got there first and he whacked me in the ankle. Free kick to Chester.


    The deafening approval for such a minor piece of business told me that fans were in. All the way in. That wasn''t enough. I got to my feet, glared at the main stand, and demanded more noise.


    They obliged.


    21''


    We took as much time as we dared while pushing up. Our strikers plus Andrew formed a huddle near the corner flag. Ben pinged the ball that way and the lads fought and scrapped and won a throw-in. We took our time. Newcastle''s lads were getting fractious. Josh went over to do his long throw. I was knackered so I didn''t go up for it, but Newcastle''s analysts had prepared the coaches for what Josh could do. They knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.


    After almost thirty seconds of drying the ball on a towel and waving his teammates exactly where he wanted them, Josh then threw the ball five yards. Andrew cushioned the ball back to him, Josh took a touch, passed back to Eddie, who squared it to me in the centre circle.


    We had killed a minute.


    Newcastle came thundering out of their penalty box like dogs released on a country estate. Christian and Zach were behind me, but if I lost the ball in this position it would be trivial for Newcastle to score.


    The first guy reached me and I awkwardly tried to readjust my body to squirt the ball to Zach. The green-shirted forward shifted the angle of his sprint. I stopped pretending to be clumsy, rolled the ball a yard to the right, and that was the end of him.


    The next guy was already at me, though. I wasn''t confident enough to do a nutmeg but he saw me look up, astonished, as I spotted the keeper off his line again. Sentinel be damned! I lined up a massive shot and when the forward stuck a leg out to block it, I skipped around him. Buh-bye!


    No more messing about now. With the defenders surging out to form the high line, I leaned back and clipped a pass with a ton of side spin.


    Sharky and Wibbers were retreating to stay onside, but Eddie read my intentions. Setting off from his own half he raced down the line, collected my pass, and for the first time in the game we had Newcastle''s defenders running back to their own goal while we attacked at speed.


    Sharky went on an underlapping run. Eddie passed forward and Sharky got there miles ahead of anyone. Our first touch in Newcastle''s penalty box!


    Wibbers was busting a gut to support, but the move revealed the main flaw of my plan.


    Sharky didn''t trust his left foot - with reason - so he had to stop the ball and push it onto his right. That fractional delay allowed three defenders to get between Sharky and the goal, and suddenly the chance went from being mouth-watering to being biscuit dry.


    Sharky tried to chip the ball to Wibbers but it was easily cut out. Within seconds, the action was in our half and Eddie was out of position.


    Newcastle came through the centre first, which was something I''d noticed them doing. They hit you in the middle and when you moved bodies inside, they would suddenly blitz the wings.


    The 8 I''d previously got the better of ran onto the ball, laid it off, and came for the return pass. He knew I would be right on him when the ball arrived and I knew that he would be planning a beautiful spin. It would dump me on my arse. He was going to put the League Two prick in his place.


    It went exactly as he planned... for 0.1 seconds.


    As he started his skill, I flicked my foot out and dabbed the ball away.


    He reached out, grabbed a handful of my shirt, briefly stopped my momentum. The fractional delay actually helped.


    Sharky panicked, realising he was offside. He waved at me not to pass, wasting the move''s kinetic potential as he laboured to get back into position. Fucking lazy! Wibbers, wide-eyed, dropped deep to support me. Not what I wanted, really, but that was just his nature. I felt a counter-press coming from the right. Quick as I could, I pushed the ball to Wibbers. I moved right to get the return pass, drawing midfielders that way. Wibbers held off a defender and made to roll the ball into my path. Three Newcastle players went to that space.


    But once the guys had started tracking me, I had run left instead. Wibbers passed and I clipped the ball over the top. Sharky, now in position, chased it. Thousands of fans shot to their feet. Wes Hayward was our best chance of getting anywhere in this match and everyone knew it. Wes Hayward against a high line was box office.


    Wibbers ran to support, and I did my best to help. My tank was in the red but we needed a third body in this move.


    Wibbers glanced over his shoulder, saw me coming, and moved left, closer to Sharky, to make the initial pass easier.


    Sharky passed with his left foot, keeping most of the momentum in the move. Wibbers pointed to where I should go - cheeky fuck - and I ran like Michael Johnson in Atlanta 96, erect, head back, arms pumping. In a cartoon I would have sucked debris into the vortex I was creating, and I''d certainly blown a fucking hole in the defensive line. Newcastle guys were scattered - one on Sharky, three on me. In the goal, Masarik moved across to make life harder for me.


    There was only one thing everyone had forgotten - I didn''t have the ball.


    William B. Roberts, the prick, shot.


    He fucking shot after I''d broken the land speed record to get into position.


    I knew the kid had done it because I saw it in Masarik''s eyes. Pure panic - he was going to concede again!


    I saw up close what happened, had a phenomenal view of what would turn out to be the second of five timeless photos from the match.


    Wibbers had shaped to thread the ball into my path but at the last second had whipped a shot to the left-hand side post. It was fast and curving away from the keeper. Most goalies would have watched it sail into the top corner.


    Masarik was not most goalies.


    He sorted his feet out, took a few quick strides, used a blade of grass like a trampoline, extended one of his long arms, and got half a finger to the bottom of the ball.


    The photo showed this giant man, stretched out like an elastic hero, flying through the air.


    Beautiful.


    Less beautiful was the follow-up. I had continued my run - why not? - and when the shot came back off the post it rolled temptingly in front of Masarik and myself. I thought I was favourite to get there but he had those long arms. He got his big mittens on the ball just ahead of me. I gave his closest hand a fair old whack and tumbled over.


    The nearby defenders went nuts. I''m not sure if they thought I was diving or if they thought I''d cracked into their player on purpose. They tried to start some kind of beef with me but all I did was lie there on the turf, on my back, absolutely wrecked. Sweat was dripping off me to the point the Sentinel could have drowned me in my own juices if he wanted. I was breathing so hard it was like I wasn''t taking in any oxygen. I was seeing spots.


    I wanted to do one last move, one last something. Yeah, these guys were well-coached, well-drilled, and the intensity was crazy. But I''d just about managed to get into the game and the goal had stoked all kinds of belief all over the pitch. Wibbers had shaken off the last few weeks of his torpor and looked once more like the future of English football. Josh Owens looked like he felt he belonged. Eddie Moore had gone marauding. Against Newcastle! Against the supposed best English manager! Eddie, how?


    I pulled myself up a few inches and immediately fell back. I was done.


    While I waited for my body to stop crashing, I looked at the match overview screens. A few Newcastle guys who had been on 8 out of 10 had fallen to 7. Our 4s and 5s had crept up to 5s and 6s.


    And the number 8 who had grabbed my shirt had been given a yellow card. The ref had played the advantage and when the ball was dead, booked him.


    Masarik had been getting some treatment on his hand, but with that done he came over and pulled me up. "You good?" I said.


    "Yes, mister."


    "I had to go for that ball."


    "I know. We are cool. Better for our relationship if you do not lob me again."


    "Don''t go to the halfway line, then. Jesus." I saw that Youngster was waiting on the touchline. "I''m subbing off now," I said to the Slovak goalie. "That kid, Youngster? He can ping a lob from halfway, too. Best stay back here."


    "I do not believe you."


    I gave him a tiny smile. "Are you willing to take that risk?"


    I brought my arm up. He slapped his glove into my right hand and gripped it. "No risk, no fun."


    "No fun playing for Alan Turner then. Seeya."


    I trudged away and it took about ten paces for my mechanisms to smooth out. By the time I got to halfway I was walking easily and was able to slowly spin and applaud three-quarters of the ground. I gave Youngster a high-ten.


    People wanted to congratulate me. I waved them all away so I could sit on the edge of the bench and suffer. When I stopped sweating - if I stopped - I was going to get a shower. Maybe I would wait till half-time, since I was getting 7 XP per minute for watching the match. Good gains, that. Good gains.


    23''


    Newcastle had had enough of our shit and they came at us hard.


    Long shots, overloads, overlaps, underlaps, through balls. They had one problem, though. After his first interception was followed by a calm pass to a free man, Youngster''s match rating hit 8 and was soon 9.


    We had a chance!


    26''


    Sparks were flying.


    The match was lop-sided, but even without me on the pitch we had a counter-attacking threat. Alan Turner was wary enough of Sharky and Wibbers to keep four players back. Facing six Newcastle attackers felt like facing twelve League Two guys, but it could have been worse, and we were winning about half our duels. The game was getting scrappy, which suited us.


    One thing I wasn''t sure I liked - the number of yellow cards on both sides was totting up. Eddie, Lee H, and Wibbers got carded, while Ben was nailed on to get one for timewasting at some point, and Andrew was going to mistime one too many challenges. I could easily imagine finishing the match with seven yellows... or six and a red.


    Only two Newcastle guys were on yellows and they would only accrue more if we got more counter attacks going or if they lost their discipline. Masarik was patrolling the edge of his penalty area - with him that deep there was much less chance of him getting a red card.


    30''


    Sandra asked me if I wanted to take over. "You go till half time," I said, and the effort gave me a mild pang of headache. I ate more marathon paste.


    32''


    The noise from the home fans remained immense, remained relentless.


    There was a call and response chant going on. The McNally was shouting ''blue and white army'' which was followed by the main and west stands shouting ''blue and white army''.


    Blue and white army?


    Blue and white army!


    3 out of 10 for creativity, 10 out of 10 for vibes.


    I poked my head out of the dugout and saw Alan Turner trying to shout at his players, trying to give instructions. They couldn''t hear him.


    American crowds did this. They made it impossible for the away players to hear their head coach. I flew out of the dugout and waved my hands around. More! Give me more!


    The air crackled. A Newcastle player with Technique 20 slipped and Youngster gathered the ball. He dribbled slowly backwards - not now, mate! - drawing aggro onto himself before falling to the right in the process of chipping a ball left, over the top.


    Sharky chased it but the pass was half a fraction of a percent too strong. Masarik flew out of goal and booted the ball into the stands.


    The stands applauded like a forest of trees splintering and collapsing.


    Alan Turner shook his head in disgust and went to sit down.


    I punched the air.


    36''


    The Toon players got a grip. They had a spell of controlled possession that reminded them what they practised every day. Then they came at us again.


    The bombardment recommenced.


    Ben flapped at a long shot. Another whizzed past at an angle but somehow went wide. Was there a hole in the net? Chips over the top caused havoc. We picked up another yellow. A clever free kick routine left a guy with a free header at the back post. How did we have seven defenders and nobody marking that guy? And how did he miss?


    39''


    Agony.


    So much agony.


    I had stopped sweating, but the sweat had turned cold. If I stayed too long where I was, I would catch pneumonia.


    I marvelled at Youngster, Wibbers, and Josh. Fire in their hearts, ice in their veins.


    44''


    We had somehow survived without conceding but now I was up on my feet next to Sandra. The time just before the break was dangerous - it was when a player might look forward to his half-time oranges and a biscuit instead of focusing on the task.


    I was doing what I could to look animated, to keep the intensity up.


    Youngster was still relatively fresh and he got in the way of a pass. He was supposed to boot the ball clear and, indeed, Sharky, Wibbers, and the three Toon defenders ran away from him in anticipation of that event. But Youngster lent the ball to Andrew, got it back, passed to Magnus, followed it. Where was the goofy little twat going? Magnus bounced it back to him and when Youngster turned his body with the intention to give it to Lee H on the corner of the penalty area, I actually fell to my knees.


    This was almost as moronic as his shot in the World Cup. This was just giving the ball to Newcastle in a dangerous area. Hadn''t I specifically shown videos of this exact moment? This was one of Newcastle''s pressing traps!


    Sure enough, as soon as Youngster turned his body to play that pass, five Saudi-shirted players sprinted at Lee H.


    Youngster paused, rolled the ball backwards under his feet, and ran away down the touchline. He had taken half of the oppo out with one feint!


    I swear I saw him cackling.


    He wasn''t the fastest player but to me he seemed to blaze up the touchline as fast as young Ronaldo. Youngster the mystery winger! On and on he went, and in the centre Sharky and Wibbers made runs. Sharky to the far post, Wibbers the near.


    Youngster entered the side of the penalty box - all those Art of Slapping drills paying off - and slid the ball towards Sharky.


    Charlton, the talented young defender, had gone too far ahead so as he stopped himself, he fell. Sharky was cocking his foot. He had to score! Charlton somehow squirted a big toe out and deflected the ball no more than three degrees. It was enough to push it against Sharky''s ankle.


    With defenders splayed everywhere and Masarik having star-jumped to block the shot, Sharky had just enough time to turn, run away from goal, and get there before the onrushing DM. Sharky didn''t have many options. He hit it even further away from goal, into the path of Andrew Harrison. The Triplet took a snapshot that was going miles wide - a terrible, terrible shot.


    Or an amazing pass. It was going straight at the head of Wibbers. William leaned back and let the ball hit him between the eyes. It angled past Masarik... bounced, spun... wide!


    Four thousand Chester fans jumped, cheered, saw their mistake, fell into each other''s arms.


    Youngster, Andrew, Sharky, and Wibbers were on their backs, on their knees. Agony!


    Charlton took the goal kick in a hurry. The DM received the pass, turned, and played the ball to the CA 140 wide forward.


    He skinned Magnus and ran at Lee H. Careful, Lee!


    Lee couldn''t take him out and was easily beaten. The forward shot. Ben parried it - just about - but back into traffic. Newcastle''s young striker got his knee up and the ball ballooned over Ben''s head, fell, was going in. What a sickener!


    What an absolute sickener.


    Photograph number three shows the aftermath of Magnus Evergreen sliding from five yards away and kung-fu kicking the ball almost straight up - it clipped the front of the crossbar. Had the whole of the ball crossed the whole of the line? Referee said no. No goal. Ben caught the ball and fell on it.


    Three-quarters of the stadium rose to acclaim Magnus'' effort. Zach crushed the air out of him.


    The referee blew to end the half.


    The sigh of relief was as loud as a Deep Purple concert - loud.


    ***


    Half Time


    I followed the rest of the lads down the tunnel and into our dressing room. I waited a minute to see if I was needed, then went into the shower and blasted myself with healing water.


    While there, I checked the state of play. We were one-nil up but had been battered in almost every metric. Newcastle were equally dangerous across all three thirds so it wasn''t a case of shifting our defence around. Apart from making subs, the only genuine areas of flexibility were whether to keep two forwards and what to do with Andrew Harrison. But dropping the forwards into some kind of 7-2-1 would only invite more pressure.


    The subs, then. My team''s Condition scores had fallen fast and were just now climbing back up to the mid 80s. About twenty minutes into the second half we would be as tired as at the end of a League Two match, at which point Newcastle would surely put us to the sword.


    One of the benefits of Shocktober was that it had removed a few points of Condition from the Toon players overnight. It made little difference; after the first half almost all of them still had over 90% fitness.


    The rules around making subs made the next decision tricky. I could make three more changes but I had to make them in two windows: half-time and one other break. If I made three subs at half-time and someone got injured, we would be down to ten men. If I made two changes now I would lose a good ten minutes of hustle from someone. If I made one now and two later, I could end up with a strange eleven on the pitch.


    On the bench I had Sticky, Cole, Dan, Ryan, Lee C, Henri and Dazza. Goalie, left back, midfielders, strikers.


    My instinct was to replace Lee Hudson with Henri. Henri would do Henri things in attack, while I would move Magnus to right back and Andrew Harrison to right-wing back. It was a bit random, a bit desperate, but it would take one yellow carded player off the pitch and give Newcastle a slightly different headache.


    I finished my shower feeling much better and stepped into civilian clothes.


    As soon as I emerged, fragrant and relaxed, Vimsy pounced, way too close. "Boss, I''ve had an idea."


    "Hit me," I said.


    He waved Sandra over and urgently whispered to us. "Their lad Charlton looks a player but he''s so young. He''s raw, innee?"


    Sandra shrugged. "He has lost position a few times. He''s great on the ball."


    "Great on the ball," scoffed Vimsy, sounding the most like Ian Evans I''d ever heard him. "He''s a centre back. Supposed to be, anyway."


    "You don''t like him?" I said, surprised. I would have gone back to a yellow mohawk if I could have signed Charlton.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Vimsy made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, he''s good. Course he is. But they''ve taught him the wrong way round. Time was, your Ferdinands, your Paul McGraths, they learned to defend before they learned to pass, just as nature intended. This kid, he''ll learn, mebbes, but that''s too late for today, innit? Get fucking Dazza on him."


    "Dazza?"


    "He''ll make mincemeat out of this lad, boss. Hold the ball up, flick-ons, we can add another dimension to your plan. He''ll help us defend set pieces, too."


    "What if they put the other centre back on Dazza?"


    Vimsy shrugged. "Then Wibbers is on Charlton and that''s not gonna end well for Charlton."


    "Sandra?" I said.


    "I was thinking Henri for Lee."


    I beamed. "Me too!"


    Sandra said, "I like this, though. Can we get him on? Dazza for Lee?"


    I held my hand up while I was repeatedly smashed in the back of the skull by a fatigue demon. The moment passed and I eyed the current lineup in my tactics screen. Ben in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H. That was as solid as we were going to get. Josh was doing okay on the left and he gave us a long throw option that Alan Turner was hilariously discomfited by. Josh lining up a throw into the box had been the only time every single Newcastle player got back to defend. Magnus was doing fine on the right. Youngster and Andrew were doing their best to disrupt zone 14. Sharky and Wibbers were tiring but I couldn''t really imagine taking them off. Without some pace up top we were absolutely effed.


    "Can''t take Sharky or Wibbers off," I said. "Lee''s on a yellow."


    We were interrupted by Physio Dean. "Boss. Josh has a tight calf. Want to risk it?"


    I frowned and checked his player profile - nothing there, but I believed him. No-one on that pitch wanted to be taken off. "No, I don''t want to risk it. He''ll come off. Thanks, Dean." I rubbed my forehead and experienced a pretty long emptiness. It took me a while to get back to where I had been. "Josh comes off, Dazza goes up top. That leaves us weak on the left."


    "Move Sharky to left wing," said Sandra. "That''ll stop the right back joining the attacks."


    "You sure?"


    She nodded. "It''s like you said. He''s cautious."


    Sandra had been doing battle with Turner more directly than me. "How are we doing?"


    She knew what I meant. "We''ve rattled him. I''m enjoying it. More, please."


    "You know we''re going to get dicked?"


    She smiled. "I know that. Turner knows that. I''m not sure the ball knows that."


    "Sharky wide left. Fuck it." I did an internal chuckle - I was too tired to actually waste calories on frivolous expressions. "I''ll probably take over with about twenty to go. That okay with you?"


    Sandra gave me a strange look. "You don''t have to ask; you''re the boss."


    "Okay," I said. "I''m taking over with about twenty to go and if you don''t like it you can walk home."


    She tapped me on the chest. "That''s better. But you know I don''t live far."


    I went on a tiny tour of the dressing room. I told Josh he''d played well and I was made up he''d come forward with his injury. I made a fuss over Magnus - his goal line clearance would go down in legend. I told Sharky and Wibbers they were nailing the role. I arrived at Christian Fierce and found myself staring.


    "Boss?" he said.


    I crouched in front of him and closed my eyes. I had ignored one of the mini-perks from Shocktober because it was so stupid.


    The Mummy - Wrap a player in bandages to give him/her +1 influence.


    Until I took over near the end and gained access to Cupid''s Arrow and Seal It Up, this was the last possible way I could, ah, influence the match.


    "Christian, I need to get weird."


    ***


    With my captain''s head neatly bandaged, the only thing left was my half-time speech.


    I got to the front and looked around. "Same again, lads."


    ***


    46''


    Newcastle came out all guns blazing. Presumably Turner had let rip at half time, and his guys were responding. They played like their careers depended on it.


    It was like the old tale of the irresistible force versus the moveable object. Their attacks smashed into our rocks and left our rocks smashed.


    48''


    Fierce leapt for a header and bonked it miles. Fucking miles. It went to halfway, where Dazza was being grappled by the CA 120 defender. Dazza did well to hold the ball up. If that was all he''d done it would have been useful because while the tussle was going on, Fierce had moved our line five yards farther forward.


    But Dazza fed Wibbers a pass, and Wibbers clipped it behind Sharky''s defender.


    Sharky easily won the foot race but the defender slid and tackled the ball out of play for a throw in.


    In burning his man, Sharky had helped us burn a few seconds, and seared an image of Sharky accelerating ahead into the mind of the right back. He would be very, very careful about leaving Sharky unattended.


    50''


    Newcastle were knocking, as they say. The stats were becoming grotesque. Closing in on eighty percent possession, already past twenty shots. In a boxing match, the referee would have ended it.


    A desperate hoof from Zach was going nowhere until Dazza sprinted, leapt, and sent Charlton flying. Dazza nodded back to Andrew, who hoiked it to the left. Sharky once again got there, but his pass to Wibbers was cut out.


    Newcastle''s defence dropped five yards deeper and stayed there. In boxing terms, we had cut them.


    Not many in the stadium noticed. Sandra did. Vimsy did. Pascal, Henri, and Ryan Jack did.


    Alan bloody Turner did. He looked towards me and for the first time in his life, saw the contempt I had for him.


    He turned away and ordered his subs to warm up.


    55''


    Turner was tired of seeing Sharky get one-on-ones and ordered a midfielder to move to that side of the pitch to help cover the threat.


    Sandra moved Sharky to the right before I''d even got up to suggest the very same thing and if I had been fitter I would have lifted her up and spun her around.


    60''


    The mini game of cat and mouse ended when Turner reverted to his default formation and brought on the first of his big guns.


    Two central midfielders, proper first teamers. CA 160 and 171.


    Our fitness was fading. Sharky had sprinted his heart out. Wibbers was flagging. Dazza''s impact had been shocking but the defenders had adapted. With the extra security provided by the new midfielders, they pushed back up.


    The high line was back.


    The bombardment recommenced.


    I had no answer.


    66''


    For all that we got our arses handed to us all across the pitch, the first goal came from a long shot.


    Ben claimed he didn''t see it because there were so many bodies in the way, but he should have done better.


    One-all, and the relief from the travelling fans was laughable. The Chester fans taunted them with a song: ''You only sing when you''re drawing.''


    70''


    I talked with Sandra about how the rest of the match would play out and we agreed the current setup was more or less as good as it was going to get. That meant I could take over with no downsides and we would be able to use my perks. It was a risk because if I had to change anything it wasn''t going to look anything like what we were doing.


    No risk, no fun.


    I took the wheel, got my hotkeys back, and smashed Seal It Up.


    71''


    We got a free kick over on the left. I brought Youngster and Andrew all the way back so I could send Christian, Lee H, and Zach into the mixer. I used Free Hit but it came to nothing.


    72''


    Newcastle''s big guns combined with some quick direct passing. CA 160 to CA 171 to the CA 140 forward. He shaped to shoot, Ben came to close the angle, and a simple sideways pass was lashed into the net by the young striker.


    Two-one.


    Beautiful football. It would be years before we could face that when tired and expect to deal with it.


    We''d done well for 70 minutes. The stadium had been rocking for over an hour. Now reality was setting in.


    Five hundred million pounds versus five hundred thousand pounds.


    This had never been a contest, not really.


    Alan Turner gave me his smuggest, most slappable grin, and sent on a CA 164 centre back to replace Charlton and a CA 154 right back to take care of Sharky.


    The thing about dreams is they aren''t real.


    73''


    Another sensational Newcastle move led to the left-sided forward getting fouled by Lee H. The forward wanted to take a quick free kick but Lee stuck his foot out and blocked it.


    The away fans demanded a yellow card.


    The home fans kept quiet.


    The referee approached Lee H and fussily and pedantically showed him a second yellow card followed by a red.


    I was the submarine captain whose special trick had backfired.


    You arrogant ass! You''ve killed us.


    I met Lee on his way off the pitch and gave him a hug. I told him it wasn''t his fault. Told him he had put a shift in. Told him not to use all the hot water or Henri would go bonkers. Lee did his best to smile as he headed down the tunnel, head down.


    74''


    The free kick was smashed towards goal by the CA 171 midfielder. He blazed it out of the stadium and walked away, laughing. He was having a great time. They all were. The jeopardy had gone.


    Time to use Cupid''s Arrow. Use it or lose it.


    I wallowed in self-pity for half a minute, then looked at my bench. Two subs left. Henri would be one - he would enjoy getting on the pitch even if the final score turned into an embarrassment. The second. Cole? No point having more defenders. Ryan? He wouldn''t get a kick. Lee C? Yeah, probably Lee.


    My name is Max Best and my kink is being humiliated in public.


    "Dan," I called out. "You''re up."


    75''


    Chester Football Club were going to go down swinging.


    The formation was 4-2-4.


    Magnus and Zach Green were off.


    Youngster was playing centre back. Andrew Harrison was our right back.


    The midfield was a 17-year-old called Dan.


    We had four forwards.


    As director of football, it would have been my duty to sack any manager I caught doing this crap and that manager could have had no complaints. This was batshit. Pure batshit.


    I used Cupid''s Arrow to link Dan to Dazza. That would be the out ball. When we weren''t conceding goals, we would be knocking balls towards Dazza.


    Guys in the Newcastle dugout were pointing at our formation and laughing.


    76''


    Newcastle shot over the bar.


    77''


    They shot just wide.


    78''


    A slick move ended with a rampaging Premier League star getting on the end of a through ball. He chipped Ben and wheeled away, arms raised. Youngster stopped the ball on the line.


    He looked around and decided his best option was Dan. He played the ball that way.


    Two Newcastle midfielders rushed Dan and he repeated the crap trick he''d tried against Stalybridge in the Cheshire Cup - the one where I''d told Zach it was okay to melt the kid''s face off if he tried it again.


    Dan believed that it was easier to dribble through two opponents than one and he believed that because he was a stupid idiot. I''d only ever seen him complete this move in warm ups or half-hearted training matches, and even then it was usually after a coach had blown his whistle and all the defenders had stopped trying.


    Dan took a touch, moving towards contact with his opponent - WRONG - deliberately giving him a sniff of a chance - NO YOU CLOWN - tempting the second opponent to come closer - DOUBLE WRONG - and...


    And then he was away!


    He''d suckered them both in and they''d fallen for it! Maybe they couldn''t believe a professional would try such a move on two Premier League stars. But he had, and he slipped through the gap between them, sped up, and now it was pandemonium.


    We were five against four! Dan drove hard at Newcastle''s DM, who knew he couldn''t dive in. Dan did one of the single greatest moves I''ve ever seen - as the DM ran backwards, Dan closed the gap, dabbed the ball to Dazza, and ran into the DM''s legs. As far as the referee was concerned, the ball had gone and it was a harmless - and accidental - off-the-ball clash. Nope. Dan took him out!


    Dazza took a careful touch and passed it to Wibbers. Sharky and Henri were sprinting towards goal. Wibbers lined up a cross and - and waited.


    Andrew Harrison was on the overlap. He had run forty or fifty yards to join the attack. We had bodies everywhere.


    Sharky lost his mind and ran to the near post. Henri was already there. Wibbers slipped the ball into Andrew''s path, then put his head down and tried to get into the box. Three Newcastle players were covering and more were rushing back.


    Andrew''s first touch was shit - I spent 0.4 seconds furiously angry before coming, with elite reaction times, to blame myself. I''d frozen him out. He''d barely played any football.


    With all the momentum gone from the move, with Andrew trying and failing to shift his body weight, I found myself looking down at the touchline in front of me. You can''t do mad things against an elite team and hope anything good will come from it. Had I ever really believed we stood a chance?


    Not really.


    My head jerked up of its own accord.


    Andrew, falling away, hacked at the ball with his left foot.


    The cross was dogshit. Miles over the heads of everyone.


    The cross was delicious. Miles over the heads of everyone except Darren ''Dazza'' Smith.


    Cue the fourth legendary photo. Dazza is flat as a pancake, five feet off the ground, his magnificent hair flowing behind him like in a Renaissance painting, his neck muscles tight, his face a picture of concentration. The ball is two feet away from his forehead and the goalie is not going to get there.


    79''


    Pain? Tiredness? What''s that?


    I ran around like a crazy person. Two-all. Down to ten men and we had equalised.


    Jubilation coursed through me, replaced by fear. We had something to lose. A draw would be a miracle. An absolute miracle. One of the defining moments of my career.


    Max''s Misfits were on the march.


    Dazza - his first goal for the club was a preposterous diving header! Dan Badford, who I''d scouted while he had been watching his friend at Das Tournament, had wiped out three Premier League midfielders in one move. Andrew Harrison, an out-of-favour do-nothing midfielder I''d spotted on a beach in Tenerife, had two assists!


    Enough craziness - time to play the odds.


    I moved the lads into 4-4-2 (4-4-1 since we were playing with ten men) with Dazza on his own up top. I went men behind ball.


    Newcastle might still win 4-2. 5-2. Christ, 6-2 even.


    But they would have to fucking grind for every fucking yard they got.


    80''


    Shots. Crosses.


    81''


    Crosses and shots.


    I looked at Vimsy. He knew what I was asking. Can we do this? Can we hold out?


    He shook his head.


    82''


    I rotated Henri and Dazza.


    Six of my players had a Condition score below 70. We were at risk of picking up multiple serious injuries. Sharky was cramping up. Wibbers had nothing left in the tank. Eddie Moore had been quietly heroic. Andrew Harrison was our best runner but he was nowhere near match fit. He was blowing hard.


    This evening still had the potential to be a disaster on multiple levels.


    83''


    A winger skipped past Eddie and put in a stunning cross. Ben couldn''t come and claim. Newcastle players were lining up against poor Youngster...


    CHRISTIAN FIERCE WITH THE DOMINANT CLEARING HEADER!


    I saw the aura around him - a huge circle as he demanded the defenders push out. It lifted my guys up, demotivated Newcastle''s.


    The ball was played over the top - a forward chased it. Christian looked like he would wipe the guy out, a certain penalty, but he simply eased himself in front of his opponent and held him off as the ball went out of play for a goal kick.


    84''


    Ben was booked for time wasting.


    He booted the ball long, Henri lost the header, and we were back on our heels, as we had been almost the entire match.


    Newcastle had their 30th shot of the match.


    It screwed wide.


    Garbage.


    Little green men were berating each other.


    85''


    Ben waited as long as he thought possible, then booted the ball. I''d put Dazza back up top and he won the header. It bounced ahead, to the right, where there was not a Chester player in sight.


    Their left back ambled towards it, intending to play it back to the goalie. Dazza had followed his header, though, in the all-action style of Tom Westwood, and he barged the defender and got the ball. He was on! He was in! Only the keeper to beat. The defender, desperate, rugby tackled him.


    The hellish rage from the crowd was sweeter to my ears than the most beautiful music in heaven.


    Only a yellow card for the defender? Now that was a borderline decision. Dazza was far from goal, but he would have gotten a shot away before a covering defender caught up to him.


    Sandra wanted to know what I thought of the decision.


    "I would have given red," I said.


    "What if it was Magnus doing the foul?"


    "Nailed-on yellow," I said, reasonably.


    87''


    Newcastle were getting more desperate. Humiliation was waving at them. Failing to beat us would be terrible, but exiting the cup would be genuinely painful for the fans. They still hadn''t won anything since becoming the richest club in the world. Big sides were crashing out of the AOK Cup, and the Geordies fancied their chances of winning silverware at Wembley for the first time in many generations.


    Dan rushed to block a shot, turned away as he did - not the face! - the ball ballooned up from his leg, wrong-footing Ben, who watched, one knee on the ground, as the ball landed on top of the net.


    Holy shit that was close.


    88''


    Ben was seriously testing the referee''s patience now in a way that made no sense. Wasting an extra five seconds was nothing compared to us getting another man sent off! And please - anyone apart from the goalie! But I couldn''t scream at him to get a fucking move on because there was no space in the stadium for extra sound. It was a non-stop cacophony, an assault on the senses.


    Ben launched the ball and it came straight back at us. A loose pass from a star midfielder - he wasn''t mentally ready for this game and his performance was legitimately unprofessional - landed at the feet of Dan Badford.


    Astonishingly, it became clear that he was going to try his move again.


    I collapsed to my knees - I really needed to stop doing that - and watched through my fingers.


    Dan dropped his shoulder, drew the challenge, looked ready to burst through the tiny gap... and at the last second twisted himself away, dribbled back to his own goal, laughing.


    He pushed the ball safely back to Andrew Harrison... and had his feet swept from under him.


    A nasty, snide piece of business from the number 8, and my lads took the opportunity to cause some aggro and buy Sharky and Wibbers a bit of respite.


    The referee booked 8 and a quiet, disbelieving hush fell on the ground. Hadn''t he...? The referee put away the yellow card and pulled out a red.


    Two yellows equals red. Off you go, son.


    The Deva rocked.


    Two-all. Ten against ten. We would survive the last few minutes. The match would go to penalties!


    Five kicks to knock the Toon out of the cup!


    Five kicks from glory!


    Full Time


    I closed my eyes as I tried to make sense of what I was experiencing. I think I had hoped to give Alan Turner a bloody nose, plant some seeds of doubt in the minds of people who might one day want to hire him.


    Sandra, my staff, and Max''s Misfits had gone many steps beyond that. If we won the penalty shoot-out, the bloody nose would be a bloody everything.


    I knew it was a one-in-a-hundred freak performance. With the stats as lop-sided as they were, if we played this match a hundred times, Newcastle would score an average of four and we would score an average of none.


    This was statistical variance, an outlier among outliers.


    Or was it? We''d had the balls to put dangerous players in dangerous positions. We''d had the guts to take mad risks. If you did that, maybe you deserved your luck.


    Here was a thought - maybe I was lying to myself in the most blatant way yet. It would take a while to process everything, that was for sure.


    "Boss," said Sandra. She had her notebook out. "We need to pick the penno takers."


    "Fuck," I said, because I hadn''t thought about it. I closed my eyes and looked at the ten guys who were left on my tactics screen. There were not a lot of quality marksmen there, and there were young players I wished I could spare. Some penalty misses haunted players for the rest of their life. "Not Sharky," I said. "He can barely move. Not Ben. Henri should go first."


    "Not last? Score the pressure pen?"


    "No. No tricks with the order. Best player goes first, second best goes second." I''d seen too many times that the best penalty taker was listed fifth and his team had lost before it even got to him. "Wibbers two, Eddie three."


    "I agree."


    I reflected later that it was funny I wanted to protect the young players but hadn''t for a second thought to do that for William. "Got to be honest," I mused. "Don''t fancy the rest much."


    It was then that I realised I''d made a mistake. In my exhaustion and mental confusion I wasn''t fully aware of my surroundings. Andrew Harrison was virtually next to me. "Let me take one, Max."


    He wanted to score to help him get a contract at a new club. "You''re not my dream penalty taker, Andrew."


    He nodded and blobs of sweat fell from his hair. "I know. But you don''t want Dan taking one. Or Youngster. Let me."


    I reappraised the situation. "Are you taking one for the team, mate?"


    He nodded again. "Youngster fucked up at the World Cup, didn''t he? And Dan''s Noah''s age. I know you''d take a bullet for Noah. Let me take one for Dan."


    I blew some air out. "Fuck me," I said. "Andrew fourth pen. And... Dazza."


    Sandra said, "Let''s switch those round. Dazza scored in the match and he''s a fucking striker. If he can''t take a pen, why can''t he?"


    "Done," I said, and that was it. I crawled back to the dugout, pulled my hoodie down over my head, and watched from a distance.


    ***


    The good news was the curse was counting the shoot-out as part of the match. As the manager against a Premier League team I was gorging on XP. 14 per minute!


    Of course, every minute was agony.


    I thought about what I would say in the post-match interview.


    Thought about how I could make the world see Alan Turner the way I did. How could I point out that he was serving a brutal dictator? That he was a moral vacuum? That he wasn''t fit to become the England manager - ever.


    Newcastle won two coin tosses.


    They would shoot first.


    The pens would be taken in front of the away fans.


    Of course the rich team gets every advantage. Of course.


    ***


    The CA 171 guy who had been pretty poor stepped up.


    Ben looked tiny in the goal.


    Ben dived. One-nil.


    "Max, you gave Newcastle a lot of problems. What''s your secret?"


    Henri strode forward with purpose.


    Masarik was enormous. It felt impossible to score against him. How could you score when all he needed to do was -


    Henri made it look easy. One-all.


    "What''s my secret?"


    The CA 154 right back stepped up. Scored.


    "When you''re up against a club funded by a murderous state you need to take big problems and chop them up into smaller ones."


    Wibbers came. I was suddenly as nervous as I could remember. What had I done?


    Wibbers sneered at the enormous goalie, ran hard at the ball... and whipped it into the left of the net.


    Two-all.


    "You have to make your problems disappear. Permanently."


    Newcastle''s CA 140 forward walked up. He looked scared and I dared to hope.


    He cracked an unstoppable shot high, top-right.


    Okay, he didn''t look scared.


    Fuck me that was a good pen.


    "One thing I like to do with my problems is decapitate them in public."


    I shook my head. Rubbish. I had nothing to say. I was to politics what Ben was to saving penalties.


    Eddie Moore placed the ball, looked to his right.


    I broke into a cold sweat. Masarik was going to dive right.


    Surely Eddie was bluffing? He was bluffing, right?


    He wasn''t bluffing.


    The explosion of joy from the Newcastle fans told all of Chester what had happened.


    Newcastle''s fourth pen was flawless.


    Dazza stepped up and I could barely watch. He had to score to keep us in the contest. I can''t say I cared about losing in a penalty shootout but I cared very much about Dazza''s breakthrough performance ending in bitter disappointment.


    I hated everything about his technique. The way he picked up the ball, looked for the valve, the way he set it down, the awkward way he ran at it like he was about to kick a sandcastle and didn''t know for sure there wasn''t a concrete sculpture under the sand.


    He took the shittest penalty seen in the Deva for a very long time.


    Masarik dived the right way... and completely flubbed it. It squirted under him somehow. Hit his forearm near the elbow and dribbled over the goal line. Crazy. We were still in it. I was going to give Dazza some private lessons in what it looked like when a human being kicked a football, but we were still in it.


    Newcastle''s fifth guy was the CA 160 midfielder. If he scored, we were out. He placed the ball, counted to about 15, took three small steps to the left, twenty tiny little ones, then rolled the ball to the right as Ben dived to the left.


    Newcastle had scored all five penalties. They ran off to their fans. Alan Turner and his minions jumped around and spilled onto the pitch.


    My guys slumped.


    Action stations. I rushed out and grabbed Zach, Christian, and Henri. "Take care of Eddie," I demanded. Then I jogged through the morons in vomit green. They were celebrating inches away from Ben - classless pricks. I scooped him up and got him moving up to the halfway line.


    "I''m sorry, boss," he said, as tears formed around his eyelids.


    "Shut the fuck up," I said. "It''s a penalty shoot-out. It''s nothing. I don''t give a shit." I brought up his match stats. "Hey, you were good," I said, genuinely surprised. "Eight saves. That''s top! Eight out of ten performance, that. Against a Premier League team! Wow. Better than me, mate, that''s for sure. Got to say, though, when you kept timewasting after getting booked for timewasting, that gave me ulcers."


    He wasn''t sure if he should laugh or go back to crying. "I just thought - "


    "This is no time for thinking," I said. "Oi!" I called out. We were close enough to the other players that I could be heard. "Lads, get in. Fucking get in here right now." One by one they forced themselves up off the ground. I spotted one problem with the Chesterness of the situation. "Let''s move this huddle to Sharky," I said with a big smile. "Easier than him coming to us."


    Sharky was on the grass, on his back, after putting in the shift of a lifetime. We reformed the circle around him, which was weird, but this was Chester. Christian Fierce was still wearing his bandage, for God''s sake. Weird was par for the course.


    "Lads, amazing. I have so much to say but it can wait. Listen, you''ve got time off. I don''t want to see you tomorrow or Thursday. Friday will be easy and we''ll see how you''re doing fitness-wise. Saturday''s the FA Cup and we will rotate big time. If you want to go to the Blues Bar now and have a couple, you''ve got my permission. All right? Absolutely fucking outstanding, all of you. Oh, and by the way, fuck penalties. I don''t want to hear about what happened after the ref blew for full time. You understand me? Next time we''ll knock them out in 90 minutes. That''s it. Enjoy yourselves, you''ve earned it, see you on Friday."


    The huddle broke up but the lads didn''t move far. They wanted to stay out on the pitch, enjoy the atmosphere, the rare sight of TV cameramen rushing around trying to get the best shots. One came all the way up in my face and my fingers twitched. I needed a completo.


    What now?


    The post-match interview.


    What would I say?


    Something horrible and nasty that would leave a bad taste in everyone''s mouths.


    Or I could say meaningless shit like everyone else in the world.


    I inhaled and trudged towards the tunnel. Cameramen and photographers were there in surprising numbers. And for the second time that season, one of my enemies appeared out of nowhere and offered me a handshake.


    Alan Turner, offering the traditional post-match shake because if he didn''t it would be a controversy and if he attracted too much controversy he wouldn''t get the England job.


    You might be thinking, well, if he offered the handshake he might have meant it. Might have been acting with class and dignity.


    But on a flight to Brazil I had clinked glasses with Old Nick and he had told me it was rude not to look someone in the eye when doing so. Ever since, I had clinked hundreds of glasses, said hundreds of cheers, and it was absolutely right that if you didn''t look someone in the eye you didn''t mean it.


    Alan Turner was not looking me in the eye. He did not mean it.


    It is more or less irrelevant but I would like the record to be straight on the matter.


    Turner blinked when he realised I hadn''t taken his hand and with a jolt, he looked at me to find out why. His shocked recoil will live with me forever.


    Photograph 5: Turner has his hand out, expecting to feel the weight of mine. My right hand is covering the entire right side of my face, the way you might do during an eye test.


    See no evil, see no evil, see no evil.


    The piranhas of the media, scenting blood, went insane. Turner''s minions, including his assistant, a guy whose role in life was to find new ways to bend the sport''s rules, came at me.


    The Brig appeared and eased me away from and around the scrum.


    "Max!"


    The Brig pushed me towards the unfamiliar voice. I recognised the hair and the perfume. "Ems," I said, falling into her. She had come down from the executive suite to the front of the stand.


    She croaked, "Max, you were amazing. It was amazing. I''ve nearly lost me voice from cheering."


    I was sinking into her despite the metal bannister between us. I could have slept in her arms like that. We didn''t have much time. In a season where I wanted to go deeper, wanted to spend quality time with people, all I had was a few scant moments with my one hundred percent. Why was I doing this? "Worth twenty quid, isn''t it?"


    "Are you all right?"


    "No." I had won. I had lost. I had achieved my aims. I had achieved nothing: no money, no glory, no change. She squeezed me. I said, "I have to go and blast Alan Turner on TV. Then I''ll be right up."


    "Max, don''t," she croaked, moving away so she could check me out. She looked worried, but she put her freezing cold hands on my cheeks and gave me a smile. "You''ve already blasted him. You did, babes. You did. I was talking to Gemma about how you don''t like him and she said if you want to hurt him, shut your mouth."


    "Gemma''s first reaction to anything I say is shut your mouth."


    "Because the FA don''t like you and if you don''t like him it''s like the enemy of my enemy is my friend. If you chat a load of shit you might help him into the England job!"


    "Huh," I said. "That actually makes sense. So what do I say? I''ve got loads of zingers lined up."


    "Talk about Chester and what you''re doing here, not horrible things about chopping people up and suitcases buried in forests and all that. This is your chance to tell the story of Chesterness. Be positive. Mention the mini-bond!"


    The Brig came closer. "Sir, it''s time."


    I took one last hug, let Emma''s hair play against my cheek and neck, and let the Brig guide me through the tunnel to the crevice where we had the sponsors'' logos up on a wall. Put one football manager in front of that wall, get a camera, and it all looked much more serious and professional than it really was.


    I let the TV guy fuss with the lighting and the sound and kept my eyes down, saving energy until it started.


    "Max Best," said the presenter. "Amazing scenes! An incredible night. You must be proud of your players."


    I did my best to get a cocky, cheeky vibe going. I think I did okay. "I''m proud of them, yes. They showed what happens when you bring a lot of talented people together and invest in them. We''ve invested in those players and now you can too. Go to Chester FC dot co dot uk slash minibond to find out more."


    "Heartbreak in the penalty shoot-out."


    "That''s minibond, all one word. Heartbreak? Not for Newcastle''s players or fans! They were really into it, weren''t they? Very emotional lot. Oh, maybe they were celebrating the news that the Deva stadium is going to increase in capacity? Next time they come to Chester we will have at least one new stand. That''s what the mini-bond we launched yesterday is all about. We''re bringing the stadium back under the control of the Chester fans and making it bigger and better and next time a Premier League team comes and embarrasses themselves against us there will be thousands more people watching. 8% return on investment, conditions apply."


    "Tell us about your goal."


    "Yeah, sure. So the ball sat up real nice and I saw the keeper off his line and I thought, huh, is it this Sunday night when the first episode of our documentary will air for free on BBC 2? And as the ball hit the net and I saw those topless Newcastle fans there with their arms folded looking quite cross, I thought, tune into BBC 2 at 9pm this Sunday, lads, it''ll cheer you right up. Chesterness. It''s a brilliant show. I''m in it to a modest degree but it''s actually about our wonderful women''s team. Is what I thought as I was scoring that goal. And of course one of the aims of the mini-bond is to improve the pitch so we can bring the women''s team home."


    "What did you say to Alan Turner at the end?"


    "Nothing, I don''t think."


    "It got a bit heated."


    "Did it? I think you might have misread that, but it''s possible he was dubious that we''re offering an 8% return on investment in a falling interest rate environment, but no, it has all been fully costed and we can easily afford the repayments. We''re one of very few English football clubs that break even, you know, and the new stand will allow us to compete with clubs that can currently beat us. You know, big clubs like Mansfield and Carlisle United."


    "I get the feeling you don''t like Newcastle very much."


    "I spent two weeks holiday in Newcastle this summer - by choice! - with my girlfriend who is from that fair city. She''s got the accent and everything. It''s lovely there and the people are great. But their football club used to be everyone''s second-favourite and now they are very much not. My ambition is to make Chester everyone''s second favourite team. Tonight wasn''t a match between a rich club and a poor one, a big one and a little one, it was a clash of philosophies. If you''re sick of the way football is going - nation states, kleptoclubs, bloated tournaments, endless legal battles - I offer an alternative. Young players, exciting football, winning football, trophies, putting the fans first. Chester FC can never be as big as Newcastle, but we can be more liked, more respected, more admired, win more games, win more trophies, have more fans, have a better kit, have more swagger, have more fun, train more coaches, give more back, and you, yes you, can be part of it for as little as five hundred pounds. Chester FC dot co dot uk slash minibond."


    "Thanks for your time, Max."


    "Cheers."


    ***


    From: Wayne Carr


    To: Board; Ken Carr


    Subject: Chester FC


    All right... I''ve just watched both manager interviews. Turner is so afraid to say the wrong thing he never says anything.


    Best might be more trouble than he''s worth, but he''s worth a lot of trouble.


    Everyone''s second team? Holy shit what an ambition but when he said the kit was better than Newcastle''s I got a semi.


    Let''s do it.


    Time the announcement to coincide with the first episode of that documentary?


    What else have Chester got going on?


    From: Ken Carr


    To: Wayne Carr; Grindhog Board


    Subject: Chester FC


    Yes to let''s do it.


    Yes to the timing.


    I heard he''s doing something with the army but his next big thing is the under 18s boys team. Two of them played tonight against Newcastle. I could turn up to training with a few bin bags of swag?


    Fuck that''s a good idea. I''m running with it. I''ll let you know how I get on.

 12.8 - Make a Move

    8.


    "There are decades where nothing happens, there are weeks where decades happen, but I didn''t see any of it and the referee was shocking" - Lenin via Alan Turner.


    ***


    Wednesday, October 29. The morning after Newcastle.


    I woke up alone.


    After spending some much-needed but not very private time with Emma in the Blues Bar, I had watched her drive back up north with her mum and dad, saving her a train ride. All very logical, very reasonable, but I couldn''t help but feel Sebastian was punishing me for defying his team.


    I pottered out of my house looking for some human contact. Ruth wasn''t in. The Brig was out. The horses weren''t in a chatty mood.


    Back inside, I made a cup of tea and decided I would spend a lazy couple of days taking stock of the season so far, checking my plans, doing some admin. Top of the list was finding a way to cover for Sandra when she was off. What else? Get Andrew Harrison to a new club while he was on people''s minds. Check the mini-bonds were being sold. Pick an eleven that could win our easy FA Cup match while our key players rested for the potentially explosive one against Liverpool under 21s in the Vans Trophy. Manage our under 18s in the Youth Cup, introduce them to Relationism.


    It seemed straightforward enough but the universe had a couple of surprises in store. And when I say a couple I mean ten.


    ***


    I rode the Green Baron to Bumpers, taking a detour past our latest giant poster. It was advertising the Chesterness doc that would air on Sunday night. I had some ideas for next week''s design - when I got to my office I would sketch them on my ancient iPad and send them to Brooke.


    I was surprised by how full our car park was. I had given most of the lads two days off but loads had come anyway. Some had come to eat breakfast together, some (Josh, for example) were getting looked at by physios, and a few had asked Spectrum to take them through bits of video from last night. In truth, I think people just wanted to be together, to stretch the feeling of the evening before as far as it could go.


    I had brek - Full English, for once - which eased the aches and strains wonderfully. Spectrum was with Christian Fierce and Wibbers trying to answer their questions simultaneously.


    Sharky was there, basking in all the attention he was getting in real life and online. The Newcastle game had been his breakout performance and at the age of 27 he had finally arrived. If he could play like that at CA 59, imagine how useful he would be when he reached his ceiling of 86. I actually expected him to get within shouting distance of his peak this season, since he was getting minutes, the coaching was good, the facilities were good, and now one of his mental blocks had been obliterated. Surely it had. Right?


    Sandra''s car was in its spot, so when I finished eating I pottered around looking for her. I finally found her in the Sin Bin, watching some parts of the match on the big TV. She liked to watch without sound.


    I perched on the edge of the table. "Pressing traps," I said.


    "Yes, boss. They are sophisticated. I want to watch this while it''s all fresh in my mind so I can learn to do it and learn how to combat it."


    "Any news about...?"


    "No, Max."


    "Do you remember the thing they were doing against the double full backs? Kind of a zippy triangle."


    "Yes, boss."


    "When we start facing low blocks again that could be a nice move. And that in and out thing?"


    "Know exactly what you mean."


    "I''d love to add that to the Art of Slapping. And I liked the one where they draw you out all the way to the touchline and it''s bish bosh bash and they''re away."


    "Yep."


    "I loved all that. So simple but it just looked dead right every time. It¡¯s the Wayne Gretzky principle."


    "What''s that?"


    "It''s where you watch some sport and you pause it and say what the player should do with the ball. You say, well he should pass there and that guy should draw the player and pass square and then that guy should turn. Then you press play to see if he actually did that thing that''s obviously right. Wayne Gretzky always did the right thing. Decisions 20. Newcastle did that most of the time and it was only the last pass where they stuffed up. Everything leading up to that final step was gold."


    "I''ve never heard it put like that but I totally agree. So much of it was superb. Turner has actually coached out the decision-making process, though, boss. They''re not making those decisions, they''re going through their set patterns." She went through the move she was watching one more time.


    "Can we learn to do it?" I said, as green shirts swarmed Eddie. Sandra rewound and watched the move again, slower.


    "Yes," she said, "but there''s no point in doing this one if we can''t keep the ball when we have it."


    "Next time we''ll be better at that," I said. I felt confused, somehow. Did I want brilliant, unstoppable scripted passing moves or did I want my players to do it all samba-style? What level of hybrid system would I want if I could design it? "If it''s next year, we''ll have a more mature Wibbers, Dan, I''ll be more ready, Pascal will be fit. We have players who can pass, who can beat a press. But I''m thinking even further ahead. When we''re playing these sorts of matches every week can you give me these moves?"


    "Sure," said Sandra. "If you give me the training ground time."


    "Why wouldn''t I?"


    "Because then you''ll be asking where the passing drills are." She went much more Mancunian than normal, I suppose because she was doing an impression of me. "Where''s the technique? Where are the slaps?"


    I smiled. "That''s the trade-off, is it? If we focus on one thing, something else gets lost?"


    "Championship-winning teams play beautiful football, score goals, get a hundred points, go to the Prem and can''t do what they used to do. The step up is immense and most promoted teams go straight back down. We need to be very defensively solid, have a top-class goalie, and either attack well enough to scrape 40 points or defend well enough to do the same. We won''t be able to do both. Not in the first season."


    I smiled. "I love that you''re planning for the Prem."


    She gave me a level look. "That''s where we''re going, isn''t it? To the Prem to be everyone''s second favourite team."


    I checked the door was closed and was about to make a joke about the nearest Prem being the Northern Premier League Premier when my phone rang. "Better take this," I said. "It''s the manager of Morecambe calling to congratulate me." I pretended to sigh like it was such a chore. Sandra scoffed, shook her head, and got back to work.


    Five minutes later I knocked and went back into the cabin. Sandra looked over with a slight frown. It wasn''t like me to return to a finished conversation. "All good?"


    "Erm," I said, considering the question. "I mean... yeah? Morecambe want to sign Cavvers."


    "Ben?"


    I grabbed one of the new chairs, pulled it close, and sat. "They have the chance to get into the National League playoffs but the manager''s sick of his current goalie. He saw Ben against Newcastle and was like, there you go. Bit of skill, bit of character, won the NL before, and he''s not Chester''s first choice so we can get him cheap."


    "Can they?"


    "I mean, he offered fifty thousand."


    "Fifty?" she said, pulling a face. "That''s shit."


    I tapped the table a few times. She was right, but Ben was at his cap. CA 67 and we were out of the AOK Cup. Every cup we got knocked out of was a long stream of future matches that he wouldn''t be playing in. He would spend most of the rest of the season on the bench watching Sticky, losing value. "Yeah but it''s the most we''re ever going to get. He''ll never be as in-demand as he is now." I tapped some more while I looked at the goalkeepers in my squad page. Sticky, Ben, Banksy, Rainman. Rainman was on loan at Saltney and the gap from Ben to Banksy was vast. Without Ben, if Sticky got injured or suspended, we would be in big trouble. If I sold Ben I would need a replacement, and if I was getting a replacement, what was the point of the trade? Well, to get someone with a higher ceiling, obviously. Someone in the CA 50, PA 100 range. An upgrade. Someone who would benefit from having an elite goalie coach. "Ben gets a pay bump, first team football. Morecambe isn''t that far and it''s nice up there. I assume."


    While I was going through my database of goalie options, my phone rang again. It was my mate Timo, manager of Crawley. His side were struggling in League One but he was fairly unflappable. I showed Sandra who it was. "Crawley for Ben?" she said, baffled. I stood, intending to take the call outside but she grabbed me; she wanted to hear. "Just don''t let him blab about his latest girlfriend."


    This is what she heard:


    "TJ. Sup? Oh, you did? Oh, come on, it wasn''t 60 yards. 59 and a half maybe. Yeah! Who cares? Fuck him. Don''t remember doing that, no. Did you just want a chat? What? Are you fucking joking? Sharky?" I jumped up and Sandra did the same. "That''s mental. Are you low-balling me on my birthday? I''ve got two birthdays, mate. Two hundred? Haven''t you got all that bitcoin money? He''s my only winger. Two... The hell are you talking about? A triple threat like Sharky doesn''t get out of bed for less than three hundred grand! He''s a lethal weapon if he gets some space and teams are always battering you lot because you''re shit - he would destroy League One on counters. Don''t waste my time with... You''ll ask your board? Mate, your board is a teenager who made fifty mill by accident trading shitcoins, he''s not someone who gets to have an opinion on the market value of - oh, he''s gone."


    Sandra was agog. "Crawley want Sharky?"


    "I know," I said. "Talk about a bolt from the blue."


    I went into the curse shop and brought up the details of a perk called Interested Parties. It would add an indicator to a player''s profile that told me which clubs were interested in which players. It cost 6,000 XP but had the potential to transform how I did transfer business. After buying Shocktober and accumulating XP at a fairly steady rate, I was getting towards the amount I needed to buy Relationism.


    XP balance: 17,818


    I was within ten thousand now. It would be moronic to buy anything that delayed it. Apart from Shocktober - that had been ace.


    Sandra was waiting for clarity. "Do I understand it right that Crawley might offer 300,000 for Sharky? Don''t you think we could get more?"


    I did a slow circuit around the TV and then leaned on the table. "Yes, eventually. A fully-grown shark is worth half a mill. He''s still a baby shark, though, isn''t he? 300 would be generous. I think at 300 we''d be stupid not to bite. Hey," I said, rapping the table as I got up. "TJ''s board won''t go for it anyway. God, what a morning this is turning into."


    ***


    I caught Sharky as he was about to head off home and told him what had just happened. All kinds of emotions crossed his face - pride, worry, dollar signs. I promised to keep him updated.


    In need of a normal, non-weird conversation, I walked around Bumpers trying to chat to the ground staff, to JoJo, to the chefs, but I kept getting interrupted by callers who wanted my employees. I''d often heard games like the Newcastle one being described as a ''shop window'' for players but hadn''t really thought anyone meant it seriously. Apparently it was a real thing.


    I batted away enquiries about Wibbers and Youngster, and the market for Josh Owens was forming but wasn''t currently too serious. But when I suggested a price to club A for player X, other clubs seemed to instantly know about it. It became a known fact that I would take 50 for Ben, 300 for Sharky, and that I would accept one hundred thousand pound bids for Eddie Moore.


    It seemed like my January had the potential to be a lot busier than expected, which was good in one way - more money for the club - but bad in the sense that if Sandra was still on leave, I could be up to my neck in work at a time of year when I wasn''t at my effervescent best, what with my mum and everything.


    To take my mind off things, I scooted the short distance to the Deva, where I found Secretary Joe among some volunteers who were cleaning up the debris from last night''s match. I joined in but they soon kicked me out, since I was wincing every time I bent to pick up a crisp packet.


    Joe eased away from the others, put his hand on my back, and pushed me inside towards his office. "I''ve got something interesting to show you," he said.


    I told him about the bids for our players and that I was minded to accept them so if he wanted to get on his club secretary chat groups and spread the word, we could attract more offers for the guys in question and let them choose where they wanted to go.


    Joe listened carefully. "Four hundred thousand pounds for three players. It seems like a lot, but it isn''t really, is it?"


    "Wouldn''t buy that Charlton lad''s toenail. Better than a kick to the nuts though, isn''t it?"


    "They''re nice boys," said Joe, with a slightly accusing tone.


    "Yes. And they''re getting their rewards for all their hard work. If they leave," I added, because none of the interest seemed likely to actually turn into deals. "I''ve not had one of these shop window matches before. Maybe today everyone''s hyped and tomorrow it''s all forgotten? We will see. All right, what have you got?"


    He sat at his computer where he had read-only access to a spreadsheet that was being updated through The Wall''s cloud. "The mini-bonds, Max! Some interesting patterns I thought might amuse you."


    "How, er... How''s it going?"


    "Good! We did ninety thousand on Monday."


    "Ninety thousand... out of five million?" I tried to do the maths in my head. "At that rate, we''ll have sold out by the time a Chinese AI entity steals the secret of silk production from Japanese mecha-zoids."


    "The other way round, Max. Don''t let Henri hear you make that mistake. Well, I thought ninety was quite a good start seeing as we broke the news late. On Tuesday it went viral and we sold a lot more. Two hundred and twenty thousand."


    "Total?"


    "Extra. Mostly people in Cheshire, of course, as you''d expect."


    "Right." Joe clicked around and brought up a new screen. It showed sales per hour. What kind of nerd would be interested in that? Me, for one. "Are you having fun with this?"


    "Yes," he said. "Now look. Here''s the start of the Newcastle match. Bit of action. I think that''s uncertain Chester fans seeing their club on TV against a big team and thinking well I never thought I''d see this again, let''s look down the back of the sofa. Then..."


    "My goal."


    "Yes. Big spike."


    "What''s this one?" I said, pointing to another spike about ten minutes after the goal. I couldn''t think of anything that had happened in the match that would make people get their chequebooks out.


    "There was someone filming on his phone when you scored. He caught it, got you celebrating and you screaming give me your money! He posted it and people gave you their money."


    "Ha," I said. "Brooke will be pleased. She''s always at me to include a call to action in our stuff. We bicker about it; I find it tacky. Okay then there''s a sort of low hum of sales, that''s all good. I''m starting to get the hang of this now; it''s like an Expected Threat graph. Expected Wonga."


    "Expected Bread," said Joe.


    "Oh, that''s good. You win." I followed the line with my finger. "Another big spike when Dazza scores."


    "Yes. A couple of investors from Australia, too. Might be his relatives. And then this one is my favourite." He pointed to a spike from after full time.


    "Erm... oh. That''s when I was doing the advertorial."


    "Yes, but if we split these sales by geography..." He clicked to show me a different graph. There was the usual chunk from Cheshire, with bits from Wales, Merseyside - one from Darlington, which was unexpected - and a TON from the far north-east.


    "Not Newcastle fans," I said, finding it hard to believe.


    "No, Max!" squeaked Joe. He was loving this. "Sunderland!"


    I laughed. Where one door closes, another opens. Sunderland fans were voting with their wallets because I''d had a pop at their rivals. "Wow, okay. What a country this is, bloody hell. Okay so hit me with some numbers."


    Joe seemed less interested in the total than the stories that came with each surge. "As of last night, we had raised just over 550,000 pounds."


    "Ooh," I said, impressed. Half a mill from the bond, four hundred grand from player sales. A good day for MD''s blood pressure!


    "Yes," said Joe, dubiously. "Of course, the first days see the most take-up and it will tail off quickly, plus we don''t have another match as big as Newcastle on the horizon. You should expect the daily amounts to dwindle. On the other hand, Norwich City''s mini-bond sold out in two weeks. Perhaps there will be some further spikes of interest around our home fixtures and episodes of the documentary. Would you consider scoring from the halfway line again? That would help."


    "Sure thing," I said. My phone buzzed. "One second," I said. I picked up, heard that it was someone asking about Wibbers, rolled my eyes, and slowly left the office. I ended the conversation by saying ''a hundred million'' and as I stood in a corridor shaking my head, I realised Joe was lurking behind me, a polite distance away. "Joe! Want me to teach you how to make a proper cuppa for the hundredth time?"


    "I like it how I like it," he said. "But you might want to come and look at this."


    Intrigued, I followed him back and we re-took our positions at the spreadsheet. There was a new entry. In the last few moments, someone had bought three hundred thousand pounds of Chester FC mini-bonds. My eyes bulged and my mind raced. Who did I know with that kind of cash? Sebastian Weaver? No way. Mateo? He was investing in Gibraltar, wouldn''t directly invest in one of Tranmere''s rivals, and anyway I owed him a hundred grand. Ruth? She had mocked the 8% return on investment saying she could earn more by cleaning her riding boots on a private stream. "I wonder who it was?" I said.


    Joe gave me a strange look and pointed to a long cell on the left of the screen. It hadn''t immediately registered as a name.


    Aur¨¦lie Fragonard


    We stared at each other for a moment, before Joe copy-pasted the text into a search engine. "Not much to go on. It''s the same family name as a literature prize, podcast, perfume. I''m not seeing anyone with this exact name."


    "Could it be some sort of scam? A fake purchase from a disgruntled Geordie?"


    "I wouldn''t have thought so," said Joe. "I''d be astonished if the money wasn''t already in The Wall''s account. They''re very precise people. Er, as you know. Nice name, isn''t it?"


    "Aur¨¦lie?" I said. "Aur¨¦lie Fragonard. Yes, it''s nice. Oh, well, suppose it''s just some rando. So we''re on about eight-fifty now? That''s mint. Top. Amazeballs. Keep me posted."


    ***


    In anticipation of being absolutely mentally wrecked by the Newcastle game, I''d asked Pascal to be on standby for the 3 R Welsh match. As it was, I went after all, naming myself manager so I could get 2 XP per minute while the army guys jogged around the pitch. It was incredible how slow it all was compared to real football. It was like watching my old iPad try to load an app.


    In the time it took for a defender called Dylan to take a pass, look around, count his feet, and give the ball straight back, I told Pascal that I was happy with his ten minute cameo, made sure he understood it was a mad gamble from me and I wasn''t disappointed in him, but that I wanted him to forget about playing for a couple of weeks and build his fitness back up.


    He fell still but didn''t complain, and soon enough he was shouting at 3 R Welsh again.


    Pascal ended up doing most of the actual managing - such as it was - while I stole the XP and pounded my phone. Tiggy had driven us and in between calls I sounded her out about the possibility of her dad, Clive OK, doing a few hours a week extra when Sandra was away. Tiggy used neutral phrases and didn''t look at me - it was how I reacted when people asked about my mum. She didn''t think her dad pushing himself was a good idea. Okay, scratch that avenue.


    In between calls from other football club managers, I had quick chats with Ben, Eddie, and Sharky to keep them updated on their situations and to prime them for me formally accepting a bid. If that happened I wanted the contract talks with their new clubs to happen quickly so that I would have certainty that the deals would go through on January 1.


    It must have been crazy to get those calls. One night you''re in a completely harmonious team playing your best against a big club, the next your manager is talking about selling you. It was patently good news, of course. Everyone wants to be wanted. Everyone wants a pay raise. But the subtext to it all was: Max Best is willing to let you go.


    They would think about it, tell themselves that I was willing to sell due to the mini-bond as much as anything, and in the end, would take a move if the salary being offered was high enough. We were paying Ben 640 pounds a week, Eddie 950, and Sharky 600. The first two would double their money. Sharky would quintuple it.


    At half-time, I didn''t really have anything to say to 3 R Welsh, and they only wanted to talk about the Newcastle match. My phone rang just as the 50th person of the day asked me how it felt to score ''that goal''. To Pascal''s amusement, I showed him that the caller was, yet again, Dieter Bauer. We had been joking that he had been calling me as a sort of free weekly English lesson to keep his vocabulary fresh before the big summer event.


    I wandered away from the group - Pascal could make the subs and give pointers just as easily as I could - and did the usual small talk with Dieter. I always got the feeling he had an ulterior motive for contacting me but I always hung up wondering why he had called. He asked how I was and I told him about the offers for my players and how it always felt strange. He tried to put my mind at ease but seeing Tiggy tell off a player who wasn''t listening to Pascal - now delivering a thunderous half-time team talk, amazingly - reminded me of my real challenge. I had to find a part-time coach to stand in for Sandra, ideally one who could help me with tactical ideas during matches.


    I explained all that, then said, "If only there was a loan market for coaches the way there is for players." There was a silence. "Hello?"


    "I''m here, Max. You have given me an idea. When is Miss Lane away?"


    "Er, like December and January."


    "Okay," he said, and I heard him scribbling a note. "May I please call you back? I might have a small proposal to make that you will find beneficial."


    "Of course," I said. Suddenly it hit me - Dieter had been the one investing three hundred K. These old Germans had secret bank accounts for days, didn''t they? I turned away from the army guys, covered my mouth in case of lip readers, and murmured, "Aur¨¦lie Fragonard."


    "Pardon me? Are you still there, Max?"


    Nothing. Not him. "I was just ordering from the drive-through."


    He wasn''t listening. "Yes, good. Goodbye."


    ***


    Tiggy dropped me back at Bumpers and I immediately hopped on the Green Baron to check out a schools match happening at Saltney.


    With Henri''s Syndicate in line to pay Vincent Addo''s transfer fee, my immediate financial problems were gone. In fact, Henri was pushing me to sign more players to Saltney in January.


    Addo was on his way, as was Toquinho - as expected I had needed special permission for the unknown Brazilian but it hadn''t been too hard to get. Those were the two foreign players I was allowed and now I was more in the market for a Jamie Brotherhood type. Someone talented I could pick up for ten to twenty grand from a lower tier Welsh or English club and sell for a hundred in a couple of years.


    The Saltney Town project was purring along. Well In had led the team to the top of the table, which was made more impressive by the fact that unlike Jackie Reaper and Jay Cope, he didn''t have the best squad in the league. I''d had to be careful with my spending in summer and the average CA in the first matchday squad was 37. The best team had 40, but they didn''t have a coach like Well In. The ultimate goal, of course, was to catch the Welsh champions, The New Saints, who had 65.


    We looked likely to win the league with the squad we had, but now that the 3G pitch was generating money I planned to bring in another couple of players in January, just to be sure the club would get promoted if Well In took a better job. Those two new guys plus Addo and Tokkers, plus Tom Westwood on loan again, plus anyone else I bought with the Syndicate''s money - that would be a disgustingly overpowered squad for the level and potentially already enough to finish top half in the Cymru Premier.


    The only shame was that the squad Well In would have at his disposal by the end of the January transfer window would have a slim but tangible chance at winning the Welsh Cup. The prize for winning the cup was a place in Europe - ka-ching!


    Well In had made mincemeat of the previous opponents in the cup but they would face Cardiff Met FC in the third round. That was a solid mid-table Welsh Prem club, and beating them was maybe a little too much to ask.


    I couldn''t help but daydream about the money winning the cup would bring. Piles of cash always seemed to be just over the horizon.


    ***


    Saturday, November 1


    I woke up to cursemail. The imps thought they could distract me from buying Relationism with a perk called Shocktober 2: November. It did the same thing as Shocktober, but in November.


    It was the same price, 2,777 XP, but represented much worse value. First, there were far fewer matches in November, and this season''s schedule was fairly easy - we would win two of the three league matches without any supernatural help, while the two FA Cup matches were likely going to be against smaller clubs.


    It just wasn''t that tempting. The only thing that made me think hmm well maybe was the fact that I was getting a reliable 250 XP per week just from hanging around Bumpers Bank in the evening and watching parts of all the matches that were going on. Shocktober 2 was ten weeks of that... Nah. Relationism or bust.


    ***


    FA Cup First Round: Chester versus Coalville Town F.C.


    Brooke won yet another Employee of the Day award.


    She had done some research and discovered that a lot of our fans simply didn''t understand the mini-bond. They thought we were asking for a donation of five hundred pounds and didn''t realise it was an investment. So Brooke set up information booths outside the home stands. Brooke, MD, and Secretary Joe stood there for a couple of hours before kick off, patiently explaining what it all meant to people while to draw people towards the booths, Christian Fierce and other star players signed autographs and posed for selfies.


    The attendance was quite low, not even 1,500, but we sold a ton of mini-bonds. When people understood they would get the money back, when they saw the images of what the new Harry McNally stand would look like, when they realised the stadium would be back under the control of the football club again, it was no longer a case of selling the bonds but trying to make sure people didn''t invest more than they could afford.


    "Brooke," I said, after I had watched her convince a family to downsize their Christmas so we could upsize the Deva. "You are amazing at this. Absolutely amazing. Let''s go beyond the stadium on match day, what do you think? What about going to the town centre opposite the Liverpool FC shop? You can remind people we''re playing Liverpool this week."


    "It''s easier to sell a stadium bond when you are at the stadium, but I''ll think about it. MD is schmoozing some of his friends from the big pharmaceutical companies in the box today. We could sell more in five minutes in that one room than five days on the street. Are we going to win? It goes easier when we win."


    I tutted. "Please," I said, and thought about withdrawing her award.


    Coalville were a tier 9 side playing in something called the Hellenic League, which really should be in Greece. I let Sandra manage this one, but we collaborated over the starting eleven, opting for an attacking 4-3-3. With Sandra in charge, we could have spread the three forwards out if we wanted, but based on the characteristics of the players she opted to go narrow.


    I was tempted to push for Banksy in goal, but a good FA Cup run could solve a lot of our problems so we went with our cup goalie, the in-demand Ben Cavanagh.


    The back four was Cole Adams, Zach, Sunday Sowumni, and Jamie Brotherhood. Zach had played against Newcastle but the curse said he was fully fit. Lee H was suspended after his red card, which was actually perfect because we wouldn''t have used him in this match anyway.


    Lee C, Ryan Jack, and Noah H were the midfield three, while the strikers would be Tom Westwood, Benny, and Dazza. We told the Australian not to run around too much. "Just score," was the instruction.


    Coalville were strangely disorganised from set pieces and Ryan Jack had fun putting free kicks and corners into the danger zone. We quickly got a grip against a limited team, scoring three first half goals, including Dazza''s second for the club and big headers from Cole Adams and Zach Green. Zach was captain for the day and did it flawlessly.


    Sandra didn''t have much to do, but she kept herself busy making tiny tweaks. Her main decision was how many kids to bring on for the second half. She thought it safe to put Henk on as centre back, which wasn''t all that much of a risk in terms of CA. Henk''s was actually higher than Sunday Sowumni''s, but Henk was one point away from his cap. Tyson replaced Noah, and Chas Fungrieve got ten minutes, too. It was very, very good preparation for the Youth Cup.


    In the second half, Tom Westwood got the goal his work rate deserved, and Lee Contreras bagged another. That was his third goal of the season. Decent but Bradford City''s R. Brown already had six having played fewer games.


    I was an unused substitute and I spent most of the match wondering if I liked this easy life, where thousands of good decisions had got us to the point where our under 18s could have given Coalville a pasting, or if I preferred the high-wire knife-edge tension of playing mad formations against a fast and relentless Premier League team.


    I decided either one was fine as long as it ended with me and Emma being in the same bed.


    I tried to stick to the positives.


    Our total prize money for our cup heroics so far that season - which included an improbable win against Bolton, beating a very good Fleetwood side and neeeeearly dicking Newcastle - had stood at 30,000 pounds.


    The prize money for beating a tier 9 side in the FA Cup first round was 45,000, bringing the prize pot to a tasty 75 grand.


    I love the FA Cup!


    ***


    As I was looking through the results from the other matches, I saw that Ziggy had scored again. That was 5 in 10 games, most coming as a substitute. FC United''s new manager was taking his sweet time realising Ziggers was the best striker in the whole fucking league.


    I called Ziggy, had a quick chat with him, and realised what I needed was a night out in Manchester.


    I remembered I didn''t have a car and could not envision a universe where I would get on a train. Not in the north of the country, anyway.


    "Why don''t you buy a car, mate?" laughed Ziggy. "You''re rolling in bread. You''re cashed up."Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    I shook my head. "No need to rush in, right?"


    "You need to visit your mum."


    "Yeah," I said. What I didn''t say was that if I bought a car, my emergency fund would be obliterated. "I''ll think about it."


    ***


    I watched Match of the Day, which showed highlights from the Premier League. I didn''t often watch the show but I didn''t have anything better to do. The first match was Newcastle versus Arsenal, and the action was pretty good.


    But there was a brief clip of what looked like hundreds of Arsenal fans covering one eye when Alan Turner was walking past.


    I had started something.


    ***


    Sunday, November 2


    Emma, as you may have guessed, didn''t spend the weekend with me. She said she was incredibly close to finishing a big project, after which she would see a lot more of me.


    I mean, hard to complain about that, isn''t it?


    I complained anyway, for some reason choosing Jackie Reaper as the guy most likely to lend me a sympathetic ear. He listened carefully as I described how little I was seeing of her, then he formed his hands into little fists and rubbed them against his eyes.


    "Waah," he said. "My girlfwend is working as hard on her caweer as I am on mine and I don''t wike it!"


    "I do like it," I said.


    "Then shut the fuck up," he said. "Now pay attention Maxy Boy. I''m going to teach you how to play rugby."


    ***


    Division 1 North: Chester Women versus Rugby Borough


    Rugby Borough came to Flint with an average CA of 45 and hopes of topping the table at the end of the season. They looked a good unit.


    That was, they looked a good unit in the twenty seconds until our ladies walked onto the pitch.


    Jackie had named his favourite 3-5-2 and it was ridiculous - an average of 54.2.


    Scottie Love, as usual, was the goalie. She had improved to CA 54 and her ceiling of 63 was in sight. I needed to scout the higher divisions to find a better keeper for next season. I''d probably keep Scottie as the backup for one season until Queenie, our 18-year-old PA 94 prospect, was more consistent.


    Femi (59), Meghan (65), and Luxury Bell (54) were the back three. Former captain Bonnie was getting decent minutes, what with all the cup matches we were playing in, but since she had hit her PA limit of 41 she had been sliding down the pecking order and was being left behind really quite quickly. I wondered if she would want to play for Saltney Women next season or move to another club entirely. It would be sad when she left, and as always I only hoped we would part on good terms. It was hard to envisage Sharky being mad that I''d sent him to quintuple his wages, but it was easy to imagine Bonnie feeling hurt.


    Kisi (50) had finally done enough to make the right midfield starting slot her own. Left or right - she switched with Dani (57) to give defenders different problems. Pippa''s CA 44 made her something of a weak link, and there were times when she looked like the token old woman in the team. The ex-Man City midfielders, Charlotte (58) and Sarah Green (66), were far too good for the teams we were facing, and Jackie was keeping them interested by always pitting them against each other in training. Maddy Hines was on the bench. At CA 44 she was a great option and she still had tons of room to improve. If she worked on her tackling she would displace Pippa in the centre, but Jackie wanted to keep her as a creative, attacking force.


    The strikers were Angel and one other. Today''s other was Julie McKay, edging out Bea Pea because Jackie had subconsciously realised that Julie''s CA had overtaken her rival''s - 39 against 36. Bea Pea, like Bonnie, had hit her ceiling. As with Bonnie, her all-action, somewhat rustic style would go great in the Welsh leagues, but again, I wasn''t sure if she would be into it. Maybe if I could get one of them to join, the other would, too. I couldn''t pay them, though.


    Angel was on CA 51. I had seen her flying around in training being absolutely lethal but today she spent the match walking around doing absolutely nothing - until it was time to score. I later learned that she was sick with worry about how the documentary would be received and whether it was true that her life was really about to start.


    The first half ended with us three-nil up, same as in the men''s FA Cup match. The difference was that Rugby Borough were supposed to be able to compete with us. They seemed stupefied by what had happened to them, by the quality of the moves they''d seen. Jackie must have told the ladies to take their foot off the pedal because the final score was only four-nil and we got three of the Ffamous Five into the fray. I texted Jackie that he was doing a great job giving minutes to the young players but warned him not to attend a real rugby match because his head might be mistaken for a ball.


    Anyone watching Chesterness that night and looking to see how the ladies were doing would see them right at the top of the table. And Brooke, being a smart cookie, had bought space on the top of search engines so that people typing ''Chester Women'' or similar were directed to a specially-written page that quickly morphed from pictures of happy players into a sales pitch promoting the benefits of the mini-bond to the women''s team specifically.


    Chef''s kiss.


    ***


    Emma surprised me with a video call ten minutes before Chesterness started, and we watched the whole thing while chatting about it. It was nice, like the time, early in our relationship, when we had watched The Proposal. The time I had fallen asleep but she had stayed on the call until the movie finished and I thought, oh maybe she really likes me.


    That had been years ago; I kinda thought we might be a bit closer by now. Like in the same city.


    The doc was just as I''d seen it but some scenes had better music. "This is so good," said Emma. "You''re fun in it. Aww, look, there''s Lucy. Aww."


    "She''s fine. She has moved on. If we can make their time at the club as memorable and enriching as possible, it''ll be easier to watch them leave."


    "If you''re gonna keep talking shit I''m gonna put you on mute."


    I smiled. "Soz. Do you think we''ll sell some mini-bonds because of this?"


    "Deffo," said Emma. "You''ll get people with big hearts who want the women they''re watching to do well. They''ll go on the website to find out the latest and they''ll see there''s a chance to support the club and make some money. And you''ll get horny dudes who think Angel''s fit."


    "Did your dad buy any?"


    "I don''t like the juxtaposition of what I said and how you replied to it."


    I turned red. "No! I didn''t mean... Oh my God. I''m going to go into the garden and cover myself with rocks. Goodbye forever. Bye."


    "I''m sure he didn''t and won''t ever buy any Chester FC mini-bonds, Max. He wishes he''d never got involved with them. After the match the Sunderland fans at his golf club were all texting him like hey Seb, do you think your Emma''s lad is really that good or should we wait to see if he can do it against a big club? That kind of thing."


    "Banter," I said, realising my actions would have real-life consequences for Sebastian and trying not to look too smug about it.


    "So much banter," she said, yawning. "We''re going to Manchester soon, location scouting. You know, because The Wall is going so good."


    "Oh, right."


    "Me mum and dad were wondering if they could meet your mum."


    I fell silent. What? What the actual what?


    Emma sat up on her bed. "Only, like, the way you do it. Not meet meet, all formal. Just in the big room where they play cards. They won''t say anything if you don''t want. They could be on the next table while you talk to your mum and Anna. And they want to get appraised by Solly."


    "I don''t know," I said, my insides eating me up. "It''s..." I started, but I didn''t know what it was. The fear of stressing mum? Anxiety about knowing how anxious I would be the entire day until the ordeal was over? Worry about why Sebastian and Rachel wanted to ''meet'' her?


    "Don''t worry, Max, we won''t do it. It''s okay. They just always ask me about it and I''ve been, you know, telling them to wait."


    "They always ask you about it?" I said. There was something about the phrase that I found relaxing. This wasn''t a new impulse. This wasn''t something that had come up after the Newcastle game.


    "Yeah. I''m sorry, let''s drop it. Is this one of the better episodes, do you think?"


    She was trying to change the subject but I couldn''t concentrate on the TV. My brain was doing loop-de-loops all over the north, playing join-the-dots from Chester to Manchester to Newcastle. Nothing good could come from any of it. No no no. Veto.


    I snapped out of it long enough to seem like a real boy in front of Ems, then said I was tired. We ended the call, I put my phone on silent and plugged it in on the far side of the room, and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.


    I knew what Chesterness was going to be: a sure-fire smash hit that made me look like a manic cross between Darth Vader and Willy Wonka, that made Charlotte look like the best player in Europe, and would surely turn Angel into one of the country''s top ten most famous female athletes.


    I wished I had such certainty about the success of any kind of ''meet the parents'' day.


    ***


    Tuesday, November 4


    Secretary Joe: I think the word to describe yesterday is... jackpot. We did four hundred and thirty grand off the back of the documentary! That''s one point nine million total.


    ***


    FA Youth Cup First Round: Chester versus Hartpury University F.C.


    I had been looking forward to this match for so long... and it was worth it. It was ALL worth it.


    Hartpury had done well to make it through the qualifying rounds given that their average CA was 9, so there wasn''t any particular jeopardy regarding the result.


    But I''m sure you remember that the previous season we had played Chelsea''s youth team and they''d had an average CA of 37. Admittedly, some of their better players hadn''t been there that day for various reasons, but I had a target. If I could get a team close to an average CA of 37, anyfuckingthing was possible.


    Our best formation was probably 4-3-3 so I went with that.


    In goal I had a choice between Banksy and Bivvy, who were both CA 25, but that wasn''t any sort of dilemma.


    In front of Banksy I had Lucas Friend (39), Captain (32, capped), Henk (37, also capped), and Jamie Brotherhood, who I''d been force-feeding first-team minutes like there was no tomorrow. He had swollen to a majestic CA 25 and his family had bought some bonds, too. They seemed to be loving the Chester story so far.


    Dan Badford was the star of the midfield with CA 52. Noah was on 33, and Tyson 41.


    Up front I had the lanky sixteen-year-old, Chas Fungrieve, whose first team exposure had helped him get to 29. Benny was 38, and Wibbers was 61. Still very much the star but with a lot of help from the supporting cast.


    The bench included decent options like Bomber, Sevenoaks, and a wide-eyed Roddy Jones, but it was the first eleven that got me excited because if you add up all those numbers and divide by eleven you get, drum roll please, 37.4.


    Thanks to all my hard work and yes, some dropped points in a few league matches, this Chester team was BETTER than the Chelsea team that had beaten us. It was close, of course, and Chelsea hadn''t brought all their starlets that day, but I felt sure that with Bench Boost and my perks we could beat the first Premier League team we faced.


    If we faced a second... well, that''s where continued exposure to the first team would kick in. 37.4 was our starting point - how high could we get by the final?


    By then, of course, we might have developed a secret weapon.


    I told the lads we would start our Relationism training on Friday - if we won today.


    I think they found the prospect motivational. They won ten-nil.


    ***


    Secretary Joe: Ten-nil! People loved that. Five goals from William! People love the idea we have a real star. Boggy''s broadcast brought in a hundred and forty thousand pounds. Same again tomorrow please!


    ***


    Wednesday, November 5


    Vans Trophy Group Stage match 3 of 3: Chester versus Liverpool under 21s


    We''d sold more tickets to this match than our FA Cup game and expected a quite decent attendance of 1,500, where the word decent is relative. I suppose I shouldn''t have been surprised that interest was high; Liverpool were a big draw in the area.


    I watched the warmups and saw that Liverpool''s young team would have an average CA around 85. That would make them a top ten League Two team, easily. They were better than us! We were coming with CA 77 ish.


    I nearly reconsidered allowing Sandra to manage this game - with her in charge I wouldn''t have access to Bench Boost. I really wanted to save it for the next round, though. If we crashed out in the group stage, so be it, but if we wanted to go deep I had to keep my powder dry.


    I decided to leave things as they were, meaning Sandra Lane was the gaffer. The under 21 teams were mostly brilliant and played outstanding football... but got beat in the end. I didn''t think this Liverpool mob would have the tools to handle Dazza, for example, while Christian Fierce played with a kind of barely-contained ferocity you couldn''t replicate in the genteel surroundings of a top academy.


    I went outside to help Brooke sell some mini-bonds. We had sold just over two million pounds already, which was great, but not quite enough at this stage to guarantee we would hit five million. Much of the early enthusiasm had faded and the fact we were slapping our fans with non-stop calls to action could turn positivity into resentment.


    "The problem," she said, after drinking something from a fancy bottle, "is the league position. The cups are great, Max, but we are 18th in the league. It''s too close to the bottom and people are wondering if the new stand will turn out to be a white elephant. Win today by all means, but if I could choose, I''d prefer three points against Wimbledon on the weekend."


    The Dons were CA 82 or thereabouts, and the match was down in London. As well as home advantage, Wimbledon had a tall team with good shape, hard-running strikers, and they always used all their subs so that they could keep pressing until the final whistle. Very Newcastle-esque, though much less technical. "That might be a big ask."


    "Well, I''m asking."


    I checked her out. She was dressed in smart-casual clothes which I''m sure were carefully chosen to straddle the line between looking good, being approachable, and being smart enough for someone to take financial advice from her. She had slightly rosy cheeks and on her little information booth were a pair of gloves. To me it was a gorgeous autumnal evening, perfect for footy under the floodlights, but I guess for her it was quite wintry. "How are you doing?"


    "Good, Max."


    She looked good. Healthy. The mini-bonds might have come at a good time to keep things fresh, give her a new challenge. The summer, of course, would involve lots of complicated project management, on-the-fly decisions, stress, pressure. All the stuff she loved. I looked around and leaned a little closer. "Listen. We''ve got like two million, right? That''s enough for the deposits on the demolition guys, the pitch people, the stand makers, the builders. I want you to give them all the go-ahead."


    Brooke made a show of biting back the first thing she wanted to say. With a very slight eye roll, she said, "We need five, and even that amount worries me. We have no contingency, we won''t be able to outfit all the bars, restaurants."


    She stopped talking as a rando passed by, gawping at us. It probably looked like I was making a move on Brooke.


    "I know," I said, when the rando was out of range. "I want that stand demolished and the pitch done. I''ll tell you one thing that will raise a fuckton of money pretty damn quick and that''s having a huge hole where half the stadium used to be. New slogan: Give me your fucking money or it''ll look like that for twenty years."


    She rubbed an eyebrow. "That''s your instruction, is it? Demolish a stand before we have the money to rebuild it?"


    "No," I smiled. "We will demolish it after the final game of the season, of course. But whether we quite have the money to pay for absolutely everything, we will demolish it. This summer." She was going through some calculations in her head. I said, "Do you think we will hit five million by May?"


    "If it''s a good season, yes."


    "There you go, then. There''s no time to waste. Strike while the iron is hot and make sure we don''t get bumped down the list of projects at one of the four suppliers. And," I said, doing some thinking of my own. If the league position was holding us back, which seemed logical, we needed to improve it fast. If I used Bench Boost against Wimbledon, then we won two straightforward matches against Newport and Colchester, we would get nine points from nine and move up to something like tenth in the league. It didn''t sit right to use Bench Boost for anything other than sporting reasons, but this had to take priority. "Okay, done. If you get everything booked, we will beat Wimbledon. I promise we''ll make a move up the table so fast you''ll have your finger in your ear to relieve the pressure."


    "And if we don''t sell enough bonds? How are we going to pay for everything?"


    "I''ll sell players." I got next to her and showed her tentative approaches we''d had for Wibbers and Youngster. The numbers were seven digits. I spoke more quietly. "I promise the club will be in no danger. The biggest risk is that we''re too late booking these companies and there''s, you know, a bottleneck. Imagine if we can''t get the stand demolished because we were too slow booking them."


    She bit her lip for a moment. "You''re asking me and not MD because he''ll say no."


    "Yes. Work with Secretary Joe to do, what''s it called? Letters of intent? If MD finds out before we''ve got all our ducks in a row, you front it out and look surprised because you thought it was obvious that when we hit two million we would blah blah. You can make up something business-sounding better than me. Oh, if he gets mad, offer to resign. He''ll shut right up."


    She inhaled. "You promise you''ll sell if we have to?"


    "Yes." I gave her a friendly shove. "If it cheers you up, I''m going to sell a player right now."


    She glanced towards the stadium. "Now? To Liverpool?"


    "Yep."


    "Who?"


    "Don''t worry, not Captain Zachtastic." I grinned. "I don''t want to jinx it by telling you. All right, why don''t you put your rich lady gloves on? You want to look relatable but I don''t want you getting frostbite, do I? Not before you''ve sent those emails, anyway."


    ***


    Liverpool''s academy managers had come to watch their team. Adrian Matthews, the Academy Director, was in the seat we''d reserved for him, near a bunch of his colleagues, scouts, and something called ''head of pre-academy recruitment''. Wayne Robins, the scout who had been watching little Simon Black, was there.


    I popped along the aisle and introduced myself to Adrian Matthews. He was inordinately pleased to be recognised. I invited him to come inside for a tiny bit of business. He joked that he didn''t want to buy any mini-bonds, but came along easily enough. The first sign of friction was when I suggested that he might want Wayne Robins to come, too.


    With increasing reluctance, the two followed me to the boardroom. The Brig appeared out of nowhere and closed the door behind us. While the two Liverpool guys sat down, the Brig simply loomed.


    "Okay, I won''t keep you too long," I said. "It''s about a lad in our youth system called Simon Black. Your boy Wayne there has been scouting him for a while and I understand you''re going to try to snatch the kid without offering compensation to Chester Football Club."


    "Bullshit," said Wayne.


    "Wayne, please," said Adrian. "I''m sure this is all a misunderstanding."


    I blew air from my cheeks while looking up at the ceiling. I didn¡¯t want a good relationship with these people and I had to get myself ready for the match. "Fine," I said, reaching for my laptop. "We''re going straight into dick mode are we? You don''t know who you''re dealing with. I am going to ruin your lives, ruin your careers, and when I''m done I''m going onto that pitch - " I pointed through the window - "and ruin those kids."


    "Who do - " said Adrian, but I had a sound file open on my MacBook.


    I pressed play.


    The audio was hissy but clear enough. We heard the voice of Wayne Robins and, coming through the speakerphone with double the hiss and extra crackles, someone who sounded very much like Adrian Matthews.


    "Wayne? You just done at Chester? How''d you get on?"


    "Good. Nearly dere with Simon. Lad wants a PlayStation 6 an'' some games. Dad wants ten grand."


    "Ten? Fucking bargain, that. Doesn''t he know his kid''s the next Michael Owen?"


    "I know. He''s been laid off, like. Strugglin'', else he wouldn''t leave Chester. Kid loves it and the dads get together and do stuff. We need to move fast, get this sorted now while he''s off work and he''s wondering how he can pay for Chrimbo."


    I pressed pause and spoke to John. "Up north, Chrimbo means Christmas. Posh guy like you wouldn''t know that."


    "In my house, we called it the Feast of Wenceslas."


    "Did you?" I creased up. "You''re fucking with me."


    "I am, sir."


    I pretended to be surprised the Liverpool guys were still there. I gave them my full attention and waited.


    "Er," said Adrian.


    Wayne went with, "That wasn''t me. You can''t illegally record someone and use it in a court of law. That''s worthless, that, whatever it is. AI deep fake."


    "Yeah," I said, getting bored. I''d already won. "Let''s leave it to the Daily Mail to decide if it sounds like you or not. If it''s fake or not. John, what''s the name of that Daily Mail reporter who''s always writing about how cute and wholesome our youth teams are?"


    "Bethany Alban, sir."


    "Bethany Alban," I said, typing her name plus Chester FC into a browser. "Article here about a youth tournament. The Wizard of Oz had eleven writers. Interesting. What else has she done? Loads about Dani. What''s this? Baby Bale? Fucking Beth! When did she do that one?"


    Adrian stirred. "If you release that audio, it''ll go badly on you. You''re recording people in their cars. That''s very, very strange. All sorts of illegal."


    "Thing is," I said, leaning back. "I''m one of those cut off my nose to spite my face kinda guys. Top of my bucket list is to blow up a building and walk away while it''s exploding behind me. Isn''t that right, John?"


    "You mention it really quite often, sir."


    "It''d be so cool. Blowing up the Liverpool academy? Mate, I''d be on that all day. Illegal? I can''t remember how I got this audio. I left my laptop open in Starbucks and when I came back, there it was. Legal problems? Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver. You two will lose your jobs and get football bans. Proper bans. I''ll get some parents making jokes about listening to Eros Ramazzotti in the car park. And if anyone at Chester is actually upset by this, I''ll score a hat trick and we''ll all be friends again. No," I sighed, "I have you on toast. The question is, do you want to keep your job?"


    I hadn''t said jobs, plural. Adrian glanced at Wayne, calculating how useful the twat was. To me, he said, "What do you want?"


    "You want to sign the next Michael Owen. What would Owen be worth today? Hundred and twenty million, easy. I want a hundred and twenty thousand for Simon Black."


    Adrian spluttered. "That''s crazy. He''s twelve! That''s impossible."


    "Man City paid almost two hundred grand for a 13-year-old. You lot paid two million for a 14-year-old. I know the market so don''t talk shit. I want a truckload of money and I want it tomorrow."


    Adrian got up, but when the Brig moved closer, stayed awkwardly tucked in behind his chair.


    I dialled Beth. She picked up right away. "Max?"


    I put her on speakerphone. "Is that Bethany Alban from the Daily Mail?"


    "Yes," she said, warily.


    "I have, what do you call it? A scoop."


    "Hang up," said Adrian.


    "Who''s that, Max? Shouldn''t you be warming up? What are you up to?"


    "I''m not sure but I think I might have uncovered a scandal. Big, nasty, ugly one. Big horrible story with some truly awful people taking advantage of the working poor and their cute, cute little kids."


    "Tell me," said Beth. Her voice was dripping with excitement. "Is it something to do with Liverpool? You''re playing them now, right?"


    Adrian was doing a weird gesture with his hands. Sort of pulsing his fingers. I put Beth on mute. "What?"


    "Fifty," he said. "I can do fifty."


    "You must think I''m fucking stupid. I''ve got you over a barrel. There''s loads of this audio and it''s all grotesque. The way this pig talks about kids and their parents is sick. I want a hundred grand and I never want to see your scouts at my training ground ever again."


    Adrian glared at Wayne, then sighed and placed his palms on the big table. "Sixty-five."


    "Seventy-five, deal''s done tomorrow and you never talk to me again. If I don''t have a fucking binding, watertight deal by one p.m., I''m going feral. And Mr. Black still gets his ten grand. I''m gonna ask him about it in about a month and if you haven''t sorted him out, I''m leaking this anyway. John, will you help them back to their seats?" I paced out. When I was far enough away, I unmuted Beth. "You still there?"


    She sighed. "Yes. Did you just use me in a negotiation? I''m not a toy, Max."


    "Thanks for your help. You were great."


    "Who was that voice? Sounded Scouse. You''d better tell me this story."


    "You did a good thing today, Beth. A good thing. Let''s Nando soon. Okay, got to run. Byes."


    ***


    The match itself went as a lot of the lower league men versus top tier academies went - the kids played brilliant football, took the lead, but were overwhelmed by the end.


    This one started with Liverpool scoring two goals in the first half an hour while we were adjusting to their style of play. They were doing 4-3-3, same as Newcastle, and the press was just as intense but only in patches. I wasn''t sure if they didn''t have the fitness to run that hard for ninety-plus minutes or if it was tactical, but when we beat one player we found that Liverpool fell back into neatly spaced rows and allowed us to pass the ball around. A much less frenetic experience, then, and one that Ryan Jack thrived in.


    We played 4-4-2 diamond with the CAM moved back to central midfield. The idea behind that was to have two hard runners, Lee C and Andrew Harrison, to do Ryan''s donkey work, leaving him able to concentrate on outwitting his inexperienced opponents.


    The formation also allowed me to use Youngster in his preferred role while keeping two strikers. As expected, Henri and Dazza were too much for Liverpool''s centre backs.


    When we pulled a goal back before half time - Ryan floating a ball to the far post that Dazza angled past the young goalie - I knew we would be all right.


    Two goals from Henri meant we were three-two up by the time I went on, and the only surprise was that I didn''t score more than one goal from my six shots on target. Four-two final score.


    A decent evening.


    We''d sold a load of mini-bonds, got a fee for a young player who might have left for nothing, put the fear of God into the academies of one of the kleptoclubs, added eight thousand pounds to the cup run prize pot, had burnished Sandra''s reputation, and were in the next round of the Vans Trophy.


    Amazing. Brilliant. Mega. The dressing room was absolutely buzzing. In one week we had drawn against Newcastle and beaten Liverpool, Dazza had three goals in three games, we were squeezing more juice out of our midfield.


    Before showering, Christian Fierce used his craft skills to update the prize money sign. It now read: 83,000. Then he put some banging tunes on to get everyone moving.


    I waited until the stadium had cleared and went home alone.


    ***


    Thursday, November 6


    Emma called in the morning. "Would you like to have lunch in Manchester with us?" Us meaning ''me''.


    Of course I did! In fact, this was the kick up the backside I needed to finally get a rental car. I scooted to the place, chose the second-cheapest model, paid for three months, bosh. I was fully mobile again.


    Before driving to Swagger Central (AKA The Jewel in the Crown AKA Manchester), I checked in on the end of training. Our CA numbers were healthy.


    I''d expected a big surge of green after the Newcastle match but I had given the lads a couple of days off - wisely, in my opinion - and I had put out a strong team against Liverpool. I would name pretty much the same one against AFC Wimbledon, too, so my key guys weren''t getting the kind of focussed training time that would let them pop fast - they were in non-stop recovery mode.


    They were improving so I wasn''t too stressed, and after an absolutely mad schedule - 12 games in 5 weeks - the rest of November was a piece of piss. We had four matches in four weeks, each on a Saturday. Any stored-up training gains would erupt out of the lads - so long as Sandra''s leave came on the dates we had planned.


    I got to Green''s, the famous vegetarian restaurant in West Didsbury, and immediately realised I''d been tricked. First of all, the place was closed. Permanently! Gone. An institution. Something older than me was no more.


    Secondly, Emma was not alone. Sebastian and Rachel were with her, as was Gemma and a slow, older man with hair turning white. He was introduced to me as Jimmy, but I had to piece it out from clues that he was Gemma''s dad. He was uncomfortable around me, as if Gemma had been bad-mouthing me for rather a long time.


    "You said you were alone," I complained, quietly.


    "I said come have lunch with us," she said, seeming to be confused by the conversation. She was a great actress, though. I wasn''t sure if she had scammed me or not.


    I looked at the shuttered frontage of a local landmark. "Green''s is history. Wow. What now?"


    She checked the time. The lawyers had worn suits because of an early meeting, while Rachel was in a striped, French-looking top under a beige coat. Gemma''s dad was in a dad jumper and jeans, and even that seemed like something his daughter had forced him into. "Oh, I don''t know. This road has some nice places, doesn''t it? Let''s get something fast like an avocado on toast. We''re off to look at houses later."


    "Houses?" I said, confused.


    "Yes, for Gems."


    "Oh. Where?"


    "I don''t want to say because you''ll get all weird about it."


    I looked around the group, hoping for some clues. Nothing doing. "What?"


    "I''ll tell you when we''re eating. I''m hungry, babes. Fill me with avocado, stat."


    "If you''re going house-hunting, tell me where and maybe there are nice places to eat nearby."


    Emma glanced at Gemma, who shook her head. Emma made a decision; she do opposite. "We''re going to Chorlton, Max."


    That was where my mum''s care home was. This was them trying to get to meet her. My head sank. I''d been well and truly scammed.


    Gemma felt the need to explain. "I was there a lot when Michael was playing for West Didsbury. It''s nice. It''s like where I live in Newcastle and there''s a tram to the city centre. We''ve seen a nice place online and me dad''s going to come and look to see if it''s sound."


    "You''re moving... to Manchester... for work," I said, slowly. Sebastian and Emma had been in Manchester for a meeting and Rachel had decided to join the squads to go house hunting for Emma''s best friend. It hit me for the first time ever that not everything was about me.


    "Yeah, I''ve been staying in an AirBnB during the week and all that and now it''s time to make the move permanent."


    Emma took my arm, looked up at me and croaked like a thirsty man who''d just come out of the desert. "Kah," she said. "Kah."


    I tried to smile but couldn''t. Something to get out of the way, first. "Let''s go see my mum. There are good places to eat in Chorlton village. Kale for days."


    Emma gripped me. "Babes, we don''t have to. I said to forget it."


    "It''ll be five minutes. Let''s pop in. Now or never."


    ***


    I went in first, dreading what version of mum I''d find in there. It was lunchtime so all the residents who could move were in the big room on their tables. Mum and Anna were in their usual spot - the home did a decent job of building a routine - and I went to join them. Solly wasn''t allowed in while food was being served.


    Anna didn''t look well.


    Mum was having a bad day.


    I sat there and was briefly furious. Why the fuck would anyone want to see this? Anna sensed my distress and gave me a sharp look. For mum''s benefit I let the anger leave me and all the highs and lows of the last week passed through me, replaced by emptiness.


    There was a new treatment that had shown promise, but it had failed. They were getting closer every time, weren''t they? I had to grind for money, grind for XP, keep Old Nick onside. He had promised to get me a drug that worked as soon as there was one.


    "Will you take Solly for a walk?" said Anna.


    I nodded. "I will come back after I eat and do a thing."


    "It will rain later."


    "Good," I said. "That''s thematic." I nearly got up to leave but it hadn''t even been two minutes. I felt eyes on me. Eyes on a scene that should have been private. "How are you, Anna?"


    "Bad."


    "Is there anything I can do?"


    "You can take Solly... for a walk."


    There was the tiniest fraction of a delay in the middle of that sentence. Anna had been about to ask me to take Solly when she died. Or had she? This wasn''t standard lunchtime chat, but I hadn''t been around much since The Duchess had died. "I''ll take Solly... for a walk."


    Anna''s lips wobbled. Mum smiled, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and said, "Lovely soup."


    ***


    To punish Sebastian for making me go through all that, I chose the most hipsterish restaurant in the north of England. It was called How Quaint! and offered vegan hotdogs, bowls of cereal, drinks with ironic names. Most of the early conversation was Rachel reading the menu and saying how funny it all was.


    I poked at a dismayed avocado on cooked bread while listlessly sipping a chai-in-the-sky.


    "Max," said Sebastian, sort of lifting himself up. He had barely spoken to me since the Newcastle match.


    Rachel reached out to touch him. "Not now, honey. Emma first."


    Emma wiggled on her chair and cleared her throat. "Ahem. I''ve got some news." I looked up. She was trying not to smile, was twisting her lips. "I am leaving Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver."


    "What?" I said.


    She nodded, smiling for real. "That was me last project I just finished. Did about eight months of work in three. I''m a proper legend."


    "Absolute ledge," agreed Gemma.


    "I''m going to work for The Wall," said Emma.


    "Wow," I said. Some good news, at last. And it made sense she would move into football law - it was much more interesting than the corporate crap she had been doing, and it would help us grow R.E.M. Suddenly, my brain was fizzing. She wouldn''t need to stay in Newcastle. She would move much closer to me. I would see her more - that''s what she had said. And - of course! If Seb and Rachel were in town, they weren''t only house-hunting for Gemma! "You''re moving to Manchester!" I said, beaming.


    There was uproarious laughter from the entire table, a vast release of tension. Even Jimmy chuckled. Emma eventually took pity on me. "No, you dimwit. I''m moving in with you." Serious joy from within me and a lip twist from Emma. "If I''m still allowed."


    "Of course you are," I said, now perma-smiling. "So you''ll commute to Manchester city centre?"


    "Sometimes. I''ll work from home, mostly. I''m going to ask Ruth if I can rent one of her rooms as a home office. I might stay overnight at Gemma''s new house if we''ve got a lot of work on and meetings."


    "Gemma''s new house," I said, nodding, with everything starting to make sense. The Wall was growing fast. Gemma was a partner and needed to live locally. Chorlton was a cool location for a hot young woman and her just-about-footballer boyfriend. "Tell me about it."


    Conversation flowed.


    ***


    We drove to the house Gemma was interested in and I hopped out of the car, super interested.


    I was immediately gobsmacked. Gemma had described a cute little place but this was one of the nicest houses in the area, newly redecorated, tasteful, big garden, beautiful finish. It had to be the best part of a million pounds.


    A million!


    We explored it like our first evening in a castle.


    Jimmy looked at the place from a structural point of view, looking for evidence of damp or subsidence or any of the other terrifying things homeowners have to worry about. Rachel was interested in the garden - where the sun would be at different times of the day and year. Emma was plotting which spare bedroom would be her one and where Noah Harrison would stay ''when Max sends him to West''. Seb was thinking out loud about converting bathrooms into bedrooms, adding extensions, doing a loft conversion.


    I drifted apart from the others. Emma was going to live with me. That was incredible. It was almost enough to make me forget what I''d seen at the care home. Almost, but not quite.


    Rachel saw me staring into the fireplace, one of those huge cast iron things that in my childhood had equated to wealth. "Can we talk, Max?"


    I nodded. She led me into the garden and with some unseen command, summoned Sebastian. "Thank you for letting us see your mother. I know it was very painful."


    "No-one should have to go through that," said Sebastian.


    I imagined Gemma and Andrew having garden parties in this space. Nice big lawn for the kids to run around. Safe, too. The road wasn''t busy and there were speed bumps. The big park was across the road and the tram stop was just beyond it. If you wanted to raise a family in a city but have a secluded, quiet retreat - oh, and you had a million quid sloshing around - this was it.


    Sebastian eyed Rachel; she nodded. He said, "Emma says you worry about money and that''s understandable because you have your priorities straight. Erm," he said, not sure how to continue.


    Rachel said, "I don''t know very much about football, as you are well aware, but I am told - " she glanced at her husband - "that you could be earning two hundred thousand pounds per week. The amount sounds preposterous to me but - "


    "He scored from sixty yards, love! He dropped two men on their arses and blew up the best offside trap in the country!"


    Rachel smiled at the outburst. "I take it there''s a reason you don''t want to move to a big club."


    I nodded. Answering that fully would take hours.


    Sebastian said, "I think you''re crazy but you want to do it your way and my daughter is..." I couldn''t quite tell what I was looking at but it turned out that he was trying not to burst into tears at the thought of his daughter finally, irrevocably flying the nest. Rachel put her hand on his back. He got a grip. "I''ve dreaded this day, Max, but this day has come." He went through some kind of steeling process that ended with him lifting his chin up. "You''re taking care of my daughter now. She likes you and you make her happy but you''re always worried about money. My daughter wants to go on nice holidays and while she doesn''t need you to have a flash motor..."


    "She needs you to have a car," said Rachel.


    "You put off even renting one, Max, because you''re so in your head about money. It''s good you''re not chucking money around like the footballers in the newspapers but at the same time you need to live your life and you need to give my daughter the experiences she wants to have while she''s young enough to have them. Salsa lessons in Rio, Max. That''s what I want for my little girl. You understand that, right?"


    "I understand," I mumbled, not looking at him.


    "We''re not your family, Max, not yet anyway, but we don''t want to see you suffer and torment yourself for the lack of money that you''ll have soon enough anyway. Emma said you wanted to buy a house in this area, near the care home, and move your mother in."


    Rachel nodded. "With your Irish player''s mother looking after her."


    "He was sold," explained Seb. I got the feeling Rachel had heard that before and it hadn''t stuck, the way I couldn''t remember the names of the horses at Ruth''s stable. I hadn''t spoken to Aff recently but I hoped we would still be on friendly terms when we next met. I had no idea if his mother had found a job in the meantime. Probably - she was amazing. Seb continued. "What I''m saying is that if you''ll let us, we will buy a house here. One that suits your mother''s needs. You can buy it from us in a few years, if you like. I thought about it and I probably would if I were you, to have that little extra peace of mind. From what I understand, you could afford to pay for a carer already."


    "And if you can''t quite," said Rachel. "We''ll help until you can."


    I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it straight away. Why? How? What about rent? Who would pay if my mum broke a window? There were infinite questions. Nothing mattered. If they were seriously going to buy an actual house that I could move my mother into, I didn''t want to say anything that would change their mind. One question seemed unavoidable. "What''s... the budget?"


    Rachel took me by the elbow and guided me back to the house, to the huge kitchen, where she coaxed me to sit on a stool at the large kitchen island. "I was wondering about a bungalow. Does she do well on stairs? Bungalow''s best, isn''t it, so you don¡¯t ever have to make a move again. We''re all here and Jimmy knows houses. Why don''t we look together?"


    "Today?"


    "Why not? We''re all here. It''s perfect."


    "I promised I''d walk the dog."


    Rachel pushed a strand of my hair back into place. "Sebastian will walk the dog."


    "Oh, will I?"


    "Yes, dear."


    I felt strange and hollow, scared to move too fast or this fantasy would evaporate. I risked eye contact with that confounding man. "You might meet some joggers."


    Sebastian looked puzzled, but brightened up. Somehow he had apprehended my meaning. "I like dogs. He''s a good boy, I heard. Yes, I''ll walk him."


    Rachel looked from me to her husband and sighed. "You''ll take your daughter. The dog knows her already so that''s best. Why don''t you go now before it rains?" She sat on the stool next to me, took out her phone, and brought up a property website. "Now, then. What''s the postcode here?"


    ***


    About an hour later, Rachel and I plus Gemma and Jimmy were inside a bungalow near Southern Cemetery, a short drive from the care home, close to Gemma''s new house (subject to contract) and not too distant from a football club owned by a Ghanaian entrepreneur.


    It was a three-bedroomed bungalow from the 50s or 60s, charming in an ugly way, on a surprisingly large plot. Solly would love the space. His own private park! At six hundred thousand pounds it was overpriced but any other buyer would be paying for the location and the chance to build something denser.


    The rain poured while an apologetic estate agent fretted about the furnishings. "Of course, it needs to be updated but it''s a wonderful plot. Significant scope to extend."


    "Needs to be updated?" I said.


    "Well," she said, passing her hand along the countertop by the sink. "I think it hasn''t been touched since the 80s. The bathroom looks like it might have been done in the 90s."


    "It''s perfect," I said, looking from the kitchen to the living room. It wouldn''t be easy to get it looking like our house from when I was a kid, but it would be possible. Some of it already felt familiar. The big ugly sofas, the hideous chandelier that was supposed to look classy, the yellow fabric curtain thing behind the sink, the flowery tiles in the bathroom. I would have to dig out the old photos from the house I''d grown up in.


    "We''d need to dig up the paving stones and get it all level," said Rachel. "And it needs a good clean. This isn''t exactly one where you''d just move in. Not like Gemma''s."


    Gemma squeezed her dad, beaming. I had the impression, later confirmed, that he was paying a huge deposit to make the monthly mortgage just about manageable. "I think it''s lovely," she said. "And it''s just down the road from mine. Mine! That''ll take some getting used to. I can pop by and check on her sometimes."


    "Really?"


    "Course," she said, popping a Polo mint into her mouth. "Every time you put Andrew in the team I''ll come and walk the dog."


    I raised my eyebrows - maybe amused, maybe not. "The poor dog," I said.


    "Maaaaax," complained Gemma. "Come on, we''re both having a legendary day. Let''s talk about Andrew. If not today, when?"


    "Well," I said, which as you can guess was the start of something incredibly biting and hilarious. The door opened and a blast of cold air whipped through the space. Two very damp Geordies dripped miserably onto the carpet.


    "Bloody Manchester!" complained Sebastian.


    "Max loves it," said Rachel, which was true, but she meant the house.


    "Oh," said Sebastian, eyebrows raised. He looked around. "It''s a bit dated."


    "Which is good," said Rachel.


    "What?" I watched as the cogs turned. It took about five seconds. "Oh, of course."


    Gemma said, "Max and I are about to have a rapprochement."


    "Oh!" I said. "I didn''t bring my helmet." Gemma snorted but I held up a finger. "Sorry everyone. Rude but I need to take this call. It''s Dieter Bauer."


    Jimmy and Sebastian looked at each other like schoolboys. Seb said, "Can we listen? Is it private? Please, Max."


    "Sure. He waffles, though."


    "Amazing," said Jimmy. "Is it really - ?"


    I picked up and put the call on speakerphone. The two men and Gemma moved closer and listened.


    "Hi, Dieter."


    "Max! I must be brief, I have a flight soon."


    "Top."


    "We talked about sending you a coach."


    "We did?"


    "To substitute Miss Lane when she is away."


    "Right," I said, though I had no memory of such a conversation.


    "I would like to send you one of our coaches for a few months. On secondment, was the phrase I learned. Is that right? A loan deal for a permanent member of staff. Of course, you did it yourself when you managed Grimsby Town. Ever the innovator! Now then, let me think. He is a very good coach and you will have no complaints about his skill level. He is well-respected here but I think he is too, how can I say it? He is too safe. Cautious? Not in a footballing sense but in a personal one. He works for Bayern M¨¹nchen, he has arrived, yes? I worry that if an opportunity comes up like the one you offered Miss Lane, he would be timid to accept. I would like to... what''s that phrase? It''s so simple but I forget it. Take him out of his comfort zone. Challenge him."


    "You think I''ll mess with his head for a couple of months and he''ll get motivated enough to shoot off on his own? What, like, if that clown Max Best can do it, so can I?"


    Dieter laughed hard. "Yes, perhaps. I am sure of one thing: it will be a memorable experience for him."


    "Hey, this is turning into one of the best days of my life, Dieter. If you want to send me a top coach from Bayern Munich to cover the time my assistant is away, I mean, yes. I can afford him, can I?"


    "Can you afford free?"


    "Yes."


    "Good. It is settled. The start of December, I think you said?"


    So much had happened in the last couple of hours that trying to remember anything from Chester felt like years ago. I was going to need so much therapy. "If he can come earlier that would be better so she can teach him what she does. Oh, but if he''s shit, I''m sending him back."


    Another big laugh. "I cannot promise that you will be besties or that he will even laugh at your jokes - which I know is very important to you - but I can promise you he is not shit. I must go."


    "One second." Sebastian was waving his hands frantically. I covered the mic. "What?"


    "Who is it?" he said, reminding me of a pretty basic question I really should have asked.


    I uncovered the mic and asked Dieter Bauer for the name of the coach.


    He told me. Mine was one of four jaws that fell open. The call ended abruptly and we all stared at the black screen.


    I recovered first and let out a low chuckle. "Now that''s a name that might shift a few bonds."

 12.9 - Staircase to Heaven

    9.


    Saturday, November 8


    BrokenGround


    Okay lads, yesterday was absolutely bonkers. I spent hours watching Max Best up close going about his normal daily business and, I mean, wow. It''s a story and a half if you want it. But it''s really a LOT of stuff about Chester and it''s not even funny and it makes me sound like a Chester fan. Four months ago if someone else kept banging on about that lot I would have been absolutely livid. So, it''s up to you if I should write it all out or what. Kinda don''t mind if you vote no because I can''t touch type lol.


    SummerhillBill


    I really would rather not read another long post about the goings-on at Jester. I vote no.


    BrokenGround


    Ah, yeah, I get that. I thought I should check the temperature. No worries, you''re right.


    SummerhillBill


    BG, I''m not right, I''m joking. Don''t worry about sounding like a Jester fan. As BW wrote when all this started, we''re on the outside. You''re on the inside, just about. I''ve enjoyed the whole story, even the bits that make Best look all right. Not sure about everyone else but if they don''t like it, fuck ''em. Who among us will be in the trenches when the bombs start dropping? Not them. You.


    BrokenGround


    That''s funny. Best said something like that yesterday. You''re not him, are you?


    SummerhillBill


    If I was him, I wouldn''t type in a Welsh accent, would I boyo?


    TopPoppy


    OMG best reply ever!


    Come on, BG, give us the scoop.


    BrokenGround


    Okay but it''s going to be a long one.


    Stoop


    As Max Best said to the Slovakian goalkeeper.


    TopPoppy


    Can we mute the pervert for an hour?


    BrokenGround


    Okay so how it starts is Best has decided the hard part of his season is over and he''s trained 3 R Welsh enough to start trying this new style of football (I''ll call it Bestball even though he hates it) with his under 18s team. They had their first Youth Cup match of the season, played normal football, won 10-zip. His idea is that the Chelseas and Liverpools will watch tape of that and think what Chester are doing is good but basic. When the time is right, he''ll surprise them.


    I''ll say up front I think he''s really good at his job, with caveats, but that he tends to overcomplicate things.


    Anyway, he gets it into his head that 3R might be interested in watching the kids go through what we went through and invites us to attend the first session with them. It''s at Chester''s gaff and we can meet the famous women''s team, have a tour of the dump (his words, not mine!), and have a meal in the restaurant, his treat. He says the decor is not Michelin level but the food''s mint. The whole unit is up for it, and the only question is can some of the lads get babysitters and all that.


    Stoop


    I know a website that specialises in babysitters.


    TopPoppy


    Not now!


    BrokenGround


    As it happens, yesterday afternoon I was getting my knees checked at my specialist in Liverpool.


    Actually, you know what? It''s going to be easier if I say up front that my name''s Dylan and I was wounded in action a few years ago and that''s why I''m a bit of a wreck and I''ve got anger issues and all that.


    TopPoppy


    Fuck, man.


    BrokenGround


    I know. I''m just saying it up top so I don''t have to explain it later and because Best wasn''t calling me BrokenGround.


    So I''m in Liverpool and I think what am I supposed to do for three hours until the kids start training, you know? No point going all the way home to Wrex and then back up to Chester. So I go to Chester early and immediately regret it. Like, what can I do here that I couldn''t have done in Liverpool?


    I decide to go to Chester''s training ground because I know there''s a caff and there are always games and training going on and yeah, okay, there are loads of fit birds.


    Stoop


    Why''s he allowed to say it but I''m not?


    BrokenGround


    I''m there about 5 o''clock and I''m uncomfortable. The enemy within! I get a cup of tea and sit in the cabin that''s been made into a bar. It turns out to be the restaurant, too. No airs and graces here and I''ll try not to give too many compliments but that''s really my speed, if you get me.


    There''s a lovely woman working and she puts me at ease. There''s a box of poppies on the counter but nowhere to pay.


    ''Where''s the money box?'' I say, which makes me sound like a burglar. ''I mean, is it all contactless?''


    ''We do both, love. Poppies are free, though. Take one if you want.''


    ''Free?'' I say, disappointed. The point of selling them is to raise money for the British Legion. If it''s free, wearing one is an empty gesture.


    She doesn''t understand why I''m unhappy but it''s not her fault - she''s wearing a poppy. I''m trying to learn that I can''t fight every battle and there is no point chatting it out with this lady. When Best wanted a new pitch he didn''t go to H about it. He went to the top. The top here is Best and he has weird opinions about wearing the poppy and he''s never going to change his mind.


    The little couple of seconds where I got angry has killed the conversation but anyway I''m basically happy to be left alone. Don''t know if you remember but there was a good thread in here about what to expect from Stevenage away and reading through that killed some time and I was just getting into it. Like, should we stick to a back three or does Davison''s good form mean we''ve got to use full backs?


    ''Dylan!''


    I look up. ¡®Best.''


    He''s come in looking for someone, I guess, and found me. ''What are you doing?''


    ''I''m early for the thing.''


    He looks at his phone. ''It''s seventeen hundred hours and the session is at nineteen hundred hours so you are two hundred hours early. That''s really sloppy, mate.''


    I''ve already said how he gets all his military information from movies. This latest speech fits my hypothesis, but a couple of things he says later make me wonder. ''Better too early than too late.''


    ''Yeah,'' he says, distracted. ''Have you seen Henri? French chap. About this high. The hair of Timoth¨¦e Chalamet, the dimples of Olivier Giroud, the rapacious claws of J.P. Morgan.''


    ''No.''


    ''Mmm,'' he says. ''You''re not going to sit there for two hours, are you?''


    ''There isn''t really enough time to - ''


    ''Why don''t you make yourself useful?''


    ''Like wash the dishes, or what?''


    ''People are always trying to murder me. Come and be my bodyguard for a bit.''


    I can''t quite tell if he''s making up an excuse to have someone to talk to or if he''s saving me from boredom. I would normally have said that I was all right and it was nice to have some downtime, something like that, but I thought about LALAC and went, fuck it. ''I can do that. What''s the threat level?''


    ''Omega,'' he says. ''Wait, that''s terrible. Midnight? Cut that. Just come to my office for now and if you hear any Scouse accents, do a kung fu stance.'' He thinks of something. ''Can you do a one-inch punch?''


    ''No.''


    He shakes his head. ''What do you even do all day?''


    We wander out past the all-weather pitch where a coach is laying out cones. Looks like any other drill to me, but seems these football guys can recognise the drill from the layouts.


    Best barely slows his stride. ''Jude. Close control?''


    The coach says, ''Yes, boss.''


    ''Can we get some finishing at the end? Also, I''ll chat to the boys after I talk to the parents.''


    Jude nods and gets on with his work. He pauses and looks around. He seems to be recalculating how the session will go, on the fly.


    Best faces his palms down and gestures in a wide circle. ''I was thinking of having my statue here. Fifty feet high, double thumbs pointing at my name and number. You can see it from Bristol.'' He shakes his head. ''It''d be the first target in any war. Bomb that and you spread dismay, big time. No, I think it''s best for morale if I stay humble.'' He does a big sigh.


    His office is at the end of the row of cabins and it''s nicer than most of the others. There is no desk. He sits in a tatty but cosy armchair with a footstool and pulls his MacBook onto his lap. There''s a cheap camping chair and a bean bag for me to choose from. I want to do the bean bag but I''m worried about getting up. Also, if I''m his bodyguard, I should be relatively alert. You''re probably all laughing at me but sometimes it''s genuinely hard to know how serious he is. I sit in the camping chair and it''s amazing how comfortable it is. ''Are you really worried about being attacked again?''


    ''No, not really, but I''ve been pissing a lot of people off, haven''t I?''


    ''The population of Newcastle.''


    ''Shit,'' he says. ''I forgot about them. I was thinking about football scouts. This one guy looks like he knows how to throw a punch; I''ve even been back in the gym. Donnie Westwood thinks I could be a half-decent boxer, you know. That was a weird conversation. Oh,'' he says. ''One good thing about having twenty army guys coming on a Friday is the women are training. They''re all, like, famous now. If someone untoward turns up, go ahead and beat the shit out of them. I didn''t say that, that wasn''t me, you can''t prove it. I think Alan Turner should be the next England manager. Man City have never cheated in the entire history of the sport! See? You can''t prove I said anything. This whole thing is a deep fake.''


    ''I''m not recording this,'' I say.


    ''Mmm,'' he says. ''Okay.'' He goes quiet. ''No seriously, if there''s someone making the women feel uncomfortable and you want to disassemble their car into its component pieces or something like that, I mean, I''ll say no don''t do that really quite strongly.''


    ''Are you expecting trouble with the women?''


    He smiles and points at me. ''Not tonight.'' He opens his laptop. ''Hey, is it all right if I take calls and that sort of thing?''


    ''Course, yeah. Pretend I''m not here.'' I sip on my tea. ''Who are you playing tomorrow?''


    ''AFC Wimbledon away.''


    ''Does your electric bus go that far?''


    ''Yeah. It''s only the edges where it''s dubious.''


    ''So what do you do, like, the day before a match?''


    ''Depends. Normally you''ve got an idea of your formation and nine or ten of the starting eleven. This week was a bit mad because everything got thrown out of whack by the Newcastle match, and we had the documentary, the Youth Cup, and Liverpool. I wanted to put out a weakened team tomorrow but we need to win, so.''


    ''Why would you put out a weakened team?''


    ''Because we went hard at the Prem teams. I know it''s not their top players but they''re still brilliant and I wanted to win both games. The idea is if you''ve got three big games in a week, you''ve got to choose which one to slack off. For Parky that''ll be the cups. For me it''s the league because if we lose or get a draw tomorrow, it''s not a big deal. If we get an injury, that''s a big deal. Looking at the fixtures, we will win 8 of the next 9 after tomorrow. If you think of a ten-match horizon, losing one is no big deal. We will shoot up the league, top six by Christmas. Only problem is people won''t buy the bonds if we''re near the bottom of the table so we have to get a move on.''


    ''So you say okay let''s win and that''s it? You just win?''


    He smiles. ''It''s not always that easy but we''re almost at Wimbledon''s level, so if I do one of my tricks on them, bosh. The thing is, that''s a one-time scheme and it won''t work again.''


    ''What''s the trick?''


    ''You''ll see. Or you won''t. Just don''t be surprised when we absolutely blitz them in the second half. Sometimes you have to suffer until half time to lull them into a false sense of security. Yeah, first half will be hot garbage.'' He scrunches his eyes for a second. ''You''ve got Stevenage, right? You should bosh that. Parky makes it hard for himself.''


    ''In what way?''


    ''Stevenage are solid but you''ve got the firepower to absolutely blow them to smithereens. With your squad, I would go all-out attack and there isn''t a chance in hell Stevenage would do anything other than a low block and hope to counter. If you go there defensive they can sucker you into a series of battles. Turn it into a slog.''


    ''What are you going to do tomorrow? All-out attack?''


    ''Nah, you don''t get me that easy. Ah, there he is.''


    Henri Lyons, the striker, comes in. It looks like he''s wearing two scarves but he can''t have been. He has arranged it or them in such a way that you can see he''s wearing a poppy. ''Hello,'' he says, to me.


    ''Hello.''


    ''Max, I have the book I told you about.'' He hands something over while I''m scanning Best to see if he''s wearing a poppy and sadly I don''t get a good look at the book. All I see is the word quest. ''Please do not read it in the bath.'' He looks at me. ''Max treats books with contempt.''


    ''I do not. Henri''s mad that I turned the page once. You know, in the corner.''


    ''To remember which page you''re up to,'' I say. ''Everyone does that.''


    Henri looks up, pained. ''Everyone does not do that. Do not say that everyone does that. Some of us are trying to live in a society.'' He looks at me again. ''The entire spine was ruined. He had lain it flat many times. It was brutal; I nearly wept. Max''s attitude to my books will feature in our Christmas happening.''


    Best isn''t listening. He''s scanning the back cover blurb. ''Is this the one with the cat?''


    ''No, it''s the one with the prison.''


    ''Okay.'' Best puts the book in a backpack he has down the side of the sofa. ''While you''re here, you''re not starting tomorrow.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Yeah, I decided we need to win. To shift some bonds.''


    Henri nods. He seems pleased, which is mad because it sounds to me like Best has just called him shit. I go, ''You''re happy he dropped you?''


    ''Dropped? I am not dropped. I am to come off the bench and star.''


    ''When did he tell you that?''


    ''Just now. Did you not hear? May I know your name?''


    ''Dylan. I''m from 3 R Welsh.''


    ''Oh, I see. Formidable.'' He leans back against one of the ceiling-high panes of glass. The next question is not aimed at me. ''How is our transfer business going?''


    ''Good,'' says Best.


    ''And the bonds?''


    ''Quite good. Do you know anyone called Aur¨¦lie?''


    Henri squints. ''Yes.''


    ''Relative?''


    ''Mother.''


    ''Ah. Problem?''


    ''For?''


    ''Me.''


    Henri shakes his head. ''No.''


    ''For Chester?''


    ''No.''


    ''For you?''


    Henri smiles. ''Of course.''


    Best thinks and does a big shrug. ''Okay.''


    Best''s vibe is like, that''s the end of the conversation. But Henri''s not done. ''May I make a request?''


    ''Yes.''


    The Frenchman takes his time finding the right words. ''When you sell the lads, don''t reduce the bond.''


    Best closes his laptop and shuts his eyes. He leans back like he''s trying to sleep, but he''s only trying to understand. ''Don''t... reduce the bond...''


    ''I have tried to explain this to you before and will do so again, perhaps with Brooke and MD by my side. Perhaps with Dylan if he is the one who can make the breakthrough.''


    I don''t like being brought into it, but it seems like he means well. Best goes, ''You''re talking about my frugality.''


    ''I am. The interest rate is so manageable even MD is comfortable with it. Of course he would happily pay less but he doesn''t fully appreciate your talent, even now. Leave the fans'' money in the stand, let them pay it off through season tickets, and reinvest what you earn from transfers into the squad. Turn the flywheel, Max. It is time to speed up.''


    ''You think I shouldn''t build new showers?''


    ''Of course you should, these are irredeemable, but I won''t be here next season so I care very little about the showers at Bumpers Bank.''


    ''You won''t be here?'' I blurt out.


    Henri eyes me. ''Max says I am to leave and cash myself up for a season or two, at which point he will find me some menial task in one of his enterprises.''


    ''Oh.'' With friends like Best, who needs enemies?


    ''All I am saying, Max, is prioritise the squad this summer. Give yourself an easier time next year. You can make it very, very easy for yourself and as you know, when you are winning twice a week, the money will flow. For once, start the season at a sprint. The new stand will be making money for the club for fifty years. You do not need to pay off the debt in three.''


    Best watches his friend, and twists his lips around. ''You''re the second person in two days to say something of the sort. Emma''s dad wants me to buy a Lotus Seven and whisk her off on adventures. He wants me to break out of my poverty mindset.''


    ''It is easy to tell you what to do,'' says Henri. ''Easier than to be you, I think. That is why I only speak about the bond. As I say, let the fans build their stadium and repay the interest. You build the squad. That is what they want from you and that is the force multiplier on this project. Good, I have spoken. I follow you regardless, as you know, but perhaps I can judge this risk better than you.''


    Henri opens the door and is ready to just leave. Just like that!


    Best goes, ''You okay?''


    Henri goes, ''Yes, actually. It''s a good moment. You?''


    Best does a small head shake. ''It has been all kinds of mad.''


    ''You are with the children tonight?'' Henri looks at me. ''When Max needs to be centred, we encourage him to spend time with the Knights or the children. It is his grounding. He is my role model; the more he gives, the more he gets. Now I must away for I have to evict a bad tenant from one of my properties. Adieu!''


    We watch him leave. Best says, ''He''s joking. He wants you to put that on social media so he can act hurt and get all French about it.''


    I go, ''Do you have a poverty mindset?''


    ''Of course I do.''


    ''That''s why you were in a shit car.''


    He glares at me. ''The Duchess was not a shit car.''


    ''People shouldn''t tell you how to spend your money, though. That''s not on.''


    ''I didn''t mind it from Emma''s dad because it''s like, that family''s pretty loaded and he wants his daughter to be happy. She''s not a pampered princess but she''s used to having nice experiences. Loads of holidays and posh restaurants. They''re the sort of people who buy Taylor Swift and Oasis tickets and don''t even notice the price, do you know what I mean? For them it''s do you want to go, yes or no. And look, he''s not saying I can''t marry her because I''ve got a shit car and no house. I mean, I''m the one having dinner with Donnie Wormwood and stuff like that. I''ve got things money can''t buy and he''s not trying to put me down. He''s kind of just saying can you at least book a hotel with hot water? Yesterday he did something so I don''t have to worry about money so much and now I''m a bit off centre, like, mentally.'' He scratches his head. ''I''m making myself sound like a right cheapskate. I got used to a small, simple life, right, and then when I started making money I was like okay, put ten grand away in case mum needs something. A couple of weeks of seeing that ten grand in the bank I was like that is nowhere near enough, is it? Twenty? Still no. So that number''s been going up and up and I never feel safe and I never will. Emma''s dad has done an intervention and broke the pattern. I need to readjust. It''s not easy.''


    ''What about him?'' I nod towards the door, where Henri''s scent lingers.


    ''He''s talking about the club''s money. I run the club like my own account. Ha! That sounds shady. Are you recording this?''


    ''No.''


    ''Some podcasters would love to hear me talk like that. I mean I run it like it''s my money. This woman I know is buying a house. Huge house. Big mortgage. Let''s say it''s a thousand pounds a week. No clue what the real number is, you get me, it''s just a thousand is easy to work with. Her dad pays half up front, now her mortgage is five hundred a week. That''s what I want to do for the stadium. The club''s mortgage - the fans'' mortgage, in the end - can go lower if I chip in. Instead of buying a new left back, I reduce the mortgage.''


    ''Makes sense to me.''


    ''Right. But Henri says I should buy a new left back because I''m amazing at finding players. Put out a winning team, get promoted, get prize money, and sell those players for a huge profit.''


    ''That... makes a lot of sense, too.''


    Best frowns. ''Yes. I think it''s one of those things where both ways are right but with the first one I can sleep well at night.''


    ''You''re running a football club. You need to be able to sleep at night. Got to look after yourself.''


    Best agrees with me to his core and it shows. ''Right? That''s what people don''t get. I''m under enough strain as it is. And what if I die? Does Chester die, too? I don''t want that. But...'' He gets up and looks around. I sit up in case there''s trouble. ''Thing is,'' he says. ''Remember you were all ''oh Best you''re shit you''re getting sacked'' and I was like ''no I''m crushing this season bro'' and you were like ''what really?'' and I said ''yeah watch me score from 70 yards against some chumps.''''


    I laugh. ''You didn''t say the last part.''


    ''I was complaining that next season - when we will be in League One, remember - will be the same as this one. Start slow, pick up speed. So yeah, what if I wait another year to build a proper changing room? What if I don''t put solar panels on the gym right away? Do you know what I mean? What if I fucking go for it on the pitch and just slap from day one?'' He rubs his temples and it''s like he''s talking to himself. ''League One ceiling is about 110. Keep the main squad together we''ll be over 90. Get as much TV money as MD will give me. Stand takes us to about 50K a week... Foquita''s worth another twenty, or a mill for signings. What about training caps? When we leave BoshCard what will our score be? It''s a big risk not to do the showers, at least.''


    He lapses into silence. I have no idea what he''s saying but guys, it''s amazing! He''s running a football club right before my eyes! I try to get him to explain some of it without making it seem like that''s what I''m doing because if I go straight at it, he''ll shut down. ''Is this to do with what Henri said about selling players?''


    ''Yeah,'' he goes, with a sigh. ''Spring clean for the May queen. We''re pretty likely to sell three guys. The trick is do I replace them and do I spend money replacing them?''


    ''How could you... not spend...?''


    He has a tactics whiteboard on the wall and he goes to it and moves blue magnets around. ''Four-four-two.'' He whips away the left-back and right-mid. ''I sell my backup goalie. Fine, who cares?'' He touches the goalie magnet. ''Er, everyone cares if you don''t have a replacement when this guy gets injured. So I buy a new backup and hope he''s better than what I''ve got. If I spend exactly what I get for the current one, it''s not going to move the needle much. If I spend more money, okay we''ve upgraded, but do I want the club''s scarce resources sitting in a backup goalie? No, unless the first choice gets injured, and then my backup goalie is the best investment I ever made.''


    ''We had terrible luck with goalies and injuries.''


    Best''s eyes widen. ''I know. I watch Welcome to Wrexham, Dylan. Dislocations, concussions, broken jaws, five goals conceded here, five goals there. If I was a goalie, I wouldn''t go to Wrexham. No offence.''


    ''None taken. For once.''


    He puts a left back on the board. ''I sell my left-back. No problem, I''ve got two hotshots coming up.'' He takes it off again. ''Very talented but very raw. If I play them every week I''ll lose points, guaranteed.''


    ''Change the formation,'' I say.


    ''Ah! Good. If we want to hide the fact we don''t have an oven-ready left back we can do 3-5-2 or 3-4-3. Yeah, I like both of those but not as much as I like having complete tactical flexibility. And neither are amazing for DMs.'' He plays with his magnets for a while but his hands move too fast for me to follow. He slows and obsesses over the ones at the sides. ''I''ll get a good price for my winger but that leaves me with Pascal as my only proper wide player.''


    ''How is he?''


    ''He''s coming along. I threw him in against Newcastle because I thought we might shock them with some quick breaks, but also because one of the hardest parts of a recovery is getting back on the pitch. The first tackle, you know? He was nervous, of course, but he survived and he''s gonna be raring to go. With our November schedule there''s no need to rush him so he''s in Dean''s hands and Pascal will have to put the work in like a normo. No, he''s fine, and he''s busy with his Spanish lessons - hubba hubba! - and his coaching badges and his physical work. I try to keep my injured players busy because they go tonto if they can''t play.''


    ''I bet.''


    ''Thing is, we''re very very light on the wings and that rules out most of our formations. We''re also lacking in CAMs. Sandra loves 4-2-3-1 but the only options for that are me, Pascal, and Wibbers, and for different reasons we''re not playing every minute of every match, right? So if I sell Jaws do I try to load up on CAMs? Maybe, but I use wide players more. And it makes no sense to play one up top when I''m going to have three of the best strikers in the division. I want...''


    Best seems to get stuck, like he doesn''t know what he wants. He opens the door, walks out, closes it behind him, and wanders off. I''m perfectly comfortable where I am - it''s quite cosy and I''m enjoying being in the space. I think I see him looking at a tree, and what''s odd is that it''s the only tree in the whole place.


    He comes back and sits cross-legged on his big chair. ''Do you play Soccer Supremo?''


    ''Not really, no. I have the mobile version from years ago but it doesn''t...''


    ''What wins, a team of guys with high Pace or a team with high Decisions?''


    ''Pace.''


    Best closes his eyes and has an internal debate. ''No. No, it''s Decisions. If you can get a guy with both you''re laughing, but that''s a fifty million pound combo right there, isn''t it? I have a weakness as a tactician in that I spend all my time thinking about what we do when we get the ball, but your Parky and most other managers are far more interested in the defensive side. What do you do when you don''t have the ball? Tsch''. That¡¯s a dismissive noise, like defending is beneath him. ''This is a mad sport, you know. In one game a player might be asked to make ten headers and take five shots but in the next the same player in the same position has to make four tackles and eight blocks. You need well-rounded players but you need specialists. You need on the ball skills but off the ball is important, too. It''s low-scoring so mistakes are critical but if you base your philosophy on waiting for a mistake, your fans will be bored and your players, too. It''s so dynamic with so many variables that unless you have a huge budget all you can do is get the best players possible and see what you can cook.'' He rubs his hands through his hair and down his face. ''It''s easy to imagine the perfect team. They''re all six foot four, pass like Michael Carrick, dribble like Stanley Matthews, are as fast as Jaws, and so on and so on. But what can I realistically get? What if I had a couple of hundred million to put together a realistic dream team? I don¡¯t even know what I want. Decisions, Passing, Technique, great. But you need some pace and you need some heading and you need and you need. Do you know what I mean?''


    ''Yes. No.''


    Best slides his legs from under him and sits normally. ''The good news is, I genuinely have no money so my poverty mindset is justified. All I can do is get the most talent for the buck and... But... Okay! I don''t need to go full opposite right away. I can line up a Jaws replacement right now.''


    I blink. ''You''re going to do a transfer? Are you going to let me listen?''


    ''Why not?'' He looks up and to the right with a frown. In his head, he has answered his own question. He smirks. ''If for any reason you feel the need to tell this story in the next few weeks, would you promise not to use any of the names you hear? You''d be crushing some poor bloke''s only chance at having a good career.''


    He knows! He knows I''m doing this and he doesn''t care. ''Yes.''


    ''Swear on Ryan Reynolds.''


    I laugh. ''I swear.''


    He gets on the phone. I have to put fake names because I did promise. ''Davido! Mad news. Captain Kirk wants to buy Jaws from me. Yeah, I know! No, I''m not calling to see if you''re interested. No, I''m not trying to start an auction. Why would Jaws move to you? That''s a step down and your shitty manager famously misuses every right midfielder he ever lays eyes on. Yes, that''s what this is about. A replacement, yes. Look, you know I don''t have any money because everything''s being sucked into the black hole that is the stadium. You''ve got two right midfielders rotting away and I will take one off your hands. Yes, for a fee. Jesus Christ, what do you think? No, I haven''t spoken to her. Because if you say you''re not interested I''ll go somewhere else. Honestly I don''t care which one. I need a body who can play wide and you''ve got two. I can give you fifty grand and we can get the deal wrapped up next week.''


    I get my phone out to look up the names of the players Best is talking about. One was released by an academy and the other was on loan at Chester before. I don''t believe Best when he says he doesn''t care which one he gets.


    ''You paid fifty for him, I know. And then you''ve let him rot. I should have started at thirty but you know I don''t like... Come on. Come on!''


    Best is frustrated. Doesn''t like the number he is hearing.


    ''Davido, you get one shot at this. If you piss me off I''ll go off in a huff and not talk to you for seven weeks. No, seven weeks. That''s the standard punishment. Well how long would you suggest? That''s not much of a punishment though, is it? Okay, listen. Charles was here before, he knows the area, knows the club, the fans liked him. In order to get some peace of mind and so that you can go to your fans and say you rinsed us and made a profit on this deal, I will give you seventy-five thousand pounds for a player who is nowhere near your first team and doesn''t improve ours.''


    Best leans back. I think 75 is going to be his final offer, and sure enough...


    ''Okay, no, I''m out. Don''t worry, in two years when his contract expires and he has played 86 minutes of football for you, I''ll be there to help him rebuild his shattered career. Don''t worry, mate, it''s only a young man''s life. Bye.''


    He hangs up and shakes his head.


    I say, ''Good news, is it?''


    That makes him smile again. ''You''re funny when you''re not boiling with anger at every little thing.''


    ''I could say the same about you.''


    ''I take it personally, though. There are two wingers who moved to that club on my advice and they were delighted at the time but they haven''t progressed. Either one would be smashing it here. I can''t do a hundred, though. This is the mad thing, right, is that I want to help people but I have to be ruthless, too.''


    ''Are they good players?''


    He looks around, trying to look guilty but the big smug grin shows what he really thinks. ''They''re way better than Jaws! I think this is what Henri is trying to tell me. If I sell a player for 300 and I can buy a better one for 75... I mean, at some point the wages will start to absolutely dick me and the risk of a bum deal gets more and more, ah, impactful... but in principle I should be wheeling and dealing like this. I kinda thought I would be but then I had flat out zero money. How can I not have a poverty mindset when I''ve had to put this squad together on free transfers, promissory notes...'' He''s suddenly staring at the glass behind me. ''And guys I found on a beach.''


    I vaguely recognise the man who knocks on the glass and comes to open the door, but thanks to our resident pervert I totally know the woman who''s with him. It''s the Julia Roberts one! Eat Pray Lust, AKA Gemma. As before, the pictures don''t do her justice and there''s something crazy that happens. The boyfriend - Andrew Harrison, I soon find out - doesn''t seem to know there are fucking SPARKS flying all over the place between Best and Gemma. It''s honestly really super intense and I''m absolutely riveted by everything that they say to each other because it seems to be riddled with subtext and sexual energy.


    ''Max,'' says Gemma, very bossily. But she spots me and gets cold and professional. She''s dressed as a lawyer. ''Hello.''


    ''I''m Dylan,'' I say, but it comes out weird.


    Gemma looks at Best for an explanation. He''s looking straight and only just barely turning his head in her direction which, you know, for a woman like that must be really challenging. ''He''s with me,'' says Best. It makes no sense, it''s not true, but it gets the blood pumping. I''m in the gang. I don''t want to be in the gang, but now that I''m in the gang I''m proud to be in the gang. It''s a tiny taste of what comes later.


    Gemma and Andrew are in the space with us and it''s really not big enough for four. Also, neither wants to sit on the bean bag. I think Best wants it like this because he doesn''t want people in there for too long. He doesn''t mind me, though. I get another flush of that unwanted happiness.


    ''Max, we need to sort this contract situation out.''


    ''Gosh,'' says Best, quite bored.


    Gemma grunts in frustration. (By the way: hot.) ''What do you want? Do you want us to beg?''


    Best grinds his teeth together and sort of rolls his head slightly. A lot of what he does is a performance, or he''s hiding his real emotions, but this, whatever it is, is real. He looks at the tactics board while he counts to whatever number. Then he looks from me to Gemma. ''Dylan is a Wrexham fan. He doesn''t give a shit about you, me, Andrew, or Chester. He does, though, have a pronounced sense of right and wrong, hates injustice, has good analytical skills. I nominate him as an independent judge.''


    Andrew says, ''Are you one of the army guys?''


    I don''t know what Best has been saying so I feel awkward. ''Yeah.''


    He does this sort of admiring O face.


    Gemma is less impressed. ''Max, this is unprofessional.''


    ''Pursuant to his Britannic Majesty''s royal decree I nominate Dylan of the British actual army to arbitrate in our exchange of grievances.'' He says this all dignified and solemn and I sit up straight.


    My reaction isn''t because I''m moved by his words or anything noble like that. It''s because I finally think I''ve got his sense of humour. He is a prick but he has chosen those words and that tone to get a rise out of Gemma and it works so hard she''s actually left speechless. I want to go through all the things he''s ever said to me that have made my blood boil but there''s no time.


    Best leans forward like a California girl and says, ''Dylan, get this.''


    The switch in his tone from the super-formal fake legalese to this casual pyjama-party chat nearly makes my head explode.


    ''I found Andrew and his brothers while I was recovering from my murder. There I was, on the island of Tenerife, trying to learn to walk again... and to trust again...'' He glares at Andrew, which has the mad, upside-down effect of making Andrew smile. ''And I say, hey, Triplets, would you like to stop being fucking nobodies and come and play football for my club? And they said yes, yes please, Max, because otherwise we''ll spend sixty years in a call centre selling unsuitable crypto products to elderly women.''


    Best cricks his neck. He''s just getting started.


    ''As you know, Dylan, from being a fan of moneybags Wrexham, Chester FC are fucking skint. They have a miracle worker in charge but they have no fucking money. Despite that, I gave a fuckton of Chester''s resources to the Triplets because I see potential in them to have careers as players and all I ask in return is that Chester''s investment in them is justified. I believe I can train Andrew into a really good player and sell him for loads and use that fucking money to give the same opportunities to all kinds of triplets that I find on all kinds of beaches.''


    Best is getting actually wound up now. Like, Gemma and Andrew can''t say anything because he is on a roll and it seems like they can''t find fault with any of the basic information.


    ''Last summer I come back from Brazil. I haven''t hit a home run in terms of talent ID but I''ve found enough guys to justify my carbon footprint and with those deals done, I know how much is left in my budget. I call Andrew in to offer him a pay rise but Gemma barges in and tells me I have to make Andrew Harrison one of the top earners at the club. I have to pay him more than Magnus, who is absolutely indispensable, more than Youngster, who I wouldn''t sell for five million, and more than Henri Lyons, who scores all our goals!''


    I look at Andrew and he''s deeply unhappy. He''s unhappy because he agrees with Best. Gemma is angry and she''s trying to control herself. It''s mad but I try to play peacemaker, and I start by putting the other side of the argument across. ''So you froze him out of the team.''


    ''Nope,'' says Best, sliding back onto the chair, relaxed. ''They did that.''


    Gemma is the one grinding her teeth now. ''It was a bargaining position.''


    ''How did that work out for you?'' Max Best is SUCH a prick.


    Gemma inhales. She''s way more impressive than Best, and I don''t mean her looks. In her position, I''d be looking for weapons. ''What do you want?''


    Best''s eyes widen and he lets his hands fall out, palms up. Like, are you serious? ''I want Andrew to sign a long-term contract so that I can use the resources of Chester Football Club to train him up! Like I said on day one!''


    ''That''s what I want,'' says Andrew, quietly.


    ''Training a footballer is expensive,'' says Best, as though he hasn''t heard. I think he has heard but he has decided to make this speech regardless. ''Coaches, pitches, physios, floodlights, fucking delicious meals twice a day, travel, transport, legal advice, insurance, a billion fucking things. For a club with no money, that''s a lot of money. If you want to go to Bradford and get paid, go to Bradford and get paid. Teach me a fucking lesson for trying to make you a valuable asset. You don''t want to suffer and sacrifice like the rest of us? You want to skip directly to Go and collect two hundred pounds? Be my guest. But if you aren''t willing to let this club cover its costs on you, you get nothing. This isn''t Andrew Harrison FC. This isn''t Gemma''s Boyfriend FC. This is Chester FC and I need money to pay for Jojo and Jude and dentists and Jonny Planter and little disabled girls who love football and dream of playing for England. How can it be that I make more money from a 12-year-old that I found in a park than a grown man who I invested two years of elite coaching into? Explain that to me. That''s what I want, Gemma. I want an explanation for why you don''t want to be part of something bigger than yourself. I want an explanation for how the most selfish man in Manchester is the least selfish man in this room.''Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Wow.


    Fucking Max Best launching truth bombs towards his own unit.


    When a bomb goes off, there''s this time where there''s no movement and the only sound is that ringing noise they do in movies. Trust me, I know.


    There''s no movement in that room. Best''s phone is ringing but he shuts it off.


    Gemma opens her mouth and I find myself leaning forward to hear what she says because it''s going to be epic.


    But Andrew reaches out and touches her lightly on the arm. She stops. He looks at Best. ''Do you want me gone?''


    ''I want to finish what I started.''


    ''I want that, too.''


    ''There''s no money,'' says Best.


    Gemma narrows her eyes. ''You''re selling three players. You''ll have budget.''


    ''There''s this guy called Foquita,'' says Best, and I try and fail to make the sound mean anything. Fajita?


    ''You''ve budgeted for him,'' says Gemma. ''These sales are new.''


    ''Three out, four in,'' says Best.


    ''Four?'' says Andrew.


    ''I thought you''d be leaving so I''m talking to a club about a replacement,'' says Best, and I''m more than ninety percent sure he''s lying because he''s just told me his plans. This is a mad whirlwind and I love it! ''Money''s gone. If life''s about money may I recommend Wrexham?''


    Andrew and Gemma look at each other and I see the exact moment Andrew''s heart breaks. They''ve gone to war with Best but there''s only going to be one winner there. Andrew''s shoulders slump and I find myself watching his fingers. They''re twitching like he''s already got them wrapped around the door handle. That''s it! His career at Chester is over.


    What comes over me? No fucking clue, but I decide it''s up to me to sort this out. This is a minor lover''s tiff - not sure how literally - and these people all want to be together. One or more is too stubborn to say that.


    As Best said, I''m not part of it. I''m independent. I can say things they are too prideful to say, and with me there''s no sexual tension getting in the way. At least I hope not. ''Best. Do you want Andrew to stay?''


    ''Yes.''


    ''Andrew, do you want to stay?''


    ''Yes.''


    I get confused then because it can''t be that simple and these clowns can''t be that stupid. Can they? I try to work it out. I look at Best. ''You''d give him a long-term contract but with no increase.''


    ''I suppose I could find a little bit down a sofa. But the real money comes later.''


    ''What - '' says Gemma, but I have this feeling that, smart and beautiful as she is, she''s not helping. As politely as possible, I put my hand up to stop her.


    I say, ''What does real money mean?''


    Best turns to the tactics board and moves the right midfielder into the centre and back again. ''Chester pay him call centre cash. He grinds for two years. We sell him. He skips lobster money, goes straight to Gemma money.''


    ''Gemma money,'' I say. ''What''s that in pounds and pence?''


    ''They know.''


    Gemma''s shaking her head. ''Gemma isn''t on Gemma money.''


    ''And neither is Andrew. And he won''t ever be unless he commits. The only way up is me. I am Andrew''s staircase to heaven.''


    Gemma''s fire gets more intense, I''m awestruck and terrified, and then it dies down. ''Nutcase, more like.'' Amazingly, she looks at me for help. What¡¯s the next move? I jerk my head away and she understands what I''m saying. She steps to me, offers a hand, pulls me up, and says in a ladylike tone, ''Would you escort me to the bar?'' She opens the door, we go through, and she puts her arm around mine.


    As we go, I look back and see the two men in the same pose, looking awkward. Best says something and Andrew laughs and goes to the camping chair.


    TopPoppy


    Fuck! Why is it always so intense?


    BrokenGround


    That was only the first ten minutes!


    I need to take a break. My wrists are killing me.


    Stoop


    Mine too.


    TopPoppy


    Log off, pervert!


    BrokenGround


    Okay I''m back. Where was I? Ah, yeah, Best is talking to Andrew.


    ''Thank you for that,'' says Gemma, once we''re out of sight of the shed.


    ''Um,'' I say, because there are more people milling about and they are looking over wondering why such a beautiful woman is with me. I tell myself I don''t give a shit what they think. ''Your boyfriend was good against Newcastle. He''s a grafter and he didn''t seem overawed by the occasion. Best wouldn''t have let him go, not really.''


    ''He would. He''s incredibly stubborn. He''s impossible.''


    ''He''s not,'' I say. ''Sorry to be, er, personal but I think you went at it head on and that''s not how you work him.''


    ''No?''


    ''You''ve got to go at an angle. Get him talking about something else then link it back to what you really want to talk about.'' She''s giving me a strange look. We''re just outside the bar. ''He was doing this weird football with us. We call it Bestball. He wouldn''t explain anything we were doing if we straight-up asked, but we learned that if you talked about the big match on TV last night you could get him talking about offside traps and then say ''is that why we play a high line?'' It doesn''t always work but it''s much better.''


    She gives me a different sort of strange look. I''m not used to being this close to women who look like movie stars, lads. ''What were you doing in his office?''


    ''Just waiting until seven. Passing the time.''


    ''Huh. Do you mind that we interrupted?''


    ''No.''


    ''Good. Okay, well, are you going to buy me a drink or what?''


    Lads, I got mad brave! ''You''re on Gemma money. Why don''t you buy me one?''


    She liked that, but she''s one who likes to be in charge. ''Why don''t you hold the door open for me like a gentleman?''


    Good point! I do just that, giving her a fancy bow as she goes past, and we get tea and coffee and chat and she''s proper normal really. Not stuck up or anything. ''How did all this start anyway?''


    ''Oh,'' she says. ''It''s like he said, he was dishing out contracts and we heard from some of the other lads they got tiny raises. Like a hundred here, two hundred there. But we''re in League Two now so that can''t be right. Where''s the million pounds from TV? Max runs this place like he''s all-powerful and he makes all the decisions without caring what people think. One day he''s saying Andrew can''t get a raise, the next he''s buying stupid advertising boards for the pitch out there. Do you know what I mean? No-one pushes back because they want to be the next Sam Topps and get a good move. Aff and Carl got good moves, and Glenn. Most of the players grumble about the pay but get on with it because when Max says you get paid later, he''s not talking out of his arse. Even MD doesn''t push back. If Max says we need six goalkeepers, MD will let him as long as it''s within budget. So I decided someone needed to stand up to him.''


    ''He''s Julius Caesar and you''re Brutus.''


    Gemma points a finger at me and I stare at her nails and get turned on. ''Don''t call me a brute, thank you very much.''


    ''I meant - ''


    ''I''m teasing you.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Well, he can be Julius Caesar with the other lads but not with Andrew. I want Andrew to be paid what he''s worth today and tomorrow because I think he''s brilliant.'' She gets a wry look about her that goes great on those lips. ''I admit I may have miscalculated market sentiment.''


    ''No bugger wanted him.''


    She laughs. ''Yeah. We had a bad time because Andrew wasn''t getting on the pitch - they call it getting minutes. I hate that phrase; it''s insipid. But if he''s not getting minutes he''s not improving and if he''s not on the pitch he''s not catching the eye. Andrew had a slump. It''s hard being frozen out like that. I can''t understand how Max can see one of his players suffer every day and not do anything about it.''


    ''Oh,'' I say.


    ''What?''


    ''It''s just, I''m a Wrexham fan and we talk about Chester a lot on our Discord.''


    She frowns. ''Why?''


    ''They''re our rivals.'' It sounds petty so I move on. ''We talked about that situation and we thought it was good.'' She glares at me. ''Sorry, I mean, good management from Best. From the club''s point of view. If you have a guy who wants too much money and you go nuclear on him, the other players fall into line. It happens in the army. They''ll beast someone who''s late so hard that no-one will be late again for three months. I know it isn''t nice to think about but...''


    ''He should do it with one of the others.''


    ''Andrew''s perfect, though, isn''t he? He''s close to Best but not a first team regular. It''s shocking for the other players but doesn''t weaken the team.''


    She takes an angry sip of coffee. ''You''re all such boys. There were twenty ways to handle it better.''


    ''I have no doubt that''s true.''


    She looks down into her cup. ''It has been pretty horrible. When we meet up with the WAGs there''s pity and fear. It could be their husband next, sort of thing. Probably loads of jokes about me.''


    ''They''re only jealous.''


    ''The other players were great. Told him to keep his head down, keep working hard, and try again in January. And Max, to be fair, is pushing Noah hard, giving him first team minutes, extra coaching. Michael''s doing well at Saltney. If you care about your brothers like Andrew does, it helps.'' She puts her hands around her cup and eyes me. ''You''re a Wrexham fan, are you? What do you think about that whole Ryan Reynolds thing?''


    We talk about that for a while and then Andrew comes in and sits with us. He''s smiling. He smiles at me. ''There''s the man of the hour! The man who saved my career!''


    ''What did he say?'' says Gemma.


    Andrew rocks his head back and laughs. ''All kinds of fucking mental things, as usual.''


    She pokes him. ''Tell me! Did you agree anything?''


    Andrew pinches his nose, still smiling, and launches into the tale. ''So you two left and he goes, right, let''s sort this out. Start by telling Gemma I apologised.''


    She is gobsmacked. ''He apologised? Max?''


    ''No,'' laughs Andrew. ''He told me to tell you that. Then he got serious and he was, like, you''ve done just about enough to become a squad player for a National League team. You can go somewhere and get minutes but you''ll never be a proper first team regular. You need to stay here and let me turn you into a Championship player. When you''re getting ten grand a week you won''t look back and be angry you were getting five hundred when you should have been getting seven.''


    ''Ten grand a week?'' I say. I know footballers get that kind of money, course I do. But this guy''s bang average at best and he''s sitting next to me in this crappy cabin.


    He nods. ''He said I''m gonna be 24 this season and if I pull my finger out I could be as good as Lee Contreras by the summer. I spend next season grinding up to League One quality, then he can start to think about selling me, or I do a season with Chester in the Championship. When I''m 26 or 27 he''ll sell me for a million and I''ll get five figures a week for a few years. We''ve talked about this before but that was when we were in non-league and I was just happy to be a footballer. Now it all seems a lot more real.''


    ''Hang on,'' I say, and even as I''m doing it I know I should stay quiet before they realise they''re saying all this in front of a stranger. ''You think that Best can turn you into a player who gets ten grand a week?''


    ''Yes.''


    ''And you risked that to get a tiny pay raise?'' Andrew looks away and Gemma glares at me. I''ve got nothing to lose, so I say, ''I can''t believe you''re making me say this, but I''m on Best''s side!''


    Gemma''s glare turns into an amused scoff. ''He can pay Andrew more now and more later. It''s not that hard, Dylan. So what was his offer?''


    ''Ah.'' Andrew gets shifty. ''He said because I''d been quote a dick unquote and because he couldn''t be seen to be backing down, he was only prepared to offer me five hundred a week and I had to sign a four-year contract and trust him.''


    I slammed my palm into the table causing all the crockery and cutlery to slam and crash. ''What!'' I find myself curling my fists into balls. ''What a prick! Fuck!''


    Gemma''s smiling at me again. I''m back in her good books. She isn''t mad, and the reason becomes clear soon enough. ''What did you say?''


    ''I said yes.''


    ''No!'' I cry. ''Mate! It''s just one of his willy-waving moves. A fucking test.''


    Andrew smiles. ''I know.''


    ''Oh.''


    ''Yeah. I did some good acting in there, let me tell you. Said it was difficult. Said I was worried about losing face with Gems.'' Gemma reaches out and takes his hand, shaking her head. They look into each other''s eyes for a few seconds, forgetting I''m there. It''s not the SPARKS but it''s nice. They''re a good couple. ''Yeah, made a bit of a meal of it but said I wanted to play for Chester and prove myself and the Newcastle match made me hungry and I was a team player and if I had to show that by signing a shit contract, I would.''


    ''And he told you the real offer,'' says Gemma.


    ''Yeah. Said there''s no money now, that''s not a bargaining chip, but there should be some in January so I could go to 700. A grand next year, two K the year after. He would commit to that if I committed to staying long enough for me to get to my level. But he said he''d want to renegotiate every summer like he usually did and if I was patient and didn''t bring fire-breathing dragons to the meetings, he could imagine things going better than that.'' Gemma smiles at the dragons reference. ''But he said he''s always going to put the club first and if he needs my pay raise to pay for a backup goalie or whatever, he''s going to do it and I''ll have to suck it up. Then he quoted some song lyrics, I think.''


    ''What were they?''


    ''I only remember stairway and heaven. All that glitters isn''t gold, something like that. He said it meant that if I want to get where I want to go there are no shortcuts unless I marry a rich megababe.''


    ''I''m not rich,'' says Gemma.


    ''But you are a - '' I start, before I shut my gob pretty darn quick.


    She gets a couple of red spots on her cheeks and Andrew squeezes her hand. ''Yes, she is.'' I think they would have kissed if I hadn''t been there, but they didn''t want to make it awkward for me. ''I might start tomorrow, he said. He said to tell you to go easy on the rapprochement tonight. Not sure what he meant.''


    ''Me neither,'' says Gemma, but she''s lying. Even I know what it means. Andrew can''t be that dim, can he? Or maybe he knows and it''s him laughing at us for not knowing that he knows. ''Do we need to go home and rest?''


    ''No,'' says Andrew. ''I''m more than ready to play. We can stay out.''


    I''m confused. ''Are you coming to the meal tonight?''


    ''What? No. My brother is training later. They''re all excited about the new thing they''re going to do.''


    ''Ohhhh,'' I say. He''s got a younger brother in Chester''s youth teams. I knew that but sometimes it doesn''t click together, you know? It explains why Andrew is there at that time and why Gemma came straight from work.


    Best comes in, frowning. ''Dylan, the fuck? You vanished.''


    ''I''ve been in here.''


    ''Why? Why? Come on, I need you.''


    I''m cosy and Gemma''s so nice to look at. ''To do what?''


    ''To protect me from those who wish me ill.'' I hesitate, which gets him manic. ''Rather death than dishonour, yeah? Let''s go, come on.'' As I get to my feet, Best flits around the bar like a bumblebee, with mums and dads replacing flowers. He goes outside and almost everyone in the bar follows him.


    Outside, there are a bunch of other parents of the under-twelves and they gather around to listen. Best has a small plastic step that he stands on.


    ''Ladies and gentlemen!'' he calls out, and the last conversations die down. ''My name is Max and I work here.'' Some chuckles. ''My favourite song is Stairway to Heaven by Heart.''


    ''Led Zeppelin!'' cry three dads and one mum.


    ''No, I prefer the version by Heart. It is mint. The song''s like a progression fantasy and their staging of it really brings that out. Mwah! Chef''s kiss. One day I was like, gosh, what do these lyrics even mean? You look at them and they''re all about hedgehogs and you''re like whaaaat? So I called Joe Anka and he told me it was about someone who tries to buy her way into heaven but that ain''t gonna work. There''s a piper and he''s trying to tell the woman the right way to go to get what she wants but she doesn''t listen because she''s all about that sweet, sweet gold.''


    I look around because even for Chester, this can''t be normal. The fuck is he on about? Most people are listening carefully, though. I notice Andrew and Gemma have snuck up and joined us. He''s got his arm around her waist and she''s leaning into him. Life goals, man.


    ''So you might have heard rumours that Simon Black is going to Liverpool.''


    They''d clearly been dreading the news. Their best player, gone! What did it mean for their kids? There are a bunch of quiet comments, raised eyebrows, folded arms. It''s all dark and furtive.


    ''Before I get into it, I want to say that I am not mad at Mr. Black or Simon and if things don''t work out there they will be welcome back here. Chester are getting a compensation fee for all the training we''ve done and I have no complaints about that side of things. Based on what I''m about to say you might put two and two together and get five, so let me say it again, there is no beef between me and Mr. Black or Simon and there never will be. Unless he scores against us, the ungrateful little shhhhh.''


    This gets a few laughs and Best''s relaxed smile is winning people over.


    ''Dylan! Where''s my man Dylan?''


    I don''t like this development one little bit, but I push my way through the crowd until I''m next to Best.


    ''Dylan''s a Wrexham fan but ten minutes ago I put him and Andrew Harrison in a room together and now Andrew wants to sign a new contract.''


    This gets a spontaneous burst of applause! I can''t help but grin as though it actually happened the way Best said.


    ''Dylan doesn''t have a dog in this race and he''s more than happy to call a spade a spade.'' Best shows me a photo on his phone. ''What''s that?''


    ''It''s a spade,'' I confirm, and there are laughs.


    ''No, that''s a shovel.'' More laughs. ''Dylan. Imagine you''ve got a twelve-year-old boy who''s good at football. Would you want him here or in Liverpool''s academy?''


    Everyone''s looking at me. I feel like I''m supposed to say here but that''s not true, is it? ''Liverpool.''


    I''m braced for whistles or boos but there''s nothing like that.


    ''Nah, mate. Nah.'' Best is proper shaking his head. ''I''m sorry but that''s just not right. At worst we''re level.''


    ''You and Liverpool?'' I say, with zero diplomacy.


    ''Yeah.''


    ''Level?''


    ''Yeah. Right, let''s look at it. First of all, what is it they''ve got that we haven''t? Loads of fancy buildings and stuff. Yeah, great, mostly pointless. Those buildings are full of people moving commas around on graphics to announce the fifty-million pound striker they''ve just signed. The one who''s always going to be picked ahead of all the Simon Blacks in Liverpool''s system. They''ve got good coaches, so have we, they play good football, so do we. When it comes to what''s important, we''re as good or better.


    ''Here there''s a pathway to the first team. You want your kids to reach their potential and so do I, whether that''s top of the Premier League or top of the Cymru. I think being the best you can be is a worthy goal and all levels of footy have dignity. At Liverpool, if you''re not elite or they can''t flog you for a few million, they''re not interested. Simon has gone to a world where every year, eighty percent of his teammates will get cut.


    ''You know what I should do? I should ask Josh Owens to come and talk to you and he can tell you what it''s really like in an academy. It''s horrible to hear him talk about it. Heartbreaking. I''ve tried to make this place the opposite of what goes on there. One reason I didn''t fight harder for Simon to stay is that I got Liverpool to give us a big fee and because they gave a big fee they aren''t going to cut him. I think he''ll be there until he''s 17 at least, unless the current guy gets sacked and his replacement wants a clearout.


    ''So academies are awful and most of those lads are stressed to the max worrying and fretting and meanwhile all the Chester boys are training with the first team, on the bench in the FA Cup, playing in the Cheshire Cup. Look what we''re doing with Benny, Tyson, Chas, Noah, Jamie. When your children are old enough to get minutes it''s going to be harder because by then we will be in the Championship. That''s why I''ve hired Ryan Jack as a dedicated loans manager. He''ll make sure your boys get exposure to meaningful football so they can develop fast and have the longest possible career. It''s all planned and it''s all monitored and that''s why I want to keep the groups small. Fewer players, more attention, maximum development, and once you''re in you don''t need to worry about being cut for football reasons.''


    Best looks up past the floodlights to the night sky. There are a couple of stars out.


    ''You can''t buy a stairway to heaven. The path to the top needs to be built one step at a time. There are no shortcuts to anywhere worth going. It''s a lot of work and a lot of sacrifice - more for you than your kids, right? - but even they sacrifice. Friendships fade, they bin off parties, they can''t eat tasty junk.


    ''No shortcuts. It''s a long road, and a hard one, but if you see one of our youth team single-handedly destroying Newcastle''s midfield and you think nah it''s no good here...'' Lots of laughs on that one. I catch a woman''s eye in the crowd and smile as wide as she does. She looks familiar, but Best is talking again. ''Watch how we go in the Youth Cup. If we are drawn against Liverpool we will wipe them off the face of the planet. I''m serious - we will annihilate them. If they''re incredibly lucky, if they bribe a ref, if we get three red cards in the first ten minutes, they might scrape past us.'' I laugh some more. The guy''s absolutely bonkers. ''But you can''t say they''re a better youth system if our youth teams are running rings around theirs. You can''t, can you? Dylan, give me something.''


    ''I mean,'' I say, ''if you beat them... yeah, I''d be impressed. I might think about letting my kid come here.''


    ''Oh how magnanimous of you!'' laughs Best. ''He might think about letting his imaginary kid come here. Wow. Guys, think about this for a second. We ran Chelsea close last year.''


    ''Wait what?'' I blurt out, and people laugh at me, not unkindly.


    Best puts his hand on my shoulder. ''The Wrexham forums follow my adventures pretty closely, but not closely enough. Yes, Dylan, we slapped them up real good but fell short. This season we''re one of the strongest teams in the Youth Cup. Normally when it''s five-nil at half time I say okay lads, let''s not run up the score, yeah? But this season I''m saying, go ape. Big wins sell mini-bonds, and maybe it''s time to show what I already know - that Chester is one of the best youth set ups in the country and that your children are in the very best place for them.''


    That''s a good place to end. The parents are happy and I reckon Best has achieved his aim of stopping them from thinking about moving their kids, for a while at least. But he suppresses a grin and I know he''s about to say something he probably shouldn''t say.


    ''One more thing, maybe.'' He pauses to rearrange his face because the grin keeps coming out. ''Dylan,'' he says, and I back away. ''Stop that Welshman!'' he cries, even though I haven''t gone more than a few feet. ''Dylan, you promised to sing me a song.''


    Okay he thinks I''m going to sing ''Let''s all laugh at Wrexham'' here, in front of loads of Chester fans, in front of Eat Pray Love. I turn bright red and back away.


    ''Dylaaaannnnn,'' yells Best, in the style of someone from a movie. ''Ah, well, no song today but he''s still a Chester legend.''


    My voice starts working. ''No, I''m bloody not.'' I turn and walk away.


    Best says something to the parents, hops off the little step, and catches up with me. He pats me on the back. ''How did you know this was the next stop?''


    He rushes ahead, puts the step down in the centre circle, and with a blow of Jude''s whistle, the kids run over and form a semicircle around him. I wander over, but keep my distance. I don''t want to be his prop again. ''I only need the twelves,'' says Best, and the bigger kids rush away to their half of the pitch. The little ones are interested but fidgety, the way boys that age are. ''Okay, this will be quick. I sold Simon Black to Liverpool,'' he says.


    The kids are amazed. Most, anyway. A few look like they already knew.


    ''What that means is our top goalscorer is gone and we need to change things up. We have to spread the goals around and that means we have to change how we play.''


    A kid with a Scouse accent says, ''Will you get us a new striker?''


    Best considers that. ''Yeah, eventually, but I''m actually quite happy with this. You were getting one-dimensional. Pass to Simon, goal. I mean, it''s not much fun, is it?''


    ''It was, actually,'' says that kid.


    Best smiles. ''Fine, but this is a good chance to practise some other stuff. We''re going to do a false nine.'' The kids love this! They want to do the things they''ve seen on the telly - I know the feeling. ''And we''ll do a false ten. And a false eleven.'' The kids look confused. ''And we''ll do a false twelve, too.''


    Now they''re all rolling their eyes and flopping to the ground with their arms dangling. Like, how can you joke at a time like this? ''Max, what are we really gonna do?''


    ''Yeah, false nine. Two wingers in one zone. All kinds of stuff. Some of it will work, some of it won''t. It''s all part of your development. You want to be flexible players, right? Smart players.'' They do. ''Yeah so it''s sad when a teammate leaves but I''ll be much less busy in the next month and I reckon I''ll find a few new lads to come and play with you. So this might be our only chance to really do some crazy stuff, do you know what I mean? How do you feel about doing some crazy stuff, Steven?''


    The Scouse kid smiles. ''Yeah, okay.''


    ''Bosh!'' says Best. He gets down from the step but gets straight up again. ''Hands up if you''ve heard of Led Zeppelin.'' No-one puts their hand up. Best shrugs and gets down. Without a word, one of the kids takes the step from him and carries it to the side of the pitch. This place is manic, intense, silly, but there are routines, too and the kids are well-behaved.


    It''s interesting. I would send my child here.


    SummerhillBill


    So that was him heading off a run on the bank?


    BrokenGround


    Sorry, I don''t get your meaning.


    SummerhillBill


    In It''s a Wonderful Life, there''s a financial panic and all the customers run to the bank to take their money out. Jimmy Stewart gives a big speech to persuade them not to.


    BrokenGround


    Oh! I suppose it was like that, yes.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Just caught up on today''s instalment. Wonderful as always, BG! There''s about an hour before the teams are named for today''s three o''clock kick offs. Did you get any more gossip about Chester''s line up? It''s going to be interesting to compare what Best told you with what actually happens.


    BrokenGround


    I think everything I heard is in the text already. The next part was with the women''s team, and then it was the under eighteens. Oh, Dan Badford and William Roberts only did half the session, the light stuff, which I think means they''ll play today.


    What I gathered is that Chester will start defensive and then flip it at half time, but it''s possible Best was pranking me.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Do you think he was?


    BrokenGround


    Not really, to be honest. His vibe was: this is a nailed-on win.


    BeardedWonderwall


    I might put a cheeky tenner on it.


    BrokenGround


    Whoa whoa whoa don''t be blaming me if it goes tits-up.


    BeardedWonderwall


    No, I won''t.


    Stoop


    You said the next part was with the women?


    TopPoppy


    Oh my God how does this guy make everything sound creepy?


    BeardedWonderwall


    They''re 7 to 2.


    TopPoppy


    I don''t bet. What does that mean?


    BeardedWonderwall


    It means if I put fifty quid on them, I win 175 pounds.


    TopPoppy


    If they win.


    BeardedWonderwall


    BG promised us a win.


    BrokenGround


    I''m ignoring all this.


    Quick break and then the next part.


    Okay I''m back.


    TopPoppy


    Fuck, man, that was about half an hour! Don''t you know we need our fix?


    BrokenGround


    After Best talks to the kids he says he wants to go for a walk so we do a couple of laps and talk about stuff. When I have the lay of the land and know we are maximum distance from Gemma, I ask Best if there was anything between them. He laughs and says, ''She wishes''. It doesn''t feel right to mention the very obvious SPARKS so I let it drop.


    I ask if he could go back, would he change anything about the Andrew Harrison situation. He doesn''t think too hard. ''Yeah, I''d do it better. It''s not that easy, though, is it? Things happen. People piss me off, I piss people off. Trying to avoid that will drive you crazy, right? It''s about what happens next. If you leave it for two or three days, it''s done. I know I should go and talk to them but... I don''t want to.'' He says the last part childishly and he laughs at himself. He stays in this immature tone for the next part. ''Sorry I''m not perfect, Dylan. Sorry I fall short of perfection.''


    I don''t know how to reply so there''s a quiet moment before Best talks again.


    ''I''ve got this guy managing West Didsbury - that''s the club I don''t own. He''s amazing, great coach, great tactician. When I see some manager has been sacked I think wow, Jay could do a job there. But Jay''s even younger than me and he''s not a player. I get away with a lot of mistakes because I can fix it on the pitch, do you know what I mean? He should probably stay at West for a while. It''s a good vibe and if he wants to get some of his mistakes out of the way it''s a supportive culture and when he moves on he''ll have more track record and more experience of cleaning up his own mess.'' He slows down while he has a deep thought. ''No shortcuts,'' he says. ''Ah, look, your mates are here.''


    One of our vans has come early. The first wave of reinforcements!


    3 R Welsh in the area.


    Best gets a call and leaves. I hang out with the lads for a while; I''ll skip over that stuff because it''s not interesting for the most part. We keep half an eye on whatever sessions are on the big pitch while we have a quick drink in the bar. Starting slow, mind. No-one wants a load of drunken Squaddies marauding. The Brig is around and he comes to talk to us. The rest of the unit arrive and the Brig, Zach, and Pascal give us a tour of the place.


    It is a dump. Special mention to the huge health and safety hazard in the corner that is supposed to one day turn into a gym. The Chester guys are proud of their gaff, though, so there''s no ball-busting from us and like I said, I personally don''t mind things being a bit rough-looking if it''s good at heart.


    We''re back by the main pitch where the women''s team are gathering waiting for their turn to go on. It''s around quarter to seven by now, I reckon.


    Well, we''re not the best-looking bunch of lads, I don''t think, but put twenty-five young women and twenty-five soldiers in close proximity and things get spicy. Angel gets the most attention but there are a few others who would break your heart, and there are five young Welsh girls and they''re obviously the easiest to talk to.


    I''ve gone from being the only soldier and Best''s buddy to being just another number and I feel like my feet are in concrete. I stand there, swaying awkwardly.


    I''m not sure why she does it but Gemma Harrison comes and slips her arm around mine again and it''s like, back off ladies, he''s mine! So now I''m getting all kinds of looks from the women and I don''t mind it. Then Angel is in front of me and that''s intense. She looks me up and down. ''Do you follow me on Instagram?''


    ''What? No.''


    ''Why not? Don''t you like me?''


    My mouth''s dry. Gemma says, ''Dylan''s a Wrexham fan. He''d never follow you on Insta, not in a million years. Isn''t that right?''


    I go, ''Er, I might. If she wants.''


    Best chooses that moment to appear - Gemma slips away, not sure if that''s related - I think he looks pissed but when I look away and back, he''s normal. ''Did I hear the word Instagram? Bonnie,'' he calls, and she comes over. It''s the woman who smiled at me while Best was doing his speech. She''s in a white tracksuit with gold piping. I smile at her again but she doesn''t look at me. ''Angel''s on social media.''


    Bonnie''s a big woman. She''s as tall as me, broad shoulders, solid. I rack my brains trying to remember what position she plays but it''s obvious. She grimaces. ''Ruth persuaded me to let it happen. Get the account live now, rack up followers as the documentary hits. It''s being managed a hundred percent by Ruth, Brooke, and Emma.''


    ''Emma?'' says Best, stupefied.


    Angel says, ''She''s, like, my agent?'' Angel is gorgeous and she''s very charismatic in the documentary but in person she''s a bratty teenager. She''s younger than she is and makes me feel older than I am. ''Emma''s actually good on socials; she always stays on-trend.''


    Best squeezes his eyes shut. ''Angel... has accounts. She can''t post yet. The b-girls are posting safe, generic, sponsor-friendly crap.'' Bonnie nods. Best suddenly panics. ''Can she read the DMs she''s getting?''


    ''I''m right here,'' says Angel.


    ''No,'' says Bonnie.


    ''Thank fuck,'' says Best.


    TopPoppy


    Stoop, that explains why she isn''t writing back lol.


    BrokenGround


    I go, ''What''s the problem?''


    Bonnie says, ''Who are you?''


    Best goes, ''He''s the army.''


    Boom. I feel ten feet tall. My chest is on fire, heart''s pumping jets of pride. Fucking Max Best shouldn''t be able to do this to me.


    Bonnie''s face softens. ''We''ve had problems with stalkers and crazy people.''


    ''What? Fuck.''


    ''Introducing Angel to a nationwide audience is a nightmare.''


    This is what Best was on about when he was talking about someone making the women feel uncomfortable. I have to fight to unlock my jaw and unclench my fists.


    Angel doesn''t like that everyone is talking over her. ''I''ve got 20,000 followers on Insta and my TikTok dip dance has been viewed seventy thousand times.''


    Best thumbs his temples. ''Angel, may I speak to you over here for a moment please.''


    They go off and I''m left with Bonnie. ''Sorry if I said something wrong.''


    She looks surprised. ''When?''


    ''You gave me the evil eye just before, when I asked what the problem with social media was.''


    She lets out a laugh and drops her head. ''I''m sorry. Darren, was it?''


    ''Dylan.''


    ''Dylan. I''m Bonnie.'' We shake hands. ''I''m overprotective. I get crazy and of course, she provokes it.''


    ''What?''


    ''The male gaze,'' she mutters. She looks at her sister talking to Best. Angel is standing with her hands behind her back like a naughty schoolgirl and, yeah, it''s provocative.


    I wonder if Bonnie thinks Best is leering at her sister. ''What do you think they''re talking about?''


    ''Oh, that''s obvious.''


    I take another look and all I see is a girl who always gets what she wants. With a word she can get what she came for. ''Er...''


    ''He''s telling her to use this attention to improve her game.''


    Okay I wasn''t expecting that. ''Pardon me?''


    Bonnie sighs. ''People are discovering her now because of the documentary. All of us, I suppose.'' She looks behind and it seems like all the women are showing Squaddies something on their phone. All the likes and retweets they¡¯re getting, I reckon, and the funny comments. 3R is lapping it all up. ''Max is saying that if Angel works extra hard these eight weeks it''ll make great content.''


    ''Will it?''


    ''Yeah. People love an athlete who grinds. And he wants to get her in the England team so he''ll be saying if there''s ever two months where Angel needs to double down on her football, it''s actually now.''


    I watch and there''s a moment where Angel visibly stops looking up at Best with a pouty face. She starts nodding, there¡¯s agreement, and the pair return. ''Bonnie,'' says Angel. ''When you''re not in the drills, will you get some clips of me doing extra sprints after everyone else has stopped?''


    ''No because I have no interest in making the team look bad. Sarah and Meghan train twice as hard as you.''


    ''They do not! What the fuck, Bonnie?''


    Angel tuts, stretches her left foot up to her arse, then jogs away.


    I smile. ''You two are a good team.''


    ''Me and Angel?''


    ''You and Best. You got in her head.''


    For once Best doesn¡¯t look pleased with himself. ''She''s ambitious. That''s great. You want that but I''m worried she wants to be famous more than she wants to play. She''s easy to manage now but what about when she''s got a million in the bank? Football''s fucking hard and you have to want to get out of bed in the morning.''


    I say, ''It¡¯s tough to get out of bed to do roadwork at five a.m. when you¡¯ve been sleeping in silk pyjamas.''


    ''Hear that, Bonnie? Dylan''s got silk pyjamas. Talk about Gemma money. Wow.'' Best clicks his fingers. ''Dylan, you should watch Bonnie on Sunday. You could learn a lot from her.''


    I get quiet. ''I can''t.''


    ''Because she plays for Chester? Fuck me, that crap is getting old.''


    ''It''s Remembrance Sunday, Best.''


    Bonnie sees I''m uncomfortable and steps in, but I''m not sure she makes it better. ''Where''s your poppy, Max?''


    ''It''s on my other hoodie,'' he says, looking around.


    ''You only have one hoodie.''


    ''Mmm,'' he says. His phone rings and he wanders off.


    ''He doesn''t wear poppies,'' I say. ''There was a fuss about it last year. He says it''s because he had the Irish player who didn''t want to wear one. I was mad he came to train us.''


    ''You got over it.''


    ''We talked about it in the unit. Okay he doesn''t wear a poppy but he''s hired a veteran and he chose to do his coaching badges with us. We decided to live and let live on that one.''


    Bonnie sees the kids are packing up and it''s nearly their turn. Gemma is talking to Dani, the deaf girl, via an interpreter. ''How do you know Gemma?''


    ''I just met her today.''


    ''Max said you sorted out the issue with Andrew Harrison.''


    ''Well, it wasn''t much, to be honest.''


    Bonnie frowns. ''They''ve been beefing for months and you just sorted it out in one go?''


    I shrug. ''I barely did anything.''


    She frowns again. ''But he''s going to sign a deal?''


    ''Oh, yeah. As good as done, I think.''


    ''What about Wednesday?''


    ''Sorry, what?''


    ''We''re playing on Wednesday night in the Cheshire Cup. And I''ll be starting.'' It takes me a second to realise she''s asking me to go and watch her play. That delay makes her add, quickly, ''We play in Wales, you know.''


    I smile and she smiles and I don''t know lads but I think there might have been SPARKS.


    TopPoppy


    Holy shit I just punched the air!


    Get in, mate!


    BrokenGround


    I know. I was really happy all night, apart from the one time things went all kinds of wrong.


    I just realised I need to go shopping. Shit. I''ll be back in under two hours, I promise.


    Stoop


    No! Don''t cliff us like that.


    SummerhillBill


    I''m reading this on a coach just pulling up to Stevenage and I let out a huge groan. People think I''m a nutcase.


    BeardedWonderwall


    All the three o''clocks kicking off. Here we go. Riches here we come!


    BeardedWonderwall


    Shit.


    If ButteryCrumpets comes in with a score update and a lol I am going to beat him to death with his own keyboard.


    ButteryCrumpets


    lol


    Also: lol


    TaranMellt


    I''m a nervous wreck watching us try to break down Stevenage so I''ve been catching up with this. Amazing work, BrokenGround! I''m wondering about this Chester match. Two-nil down at half time and their odds have slipped to 10 to 1. Reckon that''s worth a punt?


    BeardedWonderwall


    Don''t do it. It''s agony. Best is a fraud. I hate him.


    Hang on, did you say ten to one?


    Fuck it.


    I''m having some of that. Double or bust!


    BrokenGround


    Just back. What''s been happening?


    Chester pulled a goal back. 2-1, Henri Lyons. Lads, that guy smells amazing.


    I''m gonna write the rest of the story and the speed I type it might be done before full time.


    Okay so I scored a date, maybe, I think, and I want to stay and watch the women train, but we were there to see the youth team learn Bestball.


    We go around the cabins, around Best''s office, to the big grass pitch they''ve got there. It''s an interesting design choice because the place is pretty open but if you want to see the first team you have to go around some buildings and you''ll stick out like a sore thumb. I think the women normally play on the grass but Best has bagsied it for his special project and it''s like Gemma says, unless his decisions are egregious no-one''s going to stand up to him.


    All the lads from 3 R Welsh gather together in the middle of the pitch, watching from the sidelines. We''re expecting to see the kids start with some one-twos or maybe one of the special piggy-in-the-middle drills. What actually happens is completely different and Best is just as surprised as we are.


    Let me try to paint the picture. We''re on one side of the pitch like I said. Some of our ''Chester friends'' are mixed in with us. I''m talking Pascal, Zach, the Brig.


    Across the other side are more first-teamers who are curious about what''s going on. These include the big captain (Fierce), Andrew and Gemma, Jackie Reaper and Livia.


    There''s also a guy in a sharp suit. He has the build of a boxer and he''s got three huge black bin bags with him. I later learn he''s the founder of Grindhog. He''s worth millions! Maybe billions one day!


    This is a Big Event.


    Pascal''s talking to Fatso. The German says, ''The boys have prepared a surprise for Max.''


    TopPoppy


    Oh, boy. This is not going to end well.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Ominous as fuck! How did you put this sense of dread into my head, Dylan?


    BrokenGround


    You''ve set me up perfectly to subvert expectations. Yes!!!


    What happened next was that the kids had different bibs on. Two teams and they started a match. Full Bestball!


    And it was amazing. They did one-twos, nutmegs, feints, and they kept doing that thing when one player passes, another guy runs over the ball, and a third guy gets it.


    ''Staircase!'' yelps Pascal, hopping around.


    ''What?'' says Fatso.


    ''It''s where you let the ball run between your legs. In Brazil they call it a staircase. The boys have been researching this.''


    ''They''re amazing,'' says Fatso, and he''s right. The ball''s zipping around, the blobs are fluid and when the ball is turned over there''s a counter-blob, which I''ve never seen before because until this very minute there has never been another team in the country playing Bestball. Now there are three!


    ''Fuck they''re good,'' I say. Like, it''s unsettling that these 17-year-olds are better than us but at the same time I''ve got a kinship with them because we''re doing something rare and it''s exciting to find someone who likes the same obscure band as you even if they''ve been to ten times as many gigs and know ten times as much about the band. Not sure if that works as a simile but you get the idea. 3 R Welsh are, to a man, fucking impressed.


    Pascal is fucking impressed.


    Everyone is fucking impressed.


    TopPoppy


    Now! Here we go! I feel it! It''s coming!


    BrokenGround


    Max Best is deeply fucking unimpressed.


    TopPoppy


    Yeeeeesssssss I knew it!


    Yes!


    He do opposite!


    What did he do?


    BrokenGround


    He stands there radiating displeasure and the vibe grows and grows. The kids are running around having fun, showing off, but it gets to them. One by one they stop playing and then it reaches critical mass and the game dies.


    The ball rolls and comes to a stop.


    Best twists his neck like kung fu fighters do before they launch into a rumble, but then he remembers 3 R Welsh are in the area.


    I wonder what he would have done if we weren''t there.


    One thing I feel safe in saying is a feature of the Max Best experience is that he''ll use the props that are to hand.


    SummerhillBill


    Like Jackie Chan fights with ladders or umbrellas.


    BrokenGround


    Right. Probably?


    He waves the kids over. Up close they''re all scrawny and half still have baby faces.


    ''Sit,'' he says, and they''re shitting themselves. Some are, anyway. Some still think maybe Best is acting and he''s going to praise them.


    It''s a weird scene, though this is Chester so maybe I should stop typing that.


    But think about it. There''s a semi-circle of kids at Best''s feet. Behind them is us, a load of riflemen. And across the pitch wondering what the fuck is happening are like twenty Chester VIPs and instead of watching the future of football they''re looking at Best''s back. They don''t know what to do until Livia grabs Jackie Reaper and pulls him across. The others follow.


    Best is shaking his head because even he thinks this is absurd.


    He closes his eyes and I feel him tune out everyone watching. Everyone except two. ''Dylan and Fatso, can you please come and stand here?''


    He wants us in front of the lads, but off to the side for now.


    ''Thanks.''


    He scratches his forehead and thinks about what to say. The kids have steam coming off them in the cold evening air. The wind is whispering and the floodlights make the pitch look amazing.


    ''Right. First thing is, you''ve done some homework. You''ve put in extra work because you''re excited and the worst thing I could do for you now is to tell you off for doing that. If you put in the work, go the extra mile, you will have success in life. You will. The mistake you''ve made isn''t doing extra to try to impress me. I''m not mad about that.''


    The kids who weren''t worried before... are. He''s not mad about that. But he''s mad about something.


    ''I have to be honest with you, though. I have to be because this is too important to pussyfoot around trying to spare your feelings.'' He scratches his head again. ''What I just saw looked like twenty TikTok pricks doing random shit on a football pitch and then someone spliced it all together. The greatest crossover event in history and guess what? None of them were even in the same country!'' He breathes out. ''That''s what it looked like.''


    I''ve got to hand it to Fatso, he''s getting pretty fearless these days. ''I thought it was good.''


    Best eyes him. ''It was faster than what you''re used to. It was technically good. Sadly it was also dogshit.'' He inhales and cricks his neck again. Instead of getting louder and bigger, he gets quieter and more emotional. ''All right, listen. You can''t learn this from a screen. It''s like learning to drive. You can read all the manuals you want but you only start learning the minute you sit in the driver''s seat. Does that make sense?''


    He''s not talking to me but I nod. ''That''s right,'' I say, surprised that I spoke.


    ''My favourite song is Stairway to Heaven,'' he says, and I wonder how that can work as a team talk if he always says the same thing. ''It''s about a footballer who wanted to learn something insanely difficult in ten seconds without putting the work in. Actually, forget that. You know what this is like? You''ve been in a club and you were talking to a megababe and this rando turns up and says hey baby wanna see some magic? And he pulls the 7 of hearts out of her bra. And you''ve gone home - alone - and thought huh I''d better learn to do that. So you''re in clubs trying to stick cards down bras and you''re getting bounced out because you''ve got to spend thousands of hours learning to, like, wibble cards along your knuckles and make a deck spin around and all that stuff. You need to drop ten thousand packs of cards before you drop one bra. Do you get what I mean?''


    The image of these guys trying to use close-up magic to attract women is a masterstroke. A few lads get dug in the arms. Busted!


    ''Here''s why I wanted to start this with the army. Did you ever think why the army wants its soldiers doing football? I wouldn''t want my army going round with broken legs all day but this army does want that. Why? Five reasons.''


    Here comes one of the bits where he knows more about the army than he lets on. The five things he says are straight off the desk of the joint commander, with Best''s own spin on it, of course.


    ''One, physical fitness. Almost everyone here will run ten times further if there''s a ball involved. Two, mental resilience. You win, you lose, you get unfairly sent off. Your weirdo manager makes you do tedious drills for hour after hour. Three, leadership. Football needs different skills at different times and you need different leaders at different times. When you''re under the cosh you look to Dylan.''


    FUCK, he''s done me again. The kids are looking up at me, so''s Livia, so''s the founder of Grindhog. I''m eleven feet tall. I''m literally floating.


    ''When you need a goal you get it to Fatso. Four, teamwork. Five, recruiting and retention. You stay in the army longer if you love playing footy for your unit, or if you''ve got the chance to win your league or you''re in the tournament next May or whatever.


    ''I thought Bestball was perfect for those five principles and for my mental image of what it''s like to be in the army.'' He calls it some other name, by the way, but it''s dumb and meaningless so I''m sticking to Bestball. ''Positional play is all about the manager, all about abstract space. Bestball is about teamwork and real, human connections. Captain, what''s the first thing I said to you back in our first game?''


    ''You said, I''m Max Best and I hate the Welsh army.''


    There is uproar and even Best laughs. Big, easy smile, all the tension gone. He looks at me and jabs his thumb at the kid. The balls on this fucking prick.


    Captain has done his big joke and now it''s back to business. ''You said, be a unit.''


    ''Right. Unit. United. Well here''s an actual unit. Here''s what we''re trying to get to, right? I broke the task down to the very smallest unit of football. The pass. Dylan passes to Fatso. Fatso passes back. We did that for hours. Ages and ages. I would have done it a lot more but I only get them a couple of hours a week. Now, what happens if you pass to Fatso for hours? One, you go crazy. Two, you learn that Fatso has a nice first touch on his right but not so much on his left. You try to hit his best side. If you make it easier for him you get the ball back quicker. Then we add a third player and a fourth and after fucking loads of repetition we learn that Hot Rod underhits his passes and Clitheroe overhits. We put the work in. Hours of this. Slowly building everything from the ground up.


    ''Now we start to get to bigger groups, what we''ve been calling the blob. When you watch these guys play you can fucking see that they''re a unit. You see their army training the way they look after each other. When they lose the ball there''s almost no yelling or complaining, it''s basically get back into position, sort things out. It''s fantastic. The only problem is they play other army units so we can''t exploit that advantage.''


    Best closes his eyes, smiles, shakes his head at the unfairness of it all.


    ''But when they''ve got the ball, that''s my training. You try to press them and they blob around. Dylan''s at the back. He plays it to Fatso''s good foot. If he takes a nice first touch the move goes on. If it''s a bad touch you''ll see everyone in the blob take a step back towards goal. I don''t think they know they''re doing it.''


    He''s right. I''ve never noticed that.


    ''It''s an automatic response because subconsciously they know it''s a moment of danger and they know that because we put the time in on those drills. Ditto when Hot Rod''s on the ball - you''ll see three guys take a step closer to him. The blob changes shape, see, depending on who has the ball and where.


    ''That''s part of the reason it''s no good you watching some fucking team in Brazil for this. Do you get me? Even watching 3R doesn''t teach you anything. If you''re there thinking ''shit where would Dylan be right now?'' you are fucked. Dylan''s in his blob. We''ve got Captain, Bomber, Henk. We don''t have Fatso, we have Dan. This blob will be much slippier.''


    Wibbers grabs Dan by the neck and shakes him around while the other lads laugh.


    ''Okay and if 3R could cover their ears for a second...'' Best does a stage whisper that everyone can hear. ''You guys are much better than them.'' He checks we''re not offended - I think that''s what he was doing - and goes back to his normal voice. ''You''ll be able to make the blob really small sometimes, or move much faster, or do double-bluffs with balls over the top, and, yes, you can do staircases.'' He changes tone. ''I learned it as rivers, not staircases, but that''s part of what I''m saying. We should start with a blank page, grind, work at it, see what emerges. It might look superficially similar to the examples you''ve been watching but the experience of how you do it will be quite different. If you don''t know what anything''s called, what anything''s supposed to look like, you will create something new and unique. You''ll have your own vocabulary, and you''ll invent your own tools and techniques. It will all grow from the work and from the unique combinations of talents we have here. Nothing comes from nothing. We''ll bake a universe from scratch.''


    Just then, when the message has been delivered loud and clear, his phone''s screen flashes. The sound''s off but he sees who it is, holds up a finger, and like seventy people watch him speak.


    ''Yes? Top. Amazing. First thing Monday. Done. Yes. Yes, I''m still speaking to you. Bye.''


    He jumps and punches the air, then wraps his arms around me.


    ''Don''t just buy it, bosh it! Yes, mate!''


    He follows a triple air punch with him acting like he''s been struck by lightning, arms wide, head back.


    All the lads are watching in absolute awe. What does it mean? Best looks at them and throws his hands up. ''What are you all down there for? Are you ready to do some fucking work or what?''


    They scramble to their feet and within seconds they''re doing a drill unlike anything we''ve ever done. It¡¯s the full pitch, two teams, but Best connects three sets of two players with the long elastic strips that goalies use. They''re the only players allowed to move ''freely'' - everyone else has to stay in assigned zones.


    It makes no sense. It''s mad and chaotic. The boys are laughing, we''re laughing, and Best is running around trying to get in the way of the elastic bands to make it even harder for the lads to play.


    The elastics come off and the playing area gets smaller. It''s a big rondo drill with players who change sides depending on who has the ball - we never did anything that complicated. It''s so fast I can barely keep up with the action.


    Five minutes of that, the teams get cut in half and so does the playing area. Five minutes later, it''s smaller again. By the end, the lads are doing one-twos.


    He has done what 3 R Welsh did but in reverse. I''m no expert on anything but I do have unique knowledge of this Bestball stuff and to me what he did with that session was absolute genius. I''d like to think that if he''d done it with us that way, we''d have realised that all the skills we were training were needed for the previous drill, if you get me. We''d have been motivated to do the smaller, more boring drills because we''d have understood how everything linked together.


    Of course, he had to try it the most obvious way with us to get to that conclusion.


    Teulu


    And he heard what Pascal said.


    BrokenGround


    What do you mean?


    Teulu


    You remember when you were at Colliers and Parky was watching your drill. You gave it a cool name. Retreat or something.


    BrokenGround


    Run, You Worms.


    Teulu


    That''s it! Pascal watched that and suggested an upgrade, didn''t he? Start at the end point so the players know where to run back to. It sounds to me like Best took that idea and applied that to his whole session. I''m guessing he''ll run every session in reverse like that until Pascal gives him an even better idea.


    BrokenGround


    That''s interesting.


    TopPoppy


    So did he buy that player? The one you called Charles, who I know as Calabash Barkley?


    BrokenGround


    I think so because I was the only one in the room with him when he made the offer and that''s why he celebrated with me.


    TopPoppy


    Why was the guy from Grindhog there?


    BrokenGround


    Oh, he was giving out gear to the youth team. They were buzzing. Three bin bags of swag and they were diving in pulling out what they liked. Best got pissed and said, ''Is this Chesterness?'' After that it was a lot more civilised.


    BeardedWonderwall


    85th minute. Wimbledon 3 Chester 3. Stevenage 0 Wrex 0.


    My nerves are wrecked.


    I hate football.


    TopPoppy


    Was that the end, BG?


    BrokenGround


    We had the dinner and got boozed up for free. It was as good as he promised and, I mean, free booze.


    Oh, I suppose there was one tiny thing. It''s not even worth mentioning.


    Actually, maybe I will. It''s only fair to Best.


    It''s about the poppies. Best and the guy from Grindhog make themselves cosy behind the bar where there''s a tiny bit of space. That''s where they ate, I mean, and fair play to both of them for slumming it. They stayed for a couple of drinks, too. Alcohol-free for Best, your basic lager for the rich lad. He''s having fun, I reckon, with footballers and Squaddies all around. He used to play and he''s one of us really. Fits right in. Someone makes a joke about him making kits for 3R but Best goes, ''He can''t. He''s not allowed to reproduce military crests. You need a special licence.'' And there it is again - how much does he know and why does he pretend he''s clueless?


    Anyway, I promise it wasn''t me but someone brings up the poppies. I think the box got knocked on the floor in all the mayhem of having twice as many people in the cabin as it was supposed to have. Actually it just came to me. It was Frampton, the goalie, who''d had a couple too many maybe. He wasn''t nasty, just brought the mood down. He goes, ''Why don''t you wear a poppy? It''s not that you have to do it but you should do it.''


    Best shrugs the way he does and goes, ''What about people who don''t want to? I support the army, mate. I know who''ll be in the trenches when the bullets start flying. And I support veterans. I do things. But not everyone in this country wants to wear this particular symbol and for some reason that hits home with me. I don''t think I want to be forced to wear a symbol, even a good one.''


    I put my hand on Frampton to shut the clown up. Best is having a good day and so am I, and the unit had agreed to live and let live. ''I''m all right with you not wearing a poppy, Max.'' He gives me a funny look and it''s just now that I realise it''s the first time I haven''t called him Best. ''I''m fine with it if that''s your choice and I know you do your thing in your way but for us lads who are getting blown up on tours and all that - ''


    He looks horrified. ''You got blown up?''


    I don''t want to talk about it, obviously. ''Yeah but I''m just saying - ''


    ''You got blown up, did years of rehab... and went back into the army?''


    I look around. No-one''s talking now. Only a couple of the older lads have heard about me. The IED, the firefight, the doctors saying I''d never walk again. The unbelievable ecstasy of being able to climb a flight of stairs. I swallow hard. ''They''re my family, Max. It''s my unit. It''s all I''ve got.''


    It''s all quiet.


    I wonder what Best is thinking, wonder if he feels the same about Chester as I do about 3R. Probably not, right? He''s got his girlfriend. He''s got... Has he got anything else?


    He reaches into the box and fixes a poppy to his hoodie. He looks at the Grindhog guy but he''s already wearing one; he taps it.


    Frampton, the absolute shit, is still not happy and I want to smash an electric guitar over his skull. ''Aren''t you going to pay for that?''


    Best isn''t ruffled. He''s still thinking about what I said about the unit being my family. ''The team pays,'' he says.


    I go, ''Chester pays when someone takes a poppy?''


    ''Not Chester. The first team. Out of our party fund.''


    Frampton goes, ''Oh,'' sort of aggressive. But then he goes ''oh''. An appropriate oh, this time, from a human being who has very nearly killed the party.


    That girl Angel is about ten yards away in the mass of bodies. She uses the counter to pull herself up and goes, ''Dylan, will you talk about your experiences on my TikTok?'' Someone - I think I know who - pulls her back down and there''s some laughter from that area and then conversations break out all around the bar and the party''s back in full swing again.


    TopPoppy


    Actually welled up a bit reading that last part.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Not me! I''m laughing my head off.


    Full time!


    Wimbledon 3 Chester 5. Stevenage 0 Wrexham 1.


    Three points and the Red Dragons stay top of the table while Dylan''s best mate Max Best scores a late free kick to seal the win and DEFY THE BOOKIES! I''m up almost 700 quid from that!


    I love football and I love Dylan.


    BEST STORY EVER, mate!

 12.10 - The Grapes of Bath

    10.


    TV show glossary: Bottle episode. An episode set in a single location, usually with a reduced cast. Bottle episodes are normally used to save money but are sometimes employed for audacious artistic reasons. Cough bottle cough.


    ***


    Sunday, November 30


    XP balance: 23,566


    Base Cost of Relationism: 29,211


    Cost After 10% Discount: 26,290


    Analysis: Sooooonnnnnnn


    Mini-bonds sold: 3.05 million


    Target: 5 million


    Analysis: Tin-pot little non-league club lol get back in your crevice


    ***


    I got to Morton''s, the big wine shop near the city centre, a few minutes before it closed. Just enough time to grab a bottle, pay, and leave. Home in time for the start of the second half of Wrexham versus Blackpool, the final televised match of this year''s FA Cup second round. Wrexham were the big name, of course, while Blackpool and the FA Cup went together like chicken and chips.


    I had extra incentive to watch; we had drawn Blackpool in the first knockout round of the Vans Trophy. They were a mid-table League One side so I would have to use Bench Boost on them. There was far too much of that going on these days.


    I heard the trill of the door behind me. Someone coming or going? I needed to hurry up.


    Morton''s was overwhelming. Wine everywhere, which I know is the point of a wine shop but there were as many different bottles on shelves or artfully displayed on oak barrels as I had midfielders in my mental database of players.


    Henri had told me once I should think of a bottle of wine as being alive. Chemical processes were happening within. The quality of the wine was changing, the value of the product was fluctuating, some needed to be drunk now, some later. Some went well with cheese, some with pizza, some worked well in a good, old-fashioned 4-4-2. Eleven green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle should accidentally be sold to Walsall...


    "Is there anything I can help you with?"


    It was a guy around thirty and his expression made me wonder how long I''d been standing there motionless. The music that had been playing had stopped and now there was only a low electrical hum and, in a nearby room, a screen was tuned to the Wrexham match. Sounded like it was still the first half; maybe there had been a long stoppage. "I need a bath wine."


    "What''s a bath wine?"


    "A wine you drink in the bath."


    He smiled and looked around. The implication was: any will do. An older guy had just finished with a customer and was reversing the sign on the door. From my point of view it now read ''open'', which sent me into a brain freeze. "You''re Max Best, right?"


    "Yeah," I said.


    "Look, I know you don''t like to be bothered in public but we''re both big Chester fans. Dad," he called, and the older guy came over with a slight smile on his lips. "Dad, I was going to offer Max Best the deluxe private shopping experience."


    "Oh, right," said the dad.


    "What does that entail?" I asked.


    "You know," said the guy, whose name badge said Steve. "We lock out all the plebs and let the celebrity browse in peace."


    "Keep out the great unwashed," said the older guy. Name badge: Mike.


    "How often do you do this?" I asked.


    They looked at each other and babbled incoherently. "Do we count...?" "There was that actress..." "Remember Christmas?" "Ah, but was that really Stormzy?" Finally, Mike said, "This is the first time."


    I smiled. "Sure, yes, okay. It won''t be much of an experience for either of us, though. I''ll only need a minute."


    "Take your time," said Mike. "It''s amazing what you''ve done for this city."


    He went to lock the door and switched off a couple of lights to deter randos from approaching the big storefront. Steve backed away to give me a chance to settle into the wine buying mindset.


    The first area was a couple of tables of books about wine and some gift ideas. I breezed past.


    The next section hit me like a slap in the face. In among the selection of wine (with monks, nuns, or crosses on the label) was some unexpected religious tat - bookmarks with golden frills, copies of the Bible, posters of Jesus squashing red grapes. The name of the section was: Catholic Wine.


    "The hell?" I mumbled, and Steve came closer. Since I''d started it, I felt I had to talk to him. "I''m guessing you Mortons are big Catholics. Why do you open on Sundays? Not that I''m complaining, it''s ace."


    Steve said, "We''d be Church of England, I reckon, but weddings and funerals only. No, this is marketing. Catholics love a glass of wine, Mr. Best, and if you have this stuff for sale it absolves them of guilt and they buy more."


    "First of all, call me Max. Second, you''re joking."


    "I''m not."


    "He''s not," called the dad from across the way. Incredible hearing, that guy.


    There was an ornament for sale, one of those thin metal plates you can hang up in your kitchen. This one read:


    Love is that liquour sweet and most divine,


    Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.


    I couldn''t tell if it was romantic or creepy or what so I left it where it was and pulled out a religious bookmark. "Isaiah 63," I read. "Who is this coming... with his garments stained crimson? Who is this, robed in splendor, striding forward in the greatness of his strength?" I nodded. "Okay for once I wasn''t covered in blood but that sounds like me after the Wimbledon match."


    Steve''s face lit up. "Five-three away! Amazing second-half comeback!"


    "Yeah," I said, remembering how annoying that match had been. To get us shooting up the league I''d had to risk using my best players for the third time in a week and I''d had to waste Bench Boost. Not the right match to use it in, but I had no choice because at that point we still hadn''t hit halfway in bond sales. "It was end-to-end madness until I slipped that free kick under the wall. They didn''t have a draught excluder." Those are the players who lie flat on the floor behind a defensive wall. When the kick is about to be taken, the players in the wall jump, which makes it harder to score over the wall but leaves a juicy gap under it. The draught excluder fixes the problem. "Then a minute later when we got another free kick they used a draught excluder which meant they were a man short at the back post, I clipped it to Christian, he boshed it, rebound, craziness, ends up being given as an own goal."


    "Back of the net," said Steve, as though he was seven years old.


    "There''s this photo of me leaving the pitch at the end and I look all epic. Like this verse. Robed in splendor, striding forward in the greatness of his strength. The only thing is, though, that''s not how I was feeling."


    "No?"


    "No. Even with my best moves, that match could have gone either way. Wimbledon battered us for parts of the game. I don''t walk off the pitch after a win thinking wow let''s forget the sixty minutes where we were dogshit. Fans can do that but, yeah, I was thinking about all the work we needed to do on the training pitch. And what I was going to have for dinner. Oh, that reminds me. I''m having beef tonight."


    "Right," he said, briefly confused because he was still thinking about football. "So you want a bottle of red, I expect."


    "Yeah," I said, looking back at the bookmark. I looked up again. "Nice bit of beef, fresh veggies, glass of red. It''s not that indulgent, is it?"


    "No."


    "But we got a nice cut and I thought, okay, nice wine." I paused and contemplated for quite a long time. "I don''t know."


    Steve opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again.


    "I don''t know if I want to connect beef and wine. It''s already quite a strong link in my head. Do you want beef? Yes. You can''t have wine. Okay, then I don''t want beef. When I have pizza I want wine. When I have cheese after six p.m. I want wine. That''s not healthy, is it? I need to be careful. My grandmother hit the sauce really hard and I think that demon is in me. I had it last winter. Got pretty plastered because I was sad and bored."


    "You''re not bored now, though?" said Steve, hopefully. "Cup runs, fundraising, new stadiums."


    "It''s pretty boring sometimes, Steve. Newport County away. Four-one-four-one, keep things tight, goal from a set piece, switch to 5-3-2 defensive. It''s the right thing to do, it''s professional, it''s boring." I skimmed the bookmark again. The verse seemed to be about God crushing his enemies like grapes. "I trampled them in my anger and trod them down in my wrath; their blood spattered my garments, and I stained all my clothing. See that''s what I want to do. That''s epic. Blocking Newport''s passing lanes and man-marking their full-backs is the opposite of that. It''s like asking the grapes to crush themselves." I sighed. "Do you sell a lot of these?"


    "No, Max."


    I chuckled. "You sell more wine, though. Catholic wine. You guys are naughty. I love it."


    The next section was British wines. Skipped right past that.


    "Okay, French," I mused.


    "Henri Lyons comes," said Steve.


    "Does he give you shit about the selection?"


    "No, he''s very nice. Knows a lot but he''s not a snob. He''s learning about Portuguese wines from us. When you recommend a wine and he likes it, that''s a good feeling. While we''re here, let me find a Bordeaux I remember he raved about... He gave it four Henris. Four''s his maximum."


    Steve ran his finger along the shelves but I picked up a bottle. "Okay, this one, Steve. Look. See the font? That font makes me think mmm yes I''ll enjoy this. There''s a little picture of a horse. Horses are expensive - except in Ireland, never understood that - so it makes me feel like a real boy. And it''s got a badge. See the badge? 95 points."


    "Do you know what competition that is from?"


    "No but I only buy wines with badges and trophies."


    He smiled uncertainly. "It''s a good wine you''re holding. Good year."


    "Good year," I said, slowly, remembering an advertising campaign Nike had run in the olden days. "1966 was a good year for English football; Eric Cantona was born."


    "And England won the World Cup."


    "That''s the joke!" shouted his dad.


    "Oh, right," said Steve. "You''re a Manchester United fan."


    "I was," I said. "It''s just a business now. Big cash machine."


    "Dad was thinking about buying some bonds but it''s such a big commitment and so much could go wrong. And what if you leave? What if United sack their manager again and they ask you?"


    "I''ll say no," I said, touching the badge on the wine. "It''s embossed, Steve. Feel that."


    Mike shuffled closer. "You''d say no to Manchester United?"


    I made a gesture that encompassed - in my mind - the city, most of the county and quite a chunk of north Wales. "I''m not done here."


    Mike said, "Would you buy these bonds?"


    "Me personally? If I were you? Yeah. It''s free money. Sales are chugging along but it looks like I might have to sell players to make up the shortfall. That''s frustrating because I was just starting to convince myself to let loose. Ah, well, when the stand''s built it''ll all be worth it. Loads of clubs had to cut their cloth while their stadium was being built. Arsenal, Spurs. It''s life on hard mode, okay, but it''s not harder than fighting my demons."


    I put the wine back on the shelf, paused, then picked it right back up again.


    "I''m probably not going to buy any myself because people don''t like it when I mix my finances with the club''s, and I do understand that. Also, I was talking to Ruth. She''s a former board member and an agent. She got the women''s team started. I asked why she wasn''t piling in and she said: diversification. She warned me about it, too. It''s not just that all my money''s tied up in football, I''m paid by a football club, too. I have four thousand and one pounds in shares but everything else is football. For now it makes sense that I turn the flywheel but at some point I need to balance my portfolio. People buy wine like an investment, don''t they? Is any of this going to be worth big wonga one day?"


    One of the great frustrations of being a football insider was that virtually everyone I met only wanted to talk about one thing. Mike said, "I''m in a chat group with some friends and we were talking about the bonds. One mate said he wouldn''t buy any because our underlying numbers are bad and we concede too many early goals."


    "I think those statements might be contradictory," I said, vaguely. I was trying to focus on the wine. The 95 bottle felt good in my hand. The weight was as good as the font. I realised from their faces that I would have to explain. I put the wine back on the shelf. "Think back to last Saturday. We''re at home to Colchester and they''re pretty weak." United had an average CA of 71. We played 4-4-2 diamond with an average of 77. That 77 was exciting; it was high considering we had a few squad players in the eleven. Wibbers was the top of the diamond, Andrew Harrison celebrated his new contract with a hard-running midfield role, and Cole Adams started at left back. "They get an early goal. I''m delighted."


    "What?"


    "Okay, delighted is too strong, but this is what we do. We sucker the oppo into playing their way."


    Mike said, "Playing our way, you mean."


    "No, playing their way. Let''s take a typical example. A goal kick early in the match. Sticky places the ball, Zach and Christian drop to be level with him. The other team can''t go into the penalty box until the ball''s kicked so we get a safe pass and we can start to build through the thirds. You''ve seen that, right? It''s called ''playing out from the back.'' Every team in the Premier League does that. Most Championship teams. Maybe two-thirds of League One and League Two teams do it.


    "We do it and Colchester think, oh! We know this. They have a set response: they push their defensive line up to half way, squeeze us while the forwards work their socks off pressing us. If they turn over the ball they have it close to our goal with our defenders spread out and that''s deadly.


    "Now you''re probably thinking, I trust Zach on the ball but not so much Christian Fierce and definitely not Sticky. You''re thinking Max Best must be a fucking idiot to ask his players to do that. And I agree. Which is why we only do that for ten minutes. For the next 35 we go long but we drop Zach short every goal kick. It looks like we''re thinking about playing out from the back, right? It''s ''false playing out from the back.'' It''s fake.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "But Colchester get an early goal by forcing us into a mistake. After that, they''re like the hunter who saw a rabbit run into a tree. They''re sitting by the tree waiting for the next rabbit to kill himself. They don''t seem to realise we''re going long, or maybe they tell themselves we''re buckling under their pressure.


    "So think about what the pitch looks like. Their slow defenders are on the half way line. Our fast attackers are also there. We go long, Dazza wins a header, now we''ve got Sharky or Wibbers practically one-on-one with the keeper. We get two or three incredible chances like that but they tend to fall to our least developed players, which is one of the times the whole underlying numbers thing doesn''t paint much of a picture. The chances aren''t as good as the data suggests because of who the chances are falling to.


    "Okay but I don''t really care about particular data points - it''s my job to balance the overall risk and reward. When I''m watching matches like Colchester I love our balance and I can''t believe the other managers are happy with what''s happening but they are. They are! Or they don''t understand the meta game I''m playing with them. Who knows?


    "Most managers don¡¯t react to my early strategies until half time. Some don¡¯t react at all! The ones that do have data guys they listen to so I spend a lot of time devising routines to fool data guys. Like against Colchester I was sure they told the manager that we were playing long ball so the first five minutes of the second half I went short again so that the manager would lose faith in his analyst."


    Steve''s eyes had been getting wider as I spoke. "Wow."


    "Yeah," I said. "I''m not playing the same sport as most of these guys. I''m not sure if I''ve improved or if League Two is only a slight step above the National League. Some of the managers are good but half are doing things they aren¡¯t comfortable with. Imagine if Ian Evans got a League Two job now. If it''s the end of the season, ten games to go, he can do whatever he wants. But very few owners are going to hire him after seventeen games and say please play achingly dull, defensive football. Ian would have to try playing out from the back for at least five games, right, if that was a condition of him being hired. So you''ve got a bunch of managers doing things they aren''t comfortable with and don''t believe in. Another bunch believe in it and can coach it but don¡¯t have the players to do it; they do it anyway."


    Mike was frowning. "You''d think they would be more pragmatic."


    "I know. But 17 of the 24 managers do it. Playing out from the back is just football now. That''s what the sport looks like and you won¡¯t be sacked for following the herd. You¡¯ll be sacked for losing but not because of how you lost." I looked at the rows of bottles again. "Your chat room friend can look at the numbers all he wants but I''m telling you Colchester got battered. Trampled in anger. No, that''s not right, there was no anger. Mostly sadness. It was boring and the Wormwoods are big Colchester fans. I like them."


    I ambled around the corner to the large Italian section.


    "How about this?" said Steve. "It''s got a badge."


    "Primitivo," I said, pulling a face. "I want to be fancy, mate. I want the opposite of primitive."


    He smiled. "It''s named because the grape ripens earlier. It''s like the Chester youth team of grapes!"


    I pointed at him. "That... was amazing salesmanship. I like Primitivo now. Let me have a look." I took the bottle. "Only 94 points on the badge. Tusk tusk. Good font. I like how minimal it is. It''s letting the label breathe, isn''t it? Black and gold. Mysterious squiggle for a logo. Yes, this is an attractive bottle of wine."


    "It''ll go well with your beef," said Steve. "Celebrate your Youth Cup win."


    "Ah," I said, frowning. "Yes." Earlier in the week we had gone down to play Charlton Athletic''s under eighteens in their gaff. The Charlton Academy was highly-regarded, having produced six England players and plenty for Charlton''s first team and this current crop was top of the league they played in.


    I had worried I would need to use Bench Boost to assure our progress but the Charlton team that warmed up had an average CA of 25. There were some talented lads but they were nowhere near as battle-hardened as my lot. I''d been artificially fermenting my children - I''m extremely comfortable with this sentence - and in our now-customary 4-3-3 their average CA was over 40. Over 40! They had absolutely bossed the match from start to finish, with CA 67 William B. Roberts running rampant. We hadn''t done any Relationism in the match but training was going well. The lads were motivated and almost all were coming in for extra skills sessions. A lot of PA limits were being reached.


    The stronger the wine, the bigger the headache. At the end of the season I would have quite a few problems. What to do with Tyson, Benny, Lucas Friend and the like? They could grow no more; they needed to leave the club and to play first-team football. I couldn''t tell them yet because I needed them to dream they had a future. I needed them to think they were Chateau Lafite because if they won the Youth Cup, in a way, they would be.


    The draw for the third round had been made before I set off to the wine shop; we got West Ham United away. A big Premier League academy? That could very easily be the end of our Youth Cup run. If that happened, I would be able to send the boys out on loan in January and start to place them at suitable clubs for next season. I felt we would beat West Ham, though. I still had my Bench Boost for the Youth Cup, and the match would be played just before Christmas. My gift to the people of Chester - a remarkable win.


    I needed to win every match in December. One of our December games was going to be the first Chester match in the life of Sandra''s baby. If I had my way, that baby''s first words were going to be, ''He''s done what?!''


    "The thing about celebrating is," I said, smiling and holding the bottle carefully like it was a tiny, fragile creature. "If you win the league you get champagne and spray it around and you''re allowed to go and get wasted. If you nearly beat Newcastle the manager''s first instinct is to yell go and have a couple of pints. The reward for doing good things is alcohol. When we win I want a drink. If we lose I want a drink, too, but that''s a different topic. I''m thinking about these mental links again. Beef? Wine. Win? Wine. And me being me, I can''t have one glass. If the bottle''s open I''m going to finish it, which means I almost never bring booze home with me. But I want to have a nice evening with my girlfriend. She''ll cook and we''ll eat and have a glass each and her feet will get hot and she''ll take her socks off and she''ll get really giddy and laugh at anything and then fall asleep. I''ll take the rest of the bottle to the bath with me and have a lovely old time thinking up posters for the billboard and thinking about players to buy and all sorts."


    "That sounds pretty good," said Steve.


    "Yeah. That''s why I''m here. Emma likes a glass of red but she can have one and then stop, especially when she''s got work in the morning. She would pop a thing in the bottle and leave it there for weeks."


    "You can''t?"


    "No. If it''s open, it''s not lasting past midnight. I''d buy a small bottle but they never sell the good stuff in the small ones. I could buy this and pour half out as soon as I open it but that''s demented. Or I could not buy anything but why should Emma have tap water with her nice dinner because I don''t have a handle on myself?"


    I looked at the badge again. 94 points. The other one had 95.


    "It''s because her dad bought my mum a house," I mused. I sensed the men exchange a glance but I didn''t care. This was wine shop therapy, potentially the best therapy there was. "I don''t have that one big overwhelming thing to worry about so I''ve sunk a level deeper and there''s all kinds of shit going on." I took a deep breath. "I think I''ll buy a bottle. For Emma. Wait, that''s me lying to myself again, isn''t it?"


    I shook my head and moved to the next section. The sign here said: Other Europe.


    I pointed to a bottle called Steinbock. "Didn''t he write a book?"


    "I think that was Steinbeck," said Mike.


    "Is German stuff good?" I wondered.


    "Can be," said Steve. "Personally I think they do whites better than reds. And maybe their coaches are better than their wines, eh?"


    I turned away from the selection long enough to raise an eyebrow at him. There was a strong rumour going round that we were trying to sign an amazing German coach, though mercifully the name hadn''t leaked. I''d wanted him to start early but it hadn''t been easy to get a work permit. "If you''re fishing for a name, you''ll have to wait ages and ages." I checked the time. "By which I mean about fourteen hours. He starts tomorrow morning." The new coach would only get one day alongside Sandra before she went on leave. I hoped it would be enough and I hoped the coach would live up to his billing.


    Mike was a few yards to the right. "Do you like Cabernet Sauvignon? I''d say that was a good bath wine. We''ve got some great Californians here."


    I stepped that way but got distracted. "What''s this?"


    It was a large piece of card with a photo of a hot smiling woman in a university mortar board, a QR code, and the intriguing text: Women''s Wine Academy.


    "The wine industry in this country is very male-dominated, Max," said Steve. "This is a course to encourage women to get involved. Wine tasting skills, how to pair with cheese, prepares you for a qualification if you want to do that. Anyone who goes to this academy is going to buy more of the sort of wine we offer, plus they''d make good employees here. It''s hard to find staff who are passionate about the product. Anyone who shows interest in this course, well, that''s the start of the interview as far as I''m concerned."


    I laughed. "So someone says ooh I might try that and you say brilliant, also, do you want a job?"


    Mike smiled. "There may be intermediate steps."


    "Have a daughter instead of a son," I suggested. "Or one of each. Call them Red and White. Bosh."


    Steve said, "That''s what he did! My sister doesn''t like wine though. Not interested in the family business and she''s gone off doing her own thing. She''s in Denmark now. As far from decent wine as you can get."


    "What''s her name?"


    "Rose," he said, keeping a straight face for all of three seconds. "No, it''s Helen. We have a running joke about who is the cursed child, me or her."


    I was moving towards Mike but stopped dead. "Cursed child?"


    "Er, just a phrase, Max."


    The words untethered me slightly so I brought my attention back to the wine school poster. "Our women are on a tear."


    "I''ve been watching the documentary," said Steve. "So good."


    "I always liked Jackie Reaper," said Mike. "Got a great vibe about him. He comes across great on that show. Really happy to see him doing well. Er, he is doing well, isn''t he?"


    "He is," I said. The sounds of football had gone, replaced by chat. Half time in the televised match. "He has stepped things up recently. Not sure if there''s any particular reason but..." Jackie''s profile numbers hadn''t changed since the pre-season update but I got the impression he was operating at a higher level. It was possible the pain in his knee had gone. It was also possible, though unlikely, that I was imagining the whole thing and Jackie was simply being Jackie. "He likes 3-5-2, uses a back four sometimes to spread minutes around the squad. It''s all good but I don''t need to be there so I''ve been using my Sundays travelling around, scouting teams in the divisions above us so I can make good signings next summer. I wasn''t there for Norton Stockton, Llandudno, or Hashtag United and those were routine wins. Jackie sent me a text saying I should go today, to the Stockport County game. Said he had cooked something up he thought I might like."


    I took a couple of steps towards the New World section.


    "So I turn up and Stockport are fine. About the same level as the teams we''ve been beating three, four, five-nil. Nothing interesting there, but we''ve got something fun going on. We''re doing a 3-4-3 variant. Two of the strikers have been dropped to be CAMs, so it''s 3-4-2-1, the formation the new Man United manager likes to use. Jackie''s back on the cutting edge! Our forwards are Sarah Greene, Dani, and Angel, and that''s a mouth-watering combination. We''re too good, too fast, too creative, too clinical, it''s absolutely amazing. Some of the interplay is stunning and Stockport fall into full panic almost immediately and we pick them off. Five-nil but it was even more dominant than that. So good."


    The average CA of the starting eleven was up to 57.2 - miles ahead of the rest of the league. And while I needed to find a new starting goalie for next season and maybe a tough-tackling midfielder to replace Pippa, I''d had an incredible November scouting Chester''s schools. The talent hoover was at maximum suction.


    "They''re through to the third round of the Women''s FA Cup. Bristol City away. Bristol are in the Championship so that might be the end of the run but I don''t think Sarah Greene is going to be overawed. We''ve got a chance." Chester teams in the third round of the FA Cup getting drawn against high level opponents. The boys. The women. Copy paste. As with the cup draws, the bottles in front of me were strangely uniform. Like book covers, they tended to fall into certain patterns and once you saw them you couldn''t unsee them. The only thing I had to cling onto was the number on the badge. Was there a 96 somewhere? "What''s a wine for a 3-4-3 fan?"


    Mike closed his eyes. "Light colour, rounded texture, fruity finish. How about this one?" He lifted a bottle but I was distracted again.


    "What''s this?" There was a whole section of American-themed tat. Fridge magnets, CDs, small, square books with amusing titles.


    Steve said, "We get loads of American tourists, Max. They come in worried we''re English and uptight and we''re going to be posh snobs. They see this, they relax, they get the wallets out."


    "Do they exclusively buy American wine?"


    "Course they do. This one''s pretty much the best-seller in the whole shop." He pointed to a bottle called ''You Had Me at Merlot''.


    I picked up a CD case. "Battle Hymn of the Republic. Name rings a bell."


    "Max!" said Mike, laughing. "That''s your Man United song."


    "Is it? Which one?"


    "Glory Glory Man United."


    "Oooohhh!" I said, nodding. "Got it. But why''s it in a wine shop?"


    Mike had a half-decent singing voice and treated me to a verse:


    "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;


    He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;


    He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:


    His truth is marching on."


    I nodded and mumbled part of the chorus as sung on the terraces of Old Trafford. "When the reds go marching on! On! On!"


    "That''s it," smiled Mike.


    "I didn''t know that was American."


    "It''s the Battle Hymn of the Republic. We''re a monarchy."


    I bit my lip. I was pretty stupid sometimes, but there was so much information in the world. How could one person possibly know everything? "The grapes of wrath, okay. I get it. So your customers buy a Freedom Wine, a CD, then they go to Currys to buy a CD player."


    Mike shook his head; my joke made him feel old. "Some people still have them."


    I twinkled at him. "Kay." I left the New World section and found myself looking at white wines and ros¨¦s. That wasn''t what I was in the mood for so I went back to the start and looked at the 95 wine again. 95 in wine terms was like a PA 190 player, wasn''t it? But you wouldn''t know until you took the cork out if it actually tasted good. "We''re signing the best young striker in the world in January. Just in case that affects your decision."


    "Decision?" said Mike.


    "To buy bonds. This kid''s chosen us because we improve players and we''ll get a million in profit when we sell him in summer. It''s not just marquee signings where we''re cashing in. This Jan we''re selling three players and I''ve replaced one already. Remember Bark? We had him on loan and he''s coming back. So much potential, that kid. I''ve been looking at goalies with Sticky. The problem is, he rates all of them. He''s like the Brig with kids, thinks they can all do well. We''ll find one we both agree on by the turn of the year and the squad will be looking scary. I mean, we''re so talented. It''s absolutely crazy how good we are. I think part of being bored now is being bored by next season. If we can keep the squad together it''s going to be relentless winning. Couple of epic tussles in the cups, sure, but mostly month after month of routine wins. We''ll probably smash 100 points."


    "100 points?" said Mike. "Win League Two?"


    "What?" I said, louder than was polite, but it was just so shocking to me that he''d said that. "League One, Mike! League One! We''ll trample it like grapes."


    Mike eyed his son. "Of course, that would be wonderful. We''re more of a cup team, though, aren''t we?"


    "We''re whatever I want. Next season I might flip things round and do a run at the league and take it easy in the cups. That''s the way my mind is working right now because Bradford, Carlisle, Cambridge, Mansfield, they got a big head start on us. We''re undefeated in, like, fourteen games if you include Newcastle, which I do, and we''re moving up the league but not really moving closer to those teams, if you get me. I don''t know, I love cups but I wonder if it''s the right thing for the club. I think this is one of those things where I suddenly have enough time to worry about second-level problems. Is it really good for Chester if I go hard at the cups? We''ve put a lot of effort in for not all that much reward, really. If we''re being brutally honest."


    Okay, the Newcastle shop window had led to bids for half a dozen players, and selling Ben, Eddie, and Sharky was good business. But we hadn''t even got any prize money for the Newcastle defeat, and the shared gate receipts, since the tie had been played in our tiny stadium, were trivial.


    Steve said, "It depends who we get in the third round of the FA Cup, doesn''t it?"


    The day before, we had beaten Walsall, away, in the second round.


    You might remember we beat them 3-2 in the league at home. They had a good young team but a shaky goalie. They had replaced him for the cup tie with an older vintage but lost a point in CA in the process. That gave them an average of 79 - about the same as us - so I couldn''t be sure of beating them and ended up deciding to use Bench Boost. Better to get to the third round having used my joker than to take a big swing and end up with nothing.


    The squad was in great shape on the morning of the match. Morale had been steadily rising over the course of our unbeaten run, climbing from its lowest point of 3.9 (out of 7) to a much happier 5.2.


    Players were popping in CA all over the place. Andrew Harrison, with the ink on his new 3 plus 1 contract still drying, had gone bonkers, finally getting a move on. He was up to CA 63. Pascal''s recovery was going well and he was on 79. Beth''s Miracle Man story had brought him to the attention of Grindhog. Sponsorship incoming! Sharky, even though (or because) he had agreed a move to Crawley, was flying. Sticky had caught up with Ben.


    It always pleased me when someone''s first digit clicked up to the next number, and there were two examples of that in the first team squad. Zach''s recent run of green saw him shoot up to CA 80. Sunday Sowumni moved to 40, which was still miles off being useful but did seem to have happened quite fast. In a more bittersweet moment, little Benny hit 40, too, but that would be his last ever pop. He had hit his ceiling. Some grapes are used to make vinegar.


    Mike said, "You did strange tactics again. No-one understands what you do."


    "What I do?" I said. "I could say the same thing about the other managers. It''s like they''re not even trying half the time. But yesterday was pretty simple. Walsall like a three-five-two, boss midfield, frantic pressing. I wanted to do the last twenty in a 4-2-3-1 with me, Wibbers, and Pascal behind Dazza. So there''s four subs. Obviously Magnus starts. Do you risk starting Youngster on the bench? You could, but you might as well name him in the eleven and have a spare sub. I asked TJ if he minded me using Sharky and he said he was my player but if I could leave him out that would be great."


    Steve said, "Why?"


    His dad said, "So he won''t be cup tied. You can only play for one club in the FA Cup per season."


    "I know, I meant... Never mind."


    I continued. "Start 5-3-2, keep things tight. Tom Westwood lines up as a striker but he''s doing a defensive role. Him and Andrew Harrison run for days, it''s a stodgy game, Walsall don''t have a second gear, we do. Boom. Two-nil, into the third round we go. See who we get. Probably Fleetwood again. Ugh. Maybe I''ll buy two bottles. No, Max, come on, don''t even talk like that. You''re programming yourself."


    I cleared my head and tried to think of something positive.


    How about Bark and Foquita being available for the FA Cup third round?


    How about the rapturous reception to the documentary?


    How about spikes of mini-bonds flying off the shelves every Sunday night and every time the men''s team jumped up the table? We were tenth and would probably win our next five league matches without much hassle.


    How about 3 R Welsh beating E Company 8 in a titanic, ding-dong battle? And Dylan trying to act cool when he was clearly over the moon.


    How about my mum''s new house - my mum''s new house! - being made ready for her, Anna, and Solly to live in?


    How about Emma''s mum going through the photos I''d found in my cousin''s attic and making it her mission to find the right sofa, the right telephone, the right shitty watercolours to make the bungalow mimic the house in which mum had spent most of her life?


    I smiled. How about living with Emma and having a nice dinner with free-range beef and organic veggies and a nice - yes! A nice bottle of wine. Why the actual fuck not?


    Time to distil my quest for the perfect wine to its essence. I turned to the Mortons and asked the only truly pertinent question. "Have you got any bottles with a 96 badge?"


    Steve chuckled. "Max, you know football. We know wine. Take that first one you liked the look of. That''ll go great. It''s the perfect wine to drink in the bath."


    "Done," I said. "Sold!" I carried the bottle to the till and Mike wrapped it up in a nice piece of paper and slipped it into a fancy carrying bag. "Bonus," I said, admiring the bag, but Mike wasn''t looking at me.


    Steve had gone to the next room and returned with a laptop. He forced his dad to look at the screen. The dad''s eyes popped open and my first impulse was that the name of our special coach had leaked. "Max," said Steve, his voice hushed. "We got United in the third round."


    I knew that. The Youth Team were away to West Ham United. "Yeah. Not sure if they''ll play it in the London Stadium. Probably not, right, because there will only be a few hundred people there. Massive stadium though. That''d be good experience for the kids. It''s what, sixty thousand capacity?"


    Steve''s forehead creased while one side of his mouth curled up in a smile. The overall effect was of someone who was in a state of alarmed happy disbelief. He turned the laptop around to show me that the FA Cup third round draw was taking place. "Max, no. United. Manchester United. Third round of the FA Cup! A seventy-six thousand sell-out! A million pounds for the club. We''re going to play Manchester United at Old Trafford!"

 12.11 - The Cursed Child

    11.


    Monday, December 1


    I woke up to a noise in the house, remembered I no longer lived alone, and closed my eyes. I had cursemail.


    New perk available until Christmas Day: Secret Sandra


    Cost: 2,000 XP


    Effects: Gift up to 200 XP per day to boost one player¡¯s training rate. That player will receive their usual improvement plus bonus improvement calculated according to the amount of XP gifted.


    Fucking imps. Get wrecked.


    I went back to sleep.


    ***


    Emma ran her hand along my arm, gently coaxing me out of dreamland and into reality. "Made you a tea, babes."


    "Bonus," I mumbled. The last images from the dreams - red trains, low fog that looked like clouds - dissipated. My surroundings came into focus. "You''re dressed like a sexy lawyer. Is it that time again?"


    She twisted her lips. "I''m working, Max."


    "Working from home."


    "I like to get dressed. If I''m not smart I''m not a lawyer."


    I sat up and took the first sip of tea. It sent me into a different sort of dreamland. "You know what''s good?" I said.


    "What?"


    "Everything."


    "Even bacteria?"


    "You need bacteria to make cheese. And wine maybe, not sure."


    "What about bombs?"


    "You use bombs to blow up the asteroids that are coming at us. Give up, babes, I can do this all day."


    "What''s good about Alan Turner? Gammons?"


    "Yeah, okay, you win."


    She smiled and made as if to leave but I had misread her intention. She was only shuffling even deeper onto the bed. "You know me cousins?"


    Ems had some distant relatives who, by dint of being the closest thing to an extended family she had, were known as The Cousins. They lived in one of those countries where it''s always dark, cold, and it''s hard to understand the accent. Yes, this is a Scotland joke. "The Jocks and the Geordies. You could make a half-decent comic strip out of that concept."


    "It''s Wee Tosh McTavish''s birthday soon," she said, but I''ve changed the name for privacy purposes and also because there''s already a Bonnie. "They want to go down to London and do all the things and watch a play. We''re invited."


    "Ah, what a shame, I''m busy that day."


    "Don''t start that. It''ll be nice. Come on, I don''t have a big family."


    "Erm..." I thought about going down to do the London Eye again and the Natural History Museum again. So boring doing the same things all the time. "How about we take them to Nando''s instead?"


    "They want to go to the West End to see The Cursed Child."


    For the second time in two days, I froze at those very words.


    Emma didn''t notice the turmoil she had created, the sense of dread. "It''s very good, apparently. It''s about Harry Potter''s son. He''s struggling to cope with his legacy."


    "Wow. Sounds magical."


    Emma scoffed. "He falls for a hot blonde, apparently. You''d like it."


    "Don''t want to be uncivil or anything but I''m going to be going a hundred percent for the next six weeks at least. If they come to Chester they can get the VIP treatment and I''ll score them a goal and talk to them and everything but even thinking about going to London to watch a play for children is exhausting. I don''t have it in me to do that when I''m covering Sandra."


    She didn''t seem surprised or disappointed. "I understand. Maybe I''ll go with them to London on a Friday and the next morning, come through here on the way back to Scotland. Or meet in Manchester?" She shook her head, amazed at what she was about to say. "Nando''s in Manchester?"


    I reached out and took her hand. "Or Chinatown. Or the curry mile. Oh, shit! What if they''re your guests at Manchester United?"


    "That''s January 11th, right? It''s not her birthday then."


    I frowned, closed my eyes, and opened them with a smile. "You want to see that play. You want to relive your childhood spent reading Harry Potter all night and in every break at school."


    "Maybe I do."


    "That''s why you want to get married in a castle. I''ve never put two and two together. You want a Hogwarts wedding. I should tell you, I''m not going to marry a Hufflepuff."


    "You''ll marry me and you''ll like it. What house are you?"


    "Chester," I said, vaguely, because I was deep in thought. "It''s perfect. Take them to that show on the 10th. Old Trafford on the 11th. How''s that for a surprise? Best birthday ever, best cousin ever. Absolute bosh."


    Emma thought about it. "Are you going to score from 70 yards again?"


    I sipped my tea. "Don''t know. Have to discuss that with my new assistant."


    She rubbed my knee. "Are you excited?"


    I tutted. "Come on. There''s only one star at Chester. If you think I''m going to be excited to meet some dude you''ve got another thing coming." I drained my tea. "It''s just gonna be another day at the office."


    ***


    The new coach was in the Sin Bin. I''d made the entire first team squad sit on the grass nearby, plus Dean, Livia, and whoever else was around.


    Sandra opened the door and showed me a thumbs up.


    I pressed play on my phone and played Gonna Fly Now by Bill Conti over our Bluetooth speakers. If you don''t know the name, it''s the theme tune from the Rocky movies. Absolutely fucking epic if you want to train hard for three minutes or if you want to get your players hyped about a new member of staff.


    As the song was approaching the final minute I activated the smoke machines - probably should have mentioned those earlier - and with impeccable timing, just as the music was reaching its emotional peak, the new coach emerged from the white smoke and stood towering over the players.


    I blew a single note on a party horn. Toooot!


    Pascal shot to his feet. "Gott im Himmel!" he cried.


    The music ended and the coach looked from me to the players, shrugged, and threw a few shadow punches.


    I laughed and called out, "Behold! Behold our new coach! Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you..." We hadn''t rehearsed this, mostly because I knew that if I discussed this introduction with anyone, everyone would have vetoed it. I pointed at the coach, really jabbed my finger at him. "I give to you..."


    "Hi, everyone," he said, in a less clipped and precise accent than Pascal''s. He had spent some time in California as a kid so his English was smooth, though he was out of practice. He was twenty-five years old, a lean 6 foot 3, maybe six four. He had short, light-brown hair, and had played as a centre back before retiring cruelly early because of injury. "My name is Peter Bauer."


    The reaction was sensational. Vimsy''s hands shot to his head. Several players grabbed their nearest colleague by the nearest limb. A handful waved away the smoke.


    I turned off the closest machine and cupped my ear. "Could you say that again, please?"


    "My name is Peter Bauer."


    "Ha! Now you''re repeater Bauer. Bosh. My tenth joke of the day so I get a free one. All right, incredibly exciting. We''ve got one of Bayern Munich''s best young coaches for a few weeks so let''s make the most of it. Peter, don''t worry about learning their names this morning, we have a crazy week ahead."


    "I already know their names, Max."


    "What?" I said, but he didn''t seem to be joking. "Christian, stand up." I pointed to my captain. "What''s his name?"


    Peter smiled. "My grandfather loves your sense of humour. Christian Fierce, club captain, dominant centre back, formerly the club''s record signing. 24 appearances this season and I believe 2 goals."


    "Okay, you''ve done some homework. That''s awesome. Which player interests you the most?"


    His eyebrows bounced. "I choose not to say in case I am accused of sucking up."


    I stared at him blankly until it clicked. "Oh, me? Come on, be serious." My phone buzzed. Since the Man United announcement it had been going absolutely insane, revealing that my iPhone''s battery was getting sick of my shit. "Right, the schedule this week is insane even by the standards of English football."


    "Four matches in seven days," he said. "I do not see how it is possible."


    "It''s possible," I said. "Sandra''s going to give you a quick tour of the compound."


    Peter frowned and gestured at the squad. "Perhaps that could wait?"


    "No, because I need to talk about you behind your back."


    He dipped his head and smiled. "Of course. I will do... the tour." His gaze went from the Sin Bin to the giant hole in the ground to the other cabins. Bayern Munich this was not.


    "Hey," I said, serious. "They say you only cry twice in Chester. Once when you arrive; once when you leave."


    Wrinkles appeared on his forehead as he tried to work out my meaning, but Sandra patted him on the back of his shoulder and led him away.


    "All right," I said, looking around the group. "Couple of things I want to say in private. We had a nice, relaxing November but now it''s pure mayhem. Peter''s going to be helping and it''s good he''s done his research but basically I''ll be running this show on my own for the next six games up to Christmas and I''ve got the Youth Cup against West Ham, too. If you could fucking stow your temper tantrums because you''re not playing and all that crap, that would be very helpful. If you get a minute off, consider yourself lucky and enjoy it.


    "Another thing. You all know Sandra''s going on maternity leave and the baby could arrive at any minute. I don''t want that baby born on the back of a three-nil defeat, all right? You know I''m not superstitious but I have a weird feeling that the baby''s going to come during one of our matches and if we lose, gammons will grumble ''here comes The Cursed Child of Prophecy'' or some crap. No. No no no, okay? We win every game in December. Blackpool''s hard, Cambridge is hard, the others... I mean if we had a week to prepare we would smash all of them but with the relentless schedule we won''t be able to spend days and days thinking and planning, right? It''s win, sleep, light training, win, sleep, light training. We''ll need to be flexible, think on our feet, cut each other some slack. I''ll need to lean on my key players more than I''d normally like to.


    "We''re going to dial down the intensity of the main training, okay? Light training and for players who aren''t being ground to dust, it''s extra skills sessions with Peter. That''s my plan. To repeat - we are going to win every fucking game so when that baby is born, the first thing it sees is Sandra Lane''s smile. That means less game time for our own babies. The under eighteens are in good shape. We might give Jamie Brotherhood ten minutes, that sort of thing, but basically it''s us lot. Win win win.


    "And here''s one way we''ll win - no distractions. I don''t want to fucking hear about Manchester United, okay? That match is January 11th. January. Today is December 1st. Yes, it''s exciting but it''s all anyone''s going to be talking about out there, okay? I don''t want it in here, too. If you can''t get your head in the here and now you can fuck off in the transfer window. We''ve got work to do. Do you get me?


    "January the fourth against Bradford is twenty times bigger than Man U! And we need to beat Accrington Stanley tomorrow night and we need to do it with ruthless efficiency. Quick blitz, two early goals, straight into energy-saving mode. Why? Because we''ve got a big cup game 48 hours later! That''s the only cup game I want to hear about, do you get me? I know it''s my fault for bringing a big name to the club the day after we got the biggest draw possible, but I really, really need you to be professional. Accrington, Blackpool, Forest Green Rovers. That''s six points and we go into the quarter finals of the Vans Trophy.


    "This week takes us closer to promotion and a trip to Wembley, lads. Yes? Yes? Are you with me?"


    Henri put his hand up. "And the Cheshire Cup next Tuesday night? Are we going to bin it off?"


    I gritted my teeth. "What do you think, mate? It''s Winsford United. They''re tier ten. You want to shit the bed in front of Peter Bauer? You want Sandra''s baby coming into this world thinking Winsford United are the biggest team in Cheshire? The fuck kind of question is that? Didn''t you hear me say we''re going to win every game?"


    "I did, Max, yes. I thought I might clarify."


    "Oh, wonderful. What wonderful clarity we are all enjoying thanks to that question." I pinched my nose while I imagined I had a massive throbbing vein on my forehead that everyone could see. I inhaled slowly and treated the squad to a dose of laser eyes. "I''m about to inherit a million pounds, lads, with which I could replace the entire fucking squad in January. Anyone picked for the Cheshire Cup needs to treat it with the respect it deserves. That''s my cup, that''s Sandra''s cup, I want it, we want it, if you don''t want it, I don''t want you. Get fucking warmed up."


    ***


    I seethed for a while, which was partly performative. Drawing Man United was immense, incredible, for some of the squad a once-in-a-lifetime event, but it had the potential to derail our entire season. I''d grown up on stories of players shirking tackles in the league matches before a cup final, tales of players losing focus.


    The million pound threat was some protection against that.


    I left the lads with Vimsy and walked off to find out where Sandra and Peter had disappeared to. I needed Peter to start a session in order to see his attributes. High and I might lean on him, low and I''d give him busy work.


    I found my assistant managers with the Brig. The scene looked ominous. "Sir," said the Brig. "I hate to bring the mood down but there was an incident over the weekend I''ve just been told about. Bonnie, Angel, and some of the women were out on Saturday night celebrating a friend''s birthday. It''s not entirely clear what happened," he said, flicking his eyes towards Peter. The Brig knew more than he would say in front of a stranger. "What''s beyond doubt is that a young man became enraged and Bonnie and Angel fled into a bathroom and locked the door. Bonnie called a member of 3 R Welsh and he raced there with some mates. They, ah, subdued the aggressor and the women were able to escape unharmed."


    "Jesus fuck," I said. About eighty thoughts danced around, each demanding attention. I cut through them. "What do I need to do?"


    "As of now, nothing. If they are shaken, it is possible they will miss training tonight. I will inform Jackie Reaper."


    A suspicion hit me. "Don''t," I said.


    "Sir?"


    "Who knows about this?"


    "All the women, I should think."


    I pulled at my lip. I had a premonition that one of the women involved in the incident would be extremely excited and more than happy to be the centre of attention. I would tell Sophie not to bring the cameras to training. "I want to see how it plays out this evening."


    "Very good, sir."


    "One thing, though." I nodded to the left and the Brig and I moved away from Sandra and Peter. They didn''t need to get involved in any grey mode shenanigans. When we were a fair distance away, I mumbled, "Bonnie called Dylan?"


    "Yes, sir." He glanced to his left, checking no-one had come near. "She called me when I was at the gym but my phone was in my locker. When I called back, her phone was off. What I know, I heard from the police this morning. The detective whose career we helped has her ear to the ground, keeping us ahead of bad news. Shortly after Dylan and his mates cleared out, the police arrived and got the gist from the men and the bar staff. The men say that Angel was flirting with them, teasing one in particular. Leading him on, we used to call it. Then, abruptly, the hosepipe of attention was shut off. He took it badly. I suspect Angel will tell a different story. The detective expects it went rather like the men said, though that doesn''t excuse an outburst of anger so severe the women had to flee."


    "A lot of men think a woman even talking to them means she wants his body. Fuckwits everywhere, John. We''ll get something close to the truth from Bonnie, if she talks to us. I''ve been expecting something like this. If Angel created this mess, why now? She''s not getting more publicity than she already is. I''d better text Ruth and Emma that I don''t want this appearing on her socials in any form." I got my phone out and typed. While I did so, I asked, "How did Dylan do?"


    The Brig did something like an eye roll. "He... achieved his targets, sir. Mission accomplished."


    I scratched my nose. "No elegance."


    "No, sir."


    I finished typing. "Can you... teach Dylan to be briggier? It would be amazing to have a mini-Brig looking after Bonnie and anyone who might happen to be around Bonnie."


    The Brig scoffed at my barely-disguised dissembling, but gave my idea some thought. "I''m not sure there''s quite enough polish in the world for the task." He straightened. "It''s a good idea, sir. It''s a very good idea and now''s a good chance to pitch it to him. We can do some basic field training but I would always recommend a professional starter course. Bodyguard 101. It would cost in the region of three thousand pounds."


    "The agency will pay." I inhaled through my nose and exhaled. Three grand would buy a few hours of protection from a guy like the Brig. In theory, best case, it could buy Bonnie and Angel years. "Yeah, please have a chat with him."


    "Very good, sir."


    I walked off, shaking my head at the strangeness of my life, the way mornings could flip dark and turn back again. I collected Sandra and Peter and smiled. "Bet the Bayern manager doesn''t have to put up with half the crap I do."


    Peter didn''t smile. "He has different problems."


    "Yeah," I said. "Dealing with half a billion pounds of man-baby talent must be a fucking nightmare."


    "I don''t know," said Sandra. "I think I deal with you pretty well." I frowned at her for a while trying to understand what she meant. She cracked a smile, bumped sideways into Peter, and said, "That''s how you suck up to the boss."


    ***


    Sandra got the lads doing some fun, skills-based drills that got them moving without tiring them out.


    Peter Bauer, grandson of one of the game''s true legends, helped out. He had retired from playing so he didn''t have a player profile but his coaching profile was interesting.


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Peter Bauer</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Adaptability</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Goalkeepers</td>


    <td>2</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Outfield Players</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Determination</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Ability</td>


    <td>17</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Judging Player Potential</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Level of Discipline</td>


    <td>10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Man Management</td>


    <td>8</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Motivating</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Tactical Knowledge</td>


    <td>20</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Working with Youngsters</td>


    <td>7</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Coaching Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Formation</td>


    <td>3-4-3</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Preferred Style</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>Other</td>


    <td>


    <div>


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    The most important things were his high Coaching Outfield Players score - he would fill in for Sandra just fine - and his superb tactical knowledge. Tactics 20 meant I would be able to trust his recommendations for in-game tweaks even more than Sandra, whose score of 18 was more than enough in most cases. Of course, Sandra knew the players inside out, which helped. Then again, Peter was coming at the task with fresh eyes, so it was possible he might see something in a player Sandra and I had missed.


    I asked myself if I would hire him as a coach. Yes, of course, absolutely.


    As an assistant manager? Sandra had much better Man Management and Motivating, things that were as important in the lower leagues as tactics. She also crushed him on Working With Youngsters. It wasn''t clear to me what that attribute meant on a day to day basis. Did it mean working with the younger players in the first team squad or was it about working with the under eighteens, sixteens, and so on? Years after unlocking the staff profile page I was still guessing what half of it really meant. One thing was clear - for Chester, the higher that number the better.


    And would I employ him as a manager? Probably. Coaching was by far the most important part of the job and he would back up the improvements he made to players by optimising them on the pitch. So he lacked a bit of verve and drive. So what? He had a very good Judging Player Ability score, which most coaches didn''t have. That would give me the confidence to give him a squad - West or Saltney, for example - and let him get on with it.


    Plus, over time, as he aged, some of his scores would surely increase. He would learn ways to motivate players and how to deal with them. Christ, his Man Management score was probably better than mine.


    An interesting thought experiment but a futile one - Peter Bauer worked for Bayern Munich. He wouldn''t take twenty career steps down and a ninety percent pay cut in order to join Chester.


    ***


    I got Sandra, Peter, and Vimsy in the Sin Bin to discuss the coming matches.


    "Right," I said, tossing a marker up and catching it. "Tuesday night, Thursday night. My overall concept is we have a strong first half against Accrington and a strong second half against Blackpool. Peter, you happy with that?"


    "Happy?" he said, looking down at some notes. "The schedule is absurd. There is no good way to do it. Blackpool have the same schedule, though. Perhaps they will rotate for the cup game?"


    "That would help," I said. "Let''s start with the Thursday match and work back to tomorrow''s. Blackpool away. They''re managed by a former Man United defender. Nice guy, apparently, but basically a caveman. 4-4-2, no frills."


    I''d already used Bench Boost and Triple Captain in the league, FA Cup, and AOK Cup, but I still had it in reserve for the Cheshire Cup and Vans Trophy. Blackpool would have CA over 100 so our only hope was to use all my jokers.


    "I''d like to do the last twenty minutes with 4-2-3-1, blast through their middle. Me, Pascal, Wibbers."


    "Wibbers?" said Peter, turning to a folder full of laminated sheets.


    "William Roberts," said Sandra.


    "Wibbers," he said, nodding. I didn''t get the sense that Peter was terribly happy to be in Chester but he was determined to be professional. Maybe he was worried about what feedback I would give his grandad.


    "Pascal''s not fully fit and during December I think he and I can come on for twenty minutes at a time. Wibbers can go on at half time unless we use him too much against Accrington."


    Sandra was making notes. "Tell us what you want from that match."


    "Accrington do 3-4-1-2. Quite a lot goes through their CAM so obviously we''ll use Youngster at DM and he will snuff out most of their attacks. I''m thinking 4-3-3. If Pascal and I start as forwards we can go wide, but if we go Dazza, Henri, and Tom it''s a narrow formation."


    Peter frowned. "Question. Why is it narrow?"


    Okay, deep breath. It had been a while since I''d had to explain the limits of the curse to anyone. "This is the fourth tier of English football. We have some good players but they''re learning, and I''m learning, too. We have some set formations, ones we know. If we stick to them, we do well. I know where everyone''s supposed to be and so do they. We''re slowly getting more flexible but for now that''s a limitation when I''m the manager. If we want to go crazy like against Newcastle, Sandra''s in charge. It''s normally better to accept these boundaries, though. What we can do is move one guy out of place. I can process that and so can the players. Do you get me? Our version of 4-3-3 comes with narrow strikers but we can move one to a wide forward role."


    "Or drop him to be a CAM," said Peter.


    "Yes and we do that quite a lot and we will do it more as Wibbers develops. He''s amazing there and he has a wicked long shot. Looking at Accrington''s wide areas I''m thinking we want to attack wide - I''d love a 4-2-4 - but having Youngster in his proper DM slot is something of a cheat code. So Pascal goes wide left. The other concept is that there''s no problem with me going wherever I want. The players are used to it and obviously because it''s me I know where I am." I laughed; so stupid. "Pascal wide left, me right, Dazza in the middle. Twenty-minute onslaught, get a lead, we switch to four-one-four-one and turtle up. Swap Dazza at half time and we''ve rested three of the guys who will end the game on Thursday."


    Peter looked at his notes. "The rules are arbitrary."


    "They work. One thing to know is that we have pretty much the best technique in the league. Top three, anyway. That means we can pass the ball around comfortably against most teams, kill the clock. We can do a decent low block, and we can shift mentality better than anyone. Defend, defend, all-out-attack, defend. Example - an oppo is off the pitch getting stitches, we''ll blitz until he comes back on, turtle up again, seamless. We''ll set up the basic plan but constantly be tweaking and optimising depending on who''s playing shit etc."


    Peter frowned. I wasn''t sure he believed me. "Okay."


    "Here''s what I think. Sticky in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H."


    Sandra made a gesture. "Eddie left-back? I would have thought you''d use him against Blackpool."


    "We''ll use Cole against them." I turned to Peter. "He''s taller. Helps with set pieces. Back to Accrington. Midfield: Youngster, Ryan, Lee C. Forwards: Dazza, Pascal, me." I didn''t know my own CA for sure but the other ten players had an average CA of 80.8. A red letter day! Our first starting eleven that broke the 80 barrier. "We reserve three changes to bring off Pascal, me, and Dazza. If we can swap Ryan for Andrew or Magnus at half time, great. More legs, more energy. Sharky probably won''t play against Blackpool so let''s plan to finish with Sharky left mid, Magnus and Lee C in the middle, Andrew right, Tom Westwood up top." Ending the match with an average CA of 75 was a step down in quality but came with an increase in work rate. "If we can get away with not using Henri, that''s going to pay off."


    Peter was fast on the uptake. "You would use two subs after twenty minutes and three at half time? 45 minutes is a long time with no subs. A lot can happen."


    "Yep," I said. "Totes agree. We''ll keep one in reserve for the last twenty. Okay, let''s talk Blackpool."


    ***


    It must have been bewildering for Peter. We picked two teams and planned the subs for two matches without referring to video or data, and I sketched how I thought the Forest Green match would play out, too.


    He went to have lunch with Sandra; she had a bunch of tips for him.


    I left them to it while I wondered how strong to go on the Angel thing. Pretty strong, I reckoned. If she was dialling her persona up to eleven on the back of her fame, that was potentially deadly, and it was partially my fault. I''d made her progress a cakewalk. Maybe she needed to experience a setback. A small bump in the road that would make her realise she was driving too fast.


    When Sandra was done she went to the medical room and talked to its occupants, then sought out JoJo and said goodbye to her.


    I caught up with my assistant manager in the car park. She was being stoic but there was a certain stiffness to her back as she threw her bag onto the passenger seat.


    "You''re on leave," I said. "Startiiiiiing now."


    She smiled. "Okay?"


    "That means we don''t currently have an employer-employee relationship."


    "Okay?"


    "That means it''s not inappropriate for me to ask for a hug."


    She shut the door and wrapped her arms around me. "You''re still my boss, boss."


    I tried to be stoic and failed big time. Lips wobbled. Dementors crept closer. "I''ve got baby name ideas, remember. Just saying."


    "You have one idea," she said.


    "Max Lane-Beeks. Maxy two-names. It''s so money."


    "It''s on the list."


    "Is it?"


    "It''s on the bottom of the list."


    I beamed. "I''ll take it."


    She walked around to the other side of the car and opened the driver''s door. "Boss," she said. "Gaffer."


    Uh-oh. Whatever this was, she was having a hard time saying it. "Yes?"


    "Don''t do anything mad, will you?"


    I tried to look offended, but who knows what actually happened on my face; I was a wreck. "Mad? Like what?"


    She looked down at the bare surface of the car park. "Like buy a new striker. We''ve already got enough. And don''t do Bestball against Man United."


    "Wow," I said, because I hadn''t even thought about doing that for the slightest one-tenth of a second. Relationism against Man United? Live on TV in front of millions? It would cause a fucking sensation. "Wow," I said again, and I was no longer moored to this grubby earth. I was afloat on a cloud of possibilities.


    "Noooo," she said, banging herself in the forehead with her fist. "Please. Please, no."


    But I was already thinking about the rest of the week''s training. We couldn''t do anything strenuous, could we? There were too many matches. What about a few one-two drills? What about a couple of games of Take Me to the River, AKA Staircase to Heaven? Just for the lols.


    If nothing else, doing some Relationism drills ahead of the time I bought the perk would help me explain to Peter how we were suddenly able to utterly transform the way we were playing.


    "I probably won''t," I said, honestly. My narrative sense was telling me to use it with the youth teams first and slowly introduce it to the first team. Putting it on national TV before I''d mastered it was the kind of stupid that I hated. I slapped the top of the car. "Good chat! You''re in our hearts and in our thoughts. Call if you need anything."


    "I need to see us at Old Trafford doing 4-4-2, low block, keeping the score down, Max."


    "Mmm. That''s certainly one way we could approach the fixture. Toodle-pip!"


    ***


    That evening, I went back to Bumpers to watch the women train. As I suspected, Angel told the story of her narrow escape again and again, and since there wasn''t a camera crew around she was filming it on her phone.


    Bonnie brushed me off when I tried to ask what had happened in the bar, so I had to go on my instinct.


    "Angel," I said, calling her over to a spot where we could talk.


    She started out filming but thought better of it and put her phone away. "Yes, Max?"


    "Heard there was a bit of an incident."


    "Oh, it was nothing really. A boy got drunk and Bonnie arranged for a rescue. It was only so she could meet up with her army man. She''s crushing on him pretty bad."


    "Right, except she called the Brig first."


    Angel''s eyes narrowed and her bubbly persona diminished. "Did she? So what? It was a storm in a teacup. I hope you aren''t going to do one of your overreactions."


    I eyed her. "I was cracked over the head with a metal bar. When it comes to safety, I don''t believe anything I do is an overreaction. I''m not blaming you for a guy going tonto the same way I don''t blame myself for cutting a player who was never going to make it. How other people react is up to them, that''s clear. But if your fame is putting you in danger, and Bonnie in danger, and anyone who happens to be around you in danger, the solution seems obvious to me."


    She didn''t like where this was going. "What''s that?"


    "There are eight episodes planned for season two of the documentary. I''ve asked Sophie and Henri to cut you out of one."


    Absolute, instant fury, replaced by cold, dead eyes. "Cut me out?"


    "Yeah. And I''m thinking if there are any more incidents like this one, you know, ones that aren''t your fault, I''ll cut you out of another two and another three. If there are scenes where you say something important, Sophie can cut to a reaction shot from one of the others and we''ll hear your voice or even just put subtitles. You know, we''ll pretend the microphone failed in that moment. Do you get me? I suppose you could say it''s a choice between getting famous in a bar with some nobody, or being on TV."


    Another flash of rage as she realised I had absolutely stitched her up. "It''s my choice, is it?"


    "Everything''s a choice."


    Her eyes went from left to right. The jerky motion reminded me of an old-fashioned typewriter. "You can''t cut me out completely. I''m in the title sequence."


    Before she''d even finished the last word I got my phone out and called Sophie. "Hey, it''s Max. I want a new title sequence. Can you have a think about some concepts? Game of Thrones, Westworld, Fresh Prince of Bel Air, whatever you want. Yes, I''ll give you budget. Yes. Okay, top."


    Angel glared at me. "This is unfair. I didn''t do anything wrong."


    "No-one said you did."


    I had thought this was a genius way of getting through to her, but to my surprise she got angrier. She had enough presence of mind to glance at the rest of the players. Some had their phones out, and many were wondering what we were discussing. If Angel exploded, it would be caught on video and could come out at any time. Instead of blowing up, she got quiet and practically hissed, "I''m the best striker in this whole city. You need me if you want to get promoted and live out your Soccer Supremo fantasy. Don''t piss me off."


    She strode off. I turned and walked to my office. She had made a good point, to be fair.


    ***


    Tuesday, December 2


    Match 18 of 46: Chester versus Accrington Stanley


    There were no surprises from Accrington. They came with the expected 3-4-1-2 formation and an average CA of 74. It was the kind of match we needed to win if we still harboured hopes of winning the league.


    I paraded Peter on the pitch before the match, giving big waves to three stands. The Accrington lot chanted ''Who the fucking ''ell are you?''


    Peter took us through the warm-ups, doing it quite different from Sandra. That kind of change can be exciting but I was worried the warm up was too intense given the schedule.


    "Mate," I said, blowing as though I had played ten minutes against Newcastle. "Remember the fixture list. Can you give us the fifty percent version?"


    "This is the fifty percent version!"


    I wasn''t sure what he thought about me, the squad, and our tiny little stadium, but he can''t have had any complaints about how we came out of the blocks, or about my strategy.


    Accrington had the second-lowest budget in the league and if they had a data guy, he obviously wasn''t qualified to analyse me because our wide forwards destroyed their back line and they took their sweet time responding.


    Youngster to Jack.


    Jack looks up. He clips it into space on the wing.


    Best hares after it. First time cross.


    Darren Smith...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    An inch-perfect cross and a header to match!


    Accrington''s manager eventually dropped a wide player to help contain me so I switched to the left and shifted Pascal into a CAM role. Accrington''s wing-back was therefore defending against no-one, and he could only watch and admire as we built through the other two-thirds of the pitch.


    Good energy from Contreras.


    He breaks the lines and feeds Smith.


    Smith holds the ball up well.


    He lays it off for Best.


    Best looks to line up a shot.


    Accrington know he can hit them from there!


    A defender leaps in to make a block.


    Best skips past him. He looks up, likes what he sees...


    Cocks his leg...


    But he passes!


    The ball''s slipped through and Bochum is onto it in a flash.


    Bochum with only the keeper to beat...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Never in doubt!


    Accrington appeal for offside but the referee isn''t interested.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    At two-nil, I went through with the changes I''d planned. I felt good, felt like I could have played longer, but when a plan is mint you have to stick to it. Four-one-four-one and the great December rotation had begun.


    I spent the rest of the half eating marathon paste and pointing out to Peter the strengths and weaknesses of our players, paying particular attention to what it meant in terms of formations and styles. He absorbed everything quickly; I didn''t need to tell him twice.


    At half time we made two more changes and the fifth on 70 minutes.


    Exactly as planned. Accrington huffed and puffed but we dealt with their threat comfortably enough.


    The curse gave man of the match to Lee Contreras.


    ***


    I took Peter with me to talk to a few people. The first were Secretary Joe and MD, who couldn''t stop babbling about the upcoming Man United match.


    I tried to be patient. "Guys, we''ve just moved up to ninth in the league. We''re picking up steam. Live in the moment, yeah?"


    They didn''t want to live in the moment. They wanted to live on January 11th. True to form, MD was already worrying about being humiliated.


    I gave MD a blank look and turned to Joe. "Where are we with bonds?"


    "Amazing. The Man United news, followed by your hints that you would use the gate receipts to take some bonds off the market, drove a lot of sales. Today''s announcement about Dieter Bauer''s grandson was another jolt. We''re up to something like 3.4 million but they''re going fast again. I really think we''ll sell out by the United game."


    "Good, thanks."


    "Peter, will your grandfather come? I will organise tickets if so."


    Peter''s eyes darted around. "I will find out."


    ***


    Wednesday, December 3


    Peter did the first half of training - very advanced, very exciting for the players even if we were taking it easy.


    I did the second half, keeping Peter as the ''official coach'' in case it helped us to get some pops. We did the building blocks of Relationism and there were no complaints about how remedial the drills were. Perhaps it would have been better if there had been - it might have made us seem like a more serious club. Peter can''t have been impressed seeing how enthusiastically the squad did one-twos and slow rondos.


    But I wasn''t running Chester FC for the benefit of Peter Bauer. I still wasn''t totally sure what he wanted to get out of the experience, if anything. Things were going so fast we didn''t have time for a heart-to-heart. Maybe when the day came it would go easier with four or five wins under our belt, after we had been in the trenches together.


    I asked him to come back to Bumpers before the eighteens trained. We waited in my office and he asked why I had a large bucket of chestnuts.


    "We''ve got a horse chestnut tree out there and it went nuts, literally. We have a game here called Conkers. You tie strings through the chestnuts. You hold yours up and I give it a whack with mine. Then it''s your turn. When one conker is smashed to bits, that''s the loser."


    "I see why England is associated with 4-4-2."


    "It''s top fun. I haven''t done it since I was little so I thought as part of the Christmas fun we might have a tournament." Two people arrived and I waved them in. "Peter, this is Fleur. She''s our scouting department."


    He was getting used to my humour. "The entire department?"


    "Yes." He shook her hand and did the same with her son. I said, "That''s Henk. Centre back from our under eighteens. I''ve been asking Fleur to scout Bradford City for us. They seem likely to be our main rivals for the title but I can''t understand what changed there."


    "Changed?" said Peter.


    "They were a shambles and they switched, just like that. They play efficient football, take sensible risks, have players in the right positions, do some rotation, there''s good spirit."


    Fleur said, "I''ve been to see them five times this season. Max has never asked me to watch a team more than once. He''s obsessed." She smiled at Peter, who smiled back. Sparks? Henk thought so - he frowned. Fleur didn''t notice her son''s reaction; she was busy flipping through her notebook. "Max, it''s the same. Four-four-one-one. Raffi Brown as the CAM arriving late on the end of crosses, getting up to support Chipper. There''s no magic. It''s solid football like you said. Efficient and sensible. I''ll say that they look to be getting better. Brown and Chipper are developing a great understanding and the overall speed and quality of play is faster and more intense. They''re really good but I can''t see the secret sauce you''re looking for."


    "Sudden formation shifts?"


    "No."


    "Instant reaction to oppo changes?"


    "No."


    "R. Brown is actually Jude Bellingham who drank Polyjuice Potion?"


    She smiled. "I did notice that he drinks exclusively from a small metal flask."


    I tapped the arm of my chair. "Folke Wester is calling the shots?"


    "Definitely."


    I didn''t know what to do about Bradford. Fleur couldn''t spot anything different at that club and I couldn''t go myself because we were always playing at the same time. I''d seen their second half switch with my own two eyes and I couldn''t explain it. Sending the Brig to spy on them or hack into their emails felt like it would cross a line.


    I sighed. "Hickman? The Exit Trial kids?"


    She shook her head.


    I would have to drop it for now - sending Fleur again and again was moronic. I clicked my teeth a few times. "All right, fine. Thanks. I''ll talk to Peter for a bit and I''ll be out in a minute. Henk, you can get them warmed up if you want."


    "I''ll do it," said Peter.


    "What, really?"


    "Yes. I''ll show you how we do it in Bavaria."


    I was about to make a joke but it died on my lips. "Thanks! That''ll be top. Henk, gather the lads and tell a story without using the letter E." Fleur and Henk left.


    "You wanted to say something," said Peter.


    "It''s not important, really. I mean it''s important but... Look, you''re my Sandra for a few weeks so I need to say things to you. Dump thoughts into you. Do you know what I mean?"


    "No."


    "Micro-therapy. Things I need to get off my chest. Things someone who has played the game understands better than a sports psychologist."


    "Oh. I see." He looked uncomfortable. Man Management 8.


    "I keep hearing the phrase ''cursed child'' and I wonder who it''s about. You look at Bonnie and Angel and think it''s easy to know which one''s blessed and which one''s cursed. Just look at them, right? But you go deeper and it''s the opposite because one can never be happy. Wait long enough it switches around again because the first can have moments of superficial happiness but the other can''t ever be happy.


    "And think about Henk and Benny and Tyson. Sometimes I wonder if I''m doing them wrong by boosting them the way I am. Henk''s a tier 6 player but he looks like a top quality defender. You watch him in a minute - he moves like Virgil Van Dijk. Isn''t that horrible? Better to look shit, right? How can you move so gracefully and appear to tick all the boxes and not get anywhere?


    "And Benny. Is he the most cursed? His dad''s a legend around here." I pushed my finger against my lips. "He has two first team goals. He''s got that, if he can find peace with it. Two goals and a Youth Cup win. Wouldn''t that be something? Can''t just tell him he''s shit and dump him, can I? He could be a legend for Warrington Town. Is Tyson cursed? He''s good enough to win three or four National League North titles, play hundreds of games. His dad''s got some money. He''s good-looking. He''ll be able to accept he''s not EFL quality easier than the others. Or will he?"


    "I do not know the players," said Peter, looking somehow even more uncomfortable.


    "I wonder if these thoughts are so present because of the Angel chat? A guy tried to kill me, Peter."


    "I know."


    "You could say he did it because his son wasn''t good enough. That''s not the reason - the reason is that he''s a fucking psycho - but it''s a warning, isn''t it? Maybe I''m the cursed child after all. I know how good they''re going to be and I want to push them to their limit but if you stop improving when you hit 18, wow. That''s mental, isn''t it? That''s a mindfuck. I don''t know how to prepare them for the realisation while keeping them motivated to play. I know with me I get demotivated if I stop improving but they''re here and they''re working their nuts off so I should let them get on with it and make their own decisions, right?"


    "Are you asking what my grandfather would advise you?"


    I blinked. What a strange thing to say. It felt important, but my phone beeped. Time to start the session. "Good chat. Thanks. Let''s curse some children, yeah?"


    ***


    Thursday, December 4


    Vans Trophy Round of 32: Blackpool versus Chester


    To: DB


    From: PB


    Subject: Blackpool


    Lieber Opi,


    I apologise for not writing a review of the Accrington match but they really dropped me in at the deep end. Sandra Lane showed me the lie of the land in a few hours and then I was left to sink or swim.


    Max Best does not suspect the true purpose of my visit. He has a mercenary view of my skills, seeing me as a coach who can improve his players and while he bounces tactical ideas off me, he might as well be talking to a mirror. I should perhaps be annoyed but I find it refreshing; the only reflection he sees is that of himself.


    Before the Accrington match, Max made some predictions and outlined a plan and in real time I thought that''s exactly how the match went, but later in my hotel room I watched it back and was bewildered by what I saw. Max had all but ruled out using a CAM but there were stretches where your friend Pascal played in that very spot. Meanwhile Max was on the left and we didn''t attack at all down the right. All because what they call the ''oppo'' manager had strengthened the right flank. When the oppo adjusted, so did Max, instantly. Instantly, Opi! Perhaps it is because he only plays for 20 minutes and there is no time to waste, but most managers wait to see how a change affects the flow of the match before they counter it.


    That was two days ago. A few hours ago we took the eco-bus north to Blackpool. Max''s video analysis of the opposition was to watch clips of Stanley Matthews from the 1950s.


    He predicted 4-4-2 and a strong opposition, and that is what we got. The first half was extremely tedious, very English. Many long balls disguised as ''big diags''. Max had selected a tall left back to help cope with the aerial bombardment and to rest the first-choice left back.


    We started with 4-1-4-1 and an instruction to ''keep things tight first 45'', which was taken as a joke but is also what they attempted to do. Chester have some good players - the two centre backs, the right back, Youngster, Lee Contreras, and Henri Lyons, the charming striker whose German is perfect. They competed well against their counterparts, but Cole Adams, the young left back, Andrew Harrison, Wes Hayward, and even Ryan Jack, formerly of Everton, were a marked step below the rest and the gulf between them and the Blackpool starters was visible. Being level at nil-nil going into the break was deserved in terms of work rate and application, but was not sustainable.


    Max praised his players at half time. It''s a feature of his dressing room that it is quiet and reflective. Near the end of the break he gives a few simple instructions and an image or thought for the players to carry with them. Today was ''do it for little baby Max''. Henri asked if Sandra had promised to call the baby that. Max said no but she would if we won. It stood to reason.


    Funny, but a simple reminder that they were playing for others. Their families, their friends, the community. I find myself looking at most of Max''s work as being very simple. Clear, simple formations with clear, simple tasks for the players. But is it the simplicity of the amateur or the simplicity of the master?


    I was enjoying the mental discussion until, with 25 minutes to go he brought five players off and sent five on, including himself. This was where, to quote Vimsy, I should ''strap in because all hell is about to break loose.''


    Three of the weaker players: Wes, Andrew, and Ryan went off. Magnus Evergreen joined Youngster as the DMs in the promised 4-2-3-1. The 3 were Max, Pascal, and Wibbers. Dazza the striker.


    But Max couldn''t keep still. I need to watch the tape to see if it''s ADHD or if he was looking for pockets of space to exploit. He popped up on the far right, left, and even as a third DM. Pascal moved with great intelligence and with the ball looked for clever interplay. Wibbers took long shots, went on dribbles, and attracted defenders to him like he was magnetic.


    Blackpool were reeling but Chester''s goal came from a free kick. We don''t practise free kick routines on the training ground, according to the sample schedule Sandra gave me, but this was perfectly executed. It was too far for a cross so Pascal sprinted along the edge of the penalty area like a wide receiver in motion in the NFL. He continued his run, Max passed to him, Pascal touched it back, and Best, from fifteen yards closer, crossed left-footed for Christian Fierce to head down into the goal. Very nice but when I asked Pascal how he knew to make that run he simply said ''it felt right''. Perhaps the football here is too much based on what they call ''vibes''.


    But while Max''s two-match plan had been executed pretty much perfectly until that moment, the flaws in it were apparent. Cole Adams was targeted and while he can win a header, his positioning is not currently up to scratch. In his defence, Max offered him little protection from midfield, choosing instead to station himself as a left-winger. He told me afterwards that it was a risk-reward play in Chester''s favour because if he got the ball he would have ripped Blackpool ''several new arses''.


    Blackpool scored, however, and after a frantic few minutes where both sides really went for it, the match finished one-all.


    No extra time - straight to penalties.


    Max was incredibly confident - Sticky in goal is imposing and for once Chester won the coin toss to go first. I didn''t have much to contribute to the order so I tried to say positive things to those who would take the five penalties.


    Max was the first. He was extremely fatigued but sent the keeper the wrong way and rolled the ball into the net.


    Blackpool took their first penalty, Sticky dived the wrong way, goal. One-all.


    Wibbers scored, as did Blackpool.


    Pascal scored. Ditto.


    Darren Smith, the Australian striker who after a tough start had scored 7 in 9, took an abysmal penalty that was easily saved.


    Blackpool scored to lead 4-3.


    I was surprised to see Magnus Evergreen stride forward as the fifth taker, but he took an ice-cold penalty.


    If Blackpool scored, they won.


    I haven''t mentioned the atmosphere because the turnout was low and the game only really got going when Best made the five changes. It was noisy now, though. A few hundred Chester fans pounded whatever was nearby...


    And the shot was saved!


    Sticky had got his timing spot on, guessed the right way, and reached out a long arm and a huge hand to deflect the ball behind.


    He ran off, crunching his abs as he shouted in triumph.


    Until he heard the repeated whistle. The referee had judged that Sticky had moved off his line too soon and forced the penalty to be retaken.


    Despair!


    So now the game theory. Should the penalty taker go the same way? Should Sticky?


    In the end, they both chose the same as before, but the penalty strike was cleaner and it zipped along the ground and into the net.


    Defeat on penalties, again.


    Worse news was to come. Four minor injuries were reported: Cole, Ryan, Lee C and Wes Hayward. Normally not a problem, but with another two-day turnaround, there''s no chance they can make the squad on Saturday. Cole is not a big loss because there are two other left back options, but Max has leaned on the other three. I am going to spend the rest of the ride home trying to piece together a formation that fits the players who remain.


    Match summary: Max is a gambler and today not all his bets paid off. He has taken it hard.


    P.S. In a lame attempt to cheer him up, I told him I had looked up The Cursed Child and found the story heavily featured ''Time Turners''. I asked Max if he had a Time Turner, what would he change from his lineup or substitutions? ''Nothing,'' he said. ''I absolutely nailed it.'' ''Then you cannot feel sad.'' ''I''m not sad. I''m fucking devastated.''


    P.P.S. It''s five minutes later. Max just handed me a team sheet for Saturday. 3-4-3 against Forest Green Rovers'' 4-5-1. A rest for Youngster, with Pascal and Wibbers on the bench to replace Dazza and anyone else who shows signs of fatigue. Max said he might have to play the second half as a centre back to give one of those lads a break. He didn''t seem to be joking but then he did smile. ''Unless YOU want to play.'' I said, ''I''m not as good as my grandfather, Max.'' He got annoyed. ''I don''t need you to be as good as him, do I? I need you to be better than Sunday Sowumni so I can rest Christian Fierce for fucking once.'' He calmed a little and said, ''I bet your grandad wasn''t as good as your grandad half the time.'' With that cryptic comment, he put his big headphones on and listened to music while, inexplicably, he looked at photos of commercial bathrooms on an antique iPad.


    From: DB


    To: PB


    Subject: Blackpool


    ''I bet your grandad wasn''t as good as your grandad half the time.''


    He''s right! Wonderful line. I might steal it.


    Please pay attention, Peter. Max Best knows a lot, including how far he can push his players. I am more convinced than ever that this is just what you need. Stick with it.


    ***


    Friday, December 5


    I had a bad morning when I realised the mad schedule, the disrupted training, the injuries, the travel, and the cup defeat had left us with an entire week of training that featured zero pops. Zero improvement!


    It wasn''t Peter''s fault - he was good. Without the curse, I might have had some doubts about that because a few players had come to me to low-level complain about his methods. The drills were new, fresh, interesting, but Peter stopped them when a player made a mistake. He would explain what had gone wrong and restart the drill from the beginning.


    Sandra, Jude, and Well In tended to allow the drills to flow and give corrections at the end. Peter''s way was jarring.


    One such complaint came from Lee C, who was watching training while waiting for a free physio. I replied, "Yeah it''s a bit fussy and you''re frustrated in the moment but this is the kind of precision they demand at a superclub. This is what elite training looks like. Don''t you want a taste of it?"


    He did.


    I went into the curse shop and looked at the monthly special offer. Secret Sandra would let me boost someone''s training rate - at a cost. At two costs, in fact, since I had to buy the fucking thing before I started piling XP into it.


    I had to give the imps some credit - they knew how to press my buttons. Since it had appeared in the shop it had been nagging at me. I had two left backs, Josh and Cole, who had been improving at almost identical rates since their arrival. With Secret Sandra I could gift one of them ten or twenty XP per day and track what difference it made to their CA levels over, say, three months. That would give me an extremely solid idea of what the perk did.


    It would also delay me from buying Relationism and lock me into some element of future grinding. But I was getting 250 XP a week just from hanging around Bumpers Bank - I could invest some of that into Cole Adams, right?


    If I was careful, I would be able to afford Relationism before the West Ham United match.


    Fuck it - the perk was solid and I''d always wanted a training boost. I spent the 2,000 XP to unlock it, and since it was too late to use it on the men''s first team, I went to the women''s squad page and gifted 10 XP to Dani.


    After training, Peter and I walked along Bumpers Lane to the Deva. "I don''t think Dieter was being totally honest when he sent you over, Peter. I think he wants me to show you what it''s like being the manager of a small club because he wants you to go off on your own and do it. How close am I?"


    He didn''t break stride. "Somewhat close."


    "Okay. You''ll come to this meeting and get a taste of the behind-the-scenes work. Depending on the size of the club you''re managing you''ll need to get involved with all sorts of crap. I doubt you''d go low enough that you''d need to wash the kits yourself."


    "Why do you say that?" he said, in what might have been a sharp tone.


    "Because not even I started that low. Here''s something interesting: Lee Contreras. When I met him he was in the direction of manic, put more effort into his TikToks than his game. Now he''s really serious and focused."


    "This is bad?"


    I smiled. "I wish it was something I had done, right? So I could take the credit."


    "Perhaps you can."


    He didn''t explain and we crossed the road. By the time we got to the other side, I had a new topic. "Okay, you''re going to meet a few of the admin team. The money people. MD''s the closest thing I have to a boss but the interesting character is Brooke. You''ll find she''s smart and determined and has a big heart. Her brother is Chip, the fucking hateful dipshit who is running Bradford City. They''re, what, fifteen points ahead of us? He is gobby as fuck right now so we need to shut him up on January 4. If this was a fairytale, who would you say is the one who''d been cursed?


    "Chip, cursed by stupidity, winning by pure luck on the back of other people''s labour and daddy''s money, thinking it makes him big and strong? Or Brooke, who should be turning a three hundred million dollar business into a three billion dollar one but would like to go out and see the world while she''s young. Instead she''s turning a three million pound business into a four million pound one while people write glowing profiles about her shitty brother.


    "She''s in a Greek tragedy." I stopped walking. "We all are. Maybe that''s the answer. We''re all cursed. None of us are ever going to be happy. We''ll never get what we want if we look for it from other people because we live in a world where Chip Star is popular and if I lose on penalties to a team with four times our budget I''m a figure of fun and mockery."


    Peter didn''t say anything and didn''t seem very interested in the conversation so I shut my gob. We went up and into the boardroom.


    ***


    I made the introductions and noted the older men were starstruck by Peter while Peter was Star struck. There followed the usual small talk - yes, I''m disappointed about losing another penalty shoot-out, yes Dazza is practising penalties, no it isn''t as easy as it looks - and we got to business.


    Secretary Joe confirmed that we were past 3.5 million in bond sales. MD said he was in discussions with Man United about our ticket allocation (we would likely get about five thousand tickets to sell to our fans, but MD was hoping to get 9,000). Brooke updated us on the 3G pitch income. The pitch at Bumpers was rammed and was bringing in a solid 2,000 a week. Hoole was slightly less popular but had more hours available on it, and the income had settled down at 2,300 a week, though we didn''t own a nearby watering hole where we could extract even more money from the players. Brooke said we were vanishingly unlikely to ever be allowed to build a pub anywhere close.


    Ah, well. It was all good. MD agreed to increase my budget by 4,300 pounds a week starting on the first of January.


    "Great," I said, sarcastically. "That''ll pay for four days of Peter''s hair gel."


    We turned to look at him while his hand shot up to touch his hair. "Is it - ? Does it look - ?"


    Brooke said, "It suits you. Ignore Max, he''s not used to having competition in the best hair stakes."


    While she was lying straight to our guest''s face, I got up and walked behind MD. As best I could, I bear-hugged him and squeezed. "Fank ooooooh. Fank ooh, MD. Do you want a little peck on the cheek?"


    "Not in the workplace, Max."


    "Kay. Shoulder massage?" I suggested. "Looks like a lot of tension there. If you don''t want a shoulder rub, can I give you a voucher for a spa day? Peter, when you get a job don''t forget you need to manage up, too."


    MD made a scoffing noise.


    Secretary Joe said, "What if he''s a future Bayern manager?"


    I shrugged. "What''s the difference? Even bosses deserve relaxation."


    Peter shook his head with a slight smile. "I don''t think I would offer my boss at Bayern a shoulder rub, even as a joke. Our president ran Adidas for fifteen years. He would not find it charming."


    "Who said I found it charming?" said MD.


    I finger-gunned Peter. "We need more sponsors out here. The club and the players. Get me an in with Adidas and I''ll let you beat me at Conkers."


    Brooke said, "Ruth would love to meet someone from Adidas. The big sports companies don''t seem to value her agency''s young stars to the same level Max does."


    I felt I had made a mistake in introducing the Adidas chat, so I killed it. "Peter isn''t here to get Angel another sponsor; he''s here to learn to be a football manager. To learn from the best. Max Best." I laughed at how pompous I sounded and walked over to my trusty flipchart and turned to a fresh page. "All this info gets released in the accounts, Peter, so don''t worry that you''re hearing secret stuff, but I''m about to find out my transfer budget so please don''t let that out of this room. And there will be some brainstorming and I''m liable to say some fucking outrageous things - " MD groaned. "So, yeah, embargo this until the summer at least, please."


    "I will say nothing."


    "Top top top. Okay our budget right now is 30 grand." I wrote that on the board. "From Jan 1 it''s plus 4,300. We''ve got Foquita coming in for two thousand and I promised Andrew two hundred."


    All eyes were on me and I briefly felt absurd and out of place. When Brooke''s father died, unless he was incredibly spiteful, she was going to be a billionaire. MD had fat stacks. Peter came from a background of top-tier footballer wealth. Only Secretary Joe understood what two hundred pounds meant when you didn''t have it.


    I pressed on. "We''re freeing up 950 from Eddie, 600 from Sharky, 640 from Ben. Bark''s coming in at 700. Therefore," I said, grandly, "the amount of money remaining in my wage budget will be... What the fuck, guys? I''m waiting for someone to do the maths for me."


    "Three thousand, seven hundred and ninety pounds a week," said Joe.


    I wrote 3790 on the flipchart and drew a rectangle around it. "That," I mused, "is very fucking decent. I want two players, I think. A goalie and someone who can play left-mid. Or I could get a huge batch of prospects."


    "You''re short on centre backs," said Peter.


    "Yeah," I said, rubbing my forehead. The gap from the first choice guys to Sunday Sowumni was so enormous I had barely been able to use him. Lee H could play centre back, as could Magnus, but things were strained. On the other hand, our latest cup exit snipped off three fixtures we might potentially have had. More rest for the lads over the coming months. I had five reliable centre backs and one prospect. That had to be enough, right? "I think we''ll have to tough it out. If we get an Aff type or some kind of skilful left-footer who can play wide or as a CAM, that will make 3-5-2 and 3-4-3 more viable. And there''s always..."


    I checked the perk store. The next formation I could buy was 3-4-2-1, the cutting-edge formation favoured by Man United''s new manager. What if I surprised him by using his own formation against him? It would make even more sense if I had another creative forward to go with Pascal and Wibbers. Unlocking the formation would cost 5,000 XP...


    "Peter, can you give me an analysis on 3-4-2-1? Obviously an emphasis on how United use it, but also do you think it would work for us? From what I know of it, one of the midfielders sits and patrols so that would suit Youngster."


    "I would be happy to."


    "Bosh," I mumbled. "I''d love another top centre back, though. If there''s a bargain on the market I might consider it. Could be worth it just to let Zach and Christian spend more time on the training pitch. Another guy like Lee H but with more of a ceiling. Yeah. Okay this has cheered me up. Let''s talk about my millions of pounds."


    I thought I saw MD''s shoulders tense again so I made a massaging motion and raised my eyebrows. Do you want...? He did not want.


    On the board I wrote 158,000. "Our cup prize money. Half goes to the players, as agreed. It''s about three grand per man depending on whether they were named in squads or not. I hope it isn''t overly pessimistic to say we probably won''t be adding to that. I''d like to use the club''s half to invest in equipment for the players but there''s nowhere to store anything right now so..."


    I crossed out that number and wrote 79,000. Below that, I wrote 75,000, 50,000, 100,000, and 300,000. "Incoming transfer fees for Simon Black, Ben, Eddie, and Sharky." Minus 75,000. "Outgoing fee for Bark. MD, what are we projecting from Man U?"


    "I''m budgeting 1.1 million from our share of the ticket sales, plus over 100,000 from TV."


    Brooke said, "We''ll shift a lot of merch and Grindhog are saying we might sell out on home kits again. They''re pulling their hair out."


    MD said, "We won''t know the numbers at the start of the transfer window so I wouldn''t want to plan around them."


    "No stress," I said. "I''m not going to be nagging you about the half-and-half scarf sales."


    "Do you promise?"


    "Let''s just round this 79 up to 80 so my tiny head can deal with the numbers. Good?"


    "I think we can agree to that."


    I tapped the marker pen against my temple. "Prize money, transfers, Man United. Is there anything I''ve forgotten?"


    MD said, "We got the money from FIFA for Youngster playing in the World Cup."


    "Oh, cool," I said. "It''s a few thousand, right? Why don''t we give that to the food bank Youngster helps at? Would that go down well? Shift some bonds?"


    Brooke said, "I don''t think so. More likely the opposite effect because people would think we don''t need the money and they don''t want to invest in us if we''re being political."


    I gritted my teeth and simmered. "Feeding the hungry is political. Helping people in need is political. Right. It''s like Jesus said, fuck thy neighbour."


    "Max," complained MD, but I had come to the boil.


    I stared out the window onto the green, green grass of home. One last push and I''d be free of the gammons forever. This was the last time I would ever need outside help. When the fund hit five million I was free to go full anti-gammon, from here till eternity, till death do us part, and if the sponsors didn''t like it, we could go blank because there would always be a market for strikers and I knew how to find them. Gammons weren''t born to this world to be happy. They weren''t supposed to be enjoying it.


    As a football manager I could wind them up better than almost anyone in the country. I would establish the Premier League''s first ever hedgehog-specific veterinarian clinic. I would fly a pride flag next to those of Wales, Germany, and France. I would give a room at Bumpers over to a migrant from a war-torn country. There would be regular spikes in the incidence of ulcers nationwide. Put that number on my Wikipedia page.


    Gammons were the cursed children and there were millions of them shuffling around, as apocalyptic and damaging as a zombie horde. Unlike zombies, they weren''t interested in brains.


    "Max?" said MD, which brought me back to the here and now. I had to pretend to be puny and weak for just a little while longer.


    "Look at the pretty numbers," said Joe in a soothing tone, which made me smile. "It''s one point six three million total, Max."


    I wrote it down. "Number go up," I said. The magnificent heft of the number calmed me all the way down. "And we''ll get a million in the summer when Foquita moves on. Plus the TV money goes up by half a million. Printer go brr." I walked to the window and looked out onto the pitch. Next season it would be modern and one entire stand would have been rebuilt. If I bought the right players now, next season would be one of the greatest in the history of the sport.


    "We are likely to need some cash to kit out the McNally," said Brooke. "I think we can get the stand up in time for the season but the food and drink provision will be extremely limited and the hospitality boxes will be shells."


    I nodded. The budget was tight and any slippage or extra costs meant some of the finishing touches would be postponed. Of course, those finishing touches were the ones that generated revenue. "It''ll be fine," I said. "Every home match we''ll open a new section of the concourse. It''ll be more exciting than if it was all ready on day one."


    "We might have to offer a discount on season tickets."


    "No problem. Open the poverty mindset document. Control A, select all, delete. Bosh. We''ll be playing Newcastle and Man United every season. Write that down."


    MD chuckled. "Max, be serious."


    I gave him a level stare. "I''m being serious. Our first eleven is getting to be a match for anyone in League Two and if I spend wisely we''ll extend that to League One soon enough. The new challenge is to get two good players in every position. I want to be able to cope with weeks like these, and we need to start preparing for life in the Championship."


    "League One," said MD.


    "Nope. Control F, find League One. Find and replace with Championship. We are on the march and we need to prepare." From what I''d seen, CAs in the Championship ranged from 110 to 149. 110 to 130 were the bottom half teams. 131 to 149 included well-managed playoff teams and the big dogs who''d come down from the Prem. I had a few lads who wouldn''t make the grade - Omari and Tom, for example - plus a few who would be good squad players - Andrew, Sticky, Josh. Christian would fit in that category but it wasn''t his destiny to be fourth choice centre back for anyone. "We need to use this money to get some proper mega quality in. But we can''t let training suffer so I''m thinking we should commit to getting the showers done."


    "The showers?" said Peter.


    "Yeah. Think of Bumpers. There''s a meeting room we don''t use much. That would be one corner of the building and the opposite corner would be the viewing room that overlooks the 3G pitch. Make sense?"


    "Yes, I can picture it."


    "Control A on all those cabins, delete. Open new file: six changing rooms with showers, two boot rooms, a laundry room, disabled toilets, loads of lockers for when we''re hosting tournaments."


    Brooke said, "The architects had more time to think about it, Max, and they''ve offered another option. You can get the basic one for 400,000, or add a second floor for 600."


    "What goes on the second floor?"


    "Whatever you want. Offices. The charity needs an office. Meeting rooms, media rooms, classrooms. You could put some golf simulators up there; the players would love it. Or the vast dental clinic you keep talking about. You wouldn''t need to decide immediately but it''s a chance to think ahead. You told me you want most of the site''s footprint used for pitches so if we keep adding rooms, we will need to get vertical at some stage."


    Another one of those dilemmas! The basic version would be a huge upgrade on what we had, but the deluxe version would pay off manyfold in the long term. Two hundred thousand was nothing in comparison to getting an extra floor, but the difference between having a transfer budget of one million versus one point two, at this stage of our project, instinctively felt enormous and significant.


    Brooke continued. "Just a reminder that doing the restaurant would generate revenue. And to put it out there, there''s enough in the budget to do the deluxe versions of both."


    I thought about Chip Star. He was having a ball running a football club, spending all his money on players. He was prune juicing it, though. Money in, money out. He would leave nothing except a Wikipedia mention of a second-place finish. I wanted to leave behind tangible proof that I had been there, and I wanted the club to be able to sustain itself. Replacing a handful of ugly cabins with a beautiful building that contained a restaurant and a sports bar supported by two massive kitchens, with function rooms, even a roof terrace... It would be a solid investment that would last after I was gone. "That one has to wait, I''m afraid, but I want it bad. And I want more 3G pitches all over Cheshire and North Wales. Soon. Soooon. For now, let me see what I can do in the transfer market and I''ll let you know about the shower block asap."


    That was pretty much the meeting. I took one last look at the number on the board. 1.63 million pounds.


    That was a lot of Exit Triallists.


    ***


    Saturday, December 6


    Match 19 of 46: Forest Green Rovers versus Chester


    To: DB


    From: PB


    We are on the bus coming back from a tiny village that somehow has an English football league team. Final score 0-0, so Chester are still 9th in the table but they are now 17 points behind Bradford City.


    The match was more interesting than expected. I have seen reporters on social media say Chester played for a draw. Not true - Max prioritised fitness and avoiding injury over winning, which is not something I can say I have ever seen before.


    There were prominent roles for Andrew Harrison and Tom Westwood, two men who can run and run. Dazza, Wibbers, and Pascal shared two slots, and there was an injury scare for Henri. Max subbed him off immediately and went up front himself. Shame - I was interested to see him play as a centre back!


    He was even more drained than he looked, though, and Forest Green''s 4-5-1 didn''t leave him any space to exploit. He nearly created a goal from a crossed free kick but with five minutes to go he came to me and asked if I had any good scams up my sleeve. I told him the side looked shattered and the only way to generate threat would be to send defenders forward but that the risk/return was horrible.


    He said he agreed with me and finished the match as a defensive midfielder, but in the dressing room he was very down and there was a remarkable exchange. It started when Max asked for everyone''s attention.


    ''Lads, we had a bad week and I know a few of you are as sick about it as I am. But look, it''s on me. No-one could fault your commitment, quality, or desire. I hold my hands up. I looked at the fixtures and wanted to win them all. It might have been better to bin one off. Get six points, or three and go through in the cup. There''s a saying, a man who chases two rabbits catches none. I chased three rabbits this week and got none.''


    Henri stood up. ''Sorry, my friend, but you are speaking crap. We took a League One side to penalties and got four points from six. It is, at worst, a 7 out of 10 week.''


    ''We were lucky we didn''t get even more injuries than we did.''


    ''It is December in England and the matches come thick and fast. Players get injured. Thanks to you we do not have months of fatigue in our legs and thanks to the Brig we have resilience in our joints. Stop being so dramatic. Sit down and suffer in silence.''


    ''No. We''ve been through the grind and now it''s time to win every match. For Sandra and little baby Max.''


    ''Little baby Henri has not been born and by the way, that is very good news. We should focus on the positives. We have two easy weeks ahead, do we not? There is no club in the world that can play four matches in seven days and expect to win them all. But since you are miserable, I will cheer you up. I volunteer to start against Winsford United on Tuesday.''


    ''Whoa!'' said Dazza, jumping up. ''I only played a half today. I''m fit for Tuesday.''


    ''What about me?'' cried Tom, who had just run like a ferret for ninety minutes. ''I''m supposed to play the Cheshire Cup! I want to score for little baby Tom.''


    Suddenly the entire squad was on its feet, shouting out reasons they should be picked. Max had already told me he expects to use players almost exclusively from the under eighteens, but this show of support brought a smile to his face. He held up his hands. ''All right, all right, you''ve cheered me up. You''re allowed to talk about Man United on the bus home.''


    Youngster clenched a fist and hissed ''yessss!''


    Pascal yelled, ''Are we still going up, boss?''


    ''Of course we''re fucking going up,'' said Max, and he got ready to deliver a monologue, but Pascal interrupted by shouting ''We. Are. Going up! Said we are going up.''


    The chant was taken up by the others and the mood was as though we had won.


    I''m learning to expect the unexpected. Which is exactly what you told me to expect.


    ***


    Sunday, December 7


    The women went down to Bristol to play their FA Cup third round match. Since it was likely to be the team''s last competitive match of the season - Bristol were seventh in the Championship, two levels higher - I decided to show my face. I invited Peter, not really expecting him to want to come, but he accepted and sat in the back with Emma.


    I picked up a tasty 547 experience points that put me right back on track to affording Relationism.


    XP balance: 23,890


    I was 2,400 XP away from picking up the perk, and after that, if I went absolutely bonkers, I would also be able to afford a new formation before the Man United game.


    "Babes," said Emma.


    I realised I was driving like a fucking nutjob. "Soz," I said.


    Extra grinding? No chance. I couldn''t push myself any harder than I already was. Not at Christmas.


    Instead of piling on future responsibilities, I thought back to what I''d just seen.


    The match itself had been an all-time classic. Jackie Reaper''s 3-4-2-1 used Ridley T, a left back, at left midfield, but she was told not to make forward runs. Putting our strongest eleven on the pitch - Maddy might disagree - gave us an average CA of 58.


    Bristol''s was 77.


    They were playing 3-4-3 and had two young players I started lusting after immediately, but there was no way they would drop two tiers to play for us. On the other hand, they were being paid buttons. Maybe they would!


    I would need to wait to watch the documentary to know what Jackie said to our players, but they came out firing on all cylinders. All the things that bothered me when they got complacent - the slow passes, the lack of intensity, not getting into position to support a teammate - there was none of that. Given the quality of the opposition, it might have been the best 45 minutes from any Chester team so far that season.


    At the heart of it was Sarah Greene. She had learned to pass at Man City but she was born to run. For the first goal she danced through four defenders, sat the goalie on her arse, and dinked the ball up, over, and in. For the second she exchanged passes with Dani and struck an early shot before Bristol''s goalie had set herself.


    Our third came from a corner, when Femi showed more desire than any defender and powered in a header.


    I was keeping a close eye on Angel and she played well in the first half. The curse rated her 7 out of 10 and she was selfless with her work off the ball, often moving into space to create gaps for Sarah and Dani, and twice she won a free kick in a dangerous position by holding the ball up as the coaches had been teaching her.


    In the second half, though, as Bristol struggled to get back into the match, Angel was clearly thinking about how the fixture would look in the documentary. The episode would be called The Sarah Green Show, wouldn''t it, and I wouldn''t need to artificially cut Angel out.


    Angel decided to get herself some attention by faking an injury. She lay on the grass until treatment came, and the physio made the ''sub'' gesture. I could imagine the narrator''s voice. "This injury comes at a terrible time for Chester. Angel is so important for the team. What will they do without her?"


    Jackie chose Bea Pea as her replacement ahead of the slightly more able Julie McKay. Bea Pea, lacking match sharpness, struggled from the off and Bristol sensed that the tide had turned. One of the centre backs pushed out to man-mark Sarah and their midfield established dominance over ours.


    Suddenly we were hanging on.


    The first of the two players I liked was Penny Wise, a fast, powerful left-midfielder who was basically my dream Aff replacement. She caused mayhem with her dribbling and crossing.


    The second was a redhead striker called Hodges. 22 years old, high CA, high PA, and my opinion was that she would be even more stunning in blue and white instead of red. She scored a header followed by a screamer from the edge of the penalty area.


    The last fifteen minutes were torture. We got pushed back, and back... but held firm.


    Bristol City 2, Chester 3.


    Yes, Jackie mate!


    Peter had got sucked into the drama and tension. He had been quiet on the way down but was now chatting away with Emma and I realised the topic was his grandfather.


    "I''m his legacy but all I can ever be is a disappointment. He was one of the best defenders who ever played the game. Some say the best. He was one of the best managers who ever managed. Some say the best. I can never even get close to that. People look at me and all they see is a shadow."


    I made a harsh buzzing noise. "Sorry, wrong answer. I think you''re fucking mint."


    "Max!" said Emma, outraged. "Peter is talking about his feelings."


    "Yeah? Living up to your name? How about living up to yourself? I was the best player in the world for a few months. Now I''m shit. That''s the shadow. I read that book Moneyball and one of the older players hits a shot that goes quite far but he''s disappointed. That used to be a home run, he says. That''s how it was for me. Imagine being able to do anything with a football to the extent you''re trying to defy physics."


    "What is that in reference to?" said Peter.


    "I was trying to create a new kind of free kick. I wanted it to spin madly when it bounced so it would pop off the goalie and whoever was first to the ball could score."


    "Why not score yourself?"


    "My goal bonuses would have bankrupted the club," I said, smiling at the memory. I''d come a long way since Darlo.


    "Why not renegotiate your contract?"


    I smiled. "It was easier to rewrite physics. That''s what I''m saying. You can''t believe how good I was." I let out a sigh. Would I get back to those levels? If I kept going, yes. I would have a year or two of pure mystery winger and I would be able to play full 90 minute matches if I chose. That wasn''t compatible with being a top manager but perhaps I''d treat myself to one match a month. In a packed Deva stadium, twenty thousand singing my name, defenders begging me to stop dribbling.


    "How do you stand it? Not being as good as you''re supposed to be?"


    "Erm," I said, as I carefully overtook a caravan. Who caravans in the British winter? "It''s easier because I''m the manager, I think. I live through the team, the club. On the pitch I do my small part but it doesn''t really matter if it''s me or Dazza or Wibbers scoring. Better if it''s them, actually, because it increases their value and I''ll get more money when I sell. If I score every goal, like at the start of the season, it''s not a good sign. That said, it helps that I create chances and threat. If I was a centre back like you it''d be harder to go on for twenty minutes and make a difference. Maybe I''d go to DM - that''s overpowered - or man-mark a troublesome opponent. I think if I was a CB I''d play the whole 90 or not at all."


    It got quiet in the back so I tried to put myself in Peter''s shoes. He was struggling with his legacy. It would be every boy''s dream to have a grandfather like Dieter, but what if it wasn''t as good as it seemed? Maybe it was better to be Jamie Brotherhood and be better than your dad.


    "No-one can say I''m failing because I have different aims to everyone else in football. Chip Star''s goal is to make a big splash and, presumably, sell Bradford for a big profit. They come second, he ten exes his dad''s investment, he gets a child of the week trophy. Alan Turner wants to manage England. Bristol City''s women, today, they''re in a tough spot because they can''t compete in the Super League so they''re finding it hard to keep hold of talent when they get it. They''re just bumbling along and they''re out of the cup. What''s the point of their season now? None. But they''ll play their hearts out every week, won''t they?"


    "Yes," said Peter.


    "My long-term ambitions are massive but sometimes it''s the little things that make my day. We have a dentist, did you know that? A club dentist. That''s healthcare for the people I''m responsible for, plus their families. I''m proud of that. The struggle is worth it. By the way, any hack can win the Bundesliga with Bayern and loads of shit managers have won World Cups. Your grandad was great, no doubt about it, but could he beat Winsford United away on a cold Tuesday night?"


    "Absolutely yes."


    I laughed. "I think I''m supposed to get you to do some managing. You can do that game if you want."


    The astonishment he was feeling was evident. "Are you for real?"


    "Sure, why not? It''s the easiest win of all time."


    "Don''t you want it for your own legacy? Your own win percentage?"


    "Nah," I said. "I cared about that stuff at first but it''s not a good measure of the job I''m doing, is it? What about the overall value of the squad? I''ve won two leagues and sold players for over a million and a half. If you knew what I had when I started you''d know how astonishing that is. I care even less about my personal stats since I hired Sandra. I give her as many matches as I can, especially the easy ones. She''s going to be part of my legacy when she takes over a men''s team."


    Emma said, "Sandra''s a ledge."


    "The offer''s there, Peter. It''d be fun, wouldn''t it? Cool story for the Winsford United players, too. I really like your grandad and if he wants you to be a manager this will put a smile on his face. You can always say you didn''t like it and that''s that, right? I don''t really mind either way because I''ll get credit just for making the offer." I laughed. "You can let me down as long as you tell Dieter how great I am." I laughed some more. "Seriously, though, I don''t like being told what to do by anyone and that''s not what''s happening here. Ah, that reminds me. I do need to tell you what to do... Tomorrow morning the lads will still be tired so can we do some of my Relationism drills and then have a slow-motion game?"


    "Of course."


    "The rest of the week''s yours and you can push them hard. We''ll beat Crewe if we get enough players fully fit."


    "Good. It will be nice to have a win on the board for when little baby Peter is born."


    I bounced and punched the steering wheel with delight. "Yes! Peter Bauer in the area! We''ll fill you with Chesterness, don''t you doubt it."


    Emma pushed him and chanted, "One of us! One of us!"


    Peter did a goofy grin for a while.


    I looked through the squad screen. We had far too many players with low Condition. "Ems," I said. "Can we get you in a Chester training kit tomorrow morning? We need some bodies for a slow-motion session. You just have to move around in a big blob. No running, guaranteed."


    "Can''t, babes. Not sure if I ever told you this but I''m actually a superstar lawyer star. I''m doing a legacy. My Wikipedia page doesn''t say ''slacked off every Monday morning to have lukewarm showers with loads of hot, sweaty elite athletes''. Actually, hang on. I''m not that busy tomorrow."


    Peter laughed. "I''ll do it, Max. I''m incredibly interested in Relationism. Pascal is an effective evangelist."


    "Oh, top," I said, relieved. All he had to do was stroll around and he wouldn''t need to be told who was on his team every five seconds unlike certain other people. "Babes, you''re sacked."


    "Oi," she said.


    That conversation, believe it or not, had far-reaching consequences and I would soon realise that Peter Bauer had not been sent to Chester for the reason I thought.


    ***


    Monday, December 8


    It struck me over the weekend that I had exactly one chance to get seriously good data about the Secret Sandra perk. I might never again have a pair of players who had grown at the exact same pace for such a long period as Cole and Josh. It made more sense to dump a substantial chunk of XP into Cole''s development in order to see what was possible and how much the perk could benefit me and the club.


    My initial plan had to be to ''gift'' him 10 XP per day, but of course we didn''t train on weekends. If I bumped it up to 50 a day, that would cost me 250 a week. If I consistently did that over three months I would get very, very solid results and I would know if it was ever going to be worth investing more.


    I gifted Cole 50 XP and watched to see if he glowed or if a sky-high pillar of light shot out from his crown. Nothing of the sort happened, but then again, most curse effects were not visible.


    Peter did some German recovery session drills and then I asked Dan, Wibbers, and Pascal to demonstrate some of the basic principles of Relationism. Their enthusiasm was cute but they veered into wild-eyed explanations of using the touchline as a defender and the importance of using flicks to move the ball away from the press so I shushed them and said it was better to learn by doing. I made Dan and Wibbers team captains for one side, Pascal for the other, and we did a very simple, slow, match.


    Peter Bauer was on Pascal''s team and sometimes they shouted incomprehensible things to each other like ''Rechts!'' and ''Achtung'' and ''tiptop, super.''


    We were only doing the sessions in case I ended up using Relationism in the Man United match so I didn''t care how good it was or how it looked. It was all about establishing plausible deniability. I couldn''t just turn up and force a football team into a blob. Making some randos play 4-4-2 better was completely believable. Having the entire team move to the side of the pitch without a word from me was going to get me covered in electrodes and put in a glass case.


    Yeah, I had to put some token amount of work in.


    What did the rest of my day look like? Busy getting ready for Christmas with Emma, Henri, and Luisa. Lots of different things to buy that would take us from one side of Chester to the other. Was there a gap where I could trigger Playdar? While I was passing a school, maybe. It was one of those days when it would be pretty crazy if I suddenly got out of the car and signed a kid. Nah, forget it. As always, it was a shame to waste the gift; it was a once-per-24-hour shot.


    I watched as Peter Bauer took a pass and played it simply on, deeper into the blob.


    A crazy thought struck me. What if I used Playdar now? Wouldn''t it show me his profile? Perhaps not, because he had retired from football. I hadn''t asked about his injuries because it was always the same - knees - and because he was probably sick of talking about them. That was also why I''d never asked him about Dieter. He wanted to be his own man, didn''t he? The more time I spent with him, the more I understood how it was. People didn''t see Peter, they saw Dieter. It would drive you tonto.


    It wouldn''t cost me anything to have a peek, though, would it? He was there kicking the ball. Any kid in the world, any demon, any imp, would say that Peter Bauer was playing football, but if the curse chose not to show me his profile, it wouldn''t have cost me anything.


    Fuck it. Let''s see how much worse than his grandad he actually was. I reckoned it was a safe bet to say that Dieter was PA 200 and had maxed his talent.


    I waited for the ball to be rolling towards my target and hit Playdar.


    A bright yellow column of light erupted from Peter just as he took a touch, looked up, and saw Pascal making a slow run. Peter made to clip the ball over the top but then remembered his shit knees. He held a hand up in apology and played a short pass instead. Pascal looked annoyed, realised why the pass hadn''t come, and gave a thumbs up, big smile, moved back into the blob.


    Pascal had surprised me by falling in love with Relationism. The space invader, the positional master, loved the hectic intensity of the blob, and he loved being on the same team as the legend''s shadow.


    The legend''s shadow.


    I took a shaky half-step backwards. Playdar had revealed Peter''s player profile.


    Peter Bauer, it read. German. Centre back. Aged 25. Yeah yeah yeah.


    Positioning 19. Passing 18. Technique 18. Influence 17. Tell me you''re Dieter Bauer''s grandson without telling me.


    Current Ability: 40. Yeah. The guy took training with Bayern Munich every day. He hadn''t completely lost it.


    Potential Ability: 166. We had Lee Hudson, Lee Contreras, and now we had hooooooo-lee fuck.


    Peter Bauer could have been earning two hundred grand a week playing for a top six Premier League team. He could have had ten caps for Germany by now.


    It was such a shame that...


    Hang on.


    I clicked in, out, in, out. I closed the curse. I walked away until the player profiles vanished, walked back.


    One more time I went to Peter Bauer''s inner tabs, saw again that he was earning an utterly insane seven thousand pounds a week, and found myself getting absolutely furious, incandescently angry. It wasn¡¯t that fact that he was being paid more than twice what I was.


    Two words were winding me all the way up. All the way up and more!


    Injuries, said the curse, which was never, ever wrong about this stuff.


    Injuries, it said... none.


    ***


    Tuesday, December 9


    To: DB


    From: PB


    Subject: Cheshire Cup Second Round


    The Cheshire Cup is a regional trophy and was won by Chester in the past two seasons. Sandra Lane is normally in charge of these matches and negotiates with Max about the line up. Her motivation is to win the match and thus she pushes for the strongest possible starting eleven. Max tries to assure victory while giving minutes to players returning from injury, youth prospects, squad players, and so on. He puts himself on the bench in case anything goes wrong because he is unusually motivated to win this competition.


    ''It''s the Cheshire Cup'', he says. ''Chester is in Cheshire. I want us to be the number one team in Cheshire. Fuck, I want us to be the number one team in Europe but we''re not in the Champions League yet. We''re in this so we win this. End of conversation.''


    Max picked a youthful team. Basically the under eighteens plus Sunday Sowunmi and Tom Westwood with some big names on the bench in case of emergency.


    The manager picked a very English 4-4-2 and had fun tweaking things. Lucas Friend, a left back, was outstanding and the manager gave him licence to attack. To ensure defensive stability, the manager kept Jamie Brotherhood, the right back, in defensive pose.


    The players listened to the manager and tried their best to follow his instructions. At times they were unable to and the manager had to undo his error but they showed great spirit and a complete lack of ego. They play for the team and if they are asked to do something they will try. It is up to the manager to ask them the right questions.


    The score at half time was two-nil thanks to goals from the striker Tom Westwood, a player who redefines the word indefatigable.


    In the dressing room, Max asked who among the subs wanted to play for their legendary manager and eleven hands went up. There are five subs in this competition, which means every sub put both hands up and one man cheated.


    The manager kept faith with his young players, who went three-nil ahead, then made three changes. He put Max Best on at right-midfield but immediately regretted it as Max did all kinds of inane things such as touching his knee to the ball and spraying pointless but incredible 70-yard passes from right wing to left back.


    He persuaded Max to play properly for a moment. It was enough. Four-nil! The manager was content.


    The manager was me.


    I was the manager.


    By the time you read this I will have been added to Wikipedia''s list of managers of Chester Football Club. Max Best, Sandra Lane, Peter Bauer.


    My win percentage is one hundred percent. I managed Max Best. I helped with the development of many young players. A player called Fungrieve scored his first goal for the club under my watchful eye.


    Just before we got on the coach after the victory, Max put his hand on my shoulder and gazed into my soul. ''Every blessing ignored becomes a curse.''


    I said, ''I don''t believe in curses.''


    He leaned closer. ''Believe in this one, because I know what you are. I know what you have to offer.''


    ''I''m just a coach.''


    ''You''re the same as me. Those kids tonight. Henk, Tyson, Benny, they loved it. I loved it. You lifted our curses and I''m going to make your life miserable until you fall back in love with football. That''s a fucking Maxy two-thumbs triple-lock promise for the ages, mate.''


    Message delivered, he wandered off. This was a meaningless match in a provincial tournament watched by one man and his dog. How does he make it feel so monumental?


    And whatever did he mean?

 12.12 - Acta Non Verba

    12.


    Wednesday, December 10


    I spent a restless night with my brain randomly spinning up like a disc drive. I had three main problems and I blamed Sebastian Weaver for all of them.


    First, Angel. It felt like 50-50 if I would handle the situation well. My record when dealing with troublemakers was spotty, to be generous, and I had far more power than she did, which usually led to quick, decisive, one-sided outcomes. Angel had played a weak hand incredibly poorly but I had no appetite to throw down five aces and scoop up all the chips. Unless I could prove she had faked her injury, taking a hard line wouldn''t benefit the squad in any way. Going nuclear on Pascal, Chipper, and Andrew had spread healthy fear amongst the other players. Taking Angel down from the top of the Christmas tree and throwing her into the box with the torn tinsel and broken baubles would only cause puzzlement. What''s got into Max? She''s just a kid. Also, she was a client of my agency and I would personally benefit from her becoming rich and famous.


    Second, Peter Bauer. He was my dream centre back and he was uninjured - physically, at least. I wanted to sign him as a player-coach and I wanted it badly, but he had demons for days and if I went full Max I would scare him away. I needed to be tactful and sensitive but I also needed to move fast.


    If I couldn''t sign him before the end of the January transfer window it would delay his growth by another six months and it would realistically be too late for him to reach his potential in time to enjoy it. I''d checked his profile and he had played six times for Bayern, so he must once have been CA 100 at least.


    I knew it was easy getting players back to their former levels, but it wasn''t necessarily quick. If I got Peter in January I could bring him to, say, CA 75 by the end of this season and CA 100 next Jan. Even faster, maybe! I''d always thought that players with coaching badges improved faster. And once I had finished my experiment with Cole Adams, I could use Secret Sandra to boost Peter''s growth. So a whole year just to get to the bottom of the mountain...


    The biggest hurdle was that signing him in January actually meant agreeing the deal in December, and that was related to my third problem - how to spend my one point six million pounds of transfer funds and my three thousand seven hundred and ninety pounds of wages.


    The more I thought about it, the more I realised I wasn''t going to spend the whole one point six million on transfers and that wasn''t by choice. A million-pound player would want million-pound player wages, and I couldn''t offer that. No-one at Chester was earning Gemma money. If I fenced off some of the transfer funds, I could redirect them into wages. If I set aside two hundred thousand, MD would allow me to sign a guy on 2,000 a week on a two plus one contract. Two thousand a week would match what Sticky, Zach, Dazza, and Foquita were on. Not Gemma money, maybe not even lobster money, but for League One and Two players who were desperate for first-team football like Zach had been, it might be enough.


    I could certainly sign three players who would walk into the first eleven while having decent resale value, and I would still have enough to do the showers. I was 98% sure I would upgrade the showers - the thought of having our facilities score decline next season was stressing me out - and it made absolute sense to build the second floor.


    Do the showers and buy three players, then. And when those deals were complete, what would I do when Peter told me he wanted to play for Chester? MD might agree to let the club go overdrawn to pay Peter''s wages. The chances were similar to the odds that Angel would come to me before getting on the bus for tonight''s Welsh Cup quarter final and apologise for what she had done.


    Yeah.


    Emma was frying eggs and the smell drove me crazy. I pushed myself out of bed and went to the kitchen. "That smells good," I said, in a whiny voice.


    She smiled. "Want some?"


    "Don''t go to any trouble over little old me," I said. "I''ll just watch you eat."


    The toaster popped. She buttered the bread, plopped the fried egg on top, and slid the plate towards me. "Pepper''s there if you want."


    "Oh my God, you''re the best."


    "I know."


    She popped another couple of slices of bread in the toaster. She didn''t adjust the dial from 4 to 3 because she had absolute faith that the toaster ''knew'' it had recently made some toast and ''knew'' that its elements were hot. I believed the dial was simply a timer and you had to adjust the setting manually to get the right amount of toasting done. Like Emma''s bread, the arguments got overheated sometimes, but it wasn''t worth breaking up over. She saw me staring at the dial and gave me an affectionate, exasperated smile, before taking two eggs out of the carton.


    I said, "I didn''t sleep well."


    "I know."


    I must have been tossing and turning. "Soz."


    "S''okay. It''s not easy."


    "It''s your dad''s fault," I said, munching away. Any bite now and the delicious eggy goo would be released. Nom nom nom.


    "How''s that?"


    I talked while Emma worked the pan. "He''s fixed the mum situation as best as it can be fixed. If she reacts badly to the bungalow, that''s it. Care home forever. If she loves it, great. Yeah, it''s nagging away at me but we''ll know on Friday, won''t we? So that''s that. Now things that used to be C-level problems are B-level and the old B is the new A. I read about this guy once who was annoyed by his noisy neighbours so he moved to the countryside. Then he was annoyed by planes so he got special windows so he couldn''t hear them. Then his fridge started winding him up so he got a quiet fridge. Every time he solved his noise problem he''d find something else was suddenly super loud. The story ended with him furiously angry at the sound of the water rushing through his radiators."


    Emma scoffed, amused. "Can I make one request?"


    "Yeff," I said, crunching deeper into the butty. I''d hit the goo!


    "It''s not my dad. It''s my mum and dad. It''s her money, too."


    I nodded a few times while I pointed to my full mouth. Emma''s toast popped - they had come out all right, despite her best efforts - and she gave them a quick wipe of butter. When I swallowed, I said, "You''re right. You''re a billion percent right. And she''s incredible, finding all this old stuff. I just think of it as his money because he''s the big lawyer man."


    "She was a big lawyer woman until she had me. She always planned to go back but found she didn''t have anything to prove and she liked the quiet life. That''s what you''re always talking about doing. Win the Premier League, retire. Just because you''re pottering around the garden while Ruth and I make you rich doesn''t mean people should dismiss what you did."


    "Yep. Got it. Have I said it wrong in front of her?"


    "I don''t think so but..."


    I tutted and squashed my eyes closed. "I''ll do better. Should I say something?"


    "Don''t beat yourself up, babes. It''s just an area of improvement. And no, don''t say anything. Acta non verba."


    "Soz, what?"


    "Acta non verba."


    I made a face like I was trying to solve a quadratic equation while examining a crime scene. "Er... actors are not worms."


    "Actions speak louder than words. Show, don''t tell. For example, if you want to show someone you like them, give them your fried egg butty."


    That brought an early-morning twinkle to the eye. "Do you want me to pick you up and spin you around?"


    She laid her fried egg onto the toast and took a bite. "Yeff. But not now. Busy."


    While I let her eat in peace for a minute, I put the kettle on and took two cups from the cupboard. I started our teas brewing and leaned against the fridge. "The Angel sitch," I said. "I''ve got some actions that speak louder than words. Yeah, she''ll understand what I''m not saying, all right. There''s a risk she''ll take it badly and leave the club but if she does that she''s never getting to the top."


    "Leave the club?" said Emma. "You didn''t say it was so bad."


    "It''s not but you know me, I always think what''s the worst that could happen. I think my solution is pretty amazing, to be honest, but who knows how she''ll react? She''s had a sheltered life and now she''s on the verge of big fame. I''m going to acta non verba but it would be good if you, Ruth, maybe Brooke, could be there for her. Nudge her back to the path of righteousness."


    Emma was giving me an unblinking stare. "What are you going to do?"


    "I''m going to give her what she wants. I''m going to treat her like she''s the most important player on the team. I''m going to treat her like she''s irreplaceable."


    "Why are you smirking?"


    "I''m not. This is a very serious and delicate topic."


    "Your smugness is off the charts. Oh my God, this is the worst I''ve seen you since we went to that pub quiz and you knew all the literature questions."


    "You''re still mad there were no questions about Latin. You and your dad are such snobs. Okay so I think it will go well but if there''s ever a chance for you to tell her that what I want and what she wants is one hundred percent the same, that would be great."


    "What do you want?"


    "I want her to be world famous for scoring hundreds of goals and for winning trophies. I want her to score a hat trick for England in the World Cup final." I looked away. "I want her to be so rich she can look after her whole family, forever. Ideally she''d do it without doing that whole raunchy pop star phase but that''s nothing to do with me, really."


    "It better not be."


    I laughed. "I just think she''ll get way more famous and stay famous longer the classier she keeps it. She can be sexy but she should go for a thingy vibe. Who''s that actress from the olden days?"


    "Mary Pickford."


    "Married the same Welshman six times. Er... Not the one from Gone With the Wind. Cleopatra."


    "Elizabeth Taylor."


    "Yesssss!"


    "I think Vivien Leigh is a better comp."


    "Well, anyway, something like that. Angel could position herself as an unearthly, unattainable beauty and do high-end perfume and watch ads, but all she knows is Love Island. That kind of advice might be better coming from a woman."


    "You want me to talk to her?"


    "Yes but it might be better to wait for the right moment. Discuss this with Ruth, too, because it''s possible by this evening she''ll be mad at me and by extension, you."


    "You mean Angel, not Ruth, right?"


    "Right. Why would Ruth be mad at me? I''m the best thing that ever happened to her. Because of me she gets to take the piss out of loads of over-promoted, under-prepared men. Just be ready to plant some seeds with Angel. Do you want to be the biggest star in the world or the hottest girl on season 12 of One Night Bang?"


    "Interesting." Ems sipped her tea. "I don''t suppose you have a detailed outline of how Angel''s career in advertisements should go over the next ten years, along with outfit suggestions?"


    "Of course I do not," I said, with one hundred percent sincerity. "More like twenty years."


    That got a laugh. "I don''t even want to know."


    "She''s like me. She''s not a bad person but when life gets too easy she goes looking for trouble. We''re crushing the league and even when she plays shit she gets a goal. When a teammate really needs her, she''s there." I remembered the way Old Nick had intervened to make my life much harder by selling R. Brown to the Saudi league. It got my attention all right, and came with long-term benefits. While Emma got on with her fried egg butty, I texted Sophie, asking her to bring the camera crew to Bumpers later. "Yeah, good, that''s sorted. Okay and then there''s Peter. I think if he came to Chester I could get him playing to a high standard but as soon as he sees Dieter''s shadow he''s going to curl back into his shell. My only idea is to trick him into coming and then frog him."


    "Frog him?"


    "You know, that thing. What is it? You put a frog in some water and heat it up and the frog doesn''t notice. But if you put him straight in hot water he jumps out."


    "You want to boil Peter Bauer?"


    "Yes I want to boil Peter Bauer, is that okay?"


    Emma booped me so she could open the fridge and put some things away. "I don''t know, babes. I don''t see it."


    "You don''t see him at Chester?"


    "Oh, I see that. I just don''t see it working. Any day he might wake up and think, why am I here? No, that won''t fly."


    "Yeah. You''re right. I just don''t know how to even approach it."


    "With honesty, for a start. But take it slow. Instead of being - what did you call him? - an elegant defender from a more civilised age, treat him like he''s a Geordie megababe."


    "You mean ignore him for six months until he jumps me in Darlington?"


    She twisted her lips. "I mean give him the big speech about why you like football."


    "You said acta non verba."


    "I did, didn''t I? Okay just show him your passion."


    "Show him my what?"


    Emma smiled but she was starting to get into work mode. She pulled her jacket on and closed her eyes. "How big is Bayern Munich?"


    "Quite big," I said.


    "One of the biggest clubs in Europe, right?"


    I scoffed. "It''s not bigger than Chester."


    "Babes, be serious. I''m trying to help."


    "Fine," I said, throwing my arms up. "It''s about as big as Chester."


    Emma rolled her eyes. "They''ve got that huge stadium where you did commentary that time."


    "It''s beyond belief."


    "And he''s paid Gemma money and he gets to coach elite players. And if he wants to start playing again he can do it there. You need to offer him something he can''t get anywhere else."


    "Henri''s Christmas happening."


    "Yeah," said Emma, giving me a kiss on the lips. "Maybe get him signed up before he goes to that." She waited for me to stop laughing, then said, "Any news from Sandra?"


    "No," I said, narrowing my eyes.


    "No news is good news."


    "Actions speak louder than words," I said. "Here''s what I want. Sandra comes to training this morning, firm handshakes all round, zooms off with a big smile on her face."


    "Yes, please. Or she could just send everyone photos of little baby Emma."


    ***


    I drove to Bumpers, gifted 50 XP to Cole Adams, and watched as Peter did an intense session with some very welcome pops. With twenty minutes to go I interrupted and said I wanted to do a low-stakes match along Relationist principles.


    "Basically a big rondo," I said. "Sunday, you played last night. Can you step out, please?"


    "We''ll be a man short," he said, hoping I would let him stay.


    "Well, shit," I said. "I suppose we can do ten v eleven. Wasn''t really what I wanted, though."


    "I''ll play," said Peter.


    I tried to play it cool. "Top. Bosh. Thanks." No biggie. Lol.


    I allowed the game to flow, but paused a couple of times to give some tips. After a while I changed the teams so that the guys with the most experience of Relationism were on the same side. Dan, Wibbers, Pascal, Zach, and Henri. I put Peter in that group.


    With all the knowledge tied up on one team, the other reverted to normal positional play. Fascinating. I didn''t mind it in theory - my instinct was to let it happen, let the bonds break and reattach as they wanted. The point of the session, though, was getting Peter to play. He was curious about Relationism and I was following Emma''s advice by giving him something he couldn''t get anywhere else.


    "From now on," I called out. "You can only score if you''ve played at least one one-two and done at least one river."


    The reaction to that instruction was thrilling. The team that had slipped into its old habits went hard at Relationism. The session went from being a strange variant on a normal match, the usual daily business, to madness and mayhem. Players moved out of their zones more freely, mini-blobs formed spontaneously, quickly followed by counter-blobs. The pitch took on the aspect of a lava lamp. Big blobs formed and melted away, always at least one small blob somewhere. Getting a one-two was pretty easy - that happened reliably with positional play. But forcing the river to happen was difficult.


    I noticed Peter getting into the flow state. He didn''t play long passes but apart from that, you wouldn''t have known he hadn''t played a professional match in over two years.


    When his CA turned green I ended the session. Always leave them wanting more.


    I walked over to him and smiled. "Fun?"


    He was flushed, excited, happy. "Yes, Max!"


    "Top." Should I talk to him now? No. Actions, not words. "I''ve got us two tickets to see Man United tomorrow night. You in?"


    "Of course!"


    "Mint."


    ***


    Chesterness


    Series 2 Episode 4: The Actas of the Apostles


    Wide shot: Angel and Jackie Reaper walking towards and entering the Sin Bin.


    Screen text: Six hours before the Welsh Cup quarter final. An emergency meeting has been called by director of football Max Best.


    Medium shot: A plain white table. Jackie sits on the left, Angel in the middle, Max on the right.


    Max: [Warmly] Thanks for coming to the Your Company Name Here meeting room.


    Jackie: The what?


    Max: I didn''t ask you here to talk about the many and varied sponsorship opportunities that are available to bright, nimble companies who align with our values of delighting our stakeholders in an ever-changing world.


    Jackie: If you ask me to do an ad read, I''m leaving.


    Angel: I''ll do it.


    Max: Okay, what it is, right, is I couldn''t sleep last night even though I have a sponsor me premium bed that normally guarantees the eight hours I need to deliver non-stop excellence. My mind kept going back to that image of Angel collapsing to the turf with no-one anywhere near her. I''m worried, Jackie.


    Angel: I''m fine now. It was a phantom injury.


    Max: I don''t believe in phantom injuries. I think your body is trying to tell you something. Jackie knows my biggest nightmare is a player getting an ACL injury and I''ll go to mad lengths to avoid that.


    Angel: Mad lengths?


    Max: Jackie, I''m stressed ay eff. Even a bar of slash glass of slash unit of the consumable product I will one day soon personally endorse couldn''t help me. I know you''ve got Aberystwyth Town tonight and you''ve done your plans and everything but the idea of Angel being in the team and doing her ACL is really freaking me out.


    Jackie: You want me to leave her out? The physios couldn''t find anything wrong with her.


    Max: She wouldn''t be carried off the pitch in a vital cup match for no reason, would she? Look, you''re the manager. It''s your call.


    Jackie: It''s not though, is it? Because if I pick her and she gets injured you''ll go ballistic.


    Max: I won''t go ballistic, no. I''ll be diplomatic. I hope we''ll still be friends and stay in touch.


    Jackie: [scoffs] Great. Can you find a thinner veil for that threat? [He''s angry, but not for long.] Not going to risk it. You know I trust your instincts. I wish you''d been my manager back in the day. Might still have knees. Would you like me to pick Bea Pea or Julie?


    Angel: Wait, hang on.


    Max: You''re the manager. Pick whatever team you want but just for funsies, let''s talk about false nines.


    Jackie: [Interested and happy.] Oh!


    Max: What I''d love to see tonight is Maddy starting in the striker slot and dropping to CAM alongside Sarah and Dani.


    Angel: Maddy replacing me? Are you - ? [Her eyes dart towards the nearest camera; she goes quiet.]


    Max: Maddy has a good shout for being one of the best eleven players at the club and I think she''s earned a chance to shine. If it works, which it will, we can give Angel the whole rest of December off. Jackie, your next tough match is January 11.


    Jackie: Can''t believe we have to play the same day as you''re going to Old Trafford. You''ll either beat them, which will be funny as fuck, or you''ll get your arse handed to you, which ditto.


    Max: Focus, mate. With this restriction, the next few weeks will be artificially harder than they needed to be and we''ll need to try radical solutions like false nines but I think we can just, juuuuuuust scrape by without Angel for a few matches. Use Bea Pea and Julie in the second half to give Sarah and Dani some rest.


    Jackie: I was going to use the Welsh girls tonight, since it''s the Welsh cup.


    Max: Bosh! Amazing. But start strong, please. I want to get through to the last four. Imagine if we play Wrexham in the semis or the final! Think of the publicity. Their documentary crew will be there, so will ours. They''ll be beefing with each other, getting in each other''s way. Christ, imagine if Ryan Reynolds turns up and says he''ll talk to our crew if me, Peter, and Sarah Greene agree to go on Welcome to Wrexham.


    Angel: Why Sarah?


    Max: The semi-final''s in March so who knows what the team will look like then? Well, I know one thing - unless her leg falls off, Sarah Greene will be playing. She defines the word relentless. Such sporting charisma! I''ve seen the latest demo episodes and she pops off the screen. An absolute breakout star if I''ve ever seen one. If series 2 is going to be called The Relentlessness, it''s about Sarah, isn''t it? She''s the one who''s always on the pitch, always driving the team forward, always leading by example. Wrexham''s documentary crew will know she''s the star player.


    Jackie: I think they''d want Sandra, too.


    Max: Yeah. It''s good here, isn''t it? We''ve got loads of people with exploding careers and that''s causing synergy and emergent events so there''s always something mad happening but it''s so wholesome and uplifting. An upmarket watch company could sponsor me just in time for my handshake with Ryan Reynolds. Close-up on the hands. Bosh! There''s the name of the brand, seen by millions in America and the UK. Next I''m at Old Trafford pointedly checking how long''s left in the style of Alex Ferguson, next I''m talking to the England under 19s manager explaining how to use Kisi and Dani.


    Angel: What about me?


    Max: You''re injured. Then I''ll be chatting to some Royal about the new stand. Is there a Duke of Chester? [He calls out to the crew.] Someone find out, please. [Normal voice.] He''ll be like, gosh, what''s the time, I don''t want to miss Eastenders. And I''ll get my luxury watch out and say ''it''s two o''clock, your majesty.'' He''ll go, ''nice piece''. I''ll go, ''time is a luxury few can afford''. Bosh! Invented a new slogan on the spot. Wow. I''m going to make so much money from that deal.


    Jackie: You don''t even wear watches.


    Angel: Didn''t you kick a football at someone''s head?


    Max: I''ve just daydreamed a whole entire advertisement. Check it out. I''m playing a match and I take a shot. We follow the ball, spinning, it turns into the moon. Now I''m in space surrounded by planets and comets and shit. I grab one of the planets and put it on my wrist and when I take my hand away, it''s a watch from whatever brand pays me. I say: time is the heartbeat of the cosmos. Boom! Four percent increase in year on year sales. Oh, got one. Dress me up real nice topped off with a long Dr. Who scarf. I pop out of a phone box, see there''s loads of dinosaurs. Get back in, open the door again, now I''m on a planet with hundreds of sexy people and they''re all wearing my watch. Slogan: travel through time in style. Fuck! Just thought of another one. There''s loads of fog and there''s me and a hot redhead and she''s wearing like, just ribbons and the camera''s all sweeping around us capturing our stolen glances. I say: Time... is of the essence. Yeah, amazing. [He looks at the camera.] Two million quid and it''s yours.


    [Silence.]


    Jackie: So in summary, you don''t want me to use Angel tonight.


    ***


    Aberystwyth Town 1 Chester 4


    Seasiders Slayed by Super Sarah


    An inspired performance from Chester''s dynamic young team left Aberystwyth Greene with envy.


    Under the watchful eye of director of football Max Best and caretaker assistant manager Peter Bauer, Jackie Reaper''s side tore the Welsh team to shreds with insightful movement and clever passing. The team shrugged off the recent injury to star striker Angel. Playing without a focal point meant attacks came from all directions. Dani Smith-Smithe had a free role, Kisi Yalley rampaged down the wings, while captain Bonnie organised the defence masterfully. But it was the England under 19 midfielder Sarah Greene who caught the eye by marrying her sensational range of passing to an elusive dribbling style. She was unstoppable.


    It was only in the second half as Chester''s young Welsh talents flooded onto the pitch that the home team were able to muster any threat, but by then the Seals were out of sight.


    The first goal came after just seven minutes, when... [continued on page 37.]


    ***


    Thursday, December 11


    I hadn''t planned to go to watch United but a few things changed my mind.


    First, I absolutely had to unlock Relationism before December 16 when the kids would be playing West Ham United, for my mental health as much as any footballing reason. I would get at least 630 XP from watching United in the Europa League, which would propel me towards my target.


    Second, it was an excuse to spend time with Peter.


    Third, watching our opposition was always a good idea.


    Last but not least, the bungalow was ready, Aff''s mum (Angela) was available, and we had the chance to do a test run. I could stay overnight in Manchester, spend some of the morning with my mum, find out what else we needed to do to get the house feeling like home. Peter wouldn''t be interested in that, of course, but he could have a day off in the big city while Well In took first team training.


    The match kicked off and Peter and I spent the first twenty minutes watching the patterns of play and discussing the tactics and personnel.


    United were playing FK Bod? Glimt, a team from the far north of Norway. So far north, in fact, that the teams in the south refused to let them into the top tier until the 1970s. In recent times they had improved year on year, gaining qualification into European competitions, progressing further and further, reinvesting the prize money wisely.


    United, of course, had been in decline ever since Sir Alex Ferguson retired. They had blown well over a billion pounds on mostly crap players to go with the billion pounds in interest paid on the debt created when a random American family were allowed to use the club''s money to buy itself. United''s new Portuguese manager, Pedro Porto, was a rising star of the game. But all of United''s managers were rising stars until the pressure of the job crushed them.


    Peter said, "Should I present my analysis of 3-4-2-1 now?"


    I looked around. We were in the VIP section along with bigwigs from United and other clubs. My profile might have been high enough to get a seat just by asking, and Peter''s certainly was, but United had given us the seats so we could scout them, as was the custom in England. The director of football from Stockport County was nearby, but he was the only guy from any club we were likely to play in the next eighteen months. "Yes, please."


    "In possession the wing backs push forward to join the top line. This creates an instant 3-2-5."


    "Yes," I said. Most big teams ended up with five front players when attacking. United''s front five featured two international superstars who had progressed through United''s youth system, an insanely expensive striker, an insanely expensive creative midfielder, and one cheap guy. He only cost enough for Chester to build an entire stadium. The weekly wage bill for those five players was close to one point six million pounds - the amount it had taken me three years of grafting to acquire. "They''re quite shit considering what they''re paid. Their decision-making is honestly scandalous." An old guy nearby turned to look at me; I glared at him until he fucked off.


    Peter said, "They are fast so we need to take care on counters. And while they are careless with the ball, they do have the capacity to create something out of nothing."


    "I''d say they have the chance to create nothing out of something. How many times do they have a great opening and they just blast a shot into some defender? They have five players who only want to shoot. It''s complete fucking garbage."


    Peter lowered his voice in a futile attempt to get me to do the same. "The two central midfielders sit most of the time. The Uruguayan will hold back and protect the back three. The other does the same but is allowed to dribble forward. This gives the system variety and makes it harder to set up against them."


    "Yeah, or you can just do nothing and let them make mistakes. What a joke."


    "In defence, the wing backs drop to create a back five. That makes Pedro Porto almost unique among Europe''s elite coaches. Most like a 4-4-2 when defending. Porto''s teams do 5-4-1."


    That didn''t seem like a big deal to me, but Peter was a lot more interested in the defensive side of the game than I was; his opinions would be a lot more valid than mine. "Hmm. Why do we want 4-4-2?"


    "It is simply the most efficient defensive setup."


    "So why does Porto do it like this?"


    "I think because he has previously worked with limited resources. It was quite interesting to watch him over the last few years."


    "Oh, Bayern were watching him?"


    "Of course. We track the progress of all the top coaches. We may want to hire one, and we will certainly have to play against them."


    "That''s smart."


    "Porto''s system is interesting in that it is easy for the players. They are asked to do things they can do. The CMs play as CMs, the CAMs play as CAMs. Only the wing backs change from wingers to defenders. What it means is that when the player is sold, it is easy to find a replacement. Other head coaches develop intricate systems based on the characteristics of key players. Example. At Bayern, Pep asked Philip Lahm to drift from right back into central midfield. The results were spectacular but if Lahm was injured or suspended, who could step into the role? It is not so easy; he had an extremely specific skill set. Do you see?"


    "Okay so it''s like if I had you as my starting centre back I could do all kinds of amazing tactics but when I sold you for thirty million pounds, I would have to drop that particular plan because only you could do such wonderful things."


    "Er, yes. Something like that. One way Porto makes it easier for himself is by using asymmetrical pairs. We already talked about the differing roles of the central midfielders. If the left wing back is adventurous, like today, the right-sided one is more defensive. The two CAMs often have different profiles. The dribbler versus the passer, for example."


    That made sense in terms of tactics - he had a little bit of everything on the pitch. And it made sense in terms of squad-building. It was easy to find a midfielder who could dribble and a midfielder who could pass. It was harder to find one who could do both. "Right. But he doesn''t need to sell his best players every year now he''s at Man United."


    "Indeed. It will be fascinating to watch how he develops and if he adds complexity to his approach."


    "This is fun. I like this conversation. It''s like talking to a Jackie Reaper who isn''t constantly scanning everything I say for subtext and subterfuge."


    Peter didn''t know how to reply to that. "Are you excited to play here?"


    I looked around at the massive stands. "Scoring to shut up 70,000 gobby Manc twats in the stadium I grew up dreaming of playing in? Haven''t given it a second''s thought, mate."


    "How do you plan to approach the United match?"


    "It depends what sort of team he picks. Okay he''s not going to use loads of squad players like Newcastle did, but I''d be amazed if Garnacho started." Garnacho was one of the first players I had scouted after I got the curse. He had just broken into the United team and now he was a full international and most of United''s moves went through him. "There are international matches in the week before we play, so he''ll be in South America. No way he''s playing against Chester after two internationals and a long-haul flight. I''m not sure what the new ownership think about the FA Cup. Not much, probably."


    United''s ownership, like everything else about the club, was a mess. Most of the shares were still owned by the vampiric American family, but a chemicals company called BigTox had bought a minority stake. That stake allowed them to make all the footballing decisions. I wasn''t particularly confident a chemicals company knew how to run a football club, but these days my only real interest in United was the million pounds they were about to give me.


    "I reckon United will pick up two injuries in the international break, they''ll give their backup goalie a go, and they''ll maybe start with one young guy. We''ll get Pascal fit and he''ll operate on whichever flank United''s wing back is attacking."


    "You like to attack the side that''s attacking you?"


    "Yes. It''s by definition weaker defensively and sometimes you''ll flat out stop their attacks."


    "Attack is the best form of defence."


    "A lot of the time, yes it is."


    Peter hesitated. "I have been watching past Chester matches, talking to Henri, Pascal, the other coaches, the youth team players, and I couldn''t say what your style is. Do you have a preferred formation? You often talk about attacking but you can be quite defensive. You talk about playing with wingers but in more than half of the matches this season, there were no wingers. The only thing I can find which is consistent is that you try to always have a defensive midfielder."Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "I have the smallest budget in the league and a complete mishmash of players. I cook with what I''ve got."


    "Yes, good, but if you had unlimited resources, what would your preferred formation be?"


    "Depends on the players."


    "If you managed Manchester United. This squad."


    I thought about it. "Difficult. Each of the previous four managers signed six players so you''ve got half of a counter-attacking team, half of a keep-ball team, half of a vibes team, and half of a buy-all-the-Dutch-players team." I tried to imagine a day in the future when I would have all the formations and complete flexibility. "United''s midfield has been a joke for a long time so the temptation is to overload it. Got to avoid that. And you have to be honest about the capabilities of some of these players. There are huge names who aren''t producing." I kept thinking about the wide players. "This is Man United. I want to see flying wingers. I want fantasy and I''m not going to get it from this lot. You know what I''m thinking? 4-5-1. Solid, don''t let teams at you. The potential is there for fast breaks. Any player shooting at random gets hauled off. They get to the byline and cut the ball back for the striker or they move to another club. We get solid in midfield and when that''s achieved, the full-backs can attack. That said, the ones here are shit so there''s an instant flaw with the plan. Yeah, anything with a back four is going to get found out. Back three is better but you''re always going to get killed down the flanks because the wide guys aren''t team players. Low Team Work, low Decisions. It''s a nightmare."


    "Sounds like Chester should beat them," said Peter.


    "They still have incredible quality. Explosive firepower. They''ll beat us with two moments of individual quality but as a manager that''s frustrating. The system should generate threat and on top of that comes the individual quality. Pedro Porto needs four transfer windows to get rid of the deadwood here and get players who can do what he wants. Will he get that much time?"


    "What would you do at a better-functioning club like Bayern?"


    "I would forfeit the first 17 matches in a desperate attempt to make the second half of the season interesting."


    Peter tutted. "Why do you say that? The Bundesliga is excellent."


    "No, it''s tedious."


    "The football is excellent. The skills are top. Fans own the clubs."


    "And Bayern will win 27 of the next 30 leagues. That''s not sport, Peter. That''s ossification. Sport is expertise, athleticism, moments of surprise. The only surprise in Germany is when someone beats Bayern, do you buy their best player or their two best players? If I was born in, I don''t know, Stuttgart, I''m sure I''d find it interesting and that''s right and proper but it''s not for me."


    "It is barely more diverse in England."


    "I agree, and that''s what I''m working to stop. It''s funny, there''s so much attention paid to the superclubs but everything they do is so predictable it''s really fucking tedious. Here''s a really interesting football club. Bodo Glimt from the far reaches of Norway, cleverly building a team, husbanding their resources, being smart, smarter than their rivals, playing the best football it''s possible to play on their budget, reinvesting, still making a profit, competing against much bigger clubs. This is one of the greatest stories in European football and I''d rather be in that dugout than the one in Munich, no matter how cool the stadium is."


    "Why do I feel reprimanded?" He chuckled. "What did you mean about predictability?"


    "Well, take the format of this competition. In the old days, European tournaments were like the FA Cup. Draw 32 teams from a hat, bosh, knockout, get on with it. Every match was of the utmost importance, the drama was sensational. We built this sport on those nights, didn''t we? But the bosses of the big clubs didn''t like being knocked out by Anderlecht or Split or Bodo Glimt. Why are these tiny teams allowed to beat us? So they spent the last thirty years throwing their weight around, bullying the cowards at UEFA into changing the format. First a league and a knockout. Then a league followed by a league. Now this joke of a tournament. Eighty-seven clubs play one hundred and eleven matches to determine the coefficients for the top-ranked sixty teams to go through while the other forty-nine play a Swiss-model playoff elimination league spanning three months to decide which three teams will drop out of the competition." I did an excited face. "Then the fun begins!"


    "Come on," laughed Peter. "It''s not that bad."


    "It is. It''s boring. Think about it - the draw is literally too complicated for a human being to do it. If your football tournament can only be programmed by a computer, you''ve fucked up. It''s soooooo boring, mate. I''d honestly rather watch TikTokers box each other. And you''re trying to make football more boring! Every year there''s a new backdoor rule that guarantees Madrid, Barcelona, and Munich are allowed in even if they didn''t get there on sporting merit. Sporting merit are two words you cannot fuck with because if it''s not a meritocracy, it''s not sport. I don''t watch European football until the final, and even then it''s only if I''ve got nothing better to do. You''ve killed German football and you''ve moved on to bigger fish."


    "I?"


    "Bayern Munich."


    "That is harsh."


    "Nope. You''re one of the prime movers. Actions speak louder than words and your actions show that you think football exists to make the rich teams richer. Every year you push for changes that make you richer still. The cost? Fun. Competition. Entertainment. The health of the sport itself. No, Peter, don''t ask me to name a Bayern Munich eleven because I would rather become a jellyfish trainer in Australia than work for one of the clubs that is killing this game I love."


    He didn''t reply.


    In fact, he didn''t reply for so long I assumed he had taken my rant personally. "Are we still friends?" I said.


    "Yes. It is unusual for someone to speak like that to me. You know my grandfather is responsible for much of what the club did in the time you describe?"


    I nodded. "Yeah. It''s disappointing. It''s hard to come to terms with it because I really like him and it''s possible to say that overall he has been a force for good in the game. No, it''s obviously completely true that he has done more good than harm on a personal level. I tell myself I should blame his entire generation. There''s no ancient grove they wouldn''t cut down so they could sell the wood for fifty quid. His peers at other clubs are less sympathetic on a personal level but it doesn''t matter who wrecked the planet, who wrecked football. It happened and it''s not going to get better. What they didn''t count on was a new superclub being born. I''m going to smash the door down, win their fucking tedious competitions, hoover up all the prize money and talent, and then - " I laughed, because I had just come up with a radical idea. It popped into my head, fully formed. "When I''ve rubbed their noses into their own mess for a few years, I''m going to give them a choice."


    "A choice?"


    "Yeah. Roll back the worst of this monopoly crap and I''ll ride off into the sunset."


    "You''ll quit?"


    "Yeah. Five European Cups in my pocket. First you have to show me a proper plan to distribute wealth and ensure there is healthy competition. A club from Poland or Scotland should be able to win a European trophy. Bodo Glimt should be able to win the Europa League. If not, I''m staying. I''ll win again and again and again and show you what it feels like. Haha, oh my God, that''s perfect. I might actually do that."


    Peter shook his head. "I think I would be more inspired by the image if Chester''s budget could afford any of the players on the pitch right now."


    I side-eyed him. "The player I would most want to buy is earning five thousand pounds a week. I''ll be able to afford that soon enough."


    "Who?" he said, scanning the pitch. "Who''s your favourite?"


    "You''ll know when I sign him. Acta non verba, baby."


    ***


    At half time the VIPs went inside and I went straight up to Tony, the Stockport guy. Tony looked quite a lot like Ken from Grindhog, but with less charisma and intelligence. He knew me, but I introduced my companion only as Peter.


    "You work for Stockport, right? How come you''re here?"


    Tony said, "Used to play for United, Max. The youth team, anyway. Got on the bench for the seniors a couple of times but never quite made it."


    "Still pretty good, though," I said. "You got closer than 99% of United fans."


    "99.9999 percent," said Peter.


    "It was hard being released, Max. I heard about what you''re doing with the Exit Trial lads. That''s amazing. I''m rooting for you."


    "You''ll be rooting against me - " I started. I was going to brag about thrashing Stockport next season when we played them in League One. Just in time, I realised that was dumb because I wanted him to sell me a player. "You won''t be rooting for me on January 11th when I''m doing my George Best impression."


    "Ah, well," he smiled. "I''d love to see that. I''d fucking love it. 4-3 United with a swaggering Max Best hat trick. Who wouldn''t want to see that?"


    The Sentinel, I thought. "Listen, I don''t want to be rude and ignore the other VIPs. I''m sure they''re dead keen to meet me. I noticed your lad Weller hasn''t been in the team much and we''re gasping for a left-mid. Any chance of anything happening there?"


    He gave me a strange smile. "Steve Weller? Are you serious?"


    "Yeah, why?"


    "I thought you were skint."


    "I am skint. I can be skint and have some cash, though. That''s modern finance. Look, obviously the stadium''s eating all the money but we need a left mid so what do you think?"


    He rubbed his chin. "He fell out with the manager. Good lad. Headstrong. I like him, to be honest, Max. I''d hate to sell Steve in January and in Feb we end up replacing the manager and appoint someone who would use him."


    Weller was an Aff-style left mid. Quite fast, good dribbler, good crossing, high team work. Not as technical as I would like but with all the skills sessions we did, we''d get him into double figures for Technique soon enough. He was 23 and when I''d seen him, his CA had been 87. That had been a while ago so his CA could have been higher because Stockport had settled in League One, or lower because he hadn''t played much. I had no doubt he''d do well for Chester, and his PA of 120 meant he could help us out in the short term and I''d double my money on him. It was basically the same as buying Andrew Harrison much further in his development.


    "Can you hint at a price?"


    Peter said, "Max, you should make the first offer. The first number mentioned anchors the conversation towards that number."


    I shook my head. "That''s not how I do it. There''s a range where the numbers are fair and I''m happy to deal in that range. If they try to burn me they''ll regret it when they want to buy a player in future."


    "Max," insisted Peter. "You are skint. You need to push hard for every dollar in savings."


    The Stockport guy and I looked at each other. We spoke simultaneously.


    "Hundred K," I said.


    "Million," he said.


    After the unpleasant silence that followed, I said, "Nice meeting you" and turned away. "I need a beer."


    "Max, wait. I was joking."


    "Sure. Big joke. Very funny. Bye."


    "No, come on. Let me talk to the manager and I''ll see what he says."


    The old ''I need to talk to the boss'' trick. Please. "Yeah. Tell him you had the chance to shift an unwanted player out of his squad, a guy he hates but has to look at every day, at a price that''s more than what you paid, but that you decided to take the piss out of the new kid instead."


    "Fucking hell, Max," said Tony. "I was only joking."


    "Yeah, tell Weller you turned his career into a joke, Tony. Good. We''re done here."


    "Urgh!" he said. "Do you want a price on him or not?"


    I tried to unclench my jaw. I was half-pretending to be angry but I had tipped over from pretending, I think. Gemma had accused me of not caring that Andrew Harrison had suffered when he was frozen out. I did care. Steve Weller was suffering and so was his manager. Tony should have been desperately working towards a solution. "Yeah, send me an offer," I said.


    Peter and I walked over to the bar. I had parked at our hotel and we''d taken a taxi to the stadium, so I felt free to have a couple of beers. "Max," said Peter. "Has anyone ever said you should allow someone else to do your transfer negotiations for you?"


    "No."


    "Don''t you think that might be a good idea?"


    "No."


    "And why is that?"


    "I know the values of the players."


    "Yes, but, how can I say this? You are combustible."


    "Think you can do better?"


    "It is not a competition," he said. "Your style is more like a hostage negotiator."


    I smiled. "I would be terrible at that. Give me the hostage or it''s sniper time." I thought about what he had said. No-one had explicitly told me I shouldn''t do the negotiations myself but there had been a few raised eyebrows amongst people watching me, and MD had quietly told me off a couple of times. With non-league clubs, MD had been able to smooth things out, but we didn''t know many people in the football league. If I kept going the way I was, I would run out of clubs who would deal with me. Could I build a team of European Champions entirely from free transfers? Yes, but it would take ten times as long as if I could buy ready-made solutions. "Let''s do it like this. Peter, you''re charming as fuck. You''ve got that diplomat vibe. How about you join Chester as player-coach-head-of-transfers?"


    "Join Chester?" he said. "I know your plan to conquer European football. If I help you, I would be culpable."


    "True," I said. I raised my beer, he did the same, and I looked him in the eye while we clinked them together. "It pisses me off that these pricks are shit at their jobs, though. I can get that player for free if I wait 18 months. Stockport are rich but they''re not so rich they can chuck two hundred grand down the drain. It''s fucking mental what just happened. I know it looks bad on me and I have to do better, I really do know that, but that was fucking abysmal. I don''t have perfect knowledge of the market but I''ve got something pretty fucking close to it. I don''t dick about with these deals but almost everyone else does. It winds me up. Soz not soz."


    "Excuse me." It was the guy who had turned his head when I''d been bad-mouthing United during the match. Old, white, loads of money, got enthusiastic about new sports, had gradually been increasing the font size on his phone until now the screen showed one app at a time.


    I tensed, ready for yet more needless conflict. "Yes?"


    "You''re Max Best."


    "Yes."


    "I didn''t mean to eavesdrop but you weren''t exactly discreet. I heard your conversation with the chap from Stockport. He said something about you helping the Exit Triallists?"


    "May I know your name?"


    He smiled. "Name''s Andy. I work for BigTox. We dump billions of tons of poisons and greenhouse gases into the atmosphere killing countless animals and making millions of humans sick but we also bought a few sports teams to ensure no-one will look too closely at our core activities." I think that''s what he said, anyway. "Our founder is from Manchester and not the middle-east, so that keeps the British press off our case." I think that''s what he said, anyway. "I have been tasked with modernising United''s youth system and we''ve got a plan to radically overhaul it in the next few weeks."


    "Sorry," I said. "Can you explain that to me? You''re working for United but you don''t work for United?"


    My question came because he didn''t have any kind of curse profile over his head. With every summer update, the curse expanded its understanding of modern football. At first it had only told me about core roles like managers, coaches, scouts, physios, and owners, but these days if a guy worked for a football club in almost any kind of meaningful role, his name and job title floated above his head. For most of the new roles like ''Head of Cradle Snatching'' there were no attributes, but it was still useful because it showed me who I might want to talk to, and me knowing their name was always flattering.


    This guy had nothing.


    He explained that he didn''t work for United. He was more like a consultant, but he was well-connected with the leadership of BigTox.


    "So it''s like... if you were the brother of the owner and he sent you to revamp the youth system, you wouldn''t be able to say you worked for United, but you''re doing the job of someone who worked there."


    "I suppose you could put it like that."


    "Okay." With all the mixed ownerships and multi-club models, this sort of thing could get complicated and potentially lead me to make fatal mistakes. What if a scout from a multi-club organisation went from New York to be a physio in Manchester for six months? Would the curse be able to get its head around that? I doubted it. Dismissing someone because he didn''t have a business card floating over his head was a bad idea. I needed to be careful.


    Andy said, "I checked you out just now. You''ve got, what, five Exit Triallists in your first team squad?"


    "Seven," I said.


    "Incredible. And you are on a nine-match unbeaten run?"


    "Nineteen."


    "Pardon me?"


    "Newcastle didn''t beat us. Blackpool didn''t beat us. We played two games in the Cheshire Cup. That makes nineteen games since we last lost."


    "Okay, nineteen."


    "You don''t have to smile at me like you''re indulging a child."


    "Max," said Peter, as a warning.


    "What?" I snapped. "It''s a fucking fact! If we beat Crewe this weekend, which we will, and then smash Swindon, who are shit, we''ll be in the playoffs for Christmas. We''re going up, we have potentially the single best youth team in the country, and we did it without burning down any forests. I didn''t come here to be patronised by anyone."


    The Andy guy put his hand up. "I didn''t mean to come across that way, Max. I was admiring your passion. Our company invests in sports because it''s a symbolic arena in which excellence is rewarded and because passion is intoxicating. The corollary to excellence, though, is the brutality of cutting teammates who don''t quite make it. We''re pushing for higher standards here at United, and that includes the youth teams. It''s in our nature to be ruthless, to drive forward, to take the tough decisions, but we''re human beings, too. Most of us are fathers. I look at what you are doing and I see a chance - I''ll admit it - to wash some of the guilt off our hands. If we can send some of the young men to you, it will be much less painful."


    "Sorry, what are you talking about?" I said.


    He nodded; he had been unclear. "We plan to sign several top young talents in January, Max. They will go into our academy system and some will be cut to make way. In the normal run of affairs they will appear in Exit Trials in May, or be released early and bounce around from trial to trial until they land somewhere. Many will leave the sport forever. I heard you talking, looked you up, and thought of a better idea. Why don''t they join you this January? That''s quite the safety net, isn''t it? Sorry, Johnny, we have to let you go. But look, here''s an option! You can join high-flying Chester FC who are unbeaten in nineteen matches... if you squint."


    He was rinsing me, but he was also offering me something. "What exactly...?"


    "Come to watch our training sessions, or we can send the players to you for a trial. Whatever you want. If there are one or two you like, and they are minded to join you, perfect. Our academy staff are excellent, Max, but their high empathy means pain when players leave. To see them join a good club is not painful but a source of pride."


    "Right," I said. "I come to one of your sessions. You point to a few players and I can take my pick of those?"


    "Yes. If they want to join you. Some will want to stay and try to prove themselves. Who knows? Perhaps they will. Elite sport is cut-throat but unpredictable."


    "Okay so it''s January 12th and we''re supposed to meet to sign the docs but I''ve spent the last 24 hours slagging you off because your club''s a joke and you only beat us 4-3. I''ve absolutely laid into you, it''s savage, it''s hilarious. You''re getting non-stop texts from your mates going ''wow that kid absolutely did you''. You''ll swear right now that you''ll sign the papers to release the lads?"


    He rocked his head back and laughed loud. "I can''t promise that, no. I do have feelings. But I promise you, hand on heart, I want what''s best for these young men." He gave me a level look and calculated. "If there''s any business to do, maybe we ought to do it before our encounter. Eh? Then we can all stay friends. I promise, if you do right by our young men, I''ll do right by you. You don''t need to worry about my friends teasing me; I don''t have any."


    He was joking but my disc drive was spinning again. If I had the chance to sign some of the best prospects in the country I needed to go for it. There was no way an eighteen-year-old Man United player had poor technique. "Fine," I said. "We''ll be there tomorrow."


    Peter looked panicked. "Max! We need to prepare for Crewe!"


    "Do we fuck," I said. "It''s Crewe. We''ll score and they''ll crawl back down the little crack in the road where they live." A thought came to me. If I picked up one or two of the United players who were going to get cut, the Brig would be happy and I wouldn''t need to go to the next Exit Trials. There was little incentive for me to go to the next ones anyway, since some prick was telling Chip Star every player I was interested in. Maybe Ryan Jack could set up visits where I could scout the players other big clubs wanted to cut. It was in an academy''s interest to see its alumni do well. "Andy, I''ll be there. Bosh."


    ***


    Friday, December 12


    The final score at the United match was somewhere between five-nil to the home side and four-nil to the away side. I mean, seriously, who gives a fuck?


    All that mattered was that I got my XP, set up a chance to scout some talented kids before anyone else got a look, registered interest in the new Aff, and spent some time with Peter.


    Not sure the last part was an unmitigated success - I had spent a lot of that time shitting on his club and low-key slagging off his grandfather, but nobody''s perfect.


    Peter surprised me by saying he wanted to come and help with my mother - Anna would need assistance getting into a van, for a start - and if I took him to lunch we could role play the kinds of conversations I would have at United''s Carrington training complex. He said he would teach me ''an alternate approach to negotiating that didn''t end with its participants rushing to the medical cabinet to treat the burns''.


    We had a quick brek in the hotel and we drove down to Chorlton. I wanted to check the bungalow was ready before picking mum up. Our route took us past Gemma''s mansion and we talked about the whole Andrew Harrison situation as an example of how my negotiating style was actually supremely effective. Peter sighed.


    I parked and we got out of the car. "This is nice," said Peter. "I like the trees. It''s peaceful here."


    "Oh shit," I said, as we pottered along the drive.


    "What?" said Peter.


    "It looks like they did all the things. You don''t have a before and after picture but this path was all paving stones and they were disjointed or whatever the word is. Now it''s all smooth and it has been pressure washed. No trip hazard!"


    "They did a good job."


    "The fence has been painted. The garden''s different. Not sure exactly... It''s less soggy? Oh, there''s a kennel!"


    Peter frowned. "Your mother has a dog?"


    "No, her friend. Solly, the psychic dog. I told you about him."


    "You certainly did not."


    "He''s not quite as good at his job as he thinks, the little shit. Pure babe magnet, though. When you get bored of flirting with everyone at Chester, you can come and take him for walks."


    Peter shook his head. "I do not flirt. Women flirt with me."


    I lunged at him and grabbed his arm, eyes bulging. "That''s one of my lines!"


    "I said it first," he said.


    "No way. I invented that."


    "Tsch," he said, which is German for ''yes, busted, I''m wrong, soz.''


    We went in and Aff''s mum, Angela, appeared as if summoned by a genie. She looked from me to Peter, up and down, all business, and nodded. "She just got here."


    "What?" I hissed, pissed. That wasn''t the plan. I hated it when the care home changed the plans.


    "There was an issue with the minivan so it was now or never. But Max, it''s all good. We''ve had a cup of tea and they''re in the living room watching TV. So far so good."


    "Really?" I said, my energy changing instantly. Pathetic. Desperate.


    Angela nodded and whispered. "The layout works and the sofa is perfect. Your ma went straight to her spot, no hesitation. The coffee table isn''t quite right but I can''t tell why. The remote control is the one she''s used to; she''s using it like a wizard''s wand. It''s those little things, Max. You''ve done well."


    I didn''t want Peter to see me cry, and for a flash of a second I was angry that he was even there. I closed my eyes and flicked my wrists, fingers loose, to try to calm down. I nodded in an increasingly vigorous series. Max Best, son, enters stage right. Or does he? "Maybe just the house is a good start? I can come back."


    Angela pulled me towards the living room. I sat in my usual spot - with ''usual'' being a strange word to describe the seating layout from, what, ten, fifteen years ago?


    Anna was there, looking very tired but slightly better than the last time I had seen her. Solly was in a corner feeling sorry for himself. In the care home he was a big star and got all kinds of fusses and attention. He was fretting that this bleak, quiet dump was exactly what it looked like - his new home. He was a star of the Man United youth teams who had just been told he was moving to Chester.


    Anna and I made some awkward small talk while mum stared at the TV with a blank look on her face. One of those days. Okay, but that didn''t mean anything. The bungalow only needed to be one percent better than the care home for everything to have been worth it.


    We were there for fifteen minutes with not much happening and okay I know this isn''t a lot of fun to hear but I got depressed. There was just too much going on that was making my mental disc drive spin wildly and there was something about being there in the quiet tedium of the bungalow that made it all feel ten times as vivid. Angel and Bonnie''s complicated relationship made ever more complicated by me and my demands. Sandra and Aiden and the health of little baby Max. Peter and his legacy and my self-destructive need to shoot my mouth off about the one thing in football Peter loved, his club. My inability to handle the simplest negotiation in the history of football, a basic left mid option from Stockport County. Most of all, my pathetic, childish hope that buying a squeaky leather sofa might cure my mother of her incurable disease.


    Yeah, it got me down.


    Angela put a cup of tea in my hand and offered me a biscuit. I frowned, vaguely angry, until I realised the tin was exactly the one we''d had when I was young. About as wide as a football, round, metal, and when you opened it, it smelled of custard creams and bourbon biscuits. The smell hit me so powerfully that in some alternate universes I spent the next 13 years writing 1.5 million words about all the memories it stirred.


    I put my tea down and took the lid all the way off. "You''ve got the pink ones," I said, amazed. I hadn''t seen the light, fluffy pink biscuits for so long. I reckoned the chance they were still mass produced was zero. How were they here? "And the horrible ones with jam in."


    "Which ones do you like?" said Angela. She would store the information away and remember it forever. She was amazing.


    "None, they are all horrible," I said. "The pink ones are - Oh! There used to be another one. I remember. It was like a biscuit rectangle with six... I think it was six... sort of blobs of creamy sugar stuff. They were the best ones. Fuck! What were they called?"


    "Jam mallows," said Angela. "You liked those?"


    "They were legit nice, not just best-in-the-tin nice. There''s no way they still make them."


    "They do," said Angela. "They''re Irish. I can get some."


    I smiled, handing her back the tin. "Is Ireland like England from twenty years ago or something?"


    She was torn between being annoyed and agreeing, and took the tin to the kitchen.


    It went quiet again, and my burst of optimism started to fade. Anna wanted to lift the mood, but couldn''t. I waved a hand. Please don''t exhaust yourself.


    I was thinking about how quickly we should go because there always came a point where mum radiated anxiety and the only cure was for everyone except Anna to leave. I was trying to work out if this move out of the care home was even a good idea when Peter''s phone rang. He mumbled an apology but picked up and spoke a few sentences in German. He hung up. "Work, sorry," he said to the room.


    But mum had locked onto him as soon as he spoke German. She peered at him. "Wer bist du?" she said, and might have well zapped me with a taser. Mum spoke German? Ah... no. No way.


    "Peter," said Peter.


    "Peter," said my mum. "You look like Dieter Bauer."


    Another zap, bigger than ever. What the fuck was happening? For the first time since I''d met him, the mention of his legendary relative didn''t provoke a negative reaction. "He''s my grandfather."


    "Oh, yes," said mum. "Yes, that would explain it." She looked down and around, confused, and all my dread came flooding back. I didn''t want the moment of lucidity to end. She said, "Where are my photos?"


    "They''re here, dear," said Angela, moving quickly but calmly.


    "Why aren''t they under the table?" said mum.


    "It''s my fault," said Angela. "I was cleaning up. I''ll put them back soon."


    Angela and I exchanged a glance; we needed a shelf under the coffee table! We''d seen the glass top and the general shape of it from the photos I''d found in my cousin''s attic, but we hadn''t known about the shelf. This was incredible. This was better than scoring any goal. My heart was racing. With my eyes, I begged Peter to continue.


    He said, "Here come your albums, Mrs. Best. What did you want to show us?"


    "Not this one!" said mum, sharply. She got annoyed with Angela as the Irishwoman offered three albums, none of which fit the bill. "The scrapbook."


    "It''s here," said Angela. She rushed to some cupboard and came back with a smaller, red-covered album. I moved from my spot to sit next to mum, and Peter knelt by her on the other side.


    We had front row seats, therefore, as mum opened the so-called scrapbook, which was just the same as the other photo albums but smaller. She turned a few pages. Each turn made a horrible squelching sound because the photos were kept protected behind a layer of sticky plastic. Squelch! Squellllch! There didn''t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what was contained within the scrapbook. It certainly wasn''t a record of my achievements - most of it was stuff from before I was born. A newspaper clipping about a restaurant that was opening. Was mum involved? Someone she knew? A flyer from a women''s choir. A torn train ticket. Suddenly, mum turned to the back, squelched a few times, and alighted on a page with an envelope.


    She peeled the plastic away - the sound went right through me and I remembered why I had never investigated this stuff - and she pulled it out.


    Inside were a few folded-up pieces of paper.


    The first had a very, VERY old-fashioned letterhead from Manchester United. I had just enough time to scan it and see that it was wishing mum well on the birth of her child. What? Why would a football club do that? It made no sense.


    The next was from Nottingham Forest, the next from Stoke City, and another, bizarrely, was from Hamburger SV.


    My head was ready to explode, but I was keeping very, very still while my mum went about her work.


    At the back of the little stack of letters was one with a paperclip. "Here," she said.


    "Bayern M¨¹nchen," whispered Peter, just as amazed as me. My mum handed him the letter, which was in German. He skimmed it. "As requested, we are pleased to enclose a gift for little baby Max..."


    Mate. Tears burst out of me. Lips wobbled, shuddering breaths, fighting not to have a full meltdown. It had hit me so suddenly I had no defence against it.


    "Aw," said Anna. Solly came over to me and let his head drop onto my lap.


    Peter slid the paperclip off and his fingertips fluttered over a white square less than half the size of the letter. "What is it?" he said.


    Now it was his turn to get a blast from the emotion cannon. It was a photo and it showed Dieter Bauer - a very young Dieter Bauer - on his haunches, looking at the camera with a tiny smile, holding a ball in his hands. He had signed the front.


    He had probably signed two hundred such photos in one go, but on this one, someone had asked him to go the extra mile.


    Peter, hands shaking slightly, flipped the photo over. "Dear Max, You are the same age as my grandson and though you are divided by borders, you are united in having wonderful mothers who fight for you and care for you! I wish you all the Best! Dieter Bauer."


    "I thought he didn''t much like my mother," said Peter.


    "Why is he young?" asked Angela, because Dieter had been in his fifties when I was born.


    Mum didn''t answer. She had gone internal.


    Peter took the photo, placed it on the coffee table, and snapped both sides with his phone. "I can''t believe this," he said. "May I send it to him and ask if he remembers?"


    "Of course," I said, but I was starting to panic that we had been there too long and were stressing mum. Once he had finished digitising the images, I tried to gesture to him that it was time to go. He was busy staring at the original, turning it over and over.


    "The pen on the front is different. I think this is a signed photo that your mother sent to Germany to get the dedication added. That''s why he''s young."


    "Peter," I said, and looked from him to the front door. He understood and put the photo and envelope back as it had been while I gave Anna''s hand a squeeze and promised Solly I''d be back to take him for a walk. That didn''t impress him much. "How about a walk with a hot Julia Roberts comp?" He made a tiny dog noise. "Yeah, I thought so, you little hound. She lives round the corner, so stop sulking."


    Angela came to the front door. "Aw, Max," she said.


    "Why did she have those letters? Did all the clubs in Europe know a golden child had been born?"


    Angela tried to hide her amusement. Because I had been kind to her son she thought everything I did was brilliant and tolerated my outbursts of egocentricity. "Your ma wrote to all those clubs asking for memorabilia."


    "What?" I said. "That''s mental."


    "No, Max. It''s what we used to do. I did it when Diarmuid was born. Liverpool FC sent us a pin badge. His father tried to nab it but I put a stop to that. Diarmuid loved that pin. He was so proud of it."


    I shook my head. The past was a foreign country. Ah, but I had a tour guide! Angela wasn''t just amazing with my mum and Anna, she also remembered things from the past that I either never knew or had forgotten. She would know how to send a fax, use Teletext, or arrange a party without using text messages. She was top, the house was mint, let''s fucking go. "When can you start?" I said.


    "Sure, that''s up to you."


    "We never really talked about pay."


    "Oh," she said, looking away. The topic made her uncomfortable, like she''d do it for free if she was allowed.


    "Thirty grand, rent''s free, you get raises when I do."


    "Careful Max," said Peter. "You''ll have her earning more than her son."


    "Yes," I said. "I will."


    ***


    I sat in the driver''s seat with my hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.


    What on earth had just happened? I had so many questions. How many clubs had mum written to and had she chosen them at random? How did mum know German? Did I like Dieter because she did? How could such a simple gesture as signing a photograph have such meaning after so long?


    Peter had a go at summarising the madness. "Small world."


    That seemed to sum things up. I didn''t feel like talking or getting emotional in front of a Rolls Royce centre back. I started the car but I didn''t know where we were going. "Do you want me to drive you to Chester?"


    "What will you do?"


    I felt the emotions welling up again and had to punch the steering wheel to batter them down. Get back, you worms! I set my jaw. "I''m going to pay it forward."


    "What does that mean?"


    "It means I''m going to save those Man United kids."


    "Which ones?"


    "All of them."


    "What if they''re shit?"


    "That''s why God invented the Welsh leagues."


    He laughed. "I will join you if I''m invited."


    I drove down the road for about twenty metres, which took approximately fifteen seconds. I stopped and composed myself as best as I could but there was something that needed to be said and it needed to be said right away. "Thank you, Peter." Suddenly, the bathtub of emotion was full and pouring out the sides. "I thought I''d never see her like that again. It''s such a relief. Such a relief. I know you don''t like being compared to Dieter but I''m pretty fucking happy you look like him. I got my mum back for a few minutes." I was going to say something like ''if you ever need anything, let me know'' but remembered what Emma had said. Actions, not words. "I''ve got ages before United''s kids train. Let''s have vegan hotdogs and I''ll show you around West."


    "That is the football club you don''t own."


    "Yes."


    "I have questions about your MCM."


    "MCM?"


    "Maxy Club Model. That''s what Henri calls it."


    "I prefer the Max Best Universe." I took in a deep breath and declared myself fit to drive. "Let me answer a different question first. If I was Bayern manager - trainer, I suppose you''d say - I''d start with 4-1-3-2. Strikers and midfielders, whatever, they''re all good. Let them roam. Guti? the DM; he''s amazing from what I''ve seen. For width you put Davies at left-back, a one-man solution to every left-sided problem. I love him. Then you need someone of that level on the right."


    "Who do you propose?"


    I scoffed. "Sorry, in this scenario aren''t I at the club?"


    He dipped his head. "Player-trainer. Of course."


    "Player-trainer," I said. "Urgh. Veto that phrase forever. I''m a mint right back. Love whipping those crosses in."


    "Do you have the discipline to defend for an entire match?"


    "Defend? If you put me in charge of a superclub we''re not going to fucking defend. Jesus, man." I laughed. "What the fuuuu."


    I wiped my eyes, counted to five, and drove away at normal speed.


    ***


    We spent a nice afternoon together that included driving past the Death Star. I told him it was traditional in Manchester to give the Man City campus the middle finger and he was happy to oblige. What a great guy.


    We got to Carrington, United''s training base, and were met by one of the academy guys. He showed us around. It wasn''t as obnoxious as City''s compound, but it was just as massive and just as good. Facilities 100, or close to it.


    To my relief, our guide didn''t ask Peter about his grandfather. He wanted to talk about how great the rebuilt training ground was, but I didn''t give much of a shit. Bumpers was best. "How did the lads take it when they were told they were getting cut?"


    "We haven''t told them quite yet."


    I stopped and pinched my nose. "Then they''re not going to be looking for alternatives, are they? They''re going to think I''m some no-mark and they''re not going to listen. What''s the fucking point me being here?"


    He looked awkward and I sensed he agreed with me but that he had to do what the people from BigTox told him. "You can have a look at them, still. Introduce yourself and when the time comes they''ll remember and look you up and when we give them the news, we can say hey but that Max Best liked you."


    I tutted, but Peter said, "Yes, that''s good. It''s not ideal but it''s fine. Isn''t it, Max?"


    "Sure, yeah. It''s better than fine. It''s brilliant."


    My mood improved as soon as we got out onto the grass. There were fucking tons of Man United players everywhere! I must have added 70 boys and girls to my database in the first ten seconds. Plenty of good ones, too. If any of these boys or girls were released I would see they were ''free agents'' and I''d be able to swoop in the very next day. I needed to get to all the academies.


    The dude told me which six players were on the verge of being released and I said I''d need to watch for a while and could they do a mini-match at some point so I could see the lads in action?


    That was easily arranged, but of course I didn''t need it for scouting purposes. It was to make me seem like a real scout but also to get an idea of how United played. The youth teams were still doing the 4-3-3 the first team had been doing for most of the last decade. Maybe that''s why BigTox were signing loads of new players - to align the youth teams with how the first team played. For that, they needed wing backs.


    "What do you think?" said Peter, casting his eye around. His own scouting skills weren''t bad if you needed a ready-made player, but his Judging Player Potential score was low.


    "They''re good," I said, looking from a very technical PA 133 midfield schemer to a PA 125 striker with low Finishing. "The best is a left back, of course."


    "Why of course?"


    "Because I already have two good young lads and it''s going to be hard for me to give out minutes even to one as good as him." He was on the short side but had PA 137 and he was fast as fuck. Useful.


    "What about Saltney Town?"


    "Yeah, if the kid would go there. I suppose I''ll just introduce myself for now, like the guy said, and they can look me up. I don''t know. What should my vibe be? What can I offer them they can''t get at a hundred other clubs?"


    Peter smiled at the question. "Expertise. Athleticism. Moments of surprise." He looked around at the other pitches. The very young players looked excited but there was a noticeable increase in the tension levels through the age groups. There were vanishingly few smiles among the eighteens we were watching. "Enjoyment."


    "Yeah," I said.


    "And the chance to be coached by me."


    I laughed - a big one. I needed that. "Mate. You''re so money." That seemed like the right moment to make my pitch that he should come to join Chester on a permanent basis, but all of a sudden that felt tawdry. I needed to stop trying to manage the whole world. He worked for the club he loved. That was pretty good, wasn''t it? He had helped me enough by covering for Sandra and shifting a ton of mini-bonds. "Check this out," I said, moving closer to him. I brought up a video Emma had sent me and I was about to press play when I realised it would make no sense. "Okay, context. I was staying in this house on my own and there was a pine marten living in the attic. That''s, er, marder or something in German."


    "Marder, yes. What, really? In the attic?"


    "Yes. No-one else ever saw it so there''s a bit of a running joke that I imagined the whole thing. It''s gone now - they leave in the spring and live in the woods - and we meshed up the roof so it can''t get back in. Okay, that''s the background. Check this out."


    Here''s what he saw.


    Interior: Ruth''s grandad''s cottage, AKA The Barn.


    It is pitch black and Emma is in a white night-dress shining a torch in her face. She''s recording on her phone.


    EMMA


    There''s something in the house! In the attic! In the walls! There, did you hear?


    Pan to: a wall.


    Back to: Emma''s face. It''s moist, as though she has been crying.


    EMMA


    I moved here to be with Max but no sooner do I unpack my last box than he says he''s staying the night in Manchester with a dreamy German. Now I''m here alone in this haunted house.


    Pan to: a wall.


    We see Emma''s hand reaching out, delicately touching things while she breathes heavily.


    EMMA


    I''m scared. I''m so so scared. Huh?


    There''s a sudden movement, a thump, a crash, and the scene ends with Emma''s head on the floor and her lifeless eyes open, unblinking. It stays like that for over twenty seconds.


    Peter gave me a strange look. "I have to ask. Is she okay?"


    "Yes. She''s just a complete nutjob." I scrubbed through the frames. "She doesn''t even watch horror movies. I don''t know how she knows the beats." I put my phone in my pocket and bit my lip. "She''s taking the piss out of me while keeping in touch. She''s amazing. The world is a flaming dumpster fire but I get to be with her." Maybe it was because there were a hundred people running around in Man United gear, but my mind turned to the upcoming match. "I''m going to attack. We can really get at them if we go for the throat. Who cares if they dick us? I get to go home to Emma. How bad can it be?"


    "Pretty bad."


    I clicked my neck. "I can take it. You can nope out if you want. You have to consider your reputation. We can say I sent you to scout our next league opponents."


    "Can I decide after the Crewe match?"


    "Sure. It''s going to be boring, though."


    "I''ll believe that when I see it."


    ***


    Saturday, December 13


    Post from The War Chest, your number one resource for the hottest transfer news and gossip.


    BREAKING! Chester have made a ¡ê200,000 offer for out-of-favour Stockport County winger Steve Weller. Weller won''t be keen to drop a division, but may be tempted by the offer of first-team football and the chance to play against Manchester United.


    Text from me to the DOF at Stockport County: Tony, why is everyone asking me about my interest in Steve Weller? I haven''t told anyone about my interest in Steve Weller. Have you been telling everyone about my interest in Steve Weller? That''s rather annoying, Tony. It''s not in my interest to have everyone know about my interest, Tony.


    Tony: I might have mentioned it to a couple of other clubs. It''s called creating a market for your product, Max. If I don''t try to drive the price up I''m not doing my job.


    Me: And if I publicly pull out of the deal everyone will know you pissed me off. You''d better hope some idiot takes the bait and you''d better hope we beat Crewe today because come 6 p.m. if I''m in a bad mood I''m taking it out on you.


    ***


    Match 20 of 46: Chester versus Crewe Alexandra


    Tony probably breathed sighs of relief as our goals went in, but I only breathed sighs of listlessness. I turned to Peter. "I told you it''d be boring," I said, as the clock hit 70 minutes.


    Crewe had come to the Deva with their usual 3-5-2 and a team full of young players. Their CA 80 made them the 12th strongest side in the league on paper, but that paper wasn''t worth the paper it was written on.


    I''d gone for my trusty 4-1-4-1. Having Cole at left back and Josh left midfield brought our average down to 78.5 but we had great balance, Crewe couldn''t hurt us, and Pascal was enjoying being back in the starting line up. I''d stationed him at right mid and told him to go crazy. He had climbed to CA 80 and had a good forty-five minutes of fitness in his legs. He created the first goal with a burst of pace and a simple pass to Henri.


    The second came when the young Crewe players switched off from a free kick. Ryan Jack clipped a ball over the top, Henri fought for it, scrapped against a centre back, and bundled the ball through the keeper and into the net. The Crewe lads complained that we took the kick too quickly but weirdly, no-one in blue-and-white agreed with them. More importantly, neither did the ref. The goal stood.


    At half time I had put Sharky on for Pascal, and after sixty minutes put Magnus and Dazza on instead of Ryan and Henri.


    It was extremely rudimentary stuff. If Peter had been hoping to see me do some wizard stuff, he was barking up the wrong tree.


    The fans seemed to be enjoying themselves and the women''s squad were singing and dancing up in their now-traditional corner of the Harry McNally but to me this match was dull as dishwater. Three points, clean sheet, climb to 8th in the league, yawn.


    ***


    Extract from Seals Live


    Boggy: Approaching the final ten minutes here at the Deva. Chester well in control, well on top. It seems we won''t see Max Best today.


    Spectrum: This isn''t his kind of match. We''re so comfortable and he''ll be content to let his players see out the win. Remember the early part of the season when he was having to do everything himself? He''ll be loving this. Absolutely loving this.


    Boggy: Understandable, very understandable, though of course the home fans would like to see him in full flight. Ah, well. Perhaps he is thinking about transfers. Lots of rumours flying around today, and a lot of bonds being sold on the backs of those stories.


    Spectrum: That will infuriate him. Max did all those interviews for nothing. He¡¯ll be fuming when he realises he could have simply dropped some transfer hints instead!


    Boggy: Green to Hudson. Ball clipped over the top. Hayward runs onto it. The home fans are off their seats!


    Spectrum: Crewe have left that hole there the entire match. It''s crazy.


    Boggy: Hayward gathers, looks up. Only two more home matches until his big move to Crawley. He doesn''t like his options, though, and turns back.


    Spectrum: Oh, that''s excellent. The fans are frustrated but that''s excellent.


    Boggy: Max Best with big, over-the-top applause. He''s signalling to the fans that Sharky did the right thing. Yes, and... Oh, now what''s this? Some urgent discussions there in the technical area. Who''s that?


    Spectrum: That''s Livia Stranton, one of the physios.


    Boggy: Oh, dear. Someone has picked up an injury?


    Spectrum: Never good news, but especially this time of year. The matches come thick and fast and when players are out it puts more strain on the others. Max will be worried.


    Boggy: He looks extremely stern. In fact, he''s getting ready to come on! I can''t tell who for.


    Spectrum: Josh.


    Boggy: That''s right. Josh Owens. But Owens is sprinting across the pitch. He looks fine. What''s going on? Very strange buzz around the main stand. Lots of worried faces. Peter Bauer is yelling: what''s going on? Welcome to Chester, Peter. Suggestion from the chat. New motto idea. Chester FC, where you''re always the last to know. [Chuckles.] It does feel like that sometimes, yes.


    Spectrum: Josh straight onto the bench, puts his jacket on, laughing and joking. He''s fine.


    Boggy: Around him, the worried murmur intensifies. The game continues with Crewe playing out from the back. Dazza makes a half-hearted attempt to press. Evergreen closes the 14. Crewe cycling the ball nicely. Max Best is very still. Motionless, in fact.


    Spectrum: What''s the difference?


    Boggy: Motionless is stiller than still.


    Spectrum: What?


    [Fan noise intensifies.]


    Boggy: Best with the interception! He waited for his moment and... He''s on the march! Off he goes. The speed is - Past one. Past two. Shapes to shoot. One-two with Smith. The Australian overhits the return pass! It''s gone wide but Best gets there ahead of the goalie. Best is forced away from goal, onto his left. Points for Smith to come closer. The defenders are all back. Best passes -


    [Fans roar.]


    Best scores! His back was to goal and he was too far wide. He shaped to pass but chipped the goalie! Left-footed from an angle. What a goal!


    Spectrum: Look!


    Boggy: And the rarest of all sights - a Max Best goal celebration. He''s gleeful! He''s beaming! What''s...? He''s in front of the McNally, waving his arms left and right. Palms facing upwards. Baby! He''s miming that he''s rocking a baby! It''s the iconic baby celebration from the 1994 Brazil side!


    Spectrum: Sandra Lane''s baby! Little baby Spectrum!


    Boggy: The rest of the team are alongside Best, copying the celebration. Now they hug. Now they dance! Now they weep!


    Spectrum: Oh my God, amazing. So amazing.


    Boggy: Are you okay, mate?


    Spectrum: Yeah, it''s just... Been so worried...


    [Long stretch of quiet.]


    Boggy: Oh, no. This is ominous. Peter Bauer caught Best''s attention, waved him over. It looks like he has given Best some bad news. Best all but slapped the turf!


    Spectrum: Oh, shit. The good news wasn''t good after all. No! Where''s my phone?


    Boggy: No phones, please. It messes up the broadcast.


    Spectrum: I can''t handle it, Boggy. I''m sorry. I have to go and find out.


    Boggy: [Audibly gripping Spectrum by the arm.] Wait. We''ve kicked off again and Best is in a fury. He''s pressing like a madman. Smith joins in! Contreras backing up! The whole of the team is pressing! There''s... Zach Green in midfield. Fierce in midfield! Who''s back?


    Spectrum: Youngster.


    Boggy: Youngster is a one-man defence! Everyone else is haring around the pitch, chasing that ball. It''s pumped long. Cole Adams retreats, takes it on the chest. Very nice. Plays it to Youngster. Crewe rush to block the passing lanes. That''s an open invitation to dribble! He surges forward. Green and Fierce back in position. It''s still Youngster. He exchanges passes with Evergreen. The Ghanaian under 20 star threatens to clip the ball over the top to Hayward. Crewe push up to catch him offside but the pass doesn''t come.


    Spectrum: It''s Sandra''s Switch! This is her move! Look left.


    Boggy: Youngster clips the ball over the top. Best rushes onto it. The defence is too far from goal! Best is through on the keeper, just like that.


    Spectrum: Timed to perfection. Watch companies, what are you waiting for?


    Boggy: Best... He''s got Smith trying to catch up to offer an option. Best... thrashes the ball into the net! [Intense crowd roar.] He hit that with such venom it could have taken the keeper''s head off! The crowd go bonkers. Limbs! Best rushes into the back of the net. He gets the ball. It''s four-nil, Max! Someone tell him it''s four-nil! Now he''s sprinting towards the technical area. Peter Bauer is bouncing around. Best... shoves the ball up his shirt! And sucks his thumb! Well, is he pregnant or is he a baby? He''s wrapped up by his coaches on one side, his players from the other.


    Spectrum: Message on the chat!


    Boggy: It''s from Sandra Lane! She''s listening! Aiden gave birth to a healthy baby boy. All is well. Sounds like Peter told Max his goal celebration was out of date so he''s gone and scored another. In honour of this wonderful win, we''re thinking of naming him... Alex.


    Spectrum: Alex? Because of Crewe Alexandra? Sandra, that''s terrible. They''re losing! And you can''t name him after the sports psychologist!


    Boggy: Message from the chat. Peter tells Max to score, Max scores. That''s called an infinite goal glitch. What is the club doing to make sure Peter stays? It''s a good question, Spectrum. Will he stay?


    Spectrum: Look around. The stadium is bouncing, there are smiles everywhere, the manager''s a wizard. We''re going to beat Man United, win the Youth Cup, and win League Two. This... this is the only place to be.

 12.13 - Epilogue: William the Conkerer

    13.


    Monday, December 15


    The crowd hushed as William B. Roberts, one of the best young strikers of his generation, lined up a shot.


    "Good form," I said into the microphone. "Good intensity. He''s a killer. Grrrr."


    Will''s tongue poked out between his lips but he got his game face back on and - thwack!


    "Great shot," I cried out. "But no luck."


    "Come on William!" cried a woman and there was much applause.


    Will took his second shot, and his third, but didn''t achieve his goal.


    It was Peter Bauer''s turn. "I still don''t know the rules!" he wailed. "What ought I do?"


    "Boo," I said. "Boo, get on with it." Peter shook his head and took a shot. He missed. "Terrible. This is the biggest choke in a final since Tottenham in the Champions League."


    "Tottenham were robbed by the referee," said Peter, stalling for time.


    "Everyone boo Peter," I demanded. No-one did; he was too popular.


    Peter was holding a shoelace. At the end of the shoelace was a horse chestnut seed that the tree at Bumpers Bank had dropped in the autumn. The tree produced green, spiky shells which contained one, sometimes two seeds, and the seeds were beautiful. An inch or so wide, the polished, shiny brown of your mum''s coffee table, with a light brown top. Carve a thin hole through the seed, push a shoelace through, tie off one end and you have created a conker.


    Peter''s job was to use his conker to annihilate William''s, but he was terrible at the attacking side of the game.


    "Peter lines up his second shot. Oh but that''s a bad miss. Heh."


    I was commentating from my vantage point close to the action. We were on the 3G pitch at Bumpers and there was a healthy crowd of Chester players, their WAGs, kids, and all sorts of admin people. The event had developed organically and quickly from this Conkers tournament into our unofficial Christmas party.


    "Peter with his third shot. And the misfiring German has finally managed to land a hit!"


    In this tournament, the players had three goes each. Now it was Will''s turn again.


    Peter smoothed out his shoelace and dangled the conker at arm''s length. William wrapped his lace around his wrist a couple of times to shorten the length and impart maximum power to his attack.


    Will cracked his conker against Peter''s, sending both veering off, their paths constrained by the shoelace. Peter''s conker wrapped around and into his arm. Will''s somehow hit him on the top of his own head. Conkers is banned in a lot of British schools.


    "A reminder that Peter got through the knockout rounds with a tedious, defensive style. If Jose Mourinho played Conkers..." That got some laughs. One of the risks in Conkers is that if you land a good strike you can break your own seed as easily as you can break your opponents. "The aim of the game is destruction," I said. "Destroy, Will! Get him! Get him, Will!"


    Will stuck his tongue out again, looked around at the crowd, and blushed slightly. That was amazing. I had no doubt he would strut around Old Trafford and if he scored he would shush the 70,000 Man United fans. In a football match nothing fazed him. In the real world, he was a normal 17-year-old boy.


    Will''s second shot came with a meaty impact sound, but no visible damage to either conker.


    "The crowd hushes as Will lines up his third and final go. Future? Big Sam? I said the crowd hushes."


    Crack!


    "Ooh, big one! But Peter survives. After the bombs drop there will only be cockroaches and Peter''s conker. What a specimen! Now it''s Peter''s turn. A reminder that Conkers has been played on these islands for thousands of years. Some say Stonehenge was built to host the country''s first tournament. Then, as now, light cheating was allowed. Vinegar. Slow-baking the conkers." Someone called something out. "If that''s Henri saying the horse chestnut isn''t native to Britain, jab him in the ribs." There followed a loud ''ow!'' "I happen to know that we exported the horse chestnut to Europe and then took it back a few thousand years later. It was merely out on loan."


    Peter was listening to me babble. "Should I strike now or - ?"


    "Yes! Stop timewasting! Boo!"


    He decided to copy Will''s technique of shortening the shoelace. It helped you get more accuracy but less power, and when you got a good contact - "Ow!" he cried, as the hard nut flew around and into his knuckles.


    He frowned. Why were we playing this stupid game? His hands were far too cold to be taking impacts. "Oh no," I said, in a baby voice. "Peter got an ouchie."


    He gritted his teeth and took his second and third shots.


    "Ooh, do I see a bit of a buckle there?" I said, stepping closer. Johnny, the groundsman, had been aghast when I told him I''d be using the pitch to host the final. I felt the floodlights and the early evening mist would add to the sense of drama; Johnny claimed there would be bits of conker in the weaves of the artificial grass forever. That was a good point but we had compromised. He had put down a big sheet to collect the broken pieces. "Yes! There''s a big crack in Peter''s conker. Will! Look! Hit it there!" William lined up his first shot and hit the target. A visible chunk of Peter''s conker flew off. "Yerrssssss! And now the death blow! Death! Blow! Death! Blow!" I whipped the crowd up until their bloodlust was enough to join in the chant.


    William, under pressure, missed the target.


    "The hell was that? Boo! Focus! Use the force. The spirits of the ancient druids are watching. Don''t let them down."


    William''s third shot obliterated Peter''s conker. A cheer rose up.


    There was a handshake and a polite exchange of ''well dones'' before I lifted Will''s hand and displayed him to the onlookers.


    Before the celebrations had even started to die down, Johnny Planter and his staff were rolling up the sheet, carefully making sure no bits of foreign material got into the precious crevices.


    "There you have it," I said. "William the Conkerer defeats Peter the Great! Thrilling. Will, you win one therapy session with your unqualified manager. Can we get four or five physios to look at Peter''s ouchie, please? Thanks to Johnny and his team for collecting the horse chestnuts, thanks to the under twelves for turning them into conkers, thanks to everyone who took part in the tournament. There are nibbles, drinks, mini-games. Have a wander around, mingle, talk to someone you''ve never met before. All right? Is it too early to say Merry Christmas? Ah, whatevs. Merry Christmas!"


    The crowd replied "Merry Christmas," and made a beeline for the mini-games or the tables laden with white wine, as per their age and inclination. I handed the microphone to a volunteer and walked off. William came with me. We were going to have a quick chat in the Sin Bin before rejoining the party, but there were a couple of people I needed to talk to first in case they left early.


    ***


    "Dazza," I said, and the big boofhead turned around. He was, surprise, surprise, surrounded by women. These included Meghan, Sarah Greene, and Kisi.


    "G''day boss. Champ," he added, nodding at Wibbers. Will barely noticed; he was eyeing the ladies.


    I said, "Well, Darren. I''ll just say that it''s good you don''t play Conkers for a living. You are hot garbage."


    "Fair dinkum, boss. Never played before but it was fun to give it a burl. Picked out a proper cactus, didn''t I?"


    "Mmm," I said. I thought he was complaining about the conker he had taken from the bag, but he could have been saying anything. "Maybe let''s talk about football. I got your recent data. Number goes up."


    He was pleased. "Anything in particular?"


    "You know the specifics don''t matter," I said. "You''re doing great and I like your approach. I''m almost tempted to stop throwing spiders at you."


    His eyebrows shot up. "The data''s that good?"


    "Yep. We''re gonna get offers for you in the summer and you could probably skip League One and go straight to the Championship. Where''s your head at right now?"


    He frowned, but only for a moment. "You''re asking coz my decision could change what you do this transfer window."


    "Right." If he was likely to leave in the summer, along with Foquita and Henri, the only senior striker I would have on the books would be Tom Westwood and he wasn''t League One quality. If Dazza was thinking about leaving, I could get ahead of the problem by signing someone like Lucas Cook, the Exit Triallist I''d sent to Tranmere, who could get some minutes as a backup for the rest of this season and be one of the two starters next.


    "What do you want?" he said, stepping away from his admirers and speaking more softly.


    "Erm..." If we sold Dazza this summer, I''d make the money make more money. If we kept him, that was good too. What would be best for his career? "It depends how you go in the Champ. If your numbers are bad at the start and the manager loses faith you might be on the sidelines for a while, but you''ll be at a high level with great facilities. If you stay with us it''s more of a slow and steady rise. More of a sure thing but with much less money."


    "Which one''s going to get me playing for my country?"


    I glanced at William. The England selectors hadn''t shown any interest in him. "If your lot are as lazy as ours, they''re not looking in the lower leagues for players. They''re definitely looking in the Championship."


    Dazza looked to my right. "What would you do, Will?"


    Will looked at me. "What would you do, boss?"


    I shrugged. "If my main goal was to play for Oz, I''d stay here another season. I''d keep building my technical base, keep adding bits to my game. When I get my chance in the famous baggy green shell suit, I''m taking it and keeping it. And I wouldn''t even ask for a raise this coming summer, to prove just how determined I was."


    Will nodded. "I asked Henri to double my rent because I love the grind that much."


    Dazza laughed and high-fived Will. "Reckon I''ll stay if you''ll have me. I''d be a right conker if I left while I was having so much apples."


    I inhaled. "Will, did you hear that? Having so much apples?"


    "Yes, boss."


    I shook my head. "Sometimes I wonder if I''m hallucinating half of it."


    ***


    I found Peter in conversation with Physio Dean and Livia. "Max," complained Peter. "They are making fun of me." He smiled and rubbed his hand. "That really hurt! It''s like being hit by a stone."


    A quick rub of my upper lip hid a smile. "We''ll toughen you up by the next tournament. And if you practise hard, you might be able to hit a stationary target from six inches away."


    "I won''t be participating in this tournament again. I didn''t know what I was agreeing to."


    "Yep yep yep," I said. "Only problem with that theory is that you''ll spend the next eleven months thinking about conkers, wondering if you could have done it better. You''ll come up with plans and strategies."


    "There is no strategy! It''s all about which chestnut you pick from the hat."


    "Is it? Ah, that''s interesting. Isn''t that interesting, William?"


    Will nodded. "Yes, boss. Very interesting that he would think that."


    The four English people kept a straight face while Peter tried to work out what we meant. I clapped my hands together. "You need some glue wine. Pascal''s dad made a batch."


    "Gl¨¹hwein?" said Peter, perking up. "Authentic German recipe?"


    "I don''t know," I said. "Probably. Come and try." There was a little queue and, unforgivably, I cut in. "Sorry, everyone! Legit doing some work."


    "Boo!" cried Zach, who was lining up patiently next to Brooke, who was all wrapped up in coats, gloves, and a cute hat.


    "If you want special treatment," I said, "don''t get knocked out in the first round of the tournament!"


    "My conker was bad."


    Will said, with a suspiciously innocent expression, "You have to nut harder."


    "No," I said, pushing him away. "You go to the back of the line for that. Awful." I pushed him away but he came right back. "Can I have a quick word in a second, Brooke? I''ll be over there with my glue wine. Guten abend, Herr Bochum!" I said, in a flawless Mancunian accent.


    "How many?" said Pascal''s dad.


    "Three, please."


    He ladled three big blobs into paper cups and the finalists and I moved away, took a sip, and let out simultaneous ''ahhs''. Peter smiled. "Sehr gut gemacht."


    "We had this at the digs last year," said William. "What is it?"


    "Mulled wine," I said. "Warms you up on a cold winter''s evening. Makes everything ten percent more Christmassy."


    I took a contented look around. Emma and Gemma were over there being besties. Benny and his dad, Chester legend Nice One, were talking to Ben and Sharky. Jill and Smasho were with some of the players who had moved to Saltney''s women''s team. Angel was talking animatedly to Sophie and Henri while Luisa watched the younger woman''s every move like a hawk. Pete, one of our chefs, was walking around with a plate of nibbles and explaining what they were.


    Ryan Jack and Ruth came towards us. Ryan looked worried. Ruth, like Brooke, was tucked into some warm winter clothes in extremely pleasing fashion. "Gaffer," said Ryan. "Bad news. Heard from me sources that Weller''s going to Bradford."


    "Fuck," said William.


    "How much?" I said.


    "Two forty."


    "Gazumped again," I said, cheerily. I took another sip. "Peter, this is my new transfer team. You know Ryan. Have you met Ruth? She runs the UK''s fastest growing sports agency."


    "Transfer team?" said Peter.


    "I thought about what you said and yeah, deals are only going to get more and more complicated and clubs are going to wind me up more and more. Ryan is charming and patient, Ruth is charming and patient and menacing. I''ll tell them who I''m interested in, give them a budget range, let them at it."


    "Oh," said Peter. "I didn''t think you''d listen."


    "Why would you think that?" I said, taking another sip. It was good stuff.


    "Everyone said you''re stubborn as hell."


    "Who? Name names. I''ll batter them!"


    William scratched his head. His agent was half of my transfer team. "Ruth doesn''t work for Chester, does she?"


    "No. She''ll be something like an outside consultant. The club will pay her a flat fee per deal. I''ll have to explain it on a podcast and there will be some grumbling but not much, I don''t think. People want transfers. They don''t want to hear that I botched a deal and put another club on my shit list." So Weller had gone to join Bradford. My first thought was for Aff. I had got the impression Folke Wester was happy with the Irishman''s performances. Then again, it didn''t really matter what Wester thought. Chip Star was top of the league and clearly he had successfully petitioned Daddy for more of a war chest. "Bradford aren''t going to be in for another left-mid so we should be able to get our second target. I''ll text you some names. Hey, Ruth, can you - as sweetly as possible, please - ask Mateo about Lucas Cook? If he''d sell, what sort of price would we be looking at? Tell him I''m worried the Foquita deal will fall through at the last minute."


    "What?" said William. "How can it? No way!"


    Ruth gave Will a strange look. To me, she said, "I''m always sweet, Max. Aren''t I, Ryan?"


    Ryan thought about it. "You smile as you''re delivering the bad news. Does that count?"


    Zach and Brooke came over. "Bad news?" said Brooke.


    "Nothing to worry about." I sipped the hot wine. "Just Chip being Chip."


    "Yeah," Brooke said. "He does that. Max, people are lovin¡¯ this. The atmosphere, spending time together, exploring the tables and what''s in the bar. People are saying we should do a Christmas market. German style with cabins and beer tents and Christmas lights, someone dressed as Father Christmax."


    "A Christmas market, here? Yes, please," said Ruth.


    "Love it," I said. "Who will I delegate that task to, do you think?"


    Brooke smiled. "Peter gets things done."


    "Yeah, he does. Peter, who should I give this task to?"


    "I think I am expected to say Brooke?"


    "Amazing choice! Brooke, you are in charge of next year''s Christmas market. Er, quick little thing." I handed my wine to William, but there was only a bit left so I took it back, downed it, and gave him the cup. He slid his cup into mine. "Team work!" I said, then coughed slightly as the spices tickled my throat. "Worr, that one got me. Amazing stuff. Okay, Brooke, I know you''re taking a vacation so I won''t see you before Christmas." I fumbled in my pockets and realised my hands were proper cold. I found what I was looking for - a simple piece of paper. "In recent times I''ve been told I''m a terrible negotiator."


    Peter said, "By whom? Name names! I''ll have a stern word with them!"


    I smiled. "I''m actually not bad, I think. If it''s another football club that cares about their employees, it''s easy. It''s just a question of what''s best for the player and what''s a fee we can both agree on. Simples. Most football clubs, though, you call them and as soon as you say you want a player it''s like you''ve landed them in episode 7 of The Traitors. They''re trying to play 6D chess with a 2D brain."


    I paused to enjoy what I''d just said.


    William said, "Sorry, what''s the topic?"


    "Yeah, got confusing, didn''t I? Simple version: Brooke, I got you a Christmas present." I was about to hand the paper over but decided a little more ceremony was in order. "I want to give you a raise and you more than deserve it. I plan to put you on Gemma money within two years. I know that''s still a big drop from what you''re used to." Brooke rolled her eyes; I continued. "But for now, this is the best I can do."


    I offered the paper. She handed her drink to Zach; he was already reaching out to take it. Brooke opened the paper and looked as puzzled as her carefully-inexpressive face ever got. All that was written there was a pound sign followed by a five-digit number. "What...?"


    "They will sell you Biccy for that price."


    Her face did cartwheels, which was impressive for at least two reasons. "Biscotti? They say they wouldn''t ever..."


    "They will. Bosh. Merry Christmas."


    She threw herself at me and treated me to the vibrations of a happy cry.


    Peter said, "Biscotti?"


    "It''s a pony," I said.


    Brooke peeled herself away from me and looked at the paper, not even trying to hide her delight. "How did you do it?"


    "Simple," I said, seriously. "Carrot and stick. Carrot, loads of money. Stick, agree to sell or I''ll come back with 500 hooligans and we''ll trash the place."


    Brooke looked like a little girl when she smiled and said, "No! Tell me!"


    I smiled. "I told them that all this - " I waved my finger around - "Is you. Told them about Chester Chatters, the dentist - is he here? We invited him, right? Just said it''s Christmas and that''s the time of year I decide who''s been naughty and who''s been nice."


    Peter said, "You make a list and check it twice."


    "No, mate," I said, fake annoyed. "I don''t check because I don''t make mistakes. Anyway, they agreed that Brooke deserved to have the opportunity to buy the pony at a sickening mark-up. I''m honestly not sure if it was my charm that sealed the deal or if they want to put in another swimming pool or what."


    Brooke shook her head as the first tiny tear started to form. "I didn''t think... I''m astonished. But if I buy Biccy I can go, Max. I can go somewhere warm. Aren''t you worried?"


    I turned to the left where Pascal''s father was already coming to the end of his glue wine. Who knew free, warming, delicious alcohol would be such a hit? Behind him, spread out all the way to the penalty box on the 3G, were parents of kids in the youth system, first teamers, the women. There were some cliques but a fair amount of mingling. It felt like a Christmas market even if there were no lights, decorations, music, or cute wooden huts. Steam was coming out of everyone''s mouths as they joked and laughed and huddled together. "Don''t know, Brooke. It''s pretty warm here."


    "Yeah, it is," she said, wiping her eyes.


    "Guys," I said, looking from Ruth to Ryan to Zach via Peter and William. "That is the Christmas present equivalent of scoring from 60 yards, all right? Watch and learn." I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warm glow of smugness. It was tastier and spicier than any alcohol. "Hmm. We should have done that with the camera crew here. Black and white filter, acoustic version of an 80s classic, put that on the socials and make everyone''s parents cry. Give the gift of Chester this Christmas. Buy your loved ones tickets for Notts County."


    "Well done, Max," said Ruth. It seemed like a comment on the gift, not on the advert idea.


    "Yeah, amazing," said Ryan. "Hats off."


    I mimed doffing my cap to him. "Last thing. Peter, will you give me the gift of being my assistant manager tomorrow?"


    "In the FA Youth Cup against West Ham United? I would love to."


    "Yesss!" hissed William, pulling his fist down. Peter''s eyes widened; I was thrilled. No way was he getting genuine outbursts of enthusiasm from the young stars at Bayern.


    "William. Time for some therapy!"


    ***


    I checked the time. I was 21 XP short of affording the Relationism module and while I was hyper about it, I knew there was no point rushing to get it. Our next match was tomorrow evening in the Youth Cup and I would, at most, use Relationism for two minutes at the end just to see how it all worked. Whether I bought it now or in a few hours made no difference, and at 7 p.m. a bunch of randos would come to Bumpers to use the pitch and I would watch them for 21 minutes.


    It was hard to concentrate on our discussion, though, with a giant box of amazingness vibrating gently under the Christmas tree. Mum said I couldn''t open it until tomorrow night. Not fair! The other boys got to open one present a day early!


    "Will, did your parents make you wait to open your pressies or did they let you have one early?"


    We were in the Sin Bin and I was clicking around on my laptop. Wibbers was in the middle of the white table, directly in front of the TV. I was to the side, as I had been when I had outfoxed Angel. After I had convinced Jackie not to use her for the rest of the calendar year, she had whispered, ''Well played.'' What a good sport she was. Shame I wasn''t finished showing her who was boss.


    William said, "We get one early, yeah. But it''s never one of the good ones."


    "You were dead impatient. An impossible little brat."


    "Nah, I was all right, gaffer, honest. When I was little they said you get the pressies on Christmas morning. Yeah I ran around the house making a racket until they woke up, but it didn''t occur to me to, like, ask for it even earlier. That was Adam."


    "Your brother''s impatient?"


    "To say the least. He''s a pest. On Christmas Eve they let him open one. A new jumper. Box of chocolates. Some book."


    "Ah, that reminds me. The charity wants to do a new project."


    "Which charity?"


    "Ours. The Chester one. The one that technically owns Bumpers. It''s Brooke, really, but with more and more volunteers. I basically just let them get on with it. Brooke''s intern, Kian, found out about this thing they do in Germany where football players go to schools to encourage kids to read. Kids who read are better at sports, apparently, and communicate better and so on. I was thinking we could do it together."


    "Me?"


    "Yeah. That''s a good division of skills. I''ll do some weird, mad stuff, and you''ll tell them you like Striker! by Steve Bruce or The Lightning Thief."


    "Why?"


    "I''m in an anti-gammon mood, Will. This will get attention, right, the first time we go. I''ll be like, here are five books that the Daily Mail doesn''t want you to read! And you''ll be like that''s nice but I like ones with a story and cool pictures." He pulled a face I saw a lot - smile plus frown equals can''t tell if you''re joking. I said, "I''ll get what I want but we will also achieve our mission of getting kids to stop looking at screens. Win-win. Love it. Okay, let''s do some video analysis. Sound the irony klaxon!"


    Will sat up. A lot of the younger players were the same - they loved when a coach took them through game scenarios on the screen, especially when it involved the players themselves.


    Alex, our sports psychologist, had been working with Will and one of Will''s issues was some uncertainty about how he was supposed to think when on the pitch. They''d agreed that Will should ask me to do some video sessions with him and I was totes into it. The theme of the first half of the season was getting deeper than pure numbers, right?


    My approach to these video sessions was ''a little but often'', so we mostly watched one clip of him and he talked me through what he was thinking, and he chose a clip of me and I talked him through my process. The sessions had already led to one pop in his Decisions score so they were having some impact though I knew better than to think I''d contributed more than the last little fraction of a percent.


    Although there was a party going on outside, the West Ham match was of paramount importance and missing ten minutes of gawping at women wasn''t going to do him any harm.


    "Before we look at the clips," I said, rummaging in my pockets for a Post-It. "I thought we could quickly go over some things we''ve learned this season so far."


    "Sure," he said. He leaned back, relaxed.


    "Are you happy with the technical feedback you''re getting? Your charts, your physical stats?"


    "We don''t get much. I keep an eye on them but I''m trying not to let the numbers tell me what to do, like you said. Are you happy with my data?"


    I smiled. He was slightly unusual in asking questions like that. Pascal did. Dan did. Most of the others had a more fearful approach and I had to work hard to coax their feelings out of them.


    "Yes," I said. "You are right on track. Next topic. Alex Short. Are you finding those sessions useful?"


    "Definitely. Sometimes when I get angry I think about talking to him and that''s enough."


    I nodded. "I know exactly what you mean; I''m the same. Do you talk to him anyway?"


    "Not about that thing, no."


    "Might be good," I mused. "Even if you''re over it. Could have a quick chat about your triggers; get ahead of it."


    "Okay."


    I tapped the table. "When we met you were a bit of a hothead, weren''t you? You''re way better now but as you get more profile, like against Newcastle or what you''re going to do tomorrow, teams are going to think up plans against you. Double-marking, snide challenges, guys pinching you, calling your mum, all kinds of shit. Getting angry''s fine if you channel it."


    "Like you did against Bolton."


    "Yeah, that''s pretty much ideal, I reckon." I smiled. "Can''t promise to react like that every time. I know I''m going to go full smashy-smashy one day."


    Will tilted his head and put a finger to his jaw. "How about you get ahead of it by talking to Alex?"


    "Sarky bastard," I said. "But I will if you will."


    "Deal," he said, reaching forward. We shook on it.


    I returned to the Post-It and went down one bullet point. "Are you still putting your money away like we talked about?"


    He nodded urgently. "Yes! Want to check?"


    "No, I don''t want to check. Never let anyone see your bank account, mate. That''s yours. Anyone who starts asking, that''s a red flag. You get me?"


    "Yes."


    "Biggest problem for you, from what I''ve heard about what goes on in the Prem, is going to be so-called friends sponging off you. That''s why you put that 10 percent away, right? You need to finish this career rich and stay rich. If you want to take some mates to Ibiza and pay for everything, yeah, okay. But if you do it once and they expect you to do it again the next year, bin them off."This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    "I don''t have that kind of money."


    "You will. Need to watch out for leeches and bloodsuckers."


    "My mates aren''t like that."


    "They''d better not be because I''ll Brig anyone who starts taking liberties."


    Will smiled. "What if I''m at Man City?"


    I shrugged. "Depends how much I sold you for and whether you demanded a move ten minutes before the transfer deadline."


    "Are you still thinking of loaning me to a club in a higher league?"


    "Yep."


    "I said it to loads of people and they think you''re crazy. They say you''re a wizard but not a miracle worker."


    "Well, that kind of negativity is a topic we could get into one day, mate. You and I can do things those people can''t. Do you get me? If you go round thinking about all the things you can''t do, you''ll never do anything."


    "But how would it work?"


    I smiled. "Okay, here''s one example from, conservatively, a billion ideas I''ve already had. We win the league this year. We win the league next year. I''m pretty good at this management lark but I think we need a consolidation year in the Championship before we go up to the Prem. If we went straight through we would be the least prepared team of all time and we would get absolutely pummelled. The first year in the Champ you and Youngster would still be learning. I think it would be fine to keep you that year. The second year, though. You wouldn''t learn much, would you? You need to be in the Prem that year. Playing for who? There''s often a team that scrapes into Europe, isn''t there? They''ve got the Premier League, the FA Cup, AOK Cup, and the Europa League. Potentially over 70 matches. Say it''s Brentford. They don''t want to buy five new players, do they? What if it''s their only season with European football? They bought five players they don''t need and they''re paying huge money over four years. Oops! But I''ve just spoken to that lovely Max Best and he''s given me an idea..."


    Wibbers smiled. "Loan me and Youngster for that season. Brentford aren''t committed to a long-term deal but they get a couple of extra bodies."


    I beamed. "And you get some Prem experience, some European exposure. Not loads, no, but that''s better than retreading old ground in the Championship. Mate, the concept is foolproof. No-one can possibly argue this isn''t realistic, plausible, shit - even necessary. As always, I''m ahead of the game. Max Best one, naysayers nil."


    Will shook his head with a smile. My idea had logic... on paper. "It could work," he said, diplomatically.


    "Whatever happens, I''m going to loan you to a so-called bigger club for at least a month just to establish dominance over those who doubt me. You okay with that?"


    He smiled. "Yes, boss. Can I ask a squad-building question?"


    "Yes."


    "How fucked are we?"


    "Because we didn''t get Weller? Zero percent fucked."


    "The lads are worried there will be another Raffi Brown transfer twist."


    "There won''t be," I said. "We can win the league with the squad we''ve got. No-one has a release clause. Nothing can go wrong."


    He looked worried. "What if the twist is that Foquita doesn''t come?"


    I scoffed. "That''s the twist, all right. But the twist isn''t what you think."


    "What?"


    "The twist is... he''s already here."


    "He''s in England?"


    "Yep. He''s doing tourist things with his girlfriend and then she''ll go back to Peru. They''ll be coming to The Happening. All right?"


    "All right," he said, smiling. "She''s quite fit, isn''t she? Exotic."


    "Yes. Don''t fall in love with her."


    "I won''t if you won''t," he said, and extended his hand.


    I didn''t take the offer. "Mmmmight not shake on that one, bro," I laughed. "I''m only human. Okay, focus."


    I tapped my keyboard and a video showed on the big telly. We watched three clips in silence. They were remarkably similar.


    In the first, Wibbers was running through on goal on the left-half of the D. The goalie was rushing out. Wibbers had a few choices of what to do but didn''t like any of them so he turned away from goal and passed to Dazza. The ball wasn''t in his stride so he ended up flubbing the shot.


    In the second, Sarah Greene was through in an almost identical position. She chipped the goalie.


    In the third, Sarah Greene was through, faked a chip, and dribbled around the goalie before rolling the ball into the net.


    I went back to the first clip and played it slowly, pausing at William''s moment of decision.


    "What are you thinking?"


    "Yeah, I wanted to run around the keeper but the defender there is really fast. I wasn''t sure he wouldn''t tackle me."


    I nodded. Made sense. "What about the chip?"


    Wibbers got up and walked to the screen. He used his finger to show the flight of the ball. His fingertip went up and curved towards the top left of the goal. "Chip goes here, over the keeper. I felt he would get a hand to it."


    I nodded towards the other side of the goal. "Could you have put it there?"


    "Normally yeah but... look... well, you can''t see it but the ball''s not in the right place. It looks it, but it''s not. If I tried to wrap my foot around it I would have tripped myself up."


    "I know exactly what you mean," I said. "What about rolling the ball wide? Put some spin on it, bends round the keeper, easy. I love a slow-motion goal. It''s even more of a fuck-you than a thunderbastard, sometimes."


    Wibbers bit his lip. "Not sure. The keepers are so tall. I feel they''ll just bend and get the ball and I''ll look a dick."


    I leaned back. "Okay. I''m happy with that. You could have been more sympathetic with the pass to Dazza. You know he''s not the most technical. But I''m happy with your process."


    The point of the sessions, for me at least, wasn''t to tell them what to do but to check they were thinking about their game. Wibbers did little else. "What would you have done?"


    "Erm," I said, scrubbing through Sarah Greene''s versions. Both were classy. "Sarah''s up against tiny goalies who don''t always have amazing agility. It''ll be interesting to see if she still chips in that situation in the WSL. Taking it round the keeper here is delicious but as you say, you''re careful about doing that against a lightning fast defender. One dummy should take him out, though. As I said, I don''t mind your choice but generally speaking I get queasy when you turn away from goal in those situations. It takes all the energy out of the move. If you keep driving towards goal the defenders are frazzled. But if it''s me running there instead of Dazza, yeah, fucking pass because that''s like an open goal for me, that situation."


    "I know," he smiled. "But you didn''t answer my question. Go back to where I''m about to shoot." I did. "What do you do there?"


    "Roll it around him," I said. "Okay, it looks dogshit if the keeper saves it, but he''s not going to. Plus you will fry his brain because for the first half a second it looks like you''re kicking it miles wide. When he realises his mistake, the ball''s past him."


    He looked at the screen very intently and I was convinced he would pop in Decisions again. That would have been an incredible result from a bunch of very quick, fun, sessions. "Can you show me Sarah again?"


    I scrubbed through to Sarah''s chip. She was beautifully balanced, no particular evidence of exertion, no doubt that she was going to make the exact contact with the ball that was on her mind. "Gorgeous," I said. "I like watching Kisi dribble. Dani or Sharky in full flight is thrilling. Christian thundering into a tackle makes me want to run through a brick wall. But Sarah''s just gorgeous." I sighed happily as I played the clip and half of the next one. I paused just as she sent the keeper onto her arse. "Looks the exact fucking same as the chip but we know she''s going to dribble. Look at the balance. The purity of the movement. It''s effortless. Sorry, Will. You might be the best player I ever manage but she''s my favourite."


    "Mine too," he mumbled.


    "Oh-oh," I said, with a laugh.


    "No, I didn''t mean it like that," he lied. "It''s just... I was thinking maybe I would ask her to come with me to The Happening." My first thought was of the genetics of their offspring. PA 250, minimum. Wibbers took my silence for disapproval. "No," he said. "Not really. She wouldn''t..."


    I closed my laptop, cruelly removing the picture of Sarah from the screen. I pointed to the door. "Go and ask her now."


    "What? No."


    "Go and do it right now and then come back. And get a wiggle on; we''ve got another clip to watch."


    He had turned even whiter. "What do I say?"


    I groaned in mock exasperation. Thought was the enemy of success. "Say one nice thing about her then ask her to be your date to the thing then say you need to get back to the Sin Bin for your sesh."


    "What if she asks why I left the sesh to ask her out?"


    I exploded and it was only about 10% acting. "She won''t! What the fuck kind of thing is that to worry about? Just say I''m on a call, for Christ''s sake! Hurry up and do it. Jesus wept."


    "Er," he said, but all of a sudden he zoomed off. He left the door open, the prick, and I got smashed with freezing cold air. I closed it and went over to the space heater and warmed my hands.


    So Steve Weller was going to Bradford. What a pain in the arse transfers were! The heater was feeble but it took the edge off. I sorted my mental database by Decisions, by Technique, by Pace, looking for likely candidates who might be interested in joining Chester. I paid particular attention to guys whose contracts were ending in the summer. They would come at a discount.


    I thought about backup goalies and left-footed midfielders until Wibbers rushed back in. Now that he was on the inside, he remembered to close the door. Funny that.


    "She said she''d think about it!" he said, torn between ecstasy and humiliation. "That''s bad, isn''t it?"


    "Honestly? Yes. How do you feel?"


    "Um... Okay! She was with Dazza again. Do you think she likes him?"


    I went back to my laptop, opened it, and replayed the clip where Dazza had made a pig''s ear of a simple chance to score after great work from Will. "Dazza''s nice. He''s exotic and he knows where to find antivenoms at short notice." I looked Will in the eye. "But he ain''t no WibRob."


    He grinned. "Okay. Let''s look at the last clip. It''s fun out there."


    "Want to call it quits?"


    "No," he said, pushing his head forward decisively. "I want to learn."


    "Kay. You chose this clip." I brought it up. It was from the recent Crewe match when I was charging around like a maniac to get the ball and the rest of the team went mental along with me. I watched as the mayhem unfolded. "What do you want to know?"


    "Well," he said, choosing his words as carefully as he could given the recent spike in his excitement levels. "This isn''t good, is it?"


    "No."


    "And we don''t practise running around like headless chickens."


    "We don''t."


    "Everyone lost their minds."


    "Yes."


    "Because you did."


    "I think that''s right."


    "And because we did Bestball."


    I frowned. "What do you mean?"


    "Sorry, Relationism."


    "Yes but what do you mean?"


    Wibbers pointed. "Everyone has left their posts and it''s a mad ball of chaos. It''s not how the eighteens do it or how 3 R Welsh do it but you said every side would do it different. Right? So this is the Chester men version."


    "Ah," I said, smiling now that I understood. "I think this goal was a one-off. I think that''s just me in a frenzy because of little baby... Alex? He''s not going to be Alex really, is he? Sandra¡¯s trolling us."


    "What I don''t get is that Youngster dropped to cover so it was wild but it was controlled. Someone was still seeing the bigger picture. I think my question is, if this happens again do you want me to go tonto or do you want me giving some control?"


    The door opened and a thousand gallons of ice-cold air blew in, followed by Sarah Greene. She didn''t close the door - fucking hell! - but strode forward. "William," she said. "You took me by surprise just now. Yes, I''d like to go to The Happening with you."


    I shot to my feet. "Whoa whoa whoa!" I cried, moving to close the door. When it was closed, I said, "Don''t do that. Tell him you''ll only go on a date with him if he scores a hat trick against West Ham tomorrow."


    "No," she said. "He''s fit and kind and he''s amazing."


    I spread my arms wide. "Can I get some fucking teamwork here, please? I need to win that match and William''s my secret weapon. I''ve been lurking in the shadows for thousands of years creating the perfect combinations of bloodlines that will lead to the birth of the kwisatz haderach. The prophecy says you will know him by the way he coats his conkers with nail varnish. Behold!" I said, pointing to Will.


    "I didn''t use nail varnish," he said. "I''m just the best at Conkers."


    Sarah said, "Max, I can''t deal with your weird movie fantasies right now." She looked at the screen and smiled. "That''s my favourite goal of yours, I think. You actually did a selfless thing for once. Bye, William," she said, giving him a blast of eye contact. She shoots, she scores! She makes it look so easy!


    "Um, bye."


    She had her fingers wrapped around the door handle when she turned back. "You don''t have to score a hat trick tomorrow, William." She smiled. "Two will be just fine."


    ***


    Tuesday, December 16


    FA Youth Cup 3rd round: West Ham United versus Chester


    We rode Sealbiscuit down to London and pulled into the Rush Green stadium, part of the Irons'' academy setup and also where their women played. The pitch was nice and there was a chunky stand but it was sparsely populated; apart from the parents of the players and a few die hard fans there wasn''t much interest in the arrival of tiny little Chester.


    The lack of interest got under my skin and so did their manager. The guy was a former Hammer - by the way, how moronic to have two nicknames for one club? Make up your fucking mind - and he didn''t give the Blues the respect we deserved. He came up to me about ten minutes before kick off and, flanked by about a dozen support staff, he tried to do some mind games on me, the manager of the Seals. Peter hovered behind in an attempt to avoid the usual chat about Dieter.


    The curse told me the guy was called Sam Norman. It didn''t tell me that he was full of himself, but I didn''t need help seeing that. "Are you Chester? Shame you didn''t bring your women''s team."


    "Why''s that?" I said, dryly. I wanted to get pissed off, to make our victory even more enjoyable.


    "Nicer to look at, aren''t they?"


    One of Norman''s minions said, "They might give us more of a game, too. Look at that gangly little..." He was going to say ''freak'', in reference to Chas Fungrieve. "Looks like a baby giraffe on ice."


    They chuckled at that but I got a good jab in by hitting the prick where it hurt - his ego. "I''m Max, by the way. And you are?"


    Slap! That one hurt. So you played in the Premier League? Think you''re famous? You''re not, mate. Norman switched tack pretty quickly, trying to beat me at my own game. "Sam Norman. I played against Chester when I was coming up," said the guy. "Tried really hard, they did. I''m glad to see you''re doing okay. Big day for you this, isn''t it?"


    "Yeah, this is bigger than when we played Slovakia or Newcastle. I think meeting you will be the highlight of the kids'' careers, Greg."


    "Sam."


    "Sam, yeah. That''s what I said. Have you finished? Can I get on with dumping you out of the cup now?"


    "Dumping me...?" He couldn''t believe what I''d said. "You had a decent result against Charlton but this is West Ham, lad. This is the original academy of football. We''re going to teach you how to play, all right?"


    "Thing is, Sam, Chelsea beat us last season in the Battle of Stamford Bridge but you''re no Chelsea. You don''t have a single player who would get in my team." That was a bit of an exaggeration but there are times a half-truth is truer than the truth. West Ham''s average, in a very Chester-like 4-1-4-1, CA was 33. That was a smidge lower than Chelsea''s 37 but West Ham''s average was flatter. They didn''t have big stars and competed on teamwork and graft. I mean, lol. We had that plus Dan and Wibbers. Our 4-3-3 gave us an average of 41.6. Stupendous!


    As for Norman himself, he was awful. Low in coaching, scouting, and tactics. Being a former player was a bonus but not in itself a qualification for a position in a football club.


    I had Triple Captain and Bench Boost in reserve but I was so confident that, despite Norman''s jibes, I wasn''t seriously tempted to use them.


    "My advice," I said, as Sam and his staff mocked me in various ways, "is that you stay quiet in your technical area and if you behave yourself I won''t take the piss after the match. You can call yourself the Academy of Football if you want, but today you''re getting a lesson from the School of Slaps. Good? Seeya."


    Peter scurried after me. "Fucking hell, Max! What is wrong with you? This is West Ham. You can''t seriously think you''ll win. He''ll be the one taking the piss. I wouldn''t have come if I''d known you would embarrass me."


    You know that feeling when you''ve had an amazing nap and you go up or down the staircase and there''s one more or one less step than you expected? I had it then. I led him onto the pitch where we would be visible but where we could talk without being overheard.


    "Peter, what? What are you talking about? We can''t beat West Ham? They''re... Look, they''re fine. Honestly, stepping back, I like them. 4-1-4-1, team work, work rate. Morale is high. They seem like a good bunch. But they don''t have any stardust. We will win easily. Easily, mate. Haven''t you been paying attention?"


    For the first time since I met him, he showed visible displeasure. "I understand you have to project an image in front of the players, the coaches, the fans, to give them belief and sell your bonds. But not with me, Max. Not here. Look around. This is a spare stadium that West Ham own. These young men have been scouted and tested and run through the fires and the flames, year after year. Your young players don''t have internal competition; you don''t release the weak. William is good. Dan has moments where he looks pretty. Most of your players you brought from the sixth tier. This will be a walkover. Please be real with me. With me, Max."


    I looked around and wondered what he was seeing, what he was reacting to. It could only be the badge. The name. That was a weakness, wasn''t it? If you grew up in the Bayern Munich ecosystem you couldn''t envisage being beaten by Leverkusen or Union Berlin, or God forbid, 1860 Munich. Was that something to do with why he''d faked his career-ending injury? He was only good enough to play for the second-ranked clubs. Like 3 R Welsh''s motto, he had chosen death before dishonour. I couldn''t hate him for it, but that wasn''t my way. "I''ll be honest with you, Peter. You''re going to see something extraordinary today. You''re going to see my sixth tier lads crush a Premier League side. William the Conkerer and the Norman Conquest. That''s what you''re going to see and honestly I''m surprised that you''re surprised. But let me use that to my advantage, okay? I think your granddad wants you to come and play for me."


    "Play?" he said, astonished.


    "Yeah, I was wrong when I thought it was about teaching you to be a manager. It might be that, too, but for now it''s about playing. This is last-chance saloon for your career. Join me as player-coach and I''ll take everything you know about football and smash it like a conker. Dieter Bauer is ancient history. This is the age of Best. Chesterness, Bestball, player-manager, glorious chaos, and the only certainty is that it''s better to be on the inside laughing than on the outside mocking."


    He was eyeing me like I was mental. "Join Chester? How would that work?"


    "The usual way. You quit your job and start here in January."


    "Quit Bayern?"


    "Here''s the deal. We''re going to win today and that''s going to be so shocking you''re going to be forced to go deeper. Everyone at Chester has been going deeper this season. Dazza, Zach, Kisi, Jackie, me, everyone. It''s fucking hard but if it was easy, everyone would do it." I set my jaw. That hadn''t been a good speech. Not even slightly. I pointed a finger up in his general direction. "One last thing. Never doubt my players again."


    With that, I strode off to the dressing room to give the speech of a lifetime.


    ***


    To: DB


    From: PB


    Subject: West Ham United (Part One)


    Dear Opi,


    A very strange match today!


    It started with me accidentally triggering Max. Recently, I called him a bad negotiator and he changed his org chart, giving responsibility to people more suited to the role. I told him the warm ups weren''t activating the players properly and he listened and decided to change the method across all teams at all ages. But when I suggested his team might not win against their much more storied opponents, he became furious! Never doubt my players, he growled. Batman was never so dreadful. I didn''t want to go into the dressing room in case he used my doubts to inspire the youngsters so I sat in the dugout and watched.


    We played 4-3-3 against West Ham''s 4-1-4-1. Their home advantage lasted two minutes. Fungrieve, the young man who scored his first senior goal when I was the manager, won a header, Wibbers ran onto it and had an easy pass to Benny, but instead of setting up his mate, Wibbers dinked the ball over the keeper. One-nil! Great finish, as cool as a cucumber.


    Max went ballistic, demanding Wibbers come to the side to get berated.


    ''What?'' said the young man. ''I scored.''


    ''Don''t give me that shit,'' said Best. ''You know what you fucking did.''


    ''I fucking scored! It''s the point of the game.''


    ''I should fucking sub you off right now. I''d rather lose than watch that trash. That''s abysmal. What am I even doing here? We''ve all come down to watch the Wibbers show, have we? You gonna walk up the cameras going who else, why always me? Is that it? All those fucking sessions and it comes to this?''


    ''Look I made a mistake, okay?''


    ''Oh, so now you admit it.''


    Wibbers was madly conflicted. He crouched, almost tearing his hair out, before standing tall. ''Yes. It was stupid. I was thinking of Sarah.''


    Max stopped shouting. He was quiet when he said, ''Sarah''s a team player, mate.'' He spun his finger around. ''Get back to work.''


    I thought he''d made a misjudgment, a huge misjudgment, in aggravating his best player but the next ten minutes were incredible. Wibbers dominated the match and appeared to be trying to set Benny up with a goal to make up for the one he should have had. But when Wibbers brushed past West Ham''s defensive midfielder and spotted that Benny and Chas were being tightly marked, he surged forward and cracked the ball just as he did to my conker.


    It flew, as they say here, top bins.


    The rest of the bench went bananas, the subs ran two yards onto the pitch to dance, the players surrounded Wibbers.


    Max gave him a single thumbs up.


    Finally, with two minutes to go before half time, Wibbers and Dan passed the ball around midfield, Wibbers went for a run (taking half the defence away), Tyson dribbled forward and tried to feed Wibbers for his hat trick goal. It wasn''t on so Tyson turned back and the midfield passing continued. It went to the right-sided CM, Noah Harrison, who fizzed the ball diagonally to Wibbers, who was back onside. Now he played the one-two with Tyson and now it worked.


    He was through on goal!


    The keeper saw the danger early and rushed out, leaving himself open to a chip. I know from training that Wibbers loves a chip but while I was looking at the spot I would have hit, I saw movement and the ball was nestling into the net. I think Wibbers passed it along the ground, calm as you like. Almost disappointing in its simplicity, but Max went nuts. He jumped around doing unattractive bunny hops and schoolgirl skips until Wibbers crashed into him. They enjoyed that goal for a reason I could not tell you.


    Three-nil at half time. It''s fair to say I was close to speechless.


    Not quite perfectly mute, however. I asked a physio what Max had said before kick off to wind the kids up. "Oh. Er, nothing really. He asked if any of the kids knew anything about 1066. None of them did. He said yeah me neither. He said all right lads, listen up. My favourite tapestry is... Yeah, nah. Just beat them and I''ll think of something cool to say in the break. Deal?"


    The half time speech went like this: "Guys let''s switch to 4-5-1 for a bit to see if this idiot even notices. Keep your fucking wits about you, okay? Calm intensity. No dicking about and if we''ve got a three-goal lead or more with ten minutes to go..."


    Captain stood up. "Unleash us, gaffer!"


    Tyson laughed. "Yes, boss. Let''s go for it from the off. If it''s a disaster we can switch back."


    Max pulled a face. "I''m not sure we can. This isn''t like 3 R Welsh, lads. This is important to me, okay? It''s important to you, even if you don''t know it. You''ve got to earn the right to have fun. Graft, grind, teamwork, togetherness, and when the clock hits 80, you''ll get your reward. Okay?"


    They grafted. They ground. They kept West Ham at bay quite easily, and Banksy only needed to pluck some long shots and desperate crosses from the air.


    With ten minutes to go, Max gave the signal.


    He used his hare-brained scheme, Bestball, in a match against a Premier League academy.


    I''m laughing just thinking about it. It will need a separate email, though. I need to find the words to describe what I saw and how I felt...


    ***


    80 minutes.


    The West Ham lads trained harder, longer, and more scientifically than ours, but in this match they were having to run hard just to stop us overwhelming them. Whenever Wibbers got the ball, six Hammers sprinted back. Our Condition scores were more or less equal. I wanted to make my subs early but the players I subbed off would have been annoyed to miss out on Chester''s first ever attempt at Relationism.


    I''d bought the perk, of course, as soon as I had earned the XP needed. I didn''t want to wake up to a tempting offer that would have derailed me.


    I had put the work in and learned Relationism to a decent standard without the curse''s help. My knowledge was basic, sure, but I had grafted and learned the principles and put them in action. I was pretty proud of what I''d done with 3R and with the eighteens.


    The perk would take the concept to a new level, I was sure, but mostly I needed it to be able to switch back and forth between Relationism and positional play at the speed of thought. I assumed that would be possible but if it wasn''t I had probably just wasted seven months of grinding because when would I ever use Relationism for an entire match? The next ten minutes were going to answer a lot of questions.


    I got down on one knee, breathed deeply, exhaled shakily, and chuckled nervously. So much work to get to this point. So many doubts. And what if we lost 4-3 as a result of this? Sam Norman couldn''t be the man who killed Relationism in Britain. The world wasn''t so cruel.


    It was, though.


    It was exactly the kind of thing that happened ten times a day, as reported gleefully by the Daily Mail. Uppity Woke Brat Gets Arse Handed to Him by Proper Football Man.


    I broke into a cold sweat and thought of Emma. My mum. All the people who were counting on me. Better to stick to positional play forever, earn money, take care of people in the most rational way possible. I tuned everything out. When the match had kicked off, a new toggle had appeared in the top-right corner of my vision. It was the most basic possible button. Left for positional play, right for Relationism. I had mentally jiggled it a couple of times but unlike my other buttons it had a kind of weight that spoke of gravitas and importance. It meant, this is one button you don''t press for a quick twenty-second experiment.


    I forced it to the right and it resisted. What! That pissed me off so I struggled against it. Get over there, you worm!


    It clicked into place and...


    And I was in the Relationism module.


    My head felt like it would rip itself apart. The pain was shattering, but it faded away and never came back.


    The players were still lined up in 4-5-1, defending. I looked around my new screen. It bore almost no, ah, relation to the screens I was used to. At first I thought it was almost completely empty but a lot of things had simply been shifted to the background. One such section had the match data. I could make it bigger if I wanted to check the numbers like the possession stats or the match ratings. Along the bottom left I still had some hotkeys and could use Cupid''s Arrow or Seal It Up whenever I wanted.


    A mini-map showed where my players were. I was aware that there was an option to change the formation - it was the defensive shape we would assume when we lost the ball. I changed us to 4-3-3, thinking it would be less strenuous for the players, but wondered how to instruct the lads to do a blob. All this time, all this dreaming, but there was no button marked BLOB. Why not? I fretted for a few seconds while West Ham had the ball. Maybe when we got possession the option would show?


    We turned the ball over. No button. I felt my heart sink. What was I supposed to - ?


    Wait.


    As the ball was cycled around midfield, my lads began to drift together on the pitch. On the mini-map a blue outline formed around them. As the lads got closer together, the polygon filled with colour, Chester blue, getting deeper, pulsing slightly.


    I hadn''t done it - I had little to no control over what the individual players were doing. This blob was forming organically from the combinations of players on the pitch and what they thought was the right thing to do.


    "Argh!" I cried. "It''s happening!"


    Wibbers passed to Dan. Dan turned and passed it to Henk. Henk glided forward for the first time in the match, bypassing a striker who was trying to press him. As Henk moved into the blob, that part of the mini-map turned deeper blue. I tried to drag the blob up the mini-map, mentally pushed it to the left.


    Nope. It wasn''t for me to control.


    Henk passed to Noah and continued a forward run. Captain moved to the base of the blob, Lucas Friend stayed outside, ten yards to the left, covering any potential breaks while being a safe passing option. The three strikers moved in and out as they wished.


    Noah passed to Jamie, who played it to Chas. Chas touched it back to Jamie and made a sideways run.


    ONE TWO!


    The words, in a funky font, appeared on the left of my vision, got bigger, shook, and exploded with a very satisfying, crunchy sound effect. The text was replaced by a kind of thermometer graphic - a slim tube with a ball at the end.


    Wibbers passed to Tyson and got the ball back.


    ONE TWO!


    The words appeared, exploded - this time with what sounded like a mermaid''s tinkling laughter - and fed the thermometer. It was about half full.


    What would happen when the ''liquid'' reached the ''ball'' at the end? Something good!


    I scrambled to my feet, or tried to. I fell, turned it into a forward roll, and bounced up, gleeful. "Guys! One-twos! More one-twos!"


    They obeyed. West Ham''s players didn''t know what the shit was happening so they were either stock still or running around in an uncoordinated mess. Passing around them was child''s play.


    Another one-two happened, then another.


    The thermometer thing started shaking. What?


    I knew what to do, though. I clicked on it.


    The graphic shook, got ten times bigger, and exploded in a shower of colour. French horns blasted.


    I felt a rush of joy like I¡¯d scored a goal.


    On the pitch, my players seemed to get faster. They raced up the pitch.


    SUUUURGE! laughed the curse.


    Yes, laughed. It was laughing and so was I. Everything was joyful and hilarious.


    The blob was up on the right of the pitch and West Ham had all their players back. One slid to intercept a pass, took control, but our guys swarmed him and retrieved the ball.


    COUNTER-PRESS yelled some text, and the mood was triumphant.


    RAPID RECOVERY, it screamed, making me clench my fist.


    The words grew, popped, and were replaced by thermometer things.


    Every time a word popped, I got a rush of something. Straight dopamine, it felt like.


    "Fucking imps," I said, cackling. They didn''t have a game to base Relationism on so they''d turned my brain into fucking Candy Crush! I''d played it once, briefly, but there were millions of similar games, right? They were always based on colourful balls that you moved around in some tactile way and when you lined them up you made things pop, got a rush of colour, noise, and excitement.


    The Chester lads kept pinging the ball around or rushing to recover it, kept making the meters fill up. When I popped them, I couldn''t help but cackle, giggle, snigger. It was all incredibly delightful, and it had effects. Every big pop was like giving my players Bench Boost for ten seconds, and there seemed to be other effects I was too fucking drunk on joy to notice.


    "Max, are you okay?"


    Peter was worried by my insane change in demeanour. I was about to reassure him that I was fine when Dan fizzed a pass to Wibbers, now causing pure panic whenever the ball was anywhere near him. Wibbers let it run through his legs and zoomed off.


    RIVERRRRRRRR!!!


    I laughed and threw my arms around Peter.


    "You''re great! You''re Peter the Great. I''m sorry about before. I shouldn''t be so bossy. You do you and I''m there all the way. Oh." Something had happened. I''d earned enough somethings to generate something. A blue prize rosette appeared and throbbed gently. I could press it. What would it do?


    The first thing it did was give me another dose of liquid football, straight to the brain stem.


    Massive, chunky text flew across my vision.


    BOOOOOOOOST!!!


    Tyson passed to Dan, who rushed out of the blob, dribbled past two players, shaped to shoot, and slid the ball through to the onrushing Wibbers.


    He took the ball around the goalie as beautifully as Sarah Greene, drove forward, paused, rolled the ball away from the goal line.


    Benny gleefully smashed the ball high into the net and jumped into Wibbers.


    "AhahahAHAHAHhahahahHA," I said, running around and slapping myself on the head like a chimp.


    FLAWLESS!


    FLAIR BONUS!


    MORALE CRUSHER BONUS!


    TOUCHLINE ANTICS BONUS!


    HAMMER THE HAMMERS!


    UNIQUE COMBO!


    Every new ''achievement'' came with a rosette, and each one made me laugh harder. I wiped the tears from my eyes as, from a vast distance, I spotted West Ham making a change.


    "Fuck," I said, sobering up just about enough to remember I had promises to keep. "Subs! All the subs!"


    Peter rushed to the assistant referee to get those going. What else did I urgently need to do?


    The module toggle. Could I slide the button back to positional play? That was essential information.


    Yes, I could!


    The old screens came up. I switched back and forth a couple more times, just to see if there were any obvious limitations. But how boring and stale the old screens were! Nothing popped, nothing exploded, nothing sparked joy, there were no sound effects.


    I decided it would be better to revert to positional play for the last few minutes. It would be more dignified, classier.


    Or not.


    I lasted five seconds before I got itchy and hit the toggle. I felt better instantly. The colour, the life, the sense of discovery, it was all intoxicating.


    The bonuses I had earned remained despite me switching back and forth between modules. I wondered if I could earn some rosettes in the first half of a match and bank them for the second. What would the point of that be? I wasn''t sure, but it felt like it might be cool and funny.


    While Tyson and Benny combined to get me another river point, the maddest thing yet happened.


    In the bottom right of my vision came a giant, friendly cartoon seal wearing a blue-and-white Chester top and white gloves. He was holding a dart and he went through a throwing motion. On the left, I suddenly realised, a large, spinning wheel had appeared - the sort you get in a TV game show. The seal threw the dart at the wheel and it stopped dead. It zoomed in to show me the word written on the top of that segment.


    MEGS


    What? What did that mean?


    For once, the curse explained.


    DO MEGS


    Time was running out. "Wibbers! Dan! Megs! Do nutmegs!"


    They looked at each other, shrugged, and waited. West Ham put together a decent move that was snuffed out when they got too close to our lines. Henk slid the ball forward to Wibbers, who threw a shoulder left and pushed the ball through the legs of the guy to his right as easily as putting on a sock.


    MEEEEGGGGGGGSSSSSSS laughed the curse.


    A red rosette appeared and throbbed gently. Another power-up I could activate manually. Would it carry over to the next match? Of course it wouldn''t, but there were only seconds left and West Ham were toast. I left the rosette unclicked, just in case.


    I walked down the touchline, away from everyone else. I didn''t know what Sam Norman was going to say about my laughter. I didn''t know if Peter would be repulsed or if the outstanding victory meant we had half a chance of bringing him to the club. I didn''t know if Relationism was what I wanted it to be.


    I knew one thing, though.


    Football had never been this much fun.


    ***


    End of Book Numbers


    XP balance: 190


    League Two Relative Standings


    1. Bradford +17


    2. Mansfield +13


    3. Carlisle United +13


    4. Cambridge United +10


    5. Fleetwood Town +5


    6. Burton Albion +5


    7. MK Dons +3


    8. Chester


    Team Goals (All Competitons)


    Goals For: 67


    Goals Against: 42


    Top Scorers (All Competitions)


    Best 20


    Lyons 12


    Westwood 7


    Dazza 7


    Green 4


    Fierce 3


    Contreras 3


    OG 3


    Bochum 2


    Hudson 2


    Benny


    Adams


    Tyson


    Fungrieve


    Men''s Squad


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="150"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Int</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    <td>CA +/-</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>1</td>


    <td>Ben Cavanagh</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>640</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>6</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Rainman</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>99</td>


    <td>12</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Sticky</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>31</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>122</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Banksy</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td>155</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Eddie Moore</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>950</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>13</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Cole Adams</td>


    <td>DL</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>147</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>22</td>


    <td>Josh Owens</td>


    <td>DM L</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>62</td>


    <td>119</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Zach Green</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>26</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>2020</td>


    <td>81</td>


    <td>139</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>Christian Fierce</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>1500</td>


    <td>88</td>


    <td>120</td>


    <td>16</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>26</td>


    <td>Sunday Sowunmi</td>


    <td>DC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>500</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>111</td>


    <td>19</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Lee Hudson</td>


    <td>D RC</td>


    <td>29</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>1200</td>


    <td>83</td>


    <td>91</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Magnus Evergreen</td>


    <td>D,DM,M</td>


    <td>28</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>75</td>


    <td>-2</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Youngster</td>


    <td>DM, MC</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>GHA u21</td>


    <td>950</td>


    <td>95</td>


    <td>181</td>


    <td>9</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Dan Badford</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>450</td>


    <td>59</td>


    <td>-1</td>


    <td>21</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Ryan Jack</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>800</td>


    <td>74</td>


    <td>151</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Omari Naysmith</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>54</td>


    <td>103</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Lee Contreras</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>84</td>


    <td>98</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Andrew Harrison</td>


    <td>M RC</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>520</td>


    <td>64</td>


    <td>1??</td>


    <td>11</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>77</td>


    <td>Max Best</td>


    <td>Omni</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>3000</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>0</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Wes Hayward</td>


    <td>AM LR</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>600</td>


    <td>67</td>


    <td>86</td>


    <td>22</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>WibRob</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>700</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>185</td>


    <td>23</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Pascal Bochum</td>


    <td>F (RLC)</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>800</td>


    <td>80</td>


    <td>133</td>


    <td>10</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Henri Lyons</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>30</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>1100</td>


    <td>86</td>


    <td>90</td>


    <td>14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tom Westwood</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td> </td>


    <td>550</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>92</td>


    <td>18</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Dazza</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>AUS u21</td>


    <td>2000</td>


    <td>88</td>


    <td>138</td>


    <td>15</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Men''s Squad Estimated Transfer Value


    10.9m


    (Includes Ben, Eddie, and Sharky.)


    Women''s Squad


    vs Bristol City, December 7, 2025


    <table border="1" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"><colgroup><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"><col width="100"></colgroup>


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td>No.</td>


    <td>Squad</td>


    <td>Pos</td>


    <td>Age</td>


    <td>Int</td>


    <td>Wage</td>


    <td>CA</td>


    <td>PA</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>Scottie Love</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>63</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>13</td>


    <td>Queenie</td>


    <td>GK</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>94</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>Dafina</td>


    <td>DLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>39</td>


    <td>118</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>Tanwen</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>37</td>


    <td>106</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>4</td>


    <td>Bonnie</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>41</td>


    <td>41</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>5</td>


    <td>Femi</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>27</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>63</td>


    <td>121</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>12</td>


    <td>Meghan</td>


    <td>CB</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>ENG u19</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>169</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>2</td>


    <td>Luxury Bell</td>


    <td>DRC</td>


    <td>25</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>58</td>


    <td>88</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>3</td>


    <td>Ridley T</td>


    <td>LB</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>55</td>


    <td>85</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>Diane</td>


    <td>DM</td>


    <td>24</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>100</td>


    <td>38</td>


    <td>60</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>21</td>


    <td>Fioled</td>


    <td>MLC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>122</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>14</td>


    <td>Mari Hughes</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>33</td>


    <td>110</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>6</td>


    <td>Pippa Hoole</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>34</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>45</td>


    <td>111</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>8</td>


    <td>Charlotte</td>


    <td>MC</td>


    <td>23</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>62</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>11</td>


    <td>Maddy Hines</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>200</td>


    <td>48</td>


    <td>80</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>15</td>


    <td>Sarah Greene</td>


    <td>MRC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>ENG u19</td>


    <td>400</td>


    <td>68</td>


    <td>167</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>7</td>


    <td>Dani Smith-Smithe</td>


    <td>M, AM RLC</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>61</td>


    <td>177</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>Kisi Yalley</td>


    <td>AM RLC</td>


    <td>17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>300</td>


    <td>53</td>


    <td>143</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>Alwen</td>


    <td>FC</td>


    <td>16</td>


    <td>WAL u17</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>35</td>


    <td>101</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>9</td>


    <td>Beatrice Pearce</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>20</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>36</td>


    <td>36</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>Julie McKay</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>19</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>150</td>


    <td>43</td>


    <td>53</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td>10</td>


    <td>Angel</td>


    <td>S</td>


    <td>18</td>


    <td>-</td>


    <td>350</td>


    <td>57</td>


    <td>155</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>

 13.1 - The Cam Before the Storm

    Player Manager 13


    Unluckily for some, Max Best''s projects are gathering steam. Chester FC''s men''s team have shrugged off a difficult start in League Two (England''s fourth tier) and have won admirers and new fans for their cup exploits. A money-spinning trip to Old Trafford awaits in the FA Cup Third Round. The women''s team are crushing all that comes before them. The men''s under eighteens are through to the fourth round of the FA Youth Cup, having demolished Premier League opponents in a 4-0 drubbing that included ten ecstatic minutes of Max''s new way of playing football - Relationism, AKA Bestball.


    Meanwhile, the other teams in the Max Best Universe - College 1975 (Gibraltar), Saltney Town (Wales'' second tier), West Didsbury and Chorlton (the English eighth tier) - are either first or second in their leagues.


    ***


    "Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do." Voltaire.


    ***


    1 - The Cam Before the Storm


    1.


    Tuesday, December 23, 2025


    Sometimes I fantasise.


    Thus starts the chorus of the song that most sounds like Manchester at night, Made of Stone by The Stone Roses. 40 miles to the west of my home, on streets both cold and lonely, a solitary taxi pushed through dirty sleet heading towards God knew where and I, Max Best, Manchester''s greatest export since atomic theory, computers, or the very concept of league football (proposed in the Royal Hotel on 17 April, 1888) was fantasising.


    I was fantasising that we could win the league. We were only 17 points behind Bradford City and they had played two games more than us. If we won our games in hand and beat them in a couple of weeks, it would be Devon Loch all over again. Bradford had been playing well but had been incredibly lucky on half a dozen occasions. Their luck would run out.


    I was fantasising that we could beat Manchester United. They were talented but mentally weak. We could hurt them and if we did their fans might turn on an expensively-assembled collection of underperformers. With 5,000 away fans cheering Chester on and 70,000 home fans booing their players, who knew what was possible? Dream it, dare it, do it.


    I was fantasising that we could buy two or three amazing players in the coming January transfer window. We were already able to attract talent like Foquita, a Potential Ability (PA) 190 Peruvian. If we could sign someone who would one day challenge for the mantle of the best striker in the world, why couldn''t I sign a left-midfielder who could create goals and defend? Maybe I could have my cake and eat it by signing a genius midfielder and getting my dream defender, Peter Bauer, for free.


    "Max," said Emma, gently shaking my wrist. "Don''t fall asleep."


    "I wasn''t," I said.


    "You were," she said.


    "I wasn''t," I said.


    "You were," said the driver. "Are you all right, Mr. Best?"


    "Er, yeah," I said, and looked out of the window. It was all black roads with a few mounds of mud-splattered snow here and there. Ice-cold water dribbling towards metal grids reflected yellow street lights. I heard music, saw burning cars. In my head canon, Made of Stone was about a drug dealer launching himself off a motorway, crashing and burning. Bad money dies, it goes. No. Bad money comes to the Premier League through various shitty owners and I claw huge chunks of it away. Bad money lives. I steal from the rich to give to the poor. I''m Robin Hood. I''m the Sheriff of Slappingham. Emma poked me in the side. "Mate," I complained.


    "It''s Henri''s big night, babes."


    I wriggled myself upright and rubbed my face hard. "Yes yes yes. I''m awake." I glanced at Emma. She was looking straight ahead, thousand-yard stare, pulling at a strand of blonde hair. She didn''t know what to do about me. "Babes, I''m mad for it. It''s all good. We''ll have a great time. I promise not to be mental or fall asleep in a corner."


    "I wouldn''t mind that at all. Just don''t do it in the taxi. Not while the meter''s running, anyway."


    The driver laughed. "Thrifty as well as beautiful. Some men have all the luck." He leaned forward as he slowed the car. "I think it''s that one."


    Emma looked out of her window and tutted. "The fuck, Henri?"


    We drove past a wall and into a car park. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I was aware of Emma paying the driver. My attention was drawn to four circular safety signs that were next to each other on what looked like a massive garage door. Two were yellow, two were red. My brain tried to lock onto them and swap them round so that they would line up, match, and pop.


    And when they popped -


    I gasped the way people in movies do when they want to show they''ve woken from a nightmare. The driver''s back stiffened.


    Emma had left the car, so I clambered out of my side and was stunned by the intensity of the cold. On autopilot, I shut the door and the taxi rolled ahead and began to turn back the way we''d come, looking for another fare. Grinding. Number goes up.


    I didn''t move right away. We had been deposited in the car park of what seemed to be a disused industrial estate. Low buildings, sinister chimneys, brick, aggressive anti-vandal defences, a very familiar vibe. What was it? It definitely fit the urban hellscape of my mood. This would have fit right into the Manchester of the late-eighties of my imagination. Urban decay. Another unloved piece of real estate falling into slow disrepair, so hideous, so harshly concreted that even nature didn''t want to reclaim it. Got it! It was familiar because this could have been the setting of a video game, a level in a multiplayer shooter. Someone would be behind that chimney ready to headshot me. That window there would be perfect for lobbing a grenade through. Danger lurked around every -


    Someone grabbed me and I freaked all the way out. "Argh!"


    "Max!" cried Emma from twenty yards away. She might have rushed towards me but she was wearing 60s Go-go boots and wasn''t used to the heels.


    A six foot tall man had snuck up to me but now he was holding his hands up, palms facing me. He had a very calm, serious face. His hair was short, black, and slightly curly. "Lo siento," he said.


    I checked my heart wasn''t about to explode - it was, but I bravely chose to ignore that tiny fly in my medical ointment - and threw my arms around the guy. "Foquita!" I cried as I slapped him three times on the back. I put my hands on his shoulders and gave him the admiration his player profile deserved, looking from eye to eye, drinking it all in. This was Foquita, all right. Joy bubbled out of my flappy Manc gob. "Oh my God you''re actually here I''m actually the best manager in the world holy shit."


    It was fascinating how unremarkable he was. He had the slightly sloping nose I associated with Romans, a nice smile, smaller-than-average ears, but he didn''t look like a guy who would be world-famous, who might one day transfer from Bayern Munich to Real Madrid for a hundred million Euro. He gave me a tiny smile and said something in Spanish.


    I hugged him again. "I don''t understand but you are the mint sauce on my roast beef."


    To my right came footsteps and a delightful, extremely feminine laugh. Foquita''s girlfriend, who I''d only ever seen on Instagram, came closer, and I realised I didn''t know her name. A rose, by any other name, would look as fucking unbelievable. She was in gloves and a thick, warm coat but she wasn''t wearing any kind of hat and that foregrounded the long, black hair, black eyes, sweeping eyebrows, wide, Gemma-style lips.


    I had instructed William B. Roberts, my teenage prodigy, not to fall for her.


    That was going to be a difficult task for all of us.


    "I hate to be uncivilised," she said, in a lightly-accented voice that came with a free shoulder massage, "but can we do the introductions inside? It is, as you say, bloody freezing out here."


    Emma laughed. "Why are you out here?"


    The girlfriend smiled. "We don''t understand where the entrance is. There is a door but someone has put up a sign in front."


    "What does it say?" said Emma.


    "This is not the entrance."


    Emma and I smiled at each other. "That''s it," she said. "Lead the way."


    I slapped Foquita on the back one more time. My palm on his back made a meaty thumping noise. It sounded like a million pounds in transfer profit. It sounded like 70,000 Mancunians falling silent. It sounded like goals.


    ***


    Inside was a coat station manned and womanned by a pair of black-clad people wearing those fancy Venetian masquerade eye masks. They started by taking Emma''s coat. She was in a fun 60s outfit with big round earrings plus a headband and white boots. Foquita and I were wearing suits.


    One of Emma''s best and worst qualities was the way she was interested in everyone she ever met. I loved that she was kind to the fumbling teenage waiters who couldn''t believe they had to pour wine for the hottest woman they''d ever seen. I hated that she talked to the randos next to us on a plane or in a restaurant. I loved that she was learning the names of the stewards who had the thankless task of keeping us safe at the Deva.


    Emma chatted to the greeters while Foquita and I got our bearings. All we could see was a long corridor with a table blocking part of the way, but there was the sound of chat and laughter. Somewhere inside was the men''s team, the women, the backroom staff. Strictly no wives and girlfriends - in the olden times these football club Christmas parties were the stuff of debauched legend. The men had a match in three days so we couldn''t go mental, but the women could get tipsy and the admin staff were allowed - encouraged, since we were living vicariously through them - to get fucking bombed.


    "What''s the plan for the evening?" Emma asked the workers. "What''s the theme?"


    "Sorry, miss. Can''t tell you. We''re not even allowed to tell His Highness."


    "Is that Max?"


    "Yes, miss. We''re to call him His Highness even if he asks us to stop."


    Emma smiled. "Henri''s a ledge."


    Foquita''s girlfriend peeled her gloves off, handed them across the little counter, and slipped out of her big coat.


    My jaw dropped open and in true sitcom style I closed it in the split second before my girlfriend looked at me.


    Miss Foquita was wearing a tight silver number that swept up and down her curves. The fabric cried out to be touched. It had a kind of rippling effect and was bunched up into ruffles around one side. There were no straps so her shoulders were bare and she put on some long silver earrings that her partner had been carrying for her. Her stilettos were thin with near-invisible straps, making it look like she was floating barefoot across a beach rather than trudging around some crappy building in the outskirts of Chester. I was wearing - no false modesty this time - the actual best suit in Chester yet I felt massively underdressed.


    "Please proceed to the sorting brat," said the female worker. I got the feeling the dude had said it to everyone else but the vision in the silver dress had twisted his tongue.


    We walked along the corridor to the table. Another waiter-type had walky-run towards it when we''d entered. My guess was that he had been serving drinks in the room where all the noise was coming from and had been summoned when we''d arrived.


    "Dude," I asked him. "It sounds like the party has been going on for ages. Was I given a later starting time than everyone else?"


    "I''m not allowed to say, Your Highness," said the guy. I think he winked but his eye mask made it unclear. "Please choose a mask."


    I looked down and ran my hand across the table. It was covered in a thick and expensive fabric like you get on a church altar. There were half a dozen eye masks to choose from and there was space for many more. Either these were the dregs or they''d been placed specially for the four of us.


    Miss Foquita said to the guy, "Would you excuse us for a moment?"


    He looked to his right. "I can just go, I think. I''m supposed to make you choose an eye mask but you''re the last guests so, I mean... Yeah, I can go." He scooted off.


    Miss Foquita picked up an eye mask and said, "My name is Caramel. I''m Foquita''s partner."


    "Caramel," I said. It was an amazing name but somehow I wasn''t in the mood for it. Hard to explain.


    There was a mirror where you could look at yourself in the various eye masks. Caramel stood in front of it and said, "Miss Emma."


    Ems was poring over the options like it was the most important decision of her life but she glanced up and understood she was to look into the mirror.


    Caramel gave her the one she had picked up. "This suits you best."


    It did. With one accessory, Emma turned into a mystery wrapped in an enigma inside a mod mini dress. No-one at the ball would know who she was. A princess, of course, but from where? She pouted at herself. "I''m the Queen of Chester. Fetch me an alcoholic beverage!"


    Caramel fussed with Emma''s hair where the eye mask had disrupted it, which I found incredibly easy to watch. "Miss Emma, may I make a request?"


    "Course, love, what are you thinking?"


    Caramel put her arm around Foquita''s waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I''ve been in England with this lump for two weeks. He''s wonderful, of course he is, but I seek a different energy."


    "He doesn''t understand what we''re saying?"


    "He only understands English when it comes to f¨²tbol." The way she said the word fucking melted me.


    "F¨²tbol?" said Foquita, perking up. It was less effective when he said it, strangely.


    "Come with us," said Ems, who seemed to know exactly what Caramel was talking about. "All the girls are inside. The players and Brooke, anyway. We''re great fun!"


    "I''m have no doubt about it but I have always sought out masculine energy. My partner is very stable, very serious, he makes me feel safe. But after two weeks of safety I have cravings for danger."


    "Danger?"


    "Surprise, flights of fancy, moments of genius. And I have preguntitas."


    I thought I had been following, more or less, and even understood that the last word meant ''questions'', but then Emma blew my mind by saying, "Yeah, you can borrow him." What did that have to do with anything?


    Caramel spoke Spanish to her man. He picked an eye mask at random and put it on. More instructions followed and when Emma made a crook in her arm, Foquita and my girlfriend wandered off down the corridor. I watched with very few mental processes activated as they turned to the right and vanished. "What''s going on?" I said, eventually.


    "Choose a mask," said Caramel.


    I looked down at my options and knew that if I wore one, so would she. "No. I prefer you as you are."


    "I could say the same."


    "You have questions?"


    "They can wait. Come. Let''s walk."


    She grabbed my arm as we walked down the corridor. There were some artworks to my left, but not to my right. Not unless you counted Caramel. I stopped and turned towards her. "Your name isn''t Caramel."


    "I''m a model; my real name is too common. Caramel is memorable."


    "Caramel is delicious." We kept our eye contact going and I kept waiting for the sparks to fly. Maybe they did. Maybe I was too tired to feel them. "What''s your real name, please?"


    "Camila."


    "May I call you that?"


    "If you prefer to."


    "I do."


    We walked on until we got to the end of the corridor. There was another corridor going off to the right but before that was an entrance to a large, square room. A stage had been set up at the front, there were chairs and tables stacked at the sides, and in the middle was everyone from Chester Football Club, milling around, drinking the hardest drinks their schedule would allow, chatting, laughing. I couldn''t see Henri.


    "What is this, Meester Max?"


    Holy fucking shit, her voice tickled my very spinal cord. "This is our Christmas party. In the past, teams used to go out and binge drink. That''s not compatible with winning but players need a break, especially if they don''t get a winter break. We need a way to let our hair down, let off steam. This is a mad, Frenchified version of what other clubs do. Bit less alcohol, bit more warrior-poet. I suppose it''s hard to imagine but while the rest of the country is with their kids and family, we''re training."


    "Training?"


    "We''ll be training on Christmas day."


    "That''s loco." Another word pronounced in a way that completely bypassed my defences.


    "I know. But it''s a public service. On Boxing Day, people will come to watch us. Huge crowd, party atmosphere. If you''re in the crowd it''s amazing. They don''t really think about what we''ve sacrificed, but that''s okay. We''re well paid." I smiled. "I am, anyway. Not everyone there will agree that they are." I pulled her away from the doorway. "Sorry, I can''t go in yet."


    "Ees okay."


    "Why''s your English so good?"


    "I''m a model." She seemed to think that was enough explanation. "Is that you? It is you. I have seen this before."


    I followed her gaze and we moved as one, with her still holding me, towards the other side of the wall. I was there in black and white along with five other photos. They were all taken at the same match. I looked to the left, to the right, and my neck started to tingle. "Henri," I said. "He''s up to something."


    "Is he?"


    "Yes! Look!"


    "I''m looking."


    "This way," I said, coaxing her back towards the entrance. When we got there I pointed to the first two pieces of ''art''. "Yes! I knew it! It''s a timeline! What''s he playing at?"


    Camila held onto me tighter, leant into me, and smiled. "Explain it to me." The words felt familiar. It was amazing, given how fucking sexy this woman was, how at peace she was making me feel.


    "Explain what?"


    "Everything."


    ***


    One of Henri''s minions hurried along the corridor to ask if we wanted a drink. Camila said no and I dittoed it.


    "Yes, Your Highness," the woman said, before scooting off.


    "Ees funny," said Camila. "They are respectful but it feels disrespectful."


    I nodded. "That''s the culture of these events. I''m not sure how to explain it. Once a year you''re allowed to make fun of your boss. It''s not quite anything goes, but they have a lot of leeway if they want to have a joke at my expense."


    Her eyes got wide. "I understand. Once a year you have a sense of humour."


    I laughed. "I think I score highly on that metric. I know I''m not perfect and I do things that can be seen as funny. These events, though, they can get savage. If you''ve got thin skin and can''t take your players doing a pantomime where you''re the wicked witch, you''re not going to last long in the game. Oh, and don''t log onto social media after you''ve lost to York City. Henri has a great sense of where the line is and the unwritten rule goes something like, if people laugh, you can''t complain. I don''t know. The rules are really subtle. I could tell you five things that would seriously piss me off tonight but Henri''s so clever that if he wants to poke me in a specific way he''ll set it up so that I have to take it and won''t be able to get mad at him."


    "I want to meet this Henri."


    "Yeah, you do. What was it you wanted? Flights of fancy? That''s him. Ask him to tell you about Silk! That was the last Christmas thing he planned." I closed my eyes, just for a second, and had a tiny moment of panic that I had fallen asleep for, like, three minutes. "Um... Okay so what I think we''re dealing with here is a reverse timeline."


    "Oh," said Camila, looking to her right where the art stretched down the corridor. "Tell me more."


    I indicated the two framed images in front of us. The first was simply the most recent league table. It had Bradford City at the top. "Bradford, played 23, first in the league, 52 points. Seventh, the mighty Chester FC. Played 21, 35 points."


    "That''s a big gap."


    "Well, yes and no. We play them soon. Beat them, win the games in hand, bosh."


    "Bosh," she repeated, and my pleasure receptors ran amok.


    "I''m confident we''ll catch them. The problem is Mansfield, Carlisle, Cambridge. They''ve all got huge budgets and it''s possible one of them will go on a run that matches us. Do you know what I mean? We can have a legendary five months but if one of these pricks has a very good five months, they might pip us to the post."


    "You have a huge budget," she said, which was incredibly charming in its innocence. That was the moment I realised she knew fuck all about football. "You bought Foquita."


    I gave her a disappointingly chaste squeeze. "I am..." No metaphors came quickly to mind, but I was staring at a string of framed photos. "I''m Leonardo da Vinci''s apprentice. I''m the second-best artist of all time but no-one knows my name so no-one buys my paintings. My opponents are guys who just paint red squares, spray canvases at random like they''re putting mustard on a hotdog, or draw things they found in their kitchen cupboard."


    She looked up at me. "Rothko, Pollock... Warhol?"


    Amazing. In my own mind, the second one was Hockney, but I recognised she''d given the right answer. "I''d love you on my pub quiz team."


    "Pub quiz? Do you do that?"


    "No," I sighed. "I can''t go in Chester, I''m too big a star now. I need to go further afield where no-one gives a shit who I am, but that limits who''s going to come with me. Half the fun of a pub quiz is having the same team and playing the same teams. If you''re always second but one week you win, that''s amazing." I crunched my eyes closed. "Those days are gone for me. I can go to a pub in Manchester and be incognito, but I can''t go every Monday night with Henri, Sticky, and Joe Anka." Her big round eyes asked a question. "Joe used to play for us. Music guy. You need a music guy. I only know the songs that go whoo."


    "Meester Max, do I need to worry?"


    "About what? My inability to name the members of Take That?"


    "About Foquita being paid."


    She seemed to be serious, so I gave her another squeeze. "No. We''re poor but we have a budget and we stick to it. It''s true that most English football clubs lose money..." I trailed off because the news had only come through that morning that the EFL, the body which ran the English leagues from the second to fourth tier, had scheduled an emergency meeting to discuss the case of Reading FC. For the millionth time Reading hadn''t paid their players, in addition to not paying staff and the tax man. "Our fans get mad at us when we don''t spend loads, when my boss is too careful. I say we can win on a tight budget. I would like a little more money," I laughed, "but things are coming together. We will play Manchester United soon and that will give us a million pounds."


    "A million pounds? One match?"


    "Yes. When are you going back to Peru?"


    "In a couple of days. Tomorrow to London, then home."


    Even though she was right next to me, leaning against me, warming me, I felt a mad pang of loss. The human brain is not fit for purpose. "When you''re gone, I''m going to take care of your boyfriend." I nodded towards the many and varied voices. "We all are. This is Chester; we''re a family." My eyes felt heavy again. "His agent is amazing but I don''t think even he realises how perfect this is. We''ll fix his stats, improve him, and if he can hack the north of England no-one in Europe will doubt his professionalism."


    "Fix his stats?"


    "His stats are dogshit," I said. "8 goals in 25 games is not a suitable return for a player of his talent."


    Camila undocked from me like she was a space station and I was a ship carrying thousands of tech bros. "He won la liga."


    "Yeah but think what it could have been. Take two months off, let your injury heal, come back and score 15 in 15. Anyway, I''ll sort him out." I leaned closer to the second piece of art.


    It was a match report that had either been cut out of a newspaper or printed to look like that. It read:


    Swindon Town 0 Chester 2


    Blues Make Robins an Endangered Species


    "What is it?" said Camila.


    "Our last match," I said. I pointed to my right, to the far end of the corridor. "My theory is that the photos and match reports go back in time. I wonder how many of the lads zipped right past all this and went straight to the booze? All of them, I reckon. The league table is right now. This match report is from Saturday. We went down to Swindon and gave them a bit of a hiding, to be honest. Smacked them into the second relegation slot. They have a caveman type manager and the team is all hulking brutes. They''re supposed to win by keeping things tight and scoring from set pieces. I put Cole Adams at left back - he''s as tall as a centre back - and played 4-2-3-1 so that we had loads of numbers back and to match them in the middle. They played 4-3-3. Up front we had Pascal, Wibbers, Sharky, and Henri and their quality and movement was far too good."


    Swindon had CA 74 and my eleven, though not our strongest, was 78.3. Camila slipped her arm around mine again. "Brutes?"


    "Yeah it''s a thing I see less and less but you can''t come at Chester with this big boy shit. We''ve come up from the National League North, mate. We''ve scrapped and battled against lads who''d claw your eyes out to get a win so they can pay their mortgage that month. We''re battle-hardened. Where the fuck do you get off thinking we''ll shirk a fight? I''m placid as fuck but even I''ll fucking waste you." I tried to calm myself and failed. "Christian Fierce. Zach. Cole, the Lees, Henri. Most of my team''s first words as a baby were ''are you talking to me?'' I can''t believe there are still managers who think we can''t mix it. Fuck sake. The match was one huge scrap until they realised we weren''t going to back down. Ever."


    "Did you play?"


    "No," I said, gently easing Camila towards the next artwork. It was a photo of a man celebrating a goal. "There''s Henri. I think that was his second goal. We got two-nil up in the first half and I switched things round, made some subs. Games come thick and fast this time of year so a lot of my job is about managing workload. We went to 4-4-2 with Dazza and Tom up front. Wasn''t really trying to score more, just save energy." Energy. I felt like I had loads but I also felt tired all the time. "I need to decide what to do with Tom. He''s fourth-choice striker for the next six months. It''s good for the club to keep him around, but it''s good for him to loan him out and get minutes into his legs." I frowned and touched the glass that covered the photo. "All the pitches are turning to onion fields. The groundsmen do their best but the winters are so brutal. If it''s not snow it''s rain. If it''s not weather it''s concerts. Bradford''s pitch always goes to pot but they got a game played early somehow. Very clever; wish I''d thought of that. Not that we had any spare time with all our cup runs." I blinked. Was I talking shit? "We''ll be able to train to a high standard all through the winter but if the Deva cuts up, what kind of football are we going to play? Not Relationism, that''s for sure."


    "What''s that?"


    "Nothing," I said, morbidly, but when we moved to the next photo, there it was. Our boys against West Ham''s. The angle of the camera wasn''t as high as in a proper stadium, but it was clear enough. Eight Chester players were gathered in a slim rectangle on one side of the pitch. "Okay, actually, this is Relationism. Have you ever seen this before?"


    The concept was far more common in South America than in Europe, but Camila wasn''t a big football fan. She shook her head. "It looks strange."


    I sighed. "It is strange." I pinched my nose as a wave of fatigue hit me. My feelings towards my new module were all over the place. "Do you know when you work hard for something for ages and then you do it?"


    "Yes?"


    "People get sick when it''s done. Something was pushing you forward for weeks, months, it was the reason you got out of bed, the thing that kept you up until three in the morning, and then puff - it''s over. All the germs and viruses your body has been suppressing, they get their day in the sun."


    "Are you sick?"


    "I feel like it. And I can''t sleep."


    She peered at the strange image. "Because of this?"


    "A few different things. My assistant had a baby. We were all worried about him, the baby, because he was coming early. When he was born healthy it was such a relief. Such a relief. That''s one thing. Another is just the team in general. We got to the stage where I can put in some kids and we can beat Swindon with no alarms and I don''t need to even touch the pitch. That''s a milestone, even if no-one else realises it. And, yeah, this new way of playing."


    I stared at the photo for ages.


    It had taken me many, many months to save the experience points I needed to unlock the Relationism module. There was only one way I could earn XP and that was by watching live football or by managing a team, which gave me double rations. The demon who cursed me didn''t want me to play so I only got minimal XP when I was on the pitch, but he had messed up and in the process of granting me my powers, he had accidentally made me a star player. Balancing how much I played versus how much I managed was tricky but I''d settled on playing for 20 minutes per match, normally at the end when the oppo was tired and I could do more damage.


    The curse and the upgrades it gave me were all targeted at Max Best the manager, though. Since I''d been cursed I had been slowly mastering what is known as positional play, in which the manager is king and the main currency in his realm is space. By using players such as Pascal, the self-titled space invader, a clever manager can give his opponent problems they can''t solve.


    Thinking years into the future, however, to a time when my Chester team had the 20th highest budget in the 20-team Premier League, I knew I would need radical solutions to bridge the gap. In Relationism I saw a way of playing that could, theoretically, negate the financial advantage the top Premier League clubs would have. It was the opposite of positional play - instead of spreading out to perform pre-planned, much-rehearsed moves, my players would create a rolling, sentient blob that would maraud around the pitch as it wanted, dictating the play through the simple medium of short passes and organic combinations.


    The only problem was that when I had finally come to use it, both my players and I had gone fucking haywire. The boys had rushed into the blob, playing short passes, doing tricks and flicks to retain possession, attacking like whirling dervishes to recover lost balls. Meanwhile, my new interface seemed to have been styled on addictive mobile games like Candy Crush. It was incredible, funny, joyous, but terrifying.


    I counted myself lucky that I had no chance to use Relationism before the new year. The army team I was coaching, 3 R Welsh, were on a winter break, and the next FA Youth Cup match would be in three weeks. I had no intention of using Relationism with the first team until I knew it was safe. I had a lot of time to think about how the new module had made me feel.


    Camila had stopped looking at the photo and was looking at me. "This made you unwell?"


    I shook my head. "No. Yes. It was crazy. It should be like that but not like that. I run a football club. I can make any two teams play against each other and I can be the manager and I can experience it again. I haven''t done that, and that says a lot, I think. I''m up all night reliving what happened. I genuinely don''t think they meant it to be so intense but do I want to take the risk?" She didn''t pick up on my moronic use of the word ''they'', so I continued. "I''m not as stupid as people think, I don''t think. That was pure crack. First sample free to get me hooked. No thanks."


    Camila read aloud from a little placard under the photo that I hadn''t noticed. I heard Henri''s voice beneath hers. "Best''s Babes Humiliate Hammers ran the headline. Match coverage focused on the apparent animosity between Max and Sam Norman. Max''s renegade new approach was barely mentioned, with the notable exception of one hipster YouTube channel. The nerd behind it used the scant footage available to him while running the ghastly title: ''The World''s Most EXCITING New Strat Is from... CHESTER?!''"


    I yawned massively. "Sorry. Bit sleep deprived. That just reminded me; there was one new thing in the Swindon match. The game was a damp squib so it didn''t register at first but when I think about it now, it''s seismic. I just don''t know how to activate it."


    "Maybe Foquita will help."


    "Yes," I lied.


    We had been so in control against Swindon and I''d gotten so good at using the hotkeys that I''d been able to run the match in my crazily sleep-deprived state. Playing would have been a totally different matter, but I''d named myself on the bench for Morale purposes and to make my opposite number''s life harder. I was the best player in the division, after all.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    But at some point in the first half I was stunned to discover a new option in a player''s individual instructions. There was the usual ''make forward runs, yes or no'', ''pressing yes or no'', and so on. But in addition to those old faithfuls there was a new line.


    Bestball yes or no.


    First of all, maddening that the imps who ran the curse had called it Bestball instead of its proper name, Relationism.


    Second, what? I mean, what would happen if I clicked yes?


    Third, I couldn''t click yes. When I clicked on a player to change his option, the toggle flipped straight back to no.


    Yep. It was all kinds of intriguing and I hoped it would one day actually lead to something. If I could run Relationism through the plain, vanilla, safe curse screen and not the manic new version, that would be a huge relief. A huuuuuge relief.


    Camila had moved on to the next object. It was another text-heavy one, in what looked like the font from The Guardian. "Chesterness Review: Pitch-Perfect Sports Doc Scores From Every Angle. What''s this?"


    "That''s our documentary. Like Welcome to Wrexham but better in every way. You should watch it while you''re here. Not sure when we''re selling it to Peru. Shit! Did we retain the international rights? We could make another mill!"


    "Is Ryan Reynolds in it?"


    "No. That''s why it''s better."


    She smiled. "I''ve met him at a fashion show. He''s muy simp¨¢tico. Will Foquita be in it?"


    "Not much; it''s about the women''s team. Sometimes Henri and Sophie consider it narratively satisfying to watch the women watch the men and lots of scenes are filmed at Bumpers Bank - that''s our training centre - so you might see him in the background of shots."


    "Why is it only about the women?"


    "Because I''m not interesting," I said, and tried to ease her along the wall.


    She resisted and dragged her finger along a line of text. "But it is director of football Max Best who steals the show. His slapstick humour, manic energy, and passion for the sport drive the team - and the narrative - forward."


    "That''s a four-star review. Every word is positive but the reviewer only gives four stars. They''re like those people who review books and say this is the best thing I''ve ever read, love it unreservedly, four stars because I never give five because nothing''s perfect."


    She smiled again. "Perhaps four stars is the maximum in that newspaper."


    "That was a good point about the international rights, wasn''t it? I bet we could get twenty grand selling it to Slovakian TV. That''s a lot of self-cleaning toilets. And I''m massive in Malta!"


    We shuffled to the next photo. It was me looking heroic at the end of the AFC Wimbledon match. I''d used Bench Boost, a precious and overpowered once-per-competition-per-season perk, to make sure we got a win in order to sell mini-bonds. In the photo I looked all kinds of epic, with my hair flying around and my eyes ready to fire laser beams. "You''re very dashing," said Camila.


    I sighed. "I know. This happens all the time now. I go to TESCO and my hair starts blowing around like there''s a storm. I''m banned from the fruit section. It did the job, though."


    "What did?"


    "That win. Gave the fans belief we could compete in the league, opened a lot of wallets. That look in my eyes there, that''s not triumph. That''s just... emptiness. I had to do it so I did it. It doesn''t feel good. I should be able to find a clever hack. A solution that gives me the win and the new stadium and keeps my powder dry for later in the season."


    "You did what you had to do."


    "Yeah," I said.


    "That''s what a real man does. You can do for yourself later but first put food on the table for your children."


    I stared at the past version of me. I knew using Bench Boost in that match was right but I hadn''t ever tried to reframe it into something that spoke well of me. I had fixated on what I couldn''t do but Camila had a clearer view of the sitch. I had put food on the table and that was my duty.


    I turned and looked at her more closely. Yes she was pure eye candy and the stage name Caramel seemed ever more appropriate. But her real attraction was in the extremely strong feminine energy she was broadcasting. Her looks, her energy, her accent - she was a perfect storm and the longer I spent with her, the less I was twisting in the wind.


    Emma was amazing but her energy was variable. She might go clubbing one night and beg me to do prank phone calls with her the next.


    Brooke, Chester''s Chief Operating Officer Lady, hid her energy as far behind her mask as she could.


    Ruth, my landlord and business partner, had stable energy with almost everyone. With me, she launched into every interaction scrabbling for higher status but always ended lower.


    The closest woman I knew to having Camila''s vibe was Emma''s mother. Her state was serenity itself.


    I''d been staring at Camila for a while. For the first time, her energy changed. She briefly looked uncertain. "What?"


    "Thank you," I said. "Let''s speed up, shall we? I suspect there will be loads of this and Henri definitely has some big caper planned."


    "Caper?"


    "Some big, silly thing. The centrepiece of the whole night. Last time he wrote a play about robots in the future and we were all in it. The players, I mean. It was bonkers but people still talk about it. Okay, this one is Henri and Dazza celebrating their goals against Liverpool."


    "Liverpool?"


    "You''ve heard of them, eh? It was their under twenty-one team so it was all guys like Foquita. Really good but they don''t have experience of playing players like mine."


    "What sort of players do you have?"


    "Tough bastards. Problem solvers. The thing I remember from that night was our old campaigner being the guy who reacted fastest. His legs barely work, ditto his scalp follicles, but he''s a master craftsman of the game. He still has a role." Ryan Jack was a 37-year-old central midfielder and was very clever. "I can see him connecting with Foquita in an interesting way. Okay this little group is from where we played Newcastle United. Oh, I''ve never seen this one."


    "Pascalito!"


    "Right. You sent that lovely message when he got injured. He was supposed to be out for a year but he came back in two months. I hadn''t told anyone. This is him warming up and the rest of the players are looking at him thinking ''what the shit is this?''"


    "He is popular, no?"


    "Oh, yes, it''s more like, has he got a bionic leg? Like how is he even ambulant? I love that word; I''ve been waiting ages to say it. Their faces look unfriendly, yeah, but they''re only worried about him."


    "I know this," she said, pointing to the photo of me scoring from 60 yards. "Foquita watched it again and again."


    "Yeah, well tell him if he tries it he''s dropped."


    "Dropped?"


    "Out of the team."


    "You can, but not him."


    "Correct."


    She shrugged. "You''re the boss. I like this one," she said, pointing to the photo of Newcastle''s Slovak goalkeeper leaping dramatically to save a shot.


    "Yeah, that''s beautiful. I''d love to sign him one day but we''re not even close to that." To buy him would cost at least ten million pounds. I was selling Ben Cavanagh for fifty thousand. "I''ve got a slot in my squad for a goalie but I''m really torn on what to do about it. There''s a guy who''s basically Ben with a higher ceiling. If I could get him for 50K that''s a simple upgrade but it doesn''t move the needle much. There are more young whippersnappers like Banksy and Rainman who I could get for cheap but goalies seem to develop slowly and the gap between my first choice and his backup can''t be so huge. But then if I buy a premium guy, what''s the point of Sticky? I put a lot of the club''s resources into him and if I just buy a better one, I mean, that can''t be right, can it?"


    She smiled, gently giving out energy. She was the peace at the centre of the hurricane. A little less hot air might be welcome.


    I brought my voice down. "I was hoping you''d tell me what to do. No? Okay, what''s next?"


    There was a gap in time to the first league match of the season. Chester FC''s first match back in the football league since its destruction at the hands of hideous, uncaring owners.


    We got a two-all draw against Fleetwood Town thanks to some Max Best heroics, but Henri had correctly picked a photo of the away end when my second went in. "We call this kind of celebration ''limbs''."


    "How to use it in a sentence?"


    "Mostly you just shout limbs, but you can say oh it was bouncing, it was absolute limbs."


    "Absolute limbs," she said. Her eyebrows shot up, amused.


    We picked up the pace. "Pre-season friendly against Slovakia. The opening of Bumpers Bank. Youngster and Dazza in the under 20 World Cup. That''s where I spotted Foquita."


    "You knew he was injured. Adrian was very stressed. He repeats, how did he know? How did he know? So... how did you know?"


    I shrugged. "He looked injured. Wasn''t running freely. I''m always surprised that I''m the only one who sees it. It''s blindingly obvious."


    "You liked Foquita even though he was injured?"


    "Yep. His talent is clear. I didn''t think I had a chance with him but Adrian is a good agent. He''s managing Foquita''s career very well."


    "Five stars?"


    "Four," I smiled.


    Camila stepped back and looked me up and down. "What could be better?"


    "From what they told me, Foquita''s next step will be to Germany to get him ready for one of the big Spanish clubs or, if he survives the frozen wastelands around here, a big Prem team. Imagine a slider with weather on one end, money on the other. You''ll have some input, I reckon."


    "Weather," she said, sliding an imaginary object all the way to her left.


    I laughed. "If it was my client and he was as good as Foquita, I''d send him to Portugal for two years. Then a year or two in Germany. He''ll be the outstanding striker in the world aged 24. Hundred million pound transfer, bosh."


    "They talk about Portugal but they believe they can jump it."


    "Don''t skip steps," I said.


    "Don''t skip steps," she said, thoughtfully. "Don''t you want him to stay here?"


    "Of course I do. It''s by far the most romantic option."


    "Are you romantic, Meester Max?"


    I pointed to the next photo. It showed Henri, his girlfriend Luisa, plus me, Ems, and a massive statue of Jesus. I was sporting a yellow mohawk and a wide smile. "Question answered."


    "If you want him, why don''t you fight for him?"


    I was enjoying this. Didn''t want it to end. It would, though. All too soon, it would; the door was behind us and we were practically at the end of the line. "It''s not my destiny to have him longer. I get to walk down one corridor with him, but then we go our separate ways."


    "We''ll always have the caper," she said.


    "Yeah."


    She looked behind her. "There''s another corridor. There is more art."


    For the first time in a week, my head felt clear. "I love looking at art. Have I mentioned how passionate I am about art?"


    "You''re passionate, you''re romantic. Such a dream. I love this shot of you."


    She had moved in front of a photo taken from the last Exit Trials. I was at the back of the stand, fast asleep, with Meghan and Sarah Green sitting next to me. Behind were a dozen others, trying to take the most demented possible photo without waking me up. The Brig and Ruth were holding each other, the young players we''d brought had their arms and legs spread everywhere like they were playing Twister, and someone was giving me bunny ears.


    "I''ve never seen this," I said. "So funny."


    She stepped away so I got in close to look at all the faces, imagining Tom and Josh egging each other on. Camila came back, grabbed my arm, and pulled me past photos from the previous two seasons - celebrations, trophies, fans shedding happy tears - to the penultimate artwork. It was a montage of photos of Chester players and staff, ranging from baby pics to ones taken in primary school.


    "Which one are you?"


    I quickly scanned the images. Baby Christian Fierce was instantly recognisable. The toddler Youngster already had the goofy grin. Ten-year-old Bonnie was holding a baby in her arms. "Already looking out for her sister," I said. "God, this is maximum adorbs. Oh, shit! Look at little baby Henri! He''s got a little baby scarf. Julie''s McKay''s freckles." Julie was a local girl who had been in a bad relationship when I''d met her. Her waste of space boyfriend had been the prime suspect in my murder. She was blameless but I still felt a dull pain at the back of my head every time I thought about her. I quickly moved on. "Is this Brooke doing a tea party? Look how serious she is. Those dolls better not ask for soy milk. Lee Contreras? Got to be. Hey, he was a good-looking kid, wasn''t he? Why do I get the feeling he kept pushing his hair back and had a catchphrase? Who''s missing? I need a pic of Dazza in a kangaroo pouch."


    "Which one are you?"


    "I''m not here."


    "You are," she said, suddenly. "Aqu¨ª."


    "No, that''s some rando." Camila''s energy changed so with a frown, I leaned forward. Someone had scrawled ''Max, 9'' on the photo, but I didn''t recognise the kid whatsoever. He had a shit trim and hideous, thin trousers. His ears stuck out. He looked like a complete dipshit. "I think this is the caper. Henri''s trying to gaslight me into thinking this was me. Before the end of the night I''ll believe I grew up a Man City fan and I prefer Oasis to The Stone Roses. It''s just, nah, soz. Come on."


    Camila frowned, but decided she believed me. Or she believed that I thought I was telling the truth. She slipped a huge phone out of some crevice in the fabric of her dress and tapped away. Soon she was showing me a photo of a pudgy girl, maybe 12 years old, wearing braces and horrible glasses. She looked like she was one inspirational teacher away from spending her life studying geology. "Me," she said.


    I shook my head. Her transformation was almost total but I found I liked the girl in the photo. "I''m glad you kept the smile."


    There was a tremor in her energy but she recovered and said, "I''m glad you kept the sweetness."


    "It''s strange when I see what I looked like but I always remember wanting to be a model," I said. Her eyebrows twitched. "I even had a name picked out."


    She was suspicious. "Yes?"


    "Double Choc."


    She folded up with laughter. "You''re teasing me."


    I grinned but internally, let out a deep sigh. My time with Camila was up. "Shall we go into the main room?"


    She shook her head. "There''s one more."


    I hadn''t quite noticed it because it was long and wasn''t framed and the background was black while the walls were dark. I got closer and burst out laughing. "The guy''s such a fucking nutjob. Jesus Christ. If you took a journey backwards in time you''d stop at your baby photos. That''s what most people would do, right? This madman, though..."


    Henri had based this final piece on a textbook image of the creatures from the Cambrian era - the ones that had evolved into all kinds of wild shapes, the hard shells, the soft shells, the killer shrimp. But Henri being Henri, he had merged our faces onto the creatures. Christian Fierce was a hard-shelled proto-crab. Dazza was a jellyfish. Vimsy was a weird tube thing that came out of the seabed. I was a human brain riding on a tactics board. Henri, of course, was the apex predator of the era, the fearsome Anomalocaris.


    "I''m ready for a drink," I said.


    "Lead the way."


    ***


    We went into the main room, which was a hive of life and laughter. Everyone was wearing eye masks, which really enhanced the mood. It was great to see everyone so happy but I felt tired just thinking about all the small talk I''d have to do. Going from one vastly enjoyable conversation to sixty banal ones was a very definite step down.


    Camila went off to check on Foquita and I knew she wouldn''t come back.


    I went to get a glass of white wine - Henri always chose amazing stuff and the first team''s party budget was massive - and went to watch as some of the lads moved tables from the edges of the room into the middle. Were we going to eat? I glanced around, tried to smell food, but a movement caught my eye. Dazza and Foquita were lining up a table so that it matched two others. I should have wondered if they''d met at the World Cup, should have asked if Dazza spoke Spanish or if this was all happening on vibes. But no - I locked onto the circular tables. Circles in a line. Three. In my mind''s eye I saw them gently vibrating, begging me to pop them. Pop and get a boost! Plus ten percent happiness to everyone within twenty-five yards.


    Emma put her hand on my back and clinked her glass into mine. "Did you enjoy that, you dog?"


    "Did I enjoy welcoming our special guest to the club? Yes. I''m kind. I have a big heart."


    "Yeah. And eyes as big as saucers when she took that coat off. Can''t blame you. Woof!"


    I laughed. "Come on. What happens is, sometimes I try on new anatomical costumes like the creatures of the Cambrian era. Like, what if my eyes sort of bulged out like in a cartoon?"


    "And what if your tongue rolled down to the floor?"


    "Is Foquita okay?"


    Emma turned and checked. "Yeah. The lads took him off my hands right away. Henri, Pascal, and Zach have some Spanish. Brooke too, I think, but she''s working the room."


    I snapped into manager mode in a way that almost hurt. "Camila will sit next to him for whatever this thing is. There''s Dani so there will be voice-to-text going on, Henri''s great about that. Let''s see if we can get it translated."


    Emma pushed herself into me and leaned. She stayed there for about ten seconds until she felt me relax. She looked up at me. "No, babes. This is Henri''s show; don¡¯t try to micromanage it. And if Foquita has to struggle and the lads have to explain things to him, isn''t that better?"


    "Yes," I said. "You''re right." I tried to relax some more, but glanced at a box of pens that had appeared on one of the tables. Charlotte was picking them out, lining them up one by one. Three for a pop. Swap the red one to the end and you''ll get three blues in a row. If you could slot a pen in wherever you wanted, the game would be too easy. What if you can only add pens to the sides? How would that change your strategy?


    Ems put her drink down, straightened my tie, fussed with my waistcoat. "Spend more time with Caramel."


    "Who? Oh. Why?"


    "It''s good for you. Go on. Whatever this thing is, it''s going to start in ten minutes or so."


    Tempting. I wanted to, of course, but wasn''t dumb enough to say so. "No, I''ll stay with you. Protect me from conversations, babes. I don''t have the energy."


    She pushed her hands towards my shoulders. "You''ve been out there chatting away, being cool and charming and the tension''s melting off you."


    I pulled a face. "You''re actually my dream woman, actually. I relax around you."


    "You know the phrase ''a change is as good as a rest?'' That''s what Caramel was asking for. A break from her boyfriend, who she''s clearly crazy about. You need a break, Max. I moved in with you, Sandra''s on maternity leave, you''re working hard, and I think you''re actually a little bit sick but you''re trying to fight it off. Go get that woman and talk shit with her until Henri starts this show."


    "I think the show is that there''s no show. The show is the art that no-one''s looking at."


    Emma smiled and tapped me on the heart. "See? That''s the kind of thing Caramel wants to hear and when she gasps in admiration at your brilliance you''ll do a cute little smile of accomplishment and you''ll say more things and tonight will be like a big reset button and you''ll sleep ten hours and wake up ready for anything and strangely keen to learn Spanish."


    I tutted. "You''re as mental as Henri. Where do you get these mad ideas from? Gasp at my brilliance? We were talking about Fleetwood away and the weather. Anyway, she''s probably had enough of me. There''s loads of hot men around."


    With impeccable timing, Camila re-appeared. "What nice people! So kind."


    "I bet," said Emma, with dark amusement. "Max has a theory he can''t wait to tell you."


    "Oh?" said Camila, slipping her arm around mine.


    "Er," I said. The silver dress was dazzling, the eyes so black no light could escape. "The show is that there''s no show."


    "Ah!" she said, delighted. "We wait for the show and that''s the show."


    I smiled eagerly, pointing my nose towards the lads who were moving tables around. "We even help prepare it."


    "We should search the next corridor. Perhaps there will be a Sphinx and a riddle and we will have had to study the art to answer its questions."


    Emma was smiling. "I''ll leave yers to it."


    ***


    Camila and I left the big room through the same door we''d entered so we could enjoy the next corridor in the sequence the artist intended. As before, all the artworks were on the left, though this time I didn''t think there was any particular organisational concept.


    It was a wall of memes.


    The first was the famous ''distracted boyfriend'' meme. A boyfriend (a dead ringer for the Spanish goalkeeper David de Gea) and girlfriend are walking down a high street. The boyfriend has seen a fly honey in a red dress and is looking back towards her while thinking ''hubba hubba''. His girlfriend is pissed.


    Henri had labelled the boyfriend ''Max Best'', because of course. The girlfriend was labelled ''Reliable First Team Player''. The girl in the red dress was labeled ''some nobody from a beach/a park/Crawley under 18s/fucking Wales.''


    "Wow," I said, but there was very little I could add.


    The second one was the Galaxy Brain meme, a series of images of brains getting bigger and more powerful with every step. Beside the first image, in which the brain was small and the colour scheme was dull, Henri had written ''4-1-4-1''. The next brain, bigger with bright dots showing the synapses were firing, came with the text ''4-2-3-1''. The next was ''3-4-3''. Finally, where the brain activity was reaching out beyond the body of the human, connecting with the very galaxy, the text read ''4-1-4-1''.


    I laughed pretty hard.


    "I don''t understand," said Camila.


    "He''s making fun of me," I said. "4-1-4-1 was my favourite formation back in non-league and I''ve been using these more sophisticated ones but now I like 4-1-4-1 again."


    "It''s a boy joke."


    "Sure, maybe. He''s laughing at my ego because I always call myself a floating megabrain but what I do is often pretty basic."


    "Keep it simple."


    "Exactly. I''m sorry, I can''t explain why it''s funny. Maybe you need to have been on this three-year journey with us."


    "Ees okay. I get the... the silhouette of the humour."


    The next meme was known on the internet as ''Young Thug at Computer''. On the left, two rappers are staring intently at a computer screen, probably at some music editing software. But on the right we ''see'' what they''re seeing on the screen. The one I knew showed them playing the Windows game Minesweeper, the humour coming from the juxtaposition of how seriously they are concentrating and how low-stakes the game is.


    Henri had used something like Microsoft Paint to sketch a footballer''s skills radar. There were eight ''slices'' of the chart and they started off pretty normal: xG per 90, xT per 90, final third entries, goal contributions. Then they got weird. Handsomeness. Cocky confidence. Gasps per 90. Swoonworthiness.


    Every segment was rated 100 out of 100. The heading said ''Max Best'' and at the bottom, in spidery teenage boy handwriting, ''by Spectrum''.


    "Who is Spectrum?"


    "He runs our youth system and he does this kind of data stuff on the side."


    "What is the swoonworthiness of Foquita?"


    "There''s not yet enough data to support any conclusions."


    She smiled. "Spectrum is a big fan of yours?"


    "He hated me at first but I won him over by making him do strange things until he quit."


    "The oldest trick in the book. Are you going to repeat that with Foquita?"


    "No. I''ll make sure he''s healthy and if he is, feed him assists and let him rack up goals. There''s nothing for me to do except let it happen."


    "If he is healthy? Foquita wants to play every game."


    "Yeah, well," I said, trying to ease her to the next meme. "He''s not gonna."


    She didn''t want to move. "There''s nothing for you to do? What do you mean?"


    "I mean he''s on his path and it''s best for me to let him stay on it. The only thing I might want to improve is his teamwork. He''s selfish, which isn''t terrible for a striker but there are times you want him to pass to a player in a better position and there are times he needs to suffer defensively. Which, yeah, if he was staying here I''d definitely wade in on but my job is to make him look good so he can get his next move on schedule."


    She was watching me carefully. "Foquita wants to be the best. Can you help him?"


    I clicked my tongue. "He''s just passing through. It''ll be hard enough for him, won''t it? The cold, the rain, no family, no Caramel. He doesn''t need me screaming at him twice a week, subbing him off after 17 minutes, making him look like a twat. This... This is just business, isn''t it? I need to do my part, which is to let him score goals."


    Her voice got lower. "He wants to be the best. He wants to be pushed. Will he be unhappy? Maybe. But he will love you for it."


    I stepped away, turned around, messed up my hair in my hands. "I don''t know if I have the energy," I admitted, as I turned back. "It takes a lot out of me, out of the staff. We have to hammer the message home every time he does something wrong. If ever we ease off, he goes right back to the start. I''m already frazzled and close to the edge. I might be past the edge, if I''m being honest. Christmas is a bad time for me."


    She eyed me. "Because of your mother."


    "Right."


    "We know the history. So sad. But you are not alone. You have the famous German coach." She smiled and indicated the radar chart. "And Spectrum. And you have the support of me and Foquita''s mother. I will explain it to her. Foquita will phone us when he is unhappy and we will calm him down. I will tell him that if he wants to be the best he has to learn from the Best."


    The thought of going full Max to get Foquita a few more points in Teamwork and Decisions was exhausting, but looking at Camila returned most of the energy. She was an unbelievable ally. All I had to do was rage at Foquita when he did something shit and she would spend hours on the phone convincing him I was right. It had the potential to be the easiest coaching I ever did. I got a cheeky grin. "To be honest, I''m not sure I can stand by while one of my players plays for his own glory instead of the team. All right. You''ll have to teach me the Spanish for ''that''s fucking dogshit mate, get wrecked, do that again you''re going right in the bin.''"


    She spoke quickly and I didn''t catch so much as a word.


    "Change of plan," I said. "He''ll learn English."


    ***


    From the main room we heard someone speak through a microphone followed by a huge buzz of chat and chairs scraping.


    "Want to go?" said Camila.


    "I''d like to make sure all these things aren''t about me," I said.


    They weren''t.


    Next was the ''first world problems'' meme, which featured a tearful woman stressing about trivial things. The Chester version had text at the top: Dazza ate the last avocado again. Bottom text: Now I have to eat Greek yoghurt topped with fresh fruits, granola, and chia seeds.


    "Ha," said Camila. "I feel that one."


    The next was a Photoshopped Sticky sitting behind a desk in a park. Taped to the desk was a large piece of card that read: You should always play your first-choice goalkeeper. CHANGE MY MIND.


    Next was the famous ''handshake'' meme where two beefy arms slap into each other. It''s used to show one thing that two seemingly different groups have in common. The arm on the left was tagged: ''Sealbiscuit''. The right said ''Andrew Harrison.'' Over their clasped hands were the words, ''Stops running after three hundred miles.''


    "Sealbiscuit?" said Camila.


    "That''s our team bus. It''s electric. We love it. It''s the best three hundred grand I ever amortised. No, depreciated. What''s the word? Ah, fuck it."


    The last one we looked at was a Venn diagram with three overlapping circles. The circle on the right was labelled ''Charlotte''. The one on the left was ''Formula 1 Champions''. The third said ''world-shattering tectonic movements''. The part in the middle, the one thing all three had in common, said, ''knows how to make a pass''.


    "Max," called Charlotte, which freaked me out for two reasons. One, because I''d just been thinking about her. Two, because a door had appeared just a few yards away like we were in Hogwarts. "We''re ready for you. Use this door." She pulled her mask back over her eyes and vanished.


    I got as excited as when a referee blew his whistle after witnessing a foul in the box. Was he going to give a penalty... or a yellow card for diving? Was this going to be the new SILK! or was it going to be pure dogshit?


    "This is fun," I said, rubbing my hands together. "There could be absolutely anything in there. French acrobats. Elephants. Literally anything''s possible."


    She pointed to the three parts of the ''handshake'' meme. "Your players. Camila. Following you wherever you lead."


    I escorted her through the door with a colossal smile on my face.


    ***


    The door led directly to the stage and there was applause as I appeared. Ahead of me were a dozen tables, now covered with rich fabrics, drinks, nibbles, and Christmas ornaments. Most of the tables had five people each and at a glance I noted that the admins and backroom staff had been mixed up. MD was to my left, Brooke to my right. Physio Dean was near the back, Livia near the front. If Henri had assigned the tables, that made sense.


    He himself was over to the right of the stage, in front of a lectern. He was in a tuxedo, beautifully black and white, slimming, bulging at the biceps. He wore a blue-and-white bowtie but no eye mask.


    "Welcome, your Highness. Please take your throne." On the left of the stage was a red-and-gold high-backed armchair. "Miss Caramel, you may choose a team."


    Camila looked around the room. Emma was waving her over. Foquita was signalling, too. Youngster, the dog, had an empty chair next to him and he pushed it backwards as if to say, ''how about here?'' Meghan slapped him on the arm and he pulled his neck in like a grinning turtle.


    "I choose Team Max."


    When he was in these moods, Henri was absolutely unflappable. "A wise choice. May we have a chair, please?"


    About seven guys shot to their feet, rushing to be the one to carry the chair up to the stage. I laughed and guided Camila into the throne, and took a chair from Wibbers. I sat; it was more comfortable than it looked.


    Henri waited for everyone to sit back down and said, "Those of you who said Max would refuse to wear an eye mask... award yourselves one point."


    "Yessss!" cried more than half of the teams.


    Teams. Points. Henri dressed like a game show host. Was this...?


    "Your Highness, we are playing a pub quiz."


    "Oh, mint," I said. I wouldn''t have minded some sword-swallowers or a human pyramid, but a pub quiz was fun, too.


    "Many of the questions will be football-related. I thought it would be fun for the others to pit their wits against you. And now you have help you will be even more formidable."


    "Is there a music round?"


    "No, Your Highness, there is not a music round." Henri was holding a microphone and some white cards. He slid one to the back. "Thank you all for coming. We''re delighted to welcome our special guests, Foquita and his partner, Caramel." Generous applause followed. Foquita was between Brooke and Zach and they were doing the translations for him. "It has been another wonderful year. Chester FC have gone from strength to strength and that is because of everyone''s hard work. Thank you all." Applause. "Thank you to Christian for smashing the party fund piggy bank for tonight." Cheers and whoops. "Without further ado, let the quiz commence. First prize is eternal glory. Second prize is one bottle of very nice red for each team member. Remember that the referee''s decision is final."


    Henri took a clipboard from the lectern and brought it over to me, along with a pen. I scanned the page. Typical pub quiz fare. "Do we need a team name?"


    "Yes," he said, walking back to his side of the stage before I could ask why the prize for second was better than for first.


    I wrote ''Double Choc and Caramel'', which got a giggle from my teammate.


    Henri said, "Question one. Nice easy start. On which date is Christmas Day?"


    I frowned and wrote December 25th.


    "It''s the 24th," said Camila, leaning close to whisper so the nearby tables couldn''t hear. She was so close I felt her breath on my ear.


    "What?" I said, thinking she was joking, but then I remembered that in some countries they did it different. Maybe the quiz would force us to learn about each other. Maybe that was Henri''s devious plan. I looked around to see who was placed where, but two tables away my eyes landed on Angel. She was watching Camila with a faraway expression. I whispered back. "Here the main day is the 25th. That''s when you get the presents and have dinner with your family and eat too much and watch a James Bond film. The next day is Boxing Day and you eat too much and watch a film from a different James Bond."


    "Question two," said Henri. "Should little baby Lane-Beeks be allowed to open Christmas presents on Christmas Eve?"


    I scoffed and shook my head. "The fuck? There''s no right answer to that." The other teams didn''t share my doubt - they were leaning towards each other, whispering urgently.


    Camila leaned close again. "Little baby Lane...?"


    "It''s my assistant manager''s newborn. I don''t think the question is about that baby in particular. It''s, you know, general. Wibbers told me he was fine waiting till Christmas Day but his brother kicked up a fuss and made his parents give him something the day before. Parents shouldn''t reward tantrums, right? And there''s value to waiting for something. Most of the time the presents are underwhelming and the anticipation is more thrilling."


    "Question three," said Henri.


    "Shit," I said, and wrote ''yes'' in the second slot. It''s Christmas. Spoil your kids.


    The final three questions were also Christmas themed.


    Henri took my answers and brought them to the lectern. "Oh, interesting. As I expected, Our Majesties have got all the answers right." That announcement came with a very strange noise from the other teams. Something between a cheer and a jeer. "Please pass your answer sheets to the team next to you for marking. Okay, the answers." Since I''d got them all right, Henri read from my sheet. "Question one, Christmas Day is the 25th." A cheer from the players. "Question two. Should little baby Henri be allowed to open presents the day before? Yes." The word exploded like a bomb. Hands flew to heads in utter disbelief. Emma''s team shot to their feet, all pointing at her while she crumpled into a giggling, embarrassed ball. Henri powered through. "Question three. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Answer, of fucking course. I''ll give you a point for yes," he said, smoothly. "Four. Should a snowman be made from two balls or three? Answer: Whatever. To be clear, if you wrote 2, no points. If you wrote 3, no points. You only score if you wrote whatever, either/or, or that you don''t care. Five. What''s the best Christmas song? Answer: Fairytale of New York by The Pogues." Vimsy''s team stood and high-tenned each other.


    Camila leaned close to me again. "How can ''whatever'' be an answer?"


    "No clue. The guy''s a total whacko. Or he might be doing a post-modern deconstruction of pub quizzes."


    "Round two is the football round," said Henri, to a big cheer. "The answers are all members of the men''s or women''s squads." I got the feeling that the pace of drinking had accelerated since the pub quiz had started. I''d been nursing my white wine but now signalled a waiter for a top-up. It came in a new glass. Swanky! In the next round there were ten perplexing questions and again Henri took my answers and, with an impressed face, declared I had scored very well. He took my answers away with him, presumably to mark them.


    "How is that - " I started, but Camila gently touched me to shut me up.


    "Question one. Which player would make the best manager? Answer: Pascal." Cheer. "Two. Which player would be hardest to replace? Answer: Magnus Evergreen." A surprised murmur swept the room, followed by chants of ''Mag-nus! Mag-nus!'' "Three. Who is the boss''s favourite player? Answer: Sarah Greene." A big shriek from the table that featured Wibbers and Sarah. Wibbers was nodding proudly. "Four. Which player is most likely to annoy Max and get sent to the bomb squad or sold? Answer: No-one, they''re all angels, actually that''s a good point, Angel." He had read my answer word for word, which was cheeky and potentially unhelpful. It got quite a few laughs, especially from Bonnie. Her younger sister was exasperated and tried not to smile. It didn''t last long. I looked at her and mouthed ''sorry'' and she said it was okay. "Five. Who is the most underpaid? Youngster. Six. Who has the best bromance? Answer: Josh and Tom. Seven. Who is the most likely to go into politics? Answer: Mari Hughes." Nobody cheered, a sign that no-one had written that as the answer, but Mari''s table gave her some good-natured verbals. Mari was the daughter of one of the bigwigs at the Welsh Football Association so to me it was obvious she had the genes to want to run things. I had been so focused on trying to get the answers right I hadn''t been looking for the meta-game, but on hearing Mari''s name I got a sudden suspicion about the true nature of what''s going on. Henri kept going. "Eight. Who is most likely to demand better service by yelling ''Do you know who I am?!'' Answer: Tom Westwood."


    I was sure no-one else would have written that; I shot to my feet. "Hey," I said, to lots of sniggers.


    "Max, please," said Henri. "I don''t interrupt your team talks."


    "You do, actually."


    "Question nine. Who is most likely to marry badly?"


    "No, no, no," I said, waving my hands around.


    I was met with jeers and was struck by a few balled-up napkins. "Sit down, Your Highness!" yelled someone.


    I glanced from Camila to Henri, not sure what to do. Henri took his chance. "Answer: Julie McKay."


    "Oh, fuck no," I said. "You''re just reading out my answers. Why are you reading out my answers?"


    "You are the state!" yelled Henri, jabbing his finger at me. "Your opinion is the only one that matters! Question ten."


    "Don''t," I said, with a warning tone.


    Henri nodded and made a show of turning his microphone off. He looked sad and gave a big shrug. Suddenly he was two yards further to the right and the mic was on. "Apart from Max and Henri, who has the hottest girlfriend? Answer..."


    I was on him, trying to wrestle the mic out of his idiot fingers. He lost his serious demeanour and broke into fits of laughter. It might have been the way I hadn''t slept for a week but I joined in. We laughed like mad idiots while genuinely wrestling hard to get the mic.


    "Max!" called Emma. "That''s a Boateng Boateng! That was a gift!" She meant my suit. I bounced away, hands up. "And we all want to know who you fancy."


    This proclamation was met with wolf whistles, sniggers, and whoops. With as much dignity as I could muster, I ambled back to my seat and put my player-manager face on.


    "The hottest girlfriend for anyone on the current squad, thus excluding Foquita, of course... is Gemma." If the cheers were anything to go by, two tables had chosen that, including the one containing the Brig. ¡°You get a point, of course, if you actually listened to the question and wrote Andrew.¡± Henri smiled as he adjusted his bow tie. "I believe Max has worked out the game, and why second prize is the real prize. That ends the quiz. Please add up your scores."


    There followed a minute of admin and the announcement that the Brig''s team had won. They got generous cheers and the staff brought five bottles of wine to their table.


    "Thank you for playing Beat the Boss! You may now visit galleries 1 and 2. I will escort His Highness to gallery 3. Adieu!"


    There was rapid applause followed by a rush to the corridors I''d been down. So it wasn''t that people hadn''t been interested - they hadn''t been allowed. Or perhaps the pictures had been put up in the time between the normal guests arriving, and me.


    Henri came over. I said, "Whatever I said was the right answer."


    "Yes."


    "So they were guessing what I would write. You told them the rules before I arrived."


    "Yes."


    "That''s diabolical."


    He rubbed his nose to hide a smirk. "I had no conception that you would be so inflammatory with your answers."


    I tutted and sighed. "You''ve stirred the pot big time."


    "Yes." He sighed. "I must admit I''m glad you worked it out so fast. The questions for round three are hot garbage. Would you follow me?"


    "Am I invited?" said Camila.


    "Rather you than Max," said Henri, reaching out to help her up. Smooth bastard. "Do you know he plans to replace me with a younger model? I thought he meant Foquita but I now suspect I misunderstood."


    She smiled and fell into step beside him. I followed along like a jealous sausage dog.


    But when we arrived at ''gallery 3'', Henri took a step back and Camila and I went from piece to piece. "Fuck," I said, the brief moment of annoyance forgotten. "Henri! You''ve outdone yourself. I demand a hug."


    He laughed and gave me one, then I returned to the art.


    The first one was simply a foosball table but with Chester Men against Chester Women. 3-5-2 against 3-5-2. The women were in our away kit and all the faces and squad numbers were authentic. Henri said, "I thought about having every player be Best 77 but it would only have been funny for a moment. This, I think, will be popular in Bumpers."


    "It''s so mint," I laughed, spinning the midfield around. Best 77 was on the right, next to Bochum 18. "I love it. This is custom-made, right? Can you get more? I''d love one that was like 4-4-2 against 4-3-3."


    "I can hook you up with the creator."


    I tapped it. "I want to play this all night. Am I right in thinking no-one''s allowed in this section until I''ve seen it?"


    "Yes."


    "Because I''m the king or whatever."


    "Yes."


    I knew that by the time I''d got to the end of the art, the table football zone would be packed with people and there would be a staggeringly long queue. Ah, well.


    The next piece - I''d only been gone three seconds and the fucking foosball table was already in use! - didn''t make much sense at first. It was the men''s first team squad photo we''d taken at the start of the season. Three rows, front sitting, back standing on a bench. Goalies and coaches to the ends. Me in the middle at the front. "I don''t get it," I said. It was just a large photo. Not Henri''s style at all.


    Camila stepped closer, reached up, and pulled on a stick that was hard to spot against the dark wall. When she did, Ben Cavanagh''s face slid off the photo. She pulled three more away - Sharky, Eddie, and Tom Westwood.


    "That''s fucking brutal, mate," I said.


    "Perhaps you would like to look in the mirror."


    "I would like to look in the mirror, as you know." I smiled in the direction of Camila to see if she had noticed that I''d won the conversation. "If I know the way Henri thinks, there''s a way to put new faces to replace those." She nodded, slunk in front of me, and found more sticks on the right. One slipped Foquita into Tom''s position. Another pushed the face of the current Bayern Munich goalkeeper into Ben''s slot. "Torben Ulrich, mate? Have you got a spare 70 million to lend me?"


    "In this space, we are only limited by our imagination." He curled his lips at Camila. "And my imagination has no limits."


    Camila played with another stick but nothing happened. "Move Torben Ulrich out of the way," I suggested.


    She did. There was another face lurking behind. "Who''s that?" she said, frowning.


    "That''s Ben Cavanagh in a fake moustache." I shook my head. "Henri, please talk to Alex about the voices in your head. At least one isn''t meant to be there."


    Henri was delighted by that feedback and led us through more of his mental fault lines.


    One piece was a small 3D model of the fully redeveloped Deva stadium, which, by the way, was incredibly cool. Henri had also 3D printed a small statue of me and we were supposed to put it where we thought it should go. The statue came close to the height of the stadium roof.


    The next piece was an old-fashioned weighing scales. In front of it lay nine small wooden boxes with player names on. A sign informed us that the weight of the box represented a player''s salary and that we should try to balance three against six. "Jesus Christ," I complained.


    "Can you solve it?" he said.


    I moved three boxes to the side. Our wages weren''t all public knowledge but it was possible the nine players had told Henri what they were making. "This?"


    Henri stared at my hand, blankly. "That''s actually impressive."


    "Show me on the balanza," said Camila.


    I shuffled the boxes around and pulled her away. "Sorry, that''s not a good idea. Money''s a sensitive topic around here. It''s all right if the lads joke about it but I shouldn''t. Do you know what I mean?" I ruffled my hair and looked down the corridor. There were more interactive pieces. "Mate," I said. "How long did all this take you?"


    He tutted. "One does not measure art by how long it took to create. One measures it by the amount of emotion it generates. Joy, antipathy, disgust. You feel joy there, disgust here. I am content."


    "Yeah, it''s good," I said, vaguely. I looked around and checked the time. "So when are the strippers coming?"


    Henri''s face contorted.


    I smiled. "You''re disgusted. See? I can do art, too."


    He nodded rapidly. "Yes. Very good, Max. Very, very good." He continued to seethe until all at once his face cleared up. "You are the state, Max. I find I''m in need of validation. What do you think of the evening?"


    "The Wall of Time is amazing."


    "I call it - " he brought his palms up and spread them wide. "Time''s Narrow."


    "Bosh. Perfect. The memes..."


    "The Memery Palace."


    "Okay! They''re funny. I need to go back and look at the rest. And this stuff is great. Oh, and the pub quiz was deranged. Yeah, all in all, a good event. I rate it four stars but is it out of four or five? You''ll never know."


    Camila said, "It''s out of four."


    "What she said."


    Camila said, "I have felt tired these last few days. England is so cold, so wet. But I''m full of energy again and I''m happy Foquita is coming here. Yes, very happy."


    "Henri," I said. "Camila wants us to give Foquita the full Tyson treatment."


    Henri''s eyes widened. "Are you sure, miss?"


    She looked uncertain. "I thought I was."


    I got serious. "Henri, Reading are in trouble."


    He looked at Camila. "My former club."


    "I''ve got an EFL call about it tomorrow. If it''s what I think it is, can you sneak me into one of their training sessions? Like, asap?"


    "Are you going to pillage a club in crisis, Your Highness?"


    "Yes."


    He nodded. "You have been strangely calm this past week. I see now it was the calm before the storm. Of course I will help you."


    I slapped him on the arm. To Camila I said, "Let''s check the future of Peruvian football is all right, yeah?"


    She came with me into the big room where we found Foquita perched next to Dani on the edge of the stage. He spoke into her phone, there was a beat, and she read what it said. I signed a question mark and Dani showed me that she was using an app that listened to Foquita and automatically provided the translation. She typed away and it turned the text into Spanish.


    "That''s going to be handy," I mused, and the app translated it. Both Dani and Foquita agreed. "Dani, show the video of the day I found you."


    She read what I¡¯d written, smiled and swiped.


    I moved away, letting them get to know each other. Camila said, "The day you found her?"


    "She was playing in a pan-disability tournament but she''s one of the best players in the country. I was angry because I thought she was cheating. When I realised my mistake I knew I had to sign her. She didn''t want to come but I convinced her with my dance moves."


    "Oh?" Camila raised an eyebrow. An invitation to strut my stuff.


    "That was before I was put in a coma. I''m still recovering. Got this weird feeling that dancing will come back last. Yep, pretty sure. Dani''s doing great, though. She has to be close to an England call-up."


    Emma bustled over and joined us. She looked like she''d been having a good time. She dropped her mask on the nearest table and rubbed her forehead. "England? Who?"


    "Loads," I said. "Dani, Angel, Kisi. Meghan and Sarah again, of course. Wibbers has to be right up there. Dan maybe? He passes the eye test. Cole has to be close to an Ireland call-up. I''ve been bigging them up to people close to their national teams but there hasn''t been a lot of activity that I''ve seen. It''s one of my challenges for the next six months."


    Camila said, "What else is, ah, on your plate?"


    "Spend all the club''s money. Beat Bradford, beat Manchester United. Oh, fix Welsh football."


    "That one sounds hard."


    "Nope. I''m going to do it in a few hours, a week on Friday."


    Camila laughed and fell into me. To Emma she said, "He''s so funny!"


    Ems smiled back and gave me an affectionate cheek rub. "He is, but he''s not joking."


    "Ems is right; I''m not," I said, almost apologetically. "What else? Win the league, win the Youth Cup. Oh, piss Angel aaaaaalllll the way off. Heh."


    "Max," complained Emma. "You shouldn''t enjoy it so much." We made eye contact and it got pretty heated. She twisted her lips, but then changed energy completely. She slapped my knee. "Relationism! You need to do more of that!"


    I squinted; Camila had distracted me from thinking about it. Relationism. A player-first approach built on combinations. A system that cried out for flair and imagination. Flicks, tricks, and skills aplenty, but built around a very serious, simple core - together we can build a better world one pass at a time. The version I had in mind would be as beguiling as spending time with a beautiful woman. Serious, simple, winning football for the TikTok generation. Every boy and girl in the world would watch my teams play and hear the same words: sometimes I fantasise.


    For the first time in a week, thinking about Relationism didn''t send my head spinning. For the first time in a week it got me fired up.


    "There''s a storm coming," I started.


    Camila finished the thought. "And his name is Foquita."


    I gasped. Emma and I looked at each other, mouths wide open. "Camila bringing the sass!"


    Emma smiled. "She''s an absolute ledge. Come on, His Highness has had you to himself long enough. Let''s mingle."


    "Love to," said Camila. The pair of them went off towards gallery 1, arm in arm, leaving me mostly alone in the main room.


    In the corridors around me were sixty people, laughing, joking, looking at art, playing foosball. My people. My family.


    I got up, clapped my hands together, and headed to gallery 3 to have the first of sixty chats. I had so much fucking energy to burn.

 13.2 - Imagine Dragons

    2.


    Excerpts from a Discord channel called ''Let''s All Laugh At Chester,'' populated by hard-core Wrexham fans.


    Thursday, December 25


    Stoop


    Merry Christmas to all my fellow Chester haters! I come bearing gifts.


    TopPoppy


    Oh, shit. The pervert''s back.


    Stoop


    Nothing perverted about this! Just added a few photos to the Dropbox for the benefit of us hot-blooded Welshmen. These were taken at Chester''s Christmas party. They''re <here>. Enjoy!


    TopPoppy


    I''m not clicking on that.


    CrunchyAbs


    Me neither. But who''s the woman in the silver dress?


    Stoop


    She''s the girlfriend of their new striker. Foquita.


    CrunchyAbs


    Foquita? I hardly know her!


    TopPoppy


    Amazing.


    Well, Stoop, I don''t know where you get this stuff and I don''t want to know but yeah, lot of attractive people there. Why are they looking at art? Did they have their Christmas do in a gallery? Typical poncey English shit. What''s wrong with a dinner dance like the old days?


    BeardedWonderwall


    I thought Best only wore shit hoodies. Why''s he ragged up like one of them Peaky Blinders?


    Teulu


    We need BrokenGround to give us the inside track!


    BrokenGround


    Don''t know anything about their Christmas party except Bonnie had a laugh. 3 R Welsh are on our winter break so I haven''t seen Best. He''s asked some of us to help him with something on Jan 2, though. Nothing to do with Chester, apparently, but if it turns mental I''ll write it up.


    CrunchyAbs


    It''s Max Best. It''ll turn mental.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, probably, haha! Merry Christmas, everyone!


    ***


    Friday, December 26


    TaranMellt


    Anyone else think it''d be funny if Chester''s match was snowed off? They keep missing out on big attendances on Boxing Day.


    Stoop


    It would be funny but I think they''ll be able to play today and you''ve got to expect them to beat Harrogate. Best will be more concerned about the state of their pitch for the next couple of months. Snow plus rain plus no drainage equals peat marsh. Play your tiki-taka on that, you knob!


    SummerhillBill


    They''ve been selling out so far this season. Easy when your stadium is only slightly bigger than a shoebox but just goes to show they don''t have proper fans. Half this lot have come out of the woodwork now they''re on TV but where were they when the team was shit?


    ***


    TaranMellt


    It was on Sky so I watched it. Harrogate were shocking but there was no quality from Chester, either. Camera kept cutting to Best and he looked embarrassed by the whole thing. One-nil win, goal from a Wrexham reject from a set piece. It''s not fantasy football, is it?


    Stoop


    I liked Zach Green. We didn''t give him a chance.


    SummerhillBill


    That result worries me. Jester aren''t supposed to play shit and grind out a win. That''s what good teams do.


    ***


    Monday, December 29


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester 1 Cambridge United 2


    Lol.


    SummerhillBill


    That''s more like it! Get in!


    TopPoppy


    What happened? Anyone know?


    TaranMellt


    Cambridge did 3-4-3 and attacked. The pitch was poor so they went direct. Best rested some of his key players, it looked like, and brought himself on with twenty to go. He scored to get it back to two-one but Cambridge held out pretty easily.


    SummerhillBill


    I''m delighted. I''m absolutely beaming. That long unbeaten run from Jester was worrying me but now I see it for what it was - a mirage. The first decent team they play and they fold. They live in a shoe box and train in a literal dump. Their squad''s as thin as tracing paper. They''ll be out of the playoff spots now, won''t they?


    TaranMellt


    Yes, MK Dons won so they''ve gone back ahead of Chester. There''s 6 points separating 5th and 8th and above that is another big gap. Cambridge are up to third, which isn''t bad considering their strikers are horseshit. Bradford drew today so they''re only two clear of Mansfield.


    SummerhillBill


    You bet Best will be giving it large like ''only 18 points behind first place, we can do it!'' No you fucking can''t, laddie, sit yourself down. This is a big boy league you''re in and those teams above you will be spending American greenbacks in January. Go back to the alcove you call your manager''s office and count up your pennies, there''s a good lad.


    TaranMellt


    That reminds me. Chester had an ''emotional'' pre-match ceremony for the players who are about to leave. The goalie, the left back, and the fast lad. I''ve got his name as Jaws for some reason.


    SummerhillBill


    Didn''t BrokenGround break news of that transfer in here?


    TaranMellt


    He did! He should get himself on Bluesky and drop juicy transfer gossip.


    SummerhillBill


    How do people even make money doing that? I''ve never understood it.


    TaranMellt


    I think it helps them get jobs at media groups.


    SummerhillBill


    That it? Pointless. I''d go for another betting tip though. BrokenGround, what do you think? Can you hook us up?


    TaranMellt


    You won''t get a reply. He''s all loved up :)


    BrokenGround


    True, Taran! I''m still here, though. You marry me, you marry this Discord.


    Lol, just read that back. I haven''t told Bonnie that! Not going to put it as part of my vows, to be honest!


    I''m seeing Best in a few days. I can''t go at it direct because he clams up. Who are they playing on the Sunday? It''s Bradford, isn''t it? His number one enemy. He''ll be going all-out, I know that for sure. I''ll try and get a sense of how confident he is but I think that''s one game where anything can happen.


    SummerhillBill


    Find out if he''s going to play. Chester to win and Best to score should be good odds.


    BrokenGround


    No promises! I don''t want to piss him off. He''s really edgy about the betting stuff. He thinks the English FA are out to get him.


    Oh, and if I''m not back on in the next few days - welcome to the new age!


    TaranMellt


    Ha! Forgot you were a big Imagine Dragons fan. Take care, mate.


    ***


    Thursday, January 1, 2026


    CrunchyAbs


    First!


    TopPoppy


    I think you''re trying to say Happy New Year.


    CrunchyAbs


    Sure, yeah.


    Also: the transfer window opens in a few hours! Let''s see if this Foquita fella actually turns up. If he doesn''t I''m going to piss myself.


    SummerhillBill


    He scored 8 goals in Peru. Who gives a shit? Let Best waste his club''s money. So much the better!


    TopPoppy


    Anyone doing New Year''s Resolutions?


    SummerhillBill


    Yeah. Mine''s to get a life and stop coming on here.


    TopPoppy


    Me too.


    ***


    TopPoppy


    Okay. Big flurry of deals confirmed. Chester out: Ben Cavanagh, Eddie Moore, Wes Hayward, Simon Black. Who the fuck is Simon Black?


    CrunchyAbs


    Little kid who went to Liverpool. Next Michael Owen, apparently. It was in one of BG''s stories.


    TopPoppy


    Right! 75,000 for a twelve-year-old is mental, unless he is the next Michael Owen in which case that''s a pathetic amount of money.


    Chester in: Calabash Barkley from Tranmere. He''s that kid they had before, right? Knew Best from Darlington. And Foquita confirmed. Shirt number 7. Thought he was a striker? Why not give 7 to Barkley if he''s a right mid? I thought Best was a football romantic. 7''s for your right winger, not a striker. Best is really annoying sometimes (beyond being Chester manager, obvs). Wonder if the new guys will play today.


    CrunchyAbs


    Sunday Sowunmi gone on loan to Buxton. Tier 6. Weird. I had the strangest feeling he''d play against Bradford and get folded up.


    Pay rise and new contract for Andrew Harrison. He''s the one dating Eat Pray Lust.


    TopPoppy


    Loads going on at Saltney. They''re going to loan Tom Westwood from Chester when Foquita''s recovered from injury. Oh! That''s actually kind of important information for the betting channel. Better paste this there before people waste their money betting he''ll score today.


    Saltney have also signed Vincent Addo from some club I''ve never heard of. Ghanaian under-20 international. Why''s he going to the second division in Wales? Fee will rise to a hundred thousand! How''s Best got that kind of dough?


    CrunchyAbs


    Remember that thing where some of his players are doing a syndicate to pay for signings? That''s that kid it''s all about. He''s friends with the Youngster lad.


    TopPoppy


    I can''t keep track of all the madnesses.


    Okay they''ve also signed a Brazilian lad called Toquinho. Scouted by Best on his big summer trip, apparently.


    CrunchyAbs


    Tranmere have signed a Brazilian, too. Gabby. Striker. No prizes for guessing who set that deal up.


    TopPoppy


    When are the Wrex going to get a Brazilian striker, for fuck''s sake?


    ButteryCrumpets


    Important announcement regarding Chester''s top transfer target.


    Ahem.


    Steve Weller from Stockport County to Bradford City CONFIRMED.


    Lol.


    Likely to make his debut against Chester.


    Double lol.


    TopPoppy


    Just got a text from a mate. He says Chester have loaned two players to Corinthians, big team in Brazil. Thomzella and Nasa. The fuck? Godzilla and Nasa? This has to be a joke, right?


    Stoop


    Man United signed a 17-year-old who has never played a minute of footy for six million quid. Another three incoming for a million plus.


    TopPoppy


    Wrong channel, mate. This is for stuff that might hurt Chester.


    Stoop


    Right, right. Just saying - the game''s gone. It''s literally mental.


    But so far it''s a whole bunch of nothing, right? Stuff we knew, stuff around the fringes. Best hasn''t touched his war chest. I want him to sign a Dutch goalie with a bombshell wife.


    TopPoppy


    Dude, please. Seriously. How about a new year''s resolution to stop saying distressing things? Yeah?


    ***


    BeardedWonderwall


    No Foquita in the squad against Accrington. Typical Chester. Buy a star striker and he''s injured.


    SummerhillBill


    Star striker? He''s got about ten career goals. He''s worse than Garry Birtles.


    CrunchyAbs


    Red card Accrington! What the fuck!


    SummerhillBill


    I''m raging about that. Fuming. Jester are crap, they''re tired, they''re there for the taking, your team is in a relegation dogfight and you get sent off in the first ten minutes. What a twat. He''s let everyone down. His family, his club, his manager, but especially me. I''m fucking off for a walk.


    CrunchyAbs


    Two-nil final score. Chester barely broke into a sweat the entire second half. Fresh legs for the big one. Bradford away in three days. Might watch it. Hope BG gets us some betting info so we can cash in!


    ***


    Friday January 2


    BrokenGround


    Lads I don''t want to rile you up or anything but I''m with Best now and it''s shaping up to be another all-time classic story. I''ll see about writing it out later when I get home. I can tell you that Best is calling it Operation Imagine Dragons and you''ll love it and hate it. He has been winding people up BIG TIME. Mostly me, now that I think about it. Yeah, if you''ve got some good booze left over from Christmas, get that ready. You won''t believe what''s going on. I''m here and I don''t believe it and the best part is coming after lunch.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Yerrrrssss! I''m having a shit day but here comes BG to the rescue. That''s what I''m talking about! Fucking love this community, man.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Right. I''m ready to start. Drinks ready? Good.


    Couple of weeks ago I get a text from Best. Do I want to make a quick hundo and help him do to Wales what he did to Chester?


    BeardedWonderwall


    What does that mean? You could interpret that loads of ways. Like, turn it into his personal playground. Win loads of games while making everyone think we wear clown shoes. Dig a huge hole in the ground and say ''one day that will have a roof''? Do a documentary about us, refuse to be in it, but be in it the most of anyone?


    You know what? No-one reply to all this. Go on, BG!


    BrokenGround


    I didn''t overthink that part, tbh. He asked and I just said yeah. Bank holiday, isn''t it? Shops are closed, nothing to do. He wanted six lads, told us to park at Bumpers at nine, get ourselves some chow, be ready for jump-off at half past. He''d have a bird ready, he said.


    TopPoppy


    Oh! Max Best is Stoop, confirmed!!!


    BrokenGround


    He meant helicopter. I told you before he always says loads of military jargon he hears in movies.


    It''s me, Hot Rod, The Midnighter, Frampton, ET, and Pong in the little bar area, stuffing ourselves. Chester''s lads are out in the cold, training. Normal work day for them, isn''t it?


    There''s a sign up behind the bar. It''s Best''s New Year''s Resolutions. We ask why they''re public like that and the nice lady tells us it''s the psychologist''s idea so that Best has to be more accountable. Something like that, anyway!


    I took a photo. Here''s what they said:


    <ul>


    <li>Stop being so secretive</li>


    <li>Stop spending money on things I can¡¯t afford (like football clubs)</li>


    <li>Stop blowing my top at trivial things</li>


    <li>Spread joy and happiness wherever I go</li>


    <li>Don¡¯t play 5D chess against 2D minds</li>


    </ul>


    We''re trying to think why he''s chosen that five and having a blast adding to the list when he bursts in. He''s all hyper. ''Enemy spotted! Hands off cocks, on socks! ETA two clicks! Roust! Roust!''


    TopPoppy


    The hell is roust?


    BrokenGround


    Oh, who knows? We''ve learned to let him get on with it. We''re pretty sure that in his head two clicks means two minutes so we take our plates to the kitchen and they''re delighted and say they wish Vimsy was as considerate. Well In turns up in a big van and we hop inside.


    Well In''s an important character today so I should refresh your memory.


    His real name''s Llewellyn and he does something in the Welsh FA''s coaching system. We know him for being the manager of Saltney Town and we''ve kicked up a fuss before, haven''t we, that he''s basically working for Max Best for free, meaning the Welsh FA is subsidising Best''s vanity project.


    He''s good, too. They won the third division at a canter even though he only took over halfway. Now Saltney are miles ahead at the top of the Cymru North and they''ll get promoted to the Premier and we know they''ll be let in even though they don''t fulfil the criteria for promotion. We wondered why but I think this story will mostly explain it.


    Last thing - Best thinks Well In is the bees knees and Best isn''t exactly liberal with his praise.


    Teulu


    Very happy to hear about an up-and-coming Welsh coach.


    BrokenGround


    We drive a few minutes to Saltney. I''m about to ask Best why we couldn''t have gone straight there but it''s obvious - there are eight big coaches taking up every bit of space.


    We exit the van and Best gets us together.


    ''All right, lads, your mission, should you have chosen to accept it two weeks ago when you accepted it - fuck. Twisted myself in knots with that one, didn''t I? Er, okay scratch all that.'' He scouts the area looking for inspiration, gives up. ''Welcome to Operation Imagine Dragons. We''re going to do some training with about one percent of the teams in Wales. What a joke.''


    Well In pulls a ''don''t be like that'' face. ''Max, come on. It''s just a test run. It''s expensive doing this kind of thing. We''re not a rich country.''


    ''I could do the entire north of Wales in two hours. Instead I have to prove myself - a-fucking-gain. Eight teams from one age group. What the fuck, man! It''s a joke.''


    Frampton goes, ''What are we doing? I was told this wasn''t anything to benefit Chester.''


    Best goes to Frampton and cups his hand under his mouth. You know, like you were asking a kid to spit out some chewing gum. ''Give me the breakfast back. Come on, that was expensive, that. No? You''ll eat Chester''s Greek yoghurt and superfoods but you won''t help these kids?''


    Well In says, ''It''s not for Chester. This is for the FAW.''


    The Football Association of Wales! ''Oh,'' says Frampton.


    Max wags his finger. ''Everyone''s pissing me off already. You know what? I''ve decided to rise above it. It''s like that song from my favourite band, Imagine Dragons.''


    I go, ''I''m a pretty big Imagine Dragons fan but that one doesn''t ring a bell. What song are you talking about?''


    Max gives me a sad look. ''It''s called ''Rise Above It''.


    Well In frowns. ''Your favourite band is Imagine Dragons? I''ve never heard you listen to their stuff.''


    ''I do, big time.''


    I''m thinking it must be a B-side or something like that. I say, ''How does that one go?''


    Best drums the air with his head and lets out a little percussive ''mmm''. He does a Dan Reynolds impersonation. ''They drag you down/with their stuff/don''t go with/gotta rise above.''


    ET shrugs. ''Sounds like Imagine Dragons all right.''


    Best says, ''One billion views on YouTube. Top comment is "who else is still listening in 2026?" 3R, you''ll be helping put cones out for the drills and herding kids and stuff like that. Well In will tell you what to do. Chain of command is me followed by Well In followed by Elin.'' That seemed to be a joke but no, a minute later we meet a coach called Elin. Another one who helps Chester while working for the FAW. Nice girl. Back in the present, Max is still whingeing. ''There should be literally 400 teams here today but there''s 8 so...'' He lifts his middle fingers in the direction of central Wales and paces away.


    ''Maaaax!'' complains Well In, who scurries behind.


    I look at my mates and shrug. ''Cone duty, lads!''


    Frampton goes, ''It''s for the FAW. What does that even mean?''


    ''Let''s go find out.''


    We hurry after them.


    Teulu


    I''m searching for that song but I can''t find it.


    BrokenGround


    It''s fair to say Best was talking complete horseshit the whole day. Don''t believe anything that comes out of his mouth unless it''s about football.


    That was my introduction to the day and as you can imagine, it put me off balance.


    We go through the solitary building - it''s got showers and two dressing rooms, space to sit and chill, some offices upstairs. That and the pitch is basically Saltney Town, the most exciting football club in the Welsh leagues.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Oof.


    That hit me like a gut punch.


    BrokenGround


    Not so fast, mate. I actually wasn''t being sarcastic. It''s not about the buildings, is it?


    BeardedWonderwall


    You''re right. Go on.


    BrokenGround


    The buses have brought eight youth teams from all over north Wales. Criccieth, Corwen, Bangor. The players are the under elevens and they''re said to be good sides. Some of the best.


    The action is supposed to start at ten, in about ten minutes. Feels like we''re cutting things tight but turns out we''re not really. The Chester lot seem slapdash sometimes but they''re pretty good with timekeeping and Best in particular doesn''t waste time with introductions and small talk.


    The kids warm up around the sides while we lay cones on one half of the pitch the way Well In and Elin tell us.


    At ten on the dot, Best double peeps his whistle and gets the kids over to him. They sit down and listen. There are about a hundred, all told. A hundred little Welsh lads. They know what''s going on a lot more than I do.


    ''First drill! Dribble across the width. Nice and smooth, please. You can go on your stronger foot like this.'' Best drops the ball he''s holding and pushes the ball with his right foot, going slowly for ten yards. ''Dylan, come and stand there. Thanks, mate.'' I''m ten yards from him. Best points at me. ''If you''re going at some malcoordinated hack... Some slack-jawed yokel with bad motor skills... Some weirdo rando who sees fit to grace the same football pitch as you...''


    ''Thanks, Max,'' I say, being a good straight man because the kids already think Best is brilliant.


    ''I don''t mean you!'' he bellows. ''You''re a top defender! You won''t let me nutmeg you right now in front of a hundred Welsh kids. That would be humiliating, wouldn''t it?''


    I regret everything. ''Yes, Max. That would be humiliating.''


    ''Right so I push the ball...'' Best comes at me, suspiciously slow. I can''t believe this is happening but I come up with a plan. I''ll keep my legs shut! Can''t meg me that way, can he?


    BeardedWonderwall


    BG, the pride of Wales!


    BrokenGround


    Ha. He can put me on blast but I''m not going to let him meg me. No way.


    So he comes at me, talking the whole way.


    ''I''m nice and balanced. I''ve got my foot going through the middle of the ball so I can push it right... Right... Right... Or left... left... And the defender doesn''t know what''s up.''


    When he''s a yard away, Best feints right, jinks around me to the left. He goes past me, everyone''s happy.


    I make the mistake of thinking it''s over. I open my legs and Best pushes the ball through from behind.


    ''Megs!'' he yells. ''Meeeeggggs.''


    ''That doesn''t count,'' I say.


    ''Meeeeggggs,'' he says, running along the front of the mass of kids getting high fives. ''Option two,'' he says, getting his game face back on. ''I like to do this when there''s no oppo.'' He waves me away. ''Push the ball left foot, right foot, one touch with every stride. Like this.''


    He dribbles just as he describes but it''s considerably cooler in reality than, you know, written down. It''s as though he''s doing cross country skiing or he''s jogging with a pram. You know the way some people do that? Imagine the pram''s a football that¡¯s always the same distance from him. It makes him look in complete control.


    ''Third option. Kick the ball twenty yards, chase after it. We call that "The Racecourse Rabbit". I won''t demonstrate it because I have standards. You can see it any time you watch Wrexham FC.''


    He knows it''s AFC but he has never said the A ever since I confessed I hated when people got the name of the club wrong.


    ''Up you get. Dribble across team by team. Dribble back when Well In tells you. Ready?''


    He blows his whistle and the first lot of kids get going.


    I sidle up to Best. ''What are we doing?''


    ''What do you think?''


    ''Some kind of mass production training so you can hit a quota. But you''ve got an ulterior motive and I''ve worked out your plan.''


    ''Have you?''


    ''Yeah. You want to see who tries the second way because they''ll be easier to coach. They''ll improve faster and you''ll sign them to Chester.''


    He grins. ''That''s genius. Heh. Stealing that.'' He closes his eyes and an absolutely beatific smile comes across his face. He tells Well In to take charge. Best goes off to talk to a woman. She is, of course, the most attractive one for miles.


    The eight teams dribble across the pitch and when all eight are on the other side, they dribble back again. I still don''t know what we''re doing but if Best is looking for gems, there''s no way he can find them like this. There are too many kids and the vibe is barely-controlled chaos. Watching on the side are a lot of dubious parents and the actual coaches of these teams. Well In keeps shooting looks at some men in suits. My guess is they''re from the FAW and they''ve paid for this event. Well In is going to have to defend his role in what seems to be nothing short of a farce.


    There''s a delay as Best finishes what seems to be a huge argument with the attractive woman. Bizarrely, it ends with Best pointing at me.


    I''m no lip reader but I feel sure he says something like, ''If it comes from him everyone will accept it!''


    That makes no sense so I wait for further instructions.


    ''Next,'' says Best, striding back while trying to suppress a grin. He''s up to something! I soon realise he''s only excited about showing off. When the kids are settled down he goes, ''Another nice, easy one. You''re going to do keepy-uppies all the way across the width. What? You do tekkers all day in your garden, don''t you? Think you can''t handle some kick-ups?'' He blows a raspberry. ''Here''s one way to do it.'' He flicks the ball up and retreats five yards while doing tiny, safe kick-ups. He comes back. ''Or if you''re feeling a bit more frisky...'' He lets the ball roll to a stop between his feet. He flinches but doesn''t move. I think I feel his eyes flick towards me. ''I call this one "Around the Clock", named after my favourite song from Imagine Dragons, my favourite band.''


    He flicks his feet together and the ball pops up. He does faster-than-the-eye-can-see tekkers while slowly turning in a semi-circle. By the time he is finished, he''s five yards away and has used every part of his right foot, shin, knee, thigh, god-knows-what-else. He balances the ball on the top of his boot while he talks.


    ''If you want, you can do the whole width on one leg but I like to go clockwise then anti-clockwise, which means I do half the distance using my left.''


    He does another semi-circle, moving ever further away, this time using various spots on his left foot.


    ''I know it''s a bit basic,'' he shouts, while doing ever more complicated skills, as a hundred Welsh kids become lifelong Max Best fans. ''But it helps me learn to tell time, too. The big hand, the little hand, it''s so confusing!'' He finishes with a smug smile. ''All right. Show us your best madnesses. Team 1, let''s go.''


    The first group go. Almost all of them keep things simple, but a few brave lads try to do Best''s insane circle thing. They get teased by their mates, give some verbals back. Best is supportive, dishes out high fives. I shout encouragement, then it''s the next lot, then the next. Eight squads trying to copy a pro.


    You can''t imagine how mad it is. Literal waves of kids going slowly across the pitch, balls flying everywhere, laughs, jokes, Best doing energetic ''The Scream'' re-enactments when a kid does something good.


    Best blows his whistle and we move to the other half of the pitch where there are eight squares made of cones - Well In and the rest of 3R had been laying them out while the mayhem was going on.


    ''Need a hand, Max?''


    Lads, that was the voice of Peter Bauer!


    SummerhillBill


    No! No fucking way! You got to meet him?


    BrokenGround


    I did.


    SummerhillBill


    My dad was a huge fan of his granddad, doubly so when he dumped England out of the World Cup.


    BrokenGround


    Ha. Well, Peter''s over here covering for Sandra Lane and I think he was bored that day so he came to help out when Chester training was over. He''s completely down to earth. Just a good lad, no airs and graces.


    Pascal comes too. Later he tells me the Welsh FA has been good to him so he''s happy to give back.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Sorry, BG. I think I missed the part where you explained what the whole thing was about.


    BrokenGround


    You didn''t miss it. At this point, I still didn''t know. I was thinking it was a big experiment in mass training. Like Best is so arrogant he thinks he can coach a hundred teams simultaneously, something like that.


    For now, imagine eight rondos. Four are being directed by Well In, Elin, Peter fucking Bauer, and Pascal Bochum. Four are being run by absolute reprobates from 3 R Welsh. Best is off to the side, shaking his head. The fit woman is there again and they''re having another bicker.


    I get the feeling he''s still mad there are only eight teams but I have a flash of insight. Bonnie loves detective stories and she loves it when there''s a thing that should be there that you don''t see. Like the dog that didn''t bark in the nighttime.


    I realise Best doesn''t have a pen or paper, he''s not making notes on his phone. It''s obvious he''s not actually doing whatever he''s supposed to be doing, if you get me. The woman has seen it, too and she''s complaining. She doesn''t think he''s taking it seriously.


    Lads, got to take a quick shower. I''m rank. I''ll be back soon, I promise.


    Teulu


    I''m thinking when we built his 3G pitch he committed to training, like, 400 Welsh players and was hoping to get it all done in one mad day.


    BeardedWonderwall


    That''s what I was thinking, too.


    The woman sounds like the one from the FAW. She''s always getting into trouble in the media because of her cosy relationship with Best. We''ve given him loads of resources and now it''s time for him to pay us back he''s trying to half-arse it.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    To be honest, though, the way he goes the extra mile with BG''s platoon, I don''t know what to think.


    Teulu


    Yeah. He''s more on the opposite end of the scale, isn''t he? All or nothing. Maybe he really thinks he can train a thousand players in one go, like in North Korea.


    BrokenGround


    Whoo! I needed that. Bonnie bought me a new shower gel. Citrus Confidence. It centres my masculine energy!


    Teulu


    Oh my God there''s nothing better than a long-term singleton who found love.


    BrokenGround


    Ha!


    I think we can fast forward through the rest of the drills. The drills on the main pitch get more and more serious while Sticky, Chester''s goalie coach, gruff Yorkshireman, turns up and about ten kids peel off and go to one part of the outfield to do specialist goalie stuff. The ground''s frozen, though, so they end up getting in a couple of vans with a few of the parents and they go to Bumpers.


    I drive Well In''s van and I hear one of the kids go ''But how did he know I was a goalie?''


    A good point - the kid was wearing the same top as the other lads on his team, no gloves.


    One of the dads makes a joke. ''It''s because when everyone else was doing kick-ups, you drop-kicked the ball all the way to England.''


    That was funny but as I drove back to Saltney I was actually freaked out. How can you be that good that you can just look at a one kid in the middle of a fucking vortex and go you''re a goalie.


    Teulu


    There''s got to be a rational reason, surely? Best has lists of all the players from all the teams, he heard someone say the kid''s name.


    BrokenGround


    That''s basically what I said to him!


    I get back to Saltney and go up to Best and say, you knew that kid was a goalie from the lists, right?


    ''Lists?'' he says. He''s not really present. But then he blinks, side-eyes me, and goes, ''Of course it''s because of the lists. What do you think? Yeah. I''ve got loads of lists and every time you''re not looking, I check the lists.'' He unzips his backpack and he''s got a clipboard with ten pages - one from each team and two blank ones.


    I notice he hasn''t made any notes but he flicks to the third or fourth page and points to the name of the kid I''d just had in the van. ''There you go. Goalkeeper. Bosh. All right, give me a second. I need to concentrate.''


    The kids are back on the first pitch, doing some drills that look like attack versus defence, four against two. It''s hard to guess the rules just from looking, which is something I''ve found from watching pro teams.


    ''I want a medley,'' says Best. He blows his whistle three times, yells "break!" and gathers his coaches while the kids go back to their bases and chat away. To his four star coaches he goes, ''Guys, you get a quarter of the pitch each. Set up your most fun drills and I''ll send every team across in six-minute bursts. Make sure you can explain it quickly, right?''


    They know what he means and soon 3R are rushing around moving the cones for these new drills. Four teams take the four slots. Max blows his whistle, there''s a quiet time while the coaches explain to the kids what they''re supposed to do, then there''s five minutes of action. Peep! The teams move one place over. They switch again and again for about half an hour.


    Triple peep and Best tells them to go have lunch.


    The kids, I have to say, are buzzing. I wander over to see what the scran is like and it''s great. It''s come in big metal trays like we used to have in school but it''s delicious. Freshly made just down the road. Beef in gravy, chicken, pasta, loads of veggies. One kid goes ''ew broccoli'' and the cook goes, ''Don''t let Max hear you talk like that! He wouldn''t sign a player who didn''t eat his greens.''


    A sharp kid holds his plate up and yells, ''I like broccoli!''


    ''Double broccoli for me, please,'' comes the next one.


    It''s a broccoli frenzy all of a sudden and I have to wade in and ask the lads to settle down. One wag goes ''Aren''t you a slack-jawed yokel?'' Sniggers abound. Thanks, Best. But I remember another thing he said once and I stand tall and I go ''I''m the army.'' That impresses them.


    The cook goes, ''Max is teaching Dylan a whole new way of playing football. It''s top secret.''


    ''It''s not top secret,'' I say. ''I''m just not allowed to tell anyone.'' As that lands, I''m overly pleased with the reaction but later I realise it''s the kind of thing Best says. Ah, well.


    So the food''s nice and the kids get real plates and cutlery and hot drinks but there is nowhere near space for a hundred in that building and half the lads are outside on towels on the cold grass and that kind of thing. Good picnic vibe but I wonder why the event is being held there because it isn''t suitable for that many kids if they are going to have lunch and how on earth are they going to shower at the same time? Having one pitch is only suitable for the drills because Best''s coaches are used to craziness. The day is running on vibes; no wonder that woman is annoyed.


    I go to find him to discuss all that plus a dozen other things like ''what is the purpose of all this?''


    I find him in the middle of a showdown.


    Best has Well In, Peter Bauer, and the other coaches behind him. On the other side is the black-haired, middle-aged woman and four men in suits. It doesn''t take me long to realise this is the FAW.


    I move close and listen.


    Best is speaking strangely loud, like he¡¯s on stage. ''I wanted the place packed, Gwen. I don''t know if you realise I''m under a lot of strain.''


    ''I know, Max, but thank God we didn''t bring every club in north Wales, as you suggested. This trial run has shown that Saltney can''t cope with a big influx of players. There aren''t enough toilets, there isn''t enough space for everyone to eat. There is only one pitch!''


    ''We can do the next event at Bumpers but then every Welsh football fan is going to throw a hissy fit, like, why did we pay for this thing in Saltney, then?''


    ''If it''s in the summer that will be easier. Nice weather, we put up some tents. Look, we have to do something here anyway.''


    ''What do you mean?''


    Gwen looks around. ''This can''t be a Cymru Premier stadium, Max. For a start, there''s no stadium!''


    ''What do you call that?'' Max asks, petulantly. He''s pointing to a stand that might perhaps seat 60 people. I''ve seen bigger dugouts.


    ''I call that a big shed. In the Premier you need to be able to hold two thousand fans.''


    ''We''re going to play our matches in Flint.''


    ''Flint are in the Prem, Max. Where will they play?''


    Max drops the annoyed vibe long enough to get cheeky. ''They can play here.''


    Gwen folds her arms and tuts. ''If you built a couple of stands you''d be able to put in multiple changing rooms, showers, lockers, disabled toilets. Add a few break rooms and Saltney would be fit to stage these kinds of events.''


    ''Top. Sorted.'' Best looks at me. ''Dylan, come here. Lend me two million quid, mate?''


    Gwen seems to know who I am. She smiles. ''Are you from 3 R Welsh?''


    ''Yes, miss.''


    ''I''m Gwen Hughes, FAW. We helped get Max assigned to you. How much do you hate me for that?''


    I laugh. ''Not much, miss. He''s all right when you get to know him.''


    Best whoops and runs around offering high fives to everyone. ''Dylan Seal of Approval! Dylan Seal of Approval! Yes! Yes, mate!''


    Gwen exchanges a glance with some of the FAW suits. ''Max,'' she says, and her tone brings him back. ''What... What have we learned today?''


    ''Acta non verba, baby. I''m going to show you.''


    She''s pissed. ''Oh, okay.''


    ''Yeah.'' Best looks at me. ''D-dog. D-train. D-spot. You know the Welsh national team better than me. Would you agree most of the players are Championship level? Best you can hope for is a Championship squad with a few Premier League guys. That keeps you more or less competitive when it comes to Euros and World Cup qualifiers. Every so often you get a world class player who gives you a chance of winning a few games in a row and if you''re lucky that takes you to a semi-final.''


    ''Sounds about right. Championship as a base, yeah, I''d sign off on that.''


    He nods. ''Right. Well, I''ve found you three Premier League guys this morning and I''ve already got your elite player at Chester. So that''s four-elevenths of the best Welsh team of all time. Bosh. Next time, Gwen, we''ll do it my way. Thank you.''


    ''Three?'' says Gwen. She''s suddenly flushed with excitement. ''Who?''


    ''Ah-ah,'' says Best. ''Acta non verba. But before I do anything else, I have a big problem.''


    ''Jesus,'' mumbles one of the suits. ''What''s this going to cost us?''


    Best glares at the guy and even I think it''s a shitty thing to say. I''m surprised when Best doesn''t take the bait. He focuses on Gwen. ''You''ve invited a team from Rhyl.''


    ''Yes. They''re one of the best at this age group.''


    Best nods. ''Yes, that makes sense. Some good players there. Only thing is, I''ve never seen a more depressed and miserable bunch of lads in my entire career in football.'' He points at me. ''And I''ve met this guy.''


    ''They seemed happy,'' I say.


    Best gives me the glare, now. ''That''s because I fucking CHEERED THEM UP, mate. Did you see me do tekkers? Have you ever seen me do tekkers before? Like a performing seal? No, you haven''t. I did it for those little fucks. It''s impossible so many players in one team can be that depressed unless their coach is a fucking ghoul and before I fix your pipeline I want assurances that the FA of Wales are going to remove the guy from his position.''


    Pipeline? The word puts me even more off-balance. This isn''t what I thought it was.


    Gwen says, ''It''s a strange accusation, Max. What exactly...?''


    ''Oh, fuck this,'' he says, and he storms off.


    I''ve seen him do a lot of mad things but I don''t think I''ve ever seen him flounce out of a conversation. Especially not one with an attractive woman. We''re all stunned and Gwen starts doing small talk with Well In but then Best comes back. He''s got one of the kids with him.


    ''Deano,'' says Best. ''Midfielder, aren''t you?''


    ''Yes, Max,'' says the kid. He''s star-struck to the point he doesn''t mind there are loads of adults nearby listening in.


    ''Got a nice left foot. Do you take free kicks?''


    ''Yeah, sometimes. We take turns, mostly. I think I''m the best but Jammo is good, too. He''s better at corners ''an me. I score more goals but he does more assists.''


    ''I like Jammo. He''s got good technique. You must be a pretty boss midfield.''


    ''Yeah.''


    ''It''s been fun this morning, hasn''t it?''


    Deano''s eyes light up. ''Yeah! It''s amazing. It''s the best ever!''


    ''See,'' says Best. ''My teams are all about having fun because if it''s fun people will work harder and do more. Dylan, remember that Welsh team with Gareth Bale?''


    ''Semi-finals of the Euros, Max. You don''t forget nights like those.''


    ''They had fun, that team. Loads of laughs. Deano, back home, do you do loads of fun sessions like this one?''


    Deano mumbles, ''No.'' Can''t explain it but my fists are clenched. Best fucking knows! He''s never wrong about football! The madder his ideas, the righter he is.


    ''Yeah,'' says Best. He''s pretending to be thinking about something. ''If I ask you a question, will you promise not to tell your coach?''


    ''Okay.''


    ''His name is Freddie, right? I was thinking of asking Freddie to do some drills after lunch and I was wondering what good ones he knows. What do you think he''d say?''


    ''Er.'' The kid''s forehead scrunches up. ''We don''t do fun drills, mostly. Ever. I mean, it''s good training and we win, but...''


    ''But it''s not fun.''


    ''No.''


    ''He looks like a teacher I had who used to shout at me loads.''


    Deano laughs. ''Yes! Maybe it''s the same guy. Where did you go to school?''


    ''Manchester. I don''t think it''s him. So he''s a bit shouty?''


    ''Very shouty.''


    ''Oh. I had a coach like that once and I hated going to training. Wanted to back out but my dad always made me keep going. Said it would toughen me up.''


    This astonishes me because Best never talks about his dad. It takes me a minute to realise this story is as real as talk of his favourite band, and that asking Deano not to tell his coach about this conversation was a masterstroke. He has opened the kid up like a clam.


    Deano looks down with a sigh. ''My dad''s like that. I don''t want to go but I have to coz he''s proud of me.''


    ''What do you do when the other kids cry in the dressing room?''


    ''Nothing. Dad says it''s none of my business what the other kids do.''


    Best nods. ''Maybe I''ll stick with my coaches for this afternoon, then.''


    Deano''s face widens in every direction; it''s inadvertently heartbreaking. ''Yes, please!''


    ''Sorted,'' says Best. ''We won''t be doing much, though. Just a bit before the big match. All right, thanks. Can you find your way back?''


    Deano pulls a face. ''It''s just there.''


    Best pulls a face. ''That was me telling you to clear off.'' Best grins, Deano grins back, departs. Best''s grin dies. ''Option one. I get 3 R Welsh to beat the shit out of Freddie.''


    Gwen has a troubled look about her. She''s rubbing her eyes. ''Can you not jump to thoughts of violence so quickly, please?''


    A lot of emotions cross Best''s face. ''I choose not to answer on grounds it may incriminate me.''


    The suit who had mentioned how much Best was costing the FAW shakes his head. ''I have kids, Max. I don''t want some coach screaming in their faces three times a week. We''ll do something.''


    ''Dylan,'' says Best. ''There are fifteen fucking miserable kids over there. Are you happy with letting the Football Association of Wales do a six-month investigation while Freddie stays in his post making those lovely, talented kids the most miserable human beings on this fucking island?''


    ''No, Best.''


    Gwen sighs. ''Max, you have to trust us. Please let us do things the proper way.''


    Best looks over his shoulder at his coaches. Well In nods. Best mumbles ''Fine'' but I can see the cogs in his head are whirring. He''s cooking up a parallel plan, almost certainly involving the Brig.


    ''What''s this about a match later?'' asks one of the suits, trying to put the incident behind us. ''That wasn''t in the itinerary.''


    ''Yeah,'' says Best, still in his revenge fantasy daydream. He wakes up and eyes the FAW. ''I knew you''d be like this so I''ve prepared a demonstration. The best under eleven team in Wales is from Cardiff. They haven''t lost a league match in about six years and they regularly win international tournaments. They''re on their way here. I''m going to hand pick an eleven from these eight teams you''ve brought me and we''re going to beat Cardiff. Then I want you to think, really imagine... if I can do that in two hours what it''s going to be like when you bring every team in Wales to these events? I''ll pick squads of twenty-five that you can keep together all the way through to the national team. I can''t promise to improve the levels because that depends on what''s out there but I can promise you''ll get loads more kids through into the Championship and League One and you won''t have fallow years where suddenly you''ve only got five decent players. I can guarantee to raise the floor and if we''re lucky we''ll push the ceiling up, too. But none of it matters if the kids are getting shitty coaches who make them want to quit the sport. Fuck.''


    He gets himself worked up but grits his teeth.


    ''Hang on,'' I say. ''You''re scouting players for the Welsh national team?''


    Best gives me a disappointed look. ''What did you think we were doing?''


    ''Scouting for Chester or... I don''t know. You didn''t tell me.''


    Best is exasperated. ''I told you eight or nine times! Why does no-one ever listen?''


    Well In says, ''What''s the plan after lunch, boss?''


    Best gives me one last shake of the head before turning to the coach he rates so highly. ''We''ll get the goalies back and I''ll pick my sixteen players who should rest up. The others can do something fun. What''s fun? Technique? Transitions? Let''s get some scran and think about it.''


    TopPoppy


    I''m stressed thinking about this coach who''s screaming at the kids. Please tell me that gets resolved.


    BrokenGround


    Not like, as of today, but this is where Best being a prick comes in handy. You''ll see later what he''s like. I know him quite well and he''ll be on the phone to Gwen every two hours asking what she''s done in the last two hours. Which parents has she spoken with? Which players? Which former players? Which opposition managers? Which referees? Honestly, lads, he''s going to be at it like a dog with a bone.


    TopPoppy


    Okay. I think I feel better.


    BrokenGround


    I''ve re-read what I wrote before and he comes across quite belligerent but he''s actually on really good terms with the FAW guys. It''s just they''re lower on his list of priorities than some eleven-year-olds who gasp when he does tekkers, which honestly I''m fine with. And so are the FAW, strangely.


    CrunchyAbs


    Just catching up with this. Best looks around a hundred kids doing keepie-uppies, picks out ten goalkeepers, picks out fifteen kids who are miserable, picks out sixteen to beat an unbeatable team. I can''t tell if this is fiction or not. You''re going to tell us about the match, right?


    TopPoppy


    No spoilers! We''re not there yet!


    BrokenGround


    There will be my attempt at a match report, yes.


    Re: ten goalkeepers. He only picked out one goalie. The others were dressed conventionally as goalies, if you get me. The tenth wanted to do the same drills as everyone else.


    Where was I?


    Okay so I sat next to Best and Gwen while we grabbed some food. I''d stuffed myself at breakfast but Best was starving. He said he''d been training hard and was burning calories like a mo-fo.


    He and Gwen chatted about her daughter, Mari, who is doing well in Chester''s youth teams. She was on the final episode of Chesterness, apparently. She was in the background as the players were parading their trophy around the stadium. I didn''t notice; I only had eyes for Bonnie.


    Anyway, when I get the chance I ask Best to explain what is really going on. ''You''re not doing this for the love of Wales. You''ve already got the pitch you can rent out and we''re not going to pay for a stadium for you.'' I get unsure and look at Gwen. ''Are we?'' She shakes her head. I look at Best again. ''What do you really get out of today? Is it so you can keep Well In?''


    He chews for a while, swallows, and takes a swig of water. ''Not everything is transactional like that. The English FA hate me and they''d love to ban me if they could. If they do I might go all-out with Wales. That''s called spite, mate. It''s fun, you should try it.'' He takes another swig. ''In England everyone works, whether they realise it or not, for the top six clubs. That''s all the FA care about. They''re a bunch of servile non-entities. Wales is trying to build something and I love building. I''m disappointed in today - though I accept I hadn''t fully considered the logistics - because I wanted to just go ''bosh!'' and create fully-formed teams for all the age groups. I don''t have the time to single-handedly fix Wales but it''s a nice thought, isn''t it? I grew up on stories of the Class of ''92. Six young lads playing for Man United''s youth teams for years and years, then they win the Youth Cup, break into the first team, become the backbone of the England team. That''s the ideal, right? You get the kids together as early as possible. When Gwen said she''d only bring 8 teams today, I said fucking hell what? When I was calm-ish I said, okay, bring the elevens. If we get eight or nine kids playing together regularly for the next seven years knowing they''ll play for the national team one day, that''s going to be incredibly powerful, isn''t it?''


    I ask the stupidest question of the year so far. ''How do you know they''ll play for the national team?''


    Best drops his fork and rubs his face. ''Jesus Christ,'' he mumbles.


    Gwen says, ''People say Max uses artificial intelligence to help him scout.''


    ''Yeah,'' says Best, shoving a gravy-laden hunk of bread into his gob. ''Got a ''ig computer. Spefal foftware.'' He sniggers and nearly chokes on the bread. He turns red, recovers, takes a sip, pretends he didn''t make a fool of himself. ''Yeah, so,'' he says, back to being the cool kid. ''I was thinking about Chester''s under eighteens. I''ve had them for three seasons. Most of them were together for years before that and since I turned up they''ve been through thick and thin. You can imagine the constant drama, can''t you, Dylan?'' Best beams, delighted at how difficult he is. ''I think that''s part of what happened at West Ham. The lads are such a tight unit, aren''t they? They feel the combinations with amazing intensity. That''s why Relationism hit hard. I fucking hope that''s what it is, anyway.''


    ''What are you talking about?'' I say.


    He waves that tangent away. ''I''m saying Wales has talent and we can get it on the pitch but building the connections years in advance is maybe a secret weapon. It puts Wales to the top of its class, if you get me. Say there are twenty countries with similar squads but one has a core that have been playing together since they were eleven or twelve. That''s a powerful advantage. That turns into money, doesn''t it? Getting further in tournaments. Qualifying for World Cups. You''ve got to let me go at this hard, Gwen. There''s no point doing the one percent version.''


    Gwen seems to have decided not to engage with Best until Cardiff turn up. ''How are Saltney doing?''


    ''Top,'' says Best.


    ''You''re happy with Llewellyn, then?''


    Best smiles - it doesn''t reach his eyes. ''You can''t threaten me. You''re moving your entire league to Friday nights. I¡¯m free on Friday nights. If you recall Well In, I can be the manager.''


    It''s my turn to choke to death. Best helpfully clobbers me on the back until I stop him. I suck in some healing breaths, calm down, and ask the burning question. ''You''d manage Saltney on Friday night, Chester on Saturday?''


    ''Why not?''


    ''You can''t work in two countries.''


    Best scoffs. ''You do.''


    ''What?''


    ''You do whatever you do in Wrexham and you''re always shuttling to Aldershot or York or wherever the fuck. That''s two countries. Do you ever go to Scotland? Northern Ireland? You don''t dread a knock at your door from the work permit police, do you? Are the Daily Mail going to send the Welsh army to do a mass deportation on me? Where do I get airlifted to, mate? Jersey?''


    ''It''s weird, admit it.''


    ''I''m just saying, Dylan, that if Gwen wants to threaten me she should choose something that doesn''t let me win the league even more crushingly while depriving a Welsh coach a platform to hone his skills.'' Best scoffs at the idea he shouldn''t manage the team he owns.


    Gwen has a placid look about her. She has lost that particular battle but doesn''t mind. ''We at the FAW know all about the Bluebirds; they''re the backbone of our youth teams. I don''t think you can seriously expect to cobble a team together and challenge them.''


    ''You''re right,'' says Best, staring at something so hard I turn to see what he''s looking at. It''s nothing, so why does he look euphoric? ''I should cobble together TWO teams and win with both!''


    Gwen laughs and reaches out to grab his wrist. ''Okay, down boy. Easy, tiger. One will be enough to prove your point. If you really have the Bluebirds coming, it''s a four-hour drive home.''


    I go ''Oh! Oh! Oh!'' like I''m at a pub quiz and I''ve just remembered the answer. ''Your resolutions, Best! Spread joy and happiness wherever you go.''


    The extra light fades from Best''s face. ''I knew it was a bad idea to put that list up. People remember things... Okay, fine. Thing is...''


    Gwen goes, ''What?''


    ''It seemed obvious I''d win two-nil, three-nil, something like that.'' He gets cheeky. ''But, ah, yeah. You''ve accidentally brought me a couple of major weapons.'' He goes into a reverie but snaps out of it. ''Fine. I''ll beat Cardiff by a couple of goals and then let them do some fun drills. Send them home happy. They won''t even realise they''ve been tonked. But everyone here will realise and you''ll finally trust my judgement.''


    A question pops out of me, one that''s been bugging me for ages. ''Are you making money from this?''


    ''From today? From Saltney? No to either.''


    ''But the pitch...''


    ''Okay,'' says Best. ''Let''s see. I''m getting about a hundred K from the pitch rental because I let schools use it for cheap and that sort of thing. Get a few grand from sponsorships. We don''t make anything from ticket sales, catering, or merch. We''ve got a squad of part-timers, good Welsh lads mostly, earning about forty grand total. Michael Harrison is on a decent chunk, comparatively. It''s not enough for him to live off so he does bits and bobs of outside work. We''ve got three loanees from Chester - two and one more coming later this month, to be accurate - and three from Tranmere. We''re not contributing to their wages because we can''t but they''re getting minutes and a trophy. For a lot of young players that''s amazing and all three Tranmere lads wanted to extend their stay. We started as the second-best squad in the league but Well In''s the best manager so they''re clear at the top and we''re starting to race ahead in terms of talent. Yesterday we signed Addo and Tockers. They''re both raw in different ways but in terms of potential they are probably the best players in the Welsh second tier in twenty years. Thing is, because of work permit rules they have to be on 40 grand a year each. Add it up and I personally am 40 to 50 grand a year in the red.''


    ''Shit.''


    ''Yeah. Thanks to my girlfriend''s dad looking after my mum I can cover it without tossing and turning all night. That was my resolution that you saw: Don''t go spending money I haven''t got. That''s why I''ve got no intention of building a fucking stadium here.'' He scoffs but gets back to the topic. ''The team''s getting stronger and we''re looking to sign more talents, too. I''ve got options but I''m not in any hurry. When Tom gets here, we''ll be a solid mid-table Premier side. I''m convinced we''ll finish second at least in our first season in the Prem.''


    ''The problem is the stadium,'' says Gwen.


    Best''s head drops all the way horizontal but he comes up smiling. ''Move fast and break things, Dylan. That''s one of my favourite songs.''


    ''Is that by Imagine Dragons? How does it go?''


    He repeats his impression of that band. ''Move fast/break things/don''t never stop ra-cing.''


    Gwen looks puzzled because she''s never heard that one but in the moment it does sound authentic. ''What Max is trying to say is that we think he''s great but we didn''t really think Saltney would be in the Prem so soon. Now it looks inevitable and we''re panicking. Okay, they''ll have to share a stadium next year but let''s be honest, it''s going to be the Deva. How''s that going to look? And forget this false modesty - he''s going to win the league at the first go, isn''t he? The only hindrance was money and that has cleared up.''


    Best shakes his head. ''TNS have a budget of a million a year. A million.'' He looks at me. ''They''ve been gobbling up UEFA money for years and reinvesting it in the squad. Not sure I can bridge it in one go. That''s the selfish part of this caper, mate. If I can dislodge TNS I''ll be the one getting all that prize money. I''d love to do it with mostly Welsh players.''


    Gwen makes an exasperated noise. ''The stadium, Max! What are we going to do?''


    He looks up and exhales. ''I know you don''t want the Welsh champions playing in England but TNS already do.''


    She grits her teeth. ''That''s a pain in the arse but we can shrug it off as weird history. Once is misfortune...''


    ''Twice looks like carelessness,'' I say.


    Best goes, ''What do you want, though? A tiny little stadium would be five mill and there''s no point. There are no fans. It would be a white elephant. An empty stand looks just as shit on TV as a field.'' He hears something - a coach? ''We''ll play at Flint. You''ll arrange it so we alternate home fixtures. And, er... we''ll look into throwing something up at Saltney.''


    ''You need more pitches if you want us to do the northern powerhouse for real.''


    ''Oh my God!'' Best raps the table and gets up. ''That''s a hundred grand a pop for basic grass ones that can''t stand up to any kind of use. I was just starting to feel good about my bank balance.'' He laughs. ''Jesus, Gwen, I''m not doing it. Any of it.'' He wanders off.


    We''re quiet for a few seconds. I ask, ''What''s the northern powerhouse?''


    Her brows rise and she chooses her words carefully. ''It was his idea. We bring thousands of kids for him to scout, he sorts them, picks out the best ones. We organise them into groups of some sort. North-east, north-west, something like that. Basically, he tells us who''s got a chance and then it''s over to us. That discussion was over a year ago. We couldn¡¯t get past the idea that Welsh football fans would hate it and we¡¯d be kicked out of our roles. Long story short, we were too slow and now he''s a big deal. We might have missed our chance to get it rolling.'' She falls quiet.


    I go, ''You know he''s going to beat Cardiff, right?''


    She smiles and lets her hands flop flat onto the table. ''Yeah.''


    ''I''m on a Wrexham AFC Discord. We''ve got a channel called Always Bet on Best. We listen to what he says and try to work out if he''s taking the piss or not. If he''s serious, we bet on what he predicts. Some of the lads are making good money.''


    She smiles. ''Always Bet on Best. Yeah. That''s what we''re trying to do. It''s not easy, though. Okay he hands over a list of twenty talented eleven-year-olds. Then what? We send them to Rhyl? You saw those kids. Did you see anything different about them?''


    ''No.''


    ''Right? We could easily put our prospects in the hands of someone like Freddie. His teams win and we''ve never had any complaints. If we put all our eggs in one basket and hand that basket to the wrong man, all we''ll get is scrambled eggs.''


    ''And an earful from Best.''


    She laughs. ''Yeah. It''s cowardly but it''s safer to keep things as they are. We might lose a player in Rhyl and one in Swansea and one in wherever but most of the players who were going to make it will still make it.''


    All the bits of metal in me turn white hot and it''s all I can do to not pass out. I''ve just had a horrible, traitorous idea. But it''s only traitorous for a Wrexham fan. Bigger picture, it''s good for Wales. ''You need to send them to Chester. Let Best look after them. There isn''t a day that goes by that I don''t want to slap the smugness off his face but I''d send my kid to Chester, no problem. They don''t get cut, either. Did you see them beat West Ham?''


    ''Yes,'' she says. ''I did.'' She seems to be thinking about what I''ve said but then there''s a flurry of noise and activity.


    The Bluebirds have arrived and they stream past us.


    First, the coaches, in grey and puce training gear.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Correction: grey and puke.


    BrokenGround


    Noted!


    They stride through looking all invincible and whatnot. Six years unbeaten! They''re the fucking E Company 8 of kids football.


    Then the brats themselves swan in. They''re only eleven and they''re not the ones that won the league last year but they''ve got that swagger about them like they''re the ones who haven''t lost in that long, do you get me? Cocky little bastards. I was never so full of myself. I get this surge of satisfaction knowing that Best is going to send them home crying. On the other hand, if some of those lads are going to be in the Welsh national team one day, it''s good they''re confident, isn''t it?


    They go to warm up and when I''m back out in the cold, Best is over to the side with his chosen ones and I get another surge. This time it''s excitement. Best''s grumpiness is totally gone and he''s up for the match.


    I go over and ask if he wants an assistant manager and he does one of his dickiest things ever. In front of all the kids, he puts his finger to his cheek and goes, ''Hmm, do I want the best Welsh coach, a future national team manager? Do I want Peter Bauer, who will be a fucking legend by the time I''ve finished with him? Do I want Pascal Bochum, who might be the most likely guy here to win a Champions League as manager? Or do I want Dylan?'' He says my name as though I''m the opposite of the other three, which I suppose I am.


    TopPoppy


    I know this one! He chooses you! It''s the old switcheroo.


    BrokenGround


    Yes, exactly. Is he that predictable? I never feel I know where I stand with him.


    He goes, ''My favourite song is called ''It''s Okay to Settle''. Billion views on YouTube.''


    Best tells me I''ll warm the kids up after he gives his team talk but then thinks better of it. He tells me to tell Peter Bauer that he''s my assistant warm up coach. I mean, think of that.


    SummerhillBill


    You didn''t tell the grandson of a living legend that he was your assistant warm up coach?


    BrokenGround


    I did! I was sweating the whole time but I did.


    Anyway, Peter just laughs and says sure. I miss the team talk, which now that I think about it was Max''s plan. But we started as 4-4-2, everything normal. No Bestball stuff.


    CrunchyAbs


    Wait, are we straight into the match? I thought there would be more build-up.


    BrokenGround


    Er, no sorry. It''s not the World Cup final, is it? There aren''t marching bands and all that. It was just: clear the cones off the pitch. Check the corner flags are in. Decide how long the game''s gonna be. It was twenty minutes a half. Just a demo match really.


    I think what I want to focus on is what I talked to Best about while it was going on.


    CrunchyAbs


    Go for it!


    BrokenGround


    The first few minutes he''s pretty quiet. Then he turns to me, grabs my arm and goes, ''I''ve made a horrible mistake. I think I might lose this.''


    ''Fuck,'' I say, thinking through the ramifications. I was getting into the idea that Best would do this northern powerhouse thing.


    ''Yeah, not really.'' He laughs at my expression. ''Relax, bro. Cardiff¡¯s coaches are seriously good and the kids are talented. But they''re eleven. The difference between them and my guys isn''t that much. Don''t tell Gwen but what''s about to happen isn''t impressive. Not really.''


    ''You make me a/you make me a/believer.''


    He frowns and looks around. ''Maybe I''ll get Well In over here.''


    ''It''s a lyric from the most famous Imagine Dragons song. I don''t think you know the first thing about them! Why do you keep pretending?''


    Best points to the pitch. ''I''ve got three future Welsh players here. Cardiff have two. That''s half a team, Dylan. Think about these kids ten years from now wearing your national team kit. Tapping your badge.''


    ''Tapping the dragon.'' I sense enlightenment is just around the corner. Best watches the cogs in my brain clunk around; he seems fascinated. The penny drops! ''Imagine dragons,'' I say, and it sucker punches me. Before lunch there were a hundred baby dragons racing around, now there are a hundred and twenty. Best thinks five can play for Wales. I''m literally winded by the promise of youth, their intangible hopes and dreams made concrete by the genius who sees it all, the shaman who guides them down the path.


    ''Fucking right,'' he goes, and I swear he''s as into it as I am. ''We can create the powerhouse as long as the average Welshman gets behind us, gives Gwen long enough in the job to get things done and see the results. That''s the real obstacle. We need normal fans to give us a chance. We need believers.''


    ''What about when we play England?''


    ''What about it?''


    ''Who do you want to win?''


    ''The best team,'' he says, flatly. He''s disappointed in me in some way.


    I click my tongue but you can''t make him talk when he''s in that kind of mood. I sweep my hand in front of me. ''So who''s good?''


    He shakes his head. ''Wait. I''ve made it so that it''ll be super fucking obvious.'' He gets his clipboard, moves a blank team sheet to the front, writes five names. He folds it up and puts the paper in his pocket.


    TopPoppy


    Oh, snap.


    Argh! I fucking love these stories, Dylan lad!


    BrokenGround


    The first five minutes, Cardiff are on top. It makes sense; they''ve played together loads and Best''s Bales are literal strangers. Cardiff are in blue, we''re in red bibs.


    Best and I are close to the halfway line where a technical area has been painted onto the turf. Opposite us, the kids who aren''t in the squad are on the touchline cheering their mates on. The FAW are to my left looking worried. Some parents are near them, some are with the mass of kids. Peter Bauer, Well In, Elin, and Pascal are between us and the FAW guys. Sometimes they call out some banter aimed at Best. The Cardiff coaches are yelping out short, sharp instructions.


    Cardiff go one-nil up from a neat move. They''re tidy on the ball and most of them have good skills.


    Best watches, his eyes darting around, then he does one of his most surprising things yet. I''ve seen him rant, rave, pump teams up, cool them down, but I haven''t seen him coach. Not really coach like Well In does. One by one he subs every player on the pitch off, including the goalie. He gives them tips before sending them back on.


    With the full backs he works on their body shape. They''re too square, he says, making me stand in front of them. He takes their shoulders and turns them about 45 degrees. ''Now you can rush back faster and you''re in a better position to receive a pass.'' One of the kids says he doesn''t like it because he wants to see where the oppo winger is. Best goes, ''Oh yeah I heard that Welsh people are born with no neck. It''s famous, isn''t it? Welsh people all walk around like Batman. Maybe we can get you some wing mirrors or LIDAR to stop you bumping into everything.'' Kid goes, ''Okay I get it. Turn my neck.'' Best says, ''You can turn your neck faster than you can turn your body. That''s the first line of my favourite song, Do As You''re Told by Imagine Dragons. One billion views on YouTube.''


    With the centre backs he''s all about putting pressure on without giving fouls away and including the goalie in passing build ups. The midfielders get another neck discussion. The forwards are told to stay within ten yards of one another. The goalie is told to pass short to the left because the right mid is lazy and won''t put pressure on.


    ''Bosh,'' says Best, when he has spoken to every kid.


    ''What? It looks the same.''


    ''Does it?'' he says, smugly.


    ''Yes,'' I say. I''m no expert but I''ve seen a lot of football in my life. To hear him you''d think he''d done something actually magical. ''4-4-2, same patterns of play.''


    ''Oh,'' he says, pulling his neck in, pretending to be cowed. ''That''s me told.''


    ''You''re such a baby.''


    ''You''re such a baby.''


    ''Why - ''


    ''Know you are, said you are, so what am I?''


    I laugh and tell him I want to ask a serious question but that''s when I see it. The magic! Two actual baby dragons hatch before my eyes. It''s not long until Best has nicknamed them Hammer and Spike.


    Our centre back passes back to the goalie, who rolls it out to the left. Sure enough, the guy has a few seconds to control the ball and think before his oppo decides to engage him. The ball goes to midfield and there''s a simple pass to Hammer.


    The next part happens at a different speed. It''s fast.


    Hammer touches the ball, pushes it forward to his strike partner. Spike moves the ball from left foot to right while shifting his balance for a dribble. A faked pass unbalances a defender just enough for Spike to power forward. The keeper rushes out to block his shot but Spike squares it and Hammer gently taps the ball into the net.


    What a goal!


    ''Holy shit!'' I say, head in hands.


    ''No swearing in front of the fucking children, Dylan.''


    ''Are they two of the good players?''


    Best laughs loud. ''Who, the Double Dragons? I think they might turn out pretty good, yeah.''


    ''Double Dragons,'' I say. ''That''s an awesome name.''


    Best''s mask slips and he gets all kinds of excited. ''They''re almost identical players! Almost the same in every way. They''ve even got...'' Best''s smile dips and he gets his clipboard and flips through. ''Yeah, almost the same birthday. I''ve got their birthdays here, mate. It''s normal that I would have spotted their birthdays from this paper here.'' He frowns, drops the clipboard, and goes back to being hyper. ''Seriously, it''s like they''re twins. Okay they''re not as good as Wibbers but keep them in the same team for years, buy and sell them as a combo and bosh, you''ve got yourself a very, very good international strike force. They''ll mess up a lot of teams, let me tell you.''


    ''How do you know all this stuff?''


    That winds him up. ''Fucking look at them, mate!''


    ''Well, yeah,'' I say. ''I think I might not be as good at imagining dragons as you.''


    CrunchyAbs


    Checking Wikipedia. Says Double Dragon was a video game released in 1987. It was a beat ''em up.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, that fits. They beat Cardiff up. It was three-one at half time but Spike hit the post and Hammer put two shots just over. Best said Cardiff had two good players and we had a third but I couldn''t say who it was.


    CrunchyAbs


    He didn''t tell you?


    BrokenGround


    No, he didn''t tell anyone. It was all part of his rant about the unhappy kids. ''Sort that out or else I don''t tell you anything'' kind of thing, though he was right it was obvious the Double Dragons were different gravy. He stopped talking about winning by two goals pretty early in the day, now that I think about it.


    Half time was amazing. The kids are in a semicircle taking on water and munching on paste. They''re looking around at each other in disbelief because they''re beating the so-called best team in Wales and it isn''t even a contest. They''re in dreamland, they''re soaking it all in.


    Peter Bauer and the other coaches, the FAW and the parents, everyone comes over like ''wow, how are you doing this?''


    Best pretends to be annoyed, or maybe he actually is. He lectures them never to barge into a dressing room at half time, says his coaching methods are top secret and that he doesn''t wander into their offices and watch them try to use the double-sided function on the photocopier. Everyone goes off with their tails between their legs.


    Best waits for them to scarper before he talks to the kids. ''What the... Okay team talk time. My favourite song is No Second Acts by Imagine Dragons. It''s based on a quote from F Scott Fitzgerald and it''s a kind of bombastic, arena-friendly exploration of what the quote actually means. It''s a banger,'' he adds. ''One billion views on YouTube.''


    I tut and sigh. I don''t like that he''s taking the piss out of Imagine Dragons. It''s a good band and I don''t want his mockery in my head every time one of their hits comes on. ''What''s the quote?''


    ''There are no second acts in Welsh lives.'' There''s a long pause. Best raises his hands. ''Okay, you got me, confession time, I made that one up. Scrap all that. Lads, no need for a big speech. You got this. The only thing I''d say is the back line, you''re playing as individuals. That''s understandable, right, course it is. But you need to defend as a unit, think as a unit. And as I always say to my players, there''s no you in unit.''


    ''Yes, there is,'' I say. I''m suddenly really annoyed. ''How can you be so sloppy and flippant and talk such shit and keep getting away with it?''


    ''Is there something in particular that''s bothering you?''


    ''Yeah! That was the FAW you told to leave. They pay for all this, they give it to you wrapped in a red ribbon and you kick them out when they show interest and for what? So you can gibber and blabber?''


    He jabs his finger at me before pointing it to the ground beneath him. ''You don''t go in dressing rooms without permission, Dylan. I don''t care if it''s the FAW or Ryan Reynolds or a tech bro billionaire or a dictator. I don''t care if the dressing room is a few kit bags and water bottles on the side of the pitch or a double-height all-marble wonderland. I don''t care if I''m doing intense tactics or if we''re all quietly doing sudoku. There''s one space that''s for the squad, one room you don''t sell tickets to, and that''s right here. It might not seem like a big deal but this is where players come to let off steam and get their heads right. As a manager you have to fight for every inch of advantage every step of the way or some fucker will take it all from you. This is just a friendly, just a laugh, but for forty minutes and all of half time, this is my team, these are my lads, and we''re doing it my way. My team, my lads, my way.'' Best steps through the kids. They''re looking at him, wide-eyed. ''There''s nothing sloppy and flippant about what''s happening on that pitch, mate. These lads are fucking crushing it. They''re treating this like a proper match, like it means something, so how are we gonna have a fucking VIP picnic in the middle of it? We''re fucking not. No fucking way, not ever, not on my watch. On your feet, lads.'' They get up and surround him; he glares at them. ''In this world, it''s just us. You don''t know each other very well but you all made the same choice - to come here on your day off and when you put on those red bibs every single one of you stood taller. I want you to imagine yourselves as dragons. Red dragons, this is your patch. Some gobby little fuckwit Bluebirds have been coming up the motorway, chirping non-stop for four hours about how they''re gonna thrash you and trash this place. You get on that pitch and show them how we do it in north Wales. You look after each other and I''ve got your back over here. That''s it. Dragons on three. One two three - ''


    ''Dragons!''


    Goosebumps, lads. Sixteen Welsh lads on their feet, high-tenning each other, fists clenched, jaws set, ready to run through brick walls for this stranger who''s ready to go to war for them.


    I suspect Best didn''t really give a shit about the so-called intrusion and used it to work himself up so that he could fire up the kids for the second half. As it kicks off, Best paces around, looking stern. Cardiff start fast, have half a chance, but the ball goes straight back up the other end and Spike scores his second with a thunderbastard.


    Thunder.


    It''s Time, Demons, Enemy, Whatever It Takes.


    Believer.


    I don''t need to imagine any dragons. Like Best said, they''re as plain as the nose on your face.


    Spike sprints to the far touchline, thinks about doing a knee slide, decides not to risk it on the artificial surface so does a cartwheel.


    The first three goals were celebrated by the strikers and the nearest midfielder, but this one gets everyone into the action. Fucking Best has turned them into a team with one rant.


    ''Max,'' I say, because there''s an awkward atmosphere between us and I want to clear the air.


    He doesn''t hear me, though. He''s in a trance, watching, moving, calling out. One time his neck snaps round towards the Cardiff bench.


    Best grimaces, which turns into an evil grin. Lips wide, teeth showing. He rushes around like a maniac, calling out instructions. When the dust has settled, we''re doing 3-5-2 and so are Cardiff. We continue to dominate but now there are only three defenders where before there were four. The Double Dragons score another goal each.


    Best runs around again and we revert to 4-4-2. It takes me a while to realise Cardiff were still in the process of making the same switch.


    Nothing they do can stop the flow of goals, and the only respite comes from the final whistle. It''s 7-1 in 40 minutes against a team that hasn''t lost a match in Wales for six years.


    One of the oppo players is kneeling on the pitch with his hands on his hips. The Cardiff bench look like they''re at a funeral. Me? I''m utterly, utterly drained.


    ''Fun,'' says Best, rubbing his hands. ''I enjoyed that.''


    TaranMellt


    You have this way of writing scenes that makes me think I''m reading a fever dream.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Seven-one?


    But how?


    BrokenGround


    I don''t know but later I talked to some parents and coaches and they were astonished that their strikers were playing left mid and all that kind of thing. Apparently Hammer had been a centre back and they had tried him as a forward but it had never worked.


    After the match there was a strange five minutes where the reds were gleeful and Cardiff were a huge mess but Best got 3R to move the big goals off the pitch and put small ones on, along with cones to divide the pitch into eighths. He took the players from Cardiff and merged them with everyone else. Well In and the coaches ran some five-a-side matches, 3R helped with refereeing, but Best picked the teams. I have no idea what his concept was but he split Hammer and Spike up and sprinkled Cardiff kids around.


    The 7-1 drubbing was forgotten, for a while at least, while these matches went on. The event ended with what Best called a ''mega-final'', a hotly-contested ten-minute six-a-side match with two Cardiff players on each team.


    TaranMellt


    I like that. It''s not 7-1, so long, suckers. It''s okay I''ve made my point now lets everyone go home with a smile on their face.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Except the Cardiff coaches.


    TaranMellt


    Who can take it.


    BeardedWonderwall


    And if they can''t, serves them right for being from Cardiff.


    BrokenGround


    All right, so far, so mad. But it gets weirder and I think I accidentally made Best a few million quid.


    SummerhillBill


    Noooo what are you doing, Dylan? Last time you fixed that midfielder for him. Got him to sign a new contract.


    TaranMellt


    Stop helping Max Best lol.


    BrokenGround


    I know, but I was in the diplomat role again, wasn''t I?


    Okay so the kids start leaving, after posing for team photos and selfies with Best, Peter, Well In, all that kind of thing. Bonnie turns up and she''s sad she missed the action but I''m happy she''s there and I tell her all about it.


    After a while the place is empty and it feels really, really quiet. We put away the goals and cones, lock up the storage, all that kind of thing, then we''re having tea and coffee in the building. The rest of 3R is over on another table with the cooks, Elin, Pascal, Peter.


    I''m on the end of our table with Bonnie squeezed beside me. I''m next to Best. Gwen''s opposite him. Then it''s suit, Well In, suit.


    As usual, most of the talking is between Best and Gwen and this time it''s strangely stilted like they''re thinking extra hard about what they''re saying.


    Gwen starts by asking how he did it. Best replies with a load of horseshit - of course - and Gwen rolls her eyes and goes, ¡®Well that was quite a demonstration¡¯. She looks at me, twinkles, looks at Best. ''In the FAW we have a saying. Always Bet on Best.''


    Best gives me a level stare for way too long. I''m telling you lads, he knows about these channels! He''s probably reading this right now. ''I only bet on coin tosses. Tails never fails.''


    ''Max, what would you do if you were me?''


    Best''s face splits into a grin and he quickly forces it back into something like serious. ''You meant about football, right?'' She''s exasperated but she walked right into that one. Whatever private jokes they''ve got, they''re both thinking the same thing. He lets out a happy sigh and says, ''If I were you, I''d get every boy and girl in Wales through these doors. Let me use my highly advanced AI technology on them and I''ll identify the prospects.''


    ''Right, but what then?''


    ''I dunno,'' says Best. ''That''s your thing, isn''t it? My bit is telling you who''s good.''


    ''Think about it for a minute.''


    He groans. The topic is boring to him. He flaps his hand around like a fish swimming through an ocean of possibilities. ''Yeah, just make sure they''re being trained well, make sure they''re not so miserable they''re going to drop out, and try to give them as much time together as poss. Move them onto the same team or have them train together instead of playing for their club sides. That''s it - treat them like a club side. Easy.''


    ''Right but we''re not a football club, we''re football administrators.''


    ''Well In can do it.''


    Gwen turns to her left. ''Well In, can you do what Max did today?''


    ''Course,'' he says. ''If you give me six months of trial and error.''


    Best shakes his head, smiling. ''Come on. You''re mint. Tell you what, Gwen. One way I can help you - convince the Double Dragons to join Chester. I''ll turn them into superstars, guaranteed.''


    ''Max we''re administrators. We like processes. Things that can be repeated. You cherry-picking our best players isn''t the worst idea but it isn''t the best, is it? We''re hoping promising Welsh players will start and end their careers in the Welsh leagues.''


    I get struck by a bolt from the blue. ''Saltney Town,'' I say. Everyone turns to look at me. ''Use Saltney Town as the northern powerhouse. It''s right next to Bumpers so you can use those facilities while you''re building this place up.''


    Best pouts. ''I''m not building anything up, Dylan.''


    ''You will!'' I say. ''It all works! If the Double Dragons come here, sign for Saltney, play in the Welsh leagues until they''re ready - ''


    Well In is on my wavelength. ''And in Europe!'' he adds.


    ''Yes! They''ll compete with TNS for the title, play in Europe, then move on to a club in England. And who will pocket the transfer fees?''


    ''Me,'' says Best, quietly. It''s incredible but he doesn''t seem to have ever considered the possibility.


    ''Right! Imagine you''ve got the best twenty eleven-year olds in Wales coming through the pipeline. Every year the best. We''re happy because you''re giving them a good start like you do with your Chester lads. You''ve got Well In who''s got the same goal as you - a strong Welsh national team. He puts the kids in the team when he can, same as what you do. You''re keeping an eye on it all the time. That''s why you bought Saltney, right? Because it''s easy for you. With all the money you''re gonna make, it makes sense to build a little stadium, more pitches, gyms, pools, whatever you need.''


    Best is frowning hard. ''I don''t have any kind of planning permission.''


    One of the suits says, ''Max, investing millions in youth sport... Putting Saltney on the map... It won''t be a problem. And there¡¯s plenty of space for expansion here. You could build a fantastic facility.''


    Best sips his tea. ''Didn''t we talk about this before? You said me helping was a good idea in theory but as soon as the general population found out about it they''d be at your HQ with pitchforks.''


    Gwen points to me. ''It was Dylan''s idea. If he''s thinking it, it can''t be that unpopular. You¡¯ll have our back, won¡¯t you, Dylan? Help us explain it to your army mates and the Wrexham lot. If Wrexham fans are backing Max, that¡¯s going to make a lot of other people think there¡¯s something to it.¡¯


    ¡®Course, yeah! It¡¯s for the national team. Who¡¯d argue with that? If it¡¯s done right it¡¯ll be popular.¡¯


    Gwen goes, ¡®And you''re a big name these days, Max. People can''t ignore your talent. It''s different from last time we spoke.''


    ''Huh,'' says Best. ''I mean, as Dylan says, it''s Welsh players going to a Welsh team in the Welsh leagues. Yeah...'' He closes his eyes for a while before they pop open. ''Right. You bring every team you can get hold of in the north of Wales, I point out players I like. You persuade their parents to let me have them. You rent a couple of minivans every Saturday and they go from Snowdonia to Chester, picking up players along the way. Make it easy for the parents. Well In coaches them, we play a match.'' He goes deep into some daydream. ''No, no good. We need a place for them to stay overnight. They can come on Friday, watch the first team, spend Saturday and Sunday training. Boarding school. Hogwarts for dragons. It would be sensational. Wales would almost instantly become a top ten team at every age group.'' Best shakes his head. ''If we did it I would literally corner the market in north Welsh talent. You''d be handing me a monopoly.''


    Well In says, ''Right now, no-one in Wales is making any of that money so we¡¯re not losing anything. Centralising the talent, getting it into the Cymru Premier at least for a season, strengthening the national team. I doubt there''s a Welshman who''d begrudge you taking some profit when they can see how much value you''re adding.''


    Best looks at me, his face a question. I shrug. ''I could live with it. And the kids would love it.''


    ''So,'' says Best, leaning his elbow on the table and rubbing the top of his head. ''I get 20 Championship quality players every year and it''s much harder for English teams to poach them because these lads know they''re on the fast-track to playing for their country. You know what? We''d get to the group stage of UEFA tournaments just with our Welsh lads.''


    ''Wow,'' says Gwen.


    ''Okay,'' says Best, shaking his head. ''In principle, I agree. It''s a no-brainer. Three things. One, I''d need help. I''m stretched like my metaphors. I could use a hand doing some of the admin. Maybe a player who moves to Saltney''s women''s team in the summer would be interested?''


    It''s just another bonkers thing out of his mouth but I''m staggered when Bonnie says, ''I think I''d like that.'' She rubs my back and gives me a smile.


    Did Best just offer my girlfriend a job? Is that how he does things? There''s no time to think about it because he''s not done acting like a little prince.


    ''Two,'' he goes, ''you get rid of that coach from today. I don''t want to hear that he''s working with kids.''


    There are groans and sighs from the FAW. I lift my hand. ''Just checking, here. We''re dangling millions of pounds in front of you but you want to talk about one shitty coach in a place you''ve never been?''


    ''I have been to Rhyl, actually. With Emma.''


    Gwen''s annoyed. She gets fired up. ''Are we allowed to give the coach a chance to improve? Are we allowed to deal with the situation like adults?''


    Best smiles; he likes Gwen. ''Yes.''


    She''s placated. ''Third thing?''


    ''There are 378 clubs in the top five tiers of Welsh football. So far in this project you''ve brought eight... in one age group.''


    ''What exactly are you saying?''


    Best takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it. It''s a simple team sheet laid out in 4-4-2 formation. There are five names filled in - a goalie, a centre back, left mid (not Deano), two strikers (Hammer and Spike). ''That could be five of your starting lineup in the 2034 World Cup semi-final. If you want a full team you need to hurry up. Dragons don''t walk into battle, and neither do I.'' He jabs his thumb behind him. ''Fill this place with young players every Saturday and Sunday morning and I''ll fill in the rest of that team sheet. Then I''ll build you a squad. Then I''ll build a squad around the squad. Two backups in every position.'' Best sits back and smiles. ''Then we can do it all again with the ladies.''


    The CFO''s head drops as he thinks about the expense but he laughs and says maybe they can go faster than one event per year. That seems to be that. They¡¯re going to do some version of this northern powerhouse thing. Max Best is going to be the brains behind Welsh football and the idea gets my knee bouncing; Bonnie puts her hand on my thigh and I calm down.


    The conversation turns to the Chesterness documentary. Bonnie''s the star of that chat.


    I remember I''m supposed to be getting betting tips, not making Max Best rich. I lean close to him and say, ''How are you feeling about the big game tomorrow? Bradford look tasty, don''t they? Think you can handle them? Shame your new striker isn''t fit.''


    Best eyes me coldly and then with amusement. ''It won''t be 7-1, but I don''t think it will be close.''


    ''In which direction?''


    He scoffs. ''No comment.''


    I try one last throw of the dice. ''Be less secretive. Your resolution.''


    ''Announcing my plans and tactics to gamblers so that I get banned by the FA is not what I meant.''


    I shake my head. ''You know, I think I''ve seen you break four of your resolutions already today.''


    ¡®Which one¡¯s missing?¡¯


    ¡®I haven¡¯t seen you play 5D chess with anyone.¡¯


    He rocks his head back and laughs hard. ''Yeah, you got me. I guess I¡¯m not as smart as I thought.¡¯ He sinks into the chair, smiles, and closes his eyes in a satisfied way. They open and he looks across to the other table. ¡®Maybe you can help me with another project, Dylan. I wonder what Peter Bauer¡¯s favourite band is¡­¡¯

 13.4 - Here Kitty, Kitty

    4.


    Football glossary: Transfer kitty. Also known as a ''war chest''. The amount of money a club has available to buy new players.


    ***


    Monday, January 5


    I knocked on the door of the Sin Bin. "Come in!" came the reply.


    "Sorry," I said. Lee Contreras was in there talking to Alex Short, our sports psychologist. I pointed at the big screen. "I need the telly for ten minutes."


    "Yeah, no, that''s fine, boss," gushed Lee as he scrambled to his feet. "We can go."


    "I''m under time pressure is all," I said. "Busy day today."


    "Yeah!" said Lee, as though he knew my schedule. I got the strong impression he had been complaining about me just as I had knocked.


    I smiled - that''s what the sessions were for, after all. "Your therapy is serious, Lee. But I''m planning for the United game and need to decide on this week''s training."


    "We can do it outside," said Lee. "Walk around and that."


    "Can you?" That was surprising. "I thought you needed to lie down."


    Alex said, "You''re the only one who lies down, Max. But Lee is right. Sometimes it''s nice to walk and talk."


    I clicked my fingers. "The West Wing. Every dramatic conversation they''re walking down a corridor and when someone says something awesome they''re always going round a corner." I turned to Peter Bauer. "Remind me to put in more corners. A hedge maze, maybe."


    "Yes, Max." He took a seat.


    Lee and Alex left. I plugged my laptop in. "Won''t take long, Peter."


    "Max," said the best defender I''d ever seen drunkenly throwing shapes at a Christmas party held in an art gallery. "Some clubs have benches and quiet areas around the training ground where players can sit with the psychologist. I read about one SP who brings his dog to work. All the players love to rub his belly. The dog''s, I mean."


    "Interesting. We can include some benches in our plans and I''m going to inherit a dog one day. He''d love hanging around here. He''s a complete attention seeker. Shameless. He lied about being psychic."


    Peter''s eyes dropped. Solly''s sole failure to detect a traitor had happened in the case of R. Brown. "Do you want to talk about your former player?"


    "No," I said. "That topic is more closed than Woolworth''s and Blockbuster put together. Today''s about the future. Every day is about the future but especially today. A lot of good things could happen today, Peter."


    "Good."


    I hesitated. There was one thing I wanted to get off my chest before we got to the fun stuff. "When I got home from the clinic I had a look on social media hoping for a bit of, you know, adoration. To ease the blow, kind of thing." Six weeks, the doctor had said. I would be able to walk, drive, and keep relatively fit, but I wouldn''t be able to train flat-out for six weeks. Even with super healing I wouldn''t play for the best part of a month, and in that time my CA would decay. I was really looking forward to an ego boost. "First comment I saw goes, ''should of won by more''."


    Peter inhaled slowly and kept his breath there. He let it out quickly. "I do not understand the English approach to English. Do you not learn your own grammar?"


    "No. And if you want a laugh, ask ten people to spell grammar. Okay, whinge complete, let''s get planning. The next few days I''ll be doing some business and transfers and whatnot. Want to come with?"


    "Yes, please."


    "Sorted. Quick oppo analysis." I pulled my laptop closer and I tapped the space bar. We watched a few clips of Manchester United. They all showed similar scenes - goalkeepers and defenders passing the ball to each other while United''s forwards chased them.


    "Pressing," he said.


    "Right." I closed my laptop for a moment and rubbed my temples. "I''m very interested in risk versus reward and have been trying to develop a kind of innate sense of what that means on a football pitch." I fell silent for way too long considering we were under time pressure. "The way I see it, in the 80s, English teams played long ball because it was the least risky proposition. If the ball''s near the other team''s goal, there is less risk. What''s risky if you''re a long ball team? Weirdly, it''s crossing and shooting. If you score, great, but if you don''t, the other team will get the ball and hoof it to your penalty box. 4 seconds after your shot, you''re defending for your life. Over time, the pitches got better, the coaching got better, and now every player in the league has a decent first touch and can play a pass. Teams like Man City control the ball, move it around, get overloads, get one v ones against weak opponents, get to the byline, cut back, very high chance of a goal."


    "The Art of Slapping," he said.


    I smiled. "I didn''t invent it. I just made it cool. The answer to City is a low block. Two banks of five. Pass your way through that, you cheating pricks. The answer to the low block is for your centre back to put his foot on the ball and stay motionless until someone comes to get him. The strikers press, you retreat, the midfield pushes up, bosh - the oppo is spread out and you cut through them like butter. That works great. How about you take it to the nth degree? From goal kicks, your keeper plays a six-inch-long pass to tempt the oppo to press you in your penalty box. They take the bait because if they get the ball it''s a virtually certain goal. Plus they are pressing the weakest technicians on your team - goalies and centre backs. Are you bored?"


    "Not in the slightest." He pawed at his face. "Do I look bored?"


    "No but I''m explaining football to an expert. I lost confidence for a second."


    "Please continue."


    "The point is the modern elite manager takes bigger risks in his own penalty area than in the opposition''s."


    "The reward is the chance to play against a spread defence."


    I nodded, rubbed my temples some more, and opened my laptop. I played one of the scenes again and paused it.


    The goalie was to the left of his left-hand post. He had played a pass to a centre back who had taken a touch and passed it to the left back. The left back was under pressure so he had touched it back to the centre back but now there were three United players rushing at the three opponents. The whole scene screamed ''danger!''


    "These defenders are so one-footed they are easy to press. You know which way they want to turn, which side they''re comfortable passing to, and they have got themselves tied up in knots and now all their choices are the absolute worst. Seeing this stresses me out. We associate passing football with good football but this isn''t good football. This is dumb."


    Peter tilted his head. "This is from last season, isn''t it? Since then, this head coach has moved to a bigger club. They liked how he had set his team up and they liked his commitment to modern methods."


    "Yeah, it''s good for the manager''s career," I said. "Not so good for the team, though, is it?"


    "What would you do? Hoof it?" Peter had enjoyed learning the word ''hoof''. He pronounced it like it had three Os.


    "Yes," I said. "We play the best football we can and nothing more. But look." I went to the screen and pointed. "There are unmarked midfielders here and here. Can we get the ball to them? If we can, we destroy the tactical plan of every elite team."


    Peter smiled. "Yes. If."


    I didn''t smile. "Just bear with me. If we could get the ball through this first line on a safe, repeatable basis, then we would slap every top six team again and again. If we can do it with virtually zero risk, the reward is massive."


    "Yes."


    I rubbed my chin. "United''s press is shambolic, still. They aren''t coordinated. Their forwards don''t want to do it. They do it six times out of ten, which defeats the whole point because if they don''t do it together there is always a way through. They will get better but they are near the bottom of the Premier League in terms of effectiveness. Would you agree?"


    "Yes."


    "They also telegraph who they are targeting. I suspect they will go for Christian, but we will test that near the start. I saw this thing once where a team cycled five players into position to get the ball from a goal kick. Ring a Ring o'' Roses. I think it was to see which player triggered the press. We will practise that. We''ll practise what to do when it''s Christian but it boils down to - don''t pass to him."


    Peter laughed. "United won''t adapt, you don''t think?"


    I shrugged. "Not quickly. The manager is a megabrain but the strikers in particular are quite stupid. When they eventually adapt, so will we, but faster. Yeah, this week we will get Pascal, Wibbers, and Tom to charge at our back four. We''ll do mini-games. Tell the pressers to target one guy in particular, teach our defenders how to respond. Then instead of the trigger being a person, it will be a space. Our defenders have to work out what it is."


    "The trigger for the press is when we move into zone 14, for example. And then the task is to avoid zone 14."


    "Yes. I''ve got ideas of how to build on those kinds of drills but let''s keep it simple this week."


    "I agree."


    I closed my eyes and imagined United''s first-choice players swarming at us. There wasn''t currently a whole lot I could do about it. "Okay but Peter, I''m not really thinking about United. I''m thinking into the Championship and the Prem."


    He got a strange look about him. "With Chester?"


    "Yes with Chester," I snapped. "Sorry. My foot''s hurting. Magnus said not to take painkillers."


    "It is all right. Your faith is... I don''t know what to say."


    "Yeah. We just thrashed the league leaders, though, didn''t we? We''re on the march to League One and we''re going straight through. Championship in eighteen months and then we''ll start hitting teams who are doing these pressing schemes. I want a solution in place."


    "Okay."


    I inhaled. This could be a mistake. "I couldn''t sleep because of the pain so I was thinking all night. I don''t want to play 5D chess, Peter. I want to be straight with you."


    "Oh," he said, shifting on his chair. The vibe in the room had shifted.


    "Okay, look, it''s one in a million but I wouldn''t be doing my job if I didn''t try. Now, don''t freak out..."


    "Oh, shit."


    I smiled. "Just imagine if you quit your job at Bayern today and registered with us tomorrow."


    "As...?"


    "As player-coach."


    "Player?" he said. "I''m injured. I''m retired."


    "Yeah," I said, looking away. I didn''t want to make a big deal of him faking his injury - I more than understood why he would want to step out of the spotlight. "I''m a bit of a savant when it comes to injuries - not on myself, sadly - and I think you''ve given your body years of rest and rejuvenation and you''re all fine. We could do millions of tests on you if you wanted but don''t worry about that now. I want to talk about last night."


    "Not the first time I''ve heard those words..."


    I laughed. "You dog. But listen, you know the way you''re in bed and your mind is racing and you''re sure you didn''t sleep but Emma says you were snoring loads?"


    "Um..."


    "I can''t tell what was daydreaming and what was actual dreams but I was thinking about these United players running at us. Two guys pressing, one big hole where the third was dozing off. Move into that hole, the next set of three are activated but again there are only two doing it right. I was thinking, what would I do in that space? Answer - I''d fucking slap. Against Newcastle I was in the DM slot being attacked on all sides and I''m not used to that level of intensity. I struggled. Give me three months in the Prem and I''ll get accustomed but as a one-off, that was hard. But if I''m in my own penalty box and I take a tiny little pass from the goalie, there''s no-one behind me. I''ve got a little bit of time and perfect awareness of what''s in front of me. I could glide away from United''s forwards, pass sideways, chip over them, do all sorts of cute diagonals, or even fucking leather the ball fifty yards into Pascal''s stride."


    "I can imagine that."


    "Yes. I played as a sweeper once. Did you know that?"


    "I heard about it. My grandfather heard someone was playing his old position and sought out the footage."


    "It''s not really my idea of fun because I''d rather be taking my risks in the final third. Crosses, shots, through balls, dribbles. That''s my role in life."


    "Agreed."


    "Then I thought... huh."


    "Here we go."


    I smiled and tapped the centre back on the screen. "We''re going to play five at the back, yes?"


    "That would be wise."


    "I was thinking about a midfielder dropping in to be this centre back. Someone press-resistant. Someone who can get through the lines with a safe dribble or a clever pass. If we had that player we would have a sniff of a chance to cause a surprise." I paused. "The best I could come up with was Ryan Jack."


    Peter pulled a face. "Max..."


    "Yes, I know. He doesn''t have the mobility. But then I thought about your profile and I was struck by what people used to say about you. You''re a throwback defender from the time of sweepers. Your skillset doesn''t fit the modern game. You''re too slow to play a high line, don''t win headers, you''d be better as a midfielder."


    "They tried to use me as a DM. It didn''t work so well."


    I shook my head. "You''re not a throwback. A two-footed cultured centre back with flawless positioning, passing, technique, and decision-making?" I slapped the TV. "You''re cutting-edge! This play it out from the back while hundred-million pound strikers press you shit is 90% of modern football and you''re so perfectly designed to counter that, you''ll take three oppo players out of the picture every time we build from the back! You know that thing where Charlie Brown goes to kick the ball but Lucy always snatches it away? That will be us. You''ll dangle the ball in front of these forwards but you''ll snatch it away, every single time." Peter wanted to speak but I gestured. "I was getting myself more and more hyped all night. I''ve been thinking so small, like oh here''s a really good defender who isn''t registered as a player, he''s a guy who can help me win League One at the first go, who can help raise our technical level, that kind of thing. So small-minded! It took me watching hundreds of these pressing clips to make me understand what you are. I know I can turn you into one of the most valuable players in Europe. When they realise how I''m using you and how there are precisely zero other centre backs with your skills, every elite team will want you. I mean every single one. You - " I smiled, and the smile only got bigger. I''d been doing a good job of containing my excitement but now it was bursting out. Disappointment was sure to follow but I was learning to enjoy the good moments as they came. "You are a unicorn, Peter!"


    "I am not a unicorn."


    I grinned. "You are! You know what I predict? Oppo managers will get so sick of being humiliated that they''ll stop even trying to press you. You will get the ball and walk to the halfway line and opponents will back away like you''ve got a force field around you."


    "You ate too much cheese last night."


    "No," I said, eyes shining. "Remember we talked about Pedro Porto and how he builds systems that loads of players can fit into? That''s what I wanted to do. If I''m going to sell six players every year I need a system where the new guys can just slot in. But last night I changed my mind. You''re going to be so overpowered when I''m finished with you it''s going to be a joke. My entire Premier League strategy will be built around you. Managers will be sacked for trying to press you." I slapped the screen again. "You''re a hundred-million pound player. I''ll sell you back to Bayern and you''ll win awards. I''m going to put a clause in your contract saying you can''t play against Wales."


    He was smiling, but with some level of impatience. "As a one-hundred-million-pound player, Max, what is to be my starting salary?"


    "As player-coach, one thousand pounds per week."


    "Ah."


    "But I''ll give you a hundred thousand pound bonus when we get promoted. That will bring you to something like three grand a week. That''s what I get, Peter. No-one can earn more than me. We''re trying to sign players from Reading and they want crazy money. I''m like, sure, that''s the market, but get fucking serious." I waved my impatience away and nodded at Peter. "I''m giving myself a raise in the summer and you''ll get one too. Your salary next season won''t be far off what you''re getting now and Ruth will help you get sponsorships to top it off. You''ll make way more money in the next five years here than in Germany, but I know it''s not about the money with you."


    "What is it about?"


    I tutted and looked around, but decided to try being honest. I eyed him and said, "Respect. Respect for who you are and not who you''re related to. There''s still time to have a glorious playing career, Peter. With your style you''ll be able to go deep into your 30s. But we will start small. You''ll get the same treatment as my Exit Triallists. Ten minutes here, twenty there. Build up to it. And I''ll use you in a back three so you''ll always have people to do the crap bits. Okay there will be some media attention in the beginning but I''ll make your career so boring they will all fuck off soon enough. Peter Bauer? Yeah he''s just helping that weirdo in England because the team has no money. No, it''s nothing serious. Do you get me? When you start bossing games, sometime next year maybe, it''ll have happened so gradually people won''t even notice. Then it''ll be, oh, it''s the English third tier. What do you expect? Then it''ll be, oh, it''s the English second tier. What do you expect? And so on. You will be able to tune it all out and focus on your game."


    That was it. My plain-talking pitch. I had one more thing to say.


    "The best thing is... I''ve got the poster planned already. On the giant billboard it''ll be your face on the left, some graphic effects, and text: The Bauer of Love. And that''ll finally be my Back to the Future team talk."


    "It should be you on the left shouting, I''ve Got The Bauer. It could be a German Eurodance theme tied in with He-Man."


    "Fuck me that''s it! Yes!" I did a happy little dance that didn''t put any strain on my left heel.


    But Peter was shaking his head. "I am sorry, Max. I cannot." He checked for my disappointment and saw that I was taking it like a champ. He shook his head once more. "I am very sorry. And... I thank you for thinking of me in such a way. Truly, it means a lot to me." He looked down and I gave him time to process what had happened. He looked up again. "I will do the pressing drills you asked for. Can you please show me the circle routine you mentioned? I am not sure I understood it."


    "Yeah, course," I said. I gestured to my laptop. "Let me finish up here. Why don''t you get them going?" Most of the squad had played the day before so it wouldn''t be an intense sesh.


    "Yes, Max."


    He moved at half speed, weighed down by his thoughts.


    I watched him go. As he turned back with his hand on the door, he saw that I was not exactly downcast but perhaps in the direction of regretful.


    When he closed the door behind him I unplugged my laptop, sat down on the edge of the table, and kicked my feet happily (the right more than the left).


    The thing about 5D chess is that it is played across many dimensions. Some of the moves you make are only visible later in the timeline.


    ***


    The first half of training was quite placid - it was a recovery session for everyone who had played against Bradford. Morale had bumped up a notch and the lads would have liked to run harder, especially as for once there was no midweek game. The second half was more intense and featured the lads who hadn''t, er, featured.


    "Cole," I said, jerking my head to bring him off to the side, away from the other guys who were watching from the touchline. "Enjoy yesterday?"


    He beamed. "Yes, boss! It was amazing. Just incredible. What a rush! Do you know what I mean?"


    "Yeah, it was pretty sweet. Listen, quick thing. I''ve been pimping you out - " His face fell. "To the Irish national team." The beam was back with a few extra lumens. "They like what they''re seeing and more than likely you''ll be called up to the under twenty squad in March."


    He was vibrating with joy. "You serious? Really?"


    I gripped his shoulder. "There''s a way between now and then, Cole, so it''s not a done deal. But if you don''t make this squad you''ll make the next, or the next. You''re close. Do you get me?"


    "Yes, boss!"


    "You keep working, keep doing what you''re doing."


    "I will!"


    "Just, er... don''t freak out if I sign another left back this week, okay?"


    His smile froze. "You''re signing another left back?"


    "I''m talking to one. Another Exit Trial lad."


    "The Exit Trials aren''t till the end of the season."


    "I''m getting a sneak preview, sort of thing. He''s getting cut from Man United and if we can agree terms, he''ll join us. It gives me six months to build him up but you and Josh are my first choices, okay?"


    "Er... yes. Okay."


    "I might loan him out straight away, not sure. If you''re off with Ireland in March it might be handy to have him around as a backup. I''d prefer a right back, to be honest, in terms of how the squad is but he''s got a lot of talent and he doesn''t deserve to be thrown on the scrapheap just because United are moving in a different tactical direction. I know it''s a mind fuck - especially after you''ve just seen off Eddie Moore - but we''re giving him the same chance you got - the chance to have a proper career. You might have to fight even harder but you don''t mind that, do you?"


    His eyes widened. "No, boss! I mean, I''ll make him welcome and I''ll show him the ropes and all that but I want to be the first-choice left back for Chester Football Club." He glanced around, then back at me. The big smile returned. "And for Ireland!"


    "Yeah, well," I said. "One of those is going to be a lot fucking easier than the other." I did a cheeky smile, slapped him on the shoulder, and went to get a cuppa while Peter finished up.


    ***


    Peter''s dip in mood had been cured by training - that was his happy place, same as mine was managing kids. We didn''t mention my offer as we headed to the car park. The Brig was there, waiting by the door of his car.


    We got in and I took the Brig''s phone - he had told me the password so I could choose the tunes on long drives - and got ready to blast The Power by SNAP!


    "Sir," said my former assistant manager as my current assistant manager clipped his seatbelt into place. "I owe you an apology."


    "Oh?" I said. I hadn''t been expecting the Brig to say anything interesting but an apology felt pretty tectonic.


    He put his hand out to request his phone back. I obliged. He looked at what I was lining up and just for a second, amusement and utter delight flickered across his mien, which is a word used by writers who have run out of ways to say ''face''. He tapped and swiped in his own sweet time before clearing his throat. "You suspected Folke Wester was playing 3 or 4 or 5D chess. I confess I dismissed the idea partly because you kept changing the number." He frowned. "I don''t know why I doubted you; this is your world."


    Peter helped out. "Maybe it is because we won four-nil and everything Max did was of the highest order and everything Wester did was utter folly."


    "Yes," said the Brig, unconvinced. "If I may say, Mr. Bauer, I have known Mr. Best longer than you and he is right far more often than he is wrong." His eyes twinkled as though he was asking a bored housewife if he could borrow a cup of sugar. "About football, anyway."


    "That I agree with," said Peter, whose reward was a big toothy smile from me.


    The Brig tapped his screen to stop it from going idle. "I was made aware of this story, sir."


    I took his phone. It was showing an article from a newspaper based in Yorkshire. I read it aloud for the benefit of Peter.


    Wester Given Massive War Chest


    Folke Wester has been handed an astonishing 1.5 million pound January transfer kitty by Chip Star with the aim of ensuring promotion. ''Getting this club back where it belongs is our only goal,'' said Star earlier. ''I''m over the moon,'' said Wester. ''This money will improve the first team and give us the squad depth needed to cope with fixture congestion. The Stars are amazing owners and I couldn''t be happier to work with them.''


    "Fuck," said Peter.


    "Quite," said the Brig.


    "I have to say," I said, thoughtfully. "Wester took a hell of a swing there. If I was Chip I would have sacked him. Binned him right off. Turns out Wester played it perfectly..." I tapped the window a few times. "He must have been softening the fans up over weeks so that when we thrashed them all the ire was aimed at Chip."


    "I spotted something," said Peter. "I did some extra reading and there were a few times Steve Weller was described by Wester as a ''club signing''."


    "Ouch," I said.


    "Sorry, sir," said the Brig. "What does it mean? Why is it bad?"


    I tried to find a way to explain it to an outsider. "Um... So it can''t happen at Chester because everyone knows I scout players, choose players. But imagine MD just bought a player on his own and said ''here, Max, do something with this guy''. Can you imagine how I would react?"


    The Brig''s tongue got stuck in the side of his mouth for a while. Finally, he got control. "Honestly, sir, I think you would do your best to use the player."


    "I don''t know," I said. "I know what you mean. You''re saying I''m basically a decent person so I wouldn''t ruin the guy''s life but I think I''d have to completely nuke the guy not because I''m a prick but to stop it from ever happening again. Go chimp on one player to stop MD signing thirty randos and killing the club. It''s not nice to think about but... Anyway, that''s a club signing. If a manager uses those words it means he doesn''t like the player and don''t blame him if the guy plays shit, blame the idiot who wanted him."


    The Brig nodded. "I do understand, sir." He tapped his screen again. "May I clarify? Wester has sacrificed Steve Weller and the Exit Trial boys..."


    "And Tom Hickman," I added.


    "And Hickman... in order to gain control of the club''s transfer dealings? And Chip is going along with it... why?"


    "He wants to be popular. Bradford City might have been a money play at the start but that''s the thing about football. It sucks you in. Everyone watching Chesterness wants those women on that screen to win and to be happy - and that''s just what it feels like when you watch it from your sofa. I can only imagine what it''s like owning Bradford and being in the executive suite having 18,000 people chant your name. You bring a date to the match and she hears the adulation, you''re the big hero. Wow."


    Peter used another of his favourite new words. "Soz, Max, but you own two football clubs. What do you mean you can only imagine?"


    "I own one club with no fans," I said. "No-one ever chants my name."


    "Except the two thousand singing Best Will Tear You Apart Again yesterday?"


    "Peter, you''re very scatter-brained today. We''re trying to have a conversation about how I was right. You all laughed at me but I was right." I formed a fist and bashed it into my forehead. "Hang on, though. If what I was feeling yesterday was the battle between Chip and Wester, who was the megabrain the first time we played? Erm..."


    "May I ask a question?" said the Brig, saving me from going down that rabbit hole for the hundredth time.


    "Shoot."


    "Does Wester like Aff and Carl and R. Brown?"


    "Yes," I said, without hesitation. "First of all, they are players that beat Wester in the National League North. As a manager, you like that. Is that weird? That''s how I felt with Christian, anyway. I was like, fuck me, what a player. I don''t doubt Wester likes those three, but also they were signed before he was. He has to accept them if he accepts the job otherwise he''s a dick. It''s the new ones he''s unhappy about. The whole match was a power move. He can say: With my best team we were only losing one-nil at half-time and with Max Best off the pitch we would have bossed the second half... if the squad wasn''t so thin. The Stars have launched a few million into Bradford; Wester was using the sunk cost fallacy to get another million or so. If they want promotion the owners have to dig deep and - this is the clever bit - let Wester decide who to buy. Yeah, it''s clever and ballsy. The only bad part..."


    I was quiet for so long that Peter shuffled nearly level with me. "Yes?"


    "He must have judged that they are so far ahead of us we can''t possibly catch them. Which we will, easily. Unless he signs really, really well." I pulled at my lip.


    The Brig cleared his throat. "Apparently there is talk of Chipper getting a four-match ban for his dangerous tackle. I suspect Wester will buy a striker."


    I nodded. "That could tip them over the edge. Um..."


    "Yes?" said Peter. He was on absolute tenterhooks.


    "One point five million war chest," I said.


    "Yes?"


    "That''s Foquita''s release clause."


    The three of us sat back and let our heads crash against the headrests. After a minute, the Brig started the engine and pressed play on ''The Power''. I slammed pause.


    Absolute fucking banger but I wasn''t in the mood.


    If someone paid one point five million for Foquita I wouldn''t be able to do a fucking thing to stop him leaving. I did not have the power.


    ***


    Another reason not to play the song was that our journey time - the first leg, anyway - was approximately twenty seconds.


    We pulled into the Deva.


    "Sir," said the Brig. "What makes Foquita so special? I don''t see any particular difference between him and, say, Henri."


    "Yeah he''s just a perfect striker, basically. He''s almost as good in the air as Dazza with the movement of Henri. His finishing will improve quickly, I think, as he gets match experience. He has the relentlessness of Tom Westwood but Tom wastes loads of energy chasing full backs and shit like that. Foquita stays in front of goal because everything he does is about how quickly he can score a goal. He''s a single-minded machine, a terminator. He''s got loads to learn and he can get way, way deadlier - which is scary - but the thing with him is he''ll always score goals along the way. Remember Dazza had that barren spell? That won''t happen to Foquita. He''ll score even when he''s playing shit. So when Adrian goes to Benfica and says ''take this guy to the next level for me'' they will because they''ll get a profit... and twenty goals along the way."


    "I see. So if he went to Bradford..."


    "They would - Wait, let me say this as we turn that corner." We got to the corridor that led to the boardroom. I strode around it then stopped suddenly. In a dramatic growl I said, "They would win the league by 30 points. Music sting, cut to commercial."


    "Hang on," said Peter. "He has played for Lima and Chester. He can''t play for a third club this season. He can register but he can''t play."


    "He can," I said. "Because Peru''s season overlaps ours, the rules are more flexible. If someone tried to stop him, Sebastian Weaver would take his case for free and even I would want him to win. It would be totes unfair to stop Foquita if that''s what he wanted."


    "He doesn''t, though," said Peter, but not with complete confidence. "It''s great here."


    I nodded. "Maybe I won''t shout at him for not passing... until the transfer window is closed."


    We went through into the boardroom, where Brooke, MD, and Secretary Joe were chatting away. We said our greetings while I went to get the flipchart from the corner. I opened it to the latest page and discovered it was the same one where I''d totted up my transfer kitty. I had circled the number 1.63 million.


    "That''s convenient," I said, wheeling the board into place.


    "We''re a lean organisation," said Brooke. "Not many meetings."


    "That''s not professional," I said. "We should have more meetings. Someone write that down. Why is no-one writing that down? Weird. Okay, 1.63 was the projection. What''s, er, what''s the latest number? Way higher, right? What''s in the kitty?"


    "One point six three million," said MD.


    "Mate," I said, slumping in fake exasperation. "We''re flying. Numbers go up."


    MD got a slightly Bestian grin on his face. "When I calculate a number, they stay calculated."


    I laughed. "That''s like the accountancy version of ''attack till we drop'', is it?" I sighed. "Okay, one point six three. Curiously close to what Wester will have to work with. We know he will spaff it on one to three players. He''s a prune juice manager."


    Secretary Joe was a Chester fan first and foremost and he shared the same disease as the rest of them. "Are we going to do some transfers, Max?"


    I gave him an affectionate smile. "Yes. By Friday we might have done five."


    "Five!" he said, delighted.


    "Yeah. It has actually been hard to spend this money. There''s a movie called Brewster''s Millions where he has to spend thirty million dollars in thirty days and have nothing left at the end. His rich uncle wants him to find money repulsive or something like that. I''m looking at players for seven hundred thousand, eight hundred thousand, and I''m getting that revulsion."


    "Good," mumbled MD.


    I smiled. "It''s coming, Mike. Big fees are coming and when we''re dealing in eight-figure transfers you''ll be sentimental for these kinder, gentler times. It just feels wrong to go so big so soon. It feels right to progress step by step. Dazza was 250. I''m looking at one for 400. In summer we pay 500 for Foquita. That''s satisfying. We''ll break our transfer record every summer with some fun splurges in the January windows."


    MD winced. "I don''t like the word splurge, Max."


    I popped the lid off a marker. "Ryan and Ruth have negotiated with two players from Reading who are open to joining us. It''s 400K for one and 200 for the other." I scribbled the numbers I was saying. "The lads don''t want to leave but they haven''t been paid, so... Peter and I are going to meet them later today and ideally we''ll get a final agreement and we can get the deals wrapped up tomorrow so I can have them on the bench for United. Wages will be 3K and 2K. If they come," I added, darkly. I hadn''t been in the room when the negotiations were happening so I wasn''t sure how close we really were. "We''re popping to Manchester, first. I''m going to see my mum, walk the dog, and meet two lads who are being released from Man United''s academy. They''re releasing six but only two are even interested enough to get to this point. I tried to offer them the standard 500 a week but that''s a definite no-go. They''re Man United players, right? It''ll take them being out on their arses watching Antiques Roadshow for two months straight before they commit to poverty wages. I''ll talk to them but I''m willing to go as high as 700 each because having them here for an extra six months will be really helpful in getting them match ready faster. The two lads are Championship quality so..."


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    "What positions are the lads from Reading?" said MD.


    "Goalie and a left-sided attacking midfielder. We need a centre back and I would like to budget a thousand a week for that guy." I exchanged a glance with Peter. The twitch of his eyebrow was pretty funny. "Of course," I added, "It might end up being some chump on loan. I''ll pay a grand a week that has come from the pockets of the hard-working people of Chester and use that money to develop someone''s else''s player."


    "Right," said MD, frowning. He had an awesome ability to frown and do maths. "That would bring the weekly wage budget to 38,090. That''s 3,790 over budget. We times that by 18 months..."


    "Why?" said Peter.


    "Anything over budget has to come out of the transfer kitty." MD saw Peter''s dismayed reaction and tried to mollify him. "I can''t risk bankrupting the club with these player salaries. If Max wants to go over budget, the salary has to be ring... fenced."


    He said the last word slowly, wide-eyed, because I had let out a huge groan. I went to the nearest chair and flopped into it, feeling that the blood had drained from my face yet I was blushing. I put my head on the table and covered it with my arms.


    I had just done something incredibly stupid. We wouldn''t loan a player and develop him? We would! That''s what we were doing... with Foquita!


    Technically, he was on loan to Chester. We had an option to buy him in the summer, an option that we were 100% certain to trigger. He wasn''t currently our player, though, so the 1.5 million release clause wasn''t in place.


    Bradford City could not buy him. I had panicked, plain and simple. Embarrassing, but the relief was liberating. I sat up, ready to explain myself, to let everyone have a good old laugh about it.


    But wait... could this be used to play a little 5D chess? Peter Bauer had reacted just the same as I had. What could Chester offer that Bayern couldn''t? How about fear? Anxiety? That feeling fans of small teams got when big teams were sniffing around their star players? Supporting Bayern had to be boring as shit. Where was the jeopardy? The fear? The sense of injustice?


    ''Peter,'' I thought to myself. ''Come join Chester and spend every waking moment afraid that Wibbers will ask for a move to Liverpool.'' Not the greatest sales pitch of all time, but surely feeling something was better than being numb?


    I rubbed my eyes and decided not to clarify the Foquita situation just yet.


    "Soz about that. Just remembering the time I called my Spanish teacher ''mum''. Ring-fencing the salaries? It''s fine, Peter. But MD, only 18 months? Not the full length of the contracts?"


    MD squirmed and exchanged a look with Brooke. He inhaled. "If everything goes to pot in the next 18 months I think it''s obvious we will be able to stay solvent given the talent we have and the offers that are coming in. While William and Youngster are under contract I am willing to be slightly more flexible."


    "Oh, top. That''s progress. And it''s fair. I''m happy with that. So what am I looking at from the kitty?"


    "300,000," said MD.


    "600 in transfer fees plus 300 in wages, to sign four Championship-level players? That''s a bargain. Okay, done. And let''s take another 70,000 off this number."


    "What''s that for?" said MD.


    I smiled. "Content for the documentary." They all looked at each other, worried. I pressed on. "Brooke, let''s do the shower block."


    "Which version? Normal or two-story?"


    I shook my head. "Can you please say, ''Do you want to super-size that?''"


    She just about contained a chuckle. With her b-girl face back on she said, "Which size do you want? Max Best''s ambition or Max Best''s Ego?"


    "Those are both normal-sized so neither. Beautiful big building, please. You said 600K for that one." I looked at the numbers and tried to do the mental maths. I hadn''t helped myself by writing everything in different ways. "600 in transfer fees, 300 in future wages, 600 for the changing room and shower block, 70 for my secret project... Help. What''s left?"


    "About 64,000 pounds," said MD.


    "What will you do with it?" said Secretary Joe with a curious grin. "That''s the 64,000 dollar question."


    It was a dad joke; I gave it a pity chuckle. "Not sure that''s the current exchange rate, to be honest. I think the real question is am I spending my money better than Folke Wester will spend his?"


    "Yes," said Brooke. It struck me that in a way, Wester would be spending her money. Her potential future inheritance would be shoved into the pockets of some shitty footballers and their agents.


    Would Wester make shitty signings though? His Judging Player Ability score was decent and his signings for Darlington had massively improved the team. I felt a twinge of fear. Chester were prey. I leaned into it for the benefit of Peter. "Or would it be the best signing any football club in the world could make? A one point five million pound future superstar, for example. We don''t know what he''s up to," I mused, as the fog of war closed in. I snapped out of it. I had sixty-odd thousand pounds sloshing around. "Where''s the next best option for a 3G pitch?"


    Brooke''s eyebrows moved together a microscopic amount. "Ellesmere Port is the next best. Upton comes after. Then Buckley, Deeside, Warrington. Quite variable returns financially, but Ryan moved some higher on the list because he said you''d want to cover the catchment areas of local players."


    "Right now I''m thinking about the money more than the scouting." I spun the marker around my fingers. "MD, would you allow us to get some sort of financing to build a third pitch?"


    "I thought you wanted to get rich through player trading? That we were going to buy premium players?"


    "I mean, we are," I said, flapping my hand at the board. "But the squad is going to be absolutely bursting - in a bad way - and the players I''m looking at are the limit of what we can do with our current wage structure... unless I pay someone more than I''m getting." I closed my eyes. "That has to be a line we don''t cross. Doesn''t it? I mean, I''d pay Messi more than me but come on. Some squad player from a team at the bottom of League One? No way." I clicked my neck around. "Bumpers and Hoole are raking in cash. We need to balance what we spend on players, facilities, and investments that let us increase the wage bill. Blowing my war chest puts me just ahead of Accrington Stanley in the League Two wage table. We need to raise the levels every year."


    "I... would consider looking into it but on the whole I''d rather pay for things when we have the money."


    "What if Henri''s syndicate loaned us some? Let''s say putting a pitch down in Ellesmere cost three hundred grand after subsidies."


    "More like three-fifty," said Brooke. "We might be able to get one-fifty in grants. Might."


    "Okay, call it three-sixty," I said. "To make the sums easier for me. We have sixty. We borrow three hundred from Henri, give him back... three twenty in the summer when we get the TV money. We''ll have an extra couple of grand for wages next season, there will be another fantastic place to play football up the road. Bosh. Win-win-win."


    MD thought about it. "I like the idea of having six thousand pounds a week of reliable income from these pitches. I''m not so keen to get out over my skis. Can I think about it? And discuss it with Henri? He might want a lot more risk premium than you have suggested."


    "Yeah, it''s not urgent. If you don''t think it makes sense I''m not going to throw a tantrum."


    "Character growth," mumbled Brooke as she pretended to scribble a note.


    "I''m just thinking if we''re going to do it, let''s get on it so the pitch company can blast it out asap." My heel panged; I ambled around to keep the blood flowing. "I think that''s it. Joe, I''m hoping to keep you busy this week."


    "Looking forward to it!"


    "Before you go," said Brooke. "Grindhog are reporting spikes in demand for merch coming from the States. We think Anglophiles are watching Chesterness on VPNs and getting interested in us. Sales of the women''s fit shirt are way, way up. That''ll sell out soon."


    "You want to put the price up next time? I don''t mind it. Five quid a shirt, something like that. It''s an amazing product. Do the men''s, too. Five quid profit isn''t a scandal, is it?"


    Her eyes widened. "That will help us boost retail sales to a million a year, as you, ah, suggested. But I was more thinking about the marketing synergies that will be possible when you''re in the U.S. in the summer. Can we get together and talk about our options?"


    "Er, yeah, but for Canada."


    Her expression tightened. "Canada?"


    "Yeah. I''m going there."


    "I see."


    There was a pause while Brooke and I left a lot of things unsaid. Secretary Joe said, "I hear it''s lovely."


    "Beautiful," I said. "And, of course, it''s much easier for me to get a work visa."


    "I can help you with that kind of thing, Max."


    "I wouldn''t dream of troubling you," I said. "Also, I''ve got a lead on a hot player."


    "Really?" said Brooke, as though she didn''t believe me. "What''s his name?"


    "Wayne Moose," I said. I clapped to signal the meeting was over. "Peter, you good? Brig? Let''s go sign some players!"


    "And see your mother," said Peter.


    "Right, right."


    ***


    We drove to Chorlton. Peter and I discussed the United game. Possible line-ups, possible strategies. I said that even if I had a crystal-clear plan, which I didn''t, I would probably not name the team until the day before the match at the earliest.


    "I want to let everyone think it might be them," I said. "They know I want to play because United is my club, but everyone feels more or less the same, right? Even if you grew up a Liverpool fan it''s still amazing to play at Old Trafford. And as a player you want to play on the big stage. So my idea is: let everyone dream. That might make the disappointment bigger when they''re not picked, but they got a great week, didn''t they?"


    Peter and the Brig discussed if that was the right way to manage the situation or not and it was quite interesting to hear them debate it. There wasn''t a conclusive reason not to do it my way and I decided the players had enough brutal honesty. A little hope never hurt anyone.


    Once at the bungalow, Angela asked the Brig if he could fix a shelf. "I''m right here," I said. Angela pretended she hadn''t heard. Imagine thinking John Smith was better with a screwdriver than me. What a world.


    Mum was happily playing solitaire so after a nice cup of tea - with Irish biscuits - I went out the back with Anna and Peter. "Aren''t you cold?" I said.


    "I am Polish," she said, as though that was an answer. Peter threw Solly his Kong toy.


    I checked Anna out. She was standing taller and her skin was clearer. "You look much better."


    "Just what a lady wants to hear. Last we met, you were hideous."


    "Not hideous," I said, like a true English gentleman.


    "I feel better. The change to the bungalow was hard but now I feel much improved. I am very, very grateful." She glanced behind in a way that made me suspect she was checking for Angela.


    "Is... everything okay? Everyone?"


    "Yes," whispered Anna, bringing me further away from the house. "Angela is excellent with your mother. You made a very wise choice. There are two small issues. One," she glanced towards the back porch again. "Angela is frugal. She is spending your money as though it were her own. Of course I approve whole-heartedly except in the case of the toiletries." I laughed because it was so unexpected but Anna remained stern. "Max I am very, very old and close to death. I do not wish to spend my remaining weeks or months using two-ply toilet rolls and store-brand shower gel. I would like to go out on a high."


    "I''ll make it happen," I said, "if you promise to stop talking about dying."


    "Oh, do not be so Victorian. Death comes to us all."


    "Not to you, so shut it. So what brands would - You know what? Rachel would love this conversation. I''ll give her the rundown and she''ll call you and find your dream shower gel and whatnot. Andrew will drop off a massive box of all your faves. Consider it done. What''s the second thing?"


    "The second thing is even more presumptuous. A cat has been coming to the garden."


    "A cat? Isn''t it afraid of Solly?"


    "This cat isn''t afraid of anything. It follows me around the garden as I take my constitutionals. It jumps up onto the table and demands food."


    I glanced at the simple outdoor table set. Three chairs were covered with plastic but one was in regular use. "Cheeky fuck."


    "She is a cheeky fuck, yes," smiled Anna. "I have been requesting chicken meals from Angela. She slices a couple of pieces off, boils them, and I feed them to the cat on the table. We call it the chicken dance. The cat rises to pluck strips of chicken from my hand, or must sit still to get portions delivered low. It has become quite a ritual. She is extremely vocal and demanding but is willing to become obedient for the chicken. Angela pretends to disapprove but I think she has grown fond of the little creature. She certainly disapproves of my plan to ask what I''m about to ask."


    "Hit me."


    Anna took a breath, smiled as Solly pushed himself flat against the earth, tail wagging, not flinching as Peter faked to throw the toy. Anticipation 20. Good boy! "The cat is fat and needs exercise. I said this to Angela and she heartily agreed. She showed me a video of an assault course designed for squirrels. They must overcome a variety of challenges in order to collect nuts; it is most engaging and they are wonderful animals. I would love to see such a course here, for my fat cat. Squirrels could use it, too, one supposes."


    I was smiling. "You want me to build an obstacle course for cats and squirrels?"


    "I know it is ridiculous. The request of a spoiled child."


    Pets, missions, daily interest, something to do, something to talk about. Ingredients for a long and healthy life. "I''m happy to spoil you. Kinda feels more like I''m spoiling some neighbour''s cat... What can it cost, anyway? Fifty pounds?"


    "Rather a lot more, according to Angela. Her son does work of this nature."


    "Aff does construction? That''s cool." I had been trying to get my young players to think about careers they might have after football - getting them to even consider the idea they might ever not be a player was like talking to a cactus about the Cambrian Era.


    Peter''s watch beeped. "Max, we have to go."


    I hugged Anna, asked Angela to ask Aff to give me a price on some kind of adventure playground for small mammals, squeezed my mum''s hand, and skipped out to snap up a pair of gobby Manc twats.


    ***


    Adam Summerhays was Manc but he wasn''t gobby. He was the left back I''d seen when I''d visited Carrington, Man United''s training complex. He had short, fuzzy black hair, and a low centre of gravity. He was 17 years old, short, very fast, very technical. Very left-footed but he got himself out of trouble with his agility and like all United players he had been coached to get forward and join attacks. With Anna''s request fresh in my mind I wondered if Adam would be able to catch a cat and decided probably yes.


    He would be a good option instead of Cole Adams for matches where the oppo winger was speedy or we needed more quality going forward. He was CA 32, PA 137. I''d have loved him in my Youth Cup team but he was cup tied. Whether he joined Chester or not, his Youth Cup days were over.


    Alfie Clitheroe was Manc and by God, he was gobby. Not today so much - he was still reeling from being told he didn''t have a future at his boyhood club. He was also 17, also cup tied, but he played in central midfield. He was a far more mobile version of Ryan Jack - a wily craftsman with an edge. He was a master of angled passes and clever fouls and had Pascal''s knack for popping up in unexpected spaces. In fact, he played more like Charlotte than Ryan Jack, but either way I was more than happy to have him. He was CA 31, PA 133 and seemed a perfect fit for Relationism - if I got that working as intended. After the United game and once the season''s transfers were wrapped up, I would focus on the new module.


    The lads and their dads toured the Recreation Ground, home to West Didsbury and Chorlton. We had picked West as the venue because it was the most convenient for me but it turned out to be a great place to give them a sense of who I was. Who we were - the dads took turns mirin'' Peter Bauer, while the Brig worked his particular brand of magic on the young men. That felt like an inversion of how it should have gone but I wasn''t complaining.


    Over a tea by the corner flag near the pavilion, I told them about Wes Hayward, the last player I''d brought to the Rec, whose career had been all but over. Now he was in League One earning as much as me.


    We talked about Vivek, who was enjoying his football while learning his position, about Jay Cope, who was trying to break a record for consecutive home wins and looked a decent bet to succeed. We talked about the fan culture and the way attendances had been rising even before West turned into a winning machine. I said keeping the culture at West was paramount and new players needed to want to be part of it but if they bought in they would have the time of their lives.


    Alfie''s dad chuckled. "You''re not really talking about West, are you?"


    I bent to feel the pitch near the corner flag. It was in decent condition. I stood and slapped flecks of soil from my palms. "Everyone in football says the same thing - the Man United lads are good lads. You''re polite and you''re nice to the dinner ladies and that sort of thing. I know you''ll fit in, on and off the pitch. So the question is can you do better than Chester? I don''t think so. We''re amazing." I smiled. "You can get more money, but you can''t buy a career. If you come you''ll be the... I think it''s the twentieth and twenty-first teenagers getting first team minutes this season. We''re eighteen months from the Championship. You''re joining a Championship club but I don''t want you to think I''m doing you a favour. I''d be excited if you signed. I''d be absolutely made up because you''d give us even more quality and you''re types of players we don''t have. Put it this way, I have a huge transfer kitty and you''re my first stop."


    The dads loved this - they were pretty much convinced - but Alfie had one vital question. One detail from our tour was giving him second thoughts. "Do we ''ave to eat ''ummus and celery?"


    ***


    We agreed terms. I said I didn''t want to cause friction with the other Exit Triallists so I would pay 500 a week but with 200 in add-ons. If the lads would kindly say they were on ''500 basic'' that would help with morale and wouldn''t be a lie. They would get new deals in the summer, I said, depending on how they kicked on in the coming months.


    "Oh, and one last thing. Let''s please get this done in the next couple of days because I''m going to rinse United in the post-match interview this Sunday."


    "What?" said Peter. "You''re not going to make me do it?"


    "No," I said. "I wrote the whole speech the night the draw was made. I think it''s hilarious. United''s owners won''t. If you don''t come this week, the deal is not going to happen. They will force you to stay until the summer."


    "Or sir could keep his gob shut," suggested the Brig.


    "Come on," I said. "I''m only human." I grinned so mischievously the United lads joined in.


    With the deals agreed, the Brig drove Peter and I to Stoke for the next meetings. Stoke was a compromise location - an hour from Chester, two from Reading.


    We pulled into a golf club to meet my big-money signings. In true progression fantasy style, we were doing things in ascending order of transfer fee.


    Ian Swan and his agent were there talking to Sticky and Ryan Jack, and the seven of us had a late lunch together.


    Swanny was tall and thin and had a hard-to-place accent - one of London''s suburbs maybe. He came across as reserved but it was hard to be sure if that was an accurate read. A lot of footballers could only be themselves in a football setting and he had been under a lot of stress recently. Swanny was the backup goalie at Reading and that club''s plight was the topic for the first part of the meal. Reading hadn''t paid its backroom staff for months and only paid its players enough to stop them being allowed to declare their contracts null and void. The club had been given a ten-point penalty which made them favourites for relegation. The penalty had been met with jubilation from my mate TJ, the manager of Crawley. They had been in trouble but Reading''s shitty owner had given everyone in the bottom half of League One a huge lift.


    Peter, the Brig, and Ryan helped keep the chat flowing while I chowed down on a panini. Sticky didn''t say much but it was clear Swanny already respected the guy everyone at the table hoped would be his next coach.


    Swanny was 24 and had a very, very attractive CA 85 allied with PA 127. When I''d finished eating, his agent asked me how I planned to use his client.


    "Okay, great question," I said. "Apart from getting a good deal because Reading are, you know, what I''m excited about with Swanny is his ability to use his feet. We''re in League Two, going into League One, and every oppo is wildly different. Some are beefy boys and it''s all about set pieces, corners, long throws. Some try to do high pressing like the Prem teams and you''re supposed to play out from the back against them. At the moment we don''t get involved with all that because, well, our goalies haven''t had the appropriate profile and their skills would point the team in a different direction."


    "He''s saying I''m shit at passing," said Sticky, as he mopped up some sauce with a wedge of bread.


    "He''s not shit but I wouldn''t ask him to play like Manuel Neuer. That''s fair enough, isn''t it? I don''t ask players to do what they can''t do. But you can do it so that starts to give us that option. Add Zach Green and, I don''t know, some kind of unicorn superweapon..." Peter didn''t react. "And we can coax teams to press us high and we''ll play through them."


    The agent said, "So Ian would be your first choice goalkeeper."


    "No such thing at Chester," I said. "He would get shirt number 1 but for the rest of the season it would be horses for courses. Sticky against your cavemen teams, Swanny against your Man City-wannabes. There are plenty of minutes to go round. Oh, our pitch is struggling so that would make me lean towards Sticky but we''re getting it redone in the summer along with one of the stands. Next season it will be a wonderland."


    I was starting to dislike the agent. He reminded me of James Pond, the toad who had tried to sell Chester to the Star family. "I presume on that basis that Ian would start against Manchester United this Sunday."


    I felt my jaw tensing. "Are you asking me to tell you my team? My tactics? Do you work for United?"


    Ryan Jack said, "Max." He looked at the agent. "We can''t answer questions like that, as you know, but it would partly depend on how Ian was training. What I hear is he''s a top pro and he understands the team comes first. Isn''t that right, Ian?"


    That was an invitation for Swanny to undo the mess his idiot agent was causing. "Course, yeah. That''s life as a keeper, isn''t it? You have to bide your time, keep sweating, be ready when you''re needed. I want to play, Max, I want to be first choice but I won''t rock the boat. Oh," he added, in a tone that brought the tension all the way back up.


    "What is it, la?" said Ryan.


    "Just, talking about the United match. I''d love to feature, I would, course I would. But I promised the gaffer I''d try and stay around for a couple more weeks."


    "Ian," said his agent. "What are you doing?"


    I narrowed my eyes. Was this prick pretending to be surprised? Was this Jack Litherland all over again? In my early days in charge of Chester, Litherland had come in, lifted the team, and then fucked off minutes before the transfer deadline leaving us staring relegation in the face. That scheme had been designed and carried out by football agents. Why couldn''t this one be in on it? "What date would you be willing to join?"


    "I - " started Swanny. "I''m willing to join now, Max. It''s just... Reading have a Vans Trophy match on the 29th and the gaffer asked if I''d stick around till then. I''m eligible, right, and my replacement might be cup tied."


    "The 29th," I said, flatly. "Meaning you''d join on the 30th. Doesn''t leave me a lot of wiggle room if this deal suddenly falls through."


    Swanny frowned like he didn''t understand why it would fall through, but Litherland had acted like he loved everything about Chester. Bradley Rymarquis and Richard Carling, my former enemies, could be back up to their old tricks. Ten grand in Swanny''s pocket to string me along... It was a lot of money for a lad who wasn''t getting paid. Swanny continued. "I don''t... It''s just... The gaffer asked." I think I was giving him the evil eye because he stammered and had to force the words out until he got into his stride. "Look, it''s shit at Reading. We don''t get paid and all that. It''s always crazy stuff going on and it''s mad in the papers and there''s always nearly a new owner but the deal falls through. The fans are quality but for me it''s all about the gaffer. He''s been putting decent sides out and getting results and keeping the whole place going. I owe him, Max. He''s... He''s the gaffer. I don''t know how to explain it. He''s just been dead good to me. I feel shit leaving. Everyone says I have to for me and the club but it''s like I''m letting my mates down. They''re... We''re... I like what you''re doing there and you''re dead funny and if I have to go okay let it be Chester but the gaffer said he wouldn''t stand in my way but if I could stay for the Vans that''d be solid because he thinks they can have a proper go and maybe win it. It''s the quarters and we can beat anyone on our day so why not, like?" He looked wretchedly down at his hands. They were smaller than Sticky''s but had the tell-tale markings of being a goalie - bruises, random bits of tape, surgical scars.


    I no longer thought he was trying another Litherland but I had to be professional, which in this case meant being paranoid. "Okay, mate. Thing is, I got dicked at the end of a transfer window before and we had to go months without a left back. I can''t have Banksy as our backup goalie for the rest of the season. He''s mint but he''s not ready to play. So if you want to join on the 30th, I''m going to have to call six clubs and get six keepers on standby to come in on loan on the 31st. And I know if I start making those calls, some manager is going to say ''You want Scott McGoalkeeper on loan? Why not buy him? I could use the money for a new striker.'' Do you get me?"


    He remained wretched for a while before briefly nodding. "I''ll... Yeah. Whenever you want. Fill in the date and I''ll sign."


    Swanny''s misery was so complete I nearly laughed. All paranoia left me. "Here''s what we''ll do. You''ll help your boss who''s been good to you and you''ll come on the 30th. We want players like you. Players who give a shit. I''ll have a couple of options just in case but I want you, Swanny. You''re the right character, the right profile, and you''re going to help us evolve. One thing, though. When Hull or Portsmouth are trying to buy you for a million quid you''re gonna get packed and ready to go even if I ask you to stay on for a cup match, all right? Your career is short and you need to get paid."


    Swanny did a thin smile while his agent mentally spent the hundred thousand pounds I had just summoned into his imagination. 4D shopping.


    Peter tapped the table in front of him. "Don''t listen to him, Ian. They say you only cry twice at Chester. Once when you arrive and once when you leave."


    Swanny looked at Peter as though seeing him for the first time. "You work for Bayern, right? You don''t have any skin in this game. Some of my mates say I shouldn''t drop a division. What would you do if you were me?"


    "In your position I would join Chester with no hesitation. In Max''s position I would insist you sign right away. He will play one cup match and three league games with a seventeen-year-old keeper on the bench. That is no kind of risk reward."


    "The reward," I said, "is that Swanny gets to leave on his own terms and we get a happy player who knows his new club is just like his old club. And he won''t cry when he leaves Chester because his new club will be paying him five figures a week." I rubbed my hair while I thought about Banksy being on the bench against United, Chesterfield, Barrow, and Gillingham. A match we were going to lose anyway plus three low-to-mid table League Two teams. It would be fine. If Sticky got injured I would get a goalie on loan just for January. "Swanny, the numbers are right for me, I like your loyalty and the way you play. I''m in if you are."


    He reached out a hand. I shook it and emitted a series of whelps that conveyed how buzzed I was. An 85 CA goalie! One who wouldn''t give you a heart attack if someone played a difficult pass to him.


    My reaction should have been seen as stupid and mental but I wasn''t alone. Sticky hugged Swanny from behind while Peter banged the table.


    I slapped Ryan Jack on the back before bringing him in for a hug. He''d cut out the stage where I had to negotiate the numbers and had also helped when the agent had threatened to piss me off. The new system was frustrating in some ways, but seemed worth sticking with.


    Three deals done. Three Championship-calibre players in the bag.


    Boshhhhhhhh!


    ***


    I went for a walk to calm myself down but didn''t go so far that it would wreck my foot. I daydreamed about having a proper League Two goalie for the second half of the season. He''d be League One quality long before we got to League One. Having money made this management lark a piece of cake.


    The Brig came to get me. My final transfer target had arrived with his agent and wife.


    We sat in some comfy chairs on the second floor of the golf club. The space had amazing views stretching for miles over this green and pleasant land.


    The men''s boot room was getting pretty crowded. For example, if Ian arrived, which seemed 99% certain, we would have four goalkeepers, one more than we really needed. Of the 25 in the first team squad, three would be out on loan and Tom Westwood would join them soon, but I also wanted to add Peter and had verbally committed to signing the two lads from United. We were bloated but we also desperately needed a left-sided midfielder if we could get one, and if he could play CAM, so much the better.


    Charlie Dugdale fit the bill so perfectly I wondered what other teams were not seeing in him. Reading''s financial distress had been a long time coming but instead of there being a queue to take Dugdale, Ryan Jack had reported that our approach had been met with surprise.


    It made no sense.


    Okay he was 24 and had that vibe of being a player who would never fulfil his early promise. The lowest salary he was willing to countenance - and that only because Reading weren''t actually paying him his four-and-a-half grand wages - was three thousand a week, which would put off some League Two clubs.


    He had been out for part of the season with a hip injury which had also cost him his place in the Reading side. The combination had allowed his CA to decay to 87. Ruth and Ryan had told me his agent was difficult and his wife was a pain.


    But still.


    The guy was beautiful. He ran upright, head level because he knew where the ball was, effortlessly gliding, all willowy lines and fast feet. He dribbled, nutmegged, passed, jinked, dinked, tricked. There was one move he''d done when I''d spied on him at Reading''s training that absolutely bamboozled me. One second the ball was there and the defender was there, the next Dugdale was five yards away and onto his next victim.


    No-one even reacted. It was just what he did, all day, every day. He also took free kicks and corners.


    He was PA 143, same as Kisi Yalley, but she was two-footed. All Charlie''s talent had been stuffed into his left boot.


    I didn''t mind. Don''t tell Emma but I was besotted. More than ready to fangirl over him and his fluffy light-brown hair.


    Thanks to Ruth and Ryan, Reading had agreed a fee - 400K was serious money to Chester but surely only half what Dugdale was worth - and a wage. The thought of paying someone 3 grand a week was literally painful but Charlie would bring balance to our squad and I was sure he would become an assist machine with our fleet of strikers to aim for.


    Everyone shook hands and made small talk. The Brig had known a Dugdale in the army and after some probing it was decided there was little likelihood that Charlie was related to that chap.


    The agent was a small being with tiny eyes too close together. I''ll call him Weasel, which is in no way doomshadowing.


    "Max," said Weasel. "What role do you see Charlie having in your team?"


    I noted he said team instead of squad, but ignored that and used a ketchup bottle and some sachets of mustard to illustrate how Charlie would fit into my preferred 4-1-4-1 and 4-2-3-1 systems. I explained that I was overstocked with striking talent so there would be a decent amount of 4-3-3, 3-5-2, and 3-4-3, but Charlie could play in all of those.


    "In fact," I joked, "it''s hard to imagine a formation he couldn''t play in."


    "Seven-oh-three," suggested Weasel, a snide reference to my desperate tactics against Newcastle. Why would you snipe at someone who''s about to give you loads of money?


    "Nope, he''d play on the left of the three. He''d be fucking mint at that."


    Charlie was from the Dan Badford school of being too cool for life, but like all the players I''d seen that day he had been given an almighty reality check - in his case when his most recent paycheque hadn''t cleared. He smiled at my compliment and his wife hugged his arm. She was a blonde bombshell, but one of those that didn''t explode on impact. She had a smug, superior air that wound me up. I''d like to say that I rose above it but it might be more accurate to say I rose to the same level as it. Can I get a ''you tried'' sticker?


    There followed a brief burst of chat between Ryan Jack and Peter about how amazing the Newcastle match was and how they were expecting big things against Man United. This good-natured conversation was met with deathly silence from the outsiders. I took that to be a red flag - why wouldn''t you say something nice? - but I thought up a few excuses for why they would react like that. For example, maybe Dugdale''s father was a massive Newcastle fan. Doubtful - the guy was from Staffordshire.


    While my mood was sinking, the Brig stretched his phone out in front of me. It was a message from one of the many ex-military dudes now working in the world of football that he had befriended. That was a cool resource, by the way. Almost like a spy network that only we had access to. The message was in all caps and as befits a message from a spy, some rudimentary encoding had taken place.


    HEARING BRADFORD R PUSHING HARD 2 SIGN A BIG NAME STRIKER


    Well, that didn''t put a smile on my face.


    Foquita wasn''t an option but there were other million-pound goalsmen who might see an upwardly-mobile Bradford as a good move. Could Wester get someone with CA 120 for a million? Someone who would do to League Two what Marcus Wainwright had done to the National League?


    I tuned out for a while before realising someone was talking to me. "Soz, what?"


    Ryan was used to me spacing out and quickly filled me in. "Weasel was asking why you want Charlie and not lots of similar players."


    "Erm," I said, from miles away. What had actually happened at half time in our match against Bradford and was it related to these projected transfers? "Obviously, Reading''s situation brings the asking price down so that''s a big deal. But I just love the way he plays. He''s completely effective as a player, has room to grow, fills out our squad, gives us a lot of tactical freedom. But more than that," I said, warming to the topic, "he''s aesthetic. Modern owners have turned this into a world of data and metrics and algorithms but I''m asking thousands of people to spend twenty quid a week to watch us and some of what we serve up is thin gruel. I owe our fans beauty and imagination and Charlie''s the kind of player you mention to old men and they close their eyes and say ''now he was a player''. He was a player. That''s what football is. It''s memories in the making and if we''re not making enough memories we''re not doing it right. I''m thinking about the United match this weekend and I''m planning a social media campaign where I talk about an old Man United team with their current Chester equivalents. Do you know United fans still sing two songs about George Best? Sixty years have been and gone! I doubt anyone in the stadium ever saw him in the flesh. Not many, anyway, but they sing it loud. Fans don''t want to watch midfielders turn around and pass the ball back to the goalie. They''ll tolerate it if you tell them that''s the best way to win, but no-one likes it. How can you like it? Fans want dribblers. They want fantasy. John O''Shea was a competent centre back for United but one time he nutmegged Luis Figo and became an all-time legend. Charlie could make sure we get promoted this year but next season he''ll have one of the most outrageous years any player has ever had in League One. We are going to rampage through the league but I don''t want to just steamroller it. I want to do it in such style little kids will watch us on TV and go in the garden and try to do skillz like Charlie and tekkers like Tockers."


    I stopped only because I was having visions of Charlie jinking past two defenders before snapping a shot from the edge of the box into the bottom-right corner. Charlie''s technique was so repeatable he could score the same goal again and again. A signature move. The Dugdale Driller.


    The name wouldn''t catch on, though, would it?


    The Panenka? Yes.


    The Cruyff Turn? Yes.


    The Dugdale?


    My eyes widened. That was why Charlie''s career wasn''t rocketing ever upwards. His name!


    Joy and beauty didn''t come from a name like Dugdale. I had noticed the same thing with players the curse rated highly with names like Billings, Brownhill, and Nethercott. They were chronically undervalued by the market.


    Ryan was nudging me. I had missed something. "Say that again, Weasel," said Ryan. "Max was away with the footballing angels."


    Not for a few hours yet, I thought, but Weasel didn''t seem to mind repeating himself. I thought I detected a stiffening of the Chester family to my right. "It''s good you think so highly of Charlie," said Weasel. "That makes this easier. You see, he hasn''t been paid by Reading and it will cost a lot to move to Chester. I am proposing a relocation bonus. You know, to help him get settled into his new home. Standard practice, of course."


    "Standard practice," I repeated, eyeing Charlie and his wife. "Ryan, did this come up when you and Ruth were negotiating?"


    "No, boss."


    I leaned back and looked up. I was thinking back to the last time something like this had happened. Then, I had walked out on Andrew and Gemma and caused some consternation. I had been very lucky that a resolution was found. Charlie wasn''t my player, though, was he? It wasn''t exactly comparable. I decided to show growth by talking about leaving before leaving. "Ryan, am I allowed to get up and walk out?"


    "Yes, boss. But if you want Charlie, you have to deal with his agent."


    We weren''t making any attempt to speak softly, by the way. Charlie''s eyes were darting between two points while his wife was looking defiant. "We can''t let them change the deal at the last minute, right? That''s all kinds of rude."


    Ryan didn''t look happy but I''d asked him to be my diplomat and he was trying. "It''s not how I''d like to do business but I don''t think we should give up on the deal yet. You could give them an ultimatum. The deal we all agreed, take it or leave it."


    "Yeah but then I have to deal with this guy every time I renew Charlie''s deal. I don''t want anything to do with him and I don''t want him loitering around Bumpers. Can I sign the player but ban his agent from coming to Chester?"


    "That would be pretty strange, boss."


    I scratched my head. Weasel looked slightly panicked - his brinksmanship hadn''t gone as planned. "You can''t afford another player of Charlie''s quality."


    "Maybe not," I said, standing. "But I can train one up. Thanks for your time."


    "Wait, hold on," said Weasel. "What are you doing?"


    "I''m leaving. You wouldn''t try that shit with Ian Evans so why should I accept it?"


    "Wait," said the wife. "It''s true what Weasel said. Reading didn''t pay us. If we join can''t you forward some wages or whatever they call it?"


    "That''s not what he asked," I said. "Weasel wants some money on top of what we already agreed. You get why that''s a shitty thing to do, right?"


    She was heating up. "He''s negotiating. He''s trying to get the best deal for us."


    "Okay." I nodded at Peter and Sticky - they got up and shuffled a few yards towards the stairs. I followed.


    This enraged the wife even more. "So you made the whole thing up. You don''t think Charlie''s all the things you said."


    She was genuinely exhausting. "What?"


    "If he was a player you''d sing songs about like you said, you''d give us a bit of help so we could move house. We have no money. Don''t you get that? We can''t even afford to go to Chester. We only need twenty or thirty thousand."


    I very nearly laughed. You could slap all your stuff in a rental van and move cross-country for five hundred quid. What was the other twenty-odd grand for? A brand consultant to advise on which emotional music to use on your ''Goodbye Reading FC'' Instagram story? I moved a pace back in Charlie''s direction. "I am paid three thousand pounds a week. You can check on Chester''s accounts. Player wages aren''t itemised but mine''s on there because it''s a fan-owned club and they have a right to know. I think I''m pretty good value for that. The fans get the best player in the league - over 20 goals and 10 assists already this season - they get the best scout, a juggernaut of a women''s team, an amazing youth programme. I''ve brought the club from the bottom of tier six to within touching distance of the Championship and I''ve raised five million pounds to get the stadium back and to rebuild one stand. I''ve built a training complex and assembled the best coaching team outside the Championship. I''ve offered Charlie the exact same wages as me because if that''s what it takes to move the club forward, okay. But if you want to be paid more than me you need to do more than me. If you want money for nothing, call Dire Straits." I paused. "Or Bradford. I hear they need a left-mid."


    ***


    I fumed in the car, but scrolling through my database of AMLCs was very therapeutic. There were other options out there. Okay some of the players weren''t very aesthetic but they were effective and that''s all that mattered, really.


    I thought about one player in my database who very much passed the eye test.


    "What are you smiling at?" asked Peter.


    "Nothing. Hey, who wants a Kit Kat? Brig, pull in at the next shop."


    ***


    Chesterness Series 2: The Relentlessness


    Episode 4: Here, Kitty Kitty. Final Scene.


    On-screen text:


    Chester''s comfortable win against Chester-le-Street puts the women six points clear at the top of the table.


    Jackie Reaper gathers the players before training to remind them of the need to avoid complacency.


    [They gather around Jackie on the 3G pitch at Bumpers Bank. Unusually, they are squashed onto one half of the pitch while some randos mill about on the other half. The randos are mostly wearing dark clothes and shoes. Some are carrying cameras. Jackie struggles to keep everyone''s attention.]


    Jackie: All right, listen up. Quick chat, yeah? Amazing performance on Sunday, loved it. Next up is the FA Cup Fourth Round against Lincoln and we''re favourites to win that. The way we''re playing we have a chance against anyone, yeah, so we have to keep the intensity up and that starts here in training. The Relentlessness, isn''t it? [He sighs.] What are yers doing?


    Bonnie: Why are we on half the pitch?


    Ridley T: Who are they?


    Jackie: I''m not sure, to be honest. Some PR thing. Announcing the bonds have sold out is my guess. Max said since you''d played yesterday I wouldn''t need the whole pitch and you know what he''s like.


    Bea Pea: You should stand up to him, Jackie.


    Jackie: Thanks for the advice, Bea Pea.


    Bea Pea: I''m just saying that''ll be good for the documentary. Us winning every week is boring, innit? We need drama. I heard you and Max used to butt heads in front of everyone and it was dead sexy.


    Meghan: Yeah, Jackie. Think of the demographics we could reach if you and Max got hot and heavy every episode.


    Jackie: I''m happy with my demographics. I''m massive in Northern Ireland, I''m told. Can we talk about Lincoln City now?


    Angel: Max would never, ever give up half our pitch for a PR event. He''s all about the football and he''d put the King in a shed before he''d take our pitch from us.


    Pippa: That''s right.


    Angel: It''s happening here because he wants us to see.


    [Jackie turns and checks out the sitch. Nothing much is happening.]


    Jackie: Well...


    [People emerge from the bar and stride towards the pitch.]


    Angel: What the fuck.


    Cut to: Alex, the host of much of the BBC''s women''s football coverage. She''s in her kitchen clutching a cup of tea.


    Alex: I remember the day really clearly. I was nine years old and had been super into football for a couple of years. I was an Arsenal girl, of course, but Manchester United were the top dogs and Newcastle were second and trying to catch them. We were in school one day - no social media in those days! - and this rumour spread around that Man United had bought Andy Cole from Newcastle for 7 million pounds. No-one could believe their ears. The fee was just mad and Cole had scored 41 goals the season before. Why would you sell your best player to your biggest rivals even for that amount of money? It was unbelievable. We were all in shock. I''ll never forget that day. It was exciting and strange and nothing like that will ever happen again because, you know, deals take so long to arrange and everyone leaks the story ahead of time. [She sips her tea.] Andy Cole to United. That was absolutely wild. [She takes another sip and looks into the camera.] Why are you asking me about that?


    Cut to: The women rushing forward and Jackie admitting defeat and catching up.


    Cut to: Max Best in a brand new Boateng Boateng suit next to a woman in full Chester kit. She''s doing kick-ups and half a dozen photographers are going fucking insane. Reporters are recording everything on their phones.


    Max: Thanks for coming to this Kit launch... [Chuckles from two of the reporters.] Chester FC are delighted to announce the signing of Kit Hodges from Bristol City for a club record fee. Kit is 22 (which is also her squad number), and is a fast, technical, and absolutely deadly striker who will fit perfectly with our plans here. She has signed a three-and-a-half year contract.


    [Kit turns around, and double-thumbs her name and number: KIT 22.]


    ---


    Charlotte: Max finally got his redhead.


    Maddy: Yeah he did...


    Meghan: Talk about the cat who got the cream. He didn''t smile that much when he thrashed Bradford.


    ---


    Reporter: What''s the fee?


    Max: 70,000 pounds.


    ---


    Maddy: Holy shit!


    Bonnie: No way.


    Queenie: Did I hear that right?


    ---


    Reporter: That''s a lot of money for a fourth-tier fan-owned women''s team.


    Max: We''re not in the money business, we''re in the glory business. You''re going to ask if it was hard to persuade Kit to drop two divisions. No, it wasn''t. She''s ambitious. She''s relentless. Bristol City are a fantastic club and were really easy to deal with but they are caught between two worlds. Chester are going to smash through the Championship into the WSL. Kit wants to help us tell that story.


    Reporter: Kit, why did you come here really?


    Kit: I''m here because Chester absolutely battered us in the FA Cup and I thought, I wish we played like that. I went home that night, binged the documentary, and when Max called he talked about how it wouldn''t be boring coming down a level because we were going to challenge for the cups and we were building something really special and I was like yes, this is what I need. It''s a special group, the results speak for themselves, Jackie Reaper''s a top coach, and Max is so driven and that''s what I want. He said - oh, maybe I shouldn''t...


    Reporter: What did he say?


    Max: It''s fine, Kit.


    Kit: He said if you stand still you get left behind and if I don''t train hard and I don''t perform he''ll bin me off.


    ---


    Jackie: Fucking hell, Max. Such a charmer.


    Sarah Greene: It worked on me.


    ---


    Reporter: But you came anyway?


    Kit: Hell, yeah! I don''t want to be in the team because a guy in a great suit spent too much money on me. I want to be in because I deserve to be in. [She looks towards the Chester players.]


    Max: Want to join training? It''s gonna be a light sesh.


    Kit: Can I?


    Max: Yeah, why not?


    [Kit walks over to the waiting throng. There is big first day at school energy all round.]


    [The second camera follows Bea Pea and Angel, who trudge behind. They have both been knocked one rung down the pecking order. It¡¯s not Bea Pea¡¯s first rodeo.]


    Bea Pea: There''s your mid-season twist, Angel.


    Angel: [Distracted.] What?


    Bea Pea: Max bringing the fresh narratives like he always does.


    Angel: That''s me cooked.


    Bea Pea: No.


    Angel: I''m out of the team.


    Bea Pea: Kit''s cup tied. She can''t play next week so you''ll start, won''t you? If you play your best you''ll keep her out of the team. I was teasing Jackie before but he''s not going to put her in the team just because of her price tag.


    [Kit waits on the edge of the penalty box. Sarah rolls a ball to her. Kit smashes it first time into the top left corner. Scottie Love doesn''t even raise her gloves. Kit smiles. Sarah rolls another ball. Kit smashes it into the exact same place.]


    Bea Pea: Okay he might put her in the team because of that.


    Angel: [Sets her jaw, frowns, eyes blaze.] That? I can do that. [She strides forward.] Hey! My turn.


    [Cut to: Max Best. He''s standing on the pitch a slight distance from the reporters, watching the women get to know their new teammate. He''s rubbing his mouth, quite pleased with himself.]


    ***


    Tuesday, January 6


    I was in the Sin Bin watching footage of Man United looking for ways to get at them. There were many - if I had a Premier League squad to pick from. Give me twenty guys with triple-digit CA and I¡¯ll give you cupset after cupset.


    I didn¡¯t have a high-CA squad.


    There was no point beating myself up over the fact and looking on the bright side was easy; my collection of players was getting absolutely insane in the talent department. Pascal and Youngster had been my first triple-digit-PA players. I suppose Ryan Jack counted. He had tried to apologise for his role in the botched transfer of Charlie Dugdale but I wouldn''t hear of it.


    Other managers, agents, and players were always going to try to rip me off. Partly because I often seemed like a noob who didn''t know what he was doing (fair comment, a lot of the time), and partly because I was young and therefore a fucking idiot by default.


    Yeah, snakes gonna snake and I didn''t blame Ryan one little bit and, in fact, the whole debacle had made me feel better. Now MD, Brooke, and the others would know that it wasn''t just me sabotaging deals, it was the guys who most stood to benefit!


    Looking up at the screen, I worried that I might struggle to put together a Premier League quality side if I couldn''t find enough decent agents to deal with.


    The Championship? That was a piece of piss. When Ian Swan joined, my first team squad would contain 17 guys with PAs over 100. Nineteen if I included the new lads coming from United. Nineteen! And what about Magnus and Dan? They showed no sign of slowing. If I was willing to be patient and if I kept reinvesting in Exit Triallists and other team''s cast-offs, we could get to mid-table in the Championship and stay there.


    Could I cut myself out of the transfer loop altogether? No, because players wanted to meet me before deciding if they wanted to come or not. According to the curse, my reputation in England was still Poor. When I was in the Championship, the kinds of players I was looking at now would be willing to come to Chester without meeting me first but by then I would be shopping in an even more exclusive bracket and dealing with ever more entitled and self-absorbed players.


    I wasn¡¯t looking forward to it.


    There was a knock on the door and Jojo opened it. "There''s someone to see you, Max. Says he knows you and only wants a quick word. Can I send him in?"


    "Does he look like he could beat me in a fight?"


    "No. You''d batter him."


    I beamed. "Jojo, you''re such a sweet-talker. You''re my absolute favourite. Go on, then."


    I tapped the table and wondered how I was doing as a soccer supremo. Quite well, I thought, though there were two enormous holes in the squad. One was shaped exactly like Peter Bauer and the other looked a lot like -


    "Hi, Max."


    "Fuck me," I said, as someone completely unexpected shuffled in. "Hello, Charlie Dugdale. What brings you here?"

 13.5 - Manchester United 2 Chester 1

    5.


    In the week leading up to Chester FC''s money-spinning match against Manchester United, a series of videos was released on their social media accounts. The campaign was called ''Combined Eleven''.


    ***


    1 - Dennis Reeves versus Pat Dunne


    MAX BEST strides through the tunnel onto the pitch at the DEVA STADIUM. He is wearing a new addition to the Grindhog product line - a black Chester hoodie. He stops and looks to the left of the lens. He addresses SOPHIE, the producer.


    MAX


    Sophie, is my hair blowing enough?


    SOPHIE


    What do you mean?


    MAX


    I''m trying to look like a titan, aren''t I? I am astride my stage. Bestride it, even. I want my hair all blowy.


    SOPHIE


    There''s no wind today.


    MAX


    Ever heard of movie magic, Sophie?


    [Cut to Max once again emerging from the tunnel. He strides onto the pitch and looks at the camera. His hair is magnificent.]


    MAX


    [Shouting over a din.] Hi, I''m Max Best, player-manager at Chester FC.


    SOPHIE


    Sorry, Max. We can''t hear.


    MAX


    Is it because of them?


    [We cut to a second camera which shows two interns aiming cordless hairdryers at Max''s head.]


    MAX


    Fine, scratch that. I''ll just look [bleep]. What the...


    [We go again.]


    MAX


    Hi, I''m Max Best, player-manager at Chester FC. On the 11th of January 2026 we''re going to play a football match against Manchester United. If you''re thinking wow that''s weird, yes it is! But we''ve done it once before, back in 1965. Chester had a crazy team in those days which I''ll tell you about in these videos. But first I have to choose my starting goalie for Sunday.


    [Cut to the goalpost at the Harry McNally end. Almost every goalkeeper in the Chester system is standing in a line of descending height, in full kit. The image freezes and each player gets a name tag: Sticky, Rainman, Banksy, Bivvy, Gerbil, Scottie Love, Queenie, Big Sam, Babs, Tadpole.]


    MAX


    Why are there so many of you? Er... anyone injured? [They shake their heads.] Hang on, Rainman, you''re out on loan. Everyone out on loan stand away! [Rainman departs.] Queenie, how many first team games have you played?


    QUEENIE


    For the men''s team? None, boss. I''m not allowed because I''m a girl.


    MAX


    That''s not fair, but it does make my life easier. Erm... yeah, women go with Rainman, please. [They obey.] Tadpole, can you touch the crossbar?


    TADPOLE


    [Stretching.] Nearly!


    MAX


    Off you go. Big Sam, how much is a credit check for BoshCard customers?


    BIG SAM


    I don''t know. Ten pounds?


    MAX


    Bzzz, it''s free. Off you go. [Three goalies remain.] That''s better. Wow, look at the age gap here! Banksy and Bivvy combined make one Sticky.


    QUEENIE


    [Off-screen] That sounds like a really boring Transformers toy.


    MAX


    You three, with me.


    [Cut to: Max and the three goalies lying on a patch of grass in an X formation, heads next to each other. We are looking down on them. Max is in the ''south'' position so that viewers won''t have to tilt their phones to see him properly.]


    MAX


    Chester played Man United in 1965. January 9th in the FA Cup Third Round and Chester were in the fourth tier at the time. Almost the same as this week''s match! There are lots of mad similarities, actually. [Max points to his left.] The main stand there is named after one of the strikers that day, and Chester had a player-manager.


    BANKSY


    What, really?


    MAX


    Yeah. I bought United Review, the match programme. Look, there''s a mis-print on the cover. It says it cost 6d instead of 6p. Inside, here, look... The line-ups! Both teams were rocking a 2-3-5 formation. That''s absolutely bonkers, eh? Some of these names are unbelievable. The history! The magic of the cup! It''s all here, lads, in this single graphic. What I want to do is come up with a combined eleven from the two teams.


    SOPHIE


    [Off-screen, with subtitles.] Can I ask something? I don''t understand what a combined eleven is.


    MAX


    Oh. It''s a kind of debate you have in the pub or as podcast filler. If you could make a single eleven from the two sides, who would get in? It''s a framework for discussing the merits of the squads. You can take it quite seriously and say goalie X is a better shot-stopper but goalie Y is better with his feet or you can race through it and say ''yeah but goalie Y is [bleep]''.


    SOPHIE


    It''s just that you said United were one of the best teams and Chester were in the fourth tier so the combined eleven would be the United team, wouldn''t it?


    MAX


    We don''t know yet, do we? That''s what we''re going to find out. I''ve seen scraps of footage from three of the United players and none of the Chester ones so basically we''re flying blind. We''ll go by their Wikipedia pages and some articles I''ve dug up, okay? Let''s pick the first player in our combined eleven. Goalies choose goalies. Ready, go!


    [Cut to the two young men sitting side by side with their phones in their hands; Sticky has been given an Apple Macintosh. That is a joke about him being old.]


    STICKY


    [Moving the single-button mouse on the grass.] Dennis Reeves was the Chester goalie that day. Apparently he made an amazing one-handed save against Bobby Charlton.


    MAX


    No spoilers for who else played!


    STICKY


    Reeves played for Chester for three years, lost his place in the team and asked for a transfer. Moved to Wrexham.


    BANKSY


    Ouch. Wrexham are not very popular around here. That has to count against him.


    STICKY


    Played a lot for Wigan in non-league.


    BANKSY


    Pat Dunne was the United goalie that day. He was Irish. Reeves was Scottish. Any thoughts about Irish and Scottish goalkeepers, boss?


    MAX


    Scottish goalies are - [he pretends to remember he''s being filmed] - of various quality levels, as with all nationalities.


    BANKSY


    Dunne won the league in his first year at the club and played five times for the Irish national team. United sold him to Plymouth where he stayed for three years before going back to Ireland for the rest of his career. It says he started taking penalties. He got two goals in his career and the first ever red card in Ireland. Oh, and he was a player-manager!


    MAX


    Bosh bosh bosh. I like him. I want Pat Dunne in my combined eleven, I think. What do you reckon?


    STICKY


    I reckon Dennis Reeves wouldn''t disagree too much, boss.


    MAX


    Reeves played in that match, though, didn''t he? He''ll always have that. Made a famous one-handed save against Bobby Charlton in front of 40,000 at Old Trafford. What a moment that must have been! What a memory. That''s what you want, isn''t it? Some old boys in a pub talking about their favourite Chester goalies. One guy goes: Remember Reeves? That save? His mate goes: Bobby Charlton? Like it were yesterday. It''s smiles all round the table. You know what? I''m picking Reeves for my combined eleven. Number one is Dennis Reeves.


    BANKSY


    Hear that, Bivvy? The boss doesn''t want the better goalie. We''ve got a chance of being picked on Sunday!


    MAX


    Course you have, mate. It''s about who trains hardest this week, isn''t it?


    [He pats Banksy on the shoulder, but turns to Sticky and pulls a face meaning, nah, I''m lying my tits off here. It''s you.]


    [A graphic appears on screen. It''s a 2-3-5 formation. The name REEVES slams into the goalie slot.]


    ***


    Sunday, January 11


    FA Cup Third Round: Manchester United versus Chester


    Chester had gone FA Cup crazy. The town centre was awash with blue-and-white flags, shops wrote amusing and/or supportive messages on their sandwich boards, and our Combined Eleven series was the talk of the town. The younger fans liked the jokes and the older ones loved when I tapped into their nostalgia.


    The club was making all kinds of money with the prospect of more to come. As an example of short-term hustle, Brooke had ordered 500 half-and-half scarves (half Man United colours and badge, half Chester), arguing that if we didn''t sell them our fans would get them in Manchester. ''Proper football men'' hated half-and-half scarves (why would you wear the colours of the opposition?) but it was hard to argue with the money-making aspect.


    Some people were thinking more long-term and we had seen a huge spike in interest in our corporate hospitality options. Businesses in Cheshire were waking up to the fact that Chester FC were a coming force and maybe it would be a good idea to negotiate the lease of an executive suite just in case we were going to play Newcastle and Man U again. Brooke was merrily playing the interested parties off against each other - in the new stand we would only have 12 small ''units'' to offer, and even a minor player like Glendale would probably need three units back-to-back to offer a premium matchday experience to their clients. If Glendale and BoshCard took three each, that only left six for the rest of the world.


    All the more reason to start plotting the next expansion...


    ***


    4 - Peter Hauser versus Paddy Crerard


    MAX BEST is in a cramped, old-fashioned office with paper everywhere. He''s playing Solitaire on an ancient PC. A phone rings.


    MAX


    [Bleep.]


    [He scrambles and wraps a headset around his ears. It has a fluffy microphone that he positions in front of his mouth. Max presses a button on the phone.]


    MAX


    Hello this is Max speaking, how may I help you?


    CALLER


    Heh. Max. How many Maxes have you got there?


    MAX


    Just one. Unless Sandra did the right thing without telling us. The Christening hasn''t happened yet so there''s still hope but Sandra says she won''t invite me because one bawling child is enough. The cheek of some people.


    CALLER


    You''re not really Max Best?


    MAX


    I am. What''s your name?


    CALLER


    Stevo. But why are you on the phone?


    MAX


    You tell me, Stevo. How can I help you today?


    STEVO


    Is this a wind-up?


    MAX


    No. First thing I did when I came here was learn all the computer systems. I''ll admit I''m recording all this for a project I''m doing for the socials but I''m proper able to help you. I think. Do you want to rent a sky box in the new Harry McNally? I can give you a discount on the first five years.


    STEVO


    Er... I''m calling to get tickets to United if there are any going? There was a rumour...


    MAX


    Yeah I started that rumour to get people to call.


    STEVO


    So there are no tickets.


    MAX


    There might be. I need a fan to yes and me.


    STEVO


    What does that mean?


    MAX


    It''s where I talk a load of [bleep] but you go along with it because you want United tickets.


    STEVO


    Heh heh. You''re absolutely mad, you.


    MAX


    What it is, right, did you know we played United in the ¡®60s?


    STEVO


    Yeah, everyone''s talking about it.


    MAX


    I''m doing a combined eleven from those teams. I need to choose between Paddy Crerand and Peter Hauser.


    STEVO


    You''re a United fan, aren''t you? You''d know all about Paddy Crerand. All those Scottish lads were the same - hard as nails but could play, too.


    MAX


    What do you know about Hauser?


    STEVO


    Not much, I''m afraid! I might not have heard of him if you hadn''t come. He was player-manager, wasn''t he? I don''t know much about him as a player - not sure there''s much to say - but he was manager when we had the Famous Five. The original ones, not the Welsh girls we''ve got.


    MAX


    Do you watch our women''s team, Stevo?


    STEVO


    No but I look out for how they''re doing and I''ll pop in when they''re at the Deva.


    MAX


    Top man. We''re going to have a season ticket that covers the men''s and women''s teams. It''ll be dirt cheap, mate. Pile in on that. Okay Paddy Crerand, yeah. He works for the United media channels and he''s really biased. As a red I always found it pretty funny but he winds other fans up no end. So I''m going for the guy who played 16 times for his country, won the league twice, the FA Cup, and the European Cup.


    STEVO


    Yeah, I reckon.


    MAX


    This Hauser guy, though. I''ll tell you it''s not easy being a player-manager and his team scored 119 league goals that season, 151 in all competitions. They beat Wrexham 6-1! There were four one-nils in the league and the rest was mayhem. He sounds brilliant. Can I put him in?


    STEVO


    Go on, then!


    MAX


    Yesssss. Number four is Peter Hauser.


    [A graphic appears on screen. It''s a 2-3-5 formation. The name HAUSER slams into the right-half slot, joining REEVES, JONES, and STARKEY.]


    ***


    We were not alone on the M56. Sealbiscuit was the most splendid vehicle, the most jam-packed with footballing talent, but many other coaches and cars were making the same journey as us.


    I was not alone in my part of the bus. As per my suggestion, Emma had taken her cousins down to that there London to endure the Harry Potter play before taking them to see United. Somehow, a jokey offer to let the birthday girl come on the team bus had been taken seriously and thus instead of having two seats to myself as befits the King of Chester, I was having to entertain a 14-year-old Scottish girl called Wee Bonnie.


    "What is happening now?" she said. Wee Bonnie sported light ginger hair and brown eyes that looked very slightly off. One was large and round while the other was narrower. On the ''narrow'' side of her face, her lips went a bit higher and her smile lines were more angled. These details gave her face tons of character; she seemed thoughtful and intelligent but with just a hint of Emma''s untamed streak. One last detail: she loved being called Wee Bonnie.


    I jiggled myself higher and faced the rear. Wee Bonnie copied me and hugged the headrest, knees digging into the back of her luxury seat. "Okay," I said. I checked the squad''s Morale. Loads of players had Morale going all over the place. "As you can see, everyone''s nervous as hell."


    "They don''t look it."


    "That''s because you''re here. They''re boys and boys try to look brave in front of girls. If you weren''t here, they''d be in bits."


    "Doubtful."


    "See that guy there? Looks like if the Cookie Monster put on a tracksuit?"


    "He''s Vimsy. He''s dead nice."


    "Yeah. He''s running a card school."


    "What''s that?"


    "A repeating card game. Often it''s the same time, same place, same players. You''re probably a big Star Trek: The Next Generation fan, right? All the kids love TNG. They have a card school in half the episodes but Picard never plays because he''s the captain and he needs some distance from his minions. I''m Picard, obvs. I never play so that when I do, it''ll be a tear-jerking final episode. That''s called 5D chess, by the way. Literally threading multiple narratives all over the place. I''m absolutely bosh."


    "You were talking about Vimsy."


    "He''s playing Ryan, Christian, and Sticky. All the olds. Hear how loud they''re laughing? That''s because they are, in Manchester speak, bricking it."


    "Afraid?"


    "That''s too strong but yeah, really nervous. Ryan isn''t starting today''s match because he''s got no legs but I''m probably going to use him. I can use five guys from my bench, you see. I''d like to give the minutes to young players so they can learn the game faster but if they make a big mistake that could eff them up so I''ll probably use Ryan even though I kind of want to use Dan and maybe even Roddy. Sticky''s a very experienced goalie and he''s excited about the challenge but United have great forwards who can score a goal out of nothing and if he loses concentration even for a second he''ll get done."


    "That''s all really interesting but I was asking what''s going on. Is this a football team?"


    "Didn''t Emma explain?"


    "She might have done. I spent the whole weekend thinking about The Cursed Child. That''s the play we saw. It was amazing. I wanted to go again today but mum said this was a big deal and my brothers got mad at me for saying I didn''t care about the stupid football and they made me come on this bus." She sighed. "Stories are better than the real world, don''t you think?"


    "Unless that story is Foucalt''s Pendulum, I basically agree. Well, we are Chester Football Club and we are on our way to play a match against Manchester United."


    "Oh, okay."


    "In the FA Cup."


    "Right. What''s that?"


    I smiled. There are people in the world who have zero interest in sports. "Okay, so, in Harry Potter there''s Quidditch, right? The four Hogwarts houses play against each other and you add up the wins and the scores and you get a league table. Top of the league gets the trophy."


    "The Quidditch Cup."


    "Right, but it''s not a cup tournament, it''s a league. The Quidditch World Cup is a cup."


    Wee Bonnie gave me a doleful look. "Those scenes are interesting for what they tell us about the characters, not because of the format."


    "Yeah, well, the author missed a trick. There''s an easy ten thousand words in having Harry Potter complain about the new Swiss model and the proposed European Sweeper League." I paused for a reaction. "That''s not a bad joke, that. It''s broomsticks, isn''t it? They sweep. Sounds like ''super''." I was mere seconds away from triggering an eye roll so I moved on. "You''re right. Doesn''t quite land. Unlike the broomsticks! No? You''re a tough crowd, aren''t you? Everyone else on this bus laughs at my jokes."


    "Because you''re paying them."


    "Yeah, so? From now on, laugh at everything I say."


    "Telling a Scottish girl what to do? That''s funny."


    "I don''t remember the name of the Quidditch team Ron supports... Cannons? Based on Arsenal, maybe? But imagine Chester - that''s us, remember - are one of the teams from Hogwarts and we''re playing the most famous club in the world in a big stadium and we''re going to be on TV watched by five to ten million people in this country alone. You know when Harry wins a match by swallowing the little ball thing and everyone thinks it''s cute? Now imagine fifty million people around the world don''t know he defeated a dark wizard, they only know him as the kid from the ball-eating gifs. He''s an international joke because of one second from one match. That''s what''s happening today. The entire world thinks we''re going to get humiliated and they can''t wait to see it."


    "I can understand how that might lead to some tension."


    I pointed. "That dude is called Dan Badford. He''s our coolest, most unflappable kid and he''s got his big headphones on, bathing himself in sound, but he is - "


    "Bricking it," smiled Wee Bonnie.


    "Butterflies for days. That''s Peter Bauer and Pascal Bochum looking at charts and heat maps and shit. When they get stressed they get technical like the answer is in the numbers."


    "The answer to what?"


    I faced forward; WB copied me. "The answer to not ending up as a funny gif." I picked a bit of fluff from my hoodie. "Today could be legendary but it could be a proper, proper disaster. Everyone on this bus has been daydreaming about scoring and running to the away fans. We''ll have 6,000 fans today but our stadium only holds five thousand. This will be our biggest attendance for decades. But just as the goal celebration daydream ends, you break out in a cold sweat because what''s far more likely is that you swallow the ball and a lot of very famous people tell jokes about you."


    "Emma said you''re fearless so you would be in Gryffindor."


    "I''m not fearless. I''ve been imagining hundreds of ways I could be humiliated today. I''m up against a perfect football manager who is taking this cup seriously. I haven''t thought about school for ages but I keep thinking about kids from my year going ''Hey, this guy who''s being thrashed on live TV... isn''t that Max? What''s he doing pretending to be a football manager?'' In that particular nightmare I''m also not wearing trousers and I''ve forgotten my homework."


    "Are you from Manchester?"


    "Yeah." I shifted and fussed with the meal tray fastener. I looked around. "It''s really weird, this. Really weird day. I''ve made the trip home hundreds of times in the last couple of years. My mum''s still there and I don''t own a football club there. But this time I''m not going home, I''m going away. Wow, that was cool. Write that down."


    "Maybe later."


    "I''m trying to give off the vibe that it''s just another match. Which... it is in a way but it''s also a huge deal for this football club. Chester is absolutely buzzing, the players can put themselves in the shop window, everyone we know will be watching. Almost everyone." I knew one bungalow in Chorlton which would not be tuned into the BBC. "The problem is we''re..." I lifted myself up like a meercat and scanned for eavesdroppers. "Don''t blab this, okay? Pinky swear." We crossed our little fingers together. I leaned closer. "We don''t have much chance to win. When we played Newcastle they put out a reserve team but today will be most of United''s best players and the ones who don''t start will be on the bench. United''s squad cost way more than a billion pounds and they are paid two hundred million pounds a year in wages. Mine are not even getting two million a year. They are paid one hundred times more than us and in this game, money is almost everything."


    "That doesn''t sound very fair."


    "No."


    "What''s the point watching if you know who''s going to win?"


    "Good question. Not enough people ask that. I''m planning a rant at the end of the match. Live on TV, an epic diatribe about how this isn''t a football club any more, it''s a brand, a rolling marketing campaign completely disconnected from the fans who built this club into what it was. How it¡¯s a weapon of mass destruction aimed at the English pyramid."


    "I like that you''re using your platform but I don''t know what any of it means. Didn''t I hear you were a fan of United?"


    "I''m a fan of what it was. Fast, attacking football, wingers, thrills, spills, beauty, dreams, glory. Now it''s just a business run by some very, very horrible people."


    "Seriously though, can I go back to London to watch The Cursed Child again? This match sounds like being hit by the crucio curse."


    "If it helps cheer you up while you''re in the VIP seats eating the finest prawn sandwiches and being offered all-you-can-drink gin, I''ll be there in the rain for two hours while my boyhood club slaps me pink. The TV cameras will be watching my every twitch of pain so I''m going to try to stand there like a statue so it''s not interesting TV. Doing that''s not fun, as I''m sure you can imagine. If we come back next year I''ll be super excited. I''ll have three solid plans and one Hail Mary."


    "What''s that?"


    "That''s where you do something mad and desperate because it might work."


    "Don''t you have one of those for today?"


    "No. I mean... No."


    "You hesitated."


    I had Relationism and a string of perks. I could combine Cupid''s Arrow with Happy New One-Two and see if that allowed me to turn Bestball on for a couple of players. Experimenting against United was not on the menu, though. "There are things I might do if certain players were a bit older. Dan, Wibbers, Roddy. But it''s one thing to try something wacky in the House Cup against Hufflepuff, another thing at the Theatre of Dreams."


    "If you don''t enjoy your job you should change."


    I laughed. "What makes you think I don''t enjoy it?"


    She shrugged. "I remember when my dad didn''t like his job and he looked like you. He had that tone when he talked about it."


    "I like my job but I don''t like it today. I''m playing chess with all pawns and Pedro Porto has six queens and three horse-bishops. Yeah okay so we''re gonna lose, fine, I''m not a bad loser like some of these managers, but it could have serious repercussions. A lot of businesses in Cheshire are suddenly waking up to the hype train and if we lose three-one they will go wow so cool can we rent an executive box in the new stand? Can we sponsor you? Can we get involved? With that money I can hire more dentists and do more charity for our old fans and all kinds of amazing things. If we lose seven-nil they''ll stop answering our calls."


    "New phone, who dis?"


    "Exactly."


    "Ghosted."


    "Exactly."


    "You suck."


    "That''s what they''ll say. Have you finished?"


    She grinned. "Yeah."


    I slumped in my seat as much as its lovely contouring would allow. "I''ve been thinking things like, if I was offered a three-nil defeat, would I take it? And I probably would because that would keep my story alive. Four-nil is par. Five-nil is embarrassing even with the financial disparity. Six and above and things get awkward."


    "Will you get sacked?"


    "Ha. No. It would just fucking suck arse, do you know what I mean?" I closed my eyes and imagined the scoreboard I''d seen so many times in my life. The black background, the red text for the home team, white for the away. What would be written there? Manchester United 6 Chester 0... or worse? "When I talk to new players I tell them this is a cool place to join. I tell them we''re going to the Championship - that''s the level below United. There''s a guy I like called Dugdale."


    "I wouldn''t want a player called Dugdale."


    "You''d prefer him to be called McDugdale."


    "No."


    "I told him if he wants to come to us he needs to sack his agent. I sent him to Gemma and now it''s a race against time to get all that wrapped up before the deadline. What a mess. Anyway, I told him we''re going to race through the divisions and we''re going to compete against big teams every week. If we get tonked today, he might look at today''s match and think it''s better if Max Best stays in his little League Two crevice." I pushed myself up. "Och, it''s not that bad."


    "Stop saying och. That''s cultural appropriation."


    "Even if we get dicked a lot of good will come out of today. We get loads of money, my players will improve, and I think I''ll improve too."


    "You learn more from losing than from winning. I read that once."


    "Maybe. I learn as much either way most of the time. Wow, can you imagine if I only got experience from losing? How would that work?" My brain froze while I tried to game out the scenarios. I shook that line of thinking away. "I meant as a player. I was fretting that I would spend the rest of the season regressing and what if we ended up in the playoffs and I was bang average? Disaster. But I''m a sub today, aren''t I? I''ll go on the pitch and do some kick ups. I''ll be on the pitch against United, sort of. That has to smash my ceiling back up, right? The curse is pretty inelegant sometimes. I could finish the season closer to my best than any time since my murder."


    "I understand all the words you''re saying but I can''t follow you."


    I turned around again. Wee Bonnie copied me. I pointed. "See that kid there?"


    "Yes, I know what this is. At football matches there are little boys who go onto the pitch with the players. I didn''t know they came on the team bus."


    "They don''t. By the way, a lot of clubs charge money for that. It''s like eight hundred pounds at Everton. It''s a scandal. At Chester it''s thirty pounds but even that''s outrageous. It should be free. Give them a Chester kit and an amazing memory and we get them hooked. That''s coming next year. But that boy is not a mascot. He''s one of the best football players in the world."


    Wee Bonnie''s eyebrows shot up. "No way."


    "He is. He''s called Roddy Jones. He won''t play today but I can bring nine subs and it''s starting to get time for him to be involved. He''ll be in the dressing room with us, he''ll warm up with the senior players, he''ll get an idea of what it means to be a professional footballer. This is his first time at Old Trafford. 74,000 people watching him. He''ll be all wide-eyed, won''t he? Overawed. As long as we don''t lose six-nil he''ll be smiling all the way home."


    "What about if you lose seven-nil?"


    "You''re better than that, Wee Bonnie."


    "Bonnie."


    "Next time Roddy comes to Old Trafford, he''ll only be thinking about the match and his role. Being on the bench today is going to make him a better player and it''s going to give him a hunger. He wants to be part of days like these and he can if he works hard. And if he does what I tell him."


    "Now you look like you enjoy your job."


    I smiled. "It''s my job to tell a story to our fans but it''s really hard to tell a good one about today. That''s so frustrating. I don''t really know how to explain it but I feel constricted and I know I have to suffer for 90 minutes. This week, I''ve been sort of trying to tell a story that isn''t based on winning. Ah, shit, that''s so lame. It''s fucking loser talk. I hate this." I fumed for a while, but let the moment pass. "Chester played United a long time ago and lost 2-1. Chester scored after nine minutes and United equalised in the 56th. If you include half time, that''s 62 minutes where Chester were ahead. The most glorious hour and two minutes in the club''s history! Imagine being one of those fans that day... I''ve been looking into the histories of the players and losing two-one is actually amazing given who was on United''s team. I made some social media videos where I pretended to be picking a combined eleven from the two teams but I only picked the Chester players."


    "Ha. That''s funny."


    "Yeah, it was fun. I want everyone to take what they can from today. The fans can sing their hearts out for 90 minutes and the players can win some of their duels. We will keep our shape and that will make it hard. United will break free and score, course they will, but I just want my players to put up a good fight and do one cool thing that the fans can talk about. Do you know what I mean?"


    "I think so."


    "Yeah." I pulled at my lip. "But even that isn''t going to happen. We need to stay solid and keep the score down, the end. I''m sorry, Bonnie, but today really isn''t going to make you like football. You should come to one of our other games when we''re going absolutely mental."


    "I don''t mind. I''ve got my book."


    "Do you want to see one of the videos I made?"


    "Sure."


    "This is one of my favourites."


    ***


    6 - Dave Durie versus Nobby Stiles


    Max Best is on a chair reading a match programme from 1965.


    VOICE


    Max, what are you doing?


    [The camera swings round and we see that we''re in a small dentist''s treatment room. Two men and a woman are sitting on chairs opposite Max. A dentist is looking in the mouth of a young man. The picture freezes and everyone gets a name and title. From left to right: NICE ONE (Chester legend), SMASHO (Chester legend), JILL (Chester legend), DOC HUSSEIN (Chester Chompers Champion), BENNY (Youth Player and FA Cup Goalsman).]


    MAX


    Just trying to pick a number 6 for my 1965 Chester slash Man United combined eleven. I''ve got Chester''s Dave Durie or United''s Nobby Stiles.


    NICE ONE


    Max! That''s not a contest!


    SMASHO


    Come on, Max. We love our former players but Nobby Stiles won the World Cup.


    JILL


    And he man-marked Eusebio when United won the European Cup. Only three Englishmen have won those two trophies.


    BENNY


    Uh uh UH uh uh!


    DOC HUSSEIN


    That''s right.


    MAX


    What did he say?


    DOC HUSSEIN


    Benny said Nobby Stiles is namechecked in the famous Three Lions song. When they are listing iconic moments that make us proud to be English they say ''and Nobby dancing''. That''s a reference to Nobby Stiles dancing on the pitch at Wembley Stadium holding aloft the Jules Rimet trophy.


    BENNY


    Uh uh UHHH.


    DOC HUSSEIN


    Which is gleaming.


    JILL


    Stiles was a defensive midfielder, Max. You love your DMs.


    MAX


    Yeah but Dave Durie became a player-manager.


    [A graphic appears on screen. It''s a 2-3-5 formation. The name DURIE slams into the right-half slot, joining REEVES, JONES, STARKEY, HAUSER and BUTLER.]


    ***


    Wee Bonnie liked the video and we watched all eleven. After each I described the filming challenges, discarded lines and scenes, bloopers.


    It helped take my mind off the stress of the day, but all too soon the cantilevered roof of Old Trafford came into view and my heart fluttered. This was happening. I was going to manage against Manchester United. Demon Boy versus the Red Devils. What the actual eff.


    Wee Bonnie sensed that something had changed and she followed my gaze. "That looks quite big."


    "Seventy-four thousand. Used to be one of the best stadiums in the country but the club was bought by a family of vampires and they stopped investing in it. Now the roof leaks and it''s turning into a shithole. The new billionaire owner wants to build a completely new stadium but he wants the British taxpayer to pay for it. Capitalism for us, socialism for him." I sighed. "It used to be a great club. Now it''s just a business run by businessmen. It''s all about cutting costs. Sacking people who''ve been working there for thirty years, stripping Alex Ferguson of his ambassador role. He''s the best football manager ever and he''s the man who made the club what it is today. No United fan would dream of kicking him out to save a bit of money but there is nothing the new owner won''t do to put some extra cash in his pocket." I grunted in frustration. "I''d fucking love to beat them!" I took my phone out of WB''s fingers. "Instead I''m doing social media content. Brooke calls it ''building an emotional world for our fans to live in'' but I call it trying to give myself the illusion of control. I wrote the scripts, designed the billboard."


    Wee Bonnie got a sniffy expression. "I don''t know what you''re so worked up about. It''s only a game."


    I stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth. "You''re right. Princess Perspective. Wee Bonnie the Wise. Heh. It''s only a game."


    "Games are supposed to be fun."


    "I''ll try to remember that."


    ***


    Sealbiscuit pulled into the car park and we got out, walking past a few United fans who were waiting for the home team. Some of them booed us in playful fashion. Wibbers looked affronted, Dan let it wash over him, Pascal smiled.


    I kept my expression neutral all the way to the dressing rooms, got changed, and joined the warm ups, staying on the fringes to protect my heel. This would ensure everyone thought I was fit to play so that sacrificing my spot would mean something. I was also praying that being on the pitch at Old Trafford would raise my CA soft cap.


    On the pitch at Old Trafford! I tried not to let it affect me but the place was steeped in history and stories. I''d seen the stadium from all kinds of angles but mostly from above, as per the TV cameras, or up in the North stand. More recently I had watched from the executive lounge. I hadn''t seen it from the edge of the D, from a player''s perspective, except when playing FIFA.


    Video games didn''t do it justice. The place, crumbling though it was, remained a cathedral of football. One of the banners hanging read: MUFC The Religion.


    Amen.


    I got a ball, wandered into space, lay down, and did a hundred tiny kick-ups with my right foot. I got up and thought about taking a free kick or penalty just to say I''d scored at Old Trafford but something made me hesitate. Apart from the obvious risk that putting pressure on my achilles would delay my healing, I wanted my first goal here to be real and to mean something. I would be back soon enough and by then my CA would be approaching pre-murder levels. I would run, dribble, shoot, and score and I would knee slide and somersault and take my shirt off and launch myself into the crowd. I would give myself two or three fines and the ref would give me two or three yellow cards.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    I wandered over to the away fans and got a hair-raising crackle of applause. We had sold six thousand tickets in a big wedge, generating a big wedge of cash for the club. I gave them a Maxy two-thumbs and a cheeky grin but as I wandered back to the dressing room the smile faded.


    Time for the game.


    Time for my game face.


    ***


    "All right, shut the fuck up," I said. The dressing rooms were pretty massive and even with all my extra subs and having brought as many backroom staff as possible, there was loads of space.


    Some of my staff were down in Lincoln, where the women were also playing in the FA Cup. Their match had kicked off already and was nearing half time. It was still nil-nil but because Kit had already played for Bristol in the cup, Angel was leading the line. I had very little doubt we would win and Angel would score. The contest between Kit and Angel would be intense for the rest of the season and Kit would win. She was a frankly ludicrous CA 90 - completely overspecced for the level we were playing at. But Angel would have no rival for the FA Cup matches and those would be her chance to shine - and to get minutes in the documentary.


    "My favourite movie is The Sound of Music, because that was released in 1965 and because it''s 174 minutes long, which is the same amount of time Sticky''s going to waste on goal kicks today." I ambled around checking out the faces of my troops. Now that we had warmed up and slipped back into the old routine, some of the nerves had eased away. "The Sound of Music is the story of an absolute rando called Max Best who gets a job at an old ruin. He has to babysit seven fucking brats called Wibbers, Pascal, Roddy, Josh, Banksy, Youngster, and Henri."


    "Max," complained the Frenchman.


    "He teaches them to play football, makes them a new kit out of the old curtains, and he enters them in a competition that they win easily because they have learned the value of togetherness. One of them bangs a Nazi but we can gloss over that. What''s interesting is that during the scenes in the convent - I forgot to mention Max Best is a nun - you can clearly see the other nuns are watching Man United v Chester on the telly and both teams are playing 2-3-5.


    "That''s what United will be doing today when they have the ball, which will be most of the time. We''re doing 5-3-2 to counter that. We''ll slow their attacks, make things difficult for them. It''s going to be unpleasant. Dirty work but someone has to do it - you are the chosen ones!"


    I tapped the magnets representing the ''chosen ones''. There were no real surprises in my line up.


    "Sticky, they''re going to pepper you with shots and they have players who can hit them. Their crossing is generally shit, though. Come and claim and look for big punches to launch counters, like we practised. And yeah, hate to say it but we need to run down the clock. Take your time on goal kicks, offsides, the rest of it. Don''t get a yellow card and do look for quick breaks, especially in the second half when we''ve made some subs. They have lazy players and they leave gaps.


    "Back five: Cole, Christian, Magnus, Zach, Lee H. It''s going to be hard. Their forwards are fast and have all the skills but if you stick with them you''ll see they beat themselves more than half the time. Shit decisions, shit crosses, complacency. You just need to stick with them. Don''t dive in, stay on your feet. When they get past you, get your head down and sprint back. Trust your teammates, keep your shape. I know it''s easier said than done.


    "Three in midfield: Lee C, Youngster, Andrew. Yeah it''s all about running. Little shuttles up and down, side to side. One thing United are good at is switching the ball to the other side of the pitch quickly. These are a few of my favourite pings. Anyone? That''s a song from... No? Okay when they ping it, don''t panic. Jog across, keep your shape. United take a lot of shots from outside the penalty area so get in position to block those.


    "Two up top: Henri and Foquita. Henri, we need you to suffer. Close down as much as you can. If you get yourself a bit of space on the ball we''re looking for Foquita early. There won''t be any fancy combinations today, no slapping."


    No slapping indeed. Our average CA was 82.9. United had picked up a couple of minor injuries over the international break so instead of their usual average CA of 169, they would only have 161. Their bench featured a few kids brought along for the experience and to placate the fans who were grumbling that Pedro Porto wasn''t giving minutes to young players the way most United managers did. But there were five internationals on the bench, too. We wouldn''t get any respite and even if United got a red card it would be a surprise for us just to get a shot on target.


    "If we get smashed I''m taking Sealbiscuit and going to escape to Switzerland."


    Henri laughed and got to his feet. "Max! Don''t give us an incentive to lose."


    That got a load of laughs. As so often, his intervention was pitch-perfect. Julie Andrews could do no better. I would miss him when he was gone. I went over and put my hand on his shoulder. "You''ve got the shittest job of the day, mon ami. Your job is to work, work, work." I took my arm away and grinned. "But no-one said you can''t look fantastic while doing it."


    Henri ran his hand through his hair. "Work hard, look fantastic. I like the plan."


    "Give me an hour of thankless running and I''ll give you a standing ovation."


    Henri''s eyes narrowed. "I accept."


    I walked on, making strong eye contact with everyone. "There''s glory out there. Get yourself one moment you''ll remember, one moment the fans will still be talking about in sixty years. One great save, one crunching tackle, one goal-line clearance, one brilliant interception. Glory through suffering. That''s a thing, isn''t it, Youngster? First step, the suffering. Keep it tight first eighty-nine and we''ll have a real good go at them at the end." Lots of smiles at that. "That''s it. Let''s give the fans a day to remember."


    ***


    Commentary from the BBC''s coverage.


    Mark: "You''re joining us here at a sold-out Old Trafford where the rain has just started. For now, it''s a light drizzle but it is expected to get worse. Thirteen times winners Manchester United will host fourth-tier Chester and the home fans will be hoping it rains goals. The two teams have only ever met once before in a competitive match. That took place 61 years ago almost to the day and finished 2-1 to the Red Devils. Such a close result would be unthinkable today, and would turn up the heat on United''s manager Pedro Porto. He says he needs time to rebuild the squad but will he get it?"


    Chris: "I think he will, Mark. He has done enough in his time at the club to suggest he''s the right man for the job. He deals with the media very well and he knows how to communicate to his players and the fans. There''s a very definite style of play, which was lacking with previous United managers, and they have shown us glimpses of what we can expect to see if he gets the players he wants. Many of his current players don''t really suit this system."


    Mark: "Does that give the visitors any hope? Chester FC, until recently a non-league team who started the season rooted firmly to the bottom of League Two."


    Chris: "Hope? For Chester? No."


    ***


    Manchester United to get this match underway.


    Dekker rolls the ball to Brito. He clips it wide right to Labbo.


    Labbo plays it backwards.


    The ball goes through the centre backs to Tekin in goal.


    Tekin to Campbell. Campbell to Brito.


    He has time. There is not much pressure coming from the Chester players.


    Brito leans back and hits a hopeful ball into the box.


    Evergreen and Fierce compete with Dekker.


    Fierce wins the header...


    But heads it straight into Evergreen!


    The ball rebounds into the penalty area...


    Dekker reacts fastest...


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    Manchester United take the lead!


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Man U 1 Chester 0


    lol.


    After twenty-five seconds.


    LOL.


    ***


    In 1965, Chester''s player-manager gave the travelling fans over an hour in which to dream of a famous win. I can only imagine the songs, the chants, the cheers. Peter Hauser, I assume, didn''t have a curse helping him. I did, but on my watch the six thousand Chester fans who had put their trust in me fell silent after half a minute.


    I tried to keep my face impassive because I knew the cameras were on me. I tried not to think about how Emma would explain this to her cousins, how Brooke would be smiling thinly at some sponsor, how everyone who hated me would be refilling their glass, how my former schoolmates would be pissing themselves laughing.


    I walked along my technical area and back to where I started.


    We kicked off. Henri played the ball to Lee C, who passed to Zach. He decided to give Sticky a touch, which was something I liked my defenders to do, but a United striker had sprinted full-pelt, slid in front of Sticky, and was an inch away from the ball as Sticky frantically sent it to Cole. Cole was instantly put under pressure and had to work hard to keep his body between Labbo and the ball. Cole eventually wrestled enough space to turn and hit the ball right-footed down the line. Labbo blocked it and we got a goal kick. Typically brainless defensive play from Labbo - if he had left Cole''s clearance alone, United would have got it and had another chance to attack.


    "Thank God for idiots," I mumbled.


    Talking of idiots... one of my wilder schemes was about to debut. But first, a little timewasting.


    Sticky ambled over to get the ball while a ball boy threw one towards him. Sticky put the first ball down on the six-yard line and played it quickly out to Lee H. The ref whistled because there were two balls on the pitch - as Sticky knew. Zach rushed to kick the first ball out of bounds while Sticky threw his ball off. Suddenly there were none!


    All terribly amusing and since the home team were leading, no-one gave a shit. But we had taken thirty seconds off the clock. We might lose 19-0 but we wouldn''t lose by twenty.


    When a new ball arrived, Sticky placed it on the left-hand-side of the six-yard-line. On the left of the penalty box, Cole Adams ran towards the ball before wheeling away. Christian did the same, moving in Cole''s circular route, followed by Zach, followed by Youngster. It was the Ring a Ring o'' Roses routine I had seen once. No United player flinched so Sticky played the ball to Cole. He was left alone until he carried the ball level with the edge of our penalty area - then the United swarm was triggered.


    "Interesting," I mumbled. United were using the line, not a particular player. "Peter," I said, and he appeared next to me. We discussed this new information and what we could do about it. Short answer: nothing today. Next time, though. Next time we might be able to exploit that.


    ***


    SummerhillBill


    What the fucking Christ did I just see? Jester players prancing around in circles. It isn''t May and there''s no pole.


    Not sure I want this clown running Welsh football.


    CrunchyAbs


    The United fans are chanting ''what the fucking hell was that?!''


    BeardedWonderwall


    We should send worldwide invites to LALAC. Who wouldn''t want to laugh at Chester after this?


    ***


    I watched intently as we fought and scrapped. I wanted to crouch so I could concentrate harder but Pedro Porto was already doing that. Crouching was kind of his thing. Another of his things was having a virtual clean sweep of 20s in his profile. Adaptability, Coaching, Judging Players, Man Management, Tactics. This was a flawless football manager.


    Which made this match a great opportunity to learn. I don''t mean the 14 XP per minute I was bagging, and I don''t mean learning from Porto''s tactical ideas. Putting your players in a coherent system? I knew that trick.


    No, I was interested to see if Porto would spot when I made tweaks and if he would even bother reacting. If a manager with Tactics 20 couldn''t spot what I was doing, that boded very well for my career. If Porto spotted the problems I was creating and reacted quickly, that was going to make my life a lot harder.


    Of course it was possible I wouldn''t cause him a single issue in the entire match, certainly if the first nine minutes were anything to go by.


    Sticky caught a tame cross and instantly dropped it, very nearly leading to disaster. Cole was struggling against Labbo, United''s most in-form player, and when the ball did fall to Cole''s feet, he found himself being forced onto his weaker right foot. Christian''s confidence seemed to be shaken when Dekker won an aerial duel. Zach and Magnus were pulled out of position, Lee H was beaten for pace. The midfield ran around dutifully, our strikers barely touched the ball.


    I tweaked every single setting at least once and when we had a goal kick I micro-managed the team as far as the interface would let me. First I swapped Magnus and Lee Contreras so that Lee was in the back five. I set Lee to be our playmaker to try to get Sticky (set to short passes) to give him the ball. When that happened and United''s players surged ahead, I swapped Magnus and Lee to their correct positions and set whoever was in space as the playmaker. The idea was that I could guide the ball through the press and into a position where we might be able to play some football, though it was a testament to how outmatched we were that I created a new hotkey - instantly reverting everyone to their starting positions and setting us to ''men behind ball''. In short, I had created a panic button.


    My attempt to approximate the patterns of elite teams almost worked but in the end I had to abandon the idea because persisting with it was likely to give me a heart attack. I just didn''t have the players and we kept nearly shooting ourselves in the foot. Peter had urged me to think about my own career, my future job prospects, but I cared more about what Wee Bonnie thought of me than the directors at Bournemouth or Brighton. "Sorry, Wee Bee," I mumbled as I gave up all attempt to do anything interesting for the day. I instructed Sticky to boot the ball long and focused all my attention on adjusting our defensive spacing.


    Ian Evans would have been proud.


    Our match ratings were bad, our stats were bad, we didn''t pass the eye test. Things got worse.


    ***


    Mark: "Labbo collects the ball on the right touchline, drifts inside left-footed. Adams tries to hold him up. Donno on the overlap. Labbo chooses to dribble square. He passes to Brito. Clever ball to Donno. His attempted cross is blocked by Green. Good play from the American. United go again. They play the ball back to the halfway line. A lot of probing, a lot of movement."


    Chris: "It has been a really bright start. They want to get this match wrapped up - they have a lot of fixtures on the horizon."


    Mark: "From the left it''s worked inside. Brito moves forward. Nearly tackled by Contreras. United retain possession, just about. Recycled to Brito. Will he have a pop from distance? He can hit them from there! Evergreen moves to block... Brito with the slick pass to Dekker. Dekker simple pass through... Labbo curls it left-footed past Icke and the Stretford End rejoice! He struck that so sweetly. Two goals for Manchester United in the first ten minutes!"


    Chris: "That was a lovely goal. That was quality interplay between those three. Few defenders can handle that."


    Mark: "It could be a long afternoon for these Chester players. You have to fear for them."


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Two-nil.


    lol


    SummerhillBill


    United should score ten today. Anything less than ten and I''m calling the police to report match-fixing.


    ***


    I couldn''t keep still and pulled my hood over my face so I could do some low-level fuming without making a big deal of it. This fucking sport, man. Every match without fail, Laddo had ten shots like that, most of which were only a danger to the guys sitting in row K. But of course against us he gets it right.


    "Peter," I said.


    He came rushing. "Yes, Max?"


    I pulled the hood back so he would feel he had my undivided attention. "Distract me."


    "Oh." He thought about it. "I''ve been wondering what that thing was between you and Brooke."


    "She tried to jump me in a hotel but I turned her down."


    He smiled. "No way that happened. Uh-uh. No, I meant in that meeting when you said you were going to Canada. She seemed put out."


    "Mmm," I said. "I think she was just disappointed because she has been networking in the States but she doesn''t know anyone in Canada."


    "Okay. I suppose that makes sense." Christian won a header and Zach rushed forward to get to the ball before Brito. Green won the duel against the PA 190 midfielder. "Yes, Zach!" called Peter. "Love that!"


    Brito was fascinating. He had great technical skills, Creativity 20, and could play all sorts of passes. He was a menace from free kicks. Now 32, he was United''s captain but his Influence score was a paltry 11. It really seemed like he was the captain because he was paid the most. 366,000 pounds a week. Nice work if you can get it.


    I had spent most of the week resolved not to change from 5-3-2 but I was feeling itchy. Restless. "Peter, if we do 5-4-1 we might be able to keep the ball more than two passes."


    Peter shook his head. "Our only hope is to get lucky. Maybe a defender slips or there''s a loose pass back to the goalie. We need two strikers to make sure we get any freebies that come our way."


    My head dropped. "Yeah, there''s nothing we can do." I looked around the stadium, the familiar rain passing in front of the floodlights, the familiar colours, flags, banners. The unfamiliar feeling of alienation. I was the intruder, the enemy. These people would love to watch me suffer. "I''m going to rehearse my post-match rant. Come and distract me sometimes."


    "How should I do that?"


    "Just talk a load of shit."


    "I am learning a lot from you, Max, but I am not in your class when it comes to that."


    I smiled and pulled my hood to eye level.


    ***


    Mark: "Half an hour gone here in Manchester and the rain is coming down heavier. United well in control. Chester are yet to have a touch in United''s penalty area, let alone have a shot. Peter Bauer, grandson of the great German player, in discussion with Max Best there. I wonder what they are saying."


    Chris: "If I were him I''d be saying why don''t you get on the pitch, gaffer? You''re our best player."


    Mark: "Best has an unconventional attitude to his playing career and certainly he''s unconventional with the media, too, though when he''s sending Sandra Lane or Peter Bauer to the pressers there can be few complaints. Good work by Youngster and Harrison! They combined to thwart that latest United attack. At two-nil there''s still some semblance of hope. More good closing down from Harrison forces United back. It''s with Tekin. Foquita goes to pressure him... but Tekin boots it long. He didn''t trust the surface, which is now quite slick."


    Chris: "He was Tekin no chances."


    [Pause.]


    Mark: "Labbo on the right. Great piece of skill to get past Adams! Adams has been given a torrid time today. Labbo to the byline - cross - header from Dekker - oh, how has that missed? I thought that was in!"


    Chris: "Great cross, great movement by Dekker to find space in the crowded box, decent header, he''s just got his angle slightly wrong."


    Mark: "He holds his head in his hands. Utter disbelief from the Dutch international. He''s usually so reliable in such situations."


    Chris: "Corner."


    Mark: "What? Yes, the ref has given a corner. The Chester players can''t believe it. I''m not sure I can."


    Chris: "You can tell by a team''s reaction, sometimes. Chester absolutely stunned by that. No-one in red even appealed for it. And there on the replay. Dekker heads it wide and there isn''t a Chester player anywhere near it. Astonishing decision by the referee. If United score from this it will be a travesty."


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Three-nil.


    lol.


    From a corner that shouldn''t have been given.


    LOL.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Wonder what Best is thinking?


    ***


    8 - Mike Metcalf versus Bobby Charlton


    MAX BEST is strolling around Chester Zoo with Peter Bauer.


    MAX


    PB, it''s that time. I know you hate talking about it.


    PETER


    I love football, Max, and I love my grandfather. I don''t hate talking about it. I''m actually excited; I did a lot of research.


    MAX


    So you know that Mike Metcalf scored 38 of Chester''s 151 goals in the 1965 season. He was a serious goalsman that year. A proper bagsman.


    PETER


    Bagsman? You''re making these words up, Max!


    MAX


    People say it! Listen to those podcasts that slag me off. They say goalsman and bagsman all the time!


    PETER


    Mike Metcalf had the season of his life in ''65, there''s no doubt about it. Is that a capybara?


    MAX


    Don''t express interest in the animals! The zoo isn''t paying us. It''s Britain''s best zoo, so what? Pay us and we''ll say that on our socials.


    PETER


    Can we talk about Bobby Charlton yet?


    MAX


    He [bleep]ed your grandad in 1970 and everyone knows it. We were winning two-nil and Germany only won because Charlton was subbed off. Not even Beckenbauer could handle him.


    PETER


    We actually scored one goal while he was still on the pitch but my grandfather speaks so, so highly of Bobby Charlton. They were peers. Mirror images. I''m here to beg you to put Bobby Charlton in your combined eleven.


    MAX


    [Somberly, nodding.] Go on. Tell me why.


    PETER


    He was an astonishing player. Two hundred and fifty goals from midfield, for such a long time England''s top scorer - in a country that produced Dixie Dean and Jimmy Greaves! He was one of the Busby Babes, the incredible Manchester United team made up of the country''s best, brightest, and youngest. He survived...


    MAX


    [Looking away, tears welling.] Don''t.


    PETER


    [Softly, with empathy.] He survived the Munich air disaster. Scored twice in the 1966 World Cup semi-final, kept my grandfather quiet in the final. Scored twice in the European Cup final two years later, ten years after the disaster. Max, you''ve seen his statue outside Old Trafford a hundred times. I have to put my foot down on this. I know you''re doing mad lad bantz but I also know you respect the history of the game. You can''t go against Bobby Charlton, even as a joke. It''s not right.


    MAX


    Mike Metcalf became a player-manager, though. For a Welsh team. That''s double points.


    PETER


    Bobby Charlton was player-manager of Preston North End.


    MAX


    Bobby Charlton... player-manager? Seriously?


    [A graphic appears on screen. It''s a 2-3-5 formation. The names REEVES, JONES, STARKEY, HAUSER, BUTLER, DURIE, HUMES are there... The slot with the number 8 shakes, flips over, rights itself, before finally the name CHARLTON slams into place.]


    ***


    At half time we were three-nil down and the contest appeared over. I walked into the dressing room and let out a big sigh. Something like this had been almost inevitable. In a perverse way I was glad the curse operated within footballing logic. If I could win just by wanting it, what would be the point of grinding and hustling to increase our CA? And when I had a CA 160 team I didn''t want us getting surprised by some League Two nobodies.


    The lads were quiet while we decompressed. I rested my head against a wall and replayed some of the most notable incidents. Players with loose first touches getting us into trouble, dudes passing to guys who weren''t expecting it, all kinds of remedial shit. I wasn''t sure if I should make a big deal out of those things in the coming week''s training or if I should let it go. Write it off as the cost of playing at this level for the first time. I would discuss it with Peter and Vimsy but probably I''d let it go. The players would know, wouldn''t they? They''d train it up in their own way in their own time.


    You¡¯re half right, I thought. We needed to work on the defensive mistakes, especially while Peter was around. He was a lot more sophisticated than Vimsy. In fact, I should use the rest of January to let Peter take us up a level in our defensive work. Our attacking output would take care of itself, especially if we were able to add Charlie Dugdale to the mix.


    That felt right. I was on a roll. I got to my feet and went to the tactics board.


    "Shut the fuck up," I said, and the lads stopped murmuring to each other.


    I noted that Morale was good. We had been well and truly dicked in the first half, if we were being honest. Every single player had lost his duels and no-one was on more than six out of ten. But I think we knew that our fundamentals were sound. The shape was good and the formation was appropriate.


    We''d been unlucky with the first goal - bad bounce. The second was very slick play that was hard to defend against. Maybe when Sticky was CA 122 he would get his hand to it. Maybe. The third was fucking annoying. It was never a corner and we had defended the initial cross really well. The ball had bounced out to Donna, one of my least favourite United players, a guy who was nowhere near good enough to play for the club, and he had hit a one-in-a-million thunderbastard right into the top-left corner. The guy least suited to wear the same shirt as the team of ''65 had hit a Bobby Charlton thunderbastard.


    The unfairness is part of why we love the game.


    I got cheeky. "Okay, so I''m pretty sure that''s the first time I didn''t cheer when Man United got a dubious decision given to them at home."


    That got a big laugh. Opposition fans always complained United got soft penalties and loads of generous decisions. I genuinely didn''t think that was something that happened. Liverpool, on the other hand...


    "Manchester is my home. This," I said, checking out the walls and ceiling. "This is supposed to be my home. My club, my city, my community. But it isn''t. It hasn''t been my home for a long time."


    I clicked my neck left and right and went on a stroll.


    "This brand - it isn''t a football club - has done so many disgraceful things in the last twenty years it''s hard to remember which one was the final straw for me, but at some point I stopped caring if United won or lost. It''s hard because if there are three academy kids in the team I still think about the Busby Babes, about the Class of ''92. They wear the same red, the fans sing the same songs. These players go on the same Wikipedia page as Bobby Charlton, Bill Foulkes, and Nobby Stiles. But this isn''t Man United. It''s not." I rested my hands on a laundry bin. "I don''t feel at home out there."


    I pushed the bin away as I stood and continued walking.


    "In The Sound of Music the von Trapp family realise that their homeland has turned into a place with no values, no morality." I pointed to the outside with a satisfied smile. Nailed it! "As decent people they couldn''t live in a regime of cruelty, stupidity, and wasted talent, so they left. Man United''s owners are anti-fan, anti-democratic, anti-football, so I left. The von Trapp family went to Switzerland, the poor bastards, but I got lucky. I went to Chester." I inhaled and looked up. I couldn''t make eye contact or I would go off. I put my hand on Youngster''s shoulder. "You''re my home now. You''re my family." The entire squad''s Morale briefly hit maximum. "Whatever happens in the second half, I''m with you. I''ve got your back. I''ll defend you till my dying day. That''s a promise. Just please stay in the game for as long as possible until we get our chance to do something amazing, something worthy of the support we''re getting. We will get a chance and when we do, we''re going to go at it hell for leather. Until then, keep doing what you''re doing because what you''re doing is what football''s all about."


    "Max," said someone from the back. I hadn''t expected anyone else to speak so it took me a second to realise it was Physio Dean. An injury I hadn''t spotted? He pointed to his phone. "The women are two-nil up. Angel with both."


    "Fuck me!" I roared, suddenly energised. I paced around slapping my guys on the top of the head or on the shoulder depending on whether they could batter me or not. "Are you twats gonna let the women get all the glory today? Hey? Get the fuck back out there and earn the right to do something fucking cool." No-one moved. "Let''s fucking go!" I screamed.


    That did the trick. They yelled things and stormed back out.


    Ten out of ten speech.


    "Amazing," said Peter, eyes shining. "So we have a plan?"


    "Yeah," I said. "Hope three United players get sent off."


    ***


    We battled. We struggled. We barely crossed the halfway line and when we did, our attacks fizzled out.


    United had 80% possession. They played the ball around in their set patterns until they slapped shots at goal from mad angles. Some shots were blocked by our defenders, some went high, some went narrowly wide. In almost every case, another United player was much better placed to score. They were like a team of Youngsters; they would drive me fucking insane if I had to work with them.


    I spent a good deal of my time watching Pedro Porto. Listening, too, because he was constantly yelling instructions. Every single one of them sounded right to me and my admiration for him increased. Luckily for me, the United players didn''t pay attention.


    It was like someone had been on a ten-year mission to assemble a group with the highest possible footballing talent that came with low decision-making. Some of the players had seen off five or six managers. Why should they listen to the latest one?


    The whole thing was reinforcing my belief that I shouldn''t sign players with single-digit Decisions scores. Beggers can''t be choosers and if a PA 180 guy turned up for free or cheap I would pretty much always sign him, but if I could possibly help it, I needed to stick to my guns. High Decisions, Technique, and Teamwork, and my teams would always stand a chance.


    ***


    SummerhillBill


    Absolutely fuming at these United players. They can''t cross, can''t spot there''s a fella unmarked at the far post. They could have had twelve goals by now! Score more goals you overpaid twats!


    BeardedWonderwall


    No joke now, put Muggles in this team and he''d score 40 goals a season.


    SummerhillBill


    How? They never pass when they can shoot from distance!


    ***


    The clock ticked ever higher. Fifty minutes gone. Fifty-five. While it was still three-nil I was content. No doubt United would score one more in the final minutes but as I''d told Wee Bonnie, four-nil was par.


    The away fans had, ah, taken on liquid in the half-time break and were making more and more of a racket. The home fans didn''t get up to much, which is to be expected when the match you''re watching is of no real entertainment value. They were simply waiting for the next goal.


    With an hour gone our Condition scores weren''t bad considering how hard we''d had to work - the Brig had kicked our fitness up a notch since last season - but I knew Henri would like his ovation and Ryan would want to get on the pitch; he wouldn''t get many more big games. I took Henri and Andrew off and put Dazza and Ryan on. Henri enjoyed his ovation from the Chester fans but he was too exhausted to do anything other than go directly to the bench and cover himself with a towel.


    I glanced at Pedro Porto. He was watching as if every kick was vital. Not a hint of complacency about him. He hadn''t made any mistakes. He gestured and United''s subs went to warm up, two England internationals and two Champions League winners among them.


    I stood quietly on the touchline, taking my beating like a champ, suffering in silence.


    The United fans sang one of their George Best songs and that triggered a tiny smile.


    ***


    11 - Elfed Morris versus George Best


    MAX BEST is shivering slightly near a busy roundabout. BROOKE is wrapped up in a soft cream coat, scarf, gloves and hat. MD is in a suit.


    [Cut to: Chester''s billboard. It is covered with a big sheet. Two men are up on the top and will release the sheet on Max''s signal.]


    MD


    So the last decision is Morris against George Best. That one seems straightforward, Max.


    MAX


    Quite right. Elfed Morris all day long. First point in his favour, he''s called Elfed. How awesome is that? Second, he scored 26 goals in the ''65 season. 28 if you count the Welsh Cup, and why wouldn¡¯t you? Third, it sounds like he could have gone to a bigger club but chose to stay. Loyalty! Love that. The only black mark against him is that he never became a player-manager.


    BROOKE


    He did, Max! For Caernarfon Town.


    MAX


    Bosh. Case closed.


    MD


    My director friends will never let me hear the end of it if that sheet comes down and it says Morris. The Fifth Beatle. The Belfast Boy. George Best, Max. Ever heard of him?


    MAX


    Name rings a bell.


    MD


    [Stamping his feet and blowing into his hands.] Come on, I''m freezing. We know you wrote Best up there. Let''s get on with it.


    MAX


    Fine.


    [Max gives the signal. The signal is that he turns around and jabs two thumbs at the top of his back.]


    [The sheet falls. The entire billboard is taken up by a 2-3-5 formation. Under the numbers one to eleven are the following names: REEVES, JONES, STARKEY, HAUSER, BUTLER, DURIE, HUMES, CHARLTON, TALBOT, RYDEN, BEST.]


    BROOKE


    Nine from Chester. I''d love to get your methodology peer-reviewed.


    MAX


    No need. Total science, that. I consulted with experts from France, Germany, Australia, Peru, and wherever Magnus is from.


    MD


    [Squinting.] What''s that, there?


    MAX


    Where?


    MD


    Above the name Best. It should say 11 but the serif is quite long... Max, does that say 77? Did you put yourself in a combined team from... from 1965?


    MAX


    Don''t be daft. That doesn''t even make sense.


    MD


    Brooke, does that say 77?


    BROOKE


    I think the font may have been chosen for its ambiguity.


    MD


    I''m almost lost for words. I suppose I should have expected something like this. Okay, well, it''s up and it''s quite moving, actually. Shame for two of the Famous Five to be left out.


    MAX


    If we win this Sunday I''ll name my firstborn Elfed, how about that?


    [They admire the billboard for a few seconds.]


    BROOKE


    Who would get in a combined eleven for this week''s match?


    MAX


    [Makes an O face.] MD! Can I have some more money? I just had a great idea for another series!


    ***


    Number one, sang the United fans, to the tune of Yellow Submarine, is Georgie Best. Number two is Georgie Best. Number three - well, you get the idea. In order to scan, the song goes all the way up to number twelve - first substitute - before the chorus: We all live in a Georgie Best world.


    The acoustics in the rain felt strange - it sounded like only one stand was singing.


    Wait.


    Hang on. Only one stand...


    The back of my neck tingled.


    The song wasn''t coming from the home fans. Chester''s fans were in full voice. I shuffled to my right, pulled my hoodie back, and listened in utter disbelief.


    Number eleven! Is Maxy Best!


    Number twelve! Is Maxy Best!


    What the fuck...


    We all live in a Maxy Best world! A Maxy Best world! A Maxy Best world!


    Three-nil down, seventy minutes of abject football, shuffling left and right, scraping by, no shots, no skills, just heart. Heart, sweat, effort, fighting for the badge.


    My spirits soared. The fans were with us, behind us, behind me. I paced around the technical area, adrenaline pumping, jaw set. I wanted to fucking do something. I had to do something. Give the fans something to talk about on the way home. Just one moment.


    I once more checked every setting, every hotkey, every perk I had yet to use. I only needed the slightest bit of help from Pedro Porto but the bastard was far too good. The pressure from his system was unrelenting; there was only one way I could impact the game.


    I took my hoodie''s zip between my finger and thumb. I could play at the risk of aggravating my achilles. In fact, it would probably set me back to zero. Who gave a shit?


    "Max!" called Peter, as he rushed up to me.


    "I''m not," I said, hand flying away from the zip.


    He gave me a strange glance before gripping me by the chest. "Subs, Max! What are we going to do?"


    "Yeah, soon," I said, frowning. Why was he being so dramatic?


    "Not ours. Theirs!"


    I snapped wide awake. Pedro Porto had his arms around some rando while his coaches were showing formation graphics to another couple. "The fucking kids," I said. "He''s putting the kids on. The kids, Peter!"


    "I know!"


    "Don''t look too excited or he might call it off. Look sombre."


    He was beaming. "I can''t! What are we going to do?"


    "Just wait. This can''t really be happening. Don''t jinx it." There was no way Porto was taking off three guys with an average CA of 180 and sending on three twenty-year-olds with an average of CA 100. But he was! This was him throwing a bone to the United fans. They wanted to see young players given a chance in the side and Porto clearly thought it was safe to throw three bones! That would kill the topic for a while, wouldn''t it? I stared in amazement at the eight senior players who would remain on the turf - you wouldn''t bet on that mob to score, ever, unless you handed them a goal on a plate. We could get reckless. Fearless. "Fuck me, this is happening," I mumbled.


    Peter nodded silently, rain splashing all over his happy face.


    United weren''t going to change formation but their press would be even more disorganised and their attacks far less threatening. Three young men making their debut! They would be trying to avoid mistakes, trying not to screw up. The match would still be crazily unbalanced but we might be able to do something. Something, at last!


    The three departing reds got their ovations from the home fans and there was generous applause for the new lads. "This is happening," I repeated, as I realised I had three subs left to make and all my perks.


    Peter''s eyes flicked around as he considered our options. "You told me Old Trafford is the home of wingers, of wide play. What about 3-5-2? Bark on the right. Josh on the left."


    "No," I growled. Growled! Physio Dean had his Doctor Voice that came out in emergencies. I had Nutjob Voice. My jaw was set and I couldn''t hear the away fans over the thunder in my head. "Dan! Get over here." Dan rushed to my side. "I''m putting Pascal and Wibbers on. Do you want to play?"


    "Yes," he said, instantly. Then he realised what that meant. "But what about you?"


    I grabbed his shoulders. Suddenly everything was urgent, life or death, no time for hesitation. "You''re the future of this football club." If there was a loyalty attribute, I was pretty sure I had just increased it by one. Thank you, Chipper! "I need you to take the ball from Sticky and get it to midfield. United will be incoherent but I still need you to play smooth, save the skills for training. Simple, slick, smooth. Do you understand?"


    "Yes, boss."


    To Peter and Dan I said, "3-5-2 but we shove it up them through the middle."


    "The middle?" said Peter, pulling a face.


    "The middle," I snarled. The blood was in my nostrils; I would turn this stadium red. "Lees off." I checked my working and liked it. "And Cole."


    Peter rushed to get that communicated to the fourth official while Dan summoned the other two. I paced around, pulling at my hair. We would have a base of 3-5-2 with Christian, Zach, and Magnus as the back line. Pascal left, Wibbers right, Dan, Ryan, and Youngster in the middle. Dazza and Foquita up front. Average CA 81.5. Pretty decent given how youthful the team was about to get: two seventeens, an eighteen, and three twenty-year olds.


    I would be deforming the formation like a madman, giving Youngster as much time in the DM slot as possible, moving one of the wide players forward or back, even dropping Dazza down a slot so we could aim direct balls at that zone.


    I would be using the hotkeys to make us man-mark, to turn pressing on and off, to set different playmakers.


    Most of all, I would be radically shifting formations and swapping players around to try to help us move up the pitch.


    Pascal and the teenagers high-tenned the senior players they replaced.


    I turned my back on the pitch and looked up to the area that held Emma and her cousins. "Wee Bonnie! Put your fucking book away! The football is starting."


    ***


    Mark: "Quite extraordinary. What do you make of it, Chris?"


    Chris: "He hasn''t gone completely young. The goalie is 31. The three centre backs are 29, 28, and 26, plus he''s got 37-year-old Ryan Jack in midfield. There are some wise old heads out there."


    Mark: "All true but in the home of the Busby Babes, we''re seeing Best''s Babes. Six players aged twenty or younger. Will their inexperience make them freeze?"


    Chris: "Three of them played in the under-20 World Cup, Mark, and the other three have been getting first-team action for a while. They''re probably a lot more ready for this occasion than the young players United just brought on."


    Mark: "Neat play from Manchester United again, moving the ball around midfield. Lancaster takes the ball on the right. Pressure from Bochum. Lancaster plays the ball down the line and it''s a foot race! But Bochum wins it easily!"


    Chris: "What a turn of speed that was."


    Mark: "Chester have the ball. Lots of movement suddenly. Bochum has options. He picks Green, now on the left of a back three. Youngster. Jack. He clips it through to Roberts on the right. He''s challenged by Sanchez - but Roberts simply shrugs him off!"


    Chris: "Ho!"


    Mark: "Roberts advances. This already feels like Chester''s best move of the match. He crosses. Smith at the back post! Heads it square. Foquita with the volley! Blocked!"


    Chris: "The ball wouldn''t come down fast enough."


    Mark: "It''s an open game now. United with the fast counter. They''re going through the gears. Bochum chasing. Youngster joins in. Rossi forced to turn back. Great work but now Chester are exposed on their left. Lancaster has space and time. He surges forward, crosses, just too far ahead of the onrushing striker! Icke is happy to let the ball go behind."


    Chris: "He should have kept it in. These goal kicks have been painful to watch - they''re kicking long and United are getting the ball right away. I know a lot of older viewers complain about passing the ball from the back but if you go long it''ll come straight back at you, as we''ve seen today."


    Mark: "No wheel this time - I do wonder what that was all about. It''s, er, young Dan Badford in the penalty area. Icke passes to him. Three United players smell blood! This could get - wow! Badford with his languid style drew the first challenge and simply played past the other two. I thought Roberts was playing right midfield?"


    Chris: "He moved all the way inside and the defensive midfielder is over on the right."


    Mark: "It''s all happening for Chester. Despite the positional chaos they''ve got a measure of control in midfield for the first time. Jack. Youngster. Jack. Badford has moved back into midfield and, er, Roberts is with him. Smith has gone to left midfield, so Bochum is the second striker. Am I seeing this right?"


    Chris: "Are they doing Total Football?"


    Mark: "Badford to Roberts. Back it goes. Pressure comes. Badford forced backwards. Exchanges passes with Green who¡¯s now on the right. Badford slides the ball to Roberts, who lets it run. Bochum is behind. He touches it wide to Ryan Jack. Jack clips the ball through. Foquita is through on goal! He must be offside? He''s through on Tekin... Goal! Goal for Chester! The flag... doesn''t go up! It''s a goal!"


    [The roar from the away fans scares pets in homes all over the nation.]


    Chris: "That was incredible. That is an unbelievable goal."


    Mark: "The away fans are losing their minds and who can blame them? We have just seen one of the all-time classic FA Cup goals. That will be replayed again and again. Even the home fans are applauding. Now some emotion from the manager! He enjoyed that!"


    ***


    Yerrrrssssssss get in!


    Get in you fucking beauty!


    I had combined Dan and Wibbers using Cupid''s Arrow, then blasted them again with the one-two perk. My thought was that with those boosts and his naturally evasive style, Dan would have half a chance of moving the ball to his mate and we could get into midfield and launch some attacks. But two things had happened I hadn''t really expected. First, to make it happen I had been forced to move players into mad places - Dazza to left-mid, for example - and that led to Pascal being unmarked while I got five players into one midfield zone. The second thing was that the Bestball trigger had stuck to ''yes'' for Wibbers, Dan... and Pascal.


    The three had combined to form a river that totally wrecked United''s shape before Ryan, the crafty old fox, had spotted Foquita angling his movement so that he would stay onside. The pass was delicious, the finish simple.


    The roar from the away fans hit me like I was going into a sauna. The hush from the home fans was even louder. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. The day I fell out of love with football management just got pushed back a year.


    Intense, man. Intense.


    ***


    SummerhillBill


    No! No no no!


    Do not fucking outplay Man United in their own home!


    No!


    ***


    As much as possible I tried to get the three Bestballed players together so that they would be able to do some Relationism. But United had been stung by the goal and were playing more cautiously. They were clearly trying to keep the ball for a minute to stop us building up a head of steam.


    Good plan. Good professionalism.


    I had one trick up my sleeve though - going man-to-man on their entire team.


    The risk-reward on that move was very, very much in United''s favour. I probably wouldn''t do it. Nah, I definitely wouldn''t do it.


    "Max Best''s blue-and-white-army! Max Best''s blue-and-white-army! Chester! Chester!"


    I got Christian''s attention, made two fists, and slammed them together.


    ***


    Mark: "United trying to take the sting out of the game, knocking the ball around very comfortably. Closing in on ten minutes to go in a game that has only just come to life. Perhaps Chester have only just recovered from the shock of conceding that early goal."


    Chris: "Best''s subs have changed the game. It looked like he was giving some experience to his young players but no, they''re really having a pop."


    Mark: "That said, he seems happy enough to keep the score at three-one and who can blame him? That''s a good result."


    Chris: "Absolutely."


    Mark: "The away fans in fine voice. The home fans are starting to stir. United moving into midfield now and - great tackle from Ryan Jack! He snapped into that one! Rolled back the years. United retain possession but it''s Bochum putting pressure on his man. Smith, the Australian, pressing now. Foquita''s turn. No options for the defender so he goes back to Tekin. What just happened?"


    Chris: "Chester went man-to-man. We haven''t seen that so far today. I wonder what the trigger was?"


    Mark: "Tekin looks for an option. Sanchez drops deep but he is followed. Lancaster makes an offer. Bochum lets him go. Tekin finds him - but now Bochum snaps into action. Lancaster trying to give him the slip - no dice. He''s forced to go back to Tekin. Some jeers from the away fans. Tekin throws his hands up. Now he pings the ball long. Christian Fierce with a towering header! He meant that one! Jack controls on his chest and flicks it to Badford. Now Roberts slips into the centre and the intricate passing begins again! One-two. Roberts spins, finds Bochum. Bochum to Badford. Roberts. These young men are dancing all around Old Trafford! Smith makes a run, draws a defender, Roberts to Jack. Jack clips the ball to Foquita. He chests the ball into the path of Roberts. Roberts shoots! It''s blocked."


    Chris: "Handball!"


    Mark: "Was it handball? The Chester players are insistent. The referee looks at his linesman - no penalty! Max Best can''t believe it. He''s on his knees! Peter Bauer is gesticulating. We do have VAR today. It''s being checked. Here comes our replay."


    Chris: "That''s a pen. That''s as clear a pen as you''ll ever see. Roberts cracked a shot, it was on target, looked to be flying in, and the defender''s arm is away from his body. We don''t want to see penalties given for any old contact with the arm in the box but the defender has basically saved that."


    Mark: "Now we wait for the video assistant referee to decide."


    ***


    BeardedWonderwall


    Oh my God, how long is this going to take? Almost makes me not want to go to the Premier League. Imagine this ten times a game.


    CrunchyAbs


    All my friends who support Prem teams say it''s shit. Best league by miles is the Championship. Loads of big teams, great stadiums, no VAR. If we go up this year, which seems pretty likely, I reckon I''d be happy to stay there.


    ***


    Penalty.


    Nailed on penalty.


    When the ref had given a goal kick I had slumped to the ground and ended up with my forehead pressed to the grass. Peter had a lot more experience of VAR than me - I had zero - and he had gone to berate the fourth official.


    If someone was watching that incident in slow motion there could be no doubt we would get the pen.


    The problem was that the decision was being made in slow motion, too. My perk timers were counting down. Seal It Up and Cupid''s Arrow had six minutes left but Happy New One-Two was down to the last minute.


    The three timers ticked down remorselessly. While the action on the pitch ground to a pathetic halt, Pedro Porto gathered a few players around him and gave them some instructions. I watched as the curse tactics screen updated. His wide midfielders now had arrows bringing them into the centre and, incredibly, a fifty-five-million-pound CA 173 defensive midfielder had been asked to mark Dan Badford, who had been scouted while wearing a puffy jacket at Das Tournament.


    Okay, Porto''s tweaks would stop my tactics working all right. Porto was very, very good. I noticed the two England internationals were ready to join the action.


    It took three minutes for the VAR to call the ref over to the monitor and another half a minute for the ref to decide that the ball had indeed hit the defender''s arm and it had stopped us from scoring. When the ref finally pointed to the penalty spot I closed my eyes and tried to get a grip. My heart was going faster than it was supposed to. I had to calm down or I might actually drop dead.


    Foquita took the ball and placed it on the spot.


    Gosh, I thought to myself. All the delays and stoppages in the Premier League are going to nerf my perks, aren''t they?


    The ref walked along the edge of the box pointing at people. Fucking idiot.


    A good monthly perk would be one that paused my perk timers when the ball was out of play. Give me a proper shot clock like in the American sports.


    The ref whistled.


    Even baseball has one now, or so I''ve heard. Get on it, imps. Take my money!


    Foquita sent the keeper the wrong way and nestled the ball into the bottom-left corner.


    I looked up at the famous scoreboard.


    United 3.


    Chester 2.


    The England players were coming.


    Time to turtle up. Time to play it safe and go home with our honour very much intact.


    ***


    It looks like Chester have adopted a more attacking approach.


    ***


    Mark: "Wild scenes! It''s end-to-end stuff and the home fans have woken up. They realise their team is in trouble."


    Chris: "Chester are playing 4-2-4. I can''t believe my eyes. They''re going for it."


    Mark: "Barnes on the overlap. Great cross! Sanchez unmarked at the back post, volleys - saved by Icke! He flung himself across goal and threw a massive paw at it. That''s gone behind for a corner and he is mobbed by his mates. He screams at them to get off him and concentrate. Chester with everyone back, as you''d expect. Bochum not very useful in these situations but he''s making a nuisance of himself. He wanders off now. The ref is unhappy with the pushing and shoving. He wags his finger at Zach Green and Bingley, the England striker. Corner comes in... punched clear by Icke. Bochum in acres of space! He snuck out to the wing and he''s on the move. He''s on his own but there''s only one United player between him and goal. Players on both sides storming to help. Bochum cuts back onto his right foot, plays it to Smith. His first touch holds him up. He swivels, tries to feed Foquita, intercepted! It was so close. Now Chester must get back. Big diag played in behind Evergreen. He looks shattered. Sanchez gets there, steams clear, but Evergreen slides and gets a touch on the ball. Out for a corner! His turn to be mobbed! What a recovery tackle that was."


    Chris: "He had to time that perfectly or it would have been a penalty."


    Mark: "Best is gesturing to the away fans and now they''re chanting. What''s...?"


    Chris: "Attack attack attack. It''s a Man United chant."


    Mark: "Corner comes in - headed clear by Smith. Headed miles! It''ll go for a United throw. No! Kept in by Youngster. He''s been everywhere today."


    Chris: "Great player."


    Mark: "He holds the ball up, retreats, fakes two United players! He runs down the line. Foquita trying to get close to support, but Youngster ran out of legs. He''s cramping up. United put the ball out of play and Foquita goes to help his new colleague."


    Chris: "Ahh... that''s that. Best is calling an end to it. They''re retreating. Could be 5-4-1. His team gave it a go but he doesn''t want injuries."


    Mark: "What a shame! That was tremendous fun. There are a few minutes left but I suppose the league is his priority. Eighteen points behind Bradford City with three games in hand - could be interesting if Chester can play like this for the rest of the season. Youngster is okay to continue. Smith throws the ball to Tekin - round of applause from the home fans - and United build once more. No pressure this time. United working the ball forward... goes to Sanchez on the left. He fizzes it into the middle. Beautiful first-time touch into the area - Green won''t get there. Bingley... scores! That''s his fourth of the season and United''s fourth of the game. He smashed it low, gave Icke no chance."


    Chris: "Perfect finish. Low, hard, into the corner. That''s why he wants a new contract."


    Mark: "Many reports saying he is demanding 400,000 pounds per week but if he scores a few more like that, maybe he''ll get it."


    Chris: "Game over. That''s done and dusted."


    Mark: "I agree, but the Chester fans are still bellowing. What a noise they have made today!"


    ***


    The referee looks at his watch. Time is nearly up.


    Lancaster gets the better of Bochum and moves forward.


    Lancaster thrashes the ball square. It is helped further left to Sanchez.


    Sanchez gives it to Bingley on the overlap. He wants to bring the ball onto his right.


    Green does well to get between Bingley and goal.


    Bingley lays it off...


    Connelly shoots!


    GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!


    He has scored on his debut!


    It''s a day he will never forget.


    The final whistle blows. Manchester United 5, Chester 2. United progress to the next round!


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Five-two in their cup final.


    Lol.


    SummerhillBill


    Satisfying. I''ll take it.


    Tell you what though. I''m back on the Best''s Bales bandwagon. Those kids can play!


    He had his Welsh lad on the bench. Barely fifteen he is. How good must he be?


    BrokenGround


    Haven''t seen much of the boy Jones but when I ask Best about him, he stares me out and goes ''not for sale, not for sale''.


    SummerhillBill


    Fuck. What a sales pitch that is!


    ***


    When the whistle blew, Pedro Porto celebrated with his staff and came over to shake my hand. Peter was between us, though, and while that embrace was happening I spotted something I didn''t like.


    I jogged onto the pitch, weaving around a few players from both sides. Foquita was swapping shirts with a United player.


    "No," I said. "Not yet."


    "Que?"


    "Despu¨¦s mate. Despu¨¦s. Fucking later." I took the red shirt from his hand and gave it back to the United guy, nabbed the Chester shirt, and told Foquita to put it back on. He babbled in Spanish but I was insistent. I pushed him towards the away fans and at a certain point he understood what I wanted.


    He pulled the shirt back on while I yelled at Christian. Soon all my players were heading to the corner of the Bobby Charlton stand and I formed them into a line in front of our fans.


    They cheered as though we had won. I walked along the line and picked Foquita and Ryan Jack to step forward. I stood back and clapped; our fans roared approval. I showed Foquita how we did it in Chester, demonstrating how to point to the name on his back using both thumbs. He was happy to embrace the technique, especially as the volume increased when he did so. Four goals in two games generates a lot of affection.


    Foquita and Ryan got back in line and I walked up and down again. I pointed from Dan to the spot Foquita had vacated. He stepped forward, eyes shining, and I drew a circle with my index finger indicating that he should turn round. He did.


    I leant and put my palms down. The rest of the team copied me, and so did six thousand fans. I shook my hands and brought them slowly higher as the fans went ''oooh'' in anticipation. As our hands reached eye-level and the ooooh reached a deafening climax, Dan double-thumbed the name on the back of his shirt. You would have thought that would be the peak of the noise but I had lost full control of my actions. I gestured to Dan that he should remove his top. One eyebrow shot up but he did it. I made a throwing motion and he rushed to the fans and threw his shirt hard and high into the mass. I looked at the rest of the squad and shrugged. What are you waiting for?


    They stripped off - some needed no second invitation to go topless - bunched up their shirts and competed to throw them the furthest back into the stand.


    Better than the Sound of Music is the music of sound. Six thousand voices united desperately shrieking ''Chester! Chester! Chester! Chester!''


    Inject it into my veins! What a rush, but I had just enough self-control to slip away, leaving the bedlam behind me.


    I had an interview to give. I had memorised the speech I''d written on the night of the draw. A nice bottle of bath wine and some soggy paper were all I needed to create a masterpiece of modern banter.


    Time to prick the egos of some billionaire pricks. Time to take the actual piss.


    ***


    The BBC''s live footage showed Max Best''s interview with their on-the-spot reporter, Izzy Lake, but the next day they posted a longer version on their website and socials.


    [As Max gets into place for his interview he wears a face of thunder, stares down, sometimes chunters, eyes ablaze. Off camera, there is a voice. The cameraman senses opportunity and swings the lens - it''s Pedro Porto.]


    PEDRO


    There you are! Amazing! Just amazing!


    [He holds his hand out. Best stares at him, scowling, until his expression softens. Just in time he reaches out and accepts the handshake.]


    MAX


    Yeah, well played. Mint.


    PEDRO


    I haven''t been sucker punched like that since my father caught me smoking his Ventils. You have to tell me what you did!


    [Max pulls a face.]


    MAX


    Er, no. [He scoffs.] You couldn''t do it anyway. Not with those [beeps] you''ve got playing for you.


    PEDRO


    [Huge laugh.] Then it''s safe to tell me! Come on! Max, I have a very special bottle of wine. It''s from a vineyard near my family home. It''s sensational and I was saving it for a special occasion but this feels very special. Please, Max. Have a glass with me.


    MAX


    A glass? Aren''t there like three glasses in a bottle?


    PEDRO


    Five.


    MAX


    This is England. Fill her up. I don''t get out of bed for less than half a bottle.


    PEDRO


    [Laughs more.] Drink all you want, my friend! But talk to me. I haven''t had that much fun since I came to England.


    MAX


    [Tuts.] I don''t know. I''m in a mood.


    PEDRO


    Of course you are! I would be, too.


    MAX


    You know who you''d like? My mate Henri.


    PEDRO


    The striker? You think so?


    MAX


    I do. You''d get on big time. Don''t give him my wine though. Tell you what, he''ll be in the shower for an hour anyway. Let''s do it up there.


    PEDRO


    [Confused.] Where?


    MAX


    Wherever my seats are, I guess. My girlfriend''s there with her cousins. You have to help me convince Wee Bonnie that football isn''t boring.


    PEDRO


    Boring? She has eyes, doesn''t she? Regardless, I agree. They have glasses up there, I think. [Laughs more.]


    MAX


    Just don''t fall in love with my girlfriend.


    PEDRO


    [Sternly.] Max, I am happily married.


    MAX


    That''s what they all say.


    PEDRO


    [Pushing his palms together.] I''ll get the wine. Don''t spend too long with these people! We have a lot to discuss!


    MAX


    [Smiles.] I won''t.


    [Pedro departs. Max pinches his nose. He takes some notes out of a pocket... and crushes them into a ball.]


    MAX


    [Bleep.]


    IZZY


    Ready, Max? [Pause.] I''m here with Chester FC''s player-manager Max Best. Max, not so much player today. What happened?


    MAX


    It was a choice between me and Dan Badford and I chose him. Good choice. To any scouts watching, he''s not available for sale but he is available to play for England if any of the selectors can be arsed coming up north. I want my players in the March squads or I''m going to go nuclear on someone.


    IZZY


    The game exploded into life in the last quarter of an hour. What happened?


    MAX


    I know you have to characterise it like that and I know a lot of it wasn''t entertaining but that was a game full of life. My players gave it everything.


    IZZY


    You had a chat with Pedro Porto there. What were you talking about?


    MAX


    [Scoffs because she heard the whole thing, but he decides not to make a big deal of it.] Yeah, he was worried that we threw all our new Grindhog kits into the stand but I told him that Ken Carr from Grindhog will send us, like, ten new tops per player so we can keep throwing them into the fans in front of two million people on the BBC.


    IZZY


    More like eight million, Max.


    MAX


    Cool. Make it thirty tops per player then.


    IZZY


    I liked your Combined Eleven videos. Who would get in a combined eleven from today?


    MAX


    That''s for little baby Max''s grandson to decide.


    IZZY


    You made some substitutions and we were struck by how young the players were. But you caused Manchester United some problems. What did you do?


    MAX


    Before the match I was talking to a Scottish tactics expert who told me not to take things so seriously. She also told me that a late switch to 3-5-2 might allow us to get a foothold in midfield. I pointed out that it would leave us vulnerable in the full-back positions but she told me to, and I quote, ''quit making excuses, och, and put on my big-boy troosies''. She also asked me to make sure all my players took their tops off at the end. I said no, she said it was her birthday, and yeah, she won that conversation.


    IZZY


    It was certainly a very powerful scene. I think some of the home fans would be jealous of the togetherness - the Chesterness - of your celebrations at the end.


    MAX


    [Scowling.] We weren''t celebrating. This is Chester football club. We don¡¯t celebrate defeats; we honour players who give everything for the badge. In 1965 a brilliant Chester team came here and fought against Bill Foulkes, Paddy Crerand, Nobby Stiles, Bobby Charlton, David Herd, George Best. They lost but they gave it their all. Who can ask for more? Today my lads gave it their all and so did the fans. Who can ask for more?


    IZZY


    For some of your players it was a once in a lifetime experience to come here. Will you be back, do you think? Maybe as a player?


    MAX


    Once in a lifetime? Chester FC will be back here this season. The Youth Cup final is at Old Trafford and we¡¯ll be there. Four of this squad will be playing in that match. Four. Banksy, Dan, Wibbers, and Roddy. They won¡¯t be awed by the stadium or their opponents, I won¡¯t have to say anything to them. Just point them in the right direction and stand back. We''ve been talking about history this week and we''re going to make more history that day. Wibbers is trying to break every goalscoring record. Dan might just be a Glenn Hoddle regen. Banksy is phenomenal. I wouldn¡¯t swap Roddy for any of those United players. Whoever has the misfortune to face us in the Youth Cup final¡­


    [He looks down the camera.]


    You have my sympathy.

 13.6 - Transfer Deadline Dan

    6.


    Saturday, January 31 - Transfer Deadline Day


    Hot water blasted onto my face before fading away to a weak dribble. Mansfield Town''s Field Mill stadium is said to be the oldest in the football league, with the first verified match taking place there in 1861. The showers in the away dressing room were relatively new and like most new things they had intentionally been made shit. At waist height was a button. I pressed it and hot water blasted onto my face for eight seconds until the flow ceased.


    I decided that I would press the button every five seconds. That would guarantee a constant flow, right?


    Wrong.


    The person whose job it was to stop me enjoying my shower was a genius, a true floating megabrain. Not only did the shower reject any input made while it was dispensing water, it also ignored anything from the three seconds after it had done its work. I snarled and slammed the button again. I wasn''t going to take this shit from anyone, let alone a bathroom fixture.


    All around the shower block were exasperated players. Magnus was using this ordeal as a way to practise mindfulness. Banksy was mechanically pressing the button once every fifteen seconds or so. Henri was becoming enraged. "You will not break me!" he snapped, reaching out to throttle the pipe.


    I hit the button, counted, and got to seven before the flow stopped. I did it again and counted to eight. Then eight, then seven. They had programmed the showers to dispense variable rewards! These Mansfield fuckers were really playing dirty pool with us. Mental disintegration 20.


    In the unit next to me, Lee Hudson yelled, "Fuck this!" and stormed off. Dan Badford rushed to take the space. He looked at me, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and turned away.


    "What?" I said.


    "Nothing."


    Ever since the United game, Dan''s Morale had been going crazy, fluctuating from abysmal to superb like a seismograph placed on top of a drunk penguin in a shopping trolley. I had been waiting for a clue about what was causing his mood swings but with no luck. I mean, the obvious thing was that a big club was tapping him up and he wanted to leave. I mashed the cursed button. "Out with it," I said to both the shower and Dan.


    "Don''t you have to talk to the media?"


    "Peter''s doing it," I said. "For the last time," I added, darkly.


    He looked shifty. "Okay, ah... Look, can I talk to you on Sealbiscuit? Bit of a chinwag, as my mum calls it."


    "It''s transfer deadline day and I''m a football manager with half a million quid burning a hole in his pocket. Today''s a terrible day to wag chins."


    He didn''t seem put out and his Morale didn''t drop. "Sorry, that was stupid of me. It can wait."


    Okay, so he wasn''t asking for a transfer. He wasn''t planning to R. Brown me. "Dan," I said, but he pushed his shower button and as the water streamed onto him, he couldn''t hear me.


    As I wondered what he wanted, something mad happened - the water kept flowing. I looked from the showerhead to Dan''s hand and - eureka! I pressed my button and held it. The water hit me and kept hitting me. I almost did a jig. The system was bonkers and aggressively anti-user, but right then and there I cared not.


    I lathered my hair and rubbed myself with various masculine unguents and held the button in once more.


    Bliss!


    When Dan finished I said, "Sealbiscuit. You and me. Big chat. Yeah? Good. Better tell Henri how to use the shower before he does one of those spontaneous human combustion things."


    ***


    I got dressed and asked Magnus to escort me to Sealbiscuit. Once I was in my spot I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. There was a storm in my head to match the one outside but I needed to find some semblance of peace in order to make good decisions.


    One thing that often calmed me down was checking how many experience points I had.


    XP balance: 7,054


    The Man United game had been an XP bonanza - I''d earned close to 1,400 - and the Mansfield match we had just played was lucrative, too. It had kicked off late because of the travel chaos caused by Storm Dolly. The high winds, air pressure, the stress of the day and the tension of the match - if they could beat us, Mansfield had a genuine shot at winning the title - had contributed to a medical emergency in the crowd. The match was paused for well over twenty minutes and in that time I was still awarded XP.


    The thought led to some obvious conclusions - why not fake a medical emergency at every home match? I could increase my XP income by an easy twenty or thirty percent. I dismissed the idea because it was one, sociopathic, and two, was sure to trigger a visit from Old Nick. I hadn''t seen him or the imps for ages and I was absolutely fine with that.


    Seven thousand XP. That was enough to buy the Interested Parties perk, which would tell me which clubs were interested in my players. That was a good one to have in place in time for summer but didn''t strike me as being the sort of thing you bought in the last few hours of a transfer window.


    Attributes 10 was four thousand and 3-4-2-1 was going for five thousand. Both quite desirable but they could wait until I''d seen the February perk offer.


    I was much more interested in continuing to buy the cheap perks to remove them from the perk shop. For 300 XP, Manager Stats would put ever more data in my head, while for 500 the average ratings field would get filled in. Player Comparison would let me put two player profiles on the same screen. Not much value for the 630 cost.


    1500 would allow me to start upgrading Playdar and while I was using that talent quite heavily and to great effect, I was wary of spending all my Man United income to unlock a perk tree - in my current mental state I wanted fewer options, not more.


    I was leaning towards buying a couple of cheap ones and then targeting the Panopticon tree. For two thousand XP I could inject additional squads into my brain. I would get their current player profiles from anywhere in the world and be able to check their Morale and injury status. I would probably start with the boys under eighteens but we had big assets in the younger groups, too.


    If I added the under twelves I would be able to check on Steven Watson and the other four triple-digit PA pipsqueaks. If I then bought ''Full Frontal'' I would be able to see any deleterious status effects right from the main page. If I then bought Interested Parties I would be able to see which players were being scouted. There wasn''t a whole lot I could do to stop Mr. Watson moving his boy to one of the Merseyside clubs if that''s what he wanted but I could get the Brig to dig up some dirt on the scout or the academy directors so I could extract a proper fee.


    The Panopticon perk could also be extended to cover Saltney, West, and College.


    Doing all that felt extremely urgent, but so did adding attributes and formations.


    The doors of the bus opened and the lads got on. Dan was at the head of the queue. Keen! His first question didn''t put me at ease.


    "Will we be back in time for the deadline? Can we still trade players if you''re not there?"


    "Even with the storm and the delays we should be back by nine. Ten at the latest. The deadline goes to eleven and yeah, I don''t absolutely need to be there."


    Dan nodded at one of the players who were streaming by. "Isn''t it strange that the deadline is a Saturday? I thought they always moved it to the next Monday."


    "There are no whatsits," I said. "Strict rules. Some years they push it back, sometimes they don''t. I think no-one could be arsed rearranging it this year because there will be fewer deals with the World Cup coming this summer. Something like that, anyway. I''m happy if it''s always the 31st of Jan. I don''t have much of a voice yet but when I''m king of the world we will pick a date and stick to it so everyone knows where they stand. The January transfer window can''t end on the third of February, for fuck''s sake."


    Foquita was next in the line. He tried to speak to me. "Mister," he said.


    "Get fucked," I suggested, jabbing my thumb to the back of the bus.


    Foquita tried to use his sad puppy eyes on me. "Se?or," he said.


    "Fuck off, sit down, shut up, stay shutted up."


    Foquita sighed. Pascal was behind him and gave him a nudge. They shuffled along the aisle.


    Dan said, "How did you learn to be such a good man manager?" He saw that I wasn''t in the mood. "Sorry, that was... I''m joking. Bad joke. Sorry."


    "It''s all right," I said. "It was funny. Maybe don''t provoke me today, though."


    "No."


    "Unless you''re trying to engineer a move away from the club." No reaction. I rubbed my eyebrows. "Fuck, I didn''t even turn my phone on."


    Dan watched as I fished it out and held the power button down. "You still turn it off to save battery? But..."


    "But it''s the new model with good battery life and we can charge it on Sealbiscuit. I know." I rubbed my eyebrows again. "It''s habit now. I think turning it off is good for me. Turns every match into a digital detox. I shouldn''t be wondering who Chip is trying to buy when I''m trying to work out how to play tiki-taka in a fucking tornado." I punched the plastic tray built into the seat in front of me.


    Dan''s eyes widened slightly. "The digital detox is doing wonders for your mindfulness."


    I held my hand up and checked for wounds. "Wit that sharp cuts both ways."


    He shook his head. "I know. I couldn''t help it. The joke was right there. Couldn''t stop my mouth."


    "I know the feeling."


    "I thought Folke Wester was doing the transfers at Bradford."


    "He might be choosing them but it''s Chip doing the actual deals."


    "I reckon it will be Folke."


    I scoffed. "Thanks for the great insight into how the world works, mate. It''s Chip and I know that for a fact. He''s striding around his yacht or he''s in the back of the Chip Van making calls, making promises, making the world go round. TJ, my mate from Crawley, has a source who''s on the other side of one of the deals; the club and agent are absolutely pulling Chip''s pants down. He''s trying to sign three players and the three clubs and agents are colluding to drive the fees up and get better conditions."


    "How?"


    "They''ve agreed to string him along but not sign anything until the hour before the deadline. The best thing he could do right now is what I would do - cancel the deals, walk away, move onto your second targets. The agents would get back on the phone in minutes, nice and reasonable. Chip''s not going to do that. He thinks he''s a master of business and can get the better of the sharks and old hands he''s dealing with. Here, let''s see what''s what."


    I had a flurry of messages, mostly from agents offering me players. Some were from other managers and directors of football. I showed one to Dan.


    Coventry City DoF: If you change your mind about Badford, let me know!


    He looked away briefly. "Do you always write clubs instead of names? What if that guy moves?"


    "I get alerts about that sort of thing. I change the names, mate. I don''t need help managing my contacts list, thanks. Jesus. What else have we got here? Hold on. Heh heh. Check this one out."


    TJ: Stevenage have told Chip his latest bid doesn''t cut it but they''ve given him permission to speak to the player and get terms agreed ''in case''. Very clever, that. The more Chip negotiates with the player, the more he''s invested in the deal, the more he''ll fixate on it.


    "Who''s that about?"


    "That''s Gareth Davies, the striker. He''s what... thirty-one? Folke is mad about him and he thinks there''s a deal to be had. That''s why they appealed Chipper''s ban even though there''s a risk it gets changed from 4 matches to 5. Chip wasn''t convinced by Davies at first but now he''s into it because he wants to have two Welsh strikers so he can call them the Double Dragons."


    "Cool name."


    "Of course it''s cool, he stole it from me. Davies is the first idea he hasn''t stolen from me, so that''s a relief. Have you seen Single WhiteFemale? I''m surprised Chip hasn''t copied my haircut."


    "Is Davies good?"


    "Very good, yeah. It''s like buying Foquita but it''ll be, what, six or seven hundred thousand quid? For a guy in decline with no resale value? Folke will say it guarantees promotion and it''s a decent argument but as someone working with a tiny budget, the idea makes me wince. Ah, one from everyone''s third-favourite lawyer."


    Gemma: I''m still waiting to hear from Weasel. I have kept MD updated.


    "Bad news?" said Dan.


    I closed my eyes and went to the transfer news screen, filtering by Reading.


    January 30 - Ian Swan - Reading - Chester - 200,000


    Nothing since. "Hmm," I said, allowing my lids to open in their own time. "It''s just a mess with Duggers. Everything''s a mess. Life is a mess."


    "I heard he pissed you off and you flounced out of the meeting."


    "I don''t flounce." I flexed my hand, checking the knuckles for cuts. They stung but there was no need for plasters or an ice pack. "All it is, right, is his agent took the piss. Duggers came to me the next day and we had a proper chat. Like, he''s enjoying his football at Reading but he isn''t getting paid every month and it''s obvious the club''s in a downward spiral. The manager is a miracle worker but he''s in demand and at some point he''s going to ask himself why he''s working so hard to keep the club going when the owner is working so hard to destroy it. Duggers likes what we''re trying to do and okay, in the best possible scenario he wouldn''t be taking a pay cut to join us but he''s not stupid and he''s heard we''re in the career rehabilitation business and that''s what he needs. I didn''t tell him to bin his agent off because I don''t need to get sued but he somehow got the impression that would help his career."


    "Boss," chuckled Dan.


    "Apropos of nothing I told him about this new law firm that specialises in sports. Woman in charge is called Gemma, I think."


    "You can''t pretend you''re not sure when your actual girlfriend works there too."


    "Does she? I''m not one of those overbearing boyfriends, Dan. As long as Emma is happy and healthy she can do what she wants."


    "So Gemma''s helping Duggers sack his agent so he can come to Chester?"


    "No. Gemma''s helping Duggers sack his agent. What happens next is completely unrelated. As it happens, there is a fair chance we might sign him."


    "I see."


    "Gemma did everything by the book, went through Duggers'' contracts and all that. She thinks Weasel - that''s the agent - doesn''t have a leg to stand on but MD doesn''t want to get Chester involved in any disputes. Gemma''s trying to get Weasel to sign some document saying he understands he no longer represents Duggers and waives his right to be a whiny little bitch about what happens in the rest of his career."


    "Some of these legal terms are flying over my head."


    "Weasel would get a sweet little pay off, which is more than he''s owed. What''s going to happen is that Ruth will take Duggers as a client - after a discreet interval - but will he be a Chester player? The odds aren''t good right now."


    "He could join in summer."


    I pulled a face. "It''s kind of now or never. Today''s the last day for all this transfer nonsense to go down and tomorrow a lot of unhappy players are going to wake up and realise they''re stuck at shitty clubs for the next five months. Lots of good players have contracts that expire this summer and from tomorrow I''m going to try to sign them up. I like to get my business done early and signing three or four players in February would be pretty fucking early."


    "What about the Phwoar Room?"


    "I''ve got some reputation now and there are hundreds of players with expiring contracts who would join us. I could get next season''s Lee H wrapped up next week. Do you know what I mean? We''re evolving. Times change."


    Times change, players leave. Would Dan be at the head of the queue? Was that why I was talking so openly? Some sort of attempt to reel him back in?


    The bus driver checked with Vimsy and Peter and with a satisfying little noise, Sealbiscuit whirred into life. We were on our way home.


    My phone vibrated - I had an incoming video call from Camila. I tutted, sighed, sat up straight, and hit the green icon.


    ***


    "Max," she said, and that beautiful voice of hers calmed me down by about six percent. She was dressed simply and was on a sofa next to Foquita''s mother, who was fussing with her jewellery. "What is happening? Foquita is very unhappy. You shouted at him and replaced him and he doesn''t know why."


    I thought about making a joke but didn''t have the energy. I nodded my head back towards the stadium. "We just played Mansfield. It''s a town in Nottinghamshire. They''re second in the league, really good team." They had an average CA of 89. My eleven had 85. "There''s a storm and it''s crazy windy. We have a young player in goal and he conceded two goals that looked easy but honestly I don''t know if anyone would have saved them. It''s an impossible job being a goalkeeper in such conditions. When the second goal went in, Foquita showed how unhappy he was by throwing his arms around, gesticulating, yelling."


    "He should be happy when his teammates make a mistake?"


    "No, he should be pissed but he should understand the context and he should never, ever, throw a fucking tantrum about one of my players but especially not one of my young players. If he''s not happy with his teammates he needs to direct his anger at me and never, ever at them. It''s my job to get a squad together, my job to pick the team. If Foquita wants to shout at someone he can come to me, not a seventeen-year-old. It''s not Banksy''s fault he''s in the team, is it?"


    "I see."


    "I don''t like Foquita''s vibe today. He''s scored a few goals and he thinks he''s better than us, too good for Chester, too good to be playing alongside young players? Like he''s the perfect player already? Well he''s fucking not. He made more mistakes than Banksy today but the difference is his mistakes don''t lead to oppo goals and no-one throws a tantrum when Foquita can''t control a fucking simple ball to feet. My job was to get him in the shop window for his next move and I''ve done that. If he thinks he can be a prima donna around here he can fuck off. That position is occupied."


    Camila smiled. "Max, let us be calm. I will talk to Foquita and perhaps we can discuss it together."


    "I''m not talking to him until he apologises to Banksy."


    Camila translated for Foquita''s mum; she muttered something as she made the sign of the cross. "I will talk to him."


    She hung up.


    "She''s lovely," said Dan. "Do you remember that dress?"


    "No," I said. "I don''t remember the silver dress she wore at the Christmas party and I definitely don''t think about it all the time while watching goalies pump long balls that catch in the wind and they have to fucking save their own clearances."


    "Did you like the art?"


    What a question! I had no clue where Dan was going. "Yeah. It was funny and clever. Henri''s mind is an autumnal orchard - but don''t eat the fruit."


    Dan''s weight moved forward as though he was trying to gee himself up to get to the fucking point. "If we get into Europe and play against Bilbao can we go a day early and visit the Guggenheim?"


    "We would miss a day of training. It''s not what serious teams do."


    "So can we?"


    "Yeah, why not?"


    Dan nodded. "Ryan and Jackie were telling me how they''ve been to loads of places to play football but they couldn''t hardly tell you anything about those cities because it was just get in, get out."


    "Have you seen Master and Commander?"


    Dan frowned as he tried to summon a memory of such a film. "No."


    "Watch it with Youngster if you want some relationship points with him. It''s about a warship in the olden days. The captain of the ship is best mates with the ship''s doctor. The doctor''s always nagging him about popping to the Galapagos Islands. The captain''s like dude, we''re at war! The doctor goes, but you promised! The doctor gets injured and the captain''s like fuck this war, I''m keeping my promise to my mate. They rock up to the islands and the doctor gets to motor about looking at frogs or whatever. Suddenly he sees the enemy ship is parked round the corner. He''s like man, can''t I just sit here and watch this stick insect in peace? He goes back to tell the captain and they do another action set piece."


    Dan processed all that. "You''re saying we can go to a museum... unless we can''t."


    "Pretty much, yeah. I don''t want to be one of those dudes who has been to Rome and never eaten a proper local pizza. But I also don''t want to go all that way and lose. I hear," I said, conspiratorially, "they don''t even have stuffed crusts there. What the fuck!"


    Dan smiled but just as I thought we were getting closer to the heart of the matter, he showed just what an elusive player he could be. "What did you talk to Pedro Porto about?"


    I regarded Dan, but he didn''t seem to be trying to prise sensitive information out of me or anything like that. "I gave him some advice and he was very appreciative."


    Dan laughed way too hard at that. "Okay, if you don''t want to talk about it - "


    "There''s not much to say. We took his nice wine upstairs and he met Emma and her cousins. Wee Bonnie has met gobby Mancunians before but she has never met a Portuguese superstar. I get some play from women because I''m, like, the conductor of this orchestra." I circled my finger around. "Imagine that times ten in the stadium and times a million on social media and that''s the difference in status between me and him."


    "Isn''t she, like, fourteen?"


    "Oh, I wasn''t talking about Wee Bonnie. Was more thinking about this waitress. I was trying to smoulder at her but Pedro said can I ask you for a screw and she just melted." I laughed. "So unfair. I''m not even sure if he said the wrong word on purpose. Yeah he''s just a nice guy and I explained the pressing circle to him. He was absolutely fascinated, said it was one of the craziest things he''s ever seen but there was a certain logic to it. I said, ''Shame you don''t have the balls to try it for yourself.'' He didn''t like that."


    Dan got excited. "He did it, though! Against Newcastle!"


    I laughed. "Yeah and it worked. Turner Blindeye had set his players to press the left-sided centre back so Pedro simply moved him into the middle. Newcastle''s players rushed him and United played wide. Two-nil up at half time before Turner fixed his mistake."


    "The TV people were calling Porto a genius. I was getting really worked up. It''s Max Best who''s the genius!"


    I was intrigued by the idea of Dan Badford getting worked up. I''d never seen it. "Good artists copy, great artists steal. I didn''t invent the wheel thing - I saw it in one of those YouTube compilations called something like ''The Eight Maddest Moments in Football''. I''ll take some credit that I was able to work out what the manager was trying to achieve. And I''ll take credit for working out that it''s stupid to set a specific player as a pressing trigger if you can''t undo it quickly. It''s too easy to exploit. I swear these managers only do things because everyone else is doing it."


    "Herd mentality."


    My phone pinged a couple of times in quick succession.


    TJ: The agents of this country have a new nickname for Chip Star.


    Me: Go on, what?


    TJ: Father Chipmas. He''s always giving out gifts. His latest negotiation went like this. Player''s agent tells his client he''s going to ask for five grand a week because they''re dropping down a division. Chip''s opening offer... six grand a week! Agent has balls of steel because instead of biting Chip''s hand off, he''s saying yeah not sure there are other clubs interested.


    Me: When agents are mean to me, that''s tragedy. When they do it to Chip, that''s comedy.


    TJ: I''m running out of popcorn. I love transfer deadline day.


    The next one was an update about Duggers.


    Gemma: Not looking good. I think I should switch my efforts to convincing MD that The Wall will stand between the club and Weasel. What do you think?


    I pulled at my lip for a while. Adding to MD''s stress wasn''t good for either of us and there was still time to bring a left-footed midfielder on loan. Or I could work around the gap in the squad. Josh Owens hadn''t played well at left midfield today, but he was getting better every week.


    Dan said, "I read that Napoleon used to divide a paper in two and write the pros on one side and the cons on another."


    "Are you helping me with my decision-making process?"


    Dan shrugged.


    I pulled a face but discussing decisions usually led to better outcomes. Why not explain it to Dan? "Okay, first thing. Does the squad need a left mid? We have formations that don''t use one and we have Pascal, Josh, Magnus, and Wibbers who can play there. And me."


    "You haven''t played for ages," said Dan.


    I ignored that. Magnus was dubious about my injury and had asked me not to resume full training. The heel didn''t feel quite right but I would get a scan in the coming week and take it from there. "So we don''t need need need a left mid but I want one and if we can get him now we can build him up for six months and really attack next season. We''re short-ish at centre back but we can manage with what we''ve got. There are good players with contracts winding down this summer. Why pay a fee now when I can get them for free if I wait? Long story short, I want a left-mid but I''m not desperate. The benefit comes next season. What about Duggers specifically? Pro: He''s my kind of player. He''s dreamy. He takes set pieces and he''s left-footed so if we''ve got Ryan and Charlie standing over a ball, the goalie doesn''t know what''s coming. He''s young enough to improve and we would make a big profit on him. He is willing to come and willing to take a pay cut. Cons: His wife is... yeah. His agent is a dick."


    "But he sacked his agent."


    "Yes, true."


    "So he''s free to do what he wants."


    "If we sign him the agent might say, whoa! I set up that deal! Pay me for setting up that deal! Or whatever."


    "It doesn''t sound like a problem. He''s cancelled. As Foquita would say: bye-bye."


    "There''s a thing called reputation risk. MD talks about it more and more because we''re on TV and we''re getting all kinds of exposure. Think about the BBC buying Chesterness and think about all the companies who want to sponsor us. They love us because we''re exciting but wholesome. Now imagine big headlines about chaos and dirty dealing at Chester. Quotes from Weasel like ''Max Best stole my player'' and all kinds of guff like that. You might think yeah who cares, we need that player. Okay but it could be the BBC are fifty-fifty about buying season two and some b-boys are fifty-fifty about leasing a hospitality box and those headlines are the thing that shuts it down. Could cost us a million pounds. It probably won''t and it''s possible it could work the other way and the constant drama and exposure works for us but you have to consider things like that. MD thinks about it all the time. Ironically that helps me when it comes to gambling sponsors and crypto crap. I said I don''t want it and he went okay then."


    "You''re not into crypto?"


    "There are some Bitcoin guys who own football teams and they talk a lot of sense. One guy has an article on the club''s website called Why You Shouldn''t Buy Bitcoin. I like that. He''s not trying to scam his fans into buying something they don''t understand and he wants Bitcoin to become a medium of exchange. You know, instead of pounds and dollars. That part''s fine but when you have clubs promoting crypto as an investment, that gets shady very quickly. Do a search for John Terry NFT to see how much money people lost piling into that whole mess. Or I can save you a click - they lost 99%. I don''t want tech bros telling this club''s fans they aren''t true fans unless they buy fucking nonsense from us. I know Henri dabbles in crypto but that''s as part of a whole portfolio. He isn''t taking financial advice from John Terry and Paris Hilton. Why are we talking about this?"


    "I don''t know." We stared at each other, confused. Dan said, "Charlie Dugdale?"


    "I''ll buy him if MD feels comfortable but if he doesn''t, that''s fine. Er... Charlie is no more than five percent of our portfolio. The value of Charlie Dugdale may go down as well as up. Charlie Dugdale''s past performance is no guarantee of future returns. Do not buy more Charlie Dugdales than you can afford to lose."


    "I put money into Henri''s syndicate. Is that safe?"


    "Which one?"


    "He''s got more than one?"


    "Yeah. He''s got one for players at Saltney and another funding Chester''s new pitch at Ellesmere Port."


    Dan nodded wisely. "That one''s his mum."


    "What?"


    Dan closed his eyes. "Can you pretend I didn''t say that?"


    "Um... sure. I''ll pretend my head didn''t just explode. I can do that."


    "I''m in the Saltney Syndicate. You bought some players but we don''t know much about them except they''re all seventeen."


    "Ah, no, those are in the northern powerhouse project - that''s nothing to do with Henri, that''s my Welsh thing. I''m scouting the under seventeens and under elevens first and I''m building two pretty sweet sides already." For the under elevens I''d decided the floor would be PA 100. It was harder with the older boys because the best ones had mostly been scouted. If I could build an under-eighteen squad where everyone was at least PA 75, that would be awesome. "Saltney got Vincent and Tockers and we signed three lads for the first team. One''s twenty, two are nineteen. They''ve come from the National League and National League North. They bulk up the squad and have some potential to grow. Good investments." Those three were the low-hanging fruit - guys with League Two PA I could buy cheap and who lived within an hour of Saltney.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    "I feel sorry for Tockers."


    "Why?"


    "He''s just come from the beach in Brazil, landed in north Wales, he''s not in the team and the weather''s foul."


    "They don''t have beaches where he''s from. Incredibly, some of Brazil is inland."


    Dan half-smiled. "You know what I mean."


    "I think he''s okay," I said. If I added Saltney''s men''s first team to the Panopticon, I would know for sure. "He''s hanging out with Henri and Luisa and he''s getting to know Foquita and Pascal and so on. He''s not first pick but he''s getting some minutes as a professional footballer. That goes a long way, doesn''t it? And the weather can''t stay this shit. Let me know if you ever see him sobbing in the dressing room."


    "I ain''t no snitch. Can I ask another question?"


    I sighed. "Is it going to be the question that all this is about? Or do you still need to build up to that?"


    He blushed slightly and mumbled, "Still need to build up to that."


    "Ask away, Dan. Just don''t ask for a transfer."


    He blushed even deeper and took a minute to compose himself. Busted! Eventually, he said, "After the United match we did loads of defensive work and I thought that was really strange. Not your style. It was good, don''t get me wrong, much more interesting than - " He stopped. He was going to say ''more interesting than when Vimsy does it''. Peter''s drills combined shape work with having the ball so it was thousands of times more enjoyable than Vimsy''s old-school methods.


    "I tried to get Peter to come and join us," I said.


    Dan''s eyes widened. "Instead of Sandra?"


    "No, in addition. I mean, he''d be a coach." I decided not to mention I wanted Peter as a player.


    "Why would he leave Bayern to be a coach here?"


    "He wouldn''t," I said. "Had to try though, didn''t I?" I scrunched up my face as I remembered the conversation we''d had. "He said he was flattered but he couldn''t accept my offer. He said he had got what he came for and he was grateful. I think I gave him enough of a kick up the arse to make him want to be a manager himself. He''ll go back to Bayern in a few days and he''ll finish the season but he''ll be looking out for job openings. That''s what I think, anyway. All I know is I realised he was leaving, proper leaving, so I thought fuck it, let''s use him while we''ve got him."


    "Oh. It wasn''t because we were playing Chesterfield."


    I laughed - a big one. "What? We play Man United and train as normal but then I wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of Chesterfield? What are you on?"


    He grinned. "It makes sense that it was about Peter. We couldn''t quite get our heads around it. Like I didn''t think we were that bad against United."


    "I''m fairly happy with the defence. We''ve progressed, haven''t we? Christian and Zach are one of the best partnerships in the league." I closed my eyes and tried to remember the Chesterfield game. "I enjoyed that match. It''s a banana skin, isn''t it, the game after a big game. You''ve put so much psychic energy into the big one you don''t even know who''s coming next. It''s normal for standards to slip but no, we were very professional. Solid defence, control of midfield, two goals from Dazza, up to seventh in the league. Very nice. Professional. And a big win for the all-weather pitches, yeah? This time last year we could barely train. Now we''re squeezing every bit of quality out of you mugs."


    "I liked the Barrow match," said Dan. "One-nil and their shithousery didn''t bother us. Clean sheet, solid, Foquita with the winner, and Bradford lost. It was that feeling like last season. We were reeling them in. It''s exhilarating."


    Dan was fascinating. Most footballers, even the smart ones, didn''t throw long words around. "It was a good win, yeah. I''m starting to hate going to Barrow. The roads are shit. Hang on." I read a fairly long text from TJ and replied thanking him for keeping me in the loop. "Okay this is interesting. Davies is Bradford''s top target and his club have rejected four bids already today. Either Chip doesn''t realise he looks like a fool or he doesn''t care. Apparently Bradford are also bidding for a left back and right back. That''s interesting because on paper, Carl is the weak link in the team. Credit to Folke for spotting that." Another text came that I devoured. "Fascinating. I''m sure Chip would overpay for these players if he could but it has leaked that he genuinely has one point five million and not a dime more, so the three clubs that were colluding are now competing. If Chip overpays for Gareth Davies, that''s less money for the other clubs. They''re all rushing to get their deals done."


    "It''s like when pirates turn on each other."


    "Yeah. It happens in the hit TV show The Traitors. The traitors would pretty much always win if they genuinely worked as a team but around episode six they turn on each other. Great TV, questionable strategy. If Chip''s got a limit then it makes sense to maximise your slice of the pie. I think it''s called mercantilism."


    I replied to a few texts while Dan got his own phone out. After a while he said, "The theory of mercantilism posits that there is a fixed amount of wealth in the world and thus every trade has winners or losers. Do you believe that?"


    "No. You can grow the pie and make both sides richer. It''s idiotic to ignore the last thousand years of history when forming your trade policies."


    Dan put his phone away and I sensed he was very, very close to asking the real question. "Do you think Ian Evans talks to his players about art, squad-building, Napoleon, and trade?"


    The idea was amusing, to say the least, but I got a call from Sandra.


    "Hi, boss!" she said. "What''s the latest?"


    I frowned. "It''s not February yet. You''re off work."


    "I''m back tomorrow!"


    "Aiden will batter me if I mess up your maternity leave."


    She tutted. "Max, it''s over. I''m back. Talk to me."


    "No. Tomorrow means tomorrow."


    She let out a kind of a wail. "On Christmas Eve, little baby Lane-Beeks gets to unwrap one present. You said! This is my Christmas Eve, Max! Give me one present."


    I couldn''t argue with that. "Two more clubs got in touch about Dan," I said, which provoked another weird reaction from the man in question. "How much should I sell him for?"


    "Where is he now? Silver? Bronze?"


    Dan was CA 63 which in my League Two rankings was... "Bronze," I mumbled, turning away from him. Gossiping about Bradford was one thing; introducing my players to my internal ranking system was not smart. "Silver by the end of the season for sure."


    "Two hundred thousand?" she said, plucking a figure out of the air. To be fair, Dan was virtually impossible to price properly because I didn''t know what his ceiling was. His PA was minus one. In my years of scouting I had spotted a total of five players with negative PAs. I had two of the five.


    "Yeah," I said, turning back so that Dan could hear. "It''s ludicrous, isn''t it? He demolished Newcastle and Man United single-handed. Not for sale. Okay bye."


    "No," said Sandra. "That''s not my Christmas present. Come on." I smiled and told her the latest about Charlie Dugdale and what was going on at Bradford. "And what''s the latest with Foquita? Did you kiss and make up yet?"


    "Dan," I said. "What''s Fuckwitta doing?"


    Dan turned around and rose the exact same way as Wee Bonnie. "He''s on his phone. Video call. Getting salty with Caramel."


    "Go and punch him in the dick and yell ''team spirit, learn it.''"


    "Do no such thing," Sandra shouted down the phone. I heard Aiden complaining in the background. Sandra said something to me and hung up.


    Dan faced the front again and fussed with the denim around his knees. Maybe that was how his clothes ended up with rips - his jeans weren''t designed like that but were the result of him worrying away the fabric. "Why didn''t we use Relationism against Gillingham?"


    I shook my head. Another complete swerve of the topic but I was getting the sense that everything he was asking me was connected, even though it didn''t seem possible. "Why are you asking about Gillingham? Why not Barrow?"


    We had used Relationism in the FA Youth Cup Fourth Round against Port Vale. The next first team match was Barrow.


    "Barrow are a handful and their pitch was in a state. It makes sense you wouldn''t use it against them. But Gillingham are weak, you said, and the pitch at the Deva was decent. If not then, when? Weren''t you happy with the Youth Cup?"


    ***


    On Wednesday, January 14, three days after playing at Old Trafford, I used full-blown Relationism for the second time.


    3 R Welsh were back on the league treadmill, playing against another army unit in their gaff. 3R''s Morale was quite low which I found out was because they hadn''t got some new kit they''d been promised. Army kit, not football kit. Not for the first time I was thankful that the universe hadn''t put me in Dylan''s shoes; I would hate army life more than the call centre.


    I was pretty wiped out from all the effort I had put into the United match but now that we were out of the FA Cup I actually felt a lot more mentally stable. One branch of potential fixtures had been pruned and there was much more certainty about the rest of our season. If the Relationism module turned 3R''s match into an insane Candy Crush fantasy, this was the perfect time and setting; I would be able to deal with it and no-one was watching.


    "Lads, I want to do Bestball from the start and do the whole ninety. Is that okay with you?"


    "Yes," said Dylan, answering for everyone.


    "That was easy. Top."


    Pascal warmed them up and I encountered an all-new curse screen. It felt like something that should have come from Henri''s head, not mine. The screen was a simple cold-blue rectangle with two words on it.


    Mood: Introspective.


    That stayed in place for about eight seconds - maybe the imps had designed the showers at Mansfield - before I got the Relationism screen.


    The match kicked off and while I was dreading all kinds of mad colours and meters filling up giving me hits of dopamine, it didn''t pan out like that.


    Everything was vaguely blue, including the player icons in the mini-map. After the usual start, where both teams lined up in 4-4-2, my guys drifted to form the blob and played short passes to each other. As they did, their icons changed colour, becoming redder.


    Fatso was the heart of the team and got on the ball the most. His icon turned the reddest and he was involved in the most one-twos. Instead of the mad, in-your-face excess of the Youth Cup match, this time there was only one meter. It filled very, very slowly - possibly because 3R weren''t doing flicks, tricks, skills, nutmegs, or even many rivers.


    When the meter did fill, which took 14 minutes, I popped it and got a pleasant tingling sensation in my ears and neck. One of the icons turned pure yellow. My attention was drawn to the player it represented - Hot Rod. I saw his Morale was abysmal and in the next break, subbed him off. It was rolling subs; he could return after our chat.


    "Mate," I said. "You all right?"


    "Yes, Max."


    "You''re not your usual self. Talk to me."


    He bent and touched his toes. He straightened. "Not having the best time, Max. Work''s shit, things aren''t going well with my girlfriend."


    I nodded a few times. "Do you want to sit this one out?"


    His eyes darted around. The answer was obviously yes. "We''ve only got two subs. The lads need me."


    I spread my arms wide. "What''s the point having a superstar manager if he can''t win without one player?" My arrogance made Hot Rod smile. I continued. "I play shit when my head''s not right; everyone does. It''s just a game. Games are supposed to be fun, yeah?" Hot Rod''s smile came back for another unscheduled public appearance. Wee Bonnie was a master motivator!


    "This is fun, Max. Boss. It''s... It''s a good distraction. Sorry for not playing well."


    He was on 5 out of 10 but low ratings were pretty normal with the army players. "I don''t think it''s that," I mused, as I tried to work out what was going on. This was ''introspection mode'', was it? Was I introspective or was it the players? Or did the curse want us to get introspective? "You''re playing okay but you''re not in the blob, you''re in your head. You''re somewhere else. Focus on the ball and your mates, see if you can get into the flow. Or not. Whatever! But if you want to fuck off down the pub, we''ll come and pick you up when we''re done."


    "Doing dry January boss." He looked out at the pitch. "Can I go back on?"


    I sent him back out and almost immediately, his match rating increased and his icon got redder. The general energy levels rose, it felt to me, and the bar filled up faster. It took about ten minutes and when I popped it, two of the icons flashed black.


    I smiled. This was weird but enjoyable. A tiny mystery!


    It didn''t take me long to ''solve'' this one.


    The way I asked 3 R to form the blob was that one player should stand outside it in a defensive pose. That guy was the safety net for when we lost the ball and the oppo launched a fast counter. The blob had been trained to storm back as fast as they could as soon as there was danger and it was the outsider''s job to buy us enough time to get into position. We sometimes played the ball back to this person but they were very much on the fringes.


    The second who had flashed was playing on the opposite side to the blob, waiting for a big diag. He was the player most likely to score but until then his job involved a lot of sprints into the box, jogging back onside, making another run. Lonely work. Someone like Pascal loved that kind of role but many others didn''t.


    I didn''t have much control over the players but I could decide who did the ''outside'' roles. These two guys clearly felt disconnected from the rest of the team. I swapped them around and once they joined the blob, their cold blue icons started to warm up.


    "That''s working," said Pascal. "That surprises me."


    "Because they aren''t suited to those positions?"


    "Yes."


    "I forgot something I learned in Brazil. They talk about energy there. Passing the ball is like sharing energy with your mate. Those two guys were on the outside not getting any energy. We have to rotate and keep people involved. Don''t let them get cold."


    "Cold! Yes, the match felt cold. It is warming up now."


    That''s what the icons were telling me. I experimented with how frequently to rotate the players. Not so much that it became a carousel, but not so little that players got cold. At a certain point, the icons of all the players warmed up enough to trigger a hidden event. The mini-map glowed with a warm light and I was awarded a ''Five Minute Bench Boost'' token. I broke the habit of a lifetime and used it almost straight away - after subbing a few players off and on for a tactical chat, of course.


    By half time the mood was much improved. We were winning two-nil and happily chatting away. Pascal''s enthusiasm was the icing on the cake and when Dylan roared, "Come on Welsh!" the rest responded like they meant it.


    At the start of the second half, the new screen appeared again. My vision turned pink and two words appeared.


    Mood: Determined.


    ***


    "Was I happy with the Youth Cup," I repeated, to buy myself some time. "What was your experience of the West Ham match? The end, I mean."


    Dan squashed his features up as he attempted to put the feeling into words. "A bit mad. Wild. Wild abandon!"


    "You''re too young for wild abandon, mate."


    "Youth is wasted on the young," he said. He made unusually strong eye contact with me. "I felt I had all the energy in the world and I could have run for days. The more we passed to each other the more intense it got and you were laughing your head off like you were on the pitch with us and you could feel it and we were going yeah this is the new football we''re pioneers we''re astronauts we''re invincible. I did some reading about mass hysteria and that''s what it felt like."


    "You''re such an interesting guy, Dan."


    "Ditto," he said, repeating one of my current favourite phrases. "But at Port Vale it didn''t feel the same and you only wanted us to do it for the first half. I was wondering if we''d done it wrong."


    "I think against West Ham we were all hyper for it, weren''t we? It was a big explosion after a long wait. Plus we had absolutely battered West Ham so our mood was already just... off the scale. Then against Vale there was a fair chunk of apprehension along with the excitement. You might say the mood was nervous apprehension."


    "Yes!" cried Dan. "That''s exactly how I felt!"


    Nervous apprehension was the ''mood'' screen text but I still didn''t know if it referred to me or the players. If I was happy but the players were sad, which would it choose? "We are so much better than Port Vale it didn''t really matter how we approached the game. My plan was always to do Relationism for the first half." The feedback loop that day was all about helping players become less anxious. I did it by asking them to do fewer tricks, megs, and skills, and keep things simple. "You guys were all focused on doing flicks and shit, weren''t you?"


    "Yeah because you were so fire when we did madnesses against West Ham, we thought we had to keep doing that."


    As I had eased them into a more confident state, the curse had rewarded me with mini-boosts. "I helped you calm down and you were able to get into the flow."


    "Yes. Wibbers scoring a first half hat trick helped, too."


    "Yeah, I bet. To answer your question, I was delighted with how you played against Port Vale. They''re a League One side and it''s not actually normal that a club like us blows past them. I expect it, you expect it, but that doesn''t mean we shouldn''t take a moment to be proud. Mostly I stopped doing it against Vale because it was funny."


    "How?"


    I adjusted on my seat. This was the part of the bus ride when I didn''t want anyone next to me; I had wanderlust. Quick tour of the bus, come back and spread out. "Right, so, think of us from Vale''s point of view. Against West Ham we finished with ten minutes of utter slaps. Port Vale were thinking we would do the same again - ten minutes at the end to run down the clock. Instead we did it for the first half - the entire half. In the break they''re coming up with mad schemes and plans for how to defend it. They made substitutions and probably talked of nothing apart from how to defend the blob."


    "But second half - there''s no blob."


    "Right. As much as I want to learn to use Relationism, I don''t want to overuse it because there are a lot of smart people in this game. They will develop countermeasures. Or maybe not - every game with it seems to be different. The technical and tactical side is pretty straightforward so I think it''s all about managing emotions and getting people into the flow. Yeah, look, when we get into the blob it''s undeniably cool and I''m relieved it isn''t just a sugar rush. It could be a valid way of playing in certain matches. I think what''s supposed to happen in a typical game is that you lot start in some state and we have to work through it and get more positive and at the very end we will have that explosion of togetherness we had against West Ham. Something like that, I think. I know one thing - the feeling with 3R and our eighteens is totally different. There''s something about you that Relationism absolutely loves."


    "How would you defend against it?"


    "Good question. I''ll tell you when someone does it to us."


    "Will we do it against Everton?"


    "That will be like West Ham. If we''re well ahead near the end, why not? Text from the lawyer. One sec."


    Gemma: Weasel isn''t playing nice.


    Me: Okay, fuck him. The guy always overreaches. He gets nothing. Tell Duggers he''s staying at Reading and we''ll get him a good move in the summer.


    Gemma: Whoa! My doomsday clock says we have about an hour before we go nuclear.


    Me: Nope. I have exploded.


    Gemma: One hour. Let me do my thing.


    Me: Fine.


    Gemma: You''ve got a nickname with these agents, you know.


    Me: I know. Starboy.


    Gemma: Scrooge MaxDuck.


    I must have grinned as I put my phone away because Dan was grinning, too. "Was it awkward when you fessed up how you fancy Emma''s best mate?"


    "Don''t remember doing that."


    "It was just before or just after you put Julie McKay on a slab."


    "Where do you get these phrases? What is going on?"


    "Seriously, though. Wasn''t that awkward?"


    "I thought it would be, yeah. I asked to talk to her at the next training sesh and I started to apologise but she said no need. I was like yeah but there is. She said it was all good and the girls had been teasing her about it."


    "That doesn''t sound good."


    "I know but she liked it because she''s always thought everyone was being off with her because her boyfriend was prime suspect in my murder and the teasing was when she knew she was really in the group."


    "That''s... quite strange."


    "She said that Henri had apologised and explained it anyway. He thought I would say the person with the worst partner was Youngster and we would all have a laugh at Meghan, who can take it. He didn''t expect me to be so explosive. Yeah. Then I told her I was taking the Saltney women''s team more seriously and I was going to ask her to join it in the summer but I didn''t want her to think it was a punishment or anything like that and if she wanted I would make some calls to other clubs because she could easily be the main striker for most of the teams we were playing."


    "But not for Chester."


    "Have you seen Kit?"


    "Yeah," he said, with a gormless look on his face. He realised how he sounded and sat up. "She''s very gifted."


    I made a tiny scoffing noise. "Julie was happy to know I wanted her on my personal team and she likes the idea of being with her mates. I told her if it turns into Chester B it''s going to get crazy good crazy fast but there''s no money in it. She''s got time to think about it."


    "You like the idea of your former players being around."


    "In normal times, Julie would be Chester''s starting striker for the next ten years."


    "These are not normal times."


    "No," I agreed. I sighed. "What''s Foquita doing?"


    "He''s in the aisle and Pascal, Henri, and Zach are talking to him. It looks quite intense. Henri''s putting him on blast."


    "Sneak up behind Foquita and kick him in the back of the knee. When he falls, smack his head against the nearest armrest and say something awesome."


    TJ: Bradford deals incoming. Stand by.


    "Oh, shit," I said. "Here we go. Er, distract me. Wait, you wanted something. We''ve talked around it enough, right? Now''s a good time to punch me in the dick."


    "It''s not... Okay but we won the two games after United. The first team did. And the eighteens won in the Youth Cup so everything was going great. Then we played Gillingham and that was going fine. Two-nil up but Cole gives a shit back pass, Sticky gives away a penalty and that''s his second yellow card. We''re down to ten, Banksy''s first job is to pick the ball out of the net. We defend well but they score with the last kick of the game."


    "Slap in the face."


    "Two-all and even worse, Sticky''s got a one-match ban. You''ve agreed to sign a goalie but he won''t join until after the Vans Trophy semi-final. No big deal because he''s only a backup. Except he plays and breaks his finger."


    I got the feeling Dan was, in his own way, as angry with life as Foquita was, he just had a more subtle way of showing it. I found myself defending Swanny. "While saving two pens in the shoot-out."


    "Right. But you sign him even though he''s injured."


    "He''s only out for six weeks. It''s minor. Even the insurance company doesn''t give a shit."


    "But we didn''t have a senior goalie for the big game against Mansfield! One of our title rivals."


    "What do you want me to do? Loan a goalie for one match?"


    "Would you have done it against Bradford?"


    "Don''t know. Maybe."


    "Why did you let Eddie go before Cole is really ready?"


    "It was his last chance to get proper paid. Look, it''s mad luck, isn''t it? You could play Soccer Supremo for a hundred years and nothing like this would happen. Cole plays that pass to Sticky''s strong foot a hundred times out of a hundred and on a decent surface Sticky blasts it safely into row Z. I''m not mad at them for one loose pass and for the shit pitches they have to play on. Gillingham are a good team. They''ll have a go at anyone who goes down to ten men. And by the way, today''s game was a complete aberration. I was there on the touchline getting royally drenched thinking should I bring myself on? Okay I''m better than the Mansfield players but what would I actually do? Kick the ball really high and see where the wind blows it? We''ve had freak events. You can''t base your transfer strategy for the next five years around a bit of wind or a broken finger. Swanny''s a great signing for this club. The timing''s unfortunate but shit happens."


    "Okay but when you meet him, Swanny is at Reading and you tell him he can stay for the cup because you think it''s the right thing and he breaks his finger but you sign him anyway because you think it''s the right thing. And because you did the right thing we''ve got a teenager in goal and a teenage goalie on the bench. Oh, and your star striker is in a huff because we let in two basic goals. This isn''t my big question but would you do it again?"


    "Would I let Eddie go a bit earlier than is ideal for me but is perfect for him? Would I let Swanny stay at Reading to help his manager out? I mean... yes. You can say it has cost us four points but... in five years we''ll look back at this last couple of weeks and say these were Banksy''s first league minutes and this was what set him on his path to stardom."


    "We''re out of the playoff places."


    I was getting wound up by the negativity. "And how does that make you feel?"


    "I don''t really care. I trust you."


    That deflated my rapidly-growing balloon. "So... I don''t really know what we''re..."


    "I think I just want to say that I''m really happy to be at a club that does the right thing."


    You know when a magician pulls a tablecloth and there''s loads of glasses and cutlery that is supposed to stay perfectly still? Dan was the magician and I was a quite expensive set of wine glasses. I wobbled and crashed. "You are?"


    "Do you remember when you scouted me?"


    "Yes. Das Tournament. Beth wrote an article about it. I read it about 40 times and convinced myself I was a wizard. I''m not. I''m fumbling around in the dark same as anyone else."


    "What made you think I was good?"


    "That fact that you''re good."


    "But we did those little matches against the Chester lot and it was like you wanted them to lose and at the end there was this mad delay before you ran around whooping."


    "I don''t whoop."


    "What was that all about?"


    "Sometimes things aren''t about anything. Sometimes I eat too much cheese and have to burn off the energy."


    "You don''t want to say. That''s fine. It''ll bug me forever but that''s fine." He paused and clicked one of his knuckles. "Did you know I got scouted before?"


    "No. That''s hard to believe. Not that I doubt you. What I''m saying is that even a dinosaur would snap you up. You have the x-factor."


    He dipped his head and - I think - flushed with pleasure. "It was this older guy. Like forty-five or something mad."


    "Mad."


    "He liked the look of me. Told my dad. Came round for tea."


    "Which club was he?"


    "Stoke City."


    "Big club."


    "Yeah. Dad was chuffed and the guy was raving about me. We had a long talk and I was really excited but nervous."


    "Nervous Apprehension."


    He laughed. "Nervous Apprehension: The Dan Badford Story."


    I shook my head. "Your book would be called It''s Badford Not Bradford."


    He rocked his head back. "Yeah. So the Stoke guy seems to be doing well, I thought, but my mum gets up and asks my dad to help her with the biscuits."


    I smiled. "That sounds like something I''ve seen."


    "No, boss. Sorry but no. Not in my house. Mum can carry a plate of biscuits, do you know what I mean? Dad got up and they went to the kitchen and I was like what the actual crap is happening here? It was one of the strangest moments in my life. Dad comes back almost instantly with the biscuits and mum makes more teas. When she comes in, dad says, I think we''ve heard enough to give Stoke City first refusal on Dan. You can tell your bosses you''ve wrapped it up. Which I thought was a strange thing to focus on and a big jump because they hadn''t talked about money or the details or anything and my dad would normally have been all over those things."


    "Yeah," I mused. Clearly Dan''s parents had gone to the kitchen for a rapid strategy session. The plan was to tell the scout it was a done deal. Why?


    Dan continued. "It all happened so fast but at the time it was agonisingly slow. I was like okay where are my boots, my tracksuits, what''s my email address at Stoke City, when do I get PhotoShopped into the team photo?"


    "Ha. You little shit."


    He dipped his head, acknowledging his little shitness. "The scout relaxed and mum took over. Just chats, you know. Easy chat over tea and biccies. Not even the best china or anything. She switched him off."


    "Hmm," I said. I was starting to get the shape of the story.


    "What happens next is a slow-motion dismantling of this scout. Mum peels his layers off one by one and suddenly he''s giving us the real inside track on life as a footballer. He was a player at Sheffield United and Rotherham and other clubs and his career was non-stop torment. He got screwed over again and again but he couldn''t shift the bug and he kept in the industry even though he hated it. Later my mum said he was like a bone and football was the dog that was gnawing at him. We hear about the bullies and the liars and the fantasists and it''s scary how little self-awareness he has. He despises football. Everything about him is a warning. He leaves and me and my parents spend a few days looking into the dark side of football and it''s all gambling, addiction, depression, bankruptcy. I read about players who were bullied and ostracised because they wanted to go to galleries instead of pubs, because they like indie bands, because they know a few long words."


    "Because they wear big puffy jackets and jeans with holes in."


    Dan scoffed. "We all decide, yeah nah."


    "Yeah nah," I repeated. "Youngster was pretty similar."


    "We agreed that I would go to the trial and fluff my lines so that the scout wouldn''t get in trouble."


    "That''s decent of you."


    "Yeah, well, we liked the man. Dad decided that faking injury was the way to go. If they thought I could be kicked out of a match, they wouldn''t care how good I was. And he was right. They said they''d be in touch and they never did. Bosh. I was free. Then you turned up."


    Knowing the end of the story got me slightly emotional. "You saw me working on the culture."


    "I only wanted to play football and get some free coaching. I love playing, boss, I really do. There was something different here from day one but I told my parents as soon as it turns toxic I''m out. Every time there was something I didn''t like you turned up and screamed at someone. In a good way. And then the Maxterplans. It''s like, where else is the boss talking about the Cambrian Era and Babylonian maps? Zach''s turned into one of the best defenders in League Two, hasn''t he? That''s because you love that he''s a big dinosaur freak and he gets to be himself."


    "Did you see him at half time?" I said, smiling.


    "When he was raging at us?" said Dan.


    "That''s what we needed. I''m no good in conditions like that. I hate wind. Football shouldn''t be played in wind. I was sulking, mate, plain and simple. Up steps Zach and Vimsy to do the yelling. It''s not all beautiful moves, is it? Sometimes you need graft and a bit of the old caveman mentality. Diversity doesn''t mean ticking boxes, it means having loads of people so you''ve got loads of skills. I''m proud of Zach. Today was the exact right time for him to get up and holler."


    "I think I know what you mean. We still lost 2-1 though, didn''t we? You can''t shout a gale force wind away. I prefer Zach when he''s nerding out over fossils. Then there''s Henri. His Christmas play, his party, the way he talks about philosophy. I just... I just love it. It makes me enjoy the tactics talk with Wibbers and Pascal and that lot. And I even don''t mind some of the other banter."


    "Like what?"


    "You know, the more basic stuff. Marry, fuck, kill or whatever."


    "Emma, Camila, Foquita. Decide."


    "No," he laughed. "No way." He appeared to think about it for a moment and I knew which of the choices was giving him pause. He shook his head to get rid of the entire mental process. "The thing is..."


    My phone vibrated but Dan was about to tell me the thing he had been trying to tell me the entire ride. I ignored the phone and stared at him. You have my undivided attention.


    He licked his lips. "The thing is, you''ve been saying how I''m not for sale and all that kind of thing but everyone knows that means you''re inviting bids. Pascal says you''re creating FOMO and building a market for me. Because, you know, you want to sell me one day."


    I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it again.


    Dan said, "I just... I''ve heard even more stories now. From Vimsy, from Ryan, from Jackie Reaper. From Sam. From Josh Owens," he added. He got very fidgety. "I don''t think I could hack it at another club. There''s no way I''d fit in. I think... I think I don''t want a normal football career. I want to stay at Chester and go to museums with Zach and Henri and listen to you do just utterly mad team talks and go ape if someone forgets to translate for Dani. And yeah okay it''s cool other managers are interested in me but I''m not interested in them, boss. There''s no-one like you." His eyes were getting red. "I don''t want to go."


    I rubbed my eyebrows pretty hard and I can''t say I was completely unmoved by Dan''s words. "Whoo," I said. "All right. Didn''t expect that." I adjusted the tray hinge thing. How did it keep getting out of place? Oh, right. Because I kept punching it. Funny, that. All my frustration was long gone and I felt at peace. "First thing, I''m pimping you out not to sell you but to get you an England call-up."


    "Oh."


    "I think I thought that was obvious."


    "It wasn''t."


    "Gotcha. How can I put this? I won''t sell you until I think you''ve hit your ceiling." I lifted myself up and looked around. Foquita was in a different seat but it was obvious by his posture that he was holding his phone up. I thought I detected a smile but he normally only smiled just after scoring. "These guys, I know their limits. Eddie Moore, Sam Topps, Cavvers, even Sharky, I knew how long they had left until they peaked so I could judge their value. You? I have no fucking clue. The eye test is unreliable but I can''t believe you can play like that against the Prem teams and, well, not be a Prem player. But I don''t know. If someone offers me two million pounds for, say, Zach, or Bark, I''d take it because it''s easy to imagine that''s a win-win. You? I have no idea but someone''s winning that deal."


    "What makes me different?"


    "Don''t know. Don''t care. I''m enjoying the journey. Aren''t you?"


    "Yeah," he said. "Okay but this Charlie Dugdale. You said you recommended him to Ruth. She''s got Youngster, Wibbers, Dazza, Angel. Sorry but it''s obvious those are the players you think can go far, right? Why didn''t you ever suggest me?"


    My eyes widened and I nodded hard. "Great question. It''s because I don''t know. Should we, should Ruth take a risk? Probably. But..." I smiled. "You''ve talked yourself into a corner, haven''t you?"


    "What do you mean?"


    "I mean if you''re worth ten grand a week and I offer you three, you''ve told me you don''t want to go anywhere else. It''s Chester or a call centre. I can exploit you. I learned that from Karl Marx. Maybe not what he intended when he wrote his book."


    Dan bit his bottom lip before exhaling. "I don''t think you''ll exploit me that much. But yeah, an agent is no good to me, is she? If I want to be a one-club man."


    My phone was going mental but I tried to ignore it. "Might not be a bad idea for you to talk to Ruth. You can get some Grindhog gear for free, at least. Listen, Dan. If you want to stay here, you can, as long as you keep improving. If you stop improving tomorrow we have a big problem because in eighteen months this club will be in the Championship. Do you get me? It''s not a charity. If you keep improving you can come all the way. You know I need money to build all the shit I need to build but I also need someone press-resistant who can run my midfield so it''s not a hardship for me to keep you around. Heh. But I think football isn''t as bad as that scout made out. You listen to the modern England players, Saka, Bingley, Kane, and they''re not monsters, are they? They''re really decent. I know there are still clubs that sound like they''re from the 80s but I honestly, honestly think it''s a mistake to close off the idea completely."


    "Like... what club would I fit in?"


    I smiled. "Mate, you''re not that weird, are you? Sam Topps loved you from the start and it''s not like you''re disruptive or a teacher''s pet or you slack off in training. I''ve been crunching the numbers for the kinds of budgets I might get in our first year in the Championship and it''s grim. Grim in a hilarious way. Even when we get to the Prem and I''ve got a hundred mill to waste I''m not going to be paying seventy grand a week. Imagine you''re on five grand and I want to sell you to a club that would give you seventy or eighty thousand a week. Do that for two years and you''re made for life. You and your family and the people you care about. Do you know what I mean? You can do something shit for two years, can''t you? It doesn''t have to be completely depressing. When it''s over I''ll take you back or you can do Saltney or West or all kinds of things but you won''t ever have to worry about money again. And it could help you grow as a person. I don''t like to imagine you unhappy but I do like to imagine you growing and becoming even more the person you want to be."


    "I watched the video from when you did your Cambrian Era speech. It said the creatures started evolving because there was a predator."


    "What''s that saying?" I rubbed my eyes; it had been a long day. "Oysters need grit to make pearls. Something like that but pithy. What I don''t want is to send you somewhere that''s all grit. Just enough hardship so that you can grow. And while you''re working on yourself, you''re trousering three million a year after tax." I laughed. "I don''t know. I''m just saying don''t rule it out just yet."


    "I can go and come back?"


    "If you''re good enough, yeah. You have to assume Chester gets better every year."


    "The Relentlessness."


    "Exactly." I unclipped the seat tray and pulled it down so I could fidget with it. "Today was shit. Today was really shit. I''m not sure we can win the league now."


    "Fuck."


    "Bradford are back to 18 points clear. We''ve got those three games in hand. Can we win all three? Yes. Can we make up 9 points on them in the other games? Yes. Mansfield are 15 points clear but we have played the same number of games. They have beaten us home and away. Can we make those points up? Maybe. Can we overtake both? Yeahhhhhh maybe." I lifted the tray and let it drop. "We have to go on a winning run. Three of the next four matches are tough as hell: Carlisle, Fleetwood, Burton. Then it''s a ten-game stretch ripe for a winning streak and two of the last three games could go either way. Yeah, I think we can get close enough to put pressure on. Close enough for one of the two teams to crack. But both? Not sure..."


    I thought for a while before pushing the tray home and clipping it into place.


    "Dan, don''t fret. You control your career and I only want what''s best for you. I honestly think a bit of an adventure might do you good. You can go to Germany or something like that, you know, where the culture is less brutish and you can''t understand what they''re saying anyway. I''m thinking about next season and I''m pretty sure we are going to absolutely fucking crush. My mum''s all right and I''m thinking ahead. One day soon I''ll be married to Ems and there will be little baby Maxes all over the place and I won''t be thinking about living abroad ever again. If I want to do it, I need to do it now because I''ll be the most boring stay-at-home dad who ever dadded, I''m pretty sure of that. The thought gives me that wanderlust, do you know what I mean? Being a tourist is all right - well, no, it''s shit - but living somewhere new? Only for three months or something but why not? Sandra can run Chester. It''ll be a piece of piss." I stared into the future. "I want to get it out of my system. Make some memories. You might prefer to do it when you''re old and that''s all right. Just think about it is all I''m saying." I laughed.


    "What''s funny?" said Dan.


    "I was just thinking about you at Stoke or some club like that and it''s a bit cavemanny. Some pricks are giving you shit because you used a word longer than two syllables and you just point at one and say, ''Max Best thinks you''re dogshit''. Heh. That would be him cooked, I think. They''d learn not to fuck about with you."


    Dan smiled. "You''re so arrogant."


    "Arrogance makes the heart grow fonder."


    "That''s not the expression."


    That was the moment Foquita appeared in the aisle next to us - with his arm wrapped around Banksy''s neck. Banksy was grinning from ear to ear. I knew that look. It was that of someone who had been talking to Camila. Foquita babbled and held up his phone. A tired Camila was looking back. "Max. It is okay. Foquita understands."


    "Good," I said. "Tell him I am happy with his progress." I turned the phone back, heard some Spanish, watched as his smile got huge. I flipped the phone back. "Tell him I''m so happy with his progress I''m putting him on a special training programme."


    She told him and his grin got wider, but he spotted the looks on Dan''s and Banksy''s faces and his smile diminished. Camila asked me to explain what it meant. I declined. She turned to Foquita''s mother, said something, and they both made the sign of the cross. I ended the call and gave my player his phone back. "Bye," I said.


    "Bye-bye," he said, confused, as he shuffled back to his seat.


    "What have you got planned?" said Dan.


    "Special students need special teachers. Right," I said, getting my phone out and reading quickly. "Weasel is being a dick. Okay, that''s that. Case closed, deal''s off. Shame, really. Let me just write this text."


    I was wondering how to word my reply when Dan reached up and touched my arm. I stared at him. He said, "He''s a good player. Is he a good person?"


    "Duggers? I would say so, yeah. He''d win Celebrity Big Brother or something like that through being a bit dizzy but mostly decent. Voltaire might not get on with him."


    "Is that...?"


    "There''s a quote I like. Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do. If we ask Duggers to help at a food bank he''ll go but he''d never think to do something like that on his own. Does that make him a bad person?"


    "No."


    "And if I buy him for four hundred grand and sell him for two million, I can do a load of good with that money."


    Dan nodded. "So why are you canceling the deal?"


    "Because..." I said. Then I scoffed and dialled. "MD? How are you doing? Yeah, it was a bad one. Miserable. No, I still think we''ll get 90 points. That gets us up, right? Yeah, that''s not a problem. No, I''m not joking; I''m going to put my foot on the accelerator. Did you see the texts I sent about Chip? Father Chipmas, yeah! Listen: Charlie Dugdale. I know there''s some reputation risk but he hasn''t done anything wrong, we haven''t done anything wrong. If his agent wants to be a dick, we rise above it. Let Gemma deal with it. Duggers is happy at Reading but that place will be a disaster zone soon. We can rescue him before the fire even starts. That''s a new level of heroism, Mike. I didn''t realise it until now but doing the right thing has unlocked Zach and it''s why Dan is at the club. It costs us a few points here and there but you know it doesn''t take much for me to double down. No, no tantrums, it''s your choice. Yeah, he''s worth it. You''ll love him, Mike. He''ll fill that stand we''re building. Yeah. Dreamy. All right." I hung up.


    Dan was agog. "What did he say?"


    I shook my head. "He said he wouldn''t even consider it unless Bradford City blew one point five million on guys with no resale value."


    Dan had a sad air about him for a few seconds. "But you said you''d get him a good move in the summer. He''ll be all right."


    I didn''t reply, unless giving him a sardonic stare counts.


    Dan''s eyes narrowed. "Hang on. Why would MD say anything about Bradford when you''re talking about Duggers?"


    "He wouldn''t," I said, tapping on my screen. I brought up a transfer deals page and filtered it for Bradford. I showed Dan that Folke was about to spend Chip''s money on three players aged 30 and over.


    Gareth Davies - Stevenage - Bradford - 730,000


    Olly Oduor - Exeter City - Bradford - 500,000


    Kent Halle - Accrington - Bradford - 270,000


    "Shit," said Dan. "That''s crazy, isn''t it?"


    I shrugged. "Depends if you want a financial return from those players. If you think you can ten x your investment by getting promoted, it''s peanuts. We will see!"


    Dan heard some laughs from the back of the bus and I knew he was ready to go back and spend the last hour of the journey with his mates. He stood up and gripped a head rest in each hand. I felt the cogs in his brain whirring. He was such an enigma I had no idea what he would say next. He surprised me by asking the most obvious question. "What did MD say really? After you said Duggers would fill the stand and that he was dreamy?"


    I pushed the arm rest up and spread out over the two seats of my domain. "He said ''always bet on Best.''"


    ***


    Charlie Dugdale - Reading - Chester - 400,000


    ***


    Dan Badford


    Injuries: None


    Form: 7-8-10-6-5


    Morale: Superb


    Future: Thinks Max Best is a tactical genius. Proud to be playing at Chester. Wants to stay at the club for a very long time.

 13.7 - Always Bet on Best

    7.


    Sports glossary: Bunny. An opponent you always beat. ''City are Spurs'' bunnies.''


    ***


    Red Army is a hard-hitting Wrexham AFC podcast, unique in that club''s media ecosystem since criticism of Ryan Reynolds is rife. The podcast has a Discord server open to its Patreon supporters. One of the channels on the server is called ABOB.


    ***


    Sunday Feb 1


    ButteryCrumpets


    Chester don''t have a midweek game so our focus turns to Carlisle United at home on Saturday.


    Their previous encounter was match 8 in September when Chester were on their losing run. Chester lost two-nil to leave them rock bottom of the table.


    Stoop


    That was around the time Dylan made friends with Best. We made this channel soon after.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Right.


    Carlisle we know spent big in the summer. This January they''ve lost their loan players who were doing well for them. That to me seems like a blow but they''ve got a couple of new lads in, this time from Bournemouth. Anyone got time to go digging for info about Hatton and Twentyman?


    Stoop


    I''m on it.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Appreciated.


    As for Chester, they have bought an injured goalkeeper (ahem: lol) and Charlie Dugdale, both from Reading. Best has essentially spent his Man United windfall on those two, plus he got a couple of young lads from United who he has loaned out.


    The keeper, Swan, looks an upgrade on their current clown, but won''t play for at least another month (lol).


    Looking at Dugdale''s numbers, he''s quite tasty. Last season was relatively poor, he''s had injuries this season, but a few years ago he was regarded as extremely promising and was doing assists for days. I wonder what happened to him? If anyone has time to go digging in the Reading forums, that could be worthwhile.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Carlisle are eight points ahead of Chester and have slightly better form over the last five matches. They have one of the meanest defences in the league and their away matches are low-scoring affairs. I''m looking at the Goals Under 1.5 market.


    Saint Derfel


    Hi, I''m new to the world of betting. Can you explain that one?


    BeardedWonderwall


    No problem! And welcome to the party!


    Basically, if you think a match will be low-scoring or high-scoring, you can use the Goals Over/Under markets. Your betting platform will have the odds. Let''s say you bet Chester vs Carlisle will have under 1.5 goals. (It''s always point 5, by the way.) Chester win one-nil, Carlisle win one-nil, it''s a goalless draw, in those three scenarios, you win! If there are two or more goals, you lose.


    Saint Derfel


    I''ve been lurking in this channel for a while but it seems like Chester matches have a lot of goals.


    BeardedWonderwall


    That''s right so we wouldn''t normally be interested in that sort of bet but in September a rampant Best played against Carlisle and ran into a brick wall. I re-watched the highlights this morning and it was Best storming around taking long shots and getting frustrated. In the interviews after, he was giving it the thousand-yard stare answering in a monotone until he just laughed and said ''yeah they''re good''. The interviewer wasn''t asking him about Carlisle. The questions were all about him getting sacked and did he feel under pressure. Obviously he was mechanically answering but what he was really thinking about was Carlisle. An unprompted ''yeah they''re good'' is the kind of detail we obsess over around here.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Some teams have a kind of hoodoo over others. Chester have been tearing up the divisions but there''s usually one team that beats them home and away. I remember York City was one. Barnet was another. Mansfield just did it. Carlisle could be next.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Some odds to digest. Chester are eleven to ten. Draw is twenty-eight to eleven. Carlisle are fourteen to five.


    Saint Derfel


    Um...


    BeardedWonderwall


    Heh. I''ll explain it.


    Eleven to ten means if you bet ten pounds, you get eleven.


    Saint Derfel


    That sounds... shit?


    BeardedWonderwall


    Yeah most bets are. What we''re looking for is a bet where we think the bookies have got it wrong. They don''t make many mistakes but when they do, we pile in.


    Saint Derfel


    Got it. This is a quality game, not quantity.


    BrokenGround


    Lads! Don''t place any bets yet. I''m spending the day with Best.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Result! Perfect. It''s Sunday morning so that means... northern powerhouse?


    BrokenGround


    Yes. But he''s doing loads of meetings and shit at the same time. He''s worked hard enough recently, he says. He wants to take his girlfriend up north.


    Stoop


    Ooh, matron!


    BrokenGround


    Shut it, pervert.


    I''ll write it up tomorrow and we''ll see what we can make of it. So far it''s not the usual levels of bonkers but there''s lots to chew on.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Looking forward to it!


    ***


    Monday, February 2


    TexanWrexun


    Hey fellas, I''m new around here. Been enjoying all the Wrexham chat. I''m really into squad-building so the transfer rumor channel is right up my alley.


    Stoop


    Ooh, matron!


    TexanWrexun


    Also loved having the match discussion thread up while I had the game on my TV. I appreciate the injury reports, the women''s team channel, the general banter. I don''t quite understand what''s going on here, though. I apologize if this question might be unwelcome and stupid but aren¡¯t Chester the enemy? Why are there two channels dedicated to Max Best?


    Stoop


    One is where we laugh at him.


    This is where we suck on his teat.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Holy crap I always need to wash my eyeballs after reading your comments.


    Don¡¯t be put off by the pervert, TW. Everyone¡¯s welcome here.


    What this channel is about is that, much as we wish it isn¡¯t so, Max Best is a maverick genius and the betting markets haven¡¯t quite worked that out yet. He breaks data models and can end up being beaten on every metric in a two-nil win. Some data nerds think he''s amazing, some say he''s overperforming and he''s bound to revert to the mean.


    Best attacks certain phases of matches and if we know what they are we can get bets on and cash out when the markets swing. The games are easy to find on TV these days and if you see him start prowling like a caged tiger that''s when you want to be piling in.


    We are rolling in coin from well-judged bets. We have a man on the inside who gets snippets of info from the man himself and those around him. He spent all day with Best yesterday and he''s going to type it up and we''ll turn into Kremlinologists. (Meaning we''ll try to get the hidden meanings of what Best is saying and doing.)


    It is traditional to mock Chester¡¯s bad results but do be aware those defeats tend to be costing us money so we keep that to a minimum in here. Such content is more than welcome in LALAC.


    SummerhillBill


    If you''re worried this channel is disloyal, I personally take some solace in the fact that the Jester fans themselves don''t seem to realise what they''ve got and while they are whinging on their shitty forums, the profits are going to switched-on Reds.


    Sometimes we pile on against Jester based on hints that Best is rotating the team heavily. Those are my favourites...


    TexanWrexun


    I thought it was Always Bet ON Best


    BeardedWonderwall


    If he thinks he can¡¯t win a match, we¡¯re betting on him to be right. If Chester have three games in a week he normally picks two for his full-strength side and in the third he plays the kids. If we can work out which game he''s binning off, we can cash in. It does involve getting to know him which has the unfortunate side effect of making you enjoy his antics.


    TexanWrexun


    I don¡¯t think this is the channel for me. You folks have a nice time! I¡¯ll see you in the pro Reds sections


    Stoop


    No probs! Go well, fella.


    Just a heads-up, guys. Hatton and Twentyman are nothing special. There''s barely any buzz about them on the Bournemouth forums.


    ***


    BrokenGround


    Right. It''s Best o''clock.


    I''m going to race through this with a bit less detail than normal because it was quite frantic and I''m more worried about forgetting something key than getting all the conversations spot on.


    Stoop


    You''re amazing at remembering the details, Dylan. You''re like Alan Bennett.


    BrokenGround


    I''ve lost my train of thought already. Alan Bennett who played for Wimbledon? What''s he got to do with anything?


    As for what you''re about to read, bear in mind I was my usual bewildered self but I did try to get some goss about the Carlisle match, but I had a suspicion Best might be chattier about Fleetwood, who they''ve got in a couple of weeks. I was right about that.


    RetiredRed


    I do love how you''ve got so subtle with all this. You''re the Best whisperer.


    BrokenGround


    After 3R''s last match - a glorious victory against 104 Reg! - Best asks for volunteers to help him with the Northern Powerhouse. For the new guys, that''s his project to scout every young player in north Wales and get the cream of the crop playing together from an early age. We''re all into it, even the Cards, but Best misunderstands our enthusiasm.


    ''Put your hands down. I can''t pay,'' he says. He gave us a hundred quid each the first time. ''I mean, I can, I just don''t want to. My offer is free scran at Bumpers and you get to help the Welsh national team.'' We put our hands up again. ''Wow, that''s awesome. Erm, tell you what, why don''t you all come? All my best coaches will be there; I''m doing extra sessions with some of my lads.''


    ''At the weekend?''


    ''Yeah,'' he says, thoughtfully. ''Special training doesn''t have to be Monday to Friday, does it? I mean, it''s clear that the special training is working so I need to maximise it. Cole during the week, obvs, but I''m torn between Dan and Tockers for the weekend. Dan won''t get much first-team action in the next weeks so he could do more training. But if I boost Tockers that''ll help him get up to the standard faster.''


    I go, ''What are you talking about?''


    ''I''m explaining why I''m combining the Northern Powerhouse event with extra training for my squad players. What it means is I need a few of you guys to help the coaches move the kids from drill A to drill B and make sure lunch doesn''t turn into a free-for-all. And, like, shuttle the goalies to and from Bumpers and be on hand in case there''s a medical problem and all that. But if loads of you come we can rotate you around and while some of you are helping, some of you can join in with the special drills and maybe we can finish with a five-a-side match against the best under seventeens.''


    ''Won''t we slaughter them?'' says Fatso.


    ''Er, no. They''ll annihilate you. It''ll be fun, though, won''t it? Some of them might end up playing for Wales. Dylan will be telling people, yeah that Jones fellow, he nutmegged me six times in a row, so he did.'' Best''s Welsh accent has got worse somehow.


    Okay that was the setup. Yesterday morning we rock up at Bumpers and have breakfast. The sign with Best''s resolutions is gone. I ask Jojo about it and she says yeah it didn''t take. We have a good laugh at that. Lovely woman, she is. The lads shuttle down to Saltney and we see there are four coaches. Team buses, I should say in order to be clear because there are hundreds of football coaches, including Peter Bauer. It''s his last day at Chester. Sandra Lane is back. She''s tired and happy and jokes that she has ''baby brain'' because she can''t remember when she agreed to help Best with his mad external projects. I think she''s so keen to get back into footy she can¡¯t wait even a day. She has missed it.


    Best has done a few of these northern powerhouse mornings and it''s a lot more organised than last time I was there. Gwen from the Welsh FA is hands-on, running the event according to a timeline she and Best have been working on. Her daughter Mari is helping and she loves bossing the young men around. I get a glimpse of the clipboard Gwen is carrying and the plan for the day is quite detailed. It''s very much group A goes to zone 1 at 10 am, moves to zone 2 at quarter past, and so on. She sees me being nosy but she doesn''t mind. I ask what the different colours on the timeline mean and she explains. The only interesting one is the blue around the last section.


    ''That''s time for Max to get silly. Normally he likes to finish with what he calls "Ultimate Champion of the World" which is a short-sided match between the best players, but he likes the idea of trying something mad.''


    ''At least his madness can be scheduled.''


    She smiles. ''Sometimes.''


    ''Today he''ll probably get the best kids to play against 3R. That''s what he was thinking on Wednesday, anyway.''


    ''Oh,'' she says, making a note. ''That''s good to know so we can get ahead of the social media angles. I''ll check if he''s still on that. Thanks.''


    All right so you get the idea. It''s still mad but there aren''t quite as many kids as last time and there are more coaches, admins, and helpers. It''s very smooth. If you''re one of those kids you''re moving from drill to drill and you''ve just got to be in football heaven. I''ll skip to the end and say Best picks out a goalie and five outfielders who give us an absolute pasting in a six-a-side match. He publicly tells us off for ruining the event - Gwen intervenes to explain to the parents of the kids that he''s joking - and then he sets up what he calls "The Ultimate Ultimate Champion of the World" final final, which is the best six players against the EIGHT next best. Best manages the six; it''s closely fought but the eight win.


    All of that maybe could have been in LALAC but now we get to the stuff that''s relevant for Chester''s season.


    In one part of the pitch a bunch of players are doing Best''s special training; I hang out there as much as I can. The coaches rotate in and out of the Northern Powerhouse event, so there are times this group do defensive drills with Peter Bauer, technique work with Well In, pressing stuff with a lovely guy called Clive O''Keefe, more technique work with a guy with a crazy deep voice called Ray, duels with Jackie Reaper, and even some Bestball drills run by Pascal.


    In this ''special needs'' group is Youngster, which surprises me since he played the day before and patently doesn''t need a boost but I realise he''s there to support his mate Vincent Addo. They played in the under-20 World Cup together. Vincent''s a cheeky little so-and-so but he has a great smile and you can''t stay mad at him. He doesn''t look that good a player to me but what do I know?


    There''s a Brazilian kid everyone calls Tockers. Seems to be a nice lad but again, not an impressive player. He was in one of those snoods. Remember years ago there was a craze of foreign players wearing those in the winter? They got banned, I think. The English like it when foreigners are cold.


    Michael and Noah Harrison were there. Saltney have three lads from Tranmere on loan and two were in the group. Wise-cracking Scouse lads having a blast, giving cheek to Max Best, vying for his attention.


    Remember those lads Chester signed from Man United? Adam Summerhays and Alfie Clitheroe. They were on the bench a couple of times but didn''t play, then got loaned out to Macclesfield. They''re invited to this session and seem to enjoy it. In a break I ask if they''re happy to get loaned out as soon as they rock up at the club. Alfie''s the chatty one and I can''t do his Manc accent but basically he says Best sat them down with their parents and Ryan Jack and said because they can''t play in the Youth Cup and because Best is gunning super hard for the next ten games there aren''t going to be many minutes this season and they should get some first team minutes in them. Macclesfield is close to where they live, it''s a good club, and it''s the right level.


    They''re full-time at Macclesfield in the morning, training with the under-eighteens at Chester in the evening, being invited to some of Best''s weird stuff, so they feel part of things. They''re happy.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Okay he''s going hard at the next ten matches! That''s the money shot right there!


    ButteryCrumpets


    Right. No minutes for kids means no more fucking last-minute equalisers.


    I knew I should have cashed out!


    Saint Derfel


    How does cashing out work?


    ButteryCrumpets


    Let''s say you''ve bet on, I don''t know, Chester to beat Gillingham. Chester are winning two-nil and you''re well on the way to making a hundred quid. You get a notification on your phone. Cash out now for seventy quid! You can go into the app and take the money. You''re leaving thirty quid on the table if Chester go on to win... but if Chester fucking blow it you''re up seventy.


    Saint Derfel


    Okay so it''s not just set and forget. You need to be on your toes.


    ButteryCrumpets


    You don''t have to. It gets stressful being wired all the time so sometimes I turn off the notifications for a few weeks. To me, all this is a bit of a lark and like the ad says, when the fun stops, stop. When Best starts a match and goes to town on some poor goalie for twenty minutes, THAT''S fun and the betting company algorithms don''t seem able to realise he subs himself off in the first half so after he''s done the damage but while he''s still on the pitch is a great time to cash out. It doesn''t happen very often, though.


    BrokenGround


    Anyone who''s got an app that lets you build bets like ''no defeats in the next ten games'' or anything like that, could be worth looking into.


    Right, so anyway we''ve got a bunch of Saltney and Chester lads doing drills and it''s mad because every now and then Best will jog over with a big smile on his face going ''Tockers! I saw that! Yes yes yes!'' or ''Adam, I don''t want you working too hard on your finishing!'' He''s got eyes in the back of his head for real.


    Peter Bauer is on a break and he goes to Best all excited. He''s got a list of five outfield players he thinks are the ones Best will choose for the final match. Best reads the list and he''s really happy. ''Three out of five! Talk about leaving on a high.'' He points to two names. ''We call those Fool''s Gold. Good today but with a low ceiling.''


    I''ve heard so much of this kind of thing and I''ve spent the whole morning surrounded by people who think whatever Best says is right. I mean, I know that''s the whole point of this channel but sometimes it feels cloying and I get hot under the collar. ''How do you know?'' I say. ''Peter''s just as good as you. And he''s not a dick about it.''


    Best laughs. ''I have an AI computer that tells me who''s good.''


    I''ve heard that so many times it has become another trigger. ''You talk about this computer all the time. It seems to be running the club.''


    ''It kind of is.''


    ''Can we see it?''


    ''Nah, it¡¯s quantum.''


    ''What does that mean?''


    ''It means if you look at it, it isn¡¯t there.'' Best thinks this is hilarious and he''s about to wander off having "won the conversation" but both Sandra Lane and Henri Lyons turn up. Henri''s girlfriend, Luisa, arrives too but she goes to say hi to Tockers. Apparently, they met in Brazil and she''s helping him get settled in the UK.


    Stoop


    Mmm. Or she''s helping him get unsettled.


    BrokenGround


    That doesn''t even mean anything. Pipe down, we''ve got some good shit coming.


    I''m doing what I often do when Best has wound me up - I''m scanning the area for threats. I think it''s because if anyone is going to kick the shit out of him, it should be me. I miss the initial small talk but it turns out that Henri picked up a knock against Mansfield and the physio won''t let him play for a few weeks.


    Best is delighted. ''That''s the best-timed injury in the history of sports!''


    ''Why?'' I say.


    ''I was thinking of doing some 4-1-4-1 in the next few matches and that''s great if you''ve got two strikers but if three are fit you''re going to get loads of manbabies whinging non-stop. And Henri will only miss a couple of games. The same injury in April, he''d miss four or five. No, it''s good.'' He looks at his mate. ''Take Luisa to a spa. I''m going to this new place in Scotland for a few days; I''ll let you know if it''s good.''


    Henri smiles but gets a worried air. ''What about... the thing we discussed? It must be nearly time. Does this set me back very much?''


    Best is confused, but not for long. ''Oh! You are close, yeah. Tantalisingly so. Um... definitely March.''


    ''March?'' says Henri, with a boyish smile. I have no clue what they''re talking about but his smile causes a domino effect - Sandra then Peter then me. ''I have worked hard.''


    Best leans forward. ''Can you feel it?''


    ''Yes,'' says Henri. ''This is the best I have ever played. The best I have ever felt. This is how it was meant to be. I want it to continue.''


    ''It will.''


    ''At Chester,'' says Henri.


    Best loses some of his excitement. ''Hmm,'' he says.


    I''ve had enough of their mystery. ''What''s going on?''


    Best won''t say because it''s private - he has some limits - but Henri explains (to some extent). ''Max wants me to join a new club next season. One that can pay me the market rate. He thinks I should be rewarded for my service. I agree but I also want to create more memories.''


    ''Not many memories if you start five matches the whole season,'' mumbles Best.


    Peter says, ''To what extent are you willing to let Max guide your career?''


    Henri looks up. ''To a great extent.''


    Sandra says, ''I must say, Henri, I don''t agree with Max on this one. I''ll be happy for you to stay and I don''t think, ah, your next club is quite the destination Max thinks it is.'' She was so close to saying the name of the club!


    Best turns to me. ''Dylan, would you prefer to start five matches in League One and have everyone call you washed up or score thirty goals in League Two and everyone calls you "The One Max Best Let Get Away"? Do you want to exist or do you want to flourish?''


    ''The second one.''


    He taps me on the chest. ''You like a flutter, don''t you? Put a decent wedge on Henri to be top scorer in League Two next year.''


    ''Really?'' says Henri.


    ''The team will be set up to play to your strengths. I''ve got a bit of a crazy idea. Five out-of-contract players who are absolutely too good for League Two but would struggle in League One. They sign a one-year contract at club X. Club X wins League Two. Bosh! The same five players, now free agents, then sign for club Y, an ambitious League Two club. They win the league. Bosh! Rinse and repeat. It''d be like a band of mercenaries for hire. You''re guaranteed to win League Two if you stump up enough cash for this group. Ruth could be the agent for the five until they age out of it. It''d be hilarious and unfair and not a bad story, either.'' Best smiles at Sandra''s dubious face. ''One of the reasons I''m going to Scotland is to clear my mind. I''m getting itchy and restless and I''m coming up with mad schemes. Unless I find inner peace in Dumfries, there are going to be some big changes around here next season. I''m feeling radical.''


    Sandra tilts her head. ''You know you don''t own... that club you''re talking about.''


    ''That''s right,'' smiles Best. ''That''s why they can afford Henri.'' The Frenchman beams and I''m pretty sure he''ll go where Best suggests. I''m not quite sure what Best is going to get out of the deal but there''s a rare example of an actual tip straight from the horse''s mouth. Next season''s top goalsman in League Two! Got to be fifty to one at a minimum. My only complaint is the payoff is so long in the future. We won''t get paid until the end of next season! Who has the patience for that?


    ButteryCrumpets


    Me.


    But lads, we can''t all pile on or it''ll get flagged as a suspicious betting pattern. Anyone who wants to get in on that one, DM me. I''ll get the bets together and do one big stake so that there''s only one madman instead of twelve guys in a conspiracy.


    BrokenGround


    Yes, anything that stops the betting companies flagging Best, that''s good for us. Especially me!


    Back to the event. Peter gets called by Gwen because he''s due back in the coaching rotation.


    Henri watches him go and says, ''Max, how do you feel about Peter leaving?''


    Best sighs and looks down for a few seconds. ''Can''t win them all. In a way it''s good he won''t be at Bumpers tomorrow.''


    I go ''Why?'' because that seems like my role in life.


    Best gets cheeky. ''Because if he''s not there he won''t realise I''ve been lying to him.''


    ''About what?'' says Henri.


    Best looks around. ''All this defensive training we''ve been doing. I told Peter it''s to help us when we play a Prem team next, and that''s true, sort of, but actually it''s for this season. What he''s been teaching us is how to hold a defensive line at the edge of the box - literally using the penalty box line as the offside trap - while having pressing midfielders nearby and when we turn the ball over, how to quickly move the ball away from danger. Perfect for what we needed against Newcastle and Man U, right? But we''re going to do it against Carlisle, too.''


    ''We are?'' says Sandra.


    ''Yes. I''m not sure if it''s because I didn''t get my winter break or if I was hitting the cheese too hard but I''ve come up with a concept for how to play the big matches the rest of this season. We''ve got Carlisle, Fleetwood, Burton, and Cambridge. Notts County and MK Dons could be tricky, too, but my focus is on those four big, big games against playoff rivals. Dylan, how many points do you get for a win?''


    ''Three.''


    ''Three points for a win.''


    Henri goes, ''Oh, no.''


    Best grins. ''We''re going to defend the edge of our box and push our strikers as far forward as the other team are defending.''


    Sandra shakes her head. ''There will be too much space. It''ll be wide open. It''ll be basketball.''


    Best gives her a super-slow motion punch in the arm. ''That''s why it''s called Heart Attack Football.''


    ''Holy shit,'' I say. Even just the name gets my juices flowing. Best looks from Henri to Sandra and their expressions amuse him. He shrugs. ''It''s three points for a win. Two wins is better than four draws.''


    ''And the rest of the fixtures?'' says Sandra.


    Best gets a rueful look and he sighs. ''Just your normal absolute mastery of positional play. Boring, basic, tedious wins. Meh.''


    ''And no kids on the bench.'' What''s astonishing about this statement is that it comes from me. Best freaks out, looks around in a frantic way. He''s trying to work out how I know that.


    ''Dylan, can you get me a Twix?''


    Sandra tuts. ''Don''t be passive aggressive, Max. If you want him to go, be nice about it.'' I give her a grateful smile, but there''s something weird going on in that head of hers. I see her agonise over something. ''Really want a Twix now, Dylan. Fuck.''


    I laugh. ''I''ll get you a Twix. No problem.''


    She takes my arm. ''Let''s go together.''


    DubaiGuy


    Ugh. Guess what I have a sudden craving for.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Crumpets?


    I like Sandra Lane. She sounds really down-to-earth. Must be hard for her, that job.


    Okay, well, another few interesting tidbits there. Four, maybe six fixtures where he''s going to open the game up. End-to-end football, loads of goals. That''s what he''s talking about, right?


    DubaiGuy


    Unless the other teams restrain themselves and do not fall into his trap.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Why wouldn''t they? They''re going for promotion so they need wins as much as Chester. Of the ones he mentioned, Notts County are the only team not really close to the playoff spots but they don''t know how to defend so they''ll love it. If I''m managing a playoff team I''m conservative in matches against my rivals and so are the other managers but if someone says here''s my barely-defended goal, come and browse, I think I''m gonna check it out.


    I''m getting very frisky thinking about Goals Above 1.5 against Carlisle. Neither the away team nor the bookies will be expecting anything radical to happen.


    Saint Derfel


    Do we need to collate these bets? Into one big pot I mean.


    ButteryCrumpets


    No, Derfel. If we''re doing normal bets like we always do, it''s fine. The bookies might detect a slightly above average interest in one particular bet but that happens all over the country all the time. Forums, Facebook groups, WhatsApp chats, some mob pile into one position. That''s normal. What''s not normal is twenty Welshmen all deciding Henri Lyons is going to be League Two top scorer... next season! For an unknown club!


    Saint Derfel


    I get you.


    I might have a cheeky go on this one. I''ve got the app. I''ll try to work it out. Can I ask questions if I can''t get my head around it?


    ButteryCrumpets


    DM me. You might have to poke around to find the over/under bets.


    Saint Derfel


    Thanks.


    Is there a way to bet on Henri Lyons not playing?


    ButteryCrumpets


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    No. It''s useful to know because it means Dazza or Foquita to score the first goal becomes a more attractive bet.


    Saint Derfel


    I see. That Foquita looks a handful. I''m seeing him as four to one to score first against Carlisle. If I bet twenty pounds I''ll get eighty back, is that right?


    BrokenGround


    You''ll get a hundred back but that includes the twenty you put in. But hold off on the goalscorer bets! I''ve got a bit more info. Just need to do my stretches. It''ll take half an hour. Soz not soz - it''s my job.


    TaranMellt


    While Dylan''s away there I''ve been thinking. Chester are going to attack Carlisle, Fleetwood, and Burton, aren''t they?


    Teulu


    I thought he was saying he would do a low block. I didn''t understand the reactions.


    DubaiGuy


    It''s not a low block. It''s a low defensive line intended to draw the opposition onto you to stretch the game. Have you seen those games where there''s a goal kick and every single outfield player is in one tiny square? Best wants to do the opposite. He''ll make his defenders stand deep. What the opposition should do in that case is push their defenders all the way to the halfway line, but if they do that, Bochum, Roberts, and Best himself if he plays are going to chase balls over the top and there will be carnage.


    Carlisle will have a mid-block, meaning their defenders will be between the penalty box and halfway while their strikers will want to push up to Chester''s defensive line. As Sandra Lane said, it could end up looking like basketball. One side attacks, loses the ball, moves up the pitch quickly because the oppo are spread out and there''s no structure, then it''s an attack versus defence drill leading to a goal or an attack for the other team.


    Heart Attack Football indeed.


    Teulu


    Ohhh!


    TaranMellt


    Heh. Exactly. So it could get absolutely crazy but one thing''s for sure - Chester have been practising the defensive side of this for the past couple of weeks and will spend the next week perfecting it. Carlisle have no idea this is coming.


    Teulu


    Ohhhhhhh!


    TaranMellt


    Heh! Right? Hear that? That''s the sound of FREE MONEY.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Always Bet on Best.


    TaranMellt


    What I''m thinking, lads, is draw no bet.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Oh, that''s good. That''s very good.


    DubaiGuy


    Oh, my! I should have thought of that.


    Saint Derfel


    What does it mean?


    ButteryCrumpets


    A football match only has three outcomes, right? Win, lose, or draw. That''s why there aren''t any good football stories - they get very boring very quickly.


    ''Draw no bet'' means ''if the result is a draw, there was no bet''. Meaning you get your money back. It''s a bit more security if you want to bet on a team winning. Like that last minute equaliser against Gills. If I''d done ''draw no bet'' I wouldn''t have lost anything. Of course, the odds aren''t quite as good as if you bet on a straight win.


    We''re hearing that Best is going to attack these matches, right, and frankly Heart Attack Football seems a lot better suited to a Max Best team than to Carlisle or Fleetwood. We don''t normally recommend ''Chester to win'' type bets but based on what we''ve heard ''Chester to win, draw no bet'' is quite tempting.


    Saint Derfel


    I think I get it. But why wouldn''t you always do draw no bet? Oh, because the odds are worse. You said that.


    BrokenGround


    One more thing from yesterday. As the event was winding down, Foquita turned up to do some extra training.


    Peter got him warmed up and did some skills with a bit of finishing before the real coach took over.


    It was quite a scene, really. Bark, the young winger, was helping Foquita. Pitted against them were three lads from the youth team - Captain, Bomber, and Henk, plus Bivvy, a goalie. They were playing out various scenarios that worked on Foquita''s movement and decision-making.


    Standing around were loads of Chester''s coaches, plus Henri, Tockers, and various other stragglers. Jackie had to leave because the women were playing Huddersfield in Flint, and Youngster and Addo went to watch Kisi Yalley. Mari Hughes went with them but Gwen stayed to help clear up. She was entranced by what she was seeing, as were many of us.


    An example drill - the five lads are spread out on the halfway line and Best chips the ball over the top. The defenders can track Foquita but can''t touch the ball until he does. Foquita doesn''t really listen to the rules, he only tries to get the ball and score, always ignoring the run of Bark to his right.


    The drill got subtly tweaked so that two defenders were next to Foquita and one with Bark. Still Foquita only had eyes for goal.


    Then - this is when I really like Best because he''s quite comfortable taking situations to absurd extremes - Foquita and all three defenders had to start in the same spot while Bark was on his own on the right. Now Foquita passed to him and Best ran around celebrating, even jumping into Henri''s arms, recreating the famous photo of Pel¨¦.


    It was all very interesting and I was quite pleased that I could work out what was going on from the fringes. I couldn''t hear the instructions, only watch from afar, if you get me. You''d dream of getting this kind of tailored, personalised coaching with so much of a club''s resources put behind it.


    Be careful what you wish for, as the saying goes.


    I''ve missed one character. The one at the heart of everything.


    Luisa.


    Now I''m not sure if Foquita knows Portuguese or if Luisa speaks Spanish, but it seemed to work fine. This absolute firebrand paced around the ''set'' like a demanding producer, and she gave poor Foquita hell.


    I can''t write what she was saying because I have no clue, but talk about volume! You''ve heard of the Alex Ferguson hairdryer. How about the Luisa jet engine?


    Foquita tried to give some back at first but boy was that a mistake. I thought he had learned his lesson and would just get his head down and do as he was told but then came a moment where Best gave some feedback about what Foquita had just done and the lad said something like ''I think what I did was fine''.


    The Max Best hairdryer is pretty intimidating, but imagine getting it while the jet engine''s blasting you from the other side. I''m not sure what Foquita did to deserve this but holy crap, I found myself looking around to see where the nearest house was because the last thing you want on a quiet wintry Sunday morning is to have a Chester FC special coaching session on your doorstep.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Shit. So Foquita''s on the outs? Already? I thought he was going to bag loads of first goalscorers. Especially since he takes pens.


    BrokenGround


    No, he''s all right.


    After the hairdryer, Best explains what he wants - again. I stoop closer to try to hear what''s what. Best is speaking slower than normal, which helps. He points at Bark when he says ''him''.


    ''Forty percent for you, ten percent for him. Fifty percent chance of a goal for the team. For the team. Collectively. Do you get me? Your way - forty percent for you, finito. My way, fifty percent for the team.''


    It''s easy to forget how young Foquita is but he''s just a kid really. He nods as the translation comes and I wonder how close he is to crying.


    Best gives him a friendly dig and says, ''Watch.''


    He sets up a move at the edge of the D. It''s him and Bark against Bivvy. Best has the ball, calls ''slow motion'', and with Bark and the goalie moving like they''re in treacle, lets Bivvy come to him. Best shapes to pass and pauses. ''See that?'' Foquita shakes his head. ''Everyone back a second.'' Bivvy and Bark take a step back. ''Go,'' says Best. Again he pumps his foot as he starts the passing motion and again Bivvy twitches and moves his balance. ''Okay, let''s do it for real.''


    They go back, but Best retreats another five yards so he can get up to full speed. He''s fucking fast, lads! He runs at Bivvy, does his shimmy thing in a blur, keeps going while Bivvy sits himself down on his bum before flopping onto his back.


    Best doesn''t bother putting the ball in the net which you can see makes Foquita itchy. He goes back and does it again but this time Bivvy tries not to buy the faked pass and hurls himself in front of Best''s path. Of course, the ball has long since been sent to Bark, who has an open goal, but it''s amazing how early the pass comes and how Best''s move looks identical in the two cases.


    He does it again but this time with one defender on him. He''s actually just as direct as Foquita but he''s got the picture of where everyone is in his head and he makes split-second decisions and either shoots or passes and it looks right every time.


    Luisa says something in Spanish (I think) and Foquita takes some time to mull it over. I don''t really know what was said but I think he has just realised he''s not the best player at this football club and it has been a long time since that was the case. He asks Luisa something but in reply she points to Bark. I think she said, ''Ask him.''


    They get back to work and do the drills but this time at the end of each go, Foquita and Bark get together to talk strategy - with Luisa''s help. She has opinions of her own. I think she''s actually a coach, not just a translator.


    After about five more minutes, Best calls a halt. ''Ask Foquita if he wants more special sessions.''


    The lad is dripping with sweat. He has been put through the wringer and no mistake. He says yes.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Best isn''t injured! What the fuck is going on? Why doesn''t he play?


    BrokenGround


    No clue but that reminds me! I tried to get some team news out of him. I said it was a shame he wouldn''t be able to put Swan in the team because he''s injured, let''s hope Dugdale can make his debut this weekend to get his career back on track. I was very pleased with the last part because if Best thinks you''re fishing for info he shuts down but if you''re interested in the well-being of the player he''s more likely to chat.


    He goes, ''Yeah there will be some pressure on him because he''s our record signing, technically, but if I pick Cole instead of Josh I can do a 4-4-2 that''s virtually the same strength as Carlisle. That''s bonkers now that I think about it. I don''t like putting new players straight into the team but I think Duggers will be raring to go.'' He closes his eyes as he goes through some options. ''If I don''t have Ryan in the eleven, Duggers will be the kick-boy. I think he''ll enjoy his debut, yeah. We''ll see how he trains. It has all been a bit hectic, hasn''t it?''


    Loads of clues in there, but I don''t know what a kick-boy is.


    RetiredRed


    Did you ask Bonnie?


    BrokenGround


    No.


    Wow that''s quite stupid of me.


    RetiredRed


    Dylan!


    BrokenGround


    I know. Heh.


    Okay she''s saying it''s from when Max played rugby and he took the conversions.


    Saint Derfel


    Dugdale on free kicks!


    RetiredRed


    That''s tasty.


    SummerhillBill


    Unless Best is playing.


    RetiredRed


    I think he''s just coming back from an injury he didn''t tell anyone about.


    You know what? I''m thinking back to the United game and I''m convinced. Remember some of us got excited because he was about to strip off?


    Stoop


    Hello! What''s this now?


    RetiredRed


    HE WAS ABOUT TO TAKE OFF HIS HOODER.


    I think he was close to being ready but Peter Bauer convinced him not to risk it. He''s fine now but he won''t play against Carlisle, nor will he against Doncaster. He''ll be back for Fleetwood Town. Remember he has already scored four goals in three games against them this season in the league and two cups. I''m getting on Best to score first, Best to score any time, and probably goals over 1.5, too.


    BrokenGround


    I''m quite tempted by that. We''d get good odds if we bet today wouldn''t we? Since he has barely played... If he plays in either of the next two the odds will get slashed. Yes, I''m very tempted.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Love the story as always, Dylan. Was there anything else?


    BrokenGround


    Just a strange and cute little moment from when we all went to lunch together at Bumpers. It''s not really related to betting though and wouldn''t make sense in LALAC because most of the story is in this channel.


    ButteryCrumpets


    I''d love to hear it anyway.


    BrokenGround


    A whole bunch of us go to Bumpers after the event, like I said. We''re having a good time and don''t want it to end so the kitchen is surprised by the numbers. The cook, who I know as Pat, complains to Best and he tries to charm her into whipping up a few more mains and it absolutely bombs. Not sure I''ve ever seen anyone shut him down so hard. She''s just not having it from him but Henri says ''aww Patri-sheeea'' like that and she melts.


    A bit later we''re tucking in. I''m close to Best, Henri, and Gwen. The next little group is Tockers, Foquita, and Luisa. The last two are chatting away like old friends. I keep checking the time because I need to get going if I want to get to Flint in time for kick off. If we beat Huddersfield, we''ve got the league sewn up.


    I''ve spaced out and when I come back, Henri''s inviting Best to go to his gaff for dinner.


    ''Can''t,'' says Best. ''Got to write the end of my essay.''


    ''Essay?'' says Henri. I''m thinking the same thing.


    ''For my coaching badge,'' says Best.


    I''m confused. ''I thought they were waving you through, sort of thing.''


    Gwen gives me evils. ''What makes you think that?''


    Best gives her a whoa sign. ''It''s going to be a frantic end to the season. Matches thick and fast so I want to get it done and dusted in the next couple of weeks. It''s about my adventures in Relationism and how an undervalued aspect of football management is coaxing players out of their inner turmoil and into the flow state. I''m calling it Emotion in Motion.''


    ''Oh!'' exclaims Henri, with no irony. ''Incredible. I must read it.''


    ''Sure,'' says Best. ''I''m going to write the end today and let it percolate while I''m in Scotland.''


    I let out some kind of noise. ''Why is it I understand less than half of what you people say?''


    Best points to Luisa. ''They''re speaking Spanish, mate. Don''t feel bad.''


    I get exasperated, which delights him. ''You''re doing a coaching badge but it''s about emotions? How... I mean, what drill is that?''


    Henri says, ''There is more to football than drills, my friend.''


    Best says, ''To be fair, I''m probably a lot closer in mentality to Dylan than I am to Henri.'' Henri rolls his eyes and makes the sign of the cross, which is proper funny. Best finishes laughing and goes, ''I could imagine doing something completely theoretical for someone else to develop but I''m on a schedule, aren''t I? I need to come up with some basic drills, at least. What''s a drill for a Relationist blob? The players control it, right, not the manager.


    ''Well, what I''m thinking is that in Relationism the role of the manager is shifted away from the match and into the week''s preparation. If you want a certain effect you have to train towards it. If you want something to happen during a match you need to have prepared for it the week before. I don''t think I''ve been complacent but with a lot of positional play challenges I can adapt on the fly because most of the tools are in place. With Relationism I absolutely need to think ahead and plan and what I''ve realised is the biggest challenge is emotion. The emotional state of the players... and myself. Imagine a match like Port Vale where I want to put some energy into the team.


    ''I''m thinking about a move where two players pass to each other at extremely close quarters and when the oppo come to challenge, a third player uses the first two as a screen and dribbles away. It would look like an NFL snap where the ball is handed off to the running back. You do that you''re going to get a mad burst of energy, right?''


    Henri let his head drop almost to the table. ''You can''t make me go. You can''t.''


    Best ignores him. ''You often need to build your players up. What about down? Against West Ham the energy levels were off the charts in a good way. What if we have that but it''s all anger, frustration, fear? Imagine a move that would be like a grounding wire? It would siphon off the excess electricity and send it safely away. I''ve got two ideas. One, the ball''s at the top of the blob and we do two or three hard, fast passes backwards to the Dylan, who passes back to the outsider. Maybe even back to the goalie. The passes are incredibly awesome and satisfying, right? The message is, we have technical skills the oppo can''t handle. We can do whatever we want and what we want is to calm down.''


    ''Jesus,'' I say, because who thinks like this? Serial killers, maybe.


    ''I want to know how it feels for the blob to pass back to the goalie and sprint to the other side of the pitch to reform. Wouldn''t that be fucking wild? I haven''t tested it yet but that''s not the point. The point is to observe what your players do and how it affects the group and turn that into drills so you can feed it back into the blob and so that if as the manager you want a specific emotional outcome, you can design moves that lead to that outcome.'' He goes into some kind of trance and at the end he mumbles, ''The blue to the red, red to blue, yellow into orange on command so we can summon the white heat of passion and glory.''


    Henri isn''t blinking. He goes, ''With colour one obtains an energy that seems to stem from witchcraft.''


    The way they''re making eye contact is so intense I get really uncomfortable but inspiration hits me. ''You two have fun, don''t you? You shouldn''t make plans to get rid of Henri next season. You''re only eighth in the league after all, Max. Not even in the playoff spots. Henri can be top scorer for Chester next season.''


    Best gives me a look more awful than any he''s ever given Foquita. ''We''ll be in the Championship in eighteen months, mate. Post that in your shitty Facebook groups and laugh it up. We''ll see who''s laughing when I''m pissing on the corner flags at the Racecourse.''


    He doesn''t know about this Discord! I was sure he did but he doesn''t! I feel light, untethered, the secret burden lifted. I''ve got him just where I want him. I do my best impression of a gobby Manc twat. ''Championship in eighteen months. Want to bet?'' I say, holding my hand out to clinch the bargain.


    He sneers. ''It''s not fair. You don''t know what I know; it would literally be theft.''


    ''What do you know?'' I say, trying to keep him riled up, but he calms down.


    ''I know who I''m going to replace Henri with,'' he says. ''RIP League One.'' He holds his fist out towards his mate. ''And RIP League Two.''


    Henri bumps it and I realise Max fucking Best is plotting to win two leagues in one season. League One with Chester and League Two with the club that''s getting Henri. The actual fuck?!


    ButteryCrumpets


    Someone get the odds on Chester going up and straight through! I''m fucking stoked!


    ***


    Tuesday, February 3


    ButteryCrumpets


    It''s time for our monthly reminder on the dangers of gambling.


    Most betting companies are vile, predatory, and sociopathic. If you gamble you are going to lose and you are effectively gifting you and your family''s money to some of the worst people in society.


    Here is a list of betting companies that are not vile, predatory, and sociopathic:


    [Crickets.]


    Ten quid on Wrexham to win the league? Yes, sure, why not, bit of fun.


    Fifty quid on Muggles to score first? If you do that every match you''re taxing yourself. Think about it.


    What''s this channel all about then?


    WE HAVE THE ADVANTAGE. We are taking money from the fat cats.


    If you think you might have a bad relationship with gambling, DM me. Let''s talk.


    ***


    Wednesday, February 4


    BrokenGround


    Just a quick note to say 3 R Welsh won again today doing Bestball. But Pascal was the manager! It was quite different from when Best does it. Best doesn''t do much on the sideline but you get guidance and he sort of makes sure you''re in the right zones and stuff. When we do Bestball it''s like he''s conducting us even when he''s not jumping around screaming. Hard to describe. Pascal is more normal but he''s really good, especially before the match and at half time. He''s really giving, if you know what I mean? Very generous and enthusiastic and it gets us going. When he tweaks things it''s not because he''s bored and wants to indulge himself like certain other people, it''s because he sees an advantage.


    At the end when he was coming down from the flush of victory. I asked him if he thought Best was injured. Confused frown: No. I asked what he thought about Dugdale. Happy eyebrows: Dreamy. Were they going to beat Carlisle? Frown: Tough. What does he think about Heart Attack Football? Deeper frown: What''s that?


    I''m long on Chester - they are going up. Sceptical there will be a lot of goals this weekend. I''ve put twenty quid on Chester to go unbeaten for the rest of the season. 20-1, which seems stingy.


    DubaiGuy


    Don''t you worry that Best will get bored and go on holiday for the last month of the season when he realises he can''t win?


    BrokenGround


    It''s a risk but as long as they''re getting closer to Bradford and Mansfield, he''ll be hunting them down. If it goes to the last day of the season I think that''ll pay off.


    DubaiGuy


    You''re unexpectedly a long-term strategist, Dylan. Chester to go undefeated this season, Henri to be top scorer next season, another promotion for Chester next season. I''d love to hear your thoughts on the 2034 World Cup winner!


    BrokenGround


    Wales.


    DubaiGuy


    [Smiley face emoji]


    Have you a preferred wager for this weekend?


    BrokenGround


    Got nothing. There''s nothing that stands out. If you gave me twenty quid and told me I had to put it somewhere, I think I''m Chester to win to nil.


    Saint Derfel


    That means Chester wins and the other team doesn''t score?


    BrokenGround


    Yes. They''re all high on Peter Bauer''s training, right? You could say Best¡¯s whole strategy for the coming games is based on the Bauer effect. That would suggest a few clean sheets are on the horizon, right? To be clear, that''s my impression. He didn''t actually say that. And to be double clear, I don''t believe in that enough to put my own money on it.


    ***


    Saturday, February 7


    ButteryCrumpets


    Here we go! Match 30 for Chester. Home to promotion rivals Carlisle United. Pretty much the expected starting eleven:


    Sticky; Adams, Fierce, Green, Hudson; Dugdale, Youngster, Contreras, Bochum; Dazza, Foquita.


    Best on the bench. No Henri. That''s good because it means Best isn''t feeding fake injury news through Dylan. When that happens, I''m out.


    I''ve got a hundred riding on this one:


    20 on Foquita to score first. (He''s deadly from open play and he takes penalties.)


    20 on Dugdale to score or assist. (Debuts are either amazing or shit and he takes free kicks and Chester have some big lumps to aim for.)


    20 for goals above 1.5. (I''m pretty sure Chester will score at least one, so...)


    20 for Chester to win to nil. (The goalie will want to pay his team back for getting sent off against Gills. He can pay me back an'' all.)


    20 on half-time score 0-0. (If Best doesn''t start, Chester sometimes take their time to get going and he likes to make the opposition work hard so he can slug them near the end.)


    RetiredRed


    Oof! That''s a fast start. Crumpets, your half time nil-nil is looking dodgy.


    ButteryCrumpets


    I know! Carlisle are seeing all the space in front of them going ''oh what fun!'' Half of me wants to warn them!


    RetiredRed


    There we go. One-nil already. Foquita from a Contreras pass. We didn''t talk about him at all in the build-up, did we?


    ButteryCrumpets


    No. He doesn¡¯t normally show up on the data. There goes my half time nil-nil but... FOQUITA!


    Lads, I''m telling you, this kid is the real deal. Look how he moves. He''s absolutely lethal.


    Teulu


    I went pretty big on Dugdale. Remember that billboard Chester put up? Had him PhotoShopped into some old video game next to the words DO YOU DIG DUG? Best wouldn''t make such a big deal if he was shit, right?


    But he looks lost out there. Very nervous...


    ButteryCrumpets


    What did you do?


    Teulu


    First scorer, score any time.


    ButteryCrumpets


    You still have a chance on the second one.


    Carlisle roaring back. They''re hammering Chester. Pinning them back, look.


    DubaiGuy


    Best is teasing them.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Go on, explain that one to me.


    DubaiGuy


    This isn''t Heart Attack Football. This is a low block. He''s messing with their analysts. We heard this from Dylan in the past, didn''t we? Carlisle are trying to develop a modern approach to the sport and at half-time the manager and coaches will gather around the analyst while he talks about patterns and formations. They will have an argument about what exactly is going on right now. The analyst will say it is a pure low block - because that is what it is - and advise caution. The manager will say no, Chester are trying to do their thing but we are forcing them back. The manager will win the argument through sheer weight of testosterone - and actual weight, in this case - and will double down on what he is doing. Best will spring the trap at the start of the second half. This is not betting advice but a wise man may GO BIG ON CHESTER at this moment in time.


    SummerhillBill


    Done.


    RetiredRed


    Done.


    Stoop


    Done. Lol.


    ButteryCrumpets


    No changes from Chester at half-time. Carlisle have brought a couple of big boys on. Looks like battering rams to get on the end of all the crosses they''re sending in.


    Shit. Nervous now. I was so sure but...


    Fuck.


    SummerhillBill


    Chin up, Crumpets! What do we say?


    RetiredRed


    We say: GET IN!


    ButteryCrumpets


    Always bet on Best!


    Haha what the hell just happened?


    Stoop


    While Carlisle were doing the kick off, Chester camped around their penalty box. I''ve never seen that. I''ve never, ever seen that.


    Carlisle strolled forward, easy peasy, oops where''s the ball? Youngster to Bochum to Foquita. He fakes a pass to Dazza Smith and scores his second of the game.


    SummerhillBill


    That''s an absolute piss take. How does he keep getting away with it?


    DubaiGuy, what''s coming next do you think?


    DubaiGuy


    Very possibly he will keep doing the same thing because why not? Or he might change to five in midfield and show that he can control the game the old-fashioned way. Yes, based on Dylan''s recent stories I think he might be more in the mood for control.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Should I cash out of my win-to-nil do you think?


    DubaiGuy


    Most difficult. Is there an unreliable player on Chester''s bench who troubles you?


    ButteryCrumpets


    I like the lad Badford but if he drops to take passes from the goalie like against United... Now THAT''S heart attack football. The Bark lad plays right wing. He''s got something about him but if he loses the ball high up the pitch Carlisle have a lot of work to do. Nah, I''m all right with this bench. It''d only be if the goalie got sent off again.


    DubaiGuy


    So what is your decision?


    ButteryCrumpets


    I''m gonna stay the course! I''m already way up on the day so this is all just a bonus.


    DubaiGuy


    Enjoy it!


    RetiredRed


    Adams, Contreras and Bochum off... Jack, Harrison, and Bark on.


    Um... switching to 3-5-2? Fresh legs in midfield?


    DubaiGuy


    Exactly. Very good move. Carlisle were getting too many crosses in and they do have dangerous players. Now we should expect Chester to dominate possession and run down the clock.


    Saint Derfel


    Is it just me or is everything going down the left now?


    Teulu


    Dugdale woke up.


    Oh my God... Am I going to win some money for once?


    Stoop


    Ha! Did you see that? This lad''s brilliant!


    Teulu


    Dugdale, you beauty! I love him! I love him so much!


    DubaiGuy


    Beauty indeed. The passing in the build-up ripped Carlisle open, then Jack set Foquita up for his hat trick. He glanced across, waited for the goalie, slipped it to Dugdale. That boy''s left foot is like a wand. Pure magic.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Best going nuts on that one.


    SummerhillBill


    I just went to put a wedge on Jester to get promoted but the odds have halved DURING THIS MATCH. The bookies aren''t stupid, are they?


    At least Teulu got his winner. Pleased for you lad.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Three-nil final score. I don''t know about heart attack football because that looked pretty comprehensive to me.


    DubaiGuy


    Carlisle weren''t expecting it. Bet as normal against Doncaster but don''t expect Fleetwood to continually step on the garden rakes the way Carlisle did. In short: keep your money in your pocket.


    ButteryCrumpets


    I''m up about two hundred and fifty quid all told. How did everyone else do?


    SummerhillBill


    Up about eighty.


    Stoop


    Hundred and ten. Got to be honest, I cashed out on win-to-nil as soon as it was offered, lol.


    DubaiGuy


    Any profit is a good profit.


    Teulu


    Up about thirty, I think. I got cocky and did my own thing. Should have read Dylan''s story more carefully!


    DubaiGuy, how did you get on?


    DubaiGuy


    I did rather well.


    Teulu


    Come on! Give us a hint.


    DubaiGuy


    All my wagers landed.


    ButteryCrumpets


    You''re such a tease, lol!


    Okay whoo. Chester''s next match is Donny on Valentine''s Day. I need a few days to calm down but then we need to start thinking about that.


    Stoop


    Sorry, Crumpets, but you''re missing a couple of things.


    Tuesday it''s the Cheshire Cup quarter-final against Nantwich. Easy win but on the same evening it''s the Youth Cup fifth round against Everton. Best will be there which means Sandra Lane will be managing the first team. She always does in that tournament anyway, but she won''t be able to use any kids because Best will have them all. So if you''re thinking the first team will be completely fresh after a week''s break, they won''t be.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Ah, that''s really interesting and useful. Thanks, Stoop.


    Hmm.


    I think we need to see what happens in those matches and reconvene on Wednesday.


    Stoop


    Um... Another thing. I know it doesn''t look good for me but it''s not a hard date to remember. The Doncaster match is on Valentine''s Day, which is Angel''s birthday. She''ll be 18 and it wouldn''t surprise me if she decides to assert her independence or something. I''m just saying I personally am not going to be betting on the Donny match because there is the potential for so much fireworks that day.


    ButteryCrumpets


    Huh. That''s interesting. Let''s do some scheming from Wednesday onwards. Maybe there will be some in-play bets worth looking out for once we know that the Angel bomb hasn''t gone off.


    ***


    Sunday, February 8


    Stoop


    I know there aren''t good markets on it but is anyone watching Chester''s women in the FA Cup? They''re away to Durham. Durham are third tier but they''ve been in the second tier a lot. Chester''s new striker can''t play so Angel is leading the line on her own.


    Got to say, lads, this is an amazing game of football. Proper end-to-end. It''s not mad Max Best antics, just proper football with two teams giving it their all. If you have it on your package, check it out.


    SummerhillBill


    Is this a setup for a joke about your package?


    Stoop


    Lol, no, it''s incredible. It''s two-all with half an hour to go and it just keeps getting better. Really, really good game.


    SummerhillBill


    Found it.


    Stoop


    Three-two Durham. Looks like that''s that. Sorry Bill.


    SummerhillBill


    Three-all! Sarah Greene! Isn''t she the one Best stoops over?


    Stoop


    Stoop is not a verb! That''s the second time recently someone did that.


    Oh, shit, what happened? Angel''s injured?


    SummerhillBill


    Didn''t she fake an injury in the last game and that''s why Best bought someone older?


    Stoop


    She''s in tears. Trying to play on.


    SummerhillBill


    This is all for the cameras, right?


    Stoop


    Oh, boy. Best is there. He''s up to something.


    SummerhillBill


    He thinks she''s injured. He''s yelling at Jackie Reaper to sub her off.


    She''s refusing. Wants to play on.


    Now Best''s got your Bonnie there with him. Angel hobbling off with that ponytail physio.


    Aww. She''s in bits.


    Stoop


    Hope it''s not too bad. It''s the Welsh Cup semi-final on the 1st of March and I''ve got tickets.


    BeardedWonderwall


    You''ve got a semi and you''re thinking about Angel. Is that right, Stoop?


    Stoop


    Mate.


    By the way, you should get tickets. It''s Wrexham against Chester. It''s going to be epic.


    SummerhillBill


    Back to the here and now...


    It''s one of the Welsh girls going on. Alwen. Lovely name. She''s 16. What''s she going to do against these experienced defenders?


    Stoop


    Four-three final score. Going to be a downer on the documentary.


    SummerhillBill


    I don''t know. They gave it everything, didn''t they? I enjoyed it. Two teams playing good football, hard but fair, committed, and in the end Jester lost. All is well, all is as it should be. Thanks for the heads-up, Stoop.


    ***


    Wednesday, February 11


    BeardedWonderwall


    I think Crumpets is in work but let''s get this chat started. I for one don''t think Angel is half the menace she''s made out to be so I want a few betting ideas in my pocket for the Donny game.


    SummerhillBill


    It''s Always Bet on Best but we haven''t got any inside info yet. If you have a flutter now it''s you versus the bookies and there''s only one winner in that.


    BeardedWonderwall


    That''s true. Let''s do our due diligence though.


    I looked up the Cheshire Cup score - five-nil. They played 3-4-3 and used one of the youth team to give their defenders a night off. Josh Owens, Henk, and Magnus Evergreen as the back three. I mean, it''s not going to win League Two but it''s not bad, is it? Dugdale, Jack, Harrison, Bark is a good League Two midfield. Dazza, Foquita, Bochum as the forwards. Bit overpowered, isn''t it? I''m sure Best would have liked to rotate a lot more than he did.


    SummerhillBill


    He''s getting punished for giving a shit about the Youth Cup. No-one at the FA would even think to check if they were scheduling a Youth Cup match on a night that was reserved for a regional competition. Why would they? If it''s not the Premier League, they don''t care. Best is dead right about that kind of thing.


    BeardedWonderwall


    At least the first team were away. The youth team, home to Everton. You''d expect the Scousers to have some good ''uns, wouldn''t you?


    SummerhillBill


    First half was close.


    BeardedWonderwall


    Well, they pulled two goals back just before half-time. I listened to it on Seals Live and the other 43 minutes weren''t close. Badford and Roberts were incredible, apparently.


    Three-two at half-time, Best lays into his team, they come out firing. Roberts! Benny! Brotherhood! Six-three final score. Another hat trick for Roberts. Has anyone ever scored a hat trick in every round? He''s on course.


    Only blot on the horizon is the goalie. Banksy''s confidence got demolished in the games against Gills and Mansfield.


    Which is relevant to us if Sticky gets injured or suspended before the new guy is fit to play.


    DubaiGuy


    This is very salient information. Thank you very much. I do not have a good feeling about the weekend. I think Chester will win, but I do not feel I know more than the bookmakers. I will pass.


    ***


    Saturday, February 14


    ButteryCrumpets


    Right, Chester away to Doncaster Rovers.


    Apologies for the late post but I think most of us agreed to simmer down for this one. I''ve got 20 on Foquita to score any time and that''s pretty much it. I''ll see what comes along in the in-game markets but the real action is going to be off the pitch.


    BrokenGround


    Quick update since some of you thought Angel might blow the team up this weekend or something mad. (Why? She''s not like that.)


    Long story short she''s happy and looking forward to her party tonight and wants the lads to come back with a win so her party isn''t a funeral. She told Dazza she''d throw a lionfish at him if he scored the winner. That put everyone in a good mood.


    Saint Derfel


    What? Why?


    BrokenGround


    Max invited everyone to a presentation about all the things in Australia that want to kill you. The Chester Chatters have been knitting all kinds of snakes, sharks, and jellyfish.


    Saint Derfel


    What? Why?


    BrokenGround


    No time. Busy day. Sorry. Bye.


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    Final score two-nil. That was pretty boring. Best was conserving his energy, I guess. Makes sense but...


    Stoop


    I''m on the go. Who scored?


    ButteryCrumpets


    Fierce and Green from Dugdale corners.


    Stoop


    Ha! The Australian missed his chance. There''s hope for the rest of us, lads!


    Argh, wish I had a source at that birthday party. I''m imagining it turning into a scene from Caligula.


    TaranMellt


    Mate...


    ***


    Sunday, February 15


    BrokenGround


    Quick note about the birthday party yesterday. It was totally normal, not very boozy. The men have a big game in a week, the women are playing today (so they weren''t drinking much either), and I was on unofficial bodyguard duty so I couldn''t get plastered.


    It was mostly everyone from Chester but Danny Flash came up from Grimsby and that meant I got to meet Donnie Wormwood! Don Flash was too poorly to travel, sadly.


    Sam Topps was one of the former players who came. Aff and Carl sneaked in; we had to make sure they didn''t end up in any photos. Best was pretending to be mad at Aff for some business deal they''ve got going on between them. Best claimed Aff''s offer was ''unchristian'', but he couldn''t keep a straight face.


    Stoop, your mate Sumo was there.


    Stoop


    Sumo! Sumo!


    Saint Derfel


    How are they mates?


    Stoop


    You know Best goes on Sumo''s Twitch channel sometimes? They play games and chat shit. When he''s on I get in the chat and ask questions. If you pay a couple of bucks you''re pretty much guaranteed to get the question read out and Best is always trying to work out which buttons to press so most of the time he just answers without being a dick. We''ve had a couple of good wins from that.


    I do it with Seals Live, too. When that lad Spectrum is on I get provocative in the chat and he gets worked up and defends his mate. It''s like shooting fish in a barrel if you get the timing right. ''Best doesn''t know how to deal with Doncaster''s powerful defenders.'' ''What? He''ll play 4-1-4-1 and slip passes down the sides.'' ''He doesn''t have the players to do that.'' ''Is that right? Then why did I see Pascal and Foquita practising those moves in training this week?''


    You get the idea.


    Saint Derfel


    I didn''t quite appreciate the operation we''ve got going here!


    BrokenGround


    Not much interesting happened at the party from the point of view of outside gossip or betting on Fleetwood but I did get a few snippets.


    - Half the lads think Best will play the first 20 because Fleetwood won''t be expecting it. By now everyone in League Two ''knows'' he''s injured and is only on the bench for mind games. But we know better!


    - Best wants Henri to rest up and be back for the Tranmere game on March 3. I''m thinking Lyons to score first for that one, but if Best is fit I could imagine him blasting them in the first twenty so his lads can rest. Tranmere are his bunnies, aren''t they?


    - Expect more heart attack football. Best doesn''t rate Fleetwood''s strikers even though they''re bagging loads. Zach told me that Best has asked Jackie Reaper to do some sessions with the men''s team this week. Apparently that means Best wants to go man-to-man, which means Zach Green and Christian Fierce have to win their duels. I think it could be high-scoring.


    That''s all, though I''ll keep my ears open through the week.


    Oh, there was one strange moment that I don''t think breaks the cloak of secrecy. Angel got a load of presents and she opened them in front of everyone.


    She unwraps Henri''s. It''s a nice box. Inside is a bottle of perfume. She dabs some on her wrist. Angel loves the scent but she starts frowning. She looks from the box to the bottle.


    ''But what is it? What''s the brand?''


    Henri goes, ''Like with little baby Lane-Beeks, it has yet to be formally named. It''s a new product from my family''s concern. If you agree to meet my mother and discuss it, you could be the face of the perfume.''


    Angel throws herself at him and goes round letting people smell it. This involves thrusting her arm in all the men''s faces, which is, you know, very Angel.


    Best and Bonnie look at each other. They''re not sure they like this ''face of the perfume'' development.


    I''m sure it will be fine.


    ButteryCrumpets


    I have literally never even imagined a scene like the one you have just described.


    I think... yes, I''m jealous.


    Okay but look.


    Best to start against Fleetwood is a good call. I''m going to dig up the Best to score first odds.


    He won''t start against Tranmere. He won''t play against them if he can help it. It''s that weird loyalty thing.


    High-scoring against Fleetwood is very tempting. I might put my whole hundred on that because the bookies will look at the match and see two good defences and price it for a game with few goals.


    ***


    Saturday, February 21


    RetiredRed


    Crumpets is away with the Red Army so he''s asked me to give the updates on Chester vs Fleetwood Town.


    Looks like Chester''s best eleven, 4-4-2. Actually let me check something.


    Yes, it''s the same lineup as against Carlisle but with Best instead of Bochum.


    I couldn''t quite decide what to do for this one but I went with the wisdom of the crowd and put half my pot on over 2.5 goals and half on Best to score at any time.


    DubaiGuy


    Very wise. I did something very similar.


    RetiredRed


    Glad someone is in here to keep me company. I think it will be quiet today.


    Everyone''s focused on Wrexham v Barnsley.


    DubaiGuy


    Alas, so am I. Why do not we agree to check back in at full time?


    RetiredRed


    I''ll post score updates for anyone who needs it.


    One-nil Chester. Max Best. He got on a pass, cut inside the defender, pushed to the byline, shouted ''go'' at Foquita and when everyone moved to block the pass, Best rolled the ball into the net. Now he''s using the corner flag like a golf club. Oh, and a snooker cue! God, he''s such a brat. Who was it who predicted he''d be fit for this match?


    Two-nil Chester. Max Best! Left-footed free kick. He lined up behind the ball as if to take a right-footer, stepped across the ball to whisper something in Dugdale''s ear. The goalie relaxed, of course, because if anyone''s going to take it from that side it''s the left-footed guy who''s great at free kicks. Instead of stepping back to his position, Best clips the ball over the wall and in before running off laughing.


    Absolute brat. I''d be fuming if I wasn''t already about a hundred and fifty quid in the black.


    Two-one Chester. Best has fucked off and Fleetwood are right back in this. Wait, that makes three goals.


    I''ve won!


    I''m doing a jig, lads. Dancing around my old kitchen with my new hips. That''s another thirty quid in the bank. Not much but it''s better than a kick to the teeth!


    DubaiGuy


    Well done, Red!


    And well done the Reds. We''re looking good for another promotion. Let us try not to annoy Max Best in the coming weeks, please? We do NOT want him telling our rivals how to exploit our weaknesses.


    ToddlySatisfying


    I know this is the channel for Best fans but a 2-2 draw at home to Fleetwood isn''t that good, is it?


    DubaiGuy


    I would say yes.


    Their last three games have included two of their hardest yet they made ground on everyone in the top eight. They are 16 points behind Bradford - too far (and their new striker is already banging the goals in). 13 behind Mansfield - too far. But it''s only 7 to Cambridge, 5 to Fleetwood, 5 to Carlisle, 3 to MK Dons, and they are above Burton on goal difference.


    I think Fleetwood needed to win today to finish the season above Chester. Burton have to win next week to have the slightest chance, but even if they snatch a win I am virtually certain Chester will be looking down upon them come season''s end.


    ***


    Wednesday, February 25


    BrokenGround


    Hey guys, sorry for the lack of stories but I''ve been super busy and I haven''t heard much from Best himself or indirectly through my sources.


    Stoop


    Bonnie you mean.


    BrokenGround


    You may very well think that. I couldn''t possibly comment.


    Yeah it''s just a quick one to say Best was absolutely buzzing at our match today. He liked his mini-break in Scotland so much he booked another one and when I see him these days he''s all chill and relaxed.


    At the last Northern Powerhouse event he was in sunglasses and a t-shirt even though it was cold. He was talking about going to live in Scotland and was asking people to talk to him in a Scottish accent.


    I was starting to think he''d lost his entire mind but he''d invited a good under twelves team from Crewe to come and play against his Welsh all-stars and the all-stars, who remember are a load of kids a year younger that he''s just met and plucked at random - gave the Crewe lads a real chasing.


    Best told me he had a good eleven for the under elevens, which sent him into fits of giggles.


    All kinds of odd, but his little holidays plus his scouting events and not losing any of the tough games has put him in stellar mood. He chirped at us all through our league fixture today. We started sluggish and it was hard work to get going but by about the hour mark we were really fizzing. Even though the score was close and we were holding onto a one-goal lead, I was gutted when the final whistle went because I felt if we kept going we were really going to come to the boil.


    Best was quite giddy and so was I, to be honest, so I went fishing for a tip.


    ''Best,'' I go. ''Burton Albion are bloody good team, aren''t they? Reckon you might scrape a draw?''


    ''Burton are going to regret the day they were born,'' he says, before saying it again in a Scottish accent. He picks up an imaginary old-style phone and yells, still in that accent, ''Police! I''d like to report a murder!'' He tries to roll the R in murder but he''s not very good at it. ''Someone''s killed Burton''s season!'' Best laughs, ''hangs up¡¯, and replies to himself in his normal voice. ''Yeah, their manager.''


    I try to ask some follow-up questions, to get some detail, but he''s busy trying to write an anti-Burton Albion chant based on 500 Miles by The Proclaimers. All his ideas are shit so he announces he''s going home.


    What are the odds on Burton''s manager to get sacked next? I think Best knows something!


    Stoop


    Um... Burton are actually good, though. They were in the Championship not that long ago and they''ve got that coach from Chelsea managing them. We shouldn''t underestimate them. Is this one of those games we should skip?


    BrokenGround


    Not me. Best''s got so much energy and he''s so positive I think he''s going to do his thing early on. I''m going Best to score first, Best to score any time (as a hedge in case he finishes instead of starts), Chester to win, draw no bet.


    Stoop


    Hmm. Quite persuasive. I''ll let the ideas percolate.


    ***


    Saturday, February 28


    ButteryCrumpets


    Argh, look at all the MONEY!


    Best to score first - bosh!


    Best to score any time - bosh!


    Chester to win to nil - bosh!


    And guess who had Foquita to score any time? BOSSSSSSH!


    Saint Derfel


    Did you have Max Best to play right back?


    ButteryCrumpets


    Lol, no. Doesn''t matter where he plays if the only way teams can stop Chester''s strikers is to foul them. Best plus free kick equals ALWAYS BET ON BEST.


    Five hundred quid for the day! Over a grand for the month.


    I think this was the best month of gambling of my entire life!


    Saint Derfel


    It was my first. I think I quite like it. Helps when all you have to decide is: does free money outweigh your dislike of Chester.


    ButteryCrumpets


    One of us! One of us!


    Lol, I''m as hyper as Best in that last update from Dylan. I wonder what he was so pleased about?


    BrokenGround


    Oh, I found out! I thought I had posted it here. No?


    Yeah, he got his two first-choice targets agreed for the summer transfer window. Don''t ask me who - I have no clue. Almost no-one does - Best is playing those cards very close to his chest.


    Hey, did anyone bet on Burton''s manager to be next for the sack? Big rumours coming out that today was the last straw for him!


    BeardedWonderwall


    Not me. Lesson learned, I guess. I mean, it makes sense Best would have the inside track on who''s in trouble. He''s on the manager grapevine, isn''t he? That''s another market for us!


    BrokenGround


    Lesson learned indeed!


    Just checked and I''m up over two hundred for the day. I think we''re going to get shit odds on Best to score from now on!


    RetiredRed


    Eighty quid on the day. Chuffed.


    DubaiGuy


    I am pleased with my result.


    TexanWrexun


    I''m up three hundred dollars.


    RetiredRed


    [Huge eyes emoji.]


    ButteryCrumpets


    Erm, excuse me? Didn''t you give us a firm but polite smackdown before slamming the door behind you?


    TexanWrexun


    Who me? No.


    I never doubted you for a second...


    [Tongue sticking out of a smile emoji.]


    Okay, enough celebrating. Best doesn''t celebrate his wins, does he? Satisfied slap of the hands and we go onto the next one.


    Next up, Chester is hosting Tranmere. I got the transcripts of every episode of Pyramid Schemers since Best played in League Two that time. I put the transcripts into a massive text file and I''ve cross-referenced every mention of Best and Tranmere. I''ve also been digging up Best''s interviews from the time he was there and I''ve got thoughts...

 13.8 - E = md2

    8.


    Sunday, March 1


    FAW Women''s Cup Semi-Final - Wrexham AFC Women vs Chester Women


    Everything is relative.


    Six hundred people were in a stadium to watch Wrexham against their fiercest rivals. Not a staggering number, but decent relative to what Wrexham normally got. Their average was creeping up from 300 to 400.


    The stadium was relatively shit, but light years better than where the women had been playing a few years ago - the local field slash mudbath I had seen on Welcome to Wrexham season 2. Wrexham''s women now played at The Rock, which obviously got me thinking about Gibraltar, Sean Connery, and a giant bird of prey. Oh, and marrying Emma or whatevs. I was about a million pounds short of my target of having a million pounds in the bank when I asked for her hand. There was a reason the male main characters in the romance books Emma had started to read were filthy rich - it saved a few million words in grinding towards the wedding chapter.


    My companion for the match asked a very pertinent question. "Why aren''t we playing this at The Racecourse?"


    "Good question," I said. "You weren''t at the game two years ago, were you? No," I said, clicking my fingers. "That''s when I found your sister again."


    "You put the moves on her," said Angel.


    I smiled. "My move was to get her in the dressing room and let the vibe do the work."


    "She was buzzing when she got home. She was so wired."


    "I mean, there was a lot going on. That was when the referee booked Dani for being deaf."


    "And you went full superhero."


    "I did no such thing," I sighed. "The match was good, the team spirit was amazing, the crowd were behind us; it was great timing for Bonnie to be there that night. I was very lucky." Luck had nothing to do with it. Old Nick had been playing 5D chess with us all, moving the pieces into position. In hindsight, he probably even arranged for that referee to be assigned that match. "Why are we playing this match here? It''s a fair question. This is a Welsh cup semi-final plus it could be the last time these teams play against each other for ten or twenty years. If this is in Chester we''re moving it to the Deva and marketing the shit out of it. The way the city is buzzing for football we''d have a fair shot at selling out, I reckon."


    "And you''re always banging on about how Ryan Reynolds wants you in his documentary."


    "He does. He''s so thirsty for me it''s actually creepy."


    Angel rolled her eyes. "Easy way to get you in: move this to The Racecourse and stick a camera right here." She pointed to a spot a couple of yards away.


    We were in the main stand - the only stand - which seated just over five hundred. To our right was an ugly building that housed the dressing rooms. Across from us was a simple television gantry (imagine a guard tower in a prison) and to either side of that were the dugouts. Yes, on the opposite side of the pitch to the dressing rooms.


    A huge rock wall loomed behind the dugouts, which had literally been dug out - the site had once been a quarry. The rocks and the trees made the place extremely visually interesting - with a million quid you could make this an extremely cute little ground. Who''d be stupid enough to put a million quid into a tiny Welsh football team?


    On the pitch, the players were in two lines, shaking hands. Not long now until kick off.


    A bunch of rowdy Chester lads had formed a pocket of noise over to our left. I hoped they wouldn''t start any trouble.


    "I can only assume the police asked them not to move the game or make it a big deal. Chester v Wrexham can get tasty."


    Angel was restless. She was fidgety and kept nearly biting her nails. "What did you mean we won''t play them for ten years?"


    "This is our last go in the Welsh Cup. Gwen and I thought Chester joining would be a bit of fun, add some interest to the whole thing. Spice it up a bit, right? Everyone wants to see the big bad English get a bloody nose and I was happy to get a few more fixtures lined up because our squad is relatively big if you include the Welsh girls. So if this is the last season for us in the Welsh Cup when would we play Wrexham next? In Europe. They''re working towards that, slowly but surely, and we''re racing in that direction but from a much lower base." She wasn''t really listening. I tilted my head. "What are you worried about?"


    She opened her eyes wide and used both hands to gesture towards the pitch. The players were doing their last stretches. Kick-off was imminent. "Cup semi-final, Max!"


    "Don''t make that face when you''re doing your screen tests," I said. "Unless the perfume is going to be called, ''femme des cavernes.''"


    "What''s that mean?"


    "Cavewoman."


    She punched me in the arm. "Do you think I should learn French?"


    "Ew, no."


    "I''m worried about Bonnie," she said, bringing her nails towards her teeth again. I batted her hand away and she nodded her thanks. Fun game! "Wrexham have that striker from the documentary. She''s amazing. She could tear us a new one. What do you think?" She stared as if seeing me for the first time. "You''re relaxed. That''s good, right? You know what''s going to happen."


    I smiled. "Politically I''m fine with losing. Not very loyal of me, is it? Us winning this cup could cause problems for Gwen and I don''t want that. But we will win. When we played Wrexham in the Dani match, we were new and just finding our feet. Eve rested some of her best players and I persuaded her to weaken the team still further so it would be more of a contest. Today she''s got her very best side out, it looks like. Jackie has rotated us... and we''re still ahead. Ten against ten, it''s close-ish in raw ability. Wrex are more experienced but we have loads more technical quality. It''s a 3G pitch, perfectly flat, true bounce. If I''m Eve right now I''m dreading the last ten minutes after Chester have fizzed the ball all around this quarry making us chase shadows."


    "Ten against ten?"


    "I mean, if you only looked at ten players you''d think it was even. But Kit is playing."


    "Kit," said Angel, uncertainly, but the match kicked off and she tensed up.


    While Angel stressed about her sister and her mates, I took on the floating megabrain role I did so well. (Other opinions are available.)


    The previous match against Wrexham seemed like a good point of comparison for the current team. That match had been our fifth ever fixture and looking back, it was amazing we didn''t lose ten-nil.


    Like Robyn that day, today''s goalie, Queenie, was 18 years old, but where Robyn had been CA 6, Queenie was CA 40. And she was our backup! Scottie Love - hating life on the bench - was CA 60.


    In the Dani match I had picked a back four with CA 5, 6, 7, and 9. Jackie was able to name a back three with CA 41, 58, and 67 - while giving a rest to two of our usual starters.


    Two years ago, my midfield had ranged from CA 6 to CA 10. Jackie had also picked five midfielders, but his lowest (Diane) was CA 41 and his highest (Sarah Greene) was 72.


    I''d only had one striker in the entire squad: Bea Pea. She had toiled with her CA 9. Julie McKay''s CA 48 would have looked space-age to me in those early days, but these days we had Angel on 59 and, stupendously, Kit Hodges on CA 90.


    We had come a looong way.


    Angel must have been trying to distract herself from the agony of watching us dominate possession against an enthusiastic, well-drilled, but inferior team because she seemed to be thinking on the same lines as me. "How did you do this?"


    "Do what?" I said, just to check she was asking the question I thought she was asking.


    "How did we get so good so fast?"


    "I rode the coattails of the Lionesses. When they won the Euros every girl wanted to play football, the market was growing, it was easy to get funding and to push Chester Women as a valuable entity, and it was easy to convince people to come and play for us. Bonnie was by far the hardest."


    "She was protecting me."


    "Yeah." I watched as Bonnie competed with Wrexham''s dangerous striker. The striker nearly got away but Bonnie tracked her and tackled the ball to Ridley T, who was playing as the left-sided centre back. "See Femi covering there?"


    "Yes."


    "Leeds let Femi go because they thought they had better centre backs. I''ve been able to build half a team of players like Dani, Maddy, and Diane who we''ve basically taught from scratch and the other half are match-ready players like Femi, Charlotte, and Sarah Greene. The women''s transfer market is just very, very underdeveloped and wages are low and that''s a massive advantage for me. I''m doing the same thing with the men''s team but the market is relatively efficient and I can''t simply buy a player like Kit who is hugely above the level. Like, buying a Kit for the men''s team would be..." I did some quick thinking. It would be like buying a top Championship striker who had played in the Premier League. "I mean, ten to thirty million pounds."


    Angel turned away from the pitch to gawp at me. "Are you serious? She''s that good?"


    I scoffed. "I''m that good. I got a thirty million pound player for seventy grand." I waited for her to reply because if Angel was ever going to ask if I''d signed Kit as a punishment for her faking an injury, now would be the time. The question didn''t come. "I can''t take much credit, to be honest. We''ve got talented players who want to work hard, Jackie''s a good manager, the coaches are good. The facilities are getting better but they have been sub-par and the women always get shoved to the outside pitches when there''s a conflict with the men''s team. I''ll be happier when Bumpers is fully built and there''s no question of making you guys train on the kids'' pitch or wait for the showers or whatever."


    "It''s annoying sometimes."


    "I know, but we''re getting there. Next season you''ll play at the Deva and we''ll have some fun getting the attendances up. I told Brooke I want to set a new high every week and she said she''d do it like Sergey Bubka''s pole vault world record - it would go up by a tiny fraction each time."


    "What did you say?"


    "I said pole vault? Is that like a bunker for eastern Europeans? She went to get a coffee and didn''t come back."


    Angel smiled slightly as she said, "None of that happened."


    Diane, playing deeper than the other midfielders, passed through two pressers to the feet of Pippa. She took the ball on the half-turn and found Maddy on the right. She hit it left-footed, first time, towards Sarah Greene, who chipped it over the defence with loads of side spin. A centre back thought she had it covered but the spin took the ball into Kit''s path. She could have hit it left-footed but tried to get it back on her right. By the time she did, the other CB had got into position to block the shot.


    I pointed. "That''s where you''ll overtake her."


    Angel narrowed her eyes as she replayed the sequence. "I think I would have followed the flight of the ball and gone to the right. Kit knew it would spin like that."


    I dismissed the idea with a wave. "You can do that; that''s basic." The team in red tried to work the ball up the pitch like an elite team. "It''s good this, isn''t it? Wrexham are trying to push up and dominate us like they do with most of their oppo. The teams in our league have learned to drop deep, haven''t they? They''re afraid of what we can do. We aren''t used to having this much space to run in behind the defence."


    "But Kit is," said Angel, nodding. "Because Bristol got battered in the WSL every week. When we get there, will that be us? Defending for our lives until we get relegated?"


    "No," I said. "We will be competitive from the off. I''m more worried about the Championship or WSL 2 or whatever it''s called by then. We have eighteen months to get you, Charlotte, Femi and the rest to the level Kit is at now. That could be hard because the group''s improvement has slowed recently. I thought adding Kit would kickstart the growth and it did a bit but not for long."


    "We''re not improving?"


    "You are, but less than before. I don''t think it''s Bumpers because the men are still kicking on, mostly. I think it''s the standard of the league. We''re so far ahead we''re not learning as much from every match. Next season we need to smash the league but go far in every cup as well so we''re getting stressed."


    "Pressure makes pearls."


    "Um..." I said.


    "It''s a Ted Lasso joke."


    "Ted Lasso has jokes?" Wrexham built an attack on their left, moving forward with a series of one-twos. Maddy kept her discipline and when a loose pass came, she pounced. I nodded. "Eve thought Kisi would be playing. That move would go great against her."


    "Maddy''s scrappy," said Angel. "In a good way," she added, quickly.


    "Yeah, she''s mint," I said. Maddy''s CA was 52 - not too far behind Kisi - but her PA was ''only'' 80. She couldn''t come to the WSL with us. "Next season we''ve got the move to the Deva but I think the football will be quite monotonous. Just loads of wins. We can''t do The Relentlessness again."


    "What are you saying?"


    "I''m wondering if we should skip the documentary next year."


    "Ha ha," she said.


    "I''m not joking. The worst thing is to oversaturate, spread ourselves thin. Take a year off, keep the quality up. There''s no point doing it for the sake of it."


    "There''s always mad things happening, though. It will still be interesting."


    "Hmm," I said.


    "What about the team from Colombia?"


    "That''s this year. That''s soon."


    "But we can go and visit them. Chester abroad."


    "That''s desperate."


    "It was your idea!"


    "Meh."


    "Well, what have you got planned for us on the football side? What about Relativity?"


    "The general theory or the special theory?"


    Bonnie was once again locking horns with Wrexham''s dangerous striker. This time, the Welsh menace won the duel and fired off an early shot that Queenie wasn''t expecting. The ball seemed to bounce through her outstretched hands and it trundled into the net. One-nil!


    "Fuck," said Angel.


    "That''s interesting," I said.


    "What? Was it Bonnie''s mistake? What did you see?"


    "The goal? That was all about the striker''s determination. Good hustle, good goal. Queenie will do better next time. It was interesting what you said. Teaching you, ah, Relativity fits another idea I had. Yeah, that''s really interesting. I think my head is expanding right now. Yeeeees." Big changes next season. A mini big bang to keep things fresh. "Maybe there will be enough content for the documentary. Yes, you should start learning Relativity. The longer the players play with each other and practise, the more impactful it is in games."


    My experiments with 3 R Welsh and the Youth Team had continued and it was abundantly clear to me that the players on the pitch ''programmed'' the Relationism module. 3 R Welsh had togetherness and team spirit but very little quality. That meant there were few in-game boosts or mini-games. My experience of using Relationism with them was quite sedate. The Youth Team had been together for years, had a lot of talent, and loved being told to do flicks, tricks, and skills. Relationism with them was wild and crazy but against Everton it had made them giddy to the point of self-destructiveness and I had needed to calm them all the way back down.


    As an experiment I had turned up to one of the evening games at BoshCard and had taken over as ''manager'', claiming it was to get ideas for my next advert. I had switched on the Relationism module but hadn''t done anything, and nothing had happened on the pitch. The players stuck to 4-4-2 pretty solidly and didn''t generate any heat, energy, or excitement. Maybe it worked different in South America but British players needed to train it before they could use it in a match.


    "If we''re gonna do it," I mused, "we should start soon. Yeah. Behind closed doors, I think."


    "Max!"


    "Could be good content. Imagine a caption on screen. Says something like: Max Best brackets Manager of the Month for February and March close brackets insists the cameras be turned off for a secret training session. The camera films the side of the Sin Bin or something like that and we hear some whistles and shouts and then we cut to you lot leaving the pitch and you''re all hyper and talking about it. That would work, right? That''s good TV." Angel''s face told me she agreed. "I don''t have time because I''m busy scouting for next season''s youth teams. Pascal could do it. Do you like Pascal?"


    "Yeah, he''s much cooler now he''s got a girlfriend. Does the camera love him?"


    "I don''t give a fuck. He''s killing his coaching course; he''s a natural. Yeah... Pascal can teach you Relativity."


    "Can you explain what it is?"


    "Sure thing," I said. "In the olden days, football was played in straight lines. Have you ever seen that thing where all the men in a village go in the main street and they try to push a ball from one side to the other?"


    "No."


    "It''s like a huge tug of war thing. That was sport in the old days so when football was created, that''s how people played it. It was all they knew, right? Get the ball, run in a straight line. As Einstein said, an Englishman moves in the straightest possible path. It was my new best friends the Scots who invented passing. Now imagine a match between the English and the Scots. One''s all straight line dribbling, the other has created triangles. To pass the ball in front of a player who is running you need an appreciation not only of motion and matter but of space and time. Football became the juxtaposition of space and time versus matter and motion. The triangles become curves. The midfield began to exert the biggest gravitational pull on the ball."


    Angel''s head dropped back so that she was looking almost straight up. "Whaaaaaaat the fuck." She brought her head back to its normal position and let out a tiny grunt of frustration. "I''m asking you to explain Relativity."


    "I''m trying to tell you!" I said, pretending to be helpful. "Look, in positional play, spacetime tells matter how to move but in my special theory of Relationism, matter tells spacetime how to curve. Easy."


    She narrowed her eyes. "Did you talk all that shit because I said Relativity instead of Relationism?"


    "Yes."


    "Can you not?"


    I laughed. "No."


    "Relativity is E = mc2, right?" I nodded. "Do you understand that?"


    "Not really," I confessed. "I understand the start of it but then, bam! My brain overheats. Oh, but check this out."


    I''d spotted that Jackie had tweaked his formation so that Sarah was playing like a DM and Diane was in the CAM slot. Diane''s new job was to help the strikers press the CBs while Sarah had been set as a deep-lying playmaker. Wrexham played the ball out from the back in a very ambitious way given the technique scores of their defenders.


    Sure enough, the goalie passed to a centre back who was surprised to find an aggressive Scouser closing her down. Diane collided into the CB, the ball spat out, Julie touched it to Kit, who again shaped to cut onto her right foot. The defender went to block it again but Kit moved it back onto her left, burst forward, and dinked the ball over the onrushing keeper. One-all.


    Angel leapt to her feet, squeaked, and clapped. She drew some unhappy glances from the nearby Wrexham fans but most recognised her and the frowns turned to smiles.


    She sat down and slapped me near my knee. "Talk more shit. That brought us luck."


    "That was good from Kit, great from Jule and Diane, but amazing from Jackie. I think he''s back to his old self, don''t you?"


    "I never met him before this," she said, still buzzing from the goal. Bonnie looked towards us and Angel jumped up and waved. Bonnie smiled and got back to work. Angel sat again. "He''s getting better, yeah. He''s more creative and takes more risks."


    "Is training still good?"


    "It''s always good. What was all that shit you were saying about Relationism? Was any of it even real?"


    "Relationism is really simple. It''s about players connecting with each other outside some formation prescribed by the manager. It can happen anywhere on the pitch but the most natural place is at the sides where you can use the touchline as an extra defender in case you lose the ball. As a coach you want to get your players doing one-twos and rondos and to feel very comfortable under pressure. What I like about it is that no-one else in this country plays like that so what''s the defence against it? Having the ability to switch back and forth could be quite important when we get to the top levels, but what''s even more exciting is the hybrid of positional play and Relationism. You saw our goal against United, right? And you''ve seen the Youth Team making strange patterns with their runs and letting the ball go past without touching it and all that kind of thing. That''s hard to defend against and it''s amazing to watch."


    Angel thought about it. "The blob thing everyone talks about. Is that based on a black hole?"


    I smiled. "I can''t tell if you''re joking."


    "Is it called..."


    "Relationism."


    "Is it called that because of Relativity?"


    "No. It''s called that because the most important thing in that system is the relationships between the players. There''s some of that in positional play. You know the way Jackie coaches you not to be in the same horizontal zone as two other players?"


    "It''s more he coaches them not to be in the same zone as me."


    I let out a laugh. Strikers, man. So cocky. "You need to learn it better. Kit learned it."


    "Oh," she said, worried.


    I wondered how long I''d be able to play the ''Kit can do that'' card as a motivational tool. "There aren''t zones in Relationism but you have to move based on what your mates are doing. You wouldn''t all stand in a line, would you? You need to offer passing angles but the ball''s always moving which means you''re always moving. You don''t think ''I''m in zone 8 I need to obey my programming'' you think ''if the ball goes there I need to move there'' or ''Diane''s got two players moving towards her so I''ll drop here to cover''. It''s very much about being in a flow state instead of being mathematical."


    "So interesting. We have to try it!"


    "Yeah. It''s time."


    We were quiet for a while. I noted that Jackie swapped Diane back to DM as soon as Wrexham decided to go long from goal kicks. Quick decisions from JR! He didn''t move Sarah Greene, though. She stayed in the DM slot, acting as the heart of the team, pinging passes everywhere as part of a double pivot, putting miles into those Wrexham legs. I thoroughly approved.


    An increasingly rare Wrexham attack ended with a tame shot that did have me worried for a second. Queenie gathered at the second attempt, got up, and punted the ball towards half-way. I smiled, thinking back to when I first saw her and she could barely kick the ball out of her penalty area.


    The ball rose, and as it started its descent, Kit jostled with a centre back.


    "Oh," I said, leaning forward with hungry eyes. Angel''s head snapped towards me.


    Kit used her strength to nudge the defender backwards, using her arms to keep her opponent pinned. The ball bounced... and Kit spun and chased it. The defender had been expecting to pounce forward as soon as Kit controlled it. She reached out to grab Kit''s shirt, but a foul risked a red card. By the time the defender realised there were covering defenders and the ref would probably only give a yellow, it was too late.


    Kit pulled away, dribbled towards the goalie, and slipped the ball through her legs.


    Angel celebrated as before. Before sitting, she looked down at me. "Why don''t you stand up so I can hug someone?"


    "I don''t want to trigger that particular avalanche of fan fiction," I said.


    "What about fan fiction with you and Kit?"


    I shrugged. "I wouldn''t encourage it but I''d read it."


    Angel flopped to her seat, grinning about the goal. She scanned the pitch for a while. Her gaze rested on Kit. "You think I can be better than her."


    "I know you can."


    "You bought her to teach me a lesson."


    "You were right when you said you were our star striker. We need competition for places."


    She eyed me. "You bought her to teach me a lesson."


    "Did you learn any lessons?"


    Angel tutted. "No." Shortly after, she said, "Yes. I learned you''re a ruthless bastard. I should make sure I have the power to defy you before I defy you."


    "Or we could work together and both win. That''s an option, too."


    Another pause. "What do you want?"


    I shifted uneasily. Talking to Angel about her future was strangely hard but she was 18 now and was fully in charge of her own destiny. She had impressed me by letting Ruth and Emma continue to control her social media accounts (with her input) - she didn''t want to ruin her chances of getting the perfume deal. If I repeated things I''d already said, that was fine. It was like talking to a new person. "I want you to watch the rough edit of the Durham match when you were trying to stay on the pitch even though you were injured. That was authentic and emotional and that''s what sport''s all about. I can sit up here, detached, looking at a bunch of numbers swirling around in front of me but when you''re out there you''re creating an emotional world for people to live in and that''s where you get lasting fame. Who''s the most famous man in the world? Ronaldo maybe? I only ever picture him in a football kit. Do you know what I mean?" She nodded. I''d made a good point. "Remember I did the Combined Eleven series for the United match?"


    "That was brilliant."


    "Thanks. You''ve got players in that team who the United fans still sing about, right? What I don''t want..."


    "Go on."


    I squirmed. "I don''t want you to turn into David Beckham. You think he''s super famous and he''s got everything he wants but I don''t think that''s true. I think he knows he blew it when he lost his focus on football. Short-term he got more famous, true, but he lost his chance to become an all-time legend like Bobby Charlton and George Best. Everything that he did after he left United he could have done a few years later. Do you know what I mean? No, he blew it. He''s so famous now it''s hard to think like this but I''m convinced he''ll be mostly forgotten in sixty years."


    "You really think long-term, don''t you? I''m more interested in, like, today."


    "You can have a great life today. You''ve got your perfume thing, right? How cool is that?"


    "Bonnie''s not a fan. I didn''t think you was, either."


    "As long as football is your number one, I''ll support you in all these side hustles. No, seriously. But you know I can spot when an injury is real or fake and you better believe I''ll know to the minute when football stops being your number one. If the perfume job means you have to miss training you say get fucked."


    "I might ask them to rearrange it," she said, "before I start dropping f-bombs." She looked at her hands. "You don''t have these conversations with anyone else, do you?"


    Sarah exchanged passes with Pippa and slid the ball thirty yards into the path of Kit. She turned her marker and slipped the ball left. Dani raced onto it and with her first touch clipped the ball over an incoming sliding tackle. Dani was into the penalty box, moving at goal. She had Kit and Julie to her right along with a couple of defenders.


    "Pass!" yelped Angel.


    Dani shifted the ball onto her right foot, let her left arm swing all the way up until she was pointing at some distant star, and in the same motion, swung her left leg behind her right and toe-poked the ball past the stupefied goalie.


    This time I joined Angel on my feet and hugged her. Half the Wrexham fans stood and applauded along with us.


    "Yes, mate!" I said, clenching both fists. "Fuck, that''s satisfying. Wow."


    "She should have passed," said Angel.


    "What!"


    "Kit''s right there. You''ve got a striker on a hat trick. If that''s me, I''m fuming."


    I shook my head. Strikers have their brains wired funny. "Kit''s happy enough." The women were celebrating in a blob - foreshadowing of when they used Relationism, perhaps? "That''s terrible, cut that."


    "Cut what?"


    Something occurred to me; I put my hands on my head. "How about that for closing a loop?"


    "What do you mean?"


    "Last time we played Wrexham I was struggling to get Dani to use her left foot and there was the whole ''you''re not welcome here'' thing from the referee. Two years later she''s scoring rabonas with her left and Wrexham fans are applauding her." I took Angel''s elbow and pulled her down into her seat. "David Beckham left United. United won just as many games, sold just as many shirts, kept filling the stadium. You can always replace a player. But why would I want to replace that?" On the word ''that'' I pointed to the spot from which Dani had scored. "It''s fun buying Kit and watching her crush teams, but it''s more fun watching Dani do it. Or you. You''re right, I don''t have these conversations with anyone else. Dani doesn''t want to play for another club. Wibbers is football crazy. Youngster is on a mission from God. You''re the only one who has a choice. You might wake up one day and think, I''ll go to L.A. and become an actress. Or you might wake up and think, ''I''ve got twenty mill in the bank, that''s enough, seeya.''"


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    She listened with a serious air, but then she gave me a crooked smile. "Better keep me entertained then, hadn''t ya?"


    I bounced the crooked smile right back at her. I took my phone out and pretended to dial. "Hello? Sheffield United? I heard you''ve got a two-footed striker. Is she for sale?"


    Angel scoffed. "Yeah, yeah." She shook her head before reaching out for a handshake. "Truce?" I smiled and shook it. She got thoughtful. "Can I still go to Paris and Angel City and all that?"


    "Course," I said. "Got to keep things fresh. I''m planning a short spell abroad myself."


    "Oh, where?"


    "Secret."


    "Probably Gibraltar," she mused. When she saw my face, she punched the air. "Yes!"


    I sulked. "We were on a truce."


    ***


    At half-time, what seemed like the entire stand wanted to take selfies with us. More specifically, they wanted selfies with Angel and since I was there, they said ''why don''t you join in too?''


    Angel was really good with the younger girls who were at the match. She asked what position they played, who their favourite player was, all that guff, and she never got bored. Not visibly, anyway. I would have noped out after the third one if I had the choice, but Bonnie would have battered me if I''d wandered off. There was one guy hovering around who looked like he was trying to pluck up the courage to talk to Angel, but when I scowled at him, he pretended to take a phone call and fucked off.


    Angel finished telling a young striker she needed to get her left foot as good as her right because ''the best managers'' liked that. The little girl smiled back, and I think a small one crept onto my own face.


    "You''re good at that," I said, when the second half kicked off.


    "Thanks," she said, distracted. She leaned forward and pushed her knuckle into her lips. She shot back. "Look, are we going to win this?"


    "Yes."


    "How are you so sure?"


    "We''re bossing it and we''ve got Scottie Love, Meghan, Charlotte, and Kisi on the bench. Jackie is out-thinking Eve. This one''s done."


    "So I can relax?"


    "I don''t know. Can you?"


    "What about the final?"


    "It''s against Cardiff or Swansea, isn''t it? I''m not sure how good they are. Better than Wrexham, but better than our best eleven? It could be close but..."


    "But we''ve got Kit."


    I smiled. "And you''ll be back. No way they can stop you both. It''s 60/40 in our favour I reckon."


    "What about Gwen?"


    "Ah, she''ll be fine. And who knows? Maybe you''ll stuff up the final and save us all a headache."


    Angel tried to give me a withering look. "We''re not going to stuff up the final, Max. We''re going to crush it."


    My eyebrows rose with amusement. "Gosh. Is that your fierce face?"


    She sat back and folded her arms, but that didn''t last long. She unfolded them and smiled. "This is kind of like Relationism, isn''t it?"


    "What do you mean?"


    "You said it''s about building connections between the players. This is us doing it."


    "You just like that the conversation is all about you."


    "Yeah, so? I don''t think the director of football at my next club is going to sit with me when I''m injured and tell me how he''s in a constant state of dread that I''ll leave."


    I tipped my head back and laughed so loud some of the players looked up. "I''ll confess to some intermittent dread, okay? Are you happy with that?"


    She leaned back and matched my level of relaxation. "Very."


    A long ball bounced over Bonnie and the Wrexham striker got goal-side of her, just as Kit had done to her marker. Bonnie fouled the player with no hesitation, and since Femi was covering the ref only gave a yellow card.


    "Come on, sis," said Angel. Ten years fell off her as she turned and pleaded with me. "Max, you''re a wizard. Can''t you do something? Can''t you coach her?"


    "Sorry," I said. It would take a far stronger version of my God Save the King perk to get Bonnie up to the level of her sister. "But listen, she''s lucky."


    "Lucky how?"


    "She''s got you. She loves when you score almost as much as you do."


    Angel sat up straight as Meghan was sent to the touchline. A centre back coming on... for Ridley T. Angel sagged with relief; her sister would not be humiliated today. She mumbled, "Relativity''s a bitch."


    ***


    Posted by the Football Association of Wales


    Final Scores


    Wrexham Women 2 Chester Women 4


    Cardiff City Women 3 Swansea City Ladies 2


    The final will be held on Sunday, May 3 in Cardiff.


    ***


    Extract from the Pyramid Schemers Substack.


    Tuesday March 3 League Two Round-Up


    <ul>


    <li>Chester Surgin'' As Best Goes Urgin'' - Tranmere Need a Surgeon</li>


    <li>Chip Van Stalls At Hadrian''s Walls</li>


    <li>Albion Gone for a Burton</li>


    </ul>


    Big excitement at the Deva stadium where a shockingly rampant Chester team took Tranmere Rovers to the cleaners. The 4-0 win was even more comprehensive than it sounds, leaving Tranmere boss Jimmy Mustard in deep trouble. Chester remain sixth but they are very much the form team, have an easy run of fixtures, and suddenly have weapons all over the pitch.


    Peruvian sensation Foquita scored a brace, bringing his goals tally to 10 in just 11 matches. Darren ''Dazza'' Smith''s 11 goals for the season have been rather harder to come by, but with Dugger Dugdale already terrorising League Two with his mazy runs and pinpoint crosses, Dazza will be expecting to add to his haul. Tonight''s thumping header against a low block bodes well for Chester''s promotion run. There was another goal involvement for Pascal Bochum, whose surges down the right stretched Tranmere''s defence past breaking point and led to the own goal that sealed the scoreline.


    Ominously for the rest of the division, Max Best never looked like going onto the pitch; he spent a good twenty minutes of the second half talking tactics with the latest of his production line, the Baby Bale himself, Roddy Jones. Will we see either man on the pitch this season? Best appears to be surplus to his own requirements!


    Up in Carlisle, Bradford City found themselves firing a rare blank in what turned into quite a drab nil-nil. Bradford''s Double Dragons, Chipper and Gareth Davies, had a rare off day - to the delight of Mansfield Town, who are now only three points behind having played three games less. Mansfield are odds-on to win the title and the point was not much use to Carlisle themselves.


    That''s because in the other playoff spots, Fleetwood and MK Dons won while Cambridge drew. That was doubly bad news for Burton Albion''s head coach Simon Blake, who was sacked when his team lost to struggling Swindon. Burton are six points outside the playoff spots and one thing''s for sure - they won''t be overtaking Chester any time soon.


    ***


    Saturday, March 7


    League Two Match 35 - Walsall versus Chester


    The 90-minute ride down to Birmingham was a good time to stop and reflect. Off the pitch, I liked Walsall. They were our soulmates in terms of overperforming our budget, having faith in young players, and successfully seeking out value in the transfer market. On the pitch, I had little to fear. There was no room for complacency but they hadn''t replaced their dodgy keeper and their average CA would be in the region of 80.


    Ours was a simply titanic 89.9.


    We were close to going platinum.


    Swanny was close to returning to full fitness - no need to rush him into the team given our fixtures, but his CA (85) was seven points higher than Sticky''s, so our strongest eleven was definitely over CA 90.


    Our other weak link, Cole Adams in the left back slot was really not all that weak. I had been giving Cole 50 XP a day to boost his training via the Secret Sandra perk and he had raced ahead of his former peer, Josh Owens. Three months of consistent investment had moved Cole 8 points ahead of Josh.


    The perk was all kinds of genius. The effect was crystal clear and I couldn''t imagine a time when I wasn''t pumping at least 50 XP a day into it. As I grew stronger, I would increase that towards the maximum 200 a day. It meant I had to keep my nose to the grindstone, had to keep generating XP for Old Nick.


    Some players were growing more slowly. Ryan Jack''s increase from 75 to 76 was something of a minor miracle - I thought the guy had capped. Lee Hudson and Henri - training again after his knock - were stumbling at the finish line as they neared their limits. Both would peak in the coming weeks. Youngster had been growing slowly, but suddenly, like a cricketer getting ''em in singles, found himself on 99 not out.


    He would be my first home-grown triple digit dude! Would he catch up to Foquita this season? No chance. The guy loved our style of play, and loved being cajoled by Sandra, geed up by Vimsy, and slated by Luisa and I. He had eased up to CA 106, easy as you like.


    Wibbers (75), Andrew Harrison (71), Bark (69), and Dan (66) had slowed, but I put that down to me not rotating the team as much and them being in a kind of ''digestive'' process. I wasn''t worried about their growth in the slightest.


    Brooke: Can you call me please?


    "How''s my favourite Texan? Wait, is Dolly Parton from Texas?"


    "No."


    "Levar Burton?"


    "No."


    "Zach Green?"


    "Yes."


    "How''s my favourite Texan?"


    "Good, thanks, but I''m here having a chat with the project manager for Bumpers."


    "On a Saturday?"


    "You''re working on a Saturday."


    "That... is a fair point. I think?"


    "Max, listen. They want to do the gym and the shower block together. If we tell them today we can guarantee the slots."


    "Sounds logical and I''m sure there isn''t a catch."


    "Well..."


    It wasn''t like Brooke to be hesitant. "Go on," I said, getting nervous.


    She exhaled. "They want to start at the end of March. Bumpers will turn into a huge construction site - again. It won''t affect the evenings too much. The women, the youth teams, the pitch hires will be okay. We can try to redirect some of the five and six o''clock bookings to Hoole or Saltney - if that''s all right with you."


    "Course it is. But..."


    "I know! The noise, the disruption. It will mess up first team training for the men for April and May. If there''s a playoff run..."


    "There won''t be, but give me a second..." I imagined dozens of diggers and cranes and hundreds of guys in hard hats ambling around Bumpers with their arses hanging out, smoking, being incredibly noisy. It would be absolute hell - we could say goodbye to our CA growth. "There''s no way we can...?"


    "The alternative is the fall. September, maybe. At least this way it''ll be done in time for the new season. But I don''t know how it goes from the football side. I don''t know how critical the last few weeks of the season are."


    "We''re probably about as good as Bradford right now. Three more weeks of quality training should be enough for us to keep this run going. I think... Yeah, I''m not worried about this season so much as next. I really need us to get off to a flyer. Actually, let me look at the fixtures again." I brought them up on my phone. "Okay the match where it could cost us is Cambridge. The rest we should be fine. When the builders start work, can they move some of the units to Saltney so we can train there? At least it''s a good pitch. That might help us keep the levels."


    "I think it depends on the water pipes, the sewers, the electrics."


    "Right," I sighed. Saltney was fairly barren in terms of those basics, as far as I knew. We wouldn''t be able to simply slap down any old cabin.


    "It''s your call, Max."


    I tried to find a silver lining. "This will help you in terms of the new stand, right?"


    "There will be much less overlap between the two projects, yes. It should make my life easier."


    "Okay, let''s do it. It''s growing pains, isn''t it? In a way, this might be the best time. The squad has done the hard yards. The summer regression might be a bit more pronounced but what can you do? You know what? We need a good summer camp. Maybe Mateo will let us rent his gaff in Tenerife. The lads will love that! Yeah, go for it, Brooke. Bosh."


    "Bosh. Good luck today."


    "Mmm. Do you like it when I''m arrogant?"


    "It''s not my favourite."


    "Hmm. Okay. Thank you for wishing me good luck. I will pretend I need it."


    She laughed. "Was that you trying not to be a jerk?"


    "Yeah."


    "At least you tried."


    She rang off and I shook my head. The best I could hope for at the end of the season was five weeks of stagnation but when the lads came back from their summer breaks we would have a beautiful new gym and a hugely practical block with showers, lockers, and boot rooms. It would be a huge leap forward.


    What about those five weeks? We could do Mondays at BoshCard, the rest of the week at Saltney. Maybe players who weren''t involved in matches could train on the weekends. That would let me use Secret Sandra on them. Yes, anyone whose CA slipped in April would get a blast of my experience points to lift their levels.


    There were solutions. I had tools.


    I had been buying more tools recently while building my stash.


    I''d dismissed the March perk. It was called ''The Max Planck Constant'' and promised me XP multipliers if I selected the same eleven a few games in a row. It very specifically said I couldn''t be in that team, though, so that was an instant veto. No-one tells me what to do.


    I''d bought Manager Stats for 300 XP. It added another layer of detail to a manager''s profile. Now in addition to seeing my ranking among all managers in the country (I was the 80th best manager in England) and my current reputation (poor) I saw how many cups I''d won (zero, according the curse, which was slightly surprising because some perks counted winning the Cheshire Cup as an achievement), how many leagues I had won (two), how many Manager of the Months, how much I had spent on transfers, how much I had recouped.


    It was quite a fun page but as I had always suspected, nothing I couldn''t have gotten from Wikipedia.


    Next I bought the average ratings perk for 500 XP. Now when I looked at Charlie Dugdale''s player profile there were two new numbers. One showed this season''s average rating from his time at Reading: 6.34. Above that was his average rating as a Chester player: 8.40. Again, the curse was inconsistent. The Form section counted games in the Cheshire Cup, but the data provided at the bottom of his player profile ignored Cheshire Cup games.


    Then I''d finally taken the plunge and added the boys under eighteens squad to the curse. That cost 2,000 XP but at once I could see that Benny had a slight knock he had not reported, that Chas was depressed, and that Jamie Brotherhood considered Chester to be ''a stepping stone towards his future''. Cheeky fuck!


    Being able to keep an eye on them was all kinds of relaxing, especially for when I had the discussions with them about their future careers. Being able to see their Morale fluctuate would help me say the right things.


    Even with those three additions, I still had loads of points left.


    XP balance: 8,333


    I might need some of that to keep our levels up while Bumpers was being butchered, but I was tempted to add another Attribute. The team was in such a good position, though, I felt it could wait. Improving Playdar wasn''t needed in the short term - I was killing it with adding boys and girls to the youth teams - but I would want it by the time I got to Canada. I wouldn''t be there for long so I had to maximise my scouting.


    Sandra Lane eased into the seat across the aisle. "Vimsy got good at cards," she said, wide-eyed.


    "No," I said. "You lost your touch."


    She smiled. "Any thoughts about today?"


    "Yeah. Foquita''s gonna murder them. I told him if he got to twenty goals I''d give him a surprise."


    "What''s the surprise?"


    "A week off."


    "He''ll hate it."


    "I know. That''s why it''s a surprise."


    "Are you gonna play today?"


    "I cannot be fucking arsed," I declared. I stretched in a contented way before remembering Brooke''s call. "We''ve got a problem." I told her about the upcoming building work. "Do you think we could do double sessions for a while and then sort of coast to the end of the season?"


    She considered that. "I''ll talk to the Brig; he''s got all the fitness data."


    "Top."


    "You''re not worried about it?"


    "The faster we go, the harder it is to go faster. That''s science," I said.


    "So profound," said Sandra. "I can''t wait till Jamie starts saying things like that."


    "Oh," I said. It sort of burped out of me.


    Sandra realised she''d let slip her secret. "Shit. I was trying to drag it out the way you do with Andrew Harrison''s rating."


    "Jamie Lane-Beeks," I said. I repeated it a few more times. "Scans well. JLB. J-Lob. J-Lub. Jlubby."


    Sandra got a sour look. "No-one is calling my child Jlubby. Least of all..." She went through some kind of preparation before eyeing me. "Max, my favourite movie is The Godfather. It''s about a football manager who agrees to look after Little Baby J if anything happens to his mum."


    Deathly silence.


    My assistant manager had detonated a nuke right there on Sealbiscuit.


    It took ages for the air to return.


    Sandra''s eyes were darting all over my face trying to gauge my reaction. All at once I shot to my feet and ripped my hoodie off, provoking wolf-whistles from the back of the bus. "Let''s fucking go!" I screamed. "Let''s start the fucking match right fucking now! Where''s my top?"


    Vimsy stood as much as his card game would allow. "It''s in the trunk, boss."


    "Pull over!" I yelled. "Pull over and start the gaaaaame! I''m ready to explode!"


    ***


    Extract from the Pyramid Schemers Substack.


    Saturday March 7 League Two Round-Up


    <ul>


    <li>Saddlers Depressed As Goal-Pest Best Is an Unimpressed Guest</li>


    <li>The Chip Van Slams Into Magpies'' Big Man</li>


    <li>Stags Dragged As Gills Swill the Goal Pills</li>


    </ul>


    Gravity finally hit the top end of this MAD League Two campaign, as most teams in the top seven hit turbulence. In a season with unusually high points totals at the top, it looked like Bradford City and Mansfield Town would battle it out for the title. Both lost tonight meaning the big winners were...


    Chester! Max Best has looked a distant figure in recent weeks, bored to death on the touchline wondering why a player of his quality is slumming it in England''s fourth tier. Why he chose to unleash hell on Walsall in their Bescot Stadium we may never know, but his three goals in the first half had data wonks all over the world wailing and gnashing their teeth. He doesn''t fit the models!


    The first two were typical Max Best fare - one a harum scarum dribble from an opposition corner that left defenders choking on his exhaust fumes and a goalkeeper wallowing in his own inadequacy. The second a free kick so tasty the word sumptuous doesn''t even come close. The third, amusingly, was a tap-in on the line after great endeavour by Pascal Bochum. Best seemed embarrassed to have scored it and appeared to apologise to his assistant Sandra Lane, who had tears in her eyes. What do they smoke up there?


    Goals from Dazza Smith and Henri Lyons secured the 5-0 win and the goal difference. Chester''s is so much better than their rivals it can scarcely be a factor in this title race. Yet another data point that Best has broken.


    Meanwhile Notts County''s misfiring attack roared to life in a ding-dong seven goal thriller against Bradford, and Mansfield were stunned by an early burst from Gillingham.


    There''s life in this title race yet. Bradford are eleven points ahead of Chester, and while they have played three games more, Chester will experience fixture indigestion no amount of antacids can ease. Mansfield are a clear eight points ahead with only eleven games left to play. Despite these inarguable advantages, some bookies now have Chester as title favourites, which is patently absurd. There is no way.


    No way.


    Is there?


    ***


    Monday, March 9


    On the 3G pitch at Bumpers, I watched training from the touchline, eagle-eyed, sometimes calling a player over for a chat. That was my role in this part of the season. Ask questions, listen, cajole, motivate, sympathise.


    In recent days I''d had long chats with Dazza, with Josh, with one of the Lees. I had taken Tom Westwood out scouting, had asked Vincent Addo to help me move some boxes from my cousin''s attic to my mother''s bungalow. Small things, little things, unimportant things, but as Angel had reminded me, players liked it when I spent time with them. This was the time of year to do it. Let everyone know they were valued even if my team selections didn''t reflect that.


    It was having an effect. The story of the season was crystallising. We were getting close to the end. Something amazing was at hand.


    MD arrived, right on time. We were supposed to have a talk about the budget but he wanted to enjoy the session first. I had worked hard to get us to this point, but so had he. He''d put years of service into Chester long before I''d been blessed with supernatural gifts. I found myself getting more and more sentimental around him. "Max," he said, smiling, "what am I looking at?"


    I smiled back. MD got no credit from anyone except the people who saw him in action. Me, Brooke, Inga, Secretary Joe. MD had told me that Ian Evans and the previous managers had treated him poorly, like an outsider. I enjoyed telling him how advanced our drills were. "We''re doing an attack versus defence drill."


    "Okay."


    "We''ve got three things going on." I pointed. "On the right it''s Pascal doing the old Art of Slapping but with Lee Contreras and the right-sided striker making up the numbers while Lee Hudson stays back. Lee H can do it but I want numbers back in the rest defence."


    "Is that why the defence is so fucking watertight all of a sudden?"


    I laughed; MD rarely swore. "We either concede none or two. Mad sport, isn''t it? We''re solid these days, yeah, but that''s mostly because the defenders have worked their arses off this season. Okay in the middle we''ve got Ryan Jack who is playing simple passes left and right but if you stay long enough he''ll ping one to Foquita. Don''t ask me how they know when to do it - some things can''t be coached."


    "But Ryan isn''t playing much."


    "No but this is one of our weapons. There have always been inexplicable connections between players. Did you ever see Harry Kane play a pass to Son without looking?"


    "Of course. And vice versa."


    "Yeah. It''s innate, but we still practise it. The third avenue is Duggers on the left."


    "I love him," whispered MD. "The way he dribbles. It''s like a little fishing boat out in the middle of an ocean storm, completely unbothered, unaffected. He does his own thing while the world is happening around him."


    "Yeah, I get that. I love the aesthetics, that''s why I wanted him, but I''ve been surprised by his application and his output. He''s way better than I thought. I''m getting oppo managers saying things like they had a plan to shut us down but when we signed Duggers the plan went out the window. Which I can believe, too. Oh, and see this now?" Charlie did a shimmy against Magnus, who was playing right back for this drill, and dribbled past him on the outside. Duggers pushed the ball forward and crossed it. Dazza smashed the ball home with his enormous forehead, to generous applause from all watching. Sandra swapped a load of players out and in. I started walking away and MD followed. "A lot of the pitches are still worn and cut up from the snows and rain, but the middle is always worse than the edges, right? Duggers, like most wingers, has been coached to come inside when he gets the ball and drive towards goal at an angle. I''ve been telling him to stay wide and do a big cross, like the olden days. Even on shit pitches, the grass is still in good shape there so he''s able to do his moves. He jinks past the defender, pushes forward, crosses. We have three strikers who love a header so you can''t even do a low block on us." I shook my head. "It''s too easy."


    MD slapped me on the back. "Rather this than your heart attack football. Come on."


    We got in his car and drove the twenty seconds to the Deva. We were supposed to talk in the boardroom but MD wanted to walk around the pitch first. We made small talk until we got in front of the Harry McNally stand. He looked at it with such reverence my head dropped. I was going to knock it down. I was a vandal.


    "Last game of the season''s at home," he said, crouching like Pedro Porto. "AFC Wimbledon. I''ve told Brooke she''ll be in charge of any VIPs that day, any sponsors. I''m going to be in there with the lads, getting wasted, going mental."


    I chuckled. "I''m worried we''ll have twenty thousand people in there and no-one in the rest of the stadium."


    MD closed his eyes as he smiled. "It''s not Old Trafford, is it? We don''t have any European Cups." He bit his lip and was quiet for a long time. His Adam''s apple bobbed violently before he croaked, "But it''s ours."


    I grabbed him and laughed. "Come on. Get emotional in front of your Chester mates, not me. I''ve never even watched a match from there. What would I know?"


    He wiped his eyes and nodded. "Yeah. Sorry."


    I scoffed again. "Don''t be sorry. I''d be in bits, too. If I gave a shit," I added, which made MD roll his eyes. "It''s budget time. Come on, mate. Think of all the numbers!"


    ***


    This budget discussion, perhaps surprisingly, wasn''t about Chester FC. It was about Max Best.


    After his mind-blowing financial presentation to the squad, MD, Brooke, the Brig, Ryan, Jackie, and I had been having conversations about footballers and their personal finances. Our conclusion was that there was a good reason 40% of footballers went bankrupt after their careers ended and it could be summarised in three words: they were fucking clueless. Yes it was good to get our lads to buy low-cost ETFs but who was helping them decide how much to put in? What if we were accidentally making them spiral further into debt?


    We had convinced MD to offer one-to-one personal finance sessions to our players and he had agreed (reluctantly, because he saw other people''s finances as none of his business). He would check their incomings and outgoings, help them set a budget, explain tax, national insurance, pensions, and all the basics.


    I was first up.


    "Okay," said MD, as he clicked a pen. He cleared his throat, demonstrating how uncomfortable he was. "Right. Um... what assets do you have?"


    "Assets?" I said.


    MD made a note. "Need to define terms," he said to himself. He didn''t, but before I corrected him I wondered if me being a bit dim would help him prepare for when he did this with the other players. "What things do you own that you could sell for quick cash?"


    "Er," I said. "Do my shares count?"


    "Yes."


    "I''ve got just over four thousand pounds in shares."


    He smiled. "You didn''t buy more since my presentation."


    "I want to but I''m always on edge about what''s coming in and going out."


    "That''s why we''re here," he said, in a soothing, non-judgemental voice.


    I found myself relaxing into the conversation. "That was good. Say that with everyone."


    He brightened. "Will do. Anything else?"


    "I own Saltney Town. And West Didsbury, sort of. And some electronics and two great suits. My universe is expanding."


    MD scribbled a few things. "Thing is, Max... actually, let''s come back to that. Have you got any savings?"


    "Yeah, about forty grand."


    MD''s eyebrows shot up. "Normally I''d encourage people to build an emergency fund. Yours is, ah, maybe on the high side?"


    "Well, Sebastian Weaver - and Rachel! - took care of my mum, so... But I realised I get stressed if I don''t have a big wedge, you know? Mad things can happen. If there''s a big bang in the night, I like to think I can deal with it."


    "Do you have any liabilities? That means anything that costs you money on an ongoing basis like a student loan or a car purchase. A mortgage."


    "I''m renting my car. Most things I buy outright. If I can''t afford it, why would I go into debt to get it?" MD stared at me, then looked down at his notes. I leaned on my arm. "What? You want to say something about my transfer dealings?"


    He got a cheeky grin but forced it away. "This is about you, Max. I''m trying to help you, the individual. I mean, it is a bit rich that... no! We have to separate the two things." He got super serious. "Okay, let''s talk about your income. What''s coming in?"


    "Yeah, so, you know I''ve got the three grand a week from Chester."


    "Gross," he said.


    I thought about making a joke, but rose above it. "Yeah, before tax. That''s going up this summer."


    "Is it?" said MD.


    "Yeah, when we get promoted."


    "If," he said.


    "Write five grand a week," I said, staring at the point his nib met the page.


    "Five grand a week," said MD, dropping the pen so he could better pinch his nose. He suffered for a while but then said, "You know what? You need to sort out your image rights."


    "Yes," I said, because I''d heard the phrase before.


    "You know what that is?"


    "Yes."


    He gave me a quizzical look and decided to assume I didn''t actually know. "What you can do is take twenty percent of your income and siphon that into a company that deals with your image rights. The company pays a lot less tax than you do. As your income rises, so does the benefit of having that process."


    I got fidgety. "MD, I''ve been given a gift. I think people should pay taxes so that we can have roads and schools and hospitals. I really don''t want to get involved in shenanigans."


    "It''s not shenanigans," he said, earnestly. "It''s completely above board. If I did it, sure, that would go down badly, but it''s standard practice for actual stars. We use your face on posters, on our season tickets, all kinds of media. It''s absolutely fair we should pay you for that and His Majesty''s Revenue and Customs agrees."


    "I heard about those footballers investing in movies and art and shit like that as a tax scam."


    MD nodded. "Yes. They were badly advised. This isn''t that, I promise."


    "We need someone we can trust to help us with this, MD. There are too many sharks."


    He got a faraway look. "I could set it up for you. What about Wibbers? Youngster? Angel? There''s a lot of opportunity here. You need to max out your Individual Savings Accounts, too. Those are government-approved tax-free investment wrappers. There are some basic steps you could take that would save you a small fortune. It would be quite fun to have a tax planning meeting with an England player. Lots of my peers would be quite jealous."


    "Are you creating yourself a side hustle in the middle of my financial planning meeting?"


    MD shook his head, annoyed at himself. "You''re right, that''s unprofessional."


    "No, I love it. I hoped you''d offer. If you tell Wibbers he can''t afford some house he''s looking at he''ll probably listen to you because I''ve spent all this time listening to you. Yeah, it''s perfect. Let me see if I understand the image rights thing. The big-name players get 20% paid into a different bank account? That seems easy enough."


    "Yes, it''s a well-worn path. I''ll help you set it up before you sign your next, ah, contract." He stumbled over the word because mine was unusual in being month-to-month. In football terms, it barely counted as a contract. "You have some other income, I think? BoshCard?"


    "Yeah, I get a chunk when I do an advert for them but I only do one when I have a fun idea. What else? In theory, Ruth''s agency pays me a consultancy fee. That''s twenty grand a year at the mo."


    "Twenty grand a year?" MD couldn''t believe it. I think the number gave him the impression Ruth''s agency was raking in cash on a scale he couldn''t have imagined. It wasn''t smart to put him right.


    "I don''t take the money," I said. "It''s getting put back into the clients so I can make more later." I realised the number was out of date. "It''s actually getting closer to thirty grand and it''s rising quickly. Ruth wants to add Cole, Dan, the two lads from United, and the League Two Legends. With Duggers the numbers start to get serious and most of Ruth''s clients are young and their wage rises will be exponential." I laughed. "Plus she gets a cut of Angel''s perfume deal. Christ knows what that might be."


    "And... you get some of that?"


    "Yeah."


    "Holy smokes," said MD, as his eyebrows rose.


    "Plus I''ve got Youngster and Ziggy as private clients. It''s not much but it adds up."


    MD smiled. "How''s Ziggy doing?"


    "Great. Slow start to the season but now he''s banging the goals in. He''s up to 16 for the season and he''s loving life!"


    MD rubbed his chin. "You''re quite exposed to the world of football, aren''t you? It''s understandable but you should diversify as soon as you can. You''ve got your income from Chester Football Club, from Ruth''s football agency, and from your football clients."


    "And a huge wedge coming from Mateo''s team in Gibraltar when they win a few matches in Europe next season. That reminds me, I''m going to loan myself to College 1975 in July and August so I can make sure they get into the group stage where the big money is. That''s going to net me half a million or so. Shit, I forgot to mention I owe Mateo a hundred grand from when I bought West Didsbury."


    MD dropped his pen and went for a walk around the boardroom. He came back and stood behind the chair. "Max, next season we are going to start with seven or eight away games in a row to give us breathing space for the relaying of the pitch and the construction of the new stand. It means we''ll have a run of home games later in the year, which will be great, but there''s a thing in investing called the sequence of returns risk. In football terms, it means you don''t want to start your season with five losses. Having a long run of defeats puts everything in jeopardy: your position, Sandra''s, mine. If you are not here at the club during that time we could easily lose all eight."


    I shook my head. "Not this time. We''re going to be a mid-table League One team pretty early on and you know how we accelerate. We''re going to annihilate it. Honestly, mate. Wait till you see my wage demands for the Championship season. That''s going to blast my money troubles into orbit."


    MD looked like he was trying to press his eyeballs into his brain. He untensed and tried to look unbothered. "If we get promoted this season, you can do what you want. Why shouldn''t you have a nice break working for the owner of Tranmere Rovers?" He laughed, humourlessly, before getting a bit of a glint in his eye. "For half a million quid, though..."


    I held my hand up. "The exact amount depends on loads of mad equations. It''s all coefficients and country-specific TV deals and shit like that, but yeah, it will be worth it."


    "Your expenses?" said MD. "Rent?"


    "No. I''ve got the car payments. Phone contract. Some bits like that."


    "You don''t buy a lot of new clothes."


    "Have you been talking to the Brig?"


    "The football clubs run themselves, I suppose?"


    "Oh, no," I laughed. "West is almost breaking even but I need to chuck a few grand into it every now and then. Saltney is a bit of a money pit. It would have been nice to win the Welsh Cup but we didn''t have the players in place in time. Next season we have a shot, but we''ll probably win the league anyway. I''m rambling, aren''t I? Money. I''m probably shipping out... two grand a month? Sometimes more." I saw the horrified look on MD''s face. "What? We''re doing a UEFA tournament speed run at a club with no fans or sponsors."


    "You listed those as assets, do you remember? Things that cost you money are liabilities."


    "They are going to make money, mate. If West win the rest of their home games this season, we get a big bonus from the sponsor. We''re going to rinse him and The Wall even more next season. We''re going to tier 7 and then 6 and we can develop some young players and start getting transfer fees. Saltney''s a literal goldmine and I''m sitting on it. A goldmine is an asset, right?"


    "It is until you start spending more money than you earn in order to develop it. Remind me what your plans are for Sandy Lane." He meant the road Saltney Town lived on, not my assistant.


    "Just your basic two or three thousand seater mini-stadium, whatever I can get away with so it''s fit for the Welsh league and, if poss, Europe. Sprinkle a few extra pitches around. Leave space for a geodesic dome."


    "A dome?"


    "Yeah, we''re going to have one there and one at Bumpers. It''s only a couple of million each. You get a big UFO-looking tent thing that goes over a pitch. Lets you play year-round, lets light through so the grass can grow. Better than 3G in lots of ways, but we don''t rent it out. It''s for elite footballers, hundreds of whom will be registered to Saltney Town."


    "Hundreds," scoffed MD.


    I couldn''t understand his doubts. "I''ve already got twenty guys better than Wes Hayward."


    "Who we sold for 300,000 pounds," said MD, in a strange voice.


    "Yeah. I think I''m not explaining my plan very well. At its heart I need a place to hold my training camps so that''s all quite normal. The extra bits, the fancy bits, will be complementary to what we''ve got at Bumpers. Things like a counter-current pool and a Footbonaut."


    "What''s that?"


    "It''s a big cube that you stand in. A machine fires footballs at you and you have to kick them into random squares that light up. Bargain at three million quid."


    MD stared at me. "That comes with a good return on investment, does it?"


    I shrugged. "Probably. What''s it worth to turn a Championship player into a Premier League regular? Ten million at least. What''s the value of keeping Roddy Jones around? A hundred million. At a certain point, all these costs fade into insignificance." I tapped the table. "I''m not buying mad things just yet. We need toilets, showers, a gym, a video room, boot rooms, lockers, more pitches. I''m just thinking ahead and making sure we''ve got space free for everything that''ll make the Bumpers plus Saltney combo pretty close to what elite teams have. I''m pretty sure we can get seriously close for a fraction of what the big six have spent. From what I''ve seen, they''ve lost their minds chasing the last couple of percent of improvement. What I''m building will be sustainable for Chester and for the Welsh FA."


    "When you''re gone."


    "Right."


    "When will that be?"


    "When I''m done." I smiled. I turned and looked outside. I hadn''t even rebuilt one-quarter of the ground! "I''m nowhere close to done, Mike."


    MD got up again and walked to the window; I copied him. He turned and leaned against it. "I was worried about doing the investment presentation for the players. I thought if you saw how well I was doing you''d be on my case to invest in the club."


    "What? No."


    "You didn''t say anything about me buying bonds, stumping up cash for new players, or joining Henri''s syndicate. I really appreciate that."


    "Well," I said. "Someone - wasn''t it you? - put the idea into my head of not having all your eggs in one basket. Right now I''m doubling down on black every year but that makes sense because every thingy in the roulette wheel is black..."


    "Always bet on Best," mumbled MD.


    "As soon as someone changes the wheel, I''m getting as much money off the table as I can, I promise you that." I laughed. "My safety net is Youngster, a potentially world-class player who may never agree to a transfer." I shook my head at the insanity of it, but remembered we were talking about MD. "Your money is yours. You should keep it as far away from this game as you can, that''s my advice."


    "I''ve been thinking of investing some with you."


    "Great idea, let''s talk about the exciting opportunities I can offer a man of your taste and discernment."


    He laughed and rubbed the back of his head. He pointed to his notes on the table. "Your finances are a mess. You''ve got money coming and going, you''re sending cash to your clubs willy-nilly, and yes, it''s easy to see how that turns into profit but how would you even account for it? You need someone to get a grip on it all."


    "Agreed."


    "And you need money to turn Saltney into a place where actual training can take place. Pitches, showers, dorm rooms, everything you''ve told me about. I''ve popped in on the odd Sunday morning and seen the coaches in the car park and the top brass from the FAW milling around with clipboards. It''s the football factory you always talked about. It''s exciting! I think I''d be interested in getting on board, if you''ll have me."


    "I''d love that. But... why now?"


    He donked his head against the glass behind him. "Fear of missing out, Max. When I was negotiating with Henri and his mother about the loan to lay down the pitch at Ellesmere Port I was thinking, this is free money. I could be doing this. I do think it''s better that I don''t put any money into Chester FC because that has the potential to turn sour. Saltney is a free-for-all, though. The Chester fanbase as a whole accepts that it''s your latest executive toy and you''re doing mad Max Best things with it. If it turned out I was helping you with Saltney''s finances, people wouldn''t care. As long as there''s a clear and strict separation between the finances of the two clubs, there won''t be complaints."


    I hadn''t expected this. I thought MD would go through my bank statements and ask why I subscribed to a Cheese of the Month service and he would try to switch me to a cheaper phone plan. "Let''s talk about buying a Footbonaut," I said.


    He smiled. "Let''s not. Let''s talk minimum viable product. What''s the smallest amount you need to get a workable training facility? A version without a spaceship."


    It was impossible to say what it would cost but there was an easy way to judge MD''s risk appetite. I looked almost apologetic as I said, "A million?"


    MD seemed to shrink even though he wasn''t moving. I think it was because my life was suddenly accelerating, zipping ever faster towards the speed of light while he was stationary. "Oh, Max," he said, weirdly distorted. "That number causes me physical pain."


    "Nine hundred and ninety thousand," I suggested.


    He got some acceleration of his own, sped up enough that I could hear him properly. "That... is honestly better." He laughed at himself before getting thoughtful. "I could make a few hundred grand helping players set up their image rights companies. If we do get to the Championship, maybe I''ll pay myself a salary. Be like you."


    "Yeah, you probably should." I didn''t say it but his position needed to come with a salary so the club would be able to replace him without the fans demanding someone do what MD did, to the same level of skill, for free.


    I moved over to the table and sat on the edge. MD stayed where he was. "Are you going to do Relationism with the lads tomorrow night?"


    He was talking about the FA Youth Cup Quarter Final against our third Premier League side of the campaign. "Away to Ipswich? Maybe a little just to mess up their analysts." It was another measure of how far the club had come that I wasn''t even tempted to use Bench Boost against Ipswich. I would probably use it for the semi-final, which looked like being against one of the real big dogs. Turbocharging the lads and then using Relationism seemed dangerous - they would reach critical mass in minutes. If I was being honest with myself, that wasn''t why I was thinking about sticking to a pure positional play strategy. "It''s strange. The closer I get to the end, the more conservative I get. I know we''ll win if we play 4-3-3. Why risk it?" I frowned. "That''s lame, isn''t it?"


    "It''s not lame, it''s normal. You don''t have to be Einstein to realise that as you get closer to a body it exerts more pull on you. Quarter-finals, semi-finals, first dates, weddings." He looked behind him. "Demolitions. It''s the same for everyone."


    "Yeah, that''s what I don''t like. I''m the megabrain; I''m supposed to be above all that."


    MD shook his head. "You''re not nervous because of you. You''re nervous for the lads. Benny, Tyson, Captain, Bomber, Henk. Tomorrow night could be their last hurrah." He came over and sat next to me. "I think it will be their annus mirabilis."


    "Totally," I agreed.


    MD laughed. "It''s what people call 1905, the year Einstein published four papers that rocked the scientific world and redrew our understanding of the universe. I have to admit I never got my head around E = mc2 but I always loved the idea of having a year so awesome you needed to dip into Latin to explain it. I feel like that''s happening for Chester in general and those boys in particular." He checked his watch then stretched out four fingers one by one. "Win, win in style, lose, go down in flames. Only one of those doesn''t fit my mental model of the Max Best Universe."


    "Amazing," I said.


    "What is?"


    "You just won the Nobel Prize for pep talks. You get a CEO of the Month award." I gasped. "I just understood it!"


    "Understood what?"


    "The equation. You''re an executive at Chester. That''s E. If you join me at Saltney you''ll be an executive there, too. E = md2!"


    "Wouldn''t it be MD = E2?"


    I groaned. "I can feel my skull overheating; I just can¡¯t get my head around those mad equations. Let''s do something basic, something that I can cope with. Let¡¯s go to Sandy Lane and talk about where to put our swimming pool. All right?"

 13.9 - 80th Best

    9.


    The Eightieth Best Manager in England


    By Bethany Alban


    Reprinted with kind permission of Lionised magazine, the only women''s football magazine dedicated to long-form content and in-depth tactical analysis.


    Max Best is the 80th best manager in England.


    It''s a Tuesday night and the star of the Chesterness documentary is on the touchline at Portman Road, home of Ipswich Town. The Tractor Boys are in the Premier League and have a category one academy. The last time I wrote about Chester''s youth team, they were playing in a local tournament while the first team plummeted towards tier seven. This should be one of the biggest footballing mismatches of the year. It is not. The home team are leading two-nil but since their second goal they have been outplayed.


    "What makes you say you''re the 80th best manager in England?" I ask, to check Best is still with us. He is almost completely motionless.


    "I don''t say that. That''s objective science. It''s based on Manager Points. Not sure who runs that algorithm or how it works but basically you get points for winning matches. The level of the match counts. I''m in League Two so I get pennies on the dollar."


    I have never heard of Manager Points. "Will you get bonus points for losing this one because Ipswich are so much better than you?"


    Best turns his head and gives me a disdainful look. "Are you fishing for a good quote?"


    "You invited me," I remind him. Talk about a bolt from the blue - despite being the face of Chester''s fast-growing men''s and women''s teams, Best has barely spoken to anyone in the media this season.


    "Right," he says, and he rubs his chin. "What did you say? Ipswich are better? Okay, let''s go with this. Best rose to his full height and growled, We''re the best youth team in the country. Yeah, that''s good. Print that."


    "You''re not, though. You don''t even have an academy. You play loads of friendlies against randos."


    "I''m pretty sure we are the best team and we''ll prove it by winning this tournament. No, you don''t get Manager Points for losing. I got some for drawing against Newcastle but nothing for playing Man United."


    In both matches, tier four Chester FC''s first team battled valiantly against Premier League opponents and Best burnished his reputation. The numbers in his head disagree. "Are you ahead of Jackie Reaper?" Jackie is the charming Liverpudlian in charge of Chester''s thrilling women''s team.


    "Am I ahead of Jackie Reaper?" scoffs Best. "That bald fraud? That hack? Hackie Reaper?" He laughs; Jackie and Best are good friends. "The list doesn''t include women''s football. It''s basically the men''s football league plus the England team manager plus a few guys who were sacked in the last couple of years."


    "Where is this list?"


    "I dunno. Some website. I''ll try to find the link later. I''m pretty busy, Beth. I''m actually managing a football match right now. Not sure if you''ve noticed."


    "I notice you doing some masterly inactivity. Where''s Pedro Porto on the list?"


    "Fifth."


    "Where''s Alan Turner?"


    "Who gives a fuck?" Best laughs. He despises Alan Turner and coined a nickname for him: Turner Blindeye. If you''ve seen fans of rival clubs mocking the Newcastle boss by covering one side of their face, that is a Max Best invention.


    "Max, he could be the next England manager. Don''t you want to play for England?"


    Best ignores the question. "I''ll tell you one ranking where Turner is clearly number one: income to talent. He''s raking it in, isn''t he? He gets paid by the suitcase. He brings the case into his living room, unzips it, and money flies up like in that show, The Crystal Maze. Turner jumps around the room grabbing the cash. The notes are blood-soaked and he can''t get the stains out of his carpet and can''t shift the smell from his hands, but every week there''s a new suitcase. If he asks whose blood it was, the cases stop coming."


    "Jesus, Max."


    There''s a burst of activity as Best zips around, pointing and barking out instructions. On the pitch, his players subtly shift. I try to follow what Best has done. "You''ve gone from 4-3-3 to 4-4-2?"


    "Top marks, Beth. A lot of managers at my level - you know, 80th - take their sweet time spotting these things. Half are so busy screaming at the referees they don''t realise things are changing."


    "What''s the purpose of this change?"


    "They''re trying to protect their lead by man-marking Wibbers." Wibbers is William B. Roberts, thought by Best to be the outstanding English footballer in his age group. Roberts has already smashed several goalscoring records in the Youth Cup. He is the leading single-season scorer, the leading all-time scorer, and has the most hat tricks in the competition''s history. "I''ve moved him wide left to see if the marker goes with him. Yeah, there he blows. This could get messy, Beth. You might want to stand back from the pitch. You''re in the splash zone of my magnificence."


    I''m in disguise as a physio, wearing a Grindhog-branded training coat. Best asked me to ''do a ponytail'' but fortunately I don''t live in a country where a man gets to choose how I dress. "What makes a good football manager?"


    Best remains still for about two minutes - he''s checking his tweak is working. "Tactics," he says, as if only two seconds have passed. "Man management, transfers, dealing with the media, setting the club standard for trims. Personally I''d put building a culture quite high. If you''ve got limited resources you need to get the most out of absolutely everyone and everything." He points. "Ipswich are a club that put a lot of stock in culture and that took them from League One to the Prem. They''re a good example for us."


    "Tell us about the financial constraints you''re working under."


    Best turns, amazed, before cracking a smile. "Are you in podcast mode? I thought this would be an article."


    I''m annoyed; he''s right. "Why am I here?"


    That wipes the smile off his face. "We''re better than Ipswich but anything can happen in sport; this could be the last match for the Das Tournament boys, for Tyson, for Benny. You wrote that article about them and they loved it. If this is the end, I want you here so you can turn it into a memory." Best takes in the big stadium. "Ipswich Town won the UEFA Cup in 1981. They have never lost a European match at home, and they''ve beaten both Milan clubs, Madrid, and Barcelona. Their recent history is loads of success, loads of goals, loads of progress. They''re at the end of their journey and we''re still at the start. Maybe I want you here for my own ego."


    "To document you smashing them?"


    "Yeah," he says, which makes me smile. Best knows his way around a football pitch and his team have already dispatched West Ham, Charlton, and Everton, but this is a bridge too far. "And maybe I want someone to talk to."


    His gaze turns to the opposition dugout, which is jam-packed. There are more people on tablets than in an episode of Euphoria. No, wait, I''ve got a better one. There are more people on tablets than in an episode of Real Housewives. The picture - lonely Max Best in a shit hoody versus dozens of analysts - paints a thousand words about the financial gulf between the two clubs, but just in case I don''t get it, Best is on hand with some hard facts. "For every penny I have, they have a billion pounds. That''s not an exaggeration, Beth."


    "Why are you even here, though? You''re not the youth team manager. Where''s Spectrum?"


    Best jabs a thumb. "He''s with Boggy." That means Spectrum, Chester''s de facto head of youth development, is doing co-comms for Chester''s in-house broadcast, Seals Live, which has a surprisingly international audience: Texas, Malta, Slovakia.


    "But why - ?" I start. The question dies on my lips. Henk, Chester''s elegant centre back, slides a pass to Dan Badford. He shifts his weight, touches the ball, quickly moves it at a surprising angle. Just like that, he''s away from his opponent and Chester players are flooding towards the Ipswich goal. Badford slips it behind the left-back, Noah Harrison drives, clips the ball along the six-yard line, Benny slams it into the net.


    Two-one and there''s an almost visible shockwave that emanates from the ball. It hits the nearest Ipswich players, sapping their belief. It hits the left-back - his arms stretch wide. ''What am I supposed to do about that?'' The wave hits the dugouts. My heart rate doubles; more Ipswich staff hide behind iPads.


    The eightieth best manager in the country doesn''t feel the wave. He can''t be shocked; he did it.


    The Chester boys form a happy huddle but that isn''t their main celebration. For that, they jog in front of their manager. Scratch that - they have come to me.


    Benny leans forward and says, "That''s B-E-N-N-Y. Tell your readers I''m single and like dogs and I''ll listen to Taylor Swift in the car."


    Badford says, "You''ll be thinking of me for Man of the Match, right? It''s Badford with no R."


    Tyson says, "What, so it''s Bad-fod? She''s here to write about me, you dimwit. I''m the star of Wizard of Us; this is my sequel."


    Badford says, "I was in that, too."


    "You were just a weirdo in a puffy jacket."


    Noah Harrison smooths his hair back and says, "Bethany, would you like to go to Nando''s with me?"


    Being asked on a date is the last thing I expect in that moment and I look at Wibbers to gauge his reaction. After all, he''s the big star. He decides to misinterpret my glance and raises a hand in apology. "Sorry, miss. I''m taken."


    The lads grab each other and yell things as they laugh their way back onto the pitch.


    When they''re gone, Best pinches the bridge of his nose. "Can you not flirt with my players, please?"


    I shake my head; it''s the Youth Cup Quarter-Final. Best has been preparing these young men for this moment for three years. He is taking it incredibly seriously but he can''t stop the silliness from bubbling up.


    Three years of intense training, pushing these young men, giving them minutes in the first-team, minutes that have resulted in dropped points, defeats snatched from the jaws of victory, long, weary drives home.


    No-one can quite understand Best''s motivation. No-one in his position would dream of managing the youth team, and even people much lower on the footballing ladder don''t hold the youth team in any kind of esteem. Ipswich have had four head coaches in two years - the job is merely a stepping stone to better roles. Why would Best add such complexity and extra workload to his already stuffed schedule?


    While he''s grinning may be the best chance to get to the bottom of it. "If Chester''s men''s team had a match tonight, would you be here or there?"


    No hesitation. "Here."


    "Why?"


    "I''m the 80th best manager in England but I wouldn''t have ever got a job if it wasn''t for these kids. You owe them, too. The Wizard of Us got you noticed. I do it because I should do it. Should follow through on my promises to them. Also because it''s fun. Also because I get to slap Premier League teams who could vote to kill English football any time they want. But mostly because of this quote. The game is about glory. It is about doing things in style, with a flourish, about going out and beating the other lot, not waiting for them to die of boredom.''"


    "Danny Blanchflower," I say, which gets an approving nod.


    "Glory. Trophies. Winning the Youth Cup with basically the same squad I had in the National League North." His eyes shine. "Watch this."


    Best gestures a few times. I glance at the Ipswich bench; when Best changes things they freeze.


    All at once, the patterns of play change. The formation looks the same... "I can''t see it."


    Best blinks. I''m pretty sure he forgot I was there. "We''re feeding Wibbers."


    "Isn''t he being double-marked over there?"


    "Yeah."


    I frown because I don''t understand what''s happening and I''m supposed to know a thing or two about this sport. I''m tempted to go and watch the match on one of those iPads. As I''m considering it, something happens on the far side of the pitch. There''s a flurry of activity and the ball comes to Benny five yards away from Ipswich''s centre backs. Chas Fungrieve, a lanky striker, drops to give Benny an option. That looks like a mistake from the sixteen-year-old - surely someone needs to be tight on the centre backs, stretching the play?


    Benny rolls a pass to Fungrieve and sprints towards goal. Fungrieve lets the ball continue through his legs - he, too, sprints forward. Tyson, an attacking midfielder, picks the ball up on the edge of the D. He has two strikers in motion and time to pick his pass. Ipswich, normally so organised, are scattered. Tyson sweeps his foot through the ball... and coaxes it into the right-hand-side of the net. The goalie was ready to rush out and throw himself at one of the strikers. How could he have expected such cocky impudence from a tier four nobody?


    "Fuck it," I say, and stride off to Ipswich''s dugout. I plant myself in one of their seats and tap on its iPad to rewind the footage.


    "What the hell are you doing?" says one of the coaches.


    "I want to know what just happened."


    "Join the club," he says. He decides to watch the incident on my screen - maybe I''ll explain it to him.


    I go back fifteen seconds before the goal. Wibbers is on the left of the pitch between the home team''s right back and right midfielder. His marker - normally a defensive midfielder - is loitering. Lucas Friend, Chester''s left back, ignores the numbers and passes to Wibbers. Wibbers jinks inside, turns back towards the touchline, accelerates, rolls the ball behind him, retreats. The three opponents come with him and the right-sided centre back is drawn across to help out. Four against one!


    With another drop of his shoulder that unbalances the defenders, Wibbers flicks the ball infield to Benny, who finds himself with time and space against an unstructured defence. I¡¯m entranced and so is my new friend.


    "Oi!" cries Noah, gobbing off to the coach who is watching the footage with me. "That''s my girlfriend! Hands off."


    "No no no," laughs Max Best, grabbing Noah and pushing him away. "Keep it classy." Best intercepts Jamie Brotherhood, the right back, and Captain, the youth team''s long-serving centre back. He pushes them back towards the pitch. "Get back to work, you worms. Come on." Best turns to the coach - too stunned to react angrily. "Soz."


    ***


    It is two-all at half time. Best''s Babes are 45 minutes away from the semi-final - or from the abrupt end of a three-year dream.


    I witness what, logically, must be the eightieth best half-time team talk in English men''s football.


    "Lads," says Best, after giving his players a few minutes to wind down. "Something different today, since we''ve got a Daily Mail journalist here." He gestures that I should go forward; I shrink back into a corner. He moves to my side and puts his arm around me like he''s a game show host. "As you know, lads, as part of their ongoing mission to turn the British people into the stupidest bunch of twats in the entire world, the Mail categorises every single object or concept into two: things that cause cancer and things that cure it. Let''s see how well Beth knows her employer. Okay, Beth, question one. Are you nervous? Cure or cause? Bacon."


    "I don''t want to do this."


    "Sorry, that''s the wrong answer! Your publication says bacon causes cancer. Bit of a downer, isn''t it? Question two."


    "No, Max."


    "Energy-saving lightbulbs." I wriggle away but Best strides after me like a zombie. "They cause cancer! Question three. Using Facebook."


    "What?" I laugh, as I move a clothes bin between us. "How is that a question?"


    "Using Facebook causes cancer! Actual Daily Mail article. Question four."


    William B. Roberts doesn''t share his boss''s distaste for the Mail, or if he does, this is not the time. "Can we talk about football?"


    "Sure," says Best, swiping on his phone. "Hundreds of articles about 3G pitches causing cancer. Fear, fear, fear. Get everyone nice and afraid of every-fucking-thing so they vote for fascists."


    Wibbers closes his eyes and waits for his boss to finish. "I don''t want to play left-mid."


    Best''s eyes bulge, his neck stiffens. "Oh, here we go."


    A gap has appeared around Wibbers - another shockwave seems to be on the horizon. Whether it''s brave or foolish, Wibbers stands up for himself. "I''ve got a hat trick in every round. These lot are shit. Let me at ¡®em."


    Best retracts his neck and goes on a tour of the dressing room. "Listen up, everyone. We''re not Chester FC any more. We''re Wibbers Wanderers. All that stuff we used to chat about teamwork and togetherness? Bin that. Don''t need any of that, no thanks. Wibbers wants a hat trick in every round. Final score: Wibbers 3, The Tractor Boys 8. That''s great. That''s what we want." Best sticks his finger up like he''s had a brainwave. "Tell you what, why don''t the rest of us fuck off home so you can have all the limelight to yourself?"


    Wibbers looks up - his face is undecided about turning white as a sheet or red as a beet. "I don''t want that. I just want to play up top."


    "Oh," says Best, his voice lower and full of menace. "So we''ll bring your marker and the right back into the middle and we''ll have a nice congested box, so instead of Benny getting a tap-in or Tyson having the freedom of Suffolk to pass the ball into the net, we''ll make things easy for the oppo and make it fucking impossible for us to move or even fucking breathe just for the off chance YOU might grab a goal and that''s all worth it so that you can print off your fucking Wikipedia page and fucking FRAME IT ON YOUR KITCHEN WALL."


    Best punctuates the last clause by trying to fling his tactics board to the floor. It wobbles but rights itself. Best sticks his bottom lip out - he''s impressed.


    He goes back to scowling. "I''ve seen a lot of young players doing interviews and they''re all the same. I''m gonna be famous. I''m gonna be a star. I''m gonna be voted the best player in the world. My stats, my numbers, me me me. There''s loads of those at West Ham, at Everton. Where are they tonight? Playing FIFA because we dicked them on teamwork. Well, it was a good run, lads. Quarter-final of the FA Youth Cup for the first time in our history, but then the egos took over. RIP Chester Football Club."


    It''s hard to tell how angry Best actually is. This isn''t completely fake, but if he was actually as mad as he sounded I think he would simply sub Wibbers off. The performance appears designed to allow the young forward slash left-midfielder to recant his sins.


    While we wait for Wibbers to make his decision, I note with interest that Best mentions young players giving interviews. He doesn''t let his young stars talk to the media. There is almost nothing from Wibbers, Dan, Banksy (the goalie rated sky high at Chester), and a flat zero from Welsh phenom Roddy Jones, who is kitted up and ready to come on if needed.


    Wibbers gets to his feet. "I''m sorry, lads. Course I''ll play left-mid. I don''t need a goal. I just thought... you know. Because..."


    It''s actually really sweet, but Best is in Antics Mode. "Oh! He''ll do his job! Aren''t we lucky? Everyone, quick, onto the pitch before he changes his mind!"


    Bomber, the reserve centre back, points to a clock. "There''s five minutes left."


    "Oh!" says Best, floating towards Bomber. "The Timekeeper has spoken! We must stay in our crevice until the allotted time! All hail the almighty Timekeeper!"


    Bomber grabs his training jacket and heads for the door before Best sucks in another lungful. The rest of the lads follow.


    I ask myself how I''m feeling. Not good but the last time I doubted Best I ended up with egg on my face. "That was eventful," I suggest.


    "Mmm," says Best. He''s pushing magnets around his board.


    "I thought Wibbers was a real team player. Certified Max Best team first attitude. Why''s he being like that?"


    Best touches the left mid magnet and moves it forward. "It''s his birthday."


    I lose my professional detachment. "Fucking hell, Max! He wants a goal on his birthday and you''re giving him shit? Did you need to push him like that? You could have just explained your tactic to him."


    "He understands the tactic and he''s happy to do it but he needs to learn that being a professional means if you ever go against your manager you get slammed and I need him to realise that if there''s a match on his birthday, his birthday doesn''t start until the final whistle. What if we''ve got a title six-pointer, what if he''s playing for England in a World Cup qualifier? He leaves his zone to try to grab a birthday goal and England lose? Fuck that. When he''s retired and he looks back on his career and sees he never scored on his birthday but his team won every match, how will he respond? What do you think, Daily Mail? Putting the team first. Is that cure or cancer?"


    ***


    What seems like ten seconds before the second half kicks off, Best gets the kids over and tells them to play 4-2-3-1. They nod and take up their new positions. My mouth hangs open at the perfection of their new lines. The Ipswich analysts must have thought Best spent the entire break coaching his lads through the change. I know better.


    Eightieth best football manager, my arse.


    Even more jaw-dropping is seeing Wibbers not in his natural position as one of the front four. Best''s tactical approach veers towards simplicity - that''s his genius - but this is a pure galaxy brain moment. These are the decisions that blow up in managers'' faces. These are the decisions that lead to disaster.


    I wait for the inevitable mess.


    I''m still waiting.


    When Chester next get the ball, Wibbers moves away from his fellow DM into the right-sided central midfield slot. There he stands, covered by two opponents, watched by more. Dan Badford is more than capable of playing a pass to the CAMs, and he does so now. The ball shoots past Wibbers to the feet of Tyson. He battles with his marker, backheels the ball to Benny, and Benny feeds Noah. Chas makes a run that draws a centre back. Noah surges forward, throws his arms left like a rugby player doing an offload, and when the second centre back follows the path of the intended pass, Noah simply glides into the space and fires right-footed to the left of the goalie. Three-two!


    The lads come to celebrate but Best scents blood. He yells at them to shut up and listen.


    "Line up in 4-2-3-1, yeah, but then we go straight back to 4-4-2. Got it?"


    "Yes, boss!" They clap their hands like in American sports and retake their positions.


    I glance at the Ipswich dugout - their iPad Army is a blur of pointing and bickering. The head coach tries to make some adjustments. He abandons his plan to mark Wibbers.


    Half a minute later, Wibbers is back to left mid just in front of me - just in front of the home bench - causing more pointing, more bickering.


    It gets worse for the home staff. The ball is continually fed to Wibbers. He controls, spins, bounces defenders off him. When they lose their patience and slide in, he chips the ball over their legs and sprints away. He is unplayable.


    The man-marker returns. Wibbers is a black hole, a weirdly specific one that attracts Tractor Boys into its orbit. Henk passes to Dan. Dan evades a feeble, frazzled challenge and shapes to chip the ball to Wibbers. Panic ensues and there''s the familiar sight of multiple Ipswich players shuffling closer to him. Dan instead pings the ball to Tyson, who plays it out wide to Noah. He motors forward and hits a low, hard cross that Benny side-foots into the goal. It''s almost identical to the first goal but now Wibbers is close to Best and he celebrates by jumping into his manager''s arms.


    "All right, you prick," laughs Best. "Go get your goal. What the fuuuuu."


    What happens next is hard to believe, and almost as hard to describe. As Ipswich kick off, Chester line up in the same 4-4-2 with Wibbers on the left. The home team''s normally reliable central midfielders try too hard to make something happen and the ball is gobbled up by a combination of Dan, Tyson, and Henk.


    Instead of returning to their positions, instead of spreading out, they stay close together, moving the ball towards the right touchline. (Wibbers stays over on the left, two Tractor Boys watching him.) Jamie Brotherhood moves closer to Dan and the two bounce quick passes to each other. (Wibbers makes a sprint inside before moving back to the wing. He can''t shake his defenders.) Tyson stretches the game with a pass to Benny but he turns back and the ball is pinged back to Henk, now stationed at the base of this rectangle of Chester players.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    I''ve heard of this. Best has taken ideas from Brazil and brought them back home. I''ve even seen some clips, but nothing can prepare you for the shock of seeing it live for the first time. "Is this Bestball?" I say.


    "What''s that?" says Best.


    The Ipswich coach yells at his players to get the fucking ball, but the rectangle hasn''t formed by accident. As frantic Ipswich players storm its walls and more and more players vacate their usual posts, a slick one-two-three ends with Dan breaking out of the mass of players and slipping a ball into the wide open expanse that is the entire rest of Portman Road. Has this ground ever seen a sequence quite like this?


    Wibbers has outpaced the two defenders and is going to get to the ball first - unless the keeper can get there.


    He can''t.


    Wibbers, the birthday boy, appears to miscontrol the ball, pushing it five yards diagonally away from goal. He rounds the stranded goalie, casually allows the ball to spin back into his path, and caresses it into the dead centre of the net. Five-two.


    My first glance is towards the Ipswich bench. They''re punch drunk. No doubt their army of specialists has created wagon wheel charts that describe Wibbers and Dan Badford in forensic detail, no doubt they know Best favours 4-3-3 and his team will randomly form strange shapes. No doubt they have prepared for everything Best might throw at them.


    Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.


    I want to suggest as much to Best but when I look at him he has the most extraordinary light in his eyes. He''s smiling, grinning, swaying, sticking his tongue out, chuckling.


    The 80th best manager in England gives me a hunted look. "What?" he says. "I wasn''t."


    "Wasn''t what?"


    He swallows hard. "4-4-2 low block? Calm things down? Yeah."


    ***


    Best becomes subdued but the match remains compelling. The low block lasts all of a minute before Best reverts to 4-3-3. Ipswich score another but the real story is whether Wibbers can grab yet another hat trick. He scores his second in the 88th minute and there is chaos as Chester surge forward relentlessly, trying to set up their mate, until the full time whistle puts Ipswich out of their misery.


    Six-three, no hat tricks, another Premier League side conquered.


    I half expect Best to ban me from the dressing room after the game - it would be just his style - but I''m allowed in.


    The victory music is playing, the lads are dancing. Best presses stop. "Yeah yeah yeah. We won. Shush now." The players shush. "Apparently it''s William''s birthday. Why didn''t you tell me, mate?" There are groans and cheers. "I got you a present." Max hands an envelope to the nearest player; it gets passed along to the birthday boy.


    Wibbers pulls out a voucher to huge laughs and cheers. I later learn it is for the chain restaurant Nando''s. He grins, but there''s another piece of glossy card in the envelope. He frowns at it.


    Best explains. "It''s for a long weekend in a spa hotel. Absolutely beautiful place. Good food, amazing scenery, massages included. It''s, er..." Best hesitates. "The voucher''s for two people, mate. If you can think of anyone who''ll share a room with you..." This triggers an explosion of noise and some blushing. Best holds his hand up to ask for quiet. "One slight drawback... It''s in Scotland. Lovely place, lovely people, but you might not want to let them know..." Best takes a printout from his backpack and holds it up like Neville Chamberlain. "That you''re an England international."


    This noise is ear-splitting, and when Best presses play on the speakers, it''s Three Lions that fills the room. I look at the paper and it''s the player list for the forthcoming England under 19s squad. If Wibbers impresses he could play in the summer''s European Championships, which is also the qualifying competition for the under 20 World Cup.


    Wibbers is lustily singing inside a huge huddle. Best is standing at the side of the room. If I had to choose one word to describe him, I''d say he was smug. I try my luck. "Can I interview Wibbers?"


    "No."


    I wave. "This isn''t a good story."


    The smugness diminishes by 80%. "What? It''s top. David slays Goliath. Young star takes small step on path to greatness. Entire city is drenched in glory. What the fuck more do you want?"


    I shake my head. "Sorry but you won so the story can''t be about the kids. It''s not their last match, is it?"


    "You better write something or I''ll kick off. Do you know how hard it was to get you that coat?"


    I paw at it. It''s really cosy and it has my initials on. "How hard?"


    "Not very hard," admits Best. "Well, what do you want?"


    I pretend to think. "Um... access? Hang around Bumpers and watch you at work? Watch your next league matches, get some colour, flesh it out. Paint a picture of you, the manager, from the inside." He''s staring at me like I''ve offered to cover the Deva stadium''s pitch in asphalt. "It''s the only way to include this, to be honest."


    Best eyes Tyson, Benny, and the rest. They give him strength but they are also his Kryptonite. "Off the record."


    "No."


    "Embargoed."


    "No."


    "God almighty." He shakes his head. "You know what? Fine. Home matches against Sutton and Notts County. You''ve chosen poorly, there. These are going to be dull as dishwater."


    The 80th best manager in England has a very different definition of the word dull to the rest of us.


    ***


    On the team bus, Best makes me sit across the aisle from him because he is ''tired of sharing oxygen''. He tells me that a record number of his players got international call-ups. Apart from Wibbers, the men''s team will lose Cole Adams to the Irish under 19s as well as Youngster, Dazza Smith, and goalscoring sensation Foquita. He''s not sure what worries him more - the match against Colchester when he will be without five important players, or the five matches in two weeks he''ll have at the end of March.


    The solution is easy. "Why don''t you postpone the Colchester game? You can do it if you''ve got three call-ups."


    Best gets haughty. "We are House Chester. There is no call we do not answer. No fixture we postpone." Also, he admits, "There''s nowhere to move it to. We should have enough quality to win. Who else? Roddy Jones is in his age group for the first time. The five Welsh girls are in theirs, of course. Meghan and Sarah Greene got moved up to the u23s. That''s so sensible - it''ll keep the challenge fresh for them. Finally, Angel and Kisi Yalley got call-ups to train with the under 19s."


    "Wow!" I say. "That''s amazing! Great! You must be buzzing."


    "Yeah," says Best. "I would be. But they left Dani out."


    Dani is a deaf player Best believes to be the most talented in his entire, stacked, squad. "Oh."


    "That''s right. Oh."


    ***


    I travel back with the team and stay overnight in Chester. Thus I''m at Bumpers Bank the next morning, watching Best watch Chester FC''s squad train for the upcoming home match against Sutton United.


    The stakes are high but not quite crystal clear. Chester and Mansfield Town have 11 matches left, Bradford City 8. Confusingly, Mansfield are 8 points ahead, while Bradford are 11. Best is more interested in the psychology of the situation.


    "If we keep winning, one of the two will crack. If one cracks, so will the other. It''s only a question of time. Is there enough time left?" I''m listening, of course I am. But there are two dozen fit young men chasing each other around Bumpers Lane. Best shakes his head. "Perving over young men causes cancer. I read that somewhere." When I don''t react, he escalates. "We''re expecting Sutton to play 4-3-3 so we''re going to do a practice match. We normally do bibs but it''s not that cold today. We could do shirts versus skins."


    He''s offering to make half his players go topless. "Do I get to choose which is which?"


    "As long as it isn''t Zach Green. His abs will make you go cross-eyed."


    "I bet they would."


    "Sorry what? Couldn''t hear."


    "I didn''t say anything."


    My admiration of these fine, upstanding young athletes is cruelly interrupted. A couple of Chester admins grab Best, he drops me in his office, and they vanish in a dust cloud of worry. He doesn''t return for almost an hour. When he returns, surprise, surprise, he''s surprised to see me.


    "Everything all right?" I ask.


    "Um... define all right," he says. We get cups of tea from the mobile kitchen and return to the cute little shed that serves as Best¡¯s base. He explains the situation calmly enough: Chester FC have been hit by a fine and a shockingly harsh three-window transfer ban. It appears Chester failed to pay a club (which Best refuses to name) part of a transfer fee. The penalty for any such non-payment is harsh, automatic, and disproportionate.


    I sip my tea. "I don''t really understand. Were you disputing the fee or something?"


    "Nothing like that," he says. "It was a mistake. Do you know how transfer fees are structured?"


    "Pretend I don''t for the benefit of my listeners."


    He raises his eyebrows but ignores my gaffe. "Say you buy a dude for three hundred thousand. Normally you''ll pay a third up front, a third a year later, the rest another year later. Something like that. It depends on the terms you negotiate but it''s typical to split it into three or four. We bought a player and our admin guy set up the payments in our online banking. You know how it goes - you don''t want to type the same crap three times so you do it once and duplicate it and just change the dates on the second and third. What I think has happened is that he has overwritten one of them and so one payment didn''t get sent. It''s absolutely trivial and easily dealt with by a phone call. Instead, the club in question has gone straight to the headmaster. Reported us to the EFL. Except it didn''t - it waited until this week to do it to cause us maximum distress."


    "You don''t seem all that distressed considering you won''t be able to buy players for three transfer windows!" I nearly scream it because Best doesn''t seem to realise the extent of the problem.


    "We wouldn''t be able to pay fees for players," he says, smoothly. "I''ve got two absolute bosh guys coming in on frees and if anyone could thrive in this game just on free transfers and youth players, it''s me. No, I''m not worried because there''s precedent. Oxford United were late with some payments because Sunderland sent the invoices to the wrong person. This happens every now and then and if you''re basically a good citizen you get the three grand fine and the transfer ban is suspended. It''s the EFL in charge of this, not the FA, and the people in charge of the EFL these days actually like football. We''ll be able to trade just fine. A new record signing every window just the way the fans want it." He takes a big, satisfying chug of the good stuff. "If the appeal fails, we postpone some player sales for a year. Yeah, the mood in the meeting we just had was not great but not terrible. Couple of interesting points from this. If you''re a team in relegation trouble and you think you can save yourself by destabilising a club you''re going to play in the coming weeks, why on earth would you choose Chester?" He scoffs and shakes his head. "Now that''s a galaxy brain move. We thrive on chaos. Let''s see how that works out for them." He has a small tactics board next to his armchair. He moves the magnets into a 4-2-4 formation, moves the left back forward, shoves the right back all the way to right midfield. He stares at it, jaw setting.


    I think I know who has reported Chester for not paying their bills.


    I think I know what formation Chester will play against Sutton United.


    Best does this sometimes. Says he has two points to make but loses his thread and never gets to the second. "Are you going to sack the person who made the mistake?"


    "No. That''s my second point, if you''ll let me finish. Jesus, you''re so impatient." Approximately six minutes have passed since he last spoke. "The thing is..." Best puts his cup down on a shelf to his left and lets himself sink into the soft cushions. "It''s my fault. I have to take responsibility."


    "That''s good of you, Max, but it''s not your job to input those payments, is it? It''s really not your mistake."


    He waves his fingers around. "New training ground, new stadium. Players in, players out, media requests, National League rules, EFL rules, international transfers, interviews for documentaries, photos for our social media campaigns, selling and shipping six thousand tickets for the United match. We''re flying through the leagues at breakneck speed and my focus is on the players and the coaches. We''re very nearly a League One team with a League Two training ground and a National League North office setup. I haven''t given the staff the support they need. Haven''t hired anyone new since Brooke." He clicks his fingers. "You know what? This is her fault. She''s such a workaholic. We have a meeting and I have seven things I want and I ask her which two she wants to do. She grabs the list and comes back a week later. She tells me that numbers two, three, and five are illegal but she''s done the rest. I used to be much better at not overburdening the others. With Inga I''d give her a busy few days then I''d leave her alone for a week. I wasn''t born a monster; Brooke turned me into one."


    "It''s a football club. It''s understandable you''d focus on what you can put out on the pitch."


    "Yeah, course, but we should have done more, collectively." He shakes his head. "Can''t change it, can only look forward. We''ll hire people, train them up. These transfer payments will get double-checked and we''ll have someone go through the rules to highlight anything that could get us a transfer ban or a points deduction. We need to get ahead of those threats. Mostly, though, we need to make sure we stay lean but we have the manpower to meet the growing demands of the club."


    "You''re being quite mature about this."


    "Could you say that again without the surprise?"


    "I was thinking about how lean you are. You''ve got one scout, right? And far fewer coaches than the other teams at the top of League Two. How many scouts do you think you''ll have when you''re in the Championship?"


    "One."


    "That''s crazy."


    "If you say so." Best closes his eyes and puts his index fingertips under his chin. "This might simply be a case of unfortunate timing. I do have plans to expand the staff in the summer. Kian''s coming on as a full-time assistant and I want Brooke to take another intern. MD will take a paid role, we''re getting a new IT system that we''ll roll out in stages, and we''ve hired a hospitality manager who will start in pre-season. I have been thinking about the office staff but it''s easier to hire people when you''re in League One because you won''t necessarily have to sack them if you get relegated. If you go from League Two back to the National League, everyone you hired is toast."


    "Can we cut the shit for a minute? You''re not the 80th best manager. There''s no way you''d get relegated."


    "Maybe not but what if I get cancer from turning on an energy-saving light bulb? I don''t want to build something that will crumble when I''m gone, do you know what I mean? When I got here, the average attendance was a bit over two thousand. If we go to League One and get relegated back down twice I hope that number would be three thousand at least. Do you know what I mean? That''s kind of how I think. It''s not just raising the ceiling, it''s lifting the floor. Raising the ceiling is a piece of piss. I''m actually kind of obsessed with lifting the floor."


    "You sound like a serial killer."


    "I''ve been doing a lot of scouting recently and I''ve added a ton of quality to our under 14s and under 12s. It gets harder to find quality as you go older - some kids stop playing footy, I guess - but I don''t think it''s absurd to say that in the last couple of months I''ve added five million pounds in future player value to our squads."


    "If you''re allowed to sell them."


    Best laughs. "Yeah. Ah, this story is going to suck on the forums and Facebook groups. The fans have had it too easy and this will bring out all the fucking nutjobs and conspiracy theorists."


    "The news isn''t public yet, is it? You need to get ahead of it. Be the first to put the message out. Shape the narrative."


    "Um," says Best. He thinks for a short time before pulling his phone out. It''s not the ancient block he has been lugging around since I met him; it''s one of the newer models. He holds it in selfie mode and talks. "Hey, Chester fans, Max Best here. Bit of bad news for you. We made a small admin mistake with one of our transfer payments and as a result we''re subject to a fine and a transfer ban. We''re going to appeal because it was an honest mistake but these rules are in place to protect the sport. If clubs stop paying each other the whole house of cards will collapse and we don''t want that. The rules are there to protect against bad actors, not honest clubs like ours, so I''m expecting a suspended sentence and we''ll be really on top of all these payments in the future. I would normally apologise for this because no-one wants to read about their club failing to pay what it owes. There are still companies in Chester that won''t work with this football club because the previous version didn''t pay them for goods and services in the bad old days. One of my low-key ambitions is to undo all that damage and one of the very first things I did when I took over was to change our payment terms from 60 days to 30 and in a season or two I want to change that to 14 days or sooner. We owe you money? We''ll pay you straight away. It''s not easy because most of our income comes in a couple of big bursts but that''s the kind of company I want to work for and that''s the kind of organisation we''re trying to become. So why no apology? You''ll get one. You''ll see it on the pitch this Saturday." He ends the recording and looks over. "What do you think?"


    "I think you''ll sell a lot of tickets."


    "We''re sold out for the rest of the season."


    I panic. "There''s room for me, though?"


    "Yep," he says. He points. "You''ll need a ponytail."


    ***


    He was joking about the hair, and he not only set me up in the executive box but promised he''d let me in to witness his half-time team talk. It seemed like it would be a non-event, though.


    In the first half against lowly Sutton, Chester - playing a basic 4-4-2 - score three goals without response even though they barely get out of first gear. I am astonished, then, to walk into the dressing room to find myself in the middle of one of the biggest tear-down sessions I have ever seen.


    Best''s wrath is aimed at the Australian striker, Darren ''Dazza'' Smith and it seems cruel to recount the whole evisceration. The crux of the matter is Dazza''s work rate, which Best compares variously to that of a slug, a worm, a fucking sausage that fell off the barbie. "I haven''t seen anyone care that little about their performance since the last Ryan Reynolds straight-to-Netflix movie. I haven''t seen anyone care that little about their performance since a FedEx driver chucked a ''sorry you were out'' ticket into my garden even though I was staring at him from five fucking yards away. I haven''t seen anyone care that little about their performance since Solly the dog looked at the stick I threw him and said ''you get it.''" Best turns to his head of performance, the Brig, who is tasked with carrying Chester''s tablet computer. "Did this prick run more than Sticky?"


    The Brig taps a couple of times and says, "Yes, he ran more than the goalkeeper."


    "Oh, glory, hallelujah!" screams Best. "Callooh! Callay! O frabjous fucking day!"


    "Boss," says Dazza, but while it might seem like Best is unreasonably worked up, it turns out the Australian has few allies.


    "Shut the fuck up!" suggests Chester''s captain Christian Fierce. "You''re as much use as a glass hammer."


    "Fucking soup sandwich," growls Vimsy, one of the gruffest, most old-school coaches remaining at Chester. It''s usually his job to do the shouting but today, they are all Vimsy.


    Best wants to have the last word. "You''re as much use as glow-in-the-dark sunglasses. I kept you on for two reasons. One, so everyone remembers what it feels like to play with someone who doesn''t give a shit. Two, so I could scream at you at half-time. That''s happening now. That''s now. This is that. Three, so I could fucking bin you off in public. You''re done, mate. Get in the bin." Best kicks one of the big clothes bins; it rolls towards Dazza.


    Best has gone too far. The first to complain is Henri Lyons, the person who would stand to benefit most from Dazza being out of the team. He''s the first, but he''s not alone. There is shouting, there are groups putting their arms around the Australian - he''s only 20 - others trying to bring Best down off the ledge.


    When things quieten, Best makes everyone sit down. He walks around, quietly jabbing his finger towards the away dressing room. "Those fucks," he says, "tried to destroy us this week. They''re the kind of people who''ll use every trick in the book including pissing on our picnic just so they can run off with our crisps. Three-nil won''t cut it today, lads. Three-nil isn''t anywhere near the realm of what I''ll accept from the best team in the league on a moral crusade against the worst. If you''re not feeling it, if you can''t be arsed, consider yourself transfer listed, get out of my sight, find a new club. For everyone who gives a fucking shit about this club and these fans who are paying your fucking WAGES - " Best kicks a table and water bottles go flying - "get off your arses and put a fucking shift in! Dazza, you''ve got ten minutes to make your running stats respectable. I suggest you sprint non-stop because if we aren''t peeling you off the pitch when it''s time to go, we''re going to put you in the back of the Brig''s car and we''ll dump you at Manchester Airport. No-one puts in a performance like that at this football club. Not now, not ever."


    Best kicks a different table and storms past me. I half expect him to wink at me on the way out but no - he''s livid.


    The players drift out of the dressing room in ones and twos. Henri Lyons is a sub for the day and I ask him if Dazza deserved to be singled out. He shows me his back teeth. "Oui. Players can accept a teammate who has a bad day. Putain, even Henri Lyons has a bad day once per season." He considers what he said. "Twice per season. But we cannot accept what Dazza did. This is not walking football. Everything in this life must be earned. Dazza thought today was a game he could coast but Max is far, far more prone to anger against the weak teams than the strong ones. Dazza is young; he will learn. Or not." Lyons sniffs and leans slightly closer to me. "What are you wearing?"


    I tell him the name of my perfume.


    He beams - I could not have said anything more delightful to him. "Make me the subject of your piece and I will send you a box."


    "I''m writing about the 80th best manager in England," I say.


    Henri is puzzled. "Who is that?"


    "You''ll have to read it to find out."


    He wags his finger. "Very good, Bethany. Very good."


    ***


    Is it possible for the average reader to guess what will happen in the first ten minutes of the second half? I''m no gambler but I would have bet on a goal rush from Chester, with a side bet on Dazza to run his arse off.


    Three-nil becomes four-nil soon enough, but then the spark Best ignited seems to leave the game. Dazza does keep running, bless him, but the rest of his team take the chance to rest their legs - the dangerous Notts County are up next.


    Best brings himself on with half an hour to go. He walks a yard onto the pitch and scans it, eyes hooded; I get instant goosebumps. I''ve seen that look before.


    Almost immediately after the final match of this season (unless Chester are in the play-offs), a demolition crew will descend on the Deva stadium and blow the Harry McNally stand to smithereens.


    They will not do a faster nor a more complete job than Max Best did on Sutton.


    There are different facets to Best''s game. He is an extremely good defensive midfielder, able to put himself in passing lanes, make interceptions, win headers, and spray passes. He is a decent central midfielder, able to keep the ball moving, turning away from pressers, threatening all sorts of clever scoops and chips.


    But he made his name as a winger and against Sutton he is somewhere close to his imperious best.


    Only he isn''t playing as a winger - he is nominally Chester''s right back. (On the left of the pitch, Josh Owens plays wing back - it''s the ultra-offensive 4-2-4 variant Best had been daydreaming about days before.) Best thunders up and down the touchline - mostly up - crunching into tackles, playing one-twos, running past young Calabash Barkley, demanding the ball.


    Best''s first goal involvement comes when he does a piece of skill I''m not sure I''ve ever seen before. Imagine a DJ ''scratching'' a disc, but the disc is the football and instead of making a funky sound the action results in a nutmeg. Clear of the defender, Best dashes towards the corner flag. He looks up and sees Dazza and Foquita are miles behind. Visibly annoyed, Best has to wait for them to catch up, has to beat the defender again, hits a pinpoint cross that Dazza heads home, then tears strips off both strikers right there on the pitch.


    That is five-nil.


    Six comes when Best passes to Bark in a dangerous advanced position and then makes a sneaky run into the box. Bark plays a short pass exactly along the goal line - it has to be one of the rarest passes seen in professional football. Best arrives and thrashes the ball low and hard across goal. Foquita''s attempted finish makes the ball squirt past the unlucky Dazza - who has finally made a good run but has not been rewarded for it. Charlie Dugdale is on hand to guide the ball into the unguarded left-hand side of the net. It''s not the easiest chance but few people strike a ball as cleanly as Duggers.


    Six.


    Best decides it is time for his mate Henri to replace Dazza. The home fans give the Aussie a good round of applause - the manager is not happy about that.


    Shortly after his introduction, the goal-hungry Frenchman outmuscles his opponent in the race to get on the end of another delicious Max Best cross. The irony is that Henri''s opponent was his fellow striker, Foquita.


    A magnificent seven.


    With time nearly up, a free kick is awarded thirty-five yards from goal. The angle suits the left-footed Charlie Dugdale and he makes his willingness to take the kick perfectly clear to his boss. His boss made his thoughts equally plain: touch that ball and we''ll need a forensics team to find your teeth.


    Best takes a long run up and strikes the ball so hard and so true Dugdale makes an O face before the ball has even left Best''s foot. The 80th best manager in English football is aiming through a crowd with the idea that if no-one touches the ball he will score and if anyone does get a deflection, the goalie will be helpless.


    As it happens, the ball brushes the very crown of someone''s head, lifting it just high enough to crash into the crossbar and away from danger. Max Best scowls at the seats where the visiting VIPs sit - the seats are empty.


    Full time, seven-nil. I rush down to hear Best''s post-match interview and catch the end.


    "Next time you''ve got a problem with Chester Football Club, get on the phone." He smiles down the camera lens, twinkles as he adds, "We''re very reasonable."


    ***


    The win doesn''t lift Chester higher in the league - they''re still fifth, but the table will only really take shape as Chester''s games in hand are played. One is coming up against freewheeling Notts County.


    I call from Manchester the day before the match.


    "How are things with Dazza?"


    Best is surprised I''d start with that. "Ask him."


    "You don''t let me talk to your players."


    "Do you have any questions that, you know, are interesting?"


    "Max," I say. "You erupted at him. If I''m reading this article I''m thinking you''re a rageaholic or the stress of the season is getting to you. I''d think, yeah, maybe he is the 80th best manager. He sounds like an arsehole."


    "Mmm." He''s considering what I''ve said. "I don''t really care what your readers think of me, but kudos for remembering it''s readers this time, not listeners."


    "Ha ha."


    "Did you watch the first half back?"


    "No."


    "Mmm. It was really bad, Beth. In most teams that gets hidden inside the three-nil but this isn''t most teams. We''ve got the lowest budget in the league and we can''t have passengers. This isn''t only about three points against Sutton. We''re getting ready for next season in League One and these matches are auditions. I''m sympathetic if someone''s having a bad day. It could be anything, right? Bad news from back home or some girl he''s crushing on writes on her socials that Adam Sandler plays the best detective character in movie history. Devastating. If there''s something going on, tell me. But tell me before I fill in the team sheet, do you know what I mean? If you''re on the team sheet you''re responsible for your performance and if you can''t perform you can at least work your arse off. If nothing''s going on in your private life and you just want glory to be handed to you on a plate while your mates do your work for you, that''s okay, too. Enjoy your new career as a toy spider salesman."


    "You''re so demanding. No-one can play well every game."


    "You can run, though, can''t you? You can graft. Fans demand graft as a minimum and they''re right. Plus there''s a pretty interesting correlation between running stats and wins. I think the modern game has a scouting problem. Big teams scout for athletes and try to teach them to play. That''s in the direction of stupid but it tells you how important running is."


    "Why is it stupid?"


    "I mean, take Dan Badford. I don''t think there''s a club in the entire football league that would scout him and think, yes, please! But he held his own against Newcastle and looked good against Man United. He''s an absolute baller and players like that can let the ball do the work. Dan to Duggers to Ryan Jack to Pascal to Wibbers. I mean, you can keep your six foot four athletes because when we click, you''re never going to get the ball from us."


    "You think Dan''s on the same level as the others?"


    "Haven''t you been watching, Beth? He''s out there dropping nukes like Gandhi!"


    I leave a big pause. "Sorry, what did you say?"


    "Dropping nukes like Gandhi."


    "The most peaceful man of the twentieth century?"


    Best is annoyed. "It''s from the Civilization games. They gave Gandhi an aggression score of minus one, but that caused an overflow or whatever you call it and it made him love to drop nukes all over the place."


    "I don''t follow."


    "Ugh," says Best. "It''s not that hard, Beth. Imagine two footballers going for a tackle. One''s got Aggression 20, the other is Aggression 1."


    "Right."


    "The high aggression one does a foul, gets a yellow card. Over the course of a season, that guy gets three red cards, ten yellows. The low aggression guy gets two yellows and one of those is for swirling his shirt over his head when he was celebrating a goal."


    "Okay."


    "Now say you want to make sure there''s a guy who''s really, really not aggressive. You give him a score of minus one, but because of maths and computer shit, you''ve accidentally created the love child of Dennis Wise and Sergio Ramos."


    I laugh at the image. "Go on."


    "So take Dan..."


    "Go on," I repeat.


    But Best doesn''t go on. All I hear is what sounds like him moving the phone away from his mouth and softly saying the word ''fuck''.


    ***


    Best gives me half an hour before the Notts County match. He has named his starting eleven and his squad and says the hour before the match is ''totes lame'' so he ''might as well slot me in''.


    We''re in his tiny manager''s office, along with the Brig, who appears to be addicted to Sudoku. He''s also munching on tangerines; a pungent citrusy smell pervades everything.


    I try to pick up the Dan Badford thread but Best refuses to discuss it. I try to go back to the transfer embargo but he says it''s in the hands of the lawyers and vengeance has been served. I try to confirm that it was Sutton United who complained about the missing funds from the Eddie Moore transfer but Best checks the time and says ''you''ve got 28 minutes left''.


    I ask him to talk me through today''s line up and that goes better.


    "Notts use 3-4-1-2 so we''re going to match them with a 3-4-3 that I''ll tweak as opportunities appear.


    "In goal it''s a debut for Ian Swan. Swanny. We''re going to play Heart Attack Football and that suits him better than Sticky. I was wary about starting Swanny today because Notts could score a hatful and I don''t really like new players getting thrown in at the deep end but hey ho.


    "Back three is Zach, Christian, and Lee H. It''s stronger than I''d like because all three need a break, really. But you can''t dick around with Notts; they''re super good going forward.


    "Midfield is Duggers, Ryan Jack, Andrew Harrison, and Bark. Quite rotated but there''s more than enough quality. It''s a break for Youngster and Lee C and if we can get away with not using Magnus that''s another bonus.


    "Up front it''s Henri, Foquita, and Pascal. Loads of threat there."


    I squint. "No Dazza?"


    "No."


    "Is he on the bench?"


    "Um," says Best, digging his nail into the wall. "Can''t remember."


    I tut. "You can''t keep doing this, Max. One day soon you''re going to have players who you need to suck up to. You can''t keep going Gandhi on everyone''s arse!"


    The Brig looks up, surprised, before getting back to his puzzle.


    Best says, "There''s one thing you might want to write in your article and it might be the most important thing. I''m the director of football at this club as well as the manager and I don''t plan to ever sack myself. I''d need to lose six games in a row before MD started to think about showing me the door. That means I don''t have to be popular with the fans. I can ride out the shit starts to the season while we get our machine purring and I can take some poor results if it means we get more squad depth or it boosts a young player''s development." He tuts and makes a ''get rid of that'' motion as the Brig finishes a segment - of his fruit, not his puzzle. The Brig stands, gathers the remnants of four tangerines, and takes them to a bin outside. He''s back to hear most of what Best says next. "Fans get attached to players and if a player gets more popular than a manager, at some clubs that''s a recipe for disaster. Not here, because MD doesn''t give much of a shit what the fans think about him, either. I mean, he does but he''s been the face of years of underperformance and he''s used to getting abuse. No, when I go to the fans forum near the end of the season and I say teamwork and hard work are absolutely non-negotiable and any player who falls short is not long for this world, they''ll have to accept it. Maybe being so hardline like that comes with a limit. Maybe you can only get to tenth in the Championship if you''re not willing to indulge shitheads. I don''t see why, but I''m willing to accept the possibility of a theoretical limit. After four seasons of finishing tenth, I''ll probably admit I was wrong."


    "You''re not wrong," mumbles the Brig.


    There''s a knock on the door. Physio Dean pokes his head in. "Gaffer, can you come? It''s not a crisis, but..."


    Best stands. "That''s your time, Beth. Enjoy the match, yeah?"


    "Yeah," I muse. Something''s nagging at me. Something big that I missed. I leap to my feet and hurl myself into the corridor. "Max!" I yell, seconds before he goes into the dressing room. He pauses, as does everyone for a mile around. I throw my arms wide. "What''s Heart Attack Football?"


    He rocks his head back and laughs before vanishing through the door.


    ***


    Chester 1 Notts County 0.


    Chester 1 Notts County 1.


    Injury to Zach Green.


    Chester 2 Notts County 1.


    Chester 2 Notts County 2.


    Injury to Magnus Evergreen.


    Chester 2 Notts County 3.


    Chester 3 Notts County 3.


    Red card for Andrew Harrison.


    Chester 4 Notts County 3.


    That''s heart attack football.


    ***


    Chester finish the evening in fourth place, with a game in hand over Fleetwood Town who are only 2 points ahead. Mansfield are only 5 points clear of Chester, while Bradford''s lead has been slashed to 8 points and could be 2 in the blink of an eye.


    While their opponents stumble towards the season''s finish line, Chester''s men''s team are in a full sprint. The women''s team are already on something of a victory lap and all the talk is of the upcoming visit of a team from Colombia. The under eighteens will play Chelsea in the semi-final of the FA Youth Cup and that glittering opposition will hold no fear for Best''s Babes.


    Despite having a fraction of the resources of their peers, all of Chester''s squads are bristling with international players and in this culture, even the stars must improve or fall by the wayside.


    Are there clouds on the horizon? Certainly. There is the threat of a transfer embargo, the club have been contacted about its conduct towards a new signing''s former agent, and construction work on their training facility is starting at a less than opportune moment.


    But if Max Best is the 80th best manager in England, I''d really, REALLY love to meet the one in 79th.

 13.10 - The Country Club

    10.


    NETHERLANDS


    "Football is a game of mistakes. Whoever makes the fewest mistakes wins." - Johan Cruyff


    ***


    WALES


    Saturday, March 21


    Match 38 of 46: Chester versus Newport County


    "Do you want to see some magic, Ben?"


    "Yes, please."


    I was in the medical room at the Deva, where Physio Dean was checking out a fan who had felt shooting pains in his arm. The crowd safety medical team was responding to an incident in the away end so Dean had stepped up. Dean''s tone suggested he didn''t think this was serious, but the patient''s young son was freaking out. Dean had sent Livia to come and get me in the hope I could calm the little guy down.


    "Liv, can you hold this door open?" She jammed her foot at the bottom of one of the double doors that led to the tunnel that led to the pitch. "Ben, It''s a little-known fact that I, superstar football star Max Best, can teleport. Check it out."


    The kid''s eyes couldn''t have got any wider.


    I walked backwards towards the pitch and at a certain point yelled, "England!" I took another step back. "Wales!" One forward. "England!" I half stepped back, jiggling my foot, before stepping decisively forwards. "Waaaaaaaangland!" I jogged back to the medical room and waved at thousands of imaginary admirers. "Thank you! Thank you!"


    "Incredible, boss," said Livia. "Hey, if we''re playing a Welsh team in Wales, does this make this an away match?"


    "No, this is my home. My house," I added with a growl. I got close to Ben and continued in a deep, faux-menacing voice. "My house, my rules. The first rule is that I''m the only person allowed to use the letter Q in Scrabble."


    I maybe needn''t have bothered with the silliness; just turning up was enough to change the kid''s mood completely. "Ben''s your biggest fan," said the dad, who looked pale but not very close to death. Ben nodded his enthusiastic assent.


    "Nah," I said, springing towards my head physio. "Dean''s my biggest fan. Aren''t you, Dean? Aren''t you, mate?" I hugged him from behind until he smiled. "Remember that guy who bonked me on the head? Dean was first on the scene. He saw my brains lying all over the street and he picked them up and shoved them back in my skull all scientific-like. I''ve got his fingerprints all over my folds. There''s a thing in Dean''s tribe where when you save someone''s life, you''re responsible for them forever. Isn''t that mad? I''m not complaining, though. I do draw the line at him wanting to tuck me in at night."


    The dad didn''t want to hear me talk gibberish when he could probe us for gossip he could share with his mates. "You''ve been busy this week," he said, to Dean. He was talking about a few injuries we''d picked up.


    "Dean''s always busy," I said, because I didn''t want rumours spreading. "He loves it. The busier the better. Busy people are happy people. Isn''t that right, Dean? He''s going to smile any second now, just watch. Any second now. Hmm. Maybe I should tickle - there he goes!"


    Magnus Evergreen came in. "Heard there was an emergency. Can I help, Dean?"


    Our head physio thought about it but shook his head. "Thanks." My most versatile player leaned his crutches against a treatment table and hopped up. Just like him to offer to help when he was the one who needed it. Dean said to the fan, "Pete, I think you''re okay but I''m going to pack you off to the hospital to get you properly checked out."


    "But we''ll miss the game!" said little Ben.


    "The game''s going to be shit," I said.


    "Language," warned Livia.


    "Die Spiel will Scheisse machen," I said, in flawless German. "Anyway, Ben, your dad needs you. You''re a team, aren''t you?" The kid nodded hard. "Ben. Ben Ben Ben. It''s a pretty good name but I can think of a better one: Max. You should get that changed, I reckon."


    The dad said, "Is it true we''ve got a transfer ban?"


    I felt a pang of guilt. If the guy wasn''t having a heart attack, he''d had a panic attack. How much stress was this football club - and the way I was running it - adding to the lives of our fans? "Technically, yeah, but it''ll get suspended and if the absolute worst happens it''s not a problem. I''ll stock up on free transfers and Exit Triallists. I''ve been scouting Cheshire extra hard since the news broke. Found a few little gems. We don''t need to pay a fee for a player this summer and we won''t need to buy anyone the January after. If somehow we''re not allowed to pay for a player the next summer, that''s absolutely fine, too. We need to have a consolidation year in the Championship anyway. It''s not going to happen but if it did you''d barely notice."


    "What about if we can''t sign Foquita because of it?"


    I smiled. Fans loved to worry but it was plainly not healthy. I put my hand on his shoulder and blasted him with Influence 20. "Worst case is we paid fifty thousand pounds to get twenty goals. That''s all right, isn''t it? But what actually happens is we annihilate the EFL in court because they can''t ban us from completing a transfer we''ve already agreed. That would be a complete nonsense, wouldn''t it? We would absolutely rinse them. They''re not in the business of starting court cases they will definitely lose. Don''t worry."


    "I was thinking you should sign that Matczak from Legia Warsaw."


    "Right," I said, putting some distance between us. One of the reasons I tried to minimise contact with the outside world was that as well as having the remarkable ability to fix my shitty, broken tactics, every football fan had a bee in their bonnet about one very particular player. Pete had probably seen the Matczak guy have a good couple of minutes in a Conference League match and thought he knew better than everyone else in England how talented he was. Fixating on a particular player was part of the weird and worrying world of transfer manias. The prospect of a transfer ban was hitting Pete especially hard because he thought the answer to all his problems was ''out there'' somewhere.


    I bet he voted for Brexit and didn''t see the irony in that.


    Livia spotted my shift in mood and tried to help. "We can''t sign more foreign players right now."


    "Bristol City have a great lad, too. Bentley. Great between the lines and in the half spaces. English qualified, too. I''ve got a friend of a friend down there who says he''s the next big thing."


    "I''ll definitely check him out," I lied.


    Pete nodded eagerly but when he glanced at his son, some pallor returned. He mimed covering his ears and Ben copied him. The dad whispered, "I bought too many mini-bonds, Max. Wanted to help get the stadium. Get our club back." He winced. "My mate says it was all a scam and you''ll do a runner." He looked down. "Just want my club back."


    So the idea that I was a con artist was doing the rounds again. Talk about a dagger. Stick it in just before a must-win match, why don''t you? Pete was weakening me before sending me out to fight. What a load of bull.


    I tried to rise above it all, tried to think like a rando who was struggling with money, the perils of fatherhood, the outside forces railed against us, the uncertainty coming from all angles. There was one thing he clung onto through thick and thin. "My favourite movie is The Godfather because I''m a godfather."


    "Who said subtext was dead?" said Livia.


    I continued. "I thought the point of being a godfather was that if something happens to the parents you get a free baby. Bonus! But apparently I got scammed. I''ve got to give him presents and I have to babysit him once a year. The hell is that all about? I didn''t agree to that. Talk about the dangers of not reading the small print."


    Pete released a tiny smile. "Is that Sandra Lane''s boy?"


    "Yeah," I said, darkly. "They''re both Man City fans but I''m going to intervene to save little Jamie." I tapped Pete on the arm. "You''re going to see Jamie at every major milestone in this club''s future. The new stand, the grand opening of the gym, winning League One, our first visit to Wembley, our first major cup final. He''ll be there in a cute little Chester kit. I''m going to blast glory at him so hard he associates every major moment of his life with the Chester FC badge. If he makes it through seven years of that and still wants to be a City fan..." I scoffed and shook my head. "It''ll take more than a transfer ban to stop me binning him off."


    Livia said, "Max." She drew my gaze to the big digital clock on the wall.


    I made eye contact with Magnus. He got up and hobbled over to take my place. I said, "Pete, Ben, I''ve got to go smash us into third place in the league, if that''s all right?"


    Pete seemed a whole lot more relaxed. "Best will tear you apart again."


    "That chant is supposed to be about the opposition, not our own fans. Come September we''ll have a beautiful new stand, an amazing gym, and we''ll be playing in League One. We''ll be looking to expand. You''ll need a new song. Best... Best will rebuild a stand... again. All right? It''s happening."


    "I feel better. Can''t I stay for the match?"


    I looked at Dean; he shook his head. I said, "No. Take care of yourself. Have you got tickets to Forest Green?" That was our next home match.


    "I don''t, no."


    "It''s Easter Friday and we''ll have our international players back. It''ll be a banger. Here, let me fire off a quick text." I typed one for Magnus.


    Try to find out if he bought more bonds than he can afford. We can buy a few back if it helps. If you want to cheer him ALL the way up, promise you''ll be back next season.


    I fist bumped father and son while Magnus read the text. He gave me a doleful look and typed back.


    I will take care of them. Next season will take care of itself.


    ***


    I went to the pitch and did a longer warm-up than usual. We were getting to squeaky bum time in the season and the margins were wafer thin. Room for mistakes? Virtually nil. Degree of difficulty? High.


    I''d made a few tiny mistakes in recent weeks but they were piling up, accumulating, adding to the pressure. When Brooke had asked me if the next stage of Bumpers could begin at the end of March, I had calculated my answer while completely forgetting that the women''s team from Colombia would be arriving around then. It wouldn''t have affected my decision but it should have been one of the first things I thought of.


    I had overplayed Christian and Zach, had tempted fate by putting a goalie in for his debut against one of the best attacking teams in the league, and I''d messed up the start of the match against Ipswich Town, gifting them a two-goal lead. Secretary Joe''s fat finger deletion of a scheduled payment could have happened to anyone and Charlie Dugdale''s weasel agent was always likely to weasel. I was pretty sure those wouldn''t add up to so much as a hill of beans but it added to the sense of tentacles closing in around the cracks in our shell, and one of my own mistakes was so moronic I couldn''t even bring myself to tell Emma.


    The international window - where nations were allowed to ''borrow'' players from club sides - was from March 23 to March 31. In that time period we had two fixtures, one against Colchester on the 28th and one against Crewe on the 31st. I had poured absolutely all of my mental energy into thinking about the Colchester match but had completely dismissed the Crewe one. I''d told myself that the 31st was the end of the international window so I would have my players back. But I wouldn''t. They wouldn''t start returning until the next day and when they got home they would be tired and jet lagged.


    It didn''t help that Crewe were my bunnies. Along with Tranmere, they were a side I always expected to beat, at any level, in any competition. When I saw Crewe on the fixture list I assigned myself a W and three points and thought no more of it. Not this time - this time the struggle would be titanic, would be life or death, would define our entire season.


    I had realised my mistake early enough that it wouldn''t cost us, but it worried me. I was normally so good at planning ahead, at saying where to push and where to rest. If I was making such basic oversights, what else was I messing up without knowing it?


    That was something to fret about overnight as I tried to keep still so that Emma wouldn''t worry about my lack of sleep. For the next couple of hours, all that mattered was beating Newport County, one of the four Welsh teams playing in the English football league. Their average CA was 72.


    "All right, lads," I said, as I made my way to the tactics board. On the fifth step inside the dressing room, my left heel spat angry sparks. Chipper had done an absolute number on it and while I was able to run, there was a cost. I didn''t want to become one of those athletes who got addicted to painkillers; I would rest all through the summer to let it sort itself out. Until then I had to power through. We all did. "Newport try to play football so we''re gonna let them move through the midfield and blast them on counters, yeah?"


    "Heart attack football," yelled Vimsy. "Make sure your balls are pumped up."


    I chuckled, which turned into a laugh when I saw Pascal translating for Foquita by means of a gesture. I explained what I wanted in fluent Spanish. "Cojones grande, mate. Tres puntos, por favor." I touched the magnets on the board. "Three-five-two. Swanny in goal. The defence is Cole, Christian, Lee H. Jamie Brotherhood''s on hand to give us a quarter of an hour with a back four if we want that."


    Using a CA 38 sixteen-year-old was the kind of thing that had been costing us points all season, but the squad was really bare bones. If there was a perk that protected one player from getting a season-ending injury, I might have used it on Magnus. Sadly, no such perk existed and he was on crutches with nothing to do except wonder if he even wanted to be a footballer. He and Dan had that negative PA; they were my Gandhis. They had broken the curse. If I understood it correctly, they were so bad they were legendarily good. I had to keep Magnus but I couldn''t push too hard. Or was that a mistake in itself?


    "Midfield is Duggers, Ryan, Youngster, Dan, Bark." I might have used Andrew Harrison instead of Bark, but he was serving a one-match ban for picking up a second yellow card in the frantic finale against Notts. I didn''t really mind that one - Andrew being fresh for the coming matches was actually one bright spot - we would need his ability to run and run. "Lee C on the bench with Josh. I might give you twenty minutes to stretch your legs.


    "Up front it''s Henri and Foquita. Role reversal today. Foquita doing all the donkey work." I eyed him. "Work. Trabajar, yes?"


    "Yes, gaffa." He hadn''t learned much English but he''d picked up some of the key phrases.


    I''d been brushing up on my Spanish, too. "Trabajar o yo obtener Luisa." Work hard or I''ll get Luisa. "Entiendes?"


    He dipped his head and came back up with a smile. "Entiendo. I work. I work, gaffa."


    The eleven had a CA of 85.5 and even with our dwindling numbers I would have Josh, Lee C, Wibbers, Pascal, and myself on the bench.


    I closed my eyes and checked Newport''s tactics screen. Yeah, this wasn''t the match to worry about.


    "There''s a good chance we go third today, lads. Let''s put some fucking daylight between us and Fleetwood. Win today we''ve got one foot in League One, all right? Come on."


    "Come on, lads!" yelled Christian Fierce.


    ***


    Five thousand four hundred fans make a lot of noise at the best of times but after this, there were only three home fixtures remaining. Three more matches with the Deva in its current form. Three more matches before I demolished the Harry McNally. The fans were getting nostalgic and Brooke was encouraging it with our marketing. All the old songs were coming out, including ones for Smasho and Nice One.


    Beautiful, but it added to my sense of turmoil. We were on the cusp, dancing on a sliver of time between an old era and a new age.


    On the pitch, my multi-national team were playing without a care in the world, controlling the ball and the match exactly as I''d designed. Ireland to England to Ghana to Liverpool to Peru to France - goal.


    Henri sprinted to the main stand, celebrating madly, but caught himself, dialled the madness down about 80%.


    What was that all about?


    For all the curse told me about a player - their attributes, form, average rating, morale, injury status, what they thought of their future at the club - I kept finding myself bamboozled. Henri reining in a celebration? What next? Our psychologist saying, ''You know what Max? I think you''re completely cured''?


    We had a hell of a good squad. The gold standard for improvement was Wibbers. Starting from a low base, well-managed, with boundless talent, he had already improved by 30 CA points this season. Dan had surprised me by adding almost as many: 28. A lot of players had gone up by high teens or low twenties. The standout, though, was Cole Adams. With the help of the Secret Sandra perk, he''d gone from 42 in pre-season to 78 today.


    Fascinating. If I spread the perk around I could raise everyone''s level, but it seemed a lot more fun to juice one player and watch him become either a star or a solid squad player. As I thought about the challenge I was facing, the latter was more appealing. Stars won matches, squads won leagues. Was that a saying?


    I tweaked Youngster''s instructions to stop him running forward, as much to protect the fitness of the defenders as to stop Newport from scoring. I noted that Foquita''s Condition had dropped five points so I changed his instructions, too. No more pressing - I didn''t want to break the kid. "Sandra," I said. "Tell Foquita to relax for a while."


    "On it," she said, before sending out the message I had already delivered telepathically. "Do you want Henri to up his work rate?"


    "No."


    Henri was going to be huge for us in the next two games; I didn''t want him running himself into the ground. He was agonisingly close to hitting his peak. CA 89, PA 90. When he popped, I would use God Save the King to increase his Finishing and increase his maximum PA. It was a trick I knew worked because I''d done it the previous year with Aff.


    Bradford City were getting the benefit of that move - the curse told me they were winning again. One-nil up with a goal from Chipper. Had Aff created it?


    Newport pumped a hopeful long ball towards Cole, the theoretical weak link of our defence. He won the header easy as you like. "Sack your analysts," I said.


    Sandra laughed. "I know, right?"


    Watching Cole win a duel against a much older striker reminded me of Dazza against Sutton. In the first half he had won one header out of five, the ball had bounced off him, he had an air of being disengaged and not wanting to be there. It had come as a surprise because his Morale was Superb. The curse rated his first half performance as four out of ten and I considered that to be generous in the extreme. He wasn''t in today''s squad and I couldn''t imagine using him again. The way my thoughts were trending, the only way he''d be at Chester next season was if we couldn''t buy players. If our transfer ban was upheld, I would have no choice but to keep him around. The prick.


    "Let''s feed Duggers," I said.


    Sandra moved along the touchline calling ''Green 15, Green 15''. That was the code that we should play with a focus on our left.


    Soon after, Duggers skipped past a tackle, ran along the nice strip of grass that was between him and the away fans, and whipped in a cross that Foquita headed down past the goalie.


    Two-nil.


    "Energy-saving," I said. Sandra pointed and barked instructions while I changed everyone''s instructions and positioning to minimise how much they had to run. One player''s Condition was decreasing faster than everyone else''s. Without Zach or Magnus, how could I give Christian Fierce a break?


    ***


    70 minutes gone.


    Substitution for Chester. Replacing the captain, Christian Fierce... is the manager, Max Best.


    It looks like Newport County have adopted a more attacking approach.


    The goalkeeper kicks long and the Newport defence push up to the halfway line.


    Cole Adams wins the header. Youngster tidies up and plays a simple pass to Best.


    Best stumbles; Newport could be in here!


    Best flicks the ball past the onrushing striker and hammers the ball downfield.


    Foquita is clear!


    He has acres of space. He looks for support. Lyons is trying to get there.


    Foquita takes the shot early...


    But it drifts wide!


    The Peruvian apologises to his fellow striker and looks to his manager.


    Best gives him a thumbs up.


    It looks like Newport County have adopted a more defensive approach.


    ***


    Two-nil final score, no new injuries, no new suspensions. A tiny, tiny rest for Christian was the best I could give him. Would I have been better resting myself? Why was I questioning every single thing I did?


    The Deva faithful cheered and chanted, but I couldn''t shift my anxious feeling. Bradford clung onto their one-nil win. They would drop points, I was sure, and then we would blast right past them and never look back. Mansfield won, also two-nil, in a match that sounded like ours - a routine win against a much weaker team. Was second behind Mansfield the best we could hope for? Second was shit, but at least I wouldn''t have to watch clips of Chip and his loud-mouthed gobshite friends driving around Yorkshire, scaring the hedgehogs and waking old ladies as the Chip Van drove past their bungalows blasting shit tunes at five hundred decibels.


    On hearing the final whistle, I stared at the grass by my feet for so long that Newport''s captain jokingly asked if I had lost a contact lens. I tried to be a normal human being for a while but after shaking hands with everyone in a small radius, my brain flooded with thoughts and worries. What sort of team would I even be able to name against Colchester? And then again versus Crewe. Would our season come down to whether Jamie Brotherhood could hold his own against an experienced League Two winger? Would I need to turn to Benny?


    Henri came to me, his Morale maxed out at superb. "Max, I have a request."


    "Anything. Absolutely anything for you. Anything at all."


    "I would like you to meet my mother."


    "Sorry, I''m busy."


    He put his arm around me and pointed me towards the main stand. "She''s in the executive box and she would like to enjoy the Max Best experience. It will not be a long meeting, I promise. In and out, like when we played Kettering Town. Do you remember Kettering Town, Max? In our relegation scrap. You dropped me to the bench but I rescued your career anyway. I''m good like that."


    I smiled as I thought back to those early days. "I wore a Kettering scarf and one of their coaches lost his shit."


    "That was the debut for the fake Jackie Reaper."


    I shook my head. "It was all so simple then. I was so carefree, so fearless."


    He rubbed his mouth to hide his amusement. "You were so young. Now life has aged you. Look how you wither on the vine... in third place in League Two, master of all you survey. Come, meet maman. It will be more painless than the dentist."


    "Amazing to compare your mother to a dentist," I said. I threw my arm around him and we walked towards the tunnel. "Of course I''ll meet her. Yeah. She lent me, what, six hundred grand?" Henri''s mother had appeared on the list of donors for the mini-bond, and she had stumped up the cash to get our latest 3G pitch project launched slightly ahead of schedule. "Don''t tell her she could meet me for the price of a Nando''s."


    "Your secret is safe with me."


    ***


    FRANCE


    As a child, Aur¨¦lie Fragonard was the heir to a famous perfume empire, where famous means ''as well-known in certain circles as Max Best is in Chester'' and empire means ''more than two businesses, only one of which was profitable.''


    The empire had survived rocky times and changing fortunes but was at a low ebb in 1989 when the nineteen-year-old Aur¨¦lie had demanded a management position. In the fall of the Berlin Wall she smelled opportunity. She overcame resistance from her stick-in-the-mud colleagues to push the Fragonard brand into the territories opened up by the collapse of communism.


    It was a nail-biting ride but soon a majority of the company''s profits were coming from the east and Aur¨¦lie had the cachet - and the cash - to re-establish her brands in the home market. Six years of growth and glory came to an abrupt end owing to a torrid summer dalliance with a dashing former international rugby player - Lionel Lyons. Dalliance turned to alliance. The wedding was featured on pages 14-30 of the French version of Hello magazine, ''Allo.


    Lionel thought himself an astute businessman but, alas, nah. Under his endarkened rule, the Fragonard brand fell into a tailspin. Aur¨¦lie sold her stake to an American hedge fund, kicked Lionel to the curb, and spent years in the wilderness - literally. She developed an unhealthy mania for cashmere goats and merino sheep, and after growing one of Europe''s largest herds of each, she sold up, reacquired her family''s brand, and was in the process of rebuilding it once more.


    Now 55, she bristled with energy and by the time I got to the executive box, when most of the crowd had left, I saw quite the scene in front of the big windows that looked out onto the pitch. Of those standing, MD had signed up for her fan club, Brooke thought she was amazing, Emma thought she was hilarious, and Kian was terrified of her. Sitting awkwardly on a sofa, Henri looked like a toddler in short pants waiting to be scolded, and Luisa looked absolutely dejected. When I pushed the door open and let it flap behind me, like a gunfighter entering a saloon, Luisa perked up, hope in her eyes.


    "Maman," said Henri. I noted that his Morale had slipped two points and was now merely good. That was alarming given he was the only striker I would have in the coming games. "This is Max. Max, this is my mother."


    "Enchant¨¦," I said. I wasn''t sure if I should kiss her twice on the face in the French fashion or wait for her to extend her hand for a regal kiss or a businesslike handshake, so I did nothing and nothing is exactly what she did. I pulled two stools away from the bar area.


    "Max Best," said Aur¨¦lie. Her accent was clear but a lot harder than her son''s. "I have heard too much about you."


    "It''s all true," I said. "Except the one where I''m actually a space lizard and the one where Bill Gates lives in a capsule in my bloodstream. Hey bebs," I said, squeezing Ems. "Hey, bebs," I said, squeezing MD. I lined up Brooke for the next squeeze but she gave me a look that meant ''I dare you'' and truth be told I chickened out. I fist bumped Luisa and Kian then went to my stool; Emma joined me and I leaned into her - I could have stayed with my head nuzzled against hers for hours. The stool had a footrest so I could lift my heel off the floor - nice.


    MD''s admiration for a top international businesswoman had its limits; his real passion was Chester FC. "Amazing win, Max! Did you hear? We''re third! Third! We''re in the automatic promotion slot and Fleetwood have played a game more than us."


    "Mike," I said. "This is Chester. We don''t celebrate third place."


    "I bloody do," he said, not caring if it sounded like loser talk to Aur¨¦lie. "Was it as easy as it looked?"


    "Um," I said. Had it looked easy? "They''re normally a passing team but today they were trying to isolate Cole Adams and target him with long balls. It''s one of the stupidest things I''ve ever seen but there''s a fine line between stupidity and genius." I got quieter. "I was thinking it must be a super tactic. What have their analysts seen that we aren''t prepared for? Watching them do it, fail, and do it again was eating away at my stomach lining. Who''s told them to try this? Was it the megabrain from Bradford? Are they sharing tactics on how to beat us?"


    MD had a slightly horrified look. "I thought Cole played well."


    "He did," I said. "The tactic wasn''t genius, just stupid. I think I''m stupider as a consequence. That''s quite a trick in its own right."


    Henri said, "Max, did Cole play when we met Newport earlier in the season?"


    "No," I said. "It was 4-1-4-1 with Eddie Moore at left back. After we scored, we switched to five at the back to shut things down."


    "Yes," said Henri. "You put on an exhibition in how to block passing lanes, I remember. And they remember, too. This time they tried to bypass midfield and put pressure on a young player, the one they see as our weakest link. There is no mystery in their actions, only despair." His Morale rose to very good as his eyes flitted towards his mother. Was he hoping for approval?


    Aur¨¦lie didn''t register interest. "What does it mean to be third?"


    "It means we''re two steps from glory," I said, noting that Henri''s Morale fell back. "With the help of your son, we won two titles and we have a chance to win three in a row. That would be incredible. An all-timer, except we''ll win again next season. Four in a row is within reach. We''ll become legends. Eternal." Henri''s Morale rose.


    "Four teams will get promoted," said Brooke, "which means they go to a higher level."


    "Yeah," I said. "English football is a pyramid." I made the shape with my hands. "We''re getting closer to the top, where it looks more like a ladder than a pyramid, but in the old days there was Division 4 North and Division 4 South and the top two teams in each moved to Division 3. That''s why four teams go up from this league even though only three go up everywhere else."


    "Oh!" said Emma. "You never told me that."


    "You''ve been too busy using my filtered water and not refilling the jug and you''re always reading those Canadian books."


    "Four teams are promoted and you are third?" said Aur¨¦lie. "It is sufficient, no?"


    "No," I said.


    "Yes," said MD and Brooke.


    "No," I repeated, about ten percent louder. They didn''t gainsay me.


    "But why?" said Aur¨¦lie. "First, third, fourth. Why the agony I witnessed? The match was unspectacular, was it not? There were not many goals." Henri winced. Had he taken that personally? Was it meant to be a slight? His Morale dropped yet again, so I was guessing yes to both questions.


    Frowning, I said, "Chester have been at a low level for so long the fans can''t dare to dream that we might have yet another good season. If we go up, the level of the opposition goes up, too. We will play against big teams like Blackpool, Charlton, maybe Bolton. It''s exciting."


    "And lucrative," said Brooke.


    "Sure," I said. "We''re in the fourth tier, the fourth level. We get about a million pounds in TV money. We''re going to the third level - " MD made a croaking noise - "where we will get one point five million. Ish," I added, because someone was about to Brookesplain the exact numbers. "After that it goes up to ten million."


    Aur¨¦lie''s eyebrows rose, but not perhaps as much as they should. Bit of botox? "Rather a steep jump."


    "Yes," I agreed. "But then comes the Premier League. That''s one hundred million. One hundred million pounds just from TV."


    The eyebrows came down, her surprise replaced by hunger. "One, one point five, ten, one hundred. Per year? That''s... intriguing. Brooke, you should ''ave started with that."


    The b-girls laughed. Brooke said, "To be fair, we were talking about women''s football. The men''s sport is incredibly intense. You can imagine that the potential returns and the guaranteed acclaim attract a lot of competitors."


    "Ryan Reynolds," said Aur¨¦lie. She pronounced it like ''Renaults''.


    "For one. My father for another. They are small potatoes in comparison to many but we at Chester have a secret weapon, something money can''t buy. The golden goose, laying three points twice per week. We have to support him; you can see the toll it takes." To my everlasting surprise, Brooke came to my stool and gave me the squeeze she had rejected just moments before. "We''re nearly there, Max. Nearly there."


    The gesture warmed me up, soothed me, quelled some of my troubles, but I realised everyone was waiting for me to talk. "The next two games will define this entire season," I said. "We have a lot of players away on international duty."


    Aur¨¦lie was a lot more interested in the sport now that the words ''one hundred million pounds'' had been uttered. "What does that mean?"


    "They will play for their countries instead of us. We''re a victim of our success. Mansfield have to play a couple of games in the international window, too, but they don''t have any international quality players. They will be at full strength." I looked at my squad list. Exactly why had I been pushing for Cole and Wibbers to get call-ups? I fucking needed them!


    I sank into a reverie of trying to pick a functioning team against Colchester. The defence was the problem. No Zach, no Magnus. No Cole. No good.


    When I drifted back into the room, I heard Aur¨¦lie say, "The women are winning, the men are winning, the boys are winning. Do you know what I think? I think there are far too many empty hands! Let us pour wine and toast the continued success of Chester Football Club."


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Yes, let''s," said Emma.


    "I''ll drink to that," said MD.


    "Not for me, maman," said Henri.


    "Don''t be rude, Henri."


    "It''s not rude; I''m a professional footballer. Max is counting on me."


    "Nonsense," she said. "One glass. You will have one glass of wine with us. Kian, where is Kian?" The kid had been trying to hide behind Brooke but was forced forward. "Kian, would you be a darling? Wine for everyone. I saw there was a Bordeaux from the left bank."


    The scene pressed a few of my buttons. Don''t force alcohol onto people, don''t keep offering food and drink to people who have refused, and certainly don''t intentionally collapse the Morale of my players in a crucial part of the season. I''d made a lot of mistakes but I wasn''t going to let a player''s overbearing mother fuck up my title charge.


    "Kian," I said. "Get eight glasses, pour some good plonk into them out nice and careful, then throw two of them right down the sink, okay? All the way down the sink, let the water run, give the surfaces a good wipe." I sensed that Emma wasn''t pleased by this outburst, but one person was delighted - Luisa looked like Christmas had come early. "Then, Kian, make sure you pass the message to all the staff at the Deva and Bumpers - anyone giving alcohol to any of my players but especially Henri in the next two weeks is sacked. Then get on the socials. Any shop that serves him, any restaurant that so much as gives him a fucking white wine soup is going to find five hundred hardcore hooligans trashing the place the next day." I took a couple of steps, knelt, put my hand on Henri''s knee, and looked deep into his soul. "The entire city is counting on you, my friend. It''s not a joke, it''s not a gambit, it''s not 5D chess. It''s the simple truth. I need your goals just as much now as I did against Kettering. We have to get promoted and we have to beat Chip Star. You know why. This is it. This is the peak. Remember we talked about your peak? What a time to do it! The next two games we''re relying on you, counting on you. I don''t have a tactic, I don''t have a system, I have you. This is what you were born to do. This is your destiny." The fire was back in his eyes and his Morale was soaring so I turned to Luisa. "I need him fighting fit against Colchester and Crewe. Anyone who gets in the way of that, smash them."


    Her glance flicked towards her future mother-in-law. "Yes, Max. He''ll be ready. I swear it."


    I stood - hellfire shot through my heel - and as I was eyeing the exit, Kian intervened. He was a lot more used to my rants than Henri''s mum. "We''ve got alcohol-free champagne, boss. We can do a cheers with that and when the others move onto the Bordeaux, I''ll make you and Henri a superfood smoothie."


    I looked around the circle. The compromise was perfect. Kian to the rescue. "You''re the smoothie, mate. You should be working in an Embassy, not here."


    Aur¨¦lie had been giving me a strange look, but now she returned to her previous mode: graceful, easy smile, total confidence. "That reminds me of a funny story. I was at the Institut Francais in Prague, and who should turn up but the Ambassador..."


    ***


    AUSTRALIA


    The Australian player went to whatever airport and took whatever flight. It''s impossible to know for sure.


    GHANA


    There was an emotional early-morning send-off at 6:45 at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport as Mr. and Mrs. Yalley, Kisi, Meghan, and I hugged and in some cases kissed Youngster and in slightly fewer cases, Vincent Addo. Youngster was going to train with the under 23s, while Vincent was still with the under 20s.


    In the boring parts of the send-off, by which I mean the endless prayer session they had together right there in the busy walkway, I hatched a cunning plan. These international players would be training at a high level, right? Youngster''s CA growth had accelerated while he was training with players better than him. What if I used Secret Sandra on players who were away on international duty? If the curse accepted the hack, it would be a super-duper boost to training speeds, wouldn''t it?


    PERU


    Foquita flew to Lima. His two goals against Manchester United had given him the visibility needed to make it to the senior team''s training camp. He wouldn''t be named in a match day squad unless he was absolutely mind-blowing in training, but it was still a massive moment in his career. And, of course, when he landed, Camila would be waiting for him.


    I didn''t think about what she would be wearing.


    Why would I?


    Probably just jeans and a cardigan.


    WALES


    Roddy Jones and the Ffamous Five went to the training camps for their age groups. Like most international players, they would train, get to know their coaches and teammates, and hope to be included in the match day squads. Roddy told me he was likely to play as a striker because that''s where everyone in Wales thought he should play. I reminded him that he was a right back and I asked him to consider who knew best, the entire population of a country, or me?


    ENGLAND


    Meghan and Sarah Greene were used to wearing the Three Lions. Kisi and Angel, not so much. I later heard reports that they were nervous and clung to each other. That sounded great for team spirit, though it pissed me off that Dani wasn''t there.


    In the equivalent men''s group, Wibbers might have been nervous at first, too, until the first training session. I knew exactly what he would have thought as he looked around at his so-called peers - ''I''m better than you.''


    It was no surprise to me when he was named as a starter in the first match. It was one thing seeing him in clips, but seeing him up close and in person was another level. I knew the coaches would soon be basing their entire systems around him.


    BUMPERS


    For a few days, our training ground felt strangely empty. I watched Sandra''s sessions from one of my camping chairs - no longer trying to hide that I had a problem with my heel.


    Chester''s first team squad, as presented by the curse, had 30 names. Tomzilla and Nasa were in Brazil, training with Corinthians. Adam and Alfie, the lads Man United had given us, were reserves and were out on loan anyway.


    Of the 26 ''real'' first teamers, four (Rainman, Sunday, Omari, and Tom Westwood) were out on loan.


    Of the 22 others, two were injured - Zach and Magnus. Half a dozen others were like me, playing through pain or carrying knocks, but this close to the end of the season we would all have to suck it up. Every other club had the same problems, or worse.


    Of the 20 fit players, five were with their national teams - Cole Adams, Youngster, Wibbers, Dazza, Foquita.


    Of the 15 players I had available, three were goalkeepers. I had twelve outfield players. From thirty to twelve. Number goes down!


    In theory we would still have too much quality for Colchester but the Crewe match was going to be an absolute nail-biter. My best weapon from the bench would be Tyson, CA 50. There could be a big role for Lucas Friend, the CA 45 left back. I would probably bring Henk to be our spare centre back. He had long since hit his peak of CA 37.


    Sandra changed the drill - we were doing no-contact training all week to minimise the risk of injury. Despite that, while I watched, Lee Hudson popped. Green! That was him maxed out at CA 91. I got up, called him over, and gave him a little hug. He wasn''t quite fully bought into the Chesterness of everything, but he was enjoying his football again after a tough time at Barrow. I wasn''t sure if he had ever peaked before but I doubted it. He''d worked hard and had earned a moment of quiet fanfare.


    Henri''s final pop was imminent. I didn''t really want to spend my mornings watching training but I wanted to see the exact second. It felt important.


    Until it happened, I had very little to do except for deciding how to spend my experience points.


    I had two big decisions to make. The first was whether to use my training perk on one of my internationals or on one of the players I would be relying on this weekend. Boosting Josh or Dan made short-term sense, but we were doing low intensity work at Bumpers. The multiplier would be much better used on Wibbers. He was at an elite facility with great players and coaches. The gains he got wouldn''t help me against Colchester but would in the Youth Cup final.


    The second decision was a matter of timing. By the end of the season I would have enough XP to buy both another Attribute plus the Panopticon Multi Club Model extension with one team. Which did I want first?


    Attributes were always welcome and useful. A little extra player knowledge could help me in the coming matches. On the other hand, if I added College 1975 to my mental curse lists, I''d be able to tell Mateo which players to release with the aim of getting the squad in shape for my arrival.


    While I deliberated, Ryan killed a pass and rolled the ball to Duggers. He fizzed a pass to Andrew Harrison, who deflected it to Bark. He struck a crisp low shot into one of the tiny training goals Sandra was using.


    We were down to the bare bones but we still fucking slapped.


    I bought the Panopticon extension and added College 1975 to my screens. I could see the player profiles just as though I was in the shadow of The Rock!


    I quickly looked around and saw that a lot of players disliked each other, that some players were eager to leave in the summer, that far too many players were carrying injuries. So much to sort out, but College were still second in the league and likely to stay there. As long as they did, I would be their player-manager for a couple of months this coming summer. Maybe a bit of sun would sort me out.


    And look at that! I had more XP than I thought.


    XP balance: 3,545


    I would be able to afford to buy another Attribute after the Colchester match. Bonus.


    ***


    Selected International Results


    Venezuela 1 Peru 1


    Ghana u23 2 Chad u23 0


    Australia u23 3 Vanuatu 2


    England u19 3 Bulgaria u19 1


    ***


    Friday, March 27


    Henri popped. I watched him for five minutes enjoying the numbers after his name. Henri Lyons, CA 90, PA 90.


    I took a big old nostalgic trip down memory lane, thinking about the first time I''d seen him (when he was on the bench for Darlington), how he''d helped me with the Chester Knights the morning after, how he had let me stay in his house for free, how he''d taught me about hams, wines, and culture even when I''d asked him to stop.


    As partial repayment for his endless kindnesses, I could finally give him something he couldn''t get from anyone else - I could supernaturally increase his talent. I used God Save the King, my once-per-season chance to boost one Attribute. Henri''s Finishing went from 17 to 18 and both his CA and PA increased to 92.


    Done.


    One less dangling thread. One less thing to factor into my equations.


    Now to tell him and to motivate him to keep those levels for as long as possible. I hoped him being a part of the League Two Legends would keep a spring in his step for three years, at least. Actually, why not five? Six? There was no reason a 36-year-old Henri wouldn''t be able to smash League Two defences. If he lost some physicality he would get better with his movement. It was conceivable he would only get more dangerous as his ability points shifted towards the mental side of the game.


    I went to him and asked if we could get lunch together. I didn''t have a great plan for how I''d tell him, but I was pretty sure I''d find a way to embark on a tearful retelling of our shared journey. We would cry and laugh and hug until we got kicked out of Nando''s.


    Henri was keen on lunch. "Maman will be delighted to see you again."


    I hope I didn''t look as annoyed as I felt. "She''s still here? I thought she was only over for the weekend and she would be fucking off."


    "She came to meet Angel but Angel is away. Maman decided to stay longer. She is keeping herself busy. She tours the country meeting sheep breeders and visiting perfume shops. She dines with executives at Harvey Nichols and the fashion magazines."


    "I''m not sure she''ll want to see me, mate. I went off on one, didn''t I?"


    "She will be ecstatic; she likes you. She found your reaction unexpected and confusing and we had a long talk about boundaries that was very good for me, Max. The Deva is your domain and she very well understands what it is like to be the king of the castle. There could be further investment in the club if you can find some of that famous Max Best charm. Down the back of your car seat, perhaps."


    "I''m just not in the mood for this family drama shit. I don''t have the nerves for it, Henri."


    "I know, Max. Maman understands the importance of tomorrow''s match. She will behave beautifully, I promise you."


    ***


    FRANCE AGAIN NO COME ON


    We drove to Hale, part of the famous ''Golden Triangle'' where many footballers live. It''s technically part of Cheshire but it''s just south of Manchester; we wouldn''t find any Chester fans there. House prices are absolutely mental but it has the kind of cafes, restaurants, and boutiques that suit young multi-millionaires and their bored wives. It wasn''t hard to guess what Mama had been doing in the area.


    Henri pulled into Hale Country Club and I followed and parked in the next space.


    I trudged behind him, not really taking in the opulence of the surroundings. It was just another place for rich pricks to hang out. The fact that I was becoming a rich prick didn''t make it better.


    I paused outside a big glass window that showed a ludicrously overspecced gym. It was phenomenal. Huge TVs rested on high ceilings, light strips hung down, and there were row upon row of machines, racks, and benches. I took a photo and sent it to Magnus, saying ''this is what we''ll have next season.''


    The restaurant had a lot of tables but they were spaced out and it felt like there was a lot of soundproofing in the area. Conversations wouldn''t travel; patrons were free to gossip.


    "Maaaxxxx!" cried Aur¨¦lie, rising from the dining table to greet me. She showed me either cheek. "It is a splendid place, this Manchester of yours. Some wonderful boutiques. Young entrepreneurs, young women, such energy. I learned a new phrase. Go-getters. You are something of a go-getter, are you not?"


    "So''s Henri," I said. "He gets loads of go."


    She smiled. "You are loyal."


    "I''m not loyal, I''m jealous. He sings, he plays guitar, he slays the piano. He boxes, he scores goals in ten languages, women love him, he understands Plato and Voltaire, he thinks Sophie''s World is charmingly basic. He''s a TV producer, he invests, he writes, he cooks. He''s fucking mint."


    While Henri tried not to beam, a waiter came to offer us drinks. I looked at Aur¨¦lie, ready to get belligerent. That amused her; she asked for sparkling water. I asked for the same with a side of strong builder''s tea. Henri asked for still water.


    Aur¨¦lie said, "My son is very happy. I have you to thank for that."


    I frowned. "Henri''s been happy ever since he first saw a mirror."


    Aur¨¦lie snorted and covered her mouth with her hand. Henri said, "Max."


    I looked at him and wondered how I''d ended up here. "I wanted to talk to you about..." I brought my hand up a few steps to a very definite peak.


    "I know," he said. "We can do it openly. Maman will be interested. But first, we must talk about you."


    I groaned. "What the fuck? Why? Today''s about you. No. Veto."


    Henri straightened and got serious. "Emma is worried about you. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You are biting your nails again. My mother knows what it is like to grow a small business rapidly, to trip over one''s feet, to overcome adversity only to find more adversity over the next ridge. She knows the pressure of being the person everyone looks to for answers and for hope and for success. You are kicking me out at the end of the season and after today you need never meet my mother again. There are things you would not say to Sebastian Weaver, to MD, to Brooke, even to Alex, that you can say to us."


    "Who is Alex?" said Aur¨¦lie.


    "Our sports psychologist. He is very good. He has helped us a lot." He put his hand on my back and gave me a rub. "Max''s problems are above his pay grade."


    The waiter came back with our drinks and asked if we were ready to order. Aur¨¦lie asked if she was allowed the white wine soup, which made me laugh. Henri thought he was trying to help. This wasn''t the scene I wanted but I relaxed into it.


    We ordered and the waiter left.


    Henri said, "Does Foquita''s interview bother you?"


    Foquita''s goals against Manchester United had sparked a lot of media interest, and a major outlet had done an interview with him and Camila - a pairing that suddenly looked like Peru''s next big celebrity couple. In the translations going around Chester, Wrexham, and certain WhatsApp groups, Foquita had called me a ''madman''. "No," I said. "He was asked what it was like living in England. He complained about the weather but said everyone was very kind. Next question, what''s it like playing for an English manager? Foquita said the question should be what''s it like playing for a madman? He said I was loco, Camila said I was guapo. They settled on Guapo Loco. It''s easy to imagine the scene as very charming. It doesn''t bother me at all."


    Aur¨¦lie said, "Why does he think you are a madman?"


    Henri answered for me, "Thirty-two minutes."


    "Pardon me, mon chou?"


    "That is the maximum length of time Pep Guardiola is able to sustain a conversation that is not about football. By the end of his time in England, he could not eat at all on matchdays, claiming his body was unable to digest food. The game ate him. It is similar with the other managers but I think the great ones have it worst."


    I had my fingernail in my mouth but with a grunt I forced it away and picked up a fork so I would have something to do with my hands. "Nathan Jones. Good manager, got his teams playing great football. Bit his nails till they bled. There was that time Pep was clawing at his own face. Every Man United manager gets grey hair within six weeks of taking the job. I''ve been all right until recently. It''s just... It''s just crept up on me. Things were fine and suddenly it''s all getting too much."


    Henri nodded and rubbed my arm. "Tell us, Max."


    "Like... the thing about being a manager is the control. I''m not stressed by matches normally because I''m the big swinging dick. Excuse my French," I added, which baffled Aur¨¦lie. "I decide who wins or loses. It''s me. Even with one hand tied behind my back, I''m still Jackie Channing it twice a week."


    "One hand tied behind your back?" said Aur¨¦lie.


    "Max has one quarter the budget of his rivals," explained Henri. "In football, talent costs money. In this game if you pay peanuts you get monkeys. Max pays peanuts and gets gorillas. Mostly young gorillas, which comes with its own problems, but gorillas all the same. The squad has grown up together and now we are the alphas. In February and March we have scored 32 goals and conceded 5. That is beyond phenomenal."


    Aur¨¦lie said, "Go on, Max. Control. You lost control."


    I tried to put things into words. "So... Yeah, okay. I got loads of gorillas, with Henri as the silverback to teach them how to fling poop better."


    "You might be mixing up your primates," said my friend.


    "I knew the start of the season would be tough but that we would come good at the end. Great. That''s what we''re doing. But there are way more external events than I could have predicted. First, our main rivals get a megabrain. That has never been explained. I mean, what happened there?"


    Henri tutted. "You should have asked Aff or Carl instead of letting it gnaw at you."


    I pointed. "Asking them to betray confidences is not cricket. Anyway, they wouldn''t have told me and it would have made things weird between us. You know what? Loads of things happened this season but we rose above them. It''s the last few weeks that got hard. First there was this transfer ban. I''m sure it will get reduced and suspended but until it does it''s like an ulcer. Then there''s this agent prick trying to sue somebody, anybody. Again, he doesn''t have a leg to stand on but it''s there in my shoe like a little pebble. Then there''s all our international players. We want internationals. We want our players to get called up."


    "Do we?" said Henri, with a wry smile.


    "Yes," I said. "They come back way better." Wibbers had already added 3 points to his CA. "Plus there''s a financial incentive. The bids I reject go up and up."


    Aur¨¦lie pulled a face that Henri understood better than me. "Premier League teams do not play during international windows. At the top level, virtually every player is an international. Their training grounds are deserted. In our league, you can delay a match if you have three players away."


    "You have five."


    "Quite. But this late in the season, when we already have postponements, there is simply no room. We must play these matches even if, as seems likely, we must use our children."


    Aur¨¦lie said, "Children make good workers if you underfeed them."


    I nearly did a spit take. No wonder Emma thought she was funny.


    Our starters arrived and I ate my salad at the rate of one leaf per minute. "It''s just that loss of control. I have an amazing squad I can''t use. I am the best in the world at transfers but maybe I won''t be allowed to do any for a year. I don''t pick the international squads and while the Welsh FA tells their people to listen to me, the English FA fucking hates me. They picked two of my players but not the third and that is one of the most aggravating things that has ever happened. Why wasn''t she picked? Because she''s deaf. I''m ready to burst, Aur¨¦lie. It''s so unfair I can''t stand it. She''s as good as Wibbers, and when the England coaches saw him up close they threw him in the team. He scored on his debut and played the full 90 minutes." I jabbed a tomato. "There''s this saying that keeps haunting me. No good deed goes unpunished. I''ve been training these young players and talking them up. Trying to get them in the national teams because that''s a wonderful moment for them and their families. And what''s my reward? Suddenly my training sessions are empty and the easiest match of the season is a banana skin. Oh! And my former record signing, my big Australian striker, has decided he''s too good for the club! He has checked out. I''ll still make a profit on him but now I have to replace three strikers in the summer."


    Henri gritted his teeth. "Yes, well, there is a lot to unpack there, Max. But let''s start with Dazza. That''s the Australian striker, maman." Henri put his cutlery down and steepled his fingers. "Why did you sign him?"


    "To learn some mental Aussie slang," I said.


    "Really."


    I tutted and tried to think back. "He said he wants to learn."


    "Why does he want to learn?"


    "To play for his country."


    "Good. So he is selected - he finds out early, perhaps - and with Chester cruising against a very poor team, he elects to take it easy. He doesn''t want to get injured before he makes the step up to a higher level."


    "Ooh, hang on," I said. "He doesn''t get to choose who he tries against."


    Henri grinned. "That is something he learned, is it not?"


    Aur¨¦lie said, "I am confused."


    Henri explained. "This is the club versus country dilemma. The highest honour is to represent one''s country. Many, many players will take it easy in the week before an international match. No-one wants to be injured in the time before a national team game. However, on the other hand, the national team does not pay the player''s wages. In the case of Dazza, Chester Football Club pay his wages. For Max, the idea that Dazza might take it easy in the blue-and-white stripes is anathema."


    I rubbed my forehead. "What are you saying? I should forgive the twat?"


    "I would never tell you what to do but yes, you should forgive the twat. You bought him because he wants to work hard to play for his country and he worked hard and he''s playing for his country! After your blast he knows what is expected and if he ever again slacks off before an international break you can act accordingly. Personally, I think he will never do it but that you will rest him in some such matches anyway. An unspoken compromise."


    "Live happily ever after," I spat.


    Henri rubbed my arm again. "Do not make it harder than it needs to be."


    "I represent the fans," I said. "It''s their money. They deserve to be treated with respect."


    "We did win seven-nil," said Henri. "The fans were happy. But I agree with you and I think Dazza agrees with you. He is young, we corrected him, let that be an end to it."


    "What about Angel?" said Aur¨¦lie. "What can you tell me about her?"


    "As a player, or...?"


    "As a person."


    "She is driven and motivated and she learns fast. You tell her what to do and she''ll do it."


    "My workshop has developed a new scent, one aimed at young women. The TikTok generation. We have been looking for the face of this scent. I watched Chesterness to see what my son had been doing with his life. To my surprise, I very much enjoyed it but - " I bristled; she knew Henri had produced the show. She spotted my change in mood - it wasn''t subtle. "I only meant that I do not like sports. Sport led to my greatest ever mistake. I like Angel, however. She could be just what I need."


    Henri said, "We have two possible names for the perfume. I would be interested to hear your preference."


    "Hit me."


    "The first is..." He splayed his fingers and spread his hands. "Jejune."


    "Right."


    "The second is... Arriviste."


    "Okay," I said. My French was ropey but I was pretty sure neither word conveyed a positive meaning. They were teasing me, the provincial boy too dumb to even recognise he was being mocked. "Jejune," I said. "I would buy a perfume called Jejune. Not only that, I would pour my entire family fortune into a marketing campaign around that name and a wilful young English striker who might just turn out to be the next Elizabeth Taylor."


    "My thoughts exactly," said Aur¨¦lie. "Good. I think that''s settled. Now, tell me why you don''t want my son."


    Her sense of humour was wild; I could barely track what level the conversation was operating on. I decided to speak plainly. "We are going to League One," I said. "Today, Henri became a League One player." I clapped him on the back. "It''s a tremendous moment, one we''ve both been waiting for. I wanted to mark the day in some spectacular fashion but..." I picked up my fork but immediately dropped it. "But I don''t want League One players; we''re not staying there. No, at the end of this season he will join a club called Tranmere Rovers along with Lee Hudson and some rugged winners of a similar level. They will win the league, leave Tranmere, and join another club of my choosing. We''ll do it three times at least. It will be amazing. Nothing like it has ever been done before and very probably will never be done again."


    Aur¨¦lie wasn''t happy. She gave me a level look. "Henri is happy where he is. He must stay. I am willing to invest in the club in order to ensure his happiness."


    "Not going to happen," I said. "You heard the numbers. Soon I''ll get ten million in TV money, followed shortly after by a hundred million. I no longer need outside money. I''ve made a lot of mistakes this season. This isn''t one of them."


    "Doesn''t Henri have a choice in the matter?"


    "Sure. He can go to some other club. But then the guilt will be on his hands, not mine."


    "Guilt?"


    "Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do."


    Henri gasped. "You read Voltaire!"


    "I tried," I said, with a wry smile. "I can''t concentrate on books. I''ve got manager brain. I fixate on a phrase and can''t get past it."


    "But why do you say guilty?" asked Aur¨¦lie.


    "Henri has eight more league matches and two in the Cheshire Cup. That''s the end of one chapter of his life. In the next, he will move to Birkenhead, a place where poverty grinds good people to dust. Henri will be a beacon of hope; he will spread joy, he will be a teacher to their young players. They have good young players, Aur¨¦lie, and your son is a fantastic role model. Chester will win League One, Tranmere will win League Two. Henri will score goals galore and to celebrate them he will skip around Prenton Park like a newborn giraffe while ten thousand maniacs scream his name. When he''s done being the hero he''ll drive to Chester and help Sophie turn our raw footage into award-winning content. He''ll cook for Luisa and she''ll tell him about the shitty customers she had that day. That is the good he will do. Good for the BBC, good for his community, good for the people he loves."


    In the silence, I realised that was the moment I wanted to give Henri.


    ***


    Our plates were collected, our mains arrived. Mine was a bunch of fried vegetables around a bit of chicken. I wasn''t hungry; I poked at it.


    Aur¨¦lie sipped her water. "Is my investment safe with you, Max?"


    "The stand or the new pitch?"


    "Tell me about both."


    "The stand is the easiest money of all time. We have five first-team players on international duty but if I were in charge, Banksy and Dan would have gone with England along with Wibbers. The squad is worth tens of millions and that number''s soaring." I sipped on my water. "One of my advantages is that I''m tactically flexible so I can select players based on pure talent. Some are tall, some are short, some are fast, some are technical. I can set up the team so that most players can shine in most matches. We''re competitive in most games and when we''re good, we''re really good. Our matches are exciting, on the whole, and attendances are rising quickly. I''m doing incredible things with no money but so is Brooke. She does all that email segmenting stuff. These messages go to married people, those go to singletons. These go to young lads, those to the olds. We''re building the waiting list for season tickets."


    "Brooke doesn''t like season tickets."


    How had that come up? "If you sell a season ticket, you sell it at a discount and those fans are less likely to go to the club shop and spend money. Brooke is looking at data from Liverpool and Man United that shows that a so-called tourist will spend x times more than a season ticket holder. My priority isn''t to make money, per se, but to create an atmosphere that helps us win games and to build a long-term fan base. Liverpool and United might be able to coast on Irish and Scandinavian fans but they''re pricing out their natural fan base. Will it bite them on the arse one day? I hope so. We''re doing the opposite. Long-term thinking, top to bottom. The stand you''ve helped pay for will have cheap tickets. Young lads who don''t have loads of cash will come and sing their hearts out and scare the other team. We''ll fill it in League One. Next season we''re doing the away end."


    Henri reacted like I had punched him in the face. "What?"


    "Yeah. This conversation is off the record, Aur¨¦lie. I''ll deny it if you blab."


    "Blab?" she said, but I powered on. I was getting some of my old enthusiasm back.


    "I told you we would be playing Derby and Blackpool and God knows who next season, and the one after that will be even more epic. Leeds, maybe. Sunderland, Everton, Swansea. Who knows? I''ll tell you one thing - we''ll be able to sell four thousand tickets in the away end every week, no problem. So we need that stand."


    "How will you pay for it?" said Henri. "It will be too soon for another mini-bond."


    "Oh, who cares?" I said. "By then I''ll be selling six Foquitas before breakfast."


    "Fajitas?" said Aur¨¦lie.


    "Guess what?" I said, turning to Henri, my eyes shining. "You know the way there are no venues for live music anymore? I''m going to put one in the away end. Super thingied - in the walls - so that no neighbours will hear anything. Perfect for local bands, right? Come and do a gig, make a little bit of cash, hone your craft. I''ve even got a name for the venue."


    Henri smiled at my enthusiasm. "Tell me."


    "Anka What?!"


    "I love it," he smiled.


    "Angkor Wat?" said Aur¨¦lie.


    "Yes!" I said, practically jiggling. I threw a pepper into my mouth. "We had a player called Joe Anka. Big music guy, great taste, not judgemental. He''ll go round finding new acts, promoting the venue. We''ll do some fucking Oasis tribute acts or whatever so that the place makes a profit. We need that for PSR but really it''s my way of turning Chester into a cool place for new music to thrive. I grew up on Manchester guitar bands but when was the last new one? They''ve got nowhere to do gigs. Hey, guess what? I''ve got a stadium. I can be the solution."


    "What about big concerts?" said Henri.


    "No, you dick. Not on the pitch."


    "In the summer."


    "No. Flat no. You sound like Brooke and MD. Don''t annoy me."


    Aur¨¦lie said, "What is PSR?"


    "Profit and Sustainability Rules," I said. "We probably won''t ever have a problem with those rules but basically you have to make football money to spend football money. Anything in the stadium counts towards your income. The pitch you helped us finance will count towards our income. I''m thinking of schemes that will generate more that will count towards PSR, just in case. I mean, they could change the rules, right? I need to get ahead of everything. I''m thinking five years down the line. Scratch that, I''m thinking twenty years down the line. Fifty. I want to protect the long-term future of the club."


    I think Aur¨¦lie was slightly confused but she liked seeing me enthusiastic. "What else do you have in mind?"


    "I''d love a hotel," I said. Henri nearly choked on a potato wedge. I eyed him. "A hotel near the stadium makes sense. We would rent rooms to the referees, to guys from the opposition, to travelling fans. Chester''s a tourist destination, too. Does it need another hotel? I dunno. But if there is one I think people would use it and that income would count towards the club''s numbers. Next to that, I''m thinking digs. Henri, don''t panic."


    "Digs?" said his mum.


    "Yeah, it''s like a cheap flat for the young players to stay in. Henri has a - can I say this?"


    "Yes."


    "Henri has a big house and there are loads of baby gorillas living in there. Henri''s the perfect host because he teaches them about ham and how to chop oranges and all that. But we''ve got Best''s Babes and Best''s Bales and we could fill three or four digs! We''re way off what we need. I''d normally be happy to let private people run those spaces - Henri does a great job and we''ve got a part of the stadium named after a family who took care of young players for years. But I''ve been thinking about the origins of the sport."


    "In what way?" said Henri.


    I shoved another mouthful of scran inside my gob and tried to explain it using only my hands. That didn''t work. "In the olden days, British workers worked six days a week."


    "When was your last day off, Max?"


    I pointed at him. "Don''t interrupt my rants with your interventions. Okay, six days a week down a mine. The government said, hey, we are some of the worst people who ever lived but even we think this is bonkers. Give them Saturday afternoon off, you dicks. For a while, these factory owners, mine owners, shipyard owners watched their employees leave at one p.m. on Saturday, their pockets full of cash. Gosh, they thought. Wasn''t it painful handing over all that coin? I wish we could get some back. One genius made a football team and charged for entry. His workers left the pit or the factory and walked straight to the stadium. They gave the coins they''d just earned right back to their boss before cheering on a team wearing their badge. The tycoon bought better players so they''d win more matches so that his workers would go to the stadium in ever greater numbers. Diabolical, right? Now, fast forward to your socialist poster child Max Best. I''m imagining a Friday afternoon just like this one. I hand out hundreds of pounds to my young players, to my ever-swelling backroom staff, to my coaches, to my groundsmen, but instead of scattering to the four winds, they walk down Bumpers Lane and go into the lovely compound I''ve built. They go into their nice digs, their small but charming flats, and ding ding ding! Loads of that money I just chucked out the window comes floating back in."


    Aur¨¦lie was giving me a strange look. "I don''t know enough about the industry to spot the flaw, but I suspect there is one."


    "Of course," I said. "The plan works if we''re League One or higher. Then we need loads of staff and the youth teams are stuffed to the gills. Do you know we don''t have a full-time media person? Everyone just sort of chips in. We won''t be able to get away with that next season. We need, like, ten new back office staff. Five new groundsmen. More coaches, more physios. I love creating jobs but I hate not having a ready-made place for them to live. Why not build one flat per employee? Yeah, it would work great in the good times but in bad times, if Chester went back to non-league, the places would be empty." I shrugged. "That''s when the compound becomes affordable housing for randos and the hotel becomes, well, a badly-located hotel."


    "It''s fun to daydream," said Henri.


    "Mate," I said. "This is going to happen. We''re going to do it. I just need to make sure the club can never drop below League One."


    "How will you do that?"


    "Sheer weight of money. What am I going to do with a hundred million pounds? We can''t spend that on players. We''ll be signing Scandinavian full backs for six million pounds or whatever, not buying ready-made Premier League guys for forty mill. We won''t be able to afford the wages! No, first year in the Prem I''ll build the hotel and some flats and we''ll hire twenty dentists and do a hundred mad things that are good for the community but actually make money for Chester FC. If we stay in the Prem for five years, that''s half a bill. There has to be a way to turn that into... I don''t know. A thingy. A kitty that you smash open when the club drops too far."


    "A sovereign fund," said Henri. "You want to turn Chester FC into a sovereign wealth fund."


    His mother got that sneery look on her face. "It''s a football club, not a state."


    "Max is the state. He''ll put a hundred million into a fund and the club will get 4% a year. Four million pounds is enough to survive in League One, isn''t it, Max?"


    "It''s more than we''ll get next season." I drummed my fingers on the table. "That''s really interesting. That''s how I protect the club, isn''t it? That''s how I build resilience. A million a year keeps a club in the National League. Two and a half million gives you a shot at staying in League Two. Four million for League One, and so on. Feed the fund to raise the floor, permanently."


    Could I build the stadium, put together a winning team, and stick one hundred million pounds in an account no-one could ever touch? Sure, if I stayed doing the job long enough. And if the seven-year time limit on the curse was strictly a K-pop thing...


    "Football managers are obsessed with mistakes," I mused. "Defenders who slip, bad passes. They lose sleep thinking about all the mistakes their players might make. I hate that mentality. For me, it''s the opposite. You can play a series of passes so perfect that no-one, and I mean no-one, can stop you. Johan Cruyff once said, Before I make a mistake, I don''t make that mistake. That''s how I try to do things. Do things right years before the moment even comes. Make decisions so perfect you can get away with a hundred mistakes. Wooing Henri. Buying solar panels so Henri can have hour-long showers."


    Aur¨¦lie thumped the table. "Yes! At last, someone agrees with me. It is comical how long he takes! How long I have waited for this moment. Thank you, Max Best!"


    I grinned as Henri pretended to preen, but then I got thoughtful. "It will fucking suck if Bradford win this league, that''s for sure. We have to fight that with all we''ve got. Six points in the next four days will scare the shit out of them." I rubbed my forehead hard and slowly pulled my fingers down my cheeks. "Dazza wants to play for his country. I can live with that. Nutjobs think I''m doing a runner. They''ll be first in line for tickets at the stand they don''t believe in. Transfer bans can''t stop me. Next season I''ll win six leagues in three countries - Chester, Tranmere, Saltney, College, West, and Chester Women. The only thing worse than being me is not being me." I felt my eyes blazing. "Gonna fuck Colchester all the way up."


    My phone shook. A reply from Magnus.


    I like being pursued by you but please save your energy for the big game. I already want to stay at Chester.


    I shot to my feet and did a lap of the restaurant before sitting down. I tucked into the rest of my plate, devouring it. I was suddenly incredibly hungry.


    When my plate was clean, I realised I had spaced out for at least a few minutes. I glanced at my dining companions but they didn''t seem put out. "I''m back," I said.


    Henri smiled. "Yes, you are."


    His mum said, "Brooke was trying to pitch me on the idea of sponsoring the women''s team."


    "We have a sponsor," I said. "Glendale. They''re mint."


    "Brooke doesn''t think they can scale. The path to the top in the women''s game is easier than in the men''s, it seems."


    "Yes." I thought about the women''s team being sponsored by a luxury perfume brand. It passed the smell test. "That would be an amazing deal for you. We''re going to be one of the most famous teams in the world very soon."


    "The documentary," said Aur¨¦lie. "Brooke mentioned you were uncertain about filming another series."


    "It''s back on," I said. "They''re going to learn my new way of playing football. Shit, that makes perfume even better. One guy called what we do ''the mist''. I can imagine the first advert now. The players are playing, normal stuff, they come together, form the mist, the camera pulls away so fast their heads become droplets, the droplets are bits of perfume, the mist, the mist is someone''s breath, Henri in a mermaid outfit spins around and says..."


    Henri flicked his hair back and pouted. "Arriviste."


    His mum fell into fits of giggles, her eyes crinkling.


    I said, "Heh. I wasn''t thinking of the documentary, though. We''ll be challenging for the Champions League soon. Yeah, maybe Glendale won''t cut it by then. Okay, sure, it''d be good to get ahead of it. I don''t like changing sponsors, though. Glendale have been good to us. Tell you what, we''ve got something fun happening this evening. This team from Colombia arrived yesterday. There are about twelve of them and they''re staying with women from the Chester team. They''re filming some of their interactions on their phones and Henri''s going to have to wade through it all looking for good stuff. You know he''s an editing genius, right? He''s so fucking talented I can''t stand it!" I tried to wrestle him but he fended me off. I brushed my hair back. "I think there will be a lot of pairings who don''t speak each other''s language but this evening''s the first training session and after that I think there will be a lot more mutual respect and they''ll have a blast. Come and meet everyone! Oh, and my friend Mateo will be there. He''s the boss of Tranmere, where your son will be going, and he''s letting us use his training ground for the rest of the time the Colombians are here. He''s just the best guy. You''ll like him."


    "Yes, that sounds very agreeable. I would like that."


    ***


    COLOMBIA


    Chesterness 2: The Relentlessness


    Episode 7: El Guapo Loco


    We see sepia-tinted images of the under 20 World Cup in Chile while a narrator speaks.


    NARRATOR


    In the summer of 2025, Max Best went to Chile to watch the under 20 World Cup. There, he discovered Dazza and Foquita, but he also networked with staff from Envigado FC, a team in Colombia.


    [Photo of Best in the stand next to an attractive woman with long black hair.]


    He met the manager of their women''s team, Catalina, and arranged for Envigado to send a team to Chester.


    [Stock footage of a plane. Cut to: lots of tired and grumpy Colombian women pushing suitcases around an airport.]


    They arrived yesterday.


    [Talking head - Catalina showing all her teeth. She speaks Spanish.]


    CATALINA


    I met Max Best in Chile and I was very happy. He understands football. I hope he understands that we have a very special player here. Her name is Meredith Ann. I think she is unbelievable but she needs to move to a higher level of football to develop further. Her grandmother is from Wales; she has a Welsh passport. It seems to be so perfect. I believe in her talent. I believe Max will see it.


    [She puts her hands together.]


    I pray he does!


    [Talking head - A small, shy girl.]


    MEREDITH ANN


    I want to play in the same team as Femi and Charlotte and Sarah Greene and of course Dani. I hope Max Best likes me. I think I am good enough. I am good enough. It won''t be easy being away from my family but I want to play football. I want to be the best player in the world.


    [Three Colombian girls are in the Sin Bin. One is wearing a big coat and a wooly hat.]


    COLOMBIAN PLAYER ONE


    It is too cold here. My host family have ketchup for dinner.


    COLOMBIAN PLAYER TWO


    Mine are great! I love it here. The energy is just my speed. Everybody laughs all the time.


    COLOMBIAN PLAYER THREE


    I can''t wait until this evening. We will train with the girls from Chesterness. Dani Smith-Smithe will be there! They said Max Best would come.


    COLOMBIAN PLAYER ONE


    Oh my God will you shut up about Max Best?


    COLOMBIAN PLAYER THREE


    How about no?


    COLOMBIAN PLAYER TWO


    El Guapo Loco!


    COLOMBIAN PLAYER THREE


    Heh heh heh!


    [The Chester women are on the 3G pitch at Bumpers Bank. Some of the visitors are there. There''s a lot of tension.]


    [Cut to: Max ambling around. Someone calls him and he goes towards a group that includes Henri, his mother, Sophie the producer, and Mateo. Elin runs up to Max. Someone is wearing a mic; we hear what''s said.]


    ELIN


    Boss, everyone''s really tense. I was thinking it''d be good if you did an ice-breaker.


    MAX


    Oh. You mean like telling them about the Cambrian era or something like that?


    ELIN


    I was thinking you could take some free kicks, like.


    MAX


    Lame.


    ELIN


    It is not lame. They''ll love it. Look, we''ve got the mannequins there, see? Come show off in front of a load of exotic women.


    MAX


    When you say it like that...


    [Cut to: Max lining up a free kick. He turns to the players.]


    MAX


    Check this out, ladies. What you do is you line it up all nice and scientific. Check the wind with your finger like this. Aaaaannnnd... bosh!


    [He slams the free kick into the base of the mannequin and hops around.]


    MAX


    The wall is supposed to jump! Why didn''t it jump! Elin! You brought the wrong mannequins!


    COLOMBIANS


    [Laughter.]


    [Cries of ''Guapo Loco!'']


    ELIN


    Boooooosssss, please.


    MAX


    Fine. Urgh. I need three volunteers.


    [Cut to: three Colombian women standing on the goal line, holding footballs above their heads. Two are over by the left-hand post, one is over by the right.]


    MAX


    Henri, Sophie, I''m thinking this bit could be set to Flight of the Valkyries. What do you think?


    [Max has three balls arrayed in front of him. He inhales and cracks one over the wall. It hits one of the balls being held aloft. Max yells: BOSH! Max hits the second even harder - it smacks into the ball by the right hand post. BOSH! The third is hit with half the pace but twice the swerve. The ball holder yelps, drops her ball, and jogs away.]


    MAX


    [Laughing.]


    What the [bleep]? Hey! Oi! Get back here. Let''s do that again. This is going on the BBC. Entiendes?


    ELIN


    Okay, thank you very much, boss. I think we''re ready to start.


    MAX


    Yeah, start, yeah.


    [He''s looking around, increasingly confused. He bites a nail then flings his hand away.]


    [Cut to: simple passing drills. Elin and Catalina are shouting instructions in English and Spanish.]


    [Henri sidles up to Max.]


    HENRI


    Is something wrong, my friend? You look troubled.


    MAX


    She''s not here. Where is she?


    HENRI


    Do you mean Meredith Ann? I asked her to wait. You know, to build the tension. I would like her to make a dramatic entrance.


    MAX


    You have got to be [bleep] kidding. Get her on the pitch right [bleep] now or I''ll [bleep] batter you. What the [bleep], mate.


    [Meredith Ann emerges from one of the cabins. It''s the last time that cabin will appear on the show; the next day it will be moved to Saltney.]


    [There''s a close-up on Max''s face as Meredith dribbles. She''s taller than the last time he saw her, but she''s still one of the smallest players. The camera moves closer. Max''s restless eyes do not budge; they simply get wider.]


    [The cameraman moves into Max''s peripheral vision; the manager seems to wake up. He calls Henri and Sophie over.]


    MAX


    I want you to film me saying something but I want you to save it for the epilogue, okay?


    HENRI


    Whatever you wish.


    [Max glances at Meredith before looking down the lens. He opens his mouth. The picture freezes and we fade to black.]


    [We fade back to a small-sided game. Max is the coach and the referee. Meredith and Dani are on the same team. They seem to have a good understanding. Max blows his whistle.]


    MAX


    Thanks, ladies. Elin''s back in charge.


    [Max goes to Catalina and calls a cameraman over.]


    MAX


    I''m in.


    CATALINA


    Yessss!


    MAX


    Do you have a transfer fee in mind?


    CATALINA


    Jes¨²s wants me to ask for two hundred million pesos.


    MAX


    Holy shit.


    CATALINA


    It''s about forty thousand pounds.


    MAX


    Wow, my heart nearly exploded. Ha ha. Okay, here''s my offer. Four hundred million pesos and a giant crate of French perfume. What do you say?


    CATALINA


    [Biggest smile ever.]


    I say yes.


    [Max calls Meredith Ann over. She is slightly out of breath.]


    MAX


    [Twirls his finger around.]


    This is England.


    [He points across the river.]


    That is Wales.


    [He points to the ground beneath her feet.]


    This is your new country.


    [He points to the Deva stadium.]


    That is your new club.


    MEREDITH ANN


    Country. Club.


    [She slowly looks over her left shoulder, then her right. Her grin takes up most of her face.]


    Okay!

 13.11 - St. Well Ins Day

    11.


    Saturday, March 28


    Red Army Discord: Always Bet on Best


    ButteryCrumpets


    All right, lads. Pay attention. Absolutely massive game for Chester today and it looks pretty chaotic in the betting markets. No bugger seems to be able to make head nor tail of it.


    On the one hand you''ve got Chester, third in the table, flying, scoring goals for fun.


    You''ve got Colchester down near the bottom, fighting for their lives, not doing a good job of it. Swindon, Sutton, and Newport look even worse, but it''s close.


    But Chester are riddled with injuries and players away. They''ve got twelve fit first-teamers and four of those are twenty or under. From what I can tell, Best will have no choice but to play 3-5-2 with Lyons up top. Would he use himself as a second striker? He hasn''t done that very often. And will he start or come on at the end? Knowing that would help a LOT.


    Important to know: they have another match against Crewe on Tuesday. They might have Zach Green back for that one but in a rational world this would be either/or. Either you try to beat Colchester or Crewe. Right? And we know that''s how he thinks. If he''s going to bin off the Colchester match to make sure he wins the local derby, I don''t want my money going anywhere near this one.


    RetiredRed


    He wants to win the league. The only way to do it is to get six points from six. He HAS to beat Colchester.


    BrokenGround


    RR is right. As far as I can tell, it''s being treated as a must-win.


    Bonnie told me Best has been working on a motivational video with the production crew. Apparently something happened yesterday that lit a fire up his arse, big time, and he was running around going ''Henri, come and explain Shakespeare to me! Where the fuck''s Pascal? He knows this shit. Sophie, help me storyboard this!''


    After they wrote the script, Best texted the players to come in bright and early this morning for some filming. They already had to be up at silly o''clock because they''re going to Essex but he wanted them even earlier than that.


    The whole thing might turn into one of his jokes and we''ll find out he''s happy to finish third. I say don''t place any bets until the video comes out.


    Stoop


    It''s out.


    I''ll share the link here. Let me watch it real quick though.


    Um...


    This isn''t the right channel.


    ***


    Red Army Discord: Let''s All Laugh At Chester


    Stoop


    <Here''s a link> to Max Best''s big motivational speech for a match against a team at the bottom of the league.


    RetiredRed


    Why did you change channel? How bad can it be?


    ***


    INTERIOR: The Sin Bin


    [Llewellyn (AKA Well In), Sandra, and Vimsy are standing in front of a flipchart. At the top it says ''players available versus Colchester''. Someone has written thirty names and crossed most of them out.]


    WELL IN


    I wish we had a few more players.


    [The door bursts open. Max storms in, eyes blazing.]


    MAX


    Who said that? Well In? On your birthday?


    No, mate. If we''re marked to lose, we''re enough to do Chester proud and if to win, the fewer the men, the greater share of honour!


    [Max turns and with a seamless transition, he, the coaches, and flipchart are outside, with the Chester men''s first team scattered vaguely around. They drift closer as Max orates. Music starts.]


    MAX


    Wish not for one man more.


    I do not crave gold, I don''t care who eats my scran, you can borrow my drips if you want.


    Such outward things dwell not in my desires.


    But if it be a sin to covet glory,


    I am the most offending soul alive!


    [The team and staff are in a tight huddle, arms around each other. The music swells.]


    No, Well In, do not wish one more!


    Rather put it out on the socials,


    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,


    Let him depart; his passport shall be made


    And crowns for convoy put into his manbag.


    We would not lose in that man¡¯s company


    Who doesn''t have the balls to lose with us.


    [The camera circles the group. Christian looks fierce. Sandra looks ready to invade France. Vimsy''s in tears.]


    This day is called the feast of Llewellyn.


    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,


    Will stand a tip-toe when the day comes round.


    He that shall live to see old age,


    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,


    And say ¡®Tomorrow is Well In''s birthday.¡¯


    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.


    And say ¡®these wounds I had on Well In''s Day.¡¯


    [Back to Max. The music is dramatic, stirring, spine-tingling.]


    Old men forget. He''ll forget everything else,


    But he¡¯ll remember with advantages


    What feats he did that day.


    [Close-ups on shining faces.]


    Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words -


    Henri the king, the Lees and Christian,


    Josh and Duggers, Bark and Bochum,


    Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.


    [Close-up on Max.]


    This story shall the good man teach his son;


    And Well In''s birthday shall never go by,


    From this day to the ending of the world,


    But we in it shall be remembered.


    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;


    For he today that sheds his blood with me


    Shall be my brother.


    ***


    Stoop


    What even was that? Was that from Avengers: Infinity War?


    BrokenGround


    Henry the Fifth. Bonnie''s texting me. Hang on.


    Right, so Best was all hyper and he was like ''inject me with some Shakespeare right fucking now'' and they came up with that as the perfect speech because it''s all about not having the numbers and winning anyway.


    The original is all about St. Crispin''s Day, Bonnie says, but that''s in October. Best was looking for something about March 28th but there''s nothing. He wanted something that sounded like Crispin. He goes ''Well In. It''s Well In''s birthday!'' and, well, there you go.


    DubaiGuy


    Max Best to score first.


    Stoop


    Are you sure?


    DubaiGuy


    Max Best to score first.


    ***


    Match 39 of 46: Colchester United versus Chester


    Colchester away is one of the longest, most draining trips Chester could have. Four and a half hours - too far for brave Sealbiscuit. We hired a crappy diesel, stuffed it with teenagers, and set off early.


    Our entire season came down to this. Outnumbered five to one, fighting far from home, death or glory. Sandra would normally have spent the trip going over and over the line up and checking we had optimised the formation, but today there was no point. 3-5-2 was the only formation that made sense and most of the team picked itself.


    I would check the pitch when we arrived but unless it was a total bog, I would pick Swanny in goal. He had CA 86 versus Sticky''s 79 and he would allow us to keep the ball. If we could manage our energy levels, we might not even need our subs.


    Josh Owens would have to play as the left-sided centre back. It wasn''t too much of a stretch for him to do that, and his CA 71 compared well to a lot of the Colchester players. I felt better knowing that Christian Fierce would be beside him. Our CA 93 captain would talk him through the game, and there would be more support from Lee Hudson, now maxed on CA 91.


    The midfield from left to right was Duggers (91), Ryan Jack (76), Lee C (90), and Andrew Harrison (72). I would line up as a CM but would probably drop to DM and try to save energy. Stop a couple of attacks, cause a nuisance from set pieces, but otherwise, don''t get involved.


    As forwards we had Henri (92) and Pascal (90). Henri would lead the line, win headers, overpower centre backs, make runs. Pascal would drop and connect with the midfield - at times it would be 3-6-1. He would also try to anticipate Henri''s flick-ons and would try to stretch Colchester''s back line.


    Yeah, that eleven would be far too much for the home team, but if we got an injury we were in deep doo-doo. Apart from Sticky, the only bench options I trusted were Bark (CA 70) and Dan (66). There was a big drop to Tyson (50), and I really couldn''t imagine winning with Lucas Friend (left back), Jamie Brotherhood (right back), or Henk (centre back) spending significant time on the pitch.


    If we didn''t use the subs, though, we''d be dead on Tuesday.


    I needed help. I needed the fans.


    ***


    Boggy: Approaching kick off here in the Colchester Community Stadium and I am a bag of nerves. Max Best is at the away end, riling up the 500 or so who have made the long, arduous journey. Wow! Listen to that!


    Spectrum: That is immense.


    Boggy: The TV company is flashing up a league table that shows Chester in third place, five points behind Mansfield, who are playing today, and eight points behind Bradford City, who are not. If we beat Colchester and Crewe we will be two points behind Bradford City. What do you make of it, Speckers?


    Spectrum: It''s just another crazy season. The pressure''s building again. Chester are coming to the boil at just the right time. We need to survive today and then anything can happen.


    Boggy: Max Best produced an extraordinary video, released about an hour ago, in which he channels Henry the Fifth before the battle of Agincourt.


    Spectrum: That''s for the fans. The team needs every bit of help it can get but I''m expecting a calm, steady, performance. Lots of possession, very measured attacks, very efficient. Just watch - you won''t see any of that blood and thunder stuff.


    Boggy: Nearly time, but what''s this? Max Best, starting today, wearing our yellow change kit, has jumped over the hoardings and is making his way up the West Stand. Oh, no. Max, no!


    Spectrum: It''s okay! Look.


    Boggy: Ah, what a relief. Max is powering past a lot of very confused fans to see his friends Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash. I wonder what the champion boxers made of the video.


    Spectrum: I doubt anyone outside the Chester fanbase has seen it, Boggy.


    Boggy: Fair point.


    ***


    Donnie Wormwood was gushing. "Goosebumps, Max. It''s easy to get that kind of thing wrong but it got my blood pumping, let me tell you. The U''s need three points today but you nearly got me cheering for Chester. That''s how good it was."


    "Thanks, Donnie."


    "Amazing. Just amazing."


    Danny Flash was there for some reason. "I liked it, too."


    "Don''t Grimsby have a match today?"


    "I''m suspended."


    Donnie grinned. "Tenth booking of the season. He''s trying to break a record. Got any advice for him?"


    "Yeah," I said. "An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind."


    Donnie laughed hard. "You come in peace today, is that it?"


    "Max," croaked Don. He was in his wheelchair, a blanket covering his knees. He had aged badly since I last saw him. Very badly. "Max."


    I didn''t want to look at him, to be honest, but I got as close as I could and took his hand. "I''m here, mate."


    "I''m in a bad way," he wheezed. "Docs say I won''t make it through another round."


    "Fuck," I said. "Chemo? No-one told me."


    Donnie bent a little. "Another round like a boxer, Max."


    "Oh, right."


    "Don does like to get poetic."


    Don patted my hand. To think his murder mittens had once been registered as a deadly weapon as a publicity stunt. Now they looked like they wouldn''t be able to crack an egg. "This could be my last match as a U, lad. Don''t want to go to the ringside seat in the sky knowing..." He coughed pathetically. "Knowing the lads are back on the undercard." He sucked some breath in, an action that seemed to exhaust him. I looked up at Donnie and Danny but they made no move to rescue me. Don stirred. "Max, please," he whispered. "Let us win, Max."


    I stared at him; eternity stared back.


    A tiny shift from Danny caught my eye; his poker face was failing. "Fuck me," I said, rising to my full height. "You had me going then, you dick!"


    Don Flash cackled. "Heh heh."


    "If you weren''t a hundred years old, I''d batter you."


    "I could still have you," said Don. "I''ve still got the moves, don''t you worry."


    "You''ll want to get down on the pitch," said Donnie. "Kick-off in twenty seconds."


    "So?" I said. "I could beat your lot from up here."


    "Heh heh," said Don. "Cocky little shit. Heh."


    ***


    Boggy: Colchester get us underway in their blue-and-white tops, white shorts, white socks. Chester are yellow, black, and black. The ball is flung wide right, Chester''s left. Josh Owens bodychecks Gilbey, nice play, sweeps the ball back to Ian Swan - ooooh that''s a bad tackle. Late tackle from behind. Gilbey crunched into the back of Owens''s calf.


    Spectrum: Straight red, that.


    Boggy: Let''s see what the referee does. Annnnnd it''s nothing. Absolutely nothing.


    Spectrum: Bottled it.


    Boggy: Max Best playing peacemaker down there, as the Chester lads go looking for trouble.


    ***


    Taking Josh out of the game was a good plan in theory. He was the youngest, the least able to look after himself, and played a position we couldn''t really work around.


    When the ref declined to even give Gilbey a yellow card, I kept my cool. The curse was showing me that Josh was all right, and Colchester had showed me how they wanted to play the match.


    I behaved beautifully.


    ***


    From The First Footballer in Space: The Pascal Bochum Story.


    Gilbey, a Colchester forward went in hard, late, and from behind on Josh Owens. Max went ballistic.


    From the outside, he looked calm. He did the things a leader is supposed to do - he got between our hotheads and the oppo, he pushed players away from aggro, he changed our focus from revenge to checking on the well-being of our colleague.


    That was all for the benefit of the TV cameras. How do I know? Because all the time he was calling out what he was really thinking:


    "Ref''s bottled it, lads. It''s a free-for-all, lads. Anything goes, lads." He grabbed a bottle of water from Physio Dean, unscrewed the top, fucking drenched himself with it like an offering to the gods, and growled, "Watch how we deal with cowards."


    Josh seemed okay to continue, thank Christ, and we took the free kick and passed the ball around the defence and midfield for a minute. The whole time, Max was bent over with his hands on his thighs, watching Gilbey wherever he went.


    Duggers hadn''t been with us long enough to know what was happening, so he made the stupid mistake of passing the ball to Max. Max tutted - what the fuck are you doing? - but he flicked the ball up and hit it high over to the left. Sort of in the direction of Duggers. You could make a case that he was passing it to Duggers.


    I mean, you could.


    Honest.


    ***


    Best with a poorly-directed lob.


    Gilbey waits for it to come down. He doesn''t have many options so will probably turn back towards his own goal.


    He controls the ball well...


    And is shoulder-barged by Best. Best pushes the ball down the line but the referee has blown his whistle.


    Foul to Colchester.


    Max Best can''t believe it.


    ***


    Boggy: Bit of handbags just in front of us at the minute. From what I could tell, Max Best hit a stray pass, chased it, there was a tussle, Best won the ball, the ref awarded an extremely harsh free kick. Does that sound right?


    Spectrum: I''d say you''re missing some of the colour, Boggy. When Max Best hits a stray pass that he heroically chases, and the person he''s competing with happens to be the same guy who landed a reducer on one of our young players, and that guy ends up crashing into the advertising boards, ah, yeah. Best hit a stray pass and there was a tussle tells part of the story.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Boggy: Best''s stray pass has certainly increased the temperature around here. One or two of the home players - and fans - are not happy.


    Spectrum: Why would they be happy? They live in Colchester.


    Boggy: Come on, Speckers.


    ***


    Free kick to Colchester. It''s aimed into the box. Hudson heads away.


    Bochum picks the ball up and dribbles away.


    He outpaces several defenders and clips the ball square to Jack.


    Dugdale is on the left and the ball is played to his feet.


    Best is surging forward, demanding the ball.


    Dugdale rolls it into his path...


    But Best collides with a defender! That was an unfortunate coming together. Both men are down.


    Referee signals play on. The ball rolls to Jack. He passes ahead.


    Bochum collects. Neat pass into the centre.


    Shot from Lyons!


    Saved!


    Lyons couldn''t get enough purchase on it.


    The referee checks on the players who collided. They are still tangled up.


    ***


    Saint Derfel


    This prick! Just look at him!


    TaranMellt


    I don''t have a stream. I know you''re talking about Best but you need to be more specific, do you follow?


    Saint Derfel


    Ha, yeah. So he''s running around crashing into the Colchester lot. First he knocked the number ten so far off the pitch the guy should have to re-register with FIFA to be allowed back on. Now Best''s pretended to ''collide'' with a defender, who happens to have been a guy giving Best lip after the first bad foul. Pretending to be trying to control the ball, Best just sprinted full-pace into the lad, wiped them both out. No doubt who came off worse but then when Chester carried on their attack, Best just lay there on top of the guy who, as you can expect, tried to get him off. Best was too big.


    Stoop


    Sorry, could you say that again but slower?


    Saint Derfel


    Haha! Okay. The guy tried to beat Best off but Best didn''t get off until the referee was watching. Happy now?


    Stoop


    Yes.


    Thanks.


    I need a cigarette.


    ***


    A clip from the West Stand taken by Danny Flash in selfie mode and sent to his Instagram Stories.


    DANNY FLASH


    What do you make of Max Best so far today, granddad?


    DON FLASH


    Heh heh. He''s pissing me off like I can''t remember. Heh. I love him.


    ***


    Saint Derfel


    Holy shit there''s another one! Challenges flying everywhere.


    Lee Hudson''s tackle is even bigger than Best''s. Stoop, are you getting this?


    ButteryCrumpets


    Either Chester are going to finish with 8 players or this is going to be the biggest slaughter in Colchester since Boudica.


    DubaiGuy


    The first goal will decide much.


    ***


    Boggy: Mayhem! Carnage! It''s non-stop action here in the Colchester Community Stadium. The referee has completely lost control and we''re seeing a series of pitched battles. Crunching tackles, shoulder barges, flying elbows, if it''s two seconds late it''s three seconds early. If Colchester wanted a battle, they''ve got one. I mark the card ten points to Chester, eight to their opposition, but will anyone be able to land a knockout blow? My worry is fitness. It takes a lot out of you, doesn''t it, Speckers? All this aggression, these constant wrestling matches?


    Spectrum: It does, yes, so it''s obviously not ideal but you know what? Max is really, really clever. He seems to be running around all over the place, launching into tackles, powering into challenges, but we''re twenty minutes in and I think I''m right in saying he hasn''t done much in the half. I mean, he has put his weight about but...


    Boggy: I''m looking at my notes. Yes, he has been involved in the key incidents, he''s setting the tone, but he isn''t actually covering a lot of ground. I wonder if the TV company will show the running stats? Can you try to get them?


    Spectrum: Sorry, Boggy. I''m frozen solid with rage. If I so much as move it might end up in a pitch invasion and Max would hate that.


    Boggy: Yes, I understand. Message from the chat. Max Best playing 5D chess by recording a video to get the fans loud which feeds back into him so that the first little foul turns him into a wrecking ball. Yes, perhaps! It was a bad foul, though. Nothing fake about his reaction, I don''t think. I assume he would prefer a bloodless, machine-like, routine win.


    ***


    TaranMellt


    My scores app says it''s still nil-nil. Hard to believe Best is rampaging around and there are no goals yet.


    Stoop


    He''s hanging back, screening the defence. Not actually doing much.


    TaranMellt


    Hanging back... Screening the defence... Okay, we''re clean.


    Stoop


    Haha. I''m too tense for jokes. I got hyped when DubaiGuy said to bet on Best to score. I piled on and now I''m regretting it. Best''s doing his DM thing, not going forward.


    TaranMellt


    What about possession? Shots?


    Stoop


    Chester have taken a grip, it looks like to me. Colchester wanted a scrap, Best gave them one, now it''s Chester''s defence and midfield passing the ball around. Weird thing, they''re bypassing Best. It''s like he''s being man-marked but he''s not.


    Are they playing for a draw?


    If I get the chance to cash out, I think I will.


    DubaiGuy


    This is not betting advice:


    Do not cash out.


    ***


    Pascal


    Max wanted me to drop a little deeper. I moved to CAM. Max moved me to right forward, left forward.


    I found space all over Colchester, jogged into it, received a pass, pushed it to a colleague. Colchester were constantly scrambling to fill holes. They weren''t footballers, they were dentists. The goal was to keep cycling the ball around, to keep frustrating the home team. I would know when it was time to drill, baby drill. Max would show me.


    Until then I zipped around doing my job. The cavemen types in England? They do not like to see a small German teach them how to play ''their'' game. It is one thing to be overpowered by Max Best in collaboration with the Lees, Christian Fierce, and Henri. It is totally inconceivable for a tiny German to be technically, mentally, and tactically superior. I will admit I put a little extra curry on the wurst. Why? Because as Max would say - it was funny.


    ***


    Max


    I was struggling, suffering, felt my limited exertions had already drained me. Magnus had done his best to keep my fitness levels up but if I couldn''t run without pain I couldn''t replicate what it was like to be a footballer.


    He¡¯ll remember with advantages what feats he did that day...


    "Yes," I cried, as Lee Contreras took the ball. He rolled it to me and I fizzed it left to Duggers. I ran forward, adjusting to the right as Pascal dropped to offer an option. I anticipated the next few moves and changed direction again, rushing to Pascal''s spot.


    He took the pass from Duggers, stopped it dead, spun and moved ahead. The move was already unusual but I touched the ball to him earlier than any defenders could comprehend. He was in the space between the full back and a centre back - deadly - and as he dribbled, he changed his running style. It''s hard to describe but he got about 70% more German. He slowed, put his hands on the back of his hips, raised his head, and yes, he got arrogant. It was only for a second but it infuriated the CB. Pascal suckered him in, pushed the ball towards goal, let himself get wiped out.


    It was crazily brave. He had to know he''d get fucking clattered.


    He had very slightly miscalculated in that the foul took place outside the box. Another stride and it would have been a penalty.


    ***


    Pascal


    There are free kicks that are as good as penalties. I knew what I was doing.


    ***


    Boggy: Best stands over the ball. Dugdale offers a left-footed option. We''ve seen this movie before! No way Best is going to let anyone else take this. Not when he''s in this kind of mood.


    Spectrum: I''m worried he''ll kick it straight into the wall.


    Boggy: He''s quite good, you know.


    Spectrum: Heh. Look who''s in the wall. It''s all players Max has had a run-in with. It wouldn''t surprise me if he, er, you know. Gets them in the bits.


    Boggy: I hate the way you put these thoughts into my head. I was feeling confident until just now.


    Spectrum: Soz.


    Boggy: Here we go. Best inhales massively in the style of Cristiano Ronaldo. He eyes the top-right of the goal. He rushes forward... leathers it! The wall... wait, what? [Cheers.] Goal! Goal for Chester! Charlie Dugdale leads the celebrations! Speckers, help me out. Just a moment, ladies and gentlemen. My co-comms is looking for someone to start a fight with. Donnie Wormwood is right there.


    Spectrum: I''d batter him. We are Chester! [Lets out an elongated grunt.]


    Boggy: Okay, okay. I think Best lined up the shot with his right but he ran over the ball. Dugdale simply knocked it up and over the wall on the left. The wall had already jumped to block Best''s shot, the goalie''s balance was to the wrong side. Yes, I''m seeing the replay now. It''s a lovely strike, a great goal for the neutrals.


    ***


    DubaiGuy


    It cannot be.


    It cannot be.


    I was so sure.


    ButteryCrumpets


    So was the goalie. That''s why he did it.


    DubaiGuy


    I apologise to everyone who followed my advice. I am distraught.


    Stoop


    Chin up, mate. Wouldn''t be fun if we won all the time.


    DubaiGuy


    Disagree!


    ***


    Max


    The rest of the first half was pretty boring, just how I wanted it. Control the ball, control the space, control the clock. I suppose there was one incident worth mentioning.


    ***


    Boggy: Goal for Chester! Goal for Chester! A delightful move ends with a clinical goal. Spectrum, talk us through it.


    Spectrum: [Animalistic grunt. Mumbles yes, get in.] Okay. Owens. Josh Owens brought the ball out of defence, passed to Duggers. Owens went on the overlap, little triangle from Duggers to Ryan to Owens. Lovely. Then a triangle with Duggers at the end, in the half-space. Low cross for Henri to finish, great save from the goalie, ball falls to Bochum who slots home. Two-nil, get wrecked, get stuffed, game over. Game. Over.


    ***


    At half time there were some clashes in the tunnel area. The space was really small and if you have a lot of worked-up warriors you''re going to get battles. The Brig was there to put a stop to some of it, but it was obvious the home team weren''t going to curl up and die.


    I hopped onto the nearest treatment table and let the physios work my legs. I munched on marathon paste and some of the headache abated. When I had some clarity, I went through our data.


    We were playing well. Swanny was on 6 out of 10 because he''d had so little to do. The defenders were on 7s, most midfielders 8. Andrew Harrison and Henri were on 6 but that was a quirk of the way the curse rated players. In terms of the eye test, Swanny, Andrew, and Henri were doing well. Contributing.


    The Condition scores looked a little less good. Players who normally would have been at 93% fitness were at 89%. Doesn''t sound like a lot but every drop came with increased risk of injury and every drop made us less likely to have the energy to beat Crewe on Tuesday.


    Ryan Jack would need to come off in 15 minutes or so. At his age, recovery was slower. Would he even be able to play against Crewe? Lee C and Andrew Harrison still had bags of energy, so I could easily take Ryan off, put Bark on the right, and move Andrew into the middle. That wouldn''t weaken the team by any noticeable amount. The problem came later. I had Dan Badford on the bench but his favourite position was in the centre of midfield. He could replace me but I knew if I left the pitch Colchester would get a huge burst of energy and Morale.


    Dan for Duggers? Made no sense. Dan for Henri or Pascal? No. For a defender? What?


    "Dean," I said. "How''s Josh?" The curse was telling me Owens had a ''suspected calf injury''.


    "Let me check."


    I closed my eyes and focused my attention on the massage. There were so many painful spots. Too many.


    Dean came back. "He took a nasty blow. Can we rest him?"


    "Get him over."


    Josh arrived. "Here, boss."


    "How''s it feel?"


    "Fine, boss."


    "Come on."


    "Yeah, hurts. Nothing''s broken but... Deano says it''ll inflate like a balloon after the match. I''ll be fucked for Tuesday."


    "Tuesday," I said. Fucking Tuesday. I pushed into the table so I could lift my head a little. "Right, so this is the decision, isn''t it? Do we keep you on and fight for these points today... Or try and hold on to this lead with two defenders, backs to the wall, scrape a win, go again on Tuesday? Win this whole fucking league?"


    I lay my head down and forced myself to take a holistic view. The b-boy in me always kept one eye on the health of the Chester brand. The stadium, the mini-bonds, the sponsors. I''d told Foquita and Duggers and Swanny that we were gunning for the title. I''d promised medals. We couldn''t let Colchester drag us down to their level, but to get the three points we had to match them punch for punch. The more punches we threw, the less we''d have in our tank against Crewe. If we dialled our combativeness down, we might just find a way to navigate through.


    My brain showed me a snide tackle from behind. A sucker punch on a young man trying to find his way in the game. It was the kind of cheap shot that ended careers.


    Fuck the Chester brand. Fuck being everyone''s second favourite team. I swung my legs from under me and slid off the treatment table. Sandra and Vimsy were nearby, waiting to hear what our approach would be. Henri sensed it was time and waggled his fingers at a conversation until it stopped.


    Everyone was looking at me.


    Josh clicked his neck to the left and said, in a crisp, clear voice, "Can''t back down from the fight, boss. It''s St. Well In''s Day."


    I found my face distorting. I stood and slapped him on the arm. "Well In''s birthday." My gaze swept the room. They were ready for anything. "Let''s relegate these fuckers."


    ***


    50''


    Boggy: Another crunching tackle in midfield! Contreras was wiped out. Colchester move forward - there''s Best! That was huge. The first half was a series of pitched battles but this is war. This is all-out war. Chester are not backing down.


    Spectrum: [Orgasmic grunt.]


    Boggy: The ball''s loose on the left. Owens and Gilbey chasing it. Huge tackle! Enormous! Have they hurt themselves? Best is there to recover the ball. He plays it short to Duggers, pulls Owens to his feet. A few choice words for Gilbey from both men. The action moves through Bochum over to Harrison on the right. Best is struggling. Hands on his head, trying to breathe.


    ***


    55''


    TaranMellt


    What''s the latest?


    ButteryCrumpets


    It''s still two-nil to Chester but there''s not much football happening. Everyone''s flying into tackles like they want to be the first to get sent off. Got to say, it''s quite fun. I always liked a good prize fight.


    DubaiGuy


    I should perhaps keep my opinions to myself but I think there is a twist to come.


    ***


    60''


    Change for Chester.


    Off goes Ryan Jack. On comes Calabash Barkley.


    Colchester are preparing some changes of their own.


    ***


    Pascal


    It was not often that I saw Max surprised by a League Two manager, but after an hour of low, snide, thuggery, Colchester put on some fast players, gave up the midfield, and switched to 4-2-4.


    Speed and counter-attacks against a technically superior but tiring opponent.


    Someone had found a copy of the Max Best playbook.


    ***


    Boggy: Bark with a nice move. He looks a much more accomplished player these days.


    Spectrum: He has kicked on, yes.


    Boggy: He turns back, exchanges passes with Harrison, moves forward again.


    Spectrum: Don''t cross from there!


    Boggy: Yes, well, he did. It was headed clear before Lyons could do anything with it. Why shouldn''t he cross from there, Speckers?


    Spectrum: Apart from anything else, he''s fresh so he needs to drive forward. If it doesn''t lead to anything, at least he made the defenders sprint. Managing our energy is critical, right? That''s something I''ll have to show him in the Sin Bin. But the angle of the cross wasn''t great anyway. Max wants his players to get level with the strikers before they cross - it''s much easier to score those headers.


    Boggy: I often see Max and Duggers cross from deep.


    Spectrum: Right, but they have the ball on a string. Bark has a long way to go until he can -


    Boggy: Oh, what''s happened? Colchester are streaming forward. There are gaps everywhere! Men over. It goes wide left. Hudson isn''t sure what to do. He goes to block the cross - too late - it''s over the head of Christian Fierce - back post header GOAL. Colchester have scored! Owens was well-placed but he couldn''t stop Gilbey getting the jump on him. It''s Colchester 1, Chester 2, and the home fans are jubilant!


    Spectrum: Oh, boy.


    ***


    Max


    The second-best time to close a stable door is after the horse has bolted.


    I switched to 5-3-2 with me playing as a third centre-back and Andrew Harrison at right back.


    We blocked off the attack routes and with a midfield of Duggers, Lee C, and Bark, supported by Pascal dropping into the CAM slot, we were neat and tidy and ran the clock down.


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    75 minutes gone. Not so many tackles flying in. Chester trying to hold onto their lead. They look absolutely shattered. Best is a passenger.


    Stoop


    He has blocked a few shots.


    DubaiGuy


    He has achieved that well-known footballing ambition of having more density than a football.


    Stoop


    You''re just mad because he didn''t score.


    DubaiGuy


    It is true.


    ***


    Boggy: Colchester are throwing bodies forward. Can we pick them off on the counter?


    Spectrum: Yes.


    Boggy: Lot of tired legs out there. Will we see Dan Badford, do you think?


    Spectrum: I would throw him on. Maybe Tyson, too.


    Boggy: Tyson?


    Spectrum: Tyson versus Donnie Wormwood and Don Flash. It''s good, right? We need a win or Mansfield will go out of sight.


    Boggy: Colchester with another direct ball to the channel. They''re targeting Josh Owens, aren''t they? He''s not dominant in the air and he''s knackered.


    Spectrum: We''re clearing up most of the second balls, though. This is called ''hit and hope''. Hope isn''t a strategy.


    Boggy: That one bounces out for a Colchester throw. Taken quickly for a change - Owens caught on his heels. Cross whipped in. Swan punches away. Not much distance. Harrison tries to hack clear - spoons it up instead. Ball comes down, partially headed clear. It''s very scrappy all of a sudden.


    Spectrum: We''re spent.


    Boggy: Nice footwork from the winger. He''s to the byline, thrashes the ball across, turned in, goal! That was far too easy.


    ***


    Danny Flash Insta Story


    DANNY FLASH


    Yes, get in! Up the U''s!


    DON FLASH


    Up the fucking U''s. Let''s go!


    ***


    Boggy: Ten minutes to go, ten minutes of non-stop Colchester attacks, I''m sure. How good is a point for Chester?


    Spectrum: It''s always good to get a point on the board but in this case it doesn''t do much. We need threes to keep up with Mansfield and to haul in Bradford but we also need to put distance between us and Fleetwood. A draw today gives us a two-point gap. One point, two points, it doesn''t make all that much difference, really. Four points? Now you''re talking. That way you can lose to Crewe but if you win the rest of your games, which you will because you''ve got Foquita and Dazza back, you''re promoted.


    Boggy: Chester''s players are having a hard time picking themselves up from the ground. Henri Lyons is going around, picking them up.


    ***


    Pascal


    I found Max sitting near the penalty spot. He had spotted the danger but hadn''t got anywhere close to intercepting the cross. It was a minor miracle that he had lasted this long. He had been fuelled by pure spite; even spite has its limits. He was leaning into his knees, clutching his ankles. He smiled at me. "Ever think you''d watch your whole fucking world collapse in Colchester?"


    "Sandra wants to bring Dan Badford on."


    "For whom?"


    "You, I guess."


    "Tell her no. Tell her when I said death or glory, I meant it."


    I couldn''t tell if he was joking but I laughed anyway. I reached out and pulled him to his feet. I signalled to the bench. No changes. I wondered about it. Max had always trusted his subs, trusted his young players. It hadn''t always paid off, but why change now? I took a guess. He''d bought into his own script. "St. Well In''s Day. The fewer the men, the greater share of honour."


    Before he could reply, Henri was there. "Lads," he called. "Men." His normally fluffy, insouciant hair was matted and flat, he had flecks of mud all over his face, but his chest stuck out like a barrel. Max''s longest-serving general, I thought. "We go again. Once more unto the breach, dear friends! When the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood." Henri looked at me and nodded. Why? Why me? It clicked.


    Henri wasn''t the longest-serving general. I was.


    I stuck my chest out, too. I punched my palm. "Stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. The game''s afoot! Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry ''God for Henri, Chester, and Max Best!''"


    "Four two four!" screamed Max, suddenly. "Attack till we drop!"


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    This is wild.


    TaranMellt


    What''s going on?


    RetiredRed


    Complete slugfest. End-to-end. Point''s no good for either team so they''re going all-out for the win.


    Chester way better but are exhausted. Colchester working hard but they''re crap.


    It''s just mad.


    ***


    Boggy: Time''s running out. A lot of very weary Chester FC employees in this stadium, especially up here in the press box. I''m drained, Speckers.


    Spectrum: I know. Nearly done.


    Boggy: Get put through the wringer, get caged in the stadium like a bunch of criminals, then five hours home. Why do we do it?


    Spectrum: I don''t know. This is my last time, though. I can''t hack this.


    Boggy: You''re coming to Crewe on Tuesday.


    Spectrum: Wouldn''t miss it.


    Boggy: One group with boundless energy are the Chester fans. They have made a tremendous racket and the Colchester goals haven''t dampened their spirits.


    Spectrum: They have been unbelievable. You see it in the players. They keep finding little bits of energy, just enough for the next sprint, the next pass.


    Boggy: The next pass is from Swan to Owens. Back to Swan. He had no chance with the goals but this is where he shines, isn''t it? His ability to collect the ball and pass it on.


    Spectrum: He adds a new dimension.


    Boggy: Hudson. Fierce. Swan.


    Spectrum: Bradford have bought players who fit the roles of the current players but a bit better. Max has bought players who extend the way we play. He''s thinking ahead. There''s no point winning the battle if you don''t win the war.


    Boggy: If you''re talking about Dugdale, the ball''s on its way to him. Neat trick, down the line he goes. Cross? No! Dribble. Into the penalty area he goes. Majestic. The defender can''t foul him! Whips the ball across the face - Henri? - no! It was inches away from the Frenchman''s toes!


    Spectrum: Ohhhh.


    Boggy: Ball''s out on the right. Bark first time back in. Goes behind everyone. He might have waited for Henri to get back?


    Spectrum: Or Pascal to get forward. He''ll learn. They all look pretty stoked. One last burst. You can''t blame him for wanting to keep the pressure on.


    Boggy: The pressure''s back on Chester, though. Eastman powers through the midfield. Harrison slides in; Eastman hurdles the tackle. It''s played forward. Choices! They go right. It''s Olufemi against Owens. Olufemi burns him for pace. Cross comes in - danger at the back post! Best with a huge leap! He heads it miles!


    Spectrum: I think he''s done himself a mischief.


    Boggy: Er, Swanny''s trying to decramp his manager. For one thing, if Best stays there he''ll play everyone onside! But the ball''s with Contreras. Bochum, neat play. Oh, loose pass. Harrison scampers, gets there. Plays it to Bark - behind him. It''s so ragged. Everyone''s trying so hard.


    Spectrum: I know it''s a war but they need to let it happen.


    Boggy: Bark dribbles away from goal, puts his foot on the ball. Is he thinking about putting the ball out of play so Best can receive treatment?


    Spectrum: He''d better bloody not!


    Boggy: Bark on the move again. What''s...? He''s moving to central midfield. Andrew Harrison''s going to the right. And... Henri Lyons is moving wide left. Duggers to the centre, Lee Contreras going to striker. Best is up. He''s all right. Moving everyone around, looks like.


    Spectrum: And back again!


    Boggy: Speckers very excited in the media box. Everyone''s out of position, including their markers. Bark drives forward, moves right, Andrew Harrison blocks off a challenge - clever! Bark still going. He crosses low! Keeper kicks clear. Harrison gathers. Left to Contreras. Left to Dugdale. Weak cross headed away. He''s flagging. Dugdale again. Takes his time on this one. Cross? No. Simple pass to Bochum. Short pass to Lyons. Best is on the halfway line. He''s done. He can''t move! He''s supposed to be playing right back. The left winger is waving frantically. If Colchester can get the ball to him, Chester are toast!


    Spectrum: Sandra''s screaming at Andrew to get back but he can''t hear. It''s too noisy.


    Boggy: There''s an absolute cacophony from the away fans. They can sense that it all comes down to this.


    Spectrum: Death or glory.


    Boggy: Owens takes a pass on the left. The Chester fans shout that he should send it into the box. He plays it sensibly to Contreras and shuffles back. Forms a back three. Very mature play from the youngster.


    Spectrum: Brilliant.


    Boggy: The referee looks at his watch. Here we go. One last push. Harrison. Bark. Harrison. Contreras. Bochum. He slides a pass behind a defender. The defender stumbles, nearly takes Bark down! No penalty. Bark''s forced to sort his feet out, has to retreat. He slips it to Harrison. Contreras. Bochum. Patient. Too patient?


    Spectrum: We need a runner. We need someone to run. Blast a hole in enemy lines.


    Boggy: It won''t be Dugdale. All he can do is control the ball, pass it back. Colchester starting to look ragged. They''ve been pulled like pork. The referee puts his whistle to his lips. Lyons drops to collect the ball, shapes to shoot, plays it to Bark. Runs to the six-yard box! Bark doesn''t like his chances, refuses the cross. Lyons, head bobbing, gets back onside. It''s Harrison again. It''s Contreras again. Lyons drops. This time he''ll shoot, surely? Defenders line up to block it. Lyons to Bochum. [Excitement.] Bochum with a little dinked pass! Dugdale with a sight of goal. He pulls it back... [Eruption.] GOAL! Goal for Chester! It''s in! It''s in! Lyons was out, Bochum was out, Andrew Harrison went in! He was unmarked! A simple side-foot tap in. Limbs in the Chester end. Limbs as Chester players hurl themselves on top of one another. What an end to this match.


    Spectrum: Final whistle! The ref blew!


    Boggy: Andrew Harrison wins the match with the last kick of the game! Chester have won it at the death! Death and glory! Four points clear of Fleetwood Town. We are going up! There''s a mini pitch invasion as jubilant fans surround the Chester players. There''s another one over here as physios storm the ramparts. Physios, Llewellyn, Sandra, Vimsy, they''re surrounding Max Best, who can''t move. He often talks about wanting his players to have to be peeled off the pitch - that''s what we''ve just seen.


    Spectrum: They agree with you. The Chester fans. They''re chanting ''we are going up''. I think they''ve realised we aren''t going to win the league. We put too much into this match. Max looks gutted. Absolutely gutted.


    Boggy: You know what I think about that?


    Spectrum: What?


    Boggy: I think it''s important to put things into context and today the context is that we''re amazing, Fleetwood won''t catch us, and WE. ARE. GOING UP. SAID WE ARE GOING UP.


    Together: WE. ARE. GOING UP. SAID WE ARE GOING UP!


    ***


    Danny Flash Insta Story


    DANNY FLASH


    They can play, this lot, can''t they?


    DON FLASH


    They''re my second favourite team.


    DANNY FLASH


    Mine''s Chester Women.


    DON FLASH


    Heh heh.


    ***


    ButteryCrumpets


    I feel like I''ve just drunk ten cups of coffee in five minutes. I''m absolutely wired. Buzzing.


    Chester as good as in League One. Who would have thought it?


    Bloody good achievement.


    BeardedWonderwall


    That nutjob Best was disappointed at the end. He didn''t seriously think they might win the league, did he?


    Tell you what, though. Always nice to see a Welsh connection. That Llewellyn was on the pitch at the end. He''ll enjoy a few drinks on his birthday after a win like that.


    ButteryCrumpets


    I''m always going to bloody remember Well In''s birthday, aren''t I? March 28. St. Well In''s Day. That''s wedged in my skull pretty good, I reckon!


    lol


    Suppose it''s all right for when he''s the Wales manager.


    BrokenGround


    Yeah, sure. There''s only one problem with that.


    It''s not his birthday. Best made it up.

 13.12 - Sing When Youre Winning

    12.


    Welcome to Wrexham is a good show. Some ''proper football men'' don''t like what they call the Disneyfication of the sport: chopping it into bits and rearranging it to make it palatable to a wider audience, setting it to sappy music, cutting to shots of Ryan Reynolds looking sad and empathetic.


    My take was that viewers would come for the fun underdog story, stay for the characters, and a year later find themselves yelling at full backs to ''hit the fucking channels''.


    Between series one and two someone at the production company decided to change the intro music. In season 1 they used ''Everyday'' by Buddy Holly. In season 2 they went with ''Don''t Forget'' by Jon Hume. Why? So they could foreground the line ''don''t forget to sing when you win''.


    I found myself wondering about that change a lot. Like, a disproportionate amount. I couldn''t shift the feeling that the producers understood the trajectory of their story all too well. That the plucky underdogs were in fact the eight hundred pound gorillas and that with the club''s surging profile and revenues, fans and viewers would quickly grow accustomed to a new level of success and would develop a new level of entitlement.


    Don''t forget to sing when you win. Enjoy it, lads. Don''t take it for granted. Storming up the leagues the way we are doing is not normal. Clubs with just as much money have tried and failed.


    I sipped my camomile tea and checked the time. 3 a.m. and sleep showed no sign of coming. In the bedroom, Emma was zonked. I went to the fridge just for something to do, opened it, looked inside, closed it. Ems had stuck a Post-It near the handle. It read: Well done, bebs! xx


    Colchester 2, Chester 3. That''s a win. Enjoy the win, Max. Sing, lad. Don''t forget to sing.


    I''d earned three points, fifty-three new bruises, and ninety-three experience points. I had wanted to buy a new Attribute on the way home from Sussex. Instead I''d got sucked into a battle. Win the battle, lose the war. Not very Max Best of me.


    I had tried hard not to look completely fucking miserable in the dressing room and on the team bus. We were third in the league! We were going up! Those were achievements that had value, but as moving as it was, Emma''s sticky note wasn''t going on my Wikipedia page. We wouldn''t be able to display it in the club''s museum.


    For the millionth time I checked my depleted squad. Players away. Players injured. Players fucking fucked.


    We didn''t have the tools to beat Crewe but we would win the rest of our matches. We could easily finish second. And okay, we would need a ton of luck but we could still win this whole thing. I had to stay positive. Positive, Max! A song popped into my head.


    This is how it feels to be City,


    This is how it feels to be small,


    This is how it feels when your team wins nothing at all.


    I tutted, and while I let Welcome to Wrexham play on my laptop, got my iPad out and brought up clips from recent Crewe matches. I would compare the footage with what Fleur had told me in her recent scouting report. I didn''t have it in me to sing, but I could at least be professional.


    ***


    Monday, March 30


    BoshCard HQ was a ghost town. I was the sheriff but I had no guns; I had given almost everyone who''d played against Colchester the day off. Training was basically the lads from Saltney plus a few of the under eighteens plus the goalies. In keeping with the cowboy theme, I''d ordered shooting drills.


    One of the best movie tropes is when our hero - let''s call him Max - persuades the townsfolk to prepare for the incoming bandits. They tie blankets together, fill barrels with oil, and work to a plan tailored to their individual talents. When the baddies - let''s call them Crewe Alexandra - come to town, they get picked off one by one in a brutal and satisfyingly vengeful version of Home Alone.


    Sadly, the key fixture in our entire season would be played away. We would be the ones stumbling into pits, the ones innocently lighting a cigarette next to a red barrel, the ones being tricked into wasting our last bullets shooting at a mirror.


    Movement to my left made me turn. I did my best John Wayne impression, which was sensationally good, as you can imagine. "Well, lookee whut we have here."


    Zach Green''s eyebrows twitched. "Was that... Mr. Beast?"


    "You shouldn''t be here, Zach. This town ain''t big enough for the two of us."


    "Richard Simmons?"


    I gave up on the voice. "You should be resting. Didn''t I order you to buy a sled and train your dogs to pull you around?"


    "If they were as keen on that idea as you, I could trade in my car." He settled into the space beside me as we looked out over the drills. "I was thinking maybe I could join in."


    My head dropped; I didn''t have the energy for this shit.


    Words tumbled out of Zach like dogs rushing to be first out of his car. "We have Crewe tomorrow. Everyone knows they''re your bunnies. We win that, we''ve got a real shot at the title. You said it yourself! I know everyone''s battered up but we can win it! It ate me up that I couldn''t help on Saturday. I couldn''t sleep last night, thinking about coming to training, proving my fitness, helping the team. I want to do my part, boss. I''m here; I want a share of the honour." He grinned as he dialled up his accent. "Put me in, coach!"


    "I feel like there''s something I''d say to that if I knew more about America."


    "If you knew the song you''d say you''ll put me in centerfield. You''d say you need a brown-eyed handsome man rounding third."


    I scoffed. "Sure, I''d say that if I''d ever seen you get past second base."


    He shook his head, amused. He gestured towards the pitch. "Put me in, coach."


    Something struck me. "Hang on, if you''ve come here wanting to train, why are you late? I should report you to Christian. Twenty quid for the party pot."


    He nodded. "I told you I couldn''t sleep. I was going over and over the things I''d say, the speech I''d give. The reasons I had to play. I drove to Bumpers, rushed out of the car, stormed to your office... Found myself looking at an empty space. Real horror movie vibes. Twilight Zone. Parallel universe. Looks like Bumpers but it''s not."


    Work on the gym and shower block had begun in earnest; many other cabins, including my office, had been moved out of the way. Judging by the abundance of machinery, the builders would absolutely blast through the projects. That was something positive, at least. Hard to believe as it was right now, it was possible I would look back on this part of my career with fondness.


    Zach continued, "One of the workers asked if I wanted a job as a hod carrier because I wasn''t cut out for defending. His mate calls out: hodding would suit him; he''s built like a brick shithouse. First one says, he''s got a brick in him but he''s got a rick in him, too. They laugh their heads off. What was that all about?"


    I smiled. "Rick means mistake, sometimes. He''s got a rick in him means he''s prone to stuffing things up."


    Zach shifted. "Are they right?"


    "No," I said. "No. Your positioning is improving and I love the way you''ve taken on the challenge I set you. You''ve redirected your aggression and most of these forwards can''t handle you now. When you attack the ball and don''t get it, the striker seems to be in a good position, right? To someone watching from the stands or on TV it looks like you''re recklessly flying in. Seeing you and a striker go for a duel and suddenly it looks like the guy is through on goal, that''s quite visceral, isn''t it? Randos will remember that even if the data guys are purring over what you''re doing."


    "No-one''s purring over my data."


    "Sure they are," I said. "Senior people at the club drool over your ''abs per ninety'', plus there''s your xD - Expected Dimples. She''s not happy at all with your pass completion rate."


    "Pass completion rate?" Zach''s brain went whirring. "Oh. I should make a pass. Got it. When did - never mind."


    The initial annoyance that Zach wanted to train and play was gone. It was good he wanted to play, of course it was. I thought I knew how to handle it. "Let''s go over our options. One, you train now - " He nodded hard and it brought the word ''labradoodle'' dangerously close to spilling out of my flappy gob. "One, you train now and play tomorrow. That involves everyone really going for it, right? So we dig Josh Owens out of the morgue and strap a football boot to the huge balloon thing that''s coming out of his hip. You''d say it was his leg but I''ve seen legs and that isn''t one. But okay, we need him. We''re fine for goalies and Christian and Lee H can power through. Duggers, Lee C, Andrew Harrison, they can play but won''t be dynamic. Ryan Jack can play and we''ll keep our fingers crossed his ACL doesn''t explode again. It''s only excruciating pain for the rest of his life, isn''t it? What''s that compared to three points against Crewe? Henri and Pascal are in the red zone but let''s fling them in. I can barely move and if you run too fast your tiny tear will turn into a massive rip. Yeah, let''s absolutely go for it and hope Crewe don''t cotton on to the fact that Bark is our only player who can actually sprint."


    Zach''s enthusiasm had dipped appropriately.


    I continued. "We win somehow. We win the rest of our games. Amazingly, that doesn''t guarantee us the title. It would be incredible if it didn''t move us from third to second but I suspect there''s more than a fifty percent chance we would finish behind Mansfield even if we take twenty-one points from our remaining games. It''s mad but even if we win every match we could still finish third."


    "We''d win the league with seven wins."


    "Are you willing to bet Ryan''s knee on that? I''m not sure that I am. I think we see what happens against Crewe and then make fucking sure we win the last six. With you in the team, with Ryan in the team, with our internationals back, we get eighteen points from our remaining fixtures and a better goal difference than Bradford and Mansfield. We could finish with 97 points. If anyone''s ahead of us on the final day, hats off, they deserve it."


    Zach shook his head. "97 points might not win the league?"


    "It''s mad, isn''t it? In 22-23, the top three teams in League One had 101, 98, and 96 points." I smiled as Sunday Sowunmi got a good block on a Tom Westwood shot. "I''d have bitten your hand off for 97 points at the start of the season. Now I''m gutted about it. It''s hard to take a step back and realise how well we''ve done."


    "We''d win the league with 97, surely. Come on, boss. 97?"


    "I''ve gamed it out. Anything can happen but I think we''ll fall short. And 97 includes beating Cambridge, which won''t be easy at all. Look, we do what we can but we don''t break Ryan, we don''t break you, and most importantly, we don''t break me."


    Zach laughed. "Priorities."


    "Here''s what I see. You sit out Crewe. We can beat Forest Green without you but maybe you''re on the bench just in case. You''re fit for the Easter games. You''re fit in the summer. You rest, recover, rejuvenate, turn up at pre-season firing. We survive the first few weeks of the season, find our feet, go on a nine-month rampage. We hit the Championship just as Wrexham have realised playing Parky football won''t cut it. They''re trying to transition from the world''s most expensive pub team to playing something a bit more refined. We''re in our consolidation season but we know if we beat Wrexham twice the fans will forgive all our other missteps. I surprise Parky''s replacement with a mad tactic - " and a healthy dose of Bench Boost - "for the first match and by the second we''re just better anyway. Bosh. Our fans are happy, and our cultured, aggressive, healthy Texan centerfielder proves a lot of people wrong."


    "I like the sound of that."


    "And in the delirium of the win, you finally get to third base."


    He scoffed. "Boss."


    "Or," I said, pointing to the pitch, "you can join in today and fuck up the rest of our season and maybe your whole career."


    He followed the ball as Tyson pinged a pass to Omari, who took a touch and hit a weak shot into Banksy''s palms. "I just feel that if we can win tomorrow, we blow things wide open. Bradford crack under the pressure. I know it''s... We don''t have the bodies. I just don''t wanna look back on Crewe and think that was the day we blew it."


    "I know," I sighed. I closed my eyes. "I''ve made a lot of mistakes this season. Tomorrow won''t be one of them, though, I can promise you that. No, the day that looms over everything is the three-all against Bradford. I was this close to getting Folke Wester sacked. This close." Sandra changed the drill; the lads picked up some cones and moved them into new shapes. Morale was high. If I could bottle our vibe I''d make more money than Henri''s mum. "Listen, Zach, you''ve worked hard. You''ve remodelled your game while adapting to the level and now you''re one of the best defenders in the league. You''re going to get five or six matches of dunking on these chumps. That''s your short-term reward, right? Medium-term, a League One winner''s medal. Long-term, revenge on Wrexham and a big-money move."


    "Okay, boss."


    He had accepted my reasoning; my head dropped a fraction. "There aren''t many movies where the hero tells the town he can''t save them but he can save the next six." I tested my heel. It hurt. "Fuck it. Why don''t you go to Dean and see what he thinks about you being a sub tomorrow night? Me, you, and Ryan on the bench. If Crewe get a man sent off in the first minute..."


    "We''ll be ready."


    "Right." I didn''t expect Crewe to do anything other than pass the ball around while we fell into a low block, but mad things happened all the time. "And at the least, if anyone tries to hurt one of my lads, we can fuck them up. How does being an Avenger appeal to you?"


    Zach''s smile was genuine. "I don''t need Dean''s permission to live out my fantasies, boss."


    "Get it anyway." He nodded and walked towards the main building. "Oh, Zach," I said. He turned. "You need a special harness for your dogs. I''ll shoot you a link."


    He scrunched his face up in a bizarre way and growled, "Get off your horse and drink your milk."


    "Right..." I said. "Maybe see if Alex has time for a session."


    "That was John Wayne, boss. Flawless impersonation."


    "Oh. I thought you were doing Richard Simmons."


    ***


    Tuesday, March 31


    Match 40 of 46: Crewe Alexandra versus Chester


    We hopped on Sealbiscuit for the short journey to one of our local rivals. Something I had forgotten amidst Chester''s rise up the table was that we had overhauled Crewe - permanently. We were the big dogs in Cheshire and everyone knew it. Crewe would be motivated to take us down a peg or two, and they weren''t completely out of the playoff picture themselves.


    That said, if you want to bring an overly youthful team anywhere, it''s Crewe. They had a lot of young players themselves and were rarely a dirty team.


    Their pitch looked all right and they were doing their usual 3-5-2. There would be a lot of sterile passing between defence and midfield from both teams. Fine by me.


    I had been tempted to go with four at the back to really give some of my players a break but I decided to match Crewe''s formation and start with an eleven that would have the best possible chance of sneaking a win.


    I kept Swanny in goal, behind Christian, Lee H, and Jamie Brotherhood. The young right-back would struggle at times, but anyone watching would put it down to him being out of position. I''d chosen him ahead of Lucas Friend or Henk simply because Jamie had more of a future in the industry. This match would be a great lesson for him one way or another. He was currently CA 40. Henk was CA 37 and a natural centre back, but he had hit his ceiling. Brotherhood had PA 95 and it was easy to imagine selling him for a hundred grand or so in a couple of years. Henk and Lucas Friend (a CA 46, PA 62 left back) were on the bench, but I hoped Jamie would play well enough to survive the first half, at least.


    In midfield I had Duggers, Lee C, Dan Badford, Andrew Harrison, and Bark. An absolutely respectable League Two midfield, but three of the five would start the game with a Condition score below 80. I wouldn''t allow them to press, make forward runs, or dribble - it was the only way to minimise their risk of injury. Once they went under 75 their chances of breaking down increased massively. To help with that danger, I had Tyson on the bench. He was a very healthy CA 51 but just as importantly, Condition 100. I could imagine giving him the second half, replacing the midfielder dropping fastest into the red zone.


    Up front I had Henri and Pascal but again, their Condition scores were worrying. One of them would be replaced by Benny, CA 40. To squeeze the most CA into my lineup I could have used the CA 44, PA 83 Chas Fungrieve but that might have caused friction in the youth team. As far as everyone knew, Benny was ahead of Chas in the pecking order. I didn''t want to disturb that before the Youth Cup semi-final against Chelsea.


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    Ryan Jack''s Condition had risen far slower than everyone else''s, and everyone else''s rise had been slow enough. I told him to stay home and order a curry and chips from his local.


    Zach and I took up the last slots on the bench but we would only go on if we got off to a spectacular start and had something to cling onto. Our starting eleven had a CA of 80.1, which was much better than I''d feared. We were almost identical to Crewe and our Morale was much higher, too. If only we''d had another couple of players! Or at least another couple of days of rest.


    The match kicked off and immediately the difference in fitness levels was clear. Crewe zipped the ball around while we tried to conserve energy. When we got the ball we passed it around pretty well and ran the clock down. Jamie didn''t try to do anything extravagant, trusted in the team''s shape, and made a couple of good clearances to keep his match rating at 6 out of 10. It would be pretty interesting to get to half time at nil-nil...


    I checked the Live Scores page. Mansfield were still nil-nil. Bradford weren''t playing, but England under 19s were. They were playing the Faroe Islands and I was alarmed to see that England were already leading 1-0 through a W. Roberts goal.


    Wibbers had complained to the England physios of a pain in his calf after the match against Bulgaria. Why the fuck was he starting a match a few days later? It was against one of the weakest teams in the entire sport. Any fucker could have played instead! If I went through all this trouble to assemble a team that could win the Youth Cup only for my star player to get injured against the Faroe Islands... Could we beat Chelsea without him? If I used Bench Boost well, it was quite possible. The final, though, was going to be Man United or Arsenal. Man United at Old Trafford without Wibbers and Bench Boost?


    "Sandra," I said, before realising how stupid it would be to let her know I knew the score from a match on the other side of the country. I should have made a big show of looking at the line ups from the international matches before the match but I didn''t allow distractions. No phones, no watching the live matches while getting your socks on. It honestly hadn''t occurred to me that the England manager would pick an injured player in a meaningless match. But even if I found a way to suddenly ''discover'' that Wibbers was playing, what could anyone do? Sandra should call the FA and yell at someone? And that would fix what, exactly? "Never mind."


    I hobbled down the touchline and rubbed my head with both hands.


    I felt sick. I really thought I would throw up on the side of the pitch. If I did, maybe I could fake a medical emergency and get the match called off.


    Crewe put together a nice move and finished it with a low drive into the bottom corner. One-nil. Jamie Brotherhood looked devastated, as though it was his fault. It wasn''t.


    The away fans fell quiet for a lot longer than normal, to the extent that the Crewe lot taunted them. "You only sing when you''re winning!" Ours recovered. I think they knew we were shattered, knew we''d put too much into the Colchester game. They responded with a lusty chant of "You''ve only come to see Foquita!" It made no sense but it made me laugh.


    ***


    Condition Scores:


    Duggers 75%


    Lee Contreras 73%


    Andrew Harrison 72%


    ***


    We made it to half time. Our match ratings were okay but our stats were bad. Crewe had us on toast. My lads ate marathon paste and recovered a few points in Condition. I shook my head thinking about the April Fuels perk - if the match were played tomorrow we would all get a couple more points of fitness. Enough to avoid injury. Enough to launch a devastating ten-minute spell of all-out attack?


    I shook it off. This was still March. Time waits for no man.


    "Jamie," I said. "That goal wasn''t your fault."


    "It was. I should of closed him down faster."


    "No, one of the midfielders should have been there. I''m not mad at them because, you know, but I can''t let you sulk for the next three hours. You did mint. I''m serious."


    Zach was nearby. "You did, buddy. I heard one of the Crewe guys say you''re gonna look like a shithouse one day."


    Jamie and I eyed him. I remembered our conversation and laughed. I gave Jamie a little slap on the arm. "Built like a brick shithouse."


    "Oh!" He smiled with relief.


    "I don''t think I want that," I said. "You need mobility as a full back. Don''t get too hench."


    "Um, I wasn''t really planning to."


    "Top man," I said. "I''m subbing you off now. It''s just to give Henk a half and not a comment on your performance. All right?" He seemed to take it well and I would keep an eye on his Morale. I went over to the Brig and asked to see the running data. Sandra came to join me. I rapped the tablet. "Duggers should be able to stay on, playing like this. Do we take Contreras or Andrew off?"


    "Andrew''s done a lot of sprints," she said.


    "He can have a week off after today," I said. "I need Lee available in the next couple."


    "There you go, then. Just saying, you could put Pascal to left mid and use Tyson as a CAM."


    I went to the tactics board and slid magnets around for a while. "I like the idea but Lee''s most at risk right now. I''ll leave Duggers on as long as poss and replace him with Lucas. Duggers can sit out the next game." Even as I said it I knew I was pushing my luck. An injury to Duggers could let Fleetwood back in with a shout of catching us. I found myself biting my nails.


    Sandra pulled me aside. "Have you slept? Have you been eating?"


    "I got eight hours."


    "What, across the last eight days?"


    The pang of annoyance didn''t last long. After all, we were practically raising a child together. "I bet I sleep more than little baby J."


    She wasn¡¯t satisfied with that answer, but got everyone''s attention to tell them about the half-time changes.


    ***


    Our average CA was down to 76 but our average freshness was up.


    Henk and Tyson rediscovered what Jamie Brotherhood had - that this world was fast and furious, that they didn''t have much time to make decisions, that they had to strip their games down to the minimum. Tyson''s swagger vanished, but in a good way. He did his job, which meant trusting the technically superior Dan Badford to run the midfield. Tyson and Andrew Harrison became Dan''s water carriers. Henk competed for headers, made clearances, and managed to look better than Jamie while getting a lower match rating.


    Overall, we competed well without creating much in the way of threat. Henri, starved of service, finally got the ball in Crewe''s half. He hit a shot so bad Youngster would have been embarrassed by it.


    Condition Scores:


    Pascal Bochum 73%


    Duggers 72%


    Andrew Harrison 68%


    I took Pascal off and let Benny have a run. It would almost certainly be his last appearance in the football league but he didn''t know that. Was this cruel or kind? I rationalised it the way I always did - if he won the Youth Cup he would be a legend. Anything that helped us get there was kind. That meant that if we lost against Chelsea, everything I''d done this season was cruel.


    I could almost feel my ulcers growing but then Henri won a header and Benny chased off after it. He got a shot away but a defender slid in and blocked it before it got more than two feet. I checked the away fans - all with their heads in their hands. Was Benny''s dad there? Those were moments you couldn''t buy, right?


    Anyway, Benny was the best striker I had available. I had to use him. Fact.


    Crewe scored a second but, mercifully, they took their foot off the accelerator. Mansfield were leading three-one so when I wasn''t biting my nails looking at our Condition scores I was thinking about the England match. Wibbers bagged a first-half hat trick but I didn''t see his name in the second half. That didn''t mean he wasn''t on the pitch. Had he already been carried off? I messed with my interface to force William''s player profile onto the match overview screen.


    His stamina had turned red and decreased by one point.


    Fear turned to anger. I was going to go fucking tonto on the England manager. I''d rip him a new one.


    My righteous fury was well-timed. It helped me realise I didn''t actually give a shit about the score in this game. Goal difference was irrelevant and the away fans had seen us put a shift in. Now all that mattered was that my key players survived. I whipped Duggers off and threw Lucas Friend on. Left-mid was not his best position so I slid his icon back one slot to left wing back.


    He surprised me by performing the best out of all the kids - even Dan. Lucas got a match rating of 7. Interesting!


    While I thought about how to use that knowledge against Chelsea, the ref blew his whistle. Some of my guys looked shattered, but they didn''t look broken. I scanned their profiles but there was no red, and only a few notes in the Injuries section.


    Relieved, I got out of the weeds and stared at the biggest numbers. Crewe 2, Chester 0. We''d had four shots - possibly our lowest of the entire season, though I''d have to check that.


    Sandra rubbed my back. "The fans have been singing almost non-stop. They get it."


    "If they had given us shit today I might have walked out."


    She nodded. "Give people more credit. They''re with you, Max. You''ve got a lot of credit in the bank."


    "Mansfield are 8 points clear. We need them to lose three out of six games."


    "How likely''s that?"


    "Close to zero."


    "It''s done, then."


    Despite the loss, my young players were riding an adrenaline high, chatting away with the guys from Crewe, who in many cases were only a few years older. They knew how it felt to be in a youthful team that got battered. I''d done some of the battering. "Get the lads over to the fans," I said. "I''ll be there in a minute."


    "What are you going to do?"


    I smiled. "I''m going to class it up!"


    She gave me a dubious look but summoned Vimsy and the Brig and soon she was shepherding the players over to the Chester fans. I marvelled at the scene. Six members of our Youth Cup team had played serious minutes in a must-win match. As our League Two dream died, our Youth Cup chances got even better.


    I grabbed the nearest Crewe player and offered him a hand-slap. He looked surprised but went for it. "Well played, mate. That puts you in with a shout for the playoffs, right?"


    "Oh, er, yes Max."


    "I''ll be rooting for you."


    He got a cheeky air. "We might play you."


    "Us? In the playoffs? Nah. We''ll be second or third, one hundred percent." I frowned. "This season''s done. I might go on holiday."


    He laughed. "You''re so funny. You''re an absolute ledge! Go on holiday. Haha!"


    ***


    Wednesday, April 1


    The weirdest thing happened to me.


    I was lying there, minding my own business, when the universe blasted me with a colossal space laser. Some kind of heat ray.


    "The fuuuu?" I mumbled, using my hand to stop the beam.


    "Oh!" said Emma, who went to her side of the bed to unplug her phone. "You''re up!" She came to my side of the bed and sat on it. She was in her lawyer outfit. Not as hot as the mermaid one, but pretty close.


    "Can you close the curtain?"


    "No. You had a good sleep." She shook me with great excitement. "You had a good sleep! I can''t believe it."


    "Time is it?" I reached for my phone.


    Emma got there first. "Don''t freak out. I''ve already called Sandra. Everyone agrees it''s best if you sleep. You don''t need to go to BoshCard. You can have a lazy morning, okay? I think you deserve it."


    I had the time in my curse menu; I had moved it away from the main screen because checking the time on my phone made me feel more like a normo. "It''s five past nine! I have to go - " I trailed off. I didn''t have to go. I untensed, partially. "Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck?"


    "Don''t know. I don''t know what you get up to these days. How do you always know the time? It''s really uncanny."


    "Position of the North Star,¡± I said. ¡°I''m thinking of letting Sandra do the rest of the season."


    Emma smiled. "I don''t know loads about footy but I know that''s going to go down really well."


    "I need to let my foot heal; I came back too soon last time. The team doesn¡¯t need me so why not start now? We''ll win four of our matches for sure; Fleetwood won''t be able to catch us. I''ll focus on the youth team. The semi against Chelsea, then the final. I can do some scouting for Saltney and West."


    "Did you decide this or are you just thinking about it?"


    "I decided last night but I thought I''d sleep on it."


    "Good. Do it."


    "Oh. I was expecting some pushback."


    She traced her fingers around my torso, making random shapes. Or maybe she was writing spells on me, enchanting me, trapping me. If so, it was working. "If that''s what finally got you to sleep, it''s obviously good. Bumpers is a building site, isn''t it? Training is just a case of trying to keep the levels, you said. You don''t need to be there. If you think Sandra will win four matches, she''ll win four matches. She''ll have Youngster and Foquita and that lot, won''t she?"


    "Yes. It''s an easy gig and I''ll be helping pick the squads. There are things I want, like Sticky in goal against Forest Green but Swanny against Cambridge. Stuff like that. She''ll get some League Two wins on her CV. That''ll be good. Not as good as a league winner''s medal but, yeah, something positive. End on a high. Ish."


    "This is good, babes. You''re relaxed, it''s nice. Good to have you back."


    I adjusted the pillow under my head. Now that Emma was smiling, the sun''s death rays were smashing into me in the most delightful way. "I might go swimming. Do you want to come?"


    Ems twisted her lips as she took my hand and placed it gently on my chest. She patted it. "Let''s get one thing clear, Max Best. Just because you''re redirecting your energy into a mad new scheme doesn''t mean you can drag me along with you. I''m very busy and very important. I''m a top b-girl in the worlds of law and talent management."


    "That¡¯s true. I read that somewhere."


    "I''m going to go and do the day I had planned, okay? Why don''t you go swimming and on the way home get some veggies, nice bit of meat, cook lunch?"


    "Erm... yes. That sounds good. Yes!"


    She was in lawyer mode but she reacted to something I was doing. "What are you thinking?"


    "I''m going to sing for you while I serve your food."


    She laughed and got off the bed. "Yeah, that''s okay. I''ve got Spotify."


    "While I''m swimming," I said, "I shall be deciding what to cook and what to sing. The two things may or may not be related."


    Emma took a couple of tiny steps to the curtain. "Do you still want it closed?"


    "No, thanks."


    She gave me an affectionate look. Or at least, I think she did. With the sun streaming in through her hair, she looked like an angel. "I''ll call Sandra and let her know you''re not doing anything with football today. Do you want me to tell her she''s the boss?"


    "No. It can wait till tomorrow.¡± I squinted. ¡°You''re right. I should take the whole day off."


    That made my girlfriend happy. "I''ll put the kettle on for you." She leaned over and gave me a tiny kiss. "Seeya." She swayed to the doorway but stopped. "What about the Fans Forum? That''s in a couple of weeks, isn''t it? And 3 R Welsh? They have that tournament coming up and they''re really looking forward to it."


    "Yeah," I said, squirming around the bed, stretching. "I''ll do that. All I do is turn up and make fun of Welshmen. Doesn''t count as work, does it? More of a hobby." I stretched in a few different directions. "And the Forum, yeah." I stopped squirming. I would have to take accountability for all my mistakes and failures before I dropped a few all-time bombshells. Some of my aches and pains returned.


    Emma was totally deadpan as she said, "How about I book a room in the hotel and after you finish charming the fans and you finish telling them what you did with their football club in the past year, you go up to the room and there''s a knock and... guess who?"


    "Emmermaid?"


    "Could be."


    "Wonder Lass?"


    "Not after last time."


    "The Sand Dancer?"


    She smiled. "Depends how well you behave yourself. Don''t think about football today. All right?" She departed with one last smouldering look. I waited ten seconds before jumping into the bathroom.


    I sang Desperado. It''s a great shower tune.


    ***


    Not thinking about football lasted about as long as Jackie Reaper''s hairline.


    On my fifth lap of the pool, after the initial explosion of enthusiasm had dampened - exercise is sixty times more fun when there''s a ball - I remembered I had accumulated enough points to buy a new perk.


    I held onto the side of the pool and scanned the perk shop. I''d been through it enough times to know what I wanted, but there was always the dread of buying the wrong thing. I needed to invest in the Panopticon. What if one of my young players was super depressed or had an undiagnosed injury?


    I shook my head. I couldn''t think like that. I needed to be good at my job. I would buy an Attribute and then add a few more youth teams. And Saltney. And West. And West Women, and so on and so on.


    Attributes 10 was priced at 4,000 XP. I bought it and watched the stupid animation. A yellow rectangle bounced around the empty cells of a sample player profile before landing in the sixth slot of the first column.


    A new Attribute was revealed:


    Determination


    Huh.


    It seemed pretty self-explanatory. It probably covered how much a player was willing to suffer and sacrifice, but did it mean within a match or across their career?


    I did a length and went back.


    I had decided that it was something that was really good to know. Like, really good. Possibly the best of the remaining Attributes. I mean, would I ever buy a player knowing he had low Determination? I wasn''t Ian Evans and I wasn''t Vimsy. There was a place for an introvert or five in my team - so long as they were willing to fucking work, to fucking grind.


    I scanned the squads in my head. My immediate impression was that Chester Men had high Determination scores and I wondered if I was naturally attracted to such players or if my outbursts, tantrums, and stirring speeches had been improving the scores over time.


    There was no surprise in seeing that Christian Fierce had Determination 20, but it was pretty shocking to see that Dan Badford had a score of 19. I rested my cheek on my bicep while memories bubbled and frothed around me along with the chlorinated water. It made sense, didn''t it? Sam Topps had always loved Dan. I didn''t need to scout Sam again to know he had high Determination. He had somehow known Dan was harder than he looked, had found a kindred spirit in the fashion-conscious young slouch.


    Back to the squad. Pascal, Henri, Andrew Harrison, Wibbers, Youngster, and Zach scored over 15.


    The lowest were Bark, Magnus, and Josh Owens, who scored 8. I tried not to have an emotional response to that number until I knew more - maybe 8 was just fine, and maybe in a year or two those 8s would be 12s. Magnus had been a world champion in one field before pivoting to football. Did he have Determination 20 in weight lifting?


    The women''s squad had more of a spread.


    Bea Pea had a straight 20 - what a pity she had reached her potential already.


    I stopped - that was interesting. Where had that thought come from? Some old Soccer Supremo knowledge leaking into my consciousness? Did Determination affect training speeds? There was one data point that suggested it didn''t - Dani''s rating was 18 - very high - but she was an average trainer.


    Kisi''s score was low - only 6 - which maybe explained why her brother had been so surprised to hear I thought she was a good player. She seemed competitive enough. Another strange one was Kit Hodges, our superstar striker. Her score was only 5 - the lowest across the two squads. Did that partly explain why she had been willing to drop two divisions?


    I did another couple of laps.


    No. She had dropped divisions because I was willing to pay her 500 pounds a week and she wasn''t going to get a deal that sweet anywhere else.


    Another lap and I brought up the College 1975 squad. Glenn Ryder had Determination 18. That made sense. Other players in the squad had more talent but lower average ratings. The squad in general was more than a few points lower than Chester Men. Maybe that''s why, although they were similar in talent to the Lincoln Red Imps, they were an increasingly distant second in the table.


    I smiled and blasted out a few more laps. When I got to the end, I slapped the water happily. Talent plus Determination gives you Chesterness. There were six players at College we would bin off this summer. Replace them with similar but more determined guys and bosh! You win the league.


    The pool attendant came over. "Is everything okay, Max?"


    I smiled back. "Yes. Everything''s great."


    "I''m supposed to tell you not to splash."


    "Oh. Can I sing?"


    He glanced over to the little place from where he watched over the patrons. There was one of those poster guides to everything that was forbidden. "Not sure. I''m guessing it''s not encouraged." He looked around. "Our boss told us to leave you alone when you''re here but I''ve never seen you this happy. Did you break your lap record or...?"


    "No," I said. "I think I''m going to win... hang on." I held onto the edge of the pool with my left hand and counted on the fingers of my right. Chester Men, Chester Women, College, Saltney, West. That made five. What was I forgetting? "Tranmere!" I said, laughing. I had no doubt their current crop of underachievers included a bunch of guys with low Determination. I would help Mateo shift them out and the League Two Legends would go some way to fixing that particular complaint. "That''s six," I said, happily. Six leagues I would win next season. With the help of some friends, of course. Friends like Jackie. The pool guy didn''t have a clue what I was talking about but he was smiling. "Jackie Reaper," I said, astonished. "It was one of the first things he ever said to me. I mean, one of the first important things. He wanted me to learn about duels. I want everything to be beautiful. Pretty patterns, clever, intricate play. Connections, mists. I love all that, but he told me. He said Max, duels are the heart of the sport. You need more than talent. You need guts. Can you measure guts?"


    "No," said the guy.


    This rando saw one of the biggest smiles I''d shown anyone in 2026 so far. "I think I can. I think it might be one of the most overpowered skills I could possibly get. Are you a betting man?"


    "No."


    "Good," I laughed. "Stay that way." I was about to go when the guy''s lips quivered and danced. Clearly, he wanted to say something but didn''t think he was allowed. "What''s on your mind?"


    He looked over his shoulder, gave a worried glance towards a security camera, and clenched his fists. He bent his knees, got a gormless smile going, pushed his left fist up, then his right, then his left. He whisper-shouted, "We. Are. Going up! Said we are going up!"


    I grinned. "Yeah we are." I pushed myself off - no pain from my heel - and did a backstroke. The new perspective got my brain fizzing and when I got to the shallow end, I stood and stared at a spot on the wall. In fact, I was staring at the perk shop.


    For the first time ever - as far as I could remember - the price hadn''t gone up. Attributes 11 was priced at 4,000 XP. I triple punched the water - Yes! Yes! Yes! - and threw my arms wide. To the tune of ''Flash'' by Queen I sang "Best! Aha! He''ll buy every attribute!"


    The pool guy was still grinning but he looked around nervously. I didn''t want him to get in trouble so I gave him a salute and got back to my swim. No more splashing, no more singing.


    I did forget a couple of times, but I didn''t get loud. I mostly just hummed the chorus.


    Don''t forget to sing when you swim.